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enhaflixer · 5 months ago

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psh - king of tears.

Chaebol Husband!Sunghoon | Queen of Tears AU FULL FIC

📌 summary: your marriage to park sunghoon was supposed to be a fairytale—until it wasn’t. now it’s cold stares across the dinner table, separate bedrooms in a mansion too big for the both of you, and divorce papers waiting to be signed. you were ready to walk away. he let you. so why does he look at you like he’s the one who lost everything?

word count: 20K genre: angst | slow burn | second chance romance | marriage in crisis | Queen of Tears AU | SMUT ANGST FLUFF (in that order) content warnings (explicit, minors dni!): a marriage falling apart but neither of you can let go, divorce papers as a weapon but neither of you sign them first, staring at an empty side of the bed and pretending it doesn’t hurt, pregnancy, watching him struggle alone but being too proud to help, , high society pressure, and pretending everything is fine when it’s not, angst-heavy sex (sex while crying, sex while angry, sex while pretending it doesn’t mean anything) "we’re supposed to be over, so why are you still fucking me like you love me?" breathless, mentions of a miscarriage, desperate sunghoon (bc when he breaks, he breaks) sunghoon is sick, weak, exhausted—but still strong enough to pin you down "i don’t love you anymore." // "then stop moaning my name.", luxury penthouse sex but it’s tragic, a hand around your throat but it’s not just about control—it’s about possession, he fucks you like he’s trying to remind you who you belong to, aftercare that isn’t really aftercare bc he still won’t say he loves you,

The room is filled with laughter, delicate clinks of fine china and crystal flutes, and the low hum of a jazz quartet playing something elegant and forgettable in the background. The city’s elite have gathered here tonight—not just business moguls, but socialites, investors, and politicians, all dressed in designer labels, all engaged in carefully curated conversations.

The air is thick with power and wealth, a reminder of the world you and Sunghoon exist in. A world where appearances matter more than emotions, where a marriage is not just about love, but about status, about alliances.

You’re used to this now—the expectations, the smiles, the weight of scrutiny disguised as admiration. You’ve mastered the art of being Park Sunghoon’s wife.

Sunghoon stands beside you, dressed in a sleek black suit, looking every bit the composed, untouchable CEO that people admire and envy in equal measure. His features are as sharp as ever, but there’s something distant in his gaze, something almost clinical in the way his hand rests lightly against the small of your back.

To an outsider, it’s a gesture of affection. A claim. A reminder that you belong to each other.

To you, it’s just for show.

"Smile."

His voice is low, quiet enough that no one else hears. It’s not a request. It’s a command.

Your lips curl into something effortless, something practiced. It’s not real, but it doesn’t need to be.

"Ah, our favorite couple has arrived," a familiar voice calls from across the room.

Turning toward the source, you’re met with the warm but calculating gaze of Chairman Park, Sunghoon’s father. His mother stands beside him, dressed immaculately as always, a refined smile on her lips.

"We were wondering when you two would make your grand entrance," she says smoothly, reaching out to take your hands in hers.

Her grip is light, delicate. Deceptive.

"You look beautiful, dear," she adds, her sharp eyes scanning you from head to toe.

You already know she’s assessing. Cataloging. Comparing you to the polished, obedient daughter-in-law she expected you to be.

Sunghoon’s father, however, has other interests.

"You’re glowing tonight," Chairman Park remarks, taking a sip of his whiskey. His eyes crinkle slightly at the edges. "It must be a sign that we’ll be hearing good news soon."

You barely have time to process his words before another voice chimes in—one of Sunghoon’s aunts, a woman who has made it her life’s mission to interrogate you at every family gathering.

"Yes, yes!" she gushes, already leaning in as if she’s about to hear a confession. "It’s been what? three years since the wedding? We were just saying the other day how we still haven’t heard any news!"

There it is. The question that always comes, in one form or another.

The polite, well-mannered, socially acceptable way of asking: Why haven’t you given him a child yet?

You see it before you hear it—the way Sunghoon’s fingers tighten around his champagne flute, the subtle twitch in his jaw. But he doesn’t say anything.

Of course, he doesn’t.

So you do what you always do. You smile. You deflect. You play your part.

"Work keeps us busy," you say smoothly, taking a slow sip of champagne. "There’s still so much we want to accomplish first."

The aunt clicks her tongue, shaking her head. "Ah, but what’s all this success without a family to share it with?"

You feel it then—the weight of your in-laws’ eyes on you, the expectation pressing against your ribs like an iron cage.

Sunghoon’s mother hums, a soft, carefully measured sound. "Children bring a different kind of happiness," she says, voice light but laced with meaning. "Of course, it’s ultimately your decision… but I do hope you aren’t waiting too long."

Another aunt leans in, faux sympathy dripping from her tone. "There aren’t any problems, are there?"

It’s a dagger cloaked in silk. The insinuation. The unspoken judgment.

You don’t have to look at Sunghoon to know he’s bristling beside you. You can feel the tension in his silence.

Still, he says nothing.

The moment stretches, uncomfortable and suffocating. And then—

A soft laugh. Controlled. Collected.

Sunghoon turns his head slightly, his expression unreadable as he finally speaks.

"We appreciate your concern," he says, voice smooth as glass. "But when we have something to share, you’ll be the first to know."

There’s nothing in his tone that suggests anger, but the way his mother’s lips press together ever so slightly tells you she’s caught the warning beneath his words.

The conversation shifts, flowing into another topic, but you no longer hear it. You’re still holding your champagne flute, fingers gripping the stem a little too tightly.

Sunghoon doesn’t look at you. Not even once.

The meal is extravagant, an elaborate showcase of wealth and refinement. Each course is served with meticulous precision, arriving in waves of delicate flavors and carefully plated masterpieces. Crystal glasses remain full, refilled before they ever have the chance to empty, while waitstaff glide through the room with the kind of quiet efficiency that only comes from years of training. Around you, conversation flows as smoothly as the wine, punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter from tables where people have had just enough to drink to let their guard down.

The atmosphere is lively, engaging. A room filled with the kind of people who measure success in numbers and influence rather than in anything tangible like love or happiness.

You and Sunghoon don’t speak.

It isn’t new.

It’s been months—maybe even longer—since you’ve had a real conversation. These events used to be something you faced together, an exhausting but necessary part of maintaining appearances in your world. There was a time when he would lean in close, whisper something wry against the shell of your ear just to make you laugh, his hand resting on your thigh beneath the table as a silent reminder that, no matter how long the evening stretched, you would leave together.

Now, his presence beside you feels like nothing more than habit. The weight of expectation.

To everyone else, you are still Park Sunghoon’s wife—flawless and poised, an extension of his success, the perfect image of a woman who belongs at his side. But to each other, you are barely anything at all.

You watch as he listens intently to the conversation at hand, nodding along as one of his board members drones on about upcoming market trends. His features remain unreadable, his fingers steady as he lifts his glass to his lips, sipping at his wine without a second thought. His ability to be present yet completely unreachable is something you once admired about him. Now, it’s something that drives you insane.

At some point during the meal, while the conversation has drifted toward a discussion on recent company acquisitions, a new voice cuts through the air.

"You remember Soojin, don’t you?"

It’s not a question so much as a strategic opening, delivered with the practiced ease of a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing.

You shift slightly, already knowing where this is going before you even turn your head. Sunghoon’s mother is smiling, her expression warm and pleasant in the way that only someone raised in high society can master. It is a look that has fooled many, but not you. You’ve spent too many years in her presence to mistake it for anything but a well-placed maneuver.

Her gaze flickers toward a table across the room, drawing your attention to the woman seated there. Soojin.

She is beautiful in the way that women in your world are expected to be—polished, refined, her makeup flawless, her hair styled to perfection. The kind of woman who commands attention without even trying.

The kind of woman Sunghoon’s mother would have preferred as her daughter-in-law.

"Her father’s company just finalized a deal with ours," she continues, lifting her glass to her lips. "It’s an impressive partnership."

You say nothing.

She doesn’t need you to.

"She’s always been such a sweet girl," she adds, her smile never faltering. "Smart. Beautiful. And her family is so well-connected."

The words are light, conversational, but the weight of them is suffocating.

She doesn’t say it outright, but the message is clear.

You are not the only option.

There are women who would make the perfect Mrs. Park—women who would be better suited for the role, who would know how to uphold the family name, who would understand the responsibilities that come with being married to someone like Sunghoon.

Women who would not have made the mistakes you did.

Your grip tightens around your fork.

You keep your expression neutral, refusing to react. You won’t give her the satisfaction. You won’t let her see that the words sting in a way they shouldn’t, that they burrow beneath your skin, scraping against wounds that never quite healed.

"I’m aware," Sunghoon says, finally setting his wine glass down with deliberate ease.

Two words. Nothing more.

His mother studies him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she smiles again, as if the moment never happened.

The conversation moves forward.

You exhale slowly, setting your glass down, your fingers still curled around the delicate stem. No reassurance. No defense. No effort to correct what was just implied.

I’m aware.

A bitter taste lingers on your tongue, but you swallow it down, lifting your chin slightly as you redirect your attention to the meal in front of you.

You already know how this night will end. The same way it always does. With silence.

The moment you step inside the penthouse, the carefully constructed facade of the evening begins to crumble. The sterile glow of the overhead lights does little to ease the weight pressing against your chest, the silence between you and Sunghoon thick with something sharp, something unsaid.

You hear the quiet rustle of fabric as he shrugs off his suit jacket, draping it over the arm of a chair before undoing the first few buttons of his dress shirt. His movements are methodical, controlled, as if he’s following a script that no longer holds any meaning.

You should keep walking. You should disappear into the bathroom, wash the night off your skin, lock yourself behind a door like you have so many nights before. But instead, you linger, fingers still curled around the strap of your bag, your gaze tracing the familiar lines of his back, the tension in his shoulders.

"You didn’t say anything."

The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. Your voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it, a challenge buried beneath the exhaustion.

Sunghoon doesn’t turn. "About what?"

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. "About what?" you repeat, laughter bubbling up, bitter and humorless. "About your mother. About your aunts. About all of them sitting there, questioning me like I’m some failed investment."

A pause.

Then, finally, he glances over his shoulder. "What did you want me to say?"

The way he says it—steady, detached, devoid of any real curiosity—makes your stomach twist.

"Anything," you say, because that’s the truth of it. You just wanted something.

His lips press together briefly before he turns back toward the dresser, rolling up his sleeves. "It wouldn’t have changed anything."

And there it is.

That unbearable indifference.

The quiet, unshaken finality of a man who has already made peace with his own silence.

It shouldn’t feel like a slap to the face, but it does.

"You never fight for anything," you whisper, voice barely audible over the hum of the city outside.

He doesn’t say a word, but you can feel it—the way his gaze trails over your bare skin, the way his fingers twitch at his sides, like he’s holding himself back.

It only takes a step. One step forward, and everything snaps.

His hands are on you before you can think—gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him, the heat of his body bleeding into yours. His mouth crashes against yours, rough, unyielding, a kiss that isn’t sweet or tender, but desperate, punishing. You gasp against him, your fingers tangling in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp as he presses you back against the dresser.

"You always do this," he mutters against your lips, his breath hot, his voice sharp. "Come to me when you need to forget."

You don’t answer.

You don’t need to.

His hands slide up your thighs, pushing them apart with ease. He’s impatient, reckless, fingers slipping beneath the lace of your panties, dragging them down before you can protest. A sharp inhale leaves your lips as he presses two fingers against your clit, circling slow, teasing, just enough to make your hips jerk forward.

"Already wet," he muses, dragging his fingers through your slick folds. His tone is mocking, but his voice is hoarse, strained. "That desperate for me?"

You bite down on your lower lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. But your body betrays you, hips rolling against his hand, chasing the friction that he’s refusing to give.

Sunghoon chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. Just something bitter, something dark.

Without warning, he presses two fingers inside you, stretching you open with a slow, deliberate pace. Your breath hitches, nails digging into his shoulders as he curls his fingers, stroking the spot that makes your knees tremble.

"You can pretend all you want," he murmurs against your throat, his lips trailing down, teeth scraping against your skin. "But your body knows who it belongs to."

His free hand moves to your chest, fingers tweaking your nipple, rolling it between his fingers before his mouth replaces them, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin. You arch into him, a whimper slipping past your lips, your thighs tightening around his wrist.

"Sunghoon," you gasp, a plea or a warning—you’re not sure.

He pulls away, his fingers slipping from you, leaving you empty and aching. Before you can protest, he turns you around, pressing your front against the cool surface of the dresser, his body crowding you from behind. His hands roam your body, over the swell of your ass, down to your thighs, spreading them apart as he presses the hard length of his cock against your heat.

You exhale sharply as he grips your hips, dragging the tip of his cock through your folds, coating himself in your slick before pressing forward. The stretch is sharp, deep, and you gasp, gripping the edge of the dresser as he sinks into you, inch by inch, filling you completely.

"Fuck," he groans, his fingers tightening against your hips, like he’s barely holding himself together.

He gives you a second—just one—before he pulls back and thrusts into you again, setting a brutal, relentless pace. Each movement is rough, deliberate, the sound of skin against skin mixing with the soft, breathy moans slipping past your lips.

The dresser rattles beneath you, your body rocking with each thrust, and you can do nothing but take it, the pleasure sharp and consuming. Sunghoon grips your hair, pulling your head back as he leans in, his breath hot against your ear.

"Let them keep talking," he mutters, voice ragged, punctuated by the snap of his hips.

Your breath catches, your walls clenching around him at his words.

Sunghoon lets out a low groan, his thrusts growing deeper, sharper, his fingers moving back to your clit, rubbing slow, torturous circles. The tension coils tighter, your body burning, unraveling beneath him.

"Cum," he murmurs, his voice softer now, breathless.

And you do—pleasure washing over you in waves, your thighs shaking, your moan muffled as he presses a hand against your mouth, keeping you from making too much noise.

He follows soon after, his grip tightening, his cock pulsing inside you as he groans low against your shoulder, spilling into you with a shudder.

For a moment, there is only silence.

Then, just as expected, he pulls away.

Rolls onto his back.

Says nothing.

You stare at the reflection of yourself in the dresser mirror—flushed skin, swollen lips, empty eyes. You should leave. You should.

But you don’t.

Instead, you slip beneath the covers, curling away from him, pressing your knuckles against your mouth to keep yourself from shaking.

Because tonight, at least, you don’t want to feel alone.

The morning is quiet.

You wake up to an empty bed, the sheets beside you already cold. The absence of warmth shouldn’t bother you—it hasn’t in months—but today, it does. The ache in your body from the night before lingers, a dull, throbbing reminder of something you wish you could forget.

For a moment, you stay still, staring up at the ceiling, tracing the patterns of light and shadow that spill through the curtains. The penthouse is bathed in soft gold from the rising sun, a warmth that contrasts the cold emptiness beside you.

There was a time when mornings like these meant something. When you’d wake up tangled in Sunghoon’s limbs, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns along your back, his lips pressing lazy kisses against your shoulder. When the weight of his body against yours felt grounding instead of suffocating.

Now, there’s nothing but space.

You take a slow breath, blinking against the dryness in your eyes before finally sitting up. The silence is deafening, the type that only exists in places too large for two people who no longer belong to each other.

When you step out of bed, your legs feel unsteady, soreness creeping up your spine. You ignore it. You move toward the bathroom, turning on the sink, splashing cold water on your face as if it’ll rinse away the heaviness in your chest. It doesn’t.

Your reflection stares back at you, eyes slightly swollen, lips faintly bruised from the way he kissed you last night. You press your fingers against them, swallowing down the memory of his touch, of the way his hands had held you so tightly as if he could keep you from slipping away.

But he didn’t.

He never could.

By the time you make your way downstairs, the smell of freshly brewed coffee lingers in the air. The sight of Sunghoon sitting at the dining table shouldn’t make your stomach tighten the way it does. He looks like he always does—effortlessly composed, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand while his other scrolls through his phone.

Like nothing happened.

Like last night was just another night.

The illusion of normalcy almost makes you hesitate. Almost.

Instead, you step forward, setting the folder down on the glass surface of the table with a deliberate thud. The sound cuts through the silence, drawing Sunghoon’s attention as his eyes flicker up to meet yours.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t react, just studies you for a moment before his gaze drifts downward to the document between you.

Divorce Agreement.

His fingers pause against the rim of his coffee cup.

"Where were you?," you say, your voice steady, carefully controlled.

"Work," he replies, taking a slow sip of his coffee.

You cross your arms, exhaling through your nose. "You knew this was coming." Your voice is measured, even, despite the tightness in your throat.

Sunghoon finally sets his mug down with a soft clink, his expression unreadable. "I did."

"Then sign them."

A long silence stretches between you. You hold your ground, standing tall, watching as he leans back slightly in his chair, his fingers idly tapping against the surface of the table. He doesn’t look at the papers, just at you.

"You really want this?"

The words are simple. Too simple.

You hate the way they make your stomach twist. Hate the way your throat tightens because this shouldn’t be hard. This shouldn’t be something that makes your hands curl into fists at your sides.

"Yes."

His lips press together briefly before he exhales through his nose. Without another word, he pulls the folder toward him, flipping it open, skimming the terms with the same impassive ease he applies to every contract he reviews at work.

For a second, your breath catches.

You almost expect him to argue, to fight, to say something—anything.

But he doesn’t.

Not when he turns the page. Not when his eyes flicker across the fine print. Not when he reaches for the pen beside him.

And then—

He stops.

His fingers hover over the paper, the tip of the pen barely touching the page. Then, instead of signing, he clicks the pen shut and sets it down.

The air in the room shifts. Your stomach twists.

"Not tonight." His voice is smooth, final.

You blink. "What?"

He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest, his expression completely unreadable. "I’ll think about it."

Something in your chest tightens, frustration curling in your throat. "Think about what?" You gesture to the papers between you. "This isn’t something that needs consideration, Sunghoon. This is happening. It’s already over."

His gaze darkens slightly, but his face remains composed. "Then why are you still here?"

Your breath catches.

Because you haven’t left yet. Because some part of you still needs this conversation. Because some part of you is waiting for him to say something that changes everything.

The silence stretches, heavy and unbearable. His fingers drum against the glass once, twice, before he reaches for his whiskey glass instead, taking a slow sip. His lips part slightly, as if he’s about to say something, but then he just shakes his head.

"You’ll have them back tomorrow."

But you already know—he won’t sign.

Not tomorrow. Not the next day. Maybe not ever.

Park Enterprises runs on three things: money, power, and the ability to avoid Park Sunghoon and his soon-to-be-ex-wife in the same room at all costs.

This isn’t an official company policy, but if you asked anyone—from the executives to the janitorial staff—they’d all agree: keeping their two highest-ranking officials away from each other is the best way to ensure the company doesn’t collapse in on itself.

This is why, over the past few months, a silent, unofficial, yet highly efficient system has developed.

It begins every morning.

6:45 AM: Sunghoon arrives, coffee in hand, barely glancing at the receptionist before disappearing into his office. If he sighs immediately upon entering? Bad day. If he slams his office door? Get the emergency evacuation plan ready. 7:15 AM: You arrive, headphones in, already on a call, looking like you’re mentally preparing for battle. If you greet anyone? Good day. If you walk straight to your office without making eye contact? Avoid, avoid, avoid. 7:30 AM: Your PA, Nishimura Riki, updates the "Safe Zones" list. Any floor occupied by both you and Sunghoon is immediately deemed a no-go area.

By 9 AM, the "Daily Avoidance Protocol" is in full effect.

Incoming text: 📲 [Riki → Legal Team] 🚨 Sunghoon spotted near the finance department. Legal team, take the back elevators. DO NOT, I REPEAT, DO NOT TAKE THE MAIN LOBBY.

Incoming text: 📲 [Sunoo → Executive Team] 🛑 Your boss is stomping through the 18th floor like a woman on a mission. She just told an intern to "never, ever look that stressed in front of her again" and I don’t think she was joking.

Incoming text: 📲 [Riki → Sunoo] i heard ur boss threw his pen at the wall this morning lol wtf did u do to him

[Sunoo]: nothing yet but im about to stir the pot for fun.

[Riki]: bet.

And then, of course, there’s lunch.

There used to be a time—back when things were different, when things were better—when you and Sunghoon would eat together. Now?

Now, entire lunch routes are planned out in advance to make sure the two of you never end up in the same restaurant, let alone the same hallway.

Incoming text: 📲 [Sunoo → Riki] Depressed male boss is heading toward the rooftop restaurant. tell ur people to evacuate the 10th floor cafe IMMEDIATELY.

Incoming text: 📲 [Riki → Legal Team] 🚨 ABORT. ABORT. DO NOT GO TO THE CAFÉ. I REPEAT, DO NOT GO TO THE CAFÉ.

By 3 PM, most employees think they’ve made it through the day safely. Until they check the meeting schedule. And realize. There’s a joint executive-legal meeting scheduled at 4:30 PM. Which means.

They have to be in the same room.

The boardroom at Park Enterprises is a high-stakes battlefield.

The executives and legal team are already seated, carefully keeping their faces neutral, their eyes trained on the reports in front of them. No one dares to speak. Everyone is pretending to be busy, flipping through documents they’ve already memorized just to avoid being caught in the crossfire of what is about to happen.

At one end of the table, Sunoo twirls his pen lazily between his fingers, a small, knowing smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. Across from him, Riki updates the betting pool on his phone, typing at lightning speed while shooting occasional glances toward the door.

It’s only a matter of time before the two storm fronts collide.

The first arrival is you.

You stride in with effortless confidence, shoulders squared, back straight, file in hand. Your heels click sharply against the polished floors, announcing your presence before you even reach your seat.

You don’t acknowledge Sunghoon’s presence.

Your team watches as you settle into your chair, flipping open your folder with a level of precision that makes it very, very clear you are not in the mood for incompetence today.

Riki immediately clocks the stiffness in your posture. He subtly pulls out his phone under the table, fingers flying over the screen.

📲 Incoming text: [Riki → Legal Team] boss lady is MAD mad. don’t make eye contact, stay low, survive.

Barely thirty seconds later, Sunghoon walks in.

He doesn’t look at you.

Instead, he exhales sharply as he takes his seat, flipping open his laptop with measured ease, his expression unreadable. The sound of his pen clicking open is the only thing that breaks the silence.

he just sighed. that’s a bad sign. let’s all start praying now.

For the first ten minutes, everything is fine.

Reports are reviewed, revenue projections are discussed, and for a fleeting moment, there’s the illusion of normalcy. You make your points with cool efficiency, and Sunghoon listens without interruption.

"The merger contract," one of the executives finally says, carefully glancing between the two of you like he’s about to light a match in a room full of gasoline.

You don’t hesitate. You already know where this is going.

"The terms still require legal review," you state, flipping to the necessary section in your file. "The current liability clauses remain too vague for approval."

Sunghoon doesn’t even look up from his laptop. "The legal team has had two weeks to finalize those clauses."

Your brows lift slightly. "And yet, they’re still a problem. Imagine that."

The temperature in the room drops.

Sunoo, who had been casually taking notes, suddenly stops writing. His eyes flicker between you and Sunghoon, realization dawning.

Riki, seated to your right, visibly winces. His grip on his pen tightens before it slips from his fingers and rolls off the table.

Sunghoon finally looks up, his dark eyes meeting yours with quiet intensity. "You’re delaying a time-sensitive deal over minor details."

Your lips curl, the faintest hint of amusement playing at the edges. "Minor details? You mean, like, the ones that could potentially cost us millions in damages?"

His jaw tightens. "There’s a deadline for a reason."

"And there’s a reason you need my approval before proceeding," you counter, tone perfectly composed. "Which, let me remind you, you don’t have yet."

The silence that follows is deafening.

Sunoo leans back in his chair, murmuring to Riki under his breath. "They’re fighting in full sentences today."

Riki nods slowly, still typing. "This is worse than last week’s passive-aggressive email exchange."

Sunghoon exhales sharply, sitting back in his chair. His fingers drum once—just once—against the table before he speaks again.

"Fine," he says smoothly, but his tone is sharp. "Take another day. No more than that."

You hum thoughtfully, feigning consideration as you flip another page in your file. "I’ll let you know if that’s feasible."

Sunoo, who is now openly grinning, tilts his phone toward Riki.

📲 Incoming text: [Riki → Legal Team] the CEO looks like he wants to kill someone but is trying to stay professional. ten bucks says he slams his laptop shut first.

📲 Incoming text: [Sunoo → Executive Team] LMFAO he just clenched his jaw so hard I think he cracked a tooth.

Your heels click against the polished floor as you walk further in the penthouse, but you don’t call out for him. You don’t need to. You already know where he is.

The scent of whiskey lingers in the air—subtle, but unmistakable. Your eyes land on Park Sunghoon, sitting on the couch in the dim light of the living room, his posture relaxed, one arm draped over the back of the cushions, his other hand resting near the glass of amber liquid on the coffee table. His tie is loose, the first few buttons of his dress shirt undone, his sleeves rolled up as if he’s been here for a while, waiting.

But that isn’t what catches your attention.

The divorce papers sit between you on the glass surface.

Untouched.

Your throat tightens as something bitter and exhausted coils low in your stomach. You set your bag down near the door with more force than necessary, the sound sharp against the silence. You’re tired—of the fights, of the push and pull, of this thing between you that refuses to die no matter how much you try to smother it.

"You haven’t signed them." Your voice is level, controlled, giving away nothing. But inside, your pulse is unsteady, your fingers curling into fists at your sides.

Sunghoon doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he reaches for his whiskey, taking a slow sip, his movements measured, deliberate. When he sets the glass back down, the faint clink against the glass table feels deafening in the quiet room. His gaze lifts to yours, dark and unreadable, his expression betraying nothing.

"No."

The single word lands between you like a gunshot.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, nails pressing into your palms as frustration flares up in your chest. "Sunghoon—"

"Say it."

His voice is quiet, but the weight of it cuts through the space between you with an edge sharper than steel.

You frown slightly, tilting your head in question. "Say what?"

His eyes remain steady on yours, holding you there, unrelenting. There’s no coldness in them, not like there usually is, but something deeper, heavier, more dangerous.

"Say you don’t love me anymore."

The air in the room thickens, growing heavy with something suffocating, unbearable.

It should be easy.

You should be able to say it, to lie through your teeth and tear the last fraying thread between you. You’ve spent months trying to unlove him, convincing yourself that walking away is the only choice left.

But the way he’s looking at you now—the way his fingers ghost over the edge of the divorce papers but never actually touch them—it makes something sink deep in your chest, twisting into something that feels like regret.

Your jaw tightens, shoulders drawing stiff, as you inhale slowly through your nose. "Don’t do this," you murmur, voice quieter now.

Sunghoon leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees, the corner of his mouth curling into something resembling a smirk, but there’s no amusement behind it. "Do what?"

Your pulse hammers against your ribs as anger rises in your throat, sharp and bitter. "Pretend to care when you never did."

Something snaps.

Fast. Brutal.

Before you can react, you’re on the couch, pinned beneath him, Sunghoon’s hand wrapped around your throat.

Your breath catches as your back presses into the cushions, your pulse stuttering beneath his fingers. The grip isn’t tight—not enough to hurt—but just enough to hold you there, to remind you exactly who he is.

His face is close, too close, his breath warm against your lips, his jaw clenched so tight you can see the tension in every muscle. His gaze flickers between your eyes, searching, burning, filled with something dark and raw.

"You think I never cared?" His voice is low, rough, dangerous in a way that sends heat curling through your stomach.

Your body tenses, then melts, as his other hand trails up your thigh, fingers barely skimming your skin, teasing, not touching where you need him to.

"You think I don’t want you?" His breath is uneven now, his fingers tightening just slightly around your throat before loosening again. His thumb brushes along the side of your neck, slow, deliberate. His body is pressed against yours, solid and warm, every inch of him so close, too close, not close enough.

Your fingers wrap around his wrist, nails pressing lightly into his skin, grounding yourself, grounding him. Your breath is shaky when you speak, barely above a whisper. "I think you don’t know how to want me without ruining me."

A muscle in his jaw ticks.

For a second—just a second—he looks wrecked.

Then, his grip tightens.

Your breath stutters, a soft gasp slipping past your lips as heat pools low in your stomach. His lips brush against your ear, his voice lower now, rough, a quiet warning.

"Tell me to stop."

You should.

Sunghoon waits, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, his fingers tightening around your waist, his grip flexing against your throat just enough to make your pulse quicken.

"You won’t, will you?" His tone is almost amused, but there’s something darker underneath, something that sounds almost like relief.

You shake your head.

And then his lips crash into yours.

The kiss is deep, hungry, filled with everything you’ve both been pretending doesn’t exist. His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your sides, pulling you closer like he wants to memorize the shape of you all over again.

Your fingers tangle into his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp, and he groans into your mouth, his body pressing you further into the couch, his knee parting your thighs. His hands slide under your dress, rough palms trailing against your skin, teasing, making you ache.

"Still wet for me," he mutters, voice dark, breathless. His fingers slip beneath your panties, dragging over your soaked folds, slow and deliberate, just to prove his point.

You whimper against his mouth, thighs trembling as he strokes you, not giving you what you need, just teasing, just pushing you closer to the edge.

"Sunghoon," you gasp, a plea, a warning.

He smirks against your skin, lips pressing against your throat, sucking at the sensitive skin before sinking two fingers into you, curling just right.

"You hate me, remember?" His voice is taunting, wicked.

Your back arches, hips rocking against his fingers, chasing more, chasing him.

Your breath comes out in shuddering gasps as you whisper the only thing you can manage. "I hate you."

Sunghoon lets out a breathless, bitter laugh.

"Liar."

"That’s not how we do things at Park Enterprises, Mrs. Park," Sunghoon muses.

He leans back in his office chair, fingers tapping against the polished surface of the table. The way he says it is deliberate, lazy, like he’s testing you.

The meeting room is as usual, closer to World War 3 (total destruction edition) than a collaborative good-vibes-only space.

You still, fingers curling slightly against the stack of legal briefs in front of you. The flicker of heat that rushes through you isn’t fondness—it’s pure irritation.

"Don’t call me that." Your tone is measured, sharp.

Sunghoon’s lips twitch, but there’s no humor in his smirk. "Habit."

Your gaze hardens, your nails pressing into the contract as you slam it down in front of him.

"Then break it."

The entire room freezes.

Sunoo, seated two chairs down, makes a sound that might be a laugh but immediately covers it with a cough. Across from him, Riki subtly slides his phone out to update the betting pool on how long this fight is going to last.

The tension only thickens when Sunghoon reaches for the contract, flipping through the pages like he isn’t remotely affected. His expression is smooth, almost bored, but you don’t miss the way his jaw tightens just slightly.

"You seem invested in this," he muses, signing his name on the margin like he’s humoring you. "Why? Worried about my financial well-being?"

You exhale slowly, forcing down the irritation curling in your chest. "No. I just don’t like being dragged into your reckless decisions when you know I’ll have to clean up your mess later."

Sunghoon’s eyes flick up to yours. There’s something there, something sharp, dark, something that makes your stomach twist.

"You always do," he murmurs. "Clean up after me."

You refuse to react, refuse to let him see that he’s getting under your skin. Instead, you push back your chair, standing with a level of poise that takes effort.

"I don’t work for you, Sunghoon," you remind him, voice cold. "I work for the company."

His lips press together, but he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t tell you you’re wrong.

Because you aren’t.

📲 Incoming text: [Sunoo → Riki] he just flexed his fingers like he wanted to throw the pen LMFAO ur boss literally just called him reckless in front of the entire room. this is peak entertainment.

📲 Incoming text: [Riki → Legal Team] ceo looks ready to commit murder. we might need security.

📲 Incoming text: [Sunoo → Executive Team] he just sighed through his nose. we are in DANGER.

The morning sun spills into Park Enterprises, painting streaks of gold across the marble floors of the top executive offices. Everything looks pristine, polished—exactly the way Sunghoon keeps it. But today, something is off.

You push open the heavy glass door to his office without knocking, a thick stack of contracts tucked under your arm. Your heels click against the floor with precise, deliberate steps, each one punctuating the tension lingering between you.

Without hesitation, you slam the folder onto his desk.

“You’re going to sign this,” you declare, arms crossing over your chest, voice clipped, firm.

Sunghoon doesn’t respond right away.

You expect the usual pushback—some sarcastic remark, a knowing smirk, the casual dismissal of your concerns—but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he stays where he is, leaning against the edge of his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened just enough to suggest exhaustion. His fingers press lightly against the smooth wood surface behind him, as if steadying himself.

He looks off.

Not tired—Sunghoon is always tired. But off.

You narrow your eyes. “What, no argument?”

He blinks at you, slowly, like it takes more effort than it should. His grip on the desk tightens briefly before he exhales, dragging a hand through his already tousled hair.

"Are you okay?" The question leaves your lips before you can stop it.

Sunghoon finally reacts, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips—small, forced. “Worried about me now?”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “I just don’t want you dying in my office.”

He chuckles, but the sound is weak, quieter than usual. He straightens up, shifts his weight slightly, but the way he moves is wrong—like he’s trying too hard to make it look effortless.

"If I did," he murmurs, "I’d haunt you."

Normally, that would be enough to pull an eye roll out of you. Maybe even a snarky remark. But something about the way he says it makes your stomach tighten.

You watch him carefully. The way his fingers flex against the desk. The slight tension in his shoulders. The way his smirk falters at the edges.

Sunghoon has always carried himself with control—measured, deliberate, never showing a single crack in the façade. But right now, standing in front of you, he looks off balance.

The last time he looked like this, the last time he held himself together just a little too well, something had been wrong then too.

Something you didn’t realize until it was too late.

The memory presses at the edges of your thoughts, but you push it down.

“Maybe you should sit down before you do something stupid,” you mutter.

Sunghoon raises an eyebrow, clearly amused, but he does exactly that. He sinks into his chair, rolling his shoulders, letting out a slow breath before picking up the contract.

“Relax,” he says, flipping through the pages. “I’ll sign your stupid paperwork. No need to get sentimental.”

Your jaw tightens, irritation curling at the edges of your concern. “I’m not being sentimental. I just don’t want to deal with the PR disaster when you inevitably collapse.”

Sunghoon lets out a quiet huff of laughter, but the way his fingers drift to his temple, pressing lightly, does not go unnoticed. He rubs at the tension there, eyes briefly fluttering shut before he shakes his head, pushing through whatever is bothering him.

“I’m fine.”

You don’t believe him. But you don’t push. Because the last time you did, you lost.

It had been late.

Past midnight. The city outside your bedroom window was still awake, alive with light and movement, but inside, the world had gone silent.

You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, exhaustion pressing into your chest like a weight you couldn’t lift. You weren’t crying. You had already done that. There was nothing left inside you except emptiness.

Sunghoon lay beside you.

Awake. Motionless. Silent.

His back was turned to you.

And the worst part, the part that haunted you even now, wasn’t that he hadn’t said anything.

It was that when you had reached for his hand, he had let you hold it.

But he hadn’t held yours back.

The memory lingers even as you push it away.

You watch Sunghoon as he picks up the contract, flipping through the pages with minimal interest. His fingers tighten slightly when he turns each page, like he’s holding back something.

Pain. Fatigue. Something worse.

"You look like shit," you say finally, leaning against his desk, arms crossed.

Sunghoon hums, barely glancing up. “Charming as always.”

"You should get checked out."

He snorts, shaking his head. “If I wanted medical advice, I wouldn’t take it from my ex-wife.”

"Not ex yet."

And for some reason, as you turn to leave, you can’t shake the feeling that you just missed something important.

The Park family never asks for favors.

Not officially, at least.

It’s always subtle, always wrapped in polite smiles and casual requests, laced with just enough manipulation to make refusal feel impossible.

Which is why you’re seated in the Park family’s private lounge, sipping tea that’s gone cold, listening to Sunghoon’s mother and his uncle discuss the delicate legal situation that has suddenly become your responsibility.

“It’s just a small thing,” his mother insists, waving a dismissive hand as though corporate fraud allegations against one of their subsidiary partners are a minor inconvenience rather than a full-blown lawsuit waiting to happen.

You keep your expression neutral, fingers laced neatly over your knee. “It’s not a small thing,” you correct evenly. “You’re looking at a serious case of financial misrepresentation, and if this isn’t handled properly, it could affect all of Park Enterprises. This isn’t something I can just sweep under the rug.”

His uncle chuckles like you’ve just told a particularly amusing joke. “Oh, we know that, dear. That’s why we’re bringing it to you.”

Dear.

You resist the urge to tense, keeping your posture composed.

Because this is what you’ve become to them.

Not a daughter-in-law. Not family.

A lawyer first, a liability second.

“You’ve always been so good at handling these sorts of things,” his mother adds, smiling that elegant, carefully practiced smile that never quite reaches her eyes. “And with your position at the company, it only makes sense for you to oversee it personally.”

Of course. Personally.

They won’t trust this kind of thing to an outsider. But they also won’t officially involve you, because that would mean compensation, responsibility, accountability.

Instead, they’ll let you handle it just enough to clean up their mess. They’ll let you do the work, bear the stress, and take the fall if things go wrong.

And Sunghoon?

Sunghoon won’t say a word.

You glance to your left, where he’s seated quietly, fingers tapping lightly against the rim of his coffee cup. He hasn’t spoken once since this conversation began.

Not to defend you. Not to refuse. Not to say anything at all.

Just… silent.

Your fingers tighten around the folder in your lap.

“I’ll review the case,” you say finally, voice clipped, controlled. “But I won’t guarantee anything.”

His mother beams, reaching forward to squeeze your hand like you’ve just agreed to Sunday brunch, not to clean up yet another one of their family’s legal disasters.

“I knew we could count on you,” she says sweetly.

Sunghoon still says nothing.

Not when his mother praises you.

Not when his uncle jokes about how lucky Sunghoon is to have married such a “resourceful” woman.

Not when the conversation finally ends, and they rise from their seats, leaving you with a stack of documents, a heavier workload, and a headache that has nothing to do with legal strategy.

It isn’t until you’re alone with him in the car, on the drive back home, that you finally let your frustration boil over.

“So that’s how this works now?” Your voice is flat, gaze fixed on the city lights outside the window. “Your family gets into trouble, and I’m the free labor you offer up to fix it?”

Sunghoon exhales, tilting his head back against the seat. “It’s not like that.”

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “No? Because from where I’m sitting, it sure as hell feels like it.”

His fingers flex against the steering wheel. “You’re the best lawyer they know,” he says after a beat, like that somehow makes it better. Like that somehow makes this okay.

You turn to look at him, eyes narrowing. “And that’s all I am, isn’t it?”

He went back after dropping you off.

His mother had barely glanced up from her tea. “She’s always been so difficult,” she sighed, setting the cup down with a delicate clink. “It would be easier if she simply cooperated without arguing every little point.”

Sunghoon’s jaw had clenched at that.

His uncle had smirked, shaking his head. “Women like her are sharp, but they forget that they’re meant to—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

The room had gone silent.

His uncle blinked, raising a brow. “Excuse me?”

Sunghoon had leaned forward slightly, voice measured but laced with something dangerous. “You don’t get to talk about her like that.”

His mother frowned slightly, but the warning in his expression kept her from speaking.

His uncle, however, wasn’t as quick to read the room. “She’s my niece-in-law, I can—”

“She’s not yours anything,” Sunghoon cut in, tone sharp. “And the next time you speak about her like that, you won’t like how I respond.”

His uncle had scoffed, muttering something under his breath about being too soft on a woman who clearly didn’t respect her place, but the discussion didn’t go any further.

Because Sunghoon had stood up, buttoning his suit jacket, gaze level.

“You wanted her help?” he had said coldly. “You’ll take what she’s willing to give. And if she decides she’s done dealing with your bullshit, you won’t push her. Understood?”

