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mesopotamism · 1 day ago

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JUST THIS… TWICE? | JJK

summary. when you complain to jungkook about your lack of action in the past year, you're not really asking for a solution. but when he casually offers to help, you just can't seem to bring yourself to say no.

after all, what's the worst that could happen in hooking up just this once?

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre: friends to lovers, smut, fluff

word count: 8.3k

warnings: more porn but with a tiny bit more plot :0, swearing, explicit sexual content, car sex, kissing, making out, oral (f. receiving), again he’s very cocky but can we blame him, breast play, multiple orgasms, banter and teasing as dirty talk, petnames (baby), jk's actually a menace but lowkey down bad, the ending deserves a warning (i’m sorryy), let me know if i missed anything!

notes: thank you SAURR much to my bae j @tranquilreign for beta reading!! (i’m still giggling at all ur comments pls :3) likes, comments, reblogs, asks and feedback are so so appreciated. enjoy reading my angelss <3

ps. READ PART ONE HERE!!

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback

You wake up to the dull throb of sunlight pressing through your curtains and the sharper ache between your legs.

It's not unpleasant — just a lingering reminder. A hum under your skin, like a bruise you don’t mind touching again and again.

You blink slowly, your eyes gritty from sleep, mouth dry, brain hazy in that half-dream state where everything feels like it could be made up. The heavy comforter is kicked down to your hips, your legs tangled in each other, and for a second — just one — you think maybe it was a dream.

But then you shift, and your thighs protest, and it all comes back.

The couch. His fingers. His mouth. The way he looked at you like he’d already had you a thousand times in his head. The things he said — low, teasing, mean. The things you said back. Your stomach tightens, breath hitching as your body tries to replay it too fast, too much.

You squeeze your eyes shut and will your brain to shut up.

You don’t usually let people sleep over. Not like this. Not in your bed, under your sheets, in your space.

But Jungkook’s always been the exception to things. It’s not new, waking up with him in your apartment. He’s been here for movie nights that turned into sleepovers, for hangovers that turned into late mornings, for heartbreaks that turned into shared pints of ice cream and shit talk.

You’ve seen him in your space more times than you can count. But never like this.

You breathe in slow and exhale even slower, eyes fluttering open. The room is still, the air thick with the kind of silence that begs to be broken but doesn’t quite want to be. You shift again, turning onto your side, and your eyes land on the shape beside you.

He’s lying on his stomach, one arm thrown across your pillow, the other tucked under his chest. The blanket’s halfway down his back, exposing the mess of tattoos curling across his shoulder and the dip of his spine. His hair’s a wreck — pushed off his forehead, flattened in the back — and his lips are parted, soft. He looks young like this. Calm. A little too good for your peace of mind.

You stare at him a moment too long.

And then you very, very carefully roll onto your back again.

You feel like you’re in a minefield. Like one wrong move will detonate something you're not ready to name.

You slept with your best friend.

Not just slept. Fucked.

Fucked him like you meant it. Like you’ve wanted to for longer than you’re willing to admit, even to yourself.

You exhale again. A sharp, quiet puff of air through your nose. Maybe if you stay still long enough, he’ll just keep sleeping. And you can sneak to the bathroom. Or back in time. Whichever’s easier.

You’re not panicking. Not technically. You’re just… thinking. Overthinking. Remembering how you sounded begging him not to stop. Remembering how he looked at you like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted. Remembering how, when it was over, he held you like it meant something.

You feel his warmth next to you, steady and real. His leg brushes yours, his knee nudging slightly against your calf, and your whole body goes still again.

You wonder what he's going to say when he wakes up; if he'll still smile at you like he did last night — like nothing about this is complicated. Like your world didn’t tilt just a little off its axis the second he kissed you back, like he wasn't allowed to and never planned on stopping.

You should feel weird. You should feel guilty. Or ashamed. Or something more than this weird, electric calm.

But mostly, you just feel like you don’t want to move.

His breathing shifts — subtle, but enough that you know he’s starting to wake up.

Your heart trips a little.

He shifts, and the arm he’d slung over your pillow curls slightly in, fingers brushing the back of your hand. He lets out a groggy hum, the noise half in his throat.

You freeze, eyes still closed.

“Mm,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. “What time is it?”

You swallow. Your voice doesn’t come right away, caught somewhere behind your tongue. When it does, it’s soft, a rasp. “No idea.”

He exhales. Shuffles a little closer. You can feel the heat of him now, bleeding through the sliver of space that still separates you. A moment passes. Then another. You brace for it — for the tension, the shift, the stammered joke to smooth over the jagged memory of last night.

But all he says is, “Damn. My back hurts.”

You blink, startled by the normalcy of it. “You’re not supposed to sleep like that. You looked like a crime scene victim.”

“Sexy,” he mutters, eyes still closed. “That’s what I was going for.”

You huff a quiet laugh. And weirdly, the knot in your stomach loosens just a little.

Another silence stretches. But it’s not bad. Not heavy. He makes a small sound as he shifts again, propping himself up just slightly on one elbow. You don’t look at him, not yet, but you can feel his eyes on you.

“How do you feel?”

You hesitate.

He waits.

You turn your head slowly toward him, and finally meet his gaze. His hair’s a mess, his eyes still sleep-warm, but there’s something sharper under the surface. Not regret. Not even nerves. Just… attention. He’s watching you the way he did last night — carefully. Like you matter.

You chew your lip for a second. "Sore," you eventually say, voice quiet.

He smiles. “Good sore or bad sore?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You want a Yelp review?”

He shrugs, still smiling. “I mean, if you’re offering. I’d love a star rating.”

You stare at him for another second. Then you snort, burying your face in the pillow. “You’re such a dick.”

“You didn’t mind last night.”

You groan, muffled. “Please don't. It's too early for this.”

He laughs — really laughs — and you feel it wash over you like a warm breeze. He’s not weird about it. Not cagey or distant. And maybe it’s a little disarming how himself he still is. Like nothing’s changed.

Like everything has, but it’s fine.

He shifts again, flops onto his back beside you with a loud sigh and an arm flung dramatically over his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this hungover and this smug at the same time. It’s honestly kind of impressive.”

You glance at him, lips twitching. “Your ego’s going to explode.”

He peeks at you from under his arm. “Can you blame me? I mean, damn.”

You roll your eyes and toss a corner of the blanket over his face.

But your heart’s still racing.

You don’t know what you were expecting — some awkward shuffle out of bed, a strained goodbye, maybe even him pretending it hadn’t happened. But he’s still here. In your bed. In your space. Making you laugh.

Just like always.

Your fingers brush against his under the covers. Neither of you pull away.

You stare at the ceiling for a moment, letting yourself breathe. Letting the silence settle between you again. It feels different now, not loud with questions or demanding anything from you.

It feels like… him.

And maybe you’re not ready to ask what it means yet.

But for now?

This doesn’t feel like a mistake. Not even a little.

You’re standing outside your office building, arms crossed and scowling.

The sidewalk’s sticky with the leftover heat of the day, and there’s a cluster of your co-workers behind you laughing about something you’re not a part of. Their voices blur into the honks and hum of Friday traffic, and all you can focus on is the time.

Jungkook is two minutes late.

You know how stupid it is — two minutes. But today, even two seconds of anything feels like too much.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, the back of your neck damp with sweat, the strap of your bag digging into your shoulder in just the wrong way. Your phone sits heavy in your palm. No new messages. No “almost there.” No “sorry, traffic’s ass.”

Nothing.

The week has wrung you out like a wet towel. Every day, some new tiny disaster: deadlines moving without warning, your boss micromanaging you like you’re an intern again, and a meeting yesterday where a client talked over you so many times you wanted to crawl under the table and scream.

You’ve barely slept. Your eyes are scratchy. You snapped at someone in the break room this morning because they made a passive-aggressive joke about your “resting bitch face.” And now, Jungkook is late. On your day. Friday. The one consistent thing in your life.

Every Friday, he picks you up from work.

It started almost a year ago, after a breakup left you crying into your salad at your desk. When Jungkook had texted you to come down that day, you'd expected takeout and tissues. But instead, he’d cranked up the music in his car and driven you to a late-night ramen spot where you ended up laughing so hard you nearly choked on your noodles.

It became tradition. No matter what kind of week you’d had, no matter what mood either of you were in — Friday nights belonged to you two. You didn’t even have to plan anything. Sometimes it was tacos in the car and talking shit about your co-workers. Sometimes it was video games at his place or walking around the city until your legs ached and your cheeks hurt from laughing.

He always showed up. Early, even.

But today, the sun is setting in your eyes, and he’s late.

You tap your foot. Then stop, because that’s annoying. Then sigh loud enough to get a look from a passing stranger.

You grip your phone tighter, squinting down the street. Still no sign of his car. Your thumb hovers over the call button.

Three minutes late now.

Your stomach twists — not from worry, but frustration. Because this — this quiet, unnecessary delay — is the cherry on top of the shit sundae that has been your entire week. And you hate that it’s him. That even Jungkook gets to be a part of the unravelling now.

You lean against the metal pole of the bus sign, letting it bite into your spine. A bead of sweat slips down your back. The sun is way too bright for this hour.

Your phone buzzes.

Finally.

You snatch it up like you’ve been waiting for a lifeline, and there it is:

Kook 🍜: here in a min

You glare at the screen. Then type:

You: You’re late.

Kook 🍜: exactly 3 min. that’s barely anything

You: You’re lucky I’m too exhausted to castrate you.

Kook 🍜: bet you'll still get in the car

You don’t respond.

You just shove your phone back in your bag and take a breath that doesn’t do anything to help.

Jungkook’s car pulls up slow, music low, window already halfway down. He’s in that stupid black bucket hat he always wears, curls pushed out from under the brim. You catch the grin he’s wearing before he even says anything — wide, lazy, like he’s proud just to have found parking.

He leans over and calls out through the window, “Damn. Which poor intern did you kill today?”

You glare at him.

His smile falters a little, but he keeps going, still trying to crack you open like usual. “I mean, you’re kinda glowing with hate. It’s kinda hot. Very—”

“Jungkook,” you cut in, sharp.

His eyes snap up to yours.

You immediately hate how sharp your voice came out. You look away, fingers curling around the strap of your bag.

“Sorry,” you mutter after a beat. “I just… I’ve had a fucking awful week, and I’m really not in the mood for jokes right now.”

There’s a pause. Just the hum of the engine and a soft beat coming from the speakers — some song with a lazy bassline and breathy vocals.

Then he shifts. You hear the click of the lock before he leans over to push the door open for you. “Get in.”

You do. Without arguing.

The cool air hits your face the second the door closes, and you let your head lean back against the seat. He doesn’t say anything right away. Just starts driving, hands loose on the wheel, his bottom lip tugged between his teeth like he’s thinking.

“You wanna talk about it?” he asks eventually, softer this time.

You shake your head. “Not really. Just one of those weeks where everything goes to shit in slow motion. Work, people, the world. My brain. I think I hate everyone.”

He hums. “Cool. We can start a club.”

You huff a laugh, just barely. But it’s something.

He glances at you sideways, like he’s measuring how far he can push. “So when do I get to punch your boss?”

“I’m serious, Kook.”

“I'm serious too! I’ve been doing push-ups.”

You snort, against your will. “You do three push-ups and call it training.”

“First of all, way more than three. Second, the form was perfect. Don’t disrespect me in my own car.”

You smile — tiny, fleeting — but it’s the first time today you’ve felt even remotely human.

“Thanks for picking me up,” you murmur after a second. “Even if you were late.”

“Exactly three minutes,” he says, defensive. “And I was texting you while driving, which is dedication. Illegal, but dedication.”

You glance over at him. He’s wearing his usual all-black like he’s trying to look tough, but the corners of his mouth are soft. His grip on the wheel is loose. Familiar. Like this is just another Friday, like nothing’s changed since last week.

But something has. You feel it.

You clear your throat. “Can we just go back to mine? I kind of want to curl into a blanket and pretend I don’t exist.”

“Nope,” he says instantly.

You blink. “What?”

“I have a plan.”

“A plan?”

“Yep.”

“What kind of plan?”

He just grins, eyes still on the road. “You’ll see.”

You narrow your eyes. “I swear to god, if this ends with me getting roped into karaoke—”

“No karaoke,” he says with a laugh, holding up one hand solemnly. “I promise. You’ve suffered enough.”

You sigh and let your head fall against the window. The glass is cool against your temple, and you let your eyes slip closed for a second. “I’m serious though, Kook. I really don’t think I have the energy to be around people right now.”

“No people,” he assures you. “Just us. Little detour. Nothing dramatic.”

You peek one eye open at him. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m being nice.”

“That’s what’s weird.”

He smirks. “Okay, that’s fair.”

You fall quiet again. The road noise fills the silence, the gentle whir of tires and the low pulse of the bass. It’s soothing in a way, the way riding with him always is.

Your fingers drift to your lap, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. He doesn’t ask again about your week. He just drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually near the gearshift, fingers tapping to the beat of the music.

You glance at him again.

He looks good when he’s focused but relaxed. The way he hums along to the music without realising. The way the light paints the side of his face gold as it streams through the windshield. You feel it crawl up your chest: that annoying, warm pressure. That thing you haven’t named yet.

That thing you’re starting to feel more often when he’s near you.

And it’s so stupid. So inconvenient.

You stare out the window, try to shake it off.

He turns down a street you don’t recognise.

“Seriously,” you say, finally. “Where are we going?”

He just grins again, eyes still forward.

“You’ll see.”

You’re parked at the top of a hill you didn’t know existed.

Below you, the city stretches out — tiny glints of light catching on glass and metal, and cars threading through the streets like slow-moving ants. It’s not some tourist lookout spot. There’s no crowds, no fences or coin-operated telescopes. Just a dusty turnout on the side of a winding road and a view that makes you feel like the world finally shut up for a minute.

It’s quiet up here. Real quiet. Even the music in the car has been turned down to a soft background hum — just instrumental now.

You’ve got a milkshake in your hands, condensation slipping down the side and catching on your fingers. It’s thick and rich, the kind that takes actual effort to sip through a straw. The sweetness coats your tongue, dulls the bitter edge that’s been living in your chest all week. In your lap is the discarded wrapping of a burger so good you had to ask where the hell it came from.

“I’ve literally never heard of this place,” you say around a mouthful of fries. “Is this one of those ‘secret menu, don’t tell anyone or they’ll kill you’ joints?”

Jungkook grins around his own bite, sauce already on the corner of his mouth. “Maybe. The guy who owns it doesn’t even do social media. Total off-the-grid.”

You nod like that explains the magic burger. “They probably sold their soul to the devil for the recipes or something.”

He laughs, mouth full, and leans over to wipe the sauce off with the back of his hand. “You okay now?”

You pause.

The question isn’t heavy. He doesn’t even look at you when he says it — just stares out at the view like he’s asking casually. But you hear the real version underneath. You always hear it with him.

You take a slow sip of your milkshake before answering.

“Yeah,” you say. “I think I am.”

And for once, it’s not a lie. Your body still feels wrung out, your muscles sore from being tense for too many days in a row, but something about this — about being here, with him, with real food and fake silence and a breeze that smells like clean air and french fries settles something in you.

You glance over. He’s sitting back against the driver’s side door, one knee propped up. His hat’s on the floor somewhere — he'd thrown it off after complaining about the heat — and the curve of his neck is exposed just enough to distract you when you look too long.

Which you are. Looking too long, again.

“So,” you say, casually. “How many women have you brought up here to seduce with mystery burgers and pretty views?”

He snorts. “You’re the first. Most of my dates prefer the classic ‘come over and watch a movie, but don’t actually watch the movie’ route.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Wow. Such effort.”

“Right? I’m kind of romantic like that.”

You toss a fry at him. It bounces off his chest and lands in his tray.

He doesn’t flinch. Just picks it up and eats it. “Thanks.”

You roll your eyes, but you can't help the smile that tugs on your lips.

The air settles into a rhythm again. You chew slowly, the kind of silence between you that doesn’t need filling. It's never been hard, being around him. Even now — after everything — you find yourself slipping back into the easy groove of just existing next to him.

Your phone buzzes in your bag, but you don’t reach for it. You don’t even want to know.

You glance over at him again.

He’s still working on his burger, brows furrowed like he’s trying to solve it. Like he’s mad at how good it tastes.

It should be funny.

It is funny. But your heart stutters instead.

You don’t laugh. You just watch.

The way his lips press together before each bite. The little crease between his eyebrows. His jaw, flexing with each chew. The thick column of his throat when he swallows.

You’ve seen him eat a thousand things in a thousand places. Messy tacos. Gas station snacks. Instant noodles straight from the pot. But somehow, this moment feels different.

Or maybe you do.

Something in you has been tilting all week.

You’ve been tired, angry, brittle with exhaustion. But under it — every time he texts you, looks at you, shows up — there’s something else rising. Warm and low.

You’re not sure when being around him stopped feeling simple.

Maybe it was that night. Maybe it’s been creeping in longer. But it’s louder now. Clearer. It fills your throat and sits behind your ribs and presses up against the edges of your self-control.

He licks ketchup from his thumb.

And you can’t stop staring at his mouth.

He glances up and catches you looking, raising an eyebrow. “What?”

You blink. Swallow. Try to think of something else, anything else, but your body’s already too aware. Too wired.

“Would you hate me if I did something?” you ask, voice low.

His head tilts. “What kind of something?”

“Would you?” you repeat, ignoring his question.

He puts his empty milkshake cup and spare tissues into the paper bag you got the food in, then puts it on to the dashboard of the car before meeting your gaze again.

“You know I could never hate you,” he says, voice casual.

Your pulse stutters.

And before you can talk yourself out of it, your fingers fist in the front of his shirt and you’re moving across your seat, crashing your mouth into his.

It’s not sweet or delicate.

You kiss him like you’ve been holding it back for weeks. Like you’ve hit your limit and there’s nowhere else for the feeling to go. Your teeth scrape his lip. Your noses bump.

He makes a startled sound, hands finding your waist instinctively. You pull back a bit, heart hammering in your chest, and for a beat, neither of you move. He just stares at you — wide-eyed, lips parted — like he’s trying to memorise this exact second.

His mouth opens and closes for a second before his lips are on yours again, chasing your mouth like he needs you to breathe.

Fuck. You weren't actually expecting him to reciprocate.

Then again, you hadn't been thinking at all.

"This is a horrible idea," you mumble.

Jungkook smiles into the kiss. "Mhm. Terrible."

But neither of you stop. You're not sure you could even if you tried. Jungkook's an addicting man, especially when he's kissing you like this.

You grunt into his mouth when your knee hits the centre console, frustrated — not at him, not at this, but at the fucking layout of his stupid car.

You pull back just far enough to say, breathless, “This car is the worst possible place for this.”

He’s panting a little, lips flushed. “You’re the one who launched yourself at me.”

You roll your eyes, shifting your position to try and get comfortable, but your impatience only grows with every second that your lips aren't on his.

“Fuck,” you mutter, pushing your hair out of your face. “This is so—”

“Hot,” Jungkook cuts in, his hand sliding under your shirt to palm your waist. His touch is warm. Steady. “It’s hot.”

You pause. Look at him.

His gaze is on your mouth again and his hand flexes against your skin like he’s trying to stay in control. But you see it — how much effort it’s taking.

And that…

Yeah, that does something to you.

With the help of his hands, your weight sinks down into his lap, both knees straddling his thighs.

The position isn’t comfortable — your head almost knocks the ceiling — but it’s better than before. Your mouths press together again, desperate.

Your tongue slides against his, your teeth catch on his bottom lip, and he pulls you tighter like you might disappear if he lets go.

One of his hands snakes up your back, under your shirt, fingers splaying across your spine like he wants to map it. You grind down against him, slow and deliberate, and his breath stutters.

“Fuck,” he mutters into your mouth. “Do that again.”

You do.

He tilts his head and deepens the kiss, like he’s trying to taste everything you’ve never said out loud. You lose your balance for a second, your body leaning into him, your chest flush with his. His hand slips up to your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheekbone.

You roll your hips again, slower this time, and he breaks the kiss with a gasp, resting his forehead against yours.

“Shit,” he says, voice wrecked. “We can’t do this here.”

“Why not?” you murmur, mouth still grazing his.

He laughs — short, breathless. “Because I’m gonna break the gearshift with my dick if we keep going.”

You laugh too, the sound getting lost between the kisses you press to his jaw, his neck, the line of his throat.

His fingers dig into your waist. “You’re evil.”

You bite his earlobe gently. “You like it.”

He groans, the sound full and needy, and his hands are on your ass, dragging you harder into him, his hips rolling up to meet yours.

You both freeze at the contact.

Your breath catches. His does too.

You pull back to look at him. His eyes are blown wide. His lips are red. His chest rises and falls like he’s run a mile.

His mouth breaks from yours, breath ragged, lips swollen.

“Backseat,” he says, voice a little raspy.

You blink, still breathless. “What?”

He grabs your waist again, eyes dark with lust pooling in his pupils. “Backseat. Now.”

You don’t question him this time.

You clamber into the back with far less grace than you’d like — knees catching on leather, thigh knocking the steering wheel hard enough to make the horn let out a pathetic chirp. Jungkook laughs behind you, but it’s breathless and reverent, the kind of sound that makes you feel seen. Wanted.

You fall into the back seat, legs tangled, heart hammering, your skin hot beneath your clothes. Before you can even fix your hair or adjust your position, he’s climbing in after you.

His body slots over yours, knee between your thighs, hands bracing on either side of your head as he dives back in.

You fist his shirt, tugging him impossibly closer as his mouth breaks from yours and moves lower — along your jaw, down your neck. His lips are soft but relentless, nipping at the skin just below your ear before sucking hard enough to make your hips buck into him.

“Fuck,” you whisper, head falling back. “You’re—god—”

“Still not tired of me?” he murmurs against your throat.

You grip his shoulders, legs falling open to make room for him between them. “Shut up.”

He huffs a laugh against your skin, but he listens. Fingers move to your buttons, surprisingly nimble despite how wrecked he looks. He doesn’t tear anything. Doesn’t rush it. He undoes each one slowly, as if he’s unwrapping a gift he’s been waiting way too long to open.

As each button pops free, his mouth follows — kissing down the newly exposed skin between your breasts, over the curve of your ribs. His hands slide beneath the fabric, pushing it open until your chest is bared, and hooks a finger beneath the centre of your bra, tugging it down and out of the way until you're fully exposed beneath him.

He pulls back to look.

And when he does, he breathes your name.

Low. Like a prayer.

You watch his eyes drag over you, dark and worshipful. One hand cups your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple in slow, lazy circles while the other grips your waist, holding you steady as your back arches into him.

He leans down again, tongue flicking over your nipple before his mouth closes around it — sucking just hard enough to make your toes curl. Your fingers fly to his hair, anchoring yourself in him as his teeth graze sensitive skin and his free hand teases the other side, drawing a sharp gasp from your throat.

“Kook—” you breathe, hips shifting beneath him, desperate for friction.

His mouth drags away with a wet sound. “Yeah, baby?”

The pet name sounds dangerous in his voice. Too natural. Like it belongs.

You don’t even call it out. You just say, “Need more.”

That’s all he needs to hear.

He drops one hand between your thighs, pressing it there over your pants with firm, maddening pressure. Just enough to make your breath stutter. His mouth is back on your chest, and his fingers start moving — slow at first, then harder, more purposeful, dragging against the seam of the fabric like he knows exactly how to push you to the edge.

He does.

And you’re already spiralling, body burning under his touch, chest heaving, lips swollen, the back seat of his car too cramped, too humid, too perfectly wrong for what’s happening.

But you’ve never wanted anything more.

Your head drops back against the seat, a soft moan catching in your throat as Jungkook keeps working you over through your pants, his fingers circling you like he has all the time in the world and none of the patience to waste it.

“I swear to god,” you pant, “if you don’t get these off me right now, I’m gonna lose my fucking mind.”

He laughs, still panting himself. His mouth presses hot and open to your neck, teeth grazing skin that’s already buzzing. “Bossy tonight, huh?”

“You started this.”

“And I’m gonna finish it,” he mutters, breath warm against your collarbone.

He shifts down your body and you feel him fumble with the button of your pants, tongue poking at the corner of his mouth in concentration.

“I can do it,” you say, breathless. “You’re slow.”

He blinks up at you, eyebrows raised. “Oh? I’m slow?”

You undo the button in one motion, zipper halfway down, and shoot him a sarcastic smile. “There. Congrats.”

He smiles, wide and wicked, and in the next second, he’s got your pants halfway down your thighs, your panties bunched right after. “Cool. I’ll just use my mouth then.”

That wipes the smugness off your face in an instant.

You freeze.

“Kook— wait, no—”

He pauses, glancing up at you from where he’s knelt between your legs, hair falling into his eyes, hands gripping your thighs with intent. “Did you just try and say no to that?”

“I mean…” You squirm, thighs twitching under his touch. “Last time was already— like, I came. A lot. You don’t have to do the whole… y’know…”

“The whole what?” he asks, voice dangerously innocent. “The part where I make you forget your own name with my tongue?”

You glare at him. “Don’t say it like that.”

He smirks, leaning in until his nose brushes your inner thigh. “Say what? That I’m gonna eat you out until you’re dripping into the seat?”

Your whole body jerks. “Jesus— Kook.”

“That’s not a no.”

He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, slow and warm. Then another. And another. Higher. Closer.

“Didn't get to do it last time,” he murmurs. “And I’ve been thinking about it. All fucking week.”

“You think about this?” you ask, trying for teasing, but your voice wavers as his mouth brushes closer to your core.

“Every night.”

Your breath catches.

“Every time I jerked off, it was to the sound you made when I had my fingers in you. You remember that?” he asks, dragging his mouth up until he’s just hovering over you, warm breath ghosting across your heat.

You nod, because you can’t speak. Your fingers are curled tight into the edge of the seat. Your thighs twitch.

“You remember what you said? ‘Please, don’t stop,’” he mimics, voice low and mocking. “But now you wanna tell me to stop this?”

You open your mouth to fire back some bratty reply — but then he presses a single, firm kiss against your cunt.

Your brain blanks.

Your hips buck.

“Fuck— okay,” you gasp, voice breaking.

He grins like he’s won a bet. “Knew you’d cave.”

Then his mouth is on you.

Hot and slow at first — just one long lick from bottom to top that has your eyes rolling back. His hands pin your thighs apart, anchoring you in place as he buries his face between your legs.

His tongue is obscene. Soft and firm in perfect rhythm, flicking over your clit before sealing his mouth around it and sucking hard enough to make your vision blur.

You cry out, hips stuttering up into his face, but he just groans against you.

“Fuck, you’re so messy already,” he mumbles against you. “Is that for me?”

You’re beyond words.

Your fingers snake into his hair, anchoring yourself as he eats you out like a man with something to prove. He moves with precision and hunger, memorising your every twitch, every gasp, every breathless curse.

“God, Kook—” you pant, eyes squeezed shut. “You’re such a fucking overachiever.”

He pulls back just enough to look up at you, chin slick, pupils blown. “You gonna dock my grade if I make you come too fast?”

You glare down at him, chest heaving. “You’re insufferable.”

He presses a kiss to your clit, slow and sharp. “As if it doesn't turn you on."

You can’t argue. Not when he dives back in, tongue sliding over you with maddening confidence, his nose bumping against your clit as he hums.

The pressure builds fast.

Too fast.

And you know it’s coming — the kind of orgasm that starts at your toes and climbs like a fuse to the rest of you — but you don’t care.

You come hard, shaking through it, barely aware of the sounds leaving your mouth. Everything goes white-hot for a second — your grip in his hair, the tremble in your thighs, the pleasure that pulses through you.

You’re still gasping, thighs trembling, when he finally pulls back. His lips are slick, his chin wet with you, and he looks fucking wrecked.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You good?” he asks, cocky and a little breathless.

You shoot him a look. “Do I look good?”

He smirks. “You look like I just rocked your shit.”

You scoff, weak but grinning. “You’re so full of yourself.”

He kisses your inner thigh, then leans up, mouth dragging over your ribs as he moves back over you. “Just calling it like I see it.”

Your hands slide under his shirt as he settles above you again, dragging it up over his toned stomach until he gets the hint and peels it off. You press your palms to his chest, warm and solid and slick with sweat.

Then your hand starts moving lower.

Jungkook freezes above you, eyes flicking down to where your fingers are tugging at his waistband. You smirk up at him.

“My turn?”

“Your turn to what?” he asks, voice already hoarse.

You shift, nudging his hips up so you can start pulling his jeans open. “You think I’m gonna let you have all the fun?”

He groans — actual, full-bodied groan — as you work the zipper down and slide your hand beneath the waistband of his boxers.

But the second your fingers wrap around him, he grabs your wrist.

You look up, surprised. “What?”

He’s panting now, jaw tight, brow furrowed like he’s holding on by a thread.

“I can’t.”

You blink. “Can’t what?”

“I— fuck, if you put your mouth on me, I’m not gonna last.” He grips your wrist tighter, not pulling away but not letting you move either. “And I need to be in you first.”

You raise a brow, amused. “What happened to all that stamina you brag about during Mario Kart?”

He glares, cheeks flushed. “That’s different. You don’t suck me off during Mario Kart.”

“Maybe I should.”

“Don’t joke right now,” he grits out, pushing your hand out of his boxers with an almost painful kind of restraint. “I’m serious. I’m already dying.”

You pout, dragging your nails lightly down his stomach just to be a brat. “So needy.”

His eyes narrow, before moving back onto you.

You squeal as he pins your hands above your head, his body crashing into yours, mouth crashing against your neck.

“I’ll show you needy,” he growls, voice thick and dark.

Your heart kicks hard in your chest, and you’re smiling — giddy, wrecked, turned on beyond belief.

“You promise?” you whisper, voice almost mocking.

His hips roll down into yours.

“Oh, baby. I promise.”

The second his hips grind down again, dragging against your soaked heat, you feel your breath punch out of your lungs.

He lets go of your wrists and shoves his jeans and boxers down just far enough to free himself, cock flushed and heavy, already leaking at the tip. You reach for it instinctively, wanting to feel him, stroke him slow just to tease — but he swats your hand away like it’s nothing.

“No,” he growls, leaning in to press a kiss to your collarbone, rough and reverent all at once. “You had your chance.”

You open your mouth to argue, to push his buttons just a little more — but the head of his cock nudges your entrance, and whatever snark you had queued up melts into a gasp.

Jungkook groans under his breath, burying his face in the crook of your neck like the restraint is killing him. “Fuck, you’re so wet.”

“Yeah,” you rasp, gripping his shoulders, nails digging in. “Wonder why.”

He shifts his hips, just a little, dragging the thick head through your folds. Not pushing in yet, but slicking himself up with you. You moan despite yourself, arching into him, your body desperate to be filled.

“You ready?” he mutters, voice ragged.

You look at him — really look at him. His hair’s a mess, stuck to his forehead. His lips are kiss-bruised and red. His abs flex as he holds himself up over you, barely restraining the shake in his arms.

And you’ve never wanted anything so badly in your life.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Please.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

He pushes in slow, thick and stretching, and your breath catches at the burn. Your back arches. One hand flies to the window for leverage, the other fists in the back of his neck.

“Jesus,” Jungkook groans, barely halfway in. “You feel— fuck— you feel insane.”

You laugh, short and winded. “That’s what you said last time.”

“Yeah, and I meant it.”

He bottoms out with a curse, hips flush to yours. For a moment, you both just breathe — heavy and ragged, bodies locked together, the air thick with sweat and want.

His movements are slow at first — just a shallow roll of his hips that drags his cock along every nerve ending inside you. You moan, legs tightening around his waist, heels digging into the backs of his thighs.

“Faster,” you breathe, already twitching around him.

He leans back just enough to watch your face, eyes locked on yours like he’s chasing every reaction. Then he picks up the pace — slamming into you with long, deep strokes that have the car rocking.

You cry out, snapping your hand up to press against your mouth. “Kook— fuck, don’t stop.”

He laughs — laughs, breathless and wrecked. “You think I could?”

Every thrust punches a gasp from your lungs. You can’t think. You can’t do anything but hold on.

He shifts, bracing one knee on the seat and angling his hips just right — and when he hits that spot inside you, your whole body jerks.

“Oh my god,” you moan.

“Right there?” he grits out, sweat dripping down his jaw. “Fuck, I feel it— your pussy’s so fucking tight, you’re gonna— shit— you’re gonna make me come.”

“Thought you said I’d be the one begging.”

He groans, pulls out almost all the way, then slams back in so hard you scream.

“Still wanna be a brat?” he growls, panting.

You nod, grinning through the moans. “Always.”

“Fine.” He grabs both your wrists again and pins them above your head, his body pressing into you harder now, relentless, sweat slicking your skin. “Then you can take it.”

And fuck, you do.

Your second orgasm creeps up on you fast — your whole body tensing as his thrusts get rougher, deeper, desperate. You cry out his name, high and wrecked, and the sound makes him snap.

His rhythm falters. His mouth crashes against yours, sloppy and hot, all teeth and tongue as he chases his own edge.

“I’m gonna—” he gasps, pulling back to look at you, eyes wild. “Fuck— can I—?”

You nod fast, moaning. “Inside. Just do it.”

That’s all it takes.

He buries himself one last time and shatters — groaning low in your ear as he spills into you, body shaking, arms trembling with effort as he holds himself up.

For a moment, it’s just the sound of breathing. Wind through cracked windows. The slow drip of sweat down your temples. The burn in your thighs. The mess between your legs.

Jungkook lets out a choked laugh and slumps down, burying his face in your neck. “Okay,” he mumbles. “That might’ve been the best sex I’ve had in a fucking car.”

You laugh, dazed. “You say that like it’s a long list.”

“Give me some credit,” he says, voice muffled against your skin. “I’m not that trashy.”

You stroke your fingers through his hair, still catching your breath. “We just fogged up every window in your car.”

“Worth it.”

He doesn’t move.

You’re still tangled together, his weight heavy on you, his softening cock still inside.

After a moment, he shifts slightly and lets out a low, satisfied sigh. You can feel the smile against your neck before he presses another kiss there. Then another. And another.

You squirm, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “You’re clingy as fuck after sex.”

“Mm-hmm,” Jungkook hums, completely unashamed. “Deal with it.”

You roll your eyes, still grinning. “You’re like a weighted blanket.”

He lifts his head just enough to look at you, sweaty curls falling into his eyes. “You love it.”

“Debatable.”

He snorts, then finally pulls out, slow and careful. You both groan at the feeling, and you feel it immediately: his cum, warm and slick, already starting to slide out of you.

You shift to reach for your underwear, cringing at the sticky feeling.

“I’ll clean you up,” he says, voice quiet but certain. “When we get home.”

You blink at him. “You don’t have to. Just drop me off—”

“No.” His tone is firmer now, jaw set. “I’m not just dropping you off.”

You stare at him for a beat, surprised by the sharp edge in his voice. Then you glance down pull up your bra and button up your shirt, suddenly very aware of your heartbeat again.

He watches you the whole time, his eyes dragging over your skin like he’s memorising every inch of it before covering it back up. And when you finish with the last button and reach for your jeans, he leans forward and kisses your jaw — soft, almost reverent.

“I mean it,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”

And for some reason, you don’t fight it.

You’re lying in his bed, hair still damp from the shower, the curve of his hoodie soft against your bare thighs. The sheets smell like fabric softener and his cologne, and the room is dim — just the small lamp by the closet casting a low amber glow. There’s a bowl of ramen on the nightstand, still steaming. You’re not hungry, but he made it for you, so you took a few bites anyway.

Outside, the city hums. A car passes on the street below. Somewhere down the hall, the radiator clicks.

It should feel normal. Comfortable. It did feel normal — until maybe twenty minutes ago.

Things were fine when you got here. He’d pulled you toward the bathroom and handed you a towel, that stupid grin still half on his face. He even said something about making noodles if you promised not to pass out in his bed again. You’d laughed. Called him a housewife. Everything felt fine.

But when you came out of the shower, something was different.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling his phone like he didn’t hear you walk in. And when he looked up, the smile was there, yeah — but it didn’t fully reach his eyes. You shrugged it off. Maybe you imagined it. Maybe he was just zoning out.

But then it kept going.

Quiet, too quiet. He’d made the ramen without talking. Brought it to you, set it down, and just... sat on the floor for a while, scrolling again, saying nothing. When you asked what he was doing, he just said, “Checking something,” and didn’t elaborate. Eventually he stood, turned on a random playlist, and flopped into the chair in the corner with a bottle of water.

Now he’s across the room, scrolling again, leg bouncing slightly like he’s keyed up and trying to burn it off. He hasn’t looked at you in a few minutes. You watch the light from his phone flicker across his face, the way his brow furrows every now and then, and something in your chest tugs.

It’s not dramatic. He’s not being rude or distant. He’s not treating you like a stranger. But he’s not treating you like you, either — not the way he usually does.

You know him too well not to notice. The way he’s moving isn’t right. Like he’s stuck in his own head. Like there’s something he wants to say but doesn’t know how to bring up.

Or maybe he’s trying not to say something. Either way, it sits in the air between you, subtle but heavy.

You pull your knees up under the hoodie and wrap your arms around them, resting your chin there. Watching him. Waiting, maybe, for him to snap out of it. Say something dumb. Make fun of your hair. Crawl into bed next to you like it’s nothing.

But he doesn’t.

You shift slightly, tugging the hoodie down over your thighs even though it’s already covering you. The ramen’s gone lukewarm on the nightstand.

“Kook?”

His head lifts just a little. “Hmm?”

You hesitate. “What’s going on?”

He blinks, finally looking at you. His eyes are soft. Tired, maybe. Or just dimmer than usual. “What do you mean?”

“You just feel…” You trail off, unsure how to word it without sounding dramatic. “I don’t know. A little off.”

He smiles, and it’s almost convincing. “I’m good. Just tired.”

You don’t push. Not really. You know him. If he doesn’t want to talk, he won’t. And whatever this is — it doesn’t feel sharp enough to cut yet. It just feels strange.

“Okay,” you say quietly.

He glances down, then back at you. “Eat your noodles before they go gross.”

You glance at the bowl, then back at him. “You eat yet?”

He nods. “Earlier.”

You don’t believe him, but you let it slide.

He shifts in the chair, stretching his legs out and resting his head back for a second before sitting up again, like he was about to let himself relax and then thought better of it.

“I’m gonna get some work done before bed,” he says, standing up slowly. “Couple things I need to catch up on.”

You watch him move toward the door, half expecting him to stop, change his mind, come back and say something dumb like he always does. But he just opens it, hand braced against the frame.

His voice is gentle when he adds, “Don’t stay up too late, alright?”

You nod. “Yeah. I won’t.”

He gives you a small smile — soft, careful — and then he’s gone.

The door clicks shut behind him.

You stare at it for a long moment. The hoodie sleeves are pulled over your hands now. The ramen sits untouched. The playlist keeps playing, quiet and aimless in the background.

You let out a soft sigh before reaching over to flick off the lamp.

The room goes dark, soft shadows stretching over the walls. The sheets rustle as you shift down into them, tugging the comforter over your legs, the warmth doing nothing to quiet the noise in your head.

Maybe this is why people don’t sleep with their best friends.

Maybe this is exactly why those lines exist — because crossing them means risking everything else. And maybe you knew that. Maybe you ignored it anyway.

Because it was him.

Because part of you has been circling this for longer than you want to admit.

You close your eyes, breathing slow and steady. The scent of him still clings to the sheets. Still wraps around you like he should be here. But he’s not.

Regret settles low in your chest, dull and heavy. You hate the way it sits there, thick in your ribs, twisting slow in your stomach. You’ve always hated how it creeps in after the fact, when it’s already too late to take anything back.

You shift onto your side and pull the blanket up to your chin. Try to sleep. Try to stop thinking.

He said everything was fine.

You just wish you believed him.

→ read part three here (coming soon — join the taglist for ‘just this… twice?’ to be notified when part three releases)

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mesopotamism · 3 days ago

Text

meraki | jjk (m)

MERAKI (v., Greek). "to do something with soul, creativity, or love; to put something of yourself in your work." Summary: Jungkook finds you irritating; far too energetic and insistent. But his perception of you changes bit by bit, minute by minute, when he's persuaded into spending an entire night with you at places he doesn't know.

➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: e2l, grumpy!jk (+ photographer!jk) x sunshine!reader; fluff, smut ➳ warnings: bickering, bantering, jk is a bit rude at the beginning, flirting, tension, oc is bold and courageous, mention of someone being stoned, mention of insomnia, jk's lip rings <3, heights, not exactly e2l but more like "i find you pretty annoying" to lovers lmao, deep talks and sweet moments, one bed trope, guest appearance, jk takes pictures of pretty things, stars and sky talk <3, explicit sexual content: kissing/making out, implied pain kink? lol, fingering, manhandling, oral (f. & m. receiving), teasing, 69, spitting, one or two spanks, bit of choking, soft and hard sex, unprotected sex (oc has an iud), soft dom!jk but also glimpses of sub!jk, ofc biiiig dick!jk, doggy/riding/missionary, praises, more flirting, jk's godly body, masturbation, cum swallowing (he comes in her mouth); the lovely ending <3 ➳ word count: 26.6k <3 ➳ a/n: you guys built this fic!! 🥺 hopefully this is what we expected it to be. it's also yet another love letter to one of the gentlest men i know; happy birthday, jeon jungkook, you're the standard and i will never fall out of love with you 💕 i hope y'all enjoy it!! come and talk to me when you're done mwah <3

TAGLIST | MASTERLIST | WIPs

1:04AM, Her

There’s a word for how you do what you do.

A term you hold dearly in the crevices of your bright heart. Ever since you first learned its meaning two decades ago, you’ve made it your primary goal to breathe through life with it as your philosophy.

Passion, it is. A word certainly common in conversation and daily life — you’re not the only person to live by it. Doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to wallow in it.

Because there’s a fire behind your hard-working chest, lit up, pride residing next to it. It’s where you feel the most vivid light when you do what you love, blooming and blossoming. There are synonyms of it you know, and each of them are pretty as a growing garden.

You gatekeep them for now; haven’t yet found a person to share your knowledge with. Which is okay; in the meantime, you’ll keep looking. You do think everybody needs something like this in their lives.

Something that forces your body upright, sprinkling fairy dust and glimmer into your eyes. Something you can resort to in order to escape the trials of life.

For you, as odd it may seem to people, it’s your job.

You usually work late like today, surrounded by sounds and disquiet. But you enjoy it. You like stepping into the night afterwards, and you like the dark blanket above, the starlight sprinkled across the comforting blackness.

And you like it when it drizzles sometimes. The giggles of couples or groups of friends as they wade through the rain. The absolute quiet and relieving serenity.

You live for this. You enjoy people. You enjoy sensing life around you.

Tonight isn’t different. Even when you find yourself hastening by the end, wrapping up the event with a dozen chores to tackle; even when the host rushes to you, asking for help. Your shoes click-clack across the floor as you move left and right, up and down.

But by God, you never doubt these days’ worth.

1:04AM, Him

Sometimes, people don’t want to be photographed.

Jungkook learned that early on when he agreed to be a photographer at events. He’s encouraged and urged to ask people to pose; that’s his job. Waiting for them to force a smile before they can resume eating, debone their fish or work on their lobsters, beef, veggies.

They long to return to whatever they were doing, or to their conversations, mostly insignificant ones; Jungkook knows because he, involuntarily, hears too many of them.

It’s only when they’re dancing or drinking that they open up. That’s when they’re okay with listening to him, obedient, almost as if he’s authority, staring into the lens with flushed cheeks and wide grins.

Though it’s irritating when every other person walks up to him afterwards, inquiring when they’d be receiving the photos, or, even ruder, if at all.

Today, there are a few more comfortable people around. Not as harsh, not as grim as he feels. You’re here, too, somewhere; of course you are — you got him here in the first place. Somehow, your paths often cross. You were ready for a picture immediately, drawn in by the host, smiling.

He perceived your presence just for a second, though. Doesn’t need or want any more than that. You’re too loud, too energetic anyway; he’s rather among himself, not in any photo, indulging in the job.

He loves clicking through his camera roll; it’s the people that tire him out. Working his way through the pictures he took once home gives him joy, though. Makes his fatigue feel worth it.

But God, you’re not the only one, right? So many people here are the same amount of enthusiastic, party people to the core.

Which is why he’s happy when the night finally concludes, and he, far after midnight, stuffs his equipment back into his bag and slips into his at least somewhat chic blazer.

1:12AM, Her

You groan as your hand dives into your bag, fishing out the key that you already removed from your keychain an hour ago. Back when the man facing you approached you; he’s the last face you see when you step out of the somewhat stuffy hall.

Or so you think.

You don’t know that the night is far from over when you linger at the entrance, handing him a key that he encloses in his grip with a grateful nod and a goodbye-wave. The final interaction when you excuse yourself, breathing in the night.

It’s a hunch cooler than when you left home today; yet, the breeze feels pleasant caressing your skin. The end of August is still warm, still fairly far from fall; you regard summer nights as the best part of the season.

Sighing, you come to a halt in the middle of the pavement, studying the alley. You ponder until you remember a bus not too far from here; you need to turn left, right? Should be there. You have never been around here before, so you’re not entirely sure.

But you’ll just go with your first instinct for now. Keep walking until you detect any kind of a promising sign. You hold onto your roomy bag as you pass the rare people still around.

Some of them are faces you recognise from the party; some are strangers. One couple you spoke to just earlier even lifts a thumbs up for you, praising you for the exceptional organisation. They make you feel at ease until the road quietens.

And the place stays serene and silent until you hear the clearing of somebody’s throat. It’s not near; yet not far. Your eyes scan the area, not for long when they recognise a figure sitting on the opposite side of the narrow street.

It’s a man, clutching a heavy object with careful hands. A camera, you know it immediately. He’s hunting through the pictures he took, face slightly lit by the screen. Jutting lower lip, slowly blinking eyes.

Simple attire — dark jeans, a white shirt, and a blazer on top that hides the wide shoulders.

Constantly and undeniably handsome, albeit always grim due to the lack of a smile.

You squint to confirm it’s him you’re seeing; but when he smacks his lips in the dark of the night, nibbling at the shiny lip rings, you know you’re right. This is a habit you’ve never seen on anybody this persistently as on Jeon Jungkook.

And the one and only Jeon Jungkook must be feeling your eyes on him, because only a second later, he lifts his gaze. Instinctively, you wave a little, but Jungkook isn’t on board with your hospitality. He rolls his eyes; you don’t take it to heart, though. You’re used to this.

As he starts stuffing the camera back into his bag, you waddle over, crossing the street. Upon reaching him, you ask, “Got some good pictures tonight?”

“I’d guess so.”

His voice is as nonchalant as always, his shoulders relaxed, uncaring. To your vampire-novel-reading middle school self, he would’ve been the coolest and most mysterious riddle, waiting to be cracked. But you know how he feels about you, and that makes the situation just a little less intriguing.

Yet, you never stopped approaching him, because aside from conversations like these, you know he’s just human, too. He smiles at events whenever he gets the chance, content with the moments he captures; he likes what he does.

Photography has always been his thing; or that’s what you gathered, at least. You see the same sparkle in his eyes that you feel in yours when you work; the same joy when he fumbles with his camera, always checking, presumably changing the settings, testing it out.

You lean in a little, wondering, “Can I see?”

“Uhm…” He hesitates, lifting the strap of the camera bag higher up his shoulder. “Do you have to?”

“If I may. I brought you here, remember?”

Of course. It’s always you; you’re the one to organise this, and you’ve seen his pieces and albums before. He might not hang around you too much, always the first to tell you he has somewhere else to be, but you know he’s good. You trust him in this regard.

“You say that every time,” he argues, a tattooed hand settling on his bag, clearly reluctant.

So you click your tongue, waving your suggestion off. You try to sound as lively as ever, but your voice is more earnest as you say, “Okay, it’s fine. Don’t show me the pictures, but come on. Be a bit nice at least.

“Alright. What else? Do you need something?”

You sigh in defeat. “No. I was just going home.”

“You should go home. It’s pretty late.”

“Aren’t you going, too?”

“I am,” he responds, his voice going up at the end. “I just wanted a bit of peace before leaving.”

“Peace,” you repeat, as if trying out the word. “You can’t get it at home?”

Jungkook doesn’t answer this time. Instead, he only shifts his stare from you to the empty road ahead, exhaling a dramatically long breath before he gets into motion. You immediately react, by his side until he asks, “Are you following me?”

“Huh? Did you forget that I was literally heading this way?” He’s distracted, looking for the street signs, and you laugh at his own confusion. “Do you even know where you’re going?”

“I guess so.”

Okay, at least he’s honest, not giving himself airs. You want to see what his inner compass suggests, but then somewhat shun the thought of walking further into unknown terrain.

So you question, “You taking the bus?”

“Nope. Subway.”

“Ah. That should be this way, then,” you nod towards the direction you’re approaching, “I know the bus is, because that’s where I need to go.”

“…Are you sure?”

“Yep.”

That’s it. He doesn’t respond much; only lets out the millionth sigh, following you with something you might nearly call trust. He doesn’t attempt small talk or any other kind of interaction, so you let him sink into his thoughts.

But a beat of silence later, you still ask politely, “How did you like the party?”

“Uhhh, it was okay.” For the first time in minutes, he looks at you. “The people were weird, don’t you think? But I got some good shots in.”

“Hmm… okay. I didn’t notice anything weird about the people.” You shrug your shoulders. “Talking about shots… did you drink a little?”

He whines your name as the question is a tale as old as time, complaining, “Every single time? Why is this so important to you…” He waits, shakes his head. “No, I didn’t. Seems you did, though.”

“A little,” you say, bringing your forefinger and thumb together, indicating a tiny space. “But I’m all sober and well.” Another brief pause. “Are you okay, too?”

He licks his lower lip, dimples appearing that don’t ever need a smile to emerge. Then, he throws back, “Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Dunno. You always look so bored at parties. And you always go home alone.”

You don’t know if the following laugh is sarcastic or not, but you soon discover the very answer when he lifts a finger and counts, “First off, how would you know?” Another finger added to the mix. “Secondly, I’m not bored. I’m just focused. And I don’t know anybody there.”

His hand drops again, working on his bag’s strap again. Pushing it over his shoulder. He adds, “It’s a bit different for me than for you because they’re literally your clients and you know them at least a little.”

“I mean… you know me.”

“Yeah, but you’re…” He regards you from head to toe, not the softest of expressions, and you pout. You don’t ever take him seriously, but he can be hurtful sometimes. “I just don’t think we’d be good conversation partners.”

“Weird,” you challenge, “because you’re conversing with me right now, no problem. It’s also not my fault you always argue with me at every event.”

“I don’t. You approach me.”

“You do.” You lean your face closer to his, not making it very far when his palm pushes your cheek, and you, away from him. “Ugh. Okay. Seriously, though — why do you always leave alone?”

He exhales in defeat. Seems that Jeon Jungkook is too tired to take your idiocy tonight. You understand, but you’re just trying to figure out how to convince him that you’re normal, too. That he just dislikes you because you’re different from him, and nothing else.

“Hey…” he utters, out of energy.

“I mean it,” you still declare, “there are so many sweet and nice girls around. They ask about you sometimes, you know? I’ve also met many men on such pa—”

“That’s great,” he interrupts, a palm stopping you from spilling more info, “but… I don’t think I’m interested.”

“Oh.” The syllable is short, cut, harmless. That is, until it clicks in your brain, and your eyes widen, lips parting as you turn to him in shock, stating, “Oh, wait. Do you… play for the other team?”

Jungkook blinks at you. Then lowers his gaze, turning it a couple shades darker, staring at you from under his eyelids. He looks annoyed when he spits, “No, I’m not gay. And even if I was, it’d be none of your business.”

Shit.

Okay, you were sure about your assumption, but now that it turned out wrong, this sounds pretty shitty. And annoying. And awkward.

“Sorry,” you apologise, and he gives you a taunting head tilt. “Okay… different topic then? Tell me, what do you think of this dress?” You lift the hem a little, smiling; you were convinced the moment you first saw it. “Do you think I look pretty today?”

For a second, he joins; his initial gaze is still cynical, but his voice is appealing, a whisper when he leans in and asks, “Why? Do you want to be the one I go home with?”

Ah… why do the words, the way he speaks them, tickle you just right? You’re flabbergasted, seeing your reaction on the bare skin of your arms, but all he does is back away again and once again, shake his head.

You want to retort something snarky back, but you don’t get to it when he inquires a moment later again, “Are you sure we’re going the right way?”

Right… you need to go home. You forgot.

“Uh… yeah.” You look around, finally detecting a sign, picturing a bus and a number. “There’s the bus, so the subway should be…” You stop; hum; then see two women waiting at the bus stop. “Should we ask someone?”

“Sure.”

With a nod, you separate from him, walking towards the bus station bench they’re sitting on, hands folded, conversing quietly. They’re surprised when they see a figure advance, but relax when they catch your smile.

You ask the questions floating in your brain, trying to explain where you live, what you need. They attempt an answer, gesture around, and barely a minute later, you’re thanking them and leaving again.

Jungkook stands there in anticipation, waiting for you to deliver good news — yet confused when you return with slumped shoulders instead of an enthusiastic, “We were right! Come!”

Okay, there aren’t too many reasons for Jungkook to dislike you; you want to say this much. But when you see him understand that this is going nowhere, you do get his frustration.

Especially as you kiss your lips, staring at him like a lost bunny, and explain, “So… the subway isn’t here.” Big eyes meet yours. “I’m not sure where it is, and they,” your thumb points to the girls behind you, “couldn’t help because they’re tourists.”

“Ah. Great,” he says, delivering a falsely cheerful smile. Hands thrown into the air. “So we’re stranded and should definitely not be here. What about the bus? Where does it go?”

“Uhm…” You scratch your head. “Not where I need to go. It’s a different one. But!” Immediately, your voice rises, trying to approach this with hope. It’s not the end of the world, after all! “Don’t worry! We’ll get home either way.”

“Just a lot later than necessary.”

“But nothing’s lost yet. Don’t you trust me?”

And — much as you thought — Jungkook only ogles back in silence, blinking once again before he walks away with a curse on his lips.

1:25AM, Her

You catch up to him fast.

“It’s not that big of a deal, I promise!” you vow, but you reckon it only makes matters worse.

Because he breathes air through his nose, like a bull, arguing, “I’m tired, though. This is wasting so much of my time. You always do.”

You stop in your tracks. He doesn’t. You sulk, “That was mean.”

“And you’re idiotic.”

“Well… shit.”

This time you tilt your head, grinding your teeth; less out of anger, more out of embarrassment. You don’t respond much else, and he doesn’t throw another insult. Instead, he opens the bag again with the velcro’s ripping sound, heaving out his SLR.

You peek over his shoulder, confused about the timing to indulge in a passion, and ask, “What are you doing with that?”

“Looking through them,” he mutters, thumb working on the switching button, “maybe I took a picture when I came here. A sign where to find the subway.”

His reasoning elicits a sudden laugh out of you, probably unfounded to him, but very amusing to you. He throws a bewildered and somewhat warning look, and you immediately silence; still holding yourself back when he turns away again.

You wait, listen to the quiet of the night. He doesn’t seem to find any success, and the more time passes, the funnier you find his mind. Eventually, you step next to him and give up, telling him, “Hey. Don't be so tetchy. I'm not that bad.”

Jungkook side-eyes you, tapping the screen of the heavy Sony A9 Alpha. Inhaling the pleasant late summer air, he defends, “I'm never tetchy! But you got us lost.”

“So? You’re being dramatic. There's still Google Maps.”

That’s it. This look of his.

Jungkook must’ve gotten stuck in a decade you’ve long left, because he stares at you dumbfounded, camera still firmly in his hands. He tongues his cheek, blinks.

And then, you mock, “Guess I’m not the only idiot here, right?”

His next breath is deep, and he soon averts your eyes again. You dig, “What? If anything, then low battery might be your only excuse, you know?”

He doesn’t look at you, and you break into a grin again. Shake your head. Then fish out your phone at last, ready to type in the goal, or at least, to search the nearest subway and bus that fit your demands.

Hmmm, okay. If you need to go where you think you need to go, then the subway will really be in immediate distance to the bus. So you’ll be heading in the same direction anyway.

You open your mouth to ask for his address, prepared to type it in — but as you look at him again, you detect a deeply focused Jungkook, pursing his lips at his camera and regarding it with glitter in his eyes. You see it even from here, the sparkle.

Maybe he’s waiting for you to deliver a conclusion, because you catch him moving through older pictures in the meantime. From here, you only see glimpses. Of forests and roads, and then of waterfalls. Even some of him and his friends.

He doesn’t notice it, but his eyebrows are much more relaxed now, expression not quite as steely anymore; and his lips even twitch for a tiny second, tempted to smile. As if he forgot where he’s currently standing.

You let your arms sink, both hands holding your phone, and just gaze for a while. Then move your eyes to the side. To the sky. Remember places you’ve seen and loved in this town. Still hear his harsh tone echoing in your ears.

In hindsight, you really don’t think you've ever personally hurt or offended him. He might’ve been annoyed by something else. Perhaps he was dealing with something that he never dared to speak about; or perhaps, his perception of optimism is warped, because he clearly doesn’t wade through life with it.

You’d like to see his real self, though. The real self, because your gut feeling whispers to you that this isn’t him. Maybe there’s a kind and kindred soul hidden somewhere; maybe his smile proves far more intriguing to you than these mysterious moods of his. Once it appears, that is.

But…

He’ll probably say no. Your idea isn’t dumb, you’re certain, but he very likely will not go with it. But you want to try. Want to show him that you’re not as bad, that he can trust you; want to know what burdens him; or why he talks to you like this.

You might be the only one to wish for more time with somebody who wants to avoid you like the plague.

Yet…

You don’t want this to end just yet.

So you drop a suggestion that surprise even you—

“…You know what? Let’s try something fun tonight.”

“Excuse me?”

He voices it with his attention only half on you, not quite taking you seriously; so you swallow to dampen your throat and speak firmer, suggesting, “You need to trust me on this, though.”

This time, he does look at you. Works on stuffing his camera back into his bag, opening his mouth to retort something, but you stop him with a shushing finger that he doesn’t look too happy about.

“Hold on, okay?” you exclaim. “Listen. Are you busy tomorrow?”

“Uh… not until the afternoon.”

“So you can sleep in.”

“I guess.”

You clap once, loudly and dramatically, watching the man in front of you flinch. You can’t say if he’s irritated, shocked or terrified of you. But he looks hilarious like this, blinking, scowling as his fingers clutch his bag tighter.

“What is it?” he asks as if you’ve lost your mind.

“Look. Let’s not leave yet. Fuck Google Maps,” you suggest, and his eyes grow wider by the second, baffled, as if you’re caging him. “Let me show you pretty places until the sun comes up, and if you still hate me by then, I will never talk to you again. Isn’t this tempting?”

In your head, it is. Not for yourself, but for him. In your mind, he thinks of you as a constant nuisance that stands in his way, hopping around like an overhyped puppy.

Or not. Maybe he has a dog at home; maybe he regards you as worse than cute puppies.

Whatever.

You look at him expectantly, like your persisting stare could help him land a decision. Instead, however, he grimaces, his voice higher when he asks, “What even are you sa—”

No, you won’t give up yet; even if the recurring interruptions make him tear his hair out. You click your tongue and then argue, “Come on! Give it a try.”

Hesitation. Or rather, a question wondering if you’re crazy. Clear rejection. Are you losing?

“We’d be together, so nothing to fear,” you try further, “and how much time is there till sunrise?” You glance at your watch. “It’s barely half past one. The sun comes up in less than five hours. And like, I know it sounds like a lot, but if you give me some time, I’ll give you reasons to smile.”

He keeps looking at you in this questioning, are-you-fully-mad-manner, but you’re absolutely serious and you need him to know. You bat your eyelashes a little, offering your best laugh, and add, “Like this? If you really want to hate me after that, then okay. If not, then… maybe we could go get coffee someday.”

You’ve spoken enough. He raises a hand, quieting you down, and then finally says it.

“You must be crazy.”

“I am,” you confirm.

“You think I’d do this, huh?”

“…Maaaybe?”

“No.”

Jungkook’s answer is stone cold and direct, and it shuts you up with a near-wince. There’s a faint line between his thick eyebrows, lips pressed together; he looks dangerous and very, very mean.

So you don’t say much for another minute, following when he walks away. You side-eye him, notice him type his destination into his phone. Surrendering, you trudge the path he chooses, soon detecting signs leading to the subway.

He can’t say anything to your presence by his side. Even if his answer remains a steadfast, boring no, you’ll have to go in this direction anyway.

More than halfway through, you venture into a conversation again, “Have you ever tried anything like this before?”

“What? The nonsense you suggested?” he asks, and you nod, catching up with his long legs, slightly slower with your heels. “No. I don’t think I need to.”

“You’re so… don’t you ever try anything new?”

“I mean, is this your definition of something new?” He gestures at your surroundings haphazardly. “Going through town in the middle of the night instead of getting some decent sleep?”

You shrug your shoulders, defending, “It’s not like I do it every day. And nothing one can do every day anyway. That's why I want you to try it.” Your voice is soft, friendly. “But you don’t have to.”

He doesn’t answer; only comes to a halt when a bus stop nears, peeking up to the sign with the number before he asks, “That yours?” You hum in confirmation. “Okay. Will you get home well? It’s late.”

“Yeah, of course,” you pout, kicking off a tiny stone with your shoe, “done it a few times.”

He stalls. You don’t know why, but you’re sure he does. You notice it in his slow movements, the brief pause, the way he looks to the subway he needs to approach and then back to you. You smile when his eyes linger on you for a moment too long, and then he tilts his head, sighs.

“Alright. Then… good night.”

And that’s it.

You tell him to sleep well in return, earning a tiny nod, and then he’s leaving you stranded, walking away. Your eyes stay on him until he’s out of sight, down the escalator to the subway and far, far away from the fun idea you conjured.

You mimic his sigh. Take the two or three steps to the bench under the bus stop; and then you wait.

At this time, public transport operates irregularly, so you’re not surprised when you’re still there minutes later. For a while, you remain alone — that is, until a stranger tumbles to you, swaying before he takes a seat on the other edge of the bench.

You don’t look at him; don’t want his attention on you. But to your discomfort, he garbles just a second later, “This the bus to…”

He gets a hiccup, pointing to the bus sign, and then mumbles the name of the station he needs to reach. You don’t understand, however, so you prod, “What?”

Slower now yet similarly slurred, he repeats his question, but this time, you understand and nod your head yes. He overshares, “It’s just that I’m drunk, so I need to be sure. Sorry for interrupting.”

Suddenly, you feel kind of sorry for him. Your shoulders relax; you observe him letting his arms dangle between his legs, sniffling, incredibly exhausted, it seems. What did the fella experience tonight?

You respond, “It’s okay. It’s really late. Get home well.”

“Thanks. You’re very nice.”

The same finger previously signalling to the sign now points at you; but he doesn’t touch you. In fact, his digits are still a good distance away, already falling when you feel a hand on your elbow out of the blue; you nearly react on intuition, getting into position to break somebody’s nose.

But when your eyes meet the other man’s, you recognise him as the same figure standing tall that abandoned you a couple minutes ago. His hand is still grasping the camera bag strap, and he looks calm, confident when he speaks—

“All good? Sorry, I left for too long, right? Let’s go.”

Your voice changes, a chuckle hidden in it when you blurt, “What?”

“You wanted to take a walk.”

And just like that, the snicker dies again. Is he being serious? It seems so; it’s the whole package, even. The nod towards an entirely different direction and the sudden fingers around your wrist, pulling you away.

“Uhm…” you start, feet moving automatically. You turn to the guy drowning in inebriation, leaving a last, “Good luck!” as you wave, smile. Then, to Jungkook, “I thought you went away. Did you want to do this after all?”

You’re cocking an eyebrow, but much at the back of Jungkook’s head, so he doesn’t see. But it seems he hears the tease in your voice, because half-annoyed, half-argumentative, he explains, “No. Just wanted to be a gentleman. I was going to leave the moment you got on the bus.”

Ah. So he was waiting, hiding somewhere? But you don’t mention it; it’d probably just rile him up more.

Yet, you challenge, “You’re lying. You were concerned and you thought my idea was fun after all.”

“Whatever you say,” he says, waving the white flag, probably just to shut you up, “don’t know if I can do this until sunrise, but I can walk with you for a bit. Get you closer to home. And I swear!”

Now he turns, shooting a stare at you over his shoulders, lightning bolts in the middle of his pupils, “If you’re lying and there’s literally nothing special on our way, I’m actually never talking to you again.”

Nothing easier than that.

“Deal!”

“Cool,” he so nonchalantly remarks, finally letting go of your arm, “which way are you heading then?”

“North-east.”

“Good. Works for me.”

The sun is nowhere near up yet; of course not. It’s 1:37AM. Around four and a half hours.

You’re hopeful. In your head, you imagine an uplifted demeanour in no time; try to guess what his smile might look like. A genuine one. Maybe sweet? Maybe cocky? You’ll find out. You will.

So you straighten your stance, clear your throat, sigh a content breath, and step into the night with the courage the stars lend you.

2:13AM, Her

The first almost forty minutes of your night pass leisurely.

Jungkook’s initial sighs cease soon as you advance into the town, walking down a busy main street. You guess the bustling area, the sounds of the traffic and the lights of the flashing cars relieve him somehow. Give him an excuse to not talk to you.

But as the occupied road ends and you reach and pass a crowded square, you’re back in calm and serene alleys. Some people are still wandering around, passing closed shops, much like you.

You attempt conversation every now and then, and Jungkook, having eventually realised that he needs to cooperate with you — he agreed to your idea after all — isn’t as mad anymore.

At some point, he breathes in the late summer breeze, and your head swerves into his direction immediately — maybe the magic of the night has finally reached his core, too. Perhaps he’s appreciating the journey you set out to embark on.

You, for one, cherish the quiet; you know at least this much. The alley must be part of the older corner of the town because the lampposts seem Victorian. They’re fancy, bent at the top, the light a comforting golden.

You do admire the beauty in the dead of night, you do — but the weirdly bruising feeling on your skin becomes uncomfortably apparent the more you walk. Your heels and the Achilles tendons ache, the ball of your feet sensitive to each step.

For a while, you hide the stupid pain successfully, not wanting the night to end; and you do love the heels. Feel just the way those old romcom’s protagonists probably felt, strutting through town with a man whose life they’d change.

But as an involuntary groan slips out of you, Jungkook’s view changes from the old buildings to your struggling self. His eyes settle on your contorted expression before they move further down to your sudden limp.

He asks, “You good?”

“Yeah, yeah! Just been walking for a while, is all.”

“Hmm,” he hums, regarding your heels with a suspicious look. “Do they hurt?”

“Nah. I’m used to them.”

“…Oookay.”

He drags the word, as if in disbelief; and you can’t lie your way through the minutes when the ache worsens, the suddenly paved path too much of a chore. You nearly trip when your heel gets caught between the stones.

Jungkook immediately reacts when you hiss; you’re nowhere near actually falling, but his arms still reflexively jolt, the camera bag swaying and hitting your hand when he catches your shoulders.

“Okay, seriously,” he spits, eyes wide, “that’s enough. You can’t walk in these.”

“I can!”

“Not!” He takes a look around, inspecting the place; it’s quiet here, not too many cars driving by at all. So he points to the edge of the pedestrian zone, instructing, “Sit down there. Let’s see.”

See what?

You blink, but oblige. His pointing finger is dominant, and his eyes urging; you flatten your dress, taking a seat at the edge. The road isn’t high, so it’s a little uncomfortable; but you’re pleasantly surprised when he appears in front of you, crouching.

Very, very baffled when he requests, “Can you take them off?”

“Sure,” you say, unbuckling the straps around your ankles before removing the shoes. You sigh; you must admit, it does feel great. “I’m honestly okay, though.”

Jungkook doesn’t respond, ignores your statement; instead, asks, “May I?”

You don’t understand what he means until his hands come to a float right over your toes; he wants to check for bruises, doesn’t he? You nod curtly; something about this warms your chest. You don’t think you’ve ever seen this side of him before.

Not that you ever had the chance to.

He doesn’t really hate you, does he?

Carefully, his fingers reach for your ankle. The touch is warm and pleasant; doesn’t hurt until he moves his thumbs to your heel. Your feet are overworked; you notice. But rather than the annoying pain, you can’t help but focus on your view.

The big, round nose, hiding the plump, parted lips. His eyes look hooded from here, strands of his hair covering them. Intrusive thoughts plead for your fingers to card through the dark mane; it looks soft, pretty.

And the gentleness he handles your skin with fills you with fondness; you like being cared for.

Even when he shakes his head; pulling you out of your daydream. You take a breath, and then inquire, “You don’t have a problem with touching feet?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “It’s just feet. Besides,” he stops for a second, detecting something at the back of your foot, shaking his head, “Mom used to work as a nurse. Tough job. I massaged hers sometimes.”

Ah… a loving son, a family person. You smile.

“And I thought you have a foot kink,” you tease.

“Shut up.”

“Found anything?”

“Yeah actually. Do you know how wounded your skin is here? Were you wearing new shoes?”

You gulp with a thin-lipped smile, wondering if he’ll kill you now if you tell him. You look to some random spot on your right before you admit, “Yes.”

“God, you…” He clicks his tongue. Puts your foot on the ground cautiously, reaching for his bag. He rummages through it until he pulls out a bandage, holding it in front of you. “You’re lucky.”

You chuckle, relieved and flattered. “I guess I am.”

He puffs out a laugh, but stops it right away, calling your name under his breath before he says, “God, you’re crazy. Be careful. And admit it when you’re hurt. Why didn’t you?”

Well… you didn’t want the night to end—

“I…”

You hesitate.

He works on your other foot just the same, a tender thumb running over your ankle, probably used to the soothing touch. It distracts you. And when he stops and you don’t answer, he puts his arm on his angled leg, staring up at you in anticipation.

“Yes?” he prods.

“I didn’t say anything because I didn’t think you’d care.” Nonchalantly yet pouting, you nibble at your lower lip. “And if I’d told you they’re hurting, you might’ve suggested ending the night.”

He cocks an eyebrow as if agreeing to the most self-explanatory statement ever, nodding as he confirms, “Damn right I would’ve. We should end the night right now if you can’t walk. Not in these, at least.”

Your chest is hot, your stomach twisting a little. Jungkook really does bother; if not due to a connection he shares with you, then simply because he cares for people. Never, you have never experienced him like this before.

With a tilt of your head and a batting of your eyelashes, you suggest, “And if I was barefoot?”

Which he reacts to with a roll of his eyes. “The night isn’t that warm. Don’t do this to yourself. The ground’s dirty, too.”

You take a look at the dark grey pavement upon his argument, much as if the night could allow you to detect any of the dirt he speaks of. Once more, you hum, pretending to contemplate what to do; and when you pick up your heels, suggesting to follow your idea either way, the back of his hand gives your knee the lightest of hits.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Watch.”

He does. Watches you place your spacious, black bag on your lap, opening the zip. Observes as your hand dips in, pulling out one pair of sneakers and replacing them with your treacherous heels. He keeps ogling when you put them on, mouth widening bit by bit.

He doesn’t speak until you’re done, socks picked out of the shoes, pulled over your feet, laces tied. You keep smiling, content with the moment, only dropping the grin when you see his puzzled expression.

“What?” you question.

“You had them with you and… Why didn’t you say so sooner?”

Your answer comes without hesitation; whatever timidity he elicited a moment ago slowly fades again. You clear your throat, back to who you are, and dauntlessly admit, “It was sweet. How you took care of me, I mean. I didn’t think you ever would.”

“But you could’ve at least worn them sooner and avoided the hurt?!”

“Well, it didn’t hurt then…”

“You’re…”

Jungkook uprights himself, towering above you. You put a flat palm onto the pavement, wanting to heave yourself up, but soon see a hand in front of your face. He’s offering it; and you’re quick to take it.

Warm and soft; gentle.

As he pulls you up, you land closer to his body than calculated; his face isn’t too far from yours… much nearer than it has ever been. He leans back; looks to the side; blinks. Clears his throat. Lets go off your hand way too late.

The breath you held escapes in a sudden blow. You swallow.

And when you’ve processed the strange moment, you feel the change in your stance. You’re standing taller now; your feet feel heavenly in your Nikes. Dusting off the front of your dress and your ass, you wait for him to say something.

But he keeps standing there on the road, in the middle of a parking space, hands on his hips. He’s judging you; you understand. Your mindset isn’t for everybody. You might seem crazy, alright.

Yet, he doesn’t scold you again. The up and down of his irked voice doesn’t appear this time when he speaks again; instead, his chin nods towards your legs, and he questions, “So you just carry around shoes with you?”

“I need to,” you say, matter-of-factly, “I can’t ride the motorcycle in heels. And!” Jungkook’s mouth opens, but you’re quick to explain. “Before you ask. No, I didn’t hide my bike anywhere. It needs some fixing, so my co-worker took it because he knows someone who’ll do it. And because he owes me a favour.”

“Right… how unfortunate.” He pauses; runs his tatted digits through the hair you longed to touch minutes ago. They look so silky, it makes you sick. His eyes settle on you, intrigued before he adds, “So, you have a bike, huh?”

“Yeah… why?”

“No reason. I do, too.”

“Mmmh,” you voice, nodding to the road ahead to suggest moving. He follows, trudging next to you again. “You didn’t use it today?”

“No…” He pats the camera bag. “Didn’t want to harm my equipment.”

You hum approvingly, fingers entangling in front of your body. You inch closer to his arm, nudging his shoulder with yours before you flash a sugary smile and say, “Thank you. For caring even a little, you know? Even if you’re always like that, it’s nice to see you like this for once.”

“I’m usually like this,” is what he, however, merely answers, accompanied by air quotes.

But you know you’ve gotten through to him at least a little. Melted bits of the frozen parts of his heart that feel so vexed by you on other nights. In truth, you think, there’s nothing but a delicate organ pumping behind his ribcage.

He’s not a robot; Jeon Jungkook is undeniably humane. If anything, then more than most people you have ever met.

And it shows when he looks away, barely able to hide his smile. You see it even from here — that the gesture does something to his eyes. Nearly squints them shut, makes them smaller, more joyful.

You inhale, proud of yourself. Watch as he toys with his lip rings before he asks eventually, “What do you mean owing you a favour, by the way?”

He sounds almost offended. You think he’ll ask about that favour, reprimand you for giving away your bike tonight of all nights. Tell you off for dragging him here, doing something big enough to entrust an entire motorcycle to somebody.

But instead, he continues with a question you never foresaw, “Are you in a quarrel with them? Am I not your arch-enemy?”

You burst into laughter immediately, covering your mouth as the other palm touches his arm. There’s a bulging bicep under his blazer, but you’ll focus on that later.

Right now, you’re fairly occupied by the satisfied eyes; he doesn’t really expect an answer. He wanted to make you laugh… Why does that set something loose in your brain?

“Oh… are you jealous? What if I told you it’s somebody else who occupies my mind at night and not you?” you wonder, wiggling your eyebrows.

“Don’t do this to me. I’ll find your co-worker and fight them for your enemyship. Word of honour.”

“It’s enmity. And stop flirting with me,” you tell him, moving towards him again, shoulder hitting shoulder. “Or is it something else with arch-enemies?”

This time, he doesn’t veil his grin. It’s bright, pretty, reminiscent of the light shed on you underneath the lampposts. And his pupils; whenever you see them clearly enough, you recognise the sky in them. Borrowed stars inside.

You shake your head a second later, winding down from your fit of laughter, and tell him, “You’re not my arch-enemy. Arch-enemies don’t exist, and you know you aren’t one. You just…” You stall, your voice quieter now. “You just regard me as one.”

He throws you an indecipherable look. Hints of joking, shreds of seriousness, you think. His gaze drifts back to the path again, regarding a passing group of three friends briefly. His hands slide into the pockets of his jacket, and he sniffles once before he utters—

“No, I don't.”

Ah. Ah.

Why do your eyebrows relax the way they do? And your shoulders; already in ease, yet they seem to fall in relief. You peer at him wordlessly; he doesn’t demand an answer, fully aware you’re looking at him.

And you don’t ask what you’ve been to him ever since he saw you at the first party probably a year ago; what irked him, what delighted him. If he thought about you at all.

Instead, you look at the neon words in the next street, asking, “Are you hungry?”

2:19AM, Him

You’re irritating to the core.

You always have been. But he’d be lying if he didn’t admit you amused him a little. No matter how much you’ve been wasting his time, you allowed a smile in this ill-lit night. Nobody else at the party did — so in some sense, you’ve already won, and somehow, he’s even grateful.

Grateful that you’re optimistic about the world at least. Glad that you suggested fetching food. Endeared by the way you thanked him for his care. Surprised that you ride a motorcycle! Relieved that you have good humour.

Even though his own humour and smile dissipate after you enter one of the few open stores still providing late night snacks. The girl behind the counter looks tired, but straightens a little when the two of you flash a polite smile.

She greets with a sweet, “Hi!” but Jungkook sees the lethargy in her drooping eyes immediately. Poor girl.

But you’re as enthusiastic as ever; maybe a little more now, maybe observing the same as him. You put your hands on the counter like a child — the image is somewhat cute. But what comes out of your mouth is not.

“Uhm… Could I have a portion of cheese tteokbokki, please? And then… A half and half corndog for my husband.”

Your… what now?

Excuse me?

Jungkook throws an immediate and scorching look your way, utterly surprised. When you meet his eyes, his thick eyebrows are closer than anybody’s ever seen. He huffs your suggestion away, and then corrects, “I’m not her husband. And I’ll take the chicken wrap.”

You chuckle, leaning into him, shielding your mouth with a hand as you warn, “They’re not usually very good at this store. Trust me.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

Right. He does. After the disaster of finding the damn bus and the deception caused by your shoes, he won’t trust you very easily anymore. His opinion clearly differs from yours, so he’ll bank on his gut feeling.

Satisfied when you shrug, as if to indicate, “If you say so,” he walks over to the window seats with you in tow, looking out to the peaceful streets. Once seated, he turns towards you, peering until you notice and ask far too purely, “What?”

“Not even your boyfriend, no… Jumped straight to making me your husband, huh?”

The lift of your shoulders brushes his concerns aside; your eyes are incredibly innocent and even somehow playful when you say, “I thought it’d be fun.”

“Was it really?”

“Well, your reaction was funny, at least.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes in disbelief. You’re courageous, he must admit. Social anxiety must fear you — is that how you live life? Unabashed, spirited, not a sheer care for anything that won’t actually hurt you.

He doesn’t know if you’re insane or if he’s jealous.

But he still reiterates, “You’re crazy. And it was embarrassing.”

“I mean,” you say, moving on your chair, folding your fingers on top of the counter but still looking at him, “it was embarrassing because you made it. It’s honestly whatever.” You blow a raspberry, and then take a swing again, “Why is it awkward anyway? We’ll never be here together again.”

He whispers a hushed, “Thankfully,” and you tap the counter with a click of your tongue. He gets it; you live differently. That’s fine. As long as you don’t pull him into your mischief, it’s fine.

Right?

He’s right, isn’t he? He knows that in his personal opinion he is; yet, he can’t help but feel that sting, suddenly deeming himself as boring. You’re never bored, are you?

Anyway…

“Even if you do something like this again,” he tells you, “at least tell me.”

“I mean, that would kinda prevent your genuine reactions from happening, but… if it makes you happy.” You grin at him, and he scoffs; wants to say something before the girl calls for you. “Food is ready.”

A couple seconds later, the two of you have settled back into place; at the sight of the snack, Jungkook salivates. He didn’t realise how hungry he actually was. The buzz and fuzz of a party makes one forget such an essential thing fast.

Or maybe, he was just immersed in his work.

The chicken smells good, at least. Or are these your tteokbokki? He can’t quite discern the scent right now; his mind is fogged by his appetite. Silently, he unwraps his food, swallowing before he digs into the wrap.

So far, so good… seems edible. He keeps chewing; swallows some more. But as the taste starts to sink in and he realises the sogginess of the wrap, the lack of proper sauces and the dryness as well as the blandness of the chicken…

He pauses. Where… are the flavours?

Slowing down, he glances at his meal. Inspects it as if he’s holding an entirely new recipe in his hands. A look of realisation creeps upon his face, unaware of your gaze, and he soon hears an amused snicker from the side.

You don’t say much when your eyes align. Only, “And?”

He knows he’s already lost when his expression changes, cringing; when he can’t answer right away, only gaping at you in confusion. Still thinking about where this recipe went wrong.

He answers, “It’s fine…”

But you catch his obvious lie; he sees it in the way you smile so devilishly. Cocking an eyebrow, enjoying another bite of your snack without ever averting your eyes. Then, you put the tiny wooden fork back into the dish, propping your cheek on your fist.

You wait; he doesn’t know what for. For him to eat again? Maybe; because you soon ask, “Do you want something else?”

“Nah.” His answer is instant this time. “I can do this. I’m an omnivore.”

“Ah, yeah. An omnivore friend right here.” You laugh, curious when he takes another bite. And then, “Jungkook, it’s okay to admit…”

But he won’t listen. Only makes a disapproving sound, stuffing his mouth with another horrendous bite. Shit; he can’t confess that you were right. That you were actually right this time.

Suddenly, he’s craving a cup of ramyeon.

But he should keep eating. Wash it down with his drink, empty the soda. And he’s almost halfway through when he notices a movement from your direction, like you’re playing with your food.

Only, he realises that you are not; rather separating the tteokbokki in two halves before shoving the porcelain dish towards him. He shakes his head, but you persist, “Take it, man.”

It does look good…

But… are you going to use the satisfaction his defeat may give you? Probably. But fuck… Fuck it.

Reluctantly, he lets the wrap fall onto the small plate, gulping down the remainder of what he just bit off, and then, accepts your generosity with a nod. And… whether it’s because of the disappointment the wrap brought or the late hunger…

Jungkook thinks he’s levitating above clouds, floating towards the sun.

It’s good. Very damn good.

And when you ask again this time, “Should we get another?” his nod comes promptly, chest risen in satisfaction as he states, “That’d be great.”

“Alright. Be right back.”

“Nah,” he says, lifting an arm as if to protect you. Mid-action, you halt, sliding back up onto your seat. “Stay here. I’ll get it… All good.”

So he does; enjoys the look of surprise when his other hand even carries dessert, four pieces of matcha mochi ice cream. He says, “This is for you.”

You gasp. He can’t deny that it’s sweet — the elation, the big eyes, the palms coming together in delight. How you look between the food and him, suddenly wiggling your feet.

“You seem to like it,” he notes, and you nod feverishly, telling him that, “Yes! Been craving it since we came in. Thank you!”

“Oh. You should’ve told me earlier! We could’ve gotten it. No worries.”

“It’s okay. I wanted to see if my dessert stomach still allowed anything. Didn’t disappoint me today.”

Jungkook gets to his own tteokbokki, halving it in the middle the way you did, pushing it towards you. It’s weird to think about it like this, but — considering how long the two of you have known each other, you might almost look like… friends.

And you don’t feel quite like an enemy either. You’re even… kind of nice. Friendly; harmless.

“I’m glad,” Jungkook responds, only looking towards the entrance when another group of three friends, two girls, a guy, enter. Then back to you, “Sorry. You were right. This,” he points to the poor, sad wrap, “was shit.”

“See? My first instinct almost never lies. And I know this store from other places… the wraps are never good.”

“Sure, but… your first instinct isn’t always right, though, is it? You did get us lost, so it was wrong at least once.”

“Hm… was it, though?”

Jungkook regards you in confusion as you put another piece on your tongue, working on the chewy thing as he asks, “What do you mean? We had no clue where we w—”

“Yeah, I mean. I agree. But… I don’t think it was that wrong. Because—”

You lick your lips clean off the tteokbokki sauce, smacking them. You look child-like, but pretty when you indulge in your element, uncaring about everything, just living. Maybe it’s not that bad that you’re bold.

And maybe, just maybe, he can power through this night easily after all; especially if you keep saying things that soothe his chest, things like—

“Because my first instinct brought me to you.”

2:49AM, Him

The temperatures are falling as the night proceeds, and the second portion of the mochi ice cream adds to the pleasant chill.

Jungkook wonders how you’re doing; your dress is skimpier than his jeans, and your arms bare. But your stance and your speech are still inconspicuous, skin free of goosebumps, your walk elegant, leisurely.

Judging from your occasional hums and your ceaseless optimism, you’re enjoying this journey. It almost makes him feel bad; guilty about how adamantly he refused all this just an hour ago.

It hasn’t been too bad. Sure, you’re bold and intrepid, and yeah, in some ways he is, too — but his courage stems from other motivations. From adrenaline-loaded activities or joyful, temporary pains. Like his tattoos; his motorcycle; the summer he bungee-jumped for the first time.

You’re a different kind of daring; you challenge your limits in crowds and consider life a respectful joke. You don’t ever hurt anyone, he doesn’t think — you just go and see how far you can push yourself.

Perhaps in some sense, the two of you complement each other while simultaneously seeming to be cut from the same wood. Perhaps you’re different, but then again, not so much.

You’re quiet; you weren’t until you left the snack bar. As for now, however, you seem distracted, swallowing heaps of your dessert as you scan the surroundings you’ve led the two into. You’re somewhat unfazed by it, yet peering as though you’ve been here before.

Which, in retrospect, makes sense. You’ve been wanting to show him places you enjoy after all.

When the silence extends, Jungkook, along with the chirping of the nightlife, breaks it with a, “You know what?”

Your head swerves to his side, the wooden fork in your mouth. The pure gaze you give him throws him off guard for a moment — it’s somewhat sweet. But as he regains himself, he says, “I didn’t think we’d get to a housing scheme here. The main street is super close, but the vibe is so different.”

“I know. It’s a little scary at night when you’re alone. Gives very Desperate Housewives, doesn’t it? Secrets veiled behind shut curtains.” You draw closer, imitating a spooky gesture. “But I liked coming here when I was younger.”

Bingo. He thought so.

“Ah… why?”

“My friend lived here,” you explain with a tilt towards a random direction; he doubts the friend lived in just the house you gestured to, “she’s long moved out of course, but we’d play on these streets back then. Most of the neighbours knew me, too!”

Jungkook tsks, hauling his own bite out of the cup, and you add, “No, seriously! We could just knock at anybody’s door here, and they’d let me in.”

“Not if they moved out, too. A lot of time has passed.”

You bob your head. “Time has passed indeed. It does so pretty fast.”

“Doesn’t it?”

You seem to get into overdrive, gearing up; he didn’t think this topic would rev you up like this, but it appears you have a somewhat firm and fond opinion about the passing of time. Jungkook recognises the sentiment before you speak — the light of the lampposts reflects in your eyes like glitter.

Only, he doesn’t foresee what you say next, your tone teasing through the joy you display—

“Yeah! Like. Do you remember when I told you to not get the wrap and you still di—”

“Shut up.”

The roll of his eyes isn’t anything new; but the faint feeling that accompanies it, something akin to amusement, certainly is.

“Okay, but. Seriously,” you start again, sly smirk falling, voice neutralising the mock, “it felt different here. Because like, you know, where I live, it gets crowded. I’m not too far from the city centre, so… this place always felt really peaceful to me. Jieun and I played together a lot.”

Jungkook frowns.

“Jieun?”

“Hm? Oh. The friend I spoke about? She’s pretty cool.”

“Ah… Right, right.”

“Mhmm,” you hum, the end of your small fork tapping the bottom of the nearly finished cup, “you know another way to know that time passes really fast?” You pause for effect, then add, “It’s been ages since we saw each other for the first time.”

“Right. At a party, too, right? When was that anyway?”

“Hmm… Like.” You ponder, blinking, looking up to the sky. “Like two years ago?”

Jungkook’s eyes widen; if you’d asked him, he would’ve estimated a year tops. If he digs in his memory thoroughly enough, he could probably even remember what you wore that day; what you looked like.

It doesn’t feel like two years. You’re right — time truly does pass like the wind.

“Wow,” he exclaims, “it’s been this long since you started pestering me?”

“Shut up,” it’s your turn to blurt, your body swaying towards him until you push him to the side of the vacant road. “I didn’t even come near you most of the time.”

“I know, I know. You were fun to look at, though. Seemed to enjoy yourself every single time.”

Shit, why did he say that? Shouldn’t he hold onto the image he fostered; the one that’s permanently irked by you, throwing snarky remarks throughout the night?

And…

Didn’t this just break the banter, the frenemyship — frenmity? — the two of you have going on? Was it too nice? It’ll probably surprise you. Then again, is he a damn child? Why would he worry about such things? Question his own kindness?

Why would he hold onto his ego and deny you his humane side when you’ve been nothing but lovely to him all night?

The young adult rivalry is over, Jeon Jungkook. Look at her and fucking admit that you’re the arrogant one.

But funnily enough, you don’t seem to notice anyway.

“Hmmm, I do love my job,” you answer, “I have a lot of fun organising stuff. Doing something good for other people, right? See them enjoy it. I mean, of course there are days when things don’t go as planned, but.”

You lift a shoulder, indulging in the final remnants of your chewy mochi and the melted matcha ice cream inside.

“I know. It happens to me, too.”

“Really? How?”

Jungkook waves towards the sky, lists, “Heavy rain, lots of traffic, too spontaneous, issues with the camera… etcetera. Anything can happen.”

“Yeah — I get it. But yeah, I do love doing this. I meet a lot of nice people, too. And I guess that makes me feel very… blessed? It puts things into perspective.”

“How so?”

“Like, it makes you see that most people aren’t bad.”

Huh. Odd. Not that he’d ever deem the entire globe vile, putting a standardised label that he can impossibly prove. But as far as he has seen… too many people aren’t good either.

“Really?” he asks. “That’s a lucky thing to experience.”

You look genuinely surprised, turning towards him when you ask, “You don’t?”

“Uhm — rarely. I do enjoy photography. Always have.” His mind zooms into a glinting memory from the past, and his shoulders and voice rise when he recalls, “Y’know… My dad got me one of those yellow disposable Kodak cameras when I was a kid. I loved it so much.”

You nod; if he didn’t know better, he’d almost say you look… delighted. Actually interested.

“And events and weddings,” he continues, “they’re beautiful to capture. It’s probably the lights and the pretty people. And just… the memories?”

