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Under The Same Stars- Park Sunghoon

pairing: park sunghoon x f!reader genre: brother's bestfriend, fluff, slowburn romance, high school au warnings: suggestive themes (flirty banter, sensual tension, close proximity), mild language, overwhelming romantic tension word count: 30k (the longest I wrote, breaking my old record!) a/n: Hiii, pookies! This is a fluffy, slowburn high school AU where our reader’s two-year crush on basketball star Park Sunghoon sparks a whirlwind of pining, gummy worms, and chaotic matchmaking. I’m so excited to present this fanfiction—reblog or scream in the tags if you loved it too!

The air in the school gymnasium was thick with the scent of polished wood and the faint tang of sweat, a familiar backdrop to your afternoons. The rhythmic thud-thud-thud of a basketball bouncing against the hardwood floor mingled with the sharp squeak of sneakers and the occasional shout of “Pass it!” or “Screen!” from the players.

You were perched on the bleachers, your chemistry textbook splayed open across your lap, a highlighter dangling loosely between your fingers. But your eyes weren’t on the periodic table or the half-hearted notes you’d scribbled about molar mass. They were on him—Park Sunghoon, the star of the school’s basketball team, who was currently weaving through defenders with a grace that made your chest ache.

Sunghoon moved like he was born for the court. His dark hair, slightly tousled and damp with sweat, fell into his eyes as he dribbled, his focus razor-sharp. His jersey, navy blue with the school’s logo emblazoned across the chest, clung to his lean frame, highlighting the way his muscles flexed with every pivot and leap. You watched, heart hammering, as he faked left, spun right, and launched the ball toward the hoop. It sailed in a perfect arc, sinking through the net with a satisfying swish. The small crowd of lingering students in the gym erupted into cheers, and Sunghoon’s lips curved into a subtle, self-assured smile that sent a shiver down your spine

Two years. Two years of watching him from the sidelines, stealing glances during lunch breaks, and pretending not to care when he passed you in the hallways. Two years of this hopeless, maddening crush that had taken root in your heart and refused to let go. You didn’t even know when it started—maybe it was that time in freshman year when he’d helped you pick up your scattered books after you’d tripped in the corridor, his voice soft and polite as he handed you your dog-eared copy of Pride and Prejudice. Or maybe it was the first time you saw him play, dominating the court with an effortless confidence that made him seem untouchable. Whatever it was, Park Sunghoon had become your obsession, and you were too stubborn—or too scared—to do anything about it.

“Y/N, you’re doing it again,” came a teasing voice, snapping you out of your reverie. Soyeon, your best friend since middle school, dropped onto the bleacher beside you with a dramatic huff, her school bag sliding off her shoulder. Her ponytail swung as she tilted her head, smirking at you. “You’re staring at Sunghoon like he’s the answer to your chemistry homework. Spoiler: he’s not. Unless your homework is ‘how to pine hopelessly for two years straight.’”

Your cheeks flushed, and you ducked your head, clutching your textbook like a shield. “I’m studying,” you muttered, flipping a page for emphasis, though you hadn’t read a single word in the last ten minutes.

Soyeon snorted, unimpressed. She reached over, plucked the highlighter from your hand, and twirled it between her fingers. “Oh, please. You haven’t turned a page in, like, forever. And your book’s upside down, genius.” She grabbed the textbook, flipped it right-side-up with a flourish, and handed it back, her eyes glinting with amusement. “You’re not fooling anyone. Just admit you’re here to ogle your basketball prince.”

“I’m not ogling,” you protested, though the heat creeping up your neck betrayed you. “I’m… observing. For science. Human behavior and all that.”

Soyeon laughed, loud enough to draw a few curious glances from the lower bleachers. “Human behavior? Y/N, you’re practically writing sonnets in your head about his jump shot. Just talk to him already! You’ve been crushing on him since we were freshmen, and it’s getting painful to watch.”

You sighed, slumping back against the bleacher. “It’s not that simple, Soyeon. He’s Park Sunghoon. He’s the guy everyone knows, the guy who gets scouted by colleges, the guy who probably doesn’t even know I exist. I’m just… me.” You gestured vaguely at yourself—plain school uniform, slightly messy hair, and a backpack stuffed with dog-eared notebooks. “What am I supposed to say? ‘Hi, I’ve been low-key in love with you for two years, wanna grab coffee?’ I’d die of embarrassment before I got to the coffee part.”

Soyeon rolled her eyes, leaning closer so her shoulder bumped yours. “You’re being dramatic. He’s not some untouchable god. He’s just a guy who’s really good at throwing a ball into a hoop. And, okay, maybe he’s ridiculously good-looking, but that’s beside the point. You’re cute, you’re smart, and you’re not invisible. I’ve seen him glance your way before, you know.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you whipped your head toward her. “What? When?”

Soyeon smirked, clearly enjoying your reaction. “Last week, in the cafeteria. You were ranting to me about that history project, and he was at the table across from us. I swear he looked at you for, like, a solid three seconds. That’s practically a marriage proposal in Sunghoon time.”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “Three seconds is not a marriage proposal. It’s probably just him zoning out or wondering why I talk so loud.”

“Or,” Soyeon countered, poking your side, “he was thinking, ‘Wow, that girl with the cute laugh is kinda interesting.’ You won’t know unless you try. Come on, Y/N, live a little. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Before you could list all the catastrophic scenarios—tripping over your words, spilling water on him, or worse, him laughing in your face—the gym doors swung open with a loud bang. A familiar, exuberant voice cut through the noise of the court. “Y/N! Soyeon! You guys still here? The game’s over, you know!”

Your younger brother, Kim Sunoo, bounced toward the bleachers, his cheeks rosy and his school uniform slightly askew, as if he’d been running around campus all day. Sunoo was a walking burst of sunshine, with a round face, a contagious smile, and a chubby frame that only made him more huggable. He was clutching a half-eaten chocolate bar, crumbs dusting his fingers, and his eyes sparkled with his usual boundless energy.

“Sunoo, you’re gonna get kicked out for eating in the gym again,” you said, raising an eyebrow as he climbed the bleachers to sit on your other side. “Coach Kim has a zero-tolerance policy for snacks.”

Sunoo waved a hand dismissively, popping the rest of the chocolate into his mouth. “Coach loves me. I’m, like, the team’s unofficial mascot. Besides, I’m here to support my bestie!” He leaned forward, cupping his hands around his mouth and shouting toward the court, “Yo, team! You’re killing it! Let’s go, champs!”

You winced, sinking lower in your seat. “Sunoo, you’re so loud. People are staring.”

“Let them stare!” Sunoo grinned, completely unbothered. He nudged you with his elbow, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “So, Y/N, why are you really here? Don’t tell me you’re actually studying. You’ve got that look—the one you get when you’re daydreaming about a certain someone.”

Your face went scarlet, and you swatted his arm. “Sunoo! I’m just… waiting for you, okay? Mom said I have to walk home with you, and you’re always late because you’re too busy chatting with everyone.”

Soyeon leaned across you, smirking at Sunoo. “She’s lying. She’s here for Park Sunghoon. You know, the basketball star she’s been obsessed with for two years?”

“Soyeon!” you hissed, mortified, as Sunoo’s eyes lit up with glee.

“Ohhh, Sunghoon, huh?” Sunoo waggled his eyebrows, looking far too pleased with himself. “My sister’s got taste! He’s cool, right? Total heartthrob vibes. You should totally go for it, Y/N. I bet he’d be into you.”

You buried your face in your hands, groaning. “Can you both stop? I’m not going for anything. I’m just… existing. Can we please drop this?”

Soyeon and Sunoo exchanged a look, the kind that made you dread whatever they were plotting. Before they could gang up on you further, the coach’s whistle pierced the air, signaling the end of practice. The players began to disperse, grabbing their water bottles and towels, their laughter echoing in the now-quiet gym. Your eyes, against your better judgment, followed Sunghoon as he jogged toward the bench, high-fiving a teammate and slinging a towel over his shoulder. He looked so effortlessly cool, so completely unaware of the chaos he was causing in your heart.

“Hey, I’m gonna go say hi to someone,” Sunoo said suddenly, hopping to his feet with his usual bounce. “Wait here, okay? I’ll be right back.”

“Who?” you asked, narrowing your eyes as he practically skipped down the bleachers, weaving through the scattering players. You couldn’t see who he was heading toward, but his enthusiasm was enough to make you suspicious. Sunoo was always up to something, and his “someone” could be anyone from a teacher to a random freshman he’d decided to adopt.

Soyeon leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You know, Y/N, there’s that school trip to Jeju Island next week. I heard through the grapevine that Sunghoon’s going. It’s a three-day trip—plenty of time to, you know, accidentally bump into him or strike up a conversation.”

Your heart did a little somersault at the thought. A whole weekend with Sunghoon in close proximity? The idea was equal parts thrilling and terrifying. You could already picture yourself tripping over your own feet, stammering through a conversation, or worse, staring at him like a creep from across a hotel lobby. “Soyeon, I’d probably embarrass myself before I even got a word out,” you said, twisting the strap of your backpack nervously. “I’d trip into the ocean or spill kimbap on his shoes or something equally tragic.”

Soyeon laughed, but her expression softened. “You’re overthinking it. Look, this trip is your chance to get out of your head and actually talk to him. You don’t have to confess your undying love right away—just, like, ask him about basketball or the weather or whatever. Baby steps.”

You chewed your lip, glancing back at the court. Sunoo was still talking to someone, his hands animated as he gestured wildly, probably telling some exaggerated story. Sunghoon, meanwhile, was now at the edge of the gym, slinging his bag over his shoulder and laughing at something his teammate said. For a split second, his gaze flickered toward the bleachers, and your breath caught. Was he looking at you? No, probably not. He was probably just scanning the room, or maybe he’d noticed Sunoo’s loud cheering earlier. Still, the possibility sent a rush of warmth through you, and you couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to actually talk to him, to have him look at you on purpose.

“Okay, maybe,” you said softly, more to yourself than to Soyeon. “Maybe I’ll try. But no promises.”

“That’s my girl!” Soyeon clapped you on the back, nearly knocking your textbook off your lap. “Jeju’s gonna be your moment, Y/N. I can feel it. You’re gonna come back with a story to tell, and I’m gonna be there to say ‘I told you so.’”

Before you could respond, Sunoo bounded back up the bleachers, his grin wider than ever. “Okay, I’m back! Ready to head home, Y/N? Or do you wanna stay and stare at your boyfriend a little longer?”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you snapped, shoving your textbook into your bag with more force than necessary. “And you’re the worst brother ever.”

“Love you too,” Sunoo said, sticking out his tongue. He grabbed your bag and slung it over his shoulder, ignoring your protests. “Come on, Soyeon, you walking with us?”

“Nah, I’ve got dance practice,” Soyeon said, standing and stretching. “But Y/N, think about what I said. Jeju. Sunghoon. Opportunity.” She winked before heading toward the gym exit, leaving you with a mix of dread and anticipation swirling in your chest.

As you and Sunoo made your way out of the gym, you stole one last glance at the court. Sunghoon was gone, probably already in the locker room, and the gym felt strangely empty without him. The Jeju trip loomed in your mind, a mix of nerves and possibilities. You didn’t know what would happen, but something told you it was going to change everything.

The late afternoon sun filtered through your bedroom curtains, casting golden stripes across the cluttered desk where your open suitcase lay. Clothes were strewn everywhere—jeans folded haphazardly, a couple of sweaters tossed aside, and a pair of sneakers teetering on the edge of the bed. The Jeju Island school trip was in three days, and you were nowhere near ready. Not physically, with your half-packed suitcase, and definitely not mentally, with the whirlwind of emotions swirling in your chest. Every time you thought about the trip, your mind inevitably drifted to Park Sunghoon—his sharp jawline, his effortless grace on the basketball court, and the way his rare smiles made your heart stutter. Two years of pining had left you a hopeless romantic, and now, the idea of being in close proximity to him for an entire weekend felt like a dream you weren’t sure you could handle.

You sighed, flopping onto your bed and staring at the ceiling, where a constellation of glow-in-the-dark stars—remnants of your middle school phase—stared back. Soyeon’s words from the gym echoed in your head: “Jeju’s gonna be your moment, Y/N. I can feel it.” But what kind of moment? A moment where you finally mustered the courage to say more than two words to Sunghoon? Or a moment where you embarrassed yourself so spectacularly that you’d have to transfer schools? The possibilities were endless, and most of them were terrifying.

A knock on your door jolted you from your thoughts. “Y/N! You done packing yet?” Your brother, Kim Sunoo, poked his head into the room, his round cheeks flushed from whatever hyperactive adventure he’d been on. He was holding a bag of gummy worms, his fingers sticky as he popped one into his mouth. Sunoo was a walking burst of energy, his bubbly personality lighting up any room. His school uniform was untucked, his tie loosened, and his slightly chubby frame made him look like a teddy bear you couldn’t help but want to hug, even when he was being annoying.

“Does it look like I’m done?” you replied, gesturing to the chaos of your room. “And why are you eating gummy worms at four in the afternoon? You’re gonna ruin your dinner.”

Sunoo grinned, unfazed, and bounced onto your bed, sending a pair of socks tumbling to the floor. “Dinner’s overrated. Gummy worms are forever. Besides, I’m hyped for Jeju! Three days of beaches, hiking, and no math homework? Sign me up!” He leaned back on his elbows, kicking his legs in the air like an excited kid. “You’re coming, right? Or are you gonna bail because you’re too busy daydreaming about a certain basketball star?”

Your face heated up instantly, and you grabbed a pillow to swat him with. “Sunoo! Stop it! I’m not daydreaming about anyone!” The lie tasted bitter on your tongue, but you weren’t about to give him more ammunition. He was already too good at teasing you, and with Soyeon egging him on, the two of them were a menace.

Sunoo dodged the pillow with a laugh, rolling onto his side and propping his head up with one hand. “Oh, come on, Y/N. Soyeon told me you were practically melting in the gym the other day, staring at Sunghoon like he’s some kind of prince. You’ve got it bad, sis. Why don’t you just talk to him? He’s not that scary.”

You groaned, pulling the pillow over your face to muffle your embarrassment. “It’s not about him being scary, Sunoo. It’s about me being… me. He’s Park Sunghoon. He’s the guy who scores game-winning shots and has half the school swooning over him. I’m just the girl who trips over her own shoelaces and spends her free time hiding in the library. We’re not exactly on the same wavelength.”

Sunoo tilted his head, his expression softening. “You’re selling yourself short, Y/N. You’re smart, you’re funny, and you’ve got that whole ‘quiet but secretly cool’ vibe going on. Plus, you’re my sister, so you’re automatically awesome.” He flashed you a cheeky grin, but there was a sincerity in his eyes that made your heart warm. Sunoo might be a chaotic little gremlin sometimes, but he was your chaotic little gremlin, and he always had your back.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, peeking out from behind the pillow. “But it’s not just about confidence. I don’t even know how to start a conversation with him. What am I supposed to say? ‘Hey, nice jump shot, I’ve been in love with you for two years’?”

Sunoo burst out laughing, clutching his stomach. “Okay, maybe don’t lead with that. But seriously, just say something normal. Like, ask him about the team or the trip or even the weather. You don’t have to confess your undying love right away. Baby steps, you know?”

You rolled your eyes, tossing the pillow aside. “You sound like Soyeon. She’s been preaching the same thing. You two are ganging up on me, and I don’t appreciate it.”

“Speaking of Soyeon,” Sunoo said, sitting up and dusting gummy worm sugar off his hands, “she’s coming over later, right? We need to plan our Jeju strategy. I heard there’s gonna be a group hike, a beach day, and some kind of campfire thing. Plenty of chances for you to ‘accidentally’ run into Sunghoon.” He waggled his eyebrows again, and you groaned, shoving him off the bed.

“Get out, you little menace,” you said, but you couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. Sunoo’s relentless optimism was infectious, even if it made you want to strangle him sometimes.

As he scampered out of the room, shouting something about stealing more snacks from the kitchen, you turned back to your suitcase, your mind buzzing. The Jeju trip was starting to feel like a looming deadline, a ticking clock counting down to some undefined moment where you’d either seize your chance or let it slip away forever. You picked up a light blue sundress from the pile of clothes, holding it up and wondering if it was too much. Would Sunghoon even notice what you wore? Probably not. He probably didn’t notice you at all. But the thought of him glancing your way, maybe even smiling, was enough to make your heart race.

Your phone buzzed on the desk, pulling you out of your thoughts. It was a text from Soyeon in the group chat with you and Sunoo.

Soyeon: Y/N, you better be packing something cute for Jeju. No frumpy hoodies allowed. We’re manifesting your Sunghoon moment! 😎 Sunoo: YEAH, SIS, NO HOODIES. Wear that dress you got last summer, the one with the flowers! You: Why are you both obsessed with my wardrobe? I’m packing practical stuff. Soyeon: Practical is boring. You’re gonna wow Sunghoon, trust me. Sunoo: Bet he’ll fall in love when he sees you in that dress. 😏 You: I’m blocking you both.

You tossed your phone onto the bed, your cheeks burning. They were relentless, but deep down, their encouragement sparked a tiny flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, Jeju could be your chance to step out of your comfort zone. You folded the blue sundress carefully and tucked it into your suitcase, trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach.

Later that evening, Soyeon showed up at your house, bursting through the front door with her usual energy. She was carrying a bag of takeout—fried chicken, because she knew it was Sunoo’s weakness—and a notebook filled with what she called her “Jeju Game Plan.” The three of you gathered in the living room, sprawled across the couch and floor, the coffee table covered in chicken boxes and soda cans.

“Okay,” Soyeon said, flipping open her notebook with a flourish. “Here’s the deal. The Jeju trip is three days, two nights. Day one is the bus ride and the group hike up Mount Hallasan. Day two is the beach and some free time in Seogwipo. Day three is the campfire and some cultural village tour before we head back. Y/N, we need to strategize your Sunghoon interactions.”

You nearly choked on a piece of chicken. “Strategize? Soyeon, this isn’t a military operation. I’m just trying to survive the trip without tripping over my own feet in front of him.”

Sunoo, munching on a drumstick, nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, but you gotta admit, it’s kinda fun to plan. Like, imagine you’re on the hike, and you ‘accidentally’ end up next to Sunghoon. You could ask him about basketball or, like, compliment his stamina or something.”

You stared at him, horrified. “Compliment his stamina? Sunoo, do you hear yourself? That sounds like I’m hitting on him in the creepiest way possible.”

Soyeon laughed so hard she nearly spilled her soda. “Okay, maybe not stamina. But you get the idea. Just find a way to talk to him. You’re not gonna get anywhere if you keep hiding in the background like you always do.”

You sighed, leaning back against the couch. “I know you’re both trying to help, but it’s not that easy. Every time I even think about talking to him, my brain short-circuits. Last week, I was in line behind him at the cafeteria, and he turned around to grab a straw, and I just… froze. I couldn’t even say ‘excuse me.’ I just stood there like a statue until he walked away.”

Soyeon and Sunoo exchanged a look, and for a moment, you thought they might actually feel sorry for you. But then Sunoo burst out laughing, and Soyeon joined in, and soon you were all laughing, the kind of uncontrollable laughter that makes your sides hurt and your eyes water.

“Okay, okay,” Soyeon said, catching her breath. “We’ll work on it. By the end of this trip, you’re at least gonna say ‘hi’ to him. That’s the goal. Baby steps, Y/N.”

Sunoo nodded, wiping a tear from his eye. “Yeah, and if you panic, just look at me. I’ll distract everyone with my charm and charisma.” He struck a dramatic pose, and you rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help smiling.

As the evening wore on, the three of you continued planning, joking, and eating until the chicken boxes were empty and the notebook was filled with ridiculous ideas (Sunoo’s suggestion of “pretend to twist your ankle so Sunghoon has to carry you” was promptly vetoed). But beneath the laughter and teasing, a quiet determination was growing inside you. Jeju was a chance, a rare opportunity to be in the same space as Sunghoon for more than a fleeting moment. You didn’t know if you’d have the courage to act on it, but the thought of him noticing you, even for a second, was enough to keep you up that night, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars and imagining a world where you weren’t just the girl in the bleachers.

The next day at school, you found yourself hyper-aware of Sunghoon’s presence. It was like your brain had developed a Sunghoon radar, picking up on every glimpse of him in the hallways or the cafeteria. During lunch, you spotted him sitting with his teammates, laughing at something one of them said. His smile was brighter than you’d ever seen, and it made your heart do that stupid flip again. You were so busy staring that you didn’t notice Soyeon waving a hand in front of your face.

“Y/N, earth to Y/N,” she said, snapping her fingers. “You’re gonna burn a hole through him if you keep staring like that.”

You blinked, tearing your eyes away from Sunghoon’s table. “Sorry,” you mumbled, poking at your rice with your chopsticks. “I just… got distracted.”

Soyeon smirked, following your gaze. “Distracted, huh? Well, you better get used to seeing him, because I heard from Jake in my math class that Sunghoon’s definitely going on the trip. And guess what? He’s rooming with some of the basketball guys, so he’ll be around the whole time.”

Your stomach did a somersault, and you nearly dropped your chopsticks. “The whole time?” you squeaked. “Like, all three days?”

“Yup,” Soyeon said, popping a piece of kimchi into her mouth. “So you better practice your ‘hi, Sunghoon’ in the mirror tonight. No freezing up this time.”

You groaned, but the thought of Sunghoon being there for the entire trip sent a thrill through you. It was terrifying, sure, but it was also exciting, like standing at the edge of a diving board, knowing you had to jump. You spent the rest of the day in a daze, your mind replaying every possible scenario—Sunghoon smiling at you during the hike, Sunghoon sitting next to you at the campfire, Sunghoon catching you when you inevitably tripped over a rock. Each fantasy was more ridiculous than the last, but they kept you going through your boring history lecture and your after-school study session.

By the time you got home, you were a bundle of nerves and anticipation. You pulled out your suitcase again, double-checking the blue sundress and adding a few more outfits Soyeon would approve of. As you folded a pair of shorts, Sunoo poked his head into your room again, this time holding a smoothie he’d clearly made himself, judging by the bright pink stain on his shirt.

“Yo, Y/N, you ready for Jeju?” he asked, taking a loud slurp of his smoothie. “I’m so pumped. I heard there’s a shaved ice place near the hotel that’s, like, legendary. We’re hitting that up, right?”

You smiled, shaking your head. “Only if you stop spilling food on yourself. You’re a walking disaster.”

He stuck out his tongue, then grinned. “Hey, disasters are memorable. And speaking of memorable, I’m gonna make sure you have the best time on this trip. Trust me, I’ve got plans.”

You narrowed your eyes, suspicious. “What kind of plans?”

Sunoo just winked, backing out of the room with an exaggerated swagger. “You’ll see, sis. You’ll see.”

As he disappeared down the hallway, you couldn’t shake the feeling that Sunoo was up to something. He was always scheming, always dragging you into his chaotic ideas. But for once, you didn’t mind. If his plans involved Jeju, and Jeju involved Sunghoon, maybe a little chaos was exactly what you needed.

The morning of the Jeju trip dawned with a sky painted in soft pinks and oranges, but you barely noticed the sunrise through the fog of nerves clouding your mind. Your suitcase was packed—overpacked, really, thanks to Soyeon’s insistence that you bring “cute” outfits—and your backpack was slung over one shoulder, stuffed with snacks, a water bottle, and a dog-eared novel you’d brought for distraction but knew you wouldn’t read. Not when Park Sunghoon was going to be on this trip. Not when the next three days held the potential to either make your dreams come true or crush them entirely.

You stood outside the school, where two chartered buses idled in the parking lot, surrounded by a swarm of chattering students and harried teachers checking clipboards. The air buzzed with excitement, laughter, and the occasional shout as friends called out to each other. You adjusted the strap of your backpack, scanning the crowd for Soyeon or Sunoo, your stomach twisting with a mix of anticipation and dread. Somewhere in this chaos was Sunghoon, and the thought of seeing him—maybe even being near him—made your heart race so fast you were sure it was audible.

“Y/N! Over here!” Soyeon’s voice cut through the noise, and you turned to see her waving frantically from near the second bus. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, and she was wearing a bright yellow hoodie that made her impossible to miss. Beside her stood Sunoo, bouncing on his toes and holding a plastic bag that was undoubtedly filled with snacks. His round cheeks were flushed with excitement, and his school hoodie was already dusted with crumbs from whatever he’d been munching on.

You hurried over, dodging a group of freshmen playing tag, and dropped your suitcase next to Soyeon’s. “Finally,” she said, grabbing your arm. “I thought you were gonna bail last minute. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I might,” you admitted, glancing around nervously. “This is a lot. So many people. And… you know.” You didn’t need to say Sunghoon’s name—Soyeon’s knowing smirk told you she understood.

Sunoo, oblivious to your inner turmoil, slung an arm around your shoulders, nearly knocking you over. “Chill, sis! This is gonna be the best trip ever. I’ve got enough snacks to last us a week, and I heard the hotel has a pool. A pool, Y/N! We’re living the dream!” He held up his snack bag, shaking it proudly. “Want a gummy bear? They’re the tropical kind.”

You managed a weak smile, taking a gummy bear just to appease him. “Thanks, Sunoo. But maybe save some for the actual trip? You’re gonna eat through that before we even get on the bus.”

He gasped dramatically, clutching the bag to his chest. “Rude! I’m a growing boy. I need sustenance.” He popped a handful of gummies into his mouth, grinning through the chew. His bubbly energy was both comforting and exhausting, but you couldn’t help feeling a little lighter around him. Sunoo had a way of making everything seem less daunting, even a trip that could change your life.

“Okay, people, listen up!” The head teacher, Ms. Choi, stood on a step stool near the buses, holding a megaphone that crackled slightly. “Bus one is for classes 1-A through 1-C. Bus two is for 1-D through 1-F. Find your homeroom teacher, check in, and load your luggage. Let’s keep this organized, please!”

The crowd surged toward the buses, and you followed Soyeon and Sunoo toward bus two, your heart pounding as you scanned the faces around you. No sign of Sunghoon yet, but that didn’t stop your brain from conjuring up every possible scenario—him sitting near you on the bus, him smiling at you during the hike, him noticing the blue sundress you’d packed with such care. Each thought sent a fresh wave of butterflies through your stomach, and you gripped the handle of your suitcase so tightly your knuckles turned white.

As you reached the bus, you spotted your homeroom teacher, Mr. Lee, ticking names off a clipboard. Soyeon checked in first, then Sunoo, who made a point of charming Mr. Lee with a compliment about his new glasses. When it was your turn, you mumbled your name, barely audible over the chatter, and handed over your permission slip. Mr. Lee nodded, marking you off, and gestured toward the luggage compartment under the bus.

You were struggling to hoist your suitcase into the compartment—it was heavier than you’d realized, thanks to Soyeon’s fashion demands—when a deep voice came from behind you. “Need a hand?”

Your heart stopped. You knew that voice, low and smooth, like it had been pulled straight from your daydreams. Slowly, you turned, and there he was—Park Sunghoon, standing less than a foot away, his basketball bag slung over one shoulder and his hair slightly tousled from the morning breeze. He was wearing a black hoodie and jeans, looking effortlessly perfect, and his dark eyes met yours with a polite, almost shy smile.

You opened your mouth to respond, but your brain short-circuited, leaving you gaping like a fish out of water. Say something, Y/N. Anything. Don’t just stand here like an idiot. But all you managed was a strangled, “Uh… yeah. Thanks.”

Sunghoon’s smile widened slightly, and he stepped forward, taking the suitcase from your hands with ease. His fingers brushed yours as he lifted it, and the brief contact sent a jolt of electricity up your arm. He placed the suitcase neatly in the compartment, then turned back to you, tilting his head slightly. “No problem. You’re… Y/N, right?”

Your eyes widened, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe. He knew your name? Park Sunghoon knew your name? You nodded dumbly, your voice barely a whisper. “Yeah. That’s me.”

“Cool,” he said, his tone casual but warm. “See you on the bus.” With another small smile, he jogged off toward his teammates, who were gathered near the bus door, laughing and shoving each other playfully.

You stood there, rooted to the spot, staring after him like he’d just descended from the heavens. He knew your name. He’d helped you with your suitcase. He’d talked to you. Your mind was a chaotic mess of replayed moments and what-ifs, and it took Soyeon grabbing your arm to snap you out of it.

“Y/N, what was that?” she hissed, her eyes wide with excitement. “Did Park Sunghoon just talk to you? Did he just carry your suitcase? Spill. Now.”

“I… I don’t know,” you stammered, your face burning. “He just offered to help, and then he said my name, and… I think I’m dreaming. Pinch me.”

Soyeon obliged, pinching your arm hard enough to make you yelp. “Not a dream. That was real, and it was huge. He totally knows who you are. This is it, Y/N. Your Jeju moment is starting!”

Sunoo, who’d been busy flirting with a group of girls nearby, bounded over, catching the tail end of the conversation. “Wait, what? Sunghoon talked to you? My sister’s got game!” He ruffled your hair, grinning ear to ear. “What’d he say? Was it romantic? Did he propose?”

“Sunoo, shut up,” you groaned, swatting his hand away. “He just helped with my suitcase and said my name. It’s not a big deal.” But even as you said it, your heart was screaming that it was, in fact, a very big deal.

“Not a big deal?” Soyeon scoffed, dragging you toward the bus steps. “He could’ve helped anyone, but he chose you. That’s, like, main character energy. Come on, let’s get good seats before they’re all taken.”

The three of you boarded the bus, and you followed Soyeon down the aisle, your eyes darting around in search of Sunghoon. He was near the back, sitting with his teammates, his head leaning against the window as he scrolled through his phone. The sight of him made your pulse race, and you quickly looked away, focusing on finding a seat. Soyeon claimed a pair of seats near the middle, and you slid in beside her, with Sunoo taking the seat across the aisle, already digging into his snack bag.

As the bus filled up, you tried to distract yourself by pulling out your novel, but the words blurred together, your mind replaying Sunghoon’s voice saying your name. Y/N. It had sounded so natural coming from him, like he’d said it a hundred times before. Did he really know who you were, or was he just being polite? Maybe he’d seen your name on a class list or heard it in passing. But the way he’d looked at you, with that soft, almost curious expression… it felt like more than just politeness.

“Y/N, you’re doing it again,” Soyeon whispered, nudging you with her elbow. “You’re staring into space with that lovesick look. Thinking about Mr. Basketball Star?”

You flushed, shoving the novel back into your bag. “I’m not lovesick. I’m just… processing.”

“Processing what? The fact that he talked to you for ten seconds?” Soyeon teased, but her eyes were kind. “Look, this is a good sign. He noticed you. Now you just need to keep the momentum going. Maybe during the hike, you can walk near him or ask him something. I’ll be your wingwoman.”

Before you could respond, Sunoo leaned across the aisle, holding out a bag of chips. “Want some? Also, I’m totally eavesdropping, and I think Soyeon’s right. You gotta talk to him again. Maybe ask him about the team’s last game. He scored, like, thirty points or something crazy.”

You took a chip, more to keep your hands busy than because you were hungry. “I can’t just walk up to him and talk about basketball. I’d sound like I’m trying too hard. And what if he thinks I’m weird?”

Sunoo rolled his eyes, crunching loudly on a chip. “Y/N, you’re overthinking. He’s a normal guy. Well, a normal guy who’s insanely good at basketball and looks like he stepped out of a drama, but still. Just be yourself. You’re cool, even if you don’t believe it.”

You managed a small smile, touched by Sunoo’s faith in you. “Thanks, Sunoo. But I’m still not sure I can do this.”

“You can,” Soyeon said firmly. “And you will. This trip is your chance, Y/N. Don’t let it pass you by.”

The bus lurched forward as the driver started the engine, and Ms. Choi’s voice crackled over the intercom, giving a rundown of the itinerary and safety rules. You barely listened, your mind too busy replaying Sunghoon’s brief interaction and imagining what might happen next. The bus ride to the airport was short, followed by a quick flight to Jeju, and by the time you stepped off the plane onto the island, the sun was high in the sky, warm and inviting.

The teachers herded everyone toward another bus, this one bound for the hotel near Mount Hallasan, where the group hike was scheduled for the afternoon. You stuck close to Soyeon and Sunoo, your nerves returning full force as you realized the trip was officially underway. Every moment felt like it could be the moment—the one where you finally connected with Sunghoon or spectacularly embarrassed yourself trying.

At the hotel, a modern building with large windows overlooking the lush greenery of Jeju, you checked into your room with Soyeon and a few other girls from your class. Sunoo was rooming with some boys down the hall, and you couldn’t help wondering who Sunghoon was sharing with. Probably his teammates, you thought, picturing him laughing and joking with them, completely unaware of the effect he had on you.

After dropping off your luggage, you changed into hiking clothes—leggings, a light jacket, and the sneakers you’d nearly forgotten to pack. Soyeon insisted you wear a cute baseball cap, claiming it was “sporty but flirty,” and you reluctantly agreed, mostly to stop her from fussing. The group gathered in the hotel lobby for the hike, and you spotted Sunghoon almost immediately, standing with his teammates near the entrance. He was wearing a black cap pulled low over his eyes, a fitted gray t-shirt, and cargo pants that made him look like he’d stepped out of an outdoor magazine. Your heart did its usual flip, and you quickly looked away, pretending to adjust your shoelaces.

“Okay, team!” Ms. Choi called, clapping her hands to get everyone’s attention. “We’re hiking a short trail up Mount Hallasan today. Stay with the group, follow the guides, and let’s have fun! We’ll stop for photos and snacks along the way.”

As the group set off toward the trailhead, Soyeon linked arms with you, whispering, “This is your chance. Stay close to me, and I’ll make sure you end up near Sunghoon at some point. Operation Jeju Romance is a go.”

You groaned, but her enthusiasm was infectious, and you let her pull you along. Sunoo was ahead, chatting animatedly with a group of boys, his laughter echoing through the trees. The trail was beautiful, lined with towering pines and bursts of wildflowers, the air fresh and crisp. But your attention kept drifting to Sunghoon, who was walking a little ahead with his friends, his long strides confident and relaxed.

Halfway up the trail, the group stopped at a scenic lookout, where the guides handed out water and granola bars. You were catching your breath, leaning against a tree, when Soyeon nudged you hard. “Look,” she hissed, nodding toward Sunghoon, who was standing a few feet away, taking a sip from his water bottle. His cap was pushed back slightly, revealing his sweaty, tousled hair, and he was laughing at something Jake, one of his teammates, had said.

“Go say something,” Soyeon urged, practically shoving you forward. “Ask him about the view or the hike or literally anything. Now, Y/N!”

Your heart pounded, and your palms were suddenly clammy. “I can’t,” you whispered, panic rising. “What if I say something stupid?”

“You won’t,” Soyeon said, giving you a stern look. “Just go. You’ve got this.”

Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself and took a few tentative steps toward Sunghoon. Your mind raced for something to say—something casual, something that wouldn’t make you sound like a complete idiot. You were almost there, close enough to smell the faint scent of his cologne, when Sunoo appeared out of nowhere, bounding over with his usual chaotic energy.

“Y/N! You gotta see this!” he shouted, grabbing your arm and pulling you away before you could utter a word. You stumbled after him, glancing back at Sunghoon, who was now looking your way, his expression unreadable. Your heart sank—another missed opportunity.

Sunoo dragged you to a spot where a group of students was taking selfies with a stunning view of the mountain in the background. “Come on, we need a sibling pic!” he said, thrusting his phone at a random classmate and pulling you into a goofy pose. You forced a smile, but your mind was still on Sunghoon, on the moment you’d almost had.

As the hike continued, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d let a chance slip through your fingers. But the day wasn’t over, and Jeju was full of possibilities. Little did you know, the biggest surprise was still to come—one that would turn your world upside down and make this trip unforgettable.

The sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the Jeju sky in hues of deep indigo and fiery orange as the first day of the school trip wound down. The group had returned from the Mount Hallasan hike, tired but buzzing with the kind of energy that only comes from a day spent in fresh air and new surroundings. Your legs ached from the trail, your sneakers were dusted with dirt, and your baseball cap—Soyeon’s “sporty but flirty” choice—was slightly askew, but none of that mattered. Your mind was still reeling from the almost-moment with Sunghoon at the lookout, where you’d been seconds away from speaking to him before Sunoo’s chaotic interruption. The memory of Sunghoon’s voice saying your name, his fingers brushing yours as he lifted your suitcase, played on a loop in your head, making your heart race every time you closed your eyes.

Now, you sat on a log near the hotel’s outdoor campfire, the flames crackling and casting flickering shadows across the faces of the students gathered around. The air was cool, carrying the salty tang of the nearby ocean, and the distant hum of cicadas mingled with the chatter and laughter of your classmates. Soyeon was beside you, roasting a marshmallow on a stick with surgical precision, while Sunoo, ever the social butterfly, was across the circle, entertaining a group of juniors with a dramatic retelling of some prank he’d pulled back at school. His round cheeks glowed in the firelight, and his infectious laughter echoed, drawing smiles from everyone nearby.

You, however, were only half-present, your gaze drifting to the other side of the campfire where Park Sunghoon sat with his basketball teammates. He was leaning back, one arm propped casually on the log behind him, his black cap still pulled low over his eyes. The firelight danced across his sharp features, highlighting the curve of his jaw and the way his lips quirked into a half-smile as he listened to Jake’s animated storytelling. He looked relaxed, almost unfairly perfect, and you couldn’t help but feel that familiar pang of longing mixed with frustration. Two years of pining, and all you’d managed was a ten-second interaction where he’d said your name. Y/N. The memory of his voice sent a shiver down your spine, and you quickly looked away, hoping no one noticed the heat creeping up your cheeks.

“Y/N, you’re burning a hole through him again,” Soyeon whispered, nudging you with her elbow. Her marshmallow, now perfectly golden, hovered dangerously close to your arm as she leaned in. “You’ve been staring at Sunghoon for, like, five minutes straight. If you don’t talk to him tonight, I’m gonna drag you over there myself.”

You groaned, pulling your knees up to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. “Soyeon, please. I already made a fool of myself at the lookout. I was this close to saying something, and then Sunoo had to ruin it with his selfie obsession. I’m not built for this. I’ll just… admire him from afar, okay?”

Soyeon rolled her eyes, popping the marshmallow into her mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “Admiring from afar is what you’ve been doing for two years, and it’s gotten you nowhere. This is Jeju, Y/N. It’s magical. It’s like… the universe is giving you a chance. You can’t keep chickening out.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could, Sunoo’s voice boomed across the campfire. “Yo, everyone! Who’s up for a game? Truth or dare, let’s go!” He clapped his hands, his enthusiasm infectious, and the group erupted into cheers and groans. You sank lower on the log, praying he wouldn’t drag you into this. Sunoo loved games, especially ones that involved embarrassing people, and with your luck, he’d zero in on you and your hopeless crush.

Soyeon, however, was all for it. “Yes! Truth or dare is perfect!” she said, grabbing your arm and shaking it. “This is your moment, Y/N. If someone dares you to talk to Sunghoon, you have to do it. No backing out.”

You shot her a panicked look. “Soyeon, no. I’ll die. I’ll literally combust right here in front of the campfire.”

She smirked, undeterred. “Then combust. It’ll be a dramatic story to tell. Come on, live a little.”

The game started, with students taking turns choosing truth or dare, the dares ranging from silly (one boy had to sing a K-pop song in a high-pitched voice) to mildly humiliating (a girl had to confess her crush in front of everyone, which made you want to hide under the log). You stayed quiet, hoping to blend into the background, but Sunoo’s eyes kept darting your way, a mischievous glint in them that made your stomach churn. He was up to something, and you didn’t trust it one bit.

When it was Sunoo’s turn, he chose dare, and Jake, grinning wickedly, leaned forward. “Alright, Sunoo, I dare you to… invite your best friend to join the game. Right now. Go drag them over here.”

Your heart stopped. Best friend? Sunoo’s best friend? You racked your brain, trying to think of who he’d been hanging out with lately. Probably one of the boys in his class, like Jay or Heeseung, who were always trailing after him with their snacks and jokes. You relaxed slightly, figuring this had nothing to do with you. But then Sunoo stood up, brushed the crumbs off his hoodie, and started walking—straight toward Sunghoon.

Your breath caught in your throat. No. No way. This had to be a coincidence. Sunoo was probably just passing by Sunghoon to get to someone else. But then he stopped right in front of the basketball star, clapped a hand on his shoulder, and said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Yo, Hoon! Come join the game, man! You’re my bestie, you can’t say no!”

The world seemed to slow down, the crackle of the campfire fading into a dull roar in your ears. Hoon? Bestie? Your mind scrambled to process the words, each one hitting like a brick. Park Sunghoon—your Park Sunghoon, the boy you’d been hopelessly in love with for two years—was Kim Sunoo’s best friend? Your brother’s best friend? The revelation crashed over you like a tidal wave, leaving you dizzy and disoriented. How had you not known? How had Sunoo never mentioned this? And more importantly, how were you supposed to survive this trip knowing the boy of your dreams was closer to your annoying, gummy-worm-obsessed brother than you’d ever been to him?

Sunghoon looked up at Sunoo, a playful scowl on his face. “Bestie? Since when do you call me that, dude?” But he stood, brushing off his pants, and followed Sunoo toward the campfire circle, his long strides effortless and his expression a mix of amusement and reluctance. The other students cheered, clearly thrilled to have the basketball star join the game, and you felt like you were going to pass out.

Soyeon’s jaw was practically on the ground. She grabbed your arm, her nails digging in. “Y/N. Did I just hear that right? Sunghoon is Sunoo’s best friend? How did you not know this? How did I not know this?”

“I… I don’t know,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart. “He never said anything. Not once. I thought his best friend was, like, Jay or someone. Not… him.”

Soyeon’s eyes widened, and then a slow, wicked grin spread across her face. “Oh, this is gold. This is perfect. Y/N, do you realize what this means? Sunghoon’s practically family already. You’ve got an in!”

“An in?” you hissed, panic rising. “Soyeon, this is a disaster! My brother’s best friend? That’s, like, the ultimate forbidden zone!"

Before Soyeon could respond, Sunoo plopped down next to you, dragging Sunghoon with him. Sunghoon sat on the log across from you, his knees almost brushing yours in the tight circle, and you felt like the air had been sucked out of the space. He was so close—close enough that you could see the faint freckles on his nose, the way the firelight reflected in his dark eyes. He gave you a small nod, that same polite smile from the bus, and you managed a weak smile back, praying your face wasn’t as red as it felt.

“Alright, Hoon, you’re in,” Sunoo said, clapping his hands. “Truth or dare?”

Sunghoon leaned back, crossing his arms with a casual confidence that made your stomach flip. “Truth,” he said, his voice low and steady.

Jake, who was clearly enjoying his role as the game’s instigator, rubbed his hands together. “Okay, Sunghoon. Tell us… who’s the last person you had a crush on?”

Your heart stopped. The entire circle seemed to lean in, the fire crackling louder in the sudden hush. You stared at the ground, your fingers twisting the hem of your jacket, terrified that he’d say a name—any name—and it wouldn’t be yours. Or worse, that he’d notice you staring and figure out your feelings right then and there.

Sunghoon chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck, a faint flush creeping up his cheeks. “Pass,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not answering that.”

The group groaned, some throwing marshmallows at him playfully, but Jake waved them off. “Fine, fine, you get one pass. But you’re not off the hook next time.”

You exhaled, not realizing you’d been holding your breath. A pass was safe. It didn’t mean anything, right? But the way Sunghoon’s eyes flickered toward you for a split second made your heart race all over again. Was it your imagination, or had he looked at you just a little longer than necessary?

The game continued, with more dares and truths that ranged from hilarious to cringe-worthy, but you could barely focus. Your mind was spinning with the revelation that Sunghoon was Sunoo’s best friend. How had this happened? Sunoo was always talking about his “bestie,” but he’d never dropped a name. You’d assumed it was someone from his class, someone you didn’t know well. But Sunghoon? The boy you’d watched score impossible shots on the basketball court, the boy whose smile haunted your dreams? It was too much.

When it was your turn, you chose truth, too nervous to risk a dare that might involve Sunghoon. Soyeon, who’d been waiting for her moment, leaned forward with a gleam in her eye. “Y/N,” she said, her voice dripping with mischief, “what’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done because of a crush?”

Your blood ran cold. Soyeon, your supposed best friend, had just thrown you under the bus. You shot her a glare that could’ve melted steel, but she just smirked, clearly enjoying this. Sunoo, sitting next to Sunghoon, perked up, his eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Oh, this is gonna be good,” he said, nudging Sunghoon, who raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

You scrambled for an answer, your mind racing through every embarrassing moment you’d ever had. There were plenty—tripping in the hallway while staring at Sunghoon, doodling his name in your notebook and nearly getting caught by a teacher—but you couldn’t admit those. Not with him sitting right there. “Uh… I… once sent a text to the wrong person,” you blurted, the words tumbling out in a rush. “It was supposed to be about… someone I liked, but I accidentally sent it to my mom.”

The group burst into laughter, and Sunoo nearly fell off the log, clutching his stomach. “Your mom? Y/N, that’s iconic! What’d you say in the text?”

You buried your face in your hands, wishing the ground would swallow you whole. “It was something dumb, like, ‘He’s so cute, I can’t handle it.’ She teased me about it for weeks.”

The laughter grew louder, and even Sunghoon chuckled, the sound low and warm, sending a fresh wave of butterflies through your stomach. You peeked through your fingers, catching his eye for a moment, and he gave you a small, almost sympathetic smile, like he understood how mortifying this was. It was both comforting and humiliating, and you weren’t sure which was worse.

As the game wound down, the group started to disperse, some heading back to the hotel to crash, others lingering to roast one last marshmallow. You stayed by the fire, too wired to move, your mind still reeling from the revelation. Soyeon yawned, stretching her arms above her head. “I’m beat,” she said, standing. “You coming, Y/N?”

“In a minute,” you said, waving her off. You needed a moment to process, to let the shock of Sunghoon being Sunoo’s best friend settle in. Soyeon gave you a knowing look but didn’t push, heading back to the hotel with a few other girls.

Your mind spiralled with questions. How had you missed this? Sunoo was always yammering about his “bestie,” his partner-in-crime for late-night gaming sessions or impromptu snack runs. You’d pictured someone like Jay or Heeseung, someone from his class who matched his boundless energy. But Sunghoon? The quiet, effortlessly cool basketball star who made your heart stutter with a single glance? It didn’t add up. And worse, Sunoo knew about your crush. He’d teased you mercilessly in the gym, egged on by Soyeon, and yet he’d never once hinted that the boy you were pining for was the same one he called “Hoon.” The betrayal stung, but so did the possibility that Sunoo had kept it secret for a reason. Was he protecting you? Or worse, did he think your crush was so hopeless it wasn’t worth mentioning?

You sighed, rubbing your temples, the crackle of the fire doing little to soothe your racing thoughts. The Jeju trip was supposed to be your chance to step out of your comfort zone, to maybe—just maybe—get Sunghoon to notice you. But now? Now it felt like you were navigating a minefield, with your brother’s friendship complicating every step. Dating your brother’s best friend was practically a cliché, complete with all the awkwardness and potential for disaster. What if Sunghoon didn’t feel the same way? What if he did, but Sunoo freaked out? The thought of confessing your feelings, only to ruin their friendship—or worse, to be rejected in front of both of them—made your stomach twist.

A sudden burst of laughter pulled you from your spiral, and you glanced up to see Sunoo bounding toward you, his hoodie now speckled with marshmallow fluff. “Y/N! You’re still here? I thought you’d be in bed by now, dreaming of a certain basketball star.” He waggled his eyebrows, plopping onto the log beside you with his usual lack of personal space, his shoulder bumping yours.

You groaned, shoving him lightly. “Sunoo, can you not? I’m trying to have a moment here.”

“A moment of what? Pining? Brooding? Writing mental fanfiction about Sunghoon’s jump shot?” He grinned, clearly enjoying himself, and you buried your face in your hands, wishing you could disappear.

“Sunoo, I’m serious,” you mumbled through your fingers. “Why didn’t you tell me? About… you know.” You couldn’t bring yourself to say it out loud, not yet. The truth was still too raw, too surreal.

Sunoo’s grin faltered, and he tilted his head, his expression softening. “Tell you what? Oh… you mean about Hoon being my bestie?” He said it so casually, like it was no big deal, and you wanted to throttle him.

“Yes, that,” you hissed, dropping your hands to glare at him. “How could you not tell me? You knew I liked him, Sunoo. You and Soyeon were literally teasing me about it last week! And now I find out he’s your best friend? In front of everyone? Do you know how humiliating that was?”

Sunoo’s eyes widened, and for once, he looked genuinely apologetic. “Okay, wait, hold up. I didn’t mean to make it a big thing. I thought you’d figure it out eventually! I mean, I talk about Hoon all the time, and you’re always zoning out when I do, so I figured you just weren’t paying attention.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his chubby cheeks flushing slightly. “And, like, I didn’t think it was a secret. I just… didn’t connect the dots that you didn’t know.”

You stared at him, incredulous. “You didn’t connect the dots? Sunoo, you’re my brother! You’re supposed to tell me stuff like this! Like, ‘Hey, Y/N, that guy you’ve been crushing on for two years? Yeah, he’s my best friend, maybe don’t confess your love in front of me.’”

Sunoo winced, but his lips twitched, like he was fighting a smile. “Okay, fair point. I messed up. But in my defense, I thought it’d be funnier if you found out on your own. You know, like a rom-com plot twist.” He spread his hands, mimicking a movie screen. “Cue the dramatic music, Y/N’s jaw drops, Sunghoon swoons—”

“Sunoo!” you snapped, swatting his arm, but you couldn’t help the tiny laugh that escaped. His ridiculousness was disarming, even when you wanted to stay mad.

He grinned, clearly relieved you weren’t too angry. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to make it weird. And for what it’s worth, Hoon’s a good guy. Like, the best. He’s chill, he’s funny, and he doesn’t even get mad when I steal his fries.” He paused, his eyes glinting with mischief. “And, you know, he’s not totally clueless about you.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you whipped your head toward him. “What? What does that mean?”

Sunoo shrugged, playing coy. “Just… he’s mentioned you before. Like, not in a big way, but he knows who you are. That’s gotta count for something, right?”

You narrowed your eyes, not sure if he was messing with you. “Mentioned me how? Like, ‘Oh, that’s Sunoo’s annoying sister’?”

Sunoo laughed, shaking his head. “Nah, nothing like that. Just, like, ‘Oh, Y/N’s in our class, right?’ or ‘Y/N’s pretty good at chem.’ Normal stuff. But, you know, it’s Hoon. He’s not exactly Mr. Feelings, so that’s basically a love letter coming from him.”

Your cheeks burned, and you looked away, trying to process the idea that Sunghoon had ever talked about you. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to send your heart into overdrive. “You’re making this up,” you muttered, but there was no conviction in your voice.

Sunoo held up his hands, mock-offended. “I would never. Cross my heart. Now, come on, let’s head back to the hotel. I’ve got a surprise for you, and you’re gonna love it.” He stood, brushing marshmallow fluff off his hoodie, and gestured for you to follow.

You frowned, suspicious. “A surprise? Sunoo, your surprises usually involve glitter or loud noises, and I’m not in the mood.”

He grinned, undeterred, and grabbed your arm, pulling you to your feet. “Trust me, this one’s good. No glitter, I promise. Let’s go!”

Reluctantly, you followed him back to the hotel, the gravel crunching under your sneakers as you tried to keep up with his bouncy stride. The lobby was quiet, most students already in their rooms, and the fluorescent lights cast long shadows across the tiled floor. Sunoo led you up the stairs to the second floor, chattering about the beach day planned for tomorrow, but you were only half-listening, your mind still stuck on Sunghoon and the campfire.

When you reached your room, shared with Soyeon and two other girls, Sunoo stopped outside the door, turning to you with a grin that was far too mischievous for comfort. “Okay, ready for the surprise?” he said, practically vibrating with excitement.

You crossed your arms, eyeing him warily. “If this involves jumping out and yelling ‘boo,’ I’m disowning you.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Nothing like that. Just… open the door and see for yourself.” He stepped aside, gesturing grandly, and you sighed, turning the handle and pushing the door open.

The room was dimly lit, the curtains drawn, and for a moment, you thought it was empty. Soyeon wasn’t there—she’d probably gone to the vending machines or to chat with someone—and the other girls were likely still downstairs. But then your eyes landed on a small pile of items on your bed, neatly arranged and tied with a bright blue ribbon. A bag of your favorite gummy worms, a tiny notebook with a cute cat cover, and a folded piece of paper with your name scrawled in Sunoo’s messy handwriting.

You turned to him, confused. “What’s this?”

Sunoo bounced on his toes, his grin widening. “Surprise! Well, hehe, I figured I owed you after the whole… you know, not-telling-you-about-Hoon thing. So I put together a little ‘Y/N survival kit’ for the rest of the trip. Gummy worms for when you’re stressing, a notebook for all your Sunghoon-inspired poetry, and…” He pointed to the folded paper, his eyes twinkling. “A little something extra. Go on, read it.”

You narrowed your eyes, suspecting a prank, but his expression was so earnest that you couldn’t resist. You stepped into the room, leaving the door open, and picked up the paper, unfolding it carefully. The note was short, written in Sunoo’s loopy script, but the words made your heart skip a beat.

Y/N, sorry for keeping the Hoon thing a secret. I swear I didn’t mean to make it weird. But since you’re so hopeless about him (don’t deny it), I’ve got your back. Let’s make Jeju the trip where you actually talk to him, okay? I’ll be your wingman with Soyeon as the wingwoman, and I promise not to embarrass you… too much.

P.S. Hoon’s not as scary as you think. He’s kinda soft when you get to know him. — Your awesome brother, Sunoo

You stared at the note, a mix of emotions swirling in your chest. Embarrassment, because Sunoo knew exactly how hopeless you were. Gratitude, because he was trying to make it right. And a tiny, fragile spark of hope, because maybe—just maybe—he was right. Maybe Jeju could be the trip where you finally found the courage to talk to Sunghoon, to step out of the bleachers and into his world.

You turned to Sunoo, who was leaning against the doorframe, watching you with a soft smile. “You’re such a dork,” you said, your voice catching slightly. “But… thanks. This is really sweet.”

He shrugged, playing it cool, but his cheeks were pink. “Yeah, well, I’m the best brother ever, so. You’re welcome.” He stepped into the room, picking up the bag of gummy worms and tossing it to you. “Now, eat these and stop overthinking. We’ve got a beach day tomorrow, and I’m counting on you to at least say ‘hi’ to Hoon. Deal?”

You caught the bag, rolling your eyes but smiling. “Deal. But if you pull another stunt like the campfire, I’m telling Mom about the time you broke her favorite vase.”

His eyes widened, and he clutched his chest dramatically. “Low blow, Y/N! But fine, I’ll behave. Mostly.” He winked, then headed for the door. “Get some sleep, sis. Big day tomorrow. Operation Sunghoon is officially on!”

As he disappeared down the hall, his laughter echoing, you sank onto your bed, clutching the note and the gummy worms. The room was quiet now, the faint hum of the air conditioning the only sound, but your mind was anything but calm. Sunoo’s surprise had been sweet, but it also brought the reality of your situation crashing back. Sunghoon wasn’t just the untouchable basketball star anymore. He was your brother’s best friend, someone who’d probably been to your house, eaten your snacks, maybe even sat on your couch playing video games with Sunoo. The thought was both thrilling and terrifying.

You opened the bag of gummy worms, popping one into your mouth as you reread Sunoo’s note. He’s kinda soft when you get to know him. The words stuck with you, painting a picture of a Sunghoon you didn’t know—a Sunghoon who wasn’t just the confident athlete on the court, but someone real, someone reachable. The idea made your heart ache with longing, but it also gave you a sliver of courage. If Sunoo believed in you, maybe you could believe in yourself, too.

You lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, the gummy worm’s tropical flavor lingering on your tongue. Tomorrow was the beach day, a chance to see Sunghoon again, maybe even talk to him. The thought made your stomach flip, but you pushed it down, focusing on Sunoo’s words. Operation Sunghoon is officially on. You didn’t know what the next two days would bring, but for the first time, you felt like you might be ready to find out.

The Jeju sun blazed high in the sky, its rays shimmering off the turquoise waves that lapped at Seogwipo’s sandy shore. The beach was alive with the chaos of your classmates—some splashing in the shallows, others sprawled on colorful towels, and a few attempting an overly competitive volleyball game that was more shouting than skill. The salty breeze tugged at your hair, carrying the scent of sunscreen and the distant tang of seaweed, while seagulls wheeled overhead, their cries blending with the laughter and chatter around you. You stood near the water’s edge, toes sinking into the warm sand, your heart a tangled mess of nerves and anticipation. Today was the beach day, the second day of the Jeju trip, and after last night’s campfire revelation—that Park Sunghoon, your two-year crush, was your brother Sunoo’s best friend—you felt like you were walking a tightrope between hope and disaster.

You adjusted the strap of your swimsuit, a simple navy one-piece Soyeon had approved after vetoing your initial choice of a frumpy t-shirt and shorts. Over it, you wore a light, flowy cover-up, the hem fluttering in the breeze. Soyeon’s voice from last week echoed in your head: “No frumpy hoodies allowed. We’re manifesting your Sunghoon moment!” You weren’t sure about manifesting, but you couldn’t deny the flutter in your chest at the thought of Sunghoon seeing you today, maybe even talking to you again. His brief interaction yesterday—helping with your suitcase, saying your name—had left you sleepless, replaying every second until the glow-in-the-dark stars on your ceiling blurred.

“Y/N, you look like you’re about to bolt,” Soyeon said, appearing beside you with a popsicle in hand, her bright yellow bikini peeking out from under a sheer sarong. Her messy bun was already unraveling, strands sticking to her sunscreen-slicked neck, but her grin was as mischievous as ever. “Chill, okay? It’s a beach day. We’re here to have fun, not to overthink your entire existence.”

You sighed, kicking at the sand. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who just found out your crush is your brother’s best friend. I’m still processing that bombshell, and now I’m supposed to act normal around him? I’m gonna trip over my own feet or, worse, say something stupid like ‘Nice waves, Sunghoon, wanna marry me?’”

Soyeon snorted, nearly choking on her popsicle. “Okay, first, don’t propose via ocean metaphors. Second, hold up—what do you mean you’re still processing? Sunoo didn't tell me too!"

“I am having a meltdown,” you hissed, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. “I was mortified. Sunghoon was sitting right across from me, and I couldn’t even look at him. And then Sunoo had the nerve to act like it was no big deal! He even came to my room later with this whole ‘surprise’ thing—a bag of gummy worms and a note saying he’ll be my wingman to help me talk to Sunghoon. Like, what? He’s known this whole time and thought it was funny to keep it a secret?”

Soyeon’s jaw dropped, and then she burst out laughing, doubling over and clutching her stomach. “Oh, Sunoo is a genius. A chaotic, gummy-worm-loving genius. He’s been playing 4D chess with your love life! Okay, okay, let me get this straight—he’s Sunghoon’s best friend, knows you’re obsessed with him, and now he’s offering to be your wingman? This is, like, rom-com gold!”

You swatted her arm, your face burning. “It’s not funny, Soyeon! It’s a disaster! Dating your brother’s best friend is, like, a total no-go. What if Sunghoon thinks I’m weird? Or what if I confess and it ruins their friendship? And Sunoo’s note said Sunghoon’s ‘kinda soft’ when you get to know him, which just makes it worse because now I’m imagining him being all sweet and—ugh, I need to stop.”

Soyeon wiped a tear from her eye, still giggling. “Oh, Y/N, you’re so doomed. But in the best way. Look, this is actually perfect. Sunoo’s your brother, so he’s got insider info on Sunghoon. And now that I know the tea, I’m officially joining the mission again. Wingwoman and wingman, reporting for duty!” She struck a dramatic pose, pointing at you like a general rallying her troops. “Operation Sunghoon is about to level up. By the end of this trip, you’re at least gonna have a real conversation with him. No more bleacher pining.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “You and Sunoo are gonna be the death of me. I can’t handle both of you scheming.”

“Too late,” Soyeon said, smirking. “We’re a team now. Where’s Sunoo, anyway? We need to strategize together this time.” She scanned the beach, her eyes narrowing like a detective on a mission.

You pointed toward the volleyball game, where Sunoo was bouncing around in his bright red swim trunks, his chubby cheeks flushed as he dove for the ball and missed spectacularly, sending sand flying everywhere. His laughter carried over the waves, and you couldn’t help but smile, even if he was the source of your current existential crisis. “Over there, being a human disaster as usual.”

Soyeon grinned, grabbing your hand. “Come on, let’s go recruit him. And keep an eye out for Sunghoon—he’s gotta be around here somewhere, looking all gorgeous and basketball-star-ish.”

You let her drag you toward the volleyball game, your heart pounding at the mention of Sunghoon. The beach was crowded, but your Sunghoon radar was on high alert, scanning for his tall frame or that signature black cap. You spotted him almost immediately, standing near the water with a few teammates, a frisbee in hand. He was wearing a sleeveless gray shirt and black board shorts, his toned arms glistening with sunscreen and sea spray. He laughed as Jake tried to tackle him into the waves, his smile so bright it made your chest ache. For a moment, you forgot how to breathe, caught in the way the sunlight caught his hair, turning it a soft shade of brown.

Soyeon followed your gaze and smirked. “There’s your boy. Looking like he stepped out of a sports ad, as usual. Don’t stare too hard, Y/N."

You tore your eyes away, your face flaming. “I’m not staring. I’m… observing the frisbee game. For science.”

She cackled, pulling you closer to the volleyball area. “Sure, science. Come on, let’s get Sunoo before he buries himself in the sand.”

You reached the edge of the volleyball game just as Sunoo flopped dramatically onto the sand, claiming he needed a “hydration break.” His teammates groaned, but he waved them off, grabbing a water bottle and spotting you and Soyeon. “Yo, my favorite people!” he called, scrambling to his feet and jogging over, sand sticking to his legs. “What’s up? Ready to join the volleyball champs? I’m basically an Olympian.”

Soyeon snorted, crossing her arms. “An Olympian at eating sand, maybe. Sunoo, we need to talk. Y/N just filled me in on the tea—you know, the whole ‘Sunghoon’s your best friend and you didn’t tell her’ thing? I’m low-key offended you kept that from me, too.”

Sunoo’s eyes widened, and he clutched his water bottle like a shield. “Okay, okay, I’m sensing some hostility here. In my defense, I thought it was obvious! I talk about Hoon all the time! And Y/N’s always daydreaming, so I figured she’d connect the dots eventually.” He turned to you, pouting. “I said sorry last night, didn’t I? With gummy worms and everything!”

You sighed, unable to stay mad at his puppy-dog expression. “Yeah, you did. But it’s still a lot, Sunoo. And now you’re all ‘wingman’ about it, which is terrifying.”

Soyeon clapped her hands, cutting in. “Which brings me to my point. Sunoo, you and I are officially a team. Wingwoman and wingman, united for Operation Sunghoon. Our mission: get Y/N and Sunghoon talking by the end of this trip. No more missed opportunities, no more almost-moments. We’re making this happen.”

Sunoo’s face lit up like a firework. “Oh, I’m so in. This is gonna be epic! We’ll be, like, the ultimate matchmakers. Y/N’s gonna be thanking us at their wedding.” He struck a pose, mimicking a heart with his arms, and you groaned, covering your face.

“Sunoo, I’m begging you, stop,” you said, but your lips twitched with a reluctant smile. “You’re both insane, and I’m regretting ever telling you about my crush.”

“Too late,” Soyeon said, slinging an arm around your shoulders. “We’re invested now. So, here’s the plan for today: we’re gonna get you close to Sunghoon during the beach activities. Maybe join the frisbee game, or ‘accidentally’ bump into him by the water. Sunoo, you’re his best friend—use that insider knowledge. What’s he into? What’ll get him talking?”

Sunoo tapped his chin, pretending to think deeply. “Hmm, Hoon’s pretty chill, but he loves a challenge. He’s competitive, especially with sports stuff. Maybe we can get Y/N to join a game with him—volleyball, frisbee, whatever. Oh, and he’s a sucker for snacks. I’ve seen him devour an entire bag of chips in, like, five minutes.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Snacks? That’s your big insider tip?”

“Hey, it’s useful!” Sunoo protested, crossing his arms. “Offer him a gummy worm, and he’s yours. Trust me.”

Soyeon nodded, her eyes gleaming with determination. “Perfect. Y/N, you’ve got that bag of gummy worms from Sunoo’s surprise last night, right? Keep it in your bag. If you get a chance to talk to him, offer him some. It’s an icebreaker. And Sunoo, you’re gonna help set up a moment. Maybe invite Sunghoon to join us for something—casual, no pressure.”

You felt like you were being drafted into a heist, not a romance. “Guys, this is way too much planning. What if I just… talk to him? Like a normal person?”

Soyeon and Sunoo exchanged a look, then burst out laughing. “Y/N, you freeze up when he says your name,” Soyeon said, patting your shoulder. “We’re not taking chances. Trust the wingwoman-wingman team. We’ve got this.”

Before you could argue, a shout from the volleyball court interrupted you. “Sunoo! Get back here, we’re starting a new round!” one of his teammates called, waving him over.

Sunoo saluted you and Soyeon, grinning. “Duty calls. But don’t worry, team, I’m on the case. Keep an eye on Hoon, and I’ll work my magic later.” He jogged back to the game, tripping slightly in the sand and recovering with a dramatic flourish that made everyone laugh.

Soyeon turned to you, her expression serious but her eyes twinkling. “Alright, Y/N, game face on. Let’s walk by the frisbee game—casual, like we’re just enjoying the beach. If Sunghoon looks your way, smile. If he doesn’t, we’ll pivot to plan B.”

“What’s plan B?” you asked, already dreading the answer.

She winked. “You’ll see.”

You let her lead you toward the water, where Sunghoon and his teammates were tossing the frisbee, their shouts and laughter carrying over the waves. Your heart pounded with every step, the sand shifting under your feet like it was trying to trip you up. Sunghoon was in the middle of the group, his athletic frame moving with that effortless grace you’d admired from the bleachers for years. He leaped to catch the frisbee, his shirt riding up slightly to reveal a glimpse of toned abs, and you nearly walked into a sandcastle.

“Eyes up, Y/N,” Soyeon whispered, smirking. “You’re drooling.”

“I am not,” you hissed, but you straightened, forcing yourself to focus on the horizon instead of Sunghoon’s everything. As you passed the group, you felt his gaze flicker your way—or maybe it was your imagination, hyped up on nerves and Soyeon’s scheming. You managed a small smile, just in case, but he was already turning back to the game, catching another throw with a grin.

Soyeon sighed dramatically. “Okay, that was a bust. But don’t worry, we’ve got all day. Let’s set up our towels over there and keep an eye out for our next move.”

You followed her to a spot near the volleyball game, spreading out your towel and trying to relax. Soyeon pulled out a portable speaker, playing some upbeat K-pop, while you dug into your bag for the gummy worms, more for comfort than strategy. As you munched, you watched Sunghoon from the corner of your eye, your mind racing. He was so close, yet so far—your brother’s best friend, a boy who knew your name but probably didn’t know your heart. The thought made you ache, but Soyeon and Sunoo’s ridiculous optimism was starting to rub off. Maybe, just maybe, today could be the day you took a step forward.

An hour later, the teachers called everyone for a group activity—a relay race in the shallows, with teams of four racing to pass a baton through the waves. Soyeon’s eyes lit up like she’d won the lottery. “This is it,” she said, grabbing your arm. “We’re getting you on Sunghoon’s team. Sunoo, where are you? We need backup!”

Sunoo, who’d just finished his volleyball game, jogged over, his face red from the sun and exertion. “What’s the plan, captain?” he asked, saluting Soyeon.

“Relay race,” she said, pointing to where the teachers were organizing teams. “We need Y/N and Sunghoon on the same team. Work your best-friend magic.”

Sunoo grinned, already on board. “Say no more. I got this.” He darted off toward Sunghoon, who was standing with Jake and a few others, sipping water and laughing. You watched, heart in your throat, as Sunoo clapped Sunghoon on the shoulder, gesturing animatedly. You couldn’t hear what he was saying, but Sunghoon glanced your way, his expression curious, and your stomach did a backflip.

“He’s doing it,” Soyeon whispered, gripping your hand. “Look at that wingman go.”

A minute later, Sunoo bounded back, triumphant. “Done! Hoon’s in for the relay, and I told him you’re a pro at running in water—total lie, by the way, but he doesn’t need to know that. You’re on his team with me and Jake. Let’s go!”

You gaped at him, panic rising. “Sunoo, I’m terrible at running in water! Why would you say that?”

He shrugged, unrepentant. “Because it got him to say yes. You’re welcome. Now come on, we’re team number three!”

Soyeon pushed you forward, whispering, “This is your moment, Y/N. Don’t freeze up. Just run, laugh, and maybe ‘accidentally’ splash him. Flirty vibes.”

You were too nervous to argue, letting Sunoo and Soyeon herd you toward the starting line, where Sunghoon and Jake were already waiting. Sunghoon gave you a small smile, his cap pushed back to reveal his sweaty, tousled hair. “Hey, Y/N,” he said, his voice warm but casual. “Sunoo says you’re gonna carry us. No pressure.”

Your face burned, and you shot Sunoo a glare, but he just winked, completely unbothered. “She’s got this,” Sunoo said, slinging an arm around your shoulders. “Right, sis?”

“Uh… sure,” you mumbled, your heart racing as you took your position in the lineup. You were second, after Sunoo, with Jake third and Sunghoon as the anchor. The water lapped at your ankles, cool and slippery, and you prayed you wouldn’t face-plant in front of everyone.

The whistle blew, and Sunoo took off, splashing through the waves with more enthusiasm than speed. He passed the baton to you, grinning like a maniac. “Go, Y/N! Make Hoon proud!” he shouted, loud enough for the entire beach to hear, and you wanted to sink into the ocean.

You grabbed the baton and ran, the water dragging at your legs, making every step a wobbly struggle. You could hear Soyeon cheering from the shore, her voice cutting through the noise: “You got this, Y/N! Look at you go!” You focused on the next marker, where Jake was waiting, but out of the corner of your eye, you saw Sunghoon watching, his hands cupped around his mouth as he cheered for the team.

You reached Jake, thrusting the baton at him and nearly tripping in the process. He took off, and you bent over, catching your breath, your heart pounding from both the run and the fact that Sunghoon was right there. When you straightened, he was closer, waiting for Jake to loop back. He caught your eye and grinned. “Nice job, Y/N. You’re faster than Sunoo said.”

Your brain short-circuited. Was that a compliment? From Sunghoon? You managed a shaky, “Thanks,” your voice barely audible over the waves. He nodded, turning back to the race, and you felt like you’d just won the Olympics.

Jake passed the baton to Sunghoon, who sprinted through the water with the kind of grace you’d expect from a basketball star. Your team didn’t win—team four edged you out—but as Sunghoon crossed the finish line, dripping wet and laughing, you couldn’t care less. He jogged back to the group, high-fiving Jake and Sunoo, then turned to you, his smile softer. “We almost had ‘em,” he said, and you nodded, too flustered to speak.

Soyeon and Sunoo descended on you as soon as the race ended, their faces alight with triumph. “That was perfect!” Soyeon whispered, pulling you aside. “He talked to you! And he smiled! We’re making progress!”

Sunoo nodded, munching on a gummy worm he’d produced from who-knows-where. “Told you, sis. Hoon’s chill. You just gotta keep talking to him. Offer him a gummy worm next time. It’s, like, his love language.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was soaring. The beach day wasn’t over, and with Soyeon and Sunoo on your side, you felt a little braver, a little closer to the boy who’d stolen your heart two years ago. Operation Sunghoon was in full swing, and for the first time, you believed it might actually work.

The Jeju sun hung high, its relentless rays glinting off the turquoise waves that rolled gently onto Seogwipo’s sandy shore. The beach was a kaleidoscope of color and sound—students shouting and laughing, the rhythmic crash of the surf, and the occasional squawk of a seagull diving for a stray chip. You stood at the edge of the relay race area, your sneakers sinking into the damp sand, your heart still racing from the chaotic sprint through the waves and, more importantly, from Sunghoon’s words: “Nice job, Y/N. You’re faster than Sunoo said.” His voice, warm and teasing, echoed in your mind, each syllable a spark that set your nerves alight. He’d smiled at you—smiled—and for a fleeting moment, it felt like the two-year distance between your bleacher daydreams and his untouchable presence had shrunk to nothing.

Now, he was just a few feet away, dripping wet from the race, his gray sleeveless shirt clinging to his frame in a way that made it hard to look anywhere else. He was laughing with Jake and Sunoo, his black board shorts speckled with sand, his hair tousled by the sea breeze. You clutched the gummy worm bag in your hand, a lifeline Soyeon and Sunoo had insisted was your “icebreaker,” but the thought of offering him one felt like stepping off a cliff. Your brother’s best friend. Your crush of two years. And now, thanks to Soyeon and Sunoo’s relentless matchmaking, the center of “Operation Sunghoon,” a mission that was equal parts thrilling and mortifying.

“Y/N, you’re doing it again,” Soyeon said, materializing beside you with a smirk, her yellow bikini peeking out from under her sarong. She held a half-eaten popsicle, the red juice staining her lips, and her eyes gleamed with mischief. “You’re staring at Sunghoon like he’s the last gummy worm in the bag. Snap out of it before he notices and thinks you’re plotting his kidnapping.”

You flushed, tearing your gaze from Sunghoon and shoving the gummy worms into your beach bag. “I’m not staring,” you muttered, kicking at the sand. “I’m just… processing. He talked to me, Soyeon. Like, actually said my name and complimented me. I’m allowed to process.”

Soyeon cackled, nudging your shoulder. “Oh, we’re way past processing, babe. That was a moment. He smiled, he teased, he engaged. And you didn’t even trip over your words! This is huge.” She glanced over at Sunghoon, who was now tossing the relay baton playfully at Sunoo, and her grin widened. “Operation Sunghoon is off to a stellar start, and now that I’m officially wingwoman to Sunoo’s wingman, we’re gonna make sure you keep that momentum.”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “You and Sunoo are gonna get me in so much trouble. I can’t believe I let you two team up. This is a disaster waiting to happen.”

“Disaster? Nah, this is destiny,” Soyeon said, pulling your hands down and giving you a mock-serious look. “Sunoo’s got the insider scoop as Sunghoon’s best friend, and I’ve got the strategic genius. Together, we’re unstoppable. By the end of today, you’re gonna have a real conversation with him—none of this ‘uh, thanks’ stuff. We’re aiming for flirty banter, maybe even a laugh. Baby steps, Y/N, but bold ones.”

Before you could protest, Sunoo bounded over, his red swim trunks dusted with sand and his chubby cheeks flushed from the race and the sun. He was munching on a chip he’d swiped from someone’s beach towel, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “Yo, team! That relay was epic!” he said, slinging an arm around your shoulders and nearly knocking you over. “Y/N, you killed it out there. Hoon was totally impressed. Did you see him smile? That’s, like, a level-five Sunghoon smile. Rare and powerful.”

You swatted his arm, your face burning. “Sunoo, stop! He was just being nice. And you lied about me being good at running in water! I almost face-planted in front of him!”

Sunoo grinned, completely unrepentant. “A little exaggeration never hurt nobody. It got you on his team, didn’t it? And he talked to you! Mission accomplished, phase one.” He turned to Soyeon, who was watching with a raised eyebrow. “Wingwoman, what’s phase two? I’m ready to flex my best-friend status.”

Soyeon clapped her hands, her popsicle stick now tucked behind her ear like a pencil. “Glad you’re on board, wingman. Phase two is simple: proximity and interaction. We need Y/N and Sunghoon in the same space, talking, laughing, maybe sharing a snack.” She pointed to your bag, where the gummy worms were stashed. “Sunoo, you said Sunghoon’s a snack fiend, right? Let’s use that. Y/N, you’re gonna offer him a gummy worm. Casual, no big deal, just a friendly gesture. Sunoo, you set it up—invite him over to hang with us. I’ll handle the vibes.”

You stared at her, horrified. “You want me to just… walk up to him and offer him candy? Like I’m some kind of gummy worm fairy? Soyeon, that’s so awkward!”

“It’s not awkward, it’s cute,” Soyeon countered, crossing her arms. “Guys like Sunghoon don’t need grand gestures. A little snack, a smile, and boom—you’re on his radar. And with Sunoo there, it’s not like you’re confessing your undying love. It’s just friends hanging out.”

Sunoo nodded enthusiastically, crumbs falling from his chip. “She’s right, Y/N. Hoon’s chill. He’ll probably just say thanks and eat, like, half the bag. That’s how he rolls. And I’ll make it super natural. I’m his bestie, remember? I got this.” He winked, then glanced over at Sunghoon, who was now sitting on a towel with Jake, sipping from a water bottle. “Look, he’s free right now. Perfect timing. Let’s do this.”

Your stomach twisted, and you grabbed Soyeon’s arm in a panic. “Wait, now? I’m not ready! I need, like, a script or something. What if I say something dumb? Or what if he doesn’t even like gummy worms? What if—”

“Y/N, breathe,” Soyeon said, squeezing your hand. “You don’t need a script. You’re not auditioning for a drama. Just be yourself—cute, funny, a little nervous. It’s endearing. And Sunoo’s got your back. Right, wingman?”

“Always,” Sunoo said, saluting with his chip. “Trust the Kim siblings. We’re about to make magic happen. Follow my lead, sis.”

Before you could protest further, Sunoo grabbed your wrist and started pulling you toward Sunghoon and Jake, Soyeon trailing behind with a grin that screamed trouble. Your heart pounded with every step, the sand feeling like quicksand under your feet. Sunghoon was right there, his profile sharp against the sparkling ocean, his laughter soft as Jake said something you couldn’t hear. You clutched your beach bag, the gummy worms suddenly feeling like the most important item in the world.

“Yo, Hoon! Jake!” Sunoo called, his voice loud and cheerful, cutting through the beach noise. Sunghoon looked up, his eyes catching the sunlight, and your breath hitched. He smiled when he saw Sunoo, then glanced at you and Soyeon, his expression curious but warm. “You guys done being athletic superstars? Come hang with us,” Sunoo said, plopping onto the sand next to Jake’s towel and gesturing for you and Soyeon to join.