The first sign that something is wrong comes in the form of silence.

For the past few days, Sunghoon has been more irritable than usual. Not outright angry, not obviously upset, just… distant. He works longer hours, avoids unnecessary conversations, and brushes off every single instance you or his team ask if he’s okay. It’s nothing new—he’s always had a habit of overworking himself into exhaustion, pushing himself too hard, acting invincible even when he’s clearly not.

You’re used to it.

But today, something feels different.

Maybe it’s the way he barely acknowledged you in the morning meeting, his focus wavering during discussions where he’s usually sharp. Maybe it’s the way his grip tightened just slightly around his pen, like he needed to steady himself. Maybe it’s the way he looked at you—like he wanted to say something, but chose not to.

Or maybe it’s the way his entire office is empty when you pass by hours later, and his assistant, Sunoo, is nowhere to be found.

You stop in your tracks.

"Where is he?"

Riki looks up from his phone, startled by your sudden appearance at the executive floor. “Uh—meeting with finance, I think?”

You frown. “No, that ended an hour ago.”

Riki hesitates. He knows better than to lie to you. “He wasn’t looking too good earlier.”

Your stomach twists.

He’s been pushing himself too hard. You knew this would happen.

You spin on your heel, already moving before you can second-guess yourself.

When you find him, he’s exactly where you feared he’d be.

Collapsed on the floor of his office.

Sunghoon is slumped against the base of his desk, one hand still loosely gripping his chair, as if he had tried to stop himself from falling. His usually sharp, polished composure is completely gone—his dress shirt is slightly undone, his face pale, sweat beading along his brow. His breathing is shallow, his eyes half-lidded like he’s barely clinging to consciousness.

The sight of him like this—weak, vulnerable, not in control—makes something in your chest tighten painfully.

"Sunghoon," you breathe out, dropping to your knees beside him. Your hands hover over him for a second, uncertain, before you press against his shoulders, shaking him lightly. “Hey. Hey, look at me.”

His head tilts slightly, his gaze flickering to you, but it’s unfocused.

“…What are you doing here?” His voice is quiet, hoarse, like he’s barely holding onto himself.

Your heart pounds in your ears. “Shut up.” You tilt his chin up, searching his face, trying to assess just how bad this is. He’s too pale, too warm, and his breathing is far from steady.

"I’m fine," he murmurs, trying to push himself up, but his body betrays him. His limbs shake, his strength is gone, and before he can fall again, you catch him.

That’s when panic sinks in.

You barely register the way your arms tighten around him as you yell for help, your voice sharp, commanding. Within moments, Riki and Sunoo are rushing in, Sunoo already pulling out his phone to call an ambulance.

"Sunghoon, stay awake," you demand, your fingers brushing against his cheek. “Do you hear me? Stay awake.”

His lips curve slightly. Even now, he’s trying to smile.

“Bossy,” he mutters.

Your throat tightens. “Shut up and breathe.”

The hospital smells like antiseptic and exhaustion.

The waiting room is too bright, too cold, too suffocating. The dull hum of fluorescent lights buzzes overhead, mixing with the distant beeping of heart monitors and the low murmur of voices at the nurse’s station. You sit motionless, staring at the tiled floor, your arms crossed so tightly that your nails press crescents into your palms.

It’s been hours since they rushed Sunghoon in.

Riki and Sunoo are still here, but neither of them speaks. They hover nearby, their presence a quiet weight in the room, but they know better than to say anything. Everyone knows better than to say anything.

Finally, footsteps approach. A doctor stops in front of you, flipping through a clipboard. “Are you here for Park Sunghoon?”

Your breath catches. You rise immediately, ignoring the stiffness in your limbs. “Yes.”

“He’s stable for now,” the doctor says, voice calm and professional. “We ran some tests, but given his symptoms, this isn’t just exhaustion. He’s been dealing with this for a while, hasn’t he?”

Your stomach twists.

He’s been hiding this.

The doctor’s gaze softens slightly. “Are you his wife?”

The word cuts through you like a blade.

You swallow. Legally, yes. Emotionally? You don’t know anymore.

“Yes,” you say, the word tasting strange on your tongue.

The doctor nods. “Then I need to speak with you privately.”

The hospital room is suffocating.

It smells sterile, like antiseptic and something cold, something lifeless. The overhead lights cast a dim glow over everything—too bright, too harsh, too unforgiving. The heart monitor beside the bed beeps in slow, steady intervals, but Sunghoon’s breathing is anything but steady.

He looks wrecked.

His skin is too pale, washed out under the fluorescent glow. His lips are dry, colorless. There’s sweat clinging to his hairline, dampening the strands against his forehead. His fingers tremble where they rest against the blanket, curling slightly like even the fabric is too much to hold onto.

And yet, despite all of it, despite the exhaustion weighing down his body and the fever burning beneath his skin, he still looks at you with something sharp, something unyielding, when you demand the truth.

“How long have you known?”

Your voice is stretched too thin, raw from exhaustion and something deeper, something you don’t want to name.

Sunghoon exhales, closing his eyes for a second like it physically pains him to answer. When he finally does, his voice is quiet, hoarse from fatigue.

“Six months.”

The words sink into you like stones.

Your hands tighten around the metal bedrail, your grip so tight your knuckles go white. Your chest constricts, something ugly twisting inside of you, something that makes your stomach curl in on itself.

“Six fucking months?”

Sunghoon drags a trembling hand down his face, but even that looks like it takes too much effort. His body is failing him, but his voice is still there, still cutting, when he lets out a soft, bitter laugh.

“Would it have changed anything?”

Your breath catches, something sharp and painful ripping through your chest.

You let out a short, humorless laugh, something hollow and unfamiliar.

“Yes.”

Sunghoon finally looks at you, but there’s something haunted in his gaze. A long, unbearable silence stretches between you before his jaw tightens, his voice lowering, turning quiet, cutting like a blade against your skin.

“Did it change anything when I tried to hold you after we lost them?”

The air leaves your lungs.

You freeze, your entire body locking up, the grip you have on the bedrail so tight it screeches beneath your fingertips.

Sunghoon watches you carefully, but there’s no fight in his face, no anger, no bitterness.

Just exhaustion.

And pain.

Your voice barely makes it out. “You never tried.”

His breath catches.

“I did,” he murmurs, voice raw.

Your throat tightens.

“No, you didn’t.” You take a step forward, your pulse hammering, hands shaking. “You shut down. You let me—” Your breath hitches, your voice unsteady. “You let me go through it alone.”

Sunghoon doesn’t argue. He just looks away.

And that’s somehow worse.

“You acted like it never happened,” you whisper, the words barely holding themselves together. “Like they never happened.”

Sunghoon’s chest rises sharply, his fingers twitching, his breathing growing uneven again. His entire body stiffens, but he doesn’t push back.

And then, voice hoarse, shaking, wrecked,

“You think I didn’t care?”

Your hands curl into fists, but before you can say anything, before you can even process what’s happening—

Sunghoon moves too fast.

He tries to stand up, tries to close the space between you, but his body betrays him.

His IV yanks painfully, the needle shifting against his arm, and the wires attached to the monitor tangle around his wrist, pulling tighter when he moves. His breath stutters in pain, his fingers weakly gripping the sheets, but he doesn’t stop.

“Sunghoon,” you snap, eyes widening in alarm. “Sit the fuck down.”

But he doesn’t listen. He tries again to push himself up, stumbling slightly, and this time, his knees give out.

You barely catch him in time.

“Jesus Christ,” you hiss, gripping his arms as his entire weight collapses against you. His body burns under your touch, too warm, feverish, his breathing erratic. His head nearly falls against your shoulder, his body too weak to hold itself up.

His fingers clutch at the fabric of your blazer, something weak, something desperate.

And then—voice wrecked, hoarse, shaking—

“I named them.”

Your entire world tilts.

You go still.

Sunghoon doesn’t move, his forehead nearly pressed against your collarbone, his breath warm and shaky against your skin. His grip tightens, even as his body trembles.

“What?” Your voice barely makes it out, caught somewhere between disbelief and something worse.

“Every night while you were asleep next to me, I whispered their names silently. I prayed for them.”

Sunghoon exhales shakily. His legs shake beneath him, his chest heaving, his entire body drained. He’s burning up, sweat sticking to his temple, his breath shallow.

You grab him by the arms, shaking him slightly. “Say their names.”

Sunghoon winces, he shakes his head ‘no’ his face twisting like the words are physically painful to say. He exhales sharply, breath ragged.

“Say their names, Sunghoon.”

His fingers tighten around your sleeve, his whole body trembling under your touch. For a moment, he just stares at you, like saying it out loud will finally break him.

Then, barely above a whisper, like it’s being torn from him—

“Eunha and June.”

Your stomach drops.

Sunghoon exhales sharply, his entire body slumping like he just let go of something he’s been carrying for years.

“I used to imagine who they’d look like more,” he whispers, his voice so thin, so hollow. “If Eunha would have had your eyes. If June would have had my smile.”

Your throat tightens painfully.

“I wondered if they would have fought like us,” he exhales shakily, his fingers flexing around the fabric of your sleeve. “If they would have been close. If they would have had your fire. If I would have been able to protect them.”

His next breath is ragged, breaking.

“They were my girls.”

Your stomach twists.

His voice isn’t just sad. It’s grief-stricken. It’s empty.

“Mine,” he murmurs. His fingers twitch at his sides, the life draining from his voice as his chest rises and falls too quickly. “Mine and yours and no one else’s.”

A sob breaks past your lips, full and desperate and wrecked.

Before you even realize what you’re doing, you pull him in.

Sunghoon immediately folds into you, his arms wrapping around your waist weakly, his face burying itself into the crook of your neck.

He’s burning up, feverish, barely staying upright.

Your hands press into his back, feeling the too-thin frame of him, the exhaustion pulling at his body, the heat radiating off him in waves.

Neither of you speak.

For the first time in years, there is nothing left to say.

You wake up feeling… off.

Your neck aches, your back is stiff, and there’s a strange, rhythmic beeping that’s far too loud for this early in the morning.

It takes a second to register where you are.

The hospital.

Sunghoon.

The entire night before crashes into you all at once. The fight. His fever. The names. The fact that you never left.

Your stomach tightens. You should have left. You should have walked out the second he fell asleep. That was the plan.

And yet, somehow—you didn’t.

Before you can sit up, the door swings open.

“Well, this is unexpected.”

You jump, blinking blearily as Sunoo steps inside, two cups of coffee in hand, his eyes scanning the room with just a little too much interest.

He doesn’t immediately say something annoying, which means he’s definitely about to.

You shift in your chair, sitting up straighter, clearing your throat. “Morning.”

Sunoo doesn’t move, just looks at you. Then at Sunghoon, still asleep in the bed. Then back at you.

Finally—he lets out a small hum. “You stayed.”

It’s not judgmental. It’s not even teasing, really—just surprised. But for some reason, it makes you feel weirdly defensive.

“He had a fever,” you mutter, shifting under his gaze. “It was high. I didn’t think he should be alone.”

Sunoo nods. “Right.”

You hate how knowing he sounds.

Before you can scowl at him, Sunghoon groans, shifting slightly in the bed. His brow furrows, his body tensing for a brief moment before his eyes crack open.

And you know the exact moment he registers Sunoo’s presence—because instead of groaning in pain like a normal sick person, he exhales sharply, eyes barely open but already full of irritation.

“The fuck are you doing here?” His voice is rough, hoarse from sleep, but still so unmistakably Sunghoon that it’s almost impressive.

Sunoo lets out a small laugh, shaking his head as he grabs his own coffee. “Ah, there he is. Same old personality, even after nearly dying.”

Sunghoon barely cracks an eye open before exhaling sharply, pressing his head back against the pillow. “Go away.”

Sunoo, wisely, does not go away.

Instead, he takes a slow sip of his coffee. “I mean, technically, I work here. It’s my job to check on the CEO.” His gaze flickers toward you. “But wow. Look at this. The dedicated wife, staying by his side all night. It’s like something out of a drama.”

You groan, pressing your fingers to your temple. “Sunoo—”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he says, setting Sunghoon’s coffee on the bedside table. “I won’t tell the office too much. But, you know… people talk. Betting pools exist.”

Sunghoon slowly turns his head toward Sunoo.

And in the flattest, most deadpan voice imaginable, he says—

“You’re fired.”

Sunoo chokes on his coffee. “What?”

Sunghoon doesn’t even blink. “Pack your shit.”

“You wouldn’t survive a week without me,” Sunoo mutters, taking another sip.

Sunghoon closes his eyes, like he’s physically holding himself back from committing a crime.

You watch this exchange, unimpressed. “Are you two done?”

Sunoo gestures at Sunghoon. “Tell him. He’s the one being dramatic.”

Sunghoon’s eyes flick open again. “You barged in here at eight in the morning.”

“Nine,” Sunoo corrects. “And technically, I knocked.”

Neither of you remembers a knock.

Sunghoon takes a long, deep breath. “I still feel like shit. And the very first thing I see when I wake up is you. Running your mouth.”

Sunoo hums. “Okay, grumpy.”

Sunghoon glares.

Sunoo clears his throat, wisely changing the subject. “Anyway. You have the day off, obviously, but I have your morning reports whenever you’re—”

“I don’t care.”

Sunoo nods slowly. “Right. Well. I also have—”

“I still don’t care.”

Sunoo pauses. “…Okay, then.”

For the first time, he seems to sense that he’s overstayed his welcome. He takes a slow step toward the door, glancing between the two of you.

Then, mildly—“Try not to murder each other before lunch.”

And with that, he’s gone..

Sunghoon exhales sharply as he sinks into the passenger seat, eyes shut, head tilted back against the headrest. His body is still weak, and you know the car ride is taking more out of him than he’d ever admit. He doesn’t complain, though—he never does.

You keep your eyes on the road, both hands gripping the steering wheel, knuckles pressing just a little too hard against the leather. The silence stretches between you, filling the space inside the car, thick but not suffocating. Just there.

It’s not hostile. Not like before. But it’s not comfortable either.

For a while, neither of you say anything. The city blurs past in streaks of yellow streetlights and neon reflections, casting flickering shadows across Sunghoon’s face. His breathing is slow, controlled, like he’s trying not to let the exhaustion show.

But you see it.

You see the way his fingers twitch slightly against his thigh, how his jaw tenses every time you hit the smallest bump in the road. You see the way his chest rises and falls, slower than usual, deeper like he’s trying to regulate himself.

And then, finally—his voice breaks the silence.

“You don’t have to babysit me.”

It’s not sharp, not a challenge. Just… a test.

You inhale, eyes flickering toward him briefly before returning to the road. “I know.”

A pause. Then, quieter this time, a little more uncertain—“You don’t have to stay in the same house anymore.”

Your fingers tighten around the wheel, your stomach twisting in a way you don’t like.

“I know,” you say again, but this time, it sounds different. Less sure. Less like something you actually believe.

Sunghoon turns his head slightly, watching you from the corner of his eye. His expression remains unreadable, his voice careful.

“Then why are you still here?”

The traffic light ahead flicks to red. The car slows, the tires rolling to a smooth stop, but inside, everything still feels like it’s moving too fast.

You could answer honestly. You could tell him that you don’t know how to walk away from him yet, that you don’t know what the hell you’re still holding onto but you’re holding onto it anyway.

Instead, you let out a slow breath and shift slightly in your seat. “You wouldn’t last a week without me.”

Sunghoon huffs, gaze drifting back toward the windshield. “I’d last at least two.”

The corners of your lips twitch, but you press them together before the expression fully forms.

“Wanna bet?”

The breath he lets out is something close to a laugh—short, barely there, but real.

“Not really,” he mutters, exhaling through his nose.

Neither of you say anything after that.

But the silence that follows doesn’t feel as heavy as before.

The house is dimly lit, the soft glow from the hallway casting long shadows across the walls. The familiar scent of wood and clean linen lingers in the air, settling around you like something almost comforting, almost safe.

Sunghoon moves carefully, slower than he normally would, his fingers brushing against the wall for balance as he toes off his shoes. He doesn’t stumble, doesn’t sway, but you see the way his body holds tension—too stiff, too controlled, like he’s bracing himself.

You don’t say anything.

Not until he lowers himself onto the couch, exhaling as if just the act of standing had drained him.

“You should sit down,” you say after a moment, arms crossing over your chest.

Sunghoon huffs a quiet breath, shaking his head. “You just watched me sit down.”

You roll your eyes, stepping into the kitchen without another word. He’s impossible. He always has been. The worst part is, you let yourself care anyway.

You fill a glass with water and bring it back to the living room, setting it down in front of him before dropping into the armchair across from the couch.

Sunghoon glances at the glass, then up at you.

“You’re not gonna make me drink it, are you?” His voice is hoarse, rough from exhaustion.

“I will if you keep being difficult.”

Sunghoon exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face before finally—finally—grabbing the glass. He takes a slow sip, sets it back down, and leans back into the cushions.

The silence that follows is heavy, but not the kind that threatens to break.

For a few minutes, neither of you speak. The tension sits between you, waiting, stretching until you finally say—

“You need to take time off.”

Sunghoon’s brow furrows slightly, eyes still closed.

“I already did,” he mutters.

You scoff. “No, you were hospitalized. That’s not ‘time off,’ that’s your body shutting down because you refuse to take care of yourself.”

He doesn’t react at first, but you see the way his fingers flex slightly against his knee.

“I can manage,” he says, and this time, there’s an edge there.

You lean forward, resting your elbows on your knees, voice sharper now. “That’s exactly the problem, Sunghoon. You think you can manage. You think you can push through it, that it’s just something you can ignore and work around. But you can’t.”

His jaw tightens.

You exhale through your nose, hands pressing together. “The doctors literally told you what happens if you don’t take care of yourself. You might get better quickly, but if you push too hard, it’s going to get worse even faster. You don’t have the luxury of acting like this is a minor thing.”

Sunghoon shifts slightly, dragging a hand through his hair before resting his forearm against his knee. His voice is quieter when he finally speaks.

“…I know my limits.”

The words hit something raw inside you, something that has been aching for too long.

“No, you obviously don’t,” you snap, and this time, you don’t bother holding back. “You never do. You push and push until you hit a wall, and then you act surprised when your body gives out.”

Sunghoon’s fingers tighten against his knee. “I don’t need you to—”

“To what?” you interrupt, eyes burning. “To remind you? To be here because someone has to make sure you actually listen to the doctor’s advice?”

His breath catches slightly, and you hate how sickly he looks under the dim light. You hate how tired his shoulders are, how his fingers are trembling slightly against his knee, how his skin is still too pale, too warm from the fever that hasn’t fully faded yet. But most of all, you hate that he won’t just let himself rest.

You inhale, voice calmer now, but still firm. “They told you that you can’t just ‘push through’ this, Sunghoon. You’re not invincible. The whole reason you ended up in the hospital is because you ignored the symptoms for months.”

Sunghoon drags a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. “I don’t need you to remind me of what I already know.”

“Then act like you know it.”

Sunghoon leans back against the couch, his body tense, hands resting on his thighs. His gaze flickers toward the ceiling, expression unreadable.

You watch him, watch the way his shoulders rise and fall with each slow breath, the way his throat bobs slightly when he swallows.

“Are you staying in my room?”

The words are soft. Careful. Testing.

Your fingers tighten slightly against your knee. You should say no.

You should get up, go to your own room, create distance before this turns into something neither of you know how to handle.

“Just until you’re better.”

A lie. And Sunghoon knows it too. But neither of you say anything about it.

The room is still dark when you stir awake, the faintest trace of early morning filtering through the curtains. The air is cool, the kind of stillness that comes right before dawn, when everything feels softer—quieter.

You shift slightly under the blankets, your body slow to wake, your mind still caught in the haze of sleep.

And that’s when you feel it.

The warmth. The weight. The quiet, steady presence behind you.

Sunghoon.

Your breath catches, your body freezing for a moment as reality sets in. His arm—heavy, warm, familiar—draped loosely around your waist.

Not tight. Not pulling. Just there.

Your mind races, but your body remembers.

For a second—just a second—you don’t move.

Sunghoon’s breathing is even, deep and slow. His chest rises and falls against your back, steady, the faint warmth of his breath skimming the back of your neck.

Your stomach twists.

It’s been years since you’ve woken up like this—since you’ve felt his presence this close, this natural. And for a fleeting, dangerous moment, you let yourself sink into it, let yourself feel the way his fingers twitch slightly against the fabric of your shirt, like he’s still dreaming.

Then, suddenly—he shifts.

His body stirs, his breath hitching slightly, and you realize he’s waking up.

Panic flickers up your spine, but you keep still, barely breathing, waiting—waiting to see if he’ll pull away first.

But he doesn’t.

Sunghoon exhales softly, his fingers twitching again before his hand tightens ever so slightly around your waist.

Not intentional. Not forceful. Just… like he doesn’t want to let go yet.

Your throat tightens. It lasts a second. Maybe two.

His body tenses slightly. His fingers flex. His breath catches.

He’s awake now.

Neither of you move. Neither of you breathe too loudly.

And then, carefully—too carefully—he pulls away.

His arm lifts from your waist, the warmth of him retreating as he shifts slightly onto his back. You hear him exhale quietly, controlled.

You wait, counting the seconds, waiting for him to say something, for him to make a joke, for him to act like this didn’t just happen.

But he doesn’t. He just stays there, quiet.

And after a moment, you let out a breath of your own and shift to sit up, pulling the blanket back just enough to swing your legs over the edge of the bed.

Neither of you acknowledge it. Neither of you turn to look at each other.

It’s like it never happened. And that’s the problem.

Because it did.

And for the rest of the morning, you can still feel the lingering warmth where his arm had been.

You knew this was going to happen.

You knew the moment you caught a glimpse of his laptop open on the coffee table this morning, saw the unread emails stacking up, the subtle tension in his shoulders as he read through them like he wasn’t supposed to be working in the first place.

You ignored it. You let it go, for a while. But now?

Now, it’s ten at night, and Sunghoon is still sitting on the damn couch, his laptop open, fingers typing slowly, deliberately, like he’s trying to pretend he’s not as exhausted as he actually is.

You don’t let it go this time.

“You’re working.”

It’s not a question.

Sunghoon doesn’t look up. His gaze stays fixed on the screen, his fingers still tapping against the keyboard.

“It’s just an email.” His voice is calm. Too calm.

You cross your arms, leaning against the doorway, your eyes sharp.

“Didn’t we already have this argument?”

Sunghoon sighs through his nose, his jaw tightening slightly. “And yet, here we are.”

You hate how steady he sounds, how he knows exactly how to say things just to piss you off.

Your arms tighten across your chest. “We’re not doing this again.”

“Then don’t start it,” he mutters, still not looking at you.

Your patience snaps.

You step forward, standing right in front of him, blocking his view of the laptop. “Sunghoon.”

His fingers pause over the keys. His gaze lifts to yours. And the air changes.

It happens too fast, that shift in the atmosphere. The frustration, the exhaustion, the sheer stubbornness—blending into something else.

Something tense.

His eyes flicker over your face, your mouth, your throat. His voice is lower when he speaks this time. Slower. More deliberate.

“You keep saying you’re not going to argue with me.”

His fingers curl slightly against the armrest.

“And yet, you’re still here.”

Your stomach twists—not in anger, not in frustration, but in something darker, something hotter, something that you don’t want to name.

Your eyes narrow slightly, your voice sharp when you say—“Because you don’t fucking listen.”

Sunghoon tilts his head, his expression unreadable. His gaze dips, lingering on your lips for half a second too long.

Your breath comes in shorter now.

And then—slowly, carefully—he shuts his laptop. The sound of it clicking shut feels too loud in the quiet.

He leans back against the couch, arms resting on the cushions, his legs spreading just slightly, just enough to make the space between you feel smaller.

“Go on, then.”

Your pulse hammers.

Sunghoon watches you, his gaze steady, his body too relaxed, too effortless—like he’s waiting for something.

Like he wants to see what you’ll do next.

You inhale sharply, trying not to notice the way his sweatpants ride low on his hips, the way his shirt is loose enough to show a sliver of his collarbone, the way he looks completely unaffected when you’re burning.

You hate him.

You hate how good he is at this.

You take a step forward, planting your hands on the armrest, leaning in, forcing his attention back to your face.

“If you’re not going to take care of yourself,” you murmur, “then I will.”

Sunghoon exhales slowly, his jaw flexing slightly.

The tension between you pulls tighter.

He doesn’t move away. He doesn’t blink. He just sits there, waiting.

You don’t know if it’s waiting for the fight, or waiting for something else. You don’t know which one you want more.

For a second—just a second—your eyes flicker to his mouth. And you swear—you swear—his do the same.

Before either of you can do something you can’t take back—

Your phone buzzes from across the room. The moment shatters.

You inhale sharply, stepping back, hands dropping from the armrest. Sunghoon’s eyes flicker, his breath just slightly uneven now, but he doesn’t say anything.

You turn away first. You pretend your hands aren’t shaking.

You don’t look at him when you grab your phone off the counter, checking the notification even though you didn’t read a single word of it.

The moment is over. But neither of you breathe the same after that.

You hadn't planned for this.

You hadn't planned on seeing Sunghoon in the hallway, hadn't planned on him looking at you like that—like he was about to ruin you, like he needed to.

But the moment he stepped into your space, the moment his breath ghosted over your skin, you felt the air shift. It was thick, weighted with something that neither of you had the energy to resist anymore.

"Tell me you don’t want this." His voice is low, quiet but firm, laced with something deeper than just lust—something closer to desperation.

Instead of answering, your fingers twist into the front of his shirt and you pull him in.

Sunghoon exhales sharply, his restraint snapping the second your mouth meets his. He moves fast—too fast, like he's been starving for this, like he's afraid it'll slip through his fingers if he hesitates. His hands are on your waist, then your back, gripping at you like he's trying to memorize every inch.

The kiss is messy, uncoordinated, filled with teeth and tongues and frustration. Months of pent-up tension, of silent longing, of unsaid words spill into every movement. He presses you into the wall, hips flush against yours, and you feel it—how hard he is, how much he's holding back, how badly he wants this.

"You drive me fucking crazy," he mutters against your lips, his breath ragged.

"Then do something about it."

He groans, low and wrecked, before lifting you effortlessly, hands gripping under your thighs as he carries you through the house. He doesn’t stop kissing you—not when he stumbles slightly into a wall, not when he nearly knocks over a lamp.

You barely make it to the couch before he’s pushing you down, hovering over you, eyes dark with something too raw to name.

His hands move fast—too fast—pulling at your clothes, impatient, frantic. His fingers tremble slightly as he drags your shirt over your head, his lips instantly finding the newly exposed skin, teeth grazing, biting, soothing with his tongue.

"Fuck—" he exhales, hands gripping at your hips, his forehead pressing against your shoulder for a second. Like he's catching his breath. Like this is overwhelming him.

You tilt his chin up, forcing him to look at you.

"Sunghoon."

His eyes flicker to yours, something wrecked flashing across his face before he swallows hard, his fingers tightening on your skin.

"Say it again."

His lips ghost over your collarbone, his breath unsteady. You shudder.

"Sunghoon."

That’s all it takes. Then—his mouth is on you, his hands everywhere, his body pressing against yours like he’s trying to crawl inside your skin.

He whispers your name over and over, between gasps and curses, between kisses that feel too much like confessions.

And when he finally pushes inside you, his forehead drops to yours, his breath heavy, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I missed you. You were my life, you were my life."

It’s not just sex. It never was. It’s him finally admitting what neither of you have said out loud. And you don't stop him.

Because you missed him too.

The air is warm, thick with the scent of sweat and skin and something distinctly Sunghoon. His body is still pressed against yours, not with the desperation of before but with something softer, something that lingers.

Your fingers trace absentminded patterns over his back, your body still humming from him, from this, from everything.

His hand is still resting against your hip, fingers brushing against your skin, like he’s memorizing the feeling, like he’s making sure it doesn’t disappear.

You let your eyes flutter shut for a moment, exhaling slowly. You could stay like this. You could let yourself be comfortable in this silence, in the warmth of his body, in the knowledge that—for once—you both stopped fighting.

But then, he shifts slightly, pressing his forehead against your shoulder before mumbling, “We should slow down.”

Your brows pull together slightly.

Did you hear that right? You open your eyes, tilting your head to glance down at him.

"What?"

Sunghoon exhales, leaning up on one elbow, his free hand still resting on your waist, thumb rubbing lazy circles against your skin.

"I mean, we don’t have to rush this," he says, voice quieter now, more careful. His eyes flicker over your face, something unreadable in them. "I don’t want to fuck this up again."

Your breath catches slightly.

He doesn’t want this to be just about sex. He doesn’t want to let himself have you only to lose you again. He wants to be careful with you.

But you nod anyway, pretending that the way your chest tightens isn’t real. "Okay."

Sunghoon raises an eyebrow. "Okay?"

"Mhm."

Then, slowly, you shift, straddling his waist, your fingers resting lightly on his chest.

Sunghoon stills immediately.

"What are you doing?" he asks, voice cautious, his hands instinctively coming to rest on your thighs.

Sunghoon’s head falls back against the couch, his jaw clenching. He wants to argue, you can tell, but the second you grind down again, all he manages is a sharp inhale, his fingers digging into your skin.

You smirk, tilting your head.

"I thought you wanted to take things slow."

His breath shudders. His grip on you tightens. Then he laughs—low, rough, almost amazed.

"You’re a fucking menace."

You barely have time to grin before he’s flipping you over, pressing you down into the cushions, his body caging you in.

"Slow?" he repeats, voice dropping, his lips hovering over your throat.

You try to keep up the act, but your breathing is already uneven, your body reacting to him before you can think.

"Isn’t that what you wanted?" you whisper, deliberately tilting your chin up in challenge.

Sunghoon exhales sharply, his lips barely ghosting over yours.

"I changed my mind."

You barely have time to react before his hands slide down your thighs, gripping, tugging, parting you for him again.

Your breath catches.

"Sunghoon–"

"No." He shakes his head, his mouth pressing against your jaw as he smirks. "No more talking."

His fingers move lower, teasing, pressing just enough to make you gasp. And that’s when you remember—he’s still recovering. Your hand shoots out, pressing against his chest.

"Wait."

Sunghoon stills, his brow furrowing slightly, his breathing uneven.

"You’re sick," you murmur, your lips brushing against his jaw. "Let me work for it instead."

His entire body tenses.

Your hands trail down his stomach, your fingers ghosting over the waistband of his sweatpants.

"You—" he tries, but his voice is hoarse now, breathless, wrecked.

You hum, tilting your head. "What?"

His jaw flexes.

Then, without another word, he lets himself fall back against the couch. His breath comes out shaky, his head tilting back, eyes fluttering shut.

"Then work for it."

It’s been a month since then and Sunghoon has finally fully returned to work.

He’s doing much better now. His energy is back, his balance has improved, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he actually looks like himself again.

You’re not sure what you expected when he came back. Maybe for things to go back to the way they were before, full of sharp remarks and tension that could snap a room in half. Or maybe for things to be awkward, unspoken things lingering between you in ways that made your employees suffer secondhand stress.

But instead? No one knows what the hell is happening anymore.

Because while you and Sunghoon aren’t exactly different, something has… shifted.

The first sign of something weird happening was the lack of fighting.

A month ago, meetings with both of you in the same room meant employees visibly sweating, taking deep breaths beforehand, and updating their wills in secret.

Now?

Now, Sunghoon pulls out a chair for you before sitting down. Now, you ask his opinion instead of shutting it down immediately. Now, he actually listens when you talk.

People are concerned.

📲 [Executive Team Group Chat] 👥 Sunoo, Riki, Jungwon, Misc. Employees

🐧 Sunoo: guys. wtf is going on.🐥 Jungwon: ??? 🐧 Sunoo: i just saw boss lady n ceo actually agree on something in a meeting. no insults. no glaring. NO ONE DIED.🐱 Riki: LIAR.🐧 Sunoo: i have receipts.

(Sunoo sends a screenshot of the meeting notes. The section labeled 'Conflict Resolution' is EMPTY. Unedited. No bloodshed.)

🐥 Jungwon: I mean. That’s… good? Right? 🐱 Riki: NO IT’S NOT GOOD. THIS IS LIKE WATCHING PARENTS WHO USED TO HATE EACH OTHER BE WEIRDLY FLIRTY. I’M TRAUMATIZED. 🐧 Sunoo: EXACTLY.

📲 [Legal Team Group Chat] 👥 You, Your Team

⚖️ Paralegal #1: So uh. Boss.⚖️ Paralegal #2: What the hell is going on with you and CEO Park?⚖️ Paralegal #3: Did we miss a memo? Is this a prank? Are you sedated?

You roll your eyes, already regretting checking your messages.

📲 [You → Legal Team]: What are you talking about?

⚖️ Paralegal #2: You didn’t threaten to resign after he questioned your contract amendments today. You just. Smiled??⚖️ Paralegal #3: YOU AGREED WITH HIM ON SOMETHING. WE ALL SAW IT.⚖️ Paralegal #1: YOU LAUGHED AT SOMETHING HE SAID.⚖️ Paralegal #2: YOU LAUGHED, BOSS. AT HIS JOKE.⚖️ Paralegal #3: Do we need to call HR? Blink if you’re in danger.

📲 [You → Legal Team]: Go do your jobs.

It happens after a late meeting. You and Sunghoon are the last ones leaving, walking toward the elevators. Everyone else is pretending to be busy, but they’re totally watching.

The elevator doors slide open. You step inside first, then turn slightly—instinctively holding out your hand. Sunghoon takes it.

Casually. Like it’s normal. Like you always do this. And then—he laces your fingers together.

The doors slide shut.

Riki visibly short-circuits.

📲 [Executive Team Group Chat]

🐱 Riki: GUYS I JUST SAW THEM HOLD HANDS. IN THE ELEVATOR. IN PUBLIC. I NEED TO LIE DOWN. 🐧 Sunoo: Riki. Riki are you there. 🐥 Jungwon: Someone sedate him before he starts screaming. 🐧 Sunoo: THAT’S IT I’M STARTING A BETTING POOL. HOW LONG BEFORE THEY GET MARRIED (AGAIN). 🐱 Riki: I CAN’T BREATHE.

The company gala had been suffocating. Hours of pretending, of schmoozing, of wearing polite smiles while the weight of Sunghoon’s gaze burned against your skin the entire night. He hadn’t touched you once. Not in front of the board members, not during the champagne toast, not even when his fingers brushed against yours as he handed you a drink.

But he was watching.

And now, in the backseat of his car, that restraint is gone.

The moment the driver pulls away from the curb, Sunghoon’s hand is on your thigh, gripping—hard. His palm is warm against the skin exposed by the slit of your dress, fingers flexing like he’s holding himself back, like he’s trying to decide how far he’ll let himself go.

He doesn’t speak.

You don’t either.

Because you both know where this is going.

The city blurs past the windows, streetlights flickering across his sharp jawline, his loosened tie, the slight rise and fall of his chest as he exhales.

And then—his hand slides higher.

Your breath catches.

"You knew exactly what you were doing tonight." His voice is low, almost amused, but there’s a sharp edge to it, something dark and controlled.

You shift slightly, not moving away, letting his fingers graze the crease of your inner thigh. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Sunghoon exhales a short laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

His hand tightens.

"You wanted me like this, didn’t you?" His fingers ghost over your clothed core, pressing just enough to make your legs twitch. "Parading around all night in this dress, pretending you weren’t soaking through your panties while you smiled at those executives."

Your stomach flips.

You don’t respond.

Sunghoon doesn’t need you to.

Because the moment you shift your legs slightly wider—silent permission—he knows.

And that’s when he loses it.

The car jerks to a sudden stop.

The driver turns slightly. “We’re at the—”

"We won’t be long," Sunghoon interrupts smoothly, his fingers already curling around your wrist.

Then, he yanks you into his lap.

You gasp at the sudden movement, hands bracing against his chest, but he doesn’t give you a second to adjust. His mouth is on yours before you can speak, rough and claiming, all tongue and teeth.

"You’re mine," he breathes against your lips, his hands gripping your ass as he pulls you flush against him. You can feel how hard he is beneath you, his cock straining against his pants, pressing against your clothed core.

"Say it."

You bite your lip, pretending to consider, just to piss him off. "Make me."

Sunghoon growls, his fingers twisting into your hair as he yanks your head back, exposing your throat. His mouth is on you immediately, biting, sucking, marking.

"My wife thinks she’s a fucking tease." His lips drag against your pulse, his voice dark, edged with something dangerous. "That’s cute."

His hands slide up your thighs, bunching your dress up to your hips. When his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, he doesn’t bother taking them off. He just pulls, fabric tearing effortlessly in his grip.

"Sunghoon—"

"Shut up."

His hand moves between your legs, fingers dragging through your slick folds. He groans, his forehead pressing against your shoulder for half a second, like he’s barely holding himself together.

"You’re fucking soaked." His fingers circle your clit, slow, teasing, deliberate. "You really get off on being treated like a brat, don’t you?"

Your breath stutters. You hate how much his words affect you.

But Sunghoon notices.

He always does.

His free hand slides up your back, gripping the back of your neck before wrapping around your throat. He squeezes—not enough to cut off your air, but enough to make your pulse stutter beneath his fingers.

"Answer me."

You swallow, the pressure of his grip making your head spin.

"I—" Your voice catches when he presses down on your clit at the same time, two fingers slipping inside you. Your body jolts at the stretch, at the pressure, at the way he fills you without hesitation.

"That’s what I thought," he murmurs, his mouth brushing against your ear. "Always such a fucking mess for me."

His fingers work you open too fast, too rough, curling against the spot that makes you see stars. Your hips roll against his hand, chasing it, and Sunghoon laughs—low and wrecked.

"That desperate already?"

You don’t get a chance to respond before he’s flipping you onto your back, pressing you down against the leather seat.

Your head spins.

His hands are everywhere—gripping your thighs, spreading you open, dragging his cock through your slick folds before he presses against your entrance.

"You want it?" His voice is strained, his jaw tight.

"Yes—"

But he doesn’t give you time to beg.

Because in the next second—he’s inside you, all at once, filling you to the hilt.

Your back arches off the seat, a choked sound escaping your throat.

Sunghoon groans, his head dropping forward, his grip bruising where he holds your hips down. "Fuck—look at you. Taking my cock so fucking well."

You barely have time to breathe before he starts moving.

No easing into it. No gentleness.

Just rough, deep thrusts that knock the air from your lungs.

"You feel that?" His hand wraps around your throat again, squeezing just enough to make your vision blur at the edges. "This is what you wanted, wasn’t it? My wife acting like a whore all night just so I could fuck her stupid in the back of a car”

You moan, the humiliation making your skin burn in the best way.

"That’s right," he grits out, snapping his hips harder, his other hand gripping your thigh, pushing it higher. "Let me hear you."

The car rocks with the force of it, every thrust sending pleasure shooting through your spine. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your body shaking, your release already close, already—

"Come on, baby," he murmurs, his breath ragged, his forehead pressing against yours. "Come on my cock. Be a good fucking girl for me."

And you do.

You shatter beneath him, your body tensing, your thighs trembling as your orgasm crashes through you.

Sunghoon follows right after, his rhythm stuttering before he buries himself deep, his groan breaking into something almost desperate. His fingers flex against your throat before finally, finally, he lets go.

The car is silent except for your uneven breaths.

Sunghoon leans forward, pressing his lips to your forehead, softer now, his breathing still shaky. His fingers trail down your side, slow, absentminded, like he’s grounding himself.

The only sound in the car is the rhythmic rise and fall of your breathing, the occasional rustling of fabric as Sunghoon shifts slightly against you. The intensity of what just happened lingers between you, crackling in the air like an aftershock, leaving both of you too warm, too tangled, too unwilling to move just yet.

