laws4me

[laws4me]

Pumpkin Spice & Everything Nice

Part One.

｡°⛧Synopsis⛧°｡ When college summer break finally rolls round, everyone’s sickening relationships resurface. Despite Heeseung telling himself over and over again that it doesn’t matter - when it really really does - Heeseung can’t help but feel like the time to get a girl and get laid is well overdue. You on the other-hand don't have a clue what you're doing. Well, you never know what you're doing, not with a guy like him. It's a slice of life & nothing nice.

Warnings: Fluff, developing relationships. (If I miss anything, please tell)

This fanfic does not reflect the actions, personality or character of the real person. This is purely for entertainment purposes only. Thx.

2:57.

The first thing you notice when you get to your dorm is how quiet everything feels.

Campus noise is replaced by the whir of the box fan outside your room. Your group chat is dead except for the occasional thirst trap from Yuna and a “he’s so whipped, it’s almost embarrassing” meme someone sent about Sunghoon. Everyone’s in love. Everyone has someone.

Everyone except you.

And — apparently — Heeseung.

You hadn’t expected to see him again this soon. Not after finals week, not after the way things got kind of weird between you two during the party. But there he is, sitting by your dorm door at 12 a.m., legs stretched out, sipping a Red Bull like it's not feeling like 90 degrees out. You freeze. He looks up.

“Hey,” he says, casual, but there’s something about the way his gaze lingers. Like he was waiting for you.

“Hey,” you reply, trying to sound cool. You’re not cool. You are very much the opposite of cool. You are so uncool, in fact, that you consider pretending to forget how to unlock your front door just to delay walking past him.

Your head still pounded and rang from the aftermath of the party; the loud electronic music and the strong taste of vodka that lingered on your tongue. What the fuck was he doing here?

He smirks like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. “Back for the night?”

“No,” you say. “I just like melting in my bedroom.” You roll your eyes.

He laughs. That laugh. That easy, boyish, lopsided laugh that makes your stomach twist in a way it has no business twisting.

He leans back on his hands, eyes scanning your face like he's trying to read a language he's half-forgotten.

“You look like you’re about to collapse,” he says, and you’re too tired to even argue. You’re not sure if it’s the heat or the hangover or him that's got you this drained.

“I probably am,” you mutter, fishing your keys from your bag with the grace of a drunk raccoon.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t stand. Doesn’t explain why he’s here. You get the door half-unlocked before you glance back over your shoulder.

“You waiting for someone?”

His mouth quirks, like he’s been expecting that question and already knows his answer is going to annoy you. “Not really.”

You frown, “So you’re just... loitering?”

“I was hoping you’d show up, actually.” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal, like that doesn’t feel like a punch to the stomach for reasons you refuse to examine right now.

There’s a long pause. He watches you. You watch him.

And then you sigh — dramatic, tired, defeated.

“Come in.”

Heeseung stands slowly, stretching like a cat before stepping inside like he owns the place. Like this wasn’t a decision you hesitated on.

You flick on the overhead light, immediately regret it, then turn it off again. Too harsh. The room feels hotter now, like his presence has pushed the air out of the space. You drop your bag on the floor with a thud and kick off your shoes, already peeling your cardigan off your shoulders.

Heeseung doesn’t sit right away. He wanders. Looks at your desk, the cork board filled with random polaroids, the mess of papers and charger cords. It's his first time here - and somehow it feels different now. Tighter.

“You drink that shitty coffee?” he asks, nodding to a half empty mug near your laptop.

“You’re one to talk. You’re drinking liquid battery acid.”

He raises the Red Bull. “Keeps me sharp.”

“Sharp for what?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just gives you a small, unreadable smile. “For conversations like this.”

You narrow your eyes. “You showed up at my dorm at midnight for a conversation?”

“I showed up because—” he starts, then stops. Rubs the back of his neck. “I dunno. I thought maybe you’d still be awake. Thought maybe you wanted to talk.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Because, yeah — you kind of did want to talk. And yeah — you’ve been thinking about that stupid party, that stupid almost-moment between you two in the hallway of the summer college party, the way his hand brushed your waist and neither of you said anything about it after. You were too tipsy to think about it then. It burned into your mind now.

You sit on the edge of your bed, legs crossed, fingers fiddling with a loose thread on your shorts.

Heeseung finally lowers himself into your desk chair. Spins once. Twice. Then stops.

“I didn’t think this would be awkward,” he says quietly.

“Well, congratulations. Thank you for stating the obvious. This is so not weird right now,” you deadpan.

That gets another laugh out of him — softer, this time. More hesitant.

And then it’s quiet again. Except for the fan. Except for your heartbeat, which feels a little too loud in your ears.

You glance over at him, and he's already looking at you.

“You can stay for a bit,” you say, almost like it’s nothing. “If you want.”

