big-ooof

[big-ooof]

Come Closer

avoidant!jungwon x secure!reader

note: I felt good about Tuesday Night Confession (I still do!) but I got a comment about avoidant attachment and how they (@xoenhalover) related to Jungwon and if the reader was stable there wouldn't be any angst. They loved the drama but I still felt bad LOL so I had to get this off my chest. If you have thoughts or comments about any post, please share them with me. I don't bite... I'll just write about it hehe. sexual content 18+

The office is quiet, long past the time people usually go home. Most of the building’s fluorescent lights have gone dark. You don’t expect him to linger. Jungwon never does. But your shared project deadline is tomorrow, and neither of you have left the conference room since 7 PM. He sits across from you, shirt sleeves rolled up, brows furrowed as he reads through a report—but you can tell. He’s already halfway out the door in his mind. Again.

“You always do that,” you say, voice soft, not accusatory.

Jungwon looks up slowly. “Do what?”

“That thing where you look like you’re about to leave before anyone can ask you to stay.”

His pen stalls in his hand. There’s a pause—then a shrug. “It’s easier that way.”

You smile, just a little. “For who?”

He doesn’t answer.

This is the pattern. He flirts, but never long enough for it to mean something. He lingers, brushes past you a little too closely—but pulls away if you look his way too long.

Once, you touched his wrist in the breakroom and he stiffened like you hit a nerve. Not in disgust just like it made him feel something, and that was the problem. You’re interested in him but he’s avoidant. You know it and you’re not playing that game. But the thing is…he keeps coming back.

It’s not until a week later, after the project is done and the pressure is off, that it finally breaks. You're staying late again, this time for your own work, but he finds you in the empty office.

“Thought you went home,” you say, glancing up from your desk.

Jungwon shrugs, then closes the door behind him. “Didn’t feel like it.”

You nod, eyes returning to your screen.

And then he asks quietly: “Do you ever get tired of trying with people?”

The question catches you off guard. You turn to face him fully. He’s standing near your desk, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable—but there’s something behind his eyes. Something raw.

“Not really,” you say honestly. “Trying is easy. Leaving is harder.”

Jungwon exhales slowly. “You’re not afraid?”

“Of what?”

“Getting hurt.”

You pause, then stand. “No. I’ve been hurt before. It’s not the end of the world.”

He flinches like it’s too much. Like it’s too real. And that’s when you realize—you’re going to have to show him. You close the space between you slowly. He doesn’t move, just watches you like he’s waiting for you to change your mind.

“I’m not going to chase you,” you say quietly. “But if you want to stay… you can.”

He swallows hard. His breath catches. You don’t touch him—yet. You wait. And finally—finally—he leans in. Not a kiss, not yet, but his hands hover like he wants to reach for you and doesn’t know how.

So you make the first move. Your mouths meet softly at first, tentative. His lips are warm, but there’s tension in his shoulders, in his breath. Like he’s not used to being wanted like this. Not without a cost.

You don’t rush. You pull him gently to you, lead him to your desk, sit him down and straddle him. His hands find your waist, fingers pressing into your skin like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

“You’re allowed to want me,” you whisper against his neck.

That’s when he breaks. The kiss turns desperate. His mouth is hungry, tongue slick against yours, fingers fumbling to push your shirt up. When you guide his hand under your bra, he gasps like it’s the first time he’s ever been allowed to touch someone and mean it.

Clothes fall away piece by piece—your skirt hiked up, his pants unzipped. The desk creaks beneath you.

“You feel so good,” he groans, pushing into you slow, deep, like he wants to memorize the way you wrap around him.

Your nails drag across his shoulders. “You don’t have to run anymore.”

“I’m not—” he chokes on the words. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Later, when you’re curled together on the office couch—his head buried in your neck, his breath warm against your collarbone—he murmurs, “I never thought I would do this.”

You stroke his hair, gently. “Did you want this? You can be honest.”

His voice cracks. “God, yes. I just needed someone who wouldn’t let me hide.”

You press your lips to his temple. “I see you. Even when you pull away. I’ll still be here.”

He clutches you tighter. No words. Just trembling arms and quiet breaths. You both sit in silence for a moment. Your legs still draped over his, skin flushed, blouse halfway buttoned, his tie dangling uselessly off your wrist.

Jungwon’s thumb brushes lightly over your knee. “You… don’t have to go home alone,” he says quietly, without meeting your eyes.

You tilt your head. “Is that you asking me to come over?”

His gaze flickers to yours—nervous, soft. “It’s me trying.”

The ride to his apartment is quiet, but not tense. The kind of silence that feels like something’s been opened between you. Like he’s still processing that you saw him—really saw him—and didn’t run.

You watch him from the passenger seat. His hand rests on the gear shift. He doesn’t say much, but his pinky brushes yours occasionally. You feel it. That slight tremble under his skin—like he's scared you'll change your mind.

His place is minimalist. Clean. A little too clean. There are no personal photos. No clutter. No warmth. “I don’t really bring people here,” he mutters, locking the door behind you.

“I figured.” You toe off your shoes, walk inside slowly— like he’s letting you into more than just his apartment. Because he is.

You turn to face him. “Jungwon.” He looks at you like he’s bracing for rejection. But you just smile, gentle. “Thanks for trusting me.” He exhales like he’s been holding it in for years.

You don’t rush. You move slowly. Help him out of his coat. Let your fingers linger on his shoulders, just long enough for him to lean into it. “Come here,” you murmur.

He kisses you softer this time. Not desperate—just present. When you make it to the bed, he’s already trembling under your touch. Not from nerves—from want. You ease him onto the mattress, straddle him again, and guide him in with a slow grind of your hips. His hands clutch your waist like you’re grounding him.

“This okay?” you whisper, brushing hair from his eyes.

He nods. “I just… I didn’t know it could feel like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m allowed to want this... and someone still wants me.”

Your heart squeezes. “You’re not hard to love, Jungwon. You just never believed it.”

His hips stutter beneath you. He cums with a soft groan and a trembling kiss to your shoulder, clutching you to his chest like he’ll fall apart if you move.

Aftercare is quiet. Intimate. Real. He brings you water. An oversized shirt to sleep in. He kisses your forehead without realizing it. And when you finally crawl under the covers together, he doesn't turn his back. He stays facing you. Eyes open, hand resting on your waist.

“You’re still here,” he says softly.

“So are you,” you smile.

In the morning, you wake up first. It’s still dim—the kind of early morning haze where time doesn’t feel real—and the only sound in the room is Jungwon’s slow, even breathing. He’s curled into your side, one arm draped around your waist, his cheek pressed against your shoulder like it belongs there.

It’s the calmest you’ve ever seen him. But when his breath stutters and his lashes flutter open a few minutes later, you feel the shift immediately.

His arm tightens around your waist, then abruptly releases. His body stiffens. His eyes scan the room like he doesn’t recognize it.

“Hey,” you whisper, hand smoothing down his back.

He flinches—barely, but you feel it. “Sorry,” he says too quickly. “I didn’t mean to—uh—hold on to you like that.”

You stay still. “You don’t have to apologize.”

Jungwon swallows hard, then pulls back. Not all the way—just enough to sit up on the edge of the bed, feet touching the floor, hands in his lap like a nervous schoolboy.

“This is…a lot,” he mutters, staring at the carpet.

You sit up slowly. “I know.”

He glances over his shoulder. “Do you?”

You nod. “I know what it’s like to wake up and not know if you’re still safe. If it was a mistake. If you’re too close.”

His jaw tightens. “Yeah. That.”

You wait a beat—then add softly: “But it wasn’t a mistake. And you’re not too close. You’re right where you’re supposed to be.”

He breathes in sharply, like that hurts more than if you’d pushed him away. “I don’t know how to do this,” he admits, voice low. “I don’t know how to be… held.”

You rise to your knees behind him, arms looping gently around his waist. He tenses. Then breathes. “You don’t have to know,” you murmur against his back. “You just have to try. I’ll meet you halfway.” You feel the way his spine slowly relaxes into your chest. A pause.

Then, in the smallest voice: “Can you stay a little longer?”

You smile, nose brushing his shoulder. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”

As the morning progresses, he’s still quiet—but different now. Not distant. Just… learning.

You brush your teeth together in silence. He lets you wear his hoodie and you catch him watching you as you pull it over your head. When you ask what he’s thinking, he just says: “You look like you belong here.”

You look at him over the rim of your mug. “I do.”

And he believes you… maybe for the first time.

[big-ooof]

Jake x f!reader

note: This one was a journey. Strangers, lovers, parents. A proper dad!Jake pairing, uncle!Jake was still hot though. sexual content 18+

The hum of the fan was the loudest thing in the studio that afternoon, spinning lazily overhead as sun filtered through the tall windows, painting long golden strokes across your unfinished canvas. You didn’t hear the door open until Ni-Ki called your name.

“Yo, we brought iced coffee,” he grinned, stepping in with his usual loud energy, dragging in someone behind him. Jake.

He smiled shyly, a little caught off guard by the scent of paint, turpentine, and lemon scented soap that clung to the space. He wasn’t supposed to come today. He wasn’t even supposed to stay long. But the moment his eyes found you—your smudged hands, tank top clinging to your skin from the heat, a pencil behind your ear—he kind of wanted to. Wanted to see what this quiet world of yours felt like. Away from everyone else.

Two weeks later, Jake came back again. This time without Ni-Ki. Just said he was “in the area”— but he wasn’t. You both knew it. And you didn’t question it. You handed him a brush, your fingers brushing his, and something about the way he didn’t flinch, didn’t overthink it… made something shift.

“It’s peaceful here,” he murmured one day, lying on your old couch, watching you sketch with charcoal under the open window.

You smirked softly. “Most people get bored.”

“Most people aren’t watching you.”

His words lingered in the hot air, and for a long beat, neither of you said anything. He didn’t take it back, and you didn’t push him away.

The intimacy came slow and not necessarily in a sexual way. But in the way Jake would silently bring you extra brushes without asking. In how he learned to read your moods by the pressure of your strokes on canvas. In the way you didn’t need music or filler words when he was there.

He started showing you his own sketches. Messy, unsure ones. He’d sit beside you, close enough that your knees would touch, and you’d both draw the same still life. A shared rhythm in silence.

One night, when the sky turned violet and the summer heat gave way to a cool breeze, you both stayed in the studio too long. You had paint on your neck. Jake reached out and wiped it off with his thumb. But he didn’t pull back. Just kept looking.

You whispered, “You always look at me like I’m something you don’t want to ruin.”

Jake’s voice was low. “Because you are.” He leaned in and kissed you. Slow, reverent. Like a breath between thoughts.

One day your phone buzzed nonstop. You didn’t pick up or respond. It was your ex.

He eventually showed up in person—outside your building. Uninvited, hovering like a shadow, all apologies and veiled threats. You didn’t even know Jake was nearby when it happened. You just heard his voice, calm but firm, stepping between you and the unwanted memory of someone you once loved.

“She said no,” Jake said, jaw clenched. “You’re not welcome here.”

The guy scoffed. “Who are you to her?”

Jake didn’t even blink. “The guy who actually respects her.”

You didn’t cry that night. But Jake saw the fear behind your steady face. The way your hands trembled when you tried to keep painting. He didn’t ask questions. Just stood behind you, wrapped his arms around your waist, and rested his chin on your shoulder.

“You’re safe,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

You leaned into him. For the first time in a long while, you believed it.

When you had sex, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was slow, molten, and honest. You kissed on the paint-stained floor of your studio, sun-drenched and breathless. Jake’s hands skimmed under your tank top like he was learning you—mapping each inch with reverence.

“You okay?” he murmured, hovering over you, his fingers trailing along your ribs.

You nodded, lips parted. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He pressed inside you slowly, your legs around his waist, your breath caught between a gasp and a moan. You both moved together like it was instinctual—like you’d been waiting all summer for this exact moment.

Jake’s forehead touched yours, and he whispered your name like a secret only he was allowed to know. When you came, it wasn’t loud. It was quiet, full-body shivers and soft cries, your fingers gripping his back, your body melting into his like you belonged there. He held you after. Traced invisible lines on your bare shoulder. Pressed a kiss to your neck like a promise.

After that, things didn’t go back to normal. They got better. Jake still came to the studio, still brought you coffee, still kissed your shoulder while you painted. But now he stayed later. Sometimes, all night.

You started drawing him more. Jake, with sleepy eyes and messy hair, shirtless in the sheets of your makeshift bed. Jake, laughing with paint on his cheek. Jake, watching you with that same look—the one that said you were something he’d never take for granted.

A couple nights after your ex showed up, you thought you were fine but you couldn’t sleep. Even with Jake holding you close on the studio couch, your thoughts kept racing. You felt trapped inside your own world—colors you once found comfort in now felt claustrophobic. Your canvas stared back blank and cold.

Jake felt you shift, your chest tight against his as you tried to breathe through it. “Let’s go,” he whispered against your temple, voice sleep-rough.

You blinked. “Go where?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere he can’t follow.”

By morning, your bag was packed with just the essentials—sketchbook, a few clothes, the playlist you always kept for late nights. Jake’s SUV hummed gently as you pulled out of the city. No destination. Just open road and summer stars.

He glanced over at you from the driver’s seat, hand reaching to squeeze your thigh. “We’ll find a place with no signal and too much sun.”

You smiled for the first time all day.

You ended up at a little lake town you’d never heard of—just green hills, wooden cabins, and a crooked sign that said Welcome. Jake found a tiny roadside motel with a single room, a soft bed, and nothing else but the sound of crickets outside.

You both collapsed onto the sheets, limbs tangled, bodies warm from the drive and the silence.

“I feel like I can breathe again,” you whispered, looking up at the wooden ceiling.

Jake turned toward you, eyes soft. “You never have to let anything unwanted into your head. Not ever.”

Your breath caught. “You make it easy to forget everything else.”

He kissed you slow, as if it was a question. His fingers brushed your cheek, thumb tracing your bottom lip.

“I want you,” you whispered, voice small but sure.

Jake nodded, climbing over you, his weight grounding you into the mattress. His lips moved gently at first—soft, reassuring. But as your hands slipped under his shirt, dragging it off his body, he exhaled a shaky breath. His mouth found your neck, kissing and tasting, fingers dragging down the hem of your top.

“Off,” you murmured, already lifting it, revealing your bare chest.

Jake swore under his breath, eyes devouring you. “God, you’re beautiful.”

His mouth wrapped around your nipple, warm and slow, while his hand palmed your breast. He sucked softly, switching sides, tongue teasing until your back arched beneath him.

Then he kissed down your belly, tugging your shorts off in one smooth pull. His mouth hovered over your center, breath warm against your core.

“You’re shaking,” he said quietly, kissing the inside of your thigh. “You sure?”

“I want to feel something that’s real,” you whispered.

His eyes met yours. “I got you.”

Jake’s mouth was devastating in the best way possible. Soft licks between your folds, then slow, focused pressure against your clit. You whimpered, fingers threading into his hair. He moaned into you—loudly—when you tugged.

He gripped your thighs tighter, holding you open as his tongue circled and flicked with maddening patience. He didn’t rush—just learned you with every passing second, pausing only to say: “Fuck, baby, you taste so good.”

When you came, your hips bucked up into his mouth, thighs squeezing around his head. Jake didn’t stop until your body trembled, aftershocks fluttering through you like waves. He climbed back up slowly, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your lips—his face wet with you.

“Condom?” he asked breathlessly.

You nodded, barely able to speak, reaching into your bag.

Moments later, he was pushing into you, slow and thick, his mouth open in a gasp. “God,” he groaned, hips sinking deep, “you feel like you were made for me.”

You couldn’t speak—only moan his name as he started to move, hips grinding into yours with a rhythm that made the headboard thump against the wall. Jake wasn’t rough. He was deep. Deliberate. Every thrust felt like a promise, his hand gripping yours against the pillow.

“So good for me,” he breathed, panting. “So fucking perfect.”

You kissed him hard, nails digging into his back. When your second orgasm hit, it pulled him with you. He spilled into the condom with a guttural groan, collapsing on top of you, chest heaving.

Later, you lay tangled in the sheets, your head on his bare chest. He played with your hair absentmindedly, still catching his breath.

“Let’s stay one more night,” you said quietly.

Jake smiled. “Let’s stay all week.”

The next morning, he was watching you like you were the only painting he’d ever want to study. You woke to his fingers tracing circles on your spine, the sound of lake birds outside, and a croaky, “You drooled on me.”

You groaned into the pillow. “Shut up.”

He laughed, kissed your shoulder. “Still hot though.”

You smacked his chest. He caught your wrist and kissed your knuckles like he meant it.

When you returned home, your ex was long gone. And Jake? He stayed… in your studio. In your bed. In the quiet hours when you finally felt safe again. Your studio smelled like citrus and stretched canvas again.

The trauma, the dread—it had faded. Or at least, Jake helped dilute it. He was always there, folding himself into your quiet like he belonged.

“You should paint me,” Jake said one afternoon, shirt off, sprawled lazily across the couch. “Y’know. For inspiration.”

You raised an eyebrow over your sketchpad. “Oh? You suddenly think you’re muse material?”

He stretched, arms behind his head, torso flexing as if he knew what he was doing. “Come on, babe. I’ve been good. I deserve to be immortalized.”

You smirked, biting your pencil. “Fine. Take your shirt off.”

Jake’s eyes widened. “…wait, are you serious?”

Ten minutes later, Jake sat on a stool in front of you, wearing nothing but gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips and the cockiest smirk you’d ever seen. Sunlight cast warm shadows across his golden skin, hair still damp from a quick shower.

You stood with a brush in hand, eyeing him like prey. “You’re fidgeting,” you muttered, trying to keep your cool.

“Sorry,” he said, resting a hand over his thigh. “I just—your staring is kinda turning me on.”

You snorted. “That’s literally the point, Jake.”

But even you weren’t immune. The soft curve of his lips. The definition of his collarbones. The way he kept flexing his abs just enough to make you stare too long.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he murmured.

Your gaze lingered on the curve of his hip, the V-line dipping below the waistband. “I’m thinking,” you said, voice low, “about what it would feel like if I left brushstrokes all over you. In places no one else gets to see.”

Jake’s breath hitched—just a little.

Soon, you were no longer painting. Jake had pulled you into his lap, your hands still streaked with paint. His fingers gripped your waist as you ground against him, your lips swollen from messy kisses, your tank top pushed up over your chest.

“I want you right here,” you whispered against his ear, rocking your hips. “Right in the middle of this fucking studio.”

Jake’s head fell back with a groan. “You’re killing me.”

You palmed him over his sweatpants, then slipped your hand inside, finding him already hard and leaking. “You said you wanted to be immortalized. And I want to paint a specific version of you.”

He let out a broken laugh, but it ended in a moan as you sank to your knees in front of him. You took him in your mouth slowly.

“Fuck—baby,” he choked out, watching you from above, one hand gripping the stool, the other tangled in your hair.

You took him deeper in your mouth, your eyes never leaving his. He looked dazed— his pretty lips parted, abs tightening each time your tongue flicked under the head.

“You’re unreal,” he panted. “You’re so fucking perfect—look at you on your knees like that.”

You pulled back, lips slick, stroking him lazily. “You look even better when you’re falling apart for me.”

He lifted you onto the table, pushing aside the palette with one hand while the other shoved your shorts down your thighs.

“I need to be inside you,” he growled. “Right now.”

“Condom—” you gasped.

“Already in my pocket.” He grinned, tearing it open, eyes still locked on you. He rolled it on with practiced ease, then dragged the head of his cock through your folds. “You ready for me, baby?” he murmured against your jaw, his fingers teasing your clit.

“Always,” you whispered.

He sank into you in one long, slow thrust, both of you gasping as he bottomed out.

“Jesus—tight,” he groaned.

You clung to his shoulders, legs wrapped around his waist as he started to move—deep and fluid, pushing you back against the table with every thrust. Paint smudges ended up on your thighs, your hip, his back. Neither of you cared.

“You feel so good,” he panted. “So fucking perfect wrapped around me.”

You kissed him hard, moaning into his mouth as his rhythm picked up—harder now, filthier. You bit his lip and he grinned, breathless.

“Claim me,” you whispered. “Like I belong to you.”

Jake growled low in his throat, pushing you flat against the table. “You do. Ever since the first day I walked into this studio.”

You came with your name on his lips, his hand tight on your throat—not choking, just holding. Grounding. Possessive. He followed soon after, shuddering above you, panting, forehead pressed to yours. “I wish we could fuckin’ frame this moment,” he muttered, smiling against your mouth.

Later, you painted a fresh canvas. Jake laid across the couch, now completely bare, lazy and drowsy in the golden hour light. This time, you didn’t rush the brushstrokes. You traced his body slowly. Carefully. As if you already knew you’d never need another muse again.

You participated in an art show the following Saturday. The gallery buzzed softly, the murmur of voices blending with the clink of glasses and the muted shuffle of expensive shoes on hardwood. Framed canvases lined the whitewashed walls, and under the amber glow of track lighting—your name hung proudly on a title card near the entrance.

And somewhere, just near the back wall, Jake was staring at your self-portrait of him—the one you swore you’d never actually display. You knew he recognized it instantly: the tilt of his neck, the soft light across his bare chest, the way his eyes were captured in half-shadow. His ears were red. You smirked from across the room.

“Subtle,” Ni-Ki whispered beside you, sipping champagne with an infuriating grin. “You really hung the ‘Jake-fucks-me-good’ painting dead center?”

You elbowed him, but you were laughing. “It’s art. You wouldn’t understand.”

Ni-Ki hummed. “No, I do. I introduced you two, remember? I facilitated this sexual renaissance. Honestly, I should get a finder’s fee.”

You rolled your eyes, but he wasn’t wrong. If Ni-Ki hadn’t dragged Jake into your studio that first day… Well. You probably wouldn’t be wearing Jake’s shirt under your spaghetti strap slip dress right now.

Jake found you after ten minutes of mingling, wine in hand, gaze locked on yours like you were the only thing in the room worth looking at.

“You’re glowing,” he said, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “And I can’t stop staring at that painting.”

“I thought you might,” you teased, sipping from his glass. “I considered naming it Muse With a God Complex.”

He huffed out a laugh. “That’s rude.”

“I thought it was accurate.”

Jake leaned closer, mouth brushing your ear. “You do realize every guy here is staring at you, right?”

You arched a brow. “And you don’t like that?”

“No,” he said easily, hand sliding to your lower back. “I really don’t.”

Later, while people continued to drift through the gallery and Ni-Ki made himself far too comfortable charming a group of art students, a tall man you vaguely remembered from undergrad approached—smug smile, hands buried in his blazer pockets.

“I knew it,” he said. “That self-portrait piece? It’s…god, it’s intimate. That guy your model or your boyfriend?”

Jake appeared at your side fast—hand immediately settling on your waist.

“Painting just any model isn’t really her thing,” Jake said, voice casual, eyes sharp. “She’s quite selective when it comes to people she paints naked.”

You smothered a laugh behind your wine glass. The guy blinked, flushed, and muttered something about champagne before disappearing.

Jake turned to you, smirking. “Sorry. Was that too much?”

You shook your head, wrapping your arm around his waist. “No. I loved it.”

Back at home, you didn’t even make it past the kitchen. Jake had you pressed up against the counter, dress rucked up to your hips, his mouth locked to your neck. “You wore my shirt to the show,” he murmured, dragging his fingers under the hem of your dress. “You like letting people know you’re mine?”

“Mm, I just like reminding you,” you gasped.

Jake dropped to his knees, tugging your underwear down with practiced ease. “I’ve never needed a reminder, baby. But I’ll return the favor.”

He ate you out like it was a reward for good behavior. His tongue was slow, reverent, almost teasing at first. Then—firm strokes, lips sealed over your clit, two fingers curling up inside you. You were unraveling in seconds, gripping the counter with white knuckles, trying not to scream.

“You looked so fucking hot tonight,” he muttered between licks. “Letting everyone see you in your element. Proud of you, babe. So fucking proud.”

You came hard—legs shaking, head thrown back, mouth open in a silent moan. Jake stood, caught your lips in a filthy kiss, and lifted you onto the counter.

You pulled him in by the collar, eyes still dazed. “Need you inside me.”

He didn’t hesitate. He slid in with one slow thrust, both of you groaning at the stretch. “Fuck,” he panted, “I’ll never get used to how perfect you feel.”

You wrapped your legs around him, dragging him deeper. “Then don’t. Just keep proving it.”

And he did. Hard thrusts, your moans echoing off the kitchen walls, the sound of skin on skin drowned only by the words he poured into your neck: “My girl.” “My fucking girl.” “Mine, always.”

After, you both collapsed on the living room floor, breathless and tangled, his hand tracing lazy patterns over your thigh.

It had been a year and some change since that first kiss in your studio. You were still painting—now with gallery reps asking for exclusives, features, even a coffee table book. Jake was always there, quietly moving things behind the scenes, like a shadow of support you didn’t realize you needed until you had it.

You had a rhythm now. Shared groceries, mixed playlists, a spare key he never used because he knew the door would be unlocked for him. He helped stretch your canvases. You let him put his cold feet on you in bed. This was home.

So when your period was late—by almost a week—it didn’t initially freak you out. You were stressed. Painting nonstop. Probably dehydrated. It was nothing. Until it wasn’t.

You sat on the bathroom floor, the test box torn open beside you. The stick balanced on the edge of the tub, ticking down from three minutes. You didn’t even hear Jake come in until he crouched beside you, sleepy in sweats, rubbing his eyes.

“Babe?” he asked gently, gaze flicking to the test, then to your face. “What’s going on?”

Your throat tightened. “I—I might be pregnant.”

Silence. Then Jake blinked slowly. “Okay.”

“…Okay?”

He smiled, soft and a little dazed. “Yeah. I mean… do you want to be?”

Tears pricked your eyes. “I don’t know. I wasn’t planning on this. We’re not exactly—prepared.”

He nodded, pressing his forehead to yours. “We weren’t exactly prepared to fall in love, either. But we handled that pretty fucking well.”

The test was negative. You both stared at it for a long moment before exhaling at the same time. You didn’t know what you were feeling. Relieved? Confused? Disappointed? Jake read it all on your face.

“Come here,” he whispered, pulling you into his arms. You curled into his lap, letting yourself feel whatever wanted to come up.

“I think I panicked,” you said softly. “But now… I’m kind of… sad?”

Jake kissed your temple. “That’s not crazy. We’re happy. And happy people think about forever.”

Your voice cracked. “Would you have been scared?”

He smiled, thumb brushing your cheek. “Yes. And I still would’ve been all in.”

That night, he touched you like you were already something he wanted to protect. Like maybe the test was wrong. Like maybe something had already changed. You laid back against the pillows, naked under him, his lips moving down your chest, whispering praises with every inch of skin he worshiped.

“You’d be such a good mom,” he murmured, kissing your belly. “Smart. Kind. So fucking strong.”

You swallowed a moan. “Don’t say that unless you’re ready to start trying.”

Jake’s eyes locked on yours. “I’m not saying we have to. But I’d never run from that with you.”

You pulled him up to kiss you, needy and aching now. “Then show me how it would feel.”

Jake made love to you slow. Not the playful kind, not the rough kind either—but the kind where he kept whispering your name, where he kissed you when you came, where he held your hand as he pushed in deep and didn’t let go until you were both wrecked and glowing.

When he came, he stayed inside you for a moment, forehead to yours, both of you sweaty and full of something bigger than lust.

“You’re it for me,” he whispered. “Test or no test. This is real.”

You nodded, chest tight, tears prickling again. “I know.”

A week later, you caught him staring at you again—this time from across the kitchen, while you made coffee in one of his oversized T-shirts. He came up behind you, arms around your waist.

“You ever think about it?” he murmured. “Us. A little kid running around. One who paints on the walls and wears my shoes.”

You turned in his arms, eyes wide. “Jake…”

He smiled. “I’m not rushing. Just saying… if it ever does happen, I’d be the happiest guy in the world.”

You kissed him. Soft. Certain. “Maybe we should stop being careful,” you said quietly. “You know, eventually.”

Jake smirked, already lifting you onto the counter. “You say ‘eventually’ like I’m not about to make it happen right now.”

You finally accept Jake’s mom’s offer to visit them. His childhood home was warm in a way that made your chest ache. Not because it was perfect—it wasn’t. There were the slightly squeaky floorboards, the mismatched mugs in the cupboard, the framed school photos in the hallway that hadn’t been straightened in years.

But it was full. With love. With memory. With the kind of softness you realized you’d spent most of your life craving and never quite got. His mom greeted you with the tightest hug and a tray of fresh fruit. His dad gave you a wide smile and a handshake that turned into a warm pat on the back. Even the dog curled up at your feet like you’d always belonged.

“You okay?” Jake murmured that first night, as you sat on the edge of his childhood bed, slowly taking in the posters, the faded desk, the string lights he swore his mom had put up “without asking.”

You nodded. But your voice was quiet. “It’s just… this house. It feels like home.”

Jake studied you for a second, then pulled you into his arms, pressing his lips to your temple. “You are home, babe. Wherever we go, wherever we land—you’ll always have this.”

You bit your lip. “You don’t know what that means to me.”

“I do,” he whispered. “I feel it every time you look at me like that.”

That night, you lay awake beside him, tangled in old sheets and newer dreams. His room was small. The mattress was barely a double. But his hand was splayed across your lower belly, warm and firm, holding you there like an anchor.

“I want this,” you whispered into the dark. “One day. A home like this. A family. With you.”

Jake stirred, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Yeah?”

You turned to face him. “I didn’t always think I’d have it. But now… it’s all I want.”

He smiled, slow and soft, brushing a hand along your jaw. “Then we’ll build it. From the ground up. Just us.”

You made love to him quietly, under his old ceiling fan, under layers of whispered promises and faded linens. Jake moved slow, one hand braced beside your head, the other trailing your body like it was holy.

“I love you,” he murmured. “Love you so fucking much.”

You arched into him, breath catching. “Want to feel you. All of you.”

He understood. No rush. No noise. Just the way he filled you, steady and deep, your bodies fitting like they’d done this in a thousand lifetimes before.

Your legs wrapped around his waist. His forehead pressed to yours. You whispered his name when you came, and he let go right after, shaking with it, like the truth had shattered something open inside him.

The next morning, Jake made breakfast in the kitchen while his mom offered to pull out old photo albums. You laughed at pictures of tiny Jake in swim goggles, at the missing front teeth, the crooked tie at his first school dance.

He leaned over your shoulder, grinning. “You think our kid’s gonna get my hair or yours?”

Your heart flipped. You just smiled and whispered, “I don’t know, but our kid is gonna be so loved.” You didn’t say “hopefully.” You didn’t say “if.”

Jake kissed you in front of his mom and held you after. Neither of you let go.

Ni-Ki was on emergency uncle duty when he got a call for an audition. You and Jake agreed to cover for him. He swung open the door of your apartment with a diaper bag in one hand and a squirming toddler balanced precariously on his hip.

“She’s teething,” he announced, exasperated, “and has only eaten banana puffs and rage for two days straight. I’m not kidding. She threw a sippy cup at me and called me ‘duh-duh’. I’m not even a dad.”

You bit back a smile as the toddler—chubby-cheeked, curly-haired, and sticky-fingered—perked up when she saw you.

“Hi, little bean,” you cooed, reaching out as Ni-Ki handed her over with zero hesitation.

Jake, standing just behind you, looked slightly terrified and completely smitten. “She’s… adorable.”

“Liar,” Ni-Ki muttered, fishing out a stuffed giraffe from the diaper bag. “Anyway, have fun. I’ll be back in three hours. Or maybe tomorrow. Depends on if she bites me again.”

Two hours later, your living room looked like a war zone. Plushies everywhere. A blanket fort half-collapsed over the coffee table. Jake’s shirt had a smear of banana puree near the hem, and your hair was slightly wet from an impromptu bath in the kitchen sink.

But when you looked over at Jake—on the floor with the baby in his lap, gently showing her how to stack wooden blocks—you felt it. Sharp and warm. Baby fever. Full-blown. No recovery.

You sat beside him, letting your head rest on his shoulder. “She loves you,” you murmured.

Jake smiled, distracted by the giggling toddler now using his chest as a trampoline. “I think she just likes my hair.”

You turned to him, watching the way he held her, so naturally, so easily. “Jake?”

“Yeah?”

“I’d have a hundred of them with you.”

He blinked. Then—slow grin, a soft pink brushing his cheeks. “Just a hundred?”

You smacked his thigh. “I’m being serious.”

Jake shifted the baby to his lap and met your eyes fully. “So am I.”

When Ni-Ki returned, you were curled up on the couch, the baby fast asleep on Jake’s chest, your hand tucked in his. Ni-Ki paused. “Okay, weirdly emotional. Gross.”

You didn’t even glare—just smiled. “She’s so lucky,” you whispered, helping gently lift her to her carrier.

Ni-Ki arched a brow. “You’re crying over a two-year-old covered in applesauce. You need help.”

Jake just laughed and rubbed your back. “She’s got it bad.”

Later that night, after you’d cleaned the last of the mushed crackers off your floor, Jake cornered you in the hallway, his voice low, his hands warm on your hips. “You weren’t kidding earlier, right?”

You looked up at him, heart thudding. “About what?”

He kissed you once. Soft. “The baby thing.”

You swallowed, heat curling in your stomach. “No. I meant it.”

Jake’s hands slid under your shirt, fingers gentle, reverent. “Then maybe,” he said, pressing you to the wall, “we should try again. No condom, just to see.”

He took you slow, like it meant something more than just sex. Like it was the beginning of a promise. A future. A home with more laughter, more love, more tiny banana-sticky hands.

When he came, deep inside you, he held you close and whispered: “We’re gonna be so good at this.”

It started with a Sunday trip to the flea market. You had no reason to be there, really. Not until Jake stopped in front of a hand-painted wooden cradle and smiled like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“That looks like something you'd paint,” he said, running his hand across the smooth edge. “If we had a nursery.”

You tried not to make it obvious that your ovaries had just exploded. “…Nursery, huh?” you said carefully, pretending to browse.

Jake looked up at you, smiling shyly. “I mean… it doesn’t hurt to start planning.”

You blinked. “Planning?”

He stepped closer. “We said eventually, didn’t we? Maybe we should start looking at houses that aren’t one-bedroom with paint stains in the kitchen.”

You elbowed him lightly. “That’s your fault. You dropped a whole pizza face-down while I was varnishing.”

He grinned. “Domestic disaster. But you still love me.”

You bit your lip. “Yeah… you’re not wrong.”

Nausea knows no mercy. It came out of nowhere. Sharp, sudden. You barely made it to the bathroom, dropping your phone on the hallway rug as you bolted. Jake followed instantly.

“Baby?” he called softly, voice getting closer. “Hey—what’s going on?”

You groaned from your place kneeling by the toilet, flushed and clammy. Jake knelt behind you, sweeping your hair back and rubbing small, slow circles into your back. “That came on fast. What did we eat?”

You didn’t answer at first. Just let your forehead rest on your arm, breathing through the wave.

“…You okay?”

You turned slowly to look at him, and the words left your mouth before you could stop them. “I think I’m pregnant.”

Jake stilled. The only sound in the room was the fan humming gently above. Then, without missing a beat, he nodded. “Okay.”

You blinked. “Okay?”

Jake leaned in, thumb brushing your cheek. “I mean, it makes sense. You’ve been emotional over every baby commercial this week. And we haven’t exactly been… careful.”

“…Jake.”

He smiled, just a little breathless. “Say it again.”

Your heart fluttered. “I think I’m pregnant.”

He exhaled like the air had left his lungs in the best way. “God, I hope you are.”

That night, he touched you like the words still hadn’t worn off. He carried you to bed after you showered, curled you in his lap like something soft and precious, and held your hips steady as he sank into you slow and deep.

“You’re glowing already,” he whispered into your neck. “Even when you’re sick.”

You gasped his name, arms wrapping tight around his shoulders.

“If you are,” he murmured, rocking his hips in that way that always made your legs tremble, “then I’m gonna spend every day proving how lucky I am.”

