kidult0325

[kidult0325]

Checkmate Chaos- Nishimura Riki

pairing: nishimura riki! ni-ki x reader genre: enemies to lovers, smut, angst warnings: explicit sexual content,unprotected sex (wrap it up irl!), oral (m & f receiving), rough intimacy, overstimulation, possessive themes word count: 5.6k a/n: for my all ni-ki girlies, here you go! I need ideas! comment your requests down below!

You’re not the type to back down from a challenge, never have been. Life’s too short to play small, and you’ve built a reputation for owning every room you walk into—sharp tongue, quick wit, and a smirk that says you’re three steps ahead.

Your friends call you a hurricane in heels, and you wear it like a crown. But Nishimura Riki—Ni-ki, your infuriatingly hot roommate—might just be the one person who can match your fire and throw it back twice as hard.

It started three months ago, when you answered a Craigslist ad for a shared apartment in Seoul’s Gangnam district. You were between jobs, fresh off a breakup, and itching for a new start.

The place was a steal—sleek, modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of the city that made your ex’s dingy loft look like a cardboard box. The catch? Your roommate was an 19-year-old dance prodigy, and a walking ego with a grin that could start wars.

You met Ni-ki on move-in day, strutting in with your leather jacket and combat boots, expecting some nervous kid intimidated by your vibe. Instead, you got him—tall, lean, with dark hair falling into sharper eyes, wearing a black hoodie and ripped jeans like he’d just stepped off a stage.

He leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping an energy drink, and gave you a once-over that was more challenge than welcome.

“You’re Y/N?” he said, voice low, with a lilt that was half-tease, half-dare. “Thought you’d be… quieter.”

You raised an eyebrow, dropping your duffel bag with a thud. “And I thought you’d be shorter,” you shot back, matching his smirk. “Guess we’re both full of surprises.”

He laughed, a sharp, confident sound that sent a jolt through you, and you knew right then—this guy was trouble, the kind you’d either hate or want. Maybe both.

The rules were set early: split the rent, no stealing food, keep the noise down when the other’s sleeping. But rules don’t account for chemistry, and living with Ni-ki is like sharing a cage with a panther—every move is deliberate, every glance loaded, every word a spark waiting to catch fire.

You’re both too bold, too stubborn, too used to winning, and the apartment’s become a battlefield for your egos.

Tonight, it’s Friday, and the air’s thick with the kind of tension that’s been building all week. You’re in the living room, sprawled on the couch in a cropped tank and high-waisted shorts, scrolling through your phone, blasting a playlist that’s all bass and attitude.

Ni-ki’s just gotten home from practice, his hair damp from a shower, wearing a loose black tee and sweatpants that hang low enough to make you glance twice. He’s got that post-dance glow, all loose limbs and cocky energy, and when he sees you, his lips curve into that infuriating smirk.

“Rough day, princess?” he says, tossing his gym bag by the door and heading for the fridge. The nickname’s a jab—he started it weeks ago, knowing it pisses you off, and you’ve countered with “pretty boy” ever since.

“Better than yours, pretty boy,” you fire back, not looking up from your phone, but you feel his eyes on you, lingering on the bare skin of your stomach, the curve of your thighs. “Heard you flubbed your choreo today. Getting sloppy?”

He snorts, grabbing a water bottle and kicking the fridge shut. “Heard you bombed that job interview,” he says, leaning against the counter, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Guess we’re both off our game.”

You lock your phone, sitting up, your grin sharp enough to cut. “Oh, I’m on my game, Riki. Just waiting for the right move.” You stretch, deliberately slow, letting your tank ride up a little higher, and his gaze flicks down, just for a second, before he catches himself.

“Careful,” he says, voice lower now, a warning wrapped in a dare. “You keep playing like that, you might not like the countermove.”

You laugh, standing up, closing the distance until you’re just a foot away, close enough to smell his cologne—something super spicy and stingy that makes your head spin. “Oh, I’d love to see you try,” you say, tilting your head, your voice all honey and venom. “Bet you’d crash and burn.”

His smirk widens, and he steps closer, so close you can feel the heat rolling off him. “You think you can handle me, Y/N?” he murmurs, his eyes locked on yours, and it’s not just a question—it’s a gauntlet, thrown down in the middle of your shared living room.

“Handle you?” you echo, stepping even closer, your chest brushing his, your chin tilted up to meet his gaze. “I’d have you begging for a timeout in ten seconds flat.”

For a moment, neither of you moves, the air crackling with tension, like the beat drop in a song you both know by heart. His eyes dip to your lips, and you feel it—the pull, the want, the danger of crossing a line you’ve both been dancing around since day one.

You’re both too bold for your own good, too addicted to the game, and you know one of you’s gonna break first.

Then he laughs, stepping back, breaking the spell but not the tension. “You’re all talk, princess,” he says, but his voice is rougher now, like you’ve gotten under his skin. He grabs his water and heads for his room, pausing at the door to glance back. “Don’t start a fire you can’t put out.”

You grin, unfazed, tossing your hair over your shoulder. “I’m a fucking arsonist, pretty boy. Try me.”

He shakes his head, still smirking, and disappears into his room, leaving you buzzing, your heart pounding like a bassline. You flop back onto the couch, your grin fading into something hotter, hungrier.

Ni-ki’s your match, your mirror, and living with him is like playing chess with a grandmaster—every move’s calculated, every checkmate’s a risk. You want him, bad, but you’re not about to lose the game just to get him. Not yet.

The next morning, you’re in the kitchen, brewing coffee, when Ni-ki stumbles in, bleary-eyed but still annoyingly gorgeous.

He’s shirtless, sweatpants slung low, and you don’t bother hiding the way you check him out—let him see it, let him feel it. He catches your gaze, his lips twitching into a smirk as he leans against the counter.

“Morning, princess,” he says, voice gravelly from sleep, and it’s unfair how good he sounds, how good he looks. “Dream about me?”

You snort, pouring coffee with a flourish. “In your nightmares, maybe,” you say, sliding him a mug without asking, because you know how he takes it—black, no sugar, like his soul, you’ve joked. “You’re not that hard to forget.”

“Liar,” he says, taking the mug, his fingers brushing yours, deliberate and slow. “I bet I’m all over that pretty little head of yours.”

You step closer, not backing down, your grin all teeth. “Keep dreaming, pretty boy. You’re not even a blip on my radar.”

He laughs, sharp and bright, and it’s like a shot of adrenaline. “We’ll see,” he says, sipping his coffee, his eyes never leaving yours. “Game’s not over.”

You’re about to fire back when your phone buzzes—a text from your best friend, Soo-jin, who’s been your ride-or-die since high school. Spill the tea. You and Ni-ki fucking yet or what? You choke on your coffee, and Ni-ki raises an eyebrow, clearly amused.

“Problem?” he asks, leaning closer, like he’s trying to read your screen.

“None of your business,” you say, shoving your phone in your pocket, but you’re grinning, because Soo-jin’s been rooting for this chaos since you told her about Ni-ki’s smirk on day one. She’s the one who keeps saying you two are inevitable, like a car crash you can’t look away from.

“Bet it’s about me,” he says, winking, and you roll your eyes, but you don’t deny it, because he’s not entirely wrong. He heads for the shower, throwing you one last look over his shoulder, and you’re left in the kitchen, your coffee cooling, your mind racing.

You text Soo-jin back: Not yet, but he’s begging for it. She replies with a string of fire emojis, and you laugh, because she gets it—she knows you’re not the type to fold, but Ni-ki’s making it real hard to keep your cards close.

This is your life now: you and Ni-ki, two storms circling each other, waiting for one to break. You’re both too bold, too proud, too addicted to the thrill of the chase. But every game has an end, and you’re starting to wonder who’s gonna make the first move—and what happens when they do.

The apartment’s a warzone of unspoken rules and loaded glances, and you and Ni-ki are generals in a game neither of you’s willing to lose. It’s been a week since that kitchen standoff, where you threw his cocky “handle me” line back in his face and watched his eyes darken like you’d lit a fuse.

Since then, it’s been relentless—every morning, every night, a new move, a new countermove. He leaves his hoodie on your chair, knowing you’ll wear it just to mess with him. You blast your music louder when he’s on a call, catching his glare through the wall. It’s chess, but dirtier, and you’re both playing for blood.

Tonight, though, the board’s bigger. Soo-jin’s throwing a party at her loft across town, and she’s been texting you all day, hyping it up like it’s the Met Gala. Bring Ni-ki. I need to see this shitshow live. You laughed, but the idea of Ni-ki in a crowded, boozy setting, with you in full-on hurricane mode, feels like a checkmate waiting to happen. You’re not backing down, and you know he won’t either.

You’re in your room, getting ready, the bass of your playlist shaking the mirror as you slip into a black leather skirt and a sheer red top that shows just enough to make a point. Your hair’s wild, your makeup sharp—smokey eyes, glossy lips, the kind of look that says try me. You’re not dressing for him, not exactly, but you know he’ll notice, and you want his jaw to hit the floor.

Ni-ki’s in the living room when you strut out, scrolling on his phone, looking like sin in a fitted black shirt and cargo pants, his silver chain catching the light.

He glances up, and for a split second, his smirk falters, his eyes raking over you like you’re a problem he can’t solve. “Fuck me,” he mutters, low enough that you could pretend not to hear, but you don’t.

“Already begging, pretty boy?” you say, grabbing your jacket from the couch, your grin all teeth. You lean over, just close enough to make him tense, your perfume—something sweet and dark—hitting him like a jab. “Save it for the party.”

He stands, towering over you, his smirk back in full force. “Oh, princess, I don’t beg,” he says, stepping so close you feel the heat of his chest through your shirt. “But you might, by the end of the night.” His voice is a low growl, and you feel it in your spine, but you don’t flinch, don’t blink.

“Big talk for a guy who’s all show,” you fire back, tilting your chin up, your lips so close to his you could steal his breath. “Let’s see if you can back it up.”

He laughs, sharp and dangerous, but he doesn’t touch you, not yet. “Game on,” he says, grabbing his keys and heading for the door. “You driving, or am I?”

“You,” you say, tossing your hair as you follow him out. “I’m too pretty to deal with traffic.”

Soo-jin’s loft is a chaotic dream—dim lights, neon accents, music so loud it’s a pulse in your chest. The place is packed, bodies swaying, drinks sloshing, the air thick with sweat and perfume. You and Ni-ki walk in, and heads turn—not just because he’s an idol, but because you’re both radiating fuck with us energy. Soo-jin spots you instantly, her pink hair glowing under the lights, and she’s on you in a second, dragging you into a hug.

“Y/N, you absolute queen!” she yells over the music, her eyes flicking to Ni-ki, who’s already scanning the room like he owns it. “And you brought the main event. Ni-ki, don’t break my girl’s heart, or I’ll end you.”

Ni-ki grins, unfazed, leaning close to Soo-jin’s ear. “She’s the one you should worry about,” he says, loud enough for you to hear, and you roll your eyes, but your lips twitch, because damn, he’s good.

“Get us drinks,” you tell him, nudging his shoulder, and he raises an eyebrow, like who put you in charge? “Unless you’re scared to leave me alone, pretty boy.”

He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. “Scared? Nah. Just don’t start any fights without me.” He winks, heading for the bar, and you watch him go, his stride all confidence, his back a map of muscle under his shirt. You’re not drooling—not visibly, at least—but Soo-jin’s smirking like she’s got X-ray vision.

“You two are a fucking car crash waiting to happen,” she says, handing you a shot of something blue and potent. “How long you holding out before you jump him?”

You toss the shot back, the burn sharp and sweet. “Who says I’m holding out?” you say, grinning, but there’s truth in it. You want Ni-ki, bad, but you’re both too stubborn, too proud. It’s not just a hookup—it’s a conquest, a surrender, and neither of you wants to be the one to wave the white flag first.

The party’s a haze of drinks, laughter, and bodies pressed too close. You dance with Soo-jin, your hips moving to the beat, your head light but your eyes keep finding Ni-ki. He’s with a group, charming the hell out of everyone, but his gaze keeps sliding to you, tracking every move, every sway.

You turn it up, letting the music take you, your hands in your hair, your body saying what your mouth won’t. He’s watching, his jaw tight, his eyes dark, and you know you’re winning this round.

He’s back at your side later, a drink in hand, his arm brushing yours as you lean against the wall, catching your breath. “Having fun, princess?” he asks, his voice low, his smirk a challenge.

“Could be more fun,” you say, taking his drink and sipping it, your lips where his were, knowing it’ll drive him nuts. “Depends on you on you, pretty boy.”

He steps closer, caging you against the wall, one hand braced above your head, the other hovering near your hip, not touching but close enough to make your skin hum. “You’re pushing me, Y/N,” he murmurs, his eyes on your lips, his voice a velvet threat. “You sure you’re ready for what happens next?”

You tilt your chin, your grin all defiance. “You’re the one hesitating, Riki,” you say, your voice low, daring. “What’s stopping you? Scared you can’t keep up?”

His laugh is a low rumble, and then he’s closer, his lips brushing your ear, not kissing, just teasing, making you shiver. “Oh, I can keep up,” he says, his hand finally landing on your hip, fingers digging in just enough to make you gasp. “But when I make my move, you’re gonna wish you played nicer.”

You grab his chain, tugging him closer, your lips so close you’re sharing breath. “Make your move, then,” you whisper, your voice all fire. “Or I’ll beat you to it.”

For a second, you think he’s gonna kiss you, right there in Soo-jin’s loft, with the party raging around you. His eyes are all want, his body pressed against yours, and you’re ready—fuck the game, fuck the rules. But then he pulls back, just an inch, his smirk sharper than ever.

“Not here,” he says, voice rough, like he’s holding himself back by a thread. “Not like this. I want you all to myself.”

Your heart’s pounding, your body screaming at the loss of his heat, but you don’t let it show. “Tease,” you say, pushing off the wall, brushing past him, your shoulder grazing his chest. “Don’t keep me waiting too long, pretty boy.”

He catches your wrist, not hard, just enough to pull you back for a second, his eyes burning into yours. “You won’t have to,” he promises, and then he lets go, leaving you buzzing, your skin on fire.

The rest of the night’s a blur. You dance, you drink, you laugh with Soo-jin, but Ni-ki’s always there, a shadow in your peripheral, watching, waiting. You catch him dancing with some girl, his hands on her waist, and you grit your teeth, downing another shot, because fuck that. You’re not jealous—not exactly—but you want to be the one he’s touching, the one he’s breaking for.

Soo-jin notices, pulling you aside, her grin wicked. “You’re about to snap, aren’t you?” she says, handing you a water because she knows you’re tipsy. “He’s playing you, Y/N, but you’re playing him too. Who’s gonna crack first?”

“Not me,” you say, but it’s a lie, and she knows it. You’re both too bold, too stubborn, but this game’s got an end, and it’s coming fast.

You and Ni-ki leave together, the night air cool against your flushed skin as you pile into a cab. The ride’s quiet, but it’s not—it’s loud with everything you’re not saying, every glance, every brush of his thigh against yours in the backseat. You’re both buzzed, not drunk, but loose enough that the tension’s thicker, sharper, like a blade you’re both daring the other to pick up.

Back at the apartment, the door barely clicks shut before you’re at it again. You kick off your heels, heading for the kitchen, and he’s right behind you, grabbing a water from the fridge, his shirt riding up to show a sliver of toned stomach. You lean against the counter, watching him, your grin a challenge.

“Had fun with that girl at the party?” you ask, voice sweet but laced with venom, because you can’t help it—you want to poke, to see how far you can push.

He smirks, shutting the fridge, stepping closer. “Jealous, princess?” he says, his tone mocking, but his eyes are serious, searching. “Didn’t think you cared who I danced with.”

“I don’t,” you lie, stepping up, your chest brushing his, your voice dropping. “But if you’re gonna play games, pretty boy, at least pick someone who can keep up.”

He laughs, low and rough, and then he’s got you pinned against the counter, his hands on either side, caging you in. “You’re one to talk,” he says, his lips so close you feel the words more than hear them. “Flirting with half the room, shaking your ass like you wanted me to lose it.”

“Maybe I did,” you say, grabbing his shirt, pulling him closer, your lips grazing his jaw, not kissing, just teasing. “Maybe I wanted to see how long you’d last before you snapped.”

He groans, low and broken, and then his lips are on yours, hard and hungry, like he’s been starving for this. You kiss him back, just as fierce, your hands in his hair, tugging, your body pressed against his, feeling every line, every muscle. It’s not sweet, not soft—it’s a fight, a clash, all teeth and tongue and years of pent-up want. His hands slide to your hips, lifting you onto the counter, and you wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer, needing him now.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he murmurs against your mouth, his voice wrecked, his hands roaming, under your shirt, hot against your skin. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“Good,” you gasp, biting his lip, and he groans again, his hips pressing against yours, making you moan, loud and unapologetic. You’re both too far gone, too caught in the fire, and you know it’s about to burn you both down.

Then his phone buzzes, loud and insistent on the counter, and you both freeze, breathing hard, lips swollen, eyes wild. He glances at it—Jungwon—and curses under his breath, stepping back, running a hand through his hair.

“Don’t,” you say, grabbing his wrist, your voice rough, desperate. “Don’t answer it.”

He looks at you, torn, his chest heaving, and for a second, you think he’ll ignore it, dive back into you. But then he shakes his head, stepping back, his voice low. “We can’t—not like this,” he says, and it’s not a rejection, but it’s a pause, a fucking pause, and you want to scream.

You slide off the counter, fixing your shirt, your grin bitter but sharp. “Coward,” you say, and it’s a jab, but you’re hurt, and he knows it.

“Not a coward,” he says, stepping closer, his hand on your jaw, tilting your face up. “Just not stupid. When I have you, Y/N, it’s not gonna be a quick fuck in the kitchen. You deserve better.”

Your heart stutters, but you don’t let it show, pulling back, your smirk back in place. “Keep telling yourself that, pretty boy,” you say, heading for your room, leaving him standing there, the tension still crackling, the game still on.

You’ve been a ticking bomb since that night in the kitchen, Ni-ki’s lips on yours, his hands everywhere, his phone stealing the moment like a cheap plot twist. Two days later, and the apartment’s a pressure cooker—every glance, every brush of his shoulder, every smirk a match struck against your resolve. You’re bold, always have been, but Ni-ki’s playing you like a pro, and you’re this close to snapping. Not just snapping—shattering, breaking every rule you’ve set, and dragging him down with you.

It’s Saturday night, and the apartment’s quiet for once, the city’s hum filtering through the open balcony doors. You’re on the couch, scrolling through nothing on your phone, your red satin cami and shorts barely qualifying as clothes, because you know he’s here, and you’re done pretending you don’t want his eyes on you. Ni-ki’s in his room, but you hear him—music low, the faint creak of his desk chair, his presence like a pulse you can’t ignore.

You text Soo-jin, because you need to vent or you’ll combust. He’s killing me. I’m gonna jump him or strangle him. She replies instantly: DO IT. Fuck him or fight him, just pick one. I’m betting on you. You laugh, but it’s sharp, because she’s right—you’re at your limit, and Ni-ki’s about to learn what happens when you break.

The door to his room opens, and he steps out, shirtless, sweatpants slung low, his hair a mess like he’s been running his hands through it. He’s got that look—smirk half-cocked, eyes dark, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “Still sulking, princess?” he says, heading for the kitchen, his voice all tease, all dare.

You toss your phone down, standing, your grin dangerous. “Sulking? Nah, pretty boy,” you say, stalking toward him, your voice low, dripping with venom. “Just waiting for you to grow a spine and finish what you started.”

He freezes, water bottle in hand, his smirk faltering for a split second before he recovers, leaning against the counter, his eyes raking over you—satin clinging to your curves, thighs bare, lips glossy. “Oh, I started it?” he says, stepping closer, his voice a low growl. “You were the one grinding on me, begging for it.”

You laugh, sharp and loud, closing the distance until you’re chest-to-chest, your chin tilted, eyes locked. “Begging?” you hiss, grabbing his chain, tugging him down so your lips are inches apart. “You’re the one who chickened out, Riki. Scared you can’t handle me?”

His eyes flash, and then he’s got you, hands on your hips, spinning you until your back’s against the fridge, the cold metal a shock against your skin. “Handle you?” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear, not touching, just teasing, making you shiver. “I could have you screaming my name in ten seconds, princess. Don’t tempt me.”

“Then do it,” you snap, your hands in his hair, pulling hard, your voice all fire. “Stop talking and fucking do it.”

He groans, low and broken, and his lips crash into yours, hard and desperate, like he’s been starving for this as long as you have. It’s not a kiss—it’s a fight, all teeth and tongue, your hands clawing at his shoulders, his digging into your hips, pulling you flush against him.

You can feel him, hard and wanting through his sweatpants, and you grind against him, smirking into the kiss when he moans, loud and wrecked.

Your lips are locked in a war, Ni-ki’s tongue claiming yours with a hunger that’s been festering since move-in day. His hands grip your hips, bruising, pulling you against him, his hard length pressing through his sweatpants, making you moan into his mouth, loud and shameless. The fridge’s cold metal bites your back, but you don’t care—every nerve’s screaming for him, and you’re done playing. You’re bold, always have been, but right now, you’re a fucking wildfire, and Ni-ki’s the match that lit you.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he growls, breaking the kiss, his lips wet, eyes black with want. “You’re gonna ruin me.” His hands slide up, ripping your satin cami over your head, leaving you bare except for your shorts, your chest heaving under his gaze. He smirks, that cocky, infuriating curve of his lips, and you want to wipe it off—or suck it off.

“Ruin you?” you hiss, grabbing his chain, yanking him back, your teeth grazing his jaw. “You’re the one who’s been teasing me for months, pretty boy. Time to pay up.” You shove him, hard, and he stumbles back, laughing, low and rough, like you’ve just made his night.

“Oh, you’re calling the shots now?” he says, stalking toward you, grabbing your wrist and spinning you toward his bedroom, the door slamming shut behind you. The room’s a mess—clothes strewn, sheets half-off the bed, his cologne heavy in the air, spicy and stinging, like a shot to your veins. He pushes you onto the bed, your back hitting the mattress, and he’s over you, caging you in, his chain dangling against your throat. “Let’s see how tough you talk when I’ve got you begging, princess.”

You laugh, defiant, grabbing his hair, pulling hard enough to make him hiss. “Begging? You wish,” you say, but your voice cracks when his thigh presses between your legs, hard muscle against your core, making you grind against him, desperate for friction. “Fuck you, Riki.”

“Nah, you’re gonna fuck me,” he murmurs, his lips on your neck, sucking hard, leaving a mark that’ll scream mine tomorrow. His hands tear at your shorts, dragging them down with your panties, leaving you bare, exposed, and he pulls back, smirking at how wet you are, your thighs glistening under the dim light. “Look at you, dripping already. All that talk, and you’re a mess for me.”

“Shut up,” you snap, grabbing his shirt, yanking it off, your nails raking down his chest, leaving red lines he’ll feel later. He’s lean, all muscle, his abs flexing under your touch, and you want to bite every inch of him. “You’re not special, pretty boy. I could’ve had you weeks ago.”

“Liar,” he says, kneeling between your thighs, his breath hot against your core, making you squirm. “You’ve been dying for this, Y/N. Say it.” His fingers tease, brushing your folds, light and maddening, not giving you what you need, and you grit your teeth, pride warring with the ache between your legs.

“Fuck you,” you hiss, but it’s half a moan, and he laughs, low and filthy, his lips brushing your clit, not kissing, just hovering, driving you insane.

“Wrong answer,” he murmurs, and then his tongue flicks, slow and deliberate, a single stripe that makes you arch, a cry ripping from your throat. He’s relentless, licking, sucking, but never enough, pulling back every time your hips buck, every time you’re close. “Say you want me, princess. Beg for it.”

You’re trembling, your hands fisting his sheets, your body betraying you as you grind against his face, needing more, needing him. “Ni-ki, please,” you gasp, and it’s the first crack, the first surrender, but he’s not done—he wants you broken.

“Louder,” he growls, his fingers sliding inside, two, curling just right, but so fucking slow, teasing, making you shake. “I want you screaming, Y/N. Beg me to make you cum.”

You’re stubborn, but he’s worse, and he knows it, his tongue circling your clit, his fingers pumping, stopping every time you tense, every time you’re on the edge. “Fuck, Riki, please,” you sob, tears of frustration burning your eyes, your pride in ashes. “Make me cum, you bastard, I need it, please.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, and then he’s all in, tongue fast, fingers deep, hitting that spot that makes you see white, your moans loud enough to wake the neighbors. You’re close, so close, but he pulls back, smirking, and you scream, actually scream, your hips chasing his mouth.

“Not yet,” he says, standing, shoving his sweatpants and boxers down, his cock hard and thick, making your mouth water. “You’re cumming on this, princess. But you’re gonna earn it.”

You’re done with games. You sit up, grabbing his chain, pulling him down, flipping him onto his back, straddling his hips. “Earn it?” you hiss, grinding against him, your wetness slicking the condom, making him groan, his hands gripping your thighs. “I’ll take what I want, pretty boy.”

“Fuck, yes,” he says, but he’s still teasing, his hands guiding you, not letting you sink down, keeping you hovering, desperate. “Beg for my cock, Y/N. Tell me how bad you need it.”

You’re shaking, your nails digging into his chest, leaving marks, but you’re too far gone to care. “Please, Riki,” you moan, your voice raw, broken. “I need your cock, need you to fuck me, please, I’m fucking begging.”

He grins, thrusting up, just the tip, making you gasp, your head tipping back. “Good girl,” he says, and then he pulls you down, hard, filling you in one deep, brutal thrust, stretching you so good you cry out, your nails raking his shoulders. He’s big, bigger than you expected, and it’s perfect, the burn making you wild.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, his hands bruising your hips as he sets a punishing pace, thrusting up, meeting your every move, the bed creaking, slamming against the wall.

His hand slides to your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles, and you’re trembling, so close, but he slows, smirking, making you whine.

“Beg,” he says, his voice rough, his thrusts shallow, teasing, keeping you on the edge. “Beg me to let you cum, Y/N.”

“Fuck, Ni-ki, please,” you sob, your body shaking, your pride gone, your world narrowed to him, his cock, his touch. “Let me cum, I need it, need you, please, I’m yours.”

He groans, flipping you onto your back, pinning your wrists, thrusting deep, hard, relentless. “Mine,” he growls, his lips on your neck, biting, his fingers on your clit, fast and precise. “Cum for me, princess. Let me feel you.”

You shatter, your orgasm ripping through you, hard and blinding, your body clenching around him, moaning his name, loud enough for the whole damn city to hear.

He fucks you through it, his thrusts deep, his groans raw, and then he’s cumming, hard, his face buried in your shoulder, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.

You’re both still, panting, tangled in sweat and sheets, the air thick with sex and something heavier—something you’re not ready to name. He pulls out, and collapses beside you, pulling you into his chest, his lips soft against your hair.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he murmurs, voice wrecked, laced with something like awe. “You’re… unreal.”

You laugh, breathless, tracing the lines of his chain, his skin warm under your fingers. “Told you I’d break you,” you say, but it’s soft, because you’re broken too, and you’re okay with it.

He tilts your chin, kissing you slow, deep, like a vow. “We’re not done,” he says, his voice low, a spark already flaring again. “You’re mine now, princess.”

“Good,” you whisper, kissing him back, your hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat match yours. “Because you’re mine, pretty boy.”

The next morning, you’re in the kitchen, wearing Ni-ki’s hoodie, your hair a mess, your body sore but singing. Soo-jin’s blowing up your phone, demanding the tea, and you text back: Snapped. Fucked. Owned. She sends a string of screaming emojis, and you grin, because she called this chaos from day one.

Ni-ki walks in, sweatpants low, his smirk softer but still cocky, like he knows he’s ruined you for anyone else. “Morning, princess,” he says, stealing your coffee, his hand on your waist, pulling you close.

“Get your own,” you say, but you lean into him, because you’re his, and he’s yours, and the game’s over—but the fire’s just beginning.

Soo-jin crashes your brunch later, her eyes glinting as she sees Ni-ki’s hand on your thigh, his hoodie drowning you. “Fucking finally,” she says, stealing your toast. “You two were insufferable. Now give me the dirty details—how loud was it?”

You kick her under the table, but Ni-ki laughs, leaning in, his whisper hot against your ear. “Tell her, princess,” he says, and you blush, but you’re grinning, because you’re not hiding anymore.

“Legendary,” you say, meeting Soo-jin’s eyes, and she cackles, high-fiving you, while Ni-ki’s smirk promises round two, three, forever.

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

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⌕𝗈𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋⌕

⌕ 𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗍 (𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗈𝖿 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽!)

⌕ 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽!𝗋𝗂𝗄𝗂 𝗑 𝖿𝖾𝗆!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

⌕ 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗋𝖾: 𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍, 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌, 𝗌𝗅𝗈𝗐 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇

⌕ 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌: 𝖽𝗈𝗆!𝗇𝗂𝗄𝗂, 𝗌𝗂𝗓𝖾 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗄, 𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 (𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗌 𝖺 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗈 𝗈𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋), 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾-𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗅 (𝖿), 𝖽𝗋𝗒 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗆𝗂𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗋 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒, 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝖾, 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝗃𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗒, 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗒 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖺𝗀𝖾, 𝖻𝗈𝖽𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 (𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝗎𝖻𝖻𝗒/𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗋), 𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀

⌕ 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇: 𝗁𝖾'𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗒, 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾. 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗏𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗆. 𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗃𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝖺𝖼𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁 𝗈𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎. 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝗒𝗈𝗎'𝗋𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗍'𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖺 𝗀𝖺𝗆𝖾. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗇𝗂𝗄𝗂'𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀.

⌕ 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍: 3018

⌕ 𝗆.𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍!

a/n: i love showing love to my curvy babies like me so i had to write something for them. i hope you enjoy! 😉 heres the other fic i dropped! anton: you left your guitar

"i know you love to play games, but it ain't no recess."

he's sitting at the edge of your bed again.

long legs stretched out, one arm slung over the backrest like he owns the place. like he doesn’t have every damn nerve in his body lit up just from being this close to you.

you: “stop looking at me like that.”

you mumble, not looking up from your phone. niki leans forward, resting his chin on his palm.

n: “like what? you’re the one who invited me over.”

you: “because i’m bored. not because i wanted you ogling my tits.”

he scoffs.

n: “they’re just… out.”

you: “i’m at home.”

you gesture loosely to the tank top clinging to your curves and the shorts barely covering your thighs. not your fault he’s acting like he’s never seen you this casual. nevermind that you knew exactly what you were doing when you chose the color that makes your skin glow and a neckline that dips just enough.

n: “you’re annoying.”

he mutters, tossing a throw pillow at you. you catch it with a smirk.

you: “aww. poor baby.”

he clenches his jaw at that. baby. little boy. kid. the shit you’ve been calling him lately. it’s driving him insane. ever since that day, two weeks ago, when jake let it slip. you’d all been hanging out, and jake had just casually dropped it like it was nothing.

jake: "yeah, niki’s been into you forever. wait, shit."

silence.

and then you turned slowly, blinking at niki while he flushed bright red, eyes darting toward the wall. and instead of pulling away, acting shocked or disgusted. you grinned.

you: “aw, my little boy has a crush on me?”

you’d said and he’s been dying ever since. you’ve kept it going like it’s a joke. brushing his hair out of his face, giving him nicknames you know he hates, sitting in his lap and laughing when he stiffens under you, saying

you: “relax, you’re such a child.”

and he always says the same thing.

n: “i’m not a little boy.”

tonight’s no different. your knee brushes his thigh as you shift closer, and his gaze drops to where your soft stomach peeks out from under the hem of your shirt.

you: “god, stop staring, you’re such a perv.”

you tease again, pressing the pillow against your chest with faux modesty. he glares.

n: “you’re the one who invited me over in that."

you: "what, you gonna act like you don’t like what you see?”

his lips part. your eyes catch the way his throat bobs.

you: “not answering? too shy to admit it?”

you lean closer, your voice dropping. he sucks in a breath and snaps.

n: “you’re not funny.”

you grin.

you: “that’s not a no.”

silence. you hear it. his breathing getting heavier. the flicker in his expression. the way his hands twitch in his lap like he’s holding himself back. you’ve seen it before. he’s been like this for days. weeks, maybe. and still, you poke.

you: “you’re really cute when you pout, like a little boy who didn’t get what he wanted.”

you say softly, patting his cheek.

n: “stop calling me that.”

you: “what? a little boy?”

his jaw clenches again.

you: “you like when i baby you, don’t you?”

you don’t expect what happens next. niki grabs your wrist. not hard, but tight enough to make your stomach twist. his fingers are long around your skin. his voice drops low, dark, in a way you’ve never heard from him before.

n: “seriously, stop with that shit.”

the smirk drops from your face for the first time tonight. you blink.

you: “oh? what are you gonna do if i don't?”

you test, lips quirking slightly niki exhales slowly through his nose. you don’t miss the way his pupils dilate. how his fingers twitch.

n: “you’re really testing me.”

he mutters. you hum, leaning back with a roll of your eyes.

you: “mm. whatever you say. little boy.”

you laugh. niki’s eyes trail down your body slowly, your thick thighs, the soft dip of your waist. his voice is deep and flat when he speaks.

n: “i could break you.”

you choke on your own breath, heartbeat spiking. he says it like he means it. like he’s been thinking about it. dreaming about it. you say nothing, but your silence betrays you. niki leans forward, so close now you can smell the citrus of his shampoo. his breath fans against your lips.

n: “you think you control control shit, and you don’t.”

your lips part, ready to shoot back something witty, but your brain’s blank. your thighs clench without permission.

n: “say it again.”

he whispers. you blink.

you: “what?”

n: “call me a little boy again.”

you feel the heat rushing to your face.

you: “…why?”

his eyes flash, and you swear his voice goes even lower.

n: “so i can show you what’s not little.”

fuck.

you swallow hard. the tension in the room is thick, too heavy to pretend away now. your teasing got you here. but you never expected him to push back. and god, he’s so close. so much taller, his long fingers still curled around your wrist.

you: “you say that like you need to prove it”

you whisper, tone more breathless than you mean. he smirks, slow and cocky.

n: “i do, i’m waiting for permission.”

you freeze. he’s serious. like- actually serious. the little boy you’ve been teasing is nowhere in sight. he’s looking at you like he wants to devour you. and all of a sudden, you realize this might be what he’s wanted all along. not just your body, but control. the power of the year age gap you’ve been flaunting over him? he wants it back. wants to take it. you inhale slowly, trying to play it cool.

n: “i said i don’t fuck nineteen-year-olds.”

n: "you haven't. yet.”

your stomach flips. your breath stutters. you pull your hand from his grasp, just enough to slip your fingers into his hair. yanking gently. he grins.

n: “say i’m not a little boy.”

you stay quiet. his hands drift to your waist, gripping your sides possessively. you can feel how big his palms are, how they sink into your softness like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

n: “say it.”

you: “…make me.”

the air stills. and just like that. niki kisses you. it’s messy, uncoordinated at first, all teeth and tension, his hands pulling you onto his lap like he’s been waiting forever to do it. you gasp into his mouth as your hips grind down on his thigh. his hands squeeze your ass roughly, fingers dragging up your spine as you straddle him. his lips move to your neck, biting and sucking like he wants to leave a mark, claim you.

you: “f-fuck.”

you whisper, gripping his shoulders. he groans. you roll your hips again, feeling the heat between your thighs spreading fast. his hardness is pressing against you through his sweats, and it makes you ache.

n: “still think i’m a little boy?”

he pants, grabbing your jaw and forcing you to look at him. you shake your head, breathless.

n: “say it.”

you: “you’re not,”

you whisper, gasping when he thrusts up against you.

you: “you’re not- fu- you’re so not.”

he grins.

n: “good girl.”

you don’t talk about it. at least, not the next day.

you avoid his texts. he leaves three voicemails and unsends a dm. you know he’s spiraling. but what are you supposed to say? that you liked it? that it turned you on how he manhandled you like he’d been thinking about it for months?

you shouldn’t have let it go that far. he’s your best friend. he’s nineteen. you had just turned twenty one. you say nothing, and pretend like nothing happened. and niki hates you for it. the next time you see him, it’s at a party.

jake’s house. crowded. loud. and hot. you’ve been drinking. not enough to be drunk, but enough that your lips are glossed pink and your laugh is louder than usual and you’re perched on the armrest of some guy’s chair like you belong there.

niki sees you before you see him. his jaw tightens instantly. you look too good. too confident. hair pinned up, skin glowing, short black skirt riding your hips like a sin. his mouth goes dry. the guy sitting under you says something that makes you laugh, and you swat his arm playfully. and niki loses it.

n: “y/n.”

he calls, striding across the room like he owns it. your head turns slowly, eyes widening. you hadn’t expected to see him here. not after ignoring him for three days.

you: “hey.”

you say casually, sliding off the chair. he doesn’t stop walking. doesn’t even acknowledge the guy next to you. just grabs your wrist and pulls you through the crowd with a quiet.

n: “we need to talk.”

you don’t argue. you don’t want to admit it, but your heart is pounding. he drags you into an empty guest room and shuts the door behind you.

n: “what the fuck was that?”

he snaps. you blink.

you: “what?”

n: “three days. nothing. and now you’re out here laughing on some guy’s lap like nothing happened?”

you cross your arms, leaning against the dresser.

you: “you kissed me. i didn’t ask for it.”

niki steps closer, voice low.

n: “you begged for it.”

you narrow your eyes.

you: “i didn’t beg-”

n: “you fucking moaned on my lap, grinded your little pussy on my thigh and told me to prove it.”

your breath hitches. he smirks.

n: “what, you forget?”

you turn away, trying to hide the heat rushing to your cheeks. he’s close behind you in an instant, hands gripping your hips from behind.

n: “you’re such a brat.”

he murmurs, pressing his body into yours. you gasp softly as you feel his chest against your back. his hands roam under your shirt, dragging over your soft belly, dipping lower.

n: “you wore this skirt for him?”

his voice is dark now.

n: “he’s not even cute, he can't handle you anyway. you’d ride him for two seconds and he’d nut.”

you: “niki-”

his hand slips down your waistband. you gasp, grabbing the edge of the dresser.

n: “already wet, you came here wanting me to find you like this, didn’t you?”

he mutters, voice thick with satisfaction.

you: “no niki! shut- ugh- shut up.”

his fingers rub slow circles, spreading the slick between your folds without going in. just teasing. torturing.

you: “niki, please-”

he stops. just like that. you whine, hips bucking backward for friction.

n: “please?”

he repeats. you nod.

you: "i’m sorry.. i was just scared-”

n: “you’re not scared now.”

he spins you to face him, hands still at your waist. you’re flushed, chest heaving, lip gloss smudged. he leans in, eyes dragging down your face, lingering on the curve of your breasts.

n: “you wore this for attention. and now you’ve got mine.”

his hand wraps around your throat.

n: “say you want me.”

you: “i-i do..”

n: “say it like you mean it.”

you: “niki.. i want you- i do...”

you gasp. his mouth crashes into yours again. but this kiss is nothing like the first. it’s rough. needy. desperate. his hands pull at your thighs until you’re lifted onto the dresser. your knees fall open, and he steps between them, grinding into your clothed heat. his fingers slip back down, yanking your underwear to the side and pushing two thick digits into your heat without warning. your head falls back with a cry.

n: “fuck- you’re tight.”

you clench around him, thighs trembling. he curves his fingers up, hitting that spot instantly. you whimper, gripping his wrist.

you: “p-please, don’t stop..”

n: “say it.”

you: “you’re not a little boy, f-fuck.”

n: “mm, but you liked it. didn’t you?”

your walls flutter around his fingers.

n: “you liked teasing me. making me hard. acting like you didn’t notice.”

you nod helplessly, back arching.

you: “i’m sorry-”

he kisses your cheek, your jaw, your throat.

n: “too late for sorry, baby.”

he growls. you cry out as his fingers speed up, curling perfectly inside you while his thumb rubs your clit.

n: “you’re not gonna think i’m a little boy after this.”

you don’t remember how you got to his apartment. the next thing you know, your back is against his mattress, your thighs spread, your shirt somewhere on the floor, and his lips are moving down your body like he’s starved.

n: “so fucking soft, you were made for me.”

he mutters against your stomach, licking a long stripe down to your waistband. you squirm.

you’re already shaking from the orgasm he pulled out of you with just his fingers back at the party. he’d whispered filthy things in your ear the entire ride back. how good you tasted, how pretty you sounded, how he wanted to see your face when you finally came around his cock. and now that he has you here? he’s going slow. tormentingly slow. he pulls your panties down with his teeth, dark eyes fixed on yours the whole time.

n: “you’re so wet, baby, just from my fingers.”

you pant.

you: “niki- please.”

n: “uh-uh. you teased me for weeks. now you wait.”

he crawls up, grabbing your jaw. his voice is commanding. nothing like the boy you used to laugh with over ramen and late-night movies. his hands are big and warm, splaying across your plush thighs as he lowers himself again.

n: “ride my face.”

your brain short-circuits.

you: “what..?”

he pulls you down the bed and rolls onto his back, hands gripping your waist.

n: “up.”

you stare at him, flushed and trembling.

you: “i- I’ve never-”

n: “don’t think i fucking asked.”

you hesitate for two seconds before letting him guide you onto his face, your thighs trembling on either side of his head. you hover, barely touching, overwhelmed.

but niki doesn’t like that. his arms curl around your thighs and pull you down.

you: “fuck!”

you gasp, thighs tensing as his mouth latches onto your clit like he was meant to be there. he groans, deep and hungry, licking and sucking like your pussy’s his favorite meal. his nose presses against your folds, the rhythm relentless and messy.

you: “nik- oh my-”

your hands fly into his hair. he hums against you, the vibration sending sparks through your spine.

n: “can’t believe i waited this long.”

he mutters between licks. your hips roll into his mouth without thinking. he moans when you grind down harder, tongue slipping into your dripping entrance. you’re soaked. ruined. he’s fucking devouring you. you look down, and catch sight of your reflection.

his bed is angled in front of the full-length mirror on his closet door. and from here, you can see everything. your thighs trembling around his face. your belly jiggling with every grind. your head thrown back, breasts bouncing with every panting breath. and niki? buried between your legs like he belongs there.

n: “look, look at yourself.”

he pants, pulling back just enough to slap your pussy once. you moan, hips jerking.

n: “fuckin’ sexy, every part of you.”

he taps your ass twice, guiding you off his face, and you fall onto your back. throbbing, messy, aching.

n: “you ready for it? teasing me like i wouldn’t do shit.”

he says, dragging his cock against your slit. you’re barely coherent.

you: “i-i didn’t think-”

n: “you didn’t think i’d fuck you like this?”

he spits in his hand, strokes his length, and slides the tip against your clit. you whimper.

you: “i-i was scared..”

his hand grabs your jaw again. gentle this time.

n: “i’d never hurt you, but you need to learn who you belong to.”

he pushes in. your mouth drops open in a silent scream.

he’s big.

your pussy stretches slow around him, inch by inch, and his groan is almost pained.

n: “fuck- you're so tight- shit-”

you dig your nails into his shoulders.

you: “please don't stop”

he laughs, breathless.

n: “didn’t plan on it.”

he starts to move. slow at first, letting you feel every inch. your thighs shake. your belly trembles. and every time he thrusts forward, you feel him deeper. you grip his arms like a lifeline.

you: “god- i can’t-”

n: “you can. you’re gonna take it. all of it.”

he kisses your collarbone. his hips speed up. your walls clamp down. the sound of skin slapping echoes in the room.

n: “look at yourself, watch me fuck you.”

you look up. the mirror reflects your wrecked body, tits bouncing with each thrust, niki’s body towering over yours, his hand sliding to your throat again, choking. owning.

n: “who’s pussy is this?”

he growls.

you: “y-yours..”

you gasp.

n: “say it.”

you: “it’s yours, niki- fuck, it’s yours-”

n: “yeah? say who you belong to.”

he spits in your mouth, and your eyes roll back.

you: “daddy-”

he loses it.

n: “fuck, baby, say it again.”

he groans, slamming into you harder.

you: “da- plea- daddy-”

he grabs your waist with both hands, dragging your body down onto his cock like you weigh nothing.

n: “this shit is mines baby. your pretty pussy, your body, all of you, mine.”

you nod frantically. your orgasm hits like a freight train. you scream as your walls clench tight around him, thighs locking up. niki groans, pushing deep once, twice, and spills inside you with a choked moan.

n: “fuckfuckfuck-”

you’re both panting, covered in sweat, bodies stuck together. he collapses beside you, wrapping an arm around your soft waist, pulling you close. neither of you speak for a moment.

n: “…you okay?”

you nod weakly.

you: “mhm.”

niki kisses your cheek.

n: “…still think i’m a little boy?”

you giggle, cuddling closer.

you: “no..”

he smirks, pressing his face into your neck.

n: “good, cause you’re mine now.”

© 𝗌𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖻𝖺𝖻𝗒𝖾: 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽. 𝖱𝖾𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀/𝗆𝗈𝖽𝗂𝖿𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝖿𝗂𝖼, 𝗈𝗋 𝗉𝗂𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗀 𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽. 𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽.

[kidult0325]

THE WAY I LOVED YOU — park sunghoon

Years after a quiet, painful breakup, you are assigned to write a profile on South Korea’s most elusive figure skater, Park Sunghoon, who just so happens to be your ex-boyfriend. What was supposed to be a byline quickly spirals into a collision of unresolved feelings, buried emotions that are edging too close to the surface, and the slow thaw between two people who once meant the world to each other. With every step you take back into his orbit, the line between story and truth begins to blur—and the version of him you thought you knew starts to unravel.

word count: 44k (LMFAOOOOOOO)

pairing: figureskater!ex!sunghoon x sportsjournalist!afab!reader

featuring: yunah, minju, and moka from illit

genre: figure skating au, exes to lovers, the one that got away, sunshine x midnight rain, second chance romance, right person wrong time but also becomes right time(?), opposites attract, slow burn, ANGST

warnings: this story contains miscommunication at its PEAK, emotional distress, mentions of injury, past breakup, abandonment, and themes of regret, long-distance, sunghoon ice prince stereotype, mutual pining, girl putting more effort than guy, hopeless romantic core, emphasis on love language, usage of profanities, slight indication of intimacy (literally like one paragraph if you squint), angst, angst, angst, and oh! angst, also maybe slight inaccuracies to real life sports delegations(?)

disclaimer: this is a work of pure fiction. If any context is similar to any other stories, it's either inspired (in which credit will be given) or just a coincidence. the characters' personalities, words, actions and thoughts do not represent them in real life. any resemblance to any real life events or person, present or past, are purely coincidental. i apologise in advance for any spelling or grammar mistakes. characters are aged up for plot purpose.

notes from nat: ngl. i almost didn't want to put this out. but I know people have been waiting and I can be overly critical with myself sometimes... and 44k words is ALOT to just leave it in the drafts, so here you guys go! highly recommended to read with the playlist i curated in order! without further ado, enjoy!

tags: #tfwy thewayilovedyou #tfwy au

perm taglist. @m1kkso @hajimelvr @s00buwu @urmomssneakylink @grayscorner @catlicense @bubblytaetae @mrchweeee @artstaeh @sleeping-demons @yuviqik @junsflow @blurryriki @bobabunhee @hueningcry @fakeuwus @enhaslxt @neocockthotology @Starryhani @aishisgrey @katarinamae @mitmit01 @youcancometome @cupiddolle @classicroyalty @dearsjaeyun @ikeucakeu @sammie217 @m1kkso @tinycatharsis @parkjjongswifey @dcllsinna @no1likeneo @ChVcon3 @karasusrealwife @addictedtohobi @jyunsim @enhastolemyheart @kawaiichu32 @layzfy @renjunsbirthmark13 @enhaprettystars @Stercul1a @stars4jo @luvashli @alyselenai @ididntseeurbag @hii-hawaiiu @kwhluv @wonjiya @gabrielinhaa @milkycloudtyg @kristynaaah @cripplinghooman

The office is louder than usual for a Monday morning. Keyboards clatter like a percussion ensemble, and the faint hum of printers competes with the buzz of hurried conversations. The aroma of coffee lingers, sharp and bitter. You sit at your desk, staring at your laptop screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard but typing nothing.

Your new assignment email glares at you with a subject line you never thought you’d see: "Profile Piece on Park Sunghoon."

Park Sunghoon. Even his name feels heavy in your chest.

Memories surge to the surface—his laughter ringing through late-night phone calls, the sparkle in his eyes when he spoke about skating, and the tension in his voice during those last arguments before everything unravelled. It’s been years, but the ghost of him lingers like a song stuck in your head.

“Y/N, you’ve got the Sunghoon piece, right?” your editor, Yunah, calls out, snapping you out of your trance. She’s a whirlwind of energy, dressed in a sharp blazer with a coffee mug permanently glued to her hand.

“Yeah,” you reply, trying to sound casual, though your voice wavers slightly. “I’ve got it.”

“Good,” she says, striding over to your desk. “The story’s got legs. Everyone’s buzzing about his reappearance and return to Korea. Olympic dreams, media darling, potential scandal… you’ve got to dig deep on this one. Make it personal.”

“Personal?” The word makes your stomach churn. “Isn’t that more tabloidy than what we’re used to?”

“Sports tabloids pay the bills, sweetheart,” Yunah says with a shrug. “And you’re the perfect person for this. You’ve got the knack for human stories, and Sunghoon’s story is nothing if not human. Besides, you went to the same university, right?”

The question hangs in the air, deceptively light. You hesitate for a moment too long, and Yunah’s brows lift, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips. “Ah, I see,” she says teasingly. “Well, use it to your advantage.”

Of course. You forgot you're surrounded by people who read body language for a living. There’s no hiding anything from her.

She walks away before you can respond, leaving you with the sinking realisation that she’s not entirely wrong. Who better to cover Park Sunghoon’s meteoric rise—and whatever personal demons he’s carrying—than the girl who once loved him?

By lunchtime, you’ve done enough digging to know exactly what you’re up against.

Sunghoon’s name is everywhere.

His face—still frustratingly photogenic—plastered across articles, feature spreads, and fan-edited clips with dramatic music overlays. They all show a polished, confident man, far removed from the awkward boy you used to know. His dark hair is perfectly styled, his tailored suits scream sophistication, and his trademark smirk has only grown more enigmatic.

You scroll through write-ups that gush about his triumphant return to the ice. They speculate whether he’ll qualify for the next international season, drop cryptic mentions of a “new fire in his eyes,” and cite sources that can’t seem to agree whether his hiatus was due to injury or personal issues. Or both.

There are whispers about a reality show stint during his time in Spain—something lowkey, never officially aired, but leaked through blurry screenshots and strategically placed fan theories. A training arc in disguise, if you had to guess. Classic Sunghoon: disappearing, reinventing, and re-emerging like nothing happened.

And now? He’s starting to make headlines again.

Which makes sense, you suppose. He hasn’t been in the public eye for months. Not since that withdrawal from the Grand Prix final. Not since the buzz about that infamous tussle—the one that sports reporters avoided naming outright but loved to allude to. The speculation only made him more mysterious. More magnetic. The kind of story that writes itself: the fallen star, re-forging his crown.

Yunah’s right—the story’s got legs. You just wish you weren’t the one chasing it.

You stare blankly at the screen, lips pressed together as your cursor hovers over yet another article about him.

You were supposed to be over this.

And yet, you can’t deny the tightness coiling in your chest—not jealousy, exactly. Not regret, either. Just something far messier. The kind of feeling that comes from watching someone you once loved be glorified by the same world that never saw the nights you spent waiting for him to call. The world that didn’t witness the quiet crumbling of a girl who poured so much of herself into someone who didn’t know how to hold it.

You slam your laptop shut.

If he’s back on the ice, fine. Good for him.

But you’re not the same girl who used to cry over his missed calls and make excuses for his silence. You have a job to do. A byline to earn. And if this rink ends up being his comeback stage, then so be it.

You’ll be there—not as the girl who once loved him, but as the reporter who can write his rise without flinching.

The first step is setting up an interview, which means reaching out to his management. This whole thing could very well end here. You’ll send the email, Sunghoon will reject the request—just like he does with every other news agency or tabloid that thinks they can score an exclusive interview with him. Yunah will realise you’re not some journalistic prodigy, and she’ll move on to the next big headline.

That should comfort you. When Sunghoon says no, it’s over—no awkward reunions, no dredging up memories you’ve spent years trying to bury. And yet, you hesitate, fingers trembling as they hover over the keyboard.

The email stares back at you, every word perfectly composed, detached, professional. It doesn’t betray the tangle of thoughts fighting for dominance in your mind.

From: You Subject: Interview Request for Park Sunghoon Profile Piece Dear Ms. Yoon, I hope this email finds you well. My name is Kang Y/N, and I’m a journalist with Manifesto Daily. Our team is planning a profile piece on athlete Park Sunghoon, focusing on his inspiring journey as a professional athlete and his return to Korea. I would like to request an interview with Mr. Park to discuss his career, his aspirations for the future, and any personal insights he’d be willing to share with our readers. The piece aims to highlight his achievements and provide a deeper understanding of the person behind the athlete. Please let me know a time and date that would work best for Mr. Park’s schedule. I am happy to accommodate and can meet at his convenience. Should you require any further details about the story or our publication, please don’t hesitate to reach out. Thank you for considering this request. I look forward to your response. Best regards, Kang Y/N Senior Journalist (Sports Division) Manifesto Daily +82 XX XXXX YYYY

Highlight his achievements and provide a deeper understanding of the person behind the athlete. You scoff. As if you don’t already have enough material to craft an in-depth exposé on Park Sunghoon—complete with anecdotes, vivid details, and a treasure trove of receipts that you’ve kept buried at the back of your mind, and perhaps in a folder on your computer.

You know the kind of person Park Sunghoon is. You’ve seen him at his most passionate, the fire in his eyes when he spoke about mastering a new routine, and at his most vulnerable, when doubts about his own abilities kept him up at night. 

You’ve also witnessed him at his ugliest—those moments when he seemed completely disinterested during your calls, only for you to catch glimpses of him laughing unabashedly in his training mate’s Instagram stories. When he sent curt, dry texts that cut to your insecurities, leaving you questioning if you were the problem. And yet, now here you are, facing the daunting question: Who is he today? A polished media darling, exuding poise and confidence, or a jerk who simply broke your heart?

You’re not just writing a profile; it’s about untangling the complexities of the boy you once loved and the man he has become, all while confronting the version of him that’s lived rent-free in your head for years.

When you finally hit send, you lean back in your chair, exhaling deeply. It’s done. Now all you can do is wait.

The reply comes faster than expected.

For a moment, you stare at the screen, rereading the email as if the words might change. 

He said yes. The one answer you hadn’t prepared yourself for. A mix of relief and dread washes over you in waves, leaving you momentarily frozen.

From: yoon.jieun@hybe.com Subject: Re: Interview Request for Park Sunghoon Profile Piece Dear Ms. Kang, Thank you for reaching out. Sunghoon has reviewed your request and is happy to make time to participate in the interview for your profile piece. We appreciate your interest in highlighting his journey and achievements. The interview can be scheduled for this Thursday at 3:00 PM at the Olympic Training Rink in Seoul. Please confirm if this timing works for you. Additionally, let us know if there are any specific topics or questions you’d like Sunghoon to prepare for in advance. Should you require further assistance, feel free to contact me directly. Best regards, Yoon Ji-eun Executive Assistant, Park Sunghoon +82 XX XXXX YYYY

“Happy to make time,” you mutter under your breath, staring at the email on your screen. A bitter laugh escapes before you can stop it. Does he even remember you? Or are you just another journalist to him now, a faceless name lost among the countless people chasing for a headline?

He must remember you. Right? After all, you were together for over four years—four long, formative years that shaped so much of who you are. And out of those four, at least three were good years. Happy years. The kind of memories that even if you wanted to forget, you couldn’t. 

He isn’t just part of your past; he is your past. From the moment you met him in freshman year college during orientation, to your graduation, and all the way up to the day he left for Spain to chase his dreams, Sunghoon was a constant—a gravitational force you couldn’t escape.

Late-night study sessions that turned into early-morning phone calls. The excitement of travelling to watch his competitions, where his focus on the ice was matched only by the way his eyes would light up when he found you waiting in the stands. The quiet moments, too—the ones where he’d rest his head on your lap after a long day of training, eyes closed, his walls momentarily lowered. 

You remember all of it, vividly. How could you not? It’s etched into the foundation of who you are, whether you like it or not. He alone made up your youth. 

And he alone crushed it.

The day of the interview arrives quicker than you’re ready for. The sky is overcast, mirroring the grey swirl of nerves in your stomach as you make your way to the Olympic Training Rink. The moment you step inside, a wave of cold air hits you—crisp and unforgiving, seeping through your coat like a reminder of why you're really here.

The rink is quieter than expected. No coaches shouting instructions, no background music blaring. Just the sharp, rhythmic slice of blades on ice echoing through the vast, open space. The sound is hypnotic. 

You spot him immediately. His movements are unmistakable—precise, elegant, detached—just like the version of him the world sees now. It’s surreal. For a moment, you're frozen. He’s always been like this on the ice, as if he belongs to a world the rest of us can only watch from the sidelines.

When he finally notices you, he skates over, his expression unreadable. Up close, he’s both familiar and foreign. The boy you loved is still there, but he’s hidden beneath layers of polished professionalism and years of distance.

“Y/N,” he says, his voice even. “It’s been a while.”

You force a smile, clutching your research papers like it’s the only thing tethering you to professionalism. “It has. Thanks for agreeing to this.”

He nods, gaze unwavering. “Anything for the press, right?”

The faintest curl of his lip accompanies the words, not quite a smirk, but it lands somewhere between sarcasm and civility. There’s a hint of irony in his tone, and you can’t tell if he’s mocking you, the situation, or himself. Either way, it stings in a place you wish was long numb.

You follow him as he skates toward the side lounge near the rink, where a table and chair have been set up for you. You set your things down, press the recorder button, and glance at your questions. But already, you can feel it—the reckoning of something unspoken humming beneath every word, every breath.

The breakup was as cold and sharp as the ice he mastered so effortlessly. Sunghoon’s inability to express himself had always been a quiet undercurrent in your relationship, but distance magnified the cracks until they became impossible to ignore. 

At first, you told yourself it was temporary. A phase. Just the price of loving someone whose dreams demanded everything of him. While he trained under the Spanish sun—chasing medals, perfection, legacy—you remained behind, stuck in the grey stillness of routine. Every morning was a quiet scroll through his tagged posts: flashes of sunlight on ice, arms slung around new faces, effortless smiles captured in perfect golden-hour light. He looked happy. Free. And you… you were still waiting, clinging to half-hearted apologies and empty reassurances.

The timezone difference was a fact of life, yes—but it wasn’t the hours that made him feel far away. It was the way he spoke with one foot already out the door. Every call became more strained, the conversation shallow, like he was rationing his energy and you were the last on his list. His words were careful, rehearsed, as if emotional honesty was a risk he couldn’t afford on top of training and public scrutiny.

Sometimes he wouldn’t even call, and when they did come, they hurt more than the silence. His eyes flickered elsewhere on the screen, distracted by movement off-camera or the notifications lighting up his phone. His voice was flat, barely warm, like he was speaking to a colleague—not someone who used to fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat. The nickname "Ice Prince" had once made you laugh, made you tease him during post-practice ramen dates. But it wasn’t funny anymore. It became a prophecy fulfilled—he had built walls you could no longer scale, frozen over the places you used to call home.

When the arguments came, they were frigid and brittle, snapping under the weight of unspoken frustrations. You started to memorise the pauses in his speech, the way he hesitated before saying your name—as though he wasn’t sure how to feel about it anymore.

It wasn’t just the miles between you that drove you apart—it was the glacier of his guarded heart, one you couldn’t thaw no matter how hard you tried.

And then one night, wrapped in a hoodie that still smelled faintly of him, you sat curled up on the steep edge of your windowsill, your knees pulled tight to your chest, eyes scanning the city like it might offer you answers. The lights blinked on like constellations you couldn’t name anymore, and you realised—with a crushing, reluctant clarity—you were holding him back. 

But more importantly, he was holding you back. 

Your lives had become separate timelines that only intersected on screens and stilted calls, and even then, it felt like you were orbiting each other with no gravity left to pull you close again. The connection you once cherished had thinned until it became a thread you had to squint to see, and even then, it felt like a lie.

So you did the one thing that felt more honest than any of your recent conversations: you typed out the words you’d been avoiding for weeks, hands shaking, eyes blurry.

“Maybe we’re both better off letting go.”

And hit send.

Just like that, another four years passed without him. 

Time, as always, moved in quiet, unremarkable ways—through the steady ticking of clocks and the dull rhythm of workdays blending into each other. You had slowly, stubbornly, climbed the ranks of your publishing company, carving a name for yourself as a senior reporter. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was yours. 

Unexpectedly, you had found yourself swept into the whirlwind of sports journalism—ironic, in retrospect, considering how closely that world is being tied to him. But you told yourself it was coincidence. That it was your choice now. That your world, your career, your interests, were no longer shadowed by Sunghoon's orbit or shaped by the way he used to talk about the thrill of competing and nailing six-minute routines like they were sacred.

You insisted you were free. And maybe that was true. But in the quiet spaces between deadlines and press boxes, in the few spare seconds before interviews began or crowds broke into applause, you couldn’t stop that lingering, almost shameful thought from blooming: that maybe, just maybe, some part of you had always hoped to run into him again.

Not to rekindle anything. Not to reach for what had already slipped through your fingers.

But to show him. Show him that you had thrived. That you were still standing after everything. That the girl he left behind was long gone, replaced by someone sharper, stronger, more whole.

But now—now that you find yourself in this predicament, frozen in place on the edge of a rink you never expected to be at, watching the familiar curve of his form cut across the ice with the same breathtaking grace—you feel like a fool for ever thinking you were ready.

You want nothing more than for the ground beneath you to crack open and swallow you whole. Because seeing him again doesn’t fill you with triumph. It doesn’t validate anything. It just hurts.

Worse than it should.

And it terrifies you how easy it is to fall back into that ache.

“Hello? Earth to Y/N.”

You blink, startled out of your reverie by the sight of Sunghoon waving a hand in front of your face. You hadn’t even realised you'd spaced out.

“Sorry,” you murmur, clearing your throat. Your fingers fumble with the papers you had so meticulously prepped—highlighted, annotated, sorted in order—yet now you pretend to look for something among them, just to avoid his gaze. You know it’s a weak cover. And karma hits fast.

A gust of air from the heater overhead flutters your stack of papers, and before you can react, a dozen sheets slip from your grip and scatter. Some land across the floor. Others fly dramatically over the rink’s low barricade, drifting like paper snowflakes onto the pristine ice.

“Oh, shit—” you hiss, already scrambling to gather them, crawling after loose pages that slip under chairs and along the skirting of the rink. You’re mumbling curses to yourself under your breath as you pick up the pieces of paper off the floor when your eyes zone in on a particular page that landed upright. Your breath catches.

Reference 4: Compilation of Netizens’ Impressions on Athlete Park

+62 -12 wow as expected park sunghoon! young, rich and handsome. must be a dream to date someone like him Dream or nightmare? Not really sure but okay.

+120 -24 kyaaaa he’s so handsome!! I’m a fan! What’s the point of being handsome? He’s a jerk!

+82 -4 wow how can someone look so perfect… he looks like a disney character Correct. More specifically, that giant ice golem from Frozen -.-

+32 -6 i wonder if he has a girlfriend. There must be so much pressure dating someone as perfect as Park Sunghoon. It’s okay, i’ll volunteer!! No pressure. He doesn’t open up enough for you to feel pressure. Still, may the odds be ever in your favour.

Your stomach drops. You’d forgotten those were even there—your sardonic, late-night annotations scribbled in red pen. Bitter, sharp, personal. And littered all over your research stack.

You snap your head up, and horror freezes your limbs.

Sunghoon is on the ice leaning casually against the rink barricade, one of the annotated pages in hand. His expression is a cocktail of amusement and disbelief, and worst of all—a hint of knowing. He reads aloud in a slow, deliberate tone, his voice dripping with mockery.

“‘Park Sunghoon is a block of ice personified. If you want to know what it's like dating a block of ice, 10/10 recommend.’”

He scoffs, dropping the page slightly to meet your eyes.

“Interesting research.”

Your blood rushes to your ears. You feel exposed, raw, like someone’s just peeled the skin back from every nerve ending and left them pulsing in the open air. You can’t even remember writing that annotation—but of course it’s in red, underlined, and impossible to ignore. One of many off-handed comments scrawled across your notes, never meant to be seen. Certainly not by him.

“I—I didn’t mean for that to—” You falter. What can you even say? You were angry when you wrote those, bitter and alone at 2 a.m., trying to turn pain into sarcasm.

Sunghoon studies you, his expression unreadable again. But there’s something in the way he watches you—like he’s trying to figure out if you’re the same girl he once knew, or someone entirely new. Someone just as guarded now as he once was.

“Didn’t mean for what?” he drawls, raising an eyebrow. “You mean you didn’t mean to write all these berating comments in bold red ink all over your research paper?” He plucks up another sheet from the scattered pile, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Let’s see what else we’ve got.”

You instantly recognise that one. Your heart sinks. It’s that page—the one where you’d printed promotional shots of him modelling for an active sportswear brand. Not only had you annotated it with snide remarks about his ‘unnecessarily photogenic jawline,’ but you’d also drawn little devil horns and moustaches across his face like a deranged kindergartener with a vendetta.

“Oh my god, give me that!” you blurt out, reaching instinctively over the rink barricade in an attempt to snatch it back. But of course, Sunghoon is Sunghoon—a whole seven inches taller and built like someone who only lives and breaths protein. He easily keeps the paper just out of reach, lifting it higher with an infuriating flick of his wrist.

And then there’s the bloody barricade. Cold, unyielding metal pressing against your ribs as you lean further than you probably should. You’re close enough now to see the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, the smug glint in his eyes that says he’s enjoying this far too much.

“Wow,” he muses, inspecting the doodles with mock appreciation. “You even gave me fangs. That’s new.”

“Sunghoon, I swear to God—”

“Relax.” He folds the paper with exaggerated care and waves it around in the air, taunting you. “I’m flattered you still think about me. Even if it’s in your own… special way.”

You feel a slow, rising heat on your cheeks, accompanied by the realisation that you’re no longer sure who’s in control of this interview anymore—you or the boy you once loved who is now laughing at your annotated emotional breakdowns. 

You’re burning with embarrassment. Mortification. But more than that, you’re furious—at him, at yourself, at the stupid page still clutched in his hand like a golden ticket. Without thinking, you shove open the rink’s side gate and step onto the ice.

“Y/N—” he calls, warning laced in his voice. But you don’t listen.

Your flats hit the ice and your body immediately regrets the decision. You’re not dressed for this. The soles of your shoes slip against the surface, and gravity betrays you in a matter of seconds.

“Shit—!”

You yelp as your foot skids out from under you. The papers in your hand fly upward in a dramatic arc, and your arms flail as you lose balance completely. A part of you braces for the impact, the cold bite of ice against your back and the guaranteed humiliation that’ll follow.

Four years since you’ve seen your ex-boyfriend, and you’re about to face-plant onto the very place that drove him away from you.

Damn this ice rink. Damn you, Park Sunghoon.

But the fall never comes.

Instead, there’s a sudden blur of motion—fast, practiced, effortless. Arms wrap around you just in time, steadying your momentum as your body lurches forward. You slam into something solid—someone solid—and for a moment, all you hear is the rapid pounding of your heart and the low whoosh of his skates cutting against the ice.

You look up.

Sunghoon stares down at you, jaw tight, one arm around your waist and the other gripping your wrist where he caught you. The smirk is gone now, replaced with something quieter—unreadable.

You’re close. Too close. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his breath, the lingering warmth of his touch against your coat sleeve. He steadies you like muscle memory, like no time has passed at all.

“You never change,” he mutters under his breath, but there’s something indecipherable in his tone—annoyed, maybe. Or amused. Or maybe he just doesn’t know what to feel either.

You pull away quickly, too quickly, slipping again slightly before you regain your footing with a shaky huff. Your palms are planted against his chest, and you can feel the familiar beat of his heart under all that armour of fabric and calm. It rattles you more than the near-fall did.

You open your mouth to snap something biting—maybe about how you didn’t need his help, or how you’d rather eat the ice than owe him—but then you see it.

A flicker of pain across his face. A wince.

It’s subtle. So quick that anyone else might’ve missed it. But not you. You’d studied that face for years. You know what his mask looks like when it slips.

He straightens a little too stiffly, his jaw tightening as he shifts his weight from one leg to the other. It’s slight, but telling. Your brows draw together as a thought rises, uninvited and stubborn.

The rumours about his injury.

It wasn’t reported officially—just whispers that circulated through the sports journalism grapevine. A rumoured altercation in Spain with another figure skater. A "tussle," they called it. No names, no details, just speculation buried in a few poorly sourced articles and message board threads that vanished almost as quickly as they appeared. Some even said it was the real reason he disappeared from competition for two entire seasons.

At the time, it had seemed like nothing more than gossip. Now, watching the way he stands with deliberate caution, the rumour doesn’t seem so far-fetched.

“You okay?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

He pauses, then gives a short nod, not meeting your eyes. “Fine. You’re the one slipping all over the place.”

You bristle. “Well, maybe if you didn’t dangle incriminating evidence over the ice like a Bond villain—”

He actually laughs at that. It’s quiet, caught off guard, and so startlingly familiar that it sends a jolt through your chest. For a second, just a second, you forget everything else—the sarcasm, the history, the sharp words—and remember how that laugh used to feel like home.

But it fades quickly. And in its place is that wall again—the carefully constructed version of him the world sees.

You dust yourself off, avoiding his gaze as you mutter, “Thanks. For not letting me faceplant.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says, voice neutral again. “Would’ve been a liability issue.”

You roll your eyes and crouch to pick up another page, trying to focus on your scattered notes rather than the ache settling low in your chest. He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his eyes on you, can feel the weight of everything unsaid pressing down between you.

Your mind also lingers on the way he winced—on the possibility that something deeper still lurks beneath the polished exterior.

“I’m on a tight schedule today. Let’s get the interview started, shall we?” Sunghoon says coolly, handing you the last of your scattered notes.

You take it from him, eyes briefly flickering to the page. Another cringe ripples through you—more scribbled sarcasm in the margins, barely legible under your rushed handwriting. Fantastic. But you school your expression, swallowing the urge to snatch it back and set it on fire.

“Thanks,” you say evenly, forcing composure into your voice as you tuck the page into your folder. “Let’s begin.”

You sit back down, smoothing the creases from your notes as you click the recorder on again. Your pen hovers above the page for a second too long.

“Alright,” you begin, adopting your neutral reporter tone, “let’s start with something simple. You’ve been back in Korea for a little over three months now. How has the transition been, returning after so long abroad?”

Sunghoon leans forward slightly, arms crossed in that easy, guarded posture you remember all too well.

“Busy,” he says. “Familiar, in some ways. But the pace here is different. Everyone’s watching. Everyone expects something.”

You jot that down, even though it doesn’t say much. It’s a good warm-up answer. Controlled. Polished.

“Does that pressure ever affect your performance?” you press gently, eyes flicking up to catch his expression.

He shrugs, gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder. “Pressure’s part of the job. If it affects you, you don’t belong here.”

You resist the urge to raise a brow. There it is again—that edge in his voice, so calm it almost passes for indifference. Almost.

You move to your next question. “You’ve recently partnered with Belift for their new activewear line. What drew you to them over the other offers on the table?”

A pause. A flicker of amusement tugs at the corner of his mouth. You realise too late that this is the same line of questioning printed on the devil-horned page still sticking out of your folder.

“I liked their vision,” he says, but the glance he gives you is pointed. “Something about... sharp lines and ice tones. Felt on-brand.”

You cough lightly, ignoring the jab. “And the photoshoot?” you ask, pen poised again. “You received quite a response online. Some say it marked a shift in your public image—less ‘Ice Prince,’ more...”

“‘Devilishly handsome and emotionally unavailable’?” he offers, arching a brow.

You shoot him a look. “That’s not exactly what I was going to say.”

“Sure it wasn’t.”

A beat of silence passes before you recover. “Let’s pivot. In Spain, you were training under Coach Morales. How did his style compare to what you were used to in Korea?”

Sunghoon exhales, shoulders dropping slightly. For the first time, his answer comes without a filter.

“He was tougher. Stricter, but less traditional. He didn’t care how I was perceived—only what I delivered. And if I didn’t deliver, he made sure I knew it.”

Something flickers in his eyes—something heavy and lived-in. You don’t push. Not yet.

You scribble a note before asking, softer this time, “Was that hard for you?”

He pauses. “No,” he says after a moment. “What was hard was unlearning everything I thought I already knew.”

The sentence lands with a thud in your chest.

You nod slowly, tapping your pen against your notebook. “Unlearning can be the hardest part,” you say, and you’re not sure whether you’re talking about figure skating... or each other.

You glance at your next question, fingers tightening slightly around your pen. The rhythm of the interview is shifting—balancing between surface-level poise and the weight of everything that hasn’t been said.

“Your return to Korea has been a hot topic amongst our readers,” you begin, tone level. “It’s been a solid three years since the last time you were in the country for the Winter Olympics. Naturally, people are curious—what brought you back? Especially considering the new season is starting soon.”

Sunghoon leans back in his seat, arms loosely crossed. “I can't give away too many details,” he says, gaze cool but not unkind. “Long story short, I’m in the country for some personal reasons that I'd prefer not to disclose.”

You nod, jotting something down even though it’s barely usable. Your next question hovers on your tongue, heavier than the others. “I see. Well, there have been some rumours… surrounding an altercation with another figure skater—someone else under Coach Morales’ regime. Do you have any comment on that?”

His eyes flick to yours—sharper this time. He doesn’t respond right away. You hear the faint rustle of paper, the soft crunch of his skates shifting on the ice. “Is that part of the interview? Or just personal curiosity?”

You look up at him, your expression unreadable. “Does it matter?”

“Well, I assure you there was no altercation,” he says smoothly. “Just minor disagreements.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Care to elaborate?”

“Not really.”

The tension in the air thickens, more palpable than the chill radiating off the ice behind him.

You clear your throat. “Alright. Then what about your injury? How’s recovery? Two seasons is a long time to disappear. Many fans were concerned when you missed the CS Lombardia Trophy in Italy last year. That was a pretty high-profile absence.”

You don’t even know where that came from. The question is not on your list—not even in the margins. But the words slip out anyway, fuelled by instinct more than intention. A part of you just wants to know. Wants to see if he’ll flinch again, if he’ll tell the truth, if he’s still capable of letting someone in—even if it’s just for a moment.

At first, he’s stoic. But then you see it—the shift in his posture, the twitch of tension in his jaw. He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t even flinch.

Instead, he says, “That’s not the story you’re here for.”

“Maybe not,” you murmur. “But it’s the one people would care about.”

A long silence stretches between you, taut as a drawn wire. He’s no longer smirking. No longer deflecting. Just staring, as if weighing something inside himself.

“I don’t believe I ever mentioned being injured,” he replies, with a short, hollow laugh. “These rumours get way too out of hand and invasive sometimes, don’t you think, Reporter Kang?”

That tone again—playful on the surface, barbed just beneath.

You lower your pen slowly, your professionalism fraying at the edges. “Look,” you say, voice quieter, firmer. “If you're not going to give me anything to work with, why'd you even say yes to this interview in the first place?”

The recorder is still running. The room is still silent. But something in the air has shifted—subtle, but irreversible. The space between you no longer feels professional. It feels personal.

Not reporter and subject. 

Just you and him. Two people orbiting the same history, waiting for someone to say the next honest thing.

He moves first. Exhales through his nose—almost a laugh, but not quite. “You’re still the same.”

“No,” you say softly. “I’m really not.”

He studies you at that, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s trying to read a story written in a language he once knew by heart. “You’re bolder now,” he admits. “Sharper around the edges.”

“And you’ve learnt how to talk like a press release.”

He huffs a short breath, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Comes with the territory.”

“Right. Just a clean-cut, polished professional athlete now.” You tuck a paper into your folder, but your eyes linger on him a moment longer.

Still so familiar. Still so far.

You slide the last paper into your folder, but your hands don’t move to close it. You just sit there, the silence pressing down between you again. Your gaze drops to the recorder, still blinking softly.

“Do you want me to turn it off?” you ask quietly.

Sunghoon doesn’t answer right away. His jaw tenses, like he’s debating something with himself. Then, slowly, he nods.

You reach forward and press the button. The soft click echoes louder than it should.

For a while, neither of you speaks. It’s not awkward, but it’s weighty. Careful. Like standing on a frozen lake, knowing one wrong move could crack the surface.

“I didn’t come back for a sponsorship,” he says eventually, his voice lower than it’s been all day. “Or to prep for the season. Not really.”

You glance up, meeting his eyes.

“I came back because I didn’t know where else to go,” he admits. “I needed to feel... something familiar. Just for a while.”

His fingers tap a slow rhythm against his thigh, a nervous habit you remember well. The same one from when he used to sit beside you during exams, whispering under his breath that he was going to flunk—only to ace the paper every time.

You just nod, not sure how to respond to this sudden vulnerability. Truthfully, throughout your four years of dating, he had never truly let himself be vulnerable in front of you. Not fully.

Sure, you’d seen him tired. You’d seen him frustrated. You’d seen the cracks on the surface when pressure pushed too hard—but he always wore his pride like armour, always bounced back with a smirk or a shrug, always insisted he was fine, even when you knew he wasn’t.

But this—this quiet confession, this barely-audible tremor in his voice—it feels different.

Feels like he's reaching out to you.

And it guts you more than you’d like to admit.

You shift slightly in your seat, unsure if you’re meant to comfort him or just bear witness. “Is that why you said yes to this?” you ask. “To the interview?”

His eyes flick toward you, then away again.

“I wasn’t sure,” he says after a beat. “Maybe I just wanted to see you.”

Your breath catches. The words aren’t said with romantic flourish, not laced with sweetness or longing—but they still land squarely in your chest, knocking something loose.

You don’t know what to say. For once, your head isn’t filled with questions or comebacks. Just the ghost of a hundred conversations you never had, and the echo of all the things that could have been different if either of you had said the honest thing first.

But it’s too late for that now.

You glance down at your folder, lips pressed into a thin line. “Thanks for your time,” you say, and it’s so formal, so distant, it might as well have come from someone else entirely.

"I'm assuming I'll hear from your legal representative if I use any of these in my piece."

Your voice is calm, steady—too steady. The sentence lands like a wall slamming back into place between you, brick by brick. You don’t say it to be cruel. You say it because you need to anchor yourself in something safe, something distant. Because the moment felt too raw, too real, and you don’t know what to do with the part of you that wanted to reach across the table instead of retreat.

Sunghoon stiffens. Just slightly.

“No,” he says after a moment. “You won’t. Off the record’s fine. Not like it matters now, anyway.”

You nod once, curt. “Got it.”

And just like that, the spell breaks. The weight in the room doesn't lift, but it shifts—muted now, buried again beneath layers of detachment and professionalism. The kind you’ve both grown too good at.

You don’t look at him when you stand. Don’t give yourself the chance to. Your hands move on autopilot—closing the recorder, tucking your pen away, zipping your coat with fingers that tremble ever so slightly. And then you’re moving, steps brisk and deliberate, the sound of your boots against the concrete floor too loud in the quiet.

Behind you, you hear nothing.

No apology. No explanation. No plea.

Just silence.

Sunghoon opens his mouth—his hand halfway raised, like he’s about to call your name. But the words never make it past his lips. He watches you go, jaw clenched, the moment slipping through his fingers before he even realises he still wanted to hold onto it.

For him, seeing you again was something he knew he would never truly be prepared for, no matter how many times he rehearsed this conversation in his head. Because you were never a script he could memorise.

You were always unpredictable. Slipping through moments like sand through his fingers—too quick, too sharp, too full of feeling. He remembers how your emotions came in layers—some loud and impulsive, others quiet and impossible to decipher. And maybe that’s what scared him the most.

Because he never quite knew how to meet you where you were.

You made decisions faster than he could process. You said the things he only thought about. And you demanded a kind of presence, a kind of emotional honesty, that he had spent most of his life trying to avoid. A part of him had admired that about you. Another part? It drove him insane.

Now, as your figure disappears through the doors without so much as a backward glance, he feels that same ache blooming in his chest again—familiar and bitter.

He told himself that this would be closure.

But it doesn’t feel like the end. It feels like a page he never finished reading.

And you’re already gone.

You spend the next few hours drafting the profile piece that was supposedly meant to “provide a deeper understanding of the person behind the athlete.” Though with the material you’ve managed to gather, it’s unlikely you’ll even graze the surface. 

Whatever. Just give them the Sunghoon they want: the enigmatic comeback king, the prodigy turned recluse turned headline again. You’ll quote his stats, mention his precision, maybe even throw in a poetic metaphor about how the ice has always been his canvas. You’ll do your job. Professionally. Neutrally.

You’ve done harder things. Covered messier stories. Interviewed athletes who could barely string a sentence together. Sat through twelve-hour matches just to get three lines of gold. Writing about Sunghoon, someone you know—knew—should be easier. Right?

Wrong.

So incredibly, painfully wrong.

Because the moment you sit down to outline your first paragraph, every sentence you draft sounds clinical. Distant. Like you’re trying too hard to keep your voice out of it. But your voice is in it. It’s everywhere. Between the lines, in the phrasing, in the careful omission of details only you would know.

You stare at the blinking cursor on your screen like it’s mocking you. Because no matter how objective you try to be, there’s no deleting the fact that the man skating his way back into the spotlight is the same one who once skated straight out of your life.

And now you have to write about him like he’s just another assignment. Like he wasn’t the one story you never really finished.

Still, you’re a professional—and Park Sunghoon is nothing if not a compelling subject. Enigmatic, polished, untouchable. Every photo released of him looks like it’s been run through three rounds of edits and an entire PR team’s approval. His public image is a masterclass in controlled narrative, curated to the last detail, but his backstory remains a blank canvas to most.

Well, not to you.

You have a folder of photos from when he was still just Sunghoon—before the endorsements, before Spain. 

Sunghoon also never said you couldn’t dive into his university life. And it’s not like he gave you much to work with anyway.

That’s fair game.

No media-trained responses, no glossy interview clips—just a black hole of the years he spent quietly grinding through lectures and training sessions, tucked far from the spotlight. 

To the public, it’s a blank space. But to you? It’s fertile ground. You were there. You knew the version of him who lived off convenience store food and energy drinks, who stayed up late tweaking final projects and icing swollen ankles at the same time. You knew the boy who forgot to reply to emails but remembered to text you good luck before your presentations. 

You know the difference between the way he smiles for cameras and the one that used to slip out mid-yawn, when his guard was down. You know the scar above his ankle—not because it’s ever been mentioned in press, but because you were there when he got it, wrapping it in gauze while he hissed through gritted teeth. You know how he taps his fingers when he’s nervous. How he tightens his jaw before speaking truths he doesn't want to admit. How his laugh used to crack in the middle when something really got to him, how his voice used to trip over words when he was excited or flustered—not like the carefully paced cadence he gives the media now.

He may have grown into a mystery, but once upon a time, he was the most knowable person in your life.

So yeah, you dig. Not out of spite. Not exactly. You’re just doing your job. Sourcing old event flyers, class photos, public records, and a few strategically placed emails to former professors and classmates. You tell yourself it’s just research—nothing personal. Just building a fuller picture for the piece. The audience deserves depth. Authenticity. A glimpse of the man behind the athlete.

Besides, it’s not like you’re digging for scandal. You’re just… revisiting old ground.

Still, there's something undeniably sharp about the way your fingers move as you pull up archived yearbooks and student publication blurbs. How your lips twitch at the memory of him stumbling through a group presentation in first-year psych, cheeks red, voice shaking as he tried to explain semiotics with a skating metaphor. The same boy who once dropped his cue cards and muttered, “I’m better on ice, I swear,” to a room that actually laughed with him. 

And maybe—just maybe—it wouldn't hurt to slip the story into the draft. Tactfully. Casually. A humanising touch. A reminder to the world that he wasn’t always so untouchable.

You add a line about his time at university, his balancing act between training and lectures, the quiet discipline that preceded his fame. And though it’s not in your style to get sentimental, you let yourself write one soft line, just one:

You keep it sharp. Clean. Balanced. The words come easily, like muscle memory. You stitch together the facts, layer in the charm, and add a sprinkle of speculation where it’s appropriate—just enough to give readers something to chew on. You reference his decorated track record, his quiet re-entry into the spotlight, the way his name is starting to echo through rinks again like a whispered rumour of greatness returning.

You even write about the growing murmur among commentators: that Park Sunghoon might just be gearing up for a full-blown comeback.

Even though he told you—specifically, clearly—that he wasn’t prepping for the season.

But facts don’t sell as well as fantasy. And he’s always been better as a myth than a man.

So you keep your voice light. Objective. Not too close, not too distant. Just enough ambiguity to make it seem like you’re on the outside looking in. Just enough plausible deniability to protect you from the truth threaded beneath every line. You write him like a legend resurrected. Like someone who left the world breathless, disappeared, and is now daring to return.

Before you know it, you're signing it off.

And as you read over the final draft—flawless, well-paced, and entirely detached—you can’t help but feel the faintest pulse of something beneath your skin.

Because this isn’t just a story about Park Sunghoon.

It’s a story about how well you still know him.

And how expertly you’ve learned to pretend you don’t.

You don’t even attempt to read it over another time. You just hit send.

The email whirs off to your editor, and with it, the story. Not the whole one. Not the one you carry in your chest like an old wound. Just the one the world gets to see.

And if he reads it—

Well.

Let him wonder how much of the truth you chose to leave out.

[MANIFESTO EXCLUSIVE] The Ice Doesn’t Melt: A Closer Look at Park Sunghoon’s Return to Korea

By Kang Y/N, Manifesto Daily

Three years since his last appearance on home soil, South Korea’s beloved figure skater Park Sunghoon has returned—not with the fanfare some expected, but with a quiet presence that speaks volumes. After a two-season absence from competitive performance, Park, now 27, has chosen to settle in Seoul again, sparking both curiosity and speculation among fans and professionals alike.

“I needed something familiar,” he said during our brief but telling interview, when asked about his decision to return. He didn’t specify more than that, and true to form, left the rest hanging in the air unsaid.

Park Sunghoon has always been a study in restraint—on and off the ice. From the moment he first captured public attention as a prodigious teen gliding across the rink with terrifying precision, he has maintained an image both pristine and impenetrable. Nicknamed “The Ice Prince” by fans and media alike, Park built a reputation not just on technical skill, but on his ability to keep the world at arm’s length.

His return to Korea comes on the heels of years spent overseas—Spain, to be exact—where he reportedly trained under a discreet but rigorous programme with world renowned Coach Alex Morales.

Park was last seen in competitive skating during the 2023 Grand Prix, where he shocked the world by abruptly withdrawing from the final. At the time, he was considered a strong contender for the gold, making his sudden exit all the more startling. The incident was never formally addressed by his management, and Park himself has avoided discussing it altogether. The silence that followed only fuelled speculation—injury, burnout, conflict—but no answers ever came. Just absence.

Still, those who’ve recently spotted him during early morning solo sessions at the Seoul Ice Arena report that his technique is sharper, cleaner—almost startling in its control. But what truly draws attention is the absence of spectacle. No press conference, no sponsor-driven welcome, no grand statement announcing his intentions. Just quiet re-entry.

“He doesn’t skate like someone preparing for a comeback,” one former coach, who requested anonymity, shared. “He skates like someone trying to remember why he loved it in the first place.”

Yet, it’s not just his time abroad that shaped the man returning now. Long before the endorsements and Olympic buzz, Park had quietly juggled his dual identity as both athlete and student. Few fans are aware that between competition seasons, he completed a degree in media and communication at a local university. Classmates from that time recall him as a quiet presence—always punctual, often reserved, but not unfriendly. He kept to himself for the most part, but those who got close remember his dry humour, his encyclopaedic knowledge of classic film, and a surprising tendency to ramble nervously during group presentations.

“He once tried to explain a semiotic theory using a skating routine as an analogy,” one classmate laughed. “It didn’t make much sense, but he was so earnest about it, we just let him finish. After that, he was known as the ‘semiotic boy’ among our coursemates.”

Those stories paint a softer, more human picture of the man the public still views as near-mythic. But those who knew Park Sunghoon before the spotlight remember someone more boy than myth—equal parts unsure and brilliant, like he hadn’t quite figured out how to carry the weight of his own potential. Just a young man balancing essays and exhibitions. Late-night editing sessions and early morning ice drills.

This return has reignited questions about what Park wants now—what comes after the medals, the global tours, and the silence that followed. His name still commands weight, still trends with the slightest public appearance, yet there’s a noticeable shift in how he carries it. Less prince. More person.

There’s been no official word on whether Park will rejoin the competitive circuit, though murmurs within the skating community suggest he’s been quietly invited to participate in the upcoming 2026 Winter Olympics team tryouts. Whether he intends to accept remains unclear—Park has neither confirmed nor denied the rumours, keeping his future as intentionally unreadable as ever.

And perhaps that’s the story. Not a triumphant return. Not a redemption arc. But presence. The act of being. The quiet audacity of choosing stillness in a world that only ever celebrated his movement.

In many ways, Park Sunghoon remains an enigma. But for those who’ve followed his journey, that isn’t new. What’s new is the version of him that doesn’t seek to melt the ice—but instead, has learned to live with it.

Only time will tell what that means for the future of figure skating’s most elusive son.

“Our dear Y/N, you’ve done it again.”

Applause breaks out the second your foot crosses the threshold of the office. It’s 9 a.m.—too early, too loud, and at least three hours behind the amount of sleep you need to properly function. You blink, trying to place what exactly you’re being celebrated for.

“Bravo. That was an excellent article,” Minju, the team’s ever-enthusiastic publicist, grins as he pats you on the shoulder in passing.

Oh.

That was going out today?

You didn’t even have your morning coffee yet.

By the time you’ve dropped your bag onto your desk and opened your laptop, your inbox is already a mess. The subject lines blur together:

[RE] Manifesto Exclusive – Park Sunghoon IS HE BACK FOR REAL?? The Ice Prince has feelings?? Thank you for this. I cried.

You open a few out of morbid curiosity. Fans are flooding your public inbox with praise, speculation, and—because the internet is the internet—several unsolicited theories about a secret marriage and a love child. Your copy editor, Moka, forwards you one with the subject line: “if he doesn’t want to melt, i’ll melt FOR him.”

On social media, it’s even worse. Or better. You’re not sure yet.

His name is trending. #ParkSunghoon.

Followed closely by #IcePrinceReturns, and the truly cringy #TheColdDoesntBotherHoonAnyway.

Tweets fly across your feed:

@/ice_princess: this article just made me want to lie face down in the snow and whisper Park Sunghoon’s name to the frost

@/manifesto_daily_stan: Kang y/n i’m free on thursday if you want to do god’s work again

@/plscomebackhoon: she said he doesn’t need to melt. he just needs to exist. do you HEAR that??? DO YOU.

You rub your temples, overwhelmed, equal parts proud and terrified. It was just a profile piece. A quiet one. No exposés, no scandals—just a man and the silence he didn’t bother filling.

And somehow, that’s exactly what everyone needed.

Editors are thrilled. Readers are emotional. Former skaters are sharing it. Someone on Twitter even called it “the most human thing written about an athlete in years,” and you don’t know whether to be flattered or panicked.

Because it wasn’t meant to be that personal. 

Not really.

And yet—how could it not be?

You told the truth, sure. The visible one. But between the lines, there were pieces of you too. Tiny, hidden echoes of everything you remembered and everything you refused to say. And now it’s out there—immortalised in print and pixels—being consumed by people who will never know what you left out.

You’re halfway through scrolling a tweet thread titled “25 Times Park Sunghoon Looked Like a Heartbroken Studio Ghibli Protagonist” when a new email notification pops up.

From: theiceprince@gmail.com Subject: That Article

You squint.

How... tacky.

You open it, already bracing yourself for either legal threats or sarcasm.

Hey. Took your email off the internet, hope you don't mind. Nice article. Although, I don't think I approved any of those pictures you used in it. Especially the one where I’m mid-blink and look like I just saw God. Bold choice. P.S. You really quoted my classmate calling me “semiotic boy”? That’s... deeply unnecessary.

You stare at the screen, lips twitching despite yourself.

It’s so him—passive-aggressive, smug, and annoyingly charming. The kind of email only Park Sunghoon would send instead of just texting like a normal person.

At the bottom, there’s no sign-off. No best regards, no sincerely, not even a name.

Just one final line, added like an afterthought:

You still overuse em-dashes, by the way.

You exhale a laugh. God, of course he noticed that.

You stare at the screen, blinking. Once. Twice.

Of all the emails you expected today—from eager fans, nosy editors, one conspiracy theorist convinced Sunghoon is a time traveller—this was not on the list.

You lean back in your chair, arms crossed, rereading the message like it might change if you blink hard enough. But no. Still the same. Still signed off with zero punctuation, zero emotion, and 100% Sunghoon.

You scoff.

theiceprince@gmail.com. You can’t get over it. You don’t know what’s worse—the fact that he still uses the nickname he’s allegedly “not fond of,” or the fact that he sent this at 9:46 in the morning, as if he’s just casually emailing his accountant and not the ex-girlfriend who roasted his public persona to poetic effect.

Bold choice, he says.

This, from the man who once wore leather gloves indoors during summer and called it “a vibe.”

And semiotic boy? That quote was gold. If anything, he should be thanking you for making him sound like an emotionally tortured academic with cheekbones.

Still… your fingers hover over the keyboard.

The sensible part of you says to delete it. Or at the very least, archive it and go refill your coffee. You already got your exclusive. You did your job. The story’s out there, and it’s done.

But the curious part of you—the one that still knows how he takes his coffee, still remembers the shape of his laugh—can’t help but wonder what this email really means.

You don’t respond. Not yet.

But you don’t delete it either.

You just stare at the screen, lips pressed together, and whisper to yourself—

"I need a coffee break."

With that, you grab your cardigan, slip on your trainers, and leave the email open on your desktop as if stepping away from it might somehow make it disappear. The air outside bites at your cheeks—crisp, early, and a little too cold for spring. Your mind buzzes more from the lack of sleep than caffeine, and your only plan is to make it to the café on autopilot.

The café is still quiet at this hour, the kind of place where the clinking of ceramic cups and the occasional low murmur of conversation hums like white noise. The bell above the door chimes softly as you enter, and immediately you're greeted by the warm, grounding scent of roasted coffee beans and sugar syrup.

You exhale, shoulders easing slightly when you notice the queue is short. You move toward the counter, already calculating how much espresso you can legally ingest in one sitting, when a voice calls out from the seating area.

“Didn’t get my email?” The tone is casual—annoyingly casual. “Or did you read it and purposely decide not to respond?”

You freeze mid-step.

No way…

You turn, slowly—like you're afraid if you move too fast, the moment will solidify into something real you’re not ready for.

And there he is.

Park Sunghoon.

He’s standing just a few feet away, leaning with practiced ease against the edge of a table like he belongs there, like he hasn’t just completely upended your morning, looking frustratingly well-rested for someone who supposedly prefers early ice sessions. He’s dressed casually—black coat draped over a fitted charcoal jumper, those black-rimmed glasses he used to wear in university when he was trying to be invisible. But he was never very good at that.

His gaze locks with yours—calm, steady, unreadable—and it takes everything in you not to let your expression betray the punch of memory hitting you square in the chest.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter, half under your breath.

“Sorry?” he says, feigning innocence.

“Nothing,” you say quickly, crossing your arms, trying to compose yourself. “Just… surprised...”

“Surprised to see me,” he says, finishing the thought as if he’s been rehearsing it in his head. 

“Yeah, at my coffee spot,” you sneer, narrowing your eyes. “What, are you stalking me?”

He gestures lazily toward the table behind him, where a half-drunk latte sits beside a copy of some obscure paperback you’re certain he’s only pretending to read. “I was here first. Technically.”

You smile, tight-lipped, the professional mask slipping neatly into place. “Well, I apologise if you felt like I had something against you. I get thousands of emails every day—your mail must’ve just gotten lost in the flood of junk mail. If it was really that urgent, you could’ve just texted.”

It’s a big, fat lie. You won’t even pretend otherwise. You read it. Multiple times. But you’re not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing that. 

His response is immediate. “You changed your number a few years ago. Didn’t leave much choice.”

The way he says it is deliberate, a little too sharp around the edges, like he’s been holding onto that fact longer than he’d care to admit. And what is he implying? That he’s tried contacting you over the years? What for?

You raise an eyebrow. “Right. And instead of, I don’t know, asking your assistant for it—you know, the same assistant I literally emailed last week—you thought it would be less invasive to go digging through old contact forms and hope I still checked my public inbox?”

He shrugs again, shameless. “It was surprisingly easy. And I figured it’d be less awkward than asking someone for it directly.”

You narrow your eyes. “Because nothing says respecting boundaries like showing up at my local café after sending a mildly passive-aggressive email.”

“Oh?” he says, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “So you did read it?”

“No.”

“Then how’d you know it was passive-aggressive?”

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing just a touch. “Because I know you.”

The silence that follows is dense and immediate, settling between you with the weight of everything left unsaid. It hums beneath the chatter of the café, a fragile thread stretched so tight that you swear it might snap if either of you so much as blinked wrong.

Then, mercifully, the barista calls out for the next person in line—that’s you.

You move instinctively toward the counter, but before you can even begin to open your mouth, he’s already there, casually stepping beside you.

“Long black,” Sunghoon says, voice smooth as ever. “Make it a double shot.”

You turn your head slowly, eyes wide. “You remember my order.”

He doesn’t flinch. “Some things are hard to forget. Especially if it's the most atrocious coffee order known to mankind.”

And just like that, you’re thrown. Not by the gesture, but by the way he says it—like it means something. Like maybe he's not just here to pester you about emails and profile photos. Like maybe there’s something else behind those carefully guarded eyes.

But you're not ready to unpack that. Not here. Not now.

So instead, you nod stiffly, and say nothing.

Not because you have nothing to say—

But because you know, with Park Sunghoon, even the smallest word might start something you’re not sure you’re ready to finish.

You’re still reeling from the fact that he remembers minuscule details—like the exact way you take your coffee—when he casually steps in front of you and pays for it before you can even open your mouth to protest.

“You didn’t have to,” you say, surprised but keeping your voice neutral.

He waves it off, already pocketing the receipt like it’s no big deal. “Still have no idea how you even drink that shit,” he mutters, eyeing the dark brew with a look of theatrical disgust. “But consider it a compliment. For the article. It was… good.”

You glance up at him over the rim of your cup as you take your first sip, letting the heat hit your hands before the taste even registers. “Just good?”

He shrugs, nonchalant, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “You didn’t use my best angles.”

You pause, lips curving slightly. “Oh, don’t worry,” you reply smoothly. “I’m saving those for the next feature: Park Sunghoon’s Top 10 Most Smug Expressions.”

That earns a laugh from him—genuine and unguarded—and it catches you off guard. Not the manufactured chuckle he gives in interviews. Not the polite, PR-approved smile. This is real. Honest. The kind of laugh you haven’t heard in years, the kind that used to sneak up on you in moments that felt weightless.

It hits you like hearing a song you forgot you loved—familiar and warm, laced with a nostalgia you weren’t ready for. A reminder of the version of him that existed before all the distance, before the silences, before the press statements and polished answers.

You don’t say anything in response. Just shoot him a look over the rim of your cup. A quiet don’t push it.

He meets your gaze, and for a beat, neither of you speaks. Then he nods, like he understands exactly what you’re not saying.

And somehow, that nod feels like the most honest thing exchanged between you all morning.

