jupiter-esque - Tumblr blog

jupiter-esque · 9 hours ago

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⍣ ೋ cw: explicit sexual content, exes to lovers, mutual masturbation , penetrative sex, creampie, crying during sex, pet anxiety, mentions of pregnancy, artist!hyunjin, mdni

notes: in which your situationship ex hyunjin from college asks you to watch his dog for the week--and things spiral from there.

You almost don’t answer.

Your phone buzzes across the table, skittering like a beetle over the wood, and you glance at the screen with the reflex of someone who doesn’t expect surprises anymore.

Hyunjin. The name glows up at you, unfamiliar only in the way it makes your stomach twist—like a song you haven’t heard in years but still remember every lyric to.

It’s been months since you last spoke. Maybe a year since you last saw him. A coffee meetup that turned into wandering aimlessly through the park, talking like nothing had ever gone wrong between you, except it had. That night ended with a long hug and a promise to keep in touch that neither of you kept.

And now he’s calling.

You stare at the screen for another ring. Then another.

Then you answer.

“...Hello?”

There’s a beat of silence, just long enough to make you wonder if he hung up, and then:

“Hey,” he says, breathless like he’d been holding it. “Sorry—sorry to call out of nowhere. I didn’t know who else to ask.”

His voice hasn’t changed. Still soft in a way that wraps around your ribs. Still threaded with that low, careful tension like he’s always thinking five things at once and only saying one.

You shift in your seat, heart suddenly too loud in your chest.

“Okay,” you say slowly, warily. “What’s going on?”

A soft rustle comes through the line—maybe the jingle of keys, maybe his bracelets sliding against his wrist. You picture him pacing his apartment, the same way he used to during finals week, lip caught between his teeth, hair tucked behind one ear.

“I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t important,” he says. “And I get that it’s weird. Us not talking, and then—me dropping this on you.”

You glance toward the window, try not to let your voice shake. “What is this, exactly?”

He hesitates. “I have to leave the city. It’s an art residency. Last-minute. It’s… big.”

Your stomach twists again, but this time it’s sharper. Of course it’s big. Hyunjin was always meant for something more.

You lean back in your chair, eyes tracing the rain sliding down the windowpane like it’s trying to draw an answer for you. A part of you wants to ask where he's going, what the project is, if he’s excited—because of course he is, he always was, always buzzing with vision and color and a kind of hunger you never could name. But that part of you lives behind a glass wall now. You’re not sure you’re allowed to tap on it.

So you don’t ask. You swallow the words like coins dropped into a well—silent, swallowed, never coming back up.

“I’m happy for you,” you say instead, and it’s almost true. “You deserve it.”

Hyunjin exhales, and for a second you wonder if he’s smiling. “Thanks. That means more than you probably think.”

It shouldn't. But you don’t say that either.

“I wouldn’t call if I didn’t really need the help,” he adds, voice dipping a little lower now, like he’s bracing for the ask to land wrong. “It’s Kkami. My sitter canceled last minute, and everyone else is either busy or allergic. You were the only person I thought of who could handle him.”

You laugh softly, mostly out of disbelief. “Handle him? Hyun, your dog hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Hyunjin says, though there’s something too quick in his defense, too breathless—like maybe he’s trying to convince himself. “He’s just... territorial.”

You huff a dry laugh. “Yeah, I remember. He tried to piss on my jeans.”

“That was one time.”

“Twice.”

“Okay, but in his defense, they smelled like me.”

You pause. The silence that follows is sharp and sudden, the kind that cuts deep and clean. It’s the kind of silence that remembers.

Because those jeans had smelled like him—after that night. The last one. The one where he’d backed you against the wall of your own bedroom with his fingers still wet from your mouth, where he’d said things he probably didn’t mean and kissed you like he hated how much he did.

The night you both decided—without saying it—that it was over. That whatever “thing” had been pulsing between you wasn’t something either of you could hold without bleeding.

And yet. Here you are. Picking at it like a scab that never healed right.

Your throat works around the memory before your voice does. You don’t say anything at first—just sit there, hand wrapped too tightly around your phone, eyes fixed on some vague point on the wall like if you don’t move, it won’t reach you. Like you can’t still feel him, breath hot against your neck, hands fisting in your sheets, mouth tracing every soft part of you like he was trying to memorize the map of a place he had no business returning to.

He clears his throat on the other end, and it sounds like guilt. Or maybe longing. You’ve always had trouble telling the difference when it came to him.

“Look,” Hyunjin says, quieter now. “I wouldn’t be asking if I had another option. Kkami doesn’t do well with new spaces, and I can’t board him. He’s too anxious, and if he’s not with someone he knows, he’ll make himself sick.”

You finally speak, though your voice is thin. “So you want me to stay at yours.”

A beat. Then—“Yeah.”

Just like that. No sugarcoating. No backpedaling. Just Hyunjin, honest and bare in the way he always was once he stopped pretending not to feel everything at once.

You run a hand down your face. “Hyun, we haven’t talked in almost a year.”

“I know.”

“You haven’t even seen me since—”

“I know.”

He’s not angry, not defensive. Just… raw. Like the words are scraping him on the way out. You can hear the scrape.

“I didn’t think I’d ever call you again,” he admits. “I thought that was the deal. But when they offered me this residency, and I realized I had to leave tonight—you’re the only person I could trust. With him. With my home.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, hard enough to taste the coppery edge of restraint.

His home.

It’s stupid, really. How easy it is to fall back into this rhythm. How even now, after all the months, all the distance, he can still lace your name with history. You’d been friends once. Kind of. You’d laughed a lot, touched a lot, fucked even more—on couches, against doors, in the low hush of early morning when everything was tender and wrong. It was always supposed to be temporary. Temporary, but all-consuming.

But the feelings crept in like rot through the walls. And neither of you were brave enough to call it love, so you called it off instead.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” you say, but even you don’t sound convinced.

“I’ll wash the sheets,” he jokes weakly.

You laugh, soft and involuntary, the sound catching somewhere in your throat. It’s not really about the sheets.

It never was.

And the silence that follows—god, it aches. Not sharp like the aftermath of a fight, but dull and lingering, like a bruise you don’t remember getting. Like a conversation left open on a table, gathering dust.

You clear your throat. “What time’s your flight?”

“Late,” he says. “But I still have to pack a few pieces and drop off the canvases. It’ll be tight.”

“Do you need help?” The words are out before you can catch them. You curse yourself immediately for the softness in your voice.

He hesitates. “No. It’s fine. Just—just the dog. That’s all I need help with.”

Right. The dog.

You glance at your calendar. Clear. Of course it’s clear.

Of course the universe decided to leave space for this.

“Alright,” you murmur. “Just send me the code. I’ll stay at yours. It’s fine.”

“You don’t have to bring anything,” he rushes to say, and it’s like he’s trying to compensate for the ask with over-kindness. “I washed the old blanket. The one you used to crash under on the couch. It’s still there.”

Your fingers tighten around your phone.

He doesn’t mention that the last time you slept under that blanket, you were still tangled in him. Half-dressed. Half-drunk on him. That he pulled it over your hips after, when you were too spent to move, and he kissed your shoulder like he wanted to stay but didn’t know how.

You don’t bring it up either.

Instead, you breathe out slow. “Cool. I’ll head over in an hour or two.”

“Okay.”

Neither of you say I missed you.

Neither of you say This is weird.

Neither of you say Is this going to break us again?

Instead, Hyunjin adds quietly, “I’ll leave a note.”

“For the dog?”

“For you.”

You close your eyes.

“Okay.”

He doesn’t say goodbye. Just… hangs up.

And you let the dial tone ring for a few seconds longer than you should, like maybe he’ll change his mind. Like maybe you will.

But the silence stays.

And when you finally move, dragging out your overnight bag and stuffing it half-heartedly with essentials, you can’t stop thinking about the smell of his apartment. The way the floor creaks by the hallway. The coffee mugs he used to leave near the sink, rimmed with paint. The pictures he never hung. The sketchbook that held a drawing of you in fading graphite—one he never knew you found.

You wonder if it’s still there.

You wonder what else of you is.

The building hasn’t changed.

You hate that you notice. Hate that your fingers still know the keycode before you even read the text. Hate that the elevator creaks on the same floor. That the hallway smells like turmeric and old wood and the trace of him—Hyunjin, in incense and paint and something vaguely sweet.

His apartment door is unlocked, just like he promised. A sticky note is taped to the front, scrawled in the quick, crooked handwriting you used to recognize across lecture halls and grocery lists alike.

“Come in. He’s dramatic, not dangerous. Don’t let him guilt trip you.” —H.

You roll your eyes and open the door.

It looks the same. Lived-in, messy in a way that’s curated. An art book cracked open on the coffee table. Two mugs in the sink. One of his hoodies flung across the back of the couch like he wore it last night. And maybe he did.

You hear the growl before you see him.

Kkami stands in the middle of the living room, ears pinned back, hackles raised, tail stiff like an accusation. He looks you dead in the eye and lets out a snarl so pointed you actually step back.

“Oh, fuck off,” you mutter, tugging your bag higher on your shoulder. “We’ve been over this.”

He growls again. Louder.

You raise your hands. “I come in peace.”

He barks.

You take a careful step inside, nudging the door shut behind you. Kkami follows your every move like you’re an intruder in a palace he was knighted to protect.

“I’m not stealing your shit,” you tell the dog. “I’m just crashing here. Ask your absentee father.”

Kkami doesn’t find it funny.

You inch toward the kitchen, where Hyunjin’s written schedule sits neatly beside two bowls—one for food, one for water. Both full. Fresh.

You glance at the clock. He’s probably already at the airport. Maybe already boarding. Maybe looking down at the city through a plane window, tapping his fingers against the glass like he always did when he was anxious. You wonder if he thought about calling you again. You wonder if he’s relieved you didn’t call him first.

Kkami lets out a soft, pitiful whine behind you. When you turn, he’s sitting but tense, eyes never leaving you. Suspicious. Wounded. Territorial, like Hyunjin said.

“Jesus, you’re worse than him,” you sigh.

A folded slip of paper catches your eye. It’s tucked under the magnet shaped like a paintbrush on the fridge. Your name is written across the front.

Your throat tightens.

You don’t open it. Not yet.

You drop your bag by the couch and finally take a seat, letting the quiet settle around you. The apartment hums with memory. You used to sit here wrapped in his hoodie, eating leftover tteokbokki at midnight, legs draped across his lap while he rubbed lazy circles into your shin. You used to kiss in this corner. Fuck in this corner. Sleep in the bed down the hall like it meant nothing, even when it meant too much.

Kkami barks once—sharp and offended—then hops up onto the other end of the couch and curls into a tight, annoyed little donut.

“Truce?” you offer.

He sneezes. Well then.

You sigh and reach for your phone. Maybe you can FaceTime Hyunjin later. Let the dog see him. Hear him. Maybe that’ll help.

Or maybe it’ll make everything worse.

You glance over at the folded blanket. The place where you used to lay your head.

And wonder how long it’ll take for this place to feel empty without him in it.

You don’t sleep well that first night.

Kkami stays curled at the farthest edge of the bed like he’s punishing you, his little back turned, ears twitching at every shift you make beneath the sheets. He doesn’t bark, but he lets out these occasional, theatrical sighs—deep, betrayed, bone-deep things—like you’ve committed the ultimate offense by existing where Hyunjin should be.

You get it.

You feel it too.

In the morning, you wake before the sun finishes rising. The air in the apartment is cold, the kind of cold that seeps into your joints, your thoughts, the hollow behind your ribs. You drag Hyunjin’s blanket from the couch and wrap yourself in it, settle on the floor near the window with a mug of instant coffee that tastes like cardboard and nostalgia.

Kkami watches you from the kitchen doorway, still suspicious.

“Do you have a schedule, or are we just winging it?” you ask him.

He sneezes and turns his head. No comment.

The hours pass slow. You walk him—twice. He barks at a bus, growls at a stroller, and refuses to let you tie his leash to the bench while you grab a coffee from the corner place Hyunjin used to love. You wind up going without.

At noon, you wander the apartment, not touching anything but looking at everything. A half-finished canvas still rests on the easel in the corner. It’s abstract—something celestial, maybe. Blue and smoke and gold bleeding together like bruises in motion. You don’t know if it’s new. You don’t ask.

You think about texting him. Just something simple. He misses you already. Or He hasn’t peed on anything today. But the words feel too light. Too personal. You settle for:

12:31 PM — [You]: he ate most of his food. drank a lot of water too. no accidents.

The read receipt comes instantly. His reply is a few minutes later:

12:36 PM — [Hyunjin]: thank you <3

The heart curls in your chest. You close the app.

You make pasta for dinner and Kkami doesn’t touch his kibble until you sit beside him on the floor and pretend to eat a piece. Then he snarfs it all down like he’s proving a point.

That night, he won’t sleep again. He whines. He paces. He jumps down from the bed and runs to the door, then back again. Tail twitching. Eyes darting.

When you try to pet him, he flinches like he’s expecting a trick. You sit on the floor again, cross-legged in Hyunjin’s oversized hoodie (you told yourself you brought it by accident), and say softly, “He’s not here. It’s just me.”

He whines again. Low and pitiful.

“Me too,” you whisper.

You glance toward the kitchen. Toward the fridge. That little slip of paper still waits, untouched beneath the magnet shaped like a paintbrush. Your name in his handwriting. Like a bruise. Like a dare.

You haven’t opened it. Not yet.

You slept on the couch.

Not because the bed wasn’t made—Hyunjin had even tucked in the corners, left a glass of water on the nightstand like he thought about what you’d need—but because you couldn’t bring yourself to crawl into the same sheets you used to wake up tangled in. Not when the scent of him still lived in the pillowcases. Not when the memory of his hands on your bare back still lingered in the seams of the duvet.

So you curled up under the old blanket instead, the one you used to steal during lazy afternoons and Netflix half-watched kisses and accepted the fact that your neck was going to ache in the morning. Kkami refused to join you. He spent most of the night pacing between the door and the hallway, growling at shadows.

The second night is worse.

Kkami is inconsolable. He won’t eat. Won’t lie down. Won’t stop pacing between the front door and the window like he’s waiting for Hyunjin to materialize from thin air. At one point, he noses Hyunjin’s shoes—left by the entryway—and lets out a sound so hollow and pitiful it actually makes your eyes sting.

You try everything. Treats. Music. White noise. The blanket that still smells like Hyunjin’s shampoo. But nothing works. It’s like something inside him is unraveling, the cord pulled too tight and fraying with every hour he doesn’t see the one person he’s built his little world around.

Same, you think bitterly, and feel stupid for it.

You end up sitting on the kitchen floor around midnight, your legs numb, your patience thinner than it’s been in weeks. Kkami’s resting his chin on his paws but still letting out this tiny, high-pitched whine every few seconds, like he’s trying not to cry but can’t help it.

And that sound—god, that sound shatters something in you.

You sigh, rub your face with both hands, and reach for your phone.

12:04 AM — [You]: he won’t sleep. he’s been crying for an hour. won’t eat either.

You don’t expect him to reply. Not at this hour, not while he’s halfway across the country doing Important Artist Things.

But your screen lights up with an incoming FaceTime call within seconds.

Your heart drops into your stomach.

You hesitate. Just for a second.

Then answer.

And for the first time in nearly a year, you see him.

Hyunjin’s face fills the screen—soft-lit and sleepy, hoodie bunched around his neck like he’d just been getting ready for bed. But it’s not just the setting that throws you. It’s him.

The long hair you used to run your fingers through—gone. All of it. In its place: a buzzcut. Clean, close, severe in a way that shouldn’t suit him but somehow does. It makes his features sharper, more present. Like there’s nothing to hide behind anymore.

You blink. You don’t mean to stare, but the shock is immediate, visceral.

“Hi,” he says, quiet.

You swallow. “Hi.”

He sits up straighter. “Is he okay?”

You shift the camera toward Kkami, who immediately perks up. His ears shoot up like radar, and he lets out a small, startled bark before beelining to your lap—bumping his snout into the phone like he’s trying to crawl through it.

Hyunjin laughs. It’s breathless. Disbelieving.

“God, he’s dramatic.”

“He gets it from you,” you mutter.

Kkami presses against your chest like he’s trying to bury himself in your heart, finally calm now, finally still. You stroke a hand down his back and try not to think about the fact that it took Hyunjin’s voice to soothe him.

You glance at the screen again. Hyunjin’s watching you, not Kkami.

There’s a beat where neither of you speak. The only sound is Kkami’s soft breathing and the low hum of the city outside the window.

Then, gently:

“I left you something,” he says.

You swallow. “I know.”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d find it.”

“I did.”

“You gonna open it?”

You glance toward the fridge. The note still waits, tucked under the paintbrush magnet like a secret too fragile to touch.

“Not yet,” you say.

And he doesn’t push. Just nods. “Okay.”

Kkami shifts closer to your thigh and exhales, finally resting his chin on your knee. You pet him with one hand, still holding the phone in the other.

“He’s sleeping now,” you whisper.

“So are you.”

You blink. “What?”

“Your eyes,” he says. “They do that thing. The little flutter when you’re about to crash.”

You’re too tired to argue. Too tired to ask why he remembers that.

“I’ll hang up,” he offers.

You don’t say no.

You just murmur, “Goodnight, Hyun.”

And you hear the softness in his voice as he says it back:

“Goodnight.”

You don’t sleep much better that night.

But Kkami doesn’t cry again.

The next few days fall into a strange kind of rhythm—quiet, off-kilter, but somehow soothing in the way old routines can be, even when they’re made of things that weren’t meant to last.

Kkami still hates you by daylight.

He growls when you walk into the room. Barks when you open the fridge. Refuses to eat unless you pretend not to look. He doesn’t let you pet him unless he’s half-asleep or tricked by a treat, and he definitely doesn’t let you forget that this is his house, his couch, his missing person.

But at night, when Hyunjin calls, it’s like a switch flips.