You cried out softly, pleasure building. “Jake—”

“I’ll take care of you,” he promised. “Of both of you. Every single day.”

When you came, he didn’t stop—just chased his own release with breathless devotion, finishing inside you with a groan and a kiss pressed against your heart.

Afterward, you curled into his chest, his hand already stroking gently over your stomach. “You know,” you whispered, eyes fluttering shut, “I think I want that little cradle.”

Jake smiled into your hair. “Yeah? Let’s go get it next weekend.”

The sun was pouring through the open studio windows, the scent of citrus candles and turpentine in the air. You were barefoot in one of Jake’s old college t-shirts, brush between your fingers, a streak of pale yellow across your cheek.

The canvas in front of you wasn’t a commission, not even an abstract. It was just something warm. Hopeful. Something you could hang above a crib, maybe.

You heard the front door shut, then keys drop into the dish by the counter. Jake’s footsteps padded softly into the kitchen, then stilled. “Babe?” he called. “Why’s there a literal pile of lemons on the counter?”

You smiled, still painting. “They made me feel better.”

He stepped into the doorway and blinked at you—hair damp from a morning shower, in sweats and a hoodie, like the man of your dreams accidentally wandered out of a Pinterest board.

Jake crossed the room slowly, eyes soft. “You okay? Still nauseous?”

You set your brush down and turned to face him. Your heart beat faster as you reached into the pocket of his hoodie you’d been wearing earlier. The test. Tucked neatly into your hand. “I took another one,” you said quietly. “Just to be sure.”

Jake froze. You held it out. He looked down at the little white stick. Then at you. Then back at the test. Two pink lines. Clear. Bold. Unmistakable.

Jake’s eyes went wide. His hands trembled a little as he reached for you. “You’re…?” His voice cracked.

You nodded, smiling even as your eyes brimmed. “I’m really pregnant.”

For a heartbeat, he didn’t say anything. Then— Jake dropped to his knees. Right there in the studio, surrounded by open paint tubes and your lemon pile and all the love you’d built in this little shared space, he pressed both hands to your hips and kissed your belly. Over and over.

You ran your fingers through his hair, laughing through your tears. “Holy shit,” he whispered. “I’m gonna be a dad.”

You cupped his face. “You’re gonna be the best one.”

He stood slowly, hands trembling, kissing your cheeks, your lips, your forehead like he couldn’t get enough. Then he pulled back just slightly. “I have to tell the guys. Immediately.”

The guy’s group chat: Jake: Emergency FaceTime. I’m not dying, I swear. Ni-Ki: If you made another painting and claiming it a masterpiece I’m blocking you Sunoo: He’s gonna propose. I’m calling it. Heeseung: Better not be another dog adoption Jay: Can this be something discussed via text Jake: Just answer the call.

The screen lit up with faces. Jake turned the camera so it caught both your faces—his arm around you, the glow in your smile unmistakable.

Then he held up the test. And said, through the biggest grin you’d ever seen: “I’m gonna be a dad.”

The scream that followed nearly broke the speaker. “WHAT—” “YOU—” “JAKE—” “No f*cking way—” “HYUNG I’M CRYING—”

Ni-Ki dropped his snack. “Y/N, I knew you were nesting.”

Jungwon looked at the screen, jaw dropped. “You’re actually glowing. Both of you. Is that normal?”

Sunghoon covered his face. “I can’t—Jake as a dad??”

Heeseung shook his head but he was grinning, eyes a little red. “Dude… I’m so proud of you.”

Jake leaned into the camera, hand still on your belly. “I just wanted you guys to know first,” he said softly. “You guys are family. And now… we’re gonna be adding one more.”

Ni-Ki sniffled and covered it with a cough. “You better let me buy all their clothes.”

The bump wasn’t even that big yet—just a curve, low and soft under your sweatshirt. Barely noticeable. But to you, it might as well have been neon-lit. You stood in the mirror of your shared bedroom, bare legs and stretched tee, fingers hesitating at the hem.

You’d outgrown half your clothes this week. Your bras dug in where they hadn’t before. Your hips ached by mid-afternoon. And even though Jake told you every single day how beautiful you were— You didn’t feel it tonight.

You didn’t notice him come in until his arms were around you from behind, his voice low and warm in your ear. “Hey. You okay?”

You blinked at your reflection, trying to smile. “Yeah. Just… feeling weird.”

Jake looked at you through the mirror, his chin resting on your shoulder. “Talk to me.”

You hesitated. “I just… don’t feel sexy right now.”

His brows lifted—concerned, not surprised. “Baby,” he murmured, turning you slowly to face him. “You’re literally carrying our child. You are the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You laughed weakly. “You have to say that, you’re my boyfriend.”

“No,” he said, stepping close, eyes soft and steady. “I get to say that. Every day. For the rest of our lives.”

Then, without asking, he knelt. Right there in front of you. And pressed the gentlest kiss to the swell of your belly. “Thank you,” he whispered to your skin. “For doing this. For giving us this.”

Your throat went tight. “Jake—”

His hands slid up your thighs, under your oversized shirt, slowly, reverently. “I want to take care of you,” he murmured. “All of you.” He lay you back on the bed like something precious, easing your shirt off inch by inch, his eyes never leaving your face. “You’re changing,” he whispered, brushing his lips over your stomach. “And I love every version of you.” His kisses trailed upward, over your chest—his hands cupping your fuller breasts, thumbs gentle where you were sore. “You’re so sensitive here now, huh?”

You nodded, breath hitching. Jake smiled against your skin, then moved slowly, taking one nipple into his mouth—soft, patient, sucking just enough to make you gasp. “Jake,” you whimpered, hips arching.

“I’ve got you,” he promised, moving lower. His mouth between your thighs was worship. Not frantic, not rough—just soft licks and slow circles, his hands keeping your legs spread as you trembled beneath him.

You moaned, fingers tangling in his hair. “Please—Jake—”

He pulled back just enough to say: “You’re doing so much. Let me do this for you.”

You cried out when he pushed two fingers into you—slow, perfect, curling just right as his tongue kept its rhythm. When you came, it hit hard—waves of it, pulsing through your core as he held you down and made you take every last second.

He moved over you after, eyes blown wide, cock pressing hot against your slick folds. “You want me inside?” he asked, voice thick. “Want me to remind you what you are to me?”

You reached for him, desperate. “Yes. Please.”

Jake slid in slow—deep and stretching—and you both groaned at the feeling. He rocked into you gently, forehead pressed to yours. “I’ll always see you,” he whispered. “Always want you. Nothing about that changes.”

You cupped his cheek, tears pricking. “I love you so much.”

When you came again, his name left your lips like a prayer. He followed after, moaning into your mouth, his hips stuttering as he spilled into you. Afterward, he lay behind you, hand cradling your belly, lips at your shoulder.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he said, sleepily but certain.

You smiled into the pillow. For the first time that day, you believed it.

The house was quiet in that sacred, golden-hour kind of way. Just the clink of dishes drying, the rustle of a blanket being pulled up, and the sound of your feet padding down the hall in fuzzy socks Jake had bought you last month when your ankles started to swell. (“Therapeutic toe cloud socks,” the packaging had said. He’d bought three pairs.)

When you stepped into the living room, he was already there—laid out on the couch with one of the baby books Ni-Ki gifted you, his glasses sliding slightly down his nose, and his free hand resting absentmindedly on the bump you were growing together.

You paused in the doorway. Because it was still surreal sometimes. How right this all felt. Like the version of home you never realized you’d been missing until he helped you build it.

Jake looked up and smiled, slow and soft. “Hey, mama.”

Your heart flipped. “Hey, bookworm.”

He patted the space beside him, and you curled up instantly, your back to his chest, his legs on either side of yours. His arms came around you like instinct, warm and sure.

“What are we learning tonight?” you asked.

He flipped a page, squinting. “That the baby is the size of a mango this week, and their ears can hear everything now.”

You raised an eyebrow. “So… they’ve been listening to you narrate weird animal facts for three nights?”

Jake beamed. “Exactly. Our baby’s gonna be the coolest science fair winner ever.”

You snorted. “Or really confused when they think all wombs echo with trivia.”

Jake leaned in, kissed your neck. “Don’t worry. I’m working on a bedtime story that has plot.”

That night, you were propped up in bed, warm under three blankets, feet on a pillow, while Jake sat cross-legged beside you with a children’s book in hand.

He cleared his throat dramatically. “Okay, little mango. Storytime.”

You tried not to laugh.

“In a faraway land, there was a very tiny baby growing in the most beautiful, smart, brave woman in the entire universe—”

“Jake.”

“—who just so happened to be in love with the hottest narrator alive,” he added, winking.

You rolled your eyes, grinning as you stroked your bump absently. He read anyway, gentle and animated, pausing every so often to whisper something soft against your belly, like “you’re safe” or “we’re so ready for you”.

You closed your eyes. And in the quiet of that moment—with Jake’s voice, the steady weight of his hand on you, and the faint kicks fluttering just beneath your skin—you realized something: You’d never felt so completely loved. So known. So sure of everything ahead.

The next morning, you woke up to the smell of bacon and Jake singing quietly in the kitchen, his voice cracking adorably as he substituted words in a lullaby for your name. You padded in, wrapped in his hoodie, and found him cooking shirtless—apron tied loose around his waist, hair a mess, beaming at your bump like it told a joke.

You leaned in the doorway, dazed with affection. “You’re gonna be so annoying as a dad,” you whispered.

Jake turned around and kissed your temple. “You love it.”

You did. You really, really did.

You hadn’t realized how loud the world had been—until it wasn’t anymore. Just you, Jake, the ocean breeze, and a tiny coastal cottage with sun-warmed sheets and lemon trees outside the window. He booked the babymoon without even blinking.

“You’re carrying a human,” he said as he packed your softest sweaters and prenatal vitamins like a dad-on-duty. “You deserve a vacation with zero alarms, back rubs on demand, and no emails.”

You were five and a half months along. Tired more often than not. But with Jake? You felt weightless.

The beach was private, quiet, almost too beautiful to feel real. Jake held your hand the whole walk, careful with the sand, his other arm supporting your lower back when your steps slowed.

“You okay, baby?”

You nodded. “I just feel… full. But not in a bad way.”

He smiled, brushing a kiss to your forehead. “You’re glowing.”

You laughed. “That’s the sweat and SPF 50.”

“No,” he said softly, touching your bump. “It’s you. You’re… growing a human inside of you.”

You leaned into his chest and let the waves speak for both of you.

The cottage turned golden with candlelight at night, warm honey tones against wood floors and your slow-breathing bodies under linen sheets.

Jake rubbed your feet without needing to be asked, then traced lazy circles over your belly as he whispered to the baby: “You’re gonna love the nursery. Your mom picked the softest green paint. I mean, I tried to suggest space-themed wallpaper, but she said ‘absolutely not.’”

You giggled.

He glanced at you. “I’m not bitter. Just saying. Your dad is cool.”

You grinned, sleepily. “Your kid’s first word is gonna be ‘Jake’ from all this shameless self-promotion.”

Jake leaned down to kiss the curve of your belly. “And then ‘genius.’ Followed by ‘botanical green paint.’”

The real nesting kicked in when you got home. You stood barefoot in the nursery with a roller brush, sleeves stained pale sage, hair tied up, and a playlist humming from the speaker.

Jake came in holding snacks and gasped dramatically. “You started without me?”

You grinned over your shoulder. “Someone was too busy color-coding baby books by aesthetic.”

He held up a pack of mango gummies like a peace offering. “Okay but that was very important.”

He painted next to you in quiet focus, occasionally sneaking kisses to your shoulder and writing little messages on the wall with invisible ink (just white crayon under the paint). At one point, you caught him crouched in front of the crib, just staring at it.

You touched his back. “What are you thinking?”

He looked up, eyes shining in that way he got when he was overwhelmed with everything good. “That I can’t wait to meet them.”

You crouched beside him, your hand finding his. “That makes two of us.”

That night, after your second mango popsicle and a warm bath where Jake washed your hair like it was holy work, you lay in bed, listening to him whisper a list of things he wanted to teach the baby: How to swim. How to hold a pencil properly. How to spot the best dogs at the park. How to ask for help without feeling weak.

You turned, touched his cheek. “Do you think they’ll be like you?”

Jake smiled faintly. “I hope they’re like you.”

You kissed him slowly. “Maybe they’ll be lucky enough to be a little of both.”

The due date was two weeks away. And Jake… was losing his mind. Quietly. Lovingly. Beautifully. He didn’t say it aloud���not exactly. But the signs were there.

Like the way he’d repacked the hospital bag four times. Labeled everything in the freezer. Timed your breathing when you so much as sighed. Installed the car seat twice, just to be sure.

You watched him now, standing in the nursery at 11:47 PM, adjusting the mobile above the crib by millimeters. Again.

“Jake,” you said gently from the doorway, hands resting on your belly.

He jumped, like you’d caught him committing a crime. “I—I thought it looked crooked. Did it look crooked?”

You tilted your head. “It’s the third time you’ve fixed it tonight.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I know. I just…” He paused, the words caught in his chest. Then he sat down heavily in the rocker, face in his hands. You crossed the room slowly, lowering yourself into his lap. The curve of your belly slotted warm between you. Jake exhaled shakily, arms wrapping around your waist.

“I’m scared,” he said quietly. “I know I shouldn’t be, I know I’ve read every book, I’ve done the classes and the prep and—hell, I’ve got a spreadsheet for contractions—”

You smiled softly. “I’ve seen it.”

“But none of that’s gonna matter when it happens,” he said. “Not if I can’t help you. Or if something goes wrong. Or if you’re in pain and I can’t fix it.”

You threaded your fingers into his hair. “Jake.” He looked up at you, wide-eyed, boyish, vulnerable in a way only you ever got to see. You cupped his cheeks gently. “Do you want to know the truth?”

He nodded.

“You’ve already helped me. Every single day.” You kissed his forehead. “When I was nauseous for a month and couldn’t get out of bed—you were there.” You kissed his nose. “When I was scared about my body changing—you made me feel more beautiful than ever.” You kissed his lips. “And when I forgot what I was even capable of, you reminded me. Over and over.”

He was tearing up now, blinking rapidly. You pressed your forehead to his. “Jake… you’ve already been showing up as a dad. Even before they got here.”

He swallowed hard. “You really think I’m ready?”

You took his hand and placed it on your belly—right where a small kick greeted him. You both froze. Then Jake smiled through his tears, leaning forward to kiss your bump. “God, I’m so ready,” he whispered to them. “I’ve been ready since the first time I saw that test.”

You curled into him, his arms wrapping tightly around you. The crib was built. The hospital bag packed. The freezer full.

But more than anything— This. This was the real preparation. The love that steadied you both, no matter what came next.

[big-ooof]

Sunghoon x f!reader

You and Sunghoon grew up in the same neighborhood, always orbiting each other, never colliding. But when you’re both home for the summer—older, freer, a little lonelier—your paths finally intertwine in a haze of chlorine and late-night touches.

note: sexual content 18+

The summer felt floaty. Everything shimmered with that lazy, golden heat—the kind that blurred the edges of reality. The kind that made old feelings resurface like sweat beneath your bikini strap. Suburbia hadn't changed. The lawns were still perfectly trimmed. The sky still a mix of pink and blue at 8 PM. But he was different.

Sunghoon had always been the pretty boy two doors down, the one your friends whispered about during sleepovers. Ice-skater-turned-dancer-turned-somewhat-cryptic-heartthrob. You’d crossed paths a dozen times growing up—your parents were friends, you’d shared barbecues, Fourth of July fireworks, casual hellos. But he always felt out of reach.

Until now.

Now, he’s stretched out on a lawn chair by the pool, shirtless, damp hair curling slightly at his nape, tongue licking cherry Popsicle from his fingers. “You gonna keep staring or get in?” he asks lazily, not looking up.

“I’m not trying to melt,” you shoot back, but your voice wavers—because he is melting, heat pooling in your stomach just from looking at him.

“You could always cool off with me,” he offers, finally lifting his eyes. They’re unreadable behind his sunglasses, but there’s a grin twitching at the corner of his lips.

You slide your dress off slowly, standing in just your bathing suit. You don’t miss the way his gaze drops. Or the way he lets out a low breath.

The water is warm, the tension warmer. You float beside him under the fading sun, fingers brushing “accidentally” every few seconds.

“So, you’re back for the whole summer?” he murmurs, voice honey-slow.

“Maybe longer,” you say. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“On how fun it gets.”

He smirks. “You know, I always wondered…”

You tilt your head. “Hm?”

He swims closer, chest almost brushing yours. “What you tasted like.”

Your breath catches. “Wanna find out?”

His hand finds your waist under the water, skin electric on skin. “I think I might,” he whispers… then he kisses you. It's slow, exploratory, then hungrier. He presses you against the edge of the pool, mouth trailing to your jaw, down your neck. His hand slides beneath your swimsuit bottom, fingers brushing you just right, making your head fall back against the pool tiles.

“You always this sweet?” he murmurs against your throat.

“Are you going to keep asking or do something about it?”

He does something about it. You end up in the pool house, barely making it inside before clothes are gone and mouths find each other again.

Sunghoon is all soft grunts and rough fingertips, spreading your thighs open on the old lounge chair, licking you like a man starved. He eats you slow at first, then faster, holding your hips down when you start to buck. Your moans echo in the humid air, blending with the buzz of cicadas and a faint Dayglow track playing somewhere in the background.

When he finally slides into you, it’s skin on skin, sweat and sun and moaning into each other’s mouths. He fucks you slow, like he’s savoring it. Whispering things like “You feel like a dream,” and “Been wanting this since I was seventeen.”

You cum with your fingers tangled in his damp hair, thighs trembling, his name slipping from your lips like a secret.

Later, you're tangled together, his hand drawing lazy circles on your thigh. “You still wanna leave at the end of summer?” he asks, voice low.

You grin, eyes closed. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“On how many more pool days like this we have.”

The pool house air is thick. Not just with heat, but want. Time doesn’t move the way it should. Or maybe it just doesn’t matter. Not when Sunghoon is kissing down your body like he’s been thinking about it for years. Because maybe he has.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs as he kneels between your legs again, hair messy, skin glowing under the dim porch light filtering through the blinds. “You know that?”

You lift your hips to meet his mouth, breath stuttering. “Show me.”

He kisses you like he’s got all night—and he does. Like the summer was made for this. For you. For the slow drag of his tongue over your nipple. For the press of his fingers inside you while his mouth claims yours in deep, hot kisses. For the way he keeps making you cum, over and over, like he’s desperate to memorize every sound you make.

You don’t even realize you're trembling until he’s cradling you against his chest, murmuring something soft that sounds like “always wanted you like this” as he rolls you over and slides into you again.

This time it’s slower. More intense. His hips rock into yours like he’s trying to match your rhythm, sync your breathing. Skin against skin, sticky. You moan into his mouth when he kisses you, when he whispers your name like it’s a promise.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, hand wrapped around your thigh, pulling you closer, “I can’t believe we waited this long.”

“Then don’t stop,” you whisper, voice ragged. “Make up for it.”

The sun’s rising by the time you wake up, tangled in damp sheets and the scent of him. Sunghoon’s bare chest is warm beneath your cheek, one arm lazily wrapped around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

“You awake?” you murmur.

“Mmm,” he grunts, pulling you closer. “No. Go back to sleep.”

You smile. “We’re literally sweating through the sheets.”

“Don’t care. You smell good.”

“You’re disgusting.”

He cracks one eye open, smirking. “And you like it.”

You roll your eyes but let him tug you on top of him, your bare legs tangling. His morning voice is raspy, and his hair’s a mess, but he looks unfairly good. Like this could be normal. Like summer could stretch forever.

You run your fingers along his collarbone. “We’re gonna have to talk about fall eventually.”

“Not yet,” he says, thumb brushing your hip. “Let’s just stay in this bubble.”

“Are you gonna feed me breakfast in this bubble?”

“Oh, I’ll feed you something,” he says, and his hand slips lower.

“Sunghoon—”

He flips you gently onto your back, eyes already dark again. “Still got time to make up for, babe.”

It never crossed your mind to step foot in his childhood bedroom, nor were you dying to do so but Sunghoon had other plans.

“My mom’s out for the day,” Sunghoon says, keys already dangling in his hand, a teasing grin playing on his lips. “Figured you should see where I had my first wet dream.”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach flips at the thought. “Why are you trying to traumatize me?”

“Trying to relive it. Maybe with a better ending this time.”

His room still smells like him, somehow. Faintly like laundry, spearmint, and old wood. The posters are faded, but you can still make out the ice skating medals lined up across the shelves, a worn tour hoodie hanging from a chair, and a slightly crooked photo strip of him and his younger sister stuck to the mirror.

You run a finger along the spines of his old DVDs—Spirited Away, The Fast and the Furious, Step Up 2—while he closes the door behind you.

“You were a soft boy and a fuckboy,” you muse, looking over your shoulder.

“Still am, baby,” he says, stepping behind you, arms circling your waist. “Wanna see what I used to jerk off to?”

You laugh—then stop when you feel him hard against your lower back.

“Or…” his voice drops, lips brushing your ear. “You could give me something better to remember.”

You’re on his childhood bed two minutes later, knees spread and breathless, moaning his name into a pillow with your hand wrapped in his sheets. He fucks you from behind, slow and deep, one hand gripping your hip, the other sliding up your back.

“You ever think about me back then?” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “Ever sneak into your room and wish it was me between your legs?”

You whimper, nodding.

“Fuck,” he groans, slamming into you harder. “You should’ve come over. I would’ve ruined you.”

And now, he is—his hips slamming into you, your thighs trembling as your orgasm builds, raw and unstoppable. When you fall apart around him, crying his name into the pillow, he groans and spills into you seconds later, collapsing onto your back with a kiss to your shoulder.

The room’s quiet again. Just your breathing and the hum of the old fan overhead. “You’ve really had this twin bed since middle school?” you whisper.

“Don’t judge me. It’s got more history now.”

You drive out to the lake the next afternoon, windows down, thighs bare, his hand resting on your knee like it belongs there. The water’s still and blue, cicadas humming in the trees. You set up a blanket in the shade, and Sunghoon strips to his swim trunks, jumping in without hesitation. His laughter echoes across the water.

“Come in, baby,” he calls, grinning.

You shake your head, sipping lemonade and letting the sun warm your skin. “Too lazy. Come here.”

He swims to the edge and pulls himself up, water dripping from his chest, hair slicked back. He eyes you from head to toe and kneels beside you, brushing damp fingers along your thigh. Then he kisses you—slow, unhurried, soft as the breeze rustling the trees.

The day stretches out. He lies back on the blanket, arm tucked under his head, watching the clouds. You curl into his side, tracing shapes on his stomach with your fingertip.

“You ever think about just… not going back?” he asks quietly.

You pause. “To school?”

“To real life.”

You rest your head on his chest. “All the time.”

He hums, fingers in your hair. “I want this. Every day.”

You don’t say anything. You just close your eyes and press your lips to his ribs—like a yes you don’t need to say out loud.

Your old friend Hana is throwing a backyard party—just like high school, only now everyone’s hotter, drunker, and pretending they’ve got life figured out. String lights hang overhead like constellations, and you’re nursing a spiked lemonade when you feel Sunghoon’s arm wrap around your waist from behind.

“Hey, pretty,” he murmurs, lips brushing your cheek.

You lean into him instinctively, but your eyes are on the guy across the lawn who’s been talking to you all night—too friendly, too flirty. You weren’t even entertaining it… not really.

Sunghoon pulls back, just slightly. You can feel the shift. “You know him?” he asks, casual—too casual.

You shrug. “From class. He’s nice.”

“Sure,” he says, smile tight. “Real nice.”

You catch the way his jaw ticks when the guy glances over and winks at you. “Are you… jealous?” you ask, turning to face him.

He scoffs. “Should I not be? You’re here looking like that, talking to some finance major who probably thinks Radiohead is ‘indie’.”

You laugh, but there’s a beat of silence. “You never said we were exclusive,” you say quietly.

Sunghoon's eyes darken. “Yeah, well… I didn’t think I had to,” he says, voice low. “Didn’t think I’d have to claim you to keep you.”

Your stomach twists. It’s not just about the party. Not just the guy. It's all of it—summer ending, the fall creeping up, the fact that neither of you said it out loud but both of you feel it. That you're more than a fling.

You’re still staring at each other when Hana calls for everyone to come watch fireworks out front.

Sunghoon just walks past you, muttering, “I need air.”

You find him later in the quiet of the side yard, sitting on the hood of his car, beer bottle sweating in his hand. The party’s still going, distant laughter mixing with the dull thud of music and fireworks. You don’t say anything. Just sit beside him.

“I was an idiot,” he says after a minute.

“You weren’t.”

“I should’ve told you what I wanted.”

You turn to look at him. “Then tell me now.”

He’s quiet, looking up at the stars. Then: “I want you.” He doesn’t look at you when he says it—just lets it float in the humid air between you. “I don’t care if it’s summer. Or fall. Or some random Tuesday five years from now. I want you in my bed, in my house, at my worst and my best. I want all your late-night thoughts and morning hair and bad habits.”

You bite your lip, heart thudding like a firework. “I thought this was just… for fun.”

“It was,” he says. “And then it wasn’t.”

You let the silence sit for a moment before leaning your head on his shoulder. “I want you too.” He lets out a breath—one he’d been holding. “But what happens when I go back?” you whisper.

He shrugs, voice softer. “We make it work. I visit. You come back on breaks. Or maybe you stay.”

You look up at him. “I thought this was a summer bubble,” you say, clinging onto anything that distracts you from making this feel like real life. “What if it pops?”

He cups your face and let out a laugh. Brushing your cheek with his thumb, “then I’ll build you a new one.” When he kisses you this time it’s not lust or fun or fireworks. It’s a promise.

You wake up on his couch, tangled in a throw blanket, bare legs hooked over his. The TV’s still playing some late-night cartoon, volume low. The sunrise creeps through the blinds, painting his skin gold.

He’s already awake, you feel his fingers lazily tracing circles on your back, his other hand curled behind his head.

“You snore,” he murmurs.

You smirk sleepily against his chest. “You love it.”

“I really do,” he says, and for once, there’s no teasing in his voice.

He makes coffee while you sit on the counter in his oversized tee, sipping from his chipped mug, legs swinging. There’s a comfortable stillness in the air. No pressure to fill the silence. Just the low hum of the fridge, the birds outside, and the way he keeps glancing over at you like he’s afraid to blink and miss you.

You speak first. “So… we’re doing this?”

He turns toward you, still shirtless, hair sticking up like he’d been tossing all night. “If you’re in, I’m in,” he says simply. “Distance, phone calls, late night visits, all of it.”

You chew your lip. “It won’t be easy.”

“Anything worth it usually isn’t.”

You let that sink in. Let yourself believe it. Then: “Can I still steal all your hoodies when I leave?”

He chuckles and walks over, pulling you in between his arms. “Babe, I’m about to mail you snacks, send you sweaty selfies from the gym, and probably cry the first time we FaceTime and your Wi-Fi lags.”

You blink up at him. “You’re gonna cry?”

“I might, alright? Don’t shame me.”

You laugh. Then lean up and kiss him soft—like a yes, like a we can do this together.

He drives you to the train station later, fingers tightly laced in yours the whole time. Neither of you says much. The radio’s playing softly. The windows are down. You both look out the windshield like you’re afraid eye contact will make this harder.

At the platform, he gets out, opens your door, helps with your bag like you’re fragile. “Don’t go falling in love with anyone at college,” he says, voice half-playful, half-cracked.

“You’re everything to me and I hate that I don’t get to wake up to you,” you whisper.

He cups your face, brushes a thumb across your cheek. “We’ll figure it out.”

You nod. “I think we already are.”

You kiss him one last time. Then you turn to go. You don’t look back. But he’s watching you, and he’s smiling. Already thinking about the late-night texts. Polaroids in your dorm room. Surprise visits. Weekend train rides. Growing pains. And two people trying—for real, for keeps. Because some summers don't end. They just turn into something more.

[big-ooof]

When the World is Loud

Jake x f!reader

note: sorry, suddenly I'm in a sad mood (cue Jake's cover of "I don't think I'm okay"). this one might hit a soft spot for the sad girlies.

I'm working on other stories— I know this won't get the same traction as the other filthy shit I like to write but it's a change of pace if you're up for it.

You didn't notice when things got worse—only that the quiet started feeling more comfortable than anything else. At first, it was skipping the call. Then not texting back right away. Then not showing up. You didn’t mean to isolate yourself. But between the draining conversations that went nowhere, the flings that fizzled out once your needs weren’t cute anymore, and the gnawing guilt of feeling too much and not enough all at once, you stopped trying.

You stopped hoping anyone would stay when it got hard. So when Jake texted: You disappeared on me. Still thinking about you. You stared at it for hours. He didn’t follow it with a sad-face emoji or a guilt trip or a passive-aggressive jab. He didn’t double-text. Just… a gentle reminder that you were still someone to him.

You didn’t reply that day. Or the next.

But he still sent a photo of Layla sitting like a loaf on the couch, eyes sleepy, tongue peeking out. “She misses you. I told her you’re just recharging.”

That made your chest ache a little. In a good way. Or maybe a bad one. It was hard to tell anymore.

You met Jake through friends, back when your spark still reached the surface. He noticed you the way others didn’t— not just when you laughed or lit up, but when you checked out mid-conversation, when your gaze flickered to the floor, when you nodded instead of saying how you really felt.

He listened to what you didn’t say. And now, months later, he was still listening.

The third week you went quiet, you expected him to stop checking in. But one night, he sent a voice note. Just thirty seconds. His voice, a little tired but warm. “No pressure to reply. Just figured I’d talk to you anyway. I passed that noodle place you love. Made me think about the time you said dumplings fix 70% of emotional crises. You were wrong, by the way. It’s more like 62%. Maybe 63. I’m running tests.”

You listened to it three times. You didn’t reply. But you cried.

You don’t remember falling asleep, but you woke up to knocking. Gentle. A little hesitant. You sat up in bed, heart crawling up your throat. You weren’t ready to see anyone. But something in you knew it was him. You dragged yourself to the door. Slowly. Cautiously.

And there he was. Baseball cap pulled low. Hoodie zipped to his chin. Two iced coffees in hand. He looked at you like you were sunlight after a storm he was willing to stand in.

“Hi,” he said, soft. “Didn’t want to call in case you were sleeping. Or hibernating.”

You blinked at him. Your throat tightened. You couldn’t make words come out. So you stepped aside. And he walked in like he already knew how to make space without taking it.

You didn’t talk much that first hour. You curled into the corner of the couch while he sat beside you, close enough to reach but not touching unless you did. The TV played quietly. Layla sniffed at your leg before curling up between you like she knew this was a sacred, fragile moment.

“You don’t have to explain,” he said eventually, passing you the coffee. “I just didn’t want you to be alone today.”

You stared into the drink. “I’m always alone on days like this.”

Jake’s voice stayed steady. “You don’t have to be.”

You shook your head, throat thick. “Most people leave when it gets like this. When I get like this.”

His jaw ticked. But his voice was still warm when he answered. “I’m not most people.”

And it wasn’t said with a smirk or some rehearsed line. It wasn’t followed by promises he wouldn’t keep. It was a quiet truth. A commitment, not a performance.

You fell asleep with your head on his shoulder, sometime past midnight. You don’t remember how the blanket ended up over you both, or how your hand ended up loosely holding his. But in the morning, you woke up to sunlight sneaking through the blinds. Layla was snoring. The room was still. Safe. Jake was still there.

His eyes met yours before you could pretend you were asleep again. “Hey,” he said, voice rough from sleep. “You okay?”

You nodded, but it wasn’t fully true.

He nodded anyway. “Wanna go sit outside? Get some air?”

You shrugged. “Maybe in a bit.”

“Okay. No rush. I’ll be here.” And that was the difference. Others wanted to pull you out of the dark so you’d be easier to love. Jake just sat with you until you felt safe enough to stand.

Weeks passed. You didn’t get better overnight. But on the hard days, he brought food and let you eat in silence. On the numbing ones, he took you on walks and made terrible puns until you smiled. And on the good ones—those rare, golden hours where everything didn’t feel so heavy—he let you shine and never tried to claim it.

He never asked for more than you could give.But you found yourself wanting to give it anyway.

One night, as he handed you his hoodie before you even asked, you looked at him and said: “I don’t know why you stayed.”

Jake tilted his head, his expression soft but certain. “Because you’re not just worth the easy parts.”

And when you reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his for the first time, you realized— Love wasn’t always loud. It wasn’t declarations or fireworks or grand, sweeping moments. Sometimes, it was showing up. Sitting beside someone while the world roared outside. And staying.

Bonus: Jake’s POV

He knew you were pulling away before you did. It started with the shorter texts. Then none at all. The way your laugh got quieter over the phone, like you didn’t have the energy to mean it anymore. The way you said “I’m okay” like you were apologizing for lying.

Jake didn’t push. Didn’t ask where you went.

Because you hadn’t gone anywhere. You were just sinking again. Quietly. The same way you always did when life turned heavy and no one stayed to help carry it.

He hated how familiar it looked on you. Like you were already used to being left behind. So he made a choice. Not to save you. Not to fix you. Just… to stay.

He sent things. Little things. Photos of Layla looking like a sleepy worm under the blanket. A clip of a new song with no caption. Voice notes where he told dumb stories and let you hear what his days sounded like, even if you couldn’t respond.

He never expected a reply. He just didn’t want you to think the world forgot you.

When two weeks passed and nothing came back, he drove to the 24-hour mart, bought your favorite iced coffee and a bag of dumplings, and stood outside your building, staring at your door like it might open on its own.

He knocked. Once. Then again. You opened it slowly. Eyes puffy. Hoodie swallowing you whole. You looked like you hadn’t slept. Like maybe you’d been floating through the past few days, and this was the first time you stood still.

You didn’t speak. He didn’t need you to.

“Hi,” he said, gently. “Didn’t want to text in case you were sleeping.” He offered the coffee. “Figured you might want this.”

You blinked, like you couldn’t figure out why he was still there. Why he wasn’t already walking away like the others had. Jake’s heart broke in a small, quiet way. Because you still didn’t expect someone to stay.

Inside you apartment, it was dim. Lived-in. Quiet. He didn’t fill the silence. You both sat on the couch. Layla immediately hopped up and wedged herself between you, tail wagging like she understood how heavy the room felt. Jake rested his coffee on his knee and watched the TV flicker wordlessly across the screen.

He could feel how far you’d retreated inside yourself. Like you were trying not to take up space even in your own home.

“You don’t have to explain anything,” he said after a while, voice soft. “I didn’t come here for answers. I just didn’t want you to be alone tonight.”

Your voice cracked when you finally answered. “I usually am.”

His heart ached. Not with pity, but with something more dangerous. A kind of helpless love. “You don’t have to be,” he said.

You didn’t believe him. He could tell. You didn’t say it, but it was in the way you looked down. The way your shoulders curled in, like you were bracing for the moment he’d realize you weren’t worth the effort.

So he stayed. For hours. Talking about nothing. Watching a movie neither of you cared about. Sitting so still, the world outside felt like it was in a different universe.

At some point, your head dipped onto his shoulder. Tentative. Like you were waiting to see if he’d flinch. Jake didn’t move. Except to angle himself closer. Like gravity pulled him into you.

You fell asleep before midnight. Curled into him like a breath you didn’t mean to take. Jake stared at the soft line of your face for too long, afraid to blink and miss the moment you let yourself rest. He pulled the blanket over both of you, slow and quiet. Let your fingers slip into his like they belonged there. It hit him all at once—how much he loved you. Not in a way that demanded anything. Not with urgency or hunger. But with peace.

Because being with you, even on the hard days, even when you had nothing to give… never felt like a burden. It felt like choosing the truth.

The next morning, when your eyes met his, something in you had changed. Not fully. Not yet. But you let him stay a little longer. And when you whispered, “I don’t know why you stayed,” Jake had to bite the inside of his cheek not to answer with because I love you.

Instead, he said: “Because you’re not just worth the easy parts.”