This time, he looks away, straight to the road; if he hadn’t, he’d know that your gaze is definitely fond now. No doubt about it. You listen in closely.

It’s the first time he’s talking to you like this, or to anyone — or for this long, for that matter. Most of your conversations were fleeting, fiery, a petulant back and forth that — he now realises — could’ve been something else, something better, too.

“But then it just sucks when so many of them can’t appreciate it properly,” he explains, raising his hands to emphasise, tone galled. “I mean, I look at my camera and I see a tool to create art. It’s… nothing I take for granted. Just think about it.”

The ball of fire in his chest grows; he feels it warm up, gassed-up. “A thing that can hold onto moments in absolute high definition, so that you can still remember them years later? The 18th century couldn’t have imagined. They needed to commit everything to memory just like that.”

“Wow, Jungkook… You really do love this, too.”

His arms fall to the side. He inhales the fresh flurry of air. Rethinks his passion for his job and says, “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do.”

“…But?”

He knows what’s missing.

“I love the art, but I hate the clients. The event hosts. Not you, but the one even above you.”

Jungkook reckons this was a confession that long sat on his tongue unmentioned. Of course he thought about it; is always reminded when he attends these functions, standing at the back, at the front, left and right, unnoticed and taken for granted.

But now that it’s out and that he’s finally verbalised it to somebody… it definitely liberates something in his head.

You see his issue with these gatherings; he knows you do because he’s figured out this much. You’re filled with enough empathy, sympathy, every grand word ending on the same syllable to acknowledge his disappointment.

But you’re filled with humour and absurdity, too, evident in the answer you provide to diffuse the tension.

“So, that’s why you’re always in a foul mood.”

“Shu—”

“Shut up, yeah, yeah.” You giggle, but then halt for a moment, toying with the rim of your paper cup, “But you know, I think art is worth something even if just one person appreciates it. If it helps in any way… I’m always impressed. And I always appreciate it when I call you and you come despite finding me so annoying.”

One corner of your lips lifts, the smile humble and light; sends a pang of guilt through him. Have you always been so nice?

“Also, I do see the pictures almost every single time,” you add, “and you’re so good at this. At the job itself and the editing afterwards. Honestly.”

“…You think?”

Damn.

Jungkook would probably not bask in this hobby, continue his job if he wasn’t proficient in what he does. He’s known about his prowess ever since he was young.

But praises do offer a sense of magical warmth, don’t they? He doesn’t think any creative mind ever sickens of such unexpected support. And the way you say it… makes him want to never lay down his camera.

“Of course, yes,” you confirm, “not to shoot up your ego, but… you once sent a set of pictures where I found one of me. Don’t know if you even noticed? I was wearing that lilac dress and curls, I still remember — and—”

Stuck on the mention of your clothing, he immediately attaches a detail to the memory, “Sleeveless dress. Long silver earrings, right?”

“Oh… right…”

Right.

He won’t mention that he looked at that picture for just a second longer than at the others that night. Noticed for the first time how pretty you were. Not too deep of a thought, a twelve second stare, but… you wore this vibrant smile on that picture, and in some way, he did hope you’d see it, too.

It seems you did. He feels satisfied, proud even.

“Right,” you repeat, your defences somehow down, “uhm. I printed the picture. Still have it somewhere.”

Jungkook has already often wondered what people do with the pictures; put them in albums? Frame them and pin them over their couch? Right now, he also wonders — do you look at it a lot?

And this again begs the question — when you do, does your decision to book a vendor like him fill you with pride? Like your choice was right?

“That’s so nice,” he says.

“All that to say,” you inhale, “that I think you’re really fucking skilled.”

Woah. You weren’t quite certain if your consolation would bring him any solace, but you’ve done far more than that. You’ve shown him that you see what he does — and isn’t this what every artist craves? To be seen?

The tension buzzes between him and you like electricity; he doesn’t know if it’s just him lighting up or if you’re feeling a kindred link, too. But it’s somewhat intense in this moment of walking under the stars, surrounded by quietude and absolute pose.

So much so that he’s soon submerged by an odd urge to make the intensity wane, “Hey, does this feel to you like… a cliché chick flick kinda dialogue?”

You know…

The moment when two find an empty street in the middle of the night, realising that a conversation with each other isn’t the end of the world after all?

That type of thing?

But he doesn’t say any of it.

“Yeah? Maybe. But it’s also true,” you argue, “I’m an honest person and I don’t think I’d say anything I didn’t mean.”

“Ah, yeah?” Jungkook voices, taking the emptied out ice cream cup and throwing it into the bin on the side of the road, along with his own.

“Mhm, one hundred percent,” he hears you say, followed by a light, quiet smacking noise.

He doesn’t see what you’re doing until he arrives back where you stand; watches you lick the sticky rest off the pad of your thumb, smiling when you stare up at him again. It’s a mundane gesture; he’s done it ever since he was a kid.

But somehow, he can’t stop looking.

Might be the way your lips curve when you do it, or how your eyes smile when your mouth does. The authenticity you portray is rare; perhaps he just confused it with madness until now.

Seconds pass, and with that, your smile does, too. As it fades and drops, replaced by a curious expression and big eyes, you soon mutter, “What?”

There’s no response to that, really. He doesn’t know either.

He doesn’t understand how you turned out to be so right. How it’s such an ultimate truth that a serene night brings out a dreamy alter ego, hitherto undetected. Jungkook has never felt like much of a romantic, but right now, he thinks he’s on a different plane of reality.

This doesn’t feel like Earth; and the town doesn’t feel like the one he struts through during the day.

So maybe it’s not that wayward or groundless for him to lean in. To bend a bit more. Further and further until you laugh nervously; he knows you’re preparing to crack another joke, but you remain silent as he approaches.

Gauges your reaction. Will you run? You aren’t.

Instead, you gulp; let your pupils fall to his piercings, just when his own gaze moves to your lips. His right hand, tattooed, led by its own will, reaches for your cheek until he’s cupping it; and suddenly, his mouth parts — what’s happening? — and then—

And then, a vehicle roars from afar.

Both of you hear the motorcycle before you even see the blinding white light; he grips your arm, probably too harshly, dodging the street with you and jumping onto the pedestrian walk.

One must be crazy to still drive through the city at this hour. Right?

You pant, mixed with insane chuckles of relief, “Shit. We almost died.”

“We didn’t,” he refutes, “we had plenty of time.”

“Oh no,” you stretch the last word, eyes squinting. An accusing forefinger points at him before you deduce, “We almost died because you like me. Of all things!”

“I do not. You just looked kinda cute.”

Jungkook might’ve attempted an indifferent answer, but instead, he steered into an excuse that you do not accept at all. Your smirk is telling and satisfied, and if he wasn’t trying to prove a point, your Cheshire Cat grin would’ve made him laugh, too.

“But you did almost kiss me,” you persist.

Ugh, you’re bold. Laughing like it means nothing; no embarrassment, no shy restraint in you. Which is probably not too bad; somehow even charming. Explains the rosy dust on his cheeks at least. He feels it in the heat, can’t believe he almost kissed you just now.

Why does he feel like a hormonal adolescent? It’s not like he’s never kissed anybody.

You’re still enclosed by pure delight, nudging his arm repeatedly, annoyingly. And when he doesn’t answer, choosing reticence instead, you nearly shriek, as if he confirmed all you just said.

His instinctive hand slaps up to your mouth, covering it, shushing you. You’re still smiling, working on removing his palm, but before your nonsense can proceed, a sudden light flickers in the corner of Jungkook’s eye.

Immediately, he seeks out the source, soon finding a room in the house left to him lighting up. You woke somebody, it seems. A silhouette becomes clearer, its edges more refined with every second, and just before the owner of the place can shove the curtains aside, you grip Jungkook’s hand.

Within a moment, he finds himself tugged away by you, running, nearly stumbling over his own feet. You blurt, “Better get away before they kill us.”

As you leave the tranquil settlement behind, Jungkook still hears a voice from an open window, cursing the younger generation as they do; and then, out of the damn blue, a fucking dog barks.

When you turn over your shoulder, mouth dropping open, Jungkook knows you’re thinking the same as him — this happens outside of cinematic universes, too?

It takes a minute until you’ve reached another road again; one of the kind he’s more familiar with. The city type. The two of you come to a halt near some pole, and you let his hand go, leaning against it.

For a moment, you work on catching your breath, Jungkook’s hands settling on his thighs. And then, when your eyes meet, you burst into a fit of laughter, followed by a playful wiggle of his eyebrows to which you respond, “Don’t act innocent. This is your fault.”

“What? You were lau—”

“Because of you! Oh, I know you want me so bad.”

You’re jesting, of course. Swaying your head, poking his chest, a brat straight out of some TV show. But what you can do, he’s been perfecting for years.

So he answers in kind, “And if I did?”

Only for you to utter something that not even his brain can compute.

“If you did? Then… I think I’d let you.”

“Ah… Yeah? Why?”

“Because— I think you’re just half as bad.”

His snicker is half amused, half flattered. He purses his lips, nodding, and then declares, “You’re just a quarter as bad. But guess I’ve gotten so tired that I’ve started doing weird shit.”

You click your tongue, puffing out a breath, instantly reacting when he only flicks your chin and then walks away. Your startled expression prevails, a distance between him and you established, but just as he puts his hands in his jeans, he hears you finally follow.

“Hey,” you voice from behind, tapping his arm, “are you really tired?”

“I was kidding, but. Honestly? A little.”

“…Hmm. You know, my friend lives in an apartment nearby. Jieun? Didn’t move too far from her old home. We could stop there.”

Jungkook’s left eyebrow leaps up, surprised by the suggestion; the idea doesn’t sound too bad. But…

“Wasn’t the deal to go around for a whole night, though?”

“Ohhh. Are you starting to like it?”

You’re observant, he’ll give you that.

“I’m just saying,” he adds, “and also, would she just let a stranger in?”

“Oh, she’s very civilised and hospitable. She wouldn’t mind, and she’s known me for ages. She trusts me.” Maybe you detect the hesitation in his eyes and the twitch of the corner of his lips, because you immediately carry on, “We can just stay for an hour and then go.”

“Would she be awake, even?”

“She’s a night owl. I know that.”

“Uhm…”

He ponders. In some way, he’s kind of liking the breeze, the quiet side of this town. But… would Jieun find that weird? Then again, can he say no? You’re ogling at him with these hopeful eyes; maybe you need the rest, after all.

“Okay,” he says; he even thinks you jump a bit in joy, nodding.

“Okay! You’ll like her. We can leave with newfound energy afterwards. Okay, cool.”

That’s all you need to lead the way. You look around a little, making sure you’re approaching the right direction, and when you find your confidence again, you march ahead.

Your walk is energetic, not too idle anymore, your beam as dashing and fervid as ever. Jungkook knows his way around editing programs; he’s added wings to pictures before or removed unwelcome passersby on an otherwise great photo.

He even understands how to surround a body or silhouette with a glow; but he’s never seen it around an actual person outside of all these graphics editors before.

Your body is so clearly encircled by it.

Bedazzling.

Screw the 18th century. Even in these modern times of advancement, Jungkook doesn’t think he needs a camera to commit you to memory.

3:25AM, Her

You avert your eyes from the phone and turn towards Jungkook, reaching him where he’s planted firmly in front of the apartment complex. He’s been waiting, back settled against the wall, and as you near, his eyebrows rise in question.

Your friend didn’t respond until now — but just as you foretold, she’s still awake at this ungodly hour.

“Okay. She’s home, but,” you explain, already ringing the bell to her apartment, “she said she’d be leaving soon. Sounds like she’s in a rush. Typos and all.”

Jungkook waits until the buzzing sound of the opening door ceases and you’ve stepped inside, leading him up the stairs, and then wonders again with big eyes, “And she’ll just let us stay? Alone at her apartment?”

You wave his concerns off with a hand’s gesture, “She trusts me, dude. I’ve done this a couple times.”

“What for?”

Hm… you dive back into the old days. Some new, some old. What were they again? They’re mostly blurred, but some of them are carved in your core memory.

“Oh, just…” you reminisce. “If I wanted to meet guys and wouldn’t want to bring them home back when I was still with my parents? Or when I’d need a night to sober up. They would’ve killed me if I’d come home drunk. And Jieun moved out early.”

“How old is… Jieun anyway?”

Old. Not really, but you like to vex her to the point of a pout. She’s patient, but she’s also an incredibly close friend — you allow yourself to be a brat with her and she allows herself to roll her eyes.

“Early 90s kid?” you guess. “A little older than us.”

‘93, as far as you remember.

“Ah. Damn,” he voices; you don’t know why.

“Okay.” You climb the last steps to the second floor, halting in front of a white door with a copper number six on top of it. Knock thrice. “Here goes.”

She might’ve been getting ready close to the door, working on her shoes or questing for her keys. Because she opens mere three seconds later, with a radiant smile on her face able to melt hearts, and a comfortable attire that’s, however, not comfortable enough to wear at home.

A thin sweatshirt and a bun, loose strands framing her pretty face, and shorts that are definitely meant to be worn outside. She won’t be here for long. And you’re focused on this very fact and her hurry so much that you nearly don’t register how shy Jungkook gets.

His voice is somewhat smaller than before when he looks at her; your eyes shift to him, and he’s blinking before he finally breaks and mutters, “Oh. Hi.”

“Hey!” she retorts; she looks so sweet saying it. You understand his perplexity. “Date?”

“Nah. Just a friend,” you answer, which, yet again — very confusing — makes him hum in question. If he started regarding himself as your date all of a sudden, you swear…

You smile.

“Just a friend,” you repeat.

“Fabulous. So you’re not walking around alone, at least,” Jieun concludes, letting you in. In the living room, a hand on her kitchen island, she points through an open door, “Okay, so, the guest room bed is made. Use blankets on it, if you want to rest.”

Her finger shifts to signal to the entrance you came through, imitates a pulling motion, “Don’t worry about locking the door whenever you leave. Also got some leftover food in the fridge, but there’s also cup ramyeon and some frozen pizza in the freezer. Sorry… I need to go shop—”

But you interrupt, shaking your head, “Oh, no worries, really. We just ate, so we’ll just stay here for a little, work off the food coma and leave. Won’t damage anything.”

“I know you won’t, baby.”

She moves to fetch her purse from the couch, and Jungkook uses the moment to whisper in your ear, “Where is she going anyway?”

You don’t know; you shrug your shoulders, pursing your lower lip, but echo his question a moment later, louder than him, “Where are you going anyway?”

Previously cramming in her purse, checking it for content, she looks at you again, telling you, “Ah… Jongsuk is having a bad night and wants me to come over.” Regarding Jungkook, she adds, “My boyfriend. He’s an insomniac and got stoned tonight, too, and just—”

Jieun blows a raspberry, raising a hand for a whatever gesture, and Jungkook mumbles, “Oof. Sounds…”

“Yeah… I know. In any case. Make yourself comfortable, okay?”

“Yes. Thank you so much.”

“Thanks, Jieun,” you repeat.

She nods once more, waving her tiny hand and flashes one last smile before she’s out the door and has left you in full silence. You shuffle your feet for just a second before you look at him again; he still looks somewhat in a daze.

So you ask, “What’s wrong?”

“Hm? Nothing.”

Nothing, right… that’s what they all say after seeing Lee Jieun for the first time. You try not to think too hard about the teeny tiny sting in your enormous, delicate heart. Only let him know, “Don’t worry too much. What could happen? She does trust me.”

You take a couple steps towards the bedroom she offered you, and you hear him follow. Look at the neatly made bed, a thought occurring; but you don’t entertain it yet. Only add, “Besides, she owes me.”

He chuckles. “That’s how you live your life, huh?”

“It’s alright. We’ll just be here for an hour. She’s known me all her life, so nothing to doubt here. And also, think about it,” the tip of your forefinger taps against your temple, “even if something did happen or went missing, she’d know where to find me and whom to report.”

He waits, ogles at you. Then presses his lips together, nods as if you made all the sense in the world, and lifts a shoulder — agreeing, “If you say so. Then uhm — let’s lay down for a bit?”

“Sure! I’ll just sleep in her room, so you can have your privacy here.”

“Mhm. Okay.”

You stand at the door frame for a moment, feet unmoving.

He’s already turned away. And you regret not walking away when you watch him unabashedly take off the blazer and provide a glimpse to his snatched waist as inked fingers scratch his back briefly, shirt moving up. But then it’s covering his skin again.

Flawless back; pretty golden. A little further up, and you’re sure you would’ve seen strong shoulder blades, too. He’s worn fancy dress shirts at luxurious events before — you know many would kill for his built, because you’ve seen his bicep flex before.

You forget where you are for a second, but when he opts to turn, eyes on you for just a heartbeat, you stir. Blurt out an awkward apology, and then leave. Wish him a good night, barely waiting for one back before you close the door.

You laugh quietly at yourself.

Her room is just next door; you already mentally prepare for a nap. Meanwhile, Jungkook plumps onto the bed, groaning when the comfort hits, and works on getting used to the ceiling, if only briskly.

He only notices how much his head is spinning when he closes his eyes, ready to doze off. Should he set an alarm? He doesn’t want to still be here by the time Jieun returns. Maybe he should tell you, too.

But his body won’t move.

Yet, in the time he’s failed to make up his mind, he suddenly hears a knock at the door again. Must be you — must be telepathy.

He tells you to enter, and you do with a shy demeanour; only thirty seconds must have passed, right? A minute, tops. He looks at you in wonder, and you explain, “She uh— locked her room. No clue where the keys are. Guess that’s why she specifically pointed out the guest room.”

You nibble your lip, getting no answer back. He looks just as much out of ideas as you, and you still refuse to bring back the thought from before; yet, you ask, “What do we do now?”

“Well…” He looks around, though there is not much to take in. “I can sleep on the couch?”

“…The couch is too small.”

“Okay. Then I’ll just sleep on the floor.” He’s already working on getting up, no hesitation, scratching through his now messy hair, feet moving on the fluffy carpet. “I’ll take one of those pillows, though. Carpet should be good eno— what are you doing?”

You’ve charged towards the bed, climbed past him until you’re sitting behind him, facing his back and his craning neck. You say, “I’m not giving you that pillow.”

“Why?”

“You can’t sleep on the floor.”

“…Why not?”

You throw an unbelieving look, as if it’s obvious. Your flat hand gestures towards the carpet vaguely, and you argue, “It’s uncomfortable.”

“Listen, I should. This or the couch, nothing else left.” It’s crazy to you how he doesn’t even consider the bed instead of giving it up for you. “It’s just an hour. Don’t worry about it.” He stretches a hand towards you, curling his fingers in a grabby motion. “Come on. Gimme that.”

You’re astonished — beyond pleased about the fact that he cares like this. That he’s so… mindful and humble. You give up; he won’t falter and you know.

“Okay… then take this blanket, too.”

He grabs the second one that Jieun provided, head bowing a little as he says, “Thank you.”

The proceeding minutes you spend preparing for bed, slightly discomforted by your dress, pass in half-awkward, half-comfortable silence. He lays down on his unusual spot, and you cuddle into the blanket on your light, soft side.

As the rustling of blankets and sheets subsides, it gives way to the sound of the ticking clock; you focus on it, count the clicks like sheep.

But sleep doesn’t quite fall upon you yet, and you guess Jungkook feels similar when he calls your name and asks, “What does she owe you?”

Your head moves towards his voice, even though he can’t see you. “Huh?”

“Jieun. What does she owe you? And your coworker.”

“Oh. Uh. Honestly, just kindness.”

You can already see it — doe eyes rolling at another one of your cryptic answers. You know people don’t fathom your thoughts very well, and some feel annoyed by your dreamy outlook of the world. You don’t mind, but you wonder what he’s thinking.

But all he responds with is, “What?”

“Well, just. They’ve known me for ages. I’ve been there for Jieun for so long, and Jongin has always been so incredibly nice to me. Picked me up when I was dead drunk once and brought me home. Got me medicine and everything. And I’ve lent him some comfort over the years, too.”

It hasn’t been too long, so you remember. You’ve been good friends with him ever since you started your job; a steady part of your team. He and you have got each other’s back.

“These two are friends,” you say, “and I think kindness is the most we can give our loved ones.”

Jungkook hesitates. Have you bored him to sleep? Or is he pondering your words, thinking of you as weird? Maybe not—

Because he actually converses, asking, “You think? Doesn’t that mean we’re just kind to them then, so they can be kind to you in return?”

“I mean… yes and no. Owing might be the wrong word. I’m not nice to others to get something back. I’m like this because I want to be and because the world can be shitty and it’s important to be nice, and in return, I want people to be nice to me, too. It’s not an eye to eye kind of thing, it’s just about. Spreading affection in relationships. It’s what they’re here for.”

“…Hm. Is this why you’re never rude to me? Even when I deserve it,” he asks, registering a hum. “You know… you think really… uniquely.”

This is a nice way to phrase it at least. People like you; you’re good with them. But sometimes, they can be mean, too. Not that you mind. It’s natural — people occur in all types and shapes.

“But is it unique, though? Isn’t it a given?” you question.

“Yeah, probably, I just— never thought of it this deeply.”

“Mmmh. So is me thinking uniquely a compliment? I can’t say.”

He laughs, and you join immediately, exclaiming an, “I’m serious!” in the middle of it all. Jungkook’s snicker is authentic, so you enjoy hearing it; but you like his answer even better.

“Maybe. I just… I feel like a lot of people try to be different these days. Or play a role to be perceived a certain way? But I think you’re genuine — you actually mean the things you say without any hidden intention to make people forcefully like you, right?”

An intention? Oddly phrased. You think, though… that what he said was nice.

Still, you confirm, “I don’t try to be anyone for people to like me.”

“I didn’t say otherwise! This is actually just what I meant. Besides, people like you anyway because you’re you.” As if he’s reading your mind. “That’s what I was saying.”

You hum, blinking at the ceiling and the little modern light hanging there, the beam off. The darkness pleasant. You conjure another question and ask, “So you think me being me is a good thing?”

You always considered it was. You like being you. But Jungkook didn’t like whatever makes up your personality — has this changed? Apparently.

“Of course,” he surprisingly answers, “it’s always a good thing. And just because I disagree with some of your characteristics, it doesn’t mean everybody will.” Oh. Well. But wait— “Or maybe, I’m just a moaner.”

Well.

“That you are,” you verify.

“Damn.”

“But, but— you’re kind, too, you know? Not everyone says the things you just said.”

“Maybe.”

“So…” you stall, rethinking his prior words. “Do you still disagree with all those characteristics of mine?”

Another joyous sound tumbles out of him, much in the form of a breather than a laugh; hushed, but you still hear it clearly. Perhaps you’re being a little awkward; but in all honesty, you hope he’s just finding it amusing, somewhat cute.

“I mean — you’re too blunt. But brave, like, I could never. The thing you did at the shop? Never. But this isn’t bad. And you aren’t bad.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His voice is a whisper. Reminds you of a feeling akin to temptation; your mind automatically imagines the susurrating sound near your ear, exhaling the very syllable he just did. Frankly, you’re absolutely tortured by the knowledge of him being this close.

That you could probably touch his face if you rolled over to the edge of the bed, letting your arm dangle, seeking his skin. That he’s in the same room, talking to you this gently, saying things that a girl doesn’t hear too often these days anymore.

There it is. The intrusive thought from before… prevailing.

And you’re tortured by it. But mostly, by the image of him standing in front of you between the houses just a little time ago, staring at you, pupils flitting back and forth between your eyes and your lips. How he neared you. How he almost kissed you.

You might’ve joked about it then, but deep down, and especially now, you’re intrigued by the idea. Of the fantasy of a what if — what if he’d actually kissed you?

Taking a deep breath, you look to the side, staring at the door and call, “Hey, Jungkook.”

“Hm?”

“Is it uncomfortable down there?”

“Uh… a little.”

You shuffle at your spot, turning to the side. “Just thinking. What good does it do if we don’t rest well? What are we here for?”

“…What are you talking about?”

Pause. Quietude. You close your eyes, then open them again.

You’re never shy; so you don’t deem it an advantage for yourself to turn timid now either. You tell him, “Come up. I know you want to. I know I want you to.”

He doesn’t say anything; you bite your tongue. Maybe it was a mistake. But then his voice chimes again, wondering, “Are you sure?”

Your answer is immediate.

“Of course. Yes, I’m sure.”

“Okay… okay.”

As he starts to move, you gulp. You make place on the bed, moving to your previous side, pushing the blanket aside in case he wants to slip under it, too. The motions of his silhouette seem uncertain as he makes his way up to you, as if he’s uncomfortable with it.

“I… Was I wrong…? Do you not want to?” you make sure.

“What?” you hear him say; see his head shake. “Ah, that’s not it. Just want to make sure you’re really okay with it. I’m not the type of guy to…”

“I know. It’s fine. I don’t think you are.”

“Okay.” The mattress bulges where he lays down before it evens out again. He emits a couple groaning sounds, probably glad to give his back something proper. You turn to him just when he says, “Honestly… that’s a little better, yeah.”

“Thought so. Are you tired?”

“Definitely.”

“But you’re not sleeping.”

“Because you’re talking.”

Wrong. There was enough silence for him to nod off before. He was the one who started the conversation at all; you were ready to turn and toss and rest eventually.

When you don’t respond, his head turns on his pillow, too; in the darkness that you got used to, you see his eyes twinkle. Both of you know that you’re looking at each other. And he’s kind of close — closer than you thought.

And… if you’re not wrong, he just inched nearer only a nanomoment ago. He repeats in a whisper, once more accusing, “You’re talking, that’s why.”

“That’s really why, huh?”

“Mhm.”

“The only reason there really is?”

“What else could there be?”

You smile, brazen, letting out the courage you’ve gathered, “Well, I know what else it is for me.”

“Yeah?”

Daring a step further, you graze his shirt featherlightly; you don’t know whether he notices. Not until he moves his hand, fingers ghosting near yours.

Waiting until you reveal with sheer, sudden heart palpitations, “I… I want you to kiss me. You do, too, don’t you?”

He inhales, but doesn’t exhale. What does it mean? You don’t know.

You don’t know what it is until you hear the smile in his words, gentle yet tantalising when he says, “…I do.”

“Good. Good. Then kiss me.”

And the rest proceeds without hesitation and without another plea.

His body moves as if on its own accord; he seems possessed, or controlled by a puppeteer. Warm lips lock with yours before you can draw another breath.

They feel soft, full, like tiny pillows, a contrast to the metal of his piercings. And they move gently, so carefully, like he’s still scared of crossing a line despite your permission. But when you lean into him, hoping for more proximity, he blossoms a little. Initiates more.

Oh, he, too, has been waiting for this, hasn't he?

A hand, nearly as warm as his kiss, slithers up to your face, holding you closer to him. The bangs that so often cover his forehead are tickling yours now, his head tilting to give his cute nose more space.

And with that, he deepens the kiss, too. Dares a step further, separating your lips with his, trying things out. He gauges your reaction as the tip of his tongue sneaks its way into the mix, and the moment you do the same, he dives in properly.

Kisses you just a little harder, tasting you, sighing into the movements as if all the weight of the world has dropped off his shoulders. As if he’s relieved, calmed down, resting for the first time tonight.

Yet, at the same time, he’s firing himself up — moving over your body slowly, holding onto your mouth to his best abilities, as if you’d disperse if he let go for too long. As if you’d change your mind.

He cages you in to keep you underneath, not touching your face anymore but shoving his fingers into your already tousled hair. If you were still in your right mind, you’d recognise how insane this situation is. Your younger self would’ve never predicted such a moment to ever become part of your life.

But it is… it is so clearly being played into your hard drive; somehow, you already know it’ll remain stuck in your memory: the way he’s kissing you, so thirsty, so insatiable. How he’s sighing, relaxed, yet sporting an audible heartbeat against your chest.

He uses moments of switching sides to breathe but continues right away; the keenness drives you crazy. You touch his shoulders and then wrap your arms around him firmly, making him hasten closer until he’s nearly falling onto you.

What in the heavenly make out sessions is this…

It’s nasty, yet sweet. Followed by quick breaths; it takes merely a minute until you feel his lower body grinding into you, his jeans tight around his crotch all of a sudden. And the second you realise he’s hardening beneath them, your body reacts.

Reacts so effectively.

Your lower tummy tickles, dampness pooling below as he pushes into you again, harder this time. You moan, enticed by your goosebumps and the heavy bulge. Solid enough for you to crave him within a moment’s notice.

And it only worsens threefold when he whispers, “Fuck… Somebody really knows how to kiss, huh?”

“You’re talking. What was this—” He so rudely interrupts with another peck, and you laugh into it. “Yeah, this…”

Your last word dissipates like candle smoke; you don’t even know why you bother to speak. Your voice is barely perceptible when his teeth remove the short sleeve of your dress, kissing your shoulder and then down to your cleavage.

It’s easy to remove your dress; it’s light, summer-y — but he doesn’t bare you just yet. Plays around at the mounds of your tits until he pushes the neck of the dress down a bit, asking, “May I take it off?”

Oh, if you could count the times you’ve imagined his veiny hands removing this damn dress just in the last fifteen minutes…

“Of course,” you permit, “do I look like I’d reject you?”

“Mmmh.” The hum is proud, satisfied, vocalised amidst another kiss to your clavicles. “Just making sure.”

Soft, warm hands trail up your leg, leaving a path of another set of goosebumps. You want him to stay right there on your thigh, knead the flesh, press into it, showcase the lust he feels in the beguiling pain.

But instead, he pushes up your dress, fingers ghosting over your ass — and when he doesn’t find your panties but only bare skin, he stops kissing you. Looks at you. Makes out the string of your thong a second later — in the dark, you discern the way his lips round in captivation.

He’s loving this.

He tugs at the string and lets it snap back into place; you gasp even though it doesn’t hurt, but it drives you mad when he states, “Wow. Very intriguing.”

Leaving it at this for just now, he kisses you again, tongues mingling once more before he releases a sharp, nearly aggressive hiss and mumbles, “Holy fuck. I can’t stop.”

“I didn’t tell you to stop,” you guarantee.

“Good. Good, good, good.”

The dress surrounds your waist now, stopping below your breasts, and Jungkook journeys down to drag his lips around the spots he hasn’t touched yet. As if he’s trying to familiarise himself with all of you, working towards the goal of memorising you entirely.

His teeth scrape at your pelvis just lightly, seemingly contemplating whether he wants to destroy these panties or not — but then decides against it. You wouldn’t mind; you’re not showing anybody anything of you tonight but him.

And you’re already such a mess; breathing so irregularly, letting out his name and quiet sighs. He should know he could do basically anything. That you’re ready for him.

But instead, he only curses again, sucking at your skin harshly, nails digging into your hips. And then, from below, you hear him say, “Want you to suck my dick so bad.” He moves up, fingertips on your cheek, rubbing himself against your underwear, and questions, “Will you suck my dick, baby?”

Oh, he didn’t just…

Oh, the way the pet name screws with your head is irreversible. You feel sick at the mention, breathing out hard, about to get up at the speed of light to swallow him fully; to the hilt.

But you won’t give him the satisfaction yet; you’ve gotten used to the darkness, and seeing the hazy insanity in his eyes spurs you on to play with him a bit more. So you lift your body, giving him hope, but then say, “I have a better idea.”

“Ah? Where are you going?”

“Wait.”

He quietens. Falls to the side and onto his back as he watches whatever you’re trying to do unfold. You look back at him for just a blink of an eye, but you immediately perceive the hand cupping his clothed dick, moving a bit, up and down.

“Okay. Should work on this first,” you say, straddling him backwards.

You hike up your dress more, baring your back to him, and you instantly hear the breath he releases. Feel the palm touching your spine, grazing it; you imagine huge eyes ogling at you like he’s reached nirvana. You so hope he’s looking at you like this.

“My God…” he only mutters, however, proving your point when he opts to get up. But you turn as much as you can, a flat hand pushing him down again, to which he complains, “What?”

“I told you to wait, silly. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You sure? You’re being pretty mean right now.”

“I’m not being mean. You’re just not patient,” you laugh. “Give me a second and I’ll wreck your world, ‘kay?”

“Ah?”

“Mhm.”

“That I wanna se— oh. Oh.”

Exactly.

Once you’re done pulling off the dress, you shift back, enough for your pussy to align with his gorgeous face. Jungkook instinctively grabs your ass to pull you lower, and you chuckle at the restless gesture.

But you need to focus; and as best and tidily as you can, you unbutton his jeans, zipping them open until you detect his shorts. He raises his hips to help you, and you bite your lower lip, crazed by the sight that awaits you once the jeans are halfway down.

The bulge is big indeed. The imprint is insane; the light from outside allows glimpses, and you salivate, bowing your head to kiss him above his underwear, feeling him stir. And he imitates, blowing against your wetness, his finger — middle one? — curling around the string digging between your ass cheeks.

When he frees your pussy, you feel it. It hits the air in the room coldly, a contrast to his hot breath. A second more and you might drip into his tantalising mouth, just how you’re drooling over the cock you finally set free.

It springs out, veiny under your touch. Hard. Thick and long. Everything good, a fucking ideal package. You scold him, “You’ve been hiding this from me?”

“Huh? I wasn’t hiding.”

“Now I realise just how mean you are, man,” you say, shaking your head, spitting onto the slit before wiping it off again with the tip of your tongue. He swears again. “Could’ve had this make me hoarse so long ago.”

“Fuck,” he replicates, “stop talking, or I’ll fuck this mouth of yours. You want to be hoarse so bad, then try me.”

“Is this a threat? You really think I won’t let you? Stay right there, little—” You look again. “Big man. You can do whatever you want, but wait a second, alright?”

“Nah. You’re not the only one teasing. You brat,” Jungkook whispers sharply, delivering a smack to your ass; you gasp. “I just…”

You don’t know what he just — you only know that he’s attaching his mouth to your cunt right away, thong pushed aside, diving in with a tongue so eager. You squint your eyes shut, lips parting, calling his name as he holds you there roughly.

He soon wraps his arms around your hips, like a belt, lips intense as he kisses you even wetter. The sounds he eludes are dirty, sinful; and the feeling of his piercings doesn’t add to your sanity.

You decide to not let this distract you; he’s competitive, you realised, but you are, too. So you lean in, lips wrapping around the tip. Your right hand enfolds his cock, pumping him, tracing every firm vein that protrudes. He’s so pretty all around.

“Shit,” you whisper, hoping he doesn’t hear; only continue to work your tongue around the head, setting the nerves alight as he’s doing for you.

You kiss down the shaft, licking and humming to create a sort of vibration. And then, you take him in as much as you can. Despite being large, barely fitting, soon hitting your throat, you try. Hollow your cheeks, bop your head, gifting him your attention.

But it’s hard. So hard because—

God, he’s lapping you up so good.

So hungry. Out to kill you as he releases the prior belt, bringing two fingers to your pussy and thrusting them into you slowly. Mouth and digits; both at once. Thumb against the clenching hole between your ass.

He’s distracted every now and then, much like you, but he still maintains a steady pace. Cruel… so cruel. Those damn fingers propelling into you, harder sometimes before they slow down again. Curling to hit you just right, massaging the rough, walnutty spot.

Oh, Jungkook knows… knows exactly what to do.

They don’t make men like him anymore.

Your ass clenches when his skills exceed your expectations and he rubs your insides particularly well, mouth just right above your clit as the tongue circles around it. It’s nearly overwhelming; you could cry with this mouthful of dick impaling your throat.

He feels so good on you. So good in you. You want all of you filled, not just your mouth. So you soon let go with a plop, a string of saliva so lewdly connecting your mouth and his member, and you wipe your mouth.

Tell him, “This should be enough.”

And he agrees immediately, smacking his lips, as if licking up the remnants of his food, “Fuck yes. Enough.”

You want to get into the next position, put in some work, but what you don’t expect is that Jungkook is already planning a step ahead. Tapping your ass with his big manly palm, pushing you off of him until you’re crawling on all fours.

Submitted to him. And you don’t mind a bit — just for now, just for him, you’ll give into this because you’ve been craving it. It’s okay; you vow to yourself that in a while, you’ll wreck his shit just as much.

On your elbows and knees, you hear him shifting, the mattress dipping, his knees nearing you and closing your legs in. The palm covering the right side of your ass causes it to jiggle, and when you push your butt towards his pelvis, he praises, “The way you know what to do without me needing to tell you. How convenient.”

“Well,” you breathe out, “it’s not my first rodeo. But do make it the best… okay?”

“No pressure at all, huh? I’ll try my best.”

You want to react, bring a laugh straight out of your throat, but Jungkook is faster. The reaction comes alright, but not as you wanted it to. But rather in a high-pitched moan, arms quivering when he fists his cock, guiding it to your leaking cunt, and rubs the tip between your pussy folds.

You reckon he’s testing out how eager you already are; you contemplate on telling him. On pleading, on saying something that might drive him to action. You don’t mention a single word, though; only let your ass speak once more, steering towards him until he gets the message.

He must have.

Because he clicks his tongue as if to admonish you for your shortage of patience, though only briefly before he surrenders to the itch you cause. Scratching without hesitation now, he finally helps you lose your damn panties and then dips himself into you slowly.

Of course; with a length like his, there’s no way you’d be able to survive a quick push. Jungkook knows to be cautious, penetrating you sweetly; an oxymoron in a moment like this. Your fingers digging into the sheets reveal as much; there’s not much going on yet, but you’re already holding onto the soundness of your mind so desperately.

“Shit, what the fuck,” you murmur, your turn to let out profanities; you’re sure this isn’t your last. “You scared of something, Jeon? I’m… I have an IUD.”

“Scared? No. You’re not an idiot, right?” he whispers. “You would’ve told me if you couldn’t do it like this. Much rather…” He breathes heavily between his words. “I’m taking you in, y’know? Enjoying — fuck — how wet and warm you are… Gonna wreck you raw, though, no p-problem.”

No, your foul words were certainly not the last for tonight; his dick is just halfway through when he stops and another tumbles out of you. He drags the thickness back, then inside again.

Your walls are occupied to their last inch, and you know you could take all of him if you just gave yourself some time — but somehow, his care turns you on even more.

Goddamn, he’s good. All of him — his dick, his voice, his mouth, his touch. He’s so— nnghh…

You have never witnessed his fingers do much more than take the pictures you love. Whenever he operates the button with his forefinger, flexing the inked crown above his knuckle, you already know the man has a talent unmatched.

But right now… right now you have an entirely different perception of these same digits.

Like, when he leans in a bit, still deep inside you, undoing your bra in a smooth motion. Or when he caresses your back, along your spine, contradicting the touch with a harsher, harder jab now.

And shit, when he pulls your ass cheeks apart, digging in further, fucking through your seeping hole until he’s covered in slick, too. It must look so good to him; incredibly memorable.

Your whimpers are quiet and gentle, matching the way he fucks you, only rising in volume when he decides to push another inch in. You behave; you whine softly; that is until all of a sudden, he pulls back most of his cock and shoots back in, colliding with your ass with a slapping sound.

Yelping, you hold the sheets until your fingers hurt, and he bolts forwards, a hand slamming your mouth shut and muffling your mewls. Way too close to your ear, he says, “Sh sh sh… my God. Jieun has neighbours, babe — don’t spoil her reputation.”

He proceeds to kiss the skin under your ear, taking your arms captive until they’re pinned to your back. Fingers intertwine messily, holding your limbs in place, and as he frees your mouth again, you laugh — it’s all you can do to not feel too weirded out by the mention of Jieun’s name right now.

You tell him, “Use my panties then.”

“Your panties, huh? Do you want me to?” You nod, but he’s not obliging enough to give into your wishes. Teasing you to no end. “Nah. I’ll just…”

Jungkook doesn’t finish the sentence; what he does is much more alluring, nearly forcing tears of lust to your waterline. He grabs the back of your neck, urging you to look at him, and just as you register his face close to yours, he kisses you again.

Your body immediately blossoms. You breathe as much as the kiss allows, yielding to his tongue. Let him push you down and into the mattress, imprisoning you under him. And he kisses you… kisses you… kisses you more…

Basks in your dimmed moans as he hits from behind again, hard. Sheathes himself inside you thoroughly and with impact; he’s enjoying the fact that you want to yell, but need to restrain yourself at this time of the night.

Because he’s right. You don’t want Lee Jieun to earn looks in the morning because of you.

As if provoking you, he blatantly asks, “You good?”

“Yes— yes!”

“Mhm…”

He’s out of breath; can barely emit another word. But he doesn’t waste any moment at all; kisses your neck, bites your earlobe. Pushes his hands under your body to get ahold of your tits. Fucks you into space, lifting one of your hands to your face, entangling his fingers with yours.

You shift up and down the mattress, just a little; the position, with him on you, doesn’t allow too many extreme movements, and you’re more than fine with it. There’s something about him going unhinged on you like this.

But… it does awaken the need to retaliate, too.

So you use the opportunity when he decides to pause, running out of energy, gasping for breath. He leaves you empty and yearning, pulling back and sitting up, and judging from the touch on your tummy, you assume he wants to flip you on your spot.

Instead, however, you turn on your own accord, both palms that he held captive minutes ago shoving at him. He produces a strange sound as he falls backwards, landing on the mattress and onto the pillow with big eyes that almost don’t fit his Greek God-esque physique.

Goodness, the damp dark hair. The abs. The pecs. The nipples…

You might dribble onto his sweaty, shiny skin. And you don’t veil your innermost thoughts this time, straddling him as you say, “My turn. Need to ride you so bad.”

He visibly relaxes; leads his fingers to your hips, thumb drawing patterns on them. His tongue darts out to play with the lip rings, and he eyes you up and down. He’s taking you in for the first time properly, just as you are him.

Just as your eyes drifted over his muscular body, he now makes stops along the journey — your pussy on the length of his cock. The tits and the perked nipples. The ruined hair, sticking to your collarbones.

You wonder how he likes what he sees.

Probably enough if he can respond with something like, “I won’t stop you.”

Good to know.

So you take a comfortable seat on top of him, still keeping him down, lining up your sex with his. When you welcome him in again this time, you do so fully. No slow torture, no waiting. You claim your throne until your ass hits his hardened balls.

He says, not quite expecting an answer, so you don’t give one, “You’ll kill me today, right?”

And then you start. Put in all the effort you can gather. He feels heavenly inside you, the perfectly curved length moving just the way it needs to. His groans and calls of your names sound promising, telling; you suppose you’re doing a good enough job if his eyes roll back like this.

The hands on your hips push into your flesh more, and when you remove one and bring it to your mouth, sucking his forefinger with your eyes set on him, he loses his shit. Starts pumping up from below, meeting your up-and-down ministrations.

“Shi— what— do you think,” he attempts, stagnant breathing, “you’re doing…”

But he’s grunting in ardour, so you don’t stop; don’t let him take over fully just yet. No — you roll your hips, bend your back, catch a patch of his hair and then angle your body to crash your lips onto his.

The kiss weakens his defences. For a moment, you do feel his nails bruising your skin, but another second later, his touch is as soft as a feather. He’s so ultimately at your mercy that he lets you trace his abs and kiss his pecs.

Lets you get into a crouch, your palms settling below his chest for support. And then… then you navigate north and south, repeatedly, fucking him into you with vigour. He throws his head back, but then looks at you again, blinking fast before his eyes squint shut once more.

“The fuck are you—” he tries, but you start circling his cock again, moving in eight-curves, seeking support in his biceps.

“What?” you voice. “Not good?”

“You fucking— kidding me?” His lower lip trembles when he parts his mouth. You see it even with the lights dimmed. “This is such… a good fucking pussy. I was an idiot to push you aside.”

You’re too dazed to really pout, but you do hear the undertone; ask to clarify, “You’re just saying that f-for… getting my pussy, huh?”

“What— no. Fuck no. Look at me.” His hand reaches out, fingers poking into your cheeks, and he pulls you down to him, makes you meet his eyes. You slow down. “I wouldn’t just do this for any pussy— I… not with you. I don’t just. I don’t just go home with anybody. ‘Kay?”

His words bloom in your chest like a bouquet of flowers. In such a vulgar moment, you shouldn’t be feeling like this, but you can’t help but acknowledge the warmth spreading throughout your body. Burning up your already aflame muscles.

You want to know more; so you query sneakily, “What does this mean?”

“What it means?” he echoes, words blurry, as if drunk. “That you’re beautiful. And… honestly, kind of cool. So annoying but so fucking funny and— hot—”

“I am? Look at this,” you say, still moving but tired; touching his face, his cheeks, his sweet nose, “look at you…”

“No.” He grits his teeth. You don’t know what comes over him, but he’s inhaling way too deeply, lightly aggressive again as he retorts, “Look at fucking you.”

And with that, he gets what he desired earlier; flips you over, climbing over you. With your shield lowered, you didn’t expect this, and now you’re right where you began. And for some reason, the sharp jaw, the furrowed eyebrows, the starved look hits you even harder than before.

The many inches he sports fell out as he took over, but as he plunges into you again with embarrassing ease, something feels different. How he looks at you. How he touches you, pushing your hair back, kissing your lips with such softness.

And how he holds you when you finally see the stars you waited for, his face in your neck, his thumb on your cheek, his palm on your jaw. Kissing your shoulder, delighted as you seek an anchor in his back, tightening around him impossibly as he fucks you through your high and your broken moans.

“Jungkook—” you repeat over and over, and in return, he mutters constant, “I know, I know.”

Again and again and again until his sounds become more uncurbed. Only syllables, rumbling, his chest vibrating against yours until he lifts himself up and retracts his cock.

His pupils shake as he jerks himself off, and you know what he’s seeking, quickly getting to your knees, helping out. You replace his hand with yours, sticking out your tongue before you engulf his dick rapidly.

In surprise, he lets out, “Oh, fff—”

Shit, how he sounds. And how wicked he feels in your mouth, tasting like you, tasting like him. Wet and slippery, his balls hard when you cup them. And then— a mere moment later, he’s shooting ropes of white down your throat.

You’ll never get used to the feeling. You didn’t with your exes, didn’t with any other guy you’ve been with. It’s sudden, your gag reflex kicking, but you don’t want to stop until he has.

Sticky and hot, you let him; look up to him. His jaw glimmers due to the sheen of sweat, and he holds your hand to keep himself upright. Nearly growls when he’s done, and then calms down bit by bit. Pulls out of you. Plumps back onto his ass.

Catches his breath; and once the two of you have relieved your burning lungs, you with your legs under your butt, you look at each other again. A sudden laugh. He lets his head drop onto his shoulder, and then shakes it before getting back on his knees, nearing your joyous form.

The last kiss of the night is endlessly more chaste. No tongue, no making out. Just a couple pecks, a hand around the nape of your neck, noses grazing. Once, twice. And then, he’s smiling again.

You tell him, “Can’t believe this actually happened.”

“Crazy… right?”

“Crazy, yeah. We…” You gulp. “We can leave it right here, though. Guess we were both riled up.”

He nods, humming, looking to the side. “We could. But we don’t have to. It felt too good to forget, you know?”

You gleam and glow; if you could, you’d curl your fingers into fists, screeching like an excited high schooler in her room, acknowledged by a crush. But you only press your lips together, corners twitching up, cheeks hot.

Then, you say, “You know what… I might just agree.”

“Good.” Another one of his stares to the side, through the door of the room. “You think we should very quickly and very harmlessly use Jieun’s shower? She probably wouldn’t mind.”

“I don’t think she would. But she’d certainly know what happened.”

“Least of our concerns,” he argues, getting up stark naked. He pats your thigh and then tugs at your arm, adding, “We’ll be tidy. And then we can rest a bit and leave. Am too fired up anyway.”

You know things might change again once you’ve slipped into your clothes and walked out into the night air. Perhaps the passion was reserved for this very room, actually a result of unbridled lust and tension.

But you think it’s okay. It’s okay as you giggle in the shower, flirting and bantering.

Because even if you part from Jeon Jungkook and all this as just a saccharine memory, you’re ready to seize just a little more of this stolen moment before reality sets back in.

5:12AM, Him

Whether it’s the numbers glowing on his digital watch or the fact that the two of you didn’t rest as much as you’d anticipated after all, he doesn’t know.

The residual heat of the past hour has warmed his body and relaxed his muscles; your touches still haunt him, crawling over his skin and sitting on his knees, tempting them to buckle. And your voice, your sounds… like a ghost in his mind.

And you urging him to climb the nearby hill with you, surprisingly steep, doesn’t help. He doesn’t know why you’d choose such a place at such an hour. The occasional forest around you is dark, chirping, and the road is empty.

Perhaps you feel secure in the presence of another; in this sense, it’s even flattering that you trust him this much.

But he’ll admit that his still wobbly condition and this stop of the night are slowly bringing him to his limits. The blazer, at least, is already hanging over his arm, giving him more space to breathe.

You’re piloting the way, careful, navigating with the help of the light beaming from the occasional street lamps. Jungkook sighs in a half-complaint when the road doesn’t end, nobody around far and wide.

You’re similarly out of breath when you turn to look over your shoulder, barely for a moment before you continue to escort him further up. Then, you encourage, “Come on! We just rested. How are you already tired?”

“Woman. We’ve been walking for a pretty long time.”

“Uhmmm,” you exclaim, swaying when you pull your hair over your left shoulder, “tell me something. What’s your sleep schedule usually like?”

Well, shit.

Jungkook can already tell what you’re referring to, but the counterargument already sits ready in his brain, just in case. Yet, he hesitates. Studies his surroundings to make sure he knows the way back, stalling on purpose, and when you ask, “And?”

He answers, “Uh. Late. I slept at 7AM just last week.”

“What?!” Your voice is high-pitched, in disbelief, and whatever point you wanted to make is stuck in your throat upon the revelation he divulged. “Holy shit, Jungkook.”

“Yeah, but like,” he immediately works on justifying, making use of the comeback he’d already thought out, “I don’t walk around town, you know? I spend these nights eating or singing or—”

“Woah. You sing?”

“Yes, but. I will not sing to you now.”

He catches up with you in one long step, regarding your countenance. Even in the dim light and the pitch dark, he recognises the roll of your eyes, as if to say, “I wasn’t even going to ask.”

But instead of vocalising that very overt thought, your answer comes as smoothly as silk, “It’s fine. You sang to me plenty tonight.”

Jungkook nearly chokes on his spit, disguising his surprise as in the hike reasoned exhaustion. His mind needs a moment to fix itself, but when the balance is restored again, he wisecracks, “You’re one to talk. May I remind you of what you sounded like earlier?”

“You can. But I do remember myself, thank you.”

Damn it. You’re a step ahead all the time. He can’t even outsmart you the way he wants to.

“Way to diss me. You’re hardcore,” he complains, “and here I thought you were kind and sweet and all of that.”

Jungkook nearly retracts his statement, because you throw such a perplexed and disbelieving stare back that he shrinks, reprimanded, “Can’t I be both? A woman can certainly be both, man.”

“Of course,” he agrees, hands up as if he’s being arrested, “of course. You’re both, for sure.”

He anticipates more scolding and scowls, but it seems you’re satisfied with the response he gives. You grant him a pleased, lopsided smirk that resembles his own, and then sigh into the night air, long and deep before your breath morphs into—

A mixture of a gasp and a shriek.

“Wh—” Jungkook blurts, barely registering the movement scurrying from the left side of the forest into the trees right of him. “The fuck.”

And just as fast as your gasp appeared, it diminishes, too, turning into a throaty laugh. Jungkook listens in to the echo of the rustles, still seeing the bushes move; whether because of the animal that just flit past or the breeze, he can’t say.

His eyebrows shoot up when he looks at you, coming down from the quiet chuckle, and he only realises that your elated joy stems from the way he’s standing right now.

He must’ve instinctively dashed forward, an arm in front of your body, shielding it with his. It was just a squirrel, and in all honesty, it is the two of you who are trespassing, disturbing the forest life with your presence at such a time.

Yet, his reaction must’ve been immediate enough to protect you from whatever loomed in the dark, and you seem to like it for some reason. Because as he clears his throat and lets his arm sink, all you comment is a fascinated, content, “Wow.”

“Uh… all good.”

“Yes. All good indeed.”

Your voice is tinged with a combination of gratification and tease, as if you’re one utterance away from adding a little, “My knight in shining armour.”

Instead, you bite your tongue and look around; Jungkook sees what you perceive a mere moment later. The surroundings clear, the forest less dense; on the left side, a vast opening appears, a wide path ending in a… cliff?

And behind that, the town.

If there was a soundtrack to his life, he’d probably hear violins playing right now. Reminiscent of the wind, perhaps accompanied by piano keys that sound like the softly glimmering stars above.

The picture is breathtaking. Not that he hasn’t been at such a spot before — he grew up in a big, mountainous city.

But since he didn’t expect for the hill’s peak to allow such art, he’s a little more overwhelmed than he expected to be.

From behind, he hears you say, “In any case. Let’s rest here?”

“Uh-huh.”

It’s hard to avert his eyes. All night long, he’s only felt like this once; this marks the second time.

Gratefully, he walks up to where you’re making yourself comfortable, flattening your dress and settling your bag on your lap. You pull a thin, short cardigan out of it, slipping into it. It’s certainly cooler up here.

And then, you pat the spot next to you, and he lets himself fall with a sigh; it’s been a long night, and despite the restful-not-restful hour you spent at Jieun’s, it feels as though he’s truly easing up just now.

Jungkook puffs out a breath and takes another look. Properly this time, blinking as if this could help his eyes focus better. Gorgeous. He can see the river from here, flowing through the town in curves, like a snake.

He can’t see the entire city, but most of it; it goes up and down. Skyscrapers and then cosy houses like the ones before again. Mountains far away and the lights of the amusement park somewhere in the east. They’re the brightest of them all.

“Wait,” he says; you oblige, waiting, watching as he heaves the camera out of his bag.

He only registers you from his side vision, but he thinks you’re wearing a smile; confirmed when you breathe to speak again, and his eyes drift to you, immediately decoding the pride in your sparkling pupils.

Why do you look proud? Then again, he guesses he would, too, if he showed you something that he loved and you enjoyed it, too.

Thinking about it, he kind of wants to do it someday.

He pulls at his lower lip, releasing it soon, blinking again as if to release the thought. Instead, he listens as you ask, “You’ve never been here before?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Hidden spot then.”

“It’s beautiful. Look there,” he points to a spot that you carefully follow, even squinting an eye shut; it makes him smile. “That’s the ferris wheel in the amusement park. Can you see? Wait.”

The camera comes to use when he points the lens at the direction he signalled towards, nimble hands working on zooming in. The picture unfocuses before the lights of the amusement park flicker again.

It’s late, he thinks; then again, the summer is coming to an end, the last nights used to keep such attractions open late. September will bring forth grey clouds again, leaving behind the prior season’s heat. Raining down on him, forcing the leather jacket out of his closet.

He likes it that way.

No offence to the summer whatsoever; but he likes the fresh gust dishevelling his soft hair. Likes it when the rain patters against the window glass so softly. He sleeps better that way, too.

Barely sitting for a moment, Jungkook already gets to his feet, nearing the edge until he’s kneeling on the ground. The distance has only faded by a couple feet, not much of a difference. But the feeling of the city nearing still persists somehow, tickling his mind just right.

He doesn’t know how long he squats there against the backdrop of the luminescent sea, but when he comes back to you, you’re still sporting that excited smile, eyebrows high. Your eyes fall to the camera, humming when he says, “Look. There.”

He magnifies the picture, every spot of it good enough to pin against the living room wall. Carefully, he hands you the camera; surprising, because he regards this pricey piece of plastic as sacred. You probably don’t know how big of a deal it is that he lets you handle it.

If you did, you’d never let him live it down.

You scoot closer, your temple now nearly touching his. You stare with an interest he hasn’t witnessed too often before. People do not care much about pictures of scenery; in the age of media, how could they anyway? When every stock picture is already memorised and used to the point of insignificance?

But you — your mouth parts as you switch around, taking in details.

“Good?” he asks.

“Beautiful,” you sincerely mutter, returning the camera to him. You hold it like a kitten; perhaps you do know what the gesture meant. “This is exactly why I wanted us to come here.”

The moment is so serene, like balm, and he nods along with your words, calmly conversing. So it takes a heartbeat to truly untangle your words in his mind and tie them with the meaning your intention conveys.

He assumed you were just showing him random spots of the town, to allow him a glimpse into your mind and to crack your true nature. All this time, he thought you wanted to lead him to bright spaces to lighten up his perception of you.

But what you’re doing instead is turn the spotlight towards him and what he loves.

“You… did it for me?” he asks.

You, casually, as if the thoughtful act doesn’t flood him with serotonin, reply, “Yeah. To capture a couple pretty pictures. You really do love it, so.”

“I do… wow, thanks.” He pauses. Looks down to the buttons on his camera, to his hands; then back to you. “You thought of it all, right? The nice places and the short rest at Jieun’s. Now this.”

“Hmm, tried as much as possible so spontaneously.”

“Thank you. Really.”

You return his gratitude with a polite nod, leaning away until you touch the backrest of the bench. Jungkook indulges in some more that nature offers, toying with the settings, zooming in just to observe sights from a closer point.

He doesn’t notice when you sigh or when you zone off; or when your thoughts shift back to the minutes and hours of the night. He doesn’t notice; and in return, you don’t know that he’s still thinking about the intention that brought him here; that you were attentive enough to truly show that some people appreciate art.

There aren’t only fleeting nights and then forgotten memories. Because this… this right here is a core memory.

Because of you.

Are you thinking the same? Are you proud that his enmity has faded, replaced by a tender smile? Satisfied that your efforts were worth it after all — a goal reached that you set for yourself earlier tonight.

Let me show you pretty places until the sun comes up, and if you still hate me by then, I will never talk to you again.

But…

He’d love to talk to you again.

However, your mind hasn’t quite drifted in this direction; in truth, he honestly can’t analyse or interpret you at all, because the question you pose next is far from what he’d been thinking about.

“Talking about pretty… uhm. Did you think Jieun was pretty?”

Jungkook blinks. One eyebrow cocks up; the camera drops back onto his lap. He flashes you a squinted look, a confused laugh erupting before he asks back, “What?”

“Ah, don’t lie. She’s very pretty.”

“Sure? She is.”

He’s nearly forgotten what she looked like. But beauty is still perceived and remembered — he guesses he found her good-looking.

“And she’s everyone’s type,” you prod, “what do you think, though? If she didn’t have a boyfriend, could you imagine liking her?”

Jungkook thinks about it. Not because he wants to, but because you seem to have found an odd interest in whatever attracts him; maybe your questions are leading up to something. So he’ll play along.

“Hmm… Maybe,” he answers.

“So she is your type.”

Or maybe, you’re trying to get something out of him that you want to hear specifically. You seem so shy about it all of a sudden; not necessarily an adjective he’d assign to you.

And coming from you of all people, he somehow does not find the topic interesting. It’s weird; he doesn’t want to talk about it; he doesn’t care about Jieun, either.

So he shrugs his shoulders indifferently, lifting his camera up again. He points it at you, eternalising your surprised expression just when you open your mouth to leave out a shocked, “Hey!”

“That’s what you get for asking such strange stuff.”

“It’s not strange! I’m just small-talking.”

“You do not small-talk.”

“It could be a deeper conversation if you just admitted it.”

He chuckles, turning his body towards you, half his leg on the bench, “Admit what?”

“The type thing!”

“Sure. I don’t just have one type, though, you know?”

The dispute brought your bodies a little closer, your face far enough for him to still identify his surroundings, but near enough for him to see your eyes twinkling. The light is dancing in them. And it’s much easier to focus on it when you silence like this.

Just for a second.

Because you breathe in again ten seconds later, lightly slapping the thigh resting on the bench. The touch is cursory, tiny, nothing to overthink about — but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want it to linger.

In some way, it still does.

You ask, “Okay? What are your types then?”

“Different girls.” This time, only one shoulder shoots up. His eyes match his pensive hum. “Whoever suits me. Pretty girls but also nice girls. Especially nice girls.”

“Alright, be honest,” you begin, mimicking his position until your leg lifts onto the bench, knee nearly touching his. You’re warming up now. Finally spitting the true question soon, “Do you think I’m pretty?”

Cute.

But he’s not giving in this easily.

He smirks; he feels the dimple on one side of his lopsided smile the moment you look at it. You’re distracted enough — so he uses the mental absence to attack you with yet another picture.

For a couple blinks, you’re startled — but as he reacts to his own nonsense with a content chortle, proud of his prank, you sigh. His shoulders rise with his sneering joy, head low as he inspects the picture just taken on his camera.

He zooms into your face, mouth open and eyes wide. You do look so pretty, he thinks — better even since you washed most of your make up off. Yet, he can’t contain himself when he shows you the screen, telling you, “You look alright.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes and your gaze to the view; your giggles start quietly, and then mix with his. Before—

They soon become part of a bad harmony as more voices join your very own night. Somebody is nearing. Jungkook hears the laughter already, but the road is curved and dark; so he can’t see them yet.

You might not have expected this, because you push closer to Jungkook on reflex; just at the same time as him. He didn’t know he had it in him to always stay so alert around you. Ready to throw himself at intruders.

Crazy.

But once the voices grow in volume, the two of you are soon met with a couple walking past. They’re in love, because amidst their titter, there’s another lewd sound. Or maybe, not too bad; playful kisses?

Yes.

The guy — he’s smooching his girl’s cheek, releasing with a, “Mwah” each time. Your initial surprise soon fades and turns into delight; Jungkook sees it in the way your smile returns. And in the furrowed yet amused eyebrows…

When the couple spots the two of you, they gasp; the girl’s hand immediately bolts to her chest, as if she just encountered a wild boar. But she catches herself soon, apologising, “Oh. Sorry. We’re sorry.”

You respond with an, “It’s okay!” Jungkook shakes his head politely to shrink their worries. They’ve walked away as soon as they came, but he still hears the woman’s scolding, effect lessened by the still occurring belly laugh, “I told you to calm yourself—”

As the world quietens again, Jungkook huffs, tilting his head as he deduces, “So late and yet… Not much of a hidden spot after all.”

“It feels like an ancient hill to me. I don’t often meet others here.” You breathe in the wind, then tongue your cheek. “They probably didn’t even notice where they were going. People in love never do.”

“I guess so.”

He guesses so.

It’s been a while since he fell in love.

Your head bobs once more before you lose yourself in the skyline, sucking in more of the crisp air that’ll grace you in the upcoming months. Fall is upon the town. He inbreathes the peace, too.

His hands operate on their own; one last time, he lifts it towards you, peeks through the lens again, adjusting the focus until the object clicks again. You’re not looking at him; he caught your side profile, this time not out of mock or tease.

He means it. And you seem to know.

Because when you look at him this time, you’re not mad or irritated.

Only look at him softly, a smile that truly matches the heights you took him on.

READ BELOW!!

the fic isn't over yet – as always, tumblr has a 1k block limit that makes our lives harder than necessary lmao. read the last scene and the remaining 3k words of meraki here 🥰

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mesopotamism · 3 days ago

Text

it was always you.

for as long as you remember, you’ve always had the fattest crush on your childhood friend, jeon jungkook. it never blossomed into something more though, because that’s what happens when life naturally takes it course—you grow up, you move on, and you pretend that those feelings never existed in order to maintain the good friendship that remained between the two of you over the years.

so when he visits you after work one day, asking you to marry him, you do everything you can to refuse, because the reason he’s asking you isn’t due to the fact that he finally realized that he loved you after all this time, but because he thinks he’s doing you a big favor.

or at least, that’s what you think.

pairing: jungkook x reader

word count: 13.2k

rating: 18+

content: fluff, semi-angst, childhood friends to lovers au, pining au | ft. naval aviator!jungkook + brother’s best friend!jungkook; professor!reader + editor!reader | inspired by purple hearts

warning/s: swearing, potentially wrong medical & military information (i’m sorry but i tried to do as much research i can 😭), mentions of having type 1 diabetes, making out, heavy petting, implied sexual content: oral (f. receiving), fingering, penetrative sex, unprotected sex (this is only fiction!)

MINI PLAYLIST: ♫ die with a smile — lady gaga, bruno mars ♫ juno — sabrina carpenter ♫ selfish — *nsync ♫ nandito na ako — benj pangilinan, angela ken

opening note. omg this is my first full length fic in two damn years i think??? certainly took a long time before i had the motivation to write again but i hope y'all like this! to my og readers who still keep up with my shenanigans, this one's for you 🥹💗

“Any questions?”

A boy wearing half-rimmed glasses raises his hand and you gesture for him to speak. “Can we get an extension on the Save the Cat project due tomorrow?”

You sigh, just as several of your students begin agreeing with him and muttering reasons of their own why the extension should be approved. It’s the week before finals, and you’re aware that the class must be packed with assignments and projects for several of their classes because of it, hence the rather last minute request. They look tired and pleading, a complete reflection of how you were when you were the one in their position nearly a decade ago, begging for an extension from a professor who you thought was kind enough to be swayed with the proposition.

You scan the crowd. “How many of you are at least 70% with it, hm?”

More than half of the class raises their hands.

“Okay, that’s honestly unexpected,” you say, pleased to know that they aren’t slacking on your subject. “Does Monday sound good? That’s three more days, to be fair. I don’t want to extend it further because I have to read everyone’s work and you guys know I don’t like rushing it before turning in your final grade.”

A chorus of relief and thanks echoed in the room, all of your students either dramatically sinking in their chair or erupting in an animated conversation with their seatmate or making crying faces to portray how grateful they are.

“Thank you so much, Ms. ____!”

“I love you, Ms. ____!”

“Ms. ____, I will offer my first child to you,” one theatrically adds and you smile a bit, rolling your eyes at students like this one who is now opting to flatter you way too much for your act of kindness.

“Alright, alright. Just get it done and I’m expecting quality work, okay? Class dismissed.”

The whole class begins to gather their things at the cue and you don’t stay there a minute longer after your announcement, exiting the lecture hall to head to the faculty room where you’re certain half of the teaching staff have gone home already. It’s already 8:47 p.m., and all you want to do is head home to get the rest you deserve after an eventful day.

There was a time that having a schedule from 6 p.m. to 9 p.m. wasn’t the norm for you. You used to value work life balance so much—it was even a nonnegotiable you used to say in interviews, saying that if you didn’t get enough rest within the week, then the job most likely wasn’t for you. But things have been very different for the past months; you have definitely grown out of that mindset due to the fact that you’re simply in need of another source of income to pay for your monthly rent, utility bills, and now your medication. You’re in a stage of your life wherein you consider working part time as a professor was a blessing rather than a big nuisance.

Making a right turn to where the hallway to the faculty room is, you’re too busy rearranging the papers inside the folder you’re holding to notice a man sitting on the bench placed just beside the entrance. He notices you the second you appear in his line of vision though; he straightens his posture and proceeds on standing up immediately upon seeing you closer, calling your name softly when you failed to look at his direction, too preoccupied with the thought of finally coming home that you’re oblivious that the man trying to catch your attention is Jeon Jungkook.

“____,” he calls again and this time you notice him, your eyes widening instantly.

“Holy shi—” You stop yourself from finishing that sentence. “Jungkook?”

He grins. “Hey, lamb chop.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Is that how you greet an old friend?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

He laughs, following suit to you who’s already giggling just by his presence alone, outstretching his arms then. “You gonna hug me or what?”

You beam and step forward to embrace him. He returns it without hesitation, muscular arms circling around you and squeezing tightly that it lifts you up from the ground for a quick second. The faint smell of fabric conditioner on his clothes enters your nostrils and you feel like a teenager again, warmth rushing to your face while your heart hammers loudly in your chest. Regardless of how old the both of you are, you think your hopeless crush on the guy will forever live on and constantly transform you into a middle school girl whenever opportunities like these to have him near arise. You’re just happy you’ve trained yourself to be better at hiding it now compared to when you were younger.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in base or wherever it is that you’re designated?” you ask, the first to let go from the hug.

“Actually, I returned from deployment three days ago. I’m on leave for two weeks.”

“Wow. Two weeks, huh?”

“Yep. It’s the longest break I’ve gotten in a while.”

“That’s good. Everybody needs a break from time to time.”

“Says the girl has a day job and a night job.” He points out with a smirk; your heart does a little leap at how handsome he looks doing that. “When the hell did you get into teaching, by the way? I never pegged you to be the kind who can tolerate it. You hate kids.”

“You’ll find yourself tolerating lots of things in this economy.” You snort. “And my students aren’t kids. They’re in college.”

“Yeah, which you graduated from six years ago. Still technically kids.”

“Are you seriously jabbing at my age when you’re two years older than I am?”

He rolls his eyes at that one, an indication that you won the argument. “Anyway,” he starts again and you grin, “I didn’t come here to compare how old we are—”

“You didn’t?”

He sends you a look. Your grin gets even wider.

“I’m here because I was hoping to treat you to dinner.”

“Dinner?” you repeat, not masking the surprise from your voice.

Let’s get the facts straight before we proceed to this conversation.

It isn’t a lie when you say that you and Jungkook are great friends. You have been since you were 7 and your family just moved into the house next to theirs. He was a natural playmate, a companion when you couldn’t tolerate the antics of your older brother, the boy who looked out for you aside from said older brother, and the person you’ve shared significant history with throughout your youth that you can never seem to forget nor disregard.

It’s just that you never deemed that you were great enough friends for him to go out of his way and visit you at your workplace, offering to treat you for dinner. Gestures like that were reserved for your older brother, Seowon, who’s the same age as he is and who you’re sure is considered as his best friend. Compared to them, yours and Jungkook’s dynamic shifted slightly after graduating from college. What once was a really close friendship turned into a casual one, with mostly just teasing, light talks, and the occasional welfare checks at times you hear certain news from the other that’s worth speaking directly about.

At the mention of that, realization dawns on you on why he must be here.

“Jungkook…” You’re trying not to sound mad but you can’t hide the exasperation from your voice. “That’s not the real reason you’re here.”

“Of course, it is. Why else would I be here?”

“He told you, didn’t he?” you ask, not willing to drag this out. “You’re just going to give me another lecture that I definitely don’t need.”

Jungkook frowns, like he’s dismayed that you caught on pretty swiftly.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” You pressed.

“He meant well, ____.”

You scowl. To remark that Seowon is unnecessarily nosy and coddling would be an understatement. That man hasn’t left you alone the second he was aware of your condition. Usually, whenever he gets into his ‘big brother tendencies’, his girlfriend Winnie steps in and helps you lay him off your back. However, it’s different this time; no matter how much you reinstill your independence and insist that you’re fine, it’s like you’re talking to a wall.

“What exactly did you hear from him?” you query.

He seems hesitant in answering that. “That you got diagnosed with type 1 diabetes.”

You wince.

“Look,” he steps forward towards you, “I wasn’t going to bring it up unless you did, okay? I’m just here because I’m genuinely worried about you and I want to know how you’re doing.”

“I’m fine.” You murmur. “You don’t need to worry.”

“Worry doesn’t vanish magically just because someone says so.”

“Well, it should—because I’m fine.”

“You sure? I heard that you’re struggling to buy insulin among other things you’re having a hard time paying.”

“Fuck. Seowon told you that too? That’s private.”

“My parents know. He just filled me in because he wants you to have as much support as you can get.”

“I don’t need that. I’m an adult. I’ve lived by myself for years. I can fend for myself just fine.”

“It doesn’t look like it from what I’ve been hearing.”

“All you’re hearing is a warped and exaggerated version of the story told by Seowon who won’t listen to a word I say.” You huff. “I’m fine and I’ve been doing everything I can, alright? I’m taking care of myself. I’m going to the doctor whenever I need to. I’m making ends meet, buying treatment for this goddamn disease and regulating my sugar levels all the fucking time. Why do you think I’ve been working two jobs for the past year? It’s because I’m doing everything I can to stay alive.”

Jungkook doesn’t reply, he only remains gazing at you.

“If you’re here to offer me money or whatever because of what he said,” you add, already embarrassed that you can’t even look at him anymore, “then I don’t want it.”

“That’s not what I’m here for,” he says.

“Then are you really just here to treat me to dinner?” you question sarcastically.

He laughs and you dare return your eyes at him, catching him peering at you with a fond expression. “Yes. It’s my way of doing a welfare check.”

“Welfare check.” You echo with squinted eyes. “Well, in that case, here I am—alive and healthy.”

“I can see that, and I’m glad.” He smiles. “But I need more than just seeing you. I need a conversation and an apology.”

“An apology?”

“For being the last person to know about your condition.”

“And we’re still talking about that apparently.” You mutter under your breath. “Sorry. I didn’t think that you wanted to know.”

“Of course, I would have wanted to know. It’s you we’re talking about here.”

Something about how he said you causes your lips to twitch as you fight off a smile. This isn’t a good time to dive into your romantic feelings for your childhood crush, but when he’s letting go of lines like that which are sure to have your heart soaring out of your chest, it’s hard to keep on a cool and unfazed facade. You just convince yourself that he sees you as a little sister and that’s why he’s so worried; you should already be past your ‘delulu’ phase at this age to be affected by such statements.

“I didn’t want to add to your worries,” you reason. “You already have your life to think about. Add to the fact that you’re a naval aviator—so you literally have your own life first to think about.”

“I can make space for you.”

Is he flirting? Is this a normal thing to say between friends?

You blink. “Okay, uh, that’s… that’s completely up to you, I guess.”

“I just like knowing those things first hand. It makes me worry less.”

“Got it. Next time I learn I’m dying, I’ll tell you.”

“____,” he says your name in warning, and you know he’s serious.

“Sorry.” You heat up. “I couldn’t resist.”

“Don’t be a pain in the ass.”

“I promise that’ll be the last time I make a dark joke, Lieutenant.”

Jungkook’s nostrils flare. You prevent yourself from grinning like a fool again in success of getting on his nerves.

“Are you done here? Because I’m hungry and would really like to get going now.” He changes the subject and gestures to the faculty.

“Yeah. I’ll just get my things and then I can get out of here.”

“Great. You’re letting me take you to dinner, right?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.”

“Fine.” You deadpan.

This time, he’s the one who’s beaming at you. “I’ll wait for you here and we can go.”

“Okay.”

****

When Jungkook discovered that you had type 1 diabetes through a phone call with Seowon, he spent the rest of the night staring at the ceiling, ignoring the snores of his squadmates and overthinking what’s supposed to happen to you now that you had an autoimmune disease which he was told didn’t have a cure. He was assured that you were okay despite it, that there was medication to treat it, and that you had access to them and have been very careful with your lifestyle due to the diagnosis ever since.

He still couldn’t be put to ease though. As ridiculous as it may sound, he had this overwhelming realization that life truly was short, that you had to make certain decisions all the time because you need to adjust to what the universe is only willing to give you. It was funny coming from a person who risked his life for a living. He thinks that perhaps he never understood the philosophy of the quote ‘time is gold’ until he had a loved one on the same trajectory, always one step closer to possible death.

And so that same night, he decided to file a leave for two weeks, effective immediately after his deployment.

He wasn’t sure what his game plan was exactly in filing that two-week leave. Was he supposed to barge in your life and force you to let him take care of you? Was he supposed to demand why you ended up having diabetes? Was he supposed to act as a big brother like your actual big brother because he was that worried about you? But if Jungkook was going to be truthful, he already had an idea on what he wanted to do in the back of his head—he just didn’t want to execute it because it was absolutely insane.

Until he heard Seowon suggest it himself when they met up at a bar to share a drink together.

“She would never say yes,” Jungkook said, beyond doubt that you won’t be persuaded that easily with a plan like that.

Seowon made a face. “I know. That girl is so hyper independent—she’d rather die than accept help.” He scoffed. “She needs it though. It’ll help with her medication and she won’t have to pay rent for that shit apartment she’s living in. Plus, she'll actually get the chance to take care of her body if she’s not juggling two jobs to have sufficient income.”

“You’re right.” Jungkook shrugged.

“You’ll do it then?”

He took a sip of his beer. “Yeah. I’d do anything for ____, you know that.”

“Even as crazy as marrying her?”

“Sure.”

Seowon stared at him, narrowing his eyes and morphing his expression into a teasing one. “Are you sure you’re not just considering this because it’s a perfect excuse to marry my sister? I know you like her.”

“I don’t like her.”

“You’re in love with her.”

“I don’t—” Jungkook began to deny but Seowon was staring him down. “Fuck you, man. Don’t make me some kind of pervert who’s trying to lock her into marriage because he likes her. You’re the one who brought the idea up.”

Seowon laughed out loud. “I know, I just can’t believe you’d agree. It’ll benefit ____, that’s for sure—you, on the other hand? It’s career suicide.”

He shrugged. “I’m okay with the thought that she’ll be okay.”

“Because you love her, man.” Seowon pushed. “Why on earth would you consider this if you weren’t? It’s a fraudulent marriage. You’ll be thrown in the brig and be dishonorably discharged if you get caught.”

“We don’t even know if she’ll agree to this whole thing. You said it yourself, she would never say yes.”

“Yeah, unless maybe you’re the one who tries to persuade her.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to buy her a ring and kneel down before her or something?”

“That can work.”

“What?” Jungkook laughed.

Seowon raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you don’t know how she’s been crushing on you since we were kids.”

He barked out a laugh again. That he knew; it was impossible not to when a lot of friends and cousins kept on teasing you before, especially at instances Jungkook was in the very same vicinity. “We’re not kids anymore and I barely see her though.”

“Still, it ought to count to something. It raises the chances of her agreeing.”

“You’re really cool with me marrying your sister, Won?” Jungkook asked.

Seowon placed down the beer bottle he’s consuming on the counter. “Yeah. You’re a good guy. You’re not perfect, but I know you enough to know that you won’t do anything that will purposely hurt her. Besides, if this sham marriage ends up to be a real relationship and then for some reason, you fuck up and decide to break her heart—I’ll easily know what to do, where to find you, and then I’ll do everything I can to fuck you up.”

Jungkook pressed his lips together to stifle a chuckle.

“Noted.��

****

It’s always been a big wonder to you how no matter how long it’s been since you saw each other, it still feels like no time has passed between you and Jungkook. You think that’s why you can never get over him; he always had this comforting and familiar aura that you appreciate—something that you sought for in every other person that you liked. Maybe it was impractical, maybe it was the reason you can never hold a relationship for more than two years, but unless you gain the courage to confront your feelings and tell Jungkook about it, then you constantly dispel any doubts you might have whether this was good for you or not.

You don’t want to lose him. Admitting that you harbored romantic feelings for him would just make it awkward for everyone: your brother, your family, and then his family. You don’t think you can ever trade his smile, the sound of his laughter, and all the good things about him for anything in the world.

“Are you dating anyone?” he asks.

You choke on your drink, having just poured yourself and Jungkook a glass of water after the server arrived with the pitcher. You’re in a Japanese restaurant near the university, aware that the cuisine was a favorite for the both of you hence why it’s what you recommended when he asked where you wanted to dine. The place is packed with people from the workforce and students; you’re thankful that you don’t see any of your students within the mix.

“We’re getting straight to it, huh?” you say.

Jungkook smirks. “I’m just making sure I’m not upsetting a boyfriend by meeting you tonight.”

“Don’t worry, you’re not upsetting anyone.”

He nods in understanding. You don’t want to add more meaning to his actions for the evening but he seems glad about the information.

“How about you?” you ask back. “Are you dating anyone?”

The ends of his mouth lift a bit upwards. “Nope.”

“Why? You don’t have the time for it?”

“Precisely.”

“It must be really hard dating when you’re in the Navy then.”

“Kinda. We’re away a lot and stationed in different places most of the time. It can get really dangerous for us too and people don’t like the stress that comes with that.”

You bob. “Does it get lonely?”

“Sometimes, but when you’re on duty, you don’t get to think about those things.” He chuckles. “Besides, I don’t know if this sounds fucked up or not—but it can get exciting. Flying a plane can be fun, you know. Not to mention that it helps when you’re surrounded by good men in your squadron.”

“You’ve always been an adrenaline junkie.”

“And you’ve always been a scaredy-cat.”

You scoff at the declaration. “No, I’m not.”

“Remember when Seowon and I forced you to ride that ship in the amusement park that sways left to right and as it goes on it falls from a higher standpoint?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But you do, and Jungkook knows you do, it’s evident by how your expression is trying to feign innocence. That memory is your villain origin story; the whole pretext of why you refuse to ever visit the amusement park or ride an exhilarating ride again. Yet you can’t help but recall that it’s one of the rare instances wherein you got to hold Jungkook’s hand when you two were younger, as his hand was the one you were clinging for dear life when it happened while the other was too busy slapping Seowon in irritation.

He snickers, appearing like he’s replaying the scene in his head. “We should do that again with Seowon during my break.”

“Hell no.”

“I thought you weren’t a scaredy-cat?” He challenges.

“I’m not.” You give him a kittenish glare. “But I am busy. I have to send the final manuscript of this book I’m editing to the chief editor next week and it’s about to be finals week for my students as well.”

He fakes a shiver. “I don’t know how you can do two jobs like that, ____. Truly.”

“You work as a naval aviator so I’d say we’re pretty even.”

The waiter arrives with your orders not long after, and you and Jungkook carry on with your conversation, jumping from topic to topic without difficulty. You’re not certain when was the last time you saw each other like this to have so much to talk about—was it last Christmas? Or was it more recent or longer than that? Nevertheless, it feels good and you find yourself blushing multiple times throughout the night, whether it’s because of how his words can have two meanings or how his eyes are staring at you so intensely whenever you’re the one who’s talking.

You like the undivided attention, the back and forth that’s occurring as you discourse, the subtle touches one of you does when something funny arises, how your knees are touching underneath the table. You wonder what’s so different with this encounter that the energy feels so bizarre in a good way? As far as you’re concerned, you’re positive that you’re acting like you always have in his presence—lively, smiley, sarcastic—and aside from the little touches of flirting here and there, Jungkook’s acting like he always has too.

When dinner was done, Jungkook offered to drive you home. You obliged, no longer in the mood to annoy him for you were tired to make the effort. Before stepping outside the restaurant however, you excused yourself to the restroom first, checking your blood sugar with the glucose meter you brought along wherever you went. It’s a hassle but it’s necessary, largely because you’re still in the middle of saving up for the insulin pump that would help you regulate your sugar levels easier.

After administering yourself with the insulin injection you have, you spend a few more seconds inside the enclosed room. You should be past the point of feeling sorry for yourself, but it’s times like this wherein you’re with a loved one that the dejection hits and you wish that you’re in a better predicament than you are right now. You’re close to being broke, you’re overworked, you’re somehow fatigued all the fucking time—those factors aren’t soothing your worries at all. It’s a miracle how you manage to keep an optimistic mind amidst everything.

“Ready to go?” Jungkook smiles at you once you’re back at the table and you nod, clutching your bag tighter against your body and following him to his car.

He drives you to your place, turning the radio on, and letting it play while the both of you sit in silence. You’re both tired and you almost even sleep during the ride. It’s only when Jungkook gently shakes you awake that you realize that you’ve arrived in front of your apartment building.

“I’ll walk you up,” he insists as you’re unbuckling the seatbelt.

“That’s no need, Kook.”

“Of course, it is,” he says. “I’ll walk you up. That’s nonnegotiable.”

So, you allow him.

It takes five minutes tops to reach the door leading to your apartment. As you rummage through your bag to grab your keys, Jungkook patiently stands there, occasionally glancing around the hallway and even smiling when the old lady that resided in the same floor got out of her room to throw out the trash. He receives a smile in return which you notice and grin fondly at.

“Well, this is me.” You turn to him, done unlocking your door. “I’d invite you inside but you should probably get going. It’s quite a long drive back home.”

“Yeah.” He breathes out a chuckle. “Hey, tonight was fun. It made me realize how I missed you.”

Your brain temporarily malfunctions; you force yourself to recover quickly. “Me too. I had fun tonight. Maybe we should do this again whenever you’re on a break.”

“Agreed.”

You flash him a smile. “You can go now. Goodnight.”

Jungkook nods, however doesn’t move a muscle. He’s looking at you, like really looking at you, his eyes moving from one feature to another, as if he’s memorizing your face or having a hard time arranging the words he wants to say. You guess it’s the latter, familiar with a tongue-tied Jungkook that it takes you a few good seconds before you’re demanding why he’s impersonating a mannequin.

“There’s something I want to say,” that’s what he utters and you almost snort due to your assumption being right.

“Okay…” The smile is still on your lips. “What is it?”

“Promise me you won’t get mad first.”

“Well, if you’re making me promise that then it’s probably worth being mad about.”

“It’s not as bad as you think.”

“That’s not convincing at all.”

“It’s just…” He begins and trails, biting his lower lip, “it’s… it’s why I went here. Why I went here to see and meet you, I mean.”

You unconsciously recoil at the revelation. It’s certainly a rookie mistake to believe that there was no ulterior motive in Jungkook meeting you today. You just didn’t reckon you’d actually be truly disappointed at that—at the idea that he just didn’t randomly decide to visit and be with you earlier until now.

You draw a long breath. “Well, I knew you weren’t just feeling generous and wanted to treat me to dinner out of nowhere.”

There’s a pause and then he resumes. “Just—before I say it, you have to hear me out, okay? You have to let me explain before you berate me.”

“I can’t promise that either.”

“You have to.”

“Why do I have to?”

“Because what I’m about to say is for your own sake. You know I always have your best interest at heart, don’t you?”

You wrinkle your forehead in further confusion. “Can you just get on with it? The vagueness is making me more annoyed.”

“I just don’t want you to misunderstand.”

“Misunderstand what?”

“What I—and Seowon—genuinely think is the best option.”

“Oh, and Seowon is in on this too?” You bellow. “Have you and Seowon just been conspiring behind my back the whole time?”

“Calm down.” Jungkook puts his hands on your shoulders, a chuckle inevitably escaping him. “I’m sorry for dragging it out. You should know I’m high key afraid of you, that’s why.”

“You should be.” You grumble.

Another chuckle, but he’s back to appearing anxious. You want to shout that this isn’t healthy, that you’re close to giving him a real reason to be afraid of you—yet once he blurts the confession out, you’re speechless, gawking at him and staggering backwards in complete shock. Perhaps you would have bolted as far away from him as possible if not for his solid grasp.

“What?” You hiss.

He swallows hard.

“I want you to marry me, ____.”

You don’t bolt away running. You shake off his hold on you though, and before he gets another word in, you’re hastily rushing inside your apartment and slamming the door to his face.

****

Jungkook was your first kiss.

It happened in a game of truth and dare. You were at a party of a mutual friend and when the bottle miserably pointed in Jungkook’s direction, the person who was tasked to think of his dare when it was his pick said that he dared him to do 7 minutes in heaven with you.

He profusely refused at first, especially since Seowon was in the same party, but everybody began booing and next thing you know, Jungkook was agreeing as long as it was fine with you. When you nodded to make your consent apparent, your friends were quick to shove you both in the closet, some of them pulling Seowon back who was complaining how it wasn’t right to bully you into doing 7 minutes in heaven with Jungkook. They calmed him down once they bullied him into agreeing too.

“We don’t have to do anything,” Jungkook told you in the darkness, his breath fawning over your face. “You don’t have to feel pressured. It’s just a stupid game.”

You blushed.

Secretly, you were hoping that he’d kiss you or touch you. Who didn’t want to do anything with their crush at the age of 15? A lot can happen in 7 minutes. You were aware that sometimes people made out, went as far as third base, and although you didn’t want to go that far with Jungkook, you wanted something to happen while you were stuck in this small closet with him. There weren’t a lot of instances that put both of you in this kind of situation; you wished that you were brave enough to ask him to kiss you or do the first move yourself.

5 minutes in, Jungkook turned towards you.

“Is it true that Taehyung kissed you last week?”

You whipped your head so fast that you might have given yourself whiplash. “That’s—that’s not true. Where did you hear that?”

“During homeroom. Some girls were talking about it.”

Your cheeks burned. “Oh.”

“So, it’s not true?”

“No.” You shook your head. “I haven’t even had my first kiss yet.” You laughed weakly.

It was his turn to seem stunned. “You haven’t had your first kiss yet?”

You shook your head again, then realized he might not see you doing so. “Not yet.”

“Want me to change that?” he asked, grinning.

He said that with a boyish grin and teasing tone, but you sucked at social cues (plus, you really couldn’t see shit that much) that you started nodding.

“Okay,” you told him.

“Huh?”

“You can kiss me.”

“Oh, oh, shit—I didn’t—” He was blabbering, about to take back what he offered. “I mean, I was just joking but—”

You widen your eyes. “You were? Oh my God, I’m sorry, I thought you were—”

“No, it was my fault. That was a little out of line for me. I’m sorry.” He was laughing and you felt like burying yourself 6 feet under. “It was a stupid thing to say. But if you want me to kiss you, it’s cool.”

“It is?” Hope sparked within you.

“Yeah. It’ll just be a peck anyway.” You can tell he was smiling through his voice. “Just don’t tell Seowon because he might punch me in the face for kissing his sister.”

You cackled. “Deal.”

56 seconds before the 7 minutes were up, Jungkook leaned down to match your level and placed his lips on yours.

****

You’re seething with rage, the embodiment of Godzilla, channeling the God of War, Ares, in your body; you harshly press Seowon’s number on your phone to call him and he answers after three rings.

“What’s up?”

“I will fucking murder you,” you snarl.

A beat. You hear shuffling. Then he answers, “you already talked with Jungkook?”

The nonchalance and calmness in his voice drives you to be more frustrated than you already are. “Yes, I have! What is wrong with you? Why would you plant that idea on his head?” You yell, not caring that your walls are thin and that your voice can probably be heard by the couple that lived next door. You’re feeling a mixture of anger, embarrassment, and every negative emotion that exists at the moment. You’re comparable to a bull who just saw the color red.

“____, it won’t be a big deal if you don’t make it to be.”

“Are you hearing yourself right now?”

“Did you even let Jungkook explain?”

“I don’t need him to spell everything out. I know why he’s asking me to marry him.”

“Then you know too that it’d be good for you.”

“Marrying him won’t be good for me.”

“Why not?”

“It just won’t!”

“You’ll get health insurance benefits that you don’t get with your current jobs. You can pay less rent once you move in at Jungkook’s place—there’s a huge chance he won’t even let you pay him while you stay there too. He’s away most of the time anyway, so staying there wouldn’t be a problem. Plus, you can start studying for a masters degree like you’ve always wanted.”

You groan. “Not like this. This is crazy.”

“The both of you can divorce once you’ve saved up a little. It really isn’t that complicated.”