Kkami leaps into your lap the moment the ringtone echoes through the apartment. He curls there, fast and warm and trembling just slightly, like he’s spent all day building tension he doesn’t know how to unspool without Hyunjin’s voice in the room.

You always answer on the couch, blanket pulled tight around your shoulders, phone propped up against a half-full glass of water. Hyunjin always looks a little tired, a little flushed from wherever he’s just come back from—a gallery tour, a studio session, a walk through some city that doesn’t have your footprints on its sidewalks.

He tells you about the art residency. The gallery director who makes coffee that tastes like battery acid. The studio space—wide and cold and full of light. He tells you about a piece he’s working on: abstract, rough, loud in a way he hasn’t painted in years.

“You’d hate it,” he laughs, voice crackling faintly through the call. “It’s all jagged lines. Chaos. I think it’s about… hunger. Or maybe grief. I don’t know.”

“I never hated your work,” you say.

Hyunjin quiets. Then, low:

“You hated what it did to me.”

Your breath catches.

Because he’s right.

You did.

You hated the way he disappeared into it—into himself—those long stretches of silence when he wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t touch you unless it was desperate and fleeting, like he was chasing the ghost of something he could never quite hold. You hated the way he used his own pain like paint thinner, diluted himself until all that was left was color on canvas and a shell of the boy you used to fall asleep beside.

But you don’t say that.

You just sit there, curled on his couch in his hoodie you’ve stolen from his drawer, your phone glowing in the soft hush of midnight.

“I hated how much it hurt you,” you say instead. “That’s not the same thing.”

Hyunjin nods slowly, his lips pressed into a line. “No. It’s not.”

Kkami shifts in your lap, stretching a little, his snout nudging your elbow before he sighs and drifts deeper into sleep. You stroke his fur absently, eyes still locked on the screen, on Hyunjin’s face—the new angles of it, the way the buzzcut makes him look older, sharper, like a wound that finally scabbed over.

He watches you for a while. Then murmurs, “I was scared to call you.”

You smile, tired and small. “I figured.”

“I thought you’d say no. That you wouldn’t even answer.”

“I almost didn’t.”

His throat bobs. “Why’d you say yes?”

You don’t answer right away.

Because it’s not just about the dog. Not just about the key he left under the stairs or the food already stocked or the note still waiting on the fridge like a breath you’re not ready to exhale.

You look at him. Really look.

And when you speak, it’s quiet. Honest.

“Because I missed you. Even when I hated missing you.”

The silence after is different this time.

He blinks. His mouth parts like he’s going to say something, but all that comes out is a whisper.

“Fuck.”

You let out a laugh—dry, breathless. “Yeah.”

He shifts on the screen, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “You still sleep on the couch?”

“Every night.”

“Why?”

“Because the bed remembers more than I’m ready to.”

His eyes flicker. He nods once. Like he understands. Like he hasn’t been sleeping either.

Another pause. Then—

“I dream about you,” he says.

And it’s not a confession. It’s a bruise. Something he’s been pressing on in the dark just to see if it still hurts.

You blink. “Hyun—”

“Not just the sex,” he adds, voice hoarse. “Though… yeah. That too. A lot, actually.”

You glance away, heat creeping up your neck. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I want to,” he says. “I want you to know I still—”

He cuts himself off. Breathes out hard. Shakes his head.

Kkami stirs in your lap, shifting slightly. The air feels too tight suddenly, the silence too loud.

You focus on Kkami. On the slow rise and fall of his small body, the way his paws twitch in sleep like he’s chasing something warm. It grounds you—barely.

Hyunjin exhales on the other end of the line. You can hear it, soft and ragged, the kind of breath that holds everything he didn’t say. Everything he still might.

You don’t speak. Not yet. Because what could you say? I still touch myself to the thought of you? I still wear your hoodie like armor when I can’t sleep? I still think about that night on the floor when we couldn’t stop, even though we knew it was already over?

None of it would come out right.

So instead, you keep your voice even when you ask, “Do you paint me?”

The question slips out before you can stop it. You don't even know why you asked it. Maybe its because you're so sleepy you can't filter you're thoughts. Maybe because he mentioned it once, over soggy cereal over the golden morning light that filtered through the blinds, over the laughter you've never quite had again.

Hyunjin stills.

On the screen, he doesn’t look shocked. He looks… worn. Like someone who’s been carrying the answer around for a while and doesn’t know where to put it.

“I try not to,” he says eventually. Quiet. Careful. “But you always end up there.”

Your breath falters. You nod slowly, like that’s an answer you expected—because it is. Because you knew. Somehow, you always knew.

You shift the phone slightly, angle it so he can see the window behind you. The dark skyline. The reflection of the room, soft and gold and full of ghosts. Your voice is steadier than you feel when you say, “I haven’t opened it.”

“I know,” he replies, just as soft.

“I want to. But…”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“I think I need more time.”

“Take it,” he murmurs. “I left it because I had to, not because I needed anything back.”

You nod. Not that he can see it—not really. But somehow, you think he feels it anyway.

“Okay,” you say. It's the only thing you can manage that doesn’t crack under its own weight.

A pause stretches between you. Soft. Not cold. Just full. Like the breath before a confession. Like the second before a kiss.

Kkami snores lightly, curled deeper into your lap now, his whole body lax with trust. You glance down at him, stroke a thumb between his ears, then look back at the screen.

Hyunjin’s still watching you. Not the dog. Not the view.

Just you.

“You’re wearing my hoodie,” he murmurs, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You shrug, suddenly shy. “Didn’t pack enough layers.”

“I knew you’d steal something,” he says, teasing, but low—like he's remembering the way you used to steal everything from him. His clothes. His time. His breath.

“You left the drawer cracked open on purpose.”

“Maybe.”

His smile softens into something quieter. More real.

“I used to love seeing you in my stuff,” he adds. “Used to come home and hope you’d be there. Curled up in it. Pretending to wait for me.”

You swallow. It’s harder than it should be. “I wasn’t pretending.”

Hyunjin blinks slowly. Like that hit him somewhere unexpected. Somewhere tender.

And then, quietly, almost afraid to hope: “Are you still?”

You could lie. You could deflect. But instead, you meet his eyes through the screen.

“I haven’t been with anyone else.”

His jaw works. “Neither have I.”

The words land between you like a marker—drawing a line not to separate, but to measure distance. And maybe the distance isn’t as wide as you thought.

Your fingers curl a little tighter in Kkami’s fur.

“I should go to bed,” you say. Your voice is quiet. A little raw.

“Okay,” Hyunjin whispers. “Me too.”

But neither of you move. The seconds tick by. You don’t even blink.

Eventually, he says, “Tomorrow night. Can I call again?”

You let out a soft breath, not quite a laugh. “Hyun… you’ve been calling every night.”

His smile doesn’t fade, but it shifts—tilts into something deeper. Less playful. More certain.

“I know,” he says. “But that was for Kkami.”

You blink. “And tomorrow?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. Not once.

“That’s for you.”

It knocks the wind out of you a little, the way he says it. Not romantic. Not dramatic. Just simple. True. Like he’s only just letting himself say it out loud, but he’s known it all along.

Your throat tightens. “Oh.”

Hyunjin watches you carefully. “Is that okay?”

You nod once. “Yeah. It’s… more than okay.”

Something in his posture loosens then, like he’s been holding a breath he can finally let go of. His shoulders drop. His mouth twitches again, a smile fighting its way to the surface but not quite forming—like he’s still afraid to want too much, to hope too fast.

You don’t know what tomorrow will bring. Not really.

But you know you’ll answer.

And maybe this time you’ll stop pretending it’s for the dog.

“You’re on the bed.”

Hyunjin says it the moment the screen connects. No hello. No lead-up. Just those four words, soft and low and unmistakably aware.

You blink at him from where you’re sitting, back pressed to the headboard, knees pulled up beneath the comforter. His comforter.

You almost lie. Almost say you were just passing through. That the light was better in here. That Kkami stole the couch.

But Hyunjin’s already smiling—slow and knowing, like he’s been waiting for this.

You exhale through your nose. “Kkami’s on the couch.”

“Mm,” he hums, a little amused. “So it’s just you in my bed.”

Your fingers tighten around the phone, feeling a little flustered. “Is that going to be a problem?”

His eyes darken a shade, but the smile stays. “Not even a little.”

You roll onto your side, careful not to let the phone slip. The sheets are warm beneath you, still smelling faintly like cedar and fabric softener and something only he ever carried. His presence is everywhere in this room. On the walls. In the folded clothes. Under your skin.

Hyunjin shifts on his end of the call—he’s propped up on pillows, a fitted black tank clinging to his chest, the cut of it leaving little to the imagination. His toned arms are on full display, lean muscle catching the dim light, subtle and sculpted like something sketched in charcoal. His expression is unreadable, caught somewhere between reverence and restraint.

“I thought about you today,” he says after a beat.

You tuck your face into the pillow, just a little. “Like you usually do?”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “But this time I didn’t fight it.”

Your heart thuds against your ribs, slow and heavy. “What were you thinking?”

His gaze dips, like he’s shy all of a sudden. “That I miss you. That I used to wake up to you in that bed.”

You swallow, voice thinner now. “It’s a little colder without you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The silence that follows is different from all the others before it. It’s thick. Electric. It hums with all the things neither of you have said but haven’t stopped feeling. The kind of silence that shifts when the air gets warmer, when the breath starts catching, when the ache finally starts to slip through.

Hyunjin wets his lips. His voice is barely a whisper. “You look good there.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “I feel... restless.”

He shifts again, almost imperceptibly. “Tell me.”

Your gaze flickers. “Tell you what?”

“What you’re thinking. Right now.”

You hesitate.

But then, softly, deliberately: “I was thinking about your hands.”

Hyunjin’s mouth parts slightly.

“I was thinking about how you used to touch me here,” you say, dragging your fingers over the blanket, slow, just below your collarbone. “And here.” Down, lower now, to the place between your ribs.

His breath stutters through the speaker.

“And I was wondering…” you murmur, voice barely above a hum, “if you miss the way I used to say your name when you touched me like that.”

Hyunjin closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them again, they’re dark, focused, hungry.

“I think about it all the time,” he says. “Every fucking night.”

Your thighs press together under the blanket. You feel your pulse everywhere—behind your knees, in your fingertips, between your legs. It’s not even about the sex. Not yet. It’s about the weight of being wanted by someone who remembers you—who still remembers.

“I haven’t touched anyone else,” you say.

He swallows hard. “Don’t.”

“I don’t want to.”

Hyunjin nods slowly. “Me either.”

Then, quiet: “Can I stay on the call?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he says, voice rough now, “if I asked you to touch yourself… would you let me watch?”

Your breath catches. Not from nerves. From need.

You don’t say yes. You just let the phone settle against the pillow beside you, angled toward your face, the way he used to tilt your chin when he wanted a better look at how undone you were.

The sheets shift as your hand moves lower.

Hyunjin watches. And when he speaks, it’s barely a whisper, like he’s already somewhere far beneath the surface with you.

“Fuck. You always looked so pretty like this.”

You inhale shakily, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts, slow and careful, testing the heat already gathered there.

Hyunjin’s eyes drag down your body. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips. His voice is rough with memory.

“Remember that time on the floor? After your exam? You were so out of it—barely undressed. I just shoved your panties to the side and made you come in, what, two minutes?”

You let out a quiet, choked sound at the back of your throat.

He smiles—crooked, dark. “Yeah. You clenched so hard around my fingers I thought I’d lose them.”

You whimper softly. Your hand moves slow, wet, dragging through the mess of your own need, slick pooling beneath your fingertips like your body remembers him even better than your mind does.

“God, that sound,” Hyunjin breathes. “That little gasp when you’re just starting to touch yourself. Same one you made when I used to run my fingers down your stomach—real slow, just to watch you twitch.”

You press harder against your clit, circles tightening, mouth falling open as your back arches into the memory. He’s not even touching you, and still—your body bends like it’s learned him by muscle memory.

Hyunjin notices. Of course he does.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice gone low and ragged, the kind that scrapes the inside of your throat just hearing it. “All spread out in my bed. Fucking yourself open with your hand like you want me to see everything. Like you know I used to make you feel better than anyone else ever could.”

You moan, breath catching, and Hyunjin’s smile sharpens.

“Touch your tits,” he says, not as a command—but a conjuring. Like he already knows you’re aching for it. “Lift your shirt for me.”

You obey without a sound, pushing the hem up slowly, just enough to expose the curve of one breast, the soft point of your nipple hard and aching from the friction of your shirt.

He groans. “You remember how obsessed I was with your tits? Couldn’t stop sucking on them. Couldn’t stop biting.” His jaw clenches. “You used to beg me to be gentle. And then beg me not to stop.”

Your fingers slide down again—slippery, desperate. Your thighs shake under the weight of it. The rhythm is messier now, your hips chasing pressure. Hyunjin watches all of it, his hand dragging down his torso, disappearing beneath his waistband.

“Touching yourself in my bed,” he growls. “Wearing my shirt. Letting me watch while you make yourself come for me.”

He’s panting now, hand working slow, deliberate strokes beneath the screen. His tank top clings to his chest, sweat beading along his collarbones. His buzzed hair is messy, sticking slightly to his forehead, and his mouth—his fucking mouth—is red and parted, like he’s still tasting you.

“You remember the way I used to fuck you from behind?” he says. “Pushed your face into the mattress, held your hips like you’d run from me if I let go?”

You whimper—your fingers falter, then speed up.

“Could barely breathe, baby. You’d just sob into the sheets. You loved it. Took every inch, crying like you couldn’t handle it—and still begged for more.”

Your body goes taut, heels digging into the mattress, orgasm hovering just out of reach.

Hyunjin's voice drops to a growl, breath quick and filthy. “Bet your pussy’s fucking tight right now. Clenching like it forgot what it’s supposed to take—like it’s trying to remember the shape of my cock.”

He groans, low and wrecked. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll teach it again. I’ll stretch you open so slow you feel it for days. Won’t stop ‘til you’re dripping all over my sheets, crying into the pillow, begging for more.”

You whimper his name—helpless. Shattered.

“You want me to say it?” Hyunjin pants, fist working now, muscles flexing. “Want me to tell you how I’d do it?”

You nod, frantic. Desperate.

His voice turns molten. Thick with lust, arrogance, something cruel and beautiful.

“I’d start slow. Tease you with just the tip. Let you feel the stretch, let you beg for the rest of it. Then I’d give you all of it at once—deep, hard. Just to see you fucking cry.”

You do cry out. The tension in your body snaps tighter, hips lifting off the bed, toes curling. So close.

“I’d fuck you into the mattress,” he growls. “Grip your hips and slam into you so hard you’d lose your voice. You remember how I’d do that? Say, ‘You’re not done yet, baby. You can take it.’ And you always fucking would.”

You’re whimpering now, moaning into your own shoulder to muffle the sound, fingers moving in slippery, filthy rhythm. The orgasm’s close—so close—spooling at the base of your spine, hot and tight and relentless.

“Oh, fuck, there it is,” he gasps, fucking into his fist now, stroking faster. “You’re close. I can see it—hear it. Just like that, baby. Let go for me. Come for the boy who still dreams about the way you taste. Come for the fucking lunatic who’d trade his last painting just to feel your pussy clench around his fingers one more time.”

That breaks you.

You moan his name—soft, ruined, high-pitched—and you come with your hand buried between your thighs, eyes fluttering, back arching. The pleasure pulses through you in waves, soaked and frantic and unstoppable.

“God, you’re still so fucking perfect,” he grits out. “I could’ve painted this. You—like that. That’s my favorite version of you.”

You whimper, still trembling.

He grins. Dark. Gleaming. “Wanna see what you do to me?”

You nod, dizzy.

He shifts the phone—just enough for you to see the slick length of him in his hand. Red at the tip, dripping, veins thick under taut skin. His pace is ruthless now.

“I used to fuck your thighs just to tease you,” he pants. “Not even your pussy. Just that pretty space between them. Used to slide my cock right there and come all over your stomach.”

You let out a breathy sound of disbelief, hips twitching in aftershock. Your cunt flutters around nothing, empty and aching.

“Fucking ruined me,” he snarls. “You ruined me. No one else has even come close. No one sounds like you. No one feels like you.”

And then, through gritted teeth:

“I’m gonna come thinking about your mouth. That filthy little tongue. That sweet fucking smile you gave me while I fucked your throat.”

Your legs tremble again.

“Fuck, baby—fuckfuckfuck—”

He comes with your name on his tongue, head thrown back, muscles tensed, body shuddering through it as his hips stutter beneath the blanket. His jaw slackens, hand squeezing out the last twitch of pleasure.

The silence after is sharp. Breathless.

Your own body still buzzes, skin flushed, sheets damp with sweat and want and memory.

Neither of you speak at first. Just breathing. Just staring.

Eventually, Hyunjin looks up again. His voice is hoarse, trembling at the edges.

“Tell me this isn’t just sex.”

You don’t.

You just stare back.

And then you hang up.

You hang up, and your hand is still trembling. Your whole body is still trembling, wrecked in ways that have nothing to do with the orgasm.

It takes less than a minute for him to call back.

Then again.

And again.

You watch the screen light up with his name—Hyun—and each time, it makes your stomach twist so violently it feels like punishment. Like grief.

You don’t answer.

The fifth time, he stops calling. Thirty seconds later, your phone dings with a text.

[Hyunjin]: i’m sorry. please just tell me if that was too much. [Hyunjin]: i didn’t mean to push you. i didn’t mean to fuck everything up. [Hyunjin]: we don’t have to talk about it. we can pretend it didn’t happen if you want. i’ll follow your lead. just… please say something.

You don’t respond to those either.

You just turn off read receipts and shove the phone under the pillow.

The next few days go by in a strange, slow blur.

You and Kkami settle into a rhythm. He doesn’t bark anymore when you walk past. Doesn’t flinch when you reach for his leash. He even curls up at your feet when you’re on the couch, sometimes nuzzling his nose into your ankle like he’s already decided you belong here.

It should feel comforting.

It doesn’t.