And it was true. You were not a project. Not something to fix. You were someone you sat beside in the quiet. Someone you waited for, without hurrying them. Someone you chose. Every single day.

[big-ooof]

Down The Hall

uncle!Jake x neighbor!reader

note: technically not dad!enha but Jake being an uncle is close enough, right? this one got spicy— tbh it's hard for me to do a Jake pairing without going there hehe. sexual content 18+

You hear the chaos before you see it: A loud thud. A child’s wail. A string of breathless apologies.

You set your coffee down on the side table and crack open your apartment door just as your neighbor from 4B stumbles into the hallway. Jake Sim: tousled hair, white t-shirt wrinkled to hell, a backpack slung over one shoulder, and a sobbing little girl clinging to his leg.

Your stomach tightens. Jake’s always been… friendly in passing. Cute, definitely. One of those guys with a voice that’s somehow always warm, even when it’s 8am and he’s still blinking sleep out of his lashes. You’ve had a few short conversations in the elevator, but nothing more than polite nods and a shared laugh about broken laundry machines.

This, though? This is new.

“Oh no—Yuna, sweetheart, it’s okay,” he’s murmuring, crouching awkwardly while balancing what looks like a dolphin plushie the size of a small canoe. “We’ll find another dolphin, I promise. Uncle Jake’s got it all under control.”

He does not, in fact, look like he has anything under control. You open the door a little wider. “Do you need a hand?”

Jake’s head snaps up. His expression flickers — recognition, relief, then embarrassment, all in the space of a second. “Hi,” he says, breathless. “Uh… I didn’t think we were being that loud.”

You smile gently. “You’re not. I just figured you could use a third arm.”

Yuna looks up at you with tear-streaked cheeks and suspicious eyes. Her fists are clenched tightly around Jake’s jeans, her tiny chest still heaving in the aftermath of a meltdown.

Jake straightens. “This is my niece, Yuna. She’s… staying with me for a little bit.” He swallows. “Emergency uncle duty.”

“I see.” You crouch slowly, your tone lowering to that soft, deliberate rhythm you’ve used a thousand times before — in your old classroom, on the floor with tiny shoes and big emotions.

“Hi, Yuna. I’m your Uncle Jake’s neighbor. My name’s Y/N.”

Her grip loosens slightly.

“Do you like dolphins?” you ask.

She nods mutely, eyes wide.

“I like them too. Did something happen to yours?”

“Taxi took him,” she sniffles, her voice small.

You frown, just slightly. “That’s really hard. I’d be sad too.”

Jake blinks at you, visibly stunned at how fast the tears stop. You know that look— the wild-eyed stare of someone realizing that you know what you’re doing.

“Would you two like to come in for a minute?” you offer. “I’ve got juice boxes and a cat.”

Jake exhales like you’ve just handed him a life vest. “I will literally name my firstborn after you.”

“Let’s see how you feel after the cat throws up on your shoes.”

Yuna ends up curled on your couch, sipping an apple juice box and petting a very resigned tabby who is too old to care about sticky fingers.

Jake sits across from you at the kitchen table, elbows on the wood, dolphin plushie hanging out of the tote bag like it’s seen war.

“You’re really good with her,” he says, watching you with something like awe. “Seriously. That was… I don’t even know what that was.”

“Montessori background,” you explain, opening a container of cut fruit. “I used to teach before I moved into creative work.”

“Creative work?”

“Creative director for a startup now. Less tears, more deadlines.”

Jake laughs — a warm, rich sound that settles in your chest like honey. “Honestly, you could’ve told me you were a magician and I’d believe it. She’s been crying since we left the airport.”

“She’s probably overwhelmed. Routine’s gone. Stuffed animal vanished. New adult. New space.” You hand him the fruit and lean your chin in your palm. “She’s not the only one out of her element, I’m guessing.”

Jake sighs and nods, raking a hand through his already-messy hair. “My brother’s in Tokyo for work and his wife’s with him. They were supposed to bring Yuna, but her passport renewal got delayed. So… here I am.”

“Thrown in headfirst.”

“More like face-first.”

You laugh quietly. He watches you again — longer this time. You notice the sharpness in his jaw, the curve of his smile. His collar is stretched from where Yuna probably grabbed him earlier, and you don’t mean to notice the bare hint of collarbone beneath the cotton. You definitely don’t mean to notice the way his hand dwarfs the juice box when he picks one up to sip from it, too tired to care about pride.

“Thanks again for the save,” he says, his voice softer now. “You really didn’t have to.”

“I didn’t,” you say simply. “But I wanted to.”

Something flickers in his expression. Not surprise — just something warm. Gentle. And then Yuna yawns, long and loud and kitten-like.

Jake looks at her and panics again. “Is it bad if she naps now? Will she be up all night?”

You smile, reaching into a drawer and pulling out a small box of crayons. “Here,” you say, handing them to him. “Try having her draw something instead. Might settle her down without letting her fall asleep.”

Jake stares at the box like you just gave him gold. Then he looks at you — really looks at you — and his voice drops into something a little lower, something a little more personal.

“Are you sure you're just a creative director?”

You smile, letting your eyes linger just a second too long. “Positive.”

Later, after they leave, you watch your cat bat at a crayon Yuna forgot under the coffee table. You tuck it away in a drawer without thinking. You don’t expect to see Jake again for a while. But you do find a thank-you note taped to your door the next morning.

Inside the envelope: One new pack of crayons. A coupon for a local café. And a smiley face drawn in pink marker with the name “YUNA” in big block letters.

You try not to think too hard about how your heart reacts to it. Or how you wouldn’t mind hearing him knock again.

You’re halfway through your first cup of coffee when it happens. Three knocks. Rapid. Hesitant. Like the person on the other side wants help, but isn’t entirely sure they deserve it.

You don’t even bother to check the peephole. You already know. When you open the door, Jake is standing there with his hair a mess, his sweatshirt on inside-out, and a look of sheer defeat on his face. Behind him, Yuna is sitting cross-legged in the hallway, trying to open a bag of pretzels with her teeth.

“…Help,” Jake says.

You blink. “Pretzel emergency?”

“She’s been up since six. I gave her toast, she didn’t want it. I gave her cartoons, she cried because I picked the wrong penguin show. And then she locked herself in the bathroom and I had to bribe her out with gummy worms. Which I don’t even have — I just said that hoping I’d figure it out on the fly.” He exhales like it hurts. “I don’t think I’m cut out for this.”

You step aside. “Come in. Both of you.”

Within ten minutes, Yuna is parked on your living room floor with a coloring book and a bowl of Cheerios. She’s calm. Maybe even happy. Your cat has once again been conscripted into cuddle duty, though he now has a look of long-suffering acceptance in his narrowed eyes.

Jake’s on your couch. He looks like a man who’s just been saved from drowning. “You ever consider becoming a superhero?” he murmurs, rubbing a hand over his face.

You hand him a mug of coffee, amused. “I think that’s your job.”

Jake laughs, though it’s a little thin around the edges. He’s trying. That much is clear. But you can see it in the way his shoulders slump — he’s overwhelmed, under-rested, and just barely keeping it together.

“You know,” you say gently, sitting beside him. “You’re allowed to say it’s hard. Doesn’t mean you’re bad at it.”

Jake stares into his mug. “Feels like I’m failing. Like… if I don’t do it perfectly, I’m screwing her up.”

You shift closer, your voice soft. “She’s six. She’s already got glitter in her socks and a favorite dolphin. She’ll be fine. What she needs is someone who’s showing up. And that’s what you’re doing.”

He looks at you then. Really looks. Like he’s trying to memorize what it feels like to be understood. Your legs are touching now, just barely — your knees brushing his through worn denim.

“…Do you ever miss it?” he asks.

“Teaching?”

He nods.

You consider your answer carefully. “Sometimes. The honesty. The tiny victories. There’s nothing like seeing a little person figure something out for the first time. But I don’t miss the exhaustion. The chaos. The parents who think Montessori means ‘no rules’.”

Jake huffs a soft laugh. “I would’ve been one of those parents.”

“Oh, I can tell.”

He turns to you with a slow smile, and for the first time this morning, it’s genuine. “You know you’re scary, right?”

You arch a brow. “Excuse me?”

“I mean it as a compliment. You’re calm, but you’re also kind of intense. Like… nothing throws you.”

You sip your coffee. “You haven’t seen me parallel park.”

Jake chuckles, warm and quiet, and you feel it more than you hear it — the soft shift in the room, the lightness blooming between you.

Then Yuna calls from the other room, waving a yellow crayon in triumph. “Look! I made Uncle Jake’s face!”

Jake squints. “Why do I have three eyes?”

“Because you see everything,” she says, with utmost confidence.

You stifle a laugh. “Flattering.”

“She’s… kind of obsessed with you,” Jake says, and you don’t miss the faint note of something in his voice. Not quite jealousy. Maybe just awe.

You glance at him, curious. “Does that bother you?”

“No,” he says quickly. Then softer: “I think I’m just used to being the favorite.”

You hum. “Well. Maybe she just has excellent taste.”

Jake looks at you again — a long, slow glance that lingers just a second too long to be polite. You don’t look away. Neither does he. The air shifts. It’s quiet. Warm. Charged.

But then Yuna runs in and flings herself at Jake, and the moment breaks. He catches her effortlessly, laughing as she demands he wear the coloring book as a hat. You rise, heading to the kitchen.

You don’t see him watching you as you walk away — his eyes on the curve of your back, the soft sway of your hips beneath your oversized sweater. But you feel it. And that’s enough to send heat curling low in your stomach.

By the time they leave, Yuna is fed, Jake re-caffeinated and it’s almost noon.

“Seriously,” Jake says at the door, “I owe you more than coffee.”

“Dinner,” you say, before you can think better of it.

Jake blinks.

You clarify quickly, “I mean — if you need another safe zone. It doesn’t have to be—”

“I want to,” he says, and his voice is suddenly quieter. “Dinner. I want to.”

You smile, slow and genuine. “Then come by tomorrow. I’ll cook.”

Jake hesitates, like he wants to say something else. Then he just nods, gently tugging Yuna down the hall.

But not before she turns, waves at you, and says, “You’re prettier than Elsa.”

Jake groans.

You laugh. “That’s high praise.”

“She made a ranking list,” Jake calls over his shoulder. “I’m number five. Right after the talking snowman.”

You grin. And when you close the door, your heart is still racing — not from what was said, but from what wasn’t.

Jake arrives at your door with Yuna on his hip and flowers in his hand. The flowers are wilted, clearly a last-minute corner store purchase, but the look in his eyes is something else entirely. Grateful. Nervous. Maybe a little dangerous.

You open the door, barefoot and in a soft sweater dress that rides just a little high on your thigh. You hadn’t planned on dressing up. Not really. But something about tonight had you shaving your legs in the shower and spritzing perfume behind your knees anyway. Jake notices.

You see it in the subtle flare of his nostrils, the way his eyes trail down your body before snapping back to your face. “Wow,” he says, breath catching just a little. “You look…”

You tilt your head. “Tired? Frazzled? Ready to pull crayon out of a cat’s fur?”

He grins. “I was going to say beautiful, but yeah. That too.”

You don’t blush— not exactly. But you do take the flowers with a murmur of thanks, careful not to let your fingers brush his. He follows you in, Yuna bouncing at his side, already calling for your cat like they’re old friends.

Dinner is simple: pasta, garlic bread, something warm and comforting. You eat at the table, Yuna narrating her day like you’re both on a talk show. Jake watches her, then watches you... like he still can’t believe you’re real.

Later, after dessert, after cartoons, after bath time (you guide him through it from a distance while he fumbles with pink shampoo like it’s nuclear equipment), Yuna falls asleep in your bed to the soft lull of your voice reading “The Paper Bag Princess.”

Jake stands in the hallway outside your room, frozen. “She’s asleep?”

You nod, stepping out and gently closing the door behind you. “Out cold.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Is it weird that I feel like I just climbed a mountain?”

You smile. “Welcome to bedtime.”

Jake looks at you for a moment. Then, quieter now, “You’re really good with her.”

“You say that a lot.”

“Because it keeps being true.”

You lean against the wall, arms crossed loosely over your chest. “You’re not bad yourself.”

Jake lets out a breathless laugh. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not,” you say, and there’s something firmer in your voice now. “You’re figuring it out. And you care. That’s more than a lot of people give.”

He swallows. His eyes drop to your mouth. “You’re really something else, you know that?”

You raise a brow. “Something else?”

“Yeah,” he says, stepping closer. “Like… I keep waiting for you to tell me you’re not real.”

You meet his gaze, and something pulls — slow and deep and humming with tension. “Do I feel real right now?” you ask, voice low.

Jake’s breath hitches. His hand moves tentatively until his fingers just barely brush your wrist. “Yeah,” he says. “Too real.”

You could stop it here. But you don’t. You let him step into your space. You let him press a hand to your waist, warm and firm. You let his breath fan against your cheek — close, so close. And when his lips finally touch yours you let yourself fall.

You kiss him slow. Lazy. Like you’ve got all the time in the world. Like you want to savor this— the way his mouth moves against yours, sweet at first, then hungrier when you don’t pull away. His hand finds the small of your back. Pulls you in. Your fingers tangle in the collar of his hoodie, tugging him closer. His other hand slips lower, settling against your hip... then dipping down, just barely skimming the top of your thigh.

You feel it — the hesitation. The restraint. He wants you. But he’s holding back. You pull away just slightly, lips brushing his when you speak. “Jake.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath. You glance toward your bedroom, where Yuna sleeps soundly in your bed. Then you look back at him. “You can have me,” you whisper. “Just not... not tonight.”

Jake groans under his breath, like the sound is being torn out of him. His grip tightens — not rough, but possessive, like he’s trying to memorize your shape.

“I’ve been trying not to think about you like this,” he murmurs, kissing your jaw, your throat. “Trying to be… I don’t know. Good.”

“You are good,” you whisper. “But you’re allowed to want something too.”

You feel him everywhere — his hands on your waist, his lips on your neck, the hard line of his body pressing into yours. He kisses you again — deeper this time. His tongue slides against yours, slow and filthy, and the groan he lets out nearly undoes you.

You break apart only when your breathing becomes uneven. Jake’s forehead rests against yours. His voice is rough, wrecked. “I’m not sure how long I can keep pretending I don’t want you.”

You smile against his mouth. “Then don’t.”

You offer him the couch, while you share your bed with Yuna. But he admits that he won't be able to control himself. Before he leaves, he kisses you again in the doorway — slow and warm and aching.

You get the text mid-morning. Jake picked up Yuna only 3 hours ago.

Jake [10:12 AM] Emergency. Yuna got into that one-day junior science program downtown. It starts in two hours. I have no idea what she’s supposed to wear. Or bring. Or do. Please, for the love of god, help me.

You pause mid-email and let out a soft laugh. This man is unraveling via text message. It’s… weirdly endearing. You grab your phone and reply:

You [10:14 AM] On it. I’ll come by. Tell her to get dressed. Pants optional (just kidding. mostly). You’re doing great.

Jake responds with a single heart emoji and then “marry me”, but deletes it and follows up with “lol” like it’s going to erase the crack in the floor he just made. The “lol” does not help... your stomach still flips.

When you arrive at his apartment, the scene is pure chaos. Yuna is sitting in the middle of the living room floor with two socks on her hands, chanting “SCIENCE! SCIENCE!” like she’s summoning a lab ghost.

Jake is holding a wrinkled pamphlet and looking genuinely distressed. “She needs a lunch box. And goggles? Where does one even buy kid goggles?”

You hold out your hand.

He blinks. “What?”

“Give me the paper. I’ve got this.”

Jake surrenders it instantly. You scan the checklist, nod, and start giving orders like a general.

“Backpack. Sneakers. Tie her hair if you want her to actually see things. I’ll pack her a lunch from what you’ve got. I saw turkey slices in the fridge.”

Jake mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “Jesus Christ you’re hot.”

You ignore it. Barely.

Twenty minutes later, Yuna is ready, grinning, backpack on, goggles perched sideways on her forehead. Jake looks like he’s been hit by a truck made of glitter and juice boxes. You walk them to the elevator.

Yuna hugs you tight, yelling, “You’re my SCIENCE LADY!” like that’s your new title. Jake’s hand brushes yours as he thanks you — and that single touch sets your nerves on fire.

Your apartment feels quiet. Too quiet. You pour yourself a coffee and try to return to work, but your mind keeps drifting. To Jake’s voice. Jake’s hands. Jake’s mouth. The way he looked at you last night like he was starving. The way he kissed you like he was afraid he’d never get another chance.

You don’t know what’s happening between you — only that it’s getting harder to pretend this is casual.

He comes by that night, long after Yuna’s asleep. You’re in a tank top and boxers, curled up with a book on the couch. You open the door with a raised brow. “She asleep?” you ask.

Jake nods. “Out cold. But she wanted me to give you this.”

He hands you a piece of construction paper. It’s a drawing. You, Jake, and Yuna all holding hands. There are sparkles. You’ve been drawn with a crown. “She said you’re the queen of helping,” he murmurs.

Your heart pulls so hard it hurts. You stare at the paper like it’s made of glass. “That’s… really sweet.”

Jake doesn’t respond right away. You glance up and he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room. Like he’s trying not to want you. Like it’s already a lost cause. “She loves you,” he says quietly. “And I get why.”

You say nothing... just take a slow step back, leaving the door open behind you. He follows.

You don’t speak as he walks inside. You don’t speak as he takes the book from your hands and places it on the coffee table. You don’t speak as he leans down and kisses you, slow and heavy. But when his hand slides beneath your shirt — when his palm spreads over the skin of your waist — you breathe his name like it’s a confession. “Jake.”

“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice rough. “Please tell me to stop.”

But you don’t. You tug him down to the couch instead, his body fitting against yours like it was always meant to. Your legs part, and he slips between them — groaning when your hips grind up instinctively.

His mouth moves down, kissing your neck, your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder. “You smell like heaven,” he mutters. “You taste like it.”

His fingers push beneath your waistband — but don’t slip inside. He’s just holding you, palm pressed between your thighs like he’s worshiping, not taking.

You gasp, and Jake freezes. “I—” he swallows. “You okay?”

You nod, breathless. “Yes. Just… don’t stop.”

So he doesn’t. His lips trace the shell of your ear as he whispers, ���You make me crazy.”

You buck your hips, searching for more, and he finally — finally — presses his fingers against your soaked underwear. His moan is broken.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re—oh my god.”

“Jake,” you gasp. “Touch me.”

“I am touching you,” he says, a bit smug.

You glare. He grins. Then he slides your underwear to the side and finally drags two fingers through your slick heat.

You bite your lip to keep quiet but he leans in, mouth at your throat. “Don’t,” he whispers. “Don’t hide it from me. I want to hear it. Want to know how bad you need it.”

You shudder. He works you slow, deep strokes that leave you trembling. His mouth finds your lips again, and when he kisses you this time, it’s needy.

You come undone beneath him— mouth open, breath caught, body shaking. He presses his fingers in deeper, working you through it, whispering your name like a litany. You cling to him when it’s over, chest rising and falling like you’ve just run miles.

He doesn’t ask for anything in return. Just holds you while you come back to yourself. And when you open your eyes, he’s already looking at you like you’re breaking him.

“I can’t stay,” he says.

You let out laugh. “That's a given...”

Your smile suddenly fades when your eyes meet his. You swallow. You both know what he means. And it’s not just sex. It’s everything else. Every wall breaking. Every emotion rising. Every part of him threatening to spill over and fill the space you’ve unknowingly made for him in your life.

You kiss him once more — softer this time. “Okay,” you whisper. “Go.” But your voice cracks when you say it. His hand lingers on the door a long time before he finally leaves.

You hear a scream. You’re barefoot in your apartment, halfway through your first bite of dinner, when Yuna’s wail echoes down the hall. That high-pitched, wet kind of cry that tells you it’s not just a tantrum. Something’s wrong. You don’t hesitate.

By the time you knock on Jake’s door, you can hear the frustration in his voice too. “Yuna, baby, I’m trying, I don’t know what you want! Please just—can you talk to me?”

She sobs harder. You slip inside. Jake spins toward you, wild-eyed and exhausted. “I—I don’t know what happened. One second she was watching TV, the next—”

But Yuna sees you and launches forward like a missile. “You!” she cries, throwing herself into your arms. You catch her just before she falls apart entirely. She’s feverish, snotty, clinging like she might float away.

“I got scared,” she hiccups. “It thundered and I thought you were gone forever.”

You blink. It hadn’t even rained yet. “Oh, sweetheart,” you whisper, cradling her against your chest. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Jake leans against the wall, hands on his knees like he just ran a marathon.

You glance at him. “She okay?”

He nods once. “Now that you’re here.” His voice is so wrecked, so low and full of everything he’s not saying, it nearly undoes you.

It takes an hour to calm her down. You clean her up. Get her into pajamas. Settle her in Jake’s bed with a book and some soft lullabies from your phone. She falls asleep with her head in your lap. Jake stands in the doorway, watching silently. You stroke Yuna’s hair, not daring to speak. Something about the moment feels… fragile. Sacred, even.

When you finally rise, easing her head onto a pillow, you follow Jake into the living room. He doesn’t turn around.

“She wouldn’t let me touch her,” he says softly. “Was screaming for you. Like she didn’t trust me to keep her safe.”

Your heart cracks clean in half. “Jake—”

He turns, eyes shining. “I know she’s not mine, but—fuck—I want to be good at this. I want to be the one she needs.”

“You are.”

“No,” he growls, stepping toward you. “I wasn’t. Not tonight.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he closes the space between you so fast it knocks the breath from your chest.

“You were,” he says, voice low. “You are good at this. You make everything okay.”

You stand still while Jake looks at you like Yuna wasn’t the only one who needed you tonight.

Two minutes later, you were in the guest room — formerly his home office — the door shut. His mouth was back on yours.

“Tell me if you need me to slow down,” he whispered, hands ghosting over your waist.

You answered by tugging your panties down and kicking them away. He growled when he saw how wet you were. You moaned as he touched you, his fingers slow but precise, his mouth against your throat murmuring filth like he was unraveling just from the feel of you.

“Been thinking about this,” he confessed, hips grinding into yours as he kissed you deeper. “Thinking about how you’d sound when I finally got inside you.” You whined when he slipped a finger in. Then another. He smiled. “Just like that.” You came once with his hand pressed between your thighs and his mouth catching every moan. Then he stripped fast, frantic, pushing into you so slowly, so deep you choked on a sob.

“Baby,” he gasped, holding your hips still as you squirmed. “You’re—fuck, you’re tight.”

You clenched around him just to hear him swear again. He fucked you deep. Steady. Over and over until the bedsheets were wrecked and you were babbling his name.

“Again,” he whispered. “One more, yeah? Let me make you cum one more time.”

And you did. Beneath him, around him, with him. His release was frantic. Quiet. He pressed his mouth to your shoulder and came with a shudder that made you ache.

After, he pulled you into his arms and buried his face in your neck. And you realized he wasn’t just catching his breath. He was hiding. It was only after a few silent minutes that he whispered: “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

Your whole body went still.

He didn’t look at you. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. Just—don’t leave yet.”

You didn’t. You stayed. The next morning you woke to the sound of humming and the smell of something burning. You found Jake in the kitchen with no shirt, bed hair, and Yuna on his hip.

“She woke up early and asked for dinosaur pancakes,” he explained sheepishly.

Yuna beamed. “I told him to draw you a T-rex but it looks like a fart cloud.”

You laughed so hard you nearly cried. Then she leaned her cheek on Jake’s shoulder and said, very seriously: “Can you be my auntie?”

Jake nearly dropped the spatula. You turned away to hide your face, flushed and smiling.

“Let’s eat first,” you managed. “Then we can talk about flower girl duties.”

Yuna squealed. Jake stared at you, wide-eyed and a little panicked. You just winked and passed him the syrup.

[big-ooof]

Talk to Dad About It

dad!Sunghoon x f!reader

note: I think I'm hormonal, but like baby-fever hormonal...maybe not lol. but here's another dad!enha storyline. No smut, no angst, pretty fucking wholesome.

Saturdays meant sticky fingers and strawberry-stained cheeks. The early sun filtered through the curtains as your three-year-old daughter climbed onto your bed with her usual greeting—a giggle and a cold foot pressed to your side.

You groaned dramatically. “How do you have this much energy already?”

“I had strawberries,” she declared proudly, cheeks pink, a dot of red still at the corner of her mouth.

“I just washed those sheets, baby,” you sighed, already reaching to wipe her face with the corner of the blanket.

That’s when Sunghoon walked in, holding the plastic pint of strawberries and a guilty smile. “She caught me in the kitchen. I folded.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You bribed her so you wouldn’t have to get back in bed and watch Bluey for the fifth time.”

He walked around the bed and leaned down to kiss your forehead. “It’s called strategic delegation.”

Your daughter reached over and patted your cheek. “Daddy’s funny.”

“He thinks so,” you said dryly, sitting up and brushing her hair back. “Farmer’s market?”

Sunghoon grinned. “Always.”

There was something ritualistic about the way the three of you moved through the local stalls. Your daughter sat perched on Sunghoon’s shoulders, legs swinging and eyes wide, while he narrated everything they passed like a dad-joke-infused tour guide.

“That,” he pointed, “is kale. Mommy only buys that when she’s mad at me.”

“Daddy,” you hissed, laughing.

“Is that true, Mama?” your daughter asked with absolute seriousness.

“No, baby,” you answered, biting back a grin. “Daddy just doesn’t know how to cook it.”

Sunghoon reached over to squeeze your hand, thumb brushing your wedding ring, and gave you the soft, crooked smile that always made your chest ache in that warm, familiar way.

You bought homemade jam, two sunflowers, and your daughter begged for a honey stick that stained her lips and hands by the time you got back to the car. She promptly passed out in her car seat, her face sticky, hair messy, and her head tilted just so against the window.

At home, you took turns cleaning up the kitchen while the other unpacked the groceries. Sunghoon made you coffee while humming something vaguely familiar under his breath—something sweet, probably from a lullaby.

You were rinsing fruit when you felt small arms circle your leg.

“Hey, baby,” you murmured, reaching down to smooth your daughter's hair. “You’re up?”

She nodded sleepily, blinking up at you. “Mama…”

“Hm?”

She rocked a little on her heels before looking up with wide, hopeful eyes. “Can I have a baby sister?”

You froze. Completely off guard. Soap bubbles still clinging to your wrist. “A baby…?”

She nodded again, like this was a casual post-nap conversation.

“W-Why do you want a baby sister?” you asked gently, crouching down to meet her eyes.

“So she can have you and daddy too.” Her voice was matter-of-fact. “I already talked to daddy about it.”

Your brain short-circuited. “You what?”

Sunghoon’s voice floated in from the hallway, where he was folding dish towels. “She caught me off guard yesterday during snack time. Told me she wants someone to share blueberries with.”

You turned your head to look at him, stunned. “And what did you say?”

He leaned against the doorway, smirking, arms crossed. “I said it sounded like a good idea.”

“You did not—”

“Why not?” he shrugged, grinning wider now. “She made a compelling case.”

You turned back to your daughter, who was now hugging your waist and resting her cheek against your belly like she already knew something you didn’t.

“You can talk to Daddy about it,” she whispered, like it was a little secret. “I think he wants one too.”

You looked up at Sunghoon, who was still watching you with that same soft, amused affection. And you couldn’t even argue with him. Not when he looked like that—soft sweater sleeves pushed up to his elbows, hair messy from the wind, face glowing from the sunlight still filtering in through the window.

You sighed. “Guess we’re talking about it,” you said, brushing your daughter’s hair back with a smile you couldn’t suppress.

“Tonight,” Sunghoon offered, walking over to kiss your cheek from behind. “After she’s asleep.”

Your daughter blinked up at you again. “Do I get to name her?”

You choked on a laugh. “One step at a time, sweetheart.”

But Sunghoon just whispered in your ear: “She already picked three names. Hope you like ‘Princess Berry Snowflake.’”

You turned and lightly smacked his chest.And he laughed like it was the best joke he’d told all day.

It was quiet now. The kind of quiet that only happened after bath time, three bedtime stories, and a soft but firm “No, baby, you already had water—no, this is not an emergency.”

You leaned against the kitchen counter, wearing one of Sunghoon’s old t-shirts and cotton shorts, sipping the last of your wine and letting the day roll off your shoulders in layers. Behind you, the dishwasher hummed. From down the hall, silence finally meant sleep.

You heard Sunghoon’s footsteps before you saw him. Slow. Barefoot. Comfortable in his element—sweatpants slung low on his hips and a clean tee that still smelled faintly like your fabric softener and him. He slipped behind you, arms circling your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.

“She’s out cold,” he murmured against your skin.

“Thank God,” you breathed, leaning back into him. “She’s getting stronger. I think she could take us if we teamed up.”

Sunghoon laughed into your neck. “I think she already has. One strawberry at a time.”

You hummed, quiet for a beat, before nudging him gently with your elbow. “So…”

“So,” he echoed, playing with the edge of your shirt.

“You really said yes to her? When she asked about a sibling?”

“I said it was a good idea,” he replied, voice low and warm. “Didn’t say when.”

You twisted a little to face him, his hands still on your waist, now sliding up the small of your back with that familiar ease. “She said you already had a whole talk about it.”

“Oh, we did,” he nodded, mock-serious. “Very thorough. She thinks it should be a girl. So she can wear bows and help her fight invisible dragons.”

You snorted. “And you just agreed?”

“She used her please voice.” He gave you a look. “You know I’m weak for that.”

You tilted your head, heart softening despite yourself. “Would you really want another?”

Sunghoon’s eyes flicked across your face like he was memorizing something. “I’d want anything with you,” he said simply. “Another baby. Another decade of bedtime stories. Another Saturday at the market. I’d do it all over again.”

Your breath caught for a second. He said it so casually, but it hit somewhere deep. He didn’t just love being a dad. He loved being one with you.

“But only if you want it,” he added, gently now, thumb stroking the curve of your waist. “You’re the one who carried her. Who nursed and woke up and rocked her through all those nights I slept through like an idiot.”

“You changed every diaper for six weeks straight,” you reminded him, voice quiet.

“That was a small price to pay for not birthing an entire human,” he said, grinning now. “Also, I’m pretty sure she liked me more after that.”

“She likes you more because you give her strawberries at 7 AM,” you teased.

“She likes you more because you’re her safe place,” he said without missing a beat. “She runs to me for fun. But she runs to you when she’s scared.”

You blinked. The wine, the warmth, the words—you weren’t sure which made your chest ache more.

“Sunghoon…”

His hands found your hips again. “You’re already the best mom I’ve ever seen. If we do this again, it’s not because anything’s missing. It’s because I want more of this. Of us.”

You slid your arms around his neck and pulled him in, kissing him softly—long, grateful, full of quiet emotion. And then he kissed you back with something deeper.

“Baby,” he murmured against your lips, “I love this shirt on you, but I’d love it more on the floor.”

You broke into a laugh, pressing your forehead to his. “You’re impossible.”

He walked you backward toward the bedroom, smile pressed to your jaw. “She asked if we’d start tonight.”

“She what?!”

“She most definitely does not know how babies are made but I still said you’d probably need convincing.”

You were breathless now, caught between laughter and heat. “And how do you plan to do that, exactly?”

Sunghoon’s voice dropped, his hands skimming under your shirt. “Thought I’d remind you how good we are at this.”

“Mm. You mean parenting?”

He grinned. “Sure. That too.”

Afterwards, you were curled into his chest, blanket tangled around your legs, your fingers drawing lazy circles on his bare stomach. Sunghoon was half-asleep, lips near your temple.

“She’s gonna be so smug when we tell her we tried,” you whispered.

“Let her be. She’s not wrong,” he said sleepily. “Princess Berry Snowflake is a powerful negotiator.”

You laughed again, heart full. And maybe it wouldn’t happen tonight. Maybe not next month. But the idea of growing your family—of choosing more love, more chaos, more you and him—suddenly felt less like a maybe. And more like a promise.

It happened on a Tuesday. A completely average, boring, leftover-for-lunch kind of Tuesday. You weren’t trying exactly. Not the way you had the first time, when you tracked every cycle and peed on more sticks than you cared to remember. But you’d been…open. To the idea. The possibility. The little voice of your daughter still echoing in your mind: “I already talked to Daddy about it.”

You thought you were just tired. Maybe hormonal. You cried at a commercial for baby lotion. You snapped at Sunghoon for leaving socks under the dining table (he hadn’t), and when your daughter spilled her juice and whispered, “I sorry, Mama,” you teared up instantly and held her for ten full minutes.

You found the last pregnancy test wedged in the back of the bathroom drawer, behind the heating pad and the mystery nail polish from 2022.

You didn’t think it would be positive. You were almost sure it wouldn’t be. You told yourself not to read into anything. Not to hope. But when you set it on the counter and turned back a minute later—Two lines. Two. You just…Stared.

For a long minute, your brain emptied out like a shaken Etch A Sketch. You sat on the edge of the tub in complete silence, holding the test in your lap like it might start speaking. Then a tiny knock at the bathroom door.

“Mama?” A small voice. Your daughter. “Can I come in?”

You blinked, remembered how to breathe, and cracked the door open. “Hi, baby,” you said, voice barely steady. “Where’s Daddy?”

She pointed down the hallway. “He’s folding socks. I told him to wait.”

You blinked again. “You told him to—?”

She slipped into the bathroom and stood in front of you, looking curiously at the white stick in your hand. “What’s that?”

You smiled softly, eyes burning. “It means… there’s a baby in Mama’s belly.”

Her eyes went round. Mouth open. She gasped like you’d just given her a unicorn. “Really?!”

You nodded.

Then she screamed. Not a frightened scream—a delighted, absolutely ecstatic shriek that echoed down the hallway like a fire alarm. You heard Sunghoon’s footsteps before you saw him.

He burst into the room, one sock in his hand, completely panicked. “What happened?! What’s wrong?!”

She turned and shouted: “It’s happening! The baby! She has it!”

You snorted a laugh, still teary, still holding the test.

Sunghoon looked at you. Then at the test. Then at you again. And he froze. He blinked, like he needed to reboot. Then slowly—slowly—a smile spread across his face. That full, boyish, starry smile that had always wrecked you a little.

He stepped forward. “Wait, for real?”

You nodded, barely getting the word out. “Yeah.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since you first mentioned it. Dropped the sock. Reached for you, hands framing your face so gently.

“Baby,” he whispered, awed. “We’re really doing this again?”

“Looks like it.”

Then he kissed you. Deep and warm and grateful. He pulled you into his arms like he could hold the whole moment in place.

Your daughter tugged at his shirt. “Can I name it Princess Berry Snowflake now?”

He crouched to her level, one hand still around your waist, the other ruffling her hair. “You can suggest it,” he said seriously. “But we’re gonna need a shortlist.”

She grinned and threw her arms around both of you, squished in the middle, her face against your growing belly like she already knew her little world had changed forever.

Later that night, you lay on your side in bed, tucked into Sunghoon’s chest, his hand resting over your stomach. You weren’t showing yet, but his thumb brushed there like something sacred was already growing beneath his palm.

“She knew,” you whispered.

“She always knows,” he murmured. “She’s definitely your kid.”

You laughed. “She’s absolutely your kid. The drama? The confidence? The full announcement before we even confirmed it?”

“Okay,” he said, grinning. “Maybe she’s equal parts.”

You turned your head to look up at him. “Are you scared?”

He was quiet for a moment. Then: “No. Just… overwhelmed. In a good way. Like I didn’t know I could love this much again. But I do. Already.”

Your heart swelled so fast you thought it might split open. “I’m glad it’s with you,” you said softly.

Sunghoon pulled you closer. “There’s no one else I’d want to do this life with.”

And in the quiet, warm dark, with your daughter sleeping down the hall and a future just beginning inside you— You knew: You were already a family...and somehow, impossibly, it was about to grow even more beautiful.

You and Sunghoon had decided to make it special for your daughter—something cute and lowkey for just the three of you. You bought vanilla cupcakes with white frosting from a local bakery and had them fill the center with either pink or blue cream. You let her hold the box the whole ride home. She carried it like it was a crown jewel.