He’s still inside you, still pressed close, his body a solid weight over yours, grounding, steadying. Neither of you speak, and for a while, you simply let the quiet settle, let your fingers drift absently over his back, tracing slow, lazy shapes.His forehead is against yours, his breath deep and uneven, warm against your lips.

Eventually, he exhales, the sound low, almost satisfied, before tilting his head to press a slow, lingering kiss to your temple. His hand shifts from where it had been gripping your thigh, his touch gentler now, a stark contrast to how he had held you earlier—fierce, possessive, unwilling to let you go. Now, his fingers just rest against your skin, smoothing over the curve of your waist, the warmth of his palm familiar.

"You okay?" His voice is rough from exertion, still heavy with something raw and unspoken.

You hum, nodding slightly, your cheek brushing against his. You can’t quite find the words yet—your body still feels like it’s floating, caught between exhaustion and bliss.

Sunghoon shifts just slightly, pulling back just enough to look at you. His gaze sweeps over your face, studying you carefully, before his lips curve into a small, amused smile.

"I’ll take that as a yes." His fingers trace slow circles against your hip, his touch absentminded but deliberate, like he doesn’t quite want to stop touching you yet.

You blink up at him, still dazed, your limbs pleasantly heavy, your skin oversensitive in the best way. His words barely register before he shifts, withdrawing from you slowly. A quiet whimper catches in your throat at the loss, your body instinctively tightening around nothing.

Sunghoon notices.

His gaze darkens again, his jaw flexing slightly before he exhales through his nose, visibly restraining himself. He tilts his head, one brow raising ever so slightly, smug in a way that makes your stomach twist.

"Look at you," he murmurs, voice low, watching as his release slowly drips out of you, glistening on your inner thighs.His fingers trace your swollen entrance, dragging along the slick mess he’s made, spreading it just to watch you squirm.

"So messy," he muses, voice teasing but full of something heavier, more possessive.

Heat spreads across your cheeks, embarrassment creeping in at how wrecked you must look, your thighs still trembling, your breath uneven. You turn your head slightly, muttering under your breath, "Shut up."

Sunghoon chuckles, clearly too pleased with himself. His fingers move to tilt your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze again.

"Don’t do that," he murmurs, his voice quieter now, lower, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip.

You frown slightly, not quite understanding. "Do what?"

His thumb presses just slightly harder, a silent reprimand, a reminder that he’s still in control.

"Act shy now," he says, watching you too closely, too knowingly. His smirk is slow, deliberate, confident in a way that makes your stomach flip. "You just let me fuck you stupid in the back of my car."

Your cheeks burn hotter, mortification creeping in. You scoff, shoving at his chest halfheartedly, but he doesn’t budge."I hate you."

His laughter is soft, low, a rumble against your skin as he presses another kiss—this time to your jaw, then lower, trailing lazily toward your throat.

"No, you love me."

You take a deep breath “I do.”

He looks surprised, shocked almost, “You– you do?”

You nod. “I do, ” you look at him expectantly, “You love me?”

He laughs deep and loud, a real laugh, grabs your face in his hands forcing you closer, “Baby, when did I ever stop?”

Before you can dwell on it, there’s a knock on the window.

You freeze.

Sunghoon sighs, clearly unfazed, barely even reacting before he reaches over to roll down the window slightly.

Outside, the driver stands with an expression so perfectly neutral it’s almost comedic, like this is just another Tuesday night for him.

"Mr. Park," he says, his tone entirely professional, unaffected. "Should I… call another car for you two?"

You bury your face in Sunghoon’s shoulder, mortified.

Sunghoon, as expected, looks completely unbothered.

"No need," he replies smoothly, his fingers absently stroking your thigh as if nothing had just happened. "We’ll be heading home in a bit."

The driver nods curtly, not even blinking. "I’ll be outside."

And then, just like that, he walks away.

You groan, still refusing to lift your head. "I can never face him again."

Sunghoon laughs softly, his hand sliding up to rub slow, soothing circles against your back.

"You’ll live, you love me." he murmurs, his voice warm, teasing, but laced with something softer. His fingers thread into your hair, tilting your head up just slightly. His lips brush against yours, slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring the moment.

"Let me clean you up."

You blink up at him, your chest tightening for reasons entirely unrelated to sex.

"You don’t have to—"

His hand tightens in your hair, not to hurt, just to keep you still. He shakes his head slightly, cutting you off before you can finish the thought.

"I want to," he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours again, softer this time. "I take care of what’s mine. Of what I love."

Something invisible but heavy lodges itself in your throat.

Because he means it. Because this isn’t just sex, or routine, or an easy way to pass the time. This is him showing you, in the quietest way possible, that he loves you.

And when he kisses you again, when he reaches for a tissue to carefully clean the mess between your thighs, when he murmurs something under his breath about how ‘his wife shouldn’t be walking around with his cum dripping down her legs’

You don’t ever want to lose this again.

EPILOGUE

It starts the same way it did last time.

The nausea creeps in slowly—subtle at first, nothing out of the ordinary. You assume it’s from overworking yourself, the stress of handling legal negotiations, or maybe even just the exhaustion of being married to a man who refuses to listen when you tell him to take breaks.

Sunghoon notices before you do.

At first, it’s little things—the way you lean against the counter a little longer in the mornings, the way your appetite fluctuates, the way you pause mid-sentence with a sudden grimace, like something doesn’t sit right in your stomach. He watches you closer than usual, his sharp eyes following you whenever you touch your lower abdomen absentmindedly, whenever you shake your head at food that you normally love.

And then, one morning, you feel it.

The moment you stand up from bed, a wave of nausea crashes into you so violently that you barely make it to the bathroom in time.

You hear him before you see him—footsteps, the rustling of sheets, the quiet, urgent sound of his voice calling your name as he reaches for you.

"Hey—what’s wrong?" Sunghoon is kneeling beside you in seconds, his hand warm and steady against your back, rubbing slow, grounding circles as you try to catch your breath. His fingers stroke through your hair gently, not rushing you, not asking anything else yet.

You grip the edge of the sink, exhaling shakily, your heartbeat too loud, your pulse erratic.

Because this feels familiar. Too familiar. And that’s when you know. Sunghoon stills when you don’t answer right away.

"Baby." His voice is softer now, careful. "Look at me."

Something unreadable flickers across his face—shock, realization, something dangerously close to hope.

He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to. Because he knows, too.

And that’s how you find yourself sitting on the bathroom floor minutes later, staring at the test clutched in your hands, the two pink lines undeniable.

Sunghoon sits beside you, his knee brushing against yours, his breathing measured but uneven. He doesn’t reach for it. He doesn’t take it from your hands.

Instead, he just looks at you.

"Are we...?" His voice is barely above a whisper, raw in a way you rarely hear.

Your fingers tighten around the test, your throat thick with emotion. You nod, swallowing hard before murmuring, "Yeah."

Sunghoon exhales, slow and unsteady, like he’s been holding his breath for years. His head tilts forward slightly, his eyes squeezing shut for a second before he lifts them back to you. His gaze is so full of something it knocks the air from your lungs.

"How do you feel?" he asks quietly.

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, part relief, part disbelief. "Like I might throw up again."

A short chuckle escapes him—not out of amusement, but out of something else, something lighter.

Then, slowly, he reaches for you.

His hands slide over your cheeks, fingertips pressing just slightly, like he’s trying to make sure you’re real, like he’s trying to ground himself in this moment. His thumb strokes over your cheekbone, his breath fanning against your lips as he leans in, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, close enough that you can feel the slight tremble in his touch.

The positive test sits between you both, abandoned on the bathroom counter, but neither of you look at it anymore. You don’t need to.

Because all you can focus on is him—the way his chest rises and falls unsteadily, the way his lips part like he wants to say something but doesn’t quite know how.

And then, finally, he does.

"I won’t fail you this time."

His voice is rough, barely above a whisper, but it hits you harder than anything else.

Your breath catches in your throat, your fingers tightening slightly where they rest against his shoulders. His eyes are so unbearably soft when they meet yours, but there’s something else there, too—something raw, something desperate.

"I won’t lose you. I won’t lose them," he murmurs, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you fully against him, like he can shield you from anything and everything that might try to take this from him again.

A lump forms in your throat, because this is what he’s been carrying.

This is what he never let himself say out loud.

"You never failed me, Sunghoon," you whisper, your fingers moving to cup his face, "We lost them together."

Sunghoon swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

"I should have held you. I should have been better. I should have—" His breath stumbles, and for the first time, you see it—the way his control wavers, the way the guilt still lingers, thick and unbearable.

"Hey." You press a hand against his chest, feeling the unsteady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palm. "You don’t have to do this alone anymore."

Sunghoon exhales sharply, his forehead pressing against yours.

"I don’t deserve this," he murmurs, his grip tightening around you.

"You do." You don’t hesitate. "And we’re going to do this right this time."

His breath shudders. And then—he kisses you.

It’s not like before. It’s not desperate, or punishing, or laced with frustration. It’s slow, deep, lingering. It’s an apology, a vow, a promise.

When he pulls away, his lips hover just above yours, his eyes searching, waiting for something.

"Stay," he whispers. "Stay with me. Stay here. Always."

You smile, pressing your forehead against his.

"I already did."

fin.

Taglist: @vrusha01 @cupiddolle @naurwayyyyy @ziiao @somuchdard @hveanlyanqelic @miuwonis @outroherrr @weyukinluv @riribelle @wonzbear @zhangyi-johee @randomanothercreature @wolfhardbby @httpenhoon @annovaz @seonhoon @lovelycassy @noidnoentry @btsreadss @linlianxin @icrieliterature @aussie-boys-wife @woniefull @ikeuwoniee @en-doll @ambi01 @thinkinboutbin @tobiosbbyghorl @semi-wife @fancypeacepersona @exhaleinhalepowder @firstclassjaylee @ijustwannareadstuff20 @nshmrarki

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withlovemark · 24 days ago

Text

“BREATHING”

pairing: fuckboy! jisung x convenient gf! reader | genre: rom-com | words: 47k+

synopsis -> park jisung has sworn off love after being cheated on. he’s been doing a really great job breaking hearts and not looking back. the boys are worried that they’ve taken fuckboy101 too seriously and have now created the ultimate fuckboy. this conversation was heard by your group of friends who never backs away from a challenge. and so the bets are on: get the ultimate fuckboy to fall in love with you and you’ll get $125 from each friend. deal?

warnings -> guaranteeing a sweetness that will hurt you, pet name unlocked: cherry, too many y/n’s in one room pt. 2, crying, the angst is heavy in this one!!, cheating, deception, reader is known as the cold hearted girl who doesn’t fall in love, emosung, +18, crude humor, language, parties, fuckboys, drinking, magic mike jisung, descriptive nipple play, rough sex, he fucks your tits + obsessed with marking them, jisung is big, emphasis on size kink!!!, mirror sex, lazy morning sex, attempt at shower sex, bathroom sex, masturbation (m+f), exhibitionism, riding him in the photo-booth, doggy style, unprotected sex, the pull out method, cowgirl, spanking, oral (m+f), fingering, pain kink, begging, dirty talk!!!, overstimulation, brief mentions of: virginity, morning after pills, thirst traps, pregnancy, vibrator, fake orgasm.

an -> the sixth installment of the loverboy series is excitingly yours! this is literally all the tropes roped into one. i did not give him piercings im sorry…but i did! give you boobie-obsessed jisung and i think the most smut scenes in the history of the loverboy universe! there’s also a fun little thirst trap video in here, make sure to click it ;) important things to note -> 1) jisung was the fuckboy in making turned into the ultimate fuckboy due to fuckboy101 classes with markhyuck 2) all of the boys, except renjun, are happily in love! have fun reading, i’ll be waiting for your reactions. with love, c.

🍒 DECEMBER 14 - USE CODE JISUNG69.

“what the hell is this?,” jisung mutters, squinting as he pushes open the gym doors. the fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting a dull glow on the otherwise empty basketball court – empty except for the six dream boys sitting in a circle, like they were hosting a cult meeting. every single one of them turns to look at him in unison, like he’d just walked into a stage where he was the star of the show.

“this is your intervention,” renjun says calmly, arms folded across his chest like he was the head counselor at the rehab facility.

jisung pauses, then lets out a low, disbelieving chuckle, “intervention for what exactly? being too good at life?”

“you’ve become a menace,” jaemin says, shaking his head like a disappointed dad, “do you even know how many people on campus have a picture of your dick?”

haechan shakes his head, “you’ve singlehandedly skyrocketed the sales of morning-after pills…they’re probably gonna name a discount code after you.”

jisung smirks, “JISUNG69 has a good ring to it,” he laughs, cocking his head proudly, leaning against the nearest bleacher but he was the only one who found it funny, “come on hyungs, i’m just doing what you guys taught me. don’t be mad if the student surpassed the masters.” it was true. fuckboy101, they called it. a dumb joke at first. it started freshman year, when jisung found out the girl he’d planned his future around had been cheating on him for months. he was wrecked. could barely eat, couldn’t sleep. so the older boys took it into their own hands: teach him how to stop feeling. step one - hook up. step two - don’t feel. step three - repeat until you forget who hurt you in the first place. but somewhere along the way, jisung mastered the syllabus and rewrote the course.

“dude,” mark groans, “you got cheated on. we were trying to help you survive, not turn into a full-time asshole.”

“freshman year was different,” jeno adds, voice soft, always the gentlest with him, “back then, you were hurting. you needed the distraction. but now… it’s like you’re addicted to the performance.”

“it’s not a performance,” jisung argues, crossing his arms, the smirk returning like armor, “i’m just living my best life.”

“you’re living in denial,” chenle cuts in bluntly, no hesitation, “every girl you sleep with is someone you ghost and every time you laugh it off, you just look more hollow. it’s not hot anymore. it’s pathetic.” that one lands. jisung stiffens, the smirk faltering for a split second. the air tightens. then he laughs. it’s not light. it’s sharp and cynical, a little too loud for the room.

“oh, i get it,” he says bitterly, his voice dipping into something dangerous, “just because you’re all in love now, you think it’s real? you think it’s forever?”there’s a beat of silence. jisung’s lips curl into something venomous, “your girls are probably out cheating on all of you right now.”

the words land like a punch – ugly, uninvited, and way too personal. everyone freezes. the silence that follow isn’t just tense, it’s disgusted. the image he plants in their heads is too graphic, too cruel. he knows it. that’s why he said it.

“jesus,” jaemin mutters, jaw clenching, like he’s holding himself back from standing, “dude, what the hell is wrong with you?”

“stop projecting,” chenle snaps, his voice sharp now, nothing soft or understanding about it anymore, “just because she broke you doesn’t mean the rest of us are doomed to get screwed over too.”

mark holds up a hand before it escalates further, “that’s not you talking,” he says slowly, voice steady, almost sad, feeling very responsible, “that’s your hurt talking. and it’s turning you into someone we don’t even recognize.”

renjun’s voice is softer when he speaks, but no less pointed, “take it from the only other single guy here, you’re pushing everyone away before they can even get close, it’s like you want to prove no one sticks around so badly, you make sure they don’t.”jisung says nothing. just clenches his jaw, fists tight at his sides. his smirk is gone. what’s left is something colder, blanker. a shield he’s worn for too long. he turns on his heel and walks out without another word, footsteps echoing across the court. the door slams behind him. the court falls into silence again, except this time — it's full of guilt.

renjun exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose, “god, i told you guys he was too far gone.”

“don’t say that,” haechan murmurs, still staring at the door, “he’s not. he’s just…lost.”

mark swallows, voice barely above a whisper, “and we’re the ones who handed him the map.”

the night air hits him. cold. damp. too real. jisung exhales sharply as he storms out of the gym, fists shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie. the slamming door behind him does nothing to silence the voices ringing in his head: “you’re living in denial” “it’s pathetic” “you’re pushing everyone away before they can even try to stay.” he walks blindly, past the buildings, the trees, the vending machines that always ate his coins. the campus is dead quiet, except for the sound of his shoes hitting the pavement — it should feel peaceful. it doesn’t. it feels suffocating. like the silence is pressing on his chest. he stops beneath a flickering lamp post, kicking at a loose stone on the ground. it skitters away uselessly, just like everything else lately. he runs both hands through his hair, tugging hard at the roots. “fuck.” they were right. that’s what makes it worse. he knows he’s been falling. he’s known it for a while now – since the hookups stopped feeling exciting, since the girls started blurring together, since his own name stopped feeling like his. he doesn’t even know who he is anymore without the act. and the thing that scares him the most? he can’t remember the last time he was actually present. the last time he said something and meant it. the last time breathing felt like breathing and not just going through the motions. he used to be the kid who danced like his heart was on fire, who cried when he got the lead in his first showcase, who actually believed in things like forever and soulmates. who wrote love letters and had faith in fate — now he wakes up in strangers’ sheets and can’t remember what he dreamt. now he flirts like it’s a reflex and kisses like it means nothing. now he puts on different smiles and still feels the same emptiness every night. like something inside of him has died and no one noticed. not even him. but having them see it, say it, like they’re peeling open his chest and pointing at the hollow parts makes him want to scream. it makes him want to destroy something just so he can feel in control of the falling. because if he’s the one choosing it – this spiral, this recklessness, then maybe it’s not as pathetic as it feels. maybe it means he still has some kind of power left.

he sits on the low edge of a planter box, elbow on his knees, staring down at the concrete like it might give him answers. his jaw clenches so tightly it aches, “i’m not the one who’s lost,” he mutters to no one, voice hoarse, “they are.” but even he doesn’t believe it. he swallows hard. his throat burns. the back of his eyes sting. no tears fall. he doesn’t let them anymore. not since her. not since he realized that loving people only gives them the power to break you. not since he promised himself no one would ever get close enough to wreck him again. he laughs bitterly under his breath, wiping a hand over his face like he could scrub the shame off. they think he’s heartless, cruel, and toxic — they’re not wrong. but at least this version doesn’t get left behind. doesn’t beg. doesn’t hope. doesn’t play the fool. at least this version of him knows how to survive. even if it means never really living again.

🍒 DECEMBER 15 - THE ULTIMATE FUCKBOY.

your table was chaotic as usual. dongpyo was making a tiktok, sion was halfway through a rant about the new dance professor and sophia was trying to steal fries off everyone’s trays with zero remorse. and then there was karina, leaned back in her chair, sipping her iced coffee with a smug little smile on her lips. like she was the only one in the room who had the full picture. because she was —karina hadn’t meant to hear it. she was only there to pick up her water bottle from the locker room that she left behind after cheerleading practice. the gym had been mostly empty, lights dimmed for the night, except for one glaring row still on near the court. voices. she heard them before she even opened the locker room door. familiar. sharp. heated — you noticed that wicked glint in her eyes first. the one she only ever got when she was about to ruin someone’s life for sport. she waited until dongpyo finally finished his tiktok to announce it.

“i have your challenge,” she said, pointing at you with her straw, “it’s your turn.”

the whole table froze like a scene in a teen drama. sophia gasped, “wait, have we finally found the perfect challenge? she’s long overdue.”

“everyone else had one,” sion nodded, “mine was making that TA fall in love with me.”

“i convinced that film major to write a full short script about me, a tragic romantic lead,” dongpyo adds. they all turned to you now – smirking, expectant. you leaned back in your seat, “okay. hit me.”

karina’s smile widened, “make jisung fall in love with you.”

time stopped. then the table collectively reacted—“no,” sophia gasped, clapping a hand to her mouth.

“oh my god,” dongpyo whispered.

you blinked slowly, “park jisung?”

karina nodded, “the one and only.”

sion looked like he’d just watched someone propose public arson, “that’s insane. he doesn’t even believe in love.”

“that’s the point,” karina grinned, “he’s the final boss. the ultimate fuckboy. no feelings. no commitment. basically allergic to love.” she paused for dramatic effect, “and you have until new year’s eve, that gives you two weeks.”

“sixteen days,” sion corrected, pulling up his calendar, “sixteen days to pull of a miracle.”

dongpyo was already buzzing, “okay, but imagine if you do it. that’s legendary.”

karina raised her iced coffee like a toast, “get him to fall in love with you, actually say the word love and boom – you win. $125 from each of us.” you glanced around the table. that was a total of $500. on paper. easy money. and you were feeling a lot more confident because you knew something they didn’t. that night. two years ago.

FRESHMAN YEAR: DECEMBER 24

the dream boys had gone all out for their first ever christmas eve party. strobe lights bouncing off the keg. music pulsing hard enough to shake the floor. bodies everywhere, pressed into each other, grinding on the makeshift dance floors, laughing too loud. glitter stuck to sweaty necks and polyester santa skirts clung to thighs. someone was wearing a santa costume with way too much confidence. someone else was dressed up as a reindeer. it was all a mess and it smelled like regret. you were halfway through your second jungle juice, trying not to die in your red heels, when you saw him slouched against the wall, red cup in hand, hood up even though it was hot as hell inside. his eyes looked tired. not drunk-tired. sad-tired. like he hadn’t slept in days. not even trying to mask the kind of ache you learned to recognize. sadness hiding in flirtation. that’s what he was. someone trying too hard to pretend he was having fun. you hadn’t really talked before, but you recognized him from class — park jisung. dance major. first year. just like you. you’d danced together once during partner improv. he was light on his feet, good with rhythm, awkward when the music stopped. the first time you noticed him he was wearing oversized glasses that kept sliding down his nose. tonight, his hoodie was zipped halfway done, revealing a sliver of collarbone and the thin chain around his neck. his face had lost the softness from orientation week, jaw more defined, hair styled like he tried. he looked cooler. that fake kind of cool that didn’t quite match the awkward, lanky kid he still clearly was under the hoodie. he looked up, met your gaze, blinked like he was surprised you saw him. you stopped in front of him, tilting your head, “you look like you’re at the wrong party.”

he gave a short, humorless laugh, “i’m doing my homework.”

you raised a brow, “is that a metaphor or…?”

he shrugged, took a sip of his drink, “mark and haechan says i can’t graduate heartbreak until i finish fuckboy 101, apparently the final exam of the year is sleeping with someone hotter than your ex.”you didn’t even pretend to be shocked. you’d heard the story. his high school girlfriend. the one who wore a purity ring and promised they'd’ both wait for marriage. turns out she wasn’t waiting at all. not when there were upperclassmen willing to bend her over a desk three months into the school year. the video spread throughout the campus. she transferred schools. jisung had stayed behind, bruised but breathing. the dream boys took him under their wing immediately after. and you weren’t doing any better. you’d just gotten ghosted by someone who said “you didn’t care enough.” whatever that meant. so here you were, both cracked open in your own ways. both leaning against the wall at a frat party where poor decisions floated in jungle juice and strobe lights.

“how’s the course going?,” you asked.

he sighed, “stuck on the finals,” he tipped his beer, “cheers to losing your virginity after your girlfriend.”

“i’ve never done it either,” you said. calm. clear. “figured i’d wait then realized i didn’t actually care anymore.”

he blinked, “wait…you’re a virgin?”

you looked at him, nodded, “wanna pop each other’s cherries and call it a night?”

his jaw dropped slightly, “are you serious?”

you shrugged, meeting his eyes, “you want to pass your final exam. i want to stop waiting. neither of us wants romance. so?”

he stared at you like you just offered to solve climate change, “unless you’re still waiting for fate or whatever,” you added. he lets out a slow, disbelieving laugh, then held out his hand, “come on, cherry.”

you blinked, “what?”

he grinned like he just came up with the best nickname in the world, “if we’re popping each others cherries, the name fits, right?”

you groaned, “that’s the dumbest nickname i’ve ever–”

“too late,” he said, already leading you up the stairs, “it’s canon.” his room was surprisingly clean. the bed had actual sheets. straightened, even. the blue led lights running along his ceiling gave everything a hazy, aquarium-glow vibe. there was a single hoodie on the floor and an unopened can of monster on his desk, right beside his forgotten glasses. you hovered awkwardly near his dresser, heart pounding, skin already warm with nerves. the music from the party downstairs pulsed faintly through the door. jisung shut the door behind you with a soft click. his hand lingering on the doorknob like he was buying himself a few more seconds of courage. “so, uh…,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “should we like…set the mood?”

you blinked, “what?, you wanna light a candle and put on the weeknd?”

he laughed, a real one this time, “i don’t know! i’ve never done this before, it might sound better than dead silence and me panicking.”

you kicked off your shoes, “i guess music might help?,” you ask and he nods, immediately pulling out his phone, fumbling with the bluetooth. after a few taps, a sultry beat filled the room – the first song on a playlist that had clearly been curated.

i’m just a bachelor…looking for a partner…someone who knows how to ride…

you stared, “wait. is this—”

if you’re horny, let’s do it, ride it, my pony…

“don’t judge me,” he cuts in, cringing as he sits on the edge of his bed, “the boys made this for me, they said i’d need it once i finally…you know.”

“turn it off!” you said, already laughing. he scrambled to shut it off, almost dropping his phone in the process. you made your way to the edge of his bed, a full foot away from him, “do you have a condom?” he jumped up, pulled opened his nightstand drawer where he knew jaemin threw some in for him some time last month going on and on about how important it is to practice safe sex and how this frat house wasn’t ready to raise a child. he held it up, eyes widening a little bit at the words XL written on the packet, “uhhm, check,” he says, letting out an awkward cough as he made his way back next to you.

you raised an eyebrow, “do you know how to put it on?”

“...i watched a youtube video once. it was animated,” he stutters out.

“perfect. two virgins, one mission,” you try to joke around. there was a beat of silence. you looked at each other one more time. a mutual agreement. before finally leaning in — the first kiss was soft. hesitant. lips brushing more than pressing. a breath shared between nerves. the second was better. his hand cupping the back of your head, thumb brushing your cheek. his mouth was warm. you tilted your head, fingers tugging lightly at the fabric of his hoodie. you broke apart, cheeks flushed, a little breathless, “do we take our clothes off now? or is there a countdown?”

“i was just gonna start,” he said, tugging off his hoodie in one quick motion. his shirt rode up, flashing pale skin and the outline of his abs. you followed, pulling your shirt over your head. his eyes flicked to your chest then darted away, ears burning red. clothes peeled off with a mixture of clumsy hands and nervous giggles. there was no grace to it. at one point, he stubbed his toe against the bed frame and swore under his breath. you didn’t look at each other too long. too intimate. too real. better to laugh through it.

“left hook,” you muttered as he fumbled with your bra.

“i was getting there,” he grinned, flustered. but once you were down to nothing, the air shifted. you both froze, suddenly hyper-aware of everything – breath, skin, the heat rushing up your necks. he looked at you, all flushed skin and hesitation, and whispered, “you’re really pretty.”

you frowned, trying to hide the blush that was sneaking it’s way to your cheeks, “that’s dangerously close to romance.”

he smirked, “fine. you’ve got excellent tit symmetry.” you laughed then laid back. he hovered above you, knees braced on either side of your thighs, his hands sinking into the mattress beside your ribs. his skin is warm against yours. chest to chest, heartbeats out of sync. his breath feathered across your jaw, “is this okay?” he whispered.you nodded, “yeah.” he kissed you again — deeper this time, tongue sliding softly against yours before moving down. his lips trailed from your jaw to your neck, pausing with each inch like he was asking without asking. his nervous hands gently brushed over your breasts, eyes flicking up to meet yours for permission. you nodded again. and he lowered his mouth to your chest. warm. experimental. he was trying, earnestly. he took his time, sucking on your breasts, softly, reverently, a little too cautious, tongue flicking over skin clumsily before making his way down to your stomach, your thighs, fingers slipping between your legs with shy curiosity.

he looked up from between your legs, almost sheepish, “tell me if i’m doing it wrong.” you nodded. your chest rising and falling, excitement and nerves coursing through your veins. he slid a finger in slowly, your breath hitched. then his tongue followed through, tentative licks that turned sure when you gasped, “right there,” you moaned quietly, “that’s good,” he sucked carefully, learning your body like a choreography. he was a quick learner, adjusting to your sounds, every twitch of your hips, every short gasps but it was feeling dragged on and you just wanted to get this over with, “jisung, i’m gonna come.” he didn’t stop until you finished moaning, kissing your thigh, grinning up at you, “you’re better at that than i expected,” you say.

he laughs, “i would sure hope so, i had a couple lessons on how to eat a girl out.”

you laugh in disbelief, “get the condom.” he tore the packet open…the wrong way. the foil ripped straight down the middle, narrowly missing the actual condom, “shit,” he hissed.

“off to a strong start,” you teased.

“give me a break, i’m under pressure,” his voice trembled slightly as he pulled out the condom and stared at it like it was a high-level math equation. then he rolled it on with a shaky hand, trying to remember the way the boys told him how to put it on. he lined himself up, hoping to god he put the condom on correctly and his eyes searched for yours again.

“you ready?,” he asked, voice barely a whisper.

“yeah,” you said, breath shallow, “you?”

he nodded, then added, “if i like…die mid-thrust, tell the boys i was brave.” you laughed, “just do it.” finally, he pushed in and the stretch made you hiss instantly, body immediately locking up. he was big.

“shit–are you okay?,” he asked immediately, freezing, barely halfway in as he tried to push away the groan begging to escape his lips. his voice was all panic and guilt, “d-did i do something wrong? am i–did i hurt you?”

“no.” you rushed to say, swallowing hard, gripping his arms, eyes shutting in pain, “it’s just…,” you suck in a breath, “you-re–uh…bigger than i expected.” his eyes widened, “r-really? like…in a good way or a what the hell is that kind of way?” he was trying so hard to talk. to ignore the way he feels like he’s about to bust any second now. you let out a shaky laugh, trying to calm yourself down and adjust to him, “i don’t know, i have nothing else to compare it to.”

“i-i can pull out,” he offered, like the gentleman he was, “we can stop. i’ll go put on pony again as punishment.”

“no–no, it’s okay,” you smiled, your grip on him loosening just a little bit, cheeks hot, “just give me a second.” he nodded, holding as still as a statue. his forehead was damp, his eyes were locked on yours like he was afraid to blink and every second that he doesn’t move is starting to hurt. you were so tight. so warm. it felt way too good. a few seconds passed and you gave him a small nod, “okay, you can move. just…slow, please.”

he nodded, resuming his movement with a delicacy of someone handling glass. he let out a breathless moan as he slid in the rest of the way, “oh my god,” he whispered, “i-i can’t…t-this feels…insane.” you both laughed breathlessly, even as your legs trembled slightly and he was panting really hard, trying to stay in control of his own body. he started thrusting. “fuck—holy shit—you’re s-so tight,” the pace was uneven, but there was something sincere about it. something that made your chest ache in the best way. he was trying and you were both figuring it out. he let out another strangled moan, hips stuttering, “i-i don’t think i’m gonna last.”

“it’s okay,” you said softly. you clung to him, breath hitching from the stretch and the closeness and the ridiculousness of it all. it was chaos. sweat. and genuine effort that was sweeter than you expected. the sounds he made were helpless and desperate, his grips on your hips tightening like he was afraid he’d float away. he managed maybe a few more sharp thrusts before he stilled completely, letting out the softest whimper as he collapsed over you, completely spent, chest heaving. “oh my god—that was…i’m so sorry. that was so fast, it just felt really good,” he looked at you with wide, apologetic eyes, almost like a shocked hamster, before flopping back against his pillows, trying to catch his breath. you laughed, turning your head to face him “at least one of us enjoyed it.”

“don't look at me,” he groaned, covering his face with a pillow, ears bright red, “this is the worst performance of my life, i’m gonna get roasted in the group chat if they ever find out.” you smiled, sitting up and hooking your bra back on, there was a slight soreness around your legs but it wasn’t bad, “want me to tell them that you were so good you made me cum twice on your first try?” — he peeked at you from where he lay sprawled on the bed, arm flung over his face, a smirk tugged at his lips, “nah, they’ll know you’re lying for sure. i almost cried when they asked a girl to give me my first ever blowjob.” you burst out laughing, tugging your shirt over your head, “well, at least you didn’t cry this time.”

“thanks for letting me fail sex in peace,” he reached over blindly and handed you your skirt, “are you okay?”

“i’m okay, i didn’t really expect anything else but that,” you grinned, putting it on, “thanks for lasting at least thirty seconds.”

he laughed, “brutal,” he grabbed his boxers off the floor and slipped them on, “round two is gonna blow your mind.” you grinned, poking his cheek and he scrunched his nose up like a kid, “i’ll believe it when i feel it.”

but round two never came. no rain check. no late night texts. no next time. you never talked about it again. not once. not during warm-ups in the dance studio. not even when you both got casted in the same contemporary piece sophomore year and had to press your bodies together in sync for eight straight counts. it stayed unspoken. like the bloodstain you left behind on his sheet that you were both too polite to acknowledge out loud. a mark that something changed. proof of the night you spent together. the line you crossed clumsily and awkwardly — jisung moved on fast and loud. girls left his room still fixing their hair. not one ever stayed the night. rumors spread like wildfire – his stamina, his smirk, his fingers, his massive cock that apparently left girls limping down the hallway and giggling behind their hands. there was always a new name, a new story, sometimes two in the same night. he laughed about it. shrugged when the guys teased him. told bold stories in the cafeteria like he hadn’t once looked nervous just unhooking a bra. like he wasn’t the same boy who asked if you were okay with wide-eyed panic and the softest voice. and you had your share of forgettable one night stands too. you tried to prove to yourself that it didn’t mean anything. that it’s just part of the college life. but you figured it out early on, that wasn’t what you wanted. and none of it was ever…fun. no guy ever made you come. not once. they were either too rough, too rushed, too distracted by their own performance. so eventually, you stopped trying to prove anything. stopped searching for something that didn’t feel right. you had your hand. your vibrator. that was enough. more than enough, really. at least with yourself, there were no disappointments. still, despite everything, you and jisung never ignored each other. it wasn’t that kind of silence. you shared a major. shared mirror space during warm-ups. ran across the same floors in the same studios. sometimes you traded banter in the hallway, complained about calluses and hip bruises, about professors who made you redo the same combo until your knees gave out. he still called you cherry when no one was listening. the name slipped from his lips like muscle memory. you never asked him to stop. there was a rhythm to it — the teasing, the familiarity, the way you orbit each other without ever colliding again. a quiet pact. unspoken, but always there. like a secret tucked into the back pocket of jeans you never wear anymore but never quite throw away either. and he always gave you this look. like he remembered. not in a guilty way. not even in a longing way. just… recognition. like the memory lived behind his eyes, blurry at the edges but still intact. you remembered too. the awkwardness. the fumbling hands. the sting — a little humiliating. definitely clumsy. not something you’d brag about. but still, it was yours. no one else knew. not your friends. not his. just the two of you. and maybe that made it even more intimate than if it had been perfect. more intimate than if you’d kissed afterward. or cuddled. or talked about how it felt. it was a secret — flawed, forgotten on the surface, but buried deep in the soft, silent place where your memory keeps the things you never say out loud.

END OF FLASHBACK – BACK TO DECEMBER 15

“earth to y/n?,” your eyes flicked up. karina was waving her hand in front of your face, her iced coffee dangerously close to spilling on your tray, “did you just disassociate mid-conversation?”

“sorry,” you said smoothly, settling back in your seat, “i was just thinking.”

“are we doing this or not?,” dongpyo asked, already opening his notes app to track the money, “because i’ve got venmo open right now and i’m ready to start collecting.” sophia leaned forward like she was presenting the final act in a very glamorous heist movie, “park jisung. sixteen days. make him fall for you before the clock hits midnight on new year’s. he confesses, you win $500”

“and you know the rules…if you lose…” karina added sweetly, the kind of sweet that always came before something evil, “if you fall in love with him—,” she smiled like she could already taste your downfall, “you pay all of us.” the table fell quiet. you paused just long enough to make them wonder. let it hang. like maybe you’d say no. like maybe you were scared. but the truth was – you weren’t scared at all. they didn’t know that you’d once shared something with park jisung that no amount of rumors or girls could erase. you had history on your side. the nickname. the secret. the fact that you were each other's firsts and you know what they say about that. a man never forgets his first. so you leaned forward, let a sly smile curl across your lips, and with every ounce of confidence you could muster, you said, “duh. i’m not a rookie, he’ll be in love with me by new years.”

the table erupted into cheers, giggles and the clicking of phones – someone already making a group chat to track progress. but your smile didn’t falter once. you straightened your posture. took a sip of karina’s coffee without asking, just to piss her off.

🍒 DAY 1 OF THE BET - NO REFUNDS.

jisung was not breaking. he’d heard every single thing the boys said. the intervention that was more a roast. but they didn’t get it. he was fine. perfectly, wonderfully fine. so what if he hadn’t had a real relationship since freshman year? so what if his hookups felt like reruns now? if the only real satisfaction came from the way people talked about him afterward, not during? he could be in a relationship if he wanted one. he just didn’t want to waste his time. that’s all. feelings? commitment? vulnerability? all messy. all pointless. love was a slow death and he wasn’t interested in dying twice. still, he had a point to prove. a simple solution — he’d find someone to date. publicly. casually. just long enough to get the guys off his back. just long enough to remind them, and himself, that he was still in control. that he was still unfazed, untouchable. it was the perfect plan. easy. controlled. safe.

jisung swiped his keycard, pushed open the door to dance studio 7 and froze. like some sick cosmic joke — you were there. he wasn’t expecting anyone to be here. that was the whole point of booking this time. 11:00 p.m. to midnight. the last hour the studios stayed open. it was quiet, empty, forgotten, most students too tired to care or too sane to drag themselves across campus this late. but for him, it was sacred. the hum of the building settling into sleep, the hallway lights dimmed, the mirrors fogged with the day’s ghosts. this was when he could breathe. no image. no professors. no voices in his head except the rhythm and the beat pulsing through his headphones. and he needed it. especially after the ambush from the guys. he needed to dance it out. burn it out. put the stupid idea of relationships in a box and light it on fire. yet here you are, already warming up in the studio. in his time slot. your airpods were in, stretching lazily, arms overhead and spine arched in a way that was way too distracting, oblivious to the way time seemed to pause the second he saw you. you looked good. like you always do. not done-up or dressed to impress, just… comfortable. effortless. his hand dropped from the strap of his bag. the word left his mouth before he could stop it, “cherry?,” he said, like maybe you were a hallucination, “what are you doing here?” you looked up mid-shoulder roll, pulling one earbud out with a smirk like you’d been expecting him all along, “what, i’m not allowed to be here?”

“just surprised,” he stepped in slowly, tossing his hoodie onto the couch, trying not to stare, “no one sane ever comes at this hour.”

“you’re here,” you point out. “exactly,” he replies, a smirk on his face. you rolled your eyes but smiled, brushing past him to grab a hair tie from your bag. he didn’t move. didn’t even pretend not to watch as you twisted your hair up into a messy bun. he sat against the mirror wall, arms propped behind him, legs stretched out like he owned the place. you caught the way he was looking. didn’t comment. but didn’t look away either.

“so…” you started, voice light but deliberate, “got anyone special these days?” he narrowed his eyes, a smug smirk on his face, “are you flirting with me, cherry?” you gave a little shrug, walked closer, sat next to him and dropped your voice like it was a secret just between you, “would it be so bad if i was?” he blinked at you, caught off guard. for all the teasing and casual conversations over the years, it had never quite been this… direct.

“that depends,” he smirks, almost deviously, “are you asking for round two?”

you laugh, shoving his shoulder, “round two of what? another thirty seconds?,” you tease him playfully.

“wow,” jisung clutched his chest like you’d stabbed him, “that’s crazy. you’re gonna say that to a guy who gave you the gift of his sacred virginity?” you just laughed harder, reaching to grab your water bottle from your bag. “just saying, if you’re gonna break a girl’s hymen, the least you could do is make her cum.” — for the first time since that night you talk about it. and instead of being awkward or tense or heavy, it was just… funny. honest. he laughed too, shaking his head, “in my defense, i was nervous as hell.”