You stop sitting in Hyunjin’s bed. You stop wearing the hoodie. You wash it, fold it, and put it back exactly where you found it, like none of this ever happened.

You send him brief texts. Clipped. Neutral.

[You]: he ate all his dinner. no accidents. slept fine.

[You]: took him for a walk. he peed on someone’s shoe.

[You]: when’s your flight again?

You don’t tell him how it feels like the walls have closed in.

How you’ve stopped sleeping in his bed again—even if the couch hurts your back. Even if the couch doesn’t smell quite like him.

How Kkami curls up beside you now without growling, without guilt. You take him for long walks. Let him tug you through the park. Let him bark at pigeons and lick your knuckles and rest his chin on your thigh when you scroll through old texts you don’t send anymore.

You don’t cry. But your chest aches in a way that feels dangerously close.

You were never going to be able to leave without feeling like this.

But now it’s worse. Because you let yourself want again.

And it’s giving you vertigo.

[Hyunjin]: should be back around 5:30. just leave the key in the box. thank you again. for everything.

You stare at the message for a long time.

Not because of what it says.

But because of what it doesn’t.

And what you don’t know is this:

Hyunjin’s lying.

His flight lands at 3:10.

He’s already halfway through the city when you’re zipping up your bag.

He’s already in the elevator by the time you’re taking out the trash.

And he’s standing at the front door—key in hand, chest tight, hands shaking—when you reach for the handle to leave.

You open the door and nearly collide with him.

You freeze.

The air catches.

Time does something strange.

Hyunjin’s just… there.

Sweatshirt slung over his shoulder, suitcase by his side, curls of damp air clinging to the collar of his shirt from the humid sprint through the city. And his eyes—sharp, dark, wide with something between relief and devastation—lock onto yours like he’s forgotten how to blink.

For a second, neither of you speaks.

Then—

“Hyun—?”

Kkami barrels into view like a missile. He lets out a shrill bark of excitement and practically throws himself into Hyunjin’s legs, circling and jumping and whining like he’s just won the fucking lottery.

But Hyunjin doesn’t look down. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.

He just stares at you.

And says, low, quiet, steady:

“You were really gonna leave.”

You clutch your bag a little tighter. “You said you’d be back at five.”

“I lied.”

You swallow. “I figured that part out.”

His jaw clenches. His hands twitch by his sides, like he doesn’t know whether to reach for you or shove them into his pockets or bury them in your skin just to make sure you’re real.

Kkami lets out another bark, trying to wedge his head between you two like he’s the center of gravity—but Hyunjin doesn’t even glance down. Not once.

All of him is focused on you.

“You weren’t going to say goodbye.”

It’s not a question. It’s an accusation. A plea. A wound.

“I didn’t think you wanted me to.”

“Bullshit.”

That makes you flinch. Just a little. He sees it. His expression softens, but only barely.

Hyunjin steps forward. Not fast—but purposeful. Like if he stops now, you’ll disappear all over again.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice taut with something sharp. “I’m sorry I came on too strong. I’m sorry I didn’t give you time. I’m sorry I didn’t say what I should’ve said months ago, years ago—fuck, the morning after. But don’t stand here and tell me I didn’t want you.”

You inhale—tight, shallow. Like there’s no room in your lungs for this.

For him.

“Hyun—”

“No,” he cuts in, but it’s not cruel. Just cracked. “You don’t get to walk out and let me find the ghost of you in my bed again. Not after you let me see you like that. Not after I—”

His voice breaks.

He swallows it down.

Kkami sits at his feet now, finally quiet, as if even he knows this part isn’t his.

“I meant it,” Hyunjin says, softer now. “That night. Everything I said. Everything I remembered. It wasn’t just to get you off.”

Your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag.

“You said you missed me,” he goes on. “But then you shut the door in my face. And I was willing to pretend I didn’t care. I was willing to take scraps just to be near you. But if you’re still standing in front of me—if you haven’t walked away yet—then just fucking tell me.”

He looks at you like he’s trying to memorize you all over again.

You look at him. Really look. And you know—he’s not going to let you run.

Not this time.

“Go get the note.”

His voice is soft, but firm. Like a command spoken through a kiss. Like an ache wrapped in velvet.

You blink. “What?”

“The letter,” he repeats. “The one I left you. On the fridge.”

You freeze.

“I know you haven’t opened it.”

You swallow. “I wasn’t ready.”

“I don’t care,” he says, and there’s a flicker of something dark in his voice—something possessive, guttural. “I want you to read it. Now.”

You hesitate.

“Please,” he adds, and that’s what breaks you.

You nod—barely—and turn without a word. Each step toward the kitchen feels thick, underwater.

You open it, and—

It’s not a letter.

Not really.

It’s a patchwork of thoughts, of half-confessions. Scribbled lines, crossed-out phrases, uneven spacing. The ink changes color midway—black, then blue, then black again. Some words are written in cursive. Some in a rush. Some like they cost him something to write.

You glance up. He nods again.

“Read it,” he says. “Out loud.”

You hesitate. Then you read.

“You once laughed in your sleep, and I didn’t sleep at all that night. I just watched you and hoped that whoever you were dreaming about looked like me.”

You swallow hard. Keep going.

The ink shifts color. From deep black to something fainter. Navy. A pen running dry, maybe.

Your voice wavers.

“There’s a sweater you left. It doesn’t smell like you anymore. I hold it anyway.”

Hyunjin’s throat works. He doesn’t interrupt.

“I never painted your face. Couldn’t do it. Couldn’t get your eyes right. But I painted your hands. A hundred times. Because they always knew how to hold me better than I knew how to ask.”

Your chest twists. You can’t speak the words out loud anymore, but you read. You read and read and read until there is nothing left, until the space between you feels alive–electric.

He steps forward. Just one step. But it’s enough to close the distance.

“I lied,” Hyunjin says, voice low, rough. “The sitter didn’t cancel.”

You blink. “What?”

“I had people,” he continues. “So many people I could’ve called. People I trust. People who would’ve said yes.”

His eyes are burning now—dark, wet, glittering with something fragile and ferocious.

“But I didn’t want them. I wanted you.”

You don’t say anything. Can’t. Your hands are trembling.

“I told myself it was about Kkami. About the timing. About convenience.” He huffs out a broken laugh. “But it wasn’t. It was you. It was always you.”

Your breath falters.

“I missed you,” he says. “So much it made me sick. I thought I could bury it. Paint over it. Work through it. But I couldn’t. I never did. You’ve always been underneath it all—under the hunger, the silence, the mess I made of myself.”

He steps closer. You’re breathing the same air now.

“I loved you then,” he says. “When we were tangled up in bedsheets and half-truths and pretending it didn’t mean anything. I loved you when you wore my hoodie and called me yours with your eyes. I loved you the second I saw you, and I—”

His voice cracks.

“And I love you now.”

You don't remember moving. Don’t remember closing the gap, dropping your bag, reaching for him with hands that should’ve known better.

All you know is this: one second, you're blinking back tears, and the next, you're kissing him like you're drowning.

Hyunjin catches you with both hands—one at your jaw, the other curling around your waist, steadying. The kiss is messy, open-mouthed, frantic. His lips part on a gasp when you press your body to his, and then he's devouring you like something starved.

Your back hits the wall. His teeth scrape your bottom lip. Fingers thread into his hair—short now, prickling at the scalp—and he groans like it’s breaking him.

You drop your bag. You don’t even hear it hit the floor.

You don’t care.

His hands are everywhere. On your waist, your hips, the curve of your spine. He pulls you in so tight you feel the tremor in his arms, the sheer desperation coiled in his chest like a spring pulled too far.

“Fuck,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “I’ve wanted this—I’ve wanted you—”

His voice breaks again, and then he’s back on you, lips trailing across your jaw, down the line of your neck. You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut, mouth parting on a moan as he bites softly into your throat—just enough to mark. Just enough to remember.

Your hands scrabble at the hem of his shirt, yanking it up, palms hungry on bare skin. He hisses as your nails drag over his stomach, muscles twitching beneath the heat of your touch.

“Take it off,” you breathe.

He does. In one motion, the tank top is gone—flung to the floor like it offended him. And you stare. You can’t help it.

He’s still art. Still all sharp lines and soft skin and lean, desperate hunger. His chest heaves with every breath, sweat glinting in the hollow of his throat, and you think: I could die like this. I could burn for him and never want to be saved.

Hyunjin kisses you again—harder this time, hungrier. Like he heard it. Like he wants to go up in flames with you.

His hands slide under your thighs, lifting you without warning, and you gasp as your back hits the wall again, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. The air shifts. Your breath catches. His cock presses against you through his jeans—thick, hot, twitching with every grind of his hips.

“I can’t wait,” he pants against your mouth. “I need to be inside you. Right now.”

“Then do it,” you breathe, dragging your nails down his back. “Hyune—please—”

Hyunjin breathes something that sounds like a curse, or maybe a prayer, and then he’s walking—stumbling, really—half-guided by the desperate way you’re clinging to him, the press of your mouths, the sharp hitch of your breath when he grabs at your ass to hold you higher. You barely register the shift from wall to bedroom until your back hits the mattress, until the world becomes sheets and skin and the low rasp of his voice murmuring your name like it’s sacred.

The mattress gives beneath your weight, springs groaning under the tangle of limbs and heat and history. Hyunjin follows you down like gravity itself — hands sliding, mouth chasing, body already slotting between your thighs as if it never forgot where it belonged.

His shirt is gone. Yours joins it. He kisses you through every inch of skin he unveils, frantic and starved and reverent, like he’s not sure whether to worship you or ruin you.

You arch beneath him when his tongue traces the curve of your breast, the bite of his teeth following fast after — a soft sting that makes your breath catch, your fingers dig into his shoulders. He groans when your nails drag down his back, when your thighs fall open wider.

And then he’s there — rutting against your center, clothed still but so hard it aches through the friction, the weight of him pressing perfect and punishing between your legs.

You can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can only move — hips grinding up to meet every desperate push of his, your cunt soaked and aching with the need to be filled.

Hyunjin’s hand slips down, hooking your thigh over his hip. He grinds into you through the last barrier, jeans rough against your soaked underwear, and it’s filthy the way your body answers—already arching, already clenching around nothing. You chase the friction shamelessly, trying to wring every ounce of pressure you can from the maddening drag of his cock pressed to your core.

He hisses against your throat, breath hot, teeth scraping the fragile skin there. You’re drenched. There’s no mistaking it—the way your panties cling, the way your slick seeps through them and stains his jeans, how he shudders just from the heat of you pulsing against the fabric.

The zipper’s down before you can even register the motion. He pushes his jeans low enough to free himself—hard and heavy and flushed dark with want. Your mouth waters at the sight of it. He tears your panties off with a quiet growl, not cruel, just crazed with the need to feel skin on skin, no more layers, no more time.

When he lines up and pushes in, it’s one long, devastating stroke—his cock thick and perfect and stretching you open like you were made for it.

You gasp—sharp, strangled. Your nails sink into his back.

Hyunjin goes still.

Buried to the hilt inside you, his entire body trembling with restraint, every muscle locked tight like he’s trying to keep himself from coming right then and there.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “You—oh my god—”

His forehead drops to your shoulder. He’s shaking. You feel it. In his arms, in his breath, in the way his cock pulses deep inside you without moving. The kind of overwhelmed that turns to worship. The kind of ruin that feels like coming home.

You tighten around him instinctively—hungry, pulsing—and he lets out a strangled moan against your skin.

“I swear to god,” he whispers, forehead pressing to yours. “If I move, I’m gonna come like a fucking teenager.”

Your nails dig deeper into his back, anchoring him there, as if you could stop time with the press of your fingertips. His cock twitches inside you, thick and throbbing, and it feels like too much and not enough all at once.

Hyunjin groans—low, raw, like the sound is being dragged out of him by force.

“Fuck, baby,” he pants. “You feel… I forgot—fuck, I forgot how perfect you are.”

You whimper, breath caught in your throat. You’re stretched so full it feels like splitting—blissfully unbearable. Like he’s carved to fit you, or maybe you were carved for him.

He doesn’t move. Can’t. His whole body is locked in place, every muscle drawn taut with the kind of restraint that hurts.

“I’m gonna embarrass myself,” he rasps. “You’re so warm, I—I need a second.”

You nod, gasping. “Okay.”

But your body doesn’t care. It’s greedy. Slick clings to your inner thighs, to the base of his cock. You pulse around him again—tight, hot, involuntary—and he shudders, a curse breaking on his lips.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” he whispers, biting your shoulder.

“I’m not,” you breathe, but your hips roll anyway, a tiny grind up into his stillness.

Hyunjin moans—loud, broken. “Baby, I’m serious. You do that again and I’ll fucking—”

You clench again, on purpose this time.

He snaps.

In one hard thrust, he pulls out halfway and slams back in. You cry out—sharp, wanton—as your body folds around his. The stretch. The impact. The sound of skin on skin.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, your head tipping back, throat exposed.

Hyunjin watches the way your mouth parts, how your breasts bounce with every desperate snap of his hips. He groans then drops his mouth to your chest, sucking a bruise over your heart.

“This mine?” he pants, dragging his cock out slow before plunging back in. “Still mine?”

You can’t speak. Can only nod, breath caught in your throat. He fucks you through the motion, slow and deep now, the grind of his cock so obscene you swear you can feel him everywhere—behind your knees, in your throat, echoing in every part of you that remembers how he used to love you.

“No, baby,” he murmurs, voice fraying, fingers sliding under your knee to push your thigh back, opening you wider. “Say it. Let me hear you say it.”

“It’s—” Your voice breaks on a moan when he thrusts deep again, dragging against that spot that makes your vision go white at the edges. “It’s yours, Hyunjin. Always.”

He groans into your chest like the words punched the air out of him. Then he’s fucking you harder, deeper, like he’s trying to anchor himself in the way you take him. The bed creaks, the headboard thuds against the wall, but you don’tHe moans into your chest like the words physically hit him, his thrusts growing messier, more frantic. His hand finds yours and pins it above your head, fingers lacing together tight, grounding him even as he loses himself in the slick, pulsing heat of you.

You’re soaked, ruined, trembling under every thick slide of his cock. He hits so deep it borders on pain, and yet you arch into it—into him—dragging him closer, clawing at his back like if you could just get closer, it might be enough.

“I missed this pussy,” he growls, the words slurred and broken against your throat. “I fucking dreamed about it. Thought about it every night with my cock in my hand—nothing felt as good, nothing—fuck—”

You keen, high-pitched, overwhelmed. Your body pulses around him again, tight as a vice, and it makes him stutter—a half-thrust cut short by the shudder that runs through him.

He kisses you then—desperate, biting, tongue dragging into your mouth like he wants to consume you from the inside out.

You’re moan is swallowed by his mouth when he hits that spot—deep and relentless—and your whole body jolts. Your back arches, your legs tighten around his waist, dragging him deeper.

“Right there?” he growls. “That the spot, baby?”

You nod, frantic, mouth open but no words coming—just breath, just heat, just the sound of him splitting you open again and again.

Hyunjin grins. It's crooked. Crooked and cocky and dizzy with something feral. Like he’s gone. Like you’ve pulled him under with you.

“Yeah,” he breathes, thrusting deeper, slower now, grinding his hips in a filthy circle that makes your eyes roll back. “I remember. Right there. Got you clenching like you’re about to cry.”

His voice breaks on a moan, guttural and reverent. “Fuck, that’s so pretty—so fucking pretty, baby—your face when I fuck you like this.”

He’s unraveling, you can feel it—his rhythm fraying, pace faltering, every thrust a prayer half-remembered. He buries himself deep and stays there, hips pressed flush, cock pulsing inside you like a heartbeat. His forehead falls to yours again, and he’s breathing so hard it shakes both your bodies.

“You gonna cry for me?” he whispers, voice all fray and silk. “Wanna see it, wanna feel you fall apart. I’ll take care of it—I’ll hold you through it, I promise.”

You don’t mean to. But it’s been too much—his mouth, his voice, the stretch of him splitting you open in perfect, deliberate ruin. Your eyes blur, your breath hitches, and before you can stop it—

A tear slips down your cheek.

Hyunjin sees it. And something inside him shatters.

“Oh my god,” he chokes, fingers trembling where they hold your thigh. “That’s it, that’s—fuck—”

He fucks you through it, slow and deep, every stroke angled to keep you on the edge. His free hand cradles your face, thumb brushing the wetness from your cheek. And he’s murmuring now, wrecked and ragged and sweet:

“You’re so good for me. So perfect. I don’t deserve you—I don’t—”

You cry out again, back arching as your orgasm hits—wave after wave of unbearable heat crashing through you. You seize around him, walls fluttering, hips stuttering beneath his weight.

Hyunjin groans like it’s killing him. Like the feel of you falling apart around his cock is undoing him thread by thread.

“Can I—fuck, baby, where do you want it?” he gasps, teeth gritted, body coiled so tight you think he might break apart if you say no.

“Inside,” you breathe, wrecked and shameless. “Want it inside—please.”

That last word shreds him.

He thrusts once—deep, sharp—then again, slower this time, drawn-out like he’s trying to memorize the way you feel. His eyes flutter shut. His mouth falls open. And then he’s coming—hard.

A low, desperate sound tears out of him as his cock jerks inside you, spilling warmth in thick, molten pulses. He buries himself as deep as he can go, arms trembling around you, breath stuttering in your ear. His whole body shakes with it, every muscle straining to stay rooted in you as pleasure rips through him like lightning.

He stays like that—deep inside you, trembling, breathless—until the shudders fade to something softer. Something quieter.

The kind of silence that feels like safety.

His forehead rests against yours, damp hair brushing your temple, and you can feel the weight of him everywhere—his chest pressed to yours, his arms wrapped around your waist, the steady thrum of his heart syncing with your own.

Neither of you speaks.

There’s nothing left to say.

Just breath. Just warmth. Just the slow, wet drag of him slipping out of you when his body finally yields, when your bodies finally remember they’re separate things again. You wince a little, overstimulated, but he’s careful—gentle hands guiding your hips as he settles beside you.