Sunghoon set up the camera—“Just for us,” he said, even though you knew he’d end up watching it every night like a dork. The three of you sat on the couch with matching anticipation. Your daughter’s little fingers peeled back the wrapper like it was Christmas morning.

She bit into the cupcake. Blue. Bright, unmistakable, boy blue. Silence. Not even a blink. Just…staring at it like it personally offended her. You and Sunghoon exchanged a look, trying not to laugh.

Finally, she frowned. “Why is it blue?”

Sunghoon gently leaned in. “That means it’s a baby brother, sweet pea.”

Another beat of silence. Then she gasped, mouth full of frosting. “I ordered a sister.”

You broke. Sunghoon clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle the laugh bursting out of him.

“I—baby, we can’t really order siblings,” you managed, kneeling beside her. “Sometimes you just get the surprise.”

She blinked slowly. “But he’s not gonna like princesses. Or sparkles. Or tea parties.”

“We don’t know that,” Sunghoon said, still grinning. “He might love tea parties.”

Your daughter narrowed her eyes. “Does he even know about unicorns?”

You pressed your lips together, trying to stay serious. “Probably not yet. But maybe you can teach him.”

She pouted and crossed her arms. “He better like glitter.”

The next few days… were rough. She started referring to your bump as “the boy problem.” She put her dolls in a “girls only” basket. She told the grocery store cashier, “We’re having a brother, but it’s not my fault.”

Sunghoon was beside himself. “I think I just got out-stubborned by a four-year-old.”

“Congratulations,” you replied. “You met your match.”

Everything changed the night she felt him kick. You were reading in bed while she lay curled up beside you, hand on your belly like always. This time, your baby rolled—a slow, strong nudge right beneath her palm.

She gasped. Eyes wide. “Was that him?”

You smiled softly. “Yeah, that was him saying hi.”

Her hand stayed there. Still. In awe. Then: “Hi, baby,” she whispered. “It’s me. Your big sister.”

Your heart cracked clean open.

She looked up at you. “Can I still teach him about rainbows?”

You kissed the top of her head. “He would be so lucky to learn from you.”

She rested her cheek on your belly, little fingers petting it gently. “I guess he can come,” she said, already half-asleep. “But only if he shares his snacks.”

And when he finally arrived… She wore her fanciest dress to the hospital. Brought a handmade card. Demanded to be the first to hold him “because I’m the boss of siblings now.”

She held him like a sacred treasure—like something she didn’t know she needed until he looked up at her with wide, blinking eyes and wrinkled fingers.

Sunghoon watched you both from across the room, hair messy, eyes soft, daughter in one arm and son in the other, as if his whole heart had just doubled overnight.

“She’s got him,” you whispered.

“She always will,” he whispered back.

Later that night at home, you tucked her into bed and she clutched her stuffed unicorn close, eyes heavy.

“Mama?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“I think he’s okay. The boy problem.”

You smiled. “I think he’s more like a boy miracle.”

She yawned. “Mmm… okay. I’ll tell him tomorrow.”

And as she drifted to sleep, Sunghoon leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching the whole scene with a quiet kind of awe.

“You realize,” he whispered, slipping his hand into yours, “we’re completely outnumbered now.”

You nodded. “Yes. Yes we are.”

You blinked awake to the soft patter of water on the roof and Sunghoon’s arm already slung around your waist, his breath warm on your neck. The baby was still snoozing in the bassinet beside the bed, soft sighs and tiny baby grunts filling the quiet.

And then, at exactly 6:12 AM, came the tiny thump-thump-thump of feet down the hallway. Your daughter climbed into bed with the urgency of someone who just remembered she had parents to cuddle.

“Good morning,” you whispered sleepily.

She wriggled between you and Sunghoon like a kitten, hugging your pillow and mumbling, “It’s raining. That means it’s a snuggle day.”

Sunghoon groaned softly but smiled into your shoulder. “She’s not wrong.”

By 9 AM, no one had moved far from bed. The baby had joined the pile after his morning feed, curled against Sunghoon’s chest, making soft content sounds as Sunghoon hummed gently and rubbed his back in little circles.

Your daughter insisted on reading The Bear Who Forgot It Was Rainy aloud, even though she mostly made up the words and occasionally paused to whisper, “Did you hear that? That was a really good narrator voice.”

You and Sunghoon shared soft looks over the top of her head.

Later, the rain got heavier. No cartoons. No rush. Just warm blankets, warm skin, and your husband shifting everyone closer like he wanted to keep you all safe from the outside world.

“Remember when rain meant we had to cancel plans?” you murmured.

Sunghoon smiled against your temple. “Now it just means pajamas and babies and crumbs in the bed.”

“Oh—so many crumbs,” you said, catching your daughter sneak a cracker. She grinned with no remorse.

The baby babbled something halfway between a gurgle and a coo, reaching for his sister’s hair with grabby hands.

“Careful, little man,” Sunghoon said softly. “That’s sacred territory.”

She leaned in, letting her baby brother grab a chunk of her ponytail with delight. “He’s trying to say hi with his fists.”

“Just like you used to,” you teased.

Around midday, the four of you had migrated to the couch. Sunghoon had one arm around you, the baby dozing across his chest again, and your daughter curled into the crook of your side with a fuzzy blanket over her lap.

“You know,” he murmured, voice low and a little husky from the slow day, “I used to think rest days were boring.” You turned to look at him. He smiled. “But now I think they’re my favorite.”

Later, when the storm softened into a drizzle, you all stayed put anyway. The living room a mess of baby socks, storybooks, crumbs, and love. Sunghoon ran his fingers through your daughter’s hair as she drifted to sleep on your lap. The baby sighed in his arms like he belonged there forever. You leaned into him, heart heavy in the best way.

“This is it,” he whispered. “This is the dream.”

You nodded. “No reservations. No shoes. Just rain and us.”

And from under his breath, sleepy and soft: “Let’s do nothing again tomorrow.”

[big-ooof]

You Stayed

Jake x f!reader

note: sexual content 18+

You’re not even on the dance floor yet. You’re at the bar, fingers wrapped around a sweating glass when he walks in. Black tee, leather jacket, hair messier than it should be. Looking like someone who doesn’t wait around.

When Jake sees you, he doesn't hesitate. Eyes lock. No smile. Just a look that pins you down like he already knows how you sound falling apart. He doesn’t come over right away. He watches until you can't ignore it anymore. When he finally approaches, he doesn’t ask for your name.

“My bet is you’re wasting time with people who won’t make you scream,” he says low, like a secret, like a dare.

Your breath catches in your throat. “And you think you will?” you shoot back, cocking your head.

He steps closer, mouth brushing your ear. “I know I will.”

One minute you're dancing against him, hands buried in his shirt like you’re starving for friction. The next, you're in a cab, and his hand makes itself home between your thighs. He barely touches you, but you’re already wet.

Jake’s apartment is on the top floor of an old building, warm lights flickering as he shoves open the door. You barely get your shoes off before he pushes you against the wall and kisses you like he’s pissed off about wanting you so much.

Your back hits plaster, and his mouth is on yours—hot, fast, unrelenting. His tongue parts your lips, one hand tangled in your hair, the other slipping under your dress like he's been waiting all night. He moans low in your throat when he feels how soaked you are.

“Fuck. That’s for me?” he pants, fingers teasing up and down your slick folds through lace. “Didn’t even have to try.”

“Stop talking,” you breathe, yanking his belt open with one hand, “...do something.”

He doesn’t fuck you on the bed. Jake grabs your hand and pulls you through a side door that leads to the rooftop, one that only he has access to. The city is still alive in the nighttime, sky crackling above.

“Up here?” you gasp, dress fluttering in the night breeze.

His grin is feral. “Tell me you don’t want to, and we can stop.”

You do want this.

He pushes you back against the rooftop ledge, mouth on your collarbone, then your chest, yanking the top of your dress down like it offended him. His teeth graze your nipple and you cry out, gripping the brick behind you.

“Gotta be quiet,” he whispers, voice dark with amusement. “Or don’t. Let everyone hear.”

Then he’s dropping to his knees on the gravel, tugging your panties down, pushing your leg over his shoulder like it’s nothing. The night air licks at your thighs. You feel his tongue before you even realize what he’s doing—hot, slow, devastating.

You cum fast. Too fast. And Jake doesn’t stop.

“Don’t pull away,” he murmurs, fingers gripping your thighs as you tremble, overstimulated and begging. “Wanna see how many times I can make you cum for me.”

Later, after he’s fucked you against the ledge, after he’s bent you over the air conditioning unit with your hands scrambling for anything to hold—he finally brings you inside. You’re still shaking when he lowers you onto his couch. He kneels between your legs, still hard, still wild.

“You good?” he asks, brushing hair from your face. His voice softens. Almost gentle. Like he’s remembering you’re real now.

You nod, breath ragged. “…want you again,” you whisper, pulling him down.

This time, it’s slower but no less intense. He pushes his cock into you with a groan, forehead pressed to yours, hips snapping just rough enough to make you arch. His hand slides to your throat—not choking, just there. Enough to remind you that you gave him control and he’s not wasting it.

“I should hate how good this feels,” you whisper.

Jake kisses you hard, all teeth and hunger. “Then hate it in the morning, just enjoy it right now.”

“You do this a lot?” you ask, nudging his knee under the covers. “Pick up strangers and bring them to rooftops?”

Jake smirks, but his eyes flick to your mouth like he’s not done with you. “God no, but you do something to me.”

You glance at him. “Am I supposed to fall for that?”

His voice is quiet, but confident. “Only you can answer that, babe, but I got my answer when you let me worship your body all night.”

Jake’s POV You’re still in his bed in the morning. Jake wakes up with the weight of your leg over his, his arm around your waist, and your scent all over his sheets.

Sunlight’s bleeding into the room through slats in the blinds, cutting gold lines across your bare back. You are completely naked. Your dress is next to his shirt’s on the floor. Your panties are missing—somewhere between the rooftop and the living room, probably.

His mouth is dry. His body aches. And he can’t stop looking at you. He remembers how you looked last night—back arched against the brick, legs shaking, moaning into his shoulder like you hated needing him that much. You clawed at his scalp when he went down on you. Hadn’t held back, hadn’t pretended. Every gasp, every curse, every “fuck, Jake, right there”—you gave him everything without blinking.

And when he finally slid into you on the rooftop, wind in your hair, skin flushed from orgasm, your eyes locked on his like he was the only thing holding you together? He swore he could’ve died right then.

He gently shifts, careful not to wake you yet, and slips out from under you. Grabs a hoodie, tugs it on. Pads into the kitchen barefoot. There’s barely any food. Just eggs, toast, and some sad strawberries. He doesn’t cook for girls he brings home. Because usually... they don’t stay.

He’s cracking eggs into a pan when he hears your voice behind him—low, rough, sleepy. “You’re cooking?”

Jake turns. You’re standing there in his hoodie, bare legs on full display, eyes still half-lidded with exhaustion and the aftermath of too many orgasms.

“Trying to,” he says, voice hoarse. “You like scrambled?”

You blink, then nods. “Yeah.” Jake stares at you a second too long. Your lips curve into a smirk. “You always feed the girls you rail on rooftops?”

He exhales a quiet laugh. “First time.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Liar.”

“I swear,” he says, setting the spatula down and crossing to you. He rests a hand on the counter behind you, trapping you gently. “No one else stayed.”

Your smile fades a little. “So why did I?”

Jake’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t have a clean answer. So instead, he says: “Because I didn’t want you to leave.”

You both eat on the couch. You’re curled into his side, his arm around you, the TV on but muted. The city’s waking up outside. Jake doesn’t want to move. Doesn’t want to break whatever this is. It was supposed to be a one-night thing. A wild rush, a release.

And now he doesn’t want you to go.

[big-ooof]

Still Yours, Somewhere

dad!Jay x f!reader

note: exes to lovers again trope, co-parenting, reader lets Jay back into their lives.

The knock comes exactly two minutes later than you expected. You know because you’ve been checking the clock like you’re waiting for a delivery, not for the man who broke your heart quietly. It wasn’t the kind of heartbreak that came with slamming doors or screaming matches. No. Jay left like smoke—soft and invisible. One day he was there, cooking ramen at midnight, whispering in your ear when the baby was finally asleep. And the next, he wasn’t.

You pull the door open before he knocks again. Jay’s standing there in a black hoodie, duffel bag over his shoulder, baseball cap pulled low. It’s casual, like he could be any neighbor in the building. But your heart doesn’t buy it. Not when it recognizes him before your eyes even finish the scan. He looks tired. And sorry. And thinner than the last time.

Before you can say anything, there’s a squeal behind you. “Appa!!”

Tiny feet thud across the floor as your daughter charges past you, curls bouncing, her socked feet sliding slightly on the hardwood. Jay drops the bag and crouches instinctively, catching her with open arms like his body knew before his mind caught up.

“Hey, baby,” he breathes. It’s the softest thing you’ve heard in weeks. She clings to him like he’s never been gone. Like he didn’t miss her third birthday party or the week she had the flu and refused to sleep anywhere but curled on your chest. You swallow that memory back.

“Come in,” you say, stepping aside. Jay doesn’t look at you as he walks past. You don’t blame him. He’s not the one holding grudges—but he knows you might be. And he’s not wrong.

She leads him to the corner of the living room where her pink plastic kitchen set waits like a shrine. You head into the actual kitchen, the one with sharp knives and dishes that need to be washed. He doesn’t follow right away. He’s too busy being Appa.

You listen to the distant sounds of make-believe: her bossy little voice instructing him on how to pour invisible tea. His quiet chuckles. A clink as he knocks over a toy cup. Your chest feels too tight.

By the time he steps into the kitchen, you’ve already cut fruit, poured juice, and stacked mail that doesn’t belong to him anymore.

“Thanks for letting me come,” he says. Voice low. No stage voice, no idol voice. Just Jay.

You set the knife down carefully. “You’re her father,” you say. “She wants you here.”

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “And you?”

You look up slowly. “I want what she wants.”

It’s not cruel. It’s honest. Jay flinches like he expected it but hoped otherwise.

“You’re doing amazing with her,” he says after a beat, nodding toward the playroom. “She’s happy. She’s… her own person. That’s all you.”

Your throat tightens, but you don’t let it show. “I know.”

He laughs, bitter and self-aware. “You always did.”

There’s another beat of silence, the kind that feels louder than noise. Then you say, “I didn’t let you back into our lives for me, Jay.”

His eyes finally meet yours.

You continue, “I let you back in because she loves you. Because she deserves the chance to have that—to feel like her dad didn’t disappear.”

Jay doesn’t speak. But the emotion in his eyes says it all. You could’ve closed the door. You didn’t. You could’ve erased him from the bedtime stories and the framed photos. You didn’t. Not because you couldn’t. Because you knew what it would take from her. And Jay realizes it now—that this is grace. That this isn’t forgiveness yet, not even close. But it’s something. A bridge. Maybe the first step toward becoming someone worth being chosen again.

He clears his throat. “I brought her that book she liked. The one with the frogs and the paper umbrellas.”

“She still reads it,” you say. “Sometimes, she sleeps with it in her bed.”

He looks like that hurts more than it should.

“She talks about you all the time,” you add. “Even when you weren’t around. She made up stories about where you were—said you were helping stars fall into the sky.”

Jay chokes out a breath. Not quite a sob, not quite a laugh. “She really said that?”

You nod. “She missed you so hard she made magic out of it.”

He sinks into one of the stools at the counter, suddenly too exhausted to pretend anymore. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice breaking. “For all of it. I wanted to be better than this.”

You lean on the opposite side of the counter. Not close. Not yet. “You still can be.”

And that’s where you leave it. Not a promise. Not a punishment. Just truth. A place to start.

You let Jay stay on the couch. Offered it without ceremony, just tossed him a folded blanket from the linen closet and pointed at the cushions. Neither of you pretended it was more than it was. A neutral zone. A seat on the sidelines.

Your daughter was thrilled, of course. “Appa’s having a sleepover!” she giggled, curling against him like the time apart hadn’t even dented her instinct to cling. She made you pull out the spare toothbrush and left her bunny next to his pillow like a peace offering. You went to bed alone as usual that night. And every sound from the living room felt louder than usual.

In the morning, he’s already up. You pause in the doorway, surprised to find him half-dressed—sweatpants, a loose t-shirt you hadn’t seen since before the split—and standing in your kitchen like muscle memory brought him there.

He doesn’t hear you right away. He’s focused, pouring juice into a pink cup, crouching slightly to meet your daughter’s sleepy gaze where she sits at the table in her oversized Spider-Man pajamas.

“Like this?” he asks, holding up a slice of apple with cinnamon sprinkled on top.

She nods emphatically. “That’s how Mommy does it,” she says.

Jay glances up then, sees you leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. You don’t speak at first. Neither does he.

But your daughter breaks the silence. “Appa, can you pick me up from ballet today?”

You freeze.

Jay hesitates. “I… have a meeting. But maybe next time.”

“Oh.” Her face dims just enough to punch air from your lungs.

You move to grab your coffee mug, shielding your emotions behind routine. “It’s okay,” you say evenly, directing your words to your daughter. “We’ll go together like usual.”

Jay watches you a second longer than necessary. Like he wants to say something but knows it’ll come out wrong.

He doesn’t leave right away. Instead, he lingers after breakfast, helping her zip her coat, tying her shoes without you needing to ask. It’s jarring how naturally he steps back into it. Like the gap in time is something only you felt.

She hugs him goodbye, arms tight around his neck.

You’re halfway out the door when he calls after you. “Hey.”

You pause, turning slightly.

He looks unsure. But he says it anyway. “You always made it look easy. Raising her.”

Your throat tightens. “It wasn’t.”

“I know that now.”

You nod, jaw tense. “Good.”

Jay steps closer, voice lower now. “You know… you didn’t have to let me back in.”

You meet his eyes. “I just let our daughter see her father again.”

Something shifts in his expression. Before he can say more, your daughter tugs your hand impatiently. The moment passes.

That night, he texts you: Thank you. Again.

You almost don’t reply. But then you do: She deserves you. Just don’t make me regret it.

A typing bubble appears. Disappears. Comes back: I won’t.

The next few weeks fall into a fragile rhythm. He picks her up once a week. You watch from the window sometimes as she runs to him, trusting. You don’t invite him back inside again. But sometimes he lingers at the doorway longer than he needs to, eyes flickering over you like he’s memorizing the new edges.

He asks questions. “Does she still hate broccoli?” “Is she still scared of the vacuum?” “What songs does she fall asleep to now?”

It’s slow, careful. Like walking barefoot through a house you used to live in, afraid of stepping on the broken things you left behind.

One Friday night, she asks if he can stay for dinner. You hesitate. Jay stands in the doorway, silent, waiting for your answer.

Finally, you nod. “Sure. If you can handle mac and cheese with a side of chaos.”

He grins, relief etched into every line of his face. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

That night, you all eat together. For the first time in over a year. Jay sits across from you, helping your daughter scoop peas into her mouth with exaggerated praise. The air feels weird—nostalgic, sharp-edged. Too much like before. You catch him watching you when he thinks you’re not looking. You ignore the way it makes your stomach twist.

Later, after she’s tucked in and snoring lightly under her blanket, you find Jay standing in the kitchen. He’s holding that same frog-and-umbrella book. “She wanted me to read it,” he murmurs.

You nod, leaning against the counter. “She used to fall asleep in your arms with that one,” you say. “Wouldn’t let me read it after you left.”

Jay swallows. “I didn’t think she’d even remember me.”

You glance at him. “She remembers everything.”

He nods slowly. His voice lowers. “Do you?”

The question hangs in the air like a blade.

You meet his gaze, guarded. “I try not to.”

But it’s a lie. Because some nights, you still dream of soft laughter in shared bedsheets. Of lullabies sung together. Of Jay's warm hand on your back when the baby cried at 3 a.m. Of what it felt like to be a family.

He nods, like he knew the answer anyway.

For the first time in a year you leave your apartment without a diaper bag or a mental checklist. Jay insisted—offered, actually. Said he wanted time alone with her. That he could handle bedtime. You didn’t argue. Not because you needed the break (you always need the break), but because something in his eyes made you say yes before your pride could interrupt.

Now you’re standing outside a dimly lit lounge, wrapped in a long black coat, dress peeking beneath the hem, a little mascara smudged in the corner of your eye. You hadn’t expected anyone you knew. But the universe has its timing.

“Whoa,” a familiar voice says over the music. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

You turn, startled. Jake. His hair is slicked back a little, glass of whiskey in hand. No cameras. No entourage. Just him.

You blink. “Jake?”

He laughs. “Hey. I thought I was hallucinating for a second.”

You smile, a little sheepish.

Jake tilts his head. “So… you’re out, and Jay’s on dad duty?”

You nod. “He offered. I figured, why not?”

Jake leans against the bar, eyes thoughtful. “That’s good. It’s really good.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You think?”

He hesitates, then gestures to the empty seat next to him. “Wanna sit for a minute?”

You do. There’s something soft about Jake—always has been. The easy charm, the warmth. He’s the type who remembers birthdays and makes sure everyone eats on time during rehearsals. He sips his drink, eyes scanning you carefully. Not judgmental. Just aware.

“Jay talks about her all the time,” he says suddenly.

You blink. “He does?”

Jake nods. “Every chance he got. Even when he didn’t realize he was doing it.”

Your fingers tighten around your glass.

“He always said he didn’t deserve to be in her life,” Jake continues. “That he missed too much. That he screwed it up.”

You stay quiet.

Jake glances at you. “We didn’t push him. But I think we all knew… he wanted to come back. Just didn’t know if you’d ever let him.”

You look down, voice quiet. “I didn’t do it for him.”

“I know,” Jake says gently. “But I’m glad you did it anyway.”

You feel your throat tighten. The music hums around you, too loud and too distant all at once.

Jake softens. “He’s different now. I’m not saying he’s fixed or perfect. But I’ve known Jay a long time. I’ve never seen him hurt over anything like this before.”

You swallow. “I didn’t want to break him.”

“I don’t think you did,” Jake says. “I think he broke himself. You just stopped trying to hold the pieces together.”

The silence between you stretches. A respectful pause.

Then Jake grins, lighter now. “Also… for what it’s worth? She looks just like him. It’s scary.”

You laugh—actually laugh—and it feels strange on your tongue. “She acts like him too,” you murmur. “Stubborn as hell. Walks into a room like she owns it.”

Jake smirks. “Yup. That’s Jay.”

You check your phone after a while. No missed calls. No texts. Just a photo Jay sent an hour ago: your daughter curled into his chest, bunny squished between them, both asleep on the couch. You stare at it longer than you should.

When you get home, the apartment is quiet. You slip your shoes off, letting the familiar hush wrap around you. Then you see them. Jay, asleep on the couch, her small form tucked beneath his arm like she belongs nowhere else. The bunny is squished between them. His hand is still resting protectively on her back, even in sleep. He looks younger like this. Softer. Less burdened.

Your heart aches. Not with anger. Not even with regret. But with something more dangerous—hope. You should wake him. Tell him to get up, go home, not make this more complicated than it already is. But you don’t.

Instead, you pull the blanket off the recliner and drape it over both of them. Gently. Carefully. Your fingers hover over his cheek for a second too long. Then you turn away. Because you’re not ready. But maybe you’re not as far from it as you thought.

You don’t realize he’s been staying longer until you start hearing his laugh in the quiet parts of your day. Not echoes. Not memory. But real.

He drops her off on Wednesdays now. Brings her back from school on Fridays. Shows up with bubble tea and new coloring books like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t spend a year behind a wall you couldn’t knock down. And somehow, you let it happen. Because she’s thriving. And you are… softening. Against your will, against your better judgment.

You still sleep in separate rooms. You still keep a safe distance. But he’s in the kitchen more. Sitting across from you at the table. Making coffee the way you like it even when he’s not staying over.

One night, she’s already asleep when the sky cracks open. Rain slams against the windows. The kind of storm that steals power without warning. The lights go out while you’re rinsing dishes. You mutter a curse under your breath. Somewhere in the hallway, your daughter stirs but doesn’t wake. You’re about to reach for your phone when Jay appears beside you, flashlight in hand.

“I found it in the junk drawer,” he says. “Pretty sure it’s been there since we moved in.”

You exhale a laugh. “Figures you’d be the one to remember that.”

You light a candle from the counter. It flickers softly, casting his face in gold. The silence settles warm and close.

“Feels like that night we stayed in the countryside,” he says after a beat. “The power went out and we just sat in the dark, eating instant noodles and playing 20 Questions.”

Your chest aches. You remember it too. You look at him over the candlelight. “You played dirty. You asked me what my favorite Jay was.”

He smirks, eyes gleaming. “And I believe you said bedhead Jay who makes pancakes shirtless.”

You try not to smile. You fail. There’s a beat. He shifts closer.

“I miss this,” he says quietly.

You freeze. “The candlelight?”

“No,” he murmurs. “You. This. Us. I miss us.”

You turn away, hands braced on the sink. “Jay…”

“I know. I don’t get to ask for anything. I lost that right. But I see you now. Every day. And I don’t know how I ever let this go.”

The air between you pulses. “Don’t do this,” you whisper.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not fair. You left. You let me carry all of it.”

“I know,” he says. “And I hate myself for it.” He steps behind you…close, but not touching. “You didn’t need me. But you still let me be her dad. You chose what was best for her. Even if it hurt.”

You swallow hard. “I didn’t do it for you.”

“I know.” His voice cracks then. “But I want to do something for you now. I want to earn this. If I ever have a shot at it again.”

You turn to face him, candlelight flickering between you. There’s something raw in his eyes. Something you remember loving once. Something you’re terrified to reach for again.

“I don’t trust you yet,” you say.

“I don’t expect you to,” he answers. “But I’ll show up. Every day. Until maybe you can.”

There’s a silence, heavy with history and hope. You nod, just once. “Okay.”

That night, he sleeps on the couch again. You linger a little longer after tucking your daughter in her room. When you pass him curled under the blanket, eyes still open in the dark, you whisper: “Goodnight, Jay.”

And he whispers back: “Still yours, somewhere.”

You don’t know when it starts happening. Maybe it’s the way he starts remembering which side of the coffee maker your favorite mug goes on. Or how he folds your daughter’s socks the exact way you like them — tiny, neat rolls instead of mismatched clumps. Maybe it’s when he buys your brand of coffee creamer without asking. Just slips it into the fridge like he belongs there.

The truth is… it’s all of it. Jay is showing up. Consistently. Quietly. Without the grand gestures or dramatic apologies. And it’s fucking terrifying. Because for the first time since everything fell apart, you’re starting to want him again. Not the idea of him. Not the memory of who he used to be. This version of Jay is soft, present, and utterly unrushed in how he’s returning to you.

It’s a Tuesday when it happens. He comes by after work with groceries and insists on cooking because you “look tired,” and he’s still annoyingly good at reading your face. Your daughter squeals when she sees the box of star-shaped pasta and grape juice.

“You’re spoiling her,” you tease, watching him in the kitchen.

Jay shrugs. “She deserves it.”

You don’t argue.

Later, while she watches a cartoon in the next room, you sit on the couch folding laundry. Your laundry. You don’t even realize you’ve accepted his help until you see him across from you, quietly folding one of your t-shirts.

He hums softly under his breath a familiar tune. One you used to hear in the mornings, back when his voice was the first thing you woke to. Your fingers freeze mid-fold. He doesn’t notice at first. Just keeps moving, steady and gentle. Until he glances up and sees your face. You’re staring at the shirt in your hands. Your lips pressed tight.

Jay sets down the pair of socks he’s holding. “What?” he asks softly.

Your voice is smaller than you mean it to be. “You used to do that. After we put her to sleep. You’d hum while folding laundry. Like it made the silence less lonely.”

Jay swallows. “I remember.”

You meet his gaze. There’s something breaking in your chest, and you can’t name it. “I used to sit here… after you left. And fold the same shirts. Same socks. Alone. And it felt so loud.”

His eyes are wide now. Still and raw. “I didn’t realize how loud I was until you were gone,” he says quietly. “How much space I took up… without giving anything back.”

You exhale shakily. “You were good at being a father. But you forgot how to be my partner.”

“I know,” he whispers. “And I think about it every night.”

You shake your head, blinking fast. “You’re doing everything right now. I see it. She’s happier. She sleeps better. She laughs louder. And I’m—” You pause. Heart thudding. “I’m starting to remember what it felt like to need you.”

Jay leans forward. His voice is reverent. “I don’t want you to need me. I just want to be someone you’d choose again.”

You look at him, mouth parted slightly. There’s too much in that moment. So you do the only thing you can. You nod. Press your hand against your chest. Breathe through the ache. And whisper, “We’ll see.”

That night, after he leaves, you find one of his hoodies in the laundry basket. It smells like his cologne. You don’t wash it. You just hold it. And for the first time in months, you let yourself cry — not out of anger or exhaustion, but because hope is starting to live here again. Quiet. Steady. Just like him.

You wake up to the sound of coughing. Then a whimper. You don’t think. You just move—half asleep, feet bare against the floor as you rush to her room. She’s warm. Too warm. Her forehead is burning under your palm, her cheeks flushed and eyes watery. You cradle her carefully, whispering soft reassurances as you grab the thermometer from the drawer. 102.7.

Shit.

You don’t want to panic, but the fear hits low in your stomach. You try giving her water, then medicine. She cries. Too weak to protest, too tired to keep her eyes open. You need help. And you know exactly who to call.

Even though it’s almost 2:00 a.m., he picks up after one ring. “I’m on my way.” No hesitation. No questions.

Fifteen minutes later, Jay is at your front door, hair messy, sweatshirt inside out, worry carved into every inch of him. “She okay?” he breathes, stepping inside like muscle memory.

“She’s burning up,” you whisper. “She won’t really eat or drink.”

Jay’s already moving—kneeling by her bed, brushing the damp hair off her forehead with trembling fingers. His eyes are glossy. Terrified.

“Hey, baby girl,” he whispers. “Appa’s here, okay? Just rest.”

You sit beside him. Shoulder to shoulder. Silence pressing down hard and heavy. Every now and then she whines softly in her sleep, and Jay flinches like he’s been shot.

You rest your head back against the wall. “She gets sick maybe twice a year. Always hits her like a truck.”

He nods, jaw clenched. “I hate that I wasn’t here the last time. Or the time before that.”

You say nothing.

He turns toward you. Voice low. “Thank you for calling me.”

Your eyes sting. “She asked for you.”

His lips part, like that breaks him a little more.

You glance down at your hands. “You came so fast. I didn’t expect—”

Jay swallows. “I’ve been waiting for you to need me.”

You don’t look at him when you say it. “I didn’t call because I needed you,” you whisper. “I called because I knew you’d come.”

He’s quiet for a long time. Then, softly: “Is that not the same thing?”

You finally look at him. And there it is again—that ache. That sharp, familiar pull toward him that never really left.

“She’s going to be okay,” he says gently, watching you instead of her now.

You nod, eyes stinging. “Yeah. But I don’t know if I am.”

You feel his hand brush over yours—light, tentative, but there. When you don’t pull away, he threads his fingers through yours. It’s stupid, how something so simple can feel so huge.

“You’ve done everything right,” he murmurs. “I see that now. You were everything. I was the one who disappeared.”

You clench your jaw to keep the tears at bay. “I kept waiting for you to come back.”

“And I don’t know if you’ll ever forgive me for that.”

You look at him, heart raw and cracked open. “I want to,” you whisper. “God, Jay. I really want to.”

His eyes flicker to your mouth. And for a moment, neither of you move. Until you both do—at the same time. The kiss is soft. Not desperate. Not messy. Just real. Like memory. Like grief. Like relief.

His hand comes up to cup your cheek, reverent and trembling. Your lips move together like they were always supposed to, like this was always the ending waiting to happen. It doesn’t fix everything. But it changes it.

When you finally pull back, breath shallow and heart racing, he leans his forehead against yours.

“I’ve loved you this whole time,” he whispers. “I just forgot how to show it. But I feel like I know how now.”

Your voice breaks. “Don’t make me remember just to lose you again.”

“I won’t,” he promises. “I swear I won’t.”

And for the first time since everything fell apart, you almost believe him.

You wake up on the couch. Your daughter is asleep between you, curled against Jay’s chest like she always used to be. His arm is draped around her back, careful and protective. And his other hand… is holding yours.

You must’ve dozed off after she settled. You remember the medicine kicking in, her little body cooling under a fresh set of pajamas, and Jay—watching both of you like you were made of porcelain.

Now the morning light is beginning to stretch through the blinds, and everything feels too quiet. Too still. You slip your hand away first. Jay stirs. His eyes blink open, still heavy with sleep, but he looks at you instantly. Like he was already halfway awake, waiting for you to move.

“Hey,” he says, voice gravel-soft.

“Morning.”

You both whisper. Like anything louder would shatter whatever this is.

He glances down at your daughter, then back up at you. “She feel cooler?”

You nod. “I think the fever broke sometime around 4. Her breathing’s calmer now.”

He smiles. Soft. Relieved. You smile back instinctively. And it hits you how dangerous that feels.Smiling like this. Soft like this. Easy like this. Like the kiss didn’t happen. Like everything didn’t just change.

Jay makes breakfast. Like he used to. Like it never stopped. Your daughter pads out in her socks and oversized T-shirt, still groggy, but hungry enough to ask for toast with strawberry jam and cut-up bananas on the side. Jay doesn’t even ask how she wants it. He just knows. You watch him from the doorway.

And it hits you all at once: this is what he would’ve looked like if he never left. Hair messy, standing at the stove in a hoodie, humming under his breath while flipping pancakes. Your chest aches. It’s so normal. So close. It makes you want to run and hold on all at the same time.

He catches your gaze when he turns. And something in his expression changes. “I didn’t dream it, did I?” he asks softly, like he already knows the answer.

You don’t play dumb. You shake your head once. “No.”

A beat. He nods slowly. Then says: “I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen.”

You swallow. “Neither do I.”

There’s silence. The pan sizzles between you.

“But?” he asks.

You meet his eyes, finally. “But if we do this again, I need you to show up every day. Not just for her. For me.”

Jay walks toward you slow and careful. Like he knows you might bolt. He stops just close enough for you to feel his warmth. “Then let me show you.”

You blink up at him. “Jay…”

“I don’t want the easy parts,” he says. “I want the hard ones. I want the mornings where you’re mad at me and don’t want to talk. I want the late nights where we both forget the laundry and fall asleep on the couch. I want you. All of it. Again.”

You inhale shakily. “Then you’ll have to earn it. Day by day.”

“I will.”

You nod, barely. “Okay.”

After breakfast, he kisses the top of your daughter’s head, tells her he’ll be back tomorrow to take her to the aquarium like he promised. Then he turns to you. Doesn’t try to kiss you again. Doesn’t linger too long. Just touches your arm. Just once.

And says, “Thank you. For yesterday. For last night.”

You nod. “Thank you for showing up.”

And then he’s gone. The house is quiet again. But this time, it doesn’t feel like something’s missing. It feels like someone’s coming home.

Jay hasn’t been sleeping much. Not in the way that matters. He closes his eyes. Sure. Lies still. Tries not to look at his phone when the hours slip past midnight. But rest? That settled, bone-deep kind of quiet? He hasn’t had that in years. Not since the night he packed his duffel bag and closed the door behind him without looking back. Not since he heard his daughter cry from the other side of it and still didn’t turn around. Not since he told himself he’d be a better father if he left. That maybe she’d grow up stronger if she didn’t see him fail her mother every day. That was the lie he told himself, anyway.

“Jay” a voice says, knocking him out of the spiral. Jay looks up to see Jake, standing in the doorway of the studio, holding two takeaway cups and a familiar look of concern. “Thought you might want coffee. You look like you haven’t blinked in an hour.”

Jay offers a tired smile. “Thanks.”

Jake walks in, settles beside him, and hands him the cup. He doesn’t say anything for a while, just watches Jay scroll absently through his notes app: blank entries, half-written reminders, an unsent message sitting at the top: “You looked at me like I’d never left, and I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.”

Jake finally breaks the silence. “You’ve been different lately.”