“you were shaking like a chihuahua, jisung,” you grinned over the rim of your water bottle, “took you five full minutes to unclasp my bra.”

“it was an emotional experience!,” he argued, pointing at you, “and you stared at me like i was solving a rubik’s cube with my elbows,” he says.

“honestly, i should’ve asked for my virginity back,” you tease.

he shakes his head no, “it was a limited edition, no refunds kind of situation,” you both burst out in giggles — bright and unfiltered, shoulders shaking, the ridiculousness making the awkward memory feel lighter, easier. he watched you, something fond and almost too-soft flickering behind his eyes. when the laughter died down, he leaned his head back, flashing you that cocky smirk he’d perfected over the years, “well,” he said, “you’ll be happy to know i’ve had plenty of practice since then.”

you narrowed your eyes, unimpressed, “have you now?”

“i have, thank you very much,” he says, “the reviews have been overwhelmingly positive.” you laugh, rolling your eyes. he turned his head toward you, hair messy, cheeks flushed from laughing, “you really picked the worst time to show up here.”

you glanced down at him, amused, “why’s that?”

“because i was planning on being emotionally unavailable in peace,” he smiles. you tap his thigh, “too bad. i came to haunt your peace and cause emotional instability. you’re welcome.” — and for some reason, it made him smile.

🍒 DAY 2 OF THE BET - ALL KINDS OF LOVE.

you barely made it through the studio doors when you felt the shift in the room. excitement. buzzing. competitive energy sparking off the floor like static. the room was packed, more chaotic than usual for a morning class. water bottles clinked against the hardwood, sneakers squeaked, someone was blasting music in a corner until it abruptly cut off. and at the front of it all stood dance professor, taeyong, arms folded, head slightly tilted, looking far too pleased with himself — “good morning, my lovely dancers,” he greeted with that signature, slightly chaotic smile, “i hope you’ve all been stretching, hydrating, getting good sleep, because today i give you…your final project.” a collective inhale swept through the room. a few people stiffened. professor taeyong clasped his hands together, “a partnered piece,” he announced with relish. groans rippled through the room, followed by an explosion of whispers and movement. people were already darting across the floor, practically throwing themselves into pairings before professor taeyong could even finish speaking, “and!” he added, voice rising above the chaos, “before you all partner up, this won’t be just any duet.” the room stilled, everyone waiting for his next instruction. “your piece,” he said slowly, “must be themed around something simple. something unavoidable. something we experience in a hundred different ways, every single day.” he paused for dramatic effect —“Iove.”

“i want all kinds of love,” professor taeyong continued, “romantic. platonic. unrequited. obsessive. euphoric. intimate. joyful. destructive. longing so sharp it aches. lust so thick it stifles. i want it all.” some students side-eye him, “don’t look at me like that,” he scolded cheerfully, “this is a performance program! if you can’t sell a story with your body, you shouldn’t be here. and there’s nothing more complex, more magnetic, more devastating…than love.” he let that sit for a moment, soaking into everyone’s skin, then he added, “you’ll be choreographing your own duet,” he continued, “no solos. no excuses.”

you blinked. a duo project? about love? this was the universe handing you your early christmas present. gift-wrapped. on a silver platter. with a red bow on top. you already knew who your partner was going to be. had to be. this wasn’t just convenient – it was strategy. leverage. the kind of setup your friends would later call suspiciously lucky. except…the moment you turned around, looking for his figure, your smirk faltered. there was a line. like, an actual line of girls already circling your $500 – all bright-eyed and bouncy, some fluffing their hair, some fake-stretching in his direction like they just happened to be near. you stared in disbelief as one of them twirled. just…twirled. for no reason. karina slid up beside you, sipping her iced coffee with both hands like it was tea, “you’d better move fast,” she said, nodding toward the growing crowd, “looks like your man’s running a love island season over there.”

you narrowed your eyes, “relax. i’m not worried.

she grinned, “you should be, i can already smell that sweet $125.” you rolled your eyes but your gaze flicked back to the group. jisung stood at the center of it, half listening as one girl twirled a lock of her hair and asked if he preferred contemporary or hip-hop. another was already trying to show him her spotify playlist. but jisung wasn’t really listening. you didn’t notice the way his eyes kept scanning around the room. tracking every figure until they landed on you — because while you were plotting how to use this project to win the bet, he had made a decision of his own. sometime after midnight, when he couldn’t stop thinking about how fun you were to be around. he needed to get the boys off his back. they wanted him to take someone seriously? fine. he’d fake one. or start one. whatever. you weren’t obsessed with him like the others. and he already knows you wouldn’t get weird. you didn’t fawn or fake giggle. you were blunt. sharp. fun. safe. he just had to convince you. he spotted you and you caught his eye too. he broke from the crowd without hesitation. the girls blinked in confusion as he brushed past them like they weren’t even there. he walked across, calm and sure, until he stopped in front of you, “hey, y/n?”

you looked up, a smirk already forming, “yeah?”

“wanna be partners?,” he asked simply. no dramatic build up. karina choked on her drink beside you. “you sure you haven’t promised your thirty seconds to someone else?,” you asked, nodding at the group now staring daggers in your direction. he rolled his eyes though a light smile was tugging at his lips at the inside joke, “you’re never letting that go, are you?”

“nope,” you grinned, playfully shaking your head.

“i promise i’ll give you my thirty seconds and all the time in the world,” he deadpanned, almost too smoothly

“hmm,” you pretend to consider, “fine. i’m okay with that.”

he shake his head, chuckling, “so…partners?,” offering his hand out for a handshake. you shook it, warm fingers brushing. just for a second. but it lingered. “same time as last night?,” you asked.

“tomorrow, same studio, don’t be late,” he warned, smirking now, “i charge by the minute.”

you snorted, “then it’s a good thing you don’t last more than one.” he laughed, that easy, low laugh that made your stomach twist annoyingly, and walked off without another word. you stared after him for just a second too long. then you turned to karina and stuck your tongue out, smug. her mouth was already hanging open, “wait,” she blinked, “last night?,” she hissed, grabbing your arm, “you were together last night?”

you shrugged, very casually, “we just happened to be at the studio at the same time.” karina looked at you suspiciously but she looked genuinely impressed, “you sly bitch,” she gasps, “you don’t waste a second, do you?” you gave a small, nonchalant shrug, though your smile was too proud to hide, “i’m just being efficient. you guys didn’t give me much time.”

she leaned in, eyes wide, “what’s your plan now?”

“simple,” you said, smirking, not missing a beat —“we rehearse. we flirt. he falls. i win.”

🍒 DAY 3 OF THE BET - HAVE YOU EVER BEEN IN LOVE?

the lights were low. just the mirrors lit softly by overhead fluorescents, making the whole room feel hushed, almost sacred. the kind of stillness that made every sound feel louder — every breath, every heartbeat, every shift in the air. the speaker sat idle in the corner, blinking silently like it was waiting for permission to speak. jisung sat across from you, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, legs mirroring yours. there was a gap between you, not far, maybe two feet. the silence wasn’t awkward. it felt different in here. because he was different in here. gone was the party-junkie persona, the cocky flirt who winked at girls in the hallways and laughed too loud during roll call. in the studio, with just the two of you, it didn’t seem like he bothered putting on the act. no charm, no smugness, just – jisung.

“so,” you said finally, stretching your legs out in front of you, “love.” he groaned immediately, dropping his head back with a dramatic sigh, “ugh. don’t say it like that.” you smiled softly, “we’re stuck with it. professor taeyong said all forms. that gives us options.”

“right,” he muttered, brushing his bangs out of his face, “options.” you tilted your head to one side, studying him, “have you ever been in love?”

he blinked, surprised you even asked, then he leaned back against his hands, eyes flicking up to the ceiling, like the answer was written up there, “yeah,” he said finally, “once. my ex.”

you nodded, “the one who cheated?” he nodded again, slower this time.

“yikes,” you winced, “that sucks.”

he shrugged, still looking upward, “it was a long time ago, i learned a lot, i guess, but i think…i never stopped feeling kind of dumb about it.” that quiet sat between you again until he broke it, voice gentler, “what about you?” he asked.

you shook your head, “nope. never.”

he didn’t tease. no smirk, no quip. just a thoughtful stare that felt too intimate for someone with a reputation like his, “never even thought you were?,” he asked, voice low.

you let out a small breath, “i think i wanted to be. a few times. but no. i was just bored. or lonely. or trying to convince myself i felt something because i wanted to feel something,” you take a pause, “and now…i don’t really care for it, it’s just…not my priority. besides i have my friends. they’re all the love i really need” you shrug, “just don’t let them hear that,” you smile, almost shy. he nodded slowly, watching you like he was seeing parts of you he’d never thought to look at before. he sat there, chewing his bottom lip for a moment, like he was carefully turning your words over in his head.

“so what now?” he asked, “if we’re both emotionally stunted, how do we do this whole ‘love-dance’ thing?”

you bit your lip, thinking, “well, professor taeyong said any kind of love.”

he nodded, “so…friendship?”

you laughed softly, “we’re barely friends.”

“yeah, but we have…history,” he said, with a careful smile. you didn’t deny it. “what about lust?” he asked next. the word wasn’t dirty the way he said it. it wasn’t heavy or loaded. it was merely just…a suggestion. you raised an eyebrow. he shrugged, mouth tugging into a crooked grin, “it’s familiar. easier to show onstage. i’ve got enough… material, let’s say.”

you fought a laugh, “yeah, i’ve heard.”

he cracked a smile but didn’t push the joke, “but seriously,” he said. “it’s just wanting. that’s it. and we’ve…done that, haven’t we?”

you smiled, nodding, “sure. let’s do lust.”

then he looked at you for a second longer, something unspoken flickering behind his eyes, “have you ever…slept with someone after me?”

you nodded, arms wrapping loosely around your knees, “of course, you weren’t the only one getting busy…but–,” you pause, not entirely sure if you want to open up to him about your failed sex life.

“but?” he asked, his voice a touch quieter. and something about the way he was looking at you – genuinely, earnestly – made you want to say it. you looked down, then back at him, “but… i’ve never really felt strong lust. not the kind people talk about. not the kind that takes over. drowns you…no one’s actually ever made me orgasm,” you added simply. like it was just another fact. like it didn’t need to be sensationalized.

he blinked “seriously?” you nodded, picking at a thread in your leggings, “i’ve faked it before. it’s not that hard. guys don’t really notice.”

his brows furrowed, not in judgment, more like guilt, “you faked it that night too, huh?”

you gave him a look, “obviously.”

he let out a breath, half-laughing, “damn. my ego’s never recovering”

“i mean,” you giggled, “you were sweet. nervous. a little shaky. but you weren’t that bad.”

he gave a low groan and covered his face with his hands “i was trying so hard,” he groaned, “you have no idea, i was ready to bust as soon as i saw your tits,” he confessed, earning another genuine laugh from you. you both smiled fondly at the memory. like it was a part of growing up. a little embarrassing. a little special. clumsy. human. and for a second, it felt like nothing had changed. two awkward kids. a quiet pact. a memory neither of you could shake. “we were so awkward,” he said.

“we still are,” you grinned. he didn’t try to touch you. didn’t slide closer. just kept sitting there, meeting you where you were. you hadn’t seen this side of him in so long — maybe ever. no armor, no performance. just jisung. honest. a little tired. a little bruised. but real. and weirdly, that felt like trust. you sat in the stillness a while longer. then stood, brushing your hands on your thighs, “come on, jisung. let’s figure out how to make lust look believable.”

he got up too, stretching his arms overhead, “cherry,” he said, teasing but gentle, “if anyone can sell it, it’s you.” but his voice held none of the usual flirt. none of the bite. just quiet admiration, and something maybe like respect — the music played low. something slow, a little sensual. you and jisung stood across from each other, bodies reflected in the mirrors lining the wall. his hoodie was gone, tossed onto the couch. you’d tied your hair up. this wasn’t your first time dancing with him. but this was the first time dancing like this. you stepped forward first, foot gliding into a slow drag as you raised your arms overhead. a quiet build in the music swelled beneath you and jisung moved in response — mirroring, but not copying. more like answering. like you were in a conversation neither of you had the words for yet.

“okay,” he murmured, half to himself, “show me what you think lust looks like,” he stepped closer, voice lower now, “make me believe it.” you took a breath, heart thudding. this was just a warm-up. just a way to familiarize yourself with each other. you reached out, fingers brushing against his collarbone. a ghost of a touch. his skin was warm, his breath steady, and he didn’t move away. instead, he stepped forward again, closing the gap. now you could feel it. the heat radiating off of him, the way your arms brushed his chest as you circled him slowly. you didn’t speak. just kept moving. letting the music guide your limbs. your palm found his shoulder. his hand hovered, then gently caught your waist. his fingers weren’t demanding. they were…tentative. careful.

“okay?,” he asked, voice just above a whisper. you nodded, “yeah.” then he twirls you, your back meeting his chest, your breath catching as his arm slid around your middle. you could feel the rise and fall of his chest behind you. the silence between you wasn’t empty anymore. it was dense. buzzing. “closer,” you said, surprising yourself. he obeyed, palm flattening against your stomach, pulling you in just slightly. enough that your hips brushed when you moved together. enough to feel the length of him against your back. you let your head tip back against his shoulder, hair brushing his neck — this wasn’t choreographed. not yet. this was just…trying. feeling. and it was too easy to fall into it. jisung’s voice was low near your ear, his breath sending goosebumps down your spine, “you’re really good at this.”

you smirked, not looking at him, “faking lust?”

“making it not feel fake,” he murmured. you turned in his arms slowly, hand resting against his chest. his skin was flushed from dancing. his hand trailed down your arm. yours drifted across his shoulder. every brush of skin felt heavier than it should. he dipped you, hand on your back to steady you, the contact firm now, more certain. his thumb pressed against your spine and your breath hitched. when you rose again, your faces were close. he blinked slowly, like he was pulling himself out of a trance, “we’re gonna look good on stage,” he whispers against your lips. “yeah,” you replied, taking a step back and out of his arms. you looked at him, pulse high in your throat. his gaze dropped to your lips for half a second, then back to your eyes. the music faded. the room felt colder without movement — without him that close. he cleared his throat, walking to his bag and reaching for his water bottle, rubbing the back of his neck like he needed a moment. you grabbed your phone, pretending to check something. neither of you said it out loud. but the tension had lingered. and you both felt it.

🍒 DAY 6 OF THE BET - UR FAULT BTW.

the door clicked shut behind you, sealing you both in the quiet that had become familiar all too quickly. this studio, this hour — another thing that belonged to the two of you now. it’s been three continuous days of night rehearsals with jisung. he was already stretching at the center of the room. the lights were dim, casting both your reflections in the mirror like ghosts. he caught your eye in the mirror and smirked, “alright, cherry,” he said, voice lazy, teasing, “let’s start.” you didn’t answer. you didn’t need to. you walked toward the speaker, hit play, and the slow, sultry beat began to fill the space. without hesitation, you let the music pull you under. a glide of your hip, a slow turn of your neck, your body moved with a rhythm that felt like second nature now. by the time you turned, jisung was already moving with you. he didn’t need a cue. he didn’t need a count-in. he just knew. falling into the dance like he’d been dancing with you for years. you met in the middle, your palms brushing as you passed, his breath warm when your faces crossed paths. then he caught your hand, strong and assured, and spun you cleanly into him. you landed chest to chest, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. his hand wrapped around your waist. it slid just slightly lower. you moved together in sync, every breath shared, every glance held just a little too long. the tension had been building for nights now, the kind that settled in the space between touches. accidental brushes that didn’t feel so accidental. stares that lingered long after the choreography stopped — tonight, it was boiling over. your hands curled into his shoulders and without thinking, without asking, you jumped. he caught you instinctively, hands sliding down to support your thighs as your legs wrapped around his waist. he stumbled slightly, the contact jarring, electric, and before you could register it, your back hit the mirror. his hips pressed between your legs, firm and there. the breath left both your lungs. his forehead dropped to yours. your hands found his jaw, holding him steady, and for a long second, neither of you moved. just heartbeats. just breathing. just his eyes dropping slowly, deliberately to your mouth.

you finally did both of you a favor — you kissed him. his lips responded immediately. it was nothing like your first. this was all heat and friction and days, maybe years, of tension exploding at once. his mouth moved fast, hungry, messy. he kissed you like he wanted to ruin you. you bit his bottom lip. he cursed under his breath, hands squeezing your thighs, pulling you tighter. your hips rolled into him. his answer was instinct. thrusting back. the friction made you moan. made him kiss you harder, swallowing the sound. he kissed down your jaw, then your neck, each brush of his lips messier, wetter than the last. one of his hands dragged higher and higher and in one swift motion he yanked your tank top down. your nipples hardening in the cool air and jisung wasted no time.

“fuck–,” you gasped as he latched onto your nipple, his strong arms holding you up higher as he sucked hard — lips hot, tongue flicking over the sensitive bud before sealing around it with a deep, lewd pull. the pressure sending heat shooting through your stomach. he groaned into your skin, shifting to the other breast with a noise that sounded too close to desperation. he tongued your nipple again and again, alternating slow licks with firm sucks that made your spine arch into him. “jisung–,” he hummed in approval, the vibration traveling straight to you.

“god, cherry, your tits are fucking perfect,” he praised, lips wet and breath hot against your chest, “didn’t even know what to do with these back then–” he licked, swirled, sucked, “but i do now.”your fingernails dug into his shoulders. he kissed lower, then back up, nipping lightly before pulling your nipple into his mouth again, sucking harder this time, drawing a loud moan from you. you were sure there were red marks all over your breasts in the shape of his lips. “jisung–fuck, please–,” you didn’t even know what you were begging for.

“look at you, cherry,” he murmured, “so fucking responsive. so sensitive right here,” he grinned against your nipple. you barely noticed him moving to the forgotten couch in the corner. but the moment you hit the cushions, he was on top of you, lips crashing onto yours. his hands didn’t hesitate now, they were confident, hot, everywhere, your tank bunched uselessly around your armpits. your chest was flushed, already marked red, your nipples glistening from his mouth. he looked down at you like he couldn’t believe you were real. then he leaned down again.

“can’t believe i used to be scared to touch you,” he murmured against your skin, giving both your breasts the same worship – nipping, sucking, licking, pressing his tongue flat over your nipples, then flicking them back and forth in tight circles that made your stomach curl you swore you were about to learn that you could cum just from it. he sucked each one until they were tender and puffy and every brush of his tongue made you gasp, “now i don’t think i’ll ever stop.” you were breathless, your legs wrapped around him, hands fisting his shirt, hips starting to rock against his and then—

knock. knock. knock.

you both froze. his mouth still latched on one of your nipple, a hand frozen beneath your waistband. “sorry to interrupt!,” a cheerful voice called from behind the door, “just the janitor! it’s five minutes past lock up and i gotta mop!” you stared at jisung. he blinked at you. and then you both burst out laughing. he collapsed half on top of you, chest shaking with laugher, forehead pressed to your sternum.

“of course this would happen,” he muttered, voice muffled by your boobs. you were still laughing and he watched the way your eyes crinkled. the way the light reflected stars off of your eyes. “i think we should add this to our choreography,” he mutters, still in between your breasts.

“you’re insane,” you say in between your laughter as you push him off of you, a little too hard. he landed on the floor with a loud thud, both of your eyes widening before you break into laughter again. you catch your reflection in the mirror – half exposed, hair wild, marked-up, flushed.

“jeez, park, i’m gonna need a scarf tomorrow,” you say, fingers ghosting over the marks that were starting to bloom all over your chest. he smirks, looking way too proud of himself, before slotting himself in between your legs. he gently, carefully, pulls your tank top back up, his fingers ghosting over your shoulders, your nipples still tingling, “it’s not my fault your tits look too fucking good,” he says before kissing you again, slower this time.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

it’s way past your bedtime. your room was quiet. too quiet. the kind that makes you overthink. rewind. replay. you lay back on your pillow, eyes closed, your t-shirt brushing over still-sensitive skin. your thighs pressed together without meaning to. your lips still tingled from his mouth. your neck still wore the ghost of his teeth. and then your phone buzzed.

jisung: *sent a video* (author’s note: 18+ ONLY)

you opened it without thinking. then immediately sat up. holy shit. he was in those damn grey joggers, hanging dangerously loose around his hips. no shirt. just a black hoodie unzipped and hanging open, the sleeves pulled halfway up his forearms. his abs were sharp under the soft light of his bedroom, and then—like he knew exactly what he was doing—he dragged the joggers down. his cock slapped up into frame, already hard. thick. heavy. veins prominent. you couldn’t see his face, but you didn’t need to. you knew the look he had on. that cocky, infuriating smirk that made your pulse skip.

jisung: can’t sleep. too hard. ur fault btw

you dropped your phone on your chest with a choked laughed, heat rushing down your spine. you were just telling him how you hadn’t experienced lust that makes you drown. and now you’re thinking you spoke way too fucking soon. you were supposed to be in control. you were supposed to be the one pulling strings, making him squirm—after all, this was just a bet. but now your thighs were pressed together, breath uneven, skin flushed and aching and you were the one spiraling. you stared at your ceiling, tried to think of anything not related to his cock, or his hands, or the way his tongue circled your nipple like it was fucking dessert. but your fingers were already twitching. and your memory was already playing tricks. maybe this was dangerous. maybe you were getting in too deep. but fuck it. you might as well have some fun while you’re at it. your phone buzzed again.

jisung: u there? did i kill u?

cherry: park. what the fuck?

jisung: u like it? u miss me?

cherry: go to sleep.

jisung: can’t. still thinking about ur tits. and ur hands in my hair. and the way u said my name. the way u arched into me.

jisung: help me my sweet cherry

jisung: please? 🥺🥺

your breath hitched. you bit your lip so hard it stung. your body was already moving before you could talk yourself out of it. you tugged your shirt off before you could second guess yourself. hit record. the camera was angled just right—only your chest in frame. you laid back, letting the light catch on the fresh marks he left behind. hickeys. faint bruises. the aftermath of his mouth. you squeezed them softly, your thumb flicking over your nipples, letting out a quiet moan just for him. then you hit send before you can trip yourself out.

cherry: *sent a video*

your heart was pounding, stomach doing somersaults. you threw your phone beside you like it burned and dragged the comforter over your legs, trying to calm down.

*11 minutes later*

jisung: fuck ur so hot

jisung: *sent an image*

you clicked. and groaned. he was on his bed now, hand still around his cock. his black hoodie was bunched up around his elbows. cum streaked up his abs and soaked into his sweatpants. his hips were still lifted slightly off the bed like he’d just finished. the angle was brutal. intimate. messy. you bit down a whimper as your hand slipped beneath your underwear. heat flooded your cheeks, your chest, down between your legs, your skin prickling with need. your fingers moved slowly at first, hesitant, shaky. but the ache pulsing through your core demanded more. and then the memory played vividly. his body, all heat and tension, pressing into yours like he couldn’t bear even a millimeter of space between you. his hips grinding just enough to tease, not enough to satisfy. the music playing in the background, the rasp of his breath, the soft groan he let out when your hand slid into his hair. the way his mouth moved around your sensitive nipples. your thighs had been slick then, just from the friction. from the way he moved against you. from the pressure building and building with nowhere to go. his fingers had curled into your waistband like he was trying to decide whether to ruin you right there or keep teasing you. you pressed your legs wider now, helpless against the memory, two fingers circling where you were already wet and throbbing. you let your other hand drift up to your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple, already so sensitive from earlier. every inch of you was burning — your phone buzzed again beside you.

jisung: don’t hate me if i can’t control myself around u tomorrow night

jisung: let me suck on ur tits again 😛

you let out a soft gasp, hips lifting into your own touch. the words slammed into you like another wave. this is a stupid bet. but now you were touching yourself at midnight with your heart racing and his voice in your head like a fucking ghost. you swallowed hard, catching your breath, hand sticky, thighs trembling — this was a game. just a stupid, reckless game. and you might as well play it properly.

cherry: only if u behave.

jisung: no promises, cherry.

your lips curled into a smile as you typed your final message, still breathless.

cherry: goodnight, dream of me ;)

jisung: already did

jisung: and tomorrow, it won’t be just a dream 😏

your thighs clenched at his words. you set your phone down slowly, pulse still racing as your back arched, head tipping against the pillow, fingers slipping faster, circling, stroking, dipping in just enough to keep you right on the edge. you let your other hand glide over your chest again, catching on your nipple, rolling it between your fingers the way he did, until your breath hitched, sharp and shaky. the image of him was seared into your brain now. jisung, shirtless in low light, his abs tensed, cum streaking his skin, the mess he made for you. you whimpered, legs trembling. your fingers curled and pressed just right, slick, practiced, desperate, and it hit you fast. hard. blinding. your body locked for a moment as the orgasm ripped through you. a low moan slipped from your lips as your thighs squeezed around your hand. his name echoing inside your skull — jisung. jisung. jisung.

🍒 DAY 7 OF THE BET - THE REMATCH.

you stepped into class wrapped in layers. a hoodie zipped up to your chin. another jacket thrown over it. a scarf around your neck even though it was barely cold enough to justify it. your cargo pants were the only part of your outfit not screaming i’m hiding something. karina blinked when she saw you. then frowned. then slowly cocked her head to the side like a cat who just caught a mouse faking it’s death, “why is your jacket zipped up that high?”

you waved her off, “no reason. i’m cold.”

“in the middle of a packed dance studio?,” she says, voice filled with judgment. you didn’t answer. you looked everywhere but her. which only made it worse. she narrowed her eyes, piecing the pieces together, “wait a damn minute–” you groaned but before you could say another lie, she grabbed your sleeve and yanked you into the corner where no one else was paying attention. then, without warning, she tugged your zipper halfway down, “karina–!”her eyes immediately went wide. your chest was littered with reddish-purple bruises, peeking over the edge of your bra, all the way up to your neck, it was almost like constellations in the sky, “oh my god.” you shoved her hands away, zipping up frantically. “you’re a fucking freak,” she whispered, eyes huge with delighted horror, “those are hickeys. so many hickeys.”

“keep your voice down!,” you hissed, tugging your scarf back up over your throat. karina just stared, speechless for once. then she looked you up and down again, like she was recalibrating. then she groaned, dragging a hand down her face, “fuck. am i gonna lose $125?”

you patted her shoulder, smug, “you shouldn’t have been so confident.” just then, the door swung open behind you and in walked jisung. nonchalant. hoodie slung over one shoulder. hair still a little damp like he’d just showered and didn’t bother drying it properly. that stupid smug walk like he wasn’t just sucking on your boobs and sending you a thirst trap less than twelve hours ago. he greeted a few people, bumped fists with someone from the back corner, smiled at a couple of girls and plopped down in his chair. you didn’t even mean to look at him. but you felt his eyes on you before you turned and sure enough — there it was. that cocky little smirk. his eyes dipped, just for a split second, to your fully zipped hoodie. then he gave you the most infuriatingly pleased expression you’ve ever seen. his tongue poking his cheek. you turned away immediately, face warm. “yup,” karina muttered beside you, “i’m gonna be broke by new year’s.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖

you barely had time to step in and close the door before you were spun around and pinned – not roughly, but with purpose. the mirror behind you cooled your back, a sharp contrast to the body suddenly flush against yours. jisung. one arm braced the wall behind your head, his other hand cupping the back of your skull so you wouldn’t hit the glass too hard. he kissed you hard, nothing tentative about it, like he’d been holding it in all day. “jisung–,” you gasped between breaths, but he was already unzipping your jacket and lowering his mouth to your neck. he hushed you, breath hot, “can’t risk the janitor walking in again.” the reminder sent heat straight down your spine. you felt his teeth graze just below your ear and your fingers tightened in the hem of his hoodie. his lips were relentless, moving down your jaw, your throat, marking up every spot of skin that he missed last night.

“you’re not even gonna pretend to rehearse?,” you murmured but your voice was shakier than you’d liked. “this is rehearsing,” he answered, smirking into your collarbone. you meant to say stop. you should’ve said stop. but your hands had already found their way under his shirt. his breath stuttered when your cool palms touched his skin. smooth, warm, muscles jumping slightly beneath your fingertips. he hasn’t felt this magnetic thrill in a long time. not since he learned how to sleep with girl after girl like it was putting on underwear. but there’s something about you. he can’t explain it. and maybe there doesn’t need to be an explanation for everything. you simply just pull him in again and again.

“i couldn’t focus all day,” he admitted, “kept thinking about…this.” his mouth ghosted over the same spots he marked last time, kissing each one. you tipped your head back, your fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt. he pulls it off quickly then unzipped your jacket all the way, letting it fall to the floor, leaving you in your black bra. he turned you around slowly, firmly, both hands gripping your waist as you settled in his arms, facing the mirror. the only thing that mattered now was the reflection in front of you — flushed skin, hungry eyes, and the man behind you who looked at you like he was about to ruin you, “i’m gonna make up for freshman year,” he said, voice low, mouth still pressing kisses to your neck. you blinked, already feeling dizzy, “are you now?”

“mmhm,” he reached behind your back and unhooked your bra with one hand, like muscle memory, then slid the straps off your shoulders and let it fall. the moment it hit the floor, his hands were on you, large, warm palms cupping your bare breasts, lifting them slightly like he was weighing them in his hands. you gasped, head rolling back against his shoulder. “look at you,” he murmured, but he wasn’t looking at your body. he was looking at your face in the mirror. watching your mouth fall open, your brows twitch, your body arch helplessly under his touch. then his fingers moved. he pinched your nipples slowly at first, deliberate and teasing, rolling them between his fingers, watching intently as your mouth parted and your thighs clenched. his thumbs swiped across the sensitive peaks, back and forth in tight circles until your breath hitched and your thighs squeezed together. “so pretty,” he smirked, tweaking them harder, dragging out a strangled whimper from your throat.

“—feels so good jisung,” you breathe, your hands flying to grip his hips. he kept playing with you like he had all the time in the world, alternating between gentle pressure and sharp, precise pinches that sent sparks straight to your core.

“you like that?” he murmured, tongue darting out to lick the shell of your ear, “these pretty tits… so fucking responsive.” you were panting, chest heaving, nipples aching under his relentless fingers. he twisted them again, and your knees buckled slightly. “gonna make sure you orgasm tonight,” his deep voice makes your thighs twitch but you refuse to give in that easily. you raise a brow, “aren’t you ambitious?”

he smirked against your neck, and before you could say anything else, he picks you up like you weighed absolutely nothing, and sits you on the couch. then he knelt on the floor, between your legs like he belonged there, fingers gripping the waistband of your cargo pants “these,” he muttered, dragging the fabric down your legs with one rough pull, your underwear along with it, “have been in my fucking way since you walked in.” he tosses them to the side, leaving you completely bare for him, the mirrors all around you making you feel a little self conscious. but before you could dwell on it, he ran his palms up your thigh, large hands covering half of your skin, slow and reverent, before spreading them apart with gentle pressure. the room felt suffocatingly hot, your skin flushed, your breath uneven. he paused, right there – his mouth hovering just shy of your center, teasing you with his breath. then he looked up at you, voice low, eyes locked on yours, “tell me how you like it,” he said, fingers gripping your thighs, “because i’m not stopping until i make you come.”

the words hit you harder than they should’ve. like a promise. like a challenge. like he doesn’t matter if it takes the janitor walking into this. you nod, trying to hold yourself together. jisung tilted his head, lips twitching in a smirk then his mouth found you slowly, carefully, like he meant it. like every second of contact mattered, tongue licking a slow stripe up your core before settling into a steady rhythm. no one has ever taken their time with you like this. your back hit the cushion with a whimpered sigh. “don’t fake anything with me,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin, “i’ll know. i want it real.” you tried to bite back your moan, but it slipped out anyway, raw, needy, “i’m not–,” your voice cracked as his tongue continued to swirl around your clit, “i don’t…i couldn’t fake this if i tried.”

his mouth paused just long enough for his next words to hit hard. “then watch yourself. i want you to see what i’m doing to you. see how your body reacts when someone finally gives a damn about your pleasure.” — the mirrors. wide and unforgiving, reflecting the wrecked mess of you bare, flushed, legs spread apart with jisung kneeling between them. and then he slipped a finger inside you. your breath hitched sharply, your thighs twitching as he worked it in slowly, deeply, curling it just enough to make your back arch, “fuck—jisung—”

“you’re so tight,” he groaned, eyes flicking up to make sure you were still watching, “look at what i’m doing to you.” he curled his fingers again, just right, hitting a spot inside you that made your hips jerk and your mouth fall open in a whine. “do you like this?” he said again, voice deep. “yes—fuck—just like that,” you panted, head tipping back, then forward again as he added a second finger, pushing in deeper, “ohh, right there jisung—please don’t stop—please.” he didn’t. he didn’t speed up or slow down. he kept it right there, just the way you liked it, hitting that spot that kept your toes curling and your moans increasing with every second. then he added his mouth again, tongue flicking against your clit while his fingers continued to move in that same torturous rhythm – slow at first. then deeper. faster. repeat. until your thighs tremble around him, “you’re shaking,” he murmured, voice thick, “you’re close, aren’t you cherry?”

“yeah,” you breathe, staring helplessly into the mirror, “so fucking close. no one’s ever—jisung–fuck,” you can’t even form a proper sentence anymore. the tension in your stomach ready to break at any moment. your fingers knotted in his hair as continued to move his mouth and his fingers. driving you closer and closer until you couldn’t keep your voice down, couldn’t pretend you had any control left. “i–i cant–,” your whole body was shaking, voice breaking into pieces.

“yes you can,” he commands, “you’re gonna come for me. right now. while you watch.” your eyes flicked up again, and in the mirror you saw it all. the way your chest rose and fell in shallow gasps. the way his shoulders flexed as he moved against you. the way your head tilted back as he worked you open like you were the only thing that mattered. and just as you were about to shut your eyes, his free hand slid up, and two of his fingers pressed against your lips. “suck,” he grunts. you didn’t hesitate. you parted your lips, letting his fingers slide in, your mouth wrapping around them. he groaned at the sight — at you moaning around him. his pace never wavering.

he leaned in, body close enough to steal your breath, “now look at how fucking sexy you are when you come,” you willed your eyes to keep open until you couldn’t, helpless moans vibrating around his fingers as your release slammed into you —harder than anything before. your body arched, shaking as you came around his hand and tongue, thighs closing in around his head until he had to hold them open, gripping your thighs like he’d never let go, every muscle locking up as your cry filled the night air. he felt it all. the way you clenched. the way your body trembled like it couldn’t handle it. and he kept going through every wave until you were gasping, body limp, completely unraveled.

when he finally pulled back, his lips were wet, his fingers glistening with your slick, looking proud and satisfied. you were breathless, dazed, eyes half-lidded as you finally looked at him again. he kissed your knee, your thigh, then your lips, “taste that?,” he whispered against your mouth, his tongue dragging against yours, “that’s all you,” your body still felt like it was floating as he pushed you down against the couch, his frame hovering over yours, “and i’m not done.”

you were limp beneath him, thighs trembling, skin flushed, pulse pounding your ears, “i can’t wait anymore,” he rasped, voice wrecked, almost angry with restraint, “i’ve been hard since the moment you walked into the studio,” he rocked his hips forward, letting you feel the full weight of him pressing against your thigh. you reached down your bodies, pushing his sweats off, his large cock bouncing up like that night in freshman year, “i’m not that boy anymore,” he said suddenly like he’d read your mind, “i’m not gonna fuck this up.” you wrapped your hand around him and his breath caught instantly. he was so thick. so hard. so hot it pulsed in your palm, “i know you’re not,” you whispered, “so do it.”

he lined himself up, rubbing his tip through your slick folds, teasing, testing, and your hips arched up toward him, desperate, “wait,” he said, breath hitching, “do you have…?”

you shook your head, breathless, “are you clean?”

he nods his head, “yes, i’m clean.”

your thighs clenched tighter around his waist, “then fuck me already.”

he didn’t hesitate. but instead of pushing in right away, he paused and then his voice dropped, “turn over.”

your heart stuttered, “what?”

“i want you to watch while i fuck you,” he growled. before you could even react, he grabbed your hip and flipped you over. your chest pressing to the couch, knees sinking into the cushions. you gasped, breath caught in your throat, as he reached down, grabbed your ass and spread you open. the mirrors around you caught everything — your surprised gaze, your parted lips, his hungry eyes. then he pushed in. slow, deep, stretching you inch by inch, and it was nothing like the first time. no awkward fumbling, no nervous apologies. just heat and pressure that made your back arch and a breathless moan claw out of your throat, “holy fuck,” you gasped, bracing yourself as your fingers dug into the cushions, “did you–jesus, jisung did you get bigger?” — that pulled a groan from deep in his chest, primal and low, a filthy sound that went straight to you, “you remember how i felt?,” he asked, voice strained, still sliding in, dragging out your torment, “because i haven’t stopped thinking about what you felt like since then.”

“y-yeah,” you gasped, clawing at his thigh, “but you didn’t feel like this—you didn’t feel this—big.” his hips stilled halfway inside, then he grabbed your hair in one hand and yanked your head up until your gaze met his in the mirror, his mouth crashing to your temple in a hot, open-mouthed kiss, “that’s because i didn’t know what i was doing back then,” then he slammed the rest of the way in with one rough thrust that tore a moan from you, so loud it didn’t even sound like you, “now i do.”

he filled you completely, stretching you in a way that made your knees tremble beneath you. you could barely breathe, “fuck,” you whispered, “i didn’t know you could get this deep.” he didn’t move right away. not yet. he just let you feel it – how thick he was, how every twitch made your walls clench around him. one hand gripping your hip hard, the other still tangled in your hair, keeping your gaze locked in the mirror. he lets out a soft laugh, “i’ve been dreaming about a rematch for two fucking years,” he said through gritted teeth. then he pulled out almost entirely, pushed you back down and slammed back in, sharp and brutal. you screamed. he was in so deep you swore you saw stars. your back arched off, body locking up as he started to move, his pace steady but deep, brutal, like he wanted to ruin you from the inside out, “holy—jisung—,” you panted, “you feel s-so full.” each thrust dragged a broken sound from your throat. your body trying to adjust and failing —because every time he pushed back in, it was like your body had to learn him all over again. “you’re so fucking tight,” he growled out, thrusts growing faster now, his fingers bruising into your hips, “do you feel that, cherry? you’re fucking gripping me,” you nodded, dazed, unable to speak. your arms shook with the effort of holding yourself up. every thrust knocked the air from your lungs, every snap of his hips pushed you further and further to the edge.

“gonna make you come again,” he panted, sweat dripping down his temple, “wanna feel you fall apart all over me.” his pace was relentless now. deep. dirty. loud. the sound of skin slapping and obscene sounds from the both of you echoing around the studio. your body couldn’t stop clenching around him, tight, warm, wet, and every thrust hit just right, “im not stopping,” he growled, “not until i make you forget every second of freshman year.”