Jake grinned, scooting over to make room. “Only if you brought snacks, Sunoo. You ate half my chips earlier.”

Sunoo gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. “Slander! I only ate, like, a quarter. But lucky for you, my sis has the goods.” He turned to you, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Right, Y/N? You brought those gummy worms, didn’t you?”

You froze, your face heating up as all eyes turned to you—Sunghoon’s included. His gaze was soft, almost amused, and you felt like the sand was swallowing you whole. Soyeon nudged you subtly, her whisper barely audible: “Go for it. You got this.”

Swallowing hard, you reached into your bag, pulling out the bag of gummy worms with hands that trembled slightly. “Uh, yeah,” you said, your voice higher than usual. “I’ve got some gummy worms. Want one?” You held the bag out, your eyes flickering between Sunoo, Jake, and Sunghoon, but lingering on the latter, praying he wouldn’t think you were weird.

Sunghoon’s lips quirked into a small smile, and he leaned forward, his hand brushing yours as he took a few worms from the bag. The contact was brief but electric, sending a jolt through your arm. “Thanks, Y/N,” he said, his voice low and warm. “These are my favorite.” He popped a red and yellow worm into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully, and you felt like you’d just won a Nobel Prize.

“No way, mine too!” Sunoo said, grabbing a handful and breaking the tension. “See, Hoon, I told you my sis has good taste. Unlike Jake, who thinks salt and vinegar chips are a personality trait.”

Jake scoffed, tossing a piece of seaweed at Sunoo. “Keep hating, man. You’ll come around.” The group laughed, and you relaxed slightly, sinking onto the sand next to Soyeon, who gave you a subtle thumbs-up.

“Nice move,” she whispered, her eyes darting to Sunghoon, who was now leaning back on his hands, watching the waves. “He took the bait, and he smiled. We’re cooking with gas now.”

You bit your lip, trying not to grin too hard. It was just a gummy worm, but it felt like a victory. Sunghoon had talked to you—again—and he’d liked your snack. It was small, but it was something. You glanced at him, catching the way the sunlight highlighted his sharp jawline, and your heart did its usual somersault.

The conversation flowed easily, with Sunoo and Jake bantering about the relay race, Soyeon chiming in with sarcastic commentary, and you adding a few shy remarks that earned a chuckle from the group. Sunghoon was quieter, but he listened, his eyes flickering to you every so often, like he was noticing you in a new way. Or maybe that was your hopeful imagination, fueled by Soyeon and Sunoo’s relentless optimism.

After a while, Sunoo stood, brushing sand off his trunks. “Alright, who’s up for a swim? The water’s perfect, and I need to cool off before I turn into a lobster.” He looked pointedly at Sunghoon. “Hoon, you in? You can’t just sit there looking like a model all day.”

Sunghoon rolled his eyes but stood, stretching his arms in a way that made his muscles flex distractingly. “Fine, but if you try to dunk me again, I’m throwing you into the deep end.”

Sunoo grinned, undeterred. “Challenge accepted. Y/N, Soyeon, you coming?”

Soyeon jumped up, already tugging off her sarong. “Duh. Let’s go!” She turned to you, her eyes gleaming. “Come on, Y/N. Show off that swimsuit. And maybe, you know, splash around near a certain someone.”

You hesitated, your nerves flaring at the thought of swimming with Sunghoon. But Soyeon’s expectant look and Sunoo’s encouraging nod left no room for retreat. “Okay, fine,” you said, standing and slipping off your cover-up, feeling painfully exposed in your swimsuit despite the warm sun. You avoided Sunghoon’s gaze, focusing on the waves instead, but you could feel his presence nearby, steady and magnetic.

The group waded into the water, the cool waves lapping at your ankles, then your knees, then your waist. Sunoo immediately started a splash war, targeting Jake, who retaliated with a tidal wave that soaked everyone. You laughed, dodging the spray, and for a moment, you forgot your nerves, caught up in the chaos. Soyeon was right there with you, splashing Sunoo and shrieking when he got her back, while Sunghoon hung back, watching with an amused smirk.

At one point, a particularly large wave knocked you off balance, and you stumbled, flailing to stay upright. A strong hand caught your arm, steadying you, and you looked up to find Sunghoon, his eyes crinkled with concern. “You okay?” he asked, his voice cutting through the noise of the waves and laughter.

Your heart stopped, then started again at double speed. His hand was warm, his grip gentle but firm, and he was so close you could see droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes. “Y-yeah,” you stammered, your voice barely audible. “Thanks. Just… clumsy.”

He smiled, a soft, genuine smile that made your knees wobble worse than the wave. “No worries. The ocean’s sneaky like that.” He let go slowly, his fingers brushing your arm as he pulled back, and you felt the loss of his touch like a physical ache.

Soyeon, who’d been watching the whole exchange like a hawk, swam over, her grin practically blinding. “Nice save, Sunghoon!” she called, winking at you behind his back. “Y/N’s lucky to have a hero on the team.”

You shot her a glare, your face burning, but Sunghoon just chuckled, shaking his head. “Hero’s a stretch. Just didn’t want her to get swept away before we finish the gummy worms.”

Your eyes widened, and you laughed, the sound bubbling up unexpectedly. “Priorities, huh?”

“Always,” he said, his tone teasing, and for a moment, it was just the two of you, the waves fading into the background, the world narrowing to his smile and the spark in his eyes.

Sunoo, ever the chaos agent, broke the moment by launching a surprise attack, splashing Sunghoon with a wave that soaked his hair. “Gotcha!” he shouted, cackling as Sunghoon turned, eyes narrowing playfully.

“You’re dead, Kim,” Sunghoon said, lunging after him, and the two of them tore through the water, Sunoo shrieking and Sunghoon laughing in a way that made your heart ache with something warm and unfamiliar.

Soyeon swam up beside you, her voice low and triumphant. “Did you see that? He saved you, he teased you, and he mentioned the gummy worms. Y/N, we’re in the endgame now.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop smiling. “It was just a catch and a joke, Soyeon. Don’t start planning the wedding.”

“Not yet,” she said, smirking. “But Sunoo and I are killing it. Look at him—setting up moments left and right.” She nodded toward Sunoo, who was now clinging to Jake’s back, trying to escape Sunghoon’s wrath. “That splash was strategic. He’s giving you space to shine.”

You shook your head, but deep down, you were grateful. Soyeon and Sunoo’s scheming was over-the-top, but it was working. You’d talked to Sunghoon more today than in the past two years combined, and each moment felt like a step closer to something—maybe not love, not yet, but something real. As you watched him chase Sunoo through the waves, his laughter ringing out, you felt a flicker of courage. Maybe, just maybe, you could do this. Maybe you could be more than the girl in the bleachers.

The rest of the beach day passed in a blur of laughter, sun, and sand. You and Soyeon rejoined the group on the shore, where Sunoo insisted on building a sandcastle that looked more like a sand blob, and Sunghoon surprised everyone by joining in, sculpting a surprisingly decent turret with his long fingers. You offered him another gummy worm, emboldened by the earlier success, and he took it with a grin, saying, “You’re gonna have to restock soon if you keep this up.” The words were casual, but they felt like a promise—of more moments, more conversations, more something.

As the sun began to dip toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange, the teachers called everyone back to the hotel for dinner and a group campfire. You walked back with Soyeon and Sunoo, your skin warm from the sun and your heart lighter than it had been in days. Sunghoon was ahead, talking with Jake, but he glanced back once, catching your eye, and you smiled before you could stop yourself. He smiled back, small but real, and you felt like you were floating.

Soyeon nudged you, her voice a whisper. “That’s what I’m talking about. You’re glowing, Y/N. And tonight, at the campfire, we’re going for phase three: deep conversation. Sunoo and I will set it up. You just be your adorable self.”

You groaned, but the butterflies in your stomach were dancing. “What’s phase three gonna look like? You two daring me to confess my feelings in front of everyone?”

Sunoo, overhearing, spun around, walking backward with a grin. “Don’t tempt me, sis. But nah, we’re thinking subtle. Maybe a cozy chat by the fire, some marshmallow roasting, a little stargazing. Hoon’s a sucker for quiet moments. Trust the wingman-wingwoman team. We’re gonna make this Jeju trip legendary.”

You shook your head, but as you looked ahead at Sunghoon’s silhouette against the sunset, you couldn’t help but hope they were right. Day 2 wasn’t over yet, and with Soyeon and Sunoo on your side, anything seemed possible.

The Jeju sky had deepened into a velvet indigo, studded with stars that twinkled like scattered diamonds above the Seogwipo beach. The campfire crackled at the heart of the gathering, its golden flames casting a warm glow across the circle of students sprawled on blankets and logs. The air was rich with the smoky scent of burning wood, mingled with the salty tang of the nearby ocean and the faint sweetness of roasted marshmallows. Laughter and chatter filled the night, punctuated by the strum of a guitar from a classmate attempting a K-pop cover and the occasional pop of embers. You sat on a worn blanket, your knees tucked to your chest, the sand still clinging to your bare feet from the day’s beach adventures. Your navy swimsuit was hidden beneath a loose hoodie and shorts, but the memory of Sunghoon’s hand steadying you in the waves—and his teasing smile over the gummy worms—made your skin feel warm despite the cool breeze.

Your heart was a restless drum, each beat echoing the reality that Park Sunghoon, your two-year crush and now your brother’s best friend, was just across the fire. He leaned back on a log, his black cap tilted low, the firelight dancing across his sharp jawline and the soft curve of his lips. He was in a dark long-sleeve shirt and jeans, looking effortlessly perfect as he listened to Jake’s animated retelling of the relay race, his eyes crinkling with amusement. Every so often, his gaze flickered your way, and you quickly looked down, pretending to adjust the hem of your hoodie, terrified he’d catch the longing in your eyes.

Soyeon, sitting cross-legged beside you with a marshmallow skewer in hand, nudged your elbow, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Y/N, you’re doing that starry-eyed thing again. If you don’t talk to Sunghoon tonight, I’m stealing your gummy worms and eating them all as punishment.”

You groaned, burying your face in your knees. “Soyeon, I’m trying. But he’s right there, and I’m a mess. Did you see him in the water today? He saved me from falling, and then he teased me about the gummy worms. I’m still recovering.”

She smirked, twirling her marshmallow over the fire until it turned a perfect golden brown. “Oh, I saw. The whole beach saw. That was prime rom-com material—hero catches heroine, sparks fly, cue the slow-motion montage. And now, phase three of Operation Sunghoon is in play: deep conversation by the campfire. Sunoo and I have been plotting, and tonight’s the night you level up from ‘cute gummy worm girl’ to ‘girl he can’t stop thinking about.’”

You lifted your head, narrowing your eyes. “Phase three sounds like a disaster. What are you and Sunoo planning? If it involves me confessing my feelings in front of everyone, I’m running into the ocean and not coming back.”

Soyeon laughed, popping the marshmallow into her mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “Relax, no public confessions. We’re going for subtle, intimate vibes. Sunoo’s gonna get Sunghoon over here, maybe with a group game or a snack excuse, and then we’ll make ourselves scarce so you two can talk. You’ve got the gummy worms in your bag, right? Use them. He already said they’re his favorite. It’s like fate.”

You sighed, glancing at your beach bag, where the gummy worms were stashed alongside your phone and a half-read novel. “You two are way too invested in this. What if he’s just being nice because I’m Sunoo’s sister? What if he doesn’t even think about me like that?”

Soyeon rolled her eyes, leaning closer so her shoulder bumped yours. “Y/N, he’s not that nice to everyone. Did you see him carrying anyone else’s suitcase? Or saving anyone else from the waves? And that smile today? That wasn’t ‘polite brother’s friend’ smile. That was ‘I’m intrigued’ smile. Trust me, I’m a romance expert.”

Before you could argue, Sunoo’s voice boomed across the campfire, cutting through the guitar strums and chatter. “Alright, people, let’s spice things up!” He stood on a log, his chubby cheeks glowing in the firelight, his red hoodie dusted with sand and marshmallow fluff. He held a stick like a microphone, his bubbly energy commanding the group’s attention. “Who’s down for a storytelling game? We go around the circle, and everyone adds a line to a spooky beach tale. Winner gets… uh, eternal glory and my last gummy worm!” He held up a single worm, waving it dramatically, and the group cheered, some groaning playfully.

You shot Soyeon a panicked look. “This is his plan? A group game? How is this supposed to get me and Sunghoon talking?”

She smirked, unfazed. “Just wait. Sunoo’s got layers. He’s setting the stage. Watch the master at work.”

Sunoo hopped off the log, scanning the circle with a grin. “Okay, I’ll start. But first, we need some heavy hitters to join. Yo, Hoon!” He pointed at Sunghoon, who looked up, raising an eyebrow. “Get over here, man. My bestie’s gotta represent. And Jake, you too. Let’s make this epic!”

Sunghoon chuckled, shaking his head, but he stood, brushing sand off his jeans. Jake followed, tossing a marshmallow at Sunoo, who caught it in his mouth with a triumphant cheer. The trio made their way to your side of the fire, and your heart rate spiked as Sunghoon settled onto the blanket next to Sunoo, just a foot away from you. His knee brushed the edge of your blanket, and you felt the air shift, like the universe had tilted just for this moment.

“Alright, let’s do this,” Sunoo said, plopping down between you and Sunghoon, his eyes glinting with mischief. “I’ll start the story. Once upon a time, on a dark Jeju beach, a mysterious figure emerged from the waves, covered in seaweed and whispering secrets… Y/N, you’re next!”

You blinked, caught off guard, your mind scrambling for something coherent. Everyone was watching, including Sunghoon, whose gaze was soft but curious, like he was genuinely interested in what you’d say. “Uh, okay,” you stammered, your voice shaky. “The figure held a glowing shell that pulsed with an eerie light, drawing everyone closer… Soyeon, go!”

Soyeon grinned, picking up the thread seamlessly. “But as they approached, the shell let out a piercing wail, and the sand beneath their feet started to sink, pulling them toward the ocean…” She nudged Jake, who added a line about ghostly voices, and the story continued around the circle, growing wilder with each addition—pirate ghosts, cursed treasure, a giant squid with a vendetta.

When it reached Sunghoon, he leaned forward, his voice low and steady, sending a shiver down your spine. “And then, the figure vanished, leaving only a single word carved in the sand: ‘Beware.’” He paused, his eyes flickering to you for a split second, and you swore the firelight made them glow. The group ooh-ed dramatically, and you couldn’t help but smile, impressed by his delivery.

The game went on, the story spiraling into absurdity until everyone was laughing, the spooky vibe replaced by pure chaos. Sunoo, true to his wingman role, seized the moment to shift gears. “Okay, okay, this story’s a masterpiece, but I’m starving,” he declared, standing and stretching. “Who’s with me for a snack run? I saw a vending machine by the hotel. Jake, Soyeon, let’s go!”

Soyeon’s eyes widened slightly, but she caught on fast, jumping to her feet. “Yup, I need some chips. Jake, you’re buying.” She grabbed Jake’s arm, pulling him up, and he groaned but followed, tossing a playful glare at Sunoo.

You realized what was happening too late. “Wait, I—” you started, but Sunoo was already herding Soyeon and Jake away, calling over his shoulder, “Y/N, hold down the fort! Hoon, keep her company, yeah? Be right back!” He winked at you, so blatantly you wanted to sink into the sand, and then they were gone, weaving through the crowd toward the hotel lights.

You were alone with Sunghoon. Well, not alone—the campfire was still bustling, classmates chatting and roasting marshmallows—but it felt like the world had narrowed to just the two of you, the fire’s glow a fragile bubble around your blanket. Your heart pounded, loud enough you were sure he could hear it, and you stared at the flames, too nervous to look at him.

Sunghoon cleared his throat, shifting slightly on the blanket. “So… Sunoo’s not exactly subtle, is he?” His voice was light, teasing, and you dared to glance at him, finding a small, amused smile on his lips.

You laughed, the sound more nervous than you intended. “Yeah, no, he’s about as subtle as a foghorn. Sorry if he’s being… weird.”

He shook his head, his smile widening. “Nah, it’s fine. He’s always like that. Keeps things interesting.” He paused, picking up a stick and poking at the sand, drawing a lazy spiral. “You’re pretty good at keeping up with him, though. I don’t know how you do it.”

Your cheeks warmed, and you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, unsure if that was a compliment or just an observation. “Years of practice. Sunoo’s been dragging me into his chaos since we were kids. You should see him at home—he once tried to ‘redecorate’ my room with glitter glue. It’s still on my desk.”

Sunghoon laughed, a low, genuine sound that made your heart flutter. “That sounds like him. He’s always got some wild plan. Like the time he convinced me to sneak into the gym at midnight to practice free throws. We got caught by the janitor, and Sunoo talked us out of trouble by offering him snacks.”

You grinned, imagining Sunoo’s puppy-dog eyes in action. “That’s so him. He’s got a gift for getting away with anything.” You hesitated, then added, “I’m kinda jealous, actually. He’s so… fearless. I’m more of a ‘plan every word before I speak’ type.”

Sunghoon tilted his head, looking at you with a curiosity that made your pulse race. “I don’t know. You seem pretty fearless to me. You held your own in the relay race today, even with Sunoo hyping you up like you were an Olympian. And you didn’t back down from the story game. That’s not nothing.”

Your eyes widened, and you felt a rush of warmth at his words. “Thanks,” you said softly, meeting his gaze for a moment before looking away, overwhelmed by the intensity in his eyes. “I guess I’m just… trying to keep up with everyone. You, Sunoo, Soyeon—you’re all so confident. I feel like I’m playing catch-up.”

He was quiet for a second, then said, “You don’t have to catch up. You’re… I don’t know, you’re just you. That’s enough.” His voice was low, almost shy, and when you glanced at him, he was staring at the sand, a faint flush on his cheeks.

Your heart stopped, then started again at double speed. Was he… was that… did he just say that? You opened your mouth to respond, but your brain short-circuited, leaving you with nothing but a flustered, “Oh, um, thanks.” You cringed internally, wishing you could rewind and come up with something witty, but Sunghoon just smiled, like your awkwardness didn’t faze him.

“Want another gummy worm?” you blurted, desperate to fill the silence. You reached for your bag, pulling out the bag and offering it to him, your hands trembling slightly.

He chuckled, taking a few worms and holding them up like a toast. “Cheers to surviving Sunoo’s schemes,” he said, popping them into his mouth.

You laughed, taking a worm for yourself. “Cheers to that. He’s probably plotting phase four with Soyeon right now, thinking they’re masterminds.”

“Definitely,” Sunghoon said, his eyes crinkling. “But, you know, they’re not wrong. This trip’s been… fun. Different. I didn’t expect to—” He stopped, like he’d said too much, and looked at the fire, his expression unreadable.

You swallowed, your curiosity burning. “Expect to what?”

He hesitated, then met your eyes, the firelight reflecting in his dark gaze. “I don’t know. Get to know you, I guess. You’re… cooler than I thought. Not that I thought you weren’t cool,” he added quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just… you’re different. In a good way.”

Your heart was a wildfire, blazing out of control. He thought you were cool? Different? Good? You felt like you were floating, but you tried to play it off, tucking your hair behind your ear. “Thanks, Sunghoon. You’re… pretty cool too. I mean, obviously. You’re, like, basketball star cool. But also… nice. Which is better.”

He laughed, a soft, surprised sound, and you felt a surge of pride at making him smile like that. “Nice is better than basketball star? That’s a first.”

“Definitely,” you said, emboldened by his laughter. “Basketball stars are a dime a dozen. Nice guys? Rare.”

His smile softened, and for a moment, neither of you spoke, the crackle of the fire and the distant waves the only sounds. You felt like you were on the edge of something—something real, something that could change everything—but before you could say more, Sunoo’s voice shattered the moment.

“We’re back!” he announced, bounding over with Soyeon and Jake in tow, a plastic bag of vending machine snacks swinging from his hand. “Did we miss anything? Y/N, Hoon, you two look cozy.”

You wanted to strangle him. Soyeon’s smirk was practically audible, and Jake raised an eyebrow, clearly picking up on the vibe. Sunghoon just shook his head, amusement in his eyes. “Just surviving your snack run, man,” he said, tossing a marshmallow at Sunoo, who caught it with a grin.

The group settled back onto the blanket, the moment slipping away as Soyeon passed around chips and Sunoo launched into a story about a vending machine that “ate” his money. But as you listened, stealing glances at Sunghoon, you felt a quiet certainty settle in your chest. Today had been a turning point—not a confession, not a grand gesture, but a step closer. Soyeon and Sunoo’s scheming had worked, pushing you out of your comfort zone and into Sunghoon’s orbit. And as he caught your eye across the fire, giving you a small, almost secret smile, you knew you weren’t just the girl in the bleachers anymore.

The Jeju campfire had dwindled to glowing embers, its once-vibrant flames now a soft pulse against the inky night. The beach was quieter, the earlier chaos of laughter, guitar strums, and storytelling replaced by the gentle lap of waves and the low murmur of students heading back to the hotel. The air was cool, carrying the lingering scent of charred marshmallows and sea salt, and the stars above burned bright, a celestial map stretching endlessly over the Seogwipo shore. You lingered on the worn blanket, your hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, sand still clinging to your shorts from the day’s adventures. Your heart hadn’t stopped racing since your conversation with Sunghoon—his soft smile, his shy confession that you were “cool” and “different,” the way he’d toasted gummy worms with you like it was a secret pact. Each moment replayed in your mind, a reel of possibilities that made your chest ache with hope and fear.

Soyeon stood nearby, folding the blanket she’d been sitting on, her eyes glinting with triumph as she glanced between you and Sunghoon, who was helping Jake gather stray marshmallow skewers a few feet away. Sunoo, ever the chaotic orchestrator, was dramatically shaking sand out of his red hoodie, drawing laughs from a group of juniors. But you knew his antics were a cover—his earlier stunt, dragging Soyeon and Jake away to leave you and Sunghoon alone, had been deliberate, a masterstroke in “Operation Sunghoon.” The wingwoman-wingman duo had struck again, and now, as the campfire crowd thinned, you felt the weight of their next move looming.

“Y/N, you’re practically glowing,” Soyeon whispered, sidling up to you with her blanket tucked under her arm. Her hair was a mess from the sea breeze, but her grin was razor-sharp. “That campfire chat? Pure magic. Sunghoon was into it. Did you hear him? ‘You’re different, in a good way.’ That’s basically a love letter in Sunghoon-speak.”

You flushed, tugging your hoodie strings to hide your face. “Soyeon, stop. It was just… talking. He was being nice. He’s always nice.”

She snorted, grabbing your arm to pull you upright. “Nice? Y/N, he doesn’t sit around sharing gummy worms and calling people ‘cool’ for no reason. That was flirty, and you flirted back! I’m so proud I could cry.” She mimed wiping a tear, then leaned closer, her voice dropping. “But we’re not done yet. Phase three isn’t over. Sunoo and I have one last play for tonight—something to seal the deal before Day 2 ends.”

Your stomach twisted, equal parts dread and excitement. “What kind of play? Soyeon, I can’t handle another group game or public humiliation. I’m still recovering from the gummy worm thing.”

She smirked, undeterred. “No games, no humiliation. Just a little… nudge to get you two alone again. Sunoo’s got an idea, and I’m backing it. Trust us, okay? You’re this close to a real moment.” She held her fingers an inch apart, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Before you could protest, Sunoo bounded over, his hoodie now sand-free but his chubby cheeks still flushed from the night’s chaos. He was holding a plastic bag of leftover snacks, his grin so wide it practically split his face. “Y/N! Soyeon! Mission report: phase three is a success!” he declared, keeping his voice low so the few lingering students wouldn’t overhear. “Hoon’s totally vibing with you, sis. Did you see how he kept looking at you during the story game? That’s, like, level-six Sunghoon energy. We’re in the big leagues now.”

You groaned, crossing your arms. “Sunoo, you’re delusional. And that stunt you pulled, leaving us alone? I almost died of nerves. What’s this ‘last play’ you and Soyeon keep whispering about? If it involves me doing anything embarrassing, I’m disowning you.”

Sunoo gasped, clutching his heart. “Disown me? After I gave you my best wingman performance? Rude!” He dropped the act, leaning in with a conspiratorial whisper. “Okay, here’s the deal. The campfire’s wrapping up, and everyone’s heading back to the hotel, but the beach is still open for a bit. I’m gonna convince Hoon to stay out a little longer—say we’re doing a ‘stargazing thing’ or whatever. Soyeon and I will start it, then dip, leaving you two to… you know, gaze at the stars, talk about life, fall in love, the usual.”

Your eyes widened, panic rising. “Stargazing? Sunoo, that’s so obvious! He’s gonna know you’re setting us up, and I’ll look like an idiot!”

Soyeon shook her head, grabbing your shoulders. “Y/N, it’s not obvious, it’s romantic. Sunghoon’s not clueless—he’ll get the vibe, but it’s subtle enough that it won’t feel forced. And you won’t look like an idiot. You’re adorable, and he’s already into you. Just be yourself, maybe offer him another gummy worm, and let the Jeju magic do the rest.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but Sunoo cut you off, already moving toward Sunghoon and Jake. “No time for doubts, sis! Operation Sunghoon, phase three, part two—let’s roll!” He flashed you a thumbs-up, then called out, “Yo, Hoon! Jake! You guys down for some stargazing before we head back? The sky’s insane tonight!”

Sunghoon looked up, his expression curious but relaxed, while Jake groaned dramatically. “Stargazing? Sunoo, you’re such a sap,” Jake said, but he was already tossing the skewers into a bag, clearly on board.

Sunghoon’s eyes flickered to you, and your heart skipped a beat. “Stargazing sounds cool,” he said, his voice soft but carrying across the dying fire. “Y/N, you in?”

You froze, feeling like every star in the sky was watching you. Soyeon nudged you hard, whispering, “Say yes, you dork!” You swallowed, managing a nod and a shaky, “Yeah, sure. Sounds fun.”

Sunoo clapped his hands, his enthusiasm infectious. “Perfect! Let’s grab a spot over there—less sand, better view.” He pointed to a quieter stretch of beach, away from the campfire’s embers and the hotel’s lights, where the sand sloped gently toward the water. The group—Sunoo, Soyeon, Jake, Sunghoon, and you—trudged over, carrying blankets and snacks, the night air cool against your sun-warmed skin.

As you spread out your blanket, Soyeon and Sunoo exchanged a look, their silent communication screaming we’re nailing this. You sat cross-legged, your beach bag beside you, the gummy worms a comforting weight in your mind. Sunghoon settled nearby, stretching out on his back with his hands behind his head, his long legs brushing the edge of your blanket. Jake flopped down next to him, already complaining about sand in his shoes, while Soyeon and Sunoo positioned themselves strategically closer to the water, giving you and Sunghoon a subtle bubble of space.

“Look at that,” Sunghoon said, his voice pulling you from your nerves. He was gazing up, his cap tilted back to reveal his face, softened by the starlight. “You don’t see skies like this in the city.”

You followed his gaze, the stars so bright they seemed to pulse, a cosmic canvas that made the world feel both vast and intimate. “Yeah,” you said, your voice quieter than you meant. “It’s… beautiful. Like they’re close enough to touch.”

He turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting yours, and you felt that familiar jolt, like the waves had surged through your chest. “You like stars?” he asked, his tone curious, almost gentle.

You nodded, tucking your knees closer. “Kind of. I used to have glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling when I was a kid. I’d lie awake and make up stories about them. Sounds dumb now, but… it was my thing.”

He smiled, a soft, lopsided one that made your heart flip. “That’s not dumb. I used to do the same, but with basketball plays. I’d lie in bed, imagining game-winning shots, crowds cheering. Guess we’re both dreamers.”

Your breath caught. He was opening up, just a little, but it felt like a door cracking open, letting you glimpse the boy behind the basketball star. “What kind of shots?” you asked, emboldened by his warmth. “Like, three-pointers from half-court?”

He laughed, the sound low and warm, like the fire’s embers. “Exactly. The crazier, the better. I’d even narrate it in my head, like, ‘Park Sunghoon steals the ball, sprints down the court, and—swish!’” He mimed a shot, his arm arcing gracefully, and you giggled, picturing a younger Sunghoon lost in his own world.

“That’s adorable,” you said, then froze, realizing you’d called him adorable out loud. Your face burned, but he just chuckled, unfazed.

“Adorable, huh? I’ll take it,” he said, his eyes crinkling. “What about you? What were your star stories about?”

You hesitated, your nerves flaring, but his gaze was so steady, so encouraging, that you found yourself answering. “Mostly adventures. Like, I’d pretend the stars were portals to other worlds, and I’d travel through them, fighting dragons or finding hidden cities. Sunoo would barge in and ruin it, saying my stories were too ‘girly.’”

Sunghoon grinned, glancing at Sunoo, who was now trying to convince Jake that a constellation looked like a chicken nugget. “Sounds like him. He’s got no imagination. But I like your stories. Dragons are cool.”

You smiled, warmth spreading through you. “Thanks. Maybe I’ll bring them back someday. You know, when I’m not busy surviving Sunoo’s matchmaking schemes.”

He raised an eyebrow, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Matchmaking schemes? Is that what’s going on here?” His tone was teasing, but there was a hint of something deeper, like he was testing the waters.

Your heart stuttered, and you scrambled for a response, caught between honesty and panic. “I mean, you know Sunoo. He’s always up to something. Him and Soyeon—they’re, like, a chaos tag team.”

He laughed, but his gaze lingered, searching your face. “Yeah, they’re a lot. But… I don’t mind hanging out with you. Schemes or not.”

Your world tilted. Did he just… say that? You opened your mouth, but before you could respond, Soyeon’s voice cut through the night. “Okay, stargazers, I’m freezing!” she announced, standing and brushing sand off her shorts. “Sunoo, Jake, let’s hit the hotel for hot chocolate. Y/N, Hoon, you cool staying out a bit? The stars are too good to miss.”

You shot Soyeon a look, her smirk barely hidden, but Sunoo was already on his feet, dragging Jake up. “Hot chocolate? Say less!” Sunoo said, winking at you so blatantly you wanted to bury yourself in the sand. “You two have fun. Don’t get lost in the cosmos or whatever.”

Jake groaned, but followed, muttering something about sand in his socks. And just like that, they were gone, their laughter fading as they headed toward the hotel, leaving you and Sunghoon alone under the stars.

The silence was heavy, but not uncomfortable, like a blanket settling over you both. You stole a glance at him, finding him already looking at you, his expression softer than you’d ever seen. “They’re not subtle, are they?” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper.

You shook your head, a nervous laugh escaping. “Not even a little. I’m sorry if they’re… pushing this. They get ideas and just… run with them.”

He smiled, sitting up and resting his arms on his knees. “It’s okay. I’m used to Sunoo’s chaos. And Soyeon’s got that mastermind energy. They’re a dangerous combo.”

You laughed, the sound easing your nerves. “Tell me about it. They’ve been plotting this whole trip, calling it ‘Operation Sunghoon.’ I didn’t even know until yesterday.”

His eyebrows shot up, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Operation Sunghoon? That’s… intense. What’s the mission?”

You froze, realizing you’d just spilled the beans. Your face burned, and you looked away, focusing on the waves. “Uh, nothing. Just… them being dumb. You know, trying to make me less… awkward.”

He tilted his head, studying you. “You’re not awkward, Y/N. You’re… real. I like that. Most people try too hard, but you just… do your thing. It’s nice.”

Your heart was a firework, bursting with light. You met his gaze, his eyes dark and sincere, and for the first time, you felt like he saw you—not Sunoo’s sister, not the girl in the bleachers, but you. “Thanks,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the waves. “That means a lot.”

He nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. Then, almost hesitantly, he reached for your beach bag, pulling out the gummy worms. “Mind if I steal one more? For the road.”

You laughed, the tension breaking. “Go for it. But you’re gonna owe me a bag if you keep this up.”

“Deal,” he said, taking a worm and holding it up like a toast. “To stargazing and surviving Sunoo’s schemes.”

You grabbed a worm, clinking it against his. “To surviving,” you echoed, your smile wider than it had been all day.

As you sat under the stars, sharing gummy worms and quiet laughs, you felt a shift, like the tide pulling you closer to him. Operation Sunghoon was working—maybe too well—and as he glanced at you, his smile soft and unguarded, you knew you were falling deeper, with no shore in sight.

You and Sunghoon remained on the quiet stretch of beach, your blanket a small island in the vast sand, the gummy worm bag now nearly empty between you. The air was cool, tinged with salt and the faint smokiness of the earlier fire, and your hoodie felt like a shield against both the breeze and the overwhelming reality of being alone with Park Sunghoon—your two-year crush, your brother’s best friend, and now, impossibly, someone who saw you as “real” and “cool.”

Your heart hadn’t stopped fluttering since the stargazing conversation, his words—“You’re different, in a good way”—etched into your mind like a constellation you’d never forget. The gummy worm toast, his soft laughter, the way his eyes lingered on you under the starlight—it was all too much, yet not enough. You wanted to bottle this moment, to keep it safe from the inevitable return to reality, but the night was slipping away, and with it, the fragile bubble you and Sunghoon had created.

Sunghoon sat beside you, his long legs stretched out, his hands braced in the sand behind him. His black cap was still tilted back, revealing his face, softened by the moonlight, his sharp features somehow gentler, more approachable. He was staring at the ocean, a faint smile playing on his lips, and you stole a glance, memorizing the way the silver light caught his profile. Soyeon and Sunoo’s “Operation Sunghoon” had worked better than you’d ever imagined, orchestrating this moment with their chaotic matchmaking, but now that you were here, alone with him, you felt both braver and more terrified than ever.

“Getting late,” Sunghoon said suddenly, his voice low and smooth, pulling you from your thoughts. He tilted his head toward you, his eyes catching yours in a way that made your breath hitch. “You cold? You’re all bundled up in that hoodie.”

You tugged at your sleeves, a nervous habit, and shook your head, though the breeze was starting to prickle your skin. “I’m okay. Just… don’t want the night to end, you know? It’s been… nice.” You cringed internally at the word nice, wishing you’d said something cooler, but his smile widened, easing your nerves.

“Yeah, it has,” he said, his tone soft, almost thoughtful. He sat up, brushing sand off his hands, and glanced at the hotel lights in the distance. “Sunoo and Soyeon probably think they’re masterminds right now, don’t they?”

You laughed, the sound louder than you expected in the quiet night. “Oh, absolutely. They’re probably high-fiving in the hotel lobby, thinking they’ve planned our entire love story. Sunoo called it ‘Operation Sunghoon,’ like it’s some kind of spy mission.”

Sunghoon chuckled, a deep, warm sound that sent a shiver through you, unrelated to the cold. “Operation Sunghoon? That’s… very them. Gotta give ‘em credit, though. They got us out here, stargazing and eating gummy worms like we’re in a drama.”

Your cheeks burned, and you looked down, tracing a finger through the sand. “Yeah, well, they’re relentless. Soyeon’s been on my case since I told her about… you know, liking you.” You froze, realizing what you’d just admitted, your heart lurching into your throat. You hadn’t meant to say that—not out loud, not to him. Your eyes widened, and you scrambled to cover it. “I mean, not liking liking, just, like, thinking you’re cool, you know, as Sunoo’s friend, and—”

Sunghoon’s soft laugh cut you off, and you dared to look at him, finding his expression gentle, not mocking. “It’s okay, Y/N,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost intimate. “I kinda figured. Sunoo’s not exactly subtle, and… I don’t mind. Really.”

Your world tilted, the waves sounding louder in your ears as you processed his words. He figured? He doesn’t mind? Your mind raced, trying to parse if that meant he was just being polite or if—impossibly—he felt something too. You swallowed, your voice barely steady. “You… figured?”

He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck, a hint of a flush on his cheeks visible even in the moonlight. “Yeah. Sunoo’s been dropping hints since forever. Like, ‘Oh, Y/N thinks your jump shot’s cool,’ or ‘Y/N was at your game last week.’ I thought it was just him being… Sunoo. But then today, with the gummy worms and the relay race, I started wondering if…” He trailed off, his eyes searching yours, like he was waiting for you to fill in the blank.

Your heart was a wildfire, blazing out of control. You wanted to say something brave, something that would match the courage Soyeon and Sunoo believed you had, but your voice came out small, hesitant. “Wondering if… what?”

He smiled, a shy, boyish smile that made him look less like the untouchable basketball star and more like someone you could know, could reach. “If maybe you thought I was cool too. Not just, like, Sunoo’s friend cool. But… me.”

You felt like you were floating, the sand and stars blurring around you. He was asking—asking—if you liked him, in his own quiet, Sunghoon way. You nodded, your throat tight with emotion. “Yeah,” you whispered, barely audible over the waves. “I think you’re… really cool. More than basketball star cool. Like… you cool.”

His smile grew, lighting up his face, and you felt a surge of warmth, like the stars had spilled into your chest. “Good,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “Because I think you’re pretty cool too. More than Sunoo’s sister cool.”

You laughed, the sound shaky but genuine, and for a moment, you just looked at each other, the night holding its breath around you. It wasn’t a confession, not yet, but it was close—a bridge built halfway, waiting for one of you to cross the rest. You felt braver than you ever had, buoyed by his words and the quiet magic of the Jeju night.

“Wanna walk a bit?” Sunghoon asked, standing and offering his hand to help you up. His fingers were warm, calloused from basketball but gentle, and you held on a second longer than necessary, your heart racing as you stood.

“Sure,” you said, your voice steadier now. You grabbed your beach bag, the gummy worms rattling softly, and fell into step beside him, heading toward the water’s edge where the sand was firm and cool underfoot. The hotel lights faded behind you, the beach stretching out in a silver ribbon under the moon.

You walked in comfortable silence at first, the waves a soothing soundtrack, your sneakers leaving faint prints in the sand. Sunghoon’s hands were in his pockets, his cap still tilted back, and you stole glances at him, marveling at how someone so familiar—Sunoo’s best friend, the boy you’d watched from the bleachers—could feel so new, so possible.

“So,” he said after a while, kicking at a small shell. “You said you used to make up stories about the stars. Got any left in you? Or is that just kid stuff now?”

You smiled, surprised he remembered. “Not just kid stuff. I still think about it sometimes, when things get… heavy. The stars make everything feel smaller, you know? Like my problems aren’t the whole universe.” You paused, glancing at him. “What about you? Still dreaming up game-winning shots?”

He chuckled, nodding. “All the time. But it’s not just shots anymore. Sometimes I think about… other stuff. Like, what comes after basketball. Where I want to go. Who I want to be with.” His voice softened on the last part, and he glanced at you, his eyes catching the moonlight.

Your breath caught, and you looked away, focusing on the waves to steady yourself. “Who do you want to be with?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, half-hoping he wouldn’t answer, half-praying he would.

He didn’t respond right away, and you felt the silence stretch, heavy with possibility. Then he stopped walking, turning to face you, and you halted too, your heart pounding so loud you were sure he could hear it. “Someone real,” he said finally, his voice steady but quiet. “Someone who doesn’t care about the basketball stuff, who just… gets me. Someone like…” He hesitated, his eyes searching yours, and you felt like you were standing on the edge of a cliff, the waves urging you to jump.

“Like you,” he finished, the words so soft they almost dissolved into the night.

Your world stopped. The stars, the waves, the sand—they all faded, leaving only Sunghoon, his gaze holding yours like an anchor. You wanted to say something, anything, but your throat was tight, your mind a whirlwind of he likes me he likes me he likes me. You opened your mouth, but all that came out was a shaky laugh, nervous and disbelieving.

“Me?” you managed, pointing to yourself like you needed clarification. “Like… me me?”

He laughed, a soft, relieved sound, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, you you. Is that… weird? I mean, I know you’re Sunoo’s sister, and we’ve only really talked today, but… I’ve noticed you before. At games, at school. You’re always… you. And I like that.”

Your heart was soaring, a comet streaking across the sky. He’d noticed you—before today, before the trip, before the gummy worms and stargazing. You felt dizzy, overwhelmed, but the good kind, like you were exactly where you were meant to be. “It’s not weird,” you said, your voice steadier now. “I… I’ve noticed you too. For, like, two years. Sunoo teases me about it all the time.”

His eyes widened, a mix of surprise and amusement. “Two years? And you didn’t say anything? You’re braver than me, keeping that quiet.”

You laughed, the sound bubbling up freely. “Brave? I was terrified. You’re, like, Park Sunghoon. Basketball star, everyone’s favorite. I was just… the girl in the bleachers.”

He stepped closer, the gap between you shrinking, and you felt the air shift, warm and electric. “You’re not just anything,” he said, his voice earnest. “You’re Y/N. And I’m just Sunghoon, you know? Not the basketball guy. Just… me.”

You nodded, your heart full, and for a moment, you just stood there, the waves lapping at your feet, the moon casting your shadows side by side. It wasn’t a kiss, not a grand declaration, but it was more—a confession, raw and real, the start of something neither of you could name yet.

“Should we head back?” he asked after a while, his voice reluctant, like he didn’t want to break the spell.

“Yeah,” you said, though you felt the same pull to stay. “Sunoo’s probably waiting to interrogate me.”

Sunghoon grinned, offering his hand again to pull you up the slight slope of sand. “He’s gonna lose it when he hears about this.”

You took his hand, your fingers intertwining naturally, and laughed. “Soyeon too. They’ll claim all the credit for ‘Operation Sunghoon.’”

“Let ‘em,” he said, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles as you walked back toward the hotel. “They’re not wrong.”

As you left footprints in the sand, side by side, you felt lighter than you ever had, the weight of your two-year crush lifting into something new—something shared. Day 2 was ending, but it felt like a beginning, and with Sunghoon’s hand in yours, you couldn’t wait to see what Day 3 would bring.

The Jeju morning greeted you with a soft golden light, filtering through the hotel room’s curtains and painting the walls in warm hues. Day 3 of the class trip had arrived, and with it, a flutter of anticipation that hadn’t left you since last night’s moonlit confession on the Seogwipo beach. Park Sunghoon’s words—“Someone like you”—echoed in your mind, each syllable a spark that kept you awake, staring at the ceiling until the early hours. He liked you. You liked him. The boy you’d pined for from the bleachers for two years, your brother’s best friend, had held your hand under the stars and called you real. It felt like a dream, but the faint sand still clinging to your sneakers and the half-empty gummy worm bag on your nightstand were proof it wasn’t.

You stood in front of the mirror, smoothing the light blue sundress Soyeon had insisted you pack, its hem swaying just above your knees. You’d paired it with comfortable sneakers for the day’s cultural village tour and a denim jacket for the morning chill, hoping the outfit struck the balance of cute but casual. Your hair was loose, catching the sunlight, and you adjusted the “sporty but flirty” baseball cap from the hike, now a talisman of good luck after yesterday’s breakthroughs. Soyeon, sprawled on her bed in a vibrant floral top and shorts, watched you with a smirk, her phone buzzing with notifications from the group chat.

“Y/N, you’re serving main character energy,” she said, popping a piece of gum into her mouth. “That dress is gonna make Sunghoon forget how to speak. After last night? You two are basically a K-drama waiting to happen.”

You flushed, tugging at the dress’s hem. “Soyeon, don’t jinx it. I’m still freaking out. He said he likes me, but what if he wakes up today and thinks it was a mistake? Or what if Sunoo ruins it by being… Sunoo?”

Soyeon sat up, pointing at you dramatically. “First, Sunghoon’s not the type to backtrack. Did you see how he looked at you last night? Like you were the only person on that beach. Second, Sunoo’s chaos is our secret weapon. He and I are the ultimate wingwoman-wingman duo, and we’re not letting you two fumble this. Operation Sunghoon is in its final phase: sealing the deal.”

You groaned, covering your face. “Sealing the deal sounds so intense. I just want to… talk to him again. Without tripping over my words or dying of nerves.”

She grinned, hopping off the bed and grabbing your shoulders. “You got this. You survived stargazing and hand-holding with Park Sunghoon. Today’s just a cute village tour—think handcrafted pottery, traditional houses, maybe some cheesy photo ops. Perfect for flirty vibes. And Sunoo’s gonna fill me in on the tea from last night, so we’ll keep the momentum going.”

As if on cue, a knock sounded at the door, and Sunoo’s voice boomed through. “Y/N! Soyeon! Breakfast’s almost over, and I’m not saving you any pancakes!” You opened the door to find your brother bouncing on his toes, his chubby cheeks dusted with powdered sugar, his bright yellow hoodie already stained with what looked like syrup. His eyes lit up when he saw you, and he grinned, clearly up to no good.

“Well, well, look at you, sis,” he said, wagging his eyebrows. “Dressed to impress a certain basketball star? I heard you and Hoon had a moment last night. Spill the tea, or I’m telling everyone you cried during the stargazing.”

You swatted his arm, your face burning. “Sunoo, I didn’t cry, and keep your voice down! How do you even know what happened? You were supposed to be getting hot chocolate!”

He smirked, leaning against the doorframe. “I have my sources. Okay, fine, Hoon didn’t say much, but he was all smiley when he got back to our room, and that’s basically a neon sign. Plus, Jake saw you two holding hands, so the group chat’s been wild. Soyeon, you’re slacking on the updates.”

Soyeon gasped, grabbing her phone. “Jake snitched? That traitor! I’m catching up now. Y/N, you’re famous. But seriously, Sunoo, what’s the vibe with Sunghoon? Is he, like, planning his wedding or just quietly simping?”

You groaned, dragging them both toward the hallway. “Can we not do this right now? I’m starving, and I need coffee before you two dissect my entire life.”

Sunoo laughed, falling into step beside you, his arm slung around your shoulders. “Fine, but I’m proud of you, sis. You went from bleacher girl to beach confession queen. And don’t worry—Soyeon and I are gonna make sure today’s just as epic. The cultural village is perfect for cute couple moments. Picture it: you and Hoon trying pottery, sharing tteokbokki, maybe stealing glances under a hanok roof.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your smile. “You’re ridiculous. And we’re not a couple. We just… talked. About liking each other. That’s it.”

Soyeon and Sunoo exchanged a look, their grins identical. “For now,” Soyeon said, winking. “Give us a few hours.”

The hotel dining hall was buzzing with students, the clatter of trays and chatter filling the air. You grabbed a plate of pancakes and a coffee, scanning the room nervously. Sunghoon was at a table with Jake and a few teammates, his black cap back on, a hoodie layered over a simple tee. He looked tired but relaxed, laughing at something Jake said, and your heart did its usual flip at the sight of his smile. As if sensing you, he glanced up, his eyes meeting yours across the room. His smile softened, and he gave a small wave, the gesture so subtle it felt like a secret just for you.

You waved back, your cheeks warming, and Soyeon nudged you toward a nearby table. “See? He’s already smitten. Go sit with us, but don’t stare too hard—he might combust.”

Sunoo snorted, piling his plate with fruit. “Hoon’s tough, but yeah, he’s got it bad. I caught him humming this morning, which is, like, next-level for him. You’re welcome, by the way.”

You sank into a chair, trying to focus on your pancakes, but your mind was on Sunghoon’s wave, his smile, the promise of today’s tour. The itinerary included a visit to a traditional Jeju folk village, with hanok houses, craft workshops, and cultural performances. It sounded charming, but all you could think about was how to act around Sunghoon now that you’d both admitted your feelings. Would it be awkward? Flirty? Would he hold your hand again?

The bus ride to the village was loud, with students singing off-key pop songs and teachers shushing them half-heartedly. You sat with Soyeon, Sunoo a row ahead with Jake, and Sunghoon near the back with his teammates. You caught his eye once when you turned to grab your water bottle, and he smiled, a quiet reassurance that made your nerves settle. Soyeon, ever the strategist, whispered, “Play it cool on the bus. Save the flirty stuff for the village. Sunoo’s gonna make sure you two end up in the same group for activities.”

You nodded, your stomach a mix of butterflies and dread. “What’s he planning? If it’s another public stunt, I’m hiding in a hanok and never coming out.”

She grinned, patting your hand. “Nothing public. Just some subtle group arranging. Trust the wingwoman-wingman team. We’re pros.”

The folk village was nestled in a lush valley, its thatched-roof hanoks surrounded by stone walls and blooming wildflowers. The air smelled of earth and straw, with a faint sweetness from nearby tteok stalls. The class gathered for a brief orientation, the guide explaining the village’s history and the day’s activities: a pottery workshop, a traditional tea ceremony, and free time to explore. You barely listened, your eyes drifting to Sunghoon, who stood with Sunoo and Jake, his hands in his pockets, his cap casting a shadow over his face. He glanced your way, and you looked down, your heart racing.

“Okay, let’s split into groups!” the guide announced, and Sunoo sprang into action, his voice carrying over the crowd. “Yo, I’m teaming up with Hoon, Jake, Y/N, and Soyeon! We’re the pottery pros, right?” He winked at you, his grin so blatant you wanted to throttle him, but the guide nodded, oblivious to his scheming.

Soyeon nudged you, whispering, “Told you. Sunoo’s a genius.”

You fell into step with the group, Sunghoon walking beside Sunoo, who was chattering about wanting to make a “masterpiece” pot. Jake was teasing him, saying it’d look like a lumpy dumpling, while Soyeon hung back with you, giving you a knowing look. Sunghoon glanced over his shoulder, slowing his pace until he was next to you, his arm brushing yours as you walked the stone path.

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft, almost shy. “Sleep okay after last night?”

Your heart skipped, and you nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah, mostly. Kept thinking about… stuff. You?”

He smiled, a small, private one that made your chest tighten. “Same. Took me a while to wind down. Sunoo kept grilling me about what we talked about, but I dodged most of it.”

You laughed, imagining Sunoo’s relentless interrogation. “He’s the worst. He tried to get details from me too, but I threatened to eat his gummy worms, so he backed off.”

Sunghoon chuckled, his eyes crinkling. “Smart move. Gotta protect those worms at all costs.”

The pottery workshop was in a shaded courtyard, with wooden tables covered in clay and tools. The instructor, a cheerful woman in a hanbok, demonstrated how to shape the clay on the wheel, her hands steady and practiced. You sat at a table with your group, each of you given a lump of clay to work with. Sunoo immediately made a mess, his clay flying everywhere, while Jake’s looked like a deflated balloon. Soyeon was surprisingly focused, her tongue sticking out as she shaped a small bowl.

You and Sunghoon shared a wheel, sitting side by side, your knees almost touching under the table. His presence was warm, grounding, and you felt hyper-aware of every movement—his fingers pressing into the clay, the way his forearm flexed as he centered it on the wheel. You tried to focus on your own clay, but it kept slipping, turning into a wobbly mess.

“Having trouble?” Sunghoon asked, his voice teasing but kind. He leaned closer, his shoulder brushing yours, and you felt a jolt of electricity.

“Uh, yeah,” you admitted, laughing nervously. “This clay hates me. It’s staging a rebellion.”

He grinned, wiping a smudge of clay off his hand. “Here, let me help. You gotta keep it steady.” He reached over, his hands guiding yours to the clay, his touch gentle but firm. His fingers overlapped yours, pressing lightly to center the lump, and the wheel hummed softly as the clay began to take shape. You barely breathed, your heart pounding from his closeness, the warmth of his hands, the faint scent of his cologne mixed with clay.

“Like this,” he said, his voice low, his breath tickling your ear. “Slow and steady. You’re doing great.”

You nodded, too flustered to speak, your hands trembling under his. The clay started to form a shallow bowl, imperfect but recognizable, and you felt a surge of pride. “Wow, it’s actually working,” you said, glancing at him, your faces so close you could see the flecks of brown in his eyes.

He smiled, his gaze lingering. “Told you. You’re a natural.”

Soyeon, across the table, caught your eye and mouthed, Smooth, her grin practically audible. Sunoo, meanwhile, was making exaggerated heart eyes, which Jake promptly ruined by flicking clay at him. You laughed, the tension easing, but Sunghoon’s hands stayed on yours a moment longer before he pulled back, leaving your skin tingling.

The rest of the workshop was a blur of laughter and clay disasters—Sunoo’s “masterpiece” collapsed into a pancake, and Jake’s somehow ended up with a hole in the bottom. You and Sunghoon’s bowl wasn’t perfect, but the instructor praised its “rustic charm,” and you felt a quiet thrill at having created something together. As you washed the clay off your hands at a nearby basin, Sunghoon stood beside you, his shoulder brushing yours again.

“Not bad for a first try,” he said, shaking water off his hands. “We make a good team.”

Your heart fluttered, and you smiled, drying your hands on your jacket. “Yeah, we do. Maybe we should start a pottery business instead of basketball.”

He laughed, the sound warm and bright. “Deal. But I’m keeping the gummy worms as our logo.”

The group moved to the tea ceremony next, held in a hanok with sliding paper doors and tatami mats. You knelt beside Sunghoon, the low table set with delicate ceramic cups and a steaming teapot. The instructor explained the ritual, her movements precise as she poured the tea, but you were distracted by Sunghoon’s quiet presence, the way his knee rested close to yours, his fingers tapping lightly on the mat. When the tea was served, he passed you a cup, his fingers brushing yours, and you felt that familiar spark, like a star igniting.

“Thanks,” you murmured, meeting his eyes. He smiled, a small, secret one, and you sipped the tea, its warmth spreading through you, though you suspected the heat was more from him than the drink.

Soyeon and Sunoo kept the group lively, cracking jokes about the tea’s bitterness, but you caught them exchanging glances, clearly pleased with your proximity to Sunghoon. During the free time that followed, you wandered the village’s winding paths, exploring stone-walled alleys and craft stalls. Sunoo insisted on buying matching keychains shaped like tteok skewers, claiming they were “team spirit” souvenirs, and Soyeon dragged Jake into a photo booth for silly hanbok pictures. You and Sunghoon trailed behind, sharing a stick of tteok from a vendor, your fingers brushing as you passed it back and forth.

“This is good,” Sunghoon said, chewing thoughtfully. “Better than gummy worms.”

You gasped, mock-offended. “Take that back. Nothing’s better than gummy worms.”

He grinned, nudging your shoulder. “Okay, fine. Tied for first.”

As you walked past a hanok with a blooming persimmon tree, Sunghoon stopped, pulling out his phone. “Hold up,” he said, gesturing to the tree. “That’s a good shot. Stand there—I’ll take your picture.”

You blinked, surprised. “Me? I’m not good at posing.”

“You don’t need to pose,” he said, his voice soft. “Just… be you.”

Your cheeks warmed, and you stepped under the tree, the orange persimmons glowing against the blue sky. You tucked your hair behind your ear, smiling shyly, and Sunghoon snapped a few photos, his expression focused, almost tender. When he lowered his phone, he looked at the screen, then at you, his smile growing. “Perfect.”

“Let me see,” you said, stepping closer. He tilted the phone, showing you the photo—your smile bright, the tree framing you like a painting. “Wow,” you murmured. “You’re good at this.”

“Nah,” he said, pocketing his phone. “You just make it easy.”

Your heart soared, and you walked on, the village paths feeling like a dreamscape, every glance between you a silent promise. Soyeon and Sunoo’s matchmaking had set the stage, but this—Sunghoon’s quiet attention, his gentle words—was all him, and you felt yourself falling deeper, the slowburn igniting into something undeniable.

The Jeju sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving a canvas of deep indigo and scattered stars over the Seogwipo beach. The final evening of the class trip—Day 3—had arrived, and with it, a bittersweet ache that settled in your chest. The day had been a whirlwind of warmth and wonder: the cultural village tour, the pottery wheel where Sunghoon’s hands guided yours, the tea ceremony where his knee brushed yours, the persimmon tree photo where he’d called you perfect. Each moment with Park Sunghoon, your two-year crush and now something more, felt like a star plucked from the sky and pressed into your palm—a fragile, glowing treasure you weren’t sure you could keep. But tonight, at the final campfire, you felt the weight of the trip’s end, the looming return to reality, and the question of what this—whatever it was between you and Sunghoon—would become.

The campfire roared at the heart of the beach, its golden flames casting flickering shadows across the circle of students sprawled on blankets and logs. The air was rich with the smoky scent of burning wood, mingled with the salty tang of the ocean and the sweet, sticky aroma of roasted marshmallows. Laughter and chatter filled the night, some classmates singing off-key K-pop hits while others passed around snacks, their voices bright against the rhythmic crash of waves. You sat on a thick blanket, your denim jacket pulled tight against the evening chill, your sneakers dusted with sand from the day’s adventures. Your beach bag rested beside you, the gummy worm bag now a talisman of your moments with Sunghoon, though you’d restocked it at a village stall to keep the magic alive.

Soyeon was next to you, cross-legged and munching on a s’more, her floral top smudged with chocolate. Her eyes glinted with mischief as she leaned closer, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Y/N, you’re practically radiating love vibes. That village tour? The pottery? The photo? I’m calling it now—you and Sunghoon are the trip’s official couple. Sunoo and I deserve a medal for Operation Sunghoon.”

You flushed, tugging your jacket’s sleeves over your hands. “Soyeon, we’re not a couple. We just… talked. And, you know, held hands. And maybe flirted a little. But it’s not official or anything. I’m still freaking out that he even likes me.”

She rolled her eyes, licking marshmallow off her fingers. “Not official? Y/N, he took your picture under a persimmon tree and said you were perfect. He guided your hands on a pottery wheel like it was a scene from Ghost. If that’s not couple energy, I don’t know what is. And tonight’s the final campfire—perfect for sealing the deal. Sunoo and I are ready to push you two into full-on K-drama territory.”

You groaned, burying your face in your knees. “Sealing the deal sounds terrifying. What if I mess it up? What if he’s just caught up in the Jeju magic and tomorrow he’s like, ‘Oops, never mind’?”

Soyeon nudged you, her grin softening. “He’s not gonna say that. You saw how he looked at you today—all soft and smitten. And Sunoo says he’s been smiley all day, which is, like, a Sunghoon world record. Trust the wingwoman-wingman team. We’re gonna make this campfire unforgettable.”

Before you could protest, Sunoo’s voice boomed across the circle, cutting through the chatter and guitar strums. “Alright, everyone, let’s crank up the vibes!” He stood on a log, his yellow hoodie glowing in the firelight, his chubby cheeks flushed with excitement and marshmallow sugar. He waved a stick like a conductor’s baton, his bubbly energy drawing every eye. “We’ve had an epic trip, so let’s end it with a bang. How about a talent show? Sing, dance, tell a story—whatever! Who’s first?”

The crowd cheered, some students shouting suggestions, others groaning playfully. You shot Soyeon a panicked look, knowing Sunoo’s “spontaneous” ideas were rarely unplanned. “This is his big move?” you whispered. “A talent show? How is this supposed to help me and Sunghoon?”

She smirked, popping another marshmallow into her mouth. “Just wait. Sunoo’s got a plan. He’s setting the stage for something romantic, I can feel it. Probably roping Sunghoon into it too. Watch the chaos unfold.”

Sunoo hopped off the log, scanning the circle with a grin. “Okay, I need volunteers! Jake, you’re up—show us that dance move you’ve been practicing!” Jake groaned but stood, earning cheers as he attempted a clumsy TikTok dance, tripping over the sand and sending everyone into hysterics. Sunoo clapped, then pointed across the fire. “Hoon! You’re next, man. Don’t hide that basketball flair—give us something cool!”

Your heart skipped. Sunghoon, sitting on a log with his teammates, raised an eyebrow, his black cap casting a shadow over his face. He was in a dark hoodie and jeans, the firelight catching the sharp angle of his jaw, and your chest tightened at the sight. “Me?” he said, his voice amused but hesitant. “I’m not exactly a talent show guy, Sunoo.”

Sunoo pouted, crossing his arms. “Come on, bestie! You owe me after I saved you from that vending machine yesterday. Just do a quick basketball trick or… I don’t know, charm us with your smile!” He wagged his eyebrows, glancing at you so blatantly you wanted to sink into the sand.

The group laughed, chanting Sunghoon’s name, and he shook his head, standing reluctantly. “Fine, but don’t expect much,” he said, grabbing a nearby beach ball someone had left on the sand. He spun it on his finger like a basketball, his movements smooth and practiced, then tossed it into the air, catching it behind his back with a flourish. The crowd cheered, and he gave a small, shy smile, his eyes flickering to you for a split second before he sat back down.

Your heart was a drum, pounding at that brief glance, his smile a spark that lit up the night. Soyeon nudged you, whispering, “See? He’s showing off for you. Sunoo’s a genius.”

Sunoo kept the talent show going, calling up classmates for off-key singing, dramatic poetry, and a surprisingly good breakdance from a quiet junior. Then, with a gleam in his eye, he turned to you. “Y/N! My amazing sister, it’s your turn! Show ‘em what you got!”

You froze, your face heating up as every eye turned to you. “Sunoo, no,” you hissed, shaking your head. “I don’t have a talent! I’m not performing!”

He grinned, undeterred, jogging over to pull you to your feet. “Come on, sis! You’re a storytelling queen. Tell us one of your star stories, like you told Hoon last night. Or sing something—anything!” He winked, his voice loud enough for Sunghoon to hear across the fire, and you wanted to strangle him.

“Soyeon, help,” you pleaded, but she was laughing too hard, clapping along with the crowd now chanting your name. Sunghoon was watching, his expression curious but warm, and you felt a surge of courage, fueled by his gaze and the memory of last night’s confession.

“Fine,” you said, standing and brushing sand off your shorts. “But I’m not singing. I’ll… tell a story. A short one.” The group quieted, the fire crackling softly, and you took a deep breath, your eyes flickering to Sunghoon, who leaned forward slightly, his attention fully on you.

“Once,” you began, your voice shaky but growing steadier, “there was a girl who lived under a sky full of stars. She loved them, but they felt so far away, like dreams she could never touch. One night, she met a boy who knew the stars by heart, who showed her how to trace their patterns and make them her own. He told her the stars weren’t distant—they were waiting for her to claim them. And for the first time, she believed she could.”

The crowd was silent, the story’s simplicity carrying a quiet magic. Sunghoon’s eyes never left yours, his smile soft and knowing, like he recognized himself in the boy, you in the girl. When you finished, the group clapped, some whistling, and Sunoo rushed over, hugging you dramatically. “That’s my sister!” he shouted, then whispered, “Nailed it. Hoon’s totally smitten.”

You sat back down, your face burning but your heart soaring. Soyeon leaned over, whispering, “That was for him, wasn’t it? You’re bolder than I thought. I’m obsessed.”

Before you could respond, Sunoo clapped his hands, drawing attention again. “Okay, talent show’s over, but let’s keep the vibes going! How about some marshmallow roasting and chill time? Grab a stick and get toasting!” He started passing out skewers, his energy infectious, but you caught him exchanging a look with Soyeon, their matchmaking radar clearly still active.

You grabbed a skewer, settling back on the blanket, and Sunghoon appeared beside you, a marshmallow already speared on his stick. “Mind if I join?” he asked, his voice low, a smile tugging at his lips.

Your heart flipped, and you scooted over, making room. “Not at all. Got any marshmallow-roasting tips, basketball star?”

He chuckled, holding his stick over the fire, the flame turning the marshmallow a soft gold. “Patience. Don’t rush it, or it’ll burn. Kinda like… other stuff.” His eyes met yours, the double meaning clear, and you felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire.

You roasted your marshmallow beside him, your shoulders brushing, the quiet between you comfortable but charged. Soyeon and Sunoo were across the fire, pretending to be engrossed in a debate about s’more ratios, but you knew they were watching, ready to pounce with their next scheme. When your marshmallow caught fire, you yelped, blowing it out, and Sunghoon laughed, offering you his perfectly toasted one.

“Here,” he said, holding it out. “Trade you for the burnt one. I like ‘em crispy.”

You grinned, swapping skewers, your fingers brushing his. “Deal. But you’re missing out—mine’s basically charcoal art.”

He took a bite of your burnt marshmallow, making a face but chewing gamely. “Not bad. You’re an artist.”

You laughed, nibbling his marshmallow, the sweetness melting on your tongue. “And you’re a liar. This is way better.”

The night deepened, the crowd thinning as some students headed to the hotel, but you and Sunghoon stayed, the fire’s glow a cocoon around you. Soyeon and Sunoo orchestrated another “exit,” with Sunoo claiming he needed to “check the vending machine” and dragging Soyeon and Jake along, leaving you two alone again. You shot them a look, their grins unapologetic as they vanished into the shadows.

Sunghoon leaned back on his hands, the firelight dancing in his eyes. “They’re not subtle at all, are they?” he said, echoing his words from last night, his tone teasing but warm.

“Nope,” you said, popping the last of the marshmallow into your mouth. “They’re probably planning our wedding right now. Sorry you got roped into Operation Sunghoon.”

He smiled, shaking his head. “I’m not sorry. This trip’s been… different as I told you. Better than I expected. Because of you.”

Your heart stopped, then raced, his words a spark that set your nerves alight. You met his gaze, the fire reflecting in his dark eyes, and felt that same pull from last night—like the stars were urging you closer. “Because of you too,” you said, your voice soft but steady. “I didn’t think… this could happen. You liking me back. It still feels like a dream.”

He shifted closer, his knee brushing yours, his voice low and earnest. “It’s not a dream, Y/N. I meant what I said last night. I like you. A lot. And I’m not just caught up in the Jeju magic. I’ve been noticing you for a while—way before this trip.”

Your breath caught, the world narrowing to just him, the fire, the waves. “Really? Since when?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, a shy smile breaking through. “Since that game last year, when you were in the bleachers with Sunoo, cheering even though we lost. You were so… real. Not like everyone else, trying to impress me. Just… you. I kept looking for you at games after that.”

Your heart was a firework, bursting with light. He’d noticed you a year ago? While you were pining, scribbling his name in your notebook, he’d been watching too? “I had no idea,” you whispered, smiling. “I was too busy trying not to faint every time you looked my way.”

He laughed, the sound warm and bright, and leaned closer, his shoulder against yours. “Guess we’re both good at hiding stuff. But… I don’t want to hide anymore. I want to see where this goes. If you do too.”

You nodded, your throat tight with emotion. “I do. I really do.”

His smile was radiant, and he reached for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours, warm and steady. “Good,” he said, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. “Let’s figure it out together. No more bleachers, no more schemes. Just us.”

You squeezed his hand, the stars above brighter than ever, the campfire’s embers a mirror of the warmth in your chest. The trip was ending, but this—this was just beginning. Soyeon and Sunoo’s Operation Sunghoon had worked, not because of their chaos, but because of you and Sunghoon, two dreamers finding each other under the Jeju sky.

The Jeju morning was soft and fleeting, the island’s golden sunlight filtering through the hotel’s lobby windows as students dragged their suitcases across the tiled floor, their voices a mix of tired yawns and lingering excitement. Day 3 had ended in a blaze of firelight and confessions, with Park Sunghoon’s hand in yours and his promise—“Let’s figure it out together”—etched into your heart like a star carved in sand.

You stood near the lobby’s glass doors, your suitcase at your feet, wearing a comfy hoodie and jeans, your baseball cap tucked into your backpack. The light blue sundress from yesterday was folded carefully in your bag, a memento of the village tour and Sunghoon’s soft gaze. Your beach bag, now slung over your shoulder, held the gummy worm bag—restocked and ready for future moments—and the tteok skewer keychain Sunoo had insisted you keep as a “team spirit” souvenir. Soyeon was beside you, her floral top swapped for a sweatshirt, her hair in a messy bun as she scrolled through photos on her phone, narrating the trip’s highlights with a grin.

“Y/N, look at this,” she said, shoving her phone under your nose. It was a candid shot from the campfire—you and Sunghoon on the blanket, his hand brushing yours as you swapped marshmallows, his smile soft in the firelight. “I’m framing this for your wedding. Operation Sunghoon’s crowning glory, courtesy of your wingwoman.”

You flushed, swatting her arm. “Soyeon, stop planning my wedding. We’re not even… you know, official. We just said we like each other. I’m still processing that he noticed me a year ago.”

She smirked, pocketing her phone. “Not official yet. But after that hand-holding, marshmallow-sharing, ‘I’ve been noticing you’ confession? You’re halfway there. And don’t worry—Sunoo and I aren’t retiring yet. We’ll make sure you two keep the vibes going back at school.”

You groaned, but your heart raced at the thought of seeing Sunghoon in the hallways, at games, maybe even outside of school. “You two are gonna be unbearable, aren’t you? I’m begging you, no public stunts. I can’t handle another talent show.”

Soyeon laughed, slinging an arm around you. “No promises, but we’ll keep it chill. Maybe just… subtle nudges. Like making sure you sit together on the bus. Speaking of, where’s our wingman?”

As if summoned, Sunoo burst through the lobby doors, his yellow hoodie a beacon of chaos, his chubby cheeks dusted with breakfast crumbs. He was dragging his suitcase, which looked ready to burst, and waving a half-eaten croissant. “Y/N! Soyeon! Hurry up, the bus is loading, and I’m not sitting next to Jake again—he snores like a lawnmower!” His eyes lit up when he saw you, and he jogged over, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “So, sis, how’s our favorite basketball star? Still floating after last night’s campfire magic?”

Your face burned, and you shoved him lightly. “Sunoo, keep it down! And yes, it was… nice. But don’t make it weird. I’m already nervous about seeing him today.”

He grinned, undeterred, adjusting his hoodie. “Nice? Sis, you held hands under the stars and basically confessed your souls. That’s epic. Hoon was all quiet and smiley this morning, which is, like, his version of screaming from the rooftops. I told him you’re sitting together on the bus, by the way.”

You gaped, panic rising. “You what? Sunoo, you can’t just—”

“Relax,” he said, waving a hand. “I said it casually, like, ‘Yo, Hoon, keep Y/N company on the bus, she’s cool.’ He just nodded and smiled, so it’s all good. Soyeon, back me up.”

Soyeon nodded, her grin wicked. “Genius move, wingman. The bus ride’s perfect for cute, lowkey moments. Y/N, just share your gummies and maybe lean on his shoulder if you ‘fall asleep.’ Classic rom-com stuff.”

You buried your face in your hands, muttering, “I’m disowning both of you.”

The bus was a familiar chaos, students piling in with bags and snacks, teachers counting heads and shushing the louder groups. You boarded with Soyeon and Sunoo, your heart pounding as you scanned for Sunghoon. He was near the back, his black cap low, earbuds in, looking out the window. His hoodie was the same one from the campfire, and the sight of it brought back the memory of his hand in yours, his voice saying, “No more bleachers.” Sunoo nudged you forward, whispering, “Go get your man,” and you shot him a glare before taking a deep breath and heading down the aisle.

“Hey,” you said, stopping by his seat, your voice shakier than you wanted. “Is this… free?”

Sunghoon looked up, pulling out an earbud, his smile soft and immediate. “Yeah, saved it for you.” He scooted closer to the window, patting the seat beside him, and your heart did a somersault.

You slid in, your backpack on your lap, the faint hum of the bus engine mixing with the chatter around you. Soyeon and Sunoo took seats a few rows ahead, Soyeon giving you a subtle thumbs-up before turning to tease Jake about his snoring. Sunghoon tucked his earbuds away, his knee brushing yours as he shifted, and you felt that familiar spark, like a star igniting.

“Ready to leave Jeju?” he asked, his voice low, just for you, his eyes warm in the morning light filtering through the window.

You sighed, glancing out at the island’s green hills fading in the distance. “Not really. This trip’s been… unreal. I don’t want it to end.”

He nodded, his gaze lingering on you. “Me neither. It’s been… different. Good different.” He paused, then added, softer, “Because of you.”

Your cheeks warmed, and you ducked your head, fiddling with your backpack’s zipper. “Same. I mean, you made it… special. Not just the basketball star stuff. Just… you.”

He smiled, a shy, boyish one that made your heart flip. “Good. I was hoping I didn’t mess it up. I’m not exactly… great at this.” He gestured vaguely between you, his ears pink.

You laughed, the sound easing your nerves. “You’re doing fine. Better than me. I was a mess the whole trip, thanks to Sunoo and Soyeon’s schemes.”

He chuckled, leaning closer, his shoulder brushing yours. “They’re something else. But… I’m glad they pushed us. I might’ve stayed in my bubble otherwise. Missed out on… this.”

Your heart raced, his words a quiet promise. You reached into your beach bag, pulling out the gummy worms, a reflex to fill the charged silence. “Want one? For old times’ sake?”

He grinned, taking a red and yellow worm, holding it up like a toast. “To Jeju. And… to us.”

You clinked your worm against his, laughing. “To us.”

The bus ride passed in a blur of quiet moments—sharing gummies, trading stories about the trip, stealing glances that felt like secrets. At one point, the bus hit a bump, and you swayed into him, your head brushing his shoulder. You froze, but he just smiled, tilting his shoulder closer, an unspoken invitation. You leaned against him, your heart pounding, the warmth of his hoodie a comfort against the bus’s hum. Soyeon glanced back, smirking, but you ignored her, lost in the simple, perfect closeness.

At the airport, the class shuffled through check-in and security, the chaos of travel pulling you apart from Sunghoon as he joined his teammates to handle their bags. You stood with Soyeon and Sunoo, your mind still on the bus ride, the gummy worm toast, his shoulder against yours.

“He’s so into you,” Soyeon said, adjusting her backpack. “That bus seat thing? Pure boyfriend energy. What’s the plan for school? You two gonna be all cute in the halls?”

You flushed, shaking your head. “I don’t know. We didn’t, like, define anything. I’m just… hoping it doesn’t fizzle out.”

Sunoo slung an arm around you, his grin wide. “Fizzle? Sis, Hoon’s been crushing on you for a year. He’s not fizzling. Just keep being your adorable self. And maybe invite him to get boba or something. I’ll help you plan it.”

You groaned, but smiled, grateful for their support, even if it came with chaos. “No schemes, Sunoo. I mean it.”

He winked, unrepentant. “We’ll see.”

On the plane, you lucked out with a seat next to Sunghoon, thanks to Sunoo’s “casual” rearrangement during boarding. The flight was short, but every moment felt precious—his arm brushing yours on the armrest, the way he offered you his earbud to listen to his playlist, a mix of chill lo-fi and upbeat K-pop. When the plane hit turbulence, you gripped the armrest, and he covered your hand with his, his touch steady and warm.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice soft, his eyes searching yours.

“Yeah,” you said, squeezing his hand. “Thanks to you.”

He smiled, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles, and you felt like you were still on Jeju, under the stars, his words—“Just us”—a lifeline.

Back at school’s parking lot, the trip officially over, students hugged and exchanged numbers, the air buzzing with post-trip energy. You stood with your suitcase, Soyeon and Sunoo nearby, as Sunghoon approached, his cap low, his backpack slung over one shoulder. The evening light cast long shadows, and your heart raced, unsure how to say goodbye after everything.

“So,” he said, stopping in front of you, his hands in his pockets. “Back to reality, huh?”

You nodded, smiling softly. “Yeah. Kinda weird without the beach and gummy worms.”

He chuckled, glancing down, then back at you, his gaze warm but nervous. “We don’t have to lose the gummy worms. Or… the rest of it. You free this weekend? Maybe we could… hang out. Get boba or something.”

Your heart soared, a firework bursting in your chest. He was asking you out—out, like a date, like a continuation of Jeju. “Yeah,” you said, your voice bright. “I’d love that.”

His smile was radiant, relief and joy in his eyes. “Cool. I’ll text you. Sunoo’s got my number, so… no escaping me now.”

You laughed, feeling lighter than ever. “No escaping you, huh? I’m okay with that.”

Soyeon and Sunoo, watching from a few feet away, high-fived dramatically, their grins unapologetic.

"Mission Sunghoon: SUCCESSFUL!" Soyeon yelled out, doing a quick dab.

Sunoo called out, “Get a room, you two!” and you shot him a glare, your face burning, but Sunghoon just laughed, unfazed.

As he walked off with Jake, turning to wave one last time, you stood with Soyeon and Sunoo, the trip’s magic lingering in the air. Operation Sunghoon had been a chaotic, ridiculous success, but it was Sunghoon’s quiet smiles, his steady hand, his promise of us that made your heart sing. Jeju was over, but you and Sunghoon were just beginning, a new story waiting to unfold under the same stars.

@heesvnqie | Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or repost any of my work

TAGLIST:-

@slutofpsh

@laurenalpha123

@dreamiestay

@amortenha

@peonywon

@mitmit01

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@yourmomni

@leov3rse

@punchbug9-blog

@rosepetals09 @casualtreatynightmare @yenienha @hopetiger10

[heesvnqie]

Under The Same Stars-Trailer// Park Sunghoon

pairing: park sunghoon x f!reader genre: brother's bestfriend, fluff, slowburn romance, high school au warnings: suggestive themes (flirty banter, sensual tension, close proximity), mild language, overwhelming romantic tension Release date: 25 July 2025

XOXO

Y/N has harbored a secret two-year crush on Park Sunghoon, her high school’s basketball star and her brother Sunoo’s best friend, her heart fluttering from the bleachers as she sketches his jersey number in her notebook.

When a class trip to Jeju ignites unexpected sparks—shared gummy worms on a moonlit beach, hands entwined over a pottery wheel, and a confession that Sunghoon has noticed her for a year—her quiet pining evolves into a slowburn romance.

Fueled by her bold best friend Soyeon and chaotic wingman Sunoo’s matchmaking antics in their Operation Sunghoon, Y/N navigates flirty moments: stargazing confessions, a bus ride with lingering touches, and Sunghoon’s promise to hang out post-trip.

"Under The Same Stars" weaves a high school tale of courage, chaos, and simmering tension, leaving Y/N and Sunghoon teetering on the edge of something beyond dreams.

XOXO

@heesvnqie | Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or repost any of my work

TAGLIST:-

@slutofpsh

@laurenalpha123

@dreamiestay

@amortenha

@peonywon

@mitmit01

@heeevangelizesme

@gvni-eve

@yourmomni @casualtreatynightmare

@leov3rse

@punchbug9-blog

@rosepetals09 @yenienha

[heesvnqie]

Bad Desire- Lee Heeseung

pairing: lee heeseung x f!reader genre: stepbrother x reader ,smut, angst, romance warnings: stepcest, explicit content, nsfw, forbidden romance, strong language, eventual unprotected sex (wrap it up irl!), slight exhibitionism, slow-burn tension word count: 15k a/n: y’all, this one’s for the heeseung stans!

The late summer heat pressed against the floor-to-ceiling windows of your mother’s sprawling penthouse apartment, high above the city’s restless pulse. The air conditioning hummed softly, keeping the vast space cool, but you still felt a sticky warmth under your skin, born more of nerves than the weather.