The bed is a mess. You’re a mess. But in his arms, none of it matters.

He pulls you close, one hand curling behind your neck, the other splayed low across your spine. You fit against him like you were made to—legs tangled, faces barely apart. His eyes find yours, dark and soft and unreadable. And then—

He kisses you.

Slow. Tender. Unhurried. Like he’s not trying to restart anything—just thank you, silently, for letting him fall apart in your arms.

Your fingers slip into his hair. His thumb draws circles at the base of your spine.

And in that quiet, breathless space—there is no ache, no past, no noise.

The gallery hums with low conversation and champagne glasses clinking. Golden evening light filters through tall windows, casting Hyunjin’s paintings in soft amber and dust. He stands near one of his larger pieces—stark, aching, all deep reds and pale ivory brushstrokes layered like wounds healed over—speaking to a small crowd of critics and curators, hands moving with slow confidence as he explains his process.

It’s been years since he’s spoken like this—without apology. Years since he let the world see him this raw and unguarded. He’s dressed in black from head to toe, long hair tied back loosely, wedding band glinting when he gestures. He looks settled now, anchored. And you know what it took to get him there.

You weren’t supposed to come.

He’d kissed your forehead this morning, hand warm and reverent on your swollen belly, and told you to rest. “You’ll just get exhausted,” he’d said, brushing your hair back, “and I’ll be distracted the whole time wondering if your ankles are swollen or if the baby’s doing backflips again.”

But now you’re here.

Standing just inside the gallery, framed by the door like something sacred. You wore the dress he loves—the one that drapes gently over the curve of your belly, soft and simple, glowing in the dusk light. One hand rests instinctively at your side, the other slipping under the swell of you. There’s a quiet smile on your lips, half proud, half bashful, and your eyes are locked on him.

Hyunjin doesn’t see you at first. He’s mid-sentence, talking about brush technique and layered memory, about how grief isn't linear, how art can be a body trying to heal. His voice is steady. His hands are sure.

Then he glances up.

And freezes.

You watch it happen in real time—the shift. His mouth stutters around a word, vowels cut short, fingers faltering mid-gesture. And then—god. That smile. Unrehearsed, boyish, wide in a way that crinkles his eyes and ruins all pretense. A pure, delighted thing that belongs only to you.

A few people glance over their shoulders, curious. But Hyunjin barely notices.

He catches himself, coughs once, and somehow fumbles through the last few lines of his explanation. His voice is softer now. Almost sheepish. He wraps up quickly, answering a question with a vague nod, thanking the crowd with a half-bow.

And then he’s moving.

Straight through the gallery, long strides purposeful, eyes never leaving yours.

You open your mouth—maybe to apologize, maybe just to greet him—but he’s already cupping your face in his hands before you can speak. His fingers are cool from holding a champagne flute, but his palms are warm. Familiar. His touch gentle despite how frantically he reaches for you.

“You’re unbelievable,” he says, kissing your forehead. “I told you not to come.” A kiss to your nose. “I specifically said—” another to your cheek, “—that I’d worry—” your chin “—that you’d get tired,” he murmurs against your skin, peppering kisses like punctuation. “That your feet would swell. That you’d—fuck, baby, I said stay home.”

You smile, tilting your head just enough to meet his gaze—warm and full of something playful. “I know, but—”

He kisses you.

Soft and certain, his mouth presses to yours before the words can even leave your lips. It’s instinctive, almost impatient, like he couldn’t bear to hear the excuse when you’re standing right here, glowing and breathless and his. His hand curls at the back of your neck, thumb brushing the line of your jaw. You feel him smile into it, lips warm and reverent, like maybe he’s trying to convince himself he’s not dreaming.

You giggle against his mouth.

It bubbles out before you can stop it—light, easy, surprised by your own happiness.

“Hyunjin,” you laugh, gently pushing at his chest. “Let me speak.”

He leans back only a little, just enough to see you again. There’s a smudge of your lip gloss at the corner of his mouth, and you wipe it with your thumb, grinning.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmur.

Hyunjin pulls back just enough to look at you—really look. His eyes trace every inch of your face like he’s memorizing you all over again. His thumb sweeps over your cheekbone. “You take my breath away,” he murmurs, like a confession. “Every damn time.”

You want to say something—something light, something teasing—but the way he’s looking at you leaves no room for irony. Just warmth. Just wonder.

And love. So much of it, it floods the space between you.

His hand slips down, resting over the swell of your stomach, and he sighs when he feels the smallest kick beneath his palm. “Little traitor,” he whispers to your bump, grinning. “You two planned this, didn’t you?”

You feign innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Mhm.” He leans in and kisses you again—soft, slow, not quite chaste. Like there’s no one else in the room, no critics still lingering, no gallery full of people pretending not to watch the artist come undone in the arms of his muse.

Eventually, he pulls back—just a little. Just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“Stay?” he asks, almost shy. “I want to show you something. After everyone leaves.”

You nod.

You nod, and his smile deepens—boyish, brilliant, the kind that still makes your knees weak even now. He kisses you one last time, quick and giddy, before reluctantly pulling away with a soft groan, dragging his hand down your arm like he’s tethering himself to you.

“I’ll be quick,” he promises, squeezing your fingers before turning back toward the crowd. “Don’t go into labor while I’m gone.”

You roll your eyes fondly. “No promises.”

He shoots you a look over his shoulder—mock-scandalized, lips twitching with laughter—and then he’s swept back into the flow of guests, nodding politely, shaking hands, answering a few last questions as people begin to drift toward the exit.

You watch from the side, sipping sparkling water from a plastic flute someone handed you, perched on the edge of a velvet bench like you belong in one of his paintings. A few guests glance your way—some with recognition, some with curiosity—but none of them matter.

You only watch him.

And he watches you too—between conversations, between thank-yous and signatures, his gaze keeps sliding back—like a tether, like gravity, like a vow that’s already been made a hundred times in silence.

You smile around the rim of your glass and press a hand to your belly, where the smallest flicker answers back. A quiet reminder of everything the two of you have built in the quiet spaces between the chaos. In the brushstrokes. In the breathing.

The gallery empties slowly, like a tide pulling away from shore. But you stay, bathed in golden light, watching the man you love exist in a room full of people who will never know him like you do. Who will never see the version of him that wakes up sleep-tousled and soft, who talks to your stomach like it already understands him, who paints love into everything he touches because he’s learned how to survive by making beauty out of ache.

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jupiter-esque · 7 days ago

Text

Going Down Polythageorean: H.Hj & H.J Hwang Hyunjin x fem!reader x Han Jisung (College AU)

WC: 15.07K

CWs: Pre-Established relationship between reader & Jisung, Sexual Identity Crisis, Polyamory & Non-Traditional Relationships, Mild Public Embarrassment & Secondhand Embarrassment

General Masterlist SKZ Masterlist

When you step into the Alpha Phi frat house, your senses are immediately assaulted by the comforting, savoury scent of garlic, gochujang, and simmering chicken. You adjust your tote bag over your shoulder and shut the front door behind you with your foot.

Your white Converse squeak slightly on the hardwood floors, your long green maxi skirt brushing lightly around your ankles with every step you take. Your cropped tank top clings lightly to your skin in the heat, and the green ribbon tying your hair back is already starting to slide, probably from how many times you've yanked it up during the walk over.

The house is loud, and you hear the familiar dull slam of a cupboard door in the kitchen. You can smell the rice frying too, which means Jisung's doing a full meal and not just making instant ramen for the third time this week.

You shoulder open the kitchen door and grin at the sight of your boyfriend standing at the stove, brows furrowed in concentration as he stirs the stew simmering in a heavy pot. His hair is fluffed to hell, and there's a tiny smear of red sauce on his cheek.

"Holy shit," you say, dropping your tote bag onto the counter with a dramatic thud. "Are you trying to seduce me with Dakbokkeumtang?"

Jisung turns toward you with a giant, goofy grin that makes your chest feel like it's expanding ten sizes.

"Jagiya!" he beams, immediately abandoning the spoon and taking your face in his hands, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, and finally your lips. "Are you carrying boulders in that fucking bag?"

"No! I'm learning about the epidemiology of cholera in Victorian London! I'm trying to find a historical epidemic for my timeline project due in, like, four months! Right now I'm leaning toward cholera as a focus but honestly there are just so many fucked-up plagues in history I'm kinda overwhelmed."

Jisung leans back against the counter. "Oh yeah? Tell me all about it."

You beam, instantly taking the invitation and hoisting yourself up onto the edge of the counter. "Okay, okay, so cholera was this bacterial infection that spreads through contaminated water, right? And in the 19th century, London had like absolutely dogshit sanitation. We're talking raw sewage in the fucking Thames. People were just dumping actual shit into the river and then drinking it like 'yum, totally safe!' And then everyone acted surprised when people started dying by the thousands."

Jisung snorts and turns back to stir the stew, but he's still listening to every word. "Jesus Christ, that's fucking disgusting. Was it like a fast thing? Like you drink some nasty shit and then boom, dead?"

"Pretty much, yeah. I mean, some people died in like twelve hours. Diarrhoea, vomiting, muscle cramps, the works. Just water pouring out of every hole."

"Every hole, huh? Kinky."

You laugh, swatting your hand in his direction even though you're out of reach. "Ew, you sick fuck. No, like, people were dying in droves, and doctors had no clue what was causing it. Miasma theory was the big thing then, like they thought diseases came from 'bad air.' Which, I mean, the air probably did stink, but that wasn't the point."

"So how did they figure it out?" he asks, grabbing the rice pan now and tossing the kimchi and vegetables with practised flicks of the wrist. His movements are smooth now, confident. You remember when he could barely boil water without crying, and Minho had to stand next to him, barking insults like a deranged Gordon Ramsay.

"Well," you continue, legs swinging slightly, "there was this guy, Dr. John Snow, who made this gorgeous, data-driven map, and he proved that almost all the cholera deaths were clustered around a water pump on Broad Street. He took the handle off, and the outbreak stopped."

Jisung whistles low. "Damn. That's kind of badass."

"It is! And it's like, he revolutionised epidemiology, right? Like, that was one of the first real applications of data analysis to disease tracking. It laid the groundwork for everything we do now. Contact tracing, case mapping, infection control, it all kinda started with him and his sexy-ass water pump map."

Jisung turns off the burners and starts plating up, still watching you out of the corner of his eye with the most tender look. "I love when you talk nerdy to me."

You snort. "I'm not even sorry. That man makes me wanna make out with a bar graph."

Jisung walks over with two plates, one for you and one for him, and sets them down on the counter next to you. You jump off and immediately plop yourself into his lap as he drops into one of the kitchen chairs. He wraps one arm around your waist like it's second nature and grabs his chopsticks with the other.

"I made it less spicy, by the way," he says, kissing the side of your head. "Didn't want your face melting off."

You melt a little yourself at that. "You're the best."

"I know," he grins.

You both start eating, and you groan as the flavours hit your tongue. The kimchi fried rice is crispy in the best way, with caramelised bits that crunch at the edges and that deep, fermented tang from the kimchi. Jisung might have been a fucking disaster in the kitchen ten months ago, but now he's a competent, emotional wreck with surprisingly good knife skills.

"So," you say, halfway through your plate, "how was your day?"

Jisung sighs, a long, tired noise from deep in his chest.

"Ji?"

"Hyunjin started another fucking argument today at practice."

You blink. "Again? What happened this time?"

He shrugs, clearly frustrated. "I don't even know. I was just running drills, doing my thing, and he started snapping at me for 'not keeping up.' Like, what the fuck?."

You press a soft kiss to his shoulder, the fabric of his shirt warm against your lips. "I just wish I knew why he hated me," Jisung mutters.

"He'll tell you eventually," you murmur, running a hand through his hair. "Feelings eventually bubble out. Usually with screaming and crying. Sometimes fire."

He huffs a little laugh and tilts his head to kiss your cheek. "Let's talk about something else."

"Okay! Let me tell you why the young Once-ler from The Lorax is the peak animated man I would absolutely fuck."

Jisung immediately starts laughing, his eyes lighting up as he puts his chopsticks down. "Oh my God, what?"

"No, hear me out! Specifically, the suit version. Not the lanky beanpole one. The one with the guitar, singing 'How Bad Can I Be.' That man could treat me like shit and I'd thank him. He could say I was the reason the entire forest burned down, and I'd be like, 'Yes, sir, may I have another?'"

Jisung is wheezing, eyes crinkling at the corners. "What the fuck, jagiya."

"I'm serious! He's like chaotic neutral with capitalist villain swag. He knows he's doing something awful and still does it with style and a musical number. It's sexy! I can't explain it. It's like he's a dick but in a way where I think I could change him."

"He's animated!"

"So? My standards are fluid."

He laughs again and pulls you closer. "You're so fucking weird. I love it."

You smirk and nudge his nose with yours. "You're lucky you do. Otherwise, this would be a whole lot of red flags."

"Nah," he says, brushing your hair back behind your ear. "This is my favourite part of the day. I swear, you look fucking stunning when you talk about dumb niche stuff with stars in your eyes. You light up."

"Shut up, you sap."

"Never,"

Hyunjin lies face-down on his bed, the sheets twisted beneath him like the tangled thoughts in his head. His hair fans across his pillow, and his whole body feels like it's stuck between a cringe and a scream. The kind of scream you'd let out into a pillow at three a.m. when your brain won't shut the fuck up and keeps circling back to the exact thing you're trying to pretend doesn't exist. That exact thing? The fact that he, Hwang Hyunjin, art history major with a dance minor, owner of three very nice leather jackets, is in a fucking mess of feelings. Feelings about Han Jisung and Han Jisung's girlfriend.

He groans into the mattress, fists clenching around his blanket. The walls of the Alpha Phi frat house are stupidly thin. And right now, through the paper-thin wall separating his room from Jisung's, he can hear everything.

"You'd let a white man fuck you?!"

"If it's Ben Willbond, yes! No hesitation. Kitchen counter. Shower. Bed. Floor. Anywhere, everywhere, any position!"

Jisung howls, that wheezy, gasping kind of laughter that makes Hyunjin's stomach twist. It's affectionate, stupid and domestic in that sickening way where two people are so into each other that it makes you want to throw yourself into traffic just to get a break from how fucking soft they are.

"God fucking dammit."

He can't even be mad at Jisung, and that's the worst part. He wants to be mad. It would make things simpler. But Jisung hasn't done anything wrong. He's sweet and funny and kind, and he listens to you like every word out of your mouth is the gospel truth. He makes you food and rubs your shoulders when you're studying and picks up your favourite juice without being asked. He's soft and boyish and endearing. And hot. Annoyingly hot. With that stupid tousled hair and those dumb dimples that show up when he smiles, especially when you're around.

And you. You're you. Kind. Funny. Ridiculously smart. Like, terrifyingly smart. With your tote bag always filled with disease textbooks and your ADHD-fueled rants that Hyunjin secretly listens to through the wall every time you're here. You're too good. You have no business being so fucking sweet to everyone, including Hyunjin himself, even when he's being a passive-aggressive bitch to your boyfriend. Which he is. All the time. And you still smile at him like he hung the stars and offer him snacks, and ask how his day was. It's torture.

It doesn't help that he knows exactly what goes down when the lights are off. He's heard it all. Heard you whimpering his name, Jisung's low groans, the muttered filthy shit that should have his ears burning but instead just fucks him up.

He hates it. Hates that he's like this. That he feels like he's unravelling every time Jisung smiles. That he stares a little too long each time you tuck your hair behind your ear when you laugh. That he's an asshole to Jisung for no fucking reason except that he wants to kiss him. And also kiss you. And he doesn't know which want is worse.

The door creaks open, and he doesn't even move.

"Hyunjin,"

"Go away."

Chan ignores him completely, walks in and grabs Hyunjin's desk chair. The scrape of it across the hardwood is unnecessarily loud. Chan plops down in it backwards, arms folded across the backrest, chin resting on top like some sitcom dad about to give The Talk.

"Can I help you?"

"Look at my face," Chan says dryly. "You made me pull out my disappointed Appa Chan face."

"Me?! I'm just lying here! I didn't do shit today! Jeongin's the one who blew up the microwave. Go be disappointed in him!"

Chan exhales through his nose. "He's next on my shit list. But first, why are you being a shitstain? You're being an asshole to Jisung."

"That's so fucking cruel," Hyunjin whines, rolling onto his side and burying half his face in his pillow.

"You want a permanent spot on Disappointed Appa Chan's shit list?"

Hyunjin pouts. "No."

"Then talk to me. What the fuck is going on? Are you trying to steal Y/N from him? Because I swear to God, if that's your plan, I will beat you with my slipper."

"No!" Hyunjin yelps, sitting up so fast his hair whips into his eyes. "Oh my God, no! That's not what this is!"

Chan softens slightly, one brow arching. "Jin, did you like her first? It's okay if you did. That happens sometimes."

"No!"

"Then why are you being a little cunt?"

"Chan! You hate using that word!"

"Look what you made me do!"

Hyunjin groans again, dragging both hands down his face. "Fuck. Okay. Fuck. Fine. You want to know? You really wanna know?"

"Desperately."

"It's both of them," Hyunjin blurts, the words spilling out like he's been holding them back for years. "It's both of them, okay? I wanna kiss Jisung and I wanna kiss Y/N and I don't know what the fuck that means! I've never liked a guy before. Like, yeah, I've fucked guys and I've been fucked by guys but that's just been sex. You know? Labels? I don't do that. I've never needed to. I've always just gone with what felt good, and now I'm just feeling things, Chan. Things. With fucking capital letters. Like, Jisung smiles and my stomach does weird shit. Like it's trying to turn itself inside out. And Y/N laughs, and it's like someone shoved an entire bouquet down my throat. I can't breathe. I can't think. And it's not even like I want to pick one! I want both of them. But that's not allowed, right? That's selfish. That's not how this shit works!"

He's panting by the end of it, chest heaving, hands in his lap clenched so tight they're turning white.

