Dreamer

“I’ve never been to a baseball game before,” Y/n said as she looked out the window at the scenery passing by.

Jongho laughed from the driver's seat. “Really? Never?”

Y/n shook her head. “No, it’s not really my thing. My dad doesn’t really watch sports, and I'm an only child so…” she shrugged. “I’ve seen it in, like, movies and tv shows.”

“So if I asked you what inning we were in, you wouldn’t be able to tell me.” 

“What’s an inning?” she looked at him with a tilt of her head.

Jongho laughed again, the sound filling the car. “I love you,” he said, taking her hand in his. “I will give you a run down when the game starts, if you have any questions I will be happy to answer.”

Y/n nodded and squeezed his hand. “Aren’t we getting there a little early? Don’t they usually not start until like 6? It’s only 5.”

“I… I may have a slight schedule to do.” He rubbed his thumb across her knuckles. “But it won’t be long, okay?”

“While you’re doing this schedule, am I sitting alone in the stands?” she pouted.

Jongho brought their hands up and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. “I mean, you can come backstage with me if you want to, we’ll just say you’re like my assistant or something.”

Y/n looked down at the dress she was wearing. “I don’t think this is appropriate attire for an assistant.” 

Jongho pulled into the parking lot to the stadium and turned to her. He looked at her outfit. It was still really hot in Korea despite it being so close to fall, so she was in a thin cotton dress that rested just above her knee, it was strapless and showed a bit of cleavage, but not too much for it to be too obscene. Jongho thought that she looked beautiful, as always, and if he didn’t have a schedule today he would just not go to the game and go back home to the empty dorm and spend the entire day having her moan out his name in every room of the WooJongJoong dorm.

“I think you look gorgeous,” he squeezed her hand. “We don’t have to say you're my assistant, if you want to sit in our seats and wait that’s fine too. I’ll be like… thirty minutes tops. Manager-nim will be right with you so you don’t have to worry about people looking at you weird.”

“Why would they look at me weird?” she raised an eyebrow.

“Because you’re a young, gorgeous woman at a baseball game by herself. They might think you’re lonely and invite you to join their group, and someone might try and flirt with you. I can compete with the other members, but a random hot Korean, I don't think I'd stand a chance.” Jongho laughed lightly.

Y/n rolled her eyes and kissed him gently. “Jongho,” she pulled back, cupping his face in her hands. “I wouldn’t even think of looking at or joining anyone else. You are the only one I'm here for, it’s Choi Jongho or nothing.” she smiled. “I’ll wait for you in the stands, but you have to bring me back some samgyeupsal.”

“Oh you’ve never been here but you know what concessions they have?” he teased.

“Oh yeah. If I'm going anywhere new I always scope out the menu. It’s traveling 101, Jongho.” She kissed his lips again. “Now, let's get in there, you go do your thing and I'll be waiting for you somewhere in the stands with the manager.”

Y/n sat in the stands, the seats her and jongho were at had a perfect view of the field, it wasn’t too close, but not nosebleed high. No one was even paying attention to her, they were all chatting, taking photos, and just waiting for the game to start. She did however notice a suspicious amount of JJONGbears in the crowd.

Weird. She thought. But then just brushed it off because maybe it was just them bringing their ANITEEZ for an outing, she had brought her DDEONGbyeoli everywhere in the states.

“It’s time for the first pitch!” someone said excitedly in front of her. 

“I’m so excited!” someone else yelled, waving around their plush.

“And now,” the announcer’s voice boomed through the stadium, “to throw the first pitch for the Doosan Bears, global sensation… ATEEZ’s Choi Jongho!”

The crowd erupted in cheers, Y/n clapped along, shocked at the announcement. She watched the screen as Jongho walked out onto the field with Cheolwoong, the Bears’ mascot. She took out her phone and began to record the screen. Jongho waved at the crowd, bowing slightly at the cheers. He posed for pictures with the mascot before taking his place on the pitchers mound. 

She finally understood the sea of JJONGbears, they all knew he was going to be here. She’s an ATINY, why didn’t she? Perhaps it’s because she’s actually with them that she doesn’t pay attention to update pages, they usually tell her everything before anyone else knows… Why didn’t Jongho tell her about this? The stands were filled with baseball fands, ATINY’s and photographers, was this really a good place for them to be seen together?

Jongho stood on the mound in a customized Doosan Bears jersey with his name on the back. He glanced towards their section, a small smirk on his face as his eyes found the familiar dress, he knew she’d be surprised, he hoped the manager hadn’t let anything slip while he was preparing. He gave a small wave to where she was seated, his smile widening as she waved back.

The stadium hushed as he took his windup, he looked like a professional pitcher. He had practiced for weeks, throwing in between schedules, even throwing with Wooyoung in the dorms, much to Hongjoong’s disapproval. 

He threw.

The ball cut through the air and with a satisfying thump it hit the catcher's mitt. A perfect pitch. A strike. The stadium exploded in cheers, Jongho bowed, a wide and genuine smile on his face, he quickly ran off the field for the game to start. He looked so happy.

Y/n sat back down in her seat, rewatching the video, a smile on her lips. She felt an intense pride within her, so intense it almost made her tear up. “That’s my boyfriend,” she whispered to herself. She sent the video to the group chat with the caption ‘LOOK AT MY BABY’. 

Jongho didn’t come to his seat until twenty minutes after the game had started, he had to take photos and do an interview. But when he finally sat down next to her he felt even more elated than when he got offered the pitch. 

He set the bento box of samgyeupsal on the table in front of her. “Here you go, beautiful.” He didn't care that they were in public, he didn’t care about the rumors that might start. He asked Hongjoong if he could bring her and he said yes, so he’s assuming there is some kind of damage control waiting just in case. Granted he did ask the Captain while he was editing a track on his laptop but… hey, at least he asked somebody.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were throwing the first pitch?” she smacked him in the chest. 

Jongho laughed and rubbed where she hit. “I don’t know… I wanted you to be surprised. Was it okay?” he asked, suddenly insecure about his pitching abilities.

“Okay?” Y/n laughed, shaking her head. “Jongho, you were incredible. You looked like you’ve been pitching your whole life.”

He shrugged and leaned back in his seat. “I’ve been a fan of the bears since I was a kid. So this is like a dream come true for me.” he leaned in closer to her, his voice low just so she could hear. “I was nervous, but not about the pitch. I wanted to make sure that I didn't embarrass myself in front of you.”

Y/n reached out and brushed a stray hair away from his forehead. “You could never embarrass yourself. You were the best person for the job.”

Jongho stared at her, his gaze fixated on her face, ignoring the game behind them. “I’m glad you think that. I wanted this to be a nice memory for us even if it is a bit public.”

“It’s perfect,” she smiled. “But… we might want to reign in a little bit, don’t need dating rumors starting. Seonghwa might actually blow a gasket.”

Jongho laughed and sat up in his seat. “I do have one other thing for you.” He reached behind him and handed her a white jersey. “I know that it’s pretty hot out, but these are really light weight so if you wanted to put it on-”

Y/n immediately put it on. It was a Doosan Bears jersey, looked exactly like his, but on the back it said her last name. “How do I look?”

Jongho looked at her, his ears burning. It was his two favorite things, Y/n and baseball. The hem of her dress had ridden up slightly, showing more of her thighs, and she was angled towards him so his eyes instantly landed on her chest. “Y-you look…” he really wanted to kiss her right now. 

Y/n laughed. “SANdeoki got your tongue, Jongho?”

Jongho cleared his throat. “You look beautiful, as always.”

The two watched the game, the manager beside them letting them have their date. The crowd didn’t really pay attention to Jongho, maybe they sensed that he was on a date and they wanted to give him privacy, or maybe they just figured he wouldn’t want someone turned towards him for the entire game.

Jongho sat, utterly focused, his eyes tracking the ball as it flew from the pitcher's hand to the batter’s swing. Y/n watched him instead of the field, his face a study in concentration. His jaw would tighten when a pitch was missed, he would smile when a player stole a base, the way his shoulders tensed and relaxed with the plays in the game. He was cute. Incredibly cute.

“He’s going for home!” Jonho exclaimed, leaning forward, his hand instinctively grabbing her knee. The runner sprinted, the ball flew, the catcher braced, the runner slid a cloud of dust forming near home plate. There was a shout from the umpire and the crowd erupted in a mix of groans and cheers. Jongho slumped back in his seat, his hand still on her knee. “He was out, by a centimeter." he sighed.

Y/n laughed lightly, nudging him with her shoulder. “You care so much about centimeters?"

Jongho turned to her, his intense look instantly melting into a soft smile. “In baseball? Absolutely.” He moved his hand from her knee and laced his fingers with hers under the table. “You’re not watching the game at all though.”

“I’m watching you watch the game, that’s close enough.” she confessed, squeezing his hand. “You’re way more interesting anyways. You get so… invested. Your eyebrows furrow, then raise, then furrow again. It’s adorable.”

Jongho flushed, a faint pink running up his neck and to his ears. “Adorable? I’m trying to seem intimidating.”

“You’re failing spectacularly.” She squeezed his hand and leaned closer. “I’m glad I came today, I get to see you. You being normal, being a fan. Being you… that’s the best part.”

His eyes softened, the sunlight hitting his dark brown eyes and making them seem as light as yeosang’s. He lifted their hands and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, it was a quick gesture that made her heart flutter. “Thank you for coming with me.”

“Anything for you, Jongho.”

Jongho explained the basics of the game in low, patient tones between innings, pointing to the positions on the field. He explained the scoreboard and where they sat right now. She listened, but mostly watched the way his lips moved, the shape of his mouth as he spoke, the strong line of his throat when he swallowed his drink. He was right next to her, but she wanted him closer.

During the seventh inning, the manager went to get all of them more concessions. Jongho casually slid his arm behind her, his arm wrapped around her waist, it was risky but no one seemed to notice. His thumb rubbed a slow circle on her hip through the thin cotton of her dress. 

“So,” he leaned closer to her. “Do you understand the infield fly rule now?”

“Absolutely not,” Y/n said, taking a  drink of her lemonade. “But, I understand that you have very nice hands. And are a very attentive masseuse.” 

Jongho laughed loudly, squeezing her hip. “I’m good with my hands in other ways too, beautiful.”

Y/n’s face flushed and she hit him in the chest again.

The game ended with a Bears victory. The stadium emptied in a happy, noisy stream. Jongho kept her close, his hand in hers as the manager navigated them through the crowd. The manager drove them back in the car they arrived in, Jongho saying he was too tired to drive.

In the back seat, he leaned his head back, his eyes closed a small smile on his lips. 

“Happy?” she whispered.

“Very.” He opened one eye and looked at her. “You?”

“Very.” She leaned her head against his shoulder, his arm wrapping around her waist again.

They arrived back to an empty dorm. A note left on the kitchen counter, written in Wooyoung’s chicken scratch: ‘Hyung’s went out for dinner. DO NOT burn the place down.’

Jongho scoffed and shook his head. “Burn the place down, who does he think I am? Yeosang?”

Y/n laughed lightly as Jongho took her hand and led her to his room. It was neat and very organized, his bed was made, books were stacked neatly on a shelf, and a few framed photos of friends and family on the desk. It fit jongho, the vibe of the room felt warm, reliable. He set his baseball glove on his desk and turned toward her.

“Today was… normal,” he said softly. “Surprisingly normal, considering how public it was.”

Y/n placed her hands on his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath his shirt. “I liked it.”

“I liked it too,” he bent his head, and their lips met.

The kiss started soft, a testament to today's gentleness. Jongho’s mouth was warm, and tasted like the lemonade they had shared earlier. Her hands slid up to his shoulders, then to the back of his neck, her fingers threading themselves into his dark hair. His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him. The kiss deepened slowly, his lips parting, inviting hers to do the same. The tip of his tongue touched hers, a shy ask if it was okay, she reciprocated quickly. Jongho’s lips curving up into a smile.

They lost themselves in the kiss, standing in the center of his room, the world outside those four walls ceased to exist. There was only the soft sound of their breathing, the wrestle of their tongues as they learned each other's mouths. Jongho’s hands moved to her face, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones as he kissed her more deeply, one hand left her face and slid into her hair, angling her head up to him. Y/n moaned softly, the sound swallowed by him.

Y/n removed her hands from his hair and tugged at his shirt. Jongho broke the kiss only long enough to yank his shirt over his head, before capturing her lips once more. Y/n’s hands roamed over his now bare skin, his broad powerful chest, the heat radiating off of him was intense. He was beautifully built, strong but not insanely muscular. She ran her nails down his chest gently, Jongho shuddered under her touch.

as his kiss became hungrier, his hands began to wander. They pulled at the top of her dress, he pulled it down, thanking designers everywhere for creating strapless designs. He let the fabric fall off of her, the sundress pooling at her feet, leaving her in a black strapless bra and matching black panties.. And the Doosan Bears jersey. He looked at her, his eyes following her curves.

“So beautiful,” he murmured, his hands cupping her breasts, his large hands almost covering them completely. He squeezed and kneaded them gently, his thumbs finding her nipples through the fabric, rubbing them gently. Y/n arched into his touch, a gasp escaping her kiss bruised lips.

Jongho bent his head and kissed her again, his hands moving around her to unclasp her bra, his fingers worked expertly, the clasp giving into him in seconds. The bra joined the dress on the floor, her breasts bared to him, full and soft. Jongho kissed down her neck, down her sternum and took one of her nipples into his mouth, his tongue circling the peak. She was already wet from the anticipation of spending the whole day alone with Jongho, and their intense makeout session, her cunt fluttered at the sensation of his tongue on her breast. Jongho switched to the other side, giving it the same attention, his free hand roaming down her spine to the plush skin of her ass.

He pulled her against him, their bare chests meeting. The feeling of his skin against hers, his firm chest against her soft breasts, was everything. He kissed her neck again, his mouth open and hot. He worked his way to the spot below her ear, biting down gently, not to hurt, just to excite her a little. 

“Jongho…” she moaned, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

Jongho answered with another bite to her collarbone, then soothed it with a kiss and a quick flick of his tongue. “I want to remember every part of you,” he whispered against her skin. “Every taste, every touch, every sound..”

His hands went to her panties, he hooked his fingers into the sides and pulled down, letting them fall. She was completely naked, just wearing the custom jersey of his favorite baseball team unbuttoned, showing everything to him. He stepped back slightly, looking her over. This was like a wet dream to him. His eyes darkened, his breaths became heavier.

Her breasts, her soft stomach, the curve of her hips, her pussy. He could see the glistening evidence of how turned on her was, coating her cunt and a little bit of her thighs. She stood still, letting him look, a flush of heat and pride filling her.

“God…” he breathed, reaching out, not touching her just yet, his fingers tracing the shape of her hip in the air above it. “You’re perfect.”

Jongho finally touched her again, his fingers sliding into the wetness between her hips. He stroked upwards, over her clit in a slow firm pass that made her legs shake. He did it again, watching her face as her eyes fluttered shut, her lip being pulled between her teeth.

“You’re so wet for me already, beautiful,” he smirked. “So ready.”

Y/n reached for him, her hands going to the button of his jeans. He watched with an amused smile as she undid his button and zipper, then pushed them and his dark boxer briefs down his thighs. His cock free, her cunt instantly clenching at the sight.

Jongho’s cock was thick. Impressively thick, he was also long, not as long as Yunho but still  a decent length. His head was flushed a dark color, precum coating the top. He was fully erect, and as magnificent as everything else about him.

Y/n reached out, her hand wrapping around his cock. The heat of him, and the solid weight of him, made her bite her lip. She stroked him from base to tip, her thumb swiping over the slit on his head. Jongho groaned, his hips jerking forward involuntarily.

“Y/n…” he moaned.

She looked up at him through her lashes, her eyes meeting his. “I want you, Jongho.” she said, simple and direct.

Jongho nodded, his jaw clenched. He took her hand from his cock and led her to his bed. He sat on the edge, pulling her to stand in between his legs. “Camera?” his eyes glanced at her phone on his desk. “Do you want to?”

She did. This moment felt precious, she wanted to capture it. Even if she never posted it on her page, she could just keep it for herself and be reminded of how she felt in this moment. Loved. Cherished. “Yes.”

Jongho got up and grabbed her phone, he got it set up to record, positioning it on the bedside table to capture just the bed and them. He double checked the view, making sure their faces were out of shot, only their bodies being recorded. He reached out to her. “Just us, and this.”

He kissed her again, this time claiming her in front of the camera. He laid her back on the bed, the comforter cool against the warmth of her body. He followed her down, his body covering hers, his cock pressing against her thigh. His hands explored her body, cupping her breasts, kneading her ass, sliding between her legs to feel her wetness again.

Y/n was squirming underneath him, her hips lifting into his hand, seeking more contact. Jongho happily obliged, sliding a finger inside her wet cunt. She was hot, slick, and welcomed him with tight ease. He added another finger, stretching her as he scissored his fingers gently, his eyes locked onto hers. He felt her inner walls tremble around him, then he curled his fingers seeking that special spot.

“There..” Y/n moaned when he found it, sending a shockwave of pleasure through her body. “Right there, baby…”

Jongho focused there, stroking her gspot with relentless determination, his thumb simultaneously rubbing her clit in small circles. He could feel her cunt tightening around him, he knew she was getting closer, her orgasm was building quickly. She pushed his hand away gently and he looked up at her with a confused face.

“I need you inside me,” she panted with a pout. “Not your fingers. You.”

Jongho moved, positioning himself between her legs. He gripped his cock at the base, stroking himself as he looked down at her, before guiding himself into her entrance, rubbing the head of his cock up and down her slit to coat himself in her slick. The stimulation, paired with the sight of his eyes blown and his lip between her teeth, made a soft whimper escape Y/n’s lips.

He paused, looking down at her, his fingers tracing the edge of the jersey. “The jersey,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “Keep it on.”

She had almost forgotten. The dress had come off, but the oversized Bears jersey he had given her was still on. The fabric was soft, and bright white it contrasted the dark gray of his bedspread, it smelled faintly of her perfume, his cologne and sunblock. It was big on her, it fell mid thigh when she was standing. She was wearing nothing but the jersey, still covered but also exposed, her breasts bare under the open front, the buttons undone so it just blanketed over her.

“You’re so cute in it,” he murmured, his eyes drinking in the sight of her. “My beautiful fan.” He leaned down, kissing her deeply, their tongues tangling together as his cock nudged at her entrance. He pushed forward slowly.

The head of his cock was broad, and pressed against her opening. He pushed inward, inch by inch, the feeling of him filling her and stretching her made her eyes roll back. She gasped into his mouth as her inner walls continued to stretch to accommodate his thick cock. Jongho went slowly, watching her, his own expression a mix of awe and strained control.

“You’re taking me so well, beautiful,” he praised, his voice slightly rough from holding back. “My good girl. So perfect for me.” 

He sank deeper, another inch, then another. Her cunt adapted, welcoming his cock, the slick wetness easing his entrance. She could feel every ridge of his shaft, every vein, the heat of him inside her. When he was halfway in he paused, letting her adjust to him, letting the sensation subside a bit. He kissed her again, his lips gentle, a soothing contrast to the sensation in her cunt right now.

“Look at me,” he whispered, pulling his face away from hers.

Y/n opened her eyes, his gaze locked on hers. His deep brown eyes, full of an emotion so deep it stole her breath. This was not just sex, this was making love. 

Jonho pushed forward again, until his hips met hers, his cock buried to the hilt inside her. He was so deep, so thick, she felt full in a way she had only experienced with him. He stayed there, motionless for a moment, their bodies flush together, his eyes holding hers.

Finally he began to move.

He pulled out almost all the way, the drag of his thick cock along her sensitive walls made her moan loudly. Then he pushed back in, that same slow, deliberate pace. Each thrust was deep, and slow, and reached places in her that even her toys back home never touched. The broad head of his cock rubbing against her gspot with every thrust, sending a wave of pleasure through her every time.

His pace was slow, but powerful. It wasn’t a frantic rush to the finish, he was savoring it. He looked down at her, his eyes never wavering from hers as his body moved with hers. She could see every ounce of pleasure in his expression, every surge of emotion, and he could see hers. The way her eyes widened when he hit a particularly deep spot, the fluttering her eyelids did as his hips ground into hers, the parting of her lips as she moaned out his name.

His hand took hers, their fingers sliding together, locking tightly. He squeezed her hand, grounding them both as the sensations continued to build. His other hand cupped her breast, his thumb circling her nipple with each thrust.

“Jong..ho…” she moaned, her voice breaking.

“You feel…. Incredible,” he growled, his control starting to fray. His thrusts gained a little more speed, a fraction more force. The bed began to creak softly under their rhythm. The sounds of their bodies meeting, the slap of his skin against hers, the wet sounds coming from her cunt as his cock dove in and out filled the room.

Jongho shifted slightly, adjusting his hips and his angle, the new position allowing his head to press directly into her cervix. He fisted the white fabric of the jersey as he continued to thrust into her. The sensation was too much, the new angle, the intense look in his eyes, her hips bucked, trying to meet his thrusts, taking him even deeper.

“Cum for me, beautiful,” he urged, his voice strained. “I want to see you cum… let go for me, baby.”

Y/n couldn’t take it much longer, his words, the deep, relentless thrusts, the sensation of his hand on her breast, it was too much. Her back arched off the bed, her head thrown back as a moan of pure pleasure ripped through her throat. Her cunt clamped down on his cock in tight, rhythmic pulses, gripping him, milking him. The feeling of her walls fluttering around his cock was intense, almost overwhelming.

Jongho watched her cum, his face full of awe. He kept thrusting, his pace becoming more urgent, diving into her convulsing cunt rapidly. “So beautiful,” he choked out. “So fucking beautiful.”

Y/n rested her hands on his shoulders, her climax leaving her trembling and weak. But Jongho wasn’t done. He kept moving, his thrusts returning to that slow, deep rhythm, almost triggering another gush of release from her right away. Y/n’s body was hypersensitive and responded right away, another orgasm quickly building within her.

“Again,” Jongho demanded, his voice a rough whisper. “Give me another… I want… I need to feel you cum around me again.” 

He reached down with the hand that was on her breast and found her clit again. He rubbed it in fast, firm circles, trying to get her the rest of the way there. The sensation of his fingers on her clit combined with the deep thrusts of his thick cock was too much, too good. A second orgasm crashed through her, this one a series of intense, clenching spasms that made her thighs shake and her eyes roll back. She sobbed, tears of overwhelming pleasure leaking from her eyes as her cunt continued to convulse around him.

Jongho rode through her second orgasm, his breathing becoming ragged, his thrusts once again growing harder and faster. The bed continued to rock underneath them, slight worry crossing his mind that it might break. His eyes were dark locked on hers, watching as she came completely undone underneath him. His hand left the jersey and clamped around hers once more, almost painfully.

“I’m gonna cum, baby…” he gasped, his voice breaking. “Y/n… shibal… I'm..”

“Inside me,” she pleaded, her voice a whisper. “Please, Jongho… Cum inside me.”

He didn’t dream of pulling out, but hearing her beg for him to cum inside her in Korean sent him over the edge. With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself as deep as he could inside her. His body stiffened, a slight tremor running through him. She could feel the hot, sudden rush of his cum inside her. His cock twitched and jerked, pumping his cum deep in her cunt. The sensation of being filled by his cock and his cum, the warmth spreading within her, triggered a third orgasm. A small one, a series of small convulses that made her sink her nails into the flesh of his hand and shoulder.

Jongho collapsed onto her, his weight on her completely, their bodies glued together from sweat and their shared releases. He was still inside her, still pulsing weakly as the rest of his cum emptied out inside her. He buried his face in her neck, his breath coming out in short rapid gusts against her sweaty skin. She could feel the rapid heart beat against her chest.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, wrapped together in the aftermath, the scent of sex lingering in the room. Jongho pressed a kiss to her neck before her gently, and reluctantly, pulled out of her. She felt the immediate empty ache, and the trickle of their combined releases escaping her cunt. He didn’t go far, he rolled onto his side next to her, pulling her with him so she laid on his chest. His arm wrapped around her, holding her tightly. He kissed her forehead, then her temple, then her eyelids, then her nose, and finally her lips.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice slightly hoarse.

“‘M okay..” she whispered, nuzzling into his chest.

Jongho reached out for her phone, almost dropping it to the floor. “Shibal..” he whispered. He turned off the recording and laid the device on the bed next to them. 

In a few minutes he got up and got a warm, damp towel from his bathroom. He cleaned her up gently, wiping the sweat from her face, her neck and chest, then carefully cleaning the mess between her legs. Before doing the same to himself. 

He laid back down next to her, facing her. Y/n tangled her legs with his, the jersey still hanging loosely on her frame. Jongho reached for his phone and opened his gallery.

“Look,” he said gently, scrolling through pictures of the game. 

There were shots of him backstage with players, the mascot, when he got his customized jersey (and on the table behind him was the one he gave her). There were photos of the crowd, and shots of the players during the game, and there were ones of them, eating their concessions together, sharing a tray of pork belly and kimchi noodles. A selfie of them together with the crowd blurred behind them, a picture she had taken of him laughing, his head thrown back and a huge grin on his face. And one the manager took of them showing off their custom jerseys.

“You’re really cute when you watch baseball.” Y/n said as she looked at a photo of him pretending that his tornado potato was a baseball bat.

Jongho looked at her, not at the phone. His expression was full of love. “Y/n…” he said quietly. She looked at him, the phone forgotten between them. “Today… this…” he swallowed. “I never want to let you go.”

Y/n looked at him, the vulnerability in his eyes. His confession wasn’t just about today, it was about everything. He wanted her forever, not just here in Korea temporarily. She thought about every moment they shared, every quiet laugh, every lingering touch, the way his fingers traced patterns on her hip in the car, how he’d remembered exactly how she preferred her steak cooked, the truth in his voice when he called her beautiful.