At nineteen, you’d lived in this place for three years, ever since your mother’s promotion landed you both in this luxurious, almost too-big home. The penthouse was a world of its own—open-plan living with sleek hardwood floors, a modern kitchen with a marble island, and a living room that flowed into a terrace overlooking the skyline. Your bedroom, tucked down a long hallway, was your sanctuary, but even that felt less safe today.

You curled up on the plush sectional sofa, your knees drawn up under an oversized pastel blue hoodie that dwarfed your small frame. Your dark hair was loose, falling in soft waves over your shoulders, and your worn sneakers were tucked beneath you.

You weren’t the type to draw attention—quiet, a little awkward, the kind of girl who’d rather fade into the background than stand out. At school, you kept your head down, and at your part-time job at the bookstore, you preferred shelving over small talk. But you had a stubborn streak, a quiet strength that surfaced when you needed it, like a spark in the dark. And today, you needed it.

Your mother, Elise, had raised you alone since you were five, when your father left without a word. His absence was a shadow you’d grown used to, a vague ache you didn’t dwell on. Elise was your hero—resilient, a nurse practitioner who’d climbed her way to a senior role, earning enough to move you both into this penthouse. Lately, though, she’d been different. Softer, lighter, like a weight had lifted.

You knew why: Minho Kim, the man she’d met at a hospital gala over a year ago. Minho was a widower, a single father with a son your age, and their relationship had worked out perfectly. Now, they were serious—serious enough that Minho and his son were moving into your penthouse. Today.

The thought made your stomach knot. You weren’t good with strangers, and the idea of sharing this massive apartment—your home—with two new people felt like an invasion. The penthouse was big, with four bedrooms, three bathrooms, and enough space that you could avoid them if you tried. But still, it was your space, your routine, and now it was changing.

You’d seen Minho a few times—polite, warm, unthreatening—but his son, Heeseung, was a mystery. Your mother had mentioned him in passing: nineteen, “a bit of a handful” but “charming when he wants to be.” It didn’t help your nerves.

You toyed with the drawstrings of your hoodie, glancing at the glass coffee table where your phone sat, screen dark. It was 6:45 p.m. They’d be here soon. Your mother was in the kitchen, humming as she prepped dinner, her excitement palpable. You wanted to be happy for her—she deserved this, deserved love—but all you felt was a quiet dread, like you were losing something you couldn’t name.

“Y/N!” your mother called, her voice bright. “Can you get the door? They’re almost here!”

You froze, your heart lurching. The intercom hadn’t buzzed yet, but you stood slowly, smoothing your hoodie and brushing your hair behind your ears. You weren’t bold or confident, just a normal girl trying to hold it together. Taking a shaky breath, you padded across the hardwood to the foyer, your sneakers soft against the polished floor.

The intercom buzzed, sharp and jarring, and you jumped, pressing a hand to your chest. “Get it together,” you muttered, pressing the button. “Hello?”

“Elise? It’s Minho,” came a warm, familiar voice. “We’re in the lobby.”

“Come up,” you said, your voice quieter than you meant. You buzzed them in, stepping back to wait by the door. Your palms were clammy, and you wiped them on your jeans, glancing around the foyer. The penthouse’s grandeur—high ceilings, modern chandelier, abstract art on the walls—felt oddly stifling now, like it was too big for you to handle alone.

The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open. Minho stepped out first, carrying a suitcase and a cardboard box, his dark hair neatly combed. He smiled, his eyes crinkling, and you felt a small wave of relief. He was kind, at least. “Y/N,” he said, setting the box down. “Thanks for having us. This place is… wow.”

You managed a small smile, tucking your hands into your hoodie pocket. “Yeah, it’s… big. Um, no problem.” Your voice was soft, but you met his gaze, trying not to seem as nervous as you felt.

Minho turned, gesturing behind him. “This is my son, Heeseung.”

Your breath hitched, and the world seemed to narrow. Lee Heeseung stepped out of the elevator, and he was… overwhelming. Tall, lean, with dark hair falling messily over his forehead, he moved with a predatory grace that made the foyer feel smaller. His black leather jacket was open, revealing a black shirt that hugged his chest slight, and his ripped jeans clung to his long legs. His lips curled into a smirk, slow and deliberate, and his eyes—dark, sharp, and unnervingly intense—locked onto you like a hunter sizing up prey.

“Hey, Y/N,” he drawled, his voice low and smooth, laced with a dark amusement that sent a shiver down your spine. He stepped closer, his boots scuffing the floor, and the air shifted, heavy with his presence. His gaze roamed over you—slowly, shamelessly, from your sneakers to your hoodie to the nervous flush creeping up your neck. It wasn’t just a look; it was invasive, like he was peeling back your layers, and it made your skin burn.

“H-Hi,” you stammered, hating how your voice wavered. You clasped your hands behind your back, trying to steady yourself, but your heart was racing, and a strange warmth was pooling in your core, startling and unwanted. Heeseung’s smirk deepened, like he could sense it, and you felt exposed in a way you’d never experienced.

Your mother appeared, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her smile radiant. “Minho! Heeseung! You’re here!” She hugged Minho, then turned to Heeseung, who gave her a polite nod but kept his eyes on you, that smirk never fading. “Y/N, can you show Heeseung his room? It’s down the hall from yours. Dinner’s almost ready.”

His room. Next to yours. The penthouse was big, but the thought of Heeseung sleeping so close sent a flutter through you, half fear, half something you didn’t want to name. You nodded quickly, avoiding his gaze. “Okay. Well, this way.”

You turned, leading him down the long hallway, your footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. The penthouse’s layout was sprawling, with high ceilings and modern art lining the walls, but with Heeseung behind you, it felt claustrophobic. You could feel him—his steady stride, the faint rustle of his jacket, the way his presence seemed to eat up the space. He didn’t say anything, but you swore you heard a low chuckle, so soft it might’ve been your imagination.

The hallway stretched on, passing guest rooms and a bathroom, until you reached the two bedrooms at the end. You pushed open the door to his room, stepping aside. It was spacious, with a queen bed, a sleek desk, and a massive window with a view of the city’s twinkling lights. A walk-in closet and en-suite bathroom made it feel like a hotel suite. “This is yours,” you said, your voice soft but steady. “It’s… nice, I guess.”

Heeseung brushed past you, his arm grazing yours, and the brief contact sent a jolt through you, warm and electric. He dropped his backpack by the bed, turning to lean against the desk, his arms crossed casually. “Nice? This is a fucking palace,” he said, his voice low and teasing, but there was a dirty edge to it, like he was testing you. His eyes flicked over you again, lingering on your lips, then lower, and you felt that warmth again, spreading, making your thighs clench instinctively.

You shifted, crossing your arms like a shield, trying to ignore the way your body was reacting. “Yeah, well, the penthouse is… big. You’ll have space.” Your voice was quieter than you meant, and you hated how nervous you sounded.

Heeseung pushed off the desk, taking a slow step closer, and you backed up, your shoulder brushing the doorframe. “Big, huh?” he murmured, his smirk turning darker, more predatory. “Good. Means we can… spread out.” The way he said it, low and deliberate, made it sound filthy, and you felt a rush of heat between your legs, embarrassing and overwhelming. Your breath hitched, and Heeseung’s eyes glinted, like he knew exactly what he’d done to you.

“Um, the walls are kinda thin, though,” you said quickly, trying to regain control, but your voice shook. “So… don’t be too loud.”

Heeseung tilted his head, stepping even closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne—dark, spicy, intoxicating. “Oh, sweetheart,” he drawled, his voice dripping with something perverse, “I’m not the one who needs to worry about being loud.” He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear, and whispered, “Bet I could make you scream without even trying.”

Your knees wobbled, and you felt a slick warmth pooling in your underwear, a reaction so intense it shocked you. You pressed your thighs together, your face burning, and opened your mouth to say something—anything—but nothing came out. Heeseung straightened, his smirk wicked, his eyes roaming over your flushed face like he was savoring it.

“Dinner’s probably ready,” you mumbled, turning to flee, your heart pounding so hard you thought it might burst. You didn’t wait for his response, hurrying back down the hallway, but his low, dirty chuckle followed you, lingering like a promise.

As you reached the living room, your mother called out, oblivious to the storm brewing inside you. “Y/N, everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you lied, your voice tight. You sank back onto the couch, trying to calm your racing pulse, but all you could think about was Heeseung—his voice, his smirk, the way he’d made you feel with just a look and a few words. This penthouse was big, but it already felt too small with him in it.

The penthouse was too quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed against your ears, amplifying every small sound—the hum of the air conditioner, the distant clink of dishes in the kitchen, the faint buzz of the city far below.

It was the next evening, and your mother and Minho had left for a dinner date, their laughter fading as the elevator doors closed behind them. You were alone in the apartment. Well, almost alone. Heeseung was here, somewhere, and the thought made your skin prickle with a mix of nerves and something you couldn’t quite name.

You sat on the edge of the massive sectional sofa in the living room, your legs tucked under you, still wearing your usual armor: an oversized lavender hoodie and faded jeans. Your dark hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame your face. You were used to fading into the background, a quiet girl who preferred books to people and solitude to chaos. But there was no escaping the chaos Heeseung brought with him. Since he and Minho moved in yesterday, he’d been a constant presence in your thoughts, his smirks and whispered words lingering like a song you couldn’t shake.

The penthouse was a labyrinth of luxury—high ceilings, gleaming hardwood floors, and walls of glass that showcased the city’s glittering skyline. The open-plan living area flowed into a sleek kitchen with a marble island, and beyond that, a terrace with a view that could steal your breath.

Your bedroom was down a long hallway, next to Heeseung’s, a fact that kept you up last night, staring at the ceiling, hyper-aware of every sound from his room. A creak of his bed. A low hum of music. The faint thud of something dropped. You’d told yourself it was nothing, but your body hadn’t listened, your heart racing as you imagined him just a wall away.

Now, you were alone with him, and the penthouse felt smaller, the air thicker. You hugged your knees, trying to focus on the TV flickering with some mindless drama, but your mind kept drifting to Heeseung. His dark eyes, his wicked smirk, the way he’d leaned into you yesterday, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered, “Bet I could make you scream without even trying.” The memory sent a shiver through you, and you pressed your thighs together, horrified by the warmth pooling low in your stomach. You weren’t bold or confident—you were just… you. A normal girl who shouldn’t be feeling like this over her stepbrother, of all people.

The sound of footsteps snapped you out of your thoughts. You glanced up, and there he was, sauntering into the living room like he owned it. Heeseung was a vision of trouble—his dark hair messy, a black tank top clinging to his lean frame, and low-slung sweatpants that did nothing to hide the sharp lines of his hips. His bare feet padded softly against the hardwood, and his lips curved into that same dangerous smirk that had haunted you since yesterday.

“Didn’t expect to find you out here, sweetheart,” he said, his voice low and teasing, with that dirty edge that made your skin flush. He dropped onto the sofa, sprawling out just close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him. “Thought you’d be hiding in your room, avoiding me.”

You swallowed, your mouth suddenly dry. “I’m not hiding,” you said, your voice quieter than you meant, but there was a slight edge to it, a spark of defiance you didn’t even know you had. You shifted, putting a bit more space between you, but the couch was massive, and he still felt too close.

Heeseung raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening as he noticed your movement. “Sure you’re not,” he murmured, his eyes raking over you—slow, deliberate, taking in every inch of your curled-up form. “You look nervous, though. Something got you all… worked up?” His voice dropped lower, the last words dripping with insinuation, and you felt that traitorously warm sensation again, slick and embarrassing between your legs.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, too quickly, your cheeks burning. You hugged your knees tighter, hoping he couldn’t see how your body was betraying you. But Heeseung’s eyes were sharp, and his smirk told you he saw everything.

He leaned back, stretching his arms along the back of the sofa, his fingers brushing just close enough to your shoulder to make you tense. “Big place, huh?” he said, his tone casual but laced with something darker. “All this space, and it’s just you and me tonight.” He tilted his head, his gaze locking onto yours, and you felt like a mouse caught in a trap. “Kinda makes you wonder what we could get up to, doesn’t it?”

Your heart thudded, and you shifted again, trying to focus on the TV, but the screen was just a blur. “I’m just… watching TV,” you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper. You hated how small you sounded, how he made you feel so out of your depth. You weren’t used to guys like him—guys who looked at you like they could see right through you, who said things that made your body react in ways you didn’t understand.

Heeseung chuckled, low and dirty, the sound sending another shiver through you. “TV’s boring,” he said, scooting closer, just enough that his knee brushed yours. The contact was fleeting, but it was enough to make your breath hitch, the warmth in your core growing, making you squirm. “Bet I could find something way more fun to do.”

You shot him a look, your eyes narrowing despite the flush creeping up your neck. “Don’t,” you said, your voice firmer this time, though it still trembled. “You’re my stepbrother, Heeseung. This isn’t… we can’t…” You trailed off, unsure how to finish, your thoughts a jumbled mess.

His smirk didn’t falter, but his eyes darkened, a perverse glint in them that made your stomach flip. “Stepbrother, huh?” he drawled, leaning in just enough that you could smell his cologne—dark, spicy, overwhelming. “That just makes it more interesting, doesn’t it, sweetheart?” He paused, letting the words sink in, then added, “Bet you’re thinking about it right now. Bet you’re wondering what it’d be like if I got a little closer.”

Your breath caught, and you felt that slick warmth intensify, soaking through your underwear, and you wanted to sink into the couch and disappear. You weren’t supposed to feel like this—not about him, not about anyone like this. You clenched your fists, trying to anchor yourself. “Stop it,” you said, your voice shaking but holding a hint of steel. “You’re being… gross.”

Heeseung laughed, a low, filthy sound that made your skin burn. “Gross? Nah, I’m just being honest.” He shifted closer, his thigh pressing against yours now, and you couldn’t move, frozen by the heat of him, the way his presence seemed to wrap around you. “You can’t tell me you’re not feeling it too. I see it, Y/N. The way you blush, the way you’re squirming. Bet you’re wet right now, aren’t you?”

Your face flamed, and you turned away, your heart pounding so loud you were sure he could hear it. “Shut up,” you whispered, but it lacked conviction, and he knew it. You felt exposed, like he could see every thought, every shameful reaction, and it made you want to run and hide. But you didn’t. You stayed, pinned by his gaze, by the way his words made your body betray you.

Heeseung leaned back, giving you a moment’s reprieve, but his eyes never left you. “Relax, sweetheart,” he said, his voice softer now, but still dripping with that naughty edge. “I’m not gonna do anything… yet.” The word hung in the air, a promise and a threat, and you felt your thighs clench again, your body refusing to listen to your brain.

You stood abruptly, needing to escape before you lost what little control you had left. “I’m going to my room,” you said, your voice tight, avoiding his gaze as you stepped around the coffee table. The penthouse’s vastness felt suffocating now, every step echoing in the quiet.

His chuckle followed you, low and knowing. “Run all you want, Y/N,” he called after you, his voice carrying down the hallway. “But this place isn’t big enough to hide from me.”

You didn’t look back, your sneakers silent on the carpet as you hurried to your room, your heart racing, your body humming with a mix of shame and something darker, something you weren’t ready to face. You closed your door, leaning against it, trying to catch your breath.

The penthouse was huge, but Heeseung was right—it wasn’t big enough to escape the pull he had on you, the way he made you feel things you didn’t want to feel.

As you sank onto your bed, the city lights glittering through your window, you heard a faint sound from his room next door—a low hum, maybe music, maybe something else. Your mind flashed to his smirk, his voice, the way he’d leaned into you, and that warmth flared again, unbidden and relentless. You pressed your hands to your face, trying to block it out, but it was no use. Heeseung was under your skin, and you had no idea how to get him out.

The penthouse apartment was a glittering cage, its vast spaces and city views both a luxury and a trap. Over the weeks since Minho and Heeseung moved in, you’d learned its rhythms—the hum of the air conditioner, the soft glow of the skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the echo of footsteps on the hardwood.

But nothing was louder than the tension that crackled whenever you and Heeseung were alone. Your mother and Minho, caught up in their new love, often left for dinners, movies, or weekend getaways, leaving you in the sprawling penthouse with your stepbrother—a dangerous, magnetic presence who seemed to thrive on unraveling you.

Heeseung’s relentless teasing, his dirty smirks and whispered words, had stirred something in you—a spark of defiance, a need to push back, even if your heart raced and your body betrayed you with every encounter. Each time you were alone, he chipped away at your walls, and you found yourself growing bolder, inch by inch, even as his naughty charm left you breathless and wanting things you didn’t dare name.

It was a Friday night, a week after your last run-in with Heeseung on the sofa. Your mother and Minho had gone to a late-night jazz club, their laughter echoing as they left. You’d stayed up, unable to sleep, the penthouse’s silence pressing against you. Hunger drove you to the kitchen, the marble island glowing under the soft pendant lights. You were rummaging through the fridge in your oversized gray hoodie and sleep shorts, barefoot, when you heard him.

“Late-night snack, sweetheart?” Heeseung’s voice, low and teasing, sent a shiver down your spine. You turned, and there he was, leaning against the doorway, shirtless, his sweatpants hanging low on his hips. His dark hair was mussed, and his eyes glinted with that familiar, perverse amusement.

You clutched the fridge door, your heart thudding. “Just… grabbing something,” you mumbled, your voice soft, but you forced yourself to meet his gaze. His bare chest, lean and defined, was distracting, and you felt a flush creep up your neck, a warmth pooling low in your stomach.

Heeseung sauntered closer, his footsteps silent, stopping just behind the island. “You look cute in those shorts,” he said, his voice dropping, dirty and deliberate. His eyes flicked down, lingering on your bare legs, and you felt that slick sensation between your thighs, embarrassing and unbidden. “Bet they’d look even better on the floor.”

Your breath hitched, and you shut the fridge, crossing your arms. “You’re disgusting,” you said, your voice trembling but sharper than before. You weren’t bold, not really, but something in his smirk made you want to fight back, even if your body was screaming otherwise.

Heeseung chuckled, low and filthy, rounding the island to close the distance. “Disgusting? Nah, I’m just saying what you’re thinking.” He leaned in, his hands braced on the counter, caging you against it. His cologne—dark, spicy—wrapped around you, and you felt your thighs clench, your face burning. “Bet you’re soaked right now, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

You swallowed, your pulse racing, but you tilted your chin up, meeting his eyes. “You wish,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. It was a lie, and he knew it, but the spark in his eyes told you he liked the challenge.

He leaned closer, his breath hot against your ear. “Keep playing hard to get,” he murmured, his lips brushing your earlobe, sending a jolt through you. “Makes it more fun when you break.” He pulled back, smirking, and grabbed an apple from the counter, taking a bite as he walked away, leaving you trembling against the island, your body a mess of heat and shame.

A few days later, your mother and Minho were away for an overnight trip to a vineyard, leaving the penthouse eerily quiet. You’d escaped to the terrace, needing air, the city’s lights sparkling below like a sea of stars. You sat on a cushioned lounge chair, wrapped in a blanket over your hoodie, your knees drawn up. The night was warm, the breeze gentle, but your thoughts were tangled, all circling back to Heeseung.

You didn’t hear him until he was there, his voice cutting through the quiet. “Hiding out here, huh?” Heeseung stood by the glass door, a beer in hand, wearing a fitted black t-shirt and jeans that hugged his frame. His smirk was lazy, but his eyes were sharp, predatory, locking onto you like a target.

“I’m not hiding,” you said, your voice soft but with a hint of defiance. You pulled the blanket tighter, trying to ignore the way his presence made your skin prickle, your pulse quicken. “Just… needed some air.”

Heeseung crossed the terrace, dropping onto the lounge chair next to yours, his legs spread wide, the beer dangling from his fingers. “Pretty view,” he said, but his eyes were on you, roaming over your blanket-wrapped form. “Though I like this one better.” His voice was low, dirty, and you felt that familiar warmth, slick and humiliating, stirring in your core.

You shifted, avoiding his gaze, but your voice was steadier this time. “Can’t you just… be normal for once?” you said, glancing at him, your brows furrowed. “Why do you always have to say stuff like that?”

Heeseung laughed, a low, filthy sound that sent a shiver through you. “Normal’s boring,” he said, leaning closer, his elbow brushing your arm. The contact was electric, and you flinched, but didn’t pull away. “And you don’t want normal, sweetheart. Not with me.” He took a sip of his beer, his eyes never leaving yours, and you felt exposed, like he could see every thought, every reaction.

“I don’t want anything with you,” you said, your voice firmer, but it wavered at the end, and his smirk told you he heard it. You weren’t bold, but you were tired of letting him win, of letting his words twist you up inside.

“Liar,” he murmured, setting the beer down and turning to face you fully. He reached out, his fingers grazing your blanket, tugging it slightly. “Bet I could prove it. Bet I could make you beg for me right here.” His voice was a low growl, and the image—his hands on you, the terrace silent but for your gasps—sent a rush of heat through you, making your thighs press together under the blanket.

You swatted his hand away, your heart pounding, but you held his gaze, your voice sharp despite the flush on your cheeks. “Try it, and I’ll scream loud enough for the whole city to hear,” you said, the words spilling out before you could stop them. It wasn’t bold, not really, but it was more than you’d dared before, and Heeseung’s eyes lit up, like you’d just thrown down a gauntlet.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” he said, his smirk widening, his voice dripping with perverse delight. “Keep talking like that, and I might not be able to control myself.” He leaned back, but his eyes stayed on you, burning, promising, and you felt that warmth intensify, your body betraying you even as you clung to your defiance.

It was a Tuesday evening, and your mother and Minho were at a work event, not due back until late. You’d spent the day avoiding Heeseung, sticking to your room, but you needed to grab a book from the living room. The penthouse was dim, the lights low, the city’s glow filtering through the windows. You padded down the hallway in your oversized hoodie and leggings, your ponytail swinging, your sneakers silent on the carpet.

You didn’t see him until it was too late. Turning the corner, you collided with Heeseung, his chest hard against yours, his hands gripping your arms to steady you. He was shirtless again, his sweatpants low, his hair damp like he’d just showered. The scent of his body wash—dark, musky—hit you, and you froze, your breath catching.

“Watch where you’re going, sweetheart,” he said, his voice low and teasing, but there was a dirty edge to it, like he’d planned this. His hands lingered on your arms, his thumbs brushing your skin, and you felt a jolt, heat pooling low, making you squirm.

“S-Sorry,” you stammered, pulling back, but his grip tightened slightly, keeping you close. Your heart raced, and you hated how your body reacted.

Heeseung’s smirk was wicked, his eyes roaming over you, lingering on your flushed cheeks. “You’re so jumpy,” he murmured, stepping closer, backing you against the wall. The hallway was narrow, the air heavy, and you felt trapped, but not entirely unwilling. “Bet I could make you jumpier. Wanna find out?”

You swallowed, your pulse hammering, but you tilted your chin up, meeting his eyes. “You’re full of it,” you said, your voice shaking but with a bite you didn’t know you had. “All talk, no game.” The words were reckless, a challenge you didn’t mean to issue, but they spilled out, fueled by weeks of his teasing.

Heeseung’s eyes darkened, a perverse glint in them, and he leaned in, his lips inches from yours. “Oh, sweetheart, you have no idea what kind of game I play,” he growled, his breath hot against your skin. His hand slid down your arm, brushing your hip, and you gasped, the warmth in your core intensifying, making your thighs clench. “Say the word, and I’ll show you right here.”

Your knees wobbled, but you held his gaze, your voice steadier than you felt. “You wouldn’t dare,” you said, the words a dare, a defiance, and Heeseung’s smirk turned predatory.

“Try me,” he whispered, his lips brushing your ear, sending a shiver through you. “Bet I could have you begging before they get home.” He pulled back, releasing you, but his eyes promised more, and you stumbled away, your body a mess of heat and want, your mind screaming to run but your heart daring you to stay.

You hated how the universe had a wicked sense of humour. Whenever you tried your best to avoid being alone with Heeseung, the universe aligned to make it the way around.

Your mother and Minho had left for a weekend conference out of town, their suitcases rolling out the door that morning with promises to be back late Monday. That left you and Heeseung alone in the penthouse for nearly two days again—a fact that had kept you on edge since they’d waved goodbye.

Tonight, though, the penthouse felt different—charged, like a storm waiting to break.

You’d spent the day avoiding him, sticking to your bedroom with a book you couldn’t focus on, the words blurring as your mind drifted to Heeseung’s voice, his eyes, the way he seemed to see right through you.

By midnight, you were restless, your skin prickling with a need you didn’t want to name. Thirst drove you out of your room, the penthouse dark save for the soft glow of city lights filtering through the windows. You padded down the long hallway in your oversized pastel pink hoodie and sleep shorts, your bare feet silent on the thick carpet, the air cool against your skin.

You moved swiftly down the long hallway, past the guest rooms and the modern bathroom, aiming for the kitchen. But as you passed Heeseung’s room, a sound stopped you dead—a low, rhythmic noise, unmistakably intimate, seeping through the slightly ajar door. Your breath caught, your heart slamming against your ribs, so loud you feared it might give you away. You should’ve kept moving, should’ve turned back, but your feet were rooted, a dangerous mix of shock and forbidden curiosity holding you captive.

The sound sharpened—a soft grunt, a muffled moan—and your face burned, a rush of heat flooding your core, slick and humiliating. You pressed a hand to your mouth, your pulse thundering, but you couldn’t stop yourself. You edged closer, peering through the crack in the door, and the sight stole the air from your lungs.

Heeseung was sprawled on his bed, the sheets tangled around his hips, his head tipped back against the pillows. His dark hair was damp, clinging to his forehead, and his chest—bare beneath an open black Martine Rose lace-up t-shirt—glistened faintly with sweat. The t-shirt hung loose, unlaced, revealing a tight white tank top that clung to his lean torso, accentuating every line of his frame. His sweatpants, low on his hips, left little to the imagination as his hand moved beneath the sheets, the motion unmistakable. The low, filthy sounds he made—a soft, “Fuck,” drawn out like a growl—sent a shiver through you, your thighs clenching instinctively, a warmth pooling between your legs that made you want to vanish.

You were intruding on something raw, something private, and the shame was suffocating, but your eyes were glued to him. The way his lips parted, his tongue darting out to wet them, his free hand gripping the headboard—it was mesmerizing, forbidden, and your body reacted with a need you didn’t understand. You pressed your thighs together, your breath shallow, trying to stay silent, but the slick warmth in your shorts was undeniable, a betrayal you couldn’t hide from yourself.

Then his eyes opened, and they locked onto yours.

Your heart stopped, your body going rigid as Heeseung’s gaze pinned you like a spotlight. Time seemed to fracture, the air thick with a tension that made your skin prickle. His hand stilled, but he didn’t cover himself, didn’t flinch. Instead, his lips curled into that wicked, predatory smirk, slow and deliberate, like he’d orchestrated this moment.

“Well, damn, sweetheart,” he drawled, his voice low and rough, laced with a dirty amusement that set your face ablaze. “Caught you staring, huh? Like what you see?” His eyes roamed over you—your wide eyes, your flushed cheeks, the way your hoodie couldn’t hide the rapid rise and fall of your chest. “Didn’t know you were such a little voyeur.”

Your mouth opened, but words failed you. You were mortified, your entire body burning with embarrassment, the slick warmth between your legs a secret you prayed he couldn’t sense. “I—I wasn’t—” you stammered, your voice barely a whisper, trembling with panic but holding a faint spark of defiance, a reflex from weeks of his teasing. “I was just… passing by.”

Heeseung’s smirk widened, his eyes glinting with perverse delight. “Sure you were,” he said, his voice dripping with mockery, filthy enough to make your knees wobble. “But you’re still here, all red and shaky.” He sat up, the sheets slipping lower, revealing the sharp lines of his hips beneath his sweatpants, and you gasped, your eyes darting away, your heart pounding so loud it drowned out everything else.

You wanted to run, to flee the hallway and lock yourself away, but your feet wouldn’t move, your body frozen by a mix of shame, fear, and something darker—something that kept you there, pinned by his gaze. Heeseung stood, the sheets falling away completely, his open Martine Rose t-shirt swaying, the white tank top clinging to his chest, his sweatpants low and loose. He was all lean muscle and shameless confidence, his presence filling the hallway, and the warmth in your core surged, a throbbing ache that made you press your thighs together, your breath shallow and shaky.

He took a step forward, his bare feet silent on the carpet, and you backed up instinctively, your shoulder brushing the doorframe, but you didn’t run. You couldn’t. Your legs felt like jelly, your heart racing, your face burning, but you stayed, caught in his orbit. “Don’t come closer,” you whispered, your voice shaking but with a spark of defiance, the boldest you could manage under the weight of his stare. “This… this is wrong.”

Heeseung paused, his smirk darkening, his eyes raking over you like he could see through your hoodie, through your shorts, through you. “Wrong?” he murmured, his voice a low, filthy growl that sent another wave of heat through you. “Then why you still standing there, sweetheart? Bet you’re soaked just watching me.” He tilted his head, the t-shirt shifting, the tank top catching the light, and you felt exposed, like he could see every shameful reaction, every thought you tried to hide.

You swallowed, your pulse hammering, but you held his gaze, your voice trembling but sharper than you expected. “You’re sick,” you said, the words a fragile stand against him, a defiance you clung to like a lifeline. “You left your door open on purpose, didn’t you?”

Heeseung’s eyes lit up, a perverse glint in them, and he chuckled, low and dirty, the sound sending a shiver through you. “Smart girl,” he said, his voice dripping with approval, his smirk wicked. “Maybe I did. Maybe I wanted you to catch me.” He took another step, closing the distance, his cologne—dark, spicy, overwhelming—wrapping around you, and you felt your thighs clench, the slick warmth intensifying, humiliating and undeniable. “Bet you’re thinking about it now, huh? What it’d be like to get closer… to help me out.”

Your knees wobbled, your face burning, but you didn’t run, couldn’t run, even as every instinct screamed to flee. You were mortified, too overwhelmed to move, your body a traitor, trembling with a mix of shame and want. “You’re… disgusting,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt, a boldness you didn’t recognize, fueled by weeks of his games. “I’m not… I’m not like that.”

Heeseung laughed, a low, filthy sound that made your skin prickle. “Not like that? Bullshit,” he growled, leaning in, his face inches from yours, his breath warm against your cheek. “I can see it, sweetheart. The way you’re shaking, the way you’re blushing. Bet I could make you beg for me right here.” His hand hovered near your arm, not touching, but close enough to send a jolt through you, and you gasped, the warmth in your core a throbbing ache that made you want to sink into the floor.

You shook your head, your voice barely above a whisper, but firm. “Stop it,” you said, meeting his eyes, your defiance flickering but holding. “You’re my stepbrother, Heeseung. This isn’t… we can’t…”

His smirk didn’t falter, but his eyes darkened, a perverse glint that made your stomach flip. “Stepbrother, huh?” he drawled, his voice dripping with dirty insinuation. “Makes it hotter, doesn’t it?” He leaned back slightly, giving you a moment’s reprieve, but his eyes stayed locked on you, burning. “Go on, sweetheart. Tell me you’re not thinking about it. Tell me you’re not wet right now.”

Your breath hitched, your face flaming, and you turned away, unable to hold his gaze any longer. The shame was crushing, the slick warmth between your legs a secret you couldn’t deny, and you hated how he knew, how he saw everything. “I’m going,” you mumbled, your voice tight, stepping away from the doorframe, your legs shaky but moving toward the hallway.

Heeseung’s chuckle followed you, low and knowing. “Go on run. Run all you want, Y/N,” he called after you, his voice carrying through the penthouse. “You’re already mine.”

You didn’t look back, your bare feet hurrying down the hallway, you grabbed a bottle of water, you practically ran to your room, your heart pounding as you reached your room and slammed the door shut, twisting the lock with trembling hands. You leaned against it, your breath ragged, your face burning, the slick warmth in your shorts a humiliating reminder of what you’d seen, what he’d said, what you’d felt. You slid to the floor, your hands pressed to your cheeks, trying to quell the storm inside you.

The image of Heeseung—his moans, his hand, his open Martine Rose t-shirt and tight tank top, his wicked smirk—was burned into your mind, and you couldn’t shake it, couldn’t stop the way your body ached, the need pulsing through you.

You stayed locked in your room for the rest of the night, curled up on your bed, your novel forgotten on the nightstand. Every sound made you flinch—the creak of the floor, the hum of the city outside, the faint pulse of music from Heeseung’s room. You imagined him laughing, smirking, relishing how he’d unraveled you without a touch.

Monday came, and you didn’t leave your room. You stayed hidden, pretending to sleep, pretending to be sick, anything to avoid facing him. You heard him moving through the penthouse—his footsteps in the hallway, the clink of a glass in the kitchen, his low voice humming a tune. Each sound was a dagger, a reminder of what you’d seen, what he’d said, and your face burned anew, your body reacting despite your desperate attempts to shut it out. You buried your face in your pillow, willing the hours to pass, willing your parents to come home.

When your mother and Minho returned late Monday night, their voices bright and oblivious, you crept out, your hoodie pulled tight, your eyes fixed on the floor. You mumbled a greeting, avoiding Heeseung’s gaze as he lounged on the sofa, a beer in hand, his Martine Rose t-shirt now laced loosely, the tank top still visible beneath. “Feeling okay, Y/N?” he asked, his voice laced with that dirty amusement, and you nodded quickly, muttering about a headache before retreating to your room.

Your mother checked on you, her hand cool on your forehead, but you brushed it off, claiming exhaustion. Minho chatted with Heeseung, and you heard his casual, “Just hung out, you know,” his tone so normal it made your skin crawl. He was playing it cool, but you knew better. He knew what he’d done, what you’d seen, and the way his eyes flicked to you as you left told you he wasn’t done.

You locked your door again, sinking onto your bed, your heart still racing. The penthouse was too big, too small, too full of him. As you lay there, the city lights flickering through your window, you couldn’t erase the image of Heeseung—his moans, his hand, his t-shirt open, his smirk—or the way he’d made you feel: shamed, shaken, and wanting all at once. Your defiance was still there, buried under the embarrassment, and you knew this was far from over. Heeseung was a storm, and you were caught in its pull, whether you wanted to be or not.

But you were just about to turn the tables around. It was Tuesday, and your mother and Minho had orchestrated a family dinner at home, a well-meaning attempt to knit together the threads of your new family. The idea didn’t faze you—not because you disliked Minho, who was warm and unintrusive, or your mother, whose heart was in the right place—but because of Heeseung, whose presence turned every glance into a spark, every moment into a game of fire and defiance.

Since catching him in his room two nights ago—his moans, his hand, his raw intensity seared into your mind—you’d locked yourself away, not out of shame but to strategize. You were done shrinking, done playing his prey. Tonight, you’d meet him head-on, a lioness to his lion, and the thought made your pulse thrum with anticipation.

You sat at the glass dining table, your fingers drumming lightly on the edge, your oversized lavender hoodie paired with fitted black jeans that hugged your curves, your sneakers clean but worn. Your mother was in the kitchen, assembling a salad, her laughter blending with Minho’s as he stirred a pot of pasta, the air thick with the scent of garlic, basil, and simmering sauce.

Heeseung lounged across from you, his posture deceptively casual but his energy a coiled spring, ready to snap. He wore a white sleeveless top with faint star patterns, the fabric clinging to his lean torso, accentuating every muscle. His light blue jeans were loose but fitted, a brown belt glinting at his hip, his dark hair falling messily over his forehead, framing eyes that burned with a restless, almost feral hunger.

“Y/N, can you grab the bread?” your mother called, oblivious to the electric current between you and Heeseung. You smirked, standing with a deliberate sway, catching his eyes flicker to your hips. “Sure thing,” you said, your voice smooth, laced with a confidence that made his smirk twitch.

In the kitchen, you grabbed the bread basket, brushing past Minho with a smile. “Smells amazing,” you said, your tone light but commanding attention. Minho grinned, handing you a serving spoon. “Thanks, Y/N. It’s nice to have everyone here.”

“Totally,” you said, your eyes flicking to Heeseung, who watched you like a predator sizing up his match. You returned to the table, setting the basket down with a flourish, meeting his gaze head-on, your smirk mirroring his. “Eat up, Heeseung,” you said, your voice teasing, a challenge wrapped in velvet. His eyes darkened, a spark of amusement and desire flashing in them.

Dinner was a dance of normalcy and undercurrents—your mother asking about your bookstore job, Minho sharing a hospital anecdote, the clink of wine glasses and the scrape of forks. You held your own, laughing at Minho’s story, tossing in a witty comment about a customer, all while feeling Heeseung’s knee brush yours under the table. Each touch was deliberate, a spark that sent warmth pooling low in your stomach, slick and thrilling. You didn’t flinch, didn’t blush, but leaned into it, brushing back, your smirk growing as his breathing hitched, barely noticeable but enough to fuel your confidence.

“Heeseung, how’s the internship?” your mother asked, sipping her wine, unaware of the battle unfolding.

Heeseung leaned back, his sleeveless top stretching across his chest, the star patterns glinting. “It’s good,” he said, his voice low, but his eyes were on you, a dirty glint in them. “Keeps me… engaged. But I’m itching for something more… hands-on.” The insinuation dripped from his words, and you bit your lip, suppressing a chuckle at how blatant he was, his hunger practically screaming.

Minho nodded, clueless. “That’s great. You two should hang out, bond a bit. Right, Y/N?”

You leaned forward, your eyes locked on Heeseung’s, your smirk sharp. “Oh, we’ll bond, alright,” you said, your voice smooth, a promise and a threat. “Won’t we, Heeseung?” His smirk faltered, his eyes widening slightly, a mix of surprise and desire that made you want to laugh. You were matching him, move for move, and he wasn’t used to it.

Your mother beamed, oblivious, and the conversation shifted, but the air was thick, the penthouse’s vastness shrinking under the weight of your shared intensity. When dinner ended, your mother and Minho announced a late movie date, leaving you and Heeseung to clean up. “We’ll be back around eleven,” your mother said, grabbing her purse. “Don’t burn the place down.”

You smirked, stacking plates. “No promises,” you said, your voice teasing, and Heeseung’s low chuckle followed, a sound that made your skin tingle.

Minho clapped Heeseung’s shoulder. “Help Y/N out, yeah?” he said, and Heeseung’s smirk was wicked, his eyes never leaving you.

“Always,” he said, his voice a low growl, and you felt that warmth intensify, a slick ache between your legs that only fueled your boldness.

The door closed, leaving the penthouse silent, the city’s glow filtering through the windows. You moved to the kitchen, starting the dishes, your movements deliberate, aware of Heeseung’s eyes on you. He joined you, grabbing a sponge, his sleeveless top brushing your arm as he scrubbed a pan, his proximity electric. You worked in silence at first, the clink of dishes and the hum of the dishwasher the only sounds, but the tension was a living thing, coiling tighter with every glance.

“You’re good at this,” you said, breaking the silence, your voice teasing as you handed him a wet plate. “Didn’t know you could be domestic.”

Heeseung smirked, taking the plate, his fingers brushing yours, lingering. “I’m good at a lot of things, sweetheart,” he said, his voice low, dirty, his eyes glinting with that feral hunger. “Bet you’d like to find out. Being such a bold little kitten tonight."

You laughed, a sharp, confident sound that made his eyes widen. “You’re so full of it,” you said, leaning closer, your hip brushing his, a deliberate challenge. “All talk, no game. I'm a lioness though, Lee.” Your boldness matched his, a mirror to his intensity, and you saw his control slip, his breathing quicken, his eyes darkening to near black.

“Fuck, you’re pushing it,” he growled, dropping the plate in the sink, his hands gripping the counter, his body trembling with need. “Keep talking like that, and I won’t hold back.”

You smirked, undeterred, grabbing a sponge and scrubbing a glass, your voice steady. “Maybe I don’t want you to,” you said, meeting his gaze, your eyes burning with a defiance that made him groan, low and desperate. His desperation was almost comical, his control fraying so visibly you wanted to laugh, but the ache between your legs kept you grounded, matching his fire.

You moved through the penthouse, cleaning together—wiping down the dining table, vacuuming the living room, straightening cushions. Every task was a dance, your bodies brushing, your glances clashing, the tension building like a storm. Heeseung was unraveling, his hands shaking as he dusted a shelf, his eyes tracking your every move, his sleeveless top tight, his jeans low, his silver chain glinting. You caught him staring, his pupils blown, his chest heaving, and you chuckled, a low, teasing sound that made him growl.

“Something funny, sweetheart?” he said, his voice rough, stepping closer, his body radiating heat. You were in the kitchen again, the dishes done, the penthouse gleaming, and he was close, too close, his hunger so blatant it was almost absurd.

“You,” you said, your voice smooth, leaning against the marble island, your smirk sharp. “You’re falling apart, Heeseung. It’s kinda cute.” Your boldness was a weapon, mirroring his intensity, and you saw his control snap, his eyes flashing with a need so raw it made your breath catch.

“Cute?” he growled, closing the distance, his hands grabbing your hips, lifting you onto the counter with a swift, desperate move. You gasped, your legs parting instinctively, and he stepped between them, his body pressed against yours, his sleeveless top brushing your hoodie, his jeans rough against your thighs. “I’m done with your games, Y/N,” he said, his voice a low, filthy rumble, his fingers digging into your hips. “No more fucking excuses.”

You smirked, your hands gripping his shoulders, your nails digging in, matching his fire. “Then do something about it,” you said, your voice a challenge, your eyes locked on his, daring him to cross the line. You were bold, fearless, a mirror to his desperation, and he groaned, low and broken, his control shattered.

His hand slid up your thigh, pushing your shorts aside, his fingers finding you wet, slick, and ready. You gasped, your head tipping back, but you didn’t pull away, your boldness holding firm. “Fuck, you’re soaked,” he growled, his fingers teasing, circling, then slipping inside, slow and deliberate, his thumb brushing your clit. You moaned, your body arching, your hands gripping his top, the star patterns crumpling under your fingers.

“Keep going,” you said, your voice breathy but commanding, your eyes half-lidded, your smirk faint but defiant. Heeseung’s eyes widened, his desperation almost comical, but he obeyed, his fingers moving faster, curling inside you, his thumb relentless. The pleasure built, sharp and electric, and you matched his rhythm, your hips rocking, your boldness a fire that burned as bright as his.

“You’re so fucking hot like this,” he groaned, his voice rough, his other hand gripping your neck, pulling you into a messy, hungry kiss. His lips were bruising, his tongue claiming, and you kissed back, just as fierce, your teeth grazing his lip, your boldness mirroring his. The kitchen island was hard beneath you, the penthouse silent but for your gasps, his growls, the slick sound of his fingers moving inside you.

The pleasure crested, a wave ready to crash, and you felt it, your body tensing, your moans growing louder. Heeseung was lost, his fingers relentless, his eyes wild, his desperation so intense you wanted to laugh, but the heat was too much, too good.

You came with a cry, your body shuddering, your nails digging into his shoulders, the climax ripping through you as Heeseung groaned, his fingers slowing but not stopping, drawing out every shudder.

Then, the front door clicked.

Your eyes widened, your breath catching, and Heeseung froze, his hand still between your legs, his eyes darting to the hallway. The sound of your mother’s voice, distant but approaching, snapped you both into action. “Y/N? Heeseung?” she called, her footsteps echoing.

“Fuck,” Heeseung hissed, pulling his hand away, his face flushed, his eyes wild with panic and need. You slid off the counter, your legs shaky, your shorts falling back into place, your heart pounding. You smirked, a quick, defiant flash, catching his eye, and he shook his head, a mix of frustration and amusement.

You bolted, both of you moving like lightning, your sneakers silent on the hardwood as you darted down the hallway. Heeseung veered to his room, you to yours, slamming the door shut and locking it just as your mother’s voice grew clearer. “Anyone home?” she called, and you leaned against your door, your breath ragged, your body still humming with pleasure, your boldness a fire that hadn’t dimmed.

You sank onto your bed, your hands pressed to your face, the slick warmth between your legs a reminder of what had happened, what you’d done. The game had changed, and you were playing to win.

Weeks of Heeseung’s dirty taunts, wicked smirks, and unrelenting hunger had forged you into his equal—a lioness to his lion, unafraid to claw back. Last night’s encounter—his fingers inside you, your climax cut short by your parents’ return—had only fueled your defiance. You weren’t running anymore; you were playing to win, and the penthouse was your arena.

You lounged on the sectional sofa, your oversized black hoodie paired with fitted leggings that hugged your curves, your sneakers kicked off, bare feet tucked under you. Your mother and Minho sat at the coffee table, setting up a board game, their laughter warm and oblivious. The air carried the scent of popcorn and hot chocolate, a nostalgic comfort that clashed with the electric tension coiling inside you.

Heeseung sprawled across from you, his posture lazy but predatory, his presence a live wire sparking in the dim light. He wore a loose black overshirt, unbuttoned, revealing a fitted white t-shirt that clung to his lean torso, the fabric taut against his muscles. His ripped black jeans hung low, a silver chain glinting at his waist, his dark hair mussed as if he’d run his hands through it too many times. His eyes, dark and burning, locked onto you with a hunger so blatant it was almost reckless, a super-turned-on intensity that made your lips twitch with a suppressed chuckle. He was a mess of want, and you loved it.

“Y/N, your turn to pick a card,” your mother said, sliding the deck across the table, her smile bright. You leaned forward, grabbing a card with a flourish, your eyes flicking to Heeseung, catching his gaze linger on your lips. You smirked, reading the card aloud with a teasing lilt, “Truth or dare, huh? Sounds dangerous.”

Minho laughed, clueless. “Keep it family friendly, you two,” he said, tossing popcorn into his mouth. “No rigging the game.”

You raised an eyebrow, your smirk sharp. “No promises,” you said, your voice smooth, a challenge aimed straight at Heeseung. His eyes darkened, a low chuckle escaping him, the sound sending a shiver through you, a warmth pooling low in your stomach, slick and thrilling.

Game night unfolded in a haze of laughter and playful jabs—your mother sharing an embarrassing childhood story, Minho daring Heeseung to sing a cheesy pop song, which he did with a mocking grin that made you laugh out loud. You held your own, daring your mother to dance, tossing witty retorts at Heeseung’s sly comments, your boldness a mirror to his intensity. Every brush of his foot against yours under the table, every glance that lingered too long, fueled the fire between you, the penthouse shrinking under the weight of your shared heat.

As the game wound down, your mother yawned, checking her watch. “We’ve got an early meeting tomorrow,” she said, standing. “Let’s wrap up. You two can handle the cleanup?”

You nodded, your smirk subtle but knowing. “We’ve got it,” you said, your voice confident, your eyes flicking to Heeseung, who leaned back, his overshirt falling open, the white tee taut against his chest. Minho clapped Heeseung’s shoulder, murmuring something about work, and they headed to their room, leaving the penthouse quiet, the city’s glow the only witness to what was coming.

You stood, grabbing the popcorn bowl, and sauntered to the kitchen, your movements deliberate, aware of Heeseung’s eyes tracking you. He followed, picking up the game box, his footsteps soft but purposeful. You set the bowl in the sink, turning to face him, leaning against the counter with a smirk. “Ready to lose again, Heeseung?” you teased, your voice low, your boldness a flame that matched his.

He chuckled, low and filthy, setting the box down and closing the distance, his overshirt brushing your arm as he leaned in. “Lose?” he growled, his voice rough, his eyes wild with that super-turned-on hunger that made you want to laugh. “Sweetheart, I’m just getting started.” His desperation was palpable—his breathing fast, his hands twitching, his white tee clinging to his chest—and you chuckled, a sharp, confident sound that made his eyes narrow.

“You’re a mess,” you said, your voice teasing, leaning closer, your lips inches from his. “Falling apart already? Pathetic, Lee.” Your boldness was a weapon, mirroring his intensity, and he groaned, low and broken, his control fraying like a worn thread.

Before he could respond, the penthouse plunged into darkness. A loud hum cut off, the air conditioner dying, the lights flickering out, leaving only the city’s faint glow through the windows. You froze, your breath catching, the sudden blackout disorienting. “What the hell?” you muttered, stepping back, your shoulder brushing Heeseung’s chest.

“Power’s out,” he said, his voice low, but the hunger in it was undimmed, amplified in the dark. You heard him move, his chain clinking, and then his hand grazed your arm, guiding you. “Let’s find the breaker. Pantry’s got the panel.”

You nodded, though he couldn’t see, your boldness unshaken, a thrill sparking at the unexpected twist. You followed him, your hand brushing his as you navigated the dark penthouse, the hardwood cool under your bare feet. The walk-in pantry was tucked off the kitchen, a narrow space lined with shelves of canned goods and spices. Heeseung pushed the door open, pulling you inside, the door clicking shut behind you, sealing you in a confined, pitch-black world.

The space was tight, the air warm, the scent of spices mixing with his cologne—dark, spicy, overwhelming. You felt him close, his breath hot against your neck, his body radiating heat. “Where’s the panel?” you asked, your voice steady, but the proximity sent a shiver through you, a slick warmth pooling between your legs.

“Back wall,” he murmured, his voice rough, but he didn’t move to find it. Instead, his hand slid to your waist, pulling you against him, his overshirt brushing your hoodie, his white tee soft against your chest. “But fuck the panel,” he growled, his lips brushing your ear, his desperation so intense.“I can’t wait anymore, Y/N.”

You chuckled, low and sharp, your boldness a fire in the dark. “So needy,” you teased, your hands gripping his overshirt, yanking him closer. “Can’t even handle a blackout without losing it?” Your voice was confident, mirroring his hunger, and he groaned, his hands roaming, desperate and unrestrained.

“Keep talking, sweetheart,” he said, his voice a filthy rumble, his lips crashing against yours in a bruising, hungry kiss. You kissed back, just as fierce, your tongue battling his, your teeth grazing his lip, your boldness a match for his fire. His hands slid under your hoodie, fingers grazing your bare skin, and you gasped, the touch sending sparks through you, the slick warmth between your legs intensifying.

He pushed you against the shelves, a can clattering to the floor, his body pressed tight against yours, his ripped jeans rough against your leggings. His hand slipped down, cupping you through the fabric, and you moaned into his mouth, your hips rocking instinctively. “Fuck, you’re soaked,” he growled, his fingers teasing, pressing, his desperation so raw you wanted to laugh, but the pleasure was too much, too sharp.

“You’re one to talk,” you shot back, your voice breathy but defiant, your hand sliding down to palm him through his jeans, feeling him hard and straining. He groaned, low and broken, his hips bucking into your touch, his control gone, his hunger absurd in its intensity. “Falling apart already, Heeseung?” you teased, chuckling, your boldness a flame that burned brighter in the dark.

“Shut up,” he growled, but there was a laugh in his voice, a crack in his desperation, and he kissed you again, messy and urgent, his fingers slipping under your leggings, finding you bare and slick. You moaned, your head tipping back, your hands gripping his white tee, crumpling the fabric as he teased, circling, then sliding inside, slow and deliberate. The pleasure built, electric and overwhelming, and you matched his rhythm, your hips rocking, your boldness unyielding.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he groaned, his fingers moving faster, curling, his thumb relentless, his lips on your neck, sucking marks you’d have to hide. You were lost in it, the confined space amplifying every touch, every sound—your gasps, his growls, the slick rhythm of his fingers. The pleasure crested, a wave ready to crash, and you felt it, your body tensing, your moans growing louder.

Then, a flicker of light pierced the dark, the hum of the air conditioner restarting, the penthouse stirring back to life. You froze, your breath catching, but Heeseung didn’t stop, his fingers relentless, pushing you closer to the edge. “Come for me again, Y/N,” he growled, his voice rough, his desperation driving you wild, and you did, your body shuddering, your climax ripping through you with a muffled cry, your nails digging into his shoulders.

The pantry door was still shut, the penthouse quiet, but you both panted, your bodies pressed close, the aftershocks humming through you. Heeseung pulled his hand away, licking his fingers with a smirk that made you chuckle, your boldness undimmed. “You’re insane, Heeseung” you said, your voice breathy but confident, pushing him back, straightening your hoodie.

“You love it,” he shot back, his overshirt hanging open, his white tee rumpled, his eyes still wild with need. But before you could retort, a distant sound—the click of the front door—made you both freeze.

“Y/N? Heeseung? Done cleaning up?” Minho's voice called, faint but approaching, his footsteps echoing on the hardwood.

“Shit,” you hissed, your eyes wide, but your smirk lingered, a spark of defiance in the panic. Heeseung cursed, adjusting his jeans, his face flushed, his hunger still burning but overridden by the need to move.

You pushed the pantry door open, the penthouse now dimly lit, and bolted, your bare feet silent as you darted down the hallway. Heeseung was right behind you, veering to his room as you reached yours, slipping inside and locking the door just as your step-father’s voice grew clearer. “Where are you two?” he called, and you leaned against your door, your heart pounding, your body still humming with pleasure, your boldness a fire that refused to fade.

You heard Minho’s voice, Heeseung’s casual reply, and you smirked, knowing the game had shifted. You were his equal now, and whatever came next, you were ready to burn.

Last weeks’s pantry encounter—his fingers, your climax, the blackout—had only stoked your defiance. You weren’t just matching him anymore; you were daring him to keep up. Tonight, you’d dressed to destroy him, your outfit a calculated strike: a fitted red dress, sleeveless and hugging your curves, the hem stopping mid-thigh, paired with black stilettos that clicked with every step. Your dark hair was swept over one shoulder, your lips a bold crimson, your eyes glinting with a confidence that could burn.

You sat at the glass dining table, the penthouse’s open-plan living area bathed in the warm glow of pendant lights. Your mother was in the kitchen, plating roasted chicken, her chatter mingling with Minho’s as he poured wine. The air was rich with the scent of rosemary, garlic, and fresh bread, a deceptive comfort that clashed with the storm brewing inside you. The note’s warning echoed in your mind, but it only fueled your boldness, your smirk subtle but razor-sharp.

Heeseung sat beside you, his presence a furnace, his body radiating a desperation so intense it was almost tangible. He wore a black leather jacket, unzipped, over a fitted white shirt that clung to his lean torso, paired with dark jeans that hugged his thighs. His silver necklace glinted at his collarbone, his dark hair swept back but falling into his eyes, which were locked on you with a hunger that bordered on agony. Your red dress had undone him the moment you’d walked in, his gaze raking over your curves, his jaw clenching, his hands gripping the table like he might splinter it. He was hard—painfully so, you could tell by the way he shifted, his jeans tight, his breathing shallow, his eyes shimmering with a raw, tortured need that made you want to laugh. He was a wreck, and you were the cause, your boldness thriving on his unraveling.

“Y/N, pass the salad,” your mother called, oblivious to the war waging beside her. You reached for the bowl, your movements deliberate, your dress riding up slightly, catching Heeseung’s eyes snap to your thighs. You smirked, handing it to her with a sweet, “Here you go,” your voice smooth, a contrast to the fire in your gaze as you glanced at him.

Minho smiled, raising his glass. “To family,” he said, his voice warm, and you clinked glasses, your eyes never leaving Heeseung’s. He muttered a toast, his voice low and strained, his hand trembling as he set his glass down. You leaned closer, your shoulder brushing his leather jacket, your voice a whisper for him alone. “Struggling, Heeseung?” you teased, your lips curving, your boldness a blade that cut deep.

His eyes flashed, a mix of desire and pain, and he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. “You’re fucking killing me,” he growled, his voice rough, his hand sliding under the table, finding yours. You froze, your smirk faltering for a split second as he guided your hand to his lap, pressing it against his erection, hard and throbbing through his jeans. Your breath caught, the slick warmth between your legs surging, but you didn’t pull away, your boldness roaring back as you met his gaze, his eyes pleading, almost tearing up with the intensity of his need. “Soothe it, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice a desperate plea, his hand trembling over yours. “Please.”

You chuckled, low and sharp, your fingers curling lightly, teasing him through the denim, your confidence a mirror to his desperation. “In front of them?” you whispered, your voice dripping with defiance, your eyes flicking to your mother and Minho, who were laughing over a story. “You’re bold, I’ll give you that.” Your hand moved, slow and deliberate, stroking him just enough to make him groan, the sound muffled as he bit his lip, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears, his pain so raw it was almost funny.

Dinner dragged on—your mother asking about your bookstore job, Minho sharing a hospital anecdote, the clink of forks and glasses a facade of normalcy. You kept your hand in Heeseung’s lap, teasing him with light touches, your smirk growing as his breathing grew ragged, his grip on his fork tightening, his eyes locked on you with a hunger that made your thighs clench.

Halfway through the meal, Heeseung snapped. He stood abruptly, his chair scraping, his leather jacket shifting, his face flushed. “Sorry, I… I’m not feeling great,” he said, his voice tight, his eyes darting to you, a command and a plea. “Y/N, can you… help me with something in my room?”

Your mother frowned, concerned. “Everything okay, Heeseung?”

“Yeah, just… need a second,” he said, his voice strained, his hand grabbing yours under the table, pulling you up. You stood, your stilettos clicking, your red dress catching the light, your heart pounding with a mix of shock and excitement. His boldness—excusing you both in front of your parents—shook you, but your confidence held, your smirk subtle but defiant.

“Sure,” you said, your voice smooth, meeting your mother’s gaze with a calm you didn’t feel. “I’ll check on him.” Minho nodded, oblivious, and you followed Heeseung, his grip on your hand tight, his steps urgent as he led you not to his room, but to the penthouse’s private rooftop terrace, accessed through a hidden stairwell off the hallway.

The terrace was a world apart, a sleek oasis of glass railings, potted plants, and a plush outdoor sofa under a pergola. The city sprawled below, the skyline glittering, the air heavy with the scent of rain and urban hum. Heeseung slammed the door shut, locking it, his leather jacket falling open, his white shirt rumpled, his eyes wild with a need so intense it stole your breath. “No more fucking games,” he growled, pulling you against him, his body hard and trembling, his erection pressing against your hip through his jeans. “You’ve got me so hard it fucking hurts, Y/N.”

You smirked, your hands gripping his jacket, yanking him closer, your boldness a fire that matched his. “Good,” you said, your voice low, your lips grazing his. “Maybe you’ll cry again, huh?” Your tease was sharp, referencing his near-tears at dinner, and he groaned, his hands sliding to your thighs, lifting you onto the edge of the sofa, your dress riding up, baring your legs.

“Fuck you,” he growled, but there was a laugh in his voice, a crack in his desperation, and he kissed you, bruising and hungry, his tongue claiming your mouth. You kissed back, just as fierce, your nails digging into his shoulders, your stilettos scraping his calves as you wrapped your legs around him. His hands tore at your dress, pulling it up, his fingers finding you wet and ready through your panties, and you moaned, your hips rocking into his touch.

“No more teasing,” he said, his voice rough, unzipping his jeans, freeing himself, his cock hard and throbbing. You gasped, your boldness unwavering as you pulled your panties aside, guiding him to you, your eyes locked on his, daring him to cross the line. He groaned, low and broken, and thrust into you, slow at first, then deep, filling you completely. You cried out, your head tipping back, the pleasure sharp and overwhelming, your hands gripping his white shirt, crumpling the fabric.

He moved, hard and fast, the sofa creaking, the city’s hum a distant roar as the penthouse terrace became your world. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he growled, his hands on your hips, his thrusts relentless, his leather jacket brushing your thighs. You matched him, your hips rocking, your boldness a flame that burned brighter with every thrust, your moans loud and unashamed.

The pleasure built, a wave ready to crash, and you felt it, your body tensing, your nails digging into his shoulders. Heeseung was lost, his eyes wild, his desperation so intense it was almost comical, but the heat was too much, too perfect. You came with a scream, your body shuddering, your climax ripping through you as he groaned, his thrusts faltering, his own release following, hot and overwhelming.

You both panted, your bodies pressed close, the aftershocks humming through you. Heeseung pulled back, his jeans still open, his white shirt rumpled, his eyes softening but still burning. “Fuck, Y/N,” he said, his voice hoarse, a laugh breaking through. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smirked, smoothing your dress, your stilettos clicking as you stood, your boldness undimmed. “Maybe,” you said, your voice teasing, your lips red and swollen. “But you’d die happy.” He chuckled, shaking his head, but before you could say more, a distant sound—your mother’s voice calling from the penthouse—made you both freeze.

“Y/N? Heeseung? Where are you?” she called, her footsteps echoing, closer than you expected.

You returned to the dining table, the glass expanse gleaming under the pendant lights, the air still rich with the scent of roasted chicken, rosemary, and fresh bread. Your mother and Minho were mid-conversation, their plates half-empty, their wine glasses catching the light. You slid into your seat, your movements deliberate, your smile practiced but sharp, masking the tremor of adrenaline from the terrace. Heeseung followed, his steps slower, his presence a furnace beside you as he reclaimed his chair, his eyes flicking to you with a hunger that hadn’t faded.

Heeseung had changed, swapping his leather jacket for a black hoodie that hung loose on his lean frame, the sleeves pushed up to reveal his forearms, paired with dark cargo pants that sat low on his hips. A silver chain glinted at his neck, his dark hair mussed, falling into his eyes, which were dark and intense, shimmering with a mix of desire and something deeper, something raw. He was still hard—you could tell by the way he shifted, his cargo pants tight, his hands clenching under the table, his desperation so intense it bordered on pain. Your off-shoulder top, the bare skin of your neck, had him unraveling, and you smirked, catching the way his throat bobbed, his eyes locked on you like you were his only anchor.

“Y/N, Heeseung, everything okay?” your mother asked, her brow furrowed, her voice warm but curious. “You were gone a while.”

You leaned back, your top shifting, baring more of your collarbone, catching Heeseung’s eyes snap to the movement. “All good,” you said, your voice smooth, laced with a confidence that made his jaw tighten. “Just needed some air. Right, Heeseung?” You turned to him, your smirk sharp, your boldness a challenge that made his breath hitch.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice low and strained, his eyes flicking to yours, a plea and a promise. “Just… needed a break.” His hand found yours under the table, his fingers brushing yours, trembling with a need that made you want to laugh, but the slick warmth between your legs kept you grounded, matching his fire.

Minho nodded, oblivious, cutting into his chicken. “Well, glad you’re back. Let’s finish up. Dessert’s in the fridge—chocolate tart, Y/N’s favorite.”

You smiled, your voice teasing. “You know me too well,” you said, but your eyes were on Heeseung, catching the way his hand tightened around yours, his desperation palpable. The note’s warning—Eyes are everywhere—hovered, a shadow that made every glance feel watched, every touch a risk. You leaned closer to Heeseung, your shoulder brushing his hoodie, your voice a whisper for him alone. “Still hurting?” you teased, referencing his painful arousal, your lips curving, your boldness a blade that cut deep.

His eyes flashed, a mix of desire and torment, and he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. “You have no fucking idea,” he growled, his voice rough, his hand guiding yours under the table again, pressing it against his erection, hard and throbbing through his cargo pants. You gasped softly, the warmth between your legs surging, but you didn’t pull away, your boldness roaring as you curled your fingers lightly, teasing him just enough to make him groan, the sound muffled as he bit his lip. His eyes shimmered, almost tearing up, his need so raw it was both thrilling and absurd, and you chuckled, low and sharp, your confidence a mirror to his desperation. "How are you hard again?"

Dinner resumed, a facade of normalcy—your mother asking about your weekend plans, Minho sharing a lighthearted story about a patient, the clink of forks and glasses a thin veil over the storm beneath the table. You kept your hand in Heeseung’s lap, stroking him slowly, your smirk growing as his breathing grew ragged, his grip on his glass tightening, his eyes locked on you with a hunger that made your thighs clench.

Then, Heeseung broke. He set his fork down, the clink loud in the quiet, his face flushed, his eyes dark and intense, shimmering with something beyond desire—something vulnerable, real. He stood, his chair scraping, his hoodie shifting, his cargo pants still tight, and every eye turned to him, including yours, your hand falling away, your smirk faltering for a split second.

“I need to say something,” he said, his voice low but steady, cutting through the penthouse’s hum. Your mother and Minho paused, their expressions curious, and you felt a jolt, your heart pounding, your boldness tempered by a sudden uncertainty. Heeseung’s eyes locked on you, burning with a raw, unshuttered intensity, and you saw it—the shift, the crack in his dirty, pervertish facade, revealing something deeper, something that shook you.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice softening, but it carried, filling the room. “I like you. Not just… not just messing around. I mean, I really like you. Have for a while.” His words hung in the air, heavy and raw, his eyes never leaving yours, shimmering with a vulnerability that stole your breath. “I know it’s complicated, with us being… family now, but I can’t keep pretending it’s just a game. It’s not. Not to me.”

The penthouse was silent, the city’s glow the only movement, the note’s warning a distant echo. Your mother’s fork clattered to her plate, her eyes wide, her mouth opening but no words coming. Minho froze, his wine glass halfway to his lips, his expression a mix of shock and confusion. You stared at Heeseung, your boldness wavering, your heart racing, the slick warmth between your legs a reminder of the terrace, but his confession—a public, reckless declaration—shook you to your core.

“Heeseung,” your mother started, her voice tight, “this is… unexpected. You two are—”

“Stepsiblings, I know,” Heeseung cut in, his voice firm, his eyes still on you, ignoring the parents’ stares. “But that doesn’t change how I feel. I’m not asking for permission. I’m just… saying it. She deserves to know.” His hand twitched, like he wanted to reach for you, but he didn’t, his cargo pants still tight, his hoodie loose, his vulnerability laid bare.

You swallowed, your throat dry, your boldness surging back like a tide. You stood, your off-shoulder top slipping slightly, your trousers hugging your curves, your eyes locked on his. “You’re an idiot,” you said, your voice low but sharp, a smirk curling your lips, your defiance a shield against the chaos of his words. “Saying that here? In front of them?” You gestured to your mother and Minho, who were still speechless, but your eyes burned with a mix of challenge and something softer, something you weren’t ready to name.

Heeseung’s smirk flickered, a hint of his dirty edge returning, but his eyes stayed soft, vulnerable. “Yeah, I’m an idiot,” he said, his voice low, a laugh breaking through. “But you’re not exactly innocent, are you?” The insinuation was subtle, a nod to the terrace, to your hand in his lap, and you felt your face heat, the warmth between your legs intensifying, your boldness thriving on the risk.

Your mother cleared her throat, her voice strained. “We… need to talk about this. Both of you. This is serious.”

Minho nodded, setting his glass down, his tone calm but firm. “Let’s take a step back. Emotions are high. Maybe we finish dinner and discuss this tomorrow.”

You smirked, leaning back in your chair, your eyes still on Heeseung, your boldness a fire that refused to dim. “Sure,” you said, your voice smooth, picking up your fork, your movements deliberate. “Let’s eat.” But your foot brushed Heeseung’s under the table, a silent challenge, and he groaned softly, the sound muffled, his eyes shimmering with a mix of desire and emotion that made your heart skip.

Dinner resumed, an awkward, stilted affair—your mother pushing food around her plate, Minho trying to steer the conversation to neutral ground, the note’s warning a shadow that made every glance feel heavy. Heeseung’s hand found yours again under the table, not guiding it to his lap this time, but holding it, his fingers tight, his thumb brushing your skin, a gesture that was both desperate and tender. You squeezed back, your boldness tempered by a flicker of something new—something that felt dangerously like trust.

As dessert was served—chocolate tart, rich and indulgent—you caught Heeseung’s eyes, saw the vulnerability still there, the hunger undimmed but softened by his confession. You smirked, taking a slow bite, your lips curling, your voice low for him alone. “You’re in deep now, Heeseung,” you teased, your foot brushing his again, your boldness a flame that burned brighter in the aftermath. “No turning back.”

He chuckled, low and filthy, but his eyes were warm, his hand still holding yours. “Good,” he said, his voice rough, his hoodie shifting as he leaned closer. “I’m all in.”

Your mother and Minho cleared the table, their voices hushed, and you stood, your off-shoulder top slipping, your trousers catching the light, your heart pounding with a mix of defiance and something deeper. Heeseung followed, his cargo pants low, his hoodie loose, his eyes burning, and you knew this was only the beginning. The game had changed, the stakes higher, and whatever eyes were watching, you were ready to face them together.

You sat on the plush sectional sofa in the living room, the penthouse’s open-plan space bathed in warm daylight, the faint scent of vanilla from a candle mingling with the crisp air from an open window. Your mother and Minho sat across from you on armchairs, their expressions a blend of resolve and weariness, a family portrait on the side table—a recent, awkward addition—standing as a quiet reminder of what was at stake. Heeseung sat beside you, his presence a steady flame, not burning with lust but glowing with an emotional weight that made your heart quicken—not with desire, but with the gravity of what lay ahead.

Heeseung wore a navy blue jacket, unzipped, over a fitted white t-shirt that hugged his lean frame, paired with dark jeans that sat comfortably on his hips. A simple silver bracelet glinted on his wrist, his dark hair swept back but falling softly into his eyes, which were dark and open, shimmering with a vulnerability that felt like a gift. Unlike the past weeks, he wasn’t taut with desperate arousal; he was raw with feeling, his hands resting on his knees, his fingers twitching slightly, his jaw set but soft, his glance at you—lingering on your blazer, your poised frame—carrying a quiet intensity that made your pulse race, your boldness thriving on the unspoken bond.

Your mother folded her hands, her voice steady but heavy. “We can’t keep dancing around this,” she said, her eyes moving between you and Heeseung. “Last night, Heeseung, you said things that… change everything. You’re step-siblings. We need to figure out what that means for this family, for your future.”

Minho nodded, his posture calm but his voice firm, his tie slightly loosened. “We’re here to listen,” he said, his eyes kind but searching. “But we need honesty—from both of you. This isn’t just about feelings. It’s about living together, about what’s sustainable.”

You leaned back, crossing your arms, your blouse shifting, catching Heeseung’s eyes flick to the movement, a fleeting spark that made your heart skip—not with heat, but with connection. “Honesty?” you said, your voice smooth, laced with a defiance that made his lips curve, a faint smile. “Fine. Heeseung’s not lying. I feel something too—not just some fling, not just rebellion. It’s real. And pretending it’s not won’t make it go away.” Your boldness was a beacon, cutting through the room’s tension, and you felt Heeseung’s knee brush yours on the sofa, a subtle gesture that steadied you, your pulse calming.

Heeseung exhaled, his jacket shifting as he leaned forward, his voice low but unwavering, his eyes on your mother and Minho, then settling on you, raw and unguarded. “I’m not taking it back,” he said, his words steady, a vow. “I like Y/N—more than like her. I know it’s messy, I know we’re family now, but I can’t unfeel this. I don’t want to.” His voice softened, his vulnerability a quiet force, and he turned to you, his eyes warm, searching. “I want to try, Y/N. Whatever that looks like. If you’ll have me.” His words hung, fragile but fierce, and you felt a jolt, your heart racing, your boldness tempered by a warmth you couldn’t deny.

Your mother’s eyes widened, her hands twisting together, her voice tight but softer. “Heeseung, Y/N… you’re so young. These feelings, they’re intense, but they can fade. You live together. If this doesn’t work, it’s not just a breakup—it’s a fracture in our family. Have you thought about that?”

You smirked, leaning forward, your blazer crisp, your voice sharp but measured. “We’re not idiots, Mom,” you said, your eyes meeting hers, your defiance a shield. “We know it’s not simple. But you can’t just lock us in a box labeled ‘step-siblings’ and expect us to forget who we are. I’m not saying it’s easy, but it’s ours to figure out.” Your boldness burned, and you glanced at Heeseung, catching the warmth in his eyes, the spark there making your heart skip, a silent promise of partnership.

Minho rubbed his temple, his voice calm but probing. “Y/N, Heeseung, no one’s denying your feelings. But there’s reality to face. You’re under one roof. There’s… how others see you—friends, colleagues, even strangers. And you’re both still growing, finding your paths. Can you balance that with this?”

You laughed, a low, defiant sound that made Heeseung’s eyes flicker to you, a mix of admiration and relief. “Others? Let them stare,” you said, your voice teasing, your eyes locked on Minho. “I’m not here to live their version of my life. And yeah, we’re young, but that doesn’t mean we’re clueless.” Your boldness was a flame, and you felt Heeseung’s hand brush yours on the sofa, his fingers lingering, a gentle touch that sent a shiver through you—not lustful, but grounding, a shared resolve against the world.

Heeseung nodded, his white t-shirt catching the light as he leaned back, his voice steady but heavy with emotion. “I’ve thought about it,” he said, his eyes on you, then moving to your mother and Minho. “The risks, the mess, all of it. But Y/N’s worth it. I’m not asking for your blessing—not yet. I’m asking for a chance to prove we can handle this. Together.” His eyes returned to you, soft but fierce, and you felt your heart race, your boldness wavering under the weight of his trust, his vulnerability a mirror to your own.

Your mother sighed, her eyes softening, her voice quieter now. “You’re both so stubborn,” she said, a faint smile breaking through, though her worry lingered. “I’m scared for you. Not because I don’t trust you, but because I know how hard this will be. But… I can’t stop you from feeling what you feel.”

Minho leaned forward, his voice authoritative but warm. “Here’s where we land,” he said, his eyes moving between you and Heeseung. “We won’t stand in your way, but we need rules—for now. You’re still living here, so no crossing lines under this roof. Take it slow. Date, talk, figure out what this is outside of… whatever’s been happening. And if it gets serious, we’ll talk again. Deal?”

You smirked, uncrossing your arms, your loafers tapping lightly against the floor, your eyes flicking to Heeseung. “Slow?” you said, your voice teasing, a challenge that made his lips twitch. “We’ll try. No promises.” Your boldness was there, but your eyes softened, a nod to the compromise, and Heeseung chuckled, soft and warm, his vulnerability still glowing, his hand brushing yours again, a silent vow.

Your mother stood, her expression weary but hopeful. “We’re trusting you both,” she said, her voice firm. “Don’t make us regret it. And… be careful. You’re not just step-siblings anymore. You’re something else, and that’s fragile.”

You stood too, your trousers crisp, your loafers clicking, your boldness a fire that burned steady now, tempered by resolve. “We know,” you said, your voice soft but firm, meeting her gaze, then Minho’s. “We’ll figure it out.” You glanced at Heeseung, saw the warmth in his eyes, the trust matching yours, and you smirked, your waves swaying as you stepped back.

Heeseung rose, his navy jacket loose, his jeans low, his beanie tilting as he followed you to the hallway. At the split to your rooms, he paused, his shoulder brushing yours, his voice low and earnest, no trace of the dirty edge from weeks past. “You meant it, right?” he asked, his eyes searching yours, his vulnerability raw. “You’re in?”

You smirked, your voice soft but sharp, your loafers pausing as you faced him. “I’m in, Heeseung,” you said, your heart racing, your boldness a quiet flame now. “But don’t get cocky. I’m still stealing your fries.” You teased, breaking the weight, and he laughed, genuine and warm, his eyes crinkling, the spark there a promise of something new—not fire, but light.

He nodded, his t-shirt shifting, his bracelet glinting. “Deal,” he said, his voice steady, his smile soft. “We’ll take it slow. For them. But you’re mine, Y/N.” The words weren’t dirty, but certain, a vow that made your chest tighten, your heart full.

You turned, your loafers clicking, your door closing behind you, the penthouse’s vastness—high ceilings, gleaming floors, a golden skyline view—finally big enough for what you’d become. You sank onto your bed, your heart steady, the weight of the meeting, Heeseung’s trust, and your shared future settling like a melody, complete and true. You were his equal, his partner, and as the city hummed beyond your window, you knew this wasn’t just an ending, but a beginning—yours to write, together.

@heesvnqie | Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or repost any of my work

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Marked- Nishimura Riki!Niki

pairing: nishimura riki!ni-ki x reader genre: mafia's son x reader, dark romance, smut, angst warnings: dark romance, killing, threatening, stalking. explicit sexual content,unprotected sex (wrap it up irl!), oral (m & f receiving), rough intimacy, overstimulation, possessive themes word count: 7k

The late afternoon sun hung low over Seoul, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. You adjusted the straps of your backpack, the weight of textbooks digging into your shoulders as you trudged home from school. The day had been long—endless lectures, a pop quiz in math, and the usual cafeteria chaos. All you wanted was to collapse onto your bed and forget the world for a few hours.

Your usual route took you past the underground community basketball court, a sunken concrete slab tucked beneath an overpass. It was a gritty place, with chain-link fences rattling in the breeze and graffiti sprawling across every surface. Most days, you kept your head down and hurried past, the shouts and laughter of the players fading into background noise. But today, something made you pause.

The court was alive with energy. A group of boys moved with practiced ease, their sneakers squeaking against the pavement as they dribbled and passed the ball. You recognized a few faces—upperclassmen from your school, guys who carried themselves with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. But one figure stood out, commanding the court without even trying.

Nishimura Riki. Ni-ki.

Even from a distance, he was unmistakable. Tall and lean, with dark hair swept back from his face, he moved like he owned the space around him. His black hoodie was pushed up to his elbows, revealing forearms taut with muscle as he caught a pass and sank a effortless three-pointer. The ball swished through the net, and his friends erupted in cheers, slapping his back. Ni-ki just smirked, his eyes glinting with a quiet intensity.

Everyone at school knew the rumors. Ni-ki was the son of Nishimura Daiki, the mafia king who ruled Seoul’s underworld. Whispers followed him like shadows—stories of late-night deals, bloodied knuckles, and a family that answered to no one. You’d never had a reason to believe or care about the gossip. Ni-ki was just another face in the hallways, untouchable and distant. Until now.

“Hey!” A voice jolted you from your thoughts. One of Ni-ki’s friends—Jake, you thought, with his easy grin and Australian accent—waved at you. The basketball had rolled off the court, coming to a stop near your feet. “Mind tossing that back?”

You hesitated, your fingers brushing the rough surface of the ball. The group was watching now, their game paused. Ni-ki’s gaze locked onto you, and for a moment, the world narrowed to the weight of his stare. It wasn’t hostile, but it was piercing, like he could see straight through your school uniform and into your thoughts.

“Sure,” you said, keeping your voice steady. You picked up the ball and tossed it back, aiming for Jake. It sailed through the air, a clean arc, and he caught it with a nod.

“Nice throw,” Jake called, spinning the ball on his finger.

You gave a small nod, already turning away, your heart tapping a strange rhythm in your chest. It was supposed to be a simple interaction—ball rolls, you return it, end of story. But your limbs felt heavy now, like the air had thickened around you, like his stare still clung to the back of your neck.

