#plastering worker

[shirtlessworking]

pleased with his plastering

[invinciblerodent]

it's been a real struggle to find notebooks that I actually like, but I think I have found myself at a crossroads where I must ask myself--

am I the kind of person who would put function above form, and use the lovely, though plain notebooks from the office supply store

or am I the type to say fuck it, form over function, bitch, and order a custom-made one with a collage of my blorbo on it strictly for the meme

[bobsearthmoving]

Transforming Construction Spaces: Why Builders Site Clean Services in Lalor Are Essential

In any construction or renovation project, the final result is what people usually focus on. The gleaming floors, the fresh paint, the modern fixtures — these are the things that catch the eye. But what many don’t see is the mess left behind once the builders pack up their tools. That’s where professional Builders Site Clean Lalor come in — making sure a construction site is not only safe and clean but ready for handover or occupancy.

The Importance of Post-Construction Cleaning

Construction and renovation work often leaves behind a trail of dust, debris, and unwanted materials. Timber scraps, nails, plaster dust, packaging, and even hazardous materials can clutter the space, making it unsafe and unappealing. This isn’t just an eyesore — it’s a potential hazard to workers, property owners, and even visitors.

Hiring professionals for Builders Site Clean Services in Lalor ensures that the area is thoroughly cleaned and cleared of all waste. It’s more than just sweeping the floors. These experts understand the process of detailed cleaning, which includes scrubbing surfaces, removing paint splashes, cleaning windows, and even polishing where necessary. They transform chaotic construction sites into livable, functional, and aesthetically pleasing environments.

Why Choose Professional Site Cleaning Services?

When it comes to site cleaning, many builders or developers may think about using their own team to finish the job. While this might seem cost-effective at first glance, it’s not the best approach in the long run. Specialized cleaning crews are trained to handle post-construction mess efficiently and safely. They also come equipped with the right tools and eco-friendly cleaning products to handle different types of surfaces and materials.

Builders Site Clean Services in Lalor offer a level of precision and attention to detail that goes beyond what a general clean-up crew can achieve. From high-reach windows to polished timber floors and delicate fittings, professionals know exactly how to clean without damaging the new finishes.

What’s Included in a Builders Clean?

A comprehensive post-construction clean isn’t just a quick once-over. It typically involves several stages. The initial rough clean happens during the early stages of construction to remove heavy debris and prepare for finishing work. Then comes the final detailed clean, which is what most people think of when they hear the term “builders clean.” This includes dusting all surfaces, vacuuming carpets, mopping floors, cleaning walls, scrubbing kitchens and bathrooms, washing windows inside and out, and ensuring the whole space is spotless.

In some cases, Builders Site Clean Services in Lalor may also include pressure washing driveways, removing paint overspray, and ensuring that outdoor areas are clean and safe too. The aim is simple: deliver a property that looks flawless and ready for use.

Local Expertise Matters

One of the main advantages of hiring a local service provider in Lalor is that they understand the unique needs of the area. Whether it’s dealing with local dust conditions, council waste disposal regulations, or even the timing for cleanup based on Lalor’s busy construction periods, local professionals bring insights that out-of-area contractors may lack.

Using Builders Site Clean Services in Lalor not only ensures a thorough job but also supports local businesses who are familiar with community expectations and can respond quickly when urgent cleaning is required. Plus, being local often means better communication, quicker turnaround times, and ongoing support when you need it.

The Final Touch Before Handover

For developers, builders, and even homeowners, presentation is everything. When it comes time to showcase a newly built or renovated space, the smallest smudge on a window or layer of dust on a benchtop can ruin the impact. Professional site cleaning ensures that every surface shines and every detail is ready to impress.

Especially in competitive real estate markets like Lalor, a clean and polished finish can significantly boost the value of the property and create a lasting impression for potential buyers or tenants. That final sparkle? It’s all thanks to a thorough builders clean.

A Growing Demand in Lalor

As Lalor continues to grow and more residential and commercial developments pop up, the demand for reliable Builders Site Clean Services in Lalor is on the rise. With new estates, home extensions, and commercial projects constantly underway, site cleaning services are becoming an essential part of the building process.

These services don’t just cater to large projects either. Even small renovation jobs can benefit from a post-construction clean. Whether it’s a new bathroom, a kitchen revamp, or an additional room extension, the mess left behind can be more than most homeowners are prepared to handle. That’s when calling in the pros makes all the difference.

Conclusion: Clean Spaces, Better Impressions

Cleanliness might be the last step in the building process, but it’s far from the least important. A clean site not only protects the investment but also ensures safety, boosts property value, and leaves a powerful first impression. If you’re building, renovating, or managing a construction project in Lalor, don’t overlook the final clean.

Choosing trusted Builders Site Clean Services in Lalor is the smartest move you can make to ensure your project is completed to the highest standard — not just structurally, but visually and hygienically as well. Because the final finish is what people remember most.

[faetealights]

four of my coworlers fromy bar job came into my nightclub job

[the-shedevil-writes]

Polaroids (Bob Floyd x Reader)

DESCRIPTION: Bob keeps your relationship private, but he doesn't try to hide the dozens of Polaroids of you all over his locker and truck. He has a daily routine of taping his favorite Polaroid of you to his jet's console, but when it goes missing, things get chaotic. Luckily, you're there to make everything better. WORD COUNT: 2.3k WARNINGS: Bob gets angry in this one, folks. Cussing. Fighting. Hangman's an asshole- sorry. MY MASTERLIST - READ ON AO3

Bob didn’t like talking about his relationship. It’s not that he wasn’t proud of her, or that he felt ashamed. But in fact, the opposite. He’d seen these animals, he’d call co-workers, and how they’d treat girls. Granted, the squadron he was with now wasn’t so bad. Rooster, Hangman, and Fanboy were hard flirts, but they had basic decency. He never felt embarrassed by their behavior when they went out to the bars, and they’d try and pick up a girl. If they were successful, they celebrated. If they weren’t, they’d walk away and move on. 

But it was his past experiences with other pilots. Locker room talk always rubbed him the wrong way. He did his best not to judge these guys. He had those thoughts, too, but he had heard too many dehumanizing things said about women he knew and didn’t. So he preferred to keep his gorgeous girlfriend, Y/n, under wraps, even if he did trust his current friends.

They preferred to keep their lives separate anyway. With Bob having his work and friend group, and Y/n having hers. It kept their conversations interesting, as they had their own lives to discuss, not just their shared one. 

The Dagger Squad, of course, would try and pry any information out of him. All they knew was that he had a girlfriend. Half the time, they’d forget what her name was because they had never met her, and Bob preferred not to talk about her, for fear they’d ask to see her. 

He was surprised they didn’t notice the Polaroids. Taking pictures of his girl was his favorite thing to do besides flying. He wasn’t exactly a photographer. But he made good use out of the instant Polaroid camera she got him for Christmas. It was so much better than taking pictures on his phone because he could hold the memory in his hand. The light and the moment were captured and printed instantly just for him. 

They were stuck everywhere. Photos over the years were plastered all over the inside of his locker. In his phone case was a picture of her wearing his glasses. And in the fold-out mirror of his truck was a photo of her taken off guard in the kitchen that she hated, but he loved. The one of her kissing his cheek was usually tucked in the front pocket of his flight suit. They all served as reminders of what he had waiting for him once his shift was over. His best friend and the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his whole life. 

His favorite was the photo he taped to his control panel every day. It was a little beat up, naturally, but he made sure to keep that one in the best condition it could be. It was his good luck charm- the first Polaroid he had ever taken of her. It was Christmas morning, and she sat next to the lit tree, in his old Lemoore High School shirt that she had stolen for herself. She hugged the frankly huge teddy bear that he had gotten her. While the lights on the tree sparkled in the photo and cast a golden glow on her smiling face. For some reason, when he had it, the missions went better. The days went by more easily when he got to see his girl’s face after a stressful hiccup in flight. 

It had been a long and grueling day flying under the sweltering sun. They had been training for a strike mission, and the dogfighting exercises had left him drenched in sweat, and owing Maverick 200 push-ups. Thanks, Payback, for the BRILLIANT idea. And thanks, Hangman, for doing what he did best- leaving him in the dust and pushing his buttons. 

After an almost embarrassing amount of time, he walked back to the locker room with biceps so sore they screamed. He unzipped his flight suit and took his glasses off, using the white shirt underneath to clean the fog and sweat off them. He couldn’t wait to go home and find his girlfriend in her study, working. And he especially couldn’t wait to bug and distract her from all of it. 

That’s when the sense of dread hit him, and he realized. He quickly checked all his pockets. Yes, the one of her kissing his cheek was there. But his lucky charm wasn’t in any of the other pockets. He rushed to climb out of his flight suit and scrambled to throw on a random shirt and shorts from his duffel. He couldn’t leave it in the jet. Who knew what maintenance would do if they found it? They’d probably just throw it away. 

Throwing on his backpack, he sprinted back down to the hangar. He didn’t even notice the whole squadron standing around talking. He didn’t care. All he wanted was his favorite picture and for this horrible day to be over with. 

The sunset shone on his forehead, exacerbating the glistening stress sweat. He quickly climbed the ladder onto the Super Hornet and looked inside the backseat interior. The only place it could be. And when he looked at the spot between the radar and the comms control, he put his face in his hands. It wasn’t there. The memory of the Christmas lights and the bear was missing. 

“Fuck.” He said to himself. It was hard to get Bob to curse, but this felt like an appropriate occasion.

Then Hangman’s voice rang out behind him. 

“Hey Baby on Board! You sure this isn’t a picture you found on Google?” 

Bob’s head whipped back to find Jake Seresin holding the photo. On one hand, he was just grateful that someone had found it. On the other hand, out of all the pilots, he wished so deeply that it wasn’t Hangman. 

He quickly climbed down the ladder. “Give me it back, please.” He said exasperated, and walked towards him.

Jake held the photo up so that Bob couldn’t get it. Neither of them was short, but Hangman was just slightly taller. 

“I’m not kidding.” He said, trying his best to keep his cool. It took a lot to make Bob angry. He was typically level-headed and able to logically think things through. That’s why he was a WSO Top Gun Graduate, and not necessarily a pilot. But right then, his whole day had been building up inside him, and this was the one thing he didn’t mess around with. 

“I just can’t believe that a babe like this is with a guy like you. Really, you should let me call her up.” He said teasingly with a smile. After leaving Bob and Phoenix stranded, AND doing this, Bob was at the end of his rope.

“Hangman, just give him back the photo,” Phoenix voiced with her arms crossed. She and Rooster watched the whole interaction, which just made him feel worse. This was humiliating. It was like they were boys in a school yard- which Bob would say was an apt description of most of the people he had worked with in the past.

He reached up for the photo and finally got a grip on it, but Hangman didn’t let go. 

“I just think it’s funny! I wanna look at it. I think there’s more in his locker, too.”

“Just let go, Hangman.” His voice was less whiny and more serious now. 

“No!” He grinned.

The two tussled and grabbed at the photo. It felt like a moment that was way too long. Until eventually they each pulled in a different direction, twisting it. It completely bent. Thankfully, it couldn’t rip because of the type of film, but the photo itself was fairly distorted. Bob’s heart beat out of his chest, and it was like his stomach twisted the same way the photo did. 

He suddenly let go of the photo and pushed Hangman so hard he stumbled back, surprised. The photo slapped onto the pavement. 

“YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE,” Bob said, following after him, ready to beat the shit out of him. Even though at first glance, most people would believe that Hangman would win in a fight between the two. It didn’t quite look it at the moment with the anger in Bob’s eyes and his arms pumped from the earlier push-ups.

Rooster quickly ran over and grabbed his shoulders, pulling him back. “HEY HEY HEY!” 

Phoenix ran over and did the opposite, pushing her hand against Hangman’s chest, though he didn’t try to move forward. He knew he was in the wrong here, and it was clear by his guilty expression.

“Bob, man, calm down,” Rooster said. They all looked at him, surprised. Timid, awkward Bob was… kinda scary when he was pissed off. His glasses slightly crooked and red in the face. Maybe it was just strange to see him so out of control.

He slowly pushed Rooster off of him and walked over, grabbing the crumpled photo on the ground. After a failed attempt at straightening it out, he put it in his pocket and walked off, steaming. 

That night, when he got home, he slammed the door. He was never the type to do that, but he felt so defeated. His duffel bag dropped to the floor uncaringly. 

“Bob? Is that you?” Y/n called out from the study.

He sighed, a little relieved. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s me.” He said, his voice almost completely flat. That wasn’t normal. He’d usually meet her in the study, but at the sounds of distress, she quickly came out.

She walked out to find him hanging up his sweatshirt with a depressed look on his face. His usual smile was replaced by a small, tense frown, and his shoulders were high and stiff. Something was very wrong.

“Oh, baby.” She said, walking over, “What’s wrong?” Her voice was so gentle.

He sighed and quickly wrapped his arms around her. “I’m sorry. I need to shower,” He said, not having gotten the chance to on base. But he still squeezed her, needing the support dearly. 

She shook her head against his chest. “What happened?” She knew he was trying to avoid it. 

He stepped back and pulled the bent photo out of his pocket. “Hangman happened.”

She gasped at the sight of it in his hand. “Oh no… Is this a man or a dog we’re talking about here?” She asked confused, and that made him laugh a little. He was already so grateful to be home. 

“Man. Though he definitely acts like a dog.” He groaned.

She gently took the photo from his hands. “I can try and fix it. Straighten it out. There might be a crease still in it, though.” She tried her best to flatten it out like he did, but to no avail.

He shook his head. “You can try, but I doubt it’ll be okay.”

That answer was so depressing, she looked up and tilted her head. “Hey, we’ll get it back to normal. I’ll look it up. How about you go shower and eat? I made pasta cause I was too lazy to be a real chef tonight.” She tried to lighten the air. “Then you can tell me all about your day.” 

He sighed in relief. “You’re too good to me.” He said softly, pulling her in for a much-needed kiss.

And that’s exactly how they ended up sprawled on the couch, each with bowls of penne and vodka sauce. On the coffee table, the photo lay on a piece of wax paper and was buried under some thick fighter jet manuals Bob had. 

“It was just like the whole day had been building up in me. Payback’s bet. Hangman leaving me and Phoenix dead in the water. The two hundred push-ups. And the photo going missing in the first place drove me crazy. So when he bent it, I just… exploded a little.” He admitted, almost ashamed to have lost control.

She sighed. “That’s okay. It was natural after all of that.” She reassured gently, reaching for his calf and squeezing it. “This Hangman guy sounds like a real douche.”

“Understatement.” He said, but he was feeling better talking through it all with her. “I just hope that the photo is okay. You know it’s my good luck charm, and if it’s not flat, it won’t stick to my console very well.” 

A small smile appeared on her face. “It’s under some of the thickest books I’ve ever seen. If it’s not flattened, then that’s just defying gravity.” She said. 

He exhaled again, relaxing, and it was like the tension in him completely dissipated. “You’re right.” He said gently. 

“Hey, maybe after today he’ll leave you alone.” She suggested.

He scoffed, “Hangman? I give him less than a week before he starts using you against me.” 

She chuckled and set her bowl down so she could lie down against him. “Hmmmm, gotta get you enrolled in anger management classes then.” She teased.

He kissed the top of her head. “You’re funny.” He said sarcastically.

The next morning, he woke up at the crack of dawn per usual. He slowly slipped out of his girlfriend’s grasp, and she whined, half asleep. Their typical routine. He gently leaned down, ran his hand over her hair, and kissed her forehead. “Go back to sleep.” He whispered, and she subconsciously did so.

He got ready in his khaki uniform and walked out to the living room. On the table were the stacks of manuals. He very carefully took them off one by one and set them on the couch to soften the noise. Checking on the Polaroid, he sighed in relief as it was flat again. A small crease was across the middle, but at the very least, it was flat. He turned it around and saw something new. On the plain white back of the photo was a lipstick kiss mark over the folded line. In the tiniest pen was ‘A kiss to make it better’. 

And the biggest smile grew on his face. This was better than he could’ve asked for. 

Now he didn’t just have a good luck charm, but also a kiss to remember her by. 

[rexhya]

warn — none, i these asks were pretty similar so i just grouped them into one!

✦ ✦

yandere!prince whos been more lovey dovey with you, currently you sit on his lap in the throne room dressed into too expensive clothing while he craddles your head and noses your neck.

"Mm, I wish I could just plaster your scent to me permanently. It's much easier getting off with your smell than not." As usual he waits for your reaction, you grace him with a polite smile he frowns at. He likes it better when you squirm.

"Don't ignore me," he whines his arms gripping your waist in a way that reminds you how easily he could overpower you.

"I'm not." you said dryly, attempting to turn your head from his caramel face but he only holds you tighter.

"Then look at me when I'm talking." his voice was like glass cutting through your heart, you faced him, tears in your eyes, you just couldn't help it. His affections were so misleading you didn't know if he was really in love with you like he said or simply took pleasure in tormenting you. ( most likely the latter )

"Awww, sweetheart don't cry." his face is concerned but his tone is condescending. It only makes you sob more. He kisses at your cheeks, wiping tears away with his thumb. Unbeknownst to you, Anul feels guilty, of course, not enough to ever let you go. But enough to give you a bit of comfort.

"What's wrong my love? Tell me."

There were so many things you could say, instead you whispered, "I just miss my friends. From the maids chambers. I havent seen them in so long."

This partly true, because of him you hadn't seen very much of anyone besides him.

"Very well, then just for today you can be released to your original residence, of course tonight you will sleep with me." you gasped, a for a moment Anul almost looked kind.

"Really?" you didn't believe it.

"Of course."

✦ ✦

You were overjoyed to be back with your friends, it was almost like escaping prison if not for a few hours.

"[Name], you're back." a high pitched voice called from the stairway down to the laundry room, you need to be out of these clothes as soon as possible.

"Samantha, I've missed you." You hugged her tightly.

"And you, though not much has happened whe you've been gone. I'm assuming the prince is rather amorous these days?"

Your face went bright red, "No, not really. We haven't done anything like that if that's what you're asking..."

"I see...Oh that reminds me, you've received someletters while you've been gone." Samantha led you back to the room where mail was to be collected, all maids had a workers had a box where they could receive things from outside the palace, you box contained two eveloples stamped with your family's emblem.

It must be from your father, you thought, you have no siblings and your mother always signed her initials at the ends of his letters to let you know shes always there.

One envelope contains a letter written to you (from your father as suspected) stating how he's found you a husband. Someone you've met before, the farmer who lives just outside your house and how once your contract expires you are urged to return home. The thought makes your heart swell, you'd forgotten about the man, his warm smile, his dimpled cheeks and rather charastmatic personality.

This was the best news you'd gotten since you'd came here, and your contract was ending in just a few short weeks, soon you'd be able to leave and continue a lifestyle you'd always dreamed of.

Suddenly your sprits were lifted, you didn't feel as dreadful walking back to the princes chambers. But Anul could tell you were happier than usual. He could always tell.

And while lying in bed, terror overcame you in just a few short words.

"You're not eally going off to try and mary that man were you [Name]?"

His claws grip your jaw, sinister smile pressed on your lips.

"No my prince, of course not my prince." you lie with a shaky teary breath.

"Of course you weren't, you'd never leave me, just as i'd never leave you, because were meant to be together and nothing could ever come between us right?"

"Right."

The day after, you saw you contract had been extended, instead of a few short weeks, Anul had changed the time of stay to years. You never should have signed that paper.

[how-queerious]

deep dive on 1920s slang for a multichapter newsies fic i abandoned

This is why I read the reddit comments

[jupiterpilgrim]

Before the World Knew

Part 1

Yoo Jimin (Karina) x male reader

word count: 20K

The automatic glass doors hiss shut behind you, sealing you back into the humid chaos of a Seoul afternoon. You shove your hands deep into your pockets, shoulders slumped, the stiff collar of the button-down you wore specifically for this interview suddenly feeling like a noose. "Nailed it", you think. Yeah, right.

Nailed it like a coffin lid.

That interview was a fucking train wreck. Stuttering over standard questions, sweating through your shirt despite the blasting AC, pretty sure you called the interviewer by the wrong name at least once. You can practically feel the rejection email drafting itself in their system right now. Landing a decent PR job in this city is proving harder than cracking Fort Knox with a toothpick. You thought graduating with a Public Relations degree, even from a university abroad, would give you some kind of edge. Turns out, it just makes you another drop in an ocean teeming with overqualified, hyper-competitive graduates who probably know the right people (something you definitely lack).

It's been a few weeks since you touched down at Incheon, hauling two overweight suitcases and a boatload of naive optimism. Seoul. The big leagues. You figured, new city, new start, maybe finally shake off that aimless post-college dread. You found a shoebox apartment that costs a criminal amount of money and have been pounding the pavement, digitally and literally, trying to find something, anything, that doesn’t involve fetching coffee or making copies for peanuts. So far? Nothing. Zip. Zilch. Just a growing pile of polite "we'll keep your resume on file" emails and the soul-crushing realization that your savings account is evaporating faster than puddle water in August.

Only a divine miracle would be able to make you feel anything remotely close to happiness now.

You sigh, kicking at a loose pebble on the sidewalk. The city rushes around you, a blur of impeccably dressed office workers, delivery scooters weaving through traffic like suicidal insects, the distant thrum of k-pop blasting from a storefront. It’s overwhelming, vibrant, and right now, utterly indifferent to your dwindling prospects. You just want a decent meal and maybe to wallow in front of Netflix for twelve hours straight.

Lost in your pity party, you don't see the person turning the corner until it's too late. Thump. You stumble back, colliding shoulders hard enough to knock the phone clean out of their hand. It clatters onto the pavement with a sickening plastic crack.

"Oh, shit! Sorry, my bad!" you blurt out, scrambling to pick it up, praying the screen isn't spiderwebbed. You snatch the phone (miraculously intact) and look up to hand it back, apology ready on your lips.

And then your brain just… stops.

Everything stops. The noise of the city, the frantic rush, the self-pity spiral: it all evaporates. Because the person standing in front of you, rubbing their shoulder with a slight wince, eyes wide behind a pair of large, stylish sunglasses… No. It can't be.

She’s smaller than you remember, but the face… fuck, that face. The perfect, almost unreal symmetry, the sharp jawline softened by full cheeks, the distinctive curve of her lips, currently pressed into a thin line of surprise. Even with the sunglasses and a simple baseball cap pulled low, obscuring most of her hair, it's undeniably her. Years have passed, sure. She’s changed. She’s… Karina now, a name screamed by millions, plastered on billboards, dominating charts. But beneath the idol gloss, beneath the global fame, it’s still her.

It's still Jimin. Yoo Jimin. Your childhood best friend. The girl you haven't spoken to since she vanished into the K-Pop trainee vortex years ago.

She takes the phone, her fingers brushing yours for a split second, sending a jolt up your arm that has nothing to do with static electricity. Her gaze flicks up, meeting yours through the dark lenses. You see confusion flicker there, then a dawning recognition that mirrors your own shock.

Her lips part slightly. “No way…”

Her voice. It’s softer than you remember, maybe a bit huskier, but it’s still Jimin’s voice. Hearing her say your name after all this time feels like being struck by lightning. You just stare, dumbfounded, unable to form a coherent thought.

She pushes her sunglasses up onto her head, revealing those large, dark eyes you used to get lost in during boring classes back home. They widen further as she really looks at you.

“Holy shit, it is you! Oh my god! What the hell are you doing here?”

The sheer, unadulterated surprise in her voice snaps you back to reality. You manage a shaky laugh, running a hand through your hair. “Jimin? Wow. Uh, hi.” Eloquent, very eloquent.

She laughs, a bright, musical sound that cuts through the city noise. It’s the same laugh you remember, the one that always made your stomach do stupid flips. “Hi? That’s all you’ve got after, what, six years? Seven?”

“Something like that,” you say, still reeling. “Damn. You, uh… you look…” Famous? Untouchable? Like a goddess who accidentally stumbled onto a mortal sidewalk? “…different.” Lame. You mentally kick yourself.

Jimin grins, the expression lighting up her whole face. It’s that specific grin, the one that crinkles the corners of her eyes. God, you missed that. “Yeah, well, a few things have happened since middle school.” She gestures vaguely, a hint of playful understatement in her tone.

“Yeah, no kidding,” you say, finally finding your footing. “Saw you… everywhere, basically. Aespa, huh? That’s insane, Jimin. Congratulations.”

Her smile softens slightly at the use of her real name. “Thanks. It’s… been wild.” She glances around quickly, lowering her voice a fraction. “But seriously, what are you doing in Seoul? Last I heard, you were going to college somewhere overseas?”

“Yeah, I was,” you explain, stuffing your hands back in your pockets. “Finished up my PR degree a few months back. Moved here a few weeks ago to, you know, try and find a job. Join the rat race.” You grimace, thinking of the disastrous interview. “Not going great so far, but hey, Seoul’s cool.”

Her eyes light up, genuine happiness flashing across her features. “You live here now? That’s amazing! Oh my god, I can’t believe it!” She bounces slightly on the balls of her feet, looking genuinely thrilled. The reaction warms something inside you that the job rejection had chilled.

“Yeah, it’s… definitely a change of pace,” you admit. It hits you again: you’re standing on a random street corner, catching up with Karina from Aespa. One of the biggest names in K-Pop. Your childhood friend, the one who disappeared into SM Entertainment and became someone else entirely. What are the actual, statistical chances of this happening? It feels like the universe is fucking with you, dangling a piece of your past right in front of your face when you least expect it. Fate? Maybe. Or just Seoul being a surprisingly small world sometimes.

“We have to catch up properly,” Jimin says immediately, her excitement palpable. “Like, actually talk. Are you busy right now?”

You glance down at your slightly rumpled interview clothes. “Uh, not exactly. Just finished bombing a job interview, so my schedule’s wide open for existential dread and instant noodles.”

She winces sympathetically, then pulls out her phone again (the one you nearly shattered). “Okay, first, give me your number. Is it still the same old one?” You rattle off your new Korean number, and she quickly taps it in, sending you a test message immediately. Your phone buzzes in your pocket.

It’s really you!!!

You look up, grinning. “Got it.”

“Good.” She slides her phone away, pulling her cap down a bit lower. “Look, I’m kind of on my way to practice right now, but are you free later this week? Or maybe this weekend? We could grab coffee? Drinks? Food? Whatever works.”

Hanging out with Jimin again. After all these years. After… everything.

“Yeah,” you hear yourself say, maybe a little too quickly. “Yeah, definitely. Coffee sounds great. Or drinks. Whatever’s easier for you, I know you’re probably crazy busy.”

“Never too busy for you,” she says, and the way she smiles; warm, genuine, a flash of the girl you knew before the fame… makes your heart do that stupid flip again. “Seriously, text me when you’re free. We’ll figure it out. It’s… it’s really, really good to see you.”

“You too, Jimin,” you reply, meaning it more than you thought possible. “Like, really fucking good.”

She laughs again, shaking her head. “Okay, I actually have to run before my manager sends out a search party.” She steps back, adjusting her cap and sunglasses, the idol persona clicking back into place. But just before she turns away, her eyes meet yours one last time, and there’s a spark there; something familiar, something you both thought was long buried.

“Text me!” she calls over her shoulder, before disappearing into the flow of the crowd, leaving you standing there, blinking in the afternoon sun, wondering if any of that actually just happened.

—

The days following that almost-too-surreal-to-be-true bump-in on the street are a weird blur of text messages and tentative plans. You’re talking to Yoo Jimin. Karina. Actually talking. Not just a polite exchange, but actual back-and-forth, interspersed with smiley faces and those little KakaoTalk character reactions she always overused, even back then. You finally manage to nail down a time to meet properly, a casual stroll through one of Seoul’s sprawling, meticulously landscaped parks. Her idea. Probably safer for her, less chance of being mobbed.

You tell yourself the knot in your stomach is just… nerves. Normal, run-of-the-mill nerves. Anyone would be a little keyed up about meeting a global superstar, right? Especially one you used to share juice boxes and secrets with in your dorky pre-teen years. Yeah, that’s it. It’s the Karina factor. Definitely not the Jimin factor, not the sudden, unwelcome resurgence of that colossal, all-consuming crush you thought you’d successfully buried under six years of distance and a different continent.

Nope. Not at all.

But your brain, the traitorous bastard, keeps replaying flashes of the past. Jimin, with her scraped knees and fierce determination during school sports days. Jimin, laughing so hard milk nearly shot out her nose in the cafeteria. Jimin, biting her lip in concentration while trying to teach you a ridiculously complicated handshake. These images, once faded and dusty, are now vivid, almost painfully sharp, overlaid with the equally mind-boggling reality of who she is now. It’s a strange cocktail, this potent nostalgia mixed with the sheer absurdity of her current life. You feel like you’re about to meet two people at once: the girl next door and the untouchable idol.

—

You spot her near the park entrance, leaning against a cherry tree that’s probably in full, glorious bloom (though you barely register the flowers). She’s wearing a dress today, something new, light, and airy that dances around her knees when the breeze catches it. It's a soft, pastel color that makes her skin look even more luminous. Simple, yet on her, it looks like it walked straight off a runway. Her hair is down, long and dark, catching the sunlight. Even from a distance, she’s ridiculously, effortlessly beautiful.

“Hey,” you say, trying for casual, hoping your voice doesn’t crack.

She turns, and that smile (the one that could probably power a small city) spreads across her face. “Hey yourself! You found it okay?”

“Yeah, a park. Pretty hard to miss,” you joke, falling into step beside her as you start down a wide, tree-lined path. It’s surprisingly uncrowded for a weekend afternoon.

The conversation flows easier than you expected, or maybe feared. You start with the safe stuff: how crazy it is to see each other after so long, the "what are the odds" of it all. She’s a natural in front of a camera, even if it’s just her phone. Every few minutes, she’ll stop, pointing. “Ooh, here! The light’s perfect.” And you, feeling like an unqualified, suddenly very sweaty personal photographer, do your best to capture her. She poses with an easy grace, a slight tilt of her head, a playful smile, a candid laugh as a gust of wind messes with her hair. Each shot is stunning. She’s just…photogenic doesn’t even begin to cover it. She makes a random park bench look like a high-fashion editorial.

“So,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear after a particularly enthusiastic mini-photoshoot by a koi pond, “tell me everything. College overseas must have been wild. Did you turn into some party animal I wouldn’t recognize?”

You laugh. “Hardly. Mostly just late-night study sessions fueled by questionable instant ramen and an unhealthy amount of caffeine. PR’s no joke. But it was good. Different. What about you? From quiet Jimin who was scared of the dark to… well, Karina, leader of Aespa, breaking records and being the it girl of this generation. How does that even happen?”

She chuckles, a soft, genuine sound. “It’s… a lot. Still feels unreal sometimes. The training was brutal, no lie. There were days I wanted to quit, thought I wasn’t good enough.” Her voice drops a little, a hint of vulnerability seeping through. “But then… we debuted, and suddenly everything changed. The fans, the music, performing… it’s a different kind of magic, you know?”

You nod, trying to imagine it. The Jimin you knew was fiercely talented, Always singing and dancing at school talent shows, but this level of fame? It’s on another planet. “I can’t even picture it. Standing on those huge stages, millions of people screaming your name.”

“It’s terrifying and amazing all at once,” she admits. “But enough about me. What about your job hunt? Any better luck since… the sidewalk incident?” She grins, and you groan.

“Marginally. Had a couple more interviews. One was for a junior PR role at a gaming company, actually sounded pretty cool, but I think I fumbled the ‘what’s your five-year plan?’ question. Said something about ‘not starving’ which, in hindsight, maybe wasn’t the power move I thought it was.”

Jimin laughs, bumping your shoulder playfully. “Hey, honesty is a virtue. Besides, gaming PR? You’d be great at that. You practically lived in arcades back in the day.”

“True. But ‘great at Street Fighter’ doesn’t exactly scream ‘hire me’ on a resume.” You sigh. “It’s tough out here, man. Competition’s insane.”

She nods, her expression turning more serious. “How are you managing? Like, financially? Seoul’s not cheap.”

You shrug, trying to keep it light. “Oh, you know. Freelance gigs here and there. Been doing some weekend shifts at a department store in Myeongdong, in the electronics section. Surprisingly good for people-watching. And it pays the bills. Barely.” You force a smile. “It’s fine. Temporary. Just until something in PR lands.”

Jimin stops walking, turning to face you properly. She’s biting her lip, a thoughtful expression in her eyes. “Send me your resume.”

“What?”

“Your resume,” she repeats, more firmly this time. “And your portfolio, if you have one. Anything that shows off your PR skills. I’ll send it to the team at SM.”

You can’t help it; a laugh bursts out of you, loud and incredulous. “Jimin, no. Come on.” You even raise your hands in a placating gesture. “I appreciate it, seriously, that’s incredibly sweet of you, but… SM Entertainment? They’re not going to hire some random, inexperienced guy who just rolled into the country. Especially not for their PR team. They probably have a waiting list a mile long of geniuses with connections.”

Her expression doesn’t waver. If anything, it becomes more determined. “Don’t doubt me. And don’t doubt yourself. You’re smart, you’re good with people, you get how things work. Just send it to me. What’s the worst that can happen? They say no? Big deal. You’re already getting that.”

There’s a conviction in her voice that’s hard to argue with, even though every rational part of your brain is screaming that this is a pipe dream. “I… I don’t want you to go out on a limb for me, Jimin. Especially if it’s for nothing.”

“It’s not for nothing if I believe in you, is it?” she says softly, and damn her, that hits you right in the feelings. “Just promise me you’ll send it. Please?”

You let out a long breath, rubbing the back of your neck. She’s looking at you with that earnest, hopeful expression, and you know you’re going to cave. “Okay, okay. I promise. I’ll send it tonight.” You still think it’s a snowball’s chance in hell, but for her? You’ll try.

She beams, her good mood instantly restored. “Good! It would be so crazy if we ended up working at the same place, wouldn’t it? Like fate, again!”

“Yeah,” you agree, a small, hesitant smile on your own face. “Completely insane.” But the thought, as outlandish as it seems, sparks a tiny, traitorous flicker of hope. It’s nice, you realize, to have someone in your corner. Someone who, despite the years and the fame, still seems to genuinely care.

“Ice cream break?” she suggests, pointing towards a small vendor cart surrounded by happy kids. “My treat. To celebrate your future employment at SM.”

“Don’t jinx it,” you groan, but you’re already following her, the weight on your shoulders feeling a little lighter than it did before.

The ice cream is sweet, cold, and a welcome distraction. You talk about lighter things: terrible movies you’ve both seen, the weirdest food trends in Seoul, the time you both tried to dye your hair with Kool-Aid in eighth grade and ended up looking like deranged parrots. It’s easy, comfortable, like no time has passed at all.

As the sun begins to dip lower, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, you find yourselves back near the park entrance.

“This was… really great, Jimin,” you say, meaning it. “Thanks for today.”

“I had fun too,” she replies, her smile soft. “We definitely need to do this again. And sooner than another six years, okay?”

“Deal.”

She pulls out her phone. “Okay, one more photo. But this time, you have to be in it.”

You instinctively start to protest. “Oh, no, I’m good. I’ll just–”

“Nope! Non-negotiable,” she says, already switching to the front-facing camera. She grabs your arm, pulling you closer until your shoulders are pressed together. You’re acutely aware of her warmth, the faint scent of her perfume, the way her hair tickles your cheek. She holds the phone up, angling it for the perfect shot. “Okay, smile! Or… try not to look like you’re being held hostage.”

You manage a slightly stiff, awkward smile as she snaps a few pictures. She scrolls through them, a pleased expression on her face. “Cute! See? Not so bad.” She shows you one where you’re both actually smiling, the city lights just starting to twinkle in the background. It is cute. This crazy, unexpected reunion, now captured in a small digital frame.

She sends the photo to you, and as you look at it on your own screen, a feeling of… something warm, something hopeful, settles in your chest. Okay, maybe this move to Seoul wasn't a complete disaster after all. Maybe fate really does have a weird sense of humor. And maybe that spark you both felt isn't just a relic of the past.

—

You’re elbow-deep in a tangled mess of headphones and Bluetooth speakers at your soul-crushing electronics store job a few days later, trying to explain to a very persistent customer why his twenty-year-old MP3 player probably isn’t compatible with the latest Bose noise-cancelling monstrosities, when your phone buzzes in your pocket. You almost ignore it (probably another scam likely call) but the insistent vibration continues. Excusing yourself with a strained smile, you fish it out.

Unknown number.

You almost swipe it away, but something makes you answer. “Hello?”

A clear female voice speaks your name.

“Uh, yes, it’s me,” you reply, already bracing for a sales pitch.

“This is Kim Hana from SM Entertainment’s Human Resources department. We received your resume regarding a potential opening in our Artist Relations team, specifically working with Aespa. Are you available for an interview later this week?”

Your brain short-circuits. SM Entertainment? Aespa? You almost swallow your tongue. The headphones in your hand slip, clattering onto the counter. The customer gives you a weird look. You try to speak, but only a strangled squeak comes out. Clearing your throat violently, you manage, “Excuse me? SM… Entertainment?”

“Yes,” Ms. Kim says, her voice betraying no hint of surprise at your shock. “Yoo Jimin forwarded your details. She spoke very highly of you. We have an opening for a Junior PR and Communications liaison for Aespa’s team. It involves assisting with press releases, social media coordination, and general support for the group's public-facing activities. Would Thursday at 2 PM work for you?”

Yoo Jimin. Holy shit. She actually did it. Your head is spinning. This has to be a prank. But the voice on the other end sounds far too official, far too… SM.

“Uh, yes! Yes, Thursday at 2 PM is… perfect,” you stammer, your mind racing a mile a minute. Junior PR liaison. For aespa. Working with Jimin. This is insane.

“Excellent. We’ll send a confirmation email with the details and address. Please bring a physical copy of your resume. We look forward to meeting you.”

“Thank you! I mean, yes, looking forward to it too!”

The line clicks dead. You stare at your phone, then at the annoyed customer, then back at your phone. Your first instinct is to call Jimin. You dial her number before you even consciously decide to, heart hammering against your ribs.

She picks up on the third ring. “Hey! What’s up?” Her voice is bright, cheerful.

“Jimin! You… you actually sent my resume to SM?” you blurt out, pacing behind the counter.

She laughs, that easy, musical sound. “Of course, I did. I told you I would, didn’t I? So, did they call you?” There’s a playful, knowing tone in her voice. She knew.

“They just called! I have an interview on Thursday! For a PR liaison role with Aespa! Jimin, this is… I don’t even know what to say. Thank you isn’t enough.”

“Hey, no need to thank me,” she says, her voice warm. “You’re qualified. You just needed a foot in the door. Now go ace that interview. I know you can.”

“But… SM? And working with your team? That’s… that’s insane.”

“Is it?” she teases. “Or is it fate? Again?” You can practically hear her smiling. “Just be yourself. They’ll love you. And hey,” her voice drops a little, becoming softer, more personal, “it would be pretty cool to see you around the office.”

“Yeah,” you manage, your voice a little breathless. “Yeah, it really would.”

—

Two days later, you’re standing in front of the imposing SM Entertainment building, dressed in your only decent suit, clutching your resume like they’re religious relics. The place is even more intimidating from the inside. Sleek, modern, buzzing with an undercurrent of focused energy. You see trainees rushing by, staff members with headsets, snippets of music drifting from behind closed doors. It’s a whole other world.

The interview itself is a blur. You meet with Ms. Kim from HR and a stern-faced senior manager from the Artist Relations department. They grill you on your PR experience (minimal, aside from college projects), your knowledge of the K-Pop industry (decent, from a fan perspective), and your ability to handle pressure (questionable, judging by the sweat currently soaking your palms). You try your best, channeling every ounce of professionalism you can muster, talking about your degree, your adaptability, your passion for creative communication. You highlight your international college experience, hoping it sounds impressive. You don’t mention Jimin, not directly, but you talk about your admiration for Aespa’s innovative concepts and global appeal.

When it’s over, you’re convinced you’ve blown it. You thank them, shake their hands, and walk out feeling a familiar wave of disappointment. Well, at least you got to see the inside of SM. That’s something, right?