You’re back at your desk, the café detour doing little to clear your head. The email is still open, still flashing on your screen like it’s waiting—mocking you, almost. You stare at it for a long moment, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

You shouldn’t. You don’t need to. But something in you itches to respond anyway.

So you do.

From: You Subject: Re: That Article Hey. Glad you thought the article was good. I’ll be sure to file that glowing endorsement under “career highlights.” Also, I stand by the photos. Especially the one where you blinked mid-sentence—you looked relatable for once. Anyway. Thanks for the coffee. – Y/N P.S. Don’t ambush me at my local café again. Only if it’s urgent: +82 XX XXXX YYYY

Sunghoon is lying on his couch, one arm draped over his eyes to block out the soft afternoon light filtering through the curtains, the other still loosely holding his phone against his chest. The café encounter from earlier keeps playing in his mind on a slow, involuntary loop—your face, your voice, the way your brows lifted when you saw him, and especially that look you gave him when he ordered your coffee like he had any right to still know that.

He knows he probably shouldn’t have emailed. The moment he hit send, there was a part of him that regretted it. But then again, he’s never been particularly good at letting things go quietly—not when it comes to you. Not when the silence between you has always felt more like a wound than a clean break.

It’s been years since the breakup. Long enough, he thinks, that you should both be able to function like civil adults. Maybe not friends, but at least... acquaintances. Whatever that word means when it’s wrapped in history and the kind of silence that’s never quite neutral.

His phone buzzes once against his chest, and he lifts it almost automatically—more out of habit than hope, not expecting much. Maybe a curt response, a one-liner soaked in professionalism, something non-committal that closes the loop without opening any new ones.

But what he finds isn’t quite that.

His eyes skim the message quickly the first time, catching on your usual clipped humour, your dry phrasing. Then he sees the P.S.—and it stops him cold.

Don’t ambush me at my local café again. Only if it’s urgent: +82 XX XXXX YYYY

He stares at the line, the digits at the end anchoring his attention. His thumb hovers over the screen, then lowers.

He reads it again. Then again.

It takes him a moment to process that you didn’t just reply—you invited a reply. Not in so many words, but you didn’t have to.

He blinks, the message still glowing softly in the palm of his hand, and feels something shift—subtle, but undeniable.

You had tried to play it off with that line—“only if it’s urgent”—like it was a formality, a throwaway detail tossed in for the sake of convenience. But Sunghoon knows you better than that.

You don’t do anything without intention.

Even back then, when things were good, your words were measured—never careless. Whether it was drafting an essay or choosing what to say during a fight, you always calculated the weight of your words before you let them go. He used to admire that about you, even when it frustrated him. Especially when it frustrated him.

So no, he doesn’t believe the number was a casual addition. Not from you. Not after all this time. You wanted him to see it. You wanted him to know.

He sits up slowly, the email still open in his hand, thumb brushing absentmindedly over the edge of the screen. For a second, he considers calling. Just to hear your voice again—to see if it sounds any different now that everything between you has changed.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he just quietly saves the number into his contacts—Y/N, no emojis, no titles. Just your name, plain and familiar, like it’s never really left his phone at all.

His thumb hovers for a moment as the screen confirms the entry, and then he leans back, eyes flicking toward the ceiling, letting his mind wander—almost involuntarily—through an absurd list of scenarios.

He snorts softly.

What counts as urgent, exactly?

Would “it was raining and thought of you” qualify? Or maybe, “accidentally bought your favourite chips at the convenience store and they’re expiring tomorrow”?

His mouth twitches at the thought, the corner of a smile he doesn’t let fully form.

He’s not going to reach out—not tonight. Whatever this fragile, undefined space is between you now, he doesn’t want to risk crowding it too soon. He knows better than to force something still learning how to exist.

But the number is there now, quietly saved, tucked away like a folded letter waiting for the right moment to be opened. And that—simple as it is—is more than he had before.

So he stays where he is, stretched across the quiet of his apartment, letting the silence linger—not as a weight, but as something strangely tender. Something almost sacred. Because it no longer feels like the end of something.

It feels like the pause before a beginning.

And he waits.

Just like you did for him all those years ago.

The airport is chaos, as airports always are—the dull roar of overlapping conversations, the mechanical drawl of flight announcements overhead, the clatter of suitcase wheels rolling over the slick, polished floors. But somehow, in the middle of it all, it feels like there’s a bubble around the two of you, a quiet space carved out by the sheer force of everything you’re not saying.

Sunghoon stands a few feet away from the security gate, backpack slung over one shoulder, his boarding pass crumpled slightly in his hand from how tightly he’s holding it. Mr and Mrs Park are with him, tearfully fussing over their son—Mrs Park tugging at the hem of the jacket that's too big for him, hanging awkwardly off his frame in a way that makes him look both older and younger at the same time—like he’s already halfway into another life and trying to pretend he isn’t scared.

You stand nearby too, arms crossed—not out of defiance, but because it’s the only way you can keep yourself from falling apart. You don’t trust your hands otherwise.

When Sunghoon finally turns to you, you force yourself to smile.

“You’ll do great,” you say, forcing your voice to stay steady even though the lump in your throat makes it hard to breathe.

He smiles at that—a soft, tired thing that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I don’t know about that,” he says, laughing under his breath, glancing down at his shoes like the words he really wants to say are hiding somewhere in the scuffed leather.

Your heart twists painfully at the sight.

And then he steps closer, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him properly, close enough that you can see every crease of worry etched into his usually smooth expression.

“Can you…” he starts, then falters, running a hand through his hair the way he always does when he’s nervous. “Will you wait for me?”

The words hang between you, raw and clumsy and completely un-Sunghoon-like. No flourish. No ice. Just a boy asking for something he doesn’t know how to promise in return.

You look at him then—not the rising athlete, not the polished skater everyone else sees—but the boy who once spent three hours helping you build a wobbly IKEA desk, who remembered exactly how you take your coffee, who mumbled useless astronomy facts at two in the morning when neither of you could sleep.

And you nod.

Because how could you say no?

“Of course,” you say.

He exhales, and for a moment, it looks like he wants to say something more—something that could make this easier, something that could anchor you to the idea that this distance will be temporary, survivable. But whatever it is, he swallows it down.

Instead, he squeezes your hand once, quick and clumsy, like he’s afraid that if he holds on any longer, he won’t be able to let go at all.

Then he steps back. One step. Two. The space between you widens in a way that feels irreversible.

You stand there, rooted to the spot, as he turns toward the security line, his figure blending into the tide of travellers wheeling suitcases and juggling passports. He doesn't look back, and you tell yourself that’s a good thing—that it’s easier this way.

You don’t realise you’re holding your breath until his silhouette finally disappears around a corner, swallowed up by the sterile white lights and directional signs pointing toward Departures.

Only then do you let yourself breathe out, shaky and slow.

The airport continues moving around you—announcements, crying babies, the low thrum of engines preparing to carry people across oceans—but somehow, it feels like everything inside you has stilled. Like the moment he walked away, something small and quiet inside you went with him.

You watch another plane lift off in the distance, disappearing into the clouds. And even after his parents insists you go home, you stay a little longer, long enough for the ache to settle, long enough to be sure you won’t cry until you’re safely back in the taxi home. Pretending that saying “of course” didn’t cost you more than you could admit at the time.

Because if there’s one thing you promised him, and yourself, it’s that you would be strong enough to wait.

Except you didn’t know what waiting would mean at that time.

You were confident this long-distance thing could work.

After all, at that point, you and Sunghoon had been dating for over three years. You knew each other’s routines, each other’s moods, each other’s silences. You had weathered exams, competitions, internships, stupid fights about stupid things—surely, you thought, an ocean between you couldn’t undo what you had built.

You believed that love, real love, was supposed to be enough.

But love, you will learn, isn’t always louder than distance.

And sometimes, people leave—not because they stop loving you, but because their dreams need a bigger sky than you can give them.

You told yourself the time difference was just an inconvenience. That the occasional missed calls, the shorter texts, the longer silences were normal. That he was just busy. Tired. Adjusting.

And for a while, you made it work.

You sent each other photos—your morning coffee, his late-night practices. You had clumsy video calls where the signal dropped and you’d laugh and call each other back like it was no big deal. You celebrated tiny victories over Wi-Fi connections, reassured yourselves that the months would pass quickly, that this was temporary.

You even started saving for plane tickets, bookmarking dates and circling holidays on your calendar, telling anyone who asked that yes, it was hard, but yes, it was worth it.

You meant it.

You meant every word.

But what they don’t tell you about long distance—the thing you only learn the hard way—is that sometimes love isn’t enough when the other person starts building a life you’re no longer part of in the daily, ordinary ways. When your names are still tied together but your days stop overlapping. When missing someone becomes part of your routine instead of your exception.

And Sunghoon—sweet, steady, ambitious Sunghoon—was chasing a dream that required all of him.

There wasn’t much left over.

Not for you. Not for the late-night phone calls he stopped picking up. Not for the promises that started to stretch thinner and thinner until they broke without either of you realising it at first.

You waited.

You waited longer than you should have. 

And even now, some stubborn, aching part of you still remembers how sure you were at that airport when you said, of course.

Because you weren’t just waiting for him to come back. You were waiting for the version of him that left—to stay the same.

But some things, you’ve learned, aren’t meant to be held in place.

And some people, no matter how tightly you hold onto them, will always belong to a future you don’t get to walk into with them.

Now, sitting at your desk, staring at the faint glow of the monitor, you can’t help but drag a hand over your face in frustration. God. What was I thinking?

You lean back in your chair, the cheap leather groaning under the movement, and close your eyes for a moment, wishing you could rewind the last ten minutes and snatch the email back before it left your outbox. Before it could make you look like the fool you swore you wouldn’t be again.

Because re-reading it now, all you can see is desperation threaded between the lines. You might as well have stamped please still care about me in bold at the bottom.

You told yourself it was nothing. A witty reply. A polite thanks for the coffee. A number offered up casually—as if you wouldn’t notice whether he used it or not.

But you know better.

And so would he.

The truth is, no matter how many years have passed, no matter how much you've convinced yourself you've moved on, a part of you still folds too easily around him. Still softens at the memory of a boy who once asked you to wait for him, and the girl you were—the one foolish enough to believe that waiting would be enough.

You hate that about yourself sometimes. Hate that a few casual words from him, a coffee, an email, still have the power to make you feel like you’re standing in that airport all over again, arms crossed against your chest, watching him walk away.

You open your eyes, exhaling slowly. The office hums around you—phones ringing, fingers tapping on keyboards, Yunah shouting about deadlines across the bullpen—and you’re struck by how absurd it is that your life has continued without him, and yet he still feels like an unfinished chapter you never really closed.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That he’ll probably ignore the number. That he’ll chalk it up to courtesy and leave it at that.

But deep down, you know it’s too late for pretending.

Because no matter how you dress it up—witty, polite, indifferent—you handed him a door. And now, whether he steps through it or not, you’ll have to live with the fact that you opened it first.

The days pass, slow and uneven, the way they always do when you’re waiting for something you’re trying to pretend you’re not waiting for.

You throw yourself into work—churning out profiles, editing pieces that aren’t yours, picking up assignments nobody else wants just to fill the spaces in your mind. You sit through endless editorial meetings, nodding at all the right moments, scribbling half-hearted notes in the margins of your planner like it matters. You grab late-night convenience store dinners with Minju and Yunah, laughing at their jokes even when your chest feels hollow.

You live.

You function.

You check your email more often than necessary, always under the excuse of work, even though you know exactly what you’re hoping to find. You flick through your phone sometimes too—half-scrolling through newsfeeds, half-wondering if maybe, just maybe, there’ll be a notification that isn’t there.

But Sunghoon doesn’t reply. No email. No text. No missed call.

Nothing.

And slowly, inevitably, you start to fold the hope away. The way you fold an old jumper you know you’ll never wear again but can’t quite bring yourself to throw out.

You told him he could reach out only if it was urgent. And clearly, you’re not urgent.

Maybe you never were.

And you take it as a sign—maybe the only sign you’re going to get—that you should finally do yourself a favour and move on.

Because apparently, you haven’t. Not really. Not after all this time. You didn’t expect his return to unravel you like this—to pull at threads you thought you had stitched up long ago. But it has. And you can’t pretend anymore.

So you’ll move on for real this time. Not the half-hearted version where you paste on smiles and throw yourself into late nights at the office, where you tell your friends you’re fine while secretly checking your phone at red lights, while pretending you don’t still wonder if he thinks about you too. Not the kind where you fold the memory of him into smaller, quieter compartments of your mind, pretending it's just nostalgia, not hope.

No, this time, you tell yourself, it will be the real kind—the clean break, the neat ending.

And for a while, you almost believe it.

Until your phone buzzes, cutting through the quiet.

Just a single, unremarkable vibration against the desk, one you almost ignore—because it’s late, because you’re tired, because you’re used to the world asking for pieces of you at all hours now. You glance at the screen without thinking, already preparing to swipe it away like a dozen other notifications.

But then you see it.

Unknown Number.

For a moment, your brain stalls, fumbling for a rational explanation—maybe it’s a delivery update, maybe it’s a scam, maybe it’s one of those automated text from some subscription you forgot to cancel.

Still, your hand moves on instinct, betraying every rational excuse you try to conjure.

You unlock your phone.

And you read:

Hey. It’s me. Not sure if this counts as urgent. But... I saw something today that made me think of you. Do you have time?

Your breath catches in your throat, sharp and sudden, and the world around you blurs for a second—the hum of fluorescent lights overhead, the muffled buzz of printers, the distant tap-tap-tap of someone typing across the office—all of it fading under the weight of those few simple lines.

You read it again. And again. As if the words might rearrange themselves into something else if you look long enough.

But they don’t.

It’s him. Sunghoon. 

Reaching out not because he had to. Not because it was "urgent."

But because he thought of you.

And even though your mind races ahead with every reason you should be cautious, with every reminder of how long it took to rebuild the parts of yourself he once splintered, you already know—deep in your chest, in the place you don't let logic touch—that you’re going to answer.

You don’t let yourself overthink it this time.

No typing, erasing, retyping. No staring at the blinking cursor until it mocks you into silence. You just move your thumbs over the screen, letting instinct take the lead before the part of you that’s scared has a chance to intervene.

You type:

You: You should probably introduce yourself next time. "It’s me" doesn’t really help if I don’t already know how you text. And depends. Is it something worth hearing about?

You barely have time to set your phone down before it buzzes again.

Sunghoon: Definitely something worth hearing about.

Another message follows almost instantly:

Sunghoon: I’m free tonight if you are. Just coffee. Nothing crazy. If you want. There's also a favour I'd like to ask.

You sit there, blinking at the last line, reading it twice as your mind scrambles to catch up. 

A favour?

It throws you off more than the coffee invitation itself. Coffee is easy—coffee is surface-level, casual, the kind of thing you can chalk up to old acquaintances being civil. But a favour? A favour means intention. A favour means he’s thought about this. About you.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, your pulse quickening in that annoyingly familiar way you wish you had outgrown by now. You’re not naive enough to think this is anything more than it is. He probably just needs help connecting with someone, getting a contact, maybe even needs something for the press if he’s easing back into the public eye.

Still, a part of you hesitates.

Not because you don’t want to go. But because you’re not sure if you trust yourself not to want more.

You take a breath, steadying your thumb over the screen.

You type:

You: Where and what time?

The message sends before you can talk yourself out of it, and you drop your phone onto the desk, face down again, like it’s too hot to hold onto for even a second longer. You exhale a long, slow breath, staring up at the ceiling, trying to calm the restless beat of your heart.

Because tonight, you realise, you’re going to see him again.

Not as professionals. Not as a lingering what-if. Not as a name floating in your inbox or coincidental meetings.

But real. Present.

And no matter how much you tell yourself that you’re ready—that you’re different now—you know a part of you is still bracing for impact.

Sunghoon arrives at the café first.

It’s your spot—he knows that now. He also knows you probably don’t come here because the coffee is any good—you always made that clear with a scrunched nose and a dry comment about “caffeine being caffeine”—but because it’s close, convenient, easy to fold into your day without having to think too hard.

He settles into a table near the window, where the soft spill of the sunset stretches across the tabletop in muted golds and pinks. He sits with his backpack slung over the back of the chair, a cup of hot tea resting untouched in front of him, and for a brief moment, he looks less like the man you’ve been writing about—and more like the boy you used to know.

He wasn't a hundred percent sure you'd say yes to meeting him. When he sent that message, part of him assumed it would disappear into the void, swallowed up by everything unsaid between you. 

But you answered. And you did in the way you always did—dry, sharp, a little guarded—but underneath it all, you answered.

And now, sitting here in this too-bright, too-loud café with a lukewarm tea and a racing heart he can’t fully rationalise, Sunghoon feels the weight of it settle in his chest.

He glances at the door again, even though he knows it’s still early. His knee bounces under the table, betraying the nervous energy he can’t shake, no matter how carefully he tries to hide it under indifference.

Maybe tonight won’t fix anything. Hell, it’s not meant to.

But you’re showing up.

And somehow, that already feels like more than he deserves.

The bell above the door chimes, sharp and familiar, cutting through the low hum of conversation and clinking cups.

Sunghoon looks up almost instinctively—and there you are, stepping into the café with a kind of restless energy tucked into the set of your shoulders, like you’re already bracing yourself for something you can’t name yet.

You don’t see him at first.

Of course you don’t.

Because out of pure, unconscious instinct, you’re scanning the corners of the café—the tucked-away tables, the quieter spots shielded from the main crowd—just like you always used to.

Sunghoon feels a tight tug in his chest, something that pulls and aches all at once, because he remembers.

He remembers how you used to tease him for always choosing the seats against the wall, how you said he acted like a cat looking for the best vantage point, somewhere he could see everything without being seen himself.

He remembers you pretending to sulk when he dragged you to the corner booths instead of the bright window seats you preferred—and how, secretly, you never really minded.

And now, without even thinking, you’re still looking for him in the places where you remember him being.

And without even realising, he had chosen a place where he remembered you liking.

He doesn’t call out to you.

He just watches.

Watches the slight purse of your lips when you don’t spot him right away. Watches the way your fingers tap lightly against the strap of your bag—an old nervous habit he’d forgotten he remembered—like your body is leaking out the anxiety you refuse to show on your face.

And God, you look—

You look pretty.

Not in the polished, deliberate way people try to look when they know they’re being watched.

You look real.

Soft in the fading light, like the world around you hasn’t quite caught up to you yet. Your hair a little mussed from the breeze outside, your cheeks flushed with the leftover heat of the setting sun. There’s a quietness to you, a rawness—like you’re still made of the same stubborn hope and sharp edges he used to love, except time has worn them softer, gentler, more dangerous in ways he doesn’t even have the words for.

You look like a memory he’s been trying not to miss.

You look like the version of you he’s been carrying around all these years—

Real. Tired, maybe. A little guarded. But still luminous in a way he can’t describe without sounding ridiculous, without pulling old, unfinished feelings up from the place he thought he’d buried them for good.

Something shifts in his chest, painful and sweet all at once.

Because in the handful of minutes he’s spent sitting here convincing himself to stay calm, convincing himself that this was just coffee and nothing more—you’ve walked through the door and reminded him, without trying, exactly why forgetting you had never really been an option.

He straightens slightly in his chair, the leg of the table bumping softly against his knee.

And for a moment—just a moment—Sunghoon forgets why he’s here at all.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder, scanning the café with a quiet frown starting to settle between your brows.

Sunghoon watches the hesitation flicker across your face—the way you linger a fraction too long at every corner booth, the way your fingers brush nervously against the hem of your jacket, like you’re grounding yourself without even realising it.

And then—finally—your gaze catches his.

The moment stretches, taut and delicate, like a held breath.

You blink, as if to double-check it’s really him. Your lips part slightly in surprise, a faint hitch of breath visible even from where he’s sitting, and for a second, neither of you moves, both suspended in that thin, brittle space where time slows down just enough to make you feel the weight of it.

You glance at the window beside him, your eyes catching the reflection of the streetlights bleeding into the glass, and for a moment, confusion flickers briefly across your face.

That’s why you didn’t spot him immediately when you walked in.

You weren’t looking by the windows—you never had to.

Sunghoon never sat there. He hated it. Hated having his back exposed, hated being on display. You’d spent years weaving through crowded cafés and restaurants, instinctively scanning the corners, the quiet spaces tucked away from the flow of people, because that’s where he would always be—where he could watch without being watched, where the world couldn’t reach him unless he let it.

But tonight, he’s here.

By the window.

Plain as day.

And without him saying a word about it, you realise it—another small, unconscious version of Park Sunghoon you were still holding onto without even realising it. 

A version you thought was set in stone, carved into your memories. 

A version you never prepared yourself to outgrow.

Sunghoon doesn’t smile. He doesn’t look away.

He just meets your gaze head-on, steady and quiet, letting the moment settle between you without rushing to fill it with anything easy or safe.

You square your shoulders after a heartbeat too long, forcing your body into motion, and start making your way towards him. Your steps are measured, careful, almost cautious, but there’s no mistaking the way your fingers clench slightly against the strap of your bag, no hiding the guarded look in your eyes that says you’re still ready to turn around and walk away if this goes wrong.

He stays seated as you approach, watching you close the distance between you, something tight and aching lodged in his chest, something he’s too afraid to name yet.

When you reach the table, you don’t sit down right away.

You just stand there, staring at him for a moment longer, as if trying to gauge how much of the boy you used to love is still sitting there, underneath the polished surface he’s learned to wear like a second skin.

Sunghoon clears his throat lightly, a small, awkward sound that feels jarringly loud in the otherwise soft hum of the café.

“You found me,” he says, voice low and almost shy, like he's not sure if he's allowed to sound relieved.

You shrug, shifting your weight onto your other foot. “Didn’t think you’d make it so easy,” you reply, your tone light, almost teasing, but there’s no real bite behind the words—just a tired kind of fondness that feels too familiar, too stubborn to shake.

And just like that, some of the tension splinters—

Not all of it.

Not enough to call this easy.

But enough to remind both of you why you’re here.

Wordlessly, you pull out the chair across from him and sit down, setting your bag carefully by your feet.

Sunghoon’s hand twitches slightly against his cup, the tea inside long cold by now, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

You fold your hands in your lap, lift your chin just a little, and say, “Alright. You’ve got my time. Let’s hear it.”

“You’re not even curious what reminded me of you?” Sunghoon asks, one brow lifted, his voice dipping into that familiar, teasing cadence you used to know so well.

Of course you’re curious. Of course your mind has been spinning endless possibilities from the second you read his first text. But you’re not about to hand that over to him so easily—not when you’re still trying to convince yourself you’re not sitting here half-holding your breath.

You lean back slightly in your chair, crossing one leg over the other in an easy, breezy posture you absolutely don’t feel, and shrug. “What reminded the oh-so-charismatic Ice Prince of me?”

The corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk—the same infuriating, boyish smirk that once had the power to completely undo you, the one you thought time and bitterness would have dulled. It hasn’t. Not even a little.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

Instead, he reaches into the inside pocket of his coat, moving slowly, drawing out the suspense just because he knows it’ll get under your skin. 

When he pulls out a small box and sets it gently on the table between you, you blink down at it in surprise.

It’s a Popmart blind box.

The exact kind you used to collect like trophies after long study sessions or bad days, back when you needed small, ridiculous joys to get you through.

You stare at the familiar design, the cutesy pastel art printed on the cardboard, the gleaming plastic seal still unbroken—and for a second, it’s like the years peel away and you’re back in a different time, a different version of yourself. One who used to drag Sunghoon to random mall kiosks and lecture him on the probability rates of getting the secret rare figure, completely oblivious to how patient he was being with you.

He watches your reaction carefully, elbows propped lazily on the table, but his eyes are sharp—searching.

“You’re kidding,” you murmur, finally breaking the silence, your voice somewhere between disbelief and something softer, something a little too close to fondness.

He shrugs, that infuriating smirk deepening. “Saw it at a convenience store on my way to practice this morning.”

You shake your head, the smallest, almost unwilling laugh slipping out of you. “You used to roast me for buying these.”

“And yet,” he says, tapping the box lightly with one finger, “I bought one almost every time I passed that Popmart near my place. For research purposes, obviously.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t fight the smile pulling at your lips, nor the way your chest tightens at the thought of it—him, in another city, another life, still thinking of you in the small, quiet ways that mattered when words weren’t enough.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The box sits between you, unopened, full of some stupid, mass-produced trinket that somehow feels heavier than anything else in the room.

You glance up at him, and he’s already looking at you—not with expectation, not with the smugness you were half-braced for—but with something quieter. Something careful.

“Thank you,” you say, the words slipping out before you can overthink them, barely more than a whisper, but somehow steady. It’s the only thing you can conjure in the moment, the only thing that feels honest and real enough to offer. You’re a little surprised you manage to say it out loud at all, your throat tight with all the other things you’re not ready to admit.

Sunghoon leans back in his chair, his eyes bright with something that looks dangerously close to amusement as he tilts his head at you.

“It’s the least you could say,” he teases, tapping the box again with his fingertip, “after I spent almost twenty dollars on that.”

The exaggerated grumble in his voice cracks the tension like a hairline fracture, and before you can stop yourself, a laugh escapes your lips—short, surprised, but real.

The sound of it seems to hit him harder than you expect.

For a second, he just stares at you, like he’s been momentarily stunned, like some long-frozen part of him is trying to remember how to breathe properly.

And if you weren’t so caught up in trying to pull your own defences back into place, you might have noticed the way his posture softens, just slightly, as if the laugh is something fragile he’s afraid of shattering.

You smirk, shaking your head as you reach out and nudge the box with two fingers, sliding it just slightly toward you.

“You bought this to bribe me into helping you with that favour, didn’t you?” you say, lifting your gaze to meet his fully now, your voice laced with teasing accusation but your heart still hammering too hard against your ribs.

He has the audacity to look mock-offended, clutching his chest like you’ve wounded him. “Bribe?” he echoes. “Wow. No faith in me at all.”

“You literally showed up with a Popmart like some kind of peace offering-slash-negotiation tactic,” you point out, arching an eyebrow.

“And yet…” he trails off, a slow grin tugging at his mouth, “you’re still sitting here. You’re still talking to me.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the way the corner of your mouth betrays you, tilting upward just enough for him to catch it.

He sees it.

Of course he does.

And somewhere, buried deep under the layers of sarcasm and half-healed scars, you know he feels it too—the tiny, reckless flicker of something that neither of you is quite brave enough to name yet.

“So?” you prompt, your fingers idly tracing the rim of the coffee cup in front of you, the casualness in your voice a little too forced even to your own ears.

Sunghoon shifts in his seat, the easy smirk fading just slightly as he straightens, as if the weight of what he’s about to say demands a little more gravity.

“I wanted to ask if you could help me write another article,” he says, the words slow and deliberate, like he’s weighing each one carefully before letting it leave his mouth.

You blink, surprised but trying not to show it. “What about?”

He leans back, exhales once through his nose, and says it:

“I’m going to be participating in the Olympic tryouts.”

The announcement hits harder than you expect, knocking the air from your lungs for half a second. You sit up a little straighter, your mind racing to process it, because the last time you talked he was adamant he wasn’t preparing for the season. He said it so easily, so convincingly, that you hadn’t thought to press harder.

Sunghoon must catch the flicker of confusion across your face, because he adds quickly, almost defensively, “It’s not a comeback. Not really.”

You narrow your eyes slightly. “What do you mean?”

He pauses.

You can see it—the hesitation. The way his shoulders tense just the slightest bit, the way he looks down at his hands like the answer is written somewhere in the faint lines of his palms.

“I—” he starts, then stops, chewing the inside of his cheek in frustration. His fingers curl lightly against the table, the same nervous tic he’s had since he was a teenager trying to explain why he bombed a practice session.

“I just need you to write the article for me,” he says instead, voice softer now, almost tentative. “Please?”

Here’s the thing about Sunghoon.

He’s always been good at giving you just enough—just enough smiles, just enough softness, just enough quiet promises without ever saying the words aloud—to make you feel like maybe, just maybe, there was something sturdy here.

Something real.

Something worth holding onto.

And then, just when you reached for it, just when you let yourself believe you were on solid ground, he would pull back.

Carefully.

Effortlessly.

Leaving you standing there, empty-handed, wondering if you were the one who had leaned in too far, if you had asked for too much, if you had misread all of it from the start.

It wasn’t cruelty.

It was worse than cruelty.

It was kindness, just enough to hurt. Just enough to make you doubt whether it was ever real.

You lean back slightly, arms crossing over your chest, not because you want to be defensive but because you need the distance, need something to ground you against the sudden rush of old feelings. “Why me?” you ask, genuinely. “The last time I wrote something for you, you were too busy complaining about the photos I used to actually say thank you.”

It’s a weak jab, but you both know the real question you’re asking has nothing to do with photos.

It’s why now?

It’s why me, when you could have gone to anyone else?

Sunghoon meets your gaze without flinching, his expression surprisingly earnest.

“Because,” he says simply, “I trust you.”

You open your mouth to say something—something sarcastic, something to deflect—but he cuts you off before you can.

“I trust that you won’t spin this into something else. I trust that you’ll tell it the way it is. Not the way people want to hear it. Not the way the sponsors or the federations want it dressed up.” His voice stays calm, but there’s something raw underneath it, something that edges dangerously close to vulnerability. “Just… the truth. That’s all I want.”

You stare at him across the table, your fingers curling slightly around the rim of your cup, and for a moment, you don't say anything. You just sit there, letting the request hang in the air between you, heavy and trembling like a thread pulled too tight.

Part of you—the part that's bruised and still sore from all the years of learning the hard way—wants to say no. Wants to lean back in your chair, laugh it off, tell him to hire a better PR team like every other professional athlete with something to prove. Wants to remind him, and maybe yourself, that you’re not the same girl who would have dropped everything the moment he asked.

Because you know better now. You know how this story goes. You say yes, you step closer, you open the door just a crack—and he slips through, quietly, effortlessly, until you're standing in the wreckage again, wondering how you didn’t see it coming.

But another part of you—the stubborn part, the hopeful part you haven't managed to kill off no matter how hard you've tried—can’t quite look away from him. From the way he’s sitting there, tension riding his shoulders, fingers tapping a restless rhythm against his cup. From the way he asked—no bravado, no posturing, just a simple, almost clumsy honesty that feels so rare you almost don't know what to do with it.

You glance toward the window, watching the way the last blush of sunset catches against the glass, and for a moment you imagine what it would feel like to say yes.

Not because you owe him. Not because you’re chasing the past.

But because, somewhere deep down, you still believe in telling stories the way they deserve to be told.

You still believe some promises are worth making again, even if it terrifies you.

Your stomach twists, your chest aching with the sharpness of it, but you find yourself already knowing the answer before your mouth even moves.

You inhale slowly, letting the silence stretch for just a beat longer than necessary, then exhale through your nose, pushing aside the complicated tangle of feelings you don't have the energy to unravel tonight.

"Fine," you say at last, voice even, businesslike, like you're trying to convince both of you that this is just another assignment and not something heavier slipping under your skin. "Get your assistant to email me the details. I’ll personally send over the draft before pushing it to the editorial team."

You reach for your cup as you say it, needing something to do with your hands, something to anchor yourself to this new line you’re drawing in the sand.

But before you can even take a sip, Sunghoon leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table, his expression soft but firm in a way that pins you in place more effectively than anything else could.

“Don't bother,” he says simply. “You can just publish it directly.”

You pause, the cup poised halfway to your mouth, his words hanging there between you like an invisible thread you’re not sure you want to pull. You lower the cup slowly, setting it back down against the saucer with a faint clink, buying yourself a second to think. To breathe. To understand.

You search his face for the catch, for the usual hesitation he so often laced into moments like this—those little cracks where you could see him calculating the safest move, the one that let him stay just close enough without ever being vulnerable.

But this time, there’s none of that. Just him, sitting there, arms folded over the table, looking at you like he’s already decided.

"Are you sure?" you ask, the words slipping out lighter than you feel them. "No proofread? No management red flags?"

Sunghoon’s lips twitch into a smile—small, wry, but not mocking. If anything, he looks... relieved that you asked. Like he was expecting the pushback, maybe even hoping for it, because it means you’re still cautious enough to take this seriously.

"I’m sure," he says simply. 

A muscle ticks once in your jaw, the urge to press further bubbling up, but you force yourself to stop. And in it’s place, a lump forms in your throat, sharp and unexpected, because if there’s one thing you didn’t expect to find tonight—certainly not here, not like this—it was trust.

Not just trust in your professionalism. Not just trust in your writing.

Trust in you. 

Because whatever else has changed, you can feel it: This matters to him.

Not the article. Not the media coverage.

This.

Reaching out to you.

Trusting you with the fragile, unfinished thing he's trying to build for himself again, knowing full well you could burn him with it.

And somehow, hearing him say it—so plainly, so quietly—makes it harder to breathe for a moment. Because even after everything, even after the distance and the silences and the growing pains you both carried separately, some part of him still sees you as the person who would protect his story. The way you once protected his heart.

And you don’t know what terrifies you more—the fact that he still trusts you, or the fact that, deep down, you still want to be the person worthy of that trust.

It rattles something loose inside you—the version of yourself you thought you had to kill off to survive him once.

You shift slightly in your seat, trying to hold onto your composure, trying not to let him see the way those simple words—those few inches of offered faith—shake the foundation you’ve been standing on for years.

"Alright," you say at last, keeping your voice light, controlled, even though your hands tremble ever so slightly beneath the table.

"But don't blame me if you don't like how candid I get."

Sunghoon smiles at that, the edges of his mouth curling in that way that makes your chest hurt for reasons you’re too tired to name.

"I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t mean it," he says simply.

You let out a soft breath you hadn’t even realised you were holding and glance down at your watch, the second hand ticking steadily forward. It’s getting late. And even though neither of you says it, you both know this fragile truce you’ve built tonight can only stretch so far before it snaps under the weight of everything you’re still not ready to talk about.

You stand, gathering your bag with slow, deliberate movements, and Sunghoon rises too, out of habit more than necessity. Always the gentleman, even when he had no right to be.

You sling your bag over your shoulder, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and look at him one last time.

There’s so much you could say. So much you shouldn’t.

So instead, you just offer a nod. Small. Measured. Almost formal.

"I’ll be in touch," you say.

And before he can say anything that might make this harder, you turn and walk toward the door, the cool night air rushing in as you step outside.

You don’t look back.

But you feel it—the weight of his eyes following you, lingering in the space you leave behind.

You’re back in that tiny, overheated apartment off campus—the one where the windows always fogged up too easily and nothing ever really dried properly unless you left it near the fan. The scent of burnt popcorn still clings faintly to the air from earlier that evening, and the dull hum of traffic bleeds in through the thin walls, but even that doesn’t distract from the tension steadily rising in the room like pressure before a storm. Sunghoon is slouched on the couch with one hand tangled in his hair, exhaling yet another sigh—his fifth in the past ten minutes. You’ve been watching him carefully from across the room, patiently waiting for him to reach out first. But after three years together, you know better. Park Sunghoon doesn’t do well with vulnerability. He never has. "Something’s on your mind, isn’t it?" you ask, finally breaking the silence as you settle down beside him on the couch. He flinches at your sudden proximity, as if this isn’t your apartment, as if he’s only just realised you’re still here. He doesn’t look at you when he answers. "No, I’m just tired from training, that’s all." You let out a breath—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “You know, three years is a long time. Long enough for me to know when you’re lying to me. Just because I don’t call you out on it doesn’t mean I don’t see it happening.” That makes him freeze. His hand stills in his hair, and his jaw goes tight. “Park Sunghoon,” you say slowly, letting each syllable settle like a weight between you. The name sounds foreign in your mouth—formal, distant, pointed. He flinches. Not visibly, not dramatically—but you see it. A slight stiffening in his posture. The barest flicker of guilt behind his eyes. Because he knows what it means when you use his full name. You only ever say it like that when you’re done waiting. “You’re keeping something from me.” The words come out flat and exhausted, with none of the softness you’ve been clinging to for weeks—because whatever this thing is, whatever he’s hiding, it’s starting to rot the air between you. And you’re too tired—too frayed around the edges from all the late-night phone calls that ended too early, the dinners where he barely looked up from his plate, the countless conversations that brushed against the truth but never quite touched it. He blinks at you like you’ve just blindsided him. "Babe, what are you talking about?" "Don’t do that," you snap, your voice rising before you can stop it. "Don’t act like I’m imagining things. You’ve been distant for weeks. You barely look me in the eye when we talk, and every time I try to ask what’s going on, you throw me the same half-hearted excuses—‘I’m tired,’ ‘Training’s been intense.’ You expect me to just accept that forever?” His jaw flexes, and this time you see it—clear as day—that flicker of guilt he can’t hide fast enough. Your stomach sinks. You soften your tone, even if it cracks on the way out. "Sunghoon, we’re supposed to be in this together. I want to be there for you. Please." He hesitates, swallowing hard like the words are caught in his throat. "I—I received a training offer." For a second, you just blink at him, caught off guard. "That’s great, Hoon. Why would you hide that from me?" He doesn’t answer right away, and for a second you think—maybe it’s nothing. Maybe he really is just tired from training and you’re overreacting. But then, almost reluctantly, he says it.

“It’s in Spain.”

The words land heavy between you.

Spain.

Not just a different city. Not even just another country. Another continent. Another time zone. Another life.

The air leaves your lungs before you can stop it. Not in a dramatic gasp, not in a theatrical way—but in a slow, silent collapse, like something inside you just quietly folded in on itself.

If the offer’s in Spain… then it’s not just about training. It’s about moving.

Leaving.

Staying gone.

“When were you planning on telling me?” you ask, your voice cracking at the edges despite your best effort to keep it steady. “Were you going to let me find out through someone else? Or just… let me sit here, waiting for you to come clean?”

He winces, just slightly. “I didn’t know how.”

And that’s when it really hits you. The worst part isn’t the distance. You could handle distance. You’ve done long hours. Late-night calls. Time apart.

No—the worst part is that he didn’t tell you. That he’s been sitting with this, carrying it silently, while showing up in your apartment like nothing’s changed.

Because this isn’t just about fear or nerves or awkward timing.

This is about trust. About the fact that somewhere, deep down, he didn’t believe you’d understand. Didn’t believe you’d stay.

You feel the sharp sting of that realisation clawing at your chest. You’ve always known Sunghoon wasn’t great at talking about hard things, but you thought… you thought you were past that stage. You thought you were partners.

“I didn’t want to make you worry before I even knew if it was real,” he adds, and the moment stretches thin between you—just long enough for the ache to settle in properly.

Your voice comes out quieter this time, more hollow. “How long ago?”

He hesitates. Again. And you already know the answer’s going to hurt.

“A month.”

You blink. Once. Twice. Trying to understand what kind of person holds onto something that big for thirty days—sharing meals, messages, kisses—without so much as a hint.

"A month,” you repeat, because you need to say it out loud to believe it. “You’ve known about this for a month, and you didn’t think to tell me?”

He doesn’t answer.

And in that silence, your mind fills the blanks for him: You weren’t part of the decision. You weren’t part of the plan. You were just… something temporary. Something not worth factoring in.

You want to yell. You want to cry. You want to disappear.

But instead, all you can do is ask, barely above a whisper—

“How long would you be gone?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “The contract’s renewable. Season by season.”

So not just gone.

Possibly gone for good.

Your vision blurs for a moment—not from tears, but from the force of everything hitting you at once: the betrayal, the loneliness, the terrible, gnawing possibility that he’s been slowly easing himself out of this relationship long before Spain ever came into the picture.

"I'm sorry for not telling you earlier... I was scared.” His voice is low, almost breathless, like he’s only just admitting it to himself. His hand reaches out, tentative at first, before settling over yours where it rests on the couch. And you hate it—how that simple gesture, plain and quiet and embarrassingly overdue, still makes something inside you soften. The bare fucking minimum, and it still sways you.

"Hell, I’m scared too, Sunghoon," you whisper, not bothering to hide the shake in your voice. "But you should’ve told me. I deserved to hear it from you—not from the silence that’s been stretching between us for weeks."

His other hand comes up to run through his hair, eyes squeezing shut for a second. "I don’t even know if I want to take it up. I mean, I could stay. I could keep training here in Korea."

You shoot him a look—sharp, disbelieving, almost angry.

"Are you crazy?" Your voice wavers on the edge of breaking, not because you don’t mean it, but because meaning it hurts more than you want to admit. "It’s a good opportunity, Sunghoon. One you’ve worked your whole life for. You should go for it."

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just stares at you, searching your face like it holds the answers to every impossible question he hasn’t dared to ask. And you know the moment he finds it—the flicker of fear. The tightness in your smile. The regret you tried so hard to keep buried shows in every inch and crease of your face and he sees it as clear as day.

"I love you, Sunghoon." You say it firmly. Desperately. "And loving you means being there for you. Supporting your dreams. That’s what this is. It's not like we’re breaking up, right?"

He reacts instantly. "No! God, no.”

His grip tightens over your hands, voice urgent, pleading.

"I love you too, and I never want to lose you."

You hold his gaze. Let yourself believe him—for now. Because in this moment, with his hand wrapped around yours and his eyes wide and scared and filled with something real, you need to.

"That’s all I needed to know," you say softly.

And it is.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself. You eventually came to terms with it—because you’re good at rationalising things that hurt. You tell yourself that dreams come with sacrifice. That love, real love, isn’t always about staying close—it’s about staying with someone, even when they’re far away. That maybe love isn’t about convenience, but compromise. But still… you guess, even then, even in that moment where you let him go with your blessing—a part of you already had that small flicker of doubt gnawing quietly at the back of your mind. Did he see you in the life he was chasing? Or were you just the thing he had to let go of to chase it faster? The cursor blinks at you, tauntingly. A small, persistent beat on a completely blank page. Like it’s waiting for you to figure out how to write about someone you’ve spent years trying not to think about. It’s not like this is your first article about him. In fact, the last one made the rounds faster than you expected. People called it raw, honest, even moving. They praised your ability to write “authentically,” like you’d peeled back layers no other reporter had dared to touch. Like you knew him. And you do. Or at least you did. Can’t be that hard to churn out another article about him. Your gaze drifts to your desk, where a small, unopened box sits tucked to the side—innocent, pastel-coloured, with a soft shimmer under the lamp light. The Popmart. You blink at it, then let out a quiet laugh. Not bitter. Just tired. Surprised. Of course he didn’t know. You’d already completed this series over a year ago. Bought the final missing figure off some reseller at a ridiculous markup. You’d even double-sleeved it in plastic wrap and stuck it on the corner of your shelf, not because you still cared about the collection, but because it had started to feel like proof of something. Proof that you could finish something on your own. That you could love something—and walk away when you needed to. That you didn’t need anyone else to give you closure. And yet… here it is. Sitting unopened on your desk, brought to you by the very person you spent years training yourself not to miss. A memory in a box. A joke you both once shared, delivered too late and too gently. You pick it up slowly, turning it over in your hand, and smile to yourself—small, worn, a little sad. He still thinks he knows you. Still buys you things like he’s allowed to remember you this closely. And maybe that’s the problem. Because part of you still wants him to.

You're back at the ice rink, your breath catching slightly as the cold air settles into your lungs the moment you step inside. The familiar scent of ice and rubber greets you, sharp and sterile. It’s quieter today—no full team practices or busy skaters gliding across the surface—just the soft, distant hum of the facility and the occasional sharp cut of blades against ice. You texted Sunghoon earlier this week, asking for a favour. A simple photo op, you said—nothing serious. You needed fresh shots for the article. Every news outlet had been recycling the same tired gallery of him from years ago—arms raised in victory at the 2022 Winter Olympics, a candid smile from a post-win press conference, that one dramatic shot with his head bowed in slow-motion grace during a routine. Beautiful images, sure, but outdated. You needed something that showed the version of him now. And if you were being honest with yourself, a small, treacherous part of you just wanted to see him in motion again. To see the Sunghoon that only existed when he was skating. The one who couldn’t hide behind polished interviews and measured words. He agreed with barely a pause.

Sunghoon: Sure. Come by Thursday. I’ll block the ice for an hour.

So you’re here. The camera you borrowed from your illustrator slung over your shoulder, scarf tucked under your chin, fingers already tingling from the cold. You set your things down near the boards, scanning the empty rink until you spot him. And there he is. Sunghoon is already on the ice, warming up with long, fluid strides, his blades carving out familiar patterns beneath him. He hasn’t seen you yet. Or maybe he has, and he's just letting you watch first. Either way, for a moment, you forget you’re here to work. Because seeing him like this—alone on the ice, body moving like muscle memory itself—it tugs something loose in you. Something old and buried but not entirely gone. And you remember: this is what he was born to do. Even if it broke both of you along the way. Without wasting another second, you’re already moving to unzip your camera bag and pull your gear out. You work methodically, slipping off the lens cap, adjusting the settings, checking the battery with a practiced flick of your thumb. It’s almost muscle memory—this part of you that lives in quiet attention. The last time you held a professional camera like this was for a university project, one that had taken weeks to prepare and execute. Back then, Sunghoon had been your muse too—sharp lines, steady movement, that inexplicable sense of stillness in motion that made him impossible to look away from. And now here you are again. The lens finds him at centre ice, where he’s stretching out a tight muscle in his leg, movements slow and careful, like he knows you’re watching now. Maybe he does. Sunghoon always had a sixth sense for that—for when eyes were on him, especially yours. You angle your lens slightly, tracking the curve of his body, the set of his jaw. Click. The shutter snaps. He glances over at the sound, a half-smile tugging at his mouth—mischievous, unbothered, almost like he’s posing without trying. But that’s just how he’s always been. You used to call it his camera face. He used to call you dramatic.

Click.

Sunghoon starts skating again. He doesn’t ask for direction, and you don’t offer any. You don’t need to. You track him through the lens as he glides through a spin, body coiled and precise, before he launches into a clean double axel that lands with barely a sound. The shutter clicks with each motion, capturing his lines, the angles, the fleeting expressions that flash across his face like sunlight through a curtain. You capture the way the light reflects off the ice, how the blade flares white against the surface—it’s all a picture you’ve seen before, but never quite like this. Never with this strange ache nestled beneath your ribs. There’s a moment—between the leap and the landing—when he looks directly at you. And it almost knocks the breath out of you. Because in that split second, it feels like the ice disappears, the years disappear, and it’s just you and him again, the version of him that used to look for your eyes in every crowd. The version that used to skate not just for medals, but for you. You lower your camera slowly, heart thudding a little louder in your chest than it should. “Don’t tell me that was your good side,” you say, aiming for lightness, adjusting your grip on the camera as you lower it from your eye. The teasing is automatic, familiar—the kind of banter you used to toss back and forth like a tennis ball, soft enough not to bruise, sharp enough to mean something. Sunghoon coasts to a stop near the boards, blades carving a soft arc in the ice, his breath visible in the cold air. His chest rises and falls steadily, not from exertion—he’s not pushing himself yet—but from the kind of focused calm he only ever shows on the ice. “It was all my good side,” he replies, deadpan. You roll your eyes and let out a soft, incredulous laugh, more fond than you mean it to be. Of course it was. He’s always been like this—smug and quietly self-aware in the way only someone who knows they’re good can be. You roll your eyes, but your lips are already curling upward. You glance down at the display screen, reviewing the shots, already knowing you’ve got what you came for—and maybe a little more than you meant to take. “Tell me I don’t look good,” Sunghoon says, a quiet challenge in his voice as he raises an eyebrow, still watching you. You scoff, lifting the camera again mostly to hide the expression threatening to spread across your face. “Just try not to look like you’re holding a grudge against the ice,” you reply, letting the words land somewhere between playful and pointed. “I don’t,” he says, and this time, there’s something else there. Something softer. A hesitation in the space between his words. And for a second, it sounds like he means it. You lower the camera slightly, eyes on him through the frame but not taking the shot. Your voice drops without you meaning it to, just a notch lower, quiet like a memory surfacing. “You always looked best when you weren’t trying,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. A truth you’ve always known but never said aloud. But he hears it. And he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t tease. He just turns back toward the centre of the rink, pushes off without a word, and starts skating again. You track him as he speeds into another combination—a triple toe loop followed by a clean step sequence, blades carving elegant arcs into the ice. You’re almost lost in it, the way the movements catch light, the shutter syncing to the beat of his pace like muscle memory. Then it happens. It’s subtle. Barely a misstep. But you catch it—the way his landing falters, how his right skate wobbles just slightly before he corrects. It would’ve been imperceptible to most. But not to you. Your fingers freeze on the camera, instinctively holding your breath as you watch him pull out of the sequence early, gliding to the boards instead of continuing.

He’s hiding it. But not well. His right leg drags just a fraction longer than it should with each glide—barely noticeable to the untrained eye, but you’ve spent too many hours watching him skate not to catch it. It’s the kind of minute detail only someone who’s memorised his movement would notice. And it makes your stomach lurch. You lower the camera, resting it carefully at the edge of your bag, the weight of it slipping from your fingers like the moment itself is slipping from your grasp. Your eyes track his every motion as he skates to the edge of the rink, bends low—too low, too carefully—and begins adjusting his laces. A decoy. A deflection. His back is to you, but the lie is written all over the tension in his shoulders. You step closer to the rink’s edge. “Sunghoon.” He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t acknowledge you with anything more than a vague, distracted, “One sec.” It’s the way he used to respond when you caught him avoiding a question. The same rehearsed calm, the same nonchalance that always made you feel like you were overreacting—until the truth came out in pieces. “Don’t do that.” A pause. Then, reluctantly, he straightens and looks over his shoulder. His face is composed, but you see it—the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the way his hands clench a little too tightly around his laces like he needs them to steady himself. It’s in his eyes too. That flicker of guilt. That stubborn need to pretend. And for just a second, you see it flash across his face—that same look he wore four years ago in your apartment. When you said his name with a tremble in your voice. When you caught the lie before he could even shape it with his mouth. It hits you all at once: the déjà vu, the sick familiarity of it. He’s doing it again. Tucking pain behind a polite smile. Folding the truth into excuses he hasn’t said out loud yet. And this time, it’s not your relationship that’s fraying—it’s his body. “It’s nothing,” he says. You wait for him to add on, say something—anything—to reassure you. A quiet I promise or the don’t worry about it. But he doesn’t. Doesn’t matter if he did anyway. You know he’s lying. And just like that, the rumours—the whispers that had floated through the sports forums, half-buried in speculation and dismissed by press statements—crash into your chest with brutal clarity. The injury. The reason he pulled out of finals. The reason he disappeared. You cross your arms. “That ‘nothing’ looked a hell of a lot like something.” “I just landed weird.” “Bullshit,” you snap before you can stop yourself. “You’re injured.”

He freezes. The sound of your words—sharp, laced with something dangerously close to panic—hangs between you. The silence between you stretches like taut wire, thin and sharp and ready to snap. You watch the way his jaw locks, the way his arms hang stiffly by his sides, like he’s bracing for a blow you haven’t decided if you want to deliver. And maybe that’s what hurts more than anything else—not the lie itself, but the fact that he’s willing to let it hang in the air. Unchallenged. Unexplained. Like your concern isn’t worth the truth. Your hands clench into fists before you even realise it, nails digging into your palms as you watch him turn fully now, the faintest strain in his movement betraying what his mouth won’t say. He doesn’t even meet your eyes. And that—that makes something hot and sharp rise in your throat. Anger. That’s the first thing that hits. Because he knew. Knew this wasn’t something he could hide forever—and still, he didn’t tell you. Not when you asked. Not when you agreed to write the article. Not when you sat across from him in that café, trusting him with something you weren’t sure you even had left to give. And he did this again. Like back then. When Spain was just a pin on a map and you were left in the dark, forced to make sense of a future he already knew he wasn’t going to share with you. But right on the heels of that fury comes something else—something slower, heavier. Worry. Because you know him. You know how much the ice means to him. You know what it took for him to get here. And you can see it now, etched into every tight movement and every silent wince he tries to bury beneath composure. He’s skating on borrowed time. The sadness creeps in after, quiet and cruel. Because maybe you were hoping—foolishly—that this time would be different. That this new version of you and him, cautious but healing, would be built on honesty. And yet here you are again. Watching him lie to you, not with words, but with silence. Because you’ve been here before, haven’t you? Waiting on him to meet you halfway while he stands still. And still, a part of you—stupid, stubborn, impossibly soft—wants to close the gap.

You take a step forward. It’s instinct more than decision, your feet moving before your pride can catch up. The edge of the rink is cold against your palms as you lean over the barricade slightly, just enough to close the space between you. He looks like he might flinch again—like he’s caught somewhere between preparing to argue or retreat. But you don’t raise your voice. You just say, quietly, firmly, “Don’t do this.” His eyes flicker—just barely. But you see it. “Don’t shut me out like I’m just another reporter,” you continue. “Don’t feed me lines like ‘it’s nothing’ when you know I see through that better than anyone.” Still, he says nothing. So you press harder, voice trembling now—not with anger, but with the weight of everything you’re holding back. “I watched you limp, Sunghoon. I saw it. And you think I’m just going to nod and take your word for it?” He exhales slowly, but you can tell he’s holding his breath in all the places that matter. You shift again, trying to find steadiness in your words, even as your chest tightens. “If the rumours were true—if you’ve been skating on an injury this entire time—why wouldn’t you just tell me?” A pause. A breath. A crack. “Do you really think I wouldn’t have cared?” That lands. Because his eyes drop—not in shame, but something closer to fear. Not of you. But of what his silence might’ve already cost him. He doesn’t answer, not yet. He just stands there, your words still echoing in the space between you. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out—just a soft, frustrated exhale. His jaw works like he’s chewing on the words, trying to force them out, but they keep getting caught somewhere between his chest and his throat. It’s like he’s standing at the edge of something—something terrifying and uncharted—and he can’t bring himself to take the final step. You can almost see the war going on inside him: the urge to speak versus the instinct to protect himself, to guard the parts of him that still feel too raw to share. For a moment, you think he’s going to brush it off the way he always does—wrap it up neatly with a nonchalant shrug and a quick change of subject. Like he’s too proud or too scared to let you see that raw, unguarded part of him. It wouldn’t be the first time. After all, that’s what he’s always done—deflect, dodge, build walls where there should be bridges. He couldn’t be honest with you when you were dating. What makes you think he’d be any different now, when there’s even more distance between you? You almost let him off the hook. Almost open your mouth to tell him it’s fine, that you don’t need him to explain himself. You’re already bracing yourself to swallow the ache, to bury it with everything else that’s gone unspoken between you. You’ve become good at that—pretending it doesn’t hurt. Pretending the disappointment hasn’t lingered all this time, festering quietly just beneath the surface of your every breath. And Sunghoon sees it. Sees the way your eyes begin to glaze over, the way your posture shifts—not quite closed off, but tilting in that direction. A half-given-up look that reads like surrender. Like you’re moments away from letting go completely. And something in him panics. A wave of it crashes through his chest, sharp and suffocating. Because if he fucks this up—if he lets you walk away now, after everything—it’s really over. No more second chances. No more waiting. He feels the weight of it settle on him all at once. That this—you—is the moment he can’t afford to lose. So, unexpectedly for you, he speaks.

“A year after we broke up,” he says, his voice quiet but steady, like he’s forcing himself to stay composed. “I was sent onto a new reality programme in Spain. Kind of like a training feature-slash-documentary series. Mostly for sponsorships.” He swallows hard, his jaw clenching as he gathers his thoughts. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks—his eyes fixed on some far point beyond the rink, beyond this moment, as if the memory itself is something he can’t look at head-on. “During our break… there was this skater, Hugo.” The name clicks instantly—Hugo Franchez. You’ve heard of him. He’s one of Coach Morales’ other students, known for his flamboyant public persona and his tendency to stir up drama both on and off the ice. Brash, talented, and unapologetically loud. The kind of guy who thrives on attention, whether it’s positive or negative. Before you can fully process what that connection means, Sunghoon cuts through your thoughts, almost as if he knows exactly what’s running through your mind. “Doesn’t matter who he is,” he mutters, voice sharper now, almost defensive. “One day during practice, that prick made a comment. Said my standards had dropped since you left me.” “I didn’t care at first,” he says. “It was petty. Stupid. I’ve heard worse. And honestly, he wasn’t wrong. I was a mess back then. I didn’t care what anyone said.” There’s something tight in his expression, like he’s forcing himself to stay detached—to treat it like a story he’s telling rather than a wound he’s reopening. You stay silent, but you feel your stomach twist into a knot, cold and heavy. The words settle like stones in your chest, bitter and suffocating. You don’t know what to say—don’t know if anything you could say would make a difference. “But then he said something else,” Sunghoon continues, and his voice tightens like it’s physically difficult to push the words out. “He started talking about you. Joking—if you can even call it that. Said maybe he’d try you out next. That someone like you didn’t need love, just a good—” He cuts himself off, hand flexing slightly at his side. You don’t need him to finish. Your breath catches in your chest, a mix of disgust and disbelief building behind your ribs. Your hands tighten on the rink’s barrier, knuckles turning white. You can’t seem to move, your mind struggling to make sense of the sheer audacity—the venom laced into words that shouldn’t even exist. Sunghoon’s fingers drum restlessly against his thigh, a telltale sign that he’s more upset than he’s letting on. His mouth presses into a thin, unforgiving line, and for a moment, he just breathes—deep and controlled, like he’s trying not to let his frustration seep through, but there’s a tremor in his voice that betrays the anger still simmering under the surface. “Hoon…” you whisper, your voice barely audible, raw with sympathy and anger that doesn’t know where to land. Sunghoon’s heart leaps at the familiar nickname, but the feeling doesn’t last long as he’s reminded of the story he’s telling. “That’s when it happened,” he continues, finally lifting his gaze to meet yours. There’s something broken there, vulnerability seeping through the cracks in his usual calm. “I snapped. Took a swing at him. Next thing I know, we’re being pulled apart. Cameras everywhere. People yelling. Coach Morales losing his mind. The programme  was discontinued after that.” You take a small, steadying breath, unsure of whether to feel relieved that he defended you or angry that it came to this.

“And your injury?” you ask, the words careful, soft, like you’re afraid of breaking whatever fragile, rare occurrence is happening between you. He hesitates, the tension in his posture growing taut again. “When we went down, I didn’t even notice it at first. Adrenaline, I guess. I thought it wasn’t a big deal. It hurt, yeah, but I could still skate. I figured it’d pass. I didn’t want to make it anything more than what it was.” You watch the shift in his expression—the shame, the defensiveness, the echo of pain he’s tried so hard to bury. “That’s why you pulled out of the finals,” you say, the pieces clicking together all at once. He nods. “Turns out I tore a ligament when I landed wrong. I didn’t realise how bad it was until I couldn’t even put weight on it. Rehab took months. Had to retrain my whole posture. Thought I’d never land a clean jump again.” The silence that follows isn’t empty—it’s heavy with everything unspoken. You can feel the ache settle in your chest, not just for him but for the both of you—the version of him who tried to hold it all together, and the version of you who never knew. You want to scream at him for being reckless. For not telling you. For carrying all of this alone when he didn’t have to. But instead, you just stare at him. And he stares back. Both of you standing there, in the middle of a truth that neither of you asked for—but one that’s been waiting, quietly, to be told. “But you’re better now, right?” Your voice comes out more hopeful than you intended, a tight, almost desperate note clinging to the words. “I mean… you’re skating fine. You’re prepping for the tryouts, right?” Sunghoon hesitates, his eyes dropping to his hands where his fingers are still restlessly drumming against his thighs. He swallows hard, and the tension in his jaw doesn’t ease. “Barely,” he admits, the word thick and reluctant. “The injury relapses whenever I overexert. Some days it’s fine, and other days… it’s like I’m right back to square one. There’s no pattern. No warning. Just pain.” You feel a hollow ache forming in your chest, and you can’t help the frustration that bubbles up alongside the worry. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He looks up at you then, a flicker of something pained and conflicted crossing his face. “Because it wasn’t your problem to deal with. You didn’t need to know. I couldn’t—” He breaks off, running a hand through his hair in a way that’s almost angry. “I couldn’t stand the thought of you worrying about me. Not after I’d already messed things up between us.” You open your mouth to argue, to tell him that’s not how this works—that you wouldn’t have seen him as a burden. But you can’t find the words, because deep down, you know Sunghoon has always carried things alone. It’s just who he is. Protecting people from his own mess, even when it tears him apart. He’s still watching you, shoulders tense, waiting for the backlash—like he’s already bracing himself for the worst. And you can’t help it—you laugh. Not a happy laugh. Not even a bitter one. Just a short, exhausted sound that slips out before you can stop it. “That’s it?” you murmur, shaking your head. “That’s the reason you didn’t tell me? Because you didn’t know how to believe that I’d want to help you?” Sunghoon’s jaw clenches, and his eyes flicker with something like hurt. “You don’t understand—” “No, I don’t,” you cut in, and your voice wobbles despite your best efforts to sound composed. “I don’t understand how the guy who always told me to be honest, to be open with him, just decides on his own that I wouldn’t care? You didn’t even give me the chance, Sunghoon.” He doesn’t respond. Just lowers his gaze, looking at his own skates like they might hold an answer. You take a slow breath, forcing yourself to ease back the frustration threatening to spill over. “You think I wouldn’t have cared? That I would’ve just—what—written you off as some failure because you got hurt? After everything?” His silence feels like an admission. And it hurts more than it should. “Was I really that easy to leave behind?” you ask, softer now. Your hands curl tighter around the edge of the boards, knuckles turning white. “Did I make it that easy for you?” He finally looks up, and his expression is raw, stripped down to something you haven’t seen in years. “No,” he says, almost too fast. “It wasn’t easy. Nothing about leaving was easy. I just—I didn’t know how to handle it.” You swallow the lump in your throat, letting his words sink in. You’re speechless, your mind a whirlwind of the why and the how and the what ifs that he’s not giving you. Then you zone into what he said: Not after I’d already messed things up between us. He’s aware that the reason for your falling out was because of him. “Never mind after we broke up. In the last few months of our relationship, why were you so distant then? Why wouldn’t you tell me anything? Why did we break up, Sunghoon?” His head jerks up, eyes widening. For a second, he looks like he didn’t expect you to ask, like he thought you’d just let it stay buried. But you can’t. Not anymore. “I didn’t mean to lose you,” he whispers, like it’s something he’s only just now realising. “But by the time I figured out how to come back… it felt like I didn’t deserve to. Not after everything.” You open your mouth, then close it again, the words heavy on your tongue. There’s a long pause—weighted, expectant. You shift slightly, pressing your palms against the edge of the rink as if to steady yourself. And then, quietly—because you need to understand, because you deserve to—you ask:

“What happened in Spain? Please, I need to know.” Sunghoon meets your gaze and for a second, it really felt like he was finally meeting you halfway. He lets out a shaky breath before he speaks again, voice low and unsteady. “When I left Korea, it was like everything just… fell apart. I thought skating would fix it. That if I just pushed through, everything would fall into place. It was going to be worth it, I’d feel like myself again.” His voice is quieter when he continues, almost like he’s talking more to himself than to you. “After we broke up, I kept telling myself it was for the best. That I needed to focus on skating. But… after a while, it didn’t matter anymore. I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t even skating because I loved it. I was just… doing it. Because I didn’t know what else to do. Because I didn’t know who I was if I wasn’t moving forward. And without you… I just felt stuck.” The weight of his confession presses down on both of you, heavy and unforgiving. You let your hands fall from where they’ve been gripping the rink barrier, flexing your fingers like you’re trying to shake off the cold—or maybe just the ache creeping into your chest. Sunghoon skates closer, not enough to close the gap entirely but enough that you can see the way his eyes are glossed over, the pain he’s too proud to let fully show. “I lost you. I lost skating. And I didn’t know how to come back from that.” You don’t know how to respond. You don’t even know if there’s anything left to say. So you just stare at him, taking in the vulnerability on his face—the way he’s finally, finally letting himself be seen. And despite the anger, despite the sadness, a small part of you—the part that never really stopped missing him—starts to unravel. Because this isn’t the Sunghoon you remember leaving. This is someone who’s been trying—fumbling, falling, but trying—to find his way back. You don’t move, but you don’t push him away either. You just stand there, caught between wanting to reach for him and wanting to protect yourself from being hurt again. And Sunghoon sees it—that hesitation. He takes a shaky breath, his hands falling to his sides, fingers flexing like he doesn’t know what to do with them. He’s still looking at you—eyes wide, raw, like he’s afraid of what your silence means. Finally, he forces the words out, voice rough and unsteady. “I know it doesn’t mean much now, but I’m really fucking sorry, Y/N.”

His eyes drop again, like he can’t bear to see your reaction. “I was an emotional wreck when I realised I was falling out of love with skating. It felt like I was losing the only thing I’d ever been good at, and I didn’t know how to handle that. And in the middle of that mess… I didn’t know how to give you the love you needed.” The admission hangs between you, heavy and unguarded, and it’s like you’re seeing the cracks in him for the first time—not the public figure, not the professional skater, but the boy who had once loved the ice so much that he didn’t know who he was without it. You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting the tremble threatening your voice. “You should have just… told me. You didn’t have to go through it alone. I was right there, Sunghoon. I would have—” “I know,” he cuts in, voice almost desperate. “I know you would have. But I didn’t know how to let you. I kept thinking if I just pushed harder, trained longer, it would click again. That the love for it would come back. But it didn’t. And the more I kept failing, the less I could bring myself to tell you.” You swallow down the hurt lodged in your throat, forcing yourself to stay steady. “So instead, you just shut me out? Kept me in the dark?” “I couldn’t handle it,” he says, a bitter edge cutting through his tone. “All of it. You being so damn supportive. Telling me I could do it when I knew I couldn’t. I was falling apart, and you kept telling me I was going to make it. It just—” He shakes his head, lips pressing into a tight line. “It made me feel like a fraud. Like I was dragging you down with me.” You stare at him, disbelief and frustration mixing with the ache in your chest. “You’re kidding. And suddenly it's my fault? That I cared too much?”

“No! I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quickly, voice hoarse, trembling around the edges of regret. “God, that’s not what I meant at all. Fuck.”

He grips the back of his neck like he’s trying to ground himself, eyes flickering everywhere but yours—walls, floor, ceiling—anywhere that isn’t the firestorm in your gaze.

“I meant…” he finally forces out, lowering his hands. His shoulders sag. “I meant I didn’t know how to handle it. You gave so much and I—I didn’t know how to match it. I was scared I’d ruin it. So I pulled back. I shut you out instead of admitting I couldn’t keep up with the way you loved me.” Your heart clenches, torn between anger and sympathy. You take a deep breath, forcing the words out even though they taste like heartbreak. “You didn’t have to make that choice for me. I would’ve stayed, Sunghoon. Even if it hurt. Even if you were falling apart—” “That’s why I didn’t tell you!” The words burst out of him, louder than he meant them to. The sound echoes slightly in the quiet of the rink, raw and cracked at the edges. You flinch—not because you’re afraid, but because it’s the first time he’s raised his voice with you in a fight. Sunghoon’s expression falters the moment it leaves his mouth. His chest rises and falls unevenly as the weight of what he’s said settles between you. He blinks fast, and for the first time, you see the glassiness in his eyes—the way his lashes tremble under the strain of holding everything in. “I didn’t want you to feel guilty,” he says again, softer this time, like he’s trying to undo the sharpness from before. “Or worse… like you had to fix it. I couldn’t bear the thought of becoming something you felt responsible for instead of someone you just… loved.” He swallows hard, gaze falling to the floor as if he’s ashamed of the outburst, the truth, or maybe both. Your chest tightens at his words, but not out of anger. Not even sadness. Just this overwhelming ache for the boy in front of you—the boy who thought love was something that had to be earned only when he was okay. You exhale slowly, trying to steady the crack in your voice. “You think I loved you because you were strong all the time? Because you had it all together?” He doesn’t answer, but the tension in his shoulders says enough. “Sunghoon, I didn’t want to fix you. I just wanted to be there with you.

For a moment, he just stares at you, like he’s trying to understand why you’re still here, still fighting to know the truth. And in that silence, you realise that he’s never really stopped carrying the weight of that decision—never really forgiven himself for it. The guilt. The loneliness. The fear. It’s all still there, buried under years of trying to pretend it didn’t matter. And it hits you then—how much of himself he gave up just to make sure you didn’t drown with him. You’re not sure whether to scream at him for being so stupidly self-sacrificing or cry because he thought pushing you away was protecting you. His next words come out in a whisper, like he’s afraid of breaking the fragile truce between you. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I swear. I just… didn’t know how to love you and love skating at the same time. And when skating stopped feeling like love, I didn’t know how to love myself either.” Something inside you softens, and you feel the fight drain out of your body. You lean back, exhaling shakily, trying to process it all. Maybe you thought the anger would feel good. Like if you just yelled loud enough, it would drown out the ache that’s been festering since he left. But now, standing here with him—raw, exposed, finally admitting the truth—you just feel tired. And maybe, just maybe, a little relieved. Because at least now you know. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. It was that he didn’t know how. Without thinking, you reach out over the barricade, your fingers brushing against his. When he doesn’t pull away, you take his hand in yours. His shoulders slump, the fight draining out of him, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he lets himself lean into you—no walls, no distance, just the raw truth of it all between you.

He lets out a rough, almost bitter laugh. “Funny, right? I spent so long trying to protect you from my problems that I ended up creating a whole new one.” You squeeze his hand gently, feeling his warmth seep into your skin. “You didn’t have to go through it alone,” you whisper. “You didn’t have to push me away just because you thought you were sparing me.” His eyes dart down to your joined hands, but he doesn’t pull away. “I know that now,” he says quietly. “But back then, I thought keeping you out of it would make things easier. For both of us.” You swallow the knot in your throat, wondering how many more pieces you’d have to unearth before you finally made sense of everything that went wrong between you. “But it didn’t, did it?” you murmur, half a statement, half a question. Sunghoon’s shoulders sag, like the weight he’s been carrying finally buckles under your words. He breathes out slowly, shaking his head, a rueful, almost self-deprecating smile tugging at his lips. “No. It didn’t.” Sunghoon takes a deep, trembling breath. The kind that rattles from somewhere deep in his chest, like he’s holding back more than just words. Slowly, carefully, his fingers slip from yours. The absence of his touch is immediate—sharp, cold, like the air around you shifted. He stuffs his hands into his pockets, like maybe that’s the only way to keep them from shaking, from betraying just how unsteady he really feels. His gaze drops to the ice at your feet, avoiding your eyes with an almost boyish kind of shame, as though looking at you would only make the truth harder to say. “And I didn’t reach out to you after my injury because…” He pauses, swallows. His voice when it comes out is brittle, like he’s forcing it through a throat full of glass. “Because I didn’t want you to feel like you were a second option. Like I was only coming back to you because skating was no longer viable.” Your breath catches. The words hit in a place you didn’t expect, a sharp, unexpected pang that lodges deep beneath your ribs. You blink, startled, searching his face like maybe you misheard him. “What?” you whisper, barely audible. The word is soft, too soft. It slips from your lips like a secret, afraid to make the moment any heavier than it already is. He lets out a laugh—but it’s dry, hollow, laced with bitterness and self-loathing. “It’s stupid, I know. But I didn’t want you to think that… that I only wanted you because skating didn’t work out. I thought if I showed up after everything fell apart, you’d look at me and think I was just using you to fill the gap.” You shake your head slowly, the motion dazed, your thoughts struggling to keep pace with the revelation. “Sunghoon… I never—” “I know,” he cuts in, quickly, almost harshly. His voice cracks, raw and unfiltered. “I know you didn’t. But I was so fucking lost, Y/N. I didn’t know who I was without skating. And the idea of crawling back to you, looking for comfort when I had nothing left… it felt selfish. Like I was just dragging you into my mess because I couldn’t handle it on my own. You deserved better than that.” There’s a silence that follows—not the empty kind, but the kind that weighs down the air like fog. Heavy. Still. Unavoidable. Your arms fold in tightly against your chest as if bracing for something colder than the rink air. There’s a tightness there, something fragile pressing hard against your ribs, and it takes you a moment to recognise it for what it is. It’s the part of you that never really stopped caring. “You’re an idiot,” you say, voice thick, the words catching on the knot in your throat. You almost choke on it, the mix of pain and tenderness. “A complete idiot.” He finally looks up.

And it’s the way he looks at you that undoes you. Eyes rimmed red, glassy with unshed tears, but wide open—unguarded in a way he’s never let himself be. The vulnerability in them is devastating. It makes your own eyes sting, and you press your lips together hard, willing yourself not to break down in front of him. You can’t afford to. Not after everything. But the way he’s looking at you, the way he’s baring his heart after years of hiding—it hurts. The ice rink is eerily quiet now. The distant hum of the arena lights above buzzes like white noise around you, but everything else is still. Time feels like it’s slowed down, like the two of you exist in a bubble suspended in grief, in truth, in the aftermath of everything that wasn’t said when it mattered. You don’t know what to say—don’t know how to put into words the mess of emotions clawing at your chest. It’s tangled and bruised and beating far too loudly. There’s relief, yes. A bit of anger too. But mostly, there’s just this deep, aching sadness for the boy who thought he had to fight his battles alone. But eventually, you find your voice. Quieter. Softer. “I never needed you to be perfect, Sunghoon.” Your voice wavers despite how hard you try to steady it. “I just needed you to be honest.” He closes his eyes for a moment, like the words hit him physically. The mess inside his chest doesn’t have clean edges. It’s tangled and bruised and beating far too loudly. His brows pull together, and his shoulders—always so tight, so high, like he’s been bracing for impact for years—finally sink. The tension in him melts, slow and subtle, like he’s deflating under the weight of finally letting the truth out. Then he nods. Once. Barely. But it’s enough. Enough to know that he heard you. And that alone makes your heart ache. You know you shouldn’t give in. Not this easily. But you’ve never been one for restraint. It’s always been your fatal flaw—feeling too much, too fast, letting your heart speak before your head can catch up. And maybe that’s why this moment feels so inevitable. Because despite everything—despite the heartbreak, the silence, the years—you still want to close the distance. It’s a mystery how you and Sunghoon even started dating in the first place, how two people so fundamentally different found their way to each other. You, all fire and instinct, and him—quiet, composed, like he was always walking a tightrope with his heart tucked out of reach. You were sunshine, and he was midnight rain. You wanted comfort, but he was chasing medals and glory. Well… he used to. Back then, he didn’t know you’d come into his life. Didn’t expect that your laughter, your stubborn heart, your ability to see straight through him would start to matter more than medals ever did. Didn’t realise that somewhere along the way, it wasn’t skating he was chasing anymore.

It was you. And by the time he figured it out—by the time he realised you were the thing he’d always been reaching for—you were already slipping through his fingers. Not because you didn’t love him. But because he didn’t know how to stop running. Not for the crowd. Not for the gold. But from someone who would’ve stayed if only he’d asked. Maybe that’s why it worked for a while. Maybe that’s why he never stopped yearning. His eyes are still fixed on the ice, refusing to look at you, like if he stares hard enough, he can will himself invisible. His posture is closed in, like he’s trying to shrink himself, like if he folds in far enough, he can disappear into his regret. You take a step forward. Then another. Your shoes click softly against the rubber mats until the last one slips onto the smooth, glinting surface. You cross the threshold onto the ice without thinking, heart first, fearless—like always. The cold greets your ankles instantly, the faint burn of it rushing up your calves. Your feet come into his view, and he startles slightly, blinking as he realises how close you are now. “What are you—?” His brow furrows, alarm flickering in his expression. “Careful, you’re gonna fall again if—” You hug him. There’s no warning. No speech. No careful calculation. You just move, because your heart gets there before anything else can stop it. Your arms wrap around him—firm, grounding—and his breath stutters as if the contact knocks the wind out of him. He stays frozen for a second, like his body doesn’t believe it’s real, like he thinks if he moves, you’ll vanish. "It's okay," you murmur against his shoulder, your voice soft but steady. "I know you'll catch me even if I fall." And somehow, that’s what does it. That quiet faith in him—even now, after everything—cracks something open. He exhales, the breath hitching on its way out, and you feel the tension leave his body piece by piece. Slowly, hesitantly, he melts into you. His chin dips to rest against the curve of your shoulder, and his arms—those shaking, unsure arms—wrap around your back and hold on. Not tight. Not desperate. But like someone who’s been cold for far too long, and finally, finally found warmth. Like your presence alone is something he's relearning how to deserve. You close your eyes, steadying yourself with the quiet rise and fall of his chest against yours. Then you speak—gently, but with purpose. "Don’t take this the wrong way," you say, your fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his jacket. "This isn’t forgiveness. I’m not there yet. This is just… me showing you that I still care. As a friend." He stiffens slightly, but you don’t let go. You press on. "I’m sorry this happened to you," you whisper. "I know skating meant the world to you." Sunghoon doesn’t answer. Not out loud. But his arms tighten—just a little—and his breath shudders, and the thought echoes in his mind with a force that nearly brings him to his knees: You mean the world to me, still. He doesn't say it. He doesn’t need to. It’s there—in the way he holds you now, in the way he leans into your warmth like it’s the first real thing he’s touched in years. And for a moment, you let him. You both do. Not as the people you once were. But as the broken, rebuilding versions of yourselves—still trying, still reaching, still here. This quiet moment.

You remember this feeling. The stillness. The unspoken. The way the world seems to hush when you’re in his arms—not because everything is perfect, but because somehow, even in the mess, it feels safe. You used to crave more. Words. Reassurance. The kind of affection you could point to and name. But as time passed, you learned to understand him in these smaller, quieter ways. The way he’d wait for you after late classes just to walk you home, even when he never said why. The way he’d leave extra pairs of gloves in your bag before competitions. The way he never quite let go first. It’s the way Sunghoon has always shown love to you. Not through grand gestures or flowery words, but through presence. Through the way he leans in, silent and steady. Through the way he holds you like you're something he’s afraid to break. Through the quiet weight of his hand resting at the small of your back, like a promise he’s never quite been brave enough to say out loud. This right here—this silence filled with meaning—has always been his way of saying I’m here. I care. I love you. And that’s why, when his presence stopped feeling like love—when the silence turned from comfort to distance—you felt discarded. Unwanted. Like love had quietly exited the room and no one bothered to tell you. His inability to say what he felt, to put to words what you meant to him, only made it worse. Because you were still there, waiting for something—anything—to hold onto, while he kept retreating behind walls you couldn’t climb. But now, standing here, with his arms around you once again, you feel it. All of it. Even if he still hasn’t found the words. You realise then—he never stopped caring for you, too. The silence. The omission of truth. The way he held everything in, thinking he was protecting you by keeping you out. You used to mistake it for distance, for disinterest. But maybe that was just the way he loved you. Complicated. Flawed. Quiet in all the places you needed noise. It wasn’t the way you loved—not loud and vulnerable, not open and all-consuming—but it was still love. Just… his version of it. And you—all heart before reason. You loved like it was oxygen, like holding back would be the same as holding your breath. You said too much, felt too deeply, asked for honesty even when he didn’t know how to give it. You needed presence, yes—but you also needed words. Needed something solid to hold onto when his silence left too much room for doubt. And still—that was the way you loved him. Messy. Unfiltered. Brave in all the ways he wasn’t ready for. You offered him your whole heart without a safety net, while all he wanted was to protect you from his fall. And it hits you then, in a way that’s both soft and sharp—this was always the story. The gaps, the miscommunication, the mismatched ways of showing up. It was never about not feeling enough. It was about feeling too much, in entirely different languages. You, speaking in open wounds and raw confessions. Him, answering in silence and distance. Two people standing on opposite ends of a love that was real—just not always right.

And maybe that’s the tragedy of it.

Not that you didn’t love each other. But that you did.

Just in ways the other didn’t know how to hold.

You and Sunghoon spend the next few hours sitting on the cold bleachers, catching up on the last four years—what was said, what wasn’t, and everything that existed in between. It’s not an invitation to get back together. That much is clear—spoken and understood without the need for awkward disclaimers. This is something else entirely. A truce, maybe. An unspoken agreement to lay the past to rest without erasing it. An invitation to let go of the bitterness. To make sure the four years you spent loving each other—messy and imperfect as they were—don’t go down the drain as nothing but regret. And anyway, nobody ever said ex-lovers couldn’t stay friends… You learn that Hugo Sánchez—the skater Sunghoon had that infamous tussle with—was caught up in a drug scandal just a few months later. It never made headlines, swept under the rug with hush money and quiet handshakes behind closed doors. But word still got around. Coach Morales blacklisted him, and by extension, so did every major name in the circuit. “Guess karma’s real after all,” you mutter, brows raised as Sunghoon nods. “He got what he deserved,” he replies quietly, but there’s no real satisfaction in his tone. Just a kind of weariness. The kind that says it still wasn’t worth what it cost me. You offer a small, understanding smile, then shift the conversation—gently. You tell him about your career. How you fell into sports journalism by accident, how you hated it at first. How you stuck with it anyway. About the sleepless nights, the thankless deadlines, the rush of chasing a story and the heartbreak of killing one. You tell him how strange it is, writing about athletes when you once dated one—how sometimes you catch yourself comparing their routines, their postures, their voices to his. You don’t mean to say that last part. But it slips out, unfiltered. Sunghoon glances at you then, a soft crease forming between his brows, and for a moment, you think he might say something. But he doesn’t. He just listens, the same way he always used to—quietly, intently, like your voice alone is enough to anchor him. You’re halfway through telling him the story about your first major reporting slip-up—something about mistaking a gold medalist for a retired curling coach—when Sunghoon breaks into laughter.

Real laughter.

Not the polite kind. Not the breathy exhale he’s used to giving when he’s holding too much in. But the kind that lights up his whole face. His head tips back slightly, shoulders shaking, eyes squinting in disbelief as he nearly doubles over from how hard he’s laughing.

“You what?” he wheezes, clutching his stomach. “Please tell me you didn’t salute him and ask about his war medals too. He probably thought you were calling him a grandpa, not an Olympian!” You’re laughing too, unable to help it. “Listen, the man had a beard and a windbreaker and that very ‘I peaked in Vancouver 2010’ vibe.” “And that screams retired Olympian to you?” he chokes, still catching his breath. “You probably set athlete-media relations back a decade.” “I was nervous, okay?” you defend, wiping at your eyes, the kind of laughter that makes your ribs hurt already fading into little aftershocks. You lean back against the bleachers with a sigh, finally calming down—only to notice he’s gone quiet. You turn to find him just… looking at you. Not with amusement anymore, but something softer. His expression has shifted—gentle, open, a little vulnerable in a way that makes your breath catch. He’s watching you like he forgot what it was like to see you laugh like that. Like he’s trying to memorise the shape of your smile and hold onto the sound of it. You raise a brow, playful. “What? Do I have something on my face?” He blinks, startled, like you caught him in a secret. “No,” he says, quickly averting his gaze. Then, quieter, “Just... forgot what that sounded like.” “What did?” you ask, even though you already know. “You. Laughing like that.” He shrugs, keeping his eyes on the rink. You pause, suddenly aware of how close you’re sitting. How his knee brushes yours every so often when he shifts. How the warmth between you lingers even in the chill of the arena. “Well,” you finally say, nudging his shoulder with yours, “don’t get used to it. I’m a very serious journalist now. No more giggling.” He glances at you with a crooked smile, eyes full of mischief. “Sure. I’ll believe that when you don’t snort the next time you laugh.” You gasp, scandalised. “I do not snort.” Sunghoon leans in slightly, teasing. “You literally just did.” You stare at him, lips parted, fully ready to argue—until you realise he’s right. And then you’re laughing again, shaking your head as you gently shove his arm. “Asshole,” you mumble through your grin. And just like that, the weight between you both lightens again—still present, but tucked neatly beside something warmer. Familiar. Almost like the beginning of something new. Or maybe just the gentler end of something old. Either way, it’s something.

That night, when you finally reach home, your cheeks are still warm. You’re still smiling a little too easily at nothing in particular. The chill of the ice rink has long worn off, but Sunghoon’s laugh—low, genuine—lingers in your ears like a recent vocal stimulation. It’s been years since that sound last came from him, at least directed at you, and it sits somewhere in your chest now, unexpectedly soft and stubborn. You kick off your shoes, shrug off your coat, and collapse onto your couch with a sigh that’s half-exhaustion, half-daydream. Your mind is foggy, a little giddy. Like you’ve just had caffeine on an empty stomach or you’ve stepped into some alternate version of your life—one where the world’s been tilted just a few degrees off-centre and nothing’s quite the same anymore. Then your eyes fall on your laptop. Still open. Still glowing. And suddenly, reality tugs you back down. You’d forgotten about the article. The one you had barely started drafting. The one with Sunghoon’s name in the headline. The one meant to announce his participation in the Olympics tryout. You sit up straighter, the comfort in your muscles draining fast as a chill crawls up your spine. Because all you can think about now—over and over, like a stuck record—is the way he said it: “The injury relapses whenever I overexert.” He’d said it so casually, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it was just a fact of life now. A quiet asterisk next to his name. He said he wasn’t planning a full comeback. He said he wasn’t sure. But he’s still showing up to tryouts. Still skating. Still pushing. And suddenly, what once felt like a career milestone—this exclusive, this rare chance to write the first profile on Park Sunghoon’s inevitable return to the ice—feels... invasive. Too sharp. Too personal. Your fingers hover over your phone, the urge to text him immediate.

You type something—delete it. Type again.

Hey. Are you really okay to skate?| | Are you sure you’re not pushing too hard?| | Let me know if there’s anyway I can help.| | But none of them feel right. Because you barely just started talking again. Because one evening of laughter on a set of cold bleachers doesn’t erase four years of silence. Because you’re not sure if checking in now would cross a line you don’t have permission to step over anymore. So instead, you lock your phone screen and place it face down on the table. And you sit there in the quiet, trying not to worry. Trying not to think of the pressure on his leg, the sting in his joints, the way he’d smiled when he told you—not proud, not hopeful, just... resigned. But worry, of course, doesn’t ask permission. It settles in the pit of your stomach like lead. Because you know him. And you know he’ll keep skating—even if it breaks him again. And worst of all, he’ll do it without ever asking for help.

[MANIFESTO EXCLUSIVE] Park Sunghoon Announces Participation In 2026 Winter Olympics Tryout

By Kang Y/N, Manifesto Daily It’s been nearly two years since figure skating prodigy Park Sunghoon last performed on Korean ice.

Once heralded as one of South Korea’s most technically refined athletes, Park disappeared from the public eye following an abrupt withdrawal from the 2023 Grand Prix Final. No formal statement was ever released. No interviews, no explanations—just a silence that, for a time, swallowed even his most devoted fans’ questions.

Until now.

This week, Park’s name quietly reappeared on the athlete roster for the upcoming 2026 Winter Olympics tryouts. And in an exclusive conversation with Manifesto Daily, Park has officially confirmed his participation.

Park’s return marks a significant moment in the national figure skating circuit. Known for his precision, control, and signature composure on the ice, his performances have long drawn praise from both domestic and international judges. His participation is expected to bring renewed attention to the men's singles category in the upcoming season.

Tryouts are scheduled to take place early next month, where top-ranked skaters will compete for coveted spots on South Korea’s Olympic delegation. While Park has kept a low public profile in recent years, anticipation surrounding his return remains high. His past record includes a gold medal finish at the Four Continents Championships, a bronze medal at the Beijing 2022 Winter Olympics, and consistent placements in the Grand Prix circuit, making him a strong contender as the nation gears up for Olympic selection.

Fans and officials alike will be watching closely as Park takes the ice again—not only for his technical capabilities, but for what his presence brings to a new generation of skaters: legacy, poise, and a renewed standard of excellence.

Further details regarding the tryout schedule and national team lineup are expected to be released by the Korean Skating Union in the coming weeks.

For now, one thing is clear: Park Sunghoon is officially back in contention.

The day of the Olympic tryouts arrives cloaked in a biting chill, the kind that slips past your collar and lingers in your bones. You arrive earlier than necessary, nerves already humming beneath your skin. Not as a reporter this time. Not officially, anyway. Sunghoon had pulled strings—quietly, discreetly. A whispered favour here, a signature there. He got you in as “internal support staff,” listed under his team’s management, though you’re carrying nothing but your notepad, your name badge, and a heart that won’t sit still. Reporters aren’t allowed inside the venue during these closed sessions. That’s the rule. But Sunghoon has always had a way of bending the edges when he really wants something. And today, he wanted you there. You flash the ID badge at the security checkpoint, and it works. You’re ushered in with the rest of his team—coaches, assistants, the tech specialist checking his skates for calibration. You keep your head down, hands wrapped tightly around the warm paper cup of coffee you didn’t finish. You don’t think you could stomach anything right now anyway. You find yourself blinking a little harder than necessary as you take your seat in the shadows of the side bleachers, tucked away from the officials and judges gathering near the front. Your hands grip the edge of the bench automatically. Your eyes find the centre of the rink without thinking. And there he is. Sunghoon. Hair slicked back, posture impossibly straight, wearing a crisp black jacket with his country’s emblem stitched just above his heart. He hasn’t noticed you yet—he’s locked in, eyes narrowed, lips set in that focused line you know too well. It’s not his competition face yet, but it’s close. You feel a rush of déjà vu so strong it makes your chest ache. Because you’ve been here before. Not here exactly, but in a hundred different rinks just like this one. Sitting in the same quiet corners. Watching him from a distance. Sometimes holding your breath without realising it. Sometimes the only person in the arena clapping when he stuck a landing during rehearsal. Back then, you knew his routines by heart. Knew the way his fingers twitched before a jump. Knew when he was proud and when he was pretending to be. And now, somehow, you're here again. Only this time, there are four years of silence sitting between you and the memory of who you used to be in his orbit. Still, when he glides to the edge of the rink and spots you in the stands, his expression softens just a fraction. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t wave. But he holds your gaze long enough for you to know: He sees you. The same way he did four years ago.

When you used to wait by the edge of the rink with a scarf and a warm drink. When he’d skate over to you before practice just to tap your forehead with his finger and say don’t blink this time. When he was still learning how to balance pressure and affection—and you were still learning how to love someone who rarely said what he felt. The way he’s looking at you now—it’s not loud. Not grand. But it’s enough to pull at the thread of every memory you thought you’d neatly tucked away. Sunghoon exhales slowly, eyes trained on the centre of the rink as the announcer’s voice fades into the cold, echoing silence. The blades of his skates feel heavy beneath him—not because they’re any different, but because he is. His heartbeat thrums steadily beneath the layers of his costume, fast but controlled. A familiar rhythm he used to draw comfort from. Now, it only reminds him of everything riding on this final run. He flexes his fingers once, then again. The nerves are there—no point pretending they aren’t. They’ve settled deep into his bones, coiled tight like springs. But there’s no fear. Not of falling. Not of losing. Because he already did that. He already lost the version of skating that once consumed him. Already stepped away from the spotlight, already let go of the expectations. What remains now is something simpler. Smaller. This isn’t about medals anymore. This is the end of something. Or maybe the beginning of what comes after. He guesses that’s the one thing he was keeping from you. Not because he didn’t trust you, but because saying it out loud would’ve made it real—that the dream he built his life around had slowly started to unravel. That somewhere along the way, skating stopped being love and started feeling like obligation.

You think he’s here to chase after redemption. To reclaim what was lost. To silence the whispers, the speculation, the question marks that trailed behind his name for years. You think he’s here to prove that he still has it—that the boy wonder of South Korea’s figure skating circuit never truly fell from grace. But you’re wrong. Because redemption implies he owes something to someone. And Sunghoon’s done with owing. This tryout isn’t about reclaiming his reputation. He’s not here for the judges. Not for the headlines. Not even for the crowd that once screamed his name. He’s here for something far quieter. Something far more difficult to earn. Closure. Not the kind that comes with medals or press conferences, but the kind you feel in your chest when you finally stop running. When you stop skating to meet expectations, and start skating to meet yourself again. This is not a comeback. It’s about reclaiming why he ever skated in the first place. It’s about the quiet mornings on empty rinks. The way cold air fills his lungs and clears his thoughts. The ache in his legs after hours of training that no one ever saw. It’s about the pieces of himself he left scattered in every routine he never got to finish. He shifts his weight slightly, grounding himself. This routine isn’t built for spectacle. It doesn’t chase applause. It’s clean. Honest. Unforgiving in its simplicity. And if this is the last time he performs under Olympic lights—if this is the closing chapter of a decade-long pursuit—then he wants to be the one who chooses how it ends. Not the injury. Not the press. Not the silence. He takes one last glance toward the bleachers. And there you are. Watching. Just like you used to---back then, when his world was still laced with possibility, and your quiet presence was the only constant that ever kept him sane.

And with this last performance—with this one final act—it’s not about the world. It’s not about redemption.

It’s about himself. About stepping onto the ice one final time not to impress, but to release. To mourn. To honour everything this love once was

And maybe—just maybe—it’s for you too. The girl who believed in him before the world knew his name. The one who stayed long after the spotlight dimmed.

He wishes he could say that. Wishes he could turn and tell you: This is for you.

But Sunghoon has never been fluent in the language of declarations.

So instead, he skates, The music begins—something classical, restrained, just a touch mournful—and Sunghoon moves. No flourish. No dramatic opening gesture. Just a quiet push forward, blades slicing into the ice with the same precision you remember from years ago. But this time, there’s something different. There’s stillness in him.  Control so complete it doesn’t scream—it whispers. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t force it. He lets the music carry him, lets the silence in the arena wrap around him like a second skin. One edge. Then the next. Arms extended, posture flawless, his body slicing through space like he belongs to it. His first jump—a quad toe loop. Clean. Effortless. His landing doesn’t so much hit the ice as it touches it. The blade barely sings as it connects. The motion is seamless, and for a second, no one breathes. Not the judges. Not the staff. Not even the other skaters who’ve trained beside him years ago and know just how good Sunghoon really is. They fall quiet—everyone does—because what they’re seeing isn’t just a routine.

It’s artistry.

His movements are elegant, measured. Each spin folds perfectly into the next, centre tight, shoulders relaxed, neck lengthened. His step sequence flows like water—no excess, no hesitation. And then the triple axel—the jump that sidelined him years ago—comes out of nowhere.

He lands it perfectly.

Not a wobble. Not a check. Not even a breath out of place.

Someone in the stands exhales sharply, as if they forgot they were holding their breath. One of the younger skaters watching from behind the boards drops their phone in shock. Even the coaches—stoic, experienced, always hard to impress—exchange glances. Subtle, but wide-eyed. No one expected this. Not from someone who hasn’t competed in years. Not from someone they assumed was skating on borrowed time. But there he is. Moving like the ice never betrayed him. Like the injury never happened. Like he’s not returning from anything, but arriving exactly where he belongs. The closing spin begins—slow, low, deliberate. He lowers into a final sit spin so clean it looks animated, the motion a perfect blur. Then he rises, centres himself, and ends in silence. No dramatic bow. No fist in the air. Just Sunghoon. Standing still, chest rising, eyes closed. Like he just let go of something he’s been carrying for years. And for a moment—just one—no one claps. Not because it wasn’t brilliant. But because brilliance demands reverence. The applause comes late. Staggered. And then all at once. But even then, it feels too small for what they just witnessed. Because what Sunghoon gave them wasn’t just a performance. It was a goodbye disguised as grace.

The moment the tryouts conclude, the applause still echoing faintly in your ears, you don’t hesitate. You’re already halfway down the stands before your brain catches up with your legs. You weave through rows of folding seats, shoulder past lingering staff and curious onlookers, scanning the crowd of skaters, coaches, and judges now spilling onto the ice and rinkside floor. Your heart is racing. Not from excitement. From urgency. Like if you don’t find him now, this moment—his moment—might slip away before you get to say anything. And then you spot him. Near the far side of the rink, his posture relaxed now, his jacket back on and unzipped. He’s speaking to someone. You recognise the man instantly: Coach Im, his university coach. Stern but warm. Always had a thermos in hand and a stopwatch around his neck, even when he wasn’t timing anyone. You saw him often—back when you used to sit through Sunghoon’s practice sessions, bundled in jackets, pretending to read while keeping your eyes on the ice. Sunghoon laughs at something the coach says, his shoulders shaking with a lightness you haven’t seen in years. You feel something stir in your chest as you step closer. Coach Im spots you first. His eyes light up in recognition as you approach, his voice lifting cheerfully over the din. “Oh hey—isn’t this Y/N?” he says, clapping a hand on Sunghoon’s shoulder. “So lovely to see that the two of you are still going strong!” The words hit you like an unexpected gust of wind, warm and jarring all at once. Sunghoon startles slightly, glancing quickly in your direction with wide eyes—like even he didn’t see that coming. You blink, then laugh—just a breath, soft and awkward. “Oh, um… it’s not like that. We’re not—” But Sunghoon doesn’t say anything right away. He just looks at you. Not surprised. Not embarrassed. Just… thoughtful. A crease forming between his brows like he’s considering what to say next—if he should say anything at all. Coach Im looks between the two of you, clearly confused, then lets out a warm chuckle. “Either way, it’s good to see you again. I remember you always being there in the bleachers during Sunghoon’s training sessions. It was nice knowing he had someone by his side. Kept him grounded, you know?” You smile politely, heart doing a strange little dance in your chest. And as the coach excuses himself to greet someone else, you and Sunghoon are left in a bubble of silence.

Just like old times. Only now, everything feels different.

And yet—somehow—exactly the same.

You clear your throat, stepping a little closer, nerves fluttering at the base of your spine. "Hey, I just wanted to—"

"I'm sorry, Y/N," Sunghoon cuts in, his tone gentle but clipped. He avoids your gaze, already half-turning away. "I promised to meet some old friends from uni to catch up."

You pause. Blinking. The words take a second to land.

"Oh. Right. Yeah," you say, forcing a small smile as you nod, even though your chest tightens. "I'll... see you around?"

"I'll text you, yeah?" he offers, already moving backwards, already fading into the crowd.

You nod again, slower this time. "Huh? Oh. Yeah. Okay." And just like that, he’s gone. Swallowed up by the familiar buzz of coaches, skaters, and congratulations. You stand there a beat longer than you should, the cold of the rink creeping back into your fingertips. The moment you thought you were chasing slips quietly through your hands—unfinished. And all you can do is exhale. Pretend it doesn’t sting. Pretend it isn’t you who’s waiting for him again—who’s standing here with something halfway between closure and hope tangled in your chest. You tell yourself it’s fine. That he skated beautifully. That this day wasn’t about you. But beneath all that composure, you feel it—the ache of almost. Because maybe you expected too much. Or maybe, for a second, you forgot you were just someone he let in again—not someone he kept.

But the truth is, Sunghoon didn’t know how to face you without tearing up. Didn’t know how to walk toward you without pulling you into his arms and asking you to stay, to say something—anything—that might ground him after what just happened on the ice. But the moment Coach Im said your name, smiled like it was still you and him, like time hadn't split everything in half, Sunghoon panicked. Because he’s not sure what this is. Not yet. And he’s not sure you’re open to confronting it, either—whatever it is, this delicate thing hanging between you like a conversation neither of you has found the courage to start. Maybe he read too much into your eyes during warm-up. Maybe the way you looked at him wasn’t about wanting him back. Maybe it was just nostalgia—soft, forgiving, but not something you wanted to carry forward. Maybe you were just proud of him. Maybe you were just letting go. He doesn’t blame you. Because deep down, Sunghoon knows he never really forgave himself for the way things ended—for the silence, the confusion, the months where he let you carry the weight of a love he couldn't name, let alone hold properly. He knows he hurt you in the worst way: by making you feel like you had to ask to be chosen. And though time has passed, and the ache has dulled, another part of him still isn’t sure—still isn't confident—that he’s capable of giving you the kind of love you deserve. But then again—this. This miscommunication. This habit of circling around instead of stepping in. This assumption of what he thinks you want—what you don’t want—it’s what drove the two of you apart in the first place. All the things he never said. All the things you tried to. All the maybes that built a house out of hesitation and called it home. He thought silence would spare you. You thought silence meant indifference. And somewhere along the way—between protecting and pretending, between misreading and mistiming—you both forgot how to meet in the middle.