“you already did,” you moaned. “jisung—fuck—i’m close again—,” his hand slipped between your thighs, fingers circling your clit in quick, perfect strokes, matching the way his cock pounded into you from behind. “come for me,” he said, voice frayed and guttural, “come while i’m inside you. let me feel it.” — and you did. it hit you like a lightning strike, your body tightening around him, toes curling, vision completely blurring, a scream tearing out of you as your orgasm tore through your entire body. you clenched around him hard, shaking, crying, falling apart with your forehead pressed against the couch. jisung’s groan was primal but he didn't stop. he kept thrusting, still fucking you through every wave, prolonging your high, making you sob his name over and over. “fuck—i’m gonna come,” he says, his thrusts getting messier and messier, “cherry–i’m–fuck–”

you reached back blindly, pushing at his abs, your voice raw, you wanted to taste him, wanted to feel him around your lips, “pull out.” he barely managed to obey, pulling out with a deep, shuddering moan, his cock flushed and twitching, soaked in both of you. before he could pump himself to finish, you spun around and wrapped your lips around him. his enitre body jolted, “oh—holy shit—,” his hand flew to your hair, eyes shutting in bliss as you sucked him deep, sloppy and perfect. your hand stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach. you tasted yourself on him and moaned around his cock, sucking harder, faster. he didn’t last. not after everything. “i’m—fuck—i’m gonna—,” he came with a cry, hips twitching as he spilled on your tongue, hot and thick. you swallowed it all, not breaking eye contact, until he finally sagged into the couch, pulling you into his arms. then, softly, through the haze of sweat and warmth, he laughed, “holy fuck,” he murmured, dragging a hand down his face, ”that was…”

you glanced over at him, still breathless, “yeah.” he turned his head toward you slowly, eyes heavy and warm, a proud smirk on his lips, “i told you round two would blow your mind.” you smiled, still trying to catch your breath, as your giggles filled his ears like music, “you really really did,” you share a smile until– knock. knock. knock. you both froze. another knock. this time louder. then a very tired voice, “are you two finished? it’s past 15 minutes of lock up.” your eyes widened in horror, “oh my god—” you hissed, scrambling upright, limbs like jelly, “the janitor.” jisung blinked, then burst into a laugh, dragging his shirt on, still breathless, “i completely forgot he existed.”

you stood up, way too fast, and immediately stumbled. your legs gave out beneath you, rubbery and useless. “whoa—” jisung caught you, arms around your waist in an instant, steadying you, “careful.” you shot him a glare, cheeks burning. he just smirked, looking way too proud of himself.“can’t walk straight already?” he teased, voice low, “should’ve warned you i was gonna break you tonight.” you swatted his chest, face flushed, but didn’t bother denying it. you could still feel him. you yanked on your clothes with shaking fingers, jacket barely zipped, hair a mess, and followed jisung as he opened the door.

the janitor stood just outside, arms crossed, mop in hand, expression unimpressed. you kept your eyes glued to the floor as you passed him, “i’m so sorry,” you muttered, barely audible. he just sighed and waved a hand, “college kids,” he muttered, “i don’t get paid enough for this.” you wanted to die. but when jisung’s hand found yours briefly, squeezing it in the hallway and whispering, “worth it,” in your ear, you couldn’t help the smile that pulled at your lips. because yeah. it really, really was.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

outside, the air was sharp and cool against your flushed skin. the sky had that deep, velvety black that only came after midnight, and the campus was nearly silent, save for the hum of the occasional streetlamp. jisung walked beside you, hands tucked into his hoodie pockets, glancing at you every few steps like he wasn’t sure if he should say something or not. he waited until you crossed the street, until the night wrapped fully around you both like a secret, before he finally spoke again, “cherry,” he said, voice a little quieter now, “i hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but…”

you glanced over, raised a brow, “hmm?”

he hesitated, “i’m… not looking for a relationship.”there was a pause. a heavy one. he was bracing for it. your face to fall, your voice to rise. the same thing that always happened after every hookup. every girl. except, unlike all the other girls, jisung actually enjoyed your presence. this friendship that wasn’t quite a friendship. he thinks he’ll be a little sad if you get angry. still, he was waiting for it. he’d heard it in different ways: “you’re such a dick.” “so you just used me?” “was this a game to you?”

he’d memorized every version. but then — you laughed. not a bitter one. not mocking. just light, genuine, almost amused. “yeah,” you said, shaking your head, “i know.”

he blinked, “you—what?” you looked over at him, hands stuffed into your own pockets, your voice teasing, “i wasn’t expecting a relationship from the school’s number one fuckboy. you don’t have to worry.” — another pause. longer this time. you weren’t mad. you weren’t heartbroken. you weren’t even disappointed. you were just… honest. and maybe a little dangerous for it. jisung didn’t answer right away. he stared straight ahead, jaw tight, processing that. all the girls before had wanted something. even if they’d said they didn’t. they’d always tried to mean more. push past what he could give. but you? you weren’t asking for anything. and somehow, that made you feel more real than anyone else he’d ever touched. in his head, the decision was final – this girl. you. his cherry. you were perfect. if he had to date someone just to get the boys off his ass about being a “cold-hearted fuckboy,” he thought it’d be you. no drama. no bullshit. you get it. you get him. you always have.

“still walking me home?” you asked, breaking him out of his thoughts.

“it’s too late for any woman to walk alone,” he said easily, nodding, “i may be a dick, but i’m not that much of a dick.”

🍒 DAY 8 OF THE BET - BE MY GIRLFRIEND.

jisung hates liars. you can call him cruel, heartless, toxic but he draws the line at lying. he’d been lied to once, brutally, gut-wrenchingly, and it had been enough to last a lifetime. promises of forever. of waiting. of purity. all shattered when he saw his highschool sweetheart tangled up with someone else. since then, he didn’t lie. he omitted. he deflected. he joked. but he didn’t lie. — so when he decided you were the perfect girl to play his girlfriend, not for real love, not for real feelings, but to shut everyone up. he wasn’t going to lie to you about it. not even a little. last night had changed things. not in the way people meant. not hearts and roses and dumb love songs. last night something clicked. you got him. you weren’t clingy or emotional or accusatory. you didn’t read too much into his silence or expect to fix himself overnight. you laughed when other girls would’ve cried.

finally, during water break, when the others were too tired to care, he stood up, walked across the studio and grabbed your wrist. “i–jisung–what–,” you sputtered, nearly tripping over your bottle as he pulled you out of the room. karina’s wide-eyed stare was the last thing you caught before the door slammed shut behind you. he didn’t stop walking until you were outside, behind the building, tucked into the edge of campus where the lights didn’t quite reach. secluded. quiet. he dropped your wrist. then he looked at you, “i have a favor to ask,” he whispered, like it was some sort of secret.

you looked up, a little breathless, “sounds dangerous…what is it?” jisung rubbed his palms on his sweats, a little nervous, which annoyed him and then said, bluntly, “will you be my girlfriend?”

you stared at him, pretending to process it. letting the silence stretch, even though your answer was already cemented in your mind the second he said those words. he looked so serious. like this was some great moral weight. but he didn’t know about the whispered conversation with your friends. the bet. this wasn’t a decision. this was a win. you tilted your head, played innocent, let your eyes soften just enough, “i thought you weren’t looking for a relationship?”

“i’m not,” jisung said, like it should have been obvious, “not really. not like–,” he cut himself off, pacing once, realizing how ridiculous it sounded now that he’s asked, before facing you again, “i just need to sell it. make it look real. the guys think i’m spiraling. they had a literal intervention. i need them off my back.”

you feigned hesitation, “so what, you want to fake date me?”

“no,” he said immediately, voice firm, “no, that won’t work. chenle already did the whole fake dating thing with his girl. the guy’s will smell it from a mile away,” he exhaled, shoving his hands into his pockets, “i need it to be real.”

you blinked, “real?”

“as in–,” he looked away, swallowing, “we date exclusively. in public. you stay the night. i walk you to class. we kiss and have sex even when no one’s watching. we act like we’re in love.”

you bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling, “let me get this straight,” you said, voice light, “you want me to pretend to be your girlfriend, but like, not pretend at all?” he nodded. dead serious. you raised a brow, “and what’s in it for me?”

that cocky little grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, the one that made girls swoon and your friends groan, “i’m pretty sure i gave you the best orgasm of your life last night,” he said inching closer, “be my girlfriend, cherry. i’ll make sure you get more of those. as many as you want.”

and there it was – the perfect hook. you let yourself smile this time. sweet. dangerous. like a girl who had no idea what she was doing. but you did. you knew exactly what you were doing. “alright,” you said softly, “let’s do it.”

his eyes flickered – surprise first, then something like gratitude. you added, teasingly, “but i’m not calling you a stupid nickname.” he laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. a small, boyish gesture that made something twinge in your chest before you could shove it away. because he really had no idea. no idea that the girl agreeing to this deal had a scoreboard in her head and a ticking clock to match. it wasn’t love. not yet. but if you had anything to do with it, it would be.

by new years, park jisung would fall for you. and when he does – you win.

you and jisung stood just outside the classroom door, his hand wrapped around yours. neither of you said anything. you didn’t need to. the second he squeezed your hand slightly, you understood. sell it. so you stepped back in, fingers laced. and just like you expected, the room went dead quiet. karina froze mid-sip from her water bottle. sion nearly dropped his phone. even professor taeyong raised an eyebrow but said nothing, merely adjusting his clipboard with a knowing glance. jisung didn’t let go. all he did was turn towards you, making sure every eye was still watching. then, with that same casual boldness that had driven all the girls insane, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your lips. not rushed. not forced. just solid. real. then he stepped back, a little smug, a little breathless and shot you a wink before strolling to the other side of the room like he didn’t just drop a bomb on the entire class. you turned, trying not to laugh at the dozen dropped jaws around you. karina mouthed what the fuck from across the mirrors. you just gave her a small, innocent shrug. like oops, i guess i really am that good.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

when jisung walked through the door, the dream house was too quiet. he knew something was off before he even saw them. all six of them were in the living room, spread out like they’d been waiting for hours. no music. no snacks — just mark, arms folded like a disappointed older brother. renjun, sitting with his legs crossed on the couch, like he was at some important business meeting. haechan standing, arms crossed, weight shifting like he was barely holding back. jeno on the armrest, unreadable. jamin leaning forward, elbows on his knees, eyes sharp. and chenle, uncharacteristically quiet, by the wall.

“...did someone die?.” jisung asked slowly. mark didn’t answer. just nodded toward the armchair, “sit.”

jisung gave a half-hearted chuckle, “what is this, another intervention?”

“don’t play dumb,” haechan said flatly, “word gets around fast.”

renjun tilted his head, “so…you have a girlfriend now? just like that?”

jisung didn’t flinch, “yeah. she’s my girlfriend.”

chenle’s eyebrows lifted, “if this whole thing is fake, i’ll have you know, i know the signs.”

jisung rolled his eyes, “we’re not fake dating…what? you think i’d recycle your trope?”

chenle opened his mouth to reply but haechan cut in sharply, “if you’re lying about this just to get us off your back–”

“i’m not.” jisung said. clear and final. mark leaned forward, voice level but stern, “we just had a serious conversation with you a week ago. you expect us to believe you’re suddenly healed and in love?”

“no,” jisung said, “i’m not in love. but i like her.”

jeno’s voice cut through, calm but laced with worry, “so why her? why now?”

jisung ran a hand through his hair. the easy answers were there. his usual lines. the charming grin. the shrug-it-off jokes. but he didn’t use them. instead, he met their gazes, one by one, and said, “she’s the only person who’s ever made me feel like i wasn’t completely faking it.” that quieted them for a beat. he kept on going, “she knows who i am. she doesn’t expect anything from me that i can’t give. she lets me breathe.”

there was a beat of quiet. jaemin broke it, “you sure you’re not using her to prove a point?” jisung’s jaw flexed. he knew this was coming. knew that the boys would see right through him. but still, it was annoying, “i’m not using her.”

renjun’s voice was quiet. the kind of quiet that made sure you listened, “you better not be. because if this turns out like every other fling, you’re not just hurting her. you’re setting yourself back again.”

“and you better not be lying to us, jisung,” haechan adds, a little tired, “because at this point? you’d only be lying to yourself.”

jisung inhaled through his nose, “i’m not lying.”

mark studied him, long and careful, “so…she’s gonna be with you at the christmas party tomorrow then?”

“of course,” jisung answered like it was obvious, “she’s my girlfriend. who else is she gonna be with?” — still, none of the boys nodded. none of them smiled. but none of them argued. the silence that followed wasn’t approval. it was conditional trust. the benefit of the doubt. and in the quiet of that moment, jisung realized something — he hadn’t lied. not once.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

the studio had gone quiet for the night. the music long stopped, mirrors fogged with the echo of movements that had faded into stillness. you were both flushed from rehearsal, sweat cooling on your skin, muscles pleasantly sore – but the energy between you was far from worn out. you were seated on the couch, twisting the cap back on your water bottle when jisung tugged at your wrist.

“come here,” he said, voice low but playful. you look at him suspiciously, “what?” he pulled again, stronger this time, until you gave in with a dramatic sigh and let him guide you into his lap, your legs sliding on either side of his hips. “jisung–,” you began, but he was already grinning up at you, smug and utterly relaxed with your weight on him.

“i just want you to sit here–” he said, hands sliding to your waist, fingers pressing lightly against your sides like he wasn’t even fully aware of how much he was touching you, “-easier to talk.”

“you’re touchy tonight,” you said, trying to keep your voice even. but your fingers were already curling into his hoodie.

“i’m your boyfriend,” he said with a shrug, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “shouldn’t i be?” you leaned back slightly, bracing your hands on his shoulder, “oh right, the convenient boyfriend,” you smirk.

“exactly,” he smiled, but it was softer now, his thumbs rubbing gentle circles along your lower back, “and since i’m your boyfriend…you have to come to the dream christmas party with me tomorrow night.”

you raised a brow, “have to?”

“yup,” he said without hesitation, “it’s in the fine print.” you gave him a teasing roll of your eyes, “what else is in the fine print?”

he tilted his head, pretending to think, his fingers dipping just under the back of your shirt, “you show up, make me look good, we go upstairs, i make you feel even better…,” he leaned in, breath brushing your lips, “oh and you have to wear something short and sexy,.”

you laughed, unable to help it, “you just want to show me off.”

he smirked, “obviously. you’re hot.”

you leaned in, mouth close to his, “okay, i’ll show up in something short and sexy, what else?”

he tilted his head, eyes flicking between your lips and your eyes, “you stay glued to my side the whole night. no disappearing. you let me be handsy on the dancefloor.”

your breath caught, lips parted, “you’re really committing to this role.”

“i take my relationships very seriously,” he said, voice low, “especially the parts with kissing.” one of his hands rose slowly, sliding up your spine, under your shirt, across bare skin. the other came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, like he needed to anchor you there.

then softer, like a secret, “cherry,” he murmured, “i’m not pretending when i touch you.” the words weren’t cocky. weren’t cheeky. they were honest. quiet, sudden, deep. you opened your mouth, to say what, you weren’t sure, but he kissed you before you could answer. it wasn’t rushed. it wasn’t even lust-heavy…yet. it was slow. real. a little dangerous. your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie as you kissed him back, letting yourself melt into the press of his lips, the way his hands held you like you were something breakable. then…his hands moved again. slipping under your shirt now, palming your waist, thumbs brushing just under your bra, like he knew exactly what he was doing. your hips shifted, instinctively, helplessly, grinding ever so slightly against his, enough to feel him hard beneath you, heat searing through thin layers of fabric. the tension cracked. his breath caught. his mouth moved faster now, hands gripping harder. he dragged you forward again, grinding you into him. the friction was dizzying. enough to hurt. enough to want more. a low groan vibrated in his throat, swallowed by the heat of your kiss. your fingers fisted in the front of his hoodie, needing something to hold onto as your thighs clenched around him. you weren’t sure if you wanted to push closer or push away, but it didn’t matter. he wasn’t letting you go.

“jisung,” you gasped, pulling back just enough to breathe, your lips swollen, dazed, “we can’t— we can’t keep doing this to the janitor.” he blinked. and then he lost it. full-body laughter exploded out of him, his head tipping back against the couch with a ridiculous grin stretching wide across his face, “god—” he wheezed, still clutching you, “he probably hates us.” you dissolved into laughter too, burying your face in his shoulder, half from embarrassment, half from how insanely turned on you still were, “i think we’re on a hit list,” you said between breaths.

“he’s got a support group,” jisung snorted. you smacked his chest, grinning, “shut up.” he grinned wider, pulling you back by your waist, and this time his mouth landed right beneath your jaw, hot, open, biting softly. you gasped again, “i’m serious.”

“so am i,” his voice was low again, teasing, “i think he cries in his car after.”

“jisung—” he looked up, smug, eyes dark, “yes, my girlfriend?” you hated how hot it was when he said it like that—cocky and warm and just a little too pleased with himself.

“you’re an idiot.”

he leaned in again, mouth brushing yours, “five more minutes,” he murmured, “and then we can be respectful citizens again.”

🍒 DAY 9 OF THE BET - REARRANGE YOUR GUTS.

the dream fraternity looked like the north pole had been possessed by sin. red and green LED lights pulsed through the hallways. plastic snow clung to the windows. bass-heavy remixes of christmas songs thumped through the walls. mistletoe dangled dangerously from the door frames. the whole house was filled with the unholy combination of spiked eggnog, peppermint vodka and a crowd of way too attractive twenty-somethings dressed like they were auditioning for a holiday-themed music video. slutty mrs. clauses. shirtless reindeers. fishnet-wrapped elves. you walked in with jisung. you were wearing red. the kind of red that didn’t whisper holiday cheer but warning: distraction ahead. tight, short, hugging every curve in that kind of way that made jaws slacken and jisung tighten his grip on your waist without even realizing it. he looks good too. black jeans, a white button up with the buttons barely buttoned, his smug smile in full effect. you were glued to the hip. easy smiles. quick touches. shots that went down too fast. it was easy to be his girlfriend when the lust between you pulsed like a second heartbeat. easy to be his girlfriend when his hands found your waist like they belonged there. and maybe, just maybe, you liked it a little too much.

sometime around your fifth shot. you and jisung were ambushed. cornered in the kitchen by the full dream lineup and their suspiciously pretty, incredibly judgmental girlfriends – jaemin with angel. jeno with bunny. mark with kitten. chenle with baby. haechan with princess. NCTU’s golden couples. and they were all looking at you like you were a new transfer student stepping into the middle of a high school cafeteria. jisung kept it cool. one arm slung around your waist, the other gripping a red solo cup like it was a stress ball.

“hey,” he said casually, “this is my girlfriend, y/n.” the word still sounded strange, even though you’d heard it before. he said it like it wasn’t borrowed. like it was true.

“you didn’t, like, hire her off craigslist?,” haechan asked, sipping his drink.

you rolled your eyes, “does craigslist even exist anymore, grandpa?”

princess laughed immediately before disguising it with a cough when haechan stared her down with a look, almost saying you’re supposed to be on my side.

“oh, she’s funny,” bunny whispered to jeno.

“and hot,” baby whispered louder.

“thank you,” you said sweetly.

kitten raised a brow, “so…how’d you two meet?”

jisung opened his mouth, but you beat him to it, “we’ve actually known each other since freshman year. dance majors. it’s a long story,” you say casually.

angel smirked, “who made the first move?”

“technically? me but he did the heavy lifting,” you replied, sipping from your cup.

baby smiled, excited for her next question, like she couldn’t believe it was her turn to ask this. “is he good in bed?”

jisung choked on his drink, blush immediately creeping up his ears. you grinned, “very. i could barely walk after.”

the girls leaned in like you were telling ghost stories. princess smirked, “big?”

“the pictures don’t do him justice…i wasn’t sure he was gonna fit,” you answer with a sly smile, still calmly sipping your drink. their jaw drops. meanwhile, the guys stayed quiet, all standing behind their girlfriends, arms draped protectively, watching your back-and-forth carefully. looking for cracks, inconsistencies. but you knew your story, and you delivered it well. no hesitation. no flinching. and you haven’t said a single lie. jisung physically recoiled, his body burning, “okay–wow–okay, do you guys have to do this?” there was something vulgar about you showing him off. something that made all the blood rush to his cock.

“yes,” the group said in unison.

“this is practically tradition now,” jaemin added, “fresh meat gets grilled.”

“what’s his nickname for you?,” chenle cuts in, smirking. if you didn’t have a nickname, jisung was fucked.

“cherry,” you say easily. not even thinking about it.

“awee, that’s so cute,” bunny sighs.

“i like her,” angel decided.

“yeah,” baby nodded, “she passes.”

“what do you like most about him?,” kitten asked, not convinced just yet. it was the hardest question of the night. not because you didn’t have an answer. but because it wasn’t about lust. or performance. or fun. it was real. your eyes found jisung, his gaze met yours, a question in his eyes. you smiled, soft, “he makes me laugh,” you said, voice steady but soft, and for the first time that night, your teasing tone faded into something honest. jisung, who had been nursing his drink beside you, blinked, just once. you didn’t look at him. you kept your eyes on kitten, who had asked the question, but you could feel the way he stilled beside you, “i don’t have to pretend around him,” you went on, “like, i’ve never felt the need to act cooler or tougher or sweeter just to keep his attention. he’s already seen the awkward, most humiliating parts of me and he doesn’t flinch.”

jisung shifted, a tiny lean toward you. like your words had reached somewhere he hadn’t meant to expose. you glanced at him for a split second. his face was unreadable, but his grip on his cup had loosened, “and,” you added, with a small smile, “even when he’s annoying or smug… he listens. he notices things. he remembers them. he just…gets me.”

for a second, there was a beat of silence. even the music from the living room felt far away. jisung just looked at you like he was trying to memorize the moment. and then princess let out a dramatic sigh, “okay, what the fuck, that was actually beautiful.” the other girls murmured in agreement, while the boys exchanged glances, a little stunned.

chenle clapped once, “it was convincing.”

haechan narrowed his eyes then adds, “still feels suspicious.”

then jeno grinned, “one last thing.” he pointed upward with his drink and like a synchronized sitcom cue, everyone’s heads tilted up — directly above you and jisung, taped to the cabinet, dropping slightly but still unmistakable there — was a sprig of glitter, plastic mistletoe. you turned your head to jisung. he was already looking at you. no nerves. no hesitation. his cup hit the counter behind you and then his hand was on your jaw, guiding you into a kiss like it was second nature. like it was already a habit. it wasn’t rushed. wasn’t dramatic. just firm, familiar and too easy to forget you weren’t alone. the girls let out a chorus of ooooohs, some random drunk in the back wolf-whistled and chenle rolled his eyes, “it’s the holiday. let them have their fake love story.”

finally, mark shrugged, “fine. you passed the test. for now.”

jaemin added, “but if you hurt him…”

you raised a brow, “he’ll deserve it.” that made them laugh. jisung didn’t say anything. but he looked at you for a second longer than necessary. there was something soft in his eyes now, something warmer than the flush of alcohol in his cheeks. and for the first time, the boys looked… quietly convinced. the group slowly began to disperse, satisfied with their interrogation. the golden couples peeling off one by one – jaemin and angel returning to the living room, bunny tugging jeno toward the drinks table, mark whispering something to kitten that made her roll her eyes before laughing softly, chenle and baby starting a beer pong game, and haechan and princess slipping away mid-banter, their bickering fading into the music. you and jisung stayed in the kitchen for another beat, sharing a knowing glance.

“do you think we passed?,” you asked, nudging him.

he raised an eyebrow, “you basically said i rearranged your guts in front of five of my hyungs and their girlfriends. we passed with flying colors.”

you laughed, bumping your shoulder against his, “they asked. i answered.” he smirked, grabbing your hand and tugging you back into the living room where people were dancing. arms in the air. offbeat footwork. someone doing the worm in a corner for absolutely no reason. and it was fun. you and jisung danced, easy and laughing, like no one was watching. like it didn’t matter. like your bodies knew the rhythm of each other already. he spun you once, exaggerated and dramatic, then dipped you too low, catching you just in time. you squealed, smacked his shoulder, and he grinned like he’d been waiting all night for that exact moment. and then you saw them. your friends – karina, sophia, sion and dongpyo. all standing near the wall, cups in hand, clearly people-watching. except they weren’t watching just anyone they were watching you. four pairs of widened eyes with expressions that are a mix of disbelief and celebration. you caught their eyes across the dance floor and coolly, confidently, held up two fingers, rubbing them against your thumb – the money signal. karina groaned on the spot, face-palming like she couldn’t believe you were really winning. sophia snorted into her drink. sion gave you the slow, proud nod of a man witnessing history. dongpyo let out a loud, echoing “YES!” that got drowned out by the bass drop but still made people look. only the four of them knew what it meant. the win was yours. soon.

you turned back to jisung, smile still tugging at the corner of your lips. he didn’t notice the exchange. and then, somewhere between songs, his hand slipped low on your waist. he leaned in close, his voice a quiet, honey-smooth murmur against your ear, “i’m pretty sure,” he said, “the fine print included going upstairs and making you feel even better.” your heart skipped a beat. and just like that, he was pulling you up the stairs. the party fades behind you, the pulse of bass and drunken voices muffled as jisung shuts the door to his room with a quiet click. his hand is still laced with yours, and your skin is buzzing — from alcohol, from adrenaline, from him. he guides you inside, gently sitting you down on the edge of his bed. his room doesn’t look much different from freshman year, the led lights are still blue, casting soft shadows across the room, making the moment feel suspended in its own little bubble.

jisung moves over to his speakers and grins, “got a christmas present for you.” before you can ask what, the unmistakable beat of pony starts to play, your eyes widen “oh my god,” you burst out laughing, “no fucking way.”

jisung looks over his shoulder, that shit-eating grin growing, he watches you laugh, “you remember this?”

“how could i forget?,” you try to contain your laughter, but then jisung starts performing. body rolls, thrusts – slow, deliberate, confident, every motion teasing. like he’s channeling his own magic mike show. his shirt hits the floor first, and you have to bite down on your lip as his fingers trail over his abs. then he grinds on floor, hips rolling with every beat, pants inching down gradually until the only thing between you and his dick is a thin pair of black boxers. and even that’s barely doing its job. his bulge is already obscene, thick and heavy, the shape of him outlined perfectly. you swear you can see the weight of it. your thighs instinctively press together.

“you’re drooling,” he teases, before parting your legs open and sliding up in between them, still body rolling. “oh, shut up,” you giggled, smacking his chest. but your hands stay there, fingers trailing down the lines of his abs, then lower, his cock straining against his briefs.

“you want me to keep going?” he murmurs, voice low and teasing.

you nod, breathless, “take them off.”

“say please.” you roll your eyes, then murmur it right against his mouth, “please.” he groans and strips the last layer off, and fuck. you’ve seen him hard before. you’ve felt him. but nothing compares to this — to the way he stands in front of you, completely, bare and unashamed, cock hard and heavy, curving up toward his stomach.

“tongue-tied already?” he teases. you reach for him without thinking, wrapping your fingers around the base of his length, “you’re so big, jisung.”

he hisses, hips twitching, “and you take every inch like a good girl, don’t you?,” he mutters, a finger under your chin. the words make you clench around nothing. he pulls you to your feet, undressing you slowly — like he’s unwrapping something precious. your dress slips off your shoulders. your panties slide down your legs. when you’re finally naked, he drags his eyes up your body and groans, “fucking perfect.”

you’re already soaking when he takes a seat at the edge of his bed, pulling you into his lap and guiding you to straddle him. he kisses you once, deep and messy, before pulling back, “condom?” you shake your head no, “just pull out again,” you breathe, pulling him closer, already grinding down against him.

he groans, “fuck, you’re gonna kill me.” with one hand wrapped around his cock, you line him up, and then you sink down. it’s not graceful. it never is with jisung. it’s filthy and slow and overwhelming. your walls stretch to take him, breath catching in your throat as he fills you up. he’s too big. he knows he’s too big. he lives for the way your body struggles to take all of him, “fuck, cherry,” he groans, head falling back, “you always forget how big i am until i’m inside you, huh?”

you whimper, jaw dropping, digging your nails into his shoulders, “too big—jisung, fuck.”

“take your time,” he breathes, voice barely holding together, “you got it.” — you feel the stretch, the pressure. when you finally sit all the way, you cling to him, forehead to forehead, panting. then his hand slides down your stomach, fingers spreading wide just beneath your ribs. this new angle was intense. “look,” he whispers, awe in his voice, “you see that?” you glance down. there’s a visible bulge pressing up in your belly. a shape. him. you moan, soft and wrecked, and jisung groans like he’s going to lose it, his eyes are locked on it, completely wrecked, “that’s me,” he says darkly, rubbing slow circles over the visible shape of his cock inside you, “so fucking deep. i’m inside your stomach, cherry.”

“holy shit,” you breathe, whimpering, “i feel everything,” you tighten around him just to feel his reaction and he hisses through his teeth, fingers digging into your ass, “you like that?,” he practically growls, “knowing how deep i am?”

“i love it,” you groan, rolling your hips.

“you were made for this,” he grunts, lifting his hips into you, “made for me.” your hands claw at his chest as you begin to move, slow at first, circling your hips as he groans beneath you. every thrust hits deep, dragging across every nerve, every sweet spot, until your thighs are shaking and you can’t stop the sounds spilling from your lips.

he grabs one breast, tongue lapping over your nipple, then sucks hard, while his fingers pinch the other. you cry out, body jerking, “jisung—fuck, slow down with the marks,” you gasp, “do you know how much concealer i’ve been using just to hide the other ones?”

“i don’t give a shit,” he murmurs, laughing into your skin, then switching to the other, sucking even harder, “they’ll see you’re mine.” — you start riding him in earnest, bouncing in his lap, your thighs burning, his cock stretching you perfectly over and over again. the room is filled with nothing but moans, wet sounds, skin on skin. he grabs your ass, thrusting up into you harder, “look at you. stuffed full. you love it, don’t you?” you nod, unable to speak, that heat in your stomach threatening to break with every thrust, “fuck—jisung, i’m close—,” you choke out.

“come for me, cherry” he pants, “i wanna feel it. feel you squeezing me.” he slams up into you at just the right angle. and it hits. your orgasm shatters, head tossed back, nails sinking into his shoulders, thighs shaking as your walls clamp down around him. your entire body jerks as the wave pulls you under, collapsing against his chest, breath gone. but jisung doesn’t stop. he’s still thrusting up into you, faster now, chasing his own high. his rhythm turns brutal, desperate, driving into you so deep and quick it knocks the air right out of your lungs. you scream, overstimulated and wrecked, the pleasure riding that fine line between too much and not enough. “jisung—” you gasp, voice hoarse, eyes watering, “too much—”

“i know, cherry,” he groans, voice thick with hunger, “but i need you. just a little more. let me feel you again.” you cling to him, moaning helplessly as his cock keeps dragging along that oversensitive spot inside you, again and again. it stings, sharp and raw, but your body starts to give way to it, the pain blurring into pleasure, nerve endings frayed and sparking as the burn starts to fade. then it coils again. that low, unbearable ache in your belly, winding up faster than before, tighter. you cry out, overwhelmed, mind blank as that second orgasm barrels toward you with no mercy, “jisung—fuck—again—i’m gonna—”

“do it,” he groans, rutting up harder. and you do. you break all over again, back arching hard, a sob ripping from your throat as your second orgasm tears through your already sensitive body. it slams into you like a crashing wave, stealing your voice, your breath, your everything. your pussy fluttering around him so tight and wet it forces a strangled sound from his throat.

“fuck, fuck—i’m coming—” he pulls out fast, just in time, pumping himself through it as hot release splashes over your stomach and chest. his head drops to your shoulder, breath hot and panting against your neck. you’re shaking in his lap, every inch of you trembling, ruined and flushed and boneless. the room is wrecked with slick, heat, and the aftershocks of everything you just gave each other. then jisung moves. soft hands. gentle touches. he grabs his shirt from the floor and gently wipes you clean, careful with your still-quivering skin. as he goes, he peppers kisses to your collarbone, your sternum, the tip of your chin—each one a quiet apology and a reverent thank-you.

“did i hurt you?” he murmurs, still breathless but gentle now, “talk to me.”

you manage a shaky laugh, curling into his neck, “no,” you whisper, “that was perfect…just… fuck.”he exhales slowly, like he’s letting go of something he hadn’t even realized he was holding, and pulls the both of you up to his pillows, tucking the covers around you. his arms wrap around your waist tightly as he pulls you flush to his chest, pressing a kiss to your temple, then another to your cheek, then your jaw. when he’s sure you’re safe, warm, and steady in his arms, he lets his body relax beneath yours. and when you finally found your voice, you murmur, “by the way… happy anniversary.”

he stills. then pulls back to look at you. “wait…no way.” you grin sleepily, a tiny smirk on your lips. his eyes widened. then he laughs, soft and amazed. “wow. can you believe we were those same awkward freshmen?”

you smile, eyes fluttering shut, “thank god we’re not. because you knowing what to do with your dick is the best thing that’s happened to my sex life.” he snorts, cheeks pink as he buries his face in your neck, “shut up.” then he pulls the blanket tighter around both of you, arm wrapped around your waist, breath steadying against your skin.

🍒 DAY 10 OF THE BET - A HOLY NIGHT.

you wake up tangled in warm sheets. jisung’s arm is still draped around your waist, his chest rising and falling steadily against your back, his face buried in the curve of your neck like he can’t stand to let you go even in sleep. you stretch, smiling to yourself as the memories of last night flood back — pony, his hand on your stomach, and the way he whispered mine with his lips against your throat. now, the ache lingers between your thighs, deep in your hips, your skin humming with the memory of him. he’s behind you, his breath warm against the back of your neck. you can feel his morning wood pressed against you, thick and hot, heavy against the curve of your ass through nothing but skin. you think about turning over. saying good morning. maybe teasing him. but then he shifts again, hips nudging forward instinctively. there’s a pause. a sleepy groan. and then— he’s inside you.

you gasp, eyes flying open, mouth parting on a broken sound as he buries himself in you with one slow, lazy thrust. thick, deep, stretching you open like he owns you, “jisung—” you whisper, voice already breathless. a low groan rumbles from his chest as he presses closer, his body molding to yours, keeping you in place with his arm still locked around your waist. “fuck… still so warm,” he murmurs against your shoulder, “still wet.”

“i’m sore,” you breathe, shivering as he pulls back and slides in again, just as deep, “so sore…”

“good,” he groans, “wanna keep you sore all day.”the words make your walls flutter around him, and he notices — of course he does, “yeah? you like that?” he whispers, nuzzling your neck, fucking you in slow, steady rolls of his hips, he brings one of your legs up, wrapping it around his hips for easier access, hitting you just right, “waking up with me inside you, still wrecked from the night before?”you can’t even answer. everything feels too good. you’re still heavy with sleep, and every nerve feels exposed. like the drowsy haze has stripped away all your defenses. his cock drags against your sensitive walls. and the stretch, the heat, the fullness—it’s overwhelming. “i can’t—fuck,” you choke out, fingers gripping the sheets as your hips rock back into him, “i’m already so close.”

“that’s it,” he breathes, curling tighter around you, his chest flush against your back, his hand sliding between your thighs to find your clit, “want you to soak my cock first thing in the morning.” he circles your clit slow, teasing, while his thrusts grow deeper, more purposeful, thick, gliding friction that has your whole body trembling, “please—jisung—oh my god—”

“let go,” he whispers, “let me have it.” you fall apart with a strangled cry, legs shaking under the covers, hips jerking against his as your orgasm rushes through you — sharp and fast and almost unbearable in your half-asleep state. he moans your name into your shoulder as your walls clamp down around him, pulsing and wet. and then he’s gone. unraveling with you, cursing under his breath as he thrusts once, twice more. he spills inside you with a groan so low it vibrates against your spine. you both go still — breathing heavy, bodies flushed, tangled under the sheets with his cock still inside you, keeping you full. your brows draw together slightly as you feel his warmth buried deep inside you.

“…fuck, jisung,” you blink, voice still wrecked and lazy, “did you just come inside me?”

he exhales a soft laugh, nosing at your jaw, sleepy and smug, “don’t worry, cherry. got a morning-after pill somewhere in the condom drawer.”

you snort, still breathless, and let out a soft laugh, “thank god,” you let your head fall back onto the pillow, chest still rising and falling, legs still weak, “because i am not ready to carry your kids.” there’s a pause. then he smirks, pressing another kiss to your skin, slower this time, more dangerous. “don’t tempt me.” you turn your head just enough to catch the gleam in his eyes, “was that a threat or a promise?”

he groans playfully, shifting his hips just enough to make you gasp again, “say one more thing and i will go for round two,” he counters, still nestled against you, his cock softening but still inside, like he can’t stand to leave your body just yet. you laugh, breathless and warm. you both lie there for a moment longer — hearts racing, skin sticky, limbs tangled beneath the weight of the duvet. his fingers trace lazy circles on your stomach, still holding you close.

he presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder. “merry christmas, cherry,” he murmurs, voice tender and low.

you smile, heart full, “merry christmas, jisung.” you finally turn in his arms, and he meets you halfway, pressing a soft, slow kiss to your lips – warm, gentle, sweet.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

twenty minutes later, the two of you are downstairs, you’re standing in the middle of a surprisingly clean kitchen, definitely not as wrecked as the living room. you’re dressed head to toe in him — jisung’s oversized pajama top swallowing your frame, his boxers peeking out beneath the hem, and his fuzzy gray socks slouching halfway down your calves. jisung pulls a mixing bowl from the cabinet as you roll up your sleeves, “alright, let’s get to work, baker park.”

“i’m warning you now,” he says, weirdly serious, “i burn toast.” he wasn’t lying. you regret everything about two minutes in. jisung is a disaster. he mistakes salt for pepper, almost washed the chocolate chips with water and soap, nearly cracks an entire egg shell into the batter, and at one point tries to microwave the butter with the foil still on. you catch it just in time.

“i said i burn toast!,” he defends, pouting as he stirs what might possibly be the lumpiest cookie dough on earth. you lean in, scraping the sides of the bowl for him, “you’re lucky you’re cute.”

“you think i’m cute?” he teases, eyes gleaming.

“shut up,” you nudge him, rolling your eyes.

he takes a pinch of the batter and tastes it, “mmm, tastes like… regret.” you dissolve into laughter before carefully placing the tray into the oven and then squealing when he lunges at you, batter-covered fingers raised like claws. “don’t you dare—,” you scream, grabbing the spatula to keep him an arms length away. “too late!,” he says, that mischievous smirk growing with every second. he chases you around the kitchen island, the two of you shrieking with laughter, “jisung, stop!” you gasp, cheeks aching from smiling too much. “never!” he says, matching your expression. you finally spin around and catch him mid-lunge, pressing a quick, sticky kiss to his mouth. it stuns him. for just a second. the next he’s grabbing you by the hips and lifting you onto the counter like it’s second nature, sliding between your knees. his lips find yours again — slower, deeper, heated. you kiss him back, fingers threading into his hair, the sweetness of chocolate still lingering on his tongue. one of his hands trails up your thigh, fingers sneaking beneath the hem of his shirt on your body. you break the kiss with a breathless laugh, batting his hand away, “jisung.”

“what?,” he groans, still chasing your lips.

“the guys might catch us.”

“i don’t care.”

“well, i do,” you grin, pressing your forehead to his, “we’re not about to get banned from the kitchen on christmas morning.” the oven beeps. you stick your tongue out at him, earning a small chuckle from him before slipping down to check the cookies. despite the chaos — the salt incident, the finger-licking sabotage, they actually smell… good. you pull one from the tray, still warm and golden at the edges, and break it in half. steam curls from the center. jisung watches you nervously. you take a bite. pause. he squints, “what? is it bad?”

you blink, “wait. no… jisung.”

he looks ready to panic, “what? oh god, what?”

“these are actually good.” you hold the half-cookie out to him and he bites into it skeptically.

his eyes widen, “oh my god. no way. we made good cookies.” you're both stunned for a second — and then burst into simultaneous laughter. jisung grabs you by the waist again, sitting you back up on the counter, calmer now. you eat your cookies in peace, his arms lazily around your waist.

thats when the door opens — mark and kitten shuffle in first, holding hands and wearing matching hoodies that definitely weren’t hers yesterday. his lips are still a little puffy, and her neck is suspiciously turtlenecked, despite the heater being on. jaemin and angel wander in next, blanket-wrapped and practically glowing. angel’s got that just-got-worshipped-for-an-hour hair, and jaemin’s jawline is kissed raw. he doesn’t even try to hide the hickeys. jeno and bunny follow, holding hands, both flushed, looking like they got exactly two hours of sleep and the rest was cardio. bunny’s lips are glossed but smudged, and jeno has a fresh bite mark right below his ear. then there’s chenle and baby, who enter gossiping about things that happened last night. chenle’s shirt is inside out. baby’s wearing his sweats. neither of them cares. haechan and princess saunter in last, arguing about who took up more blanket space while princess is literally still wearing haechan’s boxers and he’s trailing behind her like a lovesick puppy.

then there’s renjun, standing in the doorway, looking like he’s witnessing the aftermath of a hormone-fueled high school musical. his eyes scan the room, at all the half-dressed couples, the stolen looks, the flour-dusted PDA, and he sighs like he’s aged forty years overnight, “is this a kitchen or a post-orgy snack break?”

kitten hums, curled under mark’s arm, “well, it is christmas.”

mark grins, “it was a holy night.”

renjun stares, his jaw dropping, “you did not.”