She didn’t answer him with words, instead she leaned in and pressed her lips to his. A slow, deep kiss that hopefully was an answer itself. His lips were warm, and she could feel them tremble against hers. His arm tightened around her, pulling her closer until there was no room between them, just the heat of their bare bodies against each other. His hand slid into her hair, cradling her head gently.

When they finally broke apart she pressed her forehead against his. “You don’t have to let me go,” she whispered, nudging her nose against his. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

Jongho exhaled shakily, his thumb brushing her cheekbone. “Good, because I think I'd follow you anywhere.”

They kissed again, softer this time. His fingers tracing idle circles on her back through the jersey, her thumb brushing his jawline affectionately. The room was quiet except their breathing, the city outside the window seeming to disappear. The unspoken understanding that this, their whole relationship, was real. 

And neither of them wanted it to ever end.

© 𝖜𝖗𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖊𝖓-𝖇𝖞-𝖏-𝖔𝖓𝖊 | 𝖉𝖔 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖕𝖑𝖆𝖌𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖘𝖊, 𝖙𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖘𝖑𝖆𝖙𝖊, 𝖔𝖗 𝖗𝖊𝖕𝖔𝖘𝖙 𝖆𝖓𝖞 𝖔𝖋 𝖒𝖞 𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖐 ᴛʜɪs ɪs ɪɴ ɴᴏ ᴡᴀʏ ᴀ ʀᴇᴘʀᴇsᴇɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀs ᴏғ ᴀᴛᴇᴇᴢ, ɪᴛ ɪs ᴘᴜʀᴇʟʏ ғɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ғᴏʀ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏᴍᴇɴᴛ. ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ɪᴛ sᴇʀɪᴏᴜsʟʏ.

𝕥𝕒𝕘𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥: @sunnysidesins @tashiagalinda @kpopishgirlie @pippeth3hippy @sabyy @fertileleaf @osakis-gf @shynotded @icarusfallingdown @yessirfelix @heyyoplayer @wooya1224 @soulphoenix1618 @purelyhated @hannah-barnes107 @baw-sixteen @huntress-artemiss @bethlovesmatz @mysticfire0435 @tinycloudz

Which was technically true. Because before this, Yunho had at least been pretending he had his feelings under control. That illusion died three nights ago. It had been late. Almost one in the morning. You and Yeosang had come back from closing the campus café together smelling like coffee beans and sugar syrup, both of you exhausted and slap happy in that way people only got after working customer service too long. Yunho had been half asleep already, stretched across his bed with one airpod still in when he heard your laughter echo from the kitchen. Normally he tuned it out. He’d learned how to live around you a long time ago.

How to ignore the way your voice carried through walls. How not to think too hard when you wore his hoodies around the apartment and he wanted to hurt himself inside you with just said hoodie on. How not to stare when you sat cross legged on the couch beside him with wet hair after showers smelling like vanilla and coffee. He’d gotten good at surviving you. Mostly.

But that night he got up for water. And then he heard Yeosang say, “So your thing is just emotionally unavailable tall guys?” Your laugh came immediately after. “No, my thing is blondes unfortunately.” Yunho paused in the hallway going completely still. “I’m serious,” you continued. “Blondes are actually my weakness. It’s embarrassing.” And that was it. That was the moment his brain apparently vacated his body permanently.

Because the next morning he woke up thinking about it. Then he thought about it during class. Then during basketball practice. Then while brushing his teeth. Then at three in the morning while sitting cross legged on his bed researching hair bleach like he was preparing a dissertation.

Can dark hair go platinum in one session?

Will bleaching destroy natural waves?

Best blond shades for warm undertones.

The worst part? He knew it was pathetic. You’d all been friends since freshman year. Back when the three of you were living in tiny dorms with broken AC and surviving off instant ramen and campus vending machines. Back before Yunho had learned every version of your laugh by memory. Before he’d memorized your coffee order. Before the two of you ended up splitting rent on a shitty off campus apartment at the end of sophomore year because housing prices near campus were criminal.

Two years. Two years of shared grocery trips. Shared laundry. Shared late night study sessions. Shared space. Two years of wanting you so badly sometimes it physically hurt to look at you too long. And somehow you still had no idea. Or maybe you did. Yunho honestly couldn’t tell anymore. Sometimes he thought you had to know. Especially when your eyes lingered on him too long or when you’d fall asleep against his shoulder during movie nights without thinking twice about it.

Other times you treated him so casually he felt insane for even hoping. So yes. Maybe bleaching his hair because of one overheard conversation was humiliating. But Yunho had reached a point where he’d do a lot worse if it meant seeing you look at him differently for even half a second.

“Alright,” the stylist said finally, returning to his chair. “Ready to see it?” No. Absolutely not. But Yunho nodded anyway.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

By the time you finally made it home, your entire body felt held together by caffeine and spite. Your café visor was shoved into your tote bag, your hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, technically it was Yunho’s hoodie, as you unlocked the apartment door with a tired sigh. The hallway outside still smelled faintly like somebody’s burned microwave dinner, and all you wanted was a shower and unconsciousness.

The apartment lights were dim except for the living room glow. A video game soundtrack echoed softly through the space, one you recognized from how many times Yunho plays it. Mortal Kombat. “You alive in here?” you called, kicking the door shut behind you. “Barely,” Yunho answered from the couch.

You smiled automatically at the sound of his voice. “Good. I brought your favorite croissants before they tossed the leftovers.”

“Chocolate ones?”

“Obviously.” You stepped into the living room, already pulling the paper bag from your tote. “Yeosang tried to steal one and I told him I’d…” The rest of the sentence died instantly and your footsteps stopped as Yunho looked up from the couch. Blonde. Your brain fully disconnected from your body for a solid three seconds. He was sprawled lazily across the couch in grey sweatpants and an oversized black shirt, one arm hooked behind his head while the PS5 controller rested loosely in his other hand. The TV painted shifting colors across him, catching against pale blonde hair that fell messily over his forehead like he’d been running his hands through it for hours.

Your mouth opened. Closed and then opened again. “What did you do to your hair?” One corner of his mouth twitched. “Dyed it.” Like it was no big deal. Like he hadn’t just casually altered your brain chemistry. You stepped closer without meaning to, still staring at him. “Why are you blonde?”

Yunho shrugged, eyes flicking back toward the tv too casually. Way too casually. “Wanted a change.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Since when?”

“Since today?”

You made a disbelieving noise under your breath, still frozen in the middle of the living room while your heartbeat started doing deeply embarrassing things. Because Yunho had always been attractive. That was the problem. You’d spent years trying very hard not to think about it too much. But this? This felt targeted. Like a personal attack he had no idea he was doing. His hair looked soft enough to touch. The blond made his eyes look darker somehow. Sharper.

And the worst part was how relaxed he looked about it, stretched across the couch like he had no idea he’d just walked straight out of every bad decision you’d ever made. Yunho glanced back at you again finally, slower this time because you were still staring. Not subtly either. Your fingers tightened around the paper bag slightly as your eyes dragged over his hair again before you could stop yourself and a tiny flicker of satisfaction crossed his face so fast you almost missed it. “You hate it?” he asked.

You laughed once in disbelief. “Hate it?” you repeated. “Yunho, you look insane.” His eyebrow lifted. “Insane bad or insane good?” The apartment suddenly felt very warm. Very small. You swallowed once and completely betrayed yourself as you mumbled. “Unfortunately insane good.” You tore your eyes away from him with actual effort and shoved the paper bag toward him before you could continue staring like a Victorian man witnessing an exposed ankle.

“Here,” you muttered. “Your croissants before I decide you don’t deserve them anymore.” Yunho snorted softly, setting the controller down on his stomach so he could take the bag from you. Your fingers brushed for barely a second, just enough to make your stomach flip.

“You’re so generous,” he said dryly.

“I know.”

You dropped onto the opposite end of the couch quickly, mostly because standing near him suddenly felt medically unsafe. The cushions dipped under your weight while Yunho pulled one of the croissants from the bag immediately, peeling the paper back. You watched him take a bite. Unfortunately that was somehow attractive too. This was a nightmare. You exhaled through your nose, trying very hard to regain control of yourself before saying something humiliating. “Your postseason championship tomorrow,” you said, tucking your legs beneath you. “You ready?”

Yunho’s expression shifted slightly then, the teasing easing into something softer. Their intramural basketball team had somehow made it all the way to finals. Which normally wouldn’t have mattered much except Yunho was annoyingly good at basically everything. Half the campus showed up to games just to watch him play. “Mm,” he hummed around another bite of croissant. “Kinda nervous.”

You blinked, shocked. “You? Nervous?”

“A little.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Coach has been acting like this is the NBA finals all week.”

You smiled despite yourself. “That’s because you’re carrying the entire team.”

“That is actually true.”

“There he is.” You pointed at him. “Arrogant again.”

Yunho grinned and, God, the blonde hair made his smile worse somehow. Brighter. You hated this. “You’re coming though, right?” he asked and you softened immediately. “Of course I am. I even switched shifts for it,” you added. “Yeosang’s covering close tomorrow.”

Yunho stared at you for a second too long. Something warm flickered behind his eyes. Then he looked away first, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Cool,” he said quietly. And suddenly the apartment didn’t feel casual anymore. Not with his blonde hair glowing gold under the tv light.

Not with the way he kept glancing at you between bites of croissant.

Not with the heavy feeling sitting low in your stomach every time he smiled.

You were in so much trouble.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The next afternoon was somehow worse. You’d spent the entire morning telling yourself you were being ridiculous. It was hair. Just fucking hair. People dyed their hair every day. Millions of people probably woke up blonde every morning and somehow society continued functioning. So why had you spent half your shift replaying the image of Yunho sprawled across the couch in your head?

Why had you almost poured whole milk into an iced americano because you’d gotten distracted thinking about it? Why had you caught yourself staring into space while wondering if it was as soft as it looked? You were losing your mind.

By the time your shift ended, you practically threw your apron into your locker and headed for the employee bathroom. The game started in less than an hour. You’d been going to Yunho’s games ever since freshman year when he’d somehow convinced you to attend one “just this once.” That had turned into every home game. Which had turned into wearing his jersey number. Which had turned into you owning a black and red fitted shirt with a giant white 08 on the back.

You absolutely refused to examine how that happened. The shirt was already folded in your bag. You changed quickly, pulling it over your head and fixing your hair in the mirror. The familiar number stretched across your back with JEONG right above it. A small smile tugged at your lips before you jumped as a knock sounded on the doorframe.

Yeosang stood there holding a box of pastries, immediately narrowing his eyes. “Why do you look guilty?”

“I don’t.”

“You absolutely do.”

You grabbed your bag. “I’m leaving. Have fun closing.” Yeosang stepped directly into your path. “Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

Unfortunately, after years of friendship, he had developed an almost supernatural ability to tell when something was bothering you. Or when you were lying. The café had mostly emptied out now, most like you, were heading to the game. You finally signed, groaning. “It’s Yunho.”

“See? I knew it.”

“You always know it.”

“What’s he done now?”

You hesitated. Because somehow saying it out loud felt embarrassing. Extremely embarrassing. Yeosang waited patiently. Then impatiently. Then dramatically until you blurted it out.

“He dyed his hair.”

Yeosang blinked. “What?”

“He dyed his hair.”

“And?”

“He dyed it blonde.”

Yeosang laughed. A little too loudly. “Oh my god! Are you serious?”

You groaned. Then immediately regretted opening your mouth at all. Because once you started talking, everything spilled out. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Yeosang barked out another laugh. “Oh, you’re down bad.”

“Shut up.”

“You are.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“I know.”

Yeosang looked delighted as you looked miserable. “Every time I close my eyes,” you complained, “I just keep thinking about running my fingers through it and pulling on it while he…”

Yeosang immediately held up both hands. “Nope. Don’t need your nsfw details.”

You laughed despite yourself. “I wasn’t even going to say anything.”

“That sentence was headed somewhere awful.” Yeosang jokingly physically shuddered. “Please save that conversation for literally anyone else.” You laughed harder now, the tension easing slightly from your shoulders as Yeosang pointed toward the door. “Go.” He grabbed a towel and started wiping down a nearby counter. “Go watch your blonde basketball player.”

You rolled your eyes and headed backwards toward the exit. “He’s not my basketball player.”

Yeosang’s laugh followed you all the way out the door. “Sure he isn’t.”

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The gym was already packed by the time you arrived. Not professional sports packed. Not thousands of people screaming packed. College packed. Students crammed into bleachers. Friends holding homemade signs. The marching band warming up in one corner. The scent of popcorn and sweat and polished hardwood filling the air. The noise hit you immediately and you loved it.

You slipped through the crowd, making your way toward your usual section. A few people recognized the shirt you were wearing and smiled knowingly. Yunho’s number. As usual but you ignored the looks. At this point half the athletic department had apparently decided you and Yunho were dating years ago. The fact that neither of you had corrected them probably wasn’t helping.

The teams were already on the court warming up. And then you saw him and your feet almost stopped moving. God. That wasn’t fair. The basketball uniform had always looked good on him. That wasn’t new. The black and red jersey stretched across broad shoulders you’ve spent years pretending not to notice. His shorts hung low on his hips. His long legs seemed to take up half the court whenever he moved. Normally that was already enough to make maintaining a friendship feel like an Olympic sport. Now add the blonde hair and you were finished. Absolutely finished.

The bright gym lights caught the bleached strands every time he moved. Against the uniform it stood out immediately, making him impossible to miss even among dozens of players. Several girls nearby were staring and you immediately hated them. Then realized you were doing the exact same thing. Which somehow made it worse.

A whistle blew and warmups ended and the game began. You tried, you really did, to focus on the actual basketball. For maybe five minutes. Then Yunho stole the ball and the crowd erupted. You found yourself leaning forward automatically as he moved with an ease that always fascinated you. Confident. Fast. Certain. The version of Yunho most people knew was relaxed. Sweet and easygoing. Basketball was different. There was a sharpness to him here. A confidence. An intensity. Every movement looked deliberate. Every play looked effortless. And apparently blonde hair made all of it ten times more distracting.

Halfway through the first half he scored again and the crowd exploded all over again as Yunho jogged backward down the court breathing hard. Sweat glistening along his neck. You immediately looked away. Then immediately looked back. Which was a mistake. Because once again your brain had decided to imagine what that hair would feel like beneath your fingers. Pulling….. gripping…..

You shifted in your seat, clenching your thighs together and knew if this was one of those omegaverse stories Yeosang likes to read, the whole gym would smell how turned on you were right now. By halftime you had learned three things: One, Your roommate was going to win this game. Two, The blonde hair somehow looked even better than it had last night. And three….. You desperately needed to get your act together before he noticed the way you kept staring or wet you are as he glanced up and smiled at you.

Yunho had always been good at pretending. That was probably the only reason he’d survived the last few years. Because if he hadn’t learned how to hide things, you would’ve figured him out sometime during freshman year. Back before there was an apartment. Before shared rent. Before he realized he was completely screwed. The game should have had his full attention. It was the championship. The biggest game of the season. The final game of his college career.

And yet every few minutes his eyes drifted toward the bleachers anyway. Toward you. They always did. The first time he’d looked over after warmups, he’d almost forgotten what play they were running. Because there you were as always wearing his name and number. And Yunho hated how much he liked it. Actually, hate wasn’t the right word. The truth was much worse. He loved it. Loved it in a way he would absolutely never admit out loud.

Because the second he started examining why seeing you wear his number made him feel the way it did, he’d have to confront some very uncomfortable truths about himself. Like the fact he was possessive. Not in an unhealthy way. Not in a controlling way. Just… Yours. His brain immediately corrected. No. Not yours. You weren’t his. He knew that. But every time he saw another guy talking to you for too long, something ugly twisted in his chest.

Every time someone flirted with you at parties. Every time some idiot from one of your classes made you laugh. Yunho had to sit there pretending he was perfectly normal about it. So yes. Watching you wear his name and number did something to him……

Yunho snapped back into the play when the whistle blew again. He intercepted a pass, pushed the ball down court, and scored. His teammates slapped his shoulders as they ran back and the crowd cheered but he barely heard them. Because his eyes were already looking toward the stands again and you were watching him. A smile pulling at your mouth and his chest tightened immediately. God. He was pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. He immediately turned away. Then looked back three seconds later because apparently he had no self control anymore.

He kept glancing at you for the rest of the half. Through every possession. Every timeout. Every basket. Until finally midway through the second half he ended up at the free throw line and the gym quieted as Yunho bounced the ball once. Twice. Then glanced toward the stands out of habit again and immediately regretted it. Because you were looking right at him. Your chin resting against your hand. Looking at him like he was the only thing in the entire gym worth paying attention to. The shot nearly rimmed out but Yunho caught himself at the last second and the ball dropped through the net.

You weren’t even pretending to watch anyone else anymore. The scoreboard overhead glowed brightly against the gym lights, the numbers changing every few possessions. The opposing team was better than expected. Every time Yunho’s team started pulling away, they clawed their way back. The tension in the building kept rising. Students stood. The bench stood. Even the coaches looked stressed. And through all of it, Yunho somehow looked completely composed.

His blonde hair was darker now with sweat, the strands sticking slightly to his forehead as he moved across the court. The jersey clung to his back. His breathing had become heavier over the course of the game, but he never seemed to slow down. You’d watched him play dozens of times. Maybe a hundred. But tonight felt different. Everything felt different. Every glance toward him and him towards you lingered a little longer than it should. Every smile he gave a teammate made your stomach flutter. Every time he pushed his hair back from his face, your brain short circuited.

The scoreboard buzzed. Two minutes remaining. The game was tied and the entire gym seemed to collectively hold its breath. You shifted forward on the bleachers, elbows on your knees now. Nobody around you was sitting anymore. The student section was practically vibrating as the opposing team scored and groans erupted. Then thirty seconds later Yunho answered with a three pointer that nearly blew the roof off the place and you found yourself shouting before you even realized it but the sound was swallowed by hundreds of other voices.

Yunho pointed toward a teammate as they ran back down the court. One minute left. Then forty seconds. Then thirty. The score stayed tied and every possession felt life or death. You could see the exhaustion on every player now. The way they bent slightly when the play stopped. The sweat soaking through uniforms. The desperation. Twenty seconds. The opposing team missed. The rebound bounced loose and one of Yunho’s teammates grabbed it. Ten seconds. Nine. Eight. You stood fully now, heart pounding as the gym felt deafening.

Yunho sprinted across half court and the ball found him immediately. Everyone in the building knew who was taking the final shot. Even the other team. Two defenders closed on him instantly. Five seconds. Four. The noise became unbearable. Three. Yunho stepped back, just enough space to aim as time seemed to slow. You saw the ball leave his hands. Saw the arc. Saw the blonde hair falling into his eyes as he watched it fly and the entire gym froze……

For a split second there was silence. Pure silence. Then absolute chaos. The buzzer sounded. The scoreboard flashed. His team had won and the gym exploded. Boomed. Students screamed. The bench stormed the court as teammates tackled each other. People jumped onto the hardwood from the stands and the sound hit like a wave. And through all the madness, all the celebration, all the movement… Your eyes found Yunho immediately. He was laughing. Head thrown back. Arms spread as his teammates nearly knocked him over as they swarmed him.

For a moment he disappeared entirely beneath the crowd before he emerged again. Breathing hard and grinning. Flushed from exertion and adrenaline. You got up and made your way down the bleachers and onto the court and for a split second, you considered leaving.

The idea hit you the moment you reached the court through the chaos of celebration. Students were spilling onto the hardwood. Teammates were hugging each other. Coaches were getting drenched in water bottles. Everyone seemed to be shouting at once. Then you saw her. Standing beside Yunho. Red hair. Pretty. One of the cheerleaders. And not just any cheerleader. You knew exactly who she was. Brandy. Unfortunately. Because sophomore year, long before you’d let yourself admit your feelings for Yunho, he’d gotten drunk at a Halloween party and disappeared upstairs with her.

You’d spent the rest of that night pretending it hadn’t bothered you. Just like you’d spent the next years pretending a lot of things. Now she was standing entirely too close to him. Laughing. Touching his arm. Looking up at him with the kind of smile that made your stomach immediately sink. The championship high vanished from your system so fast it was almost impressive. You stopped walking. The noise of the gym suddenly felt distant. Stupid. This was stupid.

Yunho wasn’t your boyfriend. He could talk to whoever he wanted. He could fuck whoever he wanted. He’d done exactly that for years. And yet all you could think about was the way she’d reached up a second ago and touched his shoulder while laughing and how you wanted to break her hand for doing it.

Your jaw tightened and before you could stop yourself, you turned. You’d just leave. Nobody would notice. The team would celebrate. Yunho would celebrate. You’d text him congratulations later. Simple. Except apparently the universe had decided you weren’t getting away that easily. Because before you’d taken more than three steps, you heard your name and you froze.

“Y/N!”

You looked back as Yunho was already jogging toward you leaving the conversation with Brandy entirely.She looked confused as he disappeared and your heart did something deeply embarrassing as Yunho reached you a moment later, slightly out of breath from both the game and weaving through the crowd. The smile on his face hadn’t disappeared since the winning shot. “Where are you going?”

You shoved your hands into your pockets. “Nowhere.” His eyes narrowed immediately. The same way they always did when he knew you were lying. “Uh huh.” You shrugged. “You were leaving.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You literally turned around.”

“I changed directions.”

Yunho stared at you and you stared back. Then, to your horror, a tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Like he knew exactly what had happened. Like he was enjoying it as you kept glancing at his sweat damp hair. “I’m gonna go shower real quick,” he said. “We’re all going to Murphys to celebrate.” The little sports bar was only a few blocks from your apartment. Close enough that most students walked there. You nodded. Trying very hard to act normal. “Okay.”

His smile widened slightly. “Then we can go together.” The words landed harder than they should have. Because he could’ve gone with teammates. Or literally anyone else. Instead he’d said we. Like it was obvious. Like of course he was going with you and a warmth spread through your chest despite your best efforts. “You sure?” you asked and the question came out before you could stop it and something flickered across Yunho’s face. Confusion. Then amusement. Then something softer. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

You opened your mouth and closed it again. Because you couldn’t exactly say because Brandy looked like she wanted to climb him like a tree. So instead you shrugged. “Just asking.” Yunho watched you for a second. A long second. The kind that felt dangerous. Then one of his teammates shouted his name from across the court and the moment broke. “Give me twenty minutes,” Yunho said, backing away. “Don’t disappear.”

Your stomach flipped as the grin he gave you was quick. Easy. Familiar. Then he turned and headed toward the locker rooms as you kept standing there watching him go. Watching the blonde hair. Watching the way students stopped him every few feet to congratulate him. Watching three separate girls try to get his attention in the span of thirty seconds.

And for the first time all night, a realization settled heavily in your chest. The jealousy wasn’t getting better. If anything, it was getting worse.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Murphys was exactly what every college sports bar eventually became on a championship night. Packed and overly loud. Impossible to move through without bumping into somebody. The moment you and Yunho stepped through the front doors, a roar erupted from somewhere near the back where most of the team had already claimed several tables. Someone immediately started chanting his name. Another teammate nearly spilled a beer trying to get his attention. You couldn’t help smiling. This was his night. The culmination of four years of practices, games, injuries, early mornings, and everything in between. And somehow, despite all the attention immediately being directed at him, Yunho still glanced over his shoulder to make sure you were following.

The small gesture shouldn’t have affected you but it did unfortunately. His hair was still slightly damp from the shower, the blonde strands softer than before and pushed loosely back from his forehead. A few pieces had already fallen forward again, framing his face in a way that should probably be illegal. He’d traded the basketball uniform for black jeans and a dark grey henley that fit entirely too well across his shoulders. You hated how aware you were of every detail and the way half the women in the bar immediately noticed him.

“Over here!” one of his teammates yelled. The team occupied nearly an entire section of the bar now, pitchers and baskets of food already covering the tables. The second Yunho approached, someone shoved a shot glass into his hand. Then another. Then another. And another. “Champions drink free tonight!” someone shouted. The chanting started almost immediately and Yunho rolled his eyes then knocked back the first shot anyway.

You found yourself laughing despite everything. For a little while, it was easy. The energy was infectious. Everyone was celebrating. The game replayed on televisions mounted around the bar and every few minutes somebody brought up the final shot again. Every single retelling somehow made Yunho look more embarrassed.

You were watching him grin through another round of congratulations when your stomach suddenly dropped. Her. Brandy. She’d arrived sometime in the last ten minutes. You hadn’t noticed until now. Until she stood near the opposite side of the table talking to a few people from the athletic department and entirely too interested in Yunho. You tried ignoring it. Really. You focused on your drink. Focused on conversations around you. Focused on literally anything else. Then you looked up again and she was moving closer.

Your jaw tightened as she stopped right beside Yunho who didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did. You couldn’t tell as someone handed him another shot and he accepted it with a laugh as Brandy laughed too. At something that wasn’t even funny. Your grip tightened around your glass as she kept finding reasons to move closer, reaching out and touching Yunho’s arm while saying something. The movement lasted barely a second but it still made something unpleasant twist in your chest.

You immediately looked away and moved towards the bar having no idea Yunho was trying. He really was. He’d spent the last ten minutes being cornered by teammates, congratulated by professors he barely knew, handed enough shots to tranquilize a horse, and somehow Brandy had attached herself to his side like a particularly persistent barnacle. Ordinarily, he would’ve felt a little bad. Brandy was nice enough. Kind of. Not really.

They’d hooked up exactly once nearly two years ago after a Halloween party, discovered they had absolutely no chemistry beyond mutual attraction, and never did it again. Since then they’d been friendly. Casual. At least, Yunho thought they’d been casual. Apparently Brandy had different ideas. Because she kept laughing at things that weren’t funny. Kept touching his arm. Kept finding excuses to lean closer. And Yunho kept trying to politely create space without making a scene.