He doesn’t answer. Just gets up, walks over, and sits next to you on the bed — carefully, like he’s testing the weight of a decision.

And he’s close. Too close.

You don’t move.

Neither does he.

Your eyes flick to the wine bottle you left sitting on your nightstand from earlier — cheap rosé in a twist cap. The kind you always grab when you want to feel like you’re romanticising your life but without actually trying that hard.

You reach over, unscrew the lid, and take a sip straight from the bottle. No glass. You figure you’ve already hit the point in the night where dignity doesn’t matter.

Heeseung watches you with a kind of amused curiosity, lips twitching.

“No glass?” he says.

“You want one?”

“No,” he says, shrugging. “I didn't think of you as the kind to do that. Kind of chaotic. A little unhinged.”

You roll your eyes and hold the bottle out to him. “Want some?”

He takes it without hesitation. His fingers brush yours — not dramatically, not on purpose, but enough to make your breath hitch.

“Don’t backwash,” you say.

“Too late.”

He drinks. Long sip. Eyes still on yours.

You turn away quickly, pretending to look for your phone charger. You find it. Plug it in. Try to ignore how aware you are of the dip in the bed where he’s sitting.

He hands the bottle back. You take another drink.

It gets quieter again — not uncomfortable this time, just heavy. Like the silence is thick with something else. Something neither of you is saying.

“You know,” he starts, stretching his arms behind his back, “I was gonna follow you after the party.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He looks at you. Really looks. Like he’s wondering if it’s safe to say the thing he’s been sitting on.

“Felt like... I dunno. Like I’d do the wrong thing. Mess it up.”

You snort. “You? Mess something up? Shocking.”

He grins, leans in a little. “You’re being a bit mean to a guest in your dorm.”

“You’re being a bit annoying for a guest.”

“Ouch.”

But there’s no bite in either of your words anymore. It’s soft. Familiar. It’s starting to feel like the two of you have known each other for years. Before things got weird — before that hallway moment at the party, before the way he looked at you like he was seconds away from doing something reckless.

You hand him the wine again. He takes another sip and then, casually, like it’s nothing, lies back on the bed — hands behind his head, gaze fixed on the ceiling.

“You ever think about what would’ve happened if I kissed you tonight?”

Your heart stalls.

You blink. Hard.

“What?”

He turns his head toward you. Smirk gone. Serious, this time.

“I almost did. You smelled like mango seltzer and your lip gloss was all smudged. You were looking at me like...”

You don’t breathe.

“Like what?” you whisper.

“Like you wanted me to,” he says simply.

Silence.

He doesn’t push it. Doesn’t move. Just looks at you — patiently, steadily, like he’s letting the truth sit between you and waiting to see what you’ll do with it.

You take the wine back, your hand brushing his again — this time more intentionally. This time, lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“You should’ve kissed me,” you say, barely above a whisper.

His eyes drop to your lips.

And suddenly, the air in the room changes.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t smile.

Just leans up on his elbows, slow and careful, like he's giving you time to pull away.

You don’t.

You lean in.

Barely a breath between you now.

Heeseung’s voice is low. Rough. Different.

“Still want me to?”

Your breath catches.

His eyes are locked on yours — dark, unreadable, but undeniably serious.

You give the smallest nod.

That’s all it takes.

Heeseung closes the space between you with a kind of quiet urgency — his hand finding your jaw, fingers curling lightly beneath your chin as his lips brush against yours. It’s slow at first. Testing. Like he’s still not sure you’ll let him. But when you don’t pull back — when you kiss him back — something in him shifts.

His other hand slips to your thigh, anchoring himself there, and the kiss deepens.

His lips are soft, warmer than you expected, and he tastes like rosé and trouble. Your fingers clutch at the hem of his shirt without thinking, trying to ground yourself, but the way he kisses you makes that impossible. It’s like the whole room tilts — like gravity’s changed its mind and suddenly everything’s pulling you toward him.

Heeseung groans quietly against your mouth when you tilt your head just right, when your lips part slightly to let him in. It’s not loud, but it vibrates in your chest.

You pull back eventually — reluctantly — your chest rising and falling too fast. Your face feels hot, and not just from the wine.

You’re pretty sure you’ve forgotten how to blink.

Heeseung’s eyes open slowly. He looks at you like he’s trying to memorise something.

You clear your throat, trying to steady your voice. “So... that happened.”

He just stares at you a moment longer. Then: “You still taste like mango seltzer.”

You let out a breathy laugh and immediately cover your face with your hands. “Oh my God.”

He chuckles — low and smug — and gently pulls your hands away from your face. “What? Embarrassed now?”

“Shut up.”

“You weren’t saying that thirty seconds ago,” he says, voice lazy, teasing. But there’s something in his eyes — something hot and focused — that makes your skin burn.