“silent night,” chenle chimes in, “not so silent anymore.” he high fives mark and baby at the same time.

jeno, smug as ever, grabs a cookie, pulling bunny into his side. “we all woke up feeling very festive.”

bunny takes one look at you on the counter in jisung’s arms and smirks, “please tell me you got railed too. you look like it.”

jisung presses a kiss to your neck without missing a beat, “twice.”

the girls laugh. the guys cheer. renjun looks like he wants to stick a fork inside the toaster, “can we please not do foreplay in the kitchen where I make my eggs?,” he sighs.

“you make eggs like twice a month,” jisung retorts.

“still! this is sacred ground,” he huffs, “why does this house suddenly feel like one of those romcom movies where everyone’s in love but me?” he mutters bitterly.

kitten takes a bite of one of the cookies and pauses, “wait… these are actually kind of perfect?”

you and jisung share matching, smug grins. you giggle into his hoodie when he says, not even trying to be quiet, “i might have to keep you forever if you keep making cookies like this.” the room falls silent. your breath catches. you stiffen, but jisung doesn’t even notice — too busy playing his boyfriend role and looking at you like you hung the moon. your fingers curl instinctively around his shoulder, the corner of your mouth twitching up, stunned and warm all over.

then, haechan, without missing a beat, “yup. he’s down bad.”

renjun drops into one of the chairs, “i hate it here.”

haechan leans toward renjun with a smirk, “you’re just mad you didn’t get to wake up with someone in your shirt.”

renjun raises a brow, “you’re right. i woke up without being suffocated in someone’s armpit. can’t relate.” princess gasps in mock offense and haechan laughs, tugging her closer. meanwhile, you and jisung stay tangled together on the counter. he’s brushing crumbs from your mouth with his thumb. you press a lazy kiss to his finger. he hums contentedly. and unbeknownst to both of you — mark, jaemin, jeno, chenle, haechan and renjun all catch the way jisung looks at you. the way he doesn’t even try to be cool about it anymore. his hands are gentle on your waist. that proud little grin on his lips. the softness in his voice. the way he looks like he finally stopped running. and quietly, without a word, all six of them glance at each other. just brief eye contact. they don’t say it aloud. they don’t have to. but every single one of them is thinking the same thing – he’s going to be okay. after everything, the quiet sadness jisung was drowning in, the late-night walks alone, the way he’d crack a joke just to change the subject, the distance he never explained. it’s all fading. replaced with the boy they remember – soft. warm. grounded. whole. present. and it’s because of you.

renjun breaks the silence again before anyone could catch on, a tiny smile on his face, “oh god. now you all are doing the heart-eyes thing? is this a cult? are the cookies laced?”

“you okay, jun?” bunny teases. renjun narrows his eyes, “no. i’m surrounded by couples who all had sex last night, this kitchen smells like frosting and pheromones, and i’m emotionally third-wheeling six relationships.”

angel opens her arms up, “come here. you can join me and jaemin.” jaemin nods, reaching out to ruffle his hair, “we’ll make room.”

renjun immediately ducks away, “get your cooties off me.” the room dissolves into laughter. someone cranks up the christmas playlist until it’s too loud. and the kitchen — frosting-smeared, sugar-dusted, chaos-filled — becomes the softest, happiest, most chaotic love nest on earth.

🍒 DAY 11 OF THE BET - LITTLE FREAKS.

everyone had gone home for a bit over the holiday break. a quick return to normal families, traditional dinners, distant relatives asking too many questions. not you. not jisung. he didn’t want to deal with his family’s concerned eyes, not when they looked at him like he was one bad choice away from completely falling apart. you didn’t want to go home. not when all anyone would ask about was your nonexistent love life. your friends hadn’t left either, too lazy.

so you invited jisung along – bowling sounded harmless enough. you definitely didn’t expect him to stick to you like velcro. he was practically glued to your side, one arm always slung casually around your waist, sometimes on your thigh. his head rested on your shoulder while you picked out your bowling ball, fingers laced through yours even when you were just waiting for your turn — the moment jisung excused himself to the bathroom, your friends pounced.

“okay, what the hell is going on?” karina hissed, leaning so far across the table she nearly knocked over her drink, “since when did you guys get so close?”

“did you see how he looked at her?,” dongpo asked, incredulous, “like she hung the fucking stars.”

you leaned back in your seat, trying not to look startled, “you guys are being dramatic,” you said, reaching for your drink, “it’s just casual.”

“casual?” sophia echoed, “girl, he kissed your shoulder. twice. no one kisses shoulders casually.”sion was squinting at you like he was trying to see through your soul, “you’re holding hands. you’re sharing drinks. he calls you cherry…are we still pretending this is just for convenience? for the bet?”

you shrugged, a little too carefully, “look, relax. i’m acting. that’s the whole point.”

“you don’t look like you’re acting,” karina said softly. her words made something uncomfortable shift in your chest. “and you’re smiling differently,” dongpyo said, suspiciously, “like, he says something and your face does this… soft thing.”

“he’s the one practically clinging to me,” you said, defensive, “that’s not on me.”

“maybe,” sion said, “but where’s the part where you roll your eyes when guys get clingy? where’s the part where you run the second things get… warm?”

you paused, fingers tightening around your cup. you tried to deflect, “it’s just physical, okay? you all saw how touchy he was. jisung’s half the work already.”

“i mean, you’re not exactly pulling away,” sophia added, “we know you, remember? you don’t like cuddling. you hate labels. you once ghosted a guy for writing you a love poem and said it was cringe.”they weren’t wrong. you throat tightened. you hated how well they knew you.

“that was cringe,” you point out, forcing a laugh, “relax, guys. i don’t fall in love. i’m just really good at making people feel special…that $500 is still mine.” but as the words left your mouth, something about them felt off. wrong. heavy. for the first time, it didn’t feel like a flex. it felt like a lie. you felt that familiar pang in your stomach. the one you’d been ignoring since christmas eve. not the lust. not excitement — guilt. because he didn’t know. because you knew what that girl did to him in high school, and you were starting to wonder if you were any better.

they all exchanged looks, clearly not convinced. “hey,” sion’s voice softened, “if something’s going on, you can tell us.” you blinked back the sudden pressure behind your eyes, “there’s nothing to tell.”

before they could press more, jisung returned, tossing a grin your way, cocky and breathless, like he already knew what kind of trouble he was about to start and your heart stuttered. “guess what i found?” he whispered in your ear, showing you a strip of photo booth pictures some random couple left behind. his fingers brush against the small of your back, “come with me.” you followed after shooting your friends a sly smile even though your stomach was in knots. and when he took your hand, guiding you up from your seat, you knew your friends were still watching. still unsure. still wondering if they should intervene. he tugged you through the neon haze of the arcade and you pushed the thoughts away, slipping past claw machines until you reached the tiny booth in the corner. it looked ancient, barely wide enough to fit two people, curtain fraying.

it started off innocent. sitting side by side. posing. smiling. peace signs. duck lips. a kiss on the cheek. then the timer clicked again, and jisung was lifting you up to sit on his lap, a tiny squeal escaping from your lips, your skirt rising high around your hips, large hands wrapping around your waist, so close to the place you need him the most. this time the pictures are less innocent. both his hands cupping your breasts, pushing them up. an open mouthed kiss. your hand on his jaw. you can feel his bulge under you and it drives you crazy. “jisung–,” you sigh into his mouth, “need to feel you,” you say, your fingers fumbling for his zipper. he complies right away, pushing his pants down just enough to free himself. a flicker of nerves lit up in your chest, but the hunger in his eyes drowned it out. he was so hard, already pulsing beneath you and you didn’t want to waste another second. you sank onto him, ignoring the sting, your breath caught in your throat like a prayer.

jisung inserts another coin. the flash went off. the booth capturing the way your eyes fluttered shut for just a second, overwhelmed. his hands gripped your thighs, firm and grounding, and you rock your hips forward, chasing the drag of him inside you — slow, then deeper, until he filled you completely. another flash. this one caught your mouth open in a gasp, your hands braced on his knees. the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered, like he loved the way the camera was catching it all. it made you even wetter, “you’re crazy,” you whispered, dizzy with the way his cock throbbed inside you. the way you could barely stay quiet.

“and you’re beautiful,” he murmured. then without warning, he tugged your shirt up, knuckles grazing your ribs. higher and higher. until your chest was bare — completely exposed to the low flickering light and the cold lens of the booth’s camera.“jisung–,” you try to pull your shirt back down but he doesn’t let that happen.

“smile for me,” he said, voice dark and teasing. he cupped your breast with one hand, the other feeding the photobooth another coin without even glancing, “let them see how good i make you feel.” you were flushed, panting, completely full of him and when the next flash hit, he kept his eyes locked on the camera, shameless and smug, while you rolled your hips on him in slow, desperate circles. the strip would show everything without showing anything. your body bouncing in his lap, your mouth slack with pleasure, the curve of your bare chest, his grip on you possessive and adoring. a blurred rush of lust and power, of being wanted so fully you could feel it in your bones. and him – grinning through it all. smirking like the devil with his hands all over you like he knew exactly what he was doing. you rode him harder now, chasing that edge, your hands planted on his hips, his cock thick inside you and hitting every spot that made your vision blur.

another coin. another set. the next flash caught his mouth on your shoulder, your head thrown back, your lips parted in a silent moan, “fuck, look at you,” he groaned, watching your reflection in the smudged glass across from the lens, “so fucking pretty when you ride me.” you whimpered when he thrust up into you, just once, sharp and deep, and you clenched around him, the pressure building dangerously, “jisung i’m gonna–”

“i know,” he breathed, sweat slicking his brow, teeth grazing your neck, “i know, cherry. keep going. just like that. don’t stop.” you were both panting now. the booth was too hot, too small, both of you desperately trying to control your moans and the sounds of your bodies colliding. then his grip on your waist tightened. his voice dropped low, guttural, shaky, “gonna cum, cherry. fuck—inside. can i?” you could barely speak, just nodded, already there, already unraveling around him. the moment you clenched, he buried himself as deep as he could go and spilled into you with a rough, muffled groan against your shoulder. his fingers dug into your hips, holding you in place, making sure not a drop escaped. you collapsed against him, spent and shaking, your back pressed to his chest with the final flash — immortalizing the mess of tangled limbs, gasping mouths, ruined control. he stayed buried in you for a beat, still pulsing, hands lazily roaming your back as you both caught your breath.

you stepped out of the booth first, legs shaking just enough to make it obvious if anyone were watching. though luckily, the back corner of the arcade was mostly dead. jisung followed right after, breath still uneven, hair a mess, and shirt half-untucked. he reached into the machine slot just as it spat out the last strip of picture. there were five strips total, each holding four pictures. all in order. all in motion. the first was innocent enough, you smiling, still clothed. the second, your shirt halfway up, his mouth on your shoulder. the third – “oh my god,” you gasped, snatching the strip from his hand, “jisung!,” he peered over your shoulder, already grinning like a kid that just received the best christmas gift ever, “both of my boobs are out in this one!,” you whisper-yelled, eyes wide as you pointed to the fourth frame, where you were mid-ride, spine arched, chest bared, his hands full of you and that smug ass look still stamped across his face. he had no shame. none. “yeah, i’m keeping that one,” he said, plucking the strip from your hands before you could even think of tearing it in half. “no. give it–,” you reach out. “nope,” he folded it carefully, precisely, like it was some sacred artifact and tucked it into his wallet with a wink, “best christmas gift ever.” you gawked at him, rolling your eyes, “someone’s gonna see that,” you muttered, heart pounding as you glanced around, suddenly paranoid someone might come around the corner and spot the both of you disheveled and glowing. he leaned in, voice low against your ear, “no one else is gonna see it, cherry. that one’s just for me.”

you roll your eyes, taking a second to fix yourself up. while jisung didn’t even try. he looked smug and satisfied. you made your way back to your friends. karina spotted you first, “there you guys are…wait,” she narrowed her eyes, “where the hell did you two disappear to?”

“bathroom,” you said quickly.

“photo booth,” jisung answered at the same time.

shit. your group immediately went silent.

sophia squinted, a teasing smile on her lip, “so…was it a bathroom or a photo booth hookup?”

“neither,” you lied. horribly. “we just–he found a funny strip and we were laughing about it.”

“mhm,” sion arched a brow as he sipped from his soda, “that’s why you have a fresh new hickey on your neck.” your stomach dropped, your hand immediately going up to use your hair as a cover.

dongpyo’s jaw fell open, “oh my god, you little freaks—”

“shut up!” you hissed, sliding back into your seat. jisung sat beside you, calm as ever, tossing a fry in his mouth like he hadn’t just ruined you five minutes ago in a cramped booth, “you guys are real observant for people who are down by like, forty points,” he teases.

“don’t deflect,” sophia said, pointing a perfectly manicured nail between the two of you, “there’s tension. there’s… suspicious glows. there's possibly sex hair. did you guys—?”

“no,” you said.

“yes,” jisung said at the same time. you kicked him under the table. he choked on his fry, and you refused to look up as the entire group burst into chaos.

“oh my god!” karina shrieked, practically launching herself across the table, “in the photo booth?!”

“you’re disgusting,” sion said, which was rich coming from him. “are there pictures?” sophia asked, eyes wide with gleeful horror.

“no one’s ever seeing those,” you snapped, heat crawling up your neck again. you buried your face in your hands, groaning as the table erupted in overlapping questions, taunts, and fake retching noises. and even though you wanted the floor to swallow you whole, you couldn’t stop the tiny smile pulling at your lips. because under the table, jisung’s pinky was hooked with yours. and neither of you let go.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

it was nearly midnight when the group finally parted ways — the air still thick with leftover teasing and suspicious side-eyes. the bowling alley buzz had worn off, but jisung hadn’t let go of your hand the entire walk to the parking lot.

"everyone else is home for the break," he said casually, glancing at you as you reached his car, “dream house is empty.” you raised a brow, smirking, already know what he’s asking, “and?”

“and i don’t feel like being alone tonight,” his eyes flicked down to your lips, “come home with me.”you didn’t even hesitate. you just nodded and got in. the drive was peaceful, you and jisung talk about everything and anything. when you finally get to the dream house, it's unusually quie. the muffled hush is a stark contrast to the laughter and lights the place usually held, leaving the place feeling like your own little private world. you both kick off your shoes by the door. your legs a little sore from the photobooth. you flop onto the couch, burying your face in the cushions, “what are we watching?”

“home alone?,” jisung asks, pulling it up on netflix, “it’s a christmas classic.”

“sounds good,” you mumble into the couch and before you know it, he’s sat beside you. you’ve somehow ended up half on his lap, legs stretched out, your bottom half on his thighs, skirt riding high from the way you’re laying, ass slightly raised. you mean to adjust, you really do, but he doesn’t seem to mind and the position was too comfortable to move. your eyes stay fixed on the screen as the movie starts, jisung tracing soft patterns on your calves. it’s only when his hand lands on the curve of your ass, warm and slow, like it belongs there, that you freeze,“what are you doing?,” you ask, voice low, face still pressed into the pillows.

“nothing,” he says, a little too innocently. you don’t turn to look at him, but you can hear the smirk on his voice. you should stop him. but you don’t. you just let him touch you, let his fingers knead the softness through your skirt like it’s the most natural thing in the world. the movie plays on. you try to focus but you can feel jisung watching you. he leans back, one hand still massaging the curve of your ass, rougher this time. you feel him hardening beneath you, feel the subtle shift of his thigh under your center as your underwear clings wetly between your legs, “this skirt should be illegal,” he mutters to himself, his touch making your spine shiver. and with no warning he lands a slap, loud and red and shocking, on one of your cheeks. you jolt with a gasp, a sharp, high moan escapes before you can stop it, surprised and unfiltered. you whip your head around to look at him, your mouth slightly open, eyes wide. his eyes gleamed with mischief, “you like that?” you open your mouth to deny it. then freezes when his hand smooths over the same spot. soothing the sting. the heat and tension pooling low in your belly.

“maybe,” you whisper. he lands another one, this time on the other cheek. the moan that slips out of you is louder. your hips twitch slightly, fingers clutching the cushion tighter. he leans over you, voice dark and playful now, “didn’t know you were into that.” his fingers hook into the waistband of your skirt, tugging it down slowly, like he’s giving you time to stop him. but you don’t. you stay perfectly still, breath shaky, as he slides the fabric down your thighs, leaving you in your white cotton underwear – delicate, damp and undeniably revealing. you hear him exhale slowly. then his palm lands again and your hips roll into him, soft moans muffled into the couch. his hand caresses the heated skin between every strike, gentle in the places where he was just rough. and all the while, the movie still plays – a cheerful soundtrack to something far less innocent.

he lets out a soft groan, “you’re so wet,” he murmurs, in awe.

“i-i didn’t know i would like that,” you admit, your voice barely audible, “but i think i do,” you admit quietly but he hears every word. he chuckles, low and deep, the sound skimming down your spine.

“then let’s keep finding out what else you like,” he whispers, his palm connects again, firm and practiced now, alternating between spanking and soothing, his fingers sometimes dipping lower, testing, teasing. your whole body starts moving with it, moaning into every strike, grinding down helplessly into the ridge of his jeans. the pain shooting pleasure up your spine. “say it,” he whispers, leaning close, “say you like it.”

you pant, dizzy with heat and friction “i like it,” you choke out, “i— fuck, jisung — i love it.”

he kisses your lower back, slow and possessive, “good girl.” you feel wrecked already — and he’s barely touched you. still bent over his lap, your panties cling soaked between your legs, his hand lingering on your ass, fingers flexing like he can’t decide if he wants to soothe you or spank you again. your breathing is erratic, soft moans slipping out of you. “look at you,” he says again, voice deeper, rougher, “didn’t even have to take your panties off to get you dripping all over me.”

“shut up,” you whisper, flushed and humiliated, but you don’t mean it and he knows. instead of shutting up, he hooks his fingers around the waistband of your underwear, “let me see you,” he murmurs, “yeah?” you nod, wordless, shivering under the weight of his voice. he pulls them down slowly, a deliberate, dragging tease, and you whimper at the sudden exposure, the cool air hitting wet skin. he drops them to the floor, then spreads your thighs wider on his lap, like he wants to take his time with the view, “fuck,” he exhales, “all this from me just spanking you?”

“i don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you say breathlessly, dazed.

“there’s nothing wrong with you,” jisung murmurs, one hand slipping down to trace through your folds, slick and slow, “you like a little pain with your pleasure and that’s so hot,” then his thumb circles your clit, featherlight, maddening. you gasp, hips jolting. and before you could process what’s happening jisung slaps your cunt. the pleasure spikes sharp in your belly, a moan punching out of you so loud it echoes off the living room walls. you collapse forward against the arm of the couch, gripping the cushions, “oh my god—”

“you want more?” he growls, his fingers slipping lower, dipping just barely inside you, “you want to fall apart on my lap?”

“please,” you choke out, grinding back against his hand, “please, jisung—,” he doesn’t make you beg again. two fingers slide inside you, curling instantly, dragging a broken cry from your lips. his palm cradles your hip while his other fingers find a rhythm — curling, spanking, soothing teasing, until you’re trembling above him, breathless and soaked and spiraling fast.

“listen to you,” he mutters against your back, “listen to how wet you are,” he says, the sound of your juices squelching around his fingers. he grinds his thigh up into your clit as his fingers thrust faster, “you’re so fucking close,” he says like he’s memorized your body, “let go, cherry.” — that’s all it takes. your climax crashes over you. loud, wet, shaking. your whole body locks up, cries muffled into the cushions as your hips stutter and grind into him helplessly. you hear him moan low and wrecked behind you, feel the way he holds you through it, possessive and steady, and the aftershocks leave you limp and boneless in his lap, utterly spent. for a long moment, the only sound in the room is the movie, something ridiculous in the background while you both breathe like you’ve just run a marathon, the aftermath of your orgasm still pulsing through your limbs.

you slowly push yourself up from the couch, breath uneven, heart racing. jisung’s hands are still on your body, loose now. you shift, deliberately, turning to face him. you straddle his lap, eyes dark, flushed and determined. he looks at you with a teasing grin, shirt rumpled, cock painfully hard under his jeans. you lean in close, nose brushing his, voice soft but firm, “is there anything you haven’t done,” you ask, “that you’ve always wanted to try?”

his eyes narrow slightly, like he’s caught off guard. then he smirks. “well… i’ve always wanted to try fucking someone’s tits.” the way he says it, low and rough, with a glint of challenge in his gaze, makes your thighs clench. you don’t answer him with words. you slide off his lap, dropping to your knees in front of him with slow, deliberate confidence. your eyes stay on his, unbreaking, even as your hands reach for his jeans. “cherry,” he breathes, his voice as tight, “wait— are you sure?”

“let me take care of you,” you say simply, your voice almost gentle but it holds no room for argument. you remove your shirt, unhooking your bra in one, swift motion. he groans as you free him from his jeans, cock heavy and flushed and pink, leaking at the tip. you lick your lips slowly, then push your tits together, sliding them around him without waiting for permission. he hisses the moment his length sinks into the soft warmth of your chest.

“fuck—” he chokes, head falling back against the couch. you move slowly at first, guiding your tits up and down his shaft, letting the tip pop out near your collarbone before sliding him back down between the swell, “is this what you pictured?” you ask, licking across the head when it peeks out again, “me, on my knees, tits wrapped around you?”

he moans loud and raw, hands flexing uselessly at his sides, “yes. fuck–this is better–,” you pick up the pace, pressing your breasts tighter around his cock, bouncing faster now — letting him watch as you spit into the valley between, adding more slickness, more heat. every time his head slips out, you lean in and lick it, teasing, dragging your tongue slowly and deliberately across the tip, watching him fall apart. he’s panting, hips jerking, eyes locked on your chest like he’s in a trance, “i’m not gonna last—fuck—.” he grunts, you keep going, pace unrelenting, tilting your head just right so your tongue can keep teasing the slit each time. his hand shoots out before he can think, fingers tangling in your hair. he bunches it up in a tight fist, yanking your head back slightly so you’re looking up at him, mouth wet, chest glistening with his juices, eyes dark and teasing.

“fuck,” he growls through clenched teeth, “you’re so fucking hot like this.” you hum around the head of him, letting your tongue swirl filthily as he starts thrusting up your tits now, using your body, your mouth, like he’s completely lost to the feeling. you don’t let up either. if anything, you squeeze your breasts tighter, spit dripping down your cleavage.“you wanna come, jisung?” you murmur, voice sultry and sweet and wicked all at once, “wanna come all over my chest like a good boy?”

his breath punches out of him, the words making him feel dizzy, “jesus—yes. yes, please, cherry—”

“do it,” you whisper, the words vibrating against his cock, your lips ghosting over the head. “come all over me. i want it.” — with a hoarse, desperate cry, jisung jerks forward. his cock pulses between your tits, spilling hot and thick across your chest, your throat, your lips. he doesn’t stop until he’s emptied every last drop, his body trembling, your name falling off his lips like it’s the only word he knows. he collapses back against the couch, panting and wrecked, eyes glazed and stunned. his hand loosens in your hair but doesn’t let go. he stares at you, completely undone, chest heaving, eyes wide. his moans are still echoing in the room, the mess he left on your chest still warm, when you look up at him — eyes dark, lips wet, chest rising and falling as you catch your breath. but you’re not done. not even close. still kneeling between his legs, you tilt your heat, “that was so hot,” you murmur, fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, still twitching, still sensitive, “but i think you can give me a little more.”

jisung flinches, overstimulated, breath catching, “c-cherry—wait, i just—fuck—,” but you’re already leaning forward again. you lick up the underside of his shaft, slow and languid, catching every trace of cum from earlier. you flatten your tongue along the head, swirling it deliberately, watching his face as his whole body jolts from the contact. his thighs twitch. you take him into your mouth, lips wrapping around the head, sucking gently. he lets out the loudest moan yet, head falling back, hand fisting in your hair tight, like he’ll fall without you, “oh my—fuck, cherry, stop, i’m too—i’m still sensitive—shit,” his hand flies to your hair again, gripping. needing something to stay grounded.

you hum around him, “too much?”

“yes—no—fuck, i don’t know—,” you smirk around his cock and take him deeper. he moans, hips jerking, his head falling back against the couch with a soft thud, “jesus christ—fuck, you’re insane,” he groans, “you’re gonna suck the soul out of me—”and you do. you keep your rhythm slow and dirty, tongue dragging along every sensitive inch, bobbing your head with perfect pressure, letting your spit make everything messier. his thighs are shaking now. hands gripping your hair like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered.

“cherry, cherry, fuck, i’m coming again—” he gasps, voice breaking, “i can’t—” you don’t stop. you tighten your mouth around him and moan, letting the vibrations pulse through his cock. and that’s it. he comes again, harder this time, full-body trembling, a choked, strangled cry punching out of him as his cock twitches on your tongue. his hand fists in your hair, knuckles white, trying not to fall apart completely while you milk every last drop from him, sucking slow and deep, prolonging it until he’s shaking. by the time you finally pull off, his cock slips free from your lips with a wet pop, and he slumps backward, completely undone. chest heaving. eyes glazed. sweat beading at his hairline. you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and grin up at him, “still alive?”

he laughs, breathless and disbelieving, then leans forward, cupping your face with shaking hands, “i have no idea what the fuck you just did to me,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “but i need to fuck you. now.” his voice drops into your ear, “let’s finish this upstairs.” you nod, biting back a grin as he grabs your wrist and hauls you up, his grip tight, possessive, leading you up the stairs. you can barely keep up, your thighs still trembling, your chest sticky.

the second he kicks his bedroom door open, you’re pushed inside. he closes the door behind him, turns to face you — and it’s on. you crawl up his mattress on all fours, arching your back slowly, presenting yourself like a gift—bare, glistening, ready. he doesn’t speak. he just stares for a moment, already stripping behind you — shirt gone, pants kicked off, his cock standing already hard and heavy again. you can hear the change in his breathing, the way it stutters when he sees the curve of your ass, plump and ready for him. he kneels behind you, palms gripping your ass, spreading you open, “look at this pussy,” he says, like he’s talking to himself, “still dripping,” he mutters, breath shaking, “all this from sucking me off?”

“all this,” you whisper, hips grinding back against him, “from you.”

then — smack. his palm lands hard on your ass, and you jerk forward with a cry, fingers fisting the sheets. you barely recover before another slap lands, on the other cheek this time, sharp and loud, the sting blooming hot and electric, “you like that?” he growls, rubbing the fresh pink skin, “you want me to spank you while i fuck you?”

“y-yes,” you gasp, back arching deeper, “yes, please—” with no warning, he thrusts in, all at once, deep and fast and filthy, splitting you open around his cock. you scream into the sheets, mouth open and eyes wide, as he fills you completely, “fuck—jisung—fuck—,” he gives you no time to adjust. he sets a brutal rhythm from the start, hips snapping against your ass with loud, wet slaps, each thrust punching moans out of you. his hands grip your waist so tight you know there’ll be bruises later. you’re his tonight — and he’s making sure your body remembers it. another slap. harder now. making you clench around him, “you’re such a fucking mess,” he growls, “so wet—so tight—” your body starts to quake. the sound of his skin hitting yours, his breath in your ear, the sting of his hand. it’s too much, it’s perfect. “you love this, don’t you?” he pants, leaning forward, fingers finding your clit now, rubbing you in fast, punishing circles, “love getting your ass slapped while i wreck this tight little cunt?”

you nod, moaning louder, “yes—yes—please, don’t stop—”

“beg for it,” he snarls, still pounding into you, “beg me to fuck you harder.”

“please,” you sob, toes curling, “please, harder—faster—fuck, i’m so close—” he slaps your ass again, the sting making you shudder as his cock drives even deeper. “come on my cock, cherry. show me who you belong to.” you scream into his sheets, shattering, the orgasm tearing through you in sharp, uncontrollable waves. your entire body clamps down around him, back arching, moaning his name as your pussy spasms around his cock. you feel your slick dripping down your thighs. jisung loses it, “cherry—shit—gonna fucking come—” he growls, snapping his hips into you with brutal, desperate precision. his grip bruises your waist, dragging you back onto his cock as he pounds into you one last time, burying himself deep. he spills with a groan that sounds like it’s being ripped out of his chest—hot, thick ropes flooding your cunt, pulse after pulse, until you’re both shaking.

he stays there, cock twitching inside you, breathing hard against your back. you’re limp beneath him, utterly wrecked, moaning softly as the warmth spreads deep inside you, “jesus,” he breathes against your neck, voice ruined. when he finally pulls out, you both gasp at the wet, filthy sound. his cum leaks out immediately, spilling over and pooling beneath you. sticky, messy, obscene. jisung watches, and his eyes go dark, feral, “fuck,” he groans. “you’re dripping. look at that. my cum leaking out of you,” he spreads you open with two fingers, watching his release ooze out of you with a hungry, fucked-out expression. “shit, i didn’t even know i could come that hard,” he mutters, “your tight little pussy milked every drop out of me.”

you let out a weak laugh, your voice breathless and cracked. his gaze snaps to yours, smug and wild. you whimper when his thumb brushes over your slick folds again, teasing. “you’re still so wet,” he groans, almost to himself. “you like being full of me, huh?”

you nod, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy. “i love it,” you whisper. “i love how you fill me up. i can still feel you inside.”

jisung groans deep in his throat, like he might lose it all over again. “fuck, don’t say that. i’ll flip you over and fuck you stupid.”

you smirk, weakly. “what’s stopping you?”

he lets out a dark laugh, eyes still fixed between your legs. “your legs are shaking. you can barely breathe. you’ll pass out before i’m halfway through with you.” you scoff, voice hoarse. but he was right. your body was exhausted.

jisung shifts carefully, lying down beside you and tugging you gently into his chest. one of his arms slides under your head, the other wrapping tightly around your waist, like he needs to feel you breathe, and then, quietly, soft, worried, he asks, “are you okay?” you blink. “i didn’t hurt you, right?” he murmurs, “i know it got rough.”

you press your face into his neck, your hand resting on his chest. his heart is still racing beneath your palm, “no,” you whisper, eyes fluttering shut. “you didn’t hurt me.” he pulls back just enough to look at you, brows slightly furrowed, searching your face. “are you sure? i—your thighs are shaking more than usual, and i got carried away, and—”

you cut him off with a soft kiss, slow, lazy, reassuring. “i’m sure, jisung,” you say, voice gentler now, “you were perfect.” the room grows quiet again, warm and full. your bare legs tangle under the sheets now, his fingers lightly tracing shapes along your spine. then, with a sleepy smirk playing on your lips, you break the warm silence, “you have another morning-after pill, right?”

jisung chuckled, the sound low and warm, vibrating under your cheek, “of course i do,” he whispered, brushing your hair off your face. you grinned, tilting your chin up to look at him, “i should really think about getting on birth control.”

he glanced down at you, one brow raised, a slow smile tugging at his mouth, “i mean… you don’t have to.”

you blinked, “no?”

“i could just wear a condom,” he added with a shrug, “unless you’re like… allergic to latex or into the thrill of potential fatherhood.”

you smacked his chest lightly, “wow. so noble. bet the trojan company misses you.”

“they’re surviving without me…barely,” he smirks. you giggled, burying your face into his neck, and he kissed the top of your head like it was second nature now, like affection was a reflex around you. you both fell quiet again after that, just your breaths syncing and your skin cooling against each other. the air between you is warm, quiet, buzzing with the afterglow and something more.

“do you think aliens are real?” you murmur, your voice soft and a little sleepy.

jisung hums, a little more excited than you’d expect, “definitely. the universe is too big for just us.”

“would you let an alien abduct you?”

“depends. is she hot?”

you laugh into his chest, and he grins, his hand sliding up to cup the back of your head gently, “what about you?” he asks, “ghosts?”

you shudder, “ugh, yes. my grandma used to say if you wake up at 3:33 a.m., it means something’s watching you.”

he stiffens slightly, then checks the time, “cherry.”

“what?”

“it’s 3:31.”

you gasp, pushing off his chest, “shut up.” he bursts out laughing, pulling you right back into his arms, “you’re so easy to mess with.” you slap his shoulder, but your smile doesn’t fade. it’s easy like this — wrapped in warmth, inside jokes, and the quiet stillness that only exists in the middle of the night, when everything feels suspended in time. you tilt your head slightly, studying his face in the dark. the curve of his jaw. the lashes that brush his cheeks when he blinks slowly. the tiny smile that still plays at his lips.

then, softer now, realer, “you’re really good at playing the boyfriend role.” he doesn’t answer at first. just breathes. then chuckles lightly, “i know how to be a boyfriend, cherry. i was one before i was a fuckboy.”

your chest tightens, “she really messed you up, didn’t she?”

his eyes stay on the ceiling for a moment, silent. then he swallows, “yeah,” he says, voice low. honest, “more than i wanted to admit. i hate being lied to. hate it more than anything,” he sighed, pulling you closer and you feel your heart break in your chest. but he doesn’t stop there. he sighs, long and shaky, and you can feel the tension ripple through him, the way his fingers are still against your skin, “at first, being the fuckboy was fun — the girls, the freedom. it felt like control.” he shook his head slowly, voice dropping into something almost vulnerable, “but now… i don’t know what i’m doing. i feel lost. the boys were right…i’ve been spiraling.”

you stayed quiet, letting him speak, letting the weight of his words settle between you. he’s holding you like you're safe. like you're good. like you’re not exactly the kind of person who’s about to break him all over again. your head rests on his chest, and you can feel the steady rhythm of his heart under your cheek. he doesn’t know what he just said cracked something open. because he doesn’t know about the bet. he doesn’t know that somewhere deep in the shadows of all the laughter and stolen moments, your friends are counting down the days, watching, waiting for you to win. for you to break him. and maybe at first, it was a game. but now you’re here. wrapped in his sheets. pressed against his chest like you belong there. listening to him breathe like he’s letting you in, like he’s trusting you.

and all you can think is: i’m going to hurt him. you blink hard, your throat tightening, the guilt blooming hot behind your ribs. it’s been creeping in for days now, but tonight, after that look in his eyes, the softness in his voice, it’s unbearable. he thinks he can trust you. and here you are, hiding a knife behind your back with a smile on your lips. your arms tighten around him as if that could somehow undo everything. as if holding him closer could keep the truth at bay. but it can’t. because the truth is… you’re starting to hate yourself. you’re starting to hate the way he looks at you. hate the way he opens himself up more each night through every touch, every sigh, every soft-eyed glance that says he’s slipping and doesn’t know how deep yet. hate that the closer he gets, the worse it’s going to hurt when he realizes what you’ve done. he’s going to look at you the same way he talks about his ex. like betrayal tastes the same, no matter who’s stabbing you.

you close your eyes and burrow closer, trying to memorize the weight of his arms around you, the warmth of his breath on your forehead, the way his heartbeat feels against your cheek. because you know you don’t have much time left. and when this all crashes down, you won’t get this again. you won’t get him again. and it’s no one’s fault but yours. and as his vulnerability wraps around you, a tight knot forms deep inside your chest. and in a last attempt to make yourself feel better, you tell yourself: this isn’t real. he’s doing this to get the boys off his back. he doesn’t have feelings for me.

🍒 DAY 12 OF THE BET - THE BEST BOYFRIEND EVER.

you needed a drink. maybe two. maybe three. maybe four. so you ended up here — tucked into the corner of a quiet pojangmacha, orange tarp walls buzzing gently in the wind, the faint smell of grilled chicken and smoke thick in the air. there was an untouched plate of fried chicken in front of you and at least three empty green bottles beside it. you lost count after the second one. the guilt sat heavy in your chest. an ache no amount of soju could blur.

jisung was too nice. too soft. too good at playing the boyfriend role. too good at pretending it didn’t mean anything. and the worst part? you don’t know when you stopped pretending. yet you’re still lying to him. letting him open up to you. all for a stupid, reckless bet. $500. that’s what his heart was worth to your friends. that’s what you agreed to. god. what a joke. the world tilted slightly when you reached for the shot glass again, your fingers slow, clumsy. you missed it, knocked it over. soju spilled across the table and pooled at the edge of your untouched plate of chicken. you blinked at it, like it might explain something. like it might fix something. but all you felt was the sinking weight of it all. you thought maybe you’d cry. maybe scream. instead, you laughed. soft. bitter. a little broken.

the cashier had been watching from the back of the tent for a while now. he finally came over, wiping his hands on a towel, concern painted across every tired feature of her face, “miss?” he asked gently, “you don’t look well.” you opened your mouth to answer, but all that came out was a garbled, thick breath — not quite a word, not quite a sob. you swayed a little in your seat, eyes half-lidded, mouth dry. the man crouched beside your table, gaze softening, “i’m going to look through your phone and call someone okay?” he murmured, not really asking, just doing, because you clearly weren’t in any condition to, “let’s get you home in one piece.”

you look up at him, eyebrows furrowed. he’s pretty but jisung is prettier — “i have a boyfriend,” you manage to say, just wanting the random guy to leave you alone. he nods, a little confused, reaching across the table and picking up your phone. he looked through your emergency contact, only finding one name. then he pressed call and brought the phone to his ear, glancing at your hunched form, cheeks flushed red, knuckles gripping the edge of the table, eyes shut. the phone rang once. then again.

“hello?” jisung’s voice answered, cheerfully, slightly confused.

“is this jisung?” he asked, voice kind but firm.

jisung’s eyebrow furrows at the man’s voice, “yes. who’s this? why do you have my girlfriends phone?”

“i’m sorry to call so late. i’m kim jungwoo, i work at a pojangmacha. your girlfriend is very drunk. not speaking clearly. i don’t think she can get home by herself.”

there’s a beat of silence on the other end. then, “where is she?” his voice sharpens. alert now. “is she safe?”

“she’s safe. just not well. you should come get her.” the guy gives him the address and jisung is already out the door before the phone call even ended. he got there in under five minutes. the pojangmacha was just a couple streets away from the dream house, but he still jogged the last block — hoodie half-zipped, hair still tousled from where he’d been lying in bed. jungwoo waved him over before he could even ask, “she’s at the back,” he said softly, “didn’t eat much. drank more than she should’ve.” jisung thanked him quietly, slipping through the rows of low plastic tables until he saw you — slumped over the last one, your cheek pressed against your own arm, lips puffed out into the most exaggerated pout he’d ever seen. you looked small. you looked soft. you looked like something he didn’t know how to take care of yet still wanted to, more than anything.

“cherry,” he called out gently, crouching beside you, “why’d you drink so much, huh?”

instead of words, you gave him a quiet whine. your lower lip jutted out like a child scolded at recess, your cheeks all puffed up, eyes a little misty. you blinked at him slowly. blurred. bright. then you lifted your arms. “my boyfrienddd,” you mumbled, reaching for him like it was the only thing your brain remembered, “you’re hereee.”

jisung stared for a second. then exhaled a shaky laugh. “yeah,” he said, “i’m here.” you clung to him the second he was close enough, arms wrapping around his shoulders, your face buried in the crook of his neck. you smelled like soju and citrus shampoo. warm. familiar. dangerous.