“It’s a sham marriage!”

“It’s a sham marriage with Jungkook.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“Are you sure? Your grade school diary might disagree.”

“Oh my God, that’s fucking low of you to bring that up. You just gave me another reason to hate you.” You stomp around the living room, acting like a teenager because of your brother’s behavior. This isn’t the first time he revealed that he’s read your diary before; that doesn’t mean it’s less infuriating to be reminded that he has. “I swear, you better fucking sleeping with one eye open tonight. I’m choking you to death.”

Seowon laughs out loud. “Just marry him. He’s surprisingly amicable with the idea.”

“That’s because you’re pressuring him! I bet you and Mom devised this entire thing together.”

“Mom doesn’t know. To be fair, she’d probably have the same reaction as you. It’s all me and Jungkook.”

“Wow. You have two brains and yet none of you thought this was goddamn stupid?”

“It’s not stupid. It’s genius if you come to think of it,” he says. “Jungkook just wants to help you, dude. He wants to make sure you’ll be okay and all that shit. You’re the reason he filed for a two-week leave, did he tell you?”

Your heart does that jumping thing again. “No.”

“Well, he did. He’s on a break for two weeks because he wants to convince you to marry him and actually marry you within that time frame.”

“This is nuts.” You sigh, finally flopping down the sofa and rubbing your face with your free hand. “The both of you are nuts. How are you okay with this?”

“It’s Jungkook. I trust him. Don’t you?”

“Of course, I do, I just—” you cut yourself off and frown, “I just feel like it’s unfair for him. I’m marrying him because of military spouse benefits and what does he get?”

There’s a long pause, and you almost check your phone to see whether Seowon has already hung up on you or not.

“It’s better that Jungkook answers that question,” he tells you finally.

“Why? You can’t answer it on behalf of him?”

“Something like that.” You can imagine him shrugging. “All I know is that he’s genuinely concerned about your health and your financial status right now. So, just think about it, okay?”

“God, fuck it, fine. I’ll think about it.” You grimace.

You hang up and glance at the door.

You don’t think the conversation you just had with Seowon took that much time. The initial rush you had upon having your longtime crush propose to you is wearing off and you’re realizing that it was a dick move to literally slam the door right in Jungkook’s face earlier, leading you to stand up from your seat and look through the peephole to check if he’s still there.

He isn’t, which you sigh in relief at.

As you lean against the door and regulate your breathing, you think how funny it is that Seowon is right about one thing—and that was grade school you would have been delighted at the thought of getting married to Jungkook. He’s your dream guy; your parents loved him, his parents loved you, the both of you got along very well, and his personality and looks are everything that you’re looking for in a partner. It sucks that you live in a world where the only reason he wants to marry you is because he’s afraid you’ll die because of self-neglect.

Your phone pings and you unlock the screen to look at the message that flashes on it.

Jungkook: hey, seowon just messaged me to say that you two already talked Jungkook: i’m sorry for jumping on you with a topic like that… Jungkook: i’m shit at confrontation lol Jungkook: also it’s the first time i’m proposing so give me some slack

You scoff at his audacity to joke about it this soon.

You: it’s okay You: i’m sorry too for what i did You: the answer is no btw

Jungkook: already??? Jungkook: let’s talk about it first

You: no need You: i don’t want to marry you

Jungkook: oof that’s harsh

You: sorry not sorry?

He doesn’t respond and you think you’re safe. Maybe Jungkook does take no for an answer and you’re confused because you’re a little disappointed that he’s not falling on his knees, begging you to marry him like what your imagination is supplying you.

However, after you took a shower and went to check your phone again, you see that Jungkook messaged you a few minutes ago in response to your last message.

Jungkook: give me 10 days and i’ll change your mind

You have the urge to go take a shower again because of how hot your body is feeling at the statement.

You: hate to break it to you but you’re not matthew mcconaughey

Jungkook: 🤣🤣🤣

****

It’s not part of Jungkook’s branding to chase a woman. Typically, women chase him; they chase him in every city and country that he gets stationed in, flirting with him and hoping that they’ll get the chance to take him home for the night for a mindblowing one-night stand. They never succeed though, for despite their pretty faces and sultry gestures, Jungkook only smiles and declines every offer, saying that he had a girl waiting back home that he loved very much.

He used to think that he only used that as an excuse because he’s not the type to hook up with every attractive girl he meets. There are times when he succumbs, when he gives into the temptation of a little fun, especially after a life threatening or highly stressful mission—but most of the time, he thinks he declines and use that pronouncement of his because his mind reverts him to the idea of you, to what would happen if he just gained the balls to ask you out.

Evidently, although asking you out and asking you to marry him are two completely different things, he’s a bit afraid that your answer will always be a hard no. It’s what you’ve been literally spelling out to him since the day he presented the idea, regardless of how he’s trying his best in swooning you or explaining how this is the perfect plan to help you gain an upper hand with your diagnosis.

“I’ll file a restraining order against you, I’m serious,” you say to him when he appears yet again outside the faculty room, waiting for you to gather your things and head home. You’re wearing a white button up shirt and pinstripe wide leg trousers, an outfit combination that he ogles at before he goes down to business.

“You wouldn’t.” He glares at you. He gestures for you to let him take your backpack, and despite what you said, you let him. “Also, what the fuck is in this thing? You’ll break your back if you keep using this.” He swings your backpack on one shoulder.

You laugh. “My laptop, its charger, a couple of notebooks, books, pens, then the outputs of my students.”

“Aren’t they supposed to submit virtually? What happened to Google Classroom?”

“I still use it, but sometimes I like to have their work printed out so I can write the comments better. How do you know Google Classroom?”

“I have a squadronmate whose kid uses it for class.”

“Ah.” You nod in understanding.

You two continue walking forward.

This has been your program for the past few days. Jungkook goes to the university you work at, he’ll wait outside, you’ll threaten him with something ridiculous, he’ll take your bag, he’ll offer to take you to dinner, you’ll decline, and then he’ll drive you home anyways. Before that routine ends, he’ll lean on your door frame and give you his best puppy eyes, asking you to marry him for the sake of your welfare, and you’ll scowl at him, insisting that you don’t need his help to survive.

“Dinner?” he asks, right on schedule.

You glance at him. “No. I want to go home and sleep for 12 hours.”

“Busy day?”

“Yep.”

“You know, if you marry me, you won’t have to work two jobs and overexert yourself.”

He doesn’t need to turn to you to know that you’re giving him a dirty look. “I won’t marry you, Jungkook.”

“Why not?”

“Because marriage doesn’t work that way.”

“It does. Billionaires do it all the time. The mafia does it too. It’s always been some kind of transaction.”

“Well, if I marry you, what do you get?”

“The assurance you’re taken care of.”

“That’s cheesy.”

You share a laugh and he grins.

“It’s true,” he says. “I’ll be fine as long as you are.”

He waits for you to quip back a reply, flickering his eyes to you when it takes longer than usual. Instead of the sneer he’s expecting, you appear to be flustered, an expression that is very recognizable for him who’s known you since forever—an expression that makes it too obvious for Jungkook that the crush you had on him that he thought has been long gone was still there. He’s been seeing it a lot lately, particularly when he’s uttering lines that sound flirtatious on purpose; he’s positive that you’ll threaten to kill him when you discover that he basks on the fact that he can still make you all flustered and cute, which encourages him to do and say anything that would elicit a reaction from you. Was it unethical to seduce you into marrying him? He might have to rethink that part too.

Reaching the parking lot, he unlocks the doors to his vehicle and places your bag inside the backseat. He watches you walk around the car, about to go to the passenger’s side, but then you wobble a bit and his attempt to get inside is instantly forgotten.

“Hey,” he strides to where you are, gazing at you as you now hold onto the hood, “you alright?”

You raise your chin up. “Kook, can you get my bag?”

Jungkook doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s swinging the door again and getting your bag from the other end of the backseat while you get on the passenger’s seat, keeping the door wide and placing your legs outside, your feet planted on the concrete.

“What do you need?” he asks, crouching in front of you and zipping the bag open.

“Glucometer.”

He halts. “What does that look like?”

“It’s in the yellow bag. There.” You point at it right when he rummages through a certain part.

He brings it out and you take it from his grasp. Your movements are sluggish but he can discern that you’re doing your best not to be too slow; he’d present to help but he knows that he might prolong what you’re doing due to his cluelessness, so he just observes, noting how you’re pricking your finger with a device and then pressing it lightly to the glucometer which shows that your blood sugar is low.

“Apple juice,” you mutter to him and he finds it faster than the last one.

You grab the juice pouch from his grasp, prying the straw attached on the back, pushing its end for it to pop out of its plastic cover—then your hand shakes, preventing you from continuing and punching in the straw properly.

“Let me do it,” he says.

You don’t fight him, you just slump against the seat as Jungkook picks up from where you left, and the moment he does the job and guides the straw to your awaiting lips, a long exhale through your nose escapes you.

“How are you feeling?” he whispers. He didn’t notice that he was holding his breath the entire duration of the scene.

Another sigh. “Better.”

“Does this happen a lot?”

You seem to hesitate. “Not a lot. Just when life gets a bit too hectic.”

“____—”

“Just take me home.” You don’t give him the chance to lecture you. “Please, Jungkook.”

Defeated, he nods. “Alright.”

“Thank you.”

He helps you position yourself properly on the passenger’s seat. “But we’re talking about this at your place.”

Before you can protest, he closes the door.

****

Lee Hyunwoo was the name of the guy that you brought home for Christmas Eve eight years ago. It was the first time that you did, and Jungkook hated how Hyunwoo was considerably handsome, intelligent, and kind—the exact kind of person he always imagined you deserved.

In the short time Hyunwoo spent with theirs and your family that night, everybody loved him and was already inviting him to the next gathering, all the while Jungkook avoided him at every cost, puzzled by this strong dislike he was feeling for your guest. He was annoyed at the manner in which Hyunwoo had an arm around your waist the entire evening, how you grinned up to him, eyes sparkling and all that shit. Hell, you used to look at him like that.

“Honey, can you get the mango float we have in our freezer?” Jungkook heard your mother tell you, and without thinking, he stood up from his chair and made a beeline to where you were, telling you he’d accompany you to your house.

“That’s fine,” you told him. “It’s literally next door.”

“Yeah, but it might be heavy.”

“It’s not.”

“Better safe than sorry.”

You rolled your eyes and agreed then, excusing yourself from Hyunwoo who was in an engaged conversation with Seowon. The pair were geeking out because of their mutual love for the MCU and the next film slated to be released the following year.

Upon arriving at your home, you dashed to the kitchen with Jungkook trudging behind you. He wasn’t sure what his next course of action should be now; all he wanted was some alone time with you, away from the presence of that college boyfriend of yours, but now that he had that, he couldn’t think of anything that he wanted to say or do. He wasn’t even sure why he was feeling a bit jealous—was it because of that saying? Wherein people are bound to want what they can’t have? Or was it that you only appreciate what you had when you’ve already lost it?

“How long have you and Hyunwoo been dating?” he asked, leaning against the counter as you pulled your freezer open.

“Four months, I think.”

“Four months? And you already brought him home?”

You snorted at his tone. “His family is in another country so I thought it’d be nice to invite him.”

“You must really like him then.”

“Yeah, but I’m not in love with him or anything.” You placed the mango float on the space beside Jungkook on the counter. “He’s nice, and he likes me too.”

“Does he treat you well?”

You flashed your eyes at him, amusement dancing in them. “What’s with that question?”

“What’s with it?”

“Nothing, it’s just that…” you trailed, a smirk etched on your face. “Wait a minute, are you… you can’t possibly—” Jungkook was widening his eyes, ready to deny your accusation once you questioned whether he was jealous of Hyunwoo or not— “are you pulling an overprotective brother skit on me, Kook?”

Fuck, thank God, he thought.

“I prefer ‘overprotective friend skit’,” he said.

“That doesn’t have a nice ring to it.”

“But I’m not your brother.”

“You don’t have to be, I’m just saying that you and Seowon have been acting similar since Hyunwoo and I arrived.”

“Nonsense. Seowon likes him.”

“Oh, so you don’t?”

He pressed his lips into a tight line.

“Did you just admit that you don’t like Hyunwoo?” you asked, chuckling. He was grateful that you didn’t seem to be offended by it.

“I didn’t say I didn’t like him.”

“Instead you implied it.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You kinda did.”

He heard you laugh and he couldn’t help but allow himself to laugh as well.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “Maybe I’m just not used to you dating anyone. You are chronically single.”

“Can’t say you’re wrong.” You snorted and picked up from the mango float, marching back to his house and gesturing for him to follow you.

He did, no words spoken between the both of you once more. Though when you were entering their place again, with Jungkook holding the door open for you, he mentioned something he never reckoned he’d have the guts to mention out loud.

“When you open my gift,” he began, “don’t do it in front of Hyunwoo, okay?”

“Why not?” You weren’t paying attention to where you were going, intrigued by his warning.

“He might not like it. You’ll see.”

That night, at the comfort of your bedroom, Hyunwoo nowhere near but instead sleeping at the coach downstairs in your living room, you opened Jungkook’s gift and saw that it was a necklace with your birth flower as its pendant.

You smiled, rolling your eyes to yourself, and slept with that giddy look never leaving your face.

****

“Not so fast,” Jungkook grunts.

Did he think that you were going to be less difficult since he was helpful earlier? Yeah, he did. He likes to think that if it wasn’t for him, you would have taken longer in feeding yourself with apple juice, so he at least wanted a thank you in the form of your willingness to have an adult conversation with him tonight. However, that clearly isn’t the case because when he walked you up to your apartment like he always did, you’re attempting to lock him out, shutting the door as fast as you can once you’re inside, thus trying to prevent him from initiating that talk he wanted the two of you to have.

“Seriously?” He successfully pries the door open and you scowl at him.

“Jungkook—”

“No, you don’t get to reason your way out of this. I’m done hearing you out. It’s your turn to listen to me.” He steps inside your apartment.

You groan, striding to the sofa and throwing your bag there. “You can’t force me to marry you.”

“Is marrying me so fucking bad that you can’t get over it for health insurance benefits that can really help you?” He demands, infuriated.

“That’s not the issue.”

“Then what is?”

“You can get arrested!” you exclaim. “And so can I! Does that not freak you out?”

“We’ll only get arrested if we get caught.”

“I’m not willing to take the risk.”

“I’m not willing to see you die.”

You scoff out a laugh. “Who the fuck said anything about dying? I’m not dying.”

“You almost passed out on me. You almost—”

“It’s an error on my part, I admit.” You sigh. “When I get busy and preoccupied, sometimes I forget to check my sugar levels regularly throughout the day. I’m sorry.”

“And you expect to be convinced that you have everything handled?”

“God, I’m not a child. Stop treating me like I can’t do shit for myself.”

“Please, ___,” he approaches you with the most pleading expression he can muster, and he watches as your hard expression crumbles, “just accept my help. It’s really not a big deal—you won’t even see me often, so keeping up with the whole marriage ploy wouldn’t be difficult. We’ll divorce in two years, we can pretend we never got married after that.”

“You just don’t get it, don’t you?”

“What do I not get? If you think I don’t understand something, then explain it to me—”

“I can’t marry you,” you say. You do so like it’s final, like there’s no point in arguing with you because he can never change your stand on this. As he’s pleading with his eyes to urge you to agree, you’re communicating with your eyes in a similar way that’s wishing he would just drop this. “It’s wrong.”

His eyebrows furrow. “This isn’t the time to go on your high horse and decide what’s wrong and what’s not. It’s a fraudulent marriage—of course, it’ll be wrong to some degree.”

“No, I mean…” You turn away from him, rubbing your face in exhaustion. “It’d be wrong of me to marry you. I’m taking advantage of you if I do, and I don’t like that.”

Jungkook shakes his head, frustration worsening at the childlike excuse. Surely, you weren’t that naive, were you? “You’re not. I’m not doing this against my own will. Besides, we get extra pay just for being married. If it makes you feel better, I won’t split it with you.”

“That won’t make me feel better.”

“Then what will?”

You flop down on the coach and lean back, closing your eyes. He knows he’s being a pain in the ass but he can’t just stand here and do nothing. He thinks he’s already come too far in convincing you, he isn’t going to back out now. Every single day spent together, he can feel you warming up to the idea of marrying him for health insurance. Your connection and entirety of your relationship has been off the charts recently that it’ll be harder for him not to be assured that before he leaves for his job, you’ll be taken care off.

Jungkook goes to the spot beside you, sitting down. Your knees bump together, he keeps on gazing at you, waiting for you to focus on him; a minute passes and his gaze moves to your hand that’s laying on the small space between you.

Without overthinking, he stretches out and clasps it, allowing his fingers to play with yours that finally captures your attention. The moment he glances up, he sees that you’re staring at him and he doesn’t let go, he even smiles, a quiet promise that he’s always willing to listen to whatever you want to tell him.

You hesitantly smile back. “You know,” your eyes train back to your intertwined fingers, Jungkook reveling in the warmth of your skin, gaining more confidence in acting out his feelings, “there was a time wherein I would have said yes immediately if you asked me to marry you.”

He smirks, can’t deny how hearing that inflates his ego a bit although this route in the conversation isn’t where he expected to go. “What changed?”

“For one, I grew up.”

“Ouch.”

You laugh. Then you stay quiet for a while before speaking. “Can I confess something?”

That piques his interest. “Anything.”

“But you have to promise not to make fun of me.”

“That’s impossible.” He teases. “What is it?”

You stall, readjusting your position so that you can directly face him. Jungkook doesn’t let go of your hand, he keeps it in his grasp, his thumb rubbing along the expanse of your knuckles.

“I like you, Jungkook. I really really do,” you finally say and he blinks, startled.

It shouldn’t surprise him, considering that it’s been long established that he knew of your crush already, though he doesn’t seem to have anticipated for you to boldly admit it when all these years, it’s only been some kind of unspoken understanding that neither of you downright acknowledged.

You continue speaking. “In fact, I like you so much that maybe it developed into love at some point—I’m not sure. I’m at this stage of no longer being afraid of what I feel, I think? Most of the time, I just let it occur like it’s something so natural. Like it’s a feeling that I can never get away from? Like whatever I do, there’s no way to shake you.” You chuckle half-heartedly. “Though never in a million years would I have thought that I’d confess all of this. What for anyway? I don’t want you to be burdened with what my teenage heart couldn’t rub out.”

His mind is racing; hundred thoughts, hundred scenarios, hundred experiences he’s spent with you since the day you met. Jungkook never realized how much he needed you to say that you liked him—that maybe you even loved him—until he heard it from your very mouth that you did, causing every inhibition and doubt he had to vanish. Now, he only wants to engulf you in an embrace and shout Yes, I feel the same way! Sorry for being a fucking corward and not doing this first!

He would have done all of that in a flash if it didn’t appear that you still had something to say. Based on your rather constipated posture and the hand he’s holding that’s becoming clammy, he discerns that you’re just in the first part of what you wanted to admit.

“Actually, that’s also why I can’t let myself marry you,” you say. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but I don’t know… it feels really icky somehow. I feel like I’m holding you hostage, or that I’m tricking you because of an ulterior motive, or that I’m defying the laws of the universe by having the chance to marry you. I’m not sure. I just know that I don’t want to marry you if it means I’ll only get to do so because you think you’re doing me a huge favor. I don’t want to be your charity case, Kook—I deserve to be more than that, you know? I’m not traditional or whatever but if it’s not for love, I’m not keen on getting married.” You abruptly pull away from his clutch, embarrassment washing on your features by what you stated. “Plus, two years might not be that long but what happens when you meet someone and you like her? How can you explain that you’re only married to me because I need it for my medication? It’ll just be unnecessarily messy. I don’t want to hold you back from those kinds of things. I don’t want to be a hindrance.”

That’s his cue. That’s when he knows he’s supposed to kiss you and take your breath away, to admit that he’s certain that he has loved you since that one time when he was in the Naval Academy and although the training was hard as fuck, the thought of you gave him strength and he didn’t want to see anyone as much as he wanted to see you after—that when you and Seowon visited him, that familiar urge to have you alone was all he felt the entire time, solidifying the idea that perhaps he didn’t just see you as a friend.

“You’re unbelievably dense, ___,” he murmurs, smirking at the play of events, and you glance at him, expression showing disbelief that he’s somehow treating this matter lightly.

“What?”

“Do you honestly think I go around and offer marriage to every woman out there who can benefit from being a military spouse? Do you think I’m that generous? I’m not. I wouldn’t ask anyone to marry me for the same reason if they weren’t important to me—or if I didn’t like them. I’m not that much of a saint,” he adds. “I mean, I’m taking a two-week break to convince you to marry me. I’m spending time with you every single day. I’m driving for almost an hour and a half, enduring the traffic to get from my apartment to the university you work in to do that—and you think this is because I want to be charitable?”

Silence. Your forehead wrinkles. He thinks you’re still not getting the point.

“I’m in love with you, ____,” Jungkook says.

Your breath hitches in your throat. You’re opening your mouth, then closing it, then opening it again, then pressing it into a thin line. He thinks you look cute, being taken aback like this, and he’s wishing that he’s done this sooner so that the last five days of him chasing you around like a lost puppy was spent with talking more about what’s possibly waiting for yours and his relationship next.

“Are you serious?” you ask after what seems like forever. “Or are you just saying that because you’re that desperate to have me on board with the whole fraudulent marriage thing?”

“God—” He’s inching closer to you now, laughing, watching your lips twitch at his reaction— “I’m convinced that you were born into this earth to drive me fucking crazy.”

And just like that, he no longer restrains himself from kissing you.

It takes you a few good seconds before you will yourself to move. You can’t seem to process the reality of Jungkook admitting that he was in love with you and then taking the liberty to plant his lips on yours. You’re not complaining, of course, but you are a bit overwhelmed that it literally makes you freeze, unaware of what you’re supposed to do now that your fantasies are coming into life.

However, once you feel him angle his head to the side, doing so to deepen the kiss, your reflexes kick in and you’re kissing him back, encircling your arms around his neck and leaning towards him, Jungkook sighing in what appears to be relief. He grips your hips to support you as you try to straddle him, but your movements are so clumsy that you end up sprawling against his chest instead, perched on a leg of his that provides pleasure on the spot you need him the most. He chuckles at your lack of gracefulness, gliding his lips to your cheek and down to your jaw, nipping.

“This okay?” he whispers with a palm drifting to your bottom.

You nod and Jungkook’s mouth is back on yours in an instant. He squeezes your ass, takes his time in fondling with it, cheekily slapping whenever you get brave yourself and push your tongue past his lips, before he skims his hand lower to your thigh and signals for you to mount him. Upon being properly sat on his lap, you get an immediate feel of his hard length through his jeans, prompting your imagination to run wild and induce the filthiest things he can do to you if neither of you stops.

“Holy shit,” he curses, your kisses roaming to the base of his throat where you lap and suck.

It becomes a dirty pattern for a while. The both of you will take a brief pause from making out to remove a piece of clothing or kiss every other exposed skin there is: the cheek, the jaw, the neck, the collarbones, the shoulders. Then one of you hauls the other back for another passionate kiss, hands skating everywhere on your bodies, sounds of arousal echoing inside the room; you’re starting to get lightheaded but you’re positive it’s not because of your sugar levels running low.

“I hate that it took us so long to get to this point,” he mutters.

You grin. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I’m the man—I should have confessed long ago.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I don’t know. ‘Was afraid to lose you, I guess.” He draws his head back and admires your blissed out expression. “But then when Seowon told me you had diabetes, I panicked and thought that I might lose you either way.”

You go back to making out, Jungkook guiding your hips in grinding on his clothed length. It’s addictive—the intimate feel of him, how he’s not shy in making sure you know how much he’s craving to be as close to you as you are to him. You think you can spend the whole night just doing this and be okay with it.

“Fuck, Kook,” you groan against his mouth, a hand descending to his stomach and to his manhood, “you’re so… so fuckin’ hard.”

You’re palming him now, tracing the erection evident under his boxers.

He lets out a grunt. “Yeah, baby, I know.”

“Do you… do you want me—” You’re breathless, not able to continue whatever it is that you want to say.

He understands you just fine though. “No.” He shakes his head. “Don’t do anything.”

You’re not sure what Jungkook means by that. How are you supposed to do nothing when you want to do everything to him? You soon comprehend what he means when he guides you to lay down on the sofa, when his lips skim lower and lower, passing your breasts, giving them the attention they deserve, until he goes lower than that and discards your underwear, kissing you in between your legs.

It’s like he’s releasing all the pent up emotions he’s been keeping all these years. His tongue and fingers are relentless, his voice is telling you that he’s eager to coax an orgasm out of you, and as he lifts himself up to return to his previous position, face hovering yours, you’re positive that he’ll get everything he wants because without a doubt you’ll give him everything he wants from you too. Hell, if he uses this opportunity to ask you to marry him again, you might answer yes straight away, no longer bearing in mind the worries you expressed to him earlier.

Although did that even matter anymore? Jungkook said he loved you. He said you drove him crazy. You never thought you’d come to see the day he’d utter those words but here you are. The man of your dreams is kissing you, pleasing you, and looking damn enthusiastic as he does all of that.

“Last chance to stop me,” Jungkook teases. His eyes are glassy and you can feel his cock nudging on your thigh.

You giggle, bringing his head closer to press another long kiss on those pink and plump lips of his. “Please never stop.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“I’m going to take you up on that.”

“Please do.”

After this night, you’re certain that you’ll never allow yourself to be with another man aside from Jungkook. At the back of your head, you always thought that you were his, regardless if that wasn’t true or that there was no real relationship to prove that—however, at this moment, as he thrusts in and out languidly, you unquestionably know that you are. You belong to him now and he belongs to you; he lets you know through his love-filled gaze, his passionate kisses, and the manner wherein he moans your name.

“I love you,” he says, like he’s still in deep longing for your touch and affection.

You hum, tangling your fingers through the strands of his hair. “I love you, Kook.” You stare at his eyes. “I can’t remember a time I didn’t.”

A boyish grin erupts on his features.

Time passes by quickly. In a few more of his kisses, of the intoxicating slam of his hips, of his seductive whimpers, you’re coming beneath him, Jungkook pulling out and jerking his length until he too comes, his seed landing on the base of your tummy. You have the nerve to giggle at that, grinning at him with low-lidded eyes, and Jungkook hastily wipes his cum off your skin, attacking you with another passionate kiss that leaves you breathless.

“There’s no way you’re not marrying me after this,” he murmurs.

You teasingly graze your teeth on his bottom lip. “I’ll think about it.”

He groans. “Don’t think about it. Just say yes.”

“At least let me sleep on it, Kook.”

“Fuck—fine.” He grabs your sides and pulls you flush against his body. “Guess I’ll have to keep on convincing you until you agree.”

****

“God, why is this so difficult?” Jungkook whines, keeping you in his embrace, head tucked between your cheek and shoulder.

The air is very humid and Jungkook’s in his naval aviator uniform, which doesn’t look cool in a sense that air is properly flowing through the material. He doesn’t care though, doesn’t care that it’s sticking to his skin as he refuses to let you go, not even when you complain playfully.

“Kook, I’m fucking sweaty.”

“I don’t care.”

You laugh.

He’s leaving to return to his duty and you’re here with him outside the base before he enters, being with him until the last possible minute because that’s how much of a good wife you are.

Yes, you and Jungkook did get married. Three days ago in fact, at the city hall’s courtroom. Neither of you invited your parents; they didn’t know about the occasion and you refused to tell them, afraid that they may be critical about yours and his choices when they discover the true reason why you’re rushing to be wed. The only people that remained to be aware of it was Seowon and his girlfriend, Winnie, who served as the witnesses, which was fine by you. In your understanding, this was just for the papers and your health, and not the real deal yet to be celebrated lavishly.

“I’ll propose to you again after a couple of years,” Jungkook promised after the ceremony. “Let’s renew our vows and I’ll give you an amazing wedding.”

You would have told him that there was no need, but who were you kidding? You did want a proper wedding with Jungkook. The previous week didn’t even feel like you were newlyweds. Yes, the both of you compacted all of the dates you could have if one of you weren’t such a chicken in five days, and yes, though the honeymoon stage was experienced and practiced—it was only because you were a new couple who after years of hiding their feelings for one another, was now finally free to express it as much as they desired.

“Call me everyday?” you ask when he finally pulls back, Jungkook pecking your lips one more time.

“Definitely.” He smiles. “Visit me whenever possible?”

“Of course.” You kiss him too.

His smile transforms into a grin. “Take care of yourself, alright? Keep me updated all the time. No sugarcoating allowed.”

“Yes, Lieutenant.”

Rolling his eyes, he gives you another kiss and engulfs you in a tight hug, lifting you off the ground that causes you to giggle.

“Okay, pack it up, love birds!” Seowon shouts.

The two of you turn to your brother who’s leaning on his car, the vehicle that was used to transport the three of you today. You’re still in the middle of moving your belongings at Jungkook’s place and Seowon was kind enough to volunteer helping, always dubious that you could do stuff on your own. Despite your reluctance, you let him assist you, mostly because you’re trying to make a conscious effort in not upsetting him again.

Let’s just say that when the judge hailed you husband and wife at the civil wedding, Seowon wasn’t thrilled to see that the kiss shared between you and Jungkook wasn’t as fake as the supposed sham marriage, leading him to the conclusion that in the middle of Jungkook’s ruse of convincing you to be his wife, something must have happened that led to your approval and that rather 18+ rated kiss. Mostly though, he’s just offended that neither of you thought of telling him that you were an official couple before the wedding.

Jungkook unwillingly places you down.

“I think I need to go,” you say.

He nods with a sigh. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too.”

“Call you tomorrow?”

“Yes.” You affectionately caress his cheek, bringing his face down for the very very very last kiss.

He leans into it. “Fuck, I don’t want to leave.”

“Seriously—hurry up!” Seowon shouts and you pull back.

“I will kill him,” you tell Jungkook.

“He’s your brother,” he says. “And now, my brother-in-law, so I can’t let you do that.”

“That might be your very first red flag, Jungkook, insinuating that you’re choosing my brother over me.” You cross your arms. “Tell me, if the both of us were drowning, would you save me or Seowon?”

“You,” he answers without missing a beat.

You narrow your eyes. “Is that the truth?”

“Of course. Seowon would probably undrown himself anyway and you’re shit at swimming. It’s an easy choice.”

You punch him hard on the shoulder and he feigns hurt, snickering. “For the record, I don’t think anyone can ‘undrown’ themselves—but fine, you pass the test.”

Jungkook faces Seowon’s direction and does a final salute, your brother returning it swiftly, and just like that, you and him share your last farewells. You watch as he goes through the entrance of the base and sends you a wave of goodbye; you weakly copy the gesture and stand there for a few seconds, just watching him fade from your view the further he trudges inside. You don’t think saying goodbye to him ever felt this heavy, and you blame it on the fact that after all this is the first time you’re saying goodbye to him with the assurance that he loves you too—and that alone weighs millions.

You spin on your heel and go to Seowon who’s already in the driver’s seat. As soon as you get in and wear your seat belt, he’s giving you a dirty look.

“What?” you ask.

“Please never do that in front of me again.”

His statement makes you smirk. “Why? Didn’t you want this?”

“Want what?”

“Me and Jungkook to be together.”

“When on earth did I say that?”

“You previously admitted that you were lowkey playing cupid by suggesting that Jungkook marry me for health insurance.”

A short pause. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I have to watch you two reenact a porno every fucking time.”

“We’re not—”

“You are. Don’t deny it.” He grumbles. “God, every time I see you two, it’s like I’m Ross from that one Friends episode where he accidentally sees Monica and Chandler doing it from the window of his apartment.”

“Yeah, I remember that.” You laugh. “In my defense, you haven’t seen me and Jungkook actually do the deed so—”

“Wait, so the two of you have?”

Your expression drops. His tone is approaching older brother protectiveness territory and you’re quick to attempt diffusing the situation. “I will not dive into that. All I’m going to say is that I’m a grown adult and so is Jungkook.”

He grimaces before starting the engine. “Yeah, never dive into that. I don’t need to hear the details.”

You share a laugh and then silence fills the car.

You press your lips together, looking at him while he backs out from the parking spot. “Hey, thanks, by the way. For driving today, and for offering to help me later, and maybe for also never minding your own business.”

You recall how Seowon was the one who couldn’t stop worrying about you and finding a solution when you told your family that you had type 1 diabetes. Your parents were concerned, they pestered you for months to force you to accept financial assistance from them, but they gave up soon after. Seowon though? He never did. He persisted through every outburst you had; he tolerated your bitchiness and your dirty looks all the time. Out of everyone in your life, you always felt like regardless of how stubborn and prideful you could be, Seowon was worse—in the best way possible.

A crooked smile illuminates his face. “You’re my kid sister. It’s my job to never let you experience peace in your whole life.”

You scoff. “Well, you’re damn great at what you do.”

When you reach Jungkook’s apartment, unloading the boxes and arranging your stuff to its designated places, your heart swells in happiness as the reality sinks in that your life is heading in the right direction after months of feeling hopeless. It drives you to be more thankful to the little things, to the people who were always by your side, to your previous circumstance that although wasn’t ideal was still manageable. A lot don’t get to have that kind of privilege and you promise yourself that you’ll make an effort to find more things to be grateful about from this day forward.

“Oh, I forgot to mention,” Seowon approaches in the middle of you arranging your books on Jungkook’s near to empty shelf, “Winnie wanted to give you this. She would have handed it over herself but she’s going to be busy for the next few days.”

You take the frame from his hand and see that it’s the picture Winnie took of you and Jungkook after the ceremony. It’s in the restaurant that you ate at to celebrate the civil wedding. Jungkook was grinning at you with an arm around on the backrest of your chair, you were leaning towards him, smiling at the camera—and the absolute selling point of why this was the best picture ever taken was because of how cake icing was scattered on your faces, places on spots in an artistic manner like it was planted there on purpose for the picture and not because the both of you were being silly that instance.

You think it showcases your relationship with Jungkook marvelously. It’s playful, it’s sweet, and most of all, it demonstrates how you two are clearly great friends.

“This is so beautiful, Seowon,” you say.

You immediately send Winnie a heartfelt thank you message for the gift and continue to take a photo of the frame, sending it to Jungkook as well.

Once you hit send, you type out a message to accompany it.

You: look how cute we look 🥹

You’re certain it’ll take hours before he replies so you keep your phone again, going back to staring at the picture which is now placed on one of the shelves. It’s the sole picture frame you have with Jungkook. In fact, it’s the only picture that Jungkook has in his apartment, and you like to think that this might be the mark of the new beginning you’ll have with him. Even though your relationship wouldn’t be traditionally explored given his occupation and how he’s most likely going to be away a lot, you don’t mind.

If there’s one thing you really believe in, it’s that waiting for Jungkook—whether consciously or unconsciously—always brings out the best outcomes.

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mesopotamism · 3 days ago

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EXCUSE ME MR. HWANG HYUNJIN!??

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mesopotamism · 4 days ago

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Before the World Knew

Part 1

Yoo Jimin (Karina) x male reader

word count: 20K

The automatic glass doors hiss shut behind you, sealing you back into the humid chaos of a Seoul afternoon. You shove your hands deep into your pockets, shoulders slumped, the stiff collar of the button-down you wore specifically for this interview suddenly feeling like a noose. "Nailed it", you think. Yeah, right.

Nailed it like a coffin lid.

That interview was a fucking train wreck. Stuttering over standard questions, sweating through your shirt despite the blasting AC, pretty sure you called the interviewer by the wrong name at least once. You can practically feel the rejection email drafting itself in their system right now. Landing a decent PR job in this city is proving harder than cracking Fort Knox with a toothpick. You thought graduating with a Public Relations degree, even from a university abroad, would give you some kind of edge. Turns out, it just makes you another drop in an ocean teeming with overqualified, hyper-competitive graduates who probably know the right people (something you definitely lack).

It's been a few weeks since you touched down at Incheon, hauling two overweight suitcases and a boatload of naive optimism. Seoul. The big leagues. You figured, new city, new start, maybe finally shake off that aimless post-college dread. You found a shoebox apartment that costs a criminal amount of money and have been pounding the pavement, digitally and literally, trying to find something, anything, that doesn’t involve fetching coffee or making copies for peanuts. So far? Nothing. Zip. Zilch. Just a growing pile of polite "we'll keep your resume on file" emails and the soul-crushing realization that your savings account is evaporating faster than puddle water in August.

Only a divine miracle would be able to make you feel anything remotely close to happiness now.

You sigh, kicking at a loose pebble on the sidewalk. The city rushes around you, a blur of impeccably dressed office workers, delivery scooters weaving through traffic like suicidal insects, the distant thrum of k-pop blasting from a storefront. It’s overwhelming, vibrant, and right now, utterly indifferent to your dwindling prospects. You just want a decent meal and maybe to wallow in front of Netflix for twelve hours straight.

Lost in your pity party, you don't see the person turning the corner until it's too late. Thump. You stumble back, colliding shoulders hard enough to knock the phone clean out of their hand. It clatters onto the pavement with a sickening plastic crack.

"Oh, shit! Sorry, my bad!" you blurt out, scrambling to pick it up, praying the screen isn't spiderwebbed. You snatch the phone (miraculously intact) and look up to hand it back, apology ready on your lips.

And then your brain just… stops.

Everything stops. The noise of the city, the frantic rush, the self-pity spiral: it all evaporates. Because the person standing in front of you, rubbing their shoulder with a slight wince, eyes wide behind a pair of large, stylish sunglasses… No. It can't be.

She’s smaller than you remember, but the face… fuck, that face. The perfect, almost unreal symmetry, the sharp jawline softened by full cheeks, the distinctive curve of her lips, currently pressed into a thin line of surprise. Even with the sunglasses and a simple baseball cap pulled low, obscuring most of her hair, it's undeniably her. Years have passed, sure. She’s changed. She’s… Karina now, a name screamed by millions, plastered on billboards, dominating charts. But beneath the idol gloss, beneath the global fame, it’s still her.

It's still Jimin. Yoo Jimin. Your childhood best friend. The girl you haven't spoken to since she vanished into the K-Pop trainee vortex years ago.

She takes the phone, her fingers brushing yours for a split second, sending a jolt up your arm that has nothing to do with static electricity. Her gaze flicks up, meeting yours through the dark lenses. You see confusion flicker there, then a dawning recognition that mirrors your own shock.

Her lips part slightly. “No way…”

Her voice. It’s softer than you remember, maybe a bit huskier, but it’s still Jimin’s voice. Hearing her say your name after all this time feels like being struck by lightning. You just stare, dumbfounded, unable to form a coherent thought.

She pushes her sunglasses up onto her head, revealing those large, dark eyes you used to get lost in during boring classes back home. They widen further as she really looks at you.

“Holy shit, it is you! Oh my god! What the hell are you doing here?”

The sheer, unadulterated surprise in her voice snaps you back to reality. You manage a shaky laugh, running a hand through your hair. “Jimin? Wow. Uh, hi.” Eloquent, very eloquent.

She laughs, a bright, musical sound that cuts through the city noise. It’s the same laugh you remember, the one that always made your stomach do stupid flips. “Hi? That’s all you’ve got after, what, six years? Seven?”

“Something like that,” you say, still reeling. “Damn. You, uh… you look…” Famous? Untouchable? Like a goddess who accidentally stumbled onto a mortal sidewalk? “…different.” Lame. You mentally kick yourself.

Jimin grins, the expression lighting up her whole face. It’s that specific grin, the one that crinkles the corners of her eyes. God, you missed that. “Yeah, well, a few things have happened since middle school.” She gestures vaguely, a hint of playful understatement in her tone.

“Yeah, no kidding,” you say, finally finding your footing. “Saw you… everywhere, basically. Aespa, huh? That’s insane, Jimin. Congratulations.”

Her smile softens slightly at the use of her real name. “Thanks. It’s… been wild.” She glances around quickly, lowering her voice a fraction. “But seriously, what are you doing in Seoul? Last I heard, you were going to college somewhere overseas?”

“Yeah, I was,” you explain, stuffing your hands back in your pockets. “Finished up my PR degree a few months back. Moved here a few weeks ago to, you know, try and find a job. Join the rat race.” You grimace, thinking of the disastrous interview. “Not going great so far, but hey, Seoul’s cool.”

Her eyes light up, genuine happiness flashing across her features. “You live here now? That’s amazing! Oh my god, I can’t believe it!” She bounces slightly on the balls of her feet, looking genuinely thrilled. The reaction warms something inside you that the job rejection had chilled.

“Yeah, it’s… definitely a change of pace,” you admit. It hits you again: you’re standing on a random street corner, catching up with Karina from Aespa. One of the biggest names in K-Pop. Your childhood friend, the one who disappeared into SM Entertainment and became someone else entirely. What are the actual, statistical chances of this happening? It feels like the universe is fucking with you, dangling a piece of your past right in front of your face when you least expect it. Fate? Maybe. Or just Seoul being a surprisingly small world sometimes.

“We have to catch up properly,” Jimin says immediately, her excitement palpable. “Like, actually talk. Are you busy right now?”

You glance down at your slightly rumpled interview clothes. “Uh, not exactly. Just finished bombing a job interview, so my schedule’s wide open for existential dread and instant noodles.”

She winces sympathetically, then pulls out her phone again (the one you nearly shattered). “Okay, first, give me your number. Is it still the same old one?” You rattle off your new Korean number, and she quickly taps it in, sending you a test message immediately. Your phone buzzes in your pocket.

It’s really you!!!

You look up, grinning. “Got it.”

“Good.” She slides her phone away, pulling her cap down a bit lower. “Look, I’m kind of on my way to practice right now, but are you free later this week? Or maybe this weekend? We could grab coffee? Drinks? Food? Whatever works.”

Hanging out with Jimin again. After all these years. After… everything.

“Yeah,” you hear yourself say, maybe a little too quickly. “Yeah, definitely. Coffee sounds great. Or drinks. Whatever’s easier for you, I know you’re probably crazy busy.”

“Never too busy for you,” she says, and the way she smiles; warm, genuine, a flash of the girl you knew before the fame… makes your heart do that stupid flip again. “Seriously, text me when you’re free. We’ll figure it out. It’s… it’s really, really good to see you.”

“You too, Jimin,” you reply, meaning it more than you thought possible. “Like, really fucking good.”

She laughs again, shaking her head. “Okay, I actually have to run before my manager sends out a search party.” She steps back, adjusting her cap and sunglasses, the idol persona clicking back into place. But just before she turns away, her eyes meet yours one last time, and there’s a spark there; something familiar, something you both thought was long buried.

“Text me!” she calls over her shoulder, before disappearing into the flow of the crowd, leaving you standing there, blinking in the afternoon sun, wondering if any of that actually just happened.

—

The days following that almost-too-surreal-to-be-true bump-in on the street are a weird blur of text messages and tentative plans. You’re talking to Yoo Jimin. Karina. Actually talking. Not just a polite exchange, but actual back-and-forth, interspersed with smiley faces and those little KakaoTalk character reactions she always overused, even back then. You finally manage to nail down a time to meet properly, a casual stroll through one of Seoul’s sprawling, meticulously landscaped parks. Her idea. Probably safer for her, less chance of being mobbed.

You tell yourself the knot in your stomach is just… nerves. Normal, run-of-the-mill nerves. Anyone would be a little keyed up about meeting a global superstar, right? Especially one you used to share juice boxes and secrets with in your dorky pre-teen years. Yeah, that’s it. It’s the Karina factor. Definitely not the Jimin factor, not the sudden, unwelcome resurgence of that colossal, all-consuming crush you thought you’d successfully buried under six years of distance and a different continent.

Nope. Not at all.

But your brain, the traitorous bastard, keeps replaying flashes of the past. Jimin, with her scraped knees and fierce determination during school sports days. Jimin, laughing so hard milk nearly shot out her nose in the cafeteria. Jimin, biting her lip in concentration while trying to teach you a ridiculously complicated handshake. These images, once faded and dusty, are now vivid, almost painfully sharp, overlaid with the equally mind-boggling reality of who she is now. It’s a strange cocktail, this potent nostalgia mixed with the sheer absurdity of her current life. You feel like you’re about to meet two people at once: the girl next door and the untouchable idol.

—

You spot her near the park entrance, leaning against a cherry tree that’s probably in full, glorious bloom (though you barely register the flowers). She’s wearing a dress today, something new, light, and airy that dances around her knees when the breeze catches it. It's a soft, pastel color that makes her skin look even more luminous. Simple, yet on her, it looks like it walked straight off a runway. Her hair is down, long and dark, catching the sunlight. Even from a distance, she’s ridiculously, effortlessly beautiful.

“Hey,” you say, trying for casual, hoping your voice doesn’t crack.

She turns, and that smile (the one that could probably power a small city) spreads across her face. “Hey yourself! You found it okay?”

“Yeah, a park. Pretty hard to miss,” you joke, falling into step beside her as you start down a wide, tree-lined path. It’s surprisingly uncrowded for a weekend afternoon.

The conversation flows easier than you expected, or maybe feared. You start with the safe stuff: how crazy it is to see each other after so long, the "what are the odds" of it all. She’s a natural in front of a camera, even if it’s just her phone. Every few minutes, she’ll stop, pointing. “Ooh, here! The light’s perfect.” And you, feeling like an unqualified, suddenly very sweaty personal photographer, do your best to capture her. She poses with an easy grace, a slight tilt of her head, a playful smile, a candid laugh as a gust of wind messes with her hair. Each shot is stunning. She’s just…photogenic doesn’t even begin to cover it. She makes a random park bench look like a high-fashion editorial.

“So,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear after a particularly enthusiastic mini-photoshoot by a koi pond, “tell me everything. College overseas must have been wild. Did you turn into some party animal I wouldn’t recognize?”

You laugh. “Hardly. Mostly just late-night study sessions fueled by questionable instant ramen and an unhealthy amount of caffeine. PR’s no joke. But it was good. Different. What about you? From quiet Jimin who was scared of the dark to… well, Karina, leader of Aespa, breaking records and being the it girl of this generation. How does that even happen?”

She chuckles, a soft, genuine sound. “It’s… a lot. Still feels unreal sometimes. The training was brutal, no lie. There were days I wanted to quit, thought I wasn’t good enough.” Her voice drops a little, a hint of vulnerability seeping through. “But then… we debuted, and suddenly everything changed. The fans, the music, performing… it’s a different kind of magic, you know?”

You nod, trying to imagine it. The Jimin you knew was fiercely talented, Always singing and dancing at school talent shows, but this level of fame? It’s on another planet. “I can’t even picture it. Standing on those huge stages, millions of people screaming your name.”

“It’s terrifying and amazing all at once,” she admits. “But enough about me. What about your job hunt? Any better luck since… the sidewalk incident?” She grins, and you groan.

“Marginally. Had a couple more interviews. One was for a junior PR role at a gaming company, actually sounded pretty cool, but I think I fumbled the ‘what’s your five-year plan?’ question. Said something about ‘not starving’ which, in hindsight, maybe wasn’t the power move I thought it was.”

Jimin laughs, bumping your shoulder playfully. “Hey, honesty is a virtue. Besides, gaming PR? You’d be great at that. You practically lived in arcades back in the day.”

“True. But ‘great at Street Fighter’ doesn’t exactly scream ‘hire me’ on a resume.” You sigh. “It’s tough out here, man. Competition’s insane.”

She nods, her expression turning more serious. “How are you managing? Like, financially? Seoul’s not cheap.”

You shrug, trying to keep it light. “Oh, you know. Freelance gigs here and there. Been doing some weekend shifts at a department store in Myeongdong, in the electronics section. Surprisingly good for people-watching. And it pays the bills. Barely.” You force a smile. “It’s fine. Temporary. Just until something in PR lands.”

Jimin stops walking, turning to face you properly. She’s biting her lip, a thoughtful expression in her eyes. “Send me your resume.”

“What?”

“Your resume,” she repeats, more firmly this time. “And your portfolio, if you have one. Anything that shows off your PR skills. I’ll send it to the team at SM.”

You can’t help it; a laugh bursts out of you, loud and incredulous. “Jimin, no. Come on.” You even raise your hands in a placating gesture. “I appreciate it, seriously, that’s incredibly sweet of you, but… SM Entertainment? They’re not going to hire some random, inexperienced guy who just rolled into the country. Especially not for their PR team. They probably have a waiting list a mile long of geniuses with connections.”

Her expression doesn’t waver. If anything, it becomes more determined. “Don’t doubt me. And don’t doubt yourself. You’re smart, you’re good with people, you get how things work. Just send it to me. What’s the worst that can happen? They say no? Big deal. You’re already getting that.”

There’s a conviction in her voice that’s hard to argue with, even though every rational part of your brain is screaming that this is a pipe dream. “I… I don’t want you to go out on a limb for me, Jimin. Especially if it’s for nothing.”

“It’s not for nothing if I believe in you, is it?” she says softly, and damn her, that hits you right in the feelings. “Just promise me you’ll send it. Please?”

You let out a long breath, rubbing the back of your neck. She’s looking at you with that earnest, hopeful expression, and you know you’re going to cave. “Okay, okay. I promise. I’ll send it tonight.” You still think it’s a snowball’s chance in hell, but for her? You’ll try.

She beams, her good mood instantly restored. “Good! It would be so crazy if we ended up working at the same place, wouldn’t it? Like fate, again!”

“Yeah,” you agree, a small, hesitant smile on your own face. “Completely insane.” But the thought, as outlandish as it seems, sparks a tiny, traitorous flicker of hope. It’s nice, you realize, to have someone in your corner. Someone who, despite the years and the fame, still seems to genuinely care.

“Ice cream break?” she suggests, pointing towards a small vendor cart surrounded by happy kids. “My treat. To celebrate your future employment at SM.”

“Don’t jinx it,” you groan, but you’re already following her, the weight on your shoulders feeling a little lighter than it did before.

The ice cream is sweet, cold, and a welcome distraction. You talk about lighter things: terrible movies you’ve both seen, the weirdest food trends in Seoul, the time you both tried to dye your hair with Kool-Aid in eighth grade and ended up looking like deranged parrots. It’s easy, comfortable, like no time has passed at all.

As the sun begins to dip lower, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, you find yourselves back near the park entrance.

“This was… really great, Jimin,” you say, meaning it. “Thanks for today.”

“I had fun too,” she replies, her smile soft. “We definitely need to do this again. And sooner than another six years, okay?”

“Deal.”

She pulls out her phone. “Okay, one more photo. But this time, you have to be in it.”

You instinctively start to protest. “Oh, no, I’m good. I’ll just–”

“Nope! Non-negotiable,” she says, already switching to the front-facing camera. She grabs your arm, pulling you closer until your shoulders are pressed together. You’re acutely aware of her warmth, the faint scent of her perfume, the way her hair tickles your cheek. She holds the phone up, angling it for the perfect shot. “Okay, smile! Or… try not to look like you’re being held hostage.”

You manage a slightly stiff, awkward smile as she snaps a few pictures. She scrolls through them, a pleased expression on her face. “Cute! See? Not so bad.” She shows you one where you’re both actually smiling, the city lights just starting to twinkle in the background. It is cute. This crazy, unexpected reunion, now captured in a small digital frame.

She sends the photo to you, and as you look at it on your own screen, a feeling of… something warm, something hopeful, settles in your chest. Okay, maybe this move to Seoul wasn't a complete disaster after all. Maybe fate really does have a weird sense of humor. And maybe that spark you both felt isn't just a relic of the past.

—

You’re elbow-deep in a tangled mess of headphones and Bluetooth speakers at your soul-crushing electronics store job a few days later, trying to explain to a very persistent customer why his twenty-year-old MP3 player probably isn’t compatible with the latest Bose noise-cancelling monstrosities, when your phone buzzes in your pocket. You almost ignore it (probably another scam likely call) but the insistent vibration continues. Excusing yourself with a strained smile, you fish it out.

Unknown number.

You almost swipe it away, but something makes you answer. “Hello?”

A clear female voice speaks your name.

“Uh, yes, it’s me,” you reply, already bracing for a sales pitch.

“This is Kim Hana from SM Entertainment’s Human Resources department. We received your resume regarding a potential opening in our Artist Relations team, specifically working with Aespa. Are you available for an interview later this week?”

Your brain short-circuits. SM Entertainment? Aespa? You almost swallow your tongue. The headphones in your hand slip, clattering onto the counter. The customer gives you a weird look. You try to speak, but only a strangled squeak comes out. Clearing your throat violently, you manage, “Excuse me? SM… Entertainment?”

“Yes,” Ms. Kim says, her voice betraying no hint of surprise at your shock. “Yoo Jimin forwarded your details. She spoke very highly of you. We have an opening for a Junior PR and Communications liaison for Aespa’s team. It involves assisting with press releases, social media coordination, and general support for the group's public-facing activities. Would Thursday at 2 PM work for you?”

Yoo Jimin. Holy shit. She actually did it. Your head is spinning. This has to be a prank. But the voice on the other end sounds far too official, far too… SM.

“Uh, yes! Yes, Thursday at 2 PM is… perfect,” you stammer, your mind racing a mile a minute. Junior PR liaison. For aespa. Working with Jimin. This is insane.

“Excellent. We’ll send a confirmation email with the details and address. Please bring a physical copy of your resume. We look forward to meeting you.”

“Thank you! I mean, yes, looking forward to it too!”

The line clicks dead. You stare at your phone, then at the annoyed customer, then back at your phone. Your first instinct is to call Jimin. You dial her number before you even consciously decide to, heart hammering against your ribs.

She picks up on the third ring. “Hey! What’s up?” Her voice is bright, cheerful.

“Jimin! You… you actually sent my resume to SM?” you blurt out, pacing behind the counter.

She laughs, that easy, musical sound. “Of course, I did. I told you I would, didn’t I? So, did they call you?” There’s a playful, knowing tone in her voice. She knew.

“They just called! I have an interview on Thursday! For a PR liaison role with Aespa! Jimin, this is… I don’t even know what to say. Thank you isn’t enough.”

“Hey, no need to thank me,” she says, her voice warm. “You’re qualified. You just needed a foot in the door. Now go ace that interview. I know you can.”

“But… SM? And working with your team? That’s… that’s insane.”

“Is it?” she teases. “Or is it fate? Again?” You can practically hear her smiling. “Just be yourself. They’ll love you. And hey,” her voice drops a little, becoming softer, more personal, “it would be pretty cool to see you around the office.”

“Yeah,” you manage, your voice a little breathless. “Yeah, it really would.”

—

Two days later, you’re standing in front of the imposing SM Entertainment building, dressed in your only decent suit, clutching your resume like they’re religious relics. The place is even more intimidating from the inside. Sleek, modern, buzzing with an undercurrent of focused energy. You see trainees rushing by, staff members with headsets, snippets of music drifting from behind closed doors. It’s a whole other world.

The interview itself is a blur. You meet with Ms. Kim from HR and a stern-faced senior manager from the Artist Relations department. They grill you on your PR experience (minimal, aside from college projects), your knowledge of the K-Pop industry (decent, from a fan perspective), and your ability to handle pressure (questionable, judging by the sweat currently soaking your palms). You try your best, channeling every ounce of professionalism you can muster, talking about your degree, your adaptability, your passion for creative communication. You highlight your international college experience, hoping it sounds impressive. You don’t mention Jimin, not directly, but you talk about your admiration for Aespa’s innovative concepts and global appeal.

When it’s over, you’re convinced you’ve blown it. You thank them, shake their hands, and walk out feeling a familiar wave of disappointment. Well, at least you got to see the inside of SM. That’s something, right?

You’re about to head for the exit, already composing a ‘thanks anyway’ text to Jimin, when you spot her. She’s further down the hallway, talking to someone who looks like a choreographer, dressed in stylish dance practice gear. Your heart does a nervous leap. You almost don’t approach her, but then she turns, her eyes meeting yours. A bright smile instantly lights up her face.

“Hey! How did it go?” she asks, excusing herself from the choreographer and walking towards you.

You can’t help but smile back, despite the lingering anxiety. “Hey. It was… an experience.”

She tilts her head, searching your face. “That doesn’t sound too enthusiastic.”

You sigh. “Honestly, Jimin, I think I tanked it. I was a nervous wreck. Pretty sure I forgot my own name at one point.”

Jimin just laughs, lightly punching your arm. “Oh, stop it. I’m sure you were great.” Then, her eyes sparkling with mischief, she asks, “So, did they offer you the job on the spot? Did they weep with joy at finding such a PR prodigy?”

“Hardly. They said they’d be in touch. Which is corporate speak for ‘don’t call us, we’ll call you, and by ‘we’ll call you,’ we mean never.’”

Just as you say it, your phone buzzes. You glance down. It’s Ms. Kim from SM. Your blood runs cold. Jimin peers at your screen, her eyes widening. “Well? Answer it!”

With trembling fingers, you swipe to answer. “Hello?”

“Hello,” Ms. Kim’s voice says. “We were very impressed with your interview. The team feels your background and enthusiasm would be a great asset. We’d like to offer you the Junior PR and Communications Liaison position for Aespa. Congratulations.”

You actually sway on your feet. Jimin grabs your arm, her eyes wide and questioning. You just stare at her, speechless, a slow, disbelieving grin spreading across your face. You manage to stammer out a “Thank you, I accept!” to Ms. Kim, who tells you HR will be in touch with the contract and start date details.

As soon as you hang up, Jimin is practically bouncing. “You got it?! You actually got the job?!”

You nod, still in shock, then burst out laughing. “I got the job! Holy shit, Jimin, I actually got the job!”

“I told you!” she exclaims, throwing her arms around you in a spontaneous, ecstatic hug. You hug her back, lifting her off the ground slightly, both of you laughing like idiots in the middle of an SM Entertainment hallway. When you finally set her down, you look at her, your heart full. “Thank you, Jimin. Seriously. This… this is because of you. I owe you big time.”

She waves her hand dismissively, but her smile is radiant. “You owed me for that time I covered for you when you broke Mrs. Lee’s prize-winning bonsai tree in fifth grade. Now we’re even.” She winks. “Besides, it’s going to be awesome having you here. Just try not to be too starstruck all the time, okay?”

“No promises,” you say, still grinning like a fool. Working at SM. With Jimin. This is actually happening.

—

Your first day is a whirlwind. You’re officially part of Aespa’s core PR team. The office is a hive of activity, a stark contrast to the quiet desperation of your job hunt. You meet your direct supervisor, a sharp, no-nonsense woman named Ms. Park, who walks you through your responsibilities: drafting social media posts, liaising with journalists (under strict supervision, of course), helping coordinate schedules for interviews and appearances, and generally being an all-hands-on-deck support for the group’s public image. It’s a lot to take in, but it’s exciting. You’re actually doing PR, not just theorizing about it in a classroom. And the best part? Your desk is in the same wing as Aespa’s dedicated team rooms. You can hear snippets of their music, see them occasionally passing in the hallways. It’s surreal.

During a much-needed lunch break, you’re trying to decipher the SM cafeteria menu when Jimin appears at your elbow, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“Lost, newbie?” she teases.

“Completely,” you admit. “This place is a maze. And I think I accidentally ordered fermented skate for lunch.”

Jimin laughs, shaking her head. “Rookie mistake. Come on, I’ll show you the good stuff. And then there are some people I want you to meet.”

She leads you through the bustling cafeteria to a slightly quieter corner where three other girls are already seated, chatting animatedly. Your breath catches. Ningning. Giselle. Winter. The Aespa. In the flesh. Eating bibimbap.

Jimin grins, pulling you forward. “Girls, here he is. He’s the new PR liaison for our team. And also my super old, super dorky childhood friend.”

All three of them look up, their expressions ranging from curious to friendly.

Ningning, with bright, expressive eyes, offers a wide smile. “Oh, you’re the friend Jimin’s been talking about! Welcome to the chaos! I’m Ning Yizhuo.” Her energy is infectious.

Giselle, looking effortlessly chic even in casual clothes, gives you a cool, appraising nod. “Hey. Aeri Uchinaga. Or Giselle, whichever you prefer. Nice to finally meet you. Jimin’s been… enthusiastic about you joining.”

Winter, with her softer, almost ethereal beauty, offers a shy smile. “Hi. I’m Kim Minjeong. It’s nice to have you on the team.”

You manage to stammer out hellos, feeling completely out of your depth. You’re shaking hands with idols, people you’ve seen on giant screens and in glossy magazines. And they’re just… eating lunch. Talking. Laughing. It’s the most normal, yet utterly abnormal, situation you’ve ever been in.

The conversation is surprisingly easy. They ask you about yourself, where you’re from, how you know Jimin. You keep your answers vague about the ‘how you know Jimin’ part, sticking to the ‘childhood friends’ line. They talk about their upcoming schedule, a new music video concept, the usual idol banter. They’re all incredibly nice, welcoming, and you find yourself relaxing, actually enjoying their company. It’s still hard to reconcile these friendly, down-to-earth girls with the powerhouse performers they are on stage.

After lunch, as you’re heading back to your desk, Jimin falls into step beside you.

“So? What did you think?” she asks. “They’re pretty cool, right?”

“Yeah,” you say, still a little dazed. “They’re… amazing. And this whole thing is still kind of blowing my mind, to be honest. Working here, meeting them, seeing you…”

She bumps your shoulder playfully. “See? Told you it would be fun. It’s really good to have you here. Like, really good.” There’s an undercurrent to her words, a warmth that makes your chest feel tight.

“It’s good to be here, Jimin,” you reply. You look at her, and her presence so close to you makes you feel a mix of strange sensations; your childhood friend, now a global superstar, who somehow pulled strings to get you a job at one of the biggest entertainment companies in the world, just so you could be close. The thought is overwhelming, terrifying, and exhilarating all at once.

The dynamic between you is already shifting, the old, forgotten feelings bubbling closer to the surface now that you’re in her orbit again. And as you walk back to your new desk, you wonder if she is also feeling the same way as you.

—

It’s been a couple of weeks since you officially became Junior PR and Communications Liaison for Aespa, and that initial feeling (the one that hit you walking back to your desk after Jimin’s introduction to her members, that premonition of everything changing) hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s intensified.

You try to shove it down, to compartmentalize. You’re here to work, to prove Ms. Park, your sharp-as-a-tack supervisor, right for hiring you (even if Jimin’s recommendation was the battering ram that got your resume through the door). You spend your days buried in spreadsheets tracking social media engagement, drafting press release snippets that get dissected and reassembled ten times over, and fetching coffee more often than you’d care to admit. It’s grunt work, mostly, the bottom rung of the PR ladder, but it’s real. You’re in the game. And every so often, you catch a glimpse of the glittering prize: a quick, positive comment from Ms. Park on a draft, a nod of approval from the senior team members, the quiet satisfaction of a task completed efficiently.

Your attempts to maintain an air of cool professionalism around Jimin are… a work in progress. A fucking daily battle, if you’re being honest with yourself. She, on the other hand, seems to have no such internal conflict. Jimin is clearly, unequivocally, incandescently happy you’re there. It’s in the way her eyes light up when she spots you across the bustling open-plan office, the way she makes a beeline for your desk pretending to need a paperclip or ask about a non-existent email, her shoulder brushing yours a little too long as she leans in. It’s in the extra-bright "Morning!" that cuts through the general office murmur, often accompanied by a smuggled pastry from some high-end bakery she “just happened to pass.”

You try to reciprocate with a polite, colleague-appropriate smile and a "Morning, Jimin-ssi," emphasizing the honorific, a subtle reminder of the professional context. Sometimes. Other times, when she winks, or her smile is just for you, that old, familiar warmth floods your chest, and "Jimin-ah" slips out before you can catch it, a relic from a time before honorifics and idol personas mattered between you two. Her answering grin on those occasions is like a shot of pure sunshine, potent and dangerously addictive.

The other Aespa members are great. Ningning often swings by your desk to ask about some new Western slang she’s heard or to show you funny videos on her phone. She’s easy to talk to, her curiosity genuine, and you find yourself quickly falling into a comfortable banter with her. Giselle is cooler, more reserved initially, but possesses a dry wit that catches you off guard and makes you laugh out loud. She’s sharp, observant, and you get the feeling not much gets past her. Winter is quieter, often observing with a gentle smile, but when she does speak, it’s thoughtful and kind. You make a point of being equally friendly and professional with all of them, mindful of your role. You’re part of their team, here to support them, not to be a distraction or play favorites.

It's during one of these interactions with Ningning, about a week into your third week, that you notice it for the first time. You’re both hunched over your monitor, Ningning giggling as you try to explain the nuances of a particularly baffling English meme that’s gone viral. You’re leaning back in your chair, pointing at the screen, and she’s close, peering over your shoulder, her hair tickling your ear. It's an innocent, work-adjacent moment.

"Ah! So that's what it means!" Ningning exclaims, clapping her hands together. "Okay, okay, I get it now. You have a future as an official idol translator."

You chuckle. "Modesty aside, I am really well versed in the nuances of the English language, especially when it comes to memes."

"Apparently!”

The weeks bleed into a month, then two. You’re no longer the wide-eyed newbie fumbling with the coffee machine or getting lost on the way to the third-floor dance studios. You’ve found your rhythm in the relentless pulse of SM Entertainment. Your PR drafts for Aespa are getting fewer red marks from Ms. Park, you’ve memorized the building’s labyrinthine layout (mostly), and you actually feel like you’re contributing something more than just an extra body in meetings. You’ve even started to differentiate between the dozen slightly different shades of black that seem to constitute 90% of the staff’s wardrobe.

The other members of Aespa have become familiar, friendly faces. You’re careful, always. Professionalism is your mantra. You’re staff. They’re idols. But in those stolen moments, the casual chats in the quieter corners of the building, a genuine camaraderie is forming.

Jimin, though… Jimin is another story. She’s undeniably, overtly thrilled to have you around. Her smiles are brighter when directed at you, her laughter louder. She seeks you out for “work-related questions” that could have easily been answered by anyone else, her hand lingering a fraction too long on your arm when she makes a point. She brings you your favorite coffee "just because she was passing by the good place." While a part of you, the part that still remembers sweaty palms and a racing heart from your teenage years, basks in that focused attention, the professional, adult part of you is on high alert.

You’ve seen the glances. The whispers that die down when you approach a group of staff members. The subtle, almost imperceptible raising of eyebrows from some of the senior managers when Jimin’s interactions with you are a little too familiar, a little too warm for a global superstar and a junior PR guy. Idols, especially female idols at the top of their game, aren’t supposed to be this close, this visibly chummy, with male staff. It’s a dangerous line, and you’re terrified she’s either blissfully unaware of it or, worse, doesn't care. You try to dial back your own responses, keeping things friendly but more reserved, adding the honorific "Jimin-ssi" more consistently, hoping she’ll take the hint. Sometimes she does, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes before her professional mask slips on. Other times, she just bulldozes past it with that radiant grin, leaving you feeling like you’re walking a tightrope over a pit of vipers.

Her thing with the other members… that’s new. And it’s weird, kinda unsettling if you’re being honest with yourself. It’s never anything, like, obvious. She never says anything. But you see it.

Or you think you do.

It’s in the little things. Like when you’re cracking up with Ningning, sharing some stupid meme, and you catch a glimpse of Karina out of the corner of your eye. There’s a flicker of something in her expression, a barely-there tightening around her mouth before it smooths out into a small, polite smile. It’s so fast you question if you even saw it.

Or when Giselle gets all close, leaning into your space to show you a video on her phone, and Karina’s eyes just seem to… stick. They linger on you for a beat too long, her gaze heavy in a way you can’t quite decipher before she blinks and looks away, suddenly engrossed in her own phone.

Maybe you’re just making it up, projecting or something. But then she’ll walk over when you and Winter are in the middle of a conversation, laughing and vibing, and it’s like the temperature drops a few degrees. Her posture shifts, just a fraction, but she seems

One late afternoon, you find yourself in one of the smaller, less-used lounges on Aespa’s floor. It’s a comfortable space, rarely occupied, with a couple of plush sofas, a low table littered with old magazines, and a window overlooking a surprisingly green courtyard. You’d ducked in to escape the main office buzz for a few minutes, intending to just scroll through your phone and decompress. Ningning had found you first, plopping down beside you to complain good-naturedly about a particularly grueling choreography session. Soon after, Giselle and Winter had wandered in, drawn by Ningning’s animated voice, and the three of them were now comfortably arrayed on the sofas opposite you.

You’re in the middle of recounting a truly disastrous blind date your college roommate had dragged you on years ago (a story involving a mistaken identity, an escaped ferret, and a very public argument with a mime). You’re hamming it up, using voices, expansive gestures, and the girls are in stitches. Ningning is practically falling off the sofa, tears of laughter streaming down her face. Giselle, usually so composed, is clutching her stomach, her shoulders shaking. Even Winter keeps asking you for more details about the story, and for a moment, you forget the pressures of the job, the complexities of your situation with Jimin, everything. You’re just a guy, shooting the shit with friends.

"...so then the mime starts gesturing wildly, right? And my roommate, bless his clueless heart, thinks the ferret belongs to the mime and is trying to give it back!" you say, trying to catch your breath between laughs. "And the mime is getting more and more agitated because, apparently, he's deathly afraid of rodents..."

Ningning lets out another shriek of laughter. "No! Oh my god, a mime afraid of ferrets! That’s too much!"

Giselle wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. "Okay, that’s actually the funniest thing I’ve heard all week. Poor ferret, though. And poor mime!"

"The ferret was fine!" you assure them, grinning. "Made a clean getaway into a nearby bakery. The mime needed therapy, probably."

Winter shakes her head, still chuckling softly. "You always have the craziest stories."

"It's a gift," you say with a mock bow, eliciting another round of giggles. "Or a curse. Depends on whether you're the one living through it or just hearing about it."

It’s at this moment, surrounded by their genuine laughter, that the door to the lounge creaks open. You don’t even register it at first, too caught up in the shared mirth. But then a shadow falls across the room, and a new voice, cool and distinct, cuts through the air.

"Having fun?"

Your laughter catches in your throat. The shift in atmosphere is instantaneous, like a cold front rolling in. Ningning, Giselle, and Winter all visibly react; their smiles falter, their postures subtly stiffen. You turn, your heart giving a sudden, uncomfortable thump against your ribs.

Jimin is standing in the doorway, one hand resting on the doorframe. She’s dressed in sleek black leggings and an oversized hoodie, her practice gear, her hair pulled back in a high ponytail. Her expression is unreadable, a carefully blank mask, but her eyes… her eyes are fixed on you, sharp and intense. There’s no smile, no warmth, just that unwavering, assessing stare.

You scramble to your feet, a little too quickly. "Oh, hey, Jimin-ssi. We were just, uh..."

Ningning, recovering first, offers a slightly strained smile. "Jimin-unnie! We were just listening to his hilarious story."

"Yeah, unnie," Giselle adds, her voice a little less effusive than it was moments before. "He was telling us about his old roommate’s disastrous date."

Jimin’s gaze doesn’t leave yours. She takes a slow step into the room, her presence suddenly dominating the small space.

"A disastrous date?" Jimin repeats, her voice still devoid of any discernible emotion. Her eyes finally flick towards the other girls, then back to you. "Sounds captivating. You seem to have them quite entertained."

There’s an edge to her words, a subtle accusation. You can feel a prickle of sweat on your palms. This is exactly the kind of situation you’ve been dreading, her finding you in a moment of unguarded ease with her members, their laughter clearly for you, excluding her.

Winter shifts uncomfortably on the sofa, her earlier smile completely gone. Ningning is fiddling with the drawstrings of her hoodie, avoiding eye contact. Giselle maintains a neutral expression, but her eyes dart between you and Jimin. You feel like you're under a fucking microscope, and Jimin is the one holding the lens, her gaze burning into you, searching for… something.

"Well," you begin, clearing your throat, the sound unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet. You force a casualness you don't feel, gesturing vaguely towards the door. "I should probably, uh, get going. Got that report Ms. Park wanted… needs finishing." It’s a flimsy excuse; the report isn’t due until tomorrow afternoon, but escape is paramount.

You offer a quick, slightly strained smile to the other girls, who are still looking like they wish the floor would swallow them. "Was fun chatting, though. See you guys later."

Ningning manages a small, "Bye." Giselle gives a curt nod, her eyes still flickering towards Jimin. Winter offers a tiny, almost imperceptible wave.

As you turn to leave, Jimin’s voice stops you again. "I'll walk with you."

It’s not a question. It’s a statement. Your mind screams No, absolutely fucking not, bad idea, abort mission! but your mouth, like a traitor, says, "Oh. Uh, sure. Okay." Because what else can you say? Arguing would only make it worse, draw more attention, confirm whatever suspicions are brewing in her mind.

The walk from the lounge down the hallway towards the main office area feels like miles. The silence stretches between you, taut and uncomfortable. You can feel her presence beside you, a subtle tension in the air that wasn't there before. You risk a quick glance at her. Her expression is still set, jaw tight, eyes fixed straight ahead. You can practically hear the gears turning in her head. You brace yourself.

Finally, as you round a corner into a less populated corridor, she speaks, her voice low.

"You and the others seem to be getting along really well."

It’s a neutral observation on the surface, but you hear the undercurrent. You try to keep your own tone light, even. "Yeah, they’re great. Easy to talk to." You pause, then add, trying to steer the conversation onto safer ground, "Isn't that good? They're your members, your friends. I'm your friend, working with your team. It’s good that we all… you know, get along."

Jimin doesn’t look at you. Her gaze remains fixed on some indeterminate point down the hallway. "It depends."

"Depends on what?" you ask, afraid of what will come next.

"Depends if you start ditching me for them," she says. "Because lately, it feels like you’re avoiding me."

Your step falters for a split second. "Avoiding you? Jimin, that’s… that’s not true." The denial is automatic, but even as you say it, a flash of guilt hits you. You have been more reserved, more careful.

She finally turns her head, her eyes, dark and intense, meeting yours. There’s a flicker of hurt in them that makes your chest ache. "Isn't it? What about yesterday, in the cafeteria? I waved, you just nodded and hurried off with your tray. And Monday, when I asked if you wanted to grab a coffee after that marketing meeting, you said you were swamped. I saw you five minutes later scrolling through your phone at your desk." Her voice isn't accusatory now; it's quieter, tinged with a genuine bewilderment and that raw hurt. She remembers specific instances, and fuck, she’s not wrong. You were being short, deliberately creating distance.

Your throat feels tight. You glance quickly up and down the corridor. It’s relatively empty, just a couple of junior staffers disappearing around a distant corner. This isn't a conversation for public consumption. You stop, turning to face her more directly, lowering your own voice.

"Okay, look," you begin, trying to choose your words carefully. "Can we just… can we be real for a second?"

She watches you, waiting, her arms crossed over her chest now, a defensive posture.

"Jimin," you say, your voice earnest, "you know I’m happy to be here. And I’m happy you’re here, obviously. But you have to understand… this isn't like before. You’re Karina. You’re one of the biggest idols in the world. I’m… just a guy who works for the company. Your PR guy, technically."

Her brow furrows slightly, a hint of confusion. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"It has everything to do with it," you insist. "Don’t you see how it looks? How we look? You being so… openly friendly with me, all the time? The little extra things, the way you seek me out? People notice that stuff, Jimin. Staff talk. Hell, fans would lose their minds if they saw half of it. This industry… it’s brutal. One wrong rumor, one misinterpreted photo, and it could be disastrous. For you, especially. For Aespa."

You run a hand through your hair, feeling the stress of it all. "I haven’t been avoiding you, Jimin. I’ve been trying to be careful. Trying to protect you. Trying to protect us from… from that. From the bullshit that could come from it. When I seem distant, or 'short' as you put it, it's not because I want to be. It's because I’m trying to keep a professional boundary in public, for both our sakes. I’m worried about your career, about you getting dragged into some stupid scandal because people misunderstand."

You let out a breath, the words tumbling out, a weight lifting slightly now that it’s said. You search her face, hoping she understands, hoping she doesn’t see it as a rejection.

Jimin stares at you, her expression slowly shifting as your words sink in. The defensiveness in her posture softens. The intensity in her eyes dims, then something akin to… embarrassment. Her gaze drops from yours to the floor, a faint blush creeping up her neck, painting the apples of her cheeks. She uncrosses her arms, fiddling with the sleeve of her hoodie.

When she finally looks up, her eyes are wide, a little watery, and full of a vulnerability that punches you right in the gut.

"Oh," she says. "Oh my god. You’re… you’re right." She winces, biting her lip. "I didn’t… I wasn’t thinking about it like that. At all." She shakes her head, looking genuinely mortified. "I'm so sorry. I’ve been… God, I’ve been acting like such an idiot. Paranoid." She lets out a shaky little laugh that has no humor in it. "I don’t even know why I’ve been like this. So… clingy or weird. It’s just…" She trails off, looking lost.

Seeing her like this, so exposed and contrite, melts away any lingering frustration you felt. All you want to do is reassure her.

"Hey," you say softly, taking a hesitant step closer. "It’s okay. Seriously. Don't beat yourself up about it." You offer a small, gentle smile. "It’s a weird situation for both of us, right? We’re figuring it out."

You pause, then add, you add, your tone surprisingly gentle, imbued with all the sincerity you feel, "And for what it’s worth, Jimin… you know how much I like having you around. How much I like you. Being near you, talking to you… it’s the best part of this whole crazy thing. I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for you. I haven’t forgotten that. Not for a second."

Her eyes, still glistening, meet yours. The blush on her cheeks deepens, but there’s a flicker of relief, of gratitude, in her gaze now. "Thank you," she murmurs. "For… for saying that. And for being honest. And for, you know, looking out for me even when I’m being a dumbass."

"Always," you say, and the word feels solid, true.

A comfortable silence settles between you for a moment. "So," you say, breaking the quiet gently, "how about this? To make up for my perceived avoidance, and your… non-dumbass-ness…" You grin, and she lets out a small, watery chuckle. "Later this week, or whenever you’re free from practice and schedules, we do something. Properly. Just you and me. No work, no office, no other members. Like old times, but… new times."

Her face lights up, a genuine, brilliant smile chasing away the last of her embarrassment. It’s the Jimin you remember, the one whose happiness is infectious. "Just us?"

"Just us," you confirm, your own heart feeling a little lighter, a hopeful anticipation bubbling up.

"I’d really like that," she says. "A lot." She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, her eyes sparkling again, this time not with suspicion, but with something that looks a lot like the excitement you’re suddenly feeling too.

—

The relief that flooded you after that honest, vulnerable conversation with Jimin in the hallway lingers for days. It’s like a heavy weight you didn’t even realize you were carrying has been lifted. There’s a new lightness in your interactions, a shared understanding that makes the stolen glances and brief smiles across the busy office feel less fraught with anxiety and more like thrilling little secrets.

True to her word, before you part ways that day, Jimin’s eyes sparkle with that familiar mischief.

"So, about that 'just us' time," she says, leaning against the wall, a playful smirk on her lips. "My place. Dinner. I’ll cook. Don’t look so surprised, I can actually make more than instant ramen."

You raise an eyebrow, feigning skepticism. "Oh really? Color me intrigued. Are we talking a five-star gourmet experience or something that might involve a fire extinguisher?"

She swats your arm playfully. "Hey! I’ll have you know my kimchi jjigae is legendary. Or, at least, edible. You in?"

The thought of it: Jimin, cooking for you, in her apartment, away from the relentless scrutiny of SM, it feels intimate, a significant step. "Absolutely in," you say. "When?"

She pulls out her phone, already scrolling through her calendar app, a frown of concentration on her face. "Hmm, schedule’s insane next week… What about… Friday? A week from today? I think I have that evening clear. For now, anyway."

"Friday it is," you confirm, a grin spreading across your face. "I’ll even bring dessert. To, you know, potentially counteract the legendary kimchi jjigae."

"You wound me! But deal." She winks, then with a quick, "Gotta run, practice!" she’s off, leaving you feeling a ridiculous sense of anticipation for a dinner that’s still a full week away.

The following days pass in a blur of work, punctuated by those small, shared moments with Jimin. A quick coffee break where you actually sit together for ten minutes, talking about nothing and everything. Her dropping by your desk with a new song recommendation, leaning in close so you can share an earbud, her hair brushing your cheek. The professional boundaries are still there, especially when others are around, but the fear and awkwardness have been replaced by a conspiratorial warmth. You’re both more careful, more aware, but the connection feels stronger, deeper.

Friday arrives, and you spend most of the day in a state of low-level excitement, replaying your outfit choices in your head, wondering what her apartment is like, what it will feel like to just be with her, without the roles of "idol" and "staff." You even bought an expensive cake from that fancy bakery she likes.

Then, around 3 PM, your work phone buzzes with a message from Jimin:

NOOOO! I’m SOOOO sorry! Next week's photoshoot was brought forward to today. I'll be tied up until late. They just told us. I was really looking forward to it. Stupid schedules. Can we reschedule? Please say yes!

Disappointment settles in your chest, but you push it down. This is idol life. This is what you signed up for, being in her orbit.

You text: Of course. No worries at all, totally understand. We’ll find another night. Good luck with the shoot! You’ll kill it.

You’re the best. Raincheck for sure!!! Next week? I’ll make it up to you!

But "next week" turns into a series of near misses. An unexpected variety show filming crops up for her. A last-minute fan sign event gets added. You have a late night at the office handling a minor PR flare-up for another group. The universe, it seems, is conspiring against your private dinner. The expensive cake sits in your fridge, a sad, delicious monument to your thwarted plans.

And as the days turn into another week, something else starts to creep into your awareness, a subtle, unwelcome shift in your own internal landscape. You’re part of aespa’s PR team, which means you’re privy to schedules, collaborations, and the general buzz around them. You see Jimin interacting with other people in the company, naturally. She’s the leader, charismatic and friendly. It’s her job, her personality.

But it’s her interactions with some of the male idols that start to… prickle.

It begins subtly. You’re in a meeting discussing upcoming cross-promotional content, and one of the senior members from a popular SM boy group, a guy known for his sharp looks and easy charm, casually mentions how he and Jimin were just laughing about a shared embarrassing trainee story the other day in the practice rooms. A tiny, almost imperceptible muscle tightens in your jaw. They just happened to be in the practice rooms? Laughing? You tell yourself it’s nothing. Colleagues. Friends.

Then, a few days later, you’re walking past one of the recording studios and you see Jimin through the soundproof glass, headphones on, talking animatedly with a well-known producer, also male, also handsome. He leans in close to adjust something on the mixing board, his hand brushing hers. She throws her head back and laughs at something he says, a bright, unrestrained sound. The knot in your stomach tightens a little more. You find yourself lingering a second too long, watching them, a sour taste creeping into your mouth. You force yourself to walk away, chiding yourself internally. She’s working. He’s a producer. This is normal. Get a grip.

The worst is when you’re scrolling through internal staff memos or even semi-public social media feeds from other idols. A candid behind-the-scenes shot from a music show, and there’s Jimin in the background, deep in conversation with a member of a rival boy group, both of them smiling. A congratulatory post from another male idol for am Aespa’s latest achievement, with a throwback photo of him and Jimin making silly faces from some past event. Each instance is like a small papercut, insignificant on its own, but collectively, they start to bleed.

You start to question yourself, this ugly feeling coiling in your gut. Am I actually… jealous? The thought is mortifying. You have no right. You’re her friend, her colleague. You buried that teenage crush years ago, didn’t you? This is different. This is… possessiveness. It’s irrational, and you hate it. You tell yourself it’s just protectiveness, the same kind you talked to her about, you’re worried about her image. But who are you kidding? That’s bullshit. This isn’t about her image. This is about that tight, angry clench in your chest when you see another guy make her laugh that specific way, the way her eyes crinkle at the corners. The way she only laughs with you. Or so you thought.

You try to subdue it, to crush the feeling down with logic. She’s an idol. Her circle is full of other idols, producers, industry people. Male, female, it doesn’t matter. She’s allowed to have friends. You are being a fucking psycho. You try to focus on your work, burying yourself in spreadsheets and press drafts, but your gaze keeps drifting, your ears straining for any mention of her name, your mind replaying those brief, observed moments, dissecting them, looking for… you don’t even know what. Reassurance? Confirmation of your fears?

This slow burn of jealousy is exhausting. It simmers beneath the surface of your carefully constructed professionalism, a toxic undercurrent poisoning your thoughts. You haven’t said anything to Jimin. You haven’t changed your outward behavior towards her, not in any way she’d notice, you hope. You’re still friendly, still supportive, still the guy she relies on. But inside, you’re a mess, increasingly tangled in a knot of feelings you don’t want and can’t seem to shake, this unwelcome, undeniable jealousy taking root, growing stronger with each passing day, with each shared smile she gives to someone who isn’t you.

—

Most of the nine-to-fivers have already made their escape, and even the usual thrum of idol activity has quieted to a muted pulse. You’re tucked away in a small, blessedly empty meeting room on one of the upper floors, nursing a lukewarm cup of instant coffee. You’re supposed to be reviewing social media analytics (riveting stuff, truly) but mostly you’re just staring out the window at the sprawling grey expanse of Seoul, lost in the delightful internal monologue of your own burgeoning, and entirely irrational, jealousy. It’s becoming quite the hobby, this mental self-flagellation.

The click of the door opening barely registers until a familiar, melodic voice cuts through your brooding.

"Hiding out?"

You nearly jump out of your skin, sloshing coffee onto a stack of decidedly unimportant papers. Turning, you see Jimin leaning against the doorframe, a soft smile playing on her lips. And just like that, the carefully constructed wall of your professional cynicism crumbles into pathetic, lovestruck dust.

She’s not in practice gear today. She’s wearing a simple, cream-colored knit sweater that looks ridiculously soft and some dark, well-fitted jeans. Her hair is down, cascading over her shoulders in those perfect, effortless waves that probably take a team of stylists two hours to achieve. Her makeup is minimal, making her look younger, softer, more like the Jimin you knew before she became Karina, global phenomenon and recurring star of your anxiety dreams.

"Hey," you manage, trying for nonchalant and probably landing somewhere near 'startled chipmunk.' "Didn't hear you come in."

She pushes off the doorframe and ambles further into the room, her presence instantly making the generic corporate space feel… smaller, somehow. More charged. "Sorry to interrupt your very important… paper-staring session."

"It's a critical part of my process," you say, attempting a dry wit that she, thankfully, seems to appreciate with a small laugh. "Deep contemplation of spreadsheet ergonomics."

"Right." She perches on the edge of the ridiculously oversized conference table, her legs crossed casually. "Look, I just wanted to say sorry if I’ve been a bit MIA the last few days. Schedules have been… well, you know. Insane."

"Ah, the glamorous life," you quip, though the relief at her explanation is a palpable thing easing the tension in your shoulders. So, it wasn’t you. Or, not just you. Probably. "No worries. Figured you were off conquering another continent or something equally mundane."

She smiles, a genuine, tired-around-the-edges smile. "Something like that. Endless meetings about tour logistics, new endorsement shoots, trying to learn choreography when every muscle in your body screams for rest." She sighs, then her gaze softens as it meets yours. "It’s just… been a lot. Haven't had much chance to just… breathe. Or talk."

"I get it," you say, and you do. The pace here is relentless. "You look…" You pause, searching for the right word, because 'good' feels like an insult to whatever cosmic alignment is happening with her features right now. "You look beautiful today, Jimin." The words are out before you can second-guess them, honest and a little too raw. You quickly try to backtrack, to lessen the impact, lest you sound like a complete lovesick fool (which, of course, you are). "I mean, you always look beautiful, obviously. It’s kind of your brand. But today… there’s something. Extra. You’re glowing. Or maybe it’s just the cheap office lighting playing tricks on my caffeine-addled eyes."

A delicate blush, the color of a summer peach, rises on her cheeks. She ducks her head for a moment, a shy gesture that feels impossibly endearing. "Thank you," she says softly, looking up at you through her lashes. The directness of her gaze, coupled with that blush. "That’s… really nice to hear. Especially today."

You should probably say something about those analytics. Or the weather. Anything but stare at her like she’s the only source of oxygen in the room.

Then, her expression shifts. A wistful, almost faraway look enters her eyes. "Hey," she says, her tone quieter now, thoughtful. "Do you remember… do you remember that time, we must have been, what, thirteen? When we biked all the way out to old Haeundae beach, even though our parents would have skinned us alive if they knew?"

The question catches you off guard. The sudden shift to such a specific, distant memory throws you. But of course, you remember. How could you forget? Your mind immediately conjures the scene: the reckless thrill of that forbidden adventure, the salty spray on your faces, the cheap, borrowed bikes threatening to fall apart beneath you.

"Yeah," you say, a slow smile spreading across your face as the details flood back. "With those ridiculously ancient bikes we 'borrowed' from your uncle’s shed? The ones where the brakes only worked if you prayed really, really hard?"

Her answering smile is luminous. "Exactly! And then that insane storm blew in out of nowhere. One minute it was sunny, the next it was like the sky just… cracked open."

"Torrential," you agree, a chuckle escaping you. "We were soaked to the bone in about ten seconds. I thought my sneakers would never dry out."

"And we found that tiny, busted-up old bus stop shelter way up on the coastal road," she continues, her eyes sparkling with the recollection, lost in the memory with you. "It was leaking, there were probably spiders the size of my fist in there, but it felt like a palace."

"We were freezing," you remember, "shivering like crazy. And all we had to eat was that one squashed packet of stale crackers I’d forgotten in my backpack."

Jimin laughs. "And we split it, didn’t we? Crouched in that damp, smelly shelter, rain hammering down outside, sharing those awful crackers like it was a feast." She looks at you then. "We talked for hours, waiting for it to stop. About everything. Stupid stuff, serious stuff."

"Our grand plans to escape our boring town," you supply, the memory so vivid now it feels like you could reach out and touch it. "Your dreams of being famous, my dreams of… well, probably something equally ridiculous I’ve thankfully forgotten."

"It wasn't ridiculous," she says softly, her gaze holding yours. "It was just… us. Just talking. It felt like we were the only two people in the world for a few hours."

You know what she means. It was more than just getting caught in the rain. It was a moment of unvarnished connection, of shared vulnerability, of feeling utterly, completely understood by another person, a feeling so rare and precious, especially at that tumultuous age. You remember the damp chill, yes, but more clearly, you remember the warmth of her shoulder pressed against yours as you huddled together, the easy rhythm of your conversation, the feeling that, for a little while, all the complexities of the world had fallen away, leaving just the two of you and the roaring storm.