You took one step. Then another. But for some reason, you didn’t want to go. You didn’t want to disappear into your usual routine. Not yet. You slowed your pace just enough to steal a glance over your shoulder, and that’s when it happened.

Ni-ki was still watching you. Unmoving. Unbothered. His expression unreadable, but something in his posture had shifted—arms crossed now, his weight balanced lazily on one leg like he had all the time in the world to stand there and dissect you with his eyes. Not leering. Not curious. Calculating.

Your spine stiffened instinctively, the way it does when someone reads too much without speaking a word. Your hand tightened on the strap of your bag.

Why was he still looking?

“Yo,” Jake nudged Ni-ki’s shoulder with the ball, bringing him back to the present. “You good?”

Ni-ki blinked once, slow. His eyes finally left yours, and in that split second, it was like being released from something you didn’t even know you were caught in.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Just… thought I knew her.”

You almost laughed out loud at that—because no, he didn’t know you. No one like him knew someone like you. You were background. A quiet fixture of crowded hallways, the kind of girl teachers liked for her silence and classmates forgot existed once class ended. You weren’t the kind of girl mafia sons remembered.

But then again, he hadn’t looked at you like someone guessing. He’d looked at you like someone marking.

You turned the corner, quickening your steps as if distance could blur the strange charge in your chest. You tried to push the image of him out of your mind—the flex of his jaw, the way his dark eyes didn’t flinch, the slow, cool way he moved like danger wrapped in rhythm.

But that night, it clung to you.

Even as you sat in your room, bathed in the low glow of your desk lamp, the moment played on a loop. His eyes. That stare. That pause. That one sentence: “Thought I knew her.”

You stared at your untouched homework, the edges of your math book blurring. You didn’t even notice your fingers had curled into a fist until your knuckles ached. Why had it felt like more than curiosity? Why had it felt like a challenge?

The next afternoon, it rained.

The sky cracked open sometime after lunch, releasing thick, unrelenting sheets that turned sidewalks into rivers and umbrellas into fragile shields. You’d forgotten yours at home, of course, and by the time the last bell rang, your shoes were already squelching with water and your uniform stuck to your skin like second flesh.

You debated waiting it out in the school lobby, but something—some reckless tug in your chest—steered you forward.

So you ran.

You didn’t even realize you were heading the same way again until your sneakers skidded to a stop at the edge of the overpass. Water poured in thick streams off the concrete ledges above, but the court was still alive, the game in full swing.

The same group. The same feral energy.

And Ni-ki, again, in the center of it all.

This time he wore all black. Cargo pants tucked into beat-up combat boots, a long-sleeved black compression shirt clinging to every movement. His hair was wet—soaked from the rain—but it only made him look sharper, the strands falling into his eyes as he ducked and wove around the others with fluid grace.

He moved like someone who’d never known hesitation.

Then, as if sensing you—even before you took a step forward—he stopped mid-dribble and looked up. Right. At. You. Not Jake. Not the others.

You.

It wasn’t subtle. This time, his gaze was deliberate, electric. His chest rose and fell with slow breaths as he held your stare across the downpour. A raindrop trickled down the edge of his jaw, but he didn’t move.

You didn’t either.

Neither of you did.

And then, finally—he smirked.

Just a hint of it, curling at the corner of his mouth. Like he knew something you didn’t. Like he was waiting for you to figure it out.

That’s when Jake turned around and followed his gaze.

“Oh,” he said, grinning when he spotted you. “It’s her again.”

He trotted over, ball in hand, like the sky wasn’t collapsing overhead. “You stalking us now?”

You blinked. “I—what? No.”

He laughed. “Kidding. Chill. You look like a wet cat, though.”

You instinctively wiped at your cheek, not realizing until Jake held out the ball.

“Wanna play?”

You stared. “Seriously?”

Sunghoon, another of Ni-ki's friends shrugged. “Why not? You’ve got the shoes. You’ve got the throw. We’re one short anyway.”

You hesitated. And behind him, you could see Ni-ki watching again, hands on his hips, no smile, just that piercing, burning calm. Something unspoken passed between you. Like he was daring you. And this time, you didn’t look away. You took the ball.

The ball was heavier than you expected. Not physically—no, it wasn’t that. It was the way everyone suddenly looked at you the moment your fingers wrapped around it. Like you’d crossed some invisible threshold. Like you’d walked through a door that wasn’t meant for you but had swung open anyway.

Jake grinned, already jogging backward. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

You didn’t say anything. Just swallowed hard and stepped onto the court, the wet concrete slick beneath your shoes. Your uniform clung to your body uncomfortably, but adrenaline kept your blood warm. Every part of you buzzed with a strange mix of nerves and electricity. You weren’t supposed to be here. But here you were.

Ni-ki hadn’t moved. He stood near the painted three-point line, hands resting on his hips again, gaze trained on you like he was dissecting something dangerous—something unexpected.

And something very interesting.

Jake passed the ball your way with a bounce, and you caught it on instinct. Another guy—tall, hair pushed back with streaks of silver you vaguely recognized from the hallways—guarded you lazily, but the pressure of all their attention made your palms sweat.

You faked left. Spun right. And shot.

It wasn’t perfect. But the ball hit the backboard and dropped cleanly into the hoop.

“Ohhh shit,” Jake called. “She’s not just looks and rainwater!”

Laughter rippled around the court, a few claps, a surprised whistle. Even the guy guarding you let out a low grunt of approval.

You allowed yourself a breath of pride.

Then you felt it.

Eyes on you.

That gaze again.

Ni-ki.

He was watching you with a different expression now—chin tilted slightly, a curl at the corner of his lips, but his eyes were sharp. Amused, but alert. Like a predator seeing something new move through its territory.

He started toward you without a word.

One slow step at a time.

Jake passed him the ball. Ni-ki caught it single-handedly, not even glancing, and then—

He passed it to you.

Not Jake. Not one of the others.

You.

The ball landed in your hands with a satisfying thud. You looked at him, surprised, unsure, heart hammering now for reasons that had nothing to do with the game.

His voice was low, barely above the rain.

“Show me that throw again.”

It wasn’t a challenge.

It was a command.

You stepped back, lined up, and launched it again—this time from farther out. The ball kissed the rim and bounced in, just barely.

Jake cheered like you’d won the finals, but Ni-ki didn’t react.

He just walked toward you, slowly, until you were face to face. Rain dripped from his lashes, down the curve of his jaw, but he didn’t seem to care.

“You play often?” he asked.

You shook your head, trying not to shrink under his stare. “No. Just… used to shoot around at the park near my place. Nothing serious.”

Ni-ki looked at you like he didn’t believe that. Or maybe like he didn’t care. “You have good form.”

That shouldn’t have made your stomach twist. But it did.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

He tilted his head slightly. “What’s your name?”

You hesitated. And he noticed.

Jake called from behind, “Come on, man, let her breathe. She just got here.”

Ni-ki ignored him. “Your name.”

You gave it. "Y/N."

His lips moved around the syllables like he was testing the sound, letting it linger between you.

You felt it in your spine.

“You go to the same school, right?” he asked. “Year below me.”

You blinked. “How do you—?”

“I see more than people think,” he said.

There was no smugness in his tone. Just fact.

You looked away, trying to re-anchor yourself. The game had resumed behind you, sneakers squeaking, laughter rising, but all of it felt like a distant world.

Ni-ki stepped even closer.

“You always take this route home?”

Your head whipped up at the question.

It was casual. Offhand. Innocent, if you wanted it to be.

But there was an edge to the way he asked it. Like he was noting a pattern. Like he was cataloguing you.

Why?

You cleared your throat. “Not always.”

Ni-ki’s expression didn’t change, but the air between you shifted.

“Maybe you should start.”

Your brows lifted. “Why?”

He didn’t answer immediately. And then—

“Because you’ll be safe here.”

That made your breath hitch.

He stepped past you after that like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just dropped a sentence that left your heart skidding sideways in your chest. The game continued, Ni-ki weaving through defenders with a grace that didn’t belong to teenagers. He was fast, precise, ruthless.

You stood at the edge of the court, watching him dominate the space like he’d been born to rule it.

And maybe he had.

Because you remembered the whispers now.

The late-night conversations you’d overheard between classmates. The rumors that circled his name like smoke: mafia. bloodlines. power. danger.

You’d never cared before. But now? Now he’d looked at you. Now he’d spoken to you. Now he’d claimed you—in the smallest, subtlest of ways.

And a part of you—some deep, irrational, stupid part—wondered what it would mean if you let him. The game ended twenty minutes later. Jake and Sunghoon offered to walk you home, but you declined. You needed air. You needed space to think.

But when you turned the corner, alone again, you saw it— A black SUV idling at the curb just half a block away. Windows tinted too dark. Engine silent. No movement.

You’d seen the same black SUV parked across the street from your school earlier that morning—engine off, driver invisible behind tinted glass. Yoi’d written it off as a parent or staff car. But now… your skin prickled. You turned your head just enough to look back at the court. Ni-ki was already watching. No smile. No smirk. Just eyes. Like a warning. Or a promise.

And this time, you didn’t walk away faster. You walked slower. Because maybe he was right. Maybe you’d be safer under his gaze. Even if that gaze was the beginning of everything unraveling. The air was thicker now.

Not just from the rain, which had slowed to a drizzle, but from something heavier. Something that clung to the back of your throat as you turned onto the main road and glanced—again—over your shoulder. The SUV was still there. Black. Silent. Windows tinted obsidian.

It didn’t move. It didn’t flash headlights or inch forward menacingly like some B-movie stalker scene. It just sat there. Still. Watching.

You tried to tell yourself it was nothing. That maybe it was just someone waiting for a friend. That maybe you were being dramatic. That maybe the blood in your ears didn’t sound louder because your instincts were screaming.

But you’d seen it before. Once. Twice. Now a third time.

Always quiet. Always idle. Always somewhere near you.

It wasn’t coincidence anymore. It was choreography.

You turned back around, kept walking. Faster this time. The rain clung to your socks and made your skirt heavy. Your breath started to hitch in a way that had nothing to do with exertion.

You didn’t want to admit it—but you were scared.

And that pissed you off.

You weren’t the kind of girl who got scared easily. You walked with your keys between your knuckles. You knew how to cross the street twice if something felt off. You texted your friends live updates when taking cabs late. You were cautious, aware, grounded.

But right now?

Right now, you were seventeen years old, soaked to the skin, and walking down a street where something was off and you didn’t have a damn plan.

You pulled out your phone. No bars. Of course.

The tall buildings on either side of the street had always messed with reception here, but today, it felt personal. Deliberate. You didn’t want to run. Running would make it real. So you kept walking. Turned the next corner. Another.

Until you were in a smaller side alley that cut across to the back of your apartment block. You’d taken this path dozens of times before. It was faster, tucked away from the main roads. Familiar.

But tonight, it felt wrong. It felt like silence was pressing too hard against your ears.

And then—

A voice. Low. Cool. Almost bored.

“Why are you walking here alone?”

You stopped so fast your shoe skidded on the wet pavement.

Ni-ki.

Leaning against the rusted railing of the side wall like he’d been waiting there all his life. Hoodie still damp from the earlier game, hair messily flattened against his forehead now. One hand tucked into the pocket of his joggers. The other resting lightly against the concrete.

No panic in his expression. Just a look that said he knew.

You swallowed. “I could ask you the same thing.”

He didn’t answer right away. Didn’t even move. But his eyes flicked behind you—quick, precise, trained.

“I asked you first.”

Your heart thumped once, hard. “Shortcut.”

He clicked his tongue once, low. “Bad one.”

You glanced over your shoulder instinctively, but the SUV wasn’t in view anymore. Maybe it never had been. Maybe that was worse.

“What are you even—how did you know I’d be—”

“Because you’ve walked this route before.” His voice was calm. “I’ve seen you.”

That shouldn’t have sounded like protection. Should’ve sounded creepy. Should’ve sent red flags skyrocketing.

But it didn’t. Because the way he said it…The way he was already stepping forward. It didn’t feel like obsession. It felt like warning.

“You’ve been watching me?” you asked.

His gaze didn’t shift. “I’ve been noticing.”

A beat. Then another. Then: “And you’ve been followed.”

You went cold.

“What?” Your voice cracked on the word.

“I saw it again. The car.” He stepped closer. You didn’t step back. “Same make. Same plates. Same driver.”

“You got the—plates—?”

“Yeah,” he said. Like it was nothing. Like memorizing license numbers was part of his morning routine.

You didn’t even know what to say to that. He looked at you for a long moment. Like he was waiting to see if you’d connect the dots.

When you didn’t, he added, voice low: “They’re not random. And they’re not friendly.”

Your stomach turned. This wasn’t high school gossip anymore. This wasn’t whispers about mafia families or criminal empires behind closed doors. This was real. And it had found you.

“Why me?” you asked, voice quieter than you meant it to be. “I’m no one. Just a student—”

“That’s exactly why.” Ni-ki’s jaw flexed. “Because you’re no one. Easy to track. Easy to grab. No guards. No questions asked.”

His words dropped like a weight into your chest. You’d always hated being invisible. Hated fading into the background. Now? Now it felt like a curse.

“You shouldn’t walk alone anymore,” he said. “Not here.”

You tried to scoff. “So what, you’re offering to escort me every day?”

His eyes narrowed. “I’m offering to keep you alive.”

Silence fell. Thick. Dense. Wet with things neither of you were saying.

Finally, you asked, “Why are you helping me?”

It wasn’t flirtatious. It wasn’t cute. It was raw. Ni-ki studied you for a long moment. And then he said—

“Because the second you stepped on that court…” He paused. Tilted his head. “…you stopped being invisible to the wrong people.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears. He took another step forward. You let him. Now you were toe-to-toe. His height shadowing yours. His fingers brushing the back of your wrist—not enough to hold you. Just enough to remind you he was there. Solid. Real.

And maybe dangerous in a way that didn’t scare you anymore.

“And that's why I’ll walk you home,” he said.

You didn’t stop him. Not when he fell into step beside you like he’d always belonged there. Not when his shoulder bumped yours once, just enough to settle your nerves. Not even when you saw the SUV parked two blocks away, engine idling again—and he didn’t flinch. You walked the rest of the way in silence. But your heartbeat wasn’t quiet. It screamed. Because something had shifted. You felt it in your bones.

Whatever this was—Ni-ki, the car, the look in his eyes when he said you weren’t safe— it was only the beginning. And you had a feeling? You wouldn’t want to go back.

The next morning was gray. Seoul was still damp from the night’s storm, and everything looked washed out—skies dull, roads slick, people moving like ghosts beneath umbrellas.

But it wasn’t the weather that made your skin itch. It was the feeling. That same tightness between your ribs. That crawling sense of being watched.

You kept checking over your shoulder as you walked into school. Each glance was quick. Small. Almost embarrassed. But always there. The black SUV was gone. Or maybe it was just… somewhere else. You didn’t know which was worse.

Ni-ki had walked you home the night before and said nothing else. Not even a goodbye. Just a look—a look that felt like he was memorizing the shape of your front door. As if he was promising he’d remember where to find you.

And he hadn’t shown up this morning. You didn’t know if that disappointed you or scared you more.

You slipped into your classroom early, shaking the rain off your sleeves, and tried to breathe normal. Tried to act normal. But that illusion shattered the moment you opened your locker. Your books were on the lowest shelf, not where they were supposed to be.

Not dropped. Not tumbled. Deliberately placed—stacked neatly, spines aligned, as if someone had arranged them that way.

And on top of the pile, right where your hand would reach first, was a note. You froze. Your heart stuttered so hard it hurt. It wasn’t folded. Just a small, square slip of black paper with silverpen ink in a careful, slanted hand.

“You shouldn’t talk to him.”

That was it. No signature. No context. But you knew. You knew exactly who him meant.

You grabbed the note, stuffed it into your skirt pocket, and shut the locker hard enough that a few heads turned. Your hands shook the entire first period.

You didn’t eat lunch. You didn’t speak much in class. You just stared at the condensation on the window, letting the outside blur as panic curled around your lungs.

This was real. This was happening. And it wasn’t just some distant mafia story anymore. It had found you. In your school. In your locker.

Your skin prickled as your gaze flicked to the hallway. Past the classroom door. He was leaning against the wall, half hidden from view.

Ni-ki.

Not in uniform. Just a black windbreaker zipped up to his throat, hood hanging loose behind his neck. Hair messy from the breeze, hands shoved in his pockets.

He wasn’t looking at anyone. Not speaking. Not moving. He was watching you.

And when your eyes met his, you saw it. He knew. You stood up before you realized what you were doing.

“Bathroom,” you mumbled to the teacher. Didn’t wait for her nod.

The hallway was cold and wide and mostly empty. Your shoes clicked fast against the tile as you marched toward him.

He didn’t flinch.

“Someone left me a note,” you hissed when you were close enough. “In my locker.”

His jaw tightened. Barely. But enough.

Ni-ki looked down the hall, then at the classroom windows above. “What did it say?”

You hesitated. Then: “Not to talk to you.”

A pause.

Then he laughed. Not a loud laugh. Not even amused.

Just… dark. Like someone had confirmed what he already knew.

“Of course they did,” he muttered.

You stared. “Who’s ‘they’?”

His expression didn’t change. But when he spoke, his voice dropped low.

“There are groups that don’t like mine. Rival bloodlines. Idiots playing pretend at power. They like to send warnings when they think someone’s becoming leverage.”

You blinked. “Leverage?”

His gaze landed hard on you. “You.”

You didn’t speak. Didn’t even breathe. He leaned closer. So close his breath brushed your cheek when he said, “You were seen with me. Which means now? You’re not just some student anymore. You’re a pawn. Maybe even a threat.”

You swallowed. “Why? Why me? I didn’t do anything.”

“You existed,” he said. “In the wrong place. At the wrong time.”

“Like the court?” you whispered. He nodded once.

“And now?”

Ni-ki’s voice was flat.

“Now you belong to something. Whether you like it or not.” He said and the silence that followed was deafening.

He straightened, but didn’t move away. Didn’t give you distance. He was still close enough that you could count the lashes on his eyes. Still close enough to feel the low-grade hum that always seemed to follow him, like danger itself bent around his orbit. He studied you.

“You scared?” he asked. You didn’t answer right away. But you didn’t look away, either.

“Not when I’m with you.”

That surprised him. You saw it. Just a flicker. But it was there.

His shoulders relaxed, just barely. His jaw unclenched. He then said,“Good. Because you’ll be with me a lot more.”

You didn’t argue. Not when his hand brushed your elbow as he walked past. Not when he muttered, “I’ll take care of the note.” And definitely not when you realized—you wanted him to.

You weren’t dreaming when you saw it again. The note. Folded this time. Slipped into your bag between classes, right on top of your phone, like someone had timed it perfectly.

“Back away from him. Last warning.”

Your blood turned to ice. It wasn’t just about Ni-ki anymore. This—this felt like a countdown. And you had no idea how close you were to zero. You didn’t go to class. You found Ni-ki.

He wasn’t hard to find anymore. He’d been shadowing you all week. In the hallway. On the walk home. Outside your building. He didn’t follow—he escorted. Silent. Present. Watchful. Always watchful.

You found him leaning against the vending machine outside the gym, half a bottle of Pocari Sweat in hand. His hood was up, his eyes heavy-lidded, bored. But the second he saw your face, he moved.

“What happened?” he asked, instantly alert.

You handed him the note. No words. No overreaction. Just the paper in his hand and the pounding in your chest. He read it once. Then folded it neatly and tucked it into his pocket.

“I’ll handle it.”

“Who is it?” you asked. “Do you know who’s doing this?”

Ni-ki’s jaw clenched. “I have guesses.”

You stepped closer. “Ni-ki—what does this mean? Am I a target? Are they gonna do something—?”

“You’re not a target,” he cut in. “You’re a messenger.”

You blinked. “To you?”

“To me. To my father. To our side of the city.” His voice was tight now, teeth gritted. “They think they can use you to get to me.”

Silence stretched between you. And in that silence, you felt it. The truth. The reason he was always watching. Always near.

Because to Ni-ki, this wasn’t casual. This wasn’t some harmless schoolyard crush or idle fascination. For them, you had become his territory. And someone was threatening it.

“I can’t go home,” you said suddenly. “Not if someone’s following me.”

“You’re not,” he said. “Not alone.”

“I’m serious—”

“So am I.” Ni-ki said. “Pack your things. You’re staying with me tonight.”

Your stomach flipped. “What—?”

“My house. My guards. My rules.” His eyes burned into yours. “You’re not walking out of here without me.”

For a second, you just stood there. Staring. Because this was the moment. The moment where you should say no. Where you should walk away, call the cops, tell a teacher, pretend everything was normal.

But everything wasn’t normal. So you nodded. And Ni-ki didn’t waste time.

His house was a fortress. High walls, private gate, security cameras on every corner. The kind of place that whispered danger and blood and inherited power.

You kept your jacket pulled tight around you as you stepped into the marble-floored foyer. His shoes hit the tile with practiced ease, and you couldn’t help but glance around. Clean. Cold. Silent. Except for him.

He didn’t ask if you were hungry. He didn’t ask if you wanted to call home. He just led you upstairs, past closed doors and narrow windows, to a quiet room at the end of the hall.

“My room’s next door,” he said.

You turned. “Wait—this is your house.”

His eyes met yours. “You think I’d leave you in a guest room on the opposite wing?”

You swallowed.

“I’ll be nearby,” he added. “Just in case.”

“In case of what?”

Ni-ki didn’t answer. And that silence said everything. That night, the storm came back.

Heavy rain lashed against the windows. The room you were in—despite its luxury—felt cold. Like you didn’t belong here. Like you were just waiting to be stolen away again. You couldn’t sleep. And apparently, neither could Ni-ki.

You found him sitting on the windowsill in the hallway outside your door. Hood up. One leg drawn up, the other dangling over the edge like he was thirteen again and not someone raised by a mafia king.

“You okay?” you asked quietly.

He didn’t look at you.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said.

You sat beside him. Close, but not touching. Rain tapped gently against the glass. For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then, Ni-ki said, “I shouldn’t have let you near me.”

You turned. “What?”

He finally looked at you—and for the first time, he looked unsteady. Not cold. Not unreadable. Just nineteen.

“You didn’t ask for this,” he said. “You were just walking home from school. Just passing the court. Just existing.”

He shook his head.

“And now you’re in the middle of a war.”

Your throat tightened. “I’m not afraid.”

“You should be.”

“I’m not." You paused. “Not with you.”

That changed something. The air between you pulsed. Shifted. Became thicker. And for the first time, Ni-ki didn’t hide it.

His fingers brushed your wrist. Slow. Testing. Not possessive. Not dominant. Just real. And when his hand didn’t fall away, neither did yours.

“You’re not a messenger, anymore,” he said softly. “You’re mine to protect."

The house was too quiet. After the storm passed, a different kind of silence settled in. Not peaceful. Not empty. Just wrong.

You stirred beneath the thick blanket, the silk sheets slipping against your legs as you sat up in the wide unfamiliar bed Ni-ki had given you. Your heart had been beating faster for minutes now—tight, pulsing, anxious. Something was off. The door creaked open. Your breath caught—until you saw him.

Ni-ki.

Drenched in moonlight, dressed in all black, his hoodie pushed back, hair mussed, eyes low and sharp. But there was something new this time. Something alive in his expression.

“I heard something,” he said simply, already locking the door behind him. “Window sensor triggered downstairs.”

You stared. “Was someone—?”

“Gone by the time I got there.”

A pause. His jaw clenched.

“But they left this.”

He held out a small item pinched between gloved fingers. It was a bullet. Wrapped in a torn strip of notebook paper. Your name scrawled across it. Your blood ran cold. You reached for it instinctively, but Ni-ki pulled it back.

“No,” he said quietly. “Don’t touch that. You don’t need that image burned into your skin.”

His hand was steady. But the rage in his eyes was shaking loose.

“Ni-ki—” your voice cracked. “Why are they doing this?”

“Because they can’t reach me.” He stepped closer. “So they’re reaching for you.”

You were trembling now. Not from fear, exactly. But from something heavier. Something sharper. He saw it. And suddenly—he was in front of you. Closer. So close you could feel the hum of his energy through the air.

“You’re not leaving this room tonight,” he said lowly.

You looked up. “Are you staying?”

His breath caught. A flicker of restraint moved across his face—before it vanished.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

The lights stayed off. Just the moon. Just his presence. Just the distance between the two of you shrinking with every minute.

Ni-ki didn’t sit in the corner or keep to the couch. He sat beside you. On the bed. Facing you. Knees touching. And neither of you moved.

“I should’ve told you,” he said, after a long stretch of silence. “What kind of world this is. What kind of person I am.”

“You didn’t need to,” you whispered. “I see it.”

“You don’t run from it.”

“No,” you said, bolder now. “Because I see you, too.”

His jaw flexed.

“You don’t get it,” he said. “Everyone else runs. Or lies. Or tries to use me. But you…" His hand lifted. Fingers brushing against your cheek. So gentle it ached. “You walked into all this and didn’t flinch. You throw the ball back, and you stare straight into the barrel.” He leaned in.

“I don’t know what that makes you,” he murmured. “But it makes you mine.”

The kiss didn’t come immediately. He hovered. His lips inches from yours. Breathing you in. Searching your eyes like he needed permission. Like he needed to know this wasn’t some fever dream built on obsession and fire and bullet threats. You gave him the answer without speaking. And then his lips crushed into yours. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was the kind of kiss that burned. That seared away hesitation and made your skin come alive.

His hand fisted in your shirt, pulling you close. Your fingers slid into his hair, tugging. His other hand gripped your thigh—firm, claiming, like he’d been holding himself back for too long. You gasped into him, and that was all it took for him to push you gently back onto the mattress. His weight didn’t settle on you completely. He hovered, lips tracing fire along your jaw, down your neck.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he breathed, voice shaking with restraint. “You don’t know how close I am to forgetting every reason why I shouldn’t touch you like this.”

“Then forget them,” you whispered.

His hand stilled on your waist.

“You sure?”

You nodded.

“I want this,” you said. “I want you.”

Something in him shattered. And when his lips found yours again, it was hunger. Raw and wild. But he didn’t go further. Not tonight. Not yet.

Because Ni-ki didn’t want to take. He wanted you to choose. Not in fear. Not because of danger. But because you wanted him.

You weren’t supposed to be in the hallway in the middle of the night. But something had woken you. Not a sound. A feeling.

Like a wire pulling your spine upright. Like your skin had gone cold, your breath too loud. You slipped barefoot out of the room, hoodie wrapped tight around you. That’s when you saw it. The window down the hall. Slightly open. A shadow slipping through it.

Before you could scream—they saw you.

A man. Tall. Pale. Gloves on. A switchblade flashing in one hand.

Your body froze.

And then Ni-ki was there. It happened fast. Brutal. Precise. Ni-ki moved like an unleashed weapon—silent, fluid, lethal. His hand snapped the man’s wrist, blade clattering to the ground. He slammed the intruder into the wall with a dull thud, one arm pressed tight to his neck.

“Who sent you?” Ni-ki growled.

The man choked. “You know who.”

Ni-ki pressed harder.

“Say it.”

“Jeon—” the man gasped. “Jeon Min-jae.”

Ni-ki’s eyes went dead.

“Wrong move.”

One punch. Two. You turned your face away as blood splattered the floor. By the time Ni-ki let the man collapse, he was unconscious—barely breathing. A guard came running. Ni-ki said only three words.

“Take him out. And handle the mission without me tonight."

The hallway emptied. And then he turned to you.

“You saw everything?” he asked, voice too quiet.

You nodded, shaking.

He stepped closer. You weren’t sure who moved first. Maybe you both did. But suddenly—you were clinging to him, fists in his hoodie, heart thudding wild. And Ni-ki pulled you in like he’d been starving.

“I'm sorry,” he breathed. “You shouldn’t have seen this side of me.”

“I wanted to.”

He froze. You looked up, eyes burning.

“I want all of you, Ni-ki.”

And that was it.

You didn’t remember how you made it back to his room.

Just that your back hit the door, and Ni-ki kissed you like he was claiming your breath. His hands were everywhere—your hips, your neck, your thighs—touching like he was trying to memorize every part of you. Your legs wrapped around his waist. He lifted you like it was nothing.

“I’ve wanted this,” he growled, “since the first time you looked at me and didn’t flinch.” You gasped when Niki didn’t waste time, pinning you against the wall, his body pressing into yours, his lips crashing into yours, hungry, desperate, all teeth and tongue. You moaned into the kiss, hands tearing at his jacket, shoving it off his shoulders, your nails raking his arms, leaving marks he’d feel tomorrow.

“Fuck, you’re hot,” he growled, yanking your dress up, bunching it around your waist, his hands finding your panties, ripping them off with a single, sharp tug, the fabric tearing, leaving you bare.

“Nishimura Riki,” you gasped, but you were already reaching for his jeans, fumbling with the button, shoving them down, freeing his cock—thick, hard, the tip slick with precum, pulsing in your hand as you stroked him, slow, then fast, watching his eyes flutter shut, a low groan spilling from his lips. “You owe me new ones.”

“I’ll buy you a fucking wardrobe, baby,” he said, his voice rough, his hands gripping your thighs, lifting you, your legs wrapping around his waist, your back scraping the wall as he positioned himself, his cock teasing your entrance, slick and hot. “But first, I’m gonna make you scream.”

He thrust in, hard, deep, filling you completely, the stretch a delicious burn that made you cry out, your nails digging into his back, tearing through his tank top. “Niki,” you moaned, your head falling back, his lips on your neck, sucking, biting, leaving marks you’d have to hide tomorrow. His pace was brutal, each thrust slamming you into the wall, the sound of skin on skin loud in the small room, your moans echoing, reckless, raw.

“So fucking tight,” he growled, his hand wrapping around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your head spin, to make you feel him, his other hand gripping your waist, making you clench around him, drawing a moan from his lips. “You love this, don’t you? Love being fucked like this.”

“Yes,” you gasped, your hands in his hair, pulling, your body trembling, the pressure building, fast, overwhelming. “Fuck, Niki, don’t stop.”

He didn’t, his thrusts harder, deeper, his fingers slipping between you, finding your clit, rubbing fast, relentless, pushing you to the edge. “Come for me, baby,” he growled, his lips on yours, swallowing your moans as you shattered, your body convulsing, your vision blurring, a scream tearing from your throat as you came, hard, your walls pulsing around him.

He wasn’t done. He pulled out, setting you down, your legs shaky, but he spun you around, bending you over the bed,

“Not done with you yet,” he said, his voice dark, his cock sliding back into you, the new angle hitting deeper, making you moan, your body still sensitive, trembling. He fucked you hard, his hands gripping your hips, bruising, his pace relentless, the bed creaking under your weight.

“Too much,” you whimpered, but your hips pushed back, meeting his thrusts, chasing the high again, your body betraying you, craving more. He spanked you again, harder, the sting making you cry out, your walls clenching, drawing a groan from him.

“Take it,” he growled, his hand in your hair, pulling your head back, his lips on your neck, biting, his other hand on your clit again, rubbing fast, pushing you over the edge a second time, your body shaking, your moans turning to sobs as you came again, harder, your legs giving out.

He followed, spilling inside you with a broken moan, his thrusts slowing, his body collapsing against yours, both of you panting, sweat-slick, the air thick with the scent of sex. He pulled out, turning you around, his lips on yours, soft now, tender, a contrast to the roughness of before. “You okay, baby?” he murmured, his hands cupping your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears on your cheeks.

“Yeah,” you whispered, voice shaky, your body still trembling, but you felt safe, held, the intensity giving way to something softer, something real. “You?”

He smiled, a rare, genuine smile, his eyes soft, warm. “Better than ever,” he said, kissing your forehead, pulling you into his arms, holding you close, the world outside fading away.

The morning sun rose into a new world.

Jeon Min-jae had been arrested that night—his network crushed.

Ni-ki’s name was cleared.

And you? You didn’t go home. You stayed. By his side. Still tangled in his sheets. Still tasting his kiss. Still safe in the arms of the boy with blood on his hands and fire in his chest.

“You’re not scared?” he whispered against your bare shoulder.

“No,” you whispered back. “You’ll protect me.”

He nodded.

“Always.” And when he said always, you knew it wasn’t a promise. It was a vow. Carved into fate. Written in fire. Spoken like a boy born from shadows who had finally found the only thing he couldn’t live without.

His arms curled tighter around you as sunlight broke across the bruised skyline.

“You’re mine,” Ni-ki murmured.

You turned in his arms, gaze steady.

“I always was.”

And in his kiss — fierce, quiet, and full of fire — you felt it. The promise. The danger. The devotion. Because even after the blood dried, even after the war ended, you were no longer just a girl passing by a basketball court on your way home.

You were his. Forever. Marked.

@heesvnqie | Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or repost any of my work

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@dreamiestay

@amortenha

@peonywon

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[heesvnqie]

Digital Shadows- Yang Jungwon

pairing: yang jungwon x f!reader genre: hacker x reader, psychological thriller, dark romance, suspense warnings: obsessive behavior, hacking, privacy invasion, psychological tension, explicit sexual content (18+, minors DNI), unprotected sex (wrap it up IRL!), oral sex (m receiving), rough sex, dirty talk, teasing, begging, strong language word count: 9.6k a/n: A thrilling mix of suspense and dark romance, this fanfiction dives into Jungwon’s obsessive hacking of Y/N’s life and their intense, twisted love. Written with vivid emotional detail, it’s a wild ride of fear, desire, and digital danger. Thanks for reading this tale—more to come!

The faint hum of your laptop filled the quiet of your bedroom, its blue light casting jagged shadows across the walls. You sat cross-legged on your bed, scrolling through your inbox, when a new email notification popped up. The sender’s name was just a single letter: J. No subject line, no greeting, just a single sentence that made your skin prickle: “You looked nice in that red hoodie today, Y/N.” Your fingers froze over the trackpad. You hadn’t worn that hoodie since yesterday, and you’d only gone to the library and back—alone.

This wasn’t the first message. For three weeks, J had been slipping into your digital life like a ghost. It started with a text from an unknown number: “That latte art at Brew Haven is overrated, don’t you think?” You’d brushed it off as a prank, but then came the DMs on your private Instagram—comments about songs you’d played, books you’d posted, even the exact time you’d left your house one evening. Whoever J was, they weren’t just guessing. They knew you.

You clicked the email shut and glanced at your phone, its screen dark but somehow menacing. Downstairs, your sister Ryujin’s laughter rang out, sharp and carefree, mingling with the low voices of her boyfriend Jay and his best friend, Jungwon. They’d been over all afternoon, sprawled across the living room couch, playing some co-op game on Jay’s PlayStation. You’d kept your distance, as usual. Jay was fine—sweet, reliable, the kind of guy who’d help with dishes unprompted. But Jungwon? He was different. Too smooth, too sharp, like he was always calculating something behind those dark eyes.

You shook your head, trying to dislodge the creeping suspicion. Jungwon was just a guy, not some shadowy cyberstalker. Still, the timing of J’s messages felt too convenient. They always came when you were alone, late at night or early in the morning, when Jungwon wasn’t around. Or was he? You couldn’t be sure anymore.

The doorbell had rung earlier that day, and Ryujin had let Jungwon in, his black backpack slung over one shoulder, his hair slightly messy from the wind. He’d flashed you a grin as he passed your room, his voice carrying a teasing lilt. “Y/N, still glued to that laptop? You’re gonna turn into a robot.” You’d rolled your eyes, muttering something about schoolwork, but his gaze lingered a second too long, like he was reading you instead of just looking.

Now, alone in your room, you opened your CCTV app, a habit you’d picked up since your parents installed the system last year. The feed loaded: the front porch, empty; the backyard, still; the living room, where Ryujin, Jay, and Jungwon were laughing over a spilled bowl of popcorn. Jungwon’s head was tilted toward his phone, his fingers moving swiftly across the screen. You squinted, trying to make out what he was doing, but the feed was too grainy. Probably just texting, you told yourself. But your gut churned.

Another ping. A new message from J: “Why’re you checking the cameras, Y/N? Don’t trust your guests?” Your breath caught. The CCTV app was still open on your phone, the living room feed staring back at you. You slammed the app shut, your heart hammering. This wasn’t a coincidence. Whoever J was, they could see what you were doing—right now.

The next morning, you woke to the smell of coffee and the clatter of dishes downstairs. Ryujin was in the kitchen, flipping pancakes, while Jay hovered nearby, stealing bites of batter. Jungwon was there too, leaning against the counter, his laptop open and his fingers flying across the keys. He looked up as you entered, his smile easy but sharp, like a blade hidden in velvet. “Morning, Y/N. Sleep okay?”

You nodded, avoiding his gaze as you grabbed a mug. “Fine.”

“Rough night?” he pressed, closing his laptop with a soft click. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

Ryujin laughed, oblivious. “She’s just stressed about finals, right, Y/N? You’ve been glued to your laptop 24/7.”

“Yeah,” you muttered, pouring coffee to avoid the conversation. But Jungwon’s eyes didn’t leave you, and you felt them like a weight. He was always like this—too observant, too interested. Last week, he’d “accidentally” bumped into you at the café you frequented, claiming he was just passing by. The week before, he’d shown up at your house with Jay, offering to fix your router when it started lagging. You’d declined, but he’d lingered, asking questions about your tech setup with a curiosity that felt too intense.

“Hey, Y/N,” Jungwon said now, his tone casual but his eyes anything but. “Your laptop’s pretty high-end, right? Mind if I borrow it later? Mine’s been crashing, and I’ve got some… projects to finish.”

Your grip tightened on the mug. “Why not use Jay’s?”

Jay snorted, tossing a pancake onto a plate. “My laptop’s ancient, dude. It can barely run Netflix.”

Jungwon shrugged, his smile disarming. “Yours is faster, Y/N. I’ll be careful, promise.”

Every instinct screamed no. But Ryujin was watching, and Jay was nodding like it was no big deal, and saying no without a reason would sound paranoid. “Fine,” you said finally, your voice tighter than you meant. “But don’t mess with anything.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jungwon replied, his grin widening. He opened his laptop again, and you caught a glimpse of green code scrolling across the screen before he angled it away.

That afternoon, you handed over your laptop, your reluctance masked by a forced shrug. Jungwon settled on the living room couch, his posture relaxed but his focus razor-sharp. You hovered nearby, pretending to scroll on your phone, but your eyes kept darting to him. His fingers moved like they were born for this, typing commands you couldn’t follow, his expression unreadable. Occasionally, he’d glance up, catching your eye with a smirk that made your stomach twist.

“Got some cool stuff on here,” he said after a while, not looking up. “Your playlists are wild. Didn’t know you were into screamo.”

“It’s not screamo,” you snapped, defensive. “And don’t snoop.”

He chuckled, low and teasing. “Relax, Y/N. Just making conversation.”

But you didn’t relax. You couldn’t. Not when your phone buzzed in your hand, a new email from J popping up: “He’s in your system now. Careful what you let him touch.” Your blood ran cold. You glanced at Jungwon, still typing, oblivious—or was he? The CCTV app was still on your phone, tempting you to check. You opened it, the living room feed loading instantly. There he was, Jungwon, on the couch, his laptop screen reflected faintly in his glasses. You zoomed in, heart pounding, and saw it: lines of code, a terminal window, and what looked like a mirrored image of your laptop’s desktop.

You closed the app, your hands shaking. “I’m grabbing a drink,” you mumbled, fleeing to the kitchen. Alone, you opened the email again, rereading the message. He’s in your system now. It couldn’t be Jungwon. Could it? He was Jay’s best friend, practically family. But the messages, the timing, the way he watched you—it all lined up too perfectly.

Your phone buzzed again. Another message from J: “Check your webcam. Smile for me.” You froze, your eyes darting to your laptop on the couch. The webcam light was off, but that didn’t mean anything. Not if J was as good as they seemed. Not if J was Jungwon.

That night, you lay awake, the house silent except for the faint creak of pipes. Ryujin and Jay had gone to bed hours ago, and Jungwon had left with a casual “Thanks for the laptop, Y/N. You’re a lifesaver.” But you weren’t sleeping. You couldn’t. Every creak, every shadow, felt like a threat. You’d taped over your webcam, changed your passwords, even unplugged your router, but the unease lingered.

Your phone lit up. A text, not an email this time, from an unknown number: “You’re cute when you’re scared, Y/N. But you don’t have to be. I’m not here to hurt you.” Attached was a grainy image—a still from your bedroom CCTV, showing you sitting on your bed, staring at your phone. The timestamp? Five minutes ago.

You dropped the phone, your breath hitching. The cameras. He was in the cameras. And if Jungwon was J, he’d been in your house, in your life, closer than you ever realized. The question wasn’t just who he was—it was what he wanted. And whether you were scared enough to run… or curious enough to find out.

The next morning, you woke with a jolt, the memory of last night’s CCTV image burning behind your eyes. Your phone lay face-down on the nightstand, as if ignoring it could erase the message from J: a grainy still of you in your bedroom, timestamped just minutes before it arrived. You hadn’t slept properly, your dreams a jumble of code and Jungwon’s sly smirk. Now, sunlight streamed through your curtains, but it did nothing to ease the chill in your bones.

Downstairs, the house was quiet. Ryujin had left early for a study group, and Jay was probably with her. You were alone—or so you hoped. Your laptop sat on your desk, its lid closed like a sleeping predator. You hesitated, then opened it, half-expecting something to leap out. The screen flickered to life, normal at first glance. But as you opened your notes app to jot down your thoughts—anything to make sense of the chaos—something was wrong.

Words appeared on the screen. Not yours.

“You’re up early, Y/N. Thinking about me?”

Your fingers froze above the keyboard. The cursor blinked, then moved again, typing in real-time: “Don’t look so freaked out. It’s just a little fun.” You slammed the laptop shut, your heart pounding so hard it hurt. You hadn’t touched the keys. Someone—J—was in your system, watching, typing, playing with you.

You grabbed your phone, opening the CCTV app to check the house. The feeds loaded: kitchen, empty; front porch, empty; living room, empty. Your bedroom feed was last. You hesitated, then tapped it. The screen showed your room, your bed, you—right now, hunched over your phone, eyes wide.

The angle was from the ceiling camera, its lens unblinking. You forced yourself to look at the laptop. The webcam light was still off, covered by the tape you’d slapped on last night. But the notes app incident told you tape wasn’t enough.

Another ping. A text from an unknown number: “You can’t hide from me, Y/N. But why would you want to?” Attached was a screenshot of your notes app, the words J had typed still visible. Your stomach lurched. This wasn’t just emails or texts anymore. They were inside your devices, real-time, like a shadow moving with you.

You skipped breakfast, too rattled to eat. Instead, you sat at the kitchen table, your laptop and phone in front of you like evidence in a crime scene. Jungwon’s face kept flashing in your mind—his quick fingers on his keyboard, his too-knowing smile when he borrowed your laptop yesterday. It had to be him.

He was Jay’s best friend, always around, always too close. And he’d had access to your laptop, your house, your life. The CCTV system was Ryujin’s idea, installed after a string of neighborhood break-ins, but Jungwon had been here when the techs set it up. You remembered him asking questions, leaning over the technician’s shoulder, his curiosity seeming innocent at the time.

Now, it felt like a setup.

Your phone buzzed again, this time a notification from your music app. A new playlist had been created: “For Y/N, From J.” The songs were eerily specific—your favorite obscure indie tracks, a metal song you’d only listened to once in private, even a demo you’d downloaded from a sketchy site years ago. No one could know this. No one but someone who’d dug deep into your digital footprint.

You opened your laptop again, determined to fight back. You ran every antivirus you had, the scans coming up clean. Frustrated, you opened a browser, but before you could type, the search bar autofilled: “How to know if you’re being hacked.” You stared, your hands nowhere near the keyboard. The browser loaded a page, but instead of search results, it displayed a single line in bold: “You’re asking the right questions, Y/N. Keep going.”

You yanked the laptop’s power cord, shutting it down manually. Your hands shook as you grabbed your phone, ready to call Ryujin and spill everything. But what would you say? That her boyfriend’s best friend was a psycho hacker? That he was stalking you through your own devices? She’d think you were unhinged. You needed proof.

That afternoon, Jungwon showed up again, uninvited as usual. Ryujin and Jay were back, laughing in the living room as Jungwon dropped his backpack by the couch. He caught your eye, his smile as disarming as ever. “Hey, Y/N. Thanks for the laptop loan yesterday. Worked like a charm.”

You forced a nod, your throat tight. “No problem.”

He tilted his head, studying you. “You okay? You look… tense.”

“Just tired,” you lied, avoiding his gaze. You retreated to the kitchen, pretending to busy yourself with dishes, but you kept your phone’s CCTV app open, watching him. Jungwon pulled out his laptop, his fingers moving with that same fluid precision. You zoomed in on the feed, catching a glimpse of his screen: a black terminal window, green text scrolling too fast to read. Your pulse quickened. Was he doing it now?

Your phone vibrated in your hand. Another text from J: “You’re staring. Like what you see?” Your eyes flicked to Jungwon, still typing, his expression unchanged. But the timing was too perfect. You opened the CCTV feed again, switching to the kitchen camera. There you were, standing by the sink, phone in hand, looking rattled. The feed glitched for a split second, and when it cleared, a tiny text overlay appeared in the corner: “Hi, Y/N.”

You dropped the phone, the clatter echoing in the quiet kitchen. Ryujin called out, “You good in there?” You mumbled a reply, scrambling to pick up the phone. The text overlay was gone, but the message was clear: J was in the cameras, and they were taunting you.

That evening, you locked yourself in your room, your laptop powered off and your phone on airplane mode. You needed to think. Jungwon was the only person who made sense as J. His tech skills, his access to your house, his weirdly intense interest in you—it all fit. But why? Was it a game? A crush? Something darker? You remembered the way he’d looked at you yesterday, his voice soft but edged when he said, “You’re fascinating, Y/N.” The memory made your skin crawl, but there was something else too—a flicker of curiosity you couldn’t shake.

You grabbed a notebook, scribbling everything you knew about J. The messages started three weeks ago, right after Jungwon had “fixed” Ryujin’s Wi-Fi. He’d been in the house more often since, always with his laptop or phone, always watching you a little too closely. The CCTV system was cloud-based, accessible with a login Ryujin had shared with Jay—and probably Jungwon, by extension. Your laptop, your notes app, your music app—all compromised after he’d borrowed it. The evidence was circumstantial but overwhelming.

Your phone buzzed despite airplane mode, making you jump. A notification from your calendar app: “Meet J at midnight. Your room.” Your blood ran cold. You hadn’t set that event. You opened the app, and the entry vanished before your eyes, replaced by a single word: “Soon.”

You glanced at the clock. 10:47 p.m. Whatever J—Jungwon?—was planning, it was escalating. You needed a plan, fast. Confront him? Record him? Or wait and see what he’d do next? The thought of facing him alone terrified you, but so did the idea of doing nothing. He was in your systems, your home, your head. And he knew it.

The house creaked, and you froze, listening. Footsteps, soft but deliberate, moved down the hall. Ryujin and Jay were asleep—you’d heard them go to bed an hour ago. Which left only one person who could be out there.

Your phone lit up again. No notification, just a single image on the lock screen: your bedroom door, from the hallway camera, with a shadow just outside.

The shadow outside your bedroom door lingered on your phone screen, a dark silhouette against the grainy hallway feed. Your heart thudded so loudly you swore it echoed in the silent room. The clock on your nightstand read 10:52 p.m.—just over an hour until the mysterious “Meet J at midnight” calendar event that had appeared and vanished like a ghost. Your phone, despite being in airplane mode, felt like a live wire in your hand, buzzing with the weight of J’s presence. You were certain now: J was Jungwon. The messages, the hacked apps, the CCTV access—it all pointed to him. But knowing didn’t make it less terrifying. If anything, it made it worse.

You crept to your door, pressing your ear against the wood. The footsteps you’d heard moments ago had stopped, but the air felt heavy, like someone was still out there, waiting. You glanced at your laptop, powered off and unplugged, its webcam still taped over. Your notebook lay open on the bed, pages filled with your frantic scribbles: timelines of J’s messages, Jungwon’s visits, every suspicious moment. It wasn’t enough. You needed proof—something concrete to confront him with, or to take it to Ryujin and Jay without sounding like you’d lost it.

Your phone vibrated, startling you. Airplane mode should’ve blocked notifications, but there it was: a new text from an unknown number. “You’re thinking too hard, Y/N. Just open the door.” Your breath hitched. You swiped to the CCTV app, the hallway feed loading instantly. The shadow was gone, the corridor empty, but a new text popped up: “I’m faster than you think.” Your hands shook as you switched to the living room feed. There was Jungwon, sprawled on the couch, his laptop open, typing with that effortless speed you’d come to dread. He looked relaxed, almost bored, but his fingers were a blur, and the faint reflection in his glasses showed lines of code scrolling like a digital heartbeat.

You forced yourself to breathe. He was downstairs, not outside your door. But the timing, the messages—it was him. It had to be. You needed to act before midnight, before whatever he was planning came to a head. You grabbed your notebook, flipping to a fresh page, and started mapping a plan. Confronting him directly was risky; he was too smart, too slippery. Recording him might work, but your devices were compromised. You needed something he couldn’t hack—something analog.

You tiptoed downstairs, avoiding the creaky third step. The living room was dimly lit, the TV casting a flickering glow across Jungwon’s face. He didn’t look up as you entered, but his lips twitched into a faint smirk. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, his voice low, almost playful.

“Something like that,” you replied, keeping your distance. You clutched your phone, the CCTV app still open in the background, showing the kitchen feed now. You’d left a small voice recorder—one of your dad’s old gadgets—hidden under a stack of magazines on the coffee table earlier. If Jungwon said anything incriminating, you’d have it on tape, untouchable by his digital tricks.

He closed his laptop with a soft click, his eyes finally meeting yours. They were sharp, like he could see through your casual facade. “You’ve been acting weird, Y/N. Something on your mind?”

You shrugged, forcing a laugh. “Just stressed. Finals, you know?”

He tilted his head, studying you. “You sure? You’ve been… jumpy. Like you’re waiting for something to happen.” His tone was teasing, but there was an edge to it, a challenge. Your skin prickled. He knew you were onto him, didn’t he?

Before you could respond, your phone buzzed again. You glanced down, unable to stop yourself. A new email from J: “You’re cute when you play detective. Check your notes app.” Your stomach dropped. You hadn’t opened the notes app since this morning, when it had typed on its own. Against your better judgment, you swiped it open. A new note was there, timestamped seconds ago: “Stop trying to outsmart me, Y/N. You’re making this too easy.”

You looked up, and Jungwon was watching you, his smirk wider now. “Problem?” he asked, his voice dripping with mock concern.

“You tell me,” you shot back, your voice sharper than you meant. His eyebrows raised, but he didn’t flinch. Instead, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, like you’d just made the game more interesting.

“Careful, Y/N,” he said softly. “You’re starting to sound paranoid.”

You wanted to snap at him, to demand answers, but Ryujin’s voice cut through from upstairs. “Y/N? Jungwon? You guys still up?” You heard her footsteps descending, and Jungwon leaned back, his expression shifting to innocent in a heartbeat.

“Just chilling,” he called back, winking at you. Ryujin appeared, yawning, her hair messy from sleep. She glanced between you and Jungwon, oblivious to the tension.

“Go to bed, Y/N,” she said, grabbing a glass of water. “You look like a zombie.”

You muttered a goodnight and retreated, your mind racing. Jungwon’s eyes followed you until you were out of sight.

Back in your room, you locked the door and checked the CCTV feed again. Jungwon was still on the couch, but his laptop was open again, and he was typing. You zoomed in, catching a glimpse of a terminal window, but the text was too small to read. Your phone buzzed, another text: “You forgot to check your browser history.” Dread pooled in your chest. You opened your laptop, powering it on despite every instinct screaming not to. The browser loaded, and the history showed searches you hadn’t made: “How to secure a webcam,” “Signs of remote access,” “CCTV vulnerabilities.” All timestamped from the last hour, while you were downstairs.

Your hands trembled as you opened the notes app again. Another new note: “You’re getting warmer, Y/N. But you’re still not fast enough.” You slammed the laptop shut, your breath ragged. He was toying with you, leaving breadcrumbs to prove he could reach you anywhere, anytime.

You grabbed the voice recorder from the living room when Jungwon stepped out to use the bathroom, praying it had caught something. You played it back, but it was just static and snippets of your conversation—nothing damning. Either he hadn’t said anything incriminating, or he’d known the recorder was there. You wouldn’t put it past him.

The clock ticked closer to midnight. You sat on your bed, knees pulled to your chest, staring at the locked door. Your phone was off now, battery removed for good measure. The laptop was unplugged, stashed under your bed. But the CCTV camera in the corner of your room felt like an eye, unblinking and merciless. You’d covered it with a scarf, but it didn’t feel like enough.

At 11:58 p.m., a soft knock came at your door. You froze, your heart in your throat. “Y/N?” Jungwon’s voice, low and calm, seeped through the wood. “You awake?”

You didn’t answer, your eyes locked on the doorknob. It didn’t turn, but your phone—off, battery out—somehow lit up on the nightstand. The screen displayed a single word: “Open.”

You stood, legs shaky, and backed away from the door. Another knock, sharper this time. “Come on, Y/N,” Jungwon said, his tone still light but with a hint of impatience. “I just want to talk.”

You swallowed, your voice barely a whisper. “It’s late, Jungwon. I’m tired.”

A pause, then a soft laugh. “You’re not tired. You’re scared.” He said it like a fact, not a question. “But you don’t have to be. I’m not the bad guy here.”

Your notebook was still open on the bed, and you glanced at it, at the list of J’s messages. Every instinct screamed that Jungwon was J, but a tiny, reckless part of you wondered if you were wrong. If he was just a guy, teasing you, flirting in his weird, intense way. You shook your head. No. The hacked apps, the CCTV, the real-time taunts—it was too much for coincidence.

“I’m not opening the door,” you said, louder now, trying to sound firm.

Another pause, longer this time. Then, softly: “Your choice, Y/N. But I’ll see you soon.” His footsteps retreated, and you heard the creak of the stairs as he went back downstairs. You didn’t move, didn’t breathe, until the house was silent again.

You stayed up all night, the scarf over the camera, the door locked, your notebook clutched like a lifeline. At 3 a.m., your laptop—still unplugged—emitted a soft hum. You stared, horrified, as the screen flickered on, displaying a live feed of your room. Not from the CCTV, but from another angle—lower, closer. Your webcam. The tape was still there, but the feed showed you, sitting on your bed, staring at the laptop in real-time.

A text overlay appeared: “I told you, Y/N. I’m always watching.”

You screamed, shoving the laptop off the bed. It hit the floor with a thud, the screen going black. You didn’t sleep again that night, your mind spiraling. Jungwon wasn’t just hacking your devices. He was hacking your life. And the worst part? You still didn’t know why—or what he’d do next.

The morning after Jungwon’s midnight knock, your room felt like a cage. The scarf over the CCTV camera hung limp, useless against the violation of last night’s webcam feed. Your laptop, now shoved into a drawer, was a traitor you couldn’t trust. Your phone, battery still removed, sat dead on your nightstand. You hadn’t slept, your eyes burning from staring at the ceiling, replaying every message from J, every glance from Jungwon, every moment that had led to this suffocating dread. You knew it was him. You knew. But knowing wasn’t enough—you needed to end this.

Downstairs, the house was alive with normalcy that felt obscene. Ryujin was humming in the kitchen, flipping eggs, while Jay laughed at something on his phone. Jungwon was there too, perched on a stool at the counter, his black hoodie swapped for a clean white tee, his hair slightly damp from a shower. He looked infuriatingly normal, sipping coffee like he hadn’t spent the night terrorizing you. But when his eyes met yours, that familiar smirk flickered—just for a second, just for you.

“Morning, Y/N,” he said, his voice smooth as ever. “You look like you didn’t sleep a wink.”

Ryujin glanced over, frowning. “Seriously, Y/N, you okay? You’re paler than my bedsheets.”

“I’m fine,” you lied, grabbing a glass of water to avoid Jungwon’s gaze. Your hands shook slightly, and you prayed he didn’t notice. But of course he did. His eyes tracked you like a predator, and you felt it in your bones: he was J, and he was enjoying this.

You needed a plan—something to trap him, expose him, or at least make him back off. Confronting him directly hadn’t worked; he was too slippery, too good at playing innocent. You needed evidence, something Ryujin and Jay couldn’t dismiss. And you needed it before he escalated further. The webcam feed last night, showing through the tape, was a warning. He was closing in, and midnight—his promised “meeting”—had passed, but you didn’t feel safe. You felt hunted.

You spent the morning pretending to study, your notebook open to a page of meaningless notes while you brainstormed. Jungwon stayed downstairs, but his presence was a shadow, lingering in every ping of your phone, every flicker of your laptop screen. You’d reinserted your phone’s battery to check for new messages, half-expecting another taunt. Nothing yet, but the silence was worse—it felt like he was waiting, letting you stew.

By noon, you had an idea. Jungwon was good, but no one was perfect. If he was hacking your devices, he was leaving traces—logs, IP addresses, something. You weren’t a tech genius, but you’d taken a coding class last semester, enough to know the basics. You needed to bait him, catch him in the act, and record it in a way he couldn’t erase. The voice recorder hadn’t worked, but maybe something simpler would.

You grabbed an old USB drive from your desk, one you hadn’t used in years. It was clean, unconnected to any network. You plugged it into your laptop, quickly setting up a dummy file—a text document labeled “Y/N’s Secrets.” Inside, you wrote nonsense: fake diary entries, random thoughts, anything to make it look personal. If Jungwon was as nosy as you thought, he’d take the bait. You left the laptop on your desk, screen unlocked, and headed downstairs, leaving the USB plugged in.

“Hey, Ryujin,” you called, keeping your voice casual. “I’m running to the store for snacks. Want anything?”

She looked up from her phone, sprawled on the couch next to Jay. “Chips. Spicy ones. You sure you’re okay? You’re acting weird.”

“Just need some air,” you said, forcing a smile. Jungwon was at the counter, scrolling on his phone. He didn’t look up, but you saw his fingers pause for a split second. Got you, you thought.

You left the house, circling around to the backyard where you could peek through the living room window. The CCTV app was open on your phone, showing Jungwon still at the counter—but then he stood, stretching, and wandered toward the stairs. Your pulse quickened. You switched to the bedroom feed, watching as he appeared in your room, casual as ever, like he belonged there. He glanced at the laptop, then at the door, before sitting at your desk. His fingers moved over the trackpad, opening the USB drive.

You held your breath. The dummy file was rigged with a simple tracking script you’d found online—a long shot, but it logged access times and device IDs. If he opened it, you’d have proof he was snooping. Jungwon’s expression didn’t change as he clicked the file, his eyes scanning the screen. Then, infuriatingly, he smirked, typed something, and closed the laptop. He left the room, and you hurried back inside, heart pounding.

Upstairs, you checked the USB. The file was still there, but a new note had been added at the bottom: “Cute try, Y/N. But I’m better than that.” Your stomach sank. The tracking script’s log was empty—wiped clean. He’d seen through it, turned your trap against you. But worse was the new email waiting in your inbox: “Nice USB trick. Want to see something cooler?” Attached was a video file. You hesitated, then clicked.

It was your bedroom, filmed from an angle you didn’t recognize—not the CCTV, not the webcam. You were in it, sleeping, two nights ago, the covers pulled up to your chin. The video zoomed in, slow and deliberate, on your face. A text overlay appeared: “Sweet dreams, Y/N.”

You dropped your phone, bile rising in your throat. He wasn’t just in your devices. He was everywhere.

That evening, you couldn’t pretend anymore. You cornered Ryujin in the kitchen while Jay and Jungwon were gaming in the living room. “I need to talk to you,” you whispered, pulling her aside. “It’s about Jungwon.”

Her brow furrowed. “What about him? He’s been here all day, Y/N. What’s got you so freaked?”

You hesitated, knowing how crazy it would sound. “I think he’s… hacking me. My phone, my laptop, the CCTV. Someone’s been sending me messages, watching me, and it started when he started coming around more.���

Ryujin stared, then laughed, short and sharp. “Jungwon? The guy who can’t even set up his own Netflix account without Jay’s help? Y/N, you’re spiraling. Maybe you’ve been online too much.”

“I’m not crazy,” you snapped, shoving your phone at her, showing the video from J. “Explain this.”

Her face paled as the video played, but she shook her head. “This could be anyone. Some creep from the internet. Why would Jungwon do this? He’s practically family.”

“Because he’s obsessed,” you said, your voice low. “He’s always watching me, always here. He borrowed my laptop, Ryujin. The messages got worse after that.”

She frowned, glancing toward the living room where Jungwon’s laughter mixed with Jay’s. “Okay, that’s… weird. But we need proof. Real proof. I’ll talk to Jay, see if Jungwon’s been acting off. But don’t do anything rash, Y/N. If it’s not him, you’ll look insane.”

You nodded, but you weren’t waiting for her. You had one last idea—a risky one. If Jungwon wanted to play, you’d play back.

That night, you set the trap. You left your laptop open, a blank text document on the screen, and typed a single line: “I know it’s you, Jungwon. Stop this, or I go to the police.” You left it visible, then hid in the closet, your phone recording through a crack in the door. The CCTV app was open on another device, an old tablet, showing the room. You waited, barely breathing.

At 11:47 p.m., your bedroom door creaked open. Jungwon stepped inside, his expression unreadable. He glanced at the laptop, read the message, and chuckled—a low, dangerous sound. “Oh, Y/N,” he murmured, sitting at your desk. “You’re so close.”

He typed something, his fingers flying, then leaned back, staring at the screen. Your phone buzzed in your hand, a new text: “Police? That’s adorable. But you don’t want to end this. Not yet.” He stood, looking directly at the closet—directly at you. “Come out, Y/N. Let’s talk.”

You froze, your heart stopping. He knew. He’d always known. The tablet’s CCTV feed glitched, then cut to a new angle: inside the closet, showing you, crouched, phone in hand. A text overlay blinked: “Game over.”

Jungwon opened the closet door, his smile soft but chilling. “I told you, Y/N. I’m not the bad guy. I just… like you. A lot.” He crouched to your level, his eyes locking onto yours. “You’re fascinating, you know that? The way you think, the way you fight back. I couldn’t stop watching.”

You clutched your phone, your voice shaking. “You’re sick, Jungwon. This isn’t a game.”

His smile faded, and for a moment, he looked almost hurt. “It’s not about hurting you. It’s about knowing you. Everything—your music, your fears, your secrets. I wanted to be close to you. Closer than anyone.”

You stood, backing away. “Stay away from me. I’m telling Ryujin. Jay. The police.”

He sighed, standing too. “They won’t believe you. I’m careful, Y/N. No traces, no proof. Just you and me.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping. “But I’ll stop. If you want me to. Say it, and I’ll delete everything—every hack, every feed. Or… you can let me show you what I can do. For you. With you.”

Your mind raced. He was offering a way out, but it felt like a trap. Yet the intensity in his eyes, the sincerity beneath the madness, made you pause. Was he dangerous, or just obsessed? Could you trust him to stop? Did you want him to?

“I need time,” you said finally, your voice steady despite the fear.

He nodded, stepping back. “Fair. I’m patient. But don’t take too long, Y/N. I’m always watching.” He left, the door clicking shut behind him.

You collapsed onto your bed, the tablet still showing the glitched CCTV feed. A new message appeared on your phone: “Your move.”

You had a choice to make. Expose him, risk everything, and hope for proof. Or play his game, dive deeper, and maybe—just maybe—find a way to beat him at it.

The silence was a weapon. For three weeks after Jungwon’s midnight confession in your closet, the absence of J’s messages left a void that gnawed at you. No pings, no glitched CCTV feeds, no eerie texts taunting you from the shadows of your phone. Your laptop, locked away in a drawer, was a sleeping beast you didn’t dare touch. Your phone, battery removed half the time, felt like a grenade with the pin pulled. The scarf over your bedroom’s CCTV camera hung like a flag of surrender, a reminder of Jungwon’s eyes—sharp, piercing, obsessive—watching you through every digital crack in your life.

You’d checked your systems obsessively, running scans, scouring logs, even enlisting a friend from your coding class to double-check. Nothing. No traces of J, no hidden connections, no signs of intrusion. Jungwon had kept his promise: he’d wiped his presence clean. It should’ve calmed you, but it didn’t. The silence was his new game, a dare to see what you’d do without his shadow looming. And the worst part? You missed it. Not the fear, but the thrill—the way his messages made your heart race, the way his obsession made you feel seen, wanted, known.

Jungwon was still a constant in your life, showing up with Jay like nothing had changed. He’d lounge in your living room, his leather jacket tossed over a chair, his dark hair falling just right over his eyes, his smirks sharp enough to cut. Every glance he sent your way was a spark, igniting a fire you couldn’t extinguish. Ryujin and Jay were oblivious, laughing and joking as if the world hadn’t shifted under your feet. But you saw it—the way Jungwon’s eyes lingered, the way his voice dropped when he spoke to you, the way his fingers brushed yours when he passed you a drink. It was subtle, deliberate, and it drove you wild.

You should’ve hated him. He’d hacked your life, your privacy, your mind. But the truth was uglier: you were falling for him. His obsession, his ability to unravel every piece of you—your late-night playlists, your unsent rants, the way you danced alone in your room—was terrifying but intoxicating. He’d seen you at your rawest, your most vulnerable, and instead of running, he’d stayed. Devoted. Consumed. And now, you were consumed too, caught in a web of fear and fascination that felt like love.

It was a stormy Thursday night, the kind where the sky roared and the rain lashed the windows like it wanted to break in. Ryujin and Jay were at a friend’s game night, leaving the house empty, the air thick with the scent of wet pavement and anticipation. You were in your room, trying to focus on a coding project, but your mind kept drifting to Jungwon—his voice, his hands, the way he’d looked at you in the closet, like you were the only thing in his universe.

Your phone buzzed, a motion alert from the CCTV app. You opened it, your heart already racing, and there he was: Jungwon, standing on your porch, soaked to the bone, his black hoodie clinging to his frame like a second skin. He looked up at the camera, his eyes dark and unreadable, and smiled—a slow, deliberate curve that sent a shiver through you. You didn’t hesitate. You were already moving, down the stairs, to the door, your pulse a drumbeat in your ears.

You opened the door, the cold air rushing in with the scent of rain and his cologne, cedar and steel. “You shouldn’t be here,” you said, but your voice was soft, almost inviting.

He stepped closer, water dripping from his hair, his eyes locked on yours. “You didn’t change the locks. Or the Wi-Fi. Or the CCTV codes.” His voice was low, teasing, but there was an edge to it, a hunger. “Why, Y/N? Hoping I’d come back?”

You crossed your arms, trying to hold your ground, but your cheeks flushed. “Maybe I wanted to see if you’d keep your promise.”

He laughed, a sound that vibrated through you, warm and dangerous. “I did. No hacks, no messages. I’ve been good.” He took another step, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him despite the rain. “But I can’t stop thinking about you. And I know you’re thinking about me too.”

Your breath caught. He was right, and you hated it. You’d spent weeks replaying his words, his messages, the way he’d seen you—really seen you. It was invasive, yes, but it was also intimate, like he’d cracked open your soul and memorized every piece. “You scared me,” you said, your voice trembling but honest. “You crossed lines. My phone, my laptop, my cameras. But…”

“But?” he prompted, his eyes darkening, his smirk softening into something more vulnerable.

“But I can’t stop thinking about you either,” you admitted, the words spilling out like a confession. “The way you saw me—everything about me. It’s terrifying, but it’s… it’s hot, Jungwon. Knowing you were watching, knowing you wanted me that much—it’s messed up, but it makes me feel… alive.”

His smile was gone now, replaced by something raw, intense. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he said, his voice rough. “I saw you—your music, your rants, the way you laugh when you think no one’s around. I couldn’t look away. I tried, Y/N. I stopped the hacks, I deleted everything, but I can’t stop wanting you.”

You swallowed, your heart racing. “Then don’t,” you said, the words reckless but true. “I want you too. All of you—the hacker, the guy, the obsession. I want you in my life, Jungwon. In my systems, my world, everything.”

His eyes widened, surprise flickering before it was swallowed by hunger. “You mean that? You’re giving me access—your phone, your laptop, your secrets?”

You nodded, stepping closer, your hands trembling but sure. “Yes. I want you to know me, like I want to know you. No walls, no games. You get my servers, my data, my everything. But you give me yours too.”

He stared at you, like he was trying to process the weight of your words. Then he laughed, a low, thrilled sound, and closed the distance between you, his hands cupping your face. “You’re insane,” he murmured, his thumb brushing your cheek, warm despite the rain. “You’re giving me your world, Y/N. You sure about that?”

“I’m sure,” you said, your voice steady now, your eyes locked on his. “I want you, Jungwon. I want the guy who hacked my life because he couldn’t stay away. I want the guy who sees me like no one else ever has. Hack me, watch me, know me—I’m yours.”

His lips crashed into yours, and the world tilted. The kiss was fire, desperate and consuming, like he was pouring every moment of his obsession into it. His hands were everywhere—on your face, your neck, your waist—pulling you against him, the wet fabric of his hoodie soaking into your shirt. You kissed him back, just as hungry, your hands fisting in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan into your mouth. He tasted like rain and mint, sharp and addictive, and you couldn’t get enough.

The kiss deepened, his tongue teasing yours, slow and deliberate, then fast and reckless, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. You gasped, and he took advantage, tilting your head to kiss you deeper, his teeth grazing your bottom lip, sending a shiver through you. Your hands slid under his hoodie, finding warm skin, lean muscle, the rapid beat of his heart under your fingers. He hissed softly, his grip tightening on your hips, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

“You’re killing me,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough with want. “I watched you for so long, wanted you for so long, and now you’re here, letting me in.” His lips trailed to your jaw, leaving a path of hot, open-mouthed kisses that made you arch against him. “You have no idea what that does to me.”

“Then show me,” you whispered, your voice shaky but bold, your hands sliding up his chest, nails grazing lightly. “Show me how much you wanted me.”

He groaned, low and deep, and kissed you again, harder, his hands roaming your back, possessive and urgent. You stumbled back, pulling him with you, until you hit the couch, and he followed, his body pressing you into the cushions. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, and he moaned, the sound vibrating against your lips, making your head spin. His lips found your neck, sucking lightly, leaving a trail of heat that had you gasping, your fingers tangling in his hair, urging him on.

“I saw everything,” he murmured against your skin, his voice raw. “Your late-night dances, your rants about bad coffee, the way you sing when you think no one’s listening. I wanted to be there, Y/N. Not just watching—touching you, feeling you.” His teeth grazed your collarbone, and you shivered, your hands gripping his shoulders, pulling him back to your mouth.

“Then don’t stop,” you said, your voice breathless, your lips brushing his. “You have me now. All of me.”

He kissed you like it was a vow, slow and deliberate, his hands sliding under your shirt, warm against your skin. The touch was electric, every point of contact burning, and you arched into him, wanting more. His fingers traced the curve of your waist, possessive but careful, like he was still afraid you’d vanish.

You kissed him back, pouring every confusing, thrilling emotion into it—fear, desire, love, all tangled together. Your teeth nipped his lip, and he groaned again, his hands tightening, pulling you so close you could feel his heartbeat, fast and erratic, matching yours.

The kiss stretched on, a blur of lips and tongues, gasps and moans, until your lungs burned and your body felt alive in a way it never had. He pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, his breath ragged. “You’re mine,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “And I’m yours. Every code, every server, every secret—I’m giving you everything, Y/N.”

You nodded, your chest heaving, your hands still tangled in his hair. “And I’m giving you mine,” you said, your voice steady despite the fire in your veins. “My phone, my laptop, my life. Hack me, Jungwon. I want you to.”

His eyes darkened, a mix of awe and hunger, and he kissed you again, slower this time, savoring every second. His lips moved against yours like he was memorizing you, his hands roaming your sides, your back, your hips, like he couldn’t get enough.

You kissed him back, just as deep, your hands sliding under his hoodie again, feeling the heat of his skin, the tension in his muscles. He groaned softly, his teeth grazing your ear, and you shivered, pulling him closer, wanting every piece of him.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured, his lips brushing your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. “Every detail, every moment—I knew it when I watched you, but this… this is everything.” His voice was raw, almost reverent, and it made your heart ache, made you want him more.

You pulled him back to your mouth, kissing him with a desperation that matched his, your hands roaming his chest, his shoulders, his hair. The couch creaked under you, the rain a distant roar, the world shrinking to just the two of you. His lips were swollen now, his breath uneven, but he didn’t stop, kissing you like he’d been starving for it, like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

The rain roared outside, a relentless curtain that sealed you and Jungwon in Ryujin’s living room, the world shrinking to the heat of his lips, the press of his body, the fire of his obsession. His kiss was a storm—teeth grazing, tongues tangling, a desperate edge that matched the chaos in your heart. Jungwon, Jay’s best friend, the hacker who’d slipped into your digital life as J, was now unraveling you in the flesh, and you were letting him, craving him, falling for him in a way that felt like love and madness intertwined. His wet hoodie clung to his lean frame, your hands greedy under the fabric, tracing the hard lines of his abs, the rapid beat of his heart. You’d spent weeks terrified of J’s messages, his eyes in your cameras, but now you knew—Jungwon was J, and you wanted every byte of him.

His obsession was a mirror to your own, a twisted thrill that made you feel seen, wanted, alive.

Every night since, you’d waited for him—not by a window, but by your phone, your laptop, your heart racing for a ping, a glitch, a sign of J. You’d refresh your inbox, check your CCTV feeds, even play your obscure playlists, hoping he’d notice, hoping he’d break his silence. The absence of his messages was torture, but it only deepened your hunger. He’d hacked your life, your privacy, your soul, and you’d fallen for it, for him, for the way he knew you better than anyone.

Last night, alone in your room, the longing had been unbearable. You’d lain back, the darkness thick, your body humming with need. Your fingers slipped beneath your panties, finding the damp folds of your pussy, slick with thoughts of Jungwon—his voice, his smirk, the way he’d seen you through your webcam. You gasped, imagining his hands, precise and skilled, his hacker’s fingers teasing you apart. You circled your clit, slow at first, then faster, picturing his eyes on a hidden feed, knowing exactly how you arched, how you moaned. “Fuck, Jungwon,” you’d whispered, your hips bucking, your fingers plunging into your wet heat, chasing the image of him—his obsession, his control. The release hit hard, a shuddering moan spilling from your lips, but it wasn’t enough. You needed him, not just his shadow.

Now, he was here, real and burning, his lips on yours, his body pinning you to the couch. “You’re killing me,” he growled against your mouth, his voice rough with want. “I watched you for so long, wanted you for so long, and now you’re here, letting me in.” His lips trailed to your jaw, hot and open-mouthed, leaving a path of fire that made you arch against him. “You have no idea what that does to me.”

“Then show me,” you gasped, your voice bold, your hands sliding under his hoodie, nails grazing his abs, hard and warm. “Show me how much you wanted me.”

His groan was primal, his lips crashing back to yours, kissing you like he’d die without it. His hands slid under your shirt, fingers rough against your skin, tracing your ribs, your waist, sending sparks through you. You arched into him, your legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him closer, feeling the hard press of his cock through his jeans against your thigh. He hissed, his teeth grazing your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. “Fuck, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice a growl. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

“Good,” you moaned, tugging his hoodie off, your hands greedy for his skin—smooth, taut, fever-hot. His lips found your collarbone, kissing, biting, leaving a trail of heat that had you gasping, your nails digging into his shoulders. The couch creaked, the rain a distant roar, the world shrinking to his mouth, his hands, his body against yours.

He pulled back, his eyes dark and wild, his breath ragged. “You’re mine,” he said, his voice thick with possession. “Every song, every secret, every fucking moment—I’ve seen it all, and I want it all.” His hands gripped your hips, yanking you up, and you straddled him, your thighs squeezing his, feeling the bulge of his cock pressing against your core through your leggings. You ground against him, slow and deliberate, and he cursed, his head falling back, his hands tightening on your ass.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned, his eyes locked on yours, watching every roll of your hips, every flush on your cheeks. “You have no idea how many nights I watched you, wishing I could touch you like this.” His fingers dug into your ass, guiding your movements, making you grind harder, the friction sending heat coiling low in your belly.

“Then do it,” you challenged, your voice breathless, your hands fisting in his hair, tugging hard. “Touch me, Jungwon. Fuck me like you’ve been dreaming of.”

His control snapped, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He flipped you onto your back, the couch creaking under the force, his body hovering over yours, all lean muscle and hunger. He yanked your shirt up, exposing your bra, and his mouth was on you, kissing the swell of your breasts, his tongue flicking under the lace. You moaned, arching up, your hands scrambling to unhook it, and he helped, tossing it aside, his lips closing over your nipple, sucking hard. The sensation shot straight to your pussy, making you writhe, your legs wrapping around him, desperate for more.

“God, you’re perfect,” he murmured against your skin, his teeth grazing your nipple, his hand palming your other breast, pinching just hard enough to make you gasp. “I knew you’d feel like this, taste like this.” His lips trailed down your stomach, kissing, licking, until he reached the waistband of your leggings. He looked up, eyes burning, and you nodded, your breath hitching.

He peeled your leggings and panties off in one swift motion, leaving you bare, your pussy glistening with want. He cursed under his breath, his hands spreading your thighs, his eyes locked on your dripping core. “Fuck, you’re so wet,” he said, his voice raw, his fingers brushing your folds, teasing, not enough. You bucked your hips, whining, and he smirked, that J smirk, the one that haunted your feeds. “Patient, Y/N. I’ve waited this long. I’m gonna savor you.”

His finger slid inside, slow and deliberate, curling just right, and you moaned, your head falling back. He added another, stretching you, his thumb circling your clit, the pressure building fast. “So tight,” he groaned, his voice strained, his eyes flicking between your face and your pussy, watching every reaction. “You’re gonna feel so fucking good around my cock.”

“Then give it to me,” you snapped, your voice needy, your hands tugging at his jeans, fumbling with the button. He laughed, low and dark, helping you, shoving his jeans and boxers down, his cock springing free—hard, thick, the tip glistening with precum. Your mouth watered, your pussy clenching at the sight, and he noticed, his smirk widening.

“Like what you see?” he teased, stroking himself, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving yours. “You’ve got no idea how many times I jerked off thinking of you, watching you on those feeds.”