Chan stares at him, eyes a little wide. "Okay. First off. Wow. That was like verbal diarrhoea with a thesis."

"Shut the fuck up."

"No, seriously, I felt like I was being hit with a truck of feelings." Chan leans forward, mouth twitching with a smile he's trying to suppress. "Also, you can tick the box that says 'not straight,' you know. Taking it up the ass or giving it to a dude excludes you from the 'straight' club."

Hyunjin flips him off. "Thanks, Captain Obvious."

Chan shrugs. "Just helping. So you like Jisung and Y/N?"

Hyunjin groans again, flopping back on the bed. "Yes. Fuck. Yes."

"I knew it! Now. How are you gonna woo both of them?"

"Excuse me?"

"Well, obviously you need a plan."

"A plan for what?"

"Polyamory, dumbass."

Hyunjin blinks. "A plan to what?"

"Polyamory."

"...Is that a spell from Harry Potter?"

Chan drags a hand down his face. "Oh my fucking God."

"No, like seriously, what the fuck is that?"

Chan stands dramatically, pacing like a professor. "Okay. Imagine you love two different kinds of bingsu."

"What?"

"Stay with me. One is the classic patbingsu. Red bean. Milk. Shaved ice. The other is mango. Bright. Tropical. Completely different vibe."

"This is already fucking stupid."

"Shut up. Now, monogamy would be you choosing one bingsu forever. Polyamory is you saying, 'Fuck it, I want both bingsu. At the same time.' And everyone's cool with it. Everyone knows. Everyone agrees. And they all eat bingsu together and it's happy and consensual and no one's crying."

"Are you suggesting I eat Jisung and Y/N like bingsu?"

"You made it weird."

"You started it!"

"No. I was giving you a metaphor."

"You're a menace."

"And you're in love with your best friend and his sexy-ass girlfriend who talks about cholera and fucking animated men."

Hyunjin covers his face with his hands. "I'm gonna die."

Chan grins. "Not before figuring this shit out, you're not."

"You didn't help at all."

"I tried. The bingsu metaphor was solid."

"It was not."

Chan pats his shoulder. "Alright, drama queen. I gotta go yell at Jeongin before he microwaves another fork. But figure your shit out, okay?"

"Can't wait to not understand polyamory for the next year."

Chan opens the door. "Google exists, you know."

"Not for me. I refuse."

Chan disappears with a muttered, "Fucking idiot," and leaves Hyunjin sprawled on the bed, staring up at the ceiling like it holds the answers to his horny, confused, bingsu-fuelled crisis.

The late afternoon sun beats down on the Miroh College football field, and you're sitting on the bench near the sidelines with your textbook cracked open in your lap. You're dressed for comfort but accidentally hot, if the lingering glances from passing undergrads are anything to go by.

Your blue maxi skirt flutters around your ankles when you shift, your white long-sleeve tie-front crop top tied snug over your chest. Your Converse are scuffed at the toes, and your hair's been hastily piled into a messy bun, with a pen jabbed through it, and your sunglasses shield your eyes from the relentless sun as you read about the spread of bubonic plague in medieval Europe.

"Yersinia pestis," you mutter under your breath, highlighting a section. "You sneaky little bacterial bastard."

You're halfway through a paragraph about the mortality rates in Florence when the loudest, most violent thud cuts through the field. Your head jerks up, sunglasses sliding down your nose, and you see two bodies tangled in the grass near the goalpost.

"Oh shit," you say, slamming your book shut.

It's Jisung and Hyunjin. Of course, it's Jisung and Hyunjin.

Chan is already pinching the bridge of his nose like he's developing stress-induced wrinkles in real time. He looks like he aged twenty years in the five seconds since the collision happened.

Jisung sits up first, brushing grass off his arms. He looks perfectly fine, maybe a little dazed but otherwise unbothered. Meanwhile, Hyunjin's still flat on his back, scowling at the sky like it personally offended him. His brows are drawn tight, shoulders tense, and his jaw is clenched so hard you can practically hear his molars grinding.

"Are you both okay?"

Jisung turns toward you immediately, eyes softening. "I'm okay, jagiya."

He smiles, and your heart does that stupid fluttery thing it always does when he looks at you like that. You touch his arm gently, scanning him for bruises or scrapes. He's fine.

Then you look at Hyunjin. He blinks a few times, still half-lying on the grass, and you watch it happen, his hackles slowly lower. The tension in his shoulders uncoils a little, his expression flickers, and for one heartbeat, he just stares at you like he forgot how to be mad. Then Jisung's voice cuts through the silence again.

"You alright, Hyunjin?"

Hyunjin jolts like he was shocked. "Yeah. Fine," He gets up fast, brushes off his shorts, and walks away toward the benches without another word.

Chan immediately follows him, looking like someone just handed him a toddler with a grenade. The rest of the team hangs back, awkward and silent for a second.

"See what I mean?" Jisung says, voice dry and tired. "I breathe near him and he looks like he's gonna throw hands."

"Maybe it's a second puberty," you suggest cheerfully.

"You might be onto something. His mood swings have mood swings."

You guide him back toward the bench where you were sitting, brushing off some leftover grass from his shirt as you walk. "I was reading about the real villains of the 14th century, by the way."

He snorts. "You mean nobles? The Catholic Church?"

"No, no, no," you say, dropping down onto the bench, flipping your textbook open. "Rats, Jisung. Rats were the true supervillains of 14th-century Europe."

He raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "Oh?"

"Yes!" you say, adjusting your sunglasses. "Rats carried the plague fleas, Xenopsylla cheopis, to be precise and those little fuckers spread Yersinia pestis everywhere. The Black Death wiped out up to sixty percent of Europe's population. Sixty. Fucking. Percent."

"Jesus," Changbin mutters nearby, suddenly invested. He plops down on the grass at your feet, eyes wide.

"It gets better," you continue, glowing under the attention like a sunflower in daylight. "The fleas would bite the rats, pick up the bacteria, then jump to humans and bam, mass death. It hit the trade routes and spread like wildfire. Bodies in the streets. Total apocalyptic vibes. You know how now we wear masks and argue about vaccines? Back then, they were bleeding people and praying to saints. Super effective, obviously."

Minho wanders over and plops down next to Changbin. "Wait, wasn't that the time they thought cats were evil and started killing them too?"

"Yes!" you say, jabbing your finger in his direction. "Which was extra stupid because cats eat rats. So by killing the cats, they made the rat population worse. They literally helped the plague spread faster. Congrats, medieval Europe. You played yourself."

Felix drifts over last, flopping down on the bench beside you with a bright grin. "You're saying rats are to blame for wiping out half of Europe?"

"Not just rats," you clarify, tilting the book so they can all see it. "Fleas. But rats were the Uber drivers of death. And medieval cities? Disgusting. No plumbing. No sanitation. People threw shit out the window. Rats thrived in that. Perfect storm."

Seungmin appears like a judgmental ghost, arms crossed. "So people died because they were nasty and stupid?"

You smile sweetly. "Basically."

Jisung twirls a lock of your hair between two fingers. "You're so fucking smart," he says.

"I contain multitudes," you say, striking a ridiculous pose. "Beauty. Brains. Useless historical knowledge. You're welcome."

Felix claps slowly. "This is why I listen to everything you say, I take this shit and use it as pickup lines."

"Felix!" Seungmin groans.

"No, no, listen, last week I told someone at that bar near campus about the dancing plague of 1518, and they were so into it. I said, 'wanna dance till we die?' and boom. Got their number."

You snort. "Jesus Christ, I'm accidentally enabling slutty behaviour."

Felix grins like the devil himself. "And I'm thriving. You're a blessing, babe."

Jisung glares at him playfully. "Back off. She's mine."

Across the field, Hyunjin shifts awkwardly on his feet, arms folded tight across his chest as he stands next to Chan. He keeps glancing sideways at the group across the pitch, where you, Jisung, and the rest of the Alpha Phi guys are.

"What the fuck are they even talking about now?" Hyunjin mutters, squinting.

Chan doesn't even glance up. "You," he says, "should worry more about what we're talking about."

But it's too late. Hyunjin's attention is sucked across the field again, and your voice carries like it was born to be projected across battlefields and lecture halls.

"Okay, fine! But I would definitely survive the plague! I'd be the one investigating it, you know? Trying to track the spread, isolate the bacteria, and invent contact tracing way before its time. I'd be the weird genius who figured shit out."

Changbin immediately snorts so hard it sounds painful. "You'd be patient zero, the superspreader. You'd be like, 'Oh wow, is this flea bite infected?' and then boom, entire village gone."

"I second that," Felix says, throwing a hand up like he's in court. "She'd get infected and keep studying it."

"I'd give you like, five days," Seungmin adds helpfully.

Jeongin hums. "She'd get burned at the stake. They'd think she was a witch."

You gasp, eyes wide. "What the fuck?!"

Minho nods solemnly. "You'd be accused of causing the plague. You'd get drowned or burned or hung, depending on the region."

"Unbelievable! You're all supposed to love me!"

"We do!" Jisung chimes in brightly. "That's why we're being honest. I'd cry at your burning."

Felix pats your head. "We'd avenge you, babe."

"I'm not dead!"

"You would be," Seungmin says, deadpan. "In any medieval European setting, you'd be gone in the first week."

"I'm taking this disrespect personally."

"You should," Jeongin says cheerfully, and they all fucking laugh like they haven't just collectively sentenced you to death via witch trial.

Hyunjin's mouth quirks involuntarily at the sound of your voice, all dramatic indignation and wild hand gestures. You've somehow roped half the football team into a historical survival debate, and he kind of wants to scream at the sky because you're so fucking you. And the way Jisung looks at you, still glowing from your plague lecture and now practically vibrating from laughter, makes Hyunjin's stomach do another weird flip-flop like he's on a diet of nothing but emotions and chaos.

"Okay," Chan says suddenly, breaking Hyunjin's spiralling thoughts. "So. Remember what I said about polyamory?"

Hyunjin groans. "Vaguely. There was bingsu involved."

Chan sighs. "Right. So, let's pick that thread up again, because clearly, you're still operating like you're five and pulling someone's hair on the playground to show you like them."

"I'm not-"

"You are," Chan cuts him off with the tiredness of someone who has dealt with far too many crises to have patience left for bullshit. "Every time Jisung breathes near you, you act like he just pissed in your cereal. I'm half expecting you to start crying about cooties."

Hyunjin blinks, deadpan. "Cooties are very serious."

"Hyun,"

"I know! I know, okay? I'm having a romantic crisis and a sexual identity crisis. At the same fucking time. It's a lot."

From behind them, Minho's voice chimes in like a well-timed sitcom entrance. "I smell queer panic."

Hyunjin wheels around, pointing immediately. "It's Chan! He's having the crisis!"

Chan just nods gravely, expression dry. "Yes. Me. I am so very confused. Do I like dick? Do I like pussy? Do I like everything? I am but a lost and terrified man in a sea of desire."

Minho snorts. "Chan. You came out as pansexual like a year ago. I baked you a fucking cake. Blue, pink, and yellow frosting. The pan flag. Remember?"

"It was delicious," Chan says wistfully.

Minho claps a hand on Hyunjin's shoulder. "So it's you who's the confused baby queer. Got it."

Hyunjin hunches down instantly and hides behind Chan's shoulder, which is ridiculous because he's taller. It looks like a giraffe trying to hide behind a potted plant. Chan doesn't even flinch, just adjusts his stance so Hyunjin can use him as a human shield.

"Aw, poor baby. Do you have big feelings for a man?"

Hyunjin nods behind Chan's head, expression pouty and tragic.

"Oh no," Minho gasps. "Poor thing. Is it confusing?"

Another sad little nod.

"And do you also like said man's girlfriend?"

Yet another nod, lower lip now actively pushed out like a kicked puppy.

Minho holds his arms open. "Come here. Come to me, I will be your guiding queer."

Hyunjin snuggles into Minho's shoulder with an embarrassed groan, and Minho pets his head. "There, there. You're not broken. You're just a bisexual mess with feelings. It happens to the best of us."

"I'm not bisexual," Hyunjin mumbles.

Chan squints. "Then what are you?"

"I don't fucking know," Hyunjin huffs.

Minho raises an eyebrow. "So are you a top with men?"

Hyunjin shrugs. "Both."

Minho hums thoughtfully, rocking him slightly. "And with women?"

"Top."

"We can work with that. I'm seeing a dynamic. Yes. You, Jisung, and Y/N will live in throuple bliss before the year is out."

Hyunjin groans into his shoulder. "Can you explain this polythagorus thing to me again?"

Minho blinks. "You mean polyamory?"

Chan whistles low. "Jesus fucking Christ."

Minho pats his back. "Okay. So, Polyamory means you can love more than one person. At the same time. And it's okay, as long as everyone involved knows about it and agrees to it. No secrets. No cheating. It's about communication and consent. Think of it like, okay, picture a cake."

Chan lifts a finger. "A cake metaphor?"

"Shut up, I like it," Minho snaps. "Picture a cake. You're hungry. One slice? That's monogamy. You love that slice, it's a great slice. But maybe you want another slice, a different flavour. Doesn't mean you don't like the first one. You want chocolate and vanilla."

Chan chimes in. "As long as both slices are okay with being eaten together-"

"Chan,"

"You started it!"

"Anyway," Minho continues, ignoring Chan, "you just have to make sure all the slices are happy. If one slice doesn't want to be shared, then the cake collapses. And no one gets dessert."

Hyunjin stares between them. "That made sense. In a fucked-up way."

Chan nods seriously. "We're here for you."

Minho brushes Hyunjin's bangs back gently. "I'm your eomma now. Chan is your appa."

"I accept this," Hyunjin says solemnly. "Guide me."

And they do. They sit there in a weird triangle of chaos, drawing emotional maps in the dirt and giving metaphorical cake lectures until Hyunjin starts to feel a little less like his heart is on fire and a little more like maybe he can figure this shit out.

The Alpha Phi house is fucking vibrating. Bass thuds so hard through the floorboards that it feels like the whole house is breathing in time with the music. The lights are low, multicoloured LEDs crisscrossing through the air. The theme for tonight is pirates, which means the house is a chaos of leather and ruffles, cheap plastic swords and dramatic eyeliner, sweaty bodies pressed together and grinding.

Hyunjin's drunk. His vest hangs open, exposing the mesh shirt clinging to his chest, black and burgundy fabric fluttering slightly every time he moves. His crisp white cargo pants catch the colored lights like they're a spotlight, and the heavy lace-up boots he's wearing stomp perfectly in time with the beat. The red headband tied around his forehead has slipped slightly, a few strands of blonde hair sticking to his temples with sweat. He's dancing between a girl in a corset and a guy in an open shirt and eye patch, both of them pressed in close, hips rocking with his in perfect rhythm.

It's hot. It's good. He's in his element. The world is spinning in the best possible way, music loud enough to drown out his thoughts, people grinding up on him, alcohol warming every inch of his body. He closes his eyes and lets himself go with the beat, breath shallow, sweat beading at the back of his neck.

But then he hears you. Your laugh. That bright, unfiltered giggle that's impossible to miss, even in a room like this.

You step out of the kitchen with Jisung, both of you flushed and tipsy, drinks still in hand, and Hyunjin's brain short-circuits. You're both glowing under the string lights, skin radiant and eyes sparkling.

Your pirate costume is nothing short of criminal. The off-the-shoulder blouse leaves your collarbones and shoulders bare, the flared sleeves dramatic as hell, and the black brocade corset hugging your waist like it was made to be touched. The burgundy mini skirt ruffles at your thighs, dangerously short, showing just enough to send Hyunjin into a full spiral. The sash draped around your hips shimmers every time you move, the same hue as your headscarf, and the knee-high boots you're wearing look like they were fucking designed to stomp on hearts.

And Jisung is a fever dream in red. His coat swirls behind him like a fucking cape, the white ruffled shirt underneath open at the chest just enough to be illegal. His black pants hug his waist perfectly, tucked into combat boots that gleam under the lights. The fake belt of weapons does nothing to distract from the real weapon: him.

Hyunjin freezes mid-step, half in a body roll with the guy behind him, and just stares.

Jisung twirls you, grinning from ear to ear as you spin, your skirt fanning out dramatically before you land against his chest, giggling, faces inches apart. Then Jisung cups your jaw and kisses you full on the mouth, hot and messy and eager. You melt into him like you're made of fucking sunshine and rum.

Hyunjin feels like someone just kicked him in the chest.

And then you pull Jisung onto the dance floor as It Wasn't Me blasts through the speakers. Hyunjin watches as the two of you fall into rhythm instantly. Jisung's hands grip your waist, and you toss your head back, laughing again as you grind against him.

Your leg wraps around his waist without hesitation, boot hooked behind his back, and he catches you easily, holding you up by the thigh like it's muscle memory.

It's obscene.

You're dancing front to front, bodies locked together, sweat-slick and perfectly in sync. Jisung guides your movements like it's choreographed, his hands roaming your waist, your thigh, one trailing up to the small of your back. The two of you are looking at each other like the rest of the room doesn't exist.

But everyone else sees. Everyone is watching. The dance floor shifts to create a circle around you both. You're like a succubus and an incubus dancing together, too hot, too coordinated, too much for anyone else to compete with. People cheer, whistle, someone yells "Get a room!" and someone else immediately yells "No, don't!"

Hyunjin can't breathe. He wants to join you. Wants to be pressed between you and Jisung, wants to feel your nails in his skin and Jisung's breath on his neck. Wants to be dizzy with your perfume and Jisung's cologne. He wants everything, all of it, every fucking impossible, burning piece of it.

But he just stands there, frozen, watching. Then a hand touches his shoulder, and Chan leans in, voice raised over the music. "Come on, Jinnie. Let's get you a drink, hmm?"

Hyunjin just nods. He doesn't trust himself to speak. Chan pulls him gently but firmly through the crowd, towards the makeshift bar where Minho is working his black-gloved magic with a bottle of rum.