Jay sighs. “Is that a nice way of saying I look like shit?”

Jake laughs, but it fades quickly. “No. You look like someone who’s trying not to hope too hard.”

Jay doesn’t answer.

Jake softens. “She let you in again, didn’t she?”

Jay nods once.

“She called me,” he says quietly. “When our daughter got sick. Middle of the night. No hesitation.”

Jake blinks. “That’s… big.”

“I didn’t even put my hoodie on properly,” Jay murmurs. “I just ran.”

Jake doesn’t interrupt.

Jay looks down at the rim of his cup. “I kissed her.”

There’s silence. Then: “Yeah,” Jake says gently. “I figured. You’ve had that look on your face lately.”

Jay lets out a shaky breath. “It didn’t feel like a regular kiss. It felt like falling off a roof. And realizing she’s the ground.”

Jake leans back. “You still love her.”

“I never stopped.”

“But you left. Essentially prioritized the team over your family.”

“I thought it was the only decision. Less likely to hurt her with all my stress and pressure and—” he breaks off, voice tight. “I thought walking away would protect her. Protect them.”

“And?”

Jay swallows. “It just proved I was the one who needed protecting. From myself. I didn't even discuss it with her, I just left.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “She made a life without me. Raised our daughter like she was built for it. And now… I’m watching her do it all, and I can’t stop thinking about how I don’t deserve a second chance.”

Jake is quiet for a while before saying, “Jay… You never had to earn her.”

Jay’s head lifts.

“You loved her—you still do. You chose her. She had your daughter. She waited for you longer than most people ever would. You didn’t lose her because you were bad. You lost her because you didn’t trust yourself to be enough.”

Jay blinks hard.

Jake goes on. “Between the two of us, you know her better. But I don’t think you realize that she doesn’t want the perfect version of you. She just wants the version that stays.”

That line hits something deep. Because for years, Jay thought he had to be exceptional to be loved. To deserve a family. A home. But maybe what she needed was never a savior. Just a man who didn’t flinch when things got heavy.

Jay doesn’t say much after that. Just thanks Jake for the coffee. And when he gets home that night, he pulls out the hoodie you gave back last winter — the one you returned, folded, silent, after the breakup — and he wears it again. Not because he wants you to see it. But because he wants to believe he still fits in it.

Your daughter is finally asleep. Her fever’s gone, but she clung to you all day. Fussy, needy, small in that way only sick kids can be. And Jay… he came by with soup. You told him it wasn’t necessary. He showed up anyway.

“Bone broth,” he said when you opened the door. “With garlic, ginger, seaweed. My mom used to make it whenever I got sick.”

You took it from him wordlessly. Still warm in your hands. Homemade.

“Thank you,” you said softly. “She’s sleeping. But she’ll want it when she wakes up.”

He nodded, lips twitching into a quiet smile. “I figured. I didn’t come to stay...”

And yet— he’s still here. You’re both on the couch. Some movie is playing in the background, but neither of you is really watching it. He’s sitting on the opposite end, elbow propped, body angled toward you. You’ve curled into the corner with your knees up, hoodie sleeves pulled past your palms.

And for the first time in a long time, you’re not talking like exes. You're just talking. You don’t even realize you’re laughing until he says something about your daughter’s tiny dramatic tantrums, and you choke on your tea.

“She gets that from you,” you say.

Jay grins. “No way. That is pure you energy. The hands? The fake crying? I’ve seen you throw a pillow at my head for less.”

You laugh again — this time, genuinely — and it makes your chest ache. He looks at you a second longer than he should. You feel it. That pause. That old gravity.

“I missed this,” he says suddenly.

You freeze. “This?” you repeat. “Sick-day soup and accidental couch therapy?”

Jay smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You laughing. With me. Like it used to be.”

Your fingers tighten around your cup. “It wasn’t always like this,” you whisper.

He nods. “I know.”

“Some nights, you wouldn’t even come home.”

“I hated myself more for that than you’ll ever know.”

Silence. Then softly, you ask: “Why’d you leave for real, Jay? Not the version you told everyone. Not the version you told me.”

He hesitates. And then, quietly: “Because I thought you'd be better without me. And I hated that I might’ve been right.”

You close your eyes. When you open them again, he's staring at the floor, knuckles white against his knees. “I wasn’t better,” you say. “I was just surviving.”

“I’m tired of watching you survive without me,” he murmurs.

You look at him—really look. At the way he’s leaning forward now. Elbows to thighs. Eyes full of regret and something achingly familiar. There’s something about the way he looks tonight. Like he’s been trying to come home for years and didn’t know where to knock. You shift a little on the couch.

The silence stretches.

He moves to stand. “I should—”

“You can stay,” you say quickly, voice small. He freezes. “If you want.”

His eyes lift to yours. Something breaks in his face. Something he’s been holding in for years. “I do,” he says.

So he stays. Not in your bed. Not with any expectations. Just on the couch. Shoes off, hoodie pulled over his head, hand falling asleep somewhere between you both. You wake up later to find his hand just barely brushing yours again. And you don’t move it. Not this time.

You wake up to soft breathing and the faint rustle of blankets. The sun is barely up, gold bleeding gently through the curtains. You blink against it and register two things at once: Jay is still here. And so is your daughter, tucked against his side, tiny hand wrapped around his hoodie drawstring like she knew he’d protect her in her sleep.

Your heart clenches. You sit up slowly, blanket falling from your lap, and take them in. Jay’s head is tilted toward her, one arm around her back. Protective. Loose. Natural. His chest rises and falls in a slow rhythm, mouth slightly parted, lashes thick against his cheeks. He looks peaceful. He looks like someone you used to know. And in this moment — in your living room, on your couch, holding your daughter — he also looks like someone you could know again. Someone you want to.

You don’t wake them. Instead, you slip quietly into the kitchen and start making breakfast. You’re halfway through whisking eggs when you hear the soft creak of the floorboards.

Jay steps in, carrying your daughter on his hip, her cheek still red from sleep. “She woke up and asked for you,” he says softly, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to do this part, the normal part.

You glance at him over your shoulder. “Thanks,” you murmur, watching as he gently lowers her into her booster seat.

He helps without asking: sets the table, fills her little cup with apple juice, grabs napkins. It’s not choreographed. It’s not even discussed. It’s muscle memory. You make plates. He finds the right spoon for her. She babbles about a dream she had where a duck stole her blanket, and Jay listens like it’s the most important thing in the world. And for the first time in a long time, your kitchen feels full.

Later, he helps you fold clothes that no longer fit your daughter in the living room. He doesn’t say much. Just folds the baby clothes carefully, the way you used to show him. You’re about to thank him when he holds up a tiny pair of leggings and smirks.

“Why does everything this small make me want to cry?” he jokes gently.

You glance over. “Because you missed this part.” Jay flinches. You soften your tone. “I mean… you missed it. Not your fault. Just… time passed. And you weren’t here for all of it.”

Jay looks down at the leggings again. “Yeah.”

Silence stretches. You finish folding a shirt, placing it in the pile.

Then he says quietly: “You made it look easy. But I know it wasn’t.” You glance at him again. “I should’ve been here.”

You don’t answer. Because it’s not a question. He puts the folded pants aside and shifts to face you more directly.

“I don’t want to be the guy who just drops in for soup and a bedtime story.”

You blink. “Then what do you want to be?”

Jay holds your gaze. “Someone who stays. Someone you look forward to seeing in the morning and who comes home at night.”

Your throat tightens. You fold another shirt slowly, buying yourself time. Then—softly: “You don’t feel like a guest anymore.”

He swallows. “Yeah?”

You nod. And in the silence that follows, something like a promise begins to grow between you... unspoken, still fragile, but real this time.

That night, after your daughter’s asleep and the house is quiet, you sit on the edge of the couch with a glass of water and whisper: “Staying isn’t about never leaving the house. It’s about not leaving us.”

Jay nods, eyes locked to yours. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, and you believe him. You really do.

Your daughter’s staying the night at your parents’ place. A last-minute offer. “You need a break,” your mom said over the phone. “We haven’t had her overnight in weeks.”

You almost said no. You almost felt guilty. But Jay, sitting across the room, gave you a quiet nod when he overheard the offer. A subtle, hopeful smile. And for some reason, you wanted to see what the night might feel like without the space between you constantly being filled by someone else.

So here you are. Just the two of you. Again.

The faucet is leaking in the kitchen. A rhythmic, hollow drip you’ve been ignoring for a week now. But Jay doesn’t. He grabs your small toolbox after dinner and crouches under the sink like it’s second nature.

You watch him work: sleeves pushed up, forearms flexing, a smudge of dust across his wrist. He mutters something under his breath when a bolt slips, and you smile without realizing.

“How do you still know where everything is in my house?” you ask gently.

He doesn’t look up. “It was mine too. For a long time.”

You nod, even though he can’t see it. It was. When he finally emerges from under the sink, flushed and slightly damp from the spray, you hand him a towel without thinking. Jay takes it — your fingers brushing — and he pauses.

Looks up at you. Lingers. You both stand there for a moment too long.

Your voice is quiet. “You want tea or something?”

He hesitates. “Sure.”

The tea never gets made. Because somewhere between boiling the water and finding the honey, he walks around the kitchen island and stands behind you — not too close, just there. Warm. Quiet. Waiting. You feel his presence before you turn. “Jay—” you start, barely a breath.

“Can I ask you something?” he says, voice low. You nod. “If I kissed you right now… would you stop me?” You freeze.

His voice is careful, reverent. “I’m not asking because I want to complicate things. I’m asking because… I haven’t stopped thinking about it since that night.”

You swallow hard. “I haven’t either.”

He moves just a little closer. You can smell the clean scent of his hoodie. Feel the heat radiating from his chest. His fingers twitch at his side like he wants to reach for you, but won’t until you give him permission.

So you turn—slowly—and meet his eyes. There’s something heavy in your chest. Hope, maybe. Fear. Longing. All tangled.

You whisper, “Jay…”

And he leans in, just enough that his nose brushes yours. “You can stop me,” he murmurs, breath warm against your lips. “Say the word and I’ll pull away.”

You don’t say it. Instead, you reach up, trembling and cautious, and press your palm to his cheek. His eyes flutter shut. Then you kiss him. Soft at first. Tentative.

But when his hand finds your waist, when you breathe his name into his mouth like it still belongs there, it deepens. Grows urgent. Familiar. He kisses like he’s still memorizing you. Like this moment matters. Like he’s afraid it’ll disappear if he rushes it.

And for a long, quiet second, you let yourself feel it. All of it. The forgiveness. The ache. The still-burning truth that somewhere in you, you never stopped loving him. When you finally pull away, you're both breathless. Foreheads pressed together. Eyes shut.

Jay speaks first. “I’ve waited years for that.”

You don’t move. “Was it what you expected?” you whisper.

He huffs a quiet laugh against your skin. “No. It was better.”

You could say something sarcastic. Deflect. Joke. But you don’t. Instead, you whisper, “Stay. Just… stay tonight.”

Jay meets your eyes. “I will.”

And this time, when you curl into him on the couch, it’s not out of convenience or exhaustion or obligation. It’s because being close to him finally feels right again.

[big-ooof]

Tequila Salt and Trouble

Jay x f!reader

note: sexual content 18+

The music is bass-heavy and half-forgotten, some moody R&B track vibrating through the floor of whoever’s penthouse this is. You barely care. All you can focus on is the man across the room, leaning against the marble counter with a red solo cup in hand, and his eyes locked on you like you’ve already said too much.

You haven’t said a word. Not yet.

The last time you and Jay were alone, there weren’t many words either — mostly breathless laughter, open mouths, hands fumbling in the dark — and a text the next morning that neither of you responded to.

Now he’s standing here, jaw tight, cup tilted to his lips like the tequila’s doing a damn thing to cool the heat between you. Spoiler: it isn’t.

You slide up beside him, your fingers grazing the edge of the salt dish on the counter. His gaze dips, tracks the movement.

“Are you gonna pretend we don’t know how this ends?” you say.

Jay swallows — not just the alcohol, but the tension in the room. “Didn’t know we were starting something.”

You raise a brow. “You wore that cologne. That shirt. You knew exactly what you were doing.”

His eyes fall to your mouth, linger there like a sin. You dip your finger in the salt, drag it across your collarbone slowly…deliberately until it shimmers like temptation.

That’s when you say it. “Is the alcohol starting to taste like you should lick the salt off my chest?”

Jay chokes on air. And you just smile. He takes a breath then closes the space between you like a man giving up the fight. One hand finds your waist, the other your jaw, tilting your head so he can kiss you like he remembers everything. Because he does. The nights, the desire, the way you say his name when you’re pissed and desperate and close.

“You’re such a fucking problem,” he murmurs against your neck, dragging his mouth down toward the salt trail. “You taste like trouble.”

“And you never regret it,” you whisper back. You’re pulling him in, already dizzy from the way his tongue leaves a trail across your chest, hot and slow against your skin. He groans, and the sound curls down your spine.

The party fades into a blur. You both stumble into a guest room. The door shuts behind him with a heavy click, and it's like the air changes. It’s no longer party air — it’s thick, electric, and private. You’re already under his skin and you know it. But now he’s under yours too.

Jay walks toward you like he’s been starving for years and finally found the last predator he’d let kill him. His mouth is still wet from the lime and salt off your skin. And his eyes? Feral.

“You knew exactly what you were doing back there,” he mutters as his fingers slide under the strap of your dress, lips brushing your shoulder. “Walking around all night looking like I didn’t fuck you stupid three months ago.”

You smirk. “Maybe I forgot.”

He growls low in his throat. “I’ll remind you.”

And then he’s on you— hand in your hair, lips crashing against yours in a kiss that’s brutal, claiming, intoxicating. There’s no slow this time, no hesitation. He lifts your leg around his waist, grinding his hips into you like his body’s got more to say than his mouth ever did.

You yank his shirt up, he helps, tossing it aside and when he sees you looking, really looking, he flushes and says, “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Look at me like you miss me.”

You don’t answer. You just kiss him again — slower this time, deeper — while your hands trail down the line of his abs to the waistband of his jeans. He hisses when your fingers dip just under the edge, teasing.

“Still cocky,” he breathes, pushing your dress up over your hips.

“Still hard,” you shoot back, brushing your palm over his bulge. “What a coincidence.”

Jay laughs, but it’s breathless and desperate. “Get on the bed.”

You back up slowly, deliberately, and climb onto the mattress, propping yourself on your elbows. He watches like he wants to memorize this exact image, like the past few months have been nothing but a drought.

“You gonna fuck me like you mean it this time?” you ask, eyes challenging.

He’s on his knees between your legs in an instant. “No,” he says. “I’m gonna eat you ‘til you forget how to talk.”

Your breath catches. He yanks your panties down with no ceremony, pushing your knees apart and licking a stripe up your center before you can even moan. His tongue is hot, wet, firm and his grip on your thighs is unrelenting.

“Jay—f-fuck.”

“Louder,” he growls against you. “Wanna hear how good I’m making you feel.”

He buries his face between your legs like it’s the only place he wants to be, licking and sucking until your back arches and your hands are in his hair, tugging hard. His tongue flicks over your clit just right, over and over, until your thighs start shaking.

You’re almost there. Almost. Then he pulls back, smirking, lips glossy. “Still forgot me?”

“You’re a fucking menace.”

He moves up, mouth hot on yours. You taste yourself on his tongue and moan into it as he grinds into your bare heat through his jeans.

“Want me to fuck you now?” he asks, voice wrecked.

You pull his jeans down without answering, and his cock springs free — already hard, leaking, and big. Your mouth waters. Jay watches you with blown pupils and a cocky smirk that tells you he knows.

“Look at me,” he says, lining up. You do.

He slides in slow, and it’s deep, thick, perfect — like he’s filling something that’s been empty since the last time he was inside you.

“Oh—fuck,” you gasp, hands gripping his shoulders.

He stills inside you for a moment, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel so fucking good. Better than I remembered.”

“You think about it that much?”

“All the fucking time.”

Then he starts to move. Deep, deliberate strokes that make your toes curl. His pace is controlled at first, but every time you moan his name, every time you clench around him, he loses a little more.

“Wanted to fuck you again the second you walked out of my place that night,” he groans, slamming into you harder now.

“So why didn’t you?”

“Because I wanted more than just this,” he grits, one hand gripping your thigh as he angles deeper. “Wanted everything.”

The confession hits you in the chest, but your body’s too far gone to process it fully. You’re already climbing again, moaning louder with every thrust. His name falls from your lips like prayer and profanity all at once.

“Fuck, Jay—don’t stop—”

“I’m not stopping ‘til you cum on my cock.” He slips his hand between you, rubbing tight circles over your clit, and that’s it— your orgasm hits like a fucking tidal wave, body shuddering as you cry out, clenching around him so tight he curses through gritted teeth.

Jay buries himself deep and groans, “Shit—fuck—” as he cums, body jerking against yours, sweat dripping from his hairline.

The room goes quiet except for your wrecked breathing. He doesn’t pull out right away.

He just stays there— inside you, forehead against yours, heart beating fast like he just ran toward something instead of away.

You lie tangled in his arms, the sheets halfway across the floor, your legs still trembling when he lazily traces circles on your hip.

“You still taste like tequila,” he murmurs.

“You still kiss like you mean it.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then: “Leave the party with me tonight.”

You turn to face him, lips brushing his jaw. “What happens if I do?”

His answer is low, serious. “Then I stop pretending this is just sex.”

[big-ooof]

note: when I say that Heeseung's been in my head a lot lately... it's bad LOL. I'll move on to other members after this, promise. (or idk, pls don't get tired of me).

Heeseung and Reader own a restaurant together. The atmosphere gets angsty and the tension ignites.

3:22 p.m. — Before Service

The kitchen hums before it roars. The calm before dinner service, but calm here feels like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks. Your hands are steady as you chiffonade basil, but your head is loud.

“You double checked the scallops, right?” Heeseung calls from the fridge, voice already clipped with urgency.

You don’t look up. “Yes, chef.”

“Cool. ’Cause Min said they delivered late—”

“I handled it.”

A pause.

Then his voice softens. “Okay. Just checking.”

That’s the thing with Heeseung. Everything’s urgent. Everything’s personal. It’s what makes him magnetic and impossible. A fire that burns too close to your ribs.

You glance up just in time to catch him adjusting the sleeves of his chef’s jacket, muttering something under his breath about plating patterns. There’s flour on his collarbone. A fresh cut on his index finger.

You look away before he can meet your eyes.

You opened the restaurant with him eight months ago. The building was falling apart. No staff. No money. Just you, him, and a shared hallucination of something beautiful.

It wasn’t supposed to work. But it did. On the nights it really worked, you and Heeseung moved like a single mind, like you were building a song with knives and fire. Everyone sees it. The front-of-house girls giggle behind the POS. Even Jay once said, “You two either need to fight or fuck. Preferably not in the walk-in.”

You had laughed, of course. Laughed too loud. Heeseung hadn’t laughed at all.

4:05 p.m. – Line-Up

He’s on one side of the kitchen, you on the other. You’re reviewing the covers for the night, already bracing for a nightmare table in the corner booth— influencers with ring lights and impossible substitutions.

Heeseung’s reading the staff into specials, tone sharp. Focused. You catch him glancing at you during the part about the crab risotto. The one you stayed up work-shopping with him for six hours two nights ago. You argued about lemon zest. You were right. He knows it. He doesn’t say it.

Instead, his voice drops. “This one’s personal. Don’t mess it up.”

Everyone nods. But his eyes are on you.

9:31 p.m. – Service, Mid-Rush

You’re both yelling now. Not angry—just trying to keep the ship from sinking.

“Behind!”

“Pick up table twelve!”

“Where’s the fucking veg for this chicken?”

You’re in the weeds. And when you slam a hot pan down too fast and nick your finger on the edge, he notices before you do. Heeseung grabs your wrist, pulls you toward the sink without a word.

“I’m fine,” you snap.

“You’re bleeding.”

“I said I’m—”

“I know,” he growls. “But let me—just let me—” His hands are steady, even if his voice isn’t. He wraps your finger in gauze, tight and precise. Then he looks at you. “Don’t go down tonight.”

You swallow hard. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

12:44 a.m. – Close

The kitchen is dead. The lights are dim. You’re both alone, perched on empty crates by the back door, trading sips of leftover soda like it’s sacrament.

Heeseung exhales slowly. “That was hell.”

You nod. “Still kind of miss it already.”

He chuckles, low and tired. “You’re insane.”

You lean your head back against the wall, eyes closed. “So are you.” Silence. But not the awkward kind. The kind that only exists between people who’ve been in the trenches together. The kind that says everything without saying anything. When you open your eyes, he’s already looking at you.

His voice is quieter now. Careful. “You think this is gonna kill us?”

You blink. “The restaurant?”

“This… whatever we’re building.”

A beat. Then: “Maybe,” you whisper. “But if it does… I’d rather it be with you.”

Heeseung’s jaw flexes like he wants to say something. But instead, he just nods. You sit like that for a while. Close, but not touching. Like always.

2:13 a.m. – The Fire Alarm

You're cleaning out the spice drawer when the fire alarm shrieks like it caught a feeling. You jolt.

Heeseung bursts in from the back, face twisted in alarm. “What the—”

“Burnt the fucking pepper again,” you groan, fanning smoke with a towel. “It’s nothing.”

Heeseung strides toward the stove, grabs the pan, dumps it into the sink like it insulted him.

“You good?” he asks, panting a little, shirt sticking to his back. You notice a drop of sweat trailing down his temple. You hate that you notice.

“I’m fine.”

“Sure?”

You give him a look. “Why do you always ask me like you don’t believe me?”

He opens his mouth to answer. Closes it. Then: “Because you lie about it. Every time.”

Silence.

You turn your attention back to the drawer. “You ever think maybe I lie because this place only runs if I’m fine?”

Heeseung leans against the counter. “You think I don’t know that?”

You glance up. His eyes are dark. Tired. Too honest.

“This place only runs because of both of us,” he says. “Don’t carry me like dead weight.”

You don’t reply. You can’t. Because he doesn’t get it, or maybe he does, and that’s worse.

He steps closer. Just a little. The air thickens. “Look, I’m not trying to fight with you.”

“Then why does it feel like we always are?” you murmur.

Heeseung swallows. “Because you don’t let me in.”

That’s when you crack. You drop the towel. Turn to face him fully. “I practically live in this kitchen with you. I bled on the line with you. I gave up my actual fucking life for this. What else do you want from me?”

Heeseung doesn’t blink. “I want the part you don’t say out loud.”

The silence is violent. Your heart is thudding in your chest. You don’t even know if you’re mad or about to cry or something in between.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you lie.

“Yes, you do.”

You shake your head. “Heeseung, don’t do this.”

“Why not?”

“Because if we talk about it, we don’t come back from it.”

He steps in. Too close. Inches from you now. “Maybe I don’t want to come back from it.”

You feel it—that spark. It’s been there since the first time you sliced onions shoulder-to-shoulder, since the first post-service can of beer you both shared on opening night. He’s looking at you like he already kissed you in another life. Like he’s one breath away from doing it again.

Your voice is a whisper. “You gonna kiss me or not?”

He doesn’t move. Not yet. Just stares like he’s memorizing you.

“I want to,” he says. “But I can’t do it if it means complicating things... or losing you.”

You exhale, shaky. “So we just… don’t?”

He looks pained. “I don’t know.”

Then, like muscle memory, his hand brushes your arm. Light. Careful. You could lean in. You want to. But you don’t. You both step back.

The spark? Still there. Untouched. Waiting.

2:42 a.m. – Lock Up

You’re walking out together. The night is cold. Your hands brush once, and neither of you apologizes.

“Breakfast tomorrow?” he asks. Like nothing happened. Like everything didn’t almost happen.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t say goodnight. Just looks at you like he wants to say everything and instead says nothing at all. You walk in different directions. And for the first time, it feels wrong.

10:04 a.m. – The Breakfast

Heeseung’s already seated at your usual table when you arrive. Hair slightly damp, hoodie loose around his frame, two coffees waiting. You pause. Breathe. Pretend your hands aren’t already sweating.

“Black?” he asks, sliding your cup across the table.

You nod, sitting across from him. “You always remember.”

He shrugs. “You’re not hard to memorize.”

The words land heavy between you.

You sip your coffee like it doesn’t mean anything. Like your skin isn’t already buzzing from the sheer closeness of him. Like your eyes didn’t trace the curve of his throat when he looked down at the menu.

He finally looks up. “So, about last night—”

“Let’s not,” you interrupt, too fast. “Not here.”

He doesn’t push. Just stabs a bite of pancake, jaw tight. But the silence? It's not casual. It’s loaded. Like both of you are pretending this is just breakfast and not the morning after an almost kiss that could’ve ended everything.

When you reach for the syrup and your hands brush, you flinch like you touched a live wire.

Heeseung leans in, low voice: “I almost kissed you.”

You meet his gaze. “I know.”

“I still want to.”

You grip the table edge like it might keep you from combusting.

“Heeseung—”

“I know,” he says, voice rough. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

You want to scream. Or lean across the table and kiss him anyway. Instead, you swallow hard and say nothing.

2:46 p.m. – The New Sous

The new sous chef is named Rina. She’s sharp, competent, and fresh off a Michelin-starred kitchen in Seoul. She watches the room like she’s been trained to spot weaknesses— or chemistry.

“You and Chef Lee,” she says during prep, slicing carrots with deadly precision, “you’re together, right?”

You pause mid-chop. “What?”

She shrugs. “You move like you are.”

You laugh. Too loud. Too fake. “We’re not.”

Her eyes flick up. “You sure?”

You aren’t. But you nod anyway.

5:53 p.m. – Dinner Service, Low and Slow

The rush hasn’t hit yet. You’re checking plating standards when Heeseung brushes behind you. He doesn’t have to…there’s space. But he does it anyway. Hand at your waist, casual, like it’s instinct. You suck in a breath.

“Chef,” he murmurs near your ear. His voice is low. Dark.

You turn your head slightly, heart hammering. He’s close enough to kiss. “You’re doing it again,” you whisper.

“Doing what?”

“Touching me like you mean it.”

He looks at you for one long, loaded second. Then he steps back. You feel his absence like a burn.

11:02 p.m. – The Walk-In

It happens fast. You’re both in the walk-in. You reach past him to grab a container of cured lemons. He turns at the same time. Too close. Your breath hitches. The cold air bites at your skin. But Heeseung? He radiates heat. You should move. Neither of you does.

His hand lifts—slow, deliberate—and slides around the back of your neck. Not possessive. Not sweet. Hungry. You stare up at him, breathing uneven.

His thumb brushes behind your ear. His voice is low, dangerous. “Tell me to stop.”

You don’t. You can’t. Your lips are so close.

But just before you close the gap— Bang. A tray clatters outside the door. A shout.

You both jump. Heeseung curses under his breath and backs away. You stare at each other. Shaking. Wanting. Untouched.

11:56 p.m. – The Kiss

The kitchen is empty. The shift’s over. Everyone’s gone home. You’re still there, shoulders tense, pacing near the prep counter. Heeseung walks in like he already knows what you’re about to say.

“You’re mad,” he says quietly.

You turn. “Why the fuck were you flirting with Rina during service?”

He blinks. “I wasn’t flirting.”

“She touched your arm.”

“I didn’t ask her to.”

“You laughed.”

A pause. He steps closer, voice quieter. “What are we doing right now?”

You exhale shakily. “I don’t know. But it felt like shit.”

Heeseung stares at you. Then: “That’s what it feels like for me every time you act like what we have isn’t real.”

That stops you.

“What do we have?” you ask, voice raw. “Because you keep looking at me like you want me, but you never fucking do anything about it.”

“I’m trying to protect us.”

“There is no ‘us’ if we keep pretending it doesn’t exist.”

Silence. Then Heeseung moves. One second he’s across the room, the next, his hands are on your face, and his mouth is crashing into yours like he’s starved for it.

You gasp. He swallows the sound. The kiss is rough. Months of tension poured into a single point of contact. Your hands tangle in his hoodie. His thumb slides under your jaw, tilting your face up like he’s memorizing it.

He presses you back against the wall, mouth urgent, breathing heavy. “I’ve wanted to do that since the first time you told me I was seasoning the aioli wrong,” he whispers against your lips.

You grin. “You were.”

He kisses you again. Slower this time. Like he’s trying to taste everything he’s been avoiding.

Then— A voice outside the kitchen. A laugh. Footsteps. You both freeze. The back door creaks open.

“Oh—shit, sorry,” Rina says, eyes wide, tray in her hands.

You and Heeseung spring apart. Guilt already crawling under your skin. Rina doesn’t say anything else. She just smirks and leaves.

12:14 a.m. – The Fallout

Heeseung runs a hand through his hair. “Well. That’s it. Everyone’s gonna know.”

You’re pacing again. “Does it matter?”

He hesitates. “Yeah. It does.”

You look at him, heart thudding. “You regret it?”

He doesn’t answer right away. “I don’t regret kissing you,” he says. “I regret not being ready for what it means.”

You swallow hard. “And what does it mean?”

Heeseung steps close again. Not touching you this time. But close enough to feel the heat. “It means I can’t lose you.”

“You won’t.”

“You say that now.” His voice cracks. “But if this goes wrong—if we go wrong—this kitchen goes with it. You go. I go. It all falls apart.”

You whisper: “I’d rather risk the fall than feel like this every night.”

His eyes go soft. Devastated. “I don’t know how to be near you and not want more.”

You nod. “Then stop trying.”

He pulls you in again, forehead to forehead, and for the first time in months, you both just breathe. It’s not simple. It’s not safe. But it’s real. And it’s finally happening.

9:12 a.m. – The Gossip

The kitchen is quieter than usual. But not in a good way. Rina smirks every time she passes you. Jay keeps whistling a tune that sounds suspiciously like a love song. Even the dishwasher gives you a knowing nod.

“Did something… happen?” you ask.

Rina raises an eyebrow. “Oh, babe. Something finally happened.”

You groan. “It was one kiss.”

“Sure,” she says, leaning in. “But it was the kind of kiss people quit jobs over.”

You turn away before she can see your blush. But it’s no use, everyone saw the shift. The way Heeseung’s gaze lingers longer now. The way you smile a little when he says your name. The way you both seem… wrecked by wanting. And still holding it in.

3:46 p.m. – The Fight

He corners you during prep. Hands dusted with flour. Eyes stormy. “Why are you avoiding me?”

You stare at him. “I’m not.”

“You didn’t answer my calls. You left early. You haven’t even looked at me all day.”

“I’m trying to keep this professional.”

“We kissed.”

“I know.”

“You let me put my hands on you like I belong there—”

You cut him off, voice cracking. “You do! You do, Heeseung. That’s the problem.”

Silence. Thick and splintering. He steps closer. Voice low, like it’s costing him everything. “Then why are you pulling away?”

You whisper: “Because I’ve never wanted anything this much. And I’m scared I’ll ruin it.”

His breath catches. “You’re not the only one scared.” Then softer, almost like a confession: “You’re the only thing I have that feels real.”

12:32 a.m. – His Apartment

The shift ends quiet. No fireworks. No sparks. Just exhaustion and something unfinished hanging between you. You’re halfway home when your phone buzzes. Heeseung: Come over. Please.

You don’t hesitate. His apartment is dim when you arrive, warm light pooling in the kitchen. The smell of garlic and something buttery lingers in the air. You find him barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed up, pacing like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He looks up. Eyes red-rimmed. Voice soft. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

You swallow. “You asked.”

He steps forward. “You okay?”

You laugh. Barely. “No.”

And then something breaks in both of you. He pulls you into his arms, no hesitation this time, and you bury your face in his chest, letting yourself feel all of it. The fear. The want. The ache. His hands cradle your face like you might vanish. His mouth finds yours— not rushed this time, not frantic. Just real.

And when he whispers, “Stay with me.”

It’s not about sex. It’s about safety. You nod. “Okay.”

2:03 a.m. – The Intimacy

You end up in his bed tangled, quiet, still clothed. Your hands on his chest. His chin resting on the top of your head. Breaths synced like prayer. When he finally says, “I love you in ways I don’t have words for,” you close your eyes.

You whisper: “That's okay, I can feel it.”

10:15 p.m. – After Close

The last ticket is up. The staff is cleaning down. You and Heeseung are still standing by the pass—quiet, too quiet—and you can feel it coming. The thing you’ve been avoiding. That moment when want finally outweighs the fear.

You hear the staff filter out. Jay shouts a “good night.” The back door closes.

And you’re alone. Again. With him. Heeseung leans against the counter. Looks at you like he’s memorizing everything.

You set your towel down. “You good?”

“No.”

“Same.” He pushes off the counter. Walks toward you slowly, deliberately. “We co-own this place.”

“I’m aware.”

“We shouldn’t cross this line.”

You nod. “We already did.”

His eyes drop to your mouth. “Are you gonna stop me this time?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because in three steps, he’s pressed you against the prep table, and his mouth is crashing into yours like he’s been waiting years for it.

He kisses like he works—intense, focused, like you’re the only thing in the room that matters. His hands slide under your apron, around your waist, pulling you flush against him. You moan into his mouth—soft, desperate—and he swallows it like it feeds him.

“This is so fucking stupid,” you breathe between kisses.

He nips your jaw. “I know.”

“We work together—”

“We run this place together...actually”

You gasp when his hands lift you up, settling you on the prep counter. Cold steel under your thighs. Warm hands at your hips. His forehead pressed to yours.

He kisses you deeper this time— tongue sliding into your mouth, slow and reverent, while his fingers slide under your shirt, stroking the skin of your waist like you’re something holy.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, like he’s trying not to say it but can’t stop himself.

You tug his hoodie, breath hitching. “Show me.”

10:36 p.m. – The Fire

You barely make it to his apartment. Keys drop. Shoes half-kicked off. He kisses you against the door, down the hallway, every step like he’s starving for more of you. Clothes come off in pieces. Your shirt, his hoodie, your pants, his breath shaky as he looks at you fully for the first time.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, voice low and reverent, hands tracing every inch of you like a map he’s been dying to memorize.

When he lays you down on his bed, under the soft glow of the kitchen light spilling down the hallway, it’s not rushed. It’s not frantic. It’s everything.

His mouth finds your neck, your chest, down your stomach all while whispering things like “You drive me crazy,” and “I thought about this every night,” and “You’re mine, mine, mine.”

He makes you feel like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted. And when he finally pushes into you—slow, deep, eyes locked on yours—you gasp his name, and everything else disappears. The kitchen. The pressure. The risk.

It’s just you. And him. And this heat you’ve been holding in too long.

Afterwards, Heeseung holds you like he’s afraid to let go. One hand buried in your hair. His face tucked into your neck. You trace lazy circles on his bare back.

“We’re so fucked,” you murmur.

He laughs softly. “Yeah. But I’m not letting you go.”

You sigh. “What about the restaurant?”

“We built it,” he says. “We can hold it together.”

You look at him. And somehow, even after all this, you believe him.

10:42 a.m. – “Holy Shit”

You’re sitting on the counter in Heeseung’s kitchen, sipping lukewarm coffee in his hoodie, legs bare, voice still hoarse from last night. He’s making eggs, hair messy, jaw clenched like he’s thinking too much.

The silence is almost romantic. Until— BANG. Front door.

“Yo, Hee, you left your—” Jay walks in. Sees you. Sees Heeseung. Shirtless. Eggs. Two mugs. Your legs swinging against the counter.

He stops cold. Dead silence. “…Holy shit.”

You freeze.

Heeseung: “Jay—”

Jay throws a hand up. “NOPE. I’m good. I’m so good. I do not need to see any more thighs today.” He turns, walks out backwards, eyes wide. “You’re fucking your business partner?” he shouts from the hallway.

“JAY.”

“Do I need to schedule an HR meeting?!”

You groan. Heeseung just drops his face into his hands.

2:18 p.m. – Shift Tension

The kitchen is electric. Not from the food, from the gossip. Jay’s been whispering. Rina won’t stop glancing between you and Heeseung like she’s waiting for someone to combust. You can feel it. The heat. The weight of being seen.