His attention wasn’t even on her. It hadn’t been all night. The problem was that his attention was currently locked on the opposite side of the bar. Specifically on you. And the guy sitting beside you. Sean. Of course it was Sean. Yunho knew Sean. Everybody knew Sean. Another player. Not on the basketball team, but one of the soccer guys. Tall. Built. Annoyingly good looking. And blonde. Naturally blond and that realization hit Yunho like a personal attack.

Of course. Of fucking course. The universe apparently had jokes tonight. Because there you were, sitting at the bar with Sean occupying the stool beside you. Laughing and smiling. Looking comfortable. And all Yunho could think about was that stupid conversation he’d overheard about blondes being your weakness.

His jaw tightened as Sean leaned closer to hear something you said over the music and you laughed and Yunho immediately hated him. Not rationally. Not fairly. Just instantly. “You even listening to me?” Brandy’s voice snapped him back for half a second. “What?”

“You haven’t heard a single thing I’ve said.”

And he still wasn’t as a fresh wave of irritation rolled through Yunho. Which was ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. You weren’t his girlfriend. You could talk to whoever you wanted. You could date whoever you wanted. Fuck whoever you wanted. The same rules he’d been reminding himself of for years. The problem was they weren’t working anymore.

Yunho immediately looked again. And hated that he looked again. Because the second he saw your smile directed at someone else, that ugly feeling in his chest returned. Stronger this time. Possessive. Frustrated. Dangerously close to becoming something he couldn’t keep hidden much longer. And judging by the way Sean had started leaning even closer, Yunho was rapidly running out of patience.

Sean was halfway through telling some story about getting thrown out of an intramural soccer game when Yunho finally reached his limit. “Fuck it.” Before he could talk himself out of it, Yunho started walking towards you and the moment you felt his presence, you turned. And immediately forgot how to function.

Yunho had one hand braced against the bar behind your stool. The other settled on the counter beside your drink. In one smooth movement he’d essentially wedged himself into the tiny space behind you. Not touching. Technically. But close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough that his shirt brushed the back of your shoulder when he shifted. Close enough that the familiar scent of him immediately invaded your senses and your brain completely short circuited.

Sean looked up and grinned immediately. “Jeong!” Yunho nodded once and to Sean’s credit, he didn’t seem remotely threatened. Or aware. “Hell of a game,” Sean continued. “That shot was ridiculous.”

“Thanks.”

“You saved your whole team.”

“Someone had to.”

Sean laughed and Yunho smiled politely. Meanwhile you sat frozen between them. Because while Sean was carrying on a perfectly normal conversation, Yunho remained exactly where he was. Behind you. Practically looming as his arm still rested along the bar behind your stool. You grabbed your drink then immediately regretted it because your hand was shaking slightly. Wonderful.

“You guys still living together after graduation?” The question landed like a grenade. Sean looked genuinely curious when you looked startled and Yunho looked calm. “Yeah,” Yunho answered before you could and your eyes immediately flicked toward him as Sean nodded. “Nice. Makes life easier.”

“It does.” The answer came instantly. Like Yunho hadn’t even needed to think about it and something warm stirred in your chest as Sean smiled. “Honestly, I don’t know how you two do it. I’d kill most of my roommates after two years.”

This time you laughed. “So would I.”

Yunho looked down at you immediately. “You wound me.”

“You leave dishes in the sink.”

“They soak.”

“They rot.”

“They marinate.”

Sean barked out a laugh and you laughed too as Yunho smiled. And for a brief second the jealousy disappeared entirely. Because this felt familiar. Comfortable. The two of you slipping into the easy rhythm you’d built over years. Then Sean smiled at you again and the jealousy came roaring right back. Yunho’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly as his eyes lingered on Sean for a moment longer than necessary then dropped to you.

“Oh, there he is.” You followed Sean’s gaze to see another soccer player waving him over from a crowded table near the back as Sean stood. “My roommate is going to drink himself into a medical emergency if I leave him alone any longer.”

“Probably a good idea then,” you said as Sean pointed toward Yunho. “Again, congrats on the win.”

“Thanks.”

And just like that, Sean was gone and the moment he disappeared into the crowd, the space beside you was empty for approximately half a second before Yunho sat down. Like he’d been waiting for the opportunity. The stool Sean had vacated hadn’t even stopped spinning before Yunho claimed it. You stared into your drink to hide your smile as the bar remained loud around you. Students celebrating. Glasses clinking. Music playing overhead.

But suddenly all of your attention narrowed to the person sitting beside you as Yunho leaned forward against the bar. His blonde hair had dried almost completely by now. Which somehow made it worse as you heard him mumble almost to himself. “You really do like blondes, don’t you.”

You froze. The words weren’t loud. But they were loud enough and Yunho froze too, his eyes widening slightly and for a second neither of you moved before you furrowed your brows. “What?”

Yunho stared straight ahead. The picture of regret. You could practically see him replaying the last five seconds in his head. Trying to decide if there was any possible way to pretend he hadn’t just said that.

“What did you just say?”

A faint flush crept up the back of his neck and his ears turned red and the realization hit you immediately. Yunho was embarrassed. Genuinely embarrassed. And somehow that made your pulse jump even harder.

“You told Yeosang you like blondes.” His words landed between you and your brain stopped working. For a moment you weren’t even sure you’d heard correctly. “You… heard that?”

Yunho rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe.”

Your jaw dropped. “Yunho.”

“It was an accident.”

“You eavesdropped on us?”

“I was getting water.”

“You were eavesdropping while getting water.”

“I was not.”

“You absolutely were.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You dyed your hair.” The words slipped out before you could stop them and Yunho finally looked at you. “You dyed your hair because of that?” you asked quietly and Yunho let out a short laugh. Not amused. More like someone caught red handed. “Maybe.” His jaw tightened as his fingers flexed around an empty beer bottle. For a moment he looked like he was debating whether to keep hiding. Then something in his expression shifted.

“I wanted you to look at me.” The words landed like a punch and your breath caught as Yunho laughed once. “Actually, no. That’s not true.” He shook his head. “I wanted you to want me. I’ve wanted you for a long time,” he admitted and you could have swore your heart stopped beating. “Since freshman year, probably. You remember when you got sick during finals?” You stared at him. Of course you remembered. You’d spent three days miserable in your dorm while Yunho kept showing up with soup and notes. “I remember.”

“I skipped practice for that.”

Your chest tightened. “I know.”

“You don’t.” His eyes locked onto yours. “I skipped practice because I couldn’t focus knowing you were sick.” Yunho looked away briefly before continuing. “I tried getting over it.” A small laugh escaped him again. “Didn’t work.” Your throat felt tight. “I dated other people. Didn’t work.” The noise of the bar washed around you but neither of you seemed to notice anymore. “Then we moved in together.” He smiled faintly. “Which was probably the worst decision I’ve ever made.”

Despite everything, a tiny laugh escaped you as Yunho’s gaze softened. “Do you know how hard it is living with someone you want?” The air left your lungs because of you did. “You wear my hoodies.” His voice was lower now. “You fall asleep on my shoulder. You wear my name and my number.” Your eyes dropped briefly to the black shirt and when you looked back up, Yunho was already watching you. “I like when you wear it.”

Your heart nearly stopped. “You do?”

“Yeah.” Yunho’s jaw flexed. Then he admitted the thing he probably never intended to. “It makes me feel like you’re mine.” The words settled heavily between you and Yunho immediately looked away. Like even after everything, that confession felt too revealing. Too possessive. Too honest. But it was already out there now. And suddenly so many things made sense. The way he’d always noticed when you wore the shirt. The way he’d smiled every time. The way he’d looked at you during games. The way he’d dyed his hair. The way he’d looked at you tonight and slowly, Yunho looked back and his expression was completely open now.

“I want you.” The words were barely above a whisper, yet somehow they hit harder than anything else he’d said. Your heart was beating so hard it hurt and for a moment neither of you moved. Neither of you breathed. You simply stared at each other before you stood and the movement made Yunho blink, eyes following you immediately. Confused, hopeful and a little worried.

“You want me.” It wasn’t a question but your words made Yunho’s throat bob as he nodded like he couldn’t trust his voice anymore and the look in his eyes nearly destroyed you as a tiny smile tugged at your lips. “Then come have me.” And for a second, Yunho simply stared. Like his brain had completely stopped functioning.

Then his chair scraped against the floor so loud heads turned to stare a little as he followed you out the bar.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The front door of your apartment barely clicked shut behind you before the tension that had been building all evening, for years, snapped like a live wire. Yunho’s hands were already on your waist, spinning you around and pressing you back against the wood paneling as his mouth found yours in a deep, hungry kiss finally. His tongue slid against yours with urgent need, tasting faintly of the drinks you’d had and the shots he downed. He pulled back just enough to breathe the words against your lips, voice low and rough. “You want me?”

You laughed softly, the sound turning into a gasp when his hips rolled forward to pin you tighter. “Obviously, blondie.” He grinned and then moved. Both of you pulled and tugged at each other’s clothes not wasting anymore time because you already waited years and both of you were impatient now. Shirts tugged over heads, pants shoved down legs, socks kicked aside, Yunho almost tripped once, until both of you stood in nothing but underwear, breathing hard as Yunho’s gaze raked over your body, pupils blown wide, before he bent and lifted you effortlessly.

Your legs wrapped around his waist as he carried you down the short hallway, mouth never leaving yours except to nip at your jaw, tongue gliding against your skin as he shouldered open the door to his bedroom and lowered you onto the edge of the bed wasting no time to start kissing his way down your throat, across your collarbones, pausing to suck lightly at the swell of each breast still covered by your bra. You reached behind yourself and unclasped it, letting the fabric fall away and Yunho’s hands immediately replaced it, palms warm as they cupped and squeezed, thumb stroking over one nipple before he leaned down to take it into his mouth. “Fuck….” You gasped as groaned against you, sucking harder, letting his teeth graze before moving to do the same thing to your other one as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and drew them down your thighs, slow and deliberate.

He gave one more little nip at your nipple before sliding down and dropping to his knees between your legs, hooking one over his shoulder as he kissed the inside of one thigh, then the other, working higher with open mouthed presses of his lips and your fingers threaded into his hair, gripping the bleached strands as he finally reached your center and his tongue dragged a long, flat stripe up your folds before circling your clit.

He took his time, licking and sucking with focused attention, occasionally dipping lower to push his tongue inside you in slow, deliberate little thrusts. A low groan vibrated against you when his own hand slipped into his boxers to wrap around his dick, stroking in time with the rhythm of his tongue just enough to edge himself as your hips started rocking against his face and the wet sounds of his mouth to fill the room. “Yunho…. I’m….” You could feel it, between the way he would rotate plunging his tongue insult to moving back up to suck your aching clit into to his mouth. You could feel your wetness, juices leaking against his chin, smearing, covering his face.

“FUCK!” Your orgasm slammed against you, coming with a sharp cry, thighs trembling around his head while he kept licking through every pulse and your grip tightened in his hair, eyes rolling back a little as he kept going until you couldn’t take it anymore. You tugged him upward by his hair and didn’t miss the way he moaned at his hair being pulled. “I need you inside me now.”

Yunho stood in one fluid motion, you certainly did not have to tell him twice. He shoved his boxers down, catching your ankles and pulling you toward the edge of the mattress, lifting you into his lap as he sat back on the bed, kissing you as you both could feel his tip aching against you, precum smearing at your entrance. “Look at me.” His voice was rough, raspy, as he pressed his forehead against yours. “You want this?” He held you up, giving enough space for the head of his dick to just barely slip inside you. “You want me to bury myself inside you and make you mine?”

“Please….” You hated that it sounded as if you were desperate and begging but you literally were and it was enough to make him groan as held you, sinking you down onto him in one smooth glide and both of you moaned at the stretch, at the years of wanting finally released. He held you there for a moment, forehead staying pressed to yours, letting you adjust to the deep fullness until you began to move, rising and sinking in steady bounces.

Every downward stroke seated him fully, the angle hitting that perfect spot inside you. It didn’t take long before the pressure crested again, you were to full, the knowledge of him taking you almost too much and you could feel it already, hitting you to fast. You clenched around him and felt yourself squirt, wetness spilling over his thighs and Yunho’s control fractured. “Holy shit, baby….” He laid you flat on the bed and drove into you harder, hips snapping forward while you kept coming in messy pulses around him. He leaned down to kiss you, swallowing your cries as your hands yanked at his hair which only fueled him to pound into you faster.

Another orgasm rolled through you, legs shaking uncontrollably, your moan formed into a cry of his name and Yunho pulled out, mouth returning to your pussy to lap at the fresh slick while you were still coming, tongue slipping inside you again as your walls clenched with aftershocks, and the moan he let out like you watching and having you come apart was the best thing to ever happen to him almost made you come again if he hadn’t pulled back and flipped you onto your stomach.

His hands gripped your hips to pull you back onto your knees, pressing you down into the mattress with one big hand between your shoulder blades, gripping his dick in his other hand, teasing his tip at your ass for a minute before moving it back down and thrusting back inside your overstimulated pussy from behind, going a little slower now, savoring the way you gripped him. “Always wanted this,” he murmured, voice thick. “Wanted you like this, taking every inch.” One hand slid around to your front, fingers finding your swollen clit. “Whose pussy is it?”

You tried to answer but all you could manage for a moment were whimpers, small little cries. “Yours,” you gasped, pushing back to meet him. “It’s your pussy.” The words seemed to ignite something in him. His pace quickened, hips slapping against your ass with each deep thrust as he pulled you upright against his chest, one arm banded across your waist to hold you steady while he continued pounding up into you. The new angle keeping him buried to the hilt, and the steady friction soon had you coming again, body arching back into him.

“Fuck…” Yunho reached up, hand wrapping around your throat, tilting your head back as he could feel his dick twitch. “Mine.” He groaned, thrusts frantic and gone as held you there right, coming, groaning your name as he filled you, hot pulses flooding deep inside you while his arms tightened around you, keeping you close through the aftershocks, pressing kisses along your shoulder and neck as both of you caught your breath, the room quiet except for the sound of your mingled breathing.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The room was quiet except for the soft hum of the fan in the corner and the sound of your breathing slowly finding its rhythm again. The adrenaline that had carried you from the bar to the apartment was finally beginning to settle, leaving behind something warmer. Softer and real as Yunho rolled onto his back with a groan, one arm immediately reaching for you before you’d even fully settled beside him. Like it was instinct. Like after spending years wanting you, he couldn’t quite convince himself that this wasn’t some elaborate dream his brain had invented.

Then, after a moment, Yunho smiled. Dangerously teasing. The same look he always wears whenever he knows he was about to win an argument. He tilted his head slightly and chuckle escaped him. “You really do like blondes, huh?”

You laughed immediately, then reached up and pushed the hair back from his forehead, fingers lingering there and the teasing expression disappeared from Yunho’s face as he watched you. Watched the fond smile pull at your mouth.

“Mhmmm,” you hummed then you leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “But I like just Yunho too.”

And for a second, he simply stared before the biggest smile you’d ever seen spread across his face. And somehow, impossibly, that smile was better than the blonde hair.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

It all traces back to a week or so ago, when the world cracked open between us.

I'd been scrolling through my phone in the quiet of my apartment after a late practice, the glow casting shadows on the walls, when the notifications hit like shrapnel.

Gossip sites exploding with photos of Seungcheol—Scoups—leaning into Lia— tall, thin, sharp feature, big doe eyes with gorgeous skin and hair, everything I wasn’t — with her hand on his arm, his smile too easy, too intimate.

'K-pop’s new IT couple?'

‘Coups getting Cozy?’

The headlines gutted me, jealousy uncoiling like a serpent in my chest, sharp and venomous.

We’d never put a name to us, but god, it had woven into something real. What started as a raw, no-strings BDSM dynamic—me dropping to my knees in the dim glow of hotel rooms after his shows, leather cuffs biting into my wrists as he gripped my hair and thrust his thick cock down my throat until tears streamed and I choked on him—had evolved. It turned tender in the aftermath, his hands soothing the welts on my skin, pulling me against his chest as we breathed together. Late nights blurred into mornings where he'd murmur secrets against my neck, feed me bites of rice from his chopsticks, hold me when the exhaustion of being invisible in the spotlight crushed me. But labels? Impossible.

He was Seventeen's leader, the unbreakable core of the group, every move scrutinized. I was just a backup dancer, one of the shadows syncing steps behind them, easily swapped out if I faltered.

The photos were one thing. The headlines and overarching support, acceptance, hype by the public shipping them together unraveled something I’d been trying too hard to keep neatly tied together. Every glance, every touch we’d shared suddenly felt flimsy under the glare of proof I could hold in my hand. I didn’t text him. Didn’t trust myself to. I waited.

By the time practice ended, the building had quieted, the usual chaos fading into distant echoes. I caught him in the hallway outside the studio, harsh fluorescent lights casting everything in a sickly, unforgiving glow.

“Seungcheol.”

My voice came out steadier than I felt. My fingers tightened around my phone as I stepped into his path, holding it up between us. The screen lit his face.

“What the hell is this?”

He barely reacted at first—just a glance, a small crease between his brows—then that composure slipped into place like it always did. Calm. Controlled.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “Paparazzi. You know how they twist things.”

Something inside me snapped at how easy that sounded.

“Nothing?” I echoed, a hollow laugh catching in my throat. “She’s got her hands on you like she belongs there, and you’re smiling like you want her there. The headlines are calling you the new golden couple of K-pop and you haven’t said anything! That’s your version of nothing?”

He exhaled slowly, like I was already exhausting him. “It was a schedule. Promo. Cameras everywhere. You’re blowing this out of proportion.”

I stared at him, disbelief rising hotter than the hurt. “Out of proportion? I’m looking at you—at this—and you expect me to just… what? Be your mistress?”

His jaw tightened. “I expect you to remember what this is.”

The words landed heavier than I expected.

“And what is that, exactly?” I shot back, stepping closer. “Because from where I’m standing, it stopped being ‘casual’ a long time ago.”

His eyes flickered—just for a second—but it was enough to tell me I’d hit something.

“That’s exactly the problem,” he said, sharper now. “You’re starting to treat it like something it can’t be.”

My chest tightened. “Can’t be? Or you don’t want it to be?”

“Don’t twist this,” he snapped. “We had an understanding. No complications. No scenes like this.”

“Like this?” I repeated, voice rising despite myself. “You think this is me being dramatic? You think I wanted to stand here feeling like an idiot?”

“You’re acting like one,” he said, and this time there was no softness to blunt it.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

I swallowed hard. “Right. Because caring makes me stupid, I guess.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” My grip on the phone loosened, my arm dropping to my side. “You just made it very clear where I stand.”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through his usual control. “Look, this isn’t the place for this, and your place is not….”

That did it.

“My place?” I repeated, the words coming out dangerously quiet.

“Yeah,” he said, doubling down, like he didn’t realize the line he was crossing. “You’re not my girlfriend. You’re not someone I can be seen with, not someone I can explain. You knew that from the start.”

Each word hit harder than the last, precise and unflinching.

“So what am I, then?” I asked, even though I already knew I didn’t want the answer.

He hesitated—but only for a second.

“Someone I care about,” he said, quieter now. “But not someone I can choose. Not publicly. Not like that.”

The clarification didn’t help. It made it worse.

“Not someone you can choose,” I repeated, a brittle smile forming. “That’s convenient.”

“You think this is easy for me?” he shot back. “You think I get to just do whatever I want? One wrong move and everything I’ve built—everything the group has built—takes a hit. I don’t have the luxury of feelings the way you do.”

The way you do.

Like mine were disposable. Optional.

“Wow,” I breathed. “So this—” I gestured between us, my voice shaking now despite everything “—this is just me being… what? Emotional? Replaceable?”

“I didn’t say replaceable.”

“You didn’t have to,” I snapped, echoing him from earlier. “You just said I’m not someone you’d ever choose.”

His expression faltered then, regret flashing too late.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s exactly what you meant.” My throat burned, but I refused to let the tears fall in front of him. “You just didn’t expect me to hear it out loud.”

He stepped closer, voice lowering. “Don’t do this. Don’t turn one stupid article into something that ruins—”

“Ruins what?” I cut in sharply. “There’s nothing to ruin, remember? This isn’t anything.”

He clenched his jaw, and for a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then, quieter, almost tired, he said, “You’re misunderstanding the situation.”

Something in me went cold at that.

“Right,” I said, nodding slowly. “Of course. This is on me.”

“That’s not—”

“No, it is.” I took a step back, putting space between us before I did something worse than cry. “I forgot my place.”

The words tasted bitter, but I let them sit there.

His expression shifted, something softer breaking through. “Jagiya, don’t—”

“My mistake, Scoups sunbaenim,” I said, the formality deliberate, cutting. “It won’t happen again.”

This time, when I turned, I didn’t wait to see if he’d follow. I didn’t want to know if he would.

The hallway felt longer on the way out, each step heavier than the last. By the time I reached the door, my vision had blurred, the weight of everything crashing down at once—not just the photos, but the truth he’d finally said out loud.

Not someone he could choose.

The next week practice felt like a silent war I refused to lose first.

I always got to practice early, claiming a corner of the mirrored studio like it was neutral ground. Stretching, counting breaths, focusing on anything but the door. It didn’t work. The second he walked in, I felt it—his presence, heavy and searching.

I didn’t look up.

Not when the members greeted each other. Not when his voice cut through the room. Not even when I knew he was looking straight at me.

Formations became strategy. If a move placed me near him, I shifted. Someone else filled the gap. I stayed sharp, precise—untouchable. The routine didn’t falter, but something else had. Every near-miss, every almost-brush of hands felt louder than the music.

By the first break, tension had coiled so tight it was suffocating.

I barely made it to the water cooler before he was there.

“We need to talk.”

Low. Urgent. Not leader Seungcheol—just him.

I grabbed a paper cup, not meeting his eyes. “Not now.”

His hand came down on the cooler beside me, blocking my exit—not forceful, but enough.

“Last night… I fucked up.”

I let out a quiet breath, steadying myself before I looked at him. Big mistake.

He looked wrecked. Not tired—wrecked. Eyes rimmed red, jaw tight like he hadn’t unclenched it once since I walked away.

For a split second, it cracked something in me.

Then I remembered his voice: You’re not someone I can choose.

I stepped around him.

“I’m working,” I said flatly, and walked off.

It didn’t stop there.

If anything, it got worse.

Texts flooded in first.

I’m sorry.

I didn’t mean it like that.

You’re not—fuck, you’re not what I said. You’re more.

Please talk to me.

I didn’t respond.

Then came the voice messages.

I made the mistake of listening to one.

“Please, jagi,” his voice came through, rough, stripped of all that control he wore so well. “Don’t shut me out like this. Miyane. Let me explain.”

I deleted it before he could finish.

Then the flowers showed up.

Of course they did.

Too many roses. Too much meaning. Too late.

I read the card once—You’re my anchor—and felt something bitter curl in my chest.

Anchors don’t get hidden.

Anchors don’t get denied.

I shoved them into a vase and left them by the window like an obligation.

The one place I couldn’t avoid him was the practice room.

I mirrored his every move from afar, syncing flawlessly but never meeting his eyes. During a group huddle, he reached for my shoulder, but I shrugged it off subtly, stepping back.

Mingyu finally pulled me aside during the cool-down, his brow furrowed with concern. “Hey, what's going on with you and hyung? You've been dodging him all week. He looks wrecked.”

“It's nothing,” I muttered, forcing a smile that didn't reach my eyes. “Just tired.” But inside, the conflict raged—our blurred lines, the power imbalance, the fear that I'd always be the one chasing shadows.

By the time I’d gotten home, the hallway lights had been dimmed, the building quiet in that late-night way that made everything feel heavier.

He’d been sitting on the steps outside my apartment door, elbows on his knees, a bouquet resting beside him—something softer this time. Not the loud, showy roses.

Lilies.

My favourite.

He’d looked up the second he heard my footsteps.

Relief had hit his face so fast it had almost knocked the air out of me.

“Hey,” he’d said, standing too quickly, like he’d been waiting a while.

I hadn’t moved any closer.

“Seungcheol…”

My voice had come out quieter than I wanted.

Tired.

He’d picked up the flowers, holding them out—not pushing, just offering. “I didn’t know if you’d be home.”

I’d stared at them for a second before taking them, mostly because I hadn’t known what else to do with my hands.

“They’re… not apology flowers,” he’d added quickly. “Or—not just that. I just—” He’d exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I saw them and thought of you.”

That shouldn’t have worked.

But it had.

Too much.

We’d stood there for a moment, the distance between us thinner than it had been all day.

“Miyane,” he’d said finally.

Not rushed.

Not defensive.

Just… quiet.

“I shouldn’t have said that to you. Any of it.”

I’d swallowed, fingers tightening slightly around the stems. “You didn’t just say it.”

“I know,” he’d nodded. “I know. I’ve been—” He’d searched for the word. “Careless. With you.”

I’d let out a long exhale.

“I didn’t think,” he’d continued. “I just… reacted. And I hurt you.”

A beat.

“You didn’t deserve that.”

My chest had tightened.

“Seungcheol…” I’d started, my voice softer, wavering despite myself. It would’ve been so easy to close the distance, to fall back into his arms. I’d hated how much I’d still wanted that. “You can’t keep doing this to me.”

His expression had shifted immediately, something pained flickering through it.

“I know.”

“No,” I’d shaken my head, finally looking at him properly. “I don’t think you do.”

I’d stepped a little closer before I could stop myself, the words slipping out quieter, more fragile than I intended.

“It’s not about the photo… not really. I think it was just a catalyst. I… I deserve better than this.”

He hadn’t argued.

He’d just nodded once, like that part, at least, he understood.

“You do,” he’d said.

The agreement had almost broken me.

Because it meant he knew.

“And I want to be that for you,” he’d added quickly, stepping closer too, careful this time. “I do. I just—” He’d hesitated, jaw tightening. “I need you to be patient with me.”