“you’re sooo cute, sungie,” you whispered, “you’re always so cute,” you pinch his cheeks, “like a cute little hamster alien!.”

he cleared his throat, ignoring all the wandering eyes now looking at your direction. he holds you carefully and amused, “you’re drunk.”

“i knoww,” you said proudly. he smiled despite himself, ordering a glass of water for you. then you started talking. something about aliens again. ghosts. time travel. then, in a heartbreakingly small voice, you mumbled, “if i was abducted by aliens, would you still remember me?”

he huffed a laugh, “what kind of question is that?”

“say yesss,” you whine.

he adjusted you in his arms, “yes.”

you sighed happily, “you’re the best boyfriend ever.”

jisung froze for half a second. it wasn’t the first time you’d called him that, boyfriend. you both said it in front of people all the time. part of the deal. but tonight, in this moment, the way your voice lilted so gently, the way you held him like he was the only thing tethering you to the ground – it didn’t sound like a joke. his chest tightened. a slow, unfamiliar ache. a stutter in his pulse he hadn’t felt since her. his high school girlfriend. he shook the thought out of his head and slipped your arms around his neck again.

“c’mon,” he murmured, bending slightly, “let’s get you home.”

you giggled as he hoisted you onto his back, legs locking around his waist, “piggyback ride,” you whispered giddily, nuzzling against his shoulder, “you’re strong.”

“you’re just really light,” he teased, smiling softly. you didn’t answer. just rested your cheek on his back, humming under your breath while he walked the familiar path back to the dream house. jisung didn’t complain once. not when your weight started to sag heavier in his arms. your cheek resting against his shoulder, lips occasionally brushing the curve of it as you rambled on and on, all soft, slurred nonsense that had him smiling like an idiot under the glow of the streetlights — and for a boy who swore he didn’t do real feelings anymore, he was starting to think he might be in trouble.

“do you think,” you mumbled, “like… actually think… that somewhere out there, aliens are in love?”

jisung let out a small laugh, steadying you with one hand beneath your thigh, “aliens in love?”

“yeah,” you slurred sleepily, “like, maybe one of them fell in love with a human. and now they’re sad. because they can’t be together.”

“sounds tragic,” he said, humoring you.

“exactly,” you pout, emotional. you tugged weakly on his hoodie, bringing your mouth closer to his ear, “and do you think ghosts ever get lonely?”

“probably.”

“i’d haunt someone just to talk to them. not in a creepy way. just like… ‘hi, how was your day?’ y’know?”

he laughed again, soft and breathy, “you’d beat casper for the friendliest ghost.”

“you’d still like me right?,” you whispered, “even if i was see through? even if i wasn’t real?” and somehow, the question seems deeper than just you being a ghost.

he adjusted you higher on his back, “i’d never stop liking you, cherry,” he says softly. that shut you up for a second. then, more quietly, “you’re my favorite person, jisung.” he blinked. slowed slightly on the sidewalk. your voice was all cotton and warmth and honey, sticky-sweet and clumsy from alcohol, but it sounded real. too real. and he didn’t know what to do with that. so he just kept walking. then you gasped, like you just discovered a new alien species, “would you still like me if i was a worm?”

he huffed a small laugh, biting back a grin, “am i worm too?”

“no!…yes!…i don’t know,” you mumbled, nuzzling into his neck like a sleepy kitten, “you’re so warm. and soft. like a human pillow. but strong. like a big tree.”

“a tree?”

“a sexy tree,” you clarified. he lost it then, shaking with laughter as you clung tighter to him. “you’re so drunk.”

“mmhmm,” you hummed proudly, “but you came for me.”

he glanced down, smile softening, “of course i did.” the dream house came into view ahead, glowing faintly in the distance. your words were getting quieter now, fading into sleepy murmurs, but your hands stayed curled in the front of his hoodie like you didn’t want to let go. and jisung didn’t want to let go either. something about carrying you like this, warm and soft and pressed against his back, trusting him fully, stirred something in his chest he hadn’t felt in years. it was terrifying. it was dangerous. but it was also sweet. stupidly, stupidly sweet. and he let himself enjoy it just a little longer.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

his room was dim when jisung carried you in, lit only by the soft blue hue of lights. you stirred a little as he closed the door behind him with his foot, but you didn’t protest when he set you down gently on the edge of his bed. he crouched in front of you, carefully tugging your shoes off one by one, then reached for the makeup wipes he stole from jeno’s room. “gonna clean you up, okay?” he murmured. you didn’t answer, just blinked at him slowly, lips parted slightly, all glassy-eyed and pink-cheeked. he held your chin in his hand with a touch so light it could’ve been a whisper, wiping away the smudged mascara with slow, gentle swipes. you were beautiful like this. even drunk, even messy. you were beautiful and soft and his. or at least… pretending to be. he tried not to think about that part. when he was done, he pulled an old hoodie over your head, oversized and warm. then he helped you slip out of your jeans.

“c’mon,” he whispered, easing you down into bed, “let’s sleep.” you followed him, turning toward him, pressing your face to his chest, your fingers curling into the fabric of the hoodie you were wearing. the silence wrapping around you both.

“…i’m sorry,” you murmured. he froze.

you said it again, “sorry,” and again, voice cracking now, “i’m so sorry.”

his arms tightened instinctively around you, confused and worried, “hey, hey, what are you sorry for?”

you looked up at him then — eyes glassy, a couple tears slipping silently down your cheeks, your lips trembling in a way that undoes him, “i’m just… sorry,” you whispered.

he reached up, thumb brushing your tears away, his touch impossibly gentle, “don’t be sorry,” he said softly, tucking your head under his chin, one hand cradling your back. “i’m your boyfriend. it’s my job to take care of you.” his voice dropped lower, “you don’t have to tell me what’s wrong. but just know that you can, okay?”

that broke you. you buried your face in his chest and cried — silent, aching sobs that shook your whole body, small fists curled into his hoodie like you didn’t know where else to hold on. he just held you. no questions. no pressure. only warmth and arms wrapped tightly around you, rubbing slow circles into your back until your breathing softened, until your tears slowed, until you finally drifted off, tear stained and clinging to him in the quiet dark. but jisung stayed awake. he laid there, holding you like you were something delicate, something rare, something his, and stared up at the ceiling as something heavy and terrifying took root in his chest. he hated seeing you cry, how broken your voice sounded, how helpless he felt when he couldn’t fix it. and fuck. he realized it then. right there, in the middle of the night, with your breath soft and even against his neck and your hands still curled into him like he was home — he didn’t want this to be convenient anymore. he didn’t want to pretend to be your boyfriend just to get the boys off his back. he wanted you. he wants to be the one you call when you’re hurting, the one who makes you laugh when you can't stop crying. he wants the tears, the rambling, the kisses, the chaos — all of it. he was giving you his heart. no conditions. no pretend. just you. only you. and as you slept, curled against him like you were already his, jisung closed his eyes and made a silent promise to himself. he was going to make sure you never had to cry alone again.

🍒 DAY 13 OF THE BET - LIAR.

the morning light filtered in gently through the blinds, casting pale stripes across the bed and the mess of tangled limbs and rumpled sheets. jisung woke first. and when he saw you there, curled into his side, one hand still fisted in the fabric of his hoodie, lashes fanned out across your cheek, lips slightly parted – something in his chest squeezed hard. he didn’t want to move. didn’t want to break the spell. so he just watched you for a while. let himself memorize the shape of your face in the light. the soft rise and fall of your breathing. the way your body instinctively gravitated cloer, like even unconscious, you knew where safety was. eventually, you stirred. your lashes fluttered. you blinked blearily up at him, “what time is it?”

“almost eleven,” he said softly, brushing a thumb under your eye, “how are you feeling?” you groaned, flopping back onto your side, “like someone stuffed a cactus into my skull…how embarrassing was i last night?”

he smirks, “not that bad…but,” he looks at you, “you did call me sungie.”

you groan into your hands, “goddd, eww, don’t tell me anything more.”

he laughed, leaning down and pressing a kiss to your forehead, “it was cute.”

you roll your eyes, “i smell like alcohol and chicken.”

he just laughed again, “come on, let’s shower. it’ll help.” the shower steamed up around you, fog curling on the mirror. hot water poured down your back and you leaned into jisung’s bare chest with a soft hum, eyes fluttering closed. his hands were already on your waist, thumbs stroking along your back as though he couldn’t stop touching you. you let out a breath, tilting your chin up. he smiled at you, slow, soft, pressing a kiss to your forehead, making your stomach twist. “you look like you’re about to fall asleep standing up,” he murmured in your ear.

“might,” you mumbled, “too cozy.” he laughed under his breath, reaching for the shampoo on the side and squirting a bit into his palm, “turn around,” he murmured, voice low and still a little raspy. you obeyed without question, and the next thing you felt were his fingers gently working through your hair. slow, thoughtful motions, like you were something fragile.

“mmm,” you hummed, eyes slipping shut, “you’re good at that.” he grins, “guess i’ll add shampoo technician to my resume.” you smiled as he rinsed you off carefully, tilting your head back under the stream so none of it ran into your eyes. his hands always steady. always careful.

“your turn,” you say, squeezing out a generous amount of shampoo into your palm, but the second you reached up, you realized your mistake. he was much taller. you are already on your tiptoes, arms barely reaching the crown of his head as you attempt to lather him up. he started laughing, bending his knees slightly to help, “you’re so short.”

“stop laughing,” you huffed, stretching, “it’s not my fault you’re a giraffe.” his jaw dropped, “okay, that’s not even a good insult.” you were both giggling now, your hands doing their best to rinse off his soapy hair, faces close enough to feel each other’s breath. then he pressed a kiss on the corner of your lips and the atmosphere shifted. still warm, still playful but heavier now. slower. the laughter faded, replaced by something quieter. your chest rose and fell in time with his. water trailed down your collarbone. his hands slid gently down to your hips. and then — he leaned in. it wasn’t a hungry kiss. it was soft, soaked in steam, lips brushing slowly over yours. your fingers threaded into his wet hair and you pulled him closer, pressing your bodies together. he guided you backwards until your back was pressed against the slick shower wall, one hand braced beside your head and the other wrapped tight around your waist, trying to keep you steady. you were already breathless from the kissing but as he tried to line himself up, you both realized something at the same time. this…wasn’t going to be as graceful as it looked in the movies.

he grunted, “okay–wait. hold on.”

“yeah,” you giggled, trying to find your footing, “this is actually really difficult…why are you so tall.”

“why are you so short,” he argues back, teasing. you burst out laughing, “wait…try it this way,” you said, shifting your leg up and resting it awkwardly on the side of the tub, your hands grabbing onto his shoulders for leverage, “i think this is how people do it.” he adjusted, positioning himself again, mouth brushing yours as he tried not to laugh, “you’re gonna get a leg cramp.”

“just go slow,” you say, he looks at you one more time before lining himself back in, but as soon as he entered you already knew it was the wrong angle, “oW!, okay nope. nope. that is not it.” he pulled away immediately, eyes wide before you both cracked up again, laughter echoing off the walls.

“okay, what about this way?,” you said, breathless, turning around and pressing your palms flat to the wall, glancing over your shoulder with raised brows, “lets try from behind. its gotta be easier.”

jisung blinked, “that looks so hot, like holy shit i could bust right now,” he says, earning another giggle from you. he moved, hands gripping your hips as he tried again, carefully, slowly, a moan tumbling out of your lips as he entered, stretching you just right – but between the water still running down your legs, the slippery floor, and the height difference… “fuck this,” he muttered. he stepped back with a groan, palms rubbing over his face as he blinked water out of his eyes, “this isn’t working, i’m gonna slip, you’re gonna crack your head open and that’s not exactly the fantasy i had in mind.”

you laughed again, turning around to face him with a pout, “so much for shower sex being hot and spontaneous.”

“it is hot,” he muttered, voice lower now, watching the way water slid on your skin, “you’re hot,” then his hand snaked around your waist, tugging you towards him, “but we're taking this to the counter before someone dies.” you squeaked as he lifted you, bridal-style, with ease. your wet bodies pressed together, slick skin on skin, carrying you to the bathroom counter and setting you down gently, lips finding yours again in another kiss. this one deeper. needier. no more giggling. just the low hum of his moan against your mouth and the way his tongue slid slow and sweet against yours. you opened your legs without a word, and he stepped in close, hand wrapping behind your knee and dragging it up over his hip. his other hand ran down your spine, settling at the base of your back, pulling you forward until your ass was right on the edge of the counter, forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing like you’d run a mile, “okay?” he whispered, his voice barely audible over your own pulse. you nodded, breath catching, “yeah.” he kissed you again, slow and deliberate. his hands slid lower, tilting your hips forward, adjusting you to fit against him perfectly. you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, fingers tightening just slightly as you felt him press closer — the warm, heavy weight of him nestled against you now, not moving yet, just resting there like he was savoring the closeness. then, with a deep inhale and eyes locked on yours, he shifted, lining himself up. you could feel the tension build between you, your grip tightening around his shoulders as your thighs instinctively squeezed around his waist. his breath hitched, then he pressed forward. slow. careful. you exhaled sharply, eyes fluttering closed as the familiar stretch bloomed through you. intense, slow-burning, your body remembering everything at once. it still caught you off guard, even after everything. this time it wasn’t awkward. no slipping, no bad angles. the cold marble of the counter a sharp contrast to the heat blooming between your thighs. you sucked in a breath, nails digging into his shoulders, eyes fluttering shut as he bottomed out with a soft, broken sound that made your toes curl, your fingers clenching at his damp shoulders. he paused, his thumb stroking over your hip as he whispered, “breathe.”

“i am breathing,” you managed, voice shaky.

he kissed your jaw, “you feel—god, you always feel so good.” your walls clenched at the sound of his voice. his hands gripped your waist tighter, and when he moved again, deeper, more deliberate, your mouth fell open in a gasp, body instinctively leaning forward into his. he settled into a rhythm, hips snapping forward with practiced precision. each thrust dragged a moan out of your throat. every movement sent sparks through you. too much and not enough. he moved like he knew exactly where you needed him, how to angle you just right, what to say to keep you hovering right there in that delicate place between pleasure and something more terrifyingly tender.

“jisung—,” you gasped when his palm found your breast, warm and broad and teasingly light at first. he thumbed over your nipple slowly, already peaked for him, with just the right amount of pressure to make your back arch into him. your voice caught, eyes fluttering as he leaned down to suck one into his mouth, sending a full-body shiver racing through you. he rolled them between his fingers while fucking into you, making your whole body tighten from the overload. pleasure spiked hard and fast, your moans growing louder as the stimulation grew.

“look at me,” he panted, voice strained, “i wanna see your face.” your eyes blinked open, lashes damp, and met his. you could see everything there — the heat, the tension, the desperation like he wanted this to mean something even if neither of you said it aloud. your bodies slapped together, wet skin meeting wet skin, and the sounds echoing in the bathroom were filthy. his thumb dragged down to circle your clit, drawing tight little spirals, making your thighs tremble around his hips, “jisung—fuck—don’t stop.”

“i’m not,” he grunts, lips brushing your jaw, “not until you come all over me.” his hips sped up, thrusts growing rougher as he leaned in and bit gently at the curve of your neck. and with one more perfectly angled thrust and a sharp tug on your nipple, you broke — coming hard, thighs trembling around him as your head tipped back, mouth open on a silent moan. he didn’t stop fucking you through it, watching your face as you fell apart for him.

“fuck, cherry,” he grunted, pulling out quickly with a stutter in his hips. he wrapped his fist around himself, panting, jerking himself with quick, messy strokes until he groaned your name. you watched with hooded eyes as he spilled across your stomach in hot, thick ropes, his head dropping to your shoulder, whole body shaking from the force of it. his hand came up instinctively to rub slow, grounding circles over your thigh. you stayed like that for a moment, both of you catching your breath in the heavy silence that followed. your stomach sticky, your legs spread, your whole body buzzing. the air thick with steam and heat and something quieter beneath it all.

then, without a word, he reached for a towel, expression softening into something almost boyish. you sat there quietly on the counter, flushed and still glowing, watching him as he moved. careful. focused. no teasing now. just jisung, gentle and quiet. he dried you off first, murmuring soft apologies every time the fabric grazed too rough against your skin, even though it never did. his touch was tender, like you were made of glass. he knelt to gently wipe down your legs, then dabbed at the marks he’d left on your chest, his thumb brushing over them like he could smooth them away. when he finally finished with himself, he wrapped the towel low around his waist, grabbed a second one to twist through your damp hair, then leaned down and whispered, “c’mon, let’s go before you start shivering.” back in his room, he dressed you in another one of his oversized hoodie and a clean pair of boxers that you had to roll twice at the waist to keep from slipping, “you look cute.” you rolled your eyes, making your way back to his bed and fighting off the butterflies in your stomach, “you say that to all your near-death shower partners?”

he laughed, quickly got dressed then grabbed his phone and flopped down onto the bed beside you, “nope. just you,” he says smirking, then “what do you want for lunch?” he murmured.

you turned your face into his shoulder, “surprise me.” he chuckled, soft and low and ended up ordering you both sandwiches, hash browns, and iced coffee from the little corner shop he liked. when it arrived, he let you steal fries off his plate and take long sips from his drink like it was the most natural thing in the world. neither of you said much. but the silence wasn’t heavy. it was full — warm with the kind of comfort that doesn’t demand words. you didn’t go back to your dorm that day. you could’ve. you should’ve. your laundry was overdue. but the second jisung reached for your hand again, just casually, like he’d done it a thousand times, you knew you weren’t going anywhere. you smelled like him. the hoodie you wore was stretched and worn and perfect, and it fell over your bare thighs in a way that felt too domestic for someone who wasn’t technically your boyfriend. but you didn’t want technicality today. you just wanted him.

jisung played home alone 2 from the t.v. in his room. you were half tangled in his sheets already, sitting cross-legged with your cheek resting on his shoulder. when the movie started playing, he leaned back, arm stretching around you, and you curled into him without a word. this time, you actually watched the movie. there was something easy in the way you fit against him. he laughed at the dumb parts, mumbled the iconic lines under his breath, pointed at the scenes he liked best. you chimed in just enough, but mostly… you just listened. let his warmth surround you. let your hand rest against his chest and feel his heartbeat. it didn’t feel like a game. not anymore. you didn’t feel like a girl chasing a prize. you felt… like a girlfriend. and worse — like one who didn’t want to stop. at one point, he glanced down and caught you staring. his grin was lazy, eyes warm, “what?”

you shook your head quickly, “nothing.”

“liar,” he whispered, leaning in to kiss your nose, “you keep looking at me like that and i’m gonna think you’re in love with me.”

you shoved his shoulder playfully, hiding the way your breath caught, “you wish.”

“pretty sure you were just watching me, not the movie.”

“only because you were quoting every single line.”

“that’s just boyfriend excellence.” you rolled your eyes, but you didn’t move away. if anything, you curled in closer. and he didn’t stop touching you. he kept his hand on your thigh. pressed kisses to your temple. tilted your face up every now and then just to steal a kiss, like it was second nature. like he didn’t even have to think about it. and you let him. because you wanted him. not just his body, not just his jokes, not just the soft way he took care of you. you wanted all of him.

the movie faded to black. jisung got quiet, his head tilting back against the pillows, his arm loosening just slightly around your shoulders. his breathing slowed. even his teasing little comments died out, replaced by the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. you shifted just enough to look up at him. his mouth was parted slightly, lashes resting against his cheekbones. the arm curled around you was slack but warm — so warm, so familiar now. he was beautiful like this. the softness of him. the way he let you lay here. the way he let you stay. the way he let you in. and god. it hit you all at once. not in a fireworks kind of way. not like the sky split open or the music swelled or your life suddenly changed. it hit you softly. like a wave lapping against your ankles. like warmth pooling in your chest. like the feeling of finding something you didn’t know you’d been missing.

you were in love with park jisung. and the thought didn’t scare you like you thought it would. in fact, it felt… inevitable. of course it was him. of course it had always been him. you felt it in every part of you. in the way your shoulders dropped around him. in the way your smile came easier in his presence. in the way your fingers itched to stay tangled in his, even in sleep. you were in love with him. you didn’t know when it happened. maybe in the dance studio, maybe when he showed you off to all his friends, maybe the first time he kissed you just because. but it happened. it was done. you’d fallen. and now, that stupid, awful bet you made with your friends felt like poison in your mouth. you didn’t care about the $500 anymore. you didn’t even know where you’d get it in two days. you just knew you’d figure it out. you’ll tell your friends. end the bet. pay them somehow, even if it meant draining your savings or actually getting a job. he deserved the truth. he deserved more than this version of you, the one still lying by omission while wrapped in his sheets, his clothes, his arms.

he stirred slightly, brow twitching. you froze, not wanting to wake him, but he only sighed and nuzzled closer into your chest with a sleepy hum. like he knew you were there. like even in sleep, he trusted you. your heart squeezed. you love him. and tomorrow… you’d deal with everything else. but today, you just wanted to be his. even if you didn’t deserve to be. you pulled him closer. you let your hand caress his hair. and you tried not to cry.

🍒 DAY 14 OF THE BET - I WON.

the soft hush of winter light poured in through the blinds, casting golden shadows across the unmade bed. you were curled up right in the center of it—bare legs tangled in his sheets, his hoodie swallowing your frame, the warmth of the morning still lingering in your bones, your stomach still full from another late lunch and the shared kisses.

downstairs, the dream house was coming alive again. the boys were back from their short holiday break, voices overlapping as they carried boxes and strung lights, the distant sound of someone arguing over music choices echoing up through the floors. you could hear jisung somewhere in the chaos—laughing. teasing. he sounds happy. it made your chest twist. you glanced at your phone. hesitating for a second before your thumb pressed the facetime call – sion. the line connected fast, and his voice was already loud, “well, well, well. calling me from lover boy’s bed, i assume?”

you rolled your eyes. “shut up.”

“oh my god. you’re smiling,” he said, clearly amused. “don’t tell me. you’re losing.”

you let out a reluctant laugh, raising a playful brow, “actually, i won.”

sion grinned, “did you now?”

you groaned, rolling your eyes softly, “yup, i won the bet, pretty sure jisung’s fallen for me.”

the door creaked open. you didn’t hear it. jisung had come back upstairs, a stupid smile on his face because he was about to ask if you wanted to go with him to pick out last minute decorations and maybe make out in one of the aisles. something stupid and domestic. he only opened the door a crack. but that was enough. he stopped cold when he heard your voice—light, playful, full of laughter. his name in your mouth. and the words.

“jisung’s fallen for me.”

and worse—

“i won the bet.”

the grin on his face vanished. it felt like the air got punched out of his lungs. like someone had shoved ice down his spine. he stood frozen in the doorway, hand still on the knob, every muscle locking up as the words echoed in his skull, again and again. i won the bet. his chest rose and fell sharply. his fingers curled into the wood of the doorframe.

he didn’t hear your voice falter after that. he didn’t hear you add, “and i’m in love with him, sion.” because jisung had already backed away. quietly. like a ghost. the door clicked shut behind him as softly as it had opened. and everything inside him started to burn. jisung hated liars. he always had. he hated people who smiled to your face and twisted the knife when you turned your back. he hated the fakes, the users, the ones who played games with people’s hearts just because they could. it was something he promised he’d never fall for again. and now here he was—falling apart in the hallway, barely breathing. you had lied to him. the only person he thought understood him. the only person he thought was playing on his side. he couldn’t unhear it. couldn’t unsee your smile when you said it. the ease in your voice. the fact that you were still in his bed, wearing his hoodie, still tasting like him, and calling him a fucking bet like it was funny. he clenched his jaw and forced his legs to move, fury buzzing just beneath his skin. he walked downstairs like nothing had happened. like the world hadn’t just shifted under his feet.

“bro, where’s y/n?” chenle asked, halfway through unraveling a tangle of lights.

“she’s asleep,” he says.

“you good?” jaemin asked, voice low, watching him too carefully. jisung grabbed a box of streamers and plastered a smile onto his face. “yeah.” he said calmly. like he hadn’t just heard the girl he let in, really let in, tell someone he was just a pawn in her stupid game. like it hadn’t cracked something deep and unfixable inside him. the rest of the boys moved on. laughter returned. decorations went up. but jisung was somewhere else entirely. because upstairs, the girl he’d fallen for had been giggling when she said his name. laughing when she called him a bet.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

“wait…if you’re in love with him, then technically that means you lost,” sion corrects, grinning.

you shrug, smiling softly, “doesn’t feel like it.”

sion was quiet for a beat after your confession. he was focused now. no more teasing, at least for a moment, “damn, you really love him,” he said finally, earning an eye roll from you, “so when are you gonna tell him?” you let out a shaky breath and tucked your knees up to your chest, phone still pressed to your ear, the fabric of jisung’s hoodie brushing your cheek, “new year’s eve,” you said softly.

“new year’s?” sion repeated, “that’s in, like, two days.”

“i know,” you murmured, “i just… i want one more day. tomorrow, i’m gonna end it officially—with the others. i need to come clean to everyone first, before i tell him.”

sion let out a low whistle, “damn. karina’s never gonna live this down.” you laughed into your sleeve, muffling the sound, “stop. i know. she’s never gonna let me forget it.”

“and the 500 bucks,” he added smugly. you sighed harder this time, flopping onto your back and burying your face into jisung’s pillow, your voice muffled by the cotton, “i don’t even know where i’m gonna get five hundred dollars, oh my god.”

“girl, you better get a job or sell a kidney or something.”

“i hate you.”

he laughed, “alright, alright. i’ll shut up. but for real… i’m happy for you, i knew you weren’t so stone cold in there.” you smiled, a little shy, a little shaky, “gee, thanks you’re just glad you’re gettin $125.”

“maybe that too,” he smirks, “but you got this, okay? end it. then tell him. just be honest.”

you nodded, “yeah, bye, sion.”

“bye, mrs. park,” you hung up on him mid-laugh. you had no idea that just minutes ago, jisung had been standing on the other side of that door. that he’d heard the wrong part of your confession — at some point, the low hum of the house faded into the background. you didn’t even remember putting your phone down. when you stirred awake, the room was dim. the sun had disappeared, traded for dusk and shadows. the hum of the house was quieter now, distant. you blinked and reached for your phone.

1 new message from jisung 🐹

jisung 🐹: went out with the guys. didn’t wanna wake you. sleep well.

you sat there staring at the text for a few seconds too long, heart skipping. still sweet. still gentle. he didn’t say anything was wrong. and yet… something in your chest tugged uncomfortably.

cherry🍒 : you could’ve woken me :(

cherry🍒 : but it’s okay. i should go home anyway. see you on new year’s eve?

the reply came five minutes later.

jisung 🐹: yeah. see you then.

that was it. three little words. no teasing, no pet name. a period at the end. it was small, subtle. almost nothing. but you felt it. you brushed the feeling away, climbing out of his bed, pulling your coat over his hoodie without changing. you didn’t want to take it off. not yet. you padded quietly down the stairs, phone in hand, trying not to overthink the distance in his message. maybe he was tired. maybe he was drunk already. maybe you were spiraling. you slipped on your shoes. the door clicked softly behind you as you stepped outside. the cold air hit your face. you tugged jisung’s hoodie tighter around you, afraid of the what’s to come.

🍒 DAY 15 OF THE BET - A BET’S STILL A BET

they showed up fast. it only took one message in the group chat.

y/n: can you guys come over? i need to tell you something.

now your dorm room was filled with coffee, oversized hoodies, and the collective chaos of your favorite people. karina tossed her coat on your chair like she owned the place. dongpyo flopped onto your bed, sipping his iced coffee. sophia sat cross-legged next to him, munching on a croissant. sion made himself comfortable on your dorm floor. quiet. watching. already knowing. karina broke the silence, “okay, the fact that you’re pacing like this is scaring me. are you pregnant?”

“no,” you blurted, eyes wide.

“are you sure?,” dongpyo asked, “because with what happened at the bowling arena, i wouldn’t be surprised.”

“dongpyo!”

“sorry, continue.”

you took a deep breath, exhaling through your nose, “i admit defeat. i lost the bet.”

that landed like a pin dropping in a quiet room. karina’s jaw dropped. “you what?”

sophia blinked, “wait, lost the bet as in… you caught feelings?”

“real feelings!?” dongpyo gasped, “cold, dead-hearted, emotionally repressed you?”

you rolled your eyes, nodding slowly, “i didn’t mean to. i didn’t even realize it was happening until it… already had.”

karina stared at you, stunned, “holy shit.”

“but—” sophia’s voice cut in gently, “—do you think he likes you back?” that question hung in the air like smoke—light, lingering, impossible to ignore. everyone stilled. because suddenly, the energy shifted. the teasing faded. and all that was left was the one terrifying possibility no one had said out loud yet: what if he didn’t?

you swallowed hard. “i don’t know.”

karina looked at you carefully, “has he said anything?”

“he’s sweet,” you whispered, “he’s… been amazing, actually. and the other day, everything felt different. like it was real. but i don’t know if that was just me seeing what i wanted to see.”

sion frowned, “you don’t think he’s faking it, right?”

you shook your head, “i don’t. but i also don’t know what’s changed for him. or if anything changed.”they knew about your deal with him. the whole dating thing to get the dream boys off his back.

sophia leaned forward, voice softer now, “are you going to tell him?”

“tomorrow,” you said quietly, “i wanted to end the bet with you guys officially first.”

karina blinked, then smiled, slow and real. “wow.”

“wow!!,” dongpyo repeated, more dramatically, “our ice queen melted. i knew this day would come.”

“shut up,” you mumbled, heat crawling up your neck.

“no, but seriously,” karina said, grinning, “i’ve been waiting for someone to melt that frozen little heart of yours since freshman year,” she said, her smile growing wider, “you always pretended you didn’t want love, and now look at you…getting all soft in jisung’s hoodie.”

you looked down at yourself, realizing you were still wearing it. still holding on. they all started laughing. and it hit you, all at once, how deeply they knew you. sion leaned back, smiling, “i can’t believe it’s jisung, though. of all people. the ultimate fuckboy was the one to get to you.”

you let out a half-laugh, “trust me, no one’s more surprised than i am.”

“but hey,” karina said, grinning, “a bet’s still a bet.”

“unfortunately,” you groaned, “i know.”

“any idea where you’re getting $500?” sophia asked innocently.

dongpyo smirked, “you should sell feet pics! or start an onlyfans!” you shoved him off, laughing.

“karina’s already shopping,” sion said, pointing at her open phone screen. karina didn’t even deny it, “no rush, babe. but i am eyeing these new heels.” they were teasing again. the tension eased. laughter returned. but underneath it all, the fear stayed. you forced a smile. tomorrow, you’d tell jisung the truth. you could only pray he’d forgive you.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

your room was quiet. the glow of your bedside lamp was warm, steady, nothing like the way your stomach had been flipping for the past hour. tomorrow was it. the end of everything. you’d finally come clean. you’d finally tell him the truth.but tonight, you were staring at your phone like it might crack open and show you the future.

you typed:

cherry 🍒: you have a theme or dress code for the party?…or should i just wear something short and sexy like last time? 😌

you hit send, heart skipping. you were joking, but also... not. you waited. three minutes passed. then–

jisung 🐹: idk. up to you. you’ll look good either way.

you stared at the text. something about it didn’t sit right. it wasn’t cold, exactly. it wasn’t mean. but it was off. no teasing. just distant. you frowned. your thumbs hovered over the keyboard again. you wanted to say something light, playful, like you always did. but instead, your heart told you to just be honest. a little brave. a little soft.

cherry 🍒 : okay. well...i have something important i want to tell you tomorrow. just don’t run away, okay?

you stared at those last words before hitting send. you almost deleted them. you almost convinced yourself not to make it dramatic. but you didn’t. you left them there. because you knew the truth would be heavy, and you needed him to stay — you didn’t know that downstairs, across campus, in a frat house lit up with half-strung lights and glittery decorations, jisung was staring at your message like it was a death sentence.

“important,” you said. he knew what that meant. in his mind, you were finally going to tell him the truth. that he was a bet. that every kiss, every laugh, every soft sleepy morning had been a game to you. that you were going to end it and walk away with your little inside joke, your victory lap, your friends laughing behind his back. the image made his blood boil. because he had believed you. he had trusted you. he had let you in. and now you were about to break him. so his heart did what broken hearts do best — it started building armor. fast. if you were going to hurt him tomorrow, then he’d beat you to it. hed’ smile. he’d act fine. he’d play it cool. he’d say something cutting, show that he never cared. tomorrow, you’d finally come clean. but he was already bleeding. and in his head, you were still laughing. and if he was a game to you, then fine, you could be a game to him, too. his fingers moved fast on the screen.

jisung 🐹: alright. i won’t run. see you :)

🍒 DAY 16 OF THE BET - BECAUSE I LOVE YOU.

you step through the doors of the dream house like you’re stepping into a battlefield. the music pounds through your bones, but all you can hear is your own heartbeat thundering in your ears. your friends are close behind. karina squeezes your hand gently, sophia gives you a hopeful look that nearly breaks you, sion and dongpyo flash encouraging smiles. because tonight is the night you tell him everything — the bet. that you ended it. that you fell. fast. hard. that you’re in love with him. you swallow, the taste of fear thick in your throat as your eyes scan the sea of faces. jaemin’s laughing with angel in the kitchen. mark and kitten are tangled on the couch, soft and warm. haechan’s got princess in his lap, whispering something in her ear. chenle is spinning baby around like the world begins and ends with her. jeno has his hands all over bunny on the dance floor. renjun was trying to avoid all the girls coming his way. but jisung was nowhere to be seen. he’s not in the kitchen. not on the couch. not among the dancers grinding to the bass drop like the world isn’t ending.

so you go upstairs. you don’t knock. you don’t breathe. you push open his door — and the world shatters. he’s in bed. with someone else. she’s straddling him, lips on his neck, her nails trailing down his bare chest like she owns it, like you didn’t just fall asleep there two nights ago. his shirt’s on the floor. the blankets are kicked back. his hands are on her hips. like it means something. like you never meant anything. your heart collapses. you can’t move. can’t speak. can’t even think. you just stand there, blinking, trying to piece together a world that suddenly doesn’t make sense. and then something inside you snaps. the pain ignites. the betrayal burns through your ribs like wildfire.

“jisung, what the fuck?!” you scream, voice ragged.

the girl shrieks and fumbles for the blanket, yanking it over her chest, “who the fuck are you?”

you look straight at her, voice cracking like a storm tearing through the sky, “i’m his fucking girlfriend!”

she freezes. her face crumples in horror, eyes darting between the two of you, “you’re —? but… he said he was single—”

“i am.” jisung’s voice slices through the room, low and lethal. he doesn’t even look at her. his eyes are locked on you. and it hurts more than if he’d slapped you. you flinch. the girl curses under her breath, grabbing her clothes in silence. she throws you one last venomous glare before slamming the door behind her, leaving you alone in a room that suddenly feels like it’s on fire. the silence is deafening. you stare at him. he’s still breathing hard, chest rising and falling, hair messy, lips swollen. his expression isn’t guilty. it isn’t even apologetic. it’s bitter. cold. empty. you shut the door behind you quietly, the click of it loud as a gunshot in the room. you lean against it like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

your voice is shaking, brittle, “do you wanna explain yourself?”

he scoffs. cold. “do you?”

your breath catches, “what?”

“don’t insult me,” he yanks his pants on, not bothering to hide the fury brewing behind his eyes. “i already know.”

you blink, “what…what are you talking about?”

he laughs, a horrible, broken sound that doesn’t reach his eyes. “i heard your phone call with sion.” you go still. he pulls a shirt over his head like the fabric is the only thing keeping him from exploding.

“was that supposed to be funny? a game? something to laugh about with your friends?” he spits, his voice rising. “a challenge? how many points do you get for breaking me, huh?”

“jisung, that’s not—”

“how much was i worth?” he snarls, “did you already get your prize? want me to smile for the fucking group chat too?”

you shake your head, stumbling a step forward like your legs barely work, “you don’t know anything—”

“you lied to me!” he roars. you flinch. he’s never raised his voice at you before, “i let myself believe in you. i let myself trust you. i thought you were the only one who understood me. and it was all a fucking joke to you, wasn’t it?”

“no—jisung, listen to me—”

“i don’t care,” he cuts you off sharply, “i was just using you too. remember?” he steps closer, each word slicing you in pieces, “—to shut everyone up. to have something pretty to look at. it was all an act. every kiss, every touch — all of it.”

“i called it off,” you whispered yet the words crack the air like lightning.

jisung stills. “…what?”

you take a shaky breath, eyes blurring. “that call you heard. that was me ending it. i told sion it was over. that it didn’t matter anymore because i—”

“don’t,” he cuts in, like the sound physically hurts him, “don’t say it.”

“because i love you.”

his face breaks. and it’s the most painful thing you’ve ever seen. like he’s trying to hold himself together with trembling hands. “…no.” he shakes his head, voice small. childlike. “that’s not what you said.”

“it is,” you whisper, “you just weren’t listening. you only heard what you wanted to hear.” he stares at you. you can see the war happening behind his eyes — the part of him that knows you’re telling the truth, and the part that’s too scared to believe it.

he shakes his head. “you’re just saying that now to win. to clean up the mess you made. why didn’t you tell me then?”

“i was scared,” you cry, “i didn’t know how to tell you that yes!, this did start as a bet,” you admit, voice shaking, “but i fell for you. i didn’t plan it. i didn’t want it. but it happened. and i came here tonight to tell you.”

“you don’t get to act like you’re the victim,” he spat, “you don’t get to cry like you’re the one that’s been betrayed.”

“i’m not the victim.” your voice trembles. “but you didn’t even ask. you didn’t talk to me. you just—assumed the worst. and you…” you swallow hard, “you fucked someone else.”

he closes his eyes. like your words are knives, “you think that wasn’t on purpose?”

your heart cracks all over again, split open in a way you didn't know it could, “you did it… to hurt me?”

“i did it because i hate you.”

and it’s the final blow. not yelled. not spat. just cold. sure. deadly. like he meant it. like he’ll never take it back. and in that moment, something inside you goes quiet. the world doesn’t shatter — not loudly, at least. it folds in on itself. like a balloon slowly deflating. like a slow ache building in your ribs until it numbs everything else. because there’s a unique kind of pain that comes from hearing “i hate you” from the person you love. it’s like being forgotten. like every moment you shared meant nothing. like you never mattered in the first place. like you were never real to them at all. your mascara is running. your voice is a ghost of itself. and something inside you finally gives out. you crumple under the weight of it all. “i’m sorry, jisung.” you say it like it could fix something. like it could hold him together when you can’t even hold yourself up.

“i’m sorry,” you choke again, and now your voice is shaking — shattered glass in your throat. “i didn’t mean to hurt you. i didn’t mean for any of this to happen.” the words are helpless. weak. but they’re all you have left. so you give them to him. one last thing for him to reject. and your tears fall freely now. silent. desperate. but he doesn’t stop you. he doesn’t move. he doesn’t say anything at all. he just watches you break in front of him. and that’s the worst part — not the silence, not the absence of forgiveness but the fact that he doesn’t reach for you. not even once. you take a breath that doesn’t quite make it to your lungs. your throat is closing. your hands are shaking. and you can’t be here anymore. you turn around slowly, like even your body is reluctant to let go. your hand trembles as it closes over the doorknob, one last connection to the room where everything once felt safe. but you don’t wait. you don’t wait for him to stop you. you don’t wait for him to say your name. you don’t wait for a single word. because some part of you already knows it won’t come. so you walk out. and the door clicks softly behind you. but it feels like a slam. like a goodbye neither of you will recover from. and you run.

“ten! nine! eight!”

your steps echo down the staircase like gunshots to your chest.

“seven! six! five!”

everyone’s cheering. champagne glasses in hand. confetti already falling.