"I still think about that day sometimes," Jimin says, her eyes still locked on yours, searching, questioning. "A lot, actually."

Your carefully constructed composure, already teetering, threatens to shatter. All the air seems to have been sucked out of the small room. The irony isn't lost on you; here you are, a grown man, unraveled by a shared memory of stale crackers and a rainstorm from over a decade ago. Pathetic, really.

"Why?" The question slips out, hushed, almost involuntary. Your mind is racing. Why now? Why bring this up? What does it mean?

Jimin holds your gaze for another long moment, and you can see a universe of unspoken emotions swirling in the depths of her dark eyes. Then, she looks away, her gaze drifting towards the window, towards the distant, indifferent city. A tiny, almost imperceptible sigh escapes her lips.

"Actually, I don't know," she says, so quietly you almost miss it. "I really don't know."

It's an answer that's not an answer, a perfectly crafted piece of ambiguity designed, it seems, to send your already overthinking brain into a full-blown spiral. You watch her, this enigma you’ve known your whole life, and feel a familiar, frustrating helplessness. All those years, all that shared history, and she can still reduce you to a state of dumbfounded confusion with three little words.

She pushes herself off the conference table, the movement fluid and graceful. "Well," she says, her voice regaining a sliver of its usual brightness, though her eyes still hold that distant, thoughtful quality. "Maybe it’s better if I go. Don’t want to keep bothering you with… ancient history. And I actually do have that choreography meeting. Can't keep the dance monster waiting."

She turns and walks towards the door, each step feeling like a countdown timer on your chance to say something, anything, to pierce through this sudden, unbearable tension.

She reaches the door, her hand on the knob. It’s now or never, brainiac.

"Jimin," you call out.

She pauses, her back still to you, hand frozen on the doorknob. This is it. Your moment to say something profound, something that clarifies everything, something that bridges the gap of years and fame and unspoken feelings. Your mind races, a frantic slideshow of possibilities. 'What did you mean?' 'Do you feel it too?' 'That day meant something to me too, you know.'

And then, like a cold splash of reality, the internal killjoy (the one that pays the bills and reminds you of your precarious position) pipes up: She’s an idol, you idiot. Global superstar. You’re staff. This is how you lose your job and become a cautionary tale. Don’t be a walking, talking HR violation.

The grand, sweeping declaration dies on your lips, replaced by a pathetic little puff of air. When she finally turns her head slightly, looking back at you with a questioning gaze, all that comes out is a lame, "It's… uh… nothing. Never mind.”

A small, enigmatic smile plays on her lips. It’s impossible to tell if it’s knowing, amused, or just polite. With Jimin, it could be all three. "Okay," she says softly. "See you around."

And then she’s gone, the door clicking shut behind her with a gentle finality, leaving you alone once more with your lukewarm coffee, your useless analytics, and the fresh, agonizing weight of all the things you didn't say.

Hours later, the office has thinned out almost completely. You’re packing up your bag, ready to call it a day and go home to stare meaningfully at your ceiling, when Ningning bounces over to your desk.

"Heading out?" she asks, perching on the corner of your desk like an overgrown, incredibly cheerful pixie.

"Yep. Day is done. My brain feels like overcooked jjigae."

She giggles. "Mine too! We had vocal training for three hours straight. My throat is screaming." She leans in a little. "So, work stuff aside… how are things?"

You raise an eyebrow. "Things? Vague. But… okay, I guess? Survived another day in the K-Pop trenches. You?"

"Good, good!" she says, then her eyes get that tell-tale sparkle of curiosity you’re beginning to recognize all too well. "Actually… I was wondering. About, you know…" She gestures vaguely between herself and an imaginary Jimin. "You two."

Ah. Here we go. The subtle interrogation phase. You try to keep your expression neutral, a Herculean effort. "Us two? Do you mean Jimin? We’re… old friends. Colleagues. As previously established in multiple official and unofficial briefings."

Ningning tilts her head, her smile a little too knowing. "Riiight. Old friends. But, like… how old? What’s the real story there? Unnie can be… a little selective with details sometimes."

Before you can even begin to formulate a suitably evasive yet charmingly informative answer, footsteps approach. Giselle and Winter appear, looking equally ready to bolt for the day.

"What are you two whispering about over here?" Giselle asks. Winter offers a quiet smile from beside her.

Ningning beams at them. "Perfect timing! I was just asking about him," she points a thumb at you, "and our dear leader. The true story."

Giselle’s perfectly sculpted eyebrow arches. "Oh? The origin story? Spill it. We’ve only heard Jimin-unnie’s version, which, let's be honest, is probably heavily romanticized."

Winter chuckles softly. "She did mention something about a very dramatic rainstorm once."

Now all three of them are looking at you, expectant and clearly ready for some prime gossip, or at least, your side of the folklore. You’re surrounded. There’s no escape.

"Okay, okay," you say, raising your hands in mock surrender, trying to buy yourself some thinking time. "There’s nothing really interesting in our story. Mostly just a lot of questionable teenage fashion choices and an unhealthy obsession with the same five boy bands."

"Details, details!" Ningning urges, leaning forward. "What were you like in school? Was she always… Karina-like? Or was she a secret dork?"

"Definitely a secret dork," you say, a genuine smile touching your lips as you think back.

This gets a laugh from all of them.

"And you?" Giselle prompts. "What was your role in this dynamic duo?"

"Chief instigator of dumb ideas, probably," you admit. "And expert in procuring illicit snacks for movie marathons. We spent a ridiculous amount of time watching terrible action movies and critiquing them like we were seasoned film critics." You share a few more harmless anecdotes: the time you both tried to bake a cake that ended up looking like a volcanic eruption, the disastrous school play where you both forgot your lines, the endless summers spent biking around the city, dreaming of bigger things. It’s easy to talk about the past, the safe, sepia-toned memories. It makes the present, with all its unspoken tensions and Jimin’s idol status, feel momentarily distant.

As you’re talking, weaving these tales of your shared youth, you see your opening. It’s a long shot, and your attempt at casualness will probably be about as convincing as a politician's promise, but you have to try.

"Speaking of Jimin," you say, aiming for a nonchalant tone that you’re pretty sure misses the mark by a country mile, "she’s, you know, so busy and in the public eye all the time. Must be tough to… have a personal life. Is she… seeing anyone? Or, you know, hanging out with anyone in particular? Just curious, as a friend. Worried about her, you know. Safety, happiness, all that good stuff."

You try to make it sound like a casual afterthought, a fleeting concern from a dear old platonic pal. You think you almost pulled it off, right up until you see the looks on their faces.

Ningning’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly, and she exchanges a lightning-fast glance with Giselle. Giselle’s lips twitch, a smirk threatening to break free. Winter just smiles like she knows what's going on in your head. Oh, you are so transparent. They see right through your flimsy "concerned friend" charade.

"Hmm, 'seeing anyone'?" Giselle repeats slowly, drawing out the words. "Nope. Can't say that she is. Unnie's pretty much married to her work these days. And us, of course."

"Yeah," Ningning chimes in, a little too brightly. "No mysterious romantic entanglements that we know of! Our leader is a free agent!"

"Why do you ask?" Winter asks her gaze lifting to meet yours.

"Oh, you know," you say, waving a dismissive hand, trying to project an air of breezy indifference. "Just… she’s an old friend. You worry about your friends, right? Want them to be happy, not get mixed up with… undesirables. Standard friend protocol."

The three of them share another look. This one is longer, more laden with unspoken understanding. It’s the kind of look that says, “Oh, honey, you are so delightfully screwed.”

"Right," Giselle says. "Undesirables. Of course."

Ningning nods vigorously. "Totally. Friend protocol. We get it."

"So," Giselle starts, "all these shared memories, the dorky school days… was there ever, you know, anything more? Between you two back then?"

You can feel the heat rising up your neck. Your brain is frantically sifting through a thousand possible deflections, each one more unconvincing than the last. This is where your PR training truly shines, in the art of saying absolutely nothing while appearing to consider something deeply. A true masterclass in verbal evasion is about to unfold, you can just feel it.

"I mean, the bond between you two is… remarkable," Ningning adds, helpfully twisting the knife. "Unnie was so, so excited when she found out you were coming to work here. Like, beyond normal 'old friend joining the company' excited. More like 'rare Pokémon spotted in the wild' excited."

Giselle snorts delicately. "Eloquent, Ningning. But she’s right. There’s definitely… a vibe."

Just as you’re about to launch into what would undoubtedly be a completely disastrous attempt at a nonchalant denial, a voice cuts through the charged atmosphere.

"There you guys are! I’ve been looking all over for you."

Jimin. Of course. Her timing is, as always, impeccably dramatic. She steps into the lounge, her gaze sweeping over her members, then landing on you, a slight question in her eyes. She’s still in her practice clothes, a light sheen of perspiration on her forehead, making her look both ethereal and remarkably real. The girls, bless their meddling, gossipy hearts, snap into action with the practiced ease of seasoned operatives.

"Oh, hey, Unnie!" Ningning chirps. "We were just… talking."

"About what?" Jimin asks, stepping further into the room, her gaze lingering on you for a fraction of a second longer than strictly necessary. Or maybe you’re just imagining that part. Your imagination has been working overtime lately, particularly where she’s concerned.

"Nothing major," Giselle says smoothly, waving a dismissive hand. "Silly things. Random office gossip. You know how it is." She stands, stretching languidly. "Actually, we should probably head out. It’s getting seriously late.”

"Yeah, same," Ningning agrees, bouncing to her feet. Winter nods, already halfway to the door. "My everything aches."

You seize the opportunity, a drowning man grasping at a life raft made of convenient excuses. "Me too, actually. Long day. Lots of… spreadsheets." You try for a weary, put-upon sigh. You’re not sure it lands.

The girls offer quick goodbyes, a chorus of "See ya!" and "Night, Unnie!" and then they’re gone, leaving you and Jimin standing in the sudden quiet of the empty lounge. She turns to you. "They keeping you entertained?"

"They’re… a force of nature," you admit. "Never a dull moment."

"Tell me about it," she says with a sigh that seems to carry the weight of a thousand schedules. "Well, I guess I should let you escape too." She gestures towards the door. "I’m heading out as well. Want to walk?"

And just like that, you’re accompanying her again, the two of you falling into step as you navigate the increasingly deserted corridors of SM Entertainment. You find yourself acutely aware of the space between you, of the subtle scent of her perfume, of the way her hair catches the low evening light filtering through the hallway windows. It’s all terribly poetic and deeply unhelpful for your already addled state of mind.

As you approach the main lobby, her voice, soft and a little melancholic, breaks the quiet. "Have you ever wondered," she begins, not looking at you, her gaze fixed on the gleaming marble floor, "what might have happened? If… if things had been different? If I hadn’t gone into training when I did, if you hadn’t gone off to study in another country? If we hadn't… you know, gone our separate ways back then?"

The question, so similar to the one that started your recent emotional tailspin with her, catches you off guard. It’s a "what if" laden with years of distance and change, a path untaken, a story unwritten. You glance at her profile, the perfect line of her jaw, the slight furrow in her brow. She looks so much like the fierce, determined girl you knew, yet also like someone entirely new, someone shaped by experiences you can only guess at.

"I don't know," you say honestly, the words feeling inadequate but true. It’s your go-to answer for her profound, soul-searching question, apparently. "It’s… hard to predict those kinds of things, isn’t it? One tiny change back then could have led to a million different todays." You try for a philosophical shrug, as if you ponder alternate timelines on a regular basis. You mostly ponder what to have for dinner.

She nods slowly, still not meeting your eyes. "You’re right. It’s impossible to know." A beat of silence, then she adds, almost to herself, "Still. Sometimes I wonder."

Before you can overthink it, before your internal HR department can issue a cease-and-desist, you find yourself saying, "But, Jimin… whatever those other million todays might have looked like, this one? This is the one where we’re both here. You, me, in this crazy building, against some pretty insane odds when you think about it." You meet her gaze then, hoping she sees the sincerity in yours. "That’s got to be worth something, right?"

A slow smile spreads across her face, a genuine, heart-stoppingly beautiful smile that reaches her eyes and chases away some of the weariness you saw there earlier. "Yeah," she says. "Yeah, I think it is." She finally looks directly at you, and there's a warmth there, a shared acknowledgement of the strange, unlikely thread that still connects you.

"Thank you for saying that."

"Just stating the facts," you reply, though your heart is doing a fair impression of a hummingbird’s wings. You pause, then, emboldened by the moment, you ask, "Are you okay, though? You seem… a little tired." A masterful understatement, considering the grueling life she leads.

She lets out a soft sigh. "Yeah, I’m okay. Just… tired is my default setting these days, I think." She manages a wry smile. "This week has been particularly brutal. But it’s okay. It’s part of it."

"I’ve been seeing it up close, you know," you say, your tone earnest. "You, the girls… the amount of work you all put in, the sheer dedication… it’s actually insane. I had no idea, not really, before I started working here. It’s… genuinely incredible. You’re all amazing." You hesitate, then add, "Just… don’t overdo it, okay? Take care of yourself. Seriously."

Her smile widens, softens. The appreciation in her eyes is unmistakable, and it makes you feel ridiculously warm inside. "Thank you," she says again. "That means a lot. I will. I promise."

You reach the main exit, the cool night air of Seoul beckoning from beyond the glass doors. This feels like another one of those moments, a pause before the story shifts again.

"Well," you say, "my chariot awaits. Or, you know, the subway."

She laughs, a light, easy sound. "Same here. My manager’s probably already sent out a search party." She turns to you, and for a moment, it feels like there’s something more she wants to say, something hovering on the edge of her words. But then she just smiles that enigmatic smile again. "Good night. And… thanks. For the walk. And the concern."

"Anytime," you reply. "Goodnight, Jimin."

And with that, she’s gone, disappearing into the waiting black van that always seems to materialize out of nowhere. You watch her go, a strange mix of hope and confusion and that ever-present, damnably persistent affection swirling inside you.

—

The weekend arrives with all the fanfare of a damp squib. You spend Saturday mostly alternating between staring blankly at your laptop screen, pretending to job-hunt for something that isn’t your current, emotionally hazardous employment, and replaying every single micro-expression Jimin has made in your vicinity for the past two weeks. It’s a productive, well-adjusted way to live, you tell yourself with a hefty dose of irony. You’re bored, tired of your own internal monologue, and a little bit adrift.

You’re cleaning your room, contemplating mentally the profound existential question of whether to order jjajangmyeon or just eat cereal for dinner for the third night in a row, when your phone buzzes on the coffee table. You almost ignore it, expecting another spam text about a crypto scam or a discount on air fryers. But then it buzzes again, insistent. With a groan, you reach for it.

It’s a message. From Jimin.

Hey! Are you by any chance, miraculously, incredibly, unbelievably… free tonight? My schedule just cleared up like magic (don’t ask, it’s a K-Pop miracle). That dinner we talked about… still interested? My legendary kimchi jjigae awaits its challenger! Let me know! Fingers crossed! ✨🍜🤞

You stare at the message, reading it once, twice, a third time just to make sure your sleep-deprived brain isn’t hallucinating. Her schedule cleared? She’s asking tonight? After all the cancellations, all the near-misses? A slow grin, a genuine, uncomplicated, shit-eating grin, spreads across your face. All the weariness, the boredom, the overthinking from the past few days, evaporates like morning mist.

You type back, your thumbs flying across the screen, a surge of adrenaline making your hands shake slightly.

Tonight? Miracles do happen! Yes, absolutely, 100% still interested. My taste buds are primed and ready for legendary status. Send me the address. I’ll even brave rush hour for this.

Her reply is almost instantaneous. A string of happy emojis, followed by her address and a time.

It’s set. It’s actually, finally, set.

A laugh bubbles up from your chest, loud and unrestrained in the quiet of your small apartment. Suddenly, your weekend isn’t looking so bleak. Suddenly, you’re not tired at all. Suddenly, the only thing that matters is that in a few short hours, you’re going to Jimin’s apartment for dinner. Just the two of you.

—

The hours leading up to your dinner with Jimin are a masterclass in controlled chaos, existing primarily within the confines of your own skull. You tell yourself, with the stern authority of someone trying to wrangle a particularly unruly toddler, not to overthink it. It’s just dinner. A casual meal between old friends. One of whom just happens to be a globally recognized K-Pop sensation who occupies a significant, and frankly unhealthy, amount of your daily thought processes.

Yes, perfectly normal.

Your attempt not to overthink manifests as a meticulous, hour-long deconstruction of your entire wardrobe, a frantic search for an outfit that screams "effortlessly cool and put-together" while simultaneously whispering "I definitely didn't try too hard, but please notice I tried a little." You settle on dark jeans that actually fit well and a soft, unassuming button-down shirt (casual, yet hinting at the possibility that you own an iron).

On your way to her neighborhood, a sudden pang of "don't show up empty-handed, you heathen" strikes you. You duck into a small, upscale market, ostensibly for a bottle of wine or some trendy artisanal sparkling water. As you’re Browse, your eyes snag on a particular brand of imported Swiss chocolate, a rich, dark hazelnut bar. It’s a lightning bolt from the past. Jimin used to be absolutely obsessed with this exact chocolate back in your school days. She’d save up her allowance for it, savoring each square like it was a precious jewel. It’s a ridiculous, sentimental impulse, but you grab it, along with a respectable bottle of white wine that looks like it knows what it’s doing. The chocolate feels like a small, secret handshake with the past, a nod to the girl she was… a girl you knew before the world did.

Her apartment building is sleek and modern, nestled in a quiet, affluent part of Seoul. You buzz her apartment number, your voice sounding surprisingly steady through the intercom when you announce your arrival. A moment later, the lock clicks, and you’re granted access to the inner sanctum. So far, so good. No alarms triggered.

Standing outside her actual apartment door, a fresh wave of nerves – oh, hello again, old friend – washes over you. You perform the sacred pre-door-knock ritual: a quick, surreptitious sniff of your own breath (minty, check), a frantic adjustment of your shirt cuffs, and a final, desperate smooth-down of your hair. You take a deep breath, then you knock.

The door swings open, and there she is. And just like that, your carefully constructed composure evaporates. Jimin. Even in simple, dark lounge pants and a ridiculously soft-looking, oversized grey sweater that swallows her frame, she looks… breathtaking. Her hair is tied up in a loose, messy bun, tendrils escaping to frame her face. Her makeup is so light it’s almost non-existent, just a hint of color on her lips and a subtle definition to her incredible eyes, making her appear more close to you, more vulnerable, more… Jimin. The effect is devastatingly beautiful, far more so than any stage costume or red-carpet glamour. This is her, unvarnished, in her own space.

You just sort of… stare for a beat, your brain temporarily short-circuiting. She offers a small, slightly shy smile. "Hey. You made it."

"Yeah," you manage. "Traffic was… surprisingly cooperative. For once." You then remember the social contract requires more than just grunting acknowledgment. "You, uh… you look amazing, Jimin. Really." There, you said it. Not as smooth as you’d hoped, but honest.

Her smile widens, a genuine, pleased crinkle around her eyes. "Thanks. You clean up pretty nice yourself." She steps back, holding the door open wider. "Come on in. Don’t mind the mess, I was literally in the middle of a creative explosion in the kitchen."

You step inside, and as you do, you present your offerings. "Brought some wine," you say, handing her the bottle. "And, uh, this." You pull out the chocolate bar. "Not sure if you still… but I remembered."

Her eyes widen when she sees the familiar wrapper, a gasp of pure, unadulterated delight escaping her. "Oh my god!" she exclaims, taking the chocolate from you with an almost reverent care. "This! I haven’t had this in ages! How did you even remember?" Her face is alight with genuine happiness. "This is… this is the best. Thank you." That she’s happier about the relatively cheap chocolate bar than the expensive wine says everything. It’s a direct hit to the heart, that shared memory made tangible.

"My memory retains crucial information," you say, trying for a light, teasing tone to cover the sudden thickness in your throat.

She laughs, clutching the chocolate bar like a long-lost treasure. "Apparently so." She gestures around. "Well, this is it. Karina's home. Or, you know, Jimin’s slightly-less-glamorous-than-you’d-expect-for-an-idol-but-still-pretty-nice apartment."

You take a proper look around as she leads you further in. It is beautiful. Definitely what you’d expect for someone of her status – spacious, with high ceilings, large windows offering a glittering panorama of the Seoul skyline. The furniture is modern and stylish, a palette of soft neutrals and rich textures. But threaded throughout the obvious expense are unmistakable touches of her. A shelf overflowing with books, a worn acoustic guitar propped in a corner, a collection of quirky art prints that are more charming than high-concept, a ridiculously fluffy throw blanket draped over a plush sofa that just begs for someone to curl up on it. It’s a home, not just a showpiece. It’s… Jimin. And you’re in it.

The aroma filling Jimin’s apartment is genuinely incredible, a rich, spicy, and deeply comforting scent that immediately makes your stomach rumble in anticipation. She’s bustling between the small, open-plan kitchen counter and the dining table as she places steaming bowls and an array of colourful banchan (pickled radish, seasoned spinach, glistening myeolchi bokkeum) onto the table. You try to offer help, a classic "can I do anything?" gesture, but she waves you off with a smile, directing you to simply take a seat.

"Guest of honor tonight," she declares, "your only job is to eat and, hopefully, not require medical attention afterwards." It's a joke, but there's a hint of nervous pride in her eyes as she surveys her culinary efforts. It's endearing, this glimpse of her outside the polished perfection of Karina, the idol. This is Jimin, hoping you like her cooking.

You settle into a chair at the intimate wooden table, which is perfectly sized for two and positioned to offer a breathtaking view of the city lights beginning to ignite the deepening twilight outside. She slides a bowl of rice in front of you, then the centerpiece: a bubbling, vibrant red earthenware pot of kimchi jjigae, the steam carrying its potent, delicious fragrance. She serves herself, then gestures for you to dig in. "Well," she says, a little breathlessly, "moment of truth."

You pick up your chopsticks, you take a careful spoonful of the jjigae, the rich broth warming your tongue, the tender pork and tangy kimchi a perfect balance. It’s not just edible; it’s genuinely, profoundly good. Your eyes widen in honest surprise.

"Jimin," you say, after a moment of appreciative silence, letting the warmth spread through you. "This is… seriously incredible. You weren't kidding about the legendary status. This is restaurant-quality stuff." You’re not just being polite; it’s the best kimchi jjigae you’ve had in a long, long time. Maybe ever.

A pleased, slightly flustered blush colors her cheeks. She ducks her head, stirring her own bowl a little too intently. "Oh, stop," she says, but her smile is radiant. "It’s just an old family recipe. My grandmother taught me. I don’t get to make it that often, so… I’m glad it turned out okay." She takes a tentative bite herself, then nods, a little surprised. "Huh. Not bad, if I do say so myself."

You both eat in a comfortable, almost reverent silence for a few minutes. You try some of the banchan she gestures towards, a crisp, spicy cucumber salad, some savory pan-fried tofu. Everything is meticulously prepared, bursting with flavor. It's clear she put a lot of effort into this, and that knowledge warms you even more than the jjigae.

It's as you’re both reaching for the water glasses at the same time, your fingers brushing for a fleeting, electric instant, that the full weight of the situation seems to properly land. You pull your hand back a little too quickly, a jolt going up your arm. You look up, and she’s looking at you, her eyes wide, a similar awareness dawning in them. Here you are. Alone. In her apartment, a space few outside her closest circle probably ever see. Sharing a home-cooked meal. It’s not uncomfortable, not exactly, but it’s undeniably there: a potent mix of history and the sheer, unadulterated weirdness of your lives having converged like this again.

A small, nervous chuckle escapes her lips, a delicate, airy sound. Almost instantly, a similar laugh bubbles up from your own chest; a little shaky, a little breathless, but a genuine release of the mounting tension. It’s a shared acknowledgment of the elephant.

"Okay," she says, setting down her chopsticks and picking up her water glass. "This is… this is a little bit weird, isn't it?" She takes a sip of water, her gaze still holding yours over the rim of the glass. "Not bad-weird," she clarifies quickly, perhaps sensing your own internal monologue already composing a list of polite escape routes, "definitely good-weird. But still… wonderfully, ridiculously weird."

"Good-weird is my favorite kind of weird," you manage. The shared laughter, the naming of the awkwardness, has somehow made it less… awkward. "And yes, 'wonderfully, ridiculously weird' pretty much sums up my entire existence since moving to Seoul and, you know," you gesture vaguely to encompass her, the apartment, the situation, "all of this." You take another mouthful of jjigae, savoring the spice, buying yourself a moment. "Honestly, if you’d told fourteen-year-old me, the one convinced that high fashion was wearing a band t-shirt without holes in it, that one day I'd be having homemade kimchi jjigae in global K-Pop superstar Karina's apartment…" You shake your head, a wry smile playing on your lips. "Well, let's just say his tiny, angst-ridden brain would have imploded. He probably would have assumed it was a very elaborate prank involving hidden cameras."

Jimin laughs, a bright, clear sound that seems to chase away some of the shadows in the room. "Oh, please. Fourteen-year-old you was far too cynical for hidden camera pranks. You’d have assumed it was a stress-induced hallucination brought on by too many all-night gaming sessions." She pauses, her smile softening into something more reflective as she looks around her living space, then back at you, her dinner guest, the boy from her past sitting so improbably in her present. "But look at us now, huh? Actually sitting here, eating dinner, in my own place. Talking about nothing relevant… and just being. Like two reasonably functioning adults who manage to feed themselves without burning the building down." She takes a slow, deliberate bite of rice, her gaze drifting towards the window, towards the vast, glittering expanse of Seoul spread out below them. "Who would have thought any of this was possible back then?" She turns back to you, a wistful, almost tender smile on her lips. "Time flies, doesn’t it? Feels like a lifetime ago, and yesterday, all at once.”

There's a shared melancholy in the air, a sweet ache for the irretrievable past, but it's also undercut by the sheer, vibrating improbability of your present. You nod slowly, swirling the last of the spicy jjigae broth in your bowl, the warmth of it seeping into you, mirroring the warmth spreading through your chest from just… being here, with her.

"It really does," you agree. "One minute you're plotting how to get out of gym class, the next you're… well, you're an international icon, and I'm marveling at your exceptional kimchi jjigae skills and wondering if adulting comes with a manual they forgot to give me." You offer a small, self-deprecating smile, which she returns with a knowing one of her own.

"Tell me about it," she sighs, pushing her empty bowl away slightly. "Sometimes I look in the mirror and I'm still half expecting to see that gangly teenager with the terrible bangs staring back, wondering how on earth I’m supposed to lead a group and remember lyrics in different languages." She pauses, then a playful spark ignites in her eyes, chasing away the momentary wistfulness. "Speaking of adulting… that wine you brought isn't going to drink itself, is it?”

"An excellent point."

"Yeah," she says, already rising from the table. "Let me just wash these dishes and then we can relocate. My couch is significantly more comfortable for serious wine contemplation than these dining chairs. And you haven't even seen my prized collection of questionable drama movies yet, a true adult indulgence."

She begins clearing the table with an efficient grace, and you quickly stand to help, gathering bowls and chopsticks. "Questionable dramas, huh? I'm almost afraid to ask."

"Oh, you should be. We're talking peak early 2000s angst."

While she rinses the dishes (a task you offer to do but are again cheerfully waved off from) you retrieve the bottle of white wine from the counter where you’d left it. You find a corkscrew in a drawer after a brief, the satisfying pop of the cork feels like a small, official commencement of the evening’s next, less formal, chapter. Jimin reappears with two elegant, long-stemmed wine glasses.

Soon, you're both settled on her ridiculously plush sofa. It’s U-shaped, large enough that you’re not exactly pressed against each other, but close enough that you’re acutely aware of her presence, the subtle scent of her shampoo, the way the soft lamplight catches the curve of her cheek. She curls her legs up beneath her, looking impossibly small and cozy, and takes a grateful sip from her wine glass.

"Mmm," she hums, her eyes closing for a moment. "Okay, this is good. Way better than the soju bombs from our trainee day survival kits, that’s for sure."

You take a sip yourself. The wine is crisp and cool, a pleasant counterpoint to the lingering spice of the jjigae. "Glad it meets the approval of your sophisticated palate," you tease, settling back into the cushions. The sofa really is incredibly comfortable. Dangerously so. "Though I have a feeling even drain cleaner would taste good after some of the trainee stories I’ve heard."

She laughs, a full, unrestrained sound this time, and the warmth of it, combined with the wine already beginning to hum pleasantly in your veins, makes you feel… good. Really good. Relaxed in a way you haven’t been in weeks, maybe months.

"You have no idea," she says, shaking her head, a smile still playing on her lips. "There was this one time, during our first evaluation prep, we were all so stressed and sleep-deprived, Ningning tried to microwave a banana. The whole banana. Peel and all."

You snort with laughter, nearly choking on your wine. "No! What happened?"

"Let’s just say the dorm smelled like radioactive fruit for a week, and we were banned from unsupervised microwave usage," Jimin recounts, her eyes sparkling with shared amusement. "Our manager almost had a conniption. Good times. Peak adulting, right there."

The wine flows easily, and with it, the conversation. You find yourselves reminiscing more about those "good old days," the stories becoming funnier, sillier, with each glass. You remind her of the time she tried to dye her own hair blue using a questionable internet tutorial and ended up with three distinctly different shades of swamp green. She counters with the story of your spectacularly failed attempt to build a skateboard ramp in your backyard, which resulted in more bruises than airtime. The laughter comes more frequently now, less self-conscious, more open. There's a comfortable intimacy in revisiting these shared embarrassments.

With the second glass of wine, a subtle shift occurs. The silliness is still there, but it’s becoming tinged with a more playful, flirtatious edge. Maybe it’s the alcohol lowering inhibitions, or maybe it’s the cozy proximity on the sofa, or maybe it’s just the inevitable result of two people with a mountain of buried feelings finally being in a private, relaxed space together. You find yourself watching the way her lips curve when she smiles, the way she gestures animatedly when she’s telling a particularly outrageous story, the way her eyes seem to catch and hold yours for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

"You know," she says, swirling the wine in her glass, her gaze a little unfocused, a little dreamy, "you were always surprisingly good at listening. Even when I was rambling about the most ridiculous, angsty teenage dramas. You’d just sit there and nod, like it was the most profound stuff you’d ever heard."

"Hey, your angst was top-tier," you reply. "It deserved a captive audience. Besides, someone had to make sure you didn't actually follow through on your threat to run away and join the circus after that disastrous school talent show audition." You lean a little closer, lowering your voice conspiratorially. "Though, for the record, I still think your interpretive dance to that heavy metal song was… creatively ambitious."

She throws her head back and laughs, a genuine, unrestrained peal that makes your chest ache with a strange, sweet tenderness. When she sobers, she lightly punches your arm. "Oh, shut up! That was performance art! You just didn't understand my vision!" Her eyes are bright, cheeks flushed from the wine and the laughter, and she’s looking at you with an open, unguarded expression that makes your breath catch. "But seriously," she adds, "you were a good friend. Still are."

The compliment, simple as it is, lands with surprising weight. "You too, Jimin," you say, your voice equally soft, meeting her gaze. "Always."

Her eyes search yours, and you feel like she can see right through your carefully constructed facade, right down to the terrified, hopeful teenager still lurking somewhere inside. The wine has definitely done its job; the world feels a little softer around the edges, your inhibitions are pleasantly fuzzy, and the desire to just reach out, to bridge that small remaining distance on the couch, is becoming overwhelmingly, dangerously strong.

The wine, crisp and cool, continues its delightful work, unspooling the tightly wound threads of formality and apprehension that had clung to the early evening. Each sip seems to loosen your tongue a little more, and Jimin’s too. The comfortable U-shaped sofa, initially a vast expanse, feels like it’s subtly shrinking, or perhaps you’re both just… gravitating. Her laughter, when you recount another particularly embarrassing anecdote from your shared school days, is no longer just a polite chuckle. It’s a full-bodied, unrestrained peal of mirth that makes her lean back against the cushions, her eyes squeezed shut, one hand playfully batting at your arm.

You find yourself grinning like an idiot, the warmth spreading through your chest having very little to do with the alcohol content of the wine and everything to do with the sound of her unbridled joy.

"It’s funny, isn’t it? All those little things we obsessed over back then, thinking they were the most important things in the world." She swirls the wine in her glass, watching the pale liquid catch the light. "Who you sat with at lunch, whether you got picked for the team, if that one person looked at you in the hallway…"

Her voice trails off on that last phrase, and there’s a subtle shift in her tone, a new layer of something… emerging from beneath the playful banter. She takes a breath, then turns to you, her eyes, luminous in the dim light, searching yours. The playful glint is gone.

"Can I… can I tell you something? Something really stupid I used to think back then?"

Your heart gives a little thump. "Of course," you say. "My lips are sealed. And my capacity for judging stupid teenage thoughts is, believe me, at an all-time low, considering my own track record."

She offers a small, grateful smile, then her gaze drops to her wine glass, her fingers tracing the rim. "Okay, well… don’t laugh." A pause, then, so softly you almost miss it, "I… I used to have the biggest crush on you."

Your brain, already pleasantly fuzzy from the wine, seems to stall for a moment, trying to process. Jimin. Had a crush. On you. The fourteen-year-old version of you, the one with the questionable sense of humor and the complete inability to talk to girls he actually liked without sounding like a malfunctioning robot, would have spontaneously combusted from sheer disbelief and elation. Even now, the adult, slightly-more-composed version of you is struggling to keep his jaw from hitting the floor.

She peeks up at you through her lashes, a nervous blush creeping up her neck. "See? Stupid, right? I was so sure you just saw me as, like, your annoying little sister’s best friend, or just… Jimin, the dork who was always around. I used to spend hours overthinking every single thing you said to me, trying to decipher if there was some hidden meaning." She lets out a shaky little laugh. "God, it was exhausting."

You stare at her, a slow, incredulous smile starting to spread across your face. The irony, oh, the beautiful, painful irony of it all. All those years of your own silent, all-consuming crush, your own agonizing over every shared glance, every casual word, thinking she was completely oblivious, completely out of reach.

"Jimin," you begin. You clear your throat. "That’s… wow." You shake your head, a laugh bubbling up, a laugh of pure, unadulterated shock and a strange, retroactive relief. "The only thing 'stupid' about that is that I was doing the exact same goddamn thing."

Her head snaps up, her eyes widening, the blush on her cheeks deepening to a vibrant crimson.

"What?" she breathes. "You… you did? With… with me?"

"With you?" you echo, a wide, disbelieving grin plastered on your face. "Are you kidding? You were all I thought about. I was hopelessly, pathetically gone on you. I just… I figured you were way out of my league. That you only tolerated my presence because we were stuck in the same school and our families knew each other." The confession tumbles out, easy now, liberating, fueled by the wine and the sudden revelation of her own past feelings. It’s like a dam has broken, years of unspoken emotion finally finding their release.

She just stares at you, speechless for a long moment, her wine glass forgotten in her hand. Then, a tiny, incredulous laugh escapes her. "No. Way." She shakes her head slowly, as if trying to rearrange the entire narrative of her teenage years. "All that time? We were both…?"

"Apparently," you confirm, still grinning. "Two oblivious idiots, crushing on each other in silence. We could have written a really angsty, badly plotted teen drama."

She finally lets out a full laugh, leaning back against the sofa, looking utterly flabbergasted but also… lighter. "This is insane. I can’t believe it." Her eyes are shining, and not just from the wine anymore. "You know," she says, her voice regaining some of its earlier playful lilt, though it’s softer now, more intimate, "I used to get so jealous. Back then. If I saw you talking to… to other girls. Especially if they were, you know, prettier, or cooler." She makes a face, a little embarrassed. "It sounds so silly now, but it was true. I’d be all smiles on the outside, but inside, I’d be like, 'How dare she laugh at his stupid jokes? I’m the one who’s supposed to laugh at his stupid jokes!'"

You reach out, without really thinking, and gently touch her arm. "Hey. It wasn't silly. Or if it was, then I was just as silly."

Her gaze meets yours, and there's a warmth, a connection in that look that feels more real, more profound, than anything you've shared in years. She holds your gaze for a long moment, then a shadow crosses her face, her voice drops again, hesitant. "It’s funny… or, not funny, but… I kind of felt that way again. Recently." She looks down at her lap, tracing patterns on her pants with a fingertip. "When I saw you talking with Ning and the others that day in the lounge."

Your heart clenches. You remember that day, her sudden appearance, the tension.

"You all looked like you were having so much fun," she continues, "And they’re all so… bright, and funny, and talented. And for a second, this stupid thought just popped into my head, like… what if you ditch me for them? What if they’re more entertaining, or cooler to be around now? What if… what if I’m not that interesting anymore, compared to them?" She lets out a little, self-deprecating huff of air. "It sounds even dumber saying it out loud."

You gently cup her chin, tilting her face up so she has to look at you.

"Jimin," you say. "Listen to me. There is no one, no one, who could ever make me ditch you. And there is absolutely no one, not Ning, not Giselle, not Winter, not anyone on this entire planet, who is 'cooler' or 'more entertaining' or 'more interesting' than you are to me." You search her eyes, willing her to believe you. "And no one," you add, "no one makes me feel the way I feel when I’m with you. Not then. And definitely not now."

Her eyes search yours, wide and luminous, and you can see the emotions warring within them: surprise, disbelief, and then, slowly, a dawning, fragile hope. A single tear escapes and traces a path down her cheek, and you reach up, your thumb gently brushing it away, your touch lingering on her soft skin for just a heartbeat longer than necessary.

"When… when we met again," she begins, so fragile you have to lean in slightly to catch it. "That day on the street? All those… those old feelings…" She swallows hard, her gaze dropping to her hands, now twisting in her lap. "They just… they came rushing back. All of them. And I thought… I really thought I was over it. Over you." She attempts a small, shaky laugh that doesn't quite land. "So stupid. I’m a grown woman, a K-Pop idol, for crying out loud. I shouldn’t be… I shouldn’t be feeling like a confused teenager all over again just because my childhood crush reappeared."

She tries to continue, her lips parting, but the words seem to catch in her throat. Her brow furrows in frustration, and she shakes her head, a gesture of helpless self-reproach. "I… I can’t even…" Another aborted attempt. She looks up at you, her eyes swimming with unshed tears, a look of utter bewilderment on her face. "I'm sorry," she blurts out. "I don’t even know what I’m talking about anymore. It must be the wine. It’s making me all… emotional and stupid." She gestures vaguely, a hand fluttering near her chest. "I’m probably ruining everything, aren't I? Just… ignore me. I’m being ridiculous." She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, as if trying to physically block out her own chaotic emotions.

And in that instant, watching her so raw, so vulnerable, so utterly terrified of her own feelings (feelings that mirror your own chaotic internal landscape so perfectly) something inside you just… snaps. All the overthinking, all the caution, all the years of unspoken longing, converge into a single, undeniable impulse. The wine, the dim lights, the confessions, her tear-streaked face so close to yours… it’s a perfect storm, and you’re right in the eye of it. To hell with professionalism, to hell with the risks, to hell with everything but the raw, undeniable truth thrumming between you.

Before you can second-guess it, before your internal HR department can scream bloody murder, you lean forward and kiss her.

It’s not a gentle, tentative kiss. It’s clumsy, desperate, fueled by years of pent-up emotion and too much wine. Your lips meet hers, and for a split second, she’s completely still, a statue beneath your sudden onslaught. Her eyes fly open, wide and startled, pupils blown huge in the dim light, reflecting a pure, unadulterated shock. You feel the soft, unexpected give of her lips, the faint taste of wine and something uniquely Jimin, a taste you realize, with a jolt, you’ve been subconsciously craving for more than half your life.

For a horrifying moment, you think you’ve made a monumental mistake. Idiot! You absolute, unmitigated idiot! your brain screams. You’ve broken her! You’ve ruined everything! The irony of her exact words now applying to your actions is not lost on you, even in your panic.

But then, just as you’re about to pull away, to stammer out a mortified apology, something shifts. Her eyelids flutter closed. A tiny, almost inaudible sigh escapes her, a breath she seems to have been holding for a lifetime. And then, slowly, tentatively, she gives in. Her lips soften against yours, responding with a hesitant pressure that builds, her body relaxing slightly against the sofa cushions. The kiss deepens, still a little clumsy, still a little desperate, but now with an undeniable mutuality, a shared exploration of a boundary crossed together.

When you finally, breathlessly, pull apart, the silence in the room is deafening. You stare at her, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. Her eyes are still closed for a moment, her lashes dark against her flushed cheeks. Then they slowly open, and she just… stares back at you, her expression unreadable, dazed, her lips slightly swollen and glistening. You can’t breathe. You can’t think. You can only watch her, bracing for the fallout.

And then, her face crumples. Her lower lip trembles, and her carefully constructed composure shatters completely. A choked sob escapes her, and fat, silent tears begin to stream down her cheeks, unheeded. It’s not the reaction you were hoping for. It’s definitely not the reaction you were hoping for.

"Oh, god, Jimin, I…" Panic, cold and sharp, seizes you. You have ruined it. "I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have… I just… I’m an idiot. Please, don’t cry. I’m so, so sorry." The words tumble out, a frantic, jumbled apology.

She shakes her head, swiping at her tears with the back of her hand, though more quickly follow. "No," she whispers. "No, it’s… it’s okay." And then, to your utter astonishment, she launches herself at you, her arms wrapping around your neck, burying her face in your shoulder, her body trembling with silent sobs. You instinctively wrap your arms around her, holding her close, your mind reeling.

"I… I liked it," she mumbles into your shirt, her voice muffled but audible. "I really did." She pulls back just enough to look at you, her eyes red-rimmed but shining with a confusing mix of emotions. "It’s just… it’s all… it’s a lot. Everything. All at once. Coming back. I feel… I feel kind of weird." She lets out another shaky laugh that sounds more like a sob. "Overwhelmed, I guess."

Fuck. She liked it. She actually liked it. You haven't irrevocably destroyed your friendship, your job, and your chances of ever experiencing joy again. Small victories. You gently shift on the plush sofa, pulling her more fully into your embrace until she’s settled somewhat in your lap, her side tucked against your chest. It feels incredibly intimate, yet also profoundly comforting. You rest your cheek against the top of her head, her hair soft against your skin, smelling faintly of her shampoo. After a few long minutes, her trembling stops. She lets out a deep, shuddering sigh and slowly lifts her head from your shoulder. Her eyes are still puffy, her cheeks tear-stained, but there’s a new calmness in her expression, a fragile sort of peace. She looks at you, her gaze soft and searching.

Then, a small, watery smile touches her lips. She reaches up, her hand, so small and delicate, coming to rest on your cheek. Her thumb gently strokes your skin.

"You know," she whispers. "for someone who claims to be an idiot…" Her smile widens, a genuine, almost dazzling Jimin-smile breaking through the tear-stained landscape of her face. "You’re not always wrong."

And then, before you can even process that, before you can form a coherent thought or even remember how to breathe properly, she leans in, her eyes fluttering closed, and kisses you.

This time, there’s no surprise, no hesitation. It’s a kiss that is both a question and an answer, a culmination and a beginning. It’s soft, tender, yet filled with an undercurrent of all those years of unspoken feelings, of rediscovered emotions, of the undeniable, terrifying, exhilarating truth that is thrumming between you. It’s a kiss that tastes of wine, and tears, and a hope so potent it makes your head spin.

When she pulls back, her eyes are galaxies, dark and swirling with emotion, a universe you’re only just beginning to navigate. A delighted, slightly breathless giggle escapes her, then you’re laughing too, a shared, giddy sound that bounces off the walls of her apartment.

"Wow," she whispers, her fingers tracing the line of your jaw. "This… this really happened, didn't it?" Her eyes search yours, looking for confirmation in a world that suddenly feels wonderfully, terrifyingly new.

"It really, really did," you affirm. The air between you is no longer just charged; it’s practically incandescent, thrumming with a potent energy that makes the hairs on your arms stand on end. The earlier nervousness hasn’t vanished, but it’s been transmuted into something else. She leans her forehead against yours for a moment, just breathing, then pulls back slightly, her eyes alight.

Her fingers, still feather-light against your skin, drift down from your jaw to the collar of your shirt. She toys with the fabric, a slow, deliberate movement, her gaze fixed on yours. The city lights outside paint her in hues of gold and shadow, making her look even more ethereal, more achingly beautiful.

"You know," she says, "you haven't, uh… you haven't seen my room yet." Her eyes flick towards a hallway leading off the main living area, then back to yours.

Your own breath hitches. You try to swallow, your throat suddenly dry. "No, I haven't," you manage. You search her eyes, needing to be absolutely sure. "Would you… would you like to show me?"

A slow, devastatingly beautiful smile spreads across her face. It’s a smile of pure, unadulterated desire, mixed with a touch of that endearing shyness that still clings to her, even now. "Yes," she breathes. "Yes, I really would."

That’s all the confirmation you need. In one fluid movement you lean forward, sliding one arm beneath her knees, the other around her back. You lift her effortlessly from the sofa, her gasp of surprise quickly turning into a delighted laugh as she instinctively wraps her arms around your neck, her legs around your waist. She feels impossibly light, yet incredibly solid in your arms, a perfect, intoxicating weight. And then you’re kissing her again, deeply, hungrily, the earlier tenderness now ignited with a fiercer, more demanding passion.

"Which way?" you murmur against her mouth, your lips still brushing hers.

"That way," she whispers, gesturing with a slight tilt of her head down the hallway, never breaking the kiss, her fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you closer.

You carry her through the apartment, your steps sure and steady despite the roaring in your ears and the way your heart is trying to beat its way out of your chest. Each step feels monumental, a journey into uncharted territory. She guides you with soft murmurs and the pressure of her body against yours, her kisses becoming more urgent, more demanding, her breath coming in soft, quick gasps against your skin.

Her bedroom is at the end of the hall. She reaches out a hand, fumbling for the doorknob, then pushes it open. You step inside, and the world seems to tilt again. The room is bathed in a soft, ambient glow from the city outside, filtered through sheer curtains, creating an atmosphere that is both intimate and dreamlike. It’s perfect.

You carry her over to the bed, your lips still locked with hers, a desperate, continuous kiss that speaks of years of unspoken longing. Gently, reverently, you lower her onto the soft duvet, following her down, bracing yourself on your hands on either side of her head. You break the kiss, just for a moment, to gaze down at her. Her eyes are dark and dilated, her lips swollen and flushed from your kisses, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She is, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing you have ever seen.

"God, Jimin," you breathe. You lower your head, burying your face in the soft skin of her neck, inhaling her scent, feeling the frantic pulse throbbing beneath your lips. "You are so unbelievably beautiful." You kiss the delicate curve where her neck meets her shoulder, then trail a line of slow, deliberate kisses up towards her ear. "The most beautiful girl in the world," you whisper, your lips brushing her earlobe. "You always have been. Always."

A soft, shuddering moan escapes her as you continue your exploration, your lips and tongue tracing patterns on her sensitive skin, tasting the salt and sweetness of her. Her breathing becomes more irregular, deeper, her fingers tightening in your hair, her hips starting to shift restlessly beneath you. You feel her arch into your touch, a silent plea for more.

Your hands, which have been resting on the bed beside her, begin their own exploration. They find the hem of her soft, oversized sweater, your fingers brushing against the warm, pale skin of her stomach beneath it. Her skin is like silk, radiating a heat that sets your own nerves on fire. You tug at the sweater gently, slowly, agonizingly, your eyes locked on hers, watching her reaction. Her eyelids are heavy, her lips parted, a look of pure, unadulterated anticipation on her face. With a final, deliberate pull, you slide the sweater up and over her head, tossing it carelessly aside.

And there they are.

Her breasts, even constrained by the delicate lace of her bra, are undeniably magnificent. Full, heavy, spilling slightly from the cups, their pale, creamy expanse a stark, breathtaking contrast to the dark fabric. You can see the gentle slope, the promise of their weight. Your own breath hitches in your throat. This is the reality of Karina, of Jimin, laid bare before you, a sight you’ve only dared to dream of in your most secret, most forbidden fantasies.

You take off your shoes, kicking them aside, never taking your eyes off her. As you reach for the hem of your own shirt, your fingers fumbling with the buttons in your haste, you see her hands move to her back. With a deft, practiced movement, she unhooks her bra. She holds it in place for a moment longer, her gaze locking with yours, a shy, almost vulnerable smile playing on her lips.

"I… I hope you like them," she whispers.

Then, with a deep breath, she lets the bra fall away.

Your world stops. Absolutely, irrevocably stops. Her breasts are… perfect. More than perfect. They are everything you've ever imagined, and so much more. They are large, gloriously full, spilling into her hands as she cups them for a moment, as if presenting a sacred offering. The skin is so pale it seems almost luminous in the dim light, smooth and flawless, save for the faint blue veins tracing delicate patterns just beneath the surface, hinting at the life and warmth within. Her areolas are a dusky rose, wide and perfectly formed, and at their centers, her nipples, a deeper, more insistent pink, are already hard and erect, puckered tight, practically begging for your touch, for your mouth. They look so incredibly soft, so utterly… juicy, for lack of a better, more reverent word.

You’re mesmerized, completely transfixed, your throat dry, your mind blissfully, wonderfully blank save for the overwhelming, primal need to touch, to taste, to worship. After what feels like an eternity, but is probably only a few seconds, you slowly reach out a trembling hand. Your fingers make contact with the warm, yielding softness of her right breast. She gasps softly as you cup its weight, your thumb brushing over the taut, sensitive peak of her nipple. So warm. So unbelievably soft. You gently squeeze, a possessive, reverent pressure, and a low moan rumbles in her chest, vibrating against your palm.

She lies back fully on the bed then, her arms stretching above her head, her body an open, trusting invitation. You quickly shed your shirt, your movements urgent, driven by a desire that is rapidly consuming every last shred of your self-control. You climb onto the bed, positioning yourself above her, your knees on either side of her hips, your gaze still fixed on the breathtaking sight of her bare, beautiful breasts.

And then, you lower your head and take one of those perfect, pink nipples into your mouth.

She cries out, a sharp, breathless sound that is pure, unadulterated pleasure, her back arching off the bed, her fingers digging into your shoulders. Her breast fills your mouth, the taste of her skin, salty and sweet, intoxicating. You suck gently at first, then more strongly, your tongue laving, teasing, drawing the hardened peak deeper. She is melting beneath you, writhing, her hips starting to buck a little, a silent plea for more.

"Oh, god," she gasps. "Yes… fuck, yes… right there… they’re so… so sensitive…" Her words are broken, punctuated by moans and sharp intakes of breath. "Please… don’t stop… keep going… it’s… it’s making me so fucking horny…"

You shift your attention to her other breast, giving it the same devoted worship, laving, sucking, gently nipping, while your hand continues to squeeze and caress the one you just abandoned, ensuring both are bathed in sensation. You can feel the frantic thrumming of her heart against your chest, the heat radiating from her skin, the way her entire body is trembling, on the verge of completely unraveling. You lift your head for a moment, just to look at her, at the sight of her, utterly consumed by lust, her eyes half-closed, her lips parted, her beautiful breasts flushed and glistening from your attention. This is Jimin. This is Karina. And she is yours, in this moment, completely and utterly yours to worship, to pleasure, to drive absolutely insane.

You continue your worship of her breasts, alternating between them, lavishing each with an equal, fervent devotion. One hand cradles the breast you’re not currently feasting on, your thumb flicking, teasing the already hard nipple, while your mouth works its magic on its twin. You suck strongly, drawing the peak deep, feeling the responsive tug in her body, the way her hips tilt upwards, seeking a friction that isn’t there yet.

"Fuck, yes," she pants, her fingers still tangled in your hair, now gripping, almost painfully tight, but you welcome the anchor in the storm of sensation you’re both caught in. "They’re so… oh god… so good… your mouth…"

You lift your head for a moment, your lips slick, your gaze devouring the sight of her: her chest flushed a deep rose, her nipples impossibly tight, glistening with your saliva, already looking delightfully, beautifully ravaged.

"Yours are the best, Jimin," you growl. "Perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect. I could suck on these gorgeous tits all night."

A choked laugh, half sob, half pure ecstasy, bubbles from her throat. "Please do… God, yes… you suck so fucking well…"

You dive back in, attacking her nipples with renewed ferocity, sucking, licking, nipping gently with your teeth, drawing out her moans. You leave your marks, faint red circles blooming on her pale skin where your lips have been. Her breasts are indeed glistening, slick with your drool and her own faint sheen of sweat. She’s thrashing beneath you now, no longer trying to control her reactions, her head tossing from side to side on the pillows, her breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. Each pull of your mouth seems to send shivers racking through her entire frame.

Slowly, reluctantly, you drag your mouth away from her sensitive breasts, leaving them flushed, swollen, and thoroughly worshipped. Her soft whimper of protest is cut short as you begin to trail a line of hot, open-mouthed kisses down the center of her torso, over the subtle curve of her ribcage, across the quivering expanse of her flat, pale stomach. Each kiss is deliberate, lingering, your tongue flicking out to taste her skin. You feel the muscles in her abdomen clench and flutter beneath your lips.

"Don’t stop," she whispers, her hands now gripping the bedsheets on either side of her. "Please… whatever you’re doing… just… more."

You continue your downward pilgrimage, your lips brushing against the waistband of her lounge pants. They’re soft, loose-fitting, and offer little resistance as your fingers find the drawstring. With a deft tug, you loosen it, then slowly, agonizingly slowly, begin to slide the fabric down her hips, revealing the delicate curve of her hipbone, the smooth, pale skin of her thighs. Your hands skim down her legs, pushing the pants further, until they’re pooled around her ankles. You kick them impatiently off the end of the bed, your gaze fixed on the prize they were concealing.

Her panties. A tiny scrap of pale pink lace, stretched taut across the apex of her thighs, already dark with her wetness. Her thighs, usually so strong and toned from years of dancing, are trembling uncontrollably now, a fine sheen of moisture glistening on their pale inner surfaces. The musky scent of her arousal is stronger here. You can practically feel the heat radiating from between her legs.

"Look at you," you murmur as you trail your fingers along the damp lace, feeling the heat and moisture seeping through. "So wet for me already, aren’t you, babe? Fucking dripping."

A broken sob escapes her. "Yes… oh god, yes… please… I need…" She can’t even finish the sentence, her body arching, her hips instinctively grinding against the mattress.

You pull the panties down, slowly, inch by agonizing inch, revealing her to your hungry gaze.

And she is, as you knew she would be, perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect. Her shaved pussy is nestled between her thighs, a delicate, swollen mound. The outer lips are plump, flushed a deep, inviting pink, already glistening with her slick, arousal-heavy dew. They part slightly as you watch, revealing the even pinker, more tender flesh within, and the glint of her clit, a tiny, perfect pearl peeking out, already engorged and throbbing. This is the core of her, the secret, hidden place you’ve only ever dreamed of, now laid bare for your worship.

You shift your position, moving from beside her to kneel between her parted thighs. They tremble slightly as you settle there, and she lets out a shaky breath, her eyes, dark and wide, fixed on yours. There’s a beautiful, terrifying vulnerability in her gaze, a silent plea that makes your cock ache with an almost painful intensity. But you’re not going to rush this. Oh no. This moment, this offering, is too precious, too long-awaited. She needs to feel every second of this descent into pleasure, every nuance of her own burgeoning, desperate need. You’re going to make her burn for it. You’re going to make her beg.

"You are so fucking beautiful, Jimin," you murmur. Your gaze drops from her eyes to the glistening treasure nestled between her thighs, then deliberately, slowly, travels to the pale, trembling skin of her inner thigh. "So incredibly, exquisitely responsive."

Instead of diving straight for her pussy, as every instinct screams at you to do, you lean down and press a soft, lingering kiss to the delicate skin high on her inner left thigh, just inches from that wet, waiting heat. She gasps, her whole body jerking, her thighs instinctively trying to clench together, but you gently hold them apart, your hands firm but gentle on her hips.

"Easy now," you whisper against her skin, your breath hot. "Don't want to miss any of this, do we?"

You trail another kiss, then another, working your way in a slow, agonizing circle around that central, beckoning core, never quite touching it, but always promising it. Your tongue darts out, tasting the faint saltiness of her skin, the faintest hint of her arousal that has already slicked even this far out. With each kiss, each lick against her thigh, you feel her tremors intensify. Her fingers are fisted in the bedsheets, her knuckles white.

"What… what are you doing?" she pants. "Please… you’re… you’re driving me crazy."

"Am I, babe?" you purr, your lips brushing the impossibly soft skin just beside one of her swollen, pink outer lips. You can smell her now, that rich, musky, uniquely feminine scent of pure, unadulterated horniness, and it’s making you lightheaded, drunk on her desire. "Driving you crazy how? Tell me." You dip your tongue out again, this time lapping up a stray droplet of her slick wetness that has trickled onto her thigh. Her taste… fuck, it’s even better than you imagined. Sweet, tangy, utterly addictive. You groan softly into her skin. "Oh, you taste so fucking good right here… just a hint of what’s waiting for me."

"Please…" she begs. "Don’t… don’t tease me like this. I can’t… I can’t take it." Her hips are starting to move now, a small, involuntary rocking motion, trying to seek out the pressure of your mouth.

"Can't take what, Jimin?" you ask. You drag your open mouth slowly up her inner thigh, leaving a wet trail, then switch to the other, lavishing it with the same agonizingly slow attention. You can feel the heat pouring off her in waves. "You need to tell me what you want. Use your words, baby. You want me to stop?" You deliberately pull back a fraction of an inch, letting the cool air hit her heated skin, and she whimpers, a raw, frustrated sound.

"No! No, don’t stop, please, whatever you do, don’t stop," she cries. "I want… I want your mouth. There. Please. I need it. I’m so wet for you, can’t you feel it? Can’t you taste it?" Her words are a torrent now, the carefully constructed composure of Karina completely shattered, leaving only the raw, needy core of Jimin. "I’m aching… I’m fucking aching for your tongue, please… just… just eat me out. Suck my clit. Please, I’m begging you."

Her plea is music to your ears. She’s so close, so desperate. But you’re not quite done with her yet. You want her utterly, completely undone.

"Beg me how, sweet girl?" you murmur, your lips now hovering directly over her glistening, swollen clit, your hot breath fanning the sensitive nub. She gasps, her whole body seizing. "Tell me how badly you need it. Tell me what a good girl you’ll be if I finally give you what you’re craving. Convince me." The strategic irony here is that you're already convinced, already harder than you've ever been in your life, but the game, the sight of her unraveling at your command, It's the best feeling in the world.

"I’ll be so good," she sobs, her thighs trembling violently now, threatening to clamp shut around your head. "So fucking good for you. I’ll do anything. Anything you want. Just please… please put your mouth on me. I’m dying here. I need to feel your tongue… I need you to make me cum… I’m so close… Please, babe, suck me… suck me like you mean it…"

Her words, that broken, desperate plea to be eaten out, are the only permission you need. You lower your head, your hair brushing against the pale skin of her inner thighs, and finally, finally, you give in. You press your mouth fully against her, parting her slick, swollen lips with your own, and your tongue finds her clit. A sound is torn from her throat, a high, sharp keen that’s half shock and half pure, unadulterated pleasure. Her entire body jolts as if struck by lightning, her hips slamming upwards into your face in a single, convulsive movement. The taste of her floods your senses, and it's everything. It’s not just the sweet, tangy flavor of her arousal you'd already sampled from her thighs; it's deeper, muskier, the very essence of her, and it's intoxicating.

You're instantly, hopelessly addicted. You begin slowly, a reverent worship. Your tongue is soft, exploratory, lapping at her gently, learning the landscape of her. You trace the delicate shape of her outer lips, then dip inside to swirl around the plump, sensitive inner folds before focusing on that hardened pearl of her clit.

"Oh, god..." she breathes, her hands flying up to tangle in your hair, not pulling, just holding on as if she might float away. "Yes... that's..."

You hum against her, a low, deep vibration that you feel travel through her entire body. She lets out another soft cry. Her muscles are still coiled with tension, but it's the tension of overwhelming sensation, not desperation. She is melting, and you are the cause.

"Just relax for me, baby," you murmur against her slick flesh. "Just let me taste you. You're so perfect."

You settle in, continuing the slow, deliberate worship. For long minutes, this is all that exists: the sound of your mouth against her, her soft, breathy moans, and the rich, intoxicating taste of her on your tongue. Her hips are no longer bucking but have settled into a slow, swaying rhythm, rocking against your mouth in time with the gentle lapping of your tongue. She has given you control, and you intend to savor it. You can feel the change when her body becomes fully accustomed to the pleasure, when the slow worship is no longer enough. Her gentle sways become more insistent, her breath hitches with a new need, and her fingers tighten in your hair, this time with a subtle, pleading tug. She wants more. And you are going to make her beg for it.

You shift your technique, beginning the torture. You pull your mouth away from her clit, trailing your tongue down along the slick valley between her labia. She whimpers in protest, her hips pushing up, seeking the focused pressure you just denied her.

"Shhh," you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to one of her swollen inner lips. "So much to taste here. Can't rush."

You proceed to lavish attention on every other part of her, everywhere but the one place she is dying for you to be. You lick the plump flesh of her lips, suck gently on the inner folds, your tongue darting out to trace the rim of her opening, dipping just the very tip inside before pulling away. With every near-miss, a frustrated cry is torn from her throat.

"Please..." she pants, her hips rocking more frantically now. "Please... you're... you're driving me crazy. My clit... I need you there."

"Here?" you ask. You flick your tongue directly over the sensitive nub one time, fast and hard. She yelps, her whole body convulsing. Then you pull away again, moving to trace lazy circles on the sensitive skin around her. "You liked that, didn't you? Tell me how much you liked it."

"Yes! Fuck, yes, I loved it," she sobs. "Please, do it again. Don't tease me... I can't take it. Just... just suck it, please."

"Beg me," you command softly, your hot breath ghosting over her clit, making her shiver. "Tell me exactly what you want my mouth to do to you. I want to hear how desperate you are for it."

She’s a mess, completely undone by your teasing. "I'm so desperate for you," she cries, her words tumbling over each other. "I need your tongue on my clit. I need you to suck on it, hard. Lick me until I can't think. Please, I'm begging you. I'll do anything. Just go back there. I feel like I'm going to die if you don't."

Her plea is everything you wanted. You slide your mouth back over her, but instead of the hard pressure she's begging for, you give her the opposite. You open your mouth wide, your tongue flat, and you just... lick. Long, slow, deliberate strokes from the base of her mound, up over her clit, all the way to her perineum, and back down again. It’s a broad, wet, agonizingly gentle sensation.

"No..." she groans, a sound of pure frustration. "Harder... please, you have to do it harder."

"I don't have to do anything, baby," you murmur, continuing the slow, torturous laps. "I'm in control here. You'll take it how I give it to you. And right now, I want to feel you squirm."

She thrashes beneath you, so close to the edge but held back by your deliberate restraint. Her nails are digging into your scalp now, not painfully, but with a frantic urgency. It’s time to escalate. It's time to break her completely. While continuing the slow, steady rhythm of your tongue, you slide one hand down between her thighs. Her skin is flushed and hot to the touch. Your fingers find her entrance, already slick and gaping, practically weeping with need. You slide one finger inside her.

She screams, a raw, ragged sound, as the new sensation of being filled sends a fresh shockwave through her system. She’s so tight, so hot, clenching around your finger instantly. You push your finger deeper, feeling the texture of her inner walls, the way she convulses around you.

"That's it, Jimin," you praise, your voice muffled against her. "Take my finger. Feel how wet you are? Fucking dripping for me."

Now you change the rhythm of your tongue, finally giving her the focused attention she craved. You suck her clit into your mouth, your tongue working fast and hard, while your finger inside her establishes a steady in-and-out rhythm. The dual sensations are too much. She is completely lost.

"Fuck! Yes, both..." she gasps. "It's… it's too much… I'm going to…"

You add a second finger, stretching her, filling her more completely. She cries out again, her back arching so high off the bed it's a perfect, strained bow. Her pussy milks your fingers, slick and greedy. You can feel the muscles deep inside her starting to flutter, the tell-tale sign that her orgasm is gathering strength.

"You feel that, baby?" you ask, curling your fingers inside her, rubbing them against the nub of her g-spot. "My tongue on your clit, my fingers deep in your cunt. Does that feel good?"

"So good!" she screams. "It feels so fucking good! I'm so close, don't stop, please, please don't stop!"

You are her entire world now. She is aware of nothing but your mouth and your fingers, driving her towards the abyss. You increase the pace of everything. Your tongue is a frantic engine on her clit, sucking, flicking, laving. Your fingers pump in and out of her relentlessly. You can feel the final tension coiling in her body, a string stretched to its breaking point. Her breath comes in short, sharp gasps, and her moans have become a single, continuous, high-pitched keen.

"I'm going to make you come so hard, Jimin," you growl into her. "You're going to scream my name. Get ready."

You feel it start, the first deep, internal clench around your fingers. Her entire body goes rigid.

"I'm cumming! Oh fuck, I'm cumming! I'm cummmmming!"

Her scream is primal as her orgasm rips through her, a violent, world-shattering release. Her body convulses, her hips slamming up against your mouth in a desperate, uncontrollable rhythm. Her juices gush out of her, hot and thick, flooding your mouth with the sweet, musky taste of her release. You swallow greedily, catching every single drop as her body is wracked by wave after wave of intense pleasure. You don't stop your ministrations, gentling your touch now, your tongue soothing her hypersensitive clit, your fingers massaging her inner walls as the aftershocks ripple through her.

Slowly, her body goes limp, collapsing back onto the mattress. She’s trembling from head to toe, her chest rising and falling in deep, ragged pants. Her eyes are squeezed shut, tears leaking from the corners, her face flushed a deep crimson. You finally lift your head, your chin and lips slick with her, and look at the masterpiece of your work.

You lean down, capturing her mouth in a soft, lingering kiss. It’s a stark contrast to the hungry, desperate kisses you shared before. This one is tender. She moans softly into your mouth, and you taste it: the lingering, musky sweetness of her own climax. She tastes it too, a jolt going through her body as she recognizes herself on your tongue. A faint blush rises on her already flushed cheeks, a mix of shy embarrassment and burgeoning arousal.

You pull back just enough to gaze down at her. Her hair is a wild halo around her head, her lips are swollen, her eyes are still dazed and beautifully unfocused. She is the most magnificent thing you have ever seen.

"You look so beautiful like this," you say. "Completely undone for me."

"You're an asshole," she whispers, but there’s no heat in it, only a deep, lingering pleasure. "Don't you ever tease me like that again." As she says it, she shifts, leaning up just enough to press her teeth against the side of your neck in a playful, possessive bite. It’s not hard, just a firm pressure.

You chuckle, then pepper her cheeks with soft kisses. "I'm sorry," you say, not sounding sorry at all. "I couldn't help it." You lean in close, your lips brushing her ear. "Hearing you beg for me, Jimin… hearing you lose control and tell me how much you needed it… it makes me fucking crazy. It’s addictive. I don't think I'll ever get enough of it."

Her breath hitches. Your words, your confession that her submission drives you wild, are exactly what she needs to hear. As you pull back, her eyes, now clear and focused, glitter with a new, dangerous kind of light. Her hand slides from your cheek, down your chest, over your stomach, coming to rest directly on the hard ridge of your cock through the denim of your jeans. Her fingers close around you, a firm, knowing grip that makes you hiss through your teeth. She squeezes, feeling the full, thick length of your cock straining against the fabric.

A slow, devastatingly confident smile spreads across her face. "Addictive, huh?" she purrs, her voice regaining its strength. "I can beg for a lot more than that." Her gaze drops from your eyes to your crotch, then back up, her expression pure, unadulterated hunger. "And right now," she says, her grip tightening, "I really, really want your cock."

Her words are a command and a plea all in one. Without another word, you pull away from her, getting off the bed. Her eyes are wide, tracking your every move as you reach for the button on your jeans. You undo it, the sound loud in the quiet room, then slowly pull down the zipper. You never break eye contact. You hook your thumbs into the waistband and push the jeans down over your hips, kicking them off impatiently.

Now you stand before her in just your dark boxer briefs. The fabric does little to hide the truth, straining to contain the thick, heavy bulge of your erection. You see her eyes fixate on it, her lips parting slightly. A sharp intake of breath is the only sound she makes. She is, as you suspected, absolutely captivated.

You hook your thumbs into the waistband of your underwear. "You wanted this, remember?" you ask. You drag the fabric down slowly, inch by agonizing inch, until your cock springs free, heavy and thick in the dim light.

Jimin lets out a long, shuddering sigh. It’s a sound of pure awe. Your cock is fully hard, glistening with a bead of clear, slick precum. It’s big, bigger than she probably imagined, and her eyes trace its length, from the heavy weight of your balls to the thick shaft and the promising, wet tip.

You don't give her too long to just look. You move back to the bed, climbing on and positioning yourself between her parted legs. They tremble slightly as you settle in, her thighs falling open to grant you full access. She's still so beautifully wrecked, so open and waiting for you. You take your cock in your hand, stroking it slowly, the pre-cum making your skin slick. You want her to watch. You want her to see exactly what is about to fill that empty, aching space inside her.

"Wait," you say. The thought hits you, a brief flash of real-world responsibility in this haze of lust. "Condoms. We should..."

"No," she says immediately, her voice firm, cutting you off. She shakes her head, her eyes blazing with a fierce, undeniable need. "No. I don't care about that right now. I need to feel you. All of you. I just want to feel your dick inside me. Now."

You hesitate, searching her face. "Jimin, are you sure?"

"Yes," she moans. Her hips arch off the bed, a desperate, silent invitation. "Please. I'm on birth control. Just… please, I need it. Don't make me wait anymore."

That's all you need. Her certainty, her raw need, erases any doubt. But you’re not going to let her off that easy. The teasing isn't over yet. You lean forward, bracing your hands on either side of her head, and lower your body until the tip of your cock is pressed against her. She gasps as the heat of you makes contact with her slick, swollen folds. She is unbelievably wet, her juices from her earlier orgasm making a perfect lubricant.

"So wet for me," you murmur, grinding the head of your cock against her clit. "You want this cock so badly, don't you?"

"Yes! Please, just put it in," she begs, her hands fisted in the bedsheets.

You ignore her plea, continuing the agonizing tease. You slide the head of your cock up and down her slit, gliding through her slickness, letting her feel your thickness, your hardness, but denying her the entry she craves. With every pass, she whimpers, her body straining, trying to force you inside her.

"Look at you," you whisper. "Trying to impale yourself on my cock. You can't wait, can you?"

"I can't," she sobs. "It feels so good… just the tip… please, I need to feel all of it. I need you to stretch me. Fill me up."

"Then you know what you have to do," you say, pausing your movements, holding the head of your cock right at her entrance, a promise and a threat. "Beg for it. Beg me to fuck your tight, wet pussy. Tell me how much you need this cock inside you."

"Please," she cries. "Please fuck me. I'm begging you. I need your cock. I need it inside my pussy right now. Please, I'll be so good for you, just fuck me!"

Her desperate, broken plea is the most beautiful sound you've ever heard. "Good girl," you praise.

And then you give her what she's begged for. You shift your hips, aiming the thick head of your cock at her entrance.

You push.

The feeling is indescribable. You stop, buried deep inside her, and the world just… ceases to exist. There is only this. The sensation is overwhelming, a sensory overload that shorts out every coherent thought in your brain. Her pussy is a revelation. It’s impossibly tight, a velvet clench around your entire length, gripping you with an intimate pressure that’s both demanding and welcoming. It’s slick, her juices coating your cock in a hot, wet sheen that makes every tiny shift an act of pure friction and pleasure. And it’s so, so hot, a deep, internal heat that feels like it’s seeping right into your bones.

Jimin lets out a choked, shuddering gasp, her eyes squeezed shut as her body tries to process the feeling of being so completely and utterly filled like this. Her inner walls pulse and clench around you, an involuntary, welcoming spasm that nearly makes you come right then and there. You have to clench every muscle in your body to hold back.

"Fuck, Jimin..." you groan. "You feel... I don't even have words. You feel so fucking perfect."

"You're so big," she whispers, her voice trembling. Her hands come up to rest on your chest, her fingers pressing into your skin. "You... you fill me up completely. I can feel you all the way inside me."

"I want to feel every inch of you," you say. You begin to move, but not in the hard, fast way you're both craving. Not yet. You pull back, agonizingly slowly, until just the thick head of your cock is inside her. She whimpers, a raw sound of protest at the loss, her hips lifting instinctively to follow you. Then, just as slowly, you push back in, letting her feel the full length of you sliding home once more.

"Oh, god," she moans, her head tossing on the pillows. "That... that feels..."

"I know," you say, continuing the slow, torturous rhythm. In and out. A deep, deliberate friction that is designed to let both of you savor every millimeter of contact. "I want you to feel all of it. Every time I slide into your tight, wet pussy. I want you to remember this feeling forever."

You do this for what feels like an eternity, just fucking her slowly, deeply, letting the tension build to a fever pitch. Her initial awe begins to melt away, replaced by a raw, hungry lust. Her hips are no longer just receiving you; she’s starting to push back, meeting your slow thrusts with an eagerness that makes your blood run hot. She’s ready.

"Okay, baby," you rasp, grabbing her hips firmly, your thumbs digging into the soft flesh above her hipbones. "You wanted this. Now you're going to get it."

You change the rhythm. Your thrusts become hard, deep, and punishing. You slam into her, your cock slapping against her wet folds, the sound of your bodies colliding echoing in the quiet room. You fuck her with a desperate, pent-up energy, each thrust driving you deeper, stretching her, filling her completely.

And she loves it. She cries out with every powerful slam of your hips, her legs wrapping around your waist to pull you even deeper. Her head is thrown back, her neck arched, a long, continuous moan spilling from her parted lips. This is what you’ve both been waiting for.

You watch her as you fuck her, your gaze devouring the sight of her. And her breasts… fuck, her breasts are perfect. With every hard thrust, they bounce, a heavy, hypnotic jiggle that mesmerizes you. They are large and full, their weight made obvious by the way they sway and tremble with the force of your fucking. Her nipples, still hard and puckered from your earlier attention, are a deep, flushed pink, pointing right at you as if in offering.

"Look at them," you pant, your voice strained with effort and lust. "Look at your perfect tits bouncing for me. Every time I fuck you."

She glances down, a dazed, lust-filled smile spreading across her face as she watches the motion. "Fuck..." she breathes. "They're… they're so heavy…"

"I love how they move," you say, never breaking your rhythm. "I want to see them bounce harder."

You increase your pace, pounding into her with a relentless, frantic energy. You’re lost in it now, lost in the feeling of her tight, wet heat, the sight of her beautiful body taking you, the sound of her cries filling the air.

"More!" she screams. "Please, don't stop! Fuck me harder! I need it harder!"

"Like this, baby?" you growl, slamming into her with as much force as you can muster. "You want your pussy fucked like this?"

"Yes! Oh god, yes!" she cries, her nails digging into your back, leaving fiery trails on your skin. "Your cock… it feels so fucking good inside me! It's hitting everything! Please… don't ever stop!"

You are both drenched in sweat, your bodies slick, moving together as one. You lean down, fucking her senseless, and she is taking every inch, begging for more. You press her deeper into the soft mattress, your combined weight creating a perfect hollow of heat and friction. You are buried inside her, a seamless join of wet, hot flesh, and yet you crave more. You need to consume her, to taste her, to feel her surrender in every way possible. You capture her lips, crashing your mouth against hers again. It’s not a tender kiss; it’s a rough, hungry claiming. It’s the kiss of two people who have starved for years and just found a feast.

She kisses you back with an equal, startling fervor. This isn’t a passive acceptance; it’s a demand. Her tongue pushes against yours, her hands leaving your back to tangle in your hair, pulling your mouth harder against hers. You are both lost in it, fucking and kissing, a closed circuit of overwhelming sensation. The deep, rhythmic plunge of your cock into her pussy is punctuated by the wet slap of your mouths, the soft, desperate moans she makes when you deepen the kiss, the guttural groans you can’t hold back when she sucks your tongue into her mouth. It’s filthy, it’s perfect, and it’s driving you both insane.

But it’s still not enough. You break the kiss, leaving her panting and breathless, her lips swollen and glistening. You look down at her, at the magnificent sight of her breasts, flushed and trembling with each powerful thrust of your hips. You need to taste them again. While maintaining the relentless, pounding rhythm of your fucking, you lower your head. Her skin is slick with a fine sheen of sweat, and it tastes salty and sweet as you lick a path from her collarbone down to the valley between her breasts.

"God, you're so beautiful," you rasp, your lips moving against her skin. "So fucking perfect."

You reach the peak of her right breast and take the nipple into your mouth. She screams, a high, sharp sound of pure ecstasy. The dual stimulation; the deep, stretching fullness of your cock filling her pussy while your mouth works its magic on her sensitive nipple: is too much for her nervous system to handle. Her back arches violently off the bed, trying to push herself deeper onto your cock and, somehow, press her breast harder into your mouth at the same time. You suck strongly, laving the hardened peak with your tongue, nipping gently with your teeth. Her moans change, deepening from pleasured cries into long, keening wails.

"Fuck! Oh, fuck, yes!" she gashes. "That… your mouth… while you're… inside me… it's too much! I can't…"

You switch to the other breast, giving it the same devoted attention, refusing to let either feel neglected. You feel the frantic thrumming of her heart against your chest, the way her entire body is trembling on the verge of completely unraveling. You continue to fuck her hard and fast, your hips a relentless engine of pleasure, your mouth a vortex of sensation on her breast. She is being attacked from all sides, besieged by a pleasure so intense it’s a breath away from pain.

"Please," she sobs. "Please, I need to… I need to cum. You have to let me."

You lift your head from her breast, your lips slick, and look her in the eyes. Her gaze is wild, unfocused, pupils blown wide. "You want to cum for me, baby?" you ask, not slowing your pace for a second. You drive into her, hard, and she cries out. "You want to feel my cock deep inside your pussy when you come?"

"Yes! Yes, please, I'm begging you!" she cries, her hips bucking wildly, trying to match your frantic rhythm. "I can't hold on anymore. It's so good… it's too good. Please, make me cum. Fuck me until I cum."

This is it. This is the surrender you crave, the sound you are addicted to. Her begging is the sweetest music you’ve ever heard. You lean in close, your mouth right next to her ear, your hot breath ghosting over her skin. You can feel the fine hairs on her neck stand on end.

"You're so close, aren't you?" you whisper. You feel her shiver violently. "I can feel your pussy clenching around my cock. It's getting tighter. You're about to fall apart for me."

"I am," she whimpers, turning her head, trying to capture your mouth with hers, but you deny her, wanting her to focus on your words, on your cock filling her. "Please… let me. Let me go."

"Then go," you command, grabbing her hips, lifting them slightly to change the angle, driving your cock into a spot deep inside her that makes her see stars. She lets out a sound you’ve never heard before, a raw, animalistic cry of pure sensation. "Let go for me, Jimin. Come for me. I want to feel you come all over my cock. I want to feel your pussy milk me while you scream my name. Cum for me now!"

The command, the raw filth of your words, combined with the relentless, punishing fucking, is what finally does it. You feel the first tremor deep inside her, the unmistakable sign that she's tipping over the edge.

"I'm gonna cum!” she screams, the sound exploding right next to your ear, a hot, vibrating wave of pure ecstasy. "OH FUCK, I’M CUMMING!!”

Her orgasm is a violent, beautiful storm. Her body convulses around you, her inner walls clenching and pulsing on your cock in a frantic, unstoppable rhythm. She throws her head back and screams, a long, ragged sound of pure, untethered release. Her hips slam against you, no longer in rhythm, just wild, spasmodic movements as the pleasure rips through her. You don't stop fucking her; you match her intensity, pounding into her as she comes, driving her deeper into her climax. You feel her hot juices flood her cunt, coating your cock in her release.

After what feels like an eternity, the violent convulsions begin to subside, replaced by deep, shuddering tremors. She collapses back onto the mattress, completely spent, a string of breathless, broken sobs escaping her lips. You slow your thrusts, moving in and out of her gently now, letting her ride the last waves of her pleasure. You pull out slowly, your cock slick and dripping with her essence, and collapse beside her, pulling her sweat-drenched body against yours. You are both trembling, both breathless, both utterly, completely undone.

You hold her, your bodies slick with sweat, tangled together in the rumpled sheets. You can feel the frantic, rabbit-fast beat of her heart starting to slow against your chest, her ragged pants gradually deepening into something more controlled. For a long moment, you just lie there, listening to the sound of your own breathing mingling with hers, feeling the aftershocks of her powerful orgasm tremble through her body. You press a soft kiss to her damp forehead, your thumb gently stroking her back.

After a few minutes, she stirs, letting out a long, contented sigh. She lifts her head from your chest, her hair a wild, beautiful mess, her face flushed and glowing.

"Hey," you whisper. "How are you feeling?"

She looks at you, her eyes still a little dazed, but shining with a bright, clear light. A slow, languid smile spreads across her face. "Great," she pants, the word a soft puff of air. She shifts, propping herself up on one elbow to look down at you. "No, that's… that's not the right word." She shakes her head, as if searching for a better one. "I've never… ever felt that good in my entire life. I feel… obliterated. In the best possible way." She reaches out, her fingers tracing the line of your jaw. "You made me cum so hard. I think my soul left my body for a minute."

"Good. That's what I was going for." You love seeing her like this, so completely sated, so open and unguarded. "So, I guess that answers my next question," you tease, your hand sliding down her back to cup her ass, squeezing gently. "Or do you think you can take any more?"

You expect her to laugh, to say she needs a break, to maybe curl up and fall asleep. But the look in her eye changes.

"More?" she says. She lets out a soft, throaty laugh. "Of course I can."

Before you can react, she moves with a sudden, surprising strength. She grabs your shoulders, pushing you firmly onto your back. You go willingly, sinking into the mattress, intrigued by this sudden shift in energy. She straddles your chest, her knees on either side of your head, and leans down, her face just inches from yours.

"But," she whispers, her hair falling around you like a dark curtain, "it's my turn now."

She pulls you up by your hands, maneuvering you until you're sitting up, then pushes you back down again until you're lying flat on your back in the center of the bed. She crawls over you, her movements fluid and deliberate. She settles over your hips, straddling you, her knees planted firmly on the mattress on either side of your body. The view is breathtaking. You look up at her, at the perfect, heavy swell of her breasts, the soft curve of her stomach, her pink, swollen pussy still slick with her juices.

She reaches down, her fingers wrapping around your still-hard cock. You hiss as her cool fingers touch your hot, sensitive skin. She strokes you slowly, once, twice, watching your reaction, her eyes glittering with newfound power.

"You liked making me beg, didn't you?" she asks. "You liked hearing how much I needed you." She leans down, her lips brushing against yours. "Well, now it's your turn to feel what it's like. To just lie there and take it."

She positions herself, guiding the thick, slick head of your cock to her entrance. You can see the muscles in her thighs tense as she prepares to take you. She lowers herself with agonizing slowness, her eyes locked on yours. You watch her face as she takes you in, her expression a mixture of intense concentration and dawning pleasure. Her lips part, a soft hiss escaping as the head of your cock slides past her wet folds. She sinks down, inch by excruciating inch, her tight, hot pussy swallowing you whole.

The feeling of her taking you, of her being in complete control, is a whole new kind of ecstasy. When she has taken your entire length, she sits still for a moment, letting you both get used to the feeling of being joined again in this new configuration.

Then, she begins to move. It’s not the hard, frantic fucking from before. This is different. This is pure, sensual control. She starts with a slow, deep grind, her hips rolling in a lazy, circular motion. You groan, your hands coming up to grip her hips, but she just smiles, placing her hands on top of yours, stilling them. "No," she whispers. "My turn, remember? Just lie back and enjoy the ride."

She moves with an innate, hypnotic rhythm, her hips swaying, rotating, grinding your cock against all of her most sensitive inner walls. You can do nothing but lie there, completely at her mercy, as she plays your body like an instrument. She leans forward, bracing her hands on your chest, her breasts dangling just inches from your face. She picks up the pace slightly, her slow grinds transitioning into a steady, sensual bounce. She rises up on your shaft, then sinks back down, her movements fluid and graceful. With every downward slide, she lets out a soft, contented sigh, her head falling back, her eyes closing in bliss. This is Jimin in her element, a performer, a dancer, and right now, you are her stage, and she is giving the performance of a lifetime, her hips rolling in slow, deliberate circles, grinding your cock against her deepest, most sensitive walls.

Each rotation sends a wave of exquisite friction through you, a pleasure so profound it’s almost agonizing. You can do nothing but lie there, a willing captive to her rhythm, your hands gripping the sheets at your sides to keep from grabbing her, from disrupting the perfect, hypnotic control she has established. Her head is thrown back, her eyes closed, a single, continuous, breathy moan spilling from her lips. She is completely lost in the sensation of filling herself with you, of being in total command.

It is, without a doubt, the most beautiful thing you have ever witnessed. The soft light from the window traces the elegant curve of her spine, the subtle flex of the muscles in her back and stomach as she moves. Her breasts, full and heavy, sway with each languid motion, their own mesmerizing dance. You watch, transfixed, as she smiles, a slow, secret smile of pure, selfish pleasure.

You can’t resist any longer. Your hands leave the sheets and come up to her, not to her hips to control her, but to her breasts. You cup their weight, your thumbs finding her still-puckered nipples. Her flesh is soft and warm, yielding to your touch. You squeeze gently, and her eyes fly open, locking with yours. Her moan deepens, becoming a throaty, guttural sound, and her hips grind down on you harder, a clear, unmistakable response. She likes it. She likes you touching her, worshiping her, even as she controls the fucking.

You continue to knead her breasts gently as she rides you, your thumbs flicking over her nipples, sending jolts of pleasure through her that you can feel in the way her pussy clenches around your cock. The combination of watching her, touching her, and feeling her move on you is an intoxicating cocktail of sensations.

She leans forward, bracing her hands on your chest, bringing her face close to yours. Her eyes are dark, swirling with a mixture of lust, power, and something else, something playful.

"Have you ever," she whispers as she continues her slow, steady bounce on your cock, "imagined this? Fucking a K-Pop idol? Having Karina from Aespa ride your dick like this?"

You let out a shaky laugh, the sound half disbelief, half pure awe. "Never," you say. "Not in my wildest, most fucked-up dreams, Jimin. I never thought I'd even speak to you again, let alone… this." You gesture vaguely to the impossible reality of your bodies being joined. "This is… beyond anything I could have ever imagined." You reach up, your hand leaving her breast to cup her cheek. "You are so unbelievably beautiful right now. On top of me. Taking my cock. I can't… I can't even process how beautiful you are."

She leans into your touch, her hips never ceasing their hypnotic, sensual movement.

"I think…" she says, so soft you have to strain to hear it over the wet sounds of your fucking. "I think this is where I belong." She searches your eyes, a desperate need for validation in her gaze. "On your cock. Like this. It feels… right."

"You do," you say. "You're right. This is exactly where you belong, Jimin. You're mine."

Your words are the final permission she needs. It’s as if you’ve unlocked the last cage, unleashing the wild, untamed creature she keeps hidden from the world. The shift is instantaneous. The slow, sensual grind vanishes. She picks up the pace, her hips slamming down on your cock with a force that drives you deep into the mattress. She starts riding you with a frantic, desperate energy, no longer teasing or exploring, but fucking. She is fucking you with everything she has.

Her hair whips around her face, her body is drenched in sweat, and a stream of filthy, broken moans pours from her lips. She moves with a startling, intuitive skill, her hips tilting, rotating, grinding in a way that she knows, that her body inherently understands, will maximize your pleasure. She’s hitting hard with every downward slam, dragging the head of your cock along all the right walls. Her breasts are no longer swaying gently; they are bouncing wildly, a beautiful, chaotic jiggle that mirrors the abandoned rhythm of her hips. You are completely at her mercy, pinned beneath her, as she rides you with a single-minded goal: to drive you absolutely insane.

"Fuck, you're so hot," she pants. "Your body… I can't believe this is real. I can't believe I'm actually doing this, that I'm riding you." She shakes her head, a look of genuine, wondrous disbelief on her face. "I feel like I'm going to wake up."

You want to anchor her to this reality, to prove to her that this is not a dream. You lift your hands from her tits and reach for hers, the one still braced on your chest and the other tangled in the sheets beside you. You capture them, your fingers intertwining with hers, your grip firm and steady. She gasps, her eyes locking with yours. You squeeze her hands, a silent message passing between you. I'm real. This is real. We are real.

The gesture works. A new wave of confidence washes over her, the last vestiges of her disbelief burned away by the simple, grounding touch of your hands locked with hers. A fierce, determined look enters her eyes. She picks up the pace again, her bounces becoming higher, harder, each downward slam of her hips punctuated by a shared grunt of effort and pleasure. You can feel the tension coiling in your own body, the familiar pressure building deep in your balls. You’re getting close, and she can feel it too. The way your hips have started to buck up to meet her thrusts, the way your breath is catching in your throat—she knows.

She leans down, her face close to yours, her expression a perfect mixture of seductive confidence and genuine curiosity. "You're close, aren't you?" she asks. "I can feel you twitching inside me. You're going to come for me soon." She grinds her hips down, a slow, deliberate circle that makes you groan her name. "Tell me where you want it. Where do you want to cum?"

The question is so direct, so filthy, so utterly her in this new, empowered state, that a raw laugh escapes you. "Guess," you manage to rasp.

A wicked, knowing giggle bubbles from her lips. She doesn't even have to think about it. "On my breasts," she says immediately, full of certainty. "You want to cover my tits with your cum, don't you?"

"Is it that obvious?" you ask, your hips thrusting up involuntarily.

"A little," she teases, a wide, beautiful smile lighting up her face. "You're such a pervert."

"Can you blame me?" you groan, your gaze dropping to her magnificent, bouncing breasts. "They're perfect. I've been thinking about doing this since the moment you took off your sweater."

"I know," she says, and the way she says it, so full of pride and satisfaction, makes your cock throb inside her. "They're all yours." She leans in again. "But you have to make a good mess. I want you to cover them completely. Get them all sticky and hot with your cum. Promise me."

"Fuck, Jimin," you gasp, your body trembling. "Don't say things like that unless you mean it."

"Oh, I mean it," she says, her hips beginning to move in a final, frantic assault. She’s bouncing on your cock with a wild, desperate energy, trying to wring every last drop of pleasure from you. "I want it all. I want you to empty your balls for me. Cum for me, baby. Come on my tits now!"