You reached for him, your hand wrapping around his cock, stroking him, feeling the hot, velvet weight of him. He hissed, his hips jerking, his eyes fluttering shut for a second. “Fuck, Y/N,” he groaned, leaning down, kissing you hard, his tongue fucking your mouth like he was claiming it. “You’re gonna make me lose it.”

“Then lose it,” you whispered against his lips, guiding his cock to your entrance, rubbing the tip against your slick folds. “Fuck me, Jungwon. Now.”

He didn’t need another invitation. He thrust in, hard and deep, filling you in one brutal stroke, and you cried out, your nails digging into his back, the stretch burning and perfect. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he growled, pausing, his breath ragged, his eyes locked on yours. “You okay?”

You nodded, your body adjusting, the fullness sending heat spiraling through you. “Move,” you begged, your hips rocking, needing more. He pulled back, then slammed in again, setting a relentless pace, his cock hitting that spot inside you that made you see stars. You moaned, loud and shameless, your hands gripping his ass, pulling him deeper.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” he panted, his hands gripping your thighs, spreading you wider, his thrusts brutal and precise, like he’d memorized every inch of you. “My perfect little slut, letting me fuck you like this, letting me own you.”

“Yes,” you gasped, your pussy clenching around him, the dirty words sending you higher. “I’m yours, Jungwon. Fuck, I’m yours.”

He groaned, his lips crashing to yours, kissing you sloppy and desperate, his hips snapping faster, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room. His hand slid between you, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles, and you screamed, the pleasure overwhelming, your body shaking. “Come for me,” he growled, his voice rough, his thrusts erratic, his own release close. “Come all over my cock, Y/N.”

The command broke you. Your orgasm hit like a wave, your pussy clamping down, your body arching, a choked moan ripping from your throat. Jungwon cursed, his thrusts faltering, and he pulled out, stroking his cock fast, his cum spilling hot and thick across your stomach, marking you. He collapsed beside you, both of you panting, the couch damp with sweat and rain.

For a moment, it was quiet, just the rain and your breaths. Then he turned, his eyes soft, his hand brushing your hair back. “You’re everything,” he whispered, his voice raw. “Every code, every secret, every moment—I want it all.”

You nodded, your heart still racing, your body buzzing. “And I want you,” you said, your voice steady. “Hack me, watch me, love me—I’m yours.”

"I'll always be watching you, my love." Jungwon whispered in your ear. "Always through your digital shadows."

@heesvnqie | Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or repost any of my work

TAGLIST:-

@slutofpsh

@laurenalpha123

@dreamiestay

@amortenha

@peonywon

@mitmit01

@heeevangelizesme

@gvni-eve

@yourmomni

@leov3rse

@punchbug9-blog

@rosepetals09 @yenienha

[heesvnqie]

Shadows Of Desire- Shim Jaeyun!Jake

pairing: shim jaeyun!jake x Reader genre: bestfriend's pyschopatch brother x reader, dark romance, psychological thriller, horror warnings: dark themes, porn with plot, psychological tension, emotional manipulation, knife imagery, references to violence (including animal cruelty), obsessive behavior, explicit sexual content,unprotected sex (wrap it up irl!), oral (m & f receiving), rough intimacy, overstimulation, possessive themes, emotional distress, and betrayal. word count: 15k (the longest fanfiction I've ever written, phew) a/n: This fanfiction has been a thrilling journey into the shadows, born from your vision of a dark, magnetic Jake and a reader torn between fear and fascination. Thank you for guiding this story through its twists—your requests shaped its haunting tone and emotional depth. For all the jakeu girlies like me, dropping a bomb!

The sun was dying, its last rays clawing through the half-drawn curtains of Hana’s house, painting the living room in streaks of blood-orange and shadow. The place always had a strange weight to it, like it was holding secrets in its walls, but today it felt heavier, almost alive with tension.

You’d been Hana’s best friend since middle school, spending years sprawled on her bedroom floor, trading secrets over bowls of popcorn or cramming for tests until your eyes burned. But today, Hana was different—skittish, her movements sharp and unsteady as she ushered you through the front door. Her sneakers scuffed against the polished hardwood, and her fingers twisted the strap of her backpack so tightly her knuckles whitened.

“Keep it quiet, okay?” she hissed, her voice barely above a breath, as if speaking too loudly would shatter something fragile. Her dark eyes flicked toward the staircase, wide and glassy, like she was waiting for a predator to slink down from the shadows. “Jake’s home.”

Shim Jaeyun. Her older brother. You’d heard his name before, but he was more myth than man in Hana’s stories—someone she mentioned in rare, trembling whispers, always with a look of dread. “He’s not right, Y/N,” she’d said once, late at night during a sleepover, her voice muffled by her pillow. “He’s… I don’t know, he’s fucked up. Like, really fucked up. Just promise you’ll stay away from him, okay?” You’d nodded, more to calm her than because you understood. But the way her voice cracked, the way her hands shook when she spoke of him, stuck with you. Jake was a ghost in her life, a shadow she couldn’t escape, and now you were about to step into his territory.

You set your bag down by the couch, the soft thud sounding too loud in the oppressive quiet. The house was dim, the air thick with the faint scent of cedarwood and something sharper, metallic, that you couldn’t place. A clock ticked somewhere, its rhythm uneven, like a heartbeat struggling to stay steady. Hana grabbed your arm, her grip tight enough to bruise, and tugged you toward the hallway. “Let’s just go to my room,” she said, her voice high and thin. “We can study there.”

But before you could move, a sound stopped you cold—a slow, deliberate creak from upstairs, like someone was pacing across the floorboards, testing their weight. Hana froze, her breath hitching, her nails digging into your skin. “He’s up there,” she whispered, her lips barely moving. “Fuck, Y/N, just… don’t look at him, okay? Don’t talk to him.”

You nodded, but curiosity was a live wire in your chest, sparking with every step you took. You’d never seen Jake, not even in photos—Hana kept none of him, and their parents’ house was strangely barren of family portraits. All you had were her warnings, her fear, and the stories she’d let slip over the years. Stories of Jake coming home late, his clothes stained with something dark and sticky that wasn’t always paint. Stories of him smiling at her in a way that wasn’t kind, his eyes empty, like he was looking through her. Stories of knives—how he’d sit at the kitchen table, twirling a switchblade between his fingers, the blade catching the light as he hummed tunes only he could hear.

The staircase loomed ahead, a dark spiral leading to the second floor. Hana’s grip on you tightened as you passed it, her eyes fixed on the floor, refusing to glance up. But you couldn’t help it. Your gaze lifted, drawn to the shadows at the top of the stairs, and that’s when you saw him.

Shim Jaeyun.

He stood at the edge of the landing, one hand resting lazily on the banister, his posture deceptively relaxed. He was taller than you’d imagined, lean but wiry, his black hoodie clinging to a frame that seemed built for precision, like a coiled spring ready to snap.

His dark hair fell messily over his forehead, casting shadows across his face, but it was his eyes that hit you like a punch—piercing, unreadable, a deep brown that bordered on black, like twin voids swallowing the light. They locked onto you, and the weight of his gaze was physical, pinning you in place. His lips curled into a faint smirk, but it wasn’t warm. It was sharp, like the edge of a blade, and it sent a shiver racing down your spine.

“Hana,” he said, his voice low and smooth, almost mocking, as he leaned forward slightly, his fingers tightening on the banister. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing a friend.”

Hana flinched, her body shrinking against yours, her breath coming in shallow gasps. “She’s… she’s just here to study, Jake,” she stammered, her voice barely audible. “We’re going to my room. Don’t—don’t bother us, okay?”

Jake’s smirk widened, but his eyes never left you. He tilted his head, studying you like you were a specimen under glass, something he could take apart piece by piece. “What’s your name?” he asked, his tone casual but laced with something darker, something that made your pulse spike.

You swallowed, your throat dry, forcing yourself to meet his gaze even though every instinct screamed to look away. “Y/N,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.

“Y/N,” he repeated, dragging out the syllables, tasting them like they were something he could savor. He took a step down the stairs, slow and deliberate, and Hana let out a small, choked sound, tugging at your arm. But you couldn’t move, rooted to the spot by the intensity of his stare. “Pretty name,” he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Suits you.”

Hana yanked you harder now, pulling you toward the hallway, but Jake’s presence filled the space like a storm cloud, heavy and inescapable. As you passed the staircase, he descended another step, close enough that you caught the scent of him—cologne, sharp and expensive, mixed with that same metallic tang you’d noticed earlier, like iron or copper.

Your stomach twisted, a cocktail of fear and something else you didn’t want to name. His hand moved, and you saw it then—a glint of silver in his palm, a small switchblade he’d pulled from his pocket. He didn’t open it, just turned it over in his fingers, the metal catching the dim light as he twirled it with practiced ease, like it was an extension of himself.

“Don’t stay too late, Hana,” he said, his tone almost playful, but there was an edge to it, a warning wrapped in silk. His eyes flicked to you again, and the smirk returned, sharper now. “Wouldn’t want your friend getting… lost.”

Hana didn’t respond, just dragged you down the hallway, her breath ragged as she fumbled with the doorknob to her room. She shoved you inside and slammed the door, locking it with a click that echoed in the silence. Her back pressed against the wood, her chest heaving, her eyes squeezed shut like she was trying to block out the memory of him.

“He’s so fucking creepy,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I told you, Y/N, he’s not normal. He’s… he’s a fucking psychopath. I’ve seen him do things, things I can’t—” She cut herself off, shaking her head, her hands trembling as she hugged herself. “Just stay away from him, okay? Promise me.”

You nodded, but your mind was elsewhere, replaying the encounter in vivid detail. Jake’s eyes, his voice, the way he’d moved—like a predator playing with its prey, not because he was hungry, but because he enjoyed the game.

And the knife. God, the knife. The way he’d handled it, so casual, so intimate, like it was a lover’s hand he was caressing instead of a weapon. It should’ve terrified you, and it did, but there was something else there too, something that made your heart race and your skin prickle with heat. Something you didn’t want to admit, not even to yourself.

You sank onto Hana’s bed, the springs creaking under your weight, and tried to focus on her as she paced the room, muttering about how she hated living here, how she couldn’t wait to move out. But your thoughts kept drifting back to him.

To the way he’d said your name, like it was a secret he wanted to keep. To the way his fingers danced over that blade, precise and controlled, like he knew exactly how much pressure it would take to break skin.

The room felt smaller now, the walls closing in, the air too warm. You glanced at Hana’s desk, cluttered with textbooks and sticky notes, and noticed a photo tucked under a pile of papers—one of her and her parents, smiling at some beach vacation. No Jake. It was like he’d been erased from their lives, a phantom they refused to acknowledge. But he was real, too real, and he was upstairs, maybe still twirling that knife, maybe thinking about you.

“Y/N, are you even listening?” Hana’s voice cut through your thoughts, sharp and exasperated. She stood in front of you, hands on her hips, her face flushed with frustration. “I’m serious, you can’t go near him. He’s dangerous. I’ve seen him—” She stopped, biting her lip, her eyes darting to the door like she was afraid he’d hear her through the walls.

“Seen him what?” you asked, leaning forward, your curiosity outweighing your caution. “Hana, what’s he done?”

She shook her head, her hair falling into her face. “I don’t want to talk about it. Just… trust me, okay? He’s not someone you mess with. He doesn’t feel things like normal people. He’s—” Her voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible. “He’s a monster.”

You wanted to press her, to demand details, but the fear in her eyes stopped you. It was raw, visceral, the kind of fear that came from living with something dark for too long. Instead, you nodded again, forcing a smile you didn’t feel. “Okay, I promise,” you said, but the words felt like a lie even as they left your lips.

Hana exhaled, some of the tension easing from her shoulders, and moved to her desk, pulling out her laptop. “Let’s just do this stupid project,” she muttered, sitting cross-legged on the floor. “The sooner we finish, the sooner you can get out of here.”

You joined her, spreading out your notes, but your mind was fractured, half-focused on the words in front of you, half-lost in the memory of Jake. The way he’d looked at you wasn’t just curious—it was possessive, like he’d already decided you were something he wanted to claim.

And the knife… you couldn’t shake it. You imagined him alone now, maybe in his room, the blade flicking open with a soft snick, his fingers tracing its edge, testing its sharpness. Did he ever press too hard? Did he ever let it bite?

Hours passed, the sky outside turning black, the house growing quieter. Hana’s yawns grew frequent, her head bobbing as she fought to stay awake.

You were about to suggest calling it a night when you heard it—a faint sound from the hallway, like metal scraping against wood. Your heart lurched, and Hana’s eyes snapped open, her body going still.

“It’s him,” she whispered, her voice barely a breath. She grabbed your hand, her palm clammy. “Don’t make a sound.”

You held your breath, straining to listen. The sound came again, slower this time, deliberate, like someone was dragging a knife along the wall, carving a line through the silence. It stopped just outside Hana’s door, and you swore you could feel him there, his presence a cold pressure seeping through the wood. The doorknob rattled, just slightly, and Hana let out a strangled whimper, her hand crushing yours.

Then, nothing. Just silence, heavy and suffocating. After what felt like an eternity, Hana exhaled shakily, releasing your hand. “He’s gone,” she said, but she didn’t sound convinced. She crawled to the door, pressing her ear against it, listening for any sign of him. “You should go home, Y/N. It’s not safe here.”

You nodded, your throat too tight to speak. You gathered your things, your movements jerky, your skin still crawling with the memory of that sound.

Hana walked you to the front door, her eyes scanning the shadows like she expected him to appear out of nowhere. “Text me when you get home,” she said, her voice urgent. “And don’t come back for a while, okay? Not until I know he’s… not around.”

You stepped outside, the cool night air a shock against your flushed skin. The street was quiet, the only sound the distant hum of a car engine, but you felt exposed, like eyes were watching from the darkness.

You glanced back at the house, and for a moment, you thought you saw a silhouette in an upstairs window—Jake, standing motionless, his face hidden in shadow. But when you blinked, he was gone.

You walked home, your heart pounding, your mind a tangle of fear and fascination. Jake was everything Hana had warned you about—dangerous, unhinged, a psychopath. But there was something else, something that pulled at you like a current, dragging you toward him even as you tried to swim away. His eyes, his voice, the knife. He was a riddle wrapped in a threat, and you were already caught in his game.

The days after your first encounter with Jake were a blur of unease and fascination, like you’d brushed against something sharp and couldn’t stop thinking about the sting. Hana’s warnings echoed in your head—her trembling voice, her wide eyes, the way she’d locked her bedroom door like it could keep him out. “He’s a psychopath, Y/N,” she’d said, her words heavy with a fear that felt lived-in, worn like an old coat. “He doesn’t care about anyone. Not me, not our parents, not you.” But her fear only fueled your curiosity, a reckless part of you drawn to the danger in Jake’s eyes, to the way he’d twirled that switchblade like it was an extension of his soul.

You tried to stay away, you really did. For a week, you avoided Hana’s house, texting her excuses about being busy with school or family stuff. But her house was a magnet, and Jake was the iron in its core. Every night, you lay awake, replaying the moment he’d said your name, the way his voice had curled around it, possessive and intimate. You saw the glint of his knife in your dreams, the blade catching the light as it spun between his fingers, a dance of control and menace. You hated yourself for it, but you wanted to see him again—to test the edge of that danger, to see how close you could get before it cut.

It was a Thursday when you gave in. Hana had texted you, begging you to come over to finish a group project for your literature class. “Jake’s not here,” she’d promised, her message punctuated with a string of anxious emojis. “He’s been gone all week. Please, Y/N, we’re so behind.” You agreed, telling yourself it was just for the project, that you weren’t hoping to hear the creak of his footsteps or catch that metallic scent in the air.

When you arrived, the house was quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that felt like it was waiting to be broken. Hana met you at the door, her smile strained, her eyes darting behind you like she was checking for shadows. “Come on,” she said, pulling you inside. “Let’s get this over with.”

You spread your notes across her dining room table, the same table where you’d imagined Jake sitting, twirling his knife while Hana cowered upstairs. The thought sent a shiver through you, and you glanced toward the staircase, half-expecting to see him there, leaning against the banister with that smirk. But the house stayed silent, the only sound the scratch of Hana’s pen and the occasional rustle of paper.

Hours passed, the sky outside bruising purple as dusk settled in. You were deep in a discussion about Wuthering Heights—Heathcliff’s obsession, Catherine’s defiance—when you heard it: a soft click, like a key turning in a lock. Hana’s head snapped up, her pen freezing mid-sentence. Her face drained of color, and she grabbed your wrist, her fingers cold and clammy. “He’s back,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Fuck, Y/N, he wasn’t supposed to be here.”

Your heart kicked into overdrive, but it wasn’t just fear. There was a thrill in it, a pulse of adrenaline that made your skin tingle. You should’ve been scared—Hana’s panic was contagious, her eyes wide with terror—but all you could think about was him. Jake. The way he’d looked at you, like you were a puzzle he wanted to solve or break.

The front door creaked open, and footsteps echoed through the house, slow and deliberate, each one sending a jolt through Hana’s body. She pushed her chair back, ready to bolt, but you stayed put, your gaze fixed on the hallway. You heard the jingle of keys, the rustle of a jacket being tossed aside, and then he appeared.

Jake stood in the doorway, his black hoodie unzipped to reveal a plain white shirt clinging to his lean frame. His hair was messier than last time, falling into his eyes, but those eyes—God, those eyes—were just as piercing, just as empty. He carried a small canvas bag, the kind you’d use for groceries, but the way it hung heavy in his grip made you wonder what was inside. His gaze swept the room, landing on Hana first, then sliding to you. The air shifted, grew heavier, like a storm rolling in.

“Hana,” he said, his voice smooth and low, with that same mocking edge. “Working hard, I see.” His lips twitched into a smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes. They were cold, calculating, like he was already three steps ahead in a game you didn’t know you were playing.

Hana’s grip on your wrist tightened, her nails biting into your skin. “We’re just doing school stuff,” she said, her voice high and brittle. “Don’t… don’t bother us, Jake.”

He ignored her, his attention fixed on you. He set the bag down on the counter, the contents clinking softly—metal against metal. Your stomach twisted, but you couldn’t look away. He reached into his pocket, and your breath caught as he pulled out the switchblade, the same one from last time. The silver gleamed under the fluorescent lights, and he flicked it open with a soft snick, the sound sharp enough to cut through the silence. He didn’t look at the knife, didn’t need to—his fingers moved with muscle memory, twirling it effortlessly, the blade a blur of motion.

“Y/N, right?” he said, his tone casual, like he was asking about the weather. But the way he said your name was different, heavier, like he was claiming it. He stepped closer, the knife still dancing in his hand, and Hana let out a small, choked sound, pulling you back.

“Jake, stop it,” she snapped, her voice trembling but defiant. “Leave her alone.”

He paused, his head tilting slightly, the knife slowing to a stop between his fingers. He held it lightly, almost delicately, but the threat was unmistakable. “Relax, Hana,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension. “I’m just being friendly.” His eyes flicked to you again, and something flickered in them—amusement, maybe, or something darker. “You’re not scared, are you, Y/N?”

Your mouth went dry, but you forced yourself to speak, to meet his gaze even though it felt like staring into a void. “No,” you said, the word coming out quieter than you meant. It wasn’t entirely true—your heart was pounding, your pulse loud in your ears—but it wasn’t just fear. There was something else, something that made your skin flush and your breath hitch. Something you didn’t want to name.

His smirk widened, sharp and dangerous. “Good,” he said, his voice a low purr. He closed the knife with a flick of his wrist, the blade disappearing into the handle, but he didn’t put it away. Instead, he slid it across the table, letting it spin slowly, the metal glinting as it caught the light. It stopped inches from your hand, and you stared at it, your fingers twitching with the urge to touch it, to feel the weight of it, to understand what he saw in it.

“Jake, stop,” Hana said again, her voice cracking. She stood now, pulling you up with her, her eyes darting between you and the knife. “We’re going to my room. Just… leave us alone.”

He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just watched as Hana dragged you toward the stairs. But as you passed him, his hand shot out, catching your wrist—not hard, but firm enough to stop you. His touch was cold, his fingers strong, and the contact sent a jolt through you, like electricity arcing between you. Hana gasped, but Jake’s eyes were on you, only you.

“You should stay,” he said, his voice soft but commanding, like he was testing you. His thumb brushed over the pulse point in your wrist, and you wondered if he could feel how fast your heart was racing. “We could have fun.”

Hana yanked you free, her strength surprising, and practically shoved you up the stairs. “Don’t talk to him,” she hissed, her voice shaking with a mix of fear and anger. “Don’t even look at him, Y/N.”

She slammed her bedroom door behind you, locking it with a trembling hand. She leaned against it, her chest heaving, her eyes wet with unshed tears. “I told you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “He’s not normal. He plays with people, Y/N, like they’re toys. And that knife…” She trailed off, shuddering, wrapping her arms around herself. “I’ve seen him cut things, hurt things, just because he can. He likes it.”

You sank onto her bed, your wrist still tingling where he’d touched you. Your eyes drifted to the door, half-expecting to hear that scraping sound again, the knife against the wood. “What’s with the knife?” you asked, unable to stop yourself. “Why does he…?”

Hana shook her head, her expression haunted. “It’s like his fucking obsession,” she said, her voice bitter. “He’s always had it, since we were kids. He’d sit there for hours, sharpening it, flipping it, carving things into the furniture. Once, I saw him…” She stopped, swallowing hard, her hands clenching into fists. “I saw him with a stray cat, Y/N. In the backyard, late at night. He had that knife, and he was… he was just cutting it, not deep, not enough to kill, but enough to make it scream. He was smiling, like it was nothing. Like it was fun.” Her voice broke, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I ran inside and locked my door. I didn’t sleep for days.”

Your stomach churned, a sick mix of horror and fascination twisting inside you. You should’ve been repulsed, should’ve wanted to run as far from this house as you could. But instead, you pictured it—Jake in the moonlight, his face calm and focused, the blade glinting as it moved with precision. You hated how the image didn’t just scare you; it intrigued you, pulled you in like a dark tide. “Did you tell anyone?” you asked, your voice quiet, almost guilty.

Hana shook her head, wiping her eyes. “Who would believe me? Our parents think he’s just… troubled. They sent him to therapy when he was younger, but it didn’t do shit. He’s too smart, Y/N. He knows how to play people, how to make them think he’s normal. But he’s not. He doesn’t feel things like we do. He doesn’t care if he hurts someone. He just… enjoys it.”

You nodded, your throat tight, trying to process her words. But your mind kept circling back to Jake—his cold touch, his piercing gaze, the way he’d spun that knife like it was an extension of himself. You wondered what it would feel like to hold it, to feel the weight of something so dangerous in your hand. The thought was wrong, so wrong, but it lingered, curling around your thoughts like smoke.

Hana sat next to you, her breathing uneven, her hands still trembling. “Promise me you’ll stay away from him,” she said, her voice urgent. “I know he’s… I don’t know, intense or whatever, but he’s dangerous, Y/N. He’ll pull you in, and then he’ll break you. That’s what he does.”

“I promise,” you said, the words automatic, but they felt hollow. You wanted to mean them, wanted to believe you could walk away and forget the way Jake’s eyes had locked onto yours, the way his voice had made your name sound like a secret. But deep down, you knew you were lying—to Hana, to yourself.

The rest of the night was a blur of half-hearted studying, Hana’s nervous energy filling the room like static. You kept glancing at the door, your ears straining for any sound—a creak, a scrape, anything to signal he was still there, lurking just out of sight. But the house stayed quiet, too quiet, and when you finally packed up to leave, Hana insisted on walking you to the door, her arm linked tightly through yours like she was anchoring you to safety.

Outside, the night was cool, the streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement. You glanced up at the house as you stepped onto the porch, and your heart stopped.

There, in the upstairs window, was Jake. He stood motionless, his silhouette stark against the dim light of his room, his eyes fixed on you. He didn’t wave, didn’t smile, just watched, the switchblade in his hand catching the light as he twirled it once, twice, before letting it disappear into his palm.

Hana didn’t see him—she was too busy checking her phone, muttering about calling you an Uber—but you felt his gaze like a physical touch, cold and unyielding. You turned away, your heart pounding, and forced yourself to walk down the street, the memory of that knife and those eyes burning into you.

The next few days were torture. You couldn’t focus, couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep without seeing him—his smirk, his blade, the way he’d held your wrist like he already owned you.

Hana texted you constantly, checking in, begging you to stay away from her house. But the pull was too strong, the need to know more about him, to understand the darkness that clung to him like a second skin.

It was late one evening, a week later, when you found yourself back at Hana’s house. She’d invited you over again, swearing Jake was out, that he’d been gone for days. You told yourself you believed her, but deep down, you knew you were hoping he’d be there. You needed to see him, to feel that rush again, even if it scared you.

The house was dark when you arrived, the windows black, the air heavy with the promise of a storm. Hana let you in, her face pale, her hands fidgeting as she led you to the living room. “We’ll work here,” she said, her voice tight. “It’s… safer.”

But before you could sit down, you heard it—a soft, rhythmic tapping from the kitchen, like metal against wood. Your heart leapt into your throat, and Hana froze, her eyes wide with terror. “No,” she whispered, grabbing your arm. “He’s not supposed to be here.”

The tapping stopped, and the silence that followed was worse, heavy and suffocating. Then, slow footsteps, deliberate, echoing through the house. Jake appeared in the doorway, wearing a red stripped with white sweater, brown belt buckled on beige pants, muscled forearms, one hand holding the switchblade. He wasn’t twirling it this time—just holding it, the blade closed but gleaming faintly in the dim light. His eyes found you immediately, and the corner of his mouth lifted in that familiar, dangerous smirk.

“Didn’t expect to see you again so soon, Y/N,” he said, his voice low and smooth, like he was savoring the surprise. He stepped closer, and Hana shrank back, her breath hitching. “Miss me?”

Hana’s grip on your arm was painful now, but you couldn’t move, couldn’t look away. He stopped a few feet away, leaning casually against the wall, the knife still in his hand. He tilted his head, studying you, and then, slowly, deliberately, he flicked the blade open. The snick was sharp, final, and you felt it in your bones.

“Jake, leave her alone,” Hana said, her voice shaking but fierce. “I’m serious.”

He ignored her, his eyes locked on yours. “You ever held one of these?” he asked, holding up the knife, letting it catch the light. “It’s… calming. You want to try?”

Your mouth went dry, your heart racing, but you didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because part of you—some dark, reckless part—wanted to say yes, wanted to feel the cold metal in your hand, to know what it was like to hold something so dangerous, so much like him. And he saw it, that flicker of curiosity in your eyes, because his smirk grew, his gaze darkening with something that wasn’t quite amusement, wasn’t quite desire, but something in between.

“Enough, Jake,” Hana snapped, stepping between you, her body trembling but her voice steady now. “Get out.”

He laughed, a low, quiet sound that sent a chill through you. “You’re no fun, Hana,” he said, but he didn’t move, didn’t put the knife away. He just stood there, watching you, the blade still in his hand, a silent invitation hanging in the air.

Hana grabbed your hand and pulled you toward the stairs, her steps quick and desperate. You followed, but not before glancing back at Jake, just for a moment. He was still watching, still smiling, and as you disappeared up the stairs, you heard the soft snick of the knife closing, followed by a low chuckle that echoed in your ears long after you reached Hana’s room.

Jake was a specter haunting your every thought, a blade pressed against the thin skin of your restraint. Since that night in Hana’s kitchen, he’d carved himself into your mind—the way his voice curled around your name, dark and possessive, the way his switchblade spun in his fingers, a dance of menace and control. You knew he was dangerous, knew the cold glint in his eyes wasn’t just a trick of the light. But knowing didn’t stop the pull, the reckless hunger to see how close you could get to his edge without falling over.

Hana’s call came on a Wednesday afternoon, her voice rushed and frazzled through the phone. “Y/N, I’m drowning in this lit project,” she said, the words tumbling out. “Can you come over? I need you to save my ass before this deadline kills me.” She didn’t mention Jake, and you didn’t ask, but the thought of him was there, a shadow in the corner of your mind, beckoning you back to that house.

“On my way,” you said, grabbing your jacket, the decision made before you could second-guess it. You told yourself it was for Hana, for the project, but the lie was flimsy, crumbling under the weight of your curiosity, your need to feel that electric chill again.

The sky was a bruise of gray clouds as you reached Hana’s house, the air thick with the scent of impending rain. The street was eerily silent, the kind of quiet that made your own breathing sound too loud. You knocked on the front door, the sound swallowed by the heavy stillness, and waited. No answer. You knocked again, sharper, but the house stayed mute, its windows dark and unblinking. A prickle of unease crawled up your neck, but you pushed it down, fishing out your phone to text Hana.

Hey, I’m here. Where you at?

No reply. You tried the doorknob, half-expecting it to be locked, but it turned with a soft click, the door groaning open like a warning. The air inside was cold, heavy with that familiar mix of cedarwood and something sharper, metallic, like blood or iron. You stepped into the foyer, your sneakers barely whispering against the hardwood, and called out, “Hana? You here?”

Silence answered, but it wasn’t empty. It was alive, charged, like the house itself was watching you. You set your backpack by the stairs, your eyes darting to the shadowed corners, the dim hallway stretching into darkness. “Hana?” you tried again, your voice thinner now, swallowed by the oppressive quiet.

A faint sound came from behind you—a soft snick, like metal flicking open. Your heart stopped, your body going rigid as the air shifted, colder now, heavier. You turned slowly, dread pooling in your stomach, and there he was—Jake, emerging from the shadows of the living room doorway like a phantom, his presence sucking the light from the room. He was closer than you’d expected, too close, his lean frame filling the space, his black hoodie unzipped to reveal a tight shirt clinging to his chest. His dark hair fell into his eyes, but they gleamed through the strands, piercing and unreadable, locked on you.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice low, smooth, with a lilt of amusement that sent a shiver down your spine. “Sneaking in, are we?” He held his switchblade in one hand, the blade open, glinting faintly in the dim light as he tilted it, letting it catch the shadows. His other hand rested casually against the wall, but there was nothing casual about him—not the way he stood, not the way he looked at you, like you were prey he’d been waiting to catch.

You swallowed, your throat dry, forcing yourself to stand your ground even as every instinct screamed to run. “Hana called me,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. “She said she needed help with a project. Where is she?”

Jake tilted his head, the knife twirling slowly in his fingers, a hypnotic motion that drew your eyes despite yourself. “Hana?” he said, his tone mocking, like he was playing with the word. “Not here. Must’ve slipped out. She’s like that—always running off.” He stepped closer, the floorboards creaking under his weight, and you backed up instinctively, your shoulder brushing the wall. “But you’re here,” he added, his smirk sharpening, “and that’s so much more… interesting.”

Your pulse hammered, a mix of fear and something hotter, more dangerous, curling in your chest. He’d come from behind you, silent as a ghost, and the realization made your skin prickle—the house had felt empty, but he’d been there, watching, waiting. The air was thick now, electric, like a storm about to break, and you couldn’t look away from him, from the blade, from the way his eyes seemed to see through you.

“I should go,” you said, but the words lacked conviction, your body refusing to move. His presence was a cage, invisible but unyielding, and you were already trapped.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice soft but commanding, a velvet threat. He was closer now, close enough that you could smell him—leather, smoke, and that sharp, metallic tang that clung to him like a second skin. The knife stopped twirling, and he held it loosely, the blade pointed down, but its presence was a pulse in the air, a reminder of what he could do. “You came all this way,” he murmured, his eyes searching yours, dark and hungry. “Might as well stay.”

Your breath hitched, and you hated how it betrayed you, how he noticed—the slight flare of his nostrils, the way his smirk deepened. “Why?” you asked, the word slipping out, a challenge you didn’t mean to issue. “What do you want from me?”

He laughed, a low, quiet sound that felt like it crawled under your skin. “What do I want?” he echoed, stepping closer, so close you could feel the heat of him, the weight of his gaze. “I want to know why you’re not running, Y/N. Why you’re standing here, looking at me like you’re not afraid, when you should be.” He lifted the knife, not threateningly, but deliberately, letting the blade brush the air between you, a whisper of cold steel. “You feel it, don’t you? The pull.”

Your stomach twisted, his words too close to the truth. You did feel it—the pull, the dark current dragging you toward him, toward the danger he embodied. You knew what he was, or at least you suspected it—the emptiness in his eyes, the ease with which he wielded that knife, the stories of blood and screams that clung to him like shadows. But it didn’t push you away. It drew you in, like a moth to a flame, and you hated how much you wanted to burn.

“I’m just here for Hana,” you said, but the lie was brittle, and he saw it shatter in your eyes.

“Sure you are,” he said, his voice a purr, laced with amusement. He leaned closer, his breath warm against your cheek, the knife still in his hand, its presence a cold counterpoint to his heat. “You ever held one of these?” he asked, his tone shifting, intimate now, like he was sharing a secret. “It’s… different. Like holding a piece of the world in your hand. You want to try?”

Your mouth went dry, your eyes flicking to the knife, to the way it gleamed, sharp and perfect. You should’ve said no, should’ve backed away, but the part of you that was reckless, that was drawn to him, wouldn’t let you. “Show me,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them, your voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes darkened, something like satisfaction flickering in them. He flipped the knife closed with a soft snick, the sound sharp in the quiet, and held it out to you, handle first. “Take it,” he said, his tone coaxing, a dare wrapped in silk. “Feel it.”

Your hand trembled as you reached for it, your fingers brushing his, cold and steady, the contact sending a jolt through you. The knife was heavier than you expected, its handle worn smooth from years of use, and you turned it over in your palm, the weight grounding but thrilling, like holding something forbidden. You looked up at him, and he was watching you, not just your face but your hands, the way you held it, like he was seeing something new in you, something he wanted to keep.

“Careful,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent. “It’s not forgiving if you don’t respect it.”

You nodded, your heart pounding, the knife cold against your skin. “Why do you like it?” you asked, the question raw, unfiltered. “What’s it mean to you?”

He stepped closer, his body inches from yours, his eyes locked on yours, dark and unyielding. “It’s truth,” he said, his voice soft but heavy, like a confession. “No masks, no lies. Just… power. You decide how it moves, how it cuts. It’s like holding someone’s soul in your hand.” He reached out, his fingers brushing yours as he guided your hand, turning the knife slightly, the motion deliberate, intimate. “You feel that, don’t you?”

You did. The knife felt alive, a pulse of potential in your grip, and the way he was looking at you—hungry, almost proud—made your head spin. You handed it back, your fingers lingering against his, and he took it slowly, his gaze never wavering.

“Good girl,” he murmured, the words sinking into you, warm and dangerous, like a spark in dry grass. He stepped back, twirling the knife once before slipping it into his pocket, but the air between you stayed charged, heavy with unspoken promises.

The front door slammed open, and you flinched, the spell breaking like glass. Hana’s voice cut through the house, high and breathless. “Y/N? I’m so sorry, I got stuck at this stupid neighbourhood meeting—” She appeared in the kitchen doorway, her face flushed, her backpack half-slung over her shoulder. Her eyes darted between you and Jake, and her expression tightened, a flicker of unease crossing her face. “Jake,” she said, her voice clipped. “What’s going on?”

He leaned back against the counter, his smirk lazy but sharp, the knife gone but its presence still lingering. “Just chatting with Y/N,” he said, his eyes flicking to you, a private challenge in them. “She’s good company.”

Hana’s gaze snapped to you, her brows furrowing. “You okay?” she asked, softer now, stepping closer. You nodded, your throat tight, your mind still reeling from the knife, from him, from the way he’d appeared behind you like a ghost.

“Let’s go upstairs,” Hana said, grabbing your arm, her touch firm but not desperate. She led you out of the kitchen, her steps quick, and you followed, but not before glancing back at Jake. He was watching you, his smirk softer now, almost knowing, like he’d seen a part of you you hadn’t meant to show.

As you climbed the stairs, the weight of the knife lingered in your hand, cold and heavy, and you knew you were sinking deeper into something dangerous, something you weren’t sure you could—or wanted to—escape.

Jake was a fucking inferno, a blaze of danger and desire that scorched your thoughts, leaving you raw and aching for more. Ever since that night in Hana’s kitchen, when you’d gripped his switchblade and felt his dark, empty eyes burn into you, he’d infected you—his Aussie drawl, his knife play, his fucking presence a drug you couldn’t kick. He was a psychopath, no question, with that cold, calculating edge, but it didn’t scare you off. It made your pussy throb, made you want to dive into his darkness and see how much you could take before you burned up.

Hana’s text hit your phone on a Friday night, the sky black as sin, thunder growling in the distance like a beast ready to pounce. “Movie night, my place, 8 sharp,” she’d typed, casual as hell. “Be there, Y/N, need you.” She swore she’d be home, and you latched onto that, telling yourself you were going for her, for some dumbass movie and snacks. But deep down, you knew the truth: you were chasing Jake, craving that electric jolt he sent through you, that mix of fear and want that made your clit pulse just thinking about him.

The house stood like a fucking haunted relic, its windows dark except for a weak, a faint yellow glow from the kitchen, flickering like a trap set just for you. The air was heavy, thick with the smell of rain and something metallic, like blood on the wind. You knocked, the sound dying in the oppressive silence, and waited, your heart jackhammering in your chest. Nothing. You pounded again, harder, but the house was a goddamn tomb, silent and watching.

Your phone showed 8:10 p.m. No word from Hana. A flicker of panic sparked, but you shoved it down, twisting the doorknob. It gave way, the door creaking open like a warning, and you stepped into the foyer, the air cold and sharp with that familiar mix of cedarwood and steel. “Hana?” you called, your voice echoing, swallowed by the shadows. “You in here?”

The silence was alive, crawling over your skin, making your nipples harden under your shirt from the chill and something else—anticipation, maybe, or dread. You dropped your bag by the stairs, your boots barely making a sound on the hardwood, and headed for the kitchen, drawn to that sickly glow like a moth to a fucking flame. The hallway was a black void, shadows pooling like ink, and you felt eyes on you, invisible but heavy, making your pussy clench with a mix of fear and need.

You hit the kitchen doorway and froze, your breath catching like a knife in your throat. Jake was there, leaning against the counter like he fucking owned the place, a vision of Aussie sex on legs. His black tee clung to his lean chest, a leather jacket draped over his shoulders, sleeves rolled up to show off forearms corded with muscle. His dark hair was a perfect mess, framing those sharp cheekbones, and his lips—fuck, those lips—curved in a smirk that promised all kinds of sin. His eyes, dark and bottomless, locked onto yours, and your cunt pulsed, slick already just from one goddamn look.

He was flipping his switchblade, the silver blade catching the light as it spun, a casual, deadly dance that made your heart race. He looked like trouble, the kind of guy who’d fuck you senseless and leave you ruined, and you wanted every second of it. “Well, shit, love,” he drawled, his Aussie accent thick, dripping with charm that felt like a blade to your throat. “Didn’t expect you to walk in lookin’ like that.” His eyes raked over you, slow and deliberate, making your cheeks burn, your pussy aching under his gaze.

Panic hit hard. Hana wasn’t here—she’d fucking promised, but she wasn’t, and Jake was, looking like he’d been waiting for you all along. Your instincts screamed to run, to get the hell out before he could sink his claws in deeper. “I—fuck, I gotta go,” you stammered, spinning toward the hallway, your boots slipping as you bolted, your heart in your throat.

You made it halfway to the door before you skidded to a stop, a choked scream ripping from you. Jake was there, leaning against the foyer wall, his body a sudden, impossible barrier, the switchblade still flipping in his hand, his smirk sharp as a razor. “How the fucking hell? Weren’t you just there?” you gasped, your voice shaking, your mind spinning. He’d been in the kitchen, flipping that damn knife, not ten seconds ago—how was he here, blocking your way, like he’d slipped through the goddamn shadows?

He laughed, a low, dirty sound that sent a shiver straight to your clit. “I’m quick when I wanna be, darlin’,” he said, his accent wrapping around the words, making them sound filthy, dangerous. He stepped closer, and you backed up, your ass hitting the wall, your pulse pounding so loud you could hear it. “You ran,” he said, his tone low, teasing, but his eyes were dark, hungry. “What’s got you so spooked? Thought you were tougher than that.”

Your throat was dry, your body a live wire, humming with fear and a need so intense it made you flush, your cheeks burning, you were soaking through your panties. He was right—you’d run because Hana’s absence was a fucking betrayal, because this house was a trap, because he was a predator and you were prey, and yet… you wanted to be caught. “Hana said she’d be here,” you said, forcing your voice to hold, to meet his gaze even though it felt like staring into a void. “Where the fuck is she?”

He shrugged, the knife flipping faster, a silver blur that made your cunt throb with some fucked-up mix of fear and want. “Beats me,” he said, his tone too easy, like he was playing with you and loving every second. “Probably off somewhere, doin’ whatever. You know how she is—never where she says she’ll be.” He closed the distance, the air thick with his scent—leather, cologne, and that sharp, metallic bite that was all him. “But you’re here, love,” he murmured, his eyes burning into yours, “and I’m not lettin’ you slip away that easy.”

Your skin was on fire, your clit pulsing, your whole body screaming to run but aching to stay. He was too close, his heat seeping into you, the knife a silent threat, a promise you didn’t know if you wanted kept. “I should wait for her,” you said, but it was weak, a pathetic attempt to hold onto something normal when all you wanted was him, his danger, his fucking everything.

“Fuck waiting,” he growled, his voice low, that Aussie drawl making your pussy clench. He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and teasing. “You don’t want Hana. You want me. You want my cock, don’t you? Want me to fuck that tight little pussy till you can’t think straight.” His words hit like a shockwave, making you flush so hard your skin burned, your cunt dripping, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

You should’ve pushed him away, should’ve screamed, but instead, you moaned, a soft, needy sound that gave you away. His smirk widened, his eyes darkening with hunger, and he pressed himself closer, his body hard against yours, the bulge in his jeans unmistakable, pressing against your thigh. “That’s what I thought,” he said, his voice a filthy purr. “You’re so fucking wet for me already, aren’t you? I bet that pussy’s begging for it.”

Your cheeks were scorching, your body trembling with need, and you nodded, unable to stop yourself, unable to lie. “Yes,” you whispered, the word a surrender, and he groaned, low and primal, his lips crashing into yours, a kiss that was all teeth and tongue, raw and fucking filthy. You kissed him back, desperate, your hands clawing at his jacket, his shirt, needing to feel him, to drown in him.

He shoved you against the wall, his hands rough, ripping at your clothes, tearing your shirt open, your bra pushed up to expose your tits. “Fuck, look at these,” he growled, his hands squeezing, his thumbs brushing your nipples, making you moan, your pussy clenching. “Such perfect fucking tits, made for my mouth.” He dipped down, sucking hard, his teeth grazing, and you arched into him, your clit throbbing, your body screaming for more.

His knife was out again, and your breath hitched, fear spiking but only making you wetter, your cunt aching as he flicked it open, the snick loud and final. He didn’t cut you—just let the blade trace your skin, a cold, teasing touch along your collarbone, down to your stomach, making you shiver, your hips bucking against him. “You like this, don’t you?” he said, his voice thick, dirty. “My knife on your skin, my cock so fucking hard for you. You want me to fuck you with this blade in my hand, don’t you, love?”

You moaned, your cheeks burning, your pussy dripping, and you nodded, too far gone to care how fucked up it was. He smirked, setting the knife aside, but its presence lingered, a ghost in the air as he ripped your jeans down, your panties following, leaving you bare, your cunt glistening for him. “Fuck, look at that pussy,” he said, his voice rough, his fingers sliding through your folds, finding your clit, rubbing slow, torturous circles that made you gasp, your hips grinding against him. “So fucking wet, so ready for my cock. You’re gonna take it all, aren’t you? Gonna let me fuck you stupid.”

“Yes,” you gasped, your voice breaking, your body on fire, and he groaned, his fingers plunging into you, stretching you, making you moan, your clit pulsing under his thumb. “Please, Jake, fuck me,” you begged, your cheeks flushing, your need for him a living thing, clawing at you.

He didn’t make you wait. He unzipped his jeans, his cock springing free, thick and hard, the sight making your pussy clench, your mouth watering. “You want this cock, love?” he said, stroking himself, his voice a filthy drawl. “Want it deep in that tight little pussy, fucking you till you scream?”

“Yes,” you moaned, your hips bucking, your cunt aching to be filled. He lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist, and carried you upstairs, his steps silent, the house a blur of shadows and heat. His room was dark, reeking of him—leather, cologne, metal—and he threw you on the bed, his body covering yours, his eyes burning with need.

He didn’t waste time. His hands were on you, rough and hungry, spreading your thighs, his fingers teasing your clit, making you writhe, your moans loud and desperate. “Gonna fuck you so hard, love,” he growled, his accent thick, his cock pressing against your entrance, teasing, making you whimper. “Gonna make this pussy mine, make you come all over my cock.”

He thrust into you, hard and deep, and you screamed, your pussy stretching around him, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. He didn’t go slow—his pace was relentless, his cock slamming into you, hitting that spot that made you see stars, your clit throbbing with every thrust. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his voice rough, his hands gripping your hips, bruising. “This pussy’s fucking perfect, taking my cock like it was made for it.”

You moaned, your cheeks burning, his dirty talk making you flush, your cunt dripping around him, the pleasure building, overwhelming. “Jake, fuck, I’m gonna—” you gasped, your body trembling, your clit pulsing as he fucked you harder, his thumb finding it, rubbing fast, sending you over the edge.

“Come for me, love,” he growled, his voice a command, his cock thrusting deep. “Come all over my fucking cock, let me feel that pussy squeeze.” You shattered, your orgasm ripping through you, your cunt clenching, your body shaking, your screams muffled against his shoulder. He didn’t stop, fucking you through it, his thrusts brutal, his groans growing louder, more feral.

“Gonna fill you up,” he said, his voice thick, his cock twitching inside you. “Gonna pump this pussy full of cum, make you mine.” He came hard, his thrusts deep, his release hot and overwhelming, and you moaned, your body trembling, feeling every pulse, every drop.

When it was over, you lay there, panting, your body slick with sweat, his weight pressing you into the bed. His arm draped over you, possessive, his fingers tracing your skin, lazy but claiming. The knife was on the nightstand, closed but gleaming, a reminder of the edge you’d danced on. “You’re fucked now, darlin’,” he murmured, his Aussie drawl soft but heavy, his lips brushing your ear. “This pussy’s mine, and you’re not going anywhere.”

You flushed, your cheeks burning, your cunt still tingling, and you nodded, knowing he was right. You didn’t want to leave. You wanted him—his cock, his knife, his fucking darkness. Hana’s voice came later, frantic, calling your name from downstairs, but his grip tightened, holding you close. “Let her fucking wait,” he growled, his voice low, filthy. “You’re mine tonight, love.”

And you were. You stayed, lost in his heat, his danger, the storm outside a faint echo of the one he’d ignited in you, and you knew this was just the start—dark, filthy, and fucking unstoppable.

The afterglow of Jake’s touch lingered like a bruise, tender and raw, your body still humming from the way he’d fucked you—hard, deep, claiming every inch of your pussy like it was his to own. His cum was still warm inside you, his scent—leather, cologne, and that sharp metallic bite—clinging to your skin, marking you as his. You lay sprawled across his bed, your chest heaving, your cunt still tingling, your cheeks flushed from the filthy things he’d growled in your ear, his Aussie drawl turning every word into a weapon that made you drip. His arm was slung over you, heavy and possessive, his fingers tracing lazy, teasing circles on your hip, each touch reigniting the fire in your core.

The house was a fucking crypt around you, its silence broken only by the distant rumble of the storm outside and the faint, frantic sound of Hana’s voice echoing from downstairs. “Y/N? Where the hell are you?” she called, her tone sharp with worry, her footsteps creaking on the hardwood. You stirred, your body protesting, your mind foggy with Jake’s heat, but his grip tightened, pinning you to the bed, his lips brushing your ear, hot and commanding.

“Stay,” he murmured, his voice a low, filthy growl, that thick Aussie accent making your clit throb. “She can fucking wait, love. Your pussy’s still mine, and I’m not done with you.” His words sent a fresh wave of heat through you, your cheeks burning, your cunt clenching around nothing, already aching for him again. You should’ve moved, should’ve answered Hana, but the weight of him, the promise in his voice, kept you locked in place, your body betraying you with every shuddering breath.

The knife on the nightstand gleamed in the dim light, its blade closed but heavy with meaning, a reminder of the edge you’d danced on—his blade on your skin, cold and teasing, his cock slamming into you, his dirty talk pushing you over the brink. You shivered, your nipples hardening, and Jake noticed, his smirk widening, his fingers sliding up to pinch one, making you gasp, your pussy slick with need.

“Fuck, you’re so responsive,” he said, his voice rough, dirty, his eyes dark with hunger. “Look at you, all flushed and needy, your cunt begging for my cock again. You love this, don’t you? Love how I fuck you, how I own this tight little pussy.” His hand slid lower, cupping you, his fingers teasing your clit, slow and deliberate, making you moan, your hips bucking against him, your cheeks scorching with embarrassment and want.

“Jake,” you gasped, your voice breaking, your body trembling under his touch. “Hana’s downstairs—she’ll come up here—”

“Let her,” he growled, his fingers plunging into your pussy, curling, hitting that spot that made you see stars, your moan loud and desperate. “Let her see how fucking wet you are for me, how you take my fingers, my cock, like a good little slut.” His words were a shock, filthy and raw, making you flush so hard your skin burned, your cunt dripping around his fingers, your clit pulsing under his thumb.

You should’ve been ashamed, should’ve pushed him away, but you didn’t. You wanted it—his filth, his control, the way he made you feel like you were his and his alone. The knife caught your eye again, and you shivered, a fucked-up mix of fear and arousal twisting in your gut. He followed your gaze, his smirk turning wicked, and he reached for it, flipping it open with a soft snick that made your heart skip, your pussy clenching around his fingers.

“Still thinking about this, huh?” he said, holding the knife up, letting the blade catch the light, his fingers still fucking you, slow and deep, making you whimper. “You want it, don’t you? Want my blade on your skin while I fuck that pretty pussy again, make you scream for me.” His voice was a dirty caress, his accent thick, and you moaned, your cheeks burning, your body arching into him, needing more, needing everything.

“Yes,” you whispered, the word a surrender, and he groaned, low and primal, pulling his fingers out, leaving you empty, aching, your cunt throbbing with need. He brought the knife closer, not cutting, just tracing the flat of the blade along your thigh, the cold metal making you shiver, your clit pulsing, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he said, his voice rough, his eyes burning with something beyond desire—possession, maybe, or something darker. “So fucking wet, so ready to take whatever I give you. You’re gonna let me fuck you with this knife right here, aren’t you, love? Gonna let me make you come so hard you forget your own name.”

Your cheeks were on fire, your body trembling, and you nodded, too far gone to care how fucked up it was, how dangerous. He set the knife aside, but its presence lingered, a shadow in the air as he shoved his jeans down, his cock springing free, hard and thick, the sight making your pussy clench, your mouth watering. “Get on your knees,” he growled, his voice a command, and you obeyed, your body moving before your mind could catch up, your cunt dripping as you knelt before him.

“Suck it,” he said, his hand tangling in your hair, guiding you to his cock, the tip glistening with precum. “Show me how much you want it, how much you love my cock.” You moaned, your cheeks flushing, and took him in, your lips stretching around him, your tongue swirling, tasting him, the salt and heat of him filling your senses. He groaned, his grip tightening, his hips thrusting, fucking your mouth, his dirty talk relentless.

“Fuck, that’s it, love,” he growled, his accent thick, his cock hitting the back of your throat, making you gag, your pussy dripping onto the sheets. “Take it deep, let me fuck that pretty mouth, make you choke on my cock. You’re so fucking good at this, so fucking mine.” His words made you flush, your clit throbbing, your hands gripping his thighs, needing to please him, needing to be his.

He pulled out, sudden and rough, and you gasped, your lips swollen, your breath ragged. “On the bed,” he said, his voice a low snarl, and you scrambled up, your body trembling, your cunt aching to be filled. He pushed you down, spreading your thighs, his eyes dark with hunger as he looked at your pussy, slick and ready, your clit swollen, begging for him.

“Fuck, look at this cunt,” he said, his voice thick, his fingers sliding through your folds, teasing your clit, making you moan, your hips bucking. “So fucking wet, so fucking perfect. You’re gonna take my cock so good, aren’t you? Gonna let me fuck you till you’re screaming, till this pussy’s ruined for anyone else.” His words were filthy, raw, making you flush, your cheeks burning, your body trembling with need.

He thrust into you, hard and deep, and you screamed, your pussy stretching around his cock, the pleasure so intense it was almost too much. He didn’t hold back, his pace brutal, his cock slamming into you, hitting that spot that made you see stars, your clit pulsing with every thrust. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his hands gripping your hips, bruising, his voice rough with need. “This pussy’s fucking mine, taking my cock like it was made for it. You love this, don’t you? Love me fucking you raw, making you come all over my dick.”

“Yes,” you moaned, your voice breaking, your body trembling, your cheeks scorching as his words pushed you closer to the edge. “Jake, fuck, I’m gonna come—” you gasped, your pussy clenching, your clit throbbing as he fucked you harder, his thumb finding it, rubbing fast, relentless.

“Come for me, love,” he growled, his voice a command, his cock thrusting deep, his thumb pressing hard on your clit. “Come all over my fucking cock, let me feel this pussy squeeze me, show me how much you fucking love it.” You shattered, your orgasm ripping through you, your cunt clenching around him, your body shaking, your screams muffled against the pillow. He fucked you through it, his thrusts savage, his groans loud and feral, his cock twitching inside you.

“Gonna fill this pussy,” he said, his voice thick, his thrusts deep, his release close. “Gonna pump you full of cum, make you mine, love. You want that, don’t you? Want my cum dripping out of this tight little cunt.” You moaned, your body trembling, and he came hard, his cock pulsing, his cum hot and overwhelming, filling you, marking you.

He collapsed beside you, his chest heaving, his arm pulling you close, possessive, his fingers tracing your skin, still teasing, still claiming. The knife gleamed on the nightstand, a silent witness to the fire between you, and you felt it—the weight of what you’d done, the depth you’d fallen into. “You’re fucked now, darlin’,” he murmured, his Aussie drawl soft but heavy, his lips brushing your temple. “This pussy’s mine, and you're getting dressed now."

Your cheeks burned, your cunt still tingling, and you nodded, knowing he was right. You didn’t want to escape. You wanted him—his cock, his knife, his fucking darkness. Hana’s voice came again, closer now, her footsteps on the stairs, but Jake’s grip tightened, his lips finding your ear, his voice a filthy whisper.

Jake’s command—“You’re getting dressed now”—cut through the air like the flick of his switchblade, sharp and unyielding, his Aussie drawl lacing the words with a dangerous edge. You lay sprawled across his bed, your body still warm from his touch, your skin tingling where his fingers had been, the memory of his heat lingering like a phantom. The house was a crypt, its silence broken only by the distant growl of the storm outside and the sharp, panicked sound of Hana’s voice from downstairs, calling your name. Her footsteps creaked on the stairs, closer now, each one a hammer against the fragile moment you’d shared with Jake.

You stirred, your limbs heavy, your mind clouded with the weight of him—his piercing eyes, his knife, his presence that filled the room like smoke. His arm was still draped over you, possessive, but he shifted, propping himself on one elbow, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he watched you with that smirk, lazy but predatory. “Move, love,” he said, his voice low, teasing, the accent thick and warm, like a lure. “Unless you want Hana to see you like this, all… undone.”

Your cheeks flushed, a rush of heat that made you look away, your heart pounding as you sat up, the sheets slipping against your skin. The knife on the nightstand gleamed, its blade closed but ever-present, a silent threat that sent a shiver through you—not fear, not entirely, but something deeper, something that drew you to him even now. You reached for your clothes, scattered across the floor, your fingers trembling as you pulled your shirt over your head, the fabric catching on your damp skin.

Jake moved too, fluid and deliberate, like a panther stretching after a hunt. He stood, his fitted black tee clinging to his lean frame, his leather jacket slung over the bedpost where he’d tossed it earlier. He grabbed his jeans, pulling them on with a casual ease that belied the tension in the room, his eyes never leaving you. The way he watched you dress—slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing every movement—made your skin prickle, your breath hitch. “You’re quick when you’re scared,” he said, his tone mocking but soft, his smirk widening as he zipped up, his fingers brushing the knife on the nightstand, lingering there, teasing its handle.

“I’m not scared,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt, tugging your jeans up, fumbling with the button. It was a lie, and he knew it—you could see it in the glint of his eyes, the way they darkened with amusement. Hana’s footsteps were louder now, almost at the top of the stairs, her voice sharper, edged with worry. “Y/N? Are you up here?”

You froze, your heart slamming against your ribs, but Jake didn’t flinch. He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell him—leather, smoke, that metallic tang that clung to him like a shadow. He picked up the knife, flipping it open with a soft snick that made your breath catch, the blade catching the dim light like a promise. “She’s gonna lose it, you know,” he said, his voice a low purr, his accent curling around the words. “Hana, I mean. Seeing you with me. You sure you’re ready for that?”

You swallowed, your throat dry, pulling your jacket on, your eyes flicking to the door. “I’ll handle it,” you said, but the words felt fragile, like they might shatter under the weight of his gaze. He twirled the knife, the motion hypnotic, and stepped closer, the blade held loosely, not threatening but present, a reminder of the line you’d crossed.

“Handle it?” he echoed, his smirk sharp, his eyes searching yours. “You’re in deep now, love. No handling your way out of this.” He leaned in, his breath warm against your cheek, the knife tilting in his hand, the flat of the blade brushing the air near your arm—not touching, but close enough to make your skin tingle. “You feel that, don’t you? The rush. You’re not running. You don’t want to.”

Your heart raced, his words too close to the truth. You should’ve bolted, should’ve pushed past him and met Hana at the door, but you didn’t. You stood there, caught in his orbit, the knife a cold star in the space between you. “Why are you doing this?” you asked, the question raw, your voice barely above a whisper. “Why me?”

He tilted his head, the knife pausing, his eyes narrowing like he was peeling you apart, layer by layer. “Why you?” he repeated, his tone softer now, almost curious. “Because you see me, Y/N. Most people don’t. They see what they want—a brother, a son, a fucking monster. But you…” He stepped closer, the knife twirling again, slow and deliberate. “You see the blade, and you don’t flinch. That’s rare.”

The door rattled, Hana’s fist pounding against it, her voice muffled but urgent. “Y/N? Open the door! What’s going on?” You flinched, the spell breaking, and turned toward the sound, but Jake’s hand caught your wrist, his grip firm but not painful, holding you in place.

“Let her wait,” he said, his voice low, commanding, his eyes burning into yours. “We’re not done here.” He released you, stepping back to grab his leather jacket, sliding it on with a grace that made your stomach twist. The knife disappeared into his pocket, but its presence lingered, a weight in the air, a promise unspoken.

You moved to the door, your hand on the knob, but you hesitated, glancing back at him. He was fully dressed now, leaning against the bedpost, his arms crossed, his smirk softer but no less dangerous. “Go on,” he said, nodding toward the door, his accent thick, teasing. “Face the music, love. But don’t think this is over. You and me—we’re just getting started.”

You opened the door, your heart in your throat, and Hana nearly fell into the room, her face pale, her eyes wide with panic. “Y/N, what the hell?” she hissed, grabbing your arm, pulling you into the hallway. Her gaze darted to Jake, and her expression hardened, fear and anger warring in her eyes. “What are you doing here, Jake? I told you to stay away from her.”

Jake didn’t move, his smirk unwavering, his eyes flicking between you and Hana. “Just having a chat,” he said, his tone light but laced with that mocking edge, his accent curling around the words like smoke. “Y/N’s good company. Better than you, sis.”

Hana’s grip tightened, her nails digging into your skin, and she pulled you toward the stairs, her voice low and urgent. “We’re leaving. Now.” You followed, your legs unsteady, your mind reeling from Jake’s words, from the way he’d looked at you, from the knife that wasn’t in his hand but might as well have been.

The house seemed to watch as you descended, the shadows deeper now, the air colder, heavier, like it was pressing against you, urging you to stay. You glanced back, just once, and saw Jake standing at the top of the stairs, his silhouette stark against the dim light, his eyes fixed on you. He didn’t follow, didn’t need to. His presence was a tether, pulling at you, even as Hana dragged you outside.

The storm had broken, rain pelting the pavement, soaking your clothes as you stepped into the yard. Hana was shaking, her hands fumbling with her phone, muttering about getting you home. “You can’t come back here,” she said, her voice breaking, raw with fear. “Not while he’s around. You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

But you did. You knew, or at least you were starting to, and that knowledge was a dangerous and a spark in your chest. You nodded, letting her lead you to her car, the rain washing away the warmth of Jake’s touch but not the memory of it. As you drove away, the house loomed in the rearview mirror, its windows black, and you swore you saw him again—Jake, standing in the doorway, a shadow in the rain, watching you go.

You didn’t speak, didn’t tell Hana the truth: that you were already too deep, that his knife had cut you in ways you couldn’t explain, that you weren’t sure you wanted to escape. Jake was a poison, a psychopath, a blade, and you were drawn to him, to the edge he offered, to the darkness you couldn’t resist. And as the city blurred past, you knew you’d be back, drawn to him like a moth to a flame, ready to burn.

The rain was a relentless curtain, hammering your house for three days straight, turning the world outside into a blur of gray and shadow. Since fleeing Hana’s house, Jake had become a specter in your mind, his presence a cold weight that pressed against your every thought. His voice—that thick, teasing Aussie drawl—haunted you, whispering through the cracks of your resolve: You’re in deep now, love.

The memory of his switchblade, its cold steel in your hand, his dark eyes watching you like you were his to unravel, clung to you like damp air, stirring a dangerous mix of fear and fascination. You’d promised Hana you’d stay away, but the promise was a fragile thing, crumbling under the weight of your own curiosity, your own need to understand the void that was Shim Jaeyun.

Your house was a sanctuary turned prison, its walls too thin to keep him out of your thoughts. Your parents were gone for the weekend, leaving you alone in the quiet, the silence broken only by the storm’s growl and the creak of settling wood.

You sat on your bedroom floor, surrounded by scattered notes for a literature project you hadn’t touched, your laptop screen dimmed to a faint glow. The clock read 12:47 a.m., the witching hour, and the air was thick with the scent of rain and something else—something sharp, metallic, like a premonition.

A knock at the front door shattered the stillness, three sharp raps that echoed like gunshots. Your heart stopped, your breath catching as you froze, your eyes darting to the window. The curtains were drawn, but the porch light flickered through the gaps, casting jagged shadows across the room. Another knock, slower this time, deliberate, like whoever was out there knew you were listening, knew you wouldn’t ignore it. Your phone buzzed on the bed, Hana’s name flashing, but you ignored it, your feet moving before your mind could catch up, carrying you downstairs, your pulse a frantic drumbeat.

You paused at the door, your hand hovering over the knob, the rain’s roar louder now, mingling with the thud of your heart. You peered through the peephole, and there he was—Jake, standing in the storm like he was born from it, rain streaming off his leather jacket, his black tee plastered to his lean frame, his dark hair slick and falling into his eyes.

The porch light carved his face into sharp angles, his cheekbones stark, his lips curved in a faint, unsettling smirk. His eyes—those black, bottomless voids—locked onto the peephole, like he could see you through it, and your stomach twisted, fear and something hotter curling together. In his hand was the switchblade, open, its blade gleaming wet, the rain sliding off it like blood.

You should’ve locked the door, called the police, done anything but what you did. But your hand turned the knob, the door creaking open, and the cold rushed in, carrying his scent—leather, smoke, and that metallic tang that was his alone. He didn’t move, just stood there, the knife twirling in his fingers, his smirk widening as he tilted his head, rain dripping from his hair onto your doorstep.

“G’day, love,” he said, his Aussie accent thick, his voice low and smooth, laced with a manic edge that sent a shiver down your spine. “You gonna invite me in, or make me stand here like a drowned rat?” His eyes flicked over you—your oversized hoodie, your bare legs, the way your hands trembled—and his smirk sharpened, like he was already peeling you apart.

“What are you doing here, Jake?” you asked, your voice steady but thin, the door still half-open, a barrier you weren’t sure you wanted to maintain. “It’s the middle of the night.”

He laughed, a low, jagged sound that vibrated through the air, his knife pausing, held loosely but with intent. “Middle of the night’s when the real shit happens,” he said, his tone almost playful, but his eyes were cold, calculating, like he was measuring how far he could push you. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you, Y/N. About that spark in your eyes when you held my knife. You felt it, didn’t you? The power.” He stepped closer, the toe of his boot crossing the threshold, and you backed up, your heart racing, the air between you charged like a storm about to break.

“You need to leave,” you said, but the words were hollow, your body rooted to the spot, your eyes drawn to the knife, to the way he handled it with such ease, like it was part of him. “Hana’s been texting me. She’s worried. She’ll know you’re here.”

His smirk didn’t falter, but something flickered in his eyes—amusement, or maybe something darker. “Hana,” he said, dragging out her name like it was a curse. “Always sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong. She doesn’t get it, does she? Doesn’t see what I see in you.” He stepped fully inside, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft click, trapping you in the dim light of your living room. The rain was muffled now, but the house felt alive, its shadows shifting, its walls holding their breath.

“What do you see?” you asked, the question slipping out, raw and unguarded, your back pressing against the couch as he moved closer, the knife twirling again, a silver blur that drew your gaze like a magnet. You hated how you wanted to know, how his presence was a blade at your throat and a lure you couldn’t resist.

He stopped, inches from you, his heat seeping into the cold air, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your skin prickle. “I see someone who’s not afraid of the dark,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent, his accent curling around the words like smoke. “Someone who looks at a monster and doesn’t run. You’re like me, love—just a little. You’ve got that hunger, that need to know what it’s like to break things, to feel the world bend under your hands.” He lifted the knife, not to threaten, but to show it, the blade catching the light like a mirror to his soul. “You felt it when you held this, didn’t you? The truth. No lies, no masks. Just you and the edge.”

Your breath hitched, his words sinking into you, stirring memories of that night—the knife’s weight, the way it had felt like holding a piece of him, the way his eyes had seen you, really seen you. “You’re wrong,” you said, but your voice trembled, the denial weak against the truth he’d laid bare. “I’m not like you. I don’t hurt people. I don’t… enjoy it.”

He tilted his head, the knife pausing, his smirk twisting into something almost pitying. “Don’t you?” he said, his tone soft but cutting. “Ever wanted to hurt someone, Y/N? Not with a knife, maybe, but with words, with silence, with something sharp inside you that you didn’t let out? Ever wanted to see how far you could push someone before they broke?” He stepped closer, his boots silent on the carpet, his eyes burning with a manic intensity. “That’s what I do, love. I push. I cut. I find the truth. Pain’s the only honest thing in this world—it strips away the bullshit, shows you who someone really is. You ever felt that? The clarity when it’s just you and the void?”

Your stomach churned, his words a blade twisting in your gut, because you had felt it—not his kind of violence, but moments of anger, of wanting to lash out, to shatter something fragile just to hear it break. You’d buried those impulses, called them wrong, but he saw them, named them, and it terrified you how close he was to the parts of yourself you hid. “That’s not me,” you said, your voice shaking, your hands gripping the couch, your eyes flicking to the knife, to the way it gleamed, a silent promise.

He laughed, a low, chilling sound that filled the room, his knife twirling faster now, erratic, like his thoughts were unraveling. “Keep telling yourself that,” he said, his accent thick, his eyes glinting with something wild. “But you’re here, Y/N. You opened the door. You let me in. You’re not screaming, not fighting. You’re listening, because deep down, you know I’m right. You want to know how far it goes, how dark it gets. You want to feel it—the rush, the control, the moment when nothing else matters but you and the blade.”

The room felt smaller, the walls closing in, the air heavy with his words, with the weight of what he was offering. You backed up, your legs hitting the coffee table, your hands trembling as you steadied yourself. “You’re insane,” you whispered, but it lacked conviction, your eyes locked on his, unable to break free.

“Insane?” he said, his smirk sharpening, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Maybe. But insanity’s just truth without the filter, love. It’s seeing the world for what it is—raw, ugly, beautiful. You ever felt empty, Y/N? Like nothing matters, like you’re just going through the motions? That’s where I live. That’s where the knife comes in. It makes things real. It makes me feel.” He lifted the knife, tracing the air with it, not close enough to touch but close enough to make your skin tingle. “I think you’re empty too. I think you’re looking for something to fill it.”

Your heart was a wild thing, pounding against your ribs, his words cutting deeper than any blade could. You wanted to deny it, to scream that he was wrong, that you were normal, that you were nothing like him. But the pull was there, undeniable, the way he saw you, the way he spoke to that hidden part of you, like a key turning in a lock. “Why me?” you asked, your voice raw, the question spilling out like a confession. “Why do you care?”

He paused, the knife still, his eyes softening for a flicker, something almost human breaking through the madness. “Because you’re not afraid to look,” he said, his voice quieter now, his accent raw, unguarded. “Everyone else—Hana, my parents, the fucking shrinks—they see me and they flinch. They see the monster, a psychopath, something to fix or lock away. But you… you see the man behind it. You held my knife, Y/N. You looked at me like you wanted to know me, not change me. That’s why.”

His words hit you like a blow, stealing your breath from your lungs, your eyes wide, your chest tight. You remembered that night in his room, the way his gaze had held you, not with cruelty but with hunger, with need. He wasn’t just playing with you—he was searching for something in you, something you hadn’t realized you’d given him. And now he was here, in your house, his knife a silent question, his presence a challenge you couldn’t ignore.

The doorbell rang again, shrill and jarring, cutting through the tension like a scream. You flinched, your head snapping toward the door, and Jake’s smirk returned, his eyes stayed cold, unreadable, as he stepped back, giving you space but not release. “That’s her,” he said, his tone casual, almost amused, his knife flicking closed with a soft snick. “Hana, come to save you. Question is, love—do you want saving?”

You moved to the door, your legs unsteady, your mind a storm of fear, fascination, and something you couldn’t name. You opened it, and Hana stood there, soaked from the rain, her face pale, her eyes wide with panic. “Y/N, thank God,” she said, her voice trembling, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “I’ve been texting you for hours—why didn’t you answer?” Her gaze landed on Jake, and she froze, her expression shifting to raw terror. “What the fuck is he doing here?”

Jake leaned against the wall, his leather jacket glistening with rain, his smirk lazy but sharp, his eyes flicking between you and Hana. “Just dropped by for a chat,” he said, his Aussie drawl thick, mocking. “Y/N’s been a great host. Better company than you, sis.”

Hana’s hands balled into fists, her fear giving way to anger as she stepped toward you, grabbing your arm. “Y/N, we’re leaving,” she said, her voice low, urgent, her eyes darting to Jake like he was a snake ready to strike. “He’s dangerous, you know that. You can’t be around him.”

You pulled your arm free, your heart pounding, your eyes flicking to Jake, to the knife in his pocket, to the way he watched you, waiting, testing. “Hana, wait,” you said, your voice shaking but firm, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “I need to say something.”

Hana’s eyes widened, her mouth opening to protest, but you held up a hand, your gaze locked on Jake, your chest tight with a truth you couldn’t hold back any longer. “I see you,” you said, your voice raw, trembling, the words heavy with meaning. “I see what you are, Jake. The darkness, the… the monster. And I’m not afraid. I should be, but I’m not. I feel it too—the pull, the emptiness, the need to know how far it goes. And I hate it, but I… I can’t stop wanting to understand you.”

The room was silent, the rain a distant hum, the air thick with the weight of your confession.

Jake’s smirk faded, his eyes darkening, something raw and unguarded flickering in them—surprise, maybe, or something deeper, something that looked like recognition. Hana gasped, her hand covering her mouth, her eyes wet with tears. “Y/N, no,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “You don’t know what you’re saying. He’s not—he’s not someone you can save.”

Jake stepped closer, his boots silent on the carpet, his eyes never leaving yours, his presence a force that filled the room. “You mean that?” he asked, his voice low, his accent thick, almost vulnerable. “You see me, and you’re still here. You’re not running.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out the knife, but he didn’t open it—just held it, the handle worn, a piece of him offered to you. “That’s more than anyone’s ever given me, love.”

Hana grabbed your arm again, her grip desperate, her voice shrill. “Y/N, stop this,” she said, tears streaming down her face. “He’s a psychopath. He’ll hurt you, he’ll break you—I’ve seen it, I’ve lived it. You can’t do this.”

You turned to her, your heart aching at her pain, at the fear in her eyes, but you couldn’t lie anymore—not to her, not to yourself. “I know he’s dangerous,” you said, your voice steady now, the truth a weight you were ready to carry. “I know what he is, Hana. But I feel something when I’m with him—something real, something I can’t ignore. I’m not trying to save him. I just… I need to know who I am when I’m with him.”

Hana shook her head, her sobs choking her words, her hands trembling as she let go of you, stepping back like you’d burned her. “You’re choosing him,” she said, her voice barely audible, raw with betrayal. “You’re choosing a monster over me.”

“I’m not choosing,” you said, your eyes stinging, your throat tight. “I’m just… I’m just being honest. I’m sorry, Hana. I’m so sorry.”

She stared at you, her face a mask of grief, then turned and ran out into the rain, the door slamming behind her, the sound echoing like a gunshot. You stood there, your chest heaving, your eyes burning with unshed tears, the silence heavier now, suffocating.

Jake was still, his knife in his hand, his eyes on you, softer now, almost human. “You didn’t have to do that,” he said, his voice quiet, his accent warm, like he was seeing you for the first time. “You could’ve gone with her. Could’ve left me behind.”

You shook your head, stepping closer, the distance between you shrinking, the air charged with something new—something fragile, something real. “I meant it,” you said, your voice steady, your eyes locked on his. “I see you, Jake. And I’m not running. Not yet.”

He studied you, his eyes searching, the knife slipping back into his pocket, his hands empty now, open, like he was offering you something more than steel. “You’re braver than I thought,” he said, his smirk returning, but it was different—less sharp, more real. “Or crazier. Either way, you’re mine now, love. No going back.”

You nodded, your heart a wild thing, your mind a storm of fear and truth and something you couldn’t name. The rain pounded the windows, the house a witness to the line you’d crossed, to the darkness you’d chosen to face. Jake was a blade, a psychopath, a danger you couldn’t escape, but he was also a mirror, showing you parts of yourself you’d never dared to see.

The rain battered your house, a relentless howl that swallowed the silence left by Hana’s departure. You stood frozen, your confession to Jake—a raw, jagged truth—still ringing in the air, your chest tight with the weight of what you’d done. The living room was a cage of shadows, the dim lamp casting Jake’s silhouette against the wall, his leather jacket slick with rain, his black tee clinging to his lean frame, his dark hair damp and framing his sharp cheekbones. His eyes, those black voids, held yours, softer now, almost human, but still laced with that dangerous edge.

He moved before you could speak, closing the distance in a single step. His arms wrapped around you, sudden and strong, pulling you against his chest, the scent of leather and metal enveloping you. His embrace was warm, grounding, but it carried a current of something wild, like a storm trapped in his skin. “You’re not alone, love,” he murmured, his Aussie accent thick, his voice low and raw, vibrating against your ear. “Not anymore.”

The words broke something in you, a dam you hadn’t known was there. Tears welled, hot and unstoppable, spilling down your cheeks as you pressed your face into his jacket, your hands clutching his shirt, trembling. You cried—for Hana, for the line you’d crossed, for the darkness you’d seen in him and in yourself. Jake’s hold tightened, his fingers tangling in your hair, his breath steady but heavy, like he was anchoring you to him, to this moment, to the truth you’d both named.

And as you stood there, the storm raging outside, you knew this was the end of one story and the beginning of another—one you’d write together, in shadows and steel, in truth and terror, in the space where monsters and mortals met.

@heesvnqie | Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or repost any of my work

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[heesvnqie]

thank youuu so muchhh for including "Checkmate Chaos"!!!!<333

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ʚUnder the cutɞ

ᡣ𐭩 Slacking off - @goldenhourology

↬ Wonwoo x reader

ᡣ𐭩 Raspberry stains - @biteyoubiteme

↬ Sunghoon x reader

ᡣ𐭩 Checkmate chaos - @heesvnqie

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ᡣ𐭩 My biggest opp - @enhani-ki

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ᡣ𐭩 Into you - @toniiswrld

↬Anton x reader

ᡣ𐭩 Stupid in love - @asahicore

↬Sunghoon x reader

ᡣ𐭩 Get you better - @i2sunric

↬ Sunghoon x reader

ᡣ𐭩 Erotic sympathy - @simpjaes

↬ Jake x reader

ᡣ𐭩 Change your mind - @daisyvisions

↬ Juyeon x reader

ᡣ𐭩 Monkey bars - @elix8r

↬ Jake x reader

ᡣ𐭩 Watermelon sugar - @wonryllis

Part 2

↬ Jake x reader

ᡣ𐭩 Touch me, feel me - @karinasbaby

↬ Jay x reader

ᡣ𐭩 Perfect little toy - @loudstan

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ᡣ𐭩 Nympho - @ncteez

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ᡣ𐭩 Mr. Vampire - @luvyeni

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Audios

[heesvnqie]

Loose- Park Jongseong!Jay

pairing: Park Jongseong (Jay) x f!reader genre: smut, romance, angst, gym trainer AU, slow-burn warnings: explicit sexual content (18+, minors DNI), unprotected sex (wrap it up IRL!), oral sex (m receiving), rough sex, light bondage (wrists tied), dirty talk, teasing, begging, strong language, alcohol consumption, workplace tension, jealousy, emotional intensity word count: 6k a/n: Jay stans, this one’s for us. Thanks for the love!

Seoul’s skyline glitters like a promise, all sharp edges and neon dreams, and you’re right in the thick of it, chasing your own. You’re 22, fresh off a promotion at your marketing firm, and you’ve traded your small-town roots for a sleek apartment in Gangnam. Life’s fast here—meetings, deadlines, rooftop bars with clients who think they’re gods—but you thrive on the chaos. You’re not the type to shrink from a challenge; you meet it head-on, heels clicking, smirk sharp, always three steps ahead. Your colleagues call you a siren in a suit, and you wear it like armor. But there’s one place where your confidence wobbles, where your swagger’s a little less sure: the gym.

