si-chen-g

[si-chen-g]

[si-chen-g]

things i know that i can't have

jake's life was hard enough before he fell for you—balancing uni, football, and being a good christian son. in some cruel twist of fate, sleeping with you has only made things harder—and, according to sunghoon (and scripture), damned him to hell the first time he thought about it.

pairing ✩ jake sim x fem!reader

genres: college au, (established) fwb to lovers, smut, fluff, angst

warnings: minors dni, mild religious exploration and guilt, strained parental relationship.......... deeply unserious and a bit melodramatic at times, jake's pov, jake crashes out every few paragraphs, football player jake (british), jakeyn are so nct dream (young and freaky), surface level gatsby analysis, creative liberties taken w the location of freshwater fish.. author loves jake so jake must suffer, and one peep show quote

word count: 33,666

playlist: ...what are we lizzy mcalpine, all my ghosts lizzy mcalpine, north clairo, 20191009 i like her mac demarco, 10:36 beabadoobee, lover/friend kaytranada and rochelle jordan

fic taglist: @heechwe @yunjardi @fancypeacepersona @skyearby @kimjkejyy @sanriowoozzz @ii-mimii @pochakkeu @xylatox @seung-log @anofi @immelissaaa @mssishipi @somuchdard @yuniesluv @m3wkledreamy @jakesimfromstatefarm

author's note: uhm.. if you have been tagged in this fic fifteen thousand times, i sincerely apologise 😭😭😭 the powers that be have been working against me, but im letting go and letting god 🤞 i had a lot of fun writing this and i hope you love bi disaster jesus lover jake as much as i do......i hope u all enjoy the fic! do let me know ur thoughts (positive only on this one), as always thank u emma for beta reading, miss u so bad :'(

But I say to you that everyone who looks at a woman with lustful intent has already committed adultery with her in his heart. If your right eye causes you to sin, tear it out and throw it away. For it is better that you lose one of your members than that your whole body be thrown into hell. And if your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away. For it is better that you lose one of your members than that your whole body go into hell. 

— Matthew 5:28-30, English Standard Version. 

There it is, in black and white—red and white, since Sunghoon has a red letter edition. Jake skims the passage again, certain words sticking out this time: lustful intent, adultery, with her. Underlined, italics and bold, like they could be missed. If only. It’s too late now; they’re etched on his retinas, branded on his skin. Lodged deep in his chest, taken root already. It hardly seems fair that a single thought could hold so much weight.

Or, in Jake’s case, many, many thoughts.

Shuddering, he closes the leather bound book softly, a slow exhale ripping out of him as he glances up at his best friend. “You mean I.. can’t even think about fucking her?” he whispers, brows touching in the middle.

A crack of thunder splits the air. Jake flinches. The sound lingers, rumbling over the grey sky. Meant for him. An answer from Heaven—from God Himself. Condemnation, more like. With bated breath, he turns his head slowly, expecting his judgment to be scrawled in the clouds, true divine intervention. But nothing. Just grey. Heavy, oppressive grey.

Sunghoon laughs, a strange little chuckle Jake has never heard before, but knows immediately that he doesn’t like. He adjusts his tie. Shifting the Windsor knot, smoothing the blade—a calculation in his movements that leaves Jake wondering if his friend hasn’t orchestrated this whole situation, weather and all.

“Afraid not, buddy.” Sunghoon’s tone is light, but there’s something solemn about it all—the rain, the smart clothes, this terrible, terrible realisation. 

March’s wind nips at Jake’s cheeks, stinging them red no doubt as rain splashes around his feet, wetting his socks in tiny, cold drops. He shivers but doesn’t leave, watching as a smirk spreads over Sunghoon’s lips. A pit stirs in Jake’s stomach as Sunghoon looks over both shoulders before leaning in. 

His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “But if thinking about it is as bad as doing it, you might as well just go ahead.” 

Jake stares, incredulous, takes a step back as if Sunghoon’s suggestion might smite him where he stands. “Of course, you think that. You lost your virginity behind the worship tent at camp four years ago. Forgive me if I don’t consider you a sound moral compass, Sunghoon.”

“I prayed about it after.” He shrugs. “Clean slate.” 

“Hoon,” Jake cries, exasperated, mortified. “You can’t intentionally sin and think you’ll be absolved because you prayed about it after.” 

“Why not? Isn’t that what forgiveness is for?” 

Glaring, Jake’s jaw works soundlessly. Where to start? At Sunghoon’s audacity or the fact he doesn’t even have a proper answer. Arguing won’t change anything. The whys-or-why-nots of it all are Sunghoon’s cross to bear. Not that he cares enough to. That’s his problem, and his saving grace, if you ask Jake—he makes everything sound so easy, like there isn’t a fuck load of consequence attached.  

A frustrated sigh escapes Jake as he glances down at his watch, rain warping the digits on his Casio. It’s almost eleven. Almost an hour since service started, and they’re still standing at the door. A gust of wind whips through his coat. 

“Just get inside,” Jake mutters, tone sharp, more from the cold than anything else.

Unmoving, Sunghoon frowns, lips pursed in genuine contemplation. Jake might be endeared if he didn’t know any better. 

“Can I ask you something?” Sunghoon’s voice is lighter now, curious, sincere. 

Jake doesn’t have time for this—but it's Sunghoon. So, he pinches his nose, bracing himself for whatever’s coming. “What?”

“Do you think you’re better than me because you lost your virginity in a bed?” 

Taken aback by the question’s absurdity, Jake blinks. Wonders briefly if he misheard. A nervous laugh bubbles out of him, but Sunghoon’s expression morphs into something unreadable—calm, expectant maybe. Genuinely awaiting an answer. Jake tilts his head, considering it before letting out a short and decisive huff. 

“Yes, actually. I do.” 

r/Christianity 

u/footballfan1511 | 2m

How bad is premarital sex, really? (Need quick answers!!!)

I (20M) have been having sex with my friend (20F) for three weeks now. I knew it was wrong, but she’s everything (very hot, totally, completely sexy), so I didn’t care. BUT I just saw this verse (Matthew 5:28-30) and apparently it’s a sin just to THINK about it??? 

The last time we did ‘it’ was this morning before church (sorry), and I was supposed to go over there tonight, but I’ve been freaking out about that verse all day…….. idk what to do but I really like her, so much, and I still want this, with her. Please give me advice .. 

Every Thursday night. Ten p.m. sharp. Almost no exceptions. You call Jake, talking shit for as long as it takes one thing to lead to another. Tonight is an exception—you had friends over, rescheduled for midnight. Jake lies in bed, hair still damp from his post-football training shower, counting each minute as it passes. 23:55. His leg is shaking. 23:56. He sits up straight, jolting as if waking from a nightmare, nerves sharp and restless as his thumbs fly over the keyboard, texting Sunghoon. 

Jake: What about phone sex?

Jake: Like if I don’t think about her while I do it? 

Sunghoon’s groan reaches Jake through the thin walls of their shared flat. Drawn-out and long-suffering. Read receipt. 23:57. Three dots. 

Hoon: I can’t tell you what to think, but if you’re asking me then you probably alr know

Hoon: Also..??? Do you think you can jack your shit on the phone without thinking about her 😭😭😭

Jake snorts despite himself, much too loud for the quiet. Echoing as if even the room disapproves. He closes his eyes, shakes his head. Palm to his cheek. A low smack, half-joking, half-sincere. Guilt snakes around him, a hot, unwelcome coil that won’t ease. Jake gets the sense that the choice ahead — to answer or not to answer — might drastically skew his life one way or another. 

A minute early. 23:59. Your name on his screen. Phone humming in his hold, pulse lashing his throat. On the other end of the line, before he has the chance to weigh his options, you dead the call—making his decision for him. 

Jake’s heart stumbles, clumsy in his chest. He thinks of the verse, sharp and prickly—crown of thorns on heavy head. He has been thinking about it since Saturday morning. Extra training with Team B, avoiding you, six-thirty wake-ups to join Sunghoon at the rink. Ice-cold mornings melting into afternoons. No matter what he tries, it always comes back. Lustful intent, adultery, with her. And despite his best efforts to pray for rapture, Thursday has come, and Jake has lived to see it. 

A minute late. 00:01. Your name on his screen. Hovering thumb. He knows that phone sex and sex-sex aren’t the same thing, Matthew didn’t even have a phone—but if he could’ve, and he could’ve known you, and you wanted him? Jake sighs. He should answer. If your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off, and throw it away. The words sink their senile claws into him, holding on for dear, frail life. His phone stills in his palm. 

You don’t call again. You never have. If this phone call is going to happen, it’s up to Jake to make it so. This knowledge and its weight multiply by the second. An itch he doesn’t try to scratch, knowing he won’t be able to reach it. Another agonising nine minutes trudge along. 00:10. His phone buzzes on his chest, and he knows it’s you before he looks. Two texts.

YN: Said you’d stay up for me Yunie :((( 

YN: You don’t think I’m worth the wait?

Reading your messages through the notifications, he’s having a hard time convincing himself not to reply. Not to tell you he waited, that of course, you’re worth it. His guilt loosens, making space for his desire to reassure you—he cannot rule out the possibility that this desire outweighs his guilt. Silence settles in his room, stretched thin and strange around him. He sighs. 