"I'm going to!" you shout, the words ripped from you. "Karina, I'm going to cum!"

Without a word, she breaks the connection, sliding her body off your cock with a wet, sucking sound that echoes the hollowness you now feel. Before you can even question it, she moves with a dancer's deliberate grace, crawling to the edge of the bed and sinking to her knees on the soft rug below. She looks up at you from the floor.

You follow her lead, your mind reeling, your body acting on pure instinct. You swing your legs over the side of the bed and stand before her. The world has tilted on its axis. The sight of Jimin, your childhood best friend, Karina, a global icon, the woman whose face adorns billboards and magazines, kneeling at your feet is so surreal, so intensely erotic, it feels like a fever dream. Her hair is a tangled mess around her shoulders, her face is flushed with exertion, her lips are swollen and parted, and her eyes… her eyes are fixed on your cock with a look of devotional worship.

She is waiting.

You take your cock in your hand, the skin slick with her juices and your own precum. The head is swollen, twitching with need. You start stroking yourself, a slow, steady rhythm, your gaze locked with hers. You want her to watch. You want to see her expression as you bring yourself to the edge for her.

Your hand moves on your cock, a slick, frantic motion, but it's almost unnecessary. Her gaze, her posture, her very existence in this moment is all the stimulation you need. She squeezes her breasts together, pushing them up, the pale, heavy flesh forming a perfect canvas, a perfect target. The nipples are hard, dark points in the soft mounds, practically begging to be decorated.

"Please," she whimpers. "Look at them. They're waiting for you. I want to feel your hot cum all over them. I need it. Please, baby, give it to me. Drench me." She shifts on her knees, her eyes wide and pleading. "I want to be your good, filthy whore. I want you to paint my tits."

Her words are a lit match to a barrel of gasoline. A deep, primal roar tears itself from your throat, a sound of pure, untethered release. Your hips snap forward, your eyes roll back into your head, and the world dissolves into a blinding, white-hot flash of sensation.

"Fuck! Jimin!" you scream as the first torrent of your orgasm erupts from the tip of your cock.

It's a powerful, shockingly thick shot that arcs through the air with surprising force, splattering directly in the center of her chest, in the deep valley created by her hands squeezing her breasts together. A thick, pearlescent glob lands with an audible smack against her hot skin.

She gasps, a sharp, shuddering intake of breath, her whole body jolting as if you’d touched her with a live wire. "Yes!" she cries out, her eyes fluttering shut. "Oh god, it's so hot... so warm..."

But you're just getting started. Your body is a machine now, completely outside of your conscious control. You grip your cock, your knuckles white, and with another guttural groan, a second, then a third powerful spurt are unleashed. These ones are ropes, thick and heavy, that land higher, one splattering across her right breast, covering the dark, puckered areola completely, the other hitting her delicate collarbone and starting to drip slowly down her neck.

"More!" she pants, her eyes still closed, lost in the sensation of being covered by you. "Give me all of it! Don't hold back!"

You obey her command, your hips continuing their involuntary bucking motion. Spurt after spurt flies from you, a relentless, massive load that you didn't even know you were holding. You paint her with your release, a chaotic, beautiful masterpiece of pure lust. A thick shot coats her left breast, another lands on her shoulder. You see a long, thick strand connect from your cock to her chin for a split second before it falls, adding to the growing mess on her chest. She is taking it all, not flinching, not shying away, only sighing and shivering as each hot, wet impact makes contact with her skin.

Even as the initial, powerful torrents begin to subside, you don't stop. You wrap your hand firmly around the base of your shaft and start to stroke, determined to give her everything. "Every last drop is for you, Jimin," you manage to gasp out. You milk your cock, forcing out the last, thickest globs of your semen, adding them to the already considerable mess. Your cum is everywhere. It’s pooled in the hollow of her throat, it’s dripping in thick, slow trails between and under her breasts, it has completely coated her chest and neck in a sticky, glistening layer.

Finally, your orgasm spends itself completely. You sway on your feet, your knees weak, your body utterly drained. You stare down at the scene, your breathing coming in ragged, harsh pants.

Karina stays kneeling for a long moment, her chest rising and falling heavily beneath the cooling, sticky evidence of your pleasure. Then, slowly, she opens her eyes. She looks down at herself, a look of pure, unadulterated awe on her face.

"Wow," she whispers. She looks up at you, her eyes shining. "Look what you did to me. You came so much."

Then, she does something that makes your already overloaded brain short-circuit again. She dips the index finger of her right hand into the thickest pool of your cum between her breasts. She lifts it, watching the thick, white strand stretch and then snap. A slow, mischievous smile spreads across her face. She uses her finger to swirl the cum around, drawing lazy circles and patterns on her own skin.

"It's so sticky," she says with a giggle, completely devoid of shame, full of nothing but a raw, playful joy. She dips the fingers of her other hand in, spreading the mess further, connecting the splatters, ensuring every inch of her chest and the full, heavy curves of her breasts are coated in a uniform, glistening layer of you. "Am I pretty like this?" she asks, looking up at you through her lashes, her face a picture of filthy innocence. "All covered in your hot cum?"

You can only nod, completely speechless.

She sees your state and her smile widens. She leans forward, takes the now-sensitive, post-orgasm head of your cock into her mouth, and gently, reverently, sucks you clean. Her tongue is soft and methodical, a soothing, incredible sensation that makes your knees threaten to buckle.

When she's done, she pulls back and looks up at you again, her own masterpiece complete. "All clean," she says softly. She gestures down at her chest. "All of it is on me now. Just like I wanted."

You finally find your voice. "You're… perfect," you say. "Absolutely fucking perfect."

You sink to your knees in front of her, your strength completely gone. You cup her face, your thumbs wiping away a stray drip of your own cum from her chin. You look at her, this incredible woman, your childhood friend, your idol, your lover, covered in your filth at her own request. And then you kiss her, a deep, soul-searing kiss that tastes of salt, and sweat, and sex.

—

You crack an eye open, the morning light filtering through a gap in Jimin’s bedroom curtains, painting stripes across the far wall. The space beside you in the massive bed is empty, though the sheets are still rumpled, still faintly radiating her warmth and her unique, intoxicating scent. You’re sprawled on your stomach, clad only in your boxer briefs. You push yourself up, wincing slightly as your muscles protest, and swing your legs over the side of the bed.

The apartment is quiet, save for the distant, comforting clatter of something in the kitchen. Coffee. The thought alone is enough to make you move. You pad out of the bedroom, your bare feet silent on the cool wooden floor, still feeling the pleasant, lingering ache in your groin, a happy souvenir from the night’s activities.

And there she is.

Jimin is standing at the kitchen counter, her back to you, humming softly to herself as she expertly works her fancy espresso machine. And she’s wearing your shirt. Your button-down from last night, the one you’d discarded so carelessly on her bedroom floor. It’s ridiculously oversized on her frame, the sleeves rolled up multiple times, the hem falling to her mid-thighs, offering tantalizing glimpses of her long, pale legs. Her hair is piled on top of her head in another one of those effortlessly perfect messy buns, a few errant strands escaping to kiss the nape of her neck.

It’s such an incredibly domestic scene, but the irony isn't lost on you: one minute she’s a K-pop idol, the next she’s your childhood crush confessing feelings, then she’s a screaming, cum-covered goddess, and now… now she’s just Jimin, making coffee in your shirt in her sun-drenched kitchen. Your head is still trying to catch up with the whiplash.

You lean against the doorframe just watching her for a moment. She moves with an easy grace, even when she’s just reaching for a mug, a quiet confidence in her posture that wasn’t there when you first reconnected. She turns then, two steaming mugs in her hands, and her own smile, soft and a little shy, blooms when she sees you.

"Oh, good morning," a slight blush creeps up her cheeks, but her eyes are warm. "I wasn’t sure when you’d surface. Or if you’d even remember where you were."

"Morning," you reply, your own speech still a little rough from sleep. You push off the doorframe and walk towards her, your gaze lingering on the way your shirt drapes over her. "And trust me, last night is pretty… unforgettable. Slept like a fucking log, though. Best sleep I’ve had in ages."

"Me too," she admits, her blush deepening slightly as she hands you one of the mugs. The rich, dark aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills your senses, a welcome antidote to the lingering haze of your hangover. "Black, two sugars, right? Or has your sophisticated palate evolved since our high school instant coffee days?"

You chuckle, taking a grateful sip. Perfect. "Still remember, huh? Impressive. And no, some things are sacred. This is… this is exactly what I needed." You take another long, appreciative gulp. "So, are you feeling the after-effects of that wine as much as I am?" you ask, gesturing vaguely to your head. "My skull feels like it's been crushed by a baseball bat."

She laughs, a light, airy sound. "Tell me about it. Definitely a two-aspirin, one-gallon-of-water kind of morning for me too." She sips her own coffee, her eyes meeting yours over the rim of the mug, a comfortable, knowing silence settling between you for a moment. "So," she begins, her gaze dropping to her mug for a second before returning to yours, a hint of that earlier vulnerability creeping back in. "Last night… that was… " She trails off, searching for the words.

"Amazing," you supply, your own words soft but firm, leaving no room for doubt. "It was fucking amazing, Jimin. All of it."

A relieved, almost dazzling smile breaks across her face. "Yeah," she breathes, her shoulders relaxing visibly. "Yeah, it really, really was." She takes another sip of coffee, then, almost as if she can’t help herself, she adds, "You… you really know how to make a girl feel good. Like, really good."

"Just returning the favor," you say, a teasing glint in your eyes. "You weren't exactly holding back yourself." The memory of her, riding you with such wild abandon, her cries echoing in the room, makes a heat rise through your body, making your cock give a responsive throb in your boxers. You discreetly shift your weight. This domestic morning-after scene is lovely, but your body clearly hasn't forgotten the main event.

A comfortable lull settles as you both sip your coffee, the shared memories of the night before a warm, unspoken presence. But then, you see a flicker of something in Jimin’s eyes, a subtle shift in her expression. She sets her mug down on the counter, her fingers tracing the rim. The tension, which had dissipated, slowly begins to creep back into the room. Here it comes. The inevitable "what now?"

"So…" she begins, her gaze fixed on her coffee cup, her words careful, almost tentative. "What… what happens now? With us?" She finally looks up at you, her eyes wide and searching. "Was last night just… you know… a one-time thing? Because of the wine, and the confessions, and… everything?"

You set your own mug down, your heart giving a familiar, uncomfortable thump.

This is it. The moment of truth.

"A one-time thing?" you repeat. You let out a short, humorless chuckle, running a hand through your already messy hair. "Jimin, after last night… after you… do you honestly think I could just… walk away from that? Pretend it didn't happen?" You meet her gaze, your own expression deadly serious now. "I really, really like you. More than like you, if I’m being completely honest. And… and I don’t think I can be the same around you anymore. Not after yesterday." You take a deep breath. "I think… fuck, I know… I need you. Like it’s oxygen. And that terrifies the absolute shit out of me, but it’s the goddamn truth."

The silence that follows is deafening. For a heart-stopping moment, you think you’ve said too much, gone too far, laid yourself too bare.

Then, slowly, miraculously, a smile begins to spread across her face. It’s not just any smile. It’s a Jimin-smile, a radiant, all-encompassing beam of pure, unadulterated happiness that lights up her entire being, that chases away every last shadow of doubt and fear in the room. It’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

Without a word, she pushes herself off the counter, closes the small distance between you in two quick steps, and then her arms are around your neck, her body pressing against yours, and she’s kissing you. It’s a kiss that tastes of coffee, and relief. It’s a kiss that seals the deal, a kiss that says everything you both needed to hear. And as you kiss her back, your own arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her impossibly closer, feeling the soft warmth of her body clad only in your shirt against your bare chest, You suddenly remember that Jimin, your Jimin, is no longer just yours, is no longer just Jimin, your dork childhood friend.

You pull back slightly, your gaze searching hers. "Jimin," you begin, "this is… this is incredible. You’re incredible. Last night was… beyond anything." Her smile softens, her eyes shining with affection, but you press on. "But… what the hell do we do now? I meant what I said, about needing you, about all of it. But us… like this…" You gesture vaguely between the two of you, encompassing the intimacy, the secret now hanging palpably in the air of her sunlit kitchen. "You know what your life is like. The spotlight, the fans, the company… SM isn’t exactly known for its progressive stance on its idols having, well, this." Your irony here is bitter, a defense mechanism against the very real fear clenching your heart. "This could be… dangerous for you. For your career. I don’t want to be the one who…"

Jimin’s fingers gently press against your lips, silencing you. Her expression is soft, understanding, but there’s a new firmness there too, a resolute calm that wasn’t present during her earlier, more vulnerable moments.

"Shhh," she murmurs, her thumb brushing your lower lip. "Don't. Don't do that. Don't spiral." She leans in, pressing a soft, reassuring kiss to your mouth, then another to your cheek, then your forehead. Her touch is like a balm, soothing the sharp edges of your anxiety. "I know all of that. Believe me, I live it every single day. But right now," she continues, her eyes holding yours, clear and unwavering, "right now, I don’t want to think about any of it. Not SM, not the fans, not the potential fallout. Not yet."

She pulls back just enough to look you squarely in the eyes, her hands now resting on your shoulders. "What happened last night, what’s happening right now," she says, "this is real. And it’s ours." Her lips curve into a small, almost conspiratorial smile. "No one needs to know about this. Not now, anyway. It’ll be our secret, okay? Just for us."

Her words, her confidence, the delicious, illicit thrill of a shared secret with her: it’s an intoxicating, dangerous combination.

"Our secret, huh?" you echo, an eyebrow quirking upwards. "You know, that’s… that’s actually kind of fucking sexy, Jimin. The danger of it all… it’s a little exciting, isn't it?" You can't help the way your own words deepen, the way your gaze drops to her lips.

She lets out a delighted, throaty chuckle. "See? I knew you’d get it." She leans in again, her lips brushing yours, a silent promise of more to come. "Danger is always more exciting." Her breath is warm against your skin, her proximity reigniting the embers of last night’s events.

Between feather-light kisses that dance along your jawline, your neck, she murmurs, "But, speaking of not wanting things to get… complicated… or, you know, result in tiny, K-pop-superstar-related accidents…" She pulls back slightly, her expression turning a little more practical, though the sultry glint in her eyes remains. "I think it might be a very, very good idea for you to acquire some condoms. Like, a lot of them. A truly impressive, perhaps even alarming, quantity." A playful smirk dances on her lips. "We can’t exactly keep pushing our luck like last night, as… memorable as it was."

"Duly noted. I’ll arrange for a strategic acquisition of latex-based defenses. Consider me on a mission."

"Good," she purrs, pressing a final, lingering kiss to your mouth. Then, her hand, which had been resting on your shoulder, slides down your chest, a slow, deliberate trail of fire, down, down, until it reaches the front of your boxer briefs. Her fingers close around your already-hardening cock, her touch light but possessive, sending a jolt straight through you. You gasp, your hips giving an involuntary twitch.

She looks up at you through her lashes, her smile turning wicked, utterly predatory. "Because," she whispers, her breath hot against your lips, her fingers giving you a slow, deliberate squeeze that makes your knees weak, "while we wait for those… reinforcements… there is something I can do for you right now. Something that definitely doesn't require a condom."

And with a final, devastatingly innocent flutter of her eyelashes, she slides from your embrace, her hand never leaving your groin, and slowly, gracefully, sinks to her knees on the kitchen floor in front of you. The morning, it seems, is far from over.

In fact, this is just the beginning.

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mesopotamism · 4 days ago

Note

HEESEUNG MUNCHHHHHHHHH

heeseung spreads your legs like he owns you—doesn’t even look at your face, just stares at your dripping cunt like it’s a meal made for him, not to fuck you, but to devour every fucking inch of you as if you were tailor made for him. “fuck, been thinkin’ about this all day,” he groans, already leaning closer, eyes dazed, “didn’t come here to fuck you. came to eat this sweet little pussy till you cry like the pretty lil baby you are, hm?”

his tongue’s on you in seconds—messy and filthy as he sucks on your clit like he’s starving, groaning into you, grinding into the sheets like your taste’s got him fucking feral. “yeah, baby, fucking squirm for me, cry all you want, yeah?” he grunts, voice all desperate but still holding authority. “makes my cock so fuckin’ hard when you twitch like that.”

you’re soaked, shaking, almost sobbing now, and it just fuels him. heeseung is flushed, mouth drenched, eyes glazed over like he’s drunk off of you (he is). “look at you,” he pants, shoving two fingers in deep. “pretty pussy’s leaking, hm? so desperate for my tongue, like you were made for it.”

he doesn’t stop only buries his face deeper like he wants to drown in you—tongue fucking you through your cries, his perfect nose pressed right against your clit as he moans like it’s his heaven, like you’re his heaven.

“you hear that?” he asks, breath shaky, lips glossy. “this messy lil’ pussy keeps sucking me back in, it knows who it belongs to.” you’re pushing at his head, too sensitive by now, but he just grabs your thighs, pins them down, and spits right on your cunt again before diving back in. “oh no, baby, don’t fucking run. i’ll eat this pussy till you’re raw. till your brain’s gone, and you’re crying my fucking name.”

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mesopotamism · 4 days ago

Text

𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗌 | 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗂 𝗌𝗈𝗈𝖻𝗂𝗇 : ̗̀➛

summary: when global idol Choi Soobin returns to his quiet hometown for an unexpected hiatus, the last thing you expect is to run into him—the boy you once shared everything with...until you cut him off without a word.

you swore you’d never let yourself want him again. he swore he’d stop waiting for you to look back. but this time, neither of you is quite ready to walk away.

cw: sub!soobin, dom!reader, idol!au, angsty!!, fluff, slow and i mean slowburn, friends to lovers, mentions of death, implied depression, mental health issues (pls take care of urselves), unprotected sex, smut, reader just can't process emotions well

wc: ~30k... forgive me...or love me idk....

i was really inspired by netflix's new kdrama called "our unwritten seoul" and their friendship to lovers dynamic but was also gobsmacked at txt's new tour dates announcement after writing this so...PERFECT :DDDD. this is basically both of those things. you can tell because of the humidifier mention. like bro it's so random.

part one | part two

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee fills the space as sunlight filters through half-open blinds, casting a warm glow on the cluttered desk. You, dressed in a cozy sweater and gingham pajama pants, sit up right on your bed, losing track of time as you doom scroll on reels. Your cat, Peanut, curls up beside you, purring contentedly.

You pause, glancing at the clock—8:45 AM. With a sigh, you set your phone down and begin your morning routine which basically just consisted of just washing your face. As you make your way to your living room, you begin to tidy up last night’s dirty dishes that sat on top of the coffee table.

Your house is modest but filled with personal touches: framed illustrations, a collection of obscure game discs, and a bookshelf overflowing with novels.

After you get yourself dressed, you step outside for a walk, your sneakers hitting the pavement in rhythmic thuds. You pass by the local café, where the barista waves at you, and the bookstore, where you stop to browse the new arrivals of manga. Afterwards you take the bus to the nearby hospital.

This had become your routine every Wednesday—a bit repetitive, perhaps, but it was what you enjoyed. The endless stretch of countryside outside your window had never been the life you envisioned in your twenties.

You had imagined a high-rise apartment in the city, a high-paying job, and a life surrounded by people who didn't know your name—all amidst the buzz of urban life. But circumstances have kept you here, in your hometown.

At first, the monotony felt suffocating. The same roads, the same faces, the same small-town rhythm. Yet, over time, you began to find comfort in the predictability.

The quiet mornings, the familiar greetings, the slower pace—it all started to feel like home. You had traded the city's chaos for the calm of rural life, and while it wasn't the life you had planned, it was a life you were learning to appreciate. In the simplicity of the countryside, you discovered a deeper connection to yourself and the world around you.

You hated it from time to time, sometimes cursing and beating yourself up for staying with what feels familiar, but what could you do?

—

As you stepped into the sterile hospital corridor, the faint scent of antiseptic mingled with the soft hum of distant conversations. With a sigh, you adjusted the strap of your bag and made your way to room 307. As you approached the door, you noticed it slightly ajar.

Pushing the door open, you see your mother first, who seemingly is having a conversation with another person in the room. Upon opening it further, you found that it was your mother’s best friend, Mrs. Choi, sitting beside the bed and chatting animatedly, that was keeping your mother entertained. Mrs. Choi looked up, her face lighting up with recognition.

“There you are!” she exclaimed, rising from her seat to lead you to your mother’s bed. Her eyes flicked to the bags of home-cooked food hanging from your elbow and the two iced Americanos wrapped around your hands. “Looks like your mom will be eating for two all week!” she teased, taking the bags from you and placing them alongside her own on the bedside table.

You let out a soft laugh, extending your arm toward Mrs. Choi. "This is for you, Mrs. Choi. You must've gotten up early this morning." You bowed slightly, politely offering her the other coffee in your hands.

“Oh dear, it looks like I’ll be having a caffeine rush today!” She joked, which made your mother let out a laugh as well. You look at both of them confused, yet still wearing a smile on your face.

You see her lift up an almost empty cup of coffee, one that was exactly from the same place where you got yours. “Ahh~, I see…” Your murmur. Mrs. Choi already bought coffee for herself.

You set the other coffee down by the bedside table and turned to your mother, who was propped up on the bed, flipping through a magazine you had gifted her last week. "How are you feeling, Mom?"

Your mother looked up, offering a reassuring smile. "Better now that you're here." You smiled, sliding your hand down her cheek, your heart melting at the tender moment you were sharing.

Just then, the door swung open, and a nurse entered for your mother's morning check-up. You stepped aside to let her pass and shared a glance with the two ladies inside the room before making your way out to the hallway.

You always left the room during these times, finding that you became queasy when you saw the numerous needles they attached to your mom and the way they conducted diagnostics as if she were a machine.

Sitting down on one of the seats outside your mom’s room, you pulled out your phone to respond to some emails and refresh your news feed. A new headline caught your eye: “TXT’s Soobin to Temporarily Halt Activities Due to Health Reasons.” Your stomach sank as you skimmed the preview.

Curious and concerned, you clicked the link and quickly scanned the article, completely unprepared for what you might read. The piece confirmed that he had recently visited the hospital after showing signs of being unwell. Medical staff had advised him to take time to rest and recover.

As a result, Soobin would be absent from several upcoming events, including big awards and fan events. You scrolled down, hoping for more news, more updates. And then you saw it. A handwritten letter from Soobin himself.

Reading his words, you felt a mix of emotions—concern for his well-being, admiration for his dedication, and a deep sense of connection to someone who had been a part of your childhood for so long, despite losing contact several years ago.

The article had been published just two hours ago, but you knew that Mrs. Choi (and assuming your mother), was already aware of the news. Why they had kept it from you, you had some inkling.

The last time someone took a break for health reasons was your mom. The doctors had said she just needed some time to rest, that she was overworked and needed a break from physical labor.

The very next morning, she had gotten a fever, and her sickness never went away—just slowly eating her up from the inside out. You had been so young then, too young to understand the gravity of it all. Now, as an adult, you couldn't help but feel a sense of déjà vu.

Soobin, your childhood friend—the person who had unknowingly been your anchor during the darkest times, was now facing his own battle. And you were left here, unable to support him or ask how he was even doing.

You leaned back in your chair, closing your eyes and letting out a deep sigh. As you relished the silence of the sterile hallways, the occasional sound of footsteps and doors opening and closing punctuated the stillness.

Then, you felt it—the unmistakable presence of someone standing before you. Without lowering your head, you slowly opened one eye, cautiously scanning your surroundings.

What you never expected was the very man whose face you had seen on your phone less than five minutes ago—standing there, staring down at you.

You jolted upright, your phone nearly slipping from your lap. Rubbing your eyes, you looked up at the man standing before you, his presence both unexpected and surreal. You shook your head, trying to dismiss the impossibility of it. But why would he be here? What reason could he have? The stress of the past week—no, the past months—had taken its toll. You wondered if this was just another symptom of your exhaustion, a moment of derealization.

But this felt different. This felt real.

—

TWELVE YEARS AGO

It was a hot summer afternoon, the kind where the sun sat high up on the horizon, casting its hot rays over the neighborhood. The summer fair was in full swing, with the distinct smell of water from popped balloons hitting the pavement and street foods wafting through the air. Children darted between booths, their laughter mingling with the distant hum of pop music.

You and Soobin, inseparable since you were both knee-high and full of dreams, strolled leisurely through the fairgrounds. Your hands brushed now and then—not quite holding, but never far apart. Every few steps, you pointed excitedly at something: a glittering ring toss booth, a caricature artist drawing wide-eyed portraits, a balloon animal vendor with a long line of sticky-handed kids. The scent of nostalgia hung thick in the air, and the moment felt impossibly alive.

Then you saw it: the talent show sign-up booth, marked by a colorful hand-painted sign fluttering in the breeze. A flyer, curling at the edges. "Are you sure?" he hesitated, his usual confidence "Absolutely!" you insisted, grabbing the pen and signing both your names.

The day of the talent show arrived, and nerves set in. You and Soobin had decided to perform a duet—his favorite song at the time, "Twinkle," by Girls' Generation. You had practiced tirelessly, but now, standing backstage, doubt crept in.

"I can't do this," Soobin whispered, his usual smile replaced by a nervous frown.

“I’ll buy you endless Kara merch if you do,” You placed your hands on his shoulders, shaking him like a soda can. “Seriously. Light sticks. Albums. Posters. Even that ridiculous towel.” A beat passed—and then, like magic, his eyes lit up. “Really?”

You watched as Soobin sat up straighter at the mention of the girl group and you couldn't help but let out a huff at how easily he was convinced. “Wow...” You shook your head, exasperated. “Remind me to never call you if I get kidnapped.”

Soobin looked up at you with furrowed brows, as if genuinely puzzled. “Why not?”

“They’d probably ask for your merch in exchange for me. Knowing you, you'd choose the merch.” He smirked, shrugging nonchalantly. “Of course.”

His nonchalance only fueled your annoyance. Without missing a beat, you grabbed him in a playful headlock, ruffling his hair. “Idiot,” you muttered, though a smile tugged at your lips despite yourself.

When your names were called, you stepped onto the stage, the bright lights blinding you momentarily. The audience's murmurs faded into a distant hum as the music began. Soobin's voice filled the air, and your nerves melted away. You sang your heart out, treating the talent show as if it were just a playful karaoke session. Soobin, however, seemed to belong on that stage. When the final note faded, the crowd erupted into applause—parents, teens, kids, strangers all clapping like they’d just watched something special.

You turned to Soobin.

He stood there, beaming, the mic still clutched in both hands like a prized possession. Then, without a trace of shyness, he bowed. A real bow. You stared for a moment—because in that instant, he wasn’t just your goofy best friend. He looked like someone born to be on that stage.

You stepped back, letting him shine.

That performance became a cherished memory, a testament to your friendship and Soobin's budding talent. Little did you know, that day planted the seed for his future in music.

–

“You're back.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, more a whisper to yourself than a question to him.

Soobin stood in front of you, barely resembling the old version of him that you always saw him as. Just his outfit alone–meticulously chosen, each piece exuding a quiet luxury. It wasn’t something you thought you’d see him in in a million years. You were accustomed to seeing him in school uniforms, always looking youthful despite being six months older than you. But the Soobin now before you was undeniably an adult.

His gaze swept over you, lingering just a moment too long. "You look..." He paused, as if searching for the right words. "Different."

The simplicity of his statement stung more than you expected. You had changed, hadn't you? But had it been for the better? You met his gaze, a playful smirk tugging at your lips despite the fluttering in your chest. "You look horrible yourself, too," you teased, trying to mask the unease creeping in.

Soobin chuckled, the sound warm and familiar, yet distant. "Fair enough," he replied, his voice carrying a hint of amusement.

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken words. You wanted to ask him everything—about his life, his experiences, the years that had passed—but the words caught in your throat. Instead, you stood there, two people who once shared everything, now separated by time and circumstance. Soobin shifted, his hands slipping into his pockets, his eyes never leaving yours. "It's been a while," he said softly.

"Yeah," you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. "A while."

The soft click-clack of the nurse’s cart rolling outside your mom’s room broke the comfortable silence between you and Soobin. Only then did you notice the small electronic device in his hands—so tiny it looked almost out of place in his grasp.

“Humidifier?” you asked, raising an eyebrow in curiosity. He shifted uncomfortably, his cheeks flushing slightly. “It’s a gift... for your mom. I went and filled it up with some water” he said shyly, as if embarrassed to be seen with such a thoughtful gesture. You couldn't help but smile at his bashfulness. “She’ll love it,” you reassured him, nudging him gently toward the door.

As you both entered the room, the familiar scent of antiseptic and the soft beeping of medical equipment filled the air. Your mom looked up, her face lighting up at the sight of you and Soobin together, briefly exchanging glances with Mrs. Choi.

“Look who’s here,” you said, your voice filled with warmth.

“I already saw him, honey,” she said with a playful smile, her voice tinged with that familiar teasing warmth, then gestured toward the table beside her, where several bags were neatly stacked. “He helped bring those in earlier,” she added, nodding toward the tall figure behind you.

You looked behind at Soobin, who was already crouched near the wall, carefully plugging the humidifier into the outlet. His broad shoulders were hunched slightly, the soft fabric of his sweater bunching at the elbows as he adjusted the cord, making sure it didn’t tangle with the IV stand nearby. He handled everything with the kind of quiet precision you’d come to associate with him—gentle, but steady.

The little device gave a soft mechanical hum as it came to life, a faint mist beginning to rise from the spout. Soobin straightened up, brushing his hands together as if completing a sacred task, then glanced at your mom with a nervous half-smile.

"I set it to low," he murmured. "So it won't be too much, just enough to keep the air from feeling dry."

Your mom tilted her head toward the thin ribbon of vapor swirling in the air, a flicker of surprise and gratitude crossing her face. "Thank you, Soobin," she said, her voice soft but steady. “I’ve been feeling like my throat’s been made of sandpaper.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks turning a little pink again. "It’s nothing, really. I just… thought it might help." You watched the way your mom looked at him, her gaze lingering for just a second longer than usual—gentle, assessing, as if seeing him act like this reminded her of the old times and that made her quietly glad.

Your mom’s eyes softened as she glanced at Soobin, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “You’re very thoughtful,” she said gently, reaching out to adjust the humidifier’s mist.

Soobin shrugged, looking a little sheepish. “I just wanted to help.”

You caught the faintest shadow across your mom’s face—a quiet mix of pride and something else, something like a wish she could say aloud. But instead, she chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Well, you’re doing a good job at it.” As if hinting at more than just showing gratitude for the gesture. The mist from the humidifier caught the light, casting soft shadows on the white hospital sheets, and for a moment the sterile room felt just a little more like home.

–

Before you knew it, time had slipped by, the way it always does when you're avoiding looking at the clock. The room had grown quiet again, the only sounds were the soft whir of machines and your mom’s slow, steady breathing. You stood, brushing nonexistent wrinkles from your clothes, more out of habit than anything else. Soobin followed suit just like always, moving a half-step behind you, like he wasn’t quite sure if he was supposed to leave yet.

Outside, the corridor was still and cold under the harsh fluorescent lights. It smelled faintly of antiseptic and something else—something tired. You walked side by side, just close enough to feel his presence but not enough to brush shoulders. The silence sat between you, not uncomfortable, but not easy either.

“So,” you said, voice catching slightly in your throat. “When did you get back?”

He glanced over, offering you a small, almost sheepish smile. “I assume you know?”

Right—the headlines. You’d seen them without even trying to. His name had been everywhere for days. It was hard to avoid when your past suddenly became the world’s news. You nodded slowly. “Yeah. I saw.”

He let out a short breath of laughter. Not a real laugh—one of those quiet ones that feels more like a sigh. “They really don’t let you disappear quietly, do they?”

You wanted to say something reassuring, but nothing came. What could you even say? That sucks? I’m sorry? I read every article twice, looking for signs you were okay? Instead, you settled on, “Looks like you’ll be around for a while.”

His shoulders lifted in a shrug, but it wasn’t light or offhand. There was a drag to it, something unspoken anchoring the gesture. “Yeah. Forced break.”

You raised an eyebrow, hoping a little teasing might soften the edges. “Forced break? Sounds like a long vacation.”

He gave you a half-smile, one side of his mouth curling up. “If only.”

The silence crept back in as you continued walking, your shoes squeaking faintly against the polished floor. It should’ve felt comfortable—you’d walked like this before, years ago, without needing to say much. But now? Now it felt like stepping around the edges of something you both weren’t ready to touch. You stole a glance at him. The curve of his jaw was more defined now, his hair a little longer than you remembered. He still walked with that same quiet presence, like he was trying not to take up too much space. But there was something else, too—something a little more closed off.

You swallowed. “So... what now?”

He looked over at you, not stopping, just watching. “I don’t really know,” he admitted. “I’ve never had this much free time before.”

You let out a soft huff of air, unsure if it was a laugh or just a release of tension. “Weird, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he said, then after a beat, added, “kind of uncomfortable, honestly.”

You nodded, because you got it—maybe not in the same way, but close enough. You understood what it was like to be stuck between chapters, unsure what comes next or who you're supposed to be without the thing that defined you. For a moment, you considered saying something real. Something like, I missed you or you don’t have to pretend around me, but your throat tightened. You hadn’t earned that kind of closeness anymore.

So instead you said, “Guess it’s a new kind of challenge.”

He gave you a look—mild, but maybe grateful. “Yeah. But... maybe not the worst kind.”

You nodded again, lips pressing into a thin line. And still, the things you wanted to say hovered behind your teeth. You wanted to ask how he was really doing. If it felt like everything had stopped too suddenly. If he was scared of what came next. But none of that would come out right, not with all this space between you.

The silence settled again as you both neared the elevator, the hum of lights overhead a constant backdrop.

“So,” you said, trying to sound casual but failing, “where are you staying?”

He shifted his weight slightly, glancing over at you with a small smile. “Uh... just down the street, actually. Back in my parents’ place for a bit.”

You blinked. “Wait. Seriously?”

“Yeah.” He let out a short breath. “Kind of surreal.”

You scoffed, the sound too sharp but real. “So... we’re neighbors again.”

He laughed, a real one this time. “Guess so.”

You nodded, trying not to smile too much. “Weird.”

“Definitely weird.”

Another pause. Another silence. But this one wasn’t so stiff. It settled more naturally between you, like maybe it didn’t need to be filled.

You both stood there, not really moving, not really sure what to do next. Just... hovering in that space where familiarity and distance existed at the same time. Where you wanted to say remember how easy this used to be? but knew neither of you quite had the words.

Maybe it would take time. Maybe it would stay awkward like this for a while.

But still, there was something in the quiet that felt like a beginning.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding, but neither of you moved.

You thought that was it—that this was the part where you’d say goodbye with a tight smile and an awkward promise to “catch up later.” But instead, Soobin turned, leaned his shoulder against the wall beside the elevator, and said, “Want to walk for a bit?”

You blinked. “Around the hospital?”

His mouth tugged up slightly. “We’ve had weirder hangouts.”

That was true. Once upon a time, your “hangouts” included hiding in stairwells during school festivals and playing cards in the back of the library while pretending to study. So maybe walking quiet halls and dodging nurses wasn’t that strange after all.

You shook your head, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I better go, lots of things to do today.”

He nodded. Then, with one last glance at you—long enough to hold, short enough not to ask too much—he turned and walked down the hallway, his steps slow, like he wasn’t in a rush to leave.

You stayed where you were, hands in your pockets, the echo of his words still lingering in the air.

It had been a while since you last saw Soobin. And you'd be lying if you said you hadn’t looked him up that very same night you saw him again. After that day, it was like something broke loose inside you—some quiet restraint you’d kept for years.

You found yourself scrolling endlessly through his performance videos, one after another, chasing something you couldn’t quite name. Maybe it was curiosity, or maybe it was your way of making up for all the time you’d forbidden yourself from watching them.

It wasn’t because you resented him. Not really. But it had always been easier to pretend you weren’t curious than to admit the truth: watching him chase his dream made something twist in your chest. Not bitterness, exactly—just jealousy.

A quiet, aching sort of envy that you never wanted to confront. He had gone out there and done what he said he would. He lived it. All while keeping you completely in the dark. Not a message, not a word—not even a hint of what his life had become.

And maybe that’s what stung the most—not that he left, but knowing it was your fault he never reached out.

You remembered the night he left. You didn’t know it was the last time you’d see him, not then. He said something vague about having a “big audition” coming up the previous week, and you, always the loyal friend, had smiled and wished him luck, unaware that he would succeed to the point where he was at now. You hadn’t known that "audition" would become the beginning of a chapter that didn’t include you.

At first, you hesitated. You told yourself he'd text first. Call. Drop by. But days turned into weeks, then months, and eventually, you stopped refreshing your messages, stopped checking your phone late at night like a fool and stuck your nose into your studies.

The only person who stayed by your side, from your father passing, through your mother getting sick, was now gone. And you couldn’t bring yourself to be the one who reached out first, fearing that you would only receive the silence you thought you deserved.

So you buried it. Packed it into the same mental box where you kept all the “what ifs” you never wanted to admit you had. You stopped watching his interviews, muted hashtags, scrolled past his face without letting your eyes linger. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That people grow up, they move on. That it was nothing personal.

But seeing him again, in that hallway outside your mom’s hospital room, had cracked something open.

You hadn’t realized how much you still carried. How much weight was tied to his name, his voice, his smile. And now, after that one encounter, you were spiraling—late into the night, alone in your room, your screen glowing softly in the dark as you watched him perform with the same boyish intensity he’d always had, only now refined, polished. A professional.

There were moments when he’d show a dimpled smile between lyrics, or toss his hair a certain way, and you’d see glimpses of the boy you once knew. The one who used to walk you home after school. Who used to text you dumb memes and write notes on the edges of your notebooks when the teacher wasn’t looking. The boy who once promised he’d tell you everything.

But he didn’t.

And maybe that was the cruelest part—he had become someone the whole world knew, but not you. Not anymore. You didn’t deserve that chance.

You set your phone down eventually, the videos still looping on autoplay, the sound dim. You stared at the ceiling, trying to reconcile the person on the screen with the quiet boy who used to sit beside you at lunch. Trying to figure out where the thread had snapped—and if there was any way to pick it back up again.

You weren’t sure. But part of you hoped—achingly, stubbornly—that he came back not just to rest… but to remember.

To remember you.

—

The next time you saw Soobin, it was raining on a Wednesday.

Not the cinematic kind of rain that comes with thunder and dramatic declarations. Just a light drizzle that blurred the edges of the world and left your jacket damp where it clung to your shoulders.

You’d just finished your shift at the café near the hospital. You weren’t technically supposed to be working while your mom was still admitted, but she’d insisted—said the distraction was good for you. And truthfully, it was. It gave you something else to focus on besides white walls and the sound of machines beeping in the night.

You had your headphones in, your hood up, eyes on the sidewalk—when someone stepped into your path, blocking your way.

“Hey.”

You looked up.

Soobin.

He was holding a paper bag in one hand, a bottle of something green poking out the top. His hoodie was damp, darkened around the seams, but he looked almost amused by it. Like the rain wasn’t a bother. Like maybe it reminded him of something.

Your headphones hung limply around your neck now. “You stalking me?” you asked, only half joking.

“I swear I’m not,” he said, lifting the bag. “I was headed to the hospital. Thought your mom might like these.”

You glanced at the label on the bottle. Herbal tonic. Your lips curved upward despite yourself. “She’ll roll her eyes when she sees this. But this is good, she needs these.”

He grinned. “Good. Then mission accomplished.”

You hesitated. You should’ve said goodbye, should’ve kept walking—but you didn’t. Something in the way he was standing, not quite stepping forward but not walking away either, mirrored exactly how you felt. Stuck in the middle.

“Want to come up with me?” you asked finally. “She’s been asking about you.”

His expression softened. “Yeah,” he said. “I’d like that.”

You walked side by side again, like no time had passed—but with every footstep echoing on the hospital floor, you felt the gap between who you were and who you’d become. And still, he matched your pace without question.

Upstairs, your mom greeted him with a tired but genuine smile. You watched her lit up face switch over to a disgusted one in an instant as he handed her the tonic, made her laugh with something dumb, and you realized how easily he still fit into the spaces you thought time had sealed off.

Later, when she fell asleep and the lights dimmed around her bed, you and Soobin slipped out into the hallway again. It was quieter now. The storm outside had tapered into silence, and the air smelled faintly of rain on concrete.

He leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets. You stood a few feet away, arms crossed loosely over your chest, the distance between you filled with everything unsaid.

“She still makes that face when she doesn’t want to take medicine,” he said, glancing at the door behind you.

You smiled faintly. “Some things never change.”

He looked at you then, really looked. “You did.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s what happens when you’re not around for eight years.”

His mouth tugged to the side in something between a grimace and a smile. “Fair.”

There was another beat of silence, but this one felt warmer. You glanced down the hallway, watching a nurse wheel a cart past the far end, the soft rattle of it fading into the hum of fluorescent lights.

“You know,” he said after a moment, quieter now, “your mom was always really kind to me.”

“She likes people with manners,” you replied, then added, “and people who eat her leftovers without complaining.”

“She used to pack extra, just for me,” he said, eyes distant now. “Even when she said she didn’t have time.”

“She did that with people she loved.” The words left your mouth before you could decide whether or not to say them.

Soobin looked at you, and for a second, you almost couldn’t hold his gaze. It was too much. Too real.

The hallway buzzed faintly—the dull drone of fluorescent lights, distant intercom announcements, the occasional footsteps echoing down the corridor. Somewhere, a nurse’s soft laughter floated through the air.

The moment settled like dust, thick and heavy.

“I missed this,” he said finally, voice rough but steady. “Not just your mom. Not just the neighborhood. You.”

You didn’t answer right away. Your fingers picked at a loose thread on your sleeve, twisting it between your fingertips like a lifeline. He turned his head slightly toward you but didn’t push you for a response.

Instead, he said, “Can I show you something?”

You glanced over, curious despite yourself. “Now?”

He nodded, pulling his phone from his hoodie pocket with a slow, deliberate motion. He flipped through his gallery, swiping a few times, then handed it to you. A video.

Not one of the polished concert clips uploaded for fans, but a raw, shaky recording from a recent show. The camera was angled toward the crowd, thousands of tiny lights flickering like stars. Then it shifted to the stage—him, standing at the microphone, eyes closed, singing a slow, acoustic song. Your breath caught, chest tightening. He must’ve seen it on your face because he said softly, “Wrote it the week I moved to the city. Never released it.”

You watched the video again, seeing a side of him you hadn’t seen in years—vulnerable and unpolished. The words carried little references, tiny fragments of shared memories—a phrase you’d said once, a place you’d both known, a worn bench you’d sat on together.

“It was about you,” he said quietly. “Still is.”

Your fingers curled tighter around the phone, heart pounding in your ears louder than the soft hospital hum. You handed it back, not because you wanted to stop watching, but because it felt too much to hold all at once.

Another silence bloomed. But this one felt different, like the air between you had shifted, charged with something fragile and new.

He stood slowly. “I should go. Don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

You didn’t try to stop him, but as he turned, you called out softly, “Hey.”

He paused, looking back over his shoulder.

You gave him a small, tired smile, the kind that held hope and history all at once.

“Next time… don’t bring tonic. Bring peaches. She actually likes those.”

He laughed—a sound that was still boyish, warm, and real.

“Got it. Peaches.”

He walked down the hallway, the soft squeak of his shoes echoing behind him.

You stayed seated, staring at the empty space beside you, wondering how many more times you’d find the courage to let yourself take one step closer.

—

It had been a long week.

You’d spent most of it moving between home and the hospital, the lines between day and night beginning to blur. Your mom’s condition hadn’t worsened, but it hadn’t improved either—and somehow, that was its own kind of exhausting. Hopeful. Heavy. Endless.

So when the knock came on your door that Saturday afternoon—three quick taps and a pause—you almost didn’t answer.

But then you remembered the way he knocked.

You opened the door.

“Delivery,” Soobin said, holding up a brown paper bag like it was a peace offering. “One bottle of overpriced juice, and…” He pulled out a small carton with a mock ceremony. “Peaches. Fresh. Not those disgusting canned stuff.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Wow. You really took the note.”

“I aim to please.” He grinned, wide and shameless. “Also, the guy at the fruit stand said these were ‘kissing sweet,’ which made me deeply uncomfortable. So I had to buy them.”

You snorted, stepping aside to let him in. “That’s the dumbest reason I’ve ever heard for buying fruit.”

He walked in casually, already toeing off his shoes like second nature–- like he’d done it a hundred times. “What can I say? I missed your mom’s high standards. And your judgment.”

“Both still going strong,” you said, accepting the bag. “You want coffee or are you planning to make a dramatic exit again?”

He shot you a look. “That exit was graceful and respectful.”

“That exit was weird and full of emotional tension.”

He tilted his head thoughtfully. “So… par for the course?”

You tried not to laugh, but it slipped out anyway.

He sat on the edge of your couch, glancing around like he was taking inventory. You watched the way his eyes lingered on the bookshelf, the stack of hospital visitors passes on the table, the blanket still folded from when you'd last crashed there after a long night.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” he said. “Very... ‘haunted by fatigue but still trying.’”

You grinned. “That’s actually the theme of the whole apartment. You should see the bathroom.”

He laughed again—an easy, warm sound that made your ribs feel too tight.

You went to the kitchen, opened the bag, and found not just the peaches and juice, but a pack of sweet rice crackers tucked at the bottom.

“Are these for me or for her?” you called.

A beat.

“...Yes,” he replied.

“She’s going to eat all of these and then yell at me for letting you spend money on her.”

“Let her yell at me instead,” he said, already settling onto your couch like he owned the place. “I can take it. I survived our high school math teacher. Your mom has nothing on that woman.”

You smirked. “That teacher made you cry.”

He gasped. “I teared up. Once. And it was allergy season.”

“Sure it was.” It had been a strange comfort, having him around again—even if it was awkward most of the time.

“Thanks,” you said, shrugging and avoiding his eyes. “for not bringing tonic this time.”

He chuckled. “Hey, I learned my lesson. Peaches or bust.”

A silence passed. But it wasn’t heavy this time. It sat lightly between you, like an old friend resting its elbows on the table.

“So…” he said slowly. “You going to the hospital later?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Just after dinner. They changed some meds, so they want someone to watch her overnight.”

He nodded, fingers curling around the mug. “Mind if I come with you?”

You looked up. Not because he hadn’t offered before. But because this time, he said it differently. Gently. Not just wanting to visit—but to be there.

“…She’ll be happy to see you,” you said. “And if you bring those crackers, she might even be nice.”

He smiled, setting his mug down.

“Oh, and by the way,” you added, pretending to inspect a peach like it was under review. “She only likes the white ones. If you brought yellow—”

“Don’t insult me,” he said, already pulling a peach from the bag and rolling it across the table toward you. “Do I look like someone who would buy the wrong kind?”

You caught it mid-roll, lips twitching. “I don’t know. You’ve been gone a while. You could’ve turned into someone completely unreliable.”

He leaned back on the couch, arms stretched along the top cushion, looking maddeningly smug. “I’m still me.”

You turned the peach over in your hand, pretending not to notice how warm your cheeks felt.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I know.”

—

NINE YEARS AGO

The living room was a mess. A good kind of mess—snack wrappers littered across the coffee table, cushions scattered like casualties, your shared laughter still lingering in the air like static. It was the Friday before the weekend, Soobin had waited for you to finish your badminton practice to walk you home to spend the rest of the afternoon with you.

Soobin was on the floor, one leg stretched out and the other tucked underneath him, controller in hand, glaring at the TV screen with the same intensity he used when talking about stage lighting or choreography.

“You’re cheating,” he said flatly. You didn’t look away from the screen. “I’m not.”

“You’re button-mashing,” he accused, pointing at your hands like he was building a legal case. “That’s not skill, that’s chaos.”

You grinned. “Chaos works.” A second later, his character flew off the edge of the map with a dramatic final explosion. KO. Soobin dropped his controller and flopped backward onto the floor like he’d just been shot. “Unbelievable. I come here in good faith and get demolished.”

You leaned over your knees, stretching out your arms with a satisfied sigh. “Maybe you just suck.”

He peeked at you through narrowed eyes. “I’m rethinking our friendship.”

“Because I’m better at Smash?”

“Because you’re a smug button-masher with no honor.”

You laughed, the kind that curled your shoulders inward and left a small warmth in your chest. This was easy. Ridiculously easy. Soobin had always been like this with you—quick to tease, slow to anger, all soft jabs and boyish huffs. Like a habit you never had to think about. He could go hours and hours just bantering with you about the most unimportant topics.

You reached for the plastic bag sitting on the coffee table, rifling through until you found what you were really after. “You want the last peach?”

He didn’t even hesitate. Sat up like he’d been summoned from the dead. “I do. Really. Deeply.”

You held it just out of reach, twirling it by the stem. “Then admit I’m better than you.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then no peach.”

“You’re evil.”

You were about to answer—probably with something smug, possibly with another insult—when he lunged forward.

It wasn’t even a real lunge. More like an exaggerated grab, like he was trying to be ridiculous on purpose. But you misjudged the distance—he was faster than he looked—and suddenly he was right there, fingers overlapping yours, and the peach tumbled from your grip, rolling a few inches before coming to a stop between you.

You both reached for it at the same time.

And then you were touching.

Just barely—his knuckles brushing yours, the pad of his thumb catching the back of your hand. Your knees bumped, one of his legs tangled slightly with yours from the way he’d thrown himself forward. The closeness was sudden. Clumsy. And absolutely still.

The peach sat in both your palms now, soft and overripe, a little dented from the fall. But you weren’t looking at the peach anymore.

You were looking at him.

He was looking back.

For a second, neither of you spoke. You could feel your heartbeat shift—quicker, louder. Like your body realized something your brain didn’t want to name.

He was close. Too close.

There was something different about the way he looked at you just then. Like he was searching for something—confirmation, maybe. Permission. Or maybe he wasn’t searching at all. Maybe he was just seeing you, for the first time in a way that wasn’t casual or safe or platonic. You told yourself to laugh. To say something to break it. But your mouth was dry and your fingers were still curled around the stupid peach.

God, you thought, this is just a moment. It doesn’t mean anything. Don’t make it mean something.

Because if you made it mean something, you’d have to face the fact that everything would change between you two, and you weren’t ready for that.

And worst of all—you didn’t know if he wanted it too.

So you were the first to let go.

“Fine,” you said, easing the peach into his hands, forcing a smile. “You win. Peach privileges restored.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you for a second longer, then pulled back, sitting cross-legged again, the fruit cradled like a trophy.

“You’ll regret this,” he said, voice light again. Too light. “I’m going to crush you in the next round.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and smirked. “Big talk from someone who just got obliterated.”

He took a bite of the peach—flesh soft, juice dripping slightly down his wrist.

You looked away.

Because watching him eat a peach had absolutely no right being that distracting.

“You’re quiet,” he said after a second.

“Just letting you enjoy your victory,” you replied, folding your arms.

“Mm.” He chewed, then added through a mouthful of fruit, “This is the taste of justice.”

You grabbed a pillow and lobbed it at his head.

He laughed, muffled but warm, like it lived somewhere behind his ribcage. Like it was meant just for you.

And later, after he’d gone, after the controller had been set aside and the cushions lazily put back, you sat on the couch and stared at the empty spot where his leg had touched yours.

It was nothing, you told yourself.

But your heart wasn’t convinced.

—

It had been three days since Soobin last came by to accompany you to the hospital.

Not that you were counting.

Your mom was still in the hospital. Her condition was stable, but “stable” was the kind of word doctors used when they meant unchanged, when the machines still beeped and the days still blurred, and you didn’t know how to exhale without guilt.

So you kept your head down. Worked your shifts. Folded laundry. Refilled the humidifier in her room. Then, one quiet evening, your phone buzzed.

Unknown: You up?

You stared at it for a second too long, the number was foreign to your contact list. The number wasn’t saved. But the timing, the tone—it could only be one person.

Another message came in.

Unknown: This is Soobin, by the way.

Of course it was.

You: No. I’m sleep-texting. You

The three dots appeared. Vanished. Then came back again, like he was typing and deleting and thinking too much—just like always.

Soobin:

Maybe. Or just bored.

Wanna walk?

You didn’t answer.

Fifteen minutes later, you were outside. Hoodie zipped to your chin, hands in your pockets. The air was cool, kissed with the hush that only lived in your neighborhood at night.

A faint breeze moved through the trees overhead, the streetlamp buzzed quietly, and the sidewalk stretched out ahead like a question you didn’t know how to ask.

He was waiting by the gate. Same hoodie from the other night. Same hands buried in the front pocket. His hair was a little messier now, falling into his eyes like he hadn’t bothered to push it back. He looked like someone trying not to look like he was waiting.

When he saw you, he straightened—not all the way, just enough to seem like he hadn’t been pacing.

“Hey,” he said, voice soft like he wasn’t sure if it would reach you.

“Hey,” you replied, tugging your sleeves over your hands. And then you walked. Not toward anything in particular. Just forward. Side by side. Close enough to hear the other breathe.

The silence wasn’t awkward. If anything, it felt… familiar. Like this was a rhythm you both used to know. Like your feet still remembered how to fall into step with his even if your hearts hadn’t caught up yet.

After a while, he spoke.

“I’ve been writing again,” he said, just above a whisper.

You glanced at him. His eyes stayed on the sidewalk. “Yeah?”

“Mostly bad stuff,” he added with a breath of a laugh. “But… some of it feels honest.”

You nodded. “That’s the hard part.”

There was a pause.

“I used to write when I missed home,” he said.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to. But he kept going anyway, his voice quieter now. Like if he said it too loud, it would sound like a confession.

“I stopped for a long time. Everything started to sound the same. Even the stuff I wrote just for me—it didn’t sound like me. It sounded like someone trying to remember what real felt like.”

Your chest pinched. Because you recognized that feeling, even if it wore a different face.

“You mean the industry?” you asked, your voice gentler than you meant it to be. He nodded, hands tightening in his sleeves. “The schedules, the shoots, the interviews where they ask you how you’re doing and expect you to say you’re grateful.”

You looked over. His face was still turned ahead, but his jaw was set—like he was fighting back something that had been building for years.

“It looks big,” he said. “To other people. All the lights and cameras and screaming fans. But most of the time, it felt… small. Like I was inside this beautiful box I couldn’t leave. Like I was shrinking in a place everyone said I was meant to grow.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. Not at first. Because it was Soobin—your Soobin. The one who used to doodle lyrics on his wrists during exams. The one who used to talk about Seoul like it was a promise.

And now he was here. Telling you the promise didn’t keep.

“I used to envy you,” you murmured.

He turned his head slightly, startled. “What?”

“You had direction. Purpose. You left. While the rest of us stayed behind wondering what we were doing. You knew.”

“I didn’t,” he said quickly. “I pretended I did.”

You exhaled, eyes on the path ahead.

He slowed, enough that you had to slow too.

“I didn’t reach out,” he began to answer your life’s biggest question, “because I was afraid if I told you how bad it was, you’d tell me to come home.”

You stopped. Right there on the path.

“And that would’ve been so awful?” you asked, trying to keep your voice even. “Me wanting you to come home?”

He looked down.

“It would’ve made it real,” he said. “Made me feel like I failed.”

The ache that had been sitting under your ribs stretched, deep and familiar.

The wind stirred again, carrying the sound of distant cars and rustling trees. Then, your voice dropped. “You know, Soobin… you did a good job.”

His eyes shot up to meet yours. Cautious. Almost confused. You let the words settle before continuing.

“I mean it. You chased something you believed in. You worked hard. You got somewhere people only dream about.” You swallowed. “You just… never took a second to see how far you’d gone. You kept running like someone was going to take it away from you.”

His mouth parted slightly, but no sound came out.

“You should let yourself rest,” you said. “You deserve to breathe.”

He looked at you like no one had ever said that to him before. Not in the way that mattered.

And maybe no one had. A silence fell again, but it was different now. Thick with emotion, weighted with years of distance and grief and care that had nowhere to go.

Soobin stepped forward—not enough to cross the space between you, but enough that you felt the warmth of him again.

“I’m trying to be better,” he said quietly.

Your throat tightened.

You didn’t know what to say. Not yet. So instead, you reached for the edge of your hoodie sleeve and twisted it around your fingers, grounding yourself in the way you used to back when emotions felt too big to hold.

And beside you, Soobin just stood there.

Not asking to be forgiven, not like he had to.

Just… asking to stay a little longer.

–

The hospital room was quieter than usual.

Your mom was asleep, or at least pretending to be. Her breaths came soft and even, her fingers curled loosely around the edge of the blanket. The late afternoon light filtered through the slats in the blinds, painting thin gold bars across the white walls. Outside, the city buzzed softly beneath the window, too far away to touch.

You sat by the bed, elbow propped on the armrest, chin resting in your hand. The chair creaked when you shifted. You’d meant to read. Meant to answer that message from work. But your mind kept drifting—backward, sideways, toward things that hadn’t happened yet but already pressed too heavy on your chest.

Soobin hadn’t texted since the walk.

Three days wasn’t long. Not really.

But you found yourself reaching for your phone more than usual. Pausing at the sound of footsteps in the hallway. Imagining him leaning on the doorframe again, holding some half-thought-out excuse to stop by. You hated how easily hope made a home out of silence.

Your mom stirred, just slightly, eyes fluttering open. “You’re still here?”

You smiled faintly. “Where else would I be?”

She looked at you for a beat longer than usual. “You’ve been coming earlier,” she said, voice scratchy from sleep. “Staying longer, too.”

You shrugged. “There’s not much else to do.”

“Mm.” She turned her head to the side, watching you now. Not like she was accusing—more like she was waiting. “He’s been coming around again.”

You didn’t respond right away. Just stared at the window, at the sky that had turned that in-between color of fading blue and soft orange.

“Yeah,” you said eventually.

“He’s been good to you,” she added, gently. “I see it.”

You chewed on the inside of your cheek, heart doing that stupid thing again—like it couldn’t decide whether to clench or melt.

“He’s not staying,” you said. Your mom didn’t answer right away. That kind of silence said more than any reply.

You leaned back in the chair, eyes flicking up to the ceiling. “I don’t know why it matters. It’s not like we’re… anything.”

“But you want to be?” she asked softly.

You didn’t look at her. “It wouldn’t make a difference.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You exhaled, long and slow. “It doesn’t matter what I want. He came back because of his health. Because he needed space from all that. He’s not… this isn’t forever.”

And if you let yourself want something more like last time—if you gave it a name—what would happen when he left again?

She was quiet for a long time. Then, just as you were about to change the subject, her voice returned. “You know,” she said, “I think the hardest kind of love is the kind that feels temporary.”

You blinked. “This isn’t–this isn’t love.” You protested.

She didn’t argue. Just gave you a look that said she’d been your mother long enough to know when you were lying—to her or to yourself.

You shook your head, staring down at your hands. “It’s not like I’m holding onto something that could actually last.”

“But you’re still holding it,” she murmured.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because yeah. You were.

You were holding the way his voice sounded in quiet places. The way he never pushed when you went silent, just waited with that kind of patience that only people who’d known you for years could manage. You were holding the way he remembered the things you forgot you ever told him. The way he looked at you like he didn’t know how to stop.

And it scared the hell out of you.

Because people leave. Sometimes they come back. But rarely do they stay.

Your mom reached out, her fingers brushing yours. “It’s okay to be scared,” she said gently. “It’s not okay to pretend you don’t feel anything.”

You didn’t respond.

You just stared at the sunlight crawling across the linoleum floor, and wondered how long you could keep pretending that what you felt was nothing.

–

The engine made a low, confused noise as Soobin turned the key. You braced your hand against the dashboard. Soobin sat up straighter, lips pursed like he was preparing for war. You couldn’t help watching the way his knuckles tensed on the wheel, the way he kept muttering to himself like this was more of a concert performance than a suburban test run.

"Okay," you said cautiously. "Brake. Check your mirrors. Put it in drive—no, that’s reverse. Reverse is—Soobin—!"

The car lurched backward, an alarming jolt that made your seatbelt dig into your collarbone.

“Okay! Okay! Got it!” Soobin slammed the brake, and the car shuddered to a halt. Your heart was somewhere near your throat.

“You almost ran over a mailbox,” you hissed, hands clutched tightly on your seat. “My mailbox!”

He winced. “It’s still standing.”

“Barely.” He shot you a look. “I told you I didn’t finish my license! You didn’t have to volunteer your car for this.”

“I didn’t think this was what we’d be doing when you said you wanted to ‘catch up.’

“Out,” you ordered. “Switch seats.” He didn’t argue.

“You’re lucky I like you,” you grumbled, turning the key and reversing smoothly out of the lot.

“Aw,” he said, smirking. “You like me.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

You looked at him. He looked back.

There was a beat of silence.

You circled back around the block, only to end up parked in front of your house once again. Soobin spotted the shed that sat behind your house, most importantly, what’s next to it.

“No way,” he said, rushing ahead.

Sure enough, there they were. Your old bikes. Rusted at the chains, tires flat, but still recognizable.

“I can’t believe you kept mine,” he said, brushing off a handlebar like it was a relic.

“My mom was too sentimental to throw it away. She thought you’d come back.”

He paused.

The air shifted.

“Guess she was right,” he said softly.

You didn’t respond.

–

A few minutes later, you were riding through town—laughing, breathless, avoiding potholes and startled pigeons. Soobin’s bike creaked horribly, but he insisted on pedaling like he was racing someone only he could see.

You took the long route, past the bookstore where you used to loiter, the convenience store where he once bought you a yogurt drink with his last few coins, the bus stop where you used to sit until the streetlights flicked on.

Then he slowed. You turned to look—and watched, helpless, as his front tire clipped a curb and sent him flying.

“Soobin!” He landed with a thud, half in the grass, half on the sidewalk.

You dropped your bike and ran to him.

“Oh my God—are you okay? Why weren’t you paying atten–”

He blinked up at you, dazed. “That bus stop looks exactly the same.”

“You fell off your bike because of nostalgia?!”

He groaned. “I got caught off guard.”

“By a memory?”

“You looked back at me…,” he mumbled.

You stopped. The world stilled for half a second. Then you shoved that away.

"You're bleeding," you said, kneeling next to him, choosing yet again to overlook the deeper weight hidden in his seemingly innocent words.

It wasn’t bad—just a scrape at his temple, but the sight still made something twist low in your stomach. You pulled a tissue that you luckily had in your pocket and dabbed at the cut.

“You’re so dramatic,” you murmured, dabbing at the cut with soft fingers. “What if you end up with a scar? Your fans might actually riot.”

He winced, sucking in a breath.

“You’re enjoying this,” he said, eyeing you suspiciously.

“I’m not,” you said, lips twitching.

“You’re not even trying to be gentle.”

“I am,” you lied—though your touch grew just a little softer.

But your hands had slowed. And now that you were this close, you couldn’t help but really look at him. His hair was a little damp, curling slightly at the edges. There was a faint smudge of dirt on his cheek, and the cut on his brow was still fresh—but none of it dulled him. If anything, it made him feel more real. Not the polished idol with perfect lighting and stage smiles, but Soobin—your Soobin.

The boy who used to race you home on bikes, who got grass stains on his knees and laughed until he fell over. And maybe that’s why your breath caught, just a little, because his eyes weren’t darting away this time. He wasn’t teasing or laughing. Just looking. Steady. Unafraid.

It felt like the earth was tilting under you.

He reached up, fingers brushing your wrist—soft, tentative. But you stood up before the silence could grow teeth.

“C’mon, head injury or not, we’re riding back. You can’t die dramatically knowing that it was a curb that took you out”

He laughed, clutching his ribs. “You’re such a comfort.”

You didn’t tell him that if he’d looked at you for one more second like that, you would’ve forgotten how to breathe.

Because your pulse still hadn’t returned to normal. And your heart didn’t know if it was from the fall…

…or from him.

—-

The rain started halfway through the ride home. Not a drizzle, not a soft mist. No, the sky decided to absolutely open up on you.

“Seriously?!” you shouted up at the clouds as you and Soobin coasted to a slow, skidding stop under a half-dead tree. Soobin was already laughing, clothes plastered to his skin, hair dripping into his eyes. “This is kind of perfect, though. Right? Very K-drama of us.”

You glared. “I’m going to get sick. You’re going to get sick.”

“I already feel stronger. This is character-building.”

You groaned and dropped your head back. “I hate you.”

“You keep saying that,” he said, wheeling his bike alongside yours, “but I’m starting to think you just like having an excuse to say my name angrily.”

You opened your mouth, ready to shoot something back—but a particularly angry clap of thunder cut through the air. You both jumped.

“Let’s just go home...” You muttered.

By the time you made it back to your house, you were soaked through—shoes squelching, hair matted to your cheeks, laughter still catching in your throats between shivers. You tossed your bike on the porch without care, unlocking the door as quickly as your frozen fingers would let you.

“Leave your shoes by the door,” you told him, kicking yours off with a squelch. “And try not to drip everywhere.”

Soobin peeled his hoodie over his head with a groan. “That’s an impossible task. I’m basically a human sponge.”

You grabbed a towel from the bathroom and threw it at his face. “Here. Dry off, Mr. Sponge.”

“I’ll need a medal for surviving this ride.”

“You’ll get a warm meal and some dry clothes, and you’ll like it.”

He grinned, following you into the hallway. “Wait. Dry clothes?”

"Yeah. I think I still have one of your old sweatshirts lying around" you said over your shoulder, stopping just outside your room. You glanced back at him, standing awkwardly in the hallway, damp hair dripping and clothes clinging to him like a soggy afterthought. He looked like a miserable, oversized puppy.

"If it even fits..." you mumbled under your breath.

Because looking at him now, you weren’t so sure. He’d always been tall, but somewhere between the boy who used to sprawl across your couch and the man standing there now, he'd filled out—broad shoulders, long limbs, that quiet weight people carry when they've grown into themselves. It was weird. Familiar.

“You still have that?”

You shrugged, trying not to overthink the warmth crawling up your neck. “It’s a good sweatshirt.”

“Can I have it back?”

“No.”

He laughed, and you disappeared into your room, pulling out the hoodie in question—still soft and oversized—and a pair of sweatpants you knew would be way too short on him, but it’d have to do.

You handed him the clothes and pointed him toward the bathroom. “Go. Change. And hang your stuff up unless you want it smelling like mildew forever.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, mock saluting.

When he disappeared behind the door, you exhaled. Why did this feel like something?

You pushed your wet hair back and padded into the kitchen to grab some water, heart still annoyingly thudding. Rain tapped against the windows like impatient fingers, and somewhere in the background, the bathroom door creaked as he rummaged through a drawer for a comb, a towel, who knew.

After changing into dry clothes, you settled onto the couch, towel in hand as you ran it through your damp hair. Without thinking, you reached into your pocket for your phone and opened reels—more out of muscle memory than intention.

You scrolled for a good minute before pausing.

There it was.

A video of Soobin. Blonde Soobin. All black suit, legs spread like he owned gravity, eating some sort of sour candy in that dazed, effortless idol way that did things to people.

The sound was some kind of slowed-down R&B track. The caption read: “what do you mean he’s not my boyfriend??”

You snorted and shook your head, tapping the screen like you meant to scroll past it.

“You watching fan edits of me?”

You jumped, your heart skipping a beat.

Soobin was standing just behind the couch, freshly changed, a towel draped loosely around his neck as he rubbed at his damp hair. His cheeks were flushed pink—not from embarrassment, but from the lingering warmth of the shower. The faint scent of your soap clung to him, familiar and comforting.

You scrambled for words, panic rising in your chest. “N-no.”

He raised one perfectly shaped eyebrow, the hint of a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “You’re a terrible liar.”

You bit your lip, trying to steady your voice. “It just popped up on my For You page!” you insisted, your tone shooting up an octave in protest.

“That’s not how the algorithm works,” he teased, eyes sparkling as he leaned in a little. “I can literally see you liked it.”

You huffed, flinging your phone onto the couch as if it had personally betrayed you. “I didn’t save it or anything.”

“I’m flattered,” he said, grinning as he walked slowly around the couch and flopped down beside you. The heat radiating from his body made the space between you feel smaller, cozier.

“I didn’t know you were into the blonde era,” he added with mock surprise.

You tried not to look at him, but it was impossible. His warmth seeped into you, grounding you in a way that made your chest ache with something tender and unfamiliar. He smelled like your soap—clean, soft, and utterly real.

“Yeah, well,” you muttered, crossing your arms defensively, “you looked ridiculous.”

He laughed—a low, easy sound that made your heart flutter. “You’re blushing.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

You risked a glance at him—and made the mistake of meeting his eyes.

Something electric passed between you, and it wasn’t from the static of the hoodie. It was heavier. Warmer. Your breath stuttered. You could say this, right? You were friends, right?

“You know,” you started, voice quieter, “it’s kinda unfair.”

He tilted his head. “What is?”

You picked at a loose thread on the couch cushion, pretending not to notice the way his thigh was pressed against yours.

“You look like that, even if you’re just eating.”

He blinked.

The teasing fell out of his expression like someone had pulled a thread loose. You looked at him—really looked.

And there it was again. That thing that hung between you like a held breath. That invisible thread that pulled tighter and tighter every time you got close enough to see each other clearly.

His hand caught your wrist just as you were about to step away.

You froze, startled by the gentle hold, your heart skipping a beat.

His hand closed around your wrist—gentle, hesitant. Like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to touch you but couldn’t let the moment slip away without trying.

You froze.

Not because it was dramatic or shocking, but because your body had trained itself to notice every tiny shift around Soobin. The way his fingers were warm against your skin. The way his thumb hovered just slightly, like he thought about brushing it across your wrist but didn’t.

When you looked at him, really looked, he was already looking away—blushing.

His ears were a little pink at the tips, and the expression on his face was… shy. Maybe even a little self-conscious, like he was trying to laugh it off before you said anything that would make it worse.

“That clip you saw…” he said, clearing his throat, his voice softer than usual. “It’s not really me looking good or anything.”

You blinked. “What?”

He scratched the back of his neck with his free hand, still not letting go of you. “That livestream—the one with the blonde hair and the… uh, the sitting posture.” He made a vague motion, embarrassed. “We were just coming off a performance. Everyone was still in stage makeup, and the stylists kind of go all out when there’s press watching. It’s not really how I… look. Normally.”

He wasn’t even making eye contact now, suddenly fascinated with a dent in the hardwood floor.

“I mean, they style us a certain way. The lighting’s good. The outfits are picked for us.” He glanced up, almost sheepish. “It’s not real-real.”

You didn’t answer right away. You were too busy staring.

Because here was Soobin—not the idol, not the polished version beamed out to millions—but your Soobin. The one who got defensive about reverse parking and couldn’t cook instant noodles without supervision. The one whose hoodie sleeves still hung past his wrists, whose hair was a little damp from the rain, whose voice always got smaller when he was trying to be honest.

And he didn’t know. He didn’t know that the moment he tried to downplay it, you somehow liked him even more. Your heart was doing something dangerous. Something stupid and fluttery. And warm. You smiled, just a little. “So what you’re saying is… the Soobin in that clip is false advertising?”

He huffed a laugh—still nervous, still a bit pink. “Exactly.”

“Well,” you said, pretending to think it over, “I guess I’ll just have to get used to this version of you, then.”

He tilted his head, eyes meeting yours at last. “This version?”

You nodded, trying to act nonchalant even though your pulse was kicking wildly in your throat. “The version that wears wrinkled sweats and drips water on my floor and thinks too much about livestreams from six months ago.”

He smiled, small and real. “That version’s not very cool.”

“Good. I like him better.” You shrugged. “He reminds me of an old friend.”

There was a pause—just long enough to feel like a held breath. His hand was still on your wrist, warmer now. Closer. And even though neither of you said it, something shifted.

He lingered a second longer, still holding your wrist, his thumb brushing your skin in a barely-there touch. Neither of you moved, as if breaking the stillness might shatter something fragile between you.

And then, almost offhandedly—like it wasn’t the kind of thing that would stick with you for days—he said, “You look good too, you know. Even after all these years.”

Simple. Uncomplicated. But it cracked something open in you all the same.

You turned away first.

“I’m gonna go make dinner,” you said quickly, already halfway to standing. “Before I say something else embarrassing.”

He let go, fingers slipping away from yours slowly, reluctantly.

And you walked to the kitchen with your heart in your throat.

Dinner was on the stove.

But it wasn’t the only thing simmering now.

—

You stood in front of the pot, stirring with more intensity than necessary, trying very hard not to think about the compliment Soobin had just casually lobbed at your entire existence. His words still clung to your skin more stubborn than the rain had.

"You look good too."

What did that even mean? You were in an old hoodie, hair still damp, socks mismatched. You looked like a soggy couch cushion with a pulse.

Still. He’d said it. Earnestly. Like he meant it.

You stirred the pot a little too aggressively.

Behind you, Soobin leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching you like he had nowhere else to be—and no desire to be anywhere else. He looked so at ease there, like he belonged in this space, in your space. The hoodie he wore—the one you’d cut around the collar back in high school during a brief “DIY fashion” phase—hung slightly off one of his shoulders now, exposing a sliver of collarbone. Your brain short-circuited every time your eyes drifted that way, completely unprepared for how something so small, so casual, could feel so intimate.

His eyes drifted toward the stove, then to you—quiet, lingering. He wasn’t staring exactly, but it was close. Like he was watching something he couldn’t quite name. Something small and domestic and too warm to look at directly. And when you caught it, just barely from the corner of your eye, it sent a shiver straight down your spine.

He dropped his gaze instantly, toeing at the rug with the tip of his sock like it had personally offended him.

“What… uh, what are you making?” he asked, voice soft. Like raising it too loud might break something fragile.

You tossed chopped onions into the pan with a hiss. “Soup,” you said. “It’s quick. It’s easy. And you probably won’t die eating it.”

Soobin gave a little laugh—short and breathy. “That’s a really strong endorsement.”

“I’ve seen your cooking, Choi. This is already an upgrade.”

He gasped, hand clutching his chest like you’d mortally wounded him. “You don’t forget anything, do you?”

“Three different instant noodles. All undercooked. All aggressively beige.”

“That was years ago!” he protested, a smile tugging at his lips. You nudged him with your hip as you passed behind him. “Just don’t set anything on fire, and we’ll call it a win.”

“I can be helpful,” he mumbled, already reaching for the cutting board. “You just… never let me.”

You glanced at him, amused. “You’re the one who told me not to let you near knives.”

“Right, but like…” He shrugged, scratching at the back of his neck. “That was before.”

You handed him a block of tofu and the world’s dullest knife. “Okay, Chef of the Year. Tiny cubes. No bleeding.” He took it with an exaggerated sigh. “No faith in me at all.”

You turned back to the stove, only to hear the distinct sound of tofu being… destroyed.

You looked. “That’s a massacre.”

“I panicked,” he muttered, eyebrows drawn together like he was concentrating on defusing a bomb. You stepped beside him without thinking. “Here,” you said, adjusting his grip. “Like this.” Your fingers curled gently around his hand, repositioning his hold on the knife. Your chest brushed his arm. He stilled.

The silence bloomed wide. You felt his breath catch—just barely. Like a sound he wasn’t sure he should let out. When he turned his head, your faces were closer than they’d meant to be. Too close.

“I think I’m messing up on purpose,” he said, voice so low it barely reached you.

You blinked. “Why?” He hesitated. His eyes flicked to your lips, then away again, like he didn’t mean to. “Because, uh… getting corrected isn’t so bad?”

Your heart stuttered.

And for one wild second, you thought he might actually mean it. Not in a joke way. Not in a “we’re just friends messing around” way. But in the kind of way that stayed with you, long after it passed. You pulled back quickly, your voice higher than it needed to be. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

“You totally are,” he mumbled, looking weirdly pleased with himself. You turned back to the soup before your face could fully betray you. “Dinner’s almost done.”

“Smells good.” The way he said it—it wasn’t loud or performative. Just warm. Quiet. Like he meant it and didn’t know how to say much else.

“I can, um… I can set the table,” he offered after a beat, fiddling with the towel draped over the chair. “If that helps.”

“It’s just two plates.”

“Still,” he said, moving toward the cupboard. “Feels like the least I can do.”

You watched him open drawers like he didn’t remember where anything was—even though he’d been to your kitchen more than once. Even though this version of Soobin—the soft one, the one who tiptoed through domestic spaces like they were breakable—was getting harder and harder to pretend didn’t feel different.

By the time you both sat down, your pulse still hadn’t settled.

He waited until you took your first bite before speaking again.

“This feels nice,” he said, toying with his chopsticks. “Like… familiar.”

You looked up. “Familiar how?”

He hesitated. “Like, I don’t know. Like we used to do this all the time. Even if we didn’t.”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. I get that.” There was a pause. He tapped his chopsticks together gently, then added, “Not like this, though.”

Your stomach tightened. Because you knew what he meant. Not with the late rain tapping at the windows. Not with the soft glow of the kitchen light, the quiet between bites. Not with the way his leg brushed yours under the table like it didn’t mean anything… except it kind of did.

He looked down at his bowl, then back at you, cheeks faintly pink. “It’s probably dumb. Sorry.”

“No,” you said quickly. “It’s not dumb.” You both sat in the quiet that followed, tension settling like steam in the air between you. Soft. Warm. Unspoken.

And still—he glanced at you again, eyes lingering a little longer this time.

“This,” he murmured, almost to himself, “is the part I think I missed the most.”

You didn’t trust yourself to ask what he meant. So you took another bite instead. But your fingers itched where they’d touched his. And you could feel the weight of the moment, real and quiet and waiting for someone to name it.

So neither of you did.

You just stayed like that—two bowls between you, hearts too full for your mouths to keep up.

—

It had been a while since you last saw Soobin. A month, at least.

His mom had mentioned he was out of town visiting family—some cousin’s wedding, maybe. You didn’t ask too many questions. Just nodded, said “ah,” and tried to pretend your chest didn’t ache a little every time you passed his house, reminding you of how alone you felt the first time he had disappeared.

In his absence, the days blurred. You slipped too easily back into your old routine—working, grocery store runs, folding laundry half-awake, hospital visits that drained more than they gave. You didn’t have time to miss him. You barely had time to be anything other than tired.

But that night… that night was different.

The doctor had been gentle, but that didn’t soften the words. Your mom’s condition wasn’t worsening—but it also wasn’t improving. They’d be moving her into a more intensive unit, “just to keep a closer eye.” That was what they always said. A closer eye. As if that made it better.

You left the hospital numb, your body moving through the motions—bus ride, walking home, dropping your keys in the dish like muscle memory. You kicked off your shoes and sat on the edge of your bed without meaning to.

And before you knew it, you were opening your laptop. Not the mindless doomscrolling of nights past. Not some clip appearing on your for you page by accident.

You typed it out yourself this time.

Soobin. Variety show. “Faves Fave.”

Intentional.

The screen filled with thumbnails—bright, curated images of him laughing, grinning, clutching his stomach as he teased his guests. You clicked one. Then another. Then another. It was like oxygen after two weeks of holding your breath.

He looked… the same. Familiar and not. Confident, magnetic, a little shy around the edges if you knew where to look—which, of course, you did.

And then you found that episode.

The one with the “dating coach” guest. Just a cute concept—flowers, mukbang, the whole club presentation skit . You watched with your chin in your hand, blinking slowly as he fiddled with his sleeves and answered questions with his soft, hesitant smile.

Until the girl leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, and asked with a teasing lilt, “Soobin-ssi, what’s your type?”

He laughed first. Ducking his head, already shaking it. “You’re gonna make me get in trouble…” The staff cackled. The guest encouraged him.

“Someone who… leads?” he finally said, face pink and gaze darting away. “I’m more… I think I’m usually… the follower type.” The camera zoomed in. He rubbed at the back of his neck, looking utterly sheepish.

You sat frozen, mouse hovering over the pause button. Your stomach did something ridiculous.

It was the way he said it—like it wasn’t meant to be scandalous. Just honest. Earnest. And yet your brain short-circuited.

He wasn’t lying.

Over the next few days, you found yourself spiraling. Not in a dangerous way. Just… quietly. Internally. You kept replaying his words—the shy, almost whispered confession that he liked being led. That he was the follower, not the leader. It was a simple thing, but it hit you in a way you didn’t expect.

You found yourself wondering what that really meant—how it would feel to be the one guiding him, to be the person he trusted enough to follow. It was strange how just thinking about it made your chest tighten, your skin buzz with something like electricity. You tried to tell yourself it was just the stress, the exhaustion, the endless waiting for your mom to get better. But you knew better.

When you saw him again, it was like the air between you had shifted, though nothing had really changed. You were hanging out like usual—talking, laughing, stealing quick glances at each other—but now every look carried weight. Every casual brush of your hands or accidental touch sent your heart racing.

Soobin was the same—soft-spoken, a little awkward, but somehow more open, more vulnerable. He wasn’t joking when he said he liked being led. You could see it in how he deferred to you on small things, how he hesitated before making decisions, like he was waiting for your cue. And you? You were barely holding yourself together inside.

The doorbell rang just as you were finishing up dinner—your hands still a little flour-dusted, the kitchen smelling faintly of garlic and rosemary. You wiped them on your apron, heart skipping in a way that was maybe more than just nerves about having company.

When you opened the door, Soobin was there, standing with that familiar, slightly sheepish smile that always made your chest tighten. His hair was a bit tousled from the wind, and his eyes held that soft, tentative look you’d come to know so well.

“Hey,” he said quietly, voice low like he was trying not to disturb the calm.

“Hey,” you replied, stepping aside to let him in.

He kicked off his shoes like he always did—neatly, side by side by the door, like a good guest. Like someone who belonged.

You didn’t say anything, just followed him with your gaze as he wandered into the kitchen, peering into the pot on the stove.

“Ooh,” he said, drawing out the sound, his voice lilting with approval. “It smells like… actual food. I thought you were just gonna microwave ramen.”

You rolled your eyes, your heartbeat thudding annoyingly fast. “Excuse you. I am a cooking god.”

He was joking. You knew that. Just Soobin being Soobin—soft and playful and a little smug without realizing it. But the way he leaned against your counter, arms crossed, sleeves pushed up, collar loose…

Yeah. This was going to kill you. Because he had no idea.

No idea that you’d spent two nights watching him on screen—smiling, laughing, stupidly talking about his ideal type like it was just another throwaway question. Like it hadn’t rearranged something inside you.

“I’m usually the follower type,” he’d said.

And maybe it was stupid, the way your brain latched onto that. The way your body responded like it had been waiting for an excuse. You turned away quickly, grabbing bowls from the cabinet with more force than necessary. Focus.

“So,” he said behind you, “what’s the occasion?”

“What?”

“You cooked. For me. Without bribery or threats involved.” He leaned over your shoulder, just barely, just enough that you could feel the warmth of him at your back. “Should I be worried?”

You forced a laugh. “Maybe I missed having someone around who bugs me while I’m chopping onions.”

“Ah,” he said with mock solemnity. “So I am but a tool for your entertainment.”

You could feel the heat of him behind you—just barely there, just enough to make it impossible to think straight.

Tool for your entertainment, he’d said.

You nearly dropped the ladle.

God, he had no idea what that did to you.

Your brain, already frayed from too many late nights watching his interviews on loop—watching him smile at someone else, laugh at someone else's joke—now seized on that one line, innocent and offhand, like your nervous system needed a final push toward collapse.

"I’m the follower type."

Most people would’ve let it pass. A throwaway comment. But not you. Not after hearing the way he’d said it—voice low, almost shy, like it had slipped out by accident. Like it meant something.

And now here he was. In your kitchen. Wearing your hoodie. Joking about being your “tool,” like the universe had a twisted sense of humor and was testing your ability to not spontaneously combust.

“Sure,” you managed, ladling soup into a bowl with what you hoped was a steady hand. “An incredibly useful tool.”

He gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. “Wow. I’ve been demoted to household equipment. I used to be someone.”

You bit your lip.

Don’t laugh. Don’t think about what he said. Definitely don’t think about what that would look like.

You turned to hand him the bowl—and instantly regretted it.

He was close. Too close. Close enough that you could see the faint sprinkle of freckles near his collarbone, the soft curve of his throat. Close enough to feel the warmth of him. And worse—close enough to see his smile up close, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes in a way that felt entirely, devastatingly sincere; his dimples on full display.

You passed him the bowl with a shallow breath, eyes on anything but his face. He took it gently. But didn’t step away.

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice softer now. Too soft. The kind of softness that pried things loose.

You looked up. Mistake number two. His brows were slightly furrowed, gaze searching—not teasing this time, not even curious. Just… concerned. Like he could feel the ripple of something under the surface but didn’t know where it led.

“I’m fine,” you said too fast, too light. “Just tired.”

He didn’t argue, but the way he looked at you made it clear he wasn’t buying it completely. Still, he nodded, letting the moment settle.

You grabbed your own bowl and sat down quickly, needing the table between you. Needing space. Needing something solid to keep you from doing something stupid like saying the actual thoughts screaming in your head.

He sat across from you, legs tucked up like always, like your living room wasn’t any different from his. Like no time had passed at all. Like he hadn’t just accidentally unraveled you with a single joke and a borrowed hoodie.

Like he belonged here.

And you let him. Of course you did. Even now, even with your pulse skipping and your thoughts stuck on that clip. The one where he’d smiled, soft and unguarded, and said “I don’t mind being told what to do,” and the room had laughed, but you hadn’t.

Because it hadn’t felt like a joke to you.

It had felt like a truth. One he hadn’t meant to share. One you couldn’t unhear.

And now it sat in your chest like a secret too big to hold. A glowing ember you couldn’t stamp out.

He slurped a spoonful of soup and let out a satisfied hum. “So what’s in this? Other than the tears you shed while I was gone”

You swallowed hard, fighting for focus. “Garlic. Herbs. A careful measure of what’s left of my sanity.”

He snorted. “Well, it’s seasoned perfectly.”

You gave him a weak smile, cheeks already warm, though it had nothing to do with the stove.

Because this wasn’t just banter anymore. This wasn’t normal. It was familiar, yes—but in a way that felt dangerous now. Because the more he settled back into your life, into your house, into the clothes you used to sleep in—the harder it became to separate who he used to be from what he was starting to mean now.

He had no idea. None. He didn’t know that every casual smile, every soft laugh, every offhanded comment was completely undoing you. You glanced up—and found him already watching you.

You froze.

“What?”

He blinked like he hadn’t meant to get caught. “Nothing,” he said quickly. “You’re just… quiet tonight.”

You looked down at your bowl.

“Yeah,” you said again. “Just tired.”

He didn’t press, but his gaze lingered, and in the stretch of silence that followed, you wondered—just for a second—if he saw it. The shift. The crack in your composure. The storm is blooming just beneath your skin.

But then he took another bite. Casual. Comfortable.

And you sat there, across from the boy who was quietly ruining your life, wondering how much longer you could pretend it wasn’t happening.

—-

EIGHT YEARS AGO

It had been the class field trip to the mountains—the last big outing before graduation.

Everyone had been buzzing about it for weeks: a whole day out of school. You hadn’t planned on going at first—too many people, too much noise—but your friends insisted. And somewhere deep down, beneath your careful excuses, you knew Soobin would be there.

And yeah. Maybe that was the real reason you said yes.

The day itself was easy. Light. The sun shimmered across the water, laughter bounced off the docks. Soobin had helped pass out life jackets, sleeves rolled up, hair pushed back by the wind, that easygoing smile on his face. He was joking with everyone, relaxed—but his eyes kept finding you. When he thought you weren’t looking.

You caught him once. Watching.

He smiled. You looked away.

It should’ve felt warm. Comforting. Safe.

But then, later—when everyone was crowded around a picnic table, eating soggy sandwiches and swatting mosquitoes—you overheard it.

Two classmates, sitting a few feet behind you. One of them is his friend. The other a notorious gossip.

“I’m telling you,” one said, tearing into a juice pouch. “Soobin was gonna ask her to the lake.”

“Her? Seriously?”

“Yeah. Said he’d do it if she said yes to coming. But then he got all weird. Said she shuts down whenever he gets close. But, like, you can tell. He does everything she says. It’s kind of sad.”

You froze, a sandwich half-bitten in your hand.

He was going to ask you. You hadn’t imagined it. The quiet tension, the soft attention—it had meant something. And maybe, just maybe, it still would have meant something.

But then came the second realization. The one that burrowed deeper.

He would’ve done it just because you came.

Because you said yes.

Because he always listened.

Because he always followed your lead.

And you couldn’t breathe.

Because if he liked you like that—really liked you—then that meant being wanted. Being chosen. Again. And what had that ever brought anyone?

Everyone you loved either left or got sick. That wasn't a coincidence. That was you.

You had started to believe, somewhere in the quiet dark, that maybe you were the problem. That maybe there was something inside you—ruinous and invisible—that made people go. Like you carried a sickness only the people closest to you ever caught.

And Soobin? Soobin was the kind of boy who would’ve followed you straight into the storm, no questions asked.

He didn’t deserve that.

So you shut down.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. You avoided his gaze. Didn’t laugh at his jokes. When the canoes got pulled out, you volunteered for the group on the other end of the lake. You didn’t even sit near him on the bus ride back.

And the texts, later that night? Left unread.

When he approached you in the hallway the next week, worry in his eyes, asking if something was wrong—you shrugged.

“Don’t worry about it,” you said. And then walked away.

You never told him why. Never told him that your silence wasn’t about him. It was about you. What you believed you did to the people who loved you.

He didn’t chase after you. Not out loud. But you saw him watching you in class a few times after that. Quiet. Like he was waiting for a sign that never came. The last time you saw him was three days after the hike. He was standing by the bike racks after school, bag slung over one shoulder, kicking gravel. He looked up when you walked out with your friends.

You paused.

He straightened. Took a half step forward. “Hey.”

You stopped. Barely. “Hey.”

“I just wanted to ask if I… said something wrong?”

He looked so unsure, so open, so soft. All you wanted was to walk back toward him. Say something. Say everything.

But you didn’t.

You gave him a weak smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

“Don’t worry about it.” Then you left.

No final goodbye. No explanation. Just silence.

And that was the last time you saw Soobin. Before the auditions, the debut, the lights and cameras and screams and fame turned him into someone the whole world watched. You’d think about that moment by the fence. About how he would’ve done anything for you, if you’d only let him.