Minho's pirate outfit is dramatic even by his standards. A white ruffled shirt, sleek black vest, vertical striped pants that make his legs look miles long, and lace-up boots. His layered necklaces clink when he moves, and the wide-brimmed hat he's wearing somehow doesn't fall off even as he dramatically shakes a cocktail mixer.

He spots Hyunjin immediately, eyes lighting up in mock sympathy. "Oh my child. Look at you. All confused and sad and drunk."

Hyunjin just nods sadly, face flushed from both the alcohol and the emotional whiplash of seeing his dream throuple making out in the middle of the party.

Minho opens his arms wide. "Come to eomma Minho, my sweet, sad, single child who wants a boyfriend and a girlfriend."

Hyunjin doesn't even hesitate. He mopes over and slumps into Minho's side like a sad sack of limbs and heartbreak, and Minho wraps one arm around his shoulders, gently stroking his hair.

Chan raises an eyebrow and gestures with his chin toward the dance floor. Minho follows his gaze, peering over Hyunjin's head, and then he sees you and Jisung, still dancing like sex demons, and his mouth parts in silent understanding.

"Ah," he says softly. "I see."

"I wanna dance with them."

"I know, baby."

"I wanna sandwich Y/N between me and Jisung."

Minho hums. "Mmm-hmm."

"Or I wanna be the sandwich meat."

Minho coos, petting his hair again. "Of course you do, sweetheart."

Hyunjin has to hunch down to nuzzle properly into Minho's shoulder, face burning.

Chan sips the drink Minho hands him, shaking his head with a smirk. "We're gonna need to get this boy laid and cuddled before he combusts."

"We'll make it happen."

Two hours later, the Alpha Phi house has devolved into a swirling, drunken fever dream. The living room is packed. Someone's swinging a plastic sword, someone else is doing shots off a windowsill, and someone just fell down the stairs and screamed "YO-HO-HO!" on the way down.

You're tucked into Jisung's lap on the couch, flushed and giggling, comfortably squished between him and the armrest while chaos unfolds around you. He's slightly damp with sweat, curls sticking to his forehead.

"I want to fuck you on this couch," Jisung murmurs into your ear. "Right now. Just rip that little skirt off and bend you over the armrest while everyone watches."

You choke on your drink, giggling, slapping a hand to his chest. "Jesus, Ji-"

"I bet you'd like it," he continues, tone filthy and unbothered. "Bet you'd whimper all soft and pretty, make that fucking face you make when you're desperate. Let me ruin you in front of everyone."

You squeal, curling into him to hide your face as your ears burn, and Jisung just laughs, teeth scraping your earlobe as he whispers, "You're so easy to fluster, I love it."

Changbin climbs onto the coffee table in front of you like he's summoning a crowd, red pirate jacket flaring behind him like a cape. He slams his beer can against his thigh and yells, "TRUTH OR DARE, YOU SCURVY LANDLUBBERS!"

The room erupts into cheers. Empty cans rain onto the floor. Someone falls off the loveseat in excitement.

"Only if it ends in an orgy!"

"That's every Friday, shut up, Lix!" Changbin cackles, waving him off. "Circle up, sluts!"

You and Jisung end up still tangled together on the couch, your legs slung across his lap, his arms caging you in. Someone throws down cushions, and people start gathering, giggling and drunk, with drinks in hand. The bottle starts spinning, some off-brand soju bottle that probably cost a grand total of 3,000 won but is about to wreck lives.

The dares are chaotic. Jeongin has to propose to a stranger. Someone's dared to do a lap dance for Seungmin, which he tolerates for exactly three seconds before shoving the guy off with an eye roll. Felix is dared to switch outfits with a girl, which he does in record time. There's a lot of yelling, a lot of laughing, and entirely too much glitter.

Then it lands on you and Jisung.

Changbin grins, evil. "Couples dare! You two, mime sex."

The room goes fucking feral. Screams. Laughter. Chants of "DO IT! DO IT!"

Jisung raises his eyebrows at you, biting back a grin. "What do you think, Jagiya? Wanna give them a show?"

You snort, already slipping out of his lap. "If we're doing this, we're committing."

"Oh we're fucking committing," he grins, grabbing your hand and pulling you up with him.

You plant your feet, bend forward slightly, hands on your thighs, and Jisung whoops behind you, immediately sliding in close, one hand on your waist, the other miming an obscene thrust as he grinds behind you in time with the beat.

The crowd loses it. Whistles. Screaming. Someone throws a cushion at the wall. Jeongin covers his face, half-horrified, half-laughing. Chan yells, "PLEASE USE PROTECTION!" and someone else yells, "TOO LATE!"

Jisung leans down and murmurs loud enough for you to hear, "This is exactly how I want to bend you over tonight."

You shriek with laughter, breaking the pose, spinning around to smack his chest. He catches your wrist and kisses your palm like the dramatic bastard he is.

You collapse back onto the couch, breathless, and Jisung immediately pulls you into his lap again, grinning so wide it hurts.

Then the bottle spins and lands on Minho.

"Truth or dare?" Changbin asks.

"Dare," Minho says, completely unfazed.

"Kiss the person you last jerked off thinking about."

Minho doesn't even blink. He turns, calmly grabs Chan by the collar of his pirate shirt, and yanks him forward. Chan doesn't resist. Their mouths crash together, all teeth and heat, Chan's hand sliding into Minho's hair. It's aggressive, filthy, passionate. Minho makes a low noise in his throat, and Chan presses him back against the wall with a grunt.

Jeongin screams. Seungmin screams. Changbin throws his hands in the air and yells, "CALLED IT!"

"Fucking finally!"

"Was it really me?" Chan breathes into Minho's mouth when they finally part.

Minho smirks. "You had your hands on my hips during warm-up. I'm only human."

The game continues. Things get wilder. More kissing. More stripping. Someone's dared to streak around the backyard. Someone else tries to juggle beer cans and fails spectacularly. People are drunk enough to be unhinged, but not so drunk they don't know what's happening.

Then it lands on Hyunjin. He's cross-legged on the floor, cheeks flushed, red headband crooked. He's been quiet since the game started, nursing the same drink and looking too closely at you and Jisung every time you laugh.

"Truth," he says, voice slightly slurred.

A girl across the circle leans forward, eyes gleaming. "Tell us something you'd never say sober."

"Well," Hyunjin starts, pushing his hair back, "let me fucking tell you something."

Chan's eyes widen. "Uh, Jinnie-"

"No, Christopher! Now is my moment of truth, so to speak!"

Minho sits up straighter, mouth parting. "Hyun, honey, maybe-"

"No! This is truth, right? I have to be honest!"

You glance at Jisung. He's tense now, brows pinched.

Chan drags a hand down his face. "Fuck."

Minho covers his eyes, then peeks through his fingers. "God, it's happening."

Hyunjin stands, wobbling slightly, and points straight at you and Jisung.

"You two!" he announces. "Oh yes! With your perfect little relationship! Happy! So happy! And here's me! Standing on the outside looking in!"

People glance at each other. Jeongin's mouth is open. Changbin's eyes are huge. Seungmin is already cracking up.

"Where did I go wrong, I lost a friend somewhere along- wait. That's a song." Hyunjin blinks. "Uh, basically, I like you both. Like super like you both. And I want to bang you both. Big fucking time. And I've jerked off to you two too many times. Like, a disgusting amount. Like borderline shameful."

You and Jisung freeze.

"What the fuck," Jisung breathes.

Hyunjin hiccups. "Everyone wants Hyunjin! But not the people he wants to want him! No siree! I'm stuck watching you two be happy, wanting to be happy with you!"

He throws his hands out like a Shakespearean actor on a crumbling stage. "There's a fire starting in my heart, reaching a fever pitch- Fuck, another song, sorry! I need to stop that!"

He wobbles forward. "What I meant to say is-"

Minho is up in a flash, grabbing one arm. "Okay! That's enough truth for one night"

Chan's already on the other side. "Let's take a walk, yeah?"

"Noooooo, I wasn't done! I had a metaphor about sandwiches and me being the meat!"

They vanish down the hall with Hyunjin still whining.

You and Jisung stare at each other, stunned silent.

Changbin opens and closes his mouth. Jeongin looks like he just got slapped.

Seungmin wheezes, laughing uncontrollably. "He fucking quoted Adele. And The Fray. In the same monologue."

Felix pulls away from the two people he was making out with on the stairs. "What the fuck did I just miss?!"

Hyunjin wakes up to the distinct feeling of breath tickling the side of his neck. The air is warm, and there's a heavy weight across his torso, and something scratchy and suspiciously Minho-scented pressed to his back. His mouth tastes like someone funnelled battery acid and a hint of lime down his throat. The ceiling above him is unfamiliar, and when he blinks through the pounding behind his eyes, he registers immediately that this is not his room.

He's in Chan's.

He's very much not alone, either. One arm is curled around his waist, definitely Minho's, judging by the sleek black nail polish and the quiet grumbles of sleep still leaving his mouth. Another arm is draped over his chest like a fucking weighted blanket, heavy and protective, and attached to Chan, who is very much awake and staring directly down at him with that wide-eyed, silently screaming dad expression.

Hyunjin makes a noise that can only be described as a startled kitten with a hangover and shifts to look up at them both, hair a mess of blonde tangles and dried glitter. His voice comes out scratchy. "Why am I not in my room?"

Minho cracks one eye open, sighs, and closes it again. Chan's expression doesn't shift.

"Oh boy," Chan mutters under his breath.

Hyunjin tenses. "What. What happened. Why the fuck are you making that face, Christopher."

"Well," he says slowly, "how much do you remember?"

Hyunjin groans, rubbing his face. "I remember dancing. And rum. And-" He pauses. His face twitches. "Oh God. Did I- did I try to twerk on Felix or was that a dream?"

"That part was real," Minho says flatly, not opening his eyes. "And it was mutual."

Chan hesitates and Hyunjin's stomach drops. "Chan."

"You may have... said some things," Chan starts carefully. "During Truth or Dare."

"What things?" Hyunjin asks, already trying to sit up. Minho groans in protest and rolls away.

Chan winces. "You kind of confessed. To, uh, some feelings."

Hyunjin blinks. "I what."

"You stood up in front of everyone," Minho chimes in helpfully from where his face is now buried in a pillow. "Quoted Adele. And The Fray. Told Jisung and Y/N that you wanted to fuck them. Said you've jerked off to them too many times."

Hyunjin stares at them, pale.

"Like, full monologue," Chan adds. "Standing ovation level. Theatrical. Lots of hand gestures."

"No."

Chan just gives him a soft, pained smile.

Minho's face is still in the pillow. "Yup."

"No!" Hyunjin bolts upright and grabs the nearest object, Chan's resistance bands, which are looped over a chair next to the bed. "I'm ending it! I'm done! Goodbye, cruel fucking world-"

Chan yelps and lunges forward, grabbing the bands before Hyunjin can loop them dramatically around his neck.

"Jesus, calm the fuck down, Romeo!"

"Let me die!"

"You're not dying in my fucking room!"

Minho sits up finally, eyes still sleepy. "If you're gonna die, can you do it in the basement? We already have horror-movie energy down there."

Hyunjin throws the bands at Chan's head, scrambles off the bed, and dives for the floor.

"Oh my God, don't-"

But it's too late. Hyunjin slides dramatically under the bed, curling up in the dark, clutching a throw pillow to his chest. His voice comes out muffled from under the frame.

"I'm never coming out. I live here now. This is my home."

Minho throws another pillow down at him. Then a blanket. Then another. Then a third. "There. Nest, achieved."

Hyunjin grabs them all and makes a pathetic little burrow. "Perfect. Leave me to rot."

"It's actually very clean under here," he adds after a moment. "Like, disturbingly clean. Not a single spec of dust. Chan, you serial killer."

"It's called cleaning, you dramatic bastard," Chan says, dropping to his knees to peer under the bed. "Welcome to adulthood."

Hyunjin sighs deeply, curling into his fortress of shame. "Okay. Now I wallow. Forever."

"You can't wallow forever."

"I can. And I will."

Chan groans, flopping onto the floor dramatically beside him. Minho joins him a second later, lying on his stomach and peering under the bed like it's an animal enclosure at the zoo.

Chan props his chin on his hand. "So what's your long-term plan?"

"Live under here," Hyunjin says. "Eat crumbs. Survive off despair and humidity."

Minho tosses a sock at his face. "You're such a fucking mess."

"A hot mess," Hyunjin replies. "A hot mess of regret and sexual frustration."

"Do you want to know what happened after we dragged you away?" Minho asks.

"No," Hyunjin says. "But yes."

"Y/N and Jisung sat there stunned like they'd just been hit by a bus made of horny confessions," Minho says. "Jeongin looked like he saw a ghost. Felix was mid-threesome and had to ask what he missed. Seungmin laughed so hard he choked on a beer."

Hyunjin groans, pressing his face to the floor.

"You are now known as the horny bard of Alpha Phi," Minho adds, grinning.

"I'm dying," Hyunjin whimpers. "This is my coffin."

Chan sighs again. "Look. It could've been worse."

"How?!"

"You could've pissed yourself."

"...Fair."

Chan nudges his foot. "You know we love you, right?"

"Not as much as I love Jisung and Y/N."

Minho smirks. "Well, they know now."

"I was gonna ease into it! Not confess mid-orgy-truth-or-dare!"

Chan grins. "You've never eased into anything in your life."

Minho shrugs. "Could be worse. You could've confessed sober."

"At least now I can blame the rum."

Chan lies back on the floor. "You know we'll help you figure this shit out."

"Even if I live under this bed forever?"

"Even then."

Hyunjin burrows deeper under the blankets. "Fine. But I'm not coming out until everyone forgets I quoted Adele."

The kitchen smells like hangover salvation. Jisung stands at the stove with a ladle in hand, hair still a mess of curls from sleep, eyes glassy from the fallout of last night's disaster. His boxers ride low on his hips as he stirs the haejangguk like he's willing it to erase the emotional carnage and the pounding in his skull.

You're perched on the counter nearby, legs swinging slightly, one of his oversized black t-shirts hanging off your frame and a pair of lace boyshorts barely visible beneath the hem. There's a textbook open in your lap, it's about the dancing plague of 1518. Normally, you'd be narrating it aloud, voice animated as you dissected historical absurdity, but you're silent.

Both of you are.

There's no teasing. No giggling. No whispered filth from Jisung. He's not pulling your legs apart with his foot under the table or leaning over to bite your shoulder like an affectionate menace. And you're not talking either, not about plague bacteria or weird 16th-century shit or the fact that you are both very clearly avoiding the thing you're both thinking about.

Neither of you has said a single fucking word about what Hyunjin yelled last night, about how he poured his heart and libido all over the floor and left you both sitting in stunned silence. You didn't talk when you stumbled back into Jisung's room, didn't talk when you stripped, didn't talk when you fell asleep curled around each other with tension heavy enough to drown in.

Neither of you notices the blur of movement at the edge of the hallway. A flash of blonde hair. A whisper of indecision.

Hyunjin, wrapped in one of Chan's hoodies and two layers of guilt, peeks into the kitchen. He sees you sitting there, beautiful and quiet and unreadable. Jisung at the stove, solemn, stirring without rhythm. It's like a still from a film, a tragic indie one, probably with subtitles and a heartbreaking soundtrack.

He freezes.

You're not laughing. The two of you are not even talking.

His stomach drops to his knees, and his hands curl around the sleeves of the hoodie like he's trying to become smaller. Without a sound, he steps back and scuttles up the stairs like a startled raccoon.

He bursts into Chan's room, still breathless, eyes wide, and flings himself back onto the floor where he'd made his dramatic little blanket cave under the bed earlier.

Chan looks up from where he's sitting cross-legged on the rug, phone in one hand. Minho is lounging on Chan's bed, flipping through a fashion magazine that he only pretends to hate.

Hyunjin throws himself onto the floor like a martyr. "I broke them!"

Chan blinks. "Broke what?"

"Them!" Hyunjin flails his arms like a conductor leading a symphony of doom. "Y/N and Jisung! They're not talking! I went to get coffee, I swear, but I saw them in the kitchen, and they were just existing. In silence. You know how fucked that is?!"

Minho sits up, startled. "Wait, what?!"

Hyunjin scrambles upright. "They're being quiet! Both of them!"

Chan's brow furrows. "Okay, but like, did you get coffee though?"

Hyunjin throws his arms up. "No! I forgot the coffee because they were being weird! Bigger problems!"

Minho stares. "They're not talking to each other?!"

Hyunjin nods furiously. "Not a word! Just cooking and staring at a fucking textbook. In silence!"

Both Chan and Minho freeze like someone told them Santa Claus isn't real. Chan stands slowly, hand to his chest. "None of us has coffee. And they're quiet?"

"Yes! Y/N and Jisung are SILENT!"

Chan looks like he's aged five years in five seconds. "Oh no."

Minho covers his mouth with one hand. "It's worse than we thought."

Chan immediately grabs his slipper off the floor and starts smacking Hyunjin with it.

"THIS," slap "IS WHAT," slap "HAPPENS," slap "WHEN YOU GET DRUNK," slap "AND CONFESS MID-PARTY LIKE A MUSICAL THEATER STUDENT ON A BENDER!"

Hyunjin doesn't resist. He just bows his head, taking each slap with solemn dignity.

Minho watches, arms crossed. "Are you done?"

"No. Just one more hit."

Smack.

Hyunjin blinks up at them, defeated. "This is your fault."

Chan and Minho exchange a glance.

Hyunjin sits up. "You two. With your polythagorous bullshit. I was fine just being a pining, repressed disaster. But noooo, you had to talk about cake slices and now look!"

Minho blinks. "He's got a point."

Chan nods slowly. "We did awaken the beast."

Hyunjin stands, suddenly empowered. "I demand retribution!"

Chan sighs and hands him the slipper.

Minho nods once and stands up beside Chan. "Go on. Do what must be done."

They both bend over. Hyunjin doesn't hesitate. He swats them both across the ass, one after the other, dramatic and righteous.

"BAD PARENTS!" Whack.

"YOU DID THIS!" Whack.