“four! three!”

all of the couples pair off, clinging to their partners.

“two! one!”

you walk out the door as the entire house erupts in cheers, kisses and fireworks — renjun sees you. his heart drops. your face is streaked with tears. your lips trembling. and you don’t look back as the door closes behind you. he doesn’t hesitate. he climbs the stairs. he pauses outside jisung’s room. CRASH. the sound of something breaking, glass shattering against the wall. a guttural scream, muffled fists hitting the bedpost. renjun opens it slowly. the room is wrecked. sheets tangled, a lamp knocked over, drawers open, a hole punched through the closet door. and jisung? he’s on the floor. knees pulled up, head in his hands, body trembling from too much pain and too much rage. he looks up when he hears the door. his eyes are bloodshot, wet, face crumpled. and he whispers, voice small— so, so broken — “why do i always play the fool, hyung?”

renjun says nothing. he just walks forward and kneels beside him. and this time, jisung doesn’t hold it back. he lets the tears fall and he cries. ugly. loud. grieving.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

the floor is littered with objects. jisung sits with his back against the wall, knees drawn to his chest, knuckles red and raw from punching furniture. renjun stays beside him, steady and still, a quiet presence in the chaos. jisung’s shoulders tremble with every breath, but the sobs have dulled now, like his body is exhausted to keep breaking. then – a knock. and the door creaks open. “jisung?,” jaemin’s voice, light at first, teasing out of habit, “we didn’t see you downstairs, we wanted to say happy new—,” he stops. his eyes sweep over the room, the broken furniture, the mess of paper and clothes. then he lands on jisung, curled up on the floor like something hallowed him out form the inside. the reflection too familiar to the older boy. renjun meets his gaze and gives a small shake of his head. jaemin steps inside slowly, his usual grin nowhere to be found. “bro!,” another figure appears behind him. it’s chenle. laughing until he sees what they’re seeing, “yo what the fuck happened?”mark’s next. one by one, all the dream boys enter his room – a group known for their noise and confidence and shameless chaos. but now? now they’re silent. staring at their youngest member in pieces on the floor.

“is he hurt?,” jeno asks. renjun shakes his head, “not physically.” the others hover for a second like they don’t know what to say next. like they’re seeing the version of jisung all those years ago — stripped of his charm, his confidence, his walls. just a boy. broken open.

“someone wanna tell us what the hell happened?” haechan murmurs. renjun looks down at jisung, who hasn’t moved since his last whispered question. he doesn't answer. no one speaks. and then jisung finally talks, quiet, eyes unfocused, like the memory of the night is still sinking in for him too, “she came here to tell me she loved me.” his voice is hoarse. like it’s painful to say the words aloud. “she told me she called off the bet,” his voice is rasp, splintered and dry. his eyes are somewhere else. like he was trying to remember what just happened in the past hour.

theres a beat of silence, stunned and sick. then jaemin stiffens, “wait. bet?,” he asks slowly, “what bet?” jisungs’s head drops, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes like he can block the memory out, “i was a game. to her and her friends. make me fall and she wins.”

no one breathes. haechan’s tone is sharp, “tell me you’re joking, jisung.” he looks up at his hyung, eyes glassy and lips quivering, “i wish i was.”

mark’s face twists, “you’re telling me that everything between you was fake?”

“she said it wasn’t, not in the end,” jisung says hoarsely, “she said she meant it. that she…that she loves me.”

“that doesn’t make it okay,” jeno snaps, exhaling hard, dragging a hand through his hair, “she played you.”

“she tried to undo it,” jaemin says, quieter.

“guess she was just a good actress,” chenle spits.

“enough,” renjun cuts in, sharper now, “this isn’t helping.” the room goes quiet again – not because the anger is gone but because they can finally see what renjun’s seen since the moment he walked in. jisung is wrecked. no defiance. no excuses. just a boy in a pile of his own ruin.

“she was going to tell me tonight,” jisung whispers, “but i didn’t let her. i was so angry — i just wanted to hurt her back so i—,” he cuts off swallowing the next words, “—i slept with someone else and i made sure she saw it.”

“jesus christ,” chenle mutters. you’re not there, but your ghost clings to every breath in the room. the boys are all picturing it – the way you must’ve looked walking in on him with someone else, the way you ran out during the countdown. jisung lets out a bitter laugh, suddenly remember something else – something older, deeper. a lie that began everything, “i never even told you guys why we started dating.”

they all glance up, “what do you mean?,” mark asks.

“i told you we just clicked,” jisung says, “but that’s not what happened,” he exhales, broken and bitter, “i made her my girlfriend because i wanted you all to get off my back. i wanted you guys to stop thinking i was a fuck-up.”

haechan’s brows pinch, “jisung…”

“it wasn’t real at first. i didn’t even know i liked her. but then she made me laugh. she understood me,” he says, voice cracking again, “and i let myself believe that maybe this time, it could be different…turns out i do just fuck things up.” the room is quiet again. except this time, it’s not out of anger. it’s grief. for the version of jisung they’d been waiting for — the one who started to soften, started to try. none of them sure if he’ll ever let that part of him come back. renjun breaks the silence, with that same intuitive calm that’s held jisung together this whole time, “you said she loved you.” jisung nods once, eyes shut.

“then maybe it was real for her too, too”

“but i didn’t believe her,” jisung says, “i didn’t even give her the chance to explain.” he’s crying now. no one says anything. no one dares to. because they know the hurt between you and jisung wasn’t just betrayal. it was love that turned to ruin. trust shattered by fear. hope undone by pride. and even if you both meant it in the end…jisung may never believe it again. not after this.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

you’re on the floor of your dorm room. still in your dress. curled up in the center of the room like you collapsed there the second you walked in. mascara streaks your cheeks. your chest rises and falls in uneven gasps, your whole body trembling from the cold, from the hurt, from the truth. you barely remember how you got home. your heels are gone. somewhere on the sidewalk. the night is a blur of pounding music and muffled voices that dissolved into static. but none of it matters now. the door slams open. footsteps freeze. “babe?” karina’s voice cracks as she sees you.

“oh my god,” sophia whispers. dongpyo and sion peeking in to see you broken on the floor. they rush toward you. you try to speak, but all that escapes is a sob — broken, raw, pulled straight from somewhere deep inside. it silences the whole room. karina drops to her knees, instantly beside you, gathering you in her arms like she’s trying to shield you from whatever shattered you, “what happened?” she breathes, “what did he do to you?”

you shake your head, “it’s my fault.”

sophia sits on the other side of you, brushing your hair back, gentle and careful. “what do you mean? you were going to tell him. you were going to finally say it.”

you nod, choking on your own words. “i—i did. i tried,” you sob. “i went to his room and—and he was…” you can’t even finish. but they all understand.

“h-he was with someone else,” your voice breaks again, hands pressed to your chest like you’re trying to keep your ribs from collapsing, “and i can’t even blame him. i lied to him. i hurt him. i started this whole thing as a fucking bet.” you cover your face, tears leaking through your fingers. “h-he heard my phone call with sion, he thought i was laughing at him. thought i was bragging.”

“wait,” sion says, slowly. “but that call was you ending it. you told me you fell in love with him.”

“he didn’t hear that part,” you whisper, “i’m so stupid,” you cry, “i let myself fall in love with someone i was supposed to be pretending with and then i went and ruined it. i deserve this. i deserve everything—his hate, the way he looked at me like i was nothing—”

“stop,” karina cuts in sharply. “no, you don’t.” dongpyo snaps, “that is not love.”

“you were exclusive,” sophia says softly. “even if it started out fake. it became real. you didn’t just imagine that.”

“but i broke his trust.”

“and he broke yours,” sion says. calm. brutal. “he slept with someone else while still being your boyfriend. doesn’t matter if it was real-real or convenient-real. you were still together. that is not okay.”

you shake your head violently, “you didn’t see his face. you didn’t hear his voice. i destroyed him. he said he hated me—,” you whimper, karina pullina you tighter, “—it hurts so much.”

sion sits back on the floor beside you, his expression dark, “if I had known what he was going to do—”

“no,” you interrupt, voice hoarse. “—it’s all my fault.”

dongpyo snorts, furious. “he didn’t mean to fuck someone else? okay.” karina glances at him as to say shut up this is not helping.

“i think… i think i would’ve forgiven him,” you admit, “if we had just talked about it.” that silences them. because they believe you. because they know you. and even in your guilt, even in your self-blame, it’s clear — your love for him is real. and it’s killing you. the room is quiet except for your sobs. and four people who love you. helpless to fix it, but willing to sit with you in the wreckage anyway. just like the boys did for him.

🍒 JANUARY 5 - HAPPY NEW YEAR.

a mandatory student council assembly. dress code: casual. attendance: required. the kind of event that’s pointless on a normal day. but today, it feels like a battlefield. the auditorium buzzes with idle chatter as students filter in. the dream boys stick out like always, shining, confident, loud. but even they’re quieter than usual. muted. careful. because at the center of them sits jisung. silent. head down. he’s wearing a black hoodie. his hair’s a mess. his eyes are dull. his legs bounce restlessly under the chair, like he can’t sit still with everything still weighing on him. mark and jeno flank him on either side like bodyguards. the rest — jaemin, renjun, chenle, haechan — are watching the entrance. waiting. and then…you walk in. karina’s got her arm looped through yours. sophia is clutching your water bottle like she’ll throw it at someone if needed. sion and dongpyo trail behind, both tense, both ready. karina locks eyes with mark. her stare is icy, unreadable. sophia doesn’t even blink when she sees haechan glaring. dongpyo is death staring chenle for no reason. and sion zero in on jisung. not threatening — just watching like they’re counting how many pieces of him still exist. but none of it matters. because neither side can undo what happened. neither group can fix the way you’re both breaking.

the second jisung looks up and sees you — he stops breathing. because you’re a shell of the girl he remembers. you still look beautiful. but not in the way you used to shine. you’re wearing makeup like armor. you’re walking upright only because your friends are holding you there. your eyes are sunken. red. tired. he doesn’t even try to look away. he just watches you walk across the auditorium. watches you pretend not to notice him. watches your hands tremble when you sit down. watches how sophia squeezes your shoulder. how karina leans in to whisper something only meant for you.

renjun mutters under his breath. “this is bad.”

“she looks like she hasn’t slept in a week,” mark says.

jeno exhales, shaking his head, “neither has he.”

the tension is palpable. students all around begin to pick up on it — eyes darting between you and jisung. whispers spread like wildfire: “are they not together anymore?” “didn’t they spend new year’s together?” “i heard he cheated.” “i heard it was a bet.” “wait, she cried in the hallway, didn’t she—?”

the room feels suffocating. and in the middle of it all, jisung expected to feel hatred. or anger. maybe even numbness. but all he feels… is pain.

the house lights dim slightly as the dean of student affairs, dr. kun, steps up to the podium with a strained smile and a click of the mic, “good afternoon, students, happy new year to everyone! thank you all for being here today. we’ll be starting with our mandatory annual seminar on substance awareness and drug prevention.” a half-hearted shuffle echoes through the crowd as they slouched deeper into their seats. you sit stiffly in your row, hands clenched in your lap. the dean starts talking. something about resources on campus, peer mentorship programs, the dangers of prescription misuse. but his voice is far away. muffled. like your ears are filled with static. it’s not the topic. it’s not the noise. it’s the silence inside you. too loud. too painful. you’re not even hearing what he’s saying. all you can hear is your own heartbeat pounding in your ears, your own breathing growing shallow. you dig your nails into your palms, eyes fixed on the floor, trying to stay grounded. but your throat aches. your vision blurs. your stomach twists – you can’t do this. not here. not with him in the same room. you try to blink the tears back. try to force air into your lungs. but your body has already decided. it’s already unraveling, already flashing the painful memories of that night. you lean into karina and whisper, “i need to go.” she doesn’t hesitate. just nods, squeezes your hand once, and lets you go. sophia shifts to the side. sion and dongpyo don’t say a word. they don’t stop you. they know you’ve hit your limit. you move as quietly as you can, slipping past knees and backpacks, your shoulders hunched like you’re trying to disappear. the auditorium is dim, but not enough to hide the shine of tears in your eyes. you push open the side exit, and the heavy door swings shut behind you with a soft click. you’re gone. but not unnoticed. because five rows back, jisung saw everything. he wasn’t listening to the dean either. he hasn’t listened to anything since you walked in. he noticed the way you haven’t made eye contact with anyone. he noticed how you barely moved — like even breathing hurt. and he notices how you left. quietly. quickly. broken. and it hurts him to know you’re crying alone because of him. his eyes are fixed on the door even long after it closes. he can’t see your face anymore. but he doesn’t need to. because it’s already burned into him. renjun glances at him, then toward the door. “go,” he says under his breath. but he doesn’t move. he just sits there, jaw clenched, hands balled into fists, every inch of him holding onto his pride. his brain screaming she lied to you over and over again.

🍒 JANUARY 6 - LOVERBOY 101.

the studio is already buzzing with chatter when you walk in. music from someone’s speaker plays faintly. a few students laugh, stretching lazily, still in post-holiday haze. you take your spot quietly near the back wall and sit down to stretch. you don’t say much. your eyes are fixed on the floor. karina watches you like a hawk from her spot nearby, concern written all over her face. and then the door opens. jisung steps in, hoodie half-zipped, jaw tight. his eyes sweep the room — not looking for you, but already knowing where you are. his gaze lands on you for half a second. karina sits straighter. professor taeyong’s voice cuts through the noise, “alright everyone, welcome back! hope you had a restful break. reminder, your final duet performances are next week, i’m giving you class time to rehearse. use the space wisely.”

the moment the words leave his mouth, jisung starts walking toward you. and karina is immediately on her feet. she intercepts him halfway, standing between you and him like a shield. “seriously?” she says, arms crossed. “you really think you get to just walk up to her like nothing happened?”

he stops short. his expression hardens. “it’s for the project.”

“i don’t care if it’s for the olympics,” she snaps. “back off.”

“karina,” you say softly, not looking at either of them. “it’s fine.” she glances down at you. you give her a small nod — too tired to fight. too broken to run. just ready to survive this. karina’s jaw tightens. but she finally steps aside.

“touch her too hard and i’ll break your fingers,” she mutters as she passes jisung. he doesn’t respond. you look up and meet his eyes for the first time since that night. there’s no heat in his gaze. no spark. just…ache.

“let’s just get this over with,” he says flatly. “we don’t want to fail.” you nod once. you both move to the corner. same routine. same steps. but everything feels foreign now. when the music starts, your bodies fall into the motions, the muscle memory still intact. you hit each beat, each turn, each line. but there’s no connection. no softness. every time his hand brushes yours, you feel like you might cry. every time his fingers settle on your waist, your chest aches so hard it’s hard to breathe. and he feels it. god, he feels it. because you used to melt into his touch. you used to smile when your steps aligned. you used to laugh when you fumbled the spin. now you barely even look at him. now it’s just silence and space and a gaping hole where your warmth used to be.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

his room is dim now, the sun long since dipped beneath the horizon, leaving the sky a dull gray. the only light comes from the faint glow of jisung’s laptop, music playing faintly, something low, slow and heartbreak shaped. he’s been like this since he got back from class. been like this for the past week. blank. gutted. another full day of pretending not to care. his jaw’s been clenched for hours. his chest aches like it’s been hollowed out. all day, your silence echoed louder than anything. you didn’t even look at him during the second run-through. and when you finally left the studio without saying goodbye, he felt like something inside him had cracked permanently. a soft knock breaks the silence. he doesn’t answer. the door opens anyway. jaemin steps in, tossing a gatorade onto his stomach before sitting backward on his desk chair, arms folded on the top of it and just…stares at him.

“you gonna stay like this forever?” jisung doesn’t answer. jaemin glances around the room — clothes in piles, water bottles everywhere, the whole place feeling like it’s been slowly closing in on itself.

“you gonna talk to me, or should i just sit here and give you a live ted talk on how you’re actively ruining your life?” jisung finally speaks, voice low. “i’m not ruining anything. it’s already ruined.”

jaemin raises a brow, “because of one mistake?”

“because i’m tired, hyung,” jisung says, sharper now, “every time i let someone in, i get fucking burned.” jaemin’s expression softens, but he doesn’t interrupt. “you think this is about a bet?” jisung goes on, sitting up now, “it’s not just the bet. it’s not just that she lied. it’s that she knew how messed up i was. she knew what happened with my ex. and she still did it. she still made me believe she cared.”

jaemin studies him carefully, “so…what?, you’d rather stay angry? keep holding onto that pride until it eats you alive?”

“i’d rather not fall for a lie again.”

jaemin leans forward, “jisung, let me teach you something.” the younger boy rolls his eyes, “what is this? fuckboy 101, version 2.0?”

jaemin shakes his head, grinning, “more like… loverboy 101.” jisung scoffs but jaemin continues anyway, “i get it. believe me, i get it. remember when i found out angel was lying to me?…it felt like the ground disappeared. i hated her. i hated myself for trusting her. but now,” jaemin smiles faintly, “now she’s the love of my life.”

jisung scoffs bitterly, “yeah you two are fucking perfect. congrats.”

jaemin shakes his head, “we’re not perfect. we choose to love each other anyway.” he continues, quieter now, “you think i didn’t feel what you’re feeling right now? the rage? the betrayal? the ache in your throat that doesn’t go away, no matter how long you sit in silence?…you’re not the only one who’s been lied to, jisung,” jaemin leans forwards, “—sometimes people mess up. but it doesn’t mean the love isn’t real. it doesn’t mean it can’t become something true.” he continues, “—love isn’t just about the perfect moments, it’s not just the kissing or the teasing or the stupid conversations that happen at 3 a.m.”

jisung frowns but listens. “it’s also the part after. when everything’s shattered. when you’re bleeding and bitter and still you reach for each other,” jaemin’s voice is steady now, words slow and deliberate, “because love doesn’t survive without forgiveness. trust me. i almost lost mine due to my pride.”

jisung swallows hard. “i can’t go back there, hyung. i can’t be that guy again. the one who loves too loudly just to be left behind.”

“you’re not that guy,” jaemin says. “you’re someone who’s been hurt, yeah. but you’re also someone she chose to come clean to. someone she was ready to fight for.”

“she walked away too.”

“because you broke her too,” jaemin says, voice calm but firm. “you cheated, jisung. you told her you hated her. you let her leave.” another beat of silence. “you think being cold makes you stronger. but all it’s done is make you lonely.”

jisung lowers his head, “she looked at me today like i was a stranger. i don’t think she’ll ever forgive me,” he finally says, his restraints loosening slowly.

“if you love her, then tell her…at least try,” jaemin says. then he gets up, heads toward the door, then stops and glances back, “i thought angel would never forgive me either,” he says, “now she has half of my wardrobe and eats my food without asking.”

jisung lets out a soft, miserable laugh. jaemin smiles. “don’t let love walk away just because you let your pride win.” then he leaves. and jisung sits in the quiet. still hurting. still scared. but now, maybe, with something shifting. enought to admit to himself that he has become every version of something he hated. enough to admit to himself that he doesn’t hate you. he hates what it means to love you. because that means risking it all again. and he’s not sure he knows how to survive another fall.

🍒 JANUARY 7 - I KNOW IT’S OVER.

the soft glow of the studio lights spills onto the hardwood floors, reflecting off the mirrors that once captured your happiest moments together. the room is quiet, save for the low hum of music looping from your speaker the same track you’ve been dancing to for nights now, its melody looping endlessly, like a lifeline. a lullaby for the broken. a desperate attempt to drown out the echo in your chest where his voice used to live. you spin. a turn you’ve done a hundred times now. your body moves on muscle memory but your mind is somewhere else. until it slams back into place. because there he is. jisung. you freeze. and the air between you shifts. he looks like a memory — hoodie loose around his frame, face pale, eyes shadowed like he hasn’t slept in days. his fingers twitch at his sides, like he’s not sure whether to stay or run. you turn to face him fully, heart caught in your throat. he takes one slow step inside, the door clicking shut behind him. neither of you say anything for a beat. then he swallows, voice hoarse, “what are you doing here?”

you hug your arms tighter around yourself, like that might hold all the pieces in, “i’ve been coming here every night,” you confess, voice soft.

his brow furrows, “why?”

you take a breath, shaky, “because this is the only place that still feels like us.”

his face softens. like something inside him shatters a little — you never walked away.

you can’t meet his eyes anymore, “...why are you here?”

he doesn’t answer right away. when he does, it’s a whisper, barely above the music, “i couldn’t sleep,” he says, “i thought maybe if i came here, i’d…remember how to breathe again.”

the silence stretches again, but now its not empty. now it’s heavy with everything unsaid. then you look up at him again, voice smaller this time, “do you…still hate me?” he freezes. you see it happen — the way the question knocks the wind out of him. he looks at you, eyes wide, aching.

“no.” he says quickly. sharply, “no, i don’t hate you.”

you take a careful step forward, “but you said it like you meant it.”

his voice is low. wrecked. “i was angry,” he says, “and scared. and i didn’t know how else to make the pain stop.” your voice trembes, trying not to fall apart, “what do you feel now?”

he doesn’t speak. for a long moment, it’s just the sound of the music and your hearts breaking in tandem. “terrified,” he whispers, “i’m terrified that if i say it, it’ll break me again,” he murmurs, “that i won’t survive it.”

you step towards him, cautiously, voice trembling, heart pounding, “say what?”

he looks at you, really looks at you, and for a second he’s not angry and grieving. he’s just a boy in love, broken open in the worst way. his next words slice the air clean in half.

“i love you.”

three words. simple. quiet. devastating. honest. you feel them all the way down to your bones.

“i love you,” he repeats louder this time, surer, “and i don’t know how to stop. even when it hurt. even when i hated the way you make me feel so much, i still couldn’t stop.” he’s breathing hard now. eyes glassy. “—you made me feel like i mattered. like i wasn’t just a fuck-up hiding behind jokes and half truths. you looked at me like i was worth something. you made me laugh when i didn’t know how to anymore. you brought the air back into my lungs,” he says, voice cracking, “and when i thought it was all a game, when i thought i was just a bet — it broke everything in me.”

“i lashed out, i know i said awful things and i did worse,” he chokes, “i wanted you to hurt like i was hurting. i wanted to forget you. but i couldn’t. and loving you…is the only real thing i’ve ever felt and it scared the shit out of me.”

you’re crying now, tears streaking silently down your cheeks, “i should’ve told you sooner,” you say, barely above a whisper, “i should’ve told you everything. i shouldn’t have played the game at all.”

he steps forward, gently, “it doesn’t matter anymore.”

you shake your head, “it matters to me. because i love you. i never stopped loving you. even when i hated myself for how i hurt you. even when you looked at me like i was nothing.”

“you were never nothing,” he says, voice thick with pain. he closes the distance, hand lifting to cup your cheek. his thumb brushes away a tear with the softness of someone touching something sacred. he’s trembling. you’re trembling. and still, you lean into his palm like it’s home. and something in him finally gives. he pulls you into his arms like he’s been holding every inch of this in since the day he let you walk away. it’s not just a hug. it’s unraveling. a surrender. you crumble against him, clutching his hoodie like if you let go, he might disappear. your face presses to his chest, where you can feel his heartbeat racing. you both hold on like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.

“i’m sorry for lying to you,” you whisper, “for not being braver.”

“i’m sorry for hurting you,” he says, voice muffled in your hair.

“i’ve already forgiven you.”

he pulls back just enough to see your face. to read your eyes. and then he kisses you. soft, like a secret. slow, like an apology. then deeper, desperate, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of forgiveness on your lips. trying to taste every version of the future he thought he lost. the music is still playing low and quiet. the studio pulsing with something living. the broken trust. the missed chances. the words that came too late and the love, raw and imperfect, but real. and in that studio, under the quiet hum of lights and the weight of everything you’ve been through, you begin again.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

the door creaks softly as you step inside jisung’s room, the quiet click of it closing behind you a stark contrast to the noise still floating up faintly from downstairs. in here, the world has stilled. you decided to start over, so you let yourself forget that the last time you stood in this room, your heart was breaking. you focus instead on the soft scent of his laundry detergent, something warm and cottony. his desk is cluttered, lights low, his bed is a mess of blankets and pillows, like he hasn’t bothered pretending things are normal. you don’t say anything. you just collapse together onto the mattress. limbs tangling beneath the covers, bodies fitting together like they remember each other even if your hearts are still catching up. his fingers find yours, tracing light shapes on the inside of your wrist. you’re curled into his side, face half-buried in the worn fabric of his hoodie, where it smells most like him.

then — he speaks, voice barely louder than a whisper, “i know it’s over… but can i ask what the prize was?”

you blink. a pause. the question catching you off guard. “seriously?”

he shrugs a little, eyes still fixed on the ceiling, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “just curious.”

you hesitate. your fingers curl a little tighter into the fabric of his hoodie, “…five hundred dollars,” you say finally, voice a little sheepish, a little ashamed.

he turns his head to look at you, eyes a little wide, “oh.”

“yeah,” you mumble, eyes flicking up to meet his, “dongpyo said i should start an onlyfans.”

his entire body stiffens, “fuck, no.”

you burst into giggles, the sound muffled by his chest, “relax. of course not. but i do need to get a job.” he chuckles, one of those soft, genuine ones that makes his eyes crinkle slightly and your stomach flutter, “we’ll throw a party and charge entrance, you’ll be fine” he says without hesitation, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

you blink up at him, “seriously? you can do that?”

he brushes some hair away from your face, smile still there, “we do it sometimes. how do you think we can afford these parties anyway?”

you look at him with wide eyes, “wait, but i’ve never paid to get in.”

“hot girls get in for free,” he says simply, like it’s a rule of physics.

you narrow your eyes, “so are sion and dongpyo also hot girls?”

he laughs, “they’re your friends. of course they don’t have to pay.”

“but we’ve been going to your parties since freshman year.”

“yeah,” he says, turning to you with a crooked grin, “and you took my virginity freshman year, you think i’m gonna charge you and your friends for cheap vodka and stale doritos?” he teases. you snort, “wow. so romantic.”

“i try.” your laughter fades slowly into something quieter, the kind of silence that feels full, not empty. the kind where your fingers find his again. where your breaths fall into rhythm. where your heart finally stops racing. his hand drifts to your waist, thumb tracing soft illness.

and then, in that quiet, his voice returns. gentler this time. “promise there won’t be any more lies between us?”

you lift your head just slightly to meet his gaze. his eyes are serious now. you nod immediately. “i promise.” and you mean it. but then, your expression shifts. your smile fades. your gaze slips away. your fingers, which had been tracing the hem of his sleeve, still. something pulls in your chest — like a weight you’ve been ignoring until now. he notices it instantly, “what is it?” he asks softly, “is there something else?”

you hesitate. then you look up at him, wide-eyed and fragile. your voice trembles when you speak, “don’t freak out.”

he sits up slightly, brows furrowing, “you can’t start with ‘don’t freak out’ and expect me not to freak out.”

you sit up too, grabbing his hand quickly, squeezing, “just promise me you won’t.”

“okay,” he says slowly, searching your face, his heart thumping in his chest, “i promise. what is it?”

you take a breath. then another, “i haven’t…” you pause, “i haven’t gotten my period.”

for a second, it’s like the walls have sucked all the air out of the room. his eyes widen, “wait—what?!”

you wince, “i said don’t freak out.”

“I’M NOT FREAKING OUT!,” he squeaks, voice cracking halfway through the sentence, “i’m just–processing…processing very quickly and very loudly.”

you cover your face with your hands, “oh my god.”

he scrambles upright, starts pacing his room like it’s suddenly caught fire, “okay, okay, this is fine. totally fine. you’re not even sure right? like, maybe it’s just late?”

you nod, “it’s probably nothing. it’s probably stress. i mean, everything’s been so—”

“how late?” he interrupts.

you hesitate, “…a week.”

he stops pacing. blinks. breath caught. “okay, okay, its okay,” he nods, eyes wild, “we don’t know anything yet. you’re right. it’s probably nothing.”

you nod. he nods. he sits back down. you’re both nodding at each other like you’re trying to physically keep your panic from exploding. and then he blurts, “should i google it?”

you burst out laughing, “what exactly are you going to google, jisung?”

“i don’t know!,” he says, flustered, “symptoms! timelines! how to breathe properly without fainting?” you giggle as he falls dramatically back onto his bed, placing a hand over his heart like he’s surviving a mild heart attack.

“but…you’re not mad?,” you ask quietly, the humor fading just a little.

he turns his head toward you, gaze instantly soft. “no. why would i be mad?” his voice is gentle again. he laces his hands through yours, “i’m just… nervous.”

you exhale in relief, plopping back down to his side, and cuddling back into him, “it’s probably just stress,” you mumble, your voice muffled against his hoodie.

“probably,” he agrees, “but either way–,” he looks at you, voice soft, “we’ll figure it out together. okay?”

you nod, heart full, leaning into him as he wraps his arms around you again. and just like that — nervous laughs, quiet reassurances, slow kisses between heartbeats — you're right back where you belong. together. no lies. no games. just this.

🍒 JANUARY 8 - BREATHING.

the five pregnancy tests are dramatically lined up across jisung’s bathroom counter like sacred relics. you’re on his bed, knees bouncing. he’s pacing the room in socks and a hoodie over his boxers, clutching the receipt like it’s a legal document.

“i just wanna say,” he begins, dramatically holding up a hand, “this is all your fault.”

you scoff, “my fault?”

“yes,” he says, whirling around, “you’re the one who had the audacity to say don’t freak out and then immediately hit me with i haven’t gotten my period. that’s literally a war crime.”

“oh, please, you’re the one with the weak pull-out game,” you smirk and he looks genuinely offended.

“you told me not to wear a condom!,” he shouts, pointing at the bathroom, “now there’s five pregnancy tests in there! i nearly wiped out the entire pharmacy shelf, the cashier looked at me like i was crazy.”

you snort, “i told you to buy one! it’s not my fault you bought five!”

“i panicked!,” he defends, “what was i supposed to do?! trust one stick?!,” he cries. you dissolve into giggles and he collapses next to you on the bed like a man defeated by science. “i cannot believe this is my life,” he mutters into a pillow, “one minute i’m chilling the next im sweating in aisle five of a drugstore, googling can stress delay a period or am i a dad…and now i have trust issues with my own penis!”

you shake your head, laughing so hard you nearly fall off the bed, “you are so dramatic.” and then your phone timer buzzes. you both freeze. slowly, like you’re approaching a sleeping bear, you walk in the bathroom together and hover above the counter. jisung’s muttering under his breath, “please, jesus, buddha, aliens, anyone.”

you check the first stick – negative. second – negative. all five — negative.

a beat passes. then you both scream. “LET’S GO!!,” he yells, sprinting around the room like he’s just scored the winning goal in a championship, “I KNEW IT. I KNEW IT. MY PULL OUT GAME IS STRONGER THAN THE HOLY TRINITY.”

you’re crying with laughter now, wheezing as you double over, “YOU WERE SWEATING THROUGH YOUR SHIRT FIVE MINUTES AGO!.”

“you had me questioning myself, cherry!,” he says, pointing dramatically, “but deep in my soul, i knew. i knew. i am a legend.”

“you bought a pack of tests and baby diapers,” you point out.

“i was just being prepared!”

“you were mentally naming the baby, weren’t you?”

he pauses. guilty silence. “...maybe.” you laugh again and he catches you in his arms, spinning you around dramatically before tumbling with you back onto the bed. you’re both grinning so hard your cheeks hurt.

“seriously though,” he says, nudging his nose against yours, “i’m glad we’re okay.”

“me too,” you whisper, brushing your thumb across his cheek, “that was the worst ten minutes of my life.”

“right?,” he whispers back, then kisses you once, soft and sweet. then he leans in, voice dropping into a mischievous whisper against your mouth, “i think we should celebrate…by having really hot sex right now.”

you snort, “you’re unbelievable.” he grins, eyes glinting with mischief, “unbelievably sexy,” he corrects, rolling over to cage you beneath him. his hoodie brushes against your bare legs as he leans down, pressing another kiss to your lips, he feels you smile. then the kiss deepens, slow and unrushed as you melt into him, hands tugging his hoodie off. you can feel his heart pounding under your palm, and when you roll your hips against him gently, his breath catches against your lips. jisung groans, low and quiet, his hands sliding up your waist, thumbs brushing over the soft curves of your ribs, “i missed this,” he whispers, voice hoarse, “missed you.”

“i’m right here,” you murmur back, brushing your nose against his, “i never went anywhere.” he kisses you again, hungrier now, but still slow, still careful. like he wants to savor this. like he’s memorizing the way you taste after a week of wondering if he’d ever get to touch you again. you reach down tugging his boxers off, he helps you push it down and then they’re gone, tossed somewhere near the foot of the bed.

“you’re sure?,” he whispers, voice low and careful, lips brushing yours.

you nod, eyes steady, “i want you.” his hands slide down to the hem of your (his) hoodie, lifting the fabric slowly. you sit up just enough to let him pull it over your head, then he tosses it somewhere to the floor. jisung’s gaze rakes over you like he can’t believe you’re real, “god,” he whispers, reverent and ridiculous, “i missed these babies.”

you let out a breathless laugh, “you’re so dumb.”

“i’m dead serious, cherry” he says, voice suddenly deeper as his hands cup your breasts fully, thumbs circling your nipples, “i’ve been thinking about them. i mourned them. they were gone too long.” you gasp softly when he rolls his thumbs again, this time slower, more precised. your back arches into his touch, eyes fluttering shut as your breath sutters. jisung groans, “jesus–you’re perfect,” he leans in, kissing across the top of your chest before taking one nipple into his mouth. the marks he left before have faded now and he was going to make sure he leaves new ones. he sucks slow and gentle at first, flicking his tongue just enough to make your hips jerk forwards. you feel his length against your panties, a sweet moan slipping past your lips. he continues to work his mouth over you – switching sides, showing each one way too much favoritism.“still okay?” he murmurs, lips brushing sensitive skin.

you nod quickly, breathless, “more than okay.” he chuckles low in his throat, dragging his tongue back over one peak, then blowing on it just to make you shiver, “i love how sensitive you are here.” you can only moan in response as he keeps going until your thighs are trembling around his waist and your fingers are digging into his shoulders. “i missed the sounds you make when i do this,” you whimper when he sucks harder, your nails digging into his back. your body rolls against him instinctively, grinding down, desperate now. needing him. he slides your panties down and kisses you again, slow and deep. then he reaches down to guide himself through your folds, slow teasing strokes that make your thighs twitch and your breath hitch. you shiver, so ready it almost hurts, your hips chasing his. but just as you brace yourself for him to finally push in, just as your body arches, lips parted, aching — he stills.

your eyes fly open and meet his. he’s not moving. not even breathing.

you blink. “what are you—” and then it hits you. you burst out laughing, body shaking with giggles, “oh my god. you’re scared.”

“i’m scarred,” he corrects, “you think i went through a full-blown midlife crisis in aisle five just to play with fire again?”

you’re breathless with laughter now, cheeks flushed, forehead resting against his. “jisung.”

he frowns, but it’s playful, “i made eye contact with a toddler in the baby aisle,” he goes on, eyes wide, traumatized, “she waved at me. i almost passed out.” you’re giggling helplessly now, arms wrapping around his neck to pull him down into a kiss. “okay, okay, you have condoms right?” he immediately perks up, almost forgetting that those existed. he reaches over his nightstand drawer, grabbing one and ripping the wrapper with practiced urgency, sliding it on like an expert. once he’s covered, he settles back between your thighs, bracing himself on his forearms, forehead pressed to yours.

“okay,” he murmurs. “now i can properly blow your mind without the threat of parenthood looming over us.” you laugh into his mouth, and then you’re gasping again as he finally sinks into you. your fingers clutch at his shoulders, his back, anything you can reach, as he moves inside you with slow, deep thrusts. his eyes are locked on yours, lips parted, breathing heavy as he watches every expression flicker across your face. “fuck,” you whimper, head falling back against the pillow. “you’re too big.”

“you say that every time,” he groans, forehead resting against yours, “and every time, you take it so fucking well.” the pressure is overwhelming — too much, too deep, so good — and your body clings to him, shuddering around him with every slow roll of his hips. his arms cage you in, and with every thrust, he fills you so completely it feels like there’s no space left to breathe, to think, to do anything except feel him.

he’s watching the way your face contorts under him, “i can feel how tight you are. god, you’re squeezing me like you need me.” you do. you really, really do. every slow, deep stroke has your legs shaking, your moans growing higher and breathier as he presses in deeper, grinding against that sweet, dangerous spot that makes your vision go white. and then he’s thrusting harder, every drag of his cock hitting just right, making you sob his name like a prayer. you wrap your arms around him, clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

“fuck, you feel so good,” he growls, voice strained. “so tight, cherry. god, you’re mine. you’re mine.”

when you finally fall apart, it crashes over you hard and fast. your body trembling under him, nails clawing down his back, breath catching in your throat as you cry out his name again and again. he groans softly at the feeling, hips stuttering into you as your body clenches around him, following seconds after, burying his face in your neck, hips stuttering as he groans into your skin, cumming so hard he swore he filled up the entire rubber. he stays there for a moment — still inside you, still catching his breath — before lifting his head to kiss you. not deep, not hungry, just soft. gentle. a kiss made of everything you’ve both held onto through the worst of it. everything that was broken. everything you chose to rebuild. his thumb brushes gently along your jaw. your fingers tangle in his hair.

“i love you,” he whispers. no doubt. no hesitation.

“i love you, too,” you say it back, with your whole heart.

he gives you one last kiss before pulling out, disposing the condom and wrapping the blanket around you both. outside the window, the sky is still soft with the afternoon sun. somewhere in the kitchen downstairs, someone drops a pan. but here, there’s just you. him. and this fragile, beautiful beginning you both nearly ruined — but didn’t.

and for a girl who used to roll her eyes at the mention of love, who used to armor herself in sarcasm and pretend indifference, who used to flinch at tenderness like it was a trick, who used to scoff at fairy tales because they always ended too perfectly, too impossibly — now, it sounded like music. it sounded like a rhythm you want to move with. a song you want to memorize, note by note. a melody stitched between laughter and forgiveness and second chances. a dance you want to dance forever. love, in each others arms, felt like breathing for the first time in years, exhaling the ache you’d both had been carrying alone for far too long, discovering that maybe you weren’t too broken or too hard to love — just waiting for someone who saw you.

𓏲 the end.

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18+ only | watch at your own risk | contains mature content

bonus: loverboy links (don’t judge me for how many videos are on there. there was supposed to be more too but i hate the stupid 100 link limit)

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an: holy shit you guys 6/7 is done! while i was writing this i realized i wrote way more than i was supposed to because i don’t want it to end yet 😭 (i paid for that by having to deal with tumblrs block characters limit. so annoying. i hope the long paragraphs didn’t bother your reading too much!) anyways this couple has been the cutest for me to write but also the saddest cause every time i wrote a happy scene all i could think of is the upcoming angst 🥲 i hope you loved cherry and jisung! they’re definitely the most touchy and very very young love couple we’ve had. looking forward for your reviews!

likes, reblogs and comments are not required but is very appreciated ⏦ﾟ♡︎

love tags: @bluedbliss @yesohhsehun @tynlvr @sunghoonsgfreal @2sungie @euphormiia @ptv-hades @imnotrosiee @remgeolli @vantxx95 @leehaechie @beestvng @schatjze @mango-bear @wachimingox @amazinggraxia @nesryn @strwbbit @cookydream @meylovesmusic @dinosaurtoothbrushwithninjasauce

#withloverboyseries #jisung x reader #jisung x you #jisung smut #jisung angst #jisung fluff #nct dream x you #nct dream x reader #nct dream smut #nct dream angst #nct dream fluff #park jisung x reader #park jisung #park jisung x you #park jisung smut #park jisung angst #park jisung fluff

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