But you hadn’t. Because somewhere deep down, you still believed you were the thing that made people sick. And you couldn’t let him catch it too.

So instead, you let him go. Quiet. Clean. Cowardly.

And the worst part?

You were never sure if he even hated you for it.

—

The soup was gone. The dishes were rinsed, half-drying on the rack.

The living room was dim now, only the lamp in the corner still on, casting long golden light over everything. The night had settled in soft around you—quiet, still, deceptively calm. Soobin was sprawled out on your couch, legs long and socked feet hanging off the edge like he forgot how tall he was. You sat on the floor with your back against the coffee table, scrolling through a playlist on your phone, pretending like you weren’t hyper-aware of his presence. Of the warmth of his thigh brushing the cushion where your elbow rested. Of the way his eyes followed you when he thought you weren’t looking.

You were looking.

“Wanna watch something?” you offered, keeping your voice casual. “You haven’t seen the new season of that show you liked, right?”

“Hmm,” he hummed, quiet for a second. “I kinda just wanna sit like this.”

You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t, really. Your mouth had gone dry. Because the way he said it wasn’t teasing. It was simple. Earnest.

Like this.

With you. In your space. With your things and your scent on the throw blanket and the memory of your hand on his guiding a knife hours ago. He turned his head a little, resting his cheek on the back of the couch.

“You’re really quiet tonight,” he said again. “Not just tired, quiet… It’s like…you’re thinking too much.”

You stared ahead at the wall, the grain in the wood, the dust in the lamp’s halo of light.

“I’m always thinking too much.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “But this feels different.”

You drew your knees up to your chest, arms wrapping around them.

“I just…” You hesitated. “I think I’ve forgotten how to be around you.”

He blinked. Sat up straighter. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” you said, trying to laugh, trying to swallow the tension, “we hang out like this and it’s supposed to feel easy, but it doesn’t anymore.”

He looked at you carefully. Slowly.

And then, softer than before: “Why doesn’t it?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

He let the silence stretch a beat longer, then got up.

You thought maybe he was going to leave. But instead, he walked over and sat beside you on the floor, shoulder-to-shoulder. Close. Warm.

“Can I ask you something?” he murmured.

You turned your head. “You just did.”

He gave you a look, but there was no bite to it. Only hesitation.

“Did I do something?” he asked.

Your heart thudded.

“No,” you said quickly. “No, it’s not—” You exhaled hard. “You didn’t do anything.”

“Then what is it?”

You turned your face toward your knees, hiding your expression. But his voice followed, low and careful.

“You didn’t do anything,” I say again, quieter this time—almost a whisper, like if I say it soft enough, maybe it’ll unravel the knot tightening in my chest.

Soobin stays still. Not a word. No response. He just waits.

And somehow, that silence makes everything harder to bear.

I press my cheek against my knee, voice muffled and uneven. “It just got me thinking… back in high school. That field trip to the mountains.” You don’t know why you’re bringing this up now.

I feel the faintest tilt of his head, a subtle sign he’s listening, but he doesn’t meet my eyes.

“After that trip…” I trail off, twisting the sleeve of my shirt around my fingers, the fabric rough beneath my skin. “I don’t know why—” The words catch in my throat, and the room feels heavy with unspoken things. I swallow hard. “I don’t know why I stopped talking to you.”

Lies. Lies. Lies. Because I know the truth, but it’s too fragile, too raw to say out loud.

Finally, I steal a glance at him—just for a moment.

His face softens. There’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes, maybe something else too. Something like understanding. Or forgiveness.

And in that quiet exchange, it feels like a small crack opens in the wall between us—fragile, but real.

He shifts beside me, the couch groaning beneath his weight. Then, softly:

“I didn’t know,” he says.

His voice is different now. Not teasing. Not soft for the sake of comfort—but careful. Honest.

“I thought…” He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck like he always does when he’s nervous. “I thought maybe you didn’t like me. That I was too much.”

My heart stutters.

“You weren’t,” You say quickly, instinctively. “You weren’t too much. You were just…”

You falter again. He looks at you now—really looks at you—and you feel like he’s seeing through every version of you you’ve built up over the years.

“I overheard some guys talking about you,” You keep going, twisting the sleeve of your shirt around your fingers. “They said you were going to ask me out, maybe confess something.”

So much silence.

“And it just... freaked me out.”

You don’t say it lightly. You say it like a confession, like a weight lifted from your shoulders but also like a wound reopened. Because it costs you something to admit.

“I didn’t know how to deal with it,” You admit, voice catching a little. “The idea that you might like me... that I might have to say it back.”

You finally glance at him—just for a second. His face softens. A flicker of surprise, maybe something else.

“So I did the worst thing,” You confess, taking a shaky breath. “I avoided you.”

You swallow hard. “I told myself it didn’t matter. That I’d forget. But I never did.”

He stays quiet longer than you want. You think maybe You’ve ruined everything.

“You know,” he says after a long moment, “I used to think about that field trip a lot.”

You turn toward him.

“I kept wondering if I said something wrong. Maybe I embarrassed you.”

“You didn’t.”

He nods. “I know that now. But back then…”

His voice drifts. There’s a different kind of sadness in it. Not bitter. Just the kind that comes from remembering a version of yourself who didn’t know better.

“…I guess I needed you to say this more than I realized,” he finishes.

You both don’t say anything for a while after that. The silence between you isn’t empty—it’s full of things finally said, finally heard.

Then—like the Soobin you’ve always known—he cracks a crooked grin, glancing sideways at me.

“So…” he says, light but sincere, “now that we’ve established we were both emotionally constipated teenagers…”

You snort. “You’re the worst.”

He nudges your shoulder again, softer this time. “Just saying. We had a lot of potential for a coming-of-age drama. Tears, longing stares, tragic misunderstandings.”

“And a bad soundtrack,” you say, trying to keep your voice light, though something twists in your chest. “You would’ve done well with a sad ballad.”

“Oh, definitely,” he murmurs, looking forward now, like he’s watching a movie that only he can see. “Fade to black. Cue emotional credits.”

You smile faintly at that. Or maybe you try to. Because the warmth between you—the comfort, the quiet—it feels like something that could settle. Something that could stay.

But then the silence stretches again. Not like before. This one sharpens. Something shifts in the air, almost imperceptibly, and you feel it before you hear it. The way Soobin suddenly exhales, the weight in his shoulders changing.

You glance at him.

He’s not smiling anymore. His eyes darken with something unsaid—an emotion too raw to voice but too heavy to hide.

In that moment, the space between you changes. It’s no longer just a shared past. It’s a crossing point.

A line drawn. Between what was… and what could be.

And somehow, without words, you both know it.

This is the turning point.

The moment everything begins to change. His eyes darken, intense and searching, as they lock onto yours. The world narrows until it’s just the two of you—breath mingling, hearts hammering in sync.

guys...i reached the 1000 word block GO TO PAHT TWO

327 notes · View notes

mesopotamism · 4 days ago

Text

Baked and filled

Pairing: Jackson!Joel x fem!Reader

Summary: Joel comes back home from work.

Warnings: 18+. BREEDING KINK, unprotected sex, Oral (f!receiving). Age gap (50s,20s), eaten from behind, bent over to the counter, breeding kink, praise, pet names, talking about pregnancy, soft!joel, dom!joel, pinv.

words: 2.391

You carefully slide the tray of cookie dough balls into the warm oven, you lean in to close the door, You smile to yourself, feeling proud of the delicious treats you're about to make.

The comforting sound of the crackling fireplace fills the living room as the cold winter wind howls outside.

You move to the sink, humming softly to yourself as you begin cleaning the mess you left behind.

The warm water feels nice against your hands as you scrub the bowl and utensils clean.

The gruff sound of your husband's voice snaps you out of your thoughts as the front door clicks shut.

You hear the soft thud of his boots being scraped against the doormat, "Babe, I'm home," he calls out, his deep voice carrying through the house. He steps into the kitchen, his eyes immediately drawn to the sight of you in his old, well-worn t shirt.

The faded letters of his business name across your back make him smile, "What's cookin' sweetheart?" A warm smile spreading across his face at the mention of cookies. "You remembered how much I love 'em, huh?"

He steps closer, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind and resting his chin on your shoulder. "You're too good to me, you know that?" You lean back into his embrace, the sponge pausing mid-scrub as you turn your head to press a quick kiss to his cheek.

"Someone's gotta take care of my big bad cookie monster," you tease lightly, your voice warm and affectionate.

He smirks down at you, watching as you continue washing the dishes. His calloused hands, still cold from being outside, slide slowly under the oversized shirt you're wearing - his shirt - feeling your warm, smooth skin.

"Damn," he mutters softly, enjoying your body's warmer h. His rough, calloused hands slowly move up, cupping your breasts possessively. He starts kneading the soft mounds.

A low hum of satisfaction rumbles in his chest as he warms his hands in your gentle curves. "Goddamn, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice growing huskier. "Your warm little titties are heating up my cold hands real nice."

He presses his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply and groaning as his hands continue to massage your sensitive flesh. You let out a soft giggle, your hands pausing mid-task as his rough hands continue their gentle assault on your breasts.

"Joel..." you warn playfully, trying to sound stern but failing as his warm breath tickles your neck. "I'm trying to do the dishes here..." He smirks against your neck, "And I'm just trying to warm my hands, baby," he says with mock innocence, his hands still gently kneading your breasts.

"You just keep doing those dishes, sweetheart," he says, his voice low and teasing. "I'll just keep warming my hands right here." Unable to resist the temptation of your smooth skin, Joel starts placing soft kisses along your neck.

He works his way up from your shoulder, his lips gently nibbling and sucking on your sensitive flesh. His hands never stop their slow, sensual massage of your breasts, his calloused thumbs brushing over your hardening nipples.

Your cheeks flush pink as his lips and hands work their magic on you. You bite down harder on your lip to keep the moan trapped inside you. The sponge in your hand continues to move mechanically over the plates as you try to focus on something other than Joel's touch.

One hand continues kneading your breast while the other slides up to gently grip your throat. His lips move to capture your earlobe, giving it a playful bite as he presses his already rock-hard erection firmly against your backside. "You're driving me crazy, sweetheart," he growls low in your ear. Unable to resist any longer, Joel's hands become more urgent.

He squeezes your breast harder, his thumb rubbing circles around your nipple. With his other hand still on your throat, he starts grinding his hardness against your ass, letting you feel exactly how much he wants you. You bit down on your lip to suppres a moan as he smirked,

"but I'm not doing anything daddy..." You said with mock innconcence earning a groan from Joel as he hears you calling him 'daddy' "Not doin' anything, my ass," he mutters against your neck, a husky chuckle escaping his lips. Your innocent act just makes it hotter as you grind your ass against his cock, making him groan deeply.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he hisses out as you grind against him, the heat and wetness between your legs becoming more apparent through his jeans. His hands tighten on your throat and your sensitive tit, his breathing growing heavier. "You're getting all wet and warm back there, aren't you?"

His hand trails down your soft stomach and beneath the hem of his shirt (that you're wearing as a dress), finding no barriers whatsoever. "Damn, baby..." he whispers, smirking smugly into your neck.

One large hand cups your bare pussy completely, feeling how slick and warm you are. "Already fucking drippin' wet for me," he growls approvingly, his fingers spreading your lips apart to feel just how ready you are for him.

He pulls back slightly to look down at his hand cupping your bare pussy, watching his fingers glisten with your arousal in the warm kitchen light.

You lean back slightly against him, your breath hitching as you whisper in mock innocence again, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Mmhmm," he hums disbelievingly, "Damn near coating my palm, sweetheart," he murmurs softly, his middle finger sliding back and forth slowly, gathering more of your wetness.

"So fucking tight," he whispers roughly against your ear as his thick finger slowly pushes inside you. You can feel yourself stretching to accommodate him, and he slides in easily thanks to how wet you are.

"Look at how perfectly you're taking my finger, baby," he growls, starting a slow rhythm.

His thumb begins to circle your clit in slow, firm movements as he continues pumping his finger in and out of your tight pussy. "You like that, sweetheart? You like it when I finger your little cunt like this?" he asks in a low, dominant tone, his breath hot against your neck.

You whimper softly, your hips starting to move involuntarily against his hand. He adds a second finger, stretching you more as he curls them inside you, hitting that spot that makes your knees weak.

"Answer me," he demands, his fingers pumping faster and deeper. "Mm-hmm," you moan softly as his fingers nail that sweet spot inside you.

He swallows hard, his jaw tightening as he watches his fingers disappear inside you, making your juices coat his palm. "Damn, baby."

He starts moving his fingers faster, scissoring them inside you to prepare you for his much larger cock. His thumb circles your clit relentlessly while his other hand squeezes your breast hard.

Suddenly, he pulls his fingers out with a wet sound, making you whine at the loss. You look up at him with disappointed eyes, biting your lip as his fingers slip out of your warmth.

Before you can protest though, he brings those fingers dripping with your juices up to his mouth and licks them clean with a satisfied moan. "Jesus," he mutters softly, tasting your sweet pussy juice.

He reaches down with his clean hand and uses his thumb to pull down your lower lip, his eyes locked onto your bare pussy. "You're such a greedy little thing, aren't you? You gotta have some patience if you want somethin' sweetheart."

Without warning, he drops to his knees in front of you, pushing your legs apart roughly. He buries his face between your thighs, his tongue delving deep inside you without any warning. You scream out in pleasure as he eats you out like a starving man, his hands gripping your thighs tightly.

You grab the kitchen counter with both hands, knuckles turning white as Joel's tongue aggressively explores your pussy. Leaning back, you grind desperately against his face, chasing the intense pleasure. His hands move to your ass, holding you firmly against his mouth as he devours you eagerly.

His tongue laps at your clit relentlessly before plunging deep inside you again. You can hear him moaning against your pussy, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body.

You grind harder against him, your hips moving in desperate circles as he eats you out like a man possessed. He pulls back for a moment, his chin and lips glistening with your juices.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, before diving back in. His tongue flicks over your clit rapidly, making your legs tremble as you grind harder against him. He slides a finger inside you again, curling it just right to hit that magical spot.

His tongue continues to assault your clit, and you know you're not going to last much longer. You throw your head back and let out a loud, uninhibited moan as your orgasm crashes over you. "That's it, baby. Fucking come on my face," he growls against your pussy, feeling your walls clench tightly around his finger.

He laps at your clit with long, firm strokes as your orgasm wrecks through you, not letting up until your legs threaten to give out completely. He stands up slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Your chest heaves as you try to catch your breath, still leaning heavily against the counter for support as joel watches you come down from your high.

You lean heavily against the counter, your legs weak and trembling. Joel scoops you up effortlessly, his strong arms wrapping around your waist.

Joel carries you to the dining table, gently laying you down on the cold wooden surface he then unbuckles his belt with shaking hands, desperate to be inside you.

"You've fuckin' ruined me," he mutters under his breath, unzipping his jeans and finally freeing his hard cock. It stands thick and proud, leaking pre-cum. He kicks off his jeans completely, stroking himself slowly while looking at you spread out on the table.

You smile seductively, biting down on your lower lip as you lean back on the table and spread your legs wide apart. Your pussy glistens wetly with desire as you stare at Joel with half lidded eyes.

"God, Joel," you whisper breathlessly, watching him stroke himself. "I've been waiting all day for that big, thick cock of yours to be inside of me," you said breathlessly.

"Please, Joel. I need you so fucking bad..." You whined, "Christ," he breathes out roughly, precum beading at the tip of his cock. "You dirty girl, talkin' like that..." His eyes darken with pure desire as he steps closer, lining himself up with your entrance. "You want this he? Want him to fill that tight little pussy?"

"Yes," you moan, Your breasts heave with your shallow breaths, your pussy pulsing with need.

He grabs your hips roughly, pulling you closer to the edge of the table. He wraps one hand around his length and slowly pushes the fat head inside you.

"Jesus fuck," he mutters, watching your pussy stretch around his thickness. He slides in another inch slowly, making you moan loudly.

He continues to slowly feed his massive cock inside you, inch by inch, until he's finally buried to the hilt. You feel stuffed full, stretched impossibly wide around his girth. Joel's fingers dig into your hips as he starts to move, pulling out almost completely before sliding back in deep and slow.

"Fuck, your pussy feels so good," he groans, picking up the pace slightly but still maintaining a slow, deep rhythm. He watches as his cock slides in and out of you, glistening with your wetness. "So tight and wet for me."

He leans over you, one hand gripping your hip while the other reaches around to play with your clit. His thumb circles the sensitive bud as he starts to fuck you harder and faster.

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room along with your moans and his grunts. "I'm gonna fill you up," he says, his voice low and gravelly as he fucks you harder and deeper.

"Gonna pump my hot cum inside this tight little cunt." His hand on your hip tightens as he starts to lose control, his thrusts becoming erratic and forceful.

"Fuck, I need to breed you," he growls, his hips slamming into yours with brutal force. "Need my seed to spill deep inside you and make this pussy pregnant." He leans down, biting your neck as he fucks you relentlessly, chasing his orgasm. "Gonna fill you up so much..."

"Mmm, you'd look so beautiful with my baby growing in your belly," he murmurs against your neck, sucking and biting the skin, hitting just the right spot inside you. "You'd make such a good mother..."

"mmm yes..." you moan loudly, your body trembling with need. " I want you to breed me and make me carry your child, Joel, please..." Your words send Joel over the edge.

With a final, powerful thrust, he buries himself deep inside you and explodes. He holds himself deep inside you, his thick cock pulsing as he fills your womb with his hot, sticky cum.

"Take it all," he growls, his teeth sinking into your neck as he continues to breed the fuck out of you, ensuring every drop of his seed is planted inside you.

He pants against your neck, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he continues to shoot his load.

"You're gonna be so fucking full of my cum, it's gonna leak out of this tight little pussy for days." You moan softly as your legs tremble beneath him, feeling his massive cock slowly pull out of you.

As he slips free, a thick rope of his cum follows, dripping down your swollen lips and onto the floor below.

He brings his fingers to your dripping pussy, collecting the mixture of his cum and your juices.

He pushes those cum-coated fingers back inside you, knuckles deep. "And we don't waste anything in this household," he murmurs, ensuring every last drop is pushed back into your needy hole.

"Jesus fuck," he mutters appreciatively, watching proudly his handiwork. He rubs your clit gently with his cum-covered thumb before pulling away completely, leaving you messy and well-used.

2K notes · View notes

mesopotamism · 4 days ago

Text

HALF YOUR BRAIN JUST AIN’T THERE!

|| pedro masterlist || update blog || inbox || taglist || ao3 ||

｡𖦹°‧➵ PAIR: Joel Miller x babysitter!fem!reader

｡𖦹°‧➵ WC: 11k

｡𖦹°‧➵ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, no outbreak au, pov switching, trailer park joel awooga wooga, tommy miller appearance because daddy i love him, joel is kinda sleazy and pervy, large girthy age gap (53/early 20s), and it’s very much brought up, finding joel’s porn drawer because he’s vintage, reader is called jailbait like once, reader is also a little creep lmao, just two freaks coming together praise, masturbation, fingering, brief allusions of fisting, the BAREST hint of ass play, p in v, rough sex, riding, pussy pronouns, spanking, finger sucking (told you i can’t stop), erectile dysfunction? yeah we don’t know what that means in this house because that old man can fuck like he’s twenty, porn with too much fucking plot, no use of y/n.

｡𖦹°‧➵ NAT’S NOTE: i blame tommy gunn for this…and my period for rearing its ugly head and making me act like an animal. i don’t know i guess my brain is just fully rotted, but y’all’s are too so here’s a nice little gift from me to you, i’m lovingly placing this on your dash xoxo. this isn’t really based on manchild sorry for the false advertising babies, i just thought the lyric was super cute and it’s been stuck in my head so yeah here we are lmao. hope y’all love it, mwah!

｡𖦹°‧➵ NAT’S HEADPHONES: Manchild - Sabrina Carpenter

dividers by @cafekitsune & @saradika-graphics! plus the delicious icon from @iamasaddie!

joel miller needs a babysitter, you’re back in town…

Gruene hasn't changed much. Not really.

You're not sure how much different it'd be after only a couple years away, but still. Something in you had expected it to feel even smaller—like the way old t-shirts shrink in the wash when you’re not paying attention.

The air felt the same when you first stepped out of your beat up Chevy, heavy and humid like a wet mouth. The pavement in front of your house still burned the bottom of your shoes, and the cicadas were buzzing in the dry grass like they never stopped.

You left for college thinking you’d never come back. And yet, here you are. Spending summer back in your hometown, a little more than half a degree under your belt, flat broke, and bored to death.

Your room’s the same, maybe just a little smaller now that you’ve lived other places, slept in other beds. All the posters are still up, faded from the sun and curling at the corners. Your mom left your old tennis trophies on your dresser, like maybe she thought you’d want to see them. You don’t, not really. You appreciate the effort anyway, at least she didn’t turn it into a yoga room or a place to keep extra boxes and Christmas decorations.

You try not to spend too much time at home, even though you technically don’t have anywhere else to go. You kill time with long drives down the streets you memorized years ago, past beat up gas stations with sun bleached lotto signs and eighteen wheelers parked in the back.

You try your hand at some half-hearted job hunting at a few different places that promise to call but never do. And you sit in the back booth of an old diner where you and your friends used to sneak fries from abandoned tables and smoke paper wrapped joints in the alley out back.

Every place you go feels like a ghost town version of what you remember. Familiar, but all hollowed out.

“You know who might be looking for help?” Your mom says one morning, standing at the stove fussing over a pan of bacon. “Joel Miller, you remember him don’t you?”

You pause, your fork stuck hovering just above the plate. “Sarah’s dad?”

“Mhm. I ran into him at the market a couple weeks ago and we got to catching up. He’s needing to pick up some extra work, and it’s just him, you know. Sarah’s starting high school in the fall but he’s still not wanting to leave her on her own. He looked stressed, poor thing.”

You hum warily, pushing your eggs around your plate to distract from the way your stomach flutters.

Joel Miller.

You haven’t heard that name in years. Not since you stopped babysitting Sarah, not since you left. It has something low and guilty stirring somewhere deep inside you.

You shouldn’t be surprised that it’s floating back into your life like cigarette smoke—all pungent and sour and impossible to ignore. In a town of less than two thousand people, you were bound to circle around some old memories sooner or later. And Joel Miller was a big one.

Mr. Miller was a few years older than your mom, a single dad that lived with his daughter in the trailer park a few miles past the city limit. You met him when you were seventeen and trying to save as much as you could for college, when your puny part time job flipping burgers and serving ice cream cones wasn’t cutting it.

He needed someone to pick up Sarah from school and watch her until he got home from work, you needed the extra money. It seemed like a perfect fit.

But Joel was always…different. He scooped you up off the gravel and carried you into his living room to bandage up your knee when you took a bad fall outside his trailer. He never ratted you out when he caught you smoking one of his Marlboros in his backyard after you put Sarah to bed one night. He drove you home when you got too drunk at a field party and couldn’t stomach the thought of calling your mom.

You can still remember the way his truck smelled—gasoline, sunbaked leather, sawdust.

He didn’t say much, just kept his gaze trained on the road as you watched him through glassy eyes while Johnny Cash floated through the cab. He looked back once, slow and quiet, like he was really thinking something over.

It’s been a long time since you thought about that night, but the reminder of it resurfaces sharp and sudden, like a thumb pressed into a bruise.

Now, your mom’s pouring more coffee into your cup and saying his name like it’s no big deal, like she didn’t just drop a live wire into your lap. Like he didn’t take up way too much room in your seventeen year old imagination.

“You should go down there and talk to him sometime,” she says, casual. “It might be a good way to make some money while you look around for something else.”

You bite back a grimace, conflicted. “Isn’t Sarah old enough to stay home alone by now?”

Your mom shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “Maybe, but like I said Joel’s always been a little…anxious about leaving her on her own too many nights. She’s at that age, you know—boys, phones, lord knows what else.”

You frown, stabbing at your eggs. You only remember Sarah as the sweet little girl who’d beg to stay up and watch Disney with you, who was more interested in her Barbie dolls than any screen. You used to braid her hair while she did her times tables, let her wear some of your lip gloss when she begged.

You take a sip of coffee, the burn of it trickles down from your throat to settle somewhere deep in your chest. “You really think he’d hire me again?”

Your mom shrugs again, plating the bacon. “I don’t see why not. Sarah always loved you, Joel too. He’s asked about you once or twice, said you were a real good girl. Very responsible and all that.”

You try not to laugh at that.

Good girl. Responsible. Right.

You nod vaguely, standing to clear your plate into the trash even though it’s still half full. “Maybe,” you mutter. “I’ll think about it.”

Later that night, alone in your room, you find yourself scrolling through Facebook like an angsty teenager.

You kicked your sheets off a while ago, cracked your window open to let in the cool breeze swirling outside. Crickets sing quietly in the background, only drowned out every once in a while by the sound of cars passing your street.

Joel’s profile is still public, but it’s sparsely updated. A new truck photo here, a blurry picture of Sarah’s eighth grade promotion there. She looks the same, maybe a little older. Her hair’s longer, but still curly as ever.

There’s no recent pictures of Joel anywhere. Not posted by him or any of his friends. You can’t tell if the feeling that blooms inside of you is disappointment or something else entirely.

You’re about to exit the app when finally, a tagged post catches your eye.

A post by an account with the name Henry B. attached to it. It’s just a grainy photo of someone’s backyard littered with wood pallets and stray tools, Joel standing in the middle of it all with a few other people you don’t recognize.

His account is tagged in the caption underneath. Big thanks to my buddy Joel Miller for the extra set of hands tonight. Saved our ass! It’s dated June 13, 2023.

You pause, your thumb hovering over the screen. So he’s still handy, you think distantly, chewing on your bottom lip.

You remember that much. There were always new projects cluttering the yard in front of his trailer. A crib for the expecting couple a few doors down, a rocking chair with ornate vines and flowers carved into the armrests, a soccer goal for Sarah to practice with when she started getting serious about it in the fifth grade.

You zoom in on the picture, just a little.

The angle’s weird and it’s overexposed as shit. Joel’s face is half shadowed by an old Longhorns baseball cap, but even still—there’s that jaw. That mouth. That same broad width of his shoulders you used to trace with your eyes when he’d lean on the doorframe after he got home from work.

It’s still an older picture, and you can’t help but wonder how much he’s changed since.

You breathe through your nose, one long uninterrupted breath before you close the app and toss your phone face down on the mattress.

Joel Miller was handsome when you were in high school and stupid and still biting your nails.

He was a late forty-something, tired around the eyes. Always in pair of ratty, stained jeans and those soft, worn down flannels with the sleeves rolled up. Sarah’s dad. The hot one, according to the girls at school. The divorced one, according to the snooty moms at the PTA. He was tall and strong, thick arms with dark hair dusted along veiny muscle. Big hands that were calloused and rough to the touch when he slipped you a couple folded twenties at the end of every night.

You haven’t seen him since the summer after you graduated, but sometimes you still think about the way he used to look at you.

Like he shouldn’t.

Like he knew he shouldn’t, and did it anyway.

You can still feel it. That heat, that weight. The way his eyes always lingered a little too long when you bent down to grab your homework off the coffee table. The way his voice got low and syrupy when he asked what you were doing that weekend.

You were young then, but now?

Now you’re not sure who you are, not entirely—but you know you’re not that same girl. You’ve lived. You’ve done things he couldn’t even guess at.

You’ve grown up. And you wonder if Joel would notice too.

You don’t plan on going. Not really.

The next day, your mom leaves a note taped to the fridge that says she’s out running errands and won’t be back until later. You stare at it for a while, then glance at the clock.

It’s barely noon.

You have nothing to do. No plans. No job. So you get into your boiling hot car, roll the windows down, and drive.

You’re not sure what makes you do it.

Maybe it’s the antsy feeling that’s been worming around under your skin since you got here. Maybe it’s the way Joel’s name has been bouncing off all the corners of your mind like a moth against glass ever since your mom said it.

Either way, you find yourself veering onto a familiar exit off the highway, tires crunching under gravel until it turns to dirt when you pull into the same trailer park on the edge of town. The same one you spent most nights back in high school.

You sit in your car for a little longer than necessary, keys still in the ignition, engine ticking quietly as it cools.

The place hasn’t changed much either. Same sloped roof, same white paneling, same wind chimes clinking together on the porch. There’s a pair of muddy work boots by the steps, and your stomach knots.

You didn’t bother calling ahead. You don’t even know if he has the same number. You’re regretting that now.

You should leave. You really should. But you’re already pulling the car door open and stepping into the dry afternoon heat. The air’s thick again, the sun sitting high and mean in the sky. Your shirt sticks to the sweaty skin along your spine as you walk through the gate and up the short gravel path.

You hesitate at the foot of the stairs, clenching and unclenching your fists a couple times like that’ll magically relive all your nerves. You wonder, and almost hope, if Sarah will be the one to open the door. If she’ll even remember you.

Then, the screen door cracks open before you can knock.

Joel’s standing there. He looks the same as the last time you saw him.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he mutters, opening the door wider. He’s in jeans, barefoot, nothing but a tank top clinging to his chest, a dark patch blooming at the collar where it’s damp with sweat. “Look at you.”

No, not the same.

Older. Broader, somehow. More worn in, like a favorite jacket that’s been well loved. His hair’s longer than you remember, messier. His beard is thicker too, dusted with more gray, and there’s a little more weight around his middle. But his eyes are just the same—dark, steady, and sharp in a way that makes you feel instantly, achingly seventeen again.

He looks you over once. Not quick. Real slow. Real deliberate. A single drag of his eyes from your flip flops to the shorts you maybe shouldn’t have worn. His gaze sticks when it reaches your chest, lingers there a beat too long before flicking back up to your mouth. And then, finally, your eyes.

You shift your weight, offering a small smile. “Hey, Mr. Miller.”

His eyes narrow, and there’s the ghost of a smirk pulling at his mouth. “Don’t start with that ‘Mr. Miller’ bullshit. You’re grown now.”

Your stomach tightens.

“I, uh...my mom said you might be looking for help,” you say, fighting the urge to squirm where you stand. “With Sarah, I mean.”

He leans against the doorframe, one hand gripping the wood above his head. The movement lifts his shirt just enough to show a strip of his stomach, a trail of dark hair disappearing under the waistband of his sweats. “She did, huh?”

You nod, still frozen in place at the bottom of the steps.

Joel lets the silence hang in the air, heavy and charged. Then he huffs a quiet breath through his nose—half amusement, half something else—and steps aside. “You comin’ in or what?” he asks, jerking his head impatiently, giving you another long, lazy once over. “Ain’t polite to keep an old man waitin’, kid.”

Your heart beats wildly against your ribcage, and with one last quick, steadying breath you hope Joel doesn’t notice, you climb the stairs.

Joel hadn’t expected to see you again. At the very least like this, showing up at his place in the middle of the day—standing at the bottom of his porch like a mirage in the heat, older and more grown in all the places a man like him shouldn’t be noticing.

And sure as hell not in those shorts.

He watches you walk past him into the living room, slow and uncertain, that little sway in your hips you maybe don’t even mean to have. Or maybe you do.

Either way, it’s a goddamn sight.

Joel closes the door with a soft click, dragging a hand over his mouth like that’ll help wipe the look off his face. It doesn’t. The look of you—bare legged and smiling, sun kissed and back in his house after all this time—sticks to the inside of his skull like syrup.

You look around the room with a small smile, eyes scanning the familiar furniture. Some of it’s new, some of it’s the same. Joel’s never been much for decorating. You pause in front of the bookshelf he built a few years back, Sarah’s old school pictures still sit in a few mismatched frames next to a couple of paperbacks.

He clears his throat, scratching at his beard so he has something to do with his hands as he walks to the kitchen. “You want somethin’ to drink? Water, iced tea? I think I got Coke in the fridge somewhere.”

“I’m good, thanks.” You follow slowly, looking younger somehow in the kitchen light. You rest your hip against the doorway, eyes watching him as he walks to the fridge. “I won’t stay long. I just figured I’d stop by real quick and see if you still needed some help.”

Joel pulls the fridge open anyway, grabbing a beer from the half empty six pack. He cracks the tab with a soft hiss and leans back against the counter. “Sarah’s mostly independent now. She don’t need a sitter like she used to, but I still get caught up workin’ late. Don’t like the idea of her bein’ here by herself too often. 'Specially not with some of the boys sniffin’ around lately.”

You laugh, soft and bright. “Well, I’ve got time,” you say, toying with a loose thread on your cutoffs. “I don’t know how much help you actually need, but my schedule’s pretty much open. I can do evenings, weekends, whatever you want.”

Joel has to bite back a grin. Whatever he wants.

If you only knew the half of what he really wants.

Joel shifts his weight against the counter. “It wouldn’t be every night,” he says, shaking his head. “Just the evenings I pick up extra hours, or if I get called out for a job.”

You nod. “I can help. You don’t have to worry about paying me a whole lot. I’ll just be happy to keep busy.”

His mouth pulls into something that might be a smile. “I’ll pay you,” he says, almost gruff. “You’re doin’ me a favor.”

The silence that follows feels familiar. Not awkward—just full. A little tight around the edges.

He’s always known how to talk to you, but now there’s something different to it. You’re not seventeen anymore. Not biting your lip and looking away when he catches your eye. You’re standing there calm as you please, looking straight at him, like you already know he’s thinking things he shouldn’t.

Joel watches you from across the kitchen, beer can sweating against his palm. The ceiling fan spins lazily overhead, stirring warm air that doesn’t help much with the heat climbing under his skin. You’re standing there across the way from him like nothing’s changed, like you never left. Like no time has passed at all.

Except that it has. And it shows.

“You still in school?” he asks, voice rougher than he means it to be.

You blink, head tilting to the left. “Yeah. I’m up in Chicago now, Northwestern.”

“Big shot,” Joel whistles low, nodding appreciatively. “That’s a ways away from here.”

You shake your head, smile small and bashful. “It is. It’s expensive as hell too, my scholarship’s the only reason I’m there.”

He makes a soft sound in his throat, impressed. “Smart girl.”

“I try.” You shrug, but there’s pride under it. “I’ve got one year left, usually I stay for the summer to try and make as much as I can in the city. I—I just needed a breather, I guess. Some time to figure shit out, you know?”

There’s something soft in your tone when you say it, an openness he didn’t expect, and maybe shouldn’t pry into. But part of him wants to. Always has.

“You don’t seem like the type that needs figurin’ out,” Joel says, voice a little quieter now. “Always thought you had your head on straight.”

Your smile flickers into something crooked, something secret. “That’s because you didn’t really know me.”

He chuckles, deep and rough. “No, sweetheart. I think I knew you just fine.”

Your eyes lock for a second too long after that, thick enough with heat and history to make the air feel heavier than it already is.

You look away first, your eyes flicking to the living room. “I, uh–sorry, do you mind if I use the bathroom?”

Joel gestures vaguely with his free hand. “Go ahead, you remember where it is.”

You push off the doorway with one last grateful smile and duck down the hallway, footsteps silent against the linoleum. Joel watches until you disappear around the corner, his gaze dipping low without shame.

He waits until he hears the click of the bathroom door shutting behind you to exhale a slow breath, setting his beer down on the counter harder than he has to.

Jesus Christ.

She’s not a girl anymore, he thinks to himself. And you’re not, you’re far fucking from it.

But that feeling, that ugly one churning deep down in Joel’s gut, it’s still there. It feels just as dangerous as it used to, maybe even worse now. All because of you.

The look of your glossy lips forming around the words whatever he wants. The shape of your thighs, those damn shorts clinging to you like a second skin. The way you were looking at him, eyes all wide and shiny under his shitty kitchen light.

Joel can’t help himself, he thinks back to a few years ago. You, curled up on his couch every night when he got home from a long build, looking so soft in the hazy glow of the TV. Barefoot and sleepy, blinking up at him in those skimpy little after school clothes you’d always throw on.

It was a vision, something to settle his aching bones.

He thinks about how he started looking forward to it, coming home to you. It was sick, he knew that much, the fucked up little game of house he played, projected onto you. An old man like him leering at you, thinking of you long after you’d left, waving sweetly from the window of your moms car.

Joel should’ve known better. Should’ve done better. But that never stopped him before, not when it came to you.

A knock at the door pulls him from his thoughts. Two quick raps, followed by a heavy creak.

“Joel?” Tommy’s voice fills the trailer before he can even move, loud in the quiet. “You home?”

Joel sighs, brows pinching together as he pushes off the counter. He didn’t even hear the damn truck pull up.

Tommy rounds the corner, sweaty and covered in dirt. He’s got a ratty bandanna hanging from his jean pocket, sleeves pulled up around his shoulders and a pair of aviators covering his eyes.

“You ever heard of callin’ before you just barge in on someone?” Joel doesn’t try to hide the annoyance in his tone, brow arched as he stares at his brother.

“Hello to you too, jackass.” Tommy just walks past him like he owns the place, opening up one of the cabinets above the sink. “You gettin’ memory loss already, old man? You said Saturday.”

“Yeah, well now ain’t a good time, Tommy.” Joel cuts his eyes to the hall, to the light bleeding out from under the bathroom door.

Tommy just snorts, still rifling through the cabinet. “Yeah right, you got a woman over or somethin’?”

Joel doesn’t answer, eyes still fixed on that thin sliver of light glowing under the bathroom door like it might give him away.

Tommy catches on, turns slow with a shit-eating grin already stretching across his face. “You do have someone here.”

Joel gives him a hard look, one that should tell him to shut the hell up—but Tommy only laughs, knowing.

“C’mon,” he drawls. “Didn’t know you were even seein’ anybody. You been holdin’ out on me?”

“It ain’t like that,” Joel mutters, too fast, too defensive.

Tommy tilts his head, chewing on that like a dog with a bone. “Huh. So she’s not yours then?”

Joel doesn’t get the chance to answer. Before he can shoot back with something mean enough to shut him up. From down the hall, the bathroom door opens with a quiet click, and then—

Then you're back, smoothing your hands down your thighs as you reappear around the corner, voice drifting back into the space.

“Jesus, that sink is still running freezing cold water? I nearly put my-oh…” You’re clearly caught off guard, your eyes catching on where Tommy stands in front of the sink. “Tommy?”

Joel watches it click in real time—your eyes lighting up with recognition, mouth parting into a surprised smile like you’ve just stumbled on an old friend. Which, in a way, you have. Tommy was around a lot back then. Backyard beers, watching football on the TV, leaning against Joel’s truck while you wrangled Sarah inside for dinner.

“Well shit,” Tommy says, slow and low, pulling his sunglasses down. “That isn’t the little babysitter, is it?”

You smile, sheepish and sweet, and Joel feels something sour twist in his gut. “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah.” Joel watches Tommy take a good long look at you just like the one he did, eyes wide as his gaze rakes from your head down to the bare skin of your legs and back up all over again. “No kiddin’.”

It makes the space behind Joel’s ribs burn with something hot and ugly, Tommy’s eyes on you. Shameless and obvious as all hell. He might just be the biggest hypocrite in the country for it, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

“I didn’t know you were back in town,” Tommy goes on, leaning in like he can’t help himself. “You home for the summer?”

“Yeah, just for the summer,” you say brightly. “I thought I’d see if Joel needed help with Sarah again.”

“Oh, I bet he does,” Tommy says, and Joel’s had about enough of this.

“We were just finishing up,” Joel cuts in, his voice sharp enough to slice through the air. “She was about to head out.”

You don’t seem to notice the tension, if you do, you ignore it with grace that makes it worse somehow.

Your eyes flick to him, and for a second, Joel thinks maybe you notice something’s off. But your smile is still easy. “Yeah, I should probably get going.”

Joel gives a short nod and steps toward you before Tommy can open his mouth again. “I’ll walk you out, honey.”

You look between the two brothers for a second longer, then nod and head back into the living room, Joel right behind you. The sound of Tommy’s boots are hot on his heels, following.

You bend down to swipe your keys off the coffee table, not by much, just enough for your shirt to ride up and your shorts to dip low. Joel nearly swallows his tongue at the sight of lace. Bright pink, thin. A pathetic little scrap of fabric clinging to either side of your hips.

Joel’s throat goes dry, heat rolling under his skin like a slow burn, thick and unrelenting. You straighten back up, smooth the hem of your shirt down, but the damage is done. He feels that familiar ache stirring low in his belly, his cock twitching with interest in his sweats.

He doesn’t look at Tommy, he doesn’t need to. The quiet crunch of a beer can bending under a tight grip is all he needs to know that he isn’t the only one taking that lace peeking out from under those damn shorts as a neon sign flashing all the wrong kinds of welcome.

Joel barely has enough wherewithal to drag his eyes up to your face when you turn back around—that sweet, oblivious smile still pulling at your lips.

“Okay.” Your fingers toy with your keys, the metal soft and jangling in your palm. “Ready.”

Joel gives you a short nod, jaw tight. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.

Tommy, of course, steps in the silence, voice syrupy. “Hey, don’t be a stranger, alright? Good seein’ you again, sweetheart.”

You glance over your shoulder, lips parting into a lazy little grin. “You too, Tommy.”

Joel holds the door open for you, watching the way the light hits your shoulders, the back of your thighs, the little shadow that dips right at the curve of your spine.

The cicadas are buzzing, your car parked half crooked along the curb. You walk slow, gravel crunching under your sandals. Joel stays beside you, hands shoved deep in his pockets. The sun’s lower now, soft gold spilling across the lawn.

You open the car door, pausing with your hand on it. “That was…fun.”

Joel nods, biting back a frown. “Yeah, sorry about him. Tommy hasn’t got much of a filter.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “It’s okay, I missed you guys.”

Joel’s heart kicks hard in his chest. He’s not sure what to do with that.

“You know where to find us,” he says finally.

You nod, climbing into the car. The engine kicks up and the window rolls down.

“Thanks for the talk,” you say. “And the job, I’ll call you?”

Joel leans down a little, arms resting on the open window frame. You’re so close like this. Too close. He can smell the sweet perfume mixing with the bright tang of sweat on your skin.

“Of course,” he says, eyes flicking down to your lips. “I’ll be waiting.”

You smile. “It was nice seeing you, Joel.”

Joel watches you drive off, his reflection shrinking in your side mirror until he’s nothing but a speck in the dust your tires kick up.

He lets out another long breath, turning to walk up to steps. When he comes back inside, Tommy’s on the couch now, feet kicked up on Joel’s coffee table.

Joel shuts the door a little too hard behind him.

He lets out a low whistle. “Damn.”

“I told you,” Joel says, low and firm. “Now ain’t the time.”

Tommy’s grinning. “No shit it ain’t the time. Jesus, Joel. She’s what—twenty? Twenty one?”

“Somethin’ like that.” Joel says, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“Oh, well never mind then, that makes it fine,” Tommy says, laughing. He cracks open the beer in his hand, taking a slow sip. “You’re outta your fuckin’ mind, you know that?”

Joel clenches his jaw, not bothering with an answer. His heavy silence speaks louder than any words could.

Tommy watches Joel closely, taking his silence for what it is and grinning wide enough to show off the sharp point of his canines. “She filled out real nice though, didn’t she?”

Joel shoots him a warning look, brows pinched together. “Don’t.”

Tommy holds his free hand up in surrender, but he’s still smirking. “All I’m sayin’ is—I remember when she was this pretty little thing runnin’ around here. Now—” He makes a vague gesture at his own chest. “—jailbait’s a whole lotta grown.”

Joel takes a step forward, hands clenched into fists at his side. “Watch your goddamn mouth.”

Tommy raises a brow, and the air goes real still between them for a beat. Joel knows his little brother—knows he’s testing the waters, seeing just how deep the river runs.

Joel shakes his eyes off him, walks to the kitchen and snatches his forgotten beer off the counter.

He hears Tommy chuckle again, more to himself than anything, his voice is louder so Joel can hear him. “You better watch yourself, man. That one? She’s trouble.”

Joel downs the rest of his beer in one long, bitter swallow, eyes peering out the window—locked on the road your car disappeared down. His voice, when it comes, is low and final.

“You got no idea.”

It’s almost too easy, falling back into the routine of it.

A few nights a week, just like before. Joel calls. You come over. The knock on the door doesn’t even feel necessary anymore, since Sarah already knows it’s you when she yanks it open and launches into talking before you’ve even stepped inside.

You know where the snacks are. The remote. You know how to work the tricky thermostat and still have all the emergency contacts scrawled on a paper tacked to the fridge memorized.

It all comes back like muscle memory—like no time has passed at all.

Sarah’s older now, a little more sarcastic. Witty and bolder in a way that surprises you sometimes, just enough edge in the way she talks to you that reminds you how much time has passed since you used to sit on the same couch and color. She’s brimming with the kind of secrets she’s aching to spill to someone she knows won’t tell her dad.

You’re still not quite a “grown-up” in her eyes, but you’re not a kid anymore either. You’re in that sweet spot—a cool older girl with her own car who lets her say things like shit and dickweed when Joel’s not around.

You’re not supposed to let her stay up this late, but you both pretend not to notice the clock. She’s curled up next to you on the couch, draped over the armrest only half watching the reruns you turned on with her chin propped on her palm.

"Can I ask you something?” Sarah says suddenly, grinning.

You narrow your eyes at her, mock suspicious. “You can, but I’m not promising I’ll answer.”

She laughs, kicking you gently with a socked foot. “Did you ever, like, sneak around when you were my age? Steal beer? Hook up with anyone?”

“Jesus, Sarah.” You raise your eyebrows, but she’s too amused to be embarrassed. You toss a throw pillow her way lazily. “You know your dad would kill me for answering that, right? He’d think I’m giving you ideas or something.”

“That’s not a no,” she sings, smirking.

“No comment.” You shake your head, smiling in spite of yourself. “I don’t need to give you any blackmail material to use on me later if I piss you off.”

“Please,” she huffs with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “I’d never narc on you like that. Besides, Dad still thinks I’m eight, I don’t even think he knows that I know what “hooking up” means.”

You laugh, shaking your head as you turn your attention back to the TV. “You’re his baby.” You shrug as a new episode of Daria starts. “It makes sense that he’s treating you like one.”

“Gross,” Sarah huffs again, letting her head fall back against the cushion to stare up at the ceiling. “He’s just so overprotective sometimes. I mean, I guess I get it but, come on? I’m basically in high school now, I’m not really a baby anymore.”

You glance over at her, and she isn’t. Not really. Not the gap toothed little girl who used to fall asleep on your shoulder watching Finding Nemo. She’s growing up in the kind of terrifying, beautiful way that makes your chest ache a little—already too smart for her own good.

She cracks her eyes open a bit, peering across the way at you. “Bet you noticed that when you were my age, right? When guys started looking at you differently.”

You blink. It’s not the words that shake you—it’s the timing. The way they hit, low and close to the bone.

Because yeah, you did notice. You still do. Especially now. Especially here.

Before you can say anything, the alarm you set on your phone blares loudly, cutting through the quiet.

“Alright!” You push her feet off your lap and stand, happy for the distraction as you clap your hands together. “That’s curfew.”

Sarah groans, but she rolls off the couch with no argument and starts down the hall.

You busy yourself with tidying up the living room as she brushes her teeth, pointedly ignoring the growing pit in your stomach. Her words ring in your ears like church bells, her voice tolling a little too close to something you’ve pointedly ignored since you got back. Something half buried and dangerous.

Bet you noticed that when you were my age, right? When guys started looking at you differently…

You breathe out slowly, shutting off the TV and dropping the remote onto the couch a little harder than necessary. You shouldn’t read into it. She didn’t mean anything by it. Just a kid mouthing off, reaching for connection, for understanding.

But it rattles you more than you want to admit, especially here—especially in his house.

You swallow hard, clearing the dirty dishes off the coffee table and walking into the kitchen. You just won’t think about it anymore, it’s that easy.

You're just being ridiculous. Paranoid. That's all.

A little while later, you’re still tidying up.

The dishes are all done, washed and drying in the rack next to the sink. The living room looks better than when you got here. It’s damn near pristine.

Sarah went to bed almost half an hour ago. You crane your head down the hallway as you fold an old blanket, her door is cracked open enough that you can see the light from her alarm clock shining in the dark. The soft sounds of waves drone quietly from her noise machine.

You smile, a warm fondness blooming in your chest.

That fuzzy feeling doesn’t last long, not when your eyes drift almost on their own, landing on Joel’s door.

Joel’s room.

It’s cracked open too, just like Sarah’s, but there’s no light shining from inside. You keep folding the blanket, distracted. It’s not like you haven’t been in Joel’s room before, you have. Passing through it with clean loads of laundry or sneaking his phone charger from the plug near his nightstand when your phone died.

But you’d never gone in alone, and you’d never stayed long. Sarah was always hot on your heels, catching your wrist in her tiny hand to drag you back out—following you around like an overexcited puppy. Not to mention it was always in the light of day, never at a time like this. When the moon is shining high in the sky and the stars are scattered across vast velvety darkness like spilled sugar.

You drape the folded blanket along the arm of the couch, eyes still glued to the door. The cogs in your mind turn and turn, spitting out an idea that has your stomach clenching with something you can’t quite put your finger on.

You gnaw on your bottom lip anxiously, eyes cutting to the clock above the door.

11:53

Joel told he’d be a while tonight, before he left. He said they’d be short a man, that the job would drag on because of it.

That’s not an excuse, you know that.

You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t.

Your feet are moving before your brain can catch up to how bad of an idea this really is.

Your steps are silent on the linoleum, barefeet not making a sound. The wood of his door is dark and shiny, cool against your hand when you lay your palm over it. You give Sarah’s room another sideways glance, you can see the shape of her beneath the covers. Sound asleep.

The door creaks when you push it open, just barely. The sound isn’t enough to scare you off, and you step inside. The carpet is plush under you, it silences your steps even more as you walk to the nightstand and flick the light on.

Your heart pounds against your ribs as you take it in. The messy, unmade state of Joel’s bed. The covers are thrown back, there’s a dip in the pillow where his head rests. The nightstand has a paperback open and laying face down, a pair of wiry reading glasses resting next to it.

The room smells like him.

That scent that used to cling to you by accident when you were younger—clean cotton and cedar, a little motor oil and sweat, and whatever body wash he’s been using for years. It hits you all at once.

It has something stirring in your core, the familiarity of it. You look around some more, greedy eyes taking in every tiny detail you can. There’s a few paintings and framed pictures littering the walls. Pictures of Sarah, of Tommy, all kinds of different Texas landscapes.

An old guitar rests on the wall across from you, you can see that it’s a little beat up even from where you’re standing. The glossy wood chipped and well loved.

Then your eyes land on the dresser.

It’s old, stained a light brown. You wonder distantly if he built it himself.

Your gaze catches on the top drawer, the pull handle worn with use.

Again, you know it’s wrong. That you’ve already crossed every line imaginable by just being in here, but you seem full to bursting with bad ideas tonight.

You’re across the room with your fingers resting gently on the handle before you can even blink. Slowly, like something’s pulling you on a leash, you slide it open.

Socks. Boxers. Old, ratty belts. It’s nothing special, but heat climbs up the back of your neck all the same.

The next drawer has shirts, old band tees and fancier button downs that really should be hung up. You press your hand against one of them, feeling the starchy fabric beneath your skin.

The third drawer sticks a little, enough that you need to yank on it harder than the last two. It slides open with a dull thud. You wince, your eyes flicking to the door like Joel could be standing there, catching you rifling through his underwear like a sick little perv.

The darkness of the hallway is all that greets you. Quiet, empty.

You take a steadying breath, but your hands don’t stop trembling as you tug it the rest of the way open.

You’re not sure exactly what you’re looking for, but then, you see it.

There, tucked toward the back under a couple old flannels, a small stack of magazines.

Playboys. A couple Hustlers. From the look of them, they're mostly 90s, maybe early 2000s. It’s so vintage, so Joel. The covers are glossy, edges curled and worn.

Your breath hitches. The heat between your legs is instant, sharp and impossible to ignore.

You pull one out, heart hammering, and flip it open carefully. Your eyes skim over picture after picture, some of the pages sticking together as you thumb through them. The scent of paper and dust and something faintly musky drifts up, and the centerfold you finally land on is obscene—posed, yes, but raw in a way that makes your thighs press together.

Legs spread wide on a bearskin rug, pink mouth parted, full bush and glossy nipples.

She’s brunette, hair poofy and curled up to Jesus like they used those big old school rollers. Her eyes are the same color as yours, half lidded and covered in a sparkly blue shadow.

You glance down at the caption under her photo.

“Turn-ons: Older men. The kind that know how to use their hands.”

A shiver rolls down your spine.

You should be laughing. Maybe grossed out. But instead—

Instead you imagine Joel, sitting in this room, flipping through these pages alone. Hand between his legs. That rough, big, calloused hand. Not fast, not frantic. No, you imagine him slow.

Measured.

Probably gritting his teeth, because he seems like the type who doesn’t let himself sound desperate even when he is. Grunting softly. Breathing hard. Coming into a tissue or his palm or maybe just letting it land on his stomach. Because there’s no one here to see. No one to touch him. Just him and the sound of paper turning.

You shut the magazine too fast. Slide it back in place, heart pounding.

Before you can push the drawer closed, your eyes catch on one of the flannels that covered Joel’s little secret.

It’s an old one—soft looking, broken in, a faded green and black. You should put it back, lay it down exactly where you found it so there’s nothing even hinting at you digging around in places you shouldn’t.

Instead, your hand closes around it, and without letting yourself think too long, you hold it up to your nose.

God. It smells like him. Like his detergent, like summer sweat and wood and something faintly smokey. Warm and safe and so damn inappropriate in every possible way.

It’s too much, it’s not enough. It’s obscene.

You can’t help yourself, you push the rest of the flannels back over the magazines, but the one in your hand gets tucked under your arm.

You don’t even try to justify it. You don’t even look back.

You don’t touch yourself right away.

You wait. You ride the buzz all the way home. Eat a popsicle standing barefoot in your kitchen, flannel in a heap on the counter like a loaded gun. You pretend to forget about it. You go about your night like normal. Shower. Brush your teeth.

Then you’re in bed and it’s just there. Laying on your mattress.

You unfold it. Run your fingers over the soft, worn fabric. You should feel guilty. You do, but that doesn’t stop you from pressing it to your nose and inhaling a deep lungful. You crawl into bed, tearing your shirt off and kicking your shorts down your legs all at once.

You lay back against your sheets, flannel still clutched in your hands. You rub it along your chest, over your peaked nipples, down your stomach. Rubbing Joel’s scent into your skin like it’s your own personal brand.

Your free hand slides down your body, down the lacy fabric of your panties. You’re already wet. You’ve been wet since the minute you opened that drawer.

You close your eyes, fingertips teasing along the wet expanse of your pussy as you let your mind go there—

To the thought of Joel finding you like this.

His flannel draped over your face. Your hand between your thighs.

Would he be mad? Would he punish you for it?

Would he take it back? Rip it out of your hands?

Or would he make you put it on—just so he could see you wear it while he ruined you?

You want to come like this. Wrapped up in something of his. Want to ruin yourself in it. You dip your fingers into your underwear and finally—finally—brush them over your clit.

The gasp you let out is sharp.

It’s not just his cologne. It’s his scent. That hot-skin smell that clings to the inside of his hats and his truck and his work boots. It’s Joel, soaked into the fabric like he’s holding you down.

You rub slow circles over your clit, hips twitching. You can’t stop picturing him. Not just his face, but the sounds he’d make. The weight of his body over yours. The way his voice would rasp against your ear if he caught you doing this.

“Dirty fuckin’ girl, so desperate you’re gettin’ off with my dirty laundry?”

You slide two fingers inside yourself and gasp, mouth falling open. You imagine his hands instead. Rough, thick, calloused. Bigger than yours. Slower. Crueler.

“Oh fuck, Joel—” you whisper without thinking, the name catching on your teeth like a sin.

You come hard, pressing the flannel to your face, thighs trembling, biting down on soft cotton as you ride it out. It rolls through you in hot waves. Shame, lust, guilt, need—all tangled up.

When it’s over, you lie there panting, the room silent except for your heartbeat in your ears. You relax your jaw, the flannel falling from between your lips, fabric soaked with your spit.

You drift off with it clutched to your chest. Still wet between your legs. Still aching. Still imagining what he’d do if he ever found out.

And you sleep better than you have in weeks.

You don’t think anything of it when you see Joel’s truck parked in front of the trailer. It’s not out of the ordinary, he’s almost always there to make sure you get in safe before he leaves.

You climb the creaky steps and knock like usual. Three little raps, your knuckles against the thin aluminum of Joel’s door, already shifting your weight to the side as you wait for Sarah to yank it open and start catching you up on all the latest gossip from her last summer soccer practice.

Only—it doesn't swing open. Not right away.

You frown, Sarah’s usually opened the door before you can even raise your fist to knock again. It’s only then that you notice how quiet it is.

No music thumping out from her window, no light flicked on in her room. No hum of the TV playing. No voice yelling “Just a second!” from down the hall. Just the light hanging above your head buzzing faintly and the dull thud of your knuckles against the door.

You knock for a fourth time, less sure.

A few more seconds go by. One, two, three, four.

You count all the way to ten before the door creaks open, the screen with it. Joel fills the frame, one shoulder leaning against it. The light floods out from behind him, a warm yellow glow spilling into the dark and haloing around his broad shoulders.

He’s not dressed in work clothes, just an old grey short sleeve and a pair of jeans that ride dangerously low on his hips—a beer bottle held loosely in his left hand. He doesn’t even have shoes on.

You’re hit with a violent wash of déjà vu, your traitorous mind thinking back to the first day you saw him again.

“Hey,” you say as casually as you can, shifting on your feet. You peer around him into the living room. Empty. “Where’s Sarah?”

Joel doesn’t move, head tilting as he watches you. “She’s stayin’ over at a friends.”

You blink. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” The corner of Joel’s mouth raises slightly, it’s not quite a smirk, but it’s close. “I texted. You didn’t check your phone?”

You shake your head slowly, but you can’t help the way your brows furrow. You had checked it, right before you left your house, like you awake do. No calls. No texts.

“I must’ve missed it.”

Joel gives you a lazy once over, eyes dragging down your front like a slow lick. “Huh,” he says, but it’s far away. “Guess you might as well come in anyway, wouldn’t want you to waste your time comin’ out here for nothin’.”

He steps aside, holding the door open expectantly.

“It’s fine, really.” You laugh, but it’s awkward. “I can just go—”

“Come inside.”

He says it low. Not a suggestion.

You hesitate for half a second, nerves suddenly scraping just beneath your skin. But you step in anyway, brushing past him into the cool dimness of the trailer, the familiar scent of cedar, beer, and Joel hitting your nose all at once.

The door shuts behind you with a heavy click.

Joel walks past you, sets his beer down on the coffee table before his eyes find yours again. You can see his face better in the light of the living room, his eyes are hard. Dark in a way you haven’t seen in a long time. It has your stomach clenching tightly, the sour edge of alarm churning with arousal inside you.

“It’s good you’re here. We oughta talk.”

You open your mouth, then shut it. His tone is strange—off—but not angry. Amused, almost. You wring your hands behind your back anxiously. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, voice low, rough, “I been meanin’ to ask you somethin’. Just been waitin’ for the right time.”

You frown. “Ask me what?”

Joel drags the silence out. He watches you try not to squirm, mouth tilted in another half smirk.

"You go through my shit, baby?"

Your heart trips three times over in your chest, stomach dropping down to your feet. “I—what?”

Joel huffs hard out his nose, that smug smirk spreads. It’s all teeth now, feral and amused. “Did I stutter?”

You’re shaking now, hands trembling in time with the frantic beat of your pulse. “I just thought—I didn’t think you—”

Joel clicks his tongue, cutting you off. “Yeah that’s the problem, ain’t it? You didn’t think.” He takes one slow step toward you, eyes locked on yours, heavy and dark and hot enough to burn.

“It’s real funny,” he says offhandedly, too casual—like you’re talking about this week’s forecast. “There’s only a few people who’ve been in and outta here lately. And I know Tommy ain’t the one riflin’ through my drawers, takin’ shit that doesn't belong to him. I ain’t dumb, baby.”

Your mouth opens and closes desperately, mind racing to say anything. To lie, to defend yourself, to beg for forgiveness. Nothing comes out. Your throat works around nothing, and your hands are clenched so tightly behind your back they’re going numb.

Joel just hums. A low, throaty sound that vibrates down your spine. His fingers curl under the hem of your shirt, lifting it slightly, just enough to show the little strip of skin above your shorts. “You touch yourself in it?”

The question punches the air from your lungs. You don’t need to ask him what it is.

“I—Joel—”

“Don’t try lyin’ to me.”

Your face burns. You can’t bring yourself to nod, let alone speak. You don’t have to.

Joel laughs—dark and low, like he already knows the answer. He trails his hand along the skin of your stomach, his touch featherlight. You can’t hide the shiver that wracks through you, goosebumps pebbling along your skin.

His hand falls away, only so he can drop down onto the couch behind him. Legs wide, thighs spread, jeans tugging tight across them as he leans back like he’s settling in for a show. His voice is pure gravel. “Go on, then. Show me what you did.”

You just stand there. Eyes wide. “What?”

Your voice shakes, quiet and small in the tension.

Joel shakes his head, sighing like he’s dealing with a stubborn child. He hooks one finger in the waistband of your shorts, tugging. You move without thinking, stepping into the space between his spread thighs.

“See, I don’t wanna have to ask you again, baby. So, are you gonna show me?” he says slowly, his touch dipping low enough to brush over the lacy edge of your panties. “Or am I gonna have to make you?”

Your breath catches in your throat, heat flooding your body in less than a second. “Joel—”

He cocks a brow. “What’s wrong, sweet thing? You were bold enough to sneak into my room, go through my drawers, take what don’t belong to you. Don’t get shy now.”

You feel it then—that impossible to ignore, deep, slick throb between your legs. Shame and heat twisting up your insides. Your whole being pulses with heat, phantom flames lapping over your skin.

You don’t know if you’re more humiliated or turned on—your body doesn’t seem to care either way. Joel hasn’t taken his eyes off you.

There’s no way out of this. And you’re not even sure if you want one.

You bite your lip, cheeks burning as your fingers trail down your belly, under your shorts and down between your thighs. Already wet. Slick with the shame of it, slick with how bad you want him watching you.

Joel swats your hip, not hard enough to sting. Just enough to make you feel it. “No ma’am, none of that shit. Shorts off.”

You freeze, your hand still buried under the waistband, your pulse thudding in your ears like a war drum. Apparently, you don’t move fast enough, not for him, and Joel’s already leaning forward, hands on your hips as he yanks them down himself—your shorts and panties in one brutal tug.

“Fuckin’ brat,” he mutters, almost to himself, dragging the fabric down your thighs and letting it pool at your ankles.

Your breath hitches as he sits back again, arms draped lazily over the back of the couch, dark eyes fixed on the wet heat between your thighs like he’s starving.

You step out of your clothes, naked from the waist down, cheeks burning, heart beating so hard it’s making you lightheaded.

Joel tips his chin toward the floor. “Go on.”

Your stomach flips. You’re sure he can see it, the way your chest heaves, nipples pressing hard into the thin fabric of your top. Your hand drifts between your legs again, slow and shaky. Joel’s eyes follow every motion. Every tremble.

Your middle finger dips down and slides through your folds, slow. You let out a shaky breath. You brush over your clit, and twitch, hips jerking without meaning to.

“That’s it.” Joel nods, his hands clenched into fists. “See how easy it was, sugar? Feel’s good, doesn't it?”

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice threadbare. You’re rubbing yourself faster now, pressure building fast. “It feels so good, Joel.”

Joel groans at his name falling from your lips. “I bet it does. Bet you fucked your fingers into that tight little cunt while smellin’ me on the collar of that damn shirt. You nasty little thing.”

You nod, barely, lips parted as you circle your clit again, breath hitching on contact.

“I should spank your ass red for that,” he growls. “Should bend you over my lap like a fuckin’ child. You need discipline, don’t you?”

Your knees nearly give. “Joel. Please—”

He cuts you off again, gesturing lazily to where your hand disappears between your thighs. “Open her up. Let me see.”

You press two fingers between your folds, spreading them apart so he can see your glistening pussy, sticky and swollen from just a few strokes.

“Goddamn,” Joel groans, reaching down to adjust the thick shape of his cock hard under his jeans. “She’s fuckin’ drippin’. That for me, baby?”

You nod, lips slack as your thighs tremble.

“Yeah,” he drawls, stretching the word like out taffy between his teeth. “That’s real pretty.”

You moan at that. Loud and desperate. Your touch dip that much lower to push one finger inside. Then another, like you just can’t help yourself. You’re so wet there’s no resistance, your pussy welcoming them in like it’s done this a hundred times thinking of him. Slick drips down your thighs, shining under the light of the lamp.

Joel licks his lips slowly, deliberately. “Look at that.” He leans forward, pupils wide and dark as an oil spill. “Just a little rub like that, a little stretch and you’re already makin’ a mess.”

You whimper, hips rocking against your hand. “Joel, I—”

“Give yourself another finger. Show me how you take it”

You grind down onto your own fingers, mouth slack with soft moans that breathe to life before you can muffle them. You press in a third finger. The stretch burns, but you don’t stop. You’re panting now, skin dewy, hips jerking forward to meet your hand. Joel watches like a man starved.

He grins, smug and handsome and infuriating. “Yeah, three feels nice don’t it, honey?” He reaches out, his hand sliding up your thigh in one slow motion, lazy and unhurried through the slick. “Bet you could take my whole fuckin’ fist if you wanted it real bad.”

A pathetic little whine fills the air, more of a mewl than anything. It takes you a second to realize you’re the one making the noise, so desperate and gone from the tiniest amount of touch. It makes your walls clamp down harder around your fingers.

Joel sees. Joel knows.

And it’s all he needs to finally break.

“Come here,” he growls suddenly, jerking his head impatiently.

You scramble over, straddling him, bare thighs spread over his denim clad ones. Joel undoes his belt with one hand, the clink of the metal making your pulse trip. He pulls himself out of his soaked boxers, hard and straining, the rosy head drooling precome onto his shirt when it slaps up to rest against his stomach.

Your mouth falls open at the sight of it, flushed and big. Bigger than you’ve ever seen, outside of guilty late night porn searches.

Joel chuckles darkly, taking himself in his hand. He strokes himself slowly, twisting his wrist over the head. “You think you can take all this?” he taunts meanly, dragging the tip through your folds, wetting himself with your slick. “You’re just a baby, sweetheart. You think you can handle this dick?”

You moan as he rubs himself over your sensitive clit, warm and wet. Your hips twitch down, desperate for more. Your pussy clenches around nothing, overwhelmingly empty.

He slaps your ass, hard. He kneads the tender skin in his rough hand after, dragging out the sting. “How old am I? Tell me, honey. Say it.”

You gasp, eyes screwing shut in embarrassment. “Fifty–ah! Fifty three,” you breathe, not looking Joel in the eye as you say it.

You can’t, not with the humiliation coursing through your veins like pure kerosine. It’s white hot, burning so bright, but it’s still not enough to stop your pussy from dripping sticky all over his cock like a broken faucet.

“Damn right,” he growls. “Old enough to be your fuckin’ daddy.”

Joel thrusts into you in one brutal push.

You scream. Your nails dig into his shoulders hard enough that you feel the thin material of his shirt straining under it. The stretch feels like it’s tearing you in two, like your fingers didn’t do anything to prepare you for his cock carving a place for itself inside you.

Joel kisses you, sucks the noise right off your tongue. He tastes like beer, like sweat and salt and something that’s only him. You moan into his mouth, your fingers threading into the soft hair curling at the nape of his neck.

He pulls back, a string of spit connecting your lips until it bends and breaks under the weight of gravity. “Come on, darlin’.” He slaps your ass again—once, twice—and you squeal, the burn sharp and perfect. “You wanted to fuck me so bad you couldn’t keep those thievin’ hands to yourself, huh? Well now’s your chance. Fuck me, give it to me good.”

You don’t ease into it, too worked to even think about starting slow.

You bounce on his lap like you’re possessed, thighs slapping, slick drenching his jeans. Joel groans with every roll of your hips, low and drawn out. He lets his head fall back against the couch, the tan column of his throat on display.

“Been waitin’ for this,” he pants. “Since the day you showed back up. Actin’ all grown. Look at you now. Cryin’ on my cock.”

You’re drooling. Dizzy. Brain turned to static as you ride him, his hands gripping your hips so tight you know you’ll bruise.

“You’re so fuckin’ tight,” he growls, raising his head to watch you. “This pussy wasn’t made for boys your age. Needs a man to stretch it out. To ruin it.”

You whine, your pussy tightening around the throbbing length of his cock. Joel notices, of course he does.

His hands grip your ass, urging your hips up and down faster. “You like that, sweet thing? You like lettin’ an old man fuck you raw like this?”

“Yes,” you whine, tears burning at your water line. “I love it, want you to come inside me so bad Joel, fuck-”

“I know, baby.” Joel kisses your cheek, softly. Too soft, too tender. “You ain’t ever gonna want some college boy after this. You’re gonna be thinkin’ about how Mr. Miller fucked you open better than they could.”

Your moan is muffled by his fingers pushing between your slack lips, filling your mouth. You whine at the taste of yourself coating his skin, sucking obediently as he presses them down on your tongue.

“Gonna make you mine,” he pants. “Mine. No more sneakin’ around, no more stealin’ my shit—you want something, you ask for it like a big girl, and I’ll fuckin’ give it to you.”

You shake your head, babbling around his fingers. “Yes—yes, only you. I’m yours—”

You can feel your orgasm building deep in your belly, the coil of pleasure tightening and tightening until it threatens to snap.

Joel rips his fingers from your mouth with a dark growl, reaching back down to grip your ass again. He spreads you open, the cool air making you gasp. One finger, wet with your own spit, rubs over your rim.

He doesn’t push in—just teases, circling, pressing, tugging—enough to make you clench and cry out as he starts pounding up into you. His hips lifting off the couch and filling the room with the loud noise of skin on skin as his balls slap against your ass with every thrust. Your pussy squelching around him with dirty, wet noises would make your ears burn if you weren’t so far gone already.

“You gonna let me play with this too?” he murmurs, lips brushing against your. “You lettin’ me train this hole next?”

That’s it. It’s all you can take.

You shatter with a scream, pussy squeezing so tight it makes Joel snarl and buck wildly up into you. He grabs your ass, choking out a strained string of “fuck, fuck, fuck—”

He curses, pulls you down hard onto his cock one last time as he spills inside you, so deep you swear you feel it behind your ribs. His head drops to your shoulder, breath ragged as he comes and comes.

It feels endless, spurt after spurt of hot spend flooding your walls until it’s forced to leak back out along the fever hot skin of his cock, slipping down his balls to drip onto the couch.

It’s filthy.

It’s obscene.

It’s exactly what you wanted.

You both lean into each other, breathless and spent as you come down. Sweat drips down your back, rolling down your spine as your hands stay buried in his hair.

Joel strokes your thigh lazily, still inside you, watching the mess drip down where you’re spread open around him.

“You’re stayin’ the night,” he says simply.

You can’t fight the tiny, secret smile you press against the sweaty skin of his throat as you nod wordlessly, thighs still shaking violently around his hips.

You’d never make it to the door anyway.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: what's so funny to me about this is that i didn't realize how much i actually missed writing for joel until i took a little mini break to work on my other frankie and harry fics like it’s so dramatic truly, but baby we’re so back! back and hopefully pissing off the joel age gap haters!

shoutouts to baby rylea for giving me the flannel idea cause this fic might have been lost without it. it was rescued from being just another abandoned wip and instead turned into a literal monster which was never supposed to happen but uh that's chill i guess…two fics over 10k words in one month? that’s literally unheard of over here. ALSO my first venture into ass play to spite @ebodebo and @yuenity sooo that’s fun. i love them both really LMAO

once again it's four a.m because i just can't function like a normal person. thank you to femme bot by charli xcx, pink red bull, and ofc my geeky bar for letting me power through and finish this mess. okay i'm done now sorry for talking so much, i just love yapping to you guys :(( thank you so much for reading, love you!

3K notes · View notes

mesopotamism · 4 days ago

Text

Promised you forever

pairing: hyunjin x afab!reader

genre: fluff, smut, pinch of angst

wc: 24.7k

warnings: multiple sex scenes, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, creampies, oral (m and f), fingering, breeding kink, mentions of pregnancy

synopsis: after 6 years of being away from the village you grew up in, you're finally visiting your grandparents. you're excited to spend time with them, but your heart beats faster at the thought of seeing your first love.

a/n: this fic is for my twin from another continent @jehhskz 🩷 thank you for always supporting my works, being on this journey with me and yapping about our sweet hyune and whatever else!! i hope you enjoy reading this fic as much as i enjoyed writing it, happy birthday🥹🩷🫶🏻

~ divider by: @sweetmelodygraphics

their song🩷

A long exhale left your parted lips, right as you pressed your forehead against the cold window of the car, shutting your eyes tightly.

'Get it together, y/n!', you thought to yourself.

But how could you get it together when you were currently driving towards the place you left almost 6 years ago, the place you haven't even stepped foot in while you finished college and tried to build the career you always wanted in the city?

How could you get it together when you couldn't stop replaying the song that once brought you happy memories that were now just a part of your past, filling you up with melancholy?

How could you get it together when you know he still lives there and it's inevitable that you will run into him? Your heart skipped a beat the moment you thought of that.

How would he react? Would he ignore you as if he never knew you? Would he run into your arms, like you knew you'd feel the urge to do as soon as your eyes land on his? Would he just greet you politely, like you haven't already exchanged your breaths, your innocence, whispers of love, tangled your tongues and your hearts?

Did he move on?

You wouldn't blame him if he did, after all, you were the one who left him when you had promised to always stay by his side.

You called your grandparents earlier to let them know you'll be visiting, finally after so many years, you had to be there to celebrate their 60th wedding anniversary, you wouldn't miss it for anything in the world. They practically raised you while your parents worked out of the village and you always admired the tender love they had for each other, spending so many years together and going through so much that just made their bond stronger.

You were tempted to ask your grandmother about Hyunjin, what he was doing now or if he had a significant other. But, you had bitten your tongue, too scared to find out the answer to your question.

You only hoped he didn't hate you.

Hyunjin. The boy that smiled shyly at you when you were just five years old, when his mother had brought him to your house for a play date while the parents have some 'grown up time'. You returned the shy smile, playing with the fabric of your nice dress, the one your mom made you wear, saying something about a 'good impression'. The awkwardness between you disappeared pretty quickly, as soon as you showed him your favorite toys, the two of you started playing together in your yard, between all the dirt and the flowers. Your mother had scolded you later for ruining your dress but your grandmother calmed her down, telling her how the dress paled in comparison to having a good time with a new friend.

Hyunjin and you had at least two play dates a week which turned into three, then four, soon you became inseparable; especially when you started going to school together. Both of you were pretty frightened about that change, standing in front of the school gate so Hyunjin reached out to hold your hand, squeezing it reassuringly as your little cheeks became rosy.

He was your best friend, your first and last crush.

Years of being by his side, watching him grow and growing with him, you couldn't imagine your life without him. Hyunjin knew almost everything about you as you did with him and when both of you started high school, something changed.

He was growing up, he was different than before and you started looking at him differently. Before, you were used to the feeling you got when he touched your hand but now it seemed more electrifying. Hyunjin felt the same, suddenly becoming a stuttering mess next to you, staring at you with shiny eyes and a dumb smile on his face while you'd come home from school every day with butterflies in your stomach and a new diary entry to write.

You noticed how pretty his smile was, how gentle his voice sounded when he spoke your name, how his eyes were trained on your lips one too many times. Hyunjin noticed how your silky hair fell over your shoulders, the way you'd flip it back when he called out to you, how you'd smile at him with rosy cheeks.

Then one night while you were sleeping, Hyunjin couldn't hold back anymore. He sneaked out of his room, stalking down the road quietly to your house, you were only a few minutes away from his place. He stood beneath your window, his palms clammy, heart pounding against his chest, his throat completely dry. There was no going back now. You were awakened by the sounds of little stones hitting your window and confusedly you sat up, squinting towards the direction where the sound was coming from.

"What the-" you started as you stood up. You quietly walked over to your window and peeked down.

"Hyunjin?" you wondered to yourself before opening the window abruptly just as he lifted his hand up and threw another little rock, almost hitting you straight in the face but you dodged with a gasp as it landed behind you.

"Bunny! I'm so sorry!" he panicked immediately, flailing his long arms, the nickname he always used for you making your stomach flutter.

"What are you doing here? It's 2am." you asked confusedly.

"Let me come up please. I need to talk to you." Hyunjin looked nervous, shifting from one foot to the other, chewing on his lip and playing with his fingers.

"Can't this wait until the morning?" your brain was still half asleep and the chilly air from the outside made you shiver in the little nightgown you had on.

"I mean... I guess it can. It's just I don't know if I will have courage tomorrow." he mumbled, looking down and kicking around the little rocks with his foot.

"Fine. Come on up." you said and Hyunjin climbed quickly even though you scolded him, reminding him to be careful and quiet.

"Sorry." he sheepishly smiled at you when you grabbed his wrists and pulled him inside, but his foot got stuck which ended in you falling backwards on your butt and him sprawled on the floor on his hands and knees, hovering over you.

"Hyunjin!" you grunted in pain. "If my grandparents find you here-"

"I know, I know, I'm sorry!" he whispered and the two of you just sat there quietly, trying to hear if there was any indication that someone was coming to your door.

But it was dead quiet, except for the crickets outside of your house and the loud thumping of your heart so both of you let out a breath of relief.

"What did you need to tell me?" you asked after the two of you sat down, you on your bed and Hyunjin on the chair. He stood up abruptly, a shaky breath leaving his lips. Hyunjin rubbed his hands together as he looked away from you. You were suddenly worried, knowing he rarely gets this serious.

"I've been hiding this from you for a while but I can't hold it back anymore, even if you don't feel the same about me I need you to know how I feel because otherwise my chest will burst." he babbled, looking at you nervously.

"Jinnie, what are you talking about?" you asked with brows furrowed, your heartbeat picking up speed.

"I like you. More than friends. As in I'd like to kiss you and hold your hand and have it mean something more than just 'best friends'. I want to be your boyfriend." he blurted out, heart wilding in his chest as he scanned your face, looking for a reaction.

Your lips parted as you stared at him quietly for a moment, trying to process what he was saying. Your dear, sweet Jinnie who you were in love with for years was confessing to you? Looking so nervous and adorable, telling you he wants to kiss you and be yours?

You wished you could scream. So, you did just that. You grabbed your pillow and muffled your excited scream with it as Hyunjin stared at you with wide eyes.

"Um. Are you okay?" he chuckled awkwardly.

"Not really." you shook your head. "Sorry, it's just... I like you too, Jinnie. And I'd love to kiss you and be yours."

"Oh." he stood awkwardly in place like he wasn't expecting a positive answer.

"Are you gonna kiss me now?" you asked sheepishly after a moment of silence.

"Can I?" he looked excited and nervous as he came closer to you and you stood up slowly, nodding at him.

"I- You know I've never kissed anyone before." he said quietly.

"Me neither. It's okay." you gently took his hand in yours and Hyunjin felt the familiar comfort you always gave to him, reaching into his soul even now.

You stared into each other's eyes for a moment, letting the dust settle and the reality sink in, smiles creeping up on your faces as you slowly leaned in. Lips against lips pressed together and your eyes fluttered shut, your entire body buzzing.

Hyunjin squeezed your hand, his other hand tentatively touching the side of your waist as you placed your hand on his chest, feeling his rapid heartbeat underneath your fingers.

Everything fell into place then, you were his and he was yours-

"Miss? Miss, we're here." you snapped out of your reminiscing session as the driver pulled up to your grandparents house. You almost forgot how tiny the village is, how cozy and familiar all of it is. The dirt roads you walked on, mostly with Hyunjin by your side, the little forest that led to a clearing you used for picnic dates and stargazing, your grandmother's colorful garden, the porch she always sat on, admiring the flowers she helped grow. Even the air smelled familiar and it was almost as if you had never left.

"Let me help with your bags." the man said as you walked out of the car, taking a deep breath of fresh air into your lungs.

"Thank you." you said as he pulled out your suitcase. "Careful with those, please!" you added as the driver struggled, finally managing to put both of your suitcases down.

You missed the annoyed look he gave you while you put on your lipgloss, making sure your lips were nice and plump as you checked yourself out in the little pocket mirror.

"Oh, right." you remembered. "Here." you opened your wallet and grabbed some bills, paying the driver and leaving him a nice tip.

Before you could close your wallet, something caught your eye. A little picture of you and Hyunjin, where he was holding you from behind, both of your faces rosy with big smiles as you were chuckling together. You sighed and closed your wallet quickly, shoving it into your bag.

"Thanks for the tip, miss. Have a nice day." the man rounded his car.

"You too." you waved and he turned on his car while you stepped back as the screeching tires lifted up the dirt.

"Ugh." you made a disgusted face, turning around to pull your suitcases with you. After a struggle with the luggage, you managed to finally make the little wheels roll as you walked into the driveway of your childhood home.

"Shit!" your heart leaped out of your chest when your foot got stuck and you pulled, gasping once again when you realized your heel broke.

"Great. Just what I need." you rolled your eyes. Not a good beginning to this visit, you thought.

"Oh, she's here!" you heard the warm, familiar voice belonging to your grandma.

"Nana!" you called out to your grandma as she made her way to you, surprisingly agile for her age. "Oh!" you gasped when she gave you a bone crushing hug.

"Oh, how I missed you my child!" she was already pinching your cheeks as you groaned, noticing your grandfather had just walked out on the porch.

"There's my favorite grandchild." he said with a wink and you shook your, chuckling.

"Of course I'm your favorite when I'm the only one." you laughed quietly and grandma shushed you.

"Don't ruin his jokes, it makes him happy." she nudged you with a wink and you nodded.

"Come here." your grandpa kissed your cheeks, taking a moment to look at you.

"You look all serious and business-y." he said and you chuckled, looking down at your attire.

You were still wearing the suit you'd usually wear to work and the heels that were now broken.

"My heel broke." you remembered and you grandma started laughing.

"Honey, you can forget about heels here. I hope you brought some comfortable shoes that are dirt friendly." she joked as your grandpa helped with your luggage.

As soon as you walked into the house, you were hit with an even bigger wave of nostalgia than the one slowly building in your soul while you drove towards the village. They haven't changed almost anything, all the decoration was the same, everything smelled the same and familiar, like the home you grew up in never changed.

Like you never changed.

"Are you hungry, my child?"

"Oh yes." you nodded at your grandma eagerly, happy to be eating her home-cooked food.

"Good, wash your hands and join us for dinner."

She gave you some house slippers as you threw your poor broken heels aside and after washing your hands, you joined them at the table.

"So, how is the big city treating you?" your grandpa asked and you caught them up on your work, friends, your apartment, anything about the city you thought was worth mentioning.

"How are things here?" you asked after they listened to you, interested in your new experiences.

"Oh, you know. There is always something to do here. We have the house, the garden, the chickens, the goats. We are not as young and strong as we were once before but we are used to working. Plus, someone always comes to help out." nana explained.

"Like who?" you asked absentmindedly, chewing on the salad.

"Well, do you remember Chan? He was always a nice boy, that one. He got married recently but he still comes to help out with some repairs the house needs."

"Chan got married? Wow." you chuckled, it made sense. He had the same girlfriend for years and he was older than you so you weren't that surprised.

"And of course, Hyunjin." you grandma gave you a knowing smile as your entire body froze and you almost choked on your salad.

"Hyunjin got married?!" you spat out and your grandma gasped and then started laughing.

"No, dear, no." she chuckled at your reaction. "I meant Hyunjin comes here to help a lot. He repainted the entire kitchen and living room. Helps out with the animals and the garden when he isn't working on his farm. Or working around with other people, helping them build their houses and things like that."

"Oh..." you swallowed. "So, you see him a lot?"

"Yeah, almost every day!" grandpa chuckled. "He even joined us for breakfast this morning."

You suddenly felt a knot forming in your stomach. Hyunjin spent more time in your home, with your family than you did.

"Does he... does he have someone? You know. A partner." your voice broke a little as you blinked your tears away. You hated how you always cried easily, especially when it's about Hyunjin.

"No, he only works." your grandma frowned. "That boy never stops from early in the morning until late night hours. He just works and works his days away."

Somehow, that made you feel a little more at ease even though your heart still hurt.

"He asks about you, you know." grandma added.

You almost choked on your food again.

"He does?" you swallowed quickly, deciding that your appetite is now gone.

"Yeah. He asks if you're healthy, if you're doing good."

"Oh."

The weight of your grandma's words settled in your heart, heavy like a rock even as you tried to distract yourself with washing dishes and helping her clean up.

"Your room is the same as it was always. We never touched or removed anything." your grandma smiled at you, her hand gentle on your cheek.

"You should go see Hyunjin." she added.

"I- Maybe later." your throat dried up and you needed a moment to yourself, a moment to gather your thoughts. You walked up the stairs to your room as soon as you finished cleaning up, pulling your suitcases up with you. When the door creaked open, you were greeted by your past.

Your grandparents really left everything intact.

You stopped in your tracks after closing the door, too scared to move so you wouldn't disrupt the memories you were witnessing in your mind. Countless times Hyunjin and you spent here, ever since you were kids all the way up to the end of high school and the summer before you left for good. He was everywhere in that room. He sat on your windowsill, he paced around the floor, he swayed backwards on your chair (falling on his butt one too many times), he laid on your bed, kissing you and telling you how much he loves you.

There were polaroid pictures of you on the left side of your table, the drawings he gave you as a gift, your favorite teddy bear he got you for your one year anniversary still propped up against your pillows... You opened your drawer and found your diaries, his name scribbled on the pages, on your heart. You picked up one of the polaroids as your other hand automatically went to your chest. The couple necklaces you shared, one half of a heart was still around your neck, hidden under your shirt and close to your heart, the other one was still with him or maybe it wasn't. Maybe he threw it away after you left and never came back, not even returning his calls or texts.

"Hyunjin..." you whispered as you smiled at the picture, him with his hair over his eyes trying to make a scary face and you in the back, your hands on his shoulders as you stood on your tippy toes and put your tongue out, making a silly face.

Suddenly, you were overcome by emotions and tears spilled from your eyes. You loved him your entire life. And even if you tried to escape that feeling, you never really could. Hyunjin grew roots inside your heart and he wasn't going anywhere any time soon. You let yourself cry for a moment, hugging the teddy bear as you sat on your bed.

Should you go see him?

He has every right to be mad at you and you were scared of him turning a cold shoulder. But then again, your grandma said he asks for you. Maybe he is just curious?

Either way, you weren't ready to face him yet.

You decided to unpack and shower, change into something more comfortable and hopefully catch up on sleep.

But as soon as you got into your bed, sleep wouldn't come to you, no matter how quiet and peaceful the village was in comparison to the city and how comfortable your old bed was. Your mind drifted off to that night when Hyunjin snuck in, right before your prom.

Six years ago

"Hey, little bunny." Hyunjin had climbed through the window that you left open for him, knocking down one of your books from the shelf next to it in the process.

"Hyun!" you scolded him with a chuckle.

"I know, I know. I'm trying to be quiet." he whispered, lifting his arms up in defeat.

"Come here, clumsy." you giggled and he practically skipped to you, his long arms wrapping around your smaller frame and pulling you into him.

"I'm so excited for tomorrow." your voice was muffled by his chest and he chuckled.

"Me too. I hope I don't step on your toes." he grimaced and you looked up at him, your fingers tangled in his long dark hair.

"You won't. You're a great dancer and we practiced a lot." you smiled, caressing the back of his neck and Hyunjin melted, his arms tightening around you.

"Yes, but when I'm nervous I can't control my body." he whined with a pout. "There will be other people there, looking at us and-"

"You'll do fine, trust me." you interrupted his nervous babbling. "Just imagine it's the two of us, like right now." you swayed slowly and he followed you, exhaling and pressing his forehead against yours.

"I love you, little bunny." he whispered.

"I love you too, Jinnie." you whispered back and his lips were on yours instantly. Hands explored awkwardly as you were backed into your bed, falling down with Hyunjin on top of you. You had messed around like this before, his hands under your nightgown, fingers dipping into your underwear, your hand wrapped around his length.

"H-Hyunjin?" you whimpered as he slowly pumped his fingers inside you, kissing your neck.

"Yes, doll?" he whispered back, the nickname giving you shivers.

"I'm ready. For... you know. I wanna go all the way with you." you bit on your lip as his eyes widened.

"Are you- are you sure? I can wait for you for however long you need. You don't have to feel pressured." he shook his head, pulling his fingers out.

"No, no. I am sure. I love you and I want to be yours completely." you gripped at his shoulders and Hyunjin's heart leaped out of his chest as he smiled sweetly at you.

"I want to be yours completely too. Be your first and your last. And you mine."

"Jinnie." you almost started crying from the overwhelming feelings, your lips quickly finding his. Hyunjin was a little awkward, unsure of himself and scared that he'll hurt you or do something wrong but he was still gentle, trying to put you first even though he was more excited than ever to have you like this and be connected with you.

"I have condoms in the drawer." you pointed at the nightstand and he narrowed his eyes at you.

"You were planning this?" his face became as red as a tomato.

"I mean, yeah." you nodded, the color of your cheeks matching his. "I've wanted this with you for some time but I was nervous to tell you." you admitted.

"You're so cute, bunny." Hyunjin giggled, caressing your cheek gently with his knuckles.

"Ugh." you groaned in embarrassment while he kept chuckling, reaching for the drawer.

The moment he started pushing in, the world around you disappeared and you were concentrated only on him.

"Does it hurt?" Hyunjin asked as he kept filling you up gently.

"A little." you gasped, it was definitely a bigger stretch than his fingers.

"I'm sorry." he looked guilty immediately. "Do you want me to stop?"

"N-no. Keep going." you whispered, holding onto his upper back.

Hyunjin's eyes fluttered shut when he bottomed out inside you, his entire body was buzzing, his heart was beating fast and he was trying to gather all the mental and physical strength not to finish too quickly.

"Y/n." he gasped when he finally opened his eyes and looked at you, a sweet lovestruck expression on your face, your eyes sparkling, all for him, all his.