My grip on the flowers had tightened. “Patient,” I’d repeated.

“Yeah,” he’d said, softer now, like he was choosing his words carefully. “Things aren’t… simple for me. You know that. The timing, the situation—I just need you to trust me while I figure it out.”

The warmth from a second before had started to slip.

“Figure it out,” I’d echoed.

“I’m trying,” he’d insisted. “I’m here, aren’t I? I came to you. I’m not ignoring this, I’m not walking away—”

“But you’re not choosing it either,” I’d cut in quietly.

He’d stilled.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“That’s not fair,” he’d said, a hint of frustration creeping back in. “I’m doing what I can.”

“And I was supposed to just wait around while you decided if I was worth it?” I’d asked, not raising my voice, which somehow made it worse. “It’s Lia one day, then Mimi, then Bri, Emi… you’re with them during the day and what? I was just supposed to be waiting for you in your bed at night?”

“That’s not what this is.”

“Then what was it?” I’d pressed, softer now, almost pleading. “Because it still felt like I was the only one standing in it fully.”

He’d exhaled, running a hand through his hair again, that same tell.

“I just need more time.”

I’d let out a small, disbelieving laugh, shaking my head.

“Of course you do.”

“Don’t do that,” he’d said quickly. “Don’t twist it into something it’s not.”

“I’m not twisting anything,” I’d replied, my voice steadier now, even as something inside me started to close. “You’re asking me to stay exactly where I am while you… what? Have your cake and eat it too?”

“That’s not fair.”

“It is,” I’d said. “Because nothing you’re saying changes how it feels for me.”

“It will,” he’d insisted. “You just have to trust me.”

That word again.

Trust.

Like it was something he could ask for without giving me anything solid to hold onto.

Something in my chest had tightened, then settled into something colder.

“You keep asking me for that,” I’d murmured. “But you’re not giving me anything to trust in.”

His expression had tightened.

“You’re overreacting.”

“Okay,” I’d said quietly.

And then I’d turned around and walked away without looking back.

Jan’s invite came that night: Club night with the squad! Come unwind after that brutal set list!

I fired back: Oh no, I’m really not in the mood.

'C’mon, you've been MIA too long! Booze, beats, no drama. I'll buy the first round if you show,' she teased, adding pleading emojis that chipped at my resolve.

The anger simmered, pushing me to spite the pull he still had, to drown the hurt in noise despite his relentless pursuit.

Fuck it.

I’m in.

🥃 “Chug! Chug! Chug!”

The chant snaps me back into the present like a hand yanking me out of water.

I blink—lights, noise, bodies moving too close, too fast.

Someone shoves another shot into my hand.

“Woohoo! You’re killing this!” Xian yells over the music.

I don’t hesitate.

Salt. Burn. Heat flooding down my throat, pooling warm in my stomach.

Another follows immediately.

Then another.

I snatch it, tongue the salt heavier this time, the tequila slamming harder, fuzzing my thoughts. The hurt eases into numb defiance, my body loosening as the alcohol surges. I'm a dancer at heart—rhythm is my blood.

“Oh my god! Have you seen this?” whispers break out, phones are whipped out and passed around. I’m too drunk to care.

“Scoups went on weverse and denied any relationship with Lia or any idol,” someone reads, “he said, quote, it’s fake news my label threw out without my consent.”

“He said there’s someone special in his life,” a shouted whisper.

“He’s such a man,” another person giggles, “probably has a line of special someone’s.”

“Count me in!” a high voice shrieks, “I’ll be in his harem line any day!”

I down another shot. The words and whispers blurring in my head.

Jan yanks me to the floor: “I’m cutting you off. Move it, queen!”

The lights strobe, bodies press close, sweat and perfume thick in the air. I let the music take over, hips swaying to the heavy drop, my skirt riding up as I grind against the beat. I’m good at this—years of syncing to K-pop tracks honed my flow. I lose myself, spinning, dipping low, my ass brushing against strangers in the crowd.

A guy from another group slides up behind me, hands on my waist, and I don’t pull away. Instead, I arch back, grinding my hips into him, feeling his hardness press against me through our clothes. The friction sparks heat between my thighs, my pussy already slick from the booze and the rush. Shots keep coming—someone hands me one mid-dance, and I throw it back without stopping, the liquid fire urging me on. I’m drunk now, gloriously so, the world tilting in the best way, jealousy morphing into reckless abandon.

But then I feel it—eyes on me. Intense, piercing, cutting through the haze. I glance over, and there he is: Seungcheol, leaning against the bar in a dark hoodie pulled low, his gaze locked on me like a predator. His jaw clenches as he watches me grind on the stranger, those photos forgotten in the face of this real-time jealousy bait. My heart races, a mix of triumph and need surging through me. I amp it up, deliberately—pressing harder against the guy, tossing my hair, letting out a moan-laugh that I know carries, fingers trailing my own thigh, daring him to snap. I want him to burn like I did.

He pushes off the bar, stalking through the crowd like he owns it. The stranger senses the shift and backs off with a muttered 'whoa,' vanishing into the throng. Seungcheol’s hand clamps on my arm, yanking me close, his breath hot against my ear.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he growls, voice low and dangerous, laced with that dominant edge I crave.

I twist in his grip, the alcohol making my movements sloppy, my eyes narrowing as I shove at his chest. The words hang between us, heavy with everything we don't say—the nights tangled in sheets, the way his touch lingers too long, the fear of what it all means in his world of flashing lights and contracts. “Dancing. Having fun. You know, like normal people do when they're not… occupied.”

My voice drips with sarcasm, the hurt sharpening each syllable, but I can't bring myself to name the girl, the photos, the ache that's been gnawing at me all day. We both know it's there, that green-eyed monster twisting us both.

His jaw clenches, eyes darkening as he pulls me closer, his body heat cutting through the club's haze. “Occupied?”

There's a pause, loaded, his fingers tightening on my arm just enough to remind me of the cuffs we've used, the control he wields so effortlessly. But tonight, it's laced with something raw, unspoken—the jealousy mirroring mine, the possessiveness we pretend is casual.

I swallow hard, the tequila burning in my throat again as tears threaten. “Am I wrong?” The question slips out, quieter, laced with the vulnerability I hate showing.

He exhales sharply, his gaze flicking to the crowd before locking back on me, thumb brushing my skin in a way that's almost tender, almost an apology without words. “You think I want that? Any of it? I denied it, all of it, for you…”

My chest tightens, the tequila providing far more than liquid courage, anger flaring hot. “I don’t know Seung— Scoups! You’re the big alpha leader, no such thing as bad publicity, amiright.”

I push harder against him, but he doesn't budge, his hold steady, eyes searching mine with that intensity that always unravels me.

“Come with me,” he murmurs finally, voice dropping to that commanding timbre edged with plea. “Not here. My place.”

“No, I’m dancing,” I slur, turning away, “You might not want me, but I’m sure someone does. Hey, Xian!”

In my drunken haze, I miss how Xian’s face pales as Seungcheol glares at him.

“Over my dead body,” he steers me out, arm firm around my waist, the cool night air slapping my flushed skin as he leads me into his car.

“You don’t get to tell me what’s enough… I-I’m fineee. I always knew it would end like this. Ssssss coooopssss. Hehe, your name is funny.”

“Shhh,” his hand covered my mouth, the car suddenly silent. His hand moves down to rest on my thigh, fingers tracing idle patterns that send shivers up my spine.

I lean into his shoulder, the booze weighing me down. Sober me would’ve gotten out of the car and gotten a cab, but drunk me was still just a heartbroken girl.

“You know…” I mumble, eyes drifting shut, “I always knew I’m replaceable, I just didn’t think it would happen this quickly…”

His hand stills, squeezing gently. “You're not. You’re everything.” The response is simple, but it is more than anything he’d said in the last week, through texts, voicemails, flowers…

“I kept trying to fix things the wrong way,” he said. “Explaining. Avoiding. Managing it.”

A pause.

“I thought if I kept it controlled, I wouldn’t lose you.”

I feel the car stop. Feel him lifting me up. Walking.

“I know I messed this up,” he added. “And I don’t expect you to trust me just because I’m saying the right thing now.”

A pause. He sets me down on a bed.

“But I’m not going to keep you in limbo anymore.”

I scoff. “Sure you won’t,” I slur, moving up, cracking an eye open. “I should’ve stayed with Xian.”

That does it.

His face thunders. He surges forward, hands ripping off my top, the fabric tearing with a satisfying rip that echoes my fractured heart. The skirt slides down next, pooling at my ankles, leaving me exposed in that clinging lace, sweat-slick skin prickling in the cool air.

He steps back, shedding his hoodie and shirt in one fluid motion, muscles rippling under the dim light, ink and faint scars from endless performances tracing his chest and arms. His pants drop next, cock springing free—thick, hard, veins pulsing with the need he's barely holding back. It twitches toward me, pre-cum beading at the tip, but I don't move. I cross my arms over my chest, nipples hardening against my will from the chill and the sight of him.

“You want to talk about other men?” he says, voice hard, the edge dulled by a flicker of regret in those dark eyes.

“You think you can just drag me here, strip me, and I'll forget?” My hands ball into fists, nails biting into palms, the room spinning a little from the booze.

He doesn't flinch, but his eyes softens just a fraction, the raw vulnerability cracking through his dominance. He closes the distance again, not grabbing, but his fingers ghost along my jaw, tilting my chin up to meet his gaze.

“I’ll fix it. Trust me. That’s all I’m asking. Please. Trust that I’ll do better. You’re everything to me, baby.” His thumb brushes my lower lip, parting it slightly, and I hate how my body leans in, betraying the storm inside.

It’s the please that does it. As I stare into his eyes, my heart gives in. The flowers, the texts… all of it pales in comparison to this. Him. Scoups. Choi Seungcheol. Begging me to stay.

“Prove it then,” I whisper, my breath hitches as his hand trails down, cupping my breast, thumb circling the nipple until it peaks under his touch. He pinches it lightly, sending a jolt straight to my core, my pussy clenching despite the anger.

“I will,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, leaning in to capture my mouth in a kiss that's not gentle—teeth nipping my lip, tongue invading like he's claiming territory. I push at his chest half-heartedly, but he pulls back just enough to tease, his other hand sliding between my thighs, fingers pressing against the lace over my clit. He rubs slow circles, the friction building heat that makes my knees weaken, but I lock them, refusing to fold.

He pulls back from my mouth, lips glistening, eyes dark and pleading as he guides me toward the couch in the dim glow of his apartment. The leather creaks under his weight as he lies back, cock jutting up rigid and slick from my earlier attention, veins throbbing along its length.

"Ride my face. Let me taste that fire," he rasps, voice thick with hunger and that undercurrent of apology, hands reaching for my hips to draw me over him.

I hesitate, thighs trembling from the booze and the storm raging inside. My pussy throbs, slick and swollen, droplets of my wetness trail down my inner thigh. I hover above him, not quite lowering myself, my hands pressing against his chest to keep distance. Nails dig into his skin, leaving red marks as punishment for the image of him with her, burned into my mind.

His fingers trail up my thighs, teasing the edges of my soaked folds without mercy, stroking the sensitive skin around my entrance. He circles my clit with his thumb, slow and deliberate, flicking it just enough to make my hips jerk forward involuntarily. A gasp escapes me, sharp and unwilling, as heat coils low in my belly.

"Please jagi, let me make it right," he murmurs, voice dropping to a gravelly whisper, eyes locked on mine with raw vulnerability cracking through his usual control. "Let me drown in you, tiny dancer. Taste how much you own me."

The edging unravels me bit by bit—his thumb pressing firmer now, rubbing in tight circles that have my clit pulsing, juices leaking onto his waiting chin. I bite my lip, fighting the pull, but the alcohol blurs the edges of my resistance, turning fury into a desperate ache.

"Cheol-ahhhh" I gasp, voice slurring with emotion and need, as he pulls my hips down onto his face. My pussy lips part over his mouth, smearing wetness across his face as I straddle his head, thighs clamping around his ears.

His tongue lashes out instantly, flat and insistent, dragging from my entrance to my clit in one long, greedy swipe. He sucks my folds into his mouth, lips sealing around them with wet, slurping sounds that echo in the quiet room, tongue probing deeper to lap at the creamy arousal pooling inside me. I grind down hard, smothering him completely, my ass cheeks flexing as I rock my hips in frantic circles, fucking his face like it's the only way to purge the pain.

"Like this? This what you crave from me?" I gasp out, words fractured by sobs of pleasure and lingering hurt, the unspoken accusation hanging—is this all you crave from me?

He groans into my core, the vibration rumbling straight through my clit, making my walls flutter and clench around nothing. His hands clamp onto my ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh, spreading my cheeks wide as he pulls me tighter against him. Tongue thrusting deep now, he fucks into my pussy with it, curling upward to stroke that ridged spot inside that sends sparks exploding behind my eyes. I ride him harder, clit grinding over the bridge of his nose, coating his skin in a glossy sheen of my slickness—dripping down his cheeks, into his hair, the musky scent of my arousal filling the air.

Sweat beads on my skin, mixing with the dampness between us, as I brace my hands on his chest, pinching his nipples roughly to match the twist in my gut. Pleasure builds relentlessly, tangled with the ache of betrayal, every lap of his tongue a silent plea for forgiveness. We both feel it—this raw reclaiming amid the shadows of his celebrity life, the risks we ignore for these stolen moments. My thighs quake, muscles burning from the effort, but I don't stop, chasing the high that might wash away the jealousy.

I shatter with a cry, pussy convulsing as waves of ecstasy crash over me, flooding his mouth with hot gushes of cum. He swallows greedily, tongue milking every spasm, sucking my clit until I'm oversensitive and twitching, tears streaking my face from the intensity and the emotions bubbling up. He doesn't let go, licking me clean with broad, possessive strokes, until I'm boneless and panting above him.

Before I can catch my breath, he flips us with a surge of strength, my back hitting the cool leather of the couch. His body pins mine, cock heavy and leaking pre-cum against my thigh, the tip smearing sticky trails on my skin. "Turn over," he growls, voice hoarse from my taste on his tongue, but his gaze softens, tracing the flush on my cheeks, acknowledging the vulnerability I've bared.

I roll onto my stomach, knees digging into the cushions as I bend over the armrest, ass lifting high, pussy exposed and glistening in the low light. Legs spread wide, I arch my back, the position making me feel utterly open, still buzzing from my orgasm. His fingers dive in without warning—two thick digits plunging into my soaked heat, stretching me with a squelch that makes my cheeks burn. He pumps them roughly, knuckles deep, twisting to grind against my inner walls, thumb pressing hard on my clit in relentless circles.

"Fuck, you're drenched," he mutters, breath hot against my ear, the words laced with awe and regret. But his other hand glides down my spine, palm flat and soothing, tracing the curve of my back like he's mapping the hurt he caused.

"Please, Cheol," I whimper, pushing back onto his hand, the coil tightening again. He adds a third finger, scissoring them wide, curling to hit my g-spot over and over, the wet sounds obscene as my arousal coats his wrist.

He withdraws suddenly, leaving me clenching on emptiness, a whine tearing from my throat. The broad head of his cock nudges my entrance, hot and insistent, before he slams forward in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. My pussy stretches around his girth, walls gripping him like a vice, the fullness making me see stars. He doesn't hold back, fucking me with deep, punishing drives—hips snapping forward, balls slapping against my clit with every plunge, the force jolting my body against the couch arm.

Skin slaps against skin, loud and rhythmic, mingling with my moans and his grunts. "Feel me? Only your pussy does this to me," he grunts, one hand coming down on my ass in a sharp spank, the sting blooming into heat that radiates through me. He rubs the reddened flesh immediately after, fingers kneading as his pace stutters, emotion bleeding into the dominance. Another spank lands, harder, making my ass jiggle, then his palm soothes, the contrast driving me wild.

I claw at the cushions, fabric bunching under my nails, anger pouring out in broken pleas: "Harder, Cheol… prove it." The words carry everything—the demand for him to be mine, to commit. He slows then, grinding deep inside me, hips circling to drag his cock along every inch of my channel, the veined shaft rubbing my sensitive spots until I'm keening.

"I can't lose you," he confesses in a ragged whisper, voice cracking as he leans over me, chest pressing to my back. His hand snakes around, fingers finding my nipple and pinching it sharply, rolling the hard peak between thumb and forefinger until pain-pleasure shoots to my core. The admission hangs heavy—the deep feelings we circle, the dangers of his world, the future we both want but dread voicing.

It tips me over, orgasm ripping through me like fire, pussy spasming wildly around his cock, squeezing him in rhythmic pulses as I soak his length with fresh waves of cum. He thrusts once, twice more, then buries himself deep, groaning low as his balls draw up and he unloads—thick ropes of hot cum spurting into me, filling my pussy until it overflows, creamy trails leaking down my thighs.

We collapse in a tangle, his weight a comforting press as he stays inside me, softening slowly. Arms wrap around my waist, pulling me close, his lips brushing my neck in soft, lingering kisses. Fingers trace idle patterns over my sweat-damp skin, from hip to breast, grounding us in the afterglow.

In the heavy quiet, his breath fans my ear. "Miyane. I'm sorry, baby. I'll do better. Be better for you. I promise." No flowery words, just the raw truth easing the tension, binding us in the unspoken promise that this—us—is worth every shadowed risk.

You pushed open the front door of the apartment with a tired sigh, the strap of your work bag sliding down your shoulder. It was barely past 5 PM, much earlier than your usual 7 or 8 o’clock return, but the meeting had been canceled last minute and you weren’t about to complain about a rare free evening. The apartment was quiet at first glance, the living room lights dimmed, but a low, rhythmic bass pulsed from somewhere deeper inside. Then you heard it: the unmistakable metallic clang of weights, followed by a deep grunt of effort.

Your heart skipped. San and Seungcheol were supposed to be at the gym downtown tonight. That’s what they’d texted in the group chat this morning. "Heading out for legs and back, don’t wait up." Yet the sounds were clearly coming from the spare room you three had converted into a home gym six months ago.

Curiosity tugged at you stronger than exhaustion. You kicked off your heels by the door, leaving them in a small heap and padded silently down the hallway in your stockings. The gym door was ajar, just a few inches, enough for a slice of warm light and the scent of sweat to escape. You shouldn’t peek. You knew you shouldn’t. But the pull was magnetic.

You stopped just outside, pressing your back to the wall and tilted your head to look through the gap.

The sight hit you like a physical force. San hung from the pull-up bar, back facing you, muscles rippling under golden skin as he lifted his entire body with controlled power. His black workout shorts rode low on his hips, revealing the deep dimples at the base of his spine and the sculpted curve of his ass. Every rep made his lats flare wide, traps and deltoids bunching into sharp definition. Sweat traced glistening paths down his spine, catching the light. When he lowered himself, you could see the way his biceps and forearms corded, veins prominent from the pump.

A few feet away, Seungcheol lay on the bench press, unracking the bar with a low exhale. His chest and shoulders were massive, stretching the limits of his already tight skin. The gray tank top he wore was soaked through, clinging to every ridge of his abs as he pressed the heavy weight up. His thighs, thick and powerful in black compression shorts, planted firmly on the floor for stability. Each press came with a deep, guttural sound that vibrated straight through your core.

They were beautiful. Lethally so.

You’d lived with them for over a year now, three roommates who somehow made cohabitation feel effortless. San, with his playful energy and mischievous smiles, always teasing you about your coffee addiction. Seungcheol, the steady, protective type, who made sure the bills were paid on time and cooked protein-heavy dinners that somehow always included your favorites. You’d crushed on them individually in secret, then together in guilty fantasies you never dared voice. But seeing them like this: raw, primal, bodies honed by hours of discipline, ignited something fierce and immediate.

Heat bloomed low in your belly. Your thighs pressed together instinctively as you watched San drop from the bar and shake out his arms, chest heaving. He turned slightly, giving you a profile view of his abs contracting with each breath. Seungcheol sat up on the bench, wiping his face with the hem of his tank before peeling it off entirely, revealing miles of smooth, sweat-slicked muscle.

You bit your lip hard. Your nipples tightened against the lace of your bra and a slick warmth gathered between your legs. This was dangerous. You needed to back away, go to your room, pretend you’d seen nothing. But your feet stayed rooted, eyes devouring every detail: the way San’s hand casually adjusted himself in his shorts, the flex of Seungcheol’s biceps as he reached for his water bottle, the low conversation they shared about increasing weights next set.

San laughed at something Seungcheol said, the sound rich and carefree and it sent another pulse of arousal through you. You imagined those hands on your skin, those voices murmuring your name in darker tones.

A soft, involuntary sound escaped your throat. You froze. Neither man looked toward the door. The music, something heavy with bass, probably covered it. Still, panic and need warred inside you. You backed away slowly, heart hammering and slipped into your bedroom at the end of the hall. The door clicked shut behind you. You locked it with trembling fingers.

The room felt too warm. You leaned against the door for a moment, eyes closed, trying to steady your breathing. It didn’t work. The images were burned behind your eyelids: San’s back, Seungcheol’s chest, the sheen of sweat, the raw power. Your hand drifted down before you could stop it, pressing over your skirt against the ache between your thighs.

"Fuck" you whispered.

You kicked off your stockings and skirt, leaving them pooled on the floor. Your blouse followed, then your bra. Clad only in damp panties, you climbed onto your bed and lay back against the pillows. The apartment’s sounds were muffled here, but you could still faintly hear the music and occasional clank. They were still working out. They wouldn’t be done for a while. You were safe.

Your hand slipped beneath the waistband of your panties. You were soaked already, fingers gliding easily over your swollen clit. A sharp gasp left you as you circled it slowly at first, teasing. In your mind, it wasn’t your hand.

It was San’s.

You pictured him fresh from the pull-up bar, kneeling between your spread thighs, sweat still dripping from his hair onto your stomach as his skilled fingers worked you open. "Been thinking about this, haven’t you?" his voice would rumble, dark and teasing like when he joked around the kitchen island. Two thick fingers would push inside you while his thumb pressed perfect circles on your clit.

Your own fingers mimicked the fantasy, dipping lower to slide one, then two inside your aching pussy. You moaned softly, hips rolling up to meet your hand.

Seungcheol appeared in the daydream next, standing behind San, watching with that intense gaze of his. He’d grip San’s shoulder, then reach for you, large palm covering your breast, pinching your nipple just hard enough to make you cry out. "So pretty when you’re desperate" he’d murmur, voice low and commanding, the same tone he used when organizing their workout schedules or settling apartment disputes.

You added a third finger, stretching yourself, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room. Your other hand moved to your chest, rolling a stiff nipple between thumb and forefinger. Pleasure coiled tighter in your core. You imagined them both shirtless still, bodies pressed close, taking turns tasting you. San’s tongue replacing your fingers: eager, almost playful, licking broad stripes before sucking your clit between his lips. Seungcheol kissing you deeply, swallowing your moans while his hand guided San’s head.

"Oh god…" The words slipped out louder than intended. You turned your face into the pillow to muffle the next moan as you pumped your fingers faster, curling them against that sensitive spot inside.

The fantasy shifted. Now Seungcheol was between your legs, his massive shoulders holding your thighs apart while San knelt beside you, feeding his cock past your lips. You’d seen the outline of them both through their shorts enough times to imagine accurately: thick, heavy, San slightly longer with a slight upward curve, Seungcheol girthy enough to make your jaw ache. You sucked greedily in the daydream, hollowing your cheeks while Seungcheol fucked you with deep, powerful strokes that matched his bench press rhythm.

Your hips bucked off the bed. The coil wound impossibly tight. Sweat beaded on your own skin now, mirroring theirs. You rubbed your clit frantically with the heel of your hand while your fingers thrust deep.

"Come for us" imaginary San whispered against your ear.

That did it.

The orgasm slammed into you hard. Your walls clenched rhythmically around your fingers, thighs trembling violently. A broken cry tore from your throat, muffled by the pillow as wave after wave crashed over you. You kept rubbing through it, drawing it out until it bordered on too much, vision whiting out for a few blissful seconds.

You lay there afterward, chest heaving, fingers still buried inside your pulsing heat. A lazy, satisfied smile curved your lips. The guilt was there, faint but present: you’d just gotten off hard to your roommates, but the relief outweighed it. They’d never know. They were still in the gym, probably finishing up their sets, completely oblivious.

Or so you thought.

Unbeknownst to you, the music had stopped a minute earlier. The gym door had been left wider than you realized when you first peeked. And the large mirror on the opposite wall had given both men a perfect, unobstructed view of you hurrying down the hall, flushed and distracted, right after they’d spotted your reflection watching them.

They hadn’t followed immediately. They’d finished their workout in charged silence, exchanging heavy looks but saying little. The air between them crackled with new possibility.

In your room, you finally withdrew your hand, and reached for your phone to check the time. Still early. Plenty of time to shower and act normal.

The living room lights were dimmed to a warm amber glow when you finally emerged from your room, freshly showered and dressed in an oversized hoodie and soft shorts. Your hair was still slightly damp and you’d tried to compose yourself: neutral expression, casual demeanor, as if you hadn’t spent the better part of an hour replaying the image of your shirtless roommates while fingering yourself to completion. The apartment smelled faintly of the stir-fry Seungcheol had apparently thrown together while you were hiding. Music played low from the television: some R&B playlist they both liked.

San and Seungcheol were already on the sectional couch. San lounged in the corner, legs spread comfortably in gray sweatpants and a black tank top that did little to hide the definition of his shoulders. Seungcheol sat more upright on the other end, wearing a loose white tee and black shorts, one arm draped along the back of the couch. They both looked relaxed. Too relaxed.

You hesitated in the doorway. Something in the air felt charged, heavier than usual.

"Hey" you said, aiming for normalcy as you padded toward the kitchen island. "Smells good. You guys ate already?"

Seungcheol’s deep voice answered first. "Saved you a plate. It’s in the microwave." His tone was calm, almost too even. "Come sit with us first."