YN: Attachments: 2 images

YN: Wanted to hear your reaction, but you can tell me when you’re up ig.

YN: Night, loser :P 

Butterflies, sudden and bright—teenaged. Foolish. Tucked under the notification, the photos dare him to look. His curiosity clicks it, and the first picture fills the screen, yanking his breath from his lungs. 

Most of your face is cut off, showing only your lips—pouty and glossy and pretty. Pulling at him in a way he’s not quite equipped to name. This would be enough for him, an innocent selfie, you and those pretty eyes, that smile. More than enough—pulse quickening just thinking about it. His gaze lingers on your lips, stuck for a while. Then, unintentionally, his eyes flick lower. Hair fanned over your pillow, breasts peeking out from under black lace. Fuck. A sight he’s seen a million times, but somehow, each time feels like the first. Jake gulps. Holy shit. He ignores the throbbing in his pants, how much tighter they are—he won’t give in. No matter how badly he’s craving it. He’s stronger than that. With his eyes, he traces your lips. Ogles until his screen dims, locking the picture away again.

Picture two. Fuck. You on your stomach, grainy in your webcam. Arched back, black lace panties over your hips. Fuck. The lingerie, the shape of your body.. Seeing you like this, so perfect and all for him—it’s taking every last shred of his self-control not to get in his car and rush over to you. Want, need, tugs at him. A tether he can’t break. His phone locks. 

Enough is enough. He drags his feet all the way back to the shower, oppressive cold water hitting him. Doing absolutely nothing for his revolting need. This isn’t working—not the water, not the attempt at self-control. Not when he’s already hard and aching against his stomach. Soft breasts. Round ass. Wet—his hand moves instinctively, forehead resting on the cool tiles. He closes his eyes, your body clear in the dark. Full lips. Arched back. He’s breathless when he finishes, head bowed as heat coils low in his stomach. The water carries his release away. Nose crinkled as it swirls around the drain, cringing at the sight—guilt, shame curling around him.

Again, he dries off, pulls on clean pyjamas, and drags his feet to bed. On his side, he closes his eyes, your body like a brand behind his eyelids, thoughts filling the quiet in his room. Exhaustion however, is its own kind of mercy, and eventually, pulls him under.

Everything is sharper in the morning, clear in the cool light of the college campus. Bare branches cast shifting shadows over stone paths, breeze stealing the sun’s warmth. The weight of his dreamless sleep clings to him, stalks him through the courtyard on his quest to find Jeno—until he sees you and stops in his tracks. Phone in hand, lip between teeth, standing by the library doors. You aren’t doing anything special, frowning at your screen, but Jake’s heart rate spikes anyway, cheeks heating against the cold. He blinks, taking you in. Hair billowing around you, sunlight caught in its edges. Affection bubbles under his skin, tugs him towards you before he knows it, his arm falling over your shoulder.

You flinch, glancing up, startled. Recognition narrows your wide eyes. “Ugh, let go of me, you asshole,” you say, freeing yourself. 

Surrendering, Jake steps back, hands raised. “Me, asshole?” He points at himself, feigning offence. “What did I do?”

A frustrated laugh. “Are you serious?” Pressing your cute palm to his chest, you shove him. Not hard, but enough to make him lose his balance, rocking a little. “Yes, you, asshole.” 

He doesn’t speak. 

You scoff, blank faced, like you don’t care, like you didn’t just shove him. “I sent you those photos, and you ignored me.” Stoic. Detached. 

Those photos. Even in reference, they work him up. Too vivid—mainly because he took another look when he woke up. He had to turn off his phone to stop, shoving it into the bottom of his backpack. He didn’t feel guilty about it then, but good grief, he feels like shit now. Shame burning his nape, creeping over his shoulders. At least he isn’t thinking about that Bible verse anymore. Lustful intent. With her. He wasn’t thinking about it. He tenses, sighing. 

“I wasn’t ignoring you.” 

“You were.” Your voice is quiet—vulnerability inching through your cool exterior. “At least turn your read receipts off if you’re going to pretend you didn’t see them.” Your arms drop stiffly. 

A hesitant step towards you, gaze searching yours. “Hey.” Soft, whispered almost. “I wasn’t trying to ignore you.”

On-campus commotion scores the quiet between you — overlapping conversation, bike bells ringing — and you inspect him before you speak. “Right. So you saw the photos and came so hard you passed out?”

Jake licks his lips, embarrassed. Wonders briefly if he’s been so transparent about your effect on him, that you’ve quite accurately hit the nail on the head—even in jest. “Something like that.” At this, you scoff, shoving him again—lighter. He chuckles, breathy and relieved. “Sorry,” he says sincerely. “I really am sorry. I loved the photos, seriously. You know I did.” 

Finally, you sigh, a reluctant smile twitching at your lips. “Whatever, asshole,” you say, voice a cute mumble with no real bite.

“How about I make it up to you tonight? Show you my reaction in person?” 

“You’re not even free tonight,” you point out. 

Shit. You’re right—he has a group project to work on. He should do the sensible thing and say no. “For you, I can be,” he says instead. He’ll figure it out. 

“Shut up.” A grin stretches over your lips, and relief washes over him. Finally, a good answer where you’re concerned—until your face tilts into shock. Opening your bag, you bring out a tub. “Don’t overreact, but I made you something,” you tell him, voice lighter as you pull off the lid, pushing foil out of the way. “I know you prefer milk chocolate, but.. it’s White Day, so I just thought—” You cut yourself off, shaking your head. “It doesn’t matter what I thought.”

This isn’t the first time you’ve done something nice for Jake, this isn’t even the first time you’ve made him something, but it feels different—the way everything to do with you feels different now. He stares into the container for a second, suspecting he’ll wake up in bed if he blinks, so he tries not to. Eyes drying, hurting—nothing changes when he succumbs. 

As far as he knows, you haven’t baked anything since your shared high school Home Economics class. He chose it to soften the blow of his STEM-heavy course load, you chose it because he did—getting all the way to lesson three before switching for Music. Scones were the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. His weren’t perfect, he’ll admit it — softer than he’d have liked — but yours? Yours came out of the oven soggy and burnt all at once. 

And now, here you are, handing him cookies you made. Edible-looking cookies. For White Day. For Jake. How is it White Day already? One whole month since you first made out with him on Jeong Jaehyun’s birthday—one whole month since you took him home and had your way with him. 

He tears his eyes from the cookies to look at you again. You’re smiling, eyes wide, sparkling, and Jake has to remind himself to breathe. “Thank you.” Fondness flares against his ribs, too big to contain. He swallows hard, blinking too fast. “You—” His voice comes out faint, clearing his throat doesn’t help. “You didn’t have to.” 

“I know..” You trail off. “I originally wanted to kill two birds with one stone and bake you a pie, but.. that was a little out of my depth.” 

“A pie?” 

“You know, March Fourteenth.. Three point one-four.. Pi day.” You tilt your head. “I’m surprised you forgot about that, maybe you’re not as much of a nerd as I thought.”

“I’m surprised you know about that.” 

“You’re the one who told me.” Closing the container, you hand it over to him, fingers brushing his for long enough that he loses his train of thought. You’re smiling fondly, completely stealing his attention until, suddenly, a pair of hands clap down on his shoulders, making him flinch. 

“I’ve been looking for you, dude. We need to go,” Jeno says, his grip firm, already steering Jake away.

Your name sounds weird coming from Jeno’s mouth when he greets you. Too bright, too happy. Jake can picture his shit-eating, Samoyed-esque grin, those cute smiling eyes—never so uncharming as they are right now. Not only has Jeno interrupted, he’s towering over Jake like he’s trying to prove a point, like being taller than 180 cm means anything to anyone. And you, tiny smile, soft wave—are you.. shy? 

There’s a pang in his chest he can’t quite name. A protective instinct, maybe. Jealousy? He sighs. “I’ll see you later, yeah?”

You nod, eyes warm, fixed on Jake, and it’s enough to anchor him even as Jeno shoves him to class.

The moment Jake slides into his seat, he fishes his phone from his bag, turning it on. A message from you tops his notifications. Come over after class and make it up to me? A smirk curls his lips as he reads it, shaking his head a little as he reacts with a thumbs-up. The heat in his cheeks lingers longer than he’d like, even as his lecturer arrives and hands out the register. 

Why Jake signed up for a residential architecture module, he has no real idea, but he met Jeno in this class, and he’ll take whatever wins he can get. Jeno likes architecture. Loves it—more than anyone else Jake knows. He designs structures in his free time, uses words like façade and fenestration when he catches Jake playing The Sims in class, and has a strong stance on panelised vs volumetric construction. 

Jeno goes to Building Design and Technology to learn, and Jake goes so he can sign his name on the register and get marks for attendance. 

Time slogs on, an endless mass, numbers added to the clock as his leg bounces under the desk. Thoughts of you consume him. After it happened, Jake thought often about that first night you shared—this one-off miracle. Five loaves and two fish. Lazarus resurrected. Never to happen again, but it did. And it has, so many times now that his memories are starting to bleed into each other. Details lost to frequency. Yet that night, those firsts — the softness of your lips on his, the birthmark on your right hip — always come back to him with such clarity, that he is, again, shocked to realise it’s been a month. 