And now here you are again.

You, still waiting.

Him, still too afraid to walk closer.

Each of you assuming the other doesn’t want more. Each of you convincing yourselves that almost is close enough.

Even when it never was. Even when it never could be.

And as usual, the text he promised never really came. At first, you gave him the benefit of the doubt—told yourself he was probably just busy, caught up in post-tryout formalities, in media briefings, in reconnecting with old friends or navigating the aftermath of a performance that stunned everyone in the arena. But deep down, you knew the silence wasn’t unfamiliar. It never had been. After all, the foundation of your relationship in those final months was built on this same cycle Sunghoon giving just enough. Just enough warmth, just enough apology, just enough softness to keep you waiting—to keep you hoping that maybe if you held on a little longer, he’d choose you fully, finally, without hesitation. And you—God, you—with your foolish heart that had only ever known how to love in full measure, never halfway, never with one foot out the door—you waited. You waited like you always did. And maybe that’s why, when the Korean Skating Union releases the official roster of Olympic athletes and his name is printed boldly at the very top—like it never left, like it was always meant to be there—something in you shifts. You feel it, a spark lighting in your chest, sharp and sudden and wild, and before you’ve even thought it through, you’re already reaching for your coat, already grabbing your keys, already walking out the door with your heart hammering too loudly in your chest. You could’ve texted him. Could’ve called. Could’ve sent a simple message like “congratulations,” could’ve played it safe the way people do when they’re pretending not to care as much as they do. But you don’t. Because something in you needs to see him—needs to see his face, his eyes, the way he stands now that the weight is off his shoulders, now that he’s done it, now that he’s reclaimed skating the way he always wanted to. Because if any part of what you shared still matters—if any part of him still looks at you the way he used to—you want to be there to see it. Not through a screen. Not in a message thread that never starts.

But in person.

So you go. Because maybe this time, you're done waiting.

You stand just inside the entrance of the skating arena, the cold air hitting your skin like a memory. The official delegation is supposed to make a public appearance today—an Olympic tradition of sorts. Which means Sunghoon should be here. Somewhere. Your eyes scan the crowd. Clusters of athletes in sleek national jackets, coaches and press weaving through them like old threads. But it doesn’t take long before you spot him. Tucked away in a corner, half-shadowed by the edge of the bleachers. He’s deep in conversation with one of the national Olympic coaches—Coach Baek, if you remember correctly. The older man’s expression is tight, gestures sharp with frustration. You can’t hear what’s being said, but the energy between them is tense. Sunghoon stands there, arms crossed, nodding slowly, his jaw tight but unreadable. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t flinch. Just listens. When the coach finally exhales, the tension softens—barely. A few more words are exchanged, and then a hand lands on Sunghoon’s shoulder, firm and final. A goodbye, or maybe a warning softened into encouragement. Then the coach walks away. And as Sunghoon turns slightly to see him off—shoulders still drawn tight from the conversation—his eyes land on you. You freeze for half a second, caught mid-step, unsure whether to wave, speak, or turn back the way you came. But before the indecision fully settles, he starts toward you, closing the distance with a familiarity that shouldn’t feel as natural as it does.

“Hey,” he says, breath a little visible in the rink’s chill. “I was just about to call you.” You arch a brow, tilting your head. “You were?” His mouth lifts, half a smile, half something else you can’t quite name. “Yeah,” he says quietly, like he’s testing the weight of his own words. You cough, trying to mask the genuine surprise, and maybe joy in your tone. “What was that about? He looked like he was about to throw you back into juniors. Training hasn’t even started and you’re already pissing the coach off?” Sunghoon laughs, and for a second, it lightens his whole face. “Yeah… about that…” You narrow your eyes. “What now?” He takes a small breath, then meets your eyes. “What do you think about writing another exclusive?” You blink. Once. Twice. “What, that you made the Olympic team? That’s hardly exclusive.” His smile fades into something more serious. “No, that’s not it.” You watch him carefully now. “I’m retiring.” Your breath catches. “What? When?” “Effective immediately,” he smiles as he says. “I’ve officially pulled out of the Olympic delegation.”

You just stare at him, stunned. “But—Sunghoon. You worked so hard for this. Recovery took years. You’ve been training nonstop—” “I know,” he says, not unkindly, but firm. “And that’s exactly why.” You’re still trying to catch up, your brain scrambling to make sense of it. “I don’t understand. Then why did you go through the tryouts? Why fight so hard just to walk away?” He exhales, like he’s been carrying the answer for a while. “Because I needed to know it was still there. The feeling.” His eyes meet yours, steady. “I wanted to remember what it felt like to skate—not for medals, not for judges, not for anyone else—but just for me. To feel that I could still love it, even if it no longer loved me back the same way.” Then, softer—almost apologetically—he adds, “I’ll never be able to skate like I used to, Y/N. I’ve already accepted that.” It hits you then—that his silence, the tension with the coach, the performance that felt too clean, too perfect—it was all part of a farewell. You’re quiet for a moment. “So this was… what? A planned goodbye?” He nods once, steady. “Maybe not from the beginning. But somewhere along the way, yeah. I think I knew I needed to end it on my terms. Not when the pain told me to. Not when the judges did. When I decided it was enough.” “But—skating. It meant the world to you—” Your voice comes out softer than you expect, the disbelief tangled with something else. Not anger. Not disappointment. Just the ache of watching someone walk away from something that once lit them up from the inside out. Ironic, since you were once someone that lit him up—maybe still is. Sunghoon doesn’t flinch. He just looks at you, eyes steady, voice calm in a way that tells you he’s already made peace with it. “It did,” he pauses, breath curling in the cold, as if he's choosing his next words carefully. And in that moment, you realise that his performance wasn’t a comeback. It was a love letter.

And a goodbye. “Which is why,” he continues, quieter now, “this is the last thing I can do for myself. To leave it the way I want to. I didn’t want my last memory of skating to be hospitals, setbacks, or walking away because I had no choice. I want to remember it the way I’ve always loved it. For what it gave me. For who I was when I first stepped on the ice.” And you’re hit with a painful ache in your chest as he says it—sharp, sudden, the kind that lodges itself between your ribs and blooms quietly like grief. Because if this is the ending he chose for skating—on his own terms, with love and clarity and closure—then what about you? Where is your ending?

Where is your closure? The question surges up before you can catch it, before you can bury it under composure or timing or pride—and it spills out of you, raw and quiet and too honest. “In that case, what do you remember me by?” Sunghoon freezes. His shoulders tense, breath catching so subtly that only someone who’s known him—really known him—would notice. “Y/N…” he says, and you can hear it in his voice—how he didn’t expect that. How he doesn't know what to do with it. You didn’t even realise you’d said it out loud. The weight of it lingers in the air between you, heavy, uninvited. You straighten your posture, instinct snapping back into place. Professional. Controlled. Detached, even if your pulse is anything but. “I should go,” you say briskly, already taking a step back. “I’ll email your management the article draft. Or… do I not need to?” He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out fast enough. “Anyway,” you continue, your voice clipped but polite, a shield you know too well, “feel free to have your assistant text me. Thanks.” You don’t wait for his reply. You turn. And this time, you’re the one walking away from something that once lit you up from the inside out. Even if it hurts to do it. Even if every step feels like it’s tearing something open again. Because you can’t keep standing in spaces where you’re only half-held, half-answered, half-remembered. That evening, you write the article. You sit at your desk long after the sun has dipped below the skyline, long after the city has quieted into its nighttime hush, and you start typing with steady fingers—trying, desperately, to be as professional as you can be. Because this is big news. A world-class athlete pulling out of the Olympic delegation at the peak of national anticipation. A retirement no one saw coming. It’s the kind of journalism that gets you recognised. That fills portfolios and lands bylines in places that matter. But none of that crosses your mind. Because all you can think about—despite the ache still blooming in your chest, despite the lingering bitterness of unanswered questions and things left unsaid—is how to honour him. You still feel the weight of him on the page. Still feel the obligation to present him in the best light. To tell the truth, yes, but also the quiet parts—the parts no one else saw. The discipline. The years of pain. The choice to walk away, not out of defeat, but dignity. You write him with care. With empathy. With the kind of understanding that only someone who once stood in the inner orbit of his world could ever give. And no matter how hard you try, you can’t stop your heart from leaking into the words. Because telling his story means telling yours, too. Not the public version. Not the headlines. But the quiet history of two people who once thought love alone would be enough. The version of you that sat in cold arenas, waiting for him to look up. The version of him that carried the weight of a dream too heavy for his body to bear. The version of both of you that was too young, too scared, too stubborn to survive it back then. It’s almost midnight when you finish the piece. And when you read it back, you realise it’s not just about skating.

It never was.

It’s about letting go of something beautiful—not because it wasn’t enough, but because it ran its course. And for the first time, you understand what he meant.

To end it your way.

To remember the love, not the loss.

So you click send.

And in doing so, you decide—quietly—to let it go.

To let him go.

Ms Yoon (PA): Reporter Kang sent over the article draft. PR said it was good, but thought you might want to read it for yourself. [Attachment: 1 File]

Sunghoon is mid-workout when the message comes in. His hands are chalked, his hoodie damp with sweat, breath still recovering from his last set of strength drills. The notification buzzes faintly against the speaker where his phone sits docked, half-muted beneath the beat of the music pulsing through the rink’s private training gym. He almost ignores it—figures it’s a reminder or scheduling update—until he catches the preview of the sender’s name: Ms. Yoon. He wipes his palms on a towel, walks over, and unlocks his phone, chest still rising and falling in slow recovery. The file is there, bold and unopened. His fingers hover over the screen a moment longer than they should, suspended in a strange quiet. He’s not sure what he’s expecting to feel. Pride? Closure? Guilt, maybe. But whatever it is, he taps the file. And begins to read.

FINAL DRAFT [MANIFESTO EXCLUSIVE] The Final Bow: Park Sunghoon Withdraws from Olympic Delegation and Announces Retirement By Kang Y/N, Manifesto Daily . . . . . In related news, Park’s withdrawal comes just days after the delegation announcement, and in his place, 19-year-old rising star Han Jihoon has been selected to represent Korea in the men’s singles category. Han, who placed fourth at the national tryouts, is widely regarded as one of the most technically gifted athletes of his generation, with a growing fanbase and a reputation for innovation on the ice.

As for Park Sunghoon, he leaves behind a legacy not of statistics, but of stillness. Of dignity. Of skating that always seemed to say what words could not.

His career was never loud. But it was unforgettable.

Goodbye, Park Sunghoon, And thank you for everything you didn’t have to say.

Before he knows it, he’s halfway out the door—keys clenched in one hand, the other rapidly typing a message to his assistant.

Sunghoon: Do you happen to know Y/N’s address? Forward it to me asap. Thanks.

The article is still echoing in his head, playing back in quiet waves he can’t shut out. Lines that hit too close. Lines that cracked open things he thought he’d buried for good. Words that sounded like truths he never gave you the space—or the safety—to say out loud. Because was it just him—or did your article sound like a defeat? Not the kind written in bitterness, but in surrender. An epiphany dressed in grace. Like you had finally laid everything down—your hope, your waiting, your quiet what-ifs—and decided that telling his story was the only closure you were ever going to get. His heart pounds harder now than it did during his entire workout. Not from strain. From urgency. From the sudden, all-consuming fear that he might be too late—too late to explain, to show up, to fix the way silence unraveled everything. Too late to ask for something he didn’t know he was still allowed to want. Something that had always lingered just beyond his reach—not because it wasn’t there, but because he never dared to reach out and take it. That you were still willing to give after all these years, If only he had asked. If only he had trusted that maybe, just maybe, love wasn’t about timing or pride or silence—but about the courage to choose it anyway. And now, with your words still ringing in his head and the ache of what-ifs pressing into his ribs, he runs. Because for the first time in a long time, he isn’t afraid of falling. He’s afraid of missing the chance to fall with you. A notification lights up his screen, and it’s from his assistant—your full address, no questions asked.

Sunghoon doesn’t waste a second. He tosses his phone onto the passenger seat, starts the engine, and drives like his heart’s pacing him—fast, frantic, barely keeping rhythm. The city blurs past in streaks of gold and grey, and his knuckles grip the steering wheel like it’s the only thing holding him together. By the time he reaches your apartment, he doesn’t bother fixing his hair, or the way his hoodie clings to him, soaked from sweat and adrenaline. Or the fact that its well-past midnight and he’s here at your apartment building. He takes the stairs two at a time, too restless for the lift, too afraid the silence will make him second-guess what he’s come here to say. You open the door mid-knock, eyes wide, mouth parting in surprise. “Sunghoon?” your voice is a mix of concern and disbelief. “How did you know I lived here?” You stare at him, bewildered, heart stammering against your ribs. He looks at you like you’re not real. Like he’s been chasing something impossible and suddenly, impossibly, it’s standing right in front of him. There’s yearning in his eyes—raw and unguarded—and when he takes a step closer, you notice it. The limp. Subtle, but there. “Did you run here? God—your injury—” But you don’t get to finish. Because he closes the distance and pulls you into him—arms wrapping around you in one fluid, desperate motion, like his body moved before his mind could catch up. There are no words. No explanations. Just the solid, trembling weight of him anchoring himself to you, like he’s been carrying the absence of this moment for too long, and can no longer bear it. You stand frozen, caught off guard by the heat of him, the quiet urgency in his embrace, the way he fits against you like he’s spent the past four years trying to unlearn the shape of this—and failing. “Sunghoon,” you say, your voice fragile, unsteady, trembling at the edge of disbelief. “What are you—?” But he doesn’t let go. “Don’t leave me,” he chokes out, the words low and fractured, muffled into the fabric of your t-shirt. You feel his breath at the side of your neck before you hear his next words. “Please…” You feel it then—how hard he’s shaking. How tightly his fingers clutch at the back of your shirt like a lifeline. The weight of his body pressed against yours isn’t just exhaustion—it’s grief, longing, guilt—all of it simmering under the surface and spilling out in a single, vulnerable plea. Your hands hover awkwardly at your sides, unsure where they’re allowed to go. Unsure if they’re still his to reach for. And somehow, that hesitation—your silence, that flicker of doubt—it splits something open inside him. “I’ll wait,” he blurts suddenly, pulling back just enough so he can look you in the eye. His own are red-rimmed, glassy, but there’s a sharp kind of clarity there too. “I’ll wait for you, Y/N.” “Sunghoon…” you whisper, your voice unsteady, caught somewhere between confusion and something that feels dangerously close to hope. “Where is this coming from?” His chest is rising and falling against yours, uneven. He swallows hard, and you see it—the way his jaw flexes like he’s trying to keep himself steady. His eyes flicker, not away from you, but like he’s searching for the words he’s never learned how to say out loud. His breath catches once, then again, before he finally forces himself to speak. “I read the article,” he says, quiet but clear. And immediately, you understand. Because you know exactly what part he’s referring to—not the skating analysis, not the announcement of his retirement. He means the parts laced with goodbye. The parts where your words stopped being objective and became soft, tired farewells tucked between the lines that only he would recognise. It was a goodbye to skating. But more pressingly—for Sunghoon—it read like a goodbye to him.

“Let go—” you start, trying to get some space, to breathe, to make sense of the tangle you’ve both fallen into. But his grip only tightens. “That article—” You pause, biting down the rush of emotion rising in your throat. “That article wasn’t meant to change anything.” “I know,” he says, his arms still around you. “But it did. It made me realise just how much I’ve tried to pretend I could move on from you.” You freeze. Not because you don’t understand him, but because you do. Too well. And that terrifies you.

“Let go,” you say quietly, voice strained, like you need to put space between you before you drown in everything he’s saying. “Just… let go so we can talk.” He hesitates, then releases you with reluctance, his hands falling to his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them now that they aren’t holding you. You catch the way his shoulders rise, tense and uneasy. How his hands shake slightly at his sides. And when he blinks, that’s when you see it—his eyes glossing over, the shimmer of something threatening to spill. “I never stopped loving you,” he says, his voice cracking at the edges. “Even when I left. Even when I convinced myself it was better that way. I still loved you. I just… didn’t know how to be with you and still be okay with myself.” “Now suddenly you’ve figured it all out?” you ask, and the bitterness in your tone surprises even you. But it’s real. You’re not trying to punish him—you’re just scared. Scared of falling back into something that once left you hollow. “No,” he says immediately, and there’s no defensiveness in his voice—just quiet truth. “Not suddenly. But I’ve had time. And space. And it turns out neither of those things taught me how to forget you, Y/N.” You look at him—really look—and it hits you just how much effort it’s taking him to say these things. How his shoulders are drawn tight, how he can’t keep still, how his fingers twitch like they want to ball into fists but won’t. He’s not used to this—exposing himself, risking the quiet between you. And you hate how much you want to believe him. How even now, your heart betrays you by leaping at his words, melting at the sound of your name in his mouth like it still belongs there. You press your lips together, trying to swallow the ache building in your throat. You want to scream, to cry, to ask why he’s doing this now—why he always waits until it’s too late. Why he only finds the words once your heart’s already been rearranged around his absence. But all that comes out is, “You’re saying everything I wanted to hear back then, Sunghoon. But that’s the thing—it’s back then. I’m not the same girl you remember. I’m not the girl who was always waiting for you to show up.” And yet, even as the words leave your mouth, you know that was a blatant lie. Because the truth is, you were that girl. For far longer than you’d ever admit.

“You asked me then,” he starts, voice barely above a whisper, “What do I remember you by.” You freeze. It’s not the sentence itself that gets you—it’s the way he says it. Careful. Almost reverent. Like the question has been haunting him all this time, long after you threw it into the air thinking it would vanish unanswered. “I remember you as the girl who poured her entire heart into everything she touched—your academics, your friendships… me, even after I left for Spain. You were relentless in the way you showed up for people, even when they didn’t always know how to show up for you.” He doesn’t look at you immediately. His gaze drifts somewhere over your shoulder, like the weight of the memory is too tender to hold eye contact just yet. Your heart clenches. You hate how easily those memories come flooding back—the all-nighters, the deadlines, the way you clung to structure and control because it was the only thing you could manage while everything with him felt like trying to build a home on sand. “I remember our first day. Freshman orientation. You couldn’t even look at me properly when we got paired up. I thought you hated me,” his lips twitch, faintly, like he’s caught between a smile and something sadder. “But then you offered to carry half the pamphlets because I looked tired from training, and I realised—you were just shy. You were this quiet, nervous girl who still somehow managed to be kind when she was uncomfortable.” Now his eyes return to yours, and there’s something in them that makes your chest ache. He’s remembering you, in detail, like he carried those moments with him even when he left you behind. And that shouldn’t make you feel warm. But it does. And you hate that. “I remember the blush on your cheek when you asked me out for the first time,” he says, smiling faintly. “You were so nervous I thought you were going to change your mind halfway through. But you didn’t. You stood there, eyes wide, hands shaking, and still said it anyway.” You hate how clearly you remember that moment too. The way your heart had raced. The way he smiled at you like you’d surprised him in the best possible way. “I remember you sitting in the bleachers,” he continues. “Head down, focused on your notes, your laptop. But you were watching me, too. Even when you didn’t say anything, you were always there. And God, that meant more than I ever told you.” Your grip tightens over your sleeves, arms crossed to stop your hands from shaking. “I remember how your eyes would light up when you opened those Popmart boxes, like it was magic every single time. You’d show me the little figurine like it was gold. And you’d smile at me like you wanted me to be excited with you. I didn’t always get it. But I remember thinking, I hope she knows how loved she deserves to feel for the rest of her life.” Your eyes sting. He shifts, like the next words are heavier, harder to pull from his chest. “I remember your words,” he says now, gaze locked on yours. ”The ones you gave so freely when I was too buried in pressure to ask for them. I remember your voice when you encouraged me, when you believed in me, when I didn’t believe in myself.” “I remember the warmth of your hugs. I remember the shape of your lips when you kissed me. And everything in between.” His eyes lower for a beat. His tone changes—not dimmer, but honest in a way that hurts.

“And I remember the fights too. The arguments. The silences. The doors that closed too hard, and the words that came out sharper than we meant them to. I remember how frustrated you got. I remember how I pulled away. And I remember that, too—because even those moments mattered. Even those were you loving me in the only way you knew how: by fighting for us.” He looks back at you now, fully, like he’s trying to hand you all of it—every memory, every piece. Your chest tightens, breath caught between inhale and collapse. “You loved me enough to care. Even when it got messy. Even when I made it hard. You cared when I didn’t know how to. You stayed when I didn’t make it easy to be around me.” The tears come then. They track down his cheeks slowly at first, then faster, like something’s come loose inside him that he can’t hold back anymore. He doesn’t wipe them away. He just stands there, crying in front of you like he’s spent years trying not to.

“And I think about that version of us all the time,” he says. “Not just the good. Not just the beautiful. But all of it. The whole you. The real you.” “That’s how I remember you, Y/N. I remember you as the girl who loved me when I didn’t know how to love myself. And even now, I’m still trying to figure out how to be someone who was worthy of all that love."

Your breath catches, but you don’t let it out. Not yet.

Because something in you knows that if you exhale, if you react, you might fall apart entirely.

His words are still hanging in the air, soft but sharp, like silk laced with barbed wire. They’re gentle—but they hurt. Because they’re real. Because they’re him. The him you waited for. The version you wanted to hear from long before all the damage was done. And now he’s here, finally saying all the things you once begged for in silence. And you don’t know what to do with it. You feel a tear slip down your cheek before you even realise it’s there. Your heart is making too much noise in your chest. Every beat sounds like a memory—of those bleacher nights, of ramen cups shared between lectures, of the small, quiet joy of feeling seen, even when he never said it out loud. You remember all those things too.

And that’s the problem.

Because part of you wants to believe it. Wants to step forward. Wants to reach for him and say, I remember you, too. Not the public figure. Not the Ice Prince. But the boy who once laid his head in your lap after a long day and asked you to stay, even if he couldn’t say the words. But another part of you—older now, wearier—pulls back. Because love wasn’t enough the first time. Because his silence hurt. Because you were the one who waited. Who stayed. Who forgave and forgave and slowly lost parts of yourself trying to hold everything together while he figured out who he was without ever asking who you were becoming. And now, here he is. Saying the right things. Crying real tears. Standing still when he used to run. But what does that mean now, when you’ve taught yourself to survive without him? You feel your throat tighten, your arms crossed like a shield, like maybe if you just hold yourself hard enough, the years between you will stop trembling through your spine. You want to speak—but nothing comes out. Because how do you respond to something so tender when all you’ve learned since him is to protect yourself from softness? You blink up at him, your eyes burning, and part of you whispers, He means it this time. And another voice, quieter but steady, asks, But is that enough? So you say nothing for a moment. Just stand there. Your whole body a battlefield between memory and survival. And then, softly, you speak.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” you admit, eyes flicking away from him. “I don’t know how to trust what you’re offering. You hurt me, Sunghoon. You left. And I carried that.” You see the hope falter just a little in his eyes. But he nods. “I’m not asking you to do anything,” he says. “I just…  I couldn’t let your words be the last thing between us. I needed you to know that I remember you. That I never stopped loving you.” You don’t respond right away. You don’t know how to. Your heart is loud in your ears, screaming all the things you’re too scared to say. Because this feels like standing on a cliff again, and this time, you’re not sure if there’s anything on the other side to catch you. “I’ll wait,” he says suddenly, voice rough, but steady with something fierce. “If you need time, I’ll give it. If you need space, I’ll step back. But just—please” Your throat tightens. “And what if I don’t have anything left to give you?” “Then I’ll understand,” he says, voice rough. “I’ll carry that. But I had to say it. I had to try. And I know it doesn’t make up for anything, but it’s all I’ve got. I’m standing here, telling you I love you, and I will wait—for however long it takes—because I don’t want to live the rest of my life wondering if you ever would’ve said yes.” And just like that, you feel the air leave your lungs in one long, shaking exhale. Not from panic. Not from pain. But from a bittersweet relief. The sincerity in his voice is unmistakable—stripped bare of pride, of performance, of everything he used to hide behind. This isn’t the Sunghoon who pulled away, who stayed silent when it mattered. This is the boy who finally understands what it means to show up.

After four years of silence, a leg injury that will never truly heal, and a heart broken into a million pieces—yours, his, both—shattered by time, by distance, by everything neither of you had the words to fix back then. And Sunghoon—your Sunghoon, the one who knows you better than you’d like to admit—watches you carefully, like he’s afraid you’ll misinterpret everything he’s just said—afraid you’ll think this is another case of bad timing or misplaced nostalgia. Then, after a long, tentative pause, his voice softens—but there’s no doubt in it. “And I know we already talked about this the other day,” he says, his voice careful. “But just so we’re clear… I need you to hear it again.” You look up, heart thudding as he meets your gaze head-on. “This… us… me being here,” he says slowly, deliberately, “it’s not because skating didn’t work out. It’s not some knee-jerk reaction because the ice stopped being kind to me.” His throat bobs as he swallows, blinking back the weight behind his words. “I fell out of love with skating a long time ago,” he continues, “but I never fell out of love with you, Y/N.” The silence that follows is immediate. Heavy. Because no matter how hard you’ve tried to bury the thought—or pretend it never crossed your mind—it still lingers in the quiet, persistent and sharp: If he hadn’t lost skating… would he have come back at all? But now, with that truth laid bare between you, your breath catches.—and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like someone he remembered too late. You don’t feel like the consolation prize. Or the safe fallback.

You feel chosen.

He’s here. He finally ran to you—not out of impulse, not out of guilt, and most certainly not because he had nowhere else to go. But because he wants to stay. In the mess he created. In the aftermath. In whatever comes next.

He made sure to communicate that clearly to you. And for the first time—he’s the one offering to wait. He’s not asking for guarantees. He’s not walking ahead, expecting you to catch up. He’s right here. Meeting you halfway. The same halfway that, truthfully, you’ve never walked away from. Not really. Not fully. Because even in the silence, even in the years you spent convincing yourself you’d moved on, there was always a part of you standing in place—waiting—in every version of yourself you tried to become without him, wondering if he’d ever meet you there. Now he has. And the truth is, you still want him just as much as he wants you. You don’t know the exact moment the clarity came. Maybe it was the way his voice cracked when he said your name, like it physically hurt to speak it aloud. Maybe it was the way he remembered every tiny, unremarkable piece of you—the girl who sat in the bleachers, who lit up at Popmart figurines, who loved so loudly it scared him. Maybe it was the way he cried—openly, without shame—or how he waited for your silence like he was willing to carry whatever your answer might be. But when it hit, it was quiet. Gentle. Unmistakable. You still love him. You never stopped. You tried. God, you really tried. You built a life without him, crafted a version of yourself that didn’t flinch at his name, convinced yourself you were fine—that you could breathe without the weight of his absence crushing your ribs. But even on your best days, there was always that ache. That dull, ever-present ache that no one else ever quite touched. “I’m sorry for making this complicated for you,” Sunghoon says suddenly, voice so soft it nearly gets swallowed by the quiet. “I’ll give you time to think.” He starts to turn away, the line of his shoulders already retreating, his eyes cast to the ground like he’s ready to disappear again. You should say something. But you don’t. You just move—more instinct than anything. One step, then two, and wrap your arms around him from behind like you’re anchoring yourself to the only thing that’s ever felt simultaneously this terrifying and this right. Sunghoon freezes. Completely still. You feel it first in the way his shoulders tense, tension rippling through his body like your touch startles something buried too deep to name—then the slow, excruciating way he exhales, as if he’s been holding his breath the whole time.

You press your forehead lightly into his back. He’s warm. Solid. Real.

Sunghoon shifts, beginning to turn toward you but your grip tightens ever so slightly. “No. Don’t turn around yet,” you say, your voice trembling. “Not yet. Just… listen.” His breath catches again, but he nods, hands limp at his sides, letting you press your heart against the shape of his back like it might finally say all the things your mouth never could. You close your eyes and let the words come—raw and unpolished, everything you’ve buried for far too long. “I hated how you shut down when things got hard between us. I hated how I always had to be the one to reach out, to fix things, to guess what you were feeling when all I wanted was for you to just say it.” His shoulders flinch slightly. You can feel the guilt settle into the line of his spine. His heartbeat picks up, echoing between you like thunder. Still, he doesn’t move. “I hated how you always made decisions on your own—like I wasn’t part of the picture. Like love was something you had to protect me from instead of something we could’ve fought for together.” Your voice cracks on the last word, but you push through. “I hated how you walked away without telling me the truth. How you let me believe I wasn’t worth holding onto.” Your grip loosens as your voice softens. And as you do, Sunghoon’s fingers twitch near yours like he wants to reach for your hand but doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

“And worst of all I hate that even after all of that—after the silence, the heartbreak, the wondering—I still can’t forget you.” His fingers curl slightly, not quite fists, but as if holding himself in place. As if your words are the only thing keeping him from falling apart. “I love the way you lace your skates, the way you scrunch your nose when you laugh, the way you never let go of your childhood dreams even when they broke you. I love how you tried to protect me—even if it hurt. I love how you remember everything about me, even the things I thought didn’t matter. Even the things I was sure you forgot.”

You speak.

“I love how you cuddled me in my sleep—I hate how you let the quiet speak for you. I love how you loved me, even when you didn’t know how to show it. Even when I hate the fact you didn’t know how to show it.”

He listens.

And with every word you spill, every confession you finally give voice to, something in him unknots. His spine softens against you, leaning back into your embrace—just enough for you to feel the weight of him, the way he surrenders to the moment. His heartbeat thrums steadily beneath the fabric of his hoodie, loud and alive where your cheek presses lightly into the space between his shoulder blades. “And I hate how I still love all those parts. The beautiful ones, the difficult ones, the ones that tore me apart.” Sunghoon doesn’t speak right away. Doesn’t even move until he’s sure you’re done. “I never stopped loving you, Sunghoon. That’s the problem.” When you whisper those words, you swear he stops breathing altogether. You feel it rush out of him, like the weight of that truth floors him where he stands. “I don’t need time,” you add, barely audible. “I just needed to be sure this was real. That you were.” You take a shuddering breath, close your eyes, and press your cheek more firmly against him—hoping, in some impossible way, that you can feel him even closer than he already is. “I’m scared,” you admit. “I don’t know how to do this again. I don’t know how to trust what we were, or what we could be. But I know I still care. I know I still want you.” “And I’m tired of pretending I don’t.” God, you want to laugh. Or slap yourself in the face because of how terrifyingly easy it was to believe him again. How a few trembling words and tear-soaked confessions cracked through years of hurt like they were never there to begin with. How your heart, traitorous and stubborn, still knows the shape of him like a story it never stopped rereading. And your stupid, foolish heart—bruised from all the almosts and maybes—is choosing to continue writing that story.

You don’t say anything more.

And that’s when he moves.

Slowly, cautiously, Sunghoon turns in your arms, and the look in his eyes nearly shatters you. Hope. Guilt. Wonder. All of it, all at once. His eyes are glossy, lips parted in disbelief. His hands rise, trembling as he cups your face—so gently, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers if he blinks. You feel the pulse in his fingertips where his thumb brushes your jaw—still racing, still loud. Like your presence alone is enough to send it surging. Like he’s never been more alive than in this quiet, fragile moment with you. He gently rests his forehead against yours, the space between you shrinking until it barely exists. His hands are trembling, but his touch is impossibly tender—thumb brushing against your cheek, catching a tear, and then another. You hadn’t even realised you were full-blown crying until his fingers found the evidence. And then—just when you think your heart can’t take any more—his next words knock the air from your lungs like a punch and a prayer all at once. “Can I kiss you?” he whispers, voice hoarse and breaking with every syllable. “Please… tell me I still can.” The plea hangs between you, fragile and breathless. His chest is rising and falling in shallow, uneven rhythm, his pulse frantic beneath your fingertips as you reach up—slowly, instinctively—and wrap your fingers around his wrist. You can feel it there: the raw, aching thrum of his heartbeat, louder than words. Like your touch alone is enough to undo him. He’s never looked more vulnerable. Never more real. There’s no mask, no distance, no practiced calm—just him. Just Sunghoon, standing in front of you with nothing left to offer but his whole heart, held out in both hands. You let out a shaky breath, the corners of your lips lifting despite the tears still wet on your skin. And then—soft, quiet, but certain—you say, “Yes.”

As soon as the word leaves your lips—soft, breathless, and trembling with everything you’ve held back for years—Sunghoon moves. There’s no hesitation. No time wasted. The moment he hears your yes, he closes the distance like a man starved for something he thought he’d never taste again. His hands frame your face with a yearning so delicate it makes your heart ache. And then—he’s kissing you. It isn’t hurried or rough. It’s deep and devastating, like an apology and a promise all wrapped into one. Like he’s trying to pour four years of silence, of longing, of every missed chance into a single touch. He kisses you like it’s the first time and the last time all at once. And you—god, you melt into it. Into him. Into the feeling of home rediscovered, of time folding in on itself. Your fingers find their way into the hem of his hoodie, clinging onto him like you’re afraid he might vanish if you let go. But he doesn’t.

He stays.

And so do you. When you finally find it in you to pull away, you do so slowly—reluctantly—as if your body hasn’t quite caught up with your mind yet. As if some part of you still isn’t ready to let go. Your foreheads stay pressed together, breath mingling in the narrow space between you, warm and uneven. You’re both breathless. Messy. His hair is damp at the edges, your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes sting with the remnants of unshed tears. His thumb lingers at your jaw, gently tracing the skin as if to memorise the feel of you all over again. You feel the tremble in his breath when he exhales, feel the soft thud of his heart still racing beneath your fingertips. He doesn’t speak right away. Neither do you. Because in that moment, there’s nothing to say that could possibly match the weight of what just passed between you. You’d been broken once. Both of you. But right now—in this quiet, tangled stillness—it feels like the pieces are finally trying to come back together. You lean in again, lips parted, drawn to him like gravity—like your heart still hasn’t had enough. But just as your breath brushes against his skin, he gently places a hand on your shoulder and eases you back. The moment stalls. You blink, startled. A flicker of panic rises in your chest—was this a mistake? Did he change his mind? But then he smiles. Soft. Steady. The kind of smile that anchors you. He pulls you into his arms, wrapping you tight against his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he holds you any less carefully. “Believe me,” he murmurs into your hair, voice thick with restraint, “I want you so bad.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, thumb tracing your cheek, his gaze unbearably tender. “But not like this. Not when your heart’s still racing and your thoughts are a blur. I don’t want this to be another moment we look back on and wonder if it was real.” His forehead rests gently against yours again, breath fanning over your lips. You’re stunned by his honesty—by the weight of his restraint, the care in his voice. And you can’t help but compare him to the Sunghoon from four years ago. The boy who never quite knew how to sit still in the presence of raw emotion, who’d grown so used to skating past vulnerability that he forgot how to let someone in.

Back then, he would’ve kissed you anyway. Not out of selfishness, but out of fear—fear of the silence that might follow, fear of what waiting might reveal. He didn’t know how to confront intimacy without flinching. But this—this Sunghoon in front of you now—isn’t running from the stillness. He’s standing in it. Letting the quiet settle between you like a promise. He’s not rushing. He’s not deflecting. He’s choosing you with intention. “I want to do this right. Slow, if that’s what it takes. With all of you—not just the part that’s still reeling from the fall. ” You nod. “You can stay the night if you like… on the couch, of course.” He grins, eyes flickering with something fond, something teasing—but there's warmth behind it, restraint. “Starting from ground zero, I see.” He lets out a breath, gentle and steady. “I’m grateful. Really. But I won’t overstay tonight. I think…” he pauses, gaze dropping to the floor for a brief second before finding you again, more grounded now, “I think we both have some thinking to do too. And frankly speaking, if you look at me like that any longer, I might actually lose my shit.” You laugh, soft and disbelieving, the sound muffled by the sleeve you raise to your mouth. And as much as your heart aches to keep him close, to fall back into the comfort of familiarity, you both know tonight can’t be about slipping into old rhythms too soon. Not when everything between you is still new and fragile in its honesty. He reaches out and brushes a hand over your arm. “Let me put you to sleep,” he says, voice lower now, softer. “And then I’ll go.” And you don’t fight him on it. Because for the first time, he isn’t leaving to run. He’s leaving to give you room to choose. The moment your head hits the pillow, and you feel his lips press a gentle kiss to your forehead, your body sinks into the mattress like it's exhaling. You're not sure if it's the exhaustion from everything that’s unravelled between you earlier, or the undeniable familiarity of having him close again—his scent, his warmth, the quiet hum of his breath near yours—but sleep finds you almost instantly. It's as if your body remembers him. Trusts him.

Sunghoon lingers. He sits by the edge of your bed, watching the rise and fall of your chest, the soft creases of worry smoothing out from your brow now that you're resting. A small, breathy chuckle escapes him as he leans down, brushing a few strands of hair from your face. “So peaceful,” he whispers, almost to himself, “and still somehow managing to look like you carry the weight of the world.” He stays a second longer than he should. Maybe two. And then, quietly, he stands to leave—only to catch the soft glow of your laptop screen still open on your desk. He walks over, intending to shut it, give you the rest you deserve. But as his eyes flicker toward the screen, he recognises the subject line immediately. It's the email to your editor. The article draft. The cursor blinks steadily at the end of the draft—the same paragraph that started it all. Goodbye, Park Sunghoon, And thank you for everything you didn’t have to say.| The words land like a quiet echo in his chest. He glances back at your sleeping form on the bed, a faint, solemn smile tugging at his lips. Then he turns, quietly taking a seat at your desk. His fingers hover above the keyboard for a moment. And then—backspace. Letter by letter, he deletes the final paragraph. In its place, he types slowly. Carefully. Like each word is a stitch trying to mend what’s been frayed for too long. When he’s done, he hovers for a moment, rereading every word—then clicks “Send.” The email spins off toward your editor. He stands, casts one last look in your direction, and quietly lets himself out.

The next morning, you wake groggy but oddly clear-headed, like your body is still catching up to the storm of feelings it weathered the night before. The room is quiet. Sunlight spills in softly through the blinds, casting golden slats across your blanket. For a moment, you wonder if any of it was real—if he really came, really stood in your doorway, cried in your arms, asked to kiss you like it meant everything. But the slight indent on the couch cushion. The mug he used. The scent that still lingers faintly in the air—all of it confirms: he was here. It was real. Your heart thumps at the memory, but it’s interrupted by a harsh vibration rattling on your nightstand. You blink at your phone, screen flooded with notifications—dozens of missed calls, texts, and pings from your editorial team.

Chase headlines, not men. Catch exclusives, not feelings. ✍️

Yunah: @/you I know you're off today, but I just wanted to say CONGRATS on your story!! See, I knew you could pull this off. [Attached: 1 Link]

Moka: The internet is LOSING it over the article!!!

Minju: Still can’t believe you landed exclusive on top of exclusive with Park Sunghoon. Legend behaviour.

Yunah: I’m equally shocked he’s been hiding that injury all this time 😭

Minju: I don’t want to stress you out but… our public inbox is full of people sending selfies of themselves crying. Literal tears.

Moka: I mean did you READ that last paragraph??? I sobbed too.

You blink at your phone, stunned. Messages keep pouring in—some from colleagues you barely know, others from strangers outside your publication, all echoing the same thing: the article hit them hard. Which is… strange. Because you don’t remember sending the draft. Brows furrowed, you scroll up through your texts until you find the link Yunah sent. You tap it. The article is live. You hold your breath as you read through the byline—your name, front and centre. The formatting. The intro you agonised over. The quotes, the story, the soul of it. And then you scroll to the end. A smile tugs at your lips, and you pull up your chat with Sunghoon.

You: [Attached: 1 Screenshot] Was this your doing?

His reply is almost instant.

Sunghoon: Good morning :) Maybe? PR said they wanted to switch it up.

You: And by PR you mean... you?

Sunghoon: 😂 I meant every word. It’s what I wanted to say to you and to the world. Why… was it too corny? I’m sorry if I overstepped.

You bite your lip, heart stupidly fluttering as you reread his words.

You: No no. Just kinda mad I didn’t think of that myself 🙄

Sunghoon: Well, you can’t beat years of media training 🤷‍♂️

You: Sunghoon, I WORK for the media…

He replies almost immediately, like he’s been waiting for your comeback.

Sunghoon: Let me make it up to you for one-upping you. Dinner tonight? My treat.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a beat before you reply.

You: I would not accept otherwise.

You set the phone down, unable to contain the quiet laugh that escapes you. Because despite everything—the heartbreak, the years apart, the mess of it all—you’ve never felt more like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

The two of you walk slowly along the riverbank, hands gently entwined, his thumb occasionally sweeping across your knuckles like he's still making sure you're real. The evening is still, like even the world has paused to listen. A breeze brushes past, gentle and cool, carrying the scent of spring and something sweet that lingers—something that smells like beginnings.

You glance down at your interlocked fingers, how naturally they fall into place—like no time has passed at all. The rhythm of your footsteps syncs without effort, the silence between you not heavy, but full. Comfortable. Honest. Familiar in all the ways that matter.

“This feels like our first date,” you say, smiling without meaning to, the corners of your lips tugged by something warm and indescribable.

He laughs under his breath, a soft, breathy sound that makes your heart swell. “Maybe it is,” he replies. “The first one where I finally know what I’m doing.”

You don’t reply. Not because you have nothing to say, but because every part of this moment already says it for you.

The sky above is endless, dark velvet speckled with stars. The world moves quietly around you—boats drifting in the distance, couples passing by, the faint sound of laughter from a nearby cafe. But for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like you’re watching it all from behind a glass wall. You’re here. Present. With him.

And he’s here too—really here, not as a shadow of a memory, not as someone you're chasing or mourning. But as a man who's finally choosing to stay beside you.

And you think—if the world ended right now, if the river froze and time stopped still—you would not ask for more than this. Not more than his hand in yours, his voice low beside you, his presence finally steady after years of disappearing acts and empty spaces.

You look at him—not the athlete, not the headline, not the boy who once walked away—but the man who returned with no armour, no excuses, only truths. Who stood in front of you trembling, terrified, and still chose to stay. And when you speak, your voice is quiet but certain.

“You could’ve come back with promises, with charm, with all the right words at the wrong time. But you didn’t.”

There’s a small beat of silence where he stops walking and you do too, feet planted at the edge of the path where the river glistens. He faces you fully now, his hand still holding yours.

“You came back to me with everything I ever needed,” you continue.

He opens his mouth, but no words come—just the subtle tremble of his chin, the storm of emotions flickering behind his eyes. You take a step closer, pressing your forehead against his, feeling his breath shudder out as though even now, this is too much to believe.

“This,” he says, almost to himself, “is what I should’ve fought for back then.”

"All that matters is you are now," you whisper. "You left, and then you learned. You grew. And then you came back.”

And that’s the difference. That’s everything.

This isn’t about returning to the past. This is about two people, standing in the aftermath of everything they weren’t ready for then, finally finding each other in a version of the world where they are. Choosing to begin again—not from scratch, but from everything they’ve carried and learned and lived through.

His hand stays in yours, steady and warm, like a vow made without words.

You kiss him.

And this time, the kiss isn’t a promise or an apology. It’s not an act of desperation or regret. It’s a homecoming.

It tastes like relief. Like forgiveness. Like all the years that tried to pull you apart finally surrendering to the truth that you were always meant to find your way back.

When you pull away, he doesn’t say anything right away. He just holds you closer, like letting go would unravel the universe itself.

You rest your head on his shoulder, and in that embrace—quiet and undramatic, warm and steady—you finally understand what it means to be loved not just in the way you wanted, but in the way you deserved.

Because he loves you now in the way that matters most.

Not as the boy who left. Not as the echo of a love lost to time. But as the man who finally came back to put every broken piece back together with his own hands.

This isn’t the love you spent years waiting for.

It’s the love he had to fight to grow into. The kind born from mistakes, shaped by time, and strengthened through absence. It’s messy. Flawed. Earned. Real.

It's the kind of love that's loud in his words as much as it is in his presence.

It’s the kind of love that sees all of you. Not just the polished, loveable parts, but the fractured ones too—and stays anyway.

And for Sunghoon, this is the love he has worked to deserve. The kind of love that took almost losing everything to understand.

Skating. Himself. You.

Skating was his first love—the kind that demanded everything and gave just as much, until it didn’t. And like most first loves, it burned bright, glorious, then quietly slipped beyond reach.

And when he said he fell out of love with it a long time ago, something inside you aches.

Because you remember. God, you remember how much he loved it. How much it meant to him. You were there for the early mornings, the ice-burned skin, the sacrifices. You watched him speak with his body when words failed, carve art into frozen ground like it was the only way he knew how to breathe. Skating wasn’t just something he did. It’s his compass. His language. His sanctuary.

You mourn the love he lost—because it was beautiful. Because it made him who he was. Because you can only imagine what he must’ve gone through to lose that love. To say it out loud. To bury it. And because it hurts to know that even something so beloved can slip away.

And yet… here he is. Standing in front of you, offering up the ashes of what once fuelled him, just to prove that loving you never burned out. That you outlasted the thing that defined him for most of his life. That somehow, someway, you came out on the other side—not as a consolation, but as a constant.

Even now, you don’t know what to do with that kind of love. A love that gave up the world just to come home to you.

Because you know what it cost him. What it cost you.

And even though some part of you swells at the thought that he never stopped choosing you, there’s another part that grieves for everything he lost along the way.

But one thing is certain:

While skating may have been his first love, Sunghoon intends for you to be his last.

So you’ll love him with both hands open. With reverence for the boy he used to be, with gratitude for the man he’s become, and with tenderness for all the versions of him in between.

You will carry the echoes of the boy who once chased gold on the ice and hold space for the man who let it go.

And that’s the way you’ll love him—

The way he loves you.

[MANIFESTO EXCLUSIVE] The Final Bow: Park Sunghoon Withdraws from Olympic Delegation and Announces Retirement

By Kang Y/N, Manifesto Daily

In a move that has taken the sports world by quiet surprise, South Korean figure skater Park Sunghoon has officially withdrawn from the 2026 Olympic delegation and announced his retirement from competitive skating.

Park, who recently stunned audiences with a breathtaking performance at the national Olympic tryouts, was widely anticipated to lead the men’s singles category for Team Korea. His name sat at the top of the final athlete roster released by the Korean Skating Union, cementing his spot after years spent away from the competitive spotlight.

However, behind the seamless technique and poise he displayed during the tryouts, Park had been skating through pain. After sustaining a severe tendon injury to his right leg during training abroad in 2023, he underwent a long and difficult recovery—one that, according to the athlete, never fully restored his capacity to train at the level he once held. Despite managing the condition in silence, Park made the decision to step away before risking further damage to his body.

Having spent the last few years recovering and training quietly overseas, Park re-entered the national circuit not to chase medals, but to rediscover what skating meant to him beyond the pressure of podiums and public expectation. His performance at the tryouts was not only a technical feat but also a statement. A reclamation. A reminder that skating, at its core, was always more than a career. It was a language of feeling.

In his official statement, Park expressed gratitude for the opportunity to return to the ice one last time: “I want to remember it the way I’ve always loved it. For what it gave me. For who I was when I first stepped on the ice.”

Park’s career has never been defined by loud declarations. He was known for his quiet discipline, his ability to translate stillness into power, grace into precision. From his early victories on the junior circuit to his more introspective, mature performances in recent years, he has remained one of the few athletes whose artistry often spoke louder than any press release.

Though his departure from the delegation was unexpected, it wasn���t without intent. Park’s decision to step back at the height of anticipation is a reminder that not all victories are won under stadium lights. Some are claimed in the quiet resolve to walk away on your own terms.

In related news, Park’s withdrawal comes just days after the delegation announcement, and in his place, 19-year-old rising star Han Jihoon has been selected to represent Korea in the men’s singles category. Han, who placed fourth at the national tryouts, is widely regarded as one of the most technically gifted athletes of his generation, with a growing fanbase and a reputation for innovation on the ice.

As for Park Sunghoon, he leaves behind a legacy not of statistics, but of stillness. Of dignity. Of skating that always seemed to speak in the spaces where words fell short.

And maybe that was the point all along. Maybe it was never about the podium. Maybe the real victory was simply finding your way back to loving something you once thought you had to leave behind.

Copyright© 2025 thatfeelinwhenyou All Rights Reserved

[kidult0325]

best friend's brother!heeseung ?

yes yes yes yes YES!!

warnings : unprotected sex, cum play, deception, risk of getting caught !

you shouldn’t be in his room. your best friend’s downstairs, probably raiding the fridge or setting up a movie. you swore you were just going to grab a charger. and now heeseung’s got you pinned against the wall, hoodie bunched around your waist, your panties shoved to the side.

“just the tip,” he mutters, voice low and dangerous. “just to feel you for a second.”

you know that’s a lie. he always says that. and you always let him.

his cock pushes in slow, thick head splitting you open, and you gasp—legs already shaking. your hands scramble for something to hold on to, fingers clutching at his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

he groans against your neck, hips grinding deep but shallow, just barely moving. “fuck, you’re so warm, doll. so wet already and i’ve barely touched you.”

you shouldn’t let him. you shouldn’t want this.

but then he slides in fully, hips flush to yours, and you let out the tiniest whimper.

“thought it was just the tip?” you whisper.

he smirks, already pulling back to thrust again, slow and deep. “oops.”

from there it unravels. he fucks you hard—deliberately, like he wants to make you remember it all day. each snap of his hips is slick, loud, obscene. and when he cums inside you the first time, it’s with a growl of your name and his hands gripping your hips like he owns you.

but he doesn’t stop.

heeseung fucks you through it, cum dripping down your thighs, thrusts getting rougher. “not enough. need to fill you again—ruin this pussy until it can’t take anyone else.”

you’re babbling now, head against the wall, arms limp, just letting him use your body how he wants. the second time he cums, it’s with your legs shaking and cunt fluttering around him, pulling it all in like you need it.

by the third round, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed with you in his lap, riding him slow, too full and too fucked-out to think. his cum leaking out with every bounce. a mess between your thighs. your brain’s gone.

“look at you,” he breathes, voice dripping with pride and filth. “so fucked dumb you forgot where you are. what if your friend walks in, huh? you gonna stop me?”

you shake your head, barely able to speak. and he just smiles.

“that’s what i thought. now be a good girl and milk one more out of me. i wanna see it dripping down your legs when you walk out of here.”

© sualette

[kidult0325]

—ONE ON ONE 18+

Nishimura Riki x Female!Reader — University AU

warnings/tags: study buddies to lovers, inexperienced reader, hard dom!riki, crush!riki, porn with some plot, texting, teasing, making out, praising, fingering, oral (f. receiving), choking, marking, slapping, possessive, demanding riki, spit, handjob, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, aftercare

♡ you start studying with your quiet crush, until one day, he invites you over, and you end up sobbing, ruined in his bed.

w/c: 7.4k

It wasn’t anything serious. At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself. You and Riki didn’t really talk. Not the way other classmates did—casual, loud, back-and-forth in lecture halls. He was… quiet. Always showing up late but somehow still getting a seat near the front. Always in dark clothes and expensive jewellery. Always watching more than speaking. He didn’t try to stand out. He didn’t raise his hand. And yet somehow, you noticed him first. Well. Maybe not “noticed”, more like kept noticing. Like your brain started analyzing him every time he walked into the room: black hoodie again, earphones in, notebook half-open but never messy. You never even thought he’d noticed you at all.

Until he did.

It was a Tuesday, and you were stuck. The professor handed out a printed exercise to be solved in pairs, but your usual friend wasn’t in class. You were halfway through trying to solve the second question alone, chewing the cap of your pen in mild panic, when you heard a voice behind you. “…You’re doing it backwards.” You looked up. He was already sitting in the empty chair beside you, like it was the most normal thing in the world. Riki. His voice was lower than you expected. He leaned over and tapped his pen against your sheet ,not correcting you, just quietly showing you. You blinked at him. “Oh. Thanks,” you managed. He didn’t reply. Just kept working beside you until the time ran out. And when the professor collected the papers, he stood up and left without saying anything else.That was it. Or… you thought that was it. Until a week later, when you were reviewing notes from the last lecture and couldn’t find a single readable thing in your handwriting. You remembered his — clean, sharp, borderline aesthetic. You didn’t know why, but you pulled up the class group chat, scrolled, found his number from a previous message, and tapped it. You weren’t even sure he’d remember who you were. You weren’t sure why you were nervous. But you texted him anyway.

You

hey riki!! do u still have the notes from class today? i zoned out halfway :(

♡

Riki

yeah

figured you would

♡

You

what’s that supposed to mean

♡

Riki

you always zone out around the halfway mark

kinda cute tbh

You stared at your screen, heat blooming in your cheeks.

You

i’m gonna take that as a compliment

♡

Riki

was one

He was so casual, unreadable, like he hadn’t just short-circuited your brain. It started with a single text from him the next day:

Riki

still need help with the lecture stuff?

library’s dead today, come by if u want

Your stomach flipped a little when you read it, mostly from surprise. You hadn’t expected him to follow up. Definitely hadn’t expected him to remember your struggle with the content. So you said yes. You found him at a tucked-away table in the back corner of the campus library, hoodie pulled over his head, one earbud in, notebook already open. He looked up once when you arrived. Didn’t smile, just nodded. You sat beside him. Close, but not close enough to touch. You opened your laptop, pulled out your notes, and tried to pretend your hands weren’t slightly shaking. For the first ten minutes, neither of you spoke. He scribbled something down. You typed a few lines. It was quiet, comfortably quiet. But there was something about being this close to him that made it so fucking hard to focus and he smelled so good. You weren’t sure why it made your mouth dry. After a while, he leaned over just a little to glance at your screen. “You copied that part wrong,” he said. You blinked. “Huh, really?” He reached out, brushing your hand by accident—or maybe not—and pointed directly at the mistake. “This line. He was talking about this, not that. You flipped them.” “Oh,” you said, staring dumbly at the highlighted section. “That makes way more sense.” He hummed. Barely a sound. Then sat back again like he hadn’t just leaned close enough for you to feel his breath on your cheek.

You tried to keep reading, but your eyes kept drifting.

To the way his fingers drummed against the edge of his notebook.

To the way he chewed on his cheek while concentrating.

To the way his sleeve slipped up just enough to show the veins in his wrist and arm.

You forced yourself to focus. Mostly.

You didn’t plan to run into him again. Not really. You were just looking for somewhere quiet, someplace your brain might actually work for once, and the upper floor had study rooms that no one ever used. It was a last resort. You walked in with your headphones already on and your brain half-fried. And then you saw him. Riki. Sitting alone in one of the back corners. Legs sprawled, earbuds in. A pen spinning between his fingers, that same black hoodie pulled halfway off one shoulder. You froze in the doorway. He looked up, and for a second, he just stared. Not surprised. Not curious. Just calm. Like he’d been expecting you. Then he jerked his chin, wordless, inviting you to sit with him. Your pulse jumped. You tried not to show it as you stepped inside. “You’re here a lot,” you said quietly, settling into the chair beside him. “Yeah,” he replied, eyes dropping back to his notebook. “Quiet’s good.” It was. Too good, maybe. Every time he shifted in his seat, every time he tapped the table or flipped a page, it felt louder than it should’ve. You tried to focus on your own material, but your eyes kept wandering. To the veins on his hands. The way he leaned back and chewed on his pen cap. The curve of his lip when he was thinking. God, you needed to get a grip. You were scribbling out notes on a problem you didn’t totally understand, squinting your eyes, when his voice came low beside you.

“You’re writing the wrong formula.” You blinked. He leaned in, arm brushing yours as he took your pen without asking and struck a line through your equation. His handwriting replaced it. Clean and annoyingly perfect. “That’s how you mess the whole thing up,” he said simply, handing your pen back. You stared at the page. “Thanks,” you said. Quiet. Maybe too quiet. He didn’t move away. Just sat there, watching the way your eyes lingered on the ink he’d left behind. Then finally, with a slight tilt of his head, “You always squint your eyes when you’re stuck?” You stiffened. You hadn’t even noticed you were doing that. You looked up, startled, and he was already looking at you. Calm. Casual. His gaze didn’t move. It felt like too much, suddenly.Too much eye contact. Too much attention. Too much heat. You forced a laugh, ducking your head. “Wow. You’re observant.” He didn’t answer. But he didn’t look away either. And for the rest of the session, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was still watching you. Not obviously, not openly, but just enough to make you not being able to focus. The study session lasted just under an hour. By the end of it, your head was clearer, and your notes were neater. You were packing up your bag when he finally spoke again. “You work better in silence,” he said simply. Not a compliment. Just an observation. You paused. “Do I?” He met your eyes. “Yeah. You get distracted too easily when it’s loud.” Something about the way he said it made you wonder what else he’d noticed.

He’d asked you after the last session — just kind of offhand, like it didn’t mean anything.“It’s quieter in my dorm,” he said, packing up his notes. “You can come by next time if you want.” That was it. No expression. No explanation. You’d nodded too fast. Now you were standing outside his door, staring at the number. You knocked twice before you lost your nerve. It took a second, but he answered. His dorm was small, neat, two desks, one unmade bed, the faint smell of detergent and whatever cologne he always wore. His roommate wasn’t home. He didn’t say that part, but it was obvious. The room felt still. You stepped inside carefully, clutching your bag, suddenly hyper-aware of your outfit. You hadn’t meant to dress like this, not for him, anyway. The kinda sheer tank top was just convenient, and the skirt? You told yourself it wasn’t that short. You’d worn it a million times. But Riki’s eyes dropped for just a second before he stepped aside to let you in. And that second? It lit your whole body on fire. He didn’t say anything about it. Of course not. He just sat at his desk, motioning to the chair beside his. “Here.” You took your seat.

For the first ten minutes, it was normal. Mostly quiet. His pencil scratched lightly against his notebook. You tried to copy a few things he wrote down, but your focus was elsewhere. You could feel the heat of him beside you. His knee brushed yours once, and it sent your heart into your throat. You didn’t move. Neither did he. You thought maybe he hadn’t noticed. But then, after a long pause, he spoke. “You wore that on purpose?” His voice was low and calm. Almost lazy. Your stomach dropped. “What?” you asked, too quickly. “That skirt.” You froze, heart hammering, unsure if you were supposed to laugh or deny it or what. You weren’t even sure if he was joking. But when you glanced at him, he was still staring at your thighs, then your face, with that unreadable, maddening expression. “I didn’t mean to,” you said, breath caught. “I just… it’s hot out.” Riki’s eyes dragged over you one more time, slowly. Like he was thinking about something. Measuring it. Then he looked away. “Shame,” he muttered. It was barely audible. And he didn’t elaborate. He just turned back to his page, pen in hand, like that was the end of it.

But your whole body was lit up. Nerves everywhere. Blood rushing to your face, your throat, your fingertips. And even though you tried to keep reading, keep writing, keep breathing normally, you couldn’t stop feeling the heat of his presence beside you. Still quiet. Still unbothered. You tried to keep your hands steady, not to squirm in your seat, not to think about the way his voice had dropped on that one word—Shame—like he meant more than he said. Riki hadn’t touched you. He hadn’t even looked at you again. But it didn’t matter. Everything between you had changed. You stole a glance at him. He was focused again, or at least pretending to be. The sharp angle of his jaw, the loose way he held his pen, the little crease between his brows , it all looked the same, but you knew it wasn’t. He had noticed. And worse, you couldn’t stop wondering what else he’d noticed. “Need help?” he asked, suddenly. You blinked. “Huh?” He nodded at your page. “You’ve been staring at that question for five minutes.” You scrambled to look down, pretending like you were just distracted. “Oh— yeah. I don’t get it.” “Let me see.” He reached for your notebook, leaned in close enough for your shoulders to brush, and took it gently from your hands. Your breath caught. His thigh pressed against yours. Just slightly. He didn’t move.

He explained the answer softly, pointing as he spoke, the tip of his pen gliding over your paper. You weren’t listening. You couldn’t. Because all you could feel was how close he was. How warm he felt. How good he smelled. How careful and deep his voice was. You swallowed hard. He handed your notebook back, fingers grazing yours. “You okay?” he asked. You nodded fast. “Yeah. Just— tired.” He studied you. His eyes flicked down your face, slow, deliberate. “You always get like this when you’re tired?” You blinked. “Like what?” Riki didn’t answer right away. He slightly shifted in his seat and turned toward you. Then, in that same dead-calm voice: “Fidgety. Quiet. All flushed.” Your breath stopped. He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t teasing. He looked completely composed like he was stating facts, which somehow made it worse. “I’m not—” you tried, voice weak. He cut you off. “You are.” Then silence again. The air between you was thick. Too heavy to breathe. And then, his hand moved. Slowly. He reached out and touched the side of your thigh, not high, not too far, just above your knee. He didn’t say anything, didn’t look away from your face. He just watched. Watched like he already knew what you were thinking. Your lips parted, but no words came out. You didn’t stop him. You didn’t move. And maybe that was all he needed. His touch dragged a little higher. Still slow and patient. Your chest rose with a sharp breath, and his eyes flicked down, just briefly, to your mouth, then back up. Debating.

You stared at the notebook in front of you like it might save you, but your body was already betraying you. Heat bloomed under your skin, your hands twitched in your lap. You couldn’t look at him, but you felt him. Silent. Watching you. Then, finally, his voice, low, right beside your ear. “You’re shaking. You bit the inside of your cheek. He didn’t move his hand, didn’t tease. You turned your face slightly, just enough to catch his eyes and he was already looking at you. Expression unreadable. Completely composed. Then, after a beat, his thumb dragged slightly along the inside of your thigh. Barely anything, but it lit you up. He leaned in, voice low and even, “You get like this for anyone else?” Your heart slammed in your chest. Your mouth parted, but the only sound you made was your breath hitching. He didn’t push, he just watched, already knowing the answer. You couldn’t answer him. Not with words. Not like that. So you just stared, lips parted, heart in your throat, too warm, too aware of every place his hand touched. Then, his fingers slipped slightly higher. Slow and measured. He was feeling it too, the shift in the room, the heat between you, the way your body leaned in before you even realized. He leaned closer, not fully, just enough that his shoulder brushed yours, his thigh pressed against the side of your leg.

You swore you heard the faintest breath from him like he was steadying himself. Then his hand slipped under the edge of your skirt. Bare skin. You sucked in a breath and finally looked at him. His expression hadn’t changed, but his dark eyes gave him away. There was nothing casual in that stare anymore. His fingers moved again, a little higher, then stopped just before the heat of your core. You tensed, but you didn’t pull away. “Knew you’d let me.” he said, softly. The words slammed through you like a current. Your breath hitched hard. Still, he didn’t move further. He just watched you squirm, fingers barely pressing into your thigh, letting the weight of everything unspoken hang thick between you. You weren’t sure if you were going to melt or burst. His hand moved again, slipping just a little further, fingers grazing the soft curve where your thigh met your hip. Your breath caught, shallow and quick. Riki’s breath hitched softly against your neck as he leaned in, just enough that you could feel the warmth, his steady, quiet presence like a steady flame flickering against your skin. You could feel him—so close now, that his chest brushed against your arm, his steady heartbeat like a silent drum beside you.

Your pulse thundered in your ears, loud and urgent. He stayed there, patient, watching. Then, the quietest sound, a breath, almost a sigh, right at the hollow of your neck. Your skin tingled. And then, his lips brushed your skin. A gentle ghost of a kiss that sent a shiver down your spine. You turned your head slightly, searching for more. His eyes met yours, dark and unreadable, holding yours with an intensity that made your heart leap. Without breaking eye contact, he tilted his head and pressed his lips to yours. It was soft at first, testing. But then it got deeper, firmer, as if he’d been holding back all along. Your hands twitched at his waist, unsure and desperate. The world shrank until there was only the two of you—breath mingling, heat pooling between you. He pulled back just enough to whisper against your lips, voice low and steady. “Finally.” His lips pulled away from yours just long enough to catch his breath. Then, without a word, Riki’s hand slid from your thigh to your waist, gripping firmly as he pulled you up and pressed you back against the edge of the desk. The smooth wood was cool beneath your palms, but his body was hot and heavy, looming over you, shadowing your smaller frame. You could feel the weight of him, the strength in his arms holding you in place. His mouth crashed back onto yours, more demanding now, hungry and fierce. His hands roamed freely, sliding up your sides, cupping your ribs, fingers pressing into the soft skin of your tummy.

You gasped when one hand slipped beneath your shirt, fingers ghosting over bare skin, no barrier, nothing between you and him. Your back arched instinctively. His other hand found your throat, thumb brushing lightly, fingers framing your pulse. His eyes closed as he kissed you like he was starving, like he needed to devour every inch of you. Your hands tangled in his hair, desperate to hold on, to pull him closer. His mouth moved against yours with an urgent rhythm, deep, claiming. You felt every heartbeat, every breath, every touch. You were pinned but free all at once, lost in the heat of him. And even as his grip tightened just slightly at your throat, it wasn’t rough, it was possessive, controlled, making clear you belonged to him in this moment. The world outside ceased to exist. There was only the two of you, pressed close, skin on skin, heat and hunger tangled in every kiss and touch. You couldn’t keep still anymore. Your legs squeezed together, your hands gripping the edge of the desk like you’d fall apart without it. His touch was everywhere—soft palms sliding under your shirt, thumbs brushing over your bare chest, knuckles grazing places that made you gasp and twitch and whine without meaning to. You were dizzy with him. Every breath came out too fast, too shallow. He pulled back from the kiss just enough to look down at you. Your lips were parted, swollen. Your chest rising in frantic little jolts. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, gaze dragging across your face.

You whimpered. It slipped out before you could stop it—quiet, needy, helpless—and his eyes darkened instantly. He liked that. One hand splayed across your stomach, holding you still, the other slid higher, over your chest again, thumbs brushing your nipples until your head tipped back and a shaky moan slipped through your lips. You were panting now, thighs pressed together, aching. “Riki…” you breathed, barely a whisper. His hand came back up to your throat, firm but gentle, tilting your chin so you had no choice but to look up at him. You were flushed. Eyes wide, lips wet, a total mess. And he looked down at you like he’d never seen anything more perfect. “You look so fucking pretty like this,” he said lowly, like he was talking to himself more than you. You blushed, a sigh leaving your mouth, back arching into his touch. His mouth crashed onto yours, hungrily, like he needed to shut you up before you begged. His hips pressed forward, caging you completely, and you felt him, hard through his jeans, pressed against your lower stomach. You made a soft, desperate sound in your throat, and he swallowed it down. Your hands moved without thinking, tugging at his shirt, trying to get closer, trying to do something with how badly you wanted him, but he didn’t rush. He kissed you harder, messier, until your legs felt weak and your body trembled beneath him. Until all you could do was gasp and whine and let him touch and take. You weren’t thinking anymore. Just feeling. Every brush of his fingers, every scrape of teeth, every low breath against your skin. And the worst part was how badly you wanted more, how badly you needed it. How you would’ve said yes to anything he asked.

Your chest rose and fell in short, shaky breaths as he pulled away just enough to look at you again, eyes half-lidded, lips kiss-bitten. His hand slipped down from your throat, trailing slowly along your collarbone, then lower, until his palm flattened over your ribs again. His eyes dragged slowly over your body—the way your chest heaved, the way your thighs pressed together like you were trying to hold yourself in place. Then he leaned in, voice brushing against your ear, low and steady, “Look at you,” he murmured. “So worked up and I haven’t even done anything yet.” Your breath caught, eyes fluttering shut for a second, because God, he was right. His fingers skimmed just above your waistband, dragging across your lower stomach, the touch featherlight, maddening. “You want it that bad, baby?” he asked, quietly, like he already knew the answer. You let out a whimper, soft and high, nodding before you could even think. That made him smile, just barely. Almost smug. His fingers dipped under the hem of your skirt, warm and unhurried. “Let me see how bad,” he said.

His hand moved with ease, sliding beneath your skirt, soft fingertips dragging the fabric of your panties down your thighs—slow, almost teasing. He didn’t take them off, just pushed them down, exposing you enough to make you shy. The cool air hit you, and then, his fingers. Two of them, thick and warm, sliding through your soaked folds like he was testing you. Your hips bucked. He chuckled, quiet, deep in his chest. “So wet already,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “Dripping.” Your face burned, but you couldn’t look away. You were panting, lips parted, eyes wide as his fingers pressed in just a little. You whined. He exhaled slowly, enjoying every second of watching you unravel. And then, without warning, he pushed his fingers in—deep, smooth, filling you so easily your head fell back with a broken moan. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, his jaw tense. “You feel insane.” Your walls clenched around him, and he felt it, smirked a little when your legs twitched, when your body rocked instinctively against his hand. His other hand slid up your thigh, settling on your hip to hold you still. Then he started moving. Slow thrusts of his fingers, curling just right, his thumb dragging over your clit in lazy, perfect circles.

You were gone. Melting. Whimpering with every curl, every press, every stroke. Your thighs trembled. Your hands flew to his shoulders, fingers digging in like you needed something to hold onto. “Riki—” you gasped, voice wrecked and whiny. “Please—” He leaned in again, his breath hot against your neck. “Please what, hm?” You whimpered, hips jerking. “Need m-more,” you managed. His fingers thrust a little deeper, a little faster, his thumb pressing harder on your clit. “You’ll cum for me like this,” he said lowly, lips brushing your ear, “and then I’ll give you more.” Your body arched. The pressure built fast, tight and overwhelming, and all you could do was nod, desperate little noises spilling from your lips as your climax started to crest. You were already close, right on the edge, hips twitching, thighs shaking, the pressure unbearable. But then his hand shot up, suddenly, firmly gripping your jaw. His fingers pressed into your cheeks, tilting your head up, forcing you to look at him. “Let go,” he whispered, fingers thrusting faster now, relentless. “Be a good girl and cum.” That was it. Your entire body shattered. You came with a cry, legs clamping around his wrist, hips jerking against his hand as waves of heat and pleasure rolled through you. Your eyes barely stayed open, wide and glossy, locked onto his as you came undone right there on the desk, whining, pulsing hard around his fingers. He watched you, tight grip still on your face, other hand working you through it like he wanted to see you lose control. “Good girl,” he muttered, lips brushing yours. “Just like that.”

You were still trembling, thighs twitching from the aftershocks, breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. He pulled his fingers from you slowly, watching the way you flinched from the overstimulation. His hand was slick with you, dripping, and he stared at it for a beat, eyes dark and unreadable. Then he dropped to his knees. Your breath hitched. You barely had a second to react before his hands gripped your thighs, spreading them wider, and his mouth was on you. A gasp tore out of your throat as his tongue dragged through your folds, slow and greedy. “Ngh—Riki!” Your hand flew to his hair, the other on the desk, fingers gripping the edge until your knuckles turned white. He moaned softly into you, the vibration making your hips buck. His hands squeezed tighter, holding your thighs apart, keeping you open for him as he lapped up every drop of your release, messy, shameless. Your head fell back. Another whine escaped your lips, high and breathless, and still—still—he kept going, tongue swirling around your clit, flicking with just enough pressure to make your eyes roll back. When he finally pulled away, your skin was hot and damp, your whole body still twitching, breath caught in your throat. He stood, and then his hand wrapped around your neck again—firm, possessive—and he yanked you into a kiss. His mouth crashed into yours, lips slick with your taste, tongue sliding against yours with no warning, no hesitation. You whimpered against him, hands reaching for his shirt, for anything to ground yourself.

He kissed you like he owned you. Like he needed to devour you. His grip on your throat tightened and you moaned into his mouth, helpless and hazy, your whole body pliant against his. And when he finally pulled back, his lips were swollen, his eyes dark, and his voice—fuck—his voice was low and raw when he spoke. “You’re mine,” he said, quiet but rough, meant for just you. “Got it?” Your heart stuttered. He’d barely said more than a few words to you since you met—always calm, unreadable, barely emoting—and now he was gripping your throat, kissing you like he wanted to ruin you, claiming you like you already belonged to him. You didn’t even hesitate. Your head nodded, small and shaky, your whole body still trembling under his touch. “I’m yours,” you whispered, breathless. It came out like a confession, sitting heavy in your chest for too long, just waiting for him to pull it out of you. Your eyes met his, wide and glossy, and the look on your face, sweet and desperate, giving him the biggest puppy eyes he’d ever seen. But you looked so pretty like that—wrecked and breathless, your lips parted, your thighs still shaking, feeling like you needed him more than air.

Riki’s jaw tightened, and something dark flickered across his expression. His grip on your face stayed firm, fingers digging just a little harder into your cheeks. “Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, voice rough, barely held back. “You’ll make me fucking crazy.” But he was already leaning in again, mouth finding yours in a mess of tongue and teeth, kissing you so hard your head tipped back from the force of it. You moaned into him, needy and sweet, letting him take whatever he wanted, and he did. Then suddenly, his arms wrapped around your thighs and he lifted you. You gasped, hands flying to his shoulders, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your body still trembling from the aftermath of his touch. He carried you the short distance from the desk to his bed and laid you down gently, never breaking contact. His body hovered over yours, eyes locked on your flushed, fucked-out face. Your shirt was rucked halfway up your stomach, your lips swollen from his kisses, thighs still twitching where they wrapped around his waist. He stared at you for a long, quiet second, trying to memorize you like this. Then his hands came down, one to your thigh, pushing it open wider, the other to your ribs, sliding up your bare skin under your shirt, slow and deliberate until his palm cupped your chest. No bra. Just you, soft and warm and whimpering under his touch. “You don’t even know what you do to me,” he muttered. You bit your lip, hips shifting instinctively, seeking friction. Anything. But he didn’t give it to you, not yet. He just leaned down, mouth brushing your neck, tongue licking a slow stripe up to your jaw before he kissed you there, hot and open-mouthed, leaving a mark. Your fingers clutched at his shirt. “Riki…” He hummed lowly, like the sound of his name falling from your lips lit something in him.

His mouth found your ear, breath hot, “Tell me you want it,” he said. “Say it.” Your whole body was burning now, flushed from head to toe, your voice coming out in a shaky, helpless whisper, “I want it. I want you.” And that was all it took. He kissed you again, before his hands moved, yanking your shirt up and over your head, tossing it aside without a second glance. Then he just stared. Your bare chest rising and falling, skin flushed, nipples already hard from his teasing. His hands dragged up from your waist, until they cupped your tits, thumbs brushing over them gently, considering the way his jaw clenched like he was barely holding back. “Look at you…” he muttered, voice ragged. “Fuck.” And then he was on you. Mouth hot and desperate, he ducked his head and devoured you, lips closing around one nipple while his hand kneaded the other, tongue flicking and sucking until your back arched off the bed with a gasp. He bit,not too hard, just enough to make you squeal, and soothed it with his tongue right after, moving between your breasts like he couldn’t choose which to ruin first. You were already panting, fingers tangled in his hair, thighs rubbing together. Sloppy kisses turned into bites. He left hickies on your neck, down your collarbone, over the swell of your tits, under them, across your ribs. You could feel the bruises blooming under his mouth, red and raw, one after the other like he wanted to brand every inch of you. He kissed down, mouthing at your tummy next, dragging his teeth over the soft skin before sucking another mark right beneath your navel.

And all that while watching you. Smirk barely there, eyes half-lidded but burning, soaking in every whimper, every twist of your body, every broken moan. “No one else gets to see you like this. Only me.” he said against your skin. He leaned back just enough to yank his shirt over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it aside carelessly. You barely had time to look—at the lean muscles, the toned arms, the sharp lines of his waist—before his hands were back on you again, sliding under the waistband of your skirt. “Lift your hips.” he said, and you obeyed without thinking. He dragged the skirt down your thighs, watching the way you shivered beneath him. He took his time peeling it off, letting his hands skim down your legs like he was memorizing the feel of you. Then he tossed it aside and looked down at you—naked, body covered in marks, chest rising and falling fast. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, eyes roaming like he couldn’t decide where to touch you first. His hands found your hips, big, warm and possessive, and then they started moving. One slid up your side, across your stomach, over your breast, the other to your jaw, fingers stroking gently before slipping between your lips. “Suck,” he said, low and commanding. Your lips parted automatically, and you wrapped them around his thumb, letting him press it down on your tongue. He watched you—watched your pretty, desperate mouth take it in, cheeks hollowing slightly as you sucked. “That’s it,” he murmured. “Good girl.” You whimpered around his thumb, pussy pulsing, body practically buzzing from the tension. His other hand was still moving—down your ribs, over your tummy, lower, skimming just above your heat. Then he sat back a little on his knees, keeping his thumb in your mouth as he reached for his waistband.

He hooked his fingers into the edge of his sweats and slid them down just enough to reveal the outline of his cock through his boxers—thick, hard, straining against the fabric. Your breath caught, eyes flicking down before darting back up to his face. And he was already watching you. A soft smirk curved his lips as he tilted his head, thumb still resting on your tongue. “My cute girl,” he cooed. “So needy for me already… you really can’t help yourself, can you?” You hummed around his thumb, cheeks flushing even deeper, thighs pressing together as the heat pulsed harder between them. His hand drifted back to his waistband, and this time, he slipped his fingers under. You watched with wide eyes, heart pounding, breath catching in your throat when he finally pulled his cock free. So big and heavy, flushed at the tip, already leaking. The sight made your stomach flip, your mouth go dry, and you could barely look before your gaze darted away, face burning. “Aww,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “what’s wrong, baby?” You shook your head quickly, eyes flickering back up to his face, trying not to stare but completely failing. Your thighs squeezed together instinctively, your body so hot you could hardly stand it. He leaned in closer, one hand returning to your cheek, fingers stroking your flushed skin. “Shy all of a sudden?” he teased, a dark smile playing on his lips. “You were being so brave for me a second ago.” You whimpered, squirming under his gaze, his cock now resting heavy against his abs as he leaned. He took your hand and gently guided it to wrap around him. “Come on,” he whispered. “Touch me.” Your fingers curled around him, tentative and trembling, and his breath hitched like he hadn’t expected you to feel that good.

He swore under his breath, hips twitching slightly, and his head fell down. “That’s it,” he whispered, his hand covering yours, guiding your movements slow and steady. “Just like that.” You stroked him softly, your touch shy, eyes flickering between his flushed cock and his face—so close, so focused, the sight of your hand on him was driving him insane. Your hand stayed on him, guided by his, and the longer you touched him, the more confident your fingers became. You swallowed hard, heart racing at the weight of him in your palm, pulsing in your hand. His cock twitched again, and a low groan left his lips, rough and strained. “Fuck,” he muttered and leaned closer, his forehead brushing yours. His breath was warm and shaky, fingers tightening over yours. “Doing so good.” You looked up at him, wide-eyed, lips parted. There was something in the way he stared back, eyes hooded, jaw tight, he was barely holding himself back. He took your hand away from him gently, kissed your wrist, and pressed your arm back against the bed “Spread your legs for me.” You obeyed. Slowly, nervously. But the second your thighs parted, his gaze dropped and darkened. “God,” he said under his breath. He crawled between your legs, hands running up your thighs.

He leaned down, kissed you—soft, slow, deceptively gentle—before lining himself up, one hand wrapped firmly around his cock, slowly moving it up and down your folds, the other resting over your ribs grounding himself. “You ready f’me, baby?” he asked, voice quiet, low against your mouth. You nodded, a soft, breathy sound escaping your lips, but it wasn’t enough for him. His hand slid to your throat again, “Use your words.” “I—I want you,” you whispered, and the moment the words left your mouth, his hips pushed forward slowly. The stretch made your breath catch. His hand slid under your thigh, hitching it up. You could feel him, pressed just against your entrance, stretching you, but not moving yet, giving you time. His hand curled around your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip with surprising tenderness for someone who’s splitting you in half. You gripped the sheets beneath you, lips parting in a gasp as the pressure built inside you. Every inch filled you more than you expected, and it was overwhelming, unfamiliar, but somehow addictive. Riki’s mouth found your shoulder, teeth grazing lightly over your skin, like he was trying to distract you from the way he was sinking deeper. “You’re doing so good,” he murmured against your skin. You whimpered, your body tensing. “Breathe for me,” he said, and his voice was so calm, so steady, it soothed you even while you felt like falling apart. You let out a shaky exhale, eyes fluttering shut, and after another moment, he was fully inside.

Your eyes met his, teary and wide, and your lips trembled. “Riki—s’too much,” you admitted, voice almost shy. He smirked, “I know,” leaning down to kiss your jaw. “You’ll take it for me, won’t you?” Your stomach flipped at the words. You nodded, more sure this time. Then he pulled back just a little, before thrusting again, and your whole body shuddered at the sensation. “That’s it,” he whispered, voice ragged as he buried himself deeper. “So tight… fuck, y’feel so good.” His hips rolled into you slow, dragging against your walls, making you moan louder with each stroke. You clung to him, nails digging into his arms, breath coming in sharp little gasps as he set a rhythm. It was too much, too full, too good, and your body couldn’t keep up. Every time he moved, you clenched tighter around him. He pulled back slightly and grabbed your leg, lifting it high and pressing it over his shoulder. The angle changed everything—you cried out, high and helpless, your head tilting back against the mattress as he thrust deeper, harder, splitting you open with every roll of his hips. “Yeah,” he muttered, fingers digging into your thigh, mouth kissing it softly, as he started to lose control. “That’s it. Let me hear you.” You were loud. Whining, whimpering, trembling under his body, your hands gripping the sheets. “R-Riki—!” you sobbed his name, tears welling at the corners of your eyes as your body jolted under the force of each thrust.

And that did something to him. His hand shot to your throat again, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. You were a mess. Eyes wet, lips trembling, mouth open in breathless, broken sounds, and when the first tear slipped down your cheek, he smiled. Not sweet. Not soft. A sharp, dark twist of his mouth like he was proud of it. And then he slapped you. A clean, firm hit across your cheek—quick and shocking—and you gasped, more in disbelief than pain. Your head whipped slightly to the side, your moan caught somewhere between pleasure and stunned heat. His hand lingered there, fingers spread across your cheek, claiming you. “Fucking love seeing you cry for me.” Your stomach dropped, heat flooding your veins, and you started sobbing harder—overwhelmed, aroused, completely undone. Your hands reached up, grabbing the one that had just hit you, fingers curling around his wrist, holding it like it anchored you. You couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe that your crush—the one who barely spoke, who barely looked at anyone—had slapped you, and now he was fucking you like this, praising the tears he pulled from your eyes, and you fucking liked it. You needed more.

He shifted his weight, grabbed both of your thighs, and lifted—guiding your legs up and over his shoulders in one smooth, strong movement. The change in angle made you moan loudly, the new depth dizzying, the sound leaving your lips raw and wrecked. Your hands fumbled at the sheets, knuckles white as you held on, tears spilling down your cheeks again as the pleasure pushed you past the edge of sense. “Riki—” you choked out, completely gone, “I… I can’t—” “Yes, you can,” he groaned, slamming into you harder, his hand tightening on your jaw. “You’re gonna take every fucking inch.” Your eyes rolled back, body arching, sobs turning into moans, hands gripping him like he was the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely. His gaze locked onto yours, dark, possessive, mouth parted slightly as he caught the sight of you all spread out and shaking for him. “Open your mouth.” You gasped, but you did—lips parting, eyes wide and waiting. He leaned over you, hips never slowing down, and with a sharp breath through his nose, he spit into your mouth. “Swallow.” You did. Without thinking. Without hesitation. And that seemed to please him. His hand came to your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear like he was calming you, and then—Slap.

A soft one. Just enough to make your breath catch, to light another spark under your skin. You whimpered and he firmly gripped your jaw, tilting your head to make sure you looked at him. “You’re fucking perfect,” he whisper softly. “You’ll do anything I say, won’t you?” Your pussy clenched around him, back arching from the bed. And still, you nodded, too far gone to form words, too desperate for him. You were gasping, moaning brokenly into the heat of his neck as he pounded into you, deep and rough, your legs high on his shoulders. His grip on your thighs was bruising, and you clung to the bedsheets, your vision blurred from tears and pleasure. Your body was stretched and aching, but it didn’t matter, not when he was murmuring filthy praise in your ear, not when every thrust perfectly hit your cervix. “You’re mine,” he whispered. “This pussy—” he snapped his hips hard, making you cry out, “—belongs to me.” You sobbed, nodding, walls fluttering around him. “Want you to cum with me,” he said roughly, teeth gritted as his rhythm got sloppy. “Let go, baby. Make a mess on my cock.” You couldn’t hold back anymore. You came hard, a cry catching in your throat as you clenched around his cock, trembling, unraveling. The moment your body gave out beneath him, he buried himself as deep as he could go and let go, filling you with a whimper, low and desperate in your ear. His cum making you feel so full, so warm inside you. “Mine,” he muttered again, softly kissing your neck.

Your breathing was still shaky when he pulled out, careful and slow. You winced a little at the sensitivity, and immediately, Riki’s expression changed. The fire in his eyes dimmed and his hand came to rest on your thigh, warm and gentle. “You okay, baby?” he asked quietly. “Yeah… just sore.” you blinked up at him. He leaned down, brushing a kiss to your temple. “Stay here.” You watched him move around his small dorm room, grabbing tissues. He cleaned you up gently, his touches surprisingly sweet and patient. When he was done, he tugged the sheets over your bare body, then slid in next to you, wrapping an arm around your waist. It was quiet for a while. Your heart was still trying to calm down, and Riki just lay there, soft hand caressing your tummy. Then, out of nowhere, he spoke. “Wanna go to the movies tomorrow?” You blinked, turning your head to look at him. “What?” He glanced down at you, his face unreadable, but there was something softer around the eyes. “You heard me.” You couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. After everything, after the rough, possessive way he’d claimed you, this was the last thing you expected. You buried your face in his chest, cheeks burning. “Okay,” you whispered. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Cool.”

my other works ➵ masterlist

a/n: i got a little carried away with this one yall lmao i've been so fucking obsessed with this man lately i can't stop thinking abt him please i need him so badddd :(

© guliexe 2025 all rights reserved.

[kidult0325]

Bad Desire

Desire:Unleash

*pairing: CEO vampire Park Sunghoon x human intern Girl

*trope: Enemies to lovers

*synopsis: Park Sunghoon’s wish was to never fall in love again after losing his soulmate. But what would happen if an intern barely 22 years old and, on top of that, human joined his Marketing department? You and he are light and darkness: you're fun and carefree, while he’s cynical and cold with everyone. But opposites attract, especially when he tastes your blood, which for him becomes both his cure and his sweetest poison. What will happen between a young woman fresh out of university and him—one of the most famous vampire CEOs in the world, 270 years old but with a human identity that says he’s 27?

*tags: Sunghoon at first is cynical and not at all friendly but slowly softens, love to tease, humor, blood, vampire bites, rebels vampires, talk about the death of Sunghoon’s soul mate, a lot of kisses and forges, the protagonist loves touching Sunghoon, needy Hoon, needy protagonist, masturbation, unprotected sex (don’t horny ppl) cowgirl, +18, pet names (CEO,Hoon) (baby, little girl)

18k (💙)

The world had changed. Humans and vampires had been coexisting for decades; they worked side by side in corporate offices, attended the same universities, and exchanged hearts on dating apps. Some even found their soulmates on vampire-specific platforms like Love Alarm and yes, some of them even got married. All it took was compatible blood, the right chemistry... and making sure no one, in the heat of passion, sank their fangs too deep.

Some said the children of these unions were miracles: half-human, half-vampire, rare, mesmerizing, and often dangerous. Some were born fully vampires and those? The tabloids called them children of chaos. You, though, had never paid much attention to those stories, not until today.

It was your first day as a marketing and communications intern at Park International, one of the most powerful and mysterious companies in the mixed world: Founded and run by the feared and respected “brothers” though not by blood Park Jay and Park Sunghoon, two ancient vampires with deceptively youthful faces.

Officially, they were 27. Unofficially... Jay was 375. Sunghoon, 325. Vampire magazines called him "The Winter CEO." “Colder than a corpse, more beautiful than a curse.”

Sunghoon Park was the man everyone wanted as a future husband yet no one dared approach. His skin was pale like imperial porcelain, his feline eyes pierced through souls, and those scattered beauty marks across his face looked like cosmic signs meant to drive you insane. His black hair fell in rebellious strands over perfect eyebrows that moved with his thoughts. His body, always hidden beneath tailored dark suits, was athletic, composed, and threatening even when still, and every movement was calculated like a deadly dance but it wasn’t just his looks that inspired fear.

It was said he had fired 49 interns in just three years: Humans, vampires, and half-bloods; no one lasted more than two weeks under his supervision. Some had cried, others moved abroad. One rumor claimed a human fainted just because Sunghoon told him, "You're as boring as a bag of lukewarm blood."

And you? You were going to be intern number fifty, the one everyone assumed would meet the same fate or worse. Except there was one problem. You weren’t like the others, and your blood… wasn’t like theirs, you’d find out too late, maybe but the moment Sunghoon Park laid eyes on you in that icy office, lit by a single artificial light, something ancient would stir inside him and for the first time in centuries, his predator instincts would awaken.

Working for the Park Society has always been one of your dreams. One of those that feel unreachable until the moment you find yourself there, standing in front of the building you’d seen a hundred times in photos, in university internship brochures, and on TV. Now it towered among Seoul’s skyscrapers like a temple of glass and darkness. You stepped out of the subway with your heart beating a little faster, a mix of fear and excitement rippling across your skin like a shiver. You adjusted your jacket, tightened your grip on your bag, and looked up at the building. Park Society: Marketing, Communication, Design for both small and major businesses, and Advertising. It was every creative marketing student’s dream and future. You walked through the revolving doors and the first impact was… disorienting. Human employees moved quickly but seemed dazed, with bags under their eyes, oversized coffees in hand, ID badges always askew, and voices too loud. Vampires, on the other hand, were something else entirely: elegant, deadly in their poise, dressed in fabrics that looked like they were woven from darkness itself. Some were sipping blood from pocket-sized bottles like it was the most natural thing in the world. No one spoke. They walked, watched, subtly sniffed the air and a jolt of adrenaline hit your stomach. It wasn’t fear. It was electricity and you couldn’t wait to start working. You reached the turnstiles and swiped your badge, but nothing happened. The gate beeped again and again, refusing to open. You tried once more. Still nothing.

“Oh come on, don’t do this to me today…” you muttered, tapping the badge against the sensor. A vampire security guard: tall, blonde, and looking like she’d stepped straight out of a horror fashion film turned slowly toward you, staring as if you were a mosquito buzzing against her window. -No entry for little girls with faulty badges. Go home and watch your dramas,- she said with a cruel smile. You gave her a half-smile, trying to hide your nerves. “Well, if I had to go home every time technology hated me, I’d have been unemployed for months. But thanks for the warm welcome.”Then, in a softer tone the one you always used around vampires to avoid triggering any… lethal reactions you added, “I’m just the new intern, it’s my first day. I hope it’s not also my last, especially over a broken pass.” You gestured to the gate, hoping she’d open it, but the vampire raised an eyebrow and said nothing. You bit your lip to stop yourself from snapping. Just then, a human guy about your age walked up with a kind smile. He looked friendly, with slightly curly brown hair and a proudly crooked tie. His face reminded you of one of your classmates.

'Don’t mind Camilla. She’s the gatekeeper of hell. Your badge’s deactivated for the day's classic system glitch. You can come in with me.' He winked, scanned his badge, and the gate clicked open with a metallic sound. He gestured for you to follow. 'Welcome to Seoul’s chicest hell,' he said, watching you closely. “Thanks,” you said with a smile, already feeling a little more at ease. “Have you worked here long?” you asked as you crossed the massive lobby toward the elevators. 'Three months. Marketing department. You?' “Communication.” You took a deep breath, hoping you'd see him again, then added, “Under the supervision of the CEO… Park Sunghoon.” His smile faltered just a little, and he looked at you as if searching for the right words. 'Wow. You’re either brave… or clueless.'

He laughed, though it didn’t sound like a joke. The silence in the elevator that followed was filled only by the soft hum of background music. You were rising slowly very slowly toward the 25th floor: the CEO’s territory. 'If he fires you on your first day, come find me. I’ll buy you a coffee… or one of those blood bars vampires love, though I’m guessing you prefer more… human snacks.' You smiled, but deep down, you weren’t sure whether to laugh or shiver. When the elevator doors opened, the temperature seemed to drop a few degrees. You glanced at the black carpet, the smoked glass walls, and the air smelled of burnt wood, metal, and freshly spilled blood and at the end of the hallway, the silhouette of a man in a suit stood beyond a wall of glass. Him. Park Sunghoon and without even meeting his gaze, you already felt him beneath your skin.

The secretary seated at the desk in front of the large black glass door glanced up at you—quickly, professionally, but with a faintly amused glint in her eyes. She wore a dark tailored suit and blood-red lips drawn with perfect precision. Without even asking for your ID, she typed something into her computer.

“Name?” You studied her carefully, and if everyone on this floor was like her, they could devour you in a single bite. You said your name with a serious voice, and she replied,

'Oh. So you’re the one who applied to work under Park Sunghoon.' You nodded, and she picked up the phone with glossy black nails sharp, like dipped in ink and pressed a single button. 'CEO Park, the intern has arrived. Right on time, just like you said.'

Something twisted in your stomach, and then you heard a deep, velvety, razor-sharp voice come through the receiver: “Let her in.” The secretary gave you a knowing wink and a quick thumbs up. You smiled faintly. “Break a leg…” you muttered under your breath.

You smoothed your skirt, took a deep breath, and grabbed the handle. The door opened silently. And from that moment on, you had crossed the threshold of your most beautiful hell… though you didn’t know it yet.

The room was large, with glass walls overlooking all of Seoul—you could see the hills, and the Han River in the distance. It was minimally furnished: cold, elegant, perfectly tailored to its occupant. And seated behind a sleek black desk, was him: Park Sunghoon.

His face was bent over the file he was reading, his white shirt impeccably pressed, sleeves rolled up to reveal sculpted forearms. When he heard the door close, he slowly lifted his gaze and it felt as if something cracked in the air. His eyes pierced through you, no emotion in them, only that ghostly amber shade, slightly feline, that read your soul in an instant. You tried to appear confident, to hide the way your heart was racing… especially in that vulnerable part of you. Even though your hands were sweating, you tucked them between your skirt and thighs, clasping them together with poise. You took two steps forward and introduced yourself:

“Nice to meet you. I'm your new intern. My name is—”

Before you could finish, you heard his hoarse voice the one you had learned to recognize from countless interviews and university videos. Your breath caught as he replied coldly.

“I know who you are,” he cut in with a flick of his hand, not raising his voice. “Degree in Communications and Marketing. Average résumé and you're already talking too much. I didn’t tell you to speak.” You froze mid-breath, your eyes widening slightly but you didn’t look away and that’s when he felt it—that faint irritation creeping into his body.

The moment you stepped in, it hit like a wave of heat in the middle of winter. Your blood and more than that, the scent of your skin was toxic to someone like him. There was too much sweetness in you, too much innocence and that scent… it was everything he should ignore: warmth, life, instinct.

“What the hell is in her blood?” The bite of self-control came instantly. It was a pull—ancient, dangerous, one he hadn’t felt in centuries and yet, there you were. Standing there, glowing, with the look of someone completely unaware they were walking a tightrope suspended over a den of predators and he was predator number one.

But you didn’t look down, you didn’t blush, you met his eyes with a gaze that was both insolent and curious and for the first time in decades, he felt something that wasn’t just thirst.

“Let’s see…” He picked up your résumé, fingers long and sharp gliding over it as if reading the file of a soon-to-be-judged victim.“You’ve worked with human agencies,” he said, looking back up. “Never dealt with vampires, right?”

“No. But I studied with vampire classmates, I know how to behave. I even took a course that was 80% half-bloods and vampires, so I’ve learned how to study and work with them.” Sunghoon raised an eyebrow dark and sharp like a blade an expression that made him look even more like a predator ready to strike.

“Studying is for kids. Working is something else entirely.” He stood up. He was tall too tall, even for your 170 cm. “Working with me... with a vampire CEO... isn’t for everyone.” He walked around you slowly not in a vulgar way, but like someone analyzing a problem… or a temptation.

“You know you’re the fiftieth intern to walk into this office?” He gave a half-smile. “My guess? Two weeks, and you’re gone.” You looked at him with a bold, cheeky smile you didn’t even know you had in you. “Two weeks, you say? We’ll see if you can get rid of me that easily... or if I’ll be intern number fifty-nine.” His eyes darkened slightly.

“You’re far too cheeky for an intern who’s never met me before.” His voice was low, emotionless, but the sharp tone cut through the air between you. You swallowed your nerves and lifted your chin slightly. “I’m just trying to make a good impression. I don’t want to be the fiftieth intern to quit.” You smiled—tense, but genuine. “...Or worse, the one who gets fired on the first day.”

The corner of his lips curved upward a smile, but one that felt more like a warning than approval. “You’re lucky today’s not one of my worst days.” He took a step closer.

“But if you do want to get me to fire you… you could always ask Mr. Park Jongseong instead. Maybe he’ll like me better!” You said it without thinking-half a joke, half a desperate way to say (I don’t want to end up blacklisted like all the others) but as soon as the name Jay hung in the air, the mood shifted.

Sunghoon looked at you with daggers. “Mr. Jay Park doesn’t handle marketing and communications. He’s in strategic operations. So... not your savior.”

“Shame.” You gave a small smile and rocked slightly on your heels, but inside, your heart was pounding, you had no idea how to handle someone like him and as Sunghoon’s eyes roamed over you, slow and calculated, you wondered if he could actually hear how anxious you were to be standing there in front of him.

Then, with a smooth motion, he took three sheets from the table and placed them in front of you.

“Three questions. Answer well, maybe you stay.”

“I’m listening,” you said, folding your hands over your legs.

“One: How would you present a product line for Ultra-Light-Sensitive Vampires at a human daytime event?”

You had already looked it up online and heard about the infamous trick questions Sunghoon was known for, so you answered confidently: “With soft visual communication, warm tones, and a storytelling approach centered on adaptability, highlighting the shared experience between vampires and humans. I’d partner with human ambassadors to break bias and invite high-profile state figures to legitimize the event.”

He gave a slight nod but didn’t say if it was the right answer.

“Two: How would you handle a social media crisis if a royal-status vampire; like myself was accused of biting a human hostess without consent at a press fair?”

“Media blackout for the first few hours. Then a joint statement from the Blood Bank and the Human-Vampire Council. Plus, an exclusive interview with the hostess, along with public compensation and a formal apology.”

He watched you closely, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips.

“Last one. What’s the first mistake a human intern makes in a company where 70% of the staff is a vampire?”

“Talking too much, maybe,” you said, eyes dropping slightly, half-ironic.

“Correct. Talking too much.” He grabbed a thick dossier over a hundred pages and dropped it in front of you with a thud. “You have one week. I want a draft of the rebranding revision plan on my desk every day, we’ll see if you can work.”

“It’ll be done.” Your voice was steady, even if your knees weren’t.“You’ll have a desk. Don’t expect this one.” He gestured to his own black, sleek, perfect. “It’ll be a tiny workstation, shared with twenty others. You’ll adapt.”

“I adapt well, Mr. Park,” you replied with a touch of sarcasm. “I’m human. It’s in my DNA.” For half a second, it looked like the corners of his mouth twitched. Just barely. “Go. The secretary will show you where to settle in.”

You were about to turn when a pen slowly slipped off the edge of his desk and fell at his feet. You bent down to pick it up, the movement is instinctive and that’s when it happened. As you bent down, your ponytail shifted to the side, revealing your neck bare, delicate, pulsing with a scent that was both sweet and impossibly clean, like fresh laundry.

Sunghoon held his breath. In the span of a heartbeat, his eyes darkened ever so slightly. His pupils stretched, and the slow rhythm of your heart, the flow of blood just beneath your skin was an irresistible pull. It was far too dangerous for his sanity to observe your skin from that close and he spoke before even realizing it.