Your stomach flipped. You glanced at San. He was watching you with those sharp, cat-like eyes, the corner of his mouth curved in a small, knowing smile. Not his usual playful one. This one carried heat.

You grabbed a water bottle instead of the food and slowly walked over, perching on the middle cushion between them. The couch felt smaller than usual. Their body heat radiated toward you: San’s leg brushing yours, Seungcheol’s arm still stretched behind your shoulders.

For a minute, the three of you watched the muted music video on screen. The silence stretched.

Then Seungcheol spoke. "We saw you watching us earlier."

Your heart slammed against your ribs. The water bottle nearly slipped from your fingers. You turned your head toward him, eyes wide. "What?"

San shifted closer on your other side, his knee pressing firmly against yours now. "In the gym. Door was open. You stood there for a while." His voice was low, almost a purr. "Could see how you were looking at us."

Heat flooded your face instantly. Embarrassment burned down your neck and across your chest. You opened your mouth to deny it, but the words died when Seungcheol continued. "And then we saw you go to your room." He leaned in slightly, his presence overwhelming. "Heard you too. The walls aren’t that thick, baby."

Baby. The pet name landed like a spark on dry tinder. You wanted the couch to swallow you whole. Your mind raced through excuses, maybe they were mistaken, maybe it was something else, but the evidence was damning. You’d been loud. You’d been desperate.

"I… I didn’t know you were home" you whispered, voice cracking. "You said you were going to the gym downtown. I came back early an..."

San’s hand landed gently on your thigh, just above your knee. Warm. Steady. "We changed plans. Decided to use the home gym instead." His thumb stroked a slow circle on your skin. "Didn’t expect to catch you staring like that. Like you wanted to eat us alive."

You squeezed your eyes shut, mortified. "God, this is so embarrassing. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have...I’ll just…"

Seungcheol’s fingers brushed the back of your neck, sliding into your damp hair. He turned your face toward him. His gaze was dark, intense, but not angry. Hungry. "Don’t apologize. We’re not mad."

San’s hand slid higher up your thigh, slipping under the hem of your shorts just an inch. "We’ve been wanting you for months, you know. Both of us. Tried to keep it respectful since we’re roommates, but fuck… hearing you moan like that?" He exhaled sharply. "Nearly lost it right there in the gym."

Your breath hitched. This couldn’t be real. You’d fantasized about this exact scenario earlier today and now it was unfolding in the living room. "You… both of you?"

Seungcheol nodded, his thumb tracing your jaw. "Both of us. We’ve talked about it. A lot." He leaned in until his lips were inches from yours. "Question is… do you want this? Want us?"

The air felt electric. Your pulse thundered in your ears. Every rational thought screamed that this could complicate the roommate dynamic beyond repair. But your body, still sensitive from your earlier orgasm, still aching for more, overruled everything.

"Yes" you breathed. "I want you. Both of you."

The words barely left your lips before Seungcheol closed the distance. His kiss was firm, commanding, lips warm and sure as they moved against yours. One large hand cupped your cheek while the other stayed tangled in your hair. He tasted like the mint from his post-workout drink and when his tongue swept into your mouth you moaned softly, melting into him.

San didn’t stay idle. His mouth found the side of your neck, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin while his hand boldly slid higher, fingers brushing the edge of your panties. "So fucking pretty" he murmured against your pulse point. "Been thinking about this for so long."

Seungcheol pulled back just enough to let you catch your breath, then San turned your face toward him and claimed your mouth in a deeper, more playful kiss. His tongue teased yours, coaxing you into a rhythm that made your toes curl. While he kissed you, Seungcheol’s hands roamed, sliding under your hoodie, palms broad and warm against your bare waist, thumbs stroking the undersides of your breasts.

You whimpered into San’s mouth when Seungcheol pinched one nipple lightly.

"Bedroom?" San asked against your lips, voice husky.

"Too far" Seungcheol answered. "Couch is fine tonight."

They moved with practiced coordination, as if they’d imagined this together many times. Your hoodie came off first, tossed aside. San peeled your shorts and panties down your legs in one smooth motion. Suddenly you were naked between them, skin flushed and breathing ragged. They drank in the sight of you, San’s eyes dark with lust, Seungcheol’s jaw clenched with restraint.

"Beautiful" Seungcheol murmured. He guided you to lie back against the cushions, spreading your thighs. San settled between them first, pressing open-mouthed kisses up your inner thigh. When his tongue dragged slowly through your folds, you cried out, back arching.

"Already so wet" San groaned, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. He licked you with enthusiasm: broad, flat strokes followed by focused flicks on your clit, then dipping inside you. Two fingers joined soon after, curling perfectly while he sucked your clit between his lips.

Seungcheol knelt beside your head, stroking your hair. He pulled his shirt off, revealing the powerful chest you’d watched earlier. "Open for me, baby." You turned your head eagerly, taking his thick cock into your mouth as he freed it from his shorts. He was heavy on your tongue, stretching your lips. You hollowed your cheeks, sucking him deeper while San devoured your pussy.

The dual sensations were overwhelming. Pleasure built fast: San’s talented mouth and fingers driving you toward the edge while Seungcheol fucked your mouth in shallow, controlled thrusts, praising you in that low, steady voice.

"That’s it… taking us so well. Look at you, our pretty roommate."

You came hard the first time with San’s fingers buried deep and his tongue relentless on your clit. Your moan vibrated around Seungcheol’s cock, making him groan and thrust a little deeper.

They switched after that. Seungcheol took his turn between your legs, his shoulders holding your thighs wide as he ate you with more intensity: long, deep licks and powerful suction that had you shaking. San knelt by your head, feeding you his cock. He was longer, curved and he tangled his fingers in your hair, moaning your name as you sucked him eagerly.

"Fuck, your mouth feels even better than I imagined" San panted.

You lost track of how many times they brought you to the edge. They were patient, thorough, worshipping every inch of you with hands and mouths until you were a trembling, oversensitive mess, begging incoherently.

"Please… need you inside me" you finally gasped when Seungcheol pulled back from your clit, lips shiny with your arousal.

They didn’t make you wait long.

San sat on the couch and pulled you onto his lap, facing away from him. You sank down onto his cock slowly, moaning loudly at the stretch. He was thick enough to make your eyes water in the best way. Once fully seated, he wrapped an arm around your waist and kissed your shoulder. "Good girl. Feel so perfect."

Seungcheol stood in front of you, stroking himself as he watched you ride San for a minute. Then he stepped closer, guiding his cock back into your mouth. You were completely filled: San thrusting up into your pussy while Seungcheol fucked your throat in sync. Their hands roamed everywhere: San’s fingers on your clit, Seungcheol’s on your breasts, both of them groaning praises and filthy words that made your head spin.

The pace quickened. San’s hips snapped up harder, hitting that perfect spot inside you with every thrust. Seungcheol’s hand tightened gently in your hair. The sounds in the living room were obscene: skin slapping skin, wet slurping, your muffled moans, their deep grunts.

You came again like that, clamped around San’s cock while Seungcheol was buried in your mouth. The orgasm tore through you violently, vision blurring, body shaking between them.

San followed soon after, burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a broken moan of your name. Seungcheol pulled out of your mouth and stroked himself fast, painting your chest and breasts with hot streaks of cum moments later.

For a long minute, the only sounds were heavy breathing and the low music still playing from the TV.

They took care of you immediately. San lifted you gently off his lap and laid you down on the couch while Seungcheol disappeared to the bathroom, returning with warm, damp towels. They cleaned you thoroughly: soft touches, gentle kisses on your thighs, your stomach, your forehead. San fetched you a fresh hoodie (his own, smelling like him) while Seungcheol brought water and a small plate of the stir-fry.

You ended up curled between them again, this time under a soft blanket. San’s arm was around your waist, Seungcheol’s fingers tracing lazy patterns on your thigh.

"So…" you started, voice hoarse but content. "Roommates with benefits?"

Seungcheol chuckled, deep and warm. "More than that. We’ve wanted this for a long time. Not just sex."

San nuzzled into your neck. "We’re yours. You’re ours. We’ll figure out the details tomorrow. Tonight, just stay here with us."

You smiled, exhaustion and satisfaction settling deep in your bones. As their warmth surrounded you and the TV flickered softly, you let yourself relax completely between the two men who had just ruined you for anyone else. The new dynamic as roommates was definitely, blissfully, changed for good.

Bonus: me when i read that request with that crossover sent from heaven

Sometimes being married to Choi Seungcheol felt like a fever dream as you often wondered how you managed to bag a man that ticked every box. He had his moments, his little beige flags as you liked to call them, but you knew that man loved you which is why you’re seeking him out as soon as you stumble through your front door. You had an itch only your husband could scratch and if you were right, he would still be holed up in the home office.

Seungcheol had been reading reports in his home office when he heard the front door slam. A quick look at his watch alerts him to the time, 1:47 AM.

His eyes narrowed. Why didn’t you call him to come pick you up? He gets out of his chair when he hears the unmistakable sound of heels being kicked off carelessly and soft humming.

“My husband!” your voice singsongs from the down the hall. “Where are youuu?”

He barely has time to make it to the hallway before you stumble into the room seconds later, eyes glazed and clutching your purse like it’s plotting against you.

“Babyyyy,” you gasp, “There you are.”

His brows draw together. “You’re drunk.”

You blink at him, smile growing. “Nuh-uh, just a tiny bit tipsy.” You measure with your fingers before breaking into a fit of giggles. Seungcheol can count on one hand how many times he’s seen you drunk—it’s still one hand—as you can hold your liquor very well.

You walk—well, sway—across the room and launch yourself at him. He stumbles half a step back, catching you as your arms wrap tightly around his waist, face burying into his chest.

“You smell expensive and…sexy,” you mumble.

“What happened?” he asks, voice low.

“Work has been shit,” you whisper. “Needed a—” you hiccup, “—a break.”

He exhales slowly before his hand finds its way to your back. His grip tightens as he studies your lightly smudged eyeliner and flushed cheeks. The scent of your favorite wine lingers on your breath but beneath it lies your usual perfume, brown sugar, coconut, vanilla.

“You’re a mess,” he murmurs, though there’s no bite in his tone.

You giggle against his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his dress shirt. “You married this mess.”

A beat of silence passes before his lips twitch despite himself. “What am going to do with you, huh?”

The weight of you against him is familiar, grounding even, despite the alcohol-fueled abandon in your movements. Seungcheol’s hand moves in slow, deliberate circles against your back, a habit he’s developed over the years; one that always seems to settle you.

“Do with me?” you repeat, pulling back just enough to look up at him through your lashes. Your eyes are glassy but focused entirely on him, pupils blown wide. “I have some ideas.”

He catches the shift in your tone immediately, the way your fingers stop their aimless fidgeting and instead trace deliberate paths along his chest. His jaw tightens.

“You’re drunk,” he repeats, firmer this time, even as his treacherous body responds to your proximity.

“In loveeeeee” you respond as you attempt to sing lyrics from Drunk in Love.

Seungcheol’s resolve wavers as you butcher the Beyoncé song, swaying in his arms with unselfconscious joy. Despite everything—the late hour, the worry that had knotted in his chest when he heard the door slam, the very valid concern about your current state—he feels his lips curve into a reluctant smile.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says, but his hands have already moved to steady you, one sliding to your hip while the other cups the back of your head.

“Ridiculously in love with you,” you counter, poking his chest for emphasis. The motion throws off your already questionable balance, and you stumble forward again.

He catches you easily, muscle memory from years of being your safety net. “Alright, come on. Let’s get you to bed.”

“Ooh, bed,” you waggle your eyebrows in a way that would be seductive if you weren’t also hiccupping. “See? You do have ideas.”

“To sleep,” he clarifies, already guiding you toward the bedroom with his arm firmly around your waist. “We’re going to bed to sleep. You’re going to wake up tomorrow wondering why you thought drinking on a work night was a good idea.”

“Tomorrow me’s problem,” you declare, then immediately contradict yourself by clinging tighter to him. “Don’t you dare leave me alone tonight, Choi Seungcheol.”

Something in your voice—beneath the alcohol and the playfulness—sounds small. Vulnerable.

His expression softens. “Never,” he promises quietly. “Now come on, let’s get you changed.”

“Would you still love me if I was a worm?” You stop and ask randomly as he sits you on the bathroom counter and tries to remove your makeup.

Seungcheol blinks. This was getting more surreal by the second. You were sitting before him, arms hanging off his shoulders with your head tilted with genuine curiosity and you wanted to know if he’d love you…as a worm? He’s quiet for a moment. Then, his hands curve around your waist.

“A worm?” he repeats, deadpan. “Seriously?”

“Yahhhh, you wouldn’t?” You pout.

Seungcheol sighs, the kind of deep, put-upon sigh that somehow still sounds fond. He reaches for the micellar water and a cotton pad, tilting your chin up with two fingers so he can start wiping away your makeup.

“Hold still,” he murmurs, ignoring your question as he gently swipes at your eyeliner.

“You’re avoiding the question!” you accuse, though you do hold still,mostly. “That means you wouldn’t love me. You’d just…leave me in the dirt somewhere. Alone. A poor, lonely worm—”

“I would build you a terrarium,” he interrupts, deadpan, moving to your other eye. “With the best soil money can buy. Organic, the expensive kind.”

You gasp, eyes flying open and nearly getting makeup remover in them. He gently presses them closed again with his thumb.

“I said hold still.”

“You’d really build me a terrarium?” Your voice has gone soft, touched, as if he’s just promised you the moon.

“Mhm.” He’s focused on removing your mascara now, touch careful and practiced. “With a heated lamp. Perfect pH balance in the soil. I’d probably hire someone to monitor your…worm health.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“I’m answering your question.” His lips twitch as he tosses the used cotton pad aside and reaches for another. “You’d be the most spoiled worm in existence. I’d make sure of it.”

You’re quiet for a moment and when he glances at your face, you’re smiling at him with such open adoration it makes something in his chest squeeze tight.

“I love you,” you whisper.

His hand pauses mid-swipe. Then he leans forward and presses a kiss to your forehead, soft and lingering.

“I love you too,” he murmurs against your skin. “Even if you ask me stupid questions at two in the morning.”

“Not stupid,” you mumble but you’re already melting into him again, arms tightening around his shoulders. “Important worm logistics.”

“Right. Very important.” He pulls back just enough to finish cleaning your face, his touch impossibly gentle. “Now let’s get you into pajamas before you ask me what I’d do if you were a dolphin.”

“Ooh, would you—”

“No.”

You cup his cheeks in your hands squishing them together, looking at him with those eyes before you kiss him. “Please, Cheollie? Want you?”

“Not tonight, princess.” It’s utterly amazing, the way you switch from asking him unhinged shit to asking him to fuck you. It should give him whiplash but it’s not the first time it’s happened.

“‘m not drunk…” you pout. “Can’t a girl just want her hot husband?”

Seungcheol’s jaw flexes under your palms, his eyes darkening despite his best efforts to maintain composure. He gently pulls your hands away from his face but doesn’t let go, instead intertwining his fingers with yours.

“You can,” he says, voice lower now, rougher around the edges. “And you will, tomorrow. When you’re sober and won’t regret it.”

“I would never regret you,” you protest, leaning forward until your forehead rests against his. “Not possible. Scientifically impossible.”

“Scientifically impossible,” he repeats and there’s amusement threading through the restraint in his tone. “Is that so?”

“Mhm.” You nod seriously, the motion making you slightly dizzy. “Did research. Very thorough.”

His thumb traces circles on the back of your hand; that same grounding gesture, keeping himself anchored as much as you. “Your research involved how much wine exactly?”

“Irrelevant data,” you whisper, then press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “The conclusion is still valid.”

He inhales sharply and for a moment you think you’ve won. His free hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your bottom lip but then he’s pulling back, putting necessary distance between you even as everything in his expression says he doesn’t want to.

“I’m not doing this while you’re drunk,” he says firmly. “I don’t care how much you pout or how many times you tell me you’re fine. This is non-negotiable.”

You study him for a long moment, his set jaw, his dark eyes that are clearly affected despite his iron will, the way his hand trembles just slightly against yours.

“You really won’t?” you ask, quieter now.

“I really won’t.” His expression softens. “Ask me tomorrow. When you can look me in the eye without the room spinning. When you’ll actually remember every detail.” His voice drops to something almost possessive. “Because when I do touch you, I want you to remember all of it.”

The promise in his words sends heat pooling low in your stomach despite your alcohol-hazed state. You bite your lip and his eyes track the movement with dangerous focus before he deliberately looks away.

“Evil man,” you mutter. “Making me wait.”

“Responsible husband,” he corrects, then slides you off the counter and scoops you up bridal style in one smooth motion. “Now come on. Pajamas, water, bed, in that order.”

“Fine,” you sigh dramatically, letting your head fall against his shoulder. “But I’m picking the pajamas.”

“As long as you actually put them on instead of trying to seduce me again.”

“No promises.”

He huffs what might be a laugh as he carries you toward the bedroom. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Y’know everyone thinks I married you for your status and money.” You say switching the subject again as he starts unbuttoning your shirt.

“No, you didn’t. You had no idea who my family was when we met so I know it’s not that.”

“I married you for that fat ass.” you reply, hands drifting down and grabbing his ass. “don’t need your money.” You grin at the look on his face.

“God, I forgot how handsy you get with alcohol in your system.”

“Horny too but I guess I don’t do it for you cause…what kinda hisb—” you hiccup “husband doesn’t like his wife t-throwing herself at him? Is it Jeonghan? Is Hannie prettier than me?”

Seungcheol freezes mid-button, his eyes snapping to yours with an expression caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief.

“Did you just—” He stops, takes a breath, then continues with strained patience. “Did you seriously just ask me if I want Jeonghan?”

“Well, you don’t want me,” you say, bottom lip trembling in a way that would be more effective if you weren’t also still squeezing his ass. “He’s got nice hair,” you say defensively, words slurring slightly. “And that whole…pretty boy thing going on. Maybe you like that better than—”

“Jesus Christ woman,” Seungcheol mutters, catching your wandering hands and firmly moving them to your sides. “Okay, listen to me very carefully.”

He cups your face with both hands, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“First of all, Jeonghan is my best friend and I love him like a brother, which means the thought of anything else makes me want to bleach my brain.” His thumbs stroke your cheeks as he continues, voice firm but gentle. “Second, I always want you. Every single day. Sometimes so much it’s inconvenient, like in the middle of board meetings when you text me something cute.”

“Really?” you sniffle.

“Really.” He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours. “The reason I’m not touching you right now isn’t because I don’t want to. It’s because I respect you too much to take advantage when you’re drunk. Do you understand the difference?”

You’re quiet for a moment, processing. Then, “So, you do think I’m prettier than Hannie?”

A laugh bursts out of him, unexpected and genuine. “You’re completely ridiculous, you know that?”

“But am I prettier?”

“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” he says and the sincerity in his voice cuts through your alcohol-fogged brain. “Drunk, sober, first thing in the morning, all dressed up, doesn’t matter. It’s always you. Only you.”

Your eyes well up. “Cheollie…”

“Oh no.” He recognizes the signs immediately. “No crying. We’re not doing drunk crying tonight.”

“But you’re so nice to me,” you warble, tears already spilling over. “And I love you so much and you built me a theoretical worm terrarium, and you think I’m pretty—”

“I think we need to get you in pajamas right now,” he says, already reaching for the shirt buttons again with renewed determination, “before this spiral gets worse.”

“’m not spiraling,” you protest, even as another tear rolls down your cheek. “Just got a lot of feelings about my hot, respectful, worm-loving husband.”

“Worm-loving,” he repeats under his breath. “What is my life?”

“Your life is amazing,” you inform him, helpfully (unhelpfully) trying to unbutton your own shirt and just making the process more difficult. “You have me. And my ass. Which is also amazing.”

“I’m aware,” he says dryly, gently batting your hands away so he can actually finish unbuttoning. “I married it, remember?”

You gasp, delighted. “You do remember! See, we’re perfect for each other. You married my ass, I married your ass—”

“That’s not how marriage works.”

“—it’s like…ass-tronomy. No, wait. Ass-trology? We’re ass-trologically compatible.”

Seungcheol pauses, shirt halfway off your shoulders, and just looks at you. “Did you just—you can’t just put ‘ass’ in front of words and expect them to make sense.”

“Ass-olutely can,” you say with complete conviction.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, clearly praying for strength. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”

“You love it,” you singsong, finally cooperating enough to let him pull your shirt off. “You love meee and my drunk ass puns.”

“I love you despite your drunk ass puns,” he corrects, reaching for one of his old t-shirts from the drawer. “Arms up.”

You obey, lifting your arms like a toddler as he slides the shirt over your head. It’s enormous on you, falling nearly to your knees and smells like his cologne and laundry detergent. You immediately burrow into it with a happy sigh.

“Now pants,” he says, reaching for your waistband.

“Ooh, taking my pants off. Scandalous.”

“We’re literally married.”

“Still scandalous.” You boop his nose as he efficiently unbuttons your pants. “You’re being very professional about this. Very doctor-y. Do you do this for all your patients?”

“You’re my only patient and you’re testing my patience,” he mutters, helping you step out of your pants. “Other leg. Good.”

“Such a good caretaker,” you coo, patting his head as he kneels in front of you. “Gonna leave you five stars on MangoPlate. ‘Husband refused to have sex with drunk wife. Very responsible. Would recommend.’”

He looks up at you with an expression of pure suffering. “Please never write that review.”

“‘Also has a great ass,’” you continue thoughtfully. “‘Ass-ceptional, even.’”

“I’m begging you to stop.”

“‘Ass-tounding restraint—’”

He stands abruptly and just picks you up, cutting off your commentary as you squeal in surprise. “Okay. That’s enough. Water and bed. Now.”

“You can’t silence me!” you declare, even as you wrap your arms around his neck. “The people deserve to know about your ass!”

“The people know plenty,” he says, carrying you toward the bed with the long-suffering patience of a saint. “Now drink this.”

He somehow manages to grab the water bottle from the nightstand one-handed and present it to you. You take it obediently, suddenly realizing how thirsty you are.

“Good girl,” he murmurs and even in your drunk state, you don’t miss the way his voice dips on those words.

You lower the water bottle, eyes narrowing. “You can’t just say things like that and then refuse to—”

“Drink,” he interrupts firmly, tipping the bottle back up toward your lips.

You drink, plotting your revenge but the cool water actually does help clear some of the fog. When you’ve had enough, he sets the bottle aside and carefully deposits you onto your side of the bed.

“Stay,” he commands, pointing at you like you’re a mischievous puppy.

“Woof,” you respond because apparently the filter between your brain and mouth has completely dissolved. He huffs what might be a laugh and disappears into the bathroom. You hear water running and then he’s back with a damp washcloth, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Come here,” he says softly, and when you scoot closer, he gently wipes your face; getting the spots he missed earlier, cooling your flushed cheeks. It’s tender and intimate in a way that makes your chest ache.

“Cheol?” you whisper.

“Mm?”

“’m really glad I married you. Not just for your ass.”

His lips twitch. “Good to know.”

“For your heart too. And your face. And the way you take care of me even when I’m being ridiculous. Oh, and that dick, can’t forget about that.”

“Woman, I swear to—”

“Just lemme keep it warm, please?” Your hand moves to rest low on his stomach. There you go trying to get him to fuck you, again.

“Baby, no. We both know you won’t stop there.”

You open your mouth to protest—to make very compelling arguments about your self-control and how you would totally just keep things innocent—but he cuts you off by pressing his thumb gently against your lips.

“Don’t,” he warns, though there’s affection in his eyes. “Don’t make promises drunk-you can’t keep. I know you.”

You deflate slightly because, fine, he’s right. Sober-you has minimal self-control around him. Drunk-you has absolutely none which is exactly why you keep asking.

“Just wanna feel you inside, promise I’ll behave.”

Seungcheol’s composure cracks visibly, his breath hitches, his grip on the washcloth tightening as his eyes darken with want. For a moment, you think you’ve finally broken through his resolve.

Then he closes his eyes, jaw working and when he opens them again his expression is pained but firm.

“You’re killing me,” he says roughly. “You know that?”

“Good,” you mumble, though you’re already yawning. “Suffer with me.” You say pressing your lips to his.

“I shouldn’t have to deal with my ovulation alone.” And suddenly the wheels are turning in Seungcheol’s head. He goes completely still against your lips, his brain clearly short-circuiting as he processes what you just said.

“Your…what?” He pulls back to look at you, eyes wide.

“Ovulation,” you repeat matter-of-factly, like you’re discussing the weather. “Why d’you think I’m so horny? It’s science, Cheollie. Biology. Nature.” You wave your hand dramatically. “My body wants a baby and it’s making me crazy and you’re—you’re just sitting here looking all hot and responsible and—”

“Okay,” he interrupts, voice strangled. “Okay, we’re not, you can’t just drop that information on me while you’re drunk and expect me to—”

“To what?” You tilt your head, genuinely curious despite the alcohol. “Finally give your wife what she wants?”

His eyes flutter closed and he takes several deep breaths, clearly fighting an internal battle. When he opens them again, there’s a new tension in his expression; want, restraint, and something darker all tangled together.

“That’s not fair,” he says roughly. “You can’t use the ovulation card. That’s playing dirty.”

“Everything’s fair in love and baby-making,” you counter, then giggle at your own modification of the phrase.

“We are not having this conversation right now,” he says firmly, even as his hand unconsciously tightens on your hip. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow. When you’re sober, when we can have an actual discussion about—about family planning and—”

“Already know I want your babies,” you interrupt, cupping his face. “Known that for years. Since like…our third date probably.”

“Third date,” he repeats faintly.

“Mhm. You were wearing that gray sweater and you laughed at my joke and I just thought—” you sigh dreamily, “—‘yeah, I want tiny humans with his laugh and dimples.’”