You’re about to head for the exit, already composing a ‘thanks anyway’ text to Jimin, when you spot her. She’s further down the hallway, talking to someone who looks like a choreographer, dressed in stylish dance practice gear. Your heart does a nervous leap. You almost don’t approach her, but then she turns, her eyes meeting yours. A bright smile instantly lights up her face.

“Hey! How did it go?” she asks, excusing herself from the choreographer and walking towards you.

You can’t help but smile back, despite the lingering anxiety. “Hey. It was… an experience.”

She tilts her head, searching your face. “That doesn’t sound too enthusiastic.”

You sigh. “Honestly, Jimin, I think I tanked it. I was a nervous wreck. Pretty sure I forgot my own name at one point.”

Jimin just laughs, lightly punching your arm. “Oh, stop it. I’m sure you were great.” Then, her eyes sparkling with mischief, she asks, “So, did they offer you the job on the spot? Did they weep with joy at finding such a PR prodigy?”

“Hardly. They said they’d be in touch. Which is corporate speak for ‘don’t call us, we’ll call you, and by ‘we’ll call you,’ we mean never.’”

Just as you say it, your phone buzzes. You glance down. It’s Ms. Kim from SM. Your blood runs cold. Jimin peers at your screen, her eyes widening. “Well? Answer it!”

With trembling fingers, you swipe to answer. “Hello?”

“Hello,” Ms. Kim’s voice says. “We were very impressed with your interview. The team feels your background and enthusiasm would be a great asset. We’d like to offer you the Junior PR and Communications Liaison position for Aespa. Congratulations.”

You actually sway on your feet. Jimin grabs your arm, her eyes wide and questioning. You just stare at her, speechless, a slow, disbelieving grin spreading across your face. You manage to stammer out a “Thank you, I accept!” to Ms. Kim, who tells you HR will be in touch with the contract and start date details.

As soon as you hang up, Jimin is practically bouncing. “You got it?! You actually got the job?!”

You nod, still in shock, then burst out laughing. “I got the job! Holy shit, Jimin, I actually got the job!”

“I told you!” she exclaims, throwing her arms around you in a spontaneous, ecstatic hug. You hug her back, lifting her off the ground slightly, both of you laughing like idiots in the middle of an SM Entertainment hallway. When you finally set her down, you look at her, your heart full. “Thank you, Jimin. Seriously. This… this is because of you. I owe you big time.”

She waves her hand dismissively, but her smile is radiant. “You owed me for that time I covered for you when you broke Mrs. Lee’s prize-winning bonsai tree in fifth grade. Now we’re even.” She winks. “Besides, it’s going to be awesome having you here. Just try not to be too starstruck all the time, okay?”

“No promises,” you say, still grinning like a fool. Working at SM. With Jimin. This is actually happening.

—

Your first day is a whirlwind. You’re officially part of Aespa’s core PR team. The office is a hive of activity, a stark contrast to the quiet desperation of your job hunt. You meet your direct supervisor, a sharp, no-nonsense woman named Ms. Park, who walks you through your responsibilities: drafting social media posts, liaising with journalists (under strict supervision, of course), helping coordinate schedules for interviews and appearances, and generally being an all-hands-on-deck support for the group’s public image. It’s a lot to take in, but it’s exciting. You’re actually doing PR, not just theorizing about it in a classroom. And the best part? Your desk is in the same wing as Aespa’s dedicated team rooms. You can hear snippets of their music, see them occasionally passing in the hallways. It’s surreal.

During a much-needed lunch break, you’re trying to decipher the SM cafeteria menu when Jimin appears at your elbow, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“Lost, newbie?” she teases.

“Completely,” you admit. “This place is a maze. And I think I accidentally ordered fermented skate for lunch.”

Jimin laughs, shaking her head. “Rookie mistake. Come on, I’ll show you the good stuff. And then there are some people I want you to meet.”

She leads you through the bustling cafeteria to a slightly quieter corner where three other girls are already seated, chatting animatedly. Your breath catches. Ningning. Giselle. Winter. The Aespa. In the flesh. Eating bibimbap.

Jimin grins, pulling you forward. “Girls, here he is. He’s the new PR liaison for our team. And also my super old, super dorky childhood friend.”

All three of them look up, their expressions ranging from curious to friendly.

Ningning, with bright, expressive eyes, offers a wide smile. “Oh, you’re the friend Jimin’s been talking about! Welcome to the chaos! I’m Ning Yizhuo.” Her energy is infectious.

Giselle, looking effortlessly chic even in casual clothes, gives you a cool, appraising nod. “Hey. Aeri Uchinaga. Or Giselle, whichever you prefer. Nice to finally meet you. Jimin’s been… enthusiastic about you joining.”

Winter, with her softer, almost ethereal beauty, offers a shy smile. “Hi. I’m Kim Minjeong. It’s nice to have you on the team.”

You manage to stammer out hellos, feeling completely out of your depth. You’re shaking hands with idols, people you’ve seen on giant screens and in glossy magazines. And they’re just… eating lunch. Talking. Laughing. It’s the most normal, yet utterly abnormal, situation you’ve ever been in.

The conversation is surprisingly easy. They ask you about yourself, where you’re from, how you know Jimin. You keep your answers vague about the ‘how you know Jimin’ part, sticking to the ‘childhood friends’ line. They talk about their upcoming schedule, a new music video concept, the usual idol banter. They’re all incredibly nice, welcoming, and you find yourself relaxing, actually enjoying their company. It’s still hard to reconcile these friendly, down-to-earth girls with the powerhouse performers they are on stage.

After lunch, as you’re heading back to your desk, Jimin falls into step beside you.

“So? What did you think?” she asks. “They’re pretty cool, right?”

“Yeah,” you say, still a little dazed. “They’re… amazing. And this whole thing is still kind of blowing my mind, to be honest. Working here, meeting them, seeing you…”

She bumps your shoulder playfully. “See? Told you it would be fun. It’s really good to have you here. Like, really good.” There’s an undercurrent to her words, a warmth that makes your chest feel tight.

“It’s good to be here, Jimin,” you reply. You look at her, and her presence so close to you makes you feel a mix of strange sensations; your childhood friend, now a global superstar, who somehow pulled strings to get you a job at one of the biggest entertainment companies in the world, just so you could be close. The thought is overwhelming, terrifying, and exhilarating all at once.

The dynamic between you is already shifting, the old, forgotten feelings bubbling closer to the surface now that you’re in her orbit again. And as you walk back to your new desk, you wonder if she is also feeling the same way as you.

—

It’s been a couple of weeks since you officially became Junior PR and Communications Liaison for Aespa, and that initial feeling (the one that hit you walking back to your desk after Jimin’s introduction to her members, that premonition of everything changing) hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s intensified.

You try to shove it down, to compartmentalize. You’re here to work, to prove Ms. Park, your sharp-as-a-tack supervisor, right for hiring you (even if Jimin’s recommendation was the battering ram that got your resume through the door). You spend your days buried in spreadsheets tracking social media engagement, drafting press release snippets that get dissected and reassembled ten times over, and fetching coffee more often than you’d care to admit. It’s grunt work, mostly, the bottom rung of the PR ladder, but it’s real. You’re in the game. And every so often, you catch a glimpse of the glittering prize: a quick, positive comment from Ms. Park on a draft, a nod of approval from the senior team members, the quiet satisfaction of a task completed efficiently.

Your attempts to maintain an air of cool professionalism around Jimin are… a work in progress. A fucking daily battle, if you’re being honest with yourself. She, on the other hand, seems to have no such internal conflict. Jimin is clearly, unequivocally, incandescently happy you’re there. It’s in the way her eyes light up when she spots you across the bustling open-plan office, the way she makes a beeline for your desk pretending to need a paperclip or ask about a non-existent email, her shoulder brushing yours a little too long as she leans in. It’s in the extra-bright "Morning!" that cuts through the general office murmur, often accompanied by a smuggled pastry from some high-end bakery she “just happened to pass.”

You try to reciprocate with a polite, colleague-appropriate smile and a "Morning, Jimin-ssi," emphasizing the honorific, a subtle reminder of the professional context. Sometimes. Other times, when she winks, or her smile is just for you, that old, familiar warmth floods your chest, and "Jimin-ah" slips out before you can catch it, a relic from a time before honorifics and idol personas mattered between you two. Her answering grin on those occasions is like a shot of pure sunshine, potent and dangerously addictive.

The other Aespa members are great. Ningning often swings by your desk to ask about some new Western slang she’s heard or to show you funny videos on her phone. She’s easy to talk to, her curiosity genuine, and you find yourself quickly falling into a comfortable banter with her. Giselle is cooler, more reserved initially, but possesses a dry wit that catches you off guard and makes you laugh out loud. She’s sharp, observant, and you get the feeling not much gets past her. Winter is quieter, often observing with a gentle smile, but when she does speak, it’s thoughtful and kind. You make a point of being equally friendly and professional with all of them, mindful of your role. You’re part of their team, here to support them, not to be a distraction or play favorites.

It's during one of these interactions with Ningning, about a week into your third week, that you notice it for the first time. You’re both hunched over your monitor, Ningning giggling as you try to explain the nuances of a particularly baffling English meme that’s gone viral. You’re leaning back in your chair, pointing at the screen, and she’s close, peering over your shoulder, her hair tickling your ear. It's an innocent, work-adjacent moment.

"Ah! So that's what it means!" Ningning exclaims, clapping her hands together. "Okay, okay, I get it now. You have a future as an official idol translator."

You chuckle. "Modesty aside, I am really well versed in the nuances of the English language, especially when it comes to memes."

"Apparently!”

The weeks bleed into a month, then two. You’re no longer the wide-eyed newbie fumbling with the coffee machine or getting lost on the way to the third-floor dance studios. You’ve found your rhythm in the relentless pulse of SM Entertainment. Your PR drafts for Aespa are getting fewer red marks from Ms. Park, you’ve memorized the building’s labyrinthine layout (mostly), and you actually feel like you’re contributing something more than just an extra body in meetings. You’ve even started to differentiate between the dozen slightly different shades of black that seem to constitute 90% of the staff’s wardrobe.

The other members of Aespa have become familiar, friendly faces. You’re careful, always. Professionalism is your mantra. You’re staff. They’re idols. But in those stolen moments, the casual chats in the quieter corners of the building, a genuine camaraderie is forming.

Jimin, though… Jimin is another story. She’s undeniably, overtly thrilled to have you around. Her smiles are brighter when directed at you, her laughter louder. She seeks you out for “work-related questions” that could have easily been answered by anyone else, her hand lingering a fraction too long on your arm when she makes a point. She brings you your favorite coffee "just because she was passing by the good place." While a part of you, the part that still remembers sweaty palms and a racing heart from your teenage years, basks in that focused attention, the professional, adult part of you is on high alert.

You’ve seen the glances. The whispers that die down when you approach a group of staff members. The subtle, almost imperceptible raising of eyebrows from some of the senior managers when Jimin’s interactions with you are a little too familiar, a little too warm for a global superstar and a junior PR guy. Idols, especially female idols at the top of their game, aren’t supposed to be this close, this visibly chummy, with male staff. It’s a dangerous line, and you’re terrified she’s either blissfully unaware of it or, worse, doesn't care. You try to dial back your own responses, keeping things friendly but more reserved, adding the honorific "Jimin-ssi" more consistently, hoping she’ll take the hint. Sometimes she does, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes before her professional mask slips on. Other times, she just bulldozes past it with that radiant grin, leaving you feeling like you’re walking a tightrope over a pit of vipers.

Her thing with the other members… that’s new. And it’s weird, kinda unsettling if you’re being honest with yourself. It’s never anything, like, obvious. She never says anything. But you see it.

Or you think you do.

It’s in the little things. Like when you’re cracking up with Ningning, sharing some stupid meme, and you catch a glimpse of Karina out of the corner of your eye. There’s a flicker of something in her expression, a barely-there tightening around her mouth before it smooths out into a small, polite smile. It’s so fast you question if you even saw it.

Or when Giselle gets all close, leaning into your space to show you a video on her phone, and Karina’s eyes just seem to… stick. They linger on you for a beat too long, her gaze heavy in a way you can’t quite decipher before she blinks and looks away, suddenly engrossed in her own phone.

Maybe you’re just making it up, projecting or something. But then she’ll walk over when you and Winter are in the middle of a conversation, laughing and vibing, and it’s like the temperature drops a few degrees. Her posture shifts, just a fraction, but she seems

One late afternoon, you find yourself in one of the smaller, less-used lounges on Aespa’s floor. It’s a comfortable space, rarely occupied, with a couple of plush sofas, a low table littered with old magazines, and a window overlooking a surprisingly green courtyard. You’d ducked in to escape the main office buzz for a few minutes, intending to just scroll through your phone and decompress. Ningning had found you first, plopping down beside you to complain good-naturedly about a particularly grueling choreography session. Soon after, Giselle and Winter had wandered in, drawn by Ningning’s animated voice, and the three of them were now comfortably arrayed on the sofas opposite you.

You’re in the middle of recounting a truly disastrous blind date your college roommate had dragged you on years ago (a story involving a mistaken identity, an escaped ferret, and a very public argument with a mime). You’re hamming it up, using voices, expansive gestures, and the girls are in stitches. Ningning is practically falling off the sofa, tears of laughter streaming down her face. Giselle, usually so composed, is clutching her stomach, her shoulders shaking. Even Winter keeps asking you for more details about the story, and for a moment, you forget the pressures of the job, the complexities of your situation with Jimin, everything. You’re just a guy, shooting the shit with friends.

"...so then the mime starts gesturing wildly, right? And my roommate, bless his clueless heart, thinks the ferret belongs to the mime and is trying to give it back!" you say, trying to catch your breath between laughs. "And the mime is getting more and more agitated because, apparently, he's deathly afraid of rodents..."

Ningning lets out another shriek of laughter. "No! Oh my god, a mime afraid of ferrets! That’s too much!"

Giselle wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. "Okay, that’s actually the funniest thing I’ve heard all week. Poor ferret, though. And poor mime!"

"The ferret was fine!" you assure them, grinning. "Made a clean getaway into a nearby bakery. The mime needed therapy, probably."

Winter shakes her head, still chuckling softly. "You always have the craziest stories."

"It's a gift," you say with a mock bow, eliciting another round of giggles. "Or a curse. Depends on whether you're the one living through it or just hearing about it."

It’s at this moment, surrounded by their genuine laughter, that the door to the lounge creaks open. You don’t even register it at first, too caught up in the shared mirth. But then a shadow falls across the room, and a new voice, cool and distinct, cuts through the air.

"Having fun?"

Your laughter catches in your throat. The shift in atmosphere is instantaneous, like a cold front rolling in. Ningning, Giselle, and Winter all visibly react; their smiles falter, their postures subtly stiffen. You turn, your heart giving a sudden, uncomfortable thump against your ribs.

Jimin is standing in the doorway, one hand resting on the doorframe. She’s dressed in sleek black leggings and an oversized hoodie, her practice gear, her hair pulled back in a high ponytail. Her expression is unreadable, a carefully blank mask, but her eyes… her eyes are fixed on you, sharp and intense. There’s no smile, no warmth, just that unwavering, assessing stare.

You scramble to your feet, a little too quickly. "Oh, hey, Jimin-ssi. We were just, uh..."

Ningning, recovering first, offers a slightly strained smile. "Jimin-unnie! We were just listening to his hilarious story."

"Yeah, unnie," Giselle adds, her voice a little less effusive than it was moments before. "He was telling us about his old roommate’s disastrous date."

Jimin’s gaze doesn’t leave yours. She takes a slow step into the room, her presence suddenly dominating the small space.

"A disastrous date?" Jimin repeats, her voice still devoid of any discernible emotion. Her eyes finally flick towards the other girls, then back to you. "Sounds captivating. You seem to have them quite entertained."

There’s an edge to her words, a subtle accusation. You can feel a prickle of sweat on your palms. This is exactly the kind of situation you’ve been dreading, her finding you in a moment of unguarded ease with her members, their laughter clearly for you, excluding her.

Winter shifts uncomfortably on the sofa, her earlier smile completely gone. Ningning is fiddling with the drawstrings of her hoodie, avoiding eye contact. Giselle maintains a neutral expression, but her eyes dart between you and Jimin. You feel like you're under a fucking microscope, and Jimin is the one holding the lens, her gaze burning into you, searching for… something.

"Well," you begin, clearing your throat, the sound unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet. You force a casualness you don't feel, gesturing vaguely towards the door. "I should probably, uh, get going. Got that report Ms. Park wanted… needs finishing." It’s a flimsy excuse; the report isn’t due until tomorrow afternoon, but escape is paramount.

You offer a quick, slightly strained smile to the other girls, who are still looking like they wish the floor would swallow them. "Was fun chatting, though. See you guys later."

Ningning manages a small, "Bye." Giselle gives a curt nod, her eyes still flickering towards Jimin. Winter offers a tiny, almost imperceptible wave.

As you turn to leave, Jimin’s voice stops you again. "I'll walk with you."

It’s not a question. It’s a statement. Your mind screams No, absolutely fucking not, bad idea, abort mission! but your mouth, like a traitor, says, "Oh. Uh, sure. Okay." Because what else can you say? Arguing would only make it worse, draw more attention, confirm whatever suspicions are brewing in her mind.

The walk from the lounge down the hallway towards the main office area feels like miles. The silence stretches between you, taut and uncomfortable. You can feel her presence beside you, a subtle tension in the air that wasn't there before. You risk a quick glance at her. Her expression is still set, jaw tight, eyes fixed straight ahead. You can practically hear the gears turning in her head. You brace yourself.

Finally, as you round a corner into a less populated corridor, she speaks, her voice low.

"You and the others seem to be getting along really well."

It’s a neutral observation on the surface, but you hear the undercurrent. You try to keep your own tone light, even. "Yeah, they’re great. Easy to talk to." You pause, then add, trying to steer the conversation onto safer ground, "Isn't that good? They're your members, your friends. I'm your friend, working with your team. It’s good that we all… you know, get along."

Jimin doesn’t look at you. Her gaze remains fixed on some indeterminate point down the hallway. "It depends."

"Depends on what?" you ask, afraid of what will come next.

"Depends if you start ditching me for them," she says. "Because lately, it feels like you’re avoiding me."

Your step falters for a split second. "Avoiding you? Jimin, that’s… that’s not true." The denial is automatic, but even as you say it, a flash of guilt hits you. You have been more reserved, more careful.

She finally turns her head, her eyes, dark and intense, meeting yours. There’s a flicker of hurt in them that makes your chest ache. "Isn't it? What about yesterday, in the cafeteria? I waved, you just nodded and hurried off with your tray. And Monday, when I asked if you wanted to grab a coffee after that marketing meeting, you said you were swamped. I saw you five minutes later scrolling through your phone at your desk." Her voice isn't accusatory now; it's quieter, tinged with a genuine bewilderment and that raw hurt. She remembers specific instances, and fuck, she’s not wrong. You were being short, deliberately creating distance.

Your throat feels tight. You glance quickly up and down the corridor. It’s relatively empty, just a couple of junior staffers disappearing around a distant corner. This isn't a conversation for public consumption. You stop, turning to face her more directly, lowering your own voice.

"Okay, look," you begin, trying to choose your words carefully. "Can we just… can we be real for a second?"

She watches you, waiting, her arms crossed over her chest now, a defensive posture.

"Jimin," you say, your voice earnest, "you know I’m happy to be here. And I’m happy you’re here, obviously. But you have to understand… this isn't like before. You’re Karina. You’re one of the biggest idols in the world. I’m… just a guy who works for the company. Your PR guy, technically."

Her brow furrows slightly, a hint of confusion. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"It has everything to do with it," you insist. "Don’t you see how it looks? How we look? You being so… openly friendly with me, all the time? The little extra things, the way you seek me out? People notice that stuff, Jimin. Staff talk. Hell, fans would lose their minds if they saw half of it. This industry… it’s brutal. One wrong rumor, one misinterpreted photo, and it could be disastrous. For you, especially. For Aespa."

You run a hand through your hair, feeling the stress of it all. "I haven’t been avoiding you, Jimin. I’ve been trying to be careful. Trying to protect you. Trying to protect us from… from that. From the bullshit that could come from it. When I seem distant, or 'short' as you put it, it's not because I want to be. It's because I’m trying to keep a professional boundary in public, for both our sakes. I’m worried about your career, about you getting dragged into some stupid scandal because people misunderstand."

You let out a breath, the words tumbling out, a weight lifting slightly now that it’s said. You search her face, hoping she understands, hoping she doesn’t see it as a rejection.

Jimin stares at you, her expression slowly shifting as your words sink in. The defensiveness in her posture softens. The intensity in her eyes dims, then something akin to… embarrassment. Her gaze drops from yours to the floor, a faint blush creeping up her neck, painting the apples of her cheeks. She uncrosses her arms, fiddling with the sleeve of her hoodie.

When she finally looks up, her eyes are wide, a little watery, and full of a vulnerability that punches you right in the gut.

"Oh," she says. "Oh my god. You’re… you’re right." She winces, biting her lip. "I didn’t… I wasn’t thinking about it like that. At all." She shakes her head, looking genuinely mortified. "I'm so sorry. I’ve been… God, I’ve been acting like such an idiot. Paranoid." She lets out a shaky little laugh that has no humor in it. "I don’t even know why I’ve been like this. So… clingy or weird. It’s just…" She trails off, looking lost.

Seeing her like this, so exposed and contrite, melts away any lingering frustration you felt. All you want to do is reassure her.

"Hey," you say softly, taking a hesitant step closer. "It’s okay. Seriously. Don't beat yourself up about it." You offer a small, gentle smile. "It’s a weird situation for both of us, right? We’re figuring it out."

You pause, then add, you add, your tone surprisingly gentle, imbued with all the sincerity you feel, "And for what it’s worth, Jimin… you know how much I like having you around. How much I like you. Being near you, talking to you… it’s the best part of this whole crazy thing. I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for you. I haven’t forgotten that. Not for a second."

Her eyes, still glistening, meet yours. The blush on her cheeks deepens, but there’s a flicker of relief, of gratitude, in her gaze now. "Thank you," she murmurs. "For… for saying that. And for being honest. And for, you know, looking out for me even when I’m being a dumbass."

"Always," you say, and the word feels solid, true.

A comfortable silence settles between you for a moment. "So," you say, breaking the quiet gently, "how about this? To make up for my perceived avoidance, and your… non-dumbass-ness…" You grin, and she lets out a small, watery chuckle. "Later this week, or whenever you’re free from practice and schedules, we do something. Properly. Just you and me. No work, no office, no other members. Like old times, but… new times."

Her face lights up, a genuine, brilliant smile chasing away the last of her embarrassment. It’s the Jimin you remember, the one whose happiness is infectious. "Just us?"

"Just us," you confirm, your own heart feeling a little lighter, a hopeful anticipation bubbling up.

"I’d really like that," she says. "A lot." She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her eyes sparkling again, this time not with suspicion, but with something that looks a lot like the excitement you’re suddenly feeling too.

—

The relief that flooded you after that honest, vulnerable conversation with Jimin in the hallway lingers for days. It’s like a heavy weight you didn’t even realize you were carrying has been lifted. There’s a new lightness in your interactions, a shared understanding that makes the stolen glances and brief smiles across the busy office feel less fraught with anxiety and more like thrilling little secrets.

True to her word, before you part ways that day, Jimin’s eyes sparkle with that familiar mischief.

"So, about that 'just us' time," she says, leaning against the wall, a playful smirk on her lips. "My place. Dinner. I’ll cook. Don’t look so surprised, I can actually make more than instant ramen."

You raise an eyebrow, feigning skepticism. "Oh really? Color me intrigued. Are we talking a five-star gourmet experience or something that might involve a fire extinguisher?"

She swats your arm playfully. "Hey! I’ll have you know my kimchi jjigae is legendary. Or, at least, edible. You in?"

The thought of it: Jimin, cooking for you, in her apartment, away from the relentless scrutiny of SM, it feels intimate, a significant step. "Absolutely in," you say. "When?"

She pulls out her phone, already scrolling through her calendar app, a frown of concentration on her face. "Hmm, schedule’s insane next week… What about… Friday? A week from today? I think I have that evening clear. For now, anyway."

"Friday it is," you confirm, a grin spreading across your face. "I’ll even bring dessert. To, you know, potentially counteract the legendary kimchi jjigae."

"You wound me! But deal." She winks, then with a quick, "Gotta run, practice!" she’s off, leaving you feeling a ridiculous sense of anticipation for a dinner that’s still a full week away.

The following days pass in a blur of work, punctuated by those small, shared moments with Jimin. A quick coffee break where you actually sit together for ten minutes, talking about nothing and everything. Her dropping by your desk with a new song recommendation, leaning in close so you can share an earbud, her hair brushing your cheek. The professional boundaries are still there, especially when others are around, but the fear and awkwardness have been replaced by a conspiratorial warmth. You’re both more careful, more aware, but the connection feels stronger, deeper.

Friday arrives, and you spend most of the day in a state of low-level excitement, replaying your outfit choices in your head, wondering what her apartment is like, what it will feel like to just be with her, without the roles of "idol" and "staff." You even bought an expensive cake from that fancy bakery she likes.

Then, around 3 PM, your work phone buzzes with a message from Jimin:

NOOOO! I’m SOOOO sorry! Next week's photoshoot was brought forward to today. I'll be tied up until late. They just told us. I was really looking forward to it. Stupid schedules. Can we reschedule? Please say yes!

Disappointment settles in your chest, but you push it down. This is idol life. This is what you signed up for, being in her orbit.

You text: Of course. No worries at all, totally understand. We’ll find another night. Good luck with the shoot! You’ll kill it.

You’re the best. Raincheck for sure!!! Next week? I’ll make it up to you!

But "next week" turns into a series of near misses. An unexpected variety show filming crops up for her. A last-minute fan sign event gets added. You have a late night at the office handling a minor PR flare-up for another group. The universe, it seems, is conspiring against your private dinner. The expensive cake sits in your fridge, a sad, delicious monument to your thwarted plans.

And as the days turn into another week, something else starts to creep into your awareness, a subtle, unwelcome shift in your own internal landscape. You’re part of aespa’s PR team, which means you’re privy to schedules, collaborations, and the general buzz around them. You see Jimin interacting with other people in the company, naturally. She’s the leader, charismatic and friendly. It’s her job, her personality.

But it’s her interactions with some of the male idols that start to… prickle.

It begins subtly. You’re in a meeting discussing upcoming cross-promotional content, and one of the senior members from a popular SM boy group, a guy known for his sharp looks and easy charm, casually mentions how he and Jimin were just laughing about a shared embarrassing trainee story the other day in the practice rooms. A tiny, almost imperceptible muscle tightens in your jaw. They just happened to be in the practice rooms? Laughing? You tell yourself it’s nothing. Colleagues. Friends.

Then, a few days later, you’re walking past one of the recording studios and you see Jimin through the soundproof glass, headphones on, talking animatedly with a well-known producer, also male, also handsome. He leans in close to adjust something on the mixing board, his hand brushing hers. She throws her head back and laughs at something he says, a bright, unrestrained sound. The knot in your stomach tightens a little more. You find yourself lingering a second too long, watching them, a sour taste creeping into your mouth. You force yourself to walk away, chiding yourself internally. She’s working. He’s a producer. This is normal. Get a grip.

The worst is when you’re scrolling through internal staff memos or even semi-public social media feeds from other idols. A candid behind-the-scenes shot from a music show, and there’s Jimin in the background, deep in conversation with a member of a rival boy group, both of them smiling. A congratulatory post from another male idol for am Aespa’s latest achievement, with a throwback photo of him and Jimin making silly faces from some past event. Each instance is like a small papercut, insignificant on its own, but collectively, they start to bleed.

You start to question yourself, this ugly feeling coiling in your gut. Am I actually… jealous? The thought is mortifying. You have no right. You’re her friend, her colleague. You buried that teenage crush years ago, didn’t you? This is different. This is… possessiveness. It’s irrational, and you hate it. You tell yourself it’s just protectiveness, the same kind you talked to her about, you’re worried about her image. But who are you kidding? That’s bullshit. This isn’t about her image. This is about that tight, angry clench in your chest when you see another guy make her laugh that specific way, the way her eyes crinkle at the corners. The way she only laughs with you. Or so you thought.

You try to subdue it, to crush the feeling down with logic. She’s an idol. Her circle is full of other idols, producers, industry people. Male, female, it doesn’t matter. She’s allowed to have friends. You are being a fucking psycho. You try to focus on your work, burying yourself in spreadsheets and press drafts, but your gaze keeps drifting, your ears straining for any mention of her name, your mind replaying those brief, observed moments, dissecting them, looking for… you don’t even know what. Reassurance? Confirmation of your fears?

This slow burn of jealousy is exhausting. It simmers beneath the surface of your carefully constructed professionalism, a toxic undercurrent poisoning your thoughts. You haven’t said anything to Jimin. You haven’t changed your outward behavior towards her, not in any way she’d notice, you hope. You’re still friendly, still supportive, still the guy she relies on. But inside, you’re a mess, increasingly tangled in a knot of feelings you don’t want and can’t seem to shake, this unwelcome, undeniable jealousy taking root, growing stronger with each passing day, with each shared smile she gives to someone who isn’t you.

—

Most of the nine-to-fivers have already made their escape, and even the usual thrum of idol activity has quieted to a muted pulse. You’re tucked away in a small, blessedly empty meeting room on one of the upper floors, nursing a lukewarm cup of instant coffee. You’re supposed to be reviewing social media analytics (riveting stuff, truly) but mostly you’re just staring out the window at the sprawling grey expanse of Seoul, lost in the delightful internal monologue of your own burgeoning, and entirely irrational, jealousy. It’s becoming quite the hobby, this mental self-flagellation.

The click of the door opening barely registers until a familiar, melodic voice cuts through your brooding.

"Hiding out?"

You nearly jump out of your skin, sloshing coffee onto a stack of decidedly unimportant papers. Turning, you see Jimin leaning against the doorframe, a soft smile playing on her lips. And just like that, the carefully constructed wall of your professional cynicism crumbles into pathetic, lovestruck dust.

She’s not in practice gear today. She’s wearing a simple, cream-colored knit sweater that looks ridiculously soft and some dark, well-fitted jeans. Her hair is down, cascading over her shoulders in those perfect, effortless waves that probably take a team of stylists two hours to achieve. Her makeup is minimal, making her look younger, softer, more like the Jimin you knew before she became Karina, global phenomenon and recurring star of your anxiety dreams.

"Hey," you manage, trying for nonchalant and probably landing somewhere near 'startled chipmunk.' "Didn't hear you come in."

She pushes off the doorframe and ambles further into the room, her presence instantly making the generic corporate space feel… smaller, somehow. More charged. "Sorry to interrupt your very important… paper-staring session."

"It's a critical part of my process," you say, attempting a dry wit that she, thankfully, seems to appreciate with a small laugh. "Deep contemplation of spreadsheet ergonomics."

"Right." She perches on the edge of the ridiculously oversized conference table, her legs crossed casually. "Look, I just wanted to say sorry if I’ve been a bit MIA the last few days. Schedules have been… well, you know. Insane."

"Ah, the glamorous life," you quip, though the relief at her explanation is a palpable thing easing the tension in your shoulders. So, it wasn’t you. Or, not just you. Probably. "No worries. Figured you were off conquering another continent or something equally mundane."

She smiles, a genuine, tired-around-the-edges smile. "Something like that. Endless meetings about tour logistics, new endorsement shoots, trying to learn choreography when every muscle in your body screams for rest." She sighs, then her gaze softens as it meets yours. "It’s just… been a lot. Haven't had much chance to just… breathe. Or talk."

"I get it," you say, and you do. The pace here is relentless. "You look…" You pause, searching for the right word, because 'good' feels like an insult to whatever cosmic alignment is happening with her features right now. "You look beautiful today, Jimin." The words are out before you can second-guess them, honest and a little too raw. You quickly try to backtrack, to lessen the impact, lest you sound like a complete lovesick fool (which, of course, you are). "I mean, you always look beautiful, obviously. It’s kind of your brand. But today… there’s something. Extra. You’re glowing. Or maybe it’s just the cheap office lighting playing tricks on my caffeine-addled eyes."

A delicate blush, the color of a summer peach, rises on her cheeks. She ducks her head for a moment, a shy gesture that feels impossibly endearing. "Thank you," she says softly, looking up at you through her lashes. The directness of her gaze, coupled with that blush. "That’s… really nice to hear. Especially today."

You should probably say something about those analytics. Or the weather. Anything but stare at her like she’s the only source of oxygen in the room.

Then, her expression shifts. A wistful, almost faraway look enters her eyes. "Hey," she says, her tone quieter now, thoughtful. "Do you remember… do you remember that time, we must have been, what, thirteen? When we biked all the way out to old Haeundae beach, even though our parents would have skinned us alive if they knew?"

The question catches you off guard. The sudden shift to such a specific, distant memory throws you. But of course, you remember. How could you forget? Your mind immediately conjures the scene: the reckless thrill of that forbidden adventure, the salty spray on your faces, the cheap, borrowed bikes threatening to fall apart beneath you.

"Yeah," you say, a slow smile spreading across your face as the details flood back. "With those ridiculously ancient bikes we 'borrowed' from your uncle’s shed? The ones where the brakes only worked if you prayed really, really hard?"

Her answering smile is luminous. "Exactly! And then that insane storm blew in out of nowhere. One minute it was sunny, the next it was like the sky just… cracked open."

"Torrential," you agree, a chuckle escaping you. "We were soaked to the bone in about ten seconds. I thought my sneakers would never dry out."

"And we found that tiny, busted-up old bus stop shelter way up on the coastal road," she continues, her eyes sparkling with the recollection, lost in the memory with you. "It was leaking, there were probably spiders the size of my fist in there, but it felt like a palace."

"We were freezing," you remember, "shivering like crazy. And all we had to eat was that one squashed packet of stale crackers I’d forgotten in my backpack."

Jimin laughs. "And we split it, didn’t we? Crouched in that damp, smelly shelter, rain hammering down outside, sharing those awful crackers like it was a feast." She looks at you then. "We talked for hours, waiting for it to stop. About everything. Stupid stuff, serious stuff."

"Our grand plans to escape our boring town," you supply, the memory so vivid now it feels like you could reach out and touch it. "Your dreams of being famous, my dreams of… well, probably something equally ridiculous I’ve thankfully forgotten."

"It wasn't ridiculous," she says softly, her gaze holding yours. "It was just… us. Just talking. It felt like we were the only two people in the world for a few hours."

You know what she means. It was more than just getting caught in the rain. It was a moment of unvarnished connection, of shared vulnerability, of feeling utterly, completely understood by another person, a feeling so rare and precious, especially at that tumultuous age. You remember the damp chill, yes, but more clearly, you remember the warmth of her shoulder pressed against yours as you huddled together, the easy rhythm of your conversation, the feeling that, for a little while, all the complexities of the world had fallen away, leaving just the two of you and the roaring storm.

"I still think about that day sometimes," Jimin says, her eyes still locked on yours, searching, questioning. "A lot, actually."

Your carefully constructed composure, already teetering, threatens to shatter. All the air seems to have been sucked out of the small room. The irony isn't lost on you; here you are, a grown man, unraveled by a shared memory of stale crackers and a rainstorm from over a decade ago. Pathetic, really.

"Why?" The question slips out, hushed, almost involuntary. Your mind is racing. Why now? Why bring this up? What does it mean?

Jimin holds your gaze for another long moment, and you can see a universe of unspoken emotions swirling in the depths of her dark eyes. Then, she looks away, her gaze drifting towards the window, towards the distant, indifferent city. A tiny, almost imperceptible sigh escapes her lips.

"Actually, I don't know," she says, so quietly you almost miss it. "I really don't know."

It's an answer that's not an answer, a perfectly crafted piece of ambiguity designed, it seems, to send your already overthinking brain into a full-blown spiral. You watch her, this enigma you’ve known your whole life, and feel a familiar, frustrating helplessness. All those years, all that shared history, and she can still reduce you to a state of dumbfounded confusion with three little words.

She pushes herself off the conference table, the movement fluid and graceful. "Well," she says, her voice regaining a sliver of its usual brightness, though her eyes still hold that distant, thoughtful quality. "Maybe it’s better if I go. Don’t want to keep bothering you with… ancient history. And I actually do have that choreography meeting. Can't keep the dance monster waiting."

She turns and walks towards the door, each step feeling like a countdown timer on your chance to say something, anything, to pierce through this sudden, unbearable tension.

She reaches the door, her hand on the knob. It’s now or never, brainiac.

"Jimin," you call out.

She pauses, her back still to you, hand frozen on the doorknob. This is it. Your moment to say something profound, something that clarifies everything, something that bridges the gap of years and fame and unspoken feelings. Your mind races, a frantic slideshow of possibilities. 'What did you mean?' 'Do you feel it too?' 'That day meant something to me too, you know.'

And then, like a cold splash of reality, the internal killjoy (the one that pays the bills and reminds you of your precarious position) pipes up: She’s an idol, you idiot. Global superstar. You’re staff. This is how you lose your job and become a cautionary tale. Don’t be a walking, talking HR violation.

The grand, sweeping declaration dies on your lips, replaced by a pathetic little puff of air. When she finally turns her head slightly, looking back at you with a questioning gaze, all that comes out is a lame, "It's… uh… nothing. Never mind.”

A small, enigmatic smile plays on her lips. It’s impossible to tell if it’s knowing, amused, or just polite. With Jimin, it could be all three. "Okay," she says softly. "See you around."

And then she’s gone, the door clicking shut behind her with a gentle finality, leaving you alone once more with your lukewarm coffee, your useless analytics, and the fresh, agonizing weight of all the things you didn't say.

Hours later, the office has thinned out almost completely. You’re packing up your bag, ready to call it a day and go home to stare meaningfully at your ceiling, when Ningning bounces over to your desk.

"Heading out?" she asks, perching on the corner of your desk like an overgrown, incredibly cheerful pixie.

"Yep. Day is done. My brain feels like overcooked jjigae."

She giggles. "Mine too! We had vocal training for three hours straight. My throat is screaming." She leans in a little. "So, work stuff aside… how are things?"

You raise an eyebrow. "Things? Vague. But… okay, I guess? Survived another day in the K-Pop trenches. You?"

"Good, good!" she says, then her eyes get that tell-tale sparkle of curiosity you’re beginning to recognize all too well. "Actually… I was wondering. About, you know…" She gestures vaguely between herself and an imaginary Jimin. "You two."

Ah. Here we go. The subtle interrogation phase. You try to keep your expression neutral, a Herculean effort. "Us two? Do you mean Jimin? We’re… old friends. Colleagues. As previously established in multiple official and unofficial briefings."

Ningning tilts her head, her smile a little too knowing. "Riiight. Old friends. But, like… how old? What’s the real story there? Unnie can be… a little selective with details sometimes."

Before you can even begin to formulate a suitably evasive yet charmingly informative answer, footsteps approach. Giselle and Winter appear, looking equally ready to bolt for the day.

"What are you two whispering about over here?" Giselle asks. Winter offers a quiet smile from beside her.

Ningning beams at them. "Perfect timing! I was just asking about him," she points a thumb at you, "and our dear leader. The true story."

Giselle’s perfectly sculpted eyebrow arches. "Oh? The origin story? Spill it. We’ve only heard Jimin-unnie’s version, which, let's be honest, is probably heavily romanticized."

Winter chuckles softly. "She did mention something about a very dramatic rainstorm once."

Now all three of them are looking at you, expectant and clearly ready for some prime gossip, or at least, your side of the folklore. You’re surrounded. There’s no escape.

"Okay, okay," you say, raising your hands in mock surrender, trying to buy yourself some thinking time. "There’s nothing really interesting in our story. Mostly just a lot of questionable teenage fashion choices and an unhealthy obsession with the same five boy bands."

"Details, details!" Ningning urges, leaning forward. "What were you like in school? Was she always… Karina-like? Or was she a secret dork?"

"Definitely a secret dork," you say, a genuine smile touching your lips as you think back.