“Don’t come into my office without a reason again.” His voice was flat again, but sharper, like a blade. “And... keep your hair down. I don’t want to see it tied ever again.” You straightened up instantly and looked at him, a little confused.

“…Alright.” You gave a slight bow, turned, and walked out composed, steady but the moment you were outside, your hands began to tremble. Back inside the office, Park Sunghoon closed his eyes for a moment and for the first time in years, his fangs sharpened not because of blood.

Because of you.

It had been two weeks since you first stepped into the headquarters of the Park Society, and though each day felt like a test of endurance, you were still there: alive, whole, not fired and so far, Sunghoon hadn’t yelled at you or lashed out, which was already a major achievement. Maybe even a small miracle, considering the stats.

You’d made a few friends among your colleagues mostly humans, especially Jin, the guy who had helped you on your first day at the turnstiles. He had become a sort of support system for you, always ready with a joke, always a little too sweet, but in the end, he made you feel less alone.

Vampires were another story, they watched you in silence and rarely spoke, but it only took a single look to understand they were keeping tabs on you, and sometimes, between coffee breaks and meetings, someone would whisper:

Don’t make him angry.

Don’t provoke him.

Don’t hold his gaze too long… and above all, don’t fall for him.

As if that were something easy to avoid. Park Sunghoon had authority in his blood, power in his voice, control in every step, and yet, something in his eyes spoke of things you couldn’t quite decipher: something ancient and dangerous, something that wanted desperately to bite and never let go.

That day, there was an important meeting: the launch of a joint campaign between vampires and humans on a topic you were directly involved in Vampire Idols and their Gen Z and Alpha fans. It was your first official presentation, you wore a simple, elegant outfit, your hair down (as he had ordered), and you’d rehearsed all night.

The room was full: seven, eight people half human, half vampire seated around a long black marble table. When Sunghoon entered, silence fell like a switch being flipped. No one dared speak as he sat at the head of the table. You locked eyes with Jin across the room; he gave you a quiet thumbs up, reassuring.

Then Sunghoon turned he saw everything. He always saw too much, his gaze landed first on Jin, then on you… cold, unreadable, and behind his closed lips, his fangs twitched ever so slightly.

“Begin.”

He said it to you. No introduction, no preamble, just that so you took a breath and started. Your voice trembled just a littlebut you were prepared. You spoke about inclusion, about building more interaction between idols and fans both on stage and on social media. You spoke with passion, with emotion, with humanity. Some nodded, others looked skeptical, but Sunghoon…he stayed silent and that silence was unbearable. You wanted feedback, you wanted someone anyone to speak but he just watched you: Eyes locked on yours, cold and intense a tension wrapped itself around you, forcing you to speak each syllable with surgical precision and then it happened.

He pushed his chair back, eyes lifting from his tablet, and he stood up slowly, too slowly, and started walking toward you. One step at a time. You didn’t know why, but your entire body stiffened. Had you said something wrong? A word? A chart? A footnote?

He stopped behind you, too close and you swallowed hard. You felt his cold fingers brush slowly against your back as if to “correct” your posture… or maybe for something else. Maybe to feel, for the first time, the warmth your body gave off. A shiver ran through you, starting exactly where he’d touched you, a current shooting up your spine and he felt it.

Your vibration, your quickened pulse, the warmth of your blood, the living flesh and the scent of that blood he had spent two weeks trying and failing to ignore, every single day.

“There’s a mistake here,” he said, his voice sharp, but calm. “And… here, too. Be careful with wordplay. Double meanings can cost you a partnership.” You corrected it on the spot, your hands trembling just slightly.

His scent enveloped you a fragrance that whispered of elegance and wealth: mint, a trace of moss, and something sharp that clung to his skin and then, just like that, he turned back to the room.

“For a first draft, made by a freshly graduated little girl… it’s decent. We’ll consider it.” Neutral. Almost dismissive but to you, in that moment, it felt like a small triumph. The meeting resumed, and Sunghoon didn’t speak again but in his thoughts there was only you.

The presentation with Sunghoon had gone beyond expectations.

You had worked hard and slept little, and in the end, it had been worth it: you’d been put in charge of developing the entire campaign for the project between the fans and the vampire idols. Even him the cold vampire with icy eyes and razor-sharp teeth had said your work was “decent,” which, in his language, sounded almost like an award.

That evening, the office was silent, lights dimmed, keyboards already turned off. Just a few vampires still working, you glanced at the clock: 9:45 PM. You’d been buried for hours in graphs, drafts to revise, and social media ideas. You blinked slowly, exhausted.

"Maybe I’ll just die in here, in front of an Excel sheet... so romantic! While everyone else is out partying..." You grabbed your bag and headed toward the elevator. You pressed the button and sighed and that’s when you felt it. That scent: unmistakable, slightly spicy, yet fresh, dark, elegant and you turned your head slightly… and there he was.

Park Sunghoon.

Their shirt unbuttoned just enough, glasses resting casually on his nose, gaze sharp even in the shadows. He looked like he had just walked out of a gothic novel without even trying.

"Leaving already?" he asked, voice deep, gravelly and the tone hit you instantly: low, almost… hypnotic. "I’ve finished everything. Tomorrow I’ll correct the last few details." A slight smile curved the corner of his lips, it almost looked… human. "Diligent," he said. Then, a short pause. "At least you’ll die for a noble cause." You stifled a laugh but stepped into the elevator with him. His scent followed you, like an echo beneath your skin.

"Subway or taxi?" he asked, not looking at you. "Taxi. I feel safer." He nodded and said nothing else, until the 22nd floor. There was a sudden jolt a metallic screech echoed around you; the lights flickered and then everything stopped.

The elevator was stuck, your breath caught instantly, and your heartbeat pounded like a drum. The walls started to close in and your chest tightened, and your throat closed up.

You barely whispered, “No… no, no, no...” You pressed the alarm button multiple times no response, your body started to move in jerks, panic setting in fast, and tears welled in your eyes, he said nothing at first and just looked at you but he could hear it, your heart racing, blood pumping too fast. Then he took one step forward. Just one but it closed all the space between you. “Look at me.” His voice was different now.

Deeper, softer almost a whisper that slid right into your bloodstream.“You’re having a panic attack. There’s no danger, you’re with me, you’re safe, Y/n.” You shook your head, trembling, but he kept going like his words were weaving directly into your mind. “Breathe with me.” He held out his hands. You took them without thinking.

They were cold much larger than yours but steady. You had always noticed them: those long fingers, those elegant hands…and now, they felt like an anchor in chaos.

“Just like that... Good, breathe again, match my rhythm.” You looked into his eyes, they were darker than usual. Hypnotic. His voice filled you like warm light in a dark room and slowly, breath after breath, the panic began to fade. His thumb slightly chilled drew slow, careful circles over your skin and the way he calmed you with such a simple touch…frightened you more than the situation itself. You stared at him, heart still pounding but for entirely different reasons now.

“Now you know what it’s like, little one.” His voice dropped even lower.

“Fear, control. The need to trust someone. If you ever find yourself in a situation like this again, think of something beautiful… or someone. Even if they’re not with you, someone who could calm you down just by being there. Little by little, it’ll pass. Are you feeling better now?”His fingers pressed lightly against yours, and you nodded, your heartbeat was slowing, but your skin still burned a silent spark passed between you a low, dull vibration, like a call pulsing under the skin.

“What is this in your blood…” he murmured, more to himself than to you.

“It’s... dangerous. Sweet. Warm.” He was looking at you with a hunger that wasn’t just for blood but he dimmed it. Or at least held it back, he didn’t want to scare you. You were already scared enough.

“Don’t ever stay alone in an elevator if you’re afraid.” You lifted your gaze. “I didn’t think you cared about my anxiety,” you whispered, as he kept touching you a faint, almost ironic smile curled on your lips. “I don’t care,” he replied flatly, “but if you faint and die here, I’ll have to hire another intern. And that’s annoying.” You laughed, still shaken, but lighter now. Then you dared to tease him, your mind a little clearer.

“And what if I didn’t have you to calm me down?” He leaned in slightly, his face just inches from yours. “You won’t need anyone else,” he said. “I’ll be enough to calm you down… in any situation.” And for a second, it felt like your lips would meet almost, barely but then the elevator jerked, jolting you both.

You pulled back instinctively, not quite sure what he meant by that last line. “Let’s go,” he said softly but as you stepped out, your heart was still beating strangely, erratically and him… behind those glasses, he looked like he was trying to figure out whether it was your heart going wild or his control that was starting to break.

It had been three months since that first encounter, three months in which you had managed to stay, to work, to shine; even Sunghoon seemed… satisfied, or at least, he hadn’t fired you yet and for him, that was almost a declaration of love. Jin, the guy you’d met on your first day, would sometimes glance at you with a mix of irony and concern.

'I don’t know what you did to Park Sunghoon… but it’s obvious you’re different.' You’d laugh, even though your heart beat faster every time Sunghoon called you into his office. You liked challenging him, answering with sarcasm, lowering your lashes but holding his gaze, and… he seemed to tolerate it. No, he seemed to expect it.

It had been decades since he’d wanted to wake up and go to work, not to see the numbers always glowing green on the financial reports, but to see you. To hear your voice, to keep you close even if not directly under his eye. Just knowing you were there, and nowhere else, was enough but something had changed. Since he touched you in the elevator since his cold fingers had brushed your warm skin your dreams were no longer the same: Every night carried the same torment, feverish dreams.

Visions that left you breathless, skin damp, lips parted in an unspoken whisper. “Sunghoon…” His name on your lips as you twisted in the sheets and in those dreams…he wasn’t just your boss, he was the predator. The forbidden lover, the vampire who slipped into your room at night silent as a shadow while the moon spilled silver over your naked body.

You dreamed of him above you, hands on your thighs, fangs bared, mouth just a breath away from your neck, he spoke in that deep, hypnotic voice that made your stomach clench and then… the bite. Always the bite, always that moment when his teeth sank into your flesh, and you moaned from pleasure, yes but also from fear.

From the want that coiled and burned into a single, molten spasm. One night, you woke up screaming his name, heart pounding like you were being chased, you looked at the clock: 3:33. Always the same time, always the same vivid, erotic dream and you weren’t the only one. Sunghoon, in his office on the twenty-fifth floor, stood staring out the window, pupils dilated. There was nothing outside but your scent lingered.

On the pen you’d touched, on the pages of the report you’d signed, on the armrest of the chair where you had leaned back. He studied you in silence every time you entered, but for months now, his control had begun to crack.

Her blood is calling me, he thought.

It was sweet. Spiced. Like burnt honey. Like a curse hidden under sunlight and he who had stopped wanting centuries ago was starving. Starving for the feeling of sinking his fangs into something alive.

He found himself thinking of you when undressing, your name slipping between his teeth in an ancient tongue, fists clenched to keep from coming to find you, touching himself in the shower with fangs bared, whispering your name like a prayer and he dreamed of you. Yes, he did: Dreamed of you beneath him, naked, breathless, dreamed of your heartbeat racing under his palm, of your throat, the pulse of your skin tightening under the pass of his tongue.

“If I had her, even for one night, I’d never give her back.”

And it drove him insane because you were human, small, brilliant, reckless but something in your blood had tethered him, and in your eyes… there was light. Too much light. The light that blinded a creature made of shadow and control, one evening, after hours, you crossed paths with him in the hallway.

He was dressed in black, shirt unbuttoned, tie loosened-predatory elegance that made you hold your breath.

“You look tired,” he said softly, his voice like a whisper beneath the skin, watching you type at your computer.

“I work for you!" you replied, trying to smile, to hide the fact that every night he invaded your dreams in his truest form, as a vampire, fangs deep in your skin. He gave a faint smile one of those cold, cutting ones but something was stirring in his eyes.

“Sleeping poorly, intern?” he asked. You blushed. “A little…” you murmured.

“Too many thoughts?” he stepped closer. You held your breath he was too close. Too close.

“Too many dreams,” you whispered without thinking and his eyes gleamed.

“Be careful what you dream,” he said, slow and low, voice almost sensual, as it slipped beneath your skin. “Because sometimes dreams become calls… and certain creatures… they answer.” You turned away, a shiver crawling down your spine, you didn’t know if he was playing or warning you, you looked back at him, unsure.

“Don’t play with fire,” he added behind you, his voice darker now. “If I were you… I’d let it sleep.” But you couldn’t. Every night, it returned more vivid, more real. The blood dripping down your chest from your neck, his hands on your thighs, his lips on yours, stained with your blood and every morning, your skin woke up tense, your senses starving, his name still on your lips.

The corporate resort was hidden deep in the mountains outside Seoul, a luxurious, quiet place thick with tension, where most of the biggest brands eager to partner with K-pop groups made up of vampires came to hunt for talent. You had been working there for days for the elite summit, cut off from the world, and now it was 10:40 PM.

You, exhausted but still fighting, had opened your laptop in the private lounge, sinking into a sofa far too elegant for someone who had just worked twelve hours straight. Sunghoon, flawless as always in his black suit, sat not far away, his face carved into the shadows, his gaze lit by something you couldn’t quite read.

“Look at this,” you said, showing a video of a concert you loved idols dressed in custom-made faux leather from an up-and-coming Asian brand, tailored perfectly to vampire bodies. The music blasted from the speakers modern, free, alive. A rush of youth and passion filled the room as the screen showed seven vampires, each with a different style, singing in harmony to a track with rap undertones and a touch of romantic pop. He looked at you like you’d shown him a failed science experiment.

“What is this?” he said, staring at the seven performers on your screen with clear dismay. You rolled your eyes at the cynicism in his voice and held back a sigh. “It’s music. Real music. It speaks to us, to Gen Z-you know, people born 20 years ago, not just your aristocratic, emotionally extinct clients from 200 years back.” “Your generation listens to anything that screams and moves,” he muttered, rubbing his chin. “You’re not too old to get it, right? I bet deep down you love music too. You should act like it and explore new ways like your young vampire does.”

You didn’t mention to Sunghoon that you’d been talking with the “baby vampire” in their group, Ni-Ki, who had a ton of crazy but brilliant ideas for the brand’s social strategy...

“I’ve watched empires fall, darling. Don’t tell me you’re talking about… Ni-Ki?” You raised your eyebrows. “Yes. He’s a vampire too, but younger. And he likes this. You know his ideas for social media are insane, and we’re getting massive engagement thanks to the way he’s merging human and vampire culture.”

His eyes darkened instantly. He hated hearing another man’s name coming from your mouth.

“Don’t mention Ni-Ki. Especially not around me.” You smiled and looked at him with that sharp, knowing gaze. “Are you jealous, CEO Park?” He stood up slowly, and every movement felt like a calculated threat as he walked toward you, the air tightening around his tall, predatory frame. “You… have no idea what you're waking up inside me,” he whispered, leaning over you and in a flash, he grabbed you by the waist and pulled you up.

The laptop crashed to the floor with a dull thud. Your breath caught in your throat and your back hit the wall.

“Sunghoon…” you whispered.

He looked into your eyes those dark, ancient, hungry eyes your mind recognized every time you closed your eyes becauseyou dreamed of them constantly… “Stop me, Y/n… because if you don’t, I won’t be able to stop myself from touching you or kissing you.” You looked at him, lips slightly parted, but no sound came out and then he took your face in his hands and kissed you. It wasn’t like the kisses you used to give boys back in university for fun. This one tasted like claiming. His lips crashed onto your hot, fierce kiss that was wild and starving. His tongue forced its way into your mouth, exploring, stealing your breath, while his hands pinned you in place, holding you tight against him.

His body pressed into yours cold, hard but at the same time radiating heat. Then you felt a small bite on your lower lip his sharp canine piercing it. Your blood trickled slowly across your tongue, but he was faster. He didn’t want to waste a single drop none for anyone but him. Because only he could worship you, only he could possess you. He drank your blood, your soul, your essence and let out a low moan like your taste was something he’d been craving for centuries. You gasped, feeling something deep and dark vibrate inside you, a desire that made your knees weak, the same one that always woke you up soaked in heat and need, haunted by dreams no, nightmares that always had one name: Sunghoon.

You reached up and grabbed his hair, pulling slightly on those soft dark strands sliding through your fingers. He growled.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he said, pulling back just enough to let you breathe.

“Then show me,” you whispered against his mouth, and he ran his fingers along your throat.

“Your heart’s beating too fast, darling… I can feel it everywhere.” He licked your lip slowly, savoring the last drop, and then moved down to kiss you again, kissing and licking your skin as he tasted the scent rising from your neck.

“Do you feel it? My control is breaking. For you. Only for you and that hasn’t happened in centuries,” he said, his voice laced with something like sorrow.

“Then let it break,” you whispered, breathless, your body burning. His hands moved lower, exploring the skin beneath your shirt, and his bites turned into kisses, and the kisses into promises. But everything still hung on the edge balancedbetween passion and danger. Between you… and the predator who, by now, had been obsessed with you for months.

Since that kiss, Sunghoon had changed or rather, he had returned to his natural state: cynical, distant, sharp like an ancient blade. When you brought him new ideas for marketing campaigns or social formats for young vampires, he replied with the same scornful sarcasm, arms crossed, chin slightly tilted down as he stood above every thought you dared to have, and yet… every project, every draft, every presentation was read, corrected, and annotated by him.

The next morning, a small smile tugged at your lips when you saw his notes edits on how to reshape your slides, andcomments where he told you it was good work. He was watching you, following your progress, listening in on meetings but always silently. That day, you’d walked into his office with yet another proposal in hand.

“New concept: young vampires, underground night events, hybrid playlists, Ni-Ki style but less...” “Are you planning to bring up that brat every two days?” he cut in, not even looking up from his screen. You crossed your arms. “It’s called targeting. You should know what that is… or are you too ancient to understand?”

He slowly lifted his eyes to you, scanned you from head to toe, and let out a low growl.

“Watch your tone, girl. You’re here to learn, not to play trend-hero. You’ve stayed because you’re good but with one snap of my fingers, I could fire you in an instant,” he said, gruffly. “And you’re here to be a CEO, not Dracula having a midlife crisis.”

You smiled, defiant, folding your arms over your sweater, and for just one second, you saw something in his eyes, the smallest flicker of a smile but he turned away, ice-cold. “Out. And next time, bring me something serious.”

That evening, in the lounge, Jin had sat down next to you. He was sweet, human, young, with an honest gaze, and had been flirting with you for months now but you felt nothing. Because your twisted mind only wanted to feel Sunghoon’s lips on yours again, his strong hands on your hips, or cupping your face.

“Are you free tomorrow night? There’s a wine tasting at a place just down the road…” he said, touching his hair, clearly trying not to look nervous. You laughed at how his cheeks turned pink he was cute, and he made you feel at ease.

Unlike… him. You didn’t notice right away that Sunghoon was there, in the shadows, standing still, silent, eyes fixed on the two of you. He had heard the entire conversation, and his fangs had already lengthened, and his hands had gone even colder and he would not let anyone take you away from him, especially not some human boy. Later, you received a message on your work phone. You already knew who it was from.

Office 74. Now. — S. You walked in moments later, confused, he’d seen you two hours ago.

What could he possibly want now?

But the moment you entered, his face hit you like a cold wave. He was standing near the window, hands behind his back, shoulders tense, jaw clenched.

“You asked for me?” you said, staring at his perfect profile, speckled with small beauty marks that only made him look more like a vampire carved from myth. He turned. His eyes were fire beneath the ice, locked on you with terrifying precision. “Don’t let them touch you or ask you out. Ever again.” You stared at him, a little stunned by the words that had just left his mouth. “Wait… what did you just say?” He took a step forward, his voice barely above a whisper. “You can’t let anyone get that close. Not to you.” You scoffed and almost laughed. “Why? Are you jealous? He just asked me for a drink or maybe you’re jealous because he’s human and can control himself. Or maybe...”

You didn’t finish a red the alarm shattered the air a blaring siren, followed by a cold voice: WARNING. UNAUTHORIZED PRESENCE IN THE BUILDING. REBEL VAMPIRES DETECTED. CODE RED.

The sound was a nightmare to any human caught in a red zone invaded by rogue vampires. At university, it had happened only twice and both times, you’d been surrounded by others. Vampires but now, it was just you and him. Sunghoon grabbed your wrist immediately. His eyes had changed.

No longer human predator eyes, dark, wild. He pulled you tightly against him.

“Stay with me. Don’t move not one step away, and I swear nothing will happen to you,” he said, looking at you the same way he had the first time he saw you frightened, and only he had managed to calm you. “Sunghoon…” you whispered. “Silence.” His voice was an order, he pushed you against the wall, shielding you with his body, eyes fixed on the door. “If they touch you, I’ll tear them to pieces, if they even graze you, I’ll destroy them. You are..” But he didn’t finish because, at that moment, the faint scent of your blood still lingering on his lips from days ago made him lose control.

Just for an instant and you understood. It wasn’t just desire, it was obsession, fear of losing again, fear of losing his soulmate and this time, he would fight even to the death. The door creaked open with a sinister groan, and then you saw him.

The vampire who entered was nothing like Sunghoon, nothing like Jay, nothing like the others who wore suits and blended into the human world, not like the students you’d studied with. No. He was filthy. Beast-like.

His eyes were blood-red, and coagulated, and his hands… covered in something that looked like mud, flesh, and blood. The stench was unbearable, Sunghoon gripped your wrist tighter. His voice came low, icy, sharp like a ritual blade.

“Close your eyes. Now and don’t move. Trust me for once.” You obeyed. It was all you could do but you heard everything.

The vampire’s voice is slimy and cruel. <Well, well… what do we have here? A little girl with no vampire mark yet… what a sweet scent. So alive, so… soft. I’ll turn her, make her mine, and drain her ‘til the last drop.>

Your heart exploded in your chest, and your hand searched for Sunghoon’s arm in the dark. Then his voice. Cold. Rough. Right by your body.

“Take one step near her, and there won’t be enough of you left to bury.”

The vampire chuckled. <And who are you supposed to be? Her brother? Her guard? Humans are making everyone weak. Especially those who love them. Those who protect them…>

Then came a sound...a crash, a scream, another. None of it was Sunghoon’s. Then a dull, sickening thud. You opened your eyes just a sliver just enough to see him crouched over the monster, hands soaked in blood, eyes pitch-black, fangs bared. He was the predator a god of the hunt. The kind of vampire who hated rebels, the kind all his brothers especially Jake and Heeseung had sworn to eliminate but even he was wounded. His breath was ragged, one arm pressed to his side.

“Sunghoon?…” you asked in a low voice.

“Close your eyes!” he growled, turning toward you with a brutal expression but it wasn’t aimed at you, it was the blood, the fight, the beast within him. You collapsed to the floor, trembling, and he came to you, gripping your waist and pulling you up with a strength that defied the pain in his body.

“Out of here. Now.” You both left the room. The hallway was empty, but the air reeked of metal, adrenaline, and vampires. When you turned to look at him, you screamed. His face was streaked with blood, his shirt torn, deep wounds carved into his chest.

“Oh my God, Sunghoon! You’re hurt! You....” He silenced you with a hand over your mouth cold, but steady. “Stop shouting. I’m fine. It’s just blood.” “You don’t look fine! You need help!” Sunghoon looked down, then let out a bitter, hollow laugh.

“Wounds don’t kill a centuries-old vampire. But stubborn little girls? Those are lethal.” He grabbed your arm and draped it over his shoulder. The contact was strange, intimate, warm, and cold all at once.

“Come on. Take me wherever you want, and I’ll let you play nurse… just don’t look at me like I’m dying, or I might bite you just to scare you.” You scoffed of course even now he had to act tough, you entered an emergency room: a survival station, with medical kits, blood bags, and bandages. You made him sit down, trying not to shake.

“Take off your shirt.” He looked at you with a sharp smirk. “Where are we going with this, intern? Not exactly professional behavior for a girl like you.” “Now’s not the time to be a jerk, Sunghoon! You’re covered in blood!”

He sighed and slowly unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a broad chest and a deep cut along his side. The dark blood still flowed, and you stared at his body.

“Holy shit…” you whispered as your eyes traced his toned chest, pale skin, and the faint blood smears over thick biceps.

“Like what you see?” he murmured with a teasing chuckle just a mask, hiding pain, rage, and what you'd just witnessed. You pressed a gauze pad to his wound, and he let out a low groan. You looked at him, suspended between panic and something deeper. “Why did you do this for me?” you asked quietly. His gaze darkened.“Because he was here to take you. And I… I can’t let anyone take you away. Not again.” You looked at him, confused. “Why?” you asked, and he spoke low his words sinking into every part of you. “Because you’re not just blood. Not just scent. You’re… dangerous to someone like me.”

You looked up at him, hearing the teasing note in his voice, and his bare, blood-streaked chest rose slowly under your fingers. The wounds were deep, and the pain made him groan softly but he didn’t complain. Not him. Never.

“You need proper treatment, Sunghoon…” you whispered, fingers gently brushing his side while dabbing the wound with a wet gauze. He clenched his jaw, eyes shut for a moment, and his fangs had grown longer, sharper, glistening. “Are you okay?” you whispered. He opened his eyes there was a spark of hunger and irony.

“I’ve felt better since you started touching me… but if you keep going, I might want something else.” A crooked smile played on his lips, and you swallowed but your voice was clear. “Is that your way of saying… you want my blood?” His expression shifted. He grabbed your wrist and pulled you gently toward him.“That’s not a question you ask a vampire you know that. Not even one like me. Because the answer is always yes. Especially if your blood is… special.” He leaned toward your neck, inhaled, and brushed your skin with his lips. “…and I believe it is. Which makes it worse.”

“Worse than who?” you whispered. His jaw tensed.

“Let it go.” But you stared at him. Stubborn.

“Do you want to taste me?” Sunghoon turned toward the wall as if holding himself back but you stepped closer and slowly touched his wound. The growl that escaped him was rough, deep, almost erotic, and then you whispered: “You saved my life. If you want to… you can.” He turned to face you; his eyes were black, tinged with red, his fangs extended.

“You don’t understand what you’re offering, little girl.” You tilted your head, revealing your bare neck.

“Then tell me. What’s your favorite part? My lips?” A crooked smile tugged at his mouth.

“Your lips are a constant invitation to sin… but there’s not enough blood in them to heal this.”

“My neck, then?” you whispered. “Mmh… the neck. Symbolic. Vulnerable. But also so... basic.” He took a step closer.

“Or your wrist. I could feel the pulse there alive, hot. But if I’m being honest…” He paused. A wicked smile spread across his face as he licked his lips slowly, erotically.

“Your thighs. They promise something sweet.” You shot him a mock-offended look.

“You’re disgusting,” you said, slapping him lightly on the chest. He laughed. “I’m honest.” You bit your lip.

“Better the neck, then.” You stepped closer and saw his gaze shift. “Is that why you told me months ago not to tie my hair up?” He nodded. “Yes. Every time you do, it drives me mad. I always want to press my nose to your neck… and my mind always imagines sinking my fangs right into you.” You swept your hair to the side, offering your bare skin, Sunghoon stood still, chest rising slowly. “Lie down on the couch,” he said. “You’re the one who’s hurt you should be the one lying down.” His expression darkened. “Do it.” His voice was rough and you obeyed.

He reached you and climbed on top of you, his hands on your hips, then he started kissing your neck slow, wet, warm and you let out a soft moan without meaning to and he laughed, a low, scratchy sound. “You moan so sweetly… and I haven’t even bitten you yet.” He kissed you harder, almost a bruise, then ran his fingers still slightly bloody along your cheek. “You’re insane, but at the same time brave. You don’t understand what you might unleash in me if, when I sink my fangs into your skin, I find your blood tasting like some ancient blessing I won’t stop wanting you.” Then his eyes met yours and it was no longer a game, he opened his lips and his fangs sank into your skin. A sweet pain, deep, a warmth that spread through your whole body. You felt emptied, but at the same time… full. You gripped his hair the moment you felt his fangs break through your skin and he… moaned. Not from the wound, but from the taste of your blood flowing into his mouth like holy water, because it had been centuries since he had sunk his teeth into anyone’s skin.

God, forgive me he thought as his fangs sank into your flesh, and it was the end for him but also a rebirth, the end of his control and centuries of discipline. You had the sweetest blood he had ever tasted sweeter even than the girl he once loved…the one they killed, the one they took from him. Your body and your blood tasted like innocence and sensuality at the same time, like damnation. He felt every heartbeat between his lips, every gasp, every drop of your desire mixing with fear, and it was the most erotic thing he had ever tasted. Because he felt it you wanted to be bitten, and you weren’t doing it for fun, you were doing it for him, and your blood had a rare and dangerous flavor even for someone like him. It was something he had never encountered in 270 years.

The one biting you, drinking you like a man starved of blood, your blood, was your boss, the CEO everyone feared, the man who treated you like just a pawn… and who now was touching you as if your flesh were sacred. You felt his fangs pierce your skin but at the same time his lips sucked greedily, and it was like a jolt, a sharp, living pain and then… a deep warmth as if he were sucking your soul through your skin. Your body tensed, but Sunghoon’s hands held you still not with force, but with power, and you… didn’t want to move. Your blood was leaving your body but there was no panic, because deep down, you trusted that man, and all you could feel was a strange heat between your legs. An animal impulse, and a moan half pain, half arousal escaped your lips, and a thought burned in your mind, searing hot: I want it again.

When he pulled away, his lips were stained with your blood, and he gently caressed the spot where he had bitten you. "Now I'll heal faster. But you… you've become a problem," he murmured, licking the wound to soothe it, while you held him tighter and whispered, "Why?" "Because I tasted both heaven and hell the moment your blood touched my lips. And it's as sweet as you."

You were still dazed, and lightheaded, your legs weak, the warmth of the bite throbbing on your neck. Every heartbeat felt like a soft pull toward what had just happened. Sunghoon hovered above you, braced on his arms, his eyes cold, sharp, and hungry as if you were something forbidden that he could no longer resist.

“Can I take your shirt off?” he asked, voice husky and dangerously low. You nodded, uncertain whether it was from shock or full awareness. Slowly, he unbuttoned your blouse, each motion deliberate, reverent. When it fell away, he saw the faint imprint of his bite on your pale skin proof of his broken restraint. Your simple black bra revealed the rise and fall of your breathing. His eyes darkened, and he bit his lip, still tasting your blood an instinct flickering across his face.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, more to himself than to you. As he gently parted your thighs, you wrapped your arms around your chest, blushing.

“Don’t say that… You’ve seen prettier girls,” you murmured. He leaned in, his cold fingers brushing yours, moving them away. “I’ve lived for two and a half centuries. I’ve seen all kinds of women. But none…” he said, breath grazing your skin, “…have ever had a body I wanted this much.” Your back arched slightly at the confession. He kissed you slowly, with a tension that made your pulse race. His tongue, the same that had just tasted your blood, explored your mouth, and his hands gripped your hips like he feared losing you. Your mouths melded, breaths mingling, tongues teasing, until he smiled against your lips with that sharp, cocky grin you knew too well.

“You like teasing me…” he growled, lifting you slightly. “But now I’m the one who wants to play.” With a flick, your bra unclasped. Your breasts bounced lightly into view. He cursed softly in Korean, then whispered with that brazen vampire arrogance: “Your body is killing me. You've been my obsession since the day you walked into my office, girl.”m He bent down, taking one breast in his hand. You moaned softly. His lips closed around the other, licking, sucking, and when his sharp canines brushed the sensitive bud, your back arched fully.

“A-Ah… S-Sunghoon… slower…” you moaned, fingers tangling in his hair—pleasure tinged with fear. He groaned from your touch, then looked up at you, lips still wet. “You moan so sweetly… and I haven’t even touched you yet.”

His touch was gentle at first almost human but there was nothing human about him. His cold hands moved with confident precision over your breasts, thumbs circling your already hard nipples. His mouth followed, sucking and biting with mock tenderness. You moaned a choked sound lost in the dimness of his room and he loved it. Those soft, breathy sounds were his, and his alone, forever.

“So responsive…” he murmured against your skin with a crooked smile, sucking greedily on a nipple. “You’re such a little treat.” His tongue left a wet trail down your stomach, pausing just below your navel. He looked up at you, eyes burning with primal hunger. “I want to eat you.” His voice was low and rough. You swallowed hard, unsure what “eat you” meant for someone who’d just fed from your neck.

“Not your blood… That’ll be another addiction. But right now, I want to devour you until you forget how to speak.” You instinctively squeezed your thighs together. “Sunghoon…” you whispered. “I won’t hurt you,” he said darkly. “You’re mine. Only mine.”

The way he said it, it wasn’t a promise. It was a sweet curse. And you? You didn’t stop him. Instead, you scratched the back of his neck and whispered, “Don’t be an asshole.”

He smirked. “Too late.” With a slow, predatory motion, he slid your skirt down. When he saw the black lace of your panties, a soft curse slipped from his lips.

“Fuck… You’re built to make me lose control.” Then, with a low, wicked laugh: “You came here for an internship... and you’ll end up signing me your soul.” He inhaled deeply along your inner thighs and felt how wet you were just for him, exactly as it should be. His cold breath made you shiver.

“I could lick you for hours… but I’ll save biting your thighs for later. When you’re ready to scream my name like a prayer or a curse,” he chuckled, fingers grazing your skin.

“You bastard,” you gasped, trembling with both fear and arousal. “Love.” When you tried to close your legs, he grabbed them firmly, voice cold and commanding: “Open. I want to taste all of you. Don’t you dare close them again?”

You obeyed, heart pounding, as he slid down your panties. Seeing how soaked you were, he muttered, “Goddamn... Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted you?” Without warning, he grabbed your hips, placed your legs over his shoulders, and leaned in. His tongue met your clit with slow, ravenous precision, savoring you like the rarest prey. You cried out his name once, twice—pulling at his hair as he devoured you, eyes fixed on you with one truth blazing in them: You’re mine. And you’re not escaping.

Sunghoon’s tongue moved in slow, deliberate figure-eights over your center, drawing shameless moans from your lips. His eyes never left your pupils blown wide, the gaze of a predator savoring his prey before the final bite.

“God, you’re shaking… You want to come, don’t you?” His voice was gravel and heat against your skin, and you writhed under him, desperate for more, for his tongue deeper inside you. “Can I use a finger?” It wasn’t a question it was a warning. Because before you could answer, he slid a finger into your heat, and you gasped,

“Y-you’re… such a bastard, that’s… that’s not fair…” He chuckled, low and amused. “Says the girl who’s not even twenty-three and moans like someone just promised her eternity.” Then his tongue flicked your clit again, making your back arch with a cry.

“Stop,” you panted through pleasure but instead, he added a second finger, thrusting deep into your aching cunt, making you scream his name. “Asshole!”

“Guilty,” he laughed. “Don’t lie, stubborn little human. You love feeling yourself under me like this…” His fingers moved harder, faster, setting your nerves ablaze. You were beautiful flushed cheeks, swollen lips, eyes glassy with lust, and the sweetest whimpers slipping from your mouth.

To him, you were divine. “Look at you come alive under my touch… You were made to be devoured.” He paused only to press his lips to your inner thigh, his sharp canine brushing your skin.

“I could have had you already bleeding, trembling but I don’t want just your blood,” he whispered, eyes locked on yours.

“I want every breath, every spasm… and I want them now.” He went back to licking you, faster, with his fingers thrusting relentlessly.

“Sunghoon… I’m going to…”

“Don’t come yet,” he growled. “Not unless I say so.” You threw your head back, a soft sob escaping as he pinned you in place, watching you unravel with cruel delight. He wanted this—wanted you helpless under his control. Then, in a low, perversely sweet tone:

“Now. I want to see you break for me. Show me, my little girl, who’s been teasing me since the day she walked in.” He teased your clit with a fang and you screamed, a cry of ecstasy laced with fear. You grabbed his hair and pulled him closer as your body shattered in his arms.

He muttered something low, filthy, feral but then, in a gesture that left you stunned… he kissed your forehead. A tender, unexpected, almost human gesture that seemed to surprise even him. “You’re not like the others,” he murmured. “She… the only one I ever loved, died centuries ago. And you… you’re a problem.” His hand traced slowly along your side, gentle, possessive. “But you’re a problem I’ll never let go of.”

It had been exactly one week since that night. One week since Sunghoon had kissed you with hunger in his eyes, had licked you with dark devotion, and had saved you from a vampire attack leaving you with one final mark: his bite. A small indentation on your skin that hadn’t faded. It burned when he was near… or when he wasn’t near enough.

For two whole days, he hadn’t shown up at the office, you figured he might’ve been away, maybe in a meeting in Gangnam or at one of the company’s satellite branches but by the third day, anxiety crept in. You approached Jay’s office hesitantly. He was the other CEO. Another vampire but different: less cynical, calmer, his amber eyes carrying a rare flicker of compassion for someone centuries old.

“Um… Jay?” He looked up from his tablet. “Yes?” he asked, curiosity in his gaze.

“Can I… ask about Sunghoon? He hasn’t been around.” Jay stared at you, hesitating for a moment, as if unsure whether to speak. “He’s… resting. He hasn’t been well.” The moment he said it, your heart skipped Sunghoon, unwell?

“What do you mean not well? He’s a vampire, he shouldn’t…” Jay sighed. “He was attacked. At night. Nothing fatal, but…” He looked down, searching for the right words.

“He’s having trouble feeding.”

“He can’t drink blood?” you asked, stunned. Jay nodded slowly. “Not… from blood bags. He says it tastes… flat. He rejects it.” A pause. Then: “It’s better if I don’t tell you more.” But you didn’t let it go.

“Jay, please. I need to know. Is it my fault?” Jay stared at you, his eyes shimmering faintly.

“No. But maybe… you’re the reason.” Silence fell. Then he added softly: “When a vampire tastes something rare, something they desire… everything else becomes poison.” Your blood ran cold, and you left his office and immediately searched online and the results were mixed but some sources were clear:

“When a vampire drinks blood that’s compatible with their lineage, often from a kindred soul, a dependency may form. Emotional and physical. In rare cases, it manifests as a deep sexual, mental, and spiritual bond. Sex with a bonded vampire is described as… consuming. It gets into your bones, your mind, and carves into your soul.”

You kept scrolling, curiosity growing. “The human may choose: become a vampire, or live and die alongside the vampire. The bond remains even beyond death.”

But that wasn’t what you were looking for, you just wanted to know how he was and so, raised in a loving human family, you did the only thing that felt right.

You cooked, no gourmet dishes, no blood. Just heart. When you finally arrived at his apartment, night had fully settled in. Above you, the moon hung like a white eye, silently watching. In your hands: a bag of warm containers, a blanket… and a foolish little hope.

You inhaled deeply and dark thoughts crowded your mind:

What if he opens the door and loses control?

What if he doesn’t open it at all?

What if he still wants me—but only as food?

Then you knocked once, twice. The silence lasted too long. Then you heard footsteps, slow and heavy like he was dragging himself forward. The door opened. And there he was—not the Sunghoon you saw every day in a suit and tie, always polished, always with a blood bag in hand. No. He was pale, disheveled, dark circles under his eyes deeper than ever and those eyes, God, those eyes burned into you. "You…" he murmured. His gaze flicked to the bag in your hand, then to you, then to your throat. "Why are you here?" he asked, his voice sharp, accusing, and you cursed Jay for telling you he was sick telling you he couldn’t feed properly from the blood sent by the Blood Bank. "I brought… something. Warm food. No blood, I swear." You tried to smile. "Just… something I made. With my hands." He didn’t move. The door didn’t open any wider. "You should leave," he said cynically, already trying to close the door, trying not to breathe in the scent of your skin calling to him like a drug. "Sunghoon…" you said softly. "You don’t get it, do you?" he growled. "Having you this close… it’s dangerous. For both of us. The smell of your blood…it's nauseating. It's all I want. And I’m not in the mood for human food unless that food is you." You shivered but didn’t step back.

Slowly, you brushed your hair aside, baring your neck to Sunghoon’s eyes, it looked like an invitation to sin and it was. His gaze shifted. His fangs elongated. His nostrils flared. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to ground himself in reality. “Damn it…” he hissed. “Don’t act like a reckless girl. Don’t play with monsters, you might get hurt, and there won’t be a way out.” You pushed him gently. He didn’t move at first. But then, he gave in and let you step inside. His apartment was cold, gray, frozen in time. You looked around. “Wow… a vampire’s place. Obsessed with work and shadows. Just missing the coffin in the living room.”

He stayed silent an oversized gray hoodie covered his broad shoulders, and his sweatpants looked strangely out of place on him yet made him seem more human, more real. As you wandered through the living room, your eyes landed on a photo under the TV, facedown and cracked at the corner of the glass. You picked it up carefully, your hands trembling it was him. With a girl. They were in each other’s arms. The photo looked like it came from another time. She was beautiful, with long fair hair and, an ethereal face. And from the way he looked at her… he had loved her. Maybe he still did. You felt him behind you cold breath, fingers brushing the edge of the frame. “If you don’t want the food… throw it away. Maybe I should just go,” you muttered, trying to leave, but a tear escaped. He caught your wrist and in a second, turned you to face him. You crashed into his cold chest, frozen between his arms like a refuge. He cupped your face, brushing your flushed cheeks.

“You’re a stubborn fool.”

“I…” you stammered. “I just wanted to know if you were okay.” Tears welled up in your eyes as you looked at him, seeing how his anger had faded into something much sadder.

“It was my fault…” he whispered. “She… she died because of me.” He held you tighter like he was afraid you’d disappear like she had. “How?” you asked, voice cracking.

“She loved a human and to protect him, she sacrificed herself and I… I was too weak to stop her. She was older than me stronger, more prepared. I loved her in silence for decades, but she… she fell in love with a human. A pathetic man who couldn’t protect her, who couldn’t be with her forever. One she wanted to save… from me but she didn’t realize it wasn’t me she needed to protect him from.

More than a hundred years ago, no human could be with a vampire—not really. Hybrid love didn’t exist.” His voice grew rougher.

“I let her go. I thought that was love. I thought if I gave her space, she’d realize the only one who could love her completely—the only one like her was me but when the hunters found them… she chose to die for him. To die without fighting as if I was the monster, and he the innocent.” He swallowed hard. “I was too far. Too late. When I found them… they were dying. In each other’s arms.”

Something cracked inside you, not just for the tragedy, but for how he bore it like he was the only one to blame for all the horror in the world.

“Sunghoon…” You lifted a hand to his cheek. His skin was cold, but he didn’t flinch. You felt how broken he was and how much it had hurt to lose her to a human who hadn’t deserved her.

“It wasn’t your fault.” He closed his eyes and leaned into your warm touch.

“You’re not a monster. You’re just someone who loved too much… and lost.” Slowly, heart pounding, you rose on your toes and kissed him. At first, it was soft barely more than a brush of lips. Then a breath, it was like something shattered inside him, his arms crushed you to him not to hurt, but to claim and his mouth devoured yours with hunger no longer just emotional.

His tongue sought yours, his fangs grazed your skin he kissed you like he wanted to tear away every part of you that was still human…and yet he held you like you were the most alive thing he’d ever touched.

"You're so warm..." he murmured against your lips. "You burn me." And then he collapsed letting himself fall back onto the couch with a sharp breath. It looked almost like a bed, wide and grey, built for sleepless nights. You followed him silently, straddling his lap.

His chest rose in erratic bursts he hadn’t fed since biting you. His eyes devoured you, and even though your body trembled slightly, you didn’t back away.

You kept kissing. Your hands tangled in his hair, he clutched your waist, and as you moved slightly against him, you felt him hard beneath you ready, restrained by a discipline that was about to snap. "You deserve another chance," you whispered against his ear, kissing the lobe gently. "You deserve to be loved again."

He growled softly. "No. I don’t."

"Yes, you do. You deserve a bit of light too… in this whole world of shadows." Something in him broke. He held you tighter and pulled you even closer until you felt melded to him. His eyes flared, glowing more intensely.

"Little human..." he murmured, voice low and grim, "don’t say things like that unless you’re ready to pay the price."

"What price?" you asked, not looking away.

"My darkness, the part that doesn’t forgive, that takes, that never lets go. The part that wants to make you mine. Forever." You rocked your hips again, the contact making you both shudder. He gripped you harder, whispering, voice hoarse and rough as the night outside:

"If you keep grinding like that on me… I swear, I’ll make you forget every human thought you’ve ever had." His cold hands slid under your oversized hoodie the one you’d grabbed from home, maybe hoping it would shield you, maybe not.

His fingers brushed your skin. The touch was electric. He leaned down, breath grazing your neck.

"This neck…" he rasped, "is an invitation to sin." Before you could respond, his fangs brushed your skin. He didn’t bite, no, the torture was in the restraint. In holding back the urge to claim and consume you.

"You’re mine. You know that, right?" he finally said.

"Even if you don’t want it. Even if you’re scared. I… will never let you go." You bit your lip as you looked at him—his chest rising under the dark hoodie. Your eyes dropped to the skin beneath, and you leaned in gently, tenderly, with a softness you knew would crack something inside him.

"Can I… kiss where they hurt you?" you whispered. He tilted his head, raising an eyebrow, gaze shadowed but amused.

"Didn’t take you for a war-scar collector," he said dryly. "I knew you had a Florence Nightingale kink, but this? New level."

You didn’t answer his jab. Your hands slipped under his hoodie slowly. His skin was cold and smooth. Beneath your fingertips, a subtle shiver. His body reacted barely but enough.

The contrast between your warmth and his chill made it impossible not to feel. "Are you… trembling?" you whispered, with a hint of a smile.

He said nothing but his eyes had darkened. He hated feeling vulnerable especially because of a foolish little human who had carved her way under his skin.

You lifted his hoodie gently when the light hit his torso, you gasped. The scars were there some thin, others deeper, old cracks on porcelain. They didn’t mar him. They made him ancient. Beautiful. You bit your lip at the sight of him.

"You’re… beautiful," you whispered, tracing a scar across his ribs. "Don’t say bullshit," he muttered. The words came out sharp and bitter. "You’re just a sweet little girl turned on by monsters. A little sadist, a little naïve. Don’t throw romantic crap at me."

You rolled your eyes and huffed. "Oh God, not this again. Don’t tell me you're still playing the asshole CEO in here too. Pretty sure you left the tie at the office."

You looked around. "In here… people breathe. Or in your case don’t die. I’m alive. I feel something for you and I hate it when you act like a jerk."

For the first time, a laugh slipped from his lips. Low, hoarse. “You’re insolent.” “I’m honest.” You smiled at him faintly, then leaned down slowly and started kissing him. Your lips touched the first mole under his eye, then the one on his cheek, then more. Small, dark, scattered like a constellation in a winter sky. “I love them…” you murmured, moving down to his jawline, his chin, his neck. You kissed him, sucked gently, feeling his cold skin warm under your mouth. He stayed still, but the tension grew beneath you like a rope tightening, ready to snap—and his hand grabbed you under your ass, pulling you close with force, making you feel how hard he already was beneath your soft sweatpants. “You can’t compete with me at giving hickeys,” he hissed in your ear, his voice thick with desire. You looked up, a half-smirk playing on your lips. “You’re wrong, I’ve already beaten you, and other guys have left marks on me—but gold hasn’t sunk their canines into my pale skin,” you said, giggling, and his face changed. A shadow of raw jealousy flickered through his body, and for the first time he was caught off guard: “W-What the fuck are you saying? I… I don’t even want to think someone touched you before me.” You smiled, continuing to suck on the skin at the base of his collarbone, leaving a dark red mark. “Uh-oh, Park Sunghoon is jealous? Of who, a girl, and a human one at that!”

He literally growled, and his hand under your ass pulled you even lower, pressing you against his now-hard cock, throbbing beneath his sweatpants. You rocked slowly, feeling his desire grow beneath you like a wave ready to crash over you. “Christ, you’re… damn hot.” His hands trembled as he held you still. “Fucking human girl, what are you doing to me…” he hissed against your throat. “I swear, if you keep going like this, I’ll fuck you until you don’t even know your own name anymore.” Your hair brushed against his skin as you leaned lower and Sunghoon felt a faint tickle, almost imperceptible but enough to make his fingers twitch against the couch. Your kisses followed an invisible line on his body: from his neck, to his chest, to his belly, where his abs tightened beneath your lips as if they were made of living stone. You reached the edge of his V-line, just above the waistband of his sweatpants, and stopped there, looking at him with a sly smile.

“So who are you training for, huh? If you spend your time playing cold, cynical vampire with everyone… including yourself?” He let out a half-snort, raising an eyebrow. “I train to stay strong enough not to break the idiots who decide to mess with someone they shouldn’t.” “Ooh, touché.” You giggled, then bent down again. Your mouth began exploring the pale skin below his navel, where thin dark hairs formed a line disappearing under his pants. You sucked gently on that spot beneath his belly where you saw him tremble and moan softly, and he growled, his stomach contracting under your touch.

“Careful, little one…” he muttered, his voice thick and rough. “You’re playing in a field you don’t know how to dominate.” But you ignored him, slowly and provocatively untying the sweatpants’ drawstrings with your fingers, then confidently pulling them down just a bit. He propped himself up on his forearms, watching you with red eyes full of held-back desire, and when you saw his black boxers, the clear shape beneath the fabric leaving nothing to the imagination, you climbed on top of him slowly, letting yourself fall onto his hips. You started rocking gently, rubbing against him, feeling every reaction, every shiver running through his body. “Look how hard you are for your little human intern…” you whispered in his ear, nibbling his earlobe. Sunghoon half-closed his eyes and growled, but there was something in his breath, the way he swallowed... “Christ… you’re such a little… tease, you know how easily I could break you...” He stammered, and it was rare to see him like this—it made him even more beautiful, more desirable, more yours. With a smooth motion, you took off your sweatshirt, and he liked how comfortable you felt with him. His eyes immediately went to your breasts struggling to escape your lace bra.

“Last chance, little one.” He spat the words out between his teeth, harsh, broken by a thread of wild desire. “You can still stop, after this… I won’t be responsible for myself.” You looked him in the eyes, without hesitation, and said, “I don’t want to stop, and neither do you from what I see.” You smiled at him, then slowly slid your hand under the waistband of his boxers, and when your fingers met his skin, he moaned. Not a fake, controlled sound, but a real moan low, strangled, animalistic. “You’re just a… damn insolent girl…” he whispered, almost angrily, grabbing you with both hands under your ass to force you to grind harder against him. “A sadist who gets herself into trouble, who wants to get into my fucking trouble…” but his body said otherwise he wanted it, he wanted you. His cock was perfectly shaped, the glans swollen, wet, slightly reddish, veins pulsing along the base with strength, and a pearly drop of desire gleamed at the tip like a forbidden invitation.

You, surprised, muttered something under your breath, a small “oh God, it’s big…” that slipped out without meaning to, and Sunghoon tensed. “Don’t do that,” he hissed. “Don’t bite your lip in front of me and don’t stammer like you’re shocked, you wanted this, you asked for this situation.” He looked you up and down, his chest rising and falling slowly. “Christ…” he whispered, then grinned through clenched teeth. “You just murmured how… big it is? Are you trying to kill me?” You didn’t answer; your hands, trembling but warm, closed around him with an almost reverent gentleness, and your skin against his was a complete contrast: life against death, warmth against ice, love against the desire to possess you. “You… are… damn… dangerous…” he stammered, almost with hatred, but not toward you, toward himself. “With that smallmouth and warm hands… you’re the most human thing I’ve touched in centuries, and I can’t…” His words stumbled and you looked at him, surprised. Sunghoon never stammered, he wasn’t human enough to do that—but there, under your hands, he was naked and weak because of you. You leaned down slowly, brushing his cold skin with your nose, down to his lower belly, and began to gently stroke his throbbing cock, and you heard Sunghoon say to you: “Don’t think you can do this… without consequences, I don’t want just pleasure, little one…” he whispered with a strangled voice.

“I want all of you, and if you let me in, you won’t come out anymore.” You started to tease him with your tongue, slow, careful, like you were exploring, and every little kiss you left on his tight, stretched skin was a challenge, a silent declaration: I’m not just the intern who brings you reports in the morning. Sunghoon barely gasped, almost imperceptibly, but he did as you started giving him small kisses and even little licks around the tip, and you raised your head to study his face his eyes were already watching you with primal hunger. “Do you like it?” you asked in a faint voice, barely daring. He wet his lips with his tongue, pupils black and dilated. “Keep going.” His voice was low, almost hoarse. “I want to see how… talented a little intern playing at driving an ancient vampire crazy can be.” That tone hit you right in the chest slightly mocking, but full of challenge and for that, you didn’t back down. You opened your mouth wider, your hands trembling but holding him firmly as you started exploring him more boldly. Your tongue traced every vein, every curve, and with every broken moan that slipped from his lips, you felt more confident, stronger. You began licking and sucking him more fiercely, one hand around his base and the other steady on his thigh as you balanced yourself—and then you felt him move.

He lifted slightly, muscles tense, and began slowly thrusting his hips, making space between your lips with deeper pressure. You coughed softly, eyes watering slightly as you tried not to lose control while he pushed his shaft deeper and deeper into your little mouth you were truly beautiful with your lips covered in him and the tears slowly falling down your face, and a growl vibrated in his throat as he grabbed your hair. “Don’t forget who’s in charge, human.” His voice grew rougher, and he stammered something you couldn’t understand, and you realized he was fighting himself. It wasn’t just desire; it was hunger, frustration, the damn fear of letting go completely but his body was already lost. And when he saw you cry a silent tear rolling down your cheek as you tried not to let go he broke into a cruel half-smile.

“Look how you finally shut up…” he murmured, almost pleased. “Maybe I should do this more often.” You tried to retort, with a sharp look, but then you felt his finger, cold and icy like snow, brush along the edge of your panties. A touch so subtle yet so loaded that your entire body shuddered and made you squeeze your thighs tighter and he chuckled, and this time he stammered: “H-Holy hell… you’re… soaking wet and you’re… sucking me… like you’re trying to make me lose fucking control.” The tone was a mix of hatred and desire. Hatred toward himself, toward that weakness only you made him feel, and his hand gripped your hair tighter not to hurt you, but to anchor you to him. “You’re a stubborn… insolent, human girl… and you’re playing with something you can’t even understand. Use that mouth properly. Make me feel good… for once.” Your tongue brushed the tip of his member, gathering a drop of pre-cum that tasted like iron and desire. He moaned softly, bringing a hand through your hair to guide you harder, and you started moving first slowly, then letting yourself go to the rising rhythm of his thrusts. Each plunge grew more determined, and deeper, and your breath grew ragged, but you didn’t stop. “Shit… I’m gonna come,” he growled, voice broken, almost incredulous. “Take it all, every fucking drop.” You nodded with watery eyes, cheeks wet with tears and saliva, and when you felt him tremble, with a guttural growl he filled your mouth. The taste was strong and salty, and you swallowed without protest, moaning yourself, and when he pulled back, shiny strands dripped onto your lips. “Look at you…” he chuckled softly, voice low and rough like coarse velvet. “You’re a work of art, with my excitement on you.”

You squeezed your thighs, a shiver ran down your spine, and he wiped your face with a damp handkerchief and then pulled you onto his legs as if you were as light as air. His lips rested on your neck, his canines brushed your skin without piercing it, and you trembled because your body wanted only him. “I want you,” you whispered in a thin voice, your hands on his broad shoulders. “I want you inside me.” He stopped a crooked smile on his lips. “Be careful what you ask for, girl, I might give you more than you can handle.” You rocked gently on him, feeling his member grow again beneath you. “Please…” you murmured, your voice broken by need. “So desperate?” he laughed. “Show me how much you need me, take off your panties, and show me how ready you are.”

You lowered them slowly, blushing, and he grabbed them and threw them away while chuckling at the sight of your arousal showing through your panties, then whispered to you. “Is it you who wants me so badly? Then ride me. Show me you’re not just a curious girl but a woman who can take even a centuries-old vampire like me.” You blushed, but you wanted him too much to resist. “I’m not a girl,” you warned him, climbing on top of him. “And you’re not untouchable.” “No,” he whispered as he brushed your intimate lips with the tip of his sex. “But you, little human, are dangerously mine and you don’t even realize it.” You lifted yourself slightly, your hands firmly on his broad shoulders, and his gaze was glued to your body, attentive, feverish, and in a moment you slid down slowly until you felt him fully enter you. A broken scream escaped you, held halfway between pleasure and vertigo as you felt his cock slide inside your poor pussy that held him tight and you felt full, invaded, crossed by him, and your hips trembled against his.

“Mine…” he stammered, his voice hoarse and his hands gripping your hips with growing force. “Fuck, you’re so tight… so warm…” You gasped, clinging to him. “It’s so big…” you stammered, your voice choked by pleasure. He laughed. “You are a girl, you know? … and already so desperate to feel me inside.” “Don’t call me that…” you moaned, but your protests dissolved when he moved slightly inside you and a shiver ran down your spine. “Oh no? Then prove it,” he teased you. “Show me how well you can ride a monster, little human.” You raised yourself slowly, then lowered again and began to ride him with uncertain but fiery movements, and his eyes never left yours, red as freshly spilled blood, and every moan of yours seemed to ignite him even more. “And you?” you gasped. “Do something too… I don’t want to do it all alone.” “You’re demanding for being just my intern,” he hissed with a grin but then lifted himself, almost sitting up, his arms around your back, and you screamed in surprise as he pinned you against him and you felt his cock pushing into you and felt it all the way to your stomach and he took control of the rhythm, thrusting into you with growing force and you screamed, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, your nails digging into his skin from overstimulation. “Do you feel how mine you are?” he growled in your ear. “Do you feel how deeply I’m taking you?”

Your body against his, him inside you, deeper and deeper, your folds tightening around him with almost desperate spasms, hot, alive, so different from anything he’d known in centuries of death. “So tight…” he gasped against your neck, his voice broken, ruined by hunger. “So human…” His thrusts became more dry, more fierce, and you couldn’t control your voice anymore: you moaned, and stammered his name like an invocation, as if he was dragging you into an abyss of pleasure with no escape. His hands moved on your hips, then your neck, then on the marks you still bore from that night he saved you. “Can I bite you?” he asked, his voice strangely sweet, trembling. “Yes,” you whispered. “I can’t resist you anymore, make me yours, Hoon.” “Where do you want me to bite you?” he asked, his canines brushing your skin. You closed your eyes, your heart racing wildly. “Wherever you want.” And he did it, sinking his teeth into your skin while holding you tight against him, while you bounced harder and harder, more and more desperate, until reality and desire merged into a single, infinite explosion.

His canines sank into your skin and a shiver ran through you as the pain mingled with a pleasure that brushed on ecstasy. He sucked slowly, with restrained greed, as if tasting your blood was holier than sex itself. “Damn you…” he growled between sips. “You’re my favorite drug… and my curse at the same time.” You screamed from both pleasure and pain and your body trembled, every fiber taut on the edge. “I want to come… please… let me…” He pulled away slowly, his mouth red with your blood, and his tongue slowly traced your lips, gathering the last drops as he soothed the wound, then grabbed your nape and kissed you. A full, hungry kiss, and you tasted your blood sliding from his mouth to yours, it was sweet, it was metallic, it was ours and you didn’t realize that from that moment on you were completely his and at his mercy.

“My favorite girl…” he murmured in a low tone, merciless but full of adoration. “So good at making me lose control…” A hand slipped between your bodies, fingers finding your center with cruel precision, and with his thumb, he teased and tormented your swollen clitoris and you moaned shamelessly. “Come for me,” he ordered, “now, show me what happens to a human when a vampire takes her beyond every limit.” “And you?” you gasped, in a thin voice. “You want to… I want you to fill me…” His eyes shone a darker red. “You don’t know what you’re asking for…” he growled. “If I fill you… if I mark you… you’ll be mine forever.” His hips moved with a rhythmic, brutal force and the wet, dirty sound of his thrusts burying themselves inside you filled the living room, punctuated by your broken moans and his curses clenched between his teeth. Every thrust took your breath away, every deeper plunge made you squeeze your thighs around his hips as if you could cling to something. “Look at how you take me, little one…” he growled against your ear, sinking his teeth into your lobe. “Your body is sucking me in like it never wants to let me go, and maybe it was made for me for this…” It hurt, but it was the kind of pain you wanted, the one you sought, and your eyes rolled back as you felt that knot low in your belly tightening more and more, ready to burst. Your body trembled, wet, hands on his shoulder blades, fingers digging into his smooth, cold skin.

“S-Sunghoon, I…” you gasped, your voice broken by a high moan. “I’m about to… I’m about to come…” He didn’t slow down in fact, he kissed your neck, right where he had bitten you a few minutes earlier, the mark still fresh and sensitive, and his warm breath on your skin clashed with the chill of his body. You shivered and then exploded: a fierce orgasm tore through you from within, a wave of raw pleasure that made you cry and moan against his chest; and you screamed from pleasure as you felt your excitement drip from your folds, soaking his cock and making a messy mix of excitations between yours and his, who was about to come but wasn’t done with you yet. You felt your walls clamp spasmodically around his cock as you trembled, helpless, exhausted, your body still shaken by small spasms. “So good…” he hissed, his voice deep and hoarse. “You came all around my cock, like a good little grateful whore.” You blushed, but couldn’t help moaning again the way he spoke to you made you feel dirty, used… and alive; you let yourself go against him, your voice thick: “I-I'm tired… I can’t take it anymore…” Sunghoon laughed softly, that cold and perverse laugh that made you tremble every time. He took your chin between his fingers and lifted your gaze to his.

«You’re tired? Baby… I’m just getting started.» With two slow, deep thrusts, you suddenly felt yourself filled and his cock swelled inside you, then he came with a snap of his hips and a low, animalistic growl. His seed invaded you, warm, making you gasp from the overwhelming fullness. “Shit…” he cursed, holding you close. “Look what you make me do, it’s amazing to be inside this wet, sweet pussy, you’re fucking perfect for me.” He stayed inside you, his body tense, his breath still, and you could still feel him throbbing, and you… you couldn’t even move. You just stayed there, legs trembling, your head against his chest, and the contrast between his cold skin and the warmth he left inside you gave you chills. Then he moved, lifting you slightly to pull out, and a thick, whitish strand began to drip down between your thighs. “Look how you drip for me,” he murmured, pleased, with a wicked half-smile. “You took it all, huh? To the last drop… good girl, my little girl.” You stammered something, confused, your cheeks flushed and your legs still weak. “S-Sung… you came… so much… inside me…” He laid you down on the couch that felt more like a bed, caressed your thigh, and bent to kiss your sweaty head. “Now close your eyes, I’ll protect you, no one will hurt you as long as you’re mine.”

He seemed sincere and sweet but something in his eyes said otherwise. It was the way he looked at you… like you were food, like with every kiss he held back the urge to sink his teeth in and claim you forever… because he was a vampire, a monster who had already lost once but would never lose anyone again in his life, especially you, and he was selfish, dangerous and now… he wanted only you. Your body, your blood, he wanted all of you to the last drop.

That morning, the first movement was a hesitant attempt by your legs, but a weight held you anchored to the bed not oppressive, actually reassuring, warm and cold at the same time, like a blanket made of flesh and ancient blood. You slowly opened your eyes, stretching just a little under the black silk sheets that caressed your bare skin. You wore only a shirt that wasn’t yours, and Sunghoon’s scent wrapped around you.

A thin beam of light filtered through the half-closed curtains, touching the dark room like a timid caress. When you turned, you found him there, lying face down, his head turned toward you, his eyes calm and eternal as they stared at you. One of his arms rested over your stomach, his bicep tense as if holding you with almost involuntary energy, like he feared you might slip away from him… just like maybe it had happened before, with someone else. “Finally…” he whispered with a crooked smile. “I knew you humans loved to sleep, but not this much.” You tried to get up, but a moan slipped from your lips. Your legs hurt, tense and sore, and the spot where his fangs had bitten you throbbed deeply, almost sensually, like someone had pierced you with tiny stings, causing a slight pain. You looked at him and blushed; his gaze softened, and he lifted you carefully back among the pillows without a word. He watched you seriously as if searching for a sign of your pain or discomfort, but what he found was much more disarming. “Are you okay?” His voice was rough, and controlled, but more… human, as if he feared he had crossed too many lines with you last night. “Yes… I’m fine, but someone was thirsty last night if I recall correctly…” you replied with a tired but amused tone. “Of course, I’m a bit weak, Sunghoon.” He lowered his gaze, a guilty but pleased smile touching his lips. “You offered yourself, and I only accepted. Remember this: if you’re not sure, never offer your neck to a vampire, especially one like me, little girl.” Then, in a softer tone: “But I don’t want you to feel bad, even if sometimes… I forget what limits mean.” You smiled softly, your voice sincere and trembling. “I don’t know how to explain it… but with you, I feel… safe, even if you’re a fucking vampire.”

Something changed on his face, a micro-movement, almost invisible, and the mask of the cold, impenetrable CEO cracked just a little. His eyes darkened, became more real, and something strange he hadn’t felt for centuries perhaps only when he was still human, stirred inside him. Then he leaned over you and his fingers brushed your cheek. He kissed you gently a slow, long kiss that made you forget the strength in your legs and the cold of the sheet. The world went dark for a moment. There was only you and him, his taste, his tongue, his mouth that sucked your soul. But then, without warning, you felt the teeth. It wasn’t violent like before, nor aggressive. He sank his fangs slowly into the soft spot between your neck and shoulder, and the pain was minimal like an electric shock followed by a rush of heat and a strange, guilty pleasure crossed you. You moaned softly as you clung to his shoulders, your body tense while he sucked slowly as if savoring every drop. You felt yourself burning inside, but you didn’t want him to stop, and when he pulled away, leaving the red, shiny mark of his mouth on your skin, you looked at him with an expression that mixed with indignation and desire. “You did the teeth thing again…” you muttered, poking him with a finger on his chest. He laughed, that damn perfect smile playing on his lips. “You tempt me, little one. You’re a constant invitation to sin.” He said, pulling you close to him. “You know you could at least ask before sucking me?” you whispered. “You know you could at least pretend you don’t enjoy it so much?” he retorted, leaning down to brush your lips with a kiss, then stopped, his gaze serious and deeper.

“I… didn’t want to. But now it’s too late.” “Too late for what?” you asked while caressing his face. “To stop, to let you go, to not want you every night, every hour, beneath me, in my hands, between my teeth…” He stroked your neck where the blood still pulsed. “I want to mark you, make you mine, bind you, change you, maybe…” he said but couldn’t look you in the eyes because he knew what he wanted was too much for you. You chuckled, almost to break the too-heavy tension, a timid, real sound, so yours that even Sunghoon seemed suspended for a moment in time. “You know… it’s crazy. You spent months treating me with that asshole superior tone, those cold jokes, those looks like I was just an annoying intern…”

Sunghoon’s eyes rolled toward the ceiling, then he looked at you, and for a moment, in his features, you saw the boy who was before the CEO, before the vampire. Maybe, just maybe, it was an illusion you wanted to cling to. “I don’t even know how it happened,” he murmured, running a hand through his hair. “That a heartless bastard like me found himself tied to a stubborn, sweet… and so irritating little girl.” You smiled and moved closer, gently stroking the small, irregular, almost hidden moles on his face. You did it often; you knew it annoyed him to be touched there, but this time he didn’t pull away. “I don’t want to transform, Sunghoon. Not yet,” you whispered, your voice fragile but firm. “I understand you’re afraid of losing someone again. I know she broke you, but I… I’m only twenty-two. I want to live, I want to laugh, do stupid things, go dancing, I want to stay human even being with you for a while, and then, in time, we’ll see how things go between us.” He looked at you skeptically and silence filled the bedroom, then almost whispered to himself: “You’re not like her, you won’t die like her, I won’t allow it.” But his tone, his gaze… wasn’t a promise, it was a threat to fate itself, as if he swore war on time, death, on you—and you didn’t understand.

You curled up against him, your face on his cold chest that now felt almost warm, and he held you, a hand tangled in your damp hair. “I’ll do anything for you,” he said. “I swear, I’ll protect you from everything.” Except himself, he thought, because deep in his immortal heart, while holding you so tenderly, a rotten thought grew, pulsed, and took root. “I love you, little girl,” he said as he held you close, but what he meant was that every time he sucked from you… every time his fangs broke your skin… he left something inside you. A slow, invisible, sublime poison and he would never ask your permission to become one with you. He wouldn’t respect your twenty-two years or your dreams of a normal girl. No. He would take you, one sip at a time, one bite after another until he extinguished every human beat inside you—and no one would stop him, and you would never know when the change began. “I love you,” you whispered, and he… kissed your forehead.

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[kidult0325]

──★ JUST LIKE HEAVEN (part. 2)

꒰ ‎﹒ pairing: jay x fem!reader … ﹒ 90s au, childhood friends to lovers, brother's best friend!jay, exes to lovers, fluff, smut … ﹒w/c: 15k synopsis: three years. that’s how long it had been since you last saw jay park. since spring break, since mixtapes and goodbye letters and i’ll write when i can. he had traded the life you knew for one on the road — guitars, neon lights, hotel rooms in cities you’d never been to. and it was 1994 now, you had your own place, your own rhythm. you had almost convinced yourself you were over it. until a concert. a song. a glance across a crowded room. and suddenly, nothing was over at all. ꒰ ‎﹒ warnings: unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), smut, mdni!!! 💿 % (◠﹏◠ ✿) #nowplaying: just like heaven - the cure | read part 1 here <3

it’s been three years since you last saw jay park. and somehow, it still feels like yesterday.

by 1994, everything feels different. you’re in your last year of college now. you know how to make your bed in the dark, how to survive on gas station coffee and a playlist that’s been the same since sophomore year. your books are underlined and frayed at the corners. the shoes by your door don’t match on purpose anymore. jungwon’s in college now, halfway through. he’s still figuring things out, but his voice has settled, and so has his energy. a little more grounded, a little less wild around the edges. he doesn’t call as much as he used to, but he writes sometimes. signs his letters with messy doodles and stories that sound like home: who’s dating who, which professor’s a nightmare. he’s talking about studying abroad next year. says it like a joke, but you know he’s serious.

your friends are scattered across cities and apartments, student loans and early jobs. some of them are in long-term relationships. some are engaged. some are already talking about house payments. they still write you, too. sometimes on postcards, sometimes in long emails typed from shared computers in dorm basements. you keep every one.

you've learned how to let go of things slowly. how to miss people quietly. how to stop expecting things to stay the same.

the world has changed since 1991. nevermind came out. so did automatic for the people. you cut your hair once, just to feel something. you fell in love with someone else for a little while, then out of it, and didn’t talk about it much after. the posters in your room have faded from the sun. you don’t live in the dorms anymore. you don’t listen to the same tapes every night. just most nights.

you don’t talk about jay. not really. not out loud.

he shows up in passing. in jokes jungwon makes. in old notes you kept but don’t read. in the way your breath still catches when someone plays just like heaven on a jukebox too late at night. you heard he’s playing in a band now. you don’t know much. just that sometimes, when you pass a flyer on a telephone pole or a crumpled gig poster in a café window, you pause a little longer than you mean to. and sometimes, just sometimes, you wish you see his name is on it.

sometimes, in the middle of doing something normal — folding laundry, walking back from class, standing in line for coffee — you remember that last afternoon.

spring break, 1991. the sky was overcast, warm in the way that made you think summer might arrive early. jay was leaving again. his band had just gotten picked up to open for someone bigger, someone you’d never heard of but pretended to recognize. he had a folded schedule in his back pocket, all scribbled in blue ink and crossed-out cities.

“you should come,” he said. “i’ll leave your name at the door.”

you smiled. nodded. said, “yeah, maybe.”

but you never did.

the next semester hit hard. papers stacked up, internships started, and time blurred. phone calls turned into postcards. then into silence. it wasn’t anyone’s fault, not really. he had tour dates. you had midterms. and something about trying too hard to hold on felt embarrassing after a while.

the last thing he sent was a letter.

you still remember the envelope. thin, bent at the corner, his handwriting slanted and messier than usual. you read it in your dorm room one night, sitting on the edge of your bed while your roommate snored into her pillow.

y/n,

i’m sorry i’ve been gone. i mean, i’ve been here, just not really anywhere at the same time. i thought i could keep up with everything. with touring, with writing, with remembering to breathe. but i keep messing it up. i keep losing time. i didn’t want to stop writing. i just didn’t know how to keep showing up if i wasn’t doing it right.

i still think about you. that’s probably unfair.

i hope you’re good. i hope you’re better than i’ve been.

— j

you kept that letter for too long. read it twice. three times. then put it away in a drawer and didn’t open it again.

after that, things just… faded. you didn’t write. he didn’t call. you heard from jungwon once that jay had been in town for a weekend but didn’t stop by. you told yourself that was fine. you told yourself it didn’t matter. until that night in 1993, in the back room of someone’s party. the music loud. drinks half-finished. two girls near the record player talking about some band they saw the week before. one of them said, “the guitarist was so hot, i swear he was flirting with me all night backstage.” and the other one laughed. “the one with the flannel? that’s jay, right?”

you froze. just for a second. and didn’t say anything. you didn’t ask if it was the same jay. you didn’t need to. you left early, walked home alone, told yourself it didn’t mean anything, that you were fine. that you’d grown out of it.

but some nights, when it’s too quiet to lie to yourself, you replay that last goodbye. the way he’d said, “you should come.” and the way you never did. you wonder if he waited. for how long. or if he stopped counting somewhere along the way.

and here you are, 1994, months from graduating, pretending the weight on your chest is just the pressure of adulthood. pretending you don’t still rewind that tape sometimes. pretending you haven’t memorized his handwriting even though you haven’t seen it in years.

you’re fine. you smile when people ask. you talk about plans. you fill your days with work and lists and voices that keep you forward-facing. but every once in a while, at the end of a song, or the bottom of a box, or when you see someone in a denim jacket that doesn’t quite fit, you feel it again.

you never really let go. you just learned how to carry it differently.

it started as something casual, something thrown into a friday night without much weight — just yunjin walking into the room with two tickets and that grin she always had when she knew you needed something to pull you out of your head. she said bon jovi was in town. said yeonjun already had his and that the three of you could go together. said she didn’t want to hear any excuses. and you didn’t have one, not really. so you nodded, and told yourself it would be good to get out. you hadn’t been to a concert in a while. not a big one, not the kind with lights and heat and voices shouting into the dark.

you didn’t think about jay right away. maybe just for a second. a flicker of memory at the name. you remembered him talking about bon jovi, you remembered that t-shirt you painted for him. 

so you went. you got dressed. you wore your denim jacket and borrowed eyeliner from yunjin. yeonjun picked you both up in his dad’s car, windows down, music too loud. it was the kind of night that felt like it could belong to anyone. the arena was full. the floor vibrated before anything even started. people were already on their feet, beer sloshing from plastic cups, voices rising together like they’d been waiting all week just to scream. you found your seats, somewhere near the back but high enough to see the full stretch of stage. the lights dimmed. a ripple ran through the crowd, electric and hungry. and then the band was there. you let yourself enjoy the first songs. let the music rush through you, let the drums hit your chest. yunjin was dancing in her seat. yeonjun kept shouting lyrics half a beat too late. the night blurred around the edges in the way concerts always do.

and then came the next song. always. you recognized it before your brain caught up. 

and that’s when you saw him.

your eyes were scanning the stage out of habit, and there he was. standing off to the left, half-shadowed in blue light. guitar slung low across his chest, hair falling forward a little as he tilted toward the mic. he looked older. not in a bad way, just real. flannel sleeves rolled to the elbows, hands steady on the strings. and then he opened his mouth and sang. not lead. just backing vocals.

your body didn’t move. couldn’t. it was like the floor had locked you in place. you stared. the rest of the crowd kept moving. the lights kept flashing. yunjin was still beside you, completely unaware. but your world had shrunk to the length of the stage and the shape of his shoulders and the way he closed his eyes when he hit a harmony.

jay. after all this time.

after postcards and silence and a hundred almost-memories you tried not to replay.

he was looking out into the crowd, past the lights, into the blur of people that you had somehow become a part of. and still, something in you reached for him. your fingers curled against your jacket, your breath caught halfway. you didn’t cry. not yet. you just kept staring, like maybe if you stayed very still, the universe would shift, and he’d look up, and see you. but he doesn’t see you. of course he doesn’t. you’re just one face in a crowd of thousands, too far up and too far back and too far gone. but when the last chorus of always starts, something in your chest breaks open anyway.

you hear him — clear, right through the echo and the noise. i know when i die, you’ll be on my mind, and i’ll love you, always.

your breath catches so hard you forget how to let it go.

your fingers find the edge of your seat. your knees lock, then unlock. and before you even know what you’re doing, you’re standing. slipping past yunjin’s knees, brushing yeonjun’s arm. you don’t look at either of them. you just go.

“where are you going?” yunjin’s voice follows you.

yeonjun chimes in too, confused. maybe a little annoyed. “dude. what—”

but you don’t answer. you can’t. you’re already down the stairs, already pushing through the hallway, the noise of the concert fading as you make your way out. the air outside is colder than you expected. your legs feel heavy. your hands are shaking, and you don’t stop walking until you’re alone. you take the long way home, even though the buses are still running. even though your shoes are not made for this. you walk like you’re trying to wear the feeling out of your body. like distance could make this less real.

and when you finally get to your apartment, you shut the door quietly behind you. you don’t turn on the lights. you just stand there, coat still on, bag still slung over your shoulder, and you let yourself feel it. you cry. you cry in that ugly, helpless way where your hands can’t keep up with your face, where your chest folds in on itself, where everything you’d been holding in since 1991 spills out like it never had anywhere to go. you cry because you saw him. because it’s been three years. because you didn’t know he would be there and now you don’t know how to be here without the weight of that moment pressed into your skin. and then you sit down on the floor, like your body doesn’t know what to do next.

you think about all the things that came flooding back the second you saw him: that christmas, the porch light, the sound of his voice in a letter, the way he used to rest his forehead against yours like it meant something. the lake house. the mixtape. the last kiss. you think about the letter he sent before it all went quiet. the way he said i still think about you, and how you never answered. you think about the day you heard someone else say his name and pretended it didn’t knock the air out of you.

you think about how, even after all this time, you still knew his voice the second you heard it. and somewhere under all of that, buried deep in the ache, there’s something like pride. because he made it. you always knew he could. he was good, really good. not just at guitar, but at meaning what he played. and now here he is, sharing a stage with one of the biggest bands in the world. and sounding like he belongs there. you’re happy for him. you are. but it still hurts. not because you wanted him to stay, but because some part of you never expected to lose him like this. not so completely.

you wipe your face with the sleeve of your jacket. pull your knees up to your chest. the room is quiet, save for the hum of the fridge and the faint buzz of a light somewhere down the hall. and in the middle of all that silence, your heart keeps repeating the same question, over and over. does he ever think of you when he sings it? you don’t know. maybe you’ll never know.

but tonight, for a moment, you were eighteen again. and that’s almost worse than forgetting.

you wake up with your face still puffy, the inside of your mouth dry, and the memory of always still echoing in your chest. you sit on the kitchen floor with yesterday’s clothes and a cold cup of coffee, and you think, i’ll just move on. you don’t mean to say anything about it. you don’t wake up planning to talk. but then there’s a knock and it’s yunjin, holding a paper bag and looking like she already knows you’re not okay. yeonjun’s behind her, carrying takeout cups and wearing his we come in peace t-shirt that always makes you laugh, even when you don’t want to.

they don’t press at first. they come in, settle onto your couch, act like it’s any other morning. yunjin puts music on low — something soft, r.e.m. — and yeonjun turns on the kettle like he lives there. you sit cross-legged on the floor in your hoodie, and after a few minutes of silence, yunjin says, “you didn’t come back.”

and that’s when it breaks, and you tell them everything. not the whole thing. not every letter, not every tape, not the lake or the kiss or the way he once said you make things feel easy. but enough for them to understand that it wasn’t just the shock of seeing him. it was everything around it. the time, the loss, the space between who you were and who he is now. they don’t interrupt. they don’t try to fix it. yeonjun just nods, real slow, and mutters, “damn.” yunjin reaches over and squeezes your hand.

hours pass, blurring into a quiet afternoon of them helping you pack away some of the memories, pausing only to put on some mindless show. they don't stay too long after that. eventually, they get up and start talking about dinner, about how you're going out whether you like it or not, and you let them take you along because the apartment feels too full of memory, and because they're trying, and because you've always been better at pretending when someone else is watching.

the diner they pick is on the corner near the old bookstore, the neon sign flickers a little, and you feel something in your chest settle as soon as you sit down. yunjin and yeonjun are talking, laughing quietly about someone from class, their legs brushing under the table in that way that makes you suspicious. they’re trying to act normal, but there’s something too soft in the way she hands him the salt. you watch them out of the corner of your eye, chewing on your straw, and finally smile for real for the first time all day.

but after a while, the noise gets too much again. you excuse yourself, and step out the front door, letting it shut behind you with a soft click. the sky’s dark now, but not cold. the street’s mostly empty and silent, except for a few cars passing, the occasional sound of a skateboard or a laugh from somewhere around the corner. you reach into your jacket pocket and pull out a crushed pack of cigarettes. one left. figures. you picked this habit up during finals last year. felt cool. felt like the end of a music video, like it did in the 80s. but now, in the 90s, they say it’ll kill you. but it shuts everything up for a second. so.

you don’t know how long you stand there like that, leaning against the brick wall, cigarette between your fingers, letting the night breathe around you. and then headlights hit the pavement, a car pulls into the lot — dark green, polished, the kind of old-school cool that feels deliberate but not forced. it’s a 1992 chevy camaro z28, all angles and muscle, the kind of car a guy buys when they’re not quite ready to settle down.

you watch without thinking. the door opens. a guy steps out, tall, black jacket, looks vaguely familiar. another follows, laughing, pulling off a beanie. you know them. not well. not personally. but you recognize them. because you’ve seen them before.

on stage.

the third door opens slower.

and there he is.

jay.

he steps out like he’s unsure of the ground under him. same flannel, sleeves rolled, hair a little shorter now, but still him. still the same shape of boy you kissed once in a field of stars, the same voice on every tape you kept hidden in your drawer.

he’s looking down at first, shoulders slightly hunched. and then he looks up. right at you. he freezes. you freeze too. for a second, maybe longer, neither of you moves.

the other guys are still talking, already walking toward the diner entrance. but jay doesn’t follow. he stays there, by the car, staring at you like you’re something he thought he made up. like seeing you breaks some rule. your cigarette burns down between your fingers. you forget to breathe. you forget to blink. and in the silence between one breath and the next, the years fold up like they never happened. it feels like you’re just two kids again.

the car door is still open behind jay, one of the other guys calling his name from a few steps ahead, not noticing, or maybe not caring, that he hasn’t followed. his eyes stay on you like they’re trying to make sure you’re not just a trick of the lights, something he pulled out of a dream too late at night. you don’t look away. you can’t.

he closes the door and takes a few steps forward. slow and careful, like you might run.

“hi,” he says, voice low, uncertain, like the word isn’t big enough for what he’s feeling.

“hi.” you say it back.

and then silence again. the kind that comes heavy and weird, pressing between the two of you like fog. you cross your arms. he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. a door opens somewhere behind you, someone laughs from inside the diner, but it doesn’t touch either of you. he clears his throat first.

“i forgot we were in your city,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “too many cities lately. i don’t even know what day it is half the time.”

you let out a small, dry laugh through your nose — not exactly mean, just tired. “yeah,” you say quietly. “i went to the show.”

his eyes widen a little, like the information hits harder than it should. “you—what?”

you nod once, slow. “i didn’t know you were part of the band. it was my friend’s idea. she dragged me out.” your voice is steadier than you expected. “i recognized your voice first. then i saw you.” he doesn’t say anything. his mouth opens slightly like he might, but nothing comes out. “you’re really good,” you add, softer this time. “i mean it.”

his shoulders drop a little. his mouth twists, not into a smile, exactly, but something close. “thanks.”

“i didn’t know you made it that far,” you say. “bon jovi.”

he exhales. his eyes are shining a little, and he looks down like he needs a second to get control of whatever’s happening inside him. “i didn’t know you’d be there.”

“me neither.”

he takes another step toward you. you don’t move. "i didn’t think i’d ever see you again," he says. his voice cracks at the end, just a little. "and now you’re here, you’re smoking."

you let out a low laugh, real this time. “yeah. turns out i have terrible coping mechanisms.”

he smiles, but it’s cautious. “i’m sorry,” he says suddenly. “for disappearing. for not writing. for—”

you hold up a hand, just slightly. “you don’t have to.”

“i want to.” his voice is steady now. quiet, but clear. he’s still standing a foot away, but it feels like he’s closer than that. “i wanted to reach out a hundred times,” he continues. “but it felt like too much. or not enough. and then time just… passed.”

you nod, slowly. “yeah. it does that.”

he looks at you again, really looks this time, like he’s trying to see who you became. “you look good,” he says. “different, but not really.”

you smile, even though it hurts a little. “you too. the flannel’s still doing the heavy lifting though.”

he laughs, finally, and it breaks something between you. for a second, you let it be easy again. he tilts his head, eyes soft. “can i—are you okay?” you hesitate. then nod. “i don’t know what this is,” he says. “i don’t know if i have the right to even be talking to you right now. but i’m really glad i saw you.”

you swallow around the lump in your throat. “me too.”

he takes a breath like he might say more, but the diner door swings open then, and yunjin leans out. “hey—are you—”

she sees him, and freezes. then looks at you. then back at him. her mouth opens like she wants to say something but she wisely doesn’t. “i’ll give you a minute,” she says, disappearing back inside without another word. you and jay both laugh under your breath at the same time. and just like that, it’s quiet again. he takes one more step forward, close enough now that you can see the curve of his lashes, the slight stubble on his jaw, his birth mark on the side of his neck. the way his hand twitches like he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“can i give you a hug?” he asks, voice soft. unsure.

you nod. barely, but it’s enough. he moves toward you and wraps his arms around you, carefully at first, then tighter, like something in him breaks open when you don’t pull away. and you sink into it. not because you want to, but because your body does before your mind can think twice. his arms are strong, warmer than you remember. he smells like the kind of cologne you’d smell on someone walking by backstage, faint smoke and something sharp underneath it, but it’s still him, still familiar. you bury your face against his shoulder, and neither of you says anything for a long time. he pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you. doesn’t let go.

“i think about you a lot,” he says, voice rough. “still.” you meet his eyes, breath shaky. he continues, “some songs... i write thinking about you. i don’t mean to. it just happens.”

you blink hard, chest tight again. “i liked always,” you say. “it’s a good one.”

he looks down, just a second. his hand still resting on your back. “yeah, i wrote that one,” he says. you stare at him for a beat. he shrugs a little. doesn’t say if he wrote that one thinking about you. but his eyes say more than his mouth ever could. you look away first. try to breathe again.

“how’s jungwon?” he asks suddenly, gently shifting the weight of the conversation.

you smile, genuine. “he’s good. third year. studying architecture. i don’t know where that came from.”

“he always liked building stuff. remember that weird tower he made out of cereal boxes?”

you laugh quietly. “yeah. and glue sticks. and half the living room rug.”

he smiles at that. the kind of smile that aches. “i missed him. i miss home sometimes.”

you nod. “me too.”

he looks at you again. more carefully this time. “what about you? last year, right?”

“yeah. almost done.”

“how’s it been?”

you shrug. “busy. normal. lonely, sometimes. i live alone now.”

he opens his mouth to answer, but the door behind him swings open again. two guys step out, the same ones from the car. one of them grins when he sees jay and calls out, “hey, you coming in or what?”

jay glances at them, then back at you. “i’ll be in soon,” he says. “ran into a long-time... friend.”

the pause in the middle of the sentence hangs there. not heavy. just strange. like both of you noticed it, but neither wants to name it. the other guy raises his eyebrows a little but doesn’t ask anything. they head back inside. the silence creeps back in. the door opens behind you this time. “hey,” yunjin says, stepping out. “we’re heading out. you coming?” yeonjun follows, one hand casually linked with hers. they both look at you, curious but not nosy, like they know enough not to ask. you glance at them, then at jay. then back.

you shake your head. “i think i’ll stay.”

yunjin squeezes your arm, just once, and nods. yeonjun just smiles, like he expected that answer all along. they wave as they walk away, hands still linked, disappearing around the corner. you turn to jay. he doesn’t say anything. just watches you. waiting. and somehow, without a word, you both understand the next step.

and that's when jay thinks about everything that happened in the last three years. he didn’t mean for it to happen the way it did.

at first, he thought he could balance everything — school, the band, writing, you. he really thought he could make it all work. but time moved differently back then. and he was always chasing something. a setlist. a deadline. a bus that left too early or too late. the band got serious quicker than any of them expected. one night they were playing to twenty drunk kids in someone’s garage and the next they were opening for someone bigger, someone with real equipment and real fans. people started showing up. listening. remembering his name. it was addictive but also terrifying. 

college faded into the background. it didn’t make sense anymore. he stopped going to most of his classes. said he’d take a semester off, then another. his parents were furious at first. called it reckless. stupid. said he was wasting potential. but then they came to a show. just one. they saw the way the crowd reacted, the way he moved with his guitar like it was part of him, like the music wasn’t something he made but something he became. after that, they softened. not completely, not all at once, but enough.

he kept going. city after city. song after song. sleeping in vans, missing birthdays, forgetting what day it was. he lost track of holidays. of phone calls. of you.

but he thought about you all the time. 

he thought about you when the van was too quiet and everyone else was asleep. he thought about you when he saw lights flickering in some motel parking lot and it reminded him of that night in the lake. he thought about you when he wrote something too soft, too raw, and didn’t know why it mattered until your name crossed his mind halfway through the chorus. he thought about you every time they played near your state and he almost said something to the manager. almost asked if you’d be there. he thought about you every time he rewound that tape you gave him, the one with your handwriting on the cover and that one song you swore would always make you think of summer.

he started writing that last letter months before he sent it. scratched out versions of it in different notebooks, napkins, corners of lyric sheets. tried to get the words right and never did. everything sounded like a lie, or worse, like a goodbye. and he didn’t want it to be that. but he also didn’t know how to keep pretending it wasn’t over. and when he finally wrote it, he kept it folded in his bag for three days before mailing it. didn’t sleep that night. didn’t tell anyone. he didn’t expect you to write back. but part of him always hoped you would.

he told himself he was doing what he was meant to do. that the trade-off was worth it. that this life — the shows, the travel, the applause — it had to be enough. but then the lights would go down at the end of a set, and someone would ask if he was coming out for drinks, and he’d find himself standing by the door too long, thinking of you. of your voice. of how you said maybe when he asked you to come see him play. he told himself you were probably happy. probably better off. probably didn’t think about him the same way anymore.

and then, three years later, he walked out of a car in a city he didn’t even realize was yours. and there you were, smoking a cigarette, looking at him like he’d never really left. like he was still someone you knew. and everything inside him just stopped. because it had been three years, and somehow, it still felt like you were the only part of his life that had ever been quiet enough to feel real.

he watches your friends walk away until they’re out of sight. the parking lot quiets down again, humming with the low buzz of neon and leftover conversation.

he turns to you. “do you wanna get out of here?” he asks, like it’s nothing. like it’s not everything.

you look at him for a second. just long enough for it to matter. “yeah,” you say. “i do.”

he nods, like he wasn’t expecting a yes. like part of him already had one foot back inside the diner. you both start walking toward the car, the one he came in, but he hesitates. “this isn’t mine,” he says, gesturing vaguely. “we’re leaving tomorrow morning. early. that’s the drummer’s car.” he shoves his hands in his pockets, looking down for a second before glancing at you again. “my car’s at the hotel. about twenty minutes that way.”

“my place is closer. we can walk, if you want.” you don’t know why you say it. not exactly. the words come out easy, but they sit strange in your chest. there’s no plan. no reason. no expectation. just this pull that says don’t let him go yet.

he nods. “okay.”

the walk starts quiet. the streets are mostly empty, the kind of quiet you only get in a small city late at night. the air is cooler now and makes your skin feel too tight. you pull your jacket tighter around you. he notices. he doesn’t say anything. just steps a little closer. your shoulders brush, just slightly. neither of you moves away. you pass under a streetlamp. it hums above you. you glance at him out of the corner of your eye — his jawline in the yellow light, the way his hands are still tucked into the sleeves of his flannel like he’s holding something in.

“i don’t know what to say to you,” you admit quietly. not looking at him.

“me neither,” he says, almost instantly. “it’s weird.”

“yeah.”

“but not bad.”

you glance up at him but he’s already looking at you. you nod. “no. not bad.”

you don’t speak again for a while. the silence between you isn’t empty, though. it’s full of everything you both remember and everything you’re both afraid to ask. every few steps, your arms brush again. sometimes your hands, and it doesn’t feel like an accident. but it doesn’t feel like a decision either.

you turn onto your street, point out the building without saying anything. he follows you up the front steps like it’s the most natural thing in the world. you hear your keys in your hand before you realize you took them out. you stop in front of the door. and that’s when it really settles in — the closeness. the possibility. the strangeness of all of this.

you haven’t seen him in years, you barely know him now, but you used to. you really, really used to. and standing here, in front of your door, you’re not sure which version of him is looking back at you — the boy you kissed in the dark, or the man who sang backup on a stadium stage. maybe both. maybe neither.

you unlock the door with a quiet click, push it open slowly, and step inside first. you don’t turn on the overhead light, just the small lamp by the bookshelf. your place smells like lavender and the faint trace of the incense you burned the night before. you kick off your shoes, he copies you. he steps in carefully, like he’s not sure if he should be there, like he might break something by breathing too loud. his eyes move slowly across the room — the record player near the window, a stack of books with a coffee mug balanced on top, a blanket half-fallen from the couch.

he lets out a soft breath, almost a laugh. “you made it look like you.”

you glance at him, eyebrow raised. “what does that mean?”

he shrugs, walking a little deeper into the room. “i don’t know. it just... feels like you live here. it’s not just a space. it’s yours.”

you smile, small. close the door behind him. “thanks, i think.”

he turns back toward the shelf, fingertips brushing over the spines of the books, the edge of a candle, the side of your old walkman. he pauses. his hand stops at a cassette case, faded, slightly cracked at the corner, label smudged from years of being touched. he pulls it out gently. the handwriting is his.

he looks at you, eyes soft. “you kept this?”

you nod, slow. “yeah.”

he stares at it for a second longer, then sets it back down, careful. when he turns back toward you, his face is quieter than before, like something's settled. “do you... wanna talk?” he asks. his voice isn’t pushing. just curiosity and hope. “like—about everything. put things in order.”

you blink once, then nod. slow. “if you want to,” you say. “if you’re comfortable.” he nods too, eyes still on you. you motion to the couch, then the kettle. “you can sit, or make tea, whatever makes it feel easier. make yourself at home.” he lets out a little breath at that, the corner of his mouth tugging into a barely-there smile. he sits on the couch and watches as you move through the space. you light the kettle on the stove. he watches your hands. “so,” you say eventually, turning back to face him, leaning against the counter. “how did you end up playing with bon jovi?”

he huffs out a breath, eyes widening slightly. “honestly? i still don’t totally know.”

you raise an eyebrow and he shrugs. “you auditioned?”

he nods. “twice. the second time, i played a song i wrote. didn’t say it was mine. they figured it out later. he liked that too.” he pauses. “it happened fast. i didn’t expect it.”

you tilt your head. “but you wanted it.”

“yeah,” he says, looking down at his hands. “i think i did. i mean, of course i did. we were opening for a few mid-sized acts. nothing huge. a guy who did lighting for their crew saw us in a club, told someone higher up that our guitarist was ‘some kid with way too much emotion in his fingers.’” he rolls his eyes at that. “i guess jon liked that.” you walk over slowly, curling your legs under you as you sit across from him. he shifts just slightly to face you. “so,” he says, matching your tone. “what about you? how were the last three years?”

you hesitate. not because you don’t have answers — but because none of them feel simple. you shrug. “good in pieces.” he watches you for a second. not pushing, but not letting the question disappear completely either. you offer a half-smile. “i don’t think i figured anything out, if that’s what you’re asking.”

he nods. “i wasn’t.”

a quiet settles in again. and then he says suddenly: “i missed you.” with no hesitation. like the words had been sitting too long and couldn’t stay still anymore.

you really look at him. “i missed you too.”

his eyes soften again. he leans forward just slightly, elbows on his knees. “sometimes i used to wonder if i made it all up. that summer. the way we were. if i just remembered it better than it really was.”

you shake your head, sure. “you didn’t.”

“you were always in the back of my mind,” he says. “even when i didn’t want to admit it. especially then.”

you bite the inside of your cheek. “i thought about you a lot. more than i wanted to.”

you both sit in it for a moment — the weight of three years, of silence, of almosts that never got their ending. the kettle starts to hiss, soft and steady in the background, but neither of you moves. he leans back a little, one arm draped lazily across the back of the couch, his hand only inches from your shoulder now. “i thought maybe we’d bump into each other again. and i hated that. the idea that it’d take chance, not effort.”

“but you’re here,” you say, quiet.

“yeah.” he breathes out. “and i don’t want to leave this time without doing it right.”

you glance at him. “i don’t know what doing it right means,” you admit.

he smiles, eyes tired and full. “me neither. but we could try.”

you look down at your hands, then at his fingers brushing slightly against the fabric of the couch. your heart’s louder now. you nod, barely. “we could try.”

you don’t know when it happens exactly, the shift. maybe it’s the quiet. maybe it’s the way the room’s only lit by the soft glow of the lamp. maybe it’s the weight of his words still floating between you. but suddenly, you’re looking at him, really looking at him, and he’s already looking at you. his gaze doesn’t move — not to your hands, not to the floor like it used to when he got nervous. it’s steady now, like he’s memorizing something. like he doesn’t want to miss a single detail. your heart stumbles a little. and neither of you looks away, and the moment stretches. his knee is brushing yours. his hand still resting on the couch cushion. your whole body feels too aware of itself — your fingers, your lips, your throat. 

the kettle screams.

you both flinch, not much, just enough to break the spell, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“right,” you say, standing up quickly. “tea.”

he stays on the couch, watching you move across the room. you flick off the stove, pour the water into the mugs you grabbed earlier. you add honey to yours, then add some to his, too. you bring the mugs back, hand him his. he smiles when he takes it. that same crooked, tired smile you remember.

you sit again, curled into your side of the couch, feet tucked under you. “so,” you say, gently blowing over the rim of your cup. “rockstar life, huh?”

he really laughs, for the first time tonight. “i mean, it’s not exactly groupies and private jets,” he says. “sometimes it’s tuna sandwiches at truck stops and sharing hotel rooms with people who snore like they’re dying.”

you snort. “glamorous.”

“deeply.”