Something shifts in his expression; it goes soft and vulnerable in a way that makes your heart squeeze even through the alcohol haze.

“You’re not playing fair at all,” he whispers.

“Don’t wanna play fair,” you whisper back. “Want you. Want your baby. Want—” another yawn interrupts you, “—want you to stop being so responsible and just…”

But exhaustion is finally catching up with you, the alcohol and emotional rollercoaster of the evening taking their toll. Your eyes are getting heavier despite your best efforts.

Seungcheol notices immediately, his expression gentling. “There we go,” he murmurs, carefully maneuvering you under the covers. “Finally.”

“’m not tired,” you protest weakly, even as you burrow into the pillow.

“Sure you’re not.” He slides in next to you and immediately you roll toward him, seeking his warmth.

“Cheol?” you mumble against his chest.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Tomorrow…we can talk about it? The baby thing?”

His arm tightens around you, and you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head. “Tomorrow,” he promises. “We’ll talk about everything tomorrow.”

“And you’ll actually consider it? Not just…say we’ll talk and then avoid it?”

There’s a pause, and then, “I’ve been considering it for months,” he admits quietly. “I just wanted to wait for the right time. When we were both ready.”

You manage to pull back just enough to look at him, suddenly feeling more alert. “Months?”

He smiles, a little embarrassed. “Why do you think I cleared out the guest room last month? I’ve been planning…thinking about turning it into a nursery. Eventually.”

“You—” your eyes well up again, “—you sneaky, wonderful man.”

“Don’t cry,” he says, but he’s smiling as he wipes away the tears with his thumb. “Save it for tomorrow when you can properly yell at me for not telling you sooner.”

“Gonna yell and cry,” you inform him. “And then jump your bones.”

“Looking forward to it,” he says dryly. “Now sleep. You’re going to feel terrible in the morning.”

“Worth it,” you mumble, already drifting. “Got you to admit you want babies…”

“I want your babies,” he corrects softly. “There’s a difference.” 

But you’re already asleep, a small smile on your face, wrapped securely in your husband’s arms. Seungcheol lies awake a little longer, looking down at you; his drunk, ridiculous, beautiful wife who just ambushed him with baby talk and ass puns in the same conversation.

“What am I going to do with you?” he whispers, echoing his earlier question.

But this time, he’s smiling as he says it. Tomorrow, he thinks. Tomorrow they’ll talk—really talk—about the future. About expanding their family. About all the things he’s been too cautious to bring up, worried about timing and readiness and a thousand other factors.

But tonight, you’re here, safe and warm and his, talking about wanting his babies since the third date.

Yeah. Tomorrow is going to be interesting.

He presses one more kiss to your forehead before settling in, keeping you close. His ovulating, drunk, perfect disaster of a wife. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

The next morning, you wake up to three things; a pounding headache that feels like a marching band has taken up residence in your skull, blinding sunlight streaming through curtains you thought you closed and the smell of coffee and something sweet wafting from the kitchen.

You groan, throwing an arm over your eyes. Your mouth tastes like something died in it and when you try to sit up, the room spins just enough to make you regret every life choice that led to this moment.

“Oh god,” you mutter, flopping back down.

Fragments of last night start filtering back through the haze. Coming home late. Seungcheol’s concerned face. The bathroom counter. Worm terrarium? You definitely said something about worms. And then—

Your eyes fly open.

“Oh no.”

The baby conversation. The ovulation announcement. Your very detailed commentary about your husband’s ass. The—you bury your face in your hands—the begging.

“Kill me now,” you whisper to the empty room.

“Can’t do that, I’m afraid.”

You nearly jump out of your skin. Seungcheol is leaning against the doorframe, holding a mug of coffee and wearing an expression that can only be described as deeply amused.

He’s already somewhat dressed for the day in a simple white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, hair slightly damp from a shower, looking infuriatingly well-rested and attractive. Meanwhile, you’re pretty sure you look like a gremlin who lost a fight with a bottle of wine.

“How long have you been standing there?” you croak.

“Long enough to hear you bargaining with God.” He pushes off the doorframe and walks over, setting the coffee on the nightstand. “How’s the head?”

“Like I deserve it,” you admit, gratefully reaching for the mug. “How much did I—” you pause, coffee halfway to your lips, “—how bad was it?”

His smile grows. “On a scale of one to ten?”

“Cheol.”

“You asked if I’d love you as a worm,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You accused me of wanting Jeonghan. You made approximately ten puns involving the word ‘ass.’ And—” his expression shifts to something more heated, “—you made some very compelling arguments about baby-making.”

You choke on your coffee. “Oh my god.”

“Also, apparently you decided you married me for my ‘fat ass’ and not my money or status, which is good to know.”

“I hate everything,” you moan, setting the coffee down so you can bury your face in your hands again. “I’m never drinking again. I’m becoming a nun. I’m moving to a remote island where I can’t embarrass myself—”

“Hey.” His hand wraps around your wrist, gently pulling your hands away from your face. His expression is soft now, affectionate. “You were cute.”

“I was a disaster.”

“A cute disaster.” He coils a loose curl around his finger. “You always are when you drink. It’s part of your charm.”

“There’s nothing charming about drunk me telling you I want to—” you can’t even finish the sentence, heat flooding your face.

“Keep me warm?” he supplies helpfully. “Just want it inside you, you’d behave, you promised?”

“Seungcheol.”

He’s grinning now, clearly enjoying your mortification. “Or was it the part where you said your ovulation shouldn’t be a solo activity?”

You grab the nearest pillow and smack him with it. He laughs, catching it easily and tossing it aside before catching both your wrists in his hands.

“I’m just saying,” he continues, eyes dancing with mischief, “you were very…articulate about your needs.”

“I’m going back to sleep,” you announce, trying to pull away. “Wake me in ten years when I’ve died of embarrassment.”

“Can’t do that either.” He releases one wrist but keeps hold of the other, his thumb tracing circles on your pulse point. “We have things to discuss. Remember?”

Your heart skips. The amusement in his expression hasn’t faded, but there’s something else there now; something serious and warm and a little nervous.

“The…baby thing?” you venture quietly.

“The baby thing,” he confirms. “But first—” he reaches over to the nightstand and retrieves two pills and a glass of water you hadn’t noticed, “—pain meds. Then breakfast. Then we talk.”

“Cheol, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable or—”

“You didn’t.” He’s firm about that, waiting until you take the medication before continuing. “You surprised me, yeah. But uncomfortable? No.” He pauses. “Turned on while trying desperately to maintain my morals? Absolutely, but not uncomfortable.”

Despite everything, you feel a smile tugging at your lips. “I really tried to break you, huh?”

“You almost succeeded,” he admits. “The ovulation thing was a low blow.”

“It’s true though,” you say, then immediately want to take it back because…

“I know.” His voice drops, eyes darkening. “I checked the calendar while you were sleeping. You’re right in the middle of your fertile window.”

The air between you shifts, charges. You’re suddenly very aware that you’re in bed, wearing only his t-shirt and he’s looking at you like,

“Breakfast first,” he says firmly, standing up. “You need food and hydration. Then we’ll talk. Really talk. About timing, readiness and what we both want.”

“And if we decide we want the same thing?” you ask, unable to help yourself.

He leans down, bracing one hand on the mattress beside you, bringing his face close to yours. “Then I clear my schedule for the rest of the day,” he murmurs. “And give you exactly what you were begging for last night.”

Your breath catches.

“But sober,” he adds, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before straightening. “And enthusiastically consenting to every single detail.”

“That’s—” you have to clear your throat, “—very responsible of you.”

“Someone has to be.” He heads toward the door, then pauses. “Oh, and baby? For the record?” He looks back with a devastating smile. “I’ve been ready for months. I was just waiting for you to catch up.”

Then he’s gone, leaving you sitting in bed, headache temporarily forgotten, heart racing with possibilities. From the kitchen, you hear him call, “French toast or pancakes?”

“French toast!” you call back, already scrambling out of bed.

Suddenly, you’re feeling much better about facing this day and the conversation that could change everything.

You pad into the kitchen after finishing your morning routine. He’s plating the last of breakfast before sitting down and as you go to take your place beside him, he pulls you onto his lap.

“Cheol?”

“You asked me to keep it warm last night,” he whispers. “Think you can do that while we sit and have breakfast, love? Bet I’d be able to slide right in.”

You freeze, every nerve ending suddenly awake and hyper-aware. Your headache? Gone. The lingering nausea? Vanished. There’s only Seungcheol beneath you, solid and warm, his breath hot against your ear.

“I…what?” Your voice comes out embarrassingly breathy.

His hands settle on your hips, fingers slipping just under the hem of his t-shirt you’re still wearing. “You heard me.” His voice is low, rough in a way that sends heat pooling low in your belly. “You wanted this last night. Said you’d behave. That you just wanted to feel full.”

“I was drunk,” you manage, even as your body is already responding, already leaning back against his chest.

“And now you’re sober.” His lips brush the shell of your ear. “So, I’m asking properly. Do you want this? Want to sit here, keeping me warm while we eat breakfast and talk about our future?”

Your breath hitches. This is…it’s obscene. It’s intimate in a way that makes your head spin and you want it so badly you can barely think straight.

“What about the talking?” you whisper. “The responsible conversation?”

“We can still talk.” One hand slides up your spine, settling between your shoulder blades. “I can be very articulate, even when I’m buried inside you. Question is, can you?”

It’s a challenge. One you’ve never backed down from.

You turn your head just enough to meet his eyes. They’re dark, intense but there’s a question there too. Real consent. Making sure this is what you actually want and not just lingering drunk decisions.

“Yes,” you breathe. “I want this.”

His grip tightens. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You shift in his lap, feeling him already half-hard beneath you. “Want you. Always want you.”

He makes a low sound in his throat. “Lift up a little, baby.”

You obey, bracing your hands on his thighs as he shifts beneath you. You hear the rustle of fabric, feel him pushing his sweatpants down just enough, and then,

“No underwear?” His voice is strained as his fingers trace up your bare thighs, discovering you came to the kitchen in just his shirt and nothing else.

“Seemed inefficient,” you manage, gasping when his fingers brush where you need him most.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and you feel him stroke himself once, twice. “You’re already so wet.”

“Told you,” you say breathlessly. “Ovulation. Biology. Can’t help—oh—”

He’s guiding himself to your entrance, letting you feel the blunt pressure of him. “Slow,” he murmurs. “Take your time. We’ve got all morning.”

You lower yourself gradually, inch by torturous inch, feeling the stretch and burn and perfect fullness of him. His hands are steady on your hips, helping you and his breathing is harsh against your neck.

“That’s it,” he encourages roughly. “Just like that, baby. So good for me.”

When you’re fully seated, both of you still for a moment. You’re trembling slightly, overwhelmed by the intimacy of it; sitting in his lap in your bright kitchen, completely joined, the morning sun streaming through the windows.

“Okay?” he asks, voice strained.

“So okay,” you breathe. “So…Cheol, you feel—”

“I know.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder. “I know, baby. Now—” he reaches around you for the plates, sliding them closer, “—breakfast.”

You laugh, slightly delirious. “You can’t be serious.”

“Completely serious.” He picks up a fork, cutting a piece of French toast. “Open.”

This is insane. You’re sitting on your husband’s lap in the kitchen, full of him, while he feeds you breakfast like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

You open your mouth and he slides the fork in. The French toast is perfect, crispy outside, soft inside, with just the right amount of cinnamon and syrup. You chew slowly, hyper-aware of every small movement, how even that makes you shift slightly on him.

His breath catches. “Don’t,” he warns.

“Don’t what?” You shift deliberately, just a little and feel him twitch inside you. “I’m just eating breakfast.”

“You’re playing with fire,” he growls but he’s already cutting another piece. “Now, let’s talk about this baby thing.”

You nearly choke on nothing. “Now? You want to have this conversation now?”

“Why not?” His free hand settles possessively on your lower belly, thumb stroking just above where you’re joined. “Seems like the perfect time. Can’t run away. Can’t deflect. You’ve got my undivided attention.”

His voice is teasing but there’s an edge of seriousness underneath. He really does want to talk about this. Like this. Your utterly insane, wonderful husband.

“Okay,” you manage, reaching for your coffee with shaking hands. “Okay. Let’s talk.”

“So,” Seungcheol says, his voice remarkably steady despite the situation, “you said last night you’ve wanted this since our third date.”

You take a sip of coffee, trying to focus on the conversation and not the fact that you can feel every minute shift of his body. “I—yeah. I mean, not immediately, obviously but I knew. Knew that I wanted a future with you. Kids. All of it.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” His hand is still on your belly, thumb tracing idle patterns that are absolutely not helping your concentration.

“I don’t know. Timing? We were building our careers, and I didn’t want to pressure you, and—” you gasp softly as he shifts slightly beneath you, “—are you doing that on purpose?”

“No,” he says but you can hear the smile in his voice. “Just getting comfortable. Keep talking.”

“You’re evil.”

“You’re stalling.” He offers you another bite of French toast. “Come on. I want to hear this.” You accept the bite, chewing while trying to organize your thoughts, which is nearly impossible when you’re so acutely aware of him inside you, stretching you, filling you so completely.

“I was scared,” you finally admit. “That maybe you didn’t want the same things. That I’d bring it up and you’d feel trapped or obligated and then months kept passing and it felt like the moment never came up naturally and—” you laugh shakily, “—I guess drunk me decided to just rip the bandaid off.”

“Drunk you has terrible timing but good instincts.” His lips brush your shoulder. “I’ve been wanting to have this conversation for months too.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He sets down the fork, both hands coming to rest on your hips now. “I meant what I said earlier. About clearing out the guest room. I’ve been thinking about it constantly…what it would be like. You, pregnant. A baby. Our baby.”

Your heart stutters. “Cheol…”

“I think about you with a bump,” he continues, voice going rougher. “About feeling them kick. About watching you become a mother.” His hips shift up slightly, making you gasp. “About putting a baby in you.”

“That’s—oh god—that’s not fair,” you whimper, fingers digging into his thighs.

“What’s not fair?”

“Saying things like that when I can’t move, can’t—”

“Who says you can’t move?” His grip tightens on your hips. “I said sit still during breakfast. We’re done eating now.”

Your breath catches. “Are we?”

“Mhmm.” One hand slides up to cup your breast through the thin t-shirt, thumb brushing over your nipple. “I think it’s time for dessert. Don’t you?”

“Seungcheol—”

“Tell me what you want,” he demands, voice dropping to that commanding tone that never fails to undo you. “Use your words, baby. Sober words.”

You’re trembling now, desperate. “Want you. Want this. Want—” you break off as his other hand slides between your legs, finding where you’re joined.

“Want what?” he presses. “Say it.”

“Want you to fuck me,” you gasp out. “Want you to put a baby in me. Want…please, Cheollie, please—”

“There she is,” he murmurs approvingly. Then his grip shifts, and he’s lifting you slightly before pulling you back down, finally, finally giving you the friction you’ve been craving.

You cry out, head falling back against his shoulder as he sets a devastating rhythm. The breakfast dishes rattle on the table with each thrust and you distantly think you should care about the mess you’re probably making but then he angles his hips just right and all thoughts scatter.

“That’s it,” he growls against your neck. “Take it. Take all of me.”

“Yes, god, yes—”

His hand on your breast squeezes while the other works between your legs and the combination is overwhelming. You’re already close, wound too tight from sitting still for so long, from the filthy intimacy of it all.

“Gonna fill you up,” he pants. “Gonna give you exactly what you want. What we both want. You want that, baby? Want me to get you pregnant?”

“Yes,” you sob and you’re not even sure if it’s the hormones or the moment or the fact that this is your husband, your partner, your person and you’re finally talking about this, finally doing this…

“Come for me first,” he demands. “Let me feel it. Show me how much you want this.”

His fingers press harder and that’s all it takes. You shatter, clenching around him, crying out his name as pleasure crashes through you in waves.

“Fuck, baby—” his rhythm falters, becomes erratic and then he’s following you over, groaning against your neck as he pulses inside you, holding you tight against him. For a long moment, neither of you move. You’re both breathing hard, trembling, still joined together as aftershocks roll through you.

“So,” Seungcheol finally says, voice rough and satisfied, “I think that’s a yes? We’re doing this?”

You laugh breathlessly, turning your head to kiss him. “Yeah, we’re doing this.”

“Good.” He nuzzles into your neck. “Because I meant every word. I want this. Want you. Want our family.”

“Even though I ambushed you while drunk?”

“Especially because you ambushed me while drunk.” You can feel his smile against your skin. “Shows you trust me. Even when you’re not in control.”

You shift slightly and he groans. “Don’t move yet. Just…let me hold you like this for a minute.”

So, you do, sitting in your dining room in the morning sunlight, still connected, still close, talking softly about the future you’re going to build together.

About nursery colors and baby names and how you’ll tell your families and whether you want to know the gender or be surprised. About all the beautiful, terrifying, wonderful possibilities ahead and when he finally, reluctantly slips out of you, he immediately scoops you up and carries you back to the bedroom.

“Again?” you ask, surprised but definitely not opposed.

“We’re optimizing our chances,” he says seriously but his eyes are dancing. “It’s just good planning.”

“You’re a fein.”

“You’re ovulating,” he counters, laying you gently on the bed. “And I have months of baby-making fantasies to work through. So,” he crawls over you, settling between your thighs, “we’re going to be here a while.”

“What about our schedules?” you tease. “Don’t you have meetings? I have work.”

“Cancelled everything,” he says, leaning down to kiss you slowly, deeply. “Told them I have important business with my wife.”

“Very important business,” you agree, gasping as he enters you again.

“The most important,” he murmurs against your lips. He flips you on your hands and knees first, arched just the way he wants you.

“Stay just like that,” Seungcheol commands, his hands spreading across your lower back, pressing down slightly to deepen the arch. “Perfect. So, fucking perfect.”

You’re trembling already, forehead pressed against the sheets, completely exposed to him. You feel vulnerable like this, open, but the way he’s looking at you; you can practically feel the heat of his gaze dragging over every inch of exposed skin.

“Cheol—” you start but the word cuts off into a moan as he runs his hands up your sides, thumbs tracing your spine.

“Shhh,” he soothes, though there’s nothing gentle about the way he’s positioning you, adjusting your hips exactly where he wants them. “Just feel.”

One hand wraps around your hip while the other slides between your legs, finding you still wet, still sensitive from before. You jerk at the contact and his grip tightens, holding you steady.

“Still so ready for me,” he muses, almost conversational, like he’s not currently destroying your composure with just his fingers. “Even after I just filled you up. You really do want this, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasp into the sheets. “God, yes, please…”

“Please what?” He’s teasing now, the head of his cock brushing against you but not entering, just barely there, making you crazy.

“Please fuck me,” you whimper, trying to push back against him, but his hand on your hip keeps you in place. “Please, I need—”

“Need what, baby? Use your words.”

“Need you inside me,” you practically sob. “Need you to…to get me pregnant, need you to—oh fuck—”

He slides in with one smooth thrust, burying himself completely, and the angle is devastating. You can feel him so deep like this, stretching you, filling every inch.

“This what you need?” His voice is strained now, control slipping. Both hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise and you hope they do, want to see the marks tomorrow, proof of this.

“Yes, yes, don’t stop—”

“Not stopping,” he growls, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. “Not until you’re dripping with me. Not until I know it took.” The pace he sets is brutal, desperate, his hips snapping against yours with a force that has you crying out with each thrust. One hand leaves your hip to fist in your hair, not pulling, just holding, grounding you.

“Gonna look so good pregnant,” he pants. “Gonna love watching your belly grow. Knowing I did that. That you’re carrying my baby.”

“Cheol—” you’re incoherent now, can only hold on as he takes you apart.

“Say it,” he demands. “Tell me what you want.”

“Want your baby,” you gasp out. “Want you to…to come inside me, want—god—want everyone to know I’m yours.”

His rhythm stutters at that, becomes somehow even more intense. “Mine,” he agrees roughly. “Always mine. My wife. Mother of my children. Mine.”

The possessiveness in his voice, the certainty, sends you spiraling. Your second orgasm hits harder than the first, whiting out your vision and you feel yourself clench around him rhythmically.

“Fuck—baby—” he groans and then he’s there too, pressing as deep as he can go, holding you against him as he fills you again. This time when he pulls out, he immediately maneuvers you onto your back, grabbing a pillow and shoving it under your hips before you can protest.

“Elevate,” he explains breathlessly and you can’t help but laugh.

“You really did research.”

“Told you.” He collapses partially on top of you with his head resting on your chest. “Months of thinking about this. I’m prepared.”

Your fingers find his hair, feeling satisfied and tender and so completely loved. “How long do I have to stay like this?”

“Twenty minutes at least.” His hand finds your belly again, splaying possessively across it. “Maybe thirty to be safe.”

“And what are we doing for the next twenty to thirty minutes?”

His eyes darken again and you feel him already starting to harden against your thigh. “Well,” he says thoughtfully, “I can think of a few ways to pass the time. After all—” he rolls you on your side carefully, mindful of the pillow, settling behind you and lifting your leg up and over his hip, “—we should really make sure we’re being thorough.”

“Thorough,” you repeat breathlessly.

“Very thorough,” he agrees, kissing down your neck. “It’s important to be thorough about these things.”

“You’re insatiable.”

“You’re irresistible.” He nips at your collarbone. “And ovulating. And my wife. Who I’m trying to get pregnant. So yes—” he enters you again, slow and deep, making you both groan, “—insatiable sounds about right.”

And as he begins to move again, slow and intimate and perfect, you think that maybe drunk you had the right idea after all.

Sometimes the best conversations happen in the most unexpected ways.

Seungcheol folds you with both legs to your chest and you know your body is going to complain about it later.

“Wait, Cheol—” you gasp as he pushes your knees toward your chest, folding you in half.

“Trust me,” he murmurs, his hands hooking under your knees, spreading you open as he presses them down. “This angle—fuck, baby, you have no idea—”

And then he’s sliding back in, and oh—he’s right. The angle is incredible. Overwhelming. He’s somehow even deeper like this, hitting spots that make stars explode behind your eyelids.

“Oh my god—” you can barely breathe, pinned beneath him, completely at his mercy.

“That’s it,” he groans, watching where you’re joined with dark, hungry eyes. “Take it. Take all of me.”

Your flexibility has never been your strong suit and you can already feel the strain in your hips, your thighs protesting the position but the pleasure overrides everything else; the way he’s grinding against you with each thrust, the delicious pressure, the intimacy of being folded completely under him.

“You’re so deep,” you whimper, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his forearms. “I can’t…it’s too much—”

“Not too much,” he counters, but there’s a question in his eyes even as he maintains the brutal pace. “Color?”

“Green,” you gasp immediately. “So green, don’t stop, please don’t—ah—”

His thumb finds your clit, circling with perfect pressure, and you nearly scream. Everything is heightened like this, every nerve ending on fire, every thrust punching the air from your lungs.

“Gonna keep you just like this,” he pants, sweat dripping down his temple. “Gonna fill you up so deep it has to take. You want that?”

“Yes—yes—Cheol, I’m—”

“I know, baby. I can feel it.” His movements become more purposeful, grinding deep rather than thrusting, the friction against your clit constant and maddening. “Come for me. Squeeze my cock. Show me how much you want my baby.”

The combination of his words, his thumb, the relentless pressure against that spot deep inside, it’s too much. You shatter with a cry that’s probably too loud for the morning, clenching around him so hard you see white.

“Fuck, just like that—” Seungcheol’s rhythm falters, his hips jerking erratically as he follows you over the edge for the fourth time, groaning your name like a prayer as he empties himself inside you.

He stays buried deep for a long moment, both of you panting, trembling. Then carefully—so carefully—he releases your legs, helping you straighten them out with gentle hands.

“Ow,” you whimper immediately as your hips protest, muscles cramping.

“Sorry, sorry—” he’s already massaging your thighs, pressing kisses to your knees. “I got carried away.”

“Worth it,” you manage, even as you wince. “But I’m definitely going to feel that tomorrow.”

“I’ll give you a massage later,” he promises, still working the tension from your muscles. “A proper one. With oil and everything.”

“You better.” You reach for him, pulling him down into a kiss. “I’m going to be walking funny for days.”

“Good,” he says against your lips, unrepentant. “Let everyone wonder why.”

“You’re terrible.”

“You love it.” He rolls to the side, immediately pulling you with him, tucking you against his chest. His hand finds your belly again; it’s apparently his new favorite spot. “Think it worked?”

“Cheol, we can’t possibly know that yet—”

“But do you think it worked?” he insists, almost childlike in his eagerness.

You soften, covering his hand with yours. “I don’t know, maybe. We’ll have to wait and see.”

“And if not?”

“Then we try again,” you say, smiling. “And again. As many times as it takes.”

His answering grin is devastating. “I love this plan. Best plan we’ve ever had.”

“Of course you love it,” you tease. “You’re getting sex on demand.”

“I’m getting to start a family with the love of my life,” he corrects, suddenly serious. “The sex is just a bonus. A really, really good bonus, but still.”

Your throat tightens with emotion. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” He kisses your forehead. “Now, twenty more minutes with your hips elevated, and then I’m running you a bath.”

“And then?”

“And then lunch. Hydration. Maybe a nap.” His smile turns wicked. “And then round whatever we’re on.”

“Again?!”

“Baby,” he says solemnly, “we’re not leaving this bed until tomorrow. I told you, I’m being thorough.”

You should protest. Should remind him you both have lives, responsibilities, that you can’t spend an entire day having sex no matter how appealing that sounds but then his hand starts tracing patterns on your belly again and he’s looking at you with such love and want and hope that all protests die in your throat.

“Thorough,” you agree weakly. “Right, very important.”

“The most important,” he confirms and as he settles beside you, already planning the rest of your day—which apparently consists entirely of various positions and strategic pillow placement—you think that maybe, just maybe, drunk you deserves some credit.