You’ve never been a fitness junkie. Sure, you’ve jogged a bit, done some yoga to destress, but weights? Machines? That’s a foreign language. Your new job, though, comes with expectations—image matters in Seoul’s corporate world, and you’ve noticed the way your fitter coworkers carry themselves, all sleek lines and quiet power. Plus, the stress is starting to creep in, tight in your shoulders, heavy in your chest. You need an outlet, something to ground you. So, you sign up at Iron Pulse, the trendiest gym in the city, known for its elite trainers and clientele who look like they’ve stepped out of a K-drama.

Your first session’s tonight, and you’re nervous—not that you’d admit it. You’ve spent an hour picking your outfit, settling on black leggings, a cropped tank, and sneakers that cost more than your first paycheck. Your hair’s in a high ponytail, your makeup subtle but sharp, because even if you’re about to sweat, you’re doing it with style. You’re bold, not reckless, and you’re not walking into this gym looking like a newbie.

Iron Pulse is intimidating from the jump. The lobby’s all glass and chrome, with a juice bar that looks more like a nightclub. The air hums with hip-hop beats and the clank of weights, and the people—god, the people—are sculpted, confident, moving with purpose. You check in, your heart a little faster than you’d like, and the receptionist points you toward the training area, where your trainer’s waiting.

You spot him before he sees you, and your breath catches, because fuck. Park Jongseong—Jay, your trainer, according to the email—is leaning against a rack of dumbbells, scrolling through his phone, looking like he was carved from marble. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair pushed back, a few strands falling into his eyes. His black compression shirt clings to every muscle, and his sweatpants do nothing to hide the power in his legs. He’s not just hot—he’s devastating, all sharp jawline and quiet intensity, with a presence that makes the room feel smaller.

You swallow, squaring your shoulders, because you’re not here to drool—you’re here to work. You stride over, your smirk in place, and he looks up, his eyes locking onto yours with a focus that makes your stomach flip. “You Y/N?” he asks, voice low, smooth, with a hint of a smirk that says he’s already sizing you up.

“That’s me,” you say, tilting your chin, matching his energy. “You’re Jay, I’m guessing? The guy who’s gonna make me regret signing up?”

He laughs, a soft, warm sound that catches you off guard, and pockets his phone, stepping closer. His cologne hits you—something woody, clean, like cedar and spice—and you have to remind yourself to breathe. “Only if you half-ass it,” he says, his eyes scanning you, not in a creepy way, but like he’s assessing your form, your potential. “You look like you can handle a challenge. Am I right?”

You grin, liking the bait. “I don’t just handle challenges, Jay. I eat them for breakfast.”

His smirk widens, and he nods, like he’s impressed but not surprised. “Good. Let’s see if you back that up. Follow me.” He turns, leading you through the gym, and you follow, your eyes traitorously glued to the way his shoulders move, the flex of his back. Focus, Y/N, you tell yourself, but it’s hard when he’s built like a goddamn Greek god.

He takes you to a quiet corner with a treadmill, some mats, and a rack of weights that look like they could crush you. “We’re starting simple,” he says, handing you a water bottle, his fingers brushing yours, sending a spark up your arm. “Warm-up, then we’ll test your baseline—strength, endurance, flexibility. I need to know what I’m working with.”

You nod, taking a sip, your lips where his might’ve been, and you catch the way his eyes flick to your mouth, just for a second. “Fair warning,” you say, setting the bottle down, “I’m stubborn as hell. Don’t go easy on me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, stepping onto the treadmill beside you, setting it to a brisk walk. “Keep up, and tell me about yourself. Why’re you here?”

You match his pace, your sneakers hitting the belt, and you give him the short version—new job, high stress, wanting to feel stronger, sharper. He listens, really listens, his eyes on you, not judging, just absorbing. “Sounds like you’re carrying a lot,” he says, when you finish, his voice softer now. “Gym’s good for that. You can leave all that shit at the door.”

You glance at him, surprised by the empathy, but you play it off, smirking. “What, you moonlight as a therapist too?”

He chuckles, upping the treadmill speed, and you curse under your breath but keep up. “Nah, just seen a lot of people come through here with baggage. Including me.” He doesn’t elaborate, and you don’t push, but there’s something in his tone—something real, raw—that makes you want to know more.

The warm-up’s brutal—sprints, lunges, push-ups that make your arms scream—but Jay’s there, counting reps, correcting your form with a hand on your back, your shoulder, light but firm, sending heat through you every time. He’s professional, but there’s an edge to his touch, a spark in his eyes when you nail a set, like he’s proud but also… something else. You’re dripping sweat by the end, panting, but you feel alive, electric, and he’s grinning, tossing you a towel.

“Not bad for a first day,” he says, wiping his own face, his shirt clinging even tighter now, and you have to look away before you do something stupid, like lick your lips. “You’re tougher than you look, Y/N.”

“Don’t let the heels fool you,” you say, catching your breath, your grin sharp. “I’m a lot.”

He laughs, low and warm, and steps closer, handing you your water. “I’m starting to get that,” he says, his voice dropping, his eyes holding yours a beat too long. “Let’s cool down. Stretches.”

The stretches are torture, not because they hurt, but because Jay’s hands are on you, guiding your hips, pressing your shoulders, his voice low and steady in your ear. “Breathe into it,” he says, his fingers brushing your lower back as you bend forward, and you do, but it’s not the stretch making your heart race. You’re bold, but he’s got you flustered, your usual swagger faltering under his touch, his gaze.

By the end, you’re a mess—sweaty, flushed, and embarrassingly turned on. He walks you to the locker room, his demeanor back to professional, but there’s a glint in his eyes, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “Same time Wednesday,” he says, leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed, biceps bulging. “Don’t be late, or I’ll make you do extra burpees.”

You smirk, recovering enough to fire back. “Only if you do them with me, Jay.”

He grins, shaking his head. “You’re trouble,” he says, and then he’s gone, leaving you buzzing, your body humming with want, your mind already counting down to Wednesday.

The next few weeks are a dance of sweat and tension. Jay’s your trainer three times a week, and every session’s a masterclass in restraint—his and yours. He pushes you hard, adding weights, upping reps, but he’s always there, spotting you, praising you when you crush it, calling you out when you slack. His hands are everywhere—correcting your squat, steadying your plank—and every touch lingers, every glance burns. You’re drooling over him, and you’re not subtle, but you’re not crossing that line, not yet. He’s your trainer, and you’re his client, and that boundary’s a tightrope you’re both walking.

You’re not alone in noticing him. The gym’s full of women—and some men—who eye Jay like he’s dessert, whispering about his abs, his smile, his everything. You hear it in the locker room, see it in the way they linger by his station, but Jay’s oblivious, or at least he acts like it. His focus is on you during your sessions, intense, unwavering, like you’re the only person in the room. It’s heady, addictive, and it’s driving you insane.

Your best friend, Min-ji, is your lifeline through this. She’s a graphic designer, all sass and zero filter, and she’s been screaming at you to “just jump him already” since you told her about Jay. You meet her for drinks at a rooftop bar one Friday, spilling everything—his smirk, his hands, the way he says your name like it’s a secret.

“Girl, you’re drooling,” Min-ji says, sipping her cocktail, her grin wicked. “I mean, I get it. He sounds like sex on legs. But what’s stopping you? You’re not exactly shy.”

You groan, leaning back in your chair, the city lights sparkling below. “He’s my trainer, Min-ji. It’s… complicated. Plus, what if I make a move and he’s not into it? I’d have to find a new gym, and I’m not starting over.”

She rolls her eyes, tossing her hair. “Please. The way you describe him looking at you? He’s into it. He’s just playing by the rules. You need to break them.” She leans closer, her voice dropping. “Wear something extra hot next session. Push his buttons. See how long he lasts.”

You laugh, but the idea sticks, because you’re tired of waiting, tired of the game. You want Jay, bad, and you’re not above playing dirty to get him.

Wednesday’s session is your breaking point. You take Min-ji’s advice, showing up in a new set—tiny black shorts, a sports bra that’s more fashion than function, your hair loose because you know he likes it that way. Jay’s waiting by the squat rack, and when he sees you, his jaw tightens, just for a second, before his smirk slides into place.

“New gear?” he asks, his voice neutral, but his eyes are anything but, lingering on your legs, your waist, your everything.

“Thought I’d switch it up,” you say, brushing past him, your shoulder grazing his arm, sending a spark through you. “You like?”

He clears his throat, stepping back, but you catch the heat in his gaze. “Looks… functional,” he says, but his voice is rougher, and you grin, knowing you’ve got him.

The session’s brutal—squats, deadlifts, bench presses—but the real torture’s the tension. Jay’s closer than usual, his hands firmer, his voice lower, and you’re pushing back, matching his energy, flirting with every rep, every stretch. You catch him watching you in the mirror, his eyes dark, hungry, and you know you’re both close to snapping.

During the cool-down, he’s behind you, guiding your hips into a stretch, his hands hot, his breath on your neck. “Lower,” he murmurs, and you comply, arching your back, feeling him tense behind you. You turn your head, catching his eye, and the air crackles, thick with want.

“Careful, Jay,” you whisper, your voice teasing, daring. “You’re playing with fire.”

He chuckles, but it’s strained, his hands tightening on your hips for a second before he steps back, his smirk shaky. “You’re the one lighting matches, Y/N,” he says, and then he’s walking away, leaving you panting, your body screaming for him.

That night, you’re home, pacing, your mind a mess. You text Min-ji: I’m gonna lose it. He’s too fucking hot, and I’m too weak. She replies with a string of laughing emojis and a voice note: “Babe, he’s weak for you too. Next session, make your move. Life’s too short for this slow-burn bullshit.”

You know she’s right. You’re bold, you’re fierce, and you’re done waiting. Jay’s your trainer, your tormentor, your everything right now, and you’re ready to risk it all. Wednesday’s a line in the sand—either you cross it, or you burn out trying.

You’re not the type to lose sleep over a man, but Park Jongseong—Jay, your gym trainer—is making a liar out of you. It’s been two weeks since that first session at Iron Pulse, where his hands, his voice, his everything left you rattled in ways you didn’t expect. You’re bold, always have been—your career’s built on sharp words and sharper decisions—but Jay’s got you second-guessing your game, your swagger, your sanity. Every session’s a war between your confidence and the way he makes your pulse race, and you’re starting to think you’re losing.

It’s Monday evening, and you’re back at Iron Pulse, the gym’s neon lights buzzing overhead, hip-hop pounding through the speakers. You’ve upped your game since last week, wearing a new set—crimson sports bra, matching leggings that hug every curve, your hair in a sleek braid because you caught Jay’s eyes lingering on it last time. You’re not here to play subtle; you’re here to push his buttons, to see how long he can keep that professional mask before it cracks. Min-ji’s voice echoes in your head: Push his buttons. See how long he lasts. You’re ready to test that theory.

Jay’s by the cable machines, setting up for your session, his black compression shirt doing unholy things to his biceps, his sweatpants slung low enough to make you glance twice. He’s focused, adjusting weights, but when he sees you, his eyes darken, just for a second, before his smirk slides into place. “Y/N,” he says, voice smooth, like he’s saying your name for the first time. “Looking like trouble again.”

You grin, dropping your gym bag with a thud, your chin tilted up. “Trouble’s my middle name, Jay,” you say, stepping closer, close enough to catch his cologne—cedar, spice, a hint of sweat that’s unfairly intoxicating. “You ready to keep up with me today?”

He chuckles, low and warm, crossing his arms, his biceps flexing in a way that makes your mouth dry. “Question is, can you keep up?” he says, nodding toward the machines. “We’re hitting legs and shoulders today. No slacking, or I’m adding sprints.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re buzzing, your blood already hot from his challenge. “Bring it, boss,” you say, brushing past him, your shoulder grazing his arm, sending a spark through you. He doesn’t flinch, but you feel his eyes on you, tracking your stride, and you know you’ve got his attention.

The session’s brutal—squats, shoulder presses, lunges that set your thighs on fire. Jay’s relentless, counting reps with that steady voice, his hands correcting your form, light but deliberate, leaving heat in their wake. “Hips back,” he says, his palm on your lower back during a squat, and you comply, but you arch just a little more, knowing it’ll drive him nuts. His fingers tense, just for a second, before he steps back, his jaw tight.

“Good,” he says, voice rougher now, and you smirk, catching his reflection in the mirror. He’s watching you, not just your form, but you—the sweat on your neck, the way your braid swings, the curve of your hips. You’re winning this round, and it feels fucking good.

Halfway through, he hands you a water bottle, his fingers brushing yours, lingering a beat too long. “Hydrate,” he says, but his eyes are on your lips, and you take a slow sip, letting a drop spill down your chin, wiping it with the back of your hand, never breaking eye contact.

“Thanks, Jay,” you say, voice sweet but sharp, and his smirk falters, his gaze dropping to the floor before he recovers. Got you, you think, but you’re not sure who’s got who anymore.

The session ends with stretches, and this is where he kills you. He’s behind you, guiding your arms into a tricep stretch, his chest brushing your back, his breath warm on your neck. “Hold it,” he murmurs, his hands on your shoulders, pressing gently, and you do, but you’re trembling, not from the stretch but from him—his heat, his scent, his voice. You turn your head, catching his eye, and the air shifts, heavy, electric.

“Careful, Y/N,” he says, voice low, a warning wrapped in want. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”

You grin, leaning back just enough to feel him tense. “Maybe I like it hard,” you whisper, and his hands freeze, his breath hitching, before he steps back, his smirk strained, his eyes dark with something you’re dying to name.

“Session’s over,” he says, voice clipped, but he’s not moving, not looking away, and you know you’re both teetering on a line you’re desperate to cross. You grab your towel, tossing it over your shoulder, and saunter toward the locker room, feeling his gaze burn into your back. Game on, Jay.

The next few sessions are a dance of push and pull. You’re bolder every time—tighter outfits, cheekier banter, brushing against him “accidentally” during sets. Jay’s a pro, keeping his cool, but you see the cracks—his jaw clenching when you laugh at his jokes, his hands lingering when he spots you, his voice dropping when he says your name. You’re drooling over him, and you’re not hiding it, but he’s got you just as bad, and you both know it.

Min-ji’s your hype woman, meeting you for coffee between sessions, her eyes glinting with mischief as you spill every detail. “He’s gonna snap soon,” she says, stirring her latte, her grin wicked. “No man’s that disciplined. Keep pushing, babe. Wear that red set again, but, like, accidentally forget your water bottle. Make him chase you.”

You laugh, but you’re already plotting, because Min-ji’s right—Jay’s holding back, but he’s human, and you’re ready to break him. Your next session’s Wednesday, and you’re planning to up the ante, but life throws a curveball first.

Friday night, Iron Pulse hosts a “client appreciation” event—a fancy term for a gym party with free drinks, a DJ, and a chance to mingle outside the usual sweat-soaked setting. Min-ji convinces you to go, because “Jay’s gonna be there, and you need to see him in something other than a compression shirt.” You’re skeptical, but you show up, because if Jay’s there, you’re not missing it.

The gym’s transformed—lights dim, neon strobes, a bar set up where the juice counter usually is. The crowd’s a mix of trainers, clients, and fitness influencers flexing for Instagram. You’re in a black dress, tight enough to turn heads, heels that make your legs look endless, your hair loose because you know Jay’s a sucker for it. Min-ji’s beside you, in a sparkly mini, already scanning for her own target—a cute spin instructor she’s been eyeing.

You spot Jay across the room, and your heart stutters. He’s in a fitted black blazer, white shirt unbuttoned just enough to show his collarbone, dark jeans that hug his thighs. He’s laughing with a group, a drink in hand, his hair styled back, and he’s so fucking gorgeous you forget how to blink. He hasn’t seen you yet, and you take a moment to compose yourself, sipping your vodka soda, your smirk sharpening.

“Damn, he cleans up nice,” Min-ji whispers, nudging you. “Go get him, tiger.”

You’re about to, but then you see her—a leggy brunette in a red dress, all smiles and touches, leaning into Jay’s space, her hand on his arm. He’s not reciprocating, but he’s not pulling away either, and something hot and ugly twists in your chest. You’re not jealous—not exactly—but you don’t share, and you’re not about to let this slide.

“Hold my drink,” you tell Min-ji, handing her your glass, your grin dangerous. She cackles, knowing shit’s about to go down, and you stride across the room, your heels clicking, your confidence a blade.

“Jay,” you say, sliding into his group, your voice sweet but sharp, cutting through the brunette’s laugh. His eyes snap to you, and for a second, he’s speechless, his gaze raking over your dress, your legs, your everything. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Having fun?”

He recovers fast, his smirk sliding into place, but his eyes don’t leave yours. “Y/N,” he says, voice low, like it’s just you two in the room. “You look… good.” The way he says it, it’s not just a compliment—it’s a promise, and you feel it in your bones.

The brunette glances between you, her smile faltering, and you don’t bother hiding your smirk. “Thanks,” you say, stepping closer, your hand brushing his blazer, deliberate, claiming. “You’re not looking too bad yourself. New look?”

He chuckles, sipping his drink, his eyes locked on yours over the rim. “Trying something different,” he says, but there’s an edge to his voice, like he’s daring you to keep this going. The brunette clears her throat, trying to interject, but you’re already in, and Jay’s not stopping you.

“Mind if I steal him for a sec?” you say, not waiting for her answer, grabbing Jay’s wrist and tugging him toward the bar. He follows, no resistance, his laugh low and warm behind you, and you feel the brunette’s glare, but you don’t care. You’ve got his attention, and you’re keeping it.

At the bar, you let go, leaning against the counter, your smirk sharp. “She seemed nice,” you say, voice dripping with sarcasm, and Jay raises an eyebrow, leaning close, his elbow brushing yours.

“Jealous, Y/N?” he asks, his voice teasing, but his eyes are serious, searching. “Didn’t think you cared who I talked to.”

You laugh, tossing your hair, but your chest’s tight, because he’s right—you do care, and it’s pissing you off. “Please,” you say, stealing his drink, taking a sip, your lips where his were. “I just saved you from a bad decision. You’re welcome.”

He grins, stepping closer, his hand brushing your hip, light but deliberate. “Maybe I like bad decisions,” he murmurs, his voice low, and you feel it everywhere—your skin, your pulse, your core. You’re bold, but he’s got you reeling, and you hate it, love it, want it.

“Careful, Jay,” you say, your voice steady despite the heat in your veins. “You’re playing with a pro.”

He laughs, his hand lingering, his breath warm on your ear. “Oh, I’m counting on it,” he says, and then he steps back, grabbing a new drink from the bartender, leaving you buzzing, your body screaming for more.

The night’s a blur after that. You dance with Min-ji, laugh with strangers, but Jay’s always there, a shadow in your peripheral, watching, waiting. You catch him with the brunette again, her hand on his chest, and you grit your teeth, downing a shot, because fuck that. You’re not possessive—not usually—but Jay’s different, and you’re done pretending he’s not.

Min-ji pulls you aside, her eyes glinting. “You’re about to snap, aren’t you?” she says, handing you a water because she knows you’re tipsy.

“Not letting go,” you say, your grin sharp, because you’re in too deep, and you know it. You’re bold, you’re fierce, and you’re ready to burn for this.

Wednesday’s session is a fucking warzone. You show up in the red set Min-ji loved, the one that’s basically a dare—tiny shorts, a bra that’s more straps than fabric, your hair loose, wild. Jay’s waiting by the deadlift platform, and when he sees you, his jaw clenches, his eyes dark, hungry, like he’s fighting every instinct to stay professional.

“Y/N,” he says, voice clipped, but his gaze is anything but, roaming your body like he’s memorizing it. “You trying to distract me?”

You smirk, stepping close, your hand brushing his arm, deliberate. “Is it working?” you ask, voice low, and his smirk falters, his breath hitching.

“Focus,” he says, but his voice is rough, and you know you’ve got him. The session’s intense—deadlifts, pull-ups, kettlebell swings—but the real battle’s the tension. His hands are on you, correcting your grip, your stance, and every touch is electric, lingering, making you ache. You push back, flirting with every rep, every stretch, and he’s struggling, his composure cracking.

During a break, you’re both panting, sweat-slicked, and he hands you a towel, his fingers brushing yours, not pulling away. “You’re killing me,” he murmurs, so low you almost miss it, and you freeze, your heart slamming, because fuck, he just said that.

“Good,” you say, stepping closer, your voice a challenge. “Maybe you deserve it.”

He laughs, but it’s strained, his eyes locked on yours, and you’re so close you could kiss him, right here, in the middle of Iron Pulse. But then a client calls his name, and he steps back, his smirk shaky, his eyes promising later.

That night, Min-ji drags you to a group outing—a dive bar with some Iron Pulse trainers and clients, including Jay. It’s casual, all beer and laughter, but the air between you and Jay’s charged, every glance a spark. You’re in jeans and a crop top, nothing fancy, but Jay’s eyes are on you, dark and intent, like you’re the only one in the room.

You end up next to him at the bar, your thighs brushing, and he leans in, his voice low. “You’re making this real hard, Y/N,” he says, his hand on your knee, light but possessive, and you feel it everywhere.

“Hard’s my specialty,” you say, sipping your beer, your grin sharp, and he groans, low and quiet, his hand tightening.

“Fuck, you’re trouble,” he murmurs, but he’s smiling, and you know he loves it. You’re both tipsy, loose, and when he pulls you onto the dance floor, his hands on your hips, your bodies moving to the beat, it’s like foreplay, every touch a promise, every glance a dare.

You’re grinding against him, your back to his chest, his breath hot on your neck, and you feel him, hard and wanting, pressed against you. “Y/N,” he groans, his hands gripping your hips, pulling you closer, and you turn, your lips so close you’re sharing breath.

“Jay,” you whisper, your voice all want, and for a second, you think he’s gonna kiss you, right there, in front of everyone. But he pulls back, his forehead against yours, his breath ragged.

“Not here,” he says, voice rough, like it’s killing him to stop. “Not like this.”

You’re panting, your body screaming, but you nod, because he’s right—this isn’t a quick fuck in a bar. You want him, all of him, and you’re willing to wait, but not much longer.

The next session’s a fucking nightmare. You’re both raw, on edge, the bar night a wound you’re both picking at. You show up in black, tight and unforgiving, and Jay’s in a grey tank, his arms glistening with sweat, his focus razor-sharp but brittle. The workout’s brutal—box jumps, battle ropes, planks that make you shake—but the real torture’s the silence, the way you’re both holding back, afraid to break.

During a plank, he’s over you, checking your form, his hands on your hips, and you collapse, not from exhaustion but from him—his touch, his scent, his everything. “Y/N,” he says, voice low, worried, and you roll onto your back, panting, looking up at him, your eyes saying what your mouth won’t.

“Jay,” you say, voice cracking, and he kneels, his hand on your wrist, his thumb brushing your pulse.

“You okay?” he asks, but it’s more than the plank, and you both know it.

“No,” you say, sitting up, your face inches from his. “I’m not okay. You’re driving me fucking insane.”

He freezes, his eyes searching yours, and then he laughs, soft and broken, his forehead against yours. “You think you’re the only one?” he murmurs, his voice raw. “I’m losing it, Y/N. Every fucking session.”

You’re trembling, your hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat, fast and hard, matching yours. “Then do something,” you whisper, your voice a plea, a dare, a prayer.

He groans, his hand on your jaw, tilting your face up, and then he’s kissing you, hard and desperate, like he’s been starving for this. It’s not sweet—it’s a clash, all teeth and tongue, your hands in his hair, pulling, his gripping your waist, pulling you closer. You’re on the gym floor, the world fading, just you and him, sweat and want and finally.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he gasps, pulling back, his lips swollen, his eyes wild. “We can’t—not here.” He’s right, the gym’s not empty, and you’re both crossing lines, but you don’t care, not when he’s looking at you like that.

“Then where?” you ask, voice rough, desperate, and he laughs, standing, pulling you up, his hand on your lower back.

“My place,” he says, voice low, a promise. “Friday. After the session. No more games.”

You nod, your heart slamming, because Friday’s two days away, and you’re not sure you’ll survive the wait. But you’re bold, you’re fierce, and you’re ready to burn for this.

It’s been three weeks since you walked into Iron Pulse, all confidence and sharp edges, expecting to own the gym like you own everything else. Instead, Jay’s got you drooling, flustered, your bold facade crumbling every time his hands graze your skin or his voice drops low. That kiss last week—desperate, messy, on the gym floor—was a grenade, and you’re both still reeling from the blast. Now it’s Friday, your next session, and you’re ready to burn it all down.

You’re in the locker room, prepping for battle. You’ve gone all out—black sports bra, barely there, with crisscross straps that scream look at me; leggings so tight they’re practically painted on, hugging every curve; your hair loose, because you’ve seen Jay’s eyes linger when it’s down. Underneath, a red lace set, because Min-ji’s voice is in your head: Wear the red. He’s done for. You’re not just here to lift weights; you’re here to break him, to see how long he can play professional before he’s begging for you. Your phone buzzes—Min-ji, of course: Babe, u gonna snap his neck or his dick tonight? Either way, I want the tea. You laugh, texting back: Both. Stay tuned. She sends a skull emoji, and you’re grinning, because she’s been rooting for this chaos since day one.

Iron Pulse is alive tonight—neon lights pulsing, hip-hop blaring, the air thick with sweat and ego. You stride in, your heels swapped for sneakers, but you’re still carrying yourself like you’re in stilettos, all swagger and steel. Jay’s by the squat rack, setting up, his grey tank clinging to his chest, sweat already beading on his forearms, his dark hair pushed back, a little messy. He’s a fucking sculpture—broad shoulders, narrow waist, thighs that could crush you—and when he sees you, his smirk falters, his eyes raking over you, dark and hungry, like he’s already fighting himself.

“Y/N,” he says, voice low, smoother than the whiskey you downed last night. “You’re late.”

You smirk, dropping your gym bag, stepping close enough to catch his cologne—cedar, spice, a hint of sweat that makes your head spin. “Worth the wait, though, right?” you say, tilting your chin, letting your hair fall over one shoulder, knowing it’s driving him nuts.

His eyes flick down—bra, waist, thighs—before snapping back to yours, his jaw tight. “You’re here to work, not distract,” he says, but his voice is rough, like he’s convincing himself, and you know you’ve got him on the ropes.

“Multitasking’s my specialty, Jay,” you say, brushing past him, your shoulder grazing his arm, sending a spark through you. “Let’s see if you can keep up.”

He laughs, low and sharp, but it’s strained, and you’re already winning. The session’s brutal—squats, deadlifts, bench presses that make your arms scream—but the real torture’s the tension. Jay’s hands are everywhere—on your hips, correcting your squat; on your shoulders, steadying your press; brushing your waist, guiding your form. Every touch is electric, lingering, and you’re pushing back, flirting with every rep, arching just a little more, grinding just a little harder, watching his composure crack.

“Lower,” he says, his palm on your lower back during a deadlift, and you bend, slow, deliberate, your ass brushing his thigh, making him hiss under his breath. You straighten, catching his reflection in the mirror—eyes dark, jaw clenched, like he’s one second from losing it.

“Like that?” you ask, voice sweet but venomous, and he steps back, his hands flexing, like he’s restraining himself.

“Focus, Y/N,” he says, but his voice is gravel, and you know you’re under his skin. You’re both sweating, panting, and when he hands you a water bottle, your fingers brush, and you don’t pull away, letting the contact linger, your eyes locked on his.

“Thanks, Jay,” you say, taking a slow sip, letting a drop spill down your chin, wiping it with your thumb, and his gaze follows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Got you, you think, but you’re just as fucked, your body screaming for him, your pride the only thing keeping you from jumping him right here.

The session ends with stretches, and this is where he kills you. He’s behind you, guiding your hips into a lunge, his hands hot, his breath on your neck. “Breathe,” he murmurs, his fingers digging into your waist, and you do, but it’s not the stretch making you tremble—it’s him, his heat, his control. You turn your head, catching his eye, and the air crackles, thick, heavy, like you’re both daring the other to break.

“Jay,” you whisper, voice low, daring, and his hands tighten, his breath hitching, because you’re not just stretching—you’re teasing, pushing, snapping.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Y/N,” he says, voice a growl, his chest brushing your back, and you lean into it, just enough to make him groan, low and quiet.

“Good,” you say, your voice all fire. “I like danger.”

He laughs, but it’s rough, and then he’s stepping back, his smirk shaky, his eyes burning. “Session’s over,” he says, but his voice says we’re not done, and you know it’s happening—tonight, his place, no more games. “Meet me outside in ten. I’m driving you.”

You nod, your heart slamming, because this is it—the line you’ve been dancing around, ready to cross. You grab your bag, change into a tight black crop top and jeans in the locker room, keeping the red lace underneath, because you’re not just bold—you’re fucking lethal. Min-ji texts: U alive? Or did he kill u with those arms? You reply: Heading to his place. Send help tomorrow. She sends a string of screaming emojis, and you’re grinning, because you’re about to burn it all down.

Jay’s waiting outside, leaning against his car, black jacket over his tank, looking like sin on legs. He opens the passenger door, his eyes raking over you, and you slide in, feeling his gaze like a touch. The drive’s quiet, the city lights blurring past, but the tension’s a living thing, thick and pulsing, your thigh brushing his as he shifts gears, his hand grazing your knee, deliberate, electric.

“You sure about this?” he asks, voice low, glancing at you, and there’s something softer there, like he’s giving you an out, but you don’t want one.

“Never been surer,” you say, your hand on his thigh, firm, claiming, and he groans, low and quiet, his grip tightening on the wheel. “You scared, Park?”

He laughs, sharp and dark, pulling into his building’s garage. “Scared? Nah,” he says, killing the engine, turning to you, his eyes black with want. “Just hoping you can handle me, Y/N.”

You grin, leaning closer, your lips inches from his. “Handle you? I’m gonna break you, pretty boy.”

He groans, and then he’s out of the car, rounding to your side, pulling you out, his hands on your waist, pinning you against the door, kissing you hard, hungry, like he’s been starving for this. You kiss him back, just as fierce, your hands in his hair, tugging, your body pressed against his, feeling him hard through his jeans, making you moan, loud and shameless.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he gasps, pulling back, his lips swollen, his eyes wild. “Upstairs. Now.”

You follow, your pulse racing, his apartment a sleek blur of glass and city lights, but you don’t care, because he’s on you the second the door shuts, his hands on your hips, pushing you against the wall, kissing you like he’s starving. You kiss him back, just as hungry, your hands in his hair, tugging, your body arching, needing more.

“Goddamn, you’re trouble,” he murmurs, ripping your tee off, leaving you in your black lace bra, and he pauses, staring, his breath ragged. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

You grin, yanking his tank off, your hands greedy, tracing his abs, his pecs, every line of him a fucking masterpiece. “You’re one to talk,” you say, your lips on his chest, kissing, biting, making him groan, his hands on your jeans, unbuttoning, sliding them down, leaving you in your lace panties.

He steps back, eyes burning, and pulls his belt off, slow, deliberate, looping it in his hand. “Hands,” he says, voice low, commanding, and you raise an eyebrow, but you’re too turned on to argue, holding your wrists out. He ties them, loose but firm, the leather cool against your skin, and you’re trembling, not from nerves but from want, because this is new, raw, and you’re all in.

“On your knees,” he says, voice rough, and you drop, the floor hard, your eyes level with his jeans, his bulge obvious, making your mouth water. You look up, smirking, because you’re bound but not broken, and he’s about to learn it.

“Make me beg, huh?” you say, voice teasing, and he grins, unbuttoning his jeans, shoving them down with his boxers, his cock hard, thick, right there, and you lick your lips, because fuck, he’s gorgeous.

“Not yet,” he says, his hand in your hair, gentle but firm, guiding you closer. “Show me what that mouth can do first.”

You laugh, low and wicked, and lean in, licking a slow stripe up his length, making him groan, his hand tightening in your hair. You take him in, slow at first, your tongue swirling, your lips tight, and he’s cursing, low and filthy, his hips twitching, trying not to thrust. You’re in control, even on your knees, and you work him, sucking, licking, taking him deep, your bound hands behind you making it hotter, dirtier.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he gasps, his voice wrecked, his hand guiding you, faster, deeper, and you moan around him, the vibration making him shudder, his control slipping. “You’re so fucking good.”

You pull back, just enough to speak, your lips wet, your voice raw. “Untie me,” you say, because you want to touch, to take, and he grins, kneeling, undoing the belt, freeing your wrists.

“Bossy,” he murmurs, kissing you hard, tasting himself, and you’re up, pushing him toward the couch, because you’re done waiting. He sits, pulling you onto his lap, your panties still on, your hips grinding, feeling him through the lace, making you both groan.

“Ride me,” he says, voice low, a dare, and you grin, sliding your panties down, straddling him, your hands on his shoulders, his on your hips, guiding you. You sink down, slow, taking him inch by inch, the stretch perfect, making you gasp, your nails digging into his skin.

“Fuck,” he groans, his head tipping back, his hands bruising your hips, and you move, slow at first, grinding, feeling every inch, every thrust, your moans loud, shameless, the couch creaking, the city lights a blur outside.

“Jay,” you moan, your hips faster, harder, and he’s thrusting up, meeting you, his hand on your neck, pulling you down, kissing you messy, all teeth and tongue. His other hand’s between you, teasing your clit, slow, torturous, making you tremble, making you snap.

“Beg,” he murmurs, his voice rough, his fingers slowing, keeping you on the edge, and you’re shaking, your pride gone, your body his.

“Jay, please,” you sob, your voice raw, desperate, your hips bucking, chasing his touch. “Make me cum, please, I need it, need you, fuck, I’m begging.”

“Good girl,” he growls, and then he’s relentless, his fingers fast, his thrusts deep, hitting that spot that makes you see white, and you’re gone, your orgasm crashing over you, hard and blinding, your body clenching around him, screaming his name, raw, primal. He fucks you through it, his groans loud, his hips erratic, and then he’s cumming, hard, his face in your neck, his breath hot, ragged.

You’re both still, panting, tangled in sweat and lace, the air thick with sex and something heavier—something real.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he murmurs, voice wrecked, laced with awe. “You’re…so good.”

You laugh, breathless, nuzzling into his chest, his heartbeat grounding you. “Told you I’d wreck you,” you say, but it’s soft, because you’re wrecked too, and you’re okay with it.

He tilts your chin, kissing you slow, sweet, like a promise. “You’re mine,” he says, voice low, and you feel it, deep, true. "And sometimes we should let our desires loose."

@heesvnqie | Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or repost any of my work

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Checkmate Chaos- Nishimura Riki

pairing: nishimura riki! ni-ki x reader genre: enemies to lovers, smut, angst warnings: explicit sexual content,unprotected sex (wrap it up irl!), oral (m & f receiving), rough intimacy, overstimulation, possessive themes word count: 5.6k a/n: for my all ni-ki girlies, here you go! I need ideas! comment your requests down below!

You’re not the type to back down from a challenge, never have been. Life’s too short to play small, and you’ve built a reputation for owning every room you walk into—sharp tongue, quick wit, and a smirk that says you’re three steps ahead.

Your friends call you a hurricane in heels, and you wear it like a crown. But Nishimura Riki—Ni-ki, your infuriatingly hot roommate—might just be the one person who can match your fire and throw it back twice as hard.

It started three months ago, when you answered a Craigslist ad for a shared apartment in Seoul’s Gangnam district. You were between jobs, fresh off a breakup, and itching for a new start.

The place was a steal—sleek, modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of the city that made your ex’s dingy loft look like a cardboard box. The catch? Your roommate was an 19-year-old dance prodigy, and a walking ego with a grin that could start wars.

You met Ni-ki on move-in day, strutting in with your leather jacket and combat boots, expecting some nervous kid intimidated by your vibe. Instead, you got him—tall, lean, with dark hair falling into sharper eyes, wearing a black hoodie and ripped jeans like he’d just stepped off a stage.

He leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping an energy drink, and gave you a once-over that was more challenge than welcome.

“You’re Y/N?” he said, voice low, with a lilt that was half-tease, half-dare. “Thought you’d be… quieter.”

You raised an eyebrow, dropping your duffel bag with a thud. “And I thought you’d be shorter,” you shot back, matching his smirk. “Guess we’re both full of surprises.”

He laughed, a sharp, confident sound that sent a jolt through you, and you knew right then—this guy was trouble, the kind you’d either hate or want. Maybe both.

The rules were set early: split the rent, no stealing food, keep the noise down when the other’s sleeping. But rules don’t account for chemistry, and living with Ni-ki is like sharing a cage with a panther—every move is deliberate, every glance loaded, every word a spark waiting to catch fire.

You’re both too bold, too stubborn, too used to winning, and the apartment’s become a battlefield for your egos.

Tonight, it’s Friday, and the air’s thick with the kind of tension that’s been building all week. You’re in the living room, sprawled on the couch in a cropped tank and high-waisted shorts, scrolling through your phone, blasting a playlist that’s all bass and attitude.

Ni-ki’s just gotten home from practice, his hair damp from a shower, wearing a loose black tee and sweatpants that hang low enough to make you glance twice. He’s got that post-dance glow, all loose limbs and cocky energy, and when he sees you, his lips curve into that infuriating smirk.

“Rough day, princess?” he says, tossing his gym bag by the door and heading for the fridge. The nickname’s a jab—he started it weeks ago, knowing it pisses you off, and you’ve countered with “pretty boy” ever since.

“Better than yours, pretty boy,” you fire back, not looking up from your phone, but you feel his eyes on you, lingering on the bare skin of your stomach, the curve of your thighs. “Heard you flubbed your choreo today. Getting sloppy?”

He snorts, grabbing a water bottle and kicking the fridge shut. “Heard you bombed that job interview,” he says, leaning against the counter, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Guess we’re both off our game.”

You lock your phone, sitting up, your grin sharp enough to cut. “Oh, I’m on my game, Riki. Just waiting for the right move.” You stretch, deliberately slow, letting your tank ride up a little higher, and his gaze flicks down, just for a second, before he catches himself.

“Careful,” he says, voice lower now, a warning wrapped in a dare. “You keep playing like that, you might not like the countermove.”

You laugh, standing up, closing the distance until you’re just a foot away, close enough to smell his cologne—something super spicy and stingy that makes your head spin. “Oh, I’d love to see you try,” you say, tilting your head, your voice all honey and venom. “Bet you’d crash and burn.”

His smirk widens, and he steps closer, so close you can feel the heat rolling off him. “You think you can handle me, Y/N?” he murmurs, his eyes locked on yours, and it’s not just a question—it’s a gauntlet, thrown down in the middle of your shared living room.

“Handle you?” you echo, stepping even closer, your chest brushing his, your chin tilted up to meet his gaze. “I’d have you begging for a timeout in ten seconds flat.”

For a moment, neither of you moves, the air crackling with tension, like the beat drop in a song you both know by heart. His eyes dip to your lips, and you feel it—the pull, the want, the danger of crossing a line you’ve both been dancing around since day one.

You’re both too bold for your own good, too addicted to the game, and you know one of you’s gonna break first.

Then he laughs, stepping back, breaking the spell but not the tension. “You’re all talk, princess,” he says, but his voice is rougher now, like you’ve gotten under his skin. He grabs his water and heads for his room, pausing at the door to glance back. “Don’t start a fire you can’t put out.”

You grin, unfazed, tossing your hair over your shoulder. “I’m a fucking arsonist, pretty boy. Try me.”

He shakes his head, still smirking, and disappears into his room, leaving you buzzing, your heart pounding like a bassline. You flop back onto the couch, your grin fading into something hotter, hungrier.

Ni-ki’s your match, your mirror, and living with him is like playing chess with a grandmaster—every move’s calculated, every checkmate’s a risk. You want him, bad, but you’re not about to lose the game just to get him. Not yet.

The next morning, you’re in the kitchen, brewing coffee, when Ni-ki stumbles in, bleary-eyed but still annoyingly gorgeous.

He’s shirtless, sweatpants slung low, and you don’t bother hiding the way you check him out—let him see it, let him feel it. He catches your gaze, his lips twitching into a smirk as he leans against the counter.

“Morning, princess,” he says, voice gravelly from sleep, and it’s unfair how good he sounds, how good he looks. “Dream about me?”

You snort, pouring coffee with a flourish. “In your nightmares, maybe,” you say, sliding him a mug without asking, because you know how he takes it—black, no sugar, like his soul, you’ve joked. “You’re not that hard to forget.”

“Liar,” he says, taking the mug, his fingers brushing yours, deliberate and slow. “I bet I’m all over that pretty little head of yours.”

You step closer, not backing down, your grin all teeth. “Keep dreaming, pretty boy. You’re not even a blip on my radar.”

He laughs, sharp and bright, and it’s like a shot of adrenaline. “We’ll see,” he says, sipping his coffee, his eyes never leaving yours. “Game’s not over.”

You’re about to fire back when your phone buzzes—a text from your best friend, Soo-jin, who’s been your ride-or-die since high school. Spill the tea. You and Ni-ki fucking yet or what? You choke on your coffee, and Ni-ki raises an eyebrow, clearly amused.

“Problem?” he asks, leaning closer, like he’s trying to read your screen.

“None of your business,” you say, shoving your phone in your pocket, but you’re grinning, because Soo-jin’s been rooting for this chaos since you told her about Ni-ki’s smirk on day one. She’s the one who keeps saying you two are inevitable, like a car crash you can’t look away from.

“Bet it’s about me,” he says, winking, and you roll your eyes, but you don’t deny it, because he’s not entirely wrong. He heads for the shower, throwing you one last look over his shoulder, and you’re left in the kitchen, your coffee cooling, your mind racing.

You text Soo-jin back: Not yet, but he’s begging for it. She replies with a string of fire emojis, and you laugh, because she gets it—she knows you’re not the type to fold, but Ni-ki’s making it real hard to keep your cards close.

This is your life now: you and Ni-ki, two storms circling each other, waiting for one to break. You’re both too bold, too proud, too addicted to the thrill of the chase. But every game has an end, and you’re starting to wonder who’s gonna make the first move—and what happens when they do.

The apartment’s a warzone of unspoken rules and loaded glances, and you and Ni-ki are generals in a game neither of you’s willing to lose. It’s been a week since that kitchen standoff, where you threw his cocky “handle me” line back in his face and watched his eyes darken like you’d lit a fuse.

Since then, it’s been relentless—every morning, every night, a new move, a new countermove. He leaves his hoodie on your chair, knowing you’ll wear it just to mess with him. You blast your music louder when he’s on a call, catching his glare through the wall. It’s chess, but dirtier, and you’re both playing for blood.

Tonight, though, the board’s bigger. Soo-jin’s throwing a party at her loft across town, and she’s been texting you all day, hyping it up like it’s the Met Gala. Bring Ni-ki. I need to see this shitshow live. You laughed, but the idea of Ni-ki in a crowded, boozy setting, with you in full-on hurricane mode, feels like a checkmate waiting to happen. You’re not backing down, and you know he won’t either.

You’re in your room, getting ready, the bass of your playlist shaking the mirror as you slip into a black leather skirt and a sheer red top that shows just enough to make a point. Your hair’s wild, your makeup sharp—smokey eyes, glossy lips, the kind of look that says try me. You’re not dressing for him, not exactly, but you know he’ll notice, and you want his jaw to hit the floor.

Ni-ki’s in the living room when you strut out, scrolling on his phone, looking like sin in a fitted black shirt and cargo pants, his silver chain catching the light.

He glances up, and for a split second, his smirk falters, his eyes raking over you like you’re a problem he can’t solve. “Fuck me,” he mutters, low enough that you could pretend not to hear, but you don’t.

“Already begging, pretty boy?” you say, grabbing your jacket from the couch, your grin all teeth. You lean over, just close enough to make him tense, your perfume—something sweet and dark—hitting him like a jab. “Save it for the party.”

He stands, towering over you, his smirk back in full force. “Oh, princess, I don’t beg,” he says, stepping so close you feel the heat of his chest through your shirt. “But you might, by the end of the night.” His voice is a low growl, and you feel it in your spine, but you don’t flinch, don’t blink.

“Big talk for a guy who’s all show,” you fire back, tilting your chin up, your lips so close to his you could steal his breath. “Let’s see if you can back it up.”

He laughs, sharp and dangerous, but he doesn’t touch you, not yet. “Game on,” he says, grabbing his keys and heading for the door. “You driving, or am I?”

“You,” you say, tossing your hair as you follow him out. “I’m too pretty to deal with traffic.”

Soo-jin’s loft is a chaotic dream—dim lights, neon accents, music so loud it’s a pulse in your chest. The place is packed, bodies swaying, drinks sloshing, the air thick with sweat and perfume. You and Ni-ki walk in, and heads turn—not just because he’s an idol, but because you’re both radiating fuck with us energy. Soo-jin spots you instantly, her pink hair glowing under the lights, and she’s on you in a second, dragging you into a hug.

“Y/N, you absolute queen!” she yells over the music, her eyes flicking to Ni-ki, who’s already scanning the room like he owns it. “And you brought the main event. Ni-ki, don’t break my girl’s heart, or I’ll end you.”

Ni-ki grins, unfazed, leaning close to Soo-jin’s ear. “She’s the one you should worry about,” he says, loud enough for you to hear, and you roll your eyes, but your lips twitch, because damn, he’s good.

“Get us drinks,” you tell him, nudging his shoulder, and he raises an eyebrow, like who put you in charge? “Unless you’re scared to leave me alone, pretty boy.”

He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. “Scared? Nah. Just don’t start any fights without me.” He winks, heading for the bar, and you watch him go, his stride all confidence, his back a map of muscle under his shirt. You’re not drooling—not visibly, at least—but Soo-jin’s smirking like she’s got X-ray vision.

“You two are a fucking car crash waiting to happen,” she says, handing you a shot of something blue and potent. “How long you holding out before you jump him?”

You toss the shot back, the burn sharp and sweet. “Who says I’m holding out?” you say, grinning, but there’s truth in it. You want Ni-ki, bad, but you’re both too stubborn, too proud. It’s not just a hookup—it’s a conquest, a surrender, and neither of you wants to be the one to wave the white flag first.

The party’s a haze of drinks, laughter, and bodies pressed too close. You dance with Soo-jin, your hips moving to the beat, your head light but your eyes keep finding Ni-ki. He’s with a group, charming the hell out of everyone, but his gaze keeps sliding to you, tracking every move, every sway.

You turn it up, letting the music take you, your hands in your hair, your body saying what your mouth won’t. He’s watching, his jaw tight, his eyes dark, and you know you’re winning this round.

He’s back at your side later, a drink in hand, his arm brushing yours as you lean against the wall, catching your breath. “Having fun, princess?” he asks, his voice low, his smirk a challenge.

“Could be more fun,” you say, taking his drink and sipping it, your lips where his were, knowing it’ll drive him nuts. “Depends on you on you, pretty boy.”

He steps closer, caging you against the wall, one hand braced above your head, the other hovering near your hip, not touching but close enough to make your skin hum. “You’re pushing me, Y/N,” he murmurs, his eyes on your lips, his voice a velvet threat. “You sure you’re ready for what happens next?”

You tilt your chin, your grin all defiance. “You’re the one hesitating, Riki,” you say, your voice low, daring. “What’s stopping you? Scared you can’t keep up?”

His laugh is a low rumble, and then he’s closer, his lips brushing your ear, not kissing, just teasing, making you shiver. “Oh, I can keep up,” he says, his hand finally landing on your hip, fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp. “But when I make my move, you’re gonna wish you played nicer.”

You grab his chain, tugging him closer, your lips so close you’re sharing breath. “Make your move, then,” you whisper, your voice all fire. “Or I’ll beat you to it.”

For a second, you think he’s gonna kiss you, right there in Soo-jin’s loft, with the party raging around you. His eyes are all want, his body pressed against yours, and you’re ready—fuck the game, fuck the rules. But then he pulls back, just an inch, his smirk sharper than ever.

“Not here,” he says, voice rough, like he’s holding himself back by a thread. “Not like this. I want you all to myself.”

Your heart’s pounding, your body screaming at the loss of his heat, but you don’t let it show. “Tease,” you say, pushing off the wall, brushing past him, your shoulder grazing his chest. “Don’t keep me waiting too long, pretty boy.”

He catches your wrist, not hard, just enough to pull you back for a second, his eyes burning into yours. “You won’t have to,” he promises, and then he lets go, leaving you buzzing, your skin on fire.

The rest of the night’s a blur. You dance, you drink, you laugh with Soo-jin, but Ni-ki’s always there, a shadow in your peripheral, watching, waiting. You catch him dancing with some girl, his hands on her waist, and you grit your teeth, downing another shot, because fuck that. You’re not jealous—not exactly—but you want to be the one he’s touching, the one he’s breaking for.

Soo-jin notices, pulling you aside, her grin wicked. “You’re about to snap, aren’t you?” she says, handing you a water because she knows you’re tipsy. “He’s playing you, Y/N, but you’re playing him too. Who’s gonna crack first?”

“Not me,” you say, but it’s a lie, and she knows it. You’re both too bold, too stubborn, but this game’s got an end, and it’s coming fast.

You and Ni-ki leave together, the night air cool against your flushed skin as you pile into a cab. The ride’s quiet, but it’s not—it’s loud with everything you’re not saying, every glance, every brush of his thigh against yours in the backseat. You’re both buzzed, not drunk, but loose enough that the tension’s thicker, sharper, like a blade you’re both daring the other to pick up.

Back at the apartment, the door barely clicks shut before you’re at it again. You kick off your heels, heading for the kitchen, and he’s right behind you, grabbing a water from the fridge, his shirt riding up to show a sliver of toned stomach. You lean against the counter, watching him, your grin a challenge.

“Had fun with that girl at the party?” you ask, voice sweet but laced with venom, because you can’t help it—you want to poke, to see how far you can push.

He smirks, shutting the fridge, stepping closer. “Jealous, princess?” he says, his tone mocking, but his eyes are serious, searching. “Didn’t think you cared who I danced with.”

“I don’t,” you lie, stepping up, your chest brushing his, your voice dropping. “But if you’re gonna play games, pretty boy, at least pick someone who can keep up.”

He laughs, low and rough, and then he’s got you pinned against the counter, his hands on either side, caging you in. “You’re one to talk,” he says, his lips so close you feel the words more than hear them. “Flirting with half the room, shaking your ass like you wanted me to lose it.”

“Maybe I did,” you say, grabbing his shirt, pulling him closer, your lips grazing his jaw, not kissing, just teasing. “Maybe I wanted to see how long you’d last before you snapped.”

He groans, low and broken, and then his lips are on yours, hard and hungry, like he’s been starving for this. You kiss him back, just as fierce, your hands in his hair, tugging, your body pressed against his, feeling every line, every muscle. It’s not sweet, not soft—it’s a fight, a clash, all teeth and tongue and years of pent-up want. His hands slide to your hips, lifting you onto the counter, and you wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer, needing him now.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he murmurs against your mouth, his voice wrecked, his hands roaming, under your shirt, hot against your skin. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“Good,” you gasp, biting his lip, and he groans again, his hips pressing against yours, making you moan, loud and unapologetic. You’re both too far gone, too caught in the fire, and you know it’s about to burn you both down.

Then his phone buzzes, loud and insistent on the counter, and you both freeze, breathing hard, lips swollen, eyes wild. He glances at it—Jungwon—and curses under his breath, stepping back, running a hand through his hair.

“Don’t,” you say, grabbing his wrist, your voice rough, desperate. “Don’t answer it.”

He looks at you, torn, his chest heaving, and for a second, you think he’ll ignore it, dive back into you. But then he shakes his head, stepping back, his voice low. “We can’t—not like this,” he says, and it’s not a rejection, but it’s a pause, a fucking pause, and you want to scream.

You slide off the counter, fixing your shirt, your grin bitter but sharp. “Coward,” you say, and it’s a jab, but you’re hurt, and he knows it.

“Not a coward,” he says, stepping closer, his hand on your jaw, tilting your face up. “Just not stupid. When I have you, Y/N, it’s not gonna be a quick fuck in the kitchen. You deserve better.”

Your heart stutters, but you don’t let it show, pulling back, your smirk back in place. “Keep telling yourself that, pretty boy,” you say, heading for your room, leaving him standing there, the tension still crackling, the game still on.

You’ve been a ticking bomb since that night in the kitchen, Ni-ki’s lips on yours, his hands everywhere, his phone stealing the moment like a cheap plot twist. Two days later, and the apartment’s a pressure cooker—every glance, every brush of his shoulder, every smirk a match struck against your resolve. You’re bold, always have been, but Ni-ki’s playing you like a pro, and you’re this close to snapping. Not just snapping—shattering, breaking every rule you’ve set, and dragging him down with you.

It’s Saturday night, and the apartment’s quiet for once, the city’s hum filtering through the open balcony doors. You’re on the couch, scrolling through nothing on your phone, your red satin cami and shorts barely qualifying as clothes, because you know he’s here, and you’re done pretending you don’t want his eyes on you. Ni-ki’s in his room, but you hear him—music low, the faint creak of his desk chair, his presence like a pulse you can’t ignore.

You text Soo-jin, because you need to vent or you’ll combust. He’s killing me. I’m gonna jump him or strangle him. She replies instantly: DO IT. Fuck him or fight him, just pick one. I’m betting on you. You laugh, but it’s sharp, because she’s right—you’re at your limit, and Ni-ki’s about to learn what happens when you break.

The door to his room opens, and he steps out, shirtless, sweatpants slung low, his hair a mess like he’s been running his hands through it. He’s got that look—smirk half-cocked, eyes dark, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “Still sulking, princess?” he says, heading for the kitchen, his voice all tease, all dare.

You toss your phone down, standing, your grin dangerous. “Sulking? Nah, pretty boy,” you say, stalking toward him, your voice low, dripping with venom. “Just waiting for you to grow a spine and finish what you started.”

He freezes, water bottle in hand, his smirk faltering for a split second before he recovers, leaning against the counter, his eyes raking over you—satin clinging to your curves, thighs bare, lips glossy. “Oh, I started it?” he says, stepping closer, his voice a low growl. “You were the one grinding on me, begging for it.”

You laugh, sharp and loud, closing the distance until you’re chest-to-chest, your chin tilted, eyes locked. “Begging?” you hiss, grabbing his chain, tugging him down so your lips are inches apart. “You’re the one who chickened out, Riki. Scared you can’t handle me?”

His eyes flash, and then he’s got you, hands on your hips, spinning you until your back’s against the fridge, the cold metal a shock against your skin. “Handle you?” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear, not touching, just teasing, making you shiver. “I could have you screaming my name in ten seconds, princess. Don’t tempt me.”

“Then do it,” you snap, your hands in his hair, pulling hard, your voice all fire. “Stop talking and fucking do it.”

He groans, low and broken, and his lips crash into yours, hard and desperate, like he’s been starving for this as long as you have. It’s not a kiss—it’s a fight, all teeth and tongue, your hands clawing at his shoulders, his digging into your hips, pulling you flush against him.

You can feel him, hard and wanting through his sweatpants, and you grind against him, smirking into the kiss when he moans, loud and wrecked.

Your lips are locked in a war, Ni-ki’s tongue claiming yours with a hunger that’s been festering since move-in day. His hands grip your hips, bruising, pulling you against him, his hard length pressing through his sweatpants, making you moan into his mouth, loud and shameless. The fridge’s cold metal bites your back, but you don’t care—every nerve’s screaming for him, and you’re done playing. You’re bold, always have been, but right now, you’re a fucking wildfire, and Ni-ki’s the match that lit you.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he growls, breaking the kiss, his lips wet, eyes black with want. “You’re gonna ruin me.” His hands slide up, ripping your satin cami over your head, leaving you bare except for your shorts, your chest heaving under his gaze. He smirks, that cocky, infuriating curve of his lips, and you want to wipe it off—or suck it off.

“Ruin you?” you hiss, grabbing his chain, yanking him back, your teeth grazing his jaw. “You’re the one who’s been teasing me for months, pretty boy. Time to pay up.” You shove him, hard, and he stumbles back, laughing, low and rough, like you’ve just made his night.

“Oh, you’re calling the shots now?” he says, stalking toward you, grabbing your wrist and spinning you toward his bedroom, the door slamming shut behind you. The room’s a mess—clothes strewn, sheets half-off the bed, his cologne heavy in the air, spicy and stinging, like a shot to your veins. He pushes you onto the bed, your back hitting the mattress, and he’s over you, caging you in, his chain dangling against your throat. “Let’s see how tough you talk when I’ve got you begging, princess.”

You laugh, defiant, grabbing his hair, pulling hard enough to make him hiss. “Begging? You wish,” you say, but your voice cracks when his thigh presses between your legs, hard muscle against your core, making you grind against him, desperate for friction. “Fuck you, Riki.”

“Nah, you’re gonna fuck me,” he murmurs, his lips on your neck, sucking hard, leaving a mark that’ll scream mine tomorrow. His hands tear at your shorts, dragging them down with your panties, leaving you bare, exposed, and he pulls back, smirking at how wet you are, your thighs glistening under the dim light. “Look at you, dripping already. All that talk, and you’re a mess for me.”

“Shut up,” you snap, grabbing his shirt, yanking it off, your nails raking down his chest, leaving red lines he’ll feel later. He’s lean, all muscle, his abs flexing under your touch, and you want to bite every inch of him. “You’re not special, pretty boy. I could’ve had you weeks ago.”

“Liar,” he says, kneeling between your thighs, his breath hot against your core, making you squirm. “You’ve been dying for this, Y/N. Say it.” His fingers tease, brushing your folds, light and maddening, not giving you what you need, and you grit your teeth, pride warring with the ache between your legs.

“Fuck you,” you hiss, but it’s half a moan, and he laughs, low and filthy, his lips brushing your clit, not kissing, just hovering, driving you insane.

“Wrong answer,” he murmurs, and then his tongue flicks, slow and deliberate, a single stripe that makes you arch, a cry ripping from your throat. He’s relentless, licking, sucking, but never enough, pulling back every time your hips buck, every time you’re close. “Say you want me, princess. Beg for it.”

You’re trembling, your hands fisting his sheets, your body betraying you as you grind against his face, needing more, needing him. “Ni-ki, please,” you gasp, and it’s the first crack, the first surrender, but he’s not done—he wants you broken.

“Louder,” he growls, his fingers sliding inside, two, curling just right, but so fucking slow, teasing, making you shake. “I want you screaming, Y/N. Beg me to make you cum.”

You’re stubborn, but he’s worse, and he knows it, his tongue circling your clit, his fingers pumping, stopping every time you tense, every time you’re on the edge. “Fuck, Riki, please,” you sob, tears of frustration burning your eyes, your pride in ashes. “Make me cum, you bastard, I need it, please.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, and then he’s all in, tongue fast, fingers deep, hitting that spot that makes you see white, your moans loud enough to wake the neighbors. You’re close, so close, but he pulls back, smirking, and you scream, actually scream, your hips chasing his mouth.

“Not yet,” he says, standing, shoving his sweatpants and boxers down, his cock hard and thick, making your mouth water. “You’re cumming on this, princess. But you’re gonna earn it.”

You’re done with games. You sit up, grabbing his chain, pulling him down, flipping him onto his back, straddling his hips. “Earn it?” you hiss, grinding against him, your wetness slicking the condom, making him groan, his hands gripping your thighs. “I’ll take what I want, pretty boy.”

“Fuck, yes,” he says, but he’s still teasing, his hands guiding you, not letting you sink down, keeping you hovering, desperate. “Beg for my cock, Y/N. Tell me how bad you need it.”

You’re shaking, your nails digging into his chest, leaving marks, but you’re too far gone to care. “Please, Riki,” you moan, your voice raw, broken. “I need your cock, need you to fuck me, please, I’m fucking begging.”

He grins, thrusting up, just the tip, making you gasp, your head tipping back. “Good girl,” he says, and then he pulls you down, hard, filling you in one deep, brutal thrust, stretching you so good you cry out, your nails raking his shoulders. He’s big, bigger than you expected, and it’s perfect, the burn making you wild.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, his hands bruising your hips as he sets a punishing pace, thrusting up, meeting your every move, the bed creaking, slamming against the wall.

His hand slides to your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles, and you’re trembling, so close, but he slows, smirking, making you whine.

“Beg,” he says, his voice rough, his thrusts shallow, teasing, keeping you on the edge. “Beg me to let you cum, Y/N.”

“Fuck, Ni-ki, please,” you sob, your body shaking, your pride gone, your world narrowed to him, his cock, his touch. “Let me cum, I need it, need you, please, I’m yours.”

He groans, flipping you onto your back, pinning your wrists, thrusting deep, hard, relentless. “Mine,” he growls, his lips on your neck, biting, his fingers on your clit, fast and precise. “Cum for me, princess. Let me feel you.”

You shatter, your orgasm ripping through you, hard and blinding, your body clenching around him, moaning his name, loud enough for the whole damn city to hear.

He fucks you through it, his thrusts deep, his groans raw, and then he’s cumming, hard, his face buried in your shoulder, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.

You’re both still, panting, tangled in sweat and sheets, the air thick with sex and something heavier—something you’re not ready to name. He pulls out, and collapses beside you, pulling you into his chest, his lips soft against your hair.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he murmurs, voice wrecked, laced with something like awe. “You’re… unreal.”

You laugh, breathless, tracing the lines of his chain, his skin warm under your fingers. “Told you I’d break you,” you say, but it’s soft, because you’re broken too, and you’re okay with it.

He tilts your chin, kissing you slow, deep, like a vow. “We’re not done,” he says, his voice low, a spark already flaring again. “You’re mine now, princess.”

“Good,” you whisper, kissing him back, your hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat match yours. “Because you’re mine, pretty boy.”

The next morning, you’re in the kitchen, wearing Ni-ki’s hoodie, your hair a mess, your body sore but singing. Soo-jin’s blowing up your phone, demanding the tea, and you text back: Snapped. Fucked. Owned. She sends a string of screaming emojis, and you grin, because she called this chaos from day one.

Ni-ki walks in, sweatpants low, his smirk softer but still cocky, like he knows he’s ruined you for anyone else. “Morning, princess,” he says, stealing your coffee, his hand on your waist, pulling you close.

“Get your own,” you say, but you lean into him, because you’re his, and he’s yours, and the game’s over—but the fire’s just beginning.

Soo-jin crashes your brunch later, her eyes glinting as she sees Ni-ki’s hand on your thigh, his hoodie drowning you. “Fucking finally,” she says, stealing your toast. “You two were insufferable. Now give me the dirty details—how loud was it?”

You kick her under the table, but Ni-ki laughs, leaning in, his whisper hot against your ear. “Tell her, princess,” he says, and you blush, but you’re grinning, because you’re not hiding anymore.

“Legendary,” you say, meeting Soo-jin’s eyes, and she cackles, high-fiving you, while Ni-ki’s smirk promises round two, three, forever.

@heesvnqie | Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or repost any of my work

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Forbidden Fever- Lee Heeseung

pairing: lee heeseung x f!reader genre: smut, angst, romance, best friend’s cousin au warnings: explicit content, nsfw, forbidden romance, strong language, eventual unprotected sex (wrap it up irl!), slight exhibitionism, slow-burn tension, reader is bold af word count: 8.5k a/n: y’all, this one’s for the heeseung stans like me who live for the tension, the yearning, and the absolute wreckage of a forbidden crush. I poured my soul into this, so pls enjoy with me in the reblogs if u feel it.

You’ve always been the quiet one, the girl who fades into the background with a shy smile and a nervous laugh. It’s not that you don’t want to shine—you just never know how to make yourself loud, how to claim space the way others do so effortlessly.

But when it comes to Lee Heeseung, Lia’s older cousin and the boy who’s been stealing your breath for four summers now, you’re anything but subtle in your heart. Your crush on him is a wildfire, burning quiet but fierce, and no matter how hard you try to hide it, it’s like he can feel the heat every time you’re in the same room.

It all started when you were eighteen, dragged by Lia to her family’s annual summer bash at their stupidly gorgeous beachside mansion. Think white walls, glass doors opening to ocean views, the kind of place that smells like sea salt and expensive perfume.

You were out of place, clutching a soda can like a lifeline, your sundress feeling too frilly, too you in a crowd of Lia’s loud, confident relatives.

Lia—your best friend since you were six, trading Pokémon cards and secrets under blankets—was your saving grace, all wild curls and brighter-than-the-sun energy. She thrived in chaos, weaving through the party like she owned it, while you trailed behind, heart pounding every time someone new said hi.

Then you saw him. Heeseung. He was leaning against a deck railing, a glass of lemonade in hand, looking like he’d stepped out of a dream you didn’t know you were having. His dark hair caught the sunset’s glow, falling in soft waves over his forehead, and his eyes—deep, hazel, and impossibly warm—held a spark that made your chest ache. His jawline was sharp enough to cut through your thoughts, his lips always on the edge of a smile, like he knew something you didn’t. He was twenty-one, a music trainee with a voice that could break hearts, and he carried himself with this easy, untouchable charm that made you feel small and huge all at once.

Lia, sharp as ever, caught you staring. “Oh no, Y/N,” she whispered, grabbing your elbow with a grin. “Not Heeseung. My cousin? You’re doomed.”

You flushed, ducking your head, but you couldn’t stop looking. When she introduced you, your voice came out barely above a whisper. “Hi, I’m Y/N,” you managed, eyes fixed on the wooden deck because meeting his gaze felt like staring into the sun.

“Hey, Y/N,” he said, his voice low and smooth, like a song you’d replay on loop. “Lia’s told me about you. You’re the one who keeps her out of trouble, right?”

You laughed, nervous and too loud, and Lia snorted, rolling her eyes. “More like she’s the one who needs saving,” she teased, nudging you. Heeseung’s smile widened, and you felt it—like a hook in your chest, tugging you toward him. That was it. One look, one sentence, and you were gone.

From then on, Heeseung was your secret obsession. Every summer, every holiday dinner, every time Lia dragged you to her family’s events, you went, knowing he’d be there.

You weren’t bold, not like Lia, who could charm a room with a laugh. You were the girl who lingered in corners, who blushed when eyes met hers, who overthought every word before it left her lips.

But with Heeseung, you felt everything louder—every glance, every accidental brush of his hand, every time his laugh filled the room. You’d catch yourself staring at his hands as he played the grandpiano in the mansion, or at the way his shoulders moved when he tossed a volleyball on the beach.

And Lia? She saw it all.

“You’re so whipped,” she’d say, sprawled on your dorm bed after a long day, tossing a pillow at you. “Heeseung’s got you wrapped around his finger, and he doesn’t even know it.”

“Shut up,” you’d mumble, burying your face in your hands, but you couldn’t deny it. You were whipped. You’d spend hours replaying the smallest moments—how he’d held the door for you at a family barbecue, his fingers grazing your back for a split second; how he’d asked you what book you were reading, his head tilted like he actually cared.

You’d lie awake at night, imagining what it’d be like his. His girlfriend. How it would feel to kiss him, to feel his voice vibrate against your skin, to know him the way you wanted to.

The summer you were nineteen, Lia’s family rented a cabin in the mountains, and you got a front-row seat to your own personal torment. Heeseung was everywhere—laughing with his cousins, helping with dishes in the kitchen, his voice echoing through the wooden halls as he sang to himself.

You tried to play it cool, but your shyness betrayed you. You’d fumble your words when he talked to you, your cheeks burning when he sat too close during movie nights, his knee brushing yours on the couch.

One evening, you were reading on the porch, curled up with a blanket, when he sat beside you, holding a mug of hot chocolate.

“Quiet out here,” he said, his voice soft, like he didn’t want to break the spell of the night. “You always hide away like this?”

“I’m not hiding,” you said, too quickly, your heart racing. “Just… like the quiet.”

He smiled, slow and warm, and you felt it in your bones. “You’re cute when you’re nervous,” he said, and you wanted to sink through the floor. Instead, you ducked your head, muttering something about the book in your lap, and he let it go, but not before his eyes lingered, like he was trying to figure you out.

Lia was relentless after that. “He so knows you’re into him,” she said, painting her nails while you died inside. “He’s teasing you, Y/N. It’s, like, his favorite hobby now.”

“He’s not,” you protested, but you weren’t so sure. Heeseung had this way of looking at you—intense, almost deliberate—that made you wonder if he could see the chaos in your head.

But you were too shy to act on it, too afraid of what might happen if you crossed that line with Lia’s cousin. So you kept it locked away, letting it burn you up from the inside.

By twenty, the tension was a living thing. Lia’s family planned another beach house trip, and you went, your heart a tangled mess of hope and fear. You weren’t the bold type, but you weren’t invisible either—you’d wear your favorite sundresses, let your hair fall loose, laugh a little louder when you knew he was watching.

Heeseung noticed. You’d catch him staring across the pool, his eyes dark and unreadable, or he’d find excuses to talk to you, asking about your classes, your music taste, your life. Every conversation felt like a tightrope, your shyness warring with the part of you that wanted to lean into him, to close the distance.

One night, you were on the beach, the party raging behind you, the air cool against your skin. You’d slipped away to breathe, the waves crashing softly at your feet. Heeseung followed, his presence like a shadow you couldn’t shake. He stood beside you, hands in his pockets, staring out at the ocean.

“You’re always running off,” he said, his voice low, almost swallowed by the waves. “What’s got you so spooked?”

You hugged your arms, avoiding his eyes. “I’m not spooked,” you said, but your voice shook, betraying you. “Just… needed air.”

He turned, his gaze heavy on you. “You sure it’s not me?” he asked, half-teasing, half-something else. “You get all quiet when I’m around.”

Your face burned, and you wanted to disappear, but you forced yourself to look at him. “Maybe you’re just… intimidating,” you said, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

He laughed, soft and warm, stepping closer. “Me? Intimidating? Nah, Y/N. You’re the one who’s hard to read.” His eyes searched yours, and for a moment, you thought he might say something more, might bridge the gap you were both dancing around.

But he just smiled, stepping back, leaving you with a racing heart and a thousand unsaid words.

Lia was waiting when you got back to the house, her smirk sharp enough to cut. “You’re blushing,” she said, poking your cheek. “What did Heeseung do now?”

“Nothing,” you muttered, swatting her hand away, but she just laughed, flopping onto the couch.

“You’re hopeless,” she said, but there was affection in her voice. “He’s my cousin, Y/N, but I’m not blind. He looks at you like… I don’t even know. Like you’re a puzzle he wants to solve.”

“Stop,” you said, hiding your face, but her words stuck with you, feeding the fire that wouldn’t let you go.

Now, at twenty-one, you’re back at the beach house for another summer, and you’re done hiding. You’re still shy, still prone to blushing under his gaze, but you’re tired of letting fear hold you back. Lia’s been teasing you all week, dropping hints to Heeseung when she thinks you’re not listening, and you’ve caught him watching you more than ever—his eyes lingering on your lips, your bare shoulders, the way you move when you think no one’s looking.

Tonight, with the house buzzing with friends, music, and the humid pulse of summer, you’re ready to let the tension snap. You’re not bold, not really, but you’re ready to be brave, to let Heeseung see the girl who’s been burning for him all these years.

The beach house is alive tonight, a pulsing heartbeat of music, laughter, and the clink of soju bottles on the glass coffee table. The air is heavy with the scent of salt from the open windows and the faint tang of alcohol, the kind of summer night that feels like it could swallow you whole. You’re sprawled on the couch, your bare legs tucked under you, a red solo cup cradled in your hands.

The room is crowded—Lia’s friends, some of her cousins, a few randoms who tagged along for the vibe—all sprawled across the living room, the floor littered with empty bottles and snack wrappers. The energy is chaotic, electric, and you’re trying to keep up, but your heart’s been a mess since you locked eyes with Heeseung an hour ago.

He’s across the room now, leaning against the wall, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he laughs at something one of his cousins says.

He’s wearing a black tank top that shows off his lean arms, the kind of casual that shouldn’t look that good but does, like he’s mocking the universe for making him so untouchable.

His eyes flicker to you every now and then, quick but deliberate, and each time, your stomach flips like you’re eighteen again, crushing on a boy you can’t have.

Lia’s beside you, her curls bouncing as she leans forward, her grin sharp and dangerous. She’s been watching you watch him all night, and you know she’s about to make your life hell.

“Truth or dare, Y/N?” Lia asks, her voice loud enough to cut through the chatter. The room quiets, heads turning, and you feel the weight of everyone’s attention like a spotlight.

Your cheeks heat up, and you curse yourself for being so easy to read. Lia’s got that glint in her eye, the one that says she’s about to push you right into the deep end.

You swallow, trying to play it cool despite the nervous flutter in your chest. “Dare,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel. You’re shy, always have been, but you’re not about to let Lia make you squirm in front of him. Not tonight. You’ve spent years pining, years letting Heeseung’s presence turn you into a blushing, stuttering mess. Tonight, you’re done hiding.

Lia’s grin widens, and you can practically see the gears turning in her head. “Oh, you’re bold tonight, huh?” she teases, tapping her chin like she’s plotting world domination.

The others hoot and laugh, egging her on. Heeseung’s watching now, his head tilted, his lips twitching like he’s trying not to smile.

“Alright, Y/N,” Lia says, leaning closer, her voice dripping with mischief. “I dare you to… spend fifteen minutes alone with Heeseung in the upstairs guest room.”

The room erupts—whistles, gasps, a few “oh shits” from Lia’s rowdier friends. Your heart stops, then kicks into overdrive, pounding so hard you’re sure everyone can hear it.

You glance at Heeseung, and he’s still leaning against the wall, but his posture’s shifted, his eyes locked on you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. He raises an eyebrow, a silent question: You in?

“Y/N’s gonna combust,” one of Lia’s cousins calls out, and everyone laughs, but you barely hear them.

Your face is burning, but you force a smile, trying to channel some of the confidence you wish you had.

“Fine,” you say, standing up, brushing imaginary lint off your shorts. “Let’s go, Heeseung.”

The room loses it, whooping and cheering like you’ve just agreed to fight a dragon.

Lia’s practically cackling, her eyes glinting with victory. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” she yells as Heeseung pushes off the wall, his stride easy but purposeful as he heads toward the stairs.

You follow, your heart in your throat, the weight of everyone’s eyes on your back. You’re shy, yeah, but you’re not backing down. Not when Heeseung’s looking at you like that, like he’s been waiting for this moment as long as you have.

The stairs creak under your feet, the noise of the party fading as you climb higher. The hallway is dim, lit only by a single wall sconce, and the air feels cooler, quieter, like you’re stepping into a different world.

Heeseung leads the way, pushing open the door to the guest room with a casual flick of his wrist. You step inside, and he closes the door behind you, the soft click echoing like a gunshot in the silence.

The room is small, intimate, with moonlight streaming through the balcony doors, casting silver patterns on the hardwood floor.

The bed is unmade, sheets rumpled, and there’s a faint scent of lavender from an air freshener somewhere. You stand there, arms crossed, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he is, how alone you are. Your shyness creeps in, making your throat tight, but you swallow it down, meeting his gaze.

“So,” Heeseung says, his voice low, teasing, like he’s savoring every second of this. He steps closer, and you have to tilt your head back to look at him, his height making you feel small in a way that’s both thrilling and terrifying. “Lia’s having fun with this, huh?”

You laugh, but it’s nervous, breathy. “She’s evil,” you say, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, your fingers trembling slightly. “She knows… you know. About me.” You wince as soon as the words slip out, wishing you could take them back. Too much, too soon.

Heeseung’s eyebrow quirks, but his smile is soft, not mocking. “Oh, I know,” he says, and your stomach drops. “She’s been dropping hints for years, Y/N. Not exactly subtle.” He takes another step, close enough now that you can smell his perfume—something warm and spicy that makes your head spin. “But you’re not subtle either. The way you look at me? It’s hard to miss.”

Your face burns, and you look away, your shyness winning for a moment. “I’m not—I mean, I don’t mean to—” you stammer, but he cuts you off with a soft chuckle, stepping even closer until there’s barely a foot between you.

“Don’t,” he says, his voice dropping lower, softer, like a secret. “Don’t apologize. I like it.” His eyes are on you, intense, searching, and you feel like you’re unraveling under them. “You’ve been driving me crazy for years, you know that? Every summer, every damn time you show up in those little dresses, laughing with Lia, looking at me like you’re scared but you want me anyway.”

Your breath catches, and you stare at him, wide-eyed, your heart pounding so loud you’re sure he can hear it. “You… noticed?” you manage, your voice small, like you’re afraid the words will break the spell.

He laughs, a low, rumbling sound that sends shivers down your spine. “Noticed? Y/N, you’re all I see.” He reaches out, his fingers brushing your arm, light but electric, and you feel it everywhere—your skin, your bones, your racing pulse. “You think I don’t catch you staring? The way you blush when I get too close? It’s fucking adorable.”

You’re dying, you’re sure of it, your heart about to give out under the weight of his words. You’ve spent years hiding, thinking you were invisible, but he’s been watching you just as closely, and the realization makes you dizzy. “I didn’t think you… I mean, you’re you,” you say, stumbling over the words. “You’re Lia’s cousin, and you’re… you know, Heeseung. I didn’t think you’d care.”

His hand pauses on your arm, his fingers curling slightly, warm against your skin. “I care,” he says, and there’s no teasing now, just raw honesty that makes your chest ache. “I’ve cared for a while. But you’re Lia’s best friend, and I didn’t want to make things messy. Didn’t want to cross that line.” He pauses, his eyes searching yours. “But we’re here now, aren’t we?”

You nod, your throat too tight to speak. The air between you is thick, heavy with everything you’ve both left unsaid for years. You’re still shy, still trembling under his gaze, but there’s a spark in you now, a tiny flame of courage that’s been building since that first summer. You take a shaky breath, stepping closer, close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the pull of him like gravity.

“What are we doing, Heeseung?” you whisper, your voice barely audible, but he hears it, his eyes darkening.

“Whatever you want,” he says, his voice rough, like he’s holding back. “You tell me, Y/N. You’re the one who’s been running from this.”

You swallow, your heart racing, your hands itching to touch him, to close the distance you’ve been dancing around for years. “I’m not running now,” you say, and it’s the bravest thing you’ve ever done, standing there, offering yourself up to the one person who could break you.

Heeseung’s breath hitches, and then he’s moving, closing the gap in one swift motion. His lips crash into yours, and it’s like the world stops—everything stops, the party, the noise, the fear. It’s just him, his mouth hot and hungry, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you against him. You gasp into the kiss, your shyness melting under the heat of it, your hands finding his hair, tugging him closer. He groans, low and deep, and the sound sends a jolt through you, pooling low in your stomach.