“do you like it?”

he thinks for a moment. “i do. most days. some days it’s exhausting. some days i feel like i’m just chasing noise.”

you nod, sip your tea. “do you ever get lonely?” you ask, quiet.

he looks at you. “yeah,” he says. “a lot more than i thought i would.”

you both finish your tea slowly, the conversation drifting here and there. small questions, quiet answers, tiny pieces of each other being carefully returned. it’s not like before. but it’s not not like before either. 

you place your mug down gently on the coffee table. he does the same. your hands brush. just barely. you start to move yours away out of instinct, but then you feel his fingers wrap gently around your wrist. you look up. he’s already looking at you again. his thumb brushes the inside of your wrist, where your pulse is loud. louder than you want it to be.

he leans in, not quite closing the space, but almost. “you still do that thing,” he says, voice low. “twist the sleeve of your sweater when you’re nervous.”

you glance down at your hand. he’s right. you look back up at him. his face is so close now you can see the faint scar near his eyebrow, the one from when jungwon pushed him off his bike in eighth grade. you could reach for him. you could close the distance. you could kiss him. 

you don’t move, not at first. you just sit there, watching him, feeling his hand warm against your wrist, his thumb brushing once against your skin like he’s asking something without saying it. the distance between you is nothing now, and he’s close enough that you can see the way his lashes fan downward, the faint crease between his brows, the softness in his expression that wasn’t there when he first stepped out of that car. his hand moves slowly, from your wrist to your jaw, fingertips grazing up the side of your neck. his touch is careful, your breath catches, and he feels it, you know he does, but he doesn’t stop. his palm settles against your cheek, his thumb resting just below your eye.

he tilts his head slightly, eyes flicking down to your mouth, and then he leans in. his lips meet yours in a kiss that feels like an exhale, full of everything that’s gone unsaid. he kisses you like he’s afraid to startle you, like he’s still checking if you’ll let him stay. and you do, you kiss him back without hesitation, your hand moving to his chest like you need something to hold onto. his breath hitches and he shifts closer, legs brushing yours, the heat of his body pulling you in. his other hand moves to your waist, anchoring. you tilt your head, your lips parting under his, and that’s when the kiss deepens.

you feel him everywhere — in the way his thumb strokes your cheek, in the press of his chest against yours, in the gentle sound he makes when you pull him in a little closer. the world narrows. the couch disappears. the years fall away. there’s only him, only this, only the you falling into together like no time has passed at all.

when he finally pulls back, just enough to breathe, he doesn’t go far. his forehead rests against yours. your noses brush. his hand stays on your cheek. your eyes stay closed.

“i’ve wanted to do that since i saw you standing outside the diner,” he says, voice low, breath warm against your skin. “actually, since before that.”

you smile, overwhelmed, a little breathless. “i know.”

you open your eyes to find his already on you. wide, tender, shining. “i didn’t think i’d ever get the chance again,” he adds.

you reach up, fingers finding the side of his neck. “you have it now.”

and he kisses you again, no pause this time. his mouth finds yours with more confidence now, more feeling. the way you mold into him is instinctive, your hand slides up into his hair, his fingers spread across your back. the kiss is soft, but it’s not shy. every press of his lips says i missed you, every shift of your body says i’m still here.

his lips don’t leave yours for long. there’s no rush, but there’s urgency, not of time, but of want. of having waited too long and not knowing how to say it any other way. his hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. he shifts closer, his body pressing into yours with a kind of hesitation that disappears as soon as you don’t stop him. your knees bump. your hands move without thinking, gripping his shirt, pulling him closer. you feel the weight of him then — not just the physical, but everything he’s holding. 

he leans into you, and you lean back, and the cushions give under your weight as he gently guides you down, your back meeting the couch, his body following. he hovers over you for just a moment, eyes meeting yours like he’s asking again, silently, if this is okay. and you answer the only way you can: you pull him in.

his mouth finds yours with more fire this time. it’s still careful, still steady, but there's a heat now that wasn't there before, something that builds in the way he presses you into the couch, the way his hand finds your waist, the way he exhales against your lips. you feel the weight of his body above you, his knee slipping between yours, the warmth of him sinking into your skin. your hands explore him like you’re tracing something familiar and new at the same time — the slope of his shoulder, the nape of his neck, the muscles shifting under your palms.

he pulls back just slightly, mouth still close, breath catching as he looks down at you, and then he says it, voice low and rough and full of awe, “god, you’re so beautiful.” you inhale sharply, eyes locking with his. he kisses the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw. “always were,” he murmurs between kisses. his lips trail lower, grazing your neck, making your whole body tighten. “you don’t even know what you do to me,” he whispers.

your breath hitches. your fingers tighten around his back. he kisses you again, deeper this time, the kind of kiss that makes you forget where you are. every shift of his body against yours makes your skin burn in the best way. there’s something new here, a closeness that’s never been touched before, but was always waiting. you find it overwhelming, but it’s not scary.  his hands move to your hips, grounding you, holding you like he doesn’t want to let go — like he couldn’t, even if he tried. his fingers dig in just slightly, and it sends a shiver through your body. you exhale, a soft, breathy sound you didn’t mean to let out, and he hears it.

he kisses you harder. his mouth pressing into yours like he’s starving for it now. you feel his tongue slide against yours and you moan softly into his mouth, and that’s when you feel his hands slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, skin against skin, warm and steady and reverent. he groans when he touches you. low, like it’s involuntary, like just feeling you beneath his hands undoes something in him. you reach up and tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging gently, messing it up in a way that makes him hiss under his breath. he leans into it, hips pressing forward, his body sinking further into yours, like he needs to feel you everywhere at once. his knee shifts between your thighs, pressing in. you don’t know if he means to do it or if it’s just instinct, but it sends a wave of heat through your core that makes your back arch slightly into him. you let out a breathless moan and your hips twitch without meaning to, and he feels it. his breath stutters, his hands holding tighter.

“fuck,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. “you make the prettiest sounds.”

you let out another soft, shaky moan when his thigh presses in again, more deliberate this time, like he’s testing something, like he’s trying to see how far he can take you with just this. your head spins. his hands slide further up under your shirt, fingers spreading across your waist, his palms dragging up the bare skin of your stomach. you gasp softly when the cool air of the room hits the warmth of your skin, and he leans back just enough to look at you. his lips are parted. his eyes heavy and full of something dark and warm and wanting.

“can i take this off?” he asks, voice low, almost careful. “just your shirt.”

you nod, but it’s not enough — you’re already whispering, “yeah. yes. it’s okay.”

he lifts it slowly, his fingers brushing your ribs, the fabric sliding up over your head and landing somewhere behind the couch. his eyes drop to you, his gaze moving over your chest, your stomach, the way your skin is flushed and rising with every breath.

“jesus,” he breathes out, more to himself than to you. “you’re... fuck.”

you can’t look away from him. the way he’s looking at you, like he’s not sure if he should touch you or fall to his knees, makes your whole body ache. he leans in again, this time slower. he kisses your collarbone. the center of your chest. his hands still holding your waist, guiding you gently as his mouth maps a path down the center of you. your hips move again, and his thigh finds its place between yours, pressing up, grinding just enough to pull another sound from you, one that surprises even you.

“that’s it,” he whispers against your skin, one hand sliding up to cup your ribcage. “just like that. let me hear you.”

you feel it all. his body above yours, your legs tangled under him. the weight of his thigh against your center, the warmth of his mouth, the hands that can’t seem to stop touching you. you don’t know where this is going yet — not fully — but right now, it’s everything. right now, it’s his breath on your skin, your hands in his hair, your lips swollen from kissing him over and over again. it’s the years that fell away the second he touched you. it’s the way he’s looking at you now, like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense.

his hands never stop moving, dragging along your sides, your stomach, and he leans back just slightly, just enough to take you in again, his eyes dark and full of something that makes your skin heat under the weight of it. his fingers slide up one strap of your bra and down your arm, until the thin band slips from your shoulder. he presses his mouth there immediately — warm kisses, one after the other, his lips brushing over the new skin, then he bites gently, just enough to make you gasp, and he groans at the sound.

you moan softly, helplessly, when his mouth gets close to your breast, and that’s when he stops. just for a second. he lifts his head and looks down at you, breathing heavy, his hands still firm on your waist.

“do you really want this?” he asks, voice low and serious.

you nod right away, then say it out loud, because you want him to hear it. “i’ve been waiting for this for a really long time, actually.”

his eyes flash, jaw tightening, like the words hit deeper than they should. he groans, low in his throat, and then he’s on you again, kissing your neck, your collarbone, and you feel his breath, warm and fast, as he speaks between kisses. “yeah?” he murmurs, voice rough. “what exactly have you been waiting for?”

you let out a breathy laugh, your fingers digging into his back without thinking, and whisper, “i was waiting for you to make me yours.”

he curses under his breath, something sharp and guttural, and you barely have time to react before he’s reaching behind you, tugging your bra down with a kind of desperation that makes your head spin. “fuck,” he mutters, eyes locked on yours. “i’m gonna make you mine, then.”

his touch changes — still gentle, but firmer now, more certain. he cups your breast like he’s wanted to for years, his thumb brushing your nipple before he leans in and takes it into his mouth. your back arches without meaning to, a moan slipping out of your lips as your hand flies to his hair again, pulling slightly, needing something to hold onto. he groans into your skin, the vibration making you shiver. his other hand slides under your back, supporting you, keeping you close. your hips roll instinctively beneath him, your legs parting more, needing more of him everywhere. your nails drag across his back, not too hard, but enough to make him breathe harder, to make him growl softly against your chest.

“so fucking perfect,” he murmurs. “can’t believe you’re really here. can’t believe i get to touch you like this.”

his voice is raw now, every word soaked in years of longing and frustration and heat. and you’re melting under him, body buzzing, mind gone, skin on fire. his mouth is still on your breast, warm and wet, his tongue circling your nipple in slow, maddening strokes before he sucks it into his mouth again. and while he’s doing it, you feel him shift his hips down into you, slow and deliberate, grinding his hardness right where you need him most.

your whole body jerks in response, hips tilting up into him, a sharp, breathless moan leaving your lips before you can stop it. his thigh is still between your legs, but now his cock is pressing right against your core, even through the layers of clothing — and it’s too much, not enough, exactly what you’ve been aching for. he keeps moving his hips, slow, hard, dragging himself against you like he knows exactly how close you are to falling apart.

you whimper again, high and needy, your hands clutching at his shoulders, at his back, at anything you can reach. “jay,” you breathe, voice thin and shaky, “please.”

he pauses, not pulling away, just lifting his head slightly from your chest to look at you. his eyes are dark, pupils blown, lips parted and wet. “please what, love?” he asks, his voice low and rough and teasing. he knows. of course he knows. but he wants to hear it.

you stare up at him, completely undone and open. “i want you,” you whisper. “i want you so bad it hurts.”

his breath leaves him in a rough exhale, and before you can say anything else, his hands are on your waist, lifting you and pulling you up onto his lap, your thighs straddling him, your chest still bare against his flannel. you can feel how hard he is now, pressed right between your legs, and the friction makes your head spin.

he kisses you hard, deep and messy, all teeth and tongue and want, and then he pulls back just enough to murmur, “tell me where.”

you blink, dazed. “bedroom. down the hall. second door.”

he stands with you still wrapped around him like it’s nothing, like he was meant to carry you. you hold onto him, arms around his neck, mouth brushing his jaw as he moves fast, focused, straight down the hall. he kicks the door open gently with his foot and walks you inside, setting you down carefully on the bed like you’re something he doesn’t want to drop, like he’s still trying to be careful even when he’s about to lose control.

“fuck,” he breathes, eyes raking over you as he stands over the edge of the bed. “look at you.”

he crawls over you slowly, hands braced on either side of your head, and starts pressing kisses to your skin again — your jawline, your cheek, the soft space behind your ear, down your throat. every kiss is hot, open-mouthed, a little desperate. he whispers between them, voice hoarse.

“so perfect.”

“been dreaming of this.”

“can’t believe i get to have you like this.”

his hands roam over your ribs, your sides, your thighs. his body never leaves yours. every part of him is pressed to you, and you’re burning, pulsing, so far gone you can barely form thoughts. your fingers dig into his back, his arms, his hair, anywhere you can pull him closer. you moan again when he kisses the space between your breasts, grinding into you through his jeans, and he growls softly at the sound, kissing lower, biting gently at your hipbone.

“gonna make you feel so fucking good,” he whispers against your skin. “gonna take my time with you. finally.”

you arch into him, legs falling open wider, and he groans, pulling back just enough to look at you — all flushed and panting beneath him, your eyes glassy, lips kiss-swollen.

“you’re mine tonight,” he says, voice wrecked. “every inch of you.”

you nod, breathless, your whole body trembling. “i’m yours,” you whisper.

and that’s all he needs. he pulls back just enough to sit on his knees between your legs, breathing hard, his hands moving to the buttons of his flannel. his eyes don’t leave yours as he pulls it off slowly, letting the fabric fall to the floor beside the bed. underneath, there’s just a worn black t-shirt and you watch, wide-eyed and barely breathing, as he lifts the hem and peels it off too.

he’s lean, all muscle and sharp lines, but not in a showy way. more like someone who’s lived in his body, worked in it, played night after night with a guitar strapped across his chest. his stomach is tight, his arms strong, his collarbones prominent in the low light. and god, he’s beautiful. you swallow, your fingers twitching against the sheets, and he sees the way you react to him, the way your eyes move over every inch of his chest like you can’t help it. like you’ve been thinking about this too long not to stare now that he’s finally in front of you like this.

he smirks, just a little. not cocky. just knowing. “you okay, love?” he asks, voice low and teasing.

you nod quickly, your lips parting around a soft gasp when he leans down again, mouth ghosting over your collarbone. “you’re even better than i imagined,” you whisper, like it slips out before you can stop it.

he groans at that, something low and deep, and kisses you again, slow and hot and full of tongue, before he starts moving lower. his hands find your waist again, fingers sliding under the hem of your pants. he kisses your stomach once, just above the waistband, then looks up at you through his lashes.

“can i?” he asks, voice a little rough now, like he’s holding back.

you nod, and your voice is small but certain. “yeah. please.”

he hums like the answer physically affects him, and starts pulling your pants down slowly, dragging the fabric over your hips, your thighs, down your calves, until they’re gone. you’re left in just your underwear, legs spread for him, chest rising and falling fast, and he sits back for a second just to take it in. he lets out a sharp, helpless sound when he sees you.

“fuck, baby,” he says, eyes roaming. “look at you.”

his hands come to your thighs, thumbs brushing the inside where your skin is already hot and shaking. he leans in, kisses one side gently, then the other — slow, open-mouthed kisses to the softest parts of you, places no one’s ever touched the way he does now. his lips find the crease of your thigh, right where it meets your center, and you gasp, your hips jumping slightly. he chuckles against your skin, breath hot.

he kisses you through your underwear next, a soft press of his mouth right where you need him most, and it makes your entire body jolt. you whine, your hand flying to his hair, tugging lightly. he moans at the contact, at the scent of you, his nose pressing lightly against the fabric. and then he breathes you in, slow and deep.

“jesus,” he mutters against you. “you smell so fucking good.” his hands tighten on your thighs. he presses another kiss through the damp fabric, then another, dragging it out, letting you feel every bit of the tease. your hips roll again, trying to get more, chasing the heat of his mouth, and he just smiles. “fuck, baby, you don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he says softly, almost like he’s in awe. 

you can’t respond, not with real words, just a soft, shaky moan and your fingers digging deeper into his hair as he keeps kissing between your legs, building the pressure, praising you under his breath like it’s a prayer. your legs are trembling now, thighs twitching with every breath. he groans into you, deep and low, like he’s losing his mind just from being this close. then his hands slide up your thighs, slow and firm, curling around your hips as he pulls his mouth back just enough to look at you.

“can i take these off?” he asks, voice dark and tender at the same time, like he’s already halfway gone.

you nod fast, desperate, breathless. “please.”

he hums at the way you say it, like you’re giving him everything he’s ever wanted. and then, slowly, he hooks his fingers into the sides of your underwear, and pulls. he watches as he drags them down your legs, never breaking eye contact for too long. he tosses the fabric aside without care, like nothing matters but you now, here, like this. his eyes drop to your core, and he groans, deep in his chest. “fuck,” he breathes. “you’re so wet already.”

your cheeks burn, but you don’t hide. you can’t, not when he looks at you like that, like you’re sacred. 

he kisses your thighs again, then lower. kisses your mound. kisses the soft skin right beside where you need him most. teasing, worshipping. and then finally he leans in and licks a slow, flat stripe from your entrance up to your clit. your whole body arches. your hand flies to his hair again and you let out a sound that’s not even a moan — just a desperate breath, cut short by how hard it hits.

he groans into you. “that’s it,” he murmurs, licking again, slower this time. “that’s what i wanted.”

his hands slide under your thighs and hold you open, steady, as he buries his face between your legs. his tongue moves like he knows you already, like he’s been dreaming about this for years — licking, sucking, teasing. he focuses on your clit in soft, steady circles, then moves down, tongue fucking you, groaning every time you moan for him. you can’t stop moving. your hips grind against his mouth, your thighs tense, your stomach pulling tight. and he just holds you there, letting you fall apart in his hands.

“you taste so good, baby,” he whispers between strokes. “so sweet. fuck.”

you whimper, fingers tangled in his hair, the pressure building so fast you don’t know what to do with it. he doesn’t stop, he doesn’t even slow down. his mouth stays on you, perfect and hot and overwhelming, his hands holding your thighs open as he works you open with his tongue. when you moan his name again, sharp and breathless, “jay—,” he groans like it physically affects him, like it’s the only thing he ever wants to hear again.

“that’s it,” he says. “say my name again. let me hear you.”

every movement feels intentional — like he’s learning what makes you whimper, what makes your legs shake, what makes you cling tighter to his hair and moan his name like it’s the only thing you’ve ever known how to say. his mouth is relentless, warm and wet and perfect. his hands hold you firm like you might slip away if he lets go. the coil inside you is tightening fast now, heat building between your hips, up your spine, down your thighs. your whole body arches into him, and he groans at the way you move against his mouth.

“you’re doing so good for me, baby. come on. let go,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked. you gasp, your fingers fisting the sheets now, eyes squeezed shut, heart pounding. and then his mouth sucks your clit just right and your whole body shatters. the orgasm hits hard.

your back arches off the bed, a cry ripping from your throat as the pleasure rolls through you in waves. your legs tremble, toes curling, thighs squeezing around his head, and he just keeps licking you through it, gentler now, helping you ride it out, coaxing every last bit of it from your body with his mouth. “fuck,” you breathe, over and over, your voice shaking.

he finally pulls back when you’re twitching, your body too sensitive, your breath caught somewhere between a moan and a laugh. he kisses your thighs again, affectionate, almost reverent, and then he sits up. his face is flushed, lips swollen, chin wet with you. he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room that matters. and then, slowly, he reaches down and undoes his jeans. you watch, still trembling, chest rising and falling too fast. your eyes follow his hands as he pushes the denim down his hips, revealing the outline of his cock through his boxers — hard, straining, undeniable. he kicks the jeans off, and then he just stands there for a second, breathless, staring down at you with something between hunger and awe.

he leans over you again, one hand braced beside your head, the other still at the waistband of his boxers, pausing for a moment as his eyes roam over your face, your body, your chest rising and falling from the high he just gave you. you meet his gaze, and there’s something new in it now — something softer than before. not lust, not quite. something closer to reverence.

“i’ve thought about this,” he says, voice low, breath shaky. “so many times. more than i ever should’ve.”

you reach up, your hand cupping his cheek, fingers brushing along his jaw, grounding him. “me too.”

he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for a second. then he kisses you again like he’s trying to tell you everything he can’t quite say out loud yet. you taste yourself on his tongue and you moan into his mouth. he pulls back just enough to whisper, “i missed you so fucking much—” his hips grind against yours through the thin fabric still between you, “you. all of you.”

“i missed you too,” you whisper, and it comes out raw and honest.

he kisses your cheek, your jaw, your neck. then he finally pushes his boxers down, and you feel the heat of him against your thigh, thick, hard and heavy. you look down and your mouth goes dry. it’s overwhelming, in the best way — not just the size of him, but what it means. that he’s here. with you, like this.

he moves between your legs, settling into the space that always felt like his, and pauses. “you sure?” he asks again, his voice quieter now. steadier.

“yes,” you say, without hesitation. “please.”

he groans, and reaches down, running the head of his cock through your slick, coating himself in you. the pressure makes you gasp again, your hips twitching toward him, desperate to feel him where you’ve needed him most. he lines himself up, eyes never leaving yours, and then he pushes in slowly and carefully, letting you feel every inch as he stretches you open. your mouth falls open in a silent moan, your back arching, hands flying to his shoulders. he curses low under his breath, jaw tight, eyes squeezed shut for a second.

“fuck,” he breathes. “you feel like heaven. you feel... fuck, baby.” your fingers dig into him as he bottoms out, buried completely inside you, and he stays there for a moment — not moving — just breathing with you, forehead resting against yours. “you okay?” he murmurs.

you nod. “perfect.”

​​he starts to move, slow at first, with deep, steady thrusts that make your breath stutter with every roll of his hips. the friction is perfect, the heat between you unbearable. every sound he makes — every grunt, every whisper of your name — pushes you closer to the edge again. his hands roam constantly, like he can’t choose where to touch because he wants all of you at once. he kisses you between thrusts, muttering things into your mouth like so fucking good, and i missed you, and you were always mine.

you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him deeper, tighter, and he groans like he’s breaking apart. his rhythm builds, his hips slamming into yours with more force, more urgency. it’s not rough, not careless, but it’s just that he needs this. needs you, every part of you, and you need him too. the sounds of skin and breath and moans fill the room, tangled with his name on your lips over and over again. “jay—fuck—”

he kisses you hard, messy and open-mouthed, his tongue sliding against yours as he pounds into you, the headboard knocking gently behind you, his hands everywhere. one grips your thigh, the other pressing into the mattress by your head. and then his hand moves up, fingers brushing your jaw, your lips, and you part them instinctively, letting him slide his thumb inside your mouth. he watches you as you suck on it, his eyes dark, mouth falling open. “jesus christ,” he breathes. “you’re... fuck.” 

you swirl your tongue around the pad of his thumb, moaning around it, and his hips stutter. he growls low, pulls it out, and brings that hand down to grip your waist as he fucks you harder and deeper, every thrust dragging against the sweetest spot inside you. “you feel so good,” he mutters, voice wrecked, barely coherent. “so fucking good. like you were made for me.” you cry out again, hips rocking to meet him, your nails raking down his back. your whole body tightens, thighs trembling, your second orgasm crashing close like a wave.

and then he says it, broken, breathless, true. “i loved you. all this time,” he gasps, pressing his forehead to yours, thrusts getting sloppy, more frantic. “i still fucking love you.”

you come undone with a cry — loud, raw, desperate. your whole body arches into him, clenching around his cock, dragging him down with you. you tremble under him, pleasure blinding, his name falling from your lips like prayer. he groans, deep and guttural, and pulls out at the last second, fisting his cock once, twice, before he comes with a growl, hot and thick across your stomach. he jerks in his own hand, breathing ragged, eyes locked on you as he spills everything onto your skin.

his forehead drops to your shoulder. his body trembles above you, he lets out a shaky breath, his lips brushing your neck. “mine,” he whispers. “you’re mine. you always were.”

you hold him close, heart pounding, your legs still wrapped around his waist. and for the first time in years, everything feels like it’s exactly where it’s meant to be. you stay like that for a moment, his body heavy over yours, your arms wrapped loosely around his shoulders, your breath slowly returning to something close to normal. your skin is damp with sweat, your chest still rising and falling too fast, and you can feel his heartbeat against your ribs, loud and unsteady.

he doesn’t move right away. just presses his lips once, soft, against your neck, then your collarbone, then rests his forehead there like he can’t bear to let go of the closeness just yet. you slide your fingers up into his hair, brushing it gently back from his forehead, and whisper, “we’re a mess.”

he laughs, low and breathless, and lifts his head enough to look down at you. his gaze moves to your stomach, the evidence of him still there, and he hums, a little sheepish. “let me clean you up,” he murmurs. you nod, and he leans over the side of the bed, pulling a crumpled t-shirt from your laundry basket nearby — one of his, you realize, from years ago, soft and faded. he uses it carefully, wiping your stomach, being gentle like you’re fragile now, like he’s still not done taking care of you.

you watch him the whole time. the way his jaw clenches in focus, the way his hands move. the way he keeps stealing glances at your face, like he needs to check if you’re still with him. and when he’s done, he tosses the shirt aside and settles beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. you turn toward him instinctively, tucking yourself against his side, your leg draping over his hip, your hand resting flat on his chest. he wraps an arm around you and pulls you closer. skin to skin, warmth to warmth.

“you okay?” he asks, his voice soft, almost afraid of the quiet that’s settled around you both.

you nod, pressing a small kiss to his shoulder. “more than okay.”

there’s a pause, and he shifts a little, like he’s trying to find the right words. his fingers trace slow circles on your back, his breath even now, steady against your temple. “i meant what i said,” he murmurs eventually. you blink, and tilt your head to look at him. “about loving you,” he says. his voice doesn’t shake, but it’s quiet. like he’s scared to say it too loud, scared it’ll disappear if he does. “i didn’t know how to carry it back then,” he continues. “but i still love you, even after all this time.” you don’t interrupt, you let him speak.  “it never stopped,” he says. “not really. i loved you when i was writing songs in hotel rooms. i loved you when i saw your name on old letters and had to stop myself from riding to your city. i loved you when i stepped out of that car and saw you again for the first time.”

he turns fully toward you now, brushing your hair behind your ear. “and i love you right now,” he says. “more than i know how to explain.” your throat tightens and your eyes burn. you reach up, touch his face, and trace the line of his cheek with your thumb.

“i love you too,” you whisper. “always did.”

he leans in then, kisses you slow and soft. nothing rushed, nothing hungry, just love.

just all the things you both kept to yourselves for years, finally allowed to be spoken in the quiet of your room, under soft sheets and the faint hum of the city outside. you rest your head against his chest again, and he holds you tighter. 

“can we stay like this for a while?” you ask.

he kisses the top of your head. “as long as you want.”

and for the first time in a long time, there’s no distance. no almosts, no waiting.

and he sleeps over that night. not because you asked, not because he asked. just because neither of you ever considered the alternative.

you fall asleep tangled in each other, your leg over his, his arm wrapped tight around your waist, his breath steady against your neck. his skin is warm, even under the cool sheets, and at some point in the night, he murmurs something — too soft to catch — but it makes you smile in your sleep. when you wake up, the sun’s filtering through the blinds in thin lines, and he’s already awake.

he’s propped up on one elbow, watching you, hair messy, smile soft. “good morning,” he says, voice low, raspy from sleep.

you blink slowly, stretch a little, and smile back. “hi.”

he kisses your shoulder, then your cheek, then pulls you closer like he doesn’t want to leave the bed — like he could stay like this forever. but he can’t, and you both know that.

“i should get back to the hotel,” he says eventually, eyes apologetic. “they’re probably losing their minds trying to find me.”

you sigh, nestle into his chest for one more second. “what time’s the last show?”

“tonight,” he says. “city next over. it’s the end of the leg, then we get a few weeks off.”

you nod slowly. “you can use the phone,” you say, sitting up, brushing your hair back. “i don’t think it’s been used in days.”

he grins. “i missed landlines.” he pulls on his pants and shirt from the night before, pads barefoot to the phone in the corner of your living room, dialing a number from memory. you hear him talk to someone — probably the security guy — laughing a little, apologizing, promising he’ll be down in twenty. when he hangs up, he walks back toward you, hands in his pockets, eyes lingering on the edges of your apartment like he wants to remember it exactly as it is. “they’ll be here soon,” he says, voice lower now. “i should go.”

you nod. try to smile, but it’s small. he watches you for a second. then steps closer. his hands land on your waist. his forehead rests against yours.

“come with me,” he says.

your heart stutters. “what?”

“just for the night. the last show. it’s nothing big. we’ll be back by morning. or—” he laughs softly, eyes still on yours. “we won’t. we’ll figure it out.”

you blink. “jay…”

“i know it’s sudden,” he says. “i know we haven’t figured out what this is. but i don’t care. i just want you there.” you hesitate. not because you don’t want to go — but because it feels big. because everything between you always has. he leans in closer, kisses the corner of your mouth. “come with me,” he says again. softer this time. “please.”

he looks at you, you look at him. and then you’re moving.

you spin around, nearly tripping over your own feet as you head to your bedroom, pulling open drawers, grabbing whatever you can — a pair of jeans, a toothbrush, your tape player. he laughs from the hallway, breathless, half in disbelief. “i’ll take that as a yes,” he calls out.

you yell back, “shut up and help me find my shoes.” he grins, already heading into your closet like he’s lived here forever. and just like that, you’re going.

before you leave, you scribble a note on the back of an envelope you found near the phone, the ink shaky from how fast you’re writing. you fold it in half and slide it under the mat by your door. 

yunjin, if you pass by here — went on tour with jay. just one night. back tomorrow. probably. maybe.

you don’t sign it. you don’t need to. she’ll know, and then you go. the drive to the next city is quiet at first. the windows rolled halfway down, your bag in the backseat, jay’s hand resting on your thigh the entire time. there’s music playing low on the radio — tom petty, bryan adams, someone you don’t catch — and the sky is the kind of gray that doesn’t mean rain, just distance. he looks over at you every few minutes like he still can’t believe you’re there. like he’s afraid to blink and find the passenger seat empty.

you get to the venue around three. the crew’s already setting up, cables and amps everywhere, the soundcheck halfway through. someone hands jay a setlist. someone else tells him where catering is. he keeps looking back at you like he’s trying not to lose you in the noise. you don’t get lost.

you follow him backstage, watch him tune his guitar, watch him run through scales absentmindedly with his eyes half on you. you sit on a speaker case and talk with one of the backup singers for half an hour about lip balm and tour food and how long the drives get between cities. you see the way the rest of the band looks at jay when he plays — the quiet respect, the ease, the way he’s earned his space up there. you don’t say anything. you don’t need to. and when the show starts, you watch it from the side of the stage. 

the lights are blinding. the bass shakes the floor. the crowd screams in waves, louder with every song. and he plays like he’s alive in a way you’ve never seen before, like every note is another word he doesn’t have to say out loud. you watch his fingers move across the strings, his head tilted back, sweat dripping down his temple. and all you can think is i’m so fucking proud of him. he looks at you once during a quiet moment between songs. you smile, he does too.

after the show, the band’s buzzing. half-dressed, towel-draped, beer-in-hand kind of buzzing. someone hands you both a drink. someone else tries to convince you to stay for another leg of the tour. you laugh it off. or maybe you don’t.

you end up in a hotel room around two in the morning. his guitar still in the corner, your makeup smudged, your voice a little hoarse from singing along. he presses his forehead to yours before you fall asleep, whispers, “you were my favorite part of today.” you don’t answer. you just kiss him.

the next morning, the world feels slower. the windows are fogged. the coffee tastes stronger. he sits on the edge of the bed, shirtless, one sock on, and glances at you like he’s thinking too hard. “you know,” he says, not looking up, “this could be a thing. you and me. doing this.”

you pull the sheet up over your chest, lean on your elbow. “you mean… shows? cities?”

he nods. finally meets your gaze. “yeah. if you wanted.”

you don’t answer right away. because maybe this was supposed to be one night. maybe you were supposed to go home in the morning. but maybe you won’t. you think about the noise, the lights, the music. about his hand on your thigh in the car. about his mouth on your skin the night before. about his voice saying “my favorite part of today.” so you look at him — hair messy, guitar pick still in his pocket, smile soft, and you think: maybe i could get used to this.

and your life changed a little after that day. not in the kind of way that people notice from the outside, not right away, but something shifted. you came back home feeling different. lighter, like someone who finally let herself say yes, like someone who wasn’t afraid of living anymore.

you graduated two months later. your cap didn’t sit right on your head and your gown was wrinkled from the car ride, but none of that mattered. not when you saw him in the crowd, leaning against the back railing, sunglasses on, biting back a grin when you caught his eye. he didn’t bring flowers. he brought his car. you hadn’t packed a bag. he didn’t ask if you wanted to go, and you didn’t ask where.

you watched a concert in a city you never thought you’d see, slept in a motel with pink walls and a broken ice machine, woke up to him humming something under his breath while brushing his teeth, one hand tangled in your hair like he couldn’t believe you were real. sometimes you went alone. just you and him. sometimes you brought a friend — yunjin once, who danced side stage like she’d been doing it her whole life, who whispered he’s so gone for you, you know that, right? into your ear after the show, and kissed your cheek before disappearing into the crowd.

sometimes you both passed through home. once, you and jay picked up jungwon for a weekend. no plan, just his overnight bag and your mixtape in the stereo. you ended up at the coast. jay let jungwon drive for part of the way, and you both screamed when he almost missed the exit. you slept three across in one bed, your feet tangled, your ribs hurting from laughing. jay played guitar on the porch of the tiny rental, barefoot and happy, and jungwon fell asleep with popcorn in his lap. 

no one talked about what it meant, but everyone felt it anyway.

you started carrying a small bag in the back of your closet, just in case. a toothbrush. a sweater. a cassette or two. he’d show up sometimes without warning, always leaning against the doorframe like he’d never left. “thought we could drive,” he’d say. and you’d go, you always went. you weren’t following him, you weren’t chasing anything. you were just there together making it up as you went along. saying yes to the kind of life that didn’t always fit in lines or schedules or plans. but fit him, and it fit you.

fit this version of love that moved, and stretched, and stayed. the summer blurred like that. with half-packed bags and gas station snacks, and hotel keys that never worked the first time. with sweat on your skin and his songs in your ears. with soft hands and sleepy grins and “come here” whispered into your neck in the backseat of his car at rest stops. with your feet up on the dashboard, and his fingers tracing your knee at red lights. it wasn’t perfect, but it was yours.

you got used to the rhythm. not just of the music, but of the life. sleeping in unfamiliar beds. brushing your teeth in gas station bathrooms. ordering breakfast in diners that smelled like the seventies and played the same four songs on repeat. you stopped asking where you were. stopped keeping track of state lines. stopped needing to define what you were doing. but you weren’t trying to escape anything, you just didn’t need to stand still anymore.

some mornings, you woke up to the sound of his guitar in the other room, already strumming something into shape. other mornings, he was still asleep, one hand wrapped around your waist, his face pressed into your shoulder like you were the softest thing he’d ever touched. there were fights, too. about timing, about exhaustion, about space. sometimes he shut down. sometimes you disappeared into the crowd before the encore. but every time, you found your way back. not with apologies, always — but with hands reaching in the dark. with quiet dinners. with the word stay whispered into your hair.

you made friends with the crew. with the other musicians. you had your own backstage pass, but mostly you stayed out of the way. you read books in the greenroom and  you painted your nails on the tour bus floor. you stole his hoodies, of course. you took pictures you never printed. and in every city, he kissed you like it was the first time. you never asked what would happen after the tour ended, and he never offered a version of forever. but something in you both knew that this, whatever this was, had already become part of your bones.

one night, after a show in a city that felt too loud even in the fading hours, you and jay found yourselves driving back to your hometown. not just a quick visit, but the kind of week where time stretches slow and familiar. you needed a break from the tour, from the noise. the car hummed softly down the old roads you both knew by heart. the tour bus felt miles behind you, like a distant memory. the car was small, just enough space for both of you and a couple of guitars resting in the backseat. you didn’t say much, but the silence was easy and comfortable. jay hummed a melody low enough that it was more felt than heard, his fingers tapping softly on the steering wheel like it was another instrument. you reached over and squeezed his hand without thinking, and he glanced at you, a soft smile playing on his lips, like he’d been waiting for that all night.

when you arrived at your parents’ house, your mom opened the door, and the second she saw you, her eyes welled up with tears, of course. your dad, teased as always, “didn’t think you’d grow at all while you were gone.” and even though it was the same old line, you could tell he meant every word, his voice warm with relief. jay stood beside you, shifting awkwardly at first, but your parents welcomed him like he’d been part of the family forever — not just jungwon’s best friend, but the one who made their daughter smile in a way they hadn’t seen before.

the days that followed were a patchwork of memories and new moments stitched together. you went back to the park where you and jay had found each other again after you left for college, trying to make sense of everything that had changed. the diner where you’d shared late-night fries and whispered secrets during winter break, the neon sign buzzing softly overhead, still humming the soundtrack of your youth. you stood by the lake where the sky had caught fire the night of your first kiss, the water reflecting the soft glow of twilight. and then there was his childhood bedroom, tucked away in the basement of his parents’ house, walls still lined with posters, a guitar resting against the bed, and a window that looked out onto the quiet street. you remember the night he played “just like heaven” on his guitar there, fingers trembling with a mix of nerves and hope. it was before he left for college, before the silence stretched long between you. that song, that moment, stayed in your chest like a promise, one you both carried through the years.

that week, wrapped in the comfort of old places and quiet laughter, felt like a pause in the endless moving. a chance to remember where you came from, and to hold on to the pieces that made you whole.

and sometime in late october, you were at a city on the coast, windy, a little gray. the venue was old and charming. he was quiet that day, but not distant, just thoughtful. kept checking his setlist and tapping his pick against his thigh. didn’t talk much in soundcheck, and you knew better than to push. you watched from the wings, your arms crossed over your chest, the laminate pass hanging loose around your neck. and when they got to the second half of the show, the part where they sometimes rotated songs in or out, someone leaned over and told you he was going to do something different. you didn’t know what that meant, not until he stepped forward, a little closer to the mic, and looked out at the crowd like he was looking for something in it.

“we’ve been on the road for a while now,” he said, voice steady. “and this next one’s not ours. but it’s always been… mine. in a way.”

you felt it before he played the first chord. your breath caught in your throat. he glanced sideways, just once, just for a second, and then he started playing.

“show me, show me, show me how you do that trick…”

and your heart cracked wide open. because just like heaven wasn’t just a song, it was your song. from the very beginning, from that spring you thought you’d lost him, from mixtapes on train rides, from letters tucked into jacket pockets. from him playing it for you in his childhood bedroom, dreaming of what it’d feel like to be wanted the way those lyrics wanted someone.

you left the venue late that night, your hand in his, your cheeks still warm, your chest still aching in the best way. and no one said “the end” because no one needed to. some stories don’t end when the lights go down. they end quietly, in moments like that: in a guitar string still vibrating, in a look across the stage, in the memory of a song you never stopped hearing.

and in the way you still felt like heaven to him. always.

author's note: first of all… i’m so sorry for taking forever to update this 😭 life got busy, motivation disappeared, my brain shut down for like days, you know how it is. but we’re BACK and i’m so, so happy i finally got to share this part of the story with you

writing this second half felt like coming home in a nostalgic and painful and soft way. i always knew i wanted this fic to feel like growing up, and getting older, and realizing that love doesn’t always disappear just because time does, it just shifts. and maybe, if you’re lucky, it comes back <3

thank you for reading, screaming, crying, waiting, messaging, and just being here. this fic means the world to me. if you made it this far ilyyyyy!!!! you are the moment <3

taglist: @iyoonjh @jakesimfromstatefarm @blushingkoo @povjin @7789995323567322 @wtfisgoingright @dearestdreamies @fateismoonstruck @skzaurora @mora134340 @wonuziex @htrhng

[kidult0325]

5’ 2” With Some Attitude

Warnings: MDNI, smut, minor angst, fluff, idol Niki, Black reader because we’re lacking in the fanfic world, just little drabbles with our favorite maknae

In which Niki knows how to handle his girl…

You had a history of toxic relationships. It wasn’t truly your fault, you just had a bad track record of getting with guys who seem fine and then end up hating you as time goes on. And then you joined your girls for a night in Hongdae. You didn’t intend on finding a man that night but you just couldn’t get enough of this boy who kept eyeing you from the bar with his friends. He was tall and fine.

Niki knew what he was getting into. When he saw you at a club he was star struck. You had him in a trance and from that moment forward he knew he was a goner. He tried to lock in on whatever the guys were saying but that curly haired bounced in the corner or his eye. He could deal with the repercussions later but right now, he wanted you.

-

“So are you gonna keep eyeing me the whole night or buy me a drink?” You asked.

Niki was startled and turned to look at you now sitting next to him. His friends were a bit shocked.

“Well if you let me finish my conversation then maybe I’ll entertain you.” He said with a raised brow.

For the first time you were actually astounded. Usually a guy would bend to your will but this one? Oh no, he wasn’t having it.

“What if I don’t have time to wait for you?” You asked with an attitude.

The other two boys next to him scoffed.

“Someone has an attitude problem.” Jungwon muttered.

Your head snapped to him. “And someone has a minding their own business problem.”

Niki smirked at the interaction. He liked you. Now it wasn’t just your looks or your body. That damn attitude had him in a chokehold.

“Alright! Jungwon give me a sec, yeah?” Niki requested.

The boy rolled his eyes and turned back to Sunghoon to talk about literally anything.

“So what’s it gonna be, you gonna buy me a drink or dance with me?” You asked.

Niki stood up and smirked down at you. You were instantly humbled by the size difference. He was also much much more attractive up close.

“Well little girl if you give me your name maybe we can compromise on something.” He said.

You shook your head and reached for his drink on the bar. Once it was in your grasp you downed the shot with ease.

“You’re wasting my time playing games. Gimme your name and let’s go dance!” You pleaded.

Niki smiled and took a look at his Patek. He let out a sigh seeing what time it was. It was getting near 1 a.m. and he still had practice in the afternoon tomorrow.

“Sorry doll, no can do. But if you give me that phone I’ll put my number in it?” Niki said.

You rolled your eyes and began to turn around. “You play too many damn games anyway.”

Niki pulled you back by the arm and you landed close to his chest. While he had you distracted he took your phone from your hand and quickly called his phone. Instead of answering it he let it go to voicemail.

“Here, call me when you ready for an attitude adjustment.”

With that he ended the voicemail and slid your phone into your back pocket. With that he left the bar with his friends, in a state of shock, followed behind him.

You were also left flabbergasted. When you didn’t move for a minute your friends came over to join you.

“Girl are you alright?”

“That man was fine! I hope you got his snap!”

“Girly introduce me to his friend with the blonde hair!”

Even though you came back to earth, their comments went over your head. You were stuck on the tall one with the deep voice.

-

That first meeting resulted in you calling him the next day. When he failed to answer he was texting you the next hour. You quickly learned that he’s an idol and you work in the same company. As a producer it wasn’t uncommon for you to have run-ins with artists, but you were more surprised that you didn’t know him off the bat.

As time passed Niki would take you out and eventually ask you to be his girlfriend. You were shocked that he actually wanted you. Your attitude was usually enough to push someone away but Niki? He wanted all of it. He loved when you had a comeback but he loved it even more when you made you speechless. He knew how to handle you.

-

“Baby have you seen my charger?” Niki asked.

You shook your head and kept watching your TikTok videos. One of them was of this girl seeing how long it takes for her man to get annoyed.

How long would it take Niki? Your brain was wandering into territory it shouldn’t but you were feeding into it nonetheless. This is when you decided you were going to make it your mission to see how long it takes to push Niki over the edge.

“Niki!” You shouted.

Niki came back into the room moments later with his found charger in hand.

“Yeah baby?”

“There’s a guy that keeps DMing me. He wants me bad.” You brag with a smirk.

Niki nods like you’ve said something obvious.

“Of course he is, babe. I’d do the same if I wasn’t already with you.” He says as he joins you on his bed.

“So you’re not jealous?” You asked.

Niki chuckled as he reached to plug in his charger.

“Do you want me to be?”

You pursed your lips at that and proceeded to scroll through Instagram. You would find another way to get him.

And find another way you did. The next day when he was on the couch gaming you grabbed juice from the fridge before returning with your glass in hand. But instead of sitting down you took your spot right in front of the TV.

“Yes baby?” Niki asked with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m standing in front of the TV.” You said.

Niki nodded. “I can see that.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re not gonna do anything about it?”

Niki shrugged. “Well I’m in a waiting room…”

You groaned annoyed and took your place in his lap.

“Do you want me to turn off the game?” He asked.

Seriously? You rolled your eyes at his words. There’s no way he was that perfect and would just turn off his game for you.

“Do whatever you want, boy.” You mumbled.

Niki chuckled and turned the game off. His arms quickly wrapped around you and you smiled into his chest. You’d get him another time but right now you’re enjoying the attention.

But when the next time came the next day you still failed!

Niki was sitting at his desk looking over some lyrics to memorize for their next album. He was particularly proud of this song because you had worked on it as a producer.

“Niki!” You said loudly.

The boy calmly didn’t even bother to look up at you sitting on his bed. He just calmly responded from his seat.

“Yes baby?”

“Lemme go through your phone.”

Niki nodded to his nightstand. “Password is your birthday.”

You raised an eyebrow at that. “Just like that?”

Niki nodded and went back to studying his lyrics.

“So if I go through your phone I’m not gonna find any bitches in here?” You clarified.

Niki sighed and set his paper down. “Baby of course not. All you’ll find are conversations between you, my family, and the guys. Where’s this coming from?”

No, you were gonna push him! You were gonna push his buttons and see if he got mad!

“Well… you can’t have my phone!”

“Don’t need it.” Niki said with a shrug.

“What if I’m talking to other guys? Now what!” You challenged.

Niki got up and stood over you next to the bed. “Baby I love you, but no one else can handle you and your attitude.”

“But maybe I am talking to other guys!” You tried one more time.

Nikki shook his head. “You’re not. I know you aren’t because you purposely scare other guys away with your bratty vibe.”

“Boy my vibe isn’t-“I’m not finished, darling. You’re gonna let me finish my piece before you speak, mkay?” Niki interrupted.

You quickly shut up.

“Now I know what you’ve been doing and it’s not gonna work. I know you’ve probably been with people where your little fits throw them off and they can’t deal with it but I’m different. Baby I know who my girl is and you can say whatever you want, but I’m not falling for it. I’ll kiss you and shut you up, what then?”

You looked at him with doe eyes. For once you actually had no reaction, no comeback, just pure love for the man in front of you.

“Yeah okay shorty. I love you.” He said before planting a kiss on your forehead.

-

Niki was the one person that could put you in your place. He knew exactly what he was getting into when he saw you at the bar. You were short (only like 5’2”), Black, and feisty. That’s really all it took for Niki to be intrigued. But there were also moments where you were serious about your attitude.

-

“Where have you been?” You asked standing in the kitchen with your arms crossed.

It was nearing 3 a.m. and you were up waiting for Niki to come back to the dorm. The other guys were back ages ago around 6 so for Niki to just be coming home was ridiculous.

“Practicing. I’m gonna go shower.” He said seemingly exhausted.

While typically you had sympathy for him today you were all out. You were up waiting for him for the sixth night in a row. And it wasn’t like the mornings were any better, he left around 8 each time.

“The hell you are.” You said.

Niki looked at you confused. “Excuse me?”

“Boy you have some nerve coming back this late thinking you can go shower and it’s all gonna be okay!”

Niki took a moment to look at you and shook his head. “I don’t have time for this bullshit.”

You stopped him on his way to the bathroom. “Oh really? Because you had time to practice all damn night! Probably with some bitch, huh?”

Niki turned to you and shrugged. “What you think I’m cheating because of choreographer is a woman? I just wanna get the dance right so what the fuck is your problem?”

You scoffed. “My fucking problem?”

“Yeah your fucking problem! It’s 3 a.m. and all I wanna do is shower and sleep. What are you holding me up for?”

“Because I care about you Riki! I care about your health and wellbeing! I barely see you anymore! And I get it it’s comeback season but I see the guys more than you!” You explained.

Niki rolled his eyes. “Really? Well date one of them then! Since you’re so attention starved!”

Both of you didn’t realize how disruptive you were because Jungwon and Heeseung woke up to your arguing. Any other day they would’ve been more pissed but with the lack of practice tomorrow they were just annoyed to be woken up out of their sleep.

“Niki?” Jungwon mumbled as he walked into the area.

“Oh really? I bet you’d want that huh? Go find some dancer how to get with that can handle your 3 a.m. arrival times! I’m sick of your bs Niki! Just come home!” You complained.

“I am home! And I’m trying to do my regular routine when I come home but what do I get? I get you being a bitch!” He fired back.

Heeseung felt the need to step in. “Niki that’s enough.”

His words fell on deaf ears though.

“Oh really? So I’m a bitch now?” You asked incredulously.

“Well you’re acting like one so if the shoe fits.”

“Well why don’t we ask Jungwon, hm? How hard is it for him to come home at a decent time?”

Before Jungwon could stutter out and answer Niki shook his head.

“Don’t involve him! This is between me and you right now. Let’s keep it that way.” He said coming to his senses a bit.

You rolled your eyes and made a move to leave. “Fuck this shit, it’s for the birds. I’m going to bed.”

Now it was his turned to grab you by the arm. He picked you up and sat you down on the counter. Before you could argue back Niki’s lips crashed into yours. The kiss was brief but held a lot of passion.

“Listen, I don’t know what you’re used to but with me? You’re not going to bed angry, doll. Now here’s what’s gonna happen; I’m gonna apologize for calling you out of your name and we’re gonna talk this through. And we’ll stay up as long as we need to. You hear me?”

The two guys, now fully awake, were shocked. They had never seen their youngest so mature before. Niki clearly did not need their help navigating this argument so they went to bed feeling proud and astonished.

You were also shocked. He was right, your past relationship was never liked this. But Niki took charge and wanted to make sure you were not only safe, but loved, happy, and respected. All you could do was nod in response to his authority.

“I love you too much so we gotta work this out. Now come on.”

And from there you both headed to his room and worked through the argument and towards a conclusion.

-

Niki had you right under his spell. When no one else could get you on their side or get you to listen Niki managed to put you in your place. And while it was great for arguments and serious moments he would also put it to use in the bedroom. To the surprise of absolutely no one you were a brat. Niki definitely didn’t help the allegations as he contributed to it at times. The moment you even looked at something he decided it was yours. However this time he (not so) regretfully had to put you in your place.

-

“Babydoll, have you seen my Yankees shirt? I’m going live with Jay later and I wanna wear it.” He asked from the closet.

You strolled in the room feeling slightly guilty. Why? Because there you were in the shirt with your cute Victoria’s Secret rhinestone set on underneath. But at the same time why should you feel guilty? He said anything in his closet was yours too!

“Baby- oh! You look adorable but I’m gonna need that for today.” Niki said trying to ignore the shiny band of your bra strap that he knew all too well.

“But I wanna wear it today!” You whined.

Niki shook his head. “Babydoll I have so many other shirts you can wear!”

You looked at him and practically started drooling. You hadn’t looked up properly yet and there he was. Your boyfriend was wearing his grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips, exposing his v-line slightly, and you could clearly see the band of his Vetements boxers.

“Doll my eyes are up here.” He said.

You quickly looked up and cocked your head. “And what’re you gonna do if I don’t take it off?”

Niki stepped closer to you. “I’m not playing games with you. Give me the shirt.”

You smirked and shook your head no. “I want to wear it so I’m gonna wear it!”

Niki huffed and began to unbutton the shirt. You quickly fought back.

“Boy get your hands off my shirt!” You said loudly. Not quite shouting but a few decibels to high.

Niki raised an eyebrow and grabbed you by the neck. Not enough to choke you but enough to exert dominance.

“Who the fuck you getting loud with?” He asked.

You felt the heat rising in your face and your panties become damper than they already were. Yet you still found it in you to respond.

“You boy, who else?”

Niki smirked at your response. “Oh so you wanna get smart too? I’ll show you what happens to that smart mouth of yours.”

He crashed his lips onto yours in a heated kiss. It was fast paced and messy just like you wanted it. You’d be lying if you said this wasn’t your motive when you stepped in the room.

“Niki do you wanna join- oh.” Jake was stopped in his tracks when he looked up and saw you guys making out in the middle of the room.

“Leave.” Niki said quickly and as went back to kissing you.

Jake took his instructions to heart and very quickly left. Once you both heard the front door close you were certain that you were alone.

“Get on your knees, brat.” He commanded.

You quickly fell to the plush carpet and pulled down the sweats and boxers that were keeping you from what you really wanted. Niki was packing but he never failed to amaze you every time you got a moment with his dick.

“Go on, doll. Don’t act so shocked that it’s big, put it in your mouth.” He said.

You didn’t waste any time teasing knowing that would only set you back. You made quick work of sucking him off. You managed to get most of him in without choking and let your hand take care of the rest.

Niki moaned as your tongue did a measure on his. He brought his hands to your hair but to his dismay you pulled off of him.

“Boy this buss down cost me too much to be pulling on it!” You warned with an attitude.

Niki rolled his eyes at your antics. “I’ll pay for a new one myself. Now quit it and choke on my cock.”

You were lucky to have someone that matched your freak like Niki. He dealt with all your little comments and actions during sex. If anything it turned him on to know that you felt so comfortable with him.

Niki was equally glad to know that he found his match in you. He enjoyed brat taming and… well obviously you fit the role. But when he wanted to take things slow that was also an option. You followed his lead and when you needed to take over he let you.

But now? Right now Niki was grateful for your ability to give head. He looked down at you and let out a deep groan at the sight. You were peering up at him through teary lashes. Your lipgloss was extra shiny. And Niki was glad you let him pick out your manicure because the color complimented his dick well. All those little details accompanied by your submission sent him into overdrive.

“Fuck baby! I’m gonna fuck you up. Gonna have that attitude dripping from your pussy when I’m done with you.”

You moaned around his cock. His dirty talk would always get you. And he knew just how to do it too. Before Niki you hadn’t thought about a voice kink but now you understood. He could say just about anything and you would fold.

“Come off, babydoll. On the bed.” He directed.

You didn’t have it in you to fight back, not when you were so close to what you wanted.

You sat on the edge of the bed anxiously watching Niki completely remove his sweats and boxers. He crawled on the bed on top of you and smirked. You always had that same needy reaction when his silver chains dangled in front of your face. Maybe that’s the reason you were always buying him new ones.

“What should I do with you? What’s gonna help you learn your lesson, doll face?” He asked rhetorically.

Just as you opened your mouth to speak his hand wrapped around your neck, applying such slight pressure.

“How bad do you want it?” He asked.

You brought your hand down to his hard dick and stroked it. You hoped that would suffice as your answer.

“Nuh-uh, baby. I’m gonna need words from you. How bad do you want it?”

“Bad Niki! So bad! Can’t live without your dick. It’s so good… need it every day!” You whined.

Niki chuckled and brought a hand down to your pussy. He bit his lip feeling just how wet you were. You were so sensitive too, he noticed as you shivered when he ghosted over your clit.

“You sound like a whore. That’s all I wanna hear outta your mouth.” He said as he slid a finger in your hole.

You let out a moan at the stimulation.

“Yeah that’s right. No back talk, none of that smart shit, all I wanna hear is you begging to cum.” He coaxed.

Unfortunately Niki didn’t let you enjoy his fingers as long as you had hoped for. But what came next made it all worth it. He slid himself in slowly, letting you feel every last inch of him.

“Fuck NIKI!” You moaned out.

Niki settled himself inside you, giving you a moment to adjust to his size. You had the best pussy game on earth in his opinion. He managed to keep himself sane but he always found that a difficult task. It wasn’t easy when your pussy, although relaxed, was snatching him in your warmth. He swore he lost his mind in your pussy every single time.

When Niki felt your hips move he took the bait. He positioned your thighs up against your chest with your ankles barely on his shoulders. Once he got you in a mating press he finally began thrusting into you properly. You had heard before that dancers had the best stroke game and while you couldn’t speak for all of them, Niki definitely fit the stereotype.

“F-fu-fuck Niki! So bi-big!” You cried.

Niki nodded and rolled his hips into you. “Yeah? Am I filling you up, doll?”

“Yes yes yes yes yes!” You whined.

The man above you let out a moan when he felt you throbbing on him. He was gonna make you feel all types of heaven but you were unintentionally doing the same for him.

“Pussy’s so good for me, doll face.” He moaned out.

When Niki looked down at you he had to brace himself. You were so pliant, so fucked out for him. He hadn’t even done much but there you were, underneath him letting him have his way. When he met you that night at the bar he would’ve never imagined he could have you like this. Yet here you were giving it to him again and again.

You moaned when you saw a glimpse of his bulge in your core. He was that big. The size difference was your weakness every time. Your body also reacted as you tightened around his cock. He was getting you closer to your climax faster than you would’ve liked.

“Shit baby! You gonna keep squeezing me like that? Keep that up and I’ll fucking- shit! I’ll fucking cum inside.” He groaned.

You couldn’t help it. Niki kept pounding into you deeper and deeper reaching spots you forgot were there. Finally his angle was just right and he hit that g-spot. The spot that made your brain shirt circuit and eyes roll back.

“That’s it, huh? Yeah I know where your spot is. I hit it every time, slut.” Niki said with a smirk.

He kept targeting that same spot bringing you closer to that release you craved. The knot within you was coiling, getting so close to snapping.

“I can see it all over your face doll. But I don’t think you’ve learned anything.” Niki said.

You looked up at him when he purposely slowed down and changed his angle.

“Niki-San! Please!” You whined.

Niki shook his head. “I don’t think so baby. I need to know that you learned your lesson.”

You nodded aggressively hoping he would hurry and get back to making you cum. But Niki wasn’t having it.

“Oh you’ve learned? What’d you learn, brat?” He asked.

You let out a whine before answering. “I’m… shit! I’m gonna fucking listen! Fuck Niki- ah! Take the shirt it’s… fuck it’s yours!” You cried.

Niki nodded and resumed his original stroke pattern. “Damn right it is. That shirt is mine, your heart is mine, hell this pussy is mine.”

Your moans kept pouring out and Niki swore he’d never heard a sound so beautiful. No, this was a sound only he could produce.

You were so close, just teetering on the edge of your orgasm. Those silver chains just get hitting your face and almost distracting you. But just when you were gonna moan from the cold metal hitting you, Niki took a hand from your leg and brought it to his neck. He grabbed the chains and took them in his teeth before using that same hand on your clit.

That’s what did it for you. Your orgasm hit you hard and without control. Niki was fucked when he saw a clear liquid escaping you instead of the white cream he was used to cleaning up. You had fucking squirted. That sent him over the edge and he was quickly pulling out to cum on your clit.

“Fuck!” He groaned out.

After some time both of you had finally recovered from your orgasms. You were brought back to earth when you heard Niki’s exhales on top of you. He gathered himself and brought your legs down before joining you on the bed.

“Fuck that was great.” He said.

You nodded still lost in your post orgasm bliss.

“You fucking squirted!” Niki said turning to you.

You looked at him and saw how excited he was. If no one knew any better they would think he was talking about something so much more innocent. Your eyes trailed down his body and you noticed his abs glistening from your mess.

“I guess I did…”

Niki chuckled and brought you in for a kiss. He was gentle with you after sex. Always.

“It was fucking hot. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.” He said as if he could read your mind.

You nodded weakly and allowed him to carry you to the bathroom. He sat you on the toilet to pee (no UTIs on his watch) while he prepared the shower for you both.

“Niki?” You called.

He turned around and looked at you waiting for you to say your piece.

“Was that Jake earlier?” You asked.

Niki blushed a bit and nodded. “Yeah I didn’t want him to disrupt the motion so I made him leave.”

You nodded. Niki helped you stand up and get into the shower after he put a plastic cap on your head to protect your hair.

“I love you so much, baby.” Niki said as he washed your body.

Just before you could respond another voice came from the front of the dorm.

“Niki where the hell are you? We’re going live in like an hour!”

-

Not only did he match your freak in bed, but Niki could easily match that attitude with others. Whenever you argued with a member or colleague Niki was almost always on your side (unless you were wrong, then he’d set you straight). More often than not it was unserious arguing but nonetheless Niki would stick beside you.

-

“So you’re just gonna sit there and be wrong like that? Couldn’t be me personally.” You said.

Sunghoon rolled his eyes at you. “Girl you haven’t even produced enough material to have an opinion!”

“But I’ve done more than you though! How many Grammys have you been nominated for again?” You retaliated.

“That’s not even-“Oh! Oh! Yeah okay that’s what I thought!”

Niki came in the dorm to find his girl and his friend arguing? It didn’t seem serious since you didn’t call him or anything, but you did seem passionate.

“Hey baby!” He greeted.

You instantly smiled when you saw him. He gave you a quick kiss and looked at Sunghoon.

“What’s going on?” He asked.

The older boy answered before you could get a word in. “Bro your girl thinks our top three best songs are Daydream, Chaccone, and Fever! Like come on we have so many other songs!”

Niki chuckled and looked at you. “Is that what you think baby?”

You nodded. “Of course! Like from a production standpoint those songs are masterpieces! But this boy doesn’t think I’m qualified to have an answer!”

Niki looked between you two, both begging to take their side. Unfortunately for Sunghoon, he would always lose that battle.

“Well she is Grammy nominated…” Niki muttered.

Sunghoon groaned aloud. “Bro seriously? We worked on the damn songs! And you didn’t even let me say my favorites!”

Niki shrugged and joined you on the couch. “Don’t need to. She’s probably right about whatever she’s saying.”

“See!” You added.

Sunghoon scoffed at this. “Girl you’re spoiled and got him wrapped around your finger!”

“So?”

“So he’s gonna agree with you!” He explained.

You shrugged at that. “I don’t see how that’s my problem. I think you’re just worked up because you’re bitchless.”

Niki laughed at that. It wasn’t uncommon for you both to call out other members for being single. But something about doing it whenever you were arguing, especially when there was no context? Well Niki found that hilarious.

“Oh so that’s funny? You were just a single like a year ago!” Sunghoon argued.

Niki nodded. “Yeah and then I got a girl. You should try it sometime bro!”

Sunghoon began to leave for his room leaving you guys to have your fun.

“Yall both have the attitude problem.” He commented before leaving.

You and Niki just smiled at each other before cuddling sweetly on the couch.

-

So what you were a brat? So what you had an attitude? Niki never minded any of it. It was actually what he adored about you. So with him you could be comfortable. You could be petty and have your moments and Niki would love you anyway. He knew exactly how to handle you.

[kidult0325]

Heal my desire ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

This fic was heavily inspired by Riki’s mars placement (his whole tropical natal chart really)

⭑.ᐟ╰┈➤ Interpretation: He’s slow to act, but once he's sure, incredibly persistent.

˚.🎀༘⋆ Summary: Your younger brother Sunoo starts attending the same university as you. Along with him comes his childhood best friend Niki. Sparks begin flying between you two. Will you be able to keep your desire in check, or will it consume you instead?

ྀ. 𐙚 ̊ Word count: 12.7k

⋆˚࿔ Tags: fluff, slowburn-ish, eventual smut, brother’s best friend trope, older OC – younger Ni-ki,, smut tags: p in v, fem overstimulation, crying, ass eater Niki (he’s freaky), sexting, phone sex, slight praise kink, spanking, biting, chocking, obsessive sex, fem body worship

⋆˙♪ Playlist: emotional oranges – The Juice: vol. II (something about emotional oranges reminds me SO much of Riki)

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ A/N: first time I’ve written something of this length and emotional depth, feedback is appreciated<3 also planning a sunghoon fic next and I am open to hearing your reqs (it will most likely be an enemies to lovers)

You wouldn’t say going to university was the best thing that has happened to you – although it kind of was. As the oldest in your family, you never got to experience anything just for yourself, was never allowed to go anywhere without Sunoo tagging along.

It never really bothered you, at least until you came to uni. That was when you realized probably for the first time how freeing not looking after somebody actually was. For the first time in your life, you were allowed to put yourself first, not having to worry about anyone else. And it felt good.

You even got lucky with housing – getting an apartment close by your campus. You had your own bedroom and for the first two years a roommate as well. But since they graduated late, you were left with an empty room as the first semester started.

And in a way it was perfect. Because Sunoo got accepted into the same university as you, and since you didn’t currently have a roommate, it was simply assumed he would come to live with you.

You loved your younger brother, really you did. But somehow you couldn’t help but lowkey dislike the idea of him living with you. As soon as the thought hit you, you felt guilty, selfish. But as the day of his arrival grew closer, the feeling of resentment grew.

You couldn’t help it, even though you tried rationalizing with yourself – you lived with him before and it was okay, he was your brother! But at the same time, you hated how your parents just assumed he would come and live with you. Not even asking how you felt about it. And it brought up some deeply buried childhood feelings of forced passivity, of having to put other people before yourself.

The morning of his arrival was spent cleaning. Suddenly you noticed how much dust was sitting on the window frame, the overloaded kitchen counter and the dishes still in the skin.

It wasn’t like Sunoo would mind it or even notice it, but your mom would absolutely ask about it later on the phone, and you didn’t need another “You should set a good example” guilt trip on top of everything else.

By the time he rang the doorbell you were beyond frazzled. Exhausted. Still, you swallow down your feelings as you open the door. Trying to match Sunoo’s excitement.

“Noona!” he excitedly greets you, returning his hug you momentarily allow the familiar scent to calm you down.

“I missed you,” you honestly tell him. And that’s when you notice a tall figure entering behind Sunoo.

You do a double look as you realize who Sunoo brought with him. Niki walked in after Sunoo.

Very much not the same Niki you remembered.

He stepped through the doorway like he belonged there. His duffle bag slung over one shoulder, expression calm — even a little bored. And for a second, your brain couldn’t quite catch up.

Because it was Niki.

But taller. Leaner. Broader. Hair slightly longer. Clothes hanging off him in a way that made him look effortlessly cool. And suddenly you felt embarrassed for being in sweatpants, in your own home.

He met your eyes and — god help you — smiled. Not the gap-toothed, chipmunk-cheeked grin you remembered from middle school photos and summer sleepovers. This one was... different. A little crooked. Like he knew something you didn’t.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and smooth. “It’s been a while.”

It had. Too long, apparently.

Because somewhere in that space of a few years, Niki had evolved into the kind of guy that made your stomach do weird, panicked flips. And now he was standing in your apartment.

Like it was normal.

Like it was fine.

And it was fine, you remind yourself. Because this was the same Niki you’ve known practically your whole life. Same Niki who spent most of his summers over at your house, playing with Sunoo. Same Niki who would annoy you.

And just because he was hot, and not just hot but exactly your type kind of hot didn’t mean anything.

This was fine.

Forcing the sudden nervousness down, you beg yourself to speak like a normal person.

“Yeah, it has,” comes your stiff reply. But thankfully, Sunoo was great at smoothing over any initial awkwardness.

“You didn’t even clean up for us, huh? Love the hospitality, noona,” Sunoo teases.

“I did clean. Your face is just rude,” you scowl.

“Wow, the welcome committee is on fire today. Good thing I brought snacks. And Niki.”

“I told him not to announce me like I’m a prize he won,” Niki says, shrugging slightly, still looking at you. You gulp as you look away from him.

“Well. You do come with less mess than Sunoo, so… maybe a partial prize,” you speak, trying not to look at the way the black tank top hugged his waist, the low rise of his pants allowing his boxers to peek through.

“Okay, rude. You missed me,” Sunoo jabs back, used to your teasing.

“You were gone for three months, not three years,” you joke, even though you really did miss him.

“Nice place. Feels like you,” Niki steps past Sunoo, glancing around.

“…That’s either an insult or a compliment, and I’m too tired to ask.”

“Definitely a compliment,” he replies, the sincere tone making you momentarily pause.

“She’s blushing. Look at that. Niki, you broke her,” Sunoo laughs lightly, his eyes crinkling in what-would-be cute way if he wasn’t actively trying to annoy you.

“Shut up. Both of you,” you say, flustered. Leaving towards the kitchen.  

“Come on, I’m starving. Didn’t you say you’d make that pasta you used to do?” Sunoo asks as he follows behind you.

“I said no such thing.”

“You did cook, though. Smells good,” Niki comments.

“…It’s literally just pasta,” you say, hating the way he was making you feel. The overflow of compliments. His intense gaze. The way he looked so at home in your place.

“Still. I missed it.”

You try to brush off the flustered feeling his reply gives you. Cursing inwardly at his smoothness.

“You’re just trying to get on my good side,” you reply, desperate to stop this conversation.

“Am I succeeding?” Niki asks as he smiles down at you. That boyish smile, the kind that makes you shy.

“…You’re obnoxious,” you say as you lightly push him away. A small smile on your face.

“Okay, stop flirting, I’m begging. I can’t live with this already,” Sunoo interjects, and you can’t tell if he’s serious or just joking around. Because this was not happening with Niki. You wouldn’t allow it. And you doubt Sunoo would be this chill if he knew what was going through your head.

“You haven’t even unpacked yet and I already regret this,” sighing as you reveal your true feelings.

“Too late. You opened the door,” Niki smirks, and you’re reminded of the way you three used to joke around.  

“That’s not legally binding, you know,” you bite back with a smile.

“Pretty sure it is,” Niki says, wolfishly smiling down at you.

“So, pasta!” Sunoo interrupts.

And that’s how your first day with Sunoo as your roommate goes. Him and Niki spend the whole day in your apartment, asking you about anything and everything related to uni life. Which courses to take, which ones to avoid. About the extracurricular activities, the student-run café, even the annoying guy in the library who never returns his books on time.

Talking to both of them together was easy—too easy, actually. It reminded you of late summers and sleepovers and childhood in general, a time when everything felt both chaotic and safe.

For a moment, you even let your guard down, let yourself laugh like none of this bothered you. Like it didn’t throw your carefully built world off its axis to see Niki in your space, grown up and... confusing. You were sure that whatever weird feelings he brought up in you, was just because you hadn’t seen him for a long time, and the feeling would fade with time. It’s normal to be surprised when you see someone after a long time and they’ve grown up you convince yourself.

When they finally left to run errands and get their campus IDs sorted, you found yourself sitting in the quiet afterward, not quite sure what to do with yourself. There was pasta on the stove and two extra mugs in the sink. And a weird, fluttery feeling in your chest you pretended not to notice.

Later on in the evening when it’s just you and Sunoo, he brings Niki up.

“So. Be honest. Were you surprised?”

“About what?” you ask, genuinely not knowing what he’s alluding to.

Sunoo motions around as if it was the most obvious thing “Niki. I saw your face when he walked in. You looked like you’d seen a ghost. A tall, hot ghost.”

“I did not—shut up,” you lightly laugh as you deny.

But Sunoo’s quick wit catches on, “You’re not denying the ‘hot’ part, though.”

“Do you want me to poison your dinner next time or just salt it within an inch of its life?”

 “Knew you missed me,” Sunoo grins. He tosses the dishtowel onto the rack, clearly pleased with himself. You roll your eyes but your lips twitch.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

The next time you see Niki, you aren’t expecting it.

It was your senior-year elective—an advanced movement and performance theory class that counted as a hybrid arts credit. You'd signed up partly for fun, partly because the professor was lenient, and mostly because you thought it would have nothing to do with anyone in your major.

Which is why your brain short-circuited a little when you walked in and saw Niki. Already sitting. Already acting like he belonged there.

“You're in this class?” you ask, as you walk up to him, clutching your bookbag to your chest.

“Yeah. You said this professor was easy,” he shrugs, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“I didn’t say that to you,” you say, as you take a seat next to him.

Niki shrugs, “Sunoo has a big mouth.”

“I thought you were undeclared,” you reply after a beat of silence.

“I am. But I needed an elective. And I like movement.”

“Since when?” your eyes narrow, eyebrows slightly furrowed.

“Since always. You just never noticed,” says Niki softly, his eyes focused ahead of him. And if you didn’t know any better you would think he was uncomfortable by your questioning.

The classrooms buzz dies down as the professor steps to the podium. Mr. Park was probably in his late 30’s, at the latest in his mid 40’s. And the reason you like him was because he was very laid back, you also heard from your friends he never failed anyone and always had the same exam questions every year. Exactly the type of easy course you needed.

“Okay everyone, for the semester project you’ll be working in pairs. It’ll be a fusion-based piece—contemporary with any personal style you bring. We’ll workshop it every week. Final showcase is in December. Questions?” His voice booms, before murmurs start.

Oh no, it seems he changed his course this year. Just your luck.

You sense Niki leaning in and stubbornly refuse to look at him.

“You gonna ask or am I?” he quietly asks, his voice sounding even deeper once he’s this close to you.

“What?” you play dumb.

“You’re the only person I know here. And I’m not about to dance with some dude named Brett who wore tap shoes to a contemporary class.”

You side eye Niki, then glance at Brett quickly. You stifle your laugh when you notice his attire. Tap shoes and tights, seems someone was taking this class seriously.

You giggle as you look back at Niki, “Fine.”

“Knew you'd come around,” he smugly tells you. His face close enough that you can make out the moles o his face. And you know you’re fucked when your heart rate speeds up.

After the class ends you find yourself in the on-campus coffee shop. Sitting by the window as you passively scroll through your phone. Opening a text thread with your friend, you start typing.

you [7:04 PM] you will not believe who’s in my elective

bestie [7:04 PM] 👁️👄👁️ spill

you [7:05 PM] niki. as in sunoo’s childhood best friend niki as in awkward middle school sleepovers and cheetos w chopsticks niki as in... is hot now niki like. distressingly hot

bestie [7:06 PM] WAIT ??? TALL NIKI? LONG LEGS NIKI ?? I thought he vanished after that bowl cut era ???

you [7:06 PM] he did and then he reappeared like a final boss

bestie [7:06 PM] LMAOOO STOP wait how hot. scale of 1 to id ruin my life for him

you [7:07 PM] im already halfway to ruined he smelled like... clean laundry and sin also we’re dance partners now. for the entire semester 🙂🔫

bestie [7:08 PM] you’re done for. you’re LIVING THE YN LIFE

you [7:08 PM] no bc if sunoo finds out my soul will exit my body

bestie [7:09 PM] sunoo doesn’t need to know unless you two are messing around 👀

Your stomach swoops as you read the last message. Flustered you send the last messages as you get ready to head home.

you [7:09 PM] BLOCKED REPORTED IM GOING HOME

You return back to your apartment, the front door softly clicking shut behind you. Sunoo texted you he’ll be home later, some orientation thingy keeping him preoccupied. The apartment is bathed in the orange hues of the sunset and you savor in the stillness and peace.

You sink into the couch, the memory of Niki creeping unwantedly in your mind. You couldn’t stop thinking about him, about his pretty smile, about his deep voice – seriously his voice used to be so high pitched, this new version of Niki was giving you a whiplash.

Still. I missed it

Your mind drifts back to your conversation, but before you could fully spiral, you pick up the remote to numb your mind with some stupid TV show. Forcing yourself to think away any thoughts of tall boys who smell nice.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

You’re already stretching when Niki walks into the dance studio practice room. His white hoodie sleeves pushed up, black hair still slightly damp from a quick shower. He tosses his bag down with practiced ease, giving you a nod and a small grin that makes your stomach do an unhelpful flip.

Niki slicks the hair out of his face, in a casual manner addressing you as he puts a snapback hat on.

"You came early. Planning to show me up?"

You smile at him as you watch him start stretching in front of you. His hoodie rising dangerously when he stretches his arms above his head.

"Somebody’s gotta carry this partnership."

 "Bold of you to assume it's not me," Niki smirks, watching you through the mirror.

You raise an eyebrow, but he just shrugs, dropping into a low stretch like he’s been doing this forever. You try not to stare, but he’s focused, surprisingly flexible. It’s hard not to notice how graceful his movements are. Like he knows exactly how much attention he’s drawing—and doesn’t care.

And that’s the part that gets you. His effortless nonchalance, it makes you feel as if he’s only halfway present with you, your mind wandering to dangerous thoughts of how you could make him fully focus on you.

The professor sent demo videos last night. You’d both agreed on All That Matters—partly because of the flowy R&B tempo, partly because neither of you wanted anything too theatrical.

You click play on the speaker, and Niki stands, holding a hand out toward you.

"Ready to stop pretending we don’t have chemistry?" he asks, his eyebrows slightly raised in an attractive manner.

You scoff, "Ready to focus, maybe," but let him pull you up anyway. His touch electrifying.

The first moves are slow — light footwork and mirrored movements. Easy to get through without contact. But then the bridge hits, and the choreography shifts.

He steps into your space without hesitation. A hand on your waist to turn you. You freeze, barely a second, but it’s enough for Niki to notice the shift. Quizzically looking at you in question.

"Sorry. Just… tired," you unconvincingly say, a slight shiver running down your spine where Niki’s hand rests.

He doesn’t push, but his hand lingers a moment too long. His intense gaze piercing right through you. As if he doesn’t believe you – but he doesn’t push it.

You move through the sequence again. This time, your hands brush. His palm slides against your lower back. You react less, but goosebumps appear on your arms. He notices that, too. And thankfully doesn’t comment on it.

You try to ration – you’re only being like this because you haven’t gotten laid in a long time. Definitely not because you find Niki insanely attractive.

When you pause to get water, you catch yourself watching him — really watching — the way his jaw clenches when he counts under his breath, the way his shirt rides up slightly when he stretches.

You look away fast. Hope he doesn’t notice.

But he does. Because unbeknownst to you he always noticed everything about you. Has been noticing, ever since you were kids. But he never made any moves on you, you never seemed interested before. Which worked, because he didn’t want to ruin his friendship with Sunoo by fucking things up with you.

It did make him wonder what changed for you, or was he only imagining things in his head. That’s why he doesn’t call you out, only walking past you with a quiet "Same time next week?"

"Yeah" you nod, your voice coming out more breathless and softer than you intend.

He gives you one last unreadable look. Then leaves.

And your brain won’t stop replaying the exact placement of his hand on your waist.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

On the weekend you are cooped up in your apartment with Sunoo and Niki. The later coming over with the intention of just hanging out with Sunoo. But once the evening sneaks up and he still isn’t ready to leave he finds himself in front of your shut bedroom door.

He ponders for a moment before softly knocking.

“Come in,” comes your muffled voice, and he opens the door. He doesn’t know what he expected your room to look like but somehow it’s very much you. A neatly made bed in the corner, white dresser and your desk. Where you were sitting right now.

You had little trinkets all over your room, a few plants on the window still. It made Niki feel cozy and warm, everything reminded him of you.

“Hey,” he greets, scratching his neck as he’s suddenly unsure of himself.

“Thought we could get an early start on our theoretical part of the project?” he asks you and that’s how you find yourself on the floor, knees brushing with Niki’s as you two do research on your laptop.

Niki’s quiet presence lulls you into a comfortable silence as you two work, his voice breaking you out of your concentration.  

“Still mad I showed up with Sunoo?” he softly asks, his voice hiding a certain tenderness, vulnerability.

“I was never mad. Just… surprised,” you tell him, your gaze still focused on your laptop screen.

He hums, “Sunoo said you weren’t thrilled. That you liked having the place to yourself.”

“It’s not that I don’t want him here. I just... finally got used to things being mine. My time. My space. It’s stupid,” you sigh.

“It’s not stupid.” A beat passes before he speaks again, “You’ve always looked out for him. For everyone, really.”

“Yeah. That’s kind of the problem,” you say, trying to joke but your voice sounding too somber even to your own ears.

You don’t know what you expected from Niki. You thought he’d be fun, maybe a little cocky. You didn’t expect… this. Didn’t expect him to look at you like he actually wants to know you. To listen. And most surprisingly, like he actually understood you.

A long silence stretches between you two, both deeply in your thoughts, before Niki breaks it again.

“…For what it’s worth, I’m not trying to mess that up. I can keep out of your way,” Niki tells you.

“…You don’t have to,” you softly tell him, finally meeting his eyes. And something in your chest tugs—painfully tender.

He really meant that. He’d leave if you asked.

He holds your gaze for a second longer, something unreadable in his expression. Then, slowly, he nods.

You look away first. Of course you do. Your throat’s too tight.

You both go back to your screens, pretending to work again. But something has shifted between you two.

A few minutes pass. And this time you’re the one who breaks the stretching silence.

“You’re not supposed to be this tolerable, you know.”

He huffs a laugh, “I get that a lot.”

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

In weeks that follow you and Niki fall into a routine. Joint dance practices between just the two of you every Thursday, and your dance class with everyone on Tuesdays.

It is a Tuesday currently, meaning the whole class is in session. Instead of a lecture hall you’re all in a dance studio today, your professor wanting to see how everyone is progressing.  

Class is coming to an end and you’re picking up your water bottle from the side of the room when you spot him.

Niki is standing near the mirrors, still in his dance clothes, grinning at something a classmate next to him says, Eunchae you think. She’s twirling a strand of hair around her finger, clearly enjoying the conversation.

He says something back—low and easy—and she laughs, a little too loud. He doesn’t even flinch. Just leans a little closer, one hand tucked into his hoodie pocket.

You tell yourself it’s nothing, as you unknowingly burn holes into the two of them.

It’s fine.

It’s whatever. It’s normal to be overprotective of Niki – you’ve known him for forever you rationalize.

You scroll through your phone like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world, trying not to look. But your ears are burning. Your face feels hot.

Your friend in this class – Daniela – appears beside you, watching you not-watch them.

“You okay?” she asks, eyebrow raised.

You scoff. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you’re burning a hole in the back of Niki’s head,” she easily replies, glancing to look at him over her shoulder.

You wave her off, voice too breezy. “Please. She’s not even his type.”

Daniela stares. “You know his type?”

“I mean, obviously he goes for girls who—like—giggle like it’s a sport and wear matching yoga sets. He’s literally 19. He probably thinks lip gloss counts as a personality.”

Daniela blinks. “…Girl.”

You frown. “What?”

“You’re jealous,” she deadpans.

“No, I’m not,” you deny suspiciously fast.

“No, you definitely are.”

You scoff again, louder this time. “Okay, can we not? It’s Niki. He’s just—he’s a kid.”

Daniela doesn’t even dignify that with a response. She just gives you the look. The one that says You’re lying and we both know it.

You refuse to meet her eyes.

From across the room, Niki catches your gaze and gives you a little nod—like a casual hey, you good?

You roll your eyes and turn away, heart suddenly racing for no reason you’re willing to admit.

You’re still reeling later in your room. The day exhausted you more than it should. And it was barely 4 p.m. You wanted nothing more than to just lay down and not think or do anything for a little while. At least not until Niki comes over later in the evening, you two having made plans to go over theory together.

Your phone buzzes and you seriously contemplate ignoring the call, but relent once the caller calls you again when you fail to pick up the first time.

Incoming Call: Sunoo 🍊 it reads on the caller ID.

You sigh and answer.

“You better be dying,” you say, exhaustion creeping in your voice.

Sunoo doesn’t seem to notice as he brightly asks (read: expects) you to do him a favor;  “Not dying. Just forgot my charger and my USB. And since you’re the best sister in the world you would bring them over to me?”

You are already starting to stand up, before he even finishes speaking. “Remind me why I’m not charging you rent?”

Sunoo laughs at that, “Because you love me.”

“True,” you softly reply, leaving your apartment and heading all the way over to Sunoo. Just an almost 30 minute walk, no biggie for someone who’s already so tired of this day.

You’re back home, in under an hour. Hair windswept, limbs heavy, stomach sour from scarfing down cafeteria fries while speed-walking half a mile. Not wanting to leave Niki waiting, since you were currently almost running late.

You drop your bag onto the floor, letting out an exaggerated groan as you sink onto the carpet in your living room.

Niki is already seated there and he watches you with that unbothered little tilt to his head.

“Long day?” he asks gently.

You shoot him a look, but it lacks bite. “Understatement of the year.”

He scoots over, making space for your laptop, but doesn’t press. Just gives you space and waits.

You both work in silence for a few moments before you speak again.

“Sometimes I wonder if people only know how to need me,” your voice is quiet. Unraveling.

Niki looks up from his screen. Doesn’t interrupt.

You laugh, bitter. “Sunoo called me earlier because he forgot his charger and USB and somehow that meant I had to drop everything and bring it. Like I’m campus tech support or something.”

A beat passes and then words start pouring out of you. “It’s not just him. It’s everyone. Professors. Classmates. Family. I say yes before I even think about it. And then I hate myself for feeling resentful after,” you don’t realize you’re shaking a little until you feel Niki’s gaze on you. Grounding you back into this moment with him, where it’s just you two.

Then he says, calm as always “You’re allowed to want space.”

You blink. The words are so simple they shouldn’t make your chest ache the way they do. But they land like a soft punch.

“You always take care of everyone. I don’t think anyone’s ever asked if you needed it too,” Niki continues and you wonder when he became so …wise, so observant of you.

Silence. The kind that’s full, not empty.

You don’t cry. But you do go still. Like something inside you just… let go.

When you finally meet his eyes, he’s already looking at you. Like he’s been looking this whole time.

“…Thanks,” you say, barely audible. “For seeing that. For not making me explain it.”

He just gives a quiet little nod. No smile. Just that same steady presence. Like he’s saying I’ve got you. Even if you don’t ask.

Your knee brushes his. And Niki wraps an arm around your shoulder pulling you close to him. You don’t flinch away this time – instead allowing yourself to soak in this moment.

It is only after you’ve let out a long exhale that you pull away.

“We should get back to this,” you say and miss the look Niki shoots in your direction.

You don’t allow yourself to dwell on this moment. No, instead you drown yourself in school work in the following days.

You're walking across campus with Daniela. The air smells like warm pavement and coffee—students are sprawled on lawns, music drifting from a Bluetooth speaker somewhere nearby.

You clutch your iced drink a little tighter as you talk, like that’ll cool the heat pooling low in your stomach from thoughts you’re not supposed to be having.

Daniela nudges you gently with her elbow. “So… what’s going on with you and your brother’s hot friend?”

You snort. “Nothing’s going on.”

She gives you a look.

You take a long sip, buying yourself a second. “I mean, even if I liked him—which I don’t—I wouldn’t do anything. He’s younger. And Sunoo’s best friend.”

Daniela slows her steps. “That’s your reason?”

“It would just… complicate things,” you say, waving your hand like you’re brushing it off. “He’s literally nineteen, Dani.”

“What, and you’ve suddenly become eighty?”

You roll your eyes. “You know what I mean.”

Daniela looks at you for a beat, the kind of look that says okay, but you’re lying to yourself and I’m letting you. “Whatever you say.”

You don’t see him—Niki, standing behind the open glass door of the student lounge just off the path. He was on his way out. Until he heard your voice.

He doesn’t move. Just stands there, frozen.

The words Even if I liked him—which I don’t keep echoing in his ears. Over and over.

He doesn’t say anything.

He just leaves.

And you… never even knew he was there. You and Daniela reach the classroom taking a seat just before the professor arrives.

You’re confused as you look for Niki, he was never late. And yet, he steps through the door 20 minutes later and you move your stuff from the seat you were saving for him. Flabbergasted you watch him as he straight up ignores you, sitting somewhere else instead.

Weird. He always sat with you, but maybe he just didn’t see you…

The lesson was probably the most boring one so far, with you being used to talking through them with Niki. But now as you sit by yourself you find yourself staring at him.

He returns your gaze and there's a flicker of something you can’t read. Something almost guarded. But you’re probably just imagining it, he’s probably just tired or something.

The next day you receive a message from him, saying he can’t come over, because something came up. You don’t push it, but you can’t deny the pang of hurt that shoots through you, doubt setting in.

It doesn’t help when a couple of days later Sunoo mentions in passing, “has Niki’s been weird? You guys good? He hasn’t really talked about the project much.”

And you shrug it off, but you can feel that something is off, that he’s distancing himself from you. So you give him space. To cool off, for whatever it is you might have done.

Until you can’t take it anymore.

It happens when you two meet in the practice room. And Niki’s so obviously acting different. He doesn’t joke. Doesn’t tease. Keeps distance physically.

You don’t look at him when you walk to the center of the room. You don’t have to—you can feel the tension in the space between you already.

The choreo isn’t easy. It’s intimate, breathless, full of weight shifts and skin contact. The kind of dance that demands vulnerability, trust, proximity.

But Niki barely says a word.

He mirrors your movements with precision, his body effortlessly falling into rhythm with yours. He doesn’t look at you—but when his hand finds your waist during a partnered lift, you feel it linger a fraction too long.

His fingers accidentally slip under your shirt when he lifts you up. You shiver. Not from cold, but from how badly you wish you didn’t care.

You’re breathless for reasons that have nothing to do with exertion.

Still, something’s off. You’re off.

You mess up a foot placement during a turn. Miss the beat on a drop. And worst of all—you flinch when he touches you again.

That’s when he finally speaks.

Low voice. Quiet, but firm.

“You always think too much.”

You blink, startled.

He steps a little closer—close enough to feel the heat of his skin, but still not touching you. Not really.

“You dance better when you stop trying to be perfect.”

You meet his eyes for the first time in what feels like days—and he doesn’t look away.

Something in your stomach flips. The version of him you’ve been trying not to miss is right there. Not teasing, not cold—but unreadable, unreachable.

Strong. Steady. Saying things that cut a little too close.

You open your mouth to respond, but he steps back.

And just like that, his walls go up again.

You ask, in a snappier tone than you intend to.

“Did I do something?”

But Niki shrugs.

“No,” he says, not meeting your eyes.

You hate it, hate this, wish he would just go back to the way he was. The lingering touches, sneaking glances at you, making you laugh.

You miss him even if he is right next to you. Somehow it would’ve been better, you bitterly think, if you two fought – not whatever this was, you couldn’t stand it.

You force a small smile, trying again.

“Seriously, though. You’ve been weird since…” you pause, searching his face “…is it because of something I did?”

Niki shrugs again, and you want to scream when he hits you with another “no,” still avoiding your gaze.  

“You sure? Because it kind of feels like I did,” you quietly say.

“It’s nothing. We should focus,” finally meeting your eyes, but his voice sounded flat, devoid of the usual warmth.

You nod, but the air between you two is tense. Silence cracks around the edges every time you try to fill it.

Later – after practice is over and you’re back home – you’re walking from the kitchen to your room, Sunoo’s voice echoes from the kitchen, playful but pointed.

“By the way, Eunchae said you and Niki make a cute team,” he wiggles his eyebrows playfully, “she was definitely fishing if he’s single, just saying.”

You half laugh, but it feels hollow to your own ears.

“Oh yeah? Let her shoot her shot, I guess,” you say it casually — but something tightens in your chest.

You close the door of your bedroom and pull your knees to your chest, sitting on the bed. Your room dim.

Why did it feel like you lost something you never even had?

You don’t know it but Niki is standing in the hallway just outside your apartment door, earphones in but not playing any music.

His face unreadable. Except for the way his jaw is tight. And the way he closes his eyes like he’s trying not to care.

But he can’t get the imagine of the longing in your eyes every time you looked at him. The way your eyes would narrow anytime Eunchae came up to him.

And that’s when it hits him you’re not rejecting him — you’re rejecting the idea of them.  Suddenly the realizations don’t stop.

I make her nervous. She feels something. She’s lying to herself.

Let me remind her what it feels like when I’m close.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

It’s class break and you’remid-convo with Daniela, laughing at something dumb. When you look across the classroom, Niki is standing by the door with Eunchae. He's listening politely, nodding at whatever she's saying—but he's not really with her.

His eyes are already on you.

Not staring. Not smirking. Just... watching. Still. Unapologetic. Like he’s reading a language only you speak.

You blink, unsettled.

He doesn’t look away.

Then, Daniela touches your arm, affectively breaking the moment.

After class ends, you brush past him on your way to the bathroom. It’s a tight hallway. You’re not even sure he’s going to acknowledge you, because he’s been like this—off. Too cool. Too quiet.

But then his hand brushes the small of your back as you pass. Not a tease. Not a game.

A claim.

You freeze for half a second, breath caught. Look over your shoulder— but he's already walking away.

You come out of the bathroom, scrolling through your phone as you wait for Sunoo, arms folded, head buzzing from the tension.

Niki appears beside you, “hey.”

“I didn’t think you’d say hi today,” you mutter, trying not to sound bothered.

He shrugs. “Didn’t think you wanted me to.”

You smile, faint. “You always let people decide that for you?”

He lets out the smallest laugh. “No. Just you.”

Your heart stutters. But you don’t look away.

He pushes off the wall and steps closer—slow, easy. Like he’s giving you time to move if you want to.

You don’t.

“I know what you’ve been telling yourself,” he says, eyes not leaving yours.

“That I’m too close. That it’s messy. That it wouldn’t work.”

You lift your chin slightly. “And?”

“And…” His voice softens, “…you keep looking at me like you want it to.”

You don’t answer right away. You feel it, that shift in the air—how close you both are to crossing whatever line you’ve drawn.

You study him. The way he’s not pushing, not assuming. Just waiting.

Quietly certain.

So you say it, “You think I don’t want this?” Your voice is soft, but sure. Steady.

His expression flickers—just a little.

You take a small breath. “I do.”

Another pause, “I just… I didn’t know if I should.”

He exhales, almost like he’s been holding it in. His hand grazes the back of his neck, a flicker of nervousness showing through.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” you add. And you mean it. “Not with you.”

For a moment, everything’s still. Then he says it—quiet and careful “Then don’t. Just let it happen.”

The corners of your mouth lift, despite yourself.

“Just once?” you ask, teasing lightly—but there’s sincerity in your eyes.

He grins, the first real one today, and it does something to you.

“Start with that,” he says.

You nod. Almost imperceptibly. But he sees it.

That night, your phone buzzes.

 Kii<3 [10:25 PM]

Pick you up Friday?

 You [10:27 PM]

Yeah.

You stare at your screen a beat longer than necessary. The tiny word — yeah — feels too small for what’s unraveling in your chest.

Because now it’s real. This thing between you. Not hypothetical, not flirtation buffered by excuses or safe distance. A real date. With Niki.

You press your phone to your chest and lie back, heart wild beneath your ribs. You’re nervous — obviously — but not in a way that makes you want to pull back. It's the kind of nervous that comes with possibility. The kind that reminds you you're alive. And beneath it, something warmer hums: excitement.

You can’t believe this is happening. That he wants this. That you said yes. That after all the circling and second-guessing, this is where you landed.

It’s terrifying. It’s dizzying. And it’s so much better than anything you ever let yourself hope for.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Friday evening.

You almost cancel.

You open your wardrobe, stare at your reflection, then close it again. Twice. Your hands hover over your phone more than once, thumb twitching toward his contact.

But then you force yourself to pull it together, deciding on a low crop top and a black skirt.

He’s already waiting when you step outside — parked just at the curb, leaning against the passenger side of his car. Streetlight catching on the edges of his hair, hands in the pockets of a jacket you’ve seen him wear a thousand times but never like this.

He straightens the second he sees you. Not obvious, but enough. His gaze trails down, slow — not in a possessive way, but reverent. Like he’s genuinely trying to commit this version of you to memory.

You’re suddenly warm everywhere.

“Hey,” he says, and his voice is too casual for how intensely he’s looking at you.

You arch a brow. “You’re staring.”

He doesn’t flinch. “Yeah. So are you.”

You can’t help the laugh that slips out, nerves tangled in it. “Don’t start already.”

He opens the car door for you, dipping his head close as you slide in. “Can’t help it,” he murmurs, low. “I’ve been waiting to look at you like this.”

Your breath stumbles. You don’t answer—just smile, tucking it into the warmth.

The drive is quiet in the most perfect way. His car smells faintly like him—clean, a little musky, like cedar and laundry and something unmistakably his. A soft R&B playlist drifts through the speakers.

You sneak looks at him when you think he’s not paying attention. His hand on the gearshift. The subtle way his jaw flexes when he focuses on the road. His thumb tapping along to the beat.

He catches you once, glancing over with the ghost of a smile.

“You look really pretty,” he says, almost shy. It’s not the kind of compliment that’s thrown out for effect. It lands warm, soft.

You laugh, nerves bubbling out. “You’re not too bad either.”

He grins. “Had to. Big night.”

By the time you reach the rooftop bar, the sky’s already in a blue-lavender stretch before night truly falls. Warm lights hang overhead, swaying gently. The music’s changed to something jazzy and slow, but it fits—like the world decided to match your pacing.

You’re seated in a quiet corner, the city stretching far beneath. He doesn’t look at the menu before ordering for you—he just knows.

Your drink arrives exactly the way you like it.

And when you ask, teasing, “You just memorize everyone’s drink order?”

He leans in slightly, resting his chin on his hand. “Only yours.”

You’re already laughing, cheeks flushed, the world softening at the edges.

His fingers brush yours. It’s not accidental. It’s intentional. A question he doesn’t ask out loud.

You don’t pull away.

There’s a little silence before you tease, “What, you stalking my habits now?”

“I’m cataloguing the things that make you smile,” he replies without missing a beat.

And you do smile. You try not to, but you do. It bubbles up before you can stop it. And that just makes him grin wider.

“Stop,” you say, hiding behind your cup.

“You’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

“You are.” He leans on his elbow, chin in his hand. “You always do that when you like something but don’t wanna admit it.”

“Now you’re making things up.”

“Now you’re avoiding the fact that you like me.”

You meet his eyes. And for a second, neither of you laughs. It lands deeper than it should. Like the words found a door you didn’t mean to leave cracked open.

You don’t say anything. Not yet. But your silence is a different kind now—not pulling away, just… caught.

And he doesn’t push. He just lets it be, the way he always seems to know how to.

You leave the bar after you two finish your drinks. The warm air inviting you on a walk. The city buzzes around you — soft traffic, neon flickers, the low hum of people living their lives — but you don’t really hear any of it. Not when you’re standing close enough to bump shoulders and not bother stepping away.

He reaches for his phone. “Smile.”

You do. Without thinking.

He takes a picture. You try to grab his phone to see it, laughing, but he slips it back into his jacket.

“Let me see!”

He shakes his head. “Not posting it.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s just for me.”

You go quiet. Something in your stomach flips.

You stop under a streetlamp.

The light catches on his cheekbones, soft gold spilling over his lashes, his mouth, his collarbones peeking through the neck of his sweatshirt. He looks like something out of a dream. Which is annoying, because dreams aren’t supposed to smirk at you like that.

You cross your arms, partly to brace yourself. Partly because your heart won’t chill out.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask, trying to sound unaffected.

Niki tilts his head, slow. “Like what?”

“Like you know something I don’t.”

“I do,” he says, easy. “I know how good you look under this light.”

You roll your eyes. But you're smiling now, and he sees it. He always does.

“You’re not slick, Niki.”

“I don’t have to be,” he says, and damn it, that grin should be illegal.

Your chest is tight in a way that’s too much and just right. You step in without realizing, close enough that chest touch. He holds onto your wait. You glance up—and he’s already watching you.

Not in that heavy, intense way he sometimes does. It’s softer now. But still locked in. Like he’s trying not to blink.

“This is weird,” you murmur, almost to yourself. “In a good way. I just… didn’t think this would ever actually happen.”

He leans in just a bit, voice low but warm. “Been thinking about it for weeks.”

“You’re such a simp.”

“Only for you,” he says, and there’s zero hesitation in it.

It knocks the breath right out of you.

He holds your gaze for one long, humming second. You can feel the tension hovering between your mouths like a question waiting to be asked.

“If I kiss you right now,” he says, voice barely above the buzz of the city, “you gonna regret it?”

You shake your head. A little too fast.

“Good.”

And then he leans in.

You don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing until he closes the last inch between you.

His hand finds your waist. Yours tangle in the front of his hoodie. And then—

He kisses you.

Not soft. Not tentative.

It’s hungry. Like he’s been holding back for weeks and the dam just cracked wide open. His mouth moves over yours like he’s trying to make sense of it, memorize it, own it. And you kiss him back just as fiercely—hands fisting in the fabric at his chest, pulling him closer, chasing the taste of him like it might undo you.

It’s too much. Not enough. Your thoughts dissolve. You don’t know where his breath ends and yours begins. The world’s gone blurry around the edges.

You gasp into his mouth when his fingers slide up, brushing your jaw, anchoring you there like he needs you solid in his hands. Like this isn’t real unless he’s touching you.

He groans—quiet, but guttural—and the sound shoots straight down, between your thighs.

You break apart just long enough to suck in air, both of you breathing like you just ran a mile.

His forehead tips to yours.

“Fuck,” he whispers, voice wrecked and still out of breath. “We have to stop.”

You blink, still tasting him on your lips, dazed. “What?”

He shakes his head, eyes still closed. Like he’s fighting himself. His hands gripping your hips tightly.

“We have to stop. Or I’m not gonna be able to.”

You feel it in your knees. In your stomach. In everywhere.

He pulls back a fraction, gaze finding yours. His hands don’t leave your body, but they don’t wander either. Just… steady. Present. Hot with restraint.

“This isn’t how I want to do this,” he says, low. “Not like this. Not in a rush. You deserve better than that.”

You exhale shakily. He’s right. You hate that he’s right. And you love that he cares enough to be right.

Still, it takes you a second to find your voice.

“So what now?”

His thumb brushes your cheek. “Now I walk you to the car.”

He smiles. Kind of breathless. Kind of wrecked. Like you just rewired something in him.

“And then I go home and try really hard not to think about how good you taste.”

You grin, heart thudding. “You’re not gonna succeed.”

He raises a brow. “Not even a little.”