You try to look anywhere but at him.

He doesn’t let you.

He leans closer again, thumb brushing just under your lip, right where the gloss has worn off.

“I don’t really wanna stop yet,” he murmurs.

Your breath hitches.

Heeseung’s close again — not kissing you this time, just hovering, just waiting — eyes flicking between your mouth and your gaze.

“You okay with that?”

You nod, already leaning in, already giving in to the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only person who’s ever mattered.

This time, the kiss isn’t careful.

It’s bolder. Messier. His hand slips beneath your shirt, yours tug at his collar, and the wine is completely forgotten on the nightstand. Everything else dissolves — the heat, the awkwardness, the dorm room stillness — until all that’s left is you and him and this quiet, slow-burning hunger that neither of you has words for yet.

His lips find yours again — hungrier this time, more sure of where to press, where to linger. His hand slides slowly up your thigh, fingers dragging against bare skin in a way that makes your breath stutter.

And God, it’s so easy to forget. To get lost in the way he touches you — warm palms, soft mouth, the weight of him pulling you under like a tide. You let yourself lean back, hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt as he shifts above you, guiding the kiss deeper.

You gasp softly when his teeth graze your bottom lip.

“Still okay?” he asks, voice low and rough in your ear, hand pausing just above your waistband.

You nod — or you think you do — but something sticks in your chest. A thought you’ve been trying not to let in. It slips through anyway.

Isn't this is what Yuna told me he's like?

One night stands. One innocent kiss. A moment of fake love. A goodbye.

You’ve heard the stories. Heeseung and the girl from music theory. Heeseung and the girl from Yuna’s birthday. The ones who swore it meant something, only to find out it didn’t.

And suddenly, the heat crawling across your skin feels different. Less dizzying. More exposed.

You pull back slightly — not pushing him away, just creating enough space to breathe. To think.

His eyes open, searching your face. “Hey,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your cheek. “What’s going on?”

You swallow, unsure how to say it. How to not sound like a cliché.

“I just…” You sit up a bit, gently untangling your limbs from his. “I don’t want to be the next girl you kiss tonight and forget before the night even ends.”

Heeseung freezes — just for a second — like he wasn’t expecting that.

Then he exhales, sits back on his heels, running a hand through his hair.

“You think I’m gonna forget this?”

You don’t answer.

He looks at you — really looks. His voice is quieter now. Serious. “I don’t bring wine into dorm rooms for just anyone, you know.”

You huff out a small laugh, even though your heart’s still pounding. “You didn’t bring the wine.”

“Okay, you did,” he admits, giving you a small, crooked smile. “But I shared it. And I don’t share wine or… this,” he gestures between you, “unless it matters.”

There’s something so uncharacteristically sincere in his voice that it catches you off guard. Heeseung — the guy who never stays long — is looking at you like he’s choosing to stay. Right now. On your bed. His unnecessarily cute bambi eyes looking down at you. In the blinding heat of your tiny room.

You hesitate again, but this time it’s different. It’s not fear. It’s not doubt.

It’s just the realisation that maybe — maybe — this isn’t going to go the way you've been told it always has before.

You shift closer. Gently.

“If I let this happen,” you say, voice soft, “I don’t want to pretend it didn’t.”

His expression changes — subtle, but real. Something in his eyes drops, steadies. “Then we won’t.”

And this time, when he leans in again — slower, softer, more careful than before — you meet him halfway.

You kiss him like it means something.

Because maybe, finally, it actually does.

...

I doesn’t usually stay this long.

He tells himself that as you kiss him again — slower this time, less frantic — your palm sliding up the side of his neck, fingers curling into the hair behind his ear like it’s second nature. Like you’ve always touched him like this.

Heeseung knows how this usually goes. Quick, easy, no thinking. His mouth on someone else’s just to feel something for a second. A distraction. A thrill. A way to pass time between classes and music rehearsals and nights pretending he doesn’t want something more.

But this — you — you’re something else entirely.

The way you looked at him when you said you didn’t want to be forgotten — the way your voice broke just a little — it cracked something open in him he wasn’t ready for.

Now, every time you exhale against his lips, he feels that crack widen.

And suddenly, he’s terrified of breaking.

Because you’re still kissing him. Still letting him touch you. Your legs have shifted to rest against his, your body softer, more relaxed now that you’ve said what needed to be said. Your guard isn’t up anymore — not fully — and it hits him all at once that you trust him.

That you're letting him in, in a way no one else has.

And now, he’s the one afraid of messing it up.

Your hand moves to the back of his shirt, fingertips grazing the warm skin beneath the fabric. It’s not bold, not calculated. Just instinctive. Heeseung has had hands on him before — too many, maybe — but this? This feels different. You feel different.