The kiss is messy, desperate, years of want poured into every slide of his lips, every flick of his tongue. You’re pressed against him, his body hard and warm, and you can feel the way he’s trembling, like he’s been holding back as long as you have. His hands roam, sliding up your sides, under your shirt, his fingers grazing the bare skin of your waist, and you shiver, pressing closer, wanting more, needing everything.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he murmurs against your mouth, his voice rough, wrecked. “You have no idea what you do to me.” His hands slide higher, teasing the edge of your bra, and you whimper, a sound you didn’t know you could make, your body acting on instinct, not thought.

“Heeseung,” you whisper, and it’s a plea, a prayer, everything you’ve ever wanted wrapped in his name. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and heavy with want, his lips swollen from the kiss. He’s beautiful, devastating, and you’re so far gone you don’t know how you’ll ever come back from this.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he says, his mouth trailing to your jaw, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses that make your head spin. “Every summer, I saw you and thought, God, she’s it. Every damn time.” His voice is low, raw, and you’re certain you can feel it in your soul, wrapping around you like a melody.

His hands move higher, one slipping under your shirt, his palm warm against your stomach, and you arch into him, your body moving before your mind can catch up, wanting him closer, deeper, more.

You’re dizzy, lost in him, your shyness a faint echo that only makes this moment sharper, more real. You tug at his tank top, your fingers clumsy but desperate, and he leans back, his eyes dark and heavy as he watches you. “You sure?” he asks, his voice low, almost a growl, and you nod, your breath shaky but unwavering.

“Never been surer,” you say, and it’s the truth, spilling out like it’s been waiting years to be heard. You reach for him again, your hands sliding up his chest, feeling the way his muscles tense under your touch, and he groans, low and needy, capturing your lips in another kiss that’s deeper, hungrier, like he’s trying to pour every unspoken word into you.

His hands are bolder now, one cupping your face, the other roaming your back, fingers tracing the curve of your spine, teasing the edge of your bra. You’re trembling, overwhelmed but not hesitant, not with him. You want this, want him, want to finally let go of the distance you’ve been keeping for years.

You pull him closer, your lips parting for him, and he takes it, his tongue sliding against yours, slow and deliberate, making you melt into him.

The bed is behind you, the sheets rumpled and inviting, and you’re so close to falling into it, to letting this moment swallow you whole. His body presses against yours, and you can feel his want, the evidence in the way he holds you, the way his breath catches when you shift against him.

Your hands slide down his shoulders, your nails grazing his skin, and he shudders, his lips breaking from yours to trail down your neck, hot and urgent, leaving sparks in their wake.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice muffled, rough with need. “No idea how long I’ve wanted you like this.” His hands are everywhere, one sliding up your thigh, the other still under your shirt, teasing higher, and you whimper, a sound you didn’t know you could make, your body acting on instinct, craving him.

You’re ready to give in, to let him take you wherever this leads, your shyness no match for the fire he’s lit inside you. You tug at his hair, pulling him back to your lips, and he groans, the kiss messier now, more desperate, like you’re both running out of time. Your heart is pounding, your skin burning under his touch, and you’re so close to saying yes, to letting go of everything that’s held you back—

Knock, knock, knock.

The sound is a gunshot, sharp and jarring, cutting through the haze of want. You freeze, your heart lurching, and Heeseung pulls back, his lips still hovering over yours, his breath ragged. “

Fuck,” he whispers, his voice strained, his eyes wide with the same shock you feel.

“Y/N! Heeseung!” Lia’s voice rings through the door, loud and teasing, dripping with amusement. “Fifteen minutes is up, you lovebirds! Get your asses back down here!”

The party’s noise creeps back in, muffled but undeniable, and the spell shatters. You’re both breathing hard, your hands still tangled in his hair, his still on your waist, but the moment’s gone, stolen by Lia’s relentless grin and the creak of the floorboards outside. You pull away, your face burning, your shyness rushing back but not enough to regret what just happened. You fumble for your shirt, smoothing it down, your hands trembling as you try to catch your breath.

Heeseung runs a hand through his hair, his jaw tight, his eyes locked on you like he’s not ready to let this go. “Y/N,” he starts, his voice soft but urgent, and you meet his gaze, your heart still racing.

There’s no fear in you now, no worry about what this could mean for you and Lia, for your friendship, for everything. You just want him, and you’re tired of pretending you don’t.

“We should go,” you say, your voice quiet but steady, and it’s not because you want to stop, but because you know Lia’s not going anywhere until you open that door. You’re still shy, still prone to blushing under his gaze, but there’s a new certainty in you, a spark that wasn’t there before.

Heeseung nods, slow and reluctant, his eyes never leaving yours. “This isn’t over,” he says, his voice low, a promise that makes your stomach flip. “You know that, right?”

You nod, because you do know. You’ve known it since that first summer, since the first time his voice made your heart skip. You open the door, slipping out, and Heeseung follows, his presence a warm shadow at your back.

Downstairs, the party’s still alive, music pulsing, laughter spilling over like the soju on the table.

Lia’s waiting at the bottom of the stairs, her arms crossed, her smirk so sharp it could slice through the tension between you and Heeseung. “Well, damn,” she says, her eyes flicking between your flushed cheeks and Heeseung’s messy hair. “That was a long fifteen minutes. Have fun?”

You want to melt into the floor, your shyness making you shrink under her gaze, but you force a smile, muttering, “Shut up, Lia.” Your voice is too high, too shaky, and she cackles, loud and delighted, like she’s just won the lottery.

Heeseung’s cooler, leaning against the banister with a shrug. “Just talking,” he says, his voice smooth, but there’s a glint in his eyes that dares her to push. Lia raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it, and you know she’s going to grill you later, but for now, she just laughs, shaking her head.

The game moves on, someone else taking the hot seat, but you’re barely present, your mind still upstairs, replaying the feel of Heeseung’s lips, the way his hands burned against your skin.

You sit back on the couch, your cup forgotten in your hands, stealing glances at him across the room. He’s back against the wall, laughing with his cousins, but his eyes find yours every few minutes, quick and knowing, like a secret you’re both guarding.

The night drags on, the party growing louder, drunker, but you’re sober now, the buzz of alcohol replaced by the buzz of him. Lia’s watching you like a hawk, her teasing playful but relentless. “You’re so red,” she whispers, poking your cheek, and you swat her hand away, muttering something about the heat, but she’s not fooled. “You and Heeseung, huh? I knew it. I fucking knew it.”

“Stop,” you hiss, but you’re smiling, because you’re not afraid anymore.

You want this, want him, and Lia’s teasing feels like permission, like she’s cheering you on even if she won’t say it outright. She leans back, sipping her drink, her eyes glinting with mischief, and you know she’s not done meddling.

Hours later, the party starts to wind down, people stumbling home or crashing on couches. You’re exhausted, your shyness making the chaos draining, but you don’t want to leave, not when Heeseung’s still here, his presence pulling you like gravity.

You’re helping Lia clean up, tossing empty cups into a trash bag, when Heeseung finds you in the kitchen, the house quieter now, the air softer.

“Hey,” he says, leaning against the counter, his voice low, just for you. “You okay?”

You nod, your heart racing again, your shyness flaring under his gaze but not enough to stop you. “Yeah,” you say, focusing on the cups in your hands to steady yourself. “Just… a lot, you know?”

He steps closer, and you feel it—the heat of him, the pull that’s been there since that first summer. “About upstairs,” he starts, and your breath catches, because you’re ready to hear it, ready to dive back into that moment. “I meant what I said, Y/N. This isn’t just tonight for me.”

Your hands tremble, and you set the cups down, finally meeting his gaze. His eyes are serious, no trace of the teasing boy from earlier, just raw, unguarded want.

“Heeseung,” you say, your voice shaky but full of longing, “I want this too. I’ve wanted it for so long.”

His breath hitches, and he steps closer, his hand reaching for yours, his fingers brushing yours, warm and sure. “Then let’s do this,” he says, his voice soft but steady. “No hiding, no running. Just… us.”

You nod, your throat tight, because it’s everything you’ve ever dreamed of, and for once, you’re not afraid of what it means.

You’re ready, shy but certain, ready to let Heeseung be more than a crush, more than a secret. He squeezes your hand, just for a second, then lets go, his smile soft and promising.

Lia finds you a minute later, her eyes narrowed but playful. “You two are so obvious,” she says, tossing a sponge at you.

"Go sleep, Lia." Heeseung says as shej shrugs.

“Just makeout already.” She laughs, shaking her head, and heads upstairs, her voice trailing behind her like a blessing.

Lia’s voice—“Just makeout already”—lingers like a melody, a spark tossed into the dry kindling of your heart. She’s gone now, her footsteps fading up the stairs, her laughter a soft echo in the beach house’s quiet corridors.

The kitchen is still, save for the hum of the fridge and the distant pulse of the party winding down in the living room. You’re standing there, trash bag forgotten, your skin tingling with the memory of Heeseung’s kiss, your heart a quiet storm of longing and courage.

Heeseung’s watching you from across the counter, his eyes a warm, molten hazel that seem to hold the night itself. His black tank top hugs his frame, his hair a soft mess, and there’s a gentleness in his gaze that makes your shyness feel like a strength, not a cage.

He’s not just Lia’s cousin, not just the boy who’s haunted your dreams for four summers. He’s the one who sees you, who’s always seen you, and tonight, you’re done letting that slip through your fingers.

“You’re blushing,” he says, his voice soft, a thread of amusement woven through it. He steps closer, the space between you shrinking, and it’s like the air shifts, charged with something new—not the frantic heat from upstairs, but something deeper, like a promise waiting to be spoken.

You laugh, a shy, breathy sound, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Can you blame me?” you say, your voice quieter than you mean, but it’s steady, anchored by the truth you’ve carried for years. “You’re standing there looking like… like you.”

Heeseung’s smile is slow, a crescent moon breaking through clouds. “Like me?” he teases, but there’s no edge to it, just a warmth that makes your chest ache. He’s closer now, close enough that you can smell his perfume again.“You’re gonna have to explain that one, Y/N.”

You bite your lip, your shyness bubbling up, but you push through it, meeting his gaze. “Like you’re everything I’ve been thinking about since I was eighteen,” you say, and it’s not a grand declaration, but it’s yours, raw and honest, laid bare in the dim light of the kitchen.

His breath catches, and for a moment, he’s still, his eyes searching yours like he’s memorizing this moment, this you.

“You have no idea,” he says, his voice low, almost a whisper, “how many nights I’ve thought about you. How many times I saw you laughing with Lia, or reading on the porch, and wanted to tell you how much you got under my skin.”

Your heart stumbles, full and heavy, because it’s not just words—it’s the truth you’ve felt in every glance, every brush of his hand, every summer you spent pretending you didn’t love him. “Then tell me now,” you say, your voice trembling but sure, your shyness a soft edge to your bravery. “Show me.”

He doesn’t hesitate. Heeseung closes the distance, his hands finding your face, cupping your cheeks like you’re something precious, something holy. His lips meet yours, and it’s not the desperate crash from upstairs—it’s slow, deliberate, a vow pressed into every gentle movement.

You sigh into him, your hands sliding to his shoulders, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart under your touch. The kiss deepens, his tongue brushing yours, and it’s like a song you’ve always known but never dared to sing.

He pulls back, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your lips. “I love you, Y/N,” he says, and it’s not a confession thrown into the heat of the moment—it’s a truth he’s carried as long as you have, laid bare in the quiet of the night. “I’ve loved you every summer, every moment you were here, every moment you weren’t.”

Your eyes sting, not from sadness but from the weight of it, the beauty of finally hearing what you’ve dreamed of. “I love you too,” you whisper, and it’s like letting go of a breath you’ve held for years. “I’ve loved you since that first day, when you smiled at me and I forgot how to breathe.”

He laughs, soft and bright, and it’s the sound of everything falling into place. “Then we’ve been idiots, haven’t we?” he says, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you closer. “Wasting all this time.”

“No more wasting,” you say, your shyness fading under the certainty of this moment, this love. You kiss him again, bolder now, your hands tangling in his hair, tugging him closer. He groans, a low, needy sound that sends a shiver through you, and you press yourself against him, feeling the hard lines of his body, the warmth that’s all him.

“Let’s go upstairs,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice rough with want, and you nod, your heart racing but not with fear—only anticipation, only him. You take his hand, leading him through the quiet house, the party a distant hum, the world narrowing to just you two.

The stairs creak under your feet, the hallway dim and intimate, and you push open the guest room door, the moonlight spilling across the bed like an invitation.

Inside, Heeseung’s hands are on you again, but it’s different now—less frantic, more reverent, like he’s worshiping every inch of you. He kisses you slow, deep, his tongue teasing yours until you’re dizzy, your hands clutching his shoulders for balance.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, his voice soft, his lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, the sensitive spot below your ear. “Always have been.”

You blush, your shyness peeking through, but you don’t pull away. “You too,” you say, your hands sliding down his chest, tugging at his tank top.

He lifts his arms, letting you pull it off, and you pause, taking in the sight of him—his skin golden in the moonlight, his muscles lean and defined, his eyes dark with love and want. You touch him, your fingers tracing the lines of his collarbone, his ribs, and he shudders, like your touch is a flame against his skin.

He reaches for your shirt, his eyes asking permission, and you nod, lifting your arms. He pulls it off, slow and careful, his gaze drinking you in—the lacy bra you wore tonight, the soft curve of your waist. “God,” he breathes, his hands hovering, like he’s afraid to touch something so perfect. “You’re unreal.”

You laugh, shy but warm, and pull him closer, kissing him to silence his awe. His hands find your skin, warm and sure, sliding up your back, unhooking your bra with a gentleness that makes your heart ache.

You let it fall, and his eyes darken, his breath hitching as he takes you in. He kisses you again, his hands cupping your breasts, his thumbs brushing your nipples, and you gasp, the sensation sharp and electric, pooling low in your stomach.

Heeseung’s lips trail down, following the path of his hands, kissing your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breast. He takes a nipple into his lips, soft at first, then a teasing bite that makes you moan, your fingers tightening in his hair.

“Heeseung,” you whisper, his name a plea, and he hums against your skin, the vibration sending sparks through you.

“Love hearing you say my name like that he murmurs, his voice low, as he moves to your other breast, giving it the same care, the same devotion. You’re trembling now, your shyness a soft edge to the overwhelming want, and he notices, pulling back to meet your eyes. “You okay?” he asks, his hands still on your hips, grounding you.

“More than okay,” you say, your voice is quiet but sure, and you tug him back, kissing him hard, letting him know you’re not stopping, not now, not ever.

Your hands find his shorts, fumbling with the button, and he helps you, sliding them off, leaving him in just his boxers. You can feel him, hard and wanting, and it makes you blush, but you don’t shy away—you want this, want him, and you’re ready to take it.

Heeseung’s hands slide to your shorts, his fingers brushing the waistband, and he looks at you, his eyes asking, always asking. “Yes,” you whisper, and he undoes them, slow and careful, sliding them down your legs.

You step out, left in your panties, and he groans, low and soft, his hands gripping your hips like he’s anchoring himself.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he says, his voice rough, but there’s love in it, a tenderness that makes your heart swell. He kisses you again, guiding you backward until your legs hit the bed, and you sit, then lie back, pulling him with you. He hovers over you, his weight a comforting press, his eyes searching yours.

“I love you,” he says again, like he needs you to know, and you nod, your hands cupping his face, your thumbs brushing his cheeks.

“I love you too,” you say, and it’s a vow, a truth that’s been yours forever. You kiss him, soft and deep, and he shifts, his hands sliding to your panties, tugging gently.

You lift your hips, letting him pull them off, and then you’re bare, vulnerable but not afraid, not with him.

Heeseung’s eyes rake over you, reverent, like you’re a work of art he’s afraid to touch. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he says, and you blush, your shyness peeking through, but you reach for him, pulling him down, needing his skin against yours.

He kisses you, his hands roaming, one sliding between your thighs, finding you wet and wanting. You gasp, your hips bucking into his touch, and he groans, his fingers teasing, slow and deliberate.

“So good for me,” he murmurs, his lips on your neck, his fingers circling, and you’re trembling, your shyness melting under the heat of his touch.

He slides a finger inside your cunt, then another, and you moan, your hands clutching his shoulders, your body arching into him. He moves slow, learning you, watching your face, and you feel seen, cherished, loved.

“Heeseung, please,” you whisper, your voice shaky with need, and he kisses you, soft and deep, before pulling back, his eyes dark with want.

“Want to taste you,” he says, his voice rough, and your breath catches, your shyness flaring but not enough to stop you. You nod, and he moves lower, his lips trailing down your stomach, your hips, until he’s between your thighs, his breath warm against you.

He kisses your inner thigh, soft and teasing, and then his mouth is on you, and you’re gone, your hands fisting the sheets, your moans soft and desperate.

He’s slow, deliberate, his tongue teasing, tasting, and you’re trembling, your shyness forgotten as you lose yourself in him. “Fuck, Heeseung,” you gasp, and he groans, the vibration sending you higher, closer to the edge.

He doesn’t stop, his hands gripping your hips, holding you in place as you fall apart, your orgasm crashing over you like a wave, leaving you breathless, shaking.

He kisses his way back up, his lips soft against your skin, until he’s hovering over you again, his eyes searching yours. “You’re so beautiful,” he says, and you blush, your shyness returning, but you pull him down, kissing him, tasting yourself on his lips.

“I want you,” you whisper, your voice quiet but sure, and he nods, his hands sliding to his boxers, pushing them off. You glance down, blushing at the sight of him, hard and ready, and he chuckles, soft and warm, kissing your cheek.

“We’ll go slow,” he says, his voice gentle, and you nod, trusting him, loving him,“You sure?” he asks, one last time, and you nod, pulling him closer.

“I’m sure,” you say, and he kisses you, deep and slow, as his cock teases your entrance before he presses into you, inch by inch, filling you. You gasp, your hands clutching his shoulders, the stretch intense but perfect, and he pauses, letting you adjust, his lips on your forehead, your cheek, your lips.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice tight, like he’s holding himself back, and you nod, your hands sliding to his back, pulling him closer.

Heeseung’s lips are still on yours, his breath a ragged hymn against your skin as he presses himself deeper, filling you with a slow, deliberate stretch that makes your toes curl. You gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders, the intensity of him—hot, hard, and wholly yours—sending sparks through every nerve. He pauses, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes half-lidded with restraint and reverence. “You okay?” he murmurs, voice tight, like he’s leashing a storm for your sake.

“More than okay,” you whisper, your shyness a faint tremor beneath the molten want in your voice. You pull him closer, your legs wrapping around his hips, urging him deeper, and he groans, low and guttural, the sound igniting something primal in you. Your hands slide down his back, nails grazing his skin, and he shudders, his control fraying as you give yourself to him, no more walls, no more fear.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he rasps, his lips trailing to your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, a claim that makes you moan, soft and needy. “You feel so fucking good. So tight, so perfect.” His hips move, slow at first, a deep, grinding rhythm that has you arching into him, your breath hitching with every thrust. Your shyness lingers in the way you bite your lip, but it’s no match for the fire he’s stoking, the way he’s unraveling you with every touch, every word.

“Harder,” you breathe, surprising yourself, your voice a plea wrapped in courage. You’ve never been bold, never been loud, but with Heeseung, you want to shatter every quiet corner of yourself. His eyes snap to yours, dark and hungry, a flicker of surprise giving way to a smirk that’s pure sin.

“Harder?” he echoes, voice low, teasing, like he’s daring you to mean it. You nod, your cheeks burning, and he grips your hips tighter, fingers bruising in the best way. “You sure, baby? ‘Cause once I start, I’m not holding back.” The pet name drips from his lips like honey, and you clench around him, a whimper escaping before you can stop it.

“Please,” you beg, your hands clutching his shoulders, your body trembling with need. “I want you, Heeseung. All of you.”

That’s all it takes. His restraint snaps, and he thrusts deeper, harder, the bed creaking under the force of him. You moan, loud and unrestrained, your head tipping back into the pillow as he fucks you with a rhythm that’s relentless, possessive, like he’s claiming every inch of you. “That’s it,” he growls, his voice rough, his lips brushing your ear. “Let me hear you, Y/N. Let me know how good I make you feel.”

You’re lost in him, your shyness drowned by the pleasure, your body moving with his, meeting every thrust, chasing the high that’s building, burning. His cock hits a spot inside you that makes you see stars, and you cry out, your nails raking down his back, leaving marks he’ll feel tomorrow. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groans, his hand sliding between you, fingers finding your clit, circling with a precision that has you trembling, so close to the edge you can taste it.

“Cum for me, baby,” he murmurs, his lips on your neck, his fingers relentless, and you’re gone, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave, pulling you under. You clench around him, moaning his name, your body shaking as he fucks you through it, his thrusts slowing but never stopping, drawing out every last shudder.

He’s still hard, still moving, and you’re panting, oversensitive but wanting more, wanting him to feel what you’re feeling. You push at his chest, your shyness peeking through but not stopping you, and he pulls back, eyes questioning. “My turn,” you whisper, voice shaky but sure, and his breath hitches, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“Fuck, yes,” he says, rolling onto his back, pulling you with him until you’re straddling his hips, his cock slick and hard beneath you. You blush, your hands trembling as you brace them on his chest, but his gaze is steady, encouraging, like he’s handing you the reins. “Ride me, Y/N. Show me how you want it.”

You’ve never done this, never been on top, and your shyness makes you hesitate, but Heeseung’s hands are on your hips, guiding you, his voice a low rumble. “You got this,” he says, and you believe him, lifting yourself, positioning him at your entrance, and sinking down, inch by inch, until he’s buried deep. You both groan, the angle intense, and you pause, adjusting, your breath ragged.

“God, you look so fucking good like this,” he says, his hands roaming your thighs, your waist, his eyes dark with want. “Move, baby. Take what you need.”

You start slow, rocking your hips, finding a rhythm that makes your toes curl, his cock hitting deep, perfect. His hands grip your hips, not controlling, just grounding, and you move faster, bolder, the pleasure building again, hotter, sharper. “That’s it,” he groans, his head tipping back, his throat a taut line you want to kiss, to bite. “Fuck, you’re gonna kill me, Y/N.”

You lean forward, your hands on his chest, your lips finding his in a messy, desperate kiss, all teeth and tongue as you ride him harder, chasing your high, chasing his. His hands slide to your ass, squeezing, guiding you faster, and he groans, low and broken, his control slipping. “Fuck, I’m close,” he rasps, his hips bucking up to meet you, driving deeper, and you moan, your own climax building, so close you can feel it in your bones.

“Cum inside me,” you whisper, the words slipping out before you can think, your shyness buried under the raw need to feel him, all of him. His eyes widen, a flicker of hesitation, but you shake your head, kissing him hard.

He groans, a sound that’s almost pained, and thrusts up harder, his hands bruising your hips as he chases his release. “You sure?” he gasps, voice tight, and you nod, desperate, your lips on his jaw, his neck, begging without words. He thrusts once, twice, and then he’s gone, spilling inside you with a groan that shakes you, his body trembling beneath you. The feel of him, hot and deep, pushes you over the edge again, and you cum with him, clenching tight, moaning into his mouth as you ride out the waves together.

You collapse against him, your breath ragged, your heart pounding against his, and he wraps his arms around you, holding you close, his lips soft against your forehead. “Fuck, Y/N,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, laced with awe. “You’re everything.”

You blush, your shyness creeping back, but you smile, nuzzling into his chest, his heartbeat a steady anchor. “You too,” you whisper, and it’s quiet, but it’s enough, a vow in the moonlight.

He shifts, pulling out gently, and you whimper at the loss, but he’s quick to grab a tissue from the nightstand, cleaning you both with a care that makes your heart ache. He pulls you back into his arms, the bed creaking under you, the moonlight painting your skin in silver. “We’re doing this,” he says, voice firm, a promise against your hair. “You and me. No more games.”

You nod, your cheek against his chest, his warmth seeping into you. “No more games,” you echo, and it’s a truth you’ve carried for years, finally free.

The next morning, the beach house is a ghost of last night’s chaos, sunlight streaming through the windows, the air smelling of coffee and salt. You’re in the kitchen, pouring a mug, your hair a mess, Heeseung’s shirt dwarfing your frame. Your shyness is back, a soft flush on your cheeks as you catch your reflection, but there’s a glow in your eyes, a secret you’re carrying from the night before.

Lia stumbles in, her curls wild, her grin sharper than the sunlight. “Well, well,” she says, leaning against the counter, her eyes flicking from your shirt to your face. “Look who’s wearing Heeseung’s clothes. You two finally stop dancing around each other?”

You choke on your coffee, your face burning, but you laugh, shy but warm. “Shut up, Lia,” you mumble, but there’s no heat in it, just love. She cackles, throwing an arm around you, hugging you tight.

“Fucking finally,” she says, her voice softer now, sincere. “You’re good for him, Y/N. And he’s crazy about you. I’m happy.”

“Thanks,” you whisper, your throat tight, because her words mean everything. She pulls back, grabbing her own mug, still smirking, and you know she’ll tease you forever, but it’s hers, it’s family.

Heeseung appears a moment later, hair damp from a shower, his smile soft and private as he sees you in his shirt. “Morning,” he says, voice low, and he leans down, kissing your temple like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Lia gags dramatically, but she’s grinning, already pulling out her phone, probably to text her cousins the gossip.

“Get a room,” she says, but she’s laughing, heading out to the porch, leaving you and Heeseung in the quiet kitchen. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you against him, and you lean into him, your shyness a soft glow, your love a steady flame.

“Told you,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear. “This isn’t going to make everything we have over.”

You smile, turning to kiss him, slow and sweet, the taste of coffee and him mingling on your tongue. “Good,” you whisper, and it’s a promise, a truth, a love that’s finally yours.

@heesvnqie | Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or repost any of my work

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Every Stage, Always-Shim Jaeyun

pairing: shim jaeyun!jake x reader genre: lovers to ex to enemies to lovers, smut, angst warnings: explicit sexual content,unprotected sex (wrap it up irl!), oral (m & f receiving), rough intimacy, overstimulation, possessive themes word count: 5k

The auditorium at Seoul National University smelled of polished wood and anticipation, its velvet curtains swaying as students milled about, scripts in hand, voices bouncing off the high ceilings. You stood near the stage, your clipboard a lifeline, your heart a traitor as you scanned the cast list for the spring production of Romeo and Juliet. As a theater major, this was your domain—every prop, cue, and line a puzzle you solved with precision.

But when your eyes landed on the lead roles—Romeo: Jake Shim, Juliet: Y/N—you felt the air leave your lungs, your stomach twisting with a mix of dread and something you refused to name.

Shim Jaeyun, none other than Jake, your ex, your rival, the boy who’d broken your heart at seventeen, was now your romantic lead. The universe, it seemed, had a cruel sense of humor.

You and Jake had grown up in Busan, your high school years a blur of stolen glances and whispered promises. He was the soccer star with a golden-brown mop of hair, an Australian accent that made your knees weak, and a lopsided grin that felt like home. You were the quiet theater kid, your world scripts and spotlights, until Jake noticed you during a school play, his applause louder than anyone’s.

By sixteen, you were inseparable—late-night drives to the beach, his hand in yours, his lips soft against yours under a pier, promising forever. “You’re my star,” he’d whisper, his accent curling around the words, and you believed him, your heart his entirely.

But senior year changed everything. You’d caught Jake at a party, his arm around another girl, her laughter sharp as glass. You’d confronted him, tears streaming, and he’d denied it, his voice frantic, but the girl’s smug smile told you enough. You called him a liar, he called you paranoid, and you walked away, your heart shattered. He left for Seoul the next week, his family moving, and you swore you’d never forgive him. When you both ended up at SNU—him a music major, you in theater—the wound reopened. Jake was a campus heartthrob, his band ENHYPEN packing venues, his charm melting everyone but you.

You avoided him, but he was everywhere—strumming his guitar in the quad, flirting in the cafeteria, his laugh a knife in your chest.

Your rivalry was subtle but vicious. In shared gen-ed classes, you’d outdo each other on essays, your answers sharp, his retorts laced with a teasing edge. “Still trying to outshine me, Y/N?” he’d say, his eyes lingering, something unspoken flickering. You’d snap, “Only to show you’re not special,” but his grin made your skin prickle, your dreams haunted by his lips, his hands, leaving you restless and aching. You hated him—hated his ease, his betrayal, the way he made you feel alive and broken all at once—but you couldn’t escape him, not now, not with this play.

Rehearsals began, and the tension was palpable. The director, Professor Kim, a no-nonsense woman with a knack for drama, paired you and Jake for every scene, insisting on “authentic chemistry.” You stood on stage, script trembling in your hands, as Jake leaned against a prop balcony, his black t-shirt hugging his chest, jeans low on his hips, his grin infuriatingly relaxed. “Ready to fall for me, Juliet?” he teased, his accent thick, his voice low, making your stomach flutter despite yourself. “In your dreams, Romeo,” you muttered, voice softer than you meant, your cheeks warm.

The cast watched, sensing the history crackling between you. Sunoo, a bubbly freshman playing Mercutio, whispered to Riki, “They’re gonna kill each other or kiss.” You ignored them, focusing on your lines, but Jake made it impossible. He’d step closer than needed, his hand brushing yours during a scene, his fingers lingering, sending sparks through you. “My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand,” he’d recite, his face inches from yours, his breath warm, his eyes locked on your lips. You’d falter, your voice shaky, hating how your body reacted, how your thighs clenched at his voice.

Offstage, he was worse. In the green room, he’d sprawl on a couch, his guitar in his lap, teasing you about your stage fright. “Need me to hold your hand, Y/N?” he’d say, his hand grazing your knee as he passed you a water bottle, the touch deliberate, making your pulse race. You’d flush, muttering, “Keep your hands to yourself,” but your body betrayed you, tingling where he touched, your heart a traitor. Sunoo noticed, smirking, “You two fight like an old married couple,” and you’d glare, but Jake’s laugh—warm, low, infectious—made you weak.

Complicating things was Heeseung, a senior theater major playing Paris, who’d taken a shine to you. He was tall, kind, and talented, his smiles soft, his offers to run lines over coffee persistent. “You don’t need Jake’s drama,” he’d say, his hand on your shoulder, and you’d smile, unsure, but Jake’s jaw would tighten, his eyes darkening when he saw you together. “She’s fine with me,” Jake would say, his voice low, his hand brushing your lower back, possessive, making your stomach flip. You hated how it thrilled you, how you craved his touch, hated the memories it stirred—nights under stars, his lips on yours, promises broken.

The weeks blurred, rehearsals a battlefield of tension and longing. You and Jake were forced to run the balcony scene alone one evening, the auditorium empty, the stage lit by a single spotlight. You stood on the prop balcony, your heart pounding, as Jake climbed up, his movements fluid, his eyes intense. “O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?” you recited, your voice shaky, his gaze pinning you, making you forget your lines. He stepped closer, his hand brushing your cheek, unscripted, his thumb tracing your jaw. “Deny thy father and refuse thy name,” he murmured, his voice rough, his lips inches from yours, and you froze, your breath catching, your body humming with want.

After rehearsal, you stayed late, organizing props to calm your nerves, but Jake lingered, strumming his guitar backstage. “You’re avoiding me,” he said, his voice soft, his accent curling around the words, making your stomach flutter. You turned, your hands trembling, and saw him leaning against a set piece, his hair messy, his t-shirt clinging to his chest. “I’m working,” you mumbled, but he stepped closer, his knee brushing yours as he sat on a prop table, his scent—clean, musky, with a hint of mint—wrapping around you.

“Still hate me?” he asked, his eyes searching, something vulnerable flickering. You swallowed, your throat tight, memories flooding back—his lips on yours, his betrayal, the silence that followed. “You know why,” you said, voice softer than you meant, and his grin faded, his hand reaching for yours, his fingers brushing your knuckles, sending sparks through you. “I never meant to hurt you,” he murmured, his voice rough, but you pulled away, your heart racing, your body aching for him despite everything.

The gala’s stakes loomed—your internship depended on the play’s success, Jake’s band needed the exposure, and the campus buzzed with rumors about your chemistry.

Heeseung’s attention grew, his smiles warmer, but he wasn’t Jake, and you hated how you compared them, how Jake’s touch lingered in your dreams, his voice low and teasing, leaving you restless. You were a mess, caught between past and present, hate and want, and Jake was the storm at the center, pulling you in.

As Juliet, you poured yourself into the role, but Jake’s Romeo was a torment—his every line, every glance, every touch a spark that threatened to ignite years of buried longing and pain.

Professor Kim, relentless in her pursuit of perfection, pushed you and Jake harder, her voice cutting through the auditorium: “Feel the love, not just the words!” You wanted to scream that love was the problem, that Jake’s nearness made your heart a traitor, but you bit your tongue, your script trembling in your hands.

The weeks leading to the gala were a crucible, each rehearsal forging new cracks in your resolve. The auditorium at Seoul National University became your battleground, the scent of polished wood and the hum of stage lights a constant reminder of Jake Shim’s presence.

Jake was relentless, his charm a weapon honed by years apart. During a blocking session for the Capulet ball scene, he twirled you across the stage, his hand firm on your waist, his body closer than the choreography demanded. “If I profane with my unworthiest hand,” he recited, his accent thick, his voice low, his fingers grazing your palm, lingering too long. His eyes locked on yours, a flicker of something raw beneath the teasing, and you stumbled, your breath catching, your thighs clenching at the heat in his gaze. “Focus, Y/N,” he murmured, unscripted, his lips twitching into a grin, and you flushed, muttering, “You’re the one improvising,” your voice softer than you meant, your pulse racing.

Offstage, the tension bled into every interaction. In the green room, Jake would sprawl across a couch, his guitar strumming softly, his t-shirt clinging to his chest, his jeans low, drawing your eyes despite yourself. He’d catch you looking, his grin wicked. “Need a private rehearsal, Juliet?” he’d tease, his hand brushing your knee as he handed you a coffee, the touch deliberate, sending a shiver through you.

You’d pull away, muttering, “Keep it professional,” but your body betrayed you, tingling where he touched, your heart a mess.

Sunoo, ever observant, smirked, whispering to Riki, “They’re one argument away from making out,” and you’d glare, but Jake’s laugh—warm, low, infectious—made you weak, stirring memories of Busan beaches and broken promises.

Heeseung’s presence added fuel to the fire. The senior playing Paris was relentless, his kindness a stark contrast to Jake’s chaos. He’d linger after rehearsals, offering to run lines, his smiles soft, his hand brushing your shoulder.

“You deserve better than Jake’s games,” he’d say, his voice earnest, and you’d nod, unsure, your heart torn.

Jake noticed, his jaw tightening, his eyes darkening when he saw you with Heeseung. “What’s with you and Paris?” he’d ask, his voice low, his hand grazing your lower back as he passed, possessive, making your stomach flip. “None of your business,” you’d mutter, but his touch lingered, thrilling and terrifying, pulling you back to nights under stars, his lips on yours.

You stayed late again, organizing props to steady your nerves, but Jake lingered, his guitar case slung over his shoulder, his presence inescapable. “You’re avoiding me again,” he said, leaning against a set piece, his voice soft, making your stomach flutter.

You turned, your hands trembling, his hoodie clinging to his chest, his hair messy, his scent—clean, musky, with a hint of mint—wrapping around you. “I’m working. Can't you see?” you mumbled, but he stepped closer, his knee brushing yours as he sat on a prop table, the contact warm, deliberate.

“Even still hate me?” he asked, his eyes searching, a flicker of vulnerability beneath the tease. "You know why, Shim,” you said, voice softer than you meant, and his grin faded, his hand reaching for yours, his fingers brushing your knuckles, sending sparks through you. “I never cheated though,” he said, his voice rough, his eyes locking on yours, raw and urgent. “That girl at the party—she was my cousin’s friend, playing a stupid prank. I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen. I never wanted anyone else, Y/N.”

The words hit like a punch, stealing your breath, your heart lurching. “Stop lying,” you whispered, but doubt crept in, your voice trembling, your eyes stinging. He stepped closer, his hand cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin, his touch gentle but electric. “I’m not,” he said, his voice low, his accent thick, his eyes pleading. “I loved you. I still—” You yanked away, your chest heaving, anger and hurt surging. “Don’t,” you snapped, your voice rising, sharp and raw, the first time Jake had ever heard you shout. “You don’t get to say that after leaving me, after breaking me!”

His eyes widened, shock flickering, but he didn’t back down, stepping closer, his voice urgent. “You think I wanted to leave? My dad’s job dragged us to Seoul! I called, I wrote, but you blocked me, Y/N. You shut me out!” Your hands shook, tears spilling, your voice cracking as you shouted, “Because I saw you with her! You broke my heart, Jake!” The auditorium echoed with your words, the cast’s whispers fading backstage, Sunoo and Riki peeking from the wings, sensing the storm.

Jake’s jaw tightened, his hands clenching, his voice dropping to a growl. “I never touched her! You believed a lie over me, and you’re still too stubborn to hear the truth!” You laughed, bitter and sharp, your voice a blade. “Stubborn? You’re the one who moved on, living your perfect life while I picked up the pieces!” He stepped closer, his body inches from yours, his eyes blazing, his voice raw. “Perfect? I was a mess without you, Y/N. Every song I write, every fucking note—it’s all you!”

You froze, your breath catching, his words cutting through your anger, your heart pounding. He was too close, his scent overwhelming, his eyes searching yours, and you felt it—the pull, the want, the love you’d buried. “Stop,” you whispered, voice breaking, but he didn’t, his hand brushing your arm, his touch sending sparks through you. “I can’t,” he said, his voice rough, his accent curling around the words, making you weak. “I never stopped loving you.”

You turned away, tears streaming, your body trembling with rage and longing, the fight leaving you raw. “I need air,” you muttered, storming out, leaving Jake standing alone, his chest heaving, his eyes following you, the weight of your history heavy in the air. The gala loomed, the play’s success tied to your chemistry, but this fight—this truth—changed everything, leaving you teetering on the edge of hate and love, unsure which would win.

The fight with Jake left you reeling, his words—“I never cheated,” “I never stopped loving you”—carving fault lines through your heart. The gala loomed, a high-stakes spectacle at Seoul National University, and rehearsals for Romeo and Juliet grew feverish, the auditorium a crucible of tension and unspoken truths. Professor Kim, relentless in her pursuit of perfection, sensed the shift in your dynamic with Jake, her voice slicing through the chaos: “You’re lovers, not enemies! Make me believe it!” You wanted to confess that love was the problem—that Jake’s nearness set your soul ablaze, his revelation about the party a wound you didn’t know how to heal—but you swallowed the truth, your script a shield, your heart a traitor.

The cast buzzed with whispers, Sunoo’s sharp grin to Riki in the wings: “They’re a mess, but it’s theater gold.” Heeseung, the senior playing Paris, hovered closer, his concern shifting to warmth, his hand lingering on your shoulder after a grueling run-through. “Jake’s chaos, Y/N. You don’t need it,” he said, his eyes soft, his voice earnest. You forced a smile, nodding, but Jake’s gaze scorched from across the stage, his jaw tight, his script crumpling in his fist. “She’s got me,” he said, stepping closer, his voice low, his hand grazing your lower back, a possessive touch that sent a shiver through you. You pulled away, muttering, “I’m fine alone,” but his fingers lingered, a spark you couldn’t douse, pulling you back to Busan beaches, his lips on yours, promises broken.

Rehearsals were a tightrope, each scene with Jake a dance of restraint and fire. Practicing the Capulet ball sequence was agony—he twirled you across the stage, his hand firm on your waist, his body closer than the choreography required. His eyes locked on yours, a storm of want, his breath hitching, his body tensing as he pulled you closer, his chest brushing yours. You felt his heat, his pulse racing, his gaze dropping to your lips, a flicker of desperation in his eyes, and you knew—Jake was turned on, his body betraying him, not with an obvious bulge but with the tremble in his hands, the flush on his neck, the way he swallowed hard, fighting for control.

“Jake,” you whispered, voice shaky, stepping back, your cheeks burning, not with desire but with a flustered panic, overwhelmed by the intensity of his want. His hand tightened on yours, his eyes darkening, a flicker of embarrassment beneath the heat. “Just the scene, Y/N,” he murmured, unscripted, his voice rough, but the lie was thin, his body radiating need, making your head spin. You stumbled through your line, your heart pounding, and Professor Kim called a reset, her voice sharp, leaving you both breathless, the cast’s whispers humming in the wings: “They’re gonna break the stage.”

Offstage, Jake’s desire didn’t fade. “You’re making this hard, Y/N,” he’d tease, his accent curling around the words. You’d mutter, “Focus, Sim,” but his grin was wicked, his posture tense, his breath uneven, leaving you flustered, your heart a mess. Sunoo smirked, whispering to Riki, “He’s down bad,” and you glared, but Jake’s laugh—warm, low, infectious—stirred memories of stolen kisses, making you weak.

The tension crescendoed during a late-night rehearsal for the death scene, the auditorium empty, the stage bathed in a dim spotlight, the air thick with unspoken truths. Professor Kim had trusted you and Jake to refine the scene, the play’s emotional peak, and the solitude amplified everything—your fight, his revelation, the love you couldn’t bury. You lay on the stage, your Juliet still, your heart pounding as Jake knelt beside you, his Romeo grieving. “Here’s to my love!” he recited, his voice raw, his hand trembling as he mimed drinking poison, collapsing beside you. His knee brushed yours, his scent—clean, musky, with a hint of mint—enveloping you, and you stirred, your lines flowing, but his nearness was overwhelming, his body radiating heat.

“O true apothecary, thy drugs are quick,” you whispered, your voice breaking, your hand reaching for his face, unscripted, your fingers tracing his jaw. His eyes locked on yours, raw and vulnerable, his breath hitching, his body tensing, his hands gripping the stage floor, knuckles white, as he fought his arousal.

His gaze dropped to your lips, his chest heaving, a flush creeping up his neck, and you knew—Jake was unraveling, turned on by your closeness, your voice, the weight of your shared past, his body trembling with need, not just physical but emotional, a desperate craving for you.

“Y/N,” he growled, his voice rough, catching your wrist, his grip firm, his thumb brushing your pulse, racing under his touch. He pulled you closer, his other hand sliding to your waist, his fingers warm through your sweater, his body pressing against yours, his heat overwhelming. You gasped, a soft whimper escaping, not from desire but from the intensity of his want, your body trembling under his gaze, his eyes dark with need.

“I can’t fucking do this,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot, his voice thick with his accent, his body shaking with restraint. “You’re killing me, Y/N. Every second you’re near, I want you more.”

“Jake, stop,” you whispered, voice shaky, your eyes wide, but his hand tightened, his lips grazing your jaw, his breath uneven, his arousal evident in the tremor of his touch, the way he pressed closer, fighting for control.

“We can’t,” you stammered, your cheeks flushing, trying to pull back, but the wings were cramped, and he was too close, his body radiating need, making you bite your lip, flustered, your head spinning.

His hand slipped under your sweater, his fingers tracing your bare skin, inching toward your bra, his touch bold, driven by want, and you whimpered, not from arousal but from the force of his desire, your body pliant, your resolve crumbling.

“Can’t what?” he growled, his lips brushing your neck, his hand pulling you closer, his body trembling, his need consuming him.

“Can’t love you? Can’t want you so bad it hurts?” His voice was raw, his fingers slipping under your bra, teasing your nipple, and you gasped, your head falling back, your body trembling, overwhelmed by his intensity. He groaned, his control fraying, and he pushed you back, your body hitting a prop wall in the wings, his hands pinning you there, his body pressing against yours, his heat searing.

His lips crashed into yours, the kiss messy, desperate, all tongue and teeth, years of pain and love pouring out. He tasted like mint and summer, and you kissed him back, clumsy, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, not out of desire but out of need, the force of his want overwhelming, making you moan softly, flustered, your thighs trembling.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he groaned, pulling back to look at you, your sweater pushed up, your bra askew, your chest heaving. His eyes were wild, raking over you, his breath uneven, his hands trembling, his arousal a live wire, driving the moment. “I’ve wanted you since we were kids,” he said, his voice rough, his hands tearing at your jeans, yanking them down with your panties, the cool air hitting your skin making you gasp.

His fingers found you, slick despite your lack of arousal, and he groaned, low and filthy, his body trembling as he felt you, his need fueling the moment. “Jake,” you moaned, your voice shaky, your hands clutching his shoulders as his fingers slid inside you, two at first, curling just right, making your hips buck, not from want but from the sheer force of his touch. His body pressed closer, his chest heaving, his eyes locked on yours, his arousal evident in every tremor, every ragged breath, leaving you flustered, your body weak.

“Please daddy…” you whispered, your head spinning, overwhelmed by his intensity. “Please what?” he teased, his lips on your neck, sucking hard, leaving marks you’d hide tomorrow. His fingers pumped faster, his thumb circling your clit, and you cried out, your legs shaking, your body reacting despite yourself, overwhelmed by his need.

“Want me to take you? Want me to make you mine?” His voice was dirty, his body trembling, and you nodded, frantic, not out of desire but out of surrender, his want consuming you, your body his to command.

He pulled his fingers out, licking them clean with a groan that made you flush. He shoved his jeans down, his cock springing free—thick, hard, and pulsing with need, making you whimper, your thighs trembling at the sight, not with want but with shock at his intensity.

“Ready for me, Y/N?” he growled, his tip teasing your entrance, his voice thick with need, his body trembling. You moaned, nodding, your hands pulling at his shirt, desperate to feel him, not out of arousal but out of need, his desire overwhelming.

He slammed into you, filling you so deep you cried out, the stretch intense, the feel of his cock searing, making your body shake. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he groaned, his hands bruising your hips, his thrusts hard and fast, the prop wall rattling, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the wings.

“Jake,” you gasped, your nails digging into his back, your body trembling as he fucked you against the wall, each thrust deep, his cock pulsing, his arousal driving the moment, leaving you flustered, your moans broken and needy. His hand slid to your clit, rubbing fast, and you were overwhelmed, your body convulsing, an orgasm hitting not from desire but from the sheer intensity of his touch, your walls clenching around him, your legs shaking.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he groaned, his thrusts deep, his grip tightening as he chased his own release, your reaction pushing him over. He buried himself deep, his cock pulsing as he came, his groans raw, his lips pressing against your neck, kissing softly as he rode it out. You stayed there, pinned against the wall, panting, his body still inside you, his hands softening, tracing your hips, your thighs, like he couldn’t let go.

He pulled back, helping you stand, your legs wobbly, his eyes meeting yours, softer now, carrying the weight of your shared past. “I meant it,” he murmured, his voice low, his hand brushing your cheek, gentle. “I never cheated, Y/N. I never stopped loving you.” His accent was thick, his sincerity unraveling you, and you swallowed, tears pricking your eyes, the fight’s wounds healing, his truth sinking in.

“I believe you,” you whispered, your voice shaky, leaning into his touch. “I missed you, Jake. I… I love you.” His grin returned, soft and warm, and he kissed you, slow and deep, the heat tempered with trust, love, redemption. You lingered there, tangled in each other, the auditorium silent, the stage a witness to your reunion, your hearts aligning after years apart.

The days blurred, rehearsals a delicate dance of newfound trust and lingering heat. Jake was gentler, his touches softer but still charged, his eyes tracking you with a quiet intensity, his arousal subtler now—a glance, a tremor in his hand, a hitch in his breath.

Heeseung backed off, sensing the shift, but the cast buzzed, Sunoo grinning: “Knew they’d cave.” Riki too, giggled at Sunoo's comment.

Campus gossip swirled—someone had seen you leave the wings that night, your hair messy, Jake’s hoodie over your clothes, his hand too close—but you didn’t care, your heart full, your past mended.

The gala arrived, a dazzling spectacle in the university’s grand hall, the auditorium transformed with chandeliers, velvet drapes, and a sea of black-tie guests—donors, alumni, media.

You stood backstage, your Juliet gown—a flowing ivory masterpiece—shimmering under the lights, your nerves electric.

Jake appeared, his Romeo attire—black velvet doublet, fitted trousers—hugging his lean frame, his hair tousled, his grin nervous but warm. “My star,” he murmured, his accent curling around the old nickname, his hand brushing yours, grounding you, his eyes flickering with a quiet want, his body tensing as he stood close.

The performance was transcendent, your chemistry a living flame, every line laced with love, every touch real. The balcony scene drew gasps, the death scene tears, your final kiss in the tomb—Jake’s lips soft, urgent, a vow—leaving the audience spellbound.

As the curtain call loomed, you and Jake stood center stage, the spotlight warm, the crowd roaring. He turned to you, unscripted, his eyes locked on yours, a flicker of that same arousal in his gaze, tempered now by love.

He leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a slow, deep kiss, not just Romeo and Juliet’s but Jake and Y/N’s, a promise sealed under the gala’s stars. The audience erupted, cheers drowning your racing heart, and you smiled against his lips, your hands entwined, your love reborn.

Backstage, after the bows, Jake pulled you into the wings, his arms around you, his lips on your forehead. “Forever, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice rough, his accent thick, his body warm against yours, a quiet tremor betraying his want, now softened by trust.

You nodded, tears falling, your heart his. The gala raised millions, your internship was secured, Jake’s band soared, but the real triumph was you—lovers, no longer rivals, two souls aligned.

Nights became yours—his loft, your dorm, the stage after hours—each one tender, raw, and laced with love. Jake Shim was your past, your present, your future, and you’d kiss him on every stage, always.

@heesvnqie | Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or repost any of my work

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Against The Door- Yang Jungwon

pairing: yang jungwon x reader genre: enemies to lovers, smut warnings: explicit sexual content,unprotected sex (wrap it up irl!), oral (m & f receiving), rough intimacy, overstimulation, possessive themes word count: 2k a/n: Since y'all loved the Sunghoon one, a jungwon one for my won girls! Make sure to follow, lots of ffs coming actively!

The first time you met Yang Jungwon, you wanted to wipe the smug grin off his face. It was freshman orientation at Seoul National University, and he was already the center of attention—lean frame, sharp jawline, dark hair falling just messy enough to look intentional, and eyes that sparkled with a mischief that screamed trouble. He stood on the auditorium stage, delivering a speech as the newly elected student council rep, his voice smooth as silk, every word calculated to charm.

You were in the crowd, arms crossed, unimpressed by the way everyone hung on his every syllable like he was some prodigy. When he caught your eye, mid-sentence, his lips twitched into a smirk, like he knew you weren’t buying his act. That was the moment you decided you hated him.

By the end of the first semester, your hatred was a living thing, fed by every infuriating encounter. Jungwon was everywhere, a constant thorn in your side.

In debate club, he’d challenge your arguments with a lazy drawl, leaning back in his chair, one eyebrow raised like he was humoring you. “Nice try, Y/N, but you’re reaching,” he’d say, his voice dripping with condescension, while his eyes lingered on you a beat too long, something darker flickering beneath the taunt.

You’d fire back, your words sharp, your glare sharper, but he’d just laugh, low and mocking, his fingers brushing yours when he passed you a pen, the contact deliberate, leaving your skin buzzing with something you refused to name.

In the library, he’d appear like a curse, sliding into the seat across from you without asking, his books spilling over your carefully organized notes. “You’re in my spot,” you’d snap, shoving his stuff aside, but he’d lean closer, his knee grazing yours under the table, his cologne invading your space.

“Relax, Y/N, plenty of room for both of us,” he’d murmur, his voice a tease, his gaze flicking to your lips before he’d flash that infuriating smirk.

You’d grit your teeth, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck, muttering, “Fuck off, Jungwon,” while he chuckled, his hand lingering on the table, fingers twitching like he wanted to reach for you.

The worst was the campus café, where he’d saunter in, all swagger and charm, flirting shamelessly with the girls who swooned over him. He’d catch you watching, his eyes glinting as he called out,

“You look tense, Y/N. Need me to make time for you? Want me to order for you?” The way he said your name—slow, deliberate, like he was tasting it—made your stomach flip, but you’d roll your eyes, snapping, “I’d rather starve.”

He’d laugh, brushing past you to leave, his shoulder grazing yours, his hand “accidentally” skimming your lower back, the touch sending a jolt through you that you hated yourself for feeling.

By your second year, your rivalry was campus legend. Everyone knew you and Jungwon were fire and gasoline, always one spark away from combustion.

Debate club meetings were spectacles—your arguments crackling with intensity, his retorts laced with a flirty edge that made the room shift uncomfortably.

“You’re passionate, I’ll give you that,” he’d say, leaning across the table, his face inches from yours, his voice low enough to feel intimate. “But you’re wrong.”

You’d glare, your heart pounding, your hands itching to either slap him or pull him closer, the line between hate and want blurring with every taunt.

No one saw the way he’d linger after those meetings, waiting until the room cleared to corner you, his body too close, his hands too bold. Once, he’d grabbed your wrist to stop you from storming out, his grip firm, his thumb pressing into your pulse point.

“Why do you always look like you want to kill me?” he’d asked, his voice teasing but rough, his eyes searching yours.

“Because I do,” you’d hissed, yanking free, but his touch burned, and you’d spent the night replaying it, your body thrumming with a need you couldn’t shake.

You’d never admit how he haunted you—how his smirk crept into your dreams, how your skin prickled when he got too close, how your thighs clenched when he whispered some snide remark in your ear. He was your enemy, your rival, the bane of your existence, but every time he touched you—too often, too deliberately—it felt like a promise, one you were terrified to acknowledge.

The tension with Jungwon wasn’t just a spark—it was a live wire, crackling every time you were in the same room. By your third year, it was unbearable, a constant hum under your skin that you couldn’t ignore. Every debate club meeting was a performance, your arguments slicing through the air like knives, his retorts sharp and laced with that infuriating flirty edge that made your blood boil and your pulse race.

He’d lean across the table, his voice low, his eyes locked on yours, saying things like, “You’re cute when you’re wrong, Y/N,” his smirk daring you to snap. You’d fire back, your voice steady but your heart pounding, your body betraying you with every glance at his sharp jawline, the way his fingers flexed around his pen, the way his lips curved like he knew exactly what you were thinking.

Outside the club, he was worse—always finding ways to invade your space, to push your buttons.

In the library, he’d slide into your study nook, his books crowding your notes, his knee brushing yours under the table, lingering just long enough to make you flush. “You’re too tense, Y/N,” he’d murmur, his voice a tease, his fingers “accidentally” grazing your thigh as he reached for a pencil. “Need me to help you relax?”

You’d shove his hand away, muttering, “Keep your hands to yourself, Jungwon,” but the heat in your cheeks and the ache between your thighs told a different story.

The campus café was his playground, where he’d flirt with every damn pick-me, according to you.

“You’re staring,” he’d call out, sauntering over, his shoulder brushing yours as he leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. “Jealous, Y/N? I can make time for you too.”

You’d scoff, rolling your eyes, but his hand would linger on your lower back as he walked away, the touch burning through your sweater, leaving you restless and wanting.

It wasn’t just the touches—deliberate, too frequent, too bold—it was the way he looked at you, like he could see every secret you were hiding, every pulse of desire you refused to name.

You hated him, hated the way he made you feel out of control, hated how your dreams were filled with his smirk, his hands, his voice whispering your name. But the truth was undeniable: Yang Jungwon was under your skin, and no amount of hate could drown out the want.

You swear you could have killed when your professor, with a twisted sense of humor, paired you and Jungwon for a critical group project due in two days.

The assignment was a beast—data analysis, a 20-page report, and a presentation—and the rest of your group had flaked, leaving you two to carry the weight.

You’d argued for hours over where to work, your voices sharp in the lecture hall, until Jungwon, with that infuriating smirk, said, “My place. Tonight. Unless you’re scared to be alone with me, Y/N.”

The challenge in his eyes, the way his voice dipped low, made your stomach flip, but you’d scoffed, refusing to let him win. “Fine,” you’d snapped, “but keep your ego in check.”

His house was off-campus, a sleek, modern apartment his parents paid for, a far cry from your cramped dorm.

When you arrived at 9 p.m., the night air cool against your skin, you were already on edge, your bag heavy with books and your nerves frayed from the thought of being in his space.

Jungwon opened the door, leaning against the frame, his hair damp from a shower, wearing a fitted black t-shirt and gray sweats that hung low on his hips. His eyes raked over you—tight flared pants, a cropped hoodie showing a sliver of midriff—and his smirk widened, his gaze lingering too long.

“You’re late,” he said, his voice teasing, but there was a roughness to it, like he was fighting to keep his hands to himself.

“Traffic,” you mumbled, slipping past Jungwon, trying to ignore the way his shoulder brushed yours. His apartment was sleek—dark wood floors, minimalist furniture, a large window with the city’s lights twinkling outside—but it felt too much like him, sharp and intense, making your nerves jangle.

The living room had a coffee table set up with his laptop, scattered notes, and two mugs of coffee, steam curling lazily. “Let’s just… get this done,” you said, voice soft, dropping your bag, but he was already behind you, his hand grazing your lower back as he guided you to the couch, the touch sending a shiver through you.

“Relax, Y/N,” he said, his voice low, teasing, his fingers lingering a moment too long, making your skin tingle. “We’ve got all night.” The way he said it—slow, almost suggestive—made your stomach flutter, and you nodded, avoiding his eyes, sitting on the edge of the couch to keep some distance.

He chuckled, settling next to you, his knee brushing yours, the warmth of his thigh through your jeans making you shift uncomfortably, your pulse already unsteady.

For a while, you managed to work, your voice quieter than usual as you discussed data sets, his responses sharp but laced with that flirty edge that always threw you off.

“You’re missing the point,” he said, grabbing the laptop from your lap, his fingers brushing your thigh, the contact sending a spark through you.

“Y/N, focus, yeah?” His tone was teasing, but his eyes were darker, and as he leaned back, spreading his legs slightly, you noticed it—the hard bulge straining against his gray sweats, so obvious it stole your breath.

Your eyes widened, your heart stuttering, and a hot wave of arousal washed over you, your thighs pressing together as your body betrayed you, your cheeks burning. You couldn’t look away, the outline of his cock so clear, thick and rigid, making your head spin, your core aching instantly.

“Y/N?” His voice snapped you out of it, and you jerked your gaze up, meeting his smirk, his eyes glinting like he knew exactly what you’d seen.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice low, mocking, his knee nudging yours again, and you felt the heat of him, the way his boner shifted slightly as he adjusted, pressing against the fabric.

Your mouth went dry, your hands trembling, and you felt weak, your body humming with want, your panties already damp from the sight alone.

“I��um, yeah,” you stammered, reaching for the laptop, but your hand shook, and he caught your wrist, his grip gentle but firm, his thumb brushing your pulse, which was racing.

He pulled you closer, his other hand sliding to your waist, his fingers warm against your skin through your cropped hoodie, and you froze, feeling his erection press against your thigh, hard and unyielding.

A soft whimper escaped you, your body melting, your thighs clenching as the sensation sent a jolt straight to your core, your arousal spiking. You were practically sitting on his lap.

“You sure?” he murmured, his voice rough, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot, making you shiver. “You look… distracted.” His hand tightened on your waist, his cock twitching against you, and you gasped, your hands clutching his shirt, your body trembling with need. The feel of him—so hard, so ready—made you dizzy, your resolve crumbling, your hate for him drowned out by the overwhelming want pulsing through you.

“Jungwon,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, shaky, as his hand slid under your hoodie, his fingers tracing your bare skin, inching toward your bra. His touch was bold, deliberate, and you couldn’t think, couldn’t move, your body weak under the weight of his gaze, his arousal pressed against you, driving you wild. “I—I didn’t mean to…” You trailed off, your cheeks flushed, unable to form words, the sight of his boner still burned into your mind, making your core throb.

“Didn’t mean to what?” he teased, his lips brushing your jaw, his hand pulling you closer, his cock pressing harder against your thigh, the friction making you bite your lip to stifle a moan. “Didn’t mean to stare? Didn’t mean to get so wet just looking at me?” His voice was filthy, his fingers slipping under your bra, teasing your nipple, and you whimpered, your head falling back, your body arching into him, helpless against the heat of him.

He groaned, low and primal, his control fraying as he pushed you back, your body hitting the door with a soft thud, his hands pinning you there.

His lips crashed into yours, the kiss desperate, messy, all tongue and teeth, years of hate and want pouring out. He tasted like coffee and mint, and you kissed him back, clumsy but hungry, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, the feel of his boner against your hip making you moan into his mouth.

Your thighs clenched, your panties soaked, the hard press of his cock sending sparks through you with every shift.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he growled, pulling back to look at you, your hoodie half-off, your bra pushed up, your chest heaving.

His eyes were wild, raking over you, and he ground against you, his erection so hard it made you whimper, your body trembling with need. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he said, his voice rough, his hands tearing at your jeans, yanking them down with your panties, the cool air hitting your skin making you gasp. His fingers found you, slick and ready, and he groaned, low and filthy, his cock twitching against you as he felt how wet you were.

“Jungwon,” you moaned, your voice shaky, your hands clutching his shoulders as his fingers slid inside you, two at first, curling just right, making your hips buck.

The feel of his boner, still pressed against your thigh, drove you insane—every pulse, every twitch made you ache for him, your body weak with want. “Please…” you whispered, your head spinning, your body melting into his touch.

“Please what?” he teased, his lips on your neck, sucking hard, leaving marks you’d have to hide. His fingers pumped faster, his thumb circling your clit, and you cried out, your legs shaking, your body overwhelmed.

“Want me to fuck you? Want me to make you come?” His voice was dirty, his cock pressing harder, and you nodded, frantic, your arousal dripping down your thighs, your body his to command.

He pulled his fingers out, licking them clean with a groan that made your core clench. He shoved his sweats down, his cock springing free—thick, hard, and so ready it made you whimper, your thighs trembling at the sight. His eyes were locked on yours. He then grabbed your hips, lifting you slightly against the door, your legs wrapping around his waist, your body weak and pliant.

“Ready for me?” he growled, his tip teasing your entrance, and you moaned, nodding, your hands pulling at his shirt, desperate. He slammed into you, filling you so deep you cried out, the stretch intense, the feel of his cock overwhelming, making your body shake.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his hands bruising your hips, his thrusts hard and fast, the door rattling with every snap, the sound of skin on skin filling the room.

“Jungwon,” you gasped, your nails digging into his back, your body trembling as he fucked you against the door, each thrust hitting deep, his cock so hard it made you see stars.

The friction of him, thick and pulsing inside you, drove you wild, your arousal coating him, your moans broken and needy. His hand slid to your clit, rubbing fast, and you were gone, your body convulsing, your orgasm hitting so hard you screamed, your walls clenching around him, your legs shaking.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he groaned, his thrusts erratic, his grip tightening as he chased his own release, the feel of you pushing him over. He buried himself deep, his cock pulsing as he came, his groans raw, his lips on your neck, biting gently as he rode it out.

You stayed there, pressed against the door, panting, his body still inside you, his hands softening, tracing your hips, your thighs, like he couldn’t let go.

He pulled back, his eyes meeting yours, softer now, a flicker of something new—vulnerability, maybe, or just the weight of what you’d done. “We’re not enemies anymore,” he murmured, his voice low, his lips brushing your shoulder, gentle, almost tender.

You nodded, still catching your breath, your body humming, weak from him. “Yeah,” you whispered, your voice shaky, a small smile tugging at your lips. “But I’m not… I’m not done with you.” His eyes darkened, a grin spreading, and he kissed you again, slow and deep, his hands already wandering, ready for more.

"Aren't you so dirty for doing this?" You chuckled.

"We are. For doing it against the door." Jungwon smirked.

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@heesvnqie | Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or repost any of my work

[heesvnqie]

Drunk On You-Park Sunghoon

pairing: professor!sunghoon x student!reader genre: crush to lovers, smut warnings: explicit sexual content, unprotected sex (wrap it up irl!), oral (m & f receiving), rough intimacy, overstimulation, possessive themes word count: 8k

The first time you saw Park Sunghoon, the world tilted, as if someone had cranked the volume on your heartbeat and dimmed everything else. It was three years ago, your first week at Seoul National University, and you were a frazzled freshman, clutching a crumpled campus map like a lifeline, already late for your introductory lecture.

The autumn air bit at your fingertips, leaves crunching under your sneakers as you raced across the quad, your backpack thumping against your shoulders. You were so focused on deciphering building names that you didn’t see the figure lounging against a tree, one leg propped up, a book dangling carelessly in his hand, until you tripped over a gnarled tree root and nearly ate dirt.

“Well, damn, you’re making quite the entrance,” a voice called out, smooth as whiskey and laced with a grin you could hear before you saw it. You looked up, cheeks flaming, to find a pair of dark eyes sparkling with mischief.

He was tall, unfairly so, with sharp features that could’ve been carved from marble, softened only by a smirk that screamed trouble. His dark hair fell just messy enough to look intentional, and he was watching you like you’d just handed him the punchline to his favorite joke.

He snapped his book shut—a dog-eared copy of The Stranger by Camus—and sauntered over, offering a hand with a flourish. “Need a hero, or are you good at crashing and burning on your own?”

“I’m fine,” you muttered, scrambling to your feet before he could touch you, though the gesture sent a spark through your chest. You brushed dirt off your jeans, avoiding those piercing eyes. “Just… new to this place.”

“New, huh? I can tell. You’ve got that ‘lost puppy’ vibe going on.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “Don’t worry, I’m an expert at rescuing damsels in distress. Name’s Sunghoon, by the way.” His smirk widened, revealing a flash of dimples that made your stomach flip.

“Y/N,” you said, trying to sound composed despite the heat creeping up your neck. “And I’m not a damsel.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he teased, tilting his head as if appraising you. “You’re giving off some serious fairy-tale energy right now. Bet you’d look cute in a tiara.” He winked, and you nearly choked on your own breath.

“Thanks for the… help,” you managed, clutching your map tighter. “I’m late for class.”

“Humanities block’s that way,” he said, pointing with a lazy flick of his wrist. “Try not to trip over any more trees, princess. I might not be around to save you next time.” He shot you one last grin before turning back to his book, leaving you to stumble away, heart racing, his voice echoing in your head.

That was the moment Sunghoon became your obsession. Over the next few months, he was everywhere, like a song stuck on repeat. You’d spot him in the campus café, leaning back in a chair, flirting shamelessly with the barista while she blushed over his coffee order.

Or outside the library, tossing a football with friends, his laugh loud and infectious, his eyes catching yours for a split second before he’d flash a wink that left you flustered. He was a whirlwind of charm, always surrounded by people but never out of reach, like he knew exactly how to keep you hooked.

You didn’t dare approach him again, not after that mortifying first meeting, but you couldn’t stop watching. In the café, you’d pretend to read, your textbook a prop as you studied the way he’d lean in to talk, his voice low and teasing, or how he’d ruffle a friend’s hair just to get a reaction. In the library, you’d linger in the philosophy section, hoping he’d show up, which he did, often, pulling books from high shelves with a confidence that made your knees weak.

Once, you’d been bold enough to hover nearby, pretending to browse, but he’d been too busy flirting with a classmate—calling her “trouble” with that same damn smirk—to notice you.

Your crush grew like ivy, quiet but relentless, wrapping around every corner of your mind. You told yourself it was harmless, just a fantasy about a guy who probably didn’t remember you.

But every time you saw him—sprawled on the quad’s grass, tossing out one-liners to make his friends laugh, or striding past with that effortless swagger—your heart did a stupid little somersault. You’d replay his words from that first day: princess, damsel, the way he’d said your name like he was tasting it. It was ridiculous, but you couldn’t stop.

By your second year, you’d pieced together more about him. He was older, maybe mid-twenties, and he seemed to know everyone—slipping into conversations at poetry readings, debate club meets, even frat parties, with a charm that made him the center of gravity. You overheard he was studying something vague, maybe philosophy or literature, but no one had specifics.

He was like a campus legend, all charisma and mystery, and you were just one of many caught in his orbit. Still, you couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes would linger on you sometimes, like he remembered that clumsy freshman who’d tripped into his life.

You’d changed too, settling into your applied mathematics major—a practical choice, though it bored you senseless—and finding a circle of friends, including your roommate, Mina, who’d have a field day if she knew about your crush. You kept it locked away, letting it spill out only in quiet moments, like when you’d lie awake at night, imagining what it’d be like to talk to him, really talk to him, without tripping over your own feet.

Your third year was when everything shifted. You were 21, more confident but still a mess when it came to Sunghoon. You’d had a few fleeting interactions since that first meeting—a grin in the café when he’d caught you staring, a playful “Still tripping over trees, Y/N?” when you’d passed him in the library—but nothing real. He was still a stranger, just one you’d built an entire daydream around.

The night it all changed started with Mina dragging you to an off-campus bar, a gritty spot packed with upperclassmen blowing off steam after midterms. You weren’t a big drinker, but Mina’s “You need to have fun” speech was relentless, and soon you were sipping a vodka soda, the music vibrating through your bones.

The bar was chaos—bodies pressed together, laughter drowning out the bassline—and you were trying to keep up with Mina’s energy when you saw him.

Sunghoon was leaning against the bar, a beer in hand, looking like he’d just stepped out of one of your fantasies. His button-down was rolled up to the elbows, his hair slightly tousled, and he was laughing with a group of guys, his grin sharp and reckless. Then his eyes found you, and that smirk spread across his face, bold and unapologetic.

“Well, look who’s out of her library cave,” he called, sauntering over before you could hide. His voice was teasing, his eyes glinting as he leaned against the bar next to you. “Y/N, right? Or should I stick with ‘princess’?”

You flushed but held your ground, the vodka giving you courage. “Only if I can call you ‘trouble,’” you shot back, surprising yourself.

His laugh was loud, head thrown back like you’d just told the best joke he’d heard all night. “Oh, I like that. You’ve got some fire in you.” He leaned closer, his shoulder brushing yours, and you swore you could feel the heat of him through your jacket. “So, what’s it take to get you out here more often? I don’t see you enough.”

“Maybe you’re not looking hard enough,” you said, heart pounding as you met his gaze. His eyes were dark, playful, but there was an edge to them, like he was daring you to keep up.

“Trust me, I’ve been looking,” he said, his voice dropping low, and the way he said it made your stomach flip. He ordered you another drink, waving off your protest with a wink. “On me. Gotta keep my favorite damsel hydrated.”

The night spiraled from there. You talked—really talked—for the first time, his boldness pulling you out of your shell. He was relentless, tossing out flirty comments like they were second nature: “You know, you’re way too cute to be hiding in math class,” or “If I’d known you were this fun, I’d have chased you down years ago.” You gave it back as best you could, teasing him about his cryptic campus vibe, and he’d laugh, leaning in close to whisper something that made your pulse race.

“Let’s dance,” he said, not asking but declaring, his hand already grabbing yours. You weren’t a dancer, but he didn’t care, pulling you into the crowd with a grin that said he knew you’d follow. The music was loud, the bass thumping, and Sunghoon was a force—his hands on your waist, guiding you, his body close enough to feel every move. He’d spin you, then pull you back, his lips brushing your ear as he teased, “You’re making it hard to behave, princess.” You’d laugh, breathless, drunk on the moment and the way he looked at you like you were the only one in the room.

Hours blurred into drinks and laughter, his flirty edge never fading. He’d catch your wrist to stop you from stumbling, smirking, “Can’t have you falling for anyone else but me.” By the time you left the bar, both of you tipsy, the night air was a shock, but his arm around your shoulders kept you warm. You were giggling, leaning into him, his scent—cedarwood and something sharper—mixing with the alcohol in your veins.

“You’re a mess,” he said, his voice playful as he steadied you, but his eyes were softer, lingering on your face. “Gonna regret this tomorrow, you know.”

“Worth it,” you shot back, and he grinned, pulling you closer as you stumbled toward your apartment. Inside, the world shrank to your dimly lit living room, the streetlight casting shadows across the couch. You were close, too close, his breath warm against your cheek, his hand lingering on your hip.

“You’re gonna get me in trouble,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, but there was a heat in his eyes that made your heart race. He leaned in, his lips hovering just above yours, daring you to close the gap.

“Maybe I like trouble,” you whispered, bold for once, and that was it. You kissed him, or he kissed you—it didn’t matter. It was hungry, messy, three years of longing pouring out in a rush of heat and need.

His hands were everywhere, pulling you closer, and you let yourself fall into it, the world fading until it was just him—his taste, his touch, his bold, flirty grin still there even as he kissed you like he’d been waiting for it as long as you had.

The next morning, your head was a war zone, the hangover pounding like a drum. You groaned, rolling over on your couch, flashes of the night hitting you in waves. Sunghoon’s smirk, his teasing voice, the way he’d pulled you onto the dance floor, the kiss. Oh god, the kiss. And everything after. Your cheeks burned as you buried your face in a pillow, the reality of last night sinking in like a stone.

You dragged yourself to the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face, trying to shake the fog. It had been perfect, hadn’t it? Sunghoon had been everything—bold, flirty, larger than life. But now, doubt crept in. Was it just the alcohol? Just a game to him? You didn’t have time to spiral—you had math class in an hour, and you were already late. You threw on a hoodie and jeans, grabbed your bag, and bolted across campus, each step jarring your aching head.

The lecture hall was half-full when you slipped in, sliding into a back seat, hoping to disappear. Then the door opened, and your heart stopped.

Sunghoon strode in, but he wasn’t the Sunghoon from last night. No rolled-up sleeves, no messy hair. He was all professor—crisp button-down, tailored slacks, glasses perched on his nose like he’d been born to wear them. He wrote Professor Park on the board, the marker squeaking faintly, and your stomach dropped.

“Good morning, everyone,” he said, his voice smooth but commanding, carrying that same bold edge that had teased you last night. “I’m Professor Park, your substitute for Dr. Kim for the next few weeks. I’ve been with the university for over five years, though I don’t usually teach this course.”

Five years. The words were a punch to the gut. He wasn’t a grad student, not even close. He’d been a professor this whole time, teaching in some other department—philosophy, you’d later learn—while you’d been pining over him, thinking he was just a charming older student. Your mind raced, piecing together every moment you’d seen him on campus, every flirty comment, every wink. Had he known you were a student? Had he known last night?

His eyes scanned the room, and when they landed on you, there was a flicker—recognition, maybe guilt, but that playful spark was still there, like he couldn’t help himself. He adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat, and launched into the lecture, but you couldn’t hear a word.

All you could see was him—the way he’d grinned at you in the bar, the way he’d kissed you like he meant it, the way he was standing there now, untouchable, your professor.

The hour was torture. You scribbled nonsense in your notebook, avoiding his gaze, but every so often, you’d catch him looking your way, his expression unreadable. When class ended, students filed out, but you stayed, your hands shaking as you packed your bag. You didn’t know what you wanted to say, but you couldn’t just leave.

Sunghoon was erasing the board when the room emptied, the silence heavy. He glanced over, catching your eye, and that damn smirk flickered across his face, bold and infuriating. “Sticking around, princess?” he said, his voice low, teasing, like you were still at the bar.

You stood, clutching your bag. “You’re a professor,” you said, the words half-accusation, half-disbelief.

He turned, leaning against the desk, arms crossed, his grin unapologetic. “Surprise. Bet you didn’t see that coming.” He tilted his head, eyes glinting. “In my defense, you didn’t exactly scream ‘math major’ last night.”

“You knew I was a student,” you said, stepping closer, your voice shaking. “And you still—”

“Hold up,” he interrupted, raising a hand, but his tone stayed playful. “I knew you were a student, yeah. Seen you around for years, tripping over roots and staring at me in the café like I’m some kind of mystery novel.” He smirked, and you wanted to wipe it off his face. “But I didn’t know you’d be in my class. That’s a plot twist even I didn’t expect.”

“So what now?” you asked, your voice barely steady. “Last night was… we can’t just ignore it.”

His grin faded, but the boldness didn’t. He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell that cedarwood cologne, and lowered his voice. “Oh, I’m not ignoring it, Y/N. Trust me, I’m thinking about it plenty.” His eyes flicked over you, playful but sharp. “But I’m also your professor now, so we’re gonna have to play this careful. Unless you like breaking rules as much as I think you do.”

You swallowed, your heart racing. “I’m not saying anything,” you said finally. “I don’t want trouble.”

He chuckled, stepping back, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. “Good girl. But for the record, you’re already trouble.” He winked, then turned back to the board, leaving you to gather your things and walk out, your mind a mess of everything you’d felt for him—and everything you shouldn’t.

Your life became a tightrope walk after that morning, each step a battle between restraint and the reckless pull of Park Sunghoon. He wasn’t just a professor, you learned—whispers around campus painted him as the untouchable son of the university’s owner, a man who could bend rules like they were made of rubber. That explained the swagger, the way he sauntered into lecture halls like he owned them, the way his eyes lingered on you with a boldness that made your pulse stutter. He was a storm, all sharp edges and playful fire, and you were caught in his orbit, helpless and electrified.

The next few weeks were a game of cat and mouse. Sunghoon didn’t let up, his flirty edge sharpening with every class. He’d call on you in the middle of a lecture, his voice dripping with mischief. “Y/N, care to explain why this equation looks like it’s begging for mercy?” he’d say, leaning against the podium, glasses slipping down his nose just enough to make you forget how to speak. The class would snicker, and you’d fumble through an answer, his smirk burning into you like a brand. “Not bad, princess,” he’d murmur as you sat down, loud enough for only you to hear, the word sending a shiver down your spine.

Outside class, he was worse. You’d spot him in the café, lounging with a coffee and that damn Camus book, his long legs stretched out like he was daring you to trip over them again. “Still staring, huh?” he’d call out, catching you mid-glance, his grin all teeth and trouble. “Careful, Y/N, I might start charging for the view.” You’d roll your eyes, muttering something about his ego, but he’d just laugh, low and rough, leaning closer to whisper, “You love it, don’t lie.”

He was relentless, weaving himself into your days like he belonged there. Once, you were in the library, buried in a problem set, when a shadow fell over your desk. Sunghoon, of course, sliding into the chair across from you without asking, his knee brushing yours under the table. “Math, huh? Thought you’d be more… poetic,” he teased, snatching your pencil and twirling it between his fingers. “Need a break? I’m great at distractions.”

“Some of us actually study,” you shot back, grabbing for the pencil, but he held it just out of reach, his eyes dancing with that fierce, playful glint.

“Oh, I study plenty,” he said, voice dropping, his gaze flicking to your lips for a heartbeat. “Just not the kind of stuff in your textbooks.” He leaned closer, resting his chin on his hand, his cologne—cedarwood and something dangerous—filling the air. “Bet I could teach you something way more interesting.”