A bigger, more jagged thing haunts him too, cleaves through the sweetness—the way you acted the morning after. He woke up to you walking into your room, wrapped up in a towel and whatever you were typing on your phone. Hair damp, skin dewy. Jake still wasn’t entirely convinced he hadn’t dreamt the whole thing. You didn’t even glance at him until he cleared his throat.

“Are you hungry? I’m not really in a cooking mood, but I can order something for you. Or we could go to Samantha’s?” you suggested, voice remarkably clear, loud in the Saturday morning quiet. 

Jake blinked, staring like you’d spoken another language—though the idea of a breakfast roll from your favourite spot was tempting. “Yeah. Cool. Sure. Whatever’s easiest.” And as if stumbling over his words wasn’t enough, his voice cracked.

You frowned like he was the one acting weird. “You okay, Jakey?”

A drop of water slipped down your cheek slowly, the way your sweat had last night. He sits up suddenly, tugging the duvet over his chest, oddly vulnerable in this position. “Yeah. Sure..” He hesitated, twisting the fabric around his finger. “Do you maybe.. want to talk?”

“Talk?” You tilted your head, brows furrowed. “About..”

Ungraceful silence trampled over you both as Jake racked his brain for something to say. “It’s just.. Last night, before.. You said you wanted to talk about something,” he said eventually. 

“Hmm..” You sighed, thinking for a while before shrugging. “If it was important, I’ll remember.” 

It was all your idea—to kiss, to invite him upstairs after he walked you home, to.. well. You know. It felt like something, like all those years of quietly pining after you hadn’t been for nothing. A real breakthrough, finally. But there you were, acting like… whatever that was. 

When you got to Samantha’s, you let him pay for your roll and scone, and joked with him as usual while he drove you to your workout class as if you hadn’t been begging him to dick you down five hours prior. All while Jake was still there, stuck in the moment, replaying the feeling of your lips and your soft skin. In his car, parked outside your gym, you leaned over the centre console and kissed him, soft and fleeting. 

“See you, Jakey!” you said, voice bright as you got out of the car and waved goodbye. 

Sometimes, if he thinks hard enough, he can feel those first curious touches again, see the look in your eyes before you leant up to kiss him. And the butterflies in his stomach tangle, vicious flapping that scrapes his insides. Arguably, the worst of it all — the glaring detail he always fixates on — is that you were both completely sober. You didn’t want to feel like shit at Pilates in the morning; he was still recovering from his antics the night before. No distractions, no excuses, just you two.

Jeno calls out an answer, voice tugging Jake back into the present. Heat creeps up his neck as all eyes shift in their direction, and he sinks lower in his seat, hoping his laptop screen is enough to hide behind. He glances at his calendar widget, immediately reminded that he has to finish his part of his group research paper—a task he has to get done before he leaves for his away game tomorrow afternoon. A task he has to get done now if he wants to see you tonight. 

All it takes is a few focused minutes, a couple quick messages to his group, and he’s sharing the finished document before class is over. So when his lecturer finally dismisses everyone, instead of heading to the library to go over the lesson, he finds himself here—on your doorstep, hands in pockets, pulse thudding in his ears. It’s not like he was running or anything, just walking with purpose, that’s all.

Seeing you does nothing for his breathlessness. You’re wearing one of his hoodies — when did you take that? — neckline slightly askew, showing part of your shoulder. It’s a little too big for you, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs and for more than a second, Jake tries not say, aww, out loud. 

A grin stretches over his lips. “Hey, gorgeous.” 

You cross your arms over your chest, squaring your shoulders, eyes cut in a way that screams, I’m mad at you, but not really. It’s a new dynamic that he’s still getting used to: your feigned disinterest, his irresistible charm. Your lips twitch, a short, reluctant laugh slipping out, and you roll your eyes like he’s inconvenienced you.

A split second passes before you wrap your arms around his waist, pulling him close. He hugs you tighter than he should, savouring the smell of his detergent on you.

“Can’t stay mad at me for too long, huh?”

“Get off of me,” you mutter, face pressed into his chest, grip on him tightening.

Eventually, you let him in, smiling as he takes off his shoes by the door. He follows you, your footsteps soft and familiar against the carpet. Sweetness lingers in the air, and when you reach the kitchen, his eyes land immediately on the containers stacked on the counter—both crammed full of cookies.

“Wow.” He brings a hand to his chest, feigning hurt. “And here I thought you made those just for me.” 

You sigh, barely meeting his gaze as you approach the counter. “You’re so dramatic,” you murmur, the words almost lost under your breath. Opening the container, you tip it towards him. “Ever heard of a test batch?”

Laid out in shades of golden brown and charred black are your several attempts. Some are burnt at the edges, others rock-solid or collapsed into thin, brittle discs. Misshapen, imperfect—each a testament to your determination. His stomach flips, a pang of affection he tries not to wear too openly. 

“I didn’t feel right about wasting them, so Jimin and I are going to be big, brave girls and eat them,” you explain. “This isn’t even all of them; she took some to Aeri’s this morning.” 

“Oh,” Jake says with a slow nod, taking it all in. He takes one from the top—Communion wafer-thin, square. “See, this makes sense.” It crunches between his teeth, too crispy, but not bad. Honestly, he likes it, chewing with a smile as the sweetness hits all the same. 

When he reaches for another, your hand swats his away, fingers firm but not unkind. “I made you twenty perfect cookies and you want to eat these?”

He shrugs, smiling down at you. “What? I’m not allowed to be a big, brave girl too?”

Your expression falters, the teasing edge giving way to something softer, warmer. You look at him for just a beat too long, and then your fingers are brushing the hair from his face. Your smile is a quiet, private curve on your lips. “You’re the biggest, bravest girl I know.” 

Jake isn’t sure why, but the words settle nicely in his chest. 

Before long, you’re standing side by side at the stove watching a pot of ramen simmer quietly, steam curling into the air. In an effort to avoid extra dishes, you snap apart two pairs of disposable chopsticks for the two of you to use—as if you ever have to worry about doing dishes when he’s here. He blames the steam from the pot for the warmth spreading all over him, eating bite after bite of spicy ramen. Gossip Girl plays on your laptop, your eyes glued to the screen as its glow dances over your face. He can’t ignore the fuzziness taking over him as you share your dinner straight from the pot, chopsticks and hands bumping occasionally. 

Jake washes the pot in the sink. Gentle clink of steel on steel, soft murmur of running water, you in the doorway, eyes on him. He is overwhelmed by how domestic, how easy this is—and how desperately he wishes he could stay in this moment forever. 

With his hands dry, he follows you to your room, neck flushing under his collar as he shuts the door. Leaning against it, he watches you sink into the mattress, setting up your laptop. Chuckling, you pat the empty spot on the bed. “I don’t bite, Jakey.” 

Jake knows now, from experience, that you absolutely bite, so your reassurance only concerns him. But still, like the big, brave girl he is, he crosses the room and sits on the bed, leaving a respectful, Jesus-approved distance between you. The newness of this, its fragility, throws him off. Not too long ago, you were fighting men off with a stick. In fact, Jake was half-convinced you’d leave Jaehyun’s party with Na Jaemin. A guy you haven’t said anything about since pre-friends-with-benefitsgate—an observation he finds only mildly relieving. He’s too busy thinking about what it means, if anything, to relax into the fact that you’re with him now. 

If whatever you two are doing can be considered ‘with’ each other. 

Sharing a pot of ramen and watching Gossip Girl is easy enough though. Familiar. The two of you wouldn’t have made it to the middle of season four if he wasn’t enjoying it. Like this, far enough apart for an extra person to sit between you, two whole episodes start and finish with neither of you reaching out to touch the other. Jake would like to think — on his part — it’s only proof of his master level self-control, wanting you so desperately but holding back. Proving to himself, to you that this isn’t just about sex or whatever else for him. That Jake can behave and make rational decisions when it comes to you. 

And maybe, if this was a different Friday, in a different week, or Sunghoon hadn’t shown him that verse, he might have believed that. But Sunghoon had shown him that verse, and Jake is thinking a bit too much about his right hand, and the sinning, the cutting off and throwing away of the whole thing. About Hell and the suffocating weight of one decision—an all-consuming decision, worth his potential damnation.

On your part, he has no clue what the hold up is, seeing as this is the first time you’ve made it through a Gossip Girl blast without starting something, never mind watching a full episode. By now, your hand would normally have found its way into his pants, or your lips to his neck. But there you sit, unmoving, focused as ever, like on your tenth rewatch you still care about whether Blair or Dan gets the internship at W Magazine. 

As if you can read his mind, or the part of it that you occupy, you reach into his underwear and take a hold of his dick. You go through all the familiar motions — twisting your wrist while you stroke it, thumb over his tip when you reach it — and Jake, as always, eats it up, melting like wax in your fist. He is only mildly humiliated by how much you get to him, how quickly he loses his shit when it comes to you, shuddering and whining, hips bucking in a matter of strokes. And then, you stop—hand slipping away like nothing happened, like he’s not hard as a rock in his pants, precum staining his underwear because of you.

Jake — fighting for breath — can only stare at you, watching you ignore him for the show instead. A few minutes pass like this until you sigh, hitting pause with a dramatic motion. “What are you looking at?”