"I WAS FINE JUST MASTURBATING IN SECRET!" Whack.

Minho straightens up and nods, rubbing his ass. "We deserved that."

Chan groans, standing. "Honestly, yeah."

The living room is soaked in late afternoon light, soft and warm through the open windows, catching the dust motes drifting lazily through the air. The television is playing Horrible Histories, your favourite show to throw on during low-brain-cell days, and you and Jisung are planted firmly on the couch like a pair of content mushrooms.

You're curled up on one end, feet in his lap, your white midi dress with delicate blue flowers spilling around you. Jisung looks equally at peace, sprawled out in soft, worn lounge clothes, a grey oversized hoodie and matching sweatpants.

On screen, the William Wallace parody begins, the absurdly catchy Scottish Rebel song, complete with fake beards and bad accents. You perk up immediately, your entire body alert like a meerkat who heard the snack bag rustle.

"Look at Ben Willbond," you say, pointing as the camera zooms in on him in a kilt and messy wig. "As William Wallace! Look at that cheekbone structure. Revolutionary."

"You and Ben Willbond, I swear..."

"Tell me he doesn't look like he'd dirty talk in iambic pentameter."

Jisung snorts. "You know what? I would fuck him too. Or be fucked by him. Especially Mike Peabody"

You sit bolt upright. "VINDICATION!"

He grins, pulling you closer into his side as you collapse against him in victory. "Can't believe you've been trying to convert me into a Willbond slut for this long and all it took was a newsreader character and a Scottish rebellion."

"Some of us are visionaries,"

Jisung kisses your forehead, fingers still moving through your hair. "Some of us are thirsty for niche British actors."

You giggle, nuzzling into his chest. "Don't pretend you're not"

"I invoke my right to silence,"

You both lapse into easy silence again, comfort so thick you could drape it over yourselves like a blanket. You haven't talked about Hyunjin. Neither of you has brought it up. But something about the way you lean into each other now, like maybe you're both waiting for the same storm to pass, speaks volumes.

The door creaks open behind you, and neither of you pays much attention. Alpha Phi is a revolving door of shirtless men and discarded laundry. But then a voice pipes up, half-distracted, from behind the couch.

"So, Chan, I was researching polyamory and-"

Hyunjin stops dead. He's still looking at his phone, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, brows furrowed like he's deep in a Wikipedia hole. But then his eyes finally lift, and he freezes in place as he registers that Chan is not in the room.

You are. And so is Jisung. Both of you are staring at him like deer in headlights. Matching, slack-jawed expressions of pure, disbelieving what the fuck.

Hyunjin's entire soul leaves his body. He stands there, frozen for maybe a second, then clears his throat and says with the dry finality of a man accepting execution,

"So. I'm off to kill myself. Nice knowing you two. Sorry about the party thing."

He spins on his heel to leave, but Jisung sits up fast. "Hyunjin, wait!"

Hyunjin pauses, then slowly drops to a crouch behind the loveseat and disappears. A second later, his eyes peek over the top of it. Just his eyes.

"I'm ready,"

You and Jisung stare at him, unsure whether to laugh or start crying.

Jisung rubs a hand down his face. "Do you like both of us?"

Hyunjin doesn't move. Just nods slowly, forehead barely visible above the couch now.

Jisung exhales. "Why didn't you just tell us?"

Hyunjin groans. "Because I didn't think I'd ever like-like a guy outside of sex, let alone liking a guy and his girlfriend at the same time! I've been having a sexual identity crisis, and a romantic crisis, and then Chan and Minho gave me a dumb polyamory talk with a cake metaphor, and I got even more confused, and then I confessed during Truth or Dare, and now you're both in a relationship, and I'm a walking disaster! It's been a lot!"

Jisung blinks. "Is that why you've been such a little shit?"

Hyunjin nods again.

You snort before you can stop it. A loud, abrupt laugh that you try to smother with a pillow but fail to contain. Your whole body shakes as you press the pillow to your face, and Jisung starts laughing too, trying to hold it in but fucking losing it the second he sees you crying with giggles.

"It's not funny!"

You pull the pillow away from your face just long enough to wheeze out, "I'm sorry! You were doing the equivalent of pulling Jisung's pigtails this whole time!"

Hyunjin lets out a long, pained sound and ducks fully behind the couch again. "I hate it here. This is bullying!"

You and Jisung are gasping with laughter now, doubled over, eyes watering. Jisung wipes a tear from his cheek and says, "Okay, okay, sorry. For real."

Hyunjin pops his head up again, cheeks flushed. "Now that it's all out in the open, are you two open to polythagorousness?"

You both freeze.

"To what?" you ask slowly.

Hyunjin sighs and makes a triangle with his hands. "You know. Like polythagory"

Jisung leans back, rubbing his temples. "Oh my god. You mean polyamory."

Hyunjin nods quickly. "That one."

Jisung glances at you. You nod at him. Then Jisung turns back to Hyunjin. "We've talked about it before. We've established we'd be open to it."

Hyunjin's eyes bulge. "Why wouldn't you tell me that?!"

Jisung throws his hands up. "Why would we tell you we had that conversation?!"

"DO YOU KNOW THE COMPLICATIONS I HAVE BEEN HAVING?! THE PERSONAL JOURNEY I HAVE BEEN ON?!" Hyunjin slaps a hand to his forehead. "I am taking you two on a date. A real date. That I will plan. And pay for. And you two will fall madly in love with me and we will be polythageorean!"

"Polyamorous," Jisung corrects gently.

"WHATEVER!" Hyunjin yells and storms dramatically out of the room.

You and Jisung stare after him, silent for a long beat, and then Jisung turns to you.

"Well," he says, voice hoarse from laughing, "we're gonna die, huh?"

You lean into him, grinning. "If we're going down, at least we're going down polythageorean."

The morning sun slices through the blinds in stripes, golden beams dancing lazily across the messy floor of Jisung's room. You and Jisung are both fresh from the shower. Jisung's standing in the middle of the room, towel wrapped low around his hips, aggressively scrubbing at his hair with another towel like it personally offended him.

You're perched on the edge of his desk chair in nothing but a towel, your legs crossed as you lean toward the standing desk mirror he bought for you. Your makeup bag is splayed open across the surface. You're carefully sweeping a soft pastel green eyeshadow across your lids with a flat brush, tongue poking out in concentration. Underneath your eyes, a shimmer of silver catches the light with every blink, sparkling like tiny constellations on your skin.

Jisung drops his towel and heads to the dresser. He digs around for a second before pulling on a pair of snug black boxer briefs. You glance up just in time to catch the stretch of his back, the curve of his shoulders, and the way his abs flex when he exhales.

"Can you not be hot while I'm trying to focus?" you ask, not bothering to hide the grin curling your lips.

Jisung turns, already slipping on a fitted black long-sleeve top that clings to every inch of his torso like it was fucking painted on. "Me? Hot? Never."

You raise an eyebrow. "You look like the lead vocalist in a post-apocalyptic K-pop group."

"Thank you," he says seriously, then grabs his tailored black cargo pants and slides them on, adjusting the waistband before cinching it with a bold gold Versace belt. He throws on a chunky gold chain with a thick cross pendant, and then turns to check himself out in the mirror. "Should I do the earrings?"

"You always should do the earrings."

Jisung laughs, reaching into the little dish on his dresser for the pair of small hoops. "God, I'm fucking nervous."

You scoff. "You? You're nervous?"

"Uh, yeah? Jagiya, Hyunjin is taking us on a date. That he planned. This man has taste. He's got Pinterest boards. He coordinates his outfits to the mood of the day."

"You coordinated your belt to your chain,"

"Yeah, but that was for you. If it were for Hyunjin, there'd be a fog machine involved."

You laugh, setting your brush down and reaching for your moisturiser. "Fair point."

You swipe a generous amount over your skin, massaging it in as you let the eye makeup set, then stand, and move to the closet. You pull on a white strapless bra and a pair of lacy white boyshorts before stepping into your outfit.

The off-the-shoulder crop top hugs you snugly, the puffed sleeves bouncing slightly as you tug it into place. The fabric is soft, delicate, edged with small ruffles that flutter when you move. You pull on the pastel green floral midi skirt next, adjusting the high waist and smoothing it down, letting the slit rest comfortably on your thigh. Finally, you bend to lace up your white high-top Converse, hopping slightly to get the tongue aligned just right.

You slide your star earrings in and clip on your silver necklace, then move back to the mirror to start taking the curlers out of your hair one by one, letting the soft curls bounce down, framing your face perfectly. Then you pull the top half back, securing it loosely with a white ribbon, two strands left loose in the front to frame your face. You glance at Jisung through the mirror.

"You're staring,"

"You're a fucking fairy," he says, completely deadpan. "I feel like you should float around asking villagers riddles and luring men into a dance circle."

You turn to him, hands on your hips. "And you look like you seduce tourists in European nightclubs and steal their wallets. Together, we are unstoppable."

There's a knock at the door. "Hyunjin's waiting outside," Minho calls through it. "Stop being weird and get down there."

You grab your small white shoulder bag and sling it over your shoulder, holding it open as Jisung drops his phone and wallet into it. You toss in your phone and your little coin purse, zip it closed, and then both of you reach for your sunglasses, Jisung's are round and slightly tinted, yours oversized and square with silver rims.

You take a moment at the door, both of you checking each other one last time.

"You good?" Jisung asks.

"As I'll ever be," you say, breath catching just slightly.

You head downstairs, sneakers thumping against the steps, and step out into the bright afternoon sun.

And then you see him.

Hyunjin's leaning against the side of his convertible like it's a goddamn magazine shoot. He's dressed in a deep plum-toned corduroy set, jacket oversized, sleeves pushed up slightly to reveal his wrists adorned with silver bracelets, pants wide-legged and pooling just perfectly over chunky black sneakers. A black Versace tank top is visible beneath the jacket, clinging to his torso like a second skin. His belt has a massive silver buckle that gleams in the sun, and he's wearing oversized black sunglasses that hide most of his face. His hair is half pulled back, the rest cascading in soft waves around his face.

Jisung stumbles slightly and mutters under his breath, "Lord, have mercy."

You nod slowly, eyes wide, and both of you slide your sunglasses down your noses for a better look. Hyunjin catches it and smirks.

"Subtle," he says, his voice amused as he straightens and strides over to the passenger door, opening it with a dramatic flourish.

He doesn't say anything else, just gestures with a bow and a cocky tilt of his head.

You and Jisung glance at each other. You both shrug. And then you climb in, Jisung right behind you.

Hyunjin closes the door, rounds the car, and slides into the driver's seat like he owns the world.

As the engine roars to life, Jisung leans over to you and whispers, "If we don't fuck him by the end of this date, it's only because we're dead or he's very chivalrous."

You nod solemnly. "Agreed."

Hyunjin pulls the car to a smooth stop at the curb of a sleek building tucked between a row of quirky cafés and speciality bookstores, the kind of unassuming exterior that practically dares you to underestimate it. He kills the engine and leans an elbow casually over the steering wheel, turning to face you and Jisung in the backseat.

"Okay," he says, voice tinged with mischievous glee. "Keep your eyes down until I say so. I'm serious. No peeking."

You and Jisung exchange a look and obey without question, ducking your heads like kids being told to wait before opening a birthday present.

"You better not be taking us into a butcher shop," Jisung mutters, lips twitching.

You snort. "If you are, I swear to god, I will cry."

"I promise it's not a butcher," Hyunjin says, grin audible in his voice. "Trust me. You're gonna love it."

He slides out of the car and circles around to open the back door again with a little bow. You keep your head down as you step out, letting him take your hand to help you out of the low seat. Jisung follows, doing a dramatic little stumble like he's disoriented, mumbling "where the fuck am I?" under his breath. Hyunjin's chuckle vibrates through the air.

He guides you both to the front of the building with a firm but gentle hand on your lower backs, navigating the entrance like he's been here before. The moment the door opens, a blast of cool air hits your face.

You hear Hyunjin speak to someone at the ticket counter. "Three, please."

There's a pause, the beep of a scanner, and the gentle crinkle of printed paper. Hyunjin takes the tickets and turns toward you both.

"Okay," he says, excitement bubbling under the surface, "you can look now."

You and Jisung lift your heads. The massive banner overhead reads: The History of Medicine: From Leeches to Lasers – A Special Pop-Up Exhibit.

Your jaw drops. Jisung lets out a sharp laugh of disbelief, eyes wide as he stares at the life-sized, grotesque medieval surgery diorama posed right at the entrance.

"Welcome," Hyunjin says, grinning like the little shit he is, "to your wet dream."

You're beaming before you can stop it. "You planned this?"

"Hell yeah, I did," Hyunjin says proudly. "Minho helped me find it and proofread the directions. Chan double-checked the route for traffic and told me to bring mints in case we kiss later."

Jisung's already ten steps ahead, pointing at a display case of antique amputation saws. "Oh my god, is that a 17th-century bone saw?!"

You grab Hyunjin's hand on instinct, dragging him forward. "This is fucking amazing, I can't believe you found this. I didn't even know there was a pop-up museum like this."

"I did research," Hyunjin says smugly as he lets you tug him forward. "Which, by the way, included scrolling through Reddit forums at 3 a.m. about obscure travelling medical exhibits. You're welcome."

Jisung turns around and walks backwards so he can talk to both of you while staring at the plague doctor mannequin in the corner. "Did you know they used to think bad smells caused disease? Like they believed if it smelled bad, it was bad. That's why plague doctors wore those masks, they stuffed them with herbs to filter the air."

"Miasma theory," you add, beaming. "They thought bad air spread sickness. It wasn't until the mid-1800s that germ theory started getting traction. Like, people were bathing in rivers of shit and wondering why they were dying."

Hyunjin makes a face. "Okay, that's fucking disgusting."

You giggle and lean into his side. "We haven't even gotten to the part where they drilled holes in people's skulls to release demons."

Jisung points dramatically to the map displayed near the entrance, colour-coded and massive. "Wait. Hold on. This covers everything. This is like prehistoric to modern era. Look, there's a section on Mesopotamia, Egypt, Greece, Rome, medieval Europe, colonial medicine, Victorian shit, early vaccinations, oh my god. This is hours of stuff."

Hyunjin glances over, eyes landing on the map, and his face falters slightly. The museum stretches in a winding, labyrinthine path with over twenty separate rooms, each covering a different era or theme. It ends in modern-day robotics and virtual surgical tools.

He looks back at you and Jisung, who are both practically vibrating with excitement, and sighs silently. "Okay," he mutters. "Strap in, I guess."

You don't notice his internal breakdown. You're already pulling him toward the first exhibit: a collection of Neolithic skulls showing evidence of trepanation. You start rattling off facts almost immediately.

"So this hole here? That's trepanation. It's the oldest surgical procedure we know of. They drilled into people's skulls to relieve pressure or drive out evil spirits."

Jisung leans in. "What the fuck. That looks like it was done with a rock."

"Because it was done with a rock. Sometimes, flint blades. And what's even more fucked is that some people survived it with no anaesthesia, just adrenaline and eventual unconsciousness."

Hyunjin's eye twitches. "That's fucking cursed."

You keep going, dragging him from one exhibit to the next. You explain ancient Egyptian embalming methods while standing in front of a mummified hand. You talk about humoral theory and how ancient doctors believed your health depended on the balance of blood, phlegm, black bile, and yellow bile. You describe how the Black Death was blamed on planetary alignments and Jews, how urine charts were used for diagnosis, and how people drank mercury because they thought it would purify them.

Jisung adds in facts, too, sometimes absurd, sometimes niche. He explains how battlefield medics in World War I used iodine to sterilise wounds and how American doctors did lobotomies by hammering ice picks through the eye socket. You and he go back and forth, building off each other, voices rising with excitement, eyes bright.

Hyunjin trails behind, looking mildly traumatised but weirdly endeared. He keeps asking questions, even when he clearly regrets the answers.

"Wait, leeches? Like actual leeches?"

"Yes!" you say, turning around with a big grin. "They were used to balance the humours. Bloodletting was huge. They'd literally attach a leech to your skin to suck out the 'excess' blood."

Hyunjin shudders. "I'm gonna throw up."

"Do you know leech saliva has anticoagulants?" Jisung adds helpfully. "So it keeps the blood flowing. Relieves pressure and improves circulation."

Hyunjin gags. "I take back everything. This date was a mistake. I want to go home."

But he doesn't leave. He sticks close, even when he cringes, even when he physically recoils from a wax figure of a man having a limb amputated with no anaesthetic while screaming. You grab his hand every so often without thinking, fingers tangling with his, and Jisung occasionally bumps his hip, playful and warm.

Hyunjin sits on a bench between two displays and mutters, "How the fuck are you two so into this? It's all blood and pus and disease."

You flop down beside him, crossing your legs neatly, and grin. "Because it's fascinating! It's the root of everything we know now. Modern medicine exists because people did horrible, stupid, often batshit insane shit. Like giving syphilis patients mercury or treating tuberculosis with sunshine and good vibes."

Jisung drops into the seat on Hyunjin's other side. "It's like watching humanity fail forward in slow motion."

Hyunjin groans. "You guys are nerds."

You lean your head on his shoulder. "And you're stuck with us."

He pauses, then lets his head rest lightly on top of yours.

"I did this to myself," he mumbles.

"Yes, you did," Jisung agrees, stretching his legs out. "And you paid for it."

Hyunjin closes his eyes and exhales through his nose.

"You're lucky I like you both," he mutters. "Because this is the grossest date I've ever been on."

You smile, reaching over to squeeze his hand.

"Just wait," you say sweetly. "It gets way worse."

Three hours later, the three of you stumble out of the pop-up museum. You and Jisung are still talking animatedly about the final exhibit, robotic surgical assistance and experimental gene therapy, while Hyunjin trails behind, looking like he aged three years somewhere between the syphilis display and the iron lung.

"That was intense," Hyunjin mutters, stretching his arms over his head as he tries to shake off the existential dread of medieval surgical practices and the evolution of birthing instruments.

"You survived," you tease, bumping his arm with your shoulder.