And this time, when you link your fingers with his, it’s easy. His larger hand engulfing yours. His shoulder keeps bumping into yours as you walk, and by the time you reach his car you’re safely tucked under his arm. Your torso to his side. And for the first time in a long time you feel alive.

You’re still on the buzz as you get ready for bed. Too lazy before to take off your makeup and change out of your clothes. Just as you’re about to head into the bathroom your phone pings and a grin unknowingly stretches over your face.

You bit your lip, trying to contain the quickly awakening tingles between your legs, as you read over Niki’s message. The memory of his lips on yours, his hands all over you replaying through your mind.

Kii<3 [11:12 PM] you still wearing that skirt from tonight?

You [11:13 PM] Yeah,, want a little preview

Kii<3 [11:14 PM] fuck yes don’t keep me waiting

You stand in front of the mirror, twirling as you try to find a pretty angle. You settle on you looking over your shoulder into the mirror, your hip popped in a way that accentuates your butt.

You [11:15 PM] Like it?

You ask after you watch his message bubble appear and disappear.

Kii<3 [11:16 PM] damn you’re unreal

im switching the phone to my left hand

You [11:17 PM] wait till you see what comes next

You giddly type, sitting on your bed – legs straddling the duvet underneath you as you eye one of your decorative pillows.

Kii<3 [11:18 PM] im ready. What’re you doing right now?

You [11:19 PM] sitting on my bed, got a pillow nearby…

Kii<3 [11:20 PM] want you to straddle it

You gulp when you read his text, already adjusting your position as you  listen to his instructions. You can feel your underwear already sticking to you as you shift over the pillow. You gasp as you sit on the pillow, the wetness uncomfortable where it touches your skin.

You [11:21 PM] you’re crazyyy,, want me to take my panties off?

Kii<3 [11:21 PM] fuck yes

Your pussy clenches at his eager response. Imagining him in his own room, dick in his hand. You’re quick to move. Standing up you slide the panties down your legs, throwing them in the corner of your room. You contemplate taking off your skirt when you read the next message.

Kii<3 [11:22 PM]

show me everything, im so hard rn

You [11:23 PM] you like it? Decided to keep the skirt on..

but I don’t mind taking it off for you

You type, the photo you sent taken from an angle above. Your skirt is bunched at your waist, the fluffy pillow under you glaringly obvious. One of your hands is playfully pinching a nipple between your fingers, your bottom lip caught between your teeth. Your eyes are half lidded, cheeks covered in a natural blush.

Kii<3 [11:24 PM] baby you’ve got me losing it over here

You [11:25 PM] Good. That’s exactly the plan

lemme see u too

You send and regret it almost immediately when you see his reply. Niki with his hoodie pulled up, covering his hair. His eyes incredibly dark, barely in the frame. At the center of the photo is his hand, rings covering his fingers. But that’s not where your focus lies.

You stare at his leaking cock. Standing proud as he holds it in his hand, veins visible as the slick of his pre-cum shines on every detail of his cock.

Before you even realize it, you’re moving on your pillow. You’re desperate to reach your release, so much so that you don’t reply to his photo.

Your ringing phone breaks you out of your humping and you momentarily pause your ministrations as you pick up.

“Liked it that much baby?” Niki teases you, his deep voice making your stomach swoop and pussy clench around nothing.

You whine, adjusting the corner of the pillow right under your entrance.

“You have no idea,” you rasp, “I’m gonna finger myself, the pillow isn’t really doing it for me.”

“Figured,” he replies, voice strained and muffled, “next time I’ll be the one doing that.”

“Yeah Niki? Wanted your fingers tonight,” you breathe, trying to keep it down – you didn’t want Sunoo to hear you.

“Fuck princess, I wanted it too, wanted to fuck you in my backseat, not caring who sees us,” Niki eggs you on.

And the image of you and Niki in his backseat. You straddling him and his hands all over you has you reaching your climax.

You moan, louder than you realize, “next time, ‘kay?”

“Next time what, use your words,” Niki gruffs and you hear shuffling in the background.

“Fuck me next time we see each other,” you gasp.

“Please,” you whine into the phone, “fuck fuck fuck, I’m close Niki. Are you close too?”

Your pretty noises make Niki furiously tug on his cock, you hear a small curse and then nothing.

After a beat Niki speaks, his voice breathless “next time, princess. I promise.”

Your phone call ends shortly after but no matter how many more times you make yourself cum that night it’s not enough. It doesn’t satisfy the ache you feel any time you try to stop touching yourself.

Frustrated you force yourself to try and sleep it off. When morning comes you’re a mess. Barely slept.

It’s not until Monday when you see Niki again – one of his family members had their birthday and hence he was absent over the weekend.

You see him before he sees you.

Just for a second—tall, hood up, bag slung low—his gaze flicking through the crowd. The second your eyes meet, something shifts. It’s subtle, but it knocks the breath right out of your lungs.

You thought texting would be enough. It wasn’t. Not even close.

Now here he is, in the middle of a bustling hallway—shoulders tense, mouth parted like he’s about to say something, but you both already know there’s no time. Your next class starts in three minutes, and someone’s already calling your name.

He doesn’t stop walking. Neither do you. But as you pass each other, your hands brush, and your bodies lean in just enough to feel the heat crackle between you.

You barely glance up, but you feel it—his eyes, dragging down the side of your face, to your mouth, to the line of your collar. And for a second you swear he’s about to grab your wrist and pull you somewhere you can’t be seen.

But he doesn’t.

Because right then, someone falls into step beside you, Sunghoon—a guy from class, talking about a group project. You murmur something polite, eyes still locked with Niki’s across the hallway.

You see it hit him. The flash of irritation. The stiff set of his jaw. His pace slows just a fraction, like his body won’t let him leave it alone.

You feel it too—the ache, the itch under your skin that hasn’t gone away since Friday night. Like your body knows it’s his you’re still wanting.

You don’t say a word. You just keep walking.

But you know exactly where this is going.

And so does he.

Just a few minutes before the class ends you pull the phone out of your bag, suppressing a smile as you see a text from Niki.

Kii<3 [1:32 PM] who’s the guy

you [2:39 PM] chill 😭 just sunghoon from my seminar we’re in a group project together

Kii<3 [2:39 PM] and you had to smile at him like that?

You roll your eyes at his dramatics as you write your reply. Holding your phone under the desk so the professor doesn’t see you texting.

you [2:40 PM] you’re ridiculous 😭 it wasn’t even like that also you literally walked past me and didn’t say shit

Kii<3 [2:41 PM] i was one second away from grabbing you right there in the hallway but i didn’t want to start a scandal

You clench your thighs together as your imagination goes wild. You two would definitely be trying it, in the near future.

you [2:41 PM] oh so you do have some self-control color me shocked

Kii<3 [2:42 PM] barely meet me after class we need to talk

you [2:42 PM] “talk”? 👀 should i be scared or excited

Kii<3 [2:43 PM] yes. ill be outside your building don’t make me wait

you [2:44 PM] i wouldn’t dare

Kii<3 is typing... Kii<3 [2:46 PM] better not bc the second we’re alone im making you forget his name

You’re only half surprised when you step out of the class 14 minutes later to see Niki waiting for you. The hallway outside your lecture room buzzes with students, the air heavy with end-of-day chatter and the scrape of sneakers. You step out mid-convo with Sunghoon, who’s animated about some shared group project, gesturing with his hands. You’re smiling, but not really at him.

Then your eyes lock with Niki.

He’s leaning against the wall a few feet away, arms crossed, expression unreadable — until it’s not. His eyes drop to your mouth. Then drag over your legs. His jaw flexes like he’s biting back something unholy.

You slow your steps.

He doesn’t move.

You pass him anyway, because you’re petty, and you like the way his stare burns into your back.

“That guy talks a lot,” Niki leans down to whisper in your ear. His voice low, hand lightly touching your waist. Possessively.

You stop walking. Sunghoon keeps going, oblivious. You turn halfway, just enough to give Niki a look over your shoulder.

“Jealous?” you ask, smirking.

Niki steps fully into your personal space, pulling you into him by your waist, “no.”

His voice drops and the words leaving his mind make you freeze.

“I’m hard.”

You blink. A breath catches in your throat. Your stomach flips so hard it almost knocks the air out of you.

“Here? Really?” you ask, voice airy and breathless.

Niki leans in, grinning against your cheek “do you even realize how you look when you walk out of class like that?”

His fingers ghost over your wrist, featherlight. And goosebumps appear where his touch leaves.

“All I could think about was bending you over one of those desks.”

You don’t even have a witty comeback. Just heat — pooling low in your belly, throbbing between your legs.

“I have fifteen minutes,” you tell him, already so needy for him. 

“That’s adorable. I need hours,” Niki teases you.

He glances toward the doors, then back at you, voice gravel “meet me at yours. I’m not gonna wait another fucking day.”

You don’t attend any of your next classes, instead you leave immediately.

The second your apartment door clicks shut, his mouth is on you. Your bag hits the floor. His hands are under your shirt, your fingers already tugging at his hoodie.

You gasp into his mouth when he lifts you — one hand under your thigh, the other gripping your waist like he needs you closer, deeper, now. He walks you backward until your spine hits the wall and your legs wrap around him automatically.

“Don’t tease,” you pant.

“I’m not in the mood to tease, pretty,” Niki darkly grins at you, his voice doing things to you.

The kiss is frantic. Teeth. Tongue. Groaning into each other’s mouths like you’re trying to crawl inside one another. Your skirt rides up fast, and you let it, let his hands explore every inch like they’re claiming you.

“Take it off. Take all of it off,” you moan against his jaw, kissing down his neck when his hands start pulling on your clothes.

Niki shakes his head a no, “do it for me,” he tells you as he leads you into your bedroom.

Clothes disappear — shirt tugged over his head, buttons popping open, Niki’s hands all over you. He lifts you up as he carries you to your bed, dropping you with a thud and following you down like he’s starving.

The air smells like skin and sweat and him — clean and warm and dizzying.

“You’ve got no idea what you do to me,” Niki says as he hovers over you, his voice thick.

“Show me,” you say as you pull him in.

And he does. Niki kisses down your neck, his big hands on your tits. He’s going lower as he continues kissing you, listening to your gasps and small moans.

Niki pinches your nipple between his fingers, his mouth on your other boob. You moan, back arching off the bed. Your fingers tangle themselves in Niki’s hair as you pull him closer to you.

Your legs wrap around his torso, but Niki is already moving.

“Turn around,” he tells you, unashamedly palming himself through his boxers as his dark eyes drink you in.

You comply, laying on your stomach. Niki grabs you by your hips as he manhandles you on your knees, your front still on the bed.

You gasp when you feel his hands on your ass, gripping and kneading your cheeks.

“Baby please let me taste you,” Niki whines, his hands exploring everywhere from your ass to your inner thighs. He still hasn’t touched your pussy but you’re growing desperate as you push your ass close to his face.

Your mind is fuzzy as Niki traces his fingernails on the inside of your thigh, you shiver moaning before he even touches you where you most need him.

You can feel his breath on your slit, moaning as you push your ass in his face barely able to feel his lips on you.

Niki sees your struggle as he reaches for the pillow, resting it under your hips.

He murmurs against your skin “every inch of you drags me crazy, you know that?”

He lightly bites your ass, slapping it when you whine.

“Niki, need you,” you whine and gasp when you feel his mouth on you. His flattened tongue covers your slit and you push yourself into the warmth.

“oh god yes,” you breathe but pause once his hands grip your ass cheeks apart and he licks a long stripe from your slit, over your hole and stops at your asshole.

Your eyes widen when his tongue traces your puckered hole.

“what are you doing?” you ask as a pleasurable sensation you’ve never experienced before spreads through you.

Your pussy clenches when Niki lowly replies, “trust me,” and continues licking all over you.

“Taste so good,” comes his gruffy voice, he spits on the puckered hole, spreading the saliva with his middle finger.

you’ve never had someone play with your ass and while the sensation was new to you, it was also oddly pleasurable, your pussy pulsating as the pleasure is just enough to keep you at bay. But not enough at the same time.

Niki’s finger traces your hole, his other hand sneaking into your pussy entrance. You can feel yourself throb, the pleasure overwhelming.

Tears fill your eyes as Niki continues licking over your puckered hole, his middle and ring finger fingering your pussy in a hook motion.

You’re a moaning mess as you grip your sheets, legs spread as far as they can comfortably be. Loud licking sounds are covered by your squelching pussy and moans.

“Niki, I’m close,” you breathe, “please please please,” you whine, as tears build in your eyes. Enough to make your eyes glassy and makeup smudged but not enough to spill over on your cheeks.

“I like it when you’re like this,” he tells between licks, his fingers picking a slower and harder rhythm that has you seeing stars, his voice quiet and dark.

“oh my god, don’t stop talking,” you further plead, his voice driving you crazy. 

“Only if you keep telling me how good you’re feeling,” he says as his nails sink into the skin where your butt and thighs meet.

“Feels so good Ki, you’re so good, please, don’t stop, plea-“ you mewl, only to stop breathing as the pleasure almost tips over. Niki feels your pulsating walls, knows you’re about to cum and he pulls back.

You whine, turning around, only to see Niki’s intense gaze on your ass, watching as your butt winks at him.

“You’re so hot baby,” he tells you and it’s enough to have you close again. His eyes travel up your body and you shiver under his gaze.

“Turn around,” he instructs with a light pat on your hip, his eyes not leaving yours.

You comply, laying on your back now and Niki hovers over you. His hand under your jaw as he tries to read your emotions.

“Pretty,” he breathes, “are you gonna cry for me?” he mocks, his lips in a fake pout. He kisses you softly on your lips one hand still holding your chin. His other grips your hair in a pleasurable pull and you moan, relaxing into him fully.

“See that,” Niki asks, buckling his hips into yours. You don’t realize when he took his boxers off but don’t complain once you look down.

His cockhead wet and inviting, dick standing red and proud as Niki ruts his hips into yours.

“You like dragging it out, don’t you? Making me watch while I fall apart for you,” you complain. He just smirks at you as he lines his dick over your pussy. Your lips are hugging him and you hear him curse in a whisper, his voice strained.

“You don’t even know how hot you look under me—fuck,” he shudders, closing his eyes tightly and resting his head on yours. You wrap your arms under his arms pulling him fully on top of you.

But Niki doesn’t let you, “I’m too heavy, don’t wanna hurt you,” he says.

“Then just fuck me already Niki,” you say your lip caught between your teeth.

“Hands above your head. Don’t move. I want to take my time ruining you,” he decides and he watches the way your tits bounce when you move. He lightly slaps one of them and teases his cockhead over your clit.

You’re barely breathing, as the anticipation overtakes you.

“Yes, please Niki just put it in already, I’ll listen to whatever you say, just pleeeease,” you whine.

You both groan once his cockhead pushes past your entrance, your walls are still pulsating and you swear you’re close to cumming and he hasn’t even entered you fully.

Niki seems to be going through the same dilemma, his brows furrowed, eyes closed as he sucks his breath in.

“F-fuck,” he growls, holding onto your hands that are still bent above your head in compliance.

His frame covers yours as he slowly continues bullying his dick into you.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he comments, “keep looking at me so innocently baby and I’ll be busting into you before I even fuck you.”

You whine, pushing your tits up in a silent plead. Your walls wrap around his length so tightly that you swear you can feel him deeper than he even is.

You look down and see only half of him has entered you. Niki pushes further in and you feel so full you can’t focus on anything else.

One of his hands leave yours, trailing down your forearm, to your shoulders and stopping once it wraps around your throat.

“Be good,” he tells you before he pulls out slowly, pushing back in with force.

“So tight,” Niki shudders. You wrap both of your hands over his arm that’s still holding you in place by your throat, gasping in pleasure at the slow and steady, rough pace he set.

Your mouth is open in pleasure, no sound leaving as you watch Niki fucking you. His eyes are everywhere on you, with his free hand he pushes your one of your thighs up and you’re squished.

Feeling so full you close your eyes in pleasure, the new angle has you clutching your toes and no sound escapes your mouth as you drown in pleasure.

Niki sees you and you can feel his dick throb in you, he picks his pace up and it has you seeing stars.

A loud moan slips out, Niki’s hand leaving your neck as he works over your clit. You’re a moaning mess, as Niki plays with you however he pleases.

“Fuck baby, you’re so hot,” he breathes and you feel tears spill down your cheeks as you get lost in pleasure.

His dick is pushing into you, fingers on your clit and you still. Not breathing as your hands claw at his back.

You’re cumming and Niki curses. He sheats his dick inside of you, your tight walls holding him hostage.

Your rigidness forces him to stay inside when his balls twitch. He quietly groans, his voice hoarse as you feel warmth in you.

You’re so overwhelmed by Niki, by the pleasure still hitting you in small waves so you can only lay back and watch Niki as he pulls out.

His cheeks and chest flushed in blush and arms pumped. You watch as his dicks softens, his chest rising in deep breathes.

“Let me ride you Niki,” you ask, his whole demeanor turning you on once again.

“What?” he breathes, letting you push him on the bed and straddle him.

His cum trickles down your thigh once you sit up, but you don’t care, moving to straddle him.

“Just let me,” you tell him, he hisses when you touch his dick but it’s already starting to harden under your fingers.

You pump him once, twice and deem it good enough, hovering over it.

You push it in and listen as Niki whines under you, actually whines. The sound travelling straight to your pussy.

“W-wait, baby wait,” he pleads but you don’t listen. His hands are gripping your hips in a bruising grasp.

“You're so obsessed with me," you moan when his hands travel to your boobs once again. He's squeezing and scratching at them, letting you ride his hard cock.

He's smirking "of course I am. Look at you. You think I could ever stop?"

You pick up the pace, your tits bouncing and Niki slaps your ass, leaning against your headboard as he lets you use him in any way you please.

You grind yourself, holding onto his shoulder and moving into a squatting position as you chase your climax.

"You're not gonna behave, are you?" you mewl once Niki starts pushing his hips into you. He overtakes your pace as he murmurs in your ear, lightly biting on your earlobe.

"Not when you're this close."

And you let him, hugging him as he sets a brutally fast pace, pounding into you roughly.

He manages to bend his legs, pushing himself over you as he forces you on your back once again.

He’s biting onto his lower lip as he fucks you, listening to your moans and gasps.

“Cum for me princess, let me feel you,” he says, squeezing your throat just enough to cut the oxygen off.

You don’t realize you’re drooling and Niki’s hips stutter. You feel him spill in you, and the sensation bringing you over the edge.

You gasp, mewling and clawing at his arm as you cum.

Niki pulls out, catching his breath before leaving to the bathroom. He’s back with a warm rag as he carefully cleans you up.

You hiss when the towel touches your skin, the scratchy surface harsh on your sensitive clit.

You playfully hit Niki once you see he is smiling down at you, “you did that on purpose.”

The sun’s barely up when you pad into the kitchen, hoodie-swaddled and still a little sore. You’re pouring coffee when the front door clicks open behind you.

Sunoo walks in, mid-yawn, backpack slung over one shoulder—and stops dead in his tracks when he sees Niki standing shirtless by the fridge, sleep-tousled, sipping orange juice like he owns the place.

He blinks. Once. Twice.

“Took you long enough.”

You freeze. Niki chokes on his drink.

“Sunoo—”

Sunoo drops his bag with a thud. “For the record, I came home last night and heard... things. So I very kindly turned my ass around and crashed at Heeseung’s.”

You open your mouth. Close it.

“Wait—you’re not mad?”

But your brother just grins, throwing himself onto the couch.

“Do you know how annoying it was watching you two eye-fuck across campus for months? I was this close to locking you in a closet.”

You groan, covering your face. Niki snorts, pink creeping up his neck.

“Please don’t ever say ‘eye-fuck’ again.”

You glance at Sunoo, unsure.

“You’re really not mad?”

He looks at you like you’ve grown a second head.

“Why would I be mad?” He shrugs, grin softening.

“I know Niki. He’ll treat you right.” A pause. “And if he doesn’t—well. I know where he sleeps.”

Niki holds up his hands, grinning.

“Not planning on messing this up, I swear.”

You smile—helpless, smitten.

Because somehow, after everything, this all feels right.

Sunoo flops back dramatically onto the couch.

“Ugh. Gross. I liked it better when you were both repressed.”

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚Bonus scene: final perfomance

Backstage hums with quiet chaos—zippers, footsteps, low murmurs—but you and Niki are in your own world. You're smoothing out the sharp edge of his collar, fingertips brushing the line of his throat. He’s warm, breathing a little too fast, and watching you like it’s a challenge.

“You’re not even touching me properly and I’m already losing focus,” he says, voice low, teasing—like he's half-joking, but mostly not.

You raise an eyebrow, smirking as your hand drifts down to adjust the hem of his jacket. “Guess it’s a good thing I’ll be the one bringing you back to reality later.”

He leans in a fraction—just enough to make your pulse skip. “That sounds like a threat. Or a promise.”

You glance up, meeting his eyes. “Why not both?”

There’s a beat of silence, thick with everything unsaid, and then someone calls his name from stage left.

But he doesn’t move—not right away. Just smiles that slow, dangerous smile like he already knows how tonight ends.

The lights are low in the campus studio, just enough glow to illuminate the stage and the semi-circle of classmates watching from the floor. It’s the last day of the semester, final showcase. Your professor announces your names, and then the beat drops. “All That Matters” by Justin Bieber.

You step out onto the polished floor, heart pounding in time with the bass. Niki’s already there, waiting for you in a fitted black shirt, sleeves rolled, chain low on his collarbone. He looks unfair. Calm. Ravishing.

The music swells. You move.

It’s slow, almost hypnotic — all lingering touches and too-close footwork. His hand brushes your waist. You tilt your chin up. Bodies magnetized, orbiting, crashing.

When you straddle his thigh during the chorus, the entire room holds its breath. His hands settle on your hips like he was born to put them there.

You lock eyes.

And for a second, the world falls away. No classmates, no professor, no judging stares.

Just you and him — synced, electric, starved.

He murmurs just loud enough for you to hear.

“If I get hard during this, it’s your fault.”

You bite back a smirk.

“You’ve been hard since we walked in.”

He grins, dark and unrepentant, guiding you into the final step — a dip so slow and intimate it feels like undressing in public.

The song ends. Silence. Then—

Applause.

Cheers break out, someone even whistles, but you barely hear it. You’re too caught in the aftermath. Niki’s still holding you, one hand splayed across your back.

You whisper, breathless.

“I can’t believe we just did that.”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear.

“Believe it. And later? I’m reenacting every second.”

[kidult0325]

right next door!

pairing: enemy!sunghoon x reader

synopsis: you and park sunghoon have been tangled in hogwarts' most explosive rivalry since fifth year—all duels in corridors and sabotaged potions and lingering stares across the great hall. now in your last year, you're forced to share prefect duties, and between his infuriating teasing and surprisingly caring moments, you can't decide if you want to hex him or kiss him. but when old wounds resurface and the line between rivalry and something else blurs, you'll have to confront why his attention still makes your pulse race—and whether some bridges are better left burned.

genre: hogwarts au, ex friends to enemies to lovers, forced proximity

warnings: highly suggestive content!!, a steamy pool scene, sunghoon gets called an exhibtionist as a joke, mentions of blood status, jealousy, swearing, lots of hogwarts lore references, angst

note: lowkey got inspired to write this after reading deadly education but ended up making it spicy lol. also i haven't specifically mentioned which hogwarts houses the reader and hoon are in since you guys must be different houses so yeah. enjoyyy

word count: 8.1k

If you liked it please reblog or comment to give me your feedback! <3 | taglist

the parchment trembled slightly in your grip, the edges crinkling under your fingertips as you stared at the freshly inked letters spelling out your name beside the words girl prefect. your breath caught—just for a second—before a giddy warmth spread through your chest. you could’ve sworn your feet barely grazed the stone floor as you made your way to the front of the classroom.

this was it.

all those late nights hunched over textbooks in the library until your eyes burned. every extra credit assignment you’d taken on, every house point you’d fought for. the way you’d practiced spells until your wrists ached, all for this moment—the recognition you’d craved, the proof that your effort hadn’t gone unnoticed.

then the head of house cleared their throat.

“—and your fellow prefect will be park sunghoon.”

the air left your lungs in one sharp exhale.

your head whipped toward him instinctively, muscle memory from years of tracking his movements, and just like always—just like always—he was already looking at you. his lips twitched, not quite a smirk but something dangerously close, his dark eyes alight with amusement.

of course.

of course it had to be him. the universe had a cruel sense of humor.

the head of house folded their hands atop the desk, surveying the two of you with the weary patience of someone who had long since grown tired of your antics. “i trust,” they said slowly, “that this appointment will encourage you both to set aside your… differences and act with the decorum expected of prefects.” their gaze flicked between you, pointed. “no duels in the corridors. no jinxes in the common room. and for merlin’s sake, no more sabotaging each other’s potions.”

sunghoon’s expression was the picture of innocence. “i would never.”

you barely suppressed a scoff. liar.

the moment you were dismissed, you spun on your heel, determined to escape before he could so much as open his mouth. but sunghoon, with his long legs caught up and fell into step beside you with infuriating ease, his shoulder brushing yours just enough to make you stiffen.

“looks like we’re stuck with each other, sweetheart,” he mused, voice dripping with false sweetness.

you clenched your jaw. “don’t call me that.”

“what, would you prefer partner?” he grinned when you shot him a glare, the torchlight catching the sharp curve of his cheekbones. 

“oh, come on. admit it—you’re thrilled. all those patrols together, just you and me.” he leaned in just slightly, and you hated the way your pulse jumped. “bet you’ve been dreaming about it.”

“dreaming of hexing you into next week, maybe.”

he laughed, low and taunting, and you hated the way it sent a prickle down your spine—the way it still did, even after all this time. “you’d miss me too much.”

“in your dreams, park.”

“already there.” he winked.

you stopped short, turning to face him fully. the corridor was empty save for the two of you, the flickering torchlight casting shadows across his sharp features that made him look almost otherworldly. 

“listen,” you hissed, “just because we’re prefects now doesn’t mean i’ve forgotten what you did last term. or the term before that. or—”

“you’re really holding onto that?” he tilted his head, feigning thoughtfulness, but you didn’t miss the way his fingers twitched at his side—like he was stopping himself from reaching for something. 

“i’d say it’s flattering, but it’s starting to sound like an obsession.”

your fingers twitched toward your wand. “i swear, if you don’t—”

“ah-ah.” he tutted, nodding pointedly to the enchanted portraits lining the walls—several of whom had paused their conversations to watch the spectacle. “decorum, remember?” his voice dropped, just for you. “wouldn’t want to disappoint the head of house on our first day.”

you forced your hand to relax, but the fire in your chest refused to die. this wasn’t just about rivalry. this was about the way he’d looked right through you fifth year, like you were nothing. like you’d never been anything.

“this isn’t over,” you muttered.

sunghoon’s smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “oh, i’m counting on it.”

and with that, he strolled past you, robes swishing behind him like a victory banner. you stared after him, torn between the urge to scream and the sinking realisation that this year was going to be very long.

but if he thought for one second you’d let him win?

he had another thing coming.

you should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy.

the moment you stepped into the prefects’ wing, the air itself seemed to thicken, pressing against your skin like a warning. this part of the common room was unnervingly quiet—separated from the usual chaos by an ornate archway woven with enchanted ivy that shivered as you passed. two doors faced each other in the dim torchlight, close enough that you could’ve stretched out your arms and touched both at once.

yours. and—

“no.”

sunghoon’s voice curled around you from behind, rich with amusement. “yes.”

you didn’t need to turn to see his expression—you knew it by heart. that lazy, lopsided grin, the way his eyes would crinkle at the corners just before he delivered some infuriating remark. your fingers twitched toward your wand, but you clenched them into fists instead, nails biting crescents into your palms.

the door in front of you seemed to taunt you with its very existence.

“this is a joke,” you muttered.

“a hilarious one,” he agreed, brushing past so close his sleeve whispered against yours. he leaned against his doorframe with practiced ease, the flickering torchlight carving shadows under his cheekbones, gilding the curve of his smirk. 

“aw, don’t look so heartbroken, princess. could’ve been worse,” his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, “you could’ve been stuck next to someone boring.”

you shot him a look that could’ve melted steel. “right. because you’re a delight.”

he pressed a hand to his chest—the same way he used to when you’d accuse him of cheating at exploding snap—and the familiarity of the gesture lodged like a splinter in your throat. “i’m wounded. after all these years, you still don’t appreciate my charm?”

“your charm,” you spat, the words tumbling out raw and unfiltered, “is what got us here in the first place.”

the silence that followed was deafening.

for one fractured second, his mask slipped—just enough for you to catch the flicker in his eyes, the barely-there tightening of his jaw. but it was gone before you could name it, smoothed over with a careless shrug that didn’t match the sudden tension in his shoulders.

you remembered when those shoulders had carried your unconscious first-year self to the hospital wing after your disastrous attempt at flying. remembered how they'd shaken with silent laughter during history of magic when you'd charmed his quill to draw rude pictures on his parchment. remembered most painfully how they'd turned away from you in fifth year, when he'd started sitting with them—the polished, pureblooded group who whispered about blood status in the corridors.

it had started small. skipped study sessions. forgotten inside jokes. then one day you'd walked into the great hall to find your usual seat by the window—your seat, the one he'd saved for you every morning since first year—occupied by some simpering girl from his new circle.

when you'd cornered him after potions, demanding to know what his problem was, he'd just shrugged. "people change." like it was that simple. like four years of friendship meant nothing.

so you'd made sure he remembered.

if he wanted to pretend you didn't exist, you'd force him to notice you. you charmed his robes neon pink during presentations. swapped his pumpkin juice with vinegar. turned all his quills into snakes during arithmancy. each prank was a scream into the void: look at me, see me, remember what you threw away.

now, standing in the dimly lit corridor, the weight of those memories pressed between you like a third presence. sunghoon recovered faster than you did, his smirk sliding back into place with practiced ease.

"still holding onto ancient history, i see," he mused, pushing off the doorframe to take a step closer. the movement brought him into your space, close enough that you caught the faint scent of cedar and ink that still haunted your dreams. "what's next? you gonna charm my shoes to stick to the floor like third year? or—"

"that was you," you interrupted, your voice sharper than you intended. the accusation hung between you, trembling with the weight of everything unsaid. you did this first. you started this war.

his eyebrow quirked. "and you turned all my quills into snakes during arithmancy."

"after you vanished my potions textbook the week before NEWTs!"

"allegedly."

"you left my handwriting on a fake love note to flitwick in the margins!"

he grinned, wide and unrepentant, and it was so familiar that your chest ached. "allegedly."

you turned back to your door before he could see how his smile still affected you, how your traitorous heart still stuttered at the sight. but sunghoon, ever relentless, wasn't finished.

"you know," he said, his voice dropping into something softer, more intimate—the tone he used to reserve for midnight confessions and hidden corners, "if you wanted my attention this badly, you could've just asked."

your hand froze on the doorknob.

for one suspended heartbeat, the air between you crackled with the ghost of what you'd once been—two halves of a reckless, unbreakable whole. you could almost feel the warmth of his shoulder pressed against yours in the library, the way he'd whisper jokes into your ear until you had to bite your lip to keep from laughing.

then reality came crashing back.

"keep dreaming, park," you scoffed, shoving the door open with more force than necessary.

his laughter followed you inside, warm and melodic and wrong—because it wasn't yours to keep anymore. "already do," he called after you.

you slammed the door behind you, pressing your back against it as if it could shield you from the way your pulse raced, from the way your eyes burned with something dangerously close to tears. outside, you heard his footsteps pause, followed by the sound of his door gently slamming shut

your chest ached.

this year was going to be hell.

it becomes a thing after that.

you start bumping into sunghoon at the worst possible times—as if the universe has decided your suffering is its favourite spectator sport. like when you drag yourself into the hallway at 2 am, bleary-eyed and half-dead from studying, your vision swimming from hours of staring at ancient runes, only to collide with something warm and solid.

"oof—"

the scent hits you first—cedar and something faintly sweet, like the peppermint candies he always used to sneak during classes. your sleep-addled brain recognizes it before your eyes do, and your stomach does a traitorous little flip.

sunghoon steadies you with hands on your shoulders, his own hair sticking up in three different directions, dark strands falling into his eyes. he's wearing what might be the most ridiculous sleepwear you've ever seen—flannel pants with little animated broomsticks that actually move, hanging low on his hips, and a threadbare quidditch jersey that's definitely two sizes too big, slipping off one shoulder to reveal a sliver of collarbone.

you blink.

he blinks back.

for one horrifying second, you're both frozen there in the dim torchlight, his fingers warm through the thin fabric of your oversized hoodie (the one with the cartoon snitch that says "catch me if you can"—a gift from your friend jungwon that you'd never admit to owning).

then his gaze drops to your feet.

and he snorts.

"please tell me those were a gift," he says, pointing at your slippers—fluffy monstrosities shaped like kneazles, complete with little ears that flop when you shift your weight. one ear has started to curl inward from wear. "tell me you didn't willingly purchase those."

you flip him off, shuffling past with as much dignity as you can muster when your slippers make a soft mrrp noise against the stone floor.

"they're warm," you mutter.

"they're embarrassing."

"says the guy wearing pyjamas with his dancing broomsticks on them."

you don't even have to look back to know he's grinning. you can hear it in his voice. "you noticed? i'm flattered."

your cheeks burn. damn him.

he starts stealing your favourite study spot, too.

the one by the window in the common room—the table with the perfect view of the lake, where the afternoon light turns the water to liquid gold and the old oak table bears the carved initials you'd put there fourth year (SH + Y/N, hidden under the edge where only you'd know to look). you've claimed it for years, and everyone knows it.

which is exactly why sunghoon's sitting there when you walk in one evening, already sprawled across the bench like he owns it, twirling his wand between his fingers with lazy precision. the dying sunlight catches on the silver rings he always wears, making them gleam.

you stop dead.

"wow," you deadpan. "you work fast."

he doesn't even glance up from his parchment, but you see the way his lips quirk. "what can i say? early bird gets the view." he finally looks up, and the smirk he gives you is all sharp edges and challenge. "maybe you should try being less predictable."

you consider setting his notes on fire.

instead, you take the table next to his—the wobbly one that always tilts your inkwell—and pointedly ignore the way his knee brushes yours under the table when he stretches.

(he definitely does it on purpose.)

(you definitely don't think about how his legs have gotten longer since fifth year.)

but the worst is the patrols.

being forced to walk the castle's quiet, echoing corridors together—where every footstep sounds too loud, every breath feels too close. 

tonight, he's holding his wand aloft like some kind of dramatic victorian ghost hunter, the lumos glow casting long shadows across his sharp cheekbones, catching on the silver hoop in his left ear.

you roll your eyes. "bit dramatic, don't you think?"

"sorry for not having bat vision like you."

"maybe if you didn't spend all your time preening in mirrors—"

you don't even see the uneven step.

one second, you're scoffing at him—the next, your foot catches on a raised stone, and you're lurching forward with a startled gasp, your wand flying from your grip.

but before you can faceplant into the cold stone floor, his hand shoots out, gripping your elbow and yanking you back upright with surprising gentleness. your chest collides with his, and for one terrifying, electric second, you're right there—close enough to see the flecks of silver in his dark eyes, close enough to count his eyelashes, close enough to feel his breath hitch against your lips.

neither of you moves.

his fingers are still wrapped around your arm, warm and firm, and you hate how familiar it feels. how right. how easy it would be to lean in, to—

then he clears his throat and lets go like you've burned him, taking a deliberate step back.

"watch your step," he mutters, already turning away to gather your scattered notes.

you don't miss the way his jaw clenches, the way his fingers tremble just slightly as he hands your wand back.

the rest of the patrol is silent, but everything left unsaid makes the air between you suffocating.

you pushed open the heavy oak door to the prefects’ bathroom, steam curling around your ankles as you stepped inside. the massive sunken tub glimmered under floating enchanted candles, their reflections dancing across the marble walls. and it seems that no other prefect from the other houses were here.

perfect—just what you needed after a gruelling day of school.

then you heard the water splash.

sunghoon stood waist-deep in the pool, his back to you as he peeled off his soaked white t-shirt. water sluiced down the defined muscles of his shoulders, tracing the elegant dip of his spine before disappearing beneath the waterline. the dim candlelight gilded every curve of his toned arms as he tossed the shirt aside with a wet smack against the tiles.

your brain short-circuited.

he turned at the sound of your choked gasp, water dripping from his dark hair. for one horrifying second, his eyes locked onto yours—wide, startled—before his lips curled into that infuriating smirk.

"enjoying the view, sweetheart?"

you whirled around so fast you nearly tripped over your own robes. "this is a shared space, you—you exhibitionist!"

his laugh echoed off the marble. "shared, yes. which means knocking is customary." you could hear the grin in his voice. "unless you were hoping to catch me like this?"

"i'd rather catch dragon pox!" you fumbled for the door handle, cheeks burning.

"liar," he called after you. the splash of water told you he'd leaned back, completely at ease. "you stared for a solid five seconds."

you slammed the door hard enough to rattle the torches in their sconces.

…

"five seconds?" sunoo nearly spat out his pumpkin juice, eyes sparkling with mischief. across the table, jungwon choked on a laugh, thumping his chest.

you stabbed your fork into a roasted potato with unnecessary force. "i did not stare."

"sure," jungwon drawled, stealing a roll from your plate. "and i'm the minister of magic."

sunoo leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "you two need to either fuck or duel already. the sexual tension is giving me hives."

"sunoo!" you kicked him under the table, but your traitorous gaze flickered across the hall before you could stop it.

sunghoon sat with his usual group, idly stirring his soup. as if sensing your stare, he glanced up—and winked. the bastard had the audacity to mouth "five seconds" before his friends noticed and started elbowing him.

you dropped your forehead onto the table with a groan.

you should’ve known the universe had it out for you.

the thought pounded in time with your footsteps as you stomped toward the forbidden forest, the cold night air biting at your exposed skin. 

of course this would happen on the one night you actually planned to sleep before dawn. 

of course it was a group of reckless first-years from your house who decided to wander off here. 

and of course—because fate had never once been kind to you—sunghoon was the one marching beside you, his shoulder brushing yours every few steps like some cruel reminder of how things used to be.

"this is your fault," you muttered, more out of habit than anything else.

his sigh was barely audible over the crunch of leaves underfoot. "how, exactly?"

"you gave them detention for the dungbomb incident. this is clearly revenge."

"ah yes, because children are famously logical creatures who plan elaborate revenge schemes." his voice dripped with sarcasm, but there was no real heat behind it. just exhaustion. it threw you off—this version of sunghoon who didn't rise to your bait like he used to.

you risked a glance at his profile in the moonlight. the sharp line of his jaw was tense, his brows drawn together in that way they always got when he was thinking too hard. you hated that you still noticed these things. hated that after all this time, you could still read him like a book you'd memorised but pretended not to care about.

the forest loomed ahead, darker than the sky around it. a shiver ran down your spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

"we'll split up," you said abruptly. "cover more ground."

"no." the word came out sharp, surprising you both. he cleared his throat. "it's... not safe. we stick together."

there was something in his voice you couldn't place—something that made your chest ache in a way you refused to examine. so you just nodded, stepping into the treeline beside him, close enough that your sleeves brushed. neither of you moved away.

the forest was wrong tonight.

usually alive with rustling leaves and distant animal calls, now it was eerily silent, like the trees themselves were holding their breath. your own breathing sounded too loud in your ears, your heartbeat pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

"this is stupid," you muttered, just to break the silence. "what kind of idiots think wandering into the murder forest at midnight is a good idea?"

next to you, sunghoon huffed a quiet laugh. "the same kind that think turning their rival's hair pink right before a quidditch match is a solid life choice."

the unexpected callback to simpler times caught you off guard. warmth bloomed in your chest before you could stop it, quickly smothered by years of built-up resentment.

"that was one time—"

"and the time you swapped my pumpkin juice with vinegar—"

"you deserved that—"

"and the time you definitely stared at me in the prefect's bathroom for five full seconds—"

something inside you snapped.

"oh my god, are you serious right now?" you whirled on him so fast he actually took a step back. your wandlight threw wild shadows across his face, illuminating the startled widening of his eyes. "you're really gonna act like i started all this? like you weren't the one who—"

your voice cracked traitorously. you hated it. hated the way his expression shifted from amused to concerned in an instant. hated how your eyes suddenly burned with unshed tears.

sunghoon went completely still. "who what?" he asked quietly.

the words tore out of you like a dam breaking:

"who ditched me the second you found a shinier group of friends!"

the silence that followed was deafening.

sunghoon looked like you'd struck him. his mouth opened, closed. for the first time since you'd known him, park sunghoon seemed at a complete loss for words.

you didn't wait for him to find them. turning on your heel, you stormed deeper into the forest, your pulse roaring in your ears. you made it three steps before you heard him move behind you—quick, urgent footsteps—and then his hand was wrapping around your wrist, pulling you to a stop.

"wait—"

a shrill voice cut through the trees before he could continue.

"oh thank merlin!"

the first-years.

sunghoon's grip loosened immediately, but his fingers lingered for half a second longer than necessary before falling away. the ghost of his touch burned long after he'd turned toward the sound.

the walk back was torture.

the kids shuffled ahead of you, sniffling and covered in mud and leaves, while you and sunghoon trailed behind in suffocating silence. your mind raced, replaying the moment over and over—the look on his face when you said those words, the way his hand felt around your wrist.

at one point, he moved closer, his shoulder brushing yours. "we should—" he started, voice low.

you sped up, pretending to adjust the scarf of a trembling first-year. you didn’t wand to do this now.

by the time you reached the common room, your jaw ached from clenching it. you handed out detentions on autopilot ("no, you cannot serve it together, yes, you're lucky we're not telling the head of house"), your voice sounding distant even to your own ears.

the second the kids scurried off, you bolted for your room, desperate for space to breathe, to think—

—only for a hand to catch the door before you could slam it shut.

suddenly, you were being yanked into his room.

"what the hell—"

"i didn't ditch you."

his voice was rough, raw in a way you'd never heard before. his grip on your wrist was tight enough that you could feel his pulse racing against your skin—or maybe that was yours. you were too overwhelmed to tell.

you glared up at him, chest heaving. "oh, really? because i remember you ghosting me for months—"

"my parents made me."

the words burst out of him like he'd been holding them in for years. he released your wrist to rake a hand through his hair, pacing the small space between his bed and the door like a caged animal.

"they—merlin, they lost it when they found out i was friends with a muggle-born," he continued, voice cracking on the last word. "threatened to pull me out of hogwarts. i had to—" he stopped, swallowed hard. "i had to pretend. until i could figure something out."

the confession hit you like a bludger to the chest. all the air left your lungs at once.

memories flooded back—sunghoon's sudden distance fifth year, the way he'd flinch whenever his new friends made comments about blood status, the times you'd caught him looking at you across the great hall with an expression you couldn't decipher.

"you could've told me," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

he shook his head, eyes shining in the dim light. "I couldn't. you would've tried to fix it. you would've—" his voice broke. "you would've gotten yourself hurt."

the raw honesty in his words stole your breath. for years, you'd assumed the worst; that he'd outgrown you, that you weren't enough. but this... this was something else entirely.

the air between you was heavy with everything unsaid. you could see the exact moment he realised how close you were standing, because his breath hitched, his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

"...i'm sorry," he murmured, so quiet you almost missed it.

the words settled over you like a warm cloak. not perfect. not a complete fix. but a start.

"me too," you whispered back.

when you slipped out of his room and back into yours, the weight on your chest felt a little lighter.

neither of you slept that night. you lay awake staring at the ceiling, replaying every word, every look. wondering if this changed everything—or nothing at all.

you woke with a start, your cheek pressed against a half-open textbook. sunlight streamed through the common room windows—you’d fallen asleep at your usual table with the view ofthe lake, the one sunghoon had stolen so often. your neck ached, and there was drool on your parchment.

a shadow fell across your notes.

"rough night?"

sunghoon stood over you, holding two steaming mugs. he looked unfairly put-together for someone who’d also presumably gotten no sleep—his hair slightly damp from a shower, his prefect badge already pinned neatly to his robes.

you sat up too fast, your elbow knocking into an inkwell. "what are you—"

"coffee." he set one mug down in front of you, black with three sugars, just how you liked it. "figured you’d need it."

you stared at the mug like it might transform into a dungbomb. this was new. this was terrifying.

across the room, a group of fourth-years whispered behind their hands.

sunghoon cleared his throat. "patrols tonight. meet at eight?"

"yeah," you managed. "eight."

he nodded, already turning away—then paused. "oh, and y/n?"

"what?"

"you’ve got…" he gestured to his own cheek, mirroring where your face had been smushed against your notes. "ink."

you swiped at your face furiously as he walked off, but not before catching the way his shoulders shook with silent laughter.

the whispers started the moment you walked in together to the dining hall.

it wasn’t intentional—you’d just happened to leave the common room at the same time, and sunghoon had held the door open for you like some kind of gentleman, and now the your entire table was gaping.

"what the hell happened last night?" sunoo demanded as you slid onto the bench. next to him, jungwon’s eyebrows were in his hairline.

"nothing," you muttered, reaching for the toast.

"nothing?" jungwon leaned in. "he’s been staring at you since you sat down."

your head snapped up. sure enough, sunghoon was watching you from across the hall, chin propped on his hand. when he caught your eye, he smirked and took an exaggerated sip from his mug—the same one he’d brought you earlier.

you kicked sunoo under the table when he opened his mouth. "don’t."

meanwhile, at the slytherin table, sunghoon’s so-called friends weren’t even pretending not to stare. one of them—a tall guy with a permanent sneer—said something under his breath. sunghoon’s response was too quiet to hear, but the way his friend’s face paled was very satisfying.

you found out what he’d said to them later, when you passed them in the corridor.

"—thought you were done with that," sneer-boy was hissing, just around the corner from where you’d frozen mid-step.

"changed my mind," sunghoon’s voice was calm, but there was steel underneath. "got a problem with it?"

"she’s a muggle-born—"

"finish that sentence," sunghoon said, so quietly it was almost a whisper, "and i’ll hex you into next week."

silence.

you ducked into an alcove before they could see you, your heart pounding. when sunghoon walked past minutes later, alone, he paused—like he could sense you there.

"you can come out now," he called, amused. "unless you’re planning to ambush me again. which, fair."

you stepped out, cheeks burning. "i wasn’t eavesdropping—"

"liar." he fell into step beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world. "but since you heard all that…" he bumped your shoulder with his. "you’re welcome."

you bumped him back, harder. "idiot."

he grinned.

things changed after that.

sunghoon stopped stealing your study spot—instead, he’d join you there, sprawling across the bench like he owned it. you stopped hexing his belongings—mostly. (some traditions had to stay alive.)

his old friends glowered at you in the halls. yours teased you mercilessly.

and when you had patrols together, the silence wasn’t suffocating anymore—just quiet, comfortable.

(though he did still tease you about the bathroom incident. some things would never change.)

the moment the first raindrop hit your nose, you knew this trip was doomed. 

you'd been assigned to chaperone a group of first-years on their first hogsmeade visit, with sunghoon as your unfortunate co-supervisor—because apparently the universe still hadn't finished laughing at you. the kids had dragged you from honeydukes to zonko's, their excitement barely contained as they pressed against every shop window. 

sunghoon lingered at the back of the group, hands in his pockets, occasionally shooting you glances you couldn't quite decipher.

then the sky opened up without warning. one second you were counting heads near the post office, the next icy rain was pelting down in sheets, sending students scattering in every direction. 

"in here!" sunghoon's voice cut through the chaos as his fingers closed around your wrist. you didn't process where he was pulling you until the bell above the door tinkled and the overwhelming scent of floral perfume hit you.

madam puddifoot's. the most notoriously romantic tea shop in the village, all lace doilies and floating cherubs and couples canoodling in heart-shaped booths. 

"we are not—" you began, already backpedalling, but it was too late. the first-years had already stampeded inside, their squeals of delight echoing off the pink walls.

sunghoon stepped in behind you, his chest brushing your shoulder as he shook rainwater from his hair. "well. this is cozy." 

you shot him a glare that could melt steel. 

"i'd rather swim back to the castle." 

the elderly witch behind the counter beamed at your bedraggled group. "young love! how precious!" 

"we're not—" 

"just chaperones," sunghoon finished smoothly, though the smirk playing at his lips ruined any attempt at innocence.

the next twenty minutes passed in a haze of humiliation. the first-years were seated at a large table near the back, leaving you and sunghoon wedged into a tiny booth for two—one adorned with actual cupid statues that periodically blew glitter into the air. your face burned as a cherub floated by dumping rose petals on unsuspecting patrons. 

across from you, sunghoon looked unbearably amused, stirring his tea with infuriating calm.

"you're enjoying this," you accused, watching as he added a third sugar cube to his cup. 

he raised an eyebrow. "the tea's decent." 

"i meant the utter humiliation of this situation." 

the corner of his mouth twitched. "that too."

a sudden commotion at the first-years' table saved you from responding. one of the girls was pointing between you two with alarming enthusiasm. "are you going to kiss?" 

your teacup clattered against its saucer. sunghoon choked on his sip. 

"we are not—" 

"not in front of you lot," sunghoon interrupted solemnly, sending the table into giggles. 

you kicked him under the table hard enough to make him wince. "you're dead to me."

the rain showed no signs of letting up, trapping you in this pastel nightmare. as minutes ticked by, you became increasingly aware of every accidental brush of sunghoon's knee against yours, every time his fingers grazed yours reaching for the sugar bowl. the shop's enchanted ceiling—currently mimicking a sunset—cast warm light across his features, softening the sharp angles of his face in a way that made your chest feel oddly tight.

at one point, you caught him staring at you with an expression you couldn't quite place—something between amusement and that same unreadable look he'd worn in the forest after your argument. 

"what?" you muttered, self-consciously wiping at your face. 

he leaned forward slightly, voice dropping so only you could hear. "just wondering how long it'll take you to admit this isn't so bad."

before you could retort, a chorus of "ooooooh!" erupted from the first-years' table. you looked down to realise sunghoon's hand was still covering yours on the tabletop—when had that happened? 

you jerked back as if burned, sending a saucer clattering to the floor. the resulting cheers from the children made you want to disappear into the upholstery.

by the time the rain eased, your dignity was beyond salvage. the walk back to hogwarts was a parade of giggles and not-so-subtle whispers from your charges. sunghoon walked beside you, his shoulder bumping yours every few steps like he couldn't quite help himself. 

"you realise we're never living this down," you groaned as the castle gates came into view. 

he grinned, that infuriating, lopsided grin that used to make your stomach flip in fourth year and—annoyingly—still did now. 

"where's your sense of adventure?" 

"back in that tea shop, buried under approximately two hundred rose petals."

his laughter followed you all the way up the path, warm and familiar, and despite yourself, you found your steps falling into sync with his. (and if you didn't protest when one of the first-years snapped another photo of you two walking shoulder-to-shoulder—well. some things were better left unexamined.)

things between you and sunghoon had become dangerously comfortable. what started as reluctant co-prefect duties had slowly melted into late-night study sessions where your head would end up on his shoulder, patrols where his fingers lingered a second too long when helping you up, and inside jokes whispered too close to each other’s ears in the great hall. 

it wasn’t a relationship, not really—just stolen moments and unspoken tension that made your stomach flip whenever he smirked at you across a crowded room.

that’s why it stung so much when you walked into the library and saw him laughing with eunji, a bright-eyed ravenclaw a year younger than you both who had newly joined. logically, you knew there was nothing romantic about it—he was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed as she enthusiastically explained some arithmancy concept, his expression more amused than affectionate. but the way his eyes crinkled at her enthusiasm, the easy way he nodded along—it reminded you too much of how he used to look at you before everything got complicated.

"y/n!" sunghoon called when he spotted you hovering by the shelves, waving you over with that same warm smile that always made your pulse skip. "come join us. eunji’s explaining this ridiculous theory about using arithmancy to predict quidditch outcomes."

you forced your feet to move, your grip tightening on your book bag. eunji greeted you with a cheerful wave, her braids swinging. "sunghoon said you’re brilliant at charms! maybe you can help me understand this part about wand movement harmonics?"

the next hour passed in a blur of half-hearted contributions from you and increasingly animated discussion between the two of them. every time you tried to interject, the conversation would circle back to some inside joke or advanced magical theory that left you feeling like an outsider in your own friendship. when eunji reached over to adjust sunghoon’s grip on her notes, demonstrating some wand technique, you suddenly couldn’t breathe properly.

"i should go," you muttered, gathering your things before either could protest. "forgot i promised to meet sunoo for... something."

sunghoon’s brow furrowed as you stood. "you okay?"

"fine." you forced a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. "just tired."

the walk back to your dorm felt infinitely longer than usual, each step weighed down by memories of fifth year—of sunghoon slowly slipping away from you, of empty promises to study together, of eventually finding him surrounded by new friends who looked at you like you didn’t belong.

hogsmeade weekend only made it worse. you’d been hoping to bump into sunghoon accidentally-on-purpose near honeydukes, maybe share a chocolate frog like old times. instead, you found him outside the three broomsticks deep in conversation with eunji again, their heads bent together over some parchment. when he laughed at something she said, that familiar loud, unguarded laugh that used to be yours, something sharp twisted in your chest.

you turned on your heel so fast you nearly collided with a group of third-years.

"there you are!" sunoo’s voice cut through your spiralling thoughts as he and jungwon appeared beside you, their arms laden with zonko’s purchases. "we’ve been looking everywhere—oh." 

sunoo followed your gaze to where sunghoon was now helping eunji adjust her scarf. "that again?"

you let them steer you into the three broomsticks, where jungwon immediately ordered three butterbeers. 

"you’re being ridiculous," sunoo said bluntly as you slumped into a chair. "he looks at you like you invented sunlight. that’s just some kid he’s tutoring."

"but what if—"

"what if nothing," jungwon interrupted, pushing a frothy mug toward you. "remember when you turned his hair pink before the gryffindor match last year? he still smiles when someone mentions that."

the memory should have comforted you. instead, it just made you think of how easily things could change—how sunghoon had drifted away once before, how his parents’ disapproval still hung over whatever this was between you.

by monday, you’d started taking deliberate detours to avoid him. patrols were reassigned, library visits carefully timed, and when you couldn’t avoid crossing paths, you kept conversations painfully polite. sunghoon’s confused frowns and hesitant "hey, wait—"s as you hurried away only made your chest ache more.

"are you trying to break his heart or yours?" sunoo demanded one evening after you ducked into an empty classroom to avoid sunghoon in the corridor.

you pressed your back against the cold stone wall. "it’s not like that. i just... need space."

"from him? or from whatever’s happening between you two?"

you didn’t have an answer.

the tension came to a head in charms class. with flitwick delayed by some mishap in the staff room, the classroom had dissolved into chaos. 

you’d gotten pulled into helping jay, a handsome gryffindor, untangle some particularly stubborn enchanted yarn. his dramatic retelling of his disastrous attempt to knit a scarf for his gran had you laughing so hard your sides hurt.

then you felt it—that unmistakable prickle of being watched.

sunghoon sat three rows back, his usually expressive face unreadable as he stared at you. his quill had stopped moving entirely, fingers clenched so tightly around it you could see the whites of his knuckles from across the room. when jay leaned in to whisper another joke, sunghoon’s jaw tightened visibly, his dark eyes flashing with something that sent heat crawling up your neck.

you forced yourself to look away, suddenly fascinated by the grain of your desk. but like a compass needle finding north, your gaze kept drifting back. minutes passed, and he was still watching you with that same intensity, as if trying to communicate something words couldn’t capture.

when flitwick finally arrived and class ended, you were out of your seat before the dismissal fully left his mouth. you didn’t look back, even when you heard sunghoon call your name in the corridor. your heart pounded as you took the stairs two at a time, your mind racing with questions you weren’t ready to face.

why did his attention still affect you like this? why did part of you still want to turn around and walk straight into that stormy gaze?

and most terrifying of all—what if you’d been wrong about everything?

the uncertainty settled heavy in your chest as you disappeared around the corner, leaving sunghoon and all your unanswered questions behind.

you should've known better than to think you'd have the prefect's bathroom to yourself. the universe had a cruel sense of humour when it came to you and sunghoon.

the massive, pool-like tub was empty when you arrived, steam curling off the water's surface in lazy tendrils. you'd changed into your bathing suit—a modest but pretty thing—before stepping in, sighing as the warm water lapped at your skin.

the golden taps lining the walls gleamed, each set with a different jewel that dispensed everything from rose-scented bubbles to vanilla-infused oils. you'd chosen a mix of both, the sweet floral scent wrapping around you as you leaned back, eyes closed, finally relaxing for the first time in days.

then the door slammed open.

your eyes flew open just in time to see sunghoon stride in, already shirtless, a towel slung low over his hips. your breath caught. he looked unfairly good, water droplets clinging to his skin from the humid air, his dark hair slightly damp like he'd just showered.

his gaze locked onto yours immediately.

"you," he said, voice rough, "have been avoiding me." 

you swallowed, sinking a little deeper into the water. "i wasn't-"

"don't lie." he dropped the towel (thank merlin, he was wearing swim trunks) and stepped into the pool, not breaking eye contact for a second. the water rippled around him as he moved closer, and you instinctively backed toward the far edge, your pulse thundering in your ears.

he stopped you with a hand on your wrist. "where are you going?"

"the-the soap." you gestured weakly to the rose-and-vanilla tap across the pool. "i wanted to.."

sunghoon's grip tightened just slightly. "then go."

you didn't move. neither did he.

the silence stretched, thick with tension, until he finally let out a frustrated breath and tugged you closer. "you're really going to pretend nothing's wrong?"

you bit your lip, glancing away. "i don't know what you're talking about."

"bullshit." his thumb brushed over your wrist, sending a shiver down your spine. "you've been dodging me for days. skipping patrols. running away every time i get near you." his voice dropped, low and dangerous. "was it because of him?"

you blinked. "who?"

"that gryffindor. the one you were laughing with in class." his jaw clenched. "are you into him? is that why—"

"what? no!" you gaped at him. "i was just helping him with—"

"then why?" sunghoon's fingers slid up your arm, his touch burning even through the water. "why avoid me?"

you hesitated, then muttered, "you were the one always with that ravenclaw girl."

sunghoon stilled. then, slowly, a smirk tugged at his lips. "eunji?"

you scowled. "don't act like you don't know who i'm talking about."

he laughed, low and amused, his other hand coming up to cradle your face. "she's my friend's little sister, and, for the record, very much into girls."

your cheeks burned as he leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. "were you jealous?"

"no!"

"liar." his nose brushed along your neck, and you shivered.

"you've been driving me crazy, you know that? watching you laugh with someone else, then running every time i tried to talk to you—" his hands slid down to your waist, gripping tight. "i couldn't take it"

your breath hitched. "sunghoon—"

"let me help you with that soap," he murmured, already reaching for the bottle floating nearby. 

you didn't protest as he poured a generous amount into his palms, his hands smoothing over your shoulders, down your arms, his touch deliberate and slow. when he reached your back, you tensed, but his fingers were careful, kneading the tension from your muscles as he worked the lather into your skin.

"you're so fucking pretty," he muttered, his lips brushing your shoulder. "it's unfair."

you leaned into him without thinking, your head tipping back against his chest. his hands stilled, then slid around to your front, tracing the dip of your collarbones, the curve of your waist. you could feel his heartbeat against your back, rapid and unsteady.

"sunghoon," you whispered, "your parents wouldn't approve of this. of us."

he stilled, then huffed a laugh. "who cares what they think?"

"they pulled you out of my life once already—"

"and i regret letting that happen every day." his thumb brushed your wrist. "they'll give in once they meet you."

your breath hitched. "you're going to make me meet them?"

"yeah," he said simply, pulling you flush against him. "you're gonna be my girlfriend after all."

the word sent heat rushing to your cheeks. "i never agreed to that."

sunghoon's hands slid to your waist. "then say no." when you didn't, his smirk returned. "that's what i thought."

he turned you to face him, his eyes dark with something that made your stomach flip. "tell me you feel it too."

you didn't have to ask what he meant. "i do."

his breath left him in a rush, and then his mouth was on yours, hot and desperate.

the kiss stole the air from your lungs, a messy clash of teeth and tongue and aching want. his hands gripped your hips like he was afraid you might slip away, fingertips digging into your skin through the thin fabric of your swimsuit. you whimpered against his mouth, your fingers tangling in his damp hair, tugging just enough to make him groan—a low, broken sound that sent a fresh bolt of heat straight to you.

"fuck," he muttered against your lips, voice hoarse, "i missed you. you have no idea—"

he cut himself off by kissing you again, deeper this time, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with a hunger that made your knees weak. you barely realised you were moving until your back hit the slick marble edge of the pool, trapping you between the cool stone and the hard, burning press of sunghoon’s body.

he kissed like he was trying to memorise you—long, unhurried drags of his mouth against yours, punctuated by little nips to your bottom lip that had you gasping. one of his hands slid up your side, tracing the curve of your waist, the dip beneath your ribs, until his thumb brushed just under the swell of your breast, featherlight.

you broke the kiss with a gasp, your head falling back against the marble. "sunghoon—"

"tell me to stop," he said, voice wrecked, forehead pressed to yours. his hand stayed where it was, trembling slightly.

you opened your mouth—but no protest came out. instead, your hands slid down his chest, mapping the planes of muscle, the slick heat of his skin, until you were clutching at him helplessly.

"that's what i thought," he breathed, almost a laugh, before his mouth found your throat.

you choked on a moan as he kissed down the column of your neck, teeth scraping lightly, tongue soothing the sting. his hands, bolder now, roamed freely over your body, mapping every inch like it was his right. the thin straps of your bathing suit slipped down your shoulders under his touch, and you shivered, equal parts from the chill of the air and the heat building inside you.

"someone could walk in," you gasped, barely coherent as his teeth grazed your pulse point.

he cursed under his breath, dragging himself back enough to look at you. his eyes were black with heat, pupils blown wide, chest heaving.

"then come to my room," he said roughly, his voice pure sin. "please."

you hesitated—but then he kissed you again, slow this time, coaxing, like a promise of everything he wasn’t saying out loud. his thumb rubbed slow circles into your hip, grounding you.

"unless," he said against your mouth, smirking wickedly, "you'd rather stay here and risk getting caught."

you swatted his chest, but the fight had long since gone out of you. your body was already leaning into his, your mouth chasing his kiss. "fine," you whispered. "but only because—"

he didn't let you finish, with a grin, he lifted you out of the water in one smooth motion, making you squeal as he carried you toward the door, his lips finding yours again before you could protest.

“your room is right next door after all, so we don’t have to worry about disturbing anyone else.”

𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 ©𝗴𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆𝘆 on Tumblr

˚ · .𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱

[kidult0325]

JUST LIKE HEAVEN ──★ ˙

꒰ ‎﹒ pairing: jay x fem!reader … ﹒ 80s au, childhood friends to lovers, brother's best friend!jay, fluff … ﹒ w/c: 21k synopsis: you never planned to fall for your brother’s best friend, jay. but the summer before college, on 1989, something shifts—between mixtapes, quiet drives, and the kind of closeness that sneaks up on you. and after a few cassette tapes and long drives, the love you never planned for starts happening. ꒰ ‎﹒ warnings: it's pretty much proofread, a few cursing and drinking 💿 % (◠﹏◠ ✿) #nowplaying: just like heaven - the cure

your childhood home is full of memories you don’t think about much. they live in the peeling paint on the porch rails, in the creak of the floors, in the hum of the old fridge on hot afternoons. they stay quiet most of the time, until you’re older, until you come back and realize you’ve changed and the house hasn’t.

that’s when you notice jay.

he’s jungwon’s weird friend from seventh grade, with shaggy hair that falls into his eyes and those old denim jackets everyone seems to have. he drags around this beat-up backpack covered in doodles and faded patches from god knows where. your mom likes him right away, says he’s polite. your dad nods approvingly whenever jay remembers to say "thank you" after dinner. and you think he laughs way too loud whenever jungwon beats him at street fighter on the super nintendo. 

you’re fifteen. they’re thirteen, maybe fourteen. still stuck in that world where afternoons stretch out forever, filled with video games, bike rides around the block, and inside jokes you never bother to understand. you roll your eyes at them most of the time, stepping over tangled controller cords and empty soda cans on your way to do something more important, thinking they’re just kids and you’re already so much older.

jay is just jungwon’s shadow back then. wherever your brother goes, jay follows, always a step behind, a little quieter, a little more careful. it’s easy to ignore them. it’s easy to be busy with your own life, too busy dreaming about the future and flipping through college brochures you don’t even know if you want. they’re just noise in the background, a constant buzz of laughter and slamming doors and the rumble of sneakers on the stairs.

but people don’t stay the same forever.

jay starts getting taller, his voice losing the high, sharp edge it used to have. his hair gets longer, and he starts wearing beat-up converse with little drawings in sharpie on the rubber toes. sometimes you catch glimpses of him when you’re rushing past, and something about him feels different, but you’re not paying close enough attention to figure out what. you’re still too busy worrying about math tests you might fail and love stories that haven’t even started yet.

until one day, you do notice.

it’s a saturday, late september. the air is still warm, but the evenings are starting to cool down, and the house smells like dust and old wood. you come downstairs, half-distracted, looking for your walkman because you promised yourself you’d organize your tapes today. you find them sprawled out on the couch like always, controllers in their hands, eyes locked on the television screen where some new game you don't recognize is flashing bright colors. jungwon shouts something you don't catch. jay laughs, really laughs, head thrown back against the cushions, and you feel it in your chest, sudden and sharp.

he looks different when he laughs like that.

you stand there for a second longer than you mean to, walkman forgotten, and jay glances over at you. just a quick look, but he smiles a little, like he’s happy to see you. like you’re not just jungwon’s sister passing through the room. and for the first time, you smile back.

you don’t know why it catches you off guard. maybe it’s the way his hair falls into his eyes, still messy but different now, like he means it to look that way. maybe it’s the way he’s stretched out on the couch, longer, broader, the sleeves of his hoodie pushed up to his forearms, his whole body lazy and comfortable like he belongs there, like he’s always belonged. maybe it’s just the way he looks up at you when he notices you standing there, not with that clumsy, wide-eyed look little boys get around older girls, but something steadier. familiar. like he knows exactly who you are, and he’s not scared of it.

you freeze for a second, your heart knocking strangely against your ribs. because jay isn’t just jungwon’s weird friend anymore. he’s jay.

the guy who starts hanging around the kitchen more, pulling up a chair while you’re finishing math problems you don’t really understand, pretending not to watch you struggle before quietly trying to help you. the guy who steals fries off your plate like it’s no big deal, like it’s normal, like it’s always been that way. the guy who borrows your worn-out paperbacks without asking, then returns them with the pages bent and little notes scribbled in the margins that he pretends he didn’t write. the guy who teases you just enough to make you roll your eyes, nudging you with his shoulder when you’re being too serious, who always knows when to back off if you’re having a bad day. the guy who learns how you take your coffee without you ever telling him.

it’s not one big moment. it’s all the tiny ones stacked together, like old mixtapes in your drawer, like lazy car rides with the windows rolled down and some song you both half-sing along to playing too loud on the radio. it’s afternoons lying on the living room floor, arguing over which band is better, your arms barely brushing and neither of you moving away. it’s the quiet comfort of someone who’s seen you cry over dumb movies and scream at thriller ones and doesn’t seem to mind any version of you.

sometimes you catch him looking at you like he’s trying to remember the way you laugh, like he’s memorizing it just in case. sometimes you look back.

but life keeps moving, whether you’re ready for it or not. you’re seventeen, almost eighteen, and everything starts feeling too small. the house, the town, even the streets you thought you knew by heart. there are college acceptance letters taped to the fridge door, and graduation gowns thrown into the backseat of your beat-up car, and a kind of heavy goodbye already sitting inside your chest even though you haven’t left yet.

your prom is on a sticky, humid friday night. you decide not to bring a date — you tell everyone it’s because you just want to have fun with your friends, and that’s mostly true. it’s easier that way. just dancing until your legs ache, laughing until your cheeks hurt, taking blurry disposable camera photos you know you’ll look back on someday and miss, even if you don’t feel it yet.

jay is there too, somewhere in the crowd, wearing a suit jacket that doesn’t fit quite right and a tie he keeps loosening like he can’t stand it around his neck. you catch glimpses of him across the gymnasium, in flashes of strobe lights and spilled punch and bad eighties ballads crackling through the speakers. he’s laughing at something jungwon says, head tilted back the way you love, and for a second it’s easy to forget that everything’s about to change. just for a second. 

when his eyes finally find yours, it’s not a big thing. no dramatic pause, no heart-thumping moment where time slows down. just a small, familiar look, a tiny lift of his eyebrows, a barely-there tug at the corner of his mouth, like he’s saying, there you are. like he’s been looking, too.

you catch him later, leaning against the wall, looking at his shoes, looking like he’s thinking too hard about something. you walk over without really deciding to.

"having fun?" you tease, nudging his shoulder with yours.

he glances at you, the corners of his mouth pulling up into that lazy smile you’ve grown too fond of. "define fun," he says.

you laugh, and for a moment, neither of you moves. the music shifts, and the soft buzz of a slow song fades out, replaced by the upbeat strum of a guitar. just like heaven by the cure fills the room, and you feel it immediately—the energy picks up, the rhythm infectious, almost impossible to resist.

show me, show me, show me how you do that trick—the words swirl around you, playful and light, like they’ve always belonged here.

you glance around at the couples shuffling together, trying to get their feet in sync, the way everyone’s pressing close to one another, still unsure, too stiff. and then, you look back at jay.

"wanna dance?" you ask, your words light, but your heart’s racing just a little.

jay hesitates, just for a second. then he shrugs, the corners of his mouth lifting again, like it’s all the answer you need. "sure."

you’re expecting it to be awkward, the too-far-apart distance, the fumbling hands, the inevitable laughter that’ll cover the embarrassment. but it’s not like that at all. jay’s hands find your waist like it’s something he’s done a hundred times before, easy and sure, and you loop your arms loosely around his neck, feeling the warmth of him against the cool gym air. it feels... effortless. like breathing. like it’s always been this way.

his hair falls a little messier than usual over his forehead, stubbornly imperfect, like it’s just meant to be that way. his jawline’s sharper now, the angle of his face different, and his skin is warm under the harsh lights, making everything feel a little softer. there’s a crease between his eyebrows, like he’s thinking about something that’s not quite ready to be said.

you feel it before you even understand it, that pull toward him, low and steady, like a thread pulling you closer. and then he looks down, his eyes meeting yours with the kind of ease that’s new, but not. like it’s exactly what’s supposed to happen. he smiles, small and crooked, and you feel your chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with the music.

"you’re really leaving, huh," he says quietly after a while.

you nod, your throat tight, the words stuck somewhere between your chest and your mouth. jay’s fingers press a little harder into your sides, like maybe if he holds on tight enough, he can keep you here, even for just a little longer. maybe he doesn’t want to say goodbye either.

the song keeps playing, the lyrics swirling around, “you're just like a dream…” but you don’t really hear it anymore. all you can feel is the way jay’s body moves with yours, how his forehead is just barely brushing yours now, close enough that you can count the little mark on his neck you never noticed before. 

it’s quiet, too quiet, and you wonder if he’s going to say something else, but the words get stuck. so instead, he just pulls you a little closer, his breath warm against your face. "i’m gonna miss you," he says, his voice soft, simple. it’s almost too quiet, like it’s meant just for you, like he’s trying to memorize it.

you blink up at him, the weight of the words sinking in. he’s not smiling now. he’s just looking at you like he’s holding onto the moment, like he wants to keep it in a place that’s safe, tucked away somewhere. "i’ll miss you too," you say, and it’s more honest than you meant it to be. more honest than anything you’ve said in a while.

jay’s hands tighten just a little, like he heard something more in your voice than just the words themselves. and for a second, it feels like the whole room tilts. like there’s something hanging between you, heavier than anything you’ve had to name before. you wonder if he’s going to kiss you. you wonder if you want him to. you wonder if it would change everything, or maybe just fix it.

but then, the song ends, just like that, leaving you with the fading sound of footsteps and chatter, the world rushing back in a little too suddenly. you stand there, still close, the space between you still warm, the feeling lingering like the echo of a song you don’t want to forget. someone bumps into jay’s shoulder, laughing, pulling him a little out of the moment, and just like that, the spell breaks. he steps back, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s embarrassed, like maybe he imagined it too.

"come on," he says, voice a little rough, nodding toward where jungwon is waving from across the room. "he’s probably getting into trouble without me." you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from saying something stupid, like stay or don’t go. instead, you just smile, small and steady, and let him lead the way back into the crowd.

and even when you’re laughing at something stupid jungwon says, even when you’re posing for one last blurry photo with all your friends, even when you’re driving home with your windows down and your hair a mess and the night stretching out around you like something endless—you can still feel it. the weight of jay’s hands on your waist. and the almost of it all.

and then college happens. and it happens fast. faster than you thought it would.

you spend the first few weeks clinging to your roommate like a lifeline, getting lost on campus, pretending you’re not homesick even when you are. you go to every welcome event they offer, eat bad cafeteria food, smile too much, and drink way too much bad coffee. you start telling people where you’re from like it’s a footnote, something small and far away. you write to jungwon sometimes, mostly silly letters with inside jokes and little updates.

you write to jay too, but it’s different. it’s a slow thing, quiet. he sends you a cassette tape he’s made, filled with songs he’s discovered that semester. it feels like a part of him tucked away in the cracks of the music. each song is carefully chosen, a snapshot of his world that he’s willing to share with you. there are some songs you already know—under the milky way by the church, there’s a light that never goes out by the smiths, happy when it rains by the jesus and mary chain—but there are others that feel new, like fall on me by r.e.m., and run 2 by new order. you listen to the tape late at night, lying on your bed in your dorm room, the sound crackling a bit from the old tape player.

the music fills the space around you, and even though you're miles away, it feels like he's right there. you smile at the thought of him picking these songs out for you, the quiet way he’s trying to share himself with you through these notes hidden in melodies. it’s not much, just a tape, but it feels like something important.

you send one back, and you’re careful about it, picking songs that make sense for you, songs that represent the pieces of your world he hasn’t seen. your tape is full of the pop hits that are playing on the radio and the ones you can’t get out of your head. there’s heaven by bryan adams, heaven is a place on earth by belinda carlisle, cherish by madonna. you include hysteria by def leppard because it’s the kind of track that gets stuck in your head for days. right here waiting by richard marx because the lyrics remind you of being away. there’s even out of love by air supply, an old classic from before your time, but you love it anyway, the soft ache in the melody feeling like something you want to keep.

and, of course, you end it with just like heaven by the cure. because it reminds you of him, even if you haven’t figured it out yet.

when you listen to his tape, it’s like hearing him in each song. you start to understand the quiet parts of him a little better, and when you hear his voice on the other side of the tape, talking about how he found a new band, it makes you feel closer to him, even from so far away. but when you listen to your own tape, your music is different from his. and when he comments on it in one of his letters, saying “your songs are... nice. but i like how they’re so different from mine. it’s kind of adorable.” you can't help but laugh, because that’s exactly how it feels. a little piece of you, a little piece of him, strung together by the tapes you send back and forth, each one carrying something new, something personal.

by november, you think you’re finally getting the hang of it. you memorize the shortcuts between buildings. you figure out which vending machines still have good snacks after midnight. you write essays and go to parties and kiss a guy you meet in your creative writing class. one day he asks you to come over, you say yes. you lie on his bed, half-listening to him talk about his favorite bands, and you try to feel something. anything. but when he leans in to kiss you, all you can think about is a different laugh, a different pair of hands. and then you leave before it gets messy. but you tell yourself you’re not running away.

you tell yourself you’re doing great. you’re growing. you’re learning. you’re supposed to feel a little lost. that’s what everyone says, right?

sometimes you find yourself flipping through old photo albums when you can’t sleep. birthday parties in the backyard. summers at the lake. blurry group photos where jay is always a little off to the side, smiling like he’s in on a joke no one else knows. 

you don’t write to him as much after that. you don’t even know what you would say.

then suddenly, it’s december, and you’re coming back home for christmas. home feels smaller somehow. the rooms tighter. the streets more faded, like the whole place is holding its breath. your mom cries when she sees you, wrapping you in a hug that feels like it could last forever. your dad jokes about how you didn’t get any taller, ruffling your hair in that way he always did. jungwon hugs you, a little awkward, like he’s not sure if he should admit that he missed you.

you don’t see jay right away. you wonder if that’s on purpose. it’s funny, you think, how things feel a little different now. everything seems a little more... real. a little more complicated.

then one night, three days after you get back, jungwon says some of the guys are meeting up at the diner, the one that’s been around forever. he says you should come, and even though you don’t really want to—you're tired, you’ve got that homesick feeling lingering in your chest, like you’re not sure where you belong anymore—you let your brother drag you along.

the bell above the door rings when you step inside, a familiar sound that feels comforting and a little strange at the same time. you look around, half-expecting to see everyone as they were before, but the place feels different too. quieter, somehow. then you spot him almost immediately—jay, sitting in one of the booths by the window, his back half-turned toward the door, like he’s been keeping an eye out. the way he looks up when you walk in, it catches you off guard.

your chest tightens, but not in a bad way. it’s more like something you didn’t realize you were carrying finally settles. you hadn’t been sure what it would feel like, seeing him again after all these months—if it would be strange, or awkward, or if the distance between you would be something you could feel, like a wall that you couldn’t cross. but it’s not like that. it’s just him. and somehow, it feels like no time has passed at all.

he’s wearing a black hoodie and jeans, nothing special, but somehow it fits different now. more grown. there’s a faded concert t-shirt underneath — something from the cure or the smiths maybe, you can’t quite tell. the sleeves of his hoodie are pushed up to his elbows, revealing a silver ring on one of his fingers that you don’t remember from before. his hair’s a little longer now, falling into his eyes, messy in that effortless way, like he hasn’t thought about it at all. he looks tired, but good. familiar and new at the same time.

you stand there for a second too long, taking him in, feeling that odd mix of nostalgia and something else you can’t quite place. he catches your eye, and his smile is small but real, like it’s just another friday night, like no time has passed at all. you find yourself smiling back before you even think about it. something eases in your shoulders. you hadn’t realized how tense you were until that moment.

you make your way over to the booth, weaving through the scattered tables. jay shifts slightly to make room for you, his eyes staying on you the whole time. he doesn’t say anything, and it doesn’t feel like he needs to. it’s easy. it’s always been easy with him, even when it wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

when you slide into the seat across from him, your knees brush under the table. neither of you moves away.

the diner’s warm and a little too bright, the light reflecting off the metal and neon in that way only places like this have. outside the windows, you can see the parking lot glowing under the streetlights. you feel a little untethered, like you’re still getting used to being home again, but sitting here, with jay, makes it better somehow.

after a while, the table thins out. people start leaving, slapping each other on the back, promising to meet up again soon. jungwon gets pulled into a conversation near the door, laughing about something you don’t quite catch.

you and jay stay behind, still nursing half-empty drinks, the fries long gone, cold now, and forgotten. jay taps his fingers lightly against the side of his glass, watching the ice melt and clink together, like he’s lost in thought.

"so," he says, glancing up at you, his voice low, "how’s school?"

you shrug. "good," you say. "weird, but good."

"yeah?" he smiles, a little lopsided. "you look good."

you feel your face warm, but you don’t look away. you whisper "you too" and it’s not awkward. it’s not anything big. just two people who used to know each other better, finding their way back in small, steady steps.

he leans back in the booth, stretching his arms out over the seat. "made any weird college friends yet?"

you laugh. "too many. one of my roommates is obsessed with astrology. another one swears she’s gonna start a business selling scrunchies."

jay grins, shaking his head. "sounds like a mess."

"it is," you say, smiling. "but kind of a good one."

he taps the side of his glass again, thoughtful. "must be nice, though. being out there already."

you glance at him. "you’re almost there."

he shrugs. "still feels far sometimes. senior year’s dragging."

"any idea where you wanna go?" you ask.

he runs a hand through his hair. "thinking about it. applied a few places. nothing’s official yet."

"you’ll figure it out," you say, and you mean it.

he smiles, a little softer this time. "hope so."

for a second, you both just sit there, the sounds of the diner filling the space between you — clinking dishes, a coffee machine steaming, a group laughing a few booths over. it’s late enough that everything feels slower, quieter. easier.

"and you?" he asks. "besides making friends with astrology girls. you like it?"

you think about it for a second. "i do. it’s overwhelming sometimes, but... it’s good. i like feeling like i’m figuring myself out a little."

he nods, like he gets it. "guess that’s the point, right?"

"i guess so." you nudge his foot lightly under the table. "and you? besides hating senior year?"

he laughs. "not much to report. football’s over. classes are boring. just trying to get through it."

there’s a part of you that remembers what that felt like, that weird limbo of waiting for everything to change. you realize now how much he’s stuck between two worlds: not quite out of here, not quite moving on yet. "you’ll be fine," you say. "you’re good at landing on your feet."

he raises an eyebrow. "you think so?"

"i know so."

he leans back, looking at you like he’s trying to figure something out. then he smiles. "thanks.", he murmurs. you both fall quiet again, but it’s not heavy. it’s easy, natural, like slipping into a rhythm you didn’t even realize you missed.

christmas break passes fast. you spend most days at home, curled up on the old couch that still sags in the middle, flipping through tv channels that never seem to change. your mom keeps making hot chocolate, your dad keeps pretending not to cry during the holiday movies. jungwon drags you to the mall once or twice, but mostly you just exist. 

it’s snowing by the time christmas morning rolls around. you’re sitting by the window with your coffee, when you hear a knock at the door. you think maybe it’s one of your neighbors, but when you open it, it’s jay. standing on the porch, hands stuffed deep in his jacket pockets, snow dusting his hair.

"merry christmas," he says, a little out of breath, like maybe he ran the last block. he holds out a flat package wrapped in plain brown paper. 

you blink at him for a second, surprised, before stepping aside to let him in. "you didn’t have to."

he shrugs, looking a little embarrassed. "i wanted to."

he kicks his boots off by the door and follows you into the living room, glancing around like he’s checking if he’s interrupting something. but the house is quiet. your parents are upstairs. jungwon’s probably asleep. it’s just you. you sit down on the couch and he drops into the armchair across from you. you turn the package over in your hands, feeling the shape of it, square and thin. your heart tugs a little when you realize what it probably is.

"can i open it now?" you ask.

jay nods, looking suddenly nervous. "yeah. i mean — yeah."

you tear the paper carefully. inside is a brand new LP, look sharp! by roxette. the cover is glossy under your fingertips, all reds and blacks and bright letters. your throat tightens a little. "you said you liked them," jay says quickly. "i mean, i wasn’t sure if you had it already, but..."

you shake your head, smiling. "i don’t. i love it." he relaxes, leaning back in the chair like a weight’s been lifted off him. "wait," you say, setting the record carefully on the table. "i have something for you too."

you get up, digging around under the tree until you find the small box you tucked there last night. it’s wrapped in plain red paper, the corners a little uneven. you hand it to him before you can overthink it. jay looks at you, eyebrows raised, before tearing the paper carefully. inside, there’s a folded black t-shirt. you painted it yourself a few nights ago, hunched over your desk with fabric markers and too many crumpled up test versions. it’s simple, the bon jovi logo in white and red across the front, a little uneven if you look too close, but still clear. still yours.

he unfolds it slowly, running his fingers over the design like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch it. "no way," he says, grinning. "you made this?"

"obviously," you mutter, trying not to sound nervous. "it’s not perfect."

jay shakes his head immediately. "it’s awesome," he says. and you know he means it. he holds it up to his chest for a second, like he’s trying to picture it on, and then he just laughs, soft and real. "this is... seriously. this is the best thing anyone’s ever given me."

you duck your head, feeling your face heat up.

"i’ll wear it to school and make everyone jealous," he adds, winking.

"you better," you say, smiling into your coffee cup.

you spend the rest of the afternoon flipping through your parents' old vinyl collection, showing jay the records you used to love when you were little. you put on wham! way too loud just to annoy him. he groans dramatically but doesn’t move from his spot on the floor, and you catch him mouthing the words when he thinks you’re not looking.

outside, the snow keeps falling. inside, everything feels a little easier. like maybe being home isn’t so bad after all.

and then new year’s eve feels bigger this year. everyone keeps talking about it — the end of a decade, a fresh start, whatever that’s supposed to mean. you don’t know if you feel different yet, but there’s something in the air. maybe it’s just the cold. 

you end up at heeseung’s house with jungwon and a bunch of their friends. it’s packed by the time you get there, kids from all over town squeezed into the living room and kitchen, voices loud, music even louder. someone’s blasting "i wanna dance with somebody" by whitney houston from an old stereo. the bass rattles the windows, mixing with the sound of people laughing and shouting over each other. there’s a big homemade banner taped crooked over the fireplace that says goodbye '80s!

you recognize most of the faces. everyone’s older now, a little different, but not enough that it feels like you’re strangers. and jay finds you not long after you get there. he bumps your shoulder lightly with his when he passes, no words, just a look that makes your chest feel a little too tight for a second.

around eleven-thirty, you slip outside to breathe. the porch light is on, but the backyard is dark, covered in a thin layer of snow that crunches under your boots. the cold bites at your fingers through your jacket sleeves. you tuck your hands into your pockets, watching your breath fog up in the air. a few minutes later, the door creaks behind you. 

"figured you’d be out here," jay says, stepping onto the porch. he pulls the door shut behind him with a soft click.

you glance over your shoulder at him. "couldn’t breathe in there," you say. your voice is small in the cold.

he huffs out a laugh and leans against the railing next to you, close but not touching. his jacket is too thin for how cold it is. you want to scold him, but you don’t.

the music inside is muffled now, but you catch bits of it. "like a prayer" is playing and madonna’s voice strong and sure under all the noise. you both stare out at the yard for a while, not saying much. the snow glows faintly under the streetlights, and somewhere down the block you can hear fireworks popping early.

"weird, huh," jay says eventually. "end of the '80s."

you nod. "feels fake."

he laughs under his breath. "yeah."

you shift a little closer to him without meaning to. your arms brush lightly, and you don’t move away. neither does he. the clock inside starts ticking down. someone yells two minutes! and the whole house cheers. you don’t move.

you think about a lot of things all at once. how he’s jungwon’s best friend, how you’re supposed to be leaving again in a few days, how nothing about this is simple. you wonder if he’s thinking the same things. 

jay glances at you out of the corner of his eye. he looks nervous, but not scared. just unsure. you wonder what would happen if you leaned in just a little more. you wonder what it would feel like, kissing him here, under the freezing sky, with the decade slipping away behind you.

you feel the weight of it sitting between you, heavy and sweet. and for a second, you know he feels it too. he shifts closer and you look up at him. he’s looking at you. and you both stay like that. thinking about it. wanting it. but not moving. and then someone starts counting down inside. the voices rise, loud and clumsy. 10, 9, 8…

jay’s hand brushes yours on the railing. your fingers twitch. you almost reach for him. almost. 7, 6, 5…

you hear someone pop a bottle of champagne. laughter spills out through the walls. 4, 3, 2…

you blink up at him again, heart hammering in your chest. happy new year!

the cheers explode from inside. noisemakers screech.  jay smiles at you. small. a little sad. you smile back, even though your throat feels tight. he lifts his hand like he’s about to say something, like he’s about to do something, but then he just ruffles your hair gently, messing it up the way he used to when you were younger.

"happy new year," he says, voice rough with cold and something else you can’t name.

"happy new year," you whisper back.

he lets his hand fall to his side, standing there awkwardly for a second like he doesn’t know what to do now. you stay there with him anyway, shivering a little, watching your breath curl up into the new year, feeling the almost of it all settle quietly between you.

after a second, jay shifts closer. he slips his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. like he’s done it a thousand times before. you go easily, leaning into him, feeling the steady weight of him against the cold. he’s warm. real. he rests his chin lightly on the top of your head. you close your eyes for a second, breathing him in. 

"i’m gonna miss you when you leave again," he says, quiet enough that you almost don’t catch it. your heart stumbles a little.

you tilt your head just enough to look up at him. "i’m gonna miss you too," you say, and it’s the easiest truth you’ve ever told.

jay squeezes your shoulder gently, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you before you go. and you stay like that for a while, neither of you saying anything else, the cold forgotten, the noise from inside fading into the background. just the two of you, holding onto something you’re not ready to let go of yet.

and the first week of the 90s  slips away faster than you want it to. you spend most of it packing, pretending you're not already thinking about how different everything is going to feel when you leave again.

the night before you go, you’re sitting on your bed, trying to squeeze one last pair of jeans into your overstuffed duffel bag, when jungwon knocks on your door. he sticks his head in without waiting for you to answer. "hey," he says, tossing a small brown paper bag onto your bed. "jay told me to give you that."

you blink, dropping the jeans. "what is it?"

jungwon shrugs. "dunno. just said not to let you forget it." then he’s gone, disappearing down the hall like he’s late for something.

you stare at the bag for a second before picking it up. it’s folded over at the top, taped shut with a ripped piece of scotch tape. your hands are weirdly shaky when you open it. inside, there’s a beaded bracelet, tiny colorful beads strung together on a thin elastic cord. simple. clumsy. perfect. in the middle, white lettered beads spell out a word: stay.

you swallow hard, pressing your thumb over the little plastic letters. tucked under the bracelet is a note. folded up small. you unfold it carefully, smoothing it out on your knee. his handwriting is messy, a little tilted to the side.

figured you could use something to take with you.

not saying you have to. just... thought maybe it’d help.

stay safe. stay happy. stay you.

— jay

you read it twice. three times. then you tie the bracelet around your wrist, the little beads pressing into your skin. it’s light, almost weightless. but it feels like something solid you can hold onto. you don’t take it off, not even when you fall asleep that night.

the next few months pass in snapshots. you get lost on campus again. you spend late nights in the library, half-asleep over textbooks you barely understand. you go to a few bad parties. you leave early from most of them. you find a new favorite coffee shop tucked into a side street no one else seems to know about. you start a playlist called songs for when it’s too quiet and fill it with songs he would’ve hated and songs he would’ve loved.

you write to jay sometimes. he writes back sometimes.

the letters aren’t anything big. he tells you about his senior year, about helping jungwon fix up his beat-up bike, about late nights driving aimlessly around town just because there’s nothing better to do. you tell him about your professors, about getting a B+ on a paper you thought you failed, about the guy who tried to hit on you in line at the dining hall and how you pretended not to hear him.

sometimes weeks pass without a letter. sometimes it’s just a tape in the mail, no note, just a playlist scribbled in sharpie on the cover. sometimes it’s a postcard with two lines written on it and a dumb joke he probably stole from someone else. you keep all of them.

and the bracelet stays on your wrist through everything. lectures. essays. early morning walks across campus when the frost still clings to the grass. some nights, when it’s too late to call home and you miss everything more than you can say, you twist the little beads between your fingers until you fall asleep.

you don’t go back home for spring break after all. something comes up — a group project that runs long, a roommate who needs support, a week that fills up faster than you expect it to. you think about going back more than once, but every time you almost book the trip, something pulls you away again.

you write to jay sometimes. he still writes back. less often now. but when he does, you can feel the way he’s still there. still him.

in one letter, he tells you about a movie night in jungwon’s basement, where the vhs got stuck halfway through and they just ended up making popcorn and talking about dumb dreams. in another, he tells you he’s thinking about cutting his hair, but can’t decide. you tell him not to, that he wouldn’t look right without it falling in his eyes. he writes back: i’ll take that as a no then.

finals come faster than you think they will. the campus is loud, you stay up late cramming for exams, your dorm a mess of open books and laundry you keep forgetting to fold. 

you wear the bracelet every day. you don’t tell anyone where it came from.

when the last test is over, you walk across the quad, your last essay still warm from the printer in your bag. someone’s playing music from their window — here comes the sun, probably as a joke. you look up at the sky and think: i made it. you don’t cry. but something inside you softens.

a few days later, you’re packing up your dorm when a letter shows up in your mailbox. the envelope is light blue, a little smudged. your name’s written in black pen, all lowercase, like always. you know it’s from him before you even touch it. you sit on the floor to read it.

hey! i got in.

it’s not close.  didn’t think i’d actually get it, but i did. i’m happy. or i think i am. i should be. i just don’t know when i’ll be back. maybe not for a while. i’m trying not to think too hard about that part. anyway, jungwon and i graduate next week. mom’s making me take dumb photos in the backyard. hope you’re doing okay. you’re probably already done with your finals by the time you get this.

write if you want.

— jay

you read it twice. then fold it slowly and tuck it into your bag with the rest of your stuff. you sit there for a while, just staring at the wall, the air conditioner humming in the background like it's trying to say something you don’t want to hear. he got in. he’s leaving.

you should be happy for him. and you are. but your chest still aches a little. 

your train gets in a few days later. the platform’s hot, crowded. your backpack sticks to your shoulders and your legs are sore from sitting too long. you don’t care.

your mom cries again when she sees you. your dad makes the same joke about how you still haven’t grown. jungwon picks you up in his old car, which somehow still runs. he talks nonstop on the drive home, half excited, half nervous. you listen, smiling. 

you sit on your bed, staring at the ceiling. the bracelet on your wrist feels heavier now. or maybe just more real.

two days before graduation, you meet jay at the park.

you told him you would, back when you first got home, when the plans were still loose and everything felt far away. but now you’re standing by the old swings, blinking against the sunlight, waiting for him to show up, and it feels like something more than just a plan. the sky’s clear, the kind of summer blue that only shows up when school’s over and everything smells like cut grass and sunscreen. your sandals kick at the edge of the mulch. the trees rustle softly above you.

you spot him before he sees you — coming up the path from the far side of the park, hands shoved in the pockets of his shorts, t-shirt a little wrinkled, hair pushed back like he tried to make it look like he didn’t care. he’s taller than you remember. maybe not actually taller, but something about him feels bigger now. steadier.

when he finally looks up and sees you, something shifts. he speeds up, half-jogging the last few steps, and then he’s there, right in front of you. there’s a beat where you both just look at each other, not smiling yet, not talking, just looking. and then you drop your bag on the grass and step into him. he hugs you like he means it. strong, quick, all in. his arms wrap around your waist and lift you clean off the ground for a second, your toes dangling, your heart thudding in your chest. you let out a small breathless laugh, and when he sets you down again, he doesn’t let go right away.

“you’re really here,” he says quietly.

“told you i’d come,” you say, your cheek still pressed against his shoulder for a second longer before you finally step back.

you both sit under the big tree near the edge of the field, the one that’s always had a carved heart on the trunk from someone else’s story. it’s a little cooler in the shade, and you pull your knees up to your chest as jay leans back on his elbows beside you.

it’s quiet for a bit. just the sound of birds and a distant dog barking and the soft thump of a basketball somewhere on the other side of the park.

“feels kind of strange,” he says after a while, his voice low like he’s not sure if he wants you to hear it or not.

you glance over. “what does?”

he shrugs, eyes still on the sky. “this. seeing you again. after all this time.”

you nod, because you get it. it’s quiet in a different way than it used to be. a little uncertain, but not uncomfortable. “yeah,” you say. “i’ve been thinking about this since i got back.”

he turns his head slightly toward you. “yeah?”

“yeah,” you repeat. “i missed you.”

his mouth pulls into a small smile, almost shy. “i missed you too.”

you both fall quiet again. the sounds of the park fill in the space, wind through the trees, kids yelling somewhere near the basketball court, a dog barking in the distance. “so,” you say after a minute, “you’re really going.”

he nods. “yeah.”

“it’s far.”

he glances at you, then looks away again, squinting at the sky. “i know.”

“how do you feel about it?”

he exhales slowly, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. “i don’t know. excited, i guess. and nervous. i keep thinking i should feel more ready than i do.”

you take a breath, letting your shoulders relax a little. “i’m happy for you.”

he looks at you again, really looks. “yeah?”

you smile. “yeah. it’s a big deal. and you deserve it.”  he doesn’t say anything right away. just nods, like maybe he’s letting himself believe it now that you’ve said it. “you’re gonna be okay,” you tell him. “even if it’s scary at first.”

he stretches his legs out in front of him and leans back on his palms. “you think?”

“i know.”

he’s quiet for a moment. then, softly, “i don’t know when i’ll be back.”

you nod. “that’s okay.”

he turns to you again. “you’ll write?”

you smile, eyes on the grass between you. “of course. you?”

“of course,” he echoes.

the wind picks up slightly, brushing the hair from your face. someone nearby is playing music from a portable radio — i’ll be over you by toto — low and scratchy. you close your eyes for a second, letting the sound wrap around you, letting the moment stay just a little longer.

you don’t talk about the fall, or what this will mean later. you just sit side by side in the summer light, the space between you quiet and full.

the graduation happens two days later. you sit between your parents, legs sticking to the metal seats. someone behind you keeps whistling every time a name is called, loud and sharp, like they don’t know how much it echoes. jungwon walks across the stage flushed and proud, his posture too straight, the kind of serious he only gets when he’s trying to act older. he doesn’t look at the crowd, just accepts his diploma and moves on, but you still catch your dad elbowing your mom like he’s proud too.

jay comes up a few names later. he steps onto the stage like he’s not thinking about it, like he just wants to get it over with. his gown is wrinkled, his shoes are scuffed, and his tassel hangs crooked over one eye. he doesn’t smile or wave. he doesn’t try to make a moment out of it. but just before he crosses to the other side, he lifts his head and glances up toward the stands. it’s brief, so quick you might’ve missed it if you weren’t already watching him. you don’t know how you’re so sure, but you know that look was for you.

after the ceremony, everything feels loud and fast. people are shouting names and hugging in clusters, parents crying in the open without shame. there are flowers, flash photos, and folding chairs being dragged across the grass. you weave through the mess until you find jungwon, still in his gown, arms full of random cards and half-squished flowers. he grins when he sees you, pulling you into a hug so tight you almost drop your camera bag. 

“you better be proud of me,” he says, like it’s a joke, but there’s something real in his voice. you laugh, and your eyes sting more than you expected.

you find jay later, after most people have already moved on to someone’s backyard for a low-key celebration. he’s standing off to the side, just past the fence, holding a soda can in one hand and tapping it lightly against his knee. when he sees you, he doesn’t wave or call you over. he just waits. and when you walk up, he says, “hey.” 

you say it back. simple. there’s a pause where neither of you seems to know what to say next. you tell him, “congrats,” and he shrugs like it doesn’t matter, like the whole thing wasn’t a big deal. 