“You.” 

At this, you roll your eyes, but Jake grabs your wrist. Somehow, he’s only now appreciating you in his hoodie. Admiring how it sits on you—sleeves too long, fit too baggy. Historically, Jake’s generally emaciated look hasn’t really lended itself to seeing you, or anyone else, in his clothes, so it’s tripping him out how much he likes it. The way the fabric pools around you, covering your body completely. 

“Ugh,” you mutter, trying and failing to hide a smile. “Quit looking at me like that.” He’s not sure why you insist on playing this game, on why you make it seem like you’re doing him a favour when you want him just as much as he wants you—but he won’t pretend he doesn’t like working for it, like it’s not that much better when you cave. 

“Like what?” he asks, playing along in a soft voice. 

“All horny and.. weird.” 

Jake laughs. “You think I look weird?”

“A little.” You shrug. 

“Shit,” he mutters. “You’re not into that? I thought my off-putting nature was part of my charm.”

This makes you smile, leaning in without closing the gap. Instead, you tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear, your touch making his stomach flip. He can’t take it any longer, being so close and doing nothing about it, so he wraps his fingers around your wrist to hold you there, and closes the gap himself. It’s everything—it’s always everything. The warmth of your lips against his, the way you hold him, like it’s more than just a kiss for you too. 

There’s nothing he likes more than this. 

Biting down on his bottom lip, you pull away a little. “Is this part of your grand plan to make it up to me?” 

Jake hums, dick throbbing in his pants. “Yeah, baby.” He nods, still attached to your mouth. “Been thinking about it all day.”

“It’s working.” 

A breathless laugh—amused, turned on, taken aback. He pulls away, patting his lap and you don’t hesitate to straddle him, sparks between your bodies. Palms on your hips, fingers grazing the soft fabric of your yoga pants. A stir in his chest—heart hammering when he looks at you, breathless. Thank you, God, he thinks, sincerely. I needed this. His gratitude tangles quickly with guilt, uncertainty. Am I doing the right thi—your hand rests on his, snaps him out of it. Eyes soft, lips parted, want written all over your face. So beautiful, and so different from the resting frustrated face you seem to wear whenever he’s around—which he won’t pretend to dislike. 

“Wanted to come over here and see you last night.”

Sheepishly, you twist the cuff of your sleeve between your fingers. A stark change from your usual behaviour, rarely reserved about anything — at least not with him — and so mouthy until he gets his hands on you. “I wish you did,” you mumble, looking away.

“I should’ve, baby, but I’m here now,” he says softly.

Another kiss—deeper, slower. An act of restitution — one of many to come — the way his tongue moves against yours, eager to keep to his word. He reaches for the curve of your waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh under your hoodie. The swell of your breast against his palm, cool zipper brushing his knuckles. He tugs on it just enough for you to smile against his lips. 

“Can I take this off?” 

You nod, clearly flustered, worked up already. 

Pulling at the zipper, he savours every inch of skin that comes into view. A shaky inhale seeing your bra—the same one from the pictures, having the exact same effect. Holy shit. Lace under his fingers, touching it as gently as he can manage like it’s sacred, because to him it is. He can’t look away, gaze fixed, reverent. Holy shit. Jake clears his throat, mouth suddenly dry, like he’s seeing you for the first time. The pictures don’t do you justice, not even close. And he loves the pictures. 

You’re watching with lidded eyes, and swollen lips. He cups your cheek. “My pretty girl. So gorgeous,” he says, though it doesn’t seem enough. With two languages to choose from, Jake should have the words. But he doesn’t. Not for this—for you. 

Heat diffuses beneath his hand, coating your cheek as you turn into his touch, hiding your face. Smiling lips pressing a muffled word into his palm. “And?”

“And I’m sorry about last night.” 

You raise an intrigued brow, no longer hiding. “And?” 

“I’m an idiot.” 

A grin, a glorious grin as you nod. “I just wanted you to say it wouldn’t happen again, but this is way better.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. “I’m a big idiot, and you’re the smartest girl I know. It’s not going to happen again, I promise.” 

Sudden betrayal in your squinted eyes, clutching your hoodie over your chest, his palm trapped against the cup of your bra—he almost thanks you. Deeply unimpressed, you scoff. “You know other girls?”

Charmed, Jake smiles, freeing his hand. “Don’t worry, baby. None of them make me as nervous as you.” A kiss before you can respond, pulling your chest flush with his. You hum against his lips, whimpering when he rolls his hips into yours. Hands on your back, quickly unclasping your bra. He nips at the spot below your ear, making you shiver. “And none of them get me this hard either.”

“I know,” you say simply, but your breathlessness undercuts your confidence, and steals his patience. 

Taking your hoodie and bra off, he guides you onto your back, settling between your spread thighs like it’s where he belongs. At a loss for words, he squeezes your hip, eyes catching on every part of you. Hard nipples, soft plane of your stomach—nothing about you he doesn’t love. Jake gulps, awestruck, always awestruck. Overwhelmed by the weight of how much he wants this. Wants you. 

“So perfect, baby,” he whispers, finally. “So, so perfect.” 

A smile tugs at your lips, hands coming up to cover your face. “Shut up,” you grumble. 

Huffed laughter slips out of him, endeared. Aching slightly, wondering if you don’t know you’re the most breathtaking thing he’s ever seen. He tugs your hands away, holding them in his, lips brushing your knuckles before he leans in and pecks yours.  

Slow, desperate kisses along the curve of your jaw, trailing the length of your neck to your shoulder. He lingers, sucking pretty love bites onto your collarbone, soothing the skin with his tongue after. A shudder, as you pull his hair, whimpering under him. He could stay like this all day, forever if you let him. Lips on your nipple, finally, licking, biting. 

Your moan is instant, pulled from somewhere deep, and he groans at the sound, tongue flicking just to hear it again. “Jake,” you say, breathless. Even better. “Jake, please.”

“Tell me what you want, baby,” he says, nosing between your breasts, the warm skin there heady, dizzying. 

“Want your mouth—can’t wait any longer.”

His dick twitches as he lifts his head. Takes you in—your pouty lips, ruffled hair, sweat beading on your skin. Jake is not going to come in his pants again because of you. No matter how much it feels like he is. That won’t happen. It can’t. He’s an adult man with self-control. He tells himself these things over and over, willing them to be true, even though he knows better.

Jake leans up, pressing a kiss to your lips. He can’t get enough. “I’m not going to make you wait,” he says—a blatant lie. He has every intention to make you wait, at least a little. 

His fingers toy with the waistband of your underwear, slipping beneath, eyes wide when he feels the heat of you. Fuck. You take his middle finger easily, pulling him in, clenching around it, and the choked sob you let out sends a sharp spike of need along his spine. He lets his thumb brush your clit, slow, deliberate. You’re too worked up to focus on kissing now, squirming underneath him, nails digging into his forearm. His lips trail your throat again, more marks, his own breath coming faster, a little unsteady—almost as wrecked as you. 

“I feel like—” You pause, mouth falling open to let out a harsh exhale. “I’ve been waiting for a while, baby, need it.” 

For reasons he doesn’t fully understand, there’s just something about hearing that word. Baby. So rare from you, uttered only at your most vulnerable, that always undoes him. Has him acting at your beck and call without a second thought—so it can’t come as a surprise when he tears your pants off, presses his lips to your core, and groans hungrily, breathing you in. 

There’s a certain reverence to it all, he can’t help it—it just comes naturally with you, a need to please you, worship you. His arms wrap around your thighs, keeping you in place, savouring the soft whine you let out when his nose brushes your clit. 

Fuck. 

He likes this a lot more than kissing. Likes the way you moan and cry out his name, the way you tug his hair, and crush his head between your soft thighs. Loves the way you fall apart on his tongue, and the way you taste. The wet look in your big eyes — chest heaving, breath ripped out of you — after he licks you clean.

The tension lingers, sweet and heavy, pressing in on Jake from all angles when he finally pulls away, leaving a kiss to your inner thigh before sitting back on his heels. He watches you, sinking into the sheets—lashes fluttering, bottom lip pulled between your teeth. Spent and glowing as you look at him. Jake pulls off his shirt, cool air pulling goosebumps along his skin. A deep breath, a few deep breaths. You ask in a quiet voice if you can wear it. He nods, hands moving instinctively, fingers brushing your skin as he helps you put it on.

“Did so good for me, baby. Didn’t you?” he asks, pulling you into his arms, hand stroking your back. 

You lift your head from his chest, a dreamy look in your eyes when you look up at him. “Does that surprise you, Jakey?” 

His breath hitches, heat spreading on his cheeks and neck. He doesn’t have the upper hand with you, not at all. But he does have the option to kiss you instead of answering so he does that. Kissing you until you say, one minute, against his lips, and leave the room.

Soft warmth settles in Jake’s chest as he heads to the kitchen, smiling. All of this, these moments after sex, makes his heart race. Makes him want to get on his hands and knees and beg you to love him back—though he would settle for like. This routine, this quiet afterwards might honestly be his favourite part of it all. The two of you, inhabiting this tiny world you’ve carved out together—big enough for you and him only. The flat to yourselves. Your head on his chest. You even asked to wear his shirt! These moments when the thought of being your boyfriend doesn’t seem so out of reach. When he feels like he is your boyfriend. 