Heeseung tries to act normal, cracking jokes, calling times, plating with sharp focus. But you see the tension in his shoulders. The way he keeps glancing over like he’s waiting for you to pull away.

You do. Every time.

6:12 p.m. – Boiling Point

The kitchen is chaos. The ticket printer won’t stop. Rina’s burned herself. The new line cook messed up the veal again.

You and Heeseung are plating side by side. Not touching. Not talking. Your wrist brushes his. And he flinches like it hurts.

You snap. “You got something to say?”

He doesn’t look at you. “Not here.”

“Oh, now you care about being professional?”

He drops the spatula. “You wanna do this now?”

“I want you to stop acting like I broke something you weren’t part of!”

The whole kitchen pauses. Just for a second.

Then Jay finally says, “Yo—uh—maybe take that to the walk-in?”

6:14 p.m. – Behind the Door

The minute the fridge door clicks shut, the gloves come off. You turn on him, chest tight. “You don’t get to shut down every time things get real, Heeseung.”

He breathes hard. “You pulled away first. You made it about the kitchen. Like I was some fucking mistake.”

“You made me feel like I was alone in this!”

“I’m in this,” he says, voice cracking. “I’ve been in this.”

You choke on your breath. “Then why does it feel like I’m the only one scared to lose everything?”

He goes quiet. Too quiet.

You push, softer now. “Say something.”

He swallows. “Because if I let myself believe I could lose you—” His voice breaks. “Then I’d fall apart.”

You take a step forward. “Heeseung—”

“I’ve never had anything that felt this good,” he says, trembling. “And I don’t know how to not fuck it up.”

His hands are shaking. He turns away, shoulders rising like he’s about to cry. You touch his back, barely. He crumbles. Leans against the steel wall. And you realize— He’s crying. Heeseung, who keeps it together for everyone, who leads this place like it’s his heartbeat, is falling apart behind a fridge door over you.

You press your forehead to his back. “Hey. Look at me.” He turns slowly, eyes wet, jaw tight. “I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper. “Even if I’m scared. Even if we fall. I’m not walking away.”

His hand finds yours and holds on like it’s the only thing keeping him up.

You leave the walk-in quiet. Jay glances up. Sees your eyes a little red. Heeseung’s shirt wrinkled. The air between you thick and tender. He says nothing. Just nods once. Then, “better now?”

You and Heeseung glance at each other. Neither of you smiles. But the tension's gone. Heeseung grabs your hand briefly and squeezes before letting go.

8:00 p.m. – The Night Before the New Chapter

The restaurant hums with life, tickets printing, flames licking pans, voices in the dining room mingling with clinking glasses. You’re working the pass, watching Heeseung move effortlessly through the kitchen like it’s his stage. But tonight, his eyes keep finding yours—holding, searching, steady.

Later, at the small press event for the restaurant’s anniversary, a reporter throws out the question everyone’s been dying to ask: “People are talking about the dynamic between the owners… How do you balance business and… personal feelings?”

Heeseung’s smile is tight, but when he looks at you, the room seems to quiet down. “I guess we’re still figuring it out,” he says, voice low enough for only you to hear.

11:30 p.m. – The Moment

You’re outside the restaurant, streetlight painting patterns on the sidewalk. Heeseung pulls you close, his hand resting on your waist, fingers threading through the hem of your shirt. “You’re the best part of this place,” he murmurs, eyes fierce and soft all at once.

You laugh, breath shaky. “You make it impossible to be professional.”

His grin is wicked. “Good.”

He kisses you slow, promises wrapped in every brush of his lips. And then—he pulls back, eyes searching yours. “I love you.”

You blink. It’s not a question, or a dare. It’s the only truth you need.

You smile, your fingers tracing his jawline. “I love you, too.”

The morning after, coffee brews. Sun filters through the curtains. Heeseung’s shirt is tangled with yours on the floor. You move through the quiet kitchen, preparing for the day, knowing that love—like the restaurant—needs care, patience, and a little chaos.

You catch his eye from across the kitchen and smile. “Ready?”

He nods. “Yes, Chef.”

And with that, you open the doors to another day—unfinished, unpredictable, but utterly yours.

[big-ooof]

Jake x f!reader

Reader leaves the city to volunteer at a childcare facility in a small town for a few months. She's staying with her best friend, Sunoo, who wants to play matchmaker.

note: sexual content 18+

Looking around the classroom, you didn’t expect to feel this… undone. Not in a bad way. Not in a falling-apart way. More like the kind of undone that happens when someone peels an orange for you without being asked. A quiet, surprising softness that sneaks up on you in the middle of something ordinary.

Like helping a five-year-old find the right shoelace rhyme, or discovering that wiping spilled juice from your pants doesn’t actually feel like a crisis when a little girl hugs your leg five seconds later and calls you her “sunshine grown-up.”

You arrived four days ago. The air was saltier than you remembered, the mornings quieter. You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been wound being in the city until the stillness here stretched you open like a clean sheet.

Sunoo insisted you stay with him for the first few nights—“Just until you settle in!”—which had turned into shared breakfasts, late-night catch-ups, and a not-so-subtle barrage of “my friend Jake this” and “you’d get along so well with Jake that.”

You thought it was just Sunoo being Sunoo. Until today.

The childcare facility was cozy but chaotic. Crayon-smeared walls, snack time negotiations, bursts of laughter and sobs all under the same roof. It was the kind of noise that made your brain fizz a little, but in a strangely comforting way.

You were crouched near a reading nook, trying to soothe a curly-haired toddler named Minju who had decided naptime was a personal insult, when you felt a shadow stretch beside you.

“I brought snacks,” a voice said. Warm, mellow.

You looked up. He stood there holding a plastic container and wearing an apologetic smile. Hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms, soft hair flopping into his eyes, a bandage on one of his fingers.

“And backup,” Sunoo added, peeking in from behind him, full of smug delight.

You stood, brushing crayon dust from your knees. “You’re Jake.”

He grinned, one side of his mouth tugging higher than the other. “Guilty.”

You took the container and popped the lid. Brownies. Slightly cracked tops, fudgy centers. Still warm.

“I wasn’t aware snack bribes were part of the volunteer orientation,” you said, taking one.

Jake’s eyes sparkled. “Only for the elite recruits.”

You didn’t realize Minju had crept up beside you until you felt her small hand slip into yours. She stared up at Jake with a stern toddler expression.

“This mine,” she declared.

Jake blinked. “The brownie?”

“No,” she said seriously. “Her.”

You nearly choked.

Sunoo lost it first, bending over in laughter as Jake tried to play it straight.

“I swear,” Jake said, eyes wide in mock innocence, “I’m not here to steal your grown-up.”

Minju squinted at him. “You better not.”

Jake nodded solemnly. “Understood.”

Later that afternoon, with Minju asleep on your lap and a board book balanced on your knee, Jake sat across from you at the craft table, absently gluing googly eyes onto a pipe-cleaner octopus.

“She’s kind of scary,” he whispered.

“Powerful,” you corrected. “She runs this place.”

Jake laughed under his breath, then looked at you. Really looked. “You’re good with them.”

You shrugged, suddenly shy under the warmth of his attention. “It’s only my first day.”

“Still,” he said, tone softer now, “some people come in loud. You came in… listening.”

You blinked at him, startled by how much that landed.

“I’m guessing Sunoo didn’t warn you I was this charming,” he added, lips twitching.

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. “Actually, he described you as ‘a golden retriever who bakes like a grandma and flirts like a substitute teacher.’”

Jake snorted. “Honestly? Not even mad at that.”

Sunoo returned with juice boxes and a dramatic sigh. “I leave you alone for five minutes and you’re already flirting? Jake, control yourself.”

“I’m literally just gluing eyeballs to an octopus.”

“Sure you are.”

You sipped from the juice box Jake handed you and leaned back in your chair, watching Minju sleep with her face mashed into your shoulder. Sunoo kept babbling. Jake kept smiling. The sun kept sliding through the window in slow, honeyed stripes. And just like that, something in you started to unclench.

You’d barely been awake ten minutes when your phone buzzed with a message from Sunoo: ☀️ Wake up, favorite person. Time to suffer. 🧃 Jake says wear shoes you can run in. You’ll thank him later. 🎪 Today’s field trip is the farmers market. The children will be feral.

You stared at the screen, still tangled in a blanket on Sunoo’s pullout couch, and groaned.

Ten minutes later, he was banging on the bathroom door. “You better not be using my expensive face cream again!”

“Oh I live to drain your skincare fund,” you called back.

By the time you arrived at the town square, the childcare group was already assembling near the bus. It wasn’t chaos, exactly, but it was teetering on the edge. Tiny backpacks. Loud voices. A group of toddlers collectively arguing over whether strawberries count as “real” fruit.

Jake spotted you first. He wore a navy tee, faded jeans, and a backpack covered in cartoon pins (his own, apparently). He looked like summer personified, all warm limbs and easy smiles.

“You came,” he said, genuinely pleased.

You raised a brow. “I was threatened with emotional blackmail via toddler.”

“Classic Sunoo,” he said with a grin. “You okay wrangling two kids today?”

“Is that… normal?”

He handed you a sticker with your name scribbled on it. “No. But our ratio is off because Jiwon called in sick and Minju refuses to be separated from you.”

Right on cue, Minju barreled into your legs, proudly holding a juice pouch and a glittery plastic wand.

“I saved you,” she said.

“For what?”

“In case you got lost.”

Jake leaned in with a whisper, “She’s been carrying that wand like a weapon. Proceed with caution.”

The farmers market smelled like peaches, kettle corn, and sunscreen. It was loud. But strangely, it didn’t feel overwhelming. Not with Jake keeping pace beside you, not with the kids’ hands in yours like tiny anchors.

Minju dragged you to a face painting booth. The other little one in your charge, Jihoon, insisted he wanted to become “a dragon, but make it fashion.”

Jake helped him into the chair while you knelt beside Minju.

“She told me she wants to be a rainbow,” the artist whispered. “But only if her ‘grown-up’ says it’s okay.”

Your chest tugged. You nodded, brushing hair gently from Minju’s forehead. “A rainbow sounds perfect.”

Later, while the kids were snacking under a shady tree, you and Jake sat side-by-side on a picnic blanket Sunoo had miraculously packed. The buzz of the market hummed in the distance, but this spot felt calm. Protected.

Jake reached into his bag and pulled out a small pouch of goldfish crackers. “In case of snack emergencies,” he said, tossing you a few.

You chewed slowly. “You’re surprisingly good at this.”

Jake shrugged, brushing crumbs from his jeans. “I like being around kids. They’re honest. Weirdly profound, sometimes.”

You turned to him, curious. “Did you always want to work with them?”

He paused, watching Jihoon and Minju chase each other with foam swords. “My mom used to run a small daycare out of our house,” he said after a beat. “I think it made our home feel… warm. Full. After she passed, I started volunteering. At first, it felt like a way to remember her. Now it just feels like… something good I can do.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Instead, you offered him a gummy bear from your own stash, and he took it without hesitation.

“That’s really lovely,” you said quietly.

Jake smiled. “Thanks.”

There was a silence then. But not the awkward kind. The kind that feels like a shared secret.

As the sun began to dip and the kids piled onto the bus exhausted, sugar-high, and paint-smudged. Sunoo clapped a hand on both your shoulders.

“Soooo,” he said, eyes darting between you and Jake like a drama director. “How’s the field trip of fate going?”

“Stop,” you muttered, but your face betrayed you.

Jake shot him a glare. “She’s not a matchmaking project, Sunoo.”

Sunoo put both hands over his heart. “Of course not! But if you were a project, you’d be the final boss of love stories, bestie.”

Jake looked at you. You looked at him. And just like that, you both laughed—quiet, shy, easy. Like maybe neither of you knew what this was just yet. But maybe it was worth finding out.

The storm came out of nowhere. One moment you were helping Minju and Jihoon make sock puppets from a bin of mismatched laundry, and the next, the windows were painted gray and thunder cracked like a spine snapping open.

You barely had time to blink before Sunoo ran up to you. “Jake ran out to his car to grab snacks. He’s parked all the way across the lot—can you catch up to him? Take my umbrella. He’ll pretend he doesn’t need it but he’s wearing canvas.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re a menace.”

“And you’re welcome.”

Jake was halfway back already, hood up, shoulders hunched, brown bag clutched to his chest like it owed him money.

“Jake!” you called, umbrella outstretched.

He squinted through the downpour and jogged to meet you, breathless. “That was a terrible timing.”

You laughed. “You look like a soggy Golden Retriever.”

“I feel like one.”

He ducked under the umbrella, and suddenly the space between you two narrowed down to almost nothing—his shoulder pressed against yours, your hands brushing on the handle.

“Thanks for the rescue,” he said, voice low.

The rain roared around you, but under the umbrella, everything felt close. Muffled. Like being inside a secret.

You made it back to the facility drenched despite your best efforts. Minju laughed so hard she nearly spilled her juice when she saw Jake’s soaked sleeves.

Sunoo handed you both towels with a smirk. “Break room’s empty. Go dry off before one of the kids starts using you as a mop.”

You toed off your wet shoes and made your way to the back, Jake trailing close behind.

The break room was small: just a couch, a folding table, and an ancient microwave that groaned like it had a grudge against time itself.

Jake peeled off his hoodie, revealing a white t-shirt that clung very unfairly to the lines of his shoulders, the dip of his collarbone. You looked away so fast your neck cracked. He noticed.

“You okay?” he asked, voice thick with amusement.

“I’m fine,” you lied.

He tossed you the spare tee he kept in a cabinet. “Here. Might be a little big.”

You slipped into the bathroom to change and stared at yourself in the mirror. His shirt smelled like laundry and the faintest trace of something warmer—something that made your chest buzz.

When you came back out, Jake was sitting on the couch, towel draped around his neck, hair damp and curling a little at the edges.

He looked up. Froze for half a second.

Then smiled. “Looks better on you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re flirting.”

“Am I?”

You didn’t answer. Just walked over and sat beside him. Close. Too close.

“You ever do something stupid because you were lonely?” Jake asked suddenly, voice softer now, almost drowned out by the rain.

You turned to look at him. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

“I dated someone last year. Thought she got me. I was wrong.” He exhaled through his nose. “She made me feel like being soft was… pathetic.”

Your chest ached. You touched his wrist gently. “It’s not.”

“I know that now.” His eyes flicked to your face. “You… don’t make me feel small.”

You swallowed. “You haven’t given me a reason to think that.”

There was a silence. A breath. You felt it happen before you realized it—his hand finding your knee, thumb pressing into the denim like a question. Your hand curling over his in response.

He leaned in. His breath brushed your lips. And then— Buzz. A text. You groaned, pulling back.

Jake blinked, dazed. “Was that—?”

You checked your phone. Sunoo: “He likes you. I asked him while he was microwaving soup. You’re welcome.”

Jake’s head dropped onto your shoulder in embarrassment. “I told him not to get involved.”

You laughed, heart pounding like a second storm. “He means well.”

Jake lifted his head, gaze still locked on you. “I wasn’t going to kiss you because of Sunoo.”

“Oh?”

“I was going to kiss you because I’ve wanted to all week.”

The space between you sizzled. But then a small knock interrupted the moment. Minju peeked in. “Are you still wet?”

Jake stood, clearing his throat. “Uh, just emotionally.”

You bit your lip, holding back a grin.

Minju grabbed your hand again. “Come back. You’re mine."

You look over your shoulder and see him grinning like someone who had already imagined what it’d feel like to kiss you in every version of the rain. “I’ll wait,” he said quietly.

And you knew he would.

The movie night was Sunoo’s idea. Of course it was.

“Everyone’s exhausted,” he said, gathering blankets and popcorn like a nesting bird. “We’ve earned a cozy staff night. No toddlers, no work talk, just vibes.”

But vibes apparently included Jake. You weren’t complaining.

By 9 PM, the facility’s back room had been transformed into a makeshift den: fairy lights strung up, every couch cushion on the floor, and a projector aimed at the far wall. You curled under a throw blanket with a warm drink in hand. Jake arrived late—sweatpants, tousled hair, hoodie slung over one shoulder like he’d gotten dressed in the dark.

He found you instantly. “Hey,” he murmured, plopping down beside you. “This seat taken?”

“You’re lucky I like your face.”

He smiled. “That’s new.”

You raised a brow. “What is?”

“You flirting back.”

You leaned in, just slightly. “You sure I’m not always like this?”

He held your gaze. “No. But I hope you’ll be like this again.”

Halfway through the second movie—some cheesy action-romance Sunoo picked solely for the brooding male lead—Jake’s thigh brushed yours under the blanket. It didn’t move. Neither did yours. Every movement became louder in your head: your fingers fidgeting, his slow inhale, the moment his pinky grazed yours and stayed there.

When the lights from the screen flickered low, casting the room in a soft blue, Jake leaned over like he was going to whisper something. But he didn’t say a word. Instead, he just looked at you. His gaze dipped briefly to your lips. And then— You kissed him. Or maybe he kissed you. Or maybe it was both of you, meeting in the middle of a hundred almosts.

It wasn’t a peck. It wasn’t cautious. It was weeks of tension unfurling like lightning in your chest. A kiss that tasted like heat and comfort and something impossibly slow unraveling at last.

Jake’s hand came up to cradle your jaw, fingers spreading behind your ear, pulling you deeper. His mouth moved against yours like he meant it—like he missed you already, even though you were right there.

The movie played on. But the world quieted. When you finally pulled back, he exhaled shakily, foreheads pressed together. “Was that okay?” he whispered, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

You nodded. “More than okay.”

And then Sunoo’s voice rang out from across the room. “Not to interrupt the literal fanfic happening behind me,” he said, without turning around, “but just so we’re clear, I will be saying ‘I told you so’ at least ten times tomorrow.”

Jake groaned into your shoulder. You grinned.

The next morning, there was a knock on the front door. You opened it half-asleep, hair a mess, teeth unbrushed, hoodie half-zipped. Jake stood there holding a breakfast basket and two coffees. He looked… soft. Like the kind of boy you dream about once and then never again, because no one could live up to the version in your head. But he was real. Standing right here.

“Hi,” he said.

“You brought me food?”

He stepped inside without waiting, setting the basket on the counter.

“Sunoo told me you don’t eat until noon unless someone makes you.”

You blinked at him. “Did Sunoo also tell you I talk in my sleep and threaten to fight trees?”

Jake smiled. “No… That’s a bonus.” He came closer. “I couldn’t stop thinking about last night,” he said. “I haven’t felt something like that in a long time.”

You reached for him without thinking. His touch landed just under the hem of your sleep shorts.

“You’re allowed to kiss me again, you know.”

Jake leaned in, lips ghosting yours, voice low. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

This time, the kiss was slower. Less spark. More burn. His hands mapped your hips like he was memorizing you. Your fingers tangled in his hoodie. And when you broke apart for breath, you were already smiling.

“Sunoo’s going to freak out,” you said.

Jake grinned. “Let him. I only care what you think.”

You whispered, “I think you taste like coffee and trouble.”

Jake’s smile deepened. “I think you haven’t seen anything yet.”

You hadn’t meant to fall asleep on Jake. But after breakfast, after that kiss so warm it made your spine ache, you curled up next to him on the couch under your worn blanket, and he tucked his chin on your head like he’d done it a hundred times before.

By the time you blinked awake, the sun had stretched higher across the windows. And Jake was still there, one hand resting softly on your hip like he hadn’t dared to move. Your eyes met his, heavy-lidded and still a little sleep-drunk.

He smiled. “Hi.”

You didn’t speak. Just leaned in and kissed him. Soft, warm, a little lazy. His breath hitched when your hand slid under the hem of his hoodie, fingertips brushing his skin.

“You’re gonna make me late,” he whispered, eyes fluttering shut.

You kissed his jaw. “Five more minutes.”

“Five minutes,” he murmured, already leaning in.

It started slow. Like he wanted to be sure you were still saying yes even after the kissing got messier, even when your thighs bracketed his hips and your breath came harder. You straddled him on the couch, fingers gripping the back of his hoodie, the way his hands slid up under your shirt like he couldn’t help himself—but still careful. Still asking.

He looked up at you, lips swollen, voice a little unsteady. “Tell me if anything feels too fast.”

You nodded. “I will.”

He kissed you like he believed it.

Your shirt came off first. He kissed your collarbone, slow and reverent, like every inch of you deserved a moment. Then lower. Then lower, until your breath caught and your hips rolled forward on instinct.

Jake’s voice broke when he groaned, forehead pressed to your sternum. “You can’t do that and expect me to stay quiet.”

You smirked. “Who said I wanted you quiet?”

That was all it took. He flipped you gently onto your back, lips finding the soft underside of your jaw, the space behind your ear, your throat. His hands worshiped—no other word for it. Fingers tracing every curve like a map he already loved but still wanted to get lost in.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice hoarse as his hand drifted down the waistband of your shorts.

“Yes,” you breathed, curling your legs around his hips. “God, yes.”

And when he finally slipped his hand under—when he touched you for real—it felt like falling. Like coming undone in front of someone who would never use it against you.

Your hips rocked into his hand, breath stuttering as his lips trailed down your neck, sucking marks into your skin, claiming space that had never belonged to anyone else before.

“Jake—”

He looked up, wild-eyed and flushed. “Yeah?”

“Come here.”

And when he kissed you again, it wasn’t slow anymore. It was hunger. Need. A thousand stolen moments finally unraveling into one long, breathless gasp.

He took his time getting you there—fingers working you open, lips swallowing your moans, hips grinding into yours like he could already feel how good it would be.

You came with your fingers tangled in his hair, his name caught in your throat, your body trembling beneath his weight.

He kissed your temple, your shoulder, your ribs. Then looked at you, grinning. “You good?”

You let out a breathless laugh. “Ask me again when I can feel my legs.”

Jake chuckled, laying down beside you, pulling your body against his. “I’m in trouble,” he whispered into your hair.

You blinked, head against his chest. “Why?”

“Because I think I’m falling. Fast.”

Your heart thudded. But you didn’t run from it. You just whispered, “Then fall.”

Later that day, at the facility, you walked into the art room only to find Jake helping a dozen toddlers finger-paint planets with the same hands that had been all over you hours ago.

Sunoo passed by, noticed the faint mark on your collarbone, and smirked like the devil himself. Jake caught his look and cleared his throat, cheeks flushed.

You? You just smiled to yourself, toeing off your shoes, still buzzing from the way Jake had said your name like it was something sacred.

You spent the night at Jake’s. And in the morning, the sun eased through the curtains like it knew better than to wake you too harshly. You stirred slowly, the weight of Jake’s arm heavy across your waist, one of your legs slipped between his. His body was pressed close, chest warm against your back, thighs tangled with yours beneath the sheets that had long since twisted low around your hips.

And the ache between your legs? Lingering. Welcomed. You shifted, not even meaning to, but your hips rolled just enough to press against the unmistakable hardness resting behind you.

Jake inhaled sharply behind you. His voice was raspy and soft, lips brushing your shoulder. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

You smiled, still half-asleep. “Doing what, exactly?”

He groaned, fingers slipping across your stomach, pulling you closer until your back was fully flush with his front. He was shirtless. Bare skin against bare skin. “You know exactly what.”

You turned in his arms until you were facing him, your fingers brushing the dark strands of hair off his forehead. He looked wrecked in the morning light—eyes heavy, lips still swollen, jaw shadowed with stubble you hadn’t noticed last night.

You leaned in, brushing your lips across his lazily. He deepened it immediately. Jake kissed like he dreamed of you all night. Like he'd memorized every angle of your mouth already and was still desperate to learn more. The kind of kiss that wasn’t urgent—but lingering, as if he couldn’t quite bear to come up for air.

When you shifted your hips against him again, his breath hitched against your mouth. His hand slid down your spine, then lower, fingers gripping the soft swell of your ass like he’d earned the right to hold you there.

“Jesus, baby,” he muttered against your throat. “You keep grinding like that, I’m not gonna last long enough to take my time.”

“Then don’t talk about it,” you whispered, kissing down his jaw. “Show me.”

Jake rolled on top of you so fast you gasped, both of your legs parting instinctively to make room for him.

He pinned you to the mattress with a slow grind of his hips, his hard length pressing right against your already aching center, separated only by your underwear and the thin sleep shorts he hadn’t even bothered to remove last night.

You moaned softly as he kissed along your collarbone, tongue flicking over the mark he’d left just hours before.

“You’re so warm like this,” he murmured, dragging his lips down your chest. “I could spend all day here.”

Then his mouth wrapped around your nipple, and everything slowed down. He sucked gently, one hand squeezing your breast, the other trailing along your side and down between your legs, cupping you through the damp fabric with deliberate pressure.

Your back arched. “Jake—”

“You’re soaked already,” he whispered, voice thick with need. “That for me?”

You nodded, breath ragged. “Yes. All you.”

He growled, slipping his hand under your panties and groaning as he touched you. His fingers slid through your folds with maddening ease, circling your clit slowly before pushing two fingers inside you, deep and curling just right.

Your hips bucked into his touch. He held you down with the weight of his body, his hand never stopping. He watched you—eyes dark and locked on your face—memorizing the way your mouth fell open, the way your body trembled beneath him. You were close. So close. And he knew it.

“Cum for me,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath panting into your mouth. “Let me feel you.”

Your body arched and broke open around his fingers, walls clenching, breath caught in your throat, hips grinding desperately as he held you through it. He didn’t stop until you were shaking beneath him, eyes glassy and lips parted.

Then he pulled back just enough to tug your panties off completely. You reached down between you, palming him through his shorts, and smiled at the way he cursed under his breath.

You sat up on your elbows. “Let me.”

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice fraying. “Anything you want.”

You pushed his shorts down slowly, letting his cock spring free—thick, flushed, already leaking. You wrapped your hand around him, thumb teasing the head before you leaned down and took him into your mouth.

Jake’s whole body jerked, his hand gripping the sheets, his other threading into your hair as he moaned something filthy that made your thighs clench all over again.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he gasped.

You pulled back with a grin, stroking him lazily. “You'll die happy.”

He kissed you like he just might, fingers gripping your hips, guiding you back on top of him. This time, when he slid inside you, it was slow. Deep. Complete. Your bodies moved together like they’d done it forever—slow, grinding, no rush. Just the sound of breathless moans and skin and whispered praise.

When you both came, it a quiet, trembling surrender. His arms wrapped around you as you shook in his hold, forehead pressed to his shoulder, lips brushing his neck.

Later that afternoon, the facility was busy. You were helping a group of toddlers stack foam blocks when someone new walked in—a volunteer from another district, all confidence and cologne.

He grinned at you. “Didn’t know they let angels work here.”

You blinked. “I—uh—thanks?”

Jake, across the room, stopped moving. When the guy kept talking, asking how long you’d be in town, if you had plans that evening, you smiled politely but shifted away.

Jake crossed the room in two strides. He didn’t say anything at first. Just slipped behind you, hand settling firmly at the small of your back. You looked up, surprised by the tension in his jaw.

“Hey,” you murmured.

“Hey,” he replied, kissing your temple right in front of the other guy. “You good?”

You nodded, heart thudding.

Jake turned to the volunteer and smiled—tight and cold. “Thanks for helping out today. We’ve got it from here.”

The guy left. Jake didn’t move.

You reached for his hand. “You okay?”

He exhaled hard. “Didn’t like the way he looked at you.”

“You don’t have to worry about that.”

Jake leaned in, whispering just for you. “I don’t worry. But I feel. And what I felt was mine being looked at like a thing.”

You didn’t breathe for a moment. Then without thinking you kissed him—right there, in front of the playroom chaos, while foam blocks toppled and kids shrieked in delight.

That night, you found yourself in Jake’s apartment again. This time, you took control. You pushed him gently onto the bed and crawled over him. He let you—smiling, eyes dark, voice ragged. “What are you doing?”

You kissed his throat. “Showing you how I feel.”

And then? You made good on your word. Your mouth mapped his body—slow, reverent, hungry. You kissed his chest, his stomach, the line of his hip. Watched him fall apart under your hands, biting his lip until he couldn’t keep quiet anymore.

Jake arched into your touch like he needed you—head thrown back, fingers gripping the sheets, his voice breaking on your name.

When he begged—actually begged—you smiled. “Say it again.”

“Please,” he breathed. “Please, baby.”

And when you finally gave him what he wanted… when you slid down onto him, slow and steady, your breath stuttering as you adjusted— Jake nearly lost it. He sat up, burying his face in your neck, gripping your waist like he never wanted to let go.

“God, you feel unreal,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You moved slowly at first, taking your time, letting the tension build. Jake kissed every inch of you he could reach, his hands shaking as they held you. It was messy and hot and intimate. Like your bodies had been waiting for this moment longer than you realized. When you both came, it was together. His name on your lips, your nails in his back, everything around you shattering into stars.

After, you laid there in the dark, head on his chest, listening to the frantic beat of his heart.

Jake whispered, “I don’t think I’ve ever… felt something like this.”

You smiled and whispered, “that makes the two of us.”

The late afternoon sun spilled golden through the windows of the childcare center, catching dust motes in the air like snowflakes suspended mid-fall. You had a paintbrush tucked behind one ear, your sleeves rolled up, and a five-year-old clinging to your leg like a barnacle.

“Do I have to clean up?” she whined.

“You don’t have to,” you said with a grin, ruffling her curls. “But the glitter fairy said she only gives snacks to kids who help.”

That earned a dramatic gasp and immediate cooperation.

Across the room, Sunoo was crouched beside a group of toddlers, dramatically voicing every stuffed animal like he was auditioning for a musical. You caught his eye and laughed, mouthing you’re insane. He winked.

Jake leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching the whole thing unfold with that quiet smile he saved just for you. You could feel it without looking. It made your heart ache in the best way. Because this was your last full week here. Just a few more days before you'd be back in your city, back in the rhythm of a life that already felt a little foreign.

You were wiping paint from a table when Jake finally crossed the room, stepping beside you. He didn’t touch you—didn’t need to. You felt him in the way he stood, the way his voice dropped a little when it was just for you.

“Want to sneak out early?” he asked. “I could make that pasta you like. The spicy one with the lemon.”

You smiled softly. “You bribing me with carbs?”

He bumped your shoulder. “I’m bribing you with quality time.”

You leaned into him for a moment, brief but certain. “I’ll be there by six.”

Later that night, you sat side-by-side on the small balcony outside Jake’s apartment, sharing a fleece blanket and a bowl of cherries. The city was quiet around you. A little breeze played with your hair.

“I’ve been thinking,” Jake said after a while.

“Mm?”

“I don’t want this to be over.”

You turned to look at him.

“I mean—” he fumbled, “I know you’re going back. I’m not trying to guilt you or ask you to stay. I just… want to figure out how to not lose this. Us.”

You didn’t speak for a second. Then, softly: “I was thinking the same thing.”

Jake turned to face you fully, eyes searching. “You were?”

You nodded, then took a breath. “I came here for a few months thinking I’d just help out, get some perspective, maybe feel useful. I didn’t think I’d find you. Or find out that this version of me—the one with paint on her jeans and jelly on her cheek—is the one that actually feels like home.”

He reached for your hand, threading his fingers through yours. “You don’t have to choose between versions,” he said. “You can bring her with you. Or stay. Or leave. Just—don’t think you have to stop being her because your zip code changes.”

You exhaled slowly, your heart so full it hurt. “And us?” you asked.

Jake squeezed your hand. “You’re mine, in whatever way you want to be. I’ll come to you. You come to me. We’ll make it work. I’m not scared of the miles.”

Sunoo texted you that night with a photo of the two of you laughing during snack time, and a caption that read: “Miss you already and you haven’t even left. But I know you found what you didn’t know you needed. And I’ll always be proud of that.”

You held your phone to your chest for a moment before turning back to Jake, who was already watching you with soft, patient eyes. You leaned in, kissed him slow, and smiled.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Let’s see what happens next.”

Your suitcase sat half-zipped in Sunoo’s living room. Your last night.

Jake didn’t say anything when he walked in and saw it. He just stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, watching you fold a shirt slowly, like packing it meant admitting this was real.

“I can help you finish,” he said quietly.

You looked up. “I know.”

But neither of you moved. The silence stretched. Comfortable, but charged.

Jake stepped closer. His fingers brushed your wrist. “Or… we could do something else.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What did you have in mind?”

He tilted his head, looking at you the way he always did when he was about to ruin you in the best way. “I think,” he said, voice low, “you deserve to leave this town knowing exactly how much I wanted you. From day one.”

Your breath hitched. Jake leaned in slowly, like giving you time to back away. You didn’t.

The kiss started gentle—like goodbye—but turned greedy in seconds. Tongues brushing, hands grabbing. Months of tension crashing into one night. He walked you backward to the couch, lips never leaving yours.

“You’re sure?” he whispered, hovering over you once you fell back, shirt already riding up.

“Jake,” you said breathlessly, eyes locked on his, “I need you.”

That was all it took. His hands were everywhere—thighs, waist, chest—like he couldn’t get enough. His mouth followed, kissing down your body like a prayer. When he finally sank into you, slow and deep, it wasn’t just about lust.

It was a promise. To remember. To ache. To want.

You clutched at his shoulders, nails leaving soft crescent moons in his skin, gasping his name like it was the only thing you knew. He murmured filth and affection in the same breath—told you how good you felt, how beautiful you looked falling apart beneath him, how he didn’t know how he was supposed to let you go.

He didn’t let you go for hours. And afterward, he held you like the space between you was a thing he refused to accept.

The next morning, Jake was in Sunoo’s kitchen when the ambush happened. Sunoo plunked down two iced coffees and a suspiciously pink slice of cake between them, narrowed his eyes, and said: “So. You and my best friend.”

Jake blinked. “Uh… yeah?”

Sunoo stared at him like a disappointed guidance counselor. “Are you serious-serious or just hot-guy-in-a-small-town serious?”

Jake tried not to laugh. “What does that even mean?”

“It means: are you going to move on the second she leaves or are you already plotting her name in your phone as ‘future wife 💍’?”

Jake’s jaw dropped. “I—I mean, I really like her. It’s not casual. It never was.”

Sunoo chewed a bite of cake slowly, eyes narrowed. “She’s been through a lot. She doesn’t always say it, but I see it. That softness? She earned it. It’s not naïve. It’s chosen.”

Jake sobered. “I know,” he said quietly. “And I’m not going to break her. I want to be the one who reminds her she’s safe. Even when she’s far away.”

Sunoo blinked, then sniffed. “Ugh. Okay. That was kind of romantic.”

“Are we good?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Sunoo said, sipping his coffee like a judge on Top Chef. “But I am rooting for you.”

Jake grinned. “You know... I'm not sure why you're talking to me as if we're not also really good friends.”

“True,” Sunoo admitted, then pointed his fork at him, “but…if you ever hurt her, I will poison this cake and bring it to your house disguised as an apology.”

Jake nodded solemnly. “Understood.”

[big-ooof]

That Look

Jake x f!reader

note: sexual content 18+

It started with one look. Jake was sprawled across his couch in sweatpants and a worn black tee, one arm resting behind his head, the other lazily scrolling through takeout options on his phone.

The TV was on. The food was forgotten. Because you were standing in front of him, fresh from the shower, wearing one of his old shirts and nothing else. And you weren’t just standing there. You were watching him. Hungry.

Jake blinked up at you slowly, his jaw tightening when your bare thighs brushed the edge of the coffee table.

“What’s that look for?” he asked, his voice already deepening.

You tilted your head, crawling into his lap without answering. Straddling his hips. Fingers trailing along the sharp line of his jaw. He leaned into your touch like it grounded him.

“I just want to see something,” you whispered.

Jake's brows lifted. “Yeah? What’s that?”

“I want to know what it feels like when I get to ruin you.”

His breath stuttered. Then he smiled—lazy, wrecked, aroused all at once. “Shit. Okay. Yeah. Take whatever you want, baby.”

So you did. You kissed him slow at first, just lips brushing lips, teasing, almost innocent. Then you sank down against him, grinding your hips until he groaned low in his chest, hands gripping your waist like a lifeline.