This gets a laugh from all of them.

"And you?" Giselle prompts. "What was your role in this dynamic duo?"

"Chief instigator of dumb ideas, probably," you admit. "And expert in procuring illicit snacks for movie marathons. We spent a ridiculous amount of time watching terrible action movies and critiquing them like we were seasoned film critics." You share a few more harmless anecdotes: the time you both tried to bake a cake that ended up looking like a volcanic eruption, the disastrous school play where you both forgot your lines, the endless summers spent biking around the city, dreaming of bigger things. It’s easy to talk about the past, the safe, sepia-toned memories. It makes the present, with all its unspoken tensions and Jimin’s idol status, feel momentarily distant.

As you’re talking, weaving these tales of your shared youth, you see your opening. It’s a long shot, and your attempt at casualness will probably be about as convincing as a politician's promise, but you have to try.

"Speaking of Jimin," you say, aiming for a nonchalant tone that you’re pretty sure misses the mark by a country mile, "she’s, you know, so busy and in the public eye all the time. Must be tough to… have a personal life. Is she… seeing anyone? Or, you know, hanging out with anyone in particular? Just curious, as a friend. Worried about her, you know. Safety, happiness, all that good stuff."

You try to make it sound like a casual afterthought, a fleeting concern from a dear old platonic pal. You think you almost pulled it off, right up until you see the looks on their faces.

Ningning’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly, and she exchanges a lightning-fast glance with Giselle. Giselle’s lips twitch, a smirk threatening to break free. Winter just smiles like she knows what's going on in your head. Oh, you are so transparent. They see right through your flimsy "concerned friend" charade.

"Hmm, 'seeing anyone'?" Giselle repeats slowly, drawing out the words. "Nope. Can't say that she is. Unnie's pretty much married to her work these days. And us, of course."

"Yeah," Ningning chimes in, a little too brightly. "No mysterious romantic entanglements that we know of! Our leader is a free agent!"

"Why do you ask?" Winter asks her gaze lifting to meet yours.

"Oh, you know," you say, waving a dismissive hand, trying to project an air of breezy indifference. "Just… she’s an old friend. You worry about your friends, right? Want them to be happy, not get mixed up with… undesirables. Standard friend protocol."

The three of them share another look. This one is longer, more laden with unspoken understanding. It’s the kind of look that says, “Oh, honey, you are so delightfully screwed.”

"Right," Giselle says. "Undesirables. Of course."

Ningning nods vigorously. "Totally. Friend protocol. We get it."

"So," Giselle starts, "all these shared memories, the dorky school days… was there ever, you know, anything more? Between you two back then?"

You can feel the heat rising up your neck. Your brain is frantically sifting through a thousand possible deflections, each one more unconvincing than the last. This is where your PR training truly shines, in the art of saying absolutely nothing while appearing to consider something deeply. A true masterclass in verbal evasion is about to unfold, you can just feel it.

"I mean, the bond between you two is… remarkable," Ningning adds, helpfully twisting the knife. "Unnie was so, so excited when she found out you were coming to work here. Like, beyond normal 'old friend joining the company' excited. More like 'rare Pokémon spotted in the wild' excited."

Giselle snorts delicately. "Eloquent, Ningning. But she’s right. There’s definitely… a vibe."

Just as you’re about to launch into what would undoubtedly be a completely disastrous attempt at a nonchalant denial, a voice cuts through the charged atmosphere.

"There you guys are! I’ve been looking all over for you."

Jimin. Of course. Her timing is, as always, impeccably dramatic. She steps into the lounge, her gaze sweeping over her members, then landing on you, a slight question in her eyes. She’s still in her practice clothes, a light sheen of perspiration on her forehead, making her look both ethereal and remarkably real. The girls, bless their meddling, gossipy hearts, snap into action with the practiced ease of seasoned operatives.

"Oh, hey, Unnie!" Ningning chirps. "We were just… talking."

"About what?" Jimin asks, stepping further into the room, her gaze lingering on you for a fraction of a second longer than strictly necessary. Or maybe you’re just imagining that part. Your imagination has been working overtime lately, particularly where she’s concerned.

"Nothing major," Giselle says smoothly, waving a dismissive hand. "Silly things. Random office gossip. You know how it is." She stands, stretching languidly. "Actually, we should probably head out. It’s getting seriously late.”

"Yeah, same," Ningning agrees, bouncing to her feet. Winter nods, already halfway to the door. "My everything aches."

You seize the opportunity, a drowning man grasping at a life raft made of convenient excuses. "Me too, actually. Long day. Lots of… spreadsheets." You try for a weary, put-upon sigh. You’re not sure it lands.

The girls offer quick goodbyes, a chorus of "See ya!" and "Night, Unnie!" and then they’re gone, leaving you and Jimin standing in the sudden quiet of the empty lounge. She turns to you. "They keeping you entertained?"

"They’re… a force of nature," you admit. "Never a dull moment."

"Tell me about it," she says with a sigh that seems to carry the weight of a thousand schedules. "Well, I guess I should let you escape too." She gestures towards the door. "I’m heading out as well. Want to walk?"

And just like that, you’re accompanying her again, the two of you falling into step as you navigate the increasingly deserted corridors of SM Entertainment. You find yourself acutely aware of the space between you, of the subtle scent of her perfume, of the way her hair catches the low evening light filtering through the hallway windows. It’s all terribly poetic and deeply unhelpful for your already addled state of mind.

As you approach the main lobby, her voice, soft and a little melancholic, breaks the quiet. "Have you ever wondered," she begins, not looking at you, her gaze fixed on the gleaming marble floor, "what might have happened? If… if things had been different? If I hadn’t gone into training when I did, if you hadn’t gone off to study in another country? If we hadn't… you know, gone our separate ways back then?"

The question, so similar to the one that started your recent emotional tailspin with her, catches you off guard. It’s a "what if" laden with years of distance and change, a path untaken, a story unwritten. You glance at her profile, the perfect line of her jaw, the slight furrow in her brow. She looks so much like the fierce, determined girl you knew, yet also like someone entirely new, someone shaped by experiences you can only guess at.

"I don't know," you say honestly, the words feeling inadequate but true. It’s your go-to answer for her profound, soul-searching question, apparently. "It’s… hard to predict those kinds of things, isn’t it? One tiny change back then could have led to a million different todays." You try for a philosophical shrug, as if you ponder alternate timelines on a regular basis. You mostly ponder what to have for dinner.

She nods slowly, still not meeting your eyes. "You’re right. It’s impossible to know." A beat of silence, then she adds, almost to herself, "Still. Sometimes I wonder."

Before you can overthink it, before your internal HR department can issue a cease-and-desist, you find yourself saying, "But, Jimin… whatever those other million todays might have looked like, this one? This is the one where we’re both here. You, me, in this crazy building, against some pretty insane odds when you think about it." You meet her gaze then, hoping she sees the sincerity in yours. "That’s got to be worth something, right?"

A slow smile spreads across her face, a genuine, heart-stoppingly beautiful smile that reaches her eyes and chases away some of the weariness you saw there earlier. "Yeah," she says. "Yeah, I think it is." She finally looks directly at you, and there's a warmth there, a shared acknowledgement of the strange, unlikely thread that still connects you.

"Thank you for saying that."

"Just stating the facts," you reply, though your heart is doing a fair impression of a hummingbird’s wings. You pause, then, emboldened by the moment, you ask, "Are you okay, though? You seem… a little tired." A masterful understatement, considering the grueling life she leads.

She lets out a soft sigh. "Yeah, I’m okay. Just… tired is my default setting these days, I think." She manages a wry smile. "This week has been particularly brutal. But it’s okay. It’s part of it."

"I’ve been seeing it up close, you know," you say, your tone earnest. "You, the girls… the amount of work you all put in, the sheer dedication… it’s actually insane. I had no idea, not really, before I started working here. It’s… genuinely incredible. You’re all amazing." You hesitate, then add, "Just… don’t overdo it, okay? Take care of yourself. Seriously."

Her smile widens, softens. The appreciation in her eyes is unmistakable, and it makes you feel ridiculously warm inside. "Thank you," she says again. "That means a lot. I will. I promise."

You reach the main exit, the cool night air of Seoul beckoning from beyond the glass doors. This feels like another one of those moments, a pause before the story shifts again.

"Well," you say, "my chariot awaits. Or, you know, the subway."

She laughs, a light, easy sound. "Same here. My manager’s probably already sent out a search party." She turns to you, and for a moment, it feels like there’s something more she wants to say, something hovering on the edge of her words. But then she just smiles that enigmatic smile again. "Good night. And… thanks. For the walk. And the concern."

"Anytime," you reply. "Goodnight, Jimin."

And with that, she’s gone, disappearing into the waiting black van that always seems to materialize out of nowhere. You watch her go, a strange mix of hope and confusion and that ever-present, damnably persistent affection swirling inside you.

—

The weekend arrives with all the fanfare of a damp squib. You spend Saturday mostly alternating between staring blankly at your laptop screen, pretending to job-hunt for something that isn’t your current, emotionally hazardous employment, and replaying every single micro-expression Jimin has made in your vicinity for the past two weeks. It’s a productive, well-adjusted way to live, you tell yourself with a hefty dose of irony. You’re bored, tired of your own internal monologue, and a little bit adrift.

You’re cleaning your room, contemplating mentally the profound existential question of whether to order jjajangmyeon or just eat cereal for dinner for the third night in a row, when your phone buzzes on the coffee table. You almost ignore it, expecting another spam text about a crypto scam or a discount on air fryers. But then it buzzes again, insistent. With a groan, you reach for it.

It’s a message. From Jimin.

Hey! Are you by any chance, miraculously, incredibly, unbelievably… free tonight? My schedule just cleared up like magic (don’t ask, it’s a K-Pop miracle). That dinner we talked about… still interested? My legendary kimchi jjigae awaits its challenger! Let me know! Fingers crossed! ✨🍜🤞

You stare at the message, reading it once, twice, a third time just to make sure your sleep-deprived brain isn’t hallucinating. Her schedule cleared? She’s asking tonight? After all the cancellations, all the near-misses? A slow grin, a genuine, uncomplicated, shit-eating grin, spreads across your face. All the weariness, the boredom, the overthinking from the past few days, evaporates like morning mist.

You type back, your thumbs flying across the screen, a surge of adrenaline making your hands shake slightly.

Tonight? Miracles do happen! Yes, absolutely, 100% still interested. My taste buds are primed and ready for legendary status. Send me the address. I’ll even brave rush hour for this.

Her reply is almost instantaneous. A string of happy emojis, followed by her address and a time.

It’s set. It’s actually, finally, set.

A laugh bubbles up from your chest, loud and unrestrained in the quiet of your small apartment. Suddenly, your weekend isn’t looking so bleak. Suddenly, you’re not tired at all. Suddenly, the only thing that matters is that in a few short hours, you’re going to Jimin’s apartment for dinner. Just the two of you.

—

The hours leading up to your dinner with Jimin are a masterclass in controlled chaos, existing primarily within the confines of your own skull. You tell yourself, with the stern authority of someone trying to wrangle a particularly unruly toddler, not to overthink it. It’s just dinner. A casual meal between old friends. One of whom just happens to be a globally recognized K-Pop sensation who occupies a significant, and frankly unhealthy, amount of your daily thought processes.

Yes, perfectly normal.

Your attempt not to overthink manifests as a meticulous, hour-long deconstruction of your entire wardrobe, a frantic search for an outfit that screams "effortlessly cool and put-together" while simultaneously whispering "I definitely didn't try too hard, but please notice I tried a little." You settle on dark jeans that actually fit well and a soft, unassuming button-down shirt (casual, yet hinting at the possibility that you own an iron).

On your way to her neighborhood, a sudden pang of "don't show up empty-handed, you heathen" strikes you. You duck into a small, upscale market, ostensibly for a bottle of wine or some trendy artisanal sparkling water. As you’re Browse, your eyes snag on a particular brand of imported Swiss chocolate, a rich, dark hazelnut bar. It’s a lightning bolt from the past. Jimin used to be absolutely obsessed with this exact chocolate back in your school days. She’d save up her allowance for it, savoring each square like it was a precious jewel. It’s a ridiculous, sentimental impulse, but you grab it, along with a respectable bottle of white wine that looks like it knows what it’s doing. The chocolate feels like a small, secret handshake with the past, a nod to the girl she was… a girl you knew before the world did.

Her apartment building is sleek and modern, nestled in a quiet, affluent part of Seoul. You buzz her apartment number, your voice sounding surprisingly steady through the intercom when you announce your arrival. A moment later, the lock clicks, and you’re granted access to the inner sanctum. So far, so good. No alarms triggered.

Standing outside her actual apartment door, a fresh wave of nerves – oh, hello again, old friend – washes over you. You perform the sacred pre-door-knock ritual: a quick, surreptitious sniff of your own breath (minty, check), a frantic adjustment of your shirt cuffs, and a final, desperate smooth-down of your hair. You take a deep breath, then you knock.

The door swings open, and there she is. And just like that, your carefully constructed composure evaporates. Jimin. Even in simple, dark lounge pants and a ridiculously soft-looking, oversized grey sweater that swallows her frame, she looks… breathtaking. Her hair is tied up in a loose, messy bun, tendrils escaping to frame her face. Her makeup is so light it’s almost non-existent, just a hint of color on her lips and a subtle definition to her incredible eyes, making her appear more close to you, more vulnerable, more… Jimin. The effect is devastatingly beautiful, far more so than any stage costume or red-carpet glamour. This is her, unvarnished, in her own space.

You just sort of… stare for a beat, your brain temporarily short-circuiting. She offers a small, slightly shy smile. "Hey. You made it."

"Yeah," you manage. "Traffic was… surprisingly cooperative. For once." You then remember the social contract requires more than just grunting acknowledgment. "You, uh… you look amazing, Jimin. Really." There, you said it. Not as smooth as you’d hoped, but honest.

Her smile widens, a genuine, pleased crinkle around her eyes. "Thanks. You clean up pretty nice yourself." She steps back, holding the door open wider. "Come on in. Don’t mind the mess, I was literally in the middle of a creative explosion in the kitchen."

You step inside, and as you do, you present your offerings. "Brought some wine," you say, handing her the bottle. "And, uh, this." You pull out the chocolate bar. "Not sure if you still… but I remembered."

Her eyes widen when she sees the familiar wrapper, a gasp of pure, unadulterated delight escaping her. "Oh my god!" she exclaims, taking the chocolate from you with an almost reverent care. "This! I haven’t had this in ages! How did you even remember?" Her face is alight with genuine happiness. "This is… this is the best. Thank you." That she’s happier about the relatively cheap chocolate bar than the expensive wine says everything. It’s a direct hit to the heart, that shared memory made tangible.

"My memory retains crucial information," you say, trying for a light, teasing tone to cover the sudden thickness in your throat.

She laughs, clutching the chocolate bar like a long-lost treasure. "Apparently so." She gestures around. "Well, this is it. Karina's home. Or, you know, Jimin’s slightly-less-glamorous-than-you’d-expect-for-an-idol-but-still-pretty-nice apartment."

You take a proper look around as she leads you further in. It is beautiful. Definitely what you’d expect for someone of her status – spacious, with high ceilings, large windows offering a glittering panorama of the Seoul skyline. The furniture is modern and stylish, a palette of soft neutrals and rich textures. But threaded throughout the obvious expense are unmistakable touches of her. A shelf overflowing with books, a worn acoustic guitar propped in a corner, a collection of quirky art prints that are more charming than high-concept, a ridiculously fluffy throw blanket draped over a plush sofa that just begs for someone to curl up on it. It’s a home, not just a showpiece. It’s… Jimin. And you’re in it.

The aroma filling Jimin’s apartment is genuinely incredible, a rich, spicy, and deeply comforting scent that immediately makes your stomach rumble in anticipation. She’s bustling between the small, open-plan kitchen counter and the dining table as she places steaming bowls and an array of colourful banchan (pickled radish, seasoned spinach, glistening myeolchi bokkeum) onto the table. You try to offer help, a classic "can I do anything?" gesture, but she waves you off with a smile, directing you to simply take a seat.

"Guest of honor tonight," she declares, "your only job is to eat and, hopefully, not require medical attention afterwards." It's a joke, but there's a hint of nervous pride in her eyes as she surveys her culinary efforts. It's endearing, this glimpse of her outside the polished perfection of Karina, the idol. This is Jimin, hoping you like her cooking.

You settle into a chair at the intimate wooden table, which is perfectly sized for two and positioned to offer a breathtaking view of the city lights beginning to ignite the deepening twilight outside. She slides a bowl of rice in front of you, then the centerpiece: a bubbling, vibrant red earthenware pot of kimchi jjigae, the steam carrying its potent, delicious fragrance. She serves herself, then gestures for you to dig in. "Well," she says, a little breathlessly, "moment of truth."

You pick up your chopsticks, you take a careful spoonful of the jjigae, the rich broth warming your tongue, the tender pork and tangy kimchi a perfect balance. It’s not just edible; it’s genuinely, profoundly good. Your eyes widen in honest surprise.

"Jimin," you say, after a moment of appreciative silence, letting the warmth spread through you. "This is… seriously incredible. You weren't kidding about the legendary status. This is restaurant-quality stuff." You’re not just being polite; it’s the best kimchi jjigae you’ve had in a long, long time. Maybe ever.

A pleased, slightly flustered blush colors her cheeks. She ducks her head, stirring her own bowl a little too intently. "Oh, stop," she says, but her smile is radiant. "It’s just an old family recipe. My grandmother taught me. I don’t get to make it that often, so… I’m glad it turned out okay." She takes a tentative bite herself, then nods, a little surprised. "Huh. Not bad, if I do say so myself."

You both eat in a comfortable, almost reverent silence for a few minutes. You try some of the banchan she gestures towards, a crisp, spicy cucumber salad, some savory pan-fried tofu. Everything is meticulously prepared, bursting with flavor. It's clear she put a lot of effort into this, and that knowledge warms you even more than the jjigae.

It's as you’re both reaching for the water glasses at the same time, your fingers brushing for a fleeting, electric instant, that the full weight of the situation seems to properly land. You pull your hand back a little too quickly, a jolt going up your arm. You look up, and she’s looking at you, her eyes wide, a similar awareness dawning in them. Here you are. Alone. In her apartment, a space few outside her closest circle probably ever see. Sharing a home-cooked meal. It’s not uncomfortable, not exactly, but it���s undeniably there: a potent mix of history and the sheer, unadulterated weirdness of your lives having converged like this again.

A small, nervous chuckle escapes her lips, a delicate, airy sound. Almost instantly, a similar laugh bubbles up from your own chest; a little shaky, a little breathless, but a genuine release of the mounting tension. It’s a shared acknowledgment of the elephant.

"Okay," she says, setting down her chopsticks and picking up her water glass. "This is… this is a little bit weird, isn't it?" She takes a sip of water, her gaze still holding yours over the rim of the glass. "Not bad-weird," she clarifies quickly, perhaps sensing your own internal monologue already composing a list of polite escape routes, "definitely good-weird. But still… wonderfully, ridiculously weird."

"Good-weird is my favorite kind of weird," you manage. The shared laughter, the naming of the awkwardness, has somehow made it less… awkward. "And yes, 'wonderfully, ridiculously weird' pretty much sums up my entire existence since moving to Seoul and, you know," you gesture vaguely to encompass her, the apartment, the situation, "all of this." You take another mouthful of jjigae, savoring the spice, buying yourself a moment. "Honestly, if you’d told fourteen-year-old me, the one convinced that high fashion was wearing a band t-shirt without holes in it, that one day I'd be having homemade kimchi jjigae in global K-Pop superstar Karina's apartment…" You shake your head, a wry smile playing on your lips. "Well, let's just say his tiny, angst-ridden brain would have imploded. He probably would have assumed it was a very elaborate prank involving hidden cameras."

Jimin laughs, a bright, clear sound that seems to chase away some of the shadows in the room. "Oh, please. Fourteen-year-old you was far too cynical for hidden camera pranks. You’d have assumed it was a stress-induced hallucination brought on by too many all-night gaming sessions." She pauses, her smile softening into something more reflective as she looks around her living space, then back at you, her dinner guest, the boy from her past sitting so improbably in her present. "But look at us now, huh? Actually sitting here, eating dinner, in my own place. Talking about nothing relevant… and just being. Like two reasonably functioning adults who manage to feed themselves without burning the building down." She takes a slow, deliberate bite of rice, her gaze drifting towards the window, towards the vast, glittering expanse of Seoul spread out below them. "Who would have thought any of this was possible back then?" She turns back to you, a wistful, almost tender smile on her lips. "Time flies, doesn’t it? Feels like a lifetime ago, and yesterday, all at once.”

There's a shared melancholy in the air, a sweet ache for the irretrievable past, but it's also undercut by the sheer, vibrating improbability of your present. You nod slowly, swirling the last of the spicy jjigae broth in your bowl, the warmth of it seeping into you, mirroring the warmth spreading through your chest from just… being here, with her.

"It really does," you agree. "One minute you're plotting how to get out of gym class, the next you're… well, you're an international icon, and I'm marveling at your exceptional kimchi jjigae skills and wondering if adulting comes with a manual they forgot to give me." You offer a small, self-deprecating smile, which she returns with a knowing one of her own.

"Tell me about it," she sighs, pushing her empty bowl away slightly. "Sometimes I look in the mirror and I'm still half expecting to see that gangly teenager with the terrible bangs staring back, wondering how on earth I’m supposed to lead a group and remember lyrics in different languages." She pauses, then a playful spark ignites in her eyes, chasing away the momentary wistfulness. "Speaking of adulting… that wine you brought isn't going to drink itself, is it?”

"An excellent point."

"Yeah," she says, already rising from the table. "Let me just wash these dishes and then we can relocate. My couch is significantly more comfortable for serious wine contemplation than these dining chairs. And you haven't even seen my prized collection of questionable drama movies yet, a true adult indulgence."

She begins clearing the table with an efficient grace, and you quickly stand to help, gathering bowls and chopsticks. "Questionable dramas, huh? I'm almost afraid to ask."

"Oh, you should be. We're talking peak early 2000s angst."

While she rinses the dishes (a task you offer to do but are again cheerfully waved off from) you retrieve the bottle of white wine from the counter where you’d left it. You find a corkscrew in a drawer after a brief, the satisfying pop of the cork feels like a small, official commencement of the evening’s next, less formal, chapter. Jimin reappears with two elegant, long-stemmed wine glasses.

Soon, you're both settled on her ridiculously plush sofa. It’s U-shaped, large enough that you’re not exactly pressed against each other, but close enough that you’re acutely aware of her presence, the subtle scent of her shampoo, the way the soft lamplight catches the curve of her cheek. She curls her legs up beneath her, looking impossibly small and cozy, and takes a grateful sip from her wine glass.

"Mmm," she hums, her eyes closing for a moment. "Okay, this is good. Way better than the soju bombs from our trainee day survival kits, that’s for sure."

You take a sip yourself. The wine is crisp and cool, a pleasant counterpoint to the lingering spice of the jjigae. "Glad it meets the approval of your sophisticated palate," you tease, settling back into the cushions. The sofa really is incredibly comfortable. Dangerously so. "Though I have a feeling even drain cleaner would taste good after some of the trainee stories I’ve heard."

She laughs, a full, unrestrained sound this time, and the warmth of it, combined with the wine already beginning to hum pleasantly in your veins, makes you feel… good. Really good. Relaxed in a way you haven’t been in weeks, maybe months.

"You have no idea," she says, shaking her head, a smile still playing on her lips. "There was this one time, during our first evaluation prep, we were all so stressed and sleep-deprived, Ningning tried to microwave a banana. The whole banana. Peel and all."

You snort with laughter, nearly choking on your wine. "No! What happened?"

"Let’s just say the dorm smelled like radioactive fruit for a week, and we were banned from unsupervised microwave usage," Jimin recounts, her eyes sparkling with shared amusement. "Our manager almost had a conniption. Good times. Peak adulting, right there."

The wine flows easily, and with it, the conversation. You find yourselves reminiscing more about those "good old days," the stories becoming funnier, sillier, with each glass. You remind her of the time she tried to dye her own hair blue using a questionable internet tutorial and ended up with three distinctly different shades of swamp green. She counters with the story of your spectacularly failed attempt to build a skateboard ramp in your backyard, which resulted in more bruises than airtime. The laughter comes more frequently now, less self-conscious, more open. There's a comfortable intimacy in revisiting these shared embarrassments.

With the second glass of wine, a subtle shift occurs. The silliness is still there, but it’s becoming tinged with a more playful, flirtatious edge. Maybe it’s the alcohol lowering inhibitions, or maybe it’s the cozy proximity on the sofa, or maybe it’s just the inevitable result of two people with a mountain of buried feelings finally being in a private, relaxed space together. You find yourself watching the way her lips curve when she smiles, the way she gestures animatedly when she’s telling a particularly outrageous story, the way her eyes seem to catch and hold yours for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

"You know," she says, swirling the wine in her glass, her gaze a little unfocused, a little dreamy, "you were always surprisingly good at listening. Even when I was rambling about the most ridiculous, angsty teenage dramas. You’d just sit there and nod, like it was the most profound stuff you’d ever heard."

"Hey, your angst was top-tier," you reply. "It deserved a captive audience. Besides, someone had to make sure you didn't actually follow through on your threat to run away and join the circus after that disastrous school talent show audition." You lean a little closer, lowering your voice conspiratorially. "Though, for the record, I still think your interpretive dance to that heavy metal song was… creatively ambitious."

She throws her head back and laughs, a genuine, unrestrained peal that makes your chest ache with a strange, sweet tenderness. When she sobers, she lightly punches your arm. "Oh, shut up! That was performance art! You just didn't understand my vision!" Her eyes are bright, cheeks flushed from the wine and the laughter, and she’s looking at you with an open, unguarded expression that makes your breath catch. "But seriously," she adds, "you were a good friend. Still are."

The compliment, simple as it is, lands with surprising weight. "You too, Jimin," you say, your voice equally soft, meeting her gaze. "Always."

Her eyes search yours, and you feel like she can see right through your carefully constructed facade, right down to the terrified, hopeful teenager still lurking somewhere inside. The wine has definitely done its job; the world feels a little softer around the edges, your inhibitions are pleasantly fuzzy, and the desire to just reach out, to bridge that small remaining distance on the couch, is becoming overwhelmingly, dangerously strong.

The wine, crisp and cool, continues its delightful work, unspooling the tightly wound threads of formality and apprehension that had clung to the early evening. Each sip seems to loosen your tongue a little more, and Jimin’s too. The comfortable U-shaped sofa, initially a vast expanse, feels like it’s subtly shrinking, or perhaps you’re both just… gravitating. Her laughter, when you recount another particularly embarrassing anecdote from your shared school days, is no longer just a polite chuckle. It’s a full-bodied, unrestrained peal of mirth that makes her lean back against the cushions, her eyes squeezed shut, one hand playfully batting at your arm.

You find yourself grinning like an idiot, the warmth spreading through your chest having very little to do with the alcohol content of the wine and everything to do with the sound of her unbridled joy.

"It’s funny, isn’t it? All those little things we obsessed over back then, thinking they were the most important things in the world." She swirls the wine in her glass, watching the pale liquid catch the light. "Who you sat with at lunch, whether you got picked for the team, if that one person looked at you in the hallway…"

Her voice trails off on that last phrase, and there’s a subtle shift in her tone, a new layer of something… emerging from beneath the playful banter. She takes a breath, then turns to you, her eyes, luminous in the dim light, searching yours. The playful glint is gone.

"Can I… can I tell you something? Something really stupid I used to think back then?"

Your heart gives a little thump. "Of course," you say. "My lips are sealed. And my capacity for judging stupid teenage thoughts is, believe me, at an all-time low, considering my own track record."

She offers a small, grateful smile, then her gaze drops to her wine glass, her fingers tracing the rim. "Okay, well… don’t laugh." A pause, then, so softly you almost miss it, "I… I used to have the biggest crush on you."

Your brain, already pleasantly fuzzy from the wine, seems to stall for a moment, trying to process. Jimin. Had a crush. On you. The fourteen-year-old version of you, the one with the questionable sense of humor and the complete inability to talk to girls he actually liked without sounding like a malfunctioning robot, would have spontaneously combusted from sheer disbelief and elation. Even now, the adult, slightly-more-composed version of you is struggling to keep his jaw from hitting the floor.

She peeks up at you through her lashes, a nervous blush creeping up her neck. "See? Stupid, right? I was so sure you just saw me as, like, your annoying little sister’s best friend, or just… Jimin, the dork who was always around. I used to spend hours overthinking every single thing you said to me, trying to decipher if there was some hidden meaning." She lets out a shaky little laugh. "God, it was exhausting."

You stare at her, a slow, incredulous smile starting to spread across your face. The irony, oh, the beautiful, painful irony of it all. All those years of your own silent, all-consuming crush, your own agonizing over every shared glance, every casual word, thinking she was completely oblivious, completely out of reach.

"Jimin," you begin. You clear your throat. "That’s… wow." You shake your head, a laugh bubbling up, a laugh of pure, unadulterated shock and a strange, retroactive relief. "The only thing 'stupid' about that is that I was doing the exact same goddamn thing."

Her head snaps up, her eyes widening, the blush on her cheeks deepening to a vibrant crimson.

"What?" she breathes. "You… you did? With… with me?"

"With you?" you echo, a wide, disbelieving grin plastered on your face. "Are you kidding? You were all I thought about. I was hopelessly, pathetically gone on you. I just… I figured you were way out of my league. That you only tolerated my presence because we were stuck in the same school and our families knew each other." The confession tumbles out, easy now, liberating, fueled by the wine and the sudden revelation of her own past feelings. It’s like a dam has broken, years of unspoken emotion finally finding their release.

She just stares at you, speechless for a long moment, her wine glass forgotten in her hand. Then, a tiny, incredulous laugh escapes her. "No. Way." She shakes her head slowly, as if trying to rearrange the entire narrative of her teenage years. "All that time? We were both…?"

"Apparently," you confirm, still grinning. "Two oblivious idiots, crushing on each other in silence. We could have written a really angsty, badly plotted teen drama."

She finally lets out a full laugh, leaning back against the sofa, looking utterly flabbergasted but also… lighter. "This is insane. I can’t believe it." Her eyes are shining, and not just from the wine anymore. "You know," she says, her voice regaining some of its earlier playful lilt, though it’s softer now, more intimate, "I used to get so jealous. Back then. If I saw you talking to… to other girls. Especially if they were, you know, prettier, or cooler." She makes a face, a little embarrassed. "It sounds so silly now, but it was true. I’d be all smiles on the outside, but inside, I’d be like, 'How dare she laugh at his stupid jokes? I’m the one who’s supposed to laugh at his stupid jokes!'"

You reach out, without really thinking, and gently touch her arm. "Hey. It wasn't silly. Or if it was, then I was just as silly."

Her gaze meets yours, and there's a warmth, a connection in that look that feels more real, more profound, than anything you've shared in years. She holds your gaze for a long moment, then a shadow crosses her face, her voice drops again, hesitant. "It’s funny… or, not funny, but… I kind of felt that way again. Recently." She looks down at her lap, tracing patterns on her pants with a fingertip. "When I saw you talking with Ning and the others that day in the lounge."

Your heart clenches. You remember that day, her sudden appearance, the tension.

"You all looked like you were having so much fun," she continues, "And they’re all so… bright, and funny, and talented. And for a second, this stupid thought just popped into my head, like… what if you ditch me for them? What if they’re more entertaining, or cooler to be around now? What if… what if I’m not that interesting anymore, compared to them?" She lets out a little, self-deprecating huff of air. "It sounds even dumber saying it out loud."

You gently cup her chin, tilting her face up so she has to look at you.

"Jimin," you say. "Listen to me. There is no one, no one, who could ever make me ditch you. And there is absolutely no one, not Ning, not Giselle, not Winter, not anyone on this entire planet, who is 'cooler' or 'more entertaining' or 'more interesting' than you are to me." You search her eyes, willing her to believe you. "And no one," you add, "no one makes me feel the way I feel when I’m with you. Not then. And definitely not now."

Her eyes search yours, wide and luminous, and you can see the emotions warring within them: surprise, disbelief, and then, slowly, a dawning, fragile hope. A single tear escapes and traces a path down her cheek, and you reach up, your thumb gently brushing it away, your touch lingering on her soft skin for just a heartbeat longer than necessary.

"When… when we met again," she begins, so fragile you have to lean in slightly to catch it. "That day on the street? All those… those old feelings…" She swallows hard, her gaze dropping to her hands, now twisting in her lap. "They just… they came rushing back. All of them. And I thought… I really thought I was over it. Over you." She attempts a small, shaky laugh that doesn't quite land. "So stupid. I’m a grown woman, a K-Pop idol, for crying out loud. I shouldn’t be… I shouldn’t be feeling like a confused teenager all over again just because my childhood crush reappeared."

She tries to continue, her lips parting, but the words seem to catch in her throat. Her brow furrows in frustration, and she shakes her head, a gesture of helpless self-reproach. "I… I can’t even…" Another aborted attempt. She looks up at you, her eyes swimming with unshed tears, a look of utter bewilderment on her face. "I'm sorry," she blurts out. "I don’t even know what I’m talking about anymore. It must be the wine. It’s making me all… emotional and stupid." She gestures vaguely, a hand fluttering near her chest. "I’m probably ruining everything, aren't I? Just… ignore me. I’m being ridiculous." She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, as if trying to physically block out her own chaotic emotions.

And in that instant, watching her so raw, so vulnerable, so utterly terrified of her own feelings (feelings that mirror your own chaotic internal landscape so perfectly) something inside you just… snaps. All the overthinking, all the caution, all the years of unspoken longing, converge into a single, undeniable impulse. The wine, the dim lights, the confessions, her tear-streaked face so close to yours… it’s a perfect storm, and you’re right in the eye of it. To hell with professionalism, to hell with the risks, to hell with everything but the raw, undeniable truth thrumming between you.

Before you can second-guess it, before your internal HR department can scream bloody murder, you lean forward and kiss her.

It’s not a gentle, tentative kiss. It’s clumsy, desperate, fueled by years of pent-up emotion and too much wine. Your lips meet hers, and for a split second, she’s completely still, a statue beneath your sudden onslaught. Her eyes fly open, wide and startled, pupils blown huge in the dim light, reflecting a pure, unadulterated shock. You feel the soft, unexpected give of her lips, the faint taste of wine and something uniquely Jimin, a taste you realize, with a jolt, you’ve been subconsciously craving for more than half your life.

For a horrifying moment, you think you’ve made a monumental mistake. Idiot! You absolute, unmitigated idiot! your brain screams. You’ve broken her! You’ve ruined everything! The irony of her exact words now applying to your actions is not lost on you, even in your panic.

But then, just as you’re about to pull away, to stammer out a mortified apology, something shifts. Her eyelids flutter closed. A tiny, almost inaudible sigh escapes her, a breath she seems to have been holding for a lifetime. And then, slowly, tentatively, she gives in. Her lips soften against yours, responding with a hesitant pressure that builds, her body relaxing slightly against the sofa cushions. The kiss deepens, still a little clumsy, still a little desperate, but now with an undeniable mutuality, a shared exploration of a boundary crossed together.

When you finally, breathlessly, pull apart, the silence in the room is deafening. You stare at her, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. Her eyes are still closed for a moment, her lashes dark against her flushed cheeks. Then they slowly open, and she just… stares back at you, her expression unreadable, dazed, her lips slightly swollen and glistening. You can’t breathe. You can’t think. You can only watch her, bracing for the fallout.

And then, her face crumples. Her lower lip trembles, and her carefully constructed composure shatters completely. A choked sob escapes her, and fat, silent tears begin to stream down her cheeks, unheeded. It’s not the reaction you were hoping for. It’s definitely not the reaction you were hoping for.

"Oh, god, Jimin, I…" Panic, cold and sharp, seizes you. You have ruined it. "I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have… I just… I’m an idiot. Please, don’t cry. I’m so, so sorry." The words tumble out, a frantic, jumbled apology.

She shakes her head, swiping at her tears with the back of her hand, though more quickly follow. "No," she whispers. "No, it’s… it’s okay." And then, to your utter astonishment, she launches herself at you, her arms wrapping around your neck, burying her face in your shoulder, her body trembling with silent sobs. You instinctively wrap your arms around her, holding her close, your mind reeling.

"I… I liked it," she mumbles into your shirt, her voice muffled but audible. "I really did." She pulls back just enough to look at you, her eyes red-rimmed but shining with a confusing mix of emotions. "It’s just… it’s all… it’s a lot. Everything. All at once. Coming back. I feel… I feel kind of weird." She lets out another shaky laugh that sounds more like a sob. "Overwhelmed, I guess."

Fuck. She liked it. She actually liked it. You haven't irrevocably destroyed your friendship, your job, and your chances of ever experiencing joy again. Small victories. You gently shift on the plush sofa, pulling her more fully into your embrace until she’s settled somewhat in your lap, her side tucked against your chest. It feels incredibly intimate, yet also profoundly comforting. You rest your cheek against the top of her head, her hair soft against your skin, smelling faintly of her shampoo. After a few long minutes, her trembling stops. She lets out a deep, shuddering sigh and slowly lifts her head from your shoulder. Her eyes are still puffy, her cheeks tear-stained, but there’s a new calmness in her expression, a fragile sort of peace. She looks at you, her gaze soft and searching.

Then, a small, watery smile touches her lips. She reaches up, her hand, so small and delicate, coming to rest on your cheek. Her thumb gently strokes your skin.

"You know," she whispers. "for someone who claims to be an idiot…" Her smile widens, a genuine, almost dazzling Jimin-smile breaking through the tear-stained landscape of her face. "You’re not always wrong."

And then, before you can even process that, before you can form a coherent thought or even remember how to breathe properly, she leans in, her eyes fluttering closed, and kisses you.

This time, there’s no surprise, no hesitation. It’s a kiss that is both a question and an answer, a culmination and a beginning. It’s soft, tender, yet filled with an undercurrent of all those years of unspoken feelings, of rediscovered emotions, of the undeniable, terrifying, exhilarating truth that is thrumming between you. It’s a kiss that tastes of wine, and tears, and a hope so potent it makes your head spin.

When she pulls back, her eyes are galaxies, dark and swirling with emotion, a universe you’re only just beginning to navigate. A delighted, slightly breathless giggle escapes her, then you’re laughing too, a shared, giddy sound that bounces off the walls of her apartment.

"Wow," she whispers, her fingers tracing the line of your jaw. "This… this really happened, didn't it?" Her eyes search yours, looking for confirmation in a world that suddenly feels wonderfully, terrifyingly new.

"It really, really did," you affirm. The air between you is no longer just charged; it’s practically incandescent, thrumming with a potent energy that makes the hairs on your arms stand on end. The earlier nervousness hasn’t vanished, but it’s been transmuted into something else. She leans her forehead against yours for a moment, just breathing, then pulls back slightly, her eyes alight.

Her fingers, still feather-light against your skin, drift down from your jaw to the collar of your shirt. She toys with the fabric, a slow, deliberate movement, her gaze fixed on yours. The city lights outside paint her in hues of gold and shadow, making her look even more ethereal, more achingly beautiful.

"You know," she says, "you haven't, uh… you haven't seen my room yet." Her eyes flick towards a hallway leading off the main living area, then back to yours.

Your own breath hitches. You try to swallow, your throat suddenly dry. "No, I haven't," you manage. You search her eyes, needing to be absolutely sure. "Would you… would you like to show me?"

A slow, devastatingly beautiful smile spreads across her face. It’s a smile of pure, unadulterated desire, mixed with a touch of that endearing shyness that still clings to her, even now. "Yes," she breathes. "Yes, I really would."

That’s all the confirmation you need. In one fluid movement you lean forward, sliding one arm beneath her knees, the other around her back. You lift her effortlessly from the sofa, her gasp of surprise quickly turning into a delighted laugh as she instinctively wraps her arms around your neck, her legs around your waist. She feels impossibly light, yet incredibly solid in your arms, a perfect, intoxicating weight. And then you’re kissing her again, deeply, hungrily, the earlier tenderness now ignited with a fiercer, more demanding passion.