“wasn’t that hard,” he says, but he’s smiling anyway, and the way he looks at you makes you think maybe it did mean something after all.

you can feel the weight of what’s not being said. about time, and change, and how nothing ever stays the same for long. the sun’s starting to dip behind the trees now, casting everything in that golden light that makes it all feel more nostalgic than it should. you shift your weight from one foot to the other and look down at the bracelet still snug around your wrist, the little white beads faded from wear.

summer days stretching long and hot, the kind that make time feel slower but heavier too. you're back in that rhythm you almost forgot, the one where the afternoons melt into each other and the nights smell like barbecues and cut grass.

you spend your days with the same people you always did. jungwon drives you and a few others out to the lake more than once, his car stuffed with towels and snacks and a boombox that only works if someone’s holding the antenna at the right angle. you sit on the hood of the car with your feet up, sunglasses sliding down your nose, half-listening to everyone talk over each other. the new madonna single plays somewhere in the background — “hanky panky”, the one everyone's pretending not to like but can’t stop singing. someone brought a water gun, and at some point everyone ends up soaked, even jay, who laughs harder than you’ve seen him laugh in months.

some evenings, the group heads to the movie theater in town. you all pile into the back rows, whispering during the trailers, throwing popcorn at each other. “ghost” is the big one that summer, and you sit next to jay the night you all go see it, his arm brushing yours on the armrest. when the scene with the pottery wheel comes on, someone in front of you groans loudly and says, “no one’s that romantic,” and jay leans closer, whispering, “maybe they just haven’t met the right person.” it makes your heart stumble in a way you pretend not to notice.

other days are quieter. sometimes it’s just you and jay, wandering through the video store with no real plan. the new total recall cover stares at you from the wall, and you both end up picking movies you probably won’t even watch. old horror tapes and weird indie comedies he swears are “actually kind of genius.” you walk out with two rentals and a pack of licorice, arguing about which one has the worst tagline.

you stop at the diner after, like you always do, ordering milkshakes and sitting in the same booth by the window. the waitress knows your order now, calls you “kids” even though you’re both technically grown. jay draws shapes into the condensation on his glass and talks about packing, about how he’s trying not to overthink it, how everything feels real now. you listen. you nod. you want to tell him you’ll miss him, but you don’t.

some nights, he picks you up just after dinner, without a plan. you drive around with the windows down, hair blowing into your face, music too loud — “vision of love” by mariah carey plays on the radio at least twice a week. he taps the steering wheel, humming along. sometimes you drive past the high school. sometimes you don’t go anywhere at all, just park by the edge of the woods or the empty baseball field, talking about nothing and everything until the sky turns dark and the stars start to show up one by one.

there’s a meteor shower in late july. your whole group gathers at the old soccer field with blankets and snacks and bug spray that doesn’t work. you lie next to jay, shoulders touching, and he keeps pointing out stars like he knows what he’s talking about. someone swears they saw a ufo (probably jake). someone else throws a marshmallow at them (probably sunoo). you laugh so hard you nearly cry, and when jay leans close to say something, you forget what it was because you’re too aware of how close his face is to yours.

one afternoon, in early august, you’re sitting on the back porch of his house, drinking warm lemonade and flipping through an old rolling stone magazine. there’s a photo of sinead o’connor on the cover, and a piece about how her song “nothing compares 2 u” is topping the charts. jay’s sprawled out beside you, messing with a cassette that keeps getting eaten by his walkman. the air is thick with summer, and the cicadas haven’t stopped buzzing since noon.

“i don’t think i’ve ever had a summer like this,” he says, eyes on the sky.

“what do you mean?”

he shrugs. “it just feels different. like i’m trying to remember everything while it’s still happening.”

you look at him for a second, then out at the yard. “you will,” you say. “you’re gonna remember all of it.”

he turns his head toward you, half-smiling. “even the part where i burned my arm trying to light the grill?”

“especially that part.”

you both laugh, and then you fall into silence again. a good one. the kind you don’t need to fill.

it doesn’t feel like time is running out — not yet. but sometimes you catch him looking at you like he’s trying to memorize something. and sometimes you look back.

the days keep slipping past. people start talking about back-to-school sales. the leaves don’t change yet, but the nights feel cooler. here, the biggest news is that the fair’s coming to town next weekend. someone says they’re bringing a new ride this year. someone else bets it’ll break down halfway through. you’re not sure if you care, but you still make plans to go.

because it’s still summer. and you’re still here. and so is he.

the plan comes together fast. sunghoon brings it up during a late-night drive, saying something about his family’s place by the lake. just for the weekend. just to get away before everything changes. at first, it’s a maybe. and then it’s real.

by the time friday comes around, the cars are packed with duffel bags and cheap snacks, someone brings a boom box with a whole stack of mixtapes, and sunghoon is shouting about everyone bringing their own towels “unless you want to smell like boat mildew.”

you ride up in jungwon’s car, squeezed in the backseat with jay, your knees knocking every time he shifts. about halfway through the drive, he pulls out his walkman and slides one side of his headphones off, holding it out toward you without saying anything. you take it, slipping the foam-covered speaker over one ear, the cable stretched loosely between you. you both lean against your windows, the same song playing quietly into opposite sides — “come back to me” by janet jackson, soft and slow, the kind of track that feels like warm air and something just out of reach.

the house is bigger than you expected. the trees wrap around the place in all directions, tall and green and full, and the only sound is water hitting the shore and the crunch of gravel under tires. everyone spills out of the cars at once, bags hitting the ground, someone already yelling about who gets which room. inside, it’s cozy. 

you end up sharing a room with sunoo and chaewon. heeseung takes the couch, claiming it's "closest to the snacks," and riki somehow ends up sleeping in a sleeping bag under the kitchen table on purpose. jay and jungwon share the room across the hall. the walls are thin. you hear them laughing through them the first night.

the weekend unfolds in pieces. saturday morning starts with cereal out of paper bowls and someone burning toast. everyone’s in various states of disarray, hair a mess, hoodies thrown over pajamas, socks half-on. you and jay sit on the floor near the sliding doors, plates balanced on your knees, talking about nothing while the rest of the group bickers over who left the milk out.

in the afternoon, you all head down to the lake. the water’s cold at first, but not enough to stop anyone. you jump in together, shouting and laughing, the sun sharp above you. someone finds an old inflatable tube and takes turns getting pushed around on it. jay helps you climb onto it, steadying you with both hands, his fingers wrapping around your wrists. “you got it?” he asks, and you nod, even though your heart’s racing from more than just the water.

later, while everyone else plays volleyball or naps in the sun, you and jay wander off down the shoreline. it’s quieter there, rocks under your feet and the water brushing up against the edge in soft waves. you talk about stupid things — a song he can’t get out of his head, your favorite cereal as a kid, how sunghoon’s feet are suspiciously loud when he walks. every once in a while your hands bump. he doesn’t move away. neither do you.

in the evenings, the group crowds around the living room. movies play on a tiny tv with crackly sound. the only lights come from the strings of fairy lights someone hung across the windows and the dim glow of the kitchen behind you. you sit next to jay, sometimes close enough that your knees touch, sometimes leaning just far enough that your shoulders brush. it’s subtle, but steady. like a rhythm you’ve both learned without realizing.

sunday morning is slow. the kind of slow that makes you want to freeze time. breakfast is quiet, everyone a little softer, a little sleepier. you find jay on the back deck with a mug of something warm, his feet up on the railing, staring out at the lake like it’s telling him something.

you sit next to him without saying anything. he hands you the mug without looking, and you take a sip. it’s too sweet, but good. the kind of good that only comes from something someone else made for you.

“wish we had another day,” he says eventually.

you nod, pulling your knees to your chest. “me too.”

he doesn’t look at you when he says, “this summer went fast.”

you don’t say anything, just rest your head lightly against his shoulder. he shifts just enough to let it stay there. no one says it out loud, but you all feel it, that this is the last time you’ll all be like this. the last time before dorm rooms and new cities and long-distance calls and whatever comes next.

that night, someone builds a fire in the pit out back. everyone sits around it in a loose circle, smoke curling into the night sky, music playing low from the boom box. the stars are clear, the lake still, the air cool enough that you need a hoodie. 

you and jay share one. he shrugs it off halfway through the night and drapes it around your shoulders, hands brushing your arms as he does. you want to say thank you. you want to say more. but you just sit there, leaning into him, the firelight catching the edges of his face, the warmth of his body pressed steady against yours.

no one brings up that you’re all leaving soon. but you feel it in every laugh, every shared look, every time someone lingers just a little longer before walking away.

everyone’s scattered, jake’s trying to restart the fire pit, jungwon and riki are elbow-deep in a card game that’s been going on for an hour, sunghoon’s in the kitchen burning something that’s supposed to be popcorn. there’s laughter echoing through the house, a mixtape playing low from the boom box left near the sliding door. a soft track from phil collins fills the space — “do you remember” — not loud, not even really noticed, just there.

you find jay standing at the edge of the deck, looking out at the water. his hoodie sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, and his hands rest in his pockets like he’s trying to stay grounded.

“hey,” you say quietly, walking over.

he turns, a half-smile on his face. “hey.”

you stop beside him. “want to get out of here for a minute?”

he doesn’t ask where. just nods. “yeah.”

you don’t go far, just follow a little path that wraps around the trees, leading to a small clearing with a tilted wooden bench and an open patch of sky above. it’s quieter here. the music, the voices, the laughter. all of it fades behind you.

you both sit on the ground instead of the bench, the grass cool beneath you. the stars are already out, scattered and steady, blinking softly like they’ve been waiting for someone to look up. for a while, neither of you says anything.

then jay leans back on his palms and says, “you think anyone really knows how many stars are up there?”

you snort. “don’t tell me you’re gonna start counting.”

he grins. “nah. just thinking about how small everything feels when you look up.”

“yeah,” you say. “but kind of in a good way.”

he glances at you. “you’re good at that.”

“at what?”

“saying stuff that makes things feel okay.”

you shrug. “you make it easy.”

he doesn’t respond right away, just looks at you for a second longer than usual. then he lies back in the grass, arms behind his head, eyes on the sky. you follow, lying beside him, shoulders just close enough to touch. you’re quiet again. you can feel your heart beating a little faster now, not from nerves exactly, but from the weight of the moment. it’s not heavy. it’s just full.

“can i tell you something?” he asks after a long stretch of silence, his voice quieter now, like the night asked him to soften.

you nod without thinking, even though he’s not looking at you. “of course.”

he shifts beside you, fingers brushing the grass, then stills again. “i think… part of me was scared to come on this trip.”

you turn your head, surprised. “why?”

jay exhales through his nose, not a laugh but not quite a sigh. “because i knew it’d feel like this.”

you blink, unsure what he means, your chest already tightening. “like what?”

he pauses. “like the end of something. and the start of something else. and i don’t really know what to do with this either.”

you sit up slightly, propping yourself on one hand to look at him more clearly. he doesn’t flinch from your gaze. the moonlight hits the side of his face, soft and silver, catching in the curve of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. “what’s the this you’re talking about?” you ask, even though you think you already know.

he turns toward you too, mirroring your posture, his eyes searching yours in the dark. “you.”

your breath catches before you can stop it. it’s not the word itself — it’s how he says it. quiet. careful. like he’s been holding it in for a while and finally let it slip out.

you open your mouth to respond, but the words tangle. there’s nothing neat to say. just this feeling that’s been building, moment by moment, all summer.

you don’t realize how close you are until he reaches for your hand, gently, like a question. your fingers meet his halfway, sliding together slowly. his palm is warm against yours, steady. and you think: this is it. this is what you’ve been circling around for weeks, maybe longer.

neither of you says anything. even though your heart is beating so loud you’re sure he can hear it, everything else around you is still. the trees, the sky, the hush of the lake behind the trees.

you shift closer, knees brushing, his breath close enough that you can feel it on your skin. he doesn’t move, just watches you, and there’s something in his eyes that makes you feel like you’ve never been more seen. his voice is barely above a whisper. “i’ve wanted to do this for a while.”

you don’t ask what. you already know. so you nod, slow and certain. “me too.”

you lean in at the same time, hesitant at first, like the moment might slip if you move too quickly. your nose brushes his, then his forehead leans gently against yours, and you both pause there, breathing the same air, eyes falling shut.

when you kiss, it’s not rushed. it doesn’t try to prove anything.

his lips meet yours like he’s taking his time, like he wants to make sure you feel it. not just the kiss, but everything behind it — every late night drive, every quiet look, every almost-touch. it’s warm, patient. his hand moves to your cheek, thumb brushing just under your eye. you kiss him back, slowly, like you’re learning how to do it together. your fingers curl slightly in his shirt. the kiss deepens just a little, enough to make your stomach flip, but still soft, still careful.

when you part, your faces stay close, noses touching, his forehead pressing gently into yours. your eyes open slowly, and so do his.

he smiles, not wide, not nervous. just real. “okay,” he says, like it’s the only word he can manage.

you let out a soft laugh, your breath still shaky. “okay.”

he leans in again, like he can't help it — or maybe like he doesn't want to. his mouth finds yours a second time, a little slower now, but more certain. like the first kiss answered a question, and this one is what comes after.

your hand moves to his neck, fingers brushing the edge of his hairline. he exhales softly into the kiss, like he's been holding his breath for too long. you tilt your head, just enough, and everything around you slips away. it’s just him. just this. you kiss him again and again, soft but needing it more now. and in the space between those kisses, your thoughts start to scatter.

you think about how you’re going back to college in two weeks. how this summer doesn’t get to last forever. how he’s your brother’s best friend, who would probably lose his mind if he knew about this, who’s trusted jay with more than anyone else.

you think about the way jay looked in that hoodie on the porch earlier, the way he reaches for your hand like it’s instinct, the way he always glances at you like he’s making sure you’re still with him. you think about the distance coming, the time zones, the unfamiliar dorms and roommates and classes, and how everything is about to split open into something new. and how scary that is.

but none of it feels bigger than this. 

none of it feels more important than the way he’s kissing you right now, like he means it. like he’s been meaning it for a while. like this moment belongs to you, not the future. 

you press a little closer, your hand gripping the front of his shirt, like holding onto him might freeze time. like maybe, if you stay right here, none of the hard parts will catch up yet. you kiss him like it’s the only thing that matters, because right now, it is.

and somewhere in the quiet, you can feel it from him too. not in words. not in anything he says. but in the way his fingers stay gently on your jaw, the way his breath stumbles a little every time your lips meet. in how his hand settles at the small of your back, pulling you in like he’s afraid of letting go too soon.

this isn’t just a summer crush. not for you. not for him.

and for once, you don’t try to name it. you don’t try to figure out what comes next. you just kiss him again. and he kisses you back.

the morning after feels quieter.

you wake up to the sound of zippers and muffled voices, the rustle of plastic bags and someone shuffling through the fridge. the sun is already pouring in through the windows, soft and golden, catching dust in the air like snow. the couch cushions are out of place, blankets half-folded, someone’s shoes by the door, another person brushing their teeth in a hurry. 

you sit up slowly, blinking the sleep from your eyes, your hoodie still smelling like smoke and lake water. there’s that brief moment, the one before your brain fully wakes up, where you forget what day it is, what comes next. but then it settles in, slowly and all at once: the trip is over. it’s time to go.

jay is already awake, crouched by his backpack in the hallway, rolling up a pair of socks like it matters. his hair is a mess. he’s wearing a t-shirt you’ve seen a hundred times and socks that don’t match. he glances up when he sees you, gives you a tired half-smile. not wide. just soft.

you both don’t say much. maybe there’s nothing to say yet. maybe saying anything would make it feel too real.

the car ride home is crowded. jungwon’s driving, sunoo’s in the passenger seat. the backseat is a puzzle of bags and limbs and too much heat, and you and jay are tucked into the middle of it, pressed together by necessity. you settle in, the windows cracked just enough to let in the air. you let your head rest against jay’s shoulder slowly, trying to make it seem casual, like it’s just more comfortable that way. he doesn’t move, just shifts a little so you can fit there better. his arm brushes yours, and he taps his thumb against his knee in a steady rhythm. you close your eyes, but you don’t sleep.

you’re holding back tears and you don’t even know why exactly — maybe it’s the quiet, or the closeness, or the feeling that something is slipping away. you press your face a little more into the fabric of his sleeve, pretending the sun through the window is what’s making your eyes sting. 

you think about how in two weeks you’ll be gone again. how everything’s about to stretch out — cities, time zones, semesters. you think about how this summer felt like something rare. like it shouldn’t have happened, and yet it did. and now it’s ending, and you don’t know what comes next. you don’t know when comes next.

you feel his hand rest lightly on your knee under the bags. you don’t open your eyes. you just let yourself pretend, for a few more miles, that none of it’s changing yet.

when the car pulls up in front of jay’s house, it’s abrupt, too sudden, like the day skipped ahead without permission. jungwon puts it in park and leans his head back dramatically. “finally,” he mutters. sunoo groans, stretching his arms above his head. jay moves first, shifting beside you, gathering his stuff slowly. he doesn’t say anything right away. you sit up, already feeling the cold where his body isn’t next to yours anymore.

he opens the door and climbs out, throwing his bag over his shoulder. then he turns back toward you, standing there for a second longer than necessary, like maybe he thought this would be easier. you climb out after him.

jungwon is fiddling with the radio, sunoo is yelling something about needing to pee, and the world keeps moving behind you, but jay is still. he looks at you like he’s trying to find the right thing to say and coming up empty.

he shifts his bag on his shoulder, then takes a small step closer. “so...” he starts, then trails off.

you nod. “yeah.”

he hesitates. then reaches out and pulls you in.

the hug is tight. longer than expected. his arms wrap around your back, his chin rests lightly on your shoulder. you let your eyes close. your hands grip the back of his shirt, holding on like maybe that will stop the clock.

you feel him breathe in. then out. slow and steady. like he doesn’t want to let go either. when he pulls back, he still doesn’t let go of your hand.

“let’s see each other before… we leave,” he says. his voice is quiet.

you nod, squeezing his fingers. “yeah.”

he lets go first. you step back toward the car. jay doesn’t turn until you’re almost inside. you catch one last glance of him through the open window as jungwon pulls away, hands in his pockets, hair in his eyes, standing in front of his house like he doesn’t know what to do with himself now after all that happened.

you lean your head against the window and close your eyes. you feel the bracelet on your wrist.

and you decided to visit jay that week. the sun was already dipping low when you got off your bike. the sky had turned that soft orange-pink, the kind that makes everything feel like it’s slowing down. the basement door was around the side of the house, half-hidden behind some overgrown bushes. you pushed through them, found the handle, and pulled it open. the air was cooler as you stepped down the narrow wooden stairs, careful with each step. you’d never been down here before. not once.

his room looked exactly like him. the walls were dark wood, lined with posters — the cure, bon jovi, AC/DC, the smiths — and a few polaroids tacked up with tape. his bed was unmade, blankets rumpled and half-falling off the side. one guitar case was open on the floor, the others hung neatly on the wall, each one looking like it had a story. there were cassette tapes in uneven stacks on the desk, a walkman with tangled headphones beside them, and clothes half-folded in the open suitcase on the bed.

jay was kneeling beside it, fitting a hoodie into a tight corner of the bag. he glanced over his shoulder when he heard you, his smile soft. “hey,” he said.

“hey,” you answered, stepping further in, letting the door click shut behind you.

you stood for a second, just taking it in. this space you’d never seen, that felt like it had always been waiting. you leaned your shoulder against the wall, arms crossed, watching him. “so this is where you disappear to,” you said.

he chuckled, still folding something. “yep. it’s basically a cave.”

“it’s nice,” you said quietly. “feels like you.”

he looked up at that, met your eyes for a second, then nodded once, like that meant something to him.

you didn’t really help with the packing. mostly just watched him move around, picking things up, setting them down, deciding what made the cut and what didn’t. there was something peaceful about it. the quiet rhythm of his hands, the soft music playing low from the tape deck, the occasional creak of the floor above.

“you nervous?” you asked, after a while.

he paused, then sat back. “a little,” he admitted. “i mean… yeah. i’ve never really been away from here. not like this.”

you nodded slowly. “i remember that feeling. the first time i left.”

“did it get easier?” he asked, eyes still on the bag.

“not right away,” you said. “but yeah. eventually.”

he looked up at you again, studying you like he was trying to memorize something. “you’re gonna be far,” he said. “but i’m gonna be farther.”

you tried to smile, but it felt like it caught somewhere in your chest. “i know.”

he stood, dusted his hands on his jeans, and walked over to the wall. reached up, gently took down the acoustic guitar. he turned it over in his hands like it was something fragile, something important. then he sat down on the floor and looked at you.

“can i play something for you?”

you nodded, not trusting your voice for a second.

his fingers found the strings like they always knew the way. he adjusted the strap, then looked down, brows pulled slightly together in focus. and then he started playing, slow, familiar. the first few notes hit you like a wave. “just like heaven”. you don’t say anything. you don’t have to. it was always your song — even if neither of you ever said it out loud. the one you danced to at prom. the one you kept slipping into his mixtapes, over and over again, like a quiet kind of truth.

you felt your throat tighten, your eyes sting. but you didn’t look away. he played through the intro like he’d done it a thousand times, and maybe he had, but now it sounded different. quieter. like it was just for you. the room felt smaller somehow, or maybe just closer. his voice was low, a little unsure at first, but steady.

"show me, show me, show me how you do that trick..."

his eyes flicked to yours for a second, then back down to the strings. he didn’t overdo it. didn’t try to be impressive. just played it like it meant something. like the song could hold everything neither of you had said out loud yet. you sat down slowly on the floor, right by his side, looking at him while he played.

when the last note faded, he didn’t say anything right away. neither did you. then he looked at you again, and this time he smiled, small, but full of something bigger. “that song always reminds me of you,” he said. 

your voice was quiet. “i think i’ll hear it and think of this.”

he nodded once. “good.”

you leaned in, fingers brushing lightly against his knee. he put the guitar aside and leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours for a second. the moment was soft. still. like the whole world had paused long enough to let you both catch your breath.

“i don’t want to go yet,” he whispered.

“i know,” you said. “i don’t want you to go either.”

but he was going. and you were too. and the time in between would stretch and pull and test everything you weren’t ready to name yet.

he kissed you then, slow, familiar, like it was a promise. not a goodbye.

and you kissed him back like maybe it could be both.

still, he was leaving. and you were too.

and on the day jungwon and jay left for college, the house felt too quiet. even before the sun had climbed all the way up, the morning was thick with that strange stillness that only came with goodbyes. doors opened and shut softly. drawers clicked closed. voices stayed low, like everyone was trying not to disturb something.

you helped jungwon with his last-minute packing, folding the same hoodie twice because you didn’t know what else to do with your hands. he kept making dumb jokes like he wasn’t about to leave for months, like it wasn’t the first time either of you would be on your own in a real way. your parents hovered nearby, taking turns checking his bags, giving the kind of advice that sounds rehearsed, like they’d been practicing it in their heads for days.

jay showed up a little before nine. he knocked once and let himself in, like always. he looked tired, like he hadn’t slept much, like maybe this was harder for him than he wanted to admit. jungwon lit up when he saw him, and for a second, it was just like any other morning. jay helped carry bags to the car, made fun of how jungwon packed, teased him about almost forgetting his bag of underwear. they bickered all the way down the front steps.

your mom cried when jungwon hugged her. your dad clapped him on the back, too hard, and told him to call every sunday. when it was your turn, he didn’t say anything. just pulled you into a hug and held on for a long time. you didn’t say anything either. there wasn’t much to say. you were proud. you were scared. he was still your little brother, even if he was taller than you now.

jay was the last one to say goodbye. jungwon looked at him like he wasn’t sure what to do, like they hadn’t talked about this part. jay didn’t make a joke this time. he just stepped forward and hugged him. tight. both arms. like it meant something. and maybe it did.

when the car pulled out of the driveway, you watched until it turned the corner and disappeared. your mom went back inside. your dad followed. jay stayed. he stood a few steps from the porch, his car parked at the curb.

you didn’t say anything. just walked over and stood beside him, close enough that your arms brushed. neither of you looked at the other.

“so,” he said eventually, voice low. “that’s it, huh?”

you nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “yeah.” a pause. the cicadas were screaming in the trees. somewhere down the block, a sprinkler turned on. “you leaving today?” you asked.

he nodded. “wanted to catch jungwon before I did.” he paused. “and you.”

the words were simple, but something about them made your chest ache. “i go tomorrow,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady.

jay looked over at you then. his eyes were soft in the morning light, tired around the edges like he hadn’t slept much. maybe you hadn’t either. he smiled a little, almost sad. “come here.”

you followed him to the sidewalk, where his car sat humming faintly, engine already warm. he opened the passenger door and leaned in for a second before straightening up again, something small in his hand. a package, square and neat, wrapped in old newspaper and tied with a thin piece of string.

“what’s this?” you asked.

“something for you,” he said. “for when it feels too quiet. or too loud. or just… anything.” he offered it to you gently. “there’s a letter inside. don’t open it until i’m gone.”

you looked down at the package, then up at him. “you didn’t have to—”

“i wanted to.” 

you didn’t know what to say. the knot in your chest twisted tighter. jay shifted, one hand in his pocket. “i was gonna write this part down too,” he said. “but figured maybe i should just say it.”

your heart picked up. he was looking at you again. steady this time.

“i like you,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “i’ve liked you for a while. and i didn’t want to leave without telling you.” your breath caught. “i know it doesn’t change anything,” he added. “i’m going far. it’s not like we can just call each other all the time, or drive over. i don’t even know when i’ll be back. but i needed you to know, anyway.”

you stepped forward before you could think. “jay…”

“you don’t have to say anything,” he said quickly, almost nervous now. “i’m not asking for anything. i just—this summer meant something to me. and i hope it did to you too.”

it did. more than you could say. you reached up, one hand brushing against his jaw. “can i kiss you goodbye?”

he smiled, soft and small, and nodded once.

the kiss wasn’t rushed. it didn’t feel like a goodbye, even though it was. it felt like everything that had built up over that summer — the lake trip, the music, the stars, the slow shift from maybe to yes. he held your face gently, fingers curling behind your neck. you kissed him like you wanted to memorize it.

when you pulled away, you didn’t step back.

his forehead pressed against yours. his breath was warm against your cheek.

“guess i see you around, y/n,” he said, voice rough at the edges, like he’d swallowed something too big and hadn’t quite gotten it down.

you didn’t answer right away. you were still looking at him, like maybe if you stared hard enough, if you memorized every freckle, every line, every soft and quiet thing about him, it wouldn’t hurt as much. but it did. it hurt in that hollow way, like something was being peeled from your chest and packed away in the trunk of his car.

your throat felt tight when you finally spoke. “yeah,” you whispered. “see you.”

but it wasn’t casual, not the way you’d said those words a thousand times before, not tossed over your shoulder after a movie night, not shouted across the lawn when he left after dinner. it was the kind of see you that didn’t have a when. or a where. it was hope and ache tangled into two syllables.

he looked at you for a long moment, like he didn’t want to move either. the sun was hitting the edge of his face, casting shadows beneath his eyes, and your heart ached at how familiar he looked, and how fast he was becoming a memory.

you didn’t mean to cry. the first tear slipped out before you could stop it, trailing down your cheek, catching in the corner of your mouth. then another. you didn’t make a sound. just stood there, holding that little newspaper-wrapped box like it might keep you steady.

jay stepped forward. gently. carefully. he brushed the tear away with his thumb, his hand cupping your jaw so lightly it almost didn’t feel real. “hey,” he said, barely audible. “don’t cry.”

you tried to laugh, but it came out broken. “i’m trying.”

he shook his head, and you could see the effort it took him to keep his own eyes dry. “i wish i didn’t have to go today.”

you nodded. “i wish you didn’t either.”

he sighed, and it felt like something was collapsing inside both of you. “i’m gonna try to write. as much as i can. i know it’s slow and dumb and it’ll probably take a week just to get to you, but—”

“i’d like that,” you said quickly. 

he smiled at that. “and… if i can figure it out, maybe i could visit. maybe after midterms or something. if i save up.”

“you don’t have to promise,” you said, though your heart leapt anyway.

“i want to,” he said. “i don’t know what this is, but it matters to me. you matter to me.”

your eyes welled again, and this time he didn’t stop the tears. just let them come. held your hand like it was something precious. something he didn’t want to let go of.

“i should go,” he said eventually, so quiet it barely touched the air.

you nodded, but didn’t let go. not yet.

he leaned in, kissed your forehead, then your lips, soft, lingering. the kind of kiss that stayed with you long after it was over. when he pulled back, he touched your cheek one last time, then forced himself to step away.

you watched him open the door. slide into the driver’s seat. the car engine rumbled to life, low and steady.

he looked at you once more before pulling away. just a glance. but it held everything.

you stood there until the car disappeared down the block, the silence rushing in to fill the space he left behind. the cicadas were still buzzing. the heat was rising off the pavement. life kept going. you looked down at the package in your hands, the string digging a little deeper into your palm now. you didn’t open it. not yet.

you just stood there. and missed him already.

that night, you barely slept. the house was too quiet. your room looked too neat. jay’s gift stayed on your desk, untouched, waiting. you’d packed around it. like it was fragile. like it needed its own space. the next morning, the train station smelled like old coffee and newspaper ink.

now, the package sat on your lap as the train pulled away from the platform, and your parents grew smaller and smaller through the window until they disappeared entirely.

you didn’t cry. not then. you waited until the train curved around the hill, the town falling behind you, and then, when there was no one left to wave to, no one watching, you untied the string.

the newspaper fell away with a soft rustle. inside, a cassette tape, carefully labeled in his handwriting: for when you miss home. and beneath it, a folded piece of paper. creased, a little smudged, like he’d been holding onto it too long before giving it to you.

you opened the letter slowly.

“y/n,

i’ve never been great with words unless i’m joking around, and even then i’m kind of an idiot. but i didn’t want to leave without trying.

this summer meant something to me. you meant something to me.

i think it still doesn’t feel real. that i’m sitting on my bedroom floor right now writing this with the window open and knowing it’s the last time i’ll do this with you just down the block.

i’m not expecting anything. not really. i just didn’t want you to think any of this was a fluke. or just summer heat or timing or nostalgia or whatever. it wasn’t. i’ve liked you for a long time. i just didn’t know how to say it until now.

if this letter gets to you before the homesickness does, good. if not, then maybe it’ll at least feel like someone’s there with you for a minute.

i made the tape in my room last week. i kept thinking about that drive to the lake, how we listened to music and didn’t talk for miles. some songs that sound like how i feel when i’m with you.

i’ll write if you want me to. and maybe i’ll find a way to visit. but if not, if all this ever is is a good memory, thank you for being it.

i’ll miss you more than i can say.

— jay”

you fold the letter back up slowly, pressing the paper flat with your fingers like it might hold its shape better that way. your chest aches in that quiet, heavy way that doesn’t rise all at once, just settles there. low. constant. you hold the cassette in your hand, thumb brushing over the label. 

you rewind it. click. the tape whirs gently, and you close your eyes for a second while it rewinds, your forehead resting against the cool glass of the train window.

when the tape starts again, it opens with “pictures of you” by the cure, every word bleeding into the next like he meant for it to feel like memory. you press your headphones closer, the foam scratchy against your ears, the sound just loud enough to drown out the rest of the train.

the sky outside your window shifts while the songs pass. pink bleeding into orange, then purple, then black. you don’t notice when the train stops at smaller stations. you don’t move when other passengers get up, switch seats, pull out books. you just stay there, with the music, the letter in your bag, and the weight in your chest.

the semester starts quietly. new faces, cold hallways, shared bathrooms that never seem clean. your roommate plays ace of base too loud and always leaves her towel on your chair. you stay busy, mostly. classes, the library, the quiet corners of campus where no one talks. 

the first letter comes ten days in. his handwriting is still a little messy, like he wrote it fast, like he couldn't wait. he tells you about getting lost on his first day, about his roommate who only eats instant noodles, about how he thought of you when he saw a lake behind one of the buildings. the last line says:

i miss you like it’s a sport. i’m training for the olympics.

you laugh out loud. you write him back that night. you tell him about your weird professor, about the vending machine that only gives dr pepper, about how the cafeteria chicken always tastes like cardboard. you say:

i miss you too. i think about that night in the lake more than i probably should.

and it begins. letters back and forth, every week, sometimes more. his envelopes start showing up with little doodles in the corners. he draws your name in bubble letters, sticks tiny pressed flowers inside, once even includes a guitar pick “just in case you forget my favorite color is green.”

you tape some of the letters to your wall. you sleep with one under your pillow. when the days feel long, you reread them like prayers.

he writes about the cold, about the way the wind whistles through the cracks in his dorm window. you write about late nights in the common room, your hands always cold, your heart always a little heavy. sometimes the letters are funny, sometimes soft. sometimes they sound like promises neither of you can quite say out loud.

as november creeps in, the air gets sharper. the letters get longer.

sometimes i look for you in the crowd, even though i know you’re not here. i don’t know what that means. i just miss you, a lot.

then, one wednesday afternoon, the dorm phone rings. you almost don’t answer. but something in your chest pulls you toward it.

“hello?”

static hums, and then his voice, distant and slightly warped by the old payphone line:

“hey. it’s me.”

you freeze. the dorm fades away. someone laughs down the hall, but it’s muffled now. “jay?”

he exhales like he’s been holding his breath. “yeah. god, your voice. i missed it. you sound exactly like i remembered, but—warmer somehow.”

you sit down on the floor with your back against the wall, knees pulled up. “you’re calling from the payphone?”

“outside the student union. my fingers are turning blue, probably. but it was worth it.”

you smile into the receiver, thumb resting against the cord like it’s his hand. “you’re crazy.”

“for you, yeah. a little.” there’s a pause, comfortable and quiet. just the sound of the wind through the line, a car passing in the background, your heartbeat in your ears. “i wish i was there,” he says.

“i wish you were too.”

“i’ve been thinking about christmas,” he adds, voice a little smaller now. “about home. and... i don’t think i can make it.”

your stomach drops. “what do you mean?”

“money’s tight. really tight. i thought i could pick up extra shifts at the dining hall, but they already filled the schedule. i asked my mom if she could help, but she’s barely getting by. i’ve been doing the math over and over—bus, train, anything. i can’t swing it. not this year.”

you lean your head back against the wall, eyes stinging. “i was counting down the days to see you.”

he sighs, like he’s trying to keep something in. “i hate that this is what growing up means. working two shifts and still not getting to be where your heart wants to be.” you’re quiet for a moment, and then he adds, “i wish i could call you every day, i wish i had a cordless phone and no long distance fees and a million quarters in my pocket.”

you laugh, even though it breaks a little at the end. “i wish you were here right now.”

“you think if we both wish it hard enough, we’ll end up on the same train platform by accident?”

“sounds like a movie.”

“sounds like us,” he says. “if we were a little luckier.” the wind through the line is sharper now. he shivers audibly. “i should go before i lose feeling in my toes.”

“can you call again?”

“i’ll save up quarters. skip lunch if i have to.”

“don’t skip lunch.”

“okay, i’ll just skip half of lunch,” he says. “i miss you.”

“i miss you more.”

“that’s not possible.”

“prove it.”

he laughs again, soft and tired and full of something like love. “someday soon. not this christmas, maybe. but someday. i promise.”

you press the phone tighter to your ear like that might make it last longer. “okay. i’ll wait.”

“don’t wait too still. keep living. i want stories when we talk again.”

“you’ll get stories. all of them. i’ll write you tonight.”

“i’ll be waiting.”

the line crackles. you imagine him standing there, snow on his shoulders, one hand buried in his coat, the other holding the receiver like a lifeline.

“bye, jay.”

“bye, love.”

the line goes dead.

you sit there for a while, the dial tone humming in your ear, and then finally, finally, you hang up.

and then christmas comes like it always does. you take the long train ride back home with your walkman pressed to your ears and your bag heavy. the town looks smaller than you remember. maybe it always does since your first semester away. the streets feel frozen in time, lit by weak streetlights and lined with familiar shops. it’s strange—everything is the same, and nothing is.

but this year, you’re not the main event. jungwon comes back two days after you. it’s his first time home since he started college. your mom can barely keep it together when he walks in the door with his overstuffed duffel bag and a sleepy smile. she hugs him so tightly he winces. your dad ruffles his hair, your aunt comes by with a casserole. it’s like the prodigal son has returned, and honestly, you don’t mind. it’s good to see him. it’s good to see them see him.

he looks older. not just taller, though he is. not just the haircut, or the faint stubble he clearly hasn’t decided what to do with yet. it’s in the way he carries himself. looser. more sure. the kind of ease that comes from living somewhere new and surviving it.

you end up on the roof a few nights later, like old times. he finds the ladder first. calls to you from outside your window like you’re kids again. the stars are faint but steady. the air sharp in your lungs. you bring blankets and two mugs of whatever was warm in the kitchen.

you sit side by side, legs stretched out, silence easy between you.

“so?” you ask eventually, nudging him. “how’s it really been?”

he doesn’t answer right away. then: “it’s good. really good, actually.”

you glance over. “yeah?”

“yeah. the campus is beautiful. i got lucky with my dorm, too—my roommate’s cool. not, like, best-friend cool, but we get along. classes are hard, but... in a fun way? it’s weird, i kind of like the pressure.”

“nerd.”

he nudges you back. “i joined this music club,” he says. “nothing serious, just people who like playing stuff together. i’ve been writing again. and there’s this group that goes out on thursdays to open mic nights... i don’t always go, but when i do, it feels... i don’t know. freeing.”

you smile. “i’m glad, wonnie.”

“me too,” he says, and his voice is soft. “i missed this, though. missed home.”

“you seemed so... settled.”

“i think i am,” he says. “but it doesn’t mean i don’t think about this place. about you guys.”

the quiet stretches between you again. you sip your drink. the wind moves through the trees. then, after a pause, he speaks again—gentle, careful. “can i ask you something?”

you look over. he’s not looking at you. “yeah?”

“you and jay.”

you freeze a little. “what about us?”

“i don’t know. it’s just... you never really said anything. and neither did he. but i’m not dumb.” his voice is soft, not accusing. just curious. 

you stare at your hands, fingers curled in the edge of the blanket. “it wasn’t supposed to be a thing,” you say eventually. “it just kind of... happened. after that summer. we kept writing. and then we kept feeling things. and now it’s this... half-real, half-imagined thing that lives between semesters.”

“but it’s real to you?”

“yeah,” you whisper. “it is.”

he doesn’t say anything right away. then: “he never told me.”

“i think he didn’t know how.”

“or maybe he didn’t want to make it more complicated.”

“maybe.” you look over at him. he’s watching the sky. “are you mad?”

he shakes his head. “no. just surprised. and... maybe a little jealous?”

you blink. “of jay?”

“i'm your brother after all.” he chuckled, you followed along after a while.

“he couldn’t come home this christmas.”

“i figured. he didn’t answer when i asked.”

you glance at jungwon. “you guys often write each other?”

“yeah,” he says. “not super often. but he sends me these long letters when he can.”

you smile at the image. “does he ever talk about me?”

he hesitates for a moment, then nods. “not directly. not like, in big declarations or whatever. but you’re always there. in between the lines. like... he’ll say something about music he’s been listening to, and it’s a song you used to love. or mention some movie and how ‘y/n would’ve hated it.’ that kind of thing.”

you feel something tighten behind your ribs. “so he never said anything?”

“no,” jungwon says, quiet. “but i could tell. i mean, i’m not dumb. i knew something was going on. i just didn’t know what, exactly.” he leans back on his hands, looks up at the stars. “but then i started thinking,” jungwon goes on. “if he was gonna care about someone like that, i’m glad it’s you.”

your eyes sting a little. you smile at that. “do you miss him?”

“of course,” he says, then looks at you. “but i think you do more.” you don’t say anything. he doesn't press. after a while, the wind picks up. your fingers are cold, your mugs are empty. jungwon glances sideways at you. “we should go in before mom wakes up and accuses us of catching pneumonia.”

you snort. “she’s probably already awake.”

“probably.”

he gets up first, offers you a hand. you take it. when you both climb back in through the window, the house is still quiet. warm. familiar. but something in your chest feels a little different. like the ache is still there, but softer. held.

the holidays pass in the quiet rhythm of home. 

you help wrap gifts at the kitchen table with leftover paper from last year—half of them with the name “jungwon” in curly, looping letters. he's the center of the season this time. it’s his first time back since starting college, and your parents cling to him like they’re making up for lost time. your mom tears up over his favorite soup. your dad takes pictures with the chunky kodak camera he barely remembers how to use.

you don’t mind. not really. it's good to see him like this—full of stories, confident in ways he wasn’t before. he talks about dorm parties, about sleeping through 8 a.m. lectures, about running into a professor at a bar once and pretending not to notice. he even joined a rec basketball team. you listen, smiling, even when your chest aches a little with the difference.

new year’s eve arrives with less celebration than usual. your parents are asleep by eleven. jungwon watches back to the future part iii on VHS in the living room. you sit with him on the floor, both of you wrapped in old quilts, sipping ginger ale from mismatched mugs. when midnight hits, you both yell “happy new year” more out of obligation than excitement. there are no fireworks, just distant shouts from a few blocks away. 

you think of jay. wonder if he’s somewhere with people, or alone. wonder if he thought of calling. wonder if he stopped himself.

you go back to campus in early january.

the train is colder this time. more grey. you keep your headphones in and stare at the frost on the window. roxy music, the cure… the soundtrack of trying not to feel too much.

when you get back to your dorm, your roommate’s side is already full of unpacked clothes and christmas candy. your side is neater, more sparse. you pin up a few new photos. unpack slowly. tuck your homesickness into corners and drawers.

classes start again. second year feels heavier than the first. the professors are stricter, less patient. you drink more coffee. underline more passages. your handwriting gets messier.

jay’s letters still come, but they’re different now. shorter. the envelopes are still addressed with care, your name underlined twice like always. in one letter, he writes about a band he’s joined—some guys in his dorm who needed a rhythm guitarist. he says they play mostly pixies and stone roses covers, sometimes in the campus bar, sometimes in someone’s garage. he says it’s loud and messy and it makes him feel like he can breathe again.

he doesn’t mention missing christmas. he doesn’t say anything about not calling. he signs off with a song lyric, like he always does. this time: “heaven knows i’m miserable now.” you smile anyway.

as the months pass, the letters come slower. once a week becomes twice a month. then sometimes just one, slipped into your mailbox late and slightly rain-stained. but they’re still his. still full of little details—what he’s reading, the weird dreams he had, the girl in his english class who always talks about astrology.

february comes. then march. and suddenly the snow is melting again. your hair is longer. you’ve started carrying a walkman everywhere. your favorite café replaced the jukebox with a cheap stereo that mostly plays madonna and paul simon. the world is moving forward, spinning fast, pulling you along with it.

but some days, when the sun hits just right, and you hear a guitar riff through a half-open dorm window, you think of him. of that fall. of letters. of train rides. of the silence that still holds you both, gently. and you wait. because you know—somewhere—he’s waiting, too.

it’s a saturday afternoon in april, and spring has finally, finally started to show its face.

you’re sitting beneath the cherry tree near the east edge of campus, the one that blooms a little earlier than the others, the one that looks like it’s holding secrets in every petal. sunlight slips through the branches in soft waves, dancing across the open pages of your book. there’s a coffee cup balanced carefully in the grass beside you, the sleeve still warm.

you’ve been there for over an hour. the world feels far away. it’s the kind of quiet that’s not empty, but full of wind in the leaves, of the occasional rustle of a student passing behind you, of the soft, steady hum of a saturday moving forward without urgency.

you turn a page, and then someone sits down beside you. you don’t look up right away. the book’s getting good again. but then you notice the shift in weight. the familiar way your skin prickles. the scent of something: clean laundry, faint cologne, and something you haven’t smelled in months but recognize instantly.

you turn. and it’s him. jay.

he’s right there, in front of you. close enough to touch. you don’t think. you don’t even say anything. you just launch yourself at him.

your book flies into the grass. your coffee nearly spills. your arms wrap around him tight, your face buried in his neck before your brain can even catch up. he laughs, breathless, a little startled but not pulling away. his arms close around you, firm and warm and shaking just a little.

“holy shit,” you whisper, your voice muffled in his hoodie. “holy shit, you’re here.”

“yeah,” he says, holding you tighter. “i’m here.”

you pull back just enough to look at him, still holding his shoulders like you’re making sure he’s real. his hair’s longer, shaggier than you remember. his face is a little thinner. his eyes are tired but bright. “how—what—” you start, then blink hard. “how did you know i’d be here?”

he smiles, soft, almost shy. “one of your letters,” he says. “you mentioned this tree. said you always came here saturday afternoons to read. so... i did the math.”

your heart does something strange in your chest. like falling and flying at the same time. “you remembered that?”

“of course i remembered that.”

you turn toward him fully, knees folding underneath you. “what—” your voice cracks, so you try again. “what are you doing here?”

he tilts his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “i wanted to surprise you.”

your mouth opens and closes once. “you did.”

he laughs gently, rubbing the back of his neck. “yeah. i figured.”

you take him in more slowly now, in full color. the soft mess of his hair, pushed back like he’s run his fingers through it a dozen times today. the curve of his mouth, familiar and brand new all at once. the hoodie you’ve seen in polaroids, now in front of you. the pin on his strap — the smiths, still. his shoelaces are untied.

“so you just... showed up?” you ask.

“not just.” he glances down at the grass. “i’ve had this planned for a few weeks. it’s spring break at my school.”

you blink. “you’re spending your break here?”

“yeah.”

“with me?”

he lifts a shoulder, casual in the way he never really is when it comes to you. “yeah. if you want me to be.”

your heart stumbles. “why didn’t you go home?”

“my parents came to visit me last month. brought homemade food, checked if i was sleeping enough. we did the whole thing.” he pauses. “so this time... i wanted to come see you. you were the priority.”

your throat goes tight. painfully tight. you stare at him. “that’s—”

“cheesy?”

“kind of.”

he grins. “but true.”

you blink fast, trying to keep your voice from wobbling. “i can’t believe you’re here.”

he nudges you with his shoulder, gently, and for a moment, everything around you seems to fade. the campus sounds, the other students walking by, the breeze rustling through the cherry blossoms, they all blur into the background. it’s just the two of you, sitting here in a moment that feels impossibly perfect.

“well. i am,” he says again, this time his voice lower, quieter. he’s watching you now, really watching you, like he’s trying to memorize the way you look in this light, the way you sound when you speak so softly, the way your eyes flicker with something unspoken. your heart thuds in your chest, and you swallow. the world feels like it’s holding its breath too, waiting for something. waiting for us, you think, and before you can stop it, the words spill out in a whisper:

“i’ve missed you so much.”

he looks at you for a moment, something in his eyes shifting. then, without warning, he’s leaning in, closing the space between you. his hand, warm and gentle, finds its way to your cheek, and your breath hitches at the contact. his touch is familiar and new, like coming home but also like discovering something thrilling and unknown all at once.

you don’t even realize you’ve closed your eyes until you feel him so close, his breath mingling with yours, his lips almost brushing your skin. you can feel the thrum of your pulse in your throat, the way the air feels thick between you, charged with everything unspoken, everything you’ve been holding on to for so long. 

his lips, when they finally meet yours, are soft and hesitant at first, like he’s testing the waters, unsure if you’ll pull away or if you’ll let him stay. and when you don’t—when you lean into him, your hands trembling as they rest against his chest, your lips responding with a quiet urgency—it’s like something clicks into place, something that had been waiting all along, just beneath the surface. his kiss deepens, letting you both catch up to the months that have slipped by, all the letters and all the silences. his fingers tangle gently in your hair, tugging you closer, and you lose yourself in the feeling of him—his warmth, his presence, his everything. it’s like coming home, but it’s also like a brand new beginning.

when you finally pull back, breathless and flushed, you don’t open your eyes right away. you stay there, just for a moment, feeling the soft brush of his nose against yours, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his chest. there’s a peacefulness to it now, something that wasn’t there before, something that feels right in the way the world has fallen away.

for a few minutes, neither of you says anything. the silence between you is comfortable, filled with everything that’s unsaid but understood. and then, just when you think you can’t feel any more overwhelmed by the weight of it all, he pulls back a little, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw.

“you’re... real,” he murmurs, as if it’s just occurred to him. “this whole thing... you’re really here.”

you smile, a little breathless, still floating in the aftershock of the kiss. “i could say the same about you.”

he shakes his head softly, his eyes full of wonder. “no. i mean... i really missed you. i’ve been... so stupid not to just come here sooner.”

“it’s okay,” you say, gently. “you’re here now. that’s all that matters.”

he smiles, a little sheepish, and you can’t help but lean in for another kiss, slow this time, just a soft press of lips as if to say everything you haven’t yet. he kisses you back just as gently, and for a moment, you feel like you’ve finally found the place where you both belong, tucked away under the cherry blossoms, where time feels endless and the rest of the world doesn’t matter.

that week unfolds like a secret you get to keep.

spring break in 1991 feels like borrowed light—just warm enough for jackets to hang open, just cool enough for coffee to still feel necessary. the campus empties a little more each day, the sidewalks quieter, the dorms thinner with sound, and you and jay exist inside it like the only ones left.

you meet him every morning at the little café just off campus. he always gets the same thing: black coffee, extra strong, and a cinnamon roll if they haven’t sold out by ten. you try something new each day, let him steal bites, press your knees together under the table when no one’s looking. he watches you talk with his chin propped on his palm, like you’re something out of a song he’s only now learning the words to.

you walk everywhere. to the used bookstore with the creaky wood floors and the cat that sleeps in the poetry section. to the park with the duck pond, where you both pretend not to care that your hands brush more than once. to the laundromat even, where you sit on top of the machines with a bag of shared chips, watching the clothes tumble, talking about nothing and everything.

one afternoon, you take him to the record store a few blocks away. the bell above the door jingles when you enter. he goes quiet in that way he does when he’s really happy, thumbing through crates like he’s handling treasure. you wander into the second-hand tapes, until you feel his hand slip into yours.

“you’re wearing it,” he says.

you look down. the braided thread bracelet he made you is snug around your wrist, a little frayed from time.

“of course,” you say, like it’s obvious.

he smiles, and it’s soft in a way you almost never see. “i didn’t think you still would.”

you roll your eyes. “you underestimate me.”

“no,” he says. “i think i just miss a lot of you.”

you find a dusty smiths vinyl in the back corner. he insists on buying it, even though you argue it’s too expensive for a college student who already works two jobs. he tells you you’re worth overpriced music and more.

you listen to it later in your room, the both of you stretched out on your bed, sharing a single pillow. you press your foreheads together and try not to think about how fast the week is going. you trace the freckles on his arms like constellations and wonder how long you’ll get to keep this version of him—warm, present, real.

some nights you stay out late, sitting under the cherry tree, shoulders pressed close in the quiet dark. other nights, you fall asleep in the common room watching movies from the campus video library, wrapped in the same scratchy blanket, popcorn spilled everywhere.

you don’t talk about what you are, not exactly. but he always finds your hand first. he always walks on the side of the sidewalk closest to the street. he kisses your forehead like a promise.

and every day, you feel it more: this thing between you, still unnamed, but steady. something building. something real.

one night, you lie on the floor of your dorm room, your legs tangled, his head resting on your chest. you read aloud from your book until your voice gets soft and slow. when you pause, he murmurs, “don’t stop,” like he’s afraid silence will mean goodbye. you read until you can’t keep your eyes open, and when you wake up the next morning, his hand is still in yours.

the day before he’s supposed to leave, you take him to the park. you take him deeper in, where the trees open into a wide clearing and the lake stretches out like glass, catching pieces of the sky. you brought a blanket in your tote bag, and you spread it over the grass with shaking hands, not from nerves, but from how full your chest feels just having him beside you again.

he whistles low when he sees the view. “you’ve been keeping this place a secret from me?”

you smile, sitting cross-legged on the blanket. “figured i needed to impress you with something.”

he grins as he drops down beside you, close enough that your knees touch. “mission accomplished.”

you both fall quiet, watching the sun glint on the water, the way the wind ripples across it like someone brushing their hand over silk. 

“you remember,” he says, eyes on the lake, “the first time we kissed?”

you look at him. he’s got that look on his face—the one he gets when he’s remembering something that still stings a little. “of course i do.”

he laughs softly, and there’s color rising in his cheeks. “god, i was such a mess that day. i think i was sweating through my shirt.”

“you were,” you say, biting back a grin. “you looked like you were gonna faint.”

“i almost did.”

you lean your head on his shoulder. “you still kissed me, though.”

“yeah,” he says, quieter now. “best decision i ever made.”

for a while, you just sit like that, shoulder to shoulder, listening to the wind in the trees and the distant sounds of kids playing somewhere far off. 

“i wanted to tell you something,” he says eventually, shifting slightly so he can see you better. “about the band.” you straighten a little, curious. “we’re gonna start playing more. not just on campus, but local shows. house parties, bars, that kind of thing. one of the member’s cousin knows a guy who books gigs.”

“jay,” you say, your voice light but sincere, “that’s amazing.”

he shrugs like it’s nothing, but his smile gives him away. “we’re getting paid too. not a ton, but enough to cover meals, gas, maybe even some rent if we play enough.”

“i’m proud of you,” you say, and you mean it. “i always knew you’d do something with that music.”

he turns to you again, his eyes soft. “we’re playing in two weekends. it’s a friday night set, off-campus, but not far. if you came... i’d really like that.”

“i’ll try,” you say. “really. i will.”

“you’d probably hate the crowd,” he says. “everyone’s a little drunk and way too into themselves.”

“i don’t care about the crowd,” you say. “i’d be there for you.”

he smiles again, but this time it fades a little faster, like something heavier is sitting behind it.

“i’ve been thinking,” he says, slower now. “about us.” 

you nod. you’ve been thinking about it too. every day since he got here. every letter, every night you read them under your sheets like prayers. “i don’t want to hold you back,” he says. “i mean it. i don’t ever want you to feel like you have to wait around for me.”

your chest tightens, but you don’t look away. “i never felt like i had to,” you say. “i wanted to.”

he exhales, eyes flicking to the ground. “it’s hard, being far. i hate not knowing when i’ll see you next, if your letters are gonna come this week, if you’re okay.”

“it is hard,” you say. “but not harder than not having you in my life.”

that gets him.

he looks up at you, and his eyes are full, like he’s carrying the weight of something he’s been holding back for too long. but they’re steady too. there’s no hesitation in them. no fear. just the quiet conviction of someone who has finally found the right words and the right moment to say them.

“i love you,” he says.

not softly. not tucked behind nervous laughter or hidden in a passing joke. he says it plainly, like it’s always been true. like it’s not a question or a gamble, but a fact of who he is.

you go still. not because you didn’t want to hear it, but because you did. you’d been dreaming about hearing it. you’d written it in letters you never sent. whispered it to your pillow on nights the silence felt too loud. but now that it’s real, that it’s here between you, it takes your breath away.

your heart is beating too hard. your chest feels tight in the best and worst way. it’s like you’re floating and anchored all at once.

“i love you too,” you say.

the words fall out soft, but certain. no tremble. no second-guessing. it feels like unlocking something that’s been waiting inside you for months. and he smiles. not his usual grin. this one is slower, quieter. full of something tender and wrecked and entirely sincere. he lets out a shaky breath, like hearing it back made something loosen in his chest.

he reaches for your hand, threads his fingers through yours, and holds on like he’s scared you might disappear.

“i didn’t know if i should say it,” he admits, voice low. “i didn’t want to make this harder.”

you shake your head, blinking fast again. “you didn’t.”

he watches you, eyes glinting in the light fading over the lake. “i know we don’t have answers yet. i know we’re not in the same place. but i love you, and i don’t want to pretend i don’t. not anymore.”

you nod, and your throat feels too tight for a second to speak. but then you do. “thank you for saying it.”

he presses his forehead to yours, and you close your eyes. the wind brushes over your cheeks. “i want to do this right,” he whispers. “i want to keep showing up. even when it��s messy. even when we’re apart. i’ll write, i’ll call—whatever it takes. i just want you to know that i’m yours.”

you feel like crying again, but it’s the good kind. the overwhelming, grateful kind. “you already are,” you whisper back.

he kisses you then. slow and certain, like he’s been waiting to show you just how much he meant every word. you kiss him back with everything you have. every letter you never sent. every weekend you spent missing him. and for a little while, it feels like you’re in the exact right place, with the exact right person, and the rest can wait.

because now you know. and now he knows. and for now, that’s everything.

the sky is gray when you wake up. not stormy, just still. the apartment is quiet except for the soft hum of the radiator. you make coffee without asking, and toast because it's simple. neither of you says much while you move around the kitchen. it's not awkward. it's just early, and this kind of morning carries its own language. when you finally sit down across from him, he offers a small smile and reaches for your hand across the table. his thumb brushes over your knuckles like he's grounding himself there. you want to ask him to stay, just one more day, but you know how it works. time doesn't pause just because you want it to.

“thank you,” he says, voice low. “for everything. for this week.”

you nod, not trusting yourself to say much more. “me too.”

you finish breakfast slowly, letting the minutes stretch. when it’s time to go, you both move a little slower than usual. jackets, shoes, keys—everything done with quiet care. on the walk to the train station, the streets are calm. a few shops are just opening. jay looks at all of it like he’s trying to take a piece of the city with him.

at the station, the platform is mostly empty. his train isn’t there yet. he sets his bag down and turns to you, both hands in his pockets, like he’s unsure of what to do with them. you take one of them in yours. “i’ll write,” he says quietly, steady.

you nod, trying not to let it show on your face, how much you want him to keep that promise. “you better,” you say, your voice soft but certain.

he smiles, and this time it reaches his eyes in a way that makes your chest tighten. there’s something steady in him, something quiet and real, like he’s trying to memorize your face without making it obvious. then he steps forward and pulls you into a hug. his arms fold around your back, warm and familiar, and you press your face into the space between his shoulder and his neck. you close your eyes. breathe in. it still smells like his soap and the coffee you shared earlier and something that’s just him.

it isn’t a desperate hug. it’s not rushed or falling apart. it’s slow, like neither of you wants to risk breaking whatever this is. he doesn’t hold you too tightly, and you don’t cling, maybe because you both know that if you do, it might unravel you. instead, you just stand there, holding each other like you’re saying something that can’t be said out loud.

when he finally pulls back, he looks at you for a second longer. his eyes move over your face like he’s trying to remember it exactly—every freckle, every line, every part that makes you, you. then he leans in and kisses your cheek, warm and slow, and you think that might be enough. but then he hesitates, just a beat, and his eyes flick to yours, asking without words. and you answer by closing the distance.

he kisses you, soft and steady. not rushed, not messy, just something quiet and sure. it feels like something you’ve been holding in for too long, and now that it’s here, neither of you pulls away too fast. you hold his jacket in your hands and try not to think about how long it might be before you get to do this again. his hands settle at your waist, his thumbs brushing the hem of your sweater. for a few seconds, the station disappears.

when the kiss breaks, your foreheads stay pressed together. both of you quiet. both of you trying to hold the moment still.

the train pulls into the station with a low sound, wheels scraping gently against the track. you both glance at it, then at each other again. he gives your hand one last squeeze before picking up his bag. the straps are worn, one of the buckles is broken, and you think about how far that bag has already traveled. 

“you should go,” you say, finally, your voice low. he nods, but he doesn’t move yet. just gives you one last look, and it holds more than words could.

“take care of yourself, okay?” he says. you nod. “and write to me. even if i’m slow sometimes.”

“i always do,” you say.

this time, you do say goodbye. both of you.

“bye, jay.”

“bye, love,” he says, just as soft.

jay walks toward the train with slow steps, one hand gripping the strap of his bag, the other shoved in his pocket like he’s not sure what to do with it. you stay where you are, not trusting yourself to move. your fingers are clenched around the edge of your sweater, the morning air crisp and dry around you, the sound of the platform soft and distant.

he doesn’t look back right away. just keeps going until he reaches the open door, and then he pauses, just for a second, and turns. your eyes meet. he doesn’t smile this time, doesn’t say anything, but the look is enough. it holds everything neither of you could say, everything you might’ve said if there were more time.

he steps onto the train. you watch him through the window as he walks down the aisle and finds a seat near the middle. he sets his bag down carefully, then turns to face you again. he presses his hand to the glass, palm open. you do the same. for a second, it feels like you're right there with him.

the train jolts once, then starts to move. slow at first. you walk alongside it for a few steps, matching its pace, not ready to let go. he watches you the whole time. he lifts his hand in a small wave. you don’t wave back, but you hold his gaze until he’s out of sight.

the platform feels too quiet after. the tracks stretch out in front of you, empty now. there’s a chill in the air, but you don’t feel it yet.

you stand there for a while, not really thinking, just feeling the space where he used to be. something in you knows this isn’t like the other goodbyes you’ve had before. it’s heavier. it settles deep.

that was the spring of 1991. and that was the last time you saw jay park in years.

author's note: first of all IM SO SORRY for leaving y’all hanging at the end like that 😭 but if people end up loving this story, i promise i’ll write and post part two. pinky swear.

this fic means a lot to me. i’ve always wanted to write something set in the late 80s / early 90s and finally getting to do it with jay as the main character felt really special. btw this is my first long jay fic ever, so i really hope the jay utteds out there enjoy it 🫶

also, in case it wasn’t obvious, just like heaven by the cure is my favorite song of all time :)

thank you so much for reading!!!! <3

my masterlist <3

perma enha taglist: @rairaiblog @nqdirr @iyoonjh @jayparked

[kidult0325]

˗ˏˋSUMMARY ´ˎ˗ Park Sunghoon doesn’t usually like getting close to new people, but when a little girl shows up to his place of work in need of skating lessons he finds himself getting oddly close to her older sister. Now he’s starting to realize himself developing some uncontainable feelings while having to teach not only her little sister to skate, but her as well.

ᥫ᭡ f!reader x Park Sunghoon ── 𝒢enre. Uni au. fluff, non idol enha. feats. ot7 [reqs are closed] ᝰ.ᐟ 𝓁ibrary ⛸️

ૢ CASTING ༉ ot7 Enhypen. THE GANG ot9 andteam, lesserafim chaewon, katseye manon. READERS FRIENDS boynextdoor woonhak, boynextdoor leehan, blackswan fatou, loona jinsoul, theboyz chanhee, txt yeonjun, pamalaaam as mari. HONORABLE MENTIONS theboyz sunwoo, soloist alexa.

⍣ ೋ AUTHORS NOTES . This is part of admins Enhypen University Special Event. This series also has slight connections to every series in said event so occasionally characters from the other members chapters may appear in this series as well.

TAGLIST IS CLOSED❕ 🏷️ | SERIES PREVIEW

ღ GENRE smau & written parts, fluff|slight angst, acquaintance to lovers, non idol enhypen, university enha, crack tweets & texts. 3rd person reader pov

CHARACTER PROFILES › ENHA & FRIENDS | READER & FRIENDS | HONORABLE MENTIONS

1 › prince of the ice

2 › let’s go bears

3 › UOA vs DVU

4 › take this L

5 › aint no party like a yeonjun party

6 › fuck you sim jaeyun and nishimura riki

7 › park sunghoon

8 › jinsouls shayla

9 › I’m sorry

10 › you did what ??

11 › case of the stolen teammates

12 › three thousand dollars

13 › @/princeoftheice followed you !

14 › failed ransom

15 › the zamwhati?

16 › according to google 🤓☝️

17 › am i literally stupid ?

18 › should I flea the country ?

19 › im cooked

20 › soft hands

21 › swimmin with the fishes

22 › snowed in

23 › Fuck you mother nature

24 › sweatpea?

25 › skate night

26 › yn and sunghoon sitting in a tree

27 › place your bets

28 › im so screwed

29 › this isnt a kdrama

30 › happy soobin day

31 › nurse shes out again

32 › mr lonely and the girl with infinite homework

33 › you like krabby patties don’t you squidward

34 › wonder about you

35 › ice cream you scream we’re all screaming

36 › jealously jealousy

37 › the club is calling

38 › liquid courage

39 › dont fuck this up

40 › sweater weather

41 › bitchless activities

42 › ending: Merry Christmas

[kidult0325]

you can take it, baby’ with Jake - mdni (18+)

You’re trembling in his lap, a wrecked, broken little mess. Your whole body is slick with sweat, your legs shaking uncontrollably, tears staining your cheeks as you cling to his shoulders—weak, limp, your voice reduced to breathy cries and soft sobs.

Jake’s still inside you. Still hard. Still deep.

He leans in, voice low and wrecked and full of adoration. “That’s it, baby. That’s my fucking girl. Taking it so good for me.”

You’re sobbing now, face buried in his neck, whimpering, “Jake, I can’t—please, I can’t anymore—”

But he’s not letting you go. Not yet. His arms tighten around you, one hand gripping your ass, the other rubbing your back like he’s comforting a baby that he’s still ruining. His voice is pure silk wrapped around filth.

“Yes you can, princess. Look at you… fuck, you’re still clenching around me. You say you can’t, but this perfect little cunt? She’s begging. You were made to come for me. Again. And again.”

He presses a soft kiss to your temple, still rocking into you, slow now, deep, precise, and impossibly patient. “I know it hurts, baby. I know you’re tired. But you’re doing so good. So pretty when you cry for me.”

Your fingers dig into his back, breath ragged, your whole body on the brink of collapse, and Jake just keeps praising you, dragging you further into the abyss.

“Look at you, doll,” he whispers, his voice breaking a little as he feels your walls flutter again. “You’ve already come for me what—three? Four times? And you’re still giving me more. Fuck, you’re such a good girl. My sweet, filthy little angel.”

You choke on another sob, trying to say his name, but all that comes out is a broken little noise. That’s when he starts guiding your hips again—gently this time, slow little rolls, making sure every inch of him keeps pressing into you.

“Shh, baby… I know. It’s too much, huh?” he coos, voice soft now, lips brushing your ear. “But you’re still taking me. That means you’ve got more to give. Just let go for me again, pretty girl. Just one more.”

You shake your head, crying harder, but he cradles you closer, his voice a warm, dominant hum.

“One more, there you go, baby. My perfect fucking princess who can take it all.”

And just like that—your body breaks again.

Your whole frame shakes, clenching down on him like you’re being torn apart, your cries high and helpless as your orgasm crashes through you one more time, and Jake’s there for all of it—praising you, loving you through the filth.

“Atta girl,” he moans, finally losing it with you, hips stuttering as he fills you deep. “Goddamn, you’re everything. Everything, angel.”

[kidult0325]

𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 (n.rk)

[NSFW] Chrome Hearts Rings - ni-ki x f!reader

𓂃۶ৎ [니키] Booking a flight on a random night just because you had a fight with your boyfriend is totally normal right? Traveling across the world just because you don't wanna see him it's totally normal, right? Getting drunk in another country and dancing with a total stranger, is beyond normal, right?

٠࣪⭑ cw/tags: smut, dom!ni-ki and sub f!reader student. porn with plot, unprotected sex, alcohol, smoking, exhibitionism, dirty talk, rough sex, drunk sex, fingering, squirting, public, car sex, cheating, jake, sunghoon and jay cameo, mdni. don't read if uncomfortable.

٠࣪⭑wc: 4k

٠࣪⭑ tags: @woniesbae @nicholaslefthand @littlesweettea-aine @puppiesfolder

Maybe having that fight with your boyfriend wasn't so bad. You wouldn't have met this cute stranger if it wasn't because of it after all ᯓᡣ𐭩

୨ৎ

First year of college had been close to hell. The huge change from High School to college was almost unbearable. Your A+ grades from High School were equal to a C in college and your need for academic validation was killing you. It was messy, the dorms, and campus, and the lectures. You were a mess as well, trying to just pass your classes. But what was making it really a living hell, was your boyfriend, Jay.

Jay was your boyfriend since sophomore year in High School, he used to be sweet and romantic. However, during senior year he became colder, yet so possessive. When you graduated, both ended up going to different colleges. You went to MIT and he went to NYU. You're still dating him, but he has become more and more controlling and toxic throughout the year. To the point where he will call you every time you get off campus.

It gets to a point, right? You couldn't bear it. He came to visit you in campus, you acted normal. But once you mentioned his controlling behavior he got defensive. It escalated into a huge fight, yelling, and insulting until your roomate stepped in and kicked him out.

Your fingers move quickly through the phone, tears in your eyes while you deal your best friend's number. Sunghoon picks up after a couple of minutes. He's sleepy, sounds like you just woke him up. You feel a pang of guilt in your chest. Sunghoon was in Japan right now, so it was probably really early for him.

"Hey, sweetheart" He says. "It's 6 a.m you know—" Sunghoon's heart drops when he hears you sob. He sits in his bed in one quick motion. "Hey, hey, what happened, tell me" He knew the reason you were sobbing, he knew the idiot who was making you cry. He tightens his fist on the sheets. "What did he do"

You break into tears, nonstop, just crying on Sunghoon like you always do. Every time Jay did something you'd just go to your comfort place: Sunghoon, your best friend since you were in Middle School. You tell Sunghoon everything through the phone as he tries to calm you down.

"I just wish you were here" you sob, sniffing a little and he chuckles.

Both staying silent for a little longer before Sunghoon speaks again.

"What classes do you have tomorrow?" He asks, something in his voice tells you he's got something in mind.

"Tomorrow's Friday, just one economy lecture" You say softly, your throat feeling rough from crying. "Why?"

"You up to book a flight right now and come to Japan with me for the weekend?" Your heart skips a beat. You can hear the excitement in his voice. "I'll pay it for you, a little treat, you'd stay with me, forget about Jay for a couple of days, clear your mind, yeah?"

"Sunghoon...I—" You knew Sunghoon was rich as hell but it was still hard for you to accept things like this, especially when it's so sudden. Yet your heart is almost breaking right now. "Yes, yes, thank you, Hoon"

You depart from LGA Airport at 10 p.m and arrive in Tokyo around 1 a.m on Saturday. Sunghoon recieves you with open arms and you just crash in them for a hug, a needed one. He takes you to his hotel, lets you take a shower and then you just fall asleep in his bed. He wakes you up around 8 p.m of the same day and chuckles at your state.

"Do you wanna hang out?" He asks. "I just got invited to a place"

You agree with Sunghoon to hang out and get dressed quickly, doing a simple makeup and spending more time than you should on your hair. The place where Sunghoon takes you is not exactly your type of place but you didn't care since you were with him. It was kinda like a bar, drinks, food, music, people dancing. Sunghoon guides you to a specific place where two guys are having a drink. One of them stands up waving, black hair, sharp features. He greets Sunghoon with so much excitement, perfect english and a thick aussie accent.

"Yo man! So long— That's your girl?" The guy lands his eyes on you, big smile, so happy.

"Nah, that's my best friend" Sunghoon chuckles as he introduces you both. "This is Jake, he's the guy that invited me" I nod and smile at Jake.

"Your best friend's so beautiful, huh" He laughs and you all glance at the other guy. Sharp eyes, a cigarrette between his fingers, hands full of Chrome Hearts. He's hot. "This is Riki, High School friend"

Riki nods and extends his hand to Sunghoon and then to you, giving you a nod, lips curling up in a smirk. You guys sit, Sunghoon next to Jake, and you next to Riki. Sunghoon and Jake quickly start catching up, Riki occasionally participating in their conversation. You feel a little akward. Suddenly Riki offers you a cigarrette.

"You smoke?" He asks. Oh. His voice was deep. You quickly shake your heard and he chuckles. "No smoke? damn"

"Nah I don't like that" You say softly while you see him take the cigarrete to his lips, following it with your eyes.

"You drink?" He asks next as he takes a drink to his lips as well.

"A little..." You say. It was true, you didn't really like it that much. He chuckles again, irritating you a little bit. He drinks a little while you get lost in your thoughts.

Somehow your mind flying back to America, to New York, where your boyfriend was. Your boyfriend that hasn't even tried to contact you yet. You chuckle and Riki looks at you as he exhales the smoke off his lungs. You grab his drink from the table and take it to your lips swallowing it all. When you stop, Riki is just looking at you with a smirk, he's not impressed, much less worried, he's excited.

"Damn" Jake says and you both look at him. "You okay?" He asks and you nod.

You look at Sunghoon but he isn't looking at you. You follow his eyes and they're set on a girl, blonde, good curves, at the bar. You tap his leg with your feet under the table and he looks at you. You smirk, doing a motion with your eyebrows. "Go" He bites his lips, indecisive and then leans closer to you.

"Will you be alright?" He asks, still worried about you and you just nod smiling. "Fine, don't drink too much" And with that Sunghoon disappears from the table.

"Oh that bastard" Jake says and stands up looking down at his phone. "I gotta go, it'll be quick" He glances at Riki and warns "Don't do anything stupid"

Riki lifts his arms like he's offended as Jake leaves. His eyes settle on you once you're both alone.

"So...rough day?" He asks looking down at his empty cup. You nod, not really wanting to talk about it. "You're good" He said. "That one was a strong one"

"The fact that I don't drink that much doesn't mean I'm bad at it" You say, loosening a bit with him. You've been akward and seating like a statue for about 20 minutes. He smirks at your response.

"Should we get another round? Two cups this time"

You don't even hesitate. You were totally down for more. Your mind just kept reminding you about your boyfriend, and how heartbroken you felt yesterday when he yelled at you. It's okay to sit down with this handsome stranger and have a drink, right?

About half a bottle later, you lean your head against Riki's shoulder, in a tipsy state. Riki chuckles. "Giving up already, princess?" You giggle biting your lip at the petname and then sit up straight.

"Did I tell you my boyfriend is a toxic bastard?" You murmur looking at him, honesty coming pureley from the effects of the alcohol in your system. Riki doesn't seem surprised or tuned in, he drinks a bit more and smirks.

"Yeah? Why don't you leave him?" He asks leaning back. You take in his appearance for a second, longer than you should. His fit was extravagant, baggy jeans way too baggy, tank top, jacket and a lot of Chrome Hearts accessories. Dude was a Chrome Hearts freak. You blush a little when you look up and realize he was staring at you the same way you were staring at him. "So?"

"What?" You ask, blushy and giggly.

"Your boyfriend"

You bite your lower lip and sigh. "I love him, I can't just..."

Riki turns around a little, irritated, not by you but by your stupid argument. He serves another drink for himself and one more for you. You grab it, no hesitation. Music sounds in the background, Champaign & Sunshine, one of your favorites. The new song makes you excited. You stand up. "Oh my god, I love this song. Riki looks up at you with a smirk on his face. You swallow the rest of your drink and start moving to the music.

Riki presses his cheek against his hand, looking at you while biting his lip. He had to recognize you were probably the most attractive woman he had ever seen. You were smily, and blushy, and adorable, but his heart rate went up whenever you moved slightly towards him and the V line of your top moved lower. He wanted to be decent but every time you laughed softly and he looked down at you, you're breast were on his face. He watches you dance, as you move your hands down your body. The little set you're wearing making your curves more pronounced, Easier for him to imagine how'd be like to hold your waist while you dance.

You laugh when you look down at him and see him just staring. "What are you doing!" You say, yelling over the music. "Dance!" That's all you say before climbing on the table and starting to dabce up there. Riki moves quick, leaning back, finally a little surprised but quick to adopt his teasing demeanor. He smirks looking up. He has a good view of your ass from this angle and if he just moves a little he can actually see your panties. God, he was fighting demonds, he really wanted to be decent.

You look down at him, your heart skipping a beat at how attractive he suddenly looks. I mean, you already thought he was hot but now, now that he's leaning back, now that he's manspreading, legs taking more place than they should, looking up at you with that smirk and those hunter eyes, now he looks extremely attractive. Something in you just snaps, you start moving, slower, seductive, sexy. You wanna impress him, because you like the way he's looking at you. Because no matter what you do, he won't stop, and it's driving you crazy.

Your body heats up, you're not sure if it's the alcohol or how hard you're blushing right now. He takes that damn cigarrette in his mouth, eyes glued on your body as you put up a show for him. Your hands slide up your body, tugging on the edge of your top and you do it, what you never thought you'd do. You remove your top, right there, on the table. No one notices, everyone is past drunk, in their own worlds. And you don't care, you only care about the pair of eyes burning beneath you right now. You look down, Riki shifts in his position, bothered, he's feeling the heat too.

You're wearing a little lacy bra, small, tits pushing out, causing Riki to almost choke on his cigarrette. He knows you're doing it on purpose, he knows the show it's exclusively for him and that he has the VIP access. He bites his lips leaning his head back, groaning softly. He's getting worked up fast. You wave your hand at him, inviting him and that's it, something snaps inside him too and he climbs that table before his brain processed the invitation.

His body glues to yours from behind, hands on your exposed waist, his Chrome Hearts rings colder than ice making contrast with the heat of your skin. His face on your neck, lips against your skin. You can feel his breath tingling next to you ear and it makes you shiver, pushing yourself back against him to feel him. And you dance, moving your ass against his half- hardness. You arch a little, feeling him up, lifting your arms and leaning back against his shoulder as his hands roam your body.

"You're so beautiful, you know?" He murmurs in a low voice that makes you want to take off your panties too.

"Yeah, I get that a lot" You say playfully and he chuckles.

His hands slide up, easily wrapping around each of your breasts and you gasp but don't pull away. His lips press againat the crook of your neck and you shiver gasping again, making him chuckle.

"You're so sensitive" He whispers. "I'm not really doing much"

୨ৎ

You stumble against Riki's body as both of you exit the place from behind, he holds your wasit, kissing your neck while walking. He devours your neck, wet kisses mixed with bites. You moan softly, the alcohol getting the worst out of both of you. Riki slides down his hands, gripping your ass. You moan softly as he presses you against the brick wall of the parking lot.

"Fuck" He whispers.

You moan softly, wrapping your arms around his neck while holding your top in one of your hands. He chuckles while he continues to taste your neck. He pulls back smirking, admiring your flushed face and then leans down for a kiss. His lips crash with yours in a passionate kiss. Intensity of a huracane. He bites down on your lower lip, his tongue eager to explore your mouth. You moan softly and pull back. Suddenly feeling aware of your actions.

"No— No, I have a boyfriend" You say worriedly but Riki buries his face in your neck, kissing it deliciously, making your knees weak.

"Is he here?" He asks between kisses. "I don't see him"

His hand slides under you shorts, quickly reaching your pussy, feeling your wetness through the fabric of your panties.

"You're so wet" He whispers. "And I bet it's not for him?"

You moan softly, fisting Riki's jacket. His fingers move quick, pulling your panties to the side. Once you feel his fingers and the cold of his rings directly on your skin it's like you lose yourself. You moan again, his fingers teasing your entrance. Riki's breath becomes heavier, and he rests his face on his arm against the wall behind you.

"That's it, see? I'm making you feel so good, aren't I?" He says and chuckles seeing how you clinge to him while he fingers you slowly. "Want me to stop?"

"No– Please" You say leaning back your head. "Don't stop"

Riki's fingers tease your entrance a little, tips sliding in and out before finally shoving his fingers entirely in. You moan clinging to his jacket and he buries his face in your neck again, resting it there. His fingers move with precision, he knows what he's doing. He curls his fingers inside hitting your sweet spot and you hold onto him like your life depends on it.

From afar you two look like a couple having a cute moment, hugging each other. But no one can see his hand shoved in your shorts and his fingers working you like you've never been worked before.

Riki can feel your walls squeezing his fingers and the wetness spreading to the palm of his hand.

"Fuck, you're so wet" He says in a husky voice. "Come for me, princess"

You shake in his arms and he presses you against the wall a little while covering your mouth when you finally come undone. He works you through your orgasm until you've calmed down, then he removes his hand and holds you for a little longer whike kissing your neck.

"You okay?" He asks, licking your shoulder and you nod, too satisfied to even talk.

୨ৎ

Oh that bricks wall wasn't the end of it, once you two got in his car and Riki started driving, things just got even more heated and messier. You're next to him, legs open, panties gone, squirming and whining while his fingers sink in your pussy over and over again in every red light.

"Riki" You moan softly and he chuckles removing his hand again once the light turns green. You protest and he bites his lips.

"You really cannot wait" He says turning right and driving into a building's parking.

"What?" You protest again at his words but he's already leaning for a kiss.

His lips collide with yours with more intensity. Something about Riki is that he gets more and more excited and every new kiss becomes more dirty. His tongue licks your lower lip while grabbing your waist and pulling you into his lap. You can smell the alcohol and cigarrettes in his breathe and it somehow just turns you on in a nasty way. He buries his face in your neck, hands on your waist. You're only wearing your bra by now.

"You look so pretty like this" He says in a husky voice. "All naked in my lap"

You moan softly leaning your head back. This man hasn't stopped giving you compliments since you two escaped from that bar without telling Sunghoon or Jake. His compliments sound sweet, he isn't trying to be nasty yet.

"Where are we?" You ask softly and he pulls back smirking at you with messy hair.

"My building" He says breathy.

You tilt your head, leaning for a short kiss. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you flush against him and groaning into the kiss. You bury your face in his neck and start nibbling and licking. Riki groans again, shifting in his seat and you can feel his cock straning against the fabric of his pants. Your hands slide down his body and up again only so you can remove his jacket.

Riki groans, rolling up his hips. You moan softly sliding down your hands until your fingers reach his belt. Your hands move quick. Riki smirks, seeing the change in your demeanor. You were holding back until now, torn between your loyalty to Jay and your attraction towards Riki, whose last name you don't even know but thinking of Jay only makes you want to throw up every time. Riki helps you with his pants, his hard cock springing free right in front of you.

Riki gasps, looking down and hisses when your hand wraps around it. You smirk biting your lip and squeeze it a bit before moving your hand slowly. It's already leaking pre-cum so it's easy for you to move your hand. Riki holds your hips and leans back his head groaning and gasping.

"Oh fuck— Oh don't stop" He says between moans.

You increase the speed of your hand and lean forward to attack his neck with bites and hickeys. Riki moans, his fingers digging in your hips.

"That's it, Oh– don't stop, you're doing so good" He whispers looking at you with hooded eyes. You bite your lip feeling his hands move to your back to finally unhook your bra, removing the last piece of clothing on your body. You moan softly when his hands wrap around your breasts and aqueeze them.

"God, you're so perfect" He whispers and you moan again. "Fuck, I want you to ride me"

You stop for a second looking at him and he smirks pulling your hips towards him. It's quick, one second your hands were on him and in a blink his cock was on your entrance. He pushes you down slowly and you just moan hiding in his shoulder.

"You're so wet" He whispers breathy. "So tight"

You moan sharply when he bottoms up an lean against his chest. He doesn't give you time to adjust, his hips snap, moving upwards at a fast rythm while you hold onto him. You're sure your moans are heard in the entire parking lot and you don't really care right now. You're only thinking of the way Riki's cock is filling you up. He thrusts up into you, making you moan harder with each one.

He stops for a second and you take over, moving your hips in circles, Riki groans letting you move by yourself. You moan again bouncing a little until he starts moving again, pressing you against the wheel and thursting up into you again at a diabolical rythm.

He grabs your breasts again, squeezing them and then leans to take one of your nipples into his mouth. The moans and the sound of his cock going in and out of you echo inside the car. You can feel your orgasm building up and he can feel your walls squeezing his cock impossibly.

"Oh, fuck—" He groans against your chest, his thrust becoming erratic.

You moan louder, your head leaning back as you feel it coming. It's hard, almost leaving you with no breath, your legs shake violently and your nails dig in his shoulders. You coming on his cock was his last straw. He thrusts up two or three more times before pulling you up, grabbing his cock and fisting it quickly until every drop of his cum has splashed over his own clothes and your bare stomach and chest.

୨ৎ

The night didn't end in the car, once you two managed to get to his penthouse—yes, gis penthouse—without getting caught, Riki probably fucked your soul out. He fucked you against the kitchen counter first, then you two somehow fell on the couch, where he ate you out. His tongue moved so perfectly that you came undone in seconds. Then, you ended up in his room, fucking again like there's no tomorrow. He probably made you diacover new positions because the way this man found a new angle every time to deatroy your insides was insane.

Something is for sure, you've never had such a crazy night in your life. No, Jay does not fuck like this.

You sigh against the pillow. Not a single inch of guilt in your body. Riki groans next to you, his arm covering his eyes. It's been about 30 minutes since the last round. You stir in his bed and manage to speak.

"Are you tired?" You ask, very innocent question.

Riki chuckles. "You wanna go again?"

"Oh– That's not what I meant"

"I can go again if you want to, princess" He affirms and smirks looking at you.

"Where do you get that energy from, oh my god" You laugh softly. By now, you're both sober.

"Uhm...I'm young?" He laughs too and turns to his side.

"Young and rich, I see" You say looking around. "Fancy place."

He chuckles pulling closer to you, his fingers on your chin while leaning for a kiss. "You're welcomed whenever you wanna forget about that asshole"

You bite your lip rolling your eyes. "I'm gonna break up with him when I get back to America"

Riki smirks. "Yeah?" You nod looking at his lips shortly. "That's good" He whispers. "He doesn't deserve those skills of yours"

You chuckle as he buries his face in your neck, kissing and nibbling.

"I can't believe I'm in a stranger's penthouse right now" You laugh softly. "I don't even know your last name"

"Nishimura." Riki says pulling back. "Nishimura Riki"

Gosh, even his last name is perfectly moanable.

"Nishimura? Like the clothing brand?" You say tilting your head and he chuckles.

"Where do you think the penthouse came from?"

"No way" You say but you're not really that interested, just shocked that you're really in Nishimura's bed right now. "Damn"

Riki kisses your collarbones. "Impressed?"

"A little" You respond.

"Enough to make you wanna stay 'til morning?" He asks, his kisses getting a little hungrier.

"Mmh is that an invitation?" You ask tangling your fingers in his hair. "I'll have to accept it, would be rude to say no"

Riki smirks as he settles between your legs and continues to devour you whole.

© yunzyoi 2025. all rights reserved.

[kidult0325]

MONEY POWER GLORY -l.hs, p.sh-

Given the opportunity to tackle the biggest headline yet—you knew this would be the breakthrough of your career. Not the breakthrough of your love life.

pairing— athlete!heeseung x journalist fem!reader x athlete!sunghoon

genre: smut minors do not interact, athlete au, athlete rivalry, p with plot, hockey player!sunghoon, basketball player!heeseung

wc: 23.4k

warnings: profanity, toxicity, manipulation, possessiveness, kissing, morally ambiguous characters

smut warnings: unprotected sex, p in v, two sex scenes, praising, dirty talk, degradation, fingering, oral (f rec.), dry humping, body worship, dom!heeseung, dom!sunghoon, light choking, creampies, breeding kink, usage of nicknames (baby, babe, princess, good girl)

lily’s note: after so long it’s finally here!! sorry for it taking a while but i hope you can enjoy it!! also special thanks to @vampsol for making the banner <3

“Our star players”

Forced to stare at the large group picture hanging dead center and with no choice you zeroed in on the two distinct males standing side by side. Neither showing even a crack of a smile as they looked straight ahead.

Something inside of you twisted nastily as you couldn’t seem to switch between eyes from looking at one to the other. When you glanced over to the male on the left, you could see he was sleek, clothing neatly arranged to drape over his body that accented his proportions perfectly.

The slender legs that popped out by the strikes of muscles lining up from his calf all the way up to his knee where a peek of his quads showed hiding beneath the rolled up sweatpants.

The long navy blue sleeved shirt pushed back by his arms resting behind his back with a pumped chest through the fabric. You roamed around his face for a second longer than you’d like to admit to count the specs of mole over his face that the camera managed to pick up.

For the most part, his face was relaxed but what struck you were his blaring eyes that spoke straight to you.

“That’s Park Sunghoon” You felt a jab at your side, “Pretty good looking right” This was able to knock you out of your daze before looking over at your boss smiling at the picture with sparkles in her eyes, “Doesn’t really talk much but his career only goes up from here on out”

You didn’t respond, opting for a quick nod before looking back at the picture to observe the male on right this time. This time he looked more uncomfortable than Sunghoon. Arms were stiff at his side, a clear steer away from the male at his side but he held a sharper yet softer look with his big and round eyes that were filled with a wonder in them that stirred something in you.

His hair was messily disheveled, poking out in different directions but still effortless on camera. The captured sweat glistened from the camera light to show how it slid from his chin and neck, all the way down to his flimsy tank top that outlined his body while he wore baggy basketball shorts that reached his knees.

Your fingers dug into your palm when you noticed the streak muscle dividing his biceps and triceps apart from each other.

“And that’s Lee Heeseung” Your boss’ tone shifted into a heavy sigh with a hint of restriction in it

“More outspoken but keeps more so keeps himself but his career…” She sucked a breath as she stared at the male, “It’s promising. So damn promising” She muttered the last words before clearing her throat and patting your back that woke you up from the daydream you were in

“Let’s see what you make up for those two” You see her toothy grin which caused an unsettling feeling to rest in your stomach but you pushed it aside and gave a tight smile

She retracted her hand away after giving one last pat on your shoulder, not in a comforting reassuring way but more of a warning to not mess up.

“You know it’s a good thing what you’re doing. Choosing to step up when you know this is out of your paygrade” You couldn’t even respond before she turned a heel and walked out without a glance

You jumped from whatever was near as your mouth swished side to side to rid the thought in your mind. You looked back to the large cover page of Lee Heeseung and Park Sunghoon with your name embroidered at the faded corner. Your publication. The soon to be the biggest achievement and success story that came to life that hung for all the office to see it in all its pride and glory.

Two proud aspiring rising stars in the making that you now have the luxury and privilege of getting first hand knowledge on them.

$$$

Biting down harshly on the retractable pen as you watched the clock tick closer to 5:30 in the afternoon. It was well over 30 minutes of waiting and the lack of perception on time cranked something in you.

Your teeth continuously clamped down on the retractable push tugging at it softly as it settled in your mind with being alone with your thoughts for far too long—Being a good person is never too far out of reach for you, but being a good friend and coworker was beyond what you know.

Still you weren’t sure why you decided to cover for your friend and take care of her burden on the catalogue when the time came, especially when it’s far from your original department and way more than your original paycheck.

Perhaps it was the extra need of money you blindly needed and accepted without much thought or the grander possibility of reaching the last push needed to put your name on the map like how you’ve desperately wanted for so long.

Endless possibilities the more you think about it but none of them plausible to satiate you.

However, when you caught sight of the highlighted name on the paper before moving to the file picture of his face. The initial worry faded away as excitement creeped through your veins.

“It's a little risky to be doing that, isn't it?” The voice made you freeze and all goosebumps imaginable rise to coat your skin

Slapping a hand over the paper you were just looking at to see the big eyes that gleamed with a hidden mischief in them, the plop of his hair to the side leaving little room in between for his forehead to show beside a prominent mole to make itself known.

While it may have been a prejudice to expect for him to show up in practice uniform but to your pleasant surprise, he wore fitted clothing that accentuated his height and fit a style different from how he presents himself on the court.

When you looked up to him to catch the big eyes boring right into yours with the gleam of his smirk as he took a stride closer to you. His hand gripped the opposite end of the pen hanging through your teeth, “Let go” He softly said making you realize if you weren’t careful you’d end up like everyone else–slipping and falling deep in the gutter

Your hand gripped the little bare space of the pen left and snatched it with a polite and friendly smile. “Mr. Lee, good evening”

Your voice strained making you cringe at yourself but you needed to be nice even if you were waiting on him. “Very glad you could make it” Heeseung on the other hand picked up on the passive aggressive tone as he remained silent to stare at his hand that once held the pen,

“Management wanted me to come, says it’s good for publicity” He laughed before pulling out the seat in front of you, “Wasn’t much I could do or say to get out of it”

He sucked in his teeth when he took the seat, his index finger tapping against his chin as if he were deep in thought, “I don’t think I’ve heard your name in the sport catalogs though, who else have you interviewed?”

He expected an answer, you could see that from him. But you skipped past it, “Well luckily for you, I won’t take too much of your time” You sorted out the papers in front of you before grabbing your notepad and circling his name at the top

You snuck a glance up to him when you thought he wasn’t looking even when he was, you still jotted down ‘Impulsive or Calculated?’ under his name before fully looking up with a smile to be met with a light frown etched on his face.

“You and I both know that's far from the truth. This is going to take months to cover so you won’t take so much of my time today but soon you will be placed into my weekly schedule just to get insider scoop of me” Heeseung folded his arms and huffed loudly when he slumped down in his seat

You didn’t focus on whatever he was saying instead you reread the questions your supervisor created for you to ask in this interview to ensure the ‘success’ of the story.

“So Mr. Lee why don’t you tell me-” Heeseung cuts you off with a hand up, the frown pulling further down his mouth into a distasteful scowl and your brows knitted in confusion as you looked at him

“Just call me Heeseung and please spare us from all the vague question bullshit”

“Why don’t you just ask me your questions, mhm? What do you want to know about me?” The emphasis of the you in his sentence left you dumbfounded, “Don’t like every writer have their own stuff they want to ask but are forced to follow a script”

You couldn’t even manage to get a word in as he continued. He leaned forward on his elbows and tilted his head to the side with a bright smile that showed all his teeth.

“Let’s make this actually worth our wild so go ahead and ask me the questions I know you have listed out for me and not the ones your boss thinks will do numbers”

It must’ve shown on your face that he nailed it right on the money to leave you like this so speechless but impress nevertheless. The corners of his mouth inched upwards when you wordlessly switched the scripture your boss printed out for you and slipped underneath the pile of paper before scourging for the list he somehow knew you had.

“Knew you had one” He muttered under his breath while he watched you adjust yourself in your seat and mimicked his exact position

Both of you leaned in so close to each other that your breaths fanned over another, a deep stare into each other’s eyes curling his insides in itself.

“You once stated in an interview 4 years ago that you’re to be the greatest living player society has ever seen in a decade. Especially emphasizing with runner up star hockey player Park Sunghoon” The once secured smirk of his faltered, his prominent adam's apple bobbing up and down to the question

With the mention of Sunghoon, Heeseung leaned back on the chair, slightly adjusting himself in it to only awkwardly clear his throat. You watched his every move, noting his body language at the mention of Sunghoon’s name.

“What makes you so sure that you are?”

He closed his eyes and moved his head as if to rack his brain for some type of held back response before he looked at you with a grin, “Stats. Articles. Awards. Common sense?” He shrugged his shoulders like it was the most known thing, “Don’t you think so?”

“Those all come from outside opinions. None of it comes from you and I want to know what you think” He scoffed a smile in response, you were called all kinds of names before blunt, rude, mean, anything you could think of

And yet, it’s your driving force to get what you want.

For Heeseung, a crazed look glimmered over his eye as he folded his arms across his chest before stretching them to the chair and gripping the sides.“I don’t need to think that I am. I know that I am” He let out a toothy grin, “Does that work for you?”

You stared at him for a moment before breaking the eye contact to write down another bullet point under his name, ‘Cocky but maybe for the right reason’

You crossed your legs over each other with a raise of your eyebrow as you pointed your pen pointing towards him, “But if you so claim to be the best, how come you haven’t skyrocketed in popularity unlike competitor Park Sunghoon?” You sucked at your teeth with a tilt of your head to look back at the male ahead

“He seems to be doing fantastic if we’re talking data-wise, he’s been carrying his team to championship success, lined up brand deals left and right to being one of the highest paid athletes this year alone and, his popularity through the roof both inside and outside the country”

“You claim to be the best due to statistical evidence and while yes in your department, you are high up there” You leaned back into your chair further, “But outside of the basketball court, what do you offer?”

The toothy grin he gave you faltered before etching into a more sinister smirk, impressed on the confidence you were emitting. “Is this your way of saying that I bring nothing to the table of what society suspects of me just because I’m an athlete?”

You shrugged your shoulders with a pull of your mouth back to hide your smile, “Not confirming nor denying”

He threw his back in a laugh, “I guess you can say that I don’t allow myself to be molded by society into being another pretty face for them to idolize” Heeseung sighed before moving his head to side making his hair frame out of his eyes, “I have a job to do unlike that hockey player you keep mentioning”

Your gaze narrowed at the hint of venom in his voice to be an athletic rivalry before the corner of your lips tugged up into a sly smile. With your pen gliding over to the bottom of the paper to discreetly scribble a note that you were now sure of, prosperity.

$$$

The bright screen of your laptop burned your eyes for how long you’ve been staring at the empty document. For the time spent in the same spot, just to have nothing was making you irritated and your head pound.

You can’t write a single thing down for either of them. What happened to your touch or maybe it was their personas weren’t as captivating as people made it out to be, especially in the eyes of actual journalism.

There were no hooking starters that would catch anyone’s attention without being repetitive with all their other interviews. ‘Star Hockey Heartthrob Park Sunghoon Sweeps Nations Hearts’ or ‘Lee Heeseung: Not Only Scores Baskets but Also Championships’. All bullshit headlines for the same repeating answers and questions.

All of them are unoriginal and you wouldn’t succumb to that. You groaned loudly as you dragged a hand over your face but the moment you rested your hand back on the keyboard, your phone rang.

You were going to ignore it at first but after the 3rd call you huffed loudly and saw the unknown number calling before finally answering it with an annoyed sigh, “Hello?”

“For a minute I thought you weren’t going to answer me” You pulled your phone from your ear at the smugness bled through the phone and your tensed shoulders softened before letting out a laugh

“Now how did you get my number Heeseung”

“Just a few clicks over here, a little bit over there until I found you. You weren’t that hard to find” Heeseung chuckled and through the on-going line you heard shuffling before he let out a low groan

“Where are you right now?”

“You sure sound eager to know why? Going to keep me company?” His teasing tone made your roll your eyes which he swore he could feel on his end

“Why did you call me?”

A loud hiss from the other side of the call at the standoffish tone you used made your lips curl up to the side, “Ouch aren’t you supposed to be nice and sweet? What happened to the warm greetings”

“I am supposed to be your client”

You let out a scoff loud enough for him to hear, “Well you are calling sometime in the night while I’m trying to work so you’re being a disruption”

“Well I just wanted to call to see how you were doing” He gave a false sweetness to his words which you didn’t believe

“You mean you want to know how the story is coming along, don’t you?”

“Well I mean… I didn’t say that, you put those words in my mouth”

“I just won’t deny or admit anything” Heeseung copied what you said to him during your first meet and you were impressed he even remembered

“Well as we are speaking, there has been a straight line on a blank screen blinking for the past 4 hours so how does that sound for ya?”

“Sounds like you’re making excellent progress in my opinion” You snickered at his comment which made him heartily laugh

You leaned back on your chair with a heavy exhale that his phone managed to pick up, “Not in the absolute slightest”

There was a moment of silence until his voice peaked out in a much softer tone, “Sounds like you need to take your mind off it. Staring at the screen won’t make the story start typing itself”

“Then what do you suggest Heeseung mhm? I don’t think there’s much to do at this time”

“That’s where you’re wrong. You’re talking to me, I know my way around”

“Are you asking to take me out?” You raised an eyebrow and placed your hand under your arm as you turned around in your chair

“If you want it to be then yes. If you don’t want it to be then no”

The seriousness in his tone made you giggle. You tugged up on your bottom lip as your smile slipped on through, “Sure”

And you thought this would mean punctuality, that for someone who cares a lot about time on the court would also have the same urgency outside of it. But having to keep checking the time counting down the seconds until the next minute came, you let out a frustrated huff.

All talk about being on time when he’s late himself.

Noticing the lack of appearance by Heeseung, you rolled your eyes, finding your actions foolish for even coming out this late to meet with him. You turned a heel to head back home when your name was loudly shouted from the side.

Looking over your shoulder, there was Heeseung jogging up to you as he motioned for you to wait.

He watched how you scoffed at him and turned your back at him. He cursed under his breath before quickening his pace to stop in front of you, making you stop in your tracks, “Woah. Woah, where are you going?”

You stared right into his eyes to see the softness and actual apologetic expression he had. Your frown faltered for a second but you stopped from giving in. “You said be here by 12. In case you haven’t noticed it’s about to be 1” You pushed his hands that hovered over your arm in a huff

“I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry” He rushed out in one breath, “My manager called me about having a match tomorrow and I had to work out the details before I could leave” His eyes pleaded at you as his mouth unconsciously form a pout

You stared at him as his lips unconsciously tugged downwards easing into a smile when you let out a breathy sigh with an obvious roll of your eyes to show your annoyance. “Next time be on time” His frown turned upside down

“Next time?” You picked up on the teasing tone and you had to hold back another roll of your eyes again as you poked at his side making him yelp in surprise

He stared at you in shock before bursting out into a laughter that prompted your own smile, “Never had a journalist poke me at my side”

“There’s always a first for everything” You softly hummed as he glanced over to you with a much softer smile

“Yeah… There’s always the start of something new” His voice trailed into a silent hushed, the lull of his head felt light but his body felt heavy

A contrast he didn’t know before but swore he could get use to.

$$$

Heeseung enjoyed it far more than he would like to admire because it was dizzying having his mouth in contact with your skin. He was only supposed to walk you to your front door after bringing you to an underground 24/7 ramen place where there were little to no interactions.

Usually he doesn’t show anyone else but it was the only thing that came to mind and he didn’t expect to have a nice conversation with you that didn’t involve anything about his career. Everything was just about him or you, stories that were forgotten but brought up for the night.