He was hard in seconds. You could feel it, thick and hot, pressing up against you through the thin fabric of his sweats. You reached down, easing him out of them, watching the way his breath caught as your hand wrapped around his cock.

Jake watched you through half-lidded eyes, lips parted. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You leaned down, biting his lip. “Say please.”

“Please,” he whispered. “I’ll beg if you want. Just—fuck, I need you.”

You sank down onto him in one slow, deliberate motion, inch by inch, your mouth falling open as you adjusted to the stretch. Jake’s hands flew to your hips, his jaw clenched tight as he tried not to buck up into you.

“God, you feel insane,” he groaned, head falling back against the cushion. “So wet. So tight. I’m not gonna last if you keep clenching like that.”

You rolled your hips, dragging your nails lightly across his chest, watching his face twist in pleasure. “I want you to fall apart,” you said, voice low. “I want you messy for me.”

And he was. Jake’s hands gripped at you, not to guide, but to hold on. Like the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth was the way you moved above him—slow, controlled, deliciously devastating. Every time you shifted your angle, every time you circled your hips just right, Jake moaned like he was coming undone. His head pressed into the back of the couch, sweat dotting his temples, lips bitten red.

You leaned down, whispering filth into his ear as you rode him. Telling him how good he felt. How deep. How perfect.

He whimpered—whimpered—when you clenched around him again. “Baby, please—” he gasped. “I’m so close. You’re gonna make me—”

You kissed him hard, swallowing the rest of his words, grinding down with purpose. Then you leaned back just enough to watch him cum.

Jake’s eyes squeezed shut. His mouth dropped open. He moaned your name like a prayer as he spilled into you, hips jerking, hands trembling on your thighs. And still…you didn’t stop.

You kept moving, slower now, chasing your own high with his cock still pulsing inside you. His jaw dropped as he watched you use him for your own pleasure, utterly helpless to do anything but take it.

“Fucking hell,” he groaned, voice broken. “You’re unreal.”

You came hard—head thrown back, body shuddering, your nails digging into his chest as you collapsed against him.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your combined breathing. Sweaty. Sticky. Still wrapped around each other.

Jake pressed his lips to your hairline, heart hammering under your cheek. “I think I saw god for a second,” he mumbled.

You laughed breathlessly. “What’d he look like?”

“Had your face.”

[big-ooof]

First date scenarios— one with Heeseung (he's been stuck in my head lately..) and another one with Jake (honestly, my favorite pairing).

Heeseung

You didn’t expect to laugh this much. Not with a practical stranger. Not on a date you almost bailed on because work ran late and your eyeliner smudged just the wrong way.

But Heeseung had been waiting outside the café with a crooked grin and two coffees already in hand. “Thought you might need this. Also, I didn’t want to wait in line twice.”

And now, an hour after you’d drained your drinks and the barista started giving last-call energy, you were walking side by side through the city like it was yours alone.

“Okay, serious question,” he says, swinging your joined hands between you like a pendulum. “If you had to eat one type of bread for the rest of your life—only one—what would it be?”

You give him a look. “That’s the serious question?”

“Dead serious.” He squints. “Your whole personality rides on this.”

You stifle a laugh. “Focaccia.”

He gasps. “Focaccia? That’s such a confident answer. You didn’t even hesitate.”

“I’m decisive when it counts.”

“Oh yeah? What if I said sourdough?”

“I’d say you’re pretentious, but in a cute way.”

He barks out a laugh and looks over at you, and it lingers. His eyes, his smile. Like he’s studying something and doesn’t mind being caught.

“You’re kind of dangerous,” he murmurs.

“Why’s that?”

“Because I forgot I just met you today. It feels like we’ve done this before.”

That does something to your chest. The good kind of ache.

The walk continues. Through small parks still flickering with fairy lights, past old bookstores, down alleys painted with murals and street art. Heeseung never stops talking, but he listens just as easily. Every time your shoulder brushes his, he leans a little closer. It’s natural, not forced. Comfortable.

When he stops outside his apartment building, it’s not a grand gesture. Just a pause, his thumb stroking over the back of your hand.

“You wanna come up?” he asks, voice soft but playful. “No pressure. I’ve got bad wine and an even worse movie we can judge together.”

You hesitate for a beat. Not because you’re unsure, but because you’re surprised by how easy it feels to say yes. So you do.

“I’m picking the movie, though.”

He grins. “I’m fine with that.”

When you walk inside with him, your fingers are still laced. Coming here is impulsive, yes, but not reckless. Just right. Like the kind of first date you tell your best friend about with a stupid smile in your voice.

His apartment is warm in the quiet kind of way: dimmed lighting, a record player in the corner, books stacked unevenly, and a hoodie draped over the arm of the couch.

“Make yourself at home,” he says, tossing his keys into a dish near the door. “Just... shoes off, please, house rules.”

You kick yours off and follow him into the living room, already shedding your jacket. Heeseung watches the movement, slow and thoughtful, like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s seen all day.

He disappears briefly into the kitchen. “You still good with bad wine?”

“I’ve committed,” you call back, settling onto the couch.

He returns with two glasses and a mischievous smile. “It’s boxed. I warned you.”

You take a sip and grimace. “This is juice’s sad cousin.”

“Exactly. It builds character.”

You’re still laughing when he drops beside you on the couch, thigh brushing yours, the blanket already pulled over both your legs. The movie plays, but neither of you is really watching. Your legs end up tangled. His hand finds your knee under the blanket. His thumb rubs soft circles there, and your whole body pays attention.

He leans in, voice lower now. “You’re even prettier up close.”

You meet his eyes, cheeks flushed— half from the wine, half from the tension slowly crackling between you. “You’re not too bad yourself.”

“I was trying to be smooth.”

“You are.”

Heeseung watches your mouth as you speak. Then his hand slides from your knee to your thigh, slow, deliberate.

“Can I kiss you?” he murmurs.

You nod, lips parting right as he leans in. It’s soft at first. Just a brush. A test. But then you tilt into it, and he groans quietly, deepening it, one hand cupping your jaw as the other slips beneath the blanket to grip your waist.

The blanket shifts as you climb into his lap, arms winding around his neck, heat blooming under your skin as his hands start to roam— waist, hips, sliding under your shirt to press against bare skin.

“You sure?” he whispers against your mouth, voice husky, chest rising with restraint.

“Very sure.” The movie becomes background noise. So does everything else. His touch is warm and steady as he lays you down on the couch, bodies fitting together like you’ve done this before in another lifetime.

Clothes peel away slowly, with smiles and teasing glances between kisses. Heeseung isn’t in a rush. He watches every reaction, murmurs praises into your skin, trails his mouth down your neck and across your collarbone like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your pleasure.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he breathes. Your hands in his hair, his lips on your chest, the way he groans when your fingers tug at his waistband and your hips arch into his touch.

And later, when the wine sits forgotten and you’re curled up in his arms, skin against skin under the terrible blanket he insisted on sharing, he presses a kiss to your shoulder and whispers, “Hope that wasn’t too impulsive.”

You smile, tracing lazy circles on his chest. “Best impulsive decision I’ve made in a long time.”

He laughs quietly, pulling you closer. “Then maybe we make another bad decision and get breakfast together tomorrow?”

You nod, eyes heavy, heart light. “Only if I can pick what we eat.”

“Deal.”

Jake

The first time Jake walked into your bar, he ordered something simple. A gin and tonic, no lime. You remembered because he made it a point to compliment your playlist and then raised his brows when you said it was your own mix.

“You made this?” he asked, eyes lighting up. “That explains why it's actually good.”

It wasn't the best pickup line, but the way he said it—genuinely impressed, not overly slick—made you laugh.

He started coming in every other week. Never pushy, never staying too long. Just enough to be familiar. And when he finally asked you out, it was with a crooked grin and a, “You know, I think it'd be a crime not to hear the full version of your music taste over dinner.”

The first date was casual, simple. You two went to a ramen place tucked into a corner of the city. Walked around afterward, ice cream melting faster than either of you could keep up.

Jake was easy to talk to. Funny in that slightly chaotic way that made you laugh from the belly. He asked about your job, your dog, your favorite conspiracy theory (“Birds aren’t real,” he said with mock seriousness), and didn’t flinch when you called him out for double-dipping the fries.

When the night cooled, he offered you his jacket. When your hands brushed, he didn’t make it weird. When you stopped walking and turned to him outside your apartment, the way he looked at you made your chest thrum.

“Can I walk you home?” he'd asked earlier.

You nodded, not quite ready for the night to end.

But then he added, hopeful and a little breathless, “Or… wanna come back to mine instead?”

You looked at him. His flushed cheeks, the nervous little grin, the way his eyes kept flicking from yours to your mouth and back again.

“Okay,” you said. “Yeah. I want to.”

His apartment was a reflection of him: a little chaotic, warm, inviting. One wall stacked with vinyls, another with Polaroids and postcards. A dog plushie wearing sunglasses sat in the corner.

“I cleaned like hell before this,” Jake admitted, handing you a beer. “Just in case. Not assuming. But, you know. Manifesting.”

You laughed, curling onto his couch. “Manifesting, huh?”

“You have no idea how hard I was rooting for that yes.”

You clinked your can of beer with his.

When his hand brushed yours under the blanket, and suddenly the night slowed. He turned to you, gaze heavy now. “Can I kiss you?”

The moment your lips met, the tension shifted from flirtation to something warmer and hungrier. You climbed into his lap, his hands exploring your waist, thumbs dipping under your shirt. Your fingers were tangled in his hair, your breaths syncing in tempo, your body suddenly very aware of every place he touched you.

“You sure?” he whispered against your mouth.

You nodded. “Very.”

That night clothes came off in stages. Between kisses and laughter and quiet groans. Jake took his time. His touch was reverent, his compliments whispered into your skin, his eyes never leaving yours when it mattered most.

He made you feel beautiful, wanted, safe. You held him close as the night unfolded, the warmth between you too big to measure, the chemistry impossible to ignore.

And afterward, tangled together under the world's ugliest blanket, your legs woven with his, he traced circles on your bare back and said, “So… that wasn’t just the alcohol, right?”

You smiled, sleepy and soft. “Not even close.”

He kissed your forehead. “Good. Because I make killer pancakes in the morning. And I was kinda hoping you'd stay.”

You leaned into his chest. “Only if I get to steal your hoodie.”

He laughed, pulling you tighter. “Easiest deal ever.”

[big-ooof]

Playing Pretend

college au, fake dating; heeseung x f!reader

Your ex was already grinning like he won something. The problem with pathological charmers like Ryan wasn't just that they cheated, it was that they somehow made you feel like the dramatic one for being upset about it. Like catching him kissing someone else at a party last weekend was an overreaction.

“Y/N,” he says now, his arm slung around his latest conquest like he’s hosting some twisted reunion. “Didn’t think you’d show your face today.”

You clench your jaw, ignoring the sudden tightness in your chest. “Why wouldn’t I?” You shoot him a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Just because you have the emotional maturity of a soggy napkin doesn’t mean I’m hiding.”

“Ouch,” Ryan fake winces. “Still bitter?”

Behind him, Sunghoon shifts, arms crossed, a flicker of warning in his eyes. You catch it, but your pride is louder than your caution today. Pride, and maybe something else. Something reckless.

You glance past Ryan and your gaze lands on him. Heeseung. Black hoodie, headphones around his neck, expression unreadable as always. He's walking alone across the quad, coffee in one hand, textbook in the other. Tall, quiet, and completely unattainable. You’ve shared maybe five conversations in total, and three of those involved library seating disputes. He thinks you’re chaotic. You think he’s insufferably smug.

Perfect.

“Actually,” you say, turning back to Ryan with a wicked smile. “I’m not bitter. I moved on.”

His eyebrows rise, amused. “Yeah?”

You shrug. “Yeah. I’m dating someone now.”

Sunghoon straightens beside you. “You’re—”

Heeseung is just close enough now. You step away from Sunghoon, and before your brain can remind you this is a terrible idea, your hand wraps around Heeseung’s wrist, stopping him mid-step.

“Hey, babe,” you chirp, plastering on a grin. “You forgot to walk me to class.”

Heeseung blinks. One second. Two. His gaze slides to your hand. Then to your face. Then to Ryan. And then… his expression doesn’t change, but his voice lowers just slightly.

“You’re late,” he says, smooth as sin. “Again.”

You bite the inside of your cheek to hide the shock. Did Lee Heeseung just… play along? Heeseung steps closer, slipping his hand around your waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His fingers brush your hip and your breath hitches, but you hope no one notices.

Ryan does. His smile falters. “Didn’t realize you two were… a thing,” he mutters.

Heeseung’s eyes narrow just enough to be noticeable. “That makes two of us.”

You jab an elbow into his side. Subtle. Sharp. Heeseung’s jaw ticks, but he doesn’t flinch.

“We keep it quiet,” you say quickly, hoping that’s enough to cover the weird tension building between the three of you.

Ryan’s already backing off, a sour look on his face. “Whatever. Good luck.”

He stalks away, muttering something under his breath. The girl on his arm giggles like she’s won a prize.

You exhale once he’s out of earshot. “Okay. Crisis averted. Thanks for that, I’ll just—”

“Wait,” Heeseung interrupts, gaze sharp. “Care to explain?”

Sunghoon appears at your side again. “What the hell was that?”

“I panicked,” you say, pulling your arm back. “I didn’t think he’d actually believe me.”

“You grabbed Heeseung of all people,” Sunghoon mutters, crossing his arms again. “The guy you argued with for twenty minutes about chair etiquette last semester.”

“It was a first come, first serve table and he stole it while I went to pee.”

“It’s a library, not a battlefield,” Heeseung mutters.

You both glare at each other.

Sunghoon watches the exchange like he’s watching two cats hiss across a couch. “Okay. This is a disaster waiting to happen.”

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “Look, just… pretend you’re dating me for like, a week. Maybe two. I just need Ryan to back off and stop acting like he still owns a piece of my life.”

Heeseung raises a brow. “And why me?”

“Because you were standing there and you look like someone I’d be stupid enough to fall for.”

A pause.

“That supposed to be a compliment?”

You smile, tired and a little sad. “Take it however you want.”

Heeseung watches you for a beat longer, like he’s searching for something. Then, softly: “Fine. Two weeks.”

You blink. “What?”

“I’ll do it.”

Sunghoon looks like he just witnessed a glitch in the matrix.

“But only in public,” Heeseung continues. “No cutesy texts. No matching lock screens. And absolutely no kissing.”

Your stomach dips— why did that part sting?

“Deal,” you say quickly.

You both nod, stepping back like two business partners finalizing a contract. As you turn toward the lecture hall, you feel Heeseung’s gaze on you. You don’t look back.

But you swear, just before you disappear inside, you hear him murmur: “This is going to end badly.”

You couldn’t agree more.

There’s a whiteboard in Heeseung’s apartment kitchen, typically used by his roommates for passive-aggressive reminders like “CLEAN THE DAMN SINK, JAKE” or “don’t touch my leftovers, I swear to god – Jay.”

Today, though, it reads:

FAKE DATING RULES (Y/N + Heeseung) No kissing No cuddling No pet names No talking about feelings No real feelings NO KISSING (yes, again)

Jake squints at it from the couch. “You sure you guys don’t want to kiss just a little? For realism?”

“Out,” Heeseung says, pointing toward the door.

Jake laughs but grabs his keys. “Okay, okay. But if you fall in love and write poetry about her on the bathroom mirror, I’m telling everyone.”

Once the door shuts, it’s just you and Heeseung in the kitchen. “You really had to write it down?” you ask, leaning against the counter, arms crossed.

He’s leaning back in a chair, long legs stretched out, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. “Visual clarity helps avoid misunderstandings.”

“I feel like I’m being onboarded into a job with emotional liability.”

“That’s because you are,” he says dryly.

You try not to smile.

Honestly, you expected this to fall apart by day two. But Heeseung hasn’t backed out. You’ve walked to class together twice, he carried your bag once (“Don’t get used to it”), and he dropped a casual “she’s mine” during lunch when some guy from your psych lecture asked for your number.

You’re starting to realize something dangerous: Heeseung is very good at pretending. So good it makes your chest ache a little.

“I think we need to talk about Sunghoon,” Heeseung says suddenly.

You blink. “What about him?”

Heeseung shrugs, a little too casual. “If people see you with him all the time, it’s gonna raise questions. And if we’re ‘dating,’ shouldn’t you be spending more time with me?”

You squint. “Is this a jealousy clause?”

“It’s a realism clause.”

You step forward until you’re standing right in front of him, arms crossed. “Sunghoon is my best friend. If this fake relationship requires me to abandon him, it’s not happening.”

Heeseung stares up at you, jaw tight. “I didn’t say abandon.”

You’re not sure why your voice is quiet when you respond. “Why does it bother you?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just studies you, like he’s trying to figure something out and can’t quite land on it. Finally: “He looks at you like he owns a piece of your heart.”

The silence between you stretches. Heeseung stands, chair scraping lightly against the tile. He’s close now, not touching you, but close enough to feel the tension vibrating in the air.

“Let’s just be careful,” he says. “You asked for pretend. That’s what I’m giving you.”

Later that night, Sunghoon corners you outside the campus café with a hot chocolate in each hand and that knowing look that makes him seem a thousand years older than you both.

“You okay?” he asks, handing you a cup.

“I’m fine.”

He arches a brow.

You sigh. “It’s not real, Hoon.”

“You sure?”

You meet his eyes, and for a second, something inside you wavers. “I need it to not be real,” you whisper.

Sunghoon doesn’t push. He never does. He just reaches out and gently knocks his cup against yours. “To temporary delusions, then.”

You laugh softly.

It’s Jay’s idea to go bowling. Which turns into an arcade. Which turns into pizza and late-night chaos. You, Heeseung, Sunghoon, Jake, and Ni-ki pile into a booth at the local pizza dive, the kind with neon lights and sticky tables. Heeseung slides in beside you, his arm brushing yours. You flinch, not from discomfort, but from how not uncomfortable it feels. Sunghoon watches.

Jake pokes at a breadstick. “So when’s the fake couple going to kiss and make this believable?”

Heeseung doesn’t even look up. “Ask again and I’ll throw you in the soda machine.”

Ni-ki grins. “Just admit you’re obsessed with her.”

You elbow Heeseung lightly. “Obsessed with me, Lee Heeseung?”

He turns his head, eyes locking with yours. His voice is low. “You wish.”

Your stomach flips. The table goes quiet for a beat.

Sunghoon clears his throat. “She’s always had someone wrapped around her finger. Don’t let her play you too hard.”

It’s meant to be teasing but Heeseung’s jaw ticks again. “Good thing I’m not easy to play.”

You glare at Sunghoon. “He’s not a game.”

The second it leaves your mouth, you regret it. Heeseung looks away. The tension burns.

Heeseung doesn’t text you that night. Which shouldn’t matter. Because this is fake. Because he said “no pet names, no kissing, no feelings.” Because you agreed. But you find yourself staring at your phone anyway, scrolling up through the short, sarcastic exchanges from earlier that day. You almost send a “thanks for not completely hating this,” but stop yourself. You throw your phone under your pillow like it’s cursed.

Sunghoon finds you on the library steps. He’s holding a coffee he knows you like: extra cream, one sugar, just enough caffeine to keep your thoughts sharp but not jittery.

“You doing okay?” he asks, sitting beside you. You don’t answer right away. He sighs. “This thing with Heeseung… is it working? For you?”

You press the coffee cup to your lips. “It’s not real.”

“I didn’t ask if it was real.”

You glance at him. “Why are you pushing this?”

He shrugs. “Because I’ve seen the way he looks at you. And I’ve seen the way you don’t know what to do with it.”

Your stomach tightens. “Heeseung doesn’t look at me.”

Sunghoon leans back, his voice soft. “He does. Like he’s trying not to.”

You don’t respond. You can’t.

Heeseung shows up at your apartment door at 7:02 p.m., wearing a leather jacket and holding a plastic bag with snacks and a bottle of something that looks suspiciously not grape juice.

“Since we’re supposed to be a couple,” he says, “figured we should do a couple thing. Low stakes.”

You blink. “You brought me… strawberry milk and flaming hot chips?”

He shrugs. “You’re weird. I had to improvise.”

You snort but step aside to let him in.

You end up sitting on your bed with your laptop between you, watching a dumb horror movie neither of you really pay attention to. There’s a half-eaten bag of chips between your knees. Heeseung is lounging beside you, head tipped against the wall, socked feet crossed at the ankles.

It’s so… normal. So dangerously comfortable. At one point, during a quiet scene in the movie, your arm brushes his. Neither of you move. The tension feels alive.

“Did you always know Ryan was bad news?” you ask quietly, eyes on the screen.

Heeseung doesn’t answer immediately. When he does, his voice is low. “I didn’t know how bad. But I knew he didn’t deserve your attention.”

You glance at him. He’s already looking at you. The air shifts. Your heart stutters.

Heeseung leans in— just a little. Not enough to cross the space completely. Just enough for you to feel his breath, for the weight of the moment to fall hard and real between you.

Your lips part. He stops. Eyes flicker down. He swallows hard. Then he pulls back.

“Rule six,” he says, voice rough.

You feel cold. “Right.”

He turns away. “I should go.”

You want to stop him. But you don’t. Because this is pretend. Because he told you not to fall. Because the rules said no kissing. And the part that hurts most is how badly you wanted to break them.

Heeseung doesn’t talk to you for two days. You tell yourself it’s fine. You agreed on boundaries. This wasn’t supposed to be messy. But it is.

Because now every time your phone buzzes and it’s not him, your chest tightens. Because now when you run into each other in class, he nods instead of smirking, and sits two seats away instead of beside you. Because now you know what it feels like to almost kiss him, and your lips won’t forget.

You spend an evening in Sunghoon’s dorm just to stop thinking about it. He puts on music, tosses you a blanket, and says nothing when you sit cross-legged on his bed with a silent ache behind your eyes.

Finally, he says quietly, “You miss him.”

You don’t respond.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

Your heart lurches. You laugh, too sharply. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?”

You meet his eyes. And the silence says more than your words ever could.

Jay was hosting a party Friday night. The music is too loud, the lights are too dim, and the drinks are all watered-down disasters. You’re in the kitchen pretending to scroll through your phone when Heeseung walks in. He sees you. You see him. Neither of you moves.

He’s wearing black again, always black, and his hair is still a little wet, like he didn’t care enough to dry it properly. You hate that he still looks like your favorite thought. You look away first.

Jake’s the one who grabs your hand and spins you into the living room. He’s already tipsy, but his grin is warm. “Dance with me,” he says, “before I make a fool of myself alone.”

You laugh and let him pull you into the crowd. You let the beat take over, swaying to it, forgetting yourself— just for a second. Then you see Heeseung on the edge of the room. Watching. Jaw tight. Fist clenched.

Sunghoon appears beside him, a red cup in hand, voice low and sharp. You can’t hear what he says but Heeseung flinches. Then he storms out. And you follow him.

Heeseung’s sitting on the edge of the patio steps, head in his hands.

You stop just behind him. “Are you seriously going to avoid me forever because we almost kissed?”

He doesn’t look at you.

“Don’t do that,” you say, stepping closer. “Don’t shut down just because it got real.”

“You said you didn’t want real,” he mutters.

You sit beside him. “Well maybe I didn’t expect it to feel like this.”

He turns to look at you, his eyes are raw. “You’re killing me,” he says quietly.

You blink. “What?”

He stands. “You’re in my head. All the time. And I’m trying so damn hard to be what you asked, pretend, platonic, cool. But I’m not. I can’t be.”

Your throat tightens.

“I told you no kissing because I knew if I kissed you once, I wouldn’t be able to stop.”

Silence.

“I didn’t plan this,” he says. “...falling for you.”

You stand too. Your voice is soft. “Then don’t pretend anymore.”

He hesitates, then steps forward, cupping your jaw. And this time, there’s no rule. His lips brush yours once, twice— then finally, fully, like he’s been holding his breath for weeks. It’s gentle. And painful. And full of everything you were both too afraid to say.

The kiss haunts you. Not because it was confusing, but because it wasn’t. Because it felt so real, so familiar, so right, that the moment it ended, the only thing you could think was: I want more. Heeseung didn’t say anything after. Just stared at you like you were breaking him in slow motion, then mumbled “I’ll call you” and walked off into the dark.

You stood there too long. Thinking about how dangerous honesty feels once it’s been denied for too long.

The next day: No text. No call. You don’t sleep. You replay the kiss a hundred different ways, wondering if you leaned in first or if he did. Wondering if it meant the same thing to him. You know it did. And still— nothing.

You go to Sunghoon’s. He opens the door, sees your face, and pulls you in without a word. You sit in his desk chair while he sits on the edge of his bed, arms crossed, watching you like you’re a ghost still deciding to haunt.

“He kissed me,” you say.

Sunghoon blinks. “You kissed him back?”

“Yes.”

A beat.

“Finally.”

You laugh, broken and soft. “Don’t say that like it’s good.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not fake anymore.”

Sunghoon tilts his head. “Was it ever?”

You go quiet.

He sets his cup down. “Listen… I know you don’t want to screw things up. But I’ve watched the way you look at each other— like the room stops spinning when you’re close. That’s not fake. That’s gravity.”

Your voice is barely above a whisper. “What if I’m not enough for the real thing?”

Sunghoon stands and walks over, crouching in front of you. “Then he’s an idiot. But I don’t think he is.”

You’re halfway through overthinking whether to knock when the door swings open. Heeseung looks like hell. Like he hasn’t slept. Like he’s been pacing. Like the storm inside him hasn’t calmed.

His voice is hoarse. “I was gonna come to you.”

“I came first,” you say softly.

A beat. He steps aside, and you walk in. The door clicks shut. No games now. No rules. No hiding.

You turn to him. “I don’t want to pretend.”

His voice is rough. “Neither do I.”

You step forward until there’s nothing between you. “Then say it.”

He looks at you like he’s memorizing you. Like the answer to every ache he’s ever had is written on your skin.

“I’m in love with you,” he says quietly. “I have been since you argued with me about a chair in the library last year.”

Your breath stumbles. You nod once. “Then let's stop pretending.”

He steps in, wraps his arms around you, pulls you to his chest like a prayer finally answered. And this kiss, this second one, is nothing like the first. It’s not careful. It’s not almost. It’s everything.

You and Heeseung don’t leave his apartment until the following afternoon. You don’t do anything, not really. Just lie there, tangled in blankets and unspoken relief. His arm stays draped over your waist like he’s scared you’ll slip away if he lets go. You don’t want to move either.

He brushes your hair back when he thinks you’re asleep. You’re not. You’re memorizing the weight of his breath.

He sits up suddenly, hair messy, voice still gravel from sleep. “So… what are we?”

You blink. “Are you seriously asking me that now?”

“I just—” he scratches his neck. “If you tell me you want to go back to fake, I’ll respect it. But if there’s a chance this is real for you too—”

“Heeseung.” You reach for his hand. He meets your eyes. “I wasn’t pretending last night,” you say softly. “And I’m not pretending now.”

He exhales. Like he’s been holding it for years. “Then this is real, we’re real,” he says.

Your fingers tighten around his. “We’re real.”

On Monday, Jake and Ni-ki find out and are insufferable about it. Jake spits out his coffee when you and Heeseung walk into the quad together holding hands.

“Oh my god,” he says dramatically, pointing. “They’re in love.”

Ni-ki squints. “Wait. So the fake dating thing wasn’t fake?”

Jake smirks. “Or the fake dating worked too well.”

You roll your eyes. Heeseung flips them both off and kisses your temple.

Jake makes a gagging noise.

Ni-ki pulls out his phone. “Group chat’s gonna be wild tonight.”

That evening you were meeting Sunghoon on the basketball courts after class. He’s already there, shooting hoops in a quiet rhythm that slows when he sees you. You sit on the bench. He joins you a minute later, towel over his neck, skin glistening under the last golden light of the day.

“So,” he says. “You and Heeseung.”

You glance down. “Is it that obvious?”

“Everything is,” he says gently. “When you’re in love.”

You swallow. “Are you mad?”

He shrugs. “Not at you.”

“Sunghoon—”

He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You don’t owe me anything.”

You stay quiet.

“I think… there was a moment,” he says, voice soft. “A version of this where I was the one you fell for.”

You inhale sharply.

“But even then, I think I knew— he was the one you looked at like he held the sky.”

Tears sting the back of your eyes.

He bumps your shoulder. “I’m not disappearing. I’m just… stepping back. Giving you space to love him without guilt.”

You wipe at your eyes. “You’re the best person I know.”

He smiles. “I know.”

Two days later, it’s pouring outside when Heeseung drags you under the eaves of your favorite café, both of you soaked and laughing.

“You could’ve waited five more seconds to grab the umbrella,” you say through a laugh.

Heeseung shakes his wet hair like a dog. “I panicked.”

You press close under the awning, breathless.

He looks at you, suddenly serious. Rainwater clings to his lashes. “Loving you,” he says, voice barely louder than the rain, “was never the hard part.”

You blink. “What was?”

“Believing you could ever love me back.”

You don’t answer. You just reach up and kiss him, slow, steady, deep, like proof. Like a vow.

You and Heeseung aren’t exactly hiding your relationship, but you're not broadcasting it either. Still, people notice. It’s in the way you share a drink without asking. The way he waits outside your lecture hall, leaning against the wall, tapping out a rhythm only you recognize. The way he looks at you like nothing else exists.

Jake and Ni-ki make dramatic commentary every time they spot you holding hands. Sunoo tries to hide his smile but fails. Jungwon tells you both to “get a room” but then shoves his phone at you to show a picture he secretly took of you and Heeseung laughing under a tree.

And Sunghoon? He gives you space, like he promised. But every now and then, you catch his gaze across a room— soft, steady, still protective. Some people don’t fall out of your life when the story changes. They just step into a different chapter.

You have your first fight on a Thursday. It’s not dramatic. You’re tired. He’s frustrated. You snap about something small— a missed call, an assumption, a joke that felt too sharp. He fires back. You both go quiet after that. For hours. And then he shows up at your door, hoodie soaked from the rain, eyes glassy.

He says, “We’re gonna fight sometimes. But I don’t want to sleep tonight without fixing this.”

And you let him in. You curl into his chest. Apologize. So does he. And for the first time, you realize: this isn’t perfect. But it’s real. And it’s yours.

Later that week, Heeseung waits for you outside your class, holding two cups of coffee. The walk is quiet, peaceful. There’s a weightlessness in just existing together.

Halfway down the path, he says, “This all started because you needed a fake boyfriend to get your ex off your back.”

You snort. “Worst plan ever.”

“Or the best,” he says. “Because I got you.”

You slow your steps. He keeps talking, softer now. “I don’t care what happens after this year— where we end up, how life changes. I just want you to know…”

You stop walking. He faces you before saying, “I meant it when I said you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You don’t rush your reply. You let it settle in your chest, heavy and light at once. Then you reach for his hand. “You’re the best part of all my days, Heeseung. Even the hard ones.”

He smiles— full, real. You keep walking. Hands warm. Hearts steady. No pretending. Just love.

One Year Later — Graduation Day The sky is obnoxiously blue. The kind of clear that looks photoshopped. Students fill the lawn like a field of mismatched wildflowers— caps and gowns, families yelling names, camera flashes sparking every few seconds. Chaos, beauty, endings.

You spot him through the crowd. Lee Heeseung. Tassel crooked. Button undone. A lazy grin spreading across his face the second his eyes land on you.

After the ceremony the two of you walk the campus one last time— past the quad where Jake caught you kissing, past the old art building where Heeseung made up a reason to “accidentally” run into you during your 8 AM, past the bench where you both sat the first time you admitted that none of this was pretend anymore.

It’s quiet now. He’s quiet, too. You squeeze his hand. “Nervous?”

He shrugs. “A little. New city, new job. No more late-night ramen runs. No more bunking with Ni-ki and threatening to set his alarm clock on fire.”

You nod. “It’s a lot.”

“But,” he adds, stopping in front of the old library steps, “I’m not scared of the change.”

You tilt your head. “Why not?”

He meets your eyes. “Because I’m doing it with you.”

Later that night you were packing and found a box labeled: Fake Dating Agreement. You laugh as you open it. Inside is the old napkin contract from a year ago, complete with your signatures and doodles of stick-figures holding hands.

Heeseung walks in, sees you holding it, and groans. “God, burn that.”

“No way,” you say. “This is historical evidence.”

He walks over, wraps his arms around you from behind, rests his chin on your shoulder.

“I like where we started,” he whispers. “But I love where we are.”

You lean your head against his. “Me too.”

He turns you around slowly, eyes soft. Then he kisses you, quiet and deep and sure. Not fake. Not just real. Forever kind of real.

[big-ooof]

The Curse In Our Blood

Historical Fantasy AU; jungwon x female reader

note: far from my usual content. felt like going into a fantasy headspace.

You first dream of him at nine. Not the hazy kind of dream that disappears with morning light, but the kind that roots in your bones and never lets go. It’s always the same: a garden of dead things. A boy standing in the middle of it, too quiet to be alive, too still to be free.

The sky above is violet-black, painted with stars that hum your name. The boy looks young, maybe twelve. But his eyes belong to someone older, someone ancient. They’re silver. Not like metal, but like frost before dawn.

He never smiles. He never speaks. Until the fourth night.

“Don’t come here,” he says, voice a hollow whisper. “You always die.”

You wake up screaming. The blanket is soaked with sweat. The rose on your windowsill has wilted overnight.

Your mother lights a candle. “It’s starting, isn’t it?”

You don’t know what she means. Not yet.

Ten Years Later... You’ve stopped running from the dream. You still have it sometimes— always the same boy, older now, the dead garden more overgrown, the sky darker. And your name on his lips like a warning and a prayer.

It’s what finally pulls you from the valley. Your mother’s voice echoes as you cross the border of the enchanted woodlands. “The blood in us remembers. But the world forgets. Don’t let the capital consume you.”

You wear a thread of salt around your neck. Keep charms sewn into your sleeves. You don’t look like a witch, you’ve learned how to blend in. Magic doesn’t flicker through your fingers unless you call it. The valley trained you well.

But the capital… The capital is made of secrets. Towering spires. Sky-bridges made of glass and grief. Streets too quiet, like the city itself is waiting for something to go wrong. You pass the palace and feel it, like gravity twisted sideways. A pull. A recognition. Like a thread tugging at your ribs. You follow it to the royal library.

The first meeting happens like fate. You’ve secured work in the lower halls, archiving cursed documents, mostly, and binding scrolls that scream if opened too soon. You keep your head down. But your eyes are always watching.

The boy walks in on your third day. Except he’s no longer a boy. He’s older than in your dreams. Eighteen? Maybe nineteen. Taller. Hair darker, falling into his eyes. Robes trimmed in royal silver, but he moves like he wants to disappear inside them. A scholar, not a soldier.

But his eyes— silver. Just like in the dreams.

He’s scanning a shelf of outlawed tomes: On the Nature of Rebirth, Witchfire: A Historical Threat, Lineages That Refuse to Die.

He pauses. Turns. And looks right at you. You freeze, heart slamming against your ribs. You expect confusion. But instead—

He breathes your name. You drop the scroll in your hands.

“I—how do you know me?” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer. Just takes a single step toward you, face pale, eyes wide like you’ve split open a dream he didn’t mean to wake from.

Then, very softly, he says: “I’ve seen you die before.”

His name is Jungwon. Second-born of the royal line. A prince in title only, though no one says it aloud. Rumor says the Queen keeps him hidden from court for reasons she won’t explain. That he was born during a blood moon. That a witch once wept over his cradle and whispered a prophecy in a dead language.

You don’t know what’s true. But you know this: when he looked at you, he remembered. You haven’t seen him in your dreams since that day.

He finds you again in the forbidden archives. You’re binding a cracked tome in iron thread, the kind used to seal dangerous texts. The pages reek of spell-blood and shattered memory. You’re careful not to breathe too deeply.

“Why are you here?” he asks softly behind you.

You nearly drop the binding needle. “You shouldn’t be in this section, Your Highness.”

He ignores the title. “Answer me.”