"Hyunjin." you moaned at the way he felt inside you and the way he looked at you, like you hung all the stars in the sky just for him.

"I adore you, bunny." Hyunjin said gently and your heart bursted right then and there.

"I adore you too." you whispered back.

He slowly started moving inside you, whispering words of love and praise the entire time as you clutched onto him and returned his praises.

You've never felt like that before, completely and utterly loved by him, connected with him.

Which made it harder for you to give him the news you were supposed to tomorrow after prom.

Present time

You were rudely awakened at 5am when the rooster in your nana's backyard started crowing loudly.

"Ugh!" you forgot about all the charms of living in a village as you grabbed the pillow and put it over your face, a muffled 'shut up' pressed into it. You waited for a few moments, throwing the pillow aside and turning to your left, coming face to face with the teddy bear Hyunjin gave you, which of course you named 'Jinnie' back then, making your boyfriend laugh adoringly at you.

"Good morning, Jinnie." you said to the teddy, pulling the plushie closer to you as you hugged it and sighed. "Guess I should get up." you added with a shrug before stretching and then getting up.

You opened up your wardrobe, choosing to wear a red dress with a dainty floral print on it and got ready in your room, listening to music just like you did every day before school or a date with your boyfriend years ago. You opened up another drawer in your table and gasped when you saw the corsage that Hyunjin gave to you when he came to pick you up before prom.

You clutched it in your hand and thought back to that night, when Hyunjin came to pick you up.

Six years ago

To say Hyunjin was nervous was an understatement. He felt as if every atom of his being was about to burst into little pieces when he rang your doorbell. He was a wreck as he kept wiping his sweaty palms against his jacket, annoyed at the fact that no matter how many deep breaths he took, his heart was still hammering against his chest, ready to burst. Why was he so nervous? It was just you, his little bunny.

Oh, but he wasn't ready and he was right to be so nervous because as soon as your grandma opened the door with a smile, ushering him in, his eyes landed on you and they widened. Hyunjin felt as if the world stopped spinning, all the clocks stopped ticking, his heart quit beating and his breath got stuck in his throat. You became the only center of gravity, pulling him in towards you and nothing else around the two of you mattered.

He was completely and utterly floored and whipped for you.

Hyunjin finally understood the meaning of the word 'breathtaking' because that was the only thing that came to mind as you smiled at him so beautifully, so in love, so happy, wearing the most gorgeous dress he'd ever seen you in.

"Y/n." was the only thing he managed to say and you chuckled, your heart swelling at his reaction.

It was your turn to gawk as he came closer to you, you'd never seen him wearing a suit before and he looked even more handsome than he ever did. Your knees buckled when he stood close to you, the smell of his cologne was intoxicating but his lovestruck smile was even more mesmerizing.

Your grandparents smiled lovingly at the two of you before glancing at each other knowingly as Hyunjin gave you your corsage, gently putting it on your wrist. So many pictures were taken before you had to rush out so you wouldn't be late to the dance.

The night was magical and everything seemed possible under the fairy lights as Hyunjin and you swayed to the gentle melody of the familiar song coming from the speakers.

"Do you want to slip out after our song?" Hyunjin's plump lips brushed against your ear as he pulled you tighter into his heated body.

"Won't the chaperones notice?" you asked as you looked up at him only to find him smirking.

"We'll be stealthy." he said and you giggled.

"Right, stealthy."

"Yes, see I didn't even step on your foot!"

"Not yet." you teased him and Hyunjin pouted, whining and burying his face in your shoulder.

"Mean bunny." he tickled your sides, making you squirm and squeal.

"Fine, sorry." you giggled, knowing he wasn't actually offended. "You did a great job." you added and Hyunjin looked up at you with a sweet smile, his cheeks rosy.

"Thank you, doll. You did too." he smirked, brushing his lips against yours.

You managed to sneak out somehow while everyone was dancing to a quicker beat and you knew exactly where you were going; to your favorite spot with Hyunjin, the path to it so familiar that you could walk through it blind, the soil remembering all your footsteps.

"Hyune, um... I'm wearing heels." you whispered as he shined the path ahead with a little pocket flashlight.

"Oh, right." he thought for a moment before kneeling down. "Get on my back, doll."

"Are you sure?" you asked and he chuckled.

"Of course." he nodded eagerly and you climbed up on his back, feeling light and happy, giggles spilling from both of your lips. "Hold this." Hyunjin gave you the light and you shined it ahead as he gripped the back of your thighs and carried you.

Being a little tease, Hyunjin pretended he was going to drop you a few times only to have you almost scream as your arms wrapped tighter around him.

"Stop that!" you whined.

"Sorry, sorry bunny. I'll stop. You're just so cute." he smirked.

"If you weren't carrying me right now, you'd be in big trouble." you scolded and Hyunjin let out a laugh, your favorite tree coming into view.

"Yes, I know. Biiiig trouble." he kept chuckling and you were this close to biting his shoulder.

"Here we are, bunny." he gently put you down and wrapped his arm around you as the two of you stared at the carving in the trunk.

Hyunjin + Y/n.

Both of you laughed then, you had carved your names in when you were barely 16 and seeing it now was equally as embarrassing as it was sweet.

"Y/n?"

"Yeah?" you looked up at Hyunjin and he smiled sweetly at you.

"I promise I'll love you forever." he whispered, lifting his pinky and you giggled.

"I promise I'll love you forever too, my sweet Jinnie." you whispered back, your pinky curling around his.

Hyunjin chuckled in delight and pulled you into a sweet kiss.

You didn't have the heart to tell him you got into uni and would be leaving the village in September.

Present time

You had to go visit the tree.

"Fuck." you cursed, angrily wiping your tears away, before putting the corsage back into the drawer and slamming it shut.

Too many memories.

You quickly made your way downstairs where your nana was already serving breakfast.

"Oh, I thought you'd be sleeping more, dear." she lifted her brows in surprise.

"I thought so too." you joked, giving her a pointed look and she laughed.

"I see you forgot how it is here." nana shook her head. "When you haven't been around for so long."

"I'm sorry." you grimaced, sitting down to eat with her. "I know I should've visited more. I got caught up in studies and work and-"

"Breathe, dear." your grandma squeezed your hand with a chuckle. "It's not me who you should be explaining this to."

You gulped, knowing she was referring to Hyunjin.

"Where's grandpa?" you asked.

"He's out back, working."

"I was thinking of going for a walk before lunch. I'll make sure to come back though to help out."

"Sure, dear. You haven't been here for so long, you should catch up with the place and the people." grandma nodded with a wink and that was exactly what you planned to do.

It was around 7am when you finally walked out of the house, inhaling the fresh air you were deprived of in the big city. It was a bit chilly in the morning so you draped a light jacket over your shoulders and let your legs lead you through the familiar streets.

You still didn't want to see Hyunjin so you went the opposite direction of his house, trying to stick to the shadows for now, just to have a little more peace to yourself and mentally prepare for the inevitable encounters of everyone you grew up with.

It was painful. Walking all the familiar paths you walked through before with him, it was as if you could hear his laughter echoing down the street. Your heart squeezed in your chest when you realized just where your legs had taken you.

The tree.

It was still there, as tall as ever, its branches familiar as you and Hyunjin had laid under them multiple times, kissing, talking, laughing, holding each other close. You walked closer, your eyes brimming with tears when you saw the carving. Hyunjin + Y/n. Forever.

The word you had added that night after prom.

You cursed yourself mentally for crying again and being so overcome with emotions. You couldn't stand there for too long and were about to leave when something caught your eye. Another carving, smaller and almost unnoticeable on the right side of yours. You leaned in closer to inspect it and your heart almost stopped.

Hyunjin.

Nothing else, just his name was carved into the wood and you felt fresh tears forming in your eyes. Leaving was definitely a mistake, maybe the biggest mistake you ever made, especially after the let down you experienced in the city. You wiped your tears away again and decided to leave the tree be, your heart hurting at the thought of Hyunjin sitting under the branches alone, carving his name and wondering why you had never called back or came to see him. You walked away, back down the path and into the village, deep in your thoughts. Lost in the memories of what once was you didn't even realize where you came, as your legs walked on autopilot.

Only when the familiar light blue house came into view, you snapped from your thoughts, eyes wide and heart dropping into your stomach.

"Shit!" you whisper-yelled. This was the only house you wanted to avoid and yet you were standing right in front of it. As far as you knew, Hyunjin's parents didn't live there anymore, he was living in the big house completely alone, his only companions his animals.

Your knees almost gave out as you stared, before getting spooked when you heard barking. A big black dog ran to the fence, barking at you in warning. You had never seen it before so Hyunjin must've gotten it after you went to the city. You backed away as the dog kept barking at you in a not-so-friendly manner. You turned and started walking away, hoping Hyunjin didn't hear that or wasn't home because you still weren't ready to see him let alone talk to him.

Then, you heard a familiar voice.

"Easy girl, easy." you assumed he was talking to the dog as the barking subsided immediately and you stopped in your tracks.

"Well, well." you heard then. "If it isn't little bunny."

Your heart leaped out of your chest. You hadn't heard that nickname in years.

"Don't even wanna say hi?" Hyunjin continued and you heard the sound of the little fence door opening. Slowly, you turned around and basically almost fainted.

This wasn't your sweet, shy and little Jinnie. You almost didn't recognize him as you stared at him with eyes wide and mouth agape.

His long hair was gone, replaced by a neat buzzcut that was also bleached, he had piercings on his ears, his arms were big and muscular, a few tattoos here and there, visible in the tanktop he wore. He looked taller, bigger, more manly. Your knees buckled and the more you looked at him the more you felt lightheaded.

Hyunjin smirked, noticing how you were salivating and a little chuckle escaped his lips.

"Gonna catch flies like that." he teased and you closed your mouth, attempting to compose yourself as you stood up straighter. His eyes then traveled all over your frame, the teasing glint inside them turning into something softer until they fell on the necklace and he felt as if the ground underneath his feet almost gave out.

You were still wearing it. Just like he was, his half heart hidden under his top.

"Hi." you said quietly. "You look different."

"A lot can change in six years." he stated, still keeping a good distance away from you.

"It can." you stepped back, feeling suffocated by his presence as you tried to read his face and tone of voice. Was there anger? Regret? Did he resent you?

"You're different too." a small smile appeared on his lips.

"How so?" you tilted your head to the left, thinking how you pretty much looked the same since the end of high school.

"You've gotten even more beautiful." Hyunjin said like it was nothing and you were sure you were having a heart attack in that moment.

"I- That- Thank you." you had no idea what to say. "I have to go... Help nana with lunch. And stuff."

Hyunjin smiled wider.

"I'll see you later then, bunny."

"Sure." you turned around so quickly that you almost snapped your neck. Hyunjin watched with bathed breath as you scurried away from him.

You finally came back.

"Did you see Hyunjin?" nana asked as you helped her clean around the kitchen after lunch.

"Accidentally, yes." you said and she chuckled.

"I never understood why you broke up, you two are made for each other." she said and you almost dropped the plate you were holding.

"We didn't... actually break up. I just left."

"I thought you were still together back then, I was wondering why he never went to visit you or you him. I only realized you weren't together once he asked me if I knew where you lived in the city. Which I forgot the address, dear, so I hope I didn't do anything wrong by not telling him."

"No, no, nana. You did nothing wrong. It was my fault. I thought I was doing the right thing. But I'm not so sure anymore." your eyes welled up with tears as you clutched onto the counter.

"Oh, honey." your grandma was instantly by your side.

"I told him I would come back. I wouldn't be surprised if he hated me now and wanted nothing to do with me." you sniffled as nana wiped your tears away.

"Oh dear, Hyunjin doesn't hate you. He talks very fondly of you always. That boy still loves you."

"He- He does?" you thought back to your encounter today.

"A love like that doesn't disappear overnight. Or over the span of six years." your grandma teased, making you chuckle through your tears.

"If you say so."

"Talk to him. He is coming to dinner tonight anyways." she announced.

"He is what?!" you almost yelled.

"He usually joins us for dinner. At least a few days in the week."

You panicked immediately.

"I have to go get ready then!"

Nana bursted into laughter as she watched you frantically run up the stairs.

"What was that about?" grandpa came in, looking up at the metaphorical dust that you left behind after running.

"Oh you know. Love." grandma winked at him and he shook his head with a smile.

Shit.

Hyunjin is coming over for dinner. You had to look your best.

You've gotten even more beautiful.

His words rang in your head and your cheeks became red instantly, heart beating hard in your chest. You quickly opened your wardrobe and began throwing clothes everywhere, your room soon looking as if a tornado had passed through it. You tried on multiple outfits but with every single one you found something wrong. The color was too bright, the shirt was too big, the pants looked weird...

So you settled on another dress, a pretty and white flowy one with yellow flowers on it, the shape of it accentuating your frame, your bare legs on display. You decided to wear heels too and put on some makeup. You were so nervous as if you hadn't already been his.

While you were doing your hair, you stared into your reflection and remembered that warm summer night when you told Hyunjin you were leaving.

Six years ago

Hyunjin and you sat on a blanket, staring up at the stars shimmering in the dark sky.

"Jinnie." you swallowed nervously.

"Yes, bunny?" he smiled, playing with your fingers.

"I have something to tell you."

"Oh? Okay." he nodded, sitting up.

"Um. It's been weighing on me since prom."

"You sound serious." Hyunjin's expression turned into one of worry.

"It is serious. And I didn't tell you earlier because I was afraid of how you'd react." your heart started beating fast. "I got into my uni of choice."

"Bunny! You did?" he smiled wide. "Why didn't you tell me that? You know I support you and I'm proud of you."

"I know. It's just that... I'm leaving and I don't know when I'll be back." you said. "We talked about this briefly before but... I don't want to stay in the village. There is nothing for me here, I mean career wise. Meanwhile... You decided to work with your father and build your life here."

Hyunjin's smile dropped.

"What are you saying?" his voice sounded strained.

"Are we... Are we breaking up?" he asked, tears forming in his eyes.

"No. No. I don't want to. I don't know." you bit your lip and looked away from him.

"Y/n. Please, don't do this. I've known no one but you my whole life. You're the one I love and the one I promised forever to. We even talked about building a life together, getting married, having kids."

"I know, I know. You're my first love, Jinnie. And those were all nice daydreams but there comes a time when you need to grow up."

"Daydreams? Bunny. Those were plans." his bottom lip trembled and he frowned. "This really sounds like you're breaking up with me."

"No, no." tears started spilling down your cheeks when you saw the hurt in his eyes and realized how harsh your words sounded. "Just... I'm confused. I don't know what to do." you put your hands over your face, a sob escaping your lips.

Hyunjin's eyes softened and he put his hand on your upper back, gently caressing you.

"Hey, look. I know you're scared now, this is a big change. But, we'll figure it out together. You go finish your studies, do what you always wanted to. But please don't throw away what we have. I'll always wait for you, I'll wait until you come visit or I can visit you. We can call each other, we don't have to grow apart in order for you to grow."

"I guess not." his words hit you hard as you looked up at him.

"Don't cry, baby. I love you and I'm so happy for you. I'm so proud of my little bunny." he talked, wiping your tears away.

"Jinnie. I love you too." you clutched onto his shirt and cried into his chest.

Oh, how you were going to miss him.

Present time

But after you left, you never even contacted him.

You knew how cruel that was but you thought it was for the best. If you were going to build a life in the city and he was going to stay behind in the village, it was better off like this.

Childhood crushes and high school sweethearts don't always last, do they?

But, your heart hurt so badly every day you were away from Hyunjin. You wanted to forget him, stop loving him but you couldn't no matter how hard you tried. Every time you thought you were ready to take off the couple necklace, your hands would stop functioning. You couldn't bring yourself to do that, the necklace felt as if it was a part of you and despite being away from Hyunjin you knew your heart would always belong to him.

With a sigh, you finished getting ready, wondering if he could really still love you after you'd hurt him like that.

Before you could come down, you heard voices under your window and you stalked towards it curiously. It was closed so you couldn't understand what they were saying but Hyunjin stood there with your grandpa, his back turned to you. You gasped a little, noticing then how his shoulders and upper back also got wider, the black shirt he wore almost ripping at the seams.

"Give me strength." you prayed to whoever was listening before you decided to stop hiding and finally made your way downstairs.

"Yes, I'll definitely ask Chan to help out with the fence, I think he won't be busy this weekend." Hyunjin said to your grandpa as they walked into the kitchen.

"Great! That's settled then!" grandpa clapped his hands with a satisfied smile. Hyunjin looked up at you then and stopped walking, giving you the elevator eyes.

"Good evening." he smirked a little.

"Evening." you said breathlessly and you grandma chuckled.

"Why are you two acting so formal?" grandpa asked as you sat down.

"Leave them be. They just encountered each other after a long time." nana scolded him and he gave a little shrug.

Hyunjin was sitting right across from you and you felt as if there was nowhere to hide. He kept looking at you curiously and you felt so awkward, trying to avoid his eyes as all of you started taking food out on the plates and eating.

Hyunjin couldn't calm his heart down. All the feelings that he carried inside of him every single day, from dawn to late night, were now amplified a thousand times. All those nights he had thought about you and seen you in his dreams couldn't compare to you actually being in front of him. He couldn't tear his eyes away from you, he missed you deeply. The love he always had for you never subsided, it only grew more even while you were apart.

Though, he knew that there were things the two of you needed to talk about, he decided not to think about the hurtful side of it, tossing it in the back of his mind as he continued to bask in your presence. Your hair, your eyes, your smile, your hands, the way your brows creased when you asked a question to your nana, the way you looked up at him timidly only to look away, the way you nervously chewed on your bottom lip, the way that necklace he gave you laid on your skin, still there, as if you had never left, a sign that you perhaps still loved him as much as he loved you.

"So, how is the city treating ya?" Hyunjin asked you suddenly, eyes trained on you as they have been the entire evening.

"It's... okay." you answered but Hyunjin knew you were lying. He knew when you wore a fake smile and he knew the tone of your voice once you tried to convince yourself you're fine.

"Oh yeah? Got that job you always wanted, hm?" he asked and you looked up at him, trying to see if he was mocking you or resenting you but he looked genuinely curious.

"I did." you answered shortly, a knot forming in your stomach. "I got what I wanted." you forced another smile.

"I'm glad you did." he smiled and you felt the urge to cry again. You wondered what was wrong with you and shook your head, trying to will yourself to smile back at him.

"I always thought the two of you would get married." your nana chimed in, making you almost choke on a piece of bread. Hyunjin chuckled and looked at you.

"We're still young." he smirked a little and you started praying that the floor opens up and swallows you whole.

"You two remind me of us when we were younger." grandpa nodded with a smile.

No, you thought, please stop.

You were really going to start crying.

"Excuse me. I need some air." you stood up abruptly, the chair almost falling over behind you.

Hyunjin watched as you ran out of the front door and he stood up too, excusing himself and following you.

You stood on the porch, hugging yourself and sniffling.

"Y/n?" Hyunjin approached you cautiously. You quickly wiped your tears away with the sleeve of your cardigan before turning to look at him.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Sure." you nodded but he knew you were crying.

"You wanna take a walk?" Hyunjin asked, biting on his lip and you chuckled, shaking your head.

"Yeah, why not." you nodded, maybe it was time to stop avoiding him.

You didn't even discuss where you were going to go, you just started walking together in the same direction you always did while you grew up here. It was quiet for a while, only the song of the crickets filling up your ears, a few distant barks and the breeze rustling through the leaves.

"So, what have you been doing?" you asked, trying to break the ice. You couldn't believe you felt so awkward with someone you could talk to the easiest with, out of anyone in your entire life.

"Me? Oh, you know... Working around the farm. I repaired the entire house with some of my mates. It was in a really bad shape, if you remember. We re-did everything, even the roofing and the pipes. Repainted the entire place, changed the furniture... So, it's now like a new house. And I have horses and chickens. A garden. I mean, I work all day, help out others too." he chuckled. "My parents are in the city, they visit sometimes. But, mostly I'm here with Rina, she has been my best friend for three years now."

"Rina?" your stomach dropped instantly.

"Yes, that overprotective black dog that barked at you." Hyunjin smirked at your expression.

"Oh... That's Rina." you said absentmindedly, finally glancing at him.

Your heart stopped.

The necklace. He must've unbuttoned one more button while you were walking, making the other half of the heart visible under his collarbone. He never stopped wearing it either. Suddenly, your stomach filled up with butterflies.

"She's wary of strangers coming near me."

Ouch.

"Yeah." you turned away, the butterflies turning into a feeling of nausea.

"I mean, strangers to her." Hyunjin clarified, realizing how he sounded.

"Yeah, I understand." you gave him a smile you hoped looked real, because you were seconds away from crying. "You still paint?" you decided to change the subject.

"Oh yeah, all the time." he smiled. "Enough about me. What about you?"

"Me? I also work all day. In the office. It's... interesting, I guess. I bought an apartment recently, it's really modern." you talked, realizing how empty your words sounded then. You had no idea what to tell Hyunjin. He had all these projects and people who care about him, animals he cares for and his hobbies. Meanwhile, all you had was a job you ended up hating and no one to come home to.

"I travel a lot." you added, trying to fill up the silence. "For work but also for fun, with some of my coworkers. We went all the way to Bali last year. It was a fun trip, you know. Stuff like that."

"Sounds exhilarating." Hyunjin said, sounding anything but. "Anyone special in your life?"

Why did he ask that.

"No, nobody." you quickly answered.

Hyunjin was hoping you'd say that.

"Good. I mean- Me neither." he coughed awkwardly and stopped walking. You were about to ask why he stopped when you noticed where you were.

"Oh." you let out a chuckle, your face warming up.

You hadn't even realized you came to the only park in the village, and not just that, you were standing in front of your and Hyunjin's bench, where you used to sit after school, talking and kissing.

And well, you sat here on many evenings just like this one, making out. Your face started burning suddenly.

"Shall we sit?" Hyunjin asked and you nodded reluctantly as you felt like you were going to throw up from nerves. The two of you sat down, the silence stretching between you again.

"I-" Hyunjin opened his mouth, then closed them, repeating the action a few times, his brows furrowing and cheeks rosy, his hands gripping the edge of the bench like he was struggling to get his words out. You were almost swallowed by the nerves you felt in that moment, you were scared that he was going to tell you off, just what you deserve.

"I tried to find you." he let out a shaky exhale. "You covered up your tracks pretty well." he scoffed. "I mean, I got the message. You didn't want to see me ever again. And I'd be fine with that if only you gave me a reason, told me why you just disappeared from my life when you've been a part of it since forever. I thought for some time that you have completely abandoned me. But, somewhere deep in my soul I knew you'd be back one day, Y/n."

"Hyunjin..." your bottom lip trembled as your eyes watered. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I made a huge mistake. And I would totally understand if you hated me or resented me and never wanted to forgive me. Just know I felt bad the entire time and I still do." you were full on crying and feeling embarrassed, you looked away from Hyunjin.

"I could never hate you, little bunny." his voice sounded soft and you willed yourself to look at him while you wiped your tears away even though they kept coming. "And I forgave you a long time ago." he whispered. You noticed he was sitting closer to you and your body trembled.

"You did? Why?" you asked quietly.

"Because it's you." he answered simply and you felt annoyed, wanting to hear more. But, before you could ask Hyunjin stood up abruptly.

"Let's meet up tomorrow. Have a picnic like we always used to." he said and you stood up too.

You stared at him and kept thinking, could things go back to how they were before?

You felt as if there was something he wasn't telling you yet, there was no way he forgave you so easily for abandoning him.

"What do you say?" Hyunjin looked at you hopefully.

"Sure. Yeah." you nodded, your body swirling with feelings of confusion, excitement, nostalgia, happiness, sadness... You had no idea how to explain it.

"Great. I'll come to your house around 10am."

"Sounds good."

"Let me walk you home." he added, the two of you walking and talking about the village, who stayed and who moved, which new stores opened and all the other insignificant little things just to avoid the big elephant that needed to be addressed.

"I'll see you tomorrow, bunny." Hyunjin put his hands in his jeans pockets, trying to look nonchalant.

"See you." you hurried inside.

"And that smile?" your nana's voice scared you.

"Oh, nana! Ugh, nothing. I'm just going to see Hyunjin tomorrow." you answered quickly.

"Oh. Hyunjin." she smirked knowingly. "Well, have a good night." she winked before leaving to her room.

You hoped you were going to be able to sleep tonight.

You managed to sleep through the rooster's wake up call, opening your eyes just in time to get ready for your picnic date.

Was it a date? You had no idea what was going to happen but still you wore another pretty dress and put on your makeup. You decided to wear extra shiny lipgloss to make your lips stand out, hopefully get Hyunjin's attention. You felt giddy, like you were that same school girl meeting up her boyfriend, the love of her life.

"Oh, dear you look so pretty." your grandma noted when you came downstairs.

"Thank you, nana." you smiled.

"Are you gonna eat anything?"

"No, Hyunjin told me not to worry and that he'd bring everything."

"Okay, well have fun you two!" she winked at you and you kissed her cheek before skipping out of the house and towards the street where Hyunjin said he'd wait for you.

He wasn't there yet so you stood in place, shifting from foot to foot and wondering why he is late since he'd always been punctual. It was already almost 10:15 and you were beginning to think he had played a cruel joke on you. You were already tearing up at the thought of that but maybe you deserved it after the way you treated him.

You were about to turn around and leave but you heard heavy footsteps running towards you.

"Y/n! I'm so sorry for being late!" it was a breathless Hyunjin, leaning his palms against his knees as he scrunched his face up and tried to calm his heart. "I ran into Chan on the way and he needed help carrying some things, I couldn't say no." he swallowed, straightening up.

Just then you noticed the backpack on his shoulders and the thin sheen of sweat forming on his forehead, the tanktop was there again and your eyes followed all the veins popping out.

"Oh, it's okay." you shook your head, feeling stupid.

"Shall we?" he smiled and you nodded, letting him lead the way. His eyes lingered on your lips for a while as he bit on his, before starting to walk. It was clear to you where you were going, the tree was your picnic and stargazing spot for years.

"I saw you by the tree the other day." Hyunjin said, putting his backpack down and opening it.

"Oh? You did?" your heart climbed up your throat.

"Yeah." he smiled. " I thought I was hallucinating."

You chuckled, feeling the need to smack his arm like you always did when he made you laugh but you refrained from doing so.

"Nope, I'm here." you said, helping him put the blanket down.

"I'm glad you are." he said and the two of you sat down, Hyunjin taking everything that he had packed out; fruit salad, sandwiches, coffee. You didn't feel like you deserved this. You wanted to ask him so many things. Like why did he carve his name alone in the tree trunk, why did he seem so normal about all of this, why didn't he just yell at you, like any other person would after being hurt.

"Hyunjin?" you gulped, poking around the plastic container with the fruit. He gave you an unreadable look, his brows furrowing.

"Why do you keep calling me that?" he said and you chuckled nervously.

"Well, that's your name."

"Yeah but you always called me nicknames. Like Jinnie or Hyune. And other things." he looked at the field of flowers swaying in front of you.

You hadn't answered so he turned to look at you.

"Why aren't you yelling at me or cursing me out?" you asked and Hyunjin's eyes widened a little.

"Why would I do that?" he tilted his head.

"Because I promised I'd love you forever and I left. I didn't even come back for six years, I thought I was doing a good thing. That I'd be better off in the city and you'd be better off without me. That I'd be able to move on and forget you. I thought I'd never come back here but after what happened-" your shut your lips tightly, eyes watering. "After being disappointed with everything I thought I wanted in my life, I came back here and expected to see that you moved on or even gotten married. I expected you to hate me, yell at me, curse at me. But here we are, sitting under our tree, having a picnic like I never broke your heart and mine." you were now full on crying, your bottom lip trembling and hands shaking.

Hyunjin observed you with a wistful look in his eyes before smiling softly.

"You wanna know why I'm not yelling or cursing at you?" he said, leaning closer to you.

"W-why?" you stuttered, he got into your private space and even though he changed and grew, he still had that comforting scent of Hyunjin, the one that brought you so much comfort and nostalgia.

"Because of this." he reached towards you and gently gripped the pendant of your necklace between his fingertips. "You're still wearing our necklace. And that tells me everything I need to know. Bunny, I've known you my whole life, I've loved you my whole life. I knew you wouldn't be happy in the city and I knew you'd come back here to me one day. I know that because we were made for each other and because I could feel you inside me every day. I just knew our story wasn't over, it was just beginning."

You were at a loss of words, crying and sobbing as Hyunjin talked, feeling embarrassed and also like you wanted to roll down the hill from excitement. You wiped at your face, trying not to screw up the makeup you worked so hard on while letting his words settle inside your head.

"Oh my god, Hyunjin!" you shrieked suddenly, grabbing onto his arm on accident.

"Y/n." he laughed as you kept squealing and gripping at his bicep while a little bee flew around your body. "It's just a bee, don't be scared."

"Please, make it go away." you whined.

"What can I do, a bee found a pretty flower." Hyunjin smirked at you then and you looked up at him with your eyes squinted before slapping his arm. The loud sound made you jolt a little and you looked down at the muscle, something fluttering inside you. Your cheeks warmed up instantly. Hyunjin smirked, his other hand cupping your jaw gently as he made you look at him.

"You didn't break your promise, doll. You still love me." he smiled.

"I do." you confessed quietly and his eyes sparkled a little as he leaned in closer. His eyes fluttered, his cheeks became rosy and his warm breath caressed your lips. You jolted away suddenly, afraid and you had no idea why.

"I'm sorry!" you said quickly, placing your palm over your heart. Hyunjin looked a little confused, his fingers twitching as his hands longed to comfort you in any way they could.

"I got nervous." you said and Hyunjin laughed.

"Don't laugh at me!" you whined with a pout, kicking your feet a little and that made him laugh even harder. "Stop it." you crossed your arms over your chest with a little huff escaping your lips.

"You're just so cute, bunny." how many times has he told you that and it still made your heart flutter. "It's okay. I waited for you for six years, I can wait a little more."

"I just didn't expect things to go like this." you swallowed and Hyunjin scooted closer to you, tentatively touching your fingertips with his. That was enough for you to feel the electricity running through your body.

"I understand. We'll fall back into us in no time."

"You think so?" you asked, inching closer to him, your fingers now playing with his.

"I know so." he smiled confidently. "Just have to ask one question."

"Anything." you nodded.

"Are you back for good or just the anniversary?"

You looked down and took in a deep breath.

"Please don't tell this to my grandparents yet. But I am back for good. I quit my job and sold my apartment, I didn't tell them anything because I am just waiting for the right moment." your voice trembled.

"Didn't something happen?" Hyunjin asked, leaning down to look at your face.

"Just... People were disgusting. The job was depressing. The apartment was cold. The city was lonely. And maybe a part of me hoped you'd be here waiting for me no matter how selfish that is. Because, I don't think I could ever stop loving you, Jinnie. Even if someone wiped away my entire memory I would still have you engraved inside my heart."

"Bunny." Hyunjin cupped your cheeks. "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone anything. I'm sad you went through all of that but it brought you back here, didn't it?"

You nodded.

"And I am glad it did." he leaned in again.

"Ack! The bee!" you squealed as the little creature came back to buzzing around you.

"Silly." Hyunjin chuckled under his breath, 'shielding' you from the scary bee.

You felt as if a stone has been lifted off of your heart as the two of you continued catching up and reminiscing of the good old days. Hours passed by so quickly that you almost didn't realize it was lunch time.

"Nana is expecting me at home for lunch. Do you wanna join us?" you asked with a timid smile.

"I'd love to but Chan invited me to his house for lunch today. We'll come to you tomorrow, he is also excited to see you again, you know that you were always like a little sister to him."

"Oh, I'm excited to see him too." you chuckled.

You couldn't believe that everyone has welcomed you with open arms after you left like that and you were still trying to come to terms that you won't be going back to the city ever again.

When Hyunjin said him and Chan would come around to help your grandpa repair the fence out back, you totally forgot about the fact that Hyunjin would be in a sleeveless top, flexing his muscles and wiping away his sweat constantly. Summer was knocking at the door and the sun was high in the sky. You wore the red dress from the first day, the one Hyunjin stared at so intently when you stood outside of his house. When Chan saw you he made a funny squealing noise, running up to you and picking you up as if you were paper doll, spinning you around as you screamed at him to put you down.

"Aww little Y/n is back!" he pinched your cheeks and you smacked his hands away with a pout.

"I'm only three years younger than you, bro." you emphasized and he laughed.

"I'm glad to see you here. I was beginning to think our Hyunjinnie would die alone." he smirked and Hyunjin punched his side with his fist mumbling a 'shut up or else' and you let out a laugh.

"Congrats on getting married, old man." you smirked and Hyunjin was glad you teased Chan back, a snicker escaping his lips.

"Didn't you say a moment ago it was only three years difference?" he smirked back and you exhaled, rolling your eyes playfully.

"Enough chit-chat. Time to work, boys." you chuckled, sitting at the table your granparents put in the backyard. It was placed under a tree that gave a good shade to it, so it wasn't as hot as it would be but for you it felt like you were enveloped by the sun itself.

Hyunjin was working in the sunlight, his soft skin glistening with sweat almost making him look ethereal and unreal. His muscles were flexing constantly as he moved and lifted stuff up, the veins popping out and now visible everywhere on his arms, hands and even his neck. You were feeling very hot and bothered, feeling like you couldn't breathe properly as your legs pressed together. He glanced at you a few times and you saw the little smirk on his face.

He was provoking you on purpose, the little tease.

Two can play this game, you thought and got up, entering the house so you could find a little towel. You took that time to put on more lipgloss and adjust your dress so your cleavage was more visible.

"There." you nodded to yourself with a smirk before walking back outside and straight towards Hyunjin.

"It's hot, isn't it?" your voice sounded sweet, dripping with honey as you hovered over him where he kneeled, working on the fence. He looked up at you, covering his forehead with his hand so the sun doesn't get into his eyes. His mouth went dry instantly, your bare thighs were right in front of his eyes and your chest on display as you leaned over him.

"Hot. Yes." he managed to say.

"Let me help you with that, Jinnie." you smirked, leaning down a little more as you started gently patting at his forehead, wiping the sweat off and he just sat there breathing heavily as you kept going lower, patting his neck now, noticing how he leaned into your touch, how his eyes fluttered and his breath hitched.

"Better?" you moved away suddenly and he snapped from his trance.

"Y-Yeah."

"Thirsty?" you asked, louder so Chan hears it too.

"Yes!" Chan yelled, his back turned to you thankfully.

You smirked as Hyunjin gulped, staring after you as you turned around towards the house to make some lemonade for the boys. Hyunjin couldn't stop staring at you when they took a break, munching on some cookies your nana made and drinking the fresh lemonade. His eyes fixated on your shiny lips and he longed to taste you once again. Chan kept yapping about his wife and farm enthusiastically and you kept nodding and chuckling all the while Hyunjin didn't even hear a word that came out of Chan's mouth.

It was almost sundown when the boys were done and nana invited them to stay over for dinner, ushering them both to first wash their hands thoroughly before touching any food. The atmosphere was warm and homely, a happy feeling swelling inside your chest. You were home, where you were always supposed to be, where you belonged, with Hyunjin.

"I'll be right back." you stood up after dinner, running upstairs to fix your makeup.

Hyunjin waited for a moment before he followed you to your room. You walked out of the bathroom when he appeared on the doorway, leaning there with a fond smile on his face.

"It looks like a time capsule in here." he looked around in wonder, taking a tentative step inside.

"You haven't been up here?" you asked, eyebrows raised as he looked around, taking in all the memories you two had created together.

"No, your grandparents kept it closed. There was no need for me to be here." Hyunjin's eyes lit up when he looked at your bed. "Jinnie! You kept him!" he pointed to your teddy bear, walking in and picking it up.

"Of course I did. I kept everything."

"Even those cute diaries?" Hyunjin smirked. "Dear diary, today Jinnie and I held hands for the first time as boyfriend and girlfriend. Everyone saw us walking to school together-"

"Shut up!" you squealed, ripping the teddy away from him and smacking him with it multiple times as he laughed at your red cheeks.

"What? It was cute." he giggled, slinking away from your attack.

"It's embarrassing. Even more because you still remember what I wrote. Are you sure you haven't been up here?" you teased, putting Jinnie back on the bed and walking to your table.

"I haven't since the last time we were here together." Hyunjin was behind you suddenly, his voice low as his lips brushed against your ear. You gasped, remembering the last night you spent here with him, on top of him as he guided your hips against his slowly, wanting to make it last as long as possible so you never forget how he feels.

"Right." you turned abruptly, the back of your thighs colliding with the table as he hovered over you, so close you could feel the warmth radiating off of his body.

He smelled so good even after working in the sun almost all day and his skin looked like it needed to be touched, kissed, bitten. A zap of electricity ran through your body as Hyunjin leaned in even closer, his breath mingling with yours. Your eyes fluttered shut and then-

"Come to the lake with me tomorrow afternoon." his lips almost brushed against yours before he leaned away, leaving you frustrated.

"What?" you were lost momentarily.

"The lake. Let's meet there." he said and straightened up.

"Sure." you said and he smirked devilishly.

Just what was he planning now?

"Well, I gotta go home make sure Rina has her dinner and walk. See you tomorrow, doll."

With that, he left your room, his scent lingering all around you, making you want to roll in it and have him close. You couldn't wait for tomorrow.

The lake wasn't too far away from your house either, only a 15 minute walk full of chatter and laughter. Your bare arm brushed against Hyunjin's a few times, making you feel like your skin burned whenever it touched his. It almost felt as if everything was going back to normal, like it was before but at the same time you couldn't ignore the things that had changed about Hyunjin.

It was clear; he was no longer a boy, he was a man.

The way he carried himself and the way he spoke was more confident and masculine than that shy awkward Jinnie that tripped over his feet and his words, his cheeks constantly red in your presence. But the way he looked at you full of adoration, that had never changed.

"What made you cut your hair?" you asked as the two of you approached the lake. Hyunjin's hand instanly ran over his head as he laughed.

"It's kinda hard to work with all that hair flying everywhere. It was a nuisance, really. And... You seemed to like it a lot, you always played with it, braided it... But when you left, I figured there was no point in keeping it so I shaved it off."

"Oh." you sighed.

"You don't like it?" he asked cutely, the two of you stopping near the lake.

"No, no, I do. It looks very manly." you said, your cheeks burning up. You didn't say how you thought it accentuated all his beautiful, sharp features, his jawline and his neck that was so enticing to you.

"It does, hm?" he smirked, leaning in closer.

"Yeah." you leaned back a little, your stomach doing flips.

Hyunjin snickered and leaned away with a smirk.

"I have a dare for you." he said and you raised your eyebrow at him.

Hyunjin looked around before smirking at you again, getting into your personal space.

"I dare you to swim naked with me." he said and you almost stopped functioning.

"What? Are you crazy?" you punched his arm but it was more just a tap to him as he didn't even budge, chuckling at you as he crossed his arms over his chest. God, his arms.

"It's not like I haven't seen it all anyways." he said and you gasped.

"Oh my god." you looked away from him, your heart beating hard. "Okay, but only if we leave our underwear on."

"Alright, deal." he smirked and took his shirt off, tossing it aside.

You shrieked, turning away from him because you weren't sure if your heart could take it. Hyunjin laughed, getting rid of his pants without a care in the world.

"Don't get shy, you saw it all." he said and you took a deep breath in before looking back at him.

It's all yours, Hyunjin thought but bit his tongue.

Your eyes went wide and your lips parted in a gasp. Hyunjin was always lean and athletic, but now he was even more chiseled, his thighs were more muscular too, all the little tattoos he had hidden were now visible to you. And the worse thing was that you could see the bulge in his boxers so you averted your eyes, feeling like you might've stopped breathing for a second or two.

"Your turn." he nodded at you with a knowing smirk and you scrambled to take off your dress, feeling embarrassed for some reason. You didn't wear any flashy underwear, just regular black panties and a matching bra that only had a few lacy flowers at the top. It was enough to make Hyunjin drool.

"Beautiful." he muttered quietly, it was your body that he knew very well, the one he mapped out with caresses and kisses, your skin that he marked with his teeth, you who he held in his arms countless times.

"What did you say?" you didn't hear him, shivering a little despite the sun still being up.

"Nothing." he smiled. "Let's get in the water."

You nodded and followed him as he got into the water first, hissing at the coldness before he reached his hands towards you to help you get in.

"Is it very cold?" you asked and he chuckled.

"We swam here multiple times, you know how cold the water is. Just get in, we'll warm up." he encouraged you.

"Fine." you rolled your eyes in fake annoyance as you grabbed onto his hands, warmth filling you up from the simple touch, even though the water was almost freezing cold.

"Motherfucker!" you hissed when it touched your stomach and Hyunjin laughed, dipping in and splashing you a little.

"Don't." you warned but it was to no avail, Hyunjin had that familiar mischievous look on his face, eyes sparkly and dimples showing as he lifted his hands and splashed you harder.

"Hyune!" you shrieked and returned the favor, splashing him back.

"Ah!" he screamed out, followed by a series of giggles as he shook his head and rubbed his hands over his face. "I'll get you for that." he added, swimming towards you.

Another squeal left your lips as you dipped in and started swimming away, Hyunjin's laughter ringing behind you. How you missed the sound of that. Just as you thought you got away from him, you felt his hands grabbing at your waist as he pulled you closer to him, the water splashing loudly as you flailed your arms and screamed, giggling. His strong arms wrapped around your middle and he pulled you flush against his body, skin against skin and you melted, grabbing onto his hands and resting your palms over them.

"I missed you like crazy." his lips brushed against the side of your neck. "You have no idea just how much." they pressed gently into your skin.

"I missed you too." your voice came out breathy as Hyunjin kissed the droplets of water rolling down your neck.

"Yeah? Show me how much." he turned you around so quickly that you gasped and grabbed onto his shoulders.

You wanted to say something, anything but you were already too far gone so you wrapped your arms around his shoulders as he wrapped his around your waist and pulled you into him. It was as if every atom of your being craved to be close to him, starved for years and now finally feeding the hunger and need you had for Hyunjin.

No matter how many time Hyunjin held you, it always made your stomach flip and it was no different now. You felt how hard his heart was beating against his chest and his eyes darkened just a little as he observed you. Your hand touched the back of his head, fingertips pressing against the soft, fuzzy buzzcut. His eyes fluttered and he leaned in, the tip of his nose brushing yours gently before his lips touched yours.

Everything came back. The first time you saw Hyunjin shyly smiling at you when you were five, the times you did your homework together after class only to end up playing instead of learning, the times you walked through the entire village, like it was all yours, the park, the lake, the street, the tree. The first kiss you shared that was timid and awkward but still sweet because it was with him, the times he held you close, loving you, deep inside you and wrapped around you, all the time he was there for you, holding your hand, wiping your tears away, making plans of the future he wanted to share with you. It was your Jinnie.

The only man you ever loved.

"Bunny, what's wrong?" you didn't even realize you were crying and Hyunjin cupped your face gently with his cold hands.

"I love you." you said, lifting the last of the weight. Hyunjin's body trembled against you.

"I love you." he whispered on your lips, kissing you harder as you pressed as close as you could to each other.

"You really don't resent me for leaving?" you asked when you parted for air.

"No, bunny, I know you just wanted to finish your studies, try your hand at a career like that. I mean, you could've done all that with me by your side even if it was a long distance relationship. You know I would support you. But, I get it. You thought you'd never come back here and that I would never leave."

"Hyunjin, I'm sorry." you cried again. "I don't deserve you."

"Shh, yes you do. Yes you do, bunny. You know me better than anyone, you were there for me always whenever I was going through a hard time."

"I wasn't there for the last six years."

"You're here now." Hyunjin kissed you again in an attempt to soothe you and distract you and it was working as you melted against his lips, soon forgetting about everything that was bothering you as the world disappeared like it always did with him.

Hyunjin's tongue collided with yours, the familiar taste of him waking up all of your senses as he gripped you harder and kissed you like his entire life depended on it.

"Bunny." he smiled, pressing his forehead against yours.

"Jinnie." you whispered and he pecked your lips once more before swimming backwards with a smirk.

"Catch me!" Hyunjin teased, swimming faster and you let out a noise of protest, knowing you weren't gonna be able to. "Catch me or you lose your dress!"

"What?!" you shrieked as he laughed, swimming towards the shore and quickly grabbing onto the stones.

"Hyunjin, don't you dare!" you yelled when he got out of the water, almost slipping as he laughed and ran to grab all your clothes.

You swam quicker, almost getting to the shore as he snickered and bolted away with your dress and his clothes.

"Hyunjin!" you yelled, struggling to get out of the water as the sound of his laughter drifted further away.

"Bastard." you muttered when you managed to climb out of the water, shivering as the sun was about to go down. There was no way he left you here without anything, especially when the sky was darkening quickly.

"Hyunjin, this isn't funny!" you yelled, taking a few steps forward, realizing he even grabbed your sandals. You cursed under your breath, looking around when suddenly-

"Boo!" Hyunjin sneaked behind you, scaring you out of your wits.

"You bastard!" you whined and he just laughed, reaching your dress towards you. And he was already dressed, the tease.

You were about to snatch it when he lifted his arm, holding it out of your reach. Maybe some things haven't changed like the way Hyunjin would always test your patience, claiming you were so adorable when you were annoyed.

"Ugh!" you jumped up to grab it but he moved it, giggling as he looked down at you.

"Hyunjin, give me my dress." you slapped his chest as he kept laughing and moving the dress away.

"I think you look prettier like this." he looked down at your chest and you gasped, covering yourself up.

"I'm cold, Hyunjin." you said and he shook his head.

"Here." he put the dress in front of your face and you eyed him for a moment before finally grabbing it and putting it on. He gave you your shoes and you put them on quickly as the sun almost set. Your bodies were still wet and putting the clothes over them made it worse.

"I'm really cold." you said and Hyunjin pulled you into his side as he led you back towards your house.

"You should come see how I repaired and decorated the place. Meet Rina too." Hyunjin smiled, rubbing your arm in an attempt to warm you up at least a little.

"Some other day, what I need right now is a warm bath." you sighed.

"I have a bath." Hyunjin smirked.

"I'm sure you do." you lifted one eyebrow at him as he kept chuckling.

As you made your way to your house, you felt so giddy, almost as if no distance ever existed between Hyunjin and you.

"I'll see you tomorrow at the anniversary dinner." you smiled as you arrived in front of the gate.

"Mhm." he smirked, holding your hands and staring into your eyes. You stood on your tippy-toes, pouting at him and he chuckled, leaning down as he grabbed your face gently and kissed you slowly like he was savoring the moment. Your arms wrapped around his waist and you pulled him in, your bodies heating up against one another.

"Good night, Jinnie." you whispered, pecking him again.

"Night, bunny. Dream about me." Hyunjin smirked, kissing the corner of your lips.

There was no way you were even sleeping tonight.

"Good morning!" you practically glided into the kitchen, seeing both your grandparents there.

"Look at you, I'm guessing it went well with Hyunjin, huh?" nana smiled.

"Oh, it did." you said and your grandparents just exchanged knowing looks but decides not to pry. You were walking on cloud 9 all day and you couldn't wait to see Hyunjin again.

You took extra time to do your hair and makeup and wear a nice black dress with heels for tonight, hoping to make Hyunjin's knees buckle just as he made you feel weak. Half of the village was invited to the anniversary dinner and you were so estatic to see all the people you haven't seen for years again and catch up with them. You were pulled left and right, everyone was equally as excited to talk to you, your old neighbors and friends were glad to have you back. Hyunjin arrived a little later and your heart almost leaped out of your chest when he walked in.

"Hey there, little bunny." he smirked, leaning in closer to you as his lips brushed against your cheek.

"Hey, Jinnie." you let out a giggle as your body heated up from the simplest touch.

"You look stunning." he gently grabbed your hand and gave you the elevator eyes.

"You look handsome." you returned the compliment and he squeezed your hand.

"Yeah?" he teased and you rolled your eyes playfully, pushing him away a little.

The dinner went smoothly, everyone was talking and having fun, the food was delicious as always which is something you missed in the city, and after the biggest toast to your grandparents' love and devotion, came more toasts and the glasses were never empty. You were a lightweight so you didn't drink too much, two and a half glasses were enough for you to feel the pleasant warm buzz inside your body. Hyunjin on the other hand, kept drinking with Chan and some of his other friends, his laughter echoing in the room and his face completely red. How much did he have?, you wondered since you knew he could drink a lot more than you before becoming like this.

After dinner, some of the neighbors left home, leaving only a few of you sitting together in the patio out back. Hyunjin slid next to you on the swinging bench with a dumb smile on his face, his dimples visible and his eyes almost disappearing.

"Hey there pretty girl." he giggled, leaning his cheek on your shoulder and pulling you close to him quickly, startling you a little from the suddenness of the movement.

"Jinnie, you're drunk." you let out a laugh as he whined and nuzzled his face into your neck.

"Drunk or not, you're always pretty to me." he smiled against your skin, pressing his lips into your neck and kissing you gently.

"My grandparents are there at the table." you chuckled, trying to pry him off of you as your cheeks burned.

"Did you tell them you're staying here with me forever?" Hyunjin leaned back a little and looked up at you with a cute, hopeful expression on his face. Your heart skipped a beat as you wrapped your arms around him and he leaned against your chest.

"I'll tell them soon." you whispered and he rubbed his cheek against you.

"Mm." he sighed, closing his eyes and getting even closer to you, draping his leg over you and trapping you there with him.

"Hyunjin?" you chuckled after a few moments, caressing the back of his head but there was no answer. "Are you sleeping?" you looked down and sure enough, your Jinnie was fast asleep on you, his face smushed against your breast.

"Poor soul." Lino, one of your high school friends came up to you together with Chan.

"I think he is right where he wants to be." Chan smirked and you really wanted to kick his shin but Hyunjin's leg was blocking your movement.

"Please help me take him upstairs, I don't want him to go home like this." you asked and even though they wanted to tease the both of you, they decided to help. Hyunjin blinked confusedly when Chan shook him lightly.

"Hyunjinnie. We have to go inside." he told him.

"Noooo!" Hyunjin wailed dramatically and gripped you tighter.

"You can sleep upstairs in my bed." you said and immediately he lit up.

"I can?" Hyunjin smiled cutely and you nodded.

He started babbling about how happy he was as Lino and Chan lifted him and helped him get upstairs before they bid you good night and left with teasing smirks on their faces. Hyunjin sobered up enough to brush his teeth before he started throwing his clothes off like they were the biggest nuisance in the world. You just finished getting ready for bed, wearing your favorite nightgown when you walked back into your room and saw Hyunjin almost naked, in the process of taking his pants off. He hopped on one leg cursing and looking like a major klutz as he almost fell down while you observed him and giggled.

"Fuck this!" he whined, throwing himself on your bed and letting out an exhale.

"Need some help?" you walked closer to the bed and Hyunjin smirked at you.

"Please." he nodded.

You managed to slide his pants off, putting them aside before Hyunjin wrapped his legs around you and pulled you towards him, making you lose balance and fall on top of him.

"Jinnie!" you gasped and he chuckled, brushing your hair behind your ears.

"Being in this room with you is like you never left." he whispered and before you could even answer, he flipped you over so now your body was caged under his. Your breath got caught in your throat as you blinked up at him. "This bed, where I made you mine for the first time. Brings back so many memories." he added with a smirk, his plush lips on yours instanly. You let out a little sound of protest because you definitely did not want your first time after being back to the village to be when you're both tipsy.

"Wait, wait." you stopped him, your hands planted on his chest and you were trying to ignore how his muscles felt under your palms.

"What's wrong, bunny?" Hyunjin asked, lips ghosting over your jaw.

"I- I don't wanna do it like this, I want us both to be completely present and sober. I think we should go to sleep now." you said and Hyunjin smirked once again, his big hands on your waist, caressing you as he kissed your cheeks.

"Sleep, hm?" he teased, his hands ghosting over your body but not touching you exactly how you wanted him. Goosebumps rose on your skin as your eyes fluttered and you gripped onto his arms. "As you wish, doll." Hyunjin smirked and rolled off of you, getting comfy on your small bed. You forgot just how small it was, whenever he would secretly sleep over you were both cramped up in the bed and it usually ended with you lying on top of his body as he held you.

Hyunjin grabbed your teddy and wrapped his arms around it as he smirked at you sleepily.

"Give Jinnie to me." you demanded and he chuckled.

"No." Hyunjin shook his head. "You come here to us." he beckoned you with his arm and you gulped, hesitating for a moment and just looking at Hyunjin sprawled on your bed in nothing but his boxers. It was truly a sight for sore eyes and you couldn't get over the fact that he has gotten even hotter than he was six years ago. You let out a sigh and laid down in his arms, your head on his chest and your ear pressed against his heart that was beating erratically.

"Good night, Jinnie." you whispered after you managed to relax and melt into him, telling yourself that no matter how much time has passed and what he looked like now, he was still your Hyunjin.

You stirred in your bed, the weight and warmth of Hyunjin's body was gone and for a second you thought last night was just a dream but when you opened your eyes and looked to your right, you saw a small makeshift flower bouquet placed in Jinnie's paw and a note next to it. A smile spread on your face as you rolled over on your tummy and grabbed the note.

'Good morning, beautiful. Come to my house around lunch time.'

There was little hearts drawn at the end and Hyunjin's name scribbled down. You squealed in happiness, hugging Jinnie and pressing your face into the teddy, inhaling Hyunjin's scent that stayed everywhere on your bed and made you feel crazy.

You had an extra pep in your step when you came downstairs, trying to find your grandparents so you could tell them you're planning on staying. After searching around the kitchen and living room, you finally spotted them sitting in the backyard, talking and laughing as they enjoyed a warm cup of coffee. You smiled, observing them for a moment and remembering all the times you thought about Hyunjin and you spending the rest of your life together like them and it made your heart flutter.

"Good morning." you walked over to them and they greeted you with a smile.

"Sit with us, honey." nana said, pouring you a cup of coffee and giving you some cookies.

"Slept well?" she teased you and your face started burning immediately.

"Yes." you chuckled. "Um. I have to tell you both something."

"What is it?" grandpa asked and you took a deep breath in, explaining to them how unhappy you actually were in the city, how hard it was for you and how alone you felt. You told them about the multiple times you wanted to drop everything and come back to the village but something always stopped you from throwing away everything you worked so hard for, and then you explained how you quit your job after having to compete for a higher position but the girl you were competing with was bullying you and slept with your boss, which made her get the promotion you broke your back over just with your work. That was your last straw and you just couldn't stay there anymore.

By the time you finished explaining all of it both you and your nana were crying.

"I'm sorry I didn't say anything before and made you think I was just visiting but I had no idea if you'd be willing to let me come back here for good." you sobbed.

"What are you talking about Y/n? Of course you can always come back here, this is your home. And we both missed you so much, right?" nana looked at your grandpa and he nodded in agreement. "That's right, we are so happy to have you here." he added and you felt the last stone lifting from your heart, relief washing over you that now everything has been clarified. You were back home and you were never leaving again.

Around lunch time, you were ready and buzzing, finally you were going to Hyunjin's house. As you approached it, Rina ran towards the fence, barking at you which caught Hyunjin's attention and he came out of the house, wearing an apron and a tanktop, making your mind dizzy. You were sure he was doing this on purpose to mess with you cause he knew very well how much power he had over you.

"Easy girl." he cooed at the dog, coming closer to the two of you and petting her black fur as she looked at him and sat, panting happily upon getting caressed. "This is Y/n, she's not dangerous." he stated as you walked into the yard and approached Rina cautiously.

"Well, maybe for my heart but that's a different thing." Hyunjin smirked and your cheeks reddened as you looked away from his mischievous smile. Rina barked at you but her tail was wagging as she approached you and started sniffing you before jumping on you and almost pushing you down.

"Oh my god!" you chuckled, petting the dog as she hopped around you happily, barking and running from you to Hyunjin and then back to you.

"She loves you." Hyunjin smiled as he observed the two of you.

"She's just the sweetest." you said.

"And very protective over me." Hyunjin smirked and you rolled your eyes playfully at him. "Let me show you around." he added and you nodded, Rina following behind the two of you. It was still the same house and garden but you could see how much work Hyunjin put in it. The flower garden was more than beautiful, the rest of the garden was full of different vegetables Hyunjin was growing and he even had his own lemon tree. You could see the entire house has been repainted, the windows changed and even the stable with horses was repaired. "How do you maintain all of this alone?" you wondered as Hyunjin took you through the stables where he had three horses and out towards the chicken coop.

"I work all day." Hyunjin shrugged. "Besides, Chan and Lino help me sometimes. And some of our other neighbors too. I mean I typically wake up around 5am and go to bed around 10pm, sometimes 11." he explained and you admired his work ethic and his persistence.

"That's amazing. You're so hardworking and resilient." you praised him and his cheeks got rosy. You knew how Hyunjin always enjoyed getting compliments, especially when he did something right and especially when they came from you.

"It's definitely hard sometimes and I wish I had someone here with whom I can split the work up with." he gave you a look and it was your turn to become red.

"Thank you for the flowers." you said as you neared the chickens.

"That was the least I could give you. Sorry for getting drunk at your grandparents' anniversary dinner." he chuckled and you shook your head.

"You're fine, don't worry." you waved your hand.

While you were talking, a curious chicken came closer and gave you a startle, making you jump a little and grab onto Hyunjin's arm as you shrieked. Hyunjin burst out into laughter and you frowned at him.

"It's not funny!"

"It so is. That's literally just a chicken, Y/n." Hyunjin kept chuckling.

"A chicken that is out to get me!" you shrieked again as the said chicken kept walking towards you menacingly. "Ah!" you screamed as the chicken sped up towards you and you jumped back, scaring half of the other chickens and making Rina bark. One wrong move and you slipped, falling down into the muddy soil, the pretty white dress you put on now completely ruined. Rina ran to you and barked, wagging her tail as the chicken gave up and went on her merry way like this was her plan the entire time. Hyunjin stared at you in shock before he started laughing so hard that his face became red and he doubled over, gripping his stomach. You really wanted the earth to open up this time and pull you down so far so you never embarrass yourself in front of Hyunjin again.

"Stop laughing at me." you pouted, your eyes welling up with tears as you were planted on your knees and palms.

"I'm sorry, but that was just too funny." Hyunjin came closer to you and you looked up at him, trying to look as mad as you could but the tears in your eyes softened Hyunjin up. "Come here." he cooed at you, grabbing your arms gently and helping you lift up.

"My dress is ruined." you couldn't help the tears that started sliding down your cheeks.

"Don't cry bunny, you can shower here and I'll give you something to wear, hm?" Hyunjin touched your cheek, tenderly wiping your tears away with his thumb. You hiccuped and nodded and he chuckled at your cuteness, grabbing your face and leaning in to peck your lips.

He led you into the house and despite feeling embarrassed and sad that your pretty dress was ruined, you still felt shocked when you walked in. The house that was like your second home here looked completely different than it did while you were growing up here. Your wide eyes wondered everywhere, not only was it repaired and repainted, the furniture was new and rearranged differently and there was art everywhere that you presumed was probably Hyunjin's. Everything was so neat and pretty, his house seemed so warm and cozy, a place you could see yourself spending time in with him.

"What do you think?" Hyunjin chewed on his lip, looking at you cutely with wide sparkly eyes.

"Hyune, it's beautiful! I love what you did with it. Somehow, it seems more spacious and like there's more light coming in." you said and he giggled.

"Yes, I wanted to make use of natural light as much as I could." he led you upstairs to his bathroom. "Here, you can shower and I'll make some lunch for us." he added and you nodded as you kept marvelling at everything he did with the space. Hyunjin found a shirt that was oversized even on him so it would definitely be like a dress for you.

"Here." he gave you the shirt and smirked. "Need help?" he added as he motioned towards the shower.

"I think I can handle it." you giggled and Hyunjin gave you a kiss before leaving to the kitchen. You took in the state of yourself in the mirror, cursing quietly when you saw just how much mud you were covered up in. You slowly peeled off the dress and then your underwear, before stepping into the shower. You managed to wash off the mud pretty quickly, replaying the entire scene in your head and feeling more and more embarrassed the more you thought of it.

After drying off and putting your underwear back on, you grabbed Hyunjin's shirt and your gut stirred at the smell of him. You put it on, the fabric soft against your smooth skin and you melted into it, hugging yourself with a smile on your face. This was not the first time you wore his clothes and you missed the feeling of it, your mind wandering back to the nights you spent in his embrace, stealing his shirt after which would make him even more crazy for you.

You finally went downstairs, feeling a little shy as you pulled the shirt down even though Hyunjin had already seen everything before and even saw you in your underwear at the lake. When you walked into the kitchen, he was whistling to the music playing in the background while stirring at the stove. He looked up at you and his lips parted, eyes darkening instantly. "Bunny..." he let out a breath and walked closer to you. Your heart started pounding in your ears as he wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you into his body, his lips on yours instantly. You kissed back, gripping at him before you felt something nudging your leg. The two of you parted and saw Rina, wagging her tail happily and pushing her head into your body.

"She wants attention." you started petting her immediately. "Reminds me of someone." you teased and Hyunjin gasped, dramatically placing his hand on his chest.

"Comparing me to a dog, huh?" he shook his head with a smile as you shrugged. "You look so good in my shirt, doll." Hyunjin bit on his lip and your face burned. You thanked him sheepishly, making him chuckle before he went back to cooking and you joined him, helping him out and feeling so domestic, and like you were right where you belonged.

The lunch was delicious and the mud mishap was soon forgotten as Hyunjin gave you a full tour of the house, ending in his room where he showed you his favorite paintings and sketchbooks that were unsurprisingly full of you. You were flipping through one of them when he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into his body, his lips on your neck. You gasped, your hands shaking and making you drop the sketchbook on the floor as Hyunjin gently kissed your skin. "Jinnie..." you exhaled when his tongue darted out to lick at you before he sunk his teeth in. You tilted your head, completely melting against him as your entire body started burning up.

"I craved you so much." Hyunjin nipped at your shoulder and you squeezed his hands.

"Me too." you whispered before turning in his arms and grabbing his face as you smashed your lips against his. Nothing mattered but him in that moment, the two of you had a hunger that could only be satiated with each other. Your kiss was harsh and sloppy, your teeth clashing and hands grabbing everywhere but neither of you cared.

You felt the fire inside you burning up and spreading all the way to the tips of your fingers that grazed Hyunjin's skin. You needed him more than ever and being with him here made you realize that you had no idea how you managed to live all these years without him.

"Bunny, I can't... I want to worship you and take my time with you so badly, I want to kiss every inch of your skin and make love to you but I can't... I need to have you right now." he panted hard as he grabbed at your hips, leading you to the bed.

"Take me Hyunjin, please. I need you so much." you gripped his arms and Hyunjin let out a low growl before pushing you down onto the bed. It was as if he had no idea what to do first, staring at you sprawled under him for a moment before he put his hands on your thighs, squeezing the flesh.

Your legs parted, the shirt riding up and revealing the red lace panties you wore. "Damn doll, are you trying to kill me?"

"Maybe." you giggled and Hyunjin smirked at you before spreading your legs more and lowering his middle on top of yours. You gasped a little when you felt his length pressing and rubbing against you. He leaned in closer to your face, his arms caging you in.

"Can you feel what you do to me, bunny?" he moaned, rolling his hips against yours. You knew he wanted to tease you but his mind was far too gone for that. Hyunjin has waited for years for you to come back and to be in his arms, for him to taste you, feel you, kiss you, be inside you.

"Hyune... Please..." you were no better, your entire body was yearning for him, every fiber of your being screamed his name. Hyunjin couldn't wait, he leaned back and took off his shirt so you did the same, revealing that you didn't wear a bra.

"Naughty bunny." Hyunjin smirked, giving you a look and you grabbed his wrists gently, placing his palms on your chest. Hyunjin's eyes fluttered as he squeezed, thumbs swiping on your sensitive nipples. He cursed under his breath as he kept massaging your breasts and rubbing against you. You lifted your hips up to meet his, you needed to feel more of him. Your fingers hooked in his pants and you tugged so he lifted up a little to take them off. Hyunjin leaned down to kiss you, his tongue dominating yours as he slid your panties off, then his boxers before placing his hands on your thighs again and caressing them. His lips traveled down your neck to your collarbone then to your breasts, kissing and nipping at the flesh before he wrapped them against your nipple, sucking harshly as his fingertips pressed on your clit. A loud moan slipped your lips as you gripped his shoulders.

"Hyunjin." you moaned desperately, your body arching into him and he shushed you, his fingers sliding through your wet folds, separating them before he slowly pushed his finger in. It was a welcomed intrusion after not being with anyone for years, you haven't even dated after going to the city, you still felt like you belonged to Hyunjin and you thought about him every day so even the thought of letting someone else touch you was too much for you.

Hyunjin slowly pumped his finger inside you, feeling how wet you were getting before adding another finger, scissoring you open for him. He noticed you seemed deep in thought so he slowed down and leaned in to look at you.

"Is something wrong, doll?" he asked and you snapped out of your thoughts.

"Have you been with anyone since I left?" you asked in a small voice, blinking at him and Hyunjin let out a chuckle.

"No, I waited for you." he whispered, kissing you gently and you clenched around him. "You like that, bunny? Like that I'm only yours?" he bit on your lip and looked at you teasingly as he continued fingering you.

"Yes, yes Hyunjin!" you moaned when he hit that special spot inside you and his eyes darkened.

"What about you, doll? Did you let someone else touch what's only mine, hm?" he asked, fucking you faster.

"N-no. Only you, Hyunjin. I'm only yours." you moaned and he growled lowly again, getting more worked up as he wrapped his hand around his length and pumped it a few times.

"You never stopped being mine, little bunny. And I never stopped being yours." he moaned, pulling his fingers out before licking at them. Your heart was beating hard at the sight and the words that he said. It was true, you were his from the moment you first saw him until the end of time.

"Missed your taste." he moaned before grabbing his cock and pressing it against your clit. "I don't have any condoms." he added and you moaned as he ran his hard tip on your folds.

"T-that was never a problem with us." you bit on your lip and Hyunjin moaned as he started slowly pushing inside you, filling you up perfectly and stretching you out just for him. You whimpered, your legs opening more as you welcomed him inside you, where he belonged. Hyunjin took a moment to gather himself when he bottomed out, his eyes fluttering shut as you squeezed around him.

"God, bunny. I missed this pussy so much." you moaned at the dirty way he spoke, clenching even harder around him. "I won't last long."

You whimpered as he started moving, his muscles contracting with each movement as his arms caged you. You couldn't stop admiring him on top of you; the buzzcut worked so well with the new, more manly look, his eyebrows were furrowed, his eyes dark as he bit on his lip, his cheeks flushed and a thin sheen of sweat forming on his skin, the veins portruding. He looked so beautiful like that, all lost in you as he moaned quietly. Your hands came up to touch the back of his neck and his shoulders, so smooth and firm and Hyunjin gripped your hips.

"Fuck, I can't!" he whined loudly before he started snapping his hips into you. Both of you were a moaning, desperate mess, missing each other for so long. Hyunjin's hands had a bruising grip on your hips, your nails dug into his flesh as you wrapped your legs around him and pressed your heels into his ass, making him go deeper. He moaned loudly, fucking you harder, his cock splitting you apart deliciously.

"I'm g-gonna cum!" he whined almost as if he was disappointed in himself for finishing so quickly but you couldn't really blame him because you were on the verge yourself.

"Cum inside me, Jinnie!" you moaned and his eyes went wide for a moment before he gripped you harder.

"Are you sure?" he panted and you nodded quickly, your nails leaving red angry marks on his skin.

"Yes please Hyune, I need to feel you." you moaned and he whimpered, fucking you harder and chasing his high and your legs started trembling around him. He knew you were close by your moans and the way your body reacted, the way your pussy clenched around him so hard like you wanted him inside you forever.

"Let go for me, doll." he encouraged you and you moaned, the coil snapping as you came around him, making him even more wet.

Hyunjin cursed and moaned loudly, his hips stuttering before he exploded, filling you up with his warm cum and riding his high as you held onto him. He plopped down on top of you as both of you tried to catch your breath.

"Y/n. My bunny, my love." Hyunjin smiled, kissing you gently as you held each other.

"Jinnie. I love you so much." you whispered against his lips and felt him twitch inside you.

"I love you more than anything, doll." he said before kissing you again, his tongue slowly massaging yours and making your body burn all over again. His hands were on your breasts, massaging and squeezing, gently pinching and pulling on your nipples as he kept stealing your breath. You felt him slowly becoming harder inside you and you clenched, your pussy sore but welcoming. You touched his back and caressed his head and neck, making him whimper against you. It didn't take long for him to become fully hard again.

"I'm gonna make love to you." he whispered, kissing your lips again then grabbing your hand and kissing it before pinning it down on the bed, next to your head, his other hand on your waist.

"Hyunjin." you moaned out his name as he started to slowly move inside you, the drag of his cock against your walls was driving you crazy. Your eyes fluttered shut and you let yourself melt into the moment, the space filling up with sounds of your bodies and your moans as you both got lost in loving each other. Your lips brushed against his jaw and neck, kissing him and gently licking at his skin, the droplets of sweat that were sliding down his neck. He threw his head back when you sunk your teeth into his skin, marking him as yours. Hyunjin's hips stuttered and he fucked you a little harder and deeper but still slowly.

Your eyes fluttered open and met with his, full of love and lust.

"I wanna be like this with you forever." he moaned and you squeezed him with your legs, your nails digging into his shoulders again.

"Me too, Hyune, I wanna be with you forever." you breathed out.

He sped up a little, his hands roaming all over your body, his sweat dripping down onto your skin, making everything hot and wet.

"Ah!" you whimpered when he hit the spot. "You feel perfect inside me."

Hyunjin groaned at the praise, his hips snapping into yours harder as his fingers found your sensitive clit, moving in circles and trying to bring you to your high. His lips were on your skin again, kissing, licking and nipping before he grabbed your breast with his free hand and wrapped his lips around your nipple, sucking hard and making your body tremble against him. The fact that you were even more wet and slippery than before because he had already came inside you drove you insane and you snapped, cumming around him and squeezing him again. Hyunjin's eyes rolled back and all he could do was moan your name as he sped up, your hips and pussy burning at the overstimulation and movement before he released inside you, filling you up again.

"Fuck." this time he pulled out of you, watching as his cum oozed out of your pussy. "Wow." he gasped a little, reaching out to touch your folds and you whimpered.

"Are you- are you on the pill?" Hyunjin asked as he retracted his hand and you started laughing when you realized he hadn't even asked before and that you didn't even think about it.

"No, I wasn't sleeping with anyone so I didn't need them." you said and Hyunjin's face went red.

"It's okay." you beckoned him closer with your hand and he crawled to you instanly, laying on top of you and propping himself up with his elbows as he looked at you softly, caressing your head and playing with your hair. "We talked about having kids..."

Hyunjin let out a chuckle before pecking your lips.

"We did but now that you're back I wanted to enjoy you just a little more. Have you all to myself, my little bunny. And I know it might be cliche but I wanted us to get married first." he said and your heart fluttered.

"You never stopped thinking about that?" you asked, caressing his back.

"I couldn't even if I wanted to. Did you?"

"I always thought that if I hadn't left we would've already been married and had at least one baby." you confessed and Hyunjin's body trembled as he pressed himself harder against you.

"There's nothing more I want than to have everything with you, my love." he said, kissing you gently and lovingly.

"Me too." you gasped for air between kisses.

"Are you ready for round three then?" he smirked and you felt his length twitching against your thigh.

"Oh wow." you laughed and Hyunjin chuckled.

"What can I say, I missed you." he kissed your jaw again. "I just wanna be inside you."

"Please Hyunjin." you whimpered, feeling aroused for him easily.

"Don't worry bunny, I got you. All mine tonight." he moaned, pushing into your sore pussy but it felt so good to you. "Gotta make sure it sticks." Hyunjin added with a smirk and you gasped, your eyes rolling back as he filled you up.

You spent almost the entire night in each other's embrace, making love or just cuddling and talking, but both of you felt so insatiable that you just couldn't stop until early morning hours.

"This is about the time I usually wake up." Hyunjin said as he blinked sleepily, rubbing his cheek against your breast as you held him in your arms. You looked out at the dark sky, giggling a little.

"We should get some sleep." you said and Hyunjin whined, squeezing your other breast with his hand.

"I can't... I need to feed the horses... And take Rina out for a walk and..." his voice got more and more quiet before you realized he was fast asleep. A smile spread on your lips as you relaxed and let yourself fall asleep too.

You woke up a few hours later, the sun blazing through the curtains and you groaned, covering your face. Your entire body was sore, last night you had used some muscles that were dormant for years, but the most sore place was between your legs. When you remembered everything you did with Hyunjin last night and how many times he had moaned into your ear about fucking a baby into you, your mind went hazy and you felt that wave of hotness rise inside you.

You noticed you were alone in the bed, tangled in his sheets and the smell of him and you rolled over to his side after noticing another little bouquet of flowers. You smiled to yourself and willed yourself to get up and take a shower even though your legs were in pain too.

By the time you came down, Hyunjin was nowhere to be seen but you found some coffee and toast, deciding to make yourself some breakfast. You sat at the counter and ate while listening to some music. Hyunjin suddenly walked in from the back door.

"Oh bunny! Good morning." he smirked as he came closer to you and you could see the sweat on his body glistening, making you feel aroused instantly at the sight and smell of him.

"Morning." your voice came out breathy as he wrapped his arm around you and kissed you.

"I was just working out back in the shed." he started and Rina ran in barking and jumping at you happily. You chuckled and cooed at her as you started petting her head. "She helped out." Hyunjin added and you giggled.

"I'm sure she did."

"Would you like to go horse riding with me today?" he asked and you let out a laugh.

"I mean, I'd love to but you tired me out last night." you said sheepishly and he cackled, making you smack his arm a few times which made Rina bark.

"Careful, you can't hit me in front of Rina." he had a smug smile on his face and you rolled your eyes, shoving him away playfully. "Come on, we used to go all the time. I missed doing everything with you, doll."

"Fine, but I'm going home first to change and say hello to my grandparents." you pointed your finger at him and he grabbed your wrist, gently kissing your fingertip before he pressed your hand on his chest.

"Come back to me soon, doll."

It didn't take long for you to get ready and skip back to Hyunjin's house, especially after missing him for so many years; you felt like you needed to make up for all the lost time. Hyunjin was waiting for you in the stable, preparing the horses for the ride. As soon as you walked in, he smiled at you, waving at you to come closer. Hyunjin gave you the elevator eyes, you were dressed and ready for the activity you were going to share with him this afternoon.

"God, you look so cute my bunny." he put his hands behind his back and leaned in to kiss you, making you giggle against his lips.

"You're cute." you poked his cheek and he chuckled.

"I am?" he gave you a cute face, making his dimples visible as he smiled and his eyes disappeared, turning into little slits. For emphasis he put his palms around his face as if he was presenting his cuteness to you and you could not believe that this was the same man who had you shaking under him last night.

"The cutest." you giggled and he seemed satisfied with the answer, giving you another sweet kiss.

"So, this beauty over here is Aurora." Hyunjin took your hand in his and walked closer to the horse. It let out a snorting sound, making you jolt a little and Hyunjin chuckled.

"Don't tell me you forgot how to ride." he smirked at you with a pointed look and you smacked his arm as he giggled, knowing you would react like that. Your cheeks went red despite last night and despite everything else you shared with him.

"You better be quiet." you threatened him and he wiggled his eyebrows at you.

"You weren't saying that last night."

"Hyunjin. Please. The horses don't need to listen to this." you whispered the last sentence, giving Aurora a few gentle pets.

Hyunjin laughed before nodding. "Alright, well she is yours for today. And I'm taking Midnight." he pointed to a black horse and you nodded, feeling excited because you missed things like this in the city, spending time in nature even though insects frightened you.

The two of you made your way out with your horses, Hyunjin helping you get up on Aurora and then patting your butt affectionately as you sat down. Your cheeks became rosy as he smirked at you and climbed up on Midnight. He looked so hot in that moment that you were already getting worked up despite still being sore.

You made your way towards the fields, the sun shining on you as you rode your horses and enjoyed the fresh air and the breeze. Everything that was bothering you before you came here was left in the dust your horses lifted as they ran, the past was put behind you and you could clearly see the path ahead.

The two of you made it to one of the pretty fields, letting the horses rest as you tied them aside and Hyunjin brought a blanket for the two of you to sit on. Quietly, you enjoyed the beautiful day together as you closed your eyes and let the sun's warmth kiss you while Hyunjin kept his eyes fixed on you.

"I forgot just how peaceful it is here." you sighed before looking at Hyunjin.

"But you spent most of your life here, more than in the city. You know this place like the back of your hand." his head tilted and you shrugged.

"Maybe it didn't take long for me to get used to the city."

"Then it won't be long for you to get used to being back here." he said and bit on his lip. "Come here bunny." he tapped his thigh and you chuckled, your face becoming red. "Come sit in my lap, I need you close to me." Hyunjin added and you shook your head lightly before coming closer to him and sitting in his lap. Your arms wrapped around his neck and his around your waist as he leaned in and kissed you sweetly, before gently swiping his tongue on your lower lip. You parted your lips and he kissed you sensually, like he was trying to explore every part of you and remember your taste forever.

Hyunjin leaned back suddenly and gave you a serious look as he held your hips.

"Y/n, you really are the most important person in my life. You are my best friend and my only lover. And I want you to stay here with me forever and for us to build a life together but only if you want that. I don't want you to feel like I forced you to be here in the village and made you throw away your uni degree and the career you worked so hard for. I need to know that you are absolutely sure you want this, cause I don't want you to resent me one day." Hyunjin exhaled shakily and you smiled, grabbing his face and smushing his cute cheeks.

"You're the most important person in my life too. And even without knowing you still loved me and wanted to be with me I came back here with the plan to stay. There is nothing for me there, that career was a disappointment, almost a waste of time that I could've been spending here with you. Besides, I am still young and there is time to change careers. This is my decision to stay here and if I have you too, then that's just added happiness. I would never resent you Hyunjin, because I want to build a life with you too, I want us to grow old together like my grandparents. I always imagined us like that."

"Oh bunny, you have no idea how happy that makes me." Hyunjin gave you the sweetest smile before crashing his lips against yours. The kiss was passionate and full of love, all bursting around the two of you. He kissed your neck before flipping you over and you gasped under him.

"Beloved, it's the middle of the day, other people come here. A-and the horses are right there." you nodded towards the animals who seemed interested only in the grass.

"Doll, let me just have a taste of you, please?" Hyunjin rubbed your hips, giving you the cutest pout and puppy eyes and you were weak for him. It never took too long for you to lose your panties around him which was what happened as soon as you said yes. He took off your pants and underwear, immediately diving in between your legs as he held them open, gripping at your thighs.

"My sweet bunny." Hyunjin kissed and nipped on your thighs, leaving bite marks in his wake all the way up to your core.

"Mm." he moaned the moment his plump lips touched your folds. "Baby." he whined and flatened his tongue against you, giving you a few languid licks, enjoying the taste of you before the tip of his tongue started flicking your clit. You whimpered quietly as your legs trembled, still aware that you were outside and anyone could see you.

Hyunjin however, didn't care. He was moaning into your pussy desperately as soon as he pushed his tongue in, eating you out like you were the sweetest treat ever. His nose brushed against your clit perfectly as he moved and you were still so sensitive from last night so it didn't take long for you to release your essence all over his lips and tongue as you gripped onto the blanket.

"Bunny, you taste so sweet." he whined, licking around his lips. You looked around, chuckling and quickly pulling your pants up, cringing a little at the wetness.

"Let me make you feel good too, Jinnie." you were now closer to him, your hands on his thighs.

"You don't have to do it right now, we can go back to my house and-"

"Hyune... You can't ride back with this." you smirked, cupping his bulge through his pants and he whined instanly, lifting up into your hand and grinding against it.

"Yeah, you're right." Hyunjin moaned as you kissed his jaw and neck while working to unbutton his pants and slide them down with his boxers, at least enough to pull his cock out. You moaned at the sight of him and you were so eager to have him in your mouth again after not tasting him for so long. You leaned down, gathering spit before you spit on his cock and made him gasp, lifting his hips up to you again. You gave him a few pumps as you smirked at him and Hyunjin was already falling apart. He was equally as weak for you as you were for him.

You swirled your tongue around his head, dipping it into his slit and he shook against you, his hips lifting up and his hand tangling in your hair.

"More, please more bunny." he begged desperately and you moaned around him as you slid down, taking more of his length in.

"Just like that baby, keep going." he encouraged you as you tried to relax your throat and breathe through your nose. Hyunjin whimpered when you gripped the base of his cock, bobbing your head up and down. He gripped your hair, his moans becoming high pitched so you looked up and almost came in your panties at the sight. He was completely lost in the pleasure you were giving him, his head thrown back, his neck on full display with his Adam's apple bobbing up and down every time he gulped and his veins visible. Your eyes fluttered as you moaned around him and fondled his balls with your other hand, making his hips jerk up into you which made you gag a little.

"Fuck. Taking me so well, bunny." he growled, fucking up into you slowly as he gripped your hair harder. "G-gonna cum."

"Mm." you moaned, massaging his balls and sucking him like your life depended on it as he kept fucking up into you.

"Ah! Love seeing those pretty lips around me!" Hyunjin whined loudly, snapping his hips a little harder against you before you felt him twitch and release inside you. You swallowed every last drop he gave you, overstimulating him until he was almost pushing you away.

"Fuck, bunny. You're gonna be the death of me." he said as you lifted up and wiped your lips.

"That good, hm?" you teased him with a smirk and he smirked back at you as he got dressed.

"Well, you seem to love my cum so I'm just giving you what you love, you know, thinking of your happiness." he teased and you smacked his arm, making him laugh because he loved provoking you.

"Shut up." you muttered in embarrassment and he giggled before pouting at you and coming closer to you. He gently took your chin in his hand and made you look at him.

"I love you." he said.

"I love you too." you smiled and kissed him, tasting your essence on his tongue.

"Wanna ride a little more then go back to my house?" he asked and you nodded eagerly.

"I'd love to."

Currently, you were sitting in Hyunjin's very big bath, waiting for him to join you as you soaped up your arms with the bubbles, playing around with them.

"Here I am!" he ran in, quickly closing the door behind him. "Had to feed Rina plus she felt neglected and deprived of my love." he added, stripping his clothes and throwing them in the hamper haphazardly.

"You trying to make me feel guilty?" you asked, blowing a bubble at him and he giggled.

"No doll, you know you're always my number one." he smirked, throwing his underwear aside and you looked away in embarrassment.

He chuckled at you and got in, sitting between your legs and you squealed as he made the water splash around you.

"Will you help me wash my back?" he looked at you sideways with a little pout and you chuckled.

"Of course, beloved." you smiled as you took a clean cloth and made it wet before you started gently washing his back. Hyunjin closed his eyes and let out a long sigh of relaxation. You enjoyed the quiet moment, gently rubbing his skin before gliding over it with your other hand, loving the feeling of his wet and soft skin against yours. You leaned in and kissed his shoulders, your breasts pressing against him and nipples grazing him. Hyunjin let out a shaky breath as you wrapped your arms around him and kept kissing his upper back and the back of his neck, catching the droplets of water with your lips.

"I'm so happy." he said and you smiled against him as he caressed your hands. "I was lonely without you, my bunny. I drowned that in work but in moments like this, when it's quiet, and especially late at night I imagined you next to me, wished you were here. And now you are."

"I'm sorry, Jinnie. I'll never leave you again." you said, brushing your lips against his neck.

"I know." he shivered and then leaned back into you as you held him and caressed his chest and stomach, your hand coming in contact with his cock that was hard again.

"Jinnie." you giggled in delight.

"I can't help it when you're touching me." he whined and you kept giggling as you wrapped your hand around him and gave him a few teasing tugs before you released him completely, making him groan.

"Love, you promised we'd go stargazing tonight." you teased.

"The stars will be there tomorrow." he smirked, turning around in the bath and making the water splash around again.

"So will we." you chuckled, running your finger on his defined jaw.

"Mm." he smirked, eyes already hooded as he leaned in and captured your lips in his. You gave in instantly, craving him as much as he craved you.

"I want to go stargazing." you said when the two of you parted for air and Hyunjin chuckled, shaking his head.

"Whatever my bunny wants. Give me a few moments to try and calm down, hm?" he said, kissing your jaw before he got up, getting out of the bath and making his way to the shower. "Join me." he reached his hand towards you and you grabbed it, getting out of the bath with his help.

The moment you shared in the shower was sweet and gentle as you helped each other wash off, playing around with the water.

"So, you like how I did the house?" Hyunjin asked as you dried off.

"I love it so much. It's artsy but cozy and warm. It still has that vintage vibe, you just made it better." you told him and he blushed, smiling cutely at you.

"I decorated it with the thought of you." he confessed, suddenly looking shy and reminding you of that little boy that almost hid behind his mother the first time he laid eyes on you.

"Hyunjin." your eyes watered instantly and you started crying.

"Bunny, don't cry." Hyunjin wrapped his arms around you, shushing you and pulling you into his chest as he caressed your head.

"I'm sorry." you whimpered and he chuckled at your cute pouty face as he looked down at you.

"Move in with me. There's no need to wait." he kissed your head and you squeezed him tighter.

"Packing tomorrow." you looked up at him with a smile and he chuckled, leaning down to kiss you as he wiped your tears away.

It was a beautiful, clear and quiet night, just what you needed for one of your favorite activities. Stargazing was a little ritual you did together even before you started dating, when you were just friends. You'd lay near your tree and look up at the stars wondering what's in store for you and Hyunjin, and he'd be nervously gathering courage to confess to you and kiss you only to back out every time you smiled at him.

After becoming a couple, you'd spend warm evenings loving each other under the blanket of stars, hidden by the grass and flowers around you. You'd look up at the stars then and thank them.

Hyunjin brought a blanket this time like always and you laid next to each other, your bare arms touching.

"Jinnie, can I ask you something?" you turned to look at him.

"Anything." he met your eyes.

"I noticed this when I got here the first day but why did you carve only your name in the tree, under ours?"

His eyes softened before he sat up and looked at the tree.

"For when you come back, so you can add your name and we can make a new start together." he smiled and your eyes watered.

"Jinnie." you whined, sitting up and resting your forehead on his shoulder. "You're too sweet."

"Here." he gave you his pocket knife and motioned at the tree. "You can add your name now."

Hyunjin helped you out and the two of you admired your work, a new carving of your names signifying a new phase of your relationship, where both of you have grown and matured. You turned towars him, grabbing his face and smashing your lips into his as you kissed him passionately. Hyunjin returned the kiss enthusiastically, pulling you in his lap. Your hips started grinding against him instantly and he smirked into the kiss.

"Is my bunny needy for me?" Hyunjin leaned back to look at you, caressing your face and putting your hair behind your ear.

"Mm, always." you moaned quietly as his other hand grabbed at your ass, squeezing and giving you a light smack.

Hyunjin chuckled at the state of you, already unraveling and he hasn't even done anything. You bit on your lip and gripped his shoulders as you started dragging your core against his. Hyunjin's head fell back as he gripped your hips and helped you move against him, pressing you down and making you feel his growing bulge.

"What you do to me, doll." he almost growled, gripping you harder and moving his hips up into yours.

"Hyunjin." you moaned his name, your hands sliding down his chest to his abs and then to the button on his jeans as you worked to open it. He smirked into the kiss again, letting you struggle for a moment before he leaned away from your lips and helped you take off his pants. His hands slid under your dress, up until he touched your panties.

"So wet, my bunny." he looked at you lustfully, his lips parting as he touched you clit and played with it, sliding his fingers down to your folds and feeling the wetness even through the fabric.

"I need you." you whined and he chuckled.

"I need you too, bunny." he whispered and you stood up to slide your panties off as Hyunjin watched you with hazy eyes. He slid his pants and underwear down, pulling you down into his lap again. Your wet pussy pressed against his hard cock and both of you moaned as you grinded on him, getting him wet with your juices.

"Ah, doll!" Hyunjin whined, pushing his hips up into you and you lifted just a little to grab his cock and push it inside you. He groaned as you sat down on him slowly, feeling every inch of him stretching your still sore pussy.

"You okay, bunny?" Hyunjin wrapped his arms around your waist as you let out a hiss.

"Y-yes, perfect." you whimpered, gripping at his shoulders as you started circling your hips on top of him. "Oh my god." you groaned, feeling his tip brushing against something delicious deep inside you.

"Good, baby?" Hyunjin smirked, holding your hips but you knew he was close to losing control.

"Mm yes." you shut your eyes tightly as you started to bounce on him slowly and Hyunjin let out a loud moan.

"Ah, bunny! You feel so good. So perfect for me. I wanna stay inside you forever."

You clenched hard at his words, fucking on his length faster, your hips slapping against his. Hyunjin's hand gripped your dress and pushed it up before he grabbed your ass, giving it a few smacks and making you whimper and squeeze around his cock again.

"Please, Hyune, I need more, please!" you whimpered, fucking on him as hard as you could even though your thighs started burning. Hyunjin looked at you, your flushed face and your tits bouncing with your movement, his cock disappearing completely inside you. You were driving him insane.

"You want some help bunny?" he asked, gripping your hips.

"Yes, please!" you whined and Hyunjin smirked before he started snapping his hips up into you.

Both of you were a desperate mess of moans and curses, fucking into each other as if you hadn't been together all night yesterday.

"Gonna get you pregnant, my bunny. Want you to be mine forever." Hyunjin growled as you fell apart on top of him, exploding all over his cock.

"Please, Hyune, want to have your baby." you mumbled, your entire body shaking on top of him and Hyunjin growled, his eyes rolling back as he came, ropes of warm cum filling you up, your pussy milking him dry.

You held each other for a moment, trying to gather your senses as you breathed hard. Hyunjin leaned back and gave you a cute smile.

"I mean it, you know. I really want a little one running around our house. A baby that we made out of love." Hyunjin said, holding your face in his palms.

"Me too, I want it so much." your voice was shaky as you leaned in and kissed him, not missing the detail where he called his house yours.

"After last night and today it would be a surprise if you weren't already pregnant." he smiled, brushing his lips against yours.

You chuckled as your face burned. "I hope so."