"Which way?" you murmur against her mouth, your lips still brushing hers.

"That way," she whispers, gesturing with a slight tilt of her head down the hallway, never breaking the kiss, her fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you closer.

You carry her through the apartment, your steps sure and steady despite the roaring in your ears and the way your heart is trying to beat its way out of your chest. Each step feels monumental, a journey into uncharted territory. She guides you with soft murmurs and the pressure of her body against yours, her kisses becoming more urgent, more demanding, her breath coming in soft, quick gasps against your skin.

Her bedroom is at the end of the hall. She reaches out a hand, fumbling for the doorknob, then pushes it open. You step inside, and the world seems to tilt again. The room is bathed in a soft, ambient glow from the city outside, filtered through sheer curtains, creating an atmosphere that is both intimate and dreamlike. It’s perfect.

You carry her over to the bed, your lips still locked with hers, a desperate, continuous kiss that speaks of years of unspoken longing. Gently, reverently, you lower her onto the soft duvet, following her down, bracing yourself on your hands on either side of her head. You break the kiss, just for a moment, to gaze down at her. Her eyes are dark and dilated, her lips swollen and flushed from your kisses, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She is, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing you have ever seen.

"God, Jimin," you breathe. You lower your head, burying your face in the soft skin of her neck, inhaling her scent, feeling the frantic pulse throbbing beneath your lips. "You are so unbelievably beautiful." You kiss the delicate curve where her neck meets her shoulder, then trail a line of slow, deliberate kisses up towards her ear. "The most beautiful girl in the world," you whisper, your lips brushing her earlobe. "You always have been. Always."

A soft, shuddering moan escapes her as you continue your exploration, your lips and tongue tracing patterns on her sensitive skin, tasting the salt and sweetness of her. Her breathing becomes more irregular, deeper, her fingers tightening in your hair, her hips starting to shift restlessly beneath you. You feel her arch into your touch, a silent plea for more.

Your hands, which have been resting on the bed beside her, begin their own exploration. They find the hem of her soft, oversized sweater, your fingers brushing against the warm, pale skin of her stomach beneath it. Her skin is like silk, radiating a heat that sets your own nerves on fire. You tug at the sweater gently, slowly, agonizingly, your eyes locked on hers, watching her reaction. Her eyelids are heavy, her lips parted, a look of pure, unadulterated anticipation on her face. With a final, deliberate pull, you slide the sweater up and over her head, tossing it carelessly aside.

And there they are.

Her breasts, even constrained by the delicate lace of her bra, are undeniably magnificent. Full, heavy, spilling slightly from the cups, their pale, creamy expanse a stark, breathtaking contrast to the dark fabric. You can see the gentle slope, the promise of their weight. Your own breath hitches in your throat. This is the reality of Karina, of Jimin, laid bare before you, a sight you’ve only dared to dream of in your most secret, most forbidden fantasies.

You take off your shoes, kicking them aside, never taking your eyes off her. As you reach for the hem of your own shirt, your fingers fumbling with the buttons in your haste, you see her hands move to her back. With a deft, practiced movement, she unhooks her bra. She holds it in place for a moment longer, her gaze locking with yours, a shy, almost vulnerable smile playing on her lips.

"I… I hope you like them," she whispers.

Then, with a deep breath, she lets the bra fall away.

Your world stops. Absolutely, irrevocably stops. Her breasts are… perfect. More than perfect. They are everything you've ever imagined, and so much more. They are large, gloriously full, spilling into her hands as she cups them for a moment, as if presenting a sacred offering. The skin is so pale it seems almost luminous in the dim light, smooth and flawless, save for the faint blue veins tracing delicate patterns just beneath the surface, hinting at the life and warmth within. Her areolas are a dusky rose, wide and perfectly formed, and at their centers, her nipples, a deeper, more insistent pink, are already hard and erect, puckered tight, practically begging for your touch, for your mouth. They look so incredibly soft, so utterly… juicy, for lack of a better, more reverent word.

You’re mesmerized, completely transfixed, your throat dry, your mind blissfully, wonderfully blank save for the overwhelming, primal need to touch, to taste, to worship. After what feels like an eternity, but is probably only a few seconds, you slowly reach out a trembling hand. Your fingers make contact with the warm, yielding softness of her right breast. She gasps softly as you cup its weight, your thumb brushing over the taut, sensitive peak of her nipple. So warm. So unbelievably soft. You gently squeeze, a possessive, reverent pressure, and a low moan rumbles in her chest, vibrating against your palm.

She lies back fully on the bed then, her arms stretching above her head, her body an open, trusting invitation. You quickly shed your shirt, your movements urgent, driven by a desire that is rapidly consuming every last shred of your self-control. You climb onto the bed, positioning yourself above her, your knees on either side of her hips, your gaze still fixed on the breathtaking sight of her bare, beautiful breasts.

And then, you lower your head and take one of those perfect, pink nipples into your mouth.

She cries out, a sharp, breathless sound that is pure, unadulterated pleasure, her back arching off the bed, her fingers digging into your shoulders. Her breast fills your mouth, the taste of her skin, salty and sweet, intoxicating. You suck gently at first, then more strongly, your tongue laving, teasing, drawing the hardened peak deeper. She is melting beneath you, writhing, her hips starting to buck a little, a silent plea for more.

"Oh, god," she gasps. "Yes… fuck, yes… right there… they’re so… so sensitive…" Her words are broken, punctuated by moans and sharp intakes of breath. "Please… don’t stop… keep going… it’s… it’s making me so fucking horny…"

You shift your attention to her other breast, giving it the same devoted worship, laving, sucking, gently nipping, while your hand continues to squeeze and caress the one you just abandoned, ensuring both are bathed in sensation. You can feel the frantic thrumming of her heart against your chest, the heat radiating from her skin, the way her entire body is trembling, on the verge of completely unraveling. You lift your head for a moment, just to look at her, at the sight of her, utterly consumed by lust, her eyes half-closed, her lips parted, her beautiful breasts flushed and glistening from your attention. This is Jimin. This is Karina. And she is yours, in this moment, completely and utterly yours to worship, to pleasure, to drive absolutely insane.

You continue your worship of her breasts, alternating between them, lavishing each with an equal, fervent devotion. One hand cradles the breast you’re not currently feasting on, your thumb flicking, teasing the already hard nipple, while your mouth works its magic on its twin. You suck strongly, drawing the peak deep, feeling the responsive tug in her body, the way her hips tilt upwards, seeking a friction that isn’t there yet.

"Fuck, yes," she pants, her fingers still tangled in your hair, now gripping, almost painfully tight, but you welcome the anchor in the storm of sensation you’re both caught in. "They’re so… oh god… so good… your mouth…"

You lift your head for a moment, your lips slick, your gaze devouring the sight of her: her chest flushed a deep rose, her nipples impossibly tight, glistening with your saliva, already looking delightfully, beautifully ravaged.

"Yours are the best, Jimin," you growl. "Perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect. I could suck on these gorgeous tits all night."

A choked laugh, half sob, half pure ecstasy, bubbles from her throat. "Please do… God, yes… you suck so fucking well…"

You dive back in, attacking her nipples with renewed ferocity, sucking, licking, nipping gently with your teeth, drawing out her moans. You leave your marks, faint red circles blooming on her pale skin where your lips have been. Her breasts are indeed glistening, slick with your drool and her own faint sheen of sweat. She’s thrashing beneath you now, no longer trying to control her reactions, her head tossing from side to side on the pillows, her breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. Each pull of your mouth seems to send shivers racking through her entire frame.

Slowly, reluctantly, you drag your mouth away from her sensitive breasts, leaving them flushed, swollen, and thoroughly worshipped. Her soft whimper of protest is cut short as you begin to trail a line of hot, open-mouthed kisses down the center of her torso, over the subtle curve of her ribcage, across the quivering expanse of her flat, pale stomach. Each kiss is deliberate, lingering, your tongue flicking out to taste her skin. You feel the muscles in her abdomen clench and flutter beneath your lips.

"Don’t stop," she whispers, her hands now gripping the bedsheets on either side of her. "Please… whatever you’re doing… just… more."

You continue your downward pilgrimage, your lips brushing against the waistband of her lounge pants. They’re soft, loose-fitting, and offer little resistance as your fingers find the drawstring. With a deft tug, you loosen it, then slowly, agonizingly slowly, begin to slide the fabric down her hips, revealing the delicate curve of her hipbone, the smooth, pale skin of her thighs. Your hands skim down her legs, pushing the pants further, until they’re pooled around her ankles. You kick them impatiently off the end of the bed, your gaze fixed on the prize they were concealing.

Her panties. A tiny scrap of pale pink lace, stretched taut across the apex of her thighs, already dark with her wetness. Her thighs, usually so strong and toned from years of dancing, are trembling uncontrollably now, a fine sheen of moisture glistening on their pale inner surfaces. The musky scent of her arousal is stronger here. You can practically feel the heat radiating from between her legs.

"Look at you," you murmur as you trail your fingers along the damp lace, feeling the heat and moisture seeping through. "So wet for me already, aren’t you, babe? Fucking dripping."

A broken sob escapes her. "Yes… oh god, yes… please… I need…" She can’t even finish the sentence, her body arching, her hips instinctively grinding against the mattress.

You pull the panties down, slowly, inch by agonizing inch, revealing her to your hungry gaze.

And she is, as you knew she would be, perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect. Her shaved pussy is nestled between her thighs, a delicate, swollen mound. The outer lips are plump, flushed a deep, inviting pink, already glistening with her slick, arousal-heavy dew. They part slightly as you watch, revealing the even pinker, more tender flesh within, and the glint of her clit, a tiny, perfect pearl peeking out, already engorged and throbbing. This is the core of her, the secret, hidden place you’ve only ever dreamed of, now laid bare for your worship.

You shift your position, moving from beside her to kneel between her parted thighs. They tremble slightly as you settle there, and she lets out a shaky breath, her eyes, dark and wide, fixed on yours. There’s a beautiful, terrifying vulnerability in her gaze, a silent plea that makes your cock ache with an almost painful intensity. But you’re not going to rush this. Oh no. This moment, this offering, is too precious, too long-awaited. She needs to feel every second of this descent into pleasure, every nuance of her own burgeoning, desperate need. You’re going to make her burn for it. You’re going to make her beg.

"You are so fucking beautiful, Jimin," you murmur. Your gaze drops from her eyes to the glistening treasure nestled between her thighs, then deliberately, slowly, travels to the pale, trembling skin of her inner thigh. "So incredibly, exquisitely responsive."

Instead of diving straight for her pussy, as every instinct screams at you to do, you lean down and press a soft, lingering kiss to the delicate skin high on her inner left thigh, just inches from that wet, waiting heat. She gasps, her whole body jerking, her thighs instinctively trying to clench together, but you gently hold them apart, your hands firm but gentle on her hips.

"Easy now," you whisper against her skin, your breath hot. "Don't want to miss any of this, do we?"

You trail another kiss, then another, working your way in a slow, agonizing circle around that central, beckoning core, never quite touching it, but always promising it. Your tongue darts out, tasting the faint saltiness of her skin, the faintest hint of her arousal that has already slicked even this far out. With each kiss, each lick against her thigh, you feel her tremors intensify. Her fingers are fisted in the bedsheets, her knuckles white.

"What… what are you doing?" she pants. "Please… you’re… you’re driving me crazy."

"Am I, babe?" you purr, your lips brushing the impossibly soft skin just beside one of her swollen, pink outer lips. You can smell her now, that rich, musky, uniquely feminine scent of pure, unadulterated horniness, and it’s making you lightheaded, drunk on her desire. "Driving you crazy how? Tell me." You dip your tongue out again, this time lapping up a stray droplet of her slick wetness that has trickled onto her thigh. Her taste… fuck, it’s even better than you imagined. Sweet, tangy, utterly addictive. You groan softly into her skin. "Oh, you taste so fucking good right here… just a hint of what’s waiting for me."

"Please…" she begs. "Don’t… don’t tease me like this. I can’t… I can’t take it." Her hips are starting to move now, a small, involuntary rocking motion, trying to seek out the pressure of your mouth.

"Can't take what, Jimin?" you ask. You drag your open mouth slowly up her inner thigh, leaving a wet trail, then switch to the other, lavishing it with the same agonizingly slow attention. You can feel the heat pouring off her in waves. "You need to tell me what you want. Use your words, baby. You want me to stop?" You deliberately pull back a fraction of an inch, letting the cool air hit her heated skin, and she whimpers, a raw, frustrated sound.

"No! No, don’t stop, please, whatever you do, don’t stop," she cries. "I want… I want your mouth. There. Please. I need it. I’m so wet for you, can’t you feel it? Can’t you taste it?" Her words are a torrent now, the carefully constructed composure of Karina completely shattered, leaving only the raw, needy core of Jimin. "I’m aching… I’m fucking aching for your tongue, please… just… just eat me out. Suck my clit. Please, I’m begging you."

Her plea is music to your ears. She’s so close, so desperate. But you’re not quite done with her yet. You want her utterly, completely undone.

"Beg me how, sweet girl?" you murmur, your lips now hovering directly over her glistening, swollen clit, your hot breath fanning the sensitive nub. She gasps, her whole body seizing. "Tell me how badly you need it. Tell me what a good girl you’ll be if I finally give you what you’re craving. Convince me." The strategic irony here is that you're already convinced, already harder than you've ever been in your life, but the game, the sight of her unraveling at your command, It's the best feeling in the world.

"I’ll be so good," she sobs, her thighs trembling violently now, threatening to clamp shut around your head. "So fucking good for you. I’ll do anything. Anything you want. Just please… please put your mouth on me. I’m dying here. I need to feel your tongue… I need you to make me cum… I’m so close… Please, babe, suck me… suck me like you mean it…"

Her words, that broken, desperate plea to be eaten out, are the only permission you need. You lower your head, your hair brushing against the pale skin of her inner thighs, and finally, finally, you give in. You press your mouth fully against her, parting her slick, swollen lips with your own, and your tongue finds her clit. A sound is torn from her throat, a high, sharp keen that’s half shock and half pure, unadulterated pleasure. Her entire body jolts as if struck by lightning, her hips slamming upwards into your face in a single, convulsive movement. The taste of her floods your senses, and it's everything. It’s not just the sweet, tangy flavor of her arousal you'd already sampled from her thighs; it's deeper, muskier, the very essence of her, and it's intoxicating.

You're instantly, hopelessly addicted. You begin slowly, a reverent worship. Your tongue is soft, exploratory, lapping at her gently, learning the landscape of her. You trace the delicate shape of her outer lips, then dip inside to swirl around the plump, sensitive inner folds before focusing on that hardened pearl of her clit.

"Oh, god..." she breathes, her hands flying up to tangle in your hair, not pulling, just holding on as if she might float away. "Yes... that's..."

You hum against her, a low, deep vibration that you feel travel through her entire body. She lets out another soft cry. Her muscles are still coiled with tension, but it's the tension of overwhelming sensation, not desperation. She is melting, and you are the cause.

"Just relax for me, baby," you murmur against her slick flesh. "Just let me taste you. You're so perfect."

You settle in, continuing the slow, deliberate worship. For long minutes, this is all that exists: the sound of your mouth against her, her soft, breathy moans, and the rich, intoxicating taste of her on your tongue. Her hips are no longer bucking but have settled into a slow, swaying rhythm, rocking against your mouth in time with the gentle lapping of your tongue. She has given you control, and you intend to savor it. You can feel the change when her body becomes fully accustomed to the pleasure, when the slow worship is no longer enough. Her gentle sways become more insistent, her breath hitches with a new need, and her fingers tighten in your hair, this time with a subtle, pleading tug. She wants more. And you are going to make her beg for it.

You shift your technique, beginning the torture. You pull your mouth away from her clit, trailing your tongue down along the slick valley between her labia. She whimpers in protest, her hips pushing up, seeking the focused pressure you just denied her.

"Shhh," you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to one of her swollen inner lips. "So much to taste here. Can't rush."

You proceed to lavish attention on every other part of her, everywhere but the one place she is dying for you to be. You lick the plump flesh of her lips, suck gently on the inner folds, your tongue darting out to trace the rim of her opening, dipping just the very tip inside before pulling away. With every near-miss, a frustrated cry is torn from her throat.

"Please..." she pants, her hips rocking more frantically now. "Please... you're... you're driving me crazy. My clit... I need you there."

"Here?" you ask. You flick your tongue directly over the sensitive nub one time, fast and hard. She yelps, her whole body convulsing. Then you pull away again, moving to trace lazy circles on the sensitive skin around her. "You liked that, didn't you? Tell me how much you liked it."

"Yes! Fuck, yes, I loved it," she sobs. "Please, do it again. Don't tease me... I can't take it. Just... just suck it, please."

"Beg me," you command softly, your hot breath ghosting over her clit, making her shiver. "Tell me exactly what you want my mouth to do to you. I want to hear how desperate you are for it."

She’s a mess, completely undone by your teasing. "I'm so desperate for you," she cries, her words tumbling over each other. "I need your tongue on my clit. I need you to suck on it, hard. Lick me until I can't think. Please, I'm begging you. I'll do anything. Just go back there. I feel like I'm going to die if you don't."

Her plea is everything you wanted. You slide your mouth back over her, but instead of the hard pressure she's begging for, you give her the opposite. You open your mouth wide, your tongue flat, and you just... lick. Long, slow, deliberate strokes from the base of her mound, up over her clit, all the way to her perineum, and back down again. It’s a broad, wet, agonizingly gentle sensation.

"No..." she groans, a sound of pure frustration. "Harder... please, you have to do it harder."

"I don't have to do anything, baby," you murmur, continuing the slow, torturous laps. "I'm in control here. You'll take it how I give it to you. And right now, I want to feel you squirm."

She thrashes beneath you, so close to the edge but held back by your deliberate restraint. Her nails are digging into your scalp now, not painfully, but with a frantic urgency. It’s time to escalate. It's time to break her completely. While continuing the slow, steady rhythm of your tongue, you slide one hand down between her thighs. Her skin is flushed and hot to the touch. Your fingers find her entrance, already slick and gaping, practically weeping with need. You slide one finger inside her.

She screams, a raw, ragged sound, as the new sensation of being filled sends a fresh shockwave through her system. She’s so tight, so hot, clenching around your finger instantly. You push your finger deeper, feeling the texture of her inner walls, the way she convulses around you.

"That's it, Jimin," you praise, your voice muffled against her. "Take my finger. Feel how wet you are? Fucking dripping for me."

Now you change the rhythm of your tongue, finally giving her the focused attention she craved. You suck her clit into your mouth, your tongue working fast and hard, while your finger inside her establishes a steady in-and-out rhythm. The dual sensations are too much. She is completely lost.

"Fuck! Yes, both..." she gasps. "It's… it's too much… I'm going to…"

You add a second finger, stretching her, filling her more completely. She cries out again, her back arching so high off the bed it's a perfect, strained bow. Her pussy milks your fingers, slick and greedy. You can feel the muscles deep inside her starting to flutter, the tell-tale sign that her orgasm is gathering strength.

"You feel that, baby?" you ask, curling your fingers inside her, rubbing them against the nub of her g-spot. "My tongue on your clit, my fingers deep in your cunt. Does that feel good?"

"So good!" she screams. "It feels so fucking good! I'm so close, don't stop, please, please don't stop!"

You are her entire world now. She is aware of nothing but your mouth and your fingers, driving her towards the abyss. You increase the pace of everything. Your tongue is a frantic engine on her clit, sucking, flicking, laving. Your fingers pump in and out of her relentlessly. You can feel the final tension coiling in her body, a string stretched to its breaking point. Her breath comes in short, sharp gasps, and her moans have become a single, continuous, high-pitched keen.

"I'm going to make you come so hard, Jimin," you growl into her. "You're going to scream my name. Get ready."

You feel it start, the first deep, internal clench around your fingers. Her entire body goes rigid.

"I'm cumming! Oh fuck, I'm cumming! I'm cummmmming!"

Her scream is primal as her orgasm rips through her, a violent, world-shattering release. Her body convulses, her hips slamming up against your mouth in a desperate, uncontrollable rhythm. Her juices gush out of her, hot and thick, flooding your mouth with the sweet, musky taste of her release. You swallow greedily, catching every single drop as her body is wracked by wave after wave of intense pleasure. You don't stop your ministrations, gentling your touch now, your tongue soothing her hypersensitive clit, your fingers massaging her inner walls as the aftershocks ripple through her.

Slowly, her body goes limp, collapsing back onto the mattress. She’s trembling from head to toe, her chest rising and falling in deep, ragged pants. Her eyes are squeezed shut, tears leaking from the corners, her face flushed a deep crimson. You finally lift your head, your chin and lips slick with her, and look at the masterpiece of your work.

You lean down, capturing her mouth in a soft, lingering kiss. It’s a stark contrast to the hungry, desperate kisses you shared before. This one is tender. She moans softly into your mouth, and you taste it: the lingering, musky sweetness of her own climax. She tastes it too, a jolt going through her body as she recognizes herself on your tongue. A faint blush rises on her already flushed cheeks, a mix of shy embarrassment and burgeoning arousal.

You pull back just enough to gaze down at her. Her hair is a wild halo around her head, her lips are swollen, her eyes are still dazed and beautifully unfocused. She is the most magnificent thing you have ever seen.

"You look so beautiful like this," you say. "Completely undone for me."

"You're an asshole," she whispers, but there’s no heat in it, only a deep, lingering pleasure. "Don't you ever tease me like that again." As she says it, she shifts, leaning up just enough to press her teeth against the side of your neck in a playful, possessive bite. It’s not hard, just a firm pressure.

You chuckle, then pepper her cheeks with soft kisses. "I'm sorry," you say, not sounding sorry at all. "I couldn't help it." You lean in close, your lips brushing her ear. "Hearing you beg for me, Jimin… hearing you lose control and tell me how much you needed it… it makes me fucking crazy. It’s addictive. I don't think I'll ever get enough of it."

Her breath hitches. Your words, your confession that her submission drives you wild, are exactly what she needs to hear. As you pull back, her eyes, now clear and focused, glitter with a new, dangerous kind of light. Her hand slides from your cheek, down your chest, over your stomach, coming to rest directly on the hard ridge of your cock through the denim of your jeans. Her fingers close around you, a firm, knowing grip that makes you hiss through your teeth. She squeezes, feeling the full, thick length of your cock straining against the fabric.

A slow, devastatingly confident smile spreads across her face. "Addictive, huh?" she purrs, her voice regaining its strength. "I can beg for a lot more than that." Her gaze drops from your eyes to your crotch, then back up, her expression pure, unadulterated hunger. "And right now," she says, her grip tightening, "I really, really want your cock."

Her words are a command and a plea all in one. Without another word, you pull away from her, getting off the bed. Her eyes are wide, tracking your every move as you reach for the button on your jeans. You undo it, the sound loud in the quiet room, then slowly pull down the zipper. You never break eye contact. You hook your thumbs into the waistband and push the jeans down over your hips, kicking them off impatiently.

Now you stand before her in just your dark boxer briefs. The fabric does little to hide the truth, straining to contain the thick, heavy bulge of your erection. You see her eyes fixate on it, her lips parting slightly. A sharp intake of breath is the only sound she makes. She is, as you suspected, absolutely captivated.

You hook your thumbs into the waistband of your underwear. "You wanted this, remember?" you ask. You drag the fabric down slowly, inch by agonizing inch, until your cock springs free, heavy and thick in the dim light.

Jimin lets out a long, shuddering sigh. It’s a sound of pure awe. Your cock is fully hard, glistening with a bead of clear, slick precum. It’s big, bigger than she probably imagined, and her eyes trace its length, from the heavy weight of your balls to the thick shaft and the promising, wet tip.

You don't give her too long to just look. You move back to the bed, climbing on and positioning yourself between her parted legs. They tremble slightly as you settle in, her thighs falling open to grant you full access. She's still so beautifully wrecked, so open and waiting for you. You take your cock in your hand, stroking it slowly, the pre-cum making your skin slick. You want her to watch. You want her to see exactly what is about to fill that empty, aching space inside her.

"Wait," you say. The thought hits you, a brief flash of real-world responsibility in this haze of lust. "Condoms. We should..."

"No," she says immediately, her voice firm, cutting you off. She shakes her head, her eyes blazing with a fierce, undeniable need. "No. I don't care about that right now. I need to feel you. All of you. I just want to feel your dick inside me. Now."

You hesitate, searching her face. "Jimin, are you sure?"

"Yes," she moans. Her hips arch off the bed, a desperate, silent invitation. "Please. I'm on birth control. Just… please, I need it. Don't make me wait anymore."

That's all you need. Her certainty, her raw need, erases any doubt. But you’re not going to let her off that easy. The teasing isn't over yet. You lean forward, bracing your hands on either side of her head, and lower your body until the tip of your cock is pressed against her. She gasps as the heat of you makes contact with her slick, swollen folds. She is unbelievably wet, her juices from her earlier orgasm making a perfect lubricant.

"So wet for me," you murmur, grinding the head of your cock against her clit. "You want this cock so badly, don't you?"

"Yes! Please, just put it in," she begs, her hands fisted in the bedsheets.

You ignore her plea, continuing the agonizing tease. You slide the head of your cock up and down her slit, gliding through her slickness, letting her feel your thickness, your hardness, but denying her the entry she craves. With every pass, she whimpers, her body straining, trying to force you inside her.

"Look at you," you whisper. "Trying to impale yourself on my cock. You can't wait, can you?"

"I can't," she sobs. "It feels so good… just the tip… please, I need to feel all of it. I need you to stretch me. Fill me up."

"Then you know what you have to do," you say, pausing your movements, holding the head of your cock right at her entrance, a promise and a threat. "Beg for it. Beg me to fuck your tight, wet pussy. Tell me how much you need this cock inside you."

"Please," she cries. "Please fuck me. I'm begging you. I need your cock. I need it inside my pussy right now. Please, I'll be so good for you, just fuck me!"

Her desperate, broken plea is the most beautiful sound you've ever heard. "Good girl," you praise.

And then you give her what she's begged for. You shift your hips, aiming the thick head of your cock at her entrance.

You push.

The feeling is indescribable. You stop, buried deep inside her, and the world just… ceases to exist. There is only this. The sensation is overwhelming, a sensory overload that shorts out every coherent thought in your brain. Her pussy is a revelation. It’s impossibly tight, a velvet clench around your entire length, gripping you with an intimate pressure that’s both demanding and welcoming. It’s slick, her juices coating your cock in a hot, wet sheen that makes every tiny shift an act of pure friction and pleasure. And it’s so, so hot, a deep, internal heat that feels like it’s seeping right into your bones.

Jimin lets out a choked, shuddering gasp, her eyes squeezed shut as her body tries to process the feeling of being so completely and utterly filled like this. Her inner walls pulse and clench around you, an involuntary, welcoming spasm that nearly makes you come right then and there. You have to clench every muscle in your body to hold back.

"Fuck, Jimin..." you groan. "You feel... I don't even have words. You feel so fucking perfect."

"You're so big," she whispers, her voice trembling. Her hands come up to rest on your chest, her fingers pressing into your skin. "You... you fill me up completely. I can feel you all the way inside me."

"I want to feel every inch of you," you say. You begin to move, but not in the hard, fast way you're both craving. Not yet. You pull back, agonizingly slowly, until just the thick head of your cock is inside her. She whimpers, a raw sound of protest at the loss, her hips lifting instinctively to follow you. Then, just as slowly, you push back in, letting her feel the full length of you sliding home once more.

"Oh, god," she moans, her head tossing on the pillows. "That... that feels..."

"I know," you say, continuing the slow, torturous rhythm. In and out. A deep, deliberate friction that is designed to let both of you savor every millimeter of contact. "I want you to feel all of it. Every time I slide into your tight, wet pussy. I want you to remember this feeling forever."

You do this for what feels like an eternity, just fucking her slowly, deeply, letting the tension build to a fever pitch. Her initial awe begins to melt away, replaced by a raw, hungry lust. Her hips are no longer just receiving you; she’s starting to push back, meeting your slow thrusts with an eagerness that makes your blood run hot. She’s ready.

"Okay, baby," you rasp, grabbing her hips firmly, your thumbs digging into the soft flesh above her hipbones. "You wanted this. Now you're going to get it."

You change the rhythm. Your thrusts become hard, deep, and punishing. You slam into her, your cock slapping against her wet folds, the sound of your bodies colliding echoing in the quiet room. You fuck her with a desperate, pent-up energy, each thrust driving you deeper, stretching her, filling her completely.

And she loves it. She cries out with every powerful slam of your hips, her legs wrapping around your waist to pull you even deeper. Her head is thrown back, her neck arched, a long, continuous moan spilling from her parted lips. This is what you’ve both been waiting for.

You watch her as you fuck her, your gaze devouring the sight of her. And her breasts… fuck, her breasts are perfect. With every hard thrust, they bounce, a heavy, hypnotic jiggle that mesmerizes you. They are large and full, their weight made obvious by the way they sway and tremble with the force of your fucking. Her nipples, still hard and puckered from your earlier attention, are a deep, flushed pink, pointing right at you as if in offering.

"Look at them," you pant, your voice strained with effort and lust. "Look at your perfect tits bouncing for me. Every time I fuck you."

She glances down, a dazed, lust-filled smile spreading across her face as she watches the motion. "Fuck..." she breathes. "They're… they're so heavy…"

"I love how they move," you say, never breaking your rhythm. "I want to see them bounce harder."

You increase your pace, pounding into her with a relentless, frantic energy. You’re lost in it now, lost in the feeling of her tight, wet heat, the sight of her beautiful body taking you, the sound of her cries filling the air.

"More!" she screams. "Please, don't stop! Fuck me harder! I need it harder!"

"Like this, baby?" you growl, slamming into her with as much force as you can muster. "You want your pussy fucked like this?"

"Yes! Oh god, yes!" she cries, her nails digging into your back, leaving fiery trails on your skin. "Your cock… it feels so fucking good inside me! It's hitting everything! Please… don't ever stop!"

You are both drenched in sweat, your bodies slick, moving together as one. You lean down, fucking her senseless, and she is taking every inch, begging for more. You press her deeper into the soft mattress, your combined weight creating a perfect hollow of heat and friction. You are buried inside her, a seamless join of wet, hot flesh, and yet you crave more. You need to consume her, to taste her, to feel her surrender in every way possible. You capture her lips, crashing your mouth against hers again. It’s not a tender kiss; it’s a rough, hungry claiming. It’s the kiss of two people who have starved for years and just found a feast.

She kisses you back with an equal, startling fervor. This isn’t a passive acceptance; it’s a demand. Her tongue pushes against yours, her hands leaving your back to tangle in your hair, pulling your mouth harder against hers. You are both lost in it, fucking and kissing, a closed circuit of overwhelming sensation. The deep, rhythmic plunge of your cock into her pussy is punctuated by the wet slap of your mouths, the soft, desperate moans she makes when you deepen the kiss, the guttural groans you can’t hold back when she sucks your tongue into her mouth. It’s filthy, it’s perfect, and it’s driving you both insane.

But it’s still not enough. You break the kiss, leaving her panting and breathless, her lips swollen and glistening. You look down at her, at the magnificent sight of her breasts, flushed and trembling with each powerful thrust of your hips. You need to taste them again. While maintaining the relentless, pounding rhythm of your fucking, you lower your head. Her skin is slick with a fine sheen of sweat, and it tastes salty and sweet as you lick a path from her collarbone down to the valley between her breasts.

"God, you're so beautiful," you rasp, your lips moving against her skin. "So fucking perfect."

You reach the peak of her right breast and take the nipple into your mouth. She screams, a high, sharp sound of pure ecstasy. The dual stimulation; the deep, stretching fullness of your cock filling her pussy while your mouth works its magic on her sensitive nipple: is too much for her nervous system to handle. Her back arches violently off the bed, trying to push herself deeper onto your cock and, somehow, press her breast harder into your mouth at the same time. You suck strongly, laving the hardened peak with your tongue, nipping gently with your teeth. Her moans change, deepening from pleasured cries into long, keening wails.

"Fuck! Oh, fuck, yes!" she gashes. "That… your mouth… while you're… inside me… it's too much! I can't…"

You switch to the other breast, giving it the same devoted attention, refusing to let either feel neglected. You feel the frantic thrumming of her heart against your chest, the way her entire body is trembling on the verge of completely unraveling. You continue to fuck her hard and fast, your hips a relentless engine of pleasure, your mouth a vortex of sensation on her breast. She is being attacked from all sides, besieged by a pleasure so intense it’s a breath away from pain.

"Please," she sobs. "Please, I need to… I need to cum. You have to let me."

You lift your head from her breast, your lips slick, and look her in the eyes. Her gaze is wild, unfocused, pupils blown wide. "You want to cum for me, baby?" you ask, not slowing your pace for a second. You drive into her, hard, and she cries out. "You want to feel my cock deep inside your pussy when you come?"

"Yes! Yes, please, I'm begging you!" she cries, her hips bucking wildly, trying to match your frantic rhythm. "I can't hold on anymore. It's so good… it's too good. Please, make me cum. Fuck me until I cum."

This is it. This is the surrender you crave, the sound you are addicted to. Her begging is the sweetest music you’ve ever heard. You lean in close, your mouth right next to her ear, your hot breath ghosting over her skin. You can feel the fine hairs on her neck stand on end.

"You're so close, aren't you?" you whisper. You feel her shiver violently. "I can feel your pussy clenching around my cock. It's getting tighter. You're about to fall apart for me."

"I am," she whimpers, turning her head, trying to capture your mouth with hers, but you deny her, wanting her to focus on your words, on your cock filling her. "Please… let me. Let me go."

"Then go," you command, grabbing her hips, lifting them slightly to change the angle, driving your cock into a spot deep inside her that makes her see stars. She lets out a sound you’ve never heard before, a raw, animalistic cry of pure sensation. "Let go for me, Jimin. Come for me. I want to feel you come all over my cock. I want to feel your pussy milk me while you scream my name. Cum for me now!"

The command, the raw filth of your words, combined with the relentless, punishing fucking, is what finally does it. You feel the first tremor deep inside her, the unmistakable sign that she's tipping over the edge.

"I'm gonna cum!” she screams, the sound exploding right next to your ear, a hot, vibrating wave of pure ecstasy. "OH FUCK, I’M CUMMING!!”

Her orgasm is a violent, beautiful storm. Her body convulses around you, her inner walls clenching and pulsing on your cock in a frantic, unstoppable rhythm. She throws her head back and screams, a long, ragged sound of pure, untethered release. Her hips slam against you, no longer in rhythm, just wild, spasmodic movements as the pleasure rips through her. You don't stop fucking her; you match her intensity, pounding into her as she comes, driving her deeper into her climax. You feel her hot juices flood her cunt, coating your cock in her release.

After what feels like an eternity, the violent convulsions begin to subside, replaced by deep, shuddering tremors. She collapses back onto the mattress, completely spent, a string of breathless, broken sobs escaping her lips. You slow your thrusts, moving in and out of her gently now, letting her ride the last waves of her pleasure. You pull out slowly, your cock slick and dripping with her essence, and collapse beside her, pulling her sweat-drenched body against yours. You are both trembling, both breathless, both utterly, completely undone.

You hold her, your bodies slick with sweat, tangled together in the rumpled sheets. You can feel the frantic, rabbit-fast beat of her heart starting to slow against your chest, her ragged pants gradually deepening into something more controlled. For a long moment, you just lie there, listening to the sound of your own breathing mingling with hers, feeling the aftershocks of her powerful orgasm tremble through her body. You press a soft kiss to her damp forehead, your thumb gently stroking her back.

After a few minutes, she stirs, letting out a long, contented sigh. She lifts her head from your chest, her hair a wild, beautiful mess, her face flushed and glowing.

"Hey," you whisper. "How are you feeling?"

She looks at you, her eyes still a little dazed, but shining with a bright, clear light. A slow, languid smile spreads across her face. "Great," she pants, the word a soft puff of air. She shifts, propping herself up on one elbow to look down at you. "No, that's… that's not the right word." She shakes her head, as if searching for a better one. "I've never… ever felt that good in my entire life. I feel… obliterated. In the best possible way." She reaches out, her fingers tracing the line of your jaw. "You made me cum so hard. I think my soul left my body for a minute."

"Good. That's what I was going for." You love seeing her like this, so completely sated, so open and unguarded. "So, I guess that answers my next question," you tease, your hand sliding down her back to cup her ass, squeezing gently. "Or do you think you can take any more?"

You expect her to laugh, to say she needs a break, to maybe curl up and fall asleep. But the look in her eye changes.

"More?" she says. She lets out a soft, throaty laugh. "Of course I can."

Before you can react, she moves with a sudden, surprising strength. She grabs your shoulders, pushing you firmly onto your back. You go willingly, sinking into the mattress, intrigued by this sudden shift in energy. She straddles your chest, her knees on either side of your head, and leans down, her face just inches from yours.

"But," she whispers, her hair falling around you like a dark curtain, "it's my turn now."

She pulls you up by your hands, maneuvering you until you're sitting up, then pushes you back down again until you're lying flat on your back in the center of the bed. She crawls over you, her movements fluid and deliberate. She settles over your hips, straddling you, her knees planted firmly on the mattress on either side of your body. The view is breathtaking. You look up at her, at the perfect, heavy swell of her breasts, the soft curve of her stomach, her pink, swollen pussy still slick with her juices.

She reaches down, her fingers wrapping around your still-hard cock. You hiss as her cool fingers touch your hot, sensitive skin. She strokes you slowly, once, twice, watching your reaction, her eyes glittering with newfound power.

"You liked making me beg, didn't you?" she asks. "You liked hearing how much I needed you." She leans down, her lips brushing against yours. "Well, now it's your turn to feel what it's like. To just lie there and take it."

She positions herself, guiding the thick, slick head of your cock to her entrance. You can see the muscles in her thighs tense as she prepares to take you. She lowers herself with agonizing slowness, her eyes locked on yours. You watch her face as she takes you in, her expression a mixture of intense concentration and dawning pleasure. Her lips part, a soft hiss escaping as the head of your cock slides past her wet folds. She sinks down, inch by excruciating inch, her tight, hot pussy swallowing you whole.

The feeling of her taking you, of her being in complete control, is a whole new kind of ecstasy. When she has taken your entire length, she sits still for a moment, letting you both get used to the feeling of being joined again in this new configuration.

Then, she begins to move. It’s not the hard, frantic fucking from before. This is different. This is pure, sensual control. She starts with a slow, deep grind, her hips rolling in a lazy, circular motion. You groan, your hands coming up to grip her hips, but she just smiles, placing her hands on top of yours, stilling them. "No," she whispers. "My turn, remember? Just lie back and enjoy the ride."

She moves with an innate, hypnotic rhythm, her hips swaying, rotating, grinding your cock against all of her most sensitive inner walls. You can do nothing but lie there, completely at her mercy, as she plays your body like an instrument. She leans forward, bracing her hands on your chest, her breasts dangling just inches from your face. She picks up the pace slightly, her slow grinds transitioning into a steady, sensual bounce. She rises up on your shaft, then sinks back down, her movements fluid and graceful. With every downward slide, she lets out a soft, contented sigh, her head falling back, her eyes closing in bliss. This is Jimin in her element, a performer, a dancer, and right now, you are her stage, and she is giving the performance of a lifetime, her hips rolling in slow, deliberate circles, grinding your cock against her deepest, most sensitive walls.

Each rotation sends a wave of exquisite friction through you, a pleasure so profound it’s almost agonizing. You can do nothing but lie there, a willing captive to her rhythm, your hands gripping the sheets at your sides to keep from grabbing her, from disrupting the perfect, hypnotic control she has established. Her head is thrown back, her eyes closed, a single, continuous, breathy moan spilling from her lips. She is completely lost in the sensation of filling herself with you, of being in total command.