And he told himself he was walking you all the way back to make sure you got in safely when he lives on the whole opposite side but he wasn't sure who leaned into who first but the soft plush of your lips against his cheek wiped all thoughts from his mind.

He screwed his eyes shut, his hands finding your waist as he flushed your body closer to his, molding perfectly to each other. Your arms wrapped around his neck, your fingers playing with the tips of his back hairs as he tilted his head and pressed his lips harder against your skin.

Your soft sounds surrounded the two of you and he was drinking it up. Lack of oxygen being the least concern because now that he’s gotten a taste of you, he doesn’t think he can ever give them up.

Heeseung continued to dig into the flush of your sides in protest when you yanked his hair to pull him away from the repeated bites he gave towards your neck. “Stop biting” You warned but he was too far gone to listen, “I’m serious, I can’t walk around with hickeys all over my neck”

“Then I’ll put them where no else could see them but me” He slurred the words noticing the discoloring onto your skin, “You look so pretty with my marks on you”

Your cheeks burned and you pulled at his shirt but he didn’t budge. He leaned back into you and attached his mouth to your jaw, trailing to the bone until he was at your cheek.

Your heart rate was through the roof, fingers roughly tugging at the stretched shirt when he neared your lips. You turned your head away, throwing it back in a sultry gasp. Heeseung pulled away from the corner of your mouth and looked at you with surprised eyes

“Let’s move this inside” He mumbled between the open kisses on your neck before opening your door and guiding you in while you yanked your keys out of the lock right before he closed the door with his foot

“You’re not wasting time, are you?” You giggled when he hooked his arms under yours, you felt him shake his head as you pulled him further into your place

“Why would I? It’s you” Your heart fluttered harshly against your chest, you didn’t know why but you were too caught up in something else that you moved past him

You yelp when your body is met with the table, you peered over your shoulders to see your discarded laptop opened with papers scattered all around it. You were going to move out of the side when his hand extended out and closed your computer shut, “You won’t be needing that for now” He chuckled, his hands moving in to the corner, the papers scattering to your floor before he pushed your body onto the table

Slotting himself in between your legs clasping them around his lower back keeping him in place. “Don’t worry babe, I’m not going anywhere”

“Good” You dragged his collar, he yelled at the roughness but when you licked a stride over his adam apple his body became pliant on top of you

You hissed the more his fingers dug into your sides, a grip so tight that you swore you could feel him poking inside—ironically. “Heeseung”

He hummed when you called out his name, “What happened baby?” He chuckled darkly into your ear leaving goosebumps to rise on your face

You rocked your hips upwards to meet his. You moaned when his dick rubbed against your clothed self, you couldn’t stop, too caught up in the feeling you continued to rock your hips harder and faster.

Heeseung groaned each time you grazed him with your pussy. It was so sweet, so warm, so wet. “Drenching my pants there baby”

Wrapping your arms over his shoulder to bury your head in the crook of his neck to hide the embarrassment. The tight grip at your waist faded away, you pitifully whined making Heeseung laugh at your need.

He gripped the edge of the table rocking his body forwards to meet your weak thrust. Your fingers dug into his back when droplets of sweats landed onto your chest. Each push of his cock into your clothed self left you moaning with a care in the world.

“Need you- Please” You tried to pull his shirt up but he forced your arms off around him and planted them up next your head, you stared at him with wide eyes when stopped his incomplete thrust

“Don’t get frustrated with me, you started this” When you were going to complain, you sucked in a sharp breath at the harsh grind against your body, “Now we’re going to end it”

He rubbed himself all over your clothed core, the juts near your clit making you wail as he continued to reluctantly shove into you. The bulge pushed through the restraints of your pants and underwear to poke between your folds.

Throwing your head back onto the table with a hard thud, your back growing stiff and aching as you attempted to match his tempo to ultimately fail.

You’ve had your share of hookups before to relieve the buildup but nothing compared to this.

“Fuck I can feel you fluttering around me” Heeseung groaned loudly, the hands that held your arms up transferred to one head as he pinned them above your head while his other hand palmed over your clit

“Heeseung!” You squealed in his name withering under his touch, your legs growing weak around his body but jolted his body forward when you tried to pull away

“Don’t fucking stop- Give it to me” He rooted his lower half connected to yours, your fingers scratched the back of his hand, red streaks left in its wake because of you, “Come on baby”

Your grinds grew fervent against his rocking body, the stimulation making you hyper-aware of everything along the spews coming from him when his plunges grew messy.

“Who knew that you’d fucking love this” He laughed, a dark one that made your insides scream more for him, “Rubbing yourself all over me like some desperate virgin”

You shake your head but the moans that slipped past your swollen lips from how much you bit on them would say otherwise. “No? You're a good girl?”

Nodding at his question, he chuckled before rubbing harder down on the bundle of nerves. Moving your body side to side as you felt a growing bubble in your abdomen, you knew what it meant and Heeseung did too.

“Then fucking come like one”

Your screwed eyes shut mouth falling slack as you rut harder against his clothed cock until you arched off the table, your loudest moan ripping out of you. Heeseung muttered ‘fuck’ when you held him closer to you—using him to get yourself off even more.

His slender fingers unbuttoned your pants and fiddled with the zipper to slip into them and when he found the swollen pulsing bundle of nerves, he grinned wildly, his cheeks hurt from how wide it was. He loosened his hand holding your wrist.

Instantly, you clawed at his back when he discarded one artifact to rub over the thin layer covering your clit. You mewled weakly, each jerk over your body causing more friction in between. “Wanted to help you out” The fallacious innocence contradicted his actions but who were you to complain?

The sensitiveness made you grow pliant under him, the movement of his slow rocking hips and working fingers made your nails push past his shirt and to his skin that you were sure would leave indents.

Too aware and dissociated, you felt the tingling feeling in your lower stomach, an ache growing in you of a need to be filled. “Heeseung. Heeseung. Heeseung” You chant his name like it was the only thing you know

And it made his heart hammer out of his chest, the weak call of his name leaving your lips made him grin when he huffed a laugh directly into the shell of your ear. “Say my name baby”

However, the moment stopped and he ripped his hand out of your pants and put as much distance as possible from your moving lower half.

“Heeseung!” You frustratedly yell and lazily lift your head to see his wicked grin

“Can’t have you coming twice just like that, need to feel it around my cock” The laugh made you frown but inside of you felt giddy, excitement coursing throughout your body

“Then do something about it” You snapped but you yelped when he pushed his legs off of him and hooked his fingers under your loosened pants and panties, swiping you of them in one go

Attempting to cover the new bare exposure but before you could fully close your legs, he grabbed your gunner's thigh and bared you to him which you didn’t protest. He underestimated himself big time now that he was faced with your glistening folds, shimmering by the dim lamp.

“Looks like you won’t even need prep…” He sighs heavily, the pad of his thumb rubbing over your skin, your cheeks burned with how focused he was on you, “So pretty”

“Heeseung” You whined using your hands to cover your face and he laughed, his hand stretching out and peeling them away to see you

“Yeah… Absolutely gorgeous” He told when looking straight into your eyes

Your face dropped watching how his eyes flickered between your mouth and eyes. You nervously gulped, your hands resting on his shoulders, fiddling with the shirt before tugging upwards on it.

His shirt hiking up, he smirked when he noticed what you were doing. “You could’ve said so” He murmured when his hand ran up your side and under your shirt, “But I’m pretty sure it works both ways”

When his roughed yet soft hands touched your skin, you hissed. Like fire burning, you yanked his shirt higher and pulled it over his head while he did the same. A silence surrounded the two of you when you pushed yourself up on your elbows and he backed away.

Heeseung admired your figure. Only left in your bra, he felt all thoughts thrown out the window to be nothing. The relationship that was meant to be strictly professional was squished to the ground. He reached out and played with the strap of your bra, the elastic running under his hand as he slid it off.

You watched his movements, not daring to move an inch while he did all the work. He reached behind and unclasped your bra with no hesitation, instantly the undergarment slipped down your arms, exposing your unmarked chest to him.

Without a moment to waste, he attached his mouth to your chest, sucking into the soft nipple before running his tongue over it, hardening instantly. Heeseung fondled with the other, his fingers twisting the nub making your jolt, “Heeseung” You meekly sigh as he nibbled on the flesh

Spit accumulated at the corners of his mouth as he messily made out with your tit, he bit harsher making you squeal but not moving from his mouth. Heeseung gripped at your breast tightly, quickly getting lost in the feel of the plush squishing his face.

You jerk harshly when he bites down on your breast and you look at him with a frown while he looks up at you with gleaming eyes. “Look even nicer with my marks”

“I told you I’d leave it places only I can see”

You roll your eyes but the initial thought faded out when he pulls at your hips to the edge of the table, “Turn around for me”

Not daring to go against him in worry that he’d leave you high and stranded, you complied and stood up on wobbly legs before turning your body around. Yet, the moment you did, he carefully pushed you down to the wood. Your face squished on the side as you gripped the edges.

Unable to see him, your heart pounded into the table but the air got caught in your throat when he gripped one side of your ass and pulled it up, exposing the glistening of your pussy to him.

You mewled loudly when he took a long stride up, collecting the leaking juices onto his taste buds. “You even taste sweet too” You shivered from his rumbling voice, “So fucking sweet”

Your nails dug into the wood beneath you. Anticipation grew by the second, you tried to peer behind to see him but he pressed his palm flat on your upper back, his free gripping your hips as he swallowed up your juices. Your knees caved into each other that you would’ve fallen if it weren’t for the table holding you up.

The obscene noises filled the room, each drag of his tongue caused an enormous sensation in you. Softly wailing his name every now and then whenever he keeps his face buried in your cunt, not letting up until you weakly kick him away.

Loud pants followed by his chuckle made you hide your face into the table disregarding the discomfort but when you heard the buckles of his belt, your heart raced and legs squished together.

“Right here with you” He attempted to reassure and block out the drop of his pants to the ground, you gripped harder on the edge while squeezing your eyes shut

Heeseung grabbed the base of his length and dragged the tip over your folds coating and smeared your arousal everywhere on you and him. You moaned, feeling it tease your hole, the small stretched nearly enough for you to cum alone, embarrassingly.

He groaned, feeling the tightness wrapping around him for a split second before rubbing his length entirely over your core, poking your clit at the same time. “Heeseung, stop messing around”

The grits of your teeth he laughed and pulled away and you held back a protest and hit your lip to keep silent. “No need to be rude” He smacked the roof of his mouth with his tongue, “So impatient and desperate for me to fill up your lonely pussy huh?”

“What is the magic word?” He hovered over your back, his bare chest in close contact with your skin

You turned your head to side and looked at him through the corner of your eye, his bright side grin with a shadow casting over his eyes, “Fuck me please”

He didn’t respond to your plea and he pushed himself off your body, your bottom lip quivered as you tried to say something but a loud moan ripped out of you when his tip pushed past the rim of your pussy. The wood scratched under your nails as you planted yourself from the length pushed into you.

“Good girl… Taking it all for me. So fucking good to me” Heeseung groaned stabilizing himself with hands on your hips as he sinked you back onto his cock

Heeseung had to constantly remind himself to go easy, to go slow. But the way that you hugged him, sucked him in so perfectly, nearly made him lose his mind.

A stretch that you’ve never felt before, being split apart on a cock, let alone Heeseung’s.

“Damn I can stay inside of you forever” He loudly groaned as you fluttered around him but the loudest noise you’ve heard from yet filled the room when he bottomed out

Your body squished harder onto the table, comfortability being thrown out of the window as you were only able to focus on his weak twitches inside him. Your walls tried to get adjusted to the stretched and pull by him

“M-Move” You meekly nodded your head and that was the green light for Heeseung

Moving his hips slowly, not pulling away so much but enough to make you feel like you were almost empty before pushing back in. Each thrust made you shake and legs weak. “Doing so for good for me baby” He praised which made you clench around him

Immediately noticing the bodily reaction, he dug his fingers deeper into your flesh, “Like when I praise you for taking my cock?” He darkly snickered when you responded in a mewl, “Or would you like when I say it was like you were made to take me?” A sudden harsh thrust filled you and jolt your body harder into the board you were bent over

A switch flipped off in your mind, a moan ripping out of you only let to blab incoherently which made Heeseung laugh at your state, “Think it’s the second one” He whispered loud enough for you to hear

Heeseung quickly found his rhythm. A slow but powerful one that poked your inside, molding and shaping them only for him, “Only I can make you feel like this- Only me”

The possieveness of his words flew over your head as you rapidly nod your head but as he pistons his cock past your gummy walls, he abruptly stops. “Say it”

“W-Wha-“ You breathlessly said but when he began to drag his cock out, everything in your mind snapped into place, “Only you can! Only you please”

Your pleading went straight to his head and his chest lightly pumped to only jerk his hips forward. His tip poked your g-spot in one that made you slightly scream. You bit down on your lip to keep yourself quiet but Heeseung wrapped his hand at the back of neck, his hot breath fanning your ear, “Don’t keep quiet. Make some fucking noise”

He dragged himself out to push himself back in without a proper pace. It was clear that you would take it—which you did and were not complaining. Each plunge into your soapy self, the wet and warm confinement something he knew he could no never part from.

You focused on how he slid in with ease, your arousal making it nearly perfect to accommodate him. Each drag making you dizzy with pleasure Your hands balled the table, not caring the scratches you might’ve been leaving behind.

And you didn’t hold back. Releasing every noise that vibrated through your chest and out made sure Heeseung could hear it perfectly. “That’s a good girl” He sprawled his hand into your lower back while tightening his grip at your neck, “My fucking good girl”

“Heeseung! Please” He laughed at the blabs that mixed with your noises, his pace irregular but just perfect to make sure you knew it was him, that he was left in your mind and body

“Please what?” He hummed and you weakly waved your hand behind

“More”

He looked at you with a glint flashing over his eyes. You weren’t able to see it but you could feel the way he was looking at you. He laughed, your wish was only for him to fulfill, “So desperate”

Heeseung held back strained grunts but some slipped through every now and then when you clenched around him just right, “Be a needy girl then”

“Going to let me ruin you for no one else. Breed your pussy that you’ll be leaked from hour- no days, maybe even weeks” Those words spewed made you whined and pitifully nod your head in need, you blabbed incoherent words and yet, he strung them along to perfect sentences

“So no matter how far you go, you’ll always think of me. I’ll be right inside of here” Heeseung moved his palm from your back to your stomach, pushing down making you feel his cock ramming into you

Your moans melted and muffled by the table as he pressed deeper, “Going to fill you up so much baby” He chuckled while letting out strained grunt, his pace erratic and messy, “Take it, take it for me”

Heeseung clawed your back while he slammed his hips harshly before releasing a guttural moan when you convulsed around him, coating his shaft in your release which promoted his own orgasm.

You dragged your fingers at your table in a loud moan when he spilt into your velvet wall, painting them white of him. You faintly gasp trying to regulate your breathing, to hands that hold both of you peeling off your body.

Giving a few last push, his tip pushing his own release into the inside crevices that he now resided in. Your mouth fell open, letting out quiet moans as a drowsiness took over you.

Your eyes felt heavy and were going to close but snapped open when Heeseung slid out completely without warning. The emptiness is not evident due to the accumulated release but when you weakly turned to your side to face him after everything. He gave you a warm smile and extended his hands out to you.

“What are you-“ You shut your mouth when you catch sight of the gold necklace he always wore everywhere, seeing it in every photograph of him now resting in your chest

The cold metal touched your skin and you looked down as best as you could to see the gold necklace dangling off your neck, “Heeseung…”

“You look so pretty like this… You are always so beautiful” He admired the afterglow you were left in, marked all over with his hickeys, sweat and spit lathered all over your body, “It looks better on you than me”

It was the difference in how he was a few moments ago, he planted a soft kiss on your bare shoulder, he traced up to your marked neck, “It’s yours now”

You admired the necklace through the haze of your mind, allowing your neck to be kissed up by him, the glimmer it had even through the pale lighting. “It’s real gold so take care of it for me” You heard Heeseung chuckle and your heart fluttered at the thought

His gold necklace is now yours.

$$$

Playing with the chain around your neck. Tracing over it made you smile. There was an unexplainable glow to you that others talked about but you couldn’t see it yourself but certainly could feel it.

A feeling lighter than what you are used to, the weight on your shoulders lifted with an unexplainable swirl washing over you.

However the moment didn’t last long when you were snapped out of the daze by a chilling voice. Dropping the necklace and adjusting your collar, you look up to see Sunghoon looming over the table.

“Mr. Park” You smiled but came out more strained than relaxed making him frown at the forceful gesture, it was like the first smile you gave him and it irked him

Your first meeting with him when you were assigned to meet him in a specific location away from peering eyes. It was obvious for high class people, an escape from the dazzling public light. And you knew this because one of your co-workers covered the infamous high end nightclub.

While you knew yourself to be a bit early than the mutual time set. It gave you some clarity of your mind and to settle yourself properly. The differences were subtle between the two athletes but they were there, there’s no denying it.

You looked down to the papers in your arms, the slow jazz music filled the venue. Your eyes reread the similar printed scripture with your boss’ name written in the corner for credit, a tugged of your lips pulled downwards when the memory of your interview with Heeseung filled your mind.

Shaking out of that thought, your freehand hovered the material before crumbling it into a wrinkled ball because if it was out of sight, it would be out of mind.

The soft call of your last name made you peer over your shoulder to see that no profile photo or any photo that had his face plastered on it did not amount to the sliver of justice needed of how he looked in real life.

Great beauty, sculptured face littered with moles, prominent eyebrows that popped, a jawline that could cut through anything that stood in his way and sharp eyes that had a sweetening feel under it.

Slightly disheveled hair pushed back by the squiggly headband as beads of sweat covered his forehead. He wore a thin long sleeve that rested perfectly on his broad shoulders which appeared wider in person than what you’ve seen on screen the few times you tuned in.

“Mr. Park” You spread a polite smile which wasn’t reciprocate by him as he only motioned you to follow the unexpected leading host

With every step you took following the host, you became aware of the watchful eyes and Heeseung’s words flashed through your mind ‘A pretty face for them to idolize’ and suddenly your own list of questions began to sparkle.

The fallen smile slowly rose back when the host bid goodbye, leaving Sunghoon to move the chair out for you to sit in, “Thank you” You muttered as he pushed it in for you but still no response from him

Your eyes followed as he walked over to the seat in front of you. As he sat down, you realized his mouth has not moved from the thin line nor has he even properly acknowledged you.

However, when you were going to go through with your regular routine, it was like a switch flipped and he extended a hand out for you with a fake smile, “Pleasure to meet you” You accepted it with a nod of your head

“Thank you for being willing to meet with me” Your notepad flipped over with his name plastered on the header with your pen at hand, “Let’s begin, shall we?”

Sunghoon nodded as he adjusted himself, hands raked over his hair to get rid of the headband, allowing his hair to fall down to its original flowy state, “If you’ll forgive my poor attire. I am just coming back from practice”

Your brows knitted as you looked up at him. It clicked in your mind when he spoke a semi-long sentence that his responses were rehearsed. Strategic. Unnatural and purely planned.

You expected this type of interaction considering how this would not be his first and most certainly won’t be his last interview of his life.

Waving your hand your smile never hesitates in hopes of being a reassurance, “I don’t mind. Does your practice usually run this long?” He nods pulling at the long sleeve in an attempt to make himself more presentable

You softly hummed before writing down ‘hard worker and ambitious but no clear goal’ in the empty column under his name. “Let’s start with your current succession of winning the championship alongside your team yet again this year” You decided to start off slow and easy instead of jumping right into it, while you may be working to get insider scoop, you weren’t a monster

“Tell me about the preparation that went into it”

He corrected his posture and tried to mimic your heartily smile with his own. “Well of course, I couldn’t have done it with my team. We were able to-”

You quickly stop him with a raise of your hand. While you were aware that there was work to be done to even get a dent in the barrier of his persona that masked the real him. These responses of teamwork will not ruin you from perfecting this story.

“I meant about you actually” You leaned back into the chair, your notepad landing on your lap, “I want to know the preparation you went through” You put emphasis in the you in your sentence

“The good, the bad, the ugly and everything in between” You lightly scoffed, his eyes flickering between you and the raising pen, “If I wanted the generic answer, I wouldn’t have asked to meet. I could’ve just looked up online of another interview you did and get the same response you were just going to give me”

Sunghoon stared at you wide eyed, he was stumped by your words. He tried to reel back in the unbalanced atmosphere, his mouth opening and closing for some proper deviation but nothing came to mind.

He took a deep breath and let out a loud chuckle only to find your hard gaze still on him. Even past the facade he’s always put up when he did interviews and was in the public’s eyes, he suddenly felt stripped bare by you and he only met you not even 10 minutes ago.

“I do suppose I give similar answers from time to time” The attempt to lift the heavy mood failed but he hastily looked when you sighed

“You do it all the time actually” You bit your tongue and mumbled a breathless curse when unable to catch yourself from saying your thought, “I’m sorry that was rather straight-forward of me to say”

“It’s your job to be” Sunghoon answered leaving you shocked but it faded away when another thought creeped into your mind

“Then can I divert from these questions for a moment?” Immediately picking up confusion written on his face, you nibble on your lip and look down at your lap, “Well you see, there’s always been talks about your career before hockey” You eased into the topic before looking up at him to instantly he visibly tensed when he heard your sentence

Bingo.

“You were a renowned figure skater- So close to joining the national team but suddenly declared your departure with the words ‘Of wanting to broaden your horizon’ and left without another word” Your elbows perked onto the table as you inched forward, “Just what prompted that decision?”

The straight shoulders and flickered eyes made an almost sinister smile ghost your face at the wonders, the perfect posture and jaw clenching deflated to nothing by your questioning.

His gaze hung low to look up through his eyelashes, hit teeth nibbling on his bottom lip as he wearily smiled, “That’ll be for a later time if it does come”

His response made your anticipation drop to the pit of your stomach seeing the avoidance of the question. “Alright” You sadly hummed, crossing over your legs to glance down at the listed question

You smiled once you circled back on the topped bolded question, “Let’s talk about rivalries then”

The knit of his thick shaped eyebrows in even more confusion made you grin before tapping at your notepad with your pen without a care, “Star basketball player Lee Heeseung”

Right when the name fell from your lips his once tensed shoulders slouched, eyes wavering around as he was diminished to nothing now because of the mentioned name.

“There were rumors that were later confirmed that the two of you used to practice in the same ice skating rink while you both were in your previous respective sports before ultimately switching careers”

“With this information there was always one big question floating around” You stopped for a second taking notice of his reaction of each words you said

The evident clenching of his jaw that caused his cheeks to slightly hallow in, his fist clenching on his lap under the table, looking anywhere else but at you, and you took in everything he did.

Awkwardly clearing his throat, anxiety on the rise as he felt you inching closer to him, your body nearly folding over the table, “Did the two star players ever cross paths?”

However, expecting a long awaited response to your question that no one else dared to ask, you were met with an abrupt snap, “Nope. We never did” You jerked back by the sharp sternness in his answer

Sunghoon looked up after he responded. His approach was aggressive and not at all what his managers remind him time and time again to act like during interviews. He silently cursed under his breath but when he caught sight of you expecting a scowl, he was met with your grin.

Your pen twirled between your fingers before the tip met with your picked up notepad, discreetly writing down a bullet point. The grin plastered on your face turned into a toothy one as you read over the new note under his name that you circled twice for emphasis, liar.

And that's how you remembered the hockey player. You left abruptly right after that and he tried to drag more questions out of you knowing that if he left it at that, his managing team would hate him.

But you didn’t spare him any mind, only saying how you’ll reach out to schedule the next meeting and left him alone in the nightclub where all eyes were watching him.

And now this time, he swore he would not make the same mistake twice. He couldn’t mess up, not when he already received an earful when he told what happened during the first time.

So when looking around the empty nightclub for sight of you, he notices in the deadzone it is in the afternoon until he spots you buried deeply in paperwork and an empty seat beside you.

His management told him to butter you up to make sure you don’t spill anything about the first meeting but the thought of having to do so wasn’t repulsing but rather nerve wracking.

While it felt wrong to do so, he didn’t want to jeopardize his career over it.

Gulping down the lump his hand hovered over the seat as he could feel your strong gaze on him which ultimately led to him switching to the seat in front of you.

Your eyebrows raised when he opted to choose to the different seat but you looked past it and dusted off your clothing like you were waiting decades for him to show, “I’m glad you managed to meet me again despite your busy schedule”

“I know your rigorous training must be tiring-” You were suddenly cut off but Sunghoon chimed in promptly cutting you off

“How come you were smiling so much?” The tone of falsed sternness but filled with hesitation, you looked up from your notepad in surprise

He never looked away from you and your insides twisted in themselves. “What?” You knitted your brows as you awkwardly laughed, closing and opening your mouth before straining out a fake smile that he managed to see right through, “Oh uh… It’s nothing”

You opened your mouth, “You should smile more often” He rushed out to awkwardly clear his throat, “I mean more genuine smiles, not the fake interview ones” You closed your mouth when he stopped talking

For the first time you’ve seen Sunghoon nervously shying away from your gaze. You blinked trying to regain your senses, your hand curled tighter around the pen, knuckles whitening in the process before loosening around it.

“Well I definitely will take that into consideration” Sunghoon smiled softly to himself when he caught that in the corner of his eye. Slowly adjusting himself to fully face you, “So as I was saying about training regime, how are you and your team-“

“I’m so sorry to interrupt once again- I know we just started but…” Your brows knitted in the middle to usher him to finish, “I was actually thinking about what you were saying last time and I think you should ask the non generic questions”

He paused for a moment before continuing, “I just think it will be able to prove a little more of a insight on who I am as a person”

Excitement isn’t a big enough word to describe the feeling. A miracle was laid upon you and handed to you on a silver platter, just like a dream.

“Well I’m glad you’re entrusting me to handle that“ Your smile that he talked about came plastering on your face making his smile grow, “I promise to capture the essence of you as much as I can!”

“I won’t let you down” Sunghoon softly chuckles at the light hearted demeanor you showcased

A switch flipping inside of your head to a new side that was held away from peering eyes and his heart thumped against his chest realizing that he was able to catch a glimpse of it.

You suddenly seemed far more interested, your undivided attention on him while you didn’t even need to look down at the paper of question, “Was there any significant moment that molded you into becoming what you are today? Such an admired athlete”

The question went straight into it and Sunghoon cleared his throat, his eyes jumping around as his focus shifted until landing onto you. He gulped and you watched his Adam’s apple bobbed. Your jaw clenches suppressing a smile as you look at him sighing softly.

“It might’ve been the first time I first stepped on the ice ever in my life. I think that is when I knew I was meant for life on the ice” A shiver ran up your spine as you listened to the rawness of his emotions

He never spoke of his experience like this. All the dedication you did, reading all the interviews he did, never once did he describe it as such.

“Do you miss figure skating?” Your voice was softer than before and Sunghoon couldn’t help an unexplainable feel in him

He hummed softly while nodding, “There’s times where I do miss. It was what I’ve known my entire life”

“Do you regret the transition?” The question made him ponder, you saw the conflict written on his face as he remained silent, his fiddles with his fingers but tried to stop himself

You noticed his movements and quickly wrote a note about it before dropping your pen and paper down to extend a hand towards him. He jumped when you softly pat his hands. He looks up to you smiling softly at him,“You don’t have to say if you don’t want to”

Sunghoon hiccups and quickly pulls back his hands and laces them together, coughing a soft apology to hold back the blush daring to paint his cheeks.

You lean back on the chair as you wait for him to give the green light to continue. And when he does by looking at you, his eyes spoke more words than anything said before.

“Is there anyone you want to thank for making you reach this point besides your own willpower?” Reading the next question with the small note of L.H right next to it, you were reaching into the abyss hoping for a catch

While Sunghoon was grateful you moved on from the topic of ice skating and didn’t push any further. Others journalists or interviewers would’ve pushed to get anything but not you and that warmed his heart.

“Of course it wasn’t only me but my family and everyone else who supported me when I didn’t believe in myself” It was easy to be thankful for that but he pauses, his eyes saddening at a thought.

“There was an old childhood friend of mine that I lost contact with who really helped me. He-” Sunghoon licks his lips and stares off into the distance

While you were only able to guess the possibility of it being Heeseung, deep down you were praying that it was him. Your leg bounced up and down as you waited for him to continue. “He really led me to the path that I am on now, if it weren’t for him, I would’ve been so lost”

“I am forever grateful for him”

“Do you want to dedicate something to him? In case he happens to read the article?” You cautiously ask to not scare him

Sunghoon stayed quiet for a moment before nodding his head, he leaned in forward and you did the same. When he was close enough to you, he caught a glimpse of the necklace you wore.

Noticing the shimmer of the gold chain peeking out from your shirt his eyebrows knitted at the familiarity but brushed it away..

“I just want to say I hope he’s doing well and that… He enjoying what he’s doing” He softly hummed and pleasantly smiled

Through the smile you see the pointed teeth like fangs sticking out and you look at them for a moment, “You know you should take your own advice and smile more often”

“You have a nice smile too Sunghoon” Quickly turning his gaze towards you, feeling the sweetness and sincerity in your words that his cheeks burned and his heart harshly thump against his chest

$$$

Another night passed, another morning spent with Heeseung.

You have started to grow far too accustomed to this cycle that it would be weird to not see him 4 nights out of the week till sunrise, especially in your bed.

Today is no different from any other day. The fluff of his hair tickled your neck and you giggled softly, trying to push him away. The sticky body feeling made you shiver but he only pressed himself closer to you.

“Heeseung” He only hummed when you whined his name

The calloused hands ran up and down your side, you could feel the smirk radiating off of him as he placed a soft kiss on your skin. You could feel his mouth trailing up your neck to your jaw. He traced over the bone before inching closer to the corner of your mouth.

“I like it when you say my name like that. Say it again for me baby” He slurred his words

But the loud ring of your phone distributed the moment instantly and you immediately peeled your body away from him making his body topple onto your bed at the lack of you supporting him.

He buried his head into your mattress in a frustrated sigh but sunk his head onto your pillow as his arms slipped underneath them to close his eyes from sleepiness.

You sat up to straighten your posture seeing the familiar number and answered it. “Hello?” You softly whisper wondering just why your job was calling you on your day off

Heeseung peeked one of his eyes open to watch your back facing him. He could see his mark littered all over your shoulder down your body and he proudly smiled but when your shoulders tensed, his smirk faltered.

It wasn’t until you let out a heavy sigh and the grip on your phone was painfully tight that your knuckles lost their color. The soft shuffling behind you and you let out a sharp exhale when you felt the warming presence behind you.

Heeseung laid his head onto your shoulder, you could feel him looking at you with curiosity but you ignored it to focus on the hung up call.

“Work is calling me in, something about an emergency meeting” You grumbled under your breath not liking the urgency that was used from your boss during the call

Heeseung noticed and ran a hand up and down your arm to help calm you, “Doesn’t sound so bad I mean do you have to go now?” He dragged the have in his sentence

The scowl on your face twitched upwards, feeling his roughed calloused hands roaming your bare skin to your stomach before swatting it away, “Yes I do, didn’t you hear it’s an emergency meeting”

“But I have an emergency myself” The slur pout of his voice made you finally peer to look at him

Big pleading eyes looking up at you, a light pout on his face as his hands run softly across your stomach as if it were to get you to stay. You watched how his head slowly rose to yours, you smiled and closed your eyes.

Heeseung stopped when he noticed and softly smiled as he dragged you closer to him, his breath fanning over yours but when his lips grazed your, you turned the other away making his mouth land on your cheek, “Have to go” You mumble before pushing yourself off your bed

“At least return my shirt if you’re going to leave me” Heeseung huffed and you turned when he called out to you, you fiddled with the hem of the shirt

“If you say so” Heeseung watched as you teasingly raise the shirt to expose your stomach and dampening panties, he smirked when he caught your hungry gaze

“You’re going to be the death of me” He threw his head back in a laugh but you remained looking at him, “Or maybe the downfall of me”

You chuckle at his choice of words as you quickly rip the shirt over your head before crumbling it at hand and launching it at his face, “Well at least you won’t be mine”

You didn’t worry about having to see Heeseung out knowing he would find himself out like how he always does when the moment was done and time called for either of you.

It was just more often than not, it was always him leaving first but now it was you and each step you took was sharp and purposeful when you entered the office.

Everyone turned their heads the moment you walked through the door. A stoic face but a thumping against your chest made you feel prideful. You smiled at coworkers but you saw their faltering gaze from you to the floors and hushed whispers filled the room and suddenly the excitement within you died out.

When you reach your boss’ office, you softly knock to hear ‘come in’ and when you do you weren’t sure what to expect but seeing your friend, the very co-worker whose job you were filling in for, sitting up straight with a bright smile.

She cheerily called your name and stood up to embrace you which you didn’t expect. You stood there with wide eyes and hovering arms before lightly patting her back with an awkward laugh, “What the- I thought you were going to be out for the rest of the year”

“Time was just in my favor” She gleamed happily but you wondered what this meeting with her and you meant now

Why did her return need your involvement? But your question wasn’t answered fast enough to your liking but you knew your boss hated to be rushed more than anything.

“Both of you sit, this isn’t a reunion, I called you both here because there’s more important things to be discussed before you two chit chat like old times” Your boss cleared her throat before rising from her chair

You both took the seat beside each other in front of her and looked at her as she walked in front of her desk with a loud sigh and finger pinched in between her nose bridge. “Now normally you know once it’s someone’s story it’s their stories, end of discussion”

Your heart began slowing down in beats to drop to the pit of your starch when stringing the words together. “But under the circumstances that this was originally her story and her department” Your boss looks over to your co-worker before over to you with a tight smile

“Your replacement is no longer needed so from here on out, you both will return to your original posts and work on your respective projects”

While your friend happily cheered to be officially back and take over her righteous project of the rising two athletes. You deflated, a ringing growing louder in your ear that wouldn’t leave you even longer after you stepped out of the room.

Your jaw clenched and your fingers dug into the flesh of your palm while your friend shook your shoulders in anticipation, “Well tell me all about them? What are they like? Is Sunghoon as handsome as they say?”

“What about Heeseung, is he standoffish? I heard his performance was top tier” You snapped your head at her as the last sentence was as clear as day when you heard it

“What?” Your face contorted and you saw how she hesitantly stepped back noticing the strong gaze

You sighed and dragged a hand down your face, “Sorry… I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s okay” She cuts you off with a rub of your shoulder, “I didn’t mean to steal back the story… I am super grateful you stepped up and took over for me when I couldn’t do it”

“But hey think about it now! It’s no longer your burden to carry” While the words meant to assure you only made the bubbling seething worse as you grit a smile

It should be your burden to carry but you don't want to think of the greatest loss of your career in the matter of a few hours.

$$$

‘Fertilizers are the new way of emotional expansion not only for your garden but oneself’

Simply seeing the poorly written title you snatch it from the copy machine and crumble it into a ball and throw it into the nearest trash in frustration. You tried to block out all the gossiping chatter that everyone suddenly seemed to have now that the star athletes story was no longer yours.

As you stare at the trash cash, you close your eyes to shakily inhale and exhale deeply with the repeating words of calm. calm. calm in your head. You walk back to the copy machine and press the button and antagonizaily wait for the entire catalogue to print out.

You aimlessly stared at the accumulated stack of papers before aligning it perfectly and slamming down to staple them together. Deeming it good enough for the lack of effort you put into it, you walked into your boss’ office not caring for her lack of absence and placed it on her desk.

But when you opened the door to leave, Heeseung’s face greeted you. You stumbled on your feet staring right at him while he loomed into the office without a word, his eyes set on you.

“Mr. Lee now hold on” You could hear your boss from behind but she stops when she see you in there

Your mouth moved but no sound came out as you didn’t dare focus on Heeseung. It had been a few weeks since you last contacted him of Sumghoon for that matter after purposefully ignoring his calls and messages ever since you lost the story.

There was no point of connection so why bother entertaining it anymore than what it was. You saw the warning gaze your boss gave to leave now and she’ll have a word with you later but a faint knock made everyone’s head turn to the door.

You stop your mouth from dropping seeing Sunghoon walking in with a bouquet of flowers and a soft smile but it falters at the sight of you and Heeseung.

“Mr. Park! Oh dear you both are early for your meetings… Please Please come in” Your boss welcomes the new addition and you tried to slip past but Sunghoon blocks your way in the name of an accident

“Sorry” He mutters and you don’t say anything and let him through first with hopes of being able to escape completely oblivious to lingering gaze Heeseung had on the two of you

His resting jaw tightened at the thought popping in his head making him burn a hole into the back of your head that made the hair at the back of your neck rise.

“Let me just handle with her for a second and I’ll be right with you both” You boss kindly smiles but you knew it was one of anger directed towards you

“This actually involves her so she needs to stay” Heeseung jumps in and you slowly turn around in shock

But the nonexistent back bone of your boss disappeared to nothing as she quickly closed the door behind her, enclosing you in the room with them and walking over to the blinds and shutting them close.

You looked through the large transparent windows just before she did and saw everyone’s eyes towards the room, especially your co-worker with horror all over her face until it was out of sight.

It didn’t take long for all of you to step out of your boss’ office. Her smiling widely after being able to deviate from a crisis that would’ve made her magazine a laughing stock. She shook the hand of the athletes while you slightly bowed which they reciprocated.

Sunghoon was the first to leave with the excuse of not wanting to be late for training but before he left he gave you a tight smile and snuck a glance towards Heeseung who barely looked at him the entire time.

During your time working with the two even if it may not have been that long, there was one thing you knew about Sunghoon: he's a liar.

You expected Heeseung to leave right after him but instead he stayed for a moment longer to batanly look at you without shame. “Check your phone for me okay” He mouthed before finally waving goodbye and leaving the office without another word

“What happened?” You weren’t even able to get a chance for yourself before your friend who was supposed working on the article asked

You took a step back when she roughly grabbed your shoulders, her distress and unease obvious. You opened your mouth to say anything but your boss’s shoes clacked on the tile floor gaining everyone’s attention. She pointed at your co-worker with not falter in her words, “You’re out”

“What?” Your friend awkwardly laughed looking over at you for some clarification, “What does she mean by that?” She whispered only for you to hear

“I’m sorry” Was all that you could say but even though you were apologizing from something she didn’t understand, she could feel no remorse anywhere in your words

“What happened?!” Her voice started to raise louder as she looked between you and your boss for some type of clarity before ultimately looking at you knowing your boss’ won’t explain

“They were saying how they wanted me to cover the story instead and I-I just couldn’t go against it because we would’ve lost the story” The justification on your part only angered her even more

“I swear I was going to say something but before I knew it, there was always an agreement that I would be the other to finish it since I started it” Your friend didn’t know what to do or even how to feel, she looked at you in disbelief that you didn’t break character once

“Get back to work everyone!” You hear your boss yell and the crowd disburse instantly leaving it to just be you and your freund

“That goes for you too- You’ll pick up the story she was working on…” Your boss squints at the recently printed catalogue title you put on her desk with a scowl, “Something about impact of fertilizer” You boss huffed and quickly handed the stapled pack of paper to your friend’s chest

She stared at you in disbelief only to be met with the back of your head as you faced your boss with now better posture than you’ve had ever since she came back and took the story that was rightfully hers.

“And you” Your boss faces you with a closed mouth sigh, “Get back to work on the articles for those two”

You don’t realize you were the only one left standing in the same position. You ran a hand over your face and covered your mouth with your hand to conceal your quivering mouth at the realization finally daunting you. You were back on the story.

$$$

The knock at your front door was familiar but not unexpected. You still haven't responded to his messages like he told you to do so, it was only a matter of time until he showed up and you let him in.

Stretching the collar of the shirt you wore in order to breathe better, you sucked in a breath before cracking open your front door to Heeseung looking through the crack.

When his eyes met yours and softened upon contact. “Let me in?”

Choosing to open the door for him as a response, he stepped in with ease and confidence after being here far too many times.

“What are you doing here?” You sigh but he brushes it off, admiring how nothing has changed from last time he was here

He inhales sharply quickly turning on his heel making you jump at the closeness and warmth of his skin near yours. You stumble but he quickly catches you with a hand on your mid back while you look at him with wide eyes.

Heeseung smirked, noticing your expression. Being able to see you so close and in person felt like a reward he always wanted, “Thought I told you to answer your phone” His lulled words made you weak and you looked at him and he brought his lips to hover yours. “What? Cats got your tongue now?”

You jerk your head to the side to deny the kiss which made him breathlessly laugh, “Just like the last time we saw each other” He whispered as a hand ran over your back before knocking his head into the crevice of your neck

Softly inhaling your scent he became lightheaded. He missed it—He missed you.

“Heeseung” You softly call his name and he hummed before attaching his mouth to the unblemished surface of your neck

He ran his hand over your waist to your stomach where it slowly drifted downwards to the pulsing calling his name, “Shhh let me take care of you baby”

Your eyes fluttered closed and you didn’t resist at all. Your legs pulled slightly apart and hummed in satisfaction. Whenever Heeseung said he would take care of you, he meant it.

After time of not being inside of you was a lustful torture in itself but not being able to see you was a pain he never wanted to experience again.

He wasn’t sure how much he’s released inside of you or how much he’s made you cream around his cock. All he knows is that he can never get tired of this—of you.

With a heavy breath, his body crashed on top of you. You weakly gasped but your body shivered as you weakly played with the stickiness of his hair. You push it back to showcase the mall on his forehead that is usually covered by his hair.

He smiled softly and melted into the touch. Rubbing his cheek into the crevice of your neck while he gave plush soft kisses making you giggle.

You attempt to jerk your head away but he grabs your waist and brings you close to him, his other hand grabbing your head to keep you in place. “Where do you think you’re doing?” Heeseung slurred against your skin

He nipped at the skin, running his tongue over the burning sensation making you squirm in his hold. “Heeseung” You weakly called his name and you could feel the smirk radiating off of him, “More” You slurred

Heeseung chuckled at your state, “You still want more?” His calloused hands rubbing up and down your side—sucking softly at your skin to mark it. “Must’ve been so needy without me, so lonely without me here”

“I’m sorry pretty girl”

Your body moved with his words, a fluttering within, your hips bucking forward to meet with any friction. Too lost in the moment, Heeseung yelped when you pushed him by his shoulder and climbed on his lap.

Dipping your head down to his neck, you harshly sucked on anything you could get your mouth on. Kissing his bobbing Adam’ apple and tugging at it to which he dug his fingers into your hips as a warning.

You smiled against his neck as soft held back hums were released by him. Holding onto his shoulders, switching to the other side you dragged your tongue all over the unblemished skin. “When were you damn it- going to tell me about Sunghoon”

Your mind is so hazy that you didn’t pick up on the question choosing to clamp down your teeth onto his collarbone making him wither under you, planning on doing it again.

When you moved to the opposite side by the drag of your tongue from shoulder to shoulder, Heeseung pushed you away and you blinked, staring at him in bewilderment.

Instead of the loopy smile, he was serious and you could see that. “When were you going to tell me that you were interviewing Sunghoon as well?”

Retracting your hands from his shoulder and straightened out your posture to shrug like it was nothing, “I didn’t think it mattered”

You could see he didn’t believe you in the slightest as he chose to let out a weak scoff, “C’mon baby don’t give me that”

“What are you talking about?” Instead of sitting on his lap, you crawl off it to sit on your legs facing him, “It really does not matter”

Heeseung adjusted himself against your headboard and your sheets falling off his chest down to his waist. “Uh yes it does” He told you like it were the most obvious thing ever

“Why does it?”

Your question makes him push back his hair in a groan, ruffling the fluff of it to an even more disheveled state. “I’m just saying it just does, I don’t have to explain myself to you”

You scoff loudly in disbelief, “And I have to explain myself to you?”

“That’s not the point-“

You cut him off with a sharp remark, “Then what is the point? Am I missing something here?”

“All I’m saying a simple heads-up that you’re not only interviewing me but him as well would’ve been nice” The way Heeseung referred to Sunghoon was not of one of a warm greeting but you pushed that bubbling feeling down as you narrowed your eyes with a scowl

“Ever thought that I cannot talk about confidential stuff? That this is my job Heeseung”

“You know the job that you fought for, telling my boss you’d drop out if it wasn’t me covering it” He didn’t believe the snap of your words, there was something more you weren’t telling him and yet you played innocent

He released his hair with a huff, “So what? This is my fault now?” He shook his head to deny and waved his head like it was lunacy

You smacked his waving hand away to land at his side, “No I’m telling you I’m not obligated to tell you anything”

“I’m not the one who needs the other- I don’t need you” Heeseung laughed at your stifling remark, he stared at you in amusement like he couldn’t believe his ear

“Don’t get it twisted Heeseung. This-” You motioned at the distance between the two of you, “Isn’t what you think it is”

“And yet you want me” The slur of his tone made you soften your eyes just a bit, your shoulders slightly dropping because you couldn’t deny how it is, “Plus what is this between us then mhm?”

The question posed revelation because you weren’t sure what it was between you and Heeseung. One moment you’re interviewing him and then the next he’s in your bed taking care of you like no one else has.

Your silence spoke louder and he understood that completely. He shook his head and bundled your sheets at his waist before sighing softly and rubbing a hand over your arm, “Look I’m sorry I didn’t mean to snap at you mhm?”

He sighed when you were looking off into the distance,“Babe look at me” He softly called but you pushed him away when he inched closer

“Don’t call me babe… I actually think it’s best you leave for now” Heeseung stared at his air hung hand as you shuffled away from him in your bed

“What?” Heeseung stared at you in bewilderment, he couldn’t believe what he just heard, you didn’t mean it—you couldn’t have. not when he was finally back at your side, “Don’t tell me you’re mad”

“I’m not mad, I just have to work soon” You pulled your sheets to your body but he hastily grabbed your wrist to stop you

“Now hold on, this isn’t happening- No fucking way”

Attempting to pull your wrist back as you stare at him shocked, “What exactly is happening?” You raised an eyebrow while a loud scoff bounced off the walls

“I just-” His mind was running laps, bubbling emotions erupting something nasty within, his fingers digging harshly into his palms, “I don’t get it. You already have me, why do you need to interview him?”

“Because this story covers two star athletes. Not just one” You put your finger at his bare chest to push him, “Plus last time I checked only one of you is doing better than the other and it definitely isn’t you”

“That’s only because he allows himself to be idolized and manipulated by the public’s eye to be some fucking perfect ice prince” He grabbed your pointing finger and held it tightly when you tried to pull back

“You know I’m not like that, that’s why you stayed.” He lowly said which ultimately led you to push him back to let you go, “You’re just mad that I’m not tripping over myself to make you feel bad about me”

You jerk your head back in shock, “You’re joking right?”

“I’m sorry I’m not going to allow you to paint me in whatever way you want to sell better”

“I’m not someone you can control and mold for your own pleasure especially for the public’s eye” Heeseung’s voice cracks into laughter after each word, “Hate to break it to you but I’m not Sunghoon”

This was the first time you heard the name be dropped from his mouth. Your mouth twitched but you could only laugh—not in happiness but in annoyance. “Trust me I know you aren’t”

“And oh is that so? Well I’m not going to be made less of what I am so that you can feel better about yourself who can’t seem to chart anywhere else but on the court”

“Isn’t that what only matters? Oh wait! Not for you cause you love leeching off things that aren’t meant to be known” Heeseung’s words became like venom that you could taste in the back of your throat

“And yet, you were still giving me a story just so that I can stay by your side” That was the last straw because he was quick to get up from your bed, grabbing everything of his discarded items and putting them in a haste

When he was slipping on his pants, he faced you with a mocking laugh that crinkled his nose, “And still somehow you ended up fucking me”

Your jaw clenched tightly as you stared at him, having one foot out of your room. He stayed for a second just staring at you and his eyes were starting to irritate you. The rational part of your mind screamed to do something but your emotions got the better of you.

“Don't sweat it too much, I regret it” You snapped and that was sign that made Heeseung slam the door shut leaving you alone with your heavy words lingering in the air

$$$

“What are we supposed to do now that we lost Heeseung?” Your boss frantically laughed as she paced around her office, “What exactly happened?!”

“He hasn’t been returning my calls, messages or emails and his management called me that he would be on hiatus until further notice”

“There wasn’t much else I can do” You tried to explain but your boss snapped her head towards you

“There’s not much else you can do” She repeated your words, “Well you can start off by bringing Heeseung back!” She yelled slamming her hand onto the table when she rounded the corner

You jerked at her shout and clenched your jaw tightly, your tongue running the insides of your mouth that you could taste the metallic on your tastebuds.

After constantly trying to get into contact with Heeseung after the fight, he ended up blocking your number when you received word he was on an indefinite hiatus.

You couldn’t bring him back once he became a ghost. That would be doing the impossible and you don’t work miracles.

“I have to go. I have a meeting with Sunghoon” Announcing it, you hoped to be spared from anymore of the lecture and to your luck, your boss didn’t respond and just sat at her desk to stare off in the distance

Stepping out of her office, you huffed, sighed loudly and closed your eyes while your hands shook at your side but the voice of your friend, the one who should be covering the story, smiled softly and rubbed your shoulder.

“I’m sorry to hear what happened with Heeseung” You furrowed your brows wondering how anyone knew of the news, she noticed your confusion and became lost herself, “Uh yeah… Didn’t you see the official statement posted? He’s off the lineup and won’t participate in the championship this season”

You stared at her with wide eyes but she didn’t answer your silent question.

“Just what happened? I thought everything was going well, especially after the scene they caused” She and everyone else has question they ask knowing you might have insider information that can satiates their curiosity

“I don’t know. Last session, he seemed fine. Maybe fame just got too much for him how the hell would I know what goes on in his head” You grit through your teeth, you knew it was a lie, there was no fame attached to his name besides the one the team gave him

But you truly don’t know what he was thinking and quite frankly, you didn’t want to dwell on something that isn’t in your control anymore. You didn’t say for long to continue the conversation giving an excuse that while you may be down one athlete, you still have another.

$$$

Sunghoon read the news, he saw the article, and with the new information obtained not long ago about the former basketball player also being interviewed by you. It was no shock that the disappearance of Heeseung must’ve taken a toll on you.

While he didn’t want to point out the obvious, it was really hard when you kept a stoic face, not a single smile that he adored in sight. On one hand, he tried everything possible that could spark some reaction, answering all questions with honesty but nothing brought back the same bright smile.

“Alright that’s it for this. Thank you for meeting me Mr. Park-“

“I heard what happened with Heeseung” You stopped mid way and looked away before turning to his nervous expression, he laughed to fill the awkward silence as he rubbed his nape, “I’m sorry that he suddenly back out like that”

“He tends to do that when something becomes too overwhelming with him” Sunghoon sighs and you immediately drop your hands and gave your full attention to him, “He isn’t the best when it comes to dealing with emotions so whatever it may have been, don’t blame yourself”

“It’s something I’ve told him countless times to fix because it could bite him in the ass and now look at this. His career on the line for whatever the case may be”

“But what if… Do you think this will cost him everything?” You asked when a void filled your stomach like a bottomless pit

“If he’s smart about it then no but if he isn’t who knows” Sunghoon shrugged when he knew that he would be the only to actually know

You rubbed your creased forehead and he jumped when you dropped your hand to the table in a thud, “But I mean unless it’s worth it then I can understand”

“What do you mean?” You asked and Sunghoon softly smiled making you frown lightly at the happiness in it

“That everything he’s doing is worth it. He loves what he does, I know that. So maybe he knows what he’s doing and the consequences will be worth it” The explanation did nothing as a clarity and it must’ve shown on your face when he chuckled softly

“He’s impulsive and irrational. He always has been no matter the case may be, so please don’t beat yourself for losing him because in the end it was his lost, not yours”

A kick in your stomach as you listened to him made it feel like a bucket of cold water was lathered over you and rudely waking you up to reality. You scoff at yourself, silently cursing under your breath as you look up at him with a more relaxed smile.

“There’s the smile” Sunghoon pointed when he saw it and you shied away and turned your head to hide it

You heard him laugh but you looked back at him when you heard him speaking again, “Let’s go shopping” The abrupt change of topic made you furrow your eyebrows in confusion

You open your mouth to respond until he beat you to it, “Please” You closed your mouth at his soft plea

Somehow managing to pack your belongings and being brought to the mall that you wouldn’t dare to step in for the sake of your bank account. However, he walked in there like it was just another day for him–which it was.

As the two of you aimlessly walked the mall, you see the high end brands one after another and you could never imagine the sheer luxury it must be to buy anything without looking at the tag.

“Can I ask why shopping all of a sudden?”

Sunghoon’s gaze remained forward as he took a nervous gulp and rubbed his forearm while he continued to walk beside you, “I uh…just need to buy something. Plus I thought it would be nice to have a change of scenery”

Keeping your sight on him, you see the awkward side glance he gave you before looking back ahead. Yet, he came to a stop in front of a store you never thought you would step foot into. The door opened wide for you and Sunghoon, the name ‘Tiffany and Co.’ embroidered into the glass.

Looking into the store before turning around to look at the encouraging smile he gave as he motioned you in. You nibbled softly on your lip peering over your shoulder as if to make sure it was okay. “Go on” His encouraging words bloomed in your chest

You inaudibly gasped at the lines of jewelry on display, the gleaming of the rocks nearly blinding by the mere sight. Looking up from the racks on racks of necklaces, bracelets and earrings, you see the employees bowing their heads to Sunghoon.

He kindly bowed back and with every step he took, everyone followed him. “Perks of being an ambassador” He rubbed his nape when noticing the unreadable expression on your face

Unable to rip your eyes from the employees that patiently waited for his word that you were snapped out of thought at the soft call of your name.

Your eyes blinked back to reality and turned to where your name was called and your jaw dropped seeing the diamond necklace blinging in the fluorescent light before it was extending out to you. “I think this will look lovely on you” His gaze shifted onto your neck before back up to your eyes with a tight lip smile

Unconsciously reaching up to the chain around your neck, you balled it in your palm before attempting with the lock you try to rid yourself of it however, it kept slipping through your fingers.

Grumbling under your breath when it wouldn’t come off but you stopped when you felt another pair of hands pulled yours away, “Let me do it for you” Sunghoon softly said as the clasp unclipped and the necklace slipped off your neck to be scooped in his hand

Your mouth slightly parted when he smiled warmly as he pried open your fist with his fingers as he dropped the necklace onto your palm, “Let’s try this one on now mhm?”

The cold from the necklace Heeseung gave you disappeared into your pocket as you turned your back and made it easier for Sunghoon to wrap the diamond necklace around your neck. It didn’t dangle like how Heeseung’s did. It was far too heavy in the middle by the crystal to do so, instead it clung to your skin.

You were hesitant to turn around and look at Sunghoon but he grasped your shoulders and turned you around, “What do you think?” Your question was innocent and pure in his eyes and it made his heart flutter

“I think we’re going to have to box it up” He smiled peeling his gaze away from the jewelry to look at you face that stretched in the smile he adored

“So? You get whatever you want at a discounted price?” You coughed when you caught a glimpse of the price tag which he laughed and shook shook his head like it was pure lunacy

“I get it for free” Your shocked must’ve been seen because he only shrugs his shoulders like nothing, “Perks of being a renowned athlete and ambassador I suppose”

“No this is the outcome of being loved by the nation” You muttered under your breath but quickly shut up when an employee extended a bright teal blue bag in your direction

You picked up the bag and looked inside of the box in which the necklace you’re wearing is supposed to go and a gratitude card for your purchase.

“Now it’s yours” Sunghoon had a look that sparkled and you couldn’t describe it

He cleared his throat and stuffed his hands into his pockets and smiled, “If you want to look more around the store you can. Choose whatever you like, it’s all on me”

An excitement raced through you hearing his words. Something that you hadn’t felt ever before unless during late night thoughts of what ifs or in your wildest dreams and fantasy.

The grip on the teal bag tightened as you glanced around the store to see all the employees waiting for Sunghoon and now your cue for whatever you may need.

You looked to the side to catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Your ‘Tiffany and Co.’ bag in clutch and your necklace that dangled a shining diamond right in the middle.

$$$

“Sunghoon is wonderful isn’t he?” The question snapped your attention from the rather large portrait of the said male to the whom spoke

You see a striking resemblance to the woman who you knew to be his mother, seeing her in countless videos and photos along with Sunghoon. She always had the same proud smile when the cameras were on her and the smile she gave you was no different.

Her heels clack against the sleek tile floors where there was not a speck of dust. She looked up to the picture in pride and folded her arms. “This was during one of his last final matches. I didn’t know at the time since he made the decision by himself but it was a moment too beautiful not to capture.

The said picture was of Sunghoon and a gold medal hanging around his neck, the bouquet of flowers laying in his arm, the dust particles behind him and the light outlining him perfectly. And yet, his eyes were hollow, not a single smile in sight.

“Such a remarkable athlete. Always loved and remembered by the public even when switching careers” She hums softly, “He’s made it far even after everything” The mention of the switch of sports perks your interest, however it wasn’t what you were here for

You were here upon invitation his mother reaching out and setting this meeting without his knowledge—deeming it something between you and her.

“I’ve read all about it, it’s like he was meant to be on the ice” Your response seemed to have pleased his mother as she lightly patted your shoulder like it was the right answer to say

“Every since we took him ice skating on a long cold night during the winter at a lake we used to go to often, we knew then and even now he’s meant for the ice” She told and you mentally took note of how she talked of him and the experience, even only meeting her not even an hour ago, you’re already learning more information that no one else knows

When she pats your shoulder again, you look to see her motioning to follow and hastily doing so, you look around at the house as you walk through it. Saying that it was beautiful would be such an understatement. It screamed of pure wealth and of Sunghoon that by eyes alone, you could tell this was his foundation.

You could feel the hint of him within the walls besides all his pictures and medals plastered everywhere. You tried to look at everything that you could of him. There were countless joyous, shy smiles of his everywhere you looked.

It didn’t matter if he was alone, with people, on the ice, in the grass, in the sun, and in the snow. Sunghoon was always shyly smiling—a smile that never changed until it stopped when he grew up.

“Did he enjoy figure skating?” You voiced out your thought only to suck in a breath and cursed under it for not catching yourself sooner

She laughed and you slowed down your steps as she did as she turned around to look at you, “That’s the thing about you journalist”

“You’re always looking for something to sink your teeth into”

“I-I” You were lost for words, there was nothing that came to mind that could save you from this but you took a step back when she turned her whole body to face you

“You know I thought you would be more careful when it came to your tracks considering you’re the very person you have to be careful of” She said while handing you a photograph

You were scared to look down at it but when she puckered her lips to it, you shakily picked up the photo and saw you and Sunghoon walking into Tiffany and co. with soft smiles exchanged.

There were many times you’ve experienced fear but this was the first time you’ve felt it because of someone else you just met. You looked up at her in horror but she smiled at you.

But even when being cornered, you couldn’t take out the muscle memory when you spot a picture in the corner of your eye behind her. Pushed all the way back and dust accumulated on it, there were two young boys, arms wrapped over their shoulders with bright smiles while they stood on the ice.

One with their hair pushed back with a squiggly headband showing the mole dead center on his forehead wearing hockey gear and the other wearing a decorative bodysuit, the prominent eyebrows and scattered moles on his face to be signed below. Heeseungie and Hoonie.

“Now I hate getting my hands dirty” Sunghoon’s mother said, making you remember what was happening. You snap your attention back to her as she picked the photo from you, “However, I’m seeing something that needs to be taken care of”

You stared where the picture once was until you carefully looked around the empty dimmed room before looking back to her wicked grin.

Her eased demeanor contrasted your stressed one making you swallow down a lump in your throat. There was no one else in the room besides the two of you. “Now why don’t we step into my office? I like talking more in private”

“I think you just might want to hear my proposal, journalist”

$$$

All that training he’s done couldn’t have possibly prepared him for the struggle that he was about to endure in running over to your place in the rain.

He wiped the sweat that blurred his eyesight and pushed himself, he couldn’t stop. The balls of his feet killed him but it faded away when he stood in front of your door. The light hanging from above illuminates just enough to cast the shadow of his hand hovering your door.

He flexed his hand at his side, nervously gulping before straightening out his clothing and adjusted his hair to what he hopes is a tame state.

The knock at your door made you jump and look up from your laptop before slamming it shut and roughly shaking your head from the clouding thoughts.

You grabbed your phone and rushed towards the door trying to ignore the giddy feeling blooming into your chest but it died when you opened your door and your phone nearly slipped through your hand at the sight in front of you.

“What are you doing here?” Your voice laced in surprise and tension as Sunghoon tries to regulate his breaths with heavy pants

He opened and closed his mouth, no thought running through his mind that could make him utter a coherent sentence but when his gaze shifted to your opened phone he read the bolded slanted title.

‘Park Sunghoon, Nation’s love, caught on a shopping date sparks mixed emotions of fans. All wishing for the protection of the athlete’ and attached below to the title were the very photos from the mall that day.

Sunghoon let out a shaky breath as he slowly raised his eyes to you. You stood frozen, your eyes widened and mouth slacked open. He quickly engulfs you in a tight hug, “I don’t know how anyone knew we were there and managed to get that picture of us but I will deal with it”

“I’ll call everyone I know to get that article taken down” The grip over your body tightened as he rested himself on your shoulder before burying himself into the depths of your neck, “I am so sorry”

Your free hand twitches and your face scrunched when letting out a shaky breath you didn’t know you were holding before a ripping sob came from you and your bottom lip quivered.

“Shhh it’s okay, let it out. I’m right here” He whispered softly into your ear, his hand running up and down your back to console you

You didn’t say anything, merely sticking your head deeper to cover your face as you held tightly around his waist. Sunghoon pulled his head from your neck to hover his mouth over your ear, “I got you. I got us don’t worry”

He pulled away, his hands on your shoulder to see your teary eyes, a clench in his heart at the sight, “No one is going to hurt you as long as I am here”

You opened your mouth to say something but he quickly hushed you, he raised his hand and his thumb wiped away the tears at the corner of your eye. A reassuring smile stretched over his face as his eyes never left yours even when you were looking away.

Able to feel his gaze on you, you screwed your eyes shut. The built up waterworks striking down your face which Sunghoon easily caught. The pad of his thumb creased your cheek in a gentle manner, you slowly opened your eyes and turned your gaze to him.

When you caught his eyes, his smile grew more and he looked at you with a shimmer in his eyes—making it look like he held the universe in them.

You gulped the nerves down but he grew closer into you, your eyes searched his face to see if he could hear your heartbeat with how close he was. “Mr. Park-“ You started when he hovered your lips

He sucked in a breath, the eye contact never let up from the moment it started, “Please call me Sungho- Actually call me whatever you want. As long as I am the one you’re calling out to”

You were going to speak when his hovering mouth planted softly onto yours. You gripped his forearm to stop his shaking as he held your face.

Instead of ripping yourself away like he expected, your eyes slowly flutter close, getting lost in the plush feel.

“You shouldn’t be here- What if someone sees you?” You softly whisper when he pulls away and stares into your eyes, “Guess you have to let me in then”

He had a flush across his cheek when he harshly gulped in anticipation of your response. He doesn’t know what took over him but you grasped his arm and pulled him into your place without a word and your eyes never left his.

When the door closed behind him, it didn’t take a moment longer before Sunghoon slammed his mouth against yours. His face scrunched when your nails dug into the muscle of his forearm but he looked past it when he pressed his lips deeper onto yours.

He felt even happier when your hand loosened and pulled his hands away to your sides. Instantly his hand cupped you there and carefully flushed your body with his.

Your arms wrapped around his neck when the empty spaces soon became filled by him. Your heart was pounding and your mind was spiraling with nothing in it besides Sunghoon.

He repeated soft pecks on your lips ever so softly while you raked your hands up the back of his neck into his hair. Messily tussling it from the usual neat look. You grinned softly against him but when you gasped just enough when he nibbled on your bottom lip to slip his tongue in.

Grasping a fistful of hair when he devoured the entrance you gave him. Sunghoon was getting too far into the clouds to focus on anything else besides you. You were feeling light headed from how much he was kissing you, he wasn’t letting you have a chance to breathe.

There was always a gnawing in his mind and chest whenever you were around. Now, it was dull and numb, too overcomed with a greater need now that he’s tasted you.

“Please” Sunghoon wasn’t sure what he was pleading for, what he did know was that he would rather give up everything than lose you

You began walking backwards, guiding him further into your home. With each step you both took, pieces of article began slipping away and trailing where you once were. Until you stripped into nothing but your undergarments.

When you reached your bedroom, the door was pushed open and slammed closed by his foot as you gracefully placed on your bed.

The kiss never broke for a minute after that, his body slotting between your legs, his arm resting at the side of your head while the other wrapped your leg around him. His fingers traced designs and patterns on your skin as he kissed you silly.

The light-headed feeling was getting worse but you only pressed harder against his mouth. Sunghoon mimicked the same desperation, constantly repeating the motion.

You continued to play with the back of his hairs, tugging at them every now and then until you tried to pry him off your lips for a second. Managing to peel him away for the millisecond of air before he broke free and crashed himself back onto you. Sunghoon kissed you like a starved man like he’s been deprived of a necessity in life.

He tightly gripped your waist to keep you rooted flat on your back when you whipped your head away. He needed to be touching, to feel you, to be so close to you that no one was sure where either of you began and ended.

“Sung…Hoon” You broke his name and he had never been called out so prettily, it was like a siren that dragged him into you

His fingers hooked under your chin and turned your head to face him again. When you looked at each other, the vision that clouded your minds faded away. Sunghoon stroked the pad of his thumb on your cheek, his eyes never moving from your face.

While you looked at him for a moment before trailing down to his sculpted chest, the toned bulging muscles made him see nearly ethereal. Your hand reached out to graze the muscles and Sunghoon didn’t say anything, merely allowing you to do what you pleased.

You admired him. It was like he was taken extra care of, given more attention to details to ensure perfection. Your fingers traced around his joints, feeling how his gaze never let up from you.

When he pushed your head back to him, he leaned and met you halfway. The plush of his lips caught you off guard but you easily melted into it. He cupped your jaw before snacking an arm over your back and carefully guiding you back on the bed.

The cold feel of fingertips grazing your bare back made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You gripped his shoulder tightly when he began slipping off your bra, you didn’t know when he managed to unclasp it but you helped him.

The garment slipping off made you break away from the kiss but Sunghoon chased after you, he placed soft pecks against any patch of skin he was near. After each peck, you whispered sweet nothing loud enough for you to hear, “You’re beautiful, so unbelievably stunning”

“You’re perfect” You screwed your eyes shut when you heard them, your hand impossibly gripped tighter unwilling to let him go

Sunghoon’s hand roamed over your back to your side before sliding down to your hips where he played with the fabric of your underwear.He rested his forehead on yours, both of your eyes closed shut as his breath fanned over your face. “May I?” He whispers making your heart shake

You carefully open your eyes to catch him already looking at you. You gulped down harshly, only able to nod your head in response. He smiled softly but shook his already sweaty forehead on yours, “I need words princess”

“Yes you can Sunghoon” You rushed the words in one breath, his smile grew in size and showcased his row of teeth and sharp teeth to looked like a vampire ready to sink his teeth

“Thank you” He hooked his fingers over the fabric and carefully peeled it off you while you wrapped your arms around his neck and kept yourself buried in his neck

Wet kisses rested on the side of your face and jaw to deviate the attention from what was happening. But Sunghoon pulled your arms away from him as he pulled himself back. You stared at him with confusion when he focused on properly taking your undergarment off.

Passing down to your ankle to dangle off before he slid it off completely, Your cheeks burned in embarrassment when you felt a cold breeze hit your glistening self. Sunghoon sucked in a breath watching the pure arousal.

“Is this for me? Leaking all this for me?” He asked but when he focused back on you he saw how you had your head buried in the pillows, “Hey it’s okay… Look at me”

You couldn’t face him but when a finger sleekly slid in between your folds, a moan ripped out of you while you buried your head dropper into the sheets. “Look at me” Sunghoon repeated his words, “Please”

You shivered at the thought of seeing Sunghoon, especially at this moment but you turned over to him to see the wet eyes he had while looking at you. Nearly hanging off the bed and the sight of his head in between your legs.

“There you go” He huffed out a smile before dragging his finger up to softly rub over your clit, you threw your head back when your body jerked at the touch, “No no be a good girl and look at me princess”

But when you didn’t listen he ripped his hand away and you whined in protest before blinking rapidly to look at him, “Look! Look! I’m looking please Hoon” you wailed which erupted an explosion in his chest

“Hoon? I think I can get used to that” He laughed before running a hand up and down the outside of your thigh, “Glad you listened” He hummed before returning to his original spot

He was agonizingly slow when running a single finger over your folds, spreading the wetness all around. “Sungh-“ You started but quickly gasped when he slipped in a finger

He hissed at the clench but slipped in another making you fist your sheet, crumbling underneath your body. His hot breath fanned over your cunt making your slightly jolt but strained a moan when his curled up his fingers and laid his tongue out and up your juices.

Attaching himself to your pussy was like a dream. Something he never wanted to part from and it drove him mad. His head felt lightheaded when all thoughts rationally fled from it to be filled by you. He turned his fingers around, slightly parting them to scissor you open.

His tongue gilded all over, burying his head deeper into you. He hummed loudly as he drank everything. that split out of you. “So sweet, the sweetest thing I have ever tasted. Probably the sweetest in the entire world” His praised went straight into your head as you carefully rut your hips against his face

“Hoon- Hoonie” You mewled when he plunged his fingers faster in and out of you

“Say my name princess” He grunted when he sucked on the bundle of nerves that made your body thrust

Sunghoon held your lower body with his upper one to keep you in place, sleek slender fingers adding a more desperation into you that needed to be quenched. He adjusted his add into a more comfortable position that made his fingers go impossibly deeper.

The lewd sound of your arousal spilling out and him drinking everything that he possibly could since he couldn’t have anything go to waste. Your body arched off your bed when Sunghoon managed to hit a spot in your gummy walls.

You could feel the smirk radiating off of him and against your cunt as he chuckled, “That’s the spot? Right there?” He asked while repeatedly hitting it

When you couldn’t respond with words and only moaned, a pride bloomed over his chest. “Talk to me” He stopped his movements making you wail

Your mind is too far gone to comprehend wording, your focus on rutting yourself with his fingers. Riding for any type of friction while you spewed nothing incoherent, “Yes right there- need you Hoonie. Please”

“I need to stretch you out. I don’t want to hurt you. You’re far too precious to be broken” He softly spoke while he dragged his fingers out only to plunge them back without a warning, “Let me take care of you”

You rapidly nod in response which made him gleam. Attaching his lips back to your folds, he nastily slurped the arousal that accumulated in the few seconds he pulled away. Embarrassed but too overtaken with a fog you rut your hips harder.

Sunghoon curled the two digit up feeling the gummy wall contracting around him. He smiled as he looked up through his eyelashes to watch the pleasure written over your face. It was a sight that burned in his mind, how your mouth fell slack as noises spilled from it because of him.

He rubbed his face deeper into your core, his nose hitting your clit while his fingers never let up and his tongue attempted to push into your hole. You squealed and pulled on his hair, “Hoon-Hoonie!” Your voice raised higher which each pulled and push into your body

“Let go” He murmured muffled by your pussy until your back arched off the bed, the loudest moan of the night ripping from your throat as you tug of the locks tangled in your fingers, “Such a good girl for me”

You loudly gasp when he continues his thrust of fingers but at a much slower pace. He drank as much as he possibly could, the lack of oxygen the least of his concern.

You tapped on his disheveled hair but he didn’t part from you. Sunghoon carefully rubbed the tingling nerves when he placed kisses all over your cunt. “Helping you out” He blabbed against the soaked walls but you could tell he lied through his teeth

He doesn’t know what took over him. His mind was too far gone to realize it comprehend his body begging for a proper respiration but he needed to continue.

It wasn’t until you physically ripped yourself away from him when he took a deep breath and dazed as he looked at you. His eyes were wet, ringing with tears and the lower half of his face covered in your release.

His sculpted chest rose and dropped with each huff, your body was lightly shaking but before either words could be uttered, Sunghoon crashed his mouth to yours. You yelped in the kiss but screwed your eyes shut and cupped his jaw while his hands roamed over your body.

Sunghoon grasped any piece of skin he could get his hands on and flushed his body back on top of yours. You cringed at the taste of you on his lips but he chuckled deeply, “Don’t you taste so good? I love it” He slurred between pecks

Your hands ran up to the back of his head and kept him in place. Your parted legs welcomed him in between with his hand running up and down your sides. The inner of his palms scratched due to the calluses but they were much softer than how you remember them to be.

The kiss was sloppy and messy, too far uncoordinated but too precious that made every action feel filled with a purpose. “I need you” You gasped and Sunghoon pulled away to stare in your eyes

You looked up to him to see the pleading pooling in his eyes, his bottom lip quivering as his breath shook. “Are you sure?” He carefully asked and you nodded your head, “But I need you to say it“

“I. Need. You. Sunghoon” You cut yourself after every word to emphasis the broken sentence

“You’ve always had me” He responded placing a kiss on your lips which contrasted any other one, much softer and gentle approach

The tangle of his hair loosened in your hold before slipping off to rub his neck. The tips of your fingers tingling when feeling the burning of his body, “You’re burning up” You pointed out as much as you could but he roughly shook his head as he moved down from side of your mouth to your cheek then jaw to finally your neck

“You give me fever” An exhilarating shock filled your body with his words, so truthful, so raw, “You drive me crazy”

You brush the fallen hair and tucked it away as much as you could to bring focus to his face, moles that you weren’t aware existed unless you were so close to see it showcased themselves to you.

Focusing on the weak points, you flipped over to have Sunghoon sprawled on your bed. He looked up at you in shock when you straddled his lap, smothering your arousal over his boxers covering his clear hard on, he moaned loudly.

“Don’t be a tease” He sucked his teeth but you smirked and pressed down harder while tangling your hand behind his head

“I won’t- I don’t have time for that” Sunghoon looked at you through squinted eyes when your fingertips traced the outline of his boxers, “Plus why would I even think about pulling nonsense with you”

“Because you’re a journalist- You live off of story” You laughed at the reprimanded comment, you bring his head leveled with yours with a raise of an eyebrow

“You sure have a snappy attitude under the tidy hockey player” This time he was the one to laugh out loud, you tilted your head in confusion but you yelped when you were flipped to your back again

Sunghoon hovering over you, his arms on each side of your head and his muscles stretching out the line of the clear dedication he put into his body.

“No. Welcome to actual me” Before you could even retaliate his words or even question them, he fiddles with his boxers and rips them off his body

You gulped harshly when you caught a glimpse of his length, clearly underestimating his size and he laughed, “You thought I was small. You’re breaking my heart”

When you looked up to him you were met with a crazed look in his eyes, a dark cloud forming in his mind that had one thought in mind. To ravish you.

“Sunghoon-“

“That’s not my name” He sternly told, gripping your chin to keep your eyes on him

You gulped down the lump forming in your throat, your voice shaky but it put a smile on his face, “Hoon?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?” He chuckled before sucking his teeth and shaking his head, “Not that one though”

“Hoonie” You told and he smiled widely showing off his teeth, the sharp ones peeking out, he leaned down to your bare skin and you shivered

His teeth crazed over the unblemished skin but he screwed his eyes tight and huffed. He grabbed his length and dragged it over your soapy folds, he let out a shudder when the wetness met with him. He immediately crumbled as you clawed at his shoulders when aligned his tip at your entrance.

You could feel the stretch slightly protruding until it broke through. “Hoonie” You mewled his name as he slowly pushed himself in

“Fuck princess you’re so good- Absolutely the best” Sunghoon felt dizzy, the wet warm confidment engulfing him worked wonders in his foggy mind

Each inch that he gave you, you took without fail. “Shhh it’s okay. I’m right here. I got you” He rubbed your hips as the single handed most harmonic sounds ripped from you as you adjust to the stretch of your wall to accommodate him

You pushed your head right into his neck, your arms hooking under his to keep him close. “You’re doing amazing” His reassurance bloomed into your chest and with a weaken shake of your head, his heart fluttered

“Are you sure?” He tiptoed as if he wasn’t already inside of you

You shot him a glare that you knew he could feel and weakly laughed, “Whatever you want”

He pulled back his hips before pushing back in and he was gone, easily getting lost in the sense of you engulfing him whole. His pace slow and calculated to your pleasure, he didn’t pull away just enough to leave you empty but enough to make sure you knew he was gone.

With each thrust, you could feel the pure rawness of Sunghoon being opened to you. You knew he was trying to remain his composure, the strained noise from his closed mouth directly to your ear. While you didn’t hold back, you let any sound slip past your mouth into his ear followed with the drag of your nails down his shoulder blades and back.

His tip poked around the gummy walls, filling the hollowness that you swore you could feel him poking your g-spot that had made you cling to him harder. His hand at your sides squeezed tightly, “You’re a good girl. So fucking good to me”

You blabbed incoherency but he swore that under your breath you muttered just for you. He’s unsure if it was mind playing tricks on him but he ran with that buried in his mind.

Sunghoon focused on keeping his thrust slow and ryhtmic. Even though you tried to meet with his thrust halfway, he only pushed your body further down on the mattress to keep you in place.

Your mind was running blank, the care of professionals far long that you couldn’t even see where you left it. “Hoon- Sunghoon!” You cradled him to show the desperation you had

But he could see it, already feeling it wrapping around him. His mind was being rewired—so focused on burning this feeling in his mind with a lingering thought this couldn’t be it. He wouldn’t allow it.

“Let me hear you princess. Let me know who is making you feel like this” The tips of his fingers pushed into the flesh of your skin as he kept pushing himself in and out of your, “Don’t keep quiet please- Let me know” The tome of his voice growing higher with each word

Tangling one of your hands into the fluff of his hair, resting your face on his head, closing your eyes and biting your lip to stop more sounds from falling out.

The hand on your side loosened and managed to slip through the tanglement of your sweaty bodies to your clit, you gasped loudly and tugged harshly on his hair. “It was calling for me. I couldn’t ignore you”

His offering words flipped something in you, it was unsure what did but your concealed mouth and through the obscene sounds, you managed to mutter the words Sunghoon wanted to hear. “So good Hoonie”

“So good for me”

Instead of keeping his pace, he groaned when you whispered it into his ear, with one thrust, Sunghoon flipped. No longer the careful and slow ones, it was now sloppy and face. The air got knocked out of you trying to get used to the new pace.

Your body jolts into your bedding more with the thrust, your arms shaking off his body to lay at your sides and grip the sheets into your fist. Your head turned to the side when you felt him pull from your body but his thrust let up.

“Just a little more- Take it for me princess” He rubbed harder on the bundle of nerves as he rammed into your soaked self

“Can I come inside? Please. Please” He weakly pleaded as he stared at your moving body, while you may not have been facing him, you must be thinking about it when you’re moaning like that

Sunghoon pistons himself out of you, his skin meeting your skin to mix with the sounds already bouncing off your walls. He thought this was heaven but when you clamped around him, the hole contracted around him. He knew it was better than heaven.

And he would be willing to give up anything to keep you.

“Yes. Yes. Please” You slurred through the noises, your tits bouncing with each thrust that entranced him, he couldn’t look away from you even if he wanted to

You clawed at your bed to stabilize just how harsh he was going. Your mind melted to mush, “Going to fill you up just of me”

“I need you to know that you will always have me. Carrying me inside of you” He huffs while the thrust grew sloppy and messy, “I am always with you princess”

Instead of being such possessive wording, it felt warmer and genuine. The glittered erupted in your stomach but the thought washed always when he harshly rubbed down on the bundle of nerves and spurted his hips one last time.

Your back arched off the bed and a moan ripped out of you but Sunghoon only slowed down his movements as you came over him, “Hoonie- Too much” You tried to wither but he pressed down on both side of your hips to continue his relentless plunges

“Just a little more, take it for me princess. Doing so good for me. be a good girl” He blabbed in one breath as he tried to ignore the tightness around his length

You buried your head deeper to the side and screwed your eyes shut as mewls and wails slipped past your quivering lip. Your crumbled sheets flipped and wrinkled under your moving bodies. Sunghoon kept your hips in place for his thrust until they came to a hilt and a moan mixed with a whine ripped from his chest past his throat when you felt a twitch inside of you.

“Hoonie” You weakly called out to him, he hummed softly but he rocked his hips in slow manners making you whine but him softly smile as the velvet walls were painted of him

“Take it for me” You were unable to respond due to heavily panting, trying to regulate your breath but it got caught in your throat when a finger hooked under your jaw and turned your head

You weakly opened your eyes to see Sunghoon’s glistening from the moonlight shining through the window, the sparkling eyes that looked like they held the universe in them stared at you. “Sunghoon” You called out his name

The way it rolled off your tongue made his heart hammer and a blush warm his cheeks. He squished his lips together and his cheeks rose as he wiped away any sweat from your face. His eyes softened at your state and creased your cheek, he leaned down and captured your mouth with his.

He hummed softly as he held you close. Your arms wrapped around his neck when his arms hooked under your body to pull you close, he didn’t pull out with the thought of keeping himself as close to you as possible and you didn’t say anything.

$$$

The sunlight blared into the room making your face scrunch. You jerked slightly and groggily opened your eyes. The window was slightly ajared as a gust of wind washed in and moved your curtains.

A soreness coursed through your body and you sighed heavily as you tried to straighten out of your state. You peered over to your shoulder and saw the dipped empty space where Sunghoon once laid.

You tried to rack your brain of what happened after it all but it was blurred to the point you remember the last peck he gave to your forehead as he murmured something that you couldn’t pick up before you fell asleep.

Pushing yourself up on your arms you winced softly, the sheets falling off your body only to see a shirt bigger than yours draped over you. Your brows crease in the middle but you jump when your bedroom door opens and in walked Sunghoon holding a tray of water, some cut up fruits and steaming wet towels

He stopped dead in his tracks when he noticed you awake, “What are you doing?”

“I-I” He stuttered over his words, not really sure what to say but when you let out a giggle, the initial worry washed away, “For when you woke up” He softly said while walking over to you with the tray at hand

You speech yourself up on your headboard and see him shirtless with only his pants hanging off his hips, “Couldn’t put a shirt on?” You ask when he sits on the edge of the bed and placed the tray on his lap

He points to the respective things on the tray until you nod your head at the water and quickly hands it to you. “You’re wearing it”

You look down to the material and realize it was in fact true. “Do you want it back?” You pick at the shirt but he stops you and shakes his head

“No actually keep it. I like how it looks on you way better than it will ever look on me” He smiled softly before rubbing his nape, a shy smile casting over his face,“Was I-I uh too rough last night? I’m sorry… I’ll tone it down next time”

You extend your free hand to crease his head, the fluff of his bed hair sticking all over the place. He met your gaze to the glowing hue of the sunlight casting a shadow over you while you looked at him. He shook your head down to his cheek and nestled into your palm.

But when you open your mouth to respond but unintentionally he cuts you off. Sunghoon softly muttered through a soft pout of his lips but clear enough to hear from a mile away, “You’re glowing princess”

Your mouth tugged upwards softly, such a picture perfectly painted in the eyes of everyone else, now laid destroyed and ruined in front of you.

$$$

When you stepped into the office, you didn’t expect it to be buzzing so early in the morning. Everyone stood in front of any screen they could get their hands on. You furrowed your brows trying to recall if there was something supposed to be happening.

You quickly put down the new prada bag Sunghoon bought you after seeing you eye it for a second longer than the rest and walked over to where everyone was.

When you made it to the crowd everyone froze and stared at you with. You were going to ask what happened but you stopped when Sunghoon’s face came into frame.

He wore a black sleek suit with hair parted neatly, not a smile in sight as he bows to the reporters. The flashing lights going off from the cameras made you feel bad for his eyes constantly going through that. But the worry washed away when he was handed a mic.

An unease erupted in your stomach, the palpitations of your heart made you feel lightheaded and adrenaline high for an unknown reason.

“Thank you everyone for coming on such short notice” Sunghoon cleared his throat, the mic faintly picking it up as he straightened out his posture

“I want to say I am grateful for everything that has led me to this point of my life. I wouldn’t have been able to do it without the help of those close and charitable to me”

“Without them I wouldn’t be here today and sometimes I think if it was for the worse or the better”

“I’ve thought about this thoroughly and so from this day onward… I am declaring my resignation from the team and officially announcing my retirement from the public eye”

“This was Park Sunghoon” He bows at a perfectly 90 degree angle to the clamoring reporters physically there and rushed flashing camera lights captured the moment better than you could’ve

Through the confined space, the people around you gasped loudly as they looked at each other before ultimately looking back at you who stood frozen staring at the screen.

Your boss whom you hadn’t seen harshly grabbed your arm, digging her fingers into your skin while giving a shaky glare. “Fix this” She grits through her teeth

You didn’t respond and pulled your arm away as your body moved on its own. Heavy steps after another as you attempt to rush back to your cubicle and hastily fish out your phone.

It was hard to get a grasp through slippery hands but your mind was reeling and you felt like you were going to crumble and have the world swallow you whole. Even with your attempts to even out your breathing, you couldn’t breathe..

What is he thinking?! There’s no way that he is doing this, not when you were so close.

But the faint call of your name caused you to snap harsher than you meant, you saw your friend who stares with shocked eyes and you huffed loudly and rubbed your creased forehead, “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to snap. Right now just isn’t the best time”

“I know but I just wanted to tell you not to worry so much about this”

The choice of words but your brows knit even deeper with confusion, there was no way she didn’t realize the grand scale of what is happening and what this entails for your career. “What are you talking about?”

“You haven’t heard?” The grip on your phone loosened when she relayed the sudden break of rumor circling around the internet right when Sunghoon declared his retirement just a few moments ago—The silence of months finally shouting and slapping you directly in the face

“Rumor has it Lee Heeseung is back”

——

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[kidult0325]

𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐦𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐑𝐚𝐠𝐝𝐨𝐥𝐥 | 𝐍𝐒𝐇.𝐑

──★ ˙𝙋𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 ̟ Bf!Riki x Reader ᵎᵎ 

⌞𝘴𝘺𝘯𝘰𝘱𝘴𝘪𝘴⌝ in which your boyfriend underestimated his own strength

⌞𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘳𝘦⌝ smut (mdni), drabble/scenario

⌞𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴⌝ petnames, buff!Riki, reader implied smaller than him ⌞𝙨𝙢𝙪𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 ⌝ size kink, p in v, implied gentle manhandling?, unprotected sex, may his biceps rest in peace, gentle dom!Riki, he folds you like a chair, implied fingering

⌞𝘸𝘤⌝ 1.1k

⌞𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘦⌝ buff riki , close the gyms (please don't)

It all happened too fast. One second , you were playfighting with your boyfriend and the next thing you knew, you were on your back with him hovering above you — his eyes wide in shock , has it always been this easy to just throw you around? He just used one hand , most of all, he barely used any strength at all. Your eyes were just as wide as his , since when has he gotten so strong? But you'd be lying if you said you didn't find that attractive, maybe even hot — your stomach tingling just thinking about how he could easily do whatever he wanted to you.

"I'm sorry... I didn't mean to flip you around so strongly...", he mumbled as he lifted one hand up, his left bicep flexing since he put all of his weight on it — his right hand gently cupped the side of your face. "I didn't hurt you , did i?", he asked softly, his voice as smooth as silk while his soft brown eyes looked at you with worry. Your heart clenched, he was too gentle for his own good.

"You didn't... Seems like your stays in the gym have paid off", you giggled softly , your hand resting on his left bicep before you squeezed it gently. "You bicep has gotten so muscular... you could throw me around like a ragdoll if you wanted to...", you whispered as you stopped squeezing his bicep and trailed the tips of your fingers up to his shoulder , your nails scraping his skin slightly which made him exhale a shaky breath.

His thumb gently rubbed into your cheek , his eyes softening as he continued to look at you — have you always looked so small under him? Maybe it was because he got buffer? He felt bad — this shouldn't turn him on, but your words awakened something in him.

He tried to shake those thoughts off, trying to distract himself by leaning in and kissing you — but that only made his cock stir more in his grey sweatpants as the blood in his body rushed down to it. His hips pressed against yours , a muffled groan coming from him when his hard cock nudged against your thigh. You spread your legs for him as he scooted closer , his hands gliding from your sides down to your thighs to hoist them up on his hips , pressing his bulge now against your clothed pussy — he could feel the heat from your pussy through the thin fabric of your shorts, it was making his head spin.

You broke the kiss, your breathing ragged as you gazed up to him — he looked so huge resting between your legs... it was doing things to you. His hard bulge twitched against your cunt as he continued to look at you, a gentle reminder that this whole situation was also doing things to him. You couldn't help but giggle softly.

"Don't tell me that my words turned you on", your words were soft yet teasing , his teeth sinking into his bottom lip for a second when he cheeks started to flush a little. "Don't blame me...", he muttered under his breath ,his eyes shifting down to your thighs were his hands were — fuck... his hands looked so big. He knew that you were smaller than him, but he never noticed how much smaller than him you actually were.

"I could easily... hold you down and fuck you into my mattress", he mumbled as he dipped his head down into the crook of your neck, his lips brushing against the side of your neck before latching them onto your skin — gently kissing the tender skin before sucking on it for a second, right at the spot where he knows it gets you squirming under him. He used his strength to his advantage , the newfound discovery he made making him feral as he pressed your hips down with his arm draped over them — stopping you from squirming around.

"Don't run from me... you started this all..", he huffed against your neck , his lips leaving a wet trail of hot kisses down to your collarbones while his hand moved under the fabric of your shirt, his hips gently moving against your own from time to time to give himself some relief — it was just making you wetter. A soft whine escaped your lips. "Riki...please... you're not the only one suffering.."

He didn't need to be told twice.

And before you knew it, clothes started to be thrown onto the bedroom flooring , your knees pressing against your chest as he practically folded you in half — his hands under your knees to keep them pressed against your chest while he kept your legs up on his shoulders. His cock was plunging deep inside you , in and out , the head of his cock kissing your cervix with every thrust he delivered.

Your nails had already scratched his arms up, red lines going from his wrist up to his biceps when you tried to pull his fingers out of your dripping pussy after he had already made you cum from that alone.

Your moans were the only sounds he could hear or focus on , followed by the nasty wet sounds coming from your pussy or the way his skin slapped against yours. Fuck, you were always so tight for him , you never seemed to get used to the size of his dick no matter how long or how much time he spent on prepping you — you were just... so small for him, he might just need to train you for his cock.

"You feel so good princess... so fucking good...", he whispered in a hoarse voice, his fingers digging into the back of your thighs as he pressed your knees harder against your chest, his thrusts getting rougher but sloppier — he was close, and he knew that you were as well, the way your pussy got tighter gave it all away. He slammed his hips against the back of your thighs harder before he bit down on leg that was resting on his shoulder, his hips shuttering as he pressed himself as deep as possible into your pussy as spurts of cum shot out of his cock — his orgasm triggering your own. A loud muffled cry of his name left your lips as your legs trembled and crossed behind his head, pulling him deeper into you — he could only whine quietly as you pussy squeezed the living shit out of his cock.

"that...wow...", you panted out as your legs limply slid off of his shoulders, your eyes closing for a second as you tried to catch your breath , your chest heaving up and down. His eyes softened as he looked at you, seeing the mark on your chest from having your knees pressed up against them. "Was I too rough...?", he mumbled, a tinge of worry in his voice as he slowly pulled his cock out of your cunt that began to drip drops of his cum out. You opened your eyes again, looking directly at him.

"No...you better throw me around like a doll next time.."

𐔌 . ݁₊ ۶ৎ 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⭑.ᐟ 𐦯 @hollyoongs @planetmarlowe @cunty4hee @luvashli @jungwonsstrawberriesnchocolate @i03jae @un06 @leesura

[kidult0325]

ᓚᘏᗢ your lips, my lips, apocalypse

notes: based off of this ask | can be read as a part 2 to this

-- niki comes home drunk one night. drunk and desperately horny. or in other words, you're first time making him cry out for you.

18+ | niki x fem!reader | wc: 1.7k | smut, mini fluff/crack at the end | masterlist

warnings: language, jake makes a small appearance, niki's drunk and kinda subby??, kissing/making out, use of good boy, piv, overstimulation

****

your boyfriend was out with his friends the whole day.

he had let you know a few days earlier about the planned celebration that they would be having. so when the day came, you didn't mind his absence.

but you couldn't help but get a bit worried. it was nearly eleven pm and he still wasn't home.

you shot him a text.

no response.

was his phone dead? did he not have it on him? you had no idea.

you had just finished your night routine, sitting down on the couch with some snacks to watch a movie as you waited for niki.

twenty minutes into the movie you heard harsh knocks at your door.

"what the hell?" you muttered, standing up to peek through your peephole.

it was niki. and he was...hanging off of jake's shoulders?

you opened the door and jake was just about ready to throw niki at you.

"god, take him." he huffed out.

you giggled as you pulled niki into your apartment by his jacket.

"good luck, he's a mess. all fucking night we've had to hear about how much he misses you and shit." jake rolled his eyes, "never allow him to drink freely again. please." jake pleaded with the most tired expression and tone one could have.

you nodded, "okay...let me get him inside."

after you locked the door, and niki was practically falling over trying to get his shoes off, you took him over to the bathroom.

"okay, honey, take a shower and i'll be right outside waiting for you."

he was sitting on the toilet seat, staring at you as you placed his clean clothes on the sink for him to wear after his shower. he groaned and shook his head.

"c'mere." he said in a quiet voice.

you made your way over until you were standing right in front of him.

he pulled into him for a hug, his hands wrapped tightly around your back as his face rest right in your chest.

he breathed out contently. you brought a hand over to rest on his head.

you felt flustered, a bit shy even. your boyfriend wasn't usually this clingy or affectionate. he preferred to show his love for you in other ways.

you felt him press a kiss against you through your thin sleep shirt, "mm...I missed you." you smiled to yourself, one hand still in his hair and the other rubbed circles on his back.

"I missed how you care for me.." he turned his head, so now his cheek was resting on your chest instead of his forehead.

when you looked down at him, you could see his eyes were glossed over. he seemed like he was silently pleading for something.

"what's wrong?" you asked, the hand that was in his hair traveled down to his jaw, pulling his face away from you.

his eyes were everywhere but looking at yours.

"riki..." you urged gently. soon enough his eyes met yours. he sighed through his nose softly.

"I..." you knew he was drunk, so you gave him his time to speak. "ineedyoureallybad." he hastily whispered in one breath.

you chuckled, "niki, what?"

he dropped his head, rubbing his face with his hands. "I didn't just, like, miss you. okay? i-i missed you."

you hummed, understanding what he meant now.

"so..you're horny is what you're trying to say..?" he nodded his head.

"can we go to your room?"

--

he gave you no chance to breathe once you made it to the room, he pushed you down onto the bed and went straight for your lips.

he took one of your hands, still kissing you, and brought it down to the front of his jeans.

he wanted you to feel what you do to him.

he broke away for just a second, eyes darting all across your face, "fuck, I can't wait." he gave you one more kiss before pushing back to take off his clothes.

fully naked, he moves to your body now, taking off your clothes. starting with your shirt, slowly at first before getting impatient and eventually tugging down your pants and panties.

he ducks his head down to your tits, sucking on one while his hand gropes and tweaks the other.

you moaned out, arching your back. he switched his mouth to the other side, you put one hand into his hair, tugging at it.

soon enough he pulls away, dragging a hand down to your cunt.

he rubs your clit gently at first, his hand shaking a bit.

he puts that hand on your thigh now, muttering something under his breath.

"w-what?" you asked breathlessly.

"said I needa taste you, sweetie." he brought his head between your legs, both arms hooked around your thighs.

he wastes no time, sucking your clit harshly. your hand, yet again, finds its way to his hair. moaning when you would occasionally pull his hair.

"f-fuck, niki, hold on-" he cut you off by sticking two fingers into your pussy.

"mm, no." he said quickly, going back to making out with your cunt.

you could feel your orgasm building up, but you didn't want to cum. not yet, at least.

"fuck! niki, baby, please," he finally lifted his head, meeting your heavy eyes.

wordlessly, he stood on his knees, lining himself up with your hole.

he had one hand beside your head, and one on his cock, leaning down to whisper into your ear, "all day..." he pushed his tip into you.

"the whole time i'm out with the boys, I couldn't stop thinking about your sweet fucking pussy, baby." he was halfway in now.

"popped a fucking boner in the middle of the bar 'cause of you." he groaned when he bottomed out, "y-you know how I am, don't you? you know I can't last a few fucking hours without my girl." your nails dug into his back.

he trailed rough kisses on your neck when he started thrusting into you.

"t-tried to rub one out in the bathroom...but it didn't work. I felt like a fucking horny virgin, getting hard at the thought of my pretty girlfriend."

his words only egged you on, feeling yourself get closer. he started moaning, knowing he wouldn't last too long either.

he pulled out of you for a second, rubbing his tip against your clit. "w-why'd you stop?" he didn't answer you right away, catching his breath.

"can you ride me? fuck baby, please, i-i can't stop thinking about last time."

as soon as he said that, all the pieces connected in your head.

every time the two of you have had sex from that moment on, it always seemed like he wanted to ask something of you. like he was holding something back.

now you know what it is. and now you know that your boyfriend only has the confidence, or willingness, to tell you when he's drunk out of his mind.

you quickly switched position, sliding back down onto him now.

niki threw his head back, moaning loudly. it was like he didn't care anymore. and god, did you love that.

his hands were gripping your waist as you fell down and came back up on him.

continuing, you never let up, it wasn't until you felt a twitch in his legs that you knew he was getting close.

"I'm so close, so close." he whined out. "yeah? come on, baby, I'm c-close, too.” you moaned, pressing your lips against his.

even in the kiss he was whimpering and moaning.

who knew that niki, who's always so composed, would only need alcohol and your tight cunt around him to be so loose.

you did your best to move your hips faster, feeling like you're seconds away from your climax.

he gave your ass a light spank, groping the area of it afterwards. felt yourself cum, relief washing over your whole body as your hips came to a slow stop.

niki came at the same time you did, his orgasm hitting him hard.

you were about to move off of him when he suddenly held you down by your hips.

"j-just a little more, o-okay?" he sounded like he was convincing himself more than you.

you furrowed your brows, "baby, you don't wanna at least take a break?" he shook his head, "p-please?" he stuttered out, "you just feel too good baby," he raises your hips up a bit now, thrusting upwards.

you gasp, you didn't actually think he would start again.

he's moaning the whole time, loudly too.

you still couldn't believe that this was your boyfriend, your niki. he never showed himself to you like this.

barely a few minutes passed when he dug his face into your neck, spewing out nonsense into your ears. half of it you're hearing and the other half you can't hear over the pleasurable pain of your own overstimulation.

"fuck, you're so warm baby. I can't," he nearly sobbed out. "I love you, s-so much, f-fuck!" he groaned, his hands having a bruising and unmoving grip on your hips.

your heart warmed, "oh, baby, I love you too." your nails were running up and down his back, "are you gonna cum now? hm? you wanna be my good boy and cum?"

and that's what made him shoot his sticky load right inside you, both of you moaning and whimpering at the feeling of your second climax.

he dropped on his back, pulling you down to lay atop him.

--

it was niki's alarm that woke him up.

he reached for his phone to turn it off and put his head back on the pillow, he threw an arm at the opposite side of the bed, seemingly searching for the warmth of your body.

but, you weren't there?

he opened his eyes a bit, scratching his head as he sat up.

"y/n?" he called out, voice still deep with sleep.

you walked back into the room, a glass of water in your hand.

"morning, ki." you said quietly, unsure how bad his hangover headache is. "come on, be a good boy and drink up, okay?" you said, biting back a smile.

he looked at you confused at first, before he widened his eyes. "shut up." he grumbled, covering his face. but that did nothing for him as you could see the tips of his ears turn a shade of red.

"come on! take a joke." you laughed, pushing his shoulder lightly before placing a kiss to the crown of his head.