Hyunjin smiled, kissing you until you became breathless. The two of you cleaned up and got dressed, lying down in each other's arms so you could actually do what you came to do here - watch the stars.

Once again, you thanked them for leading you back to your Hyunjin.

Six months later

You were drinking your morning tea, staring out the window as your free hand landed on your tummy and you let out a sigh of happiness. Hyunjin came from upstairs, all fresh from a shower and noticed you smiling to yourself, the sun illuminating your features.

"How are my girls?" Hyunjin asked as he wrapped his arms around you, his hands on your baby bump, caressing you gently as he kissed you neck and inhaled your sweet scent.

"Good actually. The tea is helping with nausea." you turned your head a little to look at his face and his eyes were filled with so much love and happiness that it made you shiver, your heart fluttering.

"What?" you chuckled as he kept looking at you with a big smile on his face.

"Have I told you how breathtaking you are, my doll?" he exhaled, nuzzling into you.

"Only every day." you giggled.

"And I will continue doing so for the rest of my life." Hyunjin kissed your cheek and you turned in his arms to give him a proper kiss, enjoying the feeling of his plump lips against yours. Your hands flew to his hair that was now black and growing out and you ran your fingers through the soft tufts.

"I have something for you." he said when the two of you broke apart.

"What is it?" you tilted your head and Hyunjin rounded the couch where Rina was cuddled up, making her raise her head and look at him. He stood in front of the stereo and pressed a few buttons before the familiar melody of Photograph started playing.

"Hyun..." your eyes watered and he skipped towards you, reaching his hand to you. You grabbed it and he pulled you into him, dancing with you, softly swaying you side to side.

"This has always been our song. The one we danced to at prom too. And now we can have our first dance at our wedding to this song as well."

"H-Hyunjin." your lips trembled as happy tears spilled from your eyes.

"I wanted to wait for a perfect moment, have this elaborate dinner and speech but I think this is the perfect moment. You and me in our house with our baby on the way and Rina with us. So I have something to ask you, bunny." Hyunjin got on one knee in front of you, taking out a little box from the pocket of his sweats and opening it up to reveal a beatiful ring.

You gasped, your heart beating fast as more tears spilled from your eyes. You knew he was going to propose to you but nothing prepared you for the tornado of feelings that were swirling inside you.

"Y/n, will you make me the happiest man alive and marry me?"

"Yes!" you yelled almost before he ended the sentence and he chuckled happily, sliding the ring on your finger.

"I love you so much, Jinnie." you cried as he stood up and wrapped his arms around you.

"I love you more than anything, my little bunny." he kissed you, the tears of happiness sliding down his cheeks too.

"I promised you forever, didn't I?"

And there was no other way you wanted to spend forever than to be by Hyunjin's side.

taglist: @moonchild9350 @janepg @velvetmoonlght @hwanghyunjinismybae @jehhskz @porangporangmeong @laylasbunbunny @laughatdanger @jeonginslefthand @sapphirewaves @s3ungm1nxxl0ve @painterhyunjin @moon-ttokki-x @saintcosette @ooshyana @frehyun @scarlet789 @skzdust @schniti-is-in-the-house @hwangjoanna @sona1800 @channiesrightasscheek @justwonder113 @yvettemint @inaribu00 @httpdwaekki @possum-playground @ria-april @yn-x-them @mariahxrrera @0omillo0 @halfwinterhalfuniverse @cooldeermagazine @delulkpopstan143 @todorokiskitten @compersian @azxulskz @stayp1eceposts @minniesverse @skzdreamer13 @0325ale @j-ji-jia @shannthewriter @mhluvie @my-neurodivergent-world @hyyunjinnn @spookybuttsstuff-blog @pancake-freckle @felixsbrowniesarmystayengene @minhooofr

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mesopotamism · 4 days ago

Text

pairing : felix x reader warnings : ummm..smut..porn.. notes : be logged into twitter to view !

request by @wonniecutie

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

felix fucking you against his gaming desk !

he loves showing you what his long gaming fingers can do !!

just lixie being impatient and fucking your tight hole , pt.2 >ᴗ<

dry humping with lix .

felix touching you infront of a mirror to show you how beautiful you are ᢉ𐭩

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

if anything is misspelled or if some links aren’t working pls lmk ! also requests r open , i need ideas on what to post !!

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mesopotamism · 4 days ago

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aren't we? ・l.f.

💿 — felix who truly believes that you were the one who gave him all these freckles in a past life—especially the heart-shaped one.

🔭 — paring・felix x gn!reader // genres・fluff, established relationships // words・687 // warnings・felix is so sweet and sappy, if you don't like rambles or tooth-rotting fluff than you won't like this

a/n・i just can't let go of the idea that lee felix would find your soul in every lifetime! also i stole this from my short story collection that i'm working to publish because it was felix coded and i also just needed to get something out there for y'all i hope you like it my loves!!!

Felix was the part in your story, always imagined but never written down.

And in the same way an author takes up a pen, he held his hands before you, and with quiet serenity, he swore—please, unravel your heart before me. I promise, you will never have to fantasize again—without paper or quill, he breathed all your dreams to life.

Even after four years, he continues to do so.

Felix's arms are hot around you, warm hands spread across the small of your back as he pulls you closer to him. He's kissing you, hips spreading your thighs apart from where you sit perched atop the counter's edge. The fudgy scent of brownie batter lingers in the air, wafting from a long-forgotten oven. Felix promised he would pull the brownies out after just one more kiss.

But we both know how well that went.

"Did you forget about the brownies?" Your smile must be contagious, 'cause as soon as it blossoms upon your cheeks, you have already infected him—his spreading bigger and brighter than yours.

"Brownies? What brownies? Were we cooking brownies?" he jokes, thumbs brushing patterns on your exposed back.

In the moment between lifting your gaze to admire his star-struck cheeks and now, you have taken notice of an intriguing-shaped freckle just underneath his lash line, honey-brown and cordate.

Suddenly, you lift a finger to brush the soft skin of his under-eye. First, Felix is confused. Then, as your eyes brighten with both intrigue and awe, he loses any hope of thought at all. A subtle purse in your lips tells him of your deep concentration.

He can't help the amused breath he puffs from his nose.

"What?" he whispers, eyes glazed with admiration.

"You have a heart-shaped freckle." The realization dawns on you with a soft gasp—something so simple, yet so profound. It felt so perfectly Felix.

Mindlessly, he brings his hand up to touch the mark. "Yeah, I guess I do."

"You know, your past lover must have adored your cheeks."

His fingers never cease their exploration upon your bare back. "Do you adore my cheeks?"

You let out an involuntary laugh. "Well, of course I do, but we aren't talking about me."

His eyes turn into crescent moons as he tilts his head, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Aren't we?"

For a moment, the room feels smaller, quieter, the air thick with emotion. It takes you a minute to discern his words, shifting through the meaning before it all clicks.

You gasp, the weight of his words sitting like a star in your chest. "Are you saying I was your past love?"

"I mean, if the shoe fits." His lips tilt up, and the pad of his thumb finds its way across your own cheek.

He leans in closer, lips brushing against yours as he whispers, with enough sincerity to make gardens blossom in your heart, "there's a freckle for every world I have called you mine."

It all hits you right then—the depth in which you feel for him. It's dizzying, disorienting in the best of ways. You hold love itself in between your palms. It's enough to bring tears to your eyes, slipping into your sealed lips and dripping down to your chin.

Thousands of years ago, his lover whispered the stars on his skin, for now, pressed upon his cheeks will be their story, etched into the very person in which it was born.

This is just a chapter, and maybe a million years into the future you'll be here again, sharing kisses and cherry chapstick until the brownies burn. He'd hold you here forever, over and over, until time slipped past the universe's grip and his book shuts.

Felix can't help but chuckle at the complexity of his thoughts, and when you look back up at him with those big, bright eyes, it all snaps back into perspective. It was all quite simple, really.

He laces his fingers into your hair, leaning forward to seal your lips together once more.

If Felix got to choose his story, every chapter would be filled with you.

loosely based off this fic here by @luvtak! go check it out it's literally the best fic i've ever read!!

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mesopotamism · 4 days ago

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🤤🤤🤤

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mesopotamism · 4 days ago

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⍣ ೋ cw: explicit sexual content · graphic sex · rough sex · orgasm denial · dom/sub dynamics · dirty talk · aftercare · possessiveness · emotional vulnerability · toxic ex / abusive relationship (past) · physical assault · violence · blood · protective behavior · minor alcohol mention · language

notes: in which your regular bartender minho lets you stay at his apartment when your toxic ex-situationship gets physical — and things spiral from there.

The bar doesn’t have a sign. Just a brass door with no handle and a button that glows red when you press it. Inside, it’s all velvet and shadows—low jazz crooning from invisible speakers, smoke curling from too-expensive cigars. The kind of place that smells like secrets and old money.

You don’t belong here. But you come anyway.

Mostly for him.

Minho’s behind the bar like always. Shirt black, sleeves rolled just once, collar stiff against the sharp line of his neck. He doesn’t look up when you walk in, doesn’t smile. He never does.

You don’t need him to.

It starts like most nights do—low lighting, soft jazz, the smell of expensive bourbon and even more expensive cologne drifting through the speakeasy’s velvet-lined walls. The kind of place that pretends not to notice you unless it wants to.

He always notices you.

Minho’s already at the bar, polishing glassware with deliberate, almost surgical focus. No smile. No greeting. He doesn’t do small talk—just glances at you when you slip onto the stool you always take, his gaze lingering for a moment too long on the bare skin above your knee before it flicks away like you imagined it.

He slides a drink toward you without asking.

Tonight it’s something amber and sharp—neat, no garnish. Not the floral bullshit you usually order to irritate him but don't actually enjoy.

“You’re learning,” you murmur, fingers curling around the glass.

“You’re predictable,” he says, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Amusement. Approval, maybe. It’s hard to tell with him.

You take a slow sip, letting the burn settle in your chest before you speak again.

“Gonna make fun of me tonight, or just stare at my legs?”

He doesn’t miss a beat.

“Why can’t I do both?”

You raise an eyebrow. He’s in a mood.

Good.

You lean in a little, voice dipping low. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you liked me.”

Minho finally looks at you head-on, the edge of a smile ghosting across his mouth.

“If I liked you,” he says, smooth as glass, “you’d know.”

The heat that curls low in your stomach has nothing to do with the liquor.

You shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve been playing this game for weeks—weeks of drawn-out glances and sharp tongues, of letting your knee graze his thigh beneath the bar, of asking him questions you already know he won’t answer just to hear the dry curl of his voice when he tells you no.

But tonight, the rules feel different. The air feels heavier. Charged.

You blame it on the day you had. On the message you didn’t answer. On the fact that your body still remembers the way your so-called lover grabbed your wrist last night when you dared to pull away first. The apology this morning was short. Cold. Like a favor he did you.

You’re tired of favors. Of men who act like your body is borrowed space.

So maybe that’s why you’re here again. Why your dress is a little shorter than usual. Why your smile is a little sharper. Why you stare at Minho like you want him to cut you open and see what’s underneath.

“I think you like me,” you say, swirling the amber in your glass, eyes fixed on his fingers as he reaches for a bottle behind him.

He uncaps it without a word. Pours slow—like he’s buying time or maybe making you wait on purpose. The line of his jaw is clean and sharp in the bar’s dim light, a profile carved in something colder than marble.

You’ve never seen him fluster. Not once. That’s part of why you keep coming back. That composure, that razor-thin control—you want to see it slip. Just once. Just enough to know what he looks like when something matters.

But Minho doesn’t rattle. Doesn’t rise to the bait. He sets the bottle down, replaces the cap with the same care you imagine he uses with everything else—his knives, his words, his hands.

“I think you like being watched,” he says finally, without looking at you. “That’s not the same thing.”

Your lips curl. “Is that what you do? Watch me?”

He glances up, and the full weight of his gaze hits you square in the chest—dark, steady, measuring.

“Only when you want me to.”

You swallow. Hard.

There’s nothing coy about it now. No masks, no playful deflection. Just static in the air and the slow realization that this isn’t banter anymore.

It’s foreplay.

Your thighs press together instinctively beneath the bar. The liquor burns differently now—hotter, deeper.

Minho sees it—how your legs shift, how your breath stutters—but he doesn’t gloat. He doesn’t need to. The power slips over him like a second skin, smooth and effortless, like he was born to unravel people slowly and never touch them at all.

You try to hold your ground, try to find something clever to say, but the words stick to your tongue. They don’t come.

He leans forward—just slightly, just enough that you catch a whisper of his cologne, clean and sharp like crushed pepper and steel. The kind of scent that makes you ache without knowing why.

“You always drink faster when you’re upset,” he murmurs. “Didn’t think he’d blow you off again.”

Your stomach flips.

You didn’t tell him that.

Not out loud.

But you’ve mentioned him in passing before—your almost-boyfriend, your never-quite-yours. The man who texts when he’s bored and shows up when he’s drunk, who fucks you like a secret and then disappears for days. You’ve never named him. You never had to.

Minho’s too observant for that.

You look away, embarrassed, a little raw.

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

Minho hums like he understands. Not kindly—accurately. Like a blade understanding the softest part of skin.

“Didn’t think you would.”

His voice is soft. Low enough that it doesn’t carry over the jazz humming through the room, but not so low that it misses the mark. It slides under your skin, settles there. Warm. Heavy.

You press the rim of your glass to your lips, but don’t drink. You’re stalling. He knows it.

“Is this where you offer comfort?” you ask, tilting your head toward him, trying to claw some of the power back with your voice. “Tell me I deserve better?”

Minho chuckles—quiet, sharp-edged. “You know you deserve better.”

He lets it hang there for a beat too long, until you can feel the unspoken part of it clawing up your spine.

You deserve better, and I could give it to you. But I won’t.

Not yet.

His fingers flex against the bar’s edge. It’s the first crack in his control tonight, the only betrayal of the restraint wound tight through every part of him. You don’t think he even notices it—but you do.

Because that’s what this has always been, hasn’t it? A standoff. A war of glances and gestures. Who can make the other want without asking.

You swirl the last inch of liquor in your glass, watching the amber catch the low light, pretending like you’re not memorizing the shape of his hand against the bar.

Minho isn’t looking at you anymore. Not directly. His eyes are focused somewhere beyond you—on a bottle that doesn’t need touching, a thought that doesn’t need voicing. But his body betrays him in small, precise ways. That flex of his hand. The stillness of his shoulders. The slow, measured breaths like he’s giving himself rules to follow.

Don’t reach for her. Don’t say her name. Don’t touch unless she begs.

You can feel it—how close he is to undoing himself. How he’s fighting it like it would cost him something if he gave in.

And that makes you reckless.

“Why haven’t you?” you murmur, too quiet for anyone else to hear. “If you’ve thought about it—which you have. Why haven’t you done anything?”

You lick your lips—subtle, involuntary—and his eyes drop to your mouth like it was the only thing in the room worth watching. Just for a second. Just long enough to make your pulse thrum in your throat.

“You’re not going to offer comfort,” you say, quieter now, more to yourself than him. “That’s not your game.”

Minho doesn’t deny it.

“I don’t comfort girls who let men treat them like that,” he murmurs, voice like slow smoke. “I fuck it out of them.”

Your breath catches.

You can’t help it.

It punches the air straight from your lungs—just for a second. Just long enough for your lashes to flutter and your grip on the glass to falter and your entire body to go still.

You should’ve known that’s where he’d take it. You should’ve seen it coming. But hearing it—feeling it—low and steady like that, like an invocation and not a threat?

It’s something else entirely.

Your thighs clench beneath the bar. Instinctive. Useless. You feel suddenly too warm in your skin, in your dress, in this damn chair. Like the room’s shrunk down to just the two of you and the weight of those words lingering in the air between them.

He said it like a fact. Like a promise. No smirk. No tilt of his head. No performance.

Just Minho—staring at you with that terrifying, surgical precision that’s never been louder than it is now.

He knows what he just did.

Knows you’re squirming. Knows you’re soaking. Knows exactly where your mind’s gone—and he hasn’t even touched you.

Your tongue darts out again, a nervous reflex.

And that’s when he leans in.

Not by much—just enough that his mouth is close enough to graze the rim of your glass if you tilted it.

“I’d start with your mouth,” he says, barely louder than the jazz, like he’s confessing something obscene to a priest. “Because I know you’d still try to be smart with it. Even while you’re choking.”

Your stomach drops.

Your fingers curl tight around the edge of the counter to ground yourself, but it’s no use. His voice is a velvet hand at your throat, gentle enough to tease, firm enough to hold

Minho doesn’t linger.

He doesn’t let the silence stretch into tension, doesn’t wait for your reply, doesn’t press a single inch further into the ache he’s just created.

He simply pulls away.

Smooth, unbothered, like he didn’t just fillet you open with nothing but words. Like your insides aren’t still ringing with the ghost of him. He reaches for a towel, wipes a nonexistent smudge from the rim of a coupe glass, and then—casually, almost bored—slides the folded slip of paper toward you across the polished marble.

Your bill.

Back to business.

It’s maddening. Unbearably normal. Like he didn’t just spit filth into your ear that made your spine arch in the seat. Like he didn’t just speak to you like he already owned your body and was only waiting for the right time to claim it.

Your hand moves on autopilot.

Fingers dip into your purse, fishing out your card, swiping it through the reader like this is any other night, like you’re not unraveling at the seams. Like you’re not trembling just slightly beneath the surface of your skin, still burning with every word he spoke to you moments ago.

The reader beeps.

Declined.

You blink.

Try again. Slower this time. Like it might make a difference.

Declined.

The air shifts.

You don’t look up. Can’t. You stare at the reader, thumb hovering over the chipped edge of your card like pressing harder might fix it. Like it wasn’t inevitable. Like you haven’t been running on fumes and stubbornness and overdraft protection for longer than you want to admit.

You exhale through your nose. Force a quiet laugh. “Sorry,” you mutter, trying for nonchalant. “Guess it’s been a week.”

Minho doesn’t move.

You finally glance up—and he’s already looking at you.

Not annoyed. Not smug. Just still. Measured.

Then he takes the bill back without a word.

Folds it in half.

Tucks it beneath the register.

“It’s okay,” he says, and his voice is different now—softer, low and careful like a hand on the back of your neck. “I’ve got it.”

You hesitate. “No, really. I can come back tomorrow—”

“I said it’s okay.”

The quiet in his tone settles over you like a coat. Warm, heavy. Weighted with something you don’t quite recognize yet.

You search his face for a catch. A smirk. A condition. But there isn’t one.

And that—that’s what undoes you more than anything else.

Because it’s not a trade. Not a tease. Not a power play.

It’s just kindness.

Uncomplicated. Unexpected.

From him of all people.

You swallow hard. Nodding feels dangerous, so you don’t.

You just sit there, small and grateful and aching in a way you didn’t expect.

“I’ll pay you back,” you say quietly. “Next time.”

Minho doesn’t respond right away. Just tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re not a charity case,” he says finally. “I know you’ll settle.”

You nod again. This time it lands.

He straightens. Pulls your empty glass away, sets it behind him.

“You staying a while?” he asks. Not teasing. Not performative. Just… offering.

And you want to say yes.

But your throat is tight and your wrist still hurts beneath your sleeve and your body feels like too much tonight—too raw, too full, too loud.

So you say, “Think I’ll head out,” and your voice sounds gentler than it should. Like you’re asking permission.

Minho nods. Doesn’t question it. Doesn’t try to stop you. Just wipes the bar in front of your empty seat like he’s already preparing for the next ghost to sit down.

You stand slowly. Adjust your bag over your shoulder, glance toward the hallway that leads to the exit.

He doesn’t say anything at first. But you feel him watching you—not your ass, not your dress, but the way you cradle your arm. The way your hand hovers over your wrist like you’re guarding something.

And then—

“Did he grab you?”

Your spine stiffens.

Like someone cracked ice down your back.

You don’t turn around right away. You just stand there, shoulders drawn tight, fingers white-knuckled around the strap of your bag.

“Excuse me?” you ask, voice sharper than you mean it to be.

Minho doesn’t flinch.

He doesn’t repeat himself, either. Just waits.

You finally turn, chin lifted in that familiar tilt—the one you wear like armor, the one you’ve perfected for moments like this. When someone sees too much. When someone dares to ask.

“I don’t need you psychoanalyzing my love life,” you say flatly. “It’s none of your business.”

Minho says nothing.

Which somehow makes it worse. And for some reason, you can’t stop talking.

You huff a laugh, bitter and breathless. “Jesus. You let one card decline and suddenly you think you’re my therapist?”

Still nothing.

Just that same steady gaze. Not pitying. Not cold. Just... seeing.

And maybe that’s why it stings. Because he’s not wrong.

You fold your arms, fingers pressing hard over the bruise like you can erase it by force. “He didn’t mean to,” you finally mutter.

Minho’s voice is quiet. Even.

“But he did.”

You look away.

It’s not a fight. He’s not raising his voice. He’s not accusing you of anything. But something about the way he says it—flat, factual, calm—makes you feel like you’ve been caught doing something shameful.

You shake your head. “It’s not that simple.”

His expression doesn’t change. “It never is.”

You exhale hard through your nose. Every part of you wants to run. You don’t like feeling cornered like this—especially not by someone like him. Someone who doesn’t play pretend

Someone who sees everything and speaks only when it counts.

“I’m not some broken girl who needs saving,” you snap.

“I know.”

And again—it’s not cruel. Not dismissive. Just a truth, spoken plainly.

That disarms you more than anything else.

He knows.

He knows you’re angry and proud and stubborn. He knows you want control, even when it costs you peace. He knows you’re clawing your way through something you don’t want to name yet. He knows—and still, he said nothing until you were already walking away.

You sigh. The kind of sigh that tastes like surrender.

“I’m fine,” you say. Softer now. “Okay? I’m fine.”

Minho doesn’t agree. Doesn’t argue. Just nods like he’s filing it away for later.

And then, gently:

“Text me when you’re home.”

You look at him.

Really look at him.

The dark sweep of his lashes. The slow tension in his jaw. The barest flex of his fingers against the rag he’s holding—like he’s grounding himself on the bar instead of reaching for you.

“I don’t have your number,” you say, quiet again.

He doesn’t even blink.

Just reaches for a napkin. Writes it down in clean, deliberate strokes. Slides it to you without flourish, like it’s nothing.

You take it with fingers that don’t feel like yours.

The napkin is soft, a little damp in one corner, the ink bleeding just slightly where his pen dragged too slow over cheap paper. His handwriting is neat. Precise. The kind you’d expect from him. Not a flourish in sight.

You stare at the numbers for a beat too long.

Like if you memorize them now, maybe you won’t have to admit how much you care that he gave them to you.

“I’m not going to cry in the cab,” you mutter. Not to him. Just to yourself. A warning. A promise. A lie.

Minho’s mouth twitches—too fast to call it a smile. “Good. They charge extra for that.”

You roll your eyes, but the sound that escapes you is almost a laugh.

Almost.

You fold the napkin once. Then again. Tuck it into your purse like it’s fragile, like it’s worth something, like it matters. You don’t say thank you. Can’t. The words would taste too much like gratitude and not enough like the armor you’re trying to put back on.

He doesn’t press. Just nods once—final, quiet—and goes back to polishing the same glass he’s been holding all night. Like none of this ever happened.

You walk away before you can change your mind.

Before you do something stupid, like apologize for flinching. Like ask him to say it again, that he knows you’re not broken. Like ask if he’s ever been hurt in a way that still echoes years later.

The hallway is dim. The velvet curtains at the door part with a whisper. The street outside is colder than you remembered.

You step into it anyway.

That night, lying on your side with the city leaking through the blinds in long gray stripes, you stare at your phone screen for too long.

You’ve opened a new message three times. Deleted it each time.

Minho’s number sits untouched in your contacts now. Just a string of digits and a name that feels like something you shouldn’t be allowed to keep.

Eventually, you type:

[you]: home.

Three dots appear almost instantly.

Then nothing.

Then:

[bartender]: good. sleep.

You stare at it for longer than you should.

Just those two words. No punctuation. No fluff. Just simple, clean concern dressed up like a command.

You can almost hear his voice in it—low, even, with that deliberate edge that makes everything sound like a dare.

You think about typing something back. A joke. A thank you. Something to make it lighter.

But it’s too late for pretending now. And maybe—just maybe—you like that he didn’t say take care or sweet dreams or anything that would let you brush this off as ordinary.

Because it’s not.

You set the phone on your nightstand.

And for the first time in weeks, you fall asleep before the sun rises.

The bass is too loud.

It rattles your ribs, crawls down your spine, settles behind your eyes like a headache waiting to happen. Bodies press in on all sides—sweaty, glittered, half-drunk strangers shouting lyrics they only know the chorus to. The lights strobe fast enough to make you nauseous.

You wish you were having fun.

You should be having fun. It’s Maya’s birthday. Everyone showed up. Friends, coworkers, mutuals you forgot you still followed. You wore the good dress, the one that makes you feel like the sexiest version of yourself. You downed two shots at the bar and danced until your skin burned.

And for a while—it worked.

Until he showed up.

You feel him before you see him. Isn’t that always the way?

That weight in the room. The static against your skin. The sharp twist in your stomach that feels too close to guilt to be anything else.

You turn. And there he is.

Leaning against the bar like he owns it, drink in hand, shirt unbuttoned just enough to make a show of it. He doesn’t look at you at first. He never does. Always lets you spot him first. Lets you feel him before he lets you see him.

Your heart drops anyway.

It’s been three weeks since you told him not to text you again.

Not after the last time—not after his fingers curled too tight around your wrist and left a bloom of purple that took a week to fade. Not after he said your name like a curse when you tried to walk away. You were never his. That was the whole point. And yet… it never seemed to matter.

You turn back toward your friends. Pretend you don’t see him.

It works for ten minutes.

Then a hand slides around your waist.

“You look good tonight.”

You freeze.

His breath is warm against your ear. Familiar. Suffocating.

You force a smile, even as your whole body goes still. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” he murmurs, voice syrup-smooth. “Say hi to my favorite girl?”

Your throat tightens. “I’m not your anything.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” His fingers flex at your waist. Not hard. Not yet. Just enough to make you feel like you’ve already lost something.

You shove his hand off. Step back.

“I said don’t.”

He laughs—soft and cruel. “You’ve got some nerve, walking around like that. That dress. That mouth.”

You’re not sure what breaks first—the fear or the fury.

But your hand moves before your mind can catch up, pushing at his chest, not hard enough to knock him back but enough—enough to draw a line, enough to say stop, stop, STOP.

He stumbles back half a step, but the grin doesn’t falter. If anything, it widens.

“Oh, she’s got teeth tonight.”

You hate that he says it like he’s proud. Like he likes it when you push back—because it means he gets to push harder.

“Don’t touch me,” you spit, louder this time. Louder than you meant it to be. Louder than the beat crashing around you.

A few heads turn. Not many. Not enough.

He laughs, cruel and close and reeking of entitlement. “Calm down, drama queen. We used to have fun, remember?”

You take a step back.

He follows.

His hand shoots out again, this time not for your waist—but for your face. Fingers clamp around your jaw, sudden and firm, yanking you forward so fast your breath lodges in your throat.

You gasp.

Pain sparks where his thumb digs in. Your hands shoot up instinctively, trying to pry him off, nails raking across his skin in desperation.

“I said don’t fucking touch me!” Your voice breaks—sharp, raw, real—and for a second, just one, the crowd parts around the two of you like the air shifted.

He leans in closer. His mouth is at your ear. “You think you’re better than me now?” he snarls, voice low and mean. “Is that it? That little bartender got you feeling brave?”

The blood drains from your face.

Because you never mentioned Minho. Not to him. Not to anyone who would repeat it.

It hits you like a punch to the chest. Not just the shock of his voice, low and poisonous in your ear—but what he said.

That little bartender.

Minho.

He knows.

You don’t know how. Don’t know who told him or what he heard or why it matters to him at all—but the fact that he said it means he’s been watching. Listening. Picking up pieces you didn’t even know you were leaving behind.

Your stomach lurches.

“I said—” you shove him with everything you have, panic fusing with rage “—get off me!”

This time, he stumbles. Actually stumbles.

His grip slips from your jaw, and you recoil like you’ve been burned, taking three steps back so fast you nearly trip. Your chest is heaving. Your eyes sting. The club feels too loud, too tight, the lights flashing like warning signs behind your eyelids.

But he recovers fast.

Too fast.

And now he’s pissed.

“You fucking slut,” he spits, voice ugly and thick with venom. “You think someone like him is gonna want you for anything more than your mouth? You think he’s any different?”

You don’t stay to hear the rest.

You turn.

You run.

You don’t care that your friends will wonder where you went, that your drink is still half-full on the table, that your heels weren’t meant for this kind of escape.

You just run.

Out through the club doors, down the street, across the crosswalk without waiting for the signal. You walk like if you stop, he’ll catch up. Like the weight of his voice will sink into your skin and stay there. Like you’ll never feel clean again if you don’t keep moving.

You’re breathing too fast. Hands shaking. Vision blurry. Heart thudding like it’s trying to break out of your chest.

You swallow around the knot rising in your throat, the panic curling its claws up your spine, pressing down hard on your ribs like punishment.

And before you even know where you’re going, your feet are taking you there.

You don’t remember making the turn. Don’t remember crossing the street. You just blink—and suddenly the neon glow of the bar bleeds into your vision, cool and low and familiar in the haze of your panic. The bar. His bar.

And he’s there.

Outside, leaning against the brick wall near the back entrance, one arm crossed over his chest, the other holding a lit cigarette between two fingers. The glow of the cherry lights his face in pulses—his cheekbone, his mouth, the sharp line of his jaw. His sleeves are rolled up, and there’s a smear of something on his forearm.

He hasn’t seen you yet.

Not until your steps falter and the click of your heels dies out beneath the sound of his exhale.

Then—he lifts his head.

And his whole body goes still.

You must look like a disaster. Eyes wide. Breath shallow. Shoulders drawn up like a cornered animal. Your lipstick smeared, hair falling out of place, the strap of your dress slipping.

But he doesn’t comment. Doesn’t move.

Just watches you.

The silence stretches for a moment too long. Then, quietly—

“Did something happen?”

Your throat tightens at the sound of his voice.

Low. Measured. But not indifferent.

There’s something else beneath it. A thread of tension wound so tight it barely makes it to the surface. The kind of control that only comes from practice. From restraint.

He doesn’t take a step toward you.

Doesn’t reach out.

Minho can read a room better than anyone you’ve ever met, and right now, you’re a room filled with alarms—flashing, screaming, crumbling.

He sees it.

“I…” Your voice falters. “No.”

You mean yes. You mean everything.

But the syllables won’t fit in your mouth.

He nods once. Slow. Like he hears what you didn’t say.

The cigarette between his fingers burns to the filter before he drops it to the pavement and crushes it beneath the heel of his boot.

You don’t realize you’ve been swaying on your feet until your hand shoots out to brace against the wall.

Minho’s eyes flick to the motion, then back to your face. He still doesn’t move.

Instead, his voice softens—somehow quieter than before, like he’s afraid even sound might be too much for you right now.

“I’m just down the block.”

You blink at him, still catching your breath.

“My place,” he adds, nodding toward the street, toward the night that still hums like static around you. “Nothing weird. Just… quieter. Warmer. No one else there.”

You hesitate.

Not because you don’t trust him—you do, in ways you probably shouldn’t—but because your whole body still feels wrong. Like your nerves are too close to the surface, like any wrong move might set them off again.

Minho sees it.

He doesn’t rush to reassure you. Doesn’t over-explain or fumble for comfort.

Just lifts a shoulder in a light shrug and says, dryly, “I have cats.”

Of all the things he could’ve said. “Cats,” you repeat, the word catching oddly on your tongue like it doesn’t belong in a night like this. Like it’s too soft, too domestic, too absurdly normal for the way your heart is still hammering inside your ribs.

Minho nods. “Three of them.”

You raise an eyebrow—wary, trembling, but still capable of curiosity. “Three?”

“Soonie. Doongie. Dori,” he says. “They're spoiled. Judgmental. Loud as hell.” His tone doesn’t change. Still calm. Still flat. But there’s something careful behind it. Like he’s offering you a rope. Something to hold onto. Something that doesn’t smell like sweat and fear and everything you just ran from.

You nod. Just once. And somehow, that’s enough.

His apartment is small. Not cramped, not cold—just lived-in. Clean in that intentional way, like someone takes pride in it but doesn't obsess. The floors are wood, soft under your bare feet when you kick off your heels by the door. The kitchen glows faintly from the under-cabinet lights he left on, casting long amber streaks across the floor.

And the cats… the cats are waiting.

One sits perched on the back of the couch like he owns the place—which, judging by the scratch marks in the armrest, he might. Another peeks out from under the coffee table. The third appears from the hallway, tail high, meowing like you’ve personally offended him by existing.

You blink again.

“They’re boys,” Minho explains as he hangs his keys. “But they act like little old ladies. Dori’s the mouthy one.”

The meowing continues. A chorus now. You’re too stunned to respond at first. But then—Doongie, maybe?—pads up to you with those wide, judgmental eyes and headbutts your calf like it’s his god-given right.

Something inside you breaks. Not in the sharp, painful way. Not like at the club. No. This is different. This is soft. Shaky. This is the moment your body decides it’s safe enough to start crumbling. You crouch down—slow, careful—and let your fingers curl into his fur.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until you feel it drip from your chin. Until your breath stutters. Until you fold over completely, arms wrapped around a cat who didn’t ask for this, face pressed into the warm softness of something alive and gentle.

Minho doesn’t say anything. He doesn't touch you. You feel him move quietly behind you—setting a glass of water on the coffee table, flicking off the main lights until only the soft kitchen glow remains. And then… he just sits. A few feet away. Cross-legged on the floor, still in his black button-up and rolled sleeves, watching you like you’re made of glass and still trying to figure out if the cracks were already there.

You stay curled there on the floor for a while—knees tucked beneath you, fingers knotted in soft fur, cheek pressed to Doongie’s side like it might anchor you to something solid.

The apartment is quiet, save for the occasional swish of a tail or soft thump of paws. You can feel the warmth of Minho’s presence without looking at him. He doesn’t crowd you. Doesn’t try to fix it. Just stays—close enough that you don’t feel alone, far enough that you don’t feel trapped.

Eventually, your breath starts to come steadier. The shaking dulls. And when you finally lift your head, cheeks sticky with dried tears and eyes too tired to hold anything else, he’s still there—arms resting loosely over his knees, gaze steady. You wipe at your face with the back of your hand, half-laughing, half-apologizing.

“Sorry,” you murmur, voice rough. “I didn’t mean to—fall apart all over your cat.”

Minho shrugs. “He probably liked it.”

You snort, exhausted. “He’s purring.”

“Doongie’s kind of a slut for attention.”

You laugh—a real one this time, hoarse and soft—and drag your fingers through Doongie’s fur once more before sitting up straighter, wiping your cheeks with the sleeve of your dress.

Minho stands slowly, careful not to startle the moment, and disappears into the hallway without a word. A minute later, he’s back, holding a folded bundle in his arms—what looks like a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie so worn it’s probably been through a hundred washes. He sets them gently on the arm of the couch beside you.

“Shower’s through there,” he says, nodding toward the narrow hallway. “First door on the right. Towels are on the rack. The water takes a second to heat up.”

You blink up at him, the offer settling slowly over you like warmth. He doesn't say you look like a mess. Doesn’t tell you to clean yourself up. Just offers you comfort in the quietest way he knows how. You nod.

The bathroom is small, clean, and filled with that same soft golden light that seems to follow him everywhere. You peel yourself out of your dress, step under the spray, and let the steam unwind you. It’s the first time all night you feel like you’re breathing in something clean. Like maybe there’s still space in your skin for something that isn’t fear.

You stay until the water starts to run cold. When you finally step out, dressed in his clothes, skin still damp and flushed from the heat, your heart thuds with a strange, fragile kind of relief.

And then you see it.

The couch. The cushions have been cleared, a blanket folded neatly at the foot, pillow fluffed, a glass of water on the side table. One of the cats is curled up like a sentry near the armrest, blinking at you lazily as if to say it’s fine now.

You stare for a second. Because it’s not just that he made up the couch. It’s that he didn’t assume. Didn’t point you toward his bed. Didn’t insist. Didn’t press. He just knew.

You sit down slowly, tucking the blanket over your legs, body sinking into the cushions like they were waiting for you.

Minho reappears from the hallway, already dressed down—black joggers, a loose hoodie hanging off one shoulder, hair damp like he rinsed off too. He gestures toward the light. “You good if I kill this?”

You nod. He flips the switch. The room dims. He doesn’t say goodnight. Doesn’t do the awkward lingering thing. He just turns, quiet as always, and heads for his bedroom.

And for a moment, you let him go.

For a moment, you think it’s fine. But the second the door clicks shut, something tightens in your chest. Your breath catches. Your pulse jumps. That same fear from earlier curls back in under your skin—not loud, not sharp. Just a whisper now. A what if. What if he comes back. What if he finds out where you went. What if this silence isn't safety at all, but the space before another breaking point.

You sit up. “Minho?”

A beat. His door opens again. The light from his room spills into the hall. He’s already halfway back into the living room when he says, “Yeah?”

Your throat works around the words. They feel small. Silly. Needful. But you say them anyway. “Can you stay?”

He pauses. Looks at you. And you can tell—he knows. Knows exactly what you mean. Knows it’s not about him. Not about company. Not about flirting or closeness or warmth. It’s about safety. It’s about knowing the world can’t get to you if he’s there. He doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t make a sound. Just disappears for a second, then comes back with two blankets folded under one arm and a spare pillow under the other. He drops them on the floor beside the couch, shrugs out of his hoodie, and settles down without a word.

The hoodie slips off his shoulders in one smooth motion, revealing the thin black tank top underneath—clinging just enough to map the sharp cut of his collarbones, the slope of his shoulders.

You don’t mean to stare.

But the fabric hangs loose at the chest, dipping just low enough to expose the curve of ink over his left pectoral—black lines disappearing into shadow, something abstract and intricate. Just a glimpse. Just enough to wonder what the rest of it looks like when he breathes.

Minho doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s just too tired—or too gracious—to call you on it.

He lies on his back beside the couch, one arm tucked under his head, the other draped loosely over his stomach. Doongie circles once on the rug, then collapses beside him like a guard, chin resting on his forearm.

You turn onto your side. The room is still. Not quiet—still. Like the air itself is holding its breath. You don’t sleep. You can’t. Not with the phantom heat of a hand still lingering on your face. Not with the aftershocks of fear still curling around your ribs. Not with the weight of this unfamiliar kindness just a few feet away, warm and steady and unearned.

So you watch him. And eventually, he turns his head. Eyes open. Heavy-lidded but focused. A slow drag up your face. Your cheekbone. The faint shadow blooming just below your temple. His jaw ticks, subtle but sharp, and he doesn’t look away. You don’t flinch.

“Didn’t know you had a tattoo,” you whisper.

He blinks. Like the words take a second to land. “Mm.”

His gaze flicks down briefly—to where the fabric clings to his chest, then back to your face. There’s no smirk, no warning, just a shift in the air, like gravity tilting. “Wanna see it?”

The question isn’t loaded. It’s not teasing. It just is. You nod. Minho sits up slowly, one hand tugging at the hem of his tank top. The fabric slides up and over his head in one clean motion, soft and soundless. He tosses it to the side and leans back on his elbows, the muscles in his arms flexing, loose and languid.

The tattoo stretches across the left side of his chest—black ink, fine lines, bold shapes. It isn’t a compass. It’s a storm. A swirl of wind and waves, jagged mountains etched in silhouette. At its center, the faint outline of a wing—fractured and rising, like something caught between ruin and flight. The ink moves with him, flexes when he breathes, like it’s alive beneath his skin.

You stare.

Not because it’s beautiful—though it is—but because it feels right on him. Like he was born with it. Like whatever storm he came from left its mark on the inside first, and this was just its echo.

Your hand moves before you can stop it.

Slowly, like reaching for fire. Like asking for permission with the space between your fingers. When you don’t meet resistance, you touch him.

Just a single point at first—your fingertip landing lightly on the edge of the wing, where ink meets skin just beneath his collarbone. His breath hitches, subtle but real, a flicker of tension in his chest. You feel it before you hear it. Then you trace. Softly. Reverently. Down the curve of the wing, across the stormline where jagged wind spirals out into broken waves.

Your touch drags slow, deliberate, following the black lines like you’re learning a language. One that only his body speaks. Minho doesn’t move. He just watches you. The way your lashes lower, the way your lips part slightly like you’re holding your breath for him. The silence between you is thick but not heavy—dense with something neither of you are ready to name.

When your finger glides over the highest peak—inked mountain just above his heart—his head tilts back slightly, like the contact pulls something from him. His throat bobs with the swallow he doesn’t bother to hide. You pause. Right over his heart now. The skin is warm. Steady. And for a second, the storm beneath your own ribs goes quiet—like his rhythm tames yours without trying. He exhales.

His eyes flutter shut for a beat, then open again—slow, measured. He looks at you like you’ve unraveled something in him, like your touch left ink on him instead. But when his gaze drops lower, it changes. Softens. Darkens. And then his hand moves. Carefully. Cautiously. Like he’s seen too many things break when touched too fast.

He lifts it to your face, the backs of his fingers ghosting along your jaw—light enough to be mistaken for air. He doesn’t go straight for the bruise. He lingers near it, watching you, waiting for the slightest sign of retreat.

You don’t give it.

So he shifts—just slightly—until his knuckles brush the edge of the swelling beneath your eye. You flinch. Not because of the pain. Not because it hurts. Because of how gentle it is. Like he’s afraid to hurt you, like he doesn’t know how to hold something unless he’s sure it won’t shatter. Like he wants to carve your bruises from your skin and wear them instead. His fingers hover there. Still. Tense. A breath away from trembling.

“Fucker’s lucky I wasn’t there,” he murmurs.

You inhale—slow, shallow. The air catches in your throat like it’s thick with something unspoken, something too big to name. Minho’s hand starts to pull back. And maybe that’s why you speak. Maybe that’s why you reach for something else, anything else, before the room folds in too tightly.

“So,” you say, voice barely above a whisper, “that tattoo.”

Minho pauses. Just for a moment. His eyes flick back to yours, and he knows what you’re doing. Of course he does. The deflection is transparent, but he lets it happen anyway—lets you steer them away from the heaviness still clinging to your skin like ash.

“What about it?” he murmurs, settling back on his elbow, the other hand now resting on his chest near the ink you traced. You mirror him slightly, folding into the edge of the couch, letting your cheek rest against the pillow, eyes fixed on the storm etched into his skin.

“The wing,” you say after a beat. “In the center. What’s it mean?”

He’s quiet for a second.

Then: “Freedom.”

You blink. “It’s broken.”

His mouth quirks—barely a smile, not quite bitter. “Yeah. It usually is.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you say nothing. Just let your gaze trace the peaks and spirals, the places where black lines blur like smoke, the edges of him carved in ink instead of bruises. His body tells a story too. You just haven’t read all the pages yet.

Minho shifts again, slowly lying back down on the floor, the side of his arm brushing the base of the couch now. You're above him on the couch, laying on your side so you can look at him.

“You can ask,” he says softly.

“About the tattoo?”

“About anything.”

You hum—soft, skeptical. The kind of sound that curls into the quiet and lingers, not quite a no, not quite a yes. You’re tired now. The real kind. The kind that settles into your limbs like gravity, like wet sand. Your eyes flutter half-shut, your voice feather-light.

“That sounds dangerous.”

Minho lets out a low exhale, something between a laugh and a sigh.

"Maybe.”

Your gaze slips to his again—his eyes open, trained on the ceiling like the answers might be there if he stares hard enough. One hand still rests loosely over his chest, the other pressed against your cheek.

You reach for it. Not with purpose. Not even with need. Just because it’s there. Because it feels like the thing to do.

Your fingertips graze his, gentle, thoughtless. And then his hand shifts—just slightly—so his pinky catches yours. Hooks. Holds.

It’s not a kiss. It’s not a confession.

But it feels like both.

You don’t speak for a while. Don’t need to.

The silence feels clean now. Like rain after smoke. Like you could fall asleep inside it without drowning.

Minho doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe too loud. Just lets you anchor there—your hand half-curled over his, your lashes brushing your cheek as your eyes slip closed.

But then, soft and slurred, half-dreaming:

“You have a nice voice.”

You feel his hand twitch. Just a little.

“Yeah?” he says, and it’s quieter than anything else he’s said tonight—rough around the edges like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the compliment.

You nod against the pillow. “Mhm.”

There’s a beat.

“You’ve heard me say some pretty fucked-up things.”

A ghost of a smile tugs at your lips. “Have I?”

He huffs a breath—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. Just a sound with history behind it. With edge. With weight.

“Don’t play innocent,” he murmurs. “You remember.”

You do.

Of course you do.

Words like silk and smoke, coiled tight with implication. The things he said across the bar, into your drink, into your skin without ever laying a hand on you.

You remember all of them.

But you’re tired. Softened. And the edges of those memories feel dulled now—faded by warmth and flannel and the rhythm of his breathing a few feet from your chest.

So you hum again, lashes still pressed to your cheeks. “They didn’t sound fucked-up at the time.”

Minho’s quiet for a while after that. The kind of quiet that hums.

You can feel it in the space between your bodies—how the air thickens again, but not with tension. With memory. With the weight of everything you haven’t said and the things you probably never will.

“That’s the problem,” he says eventually, voice low enough that you almost miss it.

Your eyes open again. Just barely. The room is still steeped in shadow, but your vision finds him easy—half-lit, half-lost in the floor beside the couch. One arm tucked beneath his head, the other still tethered to yours.

You study the line of his jaw, the way it tenses and relaxes like he’s caught between restraint and regret. He’s not looking at you anymore. Just staring at the ceiling again, like maybe it’ll answer for him this time.

“You say that like you’re proud of it,” you murmur.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk. Just exhales, rough and dry.

“No,” he says. “I say it like I don’t know how to stop.”

That hurts in a way you didn’t expect. Not because of what he said—but because of the way he said it. Like a flaw in the foundation. Like a truth carved into him long before you ever stepped foot inside that bar.

You shift a little, turning more fully toward him, cheek pressed deeper into the pillow. Your fingers are still slotted with his. His skin is warm. Callused at the tips.

“You don’t have to stop,” you say quietly. “Just don’t lie about what you mean.”

That gets him.

His gaze flicks to yours—fast, sharp. Like he wasn’t expecting that. Like no one’s ever said it to him quite like that before.

“I never lied,” he says.

You blink at him. Slow. Sleepy. “No. But you hide.”

Minho doesn’t answer. Just watches you. Face unreadable. Chest rising slow beneath the ink on his skin.

And then, almost too soft to hear:

“I don’t want to scare you.”

That makes you pause. The silence stretches thin and long between you.

“You don’t.”

Minho swallows. His thumb brushes, barely, against your knuckle.

“Not yet.”

You shake your head. Your voice is nearly gone now—nothing but a breath. “I think I’m harder to scare than you think.”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Not quite not.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “I’m starting to believe that.”

The air settles again. Like the truth came in and made itself comfortable.

You close your eyes, finally letting your body sink into the couch. Letting the warmth of him—his hand, his presence, his voice—press into all the places that still feel fragile.

“Don’t stop talking,” you whisper.

He blinks. “What?”

“Your voice,” you murmur, already half gone. “It’s nice. It helps.”

And when you drift off like that—quiet, safe, held by nothing more than the sound of him—Minho stays awake long after. Eyes on the ceiling.

Still talking.

Just in case you can still hear him.

You wake to the scent of coffee and something faintly savory—garlic maybe, or eggs. The couch beneath you is warm where your body curled into it, blanket tangled around your legs. A cat is pressed to your ribs like a living paperweight, tail flicking once when you stir.

For a moment, you forget where you are. Forget what happened. Forget him.

Then the ache hits. Dull and deep, low in your chest and blooming outward. You shift to sit up, and it all comes back.

The club. The hands. The words.

The running.

And then—Minho.

His apartment is quiet now, but not empty. There’s music playing low from somewhere down the hall. You follow the sound on slow feet, dragging the blanket with you like armor.

You find him in the kitchen, barefoot in gray sweatpants and a loose black t-shirt, sleeves pushed up. He’s at the stove, spatula in one hand, coffee mug in the other. There’s a pan of eggs on the burner. A second mug waiting beside the sink.

He doesn’t turn when you enter. Just glances over his shoulder and says, “Mornin’.”

His voice is rough with sleep. Deeper. It hits somewhere low in your spine.

You hover at the doorway, feeling small in his clothes—his hoodie draped over your frame, sleeves too long, the hem brushing your thighs.

“You didn’t have to—”

“Making breakfast,” he says, cutting you off with casual finality. “You still eat, right?”

You blink. “I… yeah.”

“Good.” He turns back to the pan. “Then sit.”

You do. Quietly. At the counter, fingers curling around the warm ceramic of the mug he left for you. It smells like cinnamon.

He plates the eggs. Adds toast. Pushes the dish toward you and leans back against the counter with his own. He eats without looking at you at first, fork moving in clean, efficient motions.

When he does speak again, his voice is softer.

“You don’t have to go back.”

Your fork stalls halfway to your mouth.

“What?”

Minho lifts his gaze. Steady. Calm.

“I’m serious. If you don’t feel safe there…” He trails off, jaw tensing. “Stay here.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

He doesn’t let the silence stretch far.

“I’ve got room,” he adds. “Cats already like you. You don’t snore.”

That last part earns the smallest smile from you. “You don’t know that.”

“I was up half the night,” he says, mouth twitching. “I’d know.”

You look down at your plate, pretending to rearrange the toast like that’ll somehow buy you time to think. But the words—stay here—they’ve already lodged themselves under your ribs. Warm. Unexpected. Real.

And terrifying.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” you say finally. Quiet. Like if you speak too loud, you’ll ruin the softness of it all.

Minho sets his fork down.

The sound is soft, deliberate. When you glance up, he’s watching you again. Really watching—like he does when he’s about to say something that’ll cut deeper than you expect.

“You’re not.”

Just that. Nothing flowery. Nothing performative. Just the fact of it, laid bare on the table between you like it shouldn’t be questioned.

You want to believe him.

You almost do.

But then your fingers twitch near your coffee, and the pain in your face pulses a little sharper—pulling you back into the fragile ache of your own body. You shift to look away, to hide the swelling that’s bloomed across your cheekbone and down to your jaw.

But Minho doesn’t let you.

He moves around the counter slowly, like he’s trying not to spook you. His hand is warm when it finds your chin again—fingertips brushing along your jawline, coaxing your face toward his. Gentle. Grounded.

“Let me see.”

You don’t pull away.

You don’t want to.

His thumb ghosts beneath your cheekbone, skimming over the darkened bloom that’s bloomed overnight. His brow furrows—not in pity, not even in anger. Just... stillness. A silence that hums with the kind of fury he’s learned how to wear like armor.

His voice is low when it comes.

“I hate that he touched you.”

You blink. Something thick swells in your throat, too full to swallow down.

“I hate that I didn’t find you first.”

That hits you harder than it should.

You try to speak—but your voice sticks somewhere behind your teeth. So you just nod, your cheek pressing into his palm like your body can answer for you.

Minho doesn’t let go—not yet. His fingers trail down to the edge of your neck, where the fabric of his hoodie pools at your collarbone. You’re not sure if he realizes how close he’s gotten. How the warmth of him wraps around you now, even without touching anything else.

“I want you to stay,” he says again, steady now. “Not because I feel bad. Not because you need help. I want you here.”

Your next breath comes too fast. Too shallow.

His thumb moves again—just a gentle stroke along your jaw.

“Say something,” he murmurs.

You breathe in once, shaky and thin. “Okay.”

The corners of his mouth pull—slow, subtle. Not quite a smile. Something quieter. Relief, maybe.

He lets your face go with that same care—like he’s afraid it’ll leave a mark if he’s not gentle enough. Then he steps back, returns to his plate, and picks up his fork again like he didn’t just hand you the softest kind of shelter.

You take another bite of your eggs.

They taste better than they should.

You don’t move in all at once.

There’s no official decision, no suitcase moment. Just the slow accumulation of things—your toothbrush beside his, a sock that somehow never made its way back into your bag, a t-shirt folded neatly at the foot of the bed that you don’t remember taking off. A rhythm forms. One that begins with his voice in the morning—low, rough, coffee-laced—and ends with the soft click of the front door when he comes home from the bar past midnight, thinking you’re asleep.

You never are.

The apartment starts to feel different. Lived-in. Yours, even if you never say it out loud. Your shoes by the door. Your laughter echoing off the tile. Your perfume clinging to his sheets like memory.

Minho doesn’t comment. Not once. He just starts making a second cup of coffee without asking. Starts keeping almond milk in the fridge. Throws your laundry in with his like it’s never been separate.

And you—you watch him fall into it as easy as breath.

He moves through the apartment like smoke. Silent, confident, present in ways you’ve never been used to. There’s no performance with him, no empty gestures. If he folds your towel, it’s because it needed folding. If he brings home your favorite tea, it’s because he remembered. And if he looks at you too long in the mirror while you brush your teeth, it’s because he wants to, not because he expects anything in return.

One night, he comes home late. The bar ran over, and the cats had started pacing like they could feel the quiet shift without him. You’re curled on the couch in one of his hoodies, a half-finished movie playing on low, just waiting for the lock to turn. When it does, and he steps inside—shoulders drawn, eyes tired, the scent of smoke and whiskey clinging to him—you don’t say anything at first.

Just watch him.

He slips off his boots. Shrugs off his jacket. Walks into the kitchen and pours a glass of water like he’s not sure how to be here yet.

Then he grabs the pack from the counter.

You sit up.

“Minho.”

He pauses. Doesn’t look at you.

You rise slowly, tugging the sleeves of the hoodie over your hands, padding barefoot to meet him.

“You said you were trying to quit.”

“I am.”

“You’re also lighting a cigarette at midnight.”

He exhales through his nose. Tired. “Rough night.”

You stop just short of the threshold between the hallway and the kitchen, bare toes curling against the tile, the silence stretching taut between you.

“Want to talk about it?” you ask softly.

“No,” he says.

Not harsh. Not clipped. Just final.

Minho pulls the cigarette from the pack with that same familiar motion—two fingers, flick of the wrist. The sound of the lighter clicks once, twice, before the flame catches. He doesn't look at you as he inhales, jaw tight, lashes low. The cherry glows in the dim.

You wrap your arms around yourself.

He leans against the counter, exhales slow, smoke curling up toward the ceiling. It swirls around the line of his jaw, catches the faint sheen of sweat at his temples, clings to him like it’s part of his skin.

You hate how good he looks like this. Angry. Quiet. Unreachable.

But you hate more that you can’t reach him.

“Was it something at the bar?”

His lips twitch. He doesn’t answer.

You step closer, voice gentler now. “You don’t have to carry it alone, you know.”

“I’m not,” he says. Still not looking at you. “I’m carrying it just fine.”

You frown.

“Minho—”

“I said I’m fine,” he snaps.

And this time, it is clipped. Sharp. The kind of sharp that cuts more than it means to. He finally looks at you then—eyes rimmed with something hot and unreadable, mouth hard.

The silence that follows is cold.

You shift your weight, wounded but trying not to show it. “Okay.”

Minho’s jaw ticks. Like he wants to take it back, but doesn’t know how. Like everything in him is fraying at the edges, and you just happened to be the softest thing close enough to get caught in it.

He curses under his breath. Stubs the cigarette out halfway through, presses the filter down into the tray until it smears.

Then, quieter: “It’s not you.”

“I know.”

He runs a hand down his face, palm dragging hard across his mouth like he’s trying to erase himself. Then he sighs and looks at you—really looks at you. The hoodie swallowed around your frame. The bare legs. The worry softening your brow.

His voice breaks a little on the next part.

“Had a guy come into the bar tonight. One of those types—smiles too wide, looks through women instead of at them. He kept cornering this girl, leaning over the counter, asking me why I gave a shit when I told him to back off.”

You say nothing. Just listen.

Minho swallows. “He called me a cockblock. Said I must’ve been jealous.” His gaze drops, eyes narrowing. “Said I looked like the kind of guy who watches.”

You don’t interrupt.

“He grabbed her arm when she tried to leave. Wouldn’t let go."

The words hang there. Not just what he’s saying—but why he’s saying it. You feel it bloom in your chest. Cold. Familiar.

You walk the last few feet.

He doesn’t stop you this time.

Your hand finds his wrist—warm, tense, still trembling slightly. You run your thumb over the bone there, grounding him.

“You’re not that kind of man.”

“I know,” he says. “But I wanted to be.”

That makes you pause.

He looks up. His voice is low. Bitter.

“I wanted to slam him into the bar. Make him bleed. Make him feel small. And the worst part?” A breathless laugh. “I would’ve enjoyed it.”

“I know,” you whisper. “But you didn’t.”

“Yeah, well. Doesn’t mean I didn’t want to.”

You squeeze his hand.

It’s quiet for a while. The kitchen lit only by the soft amber under the cabinets, casting warm shadows along the tile. The cats have settled somewhere in the living room. Even the city feels hushed.

He rubs his thumb over your palm absently.

Then, suddenly: “He looked at her the same way—”

He stops himself. His jaw locks.

You swallow.

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. You know.

And he knows you know.

So you step closer. Gently. Carefully. Press your forehead to his shoulder, breathing him in—smoke and soap and something like home. You pluck the cigarette from his lips and he lets you, watches as you toss it into the sink.

“Come to bed,” you murmur.

He doesn't move.

You tug on his hand again. “Please.”

Minho glances at you—eyes a little too tired, a little too dark—but he lets you guide him.

He doesn’t say much once you're in the bedroom. Just peels his shirt off and tosses it into the corner. You catch a glimpse of the tattoo on his chest again—the wing in the center of the storm, fractured, fighting to stay airborne.

You turn away to climb into bed, give him space.

But when you settle under the blanket, he’s already there. Already behind you. Warm and solid, arm slipping around your waist without hesitation. His chest to your back, his breath against your neck.

He’s quiet for a long time. And then:

“I hate that I couldn’t stop it. What happened to you.”

You close your eyes.

His fingers tighten slightly against your side. Not rough. Just firm. Just real.

“I think about it more than I should,” he murmurs. “What I’d do if I saw him again.”

You shift, just enough to feel him breathe differently—like your movement catches him off guard, like he wasn’t expecting you to respond. But you don’t turn around, not yet. You just let your voice slip into the quiet, soft and slow.

“What would you do?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then another.

His breath ghosts across your shoulder. “Don’t ask me that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’d scare you.”

His voice is quiet, but not gentle. Measured. Sharp at the edges like he’s spent all night filing it down.

You blink slowly into the dark, heart thudding, air thick between your bodies. You feel him behind you—warm, solid, tense. A wall at your back. A shield. A fuse.

“Tell me anyway,” you whisper.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t exhale.

And just when you think he might pretend he didn’t hear you, Minho speaks.

“I’d wait,” he says, voice low, words heavy like molasses. “Wouldn’t say anything. Wouldn’t warn him. Just watch. Let him come close. Let him think he could try again.”

Your breath catches.

His fingers curl slightly where they rest on your waist, grounding himself in the shape of you.

“Then I’d take his hand,” Minho murmurs, “the one he used on you, and I’d break every fucking finger. One by one. Slow. Make sure he remembered why.”

A chill snakes down your spine.

Not fear.

Just something colder. Older. Like someone had finally said the thing you weren’t allowed to say out loud. That it wasn’t okay. That it would never be okay.

“And when he screamed,” Minho continues, voice almost tender now, “I wouldn’t stop. I’d make sure he understood what it feels like to lose control. To be small. Helpless. The way he made you feel.”

You turn in his arms.

Slowly. Deliberately.

Face to face now.

His jaw is clenched. Eyes storm-dark. He looks dangerous like this. Not because he’s violent. But because he’s loyal. Because he means every word and there’s no drama in his voice—just truth. Cold and clean.

You reach for him without thinking.

Your hand moves to his face, fingers threading into the hair at his temple, thumb brushing the curve of his cheekbone like you’re trying to soothe something in him—or maybe in yourself. And Minho… he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t soften either. He just lets you hold him, lets your touch settle over the anger still thrumming in his bones like a warning bell that hasn’t stopped ringing.

“You wouldn’t scare me,” you whisper.

His brow twitches, just slightly. “You should be scared of a man who wants to hurt for you.”

“No.” You shake your head. “I’ve been scared before. You’re not that kind of man.”

His mouth parts. His breath hits your lips. The weight in his eyes shifts—something cracks beneath it. Not entirely. Just a fracture. A weakness. A truth.

“You don’t know what I’d do,” he murmurs.

You lean in, close enough that your breath brushes his skin when you speak.

“I don’t need to,” you whisper. “I know what you’ve already done.”

His brow furrows, but you go on—soft and steady, the words falling between you like they’ve been waiting for a place to land.

“You made space. You listened. You held me when I couldn’t hold myself. You let me have silence without asking for anything in return.” Your fingers press more firmly against his jaw, thumb brushing just below his lower lip. “That’s enough. That’s more than anyone else ever did.”

Minho’s eyes darken—not with lust—but with something thicker. Something closer to reverence. Like the weight of your trust is heavier than all the violence he ever imagined inflicting in your name.

His hand rises slowly, palm cupping your cheek with a gentleness that borders on fragile. His thumb swipes beneath your eye like he’s checking for something he missed.

“I don’t deserve that,” he says, voice raw.

“Maybe not,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to his. “But you have it.”

And that’s what breaks him.

Not dramatically. Not all at once.

Just enough to make him move.

Minho kisses you like he’s falling. Like he’s been holding himself upright for so long, he doesn’t remember what it feels like to give in. His mouth finds yours, and there’s no hesitation in it—only heat, only hunger. His tongue slides against yours with a quiet groan that vibrates in your chest.

You gasp softly when he pushes you back, his body pressing you into the mattress, weight balanced on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you. One hand slips under your shirt, fingers skimming up your ribs, pausing just beneath the curve of your breast.

He pulls back barely an inch, eyes flicking over your face like a question.

His breathing is uneven, but his touch isn't. His hand rests there—still beneath your shirt, just barely cradling your breast like he's not sure he deserves to hold anything so soft. So willing. His thumb strokes gently, slowly, and his eyes search yours like he's waiting for a line to cross. Or worse—waiting for you to pull away.

You don’t.

Instead, you reach for the hem of your shirt, dragging it up with trembling fingers. You don’t break eye contact. Don’t speak.

You just offer.

And Minho accepts.

He helps, silent, peeling it over your head with quiet reverence. He looks at you like you’re made of something rare and unrepeatable. And when his gaze drags over your chest, down the soft swell of your ribs to your stomach, he breathes your name like a confession.

His voice is wrecked when he says it—your name, cracked and reverent like he’s saying it for the first time. Like it’s a word he isn’t worthy of.

“Fuck, look at you.” His hands drag down your sides, slow and sure, palms wide and heavy like he’s trying to ground himself. He shifts over you, mouth lowering to your breast, and he moans as soon as his lips close around your nipple—no restraint, no performance. Just need. He sucks hard. Just once. Like he can’t help himself. Then he pulls back, panting, and shakes his head like he’s already losing it. “I’m not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that.”

You smile—lazy, wrecked, already warm all over—and tilt your head just enough for your lashes to sweep up, gaze locked on his. You reach for him, fingers trailing down his arm until your palm flattens against his chest, right over the fractured wing. “I’m not looking at you like anything,” you whisper.

Minho’s breath stutters—one of those shallow, fractured exhales that says he doesn’t believe you for a second. Not when your palm is flat against his chest, thumb grazing the tip of that wing inked over his heart. Not when your eyes look like that—half-lidded, dark, shining with something he’s not sure he deserves.

“Yeah,” he mutters, voice rough. “Keep lying to me.”

But he doesn’t pull away. He watches you. Watches the way your hand trails lower, slow and certain, down the cut of his abdomen. Fingertips ghosting over the faint dip of muscle, over the waistband of his pants, teasing the edge like you’re not sure yet—like he has any say in it anymore.

Minho goes still. Not because he doesn’t want it. God, he does. He’s so hard it hurts, cock straining against the fabric, already leaking for you. But there’s something in his face—tightness around the mouth, tension in his jaw. A flicker of control barely clinging to the edge. And you see it. You see all of it. So you press your lips to his collarbone—soft, reverent—and whisper, “Let me.”

Minho shudders. And then he nods. You sink down the bed a little, propping yourself on one elbow, other hand already slipping beneath his waistband. He lifts his hips to help, pants shoved just low enough to free him. His cock springs up, flushed and thick, tip slick with precome, veins standing in sharp relief.

“Jesus,” you murmur, fingers curling around the base. “You’re so hard…”

“Because of you,” he rasps. “You lying, teasing little thing—”

You give him a slow stroke, and he chokes.

You give him another stroke, tighter this time, and the sound he makes punches straight through you—low and ragged, a shattered groan caught in the back of his throat. His hips twitch, almost against his will, and you can feel the restraint vibrating through his body, every muscle tight like he’s on the verge of snapping.

“You’re shaking,” you whisper, almost teasing. “What happened to all that control?”

Minho laughs—just barely. Just a breath.

“Keep talking like that,” he mutters, “and I’ll ruin you before you even get the chance to try.”

But the way his eyes flutter shut when you twist your wrist on the upstroke says otherwise. “Hah—fuck—” He’s panting now, head tipped back, one arm holding himself up beside your head for support while the other fists the sheets like he needs something—anything—to hold onto.

You lean up, breath brushing the underside of his jaw, your voice soft and honey-sweet in his ear.

“You gonna beg for it?”

He freezes. His eyes snap open, and there’s something electric in the silence between you. His cock throbs in your hand, twitching like the idea alone nearly undid him. He turns his head slightly, lips brushing yours.

“Do you want me to?” he whispers.

You smile, smug and slow. “Wouldn’t hate it.”

He groans—deep, guttural, wrecked—and it makes your cunt clench. He looks like he could devour you whole, like he might if you ask nicely. Or if you don’t.

“I’d get on my fucking knees if you told me to,” he mutters, mouth moving along your jaw, your cheek, your throat. His hand finds your hip and grips, firm enough to bruise. “I’d crawl. I’d beg. I’d say please—is that what you want?”

You don’t answer. You just stroke him again—slow, tight, deliberate—and feel the way he shudders against you, how his whole body flinches like your hand alone is enough to wreck him.

“Mm— baby, slow down—fuck—” He buries his face in your neck, teeth grazing skin.

“I’ll give it to you,” he murmurs. “Anything. You want me desperate? Pathetic? Done. Just say it.”

You hum, soft and pleased, lips brushing his temple. “I think I like you pathetic.”

Minho groans—“Fuck, you’re evil,”—but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he sinks into it. Into you. Every stroke of your hand wrings another sound from his throat, each more desperate than the last.

You swipe your thumb over the slit, smear precum down the shaft, and his entire body jolts.

“Shit—don’t—f-fuck—”

“You gonna make a mess in my hand, baby?” you ask sweetly, tightening just a little. “Gonna come like this? Without even being inside me?”

He growls. “No.”

You blink up at him, lips parting in mock surprise. “No?”

Minho pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes absolutely wrecked. Hair messy, jaw clenched, throat flushed with effort. He’s trying so fucking hard not to lose it.

“I’m not coming until I’m inside you,” he says, voice low, dark, edged with pure hunger. “Until I’m fucking deep in that pretty cunt, feeling you squeeze me while I lose it. You think I can come just from your hand?”

He leans in, nose to yours, breath harsh. “I’d beg for the chance to do it right.”

You blink once. Then twice. Then you let go of his cock. Minho groans like it physically hurts.

“Then beg.” He stares at you. One long, heavy moment. Then he kneels back on his haunches, hands splayed on your thighs, and dips his head.

“Please.”

Just one word—but fuck, the way he says it. Voice hoarse, raw, like it’s scraped from the bottom of his chest. His lips graze the inside of your knee as he speaks again.

“Please, let me in. Let me fuck you slow. Let me feel you stretch around me.”

You exhale shakily.

He presses another kiss higher. “Let me make you come on my cock. Let me ruin you so good you forget anyone else ever touched you.”

Your thighs tremble. He reaches for your underwear, eyes flicking to yours for permission, and when you nod—barely, breathless—he tugs them down with reverence, slow enough to make you whimper.

Minho drags your underwear down your legs like it’s the last ribbon off a present, like beneath it is something he’s been waiting his whole life to unwrap. When the fabric slips past your ankles, he tosses it somewhere behind him without a glance. His gaze never leaves you. You’re already soaked.

He sees it—feels it when he runs two fingers through your folds, slow and deliberate, spreading you open with a breathless “fuck me.” His knuckles tremble.

He sees everything. Every flutter of your lashes, every twitch of your thighs, every slick sound his fingers make as they glide through you, slow and reverent. His knuckles tremble, but his touch doesn’t falter—not even a little. If anything, the way his hand moves only deepens, turns hungrier.

“Fuck me,” he breathes again. He parts you with two fingers, spreads your folds and watches your cunt clench on nothing, dripping for him, aching.

“Look at you,” he mutters, like he can’t help it. “So wet I can see my reflection. What the fuck did I do to deserve this?”

You’re panting now, back arching just slightly off the sheets, eyes half-lidded but fixed on him, on the way he looks at you like you’re something sacred and ruined all at once.

“Touch me,” you whisper. “Please.”

Minho sinks two fingers into you in one smooth stroke—slow, thick, curling just right until your breath hits the back of your throat. He groans, low and guttural, watching your cunt stretch around his fingers like it’s something holy.

“So fucking tight,” he grits out, voice wrecked. “How the fuck am I gonna fit my cock in you if you’re already this tight around my fingers?”

The question is low, more to himself than to you, but it rips through you like heat, like lightning. Your walls flutter helplessly around his fingers at the thought, and Minho groans—long, drawn out, wrecked.

“Oh, you like that,” he breathes. “You want me to stretch you open, don’t you?”

Your answer is a breathy whimper, more sound than word—your hips canting up, your fingers curling in the sheets. Minho watches you, chest rising and falling like he’s the one being touched, like you are the thing unraveling him.

“Fuck,” he hisses, and then he’s lining up. His cock drags through your folds, thick and flushed, already smeared with your slick. He grinds once—slow, deliberate—letting the head catch against your clit before slipping lower. When he presses in, the stretch burns, even as your cunt welcomes him, soaking and clenching and shaking just from the promise of it.

“Jesus—ngh, fuck—you’re tight,” he growls, jaw clenched, forehead tipped against yours. “Gonna ruin me.”

He gives you an inch. Then another. Then thrusts the rest of the way in with a groan that sounds like it’s been caged in his throat for weeks.

You cry out—sharp, startled, stretched to the brim in one sudden, devastating motion.

“Minho—”

“Shh,” he pants, not stopping. His hips roll into yours, hard and deep, dragging his cock through your walls like he’s trying to etch himself into them. “You can take it. I know you can. Look at you—fuck—made for this.”

The first few thrusts are brutal. Snapping, deliberate, filthy. Your thighs tremble. Your back arches. He pins your hips down like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t keep you there. Every time he sinks back in, your breath knocks out of your lungs, and his name falls from your lips like a prayer—wrecked, endless, real.

“Just like that,” he grits, cock dragging against your walls, soaked in you. “Let me fuck it into you—let me make you feel me.”

But then— Then he slows. Not because he has to. Because he wants to. Because he wants to feel all of it. His hand slides under your thigh, hikes your leg higher around his waist, and he sinks into you again—slower this time. Deeper. His hips roll instead of snap, the rhythm shifting into something that feels closer to worship than fucking.

He fucks into you slow, deep—each thrust wringing a breathy moan from your throat, each drag of his cock carving his name deeper into the heat of you. The sweat on his skin glistens under the low light, hair clinging to his forehead, jaw tight with effort and restraint. You’re clinging to him now—arms looped around his shoulders, nails dragging across his back, body arching to meet every roll of his hips. And then he says it—low, ragged, right in your ear.

“Feel good?”

You gasp, nod, whisper-plead a breathless “Yes.”

He hums—a soft, dark thing, almost smug. He thrusts a little harder, just once, like a reward, like a test. “Yeah?” he pants. “How good? Tell me."

You try—but your voice catches. It’s just air at first, punched out of you by the deliberate grind of his hips, by the thick, aching stretch of him moving so slowly inside you you could scream. You manage a broken, breathy sound: “So—fuck—so good…”

And Minho groans. Long, low, full of grit. He kisses your jaw, your cheek, your lips—messy, hot, open-mouthed. His breath fans against your skin as he mutters, “That all you’ve got for me, baby?”

You dig your nails in—fuck him, he knows what he’s doing. He knows exactly how good he feels, the way his cock strokes that spot just right, again and again, with filthy precision. The way his hand curls around your thigh to keep you spread for him, to keep you right there

You whimper his name—soft, ruined—like it’s the only word you remember, and he groans, sharp and deep, lips dragging along the sweat-slick curve of your throat.

“God, you feel—” he pants, voice splintered, barely holding. “You feel so fucking good, baby. You’re so tight, so warm, you—fuck, you ruin me.”

Another thrust—slow, deep, devastating—and your head falls back against the pillow, mouth open in a silent cry. Minho watches your face twist, watches your chest heave, and it breaks something in him.

“I—shit—I think I’m in love with you.”

It slips out like a sin. Like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. Like he couldn’t hold it in one second longer.

Your whole body goes still beneath him—just for a moment. Like your brain’s catching up. Like his words are a second kind of penetration, sharp and unexpected. He freezes, too. Breath held. Eyes wide. The moment burns.

And then you whisper, broken and trembling: “Say it again.”

Minho doesn’t hesitate this time. “I love you.”

He moans it into your mouth, like it hurts to say, like it hurts more not to. His hand slides up your side, tender now, reverent.

“I fucking love you,” he says again, forehead pressed to yours, hips still rolling deep, slow, full of everything he never knew how to say before now.

“You hear me? You’re not just someone I fuck, you’re—god, you’re everything.”

Your lips part—words rising up like breath, like instinct—but you don’t get the chance.

Minho kisses you before you can speak.

Not soft. Not tentative. It’s all tongue and teeth, heat and hunger, the kind of kiss that steals thought and gives only feeling in return. His mouth crashes into yours like he’s been starving for it—like he’s still starving, even now, with his cock buried deep inside you and your body curled so sweetly beneath his.

You gasp into him, and he drinks it down—tongue licking into your mouth, filthy and tender and real.

And then it’s all friction.

The slow roll of his hips turns urgent, dragging moans from your throat he swallows between kisses. He fucks into you like he means it now—like every thrust is a promise carved into your bones. You cling to him, helpless against the way your body arches, the way your cunt tightens around him, soaked and pulsing, every nerve on fire.

“M-Min—hah—Minho—”

He pulls back just long enough to look at you—just long enough to let you see how wrecked he is, how far gone, how in it he is with you.

“You’re mine,” he pants, voice rough and wrecked, thrusts hitting deeper now, harder, his hand gripping your thigh to keep you open for him. “You hear me? Say it.”

You nod, broken. “Yours—fuck, I’m yours—”

And that’s all he needed.

He groans—loud, guttural—and buries himself deeper, cock twitching as he fucks you through it. His thrusts lose rhythm, chasing his high, and you’re barely hanging on, every drag of him inside you rubbing all the right places, the sweet heat spiraling again in your belly.

You’re both so close. So close.

And when you come again—tight and soaked and shaking all around him—he feels it. Feels you flutter and pull and milk him until he can’t hold back anymore.

He buries his face in your neck, gasping your name as he spills inside you, hips stuttering, voice wrecked.

“I love you—fuck—I love you, I love you—”

It’s not gentle when he comes.

It’s everything.

And when the tremors subside, when your nails loosen from his back and your breaths sync again, he still doesn’t let you speak.

Not yet.

He just kisses you.

And kisses you.

You learn something about Minho that night. That as nonchalant and unshakable as he seems—cool and composed, cigarette smoke and sharp tongues—when he gets going, he doesn’t stop. Not until you’re crying his name again. Not until your thighs tremble and your voice is wrecked and your body’s too boneless to beg for more, even though your eyes still plead with him.

You lose track of how many times.

The night runs long and slow and molten—fucking turns to touching, touching turns to laughing, and every kiss feels like a secret passed between mouths.

Now, the room is quiet again. Still.

You’re sprawled across the sheets, skin bare, limbs warm and heavy with exhaustion. The duvet’s been kicked down to your ankles, your body slick with the soft sheen of sweat, your chest rising in steady, sated waves.

Minho is gone—but only for a second.

You hear the quiet thud of the fridge door, the sound of a glass under the tap. When he returns, he’s shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, and he’s holding out a glass of water like it’s some sacred offering.

“Drink,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and sex. You sit up just enough to take it, careful not to meet his eyes at first—and then you see them.

The marks. Dark smudges blooming across the sharp cut of his hips. Nail trails raked down the meat of his shoulders. A bite on his collarbone, faint and already bruising. All yours. And suddenly you feel… Shy.

You didn’t before—when his mouth was on you, when his hands were everywhere, when your back arched and you begged him not to stop. But now, in the soft quiet, with morning somewhere close on the horizon, it hits you. So you reach for the blanket, dragging it up your chest like modesty matters, like you didn’t spend the whole night unraveling beneath him.

Minho sees. Of course he sees.

And he smiles.

That slow, crooked thing. The one that doesn’t show teeth but somehow says everything.

“Oh?” he murmurs, placing the water on the nightstand before crawling back into bed. “Now you’re shy?”

You don’t answer. Just burrow into the pillow, cheeks hot. He slips beneath the duvet anyway—doesn’t give you a choice. Just tugs it down again with a smug little hum, eyes flicking across your face like he’s trying to memorize the exact shade of your embarrassment.

“I like the marks,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. “Wish you’d left more.”

You blink at him. He just keeps going—slow, lazy kisses trailed down your arm, his body curling around yours like he can’t bear the distance. One arm loops under your waist. The other hooks over your thigh. And then he’s half on top of you, all weight and warmth and him. Clingy.

He tucks his face into your neck like it’s the only place he knows how to breathe. His nose nuzzles behind your ear, lips brushing the shell of it when he speaks again—low, slurred, thick with sleep and smugness.

“Gonna have to start wearing long sleeves to work.”

You choke on a breath, eyes fluttering open. “Because of me?”

“Mm.” He kisses your jaw. “Unless I want to get fired.”

You raise an eyebrow. "You work at a bar, not an office."

“Yeah,” Minho hums, lazy and amused. “But people tip more when I’m unmarked.”

The words slip out casual, offhand—like a throwaway comment he doesn’t mean anything by.

But your smile falters anyway.

Just a flicker. Just enough for him to see it.

You shift beneath him, eyes drifting away, teeth catching your lower lip before you can stop the twist of something sour in your gut. You don’t say anything—not right away—but your silence says enough.

Minho stills.

Then lifts his head, just barely, so he can see your face.

“Hey.”

You blink up at him, startled by the sudden seriousness in his voice.

“Does it bother you?” he asks, tone low. Honest. “Because I’ll quit.”

Your heart stutters.

“What?”

“I mean it.” His hand slides up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “If you don’t like it—me working there, people flirting, whatever—I’ll quit. I don’t give a fuck about the tips.”

You open your mouth, but he cuts you off before you can answer.

“I only took that job to kill time. To pay rent. But you—” His brow furrows. “You’re not something I’m willing to risk for a few extra bills thrown in a jar.”

You swallow hard.

He watches you.

Your eyes search his face—his furrowed brow, the firm set of his mouth, the dark smudge of sleep still softening the corners of his eyes—and there’s no doubt. No teasing in his voice, no smirk on his lips. Just Minho. Serious. Steady. Unflinching in his honesty.

“I’d rather be yours than anyone’s favorite bartender,” he says, quieter this time.

Your throat tightens.

And for a second, you can’t speak. You can only stare, caught between the weight of his words and the way his fingers stay curled so gently around your jaw—like you might vanish if he lets go.

You whisper, “I don’t want you to quit.”

He waits.

You blink slowly, pulling in a breath thick with the scent of him, the warmth of his body still heavy across yours. “I just didn’t like the idea of someone else looking at you like I look at you.”

Minho’s expression shifts—barely, but you feel it. Something in his chest loosens. His eyes soften, flicking between yours.

“No one else gets to,” he says simply. “Not anymore.”

You exhale, shaky with something that feels suspiciously close to relief. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He leans down, brushes his lips against yours—so soft, so sure. “They can look all they want. But I go home with your marks on me. I come home to you.”

Your pulse trips. Your hand fists the sheets at your side, but he feels it. Feels the way the tension bleeds out of you when he says it like that. Like a promise.

And then he flops on top of you.

Dead weight. Limbs loose. Hair flopping messily across his forehead as he buries his face in your chest with a dramatic sigh.

You laugh, startled. “Minho!”

“Mmm,” he grunts, nuzzling between your breasts. “Too early for serious talks. Thought we were in our post-sex cuddling era.”

You squirm under the sudden weight, still giggling, breath hitching when his cheek brushes the swell of your breast. “We can’t be in our post-sex cuddling era if you suffocate me in it.”

He hums again. Doesn’t move.

Just slings an arm over your ribs like a human paperweight, sighs through his nose like he’s never been more at peace. “Shhh,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. “You love it.”

You do.

You really, really do.

You let your fingers find his hair, carding gently through the tangled strands at his nape. He melts into it, chest rising and falling slow against your stomach. The silence between you stretches—soft, golden, alive with the echo of everything that came before. Of everything that now lingers.

Minho doesn’t say anything else for a while. He just breathes you in. Lets you trace lazy shapes along his spine. Lets his lips ghost across your skin every now and then, aimless, unthinking. Like he needs the taste of you to fall asleep.

Eventually, you murmur, “You’re not really gonna wear long sleeves, are you?”

He snorts into your chest. “Hell no.”

“Good,” you whisper.

He hums again, content. Almost purring.

Then, after a beat: “Might even go shirtless.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Mmhmm.” His voice is muffled against your skin, low and lazy. “Let ‘em see everything. Let ‘em know I’m taken. Ruined. Whipped.”

You huff a laugh, warm and breathless, chest shifting beneath him. “You’re not whipped,” you tease, even though your heart trips a little at the word. The way he says it like a badge of honor, like something he wants people to know.

Minho doesn’t move. Doesn’t even lift his head.

“Babe,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin with every syllable, “I let you suck a bruise into my neck while my dick was still inside you. I think the jury’s in.”

Your face heats instantly. “Oh my god—”

He grins, smug and sleepy and so clearly unrepentant. “Should’ve taken a picture. Hung it behind the bar.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I’m so serious.” He nuzzles into your sternum, exhales a satisfied sigh. “Caption it: Do not touch. Fed and fucked.”

You groan, dragging a hand over your face. “You’re insane.”

He chuckles. “I’m in love.”

The words land softer than they should, but firmer than you'd expect. Not casual—comfortable. Like truth in its final form. And you feel it, all the way down: the weight of his affection, the certainty of it, so tangled up in the ridiculous things he says that it feels like breathing.

You wrap your arms around him, pulling him closer even though there’s nowhere left for him to go. “You’re still insane,” you whisper, lips pressed to his hairline.

“And you’re stuck with me.”

The truth of it rings out between you—not heavy, not sharp. Just there. Simple. Whole. You are. He is.

His fingers drum a slow beat against your ribs. He studies you for a second longer, then tucks himself back in, face hidden against your skin, every inch of him wrapped around you like a shield.

“Go to sleep,” he murmurs, already halfway there. “We can fall in love more tomorrow.”

You close your eyes.

And you do.

It’s been a few weeks.

A few golden, quiet, full-bodied weeks—where everything that once felt fragile now feels real. Whole. Yours.

Minho had asked you properly—booked out the bar for the night, turned the lights low, played your favorite song on vinyl, and gave you a private bartender show complete with one too many shirtless shaker tricks and your name carved into a lemon twist.

He cooked, too. And kissed you between courses. And pulled you into his lap to ask—not casually, not like it was assumed—if you’d be his girlfriend.

You said yes.

Of course you did.

And now you live together. Officially. Your clothes are in his drawers. His toothbrush sits next to yours. He makes you coffee and you fold his laundry and somewhere in the haze of shared spaces and soft kisses, you forgot what it felt like to flinch.

And then it happens fast.

One moment, you’re walking up the block—hands tucked into your sleeves, heart light from the texts Minho sent not even ten minutes ago.

[Minho] : hurry up[Minho] : wear that thing i like [Minho] : might be drunk by the time you get here if i keep taste-testing the menu

The bar’s glowing ahead, amber light spilling out of the windows like warmth. You’re already rehearsing the way you’ll slip onto a barstool, lean over the counter just far enough for him to grab your waist and kiss you across the spill mat—

You weren’t expecting him.

The ex.

Slurring your name like a threat. Blocking the sidewalk like a curse you thought you’d buried for good.

And for a second, it startles you. Not because you’re afraid—no, not anymore. But because how dare he.

How dare he still think he has access. How dare he act like the time you spent clawing your way out of the wreckage didn’t matter. Like the scars he left didn’t teach you how to fight.

You meet his stare.

Voice steady. “Get out of my way.”

“Oh, now you’ve got a mouth?” he slurs, taking a step forward. “What, dick that good it grew you a backbone?”

You don't flinch.

Not when he leans in, not when he sways close enough for you to smell the sour reek of alcohol clinging to his breath like bile. Not even when his voice drops lower, curling around your name like it still belongs to him.

It doesn't.

"You heard me," you say again, firmer this time. "Move."

But he doesn't. He laughs instead—ugly, mean, mouth curled in that old, familiar smirk that used to make your stomach sink.

Now it just makes you angry.

“You always thought you were better than me,” he sneers, stepping closer, invading your space like he owns it. “Acting like you're some fucking saint now, just ‘cause you got a new dick to suck—”

You move to sidestep him, but his hand shoots out—grabbing your wrist, hard.

Too hard.

You stumble back with a gasp, shoulder slamming into the brick wall of the alley beside the bar. Pain sparks up your arm, sharp and hot where his fingers dig into your skin.

"Let—go of me—"

He doesn't.

His grip tightens.

“Don’t fucking walk away from me—”

And then it happens in a blink.

A blur of dark hair, a sharp crack of movement, and suddenly your ex is off you, shoved back so fast and so hard he nearly falls into the curb. The momentum knocks him sideways, but he catches himself, stumbling back with a curse.

Minho steps between you.

Calm.

Controlled.

Lethal.

Minho’s voice is low. Measured.

“You have until the count of three.”

Your ex scoffs, bloodshot eyes narrowing. “The fuck are you gonna—”

“Three.”

No warning. No buildup.

Just violence.

Minho’s fist slams into his jaw with a sickening crack, the force of it snapping his head sideways. He stumbles—off-balance, stunned—but Minho doesn’t let up. Another punch, straight to the ribs, and you hear the breath leave his lungs in a strangled wheeze.

Your ex hits the ground hard.

But Minho’s not done.

He drops to one knee beside him—precise, deliberate—and grabs his hand.

The hand he used on you.

You freeze, breath caught in your throat.

Because you remember.

“Then I’d take his hand, the one he used on you, and I’d break every fucking finger. One by one. Slow. Make sure he remembered why.”

And now—

Now you watch it unfold in real time.

Minho takes that wrist in both hands, pins it to the pavement, and presses down—hard—until your ex screams.

“No—no, fuck—stop—!”

Minho’s grip doesn’t waver.

He curls his fingers around one of your ex’s.

“First one,” he mutters—almost gently. Like he’s naming something, not destroying it.

Then he bends.

The crack is sharp, grotesque. It splits the air like a firework misfired—brief and brutal and final.

Your ex howls, voice cracking as he thrashes beneath Minho’s knee, but it doesn’t matter. Minho doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch.

Just shifts to the next finger.

“Second.”

Another break. Another scream.

You don’t look away.

You should—maybe. A part of you knows that. But the rest of you, the part that remembers—remembers shaking hands, bruised ribs, the way your ex used to whisper apologies into your hair while you cried onto the bathroom tile—that part of you watches.

And breathes.

Minho leans closer.

Not loud. Not unhinged. Just cold.

“Third.”

Crack.

Your ex is crying now. Tears, snot, spit—he’s babbling nonsense, slurring pleads that dissolve into whimpers.

“Stop—please—I didn’t—fuck, I didn’t mean—”

Minho grabs the fourth finger. “You meant it every time.”

“Fourth,” he says, and the word falls like a guillotine.

He pulls.

The snap is quieter this time—deeper, more internal. A tendon giving way. A joint yanked cruelly from its socket. Your ex lets out a broken sound, not quite a scream anymore. Not loud. Just raw. Hollow. The kind of sound a man makes when he realizes no one’s coming to save him.

Minho still hasn’t raised his voice.

Hasn’t needed to.

Because this isn’t rage. It isn’t revenge.

It’s justice.

Delivered slow. Delivered steady. Delivered by the man who saw every crack in you and loved you anyway—especially because you survived them.

Minho shifts again.

“Fifth.”

“No,” your ex gasps, eyes rolling, lips slick with blood from where he must’ve bitten through them. “No—no more, I—please, please, I—”

But Minho’s hand is already there, curling around that last finger like a closing grave.

And this time, he doesn’t say anything.

He just looks at him—right in the eyes. Like he wants this to be the last thing your ex ever remembers when he reaches for something in the dark.

Then he snaps it clean.

The sound is sickening.

The scream is hoarse. Shredded. Barely human.

“Touch her again,” Minho murmurs, bending the wrist back until the guy writhes, “and I’ll break your fucking spine next.”

And finally—finally—Minho lets go.

He rises slowly, like he’s not rushing to leave the wreckage behind, like he wants your ex to feel every second of what it means to be beneath him. A shadow cast by justice. A reminder that some hands don’t heal—they answer.

He turns to you.

And all of it—the sharpness, the stillness, the steel in his spine—it bleeds away when his eyes meet yours.

He sees the shock there, the tremble hiding in your shoulders.

And he moves to you—not with fire this time, but with the same careful quiet he always gives you after storms. Hands gentle. Expression softer now, but no less certain.

“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your cheek.

You nod—but it’s shallow. Fragile.

So he cups your face in both hands, grounding you.

“Look at me,” he says. “You’re safe. You’re safe now.”

And you know it's true.

Because he is here.

Behind you, the sirens wail.

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