It is, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing you have ever witnessed. The soft light from the window traces the elegant curve of her spine, the subtle flex of the muscles in her back and stomach as she moves. Her breasts, full and heavy, sway with each languid motion, their own mesmerizing dance. You watch, transfixed, as she smiles, a slow, secret smile of pure, selfish pleasure.

You can’t resist any longer. Your hands leave the sheets and come up to her, not to her hips to control her, but to her breasts. You cup their weight, your thumbs finding her still-puckered nipples. Her flesh is soft and warm, yielding to your touch. You squeeze gently, and her eyes fly open, locking with yours. Her moan deepens, becoming a throaty, guttural sound, and her hips grind down on you harder, a clear, unmistakable response. She likes it. She likes you touching her, worshiping her, even as she controls the fucking.

You continue to knead her breasts gently as she rides you, your thumbs flicking over her nipples, sending jolts of pleasure through her that you can feel in the way her pussy clenches around your cock. The combination of watching her, touching her, and feeling her move on you is an intoxicating cocktail of sensations.

She leans forward, bracing her hands on your chest, bringing her face close to yours. Her eyes are dark, swirling with a mixture of lust, power, and something else, something playful.

"Have you ever," she whispers as she continues her slow, steady bounce on your cock, "imagined this? Fucking a K-Pop idol? Having Karina from Aespa ride your dick like this?"

You let out a shaky laugh, the sound half disbelief, half pure awe. "Never," you say. "Not in my wildest, most fucked-up dreams, Jimin. I never thought I'd even speak to you again, let alone… this." You gesture vaguely to the impossible reality of your bodies being joined. "This is… beyond anything I could have ever imagined." You reach up, your hand leaving her breast to cup her cheek. "You are so unbelievably beautiful right now. On top of me. Taking my cock. I can't… I can't even process how beautiful you are."

She leans into your touch, her hips never ceasing their hypnotic, sensual movement.

"I think…" she says, so soft you have to strain to hear it over the wet sounds of your fucking. "I think this is where I belong." She searches your eyes, a desperate need for validation in her gaze. "On your cock. Like this. It feels… right."

"You do," you say. "You're right. This is exactly where you belong, Jimin. You're mine."

Your words are the final permission she needs. It’s as if you’ve unlocked the last cage, unleashing the wild, untamed creature she keeps hidden from the world. The shift is instantaneous. The slow, sensual grind vanishes. She picks up the pace, her hips slamming down on your cock with a force that drives you deep into the mattress. She starts riding you with a frantic, desperate energy, no longer teasing or exploring, but fucking. She is fucking you with everything she has.

Her hair whips around her face, her body is drenched in sweat, and a stream of filthy, broken moans pours from her lips. She moves with a startling, intuitive skill, her hips tilting, rotating, grinding in a way that she knows, that her body inherently understands, will maximize your pleasure. She’s hitting hard with every downward slam, dragging the head of your cock along all the right walls. Her breasts are no longer swaying gently; they are bouncing wildly, a beautiful, chaotic jiggle that mirrors the abandoned rhythm of her hips. You are completely at her mercy, pinned beneath her, as she rides you with a single-minded goal: to drive you absolutely insane.

"Fuck, you're so hot," she pants. "Your body… I can't believe this is real. I can't believe I'm actually doing this, that I'm riding you." She shakes her head, a look of genuine, wondrous disbelief on her face. "I feel like I'm going to wake up."

You want to anchor her to this reality, to prove to her that this is not a dream. You lift your hands from her tits and reach for hers, the one still braced on your chest and the other tangled in the sheets beside you. You capture them, your fingers intertwining with hers, your grip firm and steady. She gasps, her eyes locking with yours. You squeeze her hands, a silent message passing between you. I'm real. This is real. We are real.

The gesture works. A new wave of confidence washes over her, the last vestiges of her disbelief burned away by the simple, grounding touch of your hands locked with hers. A fierce, determined look enters her eyes. She picks up the pace again, her bounces becoming higher, harder, each downward slam of her hips punctuated by a shared grunt of effort and pleasure. You can feel the tension coiling in your own body, the familiar pressure building deep in your balls. You’re getting close, and she can feel it too. The way your hips have started to buck up to meet her thrusts, the way your breath is catching in your throat—she knows.

She leans down, her face close to yours, her expression a perfect mixture of seductive confidence and genuine curiosity. "You're close, aren't you?" she asks. "I can feel you twitching inside me. You're going to come for me soon." She grinds her hips down, a slow, deliberate circle that makes you groan her name. "Tell me where you want it. Where do you want to cum?"

The question is so direct, so filthy, so utterly her in this new, empowered state, that a raw laugh escapes you. "Guess," you manage to rasp.

A wicked, knowing giggle bubbles from her lips. She doesn't even have to think about it. "On my breasts," she says immediately, full of certainty. "You want to cover my tits with your cum, don't you?"

"Is it that obvious?" you ask, your hips thrusting up involuntarily.

"A little," she teases, a wide, beautiful smile lighting up her face. "You're such a pervert."

"Can you blame me?" you groan, your gaze dropping to her magnificent, bouncing breasts. "They're perfect. I've been thinking about doing this since the moment you took off your sweater."

"I know," she says, and the way she says it, so full of pride and satisfaction, makes your cock throb inside her. "They're all yours." She leans in again. "But you have to make a good mess. I want you to cover them completely. Get them all sticky and hot with your cum. Promise me."

"Fuck, Jimin," you gasp, your body trembling. "Don't say things like that unless you mean it."

"Oh, I mean it," she says, her hips beginning to move in a final, frantic assault. She’s bouncing on your cock with a wild, desperate energy, trying to wring every last drop of pleasure from you. "I want it all. I want you to empty your balls for me. Cum for me, baby. Come on my tits now!"

"I'm going to!" you shout, the words ripped from you. "Karina, I'm going to cum!"

Without a word, she breaks the connection, sliding her body off your cock with a wet, sucking sound that echoes the hollowness you now feel. Before you can even question it, she moves with a dancer's deliberate grace, crawling to the edge of the bed and sinking to her knees on the soft rug below. She looks up at you from the floor.

You follow her lead, your mind reeling, your body acting on pure instinct. You swing your legs over the side of the bed and stand before her. The world has tilted on its axis. The sight of Jimin, your childhood best friend, Karina, a global icon, the woman whose face adorns billboards and magazines, kneeling at your feet is so surreal, so intensely erotic, it feels like a fever dream. Her hair is a tangled mess around her shoulders, her face is flushed with exertion, her lips are swollen and parted, and her eyes… her eyes are fixed on your cock with a look of devotional worship.

She is waiting.

You take your cock in your hand, the skin slick with her juices and your own precum. The head is swollen, twitching with need. You start stroking yourself, a slow, steady rhythm, your gaze locked with hers. You want her to watch. You want to see her expression as you bring yourself to the edge for her.

Your hand moves on your cock, a slick, frantic motion, but it's almost unnecessary. Her gaze, her posture, her very existence in this moment is all the stimulation you need. She squeezes her breasts together, pushing them up, the pale, heavy flesh forming a perfect canvas, a perfect target. The nipples are hard, dark points in the soft mounds, practically begging to be decorated.

"Please," she whimpers. "Look at them. They're waiting for you. I want to feel your hot cum all over them. I need it. Please, baby, give it to me. Drench me." She shifts on her knees, her eyes wide and pleading. "I want to be your good, filthy whore. I want you to paint my tits."

Her words are a lit match to a barrel of gasoline. A deep, primal roar tears itself from your throat, a sound of pure, untethered release. Your hips snap forward, your eyes roll back into your head, and the world dissolves into a blinding, white-hot flash of sensation.

"Fuck! Jimin!" you scream as the first torrent of your orgasm erupts from the tip of your cock.

It's a powerful, shockingly thick shot that arcs through the air with surprising force, splattering directly in the center of her chest, in the deep valley created by her hands squeezing her breasts together. A thick, pearlescent glob lands with an audible smack against her hot skin.

She gasps, a sharp, shuddering intake of breath, her whole body jolting as if you’d touched her with a live wire. "Yes!" she cries out, her eyes fluttering shut. "Oh god, it's so hot... so warm..."

But you're just getting started. Your body is a machine now, completely outside of your conscious control. You grip your cock, your knuckles white, and with another guttural groan, a second, then a third powerful spurt are unleashed. These ones are ropes, thick and heavy, that land higher, one splattering across her right breast, covering the dark, puckered areola completely, the other hitting her delicate collarbone and starting to drip slowly down her neck.

"More!" she pants, her eyes still closed, lost in the sensation of being covered by you. "Give me all of it! Don't hold back!"

You obey her command, your hips continuing their involuntary bucking motion. Spurt after spurt flies from you, a relentless, massive load that you didn't even know you were holding. You paint her with your release, a chaotic, beautiful masterpiece of pure lust. A thick shot coats her left breast, another lands on her shoulder. You see a long, thick strand connect from your cock to her chin for a split second before it falls, adding to the growing mess on her chest. She is taking it all, not flinching, not shying away, only sighing and shivering as each hot, wet impact makes contact with her skin.

Even as the initial, powerful torrents begin to subside, you don't stop. You wrap your hand firmly around the base of your shaft and start to stroke, determined to give her everything. "Every last drop is for you, Jimin," you manage to gasp out. You milk your cock, forcing out the last, thickest globs of your semen, adding them to the already considerable mess. Your cum is everywhere. It’s pooled in the hollow of her throat, it’s dripping in thick, slow trails between and under her breasts, it has completely coated her chest and neck in a sticky, glistening layer.

Finally, your orgasm spends itself completely. You sway on your feet, your knees weak, your body utterly drained. You stare down at the scene, your breathing coming in ragged, harsh pants.

Karina stays kneeling for a long moment, her chest rising and falling heavily beneath the cooling, sticky evidence of your pleasure. Then, slowly, she opens her eyes. She looks down at herself, a look of pure, unadulterated awe on her face.

"Wow," she whispers. She looks up at you, her eyes shining. "Look what you did to me. You came so much."

Then, she does something that makes your already overloaded brain short-circuit again. She dips the index finger of her right hand into the thickest pool of your cum between her breasts. She lifts it, watching the thick, white strand stretch and then snap. A slow, mischievous smile spreads across her face. She uses her finger to swirl the cum around, drawing lazy circles and patterns on her own skin.

"It's so sticky," she says with a giggle, completely devoid of shame, full of nothing but a raw, playful joy. She dips the fingers of her other hand in, spreading the mess further, connecting the splatters, ensuring every inch of her chest and the full, heavy curves of her breasts are coated in a uniform, glistening layer of you. "Am I pretty like this?" she asks, looking up at you through her lashes, her face a picture of filthy innocence. "All covered in your hot cum?"

You can only nod, completely speechless.

She sees your state and her smile widens. She leans forward, takes the now-sensitive, post-orgasm head of your cock into her mouth, and gently, reverently, sucks you clean. Her tongue is soft and methodical, a soothing, incredible sensation that makes your knees threaten to buckle.

When she's done, she pulls back and looks up at you again, her own masterpiece complete. "All clean," she says softly. She gestures down at her chest. "All of it is on me now. Just like I wanted."

You finally find your voice. "You're… perfect," you say. "Absolutely fucking perfect."

You sink to your knees in front of her, your strength completely gone. You cup her face, your thumbs wiping away a stray drip of your own cum from her chin. You look at her, this incredible woman, your childhood friend, your idol, your lover, covered in your filth at her own request. And then you kiss her, a deep, soul-searing kiss that tastes of salt, and sweat, and sex.

—

You crack an eye open, the morning light filtering through a gap in Jimin’s bedroom curtains, painting stripes across the far wall. The space beside you in the massive bed is empty, though the sheets are still rumpled, still faintly radiating her warmth and her unique, intoxicating scent. You’re sprawled on your stomach, clad only in your boxer briefs. You push yourself up, wincing slightly as your muscles protest, and swing your legs over the side of the bed.

The apartment is quiet, save for the distant, comforting clatter of something in the kitchen. Coffee. The thought alone is enough to make you move. You pad out of the bedroom, your bare feet silent on the cool wooden floor, still feeling the pleasant, lingering ache in your groin, a happy souvenir from the night’s activities.

And there she is.

Jimin is standing at the kitchen counter, her back to you, humming softly to herself as she expertly works her fancy espresso machine. And she’s wearing your shirt. Your button-down from last night, the one you’d discarded so carelessly on her bedroom floor. It’s ridiculously oversized on her frame, the sleeves rolled up multiple times, the hem falling to her mid-thighs, offering tantalizing glimpses of her long, pale legs. Her hair is piled on top of her head in another one of those effortlessly perfect messy buns, a few errant strands escaping to kiss the nape of her neck.

It’s such an incredibly domestic scene, but the irony isn't lost on you: one minute she’s a K-pop idol, the next she’s your childhood crush confessing feelings, then she’s a screaming, cum-covered goddess, and now… now she’s just Jimin, making coffee in your shirt in her sun-drenched kitchen. Your head is still trying to catch up with the whiplash.

You lean against the doorframe just watching her for a moment. She moves with an easy grace, even when she’s just reaching for a mug, a quiet confidence in her posture that wasn’t there when you first reconnected. She turns then, two steaming mugs in her hands, and her own smile, soft and a little shy, blooms when she sees you.

"Oh, good morning," a slight blush creeps up her cheeks, but her eyes are warm. "I wasn’t sure when you’d surface. Or if you’d even remember where you were."

"Morning," you reply, your own speech still a little rough from sleep. You push off the doorframe and walk towards her, your gaze lingering on the way your shirt drapes over her. "And trust me, last night is pretty… unforgettable. Slept like a fucking log, though. Best sleep I’ve had in ages."

"Me too," she admits, her blush deepening slightly as she hands you one of the mugs. The rich, dark aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills your senses, a welcome antidote to the lingering haze of your hangover. "Black, two sugars, right? Or has your sophisticated palate evolved since our high school instant coffee days?"

You chuckle, taking a grateful sip. Perfect. "Still remember, huh? Impressive. And no, some things are sacred. This is… this is exactly what I needed." You take another long, appreciative gulp. "So, are you feeling the after-effects of that wine as much as I am?" you ask, gesturing vaguely to your head. "My skull feels like it's been crushed by a baseball bat."

She laughs, a light, airy sound. "Tell me about it. Definitely a two-aspirin, one-gallon-of-water kind of morning for me too." She sips her own coffee, her eyes meeting yours over the rim of the mug, a comfortable, knowing silence settling between you for a moment. "So," she begins, her gaze dropping to her mug for a second before returning to yours, a hint of that earlier vulnerability creeping back in. "Last night… that was… " She trails off, searching for the words.

"Amazing," you supply, your own words soft but firm, leaving no room for doubt. "It was fucking amazing, Jimin. All of it."

A relieved, almost dazzling smile breaks across her face. "Yeah," she breathes, her shoulders relaxing visibly. "Yeah, it really, really was." She takes another sip of coffee, then, almost as if she can’t help herself, she adds, "You… you really know how to make a girl feel good. Like, really good."

"Just returning the favor," you say, a teasing glint in your eyes. "You weren't exactly holding back yourself." The memory of her, riding you with such wild abandon, her cries echoing in the room, makes a heat rise through your body, making your cock give a responsive throb in your boxers. You discreetly shift your weight. This domestic morning-after scene is lovely, but your body clearly hasn't forgotten the main event.

A comfortable lull settles as you both sip your coffee, the shared memories of the night before a warm, unspoken presence. But then, you see a flicker of something in Jimin’s eyes, a subtle shift in her expression. She sets her mug down on the counter, her fingers tracing the rim. The tension, which had dissipated, slowly begins to creep back into the room. Here it comes. The inevitable "what now?"

"So…" she begins, her gaze fixed on her coffee cup, her words careful, almost tentative. "What… what happens now? With us?" She finally looks up at you, her eyes wide and searching. "Was last night just… you know… a one-time thing? Because of the wine, and the confessions, and… everything?"

You set your own mug down, your heart giving a familiar, uncomfortable thump.

This is it. The moment of truth.

"A one-time thing?" you repeat. You let out a short, humorless chuckle, running a hand through your already messy hair. "Jimin, after last night… after you… do you honestly think I could just… walk away from that? Pretend it didn't happen?" You meet her gaze, your own expression deadly serious now. "I really, really like you. More than like you, if I’m being completely honest. And… and I don’t think I can be the same around you anymore. Not after yesterday." You take a deep breath. "I think… fuck, I know… I need you. Like it’s oxygen. And that terrifies the absolute shit out of me, but it’s the goddamn truth."

The silence that follows is deafening. For a heart-stopping moment, you think you’ve said too much, gone too far, laid yourself too bare.

Then, slowly, miraculously, a smile begins to spread across her face. It’s not just any smile. It’s a Jimin-smile, a radiant, all-encompassing beam of pure, unadulterated happiness that lights up her entire being, that chases away every last shadow of doubt and fear in the room. It’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

Without a word, she pushes herself off the counter, closes the small distance between you in two quick steps, and then her arms are around your neck, her body pressing against yours, and she’s kissing you. It’s a kiss that tastes of coffee, and relief. It’s a kiss that seals the deal, a kiss that says everything you both needed to hear. And as you kiss her back, your own arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer, feeling the soft warmth of her body clad only in your shirt against your bare chest, You suddenly remember that Jimin, your Jimin, is no longer just yours, is no longer just Jimin, your dork childhood friend.

You pull back slightly, your gaze searching hers. "Jimin," you begin, "this is… this is incredible. You’re incredible. Last night was… beyond anything." Her smile softens, her eyes shining with affection, but you press on. "But… what the hell do we do now? I meant what I said, about needing you, about all of it. But us… like this…" You gesture vaguely between the two of you, encompassing the intimacy, the secret now hanging palpably in the air of her sunlit kitchen. "You know what your life is like. The spotlight, the fans, the company… SM isn’t exactly known for its progressive stance on its idols having, well, this." Your irony here is bitter, a defense mechanism against the very real fear clenching your heart. "This could be… dangerous for you. For your career. I don’t want to be the one who…"

Jimin’s fingers gently press against your lips, silencing you. Her expression is soft, understanding, but there’s a new firmness there too, a resolute calm that wasn’t present during her earlier, more vulnerable moments.

"Shhh," she murmurs, her thumb brushing your lower lip. "Don't. Don't do that. Don't spiral." She leans in, pressing a soft, reassuring kiss to your mouth, then another to your cheek, then your forehead. Her touch is like a balm, soothing the sharp edges of your anxiety. "I know all of that. Believe me, I live it every single day. But right now," she continues, her eyes holding yours, clear and unwavering, "right now, I don’t want to think about any of it. Not SM, not the fans, not the potential fallout. Not yet."

She pulls back just enough to look you squarely in the eyes, her hands now resting on your shoulders. "What happened last night, what’s happening right now," she says, "this is real. And it’s ours." Her lips curve into a small, almost conspiratorial smile. "No one needs to know about this. Not now, anyway. It’ll be our secret, okay? Just for us."

Her words, her confidence, the delicious, illicit thrill of a shared secret with her: it’s an intoxicating, dangerous combination.

"Our secret, huh?" you echo, an eyebrow quirking upwards. "You know, that’s… that’s actually kind of fucking sexy, Jimin. The danger of it all… it’s a little exciting, isn't it?" You can't help the way your own words deepen, the way your gaze drops to her lips.

She lets out a delighted, throaty chuckle. "See? I knew you’d get it." She leans in again, her lips brushing yours, a silent promise of more to come. "Danger is always more exciting." Her breath is warm against your skin, her proximity reigniting the embers of last night’s events.

Between feather-light kisses that dance along your jawline, your neck, she murmurs, "But, speaking of not wanting things to get… complicated… or, you know, result in tiny, K-pop-superstar-related accidents…" She pulls back slightly, her expression turning a little more practical, though the sultry glint in her eyes remains. "I think it might be a very, very good idea for you to acquire some condoms. Like, a lot of them. A truly impressive, perhaps even alarming, quantity." A playful smirk dances on her lips. "We can’t exactly keep pushing our luck like last night, as… memorable as it was."

"Duly noted. I’ll arrange for a strategic acquisition of latex-based defenses. Consider me on a mission."

"Good," she purrs, pressing a final, lingering kiss to your mouth. Then, her hand, which had been resting on your shoulder, slides down your chest, a slow, deliberate trail of fire, down, down, until it reaches the front of your boxer briefs. Her fingers close around your already-hardening cock, her touch light but possessive, sending a jolt straight through you. You gasp, your hips giving an involuntary twitch.

She looks up at you through her lashes, her smile turning wicked, utterly predatory. "Because," she whispers, her breath hot against your lips, her fingers giving you a slow, deliberate squeeze that makes your knees weak, "while we wait for those… reinforcements… there is something I can do for you right now. Something that definitely doesn't require a condom."

And with a final, devastatingly innocent flutter of her eyelashes, she slides from your embrace, her hand never leaving your groin, and slowly, gracefully, sinks to her knees on the kitchen floor in front of you. The morning, it seems, is far from over.

In fact, this is just the beginning.

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

fine line ── l. hs

↳ summary ── heesung's got two problems: (1) he can't sleep, and (2) he's addicted to the 1AM combo of instant ramyeon and coffee milk from his favorite convenience store around the corner. the only thing more consistent than his insomnia? his nightly visits for his beloved snacks (and maybe to glare at the new night shift employee, too). & pstt, spoiler alert: you're the said new night shift employee. and you don't know what's worse: his weird food choices or his apparent superiority complex. either way, if you have to watch him inhale another bowl like it's his last meal ever, you might lose it. but hey, you know what they say—there’s a fine line between love and hate...

↳ pairing ── heeseung x f!reader

↳ genre ── idol!heeseung, e2l!au, strangers to lovers!au, convenience store worker!reader || angst hehe, crack, eventual fluff

↳ ✎ᝰ 15.4k (gasp, she kept it under 20k????)

↳ contains ── so much bickering and banter, reader is kinda sassy and a lil crazy, heeseung is a lil weirdo at first, CRACK (this entire fic revolves around EXTRA HELL FIRE RAMEN PLS), angst, both heeseung & reader can't communicate their feelings & are stubborn as hell, tension tension tension! , deep conversations about life choices lol, cursing

↳ addie's ✉ .ᐟ ── IM ALIVE (barely) ! i survived a global expedition (one 12 hr flight) just to come back and face an apocalypse (i got a bug infection and a cold) but dragged myself out of my deathbed (my comfy bed) to finish editing this because i told yall i would and bc i felt bad ghosting everyone for a week LOL apologies (if anyone cares,,,pls tell me u do or i'll cry rn) anyways i hope yall enjoy this one,,,this one was fun to write, it felt very sitcom-y and was lowkey based off of backstreet rookie vibes (only bc it's set in a convenience store). i hope you all enjoy & pls let me know what you think :') thank u for the support & love always <3

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

It’s simple, really. 

Customer service voice on, a smile plastered on your face, greet the customer, scan the item, take their money, bag said item, throw in a half-hearted ‘Have a good night!’

And repeat. 

Well, most of the time. 

Occasionally, there’s the fun of kicking out a few drunk teenagers looking for a bathroom that you definitely don’t have (yes you do). But otherwise, this graveyard shift at your local corner convenience store? 

Total dream job. 

You get paid—as in actual, legit money—to sit behind a counter, scan snacks, and feast on your personal holy trinity of microwavable cheesy ramen, peach juice, and potato chips. What could possibly go wrong? 

At least, that’s how the manager sold it during your interview. And by interview, you mean the three-minute conversation that went something like: 

“Can you work nights?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Cool, you’re hired.” 

No background check, no follow-up questions, not even a glance at your resume. A broke college student with insomnia and schedule flexibility? You were the perfect candidate. 

And it’s not like you’re picky. You needed cash, and this seemed like a pretty solid deal. What can you say? College is expensive, and someone’s gotta fund your caffeine addiction and deeply specific (and yet completely necessary, you would argue) habit of playing at every single claw machine game you stumble across. 

So yeah. Easy work.

At least, that's what you thought.

Because on the night of your first shift, exactly at 1:09AM, the doorbell gives its friendly little ding, and in walks...something.

Someone?

Whatever it is, it's a walking shadow. Oversized hoodie. Baggy pants. A baseball cap shoved under the hood. A black face mask covering whatever’s left of his identity. You think it’s either a ninja, a celebrity in disguise, or—more likely—a vampire who hasn’t seen sunlight since the Joseon era (you’re leaning more towards vampire).

But more than the wild theories running around in your head, something else piques your curiosity.

Because unlike the other weirdos that usually shuffle in at these ungodly hours, this one moves with true purpose. He beelines straight to the ramen aisle, snags something off the top shelf (most likely the ultra-spicy soup one because, of course, you already have the shelves memorized), and then grabs a bottle of coffee milk from the cold drinks section without even so much as glancing at it.

No hesitation. No second-guessing. Like he’s done this a thousand times before and is now on autopilot mode.

You watch, intrigued. And then—horrified.

Because who in the right mind pairs volcanic spicy ramen with coffee milk? Is that even legal?

You’re barely recovering from your own appalled thoughts before he’s already at the counter, placing his borderline apocalyptic snack combination on the counter in front of you with the same eerie precision he has.

You fail to keep your poker face on when you scan his items, your face scrunching up in disgust.

“Uh,” you shake it off, forcing yourself back to reality, “That’ll be—”

But before you can even finish your sentence, he’s already fishing out the exact amount—three crisp bills—out his back pocket and holds it out for you.

There’s a beat of silence.

You stare down at the money in his hand for a second too long, suddenly convinced this guy practices his convenience store interactions in the mirror or something.

When you don’t show any further signs of moving, he eventually gives up, placing the money on the counter with a quiet sigh, grabbing his ramen and coffee milk, and striding off to the self-service corner like he personally owns the place.

All of this. Without. A single. Thank you.

Wow. Okay. So tonight’s customer is potentially a vampire with a side gig as a professional jerk. Good to know.

You internally scoff at the entire interaction, but—unfortunately for you—you can’t look away. Because this guy? This walking shadow?

You’re weirdly intrigued. Like when you accidentally click on a pimple-popping video and immediately regret it, but still end up watching five more.

It’s a curse.

Out of the corner of your eye (because obviously you’re not staring, you’re just…hyper-aware of your surroundings), you watch him execute his ramen-and-coffee-milk routine with the precision of a man possessed.

Step one: Hot water in the ramen cup.

Step two: Ramen into the microwave.

Step three: Wait for exactly one beep before yanking the microwave door open with alarming speed, as if he's scared to even give the second beep the chance to ring.

Step four: Peel the lid back in slowly—so painfully slow you're about to march over there and do it yourself.

Step five: Insert the straw into the coffee milk—of course, perfectly right in the center. Bullseye.

Honestly? It's all kind of impressive. Horrifying, but impressive.

And, of course, just when you think you might finally look away, because out of sight, out of mind—he slides onto one of the bar stools by the window, right in your direct line of vision. The perfect spot for you to get a pristine view of his back, which, spoiler alert, is completely unhelpful in your personal mission in trying to see even a glimpse of what this guy looks like.

Maybe if you squint hard enough, you can make out his face in the reflection of the store window. Maybe. Just maybe—

Nope.

All you catch is a brief glimpse of his eyes—barely visible beneath his excessive hoodie and hat combination. Even his mask stays glued to his face and you wonder how he even plans on eating his outrageous meal.

But even so, you still can’t look away. What even is that color? And why can’t you look away?

Whatever. It’s just eyes. Totally normal. Everyone has them. Not noteworthy at all.

Except it is.

Because you catch yourself still squinting, hoping the glare of the fluorescent lighting against the window hides your not so subtle mission from him. You’re probably risking retinal damage at this point with how hard you’re trying to decode this guy’s entire identity from literally just his eyes.

You catch another short glimpse of his eyes as he shuffles in his seat and just as you’re trying to piece together why his eyes look oddly familiar—

He looks up.

His eyes catch yours in the glaring reflection of the store's windows, and you freeze.

Abort mission. Now.

You cough—loudly, dramatically—and your eyes immediately dart elsewhere, your hands shuffling on the discounted candy bars displayed on the counter top, pretending to look busy and silently praying he didn't catch you looking for too long.

When enough time passes by, you risk another quick glance back at him, to see he’s now digging into his ramen, head tucked so low you can’t even see his eyes anymore. He’s gone full turtle mode.

You lift a brow.

Weirdo.

A weirdo with an ego. Slurping and sipping away at his crime-against-humanity meal as if he owns the building.

Maybe he's mute. Or a people-hater. Or a cryptid who thrives on ramen and coffee milk instead of human interaction. Maybe I'm being pranked?

You shrug it off, because no matter how hard you try to figure him out, one thing is glaringly obvious: he does not want to be bothered.

And you're not sure if that makes him more intriguing or more annoying.

You’re in the clear. At least, you think you’re in the clear. 

After your first weird encounter with Mr. No-Name-No-Face—spicy ramen enthusiast and potential vampire—you’ve begrudgingly adjusted to his nightly visits. 

He shows up at 1:09AM like clockwork, grabs his neon red Extra Spicy Hellfire Ramen (yes, that’s the real brand name, and yes, your soul dies a little every time you even have to think about it), and parks himself in the window seat across from your counter like it’s a Michelin-star ramen bar—and not your humble convenience store with a health inspection rating of B+ (don’t ask). 

By night three, you’ve downgraded him from potential murderer to mildly annoying ramen connoisseur. 

By night four, you’ve decided he’s your own personal karma sent by the universe. 

It starts off with the door chime. You don’t even flinch. 1:09AM. Right on schedule. 

You don’t look up from the colorful juice pouches you’re restocking. You’re halfway through creating a perfectly symmetrical pyramid display—color-coded, of course—because, clearly, you’ve peaked as a human being. 

Behind you, footsteps head straight to the ramen aisle. And sure enough, you peek over your shoulder, and there he is: drowning in black hoodie layers, hood up, mask on, the patron saint of please don’t perceive me. Same old routine, same old—

Wait. 

He freezes, mid-reach for his usual ramen on the top shelf, his hand hovering in the air. And then, horrifyingly, he turns. 

And looks directly at you. 

Your face heats up—probably not as red as the hellfire ramen he was about to grab, but it’s close, you imagine. You find yourself clutching onto the random juice pouch in your hand as if it’s your lifeline before you clear your throat, “Uh—is something wrong?” 

He glances from you and back to the shelf in front of him, and for the first time in…ever, he speaks. 

Gasp. 

So we can cross mute off the list. 

“They’re out of my flavor,” he says. His voice is deep, which isn’t surprising to you, given he’s the literal human embodiment of the color black, but it’s also serious. So unnecessarily serious that you almost laugh. 

Almost. 

Because his tone isn’t just serious—it’s accusatory. As if you personally raided the ramen aisle and hid his favorite flavor for entertainment. 

Excuse me? 

Your mouth opens then closes, flopping like a fish that now deeply regrets every life choice. The fire rising in your chest is about two seconds away from erupting into a full-blown lecture on how supply chains work, but you keep it in, deciding getting fired on the fourth day probably doesn’t look good on your resume. 

Instead, you plaster on a flat, unimpressed look. 

“Uh..yeah, it looks like it,” you deadpan, inching closer to where he’s standing to investigate the shelf. 

Leaning up on your toes, you scan the shelf for any hidden Hellfire cups, hoping some miracle will save you from continuing this interaction. 

Nope. It’s empty alright. Emptier than your will to entertain his dramatics. 

“Tragic,” you glance back at him, strategically avoiding eye contact, and settle on offering a shrug. “There are plenty of other flavors. Maybe try…the regular spicy?” 

You grab the flavor below his usual one and hold it up as an olive branch, but he cuts you off with a tone that even convinces you that you’re deranged. 

“No.” 

You blink. 

“No?” 

“It has to be Extra Spicy Hellfire.” 

You blink again. 

You wait for the punchline.

It never comes. 

This man is dead serious. 

You’re standing in the middle of a fluorescent-lit ramen aisle, at your minimal wage night-shift job, at 1:12AM on a random Tuesday, and this guy is dead serious. 

And he’s staring at you like this is a life-or-death situation. And judging from the look in his eyes, it’s looking like you’re facing death. 

But then, you really notice his eyes. And for a split second—just a split second—you’re derailed from your rising anger. 

They’re brown. But not just any brown—the kind of brown that makes poets write bad metaphors. Cinnamon swirls. Autumn leaves. Possibly falling in love in a Hallmark Christmas movie. 

But then you blink again, hard, snapping yourself out of whatever ridiculous moment your sleep-deprived brain just conjured. This is not the time. You’re literally staring at, like, three inches of this guy’s face. 

And he’s a jerk. Get a grip, Y/N. 

“Uh, yeah,” you clear your throat, trying your best to sound professional through your disbelief. “Sorry. We probably put in our shipment request late. But I’m sure you won’t implode by going one night without it?” 

You tack on a small laugh and smile at the end of your sentence, hoping to lighten the mood. 

He does not smile back. 

Not even a flicker. 

Instead, he continues to stare at you like you just suggested he eat plain, untoasted bread for the rest of his life. 

You want to bury yourself into a hole. Maybe getting fired on the fourth day won’t be so bad afterall. 

“I’m sure the regular spicy one is just as good. What’s the worst that could happen?” you offer weakly when he makes no sign of saying anything, and you really hope this guy doesn’t explode in front of you—mainly because you’re not confident in your own ability to explain that situation to your manager. 

“I’m not risking it,” he finally deadpans. 

Your jaw drops slightly. 

“You’re not ris—” you hesitate, debating whether you want to ruin your night further. But you’ve come this far. “You’re being…serious?” 

The question lined with your clear judgement hangs in the air between you two, and no amount of fake customer service can mask the expression of disapproval on your face. 

His eyes narrow at you as he scoffs, “You wouldn’t understand.” 

“Oh, I understand,” you tilt your head, your annoyance slowly reaching a boiling point, throwing all professionalism out the window. All you wanted was to enjoy your juice-sorting in peace, not babysit this walking ramen manifesto. “I understand that you’re just picky.” 

At that, his eyes flash—sharp, unreadable. “I’m not picky.” 

“You won’t eat a perfectly fine ramen just because it’s not named after the ninth circle of hell.” 

Silence. 

He stares at you with the intensity of someone about to write a strongly worded online review. 

Finally, with an exaggerated sigh, he finally mutters, “Fine. I’ll take the mild one.” 

You blink at the flavor in your hand—the one that’s clearly labeled in giant, blazing-red, font: Regular Spicy. Then you look back at him. 

“You mean regular spicy.” 

“Right. Whatever. Same thing.” 

He grabs the ramen cup from your hand and stalks off to grab his usual coffee milk, leaving you stranded in the middle of the ramen aisle, questioning every life choice that brought you here. 

Before you’re about to mentally spiral, his voice cuts through the store. 

“Hello?” 

Oh. Right. Your job. 

You scramble back to behind the register, quickly moving your hands to ring him up and get him out of here as soon as possible. 

He hands you his three crisp bills, and before you hand him his glorified ramen and godforsaken coffee milk, you hesitate, pulling them back slightly. He freezes, his hands hanging in the air between you two. 

“You know,” you narrow your eyes as you look up at him, “some people would say thank you for the recommendation.” 

His brow arches—or at least, you think it does. It’s hard to completely tell under his stupid hat. Then he fires back—

“And some people wouldn’t forget to restock the ramen.” 

Your mouth falls open, your words failing you as he grabs his goods from your hands, heading to the self-serve station to continue his nightly noodle worship as if he didn’t just verbally body-slam you. 

Yeah. It’s going to be a long night. 

Life is unpredictable, uncontrollable, and chaotic. 

Lee Heeseung’s life? Heeseung’s life is that times ten, with an extra sprinkle of what-is-even-happening-anymore? 

Between back-to-back choreo sessions, recording tracks at hours that shouldn’t legally exist, and navigating the emotional and physical minefield of constant shows, interviews, photoshoots—you name it—nothing about his life is consistent. 

However—

There are two things—two sacred constants—that keep Heeseung from spiraling into total madness. 

The first? 

Insomnia. 

Not by choice, of course. He doesn’t love being awake at 3AM, staring at his ceiling and waiting for sleep to take over. But it’s a loyal companion, like a stray cat that keeps showing up at your house no matter how hard you try to shoo it away. Heeeseung’s insomnia is always there for him, night after night, ensuring he gets exactly only four hours of sleep—with a side of existential dread. 

And the second? 

Extra Spicy Hellfire ramen and coffee milk. 

Yes, it’s a weird combo. 

No, he doesn’t care. 

This unlikely pairing is Heeseung’s personal slice of heaven he can actually control and choose in a life otherwise ruled by the rest of the world. 

Every night, he drags himself to his favorite corner store, grabs his fiery ramen and sweet, creamy coffee milk, and plants himself in the window seat to enjoy his culinary masterpiece in peace. 

Then—and only then—can Heeseung catch a few hours of sleep, the spice-induced euphoria lulling himself into a temporary state of calm. 

Does he have a problem? Absolutely. 

Is he addicted? Without a doubt. 

Does he care? Not in the slightest. 

Because in a world that demands he change at the drop of a hat, this little routine of his is the one thing that stays consistent. 

Well, except for last night. 

Because last night, someone dared to disrupt the cosmic balance of his existence. Someone failed to restock his precious Extra Spicy Hellfire ramen. 

He had stared at the empty spot on the shelf, the betrayal hitting him like a personal attack. He went home last night only a quarter satisfied from the mild spicy ramen he had settled with. 

And the worst part? 

He couldn’t stop thinking about the someone responsible. 

Now here he is, stepping into the corner store at 1:09AM, ready to make up for last night’s disappointment of an outcome. 

Heeseung steps into the brightly lit store, the familiar ding ringing behind him as he enters right on time. He continues his familiar route to the ramen aisle, but not before shooting a quick glance from below his hat toward the counter. 

Yup, there she is. 

You. 

The new graveyard shift employee. The one who dared to challenge his sacred ramen ritual and stared at him like he was a walking poor life choice. 

You’re here again. This is five nights in a row. Heeseung wonders if you 1) are insane, 2) have no life, or 3) are purely here just to spite him. 

But tonight, he’s prepared. His focus is razor-sharp, his mission clear: Extra Spicy Hellfire and coffee milk. Nothing will get in the way tonight. 

Heeseung looks up, exhaling in relief when he spots the fiery red packaging of the Extra Spicy Hellfire sitting innocently on the shelf. There you are. 

He grabs the cup (with too much excitement that it should honestly embarrass him), cradling it like a long-lost love, before he makes his way to snag his coffee milk. 

Perfect combo. Perfect routine. Perfect night. 

Except—

Except, of course, you’re watching him. Again. 

He doesn’t even need to look up to know it. He can feel your judging eyes burning into the back of his head like you did the other night—like you’re seconds away from filing a report against his own taste buds. 

He doesn’t get it—what’s so strange about ramen and coffee milk? It’s not like he’s dipping the noodles in it. Why you’ve made it your personal mission to antagonize him, he has no idea, but it’s really throwing him off his ramen zen. 

Heeseung sighs to himself as he steps up to the counter, making sure you hear the sheer misery in this voice—because, of course, fate has cursed him with yet another encounter with you.

“So…do you actually enjoy these together, or are you just trying to destroy your stomach lining?” 

He freezes. Great, you’re talking. So much for a perfect night. 

He adjusts his cap to peer at you and that same unimpressed, judgmental look sitting on your face as you lean against the counter behind you. “What’s wrong with my choices?” 

Your eyebrows shoot up, “What's right with them? This combo screams, ‘I have unresolved issues I’m trying to boil away with spicy and sugar.’” 

Okay, ouch. 

Heeseung narrows his eyes, trying to ignore the weird pinch in his chest at how quickly you read him, whether he likes to admit it or not. 

“I like them. That’s all that matters,” his voice drips with a certain sharpness, hoping the edge in his tone is enough to make you back off. 

You, however, seem entirely unfazed.

“Just trying to help,” you shrug as you scan his items, “looking out for your poor taste buds.” 

For a moment, Heeseung considers firing back, but then his gaze catches yours for a millisecond too long as you take his cash and, immediately, he’s wondering—for the hundredth time—if you know. 

Do you recognize him? 