And fuck, it’s addictive.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, to memorize the way your lips are pink and a little swollen, the wine-glazed softness in your eyes. You blink up at him like he’s something fragile, too — like maybe this could break both of you if you’re not careful.

He doesn’t want to be careful anymore.

“You’re kind of ruining me,” he says quietly.

Your brows lift slightly. “What?”

He laughs under his breath, brushes a strand of hair from your cheek. “I’m serious. You look at me like that and I feel like I can’t breathe.”

You let out a small, startled laugh — not mocking, just surprised. Like you didn’t expect Heeseung to say something like that. And maybe he didn’t either.

He rests his forehead against yours. “I’ve never wanted to stay, you know. With anyone. Not really.”

You don’t say anything right away. You just wrap your arms loosely around his shoulders and let the silence stretch. But your body is warmer now. Less guarded. You’re letting him hold you, kiss you, speak like he means every word — and maybe he does.

After a moment, your voice breaks through the quiet.

“I don’t want you to go.”

Heeseung closes his eyes.

And there it is. The final nail.

His restraint, whatever thin layer of it was left, gives way.

“Then I’m not going anywhere,” he says, kissing you again — deeper now, with a certainty he didn’t have before.

You fall back gently against the mattress, and he follows, arms bracketing either side of your waist. His kisses move from your mouth to your jaw to your neck, each one slow and unhurried, like he’s learning you piece by piece.

You sigh into his touch — soft, safe — like you’re finally giving in to the heat of it, the rightness of it.

And for the first time in longer than he can remember, he doesn’t feel the need to run.

He just wants to stay. Right here. With you.

The air between you cools, but only just — the kind of warmth that doesn’t come from the heat of your body, but from the closeness, the way your limbs stay tangled like you’re afraid to let go. The sheets are messy beneath you both, twisted and half-draped, but neither of you moves to fix them.

Heeseung lies beside you, one arm curled under your head, the other across your waist. His thumb strokes a slow, steady rhythm against your side, and you let yourself melt into it, every part of you sinking into the mattress like maybe, for once, you can actually rest.

No thinking. No questioning. Just this.

“You good?” he murmurs, voice hushed by the dark.

You nod against his chest. “Yeah.”

Heeseung hums like he doesn’t quite believe you — like he knows you’re still holding something back. But he doesn’t push. He just kisses your hairline and settles in beside you, body pressed close like a promise he hasn’t made out loud yet.

Eventually, your breathing evens out. The weight of the day, of the night, of everything left unsaid — it starts to slip. Sleep pulls at your thoughts gently, and you let it.

But you don’t sleep fully. Not yet.

Because sometime after the silence deepens, when the room is dipped in blue and the fan hums like static, Heeseung shifts slightly beside you.

You feel him turn toward you. Think he might be awake. You keep your eyes closed, breathing slow, pretending — not out of fear, but curiosity. Because something about the way he moves, careful and unguarded, tells you he doesn’t know you’re still listening.

Then you hear it.

His voice. A whisper, barely above breath, like a secret not meant for daylight.

“You make it really hard not to fall for you, you know that?”

Your heart stutters.

There’s a pause. You hear him sigh.

“I don’t know what this is. What we’re doing. But I don’t wanna screw it up.”

He shifts closer. You feel the brush of his lips at your temple — a kiss so gentle, it almost doesn’t touch.

“God, I hope you don’t regret this.”

He’s silent after that. His breathing slows.

And now you can’t sleep.

Because your chest is buzzing, your skin is alive, and his words keep playing on repeat in your mind. You weren’t expecting that — weren’t expecting him to feel this much. To say any of it.

You lie still, heart pounding, until the sun starts to dip and spill through the curtains in soft lines.

And just when you finally think sleep might take you — just when you let yourself start to drift — your phone vibrates on the nightstand.

A message.

You reach for it slowly, trying not to wake him.

Your screen lights up.

[0*30* *11*20] Girl, you don’t know what you’re getting into with him. Ask him about the girl from last summer.

Your blood runs cold.

Heeseung shifts beside you, completely asleep — peaceful. Like he has nothing to hide.

But the text says otherwise.

And now you’re wide awake.

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Word Count: 3,654 words.

Judge's note: This is my first fanfic so please do be lenient. Also I do plan on writing a part two for this, hope you enjoyed!

[laws4me]

Pumpkin Spice & Everything Nice

Synopsis When college summer break finally rolls round, everyone’s sickening relationships resurface. Despite Heeseung telling himself over and over again that it doesn’t matter - when it really really does - Heeseung can’t help but feel like the time to get a girl and get laid is well overdue. You on the other-hand don't have a clue what you're doing. Well, you never know what you're doing, not with a guy like him. It's a slice of life & nothing nice.

Judge's note This is my first fanfic of any sort, so please be prepared to read with a dose of lenience.