After all, she got the conversation started, even if her methods were…unconventional. Your husband certainly isn’t complaining and neither—despite your aching hips and the knowledge that you won’t be able to walk straight tomorrow—are you.

The shower was supposed to be innocent, just washing off, getting clean, maybe some gentle aftercare. That lasted approximately three minutes before Seungcheol’s hands started wandering from “helpful” to “decidedly unhelpful.”

“Choi Seungcheol,” you warned but it came out breathless as his fingers traced your hip. “We’re supposed to be cleaning up.”

“We are cleaning up,” he murmured against your neck, pressing you forward until your palms hit the cool tile. “Very thoroughly.”

“That’s not—oh—”

His hand slid between your thighs from behind, finding you still sensitive, still wet with more than just water. “Still ready for me,” he observed, voice dropping an octave. “Even after all that.”

“It’s the hormones,” you managed, even as you arched back into his touch. “I told you, ovulation makes me—fuck—”

“Makes you what?” He was already lining himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. “Insatiable? Desperate? Willing to let me fuck you against the shower wall?”

“All of the above,” you gasped as he pushed in, the slide easy despite how much you’d already taken him today.

This time was different, harder, more primal. The tile was cold against your breasts, your cheek, contrasting with the hot water and his body pressed against your back. His hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing lightly, keeping you in place as he took you apart.

“This is what you do to me,” he growled in your ear. “Walking around, talking about my baby, being so fucking perfect—”

“Cheol, baby please—”

“Please what?”

“Please don’t stop,” you begged. “Please, I need—”

“I know what you need.” His other hand found your clit, and you nearly sobbed. “Need me to breed you. Need me to pump you so full—”

You came with a sharp cry, clenching around him, and he followed immediately after, groaning against your shoulder as he held you pinned to the wall.

The water was starting to run cold by the time you both caught your breath.

You genuinely thought he’d be tired after the shower. Thought maybe you’d eat, cuddle, take that nap he’d mentioned.

You made it halfway through your sandwich.

“Come here,” Seungcheol said suddenly, pushing his chair back.

“I’m eating—”

“You can finish later.” There was something almost feral in his eyes as he stalked around the table toward you. “Right now, I need you bent over this table.”

“Choi Seungcheol—” but you were already standing, already letting him turn you around, already bracing your hands on the polished wood as he flipped up the oversized t-shirt you’d thrown on.

“No panties again,” he noted with approval. “It’s like you want me to fuck you at every opportunity.”

“Maybe I do,” you shot back, then gasped as he entered you in one smooth thrust.

The angle was perfect, the table the ideal height and he took full advantage of it. His fingers dug into your hips as he set a punishing rhythm, the sound of skin slapping against skin obscenely loud in your quiet dining room.

“Look at you,” he panted, gathering your hair in one fist. “Taking it so well. So eager for it. Bet you’d let me fuck you anywhere right now, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, god, anywhere—”

“Kitchen counter? Bedroom floor? Against the windows where the neighbors might see?”

The thought shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but combined with his relentless pace, it pushes you over the edge. You came with a strangled moan, and he wasn’t far behind, but he didn’t give you time to recover. Just pulled out, ignored your whimper, and guided you to the couch.

“Hands on the back,” he instructed. “Ass up.”

You were shaking as you obeyed, gripping the back of the couch as he positioned himself behind you again. This angle was even deeper, and you could feel him in your belly with each thrust.

“Too much,” you whimpered, but you didn’t use your safeword, didn’t actually want him to stop.

“Not too much,” he countered, one hand sliding up your spine. “You can take it. You can take everything I give you.” And you did, you took it until you were crying with pleasure, until your legs gave out, until he had to hold you up as he finished inside you for the—you’d lost count at this point.

When he finally pulled out, your legs couldn’t support you. You collapsed onto the plush living room carpet, and he followed you down, immediately positioning you on your hands and knees.

“One more,” he said, voice rough. “Just one more, baby, and then we’ll rest.”

“Can’t—” you protested weakly, but your body was already responding, already arching for him.

“You can.” He slid in easily, and the stretch was almost too much on your oversensitized flesh. “You’re doing so well. Taking me so perfectly. Gonna make such a good mother.”

The praise broke something in you. You dropped to your elbows, pressing your face into the carpet as he took you with long, deep strokes. There was something almost desperate about it now, like he couldn’t get deep enough, close enough, like he was trying to merge you into one person.

“Love you,” he panted. “Love you so fucking much. Gonna give you everything. Everything you want. Everything you deserve.”

You were too far gone to respond with words, could only moan and take it and feel yourself building toward yet another impossible orgasm.

When it hit, it was almost painful in its intensity. You felt him swell inside you, felt the warmth as he came again, and then everything went soft and hazy.

You came back to yourself slowly, aware of gentle hands cleaning you with a warm cloth, of being lifted and carried, of soft sheets against your skin.

“Did I pass out?” you mumbled.

“Just for a minute.” Seungcheol sounded worried now, the feral intensity finally broken. “I’m sorry, I got carried away—”

“Don’t apologize.” You caught his hand, pressing it to your cheek. “That was…I didn’t know you had that in you.”

He laughed shakily. “Neither did I. I just—when you said you wanted a baby, something in my brain just…short-circuited.”

“Clearly.” You shifted, wincing at the soreness. “I’m going to be feeling this for a week.”

“I’ll take care of you,” he promised immediately. “Bath, massage, whatever you need. I’m sorry—”

“Stop apologizing.” You pulled him down beside you. “I liked it. Loved it, actually. I just…didn’t expect the conversation about trying for a baby to turn my usually controlled husband into…that.”

“Into what?”

“Into someone who fucks me in every room of the house,” you say bluntly. “Who can’t go an hour without being inside me. Who looks at me like he wants to devour me.”

He flushed. “The ovulation thing wasn’t helping. Knowing you’re fertile right now, that any of these times could be the one—” he broke off, shaking his head. “It did something to me.”

“I noticed.” You traced his jaw. “For the record? I’m not complaining. I’m just surprised and very, very sore.”

“Nap now,” he decided. “Then massage. Then dinner. And then—”

“If you say ‘and then round whatever number we’re on,’ I’m divorcing you.”

He grinned, unrepentant. “I was going to say ‘and then we’ll see how you feel.’”

“Uh-huh. Sure you were.”

“But if you’re feeling up to it…” His hand slid to your belly again. “We should probably maximize our chances.”

You stared at him. “You’re actually insatiable.”

“Only with you.” He kissed your forehead. “Only ever with you.”

And despite the soreness, despite the exhaustion, despite the fact that you’d had more sex in one day than most couples have in a month, you found yourself smiling because this was your husband. Your partner. The father of your future children and if his method of “trying for a baby” involved fucking you in every room of the house until you couldn’t walk straight?

Well.

You’d had worse problems.

“Fine,” you conceded. “But after a nap and a massage, you’re carrying me everywhere for the next week.”

“Deal,” he agreed immediately, already pulling you closer.

Nothing came from that day of marathon sex but with how feral your husband had gotten that day you knew something had awakened in him that would be hard to reign in which is how you found yourself in your current position, bent over the balcony of your bedroom at the Airbnb that had been booked for his work trip to Hawaii which he insisted you come on. Something about a second honeymoon.

You should have known something was up when Seungcheol insisted you come on his work trip.

“It’s Hawaii,” he’d said, showing you the booking confirmation with an innocence that should have been your first warning. “We’ve never been. Plus, my meetings are only in the mornings. We’d have the afternoons and evenings together.”

“A second honeymoon,” he’d called it with that devastating smile.

What he’d failed to mention was that the “trying for a baby” conversation had apparently permanently rewired something in his brain.

You’d learned this over the past few weeks. The man who used to be controlled, measured, professional in every aspect of his life had developed a hair-trigger when it came to you. A lingering glance, your hand on his thigh at dinner, the way you bit your lip while concentrating—any of it could result in him finding the nearest private surface and bending you over it.

The office after hours? Check.

The car in the parking garage? Check.

The fitting room at the boutique where you’d been shopping for maternity clothes (optimistically)? Very much check.

But this—this was a new level, even for him.

“Cheol,” you hissed, gripping the balcony railing as he pressed against your back, his hands already pushing up your sundress. “We’re outside. Someone could see—”

“The nearest villa is hundreds of feet away,” he murmured against your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point. “No one can see unless they’re in a helicopter.”

“That’s not the point—”

“The point,” he interrupted, one hand sliding between your thighs to find you already wet—because of course you were—your body had learned to anticipate him now, “is that you’ve been walking around all day in this dress. This tiny, barely-there dress. Bending over to pick up seashells. Stretching in the sun. Driving me insane.”

“We were on the beach,” you protested weakly, even as you arched back into him. “What was I supposed to wear?”

“Nothing.” His fingers hooked into your panties, pulling them aside. “Preferably nothing.”

You were about to respond when he pushed inside you in one smooth thrust, and all coherent thought fled. Your fingers tightened on the railing as he set a deep, rolling rhythm that had you biting your lip to keep quiet.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, one hand gripping your hip while the other slid up to cup your breast through the fabric. “Take it. Take all of me.”

The view from the balcony was stunning; turquoise water stretching to the horizon, white sand beaches, palm trees swaying in the breeze. The sun was setting, painting everything gold and pink. It should be romantic.

It was romantic. Just also obscene.

“God, you feel so good,” Seungcheol groaned, picking up his pace. “So perfect. Made for me. Made to take my cock. Made to carry my baby.”

There it was, the thing that set him off every time. The baby talk. Ever since that day, since you’d opened that door, he couldn’t seem to help himself. It was like the idea of getting you pregnant had become an obsession.

“Cheol—” you gasped, trying to keep your voice down even as pleasure built in your core. “Someone might hear—”

“Let them hear.” His hand slid from your breast to your throat, tilting your head back. “Let them hear how good I make you feel. How well you take me. How desperate you are for my baby.”

“You’re insane,” you managed, but it came out more like a moan.

“You made me this way.” His lips brushed your ear. “Walking around, talking about wanting my babies, being so fucking perfect—you broke something in me, baby. Can’t think straight anymore. Can’t function unless I’m inside you.”

His hand left your throat to slide down your body, finding your clit with practiced ease. The dual sensation—him inside you, his fingers working you expertly—was too much.

“That’s it,” he encouraged as you started to tremble. “Come for me. Come on my cock while I fill you up. Maybe this time it’ll take. Maybe in nine months you’ll be here with my baby in your belly.”

The image he painted—you pregnant, round with his child—combined with his relentless pace pushed you over the edge. You came with a cry you couldn’t quite muffle, clenching around him and felt him follow seconds later with a groan. He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, both of you breathing hard, the sound of waves crashing below mixing with your racing heartbeats.

“We need to talk about this,” you finally said, even as you melted back against his chest.

“About what?” He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, still not pulling out.

“About this—” you gestured vaguely, “—thing that’s happened to you. This breeding kink you’ve developed.”

You felt him smile against your skin. “Is it a kink if we’re actively trying for a baby?”

“Cheol, we’ve had sex multiple times everyday in the last week. Everyday.”

“You’re counting?”

“Hard not to when I can barely walk straight.” You turned your head to look at him. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining about the sex. The sex is incredible but you’ve been…intense. Ever since that conversation.”

His expression shifted, becoming more serious. He finally pulled out—you whimpered at the loss—and turned you around to face him, hands gentle on your waist.

“I know,” he admitted. “I’ve been…I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like something clicked that day, and I can’t turn it off. Every time I look at you, I think about getting you pregnant. About you carrying our baby. About our family. And it just—” he broke off, looking almost embarrassed. “It does something to me. Makes me crazy.”

“I’ve noticed,” you said dryly.

“Is it too much?” There was genuine concern in his eyes now. “Am I being too much? Because if you need me to dial it back—”

“No,” you interrupted quickly. “I mean, yes, it’s a lot but it’s also…kind of hot? Knowing you want me that badly. That you’re that desperate to start our family.”

His eyes darkened. “You have no idea how badly I want you. How much I want this.”

“I’m getting a pretty clear picture,” you teased, feeling him already starting to harden against your thigh. “Case in point.”

He huffed a laugh. “Can you blame me? You’re standing here, freshly fucked, my cum dripping down your thighs, the sunset making you glow and you’re surprised I want you again?”

“We literally just finished—”

“And I’m already thinking about round two.” His hands slid down to cup your ass. “And three. And four. We have all night, baby. No work tomorrow. No interruptions. Just you and me and this view and a very comfortable bed inside.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You love it.” He kissed you, deep and slow. “Now, shower, dinner and then I’m taking you apart in that massive bed. Sound good?”

It sounded perfect, actually. Even if your husband had apparently turned into a sex-crazed maniac since the baby conversation. Especially because your husband had turned into a sex-crazed maniac since the baby conversation.

“One condition,” you said as he started leading you inside.

“Anything.”

“When we get home, we’re making a doctor’s appointment. To make sure we’re doing everything right. That I’m healthy. All of it.”

His expression softened. “Of course. Whatever you need. I’ll set it up as soon as we’re back.”

“And maybe—” you bit your lip, “—maybe we dial it back just a little? Don’t get me wrong, I love the enthusiasm, but I’d like to still be able to walk when we get home.”

He grinned. “No promises but I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask.”

As he pulled you inside to the shower, his hands already wandering again, you thought about how much had changed in just a few weeks. Your controlled, measured husband had been replaced by someone who couldn’t keep his hands off you. Who fucked you on balconies and whispered filthy promises about getting you pregnant. Who looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

The test from last week had been negative. You’d both been disappointed but not surprised, these things took time but watching Seungcheol now, the way he touched you with reverence even as his eyes promised wickedness, you knew something had fundamentally shifted between you.

This wasn’t just about making a baby anymore. It was about the intensity of wanting something together. About the intimacy of trying. About how the goal had somehow made everything—every touch, every kiss, every time he was inside you—feel weighted with meaning and possibility.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, soaping your shoulders.

“About how that drunk conversation might have been the best terrible decision I ever made.”

He laughed. “Oh, it was definitely terrible. But yeah,” he pulled you close, “also the best.”

“Even though I asked if you’d love me as a worm?”

“Especially because you asked if I’d love you as a worm.” He kissed your forehead. “Now come on. We have dinner reservations in an hour and I plan on having you at least twice before then.”

“Twice?! Cheol, we just—”

But he was already lifting you, your legs wrapping around his waist automatically, and honestly? You weren’t complaining, not even a little bit.

Your insatiable, baby-crazy, utterly perfect husband. You wouldn’t change a thing.

You didn’t make it to dinner.

Well, not the reservation anyway. By the time Seungcheol had finished with you in the shower and then carried you to the bed still dripping wet, you were both too boneless and satisfied to even consider getting dressed and going out. Instead, he’d ordered take out—an absurd amount of food—and you’d eaten on the balcony wrapped in plush robes, watching the stars come out over the ocean.

“This is nice,” you murmured, stealing a bite of his dessert. “Romantic. Almost makes me forget you’ve turned into a caveman.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Caveman?”

“Mhm.” You grinned. “Me want baby. Me fuck wife constantly. Me carry wife everywhere because wife can’t walk—”

He silenced you with a kiss, tasting like chocolate and coconut. “I don’t hear you complaining when I’m making you come.”

“That’s because my brain stops working when you’re making me come.”

“Mission accomplished then.” His hand found yours on the table, fingers interlacing. “But seriously, are we okay? This isn’t too much?”

You squeezed his hand. “We’re more than okay. I promise. Yes, you’ve been insatiable. Yes, I’m going to need a week to recover when we get home. But Cheol,” you met his eyes, “I love seeing you like this. Passionate. Uninhibited. It’s like you’ve finally let yourself want something without overthinking it.”

“I want you,” he said simply. “I want our family and yeah, maybe I’ve gone a little crazy about it, but…” he shrugged, unapologetic, “I’m not sorry.”

“Good.” You stood, letting your robe slip off your shoulders. “Because I’m not done with you yet either.”

His eyes went dark, tracking the fall of fabric. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You moved to straddle his lap, the balmy night air warm on your skin. “We have four more days in paradise. Might as well make the most of them.”

“Four more days,” he repeated, hands spanning your waist. “Think we can set a record?”

“For what? Most times having sex in a single vacation?”

“I was thinking most creative locations, but that works too.” His thumbs traced circles on your hipbones. “There’s the beach at night. The private pool. That hammock near the—”

“You’ve been planning this.”

“Maybe.” He pulled you down for a kiss. “Can you blame me? My beautiful wife, a tropical paradise, and no responsibilities for four whole days? I’m going to worship you in every way possible.”

And he did.

You woke to his mouth between your thighs, the sunrise painting the room in shades of gold and pink. He brought you to orgasm twice before you were even fully awake and then pulled you into the shower where he took you against the tiles while water cascaded over you both.

Breakfast was served on the balcony, and you made it through most of your meal before he was pulling you onto his lap, pushing your sundress up, filling you while you clutched his shoulders and tried to keep quiet.

“Love you like this,” he murmured against your neck as you rode him slowly. “Sun-kissed, desperate and so fucking wet for me.”

“Always wet for you,” you gasped. “Can’t help it.”

“Good.” His hands guided your hips, helping you find the perfect angle. “Never want you any other way.”

Later, he kept his promise about the hammock. You’d been reading peacefully in the shade when he appeared with that look in his eyes and suddenly your book was forgotten as he stripped you down and arranged you across the swaying fabric.

“Cheol, this is going to tip—”

“I’ve got you,” he promised and he did, holding the hammock steady as he knelt between your legs and proved that his mouth was just as talented as the rest of him. By the time he finally entered you, you were already trembling, oversensitive, and the gentle sway of the hammock with each thrust was unlike anything you’d experienced.

“This is insane,” you laughed breathlessly.

“This is perfect,” he corrected and the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing in his universe—made your chest tight with emotion.

His morning meeting ran long and you’d gone down to the beach alone, content to swim and sunbathe and give your body a much-needed break. You should have known better. You were waist-deep in the crystal-clear water when you felt arms wrap around you from behind.

“Meeting over?” you asked, leaning back against his chest.

“Cancelled the rest.” His lips found that spot behind your ear that made you shiver. “Told them it was a family emergency.”

“Cheol! You can’t just—”

“Can’t just what? Choose my wife over a conference call about quarterly projections?” His hand slid down your stomach, disappearing beneath the water. “Pretty sure I can since y’know, I’m the boss.”

“Someone could see—”

“No one’s around.” And he was right—the beach was completely empty, the nearest people just tiny dots in the distance. “And you’re wearing this bikini. This tiny, barely-there bikini. What did you expect?”

“I expected to swim peacefully—oh—”

His fingers had found their target, working you expertly while his other arm banded around your waist, holding you against him.

“Can you be quiet?” he murmured. “Or are you going to let the whole beach know how good I make you feel?”

You bit your lip, trying desperately to stay silent as he worked you closer to the edge. The water lapped around you, warm and gentle and the contrast between the peaceful setting and what he was doing to you was almost too much.

“That’s it,” he encouraged. “Come for me, baby. Right here in the ocean where anyone could see how desperate you are for me.”

You came with a strangled gasp, your legs giving out and only his arm around your waist kept you upright.

“Good girl,” he praised, turning you around. “Now, think you can stay quiet while I fuck you?”

You couldn’t, as it turned out but the beach stayed empty, and Seungcheol didn’t seem to mind your breathless cries as he lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist as he entered you in the warm, shallow water.

The private pool became his new favorite place. You’d lost count of how many times he’d taken you there; bent over the edge, pressed against the infinity wall overlooking the ocean, on the submerged lounger, against the smooth rocks of the artificial waterfall.

“We’re never leaving,” he declared as the sun set on your last full day. “I’m cancelling our flights. We live here now.”

“We have jobs,” you reminded him, though you were currently in his lap in the pool, still joined, neither of you in any hurry to move.

“We’ll work remotely. I’ll buy this villa. We’ll raise our kids here.”

“Kids, plural?”

“At least three.” His hands slid over your belly, possessive and tender. “Maybe four.”

“Let’s start with one,” you laughed. “See how we do.”

“We’ll do perfectly.” He kissed you slowly. “You’re going to be an amazing mother.”

“And you’re going to be an amazing father.” You cupped his face. “Even if you are a sex-crazed maniac right now.”

“Only for you,” he promised. “Only ever for you.”

You woke early, bodies tangled together, the sound of waves your only alarm. Seungcheol was already awake, watching you with that soft expression that still made your heart skip.

“Morning,” you murmured.

“Morning.” He brushed hair from your face. “Last day.”

“Don’t remind me.” You snuggled closer. “I’m not ready to go back to reality.”

“Me neither.” His hand found your belly again,it was becoming a habit. “But we’ll take this with us. This feeling. This certainty.”

“The certainty that you can’t keep your hands off me?”

“The certainty that we’re ready for this. For our family. For our future.” He shifted, rolling you beneath him. “And yeah, also the certainty that I’ll never get enough of you.”

The morning light filtered through the curtains as he made love to you slowly, tenderly, so different from the frantic desperation of the past few days. This was soft and sweet and full of promise.

“I love you,” he whispered against your lips. “So much. More than I can say.”

“I love you too,” you breathed. “Even when you’re being insane.”

“Especially when I’m being insane,” he corrected with a grin and as you lay together afterward, wrapped in each other and the morning warmth, you thought about the past few weeks. The conversation that started it all. The shift in your relationship. The intensity and passion and sheer want of it all.

You still didn’t know if you were pregnant yet. Wouldn’t know for another week at least but somehow, it didn’t matter as much as you thought it would. Because you had this. Had him. Had the absolute certainty that whatever happened, you were in it together. Even if your husband had apparently developed a permanent breeding kink in the process. You could think of worse problems to have.

“Round two?” Seungcheol murmured hopefully against your neck.

You laughed. “We have to pack. And check out. And catch a flight.”

“So that’s a yes to a quickie before all that?”

“You’re impossible.”

“You love it.”

And because he was right—because you did love it, loved him, loved this new chapter you were writing together—you pulled him down for a kiss.

“Make it quick,” you warned. “We actually do need to pack.”

His answering grin was wicked. “Oh baby, I haven’t done anything quick with you since university.”

He was right about that too. You missed your flight but honestly?

Totally worth it.

The next few months go by in blur of your everyday life and the fact that you and your husband behaved like two virgins in a whorehouse at every given opportunity. He had somewhat simmered down, a work project keeping him busy and away from you for the past month.

You knew he was stressed so tonight you had planned to treat him, leaving work early to set up everything and it was well worth it when he comes through the door of your home calling out for you. He asks what smells so good before he stops when he takes in the way you’re dressed, in that cherry red dress he loves, and his mind starts wandering to important dates.

“Did I forget something?”

You turn from the stove, wooden spoon in hand and can’t help but smile at the panic already creeping into his expression. Seungcheol stands frozen in the doorway, briefcase still in hand, tie loosened, eyes frantically scanning you for clues.

“Did I forget—” he starts again, more urgently this time. “Is it our anniversary? Your birthday? Some other important—”

“Relax,” you interrupt, setting down the spoon and crossing to him. “You didn’t forget anything.”

“Then why are you wearing that dress?” His eyes drag over you, taking in the cherry red fabric that hugs every curve, the neckline that shows just enough to be distracting. “You only wear that dress for special occasions.”

“Maybe I just wanted to look nice for my husband,” you say innocently, reaching up to loosen his tie the rest of the way. “Is that a crime?”

His hands find your waist automatically, pulling you closer. “You’re up to something.”

“Maybe.” You stretch up to kiss him softly. “Or maybe I just missed you. You’ve been working so much lately.”

Something in his expression shifts, guilt mixing with exhaustion. “I know. This project has been insane. I’m sorry, baby. I’ve barely been home and when I am, I’m usually passed out or distracted—”

“Which is exactly why I wanted to do something nice tonight.” You smooth your hands over his chest. “So,no work talk. No stress. Just dinner, wine, and your wife who’s been very lonely without you.”

His eyes darken at that. “Lonely?”

“Mhmm.” You let your fingers trail down his abdomen. “Very lonely. Do you know how long it’s been since you’ve touched me?”

“Twenty-two days,” he says immediately and you blink in surprise.

“You’ve been counting?”

“Of course I’ve been counting.” His grip tightens on your waist. “You think I haven’t noticed? That I haven’t been dying every night, coming home to you already asleep, leaving before you wake up? I’ve been going insane.”

“Have you?” You press closer, feeling him already starting to respond. “Because you seemed pretty absorbed in your work.”

“The only reason I’ve been able to focus on work is because I’ve been channeling all my sexual frustration into spreadsheets and project timelines.” His forehead drops to yours. “I’ve missed you so much. Missed this. Missed touching you.”

“Well,” you slide your hands up to his shoulders, “dinner’s going to take another twenty minutes. Whatever shall we do to pass the time?”

“Twenty minutes?” He’s already backing you toward the counter. “I can work with twenty minutes.”

“Cheol,” you laugh as he lifts you onto the granite, “we eat here.”

“We’ve done worse shit here.” He’s already pushing your dress up your thighs, and his eyes go even darker when he discovers what you’re not wearing. “No underwear. You really were planning this.”

“Maybe I was planning to torture you through dinner,” you tease. “Make you wait. Make you suffer.”

“Fuck that.” He drops to his knees, pulling you to the edge of the counter. “I’ve suffered enough. Now I’m collecting.”

Your protest dies as his mouth finds you and suddenly the simmering pots on the stove are the last thing on your mind.

Dinner is slightly overcooked by the time you both make it to the table—flushed, disheveled, and thoroughly satisfied. Seungcheol keeps apologizing for ruining your perfect meal but you just laugh and pour more wine.

“It’s fine,” you assure him, serving the pasta that’s only a little too soft. “This was kind of the plan anyway.”

“To seduce me before dinner?”