The thought has been gnawing at him since the first time he stepped into this store and saw you sitting there five days ago. Sure, he’s got his identity pretty much concealed under his borderline clinically insane hat-mask-hoodie combo, but still—most people at least give him a double take, a lingering glance. Something. 

But you? Nothing. No flash of recognition. No curiosity. Nothing to indicate you know you’re talking to Lee Heeseung—part idol, part insomniac, 100% ramen enthusiast. 

And for some reason, that both annoys and intrigues him. 

“Thanks for your concern,” Heeseung mumbles dryly, quickly grabbing the ramen cup and cold drink from your hands. 

“No problem,” you chirp just as sarcastically, an annoying smile on your face. “Enjoy your…uh, gourmet meal.”

Heeseung throws you one last glare before shaking his head and stalking off to the self-serve station. He puts the cup down on the counter with a little more force than necessary and pours boiling water over the noodles, glaring into the steam as your voice rings in his head. 

What’s wrong with ramen and coffee milk? He scowls. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. And I definitely don’t have unresolved issues. 

But as he steals a glance back at the check-out counter and catches you sorting bills like nothing happened, a weird unease settles in his chest. 

He looks down at this ramen, then at the coffee milk. 

For the first time ever, he feels…self-conscious. 

And now you’re in his head. 

Great. 

By night six, you don’t know whether to pity the guy or stage an intervention.

The ding of the automatic doors announces his arrival, as usual, at exactly 1:09AM. You know it’s him—Ramen Guy. The guy who you’re convinced single-handedly continues to keep the Extra Spicy Hellfire ramen business float. 

You lean against the counter and subtly watch him make his usual pilgrimage to the ramen aisle, internally scoffing to yourself at the weird moment he picks up his ramen like it’s his newborn child.

He’s so weird. 

You wonder what kind of person he is outside this convenience store. Does he always make such objectively strange choices? Like, does he wear socks with sandals? Does he mix his cereal with orange juice instead of milk? 

Your haunting thoughts are interrupted by the sound of his usual unholy pair of snacks hitting the counter in front of you with a soft thunk. You look down at the items before glancing back up at him with a skeptical look on your face, “You ever think about switching it up?”

Ramen Guy, clearly expecting the snark, doesn’t miss a beat, “You ever think about minding your business?” 

“Not really. Boredom makes me nosy,” you shrug. “And at this point, you’re the only thing keeping me entertained at this hour.” 

He rolls his eyes so dramatically you’re mildly concerned he might sprain something. 

“And I’m starting to think you like judging me a little too much.” 

“Wrong. I like judging everyone equally,” you scan his items, then tilt your head. “But maybe you’re a special case. With issues.” 

To your surprise, he snorts. Like, an actual, out-loud laugh. 

“Says the girl who voluntarily works the night shift.”

Your smirk falters for half a second. He catches it.

Ramen Guy raises an eyebrow, leaning casually against the counter. “What? Too close to home?”

You shift in your spot, “Bold of you to assume I have issues.”

He shrugs, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

You shift the attention back to him. “What about you, then? Why do you keep showing up here, huh?”

At that, something changes. The words in the air, and for the first time, you notice a slight shift in his demeanor—the slight awkwardness in the way he shifts his weight. 

Then, after a brief pause, he meets your gaze and throws the question right back at you.

“Why do you keep working the night shift?”

You freeze, putting his items back down on the counter, caught off guard by the reversal. "Touché. But I asked first."

There's hesitation again for a moment, his fingers tapping the edge of the counter impatiently—nervously?

"I like the peace and quiet,” he finally says, and for the first time tonight, he meets your eyes.

For a split second, you’re startled by the sincerity in his gaze and sudden shift in tone—it’s almost distracting. But you shake yourself out of it just as quickly.

"Nothing about Extra Spicy Hellfire and coffee milk sounds peaceful or quiet," your voice softer now but still teasing.

"Okay, Miss Graveyard Shift," he fires back, leaning a little closer over the counter. "Why are you here every night? Do you have a thing for fluorescent lighting and cleaning up after drunk customers or something?"

You don't miss the faint challenge in his voice as you narrow your eyes at him.

Then, you settle for a shrug and take a breath, answering honestly.

"It's flexible. Pays well enough," you start, before looking back at him, and add, almost as an afterthought, "...and I like the quiet too."

It’s an honest answer, one that seems to hang in the air between you two for a beat too long. His gaze softens ever so slightly, and you swear you see something shift underneath that stupid cap of his, but before you can dwell on it, he straightens up.

He places his three bills on the counter, grabs his items, and pauses.

“So,” he starts, his lighter tone breaking the silence, “do you have a name, or should I just keep calling you Graveyard Shift Girl?”

You raise a brow, amused, as you start putting his bills away, “Do you have a name, or should I just keep calling you Ramen Guy?”

For a split second, you think you see something flicker in his eyes—something smug, something entertained. And you don’t know it, but under his mask, his lips twitch, fighting back a faint smile.

“Touché,” he murmurs, echoing your earlier words before stepping back from the counter, items in hand, but lingers just a moment longer than necessary—like he wants to say something else.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he turns towards the self-serve station, falling back into his regular routine.

And you should do the same.

You try to do the same. But as you go back to your usual tasks—wiping down the counter, restocking shelves, pretending to be productive—you find yourself sneaking glances out of the corner of your eye toward his window seat.

He just sits there, just like he always does, stirring his ramen absentmindedly as he stares out into the empty street. And yet, tonight, something feels…different.

It’s nothing. You tell yourself it’s nothing.

Just curiosity. Natural, given how he keeps showing up every night, breaking up the monotony of your shift with his weird food choices and even weirder personality.

And yet—

No matter how hard you try, you can’t seem to stop thinking about him—the way he looked at you earlier, the way his demeanor shifted even slightly.

It’s nothing.

Still, your gaze flickers back at him, catching the way his fingers tap lightly against the table, lost in thought. You wonder what kind of things keep a guy like him up at night.

And maybe—just maybe—you’re starting to find his weird little habits endearing, too.

The faint sound of the store’s music plays in the background, the clock ticks, and eventually, he finishes his ramen, tosses his trash, and makes his way toward the door.

And then—he hesitates.

Just for a second. A small pause, a barely-there moment where he stops, glances over his shoulder just slightly—just enough to look at you.

“See you tomorrow, Graveyard Shift Girl.”

You blink, caught off guard, and for a moment, all you can manage is to stare at him. Then, as you fail to ignore the weird blooming feeling in your chest, your words slip out almost on instinct:

"Goodnight, Ramen Guy."

The next night, you do something completely out of character, entirely unprovoked, and maybe just a little bit unhinged—you take your cheesy ramen, peace juice pouch, and bag of potato chips and plop yourself down right next to Ramen Guy and his usual window seat. 

He pauses mid-slurp. Keeping his head low, he turns to you slowly. Suspiciously.

“What…are you doing?” 

“Having dinner,” you say matter-of-factly, popping open your bag of chips. 

His gaze drops to your meal, and then back to you. “It’s almost 1:30AM.” 

“Okay? Dinner, early breakfast, midnight snack, call it whatever you want,” you shrug, unbothered as you continue unwrapping your meal. 

Ramen Guy exhales through his nose, shaking his head to himself like he’s just accepted his fate. Without another word, he turns back to his own meal and resumes eating. 

A surprisingly comfortable silence follows—the only sounds filling the empty store the quiet hum of the store’s playlist, the buzz of the lights above you, and the synchronized slurp of two insomniacs with poor diet choices. 

Then, without thinking, you tilt your bag of potato chips, holding it out between you two, “Want one?”

He stops mid-motion, as if he’d almost forgotten you were still here.

Almost.

A glance into your bag, a small shrug, and then, just like that, he grabs a chip and pops it into his mouth, moving so fast you barely catch a glimpse of his face without the mask.

“Thanks,” he mutters before taking a sip of his coffee milk, still keeping his head low.

You hum in response, your fingers drumming against the counter before your curiosity wins the best of you, “So…what kind of life leads you to seek peace and quiet in a convenience store?”

It’s a question that’s been on your mind since last night’s conversation. What can you say? You’re a creature of curiosity.

Ramen Guy shrugs next to you, “What do you mean?”

“Like…you’re here every night. Why at night? Why not during the day?”

He lets out a short chuckle. “You want me to leave?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Sure sounded like it.”

You exhale sharply, your fingers now absentmindedly swirling the noodles in your bowl. “Look, I’m just saying—most people are asleep at this hour.”

He smirks. You can hear it in his voice without even looking. “You’re here too, aren’t you?”

“That’s different, this is my job,” you scoff, amused, before pointedly gesturing at this meal before him, “Unless you want to call your weird habits a job. Which, honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone was paying you to subject your tastebuds to that every night.”

And he laughs. It’s small, barely there, but you catch it. Then, with a quiet exhale, he finally answers, “It’s like I told you before, I like the quiet at this hour…I don’t get a lot of that.”

You stop twirling your noodles, the air shifting into that same unspoken understanding from last night. Faint, but unmistakable.

Something unsaid hanging between the two of you, something that tells you this guy is more than just an insomniac with questionable food choices.

You tilt your head. “So, what, you got a bunch of loud roommates or something?”

A small, almost knowing smile tugs at his lips. “Something like that.”

You raise a brow at his vague answer but don’t press. Instead, you nod towards his food. “And your criminal meals? That part of the quiet too?”

He huffs, “Maybe I just have superior taste.”

“Right, totally,” you laugh, the tone in your voice almost testing him. 

Ramen Guy finishes up his meal, wiping his mouth quickly with a napkin before putting his mask back on and finally turning to face you fully.

He narrows his eyes at you, “You think you have me all figured out?”

You mirror his actions, facing him fully for the first time tonight, folding your arms, “Oh, I do have you all figured out, Ramen Guy.”

“Oh yeah?” He leans forward slightly. “Alright, go on. Tell me who I am, Graveyard Psychic Girl.”

You roll your eyes but accept the challenge, leaning back in your seat.

“You’re a creature of habit, clearly. You like consistency. Probably because your life is very inconsistent otherwise.”

Ramen Guy doesn’t react, so you continue.

“You’re a night owl, but not by choice. You want to sleep, but your brain won’t let you.” Your eyes flick down to the coffee milk. “So, instead, you drink this, even though it probably makes it worse.”

Still no response.

“So now, you just keep showing up here because it’s predictable,” you finish with a small shrug. “And maybe…‘cause you’re kinda lonely.”

That makes him pause.

You immediately regret saying it. Because…what was that?

That was too much. Too deep. Too intrusive.

But to your surprise, he doesn’t deflect. He doesn’t scoff, or roll his eyes, or peer them at you the way he does a million times a night.

Instead, he tilts his head slightly, eyes glinting with something you can’t quite place.

“…Not bad,” he says finally, reaching for another chip from the bag in your hands.

You blink. “Wait, really?”

“I mean, kinda harsh, but…mostly true.”

“Oh,” you don’t know what you expected, but it wasn’t that.

A beat of silence passes before Ramen Guy speaks up again, “So basically, you’re saying we’re the same.”

You let out a snort, “Not even close.”

“We both work weird hours. We both like the quiet. We both eat the same convenience store junk food.” He holds up the bag of potato chips before eating another one.

“You just started eating those,” you deadpan. 

“Yeah, but I’m still eating them, which means my taste is obviously elite.”

“You literally eat coffee milk with nuclear ramen.”

“Okay, you’re the one who made it weird.”

A mischievous smile starts forming on your face as you snatch your bag of chips back from him, “So you agree your food choices are weird?” 

His smirk falters as a small giggle rises out of you. 

“Whatever you say, Graveyard Shift Girl.” 

The next night, Heeseung does something completely out of character, entirely unprovoked, and maybe just a little bit unhinged—he’s late. It’s 1:30AM, well past his usual 1:09AM show-up time, and the store is Heeseung-less.

He blames late-night dance practice. He also blames Ni-ki for stealing his usual black hoodie—forcing him to spend an extra thirty minutes looking for another one. Not that the hoodie matters, he would argue (yes, it does).

When he finally steps through the door at 1:32AM, the familiar ding barely finishes echoing before—

“Wow,” you drawl from behind the counter, arms crossed. “Tragic. Unbelievable. I was starting to think you found a new place to bother.”

Heeseung snorts, making a beeline for the ramen aisle, “You wish. Wouldn’t want you to get bored without me.”

You let out a dramatic gasp, “Wow. Thoughtful and self-aware. Who knew you had layers?”

Heeseung tries to ignore you, moving to grab his coffee milk. But his lips twitch under his mask, and he’s glad it’s hiding the way he’s failing to fight the smile growing on his face.

When he finally reaches the counter, you push off from where you were leaning against the counter, hands settling on your hips. “Okay, be honest. Outside of this, do you have anything else going on in your life?” 

Heeseung raises a brow, completely caught off guard. If there’s one thing he’s learned over the past few nights, it’s that you’re incredibly nosy. And for someone who claims to like working the night shift because of the quiet, you’re absolutely terrible at keeping things that way. 

“Excuse me?”

“You mentioned that you work weird hours yesterday,” you gesture vaguely at him. “So, spill.”

His stare remains blank, debating if he can distract you by handing you his three bills of cash (he can’t).

“I do…stuff.”

“Stuff,” you repeat, “Quite riveting.”

Heeseung exhales, “Why do you care?”

You shrug, taking his cash and putting it away. “You must do something interesting. You’re too weirdly confident for a guy who just bums around convenience stores at night.”

Heeseung scoffs. "Weirdly confident?"

"Yeah, like—" You wave around you. "You walk around like you have some big, mysterious purpose. But all I ever see you do is glare at instant noodles and sip milk like a sad Victorian child."

Heeseung shakes his head, letting out a breathy laugh. "Maybe that is my purpose."

Then, he simply shrugs. But there’s something in his gaze—something unreadable, like he’s deciding exactly how much he wants to say.

"It’s hard to explain,” he finally says. “I just…have a weird work schedule.”

"Weird how?"

"Weird as in, I don’t really get normal hours. Always moving, always working. Makes sleep kinda impossible."

You pause, taking in his words. Then, you shift slightly, crossing your arms. "Sounds exhausting."

Heeseung exhales a laugh, leaning against the counter. "You have no idea."

For a moment, a familiar and warm quiet fills the air as the two of you linger, as if waiting for the other to say something more.

And he doesn’t know why, but his chest feels a little too tight—like he’s let you stumble into a part of him you weren’t supposed to see yet.

“Well,” you say quietly, your lips curving into a soft smile that sends a weird jolt through his body that he chooses to ignore. “I’m honored you’ve chosen this fine establishment as your official sanctuary.”

He scoffs, reaching for his items. "Don’t let it go to your head, Graveyard Shift Girl.”

He then turns to head to his usual corner when—

“Y/N.”

Heeseung pauses, turning back at you like an awkward child lost in the middle of a store.

“My name,” you clarify, casually returning to sorting the register’s bills. “A lot easier to say than Graveyard Shift Girl.”

Heeseung gives you a slow nod, something unfamiliar and unplaceable twisting in his stomach as he turns back around.

And when he finishes his meal and leaves that night, he calls out—

“See you tomorrow, Y/N.”

And, this time, he doesn’t fight the smile under his mask when he hears your voice, a little softer, call back out:

“Goodnight, Ramen Guy."

It happens the moment he steps inside.

Heeseung doesn’t even make it past the threshold before a familiar melody drifts through the weak convenience store speakers and to his ears.

Familiar because he’s heard it a thousand times.

Familiar because it’s literally his voice singing the line.

His stomach drops.

Instead of his usual beeline to the ramen aisle, Heeseung turns towards the counter where you’re idly tapping on your phone, oblivious.

The hum of the melody continues, and Heeseung is suddenly too hyper-aware of how loud his own voice sounds in the otherwise dead-silent store.

Panic creeps up his spine.

He moves fast, crossing the store in a few long strides, slamming his hands down onto the counter that divides the two of you.

You jump in your seat.

“Geez—” you clutch your chest, wide-eyed as you take in his very sudden, very urgent presence. “What the hell?”

Heeseung ignores you, pointing above him, “Did you put this on?”

Your brows furrow as you put your phone down, glance up at him, then at the speakers he’s pointing at. You barely register the song before recognition flickers across your face.

“Oh—this? Nah, it’s the store’s playlist,” you gesture towards the iPad behind the counter, currently playing a Current Hits playlist on shuffle. “It’s some group’s new song. Pretty catchy.”

Heeseung just stares at you, mind racing.

You don’t recognize it.

You don’t recognize his voice.

The realization sends relief crashing over him, but he quickly snaps out of it with a brand-new problem—because now he has to decide what the hell to do with this information.

Does he tell you? Drop the act and lay it all out? Would you believe him? Would you even care?

“You okay?” Now you’re staring at him, suspicious. “Why do you look like you’ve just seen a ghost?”

Heeseung clears his throat, realizing his stance is way too conspicuous, and slowly removes his hands from the counter to stand up straight, attempting to sound normal, “No reason.” 

You squint at him.

Then—

“Oh my god,” you gasp, eyes suddenly lighting up. “Wait.”

His heart stops. Oh, shit. She figured it out. This is it.

“Are you a fan?” you blurt, leaning forward in your seat eagerly.

Heeseung blinks.

…What.

“Oh, you totally are,” you continue, completely missing the way his soul is currently leaving his body. “You came straight to the counter like a man on a mission. Oh my god. Are they, like, your favorite group or something?”

Heeseung has never wanted to laugh and cry at the same time more than he does in this moment.

“Something like that,” he mutters, bringing a hand to rub this temple, because no way this is happening right now.

You beam brightly from your seat, “That’s cute. Who’s your bias?”

At that, Heeseung does laugh—because this is now officially the most ridiculous thing that’s ever happened to him.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

There’s a long pause.

And then—after a deep breath, a long and heated internal debate, and one last glance at your innocent, completely oblivious face—he finally exhales, looking you straight in the eye.

“This guy,” he says as he hears his own voice ring out through the store. “Because that’s me. That’s my voice.”

Silence.

You stare at him.

You blink. Once. Twice.

Then, after what feels like an eternity—

“…Huh?”

Then you tilt your head. "I'm sorry—what?"

Heeseung watches as your expression cycles from confusion to skepticism to outright disbelief. He braces himself.

"My name is Lee Heeseung," he repeats slowly. "From Enhypen."

Another beat of silence.

Then—because you’re you—

You burst out laughing.

"Okay, Ramen Guy," you snort, crossing your arms. "Very funny.”

Heeseung sighs, "I knew this would happen."

"Because you’re delusional?"

"Because you don’t pay attention."

You roll your eyes, "Oh, I’m sorry, but when in our thriving relationship have you ever given me a reason to believe that you’re actually a famous idol and not just some guy who has concerning dietary habits?"

Heeseung groans.

He regrets everything. He regrets this entire conversation. He could have lied. He could have said literally anything else. But no—he had to be honest. And look where that got him.

"I’m serious," he insists, leveling you with a look.

You stare back at him.

Then, something seems to click in your brain, because you suddenly lunge for your phone.

"Oh, we’re doing this," you mutter, fingers flying across the screen as you type in his name. "Let’s see if—"

You stop.

Heeseung watches as your eyes widen, scanning the images in front of you. Then you look up at him. Then back down at the phone.

Then back at him.

“Take the mask off,” you mutter quietly, slowly holding your phone up next to his face.

With an exhausted sigh, Heeseung does what he’s told and pulls it down for the first time in front of you.

You scan him. Then the phone. Then him.

"You've gotta be shitting me," you breathe.

Heeseung shrugs, "Told you."

You gape at him, your mouth opening and closing.

You don’t know what shocks you more—the fact that a literal celebrity has been standing in front of you this whole time, or the realization that the once-random stranger you used to relentlessly tease has, somehow, always been this ridiculously good-looking all along. 

"So…you’re famous?"

"Something like that."

"Something like that?" You shove your phone toward him, your screen now displaying the group’s Instagram page. "You literally have fans. Like, millions of them."

Heeseung cringes, "Okay, you don’t have to say it like that."

"Like what? Like you’re a superstar and I’ve been treating you like a regular guy who can't cook for himself?"

"Because that’s exactly what I am?"

“Unbelievable,” you scoff, shaking your head. “So you sing. You perform. You—commit crimes against humanity with your ramen choices each night.”

Heeseung groans. “Oh my god.”

“Oh my god,” you echo, standing up from your seat behind the counter. “So you’re telling me that every night, an actual, real-life idol has been showing up here, inhaling a week’s worth of sodium, and I—” You pause, eyes narrowing. “Wait. Are you even allowed to be eating this garbage?”

“And are you ever able to mind your own business?” Heeseung counters, now fully regretting this entire conversation.

“Absolutely not, Lee Heeseung, because this is literally the plot of a drama,” you wave your hands in disbelief. “Mystery insomniac convenience store guy turns out to be a world famous pop star—”

“Okay, let’s not get carried away.”

“—and I, the unsuspecting cashier, unknowingly roast him every night like he’s just some sleep-deprived college student instead of a millionaire with talent. Wait—” you then pause again, placing your hands on your hips, staring at him with a newfound judgment. “—you’re loaded, aren’t you?”

Heeseung pinches the bridge of your nose, exasperated, “Why is that your takeaway from this?”

“You are!” you exclaim, your smile widening as you ignore his suffering. “You’re rich and you’re out here eating instant ramen every night!”

Heeseung groans again, dropping his head onto the counter in front of you, “Oh my god.”

Grinning, you bend down to this level. “So this whole time, you’ve been lying to me?”

He lifts his head just enough to glare at you. "It’s not lying. It’s…selective honesty.”

You scoff, straightening up just as Heeseung does, meeting his gaze with an accusatory squint. “That’s literally the definition of lying.”

“Look, it’s not like I planned to make a habit out of this,” he gestures to the store around him. “I came in one night, and then I came back, and suddenly, I had a thing going. Then you showed up and started running your mouth, and—”

“And you kept coming back anyways,” you finish, crossing your arms, a slow, amused smile tugging at your lips.

Heeseung freezes. His mouth opens. Then closes.

“…Yeah.”

A silence stretches between you—charged, almost personal—until you decide to cut through the tension with a smirk.

“What if I play your group’s music over the speakers every night?”

The look on his face is deadly. “You wouldn’t.”

Your grin grows, “Wouldn’t I, though?”

“This is the worst night of my life,” Heeseung drags a hand down his face and turns towards the ramen aisle. “I’m leaving.”

“Aww, c’mon,” you tease, calling out after him and delighting in his suffering. “Also can we talk about how you literally just said you’re your own bias?”

“Shut up.”

You’re still laughing when he returns to the counter thirty seconds later—Extra Spicy Hellfire and coffee milk in hand, cheeks tinged pink.

“Alright, serious question,” you say, leaning in slightly from your seat at the window barstools. “If you had to give up either Extra Spicy Hellfire or coffee milk for the rest of your life, which would you choose?”

Heeseung immediately stops chewing, his chopsticks frozen midair as he turns to you with a look that says you just personally offended him.

“That’s straight evil.”

“You must choose, Ramen Guy.”

Heeseung groans, throwing his head back dramatically. “You can’t just throw life-altering hypotheticals at me like that.”

“Choose.”

He stares at his ramen. Then at this coffee milk. Then back at you.

Then back at his ramen.

Then back at you.

“I hate you, you know that?”

“Aw,” you flash him your sweetest, most infuriating smile. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me. Like, ever.”

Heeseung shoots a glare at you, “I hope your regular spicy ramen tastes like disappointment.”

“Oh, it totally does,” you look down at your own ramen in front of you and take an exaggerated slurp, “It’s just so awful.”

Heeseung’s lips perk up into a smile at your weirdly endearing antics before shaking his head, “You’re a lost cause.”

You giggle to yourself, taking a sip of your own juice when you hear Heeseung, barely audible, suddenly mutter:

“…I’d give up coffee milk.”

It’s quiet. It’s barely there.

Your jaw drops.

“I know, okay?” He rubs his temples as if the decision is actually hurting him. “It’s like choosing between two children. But at the end of the day, ramen is ramen.”

You nod along, pretending you understand the gravity of his heavy decision (you don’t). But still, you smile—because you were the one who got him to betray his beloved coffee milk.

Heeseung takes a sip of it anyway, groaning as he swirls the bottle in his hand. “I hate that you made me think about this.”

“You should be thanking me. Y’know, character growth and all that.”

“More like character damage.”

You grin, victorious, and he just rolls his eyes before pausing for a second to think, then—he nudges his ramen cup toward you.

“Here. Try some.”

You recoil immediately and look up at him with a look that tells him he’s absolutely psychotic.

“Absolutely not.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why? You scared?”

“No, Heeseung, I just have these things called taste buds.”

He scoffs, shoving the bowl between you two closer. “Just one bite. C’mon, Graveyard Shift Girl, live a little. For me.”

You hold his gaze, suspicious but faltering, because—damn it—he’s looking at you like that. All smug and teasing, head tilted slightly, and it affects you.

And then he moves. 

He picks up his chopsticks, twirls them in the bowl, and catches a perfect bundle of noodles before leaning forward, holding them up between you two. He waits.

Your breath hitches. Your eyes flicker to the steam curling from the noodles, twisting in the air between your faces, fragile and fleeting.

Heeseung doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

It’s ridiculous, really. I mean, it’s ramen. But the way the space between you suddenly feels thin, the way his grip on the chopsticks stays steady, his fingers just inches from your lips, the way his dark eyes stay locked onto yours, watching you with something unreadable flickering beneath the usual teasing glint—it feels like time slows down.

You blink rapidly, clearing your throat. It’s fine. It’s cool. You’re overthinking.

Heeseung tilts his head slightly, watching. Waiting.

You let out an exaggerated sigh and slowly lean in to take the bite.

Your lips brush the chopsticks as you close your mouth around the noodles, and for a split second—one charged, unspoken, split second—neither of you move.

Heeseung is so close.

So close.

You can see the soft curve of his mouth, the way his gaze flickers over your face, the way his breath catches slightly like he just realized something.

You’re suddenly painfully aware of the close proximity and it sends a rush of heat to your cheeks. Panicked, you pull back quickly and settle into your seat like nothing happened.

But then you start chewing.

And that’s when you realize—

No, wait. Wait. That heat in your cheeks?

Oh.

Oh no.

Yeah. It’s definitely not because of Heeseung (well, maybe a part of it is). 

Because the second you swallow down the bundle of noodles—the embodiment of heat, pain, and suffering all slams into your mouth instantly.

You freeze.

Your brain short-circuits.

And then—

“Oh my GOD—” you choke, slamming your hands onto the counter, your body shaking as the spice courses through your veins.

Your throat ignites, your sinuses clear, and you swear you can hear colors.

Heeseung? Heeseung loses it.

His laugh bursts out of him—loud, unguarded, and completely delightful. He clutches his stomach, nearly hiccuping from how hard he’s laughing, his eyes crinkling at the corners, dimples deep in his cheeks.

If you weren’t literally physically dying in this current moment, you’d probably be absolutely too flustered to function at the sight.

“No way—” he wheezes through his laughter,“—are you actually struggling right now?”

“WHAT DOES IT LOOK LIKE, HEESEUNG?!” you glare at him through the tears forming in your eyes as you desperately flail your arms around, searching for your juice pouch. “You eat this voluntarily?!”

“Every night, baby.”

“You’re sick.”

“And you’re dramatic.”

Your hands finally find your drink and you gulp it down as if it’s your lifeline, eyes still watery, throat still burning, lungs barely breathing. But somewhere in the middle of your suffering, you catch yourself staring.

At Heeseung.

At the way he’s still smiling, like he just had the best meal of his life. At the way his eyes sparkle when he laughs, his dimples peeking out like his own hidden secrets, the way his nose scrunches slightly when he’s amused—

Weird.

You blink the thoughts (and your tears) away, shaking it off, and blame the spice, the delirium, and sheer trauma of what just happened.

You clear your throat, sitting back with a desperate huff.

“I hope,” you catch your breath, gesturing to his bowl, “that when you come in tomorrow, we’re all out of this horrid flavor.”

Heeseung smirks, leaning back in his chair as he gives you a knowing look.

“You’d still restock it for me, though.”

Damn it.

Your shoulders slump, and both of you know you’re defeated.

He knows you know you’re defeated. 

Heeseung just grins, then, without a word, slides his coffee milk toward you in a silent truce.

You stare at it. Then at him.

His smile grows.

And you accept it.

Begrudgingly.

It’s 1:20AM when you find yourself behind the counter, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes of instant noodles and bottled drinks. The store hums with its usual white noise—lights buzzing above, soft music humming overhead, the low whirr of the coolers. 

And Heeseung? 

Heeseung is across the counter, perched on a barstool he dragged from across the store, doing absolutely nothing to help. 

For the nth time tonight, he flips a soda bottle into the air. 

And for the nth time tonight, he fails to land it upright, the bottle clattering onto the counter.

“You’re supposed to be helping me restock,” you remind him, tossing a pack of chips at him. 

“I am helping,” he argues, dodging the bag in time and letting it fall flat onto the ground. Great. 

You cross your arms, scoffing, “Oh yeah? What category does sitting there and flipping Diet Coke fall under?” 

Heeseung finally puts the bottle down on the counter and hums, tapping his fingers against the counter like he’s deep in thought. Then, he flashes you a meek smile, “Moral support?” 

You roll your eyes playfully, turning back to unbox another package from the pile stacked in front of you. 

Another silence falls between you and Heeseung watches as you go back to your job before he breaks it—

“How do you do this every night? Does it not get…I don’t know, tedious? Boring?” 

You freeze in your spot, caught by surprise at the question.

“Hm,” you turn to him, head tilted as you think.

Heeseung glances up at you, intrigued. The way your lips purse slightly, how your fingers fidget absentmindedly with the torn edge of a cardboard box. 

You exhale, leaning back against the counter, “Yeah, the hours suck, pay is…alright. And—” 

You hesitate. Your gaze drifts toward the floor, fixating on a dent near the register, “—and I think, at some point, I thought I felt stuck.” 

Something in Heeseung’s expression shifts. 

“I mean, I’m a college student, for god’s sake,” you continue, a small, humorless laugh escaping you. “And I spend my nights serving cigarettes to barely legal teens and cleaning up after ramen spills. It kind of felt like I was just…watching life pass me by, you know?”

Your voice quiets and it’s just the soft hum of the store again. You pick at the box without thinking, fingers grazing over the worn edges, and Heeseung watches you.

Because he gets it. 

He gets it in a way that makes his chest ache a little.

Because despite the differences in your lives—despite how he’s constantly moving while you feel stuck—you both know the feeling of watching life slip between your fingers, of wondering if you’re ever going to feel like you belong in it.

Heeseung holds the soda bottle between his hands, rolling it back and forth, murmuring, “Yeah, I get that.” 

You glance up at him, making eye contact, but you don’t push. 

“But then,” you say quietly, “I started seeing this place differently. Instead of somewhere I was stuck, it became more of a…break. An escape from everything. A breath of fresh air from expectations and routine.” 

And that—that makes Heeseung look up. 

Because deep down, that’s exactly what all of this has become for him too. 

He doesn’t know when it happened—if maybe it was the first night he found the store, maybe whenever you showed up, maybe all the sarcastic exchanges, or somewhere in between all of that—but these late-night visits, these stolen moments in a world that demands from him, have become something steady. Something his. 

And he wonders if maybe…maybe you’re the reason for that. 

Maybe you’ve been keeping him grounded in a life that never stops moving. 

And maybe he’s been keeping you from feeling stuck. 

Just maybe.

It’s late. Way later than usual. And Heeseung is still here. 

And you don’t know how, but you’ve both abandoned your usual spots—his self-proclaimed window seat and your stool behind the register.

Instead, you’re both sitting cross-legged on the floor behind the register counter, backs pressed against the shelf of over-the-counter medications that you just re-organized, with a laptop and plenty of empty snack wrappers sitting between the two of you.

“See this is exactly my problem with this movie,” you point at your laptop screen, your voice slightly muffled by the gummy bears in your mouth. “One idiot makes one bad decision, and suddenly everyone’s dead! Like, be so for real.”

Heeseung scoffs, leaning back on his hands, “It’s a movie, Y/N. It doesn’t have to be realistic.”

“And I don’t have to pretend this isn’t garbage,” you shoot back as the credits roll, unimpressed. “This is objectively the worst thing I’ve seen.”

“I think I just have an acquired superior taste,” Heeseung quips, his eyes teasing. “Just like with my food choices.” 

“Right,” your voice drags out. “Superior delusion, maybe.”

Heeseung shoves your shoulder with his own, and you laugh, the sound natural, unfiltered, and totally at his expense.

As you shut your laptop and start gathering the remains of your late-night snack feast, the conversation quiets for a moment into an easy, warm silence. It’s the kind of quiet that feels good, the kind that’s been happening more lately—something you never would’ve expected that first night you ever saw him enter the store. 

Then, Heeseung exhales, stretching his legs out in front of him as he leans back against the shelf, “You know, this might be the longest I’ve sat and relaxed in months.” 

You glance up at him, brows raised, “What, you don’t get to laze around on the floor surrounded by junk food with your favorite convenience store worker on a regular basis?”

“Unfortunately, no,” he huffs a laugh. “But I thought a lot about what you said the other night. And sometimes it’s like…”

He pauses and tilts his head back, his eyes following the way the light fixture above him flickers in and out, “Like I’m moving so fast I forget what it’s like to just…be.”

Something in his voice makes you pause in your actions, your hands putting down the miscellaneous wrappers between you.

“Is it hard?” you ask quietly.

He lets out a breathy chuckle from beside you, “It’s…a lot. You’re always being watched, always expected to be on. And even during breaks I’m already thinking about the next thing. The next schedule, next performance, next practice.”

You watch him for a moment, watch the way his fingers tap absentmindedly against his knee, something you’ve started to notice over time whenever he’s lost in thought. 

“But there are moments that make it worth it,” he continues, a small smile playing on his lips. “The music, how fun it is to be on stage, the fans. The feeling of performing and knowing people are there because they love what you do. It’s unreal.”

Your own smile unconsciously appears as you listen to him reflect, taking in his words. You never stopped to really think about his life in-depth before—and it does sound like a lot. Like something people dream of but don’t realize the weight of until they’re carrying it themselves. 

You nudge his knee lightly with yours, “For what it’s worth, I think you deserve to just exist sometimes, too.” 

Heeseung turns to look at you, and for a moment, his expression is unreadable.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, reaching into the closest bag of gummy bears to you and tossing one to him. He catches it easily, popping it into his mouth with a grin.

“See, this is why I keep coming back,” he says, chewing. “Gourmet snacks and free therapy.”

You roll your eyes. “Unbelievable. I take it back. Suffer.”

Heeseung laughs, popping another gummy bear into his mouth, before his fingers start tapping his knee again. Then, after a beat—

“You know, I’ve been thinking.”

When you look up at him, he’s already looking at you with a new…something. A newfound sincerity, maybe. Or uncertainty. Or both.

Your eyes meet, and suddenly, he visibly hesitates—shifting almost awkwardly in his spot, as if he both rehearsed what he’s about to say and yet has absolutely no idea what he’s doing. He clears his throat, breaking eye contact.

“I—um,” he swallows hard. “I’m sorry? For, y’know, being kind of a jerk when we first met. I think I was pretty…” He trails off awkwardly. “Jerk-ish.” 

You don’t move for a second. Slowly, one brow arches.

Heeseung thinks he regrets everything.

Then, a smile—slow and sweet—curls at your lips.

And suddenly, Heeseung realizes he doesn’t regret a damn thing.

“Oh, absolutely,” you say, nodding along dramatically. “You were a menace. Like, an insufferable, grumpy, little menace.”

Heeseung lets out a noise that lands somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “Okay, I get it.”

“But,” you continue, locking eyes with him again, “I guess I should apologize too.”

Heeseung perks up, now his brow lifting, “For what? Finally admitting I was right about—”

“For judging you and your still…very questionable choices.”

“Ah, there it is.”

You giggle, nudging him with your elbow before pausing. 

“But seriously…you’re, like…” you dramatically draw out the moment as if the words physically pain you to say.

Heeseung smirks, leaning in slightly, waiting for you.

“…pretty cool, I guess.”

A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face, “I’ll take it.”

“Don’t let it get to your head,” you scoff. “You’re still a ramen-addicted jerk.”

Heeseung hums, still smiling, “Might be too late.”

Then, he tacks on, without thinking twice, “You’re pretty cool, too, I guess.”

You laugh at the hesitancy in his voice, “Okay, that sounded almost sincere.”

He rolls his eyes, but his smile softens, “No, but seriously, it’s…nice. Having someone I could talk to outside of…you know, my whole chaotic life.”

The sudden shift in the air quiets you for a moment as you look at Heeseung, noticing the slight drop in his shoulders, the way his fingers continue to drum against his leg. When you don’t say anything, he continues.

“I don’t…really talk to people like this,” he quietly says, as if admitting something to himself more so to you. Then, after a pause, he glances back up, eyes searching your own. “Now like how I do with you. Like…I could tell you anything and everything, really.”

Your breath catches, but you keep your expression neutral, “Oh?”

Heeseung shifts, looking down at his hands before exhaling a quiet laugh, “Sorry. Too serious?”

You find yourself quickly shaking your head. Because although, yes, most of your interactions with Heeseung are filled with jokes and teasing, the serious conversations or shared warm silences in between recently—have started to mean something more. They’ve become an outlet, a quiet escape from reality. It’s like the moment he steps through the store’s doors, the door rings, the outside world fades, and for a few hours, it’s just the two of you in this shared space.

A space that feels safe, untouched by expectations, where both of you can just be.

“No,” you say, softer this time. “Not at all.”

You hesitate for a beat before adding, “I…really like talking to you too. It’s—” you let out a small laugh, “almost unnaturally easy, actually.”

Heeseung doesn’t respond right away. He just nods, and then looks up at you from the ground and his eyes are serious—no teasing, no usual smugness, just something…real. Vulnerable.

Something that makes your heart beat a little too fast.

You should say something. Something light, or something sarcastic, or something normal.

But you don’t.

Because you’re too busy looking at his face.

Then, without thinking, his lips.

And he’s looking at yours.

You don’t know who leans in first, but suddenly, you’re close. He’s close. Too close. Close enough to hear his quiet inhale. To see the way his lashes flutter. To feel the space between you two thinning into something dangerously nonexistent.

You should move. You should break the moment before it turns into something neither of you can take back.

But you don’t.

And he doesn’t.

And then—

Ding.

The sound of the automatic doors sliding open shatters the moment.

You both jolt apart like a pair of teenagers caught guilty, and your heart is practically breaking out of your ribcage as you scramble to your feet, wiping your sweaty palms on your pants, your face burning as you appear from behind the counter to greet the customer that was blissfully unaware of whatever was definitely not about to happen behind the counter. 

You clear your throat as you look down at Heeseung, who’s still frozen in his spot and trying his very best not to lose his mind, “I should—um. Go back to work.”

Then, suddenly, Heeseung stands too, nodding quickly as he runs a hand through his hair, his face slightly pink, very much not looking at you, “Right. Yeah. Work.”

Right when you turn back to the counter, the customer is there, waiting for you to ring them up. You plaster the most normal smile you can muster, scan their snack, take their cash, and hand them their change—all while pretending you don’t feel Heeseung’s presence still lingering behind you.

You don’t turn around, and he doesn’t move.

And despite the complete lack of physical contact, you still feel his warmth. The same amount of warmth as when he was only mere inches away from your own face.

The door chimes as the customer leaves.

Then, finally—Heeseung clears his throat.

Hesitantly, you turn around, bracing yourself.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, avoiding your gaze before forcing out, in the most casual voice he can manage—

“So, uh—same time tomorrow?”

You blink.

Then, finally, you let out a small laugh, “You’re so weird.”

The tension in the air cracks just enough, and Heeseung exhales a quiet laugh, “And yet, you’d miss me if I didn’t show up, wouldn’t you?”

You open your mouth, ready to argue, except—nothing comes out.

Because, unfortunately, you know he’s right.

And he knows he’s right.

So, naturally, instead of admitting defeat, you suddenly grab a rag from behind the counter and start aggressively scrubbing at a perfectly clean surface.