He can’t stop smiling. 

At the sink, he washes his hands before pouring you a glass of water, and when you step out of the bathroom, he’s already there, leaning against the wall. He melts at the sight of you—barefoot and sleepy-eyed, a smile on your face. His favourite sight in the whole world. He can’t believe his blessings, that you would want him — even if only for sex — and each day he spends with you makes it harder for him not to test how far he can push it. 

“Hey, pretty girl,” he says, handing you the glass. “You feeling okay?” 

You hum in response, thanking him. Your fingers slip around his, warm and delicate, and he has to remind himself to breathe as you lead him back to your room. Jake’s eyes are glued to you, addicted to the way you fill out his shirt. It’s senseless—how a piece of his own clothing, something so familiar, suddenly looks brand new just because you’re the one wearing it. Looks better. Nipples nudging the soft cotton, hips curving out into the hem, ass hanging out of it. He lies down on the bed, watching you, each movement entrancing him. His heart stills in his chest when you tie your hair back, shirt riding up enough to show off the lace of your underwear. It’s too much. It’s perfect. He clasps his hands in his lap, trying and failing to cover the effect you have on him. 

You get into bed, body molding to his like a second skin. Head on his chest, ear pressed over his heart—hearing it thud, no doubt. Jake wraps his arm around you, fingers splaying over your back, holding you close. He exhales slowly, wondering how much longer he can lay here like this, with you, before he overstays his welcome. He’s made good on his promise, done what you invited him here to do, and it’s not late enough that you’d object to him leaving at this time. Your breath is a steady lull on his skin. Asleep, probably. But then—your hand trails on his stomach, fingers resting on his waistband, and he can’t help feeling a bit bad. 

He knows better than to think anyone could make you do something you didn’t want to do—but has no idea if that includes him, too. Novelty long gone. Your curiosity sufficiently sated, while he kills himself trying to pretend he’s fine being just a friend to you again. This is hardly a perfect arrangement, but Jake feels nice sometimes, worthy and handsome, knowing you want him too—even if it’s only sex. It’s really good sex. 

As if you can hear his brain thinking his arousal away, you reach into his underwear. All of his blood rushes south, your soft palm wrapping around him. His mouth opens, then shuts. He wants you, he always will, and it’s all he can do to pray that won’t cost him this friendship—or you. 

Jake clears his throat, shakes his head. “You don’t have to.”

“I know, Jakey. I want to.”

He kisses the top of your head with a soft, contented sigh, fingers curling around the back of your shirt. Eyelids fluttering shut. It’s good, more than—leagues better than when he does it himself. Perfect. A shiver runs through him when you kiss his stomach, leaving a mark on the ticklish skin. He wants to look, really wants to, but he doesn’t want to come yet. Your lips brush his belly button and the hair underneath. A mumble of his name into his skin that he hears, feels, but can’t address.

“Jake,” you say again, leaning off of him. 

He hums, eyes snapping open when you whisper in his ear, “Do you want to stay over?” 

A nod. “Yeah, baby. I’ll stay over.” The words spill out of him with no consideration for the long day he has ahead. 

You pull his earlobe between your lips, nipping gently, a jolt down his spine. “Good boy.”

The praise makes him throb in your hand. Fuck, he thinks. Absolutely none of these words are in the Bible. 

Jake wakes up in an empty bed, your door ajar. It’s only eight — too early to rush — and he stretches out his arms, twisting against the mattress. Fifteen lonely minutes go by without you, and so he gets up, dragging his feet through the apartment.  

You’re in the kitchen, speaking in a hushed voice to Jimin—who seems to forget about the whole whispering thing for long enough that her voice rings through the hall when she says, “You need to get a grip before you get hurt!”

Sensing him, you whip your head towards the doorway, spotting Jake where he stands. Jimin wears a too-tight smile as he approaches. “Nervous about the game?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Great! Listen, I have to run, but good luck out there!” she says, patting his shoulder before leaving the room in a cloud of jasmine. 

Chewing your lip, you follow her out with your eyes, blinking when the door clicks shut behind her. Jake shifts his weight between his feet, tensing his abs on instinct when your gaze trails over him. You don’t comment, but you linger before looking away. For a second, something unreadable passes over your face—gone as soon as you speak. “Do you want something to eat?” you ask, smiling, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “We need to do a food shop, but I can make you some..” You trail off, pulling the fridge open. “Greek yoghurt with blueberries.”

“Is everything alright?” 

You nod, not meeting his gaze. “Jimin just thinks I’m stretching myself a bit thin.” You huff a small laugh, trying to downplay it, but your shoulders stay tense. Pulling out the punnet, you frown at it. “Greek yoghurt on its own?” you suggest, throwing the blueberries into the bin. 

Jake shakes his head, a small, appreciative smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I need to go soon, I still haven’t packed.” He fiddles with the drawstring on his pants, eyes lingering on you. Still so beautiful with a crease between your brows—he wants to reach out, smooth it over with his thumb. “Are you going to be alright by yourself?” It’s a bit of a useless question, he knows what you’re going to say. Knows you would tell him you were fine even if your arm was hanging off. You know it too, if the arch of your brow is anything to go by. 

A chuckle. “Don’t worry about it, Superstar—you have a game to play.” 

Jake hesitates, wondering if he should argue or just accept it. You’ll be fine. You always are. But something about leaving feels harder this time. Feels wrong. “You’re more important to me than a college football game.” 

In theory, it’s true. 

In practice, he’s not going to skip his game, not unless you ask him to—which you won’t. His football career is running on a clock that will only tick for two more terms after the summer. In his email, a timetable awaits, outlining all of his games for his last season. It’s provisional, for now, but bears weight regardless. He can’t afford to miss a game right now, but he’s a little shaken by the feeling that he can’t afford to leave you either.

You smile, a barely there curve of your lips as you close the fridge. Taking his hand in yours, you give it a squeeze, a steady reassurance. “Honestly, Jake. I’ll be alright. And if I’m not, I’ll still be here when you get back. So go.”

For someone so desperate to get rid of him, you’re having a hard time parting with his hoodie. He doesn’t want it back, but he needs something to wear to the car. It’s only fair, he showed up in only his t-shirt after all—his t-shirt that you’re still wearing and seem reluctant to return. You pull it close to your body like it’s yours now. 

“It’s two degrees out,” he reminds you. “Do you want me shirtless in that?” 

A sick and twisted silence passes, long enough to convince Jake you’re actually going to say yes. He watches your gaze flick downwards, want for him so clear that his dick twitches. Dragging your fingernail over the dip in his abs, your touch leaves a trail of fire in its wake. 

He’s thankful for the discipline he’s developed in the new year—consistently following Sunghoon to the gym, eating unseasoned chicken breast and three eggs at breakfast because Sunghoon does, because Sunghoon is.. a lot. Wide shoulders, solid frame. Built like God put him on Earth to look good shirtless, and Jake—well. He eats the chicken. He lifts the weights. He does his best.

“No, not really,” you say, frowning as you shove the hoodie into his arms. 

Jake smiles, glad you didn’t take too long to come around. He puts it on, zipping it slowly. Eyes on you the whole time, and when his abs disappear beneath the fabric, you sigh. His lips twitch, pleased.

At your front door, he hugs you—contemplates never letting go. The scent of coconut drifts up from your hair, and it tugs at something deep in his chest. His fingers tighten, pressing into your waist. He frowns. He shouldn’t miss you—not this much, not for one night. A night where, realistically, he wouldn’t see you even if he stayed home. But no amount of logic or reason is enough to make him feel better.

“I wish you were coming with me,” he says, mumbling into your collarbone. 

You lean back a little, fingers carding through the hair at the nape of his neck. For a second, a desperate, fleeting second, he thinks that maybe you’ll say, fuck it, and come along, that you might see the appeal of sneaking around a four-star hotel with him. He can picture it already—matching fluffy robes, doing your skincare routine together at the end of the night, sharing a twin bed while Jay Park snores in the other one. 

Instead, you look up at him with a smile that turns his knees to mush. “Not my fault you suck at planning, Jakey.”

He groans, tips his head back, feigning exhaustion. “Right, because everything is my fault, and I’m the villain in your story. I get it.” 

You roll your eyes. “Get out of my apartment,” you say, but your grip doesn’t ease.

Jake exhales a laugh, but he doesn’t move either. Just stands there, holding you, memorising this like he’s shipping off to war—your hands on his skin, your vanilla scent under his nose. “Without a kiss?” His voice comes out quiet, hopeful—half teasing, half not. He’s stalling, trying to buy another second. Maybe two. 

You push at his chest a little. “Out, Jake.” But you’re smiling and he feels your fingers tighten just a fraction before they let go. 

Jake only smiles, his arms locked around you. He dips his head, pressing a kiss to your temple, and his voice is soft when he says, “I’ll text you when we get there.”

A sigh slips out of you, feigning annoyance, but the brush of your fingers down his arm gives you away. “Yeah, yeah. See you later.” 

He grins. “You’ll miss me.” 

A beat passes before you speak, just long enough for Jake’s smile to falter as he watches you. You pout, hand on his cheek, thumb moving tenderly over his skin. “No,” you say, shaking your head. “But you’ll miss me.” 