“To remind you that I still exist.” You raise your glass. “That we exist. Outside of work and stress and trying to conceive and everything else.”

His expression softens. “I know we exist. I always know that.”

“But you’ve been distant,” you say gently. “And I get it, this project has been huge, and you’re under a lot of pressure but Cheol…” you reach across the table for his hand, “I’ve missed my husband. Not just the sex, though yes, definitely that but you. Talking to you. Laughing with you. Just being with you.”

He squeezes your hand, looking guilty. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—I thought I was handling it okay, but I guess I’ve been shutting you out.”

“A little bit,” you admit. “And I know it’s not intentional. You get focused on work and everything else fades but we can’t let that happen, especially not now when we’re trying to start a family.”

“You’re right.” He stands, moving his chair closer to yours so he can pull you against his side. “I’m sorry. Really. The project wraps up next week, and then I’m all yours. No more late nights. No more missing dinner. No more—”

“No more twenty-two day dry spells?” you supply with a grin.

“Especially no more dry spells.” His hand slides up your thigh. “In fact, I think I need to make up for lost time.”

“We haven’t even finished dinner.”

“We can reheat it.” He’s already pulling you into his lap. “Right now, I need to apologize properly to my wife for neglecting her.”

“How do you plan to do that?”

His smile turns wicked. “I have some ideas.”

You’re curled up on the couch together, plates pushed aside, wine glasses empty, and you’re finally feeling like you have your husband back.

“So,” Seungcheol says, his hand tracing lazy patterns on your bare shoulder; your dress didn’t survive the transition from dining room to living room, “I actually have something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Hmm?” You’re pleasantly drowsy, content in a way you haven’t been in weeks.

“About the baby thing.”

That gets your attention. You sit up a little, looking at him. “What about it?”

He’s quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “We’ve been trying for almost three months now. And I know that’s not that long in the grand scheme of things, but…I don’t know. I guess I thought it would happen faster.”

Your chest tightens. You’ve been thinking the same thing but haven’t wanted to say it out loud. “Yeah. Me too.”

“And I was thinking—maybe we should make that doctor’s appointment. Like you said. Just to make sure everything’s okay. That we’re doing everything right.”

“Okay,” you agree softly. “Yeah, we can do that.”

“I’m not worried,” he adds quickly. “I mean, I am a little worried, but mostly I just want to be proactive. Make sure we’re giving ourselves the best chance.”

You cup his face, making him look at you. “Hey. Three months is nothing. The doctor will probably tell us to keep trying and come back in a year if nothing happens.”

“I know, but—” he breaks off, frustrated. “I just want this so badly. Want to give you this and every time another month goes by and the test is negative, I feel like I’m failing somehow.”

“You’re not failing,” you say firmly. “This isn’t something we can control. It happens when it happens.”

“I know that in my head. But in my heart,” his hand finds your belly, “I’m impatient.”

“I’ve noticed,” you tease gently. “The whole ‘acting like virgins in a whorehouse’ thing kind of gave it away.”

He huffs a laugh. “Was I that bad?”

“You were that eager,” you correct. “Which was actually pretty hot. Still is, when you’re not drowning in spreadsheets.”

“No more spreadsheets,” he promises. “Project’s almost done, and then I’m taking some time off. We’ll go somewhere. Relax. Maybe not having so much stress will help.”

“Maybe.” You kiss him softly. “But either way, we’re in this together, okay? Whether it happens next month or next year, we’ll figure it out.”

“Together,” he agrees, pulling you closer.

You settle back against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear, and try to ignore the small kernel of worry that’s been growing with each negative test.

Three months isn’t that long but it feels longer when you want something so badly. When every month brings hope and then disappointment. When you see the look on your husband’s face each time that single line appears instead of two.

“Hey,” Seungcheol murmurs, as if reading your thoughts. “No spiraling. We’re okay.”

“We’re okay,” you repeat.

And you are, you will be. Even if it takes longer than expected. Even if the road is harder than you hoped. You have him, and he has you, and that’s what matters.

Everything else will come in time, you just have to keep believing that.

Seungcheol had accompanied you to your usual checkup with your doctor and you’re currently waiting for your results to come back. When she enters with your files there’s a look on her face you can’t really read.

“Is there something wrong?” Seungcheol asks, his hand squeezing yours tighter.

“Well, that depends Mr. Choi,” she says before turning to you. “This happens quite often and I know it can be a shock, but I hope you both will make the decision that suits you best.”

The suspense is killing you and before you can ask what she means she says “Mrs. Choi, did you know that you’re three months pregnant?”

“Que?”

You must be hearing things. You took tests, hell you had a period two weeks ago. The room tilts slightly, and you’re glad you’re already sitting down.

“I’m—what?” Your voice comes out strangled, disbelieving. “That’s not—I can’t be. I’ve been having my period.”

Dr. Kim’s expression softens with understanding. “What you experienced was likely implantation bleeding and spotting, which can be mistaken for a light period. It’s more common than you’d think. Based on your blood work and the ultrasound we just did, you’re measuring at about twelve weeks.”

“Twelve weeks,” you repeat numbly. Your mind is racing, trying to do the math. Twelve weeks ago was…

“Hawaii,” Seungcheol breathes beside you, and when you look at him, his face has gone pale. “That was twelve weeks ago.”

Dr. Kim pulls up something on her computer screen, turning it so you can see and there it is. A tiny blob on the screen, barely distinguishable, but with a flickering white spot in the center.

“That’s the heartbeat,” Dr. Kim says gently, pointing. “Strong and healthy.”

Your own heart seems to stop entirely.

“But—” you’re struggling to process this, “—I’ve taken at least four pregnancy tests in the past two months. They were all negative.”

“How early were you testing?”

“I don’t know—a few days before my period? And then after what I thought was my period…”

“That’s likely why. Some women don’t produce enough HCG hormone early on for home tests to detect. It’s rare, but it happens.” Dr. Kim’s smile is warm, reassuring. “But your levels now are exactly where they should be for twelve weeks. You’re pregnant, Mrs. Choi. Congratulations.”

The word hangs in the air between you and Seungcheol.

Pregnant. You’re pregnant. You’ve been pregnant for three months and didn’t know.

“I—” your voice cracks, “—I’ve been drinking coffee. And I had wine at dinner last week. And I, oh god, I’ve been taking ibuprofen for my headaches—”

“Hey, hey,” Dr. Kim interrupts gently. “Let’s take a breath. Small amounts of caffeine are fine. One glass of wine before you knew won’t hurt anything. And occasional ibuprofen, while not ideal, isn’t going to cause problems at this stage. Your baby looks perfectly healthy.”

Your baby.

“I can’t—” you turn to Seungcheol, and the expression on his face nearly breaks you. He looks stunned, overwhelmed, and like he might cry at any moment. “Cheol—”

“We’re having a baby,” he says, voice rough with emotion. “We’re actually…holy shit, we’re having a baby.” And then he is crying, tears streaming down his face as he pulls you into a tight embrace.

“You said there was a decision to make?” Seungcheol asks suddenly, pulling back and looking at Dr. Kim with concern. “Is something wrong? You said—”

“Oh, no—I’m sorry, I worded that poorly.” Dr. Kim looks apologetic. “I just meant that unexpected pregnancies can be a shock, and I wanted to make sure you knew you had options. But if this is welcome news—”

“It’s welcome,” you say immediately, even as your hands are shaking. “Very welcome. We’ve been trying. We just—we didn’t know it had already worked.”

“Well then—truly, congratulations.” Dr. Kim starts printing out information. “I’m going to refer you to an OB for your ongoing care. You’ll want to schedule your first official prenatal appointment within the next week or two. I’m printing out the ultrasound photo for you, and some information about what to expect in your first trimester—though you’re already almost through it.”

Almost through the first trimester. You’re almost through the first trimester and you had no idea.

“Can you—” your voice is shaky, “—can you print two copies of the ultrasound? Please?”

“Of course.” Dr. Kim smiles knowingly. “Most parents want several.”

Parents. You’re going to be parents. The rest of the appointment passes in a blur. Dr. Kim goes over nutrition, what to expect, warning signs to watch for, answering questions that Seungcheol asks because you seem to have lost the ability to form coherent sentences.

By the time you make it back to the car, you’re both silent, clutching the ultrasound photos like lifelines. Seungcheol doesn’t start the car. Just sits there, staring at the grainy black and white image in his hands.

“We made this,” he finally says, voice thick. “In Hawaii. In that villa with the ocean view. We made our baby.”

“All those times,” you whisper, then laugh slightly hysterically. “All those months we kept trying, and it had already happened. We were already pregnant during—oh my god, we were pregnant when you bent me over the dining room table last month—”

“And in the shower last week,” he adds, then starts laughing too, slightly wild. “And on the counter. And—Jesus, we’ve been having incredibly athletic sex while pregnant.”

“Dr. Kim said it’s fine—”

“I know, I just—” he runs a hand through his hair, “—I can’t believe we didn’t know. How did we not know?”

“I don’t know.” You’re staring at your own copy of the ultrasound, at that tiny blob that’s apparently your baby. Your baby who’s been growing inside you for weeks while you had no idea. “I feel like I should have known. Like my body should have told me somehow.”

“Hey.” Seungcheol reaches over, taking your hand. “This is okay, right? This is—we wanted this.”

“We wanted this,” you confirm, squeezing back. “I’m just…I’m in shock. Are you in shock?”

“Completely.” He brings your hand to his lips. “But also, baby, we’re having a baby. We’re actually having a baby.”

The reality of it starts to sink in, and suddenly you’re crying too. Happy tears, overwhelmed tears, scared tears, all mixed together.

“We’re having a baby,” you repeat, and it feels more real each time you say it. “In—oh god, when? When am I due?”

Seungcheol scrambles for the paperwork Dr. Kim gave you. “It says…June. June tenth. Holy shit, that’s only six months away.”

“Six months.” You press a hand to your stomach, which still looks completely normal. “There’s a baby in there. Right now. With a heartbeat.”

“The fastest heartbeat in the world,” Seungcheol says, smiling through his tears. “Did you hear how fast it was going? Like they’re already excited to meet us.”

“They.” The pronoun makes it more real somehow. “We’re going to have a tiny human. Who depends on us for everything. Who we’re responsible for.”

“Are you freaking out?” he asks gently.

“Little bit. You?”

“Completely.” But he’s smiling, radiant, more happy than you’ve ever seen him. “But also,I’ve never been more excited about anything in my life.” You lean over the center console to kiss him, tasting salt from both your tears and his.

“We’re going to be parents,” you whisper against his lips.

“Best parents ever,” he promises. “This kid is going to be so loved.”

“So spoiled.”

“That too.” He pulls back just enough to cup your face. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For this. For giving me this. For—” his voice breaks, “—for making me a father.”

“Cheol—” now you’re really crying, “—you did half the work.”

“Yeah, but you’re the one growing them. Carrying them. Creating an entire human being inside you.” His hand moves to your stomach, reverent. “You’re incredible.”

“Ask me again in four months when I’m huge and miserable and demanding pickles at 3 AM.”

“Still incredible.” He kisses you again. “Now, we need to celebrate. And tell people. And—oh god, my mom is going to lose her mind. Your mom is going to cry. Jeonghan is going to make fun of me for crying earlier—”

“We don’t have to tell anyone right away,” you interrupt. “I’m only twelve weeks. A lot can still—” you can’t finish the sentence, but he understands.

“You’re right. We’ll wait. Just, maybe a little longer? Until we’re into the second trimester?”

“Which is only a few more weeks now,” you realize. “We’re already almost there.”

“We’re already almost there,” he repeats wonderingly. Then, more firmly, “Okay, new plan. We go home. We process this. We maybe have a minor freak out and then we start planning.”

“Planning what?”

“Everything.” His smile is infectious. “Nursery. Names. Parenting books. Baby-proofing. Everything we need to do in the next six months to get ready for this tiny human who’s apparently already been along for the ride.”

You look down at the ultrasound again, at that flickering heartbeat frozen in time. Your baby. Made in paradise, growing in secret, already loved beyond measure.

“Let’s go home,” you say softly.

Seungcheol finally starts the car, but before he pulls out, he looks at you one more time.

“I love you,” he says. “You and our little blob.”

“I love you too.” You press your hand over his on your stomach. “All three of us.” And as he drives home, both of you stealing glances at the ultrasound photos, you think about how everything has changed in the span of one appointment.

All those months of trying.

All that hoping and waiting and disappointment and it had already worked.

Your baby had been there all along, growing quietly, waiting to surprise you. Just like everything else with Seungcheol—unexpected, intense, and absolutely perfect.

Even if you had been doing very athletic things while pregnant without knowing it.

You’d probably need to apologize to your baby for that eventually but for now, you just hold the ultrasound close and let yourself feel it.

Pure, overwhelming joy.

You’re going to be a mom and Seungcheol is going to be a dad. In six months, your family of two is going to become three.

Best surprise ever.

You both still haven’t told anyone and it’s been two months since you found out. Your body hasn’t changed much but your need for your husband has which has made Seungcheol work from home twice now and this morning is no different when he wakes up with your mouth on him.

Seungcheol wakes slowly, consciousness returning in gradual waves. There’s warmth, wetness, and a familiar pressure that has him groaning before he’s even fully awake.

“Fuck, baby—” His hand instinctively goes to your hair as his hips jerk involuntarily. You’re under the covers, between his legs and the sight when he lifts the duvet nearly finishes him right there—your eyes meeting his as you take him deeper.

“What are you—oh god—what time is it?”

You pull off with an obscene pop, your hand replacing your mouth as you stroke him slowly. “About six thirty. You have a meeting at nine.”

“Then why are you—” his words cut off as you lick a stripe up his length, “—trying to kill me?”

“Because,” you pause to take him in your mouth again, working him in that way that makes his brain short-circuit, before pulling back, “ I need you…again.”

“Again?” His laugh is strained. “Baby, love we went three rounds last night. How are you—”

“Pregnant,” you finish, crawling up his body. You’re wearing one of his t-shirts and nothing else and when you straddle him, he can feel how wet you already are. “I’m pregnant and my hormones are insane and I can’t stop thinking about you inside me.”

“Not complaining,” he manages, hands gripping your hips as you position yourself above him. “Just concerned about your poor—Jesus—”

You sink down on him in one smooth motion and his concern evaporates. You’re so wet, so ready, that he slides in effortlessly despite no preparation.

“Fuck, you feel good,” you moan, starting to move. “So good. Why do you always feel so good?”

Seungcheol can’t answer because his brain has officially stopped working. You’re riding him in the early morning light, his t-shirt riding up to reveal the slight swell of your stomach, barely visible but there. Evidence of your baby growing inside you.

His baby. The thought still makes him feral.

“That’s it,” he encourages, helping you find your rhythm. “Take what you need. Use me.”

And you do, you ride him with an urgency that’s become familiar over the past two months. Dr. Kim had warned you that increased libido was common in the second trimester, but this was beyond anything either of you expected. Not that Seungcheol is complaining.

“Cheol,” you’re already close, he can tell by the way you’re clenching around him, “touch me, please.”

His thumb finds your clit, circling with practiced pressure and you come apart with a cry that could wake the neighbors. He follows seconds later, pulling you down onto him as he empties inside you. You collapse on his chest, both of you breathing hard.

“I’m calling in sick,” he announces.

“You can’t. You have that important meeting—”

“Then you’re coming to the home office with me,” he decides, rolling you both over so he’s hovering above you. “Because if the past two months have taught me anything, it’s that you’re going to need me again in approximately—” he checks his watch, “—two hours and I’d rather be here than trying to take a ‘lunch break’ or hoping my camera stays off.”

You laugh, remembering last week when he’d had to abruptly mute himself because you’d walked into his office wearing nothing but a smile.

“That was your fault for working from home in grey sweatpants,” you point out.

“Everything is apparently my fault now.” But he’s smiling as he says it, pressing kisses down your neck. “You needed water at 3 AM? My fault for getting you pregnant. Your jeans don’t fit? My fault. You cried at that commercial with the puppy? Definitely my fault.”

“It was a very sad commercial,” you defend, even as you’re arching into his kisses. “And yes, this is literally all your fault. You and your—” you gesture vaguely at him, “—your everything.”

“My everything?” He’s laughing now, working his way down your body.

“Your face. Your body. Your—Cheol, what are you doing?”

“Well—” he settles between your thighs, “—if I’m working from home anyway, might as well make sure you’re thoroughly satisfied before my first meeting.”

“You just…we literally just—”

“And you’re going to need me again soon anyway,” he points out reasonably. “Might as well get ahead of it.” His mouth finds you and your protests dissolve into moans.

Seungcheol is forty-five minutes into his video call when you appear in the doorway of his office. He sees you in his peripheral vision and tries to focus on the presentation his colleague is giving but you’re wearing that look. That needy, desperate, “I need you right now” look.

He mutes himself and mouths, After this meeting.

You pout. Actually pout. Then you do something that nearly makes him fall out of his chair; you pull up your dress to show him your stomach, running your hand over the small bump. It’s not fair. It’s biological warfare. You know exactly what seeing you like that does to him.

He unmutes. “Actually, I need to step away for a moment. Personal emergency. Give me ten minutes?”

His colleagues agree—they know he’s been working from home more lately—and he kills his camera and mic before you’ve even crossed the room.

“Ten minutes,” he warns as you climb into his lap. “That’s all we have.”

“Then you better make it count,” you challenge, already undoing his belt.

He does.

“We need to tell people,” Seungcheol says over lunch. You’re both in the kitchen, you’re eating pickles and bacon cream cheese spread—a combination that horrifies him but apparently makes perfect sense to your pregnant brain—and he’s trying not to watch in fascinated disgust.

“I know,” you agree around a mouthful of your horrible creation. “We said we’d wait until after the first trimester, and we’re at—what? Fifteen weeks now?”

“Sixteen tomorrow,” he corrects. He’s been tracking it religiously, has an app on his phone that tells him how big the baby is each week. Currently, the size of an avocado.

“Sixteen weeks,” you repeat. “And I’m starting to show. Like, actually show. I can’t hide it in loose clothes forever.”

“You look beautiful,” he says immediately.

“I look pregnant.”

“Beautiful and pregnant.” He comes around the island to wrap his arms around you from behind, his hands spanning your small bump. “Best combination ever.”

You lean back into him. “Your mom is going to cry.”

“My mom is going to plan the entire baby’s life before they’re even born,” he corrects. “Your mom is going to cry.”

“Both our moms are going to lose their minds,” you decide. “And then they’re going to become best friends over baby shopping.”

“Jeonghan is going to make fun of me.”

“Hannie’s going to be the uncle who teaches our kid bad habits.”

Seungcheol groans. “I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe we don’t tell anyone. Just let them figure it out when you go into labor.”

“Cheol.”

“Fine.” He kisses your temple. “This weekend? We’ll have both families over. Tell them together?”

“Together,” you agree. Then, after a pause, “Are you scared?”

“Terrified,” he admits. “But also, this is real now. We’re really doing this. In four and a half months, we’re going to have a baby. Our baby and I want to share that with people. Want everyone to know how happy I am.”

You turn in his arms, looking up at him. “Even though I keep attacking you at inappropriate times?”

“Especially because you keep attacking me at inappropriate times.” He grins. “Though maybe we should warn the doctor at your next appointment. Make sure this is…you know. Normal.”

“I already asked,” you admit, blushing. “Last appointment while you were filling out paperwork. She said it’s completely normal and actually healthy.”

“Healthy,” he repeats, smirking. “So really, we’re just being responsible parents-to-be.”

“Exactly, very responsible.”

“Speaking of responsible—” his hands slide down to cup your ass, “—I think I have another meeting in an hour. Which means we have time—”

“On the counter?” you ask hopefully.

“Wherever you want,” he promises, already lifting you.

The pickles and cream cheese are forgotten as he makes good on his promise and later—much later—when he’s finally back at his computer for his afternoon meetings, you curl up on the couch in his office with a blanket and one of your pregnancy books.

This has become your routine over the past two months. Him working, you nearby and periodic breaks for the insatiable need that’s apparently a hallmark of your second trimester. It’s chaotic and wonderful and occasionally makes him miss important conference calls but he wouldn’t change a thing.

This is his life now. His pregnant wife who can’t keep her hands off him. His baby growing bigger every day. His future taking shape in ways he couldn’t have imagined a year ago. All because of one drunk conversation about worms and ovulation and wanting his babies.

Best conversation ever. Even if it did result in him having to work from home regularly because his wife has turned into an insatiable pregnant goddess. He glances over at you, at the small bump visible even under the blanket and feels that now-familiar surge of overwhelming love.

Four and a half months until they meet their baby but first, telling their families this weekend and surviving whatever chaos that brings.

“You are. You’ve got that little crease between your brows and everything.” You reached out and poked the spot lightly. He swatted your hand away, but there was no real heat in it.

“You talked to Bang Chan the entire night,” he muttered, looking away again. “Like… non-stop. Laughing, leaning in, all that. I was right there, you know.”

You tried not to grin, but it was impossible. This six-foot-something man, who commanded stages and led twelve other chaotic boys, was jealous because you spent time with a mutual friend.

“Cheollie…” You climbed onto the couch and straddled his lap without warning. His hands automatically went to your waist, even as he tried to maintain his grumpy expression. “Chan and I were catching up. We haven’t seen him in months. You know he’s just a friend.”

Seungcheol huffed, tilting his head back against the couch. “Didn’t look like ‘just a friend’ when you were showing him that video on your phone, heads practically touching.”

You cupped his face with both hands, thumbs stroking his cheeks. His pout was devastatingly adorable up close—full lips pushed out, eyes avoiding yours even as his fingers tightened on your hips.

“You’re cute when you’re jealous,” you whispered, leaning in to kiss the tip of his nose.

“I’m not jealous,” he grumbled, but his ears were turning pink. “I just… missed you. We barely got to talk all night.”

Your chest warmed. You shifted closer, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your forehead to his. “I’m sorry, baby. I got carried away catching up. But I’m here now. All yours.”

He stayed quiet for a second, then let out a long sigh, his body finally relaxing under you. His arms slid fully around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

“You’re mine,” he mumbled against your shoulder, nuzzling in like a big puppy. “Should’ve been next to me the whole time.”

You laughed softly and carded your fingers through his hair. “Next time I’ll stay glued to your side, okay? No more leaving my big strong boyfriend alone to fend off boredom.”

He made a small, contented sound and tilted his head up, silently asking for a kiss. You gave it to him—slow and sweet, pouring in all the affection he’d missed. Seungcheol melted instantly, one hand sliding up your back, the other squeezing your waist like he couldn’t bear even an inch of distance.

When you pulled back, his eyes were softer, the sulk completely gone.

“Better?” you asked, brushing his hair off his forehead.

He nodded, a shy little smile finally breaking through. “Yeah. But you owe me extra cuddles tonight. And maybe breakfast in bed tomorrow.”

You grinned, kissing him again. “Deal. Anything for my cute, sulky boyfriend.”

“I wasn’t sulking,” he protested weakly, but he was already pulling you down, tucking you against his chest.

You let him. After all, making it up to Seungcheol was one of your favorite things to do.

𖧷₊˚˖𓍢ִ🍒✧˚.🎀༘⋆ﾟ＊ 𖧷₊˚˖𓍢ִ🍒✧˚.🎀༘⋆ﾟ＊ 𖧷₊˚˖𓍢ִ🍒✧˚.🎀༘⋆ﾟ＊

The living room lights were dimmed low, the city humming faintly beyond the windows. Seungcheol was still sprawled on the couch beneath you, his sulky mood long gone, replaced by that warm, hazy look in his eyes after several deep kisses. Your fingers traced lazy circles on his chest as you straddled him.

“Let me make it up to you properly,” you whispered, lips brushing his ear. “I want to take care of you tonight.”

His breath hitched. “Baby…”

You slid down his body with purpose, kissing every inch of his chest and abs before settling between his thick thighs. Seungcheol’s cock was already heavy and leaking when you freed it, veins pulsing under your fingers as you stroked him slowly.

“Fuck, look at you,” you purred, licking a long stripe from base to tip. “So hard and desperate already. All because you got a little jealous?”

Seungcheol groaned, fingers gently threading into your hair. “Yes—shit. I hate seeing you give anyone else that much attention. This cock is yours, baby. Only gets this hard for you.”

You took him into your mouth without warning, sinking down until he hit the back of your throat. You swallowed around him, eyes watering as you held him there, then pulled back with a wet gasp, strings of spit connecting your lips to his throbbing cock.

You started slow, swirling your tongue around the tip, tasting the salt of his skin as you sucked lightly. Seungcheol’s hips twitched, but he stayed still, letting you set the pace. You took him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, working your hand around the base where your mouth couldn’t reach.

“Goddamn,” he hissed, hips twitching. “That throat is sinful. Choke on it again—let me feel how deep you can take me.”

You moaned around his length and obeyed, bobbing your head faster, sucking harder. Filthy, wet sounds filled the room as you worked him—hollowing your cheeks, twisting your hand around the base, and massaging his balls. Every time you took him to the hilt, Seungcheol cursed loudly.

“You’re so fucking good at this,” Seungcheol groaned, head tipping back against the couch. “Taking my cock like you were made for it. Look at me, baby.”

You lifted your gaze, locking eyes with him while your lips stretched around his thick shaft. The sight made him curse, hips bucking shallowly into your mouth. You hummed encouragingly, stroking him faster with your hand while your tongue flicked over the head on every pass.

You bobbed your head faster, relaxing your throat to take more of his impressive length. Spit slicked his cock, dripping down to his balls as you worked him with steady, filthy rhythm—sucking hard on the upstroke, then swirling your tongue along the sensitive underside.

“That’s it, baby. Suck my cock like a good little slut. Fuck—your mouth is better than any pussy. I’m gonna cum down your throat if you keep doing that.”

You pulled off just long enough to gasp, “Then do it. Fill my mouth, Cheol. I want to taste every drop.”