“Go home, Ramen Guy.”

Heeseung just grins, shoving his hands into his pockets as steps out from behind the counter and backs away. “Night, Graveyard Shift Girl.”

When he’s finally gone, you’re left standing there, staring at where he just was before you.

And finally, when the reality of what just happened fully settles in—

You groan, dropping your head against the counter.

Because now he's in your head.

Great.

The clock above you ticks, a sound that usually fades into the background and becomes a part of the store’s white noise. But tonight? 

Tonight, it’s your biggest freaking nuisance. 

You think if you have to hear it tick one more time, you’re taking the ladder from the backroom, climbing up there, yanking that thing off the wall, and tossing it right into the dumpster. 

Why? 

Because, it’s 2:21AM. 

2:21AM, and you’re alone. Stuck in this sad, empty convenience store with nothing but your own annoying thoughts and the snacks laid out in front of you with no one to share them with. 

Same time tomorrow, my ass, you think bitterly, aggressively straightening a stack of receipts near the register that don’t even need straightening. 

Heeseung’s voice from a few days ago still rings in your head—completely, and unfortunately, uninvited.

You don’t even know why they’re stuck in there, his words looping around, constantly taunting you.

The worst part?

His words had been entirely untrue.

Because it’s been three days.

Three full days since Heeseung has walked through those automatic doors, plopped down in his usual seat, and proceeded to either a) annoy you, b) argue with you over his food-related crimes, or c) make you laugh against your will.

And you don’t know why it’s bothering you so much.

Frustrated? Yeah, you’re frustrated. But the real question is—at what, exactly?

Frustrated that he just disappeared without so much as a heads-up? No warning?

Or maybe you’re frustrated at the very fact that you’re even thinking about this at all.

It’s not like he owes you an explanation. It’s not like he belongs to this store…or to you.

So why does it feel like something’s missing every time you glance at the entrance, half-expecting to hear the ding of the doors and see him stroll in with his stupid hoodie and even stupider smirk?

You shake your head, trying your best to snap yourself out of it.

It’s fine. You’re fine.

You don’t care.

You don’t care so much that, for some reason unbeknownst to you, your brain—your traitorous, overthinking, hardworking brain—itches with a thought.

A stupid, ridiculous, subconscious thought.

And before you can fully even process what you’re doing, your fingers are already unlocking your phone, your thumbs moving on autopilot as you do something you swore you wouldn’t.

You search up his name.

It’s pathetic. It’s sad. Even you’re disappointed in yourself. 

You told yourself you wouldn’t associate Heeseung with his job, with the persona that everyone else sees. Because to you, Heeseung is just…Heeseung—the insomniac who bickers with you every night, who somehow turns every conversation into an argument he has to win, who sits cross-legged with you behind the register eating spicy noodles and giving objectively bad movie recommendations.

And to him? 

Well. You thought that to him, you were just you. Just some convenience store worker he happened to befriend. Someone outside of his world, outside of the blinding lights. Someone he didn’t have to be anyone around. 

His words echo in your mind as you think—just a person he could tell anything and everything to. 

You push the thought along with their feelings down as you continue scrolling—quick, desperate, your fingers flying over your screen, swiping through posts, comments, anything that could explain his sudden absence—

And then. 

You see it.

A tweet. 

Tagging his group, followed by a message. It’s short. Sweet. Simple. 

Yet entirely soul-crushing. 

“Can’t believe they’re leaving for tour already tomorrow! So excited to see them in a few days!!” 

Your breath catches. 

Your eyes flicker over the words again.

And again.

Leaving. For tour.

Tomorrow.

Your stomach twists violently as you scan for more confirmation, your hands gripping your phone with a newfound frustration as you tap through articles, fan accounts—anything to tell you this isn’t real. That there’s some mistake. That you didn’t just foolishly spend three days waiting for someone who was never going to show up.

But there it is. Everywhere. Right in front of you.

Confirmed dates. Cities. Posters.

Heeseung is leaving. Tomorrow.

And he didn’t say a word.

You don’t know how long you sit there, staring at your screen. The words all blur together, but the sinking feeling in your chest is sharp, clear, and undeniable.

And you hate it.

You hate that you feel like this. You hate that your first instinct wasn’t to be happy for him, or proud, or even remotely understanding.

Instead, you’re angry. Upset. Hurt.

And what you hate the most?

You know exactly why you feel this way.

And just as that realization settles in—just as the blur of your feelings finally sharpens into something unmistakable, something you can no longer ignore—the familiar ding of the automatic doors cuts through the quiet store and the screaming thoughts in your head.

You almost don’t look up.

Almost.

But then you do, and your stomach drops.

Because there he is.

You blink, because at first you think maybe you’ve been drowning in your thoughts for so long that you’ve started hallucinating him—manifesting his presence out of sheer frustration towards him.

But, no.

Heeseung stands there, at the entrance, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets, looking at you like nothing’s changed.

Like he hasn’t been gone for days, like he hasn’t left you suffering with your own emotions—like he hasn’t been the only thing on your mind even when you really, really, didn’t want him to be.

“Hey,” Heeseung nods at you casually, walking over to his usual stupid aisle, grabbing his usual stupid Extra Spicy Hellfire, then reaching for his usual stupid coffee milk—all like clockwork, all like he never left.

You don’t respond.

Instead, you busy yourself—wiping the spotless corner of your counter, smoothing out a crumpled receipt, pretending you’re looking for something in the shelves beneath you.

Anything to keep yourself from looking at him.

And you might actually lose it.

Because if you have to stand here and pretend like you’re fine, that these past few days haven’t felt like an eternity for you—you might actually lose it.

Heeseung finally walks up to the counter, places his things between you, then pauses before repeating, tilting his head, “Hey?” 

He shifts slightly, waiting for you to acknowledge him.

You don’t.

A beat passes. Then another.

“You mad at me or something?” he asks, his head still tilted, his voice light, hesitant.

You inhale, your fingers subconsciously tightening around the edge of the counter.

Then, you let out a quiet laugh—an empty, humorless scoff.

“Should I be?”

Heeseung frowns, clearly confused, “What?”

You finally look at him. And you think it was a mistake. Because the second you meet his gaze—uncertain, searching, so annoyingly familiar—you feel your throat close up.

He looks the same. Same stupid hoodie. Same messy hair. Same tired eyes that you’ve somehow come to find comfort in.

And that makes you hate this even more.

“Is this because I haven’t been showing up?” Heeseung tries again, a small, teasing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Damn, I didn’t realize you’d miss me that much. Sorry, Graveyard Shift Gi—”

“When were you going to tell me?”

Your voice is quiet, but he doesn’t miss it.

And he stills.

There it is.

He shifts in his spot again, his eyes now darting down to where his fingers are tapping against the counter.

“What?” he says again, but this time, it’s different. Careful.

You swallow, forcing down the lump forming in your throat, forcing yourself to look at him.

“When were you going to tell me you were leaving?”

It’s soft. Barely above a whisper. But lined with something raw, something vulnerable, something hurting.

And Heeseung hears all of it. He feels all of it.

He doesn’t answer. He just stares at you, lips pressing into a thin line.

Somewhere in the background, the clock continues ticking, the lights overhead buzzing, a song from the speakers humming.

And Heeseung stays silent.

“You weren’t,” you murmur, the words caught in your throat. “Were you?”

Heeseung exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair, “I—” 

He stops. Starts again. 

“It’s not—it wasn’t—”

You cross your arms tightly, more so to ground yourself more than anything.

He lets out a quiet, frustrated laugh, shaking his head.

“Look,” he gestures vaguely, between you, at the store, at the shelves, at the space you’ve unknowingly carved out for him here. “This—this is the only thing that’s felt normal for me in a long time.”

Your stomach twists.

“Everything else—my whole life, it’s all…chaos. But this?” He swallows, his eyes finally looking up to meet your gaze, his voice quieter now. “You?”

His eyes flash with something new, something softer, something that lingers in the way he looks at you. The same way he has over late-night snack feasts, whispered movie nights, conversations that blended into the early mornings. 

“You’re the closest thing to normal I’ve had.”

And somehow, that makes it worse.

Because you get it. You know him, so you understand.

But it doesn’t change the fact that he was going to leave without telling you.

You inhale slowly, your heavy gaze holding his.

“So what?” your voice is still quiet, but now edged with a new sharpness. “You thought if you didn’t say anything, it wouldn’t have to be real?”

Heeseung presses his lips together. “I thought maybe if I didn’t say it, I wouldn’t have to lose this yet.”

Your breath catches.

You want to laugh. You want to cry.

Heeseung didn’t tell you because he didn’t want to ruin this.

Whatever this is.

Whatever the two of you had built over the weeks between instant noodles and snacks, between arguments over food choices, between all the unspoken moments that made you feel like maybe, maybe, this was something more.

You let out a wavering breath, shaking your head, “That’s not fair, Heeseung.”

“I know,” his voice is rough now, like he’s tired of saying it. Like he’s already told himself a million times and accepted it. Like he wants you to just accept it and move on.

But you can’t.

“Then why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Because I didn’t know how!” His voice rises in frustration, an exasperated sigh slipping out. “Because you—this—whatever this is, it started feeling real. Too real. And I just didn’t want to fuck it up, alright?”

The words knock the air out of your lungs.

Because suddenly, everything you’ve been trying so hard to ignore, every feeling you’ve been trying to convince yourself wasn’t there, is suddenly painfully undeniable.

And worse than realizing how real this is?

Knowing that Heeseung knows it, feels it, too. 

But heavier than that realization is the anger.

Not just at the situation.

Now, at Heeseung.

“So you thought it’d be better to just disappear instead?” Your voice shakes, biting down on the thick emotion rising in your throat. “You didn’t even think to tell me.”

Heeseung steps closer, and for the first time tonight, you see it—his own frustration bubbling beneath his surface, the barely restrained emotion.

“What does it matter, Y/N?” his sharp voice cuts through the heavy air lingering between you. “What difference would it—would you—have made? It’s not like this was ever going to change anything.”

Your heart stops.

At that, you falter, and Heeseung sees it.

He sees the way your eyes move away from his. He sees the way your posture suddenly deflates, as if his words physically hurt you.

Because they do.

Because you know what he’s saying.

He’s leaving. And you’re staying.

And no matter what, no matter the amount of realness, no matter what either of you feel—that was always going to be the reality.

“Right,” you finally say, your voice dangerously close to giving out. “Because it’s not like any of this really meant anything, right? At least not enough for you to acknowledge.”

Now your words hurt.

Heeseung winces. His jaw tightens. His fists clench.

Then finally—

“…I don’t know,” he mutters.

The final crack.

You let in a sharp inhale, nodding once, your lips pressed into a straight line. “Got it.”

Heeseung clenches his jaw, like he wants to take the words back, like he wants to fix whatever just broke between you.

Instead, he exhales, stepping back from the counter, “I should go.”

This time, you don’t stop him.

You don’t say anything at all.

Heeseung hesitates for a half second, like maybe—just maybe—he’s waiting for you to say something.

But you don’t. 

Not when you feel so utterly lost in everything you’re feeling that you can’t even begin to put into words. 

So he nods once, shoving his hands back into his pockets, turning away.

The automatic doors slide open.

The ding rings, taunting you.

Cold air rushes in.

And then—he’s gone.

And you?

You’re left at the counter, staring at his abandoned cup of ramen, untouched coffee milk, and the ghost of something that never got the chance to be.

Heeseung doesn’t think. 

He wasn’t thinking four days ago, when the space between you two had grown impossibly small—when he was this close to you, when the air felt thick with something unspoken, yet undeniable, something that made his pulse race and his breath hitch. 

He wasn’t thinking when he let fear creep in, when the weight of him realizing his own feelings sent him running, keeping him from stepping foot into the store at all. For three days. 

He wasn’t thinking when he looked you in the eye last night and told you this didn’t matter. That none of it ever did. 

He wasn’t thinking when he walked out of the store, leaving you to think that you didn’t matter to him. That you never did. 

And he definitely isn’t thinking now, when he’s supposed to be leaving for the airport in an hour, but instead—his feet pound against the pavement, tearing through the empty, quiet streets like a man possessed, like maybe if he runs fast enough, he can outrun the regret clawing in his chest. 

The cold air stings against his face, streetlights flicker overhead, and the city hums all around him—but none of it matters. None of it even registers. 

Because all Heeseung knows, all he cares about, is getting to you.

Because Heeseung?

He can go months on tour without his Extra Spicy Hellfire ramen.

He can go months on tour without his coffee milk.

He can go months on tour without those, even if it means braving his insomnia.

But what he can’t go without?

Heeseung can’t—he won’t—go months on tour knowing you think you meant nothing to him. That you didn’t bring him relief after the longest days, laughter when he forgot how to find it, comfort in a world that never slowed down for him.

That you weren’t the one thing that felt real in a life that so often didn’t.

And if there’s even the smallest chance to fix this—to make sure you know—then nothing else matters.

The neon glow of the convenience store sign comes into view, and Heeseung’s heart lurches in his chest as he approaches, his staggered breathing visible in the cold air in front of him, his hands clammy.

He stumbles through the sliding doors, the familiar ding barely registering in his mind as his eyes dart around—only for his stomach to drop.

The counter is empty. The soft sound of your absentminded humming, the teasing lilt of your voice, the annoyed glare in your eyes—it’s all missing.

And all wrong. Too quiet, too empty, too…not you.

Instead, some guy he’s never seen before glances up from behind the register, staring at the way Heeseung just lingers frozen near the entrance.

“Uh,” Heeseung swallows thickly, his voice strained from his sprint. “The girl who usually works nights. Is she here?”

“Oh, Y/N?” the worker raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, she called off tonight.”

Heeseung stills.

You’re not here.

You’re not here.

And it’s his fault.

Because last night, you were here—waiting, hoping, and he walked out on you.

“Oh,” is all Heeseung can manage before he feels the words getting caught in his throat.

His jaw clenches, his stomach twists. The weight of regret settles deep, heavy and unrelenting.

“Right. Okay. Thanks,” he mutters, nodding absently, then turns towards the door.

The automatic doors slide open.

The ding rings, taunting him.

Cold air rushes in.

And just as Heeseung steps out—

He sees you.

You.

Right there, walking towards the store, hands shoved into the pockets of your coat, face buried into your scarf.

You stop.

He stops.

For a moment, neither of you move. Neither of you breathe.

The neon glow of the store’s sign reflects off your face, casting a shadow over your widened eyes. A car honks in the distance. A gust of wind blows past.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Heeseung says without thinking, almost breathless.

A small laugh escapes your lips, airy and uncertain, “Yeah, well…neither are you.”

You’re right.

He should be on his way to the airport. Bags packed, schedule set, moving on.

But instead? Instead, he’s here, standing in front of the only person who has ever made him hesitate.

Heeseung takes one step forward, “I was looking for you.”

You tilt your head, your lips pressed together like you’re weighing something in your mind.

Then you take a small step forward.

“And now you’ve found me.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry.”

It comes out all at once and rushed, but utterly honest. Honest and heavy, the way it’s been aching in his chest—and he can’t hold it in anymore.

You blink, unmoving.

“I’m so sorry,” Heeseung says again, stepping closer. His voice is steady, gentle, but nervous, scared you won’t believe him. “For everything. For not telling you. For leaving like that. For being a completely fucking idiot about—”

He stops. The look in his eyes is vulnerable, genuine. Longing.

“About this. Us.”

You don’t say anything right away, just watching him carefully.

Heeseung runs a hand through his hair, letting out a dry laugh as he realizes he’s about to lay everything out bare.

“I think I was scared,” he admits. “Of what it all meant. Of what you meant to me. I kept telling myself none of it was real, that it didn’t matter. But then I walked out yesterday and, I realized—”

He swallows hard, looking at you and the way your eyes soften with something unreadable.

“It does. You do. So, so much, Y/N.”

Another pause.

Then, you let out a soft exhale, shaking your head, as if something’s finally clicking into place, “I’m sorry too.”

Heeseung’s eyebrows burrow in confusion.

“For not—,” you sigh, your hands now fidgeting with the ends of your scarf. “For not saying something sooner. Because the truth is, I’ve been denying it too. I didn’t even realize how much I—how much you meant to me until I saw you last night and…”

You trail off, your cheeks warming. Then, with a deep inhale, you take another step closer, meeting his gaze from an arm’s length away.

“I was just so angry and upset, but I think…I realized it’s only because I like you, Heeseung. So much.”

Heeseung swears his heart stops. It feels like his whole world has just shifted, and all his thoughts are tangled up in the way you’re looking up at him now.

“And…I should’ve been more understanding,” you add softly. “I shouldn’t have held it against you like you owed me something. I was just hurt, and I didn’t know how to handle it, honestly.”

Heeseung doesn’t say anything right away, not when his thoughts are running wild and his heart is beating like it’s about to fully grow legs and escape.

Then, he exhales a breath of relief.

And lets out a quiet laugh to himself.

You blink at him.

“We’re both idiots,” he says finally, shaking his head softly. 

A small, knowing smile dances on your lips, your eyes locking onto his, “Yeah. Looks like it.”

The tension eases. Just a little.

Heeseung takes a small step closer, close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating off of you, despite the cold air surrounding you both. 

“So now what?”

You tilt your head as you look up at him, eyes searching his, “Aren’t you supposed to be catching a flight soon?”

Heeseung’s breath hitches.

Because he knows he should say yes.

That’s what’s been planned all along. That’s the reality.

But, for the first time—

He hesitates.

“Maybe."

Your eyes narrow slightly, a playful glare sparking in them, "Maybe?"

Heeseung exhales a quiet laugh, running a hand through his hair, his fingers lingering at the nape of his neck. "Yeah. Maybe."

The warmth in his chest spreads when he sees the way you bite back a smile, the way your weight shifts just the tiniest bit closer—like you're testing the space between you.

Then, you reach into the tote bag slung around your shoulder and pull something out. 

“Here.”

You press a small bottle of coffee milk into his hands.

Heeseung stares at it in his hands.

Then at you.

And you’re looking at him with something gentle—something that makes his chest tighten in the best way possible, something that makes the world feel just a tiny bit warmer.

“Just in case you need a reminder,” you say, your voice light and grounding. “Of what’s normal.”

Heeseung stares at you for a moment, and suddenly—everything makes sense. 

The missing piece clicks into place as the static in his mind all fades away, leaving only this—only you. 

You, standing here in front of him, looking at him with that small, steady smile, and Heeseung knows. 

He's never been more sure of anything in his life.

A laugh escapes him before he even realizes it, soft and breathless, bubbling up from somewhere deep in his chest, where warmth curls all around it, wrapping around his own heart like a quiet, undeniable truth. His heart races and his fingers tighten around the bottle in his hands—slightly trembling, not from nerves, but from the realization of something so much bigger. Something so much realer. 

And then, without even thinking, he steps forward like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and closes the small space between you before wrapping his arms around you. He pulls you in, slow but certain, with a gentleness that catches you by surprise. 

You freeze, breath catching, but only for a second. Because then—like a reflex, you melt into him, your own arms tightening around him.

Holding onto him just as much as he’s holding onto you.

Neither of you say anything.

There’s a quiet calm between you two—no need for words, just the rhythm of your heart beating against his own. Steady, calming, like it’s syncing with his, like they’ve always known each other’s pace.

Like they’ve been moving in tandem all along, even when neither of you realized it. 

And in a way, maybe that’s just how it’s always been with you two—balancing on the fine line between pushing and pulling, between sharp words and lingering glances, between pretending you didn’t care, yet feeling everything all at once. 

So easy to cross, so easy to blur, so easy to mistake for something else. 

Maybe you spent all this time thinking you were standing on opposite sides, only to realize you were always moving toward the same place.

And now, as one of his arms moves across your back, the other threading gently through your hair, holding the back of your head against his chest like he never wants to let you go, his heartbeat still steady against yours, you know for certain—

You were never meant to stay on one side. 

You were always meant to cross it. 

Life is unpredictable, uncontrollable, and chaotic.

Lee Heeseung’s life? Heeseung’s life is that times ten, with an extra sprinkle of what-is-even-happening-anymore?

However—

There are three things—three sacred constants—that keep Heeseung from spiraling into total madness.

The first?

Insomnia.

Not by choice, of course.

The second?

Extra Spicy Hellfire ramen and coffee milk.

Yes, it’s a weird combo. And no, he still doesn’t care.

And the third?

You.

And honestly?

You’re the only one he really needs.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

the end! if you made it to the end, i'll ship u some extra spicy hellfire ramen & coffee milk rn ! <3 luv u mwahmwahmwah !

<3, addie

m.list here!

tag list pt.1 (luv u all):

@xylatox @vivimura @leehsngs @puma-riki @lezzleeferguson-120 @enhaprettystars @laurradoesloveu @sievenderz @somuchdard @kristynaaah @heejamas @jiyeons-closet @sagegreenhairclip @betda @ineedsomezzz @motherscrustytoenailclippings @bussolares @soobnuuy @deluluscenarios @chrrific @vvenusoncasual @rairaiblog @mwahvvis @lveegsoi @desssss-0 @hoonkishoe @sunhyeswife @ilovbeshotaro @dearestdreamies @starry-eyed-bimbo @planetmarlowe @lovialy @ambi01 @elairah @therealmrsbahng @lov4hoon @hollxe1 @lovenha7 @ilovhoonie @coqhee @i03jae @letwiiparkjay @manuosorioh @mintysunoo @amiraazzz @renaishun @enhadd @ikeulove @starniras @heartheejake @zaycie

(bolded didn't let me tag, sorry :( )

[gloomwitchwrites]

Okay this is so specific but I remember my mom telling me about this one time when we were getting our house renovated, and she found out that one of the workers was secretly sleeping in our home without consent. Obviously my mom freaked out and confronted him, and the guy started calling my mom every name in the book. She said my dad whipped around the corner so fast with me as an infant in his arms, talking about some “what the fuck did you just say to my wife?”

It’s SO 141-coded I think 😭 some asshole is rude to the missus or, God forbid, one of his children?! Papa Bear comes out. Has no problem bitch-slapping someone with his littlest baby cradled in his other arm.

All of this to say I think it’d be cool if you wrote something similar 🫶 Angry and protective 141 is so so so delicious to me

Oh hello mutual. Firstly, that's fucking crazy. But also, the transition into asking for protective dad!141 is perfection. They're defending their wife all while holding their infant child? Say less @frudoo! SAY LESS!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (mdni): swearing, dad!141, protective!141

Word Count: 800

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if series

John Price

Like a dark beacon, John appears from around the corner. In his arm is a snoozing infant. She sleeps soundly; face pressed into his chest as he cradles her close to him.

“You’re supposed to be putting her down for her nap,” you say quickly as he starts walking toward you.

“I was,” he replies. John’s gaze slowly slides to the handyman in front of you. “Then I heard a raised voice.” As John approaches, his gaze narrows, a deadly bite in his eye that you’ve only ever seen when he’s truly upset.

“Just a minor disagreement,” you reassure.

“A minor disagreement?” he questions. John isn’t looking at you. He’s staring down the man in front of him. He shifts forward, partially blocking your view of the guy. “Why did you raise your voice at my wife?”

There is coldness in each word. A silent threat.

The man coughs. “I—I want—"

“Here’s the deal, mate.” John places his fingertips on the man’s chest, staring him in the face. “You apologize to my wife. And then you leave, yeah?”

The man opens his mouth and then thinks better of it.

John doesn’t smile. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

“What’s this?”

Johnny appears from around the corner, striding into the living room from the kitchen. In one arm, he cradles your infant daughter. She slumbers, mouth open, head turned into his chest. He has a smile plastered on his face, but you can tell it’s forced. There is no pleasantness in that grin. He’s out for blood.

It takes Johnny all but a few strides before he’s standing between you and the handyman. The plumbing is shot, and the worker that was sent is grumpy and rude. He’s been gruff and overbearing.

“We were—”

Johnny cuts him off. “I know what you were doing. Wanna repeat what you said to my wife?” He’s still smiling, skin stretching as it widens. You step up to him, grasping his upper arm.

“Johnny,” you hiss. He ignores you.

The handyman does, and Johnny shakes his head. “Tone, too.”

The handyman remains silent, all the color from his face draining as he realizes his mistake.

Johnny nods in understanding. “Think it’s time to leave. Walk you to the door.” He clasps the man’s shoulder, fingers digging in as he escorts him out. The front door shuts. “I’m calling for a new plumber.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

A large shadow descends, blanketing the red-faced man before you. His narrowed, angry eyes turn toward the interloper and promptly widen. Whatever he intends to say next melts away in the presence of your husband. Simon is a looming figure. Imposing, even with your newborn infant daughter cradled in his big arm, sleeping softly as if nothing is the matter, and this pathetic excuse of a man didn’t just call you a slur.

“What the fuck did you say to my wife?” murmurs Simon, his voice cold and low.

There are only a few instances when you’ve heard Simon use this tone. You can count them on one hand.

“I—” he stammers, face growing redder. “She—”

“Careful,” growls Simon. “One wrong word and I’ll shove my fist so far up your arse it’ll come out your bloody throat.”

“With your kid in your arms?” the man splutters, spittle flying.

Simon leans in like he’s about to divulge a secret. “Won’t even wake her.”

It’s all bluster, and he quickly departs, removing himself promptly from the situation before anything escalates.

“Would you really?” you ask Simon once the man disappears.

“No,” replies Simon slowly. “But he didn’t know that.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

It’s a familiar hand on your shoulder that stills your next retort. Warm and comforting and soothing in its pressure and reassurance. A signal to surrender, to allow your husband to take charge in this situation. You’ll happily allow it. With your blood pressure rising rapidly, you’re close to snapping and saying something you don’t mean. The man in front of you might be an asshole, but you’re not looking to make things worse.

Kyle gently guides you back, to stand behind him as he takes control. There are few instances where you’ve seen Kyle truly upset, but from the glint in his eye, you can tell he’s furious. For now, it’s suppressed, but one wrong move might send him swinging.

With your infant daughter cradled in one arm, Kyle addresses the man before him. “What did you say to my wife?”

The man visibly swallows. “Nothing.” He coughs. “Sir.”

Kyle inclines his head. “Thought so, mate.” His gaze narrows. “If you need anything you speak to me. Got it?”

The man nods. Kyle turns to you, softness returning to his features. Shifting the infant, Kyle presents her to you. “How bout you put her down? I’ll handle this prick.”

[lologoinsolo]

A continuation of this post! Tw: the word Daddy is mentioned but not in a sexual way!

Cats and Their Men Masterlist, Part 3

A week passed since that guy came in. You hope that the kitten's okay, the guy seems much better than you thought him to be. You did wonder if that was blood on the bills he gave when your manager had counted the register for the night. It looked a lil too red for your taste. But everyone has their secrets and you’re not about to ask that tank of a man if he killed someone or just happened to prick his finger. Still though you hope Bailey is faring much better with him than in the could and… you hope he comes back.

Sunday’s the worst but you managed to persuade your coworker to take over your register. Truck had just came in with so many things for the store and your managers are scrambling to get it all on the sales floor.

Humming along to the song from your earphones. The perks about stocking is that you hardly get bothered by your coworkers. No one likes to restock the numerous bedding and litter and pet clothing so you jumped at the chance to do it. Gives you some peace and quiet save for when the customers will tap at your shoulder. You’ll plaster a smile and use your “customer voice” to point them to where they need a certain item and then get back to stocking. You really should find a way to just work with animals. Maybe you can talk to your manager to see if you can try grooming instead of—

“Girl!”

You jerk and nearly ruin the stack of dog cans you had just put up when someone grabs your arm. “Jesus, Jess,” glaring at your manager when you give her a scathing glare. Coincidentally this one’s the grooming manager. “What’s the matter?” Normally she wouldn’t be out of the grooming salon but the stores been short staffed and cutting corners. She’s been running around having to manage the store floor and hers.

“What’s the matter,” she scoffs, “the matter is your boyfriend is asking for you.” Boyfriend? “He’s a real asshole, ya know. We paged you twice over the intercom. Did you not— are you wearing headphones?” You wince when her voice gets screechy. You pull on your earphones and sigh, it’s an unspoken rule to not wear earphones but that literally never stops her groomers from wearing them.

“Jess, I don’t have a boyfriend.” Rolling your eyes as you give her a once over. Her hands land on her hips and you inwardly sigh. “What does he even look like? Did he say my name?” A little hopeful and also very worried because why is there a man claiming to be your boyfriend and why did your manager come get you for this? “I’m sure he’s one of the customers that’s been bitching lately. The fish tanks aren’t on sale anymore maybe he—“

“He’s not here for fish.” Cutting you off, “he asked for you. I thought he was your boyfriend cause he knew you were working right now.” The alarms start going off in your head. “Look, just go see what he wants.”

“Jess, I don’t know who this man is. Why didn’t you tell him I was like— I don’t know, not working?!”

“Because he’s refusing to fucking leave and he looks like he’s apart of the goddamn mafia!” She yells and you blink at her. Your anger boils to a simmer when she mentions what he looks like.

“Wait, wait… is he wearing a black mask? The ones people wore during COVID?” She nods and you pinch your nose hard. This motherfucker, “okay… I know him. He found a kitten a week ago. I told him to come find me. I didn’t think he’d remember my name because my name tag is so small.” Sighing loudly and stepping around her. “I’ll go talk to him.”

“Good, he’s given us all a fright and I really don’t need this right now. Bella bit the shit out of Felix and now I’m down a groomer.”

“Okay,” nodding as she tells you her woes. It’s been hard all around cause there’s not many workers but you’ll take a mask wearing customer over a shih tzu that’s known to bite. Fixing your shirt and putting on a smile when the figure that’s haunting the grooming salon takes one look at you and starts walking to you— quickly. “Evening, good to see you again. How can I—“

“She’s not eating any of the shit you told me to buy.” He cuts you off and you wonder if you’re actually just made of paper with how everyone cuts you off. There’s a black scarf he’s wearing and you notice a little bit of movement. This guy seems to favor black considering the matching jacket and pants color scheme.

You pull a face and turn to your side when he steps right in front of you. Jesus, he’s tall. Craning your neck to look up at him. “Sir, you have a weeks worth of three different foods?” Is she refusing to eat all of them? “It’s only been a week. Are you sure she’s—“

“Gave her a different one each day and she ain’t eating.” He tilts his head down, “why?” You swallow a bit when he glares at you. You wonder if whoever pisses him off gets to see this last before they get knocked the fuck out.

“You?” Shriveling up slightly, “wait,” once it runs through what he says it starts to click in your head. “You gave her a different one each day. You’re not supposed to do that.” Now it’s your turn to glare at him, “you’re supposed to ease her out into a new one before letting her try it suddenly.” You gave him the kitten version of chicken, beef, and salmon. You had a feeling that she was probably eating literal garbage and wanted her to try the chicken first. It’s your usual go to for new kittens.

“News to me,” he crosses his heavy arms over his chest. “Should’ve told me that.”

“I did tell you…” you start to trail off when you realize that you in fact did NOT tell him that. You just assumed he would know that. Goddamnit. “Okay,” he cocks an expectant brow, “maybe I forgot to mention but you didn’t ask. I thought you knew.” A measly form of an apology and taht doesn’t seem to settle him

“I told you I need things for the little shit. You made me buy those things,” he takes a step forward, “expensive things and now she’s waking me up all hours of the damn night because she’s hungry.” Your throat must be very dry from how hard you swallow. “What you didn’t tell was how to feed her.” His hands ball and flex.

Rubbing the back of your neck, you realize that maybe you are more in the wrong than your pride wishes to admit. “Look I,” taking a breath, “I’m sorry. It’s on me, I should’ve told you. I would’ve given you one of those first time pamphlets but we ran out.” Feeling like how a bug feels under a boot with how you tremble out an apology. “Was there one that she seemed interested in the most? Some cats like the chicken more while others prefer the salmon.” Maybe you can give him some wet cans to entice his little pet. A small thing like her shouldn’t be without food and you start to feel worse.

“She sniffed more at the salmon.”

“Okay, that’s good.” Perking up and you turn on your heel. “Come on, I’ll buy you some wet cans.” Before he can even protest you cut him off finally. “Look, I feel horrible, it’s the least I can do. Plus I get discounts.” Giving him a wink and he doesn’t give you anything other than a curt nod. You grab the salmon wet cans, the kitten ones, and you pray to the gods that Bailey will eat it so her dad won’t kill you. “Try the wet cans, see if that’ll work. If not then you’ll have to try for a different one. There’s a brand here that sells rabbit and turkey, a bit expensive.” You laugh shortly, “but cats have sensitive stomachs. They don’t mean to be picky.”

“Might not be picky but she sure as hell like to run my money.”

You huff a small laugh at his expense, “you should see the bills I’ve seen that get racked up here.” You skip the line to head to your register. Ringing it up and usually you’re not supposed to use your own discount for others but you’re not willing to risk mafia guy’s anger. Bagging it and passing it to him for him but he doesn’t grab it right away “Is there… is there something else you need?” You ask and he takes the bag from you finally.

He mulls over your words for a second and then says. “Need a collar,” he tilts his head to the side and out pokes Bailey’s itty bitty head from his scarf. You nearly scream when you see her but manage to bite your tongue on time. “Here,” he pulls her out and she lets out a disgruntled meow. He plops her down in your waiting arms. “Scratched up my neck.” He grumbles under his breath when he fixes his scarf back up. The kitten simply purrs in your arms when you coo and run from her nose to head. A glutton for love and you readily give it to her. “Find something for her.” He waves offhandedly once his scarf looks decent around his neck once more.

“Do have a specific—“ you trail off again when his eyes squint down at you. Right… he doesn’t really care. “Okay, I’ll be right back.” He grunts an acknowledgment and you walk off with the cutest little baby. She keeps pulling at your chest, seems eager to get to your shoulders and you wonder if she does that to her dad all the time. “Hmmmm,” looking from all the collars that the store sells. “You’re too tiny,” you hold her up like the monkey did the lion cub, a little sad that there’s not much that’ll fit her. “But,” noticing a small blue collar that shines slightly, “this could fit. It’ll give you enough room to grow into as well.” It’s a cat collar designed to unclasp if it gets snagged hard onto something. And knowing this curios kitten, she’ll need it.

Bailey doesn’t seem to mind when you let her sniff at it till the collar comes on and then she’s desperate to figure out what’s around her neck. Her back legs kicking at the edge of the collar and you cup her so she won’t tug it off. “Your daddy wants you wearing that so you gotta get used to it.” He could train her to walk on a harness later but that does take a good amount of training and

“Daddy, huh?”

You jolt from your thoughts and squeeze a little too tight around Bailey. She lets out a little hiss and you blubber an apology. “I didn’t— that’s not what I—“ the ‘daddy’ in question seems far too amused with how you stutter. “I uh… I thought you were at the front?” Coughing to push past your embarrassment. Petting Bailey as an apology on her sides and under her chin. She doesn’t forgive easily as she gives you a well deserved nips. You murmur a sorry to her and she squints up at you.

“Thought you got lost.” He comes around and pulls his kitten from your hands, he took a little longer to get her out but maybe you’re thinking too hard. You were taking a bit down the aisle but you wanted her to have a nice collar that fit her well. The heat from his fingers though makes your own cheeks warm slightly. When did he get that close and also why didn’t you hear him walking up? “Looks good,” he holds Bailey up and moves her around like she’s a little jewel. “Blue suits her.” He pushes her back inside his scarf and you can faintly hear her little purrs. A slight movement of the fabric before she settles right up against his neck.

Clearing your throat slightly, some strands of hair falls a bit forward but you’re still a bit squirmy to fix it. “I knew she would look good in blue. It matches her, I can buy it for you as well. I don’t min—“ your eyes widen when he moves his hand to tuck those loose strands back behind your ear. You stare up wide at him and he stares down at you. Nothing in his eyes give away an ounce of an emotion despite how you look. To his credit, he may have not meant to do that with how quickly he puts his hand down. “Uh… I— sir?” You manage to squeak out and his mask twitches slightly.

He flexes his hand that touched you and leaves you standing there bewildered, confused and your cheeks burning up so much that you might consider it to be a fever. You don’t follow him when he took off without giving an answer but you do touch your ear. The phantom feeling of his fingers makes butterflies flutter in your stomach. “What the fuck?” You murmur under your breath.

…

The next day you manage to get to work with little sleep from how you tossed and turned. You sorta waited more around your register to see if the man would come back but to your disappointment… he doesn’t. You take it in stride and continue about your day. Just as you’re about to clock out a man with a charming smile and model worthy appearance comes in holding a kitten in his hands and says, “I was told by my friend to ask you for help with cats. Can you help me, love?”

[laceyfaeryy]

MDNI 18+

౨ৎ⠀ׄ⠀. ━ simon riley getting the love he deserves after being a loner and thinking that he was unlovable.

cw: fluff, broken simon, vaginal sex, not proof read

he was too scarred, experienced the cruelest of things in mankind after being in the military and now he was a nobody. living in a shady apartment that coincidentally had its heating broken during the winter, only having cold water running in the shower, and just having an apartment that was plain and dull. his whole life simon was convinced that he didn’t deserve anything, hence why he joined the military, to deprive himself from anything that could potentially give him happiness.

so, he had an old couch that was so damn firm he got back pain whenever he laid on it. a flimsy bed that barely fits his large frame, his legs dangling off slightly as he tried to keep himself warm in the harsh winter with the thinnest blanket ever. oh, and he didn’t take care of himself, grabbing the reheat-able meals and ramen from the convenience store after his late night shifts.

that was until he met you, his sweet little birdie that made him feel just a little warm and fuzzier inside. he was accustomed to the usual sympathetic looks on the streets, the weak smile the cashier gave him whenever he bought another bowl of ramen. but you? you didn’t care that he was broken, you viewed him as an equal.

his sweet neighbour that cooked him homemade meals for him, made him his lunch for work that made his co workers jealous and shocked at the sudden sight of simon eating a filling meal.

“where’d ya get that meal from? looks homemade,” his coworker grumbled eyeing the container in his hands. simon muttered a half ass response, he was going to keep you a secret from these dirty men.

he tried to ignore the way his heart rate increased just the slightest when he read your little notes plastered on the container, small words of encouragement as if you knew what he was currently thinking.

slowly you embedded yourself into his daily routine, inviting him for dinner as you cooked his favourite meal, whilst he fixed your table. it was something more than transactional, but neither of you spoke on it, especially simon, he didn’t want to ruin the one good thing that he had in his life.

but deep down he was secretly wondering when you were going to leave, after all - all the good things in his life seemed to go away eventually.

you didn’t though, instead you showed him things that he never thought was possible. self love, though he was dork new to it, he couldn’t help but to feel just a little more confident in himself. the way you were perched up on the tiny bathroom counter gently shaving his face whilst whispering words of affection, or the way you kissed every single one of his scars.

then came the most intimate moment of his life - sex. it wasn’t just something that was done and dusted, no. it was a ritual for the two of you. the sheets rustling as simon kissed your neck, your legs wrapped around his waist as if you wanted him closer, even though it was physically impossible. he refused to make you feel like a conquest, making you come multiple times before cleaning you up and making you your favourite meal.

the change wasn’t internal only, his apartment seemed to reflect the blooming relationship between the two of you. his old beaten up couch all new and replaced because he couldn’t stand the idea of you being uncomfortable whilst watching your favourite show. adding more shelves and storage to his bathroom as you slowly moved in, your toothbrush on the bathroom counter, your pink hair dryer on the shelf and a random vase of flowers.

simon never expected a simple domestic life with a lover, but here he was. lazy morning sex with hushed whispers and basking in each others warmth, trying to ignore the demands of the outside world. cooking breakfast together as simon wrapped his arms around your waist. kissing each other goodbye as you two left for work, your hands brushing against each other one last time.

tag list: @happysmappy @mydickishuge560 @dolli333 @madebyyicarus @l-otti @butlerslut @vampwifee @i-wanabe-yours @bluebarrybubblez @cinnamongrl2006 @akkahelenaa @yanfeiiiiii @actualpoppy @lilyalone @other-fandoms-reblogs @goonette6969

[jonatgan-official]

rlly a choice selection to blast on my front page tumblr

[grimmsbride]

▒ ❀ ̭͡⠀ ❛ SOME ENCOURAGEMENT. NAM-GYU / PLAYER 124

nam-gyu attempts to recruit beloved, timid reader into thanos’s world. all it takes is a little encouragement.