“I already do.” He’s not lying. 

Jake doesn’t kiss you before he leaves, which is okay. He tells himself it’s okay. But regrets it the whole drive home, drumming his fingers against the wheel as if he can tap the thought away. He regrets it while he stuffs his kit and toiletries into a duffle bag. And he regrets it on the bus, staring out at the passing motorway, the new Beabadoobee album blaring in his headphones. He’s so consumed by his regret that he doesn’t even have it in him to pretend he’s annoyed when Jay falls asleep with his head on his shoulder. 

Not for lack of trying, Jake doesn’t sleep, and as it turns out, the protein bar he found in his backpack earlier is not enough sustenance for a three-hour journey. The bus rumbles on, road stretching out endlessly through the windscreen when he takes a look. He sighs, cracking his knuckles and willing himself to stop thinking about you. This doesn’t work either, and he’s typing out a text to you before he realises. 

Jake: I hope you’re feeling better ❤️

Jake: I’ll see you soon, okay?

You reply with a picture of yourself in bed—glasses on, a book in your lap, lips curved into a soft, easy smile that makes something in his chest tighten. He stares for too long, caught up in the details. Gentle slope of your nose, loose strands of hair framing your face, dark love bites peeking out from under the collar of your shirt. His stomach flips, a giddy laugh slipping out. He wishes he could do something, turn the bus around, and go see that pretty face in person.

YN: All good, Jakey !!! Just needed to shower apparently.. 

Jake: My gorgeous girl :)

Jake: You did smell kinda weird when I hugged you 

YN: ???

YN: Don’t even joke lad. 

Jake snaps a quick selfie—grinning, a little flushed, hair messy from having his hood up. In the corner, Jay is dead asleep, mouth agape, face smushed into Jake’s shoulder. He laughs quietly, sending the picture, heat flooding his cheeks when you react with heart eyes.

YN: Such a pretty boy ☹️

YN: Jay obviously

Jake: Obviously.

It’s just past two when they start filing off the bus, the sharp coastal wind biting at Jake’s cheeks. He shoves his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunching against the cold. The hotel in front of them is huge—way nicer than anything they actually need. But still, it’s nice, knowing that the football budget is going to something tangible, that they enjoy. A small comfort. The younger boys he sees like brothers will be looked after when he’s gone, and that thought warms him despite the cold. Towering windows glint in the afternoon sun, the kind of place with sleek, startlingly shiny floors and crystal chandeliers that don’t make sense for a one-night stay. But he’ll take this any day over the dingy motels he remembers from first year, stained towels and plywood mattresses. 

At the front desk, Jay stands in line next to Jake with his eyes shut, as if three hours asleep on the bus weren’t enough. Jake knows better than to say anything though — after three years on the same team — he understands that Jay isn’t tired. He’s following a ritual. The Rilakkuma band-aid on his wrist is proof of that. And in case that isn’t enough, Jay doesn’t touch the key card either. He claims the bed furthest from the door, sits on the edge of the mattress, and blasts Mama, You’ve Been On My Mind—the Joan Baez and Bob Dylan live version, not the Bob Dylan studio outtake. And he listens to it twice before saying a word to Jake. Of course, because they had a single brief conversation before that first away game three years ago, their post-check-in discussions are forever based around two subjects: food, and you.

Jake: We’re here :) 

YN: Has Jay asked about me yet?

Jake: One more stream

YN: Ah, almost settled then, I see

Jake laughs at this, a small exhale from his nose as he watches you type. 

YN: If you stayed home, would he just.. not play? 

Jake: Never considered that but I’ll ask later

Jake: Kick-off at 5:30 btw

YN: Good luck 🥳🥳🥳

He reacts to the message with a heart and tosses his phone aside, pressing the heel of his hand to his empty stomach. It’s a lot, Jay’s routine, but Jake isn’t in a position to judge him too harshly. Ever since high school, he eats a bowl of brown rice, grilled chicken and vegetables before away games, like it’s a charm against failure. Because it is. Because the first time he did, he played the best game of his life, and now the thought of eating anything else makes his stomach coil. It might seem silly to believe that a bowl of rice could change the outcome of a game, but Jake has seen it first-hand and isn’t willing to risk it again.

Jay is humming, oblivious, bobbing his head slightly, and Jake can’t help the smile on his face as he watches. Music spills from his headphones—Dylan’s voice a scratch against the air, Baez’s softer, sweeter. It’s almost grating, a taste he’s yet to acquire. They don’t talk much outside of football, not really, but there’s a closeness anyway. Built from hours of drills, sharing meals after training, and rooms for away games, retreats. A sudden rush of dread hits Jake, remembering that after next year — after graduation — the two will likely never share a room again. Even more hauntingly, they may never share the pitch again. Jake shakes his head. The plight of the student athlete, he supposes.

A happy sigh comes from Jay as he takes his headphones off, standing up. He stretches his arms out over his head, turning to Jake, grinning. “Hey, buddy.” 

Jake would never admit this to him — or anyone — but he has a lot of respect for Jay. He takes training seriously, giving his all even during warm-up games, he’s got killer technique, and is (unfortunately) really nice. If Jake couldn’t make captain, he’s glad it went to Jay.

“I was talking to your girlfriend the other day.” The grin doesn’t fall from Jay’s face when he speaks, wagging his brows.

The G-word makes Jake roll his eyes—even though he likes hearing it, praying that God is listening and taking notes.

“She cornered me in the library to ask if I knew how to make a pie.”

“That sounds like her,” Jake says, smiling too.

His cheeks burn thinking about what you said yesterday—about how you’d wanted to bake him a pie. The memory jolts him. He digs through his bag without thinking, quickly finding the tinfoil abomination he made sure not to leave the house without. Jay catches it easily in his left hand when he tosses it over, eyeing it suspiciously before unwrapping it. 

“She ended up making cookies, but I guess you knew that.”

He blinks at them like they might explode. “Wait, she made these for you?” Jay tilts his head, impressed. “You might not be as hopeless as I thought.”

Giddiness overwhelms Jake as he nods. It’s weird, a bit ridiculous even, how a batch of cookies can feel like a championship win—better. He likes it though, and doesn’t try to fight his smile.

His stomach rumbles into the silence. “Do you want to come get food?” He always extends an invitation to Jay. 

“I’m good, man.”

And Jay never accepts. 

This meal is a sacred one. As soon as Coach announces the hotel, Jake pulls up Uber Eats and Google Maps on his desktop to meticulously survey the surrounding area. And if his work reaps unfavourable results, he’ll call the hotel to enquire about the microwave arrangements. And if that doesn’t work out, he calls the convenience shops nearby to ask them. 

He knows how he must seem, but before the first away game of this season, he brought his rice bowl in tupperware, had to eat it cold, and sprained his ankle on the pitch. So to say he was delighted when he found it on the menu of a local place would be an understatement—an independent Mexican restaurant with a 4.7 star rating only twenty-minutes away on foot. Perfect. His Promised Land. He applauded the monitor when he saw it.

Tres Mesas—a quaint restaurant, with three tables and a TV in the corner playing the news on mute, but damn if that wasn’t the best bowl of brown rice, grilled chicken, and pico de gallo he’s eaten in his life. The rice was fluffy, the grilled chicken tender, smoky. Even the pico de gallo was incredible—he only ordered it because he hadn’t looked at the vegetables yet, and panicked when the waitress sighed. Luckily, it’s the one component of the meal he’s willing to play fast and loose with. He can’t actually remember which vegetables he ate that first day, just that he enjoyed them. 

When he finishes eating, he gets up from his table with half a mind to go to the kitchen and ask for a photo with the chef. He settles for going to the cash machine across the road and taking out a tenner for the tip jar by the till. On the walk back to the hotel, he texts his dad a photo of the bowl, looking at it lovingly as he sings its praises via text. 

Jake: Kick-off is at 17:30 💪 will let you know how we get on, love you

On the way to the other school, again, Jay rests his head on Jake’s shoulder—whether he’s awake or not is anyone’s guess. But when Jake’s phone vibrates in his pocket, he retrieves it with as little motion as possible, just in case. 

Dad: I’m glad you enjoyed your meal. Was it hot? 😂.

Dad: You do not need luck, son. You are always wonderful. Love you. 

Jake: It was hot, dad 😭😭😭 of course, it was 

Jake: Way too soon…………..

Warm-ups go by in a blink, a blur of sweat and jump squats until Jake finds himself standing in the tunnel with everyone else. Muscles humming, heart racing. He shakes out his limbs and prays to God for a miracle. 

At church, when someone gives a testimony, they say, “God is good,” and the rest of the congregation responds in unison, “All the time.” Then, that person says, “All the time,” and in unison, the congregation says, “God is good.”

Jake doesn’t know why he finds it so grating, but week after week, he sits in his seat suppressing an eye roll while muttering the responses along with everyone else. However, when the ref blows the whistle to call full-time — scoreboard reading: HOME 0, AWAY 4 — ‘God is good’ sits on the tip of his tongue. He covers his mouth with his collar, pressing his lips together so it doesn’t slip out. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t have time to dwell on it, because Kim Sunoo comes running up and jumps on his back, looping his arms around Jake’s neck, and he nearly topples over. The rest of the team come rushing towards them, loud and triumphant. Jay reaches them first, his eyes gleaming with pride as he ruffles Jake’s hair. Adrenaline courses through him, dulling the ache in his legs. 