You turn. He’s not wearing the royal cloak this time. Just a deep gray tunic, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the faint scent of old magic clinging to his skin. He’s barefoot. Like he left wherever he was in a hurry.

“I’m a librarian’s apprentice,” you say. “What’s your excuse?”

His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. But not quite. “I heard you humming in the dream.”

That stops you. You blink. “What?”

He tilts his head. “You used to sing. In the garden. Before the spell took hold.”

“I never sang in my dreams.”

“You did,” he says. “But you forget. I always remember first.”

A long silence follows. The candle flickers between you, casting gold across his face, his cheekbones sharp enough to cut fate.

“Then tell me,” you whisper. “What are we?”

Jungwon breathes in like the answer is painful. “Cursed.”

He doesn’t know everything. But he remembers pieces. Names, touches, endings. He tells you in fragments:

“Once we were runaways, burned at the border.”

“Another time, you were a healer. I was a soldier.”

“We always find each other. It always ends in blood.”

He looks at you like he’s waiting for you to run. But you don’t. Instead, you open your palm and show him the scar. The one shaped like a spiral, just below your thumb. Not a wound. A birthmark.

He stares. His eyes fill. “I kissed you there,” he murmurs. “In the chapel. Before the fire.”

Neither of you say anything for a long while. The silence between you is heavy. Sacred. That night, he doesn’t return to the palace. He sleeps in the archives, near the spellbound texts. You find him curled in his cloak like a boy still hunted by dreams. You don’t wake him. But you sit nearby. And for the first time in weeks, the vines outside your window begin to bloom.

The capital was never quiet. But the day the foreign delegation arrived, the palace thrummed with unease. Crowds gathered in the square, merchants whispered rumors of war, and court nobles sharpened their daggers behind silken smiles.

You had just finished your shift when the messenger found you.

“Your Highness,” the voice was polite but clipped. You looked up to see Jungwon’s guard, eyes sharp as falcon talons.

“There’s a visitor,” he said. “A mage from the northern kingdoms. Here on the Queen’s orders.”

You exchanged a glance with Jungwon. The court was restless, but this felt different.

Jake stepped into the library like he owned every shadow it cast. Tall, with dark hair that caught the light and a smile that didn’t quite reach his calculating eyes. His robes bore the symbol of the northern alliance, an eagle clutching a serpent.

“I’m told the royal librarian keeps the most… interesting tomes,” Jake said smoothly, eyes flicking between you and Jungwon.

Jungwon’s gaze was cautious but curious. “And what brings the northern mage to our cursed halls?”

Jake shrugged, pulling a slender scroll from his satchel. “I came to study old magic. But something about this place… feels alive.”

He looked directly at you then, and the hairs on your skin prickled.

“Your blood,” Jake said quietly. “It hums with power.”

You clenched your fists. “I’m no one.”

Jake smiled wider. “You’re far from that.”

That night, the garden outside the palace began to change. Vines once brittle and dead pulsed with life, creeping across stone statues and curling around twisted branches. The air shimmered faintly with magic. Jungwon took you there beneath a crescent moon, his hand warm and steady in yours.

“This place,” he said, voice low, “is the key.”

You knelt beside a withered flower. You whispered an ancient word— a spell of awakening your mother had taught you long ago. Slowly, the petals turned from gray to deep crimson. A breath of hope… or a warning.

Jake spent hours pouring over dusty tomes with you and Jungwon, piecing together a history long erased. “The curse,” Jake said finally, tracing a faded illustration of a woman crowned with thorns, “was cast by a witch queen betrayed and slain. Her bloodline marked to suffer through time.”

Jungwon’s jaw tightened. “And we are her heirs.”

“But,” Jake added, “there’s a prophecy. That the curse can be broken— only if the blood remembers and chooses.”

You exchanged a glance with Jungwon. The weight of centuries pressed on your shoulders. “We don’t get to choose yet,” you said. “But we will.”

Jake nodded. “Then we prepare.”

Whispers turned to shouts in the throne room. The Queen, regal and ruthless, summoned Jungwon before the court. Her voice was steel as she accused him of consorting with witches — and warned that the blood curse must not be broken, for it protects the kingdom from darker powers beyond.

Jungwon stood tall but weary. “Mother, I will not be a prisoner of fear.”

You watched hidden in the shadows, heart pounding. You were no longer just a librarian’s apprentice— you were part of the storm.

Jake’s hand found yours briefly. “We’ll face this together.”

In the garden of ash, where the curse began, you and Jungwon faced the moment. The magic around you thrummed with power, ancient and alive.

“To break the curse,” you whispered, “we must both remember everything— pain, love, betrayal… and choose to keep living.”

Jungwon’s silver eyes shone with tears. “Even if it means losing everything?”

“Even then.”

You reached out, touching the spiral scar on his palm. The air sparkled with light. Together, you spoke the words to sever the curse’s hold.

Light exploded through the garden. Thorns turned to petals, ash to soil. The curse that had chained your bloodline for centuries lifted in a burst of fragile beauty.

Jungwon smiled… soft, real, and full of hope. “We’re free.”

But freedom came with a cost. The palace trembled, and the Queen’s fury was undeniable. Yet the people whispered of change, of a new dawn. You stood beside Jungwon, no longer haunted by the boy in the dream, but ready to build a future.

Months later, the kingdom was healing. You and Jungwon walked the now-blooming gardens, hand in hand. Jake had become a trusted friend and advisor, bridging old magic with new wisdom. The curse was a memory, a shadow fading into history.

But your bond— forged in dreams and fire was real.

Jungwon looked at you and said, “We wrote our own story.”

You smiled, knowing some curses are broken not by magic alone, but by the courage to choose love, even when it’s hardest.

[big-ooof]

boxer!Sunghoon x journalist!reader

You always hated boxing. The way fists collided with bone, the sharp exhale before a glove landed, the smell of sweat and blood like stale metal in a too-small room. It all felt like unnecessary violence masquerading as discipline. You avoided the sport entirely. Until now.

“Don’t roll your eyes,” your editor said, tossing the assignment folder onto your desk like it weighed nothing. “You wanted more long-form work, right? There it is. Local kid on the rise. Amateur boxing champion. Big regional title match coming up in a few weeks. He’s media shy, but he said yes to one exclusive.”

You opened the folder. And the name punched you harder than any glove ever could. Park Sunghoon.

You hadn’t said his name out loud in years. Not since the summer after senior year— after the two of you drove to the edge of the city in his dad’s secondhand car and parked under a bridge neither of you had ever been to. It was the kind of night that had felt like a question mark. You didn’t even fight. He just said, “I don’t think I’m meant to stay here,” and you said, “I don’t think I’m brave enough to leave.”

That was it. No grand ending. Just separate paths. Now he was back on yours.

You walked into the boxing gym with a notepad, a recorder, and a creeping sense of unreality. It wasn’t fancy. The air hung heavy, humid with breath and grit. The ring in the center sagged slightly in the middle like it had seen too many rounds. Trainers barked. Ropes thudded. The sound of bodies being molded.

And then, “Y/N?”

You turned. He looked different. Older, sharper. Shoulders broader, jaw squared. But the eyes? Same. Maybe more tired. More knowing. But still him. Still Sunghoon.

“I didn’t know it was you they were sending,” he said, pulling off his gloves. “You hate this stuff.”

You shrugged, flipping open your notepad like armor. “Guess I hate my career stagnating more.”

He laughed a short, amused sound and tossed his gloves onto a bench.

“So,” you asked, hoping your voice didn’t betray the tremor in your chest, “why boxing?”

His eyes met yours. “I didn’t know how else to fight for something real.”

You spent the next week shadowing him. He didn’t pose for photos. Didn’t like scripted answers. But when you asked about the first time he stepped into a ring, his entire body softened, like memory sat in his muscles.

He told you about the first punch he took. The first time he won by decision. The way he trained before sunrise because it made him feel ahead of his demons.

“It’s not about hurting someone else,” he said one morning, sweat beading down his temple. “It’s about proving I’m not the kind of guy who gives up.”

You wrote that down. But it stayed in your chest long after your pen stopped moving.

One night, after his last training session, you lingered in the parking lot. He walked out with his duffel slung over one shoulder, nodding at you with a faint smile. “Still writing?”

You shook your head. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“How weird it is to come back to someone after so long. To find them… changed, but also not.”

He paused, his breath clouding in the night air. “You mean me?”

“I mean both of us.”

A long silence stretched between you. Then he stepped closer, voice lower now. “I still think about that night. The bridge. What I said.”

You swallowed hard. “I do too.”

And then, he said something that lodged itself deep into the cracks you’d tried to fill with deadlines and detachment: “I never stopped hoping we’d meet again. I just didn’t think it’d be with you holding a recorder.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Guess I’m the underdog in this story too.”

He laughed. And this time it was real, warm, almost like it used to be.

Originally, the assignment was supposed to be three interviews and a background profile. But you were still showing up. Not just because your editor extended the story pitch into a feature, but because there was something in the quiet between you and Sunghoon that felt... unfinished. Unspoken. Like he had become a question you wanted to answer all over again.

“You walk in like you’re not scared, but I can tell you hate it here.”

You looked up from your notes. Sunghoon stood across the ring from you, shirt clinging to him, wrapped hands dangling against his thighs.

You raised a brow. “Are we psychoanalyzing now?”

He smirked. “Just saying. You never liked loud places. Or watching people hurt.”

“I don’t think this is about hurting people.”

“No?” He stepped through the ropes and sat on the apron. “Then why flinch every time someone hits the mat?”

You shut your notebook. “Because I don’t like pain being entertainment.”

He watched you carefully, the way he always used to. Not to pick you apart. Just to understand you. “That’s not why I do it.”

“I know.”

Another beat passed. You could hear the sound of rope whipping against shoes behind you, a coach shouting a three-count. You sighed.

“Why me, Sunghoon? Why’d you agree to the article?”

His mouth tugged into something between a smile and a wince. “Because I trust you.”

You blinked.

“I haven’t trusted a lot of people,” he said, quieter now. “But you? Even when we were kids... you never needed me to be anything I wasn’t.”

You swallowed the warmth climbing your chest. “You left, though.”

“You told me you weren’t brave enough to leave.”

“Doesn’t mean I wanted you to go.”

Later that week, you sat ringside as he sparred with a taller, faster opponent. Sunghoon was getting tagged more than usual— his shoulders stiff, timing just a fraction off. His coach called for a break.

“What’s going on with you?” you asked as he spat into a cup.

“I don’t know,” he muttered, wiping his face. “Can’t get out of my own head.”

You hesitated. “Can I try something?”

He looked at you warily. “If it involves yoga or manifestation, I’m out.”

You snorted. “No. Just... switch to southpaw.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Your right side’s tight today. You’re leading too much with it. Go southpaw. Force your brain to adjust.”

He stared for a second, then gave a short nod. When he re-entered the ring, his whole rhythm shifted. Awkward at first, but then, something unlocked. His footwork changed. His jabs found space. He won the round.

When he stepped out, he tossed you a towel. “So you’ve been watching my videos behind my back?”

You grinned. “Maybe.”

That night, you both ended up at a 24-hour diner just off the freeway, a place that hadn’t updated its menu since the '90s and didn’t plan to. You sat across from each other in a cracked vinyl booth, nursing coffees and pancakes you didn’t touch.

Sunghoon picked at a corner of his plate. “Can I ask you something?”

You nodded.

“Why didn’t you stop me that night? When I said I was leaving.”

You looked out the window. The neon from the open sign flickered across the windshield of his car. “Because I thought you were already gone,” you said. “Even before you left.”

He didn’t respond for a long time. Then: “I was scared, Y/N.” You turned back to him. “I didn’t know how to be who I wanted to be in the same town I used to be no one.”

“That’s what I’m writing about,” you said softly. “That’s what people need to know. Not just your stats. Your story.”

His eyes searched yours. “Even the part where I walked away from the girl I loved?”

You couldn’t breathe for a second. “Even that part,” you whispered.

When he dropped you off, you didn’t move right away. Your hand lingered on the door handle, the air between you charged with something too delicate to name.

“You always smelled like old books,” he said suddenly, like a memory slipping out.

You smiled. “You always smelled like gym socks and breath mints.”

He laughed quietly, but his hand brushed yours. “I’m not leaving this time,” he said. “I’m not running either.”

And with that, he let go.

The press conference was held in a strip mall gym with a makeshift backdrop and a lot of fake confidence.

Sunghoon wasn’t a talker. Everyone knew that. His reputation was clean but distant: disciplined, sharp, low profile. So when the promotion team pushed a mic in his face and asked him to sell the fight, you watched him withdraw by the second.

His opponent, some golden-boy loudmouth named Baek Juno, leaned into the cameras like he was born in front of them.

“He’s got heart,” Juno said, voice syrupy with condescension. “But heart won’t save you from a left hook.”

A few reporters chuckled. Juno turned to Sunghoon.

“You gonna say anything, man? Or you just gonna let your girlfriend do the talking?”

The room buzzed. Cameras clicked. You felt every eye swing toward you, seated quietly in the corner with your recorder in your lap.

Sunghoon didn’t flinch. But his jaw tensed. When he finally spoke, it wasn’t to defend you. It was to shut everything down. “You’ll hear me loud enough when the bell rings.”

No one laughed. Juno’s grin cracked slightly.

After the conference, you caught up with him in the back lot, just as he was changing out of his team hoodie. You tossed your voice at him like a challenge. “Girlfriend?”

He rubbed a towel over his hair. “Yeah, I didn’t love that either.”

You crossed your arms. “You didn’t deny it.”

He looked up at you, something sharp and unreadable in his eyes. “Did you want me to?”

The air between you thinned. Words crowded your throat.

“I didn’t come back here for this,” you said finally, softly.

“I didn’t think you’d come back at all.”

You swallowed. “This isn’t back. This is passing through.”

“Feels like more than that.”

He stepped forward, closer than he had in years. And for a second, you weren’t a journalist and he wasn’t a fighter. You were two teenagers in a beat-up Honda under a bridge again, too afraid to say what you really meant.

You broke the moment first. “You’ve got three weeks till the fight. Don’t get distracted.”

His eyes didn’t leave yours. “Then stop distracting me.”

He showed up at your apartment the next Friday. After midnight. Hoodie pulled up, knuckles bruised, silence in his eyes.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “Can I come in?”

You didn’t hesitate to let him in.

You sat on the floor, legs crossed, two mugs of chamomile between you. It was quiet, almost too quiet. You watched him stare out your window, like he was still in the ring. Like the adrenaline never really left.

“I don’t know how to talk about this part,” he said finally. “The part after everyone goes home. The part that doesn’t get written about.”

You waited.

“It’s lonely,” he admitted. “Winning. Fighting. Everyone cheers and then they disappear. You’re left with nothing but the echo.”

You reached out, slowly, and covered his hand with yours.

“I see you,” you said. “Even when the crowd’s gone.”

He turned to you. Really looked at you.

“Do you think if I hadn’t left, we’d still be us?”

You exhaled. “I think... we’d be different versions of who we are now. Maybe worse. Maybe better.”

He nodded. “I still think about kissing you.”

That one hit below the ribs. “Then why don’t you?”

Silence. Breath. Then… He leaned forward and kissed you like he remembered every inch of your mouth. Like he’d imagined this moment a thousand different ways, but none as real as this.

And you kissed him back like you’d been waiting for him to come home— not to a place, but to you.

When he left that night, he didn’t say goodbye. Just touched your cheek, nodded, and walked away like he knew the fight ahead of him now wasn’t just in the ring, but in the parts of him still afraid to hold something good.

There’s a rhythm to training when a fight is close: everything narrows. Less talking. Fewer distractions. Tunnel vision. You watched it happen to Sunghoon over the next two weeks.

He showed up early, stayed late, iced his knuckles until they went numb. When he hit the pads, you could hear the ghosts leaving his body, one punch at a time.

But outside the gym? He barely touched his phone. Barely touched you.

You weren’t sure what the kiss meant. It had cracked something open, something real, but you didn’t know if it was a beginning or a goodbye.

You were still writing the article. Still staying professional. But every night, when you lay in bed with your laptop humming beside you and the silence pressing in, you wondered if he'd kiss you again. If he even remembered how soft your voice had gone when you told him, I see you.

You wondered if you were being naive, hoping for both the fight and the boy.

The day before the match, he asked you to meet him at the old park near your high school.

You found him at the edge of the basketball court, where the chain nets hung loose and the lines were faded. He was sitting on the curb, hood up, thumb brushing the edge of his mouth like he was trying to work something loose from his soul.

“I thought I could do this without feeling anything,” he said as you sat beside him. “But it’s not working.”

You didn’t speak. Just waited.

He finally looked at you. “This fight matters more than I wanted it to. Not because of the title. Not because of the promotion deal waiting after. But because I know you’ll be there.”

You blinked. “Sunghoon—”

“I need you to know something before I step in that ring.”

His voice was hoarse now. No swagger. No shield.

“When I left all those years ago, I kept telling myself you deserved better than someone like me. Someone who’d rather bleed for approval than stay and build a life.”

“And now?”

He looked at you. Really looked. “Now I think I bled just to earn my way back to you.”

You didn’t sleep that night. Neither did he.

You texted once, just after 2:00 AM: I’ll be there. No matter how it ends.

He didn’t reply. But a heart popped up on your screen a few minutes later. It was enough.

You stood in the back corridor of the venue on fight day, your press badge swinging against your chest. The lights inside the arena pulsed red and white. Baek Juno’s fans were loud, loud enough to feel like a tide trying to swallow the floor.

But when Sunghoon stepped into the hallway, robed in black, gloves already on, everything went quiet in your chest. He paused when he saw you. Eyes locked. Then— He nodded once. You nodded back. That was it. But it meant everything.

Round One was brutal. Juno came out fast. Showboating. Talking between shots. His jab was tight, sharp. Sunghoon took the first few hits like stone. Didn’t flinch. But you could see the frustration in his stance, too tense. Too controlled.

“He’s in his head,” someone muttered beside you at ringside.

You held your breath.

Round Two. Sunghoon adjusted. Slipped more. Countered with his left. A cut opened under Juno’s eye. The crowd changed its tune. You could feel it, Sunghoon shifting. Becoming something alive.

Round Three. Round Four. Round Five.

It wasn’t about flash anymore. It was about grit. Every exchange told a story. Every punch from Sunghoon said, I’m still here. Every step forward said, I don’t quit.

Round Six. Final round. He looked out into the crowd, just for a second. His eyes found you.

And you mouthed: Fight for yourself.

He nodded. And then he did. Final bell. Decision pending. The ref raised Sunghoon’s hand. The crowd erupted. You didn’t scream. You didn’t cheer. You just cried.

The locker room after a fight is a strange place. It smells like sweat, antiseptic, and adrenaline that hasn’t left the building. It hums with the low murmur of trainers packing gear and voices trying to stay calm while the body remembers what it just survived.

You walked in slowly, press pass tucked away.

Sunghoon was sitting on the bench with his hoodie half-zipped, a towel around his neck, and his hands still wrapped. You were sure a bruise was blooming across his ribs and could see dried blood near his temple.

He looked up the moment you crossed the threshold. Neither of you spoke.

You just knelt in front of him, fingers trembling as you reached for his gloves. He let you unlace them. Let you unwrap the tape, slow and careful.

“It hurts,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

“Not the fight. I mean… the after.”

You nodded. “The silence is always the worst.” You looked up. His eyes were glassy.

“I’ve been running on rage for so long,” he said. “But that’s not what got me through tonight.”

“What was it then?”

“You.”

You froze.

“I kept thinking about how you used to read in the back row of chemistry class, even though you weren’t supposed to bring novels. You’d underline things in pencil like someone might come take the words away.”

You smiled softly. “They were the only things I got to keep.”

Sunghoon leaned forward, elbows on his knees, forehead nearly against yours.

“I lost you once because I thought I wasn’t enough,” he whispered. “I won’t let that be the reason again.”

You felt it then… that ache in your chest cracking open like spring breaking through frost.

“But I’m not the same girl you left,” you said. “I’m harder now. A little more selfish. A little more scared.”

“I’m not the same either,” he said. “But maybe that’s why it could work this time.”

Your voice broke when you asked it. “Do you want me to stay?”

He didn’t even blink. “Yes.”

Just one word. But it held every unspoken apology. Every buried kiss. Every look he never dared to hold for too long.

“Yes,” he said again, softer. “Not just tonight. Not just until the story prints. I want you to stay in the parts of my life no one claps for.”

You closed your eyes. And when he kissed you this time, it wasn’t desperate or rushed. It was reminiscent of the love you two had as teenager, you two are just older now, making the decision to stay.

Two months later, the article went live and blew up bigger than you expected. People called it “a love letter disguised as a profile.” Some even asked if it was fiction. You never confirmed or denied.

Sunghoon went pro. Started training younger fighters. His record wasn’t spotless, but his focus was.

And you? You stayed. Not because you had to. Not because he asked. But because when you looked at him now— laughing, alive, arms around your waist in the morning light.

You didn’t see the fighter or the past. You saw someone who fought his way back to himself. And you were proud to have been in his corner. Always.

[big-ooof]

Jake and reader are strangers turned lovers in Spain.

note: sexual content 18+

The sun in Seville is unrelenting. Brilliant and golden and heavy in a way that makes the cobblestones glow and the white walls shimmer. Jake is already regretting the hoodie. His hand rests awkwardly on the wooden counter of the tiny café. He’s staring up at the chalkboard menu with the focus of a man trying to solve a Rubik’s cube in real time.

“Un café con…” he hesitates, voice trailing off, “Uh. Leche? And… ice?”

He glances at the woman behind the counter, who stares at him with the deadpan patience of someone who’s seen too many tourists fumble this exact moment. A small group behind him shifts, and someone taps their foot audibly.

“Con leche fría, tal vez?” the barista asks, lips twitching.

Jake is already apologizing. “I—sorry, I don’t—uh—”

“Let me help,” a voice says behind him.

You. The girl in the navy sundress and high-top sneakers who’s been waiting behind him, earbuds in one ear, sunglasses perched in your hair.

You smile politely at the barista, switching languages without blinking. “Un café con leche fría para él, por favor. En vaso grande. Y tal vez con un poco de azúcar?”

The barista nods, scribbling. “Sí, perfecto.”

Jake exhales like he’s been underwater. You glance at him, amused. “You looked like you were about to order a plate of socks.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if I accidentally did,” he mutters, then gives a sheepish grin. “Thank you. Seriously.”

“No problem. First time in Spain?”

“First hour, actually.” He takes a step aside so you can order.

You hand him his receipt with a smile. “Welcome to Seville, then.”

He accepts it like you handed him a cigarette and a secret. “I’m Jake.”

“Y/N.”

You sit with him on the plaza steps with your drinks, people-watching. There’s something effortless about the moment, like neither of you really need to talk, but it’s more fun if you do.

He tells you he’s taking time off, traveling with a loose itinerary. You tell him you’re backpacking before your new job starts in Madrid, helping out with a summer language program. Your Spanish is advanced. His is… aspirational at best.

“So what’s the plan?” you ask, pushing up your sunglasses. “Wander and hope for the best?”

Jake shrugs. “That was the goal. But now I’ve met a translator-slash-tour-guide-slash-mysterious-American girl who speaks better Spanish than me, so.”

“So you’re inviting me to wander with you.���

“Only if you promise not to let me order socks again.”

You walk through the winding streets of the Santa Cruz district, the scent of orange blossoms trailing behind you. You dip into shaded courtyards, eat from paper cones filled with fried calamari, and take silly photos next to fountains older than either of your countries. Jake’s laugh is warm and genuine, and he listens like he means it.

He buys you a small pair of ceramic earrings from a local stall, insists on it. You pretend to protest. He watches you put them on, gaze flickering from your fingers to your jaw to your lips, and for a second it lingers.

Neither of you mention it.

You end up in a tiny rooftop bar with low lights and views over terracotta roofs. You share a pitcher of sangria. He stretches out beside you, legs long, face flushed from sun and wine and something unspoken. His fingers brush yours on the seat.

He leans in. His voice is softer now. “Hey.”

You turn.

“I know this is crazy,” he murmurs, “but I don’t really want to go back to my hostel tonight.”

You study him. He’s nervous but sincere. Your stomach flips.

“Then don’t.” There’s a pause. It’s electric. “Yours or mine?” you ask, voice velvet.

Jake’s lips part. “Yours.”

It’s small. A rental with a creaky bed and stone-tiled floor, cool under bare feet. You’re still laughing when the door shuts behind you, but it dies in your throat the moment he steps closer, fingers brushing your jaw.

The kiss is slow at first. Curious, soft. Then his hand finds the small of your back, and it deepens.

You’re pressed against the wall in a minute, mouths open, hungry, his hands everywhere— your waist, your hips, your thighs. He groans when you slide your fingers under his shirt, tugging it up.

“Fuck,” Jake mutters as you drop it to the floor. “You’re…”

“You too,” you smile, eyes sweeping his chest.

He lifts you in one motion, carries you to the bed. Lays you down like you’re made of sun and silk.

“Tell me what you like,” he murmurs as he kisses down your neck. “Wanna get it right.”

“Touch me,” you breathe, fingers in his hair. “Everywhere.”

Jake's mouth travels down your chest, tongue circling your nipple before he sucks softly, watching your reaction. His hand slides beneath your dress, fingers curling under your panties, rubbing slow circles over your clit. You whimper.

“You’re already wet for me?” he teases, voice husky. “God.”

He drops between your legs, dragging your panties down with his teeth. His mouth replaces his fingers. Warm, wet, relentless. He eats you out like he’s been starving for this exact flavor. He moans into you when your thighs clamp around his head.

“Jake—oh my god—fuck—”

He doesn’t stop until you’re cumming, back arching, hands clutching the sheets.

Then he’s undressing…slow, watching you watch him. His cock is thick, flushed, heavy against his thigh.

“You sure?”

You nod, breathless. “Come here.”

He slides in slowly, filling you completely. You gasp. Your pussy stretching around him, so full, so good. He moans low, forehead resting against yours.

“Fuck, you feel like heaven,” he whispers.

He moves slow at first, rolling his hips deep and sweet. Then faster, rougher, until the headboard taps the wall and you’re crying out his name. He holds your legs up, one over his shoulder, changing the angle until you’re begging him.

He kisses you everywhere: your jaw, your neck, your breasts. Whispering praise: So good. So perfect. Look at you. Taking me so well.

You cum again, clenching around him. He follows with a groan, buried deep, eyes locked on yours.

The sun filters in gold across your tangled legs. Jake is still asleep beside you, shirtless, his lashes long against his cheeks, mouth parted slightly.

You brush hair from his face.

He stirs. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

He stretches. “Wasn’t dreaming, then.”

You smile, shy and wide. “Nope.”

He grins. “Wanna get coffee? I promise I’ll let you order.”

You lean down, kiss his shoulder. “Only if you promise to wander another 24 hours with me.”

He pulls you into his arms, warm and still naked under the sheets. “I’ll wander forever if you want.”

The morning is overcast, thin clouds hanging above the city like silk. Seville looks quieter today, as if the sun took the volume down with it. Maybe it’s just you. Or maybe it’s Jake.

He’s beside you at the platform, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie, hair tousled, lips pressed into a thin line. Your suitcase sits between you, wheels cocked slightly like it doesn’t want to leave either.

“You sure you don’t want to come to Madrid now?” you ask, voice light.

Jake chuckles. “Tempting. But I’ve got two more cities I want to hit before I settle in anywhere.”

You nod, pretending the air isn’t tightening around your ribs.

“You’ll love Madrid,” he says. “You’ll walk around like you own the place.”

“Only if you’re there to see it.”

That makes him look at you. And God, it’s the kind of look that carries weight. Like a hand to the chest. Like a promise left hanging in the air.

He touches your face then, thumb brushing just below your eye. “These past twenty-four hours were…” He exhales, helpless. “You know.”

You do. You so do.

“I’ll text,” you whisper.

He nods. “I’ll answer.”

The train whistles— final boarding.

You kiss him, slow and lingering. Not goodbye, not quite. Just pause. And then you walk away.

Jake stays on the platform. You glance back once before the train starts moving. He’s still there, watching you go.

Madrid is louder. Faster. But not emptier.

You’ve been here three weeks, running workshops, commuting on the metro, slipping into a new rhythm. You think about him sometimes, more than sometimes. A random reggaeton song, a whiff of citrus, the way the afternoon light hits a tile wall and suddenly he’s there in your mind.

You text occasionally. Flirty. Teasing. Nothing serious. Until today. It’s 5:02 p.m. when your phone buzzes.

Jake: In Madrid. You free?

Your heart skips. You stare at the screen, rereading it.

You: Where are you?

Jake: Malasaña. The bookstore café you mentioned. Meet me?

He’s sitting outside when you arrive. Hair a little longer, sunglasses on, coffee in hand. He looks up and his smile is like sunlight, warm and stupid and perfect.

You don’t even sit. You walk right up and kiss him, bold, two hands on his face. He groans into it, surprised, and pulls you in by the waist like he’s wanted this for days.

“Hi,” you breathe.

“Hi,” he laughs. “Missed you.”

“You don’t even know.”

You barely make it through the front door of your apartment. Jake presses you against the wall the second it shuts. His hands find your thighs, hoisting you up. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, and the kiss turns filthy. Tongue, teeth, all heat and need.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” he murmurs against your mouth.

“Prove it.”

Clothes scatter. You’re both clumsy with urgency. Shirts half-ripped, jeans kicked off mid-kiss. You fall back onto your bed, laughing, breathless. Jake slides down, kisses your stomach, your inner thigh, teasing you until you're squirming.

“You’re not real,” you gasp when he starts eating you out again, slow and deep and messy. “Jake—fuck—”

He worships you. Uses his tongue like he’s memorizing every inch. When he finally slides into you, you moan like you’re breaking.

“Shit,” he groans, watching your face. “You feel even better than I remember.”

He fucks you slow. Deep. One hand on your throat, the other gripping your hip. You cum with his name on your lips.

He finishes right after, forehead pressed to yours, panting, kissing you like he’s making up for every lost hour since Seville.

Later, you’re wrapped in his shirt, lying with your head on his chest. Your fingers trace the faint lines on his abdomen, memorizing the weight of him beside you.

“So…” you murmur.

“So.”

“Are staying in Madrid?”

“I am now.”

You look up at him.

He smiles. “I don’t want to be away from you.”

It’s nearly September now. The heat in Madrid has mellowed to something softer, golden. The days are still long, but the nights feel cooler. More like they’re meant to be shared under balconies and blankets.

Jake’s been staying at your apartment. His toothbrush sits next to yours. His coffee order is known at the café on the corner. And lately…he’s been looking at you differently.

Less like a daydream. More like a decision.

A Week Earlier

You’re both lying on the roof of your building, a bottle of cheap wine between you, a breeze tugging at your hair. The city hums below, music, laughter, the low buzz of scooters passing.

Jake has his arms behind his head, eyes on the stars. He’s been quiet all evening.

You roll toward him. “What’s going on in that overactive brain of yours?”

He hesitates. Then: “I got an offer.”

Your stomach tenses. “For what?”

“There’s this international media firm, hybrid roles. Remote work but a home base in Madrid. I met one of their directors during that creative expo downtown last week.”

You sit up a little. “Jake…”

“I’d be working on multimedia campaigns for European branches. Freelance contract at first, but they’re hinting it could go permanent.”

You’re stunned. “That’s…huge.”

He nods. “I know.”

“But?”

He looks at you then. Really looks. “I didn’t say yes. Not yet.”

Your heart pounds. “Why not?”

Jake shifts closer, legs brushing yours. His voice drops. “Because I needed to ask if…you even want me here. If this,” he gestures vaguely between you, “is just a summer thing to you. Or if it could be more.”

You don’t answer right away. You lean in instead. Press your forehead to his. Let your fingers knot into his shirt.

“I don’t want you to leave, Jake,” you whisper. “I didn’t know how to say it. I thought maybe if I kept quiet, I’d be safe from wanting too much.”

Jake exhales like he’s been holding his breath all month.

“I want you,” you continue. “Here. In my space. In my life. Not just in my bed.”

Jake cups your jaw. “I already am. But I want to make it official.”

Present Day

He signs the freelance contract that Friday. You wait for him at the café where you first met. When he walks in, he’s practically glowing, messy hair, rings on his fingers, lips curled into that boyish, sunshine-smug smile.

He slides into the booth beside you and slaps the signed contract folder onto the table.

“Say it,” you tell him, grinning.

“I live in Madrid now.”

You throw your arms around his neck. He pulls you into his lap and kisses you in front of everyone— deep, possessive, like a man who’s finally allowed to love someone without a ticking clock.

That night is different. Jake makes love to you. And you both know it. There’s no rush. No teasing. Just skin and reverence.

He starts with slow kisses along your collarbone, then your breastbone, then your thighs. His hands worship you…soft, certain, spread across your ribs like they were made to anchor you.

He slides into you slow, eyes locked on yours. Neither of you look away. “I love you,” he says, just once.

You inhale sharply. “Say it again.”

“I love you,” Jake whispers into your mouth, into your skin, into the space between each thrust. “I love you, Y/N. I’m not going anywhere.”

You cry a little when you cum. He kisses the tears from your cheeks. When he finishes, he doesn’t roll away. He holds you. Forehead to forehead, arms tight around your body, his heart thudding against yours.

“I was falling for you the moment you ordered that coffee for me,” he says. “I just didn’t know how hard I’d land.”

Bonus: life in Madrid

The sun sets slow over Madrid, spilling amber light through your apartment windows. The living room hums with laughter. Friends mingling, music playing low, and the clink of glasses. It’s your first party as a couple, and the space feels alive with the kind of joy that comes from sharing everything you’ve built together so quickly.

Jake’s by your side, holding your hand as you welcome new friends and old, his grin never fading. You watch him laughing with a group, eyes crinkling, and you realize this is home now. You are home.

The following Spring you stand in the gallery, breath caught, eyes scanning the photos of your journey. Every stolen smile, every unguarded laugh, every quiet moment.

Jake clears his throat, voice soft but steady. “Remember this?” he asks, pointing at the picture of you two in that tiny bookstore café, coffee cups clutched like lifelines.

You laugh. “How could I forget? You spilled half your drink panicking after trying to talk in Spanish.”

Jake grins, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hey, you saved me. Twice.”

He steps closer, eyes shining with something you don’t quite expect: vulnerability mixed with fierce determination.

“This is us,” he says, voice low, “messy, imperfect, but real. And I want to keep making this... together.”

He pulls the little box from his pocket.

You blink, heart thudding so loud you swear he can hear it.

“Open it.”

Your fingers tremble as you lift the lid. Inside is a slender, silver ring with a tiny sapphire glinting like the Madrid sky.

Jake slides to one knee, eyes locked on yours. “I don’t have a fancy speech or a perfect plan,” he says, voice catching, “but I have you. And I want to be with you. Here. Now. Always.”

Tears blur your vision. “Jake…”

He gently captures your hand. “Say yes?”

You nod, unable to speak, and he slips the ring onto your finger.

Back at your apartment, the air hums thick with electricity. Jake’s lips find yours immediately. Soft at first, then fierce, like he’s trying to say everything without words. He lifts you effortlessly, carrying you to the bedroom where the soft glow of city lights filters through sheer curtains.

Clothes peel away like barriers dissolving. His hands map every curve of your body. Slow, reverent, like he’s memorizing you anew.

“I want to show you how much,” Jake murmurs against your skin, trailing kisses down your neck. You arch into him, breath hitching. He moves with care, entering you with steady, deep strokes, eyes never leaving yours.

“I love you,” he whispers between thrusts.

You smile through the wave building inside you. “I love you too.”

When you cum together, fingers entwined, hearts pounding.

He holds you close afterward, forehead resting on yours, breath melding.

Sunlight warms your face as you wake to Jake’s steady breathing beside you. You turn to find him watching you, a lazy smile tugging at his lips.

“Morning,” he says, voice thick with sleep.

“Morning,” you whisper, hand tracing the line of his jaw.

He reaches over and pulls you closer. “Ready for whatever comes next?”

You smile, heart full. “With you? Always.”

He kisses you gently, like a promise and a beginning all at once.