"Barely," he mutters. "I need something beautiful and rich and not covered in leeches."

"Wow," Jisung says, slinging an arm casually around your waist as you all walk down the street. "Good thing you're taking us to a fancy restaurant next, huh?"

Hyunjin straightens like he forgot he still had another part of the date to host. He suddenly looks more alert, posture adjusting, like he's about to go on stage. "Right. Yes. This way. I've got it all sorted."

He leads you through a quieter part of the city, the pace slowing as you near a minimalist building with sleek black windows and gold lettering across the door: Mingle. A host greets him just inside the entrance, and Hyunjin calmly gives the name for the reservation.

"Hwang. Table for three."

The host gives a polite bow and smiles. "Of course, right this way."

You and Jisung follow him through the softly lit restaurant, the air rich with the scent of grilled seafood and earthy sauces. It's cosy but upscale, the kind of place where even the water has a complex flavour profile. The lighting is low and warm, casting everyone in a flattering golden hue, and the walls are adorned with soft, neutral textures that make the entire place feel like a secret oasis in the middle of the city.

You slip into your seat across from Hyunjin, Jisung beside you. He gives your hand a little squeeze under the table.

"Holy shit," Jisung whispers, eyes scanning the interior. "This is fancy."

Hyunjin beams, obviously proud but trying not to look too smug about it. "Chan and Minho had to call in favours for this one."

Jisung raises an eyebrow. "Wait, Chan and Minho?"

Hyunjin winces slightly. "I might have cried a little."

You snort. "You cried?"

"I was emotionally compromised, okay?" Hyunjin huffs, adjusting his sunglasses, now resting on top of his head. "I just wanted the perfect date. I had a whole meltdown on the living room floor. Minho had to bribe me with yoghurt to stop sobbing."

The waiter arrives with menus, bowing slightly and placing the elegant black booklets in front of each of you. You open yours slowly, letting your fingers run over the textured paper.

"This has been really great," Jisung says quietly, his voice soft with genuine warmth.

Hyunjin looks up fast. "Really?"

You and Jisung both nod. "Yes," you say. "Absolutely."

Hyunjin exhales hard, slumping in relief. "Thank fuck. I was genuinely ready to sob into the risotto if you told me this sucked and I wasn't throuple material. I was rehearsing a tragic speech and everything."

"You're doing great," you say sweetly, reaching across the table to squeeze his wrist.

Jisung flips through the menu with a grin. "You're like a hot mess with anxiety and accessories. It's our type."

The three of you decide to go with a full spread, choosing a selection of starters, mains, and desserts so you can share everything. The waiter returns with his notepad ready.

"For starters," you say, "we'll have the chestnut rice cake, the Korean beef jamon, and the fried red mullet with gamtae roll."

Hyunjin glances at you, grinning. "Also, the hanwoo beef tartare with smoked eel. I'm being brave."

You all settle back into the plush seats, the murmur of the restaurant around you a quiet hum of conversation and clinking glasses.

"So," Hyunjin says, swirling his water like it's wine. "Tell me more about Horrible Histories."

You gasp dramatically. "Okay, so Horrible Histories is this British historical sketch comedy show, and it's for kids technically, but it's so good. It's got songs, sketches, and recurring characters. And most of it's historically accurate!"

"It teaches kids that people in history were also just messy little shits," Jisung adds.

"There's this one character," you continue, "Mike Peabody, who's a news anchor from the past, and he reports like he's on a modern news show, but about ancient Rome or medieval London. And he's so over it all the time. Ben Willbond plays him. He's a fucking legend."

"Do not," Jisung warns seriously, "watch after season five. They changed the cast, and it went downhill so fast."

You blow a raspberry. "They replaced the original team with theatre kids. The energy was off."

Hyunjin tilts his head. "That's... weirdly passionate."

You unlock your phone, scrolling to your saved album, and spin it around to show him a photo of Ben Willbond as Alexander the Great, tunic, cape, wig, the works.

Hyunjin stares. "Damn."

"Right?!" you exclaim, delighted.

Jisung reaches for his phone. "Okay, wait, you have to see the Dick Turpin song. This is, like, peak horny horse thief energy."

He pulls up the clip and places his phone between the three of you. Hyunjin leans in, eyes narrowing.

"Oh my god," Hyunjin whispers halfway through. "They gave him eyeliner and a leather trench coat. Why is this working?"

"You're being seduced by a BBC production," you say.

"Join the club," Jisung adds.

Then you're all leaning over your screens, showing Hyunjin clips of Mike Peabody reporting from the Bastille, the Four Georges singing a boy band ballad, and Bob Hale delivering an exhausting yet iconic summary of the War of the Roses. Hyunjin is laughing so hard he has to wipe his eyes with the cloth napkin.

"This is fucking chaos," he says between laughs.

"That's the point!" you say, beaming. "It makes history fun. Also, Bob Hale is me during exams. Just panicked, over-caffeinated, and rambling facts until someone stops me."

"I can't believe I've never seen this," Hyunjin says, still chuckling as he sets his phone down. "You guys are gonna ruin my YouTube algorithm."

Jisung leans into him slightly, shoulder pressing against his. "You'll thank us later when you're humming Stupid Deaths to yourself at 3 a.m."

The first round of dishes arrives, artfully plated and aromatic. The fried red mullet is golden and crisp, the gamtae roll earthy and savoury. The beef jamon practically melts on the tongue. You take turns tasting everything, sharing bites and swapping plates like you've done this a thousand times.

You watch Jisung roll his eyes back theatrically as he chews the smoked eel. "Jesus fucking Christ, that's insane."

Hyunjin hums through a mouthful of tartare. "I feel like I should be feeding this to someone on a fur rug."

"I am wearing floral," you say, offering him a bite of rice cake. "Does that count?"

He accepts it with a grin, chewing thoughtfully before offering you a bite of his eel in return.

The night goes on, full of soft laughter and easy conversation, the kind of warmth that settles deep in your chest and makes you forget how nervous you were this morning. The main dishes are even better, silky fish mandu, perfectly cooked abalone, sweet and rich Jeju fish, puffed rice that crackles delightfully between your teeth, and a sticky rice risotto that nearly makes Hyunjin cry with joy. The king crab is tender and buttery, and all three of you go silent for a minute as you savour it.

Dessert is absurd. The bibimbap is reinvented with sweet flavours, and the rice ice cream and pudding are so good that Jisung licks the bowl when he thinks no one's watching, only to look up and catch both you and Hyunjin staring with smug grins.

"I have no shame. Zero shame."

"We know,"

The sky has long slipped into that velvety indigo that wraps the world in hush, the stars flickering faint behind a city glow too stubborn to fade entirely. The drive back to the Alpha Phi house is quiet in a way that feels full. The hum of the engine and the low city sounds do enough talking for now.

Hyunjin parks just a little crooked in the frat house's gravel-strewn driveway, the tires crunching to a halt under the porch light glow. He sits back in the driver's seat, one hand on the wheel, the other bracing on the gearstick, and looks at you both.

"So... okay," he says, trying to sound casual but failing because his voice does that thing where it climbs an octave when he's trying to hide that he's a little flustered. "To do this properly, we have to pretend I don't live here. Temporarily. Right now. I'm dropping you two off like a respectable date. I'll wait five minutes, then I'll go inside. Cool?"

You and Jisung nod in tandem, amused but not arguing.

"Cool," Hyunjin repeats, nodding to himself. "Method acting. I love that for me."

You all climb out of the car, and it's suddenly very quiet in the driveway. And then Jisung steps forward and grabs the lapels of Hyunjin's jacket, tugging him in so quickly it makes Hyunjin stumble slightly.

"Wha- oh my fuck-"

And then Jisung kisses Hyunjin with full force, mouth warm and hungry, one hand still twisted in the corduroy lapel like he's making sure Hyunjin doesn't try to back away even though he absolutely isn't. Hyunjin makes a sound between a gasp and a strangled moan, and his hands come up, frozen for half a second before they curl into the fabric at Jisung's sides. Jisung is all sure movements, tilting his head, coaxing Hyunjin's mouth open, tongue teasing against Hyunjin's lower lip until the other man chokes on a whimper and gives in completely.

When Jisung finally pulls back, Hyunjin's lips are parted, glossy, and he's just standing there with his brain visibly buffering.

You step in. Soft where Jisung was firm, gentle where he was urgent. You reach up, fingers brushing the curve of Hyunjin's jaw, and kiss him, letting him lead this time. You don't push, just press your mouth to his and wait, and he does. He tilts into you, his hands finally moving with intention. One settles at your waist, the other slides up your back, pulling you in as his mouth opens against yours. He kisses like he's trying to memorise it, slow and deep and aching, tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that makes your knees weak. His teeth catch your bottom lip, and he groans into your mouth like it surprises him.

When he finally breaks away, he leans in, lips still ghosting against yours as he breathes you in.

"Shit," he whispers.

Jisung slides his arm around your waist and pulls you against him, planting a kiss on your temple. Hyunjin just stares, lips swollen, eyes wide, like he can't quite believe what just happened.

You and Jisung head inside together, your steps light and giddy.

Hyunjin doesn't move for a solid thirty seconds. Then he exhales, dazed, and brings his fingers to his lips. He leans back against his car like it's the only thing keeping him upright, head tilted to the sky, a grin slowly stretching across his face as he whispers, "What the actual fuck."

Five minutes later, Hyunjin quietly slips through the front door of the house. The lights in the kitchen are low, the overhead bulb above the stove casting a soft glow across the countertops. Chan and Minho are waiting, of course.

Minho is in a deep blue silk robe, wine glass in hand, bare legs crossed at the ankle as he leans against the counter like a smug sitcom wife. Chan is perched on the island, a bowl of strawberries in front of him and his phone in one hand.

Hyunjin walks in like a man floating above his body.

"Well?" Minho says without preamble.

Hyunjin sighs dreamily. "Fucking incredible."

Minho raises his glass. "As expected."

Hyunjin doesn't sit at the table or take a chair. He drops straight to the floor with a boneless sigh and rests his head in Minho's lap like a content cat. Minho chuckles softly and strokes his hair with the hand not holding wine.

"You smell like Chan's cologne," Hyunjin mumbles, eyes closed.

Minho clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his wine. Chan smirks over his bowl.

"No," Hyunjin gasps, eyes flying open as he props himself up on one elbow to stare up at Minho in horror. "No."

Chan's grin widens. "Yes."

"No."

Minho smiles sweetly. "Oh yes."

"You two are fucking?!"

Minho nods.

Chan shrugs. "It's new-ish."

"EW!" Hyunjin claps both hands over his ears. "It's like finding out my real eomma and appa have sex!"

Chan doesn't miss a beat. "Hyunjin, how do you think you exist? Your actual parents had sex, probably more than once, and bam, here you are."

Hyunjin lets out another strangled scream, rolling dramatically across the kitchen floor like he's trying to escape the imagery.

"So," Minho says casually, "did you ask Jisung and Y/N to be your boyfriend and girlfriend? In polyamorous bliss? You know, the entire point of tonight?"

Hyunjin freezes. "I knew I forgot something!"

Minho groans, loud and pained. "Aish!"

Chan pinches the bridge of his nose and mutters, "We raised a clown."

"I got distracted by the kissing!" Hyunjin defends. "There was tongue! I panicked!"

Minho smacks the back of his head lightly. "You idiot! You planned a five-star date, emotionally wrecked yourself, spent months having an identity crisis, and then forgot the fucking question?!"

"I'll ask them tomorrow," Hyunjin says quickly. "I swear. I'll be chill. Romantic. Like an emotionally competent adult."

Minho looks down at him, exasperated but fond. "You are lucky we love you."

Hyunjin leans against his knee again, dramatically sighing. "And I love you two, even though now I am going to have nightmares"

"You're welcome," Chan says, and shoves a strawberry into his mouth.

The morning spills into the kitchen like warm syrup, soft light stretching across the counter and casting golden stripes over the mismatched cereal boxes, abandoned textbooks, and Jisung's half-written grocery list scrawled on the whiteboard in chaotic handwriting.

You're curled up by the sink in your favourite fluffy light blue slippers, a white silk slip nightie barely visible beneath your long matching robe. The sleeves droop around your wrists as you stir the honeycomb mixture in the tiny saucepan, the air around you already heavy with the scent of caramelised sugar. You smile to yourself, spooning the gooey sweetness into two large mugs, your own with Sophie from Howl's Moving Castle, and the one with Howl for Jisung.

Jisung is swaying side to side at the stove, hair an utter mess, wearing nothing but an ancient baggy t-shirt that once belonged to you. The words IDK HOW MUCH LONGER I CAN SLAY FOR are stamped across the chest, right under a deranged image of a capybara on a jetski, wearing sunglasses. His boxers are crooked, his legs bare, and he's humming the instrumental theme to Spirited Away like it's a love song.

"Smells like sugar and a crime scene."

You blow gently across the steaming surface of your coffee. "It's my special Dalgona coffee, how dare you?"

"I love your special coffee," he replies, still dreamy. "It's better than sex. Almost."

You slide his mug over and lean against the counter. "That shirt's clinging to you like it regrets being born."

Jisung looks down at himself. "It's iconic. And you love this stupid thing."

You smile around your mug. "I do. But the capybara has more stability than you do right now."

"That's why he's my role model."

He turns back to the stove, stirring the Hobakjuk carefully, checking the texture every few seconds. The pumpkin porridge simmers peacefully, thick and velvety, the orange-gold surface flecked with tiny dots of cinnamon, nutmeg, and just enough maple syrup to make it a dessert instead of breakfast.

"Made it sweet like you like,"

You step forward and press a kiss to his cheek. "You're my favourite domestic menace."

Before he can answer, the door swings open.

Hyunjin enters like he's on a stage, arms full of fresh flowers, dramatic coat sweeping the floor like he's just walked in from a musical number. He's holding three full bouquets, one bursting with wildflowers, one structured with tulips and orchids, and one somehow featuring baby's breath arranged into a fucking heart.

You and Jisung both freeze, eyes wide as he drops the bouquets onto the counter like he's throwing down the gauntlet.

"I... have written no speech," Hyunjin begins, chest heaving as if he's already run a marathon. "But I have feelings. Deep, intense, multi-dimensional, polyangular feelings-"

Jisung chokes on his coffee, and you have to raise your mug to hide your smile, eyes watering with the effort not to laugh.

Hyunjin points to the ceiling like he's summoning divine inspiration. "For too long, I have pined. I have suffered. I have hidden in closets, under beds, in plain sight. But no more. Today, I stand before you, emotionally naked, though physically clothed in this stunning outfit, and I say: I desire throuplehood. I wish for trinity. For polynautical partnership."

You almost drop your cup as Hyunjin continues, unbothered.

"I have tried to learn the correct terminology. I have Googled. I have interrogated Minho and Chan. I still do not know the word. I refuse to know the word."

"Don't ever learn it," Jisung whispers into his cup.

"I have found the word in my heart," Hyunjin says proudly. "And it is polyangular. For we are angles, and love is geometry. And what is a triangle but the strongest, most stable shape? And so I ask, will the two of you, my radiant Sophie and my chaotic jetski capybara Howl, be my partners in polyangular bliss?"

You and Jisung nod in unison, lips pressed together in the only thing keeping full-bodied laughter from exploding out of you.

"Yes," you manage, barely.

"Definitely," Jisung says, voice warbling.

Hyunjin beams so hard he glows. He skips forward, kissing Jisung first, quick and adoring, then you, soft and warm. You both press your lips to his, still shaking with barely contained giggles.

He leans back, brows pinching. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," you both say at the same time.

Jisung, eyes gleaming, tips his head. "Would you like to join us for a polynautical breakfast?"

You snort so violently that coffee nearly shoots from your nose.

"That sounds amazing," Hyunjin says, completely sincere.

Jisung reaches over and pinches his cheek. "Our pretty little pabo."

Hyunjin preens like it's the highest praise he's ever received, resting his chin on Jisung's shoulder as Jisung stirs the porridge again.

"You're warm,"

"You're heavy," Jisung replies, not even pushing him off.

You sip your coffee and lean your hip against the counter. You watch the two of them, Hyunjin now latched onto Jisung's back like a barnacle, Jisung cooking like he's been hosting breakfast buffets his entire life.

Then they both tug you closer. Jisung hooks an arm around your waist, and Hyunjin slides a hand down to your fingers, lacing them together.

Peering through the back garden window, Chan and Minho are crouched behind the large potted fern like nosy neighbours. Minho's thermos of stolen wine is halfway gone. Chan has his chin on Minho's shoulder, arm draped around his waist as they watch in silence, Minho recording on his phone with the kind of smug pride only a parent or a very involved roommate can possess.

"They're so fucking cute," Minho murmurs.

"Told you it'd work," Chan replies.

"You also said letting Hyunjin improvise would be 'character building.'"

"Yeah," Chan says, sipping wine. "And look at the character he built."

Minho smirks. "Polynautical."

"Polyangular."

"God help them."

Chan kisses the side of Minho's head. "They'll be fine."

Inside, the three of you sit on the floor with mismatched bowls in your laps, the Hobakjuk warm and sweet and a little too thick in texture, but no one complains. Hyunjin's stretched out across both your legs, one of Jisung's arms slung lazily over your shoulder, your head resting on his shoulder.

There's no music playing. No background noise. Just spoons clinking gently against ceramic and the occasional burst of quiet laughter.

None of you see the flash of Minho's phone capturing the moment through the window.

And that's okay. Because in here, with porridge and coffee and love and terrible terminology, you have everything.

Everything. And it's enough.

Han Jisung Taglist: @puppymsworld

Hwang Hyunjin Taglist: @jchotch726

General Taglist: @nightmarenyxx @velvetmoonlght @annafee_bou @mlink64 @intoanothermind @furfoxsake22 @daaaph-lol @tirena1 @yu-winchester @cristy-101 @strayk1ds143 @skzlover24 @bussdownflockiana @wickedbutlovely @bbokarismeow @Matchacha65

Proofread by the fabulous @hwangjoanna <3

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