And as they start to leave the pitch, heading for the locker room, he kisses his hand, points to the sky, and mouths, thank you.

People are often surprised to hear Jake admit that the best part of winning a game isn’t the roaring crowd, his coach’s praise, or even personal satisfaction. No, the best part of winning a game is laughing at the dinner table with his teammates after, and washing down a tomahawk steak — mushrooms and potatoes on the side — with a glass of champagne. And all on the university’s dollar at that. 

Winning the first away game of the spring semester was more than enough cause for celebration, and Jake — full-bellied and alcohol glazed — has been keeping an eye on his drinks all night. He glances at his empty glass, pleased with his restraint. Someone had to keep a level head, and it wasn’t going to be Jay. O Captain! Our Captain!—for whom the only thing between tipsy and shit-faced is a whiff of vodka. Maybe less. 

Turns out, Jake was worried about the wrong guy. 

Nishimura Riki, 186 cm of arms and legs, dawdles over, red in the face (and ears and neck) and stumbling. With each step, his well-consumed IPA sloshes dangerously in his glass, splashing the back of his hand when he comes to an abrupt halt. “Sunoo, move,” He starts. “Need to talk to Jake.” His voice is slow and syrupy, at least an octave higher than normal. 

Their youngest — their scrawny Goliath — only turned eighteen a few months ago, and (quite bravely) attended his first three months of college parties completely sober until then. He’s still figuring out his limits, and Jake can’t help but be endeared by this large child—if not a little alarmed. 

“Knock yourself out, kid,” Sunoo says, amused, as he stands up. He sticks around for long enough to make sure Riki doesn’t fall over trying to sit, and takes his empty seat at the other end of the table. 

This conversation he came stumbling over for is a request — delivered in a harsh whisper, hand over his mouth — to sit beside each other at the next meal. Jake flinches, too startled to respond, when Jay stands abruptly from his chair. “Get up, Riki. I’ll swap with you.” 

Childlike delight floods Riki’s flushed face, looking up at his captain like manna from the sky, and wrapping his gangly arms around him when they cross paths. Jake shares a look with Jay as he sits in front of him—equal parts amusement and concern. 

“Do you think I could finish that off for you?” Jay asks, gesturing to what’s left in Riki’s glass. 

He nods quickly, extending it. “Of course, I’ll just get ano—” 

“No!” Jake all but yells, cutting him off. “I mean, Coach is limiting us to three drinks tonight, so, no more.” A lie he deems more than necessary, a lie he wishes someone had already told.  

Riki grins, leaning in. “That’s my sixth.” A laugh, and then another bubbles out of him as he sinks into his seat, shoulders racking. This disclosure seems as surprising to Jay as it is to Jake—not at all. He is extremely lucky that his teammates like him so much. Settled, finally settled, Riki shifts, letting his bony knees dig into Jake’s thigh. “Did you see my tackle? What did you think? Am I getting better?” 

Jake nods sincerely, Riki’s been working hard — eager to prove himself so Coach won’t regret signing a first-year — and it’s paying off. “It was clean, buddy. You did great,” he says, meaning it. And Riki doesn’t try to hide his boxy grin. 

On his other side is Jungwon—head tipped back over his chair, knocked out after one mojito. Jake takes a photo, sends it to you. Lil bro can’t hang. You reply right away: AWWWWW cutie 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹 how much did he drink lmao.

Jake: Mojito 

Jake: Singular

YN: 😭😭😭

Jake can’t suppress his smile, taking a selfie at a high angle and sending it to you. What about me am I cutie ?

YN: Yes, very cutie !!! You look so handsome 🤒

YN: So blushy, baby, are you also very drunk? 

Cutie. So handsome. Baby. Jake is as giddy as he is confused. All that in the span of two consecutive text messages—he can’t believe his luck, struggling to tamp down his sudden desire to buy a lottery ticket. You might even tell him you miss him if he plays his cards right. 

Jake: Sweet girl 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

Jake: Not drunk just a few glasses of champagne hehehehe

YN: So you’re drunk 😭😭😭

Jake: You can’t see but I’m rolling my eyes

YN: I believe you, Jakey 😐 put the phone down and celebrate w your friends, okay? 

YN: We can talk when you get back to your room !!!

What an exciting suggestion—talking in his room. With you. Jake stares down at his phone, in awe. Wow, he thinks. So clever. He almost wants to get up and start bragging about you like a proud parent. Oh. That is not an image he likes.  

Jake: Whatare you gonna do if I keep texting? Leave me on read?  

Yes, apparently—you read the message as soon as it sends and don’t reply. Don’t even start typing. Thirty minutes pass by before they leave the restaurant. Jungwon on Jake’s back. Riki on Jay’s. 

He was never very good at cards.

Finally in bed, light-headed and smiley after three glasses of champagne, Jake pulls up your contact and calls you. He waits, staring up at the ceiling, tapping his fingers against his phone case. The room hums softly around him. After a few rings, you answer, and he smiles at the sound of your voice. “Hey, Superstar! Congrats!” 

“Thanks, gorgeous,” he says, eyes fluttering shut. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Jimin and I are going to pres at Yizhuo’s and then the club. I actually think we’re leaving soon, but it should be good—Yizhuo hasn’t come out since Valentine’s.”

The mention of Valentine’s makes Jake’s breath hitch, fingers tightening around his phone as the memory comes rushing back—relentless. He hasn’t been out since then either, now that he thinks about it. That night. The dance floor. Your breath fanning his neck when you asked him to kiss you. 

Jake froze, caught off guard. “What?” 

“Don’t be a kid about it, Jakey,” you said in his ear. “If you don’t kiss me, Jaehyun will.” 

The thought of Jaehyun kissing you, again, while Jake was stuck at zero kisses in ten years, made him sick. Historically, he had always been unlucky when it came to you—countless games of spin the bottle spent kissing the person to your left, watching as you kissed his friends. Yet there you were, asking him to kiss you and he was hesitating. Stupid, really. Ridiculous. 

He cleared his throat, heart pounding. He’d read too many romance novels, seen too many films, to believe that you two could kiss once and it wouldn’t change everything—but he liked you, and he suspected he always had. So he asked, “You really want me to kiss you?” 

“Please,” you said, voice small, vulnerable, as if you were giving him a piece of yourself and begging him not to break it. 

Through the phone, your voice hits his ear, bringing him back. “Did you fall asleep?” You don’t sound anything like you did last month.

“No, no, I was just thinking,” he says faintly, a distracted beat passing as something crosses his mind. “Hey, what was that about with Jimin earlier?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly, and he's certain that’s the end of it. “She just thinks I’m going to get hurt when you go off, and use all your new experience on someone else.” You laugh, and he can’t tell if you’re amused by the notion of getting hurt, or there being someone else. 

Jake wasn’t expecting you to tell him anything, never mind that. The thought that you, or Jimin — or anyone — could think there was someone else. That there could be someone else, hollows his chest, grinds an ugly gear in his brain. But it clears up a lot about this morning, she wasn’t being weird, she was.. warning you? His thoughts race, a million and one questions rattling in his head. 

“Are you?” Is the one he asks, not fully equipped for any of the answers you might give. 

A long quiet beat passes. “Are you?”

This feels like an opening, an opportunity for him to set some things straight. How could there ever be anyone else? To confess, maybe. You’re it for me, you’ve always been it for me. He can’t bring himself to—it doesn’t feel right to say over the phone. “If something was seriously wrong, you would tell me, right?” he says instead. At your silence, he continues. “The world won’t end if you open up to me, you know. That’s what I’m here for.”

“Of course. You’re my best friend,” you say belatedly. 

“Yeah,” he says, ignoring the ache in his chest. “Always.”

You don’t reply right away, a minute passing before you clear your throat. “I have to go, okay? But I’ll text you.”

Jake nods even though you can’t see. “Have fun tonight.” 

“Thank you, Jakey.” You hang up.

His phone vibrates with a text from you. Fit check 🤧. You’re wearing a lace tank top and a little black skirt. I’ll have a drink for you since you’re staying in! He stares at the photo—flutter in chest, heat on cheeks. His screen locks, and his reflection grins back at him, clear-eyed, flushed. Happy. Unlocking his phone, the photo stares back at him—you, so beautiful, and so far away. His thumb brushes the screen absentmindedly. Gosh, he misses you. 

Jake: You look so perfect……wish I was there 🤒

Jake: Look after yourself, cutie 

YN: Haha thanks me tooooo 

YN: Yes sir 🫡

He types out that he misses you but thinks better of it, clearing the message and leaving a heart-react on your response. 

“Was that your girl on the phone?” Jay asks, closing the bathroom door behind him. 

Smiling, Jake turns the phrase over in his head. My girl. Butterflies erupt just thinking about it. Another silent prayer. “It was.”

Jay only nods, taking his charger from his bag and plugging it into the wall by his bed. He takes a long sip of water from his bottle and sighs, relieved, Jake thinks. For a long time, Jay looks at him from the other end of the room, saying nothing. 