𖥔 ࣪˖ TAGS, nam-gyu is a little pushy (but everything is consensual between him and reader) | unconsensual voyuerism (again everyone is asleep but i don’t wanna make anyone uncomfortable) | ooc characters (first time writing for nam-gyu) | minor degradation & praise (+humiliation(?)) | use of the words slut, good girl, etc. | fingering | minor dacryphilia | just a silly little imagine | nam-gyu is lowkey manipulative | reader is a freak with a thing for fingers/hands | etc.

𖥔 ࣪˖ NOTES, writing smut on company time is actually hilarious, idk why i got this idea during work. but anywho — i hope you enjoy, i tried my hand at his character. as always please ignore any grammar mistakes or typos.

Imagine Nam-Gyu attempting to recruit someone without the advice of his beloved purple-haired leader. Surprising, right? Despite his own issues with inferiority; the ex-club worker just seems to follow behind Thanos like a hungry puppy desperate for a bone— or drugs, for that matter. But no, just this once, Nam-Gyu takes the lead. The numbers are growing closer and even more scarce, fear lacing people’s minds and causing them to hit that dreaded X button. Thanos’s World’s dream is to continue the games to pay off their debts, right?— so it only made sense for Nam-Gyu to turn an X over to the O side.

He couldn’t just pick anyone. Someone far too strong-willed would definitely tell him no, and someone far too weak would just be a curse rather than a blessing.

Who to choose.. Who to choose..

Soon enough the man’s eyes are locking on to you— a contestant he has seen around, yet hasn’t heard much from. Not only were you easy on the eyes but you just seemed like the perfect person to shape into a worthy teammate.

Within minutes he’s approaching you, an easy-going smile in place as your name falls from his lips. Nam-Gyu had heard it said before by someone close to you, another random that he hadn’t bother to think about.

“Yes..?” Your words are slow, lips pursing as you take in the man before you. You were beyond nervous; this was the lackey of that purple-haired lunatic after all. Watching the two fight on the very first day was enough to tell you to avoid them at all costs. Yet here you were, a few feet away from one of them, under his gaze that trailed over you like a pretty piece of jewelry behind a display case.

You couldn’t help but bring your hands closer to yourself, teeth dragging across your cheek nervously.

From your head to your toes, Nam-Gyu’s eyes soon landed on that big red patch residing just under your bosom. With a breathy chuckle he reached over, allowing a single finger to press and trace the X.

“You wanna get out of the games that bad, huh? You voted X twice already.”

Your eyes flicked down to his hand, before traveling back to his face. “Yeah well..” You dragged slowly, watching that harsh gaze return to your features.

“I—I want to get rid of my debts.. but putting my life on the line for it just seems..” You hoped you got your words across perfectly, even without continuing your sentence. Sure, it was hard being hounded for your debts, but death looming over your head just didn’t seem worth it.

Still, Nam-Gyu only shook his head at you, a sigh full of pity escaping his lips.

“Well, that’s where you’re messing up.” Nam-Gyu hummed, stepping just a bit closer, finger still tracing that damned patch. Your attention kept flicking between his face and finger, wondering why exactly warmth was pooling throughout your entire body.

“Worrying too much about dying is what’s gonna get you killed, not anything else.”

Your eyebrows knitted close, a look of confusion plastered across your face. Worrying seemed like the right way to keep yourself alive.. right? Not worrying just seemed, well— stupid. Not that you would say that to his face, obviously.

“I have to disagree..”

Just barely did you hear the sound of the man sucking his teeth, watching the way his face turned to the side, clearly searching for his next few words. You debated on walking away from this conversation, it was clear what his objective was. And whether ordered by Thanos or not, you didn’t really want to know— nor figure out.

Yet for some reason you were practically glued to the spot, blinking up at him and waiting oh, so patiently for his next spiel. And as you watched his face turn back to you, your breath got caught in your throat.

“Okay then.. worry all you want, but you wouldn’t you want someone to look out for you?” Nam-Gyu’s other hand was reaching to your patch at this point, using both thumbs to trace it. “Being on this side, there’s no unity.. it’s every person for themself.”

The two of you locked eyes, a sickeningly sweet smile crossing his face.

“Come with us, and we’ll look after you. I’ll personally see to it too.”

Slowly did your teeth sink into your bottom lip, struggling to maintain the eye contact that he seemed so keen on keeping. The only thing you could hear was your racing heart and the gentle sounds of his thumbs sliding across that red patch. His words were.. tempting. You wondered if he rehearsed what to say, like a video game with multiple endings; did he have it all figured out before he even walked over? Was he so prepared to convert you, using every rejection you had as some silly obstacles the man easily hobbled over?

So caught up in your thoughts, you hardly realized Nam-Gyu had gotten even closer until his breath fanned across your ear in a simple;

I’ll let you think it over, let’s talk again later..

When you thought of later, you initially believed in thirty mins or so. Maybe this time he would bring over his beloved leader to really get the point across. But no, later seemed to be during lights out; when you all should be sleeping, tucked away in the rare bliss these murderous games brought.

And the only talking that was happening was the soft words Nam-Gyu continued to whisper into your ear and the even softer moans of passion that slipped from your swollen lips.

See, Nam-Gyu wasn’t an idiot despite what Thanos seems to think. Quickly he caught on to two things whilst speaking to you.

The first being, you were quite cute when nervous. And two, you just loved looking at his hands.

So what better way to really stretch his point across but using his beloved fingers to stretch you open just how he liked?

“Should have done this from the start, look how cooperative you’re being..” The smile on Nam-Gyu’s face was permanent at this point, the corner of his mouth twitching with each pitiful moan you released. His rings were tossed lazily to the side, his bare fingers now pushing into your sloppy cunt so perfectly. Longer then your own, they pushed and prodded; opening you up and rubbing against your soaked walls. With each breath you were clenching, causing the smile on his face to only grow deeper.

“Scared of dying but not of some stranger finger-fucking you, huh? What a joke.”

You wanted to tell him off, how he was so mean and so wrong. But you couldn’t, not with how your mind was getting complete lost from his movements. Your teeth were grinding into your bottom lip, a metallic taste filling your mouth as time progressed. Deep moans thundered from your throat, muffled by your harsh biting. You couldn’t imagine having your little recruitment interrupted by some poor contestant just trying to get some rest.

But with the way Nam-Gyu was practically ruining you, it didn’t seem he cared much either way. He was so hellbent on coaxing you, his lips right against your ear as that damned thumb came and circled your swollen bud.

“I told you I’d look after you right, where’s my thank you?”

Your eyes widened the moment his free hand rose, pushing at your cheeks and basically forcing your lips to part. The sound you let out was a strangled mix of a moan and gasp, quickly clasping your own hand against your mouth.

Nam-Gyu chuckled on his breath, thrusting a third finger into your wet cunt as he spoke; “What? You scared of the other contestants realizing how much of a slut you are? Shouldn’t worry too much; this messy cunt is making enough noise for you.”

Your eyes were meeting the back of your skull, so fucking mean he was— yet you couldn’t help but enjoy the attention. His digits were curling inside, brushing across that special spot that caused you to shake. Your thighs were clenching harshly around his arm, rushed breaths escaping as your chest rose and fell.

“Th—thank you.. fuck— please…!” You whimpered as softly as you possibly could, glossy eyes staring up at the man. You felt accomplished the moment he drew closer, feeling the cold metal of his chain brush against your heated skin before a gentle kiss was pressed right against your cheek.

“What a good girl.. You wanna come, hm?” The hand was lowering to your throat, fingers simply wrapping around it yet not squeezing. Nam-Gyu watched in pure enjoyment at the way your head tossed back and forth in a rushed nod; how needy you were for him. What a palpable little thing, is what he thought.

“I can make that happen, you just gotta do something for me.”

More words, whispered, tempting; drifting right into your ear and hitting the same pleasurable spots right between your legs. Speaking of, you felt your peak drawing closer; a tight band resting deep in your tummy— ready to burst.

You knew what he wanted, you weren’t an idiot nor were you too fucked out to forget. Your mind was screaming at you, telling you an orgasm wasn’t worth pressing that cursed button.

Yet, for now, you weren’t thinking with your brain, but with your pussy instead.

“P—please let me join! I’ll press the button— I promise!” Another whisper-yell escaped you, desperation clinging to every word as they fled those pretty lips.

With that final confirmation Nam-Gyu was quickening the pace of his fingers, eating up the way your body convulsed, a lost look invading your eyes as you came undone. Your essence trickled down his fingers all the way to his wrist, a sticky residue that he would make sure you clean up later.

For now.. his hand rose from your throat to instead cup your cheek, rubbing his thumb right under your eye so tenderly— so sweetly.

“I knew you could do it.. just needed some encouragement, right?”

[beardedjoel]

ride

joel x f!reader

request: "prone, leaving a hickey on their neck, in a truck bed" sent in as part of my 5k celebration! or you try to grapple with feelings for your parents' friend while getting absolutely railed by him 🤠 6.5k words.

warnings: 18+ MDNI, age gap (unspecified but college age reader and it's said that joel is over twice her age), oral f receiving, unprotected piv, pr0ne b0ne, creampie, hickeys, dirty talk and pet names, bit of daddy kink (sue me okay), angsty feelings, alcohol, reader has a mom and dad and clothing is described (shorts and t-shirt).

a/n: saw this prompt and instantly loved the visual! such a fun one to write, and i got weirdly caught up in these two having history and a bit of angst so it ended up way longer than i anticipated (aaand everybody is thinking we are not surprised julie couldn't shut up).

Today had you on edge, taking in your surroundings more dutifully, fearing the rounding of corners on campus in case you’d run into him. You try to pretend you don’t want to see him, but can’t deny the sinking feeling in your stomach as you arrive for your shift that evening without having any chance encounters. You hate that you’re imagining how one would go as you wait on your tables, how you’d pretend you hadn’t even thought about the possibility of him also being on campus for parents weekend. Casual. It was totally, completely casual - the same sentiment you’d been trying to convince yourself of for months.

His daughter Sarah is only a year younger than you and ended up at the same university a couple of hours from your hometown. You’d played little league soccer together for a few years as kids, and your parents became much faster friends with Joel than you and Sarah ever did. 

Despite Chip’s Bar & Grille being located off campus, it doesn't seem immune to the influx of people due to parents weekend as you weave through your tables, a sweat breaking out on your neck. Your asshole of a boss - the Chip of Chip’s Bar and Grille - never quite learned how to keep the temperature comfortable in here for the workers. He’d also declined your request to have tonight off to spend with your parents - too many other coworkers of yours had the same idea as you with people’s parents being in town, apparently. You know he also simply just enjoyed telling people no.

You plaster on a fake grin as you carry a tray of beers over to a rowdier group of men, probably here to watch Friday Night Football or something, judging by their team spirited paraphernalia. They’re already a few drinks deep, getting increasingly more bold with their commentary towards you, but it’s nothing you haven’t dealt with here before. You easily brush it off, navigating your way through their charged remarks with grace and sweet looks that should only boost your tips, letting the act drop dramatically as soon as you walk away from them.

Karina, the hostess - a sweet girl around your age - flits up to you, buzzing information in your ear. “Table 19 just got sat. Said it’s your parents, I think?”

You smile to yourself - it’s thoughtful that your parents would brave the greasy, unappetizing food at Chip’s just to see you twelve hours earlier than planned. They instantly glow and warm up at the sight of you, looking slightly out of place but nothing short of comfortable. They were the type of people that could adapt nearly anywhere.

“Hey, honey!” your mom trills, hugging you tight, pressing the slightly damp t-shirt you’re wearing into your back. 

“Sorry. Sweaty,” you warn her too late, getting a chuckle in your ear. Your dad squeezes you tightly next, and when they go to sit down, you notice with confusion that Karina has placed three menus on the table. 

Your eyes snap up to the front door just in time to see a familiar, broad form step into the fray, weaving his way through the bodies and tables. His eyes scan across the restaurant - dark and brooding as always - then land on you, standing tall above where most people are seated at their respective tables. Your stomach leaps, leaving your breath caught in your throat, him letting his lip twitch into some semblance of a smile - or a smirk, rather, given how haughty he looks right now.

For that brief second, it’s only the two of you in this bustling, noisy room, before the bubble bursts and he stalks over to you and your parents. It’s only then his eyes are torn off of yours, leaving you breathless and confused. And angry.

“Oh, good, already got us a table. Parkin’ was weirdly a nightmare out there,” he says, smooth and silky, announcing his presence. With one more flicker of his eyes to yours just before your mom pops up to hug him, blocking you from view, you see the mischievous amusement behind them. He’s enjoying the fact that he’s caught you off guard, that you’re flustered by his mere presence alone.

Yeah, angry sounds right. Joel Miller: certified prick.

After the fuss settles down, your parents explain they ran into Joel at a cafe when they got to campus this morning while you were still in class. Being their gracious, hospitable selves, they’d promptly invited him to come out to dinner with them tonight to catch up. Just your luck.

“The rest was history. Joel seemed awful happy to get to see you too, know it’s been a while,” your dad happily and obliviously trills. 

You’ll bet he seemed happy.

Joel moves in for an embrace, and you stiffen before feeling his meaty, thick arms draping around you, the warmth of his chest pressing closer, his breathing in your ear. Everything feels lit up inside of you, sparks skittering across your skin. You beg your knees not to buckle, reminding yourself that refusing to hug him begs more questions than you’d like from your parents. You try not to melt into the familiarity of it when your arms fling around his neck, try to keep it… casual. The word bites at you, stinging deeper each time you try to convince yourself of its place in this relationship. 

“Hey there, sunshine. How you been?” he mutters in his slow, sweet drawl. You can’t help but smile at your favorite pet name he’s had for you for years, wishing to wipe it off your face as he pulls back and sees it. There’s a returned softness there beneath all his amused loftiness. 

“G-good. Good,” you manage to stammer out. “How’s the business… How's Sarah?” 

You watch on as Joel stays planted right in front of you, the moment lingering longer than necessary or normal. You watch him have the same realization, clearing his throat and turning to pull out his chair, sitting down.

“Good,” he echoes you, smiling softly. “And good. Girl’s too busy with friends to see her old man tonight, though. Stuck with these two now.” He jabs a thumb in the direction of your parents. 

The dig gets a hoot out of your mom, her hand playfully nudging him. The noise of her balking breaks you out of your reverie where your eyes had been plastered on his features, begging them to tell you anything. 

You suck your lip between your teeth, blinking a few times to snap yourself out of this haze. You’d wanted this, hadn’t you? A chance to run into Joel, knowing that parents weekend would likely bring him this way. It’s too much, too… intense, to see him in your workplace, somehow merging his life with the one you lived separately from him. Back home the two of you had been on equal footing, but now he invaded your space, the places you were able to go to get away from whatever this was, to get away from him.

“I - I’ll go check on my tables. You guys decide what you want to order and I’ll come back. And I’ll talk to Chip about a family discount, or something.”

Your dad insists it’s not necessary before you scurry away, but you ask anyway. Chip unsurprisingly argues with you, huffing and puffing and generally being the asshole that he is. 

“You want a discount for your family? And where’s that money gonna come from? Maybe from your tips tonight? Would that work for you? Hm?”

“Forget it, Chip.” Muttered under your breath, you roll your eyes, feeling dejected as he stalks off to likely terrorize someone else or put on his fake schmoozing act with a loyal customer. 

When you glance back at your parents across the room, Joel’s eyes are on yours, intense and questioning. They burn into you, making you immediately turn away, trying to hide the glistening of tears from Chip’s beratement. It’s dumb, really. He’s always this big of an asshole. You aren’t sure why you expected anything other than his default or a single generous thing from him.

After pulling it together enough to do the rounds on your tables, you stop back to take your parents’ and Joel’s orders. Joel seems like he’s stewing, his energy quiet and distracted as he glances down at the menu, ordering a cheeseburger with a distant voice.

It’s not until you’re off at the point of sales system tapping in their orders that a presence sidles up beside you, the voice deep and hushed.

“That your boss there? The one lookin’ like he’s got somethin’ shoved up his ass?”

You do a slow turn to peer at Joel incredulously, glancing around as if you’re caught in a compromising position. You suppose maybe you are, but at least your parents are out of view from where you’re tucked back in the little hallway leading to the restrooms. It’s cramped back here with the service station, leaving Joel’s body close to yours.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you hiss, instead of answering his question.

“It’s not a crime to go to the bathroom,” he quips back. “Answer me.”

“What? You’re gonna beat him up?” You give Joel a pointed look before focusing back on the screen, punching in your dad’s Dr. Pepper.

“No, jus’ wanna know why a boss is out here makin’ his employees cry.”

“I wasn’t crying. He - he’s just an asshole. And why do you care? You’re not my -” you cut yourself off, shaking your head, pinching the bridge of your nose. “It’s fine. I promise. Please just… why are you here, Joel?”

“Havin’ dinner with your parents.”

You have to force in a deep, calming breath before sighing it out. “You like this. Surprising me, catching me off guard. You’re the one being an ass now.”

Joel visibly softens at your stressed demeanor. “It’s also not a crime to want to see you, y’know. And have some fun trippin’ you up along the way. I didn’t realize -”

Your eyes linger on his face for a long, quiet moment, burning with frustration and contempt and something deeper you won’t allow yourself to access. “I’ve got to get back to work,” you say, concluding the conversation as you snap the notebook containing your orders shut and push away from the computer. You brush past Joel’s shoulder, turning to glance back at him.

“It is nice to see you,” you utter, half hoping he can’t hear it over the bustle of the restaurant. When his lips twist to the side in a lopsided smile, you know he did.

“You too.”

Joel seems to behave the rest of the evening, paying the proper, appropriate amount of attention to you, treating you like the family friend that you are and nothing more. Just as it should be, you remind yourself every time a pang of sadness pulses through your chest.

When they pay and leave, you breathe a sigh of relief, working the rest of your shift with an odd buzzing in your head, picturing Joel’s tanned skin and rugged lines. The memory of the feeling of his body close to yours in that hallway makes you shudder, then curse yourself.

A mixture of disappointment and irritation worms its way into your mind as you realize that was your chance. That was the time you got to spend with Joel this weekend, when he was so close within your grasp. He’d be busy tomorrow, spending time with Sarah, letting her tote him around campus - showing him where she takes her classes, her favorite places to eat, her dorm that is likely decorated with purple accents and posters of her favorite bands.

You’d missed the opportunity to actually see him, too busy being pissed at him for existing in your sacred space, for never leaving you alone no matter how hard you tried to get him out of your head. You never knew when the next time would come around - even if you were back home, time spent around Joel was never guaranteed. Nor was it appropriate.

You worry your lip into oblivion, realizing it’s for the best, anyways, as you push the back door to the bar open after your shift, letting the cool night air greet your grimy, post work skin. You go to round the building, heading for the bus stop on the main street that will take you exactly twenty five minutes and eleven stops back to your dorm.

A voice cuts in, seeming to come from the darkness itself. “You always wear shorts that short to work?”

God damn it. You flinch and then press your lips together, slowly turning your head to the corner of the parking lot, following the gruff, familiar voice. You see Joel leaning against the front of his truck, arms crossed over his chest. He’s half illuminated by the streetlamps placed periodically across the asphalt, casting long shadows on him. The blue flannel he wears is stretched tightly over his arms, the sleeves rolled up to reveal those forearms that make you feel more than you’d ever care to admit. 

“Better tips,” you reply, nonchalant. You adjust your bag on your shoulder, walking over to him. You stop short, giving a wide berth between the two of you, attempting to avoid the always inevitable pull you feel towards him.

“That so?” he says, sounding amused. Joel lets his eyes roam up from your feet, scanning your bare legs, drinking you in all the way up your chest until his gaze rests on your face where it softens. He’s obvious about it, not caring to hide the lust that lives between the two of you now that you’re alone.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, feeling like a broken record. You watch as he turns and starts walking to the back of the truck. You peer around to see the bed is open, staunchly crossing your arms and not following him.

“Thought I’d give you a ride home,” Joel throws over his shoulder.

“What if I had my own car here?”

“You don’t,” he punches out. “Parents told me they hate you takin’ the bus so late.”

You quietly groan to yourself. Of course they did.

“And I thought you could use one of these after a long shift,” Joel adds on, proudly holding up a six pack of cheap, generic beer, strung together by plastic loops. You give him a sardonic laugh, finally giving in and making your way to the back of the truck. Joel has it parked with the bed facing the far corner of the parking lot, looking directly into the thicket of trees beyond that separates Chip’s from the McDonald’s behind it. It’s late, the lot nearly empty and the businesses around you all quieted down for the night. Some kind of thickness hangs in the air, otherworldly and separating you from reality, pressing in on you to be so alone with Joel.

“Aren’t you driving?” you ask, brows raised. 

“Ain’t for me. It’s for you.”

“Miller Lite,” you say, gesturing to the six pack. “Clever. And disgusting.”

He smirks, tearing one out of its loop and handing it to you. It’s chilled, but not cold, and you nearly grimace. You don’t even like beer, but being around Joel still makes you nervous so you crack it open, listening to the little click of the pull tab and ensuing fizzy noise from the liquid inside, then take a long swig. 

“Attagirl,” Joel comments passively. Your heart flutters at the small praise and you peer at him, doelike, from over the can, hoping your eyes don’t give you away. Of course they do, they always do. You look down, shuffling your feet, clad in your black, non slip work sneakers.

His hand is hesitant, reaching out to you from where he now leans against the open truck bed, clasping around your wrist with a gentle authority. It tugs you, forcing you to take a step towards him.

“Joel…” you warn, still unable to bring your eyes up. You know if you do, you’ll fold.

“Hm?” he rasps, moving you closer still. Joel’s legs and feet come into view, thighs thick and meaty in their denim, his work boots dirty and scuffed. It made something inside of you flutter again, these details about him. You liked his mess and his manliness, the way he didn’t give a shit if his shoes were dirty, but that they were functional. You like his worn denim with the outline of his wallet seared into the back pocket from too much use. You like… him.

“Come sit,” he begs of you, and despite your best efforts, you’re unable to resist. You hop up onto the back of the truck, letting your feet dangle while taking another sip of crappy beer. He pulls himself up next to you, and leans closer, knuckles brushing along your neck, making you shiver. It’s heavenly and electric, everything you’d craved and missed and wanted, never able to stop thinking about these calloused hands and the man they’re attached to.

“We… we can’t do this again,” you force yourself to utter, fiddling with the pull tab on the can held in your lap.

Joel’s hand freezes. “You got a college boyfriend now or somethin’?” he spits out, unable to hide the greed from his voice.

“No…” you admit.

“Alright, why not then?”

“We just… shouldn’t.”

“Y’weren’t sayin’ that over winter break. Or durin’ Thanksgiving, or the summer before that when I was fuckin’ myself deep inside of you, lettin’ you call me your daddy,” he drawls out lazily, continuing to softly revere your neck with his hands, slowly moving to your shoulder and back, fishing underneath the collar of your branded Chip's tee shirt to find bare skin. 

You swallow hard, feeling your cheeks blazing at the memories of how caught up in it you’d gotten. “I - I don’t think…”

“That’s right, sweetheart. Just don’t think.”

You finally dare a flash of your gaze to his, finding his eyes dark and wanting. “Joel…” you plead again, unsure of how to express anything else. “This isn’t… right. Who you are to me, my parents. You know that, right?”

He licks his lips and nods, moving in close and ghosting them over your neck. Your eyes roll back, your touch-starved, needy body begging you for more. “Torture myself over it all the damn time, pretty girl,” he rasps right next to your ear.

“Then why did you come here tonight?” you ask in a lusty whisper as his lips attach to your skin, sucking softly. Your breath catches in your throat, fighting a whine.

“I don’t know. I jus’... did,” he says earnestly, sounding pained. “I wanted it. Didn’t care ‘bout the rest. I wanted to see you, just us.”

Your heart pitter patters in your chest, that pesky, squeezing feeling of it that always takes over around Joel pulling taut. You know he doesn’t mean it, that he doesn’t want you. He wants what you offer - your body, your naïveté to stay involved in this, your company when he’s lonely. It was hard to say just how Joel felt about you, because he’d never dare say it out loud for fear of making this too real. 

His scent invades you - musky and something fresh and nature inspired, pine maybe - and you feel yourself folding in real time.

“Joel…” you warn one last time without any resolve behind it, eyes fluttering shut as he nuzzles into your neck. You want this. You don’t want this. You want him. You don’t want this uncertainty, this unstructured and wild thing that you two have become tangled up in. 

It happens before you can even register your body moving of its own accord, crashing your lips into his waiting ones. His hands are fast, eager, to touch every part of you now that you’ve given some semblance of a go ahead. Squeezing, groping, one hand relishing in the feel of your tits, the other cupping your cheek, pulling you deeper into the searing kiss.

“Fuck,” he mutters when your hands move with equal fervor on his body - squeezing his thigh, wrapping around him the to clutch the hair at the base of his neck. “The hell says we shouldn’t be doing this…”

You shake your head, smiling into the kiss. “Probably everyone.”

“Makes me want you more, baby,” Joel counters, and you nod feverishly in agreement, squeaking in surprise when he pushes you down to the truck bed, swinging himself over to straddle you. His weight crushes down, comforting and arousing all in one, no time to even dwell on it before his lips are on yours again, a hand plunging between to cup you through your shorts. Warmth flows freely between your legs, the fabric dampening the sensation but it’s still too much, too built up, and you buck your hips.

“I want these shorts gone,” he demands. “Everyone wishin’ they got a peek under these, givin’ you all those tips, except at the end of the night it’s me right here, gettin’ everythin’ they want.”

Your head goes fuzzy, swimming with lustful thoughts as his dirty talk ramps up. It turned out that Joel Miller had the filthiest mouth you’d ever encountered, something you’d never have expected from the quieter, gruff man. He was an archetype of southern politeness most of the time - not without his sass, sure - but you’d never expected… this.

“Take them,” you breathe out. Joel grins above you, unbuttoning the shorts with ease, hooking his fingers in the sides.

“You’d let me, really? Right here… right out in the open?” Joel tsks, the grin on his face spreading into something wicked. You blink back to reality, to the parking lot around you, and yet your answer remains unchanged.

“Yes,” you whisper, feeling shame burn at your cheeks.

Joel works your bottoms down slowly, taking your panties with it and speaking unhurriedly. “Let anyone who comes to see what all the fuss is about see all of this, would you?”

“Yes,” you answer dutifully.

“God damn.” He chuckles, tossing your shorts to the side, leaning back to glimpse at the bottom half of you, now exposed to him. “Dunno what’s worse. This, or that closet at your parent’s place. You’re a dirty little bitch, ain’t you?”

You nearly growl. “You love it,” you shoot back, spreading your thighs wide open for him. 

Staring between them with a certain wonder about him, he answers. “I do.”

He sinks himself down, moving to pleasure you, pulling your clit into his mouth and giving it a gentle suck. You yelp, a tiny squeak that has your hand flying over your mouth to quiet yourself down.

Joel moves his tongue to lap at your folds, drinking in the sweet slickness you’ve already poured out for him. The slickness that had been pooling between your thighs just at the sight of him earlier tonight. 

“You been this wet all night for me?” he asks incredulously, toying a finger through it now, circling your clit in a slow, tortuous circle.

You whimper first as an answer. “You - you make me -”

“I know I do. Ain’t easy to hide a hard fuckin’ cock under the table with your parents either, y’know. Wearin’ shorts like that on that gorgeous ass of yours.” He tsks into your pussy before slurping again, groaning as your arousal starts to coat his beard.

Your chest heaves, desperately needing more from him, his satisfaction with toying with you going longer than you can handle tonight. Not after how long it’s been.

“Please, J-Joel.”

He chuckles darkly. “We both know that ain’t the name you want to call me right now.”

He was right, the word had hung on your tongue since the second you’d been alone together, since you felt his warm hands exploring your skin. It came out somehow more naturally than you’d expected or even wanted, but something about it just felt… right.

Self conscious, you hold back and grumble as he withholds contact from you, staring up expectantly. “Come on, angel. I wanna hear it, too. Been too long.”

“Please, daddy…” you correct yourself shyly, readjusting to the word on your tongue. Joel’s face, shadowed by the yellow light of the closest streetlamp, breaks into a smirk.

“That’s right. Right now, when we’re like this, I’m your daddy, aren’t I?”

You nod and he continues to lick your needy cunt as a reward, swirling his tongue over the delicate bud near the top. “Yes, you are.”

Joel’s tongue moves faster, urged on at your breathless cries for him. “And you’d want to come for your daddy, wouldn’t you?”

The words twist your core tighter, the warmth building to a near breaking point. “G-god, yes. Y-yes!” You cry out louder as he sinks a finger inside, crooking it to make you go a little dizzy. You clamp a hand over your mouth again, tighter this time, stifling your cries.

Joel pulls back, a string of saliva and arousal connecting the two of you. His finger keeps the pressure on that spot inside of you, his breath ghosting over your sensitive skin as the most painful tease.

“Nuh-uh. Think you should be loud. Unless… you don’t want your coworkers to hear ya? Or better yet, that asshole boss of yours?”

You picture the ramifications of what Joel is saying, the way Chip’s face would go red, twisted up in anger before he likely fired you. You break into a cheeky smile, and without conviction you say, “I - I shouldn’t."

“You should be doin’ a lot of things right now, sweetheart. But here we are. Don’t act like you don’t like the idea of pissin’ off that bastard.”

You chuckle, nodding in a dazed agreement as Joel glides his nose over your sex, flicking his tongue out periodically and making you start to squirm impatiently. “Bet he wants to fuck you, too. Such a pretty, perfect girl. Bet he wants to bury his mouth in this sweet god damn perfect cunt.” He punctuates his words with a deep inhale to your pussy, his nose now tracing a little circle over your clit. 

His words send you reeling - something about the possessiveness he holds over you makes you clench around his digits like you’ve never done for anyone else. “Please -” you beg before you can even think.

“Please you want him to fuck you?”

You sigh in lustful, irritated frustration. “D-damn it, Joel. No. You.”

“Need daddy to fuck you good, don’t you? These college boys ain’t doin’ it for you, are they?” he purrs into your skin, finally pulling himself from between your legs to glide up over your body, shielding you completely.

You feel yourself flush hot, still sheepish even after all these months affected by his dirty words and that stupid, yet hot - so hot, god why is it so hot - title he’s bestowed himself. A tickle of embarrassment creeps into your belly knowing that you’ve hardly pursued anyone at school, never able to find exactly what you’d already had all along - only it wasn’t yours to keep. It never could be.

“I - I -” you mumble, avoiding eye contact as his face hovers above yours.

“What? They’re that bad?” he teases, and you bite your lip.

“There aren’t many… relations going on, okay?” You grimace, finding his dark eyes and seeing him amused, yet studying you carefully, more seriously.

Joel throws you the tiniest smirk, but his voice is deep and sincere. “Damn shame for all of them. But makes me awful happy to hear on account of myself.”

You swallow, nodding, feeling an anxiousness playing in your belly. “Have - have you…? Since we last…?” You don’t know why you even ask, why you’re hellbent on setting yourself up to be hurt.

Joel hesitates, debating for a moment, then leans in to kiss you, long and deep. He pulls back, then shakes his head. “Not since December, no.” The words are hushed, whispered, one hand squeezing at your hip. 

The moment is tense - too much so - and the urge to escape it crashes into you. You shift underneath him, pressing your hips up into his to entice him. “Don’t you want to fuck me then before ol’ Chip gets his chance?”

Joel practically growls, his hold going tight. “Wouldn’t fuck you like I do.”

You shake your head, licking your lips and feeling the flicker of desire reignite between your thighs that had briefly paused. “We’ll see about that,” you say, raising your eyebrows.

“God damn it, kiddo, you’re tryin’ to piss me off.”

“It’s better when you’re irritated with me -” You lick your lips, your hands finding the waistband of his jeans, toying with it. “Daddy.”

That same growl erupts from his throat, aggravated and breathless. His hands scramble with yours to free his cock, and you can’t help but peer between your bodies to catch the sight of it. You love every bit of his body, love seeing the way it moves for you, with you. The way that it evokes things in you you’d never known possible, hitting all of your buttons just right.

Only getting a short glance at his erection, your body is quickly handled by Joel’s rough, eager hands rolling you onto your stomach. You’re held down immediately, his weight crushing into you, nearing on uncomfortable with the bumps and ridges in the bed of the truck. One hand presses to the back of your head as he mounts you, the hot skin of his cock teasing at your ass.

All you can do is whimper, your head straining to look back at him as he spreads your ass cheeks, slipping between them and to your slick core, nudging at your entrance. Anticipation hangs in your labored breaths until he enters you, the tension released in an exhale of relief and sharp tenderness at the full stretch of him. 

Joel wastes no time slamming into you, satiating every fantasy you’d had of him, every desirous, late night thought that caught you off guard since your last rendezvous. It was always just as you’d remembered it - a miraculous connection of your bodies that seemed to stump the two of you every time you’d tried to make sense of it.

“Hell yes, angel, you always take me so good, so perfect,” Joel grunts out as he thrusts into you. “Never complainin’, jus’ takin’ what you’re meant to.”

Your eyes roll back slightly as he presses impossibly deep inside of you. Despite everything - his size, your ages, the myriad of reasons this shouldn’t even be happening right now - it feels like the perfect fit.

“S-so good,” you whine , breathless as his body starts to lean in close, his chest pressing against your back.

“So good, who?” Joel reminds you, his voice now rumbling right in your ear.

“F- Daddy. So good daddy,” you quickly spit out, lost in the moment. Joel had once called you cock dumb, and you’d wanted to scoff, but moments like these proved it to be a very real phenomenon. You typically consider yourself relatively level headed, but right now you’re completely helpless to the power he holds, all thought centered on the way he slips in and out of you, every sensation and nerve lit up from the drag of the head of his cock inside of you.

You shudder, feeling his hulking form so close as he brings his lips to your ear, wet kisses trailing to your neck. He’s always loved your neck - it was the first thing he’d deigned to touch all those months ago that had felt charged, different than your typical interactions. That’s when he’d drawn you in, hooked you and pulled you into this whirlwind.

You scramble a hand back to reach for him, touch him, but he grabs it, tracing his fingers over your palm, interlacing them with yours for a brief moment before your wrist is pinned down. He fucks you harder, faster, his lips bouncing against your neck before they latch on, sucking hard.

“J-Joel!” you cry out in a panic, realizing the possibility of a mark being left with an impending meet up with your parents tomorrow.

“It’ll be fine,” he purrs against your sensitive skin, sucking a little harder before moving to another spot. "Jus' leavin' you with a little somethin'."

You see stars as his cock presses as deep as it can go on his next thrust, and you lose the will to fight a losing battle. You have makeup for a reason, you suppose.

You moan, loud and clear, suddenly unable to even care about the world around you, an audience or Chip or any of your coworkers rounding this truck and seeing you getting absolutely ruined by a man well over twice your age. None of it matters when you have Joel so close to you, so ready to please you and take care of you.

“G-god, you’re so deep,” you whimper out in a garbled haze as he keeps up his punishing thrusts, letting the head of his kiss the deepest parts of you.

Joel chuckles dryly, doubling down on his efforts, the both of you panting, close to reaching something extraordinary together. “Mmm,” he groans into your ear, still lapping at your neck periodically. “What d’you want with an old man like me anyway, huh?”

It’s a question you’ve asked yourself dozens of times, one you’ve never quite found the answer to, even after searching deep within yourself. Joel was brutal in the sheets but also sweet, and maybe that was a balance you’d been seeking without knowing it. The illusion he created of not caring was always overpowered by the look in his eyes that told you there was something more there, something you both wanted to build upon but knew you never could. So you took moments like this - dark and rushed and secretive in parking lots - and made the most of them while you could pretend that the rest of the world didn’t exist.

Instead of saying all of that, you just mumble out through your panting, “Y-you know why.”

“That’s right, this big cock, fuckin’ you like nobody else can,” Joel replies for you, and you nod languidly, your eyelids heavy, your mind concentrated now on the heat building deep in your belly, furling tighter with every thrust.

“R-right there, oh my god,” you breathe, pressing your hips into each thrust to pull him that much deeper, to make each crash of your bodies into one another that much harder.

Joel moans quietly, attempting to stifle the lusty little sound but it's music to your ears, listening to him fall apart for you. “Come for me, sweetheart, s-shit, daddy needs to hear you…”

“D-daddy!” you whine out loudly, knowing he loves to hear that name nearly pornographic off your lips in these heated moments. Your pants and noises break into little moans that crescendo as bursts of pleasure wash over you. Every muscle is taut and taking Joel’s harsh, relentless thrusts into you, nearly making you scream with how vibrantly every sensation seems to crash over you.

“Y-yeah, let ‘em hear it. Christ you sound so pretty f’me, baby. Milk daddy’s cock, f-fuck that’s it…” Joel’s string of praises reaches your ears in a distant fog before his hips stutter inside of you and he’s spilling himself deep and full. You clench around him one last time, shuddering at the sensation as your skin tingles pleasantly. You feel floaty, far gone as you try to regain your bearings, slumped and ass up on the cool material of the truck bed. Reality comes back slowly as Joel kisses down your back, planting one on your ass cheek before giving it a playful bite and kneeling next to you.

“You okay, sunshine?” he asks softly, and for some reason, despite feeling elated, tears prick at the back of your eyes. It’s too much, too emotional. You will them away in a second, not daring to let Joel see.

“Mhm,” you weakly utter, nodding. Joel’s hand strokes along the side of your head, and you peer up at him with a slack smile, finding that he’s giving you one back. 

He comes down to your level, kissing your forehead. “Best yet, maybe,” he says playfully, but you aren’t sure you feel like laughing.

“Maybe,” you ponder, watching Joel’s face morph into a more serious expression. He curls his fingers around your ear, tracing shapes along your hairline, your neck, your shoulders as you stay just as you are for a long, quiet moment. He guides you to sit up, silently handing you your discarded clothing, helping you dress as the mess of him slips down your thighs. You have the passing thought that maybe he has napkins in his glove box, but then decide you’d rather have the reminder of him.

Joel sits next to you on the edge of the truck bed again, and interlocks his hand with yours. “I - I’ve got a hotel, right on campus. I could take y’home, but I’d like if you came back w’me for the night.”

His words give you pause, a tiny inhaled breath as you go to speak, snapping your lips closed and looking down at your lap for a beat. “Is that a good idea?” You ask for so many reasons, knowing that Joel is as acutely aware of all of them - the worst being that the longer you spend together, the harder it is to come back to reality.

“It ain’t a bad one,” he rasps, sultry and rough, and you crack a tiny smile. Always persuasive and charming when he needs to be.

“It’s not,” you admit, looking into his inquiring gaze.

“W-well?” he asks, nudging your side. “Jus’ one more night. I hardly get to see you, an’ you can go in the mornin’.”

You know how the night will go. You’ll both think you’re there for the sex - to sweat and say dirty things and pant all over again until you both come so hard that it boggles your mind. You’ll convince yourself that’s all it is, until you end up staying up late - talking, laughing, held in the other's arms. Intertwined together, bodies naked and comfortable with the other, because you’ve been here before.

You’ll both find yourself wanting to shy away from that fact that more is there - a real connection, two people with unlikely similarities, that just… get the other. You’ll both get lost in it, until the sun shines the next morning and you have to pretend that it doesn’t exist, that it was some figment of the power that the night holds over a person’s emotions, those dark twilight hours taking over your minds.

But you’ll both know that isn’t true, and there is nothing you can do about it.

“Okay,” you tell him, knowing the fate you’re subjecting yourself to - one that’s as wonderful as it is confusing. It hurts at times, but the spectacular things this man makes you feel outweighs it all. It’s worth it, that pain, to be able to find one another time and time again, and maybe even dream of more someday.  “Let’s go.”

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