You snatched the pencil back, heart hammering. “You’re my professor, Sunghoon. Behave.”

His grin was pure sin. “And you’re my favorite troublemaker. Guess we’re both bad at following rules.” He stood, ruffling your hair like it was nothing, leaving you flushed and glaring at his retreating figure.

The worst part? He knew exactly what he was doing. As the owner’s son, Sunghoon carried an air of untouchability that made his boldness fiercer, like he was daring the world to call him out. He’d slip into your orbit at the worst moments—brushing past you in the hallway, his hand grazing your back just long enough to make you freeze, or tossing you a wink during a department event while he charmed a crowd of professors like it was his day job. He was a wildfire, untamed and untouchable, and you were the fool who kept inching closer to the flames.

One evening, after a particularly grueling day of exams, you found yourself at another bar with Mina, who was blissfully unaware of your Sunghoon saga. You were nursing a soda, trying to drown out the memory of his latest stunt—calling you “his star student” in front of the entire class with a grin that said he meant anything but academics—when he walked in. Of course he did. Dressed in a black leather jacket and jeans that hugged his frame like they were tailored for him, he looked less like a professor and more like a rockstar who’d wandered into the wrong room. His eyes locked on you instantly, and that smirk spread, slow and deliberate.

“Fancy seeing you here, princess,” he said, sliding onto the stool next to you despite Mina’s wide-eyed stare. “Didn’t peg you for a barfly.”

“Didn’t peg you for a stalker,” you retorted, sipping your drink to hide the way your hands shook. Mina’s jaw was practically on the floor, but Sunghoon ignored her, his focus entirely on you, like you were the only person in the room.

“Stalker? Nah, I just follow my instincts,” he said, leaning closer, his voice a low rumble. “And they always lead me to you.” His fingers brushed your wrist, featherlight but deliberate, and you swore the air crackled. “Dance with me.”

You glanced at Mina, who was mouthing “GO” like her life depended on it, and sighed. “You’re impossible,” you muttered, but you let him pull you to the dance floor, his hand warm and firm around yours. The music was slower this time, a sultry beat that matched the heat in his eyes. He didn’t let go, his hands settling on your hips, guiding you with a confidence that made your knees weak.

“You’re getting better at this,” he teased, his lips close to your ear, his breath sending a shiver through you. “Or is it just me making you look good?”

“Keep dreaming,” you shot back, but your voice was shaky, and he knew it. His grip tightened just enough to make you hyper-aware of every inch of space—or lack thereof—between you. He spun you, then pulled you back, his body pressed against yours, his lips so close you could feel the heat of them.

“Dreaming’s fun,” he murmured, his voice like velvet, fierce and flirty all at once. “But this? This is better.” His eyes held yours, daring you to look away, to pretend you didn’t feel it—the pull, the heat, the reckless edge of him that made you want to throw every rule out the window.

The song ended, but he didn’t let go, his hands lingering as he walked you back to the bar. “Don’t stay out too late, princess,” he said, his tone teasing but his eyes serious, like he was staking a claim. “I need you sharp for my class tomorrow.” He winked, then disappeared into the crowd, leaving you breathless and Mina practically vibrating with questions.

The next day, you walked into his lecture like you were stepping into a lion’s den. Sunghoon was already there, leaning against the desk, all sharp jawline and effortless charisma. He was explaining a derivative problem with that same playful edge, tossing out jokes that had half the class laughing and the other half swooning. When his eyes met yours, he paused, just for a heartbeat, and that smirk flashed—bold, fierce, like he was daring you to make the next move.

“Alright, everyone,” he said, clapping his hands. “Pair up for the problem set. Y/N, you’re with me.” The class erupted in murmurs, and your stomach flipped as he beckoned you to the front, his grin all trouble. “Let’s see if you can keep up, princess.”

You stood, your legs unsteady, and walked to the board, marker in hand, his presence looming beside you. He leaned close, ostensibly to check your work, but his lips brushed your ear as he whispered, “You’re blushing. Thinking about last night?”

“Focus, Professor,” you hissed, scribbling numbers to hide your shaking hands, but he just chuckled, low and dangerous.

“Oh, I’m focused,” he said, his voice a tease wrapped in a promise. “Question is, are you?”

The rest of the class passed in a blur, his flirty remarks disguised as teaching, his bold touches—hand grazing yours, shoulder brushing yours—masked as accidental. He was playing with fire, and you were too, because every time you shot back a retort or met his gaze, you were daring him to push further. He was the owner’s son, a professor, a rule-breaker by nature, and you were the student who couldn’t stop chasing the thrill of him.

By the end of the week, you were a wreck, torn between avoiding him and craving the next encounter. Late one evening, you were in the library again, trying to focus on your notes, when he appeared, sliding into the seat across from you like it was his personal throne. “Burning the midnight oil, huh?” he said, his voice playful but his eyes fierce, like he was hunting something and you were it.

“You’re here a lot for someone who doesn’t teach math,” you said, trying to sound casual, but your voice betrayed you.

He grinned, leaning forward, his glasses catching the light. “Maybe I’m here for the view.” His eyes flicked over you, bold and unapologetic, and you felt like you were drowning in that cedarwood scent again. “Or maybe I’m just checking if my favorite student needs… extra credit.”

You slammed your book shut, heart pounding. “You’re gonna get us both in trouble, Sunghoon.”

His smirk didn’t falter, his eyes glinting with that fierce, reckless energy. “Good thing trouble’s my specialty, princess. Question is, how much do you want to play?” He stood, leaving you with that challenge hanging in the air, his footsteps echoing as he walked away, bold as ever, knowing you’d be thinking about him long after he was gone.

The library encounter left you reeling, your skin buzzing with the memory of Sunghoon’s voice, his scent, the way his eyes stripped you bare without a single touch. He was a drug, and you were hooked, each flirty quip and fleeting glance another hit that left you craving more. But then, like a ghost, he vanished. No lectures, no café run-ins, no late-night library appearances. For three days, Park Sunghoon was a phantom on campus, and the absence of him carved a hollow ache in your chest, sharp and relentless.

Every moment without him was torture—your mind betrayed you with flashes of his smirk, his cedarwood scent, the way his lips had claimed yours that night at the bar. You were desperate, your body thrumming with a raw, primal need that kept you awake, tossing in your dorm bed, imagining his hands pinning you down, his mouth devouring you. You were a wreck, craving him like a drug, and the fact that he was the university owner’s son, untouchable and reckless, only made the want burn hotter.

You tried to focus—on integrals, on Mina’s chatter about some new club, on anything—but your mind was a traitor, replaying every moment with him. The bar, his hands on your hips, the kiss that had burned through you like wildfire. The way he’d called you “princess” in that low, teasing drawl, his lips so close you could’ve tasted them again. You were desperate, embarrassingly so, your body thrumming with a want that made your cheeks burn in the quiet of your dorm. Nights were the worst—lying awake, imagining his hands, his mouth, the way he’d looked at you like he could devour you whole. You were drowning in it, in him, and he wasn’t even there.

By the fourth day, you were a mess, snapping at Mina over nothing and checking your phone for campus gossip, hoping for a crumb about where he’d gone. Nothing. Just whispers about his father’s influence, how Sunghoon could skip town and still keep his job because of who he was. The owner’s son, untouchable, a rule unto himself. It made you want him more, the idea that he could break every boundary and pull you along with him.

Mina noticed your edge, dragging you to another off-campus party to “snap you out of it.” You didn’t want to go, but the alternative was another night alone, your fingers not enough to sate the hunger he’d sparked. So you slipped into a black dress—skintight, barely there, a reckless choice that screamed trouble—and let Mina pull you to a sprawling house party, the air thick with sweat and liquor. Your heart pounded, half-hoping he’d be there, half-terrified he wouldn’t.

The second you stepped inside, you felt him. Sunghoon was across the room, leaning against a wall, a beer dangling from his fingers, looking like he’d been forged for sin. His leather jacket hung loose, his white shirt unbuttoned to reveal a slice of taut chest, his hair a perfect mess that begged to be grabbed. His eyes locked on yours, and that smirk—bold, filthy, and dripping with intent—spread slow and deliberate, like he knew exactly how much you’d suffered without him.

“Fuck me, princess,” he drawled, pushing off the wall and stalking toward you, his gaze raking over your dress, lingering on the way it hugged your thighs. “You wore that to torture me, didn’t you?” His voice was low, a growl that sent heat pooling between your legs.

“Where the fuck have you been?” you snapped, trying to sound sharp, but your voice shook, laced with the desperation you’d been drowning in. He saw it, his eyes darkening, that playful spark turning predatory.

“Missed me that bad, huh?” he said, stepping so close his cologne—cedarwood and whiskey—hit you like a drug. “Family business. But I’m here now, and you look like you’re about to beg.” His fingers grazed your wrist, and the touch was a spark to gasoline, your body igniting. “Tell me, Y/N, how many times did you touch yourself thinking about me?”

You flushed, but the vodka in your system made you bold. “Every fucking night,” you admitted, voice low, and his grin was pure sin, his eyes eating you alive.

“That’s my girl,” he growled, grabbing your hand and pulling you through the crowd, his grip possessive. “Dance with me. Let’s see how much you can take.”

The music was heavy, a pulsing bass that matched the throb in your core. He yanked you onto the dance floor, bodies pressed tight, his hands claiming your hips like they belonged there. He moved with a raw, filthy confidence, grinding against you, his thigh slipping between your legs, teasing the ache that was already unbearable. “You’ve been a mess without me, haven’t you?” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and teasing. “Bet you were soaking just thinking about my hands.”

You shivered, clutching his shirt, the fabric bunching under your fingers. “Shut up,” you hissed, but it came out like a moan, and he chuckled, dark and dirty.

“Oh, I’m just getting started,” he said, spinning you so your back was against his chest, his hands sliding lower, gripping your ass through the thin fabric of your dress. His lips grazed your neck, teeth nipping just enough to make you gasp. “You’re gonna be screaming my name by the end of the night.”

Your body was a live wire, every touch sending shocks through you. He was relentless, his hands roaming, one slipping under your dress to tease the bare skin of your thigh, inching dangerously close to where you were already dripping. “Sunghoon,” you breathed, and he groaned, his hips pressing harder against you, letting you feel how much he wanted you.

“Fuck, say it again,” he demanded, turning you to face him, his hands cupping your face, his lips crashing into yours. The kiss was raw, messy, all tongue and teeth, a clash of need that left you dizzy. He tasted like beer and sin, and you were lost in it, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling hard enough to make him hiss. “You’re gonna ruin me,” he growled, biting your lower lip, his hands sliding to your thighs, lifting you until you were pressed against him, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

He didn’t wait, carrying you through the crowd, ignoring the stares, his lips never leaving your skin. He found a staircase, taking it two at a time, and kicked open a bedroom door, the music muffled but still vibrating through the walls. He threw you onto the bed, the mattress creaking under your weight, and stood over you, his eyes dark and ravenous, like he was starving and you were the meal.

“Fuck, look at you,” he said, his voice rough as he climbed onto the bed, caging you beneath him. His hands were everywhere, ripping your dress up to your waist, exposing you to his gaze. “Been Squares dressed like this, begging to be fucked.” He yanked his shirt off, revealing a chiseled chest that made your mouth water, and your hands reached for him, desperate to touch.

“You have no idea how bad I want you,” he growled, tearing your underwear off in one swift motion, his fingers finding you soaked and ready. He groaned, low and primal, his eyes flashing with hunger. “So fucking wet for me.” His fingers slid through your folds, teasing, and you arched, a desperate moan escaping your lips.

“Sunghoon, please,” you begged, your voice breaking, and he smirked, that fierce, filthy grin that made your core clench.

“Patience, princess,” he teased, but his fingers were already working you, sliding in deep, curling just right, making you writhe. “You’ve been dreaming about this, haven’t you? My fingers, my mouth, my cock?” His thumb circled your clit, and you cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“Yes,” you gasped, and he leaned down, his lips sucking hard on your neck, marking you as his fingers pumped faster, relentless, driving you toward the edge. “Fuck, I need you.”

“You’ll have me,” he growled, pulling his fingers out, leaving you whimpering at the loss. He shoved his jeans down, freeing himself, and your eyes widened at the sight—hard, thick, and so ready for you. “But first, I’m gonna make you scream.”

He didn’t give you a chance to respond, spreading your thighs wide and diving between them, his mouth hot and merciless. His tongue flicked over your clit, fast and rough, and you screamed, your hips bucking against his face. He pinned you down, his hands like steel on your thighs, sucking and licking until you were shaking, your body shattering under his tongue.

“Sunghoon, fuck!” you cried, and he growled against you, the vibration pushing you over the edge again, your vision going white.

He didn’t stop, climbing back up your body, his lips slick with you, kissing you deep and filthy. “You taste like fucking heaven,” he said, lining himself up, his eyes locked on yours as he pushed in, slow and deliberate, stretching you until you gasped, the fullness overwhelming. “You’re mine now.”

He didn’t hold back, thrusting hard, his hips slamming into yours, the bed creaking under the force. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his hands gripping your hips, bruising, as he fucked you relentlessly, each thrust deeper, harder, hitting spots that made you see stars. You clawed at his back, your nails leaving marks, and he hissed, his eyes blazing with that fierce, possessive heat.

“Harder,” you begged, and his smirk was pure sin as he obeyed, flipping you onto your stomach, pulling your hips up, and slamming into you from behind. The angle was brutal, his cock hitting deeper, and you screamed into the pillow, your body shaking with another orgasm as he pounded into you, his groans growing louder, more desperate.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he growled, his hands gripping your ass, spreading you wider as he fucked you senseless, the room filled with the sound of skin slapping skin, your broken moans, his ragged breaths. “You’re gonna make me lose it.”

“Then lose it,” you gasped, pushing back against him, and he groaned, his thrusts growing erratic, his control slipping. He reached around, his fingers finding your clit again, rubbing hard, and you shattered, your body convulsing as he fucked you through it, his own release hitting with a guttural moan, his body shuddering against yours.

He collapsed beside you, both of you panting, slick with sweat. He pulled you close, his lips brushing your shoulder, his voice soft but still teasing, that bold, flirty edge never gone. “You’re fucking incredible,” he murmured, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your skin. “I’m never gonna get enough of this.”

You turned to face him, your body still trembling, and his eyes met yours, fierce and soft all at once, like he was claiming you in a way that went beyond the bed. “Good,” you whispered, your voice raw, “because I’m already addicted to you.”

He grinned, that reckless, untouchable grin, and kissed you slow and deep, like he was sealing a promise. “Get used to it, princess,” he said, his voice a low rumble, his lips brushing yours as he spoke.

"Well, let's go for round 2?" Sunghoon smirked.

He didn’t tease, plunging two fingers deep, curling them just right, making you cry out as your hips bucked against his hand.

“Sunghoon,” you moaned, your head falling back against the wall, his fingers pumping fast, relentless, his thumb circling your clit with brutal precision. Your legs shook, pleasure coiling tight in your core, and he leaned in, lips sucking hard on your neck, teeth grazing your skin as he marked you.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he said, voice low and dirty, his free hand grabbing your thigh, hitching it over his hip to spread you wider. His fingers fucked you harder, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room, and you were already close, your body trembling, chasing the edge. “Come for me, princess. Let me feel you.”

You shattered, a scream tearing from your throat as your orgasm hit, your walls clenching around his fingers, soaking his hand. He didn���t stop, working you through it, his lips on your ear, whispering, “That’s it, baby, give it to me.” Your nails raked his back, leaving red lines, and he hissed, his eyes flashing with hunger.

He pulled his fingers out, licking them clean with a groan that made your knees weak, his eyes locked on yours. “You taste like fucking heaven,” he said.

“Turn around,” he ordered, voice rough, and you obeyed, bracing your hands against the wall, your legs spread, ass out. He grabbed your hips, pulling you back, and you felt the blunt tip of him at your entrance, teasing just enough to make you whimper. “You want this, don’t you?” he growled, his hand sliding up your spine, gripping your hair and tugging your head back. “Say it.”

“Fuck me, Sunghoon,” you begged, your voice raw, desperate. “Please.”

He didn’t make you wait, slamming into you in one hard thrust, filling you so deep you screamed, the stretch almost too much but so fucking good. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he groaned, his hands bruising your hips as he set a punishing rhythm, each thrust slamming you against the wall, the sound of skin on skin loud and filthy. Your body jolted with every snap of his hips, pleasure spiking through you, your moans broken and breathless.

“Harder,” you gasped, pushing back against him, and he growled, yanking your hair tighter, his thrusts turning brutal, hitting that spot deep inside that made you see stars. His hand slid around, fingers finding your clit, rubbing fast and rough, and you were gone, another orgasm ripping through you, your walls pulsing around him as you screamed his name.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he groaned, his rhythm faltering, his grip tightening as he fucked you through your climax, chasing his own. He slammed in deep one last time, his body shuddering as he came, his groan low and primal, his lips pressed against your shoulder, teeth sinking in as he rode out the high.

He stayed there, panting, his body pressed against yours, both of you slick with sweat. His hands softened, sliding up your sides, turning you to face him. His kiss was slower now, still hungry but laced with something softer, his fingers brushing your cheek. “You’re fucking incredible,” he murmured, his voice rough but warm, his lips lingering on yours.

You smirked, still catching your breath, your body humming with the aftershocks. “You’re not so bad yourself, Professor.”

His grin was back, all trouble and fire. “Round three’s starting,” he said, scooping you up like you weighed nothing, carrying you toward the mattress with a look that promised you weren’t sleeping anytime soon.

Sunghoon’s lips lingered on yours, the kiss deep and consuming, his hands still gripping your hips like he couldn’t bear to let you go. His fingers still slick from the way he’d just unraveled you. The air was thick with the scent of him—cedarwood and whiskey—and the heat of your bodies, pressed so close you could feel every beat of his heart. His glasses were fogged, slipping down his nose, and you wanted to rip them off, to see the fire in his eyes without any barrier.

But his phone buzzed, sharp and insistent, cutting through the haze. He groaned, pulling back, his forehead resting against yours as he caught his breath. “Fucking hell,” he muttered, his voice rough but laced with that playful edge that made your core clench. He grabbed the phone, his thumb swiping the screen, and you braced for the tension. But instead, his lips curved into a small, almost fond smile as he read the message.

“What?” you asked, your voice still shaky from the orgasm he’d just pulled from you, your body aching for more even as you tried to ground yourself.

He glanced up, his eyes meeting yours, and that smirk was back, bold and teasing, but softer somehow, like he was letting you in on a secret. “It’s my dad,” he said, tossing the phone onto the bed side table with a careless flick. “Checking in. He’s been texting me all morning, worried I’m ‘overworking’ myself.” He chuckled, low and warm, shaking his head. “He’s too damn understanding for his own good.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Wait, your father? The university owner?” The man who could have you expelled, who could fire Sunghoon for what you’d just done with him. Your stomach twisted, but Sunghoon’s laugh was easy, unbothered, like the risk was nothing.

“Yeah, that’s him,” he said, leaning closer, his hands settling on your thighs again, thumbs tracing lazy circles that sent sparks through you. “He’s not what you think, Y/N. He’s… soft. Always telling me to live a little, to stop hiding behind the ‘professor’ bullshit.” His voice dropped, his lips brushing your ear. “If he knew about you, he’d probably cheer me on. Tell me to go for it.” His teeth grazed your earlobe, and you shivered.

“Go for what?” you asked, your voice breathy, half-challenging, even as your body arched into him, craving more of his touch. “You’re my professor, Sunghoon. This is already a mess.”

He grinned, all teeth and trouble, his hands sliding higher, pushing your skirt back up, his fingers finding the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. “A mess I’m fucking addicted to,” he said, his voice a low growl as he kissed you again, hard and hungry, his tongue claiming you like he owned you. “You think I care about the rules? You’re mine, princess, and I’m not letting a title stop me.”

His words lit you up, your body responding before your mind could catch up. You yanked him closer, your lips crashing into his, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling hard enough to make him hiss. “Then prove it,” you whispered against his mouth, your voice a challenge, your nails scraping his scalp. “Show me how much you want me.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. His hands were on you, rough and desperate. His mouth was on your neck, sucking hard, leaving marks you’d have to cover later, but you didn’t care. You wanted him to mark you, to claim you in a way that felt permanent. Your legs spreading as he stepped between them, his body hard and unyielding against yours.

“Fuck, you’re so perfect,” he groaned, his hands cupping your breasts, thumbs teasing your nipples through the thin lace of your bra. He yanked the fabric down, his lips closing over one peak, sucking hard, his tongue flicking until you moaned, your back arching off the bed.

You screamed, the sound muffled against his shoulder as your orgasm hit, your walls clenching around his fingers, your body shaking. He didn’t stop, working you through it, his lips on your neck, whispering filthy praise that made your head spin. “That’s it, baby, give it to me. So fucking good.”

“Fuck me again, Sunghoon,” you said, your voice raw, your hands pulling him closer, and he groaned, slamming into you in one hard thrust, filling you so deep you gasped, the stretch burning but so fucking good. He didn’t hold back, his hips snapping with a brutal rhythm, the bed creaking under the force.

“Goddamn, you feel like heaven,” he growled, his hands bruising your hips, his lips crashing into yours, swallowing your moans as he fucked you senseless. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, your nails raking his back through his shirt, marking him as yours. The pleasure was blinding, each thrust hitting that spot that made you see stars, your body already climbing toward another release.

“Harder,” you begged, and he delivered, flipping you over so your stomach was pressed against the bed.

“Come for me again,” he demanded, his voice a growl, and you did, your body convulsing, your scream muffled against the desk as he fucked you through it, his thrusts growing erratic, his groans louder, more desperate. He came with a guttural moan, his hips stuttering as he buried himself deep, his grip tightening as he rode out his release.

You collapsed against the bed again with him on your side,

You smirked, still catching your breath, your body humming with aftershocks. “God,” you said, your voice teasing but raw. "I’m not done with you.”

He chuckled, but his phone buzzed again, and this time he answered it, his voice shifting to something lighter, almost playful. “Yeah, Dad, I’m fine,” he said, his hand still resting on your hip, his thumb tracing lazy circles. “Just… caught up with a student. Extra credit stuff.” His eyes flicked to you, his grin wicked, and you rolled your eyes, swatting his chest.

When he hung up, he pulled you close, his lips brushing your forehead, a gesture that felt too intimate, too real. “He wants to meet you,” he said, his voice soft but serious. “Says he’s curious about the student who’s got me ‘distracted.’ His words, not mine.”

Your heart skipped, the idea of meeting the university owner—Sunghoon’s father—making your stomach twist. “What? Why?” you asked, pulling back to look at him, your voice a mix of nerves and defiance. “He’s not going to care, is he? You said he’s understanding.”

Sunghoon’s grin widened, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you closer. “Oh, he’ll love you,” he said, his voice teasing but warm, his lips brushing your ear. “He’s a romantic. Probably already planning our wedding.” He laughed, but there was a flicker of something serious in his eyes, like the idea didn’t scare him as much as it should. “He just wants to know who’s got his son breaking all his own rules.”

You swallowed, the weight of it sinking in. This wasn’t just a fling—it was a scandal waiting to happen, a professor and his student, a line crossed that could cost you everything. But Sunghoon’s father being supportive changed the game, made it feel less like a secret and more like… something real. “And what do I say?” you asked, your voice softer now, your hands still on his chest, feeling the heat of him through his shirt.

“Tell him you’re the one who’s got me losing my mind,” he murmured, kissing you again, slow and deep, his hands sliding under your blouse, fingers grazing your bare skin. “Tell him you’re worth every fucking risk.” His lips moved to your neck, sucking gently, and you melted into him, your body already craving more, even as your mind raced with the implications. "Tell him that you're the one who got Sunghoon drunk on you."

@heesvnqie | Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, or repost any of my work

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Sunghoon fanfiction coming pretty soon!!!

[heesvnqie]

Between Meetings- Lee Heeseung FF

Request: It would be great if you could do like an ff, where y/n and heeseung are rivals through their company and they fall in love after a one night stand

^_^

You were standing in the bustling lobby of your office building, your heart racing as the elevator doors opened with a soft ding. The scent of fresh coffee and the murmur of early morning chatter filled the space, but your eyes were glued to the figure stepping in to the lift—Heeseung, your rival.

You had been at the same company for the last five years, both of you climbing the corporate ladder with a ferocity that had earned you both respect and fear from your colleagues. Yet, in that brief moment, the animosity between you two was as palpable as the heat from the cup of coffee you gripped tightly in your hand.

Heeseung's eyes met yours, and for a fleeting second, you saw something unexpected—a flicker of recognition that sent a jolt through your body. It was as if the electricity in the room had suddenly surged, lighting up every corner of your consciousness with the memory of last night—a night of passion that had blurred the lines between love and war.

The tension grew heavier as you stepped into the elevator together, the silence stretching taut like a bowstring about to snap. The metal box ascended with a gentle hum, the floor numbers lighting up one by one as you both rode to your respective offices. Your forehead pained as memories came running back in.

The night had been a blur of whispers and shadows, a dance of desire that had led you to a place you never thought you'd go with your enemy. But here you were, your rivalry momentarily forgotten in the haze of lust and longing. The hotel room had been a stage for a drama you never wanted to end, the soft whispers of the city outside a backdrop to your tangled bodies. His touch had been surprisingly tender, his kisses a revelation that had left you breathless and aching for more.

You shook your head as he snapped a snarky comment as usual. "Good morning Miss Annoying."

Heeseung leaned against the elevator wall, his eyes never leaving yours, a smug smile playing on his lips. He knew he had the upper hand now—a secret to wield against you in the corporate battles ahead. You felt a mix of anger and arousal, unsure how to navigate the treacherous waters of your newfound feelings.

As the elevator stopped at your floor, you stepped out with a newfound determination. You weren't going to let this one night define you or compromise your position at the company.

"Idiot." He murmured under his breath as the doors closed, the word echoing in the empty space.

You walked into your office, the door clicking shut behind you like the final beat of a dramatic crescendo. Your desk was a mess of paperwork and half-finished cups of coffee, a stark contrast to the pristine hotel room where your world had been turned upside down.

You took a deep breath, the scent of his cologne still lingering on your skin, and started to organize your thoughts. You had a meeting with the CEO in an hour, and you couldn't afford to let your mind wander.

As the day unfolded, you found yourself stealing glances at Heeseung from across the boardroom table, his every gesture a silent reminder of the passion that had ignited between you.

His sharp intellect and commanding presence had always been intimidating, but now there was an underlying tension that thrummed beneath the surface, a secret you both shared.

The air grew thick with anticipation as the meeting with the CEO approached. You straightened your blazer, the fabric whispering against your skin as you tried to push aside the memories of Heeseung's hands on your body.

The conference room was a battlefield of PowerPoint presentations and strategic jargon, but all you could think about was the way he had looked at you in the harsh glow of the hotel room's bedside lamp.

As you took your seat, Heeseung slid in beside you, his leg brushing against yours. It was an innocent touch, but it sent a bolt of electricity through you, a reminder of the way he had touched you last night, leaving no inch of your body unexplored.

The CEO's voice droned on, but you were lost in the silent conversation happening between your rival's eyes and the subtle shifts of his body language. It was a dance of power and desire, each of you trying to read the other's intentions.

The meeting ended with a round of applause, and you both stood, the tension between you thick enough to slice with a knife. The CEO praised both of your contributions, but you could see the gleam in Heeseung's eye, the smug satisfaction of knowing that he had claimed a victory over you that went beyond the boardroom. As everyone began to filter out, you felt his hand on the small of your back, guiding you through the throng of colleagues. You eyed him suspiciously.

"What do you think you're doing?" you hissed.

He leaned in close, his breath warm against your ear. "Just playing the game, darling. You know how it is." The endearment sent a shiver down your spine, and you couldn't help but wonder if he was referring to the corporate world or the intimate dance you had shared the night before.

As the day progressed, the office buzzed with whispers and sideways glances, the air charged with the knowledge that something had shifted between you two. Colleagues who once avoided eye contact now studied you with a mix of curiosity and envy. You could feel their speculation, their unspoken questions, but you kept your head high, focusing on the work at hand. Yet, the memory of Heeseung's touch lingered, a phantom sensation that seemed to electrify every nerve ending.

Lunchtime arrived, and you retreated to the rooftop terrace, seeking solace in the crisp autumn air. The city sprawled out before you, a maze of concrete and steel, a reflection of the tangled web of your emotions. The wind played with your hair, whispering secrets that only you and Heeseung knew. You had vowed to keep the events of last night buried, but as you bit into your sandwich, you couldn't help but replay every moment, every caress, every whispered word of passion.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the gravel. You turned to find Heeseung standing there, his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled up, looking every bit the part of the corporate warrior with a hidden, seductive side. "Mind if I join you?" he asked, his voice a smooth blend of arrogance and charm. You nodded curtly, unsure of what to say. He sat down opposite you, his eyes never leaving yours as he unwrapped his lunch.

For a few moments, the only sounds were the rustling of plastic and the distant honk of traffic. Then, Heeseung broke the silence. "So, about last night…" he began, his tone casual but his gaze intense. You felt a blush creep up your neck, the heat of his stare warming your skin even in the chilly air. "Forget it."You snapped, trying to maintain the illusion of indifference. But he just chuckled, a low, rich sound that seemed to resonate within you.

"Is that what you want, really?" His question hung in the air, as potent as the aroma of the nearby potted flowers. You stared at your half-eaten sandwich, the bread suddenly tasting like cardboard in your mouth.

"Look, it was a mistake," you finally managed to say, your voice shaking slightly. "A one-time thing. We're rivals, remember?"

Heeseung leaned back in his chair, his smile never wavering. "Oh, I remember," he said, his eyes glinting with mischief. "But sometimes, the best rivalries start with a little… friction."

You rolled your eyes, but his words sent a thrill through you. You knew he was right. There was something undeniably thrilling about this forbidden attraction, a dangerous allure that had drawn you together in the first place. But you couldn't let it ruin your career—or worse, turn into a juicy piece of office gossip.

The rest of the afternoon was a blur of emails and conference calls, each one more mundane than the last. Yet, every time your phone buzzed, you felt a jolt of excitement, hoping it was him.

By the time the workday ended, you were a bundle of nerves and unanswered questions. You gathered your things, your mind racing with the possibility of what might happen next.

As you stepped out of the office, the cool evening air slapped you in the face, a stark contrast to the warmth of the office—and the heat of your thoughts.

You couldn't shake the feeling that you were being watched, and when you glanced over your shoulder, you saw Heeseung leaning against the wall, his arms folded over his chest, his eyes dark with intent.

"Walk with me," he said, his voice low and commanding. You hesitated for a moment, unsure of what game he was playing. But something in his gaze, something unspoken, made your legs move in his direction.

You fell into step beside him as he led you through the labyrinthine streets of the city, the neon lights casting a garish glow over your faces.

The city was alive around you, a cacophony of sounds and smells that seemed to fade into the background as you walked. You could feel the heat of his body next to yours, the memory of his touch a constant reminder of the tumultuous night you had shared.

Each step brought you closer to the precipice of a decision you weren't ready to make, but the gravitational pull of his presence was too strong to resist.

Heeseung led you to a quiet, dimly lit alley, a stark contrast to the neon jungle you had just left behind. The walls were adorned with graffiti, telling tales of love and anger, a mirror to your own tangled emotions. He stopped abruptly, turning to face you.

The air between you crackled with tension, and you knew that the conversation you were about to have would change everything.

"Look," you began, trying to keep the tremble from your voice, "we can't do this. It's not just about the company; it's about us. We're supposed to be enemies, not… not…"

Heeseung stepped closer, his eyes searching yours. "Lovers?" he offered, the word hanging in the air like a dangling thread of fate, waiting for you to pluck it and watch the web of consequences unfold. "Or are we more than that now?"

"Not now." You took a step back, needing space.

"We need to keep this separate. Work is work, and last night was…" He cut you off with a sharp laugh. "Last night was a mistake," he said, mimicking your earlier words. "But tell me, how can you ignore something that feels so right?"

Your heart hammered in your chest as he closed the gap between you, his hand reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair from your face. His touch sent a jolt through your body, and you felt your resolve wavering. "It's complicated," you whispered. "Isn't that what makes it interesting?" he murmured, his voice a seductive purr that seemed to stroke every nerve ending. "Heeseung. Not now. Maybe in the future but not. now."

He leaned in, his breath warm on your skin as he spoke. "You can't deny it. There's something between us, something that's been there all along, just waiting to be set free." His eyes searched yours, and for a moment, you almost believed him.

But you knew the reality was much more complicated than that. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself against the storm of emotions raging inside you. "We can't. We're competitors, and we need to keep it professional."

He stepped back, his smile never fading. "Very well," he said, his voice like a soft caress. "But know this—I won't forget what happened between us. And I suspect you won't either."

With that, he turned and disappeared back into the neon embrace of the city, leaving you standing in the alley, your thoughts swirling like a tornado.

You took a deep breath, the chilly air a stark reminder of the reality that lay before you. You had to put last night behind you, had to focus on the job that had consumed your life for the past five years. But as you made your way home, the echo of Heeseung's voice lingered in your mind, a siren's call that you couldn't ignore. You couldn't help but wonder if he was right—if this electric connection between you was more than just a fleeting moment of weakness.

As the days turned into weeks, the tension in the office grew more palpable with each passing hour. The glances, the whispers, the knowing smirks—it was all a constant reminder of the secret you shared. Yet, you remained steadfast in your resolve, refusing to let the fire of your forbidden romance consume the empire you had worked so hard to build. You threw yourself into your work, letting the numbers and deadlines dull the ache in your heart.

But it was during those quiet moments, when the office was a ghost town of flickering monitors and humming printers, that the memories of Heeseung's touch would come rushing back, like a floodgate that had been held back by the dam of your willpower. You'd sit at your desk, staring at the reports and spreadsheets, but all you could see was the heat in his eyes, the feel of his skin against yours. His scent lingered in your mind, a haunting specter that taunted you with what could have been.

Each time you saw him, the air grew thick with tension, a silent battle of wills that only the two of you could feel. Your rivalry had taken on a new dimension, the unspoken challenge now laced with a seductive undercurrent that made every interaction feel like a dance of seduction and denial.

The way his gaze lingered on you in meetings, the subtle brush of his hand as you passed in the hallway—each touch a silent declaration of war and a whispered promise of peace. You walked up on the terrace during lunch break again.

The city below was a canvas of chaos, a symphony of honking horns and distant laughter, and for a brief moment, you allowed yourself to imagine a world where the two of you could be more than just adversaries. A world where the passion that had ignited between you didn't have to be doused by the cold, hard realities of corporate life. But the chime of your phone brought you back to reality, the screen lighting up with an email from the CEO. Another challenge, another battle to be won.

You sat in your office, the glow of your computer screen the only source of light in the otherwise darkened room. The email was a new project, a high-stakes deal that could make or break the company. And as the details began to unfold, you realized that Heeseung would be your main competition on this one. The irony wasn't lost on you—fate seemed to be playing a twisted game of Cupid meets corporate espionage.

The project was an international merger, one that would require all your wit and skill to navigate. The board had made it clear: whoever brought this deal home would be seen as the true heir to the company throne.

Your rivalry was no longer just about personal pride—it was about power and legacy. You knew Heeseung was already strategizing in his own office, his mind a whirlwind of numbers and negotiation tactics.

The next few weeks were a blur of late nights and early mornings, your sleep haunted by the specter of failure. The office felt like a battleground, every corner holding the potential for a surprise ambush of wit or strategy.

The tension between you grew more intense with each passing day, the air thick with the scent of competition and the lingering memory of your one night of passion. Yet, amidst the chaos, there was an undeniable thrill—a rush that came from knowing you were both fighting for the same prize.

You found yourself working alongside Heeseung, forced into an uneasy alliance as the project demanded your combined expertise. His every move was calculated, each word a carefully placed pawn in this corporate chess game. Yet, when no one else was around, you could see glimpses of the man behind the mask—the tenderness in his eyes, the way his hands moved with a grace that belied their strength.

The office was a minefield of unspoken desires and professional ambition. Every time you brushed against him, accidentally or otherwise, the electricity between you was undeniable. It was a dance of fire and ice, each step fraught with the potential to either melt away the barriers between you or set everything ablaze.

You were deep in thought, scrolling through the endless documents and emails, when Heeseung's shadow fell over your desk. His voice was low, the words a whispered challenge. "You know you can't ignore this forever." You looked up, meeting his gaze, the intensity in his eyes making your heart race.

"Leave me alone for now."You said.

He leaned in, his breath warm against your cheek. "But what if I don't want to?" His proximity was intoxicating, a reminder of the fire that had burned so brightly between you. You could feel the heat of his body, the tension coiled in every muscle. The room seemed to shrink around you, the air thick with unspoken words and unresolved desire.

You pushed your chair back, needing space. "We can't do this," you said, trying to keep the tremor from your voice. "We're colleagues, competitors. It's unprofessional."

But even as you spoke, you knew it was more than that. The line between love and hate had blurred, and you weren't sure which side you were on anymore. Heeseung's smile was a silent rebuttal, a promise of what could be if you'd only take the risk.

The days turned into a dance of evasion and temptation, each meeting a silent duel of glances and unspoken words. The project consumed your waking hours, but the memory of that night remained a constant, taunting presence.

In the hushed quiet of the office at midnight, as you pored over spreadsheets and contracts, you'd catch yourself thinking of his touch, the way his eyes had searched yours in the hotel room's dim light.

One evening, as you were about to leave the office, Heeseung called out to you from the shadows of the hallway.

The dimly lit corridor cast dramatic shadows on his face, making him look more like a mysterious stranger than your corporate rival. "I need to talk to you now," he said, his voice a seductive whisper that sent shivers down your spine.

You hesitated for a moment, the weight of your decision palpable in the air. The office was empty, the hum of the city outside a muted backdrop to the silent battle raging within you.

You knew you should leave, keep the boundaries firmly in place. But the allure of his presence was too strong to resist. You followed him into the conference room, the heavy door clicking shut behind you like the final scene of a soap opera.

Heeseung stood by the windows, the city lights reflecting off his sharp jawline as he studied the view below. He turned to face you, his eyes dark with something that could have been desire or determination—perhaps both.

"We can't go on like this," he said, his voice a soft rumble that seemed to echo in the cavernous space. "Like what?" you replied, feigning innocence, though you knew exactly what he meant.

He approached you, his steps deliberate and predatory. "Pretending like that night never happened." His hand reached out, brushing against your arm, sending a jolt of electricity through your body.

"It's a distraction we can't afford." You stepped back, trying to maintain the illusion of professionalism. "It's in the past," you said firmly, though your voice betrayed the lie. He chuckled, a low, throaty sound that sent a shiver down your spine.

"Is it really?" He moved closer, his eyes holding yours captive. "Because every time I look at you, I see the woman who gave herself to me so completely." You swallowed hard, the room suddenly feeling much too small. "That was a mistake," you whispered, but even you didn't believe the words.

He stepped closer, his hand cupping your face, his thumb tracing your bottom lip. "Or was it destiny, forcing us together?" His voice was a siren's call, beckoning you into the storm.

You felt your resolve crumbling like sand beneath a relentless tide. "We're rivals," you murmured, the words sounding hollow even to your own ears. "Lovers can be rivals too," he said, his eyes searching yours. "The best kind of love is the one that challenges you, that makes you want to be better."

The silence stretched between you, the only sound the distant wail of a siren, a haunting reminder of the chaos that lay just beyond the glass walls. The room felt alive with the memory of your shared passion, the air thick with the promise of what could be.

You could feel the pull of his hand on your face, the warmth of his skin, the scent of his cologne—it was a sensory assault that you hadn't been prepared for.

Heeseung's gaze never left yours as he spoke, his voice a seductive purr that seemed to resonate through your very soul. "We could be unstoppable," he said, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw.

"Together, we could conquer this city, this company, this world." His words were a heady cocktail of ambition and desire, and you found yourself leaning into the warmth of his touch despite your better judgment.

For a moment, the world outside the conference room faded away, leaving only the two of you suspended in the charged silence. The neon lights of the city played across his face, casting him in a soft, tantalizing glow.

It was easy to get lost in the fantasy, to imagine a future where your rivalry was a thing of the past, replaced by a passion that burned as brightly as the stars outside.

But the siren's call of reality was too strong to ignore. The company was on the line, your careers were at stake, and you had a responsibility to uphold the professional façade that had been your armor for so long.

You stepped away, breaking the spell of his touch. "We can't," you said, your voice firmer this time. "We have to focus on the merger."

Heeseung's eyes searched yours, a hint of disappointment flickering before the mask of ambition slammed back into place. "Fine," he said, his voice a cool, clipped agreement.

"But don't think this is over." With that, he turned and left the room, the door swinging shut with the finality of a gavel.

The weeks leading up to the merger were a whirlwind of late-night strategy sessions and tense negotiations. The air in the office crackled with the tension of unspoken words and unresolved desires.

Every time you and Heeseung were in the same room, you could feel the electricity arc between you, a silent reminder of what had transpired in that hotel room. Yet, you remained steadfast in your resolve, channeling the intensity of your emotions into your work.

But the more you resisted, the stronger the pull became. You found yourself lingering in his presence, seeking the warmth of his gaze, the reassurance of his touch.

His words echoed in your mind: "Lovers can be rivals too."

The thought of combining your strengths, both in the boardroom and the bedroom, grew increasingly tempting. You began to question whether you could truly ignore the connection that sizzled just beneath the surface.

One evening, as the office emptied and the last of the day's light bled from the sky, you found yourself in his office. The room was a testament to his success, the walls adorned with awards and diplomas, the desk a sleek monument to his power.

He looked up as you entered, his eyes gleaming with something you hadn't seen before—vulnerability.

You stepped closer, the air thick with the scent of his cologne and the memory of his touch. "We need to talk," you said, your voice a barely audible whisper.

He rose from his chair, closing the distance between you with the grace of a predator stalking its prey. His hands found your waist, pulling you to him as if you were a magnet and he, the inescapable force of gravity.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to melt into his embrace, the warmth of his body a balm to your weary soul. His eyes searched yours, the question in them unspoken but clear: are you ready to admit what we both know to be true? The struggle between your heart and your head had been waging war since that fateful night, but now, standing in the quiet of his office with his arms around you, the answer seemed so simple. You nodded, the barest of movements, but one that spoke volumes.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was both gentle and demanding. It was a declaration of intent, a silent promise that you were no longer just rivals—you were lovers entangled in a dance of power and passion.

The line between love and war had been forever blurred, and you had chosen a side. As the kiss deepened, your hands found their way into his hair, the soft strands slipping through your fingers like a silk scarf.

You broke away, panting, your heart racing. "What are we doing?" you whispered, the question more to yourself than to him. Heeseung's smile was a wicked curve of his lips. "We're playing with fire," he murmured, his hands sliding down to the small of your back, pressing you closer. "But isn't that what makes it so exciting?"

The words hung in the air, a challenge that resonated deep within you. You knew the risks, the potential for disaster, but the allure was too great to resist. With a tremble in your voice, you agreed to his terms—to explore this dangerous dance of desire and power.

The office had transformed into a private sanctum of passion, the sleek surfaces of the desks and chairs now instruments of your burgeoning love affair.

The papers and files were forgotten relics of a world that seemed so far away from the reality of your intertwined bodies. Heeseung's hands roamed over you with a hunger that was both thrilling and terrifying, as if he was reclaiming what he believed to be his.

He bent you over the cold, steel desk, his grip firm yet gentle on your hips. You felt his arousal pressing against your backside, the fabric of your skirt a mere barrier to the heat of his desire. In one swift motion, he lifted your skirt and tugged your panties aside, the cool air of the office brushing against your damp folds.

The anticipation was almost unbearable, the need to feel him inside you a siren's call that drowned out all rational thought. His hand found your center, his fingers teasing your clit, making you gasp. The desk was a stage for your passion, the leather chair a throne for his dominance.

With a swift motion, Heeseung unbuckled his belt, the sound echoing through the otherwise silent room like a gunshot in a library. The zipper of his pants followed, the metallic hiss sending a shiver down your spine. You felt his cock pressing against your backside, a blunt promise of what was to come.

He wasted no time, sliding into you with a swiftness that took your breath away. The initial shock of his entry was soon replaced by a deep, guttural groan as he filled you completely. You were stretched to your limits, your body struggling to adjust to his size, but the pleasure was undeniable.

Each thrust was a declaration of war against your restraint, a reminder of the fiery passion that had brought you to this point.

Heeseung's hands gripped your hips, his rhythm increasing as he claimed you over and over again. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the air, a primal symphony that seemed to resonate with the very core of the city outside.

Your moans were muffled by the fabric of your shirt, which you had hastily pulled over your face to stifle the noise. Yet, the desk beneath you groaned in protest, a silent witness to your illicit union.

With each thrust, the tension between your legs grew tauter, a coil wound so tight it threatened to snap. You bit down on the fabric, your eyes squeezed shut as you fought the urge to scream his name. The sensation was overwhelming, a maelstrom of pleasure that consumed you. You felt him hit your g-spot with a precision that spoke of his experience, his movements a masterful play of dominance and submission.

His cock was a thick, demanding presence, stretching you and filling you completely. The way he took you, so commandingly, was a stark contrast to the boardroom banter where you had always been equals. Here, in the throes of passion, there was no denying who was in charge. Yet, you didn't resist—instead, you reveled in the feeling of being claimed by him, the way his touch set every nerve in your body alight.

You turned to face him, your breaths ragged and eyes hooded with desire. The need to taste him, to feel the connection beyond the physical, was too great to ignore. You kissed him, your lips melding together in a fiery embrace that spoke of all the things you hadn't said in the cold light of day. His tongue slid against yours, a dance of dominance that mirrored your own internal struggle. The kiss was a promise, a vow that you would explore this tumultuous love affair, no matter the cost.

His cock, still hard and demanding, pressed against your belly. You reached down, wrapping your hand around his shaft, feeling the pulse of his desire. It felt so good—the heat of him, the velvety softness of his skin over the steel of his arousal. You stroked him, feeling his hips jerk in response, the tension in his body a testament to his need for you.

With each stroke, his pain grew more apparent. You could see it in the tight lines of his face, the way his eyes clenched shut, his teeth gritted. But instead of pulling away, you leaned in, whispering soothing words into his ear, promising to take care of him. Your touch grew more gentle, almost tender, as you worked to ease his discomfort.

You knew that his pain was a sign of his arousal, a physical manifestation of the desire that had been building between you for weeks. It was a power play, a silent acknowledgment of the depth of your connection. And as you watched him struggle against the wave of pleasure, you couldn't help but feel a strange sense of satisfaction—you had the power to soothe or intensify his agony.

With a smirk, you dropped to your knees, your eyes never leaving his. He looked down at you, his gaze a mix of surprise and lust. You took him in your mouth, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat with a soft gag.

He groaned, his hands finding your hair as he guided you in a rhythm that spoke of his need. You took him deeper, your tongue swirling around his shaft, savoring the salty taste of him.

The power dynamics of the office had shifted, and now, in this moment of intimate vulnerability, you were the one in control. His breathing grew ragged, his hips thrusting gently into your mouth as you sucked him with an expertise that surprised even you.

The sound of your mouth working him filled the air, a sweet symphony of desire that seemed to pulse with the neon lights of the city outside.

You felt his cock thicken, the veins pulsing against your tongue, and you knew he was close. The anticipation grew, the air thick with the scent of his arousal.

You pulled away, his cock glistening with your saliva, and looked up at him with a mischievous smile. "Does it feel better now?" you teased, your voice low and sultry. He groaned, his eyes dark with lust as he nodded.

Heeseung picked you up, setting you on the desk, and your legs wrapped around him instinctively. The cold steel sent a shiver through you, but the heat of his body quickly banished the chill. He kissed you again, his tongue invading your mouth, tasting himself on your lips. It was an act of possession, a silent declaration that you were his.

You felt his cock pressing against your dampness, the anticipation building to a crescendo. He slammed into you, his hips driving you against the unforgiving desk. The pain was exquisite, the friction sending sparks of pleasure through your body. You gripped his shoulders, digging your nails in as he filled you completely.

The world outside the office walls fell away, replaced by the rhythm of your bodies moving in perfect sync. Each stroke was a declaration of war against the boundaries you had tried to maintain. The desk beneath you creaked with every thrust, a mournful cry that mirrored the tumult of your emotions.

You could feel your orgasm building, the pressure coiling low in your belly. It was as if every part of you was tuned to his movements, his touch setting off a cascade of sensations that had you teetering on the edge of oblivion. His teeth grazed your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

"Fuck me harder," you moaned, the words a plea that seemed to ignite something primal within him. He obeyed, his thrusts growing more forceful, the sound of your bodies slapping together a testament to your unbridled passion.

He reached down, his thumb circling your clit with the same unyielding determination that he brought to the boardroom. The pleasure grew, a wildfire that spread through your veins, consuming you with its intensity.

The city was a silent witness to your clandestine affair, a backdrop to the symphony of your moans and his grunts.

With a final, powerful thrust, you felt the dam burst inside you. Your body tightened around him, muscles clenching as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you.

You screamed into his shoulder, the sound muffled by his shirt. He held you tight, his own release following swiftly, his cock pulsing inside you as he filled you with his warmth.

For a moment, you remained there, his weight pressing you into the desk, your breaths mingling in the quiet of the room. The city outside had gone on without you, the world had turned, but here, in this stolen moment, you had found something more than a fleeting escape.

It was a silent acknowledgment of the bond that had been forged in the fires of your rivalry.

Heeseung's arms tightened around you, and he kissed the top of your head, the tender gesture at odds with the raw passion of moments before. You felt a strange sense of peace, your body humming with satisfaction.

You pushed him away gently, your legs sliding from around his waist. "We can do this right?"

Heeseung's eyes searched yours, the intensity of his gaze leaving no doubt of his feelings. "We'll figure it out," he murmured, his voice a mix of assurance and challenge. "Together."

With trembling legs, you slid off the desk, straightening your clothes and trying to compose yourself.

The office felt too small, too confined, as the gravity of what had just occurred settled in. The papers and files around you seemed to whisper of the secrets you now shared, the room a silent sentinel of your forbidden union.

Heeseung watched you with a smoldering gaze, his chest still heaving from exertion. He reached for his tie, loosening it with a casual elegance that belied the tumultuous passion that had just unfolded. "We'll keep it between us," he said, his voice a low rumble. "We're both smart enough to handle this."

But you weren't so sure. The lines between love and rivalry had never been so blurred, and the weight of your secret was already pressing down on you. "What about the merger?" you asked, your voice laced with uncertainty. "What happens if we're found out?"

"We'll work it out. Even the CEO ships us." He smirked.

You rolled your eyes but couldn't help the smile that tugged at the corners of your mouth. "That's not helping."

Heeseung chuckled, pulling you back into his arms. "I'm sorry, I know it's complicated. But we can handle this. We're both too good at keeping secrets." His words were a gentle caress against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

You nodded, knowing he was right. The office had seen countless power plays and clandestine meetings—what was one more secret between the two of you? "We have to be careful," you murmured, your voice still hoarse from your passionate outburst.

"We will be," Heeseung assured you, his thumb brushing gently against your cheek. "Until then, we keep this between us. We're both too good at playing the game." "We'll reveal it on Friday."

The words hung in the air, a declaration that made your heart race. "Friday?" you repeated, the reality of your decision setting in. It was only a few days away, but the anticipation felt like an eternity. "It's the ANNUAL PARTY of the year of our office."

"Then we tell them," Heeseung said, his voice firm with determination. "We show them that love and ambition can coexist." His eyes held yours, the challenge unmistakable.

You swallowed hard, the reality of the situation setting in. Could you really keep this a secret for three more days? Could you stand by his side at the party, with everyone watching, and not give in to the temptation to kiss him? To touch him? To claim him as yours?

You stepped back, smoothing down your hair and straightening your skirt, trying to compose yourself. "Okay," you said, your voice a little too bright. "Friday it is." Heeseung's smile was smug, but it didn't reach his eyes. You knew he was feeling the same mix of excitement and fear that you were. "Trust me," he murmured, his voice a seductive purr. "It'll be worth the wait."

The days leading up to the party were a whirlwind of work and tension. You and Heeseung circled each other in the office, a silent dance of desire and rivalry. Every glance, every brush of your hands, was charged with the electricity of your secret. The whispers of the office grew louder, the speculation more rampant, but you both played your parts perfectly, giving nothing away.

On Friday evening, the office was transformed into a glittering wonderland of lights and music. You had chosen a dress that was both professional and alluring, a silent declaration of the woman you were—capable and desirable. Heeseung looked like a dark prince in his tailored suit, his eyes never leaving you for long. The tension between you was palpable, a secret thrumming in the air.

You mingled with colleagues, the small talk a stark contrast to the thoughts racing through your mind. You could feel his gaze on you, a physical presence that was almost as potent as his touch. Each time you caught his eye, a silent message passed between you, a promise of what was to come. The anticipation was a sweet torture, a delicious agony that had you biting your lower lip to keep from smiling too widely.

As the evening wore on, the whispers grew louder, the glances more pointed. You knew people were waiting for something to happen, for the tension between you to snap like a tightly drawn bow. The air was thick with the scent of cologne and perfume, the laughter and chatter a cacophony that seemed to grow louder with each passing moment.

Finally, Heeseung approached, a glass of champagne in hand. "Ready?" he asked, his voice low and intimate, a question that sent a thrill down your spine. You took the flute, the cool glass a stark contrast to the heat of your skin.

"Ready," you murmured, your eyes locking onto his. The crowd parted for you as you made your way to the makeshift stage, the spotlights blinding. The music grew softer, a hush descending over the room as everyone turned to face you. The CEO took the microphone, a knowing smile on his face.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, "I have a special surprise for you all tonight." He looked over at you and Heeseung, standing side by side. "Our two top employees, who have worked tirelessly on the merger, have something to share."

You took a deep breath, your hand trembling slightly as it hovered over the champagne glass. This was it—the moment of truth. Heeseung took the microphone from the CEO, his eyes never leaving yours. "Thank you, everyone, for your hard work," he began, his voice smooth and confident. "We have indeed achieved something amazing together."

He paused, the silence stretching out like a tightrope, and then, with a grin that could melt ice, he turned to you. "But what you don't know is that we've discovered something more than just synergy in the boardroom." He raised the glass in a toast, and you felt your cheeks heat up as his gaze traveled over you, leaving a trail of desire in its wake.

You took a deep breath, the weight of the moment pressing down on you like an invisible hand. You had agreed to this, but now, with everyone watching, it felt like a risk that could shatter your entire world. But as Heeseung's eyes met yours, you found the courage to speak.

"Yes," you said, your voice clear and strong. "We've discovered something incredible. Something that transcends our professional rivalry." You reached out, your hand finding his, and the warmth of his skin was a reassurance that you hadn't been wrong to take this leap of faith. "We're in love."

The room erupted in gasps and whispers, the shockwave rippling through the crowd like a tidal wave. You watched as your colleagues' expressions shifted from surprise to understanding, the realization of your relationship casting a new light on your dynamic. The tension that had always existed between you was now a shared secret, a bond that could no longer be denied.

Heeseung leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. "You did it," he murmured, pride coloring his voice. "Now, let's show them what we're really made of." With a wink, he turned back to the audience, his hand still clutching yours.

You took a sip of champagne, the bubbles fizzing against your teeth. The liquid burned a path down your throat, a fitting metaphor for the fire that had been ignited in the office. "To our future," you toasted, your voice steady despite the tremor in your hand. The glass clinked against his, the sound a declaration of war against the expectations that had once governed your relationship.

And then, without another word, Heeseung leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was as fierce as it was tender. It was a kiss that held all the passion and power that had been simmering beneath the surface for weeks. A kiss that said, "Fuck the world, we're doing this." A kiss that was a battle cry, a declaration of love, and a promise all rolled into one.

You melted into it, your body responding instinctively to his touch. The room faded away, the whispers and gasps of your colleagues becoming a distant hum as you lost yourself in the warmth of his mouth. His tongue swept against yours, a silent promise that this was just the beginning, that you would conquer the world together, one boardroom at a time.

.......

TAGLIST:-

@slutofpsh @laurenalpha123 @dreamiestay @amortenha @peonywon @mitmit01 @heeevangelizesme @gvni-eve @yourmomni @leov3rse @punchbug9-blog

[heesvnqie]

non idol au + celebrity au with jay x fem!reader who are co-stars in an action+romcom kdrama?

so maybe they shoot some action scenes and he’s worried for her bc she doesn’t like having a stunt double and does all the stunts herself

and maybe they also shoot the romance scenes which lead to like a LATER irl romance scene between them yk?

feel free to ignore this if it’s not something you’d write haha

Author : Dear Anon, I would love to write this out! Thank you so muchhh for giving me such a fantastic prompt. Lots of hugs and kisses.

Behind The Scene- A Park Jongseong FF

Pairing: Park Jongseong!Jay x female reader

Word count: 4.6k

Genre: fluff, smut

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪: Your first ever series and with the BEST actor of the K-drama industry puts you under pressure and nervousness. You're not just the female lead but also the action herione. Filming alongside Jay, you and Jay develop a undeniable chemistry.

The sun hovered lazily in the sky, casting a warm glow over the bustling streets of the city. With eyes shielded by oversized sunglasses, you weaved through the crowded sidewalks, heart racing with a mix of excitement and nerves. Today was the day you had been waiting for, the start of filming for the highly anticipated action-romcom series that would either make or break your career.

You were a rookie in the industry, and this was your first series but you had something that set you apart from the rest: you were not only the female lead but also the action heroine.

As you approached the set, the sound of voices grew louder, a blend of Korean and English echoing through the streets. You recognized the towering figure of Jay, your co-star, in the distance, surrounded by a whirlwind of crew members.

He was a seasoned actor, known for his impeccable fighting skills and chiseled jawline that had won the hearts of fans worldwide. You took a deep breath and straightened your posture, reminding yourself of the fierce character you were about to portray.

Your first series was going to be with the BEST actor of the whole k-drama industry. It gave you a feeling of pride as well as of fear on the thought that what if your acting wasn't at his level?

The director, Mr. Kim, called for your attention as you and Jay arrived on set. He spoke with a fervor that could only come from a man who had poured his soul into a script. "Today, we begin with the rooftop chase scene," he announced, holding up a storyboard. "Remember, safety first, but we need that raw, adrenaline-filled performance. Are we ready?"

"Are we ready Miss Y/N? You are the main-woman in this scene.." Mr.Kim asked noticing the worry and fear in your eyes.

"Yes." You managed to say with a slight tremble in your voice.

Jay cast a concerned glance in your direction, noticing better than anyone the slight tremble in your voice and the way how your hand shook with nervousness.

He knew you didn't like stunt doubles, you had mentioned that during the audition. You insisted on doing your own stunts to give an authentic performance. The thought of you in harm's way made his stomach tighten, but he knew better than to challenge your determination.

He offered a reassuring smile instead. "You've got this," he murmured in your ear as his hot breath streamed down the back of your neck. Shivers passed down your spine as you managed to show him a thumbs-up.

The cameras rolled, and the scene unfolded. You sprinted across the rooftop with an agility that belied your inexperience, leaping between buildings with a grace that seemed almost superhuman. Jay followed close behind, his movements precise and calculated. Despite the scripted chaos, he couldn't help but admire your courage and dedication to the craft. You and Jay exchanged a few lines in between breathless pants, the tension between you both palpable, not just from the scene, but from a growing, unspoken attraction.

The climax of the sequence involved a daring jump over a narrow alley, which you had practiced relentlessly. Jay watched from the opposite rooftop where you had to land, his eyes never leaving you. You took a moment to gather your nerves, your heart pounding in your chest.

Then, with a fierce cry and quick run, you launched yourself into the air, the wind whipping through your hair. Time seemed to slow as you soared over the gap, and for a brief, terrifying second, you thought you might not make it.

But you did, landing with a thud on the opposite rooftop, your knees buckling slightly.

"CUT!" The director yelled. The crew erupted into applause, and Jay rushed to your side, his relief palpable.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his hand on your shoulder, his eyes searching yours for any sign of pain and distress.

You grinned up at him, your cheeks flushed with exhilaration. "Never better," you replied, pushing yourself to your feet. The adrenaline coursed through your veins, leaving you feeling invincible.

You both shared a brief moment of understanding, the kind that forms between two people who have just survived something intense together.

As the day went on, you and Jay shot scenes that were a stark contrast to the earlier action—now it was time for the romantic moments that would melt the hearts of their viewers.

Jay's gaze lingered on you as he and you delivered your lines with an ease that surprised even you. The chemistry between both of you was undeniable, and it was clear that both of you weren't just playing characters anymore.

Each touch, each smile, every fleeting glance was charged with a current that had the crew whispering and squeakling like highschool girls.

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm orange hue over the city as the crew approached the final scene of the day. It was a classic rooftop confession, where your characters would finally admit their feelings for each other.

As the director called for action, Jay stepped closer, his hand brushing against yours. He could feel the electricity between them, and it was all too real.

Both of you delivered your lines with a passion that seemed to resonate through the air, your eyes locked in a silent conversation that spoke volumes. The moment grew heavier, the silence between your words thick with unspoken desire.

When the script called for him to lean in and kiss you, Jay paused, his heart thumping. He searched your eyes for permission, and finding it as you nodded, pressed his lips gently to yours.

The kiss was soft, tentative at first, as if both of you were afraid to break the delicate illusion. But as your characters' love story unfolded before you, the line between fiction and reality began to blur. The kiss grew deeper, more urgent, as Jay pushed you against the wall until it was no longer just for the camera.

The crew, captivated by the authenticity of the moment, held their collective breath, the whispers dying down to nothing.

Mr. Kim called "Cut!" with a knowing smile, and the spell was broken.

Jay pulled back, his gaze lingering on your lips for a heartbeat longer than necessary. The atmosphere on the rooftop had shifted, and everyone knew it. He offered her a hand, helping her to walk away from the wall, their fingers intertwining naturally. They stumbled over their next lines, the heat of their kiss still echoing between them.

The days turned into weeks, and the chemistry between you both grew more potent with each scene you two shot. You found yourselves laughing at inside jokes during takes and lingering in each other's embrace longer than the director required.

It was as if your on-screen romance had spilled over into real life, and neither of you were complaining. You and Jay began to share more than just the screen, finding yourselves at dinners and coffee shops, sharing stories about their pasts and dreams for the future.

But the whispers grew louder, the paparazzi more persistent. The rumors of a secret romance between the lead actors began to spread like wildfire through the entertainment industry.

Jay knew that this kind of publicity could either skyrocket their show's success or lead to a disastrous scandal. He had been down that road before, and the memory of his past relationships ruined by the media still stung.

The two leads decided to keep your feelings under wraps, focusing solely on both of your professional commitment to the show. Yet, it was getting harder and harder to ignore the sparks that flew every time you were together. The tension grew with each passing day, a silent dance of desire and restraint.

One evening, after a particularly grueling day of filming, you both found yourselves in a quiet corner of the set, the lights dimming as the crew packed up around you.

The air was thick with unspoken words, and the energy between them was almost tangible. Jay leaned in, his hand gently brushing a strand of hair from your face. "We can't keep doing this," he murmured, his voice low and filled with longing.

You looked at him in confusion.

"Pretending," he clarified, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. "We're fooling ourselves and everyone else."

Your eyes searched his, looking for any hint of doubt or regret, but all you found was the intensity of his gaze, a mirror to your own tumultuous emotions.

"What do you suggest we do?" You whispered, your voice barely audible above the soft hum of the city below. "The series is a hit. Everybody loves our chemistry. The fans truly want us to date."

He nodded solemnly. "I know. But we're not just characters in a drama, we're people with real feelings. We can't let this control us anymore."

With a deep sigh, you stepped back, creating space between him and you. "You're right," you conceded, your voice trembling slightly. "We need to be professional. Our careers are on the line."

The conversation weighed heavily on both of you, and the following days on set were filled with awkward glances and forced smiles. You both threw yourselves into work, trying to ignore the undeniable pull that tugged at your hearts.

The stunt scenes became more intense, and Jay found himself more protective than ever, hovering nearby whenever you were in the air, ready to catch you if you stumbled.

You noticed, and a part of you felt grateful, while another part resented the reminder of the barrier you both had built between each other.

During a break from filming, you sat in your trailer, staring at your reflection in the mirror. The makeup artist had painted your cheeks with a blush that didn't quite match the one Jay's kisses left behind.

You felt torn between your career and your burgeoning feelings for him. The knock on the door startled you out of your thoughts.

Jay peered in, his expression a mix of concern and determination. "Can we talk?"

Nodding, you stepped aside to let him in, your heart racing. The trailer was cramped, but it felt even smaller with the weight of your unspoken words pressing down on both of you. He sat beside you on the small couch, his leg brushing against yours.

"Look," Jay began, his voice a little shaky. "I know we agreed to keep things professional, but I can't ignore this anymore. When we're together, it feels so real. So right." He paused, watching you intently. "What if we just…see where this takes us?"

You felt a warmth spread through your chest. You knew the risks, the potential scandals and the impact on your careers, but you also knew that you couldn't deny your feelings for much longer. You took a deep breath and placed your hand on his, feeling the heat from his skin. "Okay," You murmured. "But we have to be careful."

Jay nodded solemnly. "We'll be discreet."

Your secret grew as the days passed, a shared look here, a stolen touch there. You became experts at hiding in plain sight, your on-screen chemistry becoming a delicious secret that only added to the show's allure.

Off-screen, you found moments to be together, sneaking away during breaks, your conversations filled with whispers and smiles that didn't reach your eyes when the cameras weren't rolling.

One night, after a particularly demanding day of filming, Jay suggested that you both grab a quick dinner together. You both ended up in a small, tucked-away restaurant, the kind that didn't bother with autographs or photos, where the aroma of sizzling meat and spicy kimchi filled the air.

The intimate setting made your hearts race, and your conversation flowed as freely as the soju that accompanied your meal.

Under the flickering candlelight, he reached across the table, his hand covering yours. "I know we said we'd keep it professional, but I can't help how I feel about you," he confessed, his voice thick with emotion. Your eyes searched his, finding the vulnerability you hadn't expected. "I know," You replied, your voice barely above a whisper. "I feel it too."

Your relationship grew in the shadows of the film set. Stolen glances, secret smiles, and whispers that only both of you could hear. It was a delicate dance of passion and discretion, a dance that had you both feeling like teenagers again. Each day brought new challenges, new moments of tension and excitement, and each night brought you two closer together.

As the show's popularity soared, the whispers grew louder. The media was hungry for any scrap of gossip, any hint of a romance between the two. Yet, you and Jay remained steadfast in your decision to keep your feelings hidden from the public eye.

You knew that the moment you admitted your love, the storm of attention would be overwhelming, possibly even destructive.

One evening, as you and Jay sat together on the edge of the same rooftop where your on-screen romance had begun, Jay looked into your eyes and spoke the words that had been haunting him. "We can't hide forever," he said softly. "We're going to have to decide when we want to tell the world."

You felt a knot form in your stomach. The thought of your secret being out in the open was both thrilling and terrifying. You knew that once you stepped out of the shadows, there would be no turning back.

"But what if it ruins everything?" You asked, your voice filled with concern. "What if we can't handle the pressure?"

Jay squeezed your hand reassuringly. "We're stronger than we think," he said, his voice filled with conviction. "We've come this far, and we're not just any couple. We're the couple everyone wants to see together. If we do it right, we can control the narrative."

You both talked into the night, weighing the pros and cons, your hearts and minds in a constant tug-of-war. Finally, both of you reached an agreement.

You would wait until the show's finale to reveal your relationship, timing it to coincide with the dramatic climax of your characters' love story. It would be a perfect, poetic ending for both the show and your secret romance.

The days leading up to the finale were a whirlwind of intense filming and heightened emotions. The anticipation of your characters' confession mirrored your own, and the lines between scripted passion and real-life feelings grew increasingly blurred.

You both held onto the secret tighter than ever, the excitement of the impending revelation a constant undercurrent in your interactions.

As the final scenes approached, so did the paparazzi. They lurked in the shadows, cameras at the ready, waiting for a single slip-up that would shatter the illusion of your professional façade. Jay and you had become experts at dodging questions, at keeping your hands to yourselves, at smiling for the cameras while your hearts ached for more.

The night of the finale was upon them. The script called for your characters to confess their love on the rooftop under a blanket of stars. The air was thick with tension, not just from the scene but from the knowledge that soon, your own secret would be shared with the world. Jay took a deep breath as the director called for action, his eyes locking with yours, conveying all the love and fear he couldn't speak aloud.

Both of you delivered your lines with a passion that seemed to set the very air around you alight. The kiss was explosive, a culmination of weeks of pent-up emotion, and the crew watched with bated breath. As the scene ended and the director called cut, Jay pulled away, his heart racing.

The moment of truth had arrived.

You had agreed to wait until the show's finale to reveal your relationship, but the intensity of your on-screen confession had made it impossible to resist the pull any longer. Jay took your hand, his grip firm and reassuring, and led you to the edge of the rooftop, the city of Seoul stretching out below you like a twinkling sea of stars. The cool breeze whispered around you, carrying the scent of the city's vibrant life.

He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. "Let's do it now," he murmured, his voice filled with a mix of excitement and trepidation. "Let's tell the world before the cameras do."

Your heart skipped a beat, the gravity of the situation hitting you like a ton of bricks. But as you looked into his eyes, you knew he was right. It was time to claim their happiness.

"Okay," You whispered, your grip on his hand tightening. "Let's make it our moment, not theirs."

Both of you descended the stairs from the rooftop, your steps echoing in the quiet alley. The paparazzi waited like vultures, but tonight, they had a surprise in store. Jay took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his decision settle in his chest. As you reached the street, a cacophony of flashes and questions erupted around you, but he didn't flinch. Instead, he turned to you, a soft smile playing on his lips.

"Let's go," he whispered, leading you through the frenzy.

The paparazzi surrounded you both, their cameras flashing like a storm of lightning, but Jay and you ran through the street, hearts beating in sync and as you both laughed. You both ducked into a nearby alley, the walls closing in around you as you sought refuge from the prying eyes. The moment the door to the quiet restaurant swung shut, the tension between you snapped.

With trembling hands, both of you took a seat in a cozy booth, the warmth of the place wrapping around like a comforting blanket. "Ready for this?" Jay asked, his eyes searching yours for any sign of doubt.

"More than ready," You replied, a hint of a smile playing on your lips. You both had rehearsed your story a hundred times, a carefully crafted tale of friendship blossoming into love. It was almost as if both of you had been preparing for this moment since the day you and Jay met.

The hours ticked by, filled with laughter and whispers of your own little world. The food grew cold as you lost yourselves in your conversation, the outside world a distant murmur that didn't dare to intrude. But as the clock neared midnight, reality began to creep back in. The show's finale was airing, and your secret would soon be out of your hands.

Jay checked his phone, the screen lighting up his anxious expression. "We should do it now," he urged. "Before the rumors get out of control."

You took a deep breath, your heart racing. You nodded, feeling a strange mix of excitement and dread. "Okay."

You both waited until the perfect moment, the climax of the show's final episode where your characters' love story reached its crescendo. As your on-screen counterparts shared a passionate embrace, you two posted a candid photo of yourselves on your social media accounts. The image was simple: two tired but happy faces, her head resting on his shoulder, their eyes filled with a secret that was no longer just for them. The caption read, "Life imitates art. <3 #OurLoveStory #K-DramaCoupleGoals."

The internet exploded. Within minutes of posting the picture, notifications flooded their phones like confetti in a celebration that had been bottled up for too long. The hashtags he and you had used trended immediately, and the reactions were a mix of shock, elation, and fervent support from your devoted fans

You and Jay watched in awe as the news spread across the entertainment world, the real-life romance becoming the talk of the town, overshadowing even the drama's cliffhanger finale.

The day of the Filmfare OTT Awards arrived, and the excitement was palpable. Jay and your show had been nominated in multiple categories, but the real prize was the undeniable chemistry that had brought you to this moment.

You walked the red carpet together, your hands entwined, each step a declaration of you and Jay's love. The flash of cameras and the screams of fans only served to amplify the thrill that was already coursing through your veins.

As you took your seats in the grand auditorium, your eyes never left each other's. The air was charged with anticipation, a heady mix of nerves and excitement. When the show's name was called out for Best Series, the room erupted in applause. Jay turned to you, a proud smile playing on his lips, and you felt your heart swell with joy. Both of you had done it; You two had conquered the industry together.

The after-party was a whirlwind of congratulations and celebrations. The producer, director, and cast mingled with the entertainment world, all eager to congratulate the couple who had brought their show to life. Jay's hand remained firmly in yours as you both navigated through the throngs of people, the warmth of his touch grounding you amidst the chaos.

The series creator, a charismatic woman with a sharp wit, pulled Jay and you, her eyes shimmering with pride. "You two," she said, raising her glass, "are the reason we're here tonight. Your chemistry is what made this show unforgettable." She leaned closer, her voice a conspiratorial whisper.

"A toast to our new couple and the win of our series!" She shouted.

The glasses clinked, the sound echoing through the buzzing room.

As the party raged on, you and Jay found yourselves in a quiet corner, the music a distant throb in your ears.

Jay leaned in, his eyes dark with desire. "I can't wait to celebrate properly," he murmured.

Jay held you by your hand dragging you into a suite of the hotel where the party was organised. You two slipped away, hand in hand, leaving the festivities behind.

As you entered the bedroom, he kissed you the lips. The kiss was a declaration, a promise of the passion he had been holding back for so long.

Jay pulled you closer, his hands sliding around your waist, and you could feel the heat of his skin through her dress. He had waited for this moment, and now that it was here, it was like the dam had broken.

Your kisses grew more urgent, each one a declaration of love that had been held back for too long. He slipped the dress off your shoulders, revealing the softness of her skin beneath. You unbuttoned his shirt, your fingertips tracing the contours of his chest, feeling his heartbeat against your palm.

The suite was a luxurious retreat from the cacophony of the party. The lights were low, casting shadows that danced on the walls, setting a stage for your private celebration.

Jay's hands were gentle but firm as he guided you to the bed, your eyes never breaking contact. You felt a rush of desire as he kissed your neck, his breath hot against your skin. Your fingers threaded through his hair as he trailed kisses down your collarbone, each one setting your body alight.

He paused, his gaze locking onto yours. "Are you sure about this?" Her response was a fiery kiss that left no room for doubt. "Yes. More than anything," you murmured against his lips.

His touch was electric, setting every inch of you on fire. Your hands explored his body, tracing the lines of muscle that had been honed by years of martial arts training, feeling the power and strength that had made him a star.

Your kisses grew deeper, more demanding, as sought to claim each other fully. He kissed you with a hunger that you had never felt before. His hands roamed over your curves, memorizing every inch of your body, as if he was afraid that if he didn't, you would vanish.

He took his time, exploring your body with a reverence that made you feel worshipped. His fingers danced along your thighs, his lips leaving a trail of fire wherever they went. You squirmed beneath him, desperate for more, and he chuckled, a low, dark sound that sent shivers down your spine. "Patience," he whispered, his voice a promise.

With a final, lingering kiss, he slid down your body, his eyes never leaving yours. He parted your legs gently, his gaze filled with a hunger that made your core clench with anticipation. His tongue darted out, tracing a wet line along your folds, and you gasped.

His hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he feasted on you, his every movement calculated to drive you wild.

Your nails dug into the bedspread as he found your clit, circling it with agonizing precision. He watched your reactions, studying you like a map, learning the landscape of your pleasure. Your breath grew ragged, your hips moving in time with his ministrations.

The pressure built inside you, a crescendo that threatened to shatter you into a million pieces. And when he finally slid a finger inside you, you did just that, coming apart in his arms with a cry that was equal parts relief and ecstasy.

He un-buckled his belt as slid down his pants.He kissed his way back up your body, their eyes locking as he positioned himself above you.

You could feel the tip of him against you, the heat of him making you wetter, your body begging for more. He took a moment, savoring the connection, before he pushed inside you with a groan that seemed to come from his very soul. You were tight, so tight, and the sensation was overwhelming.

Your walls clamped around him as he filled you, the feeling so intense it was almost painful. But it was a good pain, a pain that made him feel alive in a way he never had before. He began to move, his hips rocking into yours in a rhythm that seemed as natural as breathing. You met each of his thrusts with a moan, your nails digging into his back as you held on for dear life.

He watched your face as he moved inside you, the way your eyes fluttered closed and your mouth parted in pleasure. He knew he was your first, and the thought made him even more determined to make this moment unforgettable.

He whispered sweet nothings into your ear, his voice a mix of passion and reverence. You responded with soft gasps and whimpers, your body moving in sync with his.

Your rhythm grew faster, more intense, as the room filled with the sound of your muffled cries and the slick wetness of your passion. He felt you tighten around him, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper. He knew you were close, and he was determined to take you there. His strokes grew more deliberate, his focus solely on your pleasure.

With a final, desperate moan, you came, your body convulsing around him. He groaned, the feeling of your climax sending him over the edge. He buried himself inside you, his release hot and deep, as he claimed you fully. Both of you clung to each other, breaths mingling in the stillness that followed, your hearts hammering in a frantic symphony of love.

Your bodies remained connected, neither willing to break the intimate bond that had just formed. The room was filled with the scent of your love, a potent mix of sweat and desire. Jay kissed your forehead, his chest heaving with each breath. "I love you," he murmured, the words a solemn vow.

His eyes searched your, the intensity of your union reflected in your depths. "I love you too," you whispered back, your voice a soft caress against his skin. Both of you lay there, basking in the afterglow.

Taglist:-

@slutofpsh , @laurenalpha123 , @dreamiestay , @amortenha , @peonywon , @mitmit01 , @heeevangelizesme , @gvni-eve ,@yourmomni , @leov3rse , @punchbug9-blog

[heesvnqie]

Guys! Give me prompts and scenarios to write more fanfictions!! There's a lot going on in my life right now and I really want to write to take my mind into the world of imagination.

PLEASE GIVE ME SOME PROMPTS FOR ENHA FFS!! I HAVE RUN OUT OF IDEAS!! Help me my pookie !!<3

TAGLIST:-

@slutofpsh

@laurenalpha123

@dreamiestay

@amortenha

@peonywon

@mitmit01

@heeevangelizesme

@gvni-eve

@yourmomni

@leov3rse

@punchbug9-blog