Until. “You’re a good guy, Jake,” he says, his tone a bit too serious for Jake’s liking. “And it’s fine that you like her, it’s good that you like her, but how much longer are you going to keep that to yourself?” he asks, looking at Jake like he actually wants an answer. 

Sighing, Jake pinches the bridge of his nose. “I get that you think you’re helping, but just—maybe stay out of it.”

Jay blinks, his brows twitching together for the briefest second before smoothing out. Jake hadn’t meant for it to come out so sharply. Silence stretches out over them, long and heavy, and before he can take it back, Jay exhales slowly, looking away. 

“I’m not trying to hurt your feelings. It’s just—” A pause. When he finally speaks, his voice is softer, like he’s saying something that will cost him to admit. “Look, I’ve tried sleeping my way from friend to boyfriend, and it doesn’t work. At some point, you’re going to have to show her you care about more than just sex, and I hope, for your sake, as your friend, that you do it before it’s too late.” 

Jake stiffens, every muscle in his body tensing up. Heat spreads from his ears down the back of his neck, sharp and unforgiving. His first instinct is to argue, to say something to get on Jay’s nerves, but he relents—there’s no point in arguing over something they both know is true. 

He clears his throat, sighs deeply. “Thank you, Jay, for your unsolicited advice,” Jake says, turning around and screwing his eyes shut, willing for sleep to pull him under. 

It doesn’t. 

Jay shuffles around the room for a bit before flicking off the light. Jake wonders if he should say something, but he knows there’s no need. Grudges don’t belong in their friendship—it shows on the pitch when something’s off. So they get everything off their chests, yell at each other if they have to, and move on like it never happened. 

And yet, he feels bad for meeting Jay’s vulnerability with sarcasm. He goes over the things he could say, again and again, until he hears snoring over his shoulder.

With a sigh, Jake rolls onto his back and rubs a hand over his face. He sends a text to Sunghoon—a question he already knows the answer to: Do you think I’m fucking things up w YN? It’s only after hitting send and putting his phone under his pillow, that sleep finally overtakes him.

In the morning, he stirs before waking up, dragged from sleep by rustling fabric and soft, persistent thuds. A moment later, something light smacks him in the face, jolting him from his slumber. He squints into the morning light, a blurry shape above him. A pillow. To the face, again. When Jake’s eyes finally focus on Jay, he has the faintest idea that he’s being rewarded for something. He’s standing there, looking down at him, all tan skin and toned stomach, arms flexing as he swings the pillow again. It’s annoying, really, how effortlessly put-together he looks, and Jake forces himself to look away, covering his face with his hands. 

“Morning, princess!” 

Jake groans. “What, Jay? What is it?” he asks, sufficiently disturbed.

“They wouldn’t let me bring a plate for you, so you need to get up before breakfast is done,” Jay says, aiming another hit at Jake’s chest. 

Still trying to get his bearings, Jake slaps at the pillow and pulls the blanket over his head. Jay isn’t having it. He smacks him with what Jake suspects is all of his might. At this point, it’s hard for Jake to stay touched by the fact that Jay had wanted to fix him a plate. 

“Fine, fine!” Jake’s voice isn’t quite working yet, the words coming out in a low rumble as he sits up. “I’m going.”

“How’d you sleep?” Jay asks, hugging the pillow to his chest. 

Jake shrugs. “Pretty good. You?”

“Same.” 

Jake inspects Jay, searching for a sign that last night is still hanging over him too. But he looks.. fine—bed already made, bag packed, hair still damp from the shower. Jake knows Jay well enough to tell when something’s wrong, and there isn’t even a trace of tension on his face. No irritation, nothing at all—he’s over it. It should be a relief, but instead, it makes Jake’s heart sink.

“I have to tell you something, but you can’t make a big deal about it,” he says, stretching a little as Jay nods. “You have to promise, dude.”

Jay rolls his eyes, but extends his pinky anyway, curling it around Jake’s. “I promise.” 

Jake is struck by how still the room feels, like it’s holding its breath. Why is he doing this? Jay has already moved on, and now, because of Jake and his lack of self-regulation, they’re standing around shirtless in a hotel room, miles away from home, holding hands. It’s all very bizarre, and he is looking forward to stepping down from the top of this mountain-sized molehill he’s made.

He sighs, tired of himself. “You were right, about.. everything. And I’m sorry,” he admits. 

Jay grins, his smile smug, almost feline, in a way that entrances and confuses Jake at once. “About everything?” he asks, amusement in his tone, making Jake wonder whether he’s taking this seriously.

“Come on!” Jake says, incredulous, holding up their locked fingers.

Jay’s smile falters, and he rolls his eyes. “Oh no. I broke my promise,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I suppose you’re going to make a scene now? Tell me, Jake, what are you going to do? Tell me off? Spank me? Amputate?” 

Irritated – flustered, maybe — Jake yanks his finger free, cheeks hot. He pulls on a shirt with a little more force than necessary, not bothering to look at Jay as he does. 

“Listen, if it makes you feel any better, I already knew I was right,” Jay says, and the smile on his face is audible. “I do accept your apology, though.” 

Jake exhales, a tension he hadn’t even noticed unwinding from his shoulders. He steps out into the hall feeling lighter, relieved, so chipper he takes the stairs instead of the lift, practically skipping down them. The air in the stairwell is crisp against his skin, the smell of coffee drifting up as he gets closer and closer to the dining hall. His phone vibrates in his pocket, lighting up with three messages from Sunghoon when he checks it. 

Hoon: You are definitely handling things in a way I wouldn’t even recommend to my worst enemy!

Hoon: But things have a weird way of working out for you so

Hoon: Don’t worry too much 💪

Jake: Thanks?

The morning rush has thinned, and the emptying buffet trays aren’t his favourite sight—congealed scrambled eggs at their edges. He fills his plate anyway, hungry and happy enough to ignore how yellow the eggs are. At the nearest table, he chews absently, crunching crispy bacon, sipping pulpy orange juice, and his mind drifts. Jay’s voice, Sunghoon’s text, the lingering hum of a hundred past conversations—background noise. He pulls out his phone before he even registers the impulse, thumbs flying over the screen. 

Jake: Hey, pretty girl :) how was your night?

YN: It was good! And then Yizhuo threw up all over the smoking area which was.. terrifying 

YN: But I was in bed at 1 a.m. which I’m counting as a positive!

Jake: Sorry about Yizhuo, how’s she feeling? How are you feeling? 

Jake: Damn it’s early, are you okay? 

YN: Okay, 20 questions 🤨 Like shit. Good. On my way! To Pilates.

Still hungry after breakfast, Jake leaves the dining hall to take a shower and pack his bag before they leave. He sleeps for the whole journey, head on top of Jay’s. 

When they step off the bus at uni, Jake waves goodbye to the team and heads straight for his car—he doesn’t go home. The drive is endless, knee bouncing at every red light, grip tight on the wheel. When he reaches your building, an older couple lingers by the entrance, hand in hand, giggling. He slips past them, taking the stairs two at a time. At your door, he stops, hunching over to catch his breath before knocking. 

It takes a while, but Jimin opens the door, her smile falling when she sees him. “Jake, hi,” she says quietly, though it sounds like a question. She doesn’t step aside to let him in. “She’s not home, you just missed her actually. Jaemin picked her up.” 

Just hearing Jaemin’s name is like a stake to the chest. Jake tenses without meaning to, jaw tight. He’s been avoiding the guy like the plague since Jaehyun’s birthday, when he cornered Jake in the kitchen. “Are you two, like, serious, or what?” he asked, voice low even though they were alone.

Throughout ten years of friendship, Jake had been asked that question more times than he could count. Throughout four years of pining, it was one of two questions that made him want to throw himself into oncoming traffic. He didn’t need to follow Jaemin’s eyeline or hear another word to know exactly what he meant. Who he meant—you, of course. In the living room, laughing with the birthday boy, Jake’s jacket slung over your shoulders as you waited for him to bring you a can of Sprite. 

Jake only shrugged, the red cup of water in his left hand crunching a little under his tightening grip. “We’re friends.” 

“So I’m allowed to ask her out?”

That was the second question that got under Jake’s skin—not just because it was reductive, but because it wasn’t his decision to make. And yet, there came Jaemin, like every guy before him, asking as if they really think that if Jake had any say in it, you’d be with anyone but him. 

With a sigh, he said, “I’m not her father, Jaemin. It’s up to her.”

Jaemin smiled, pulling a cigarette from behind his ear. “You got a light?”

“No.” He shook his head, shoving his clenched fist into his back pocket, the cool metal of his lighter grazing his right knuckle. “Can’t smoke in here anyway, mate.”

The memory slams into him, full-force, knocks the wind out of him. “He did?”

“She didn’t tell you?” Jimin tilts her head. “Weird.”

His brain stalls, unsure which thought to torture himself with first: that you’re seeing Jaemin, or that you didn’t tell him. As it turns out, the more hurtful thought is of the text you sent him an hour ago while he was asleep on the bus, the reason he’s even here.

YN: Travel safe, Jakey, I can’t wait to see youuuuu <3 

Jimin’s hand reaches for the door. “Goodbye.” 

His lips part, trying to gather his thoughts, to say something before the door clicks shut in his face. Nothing comes to mind, but your voice rings out into the silence. “Who’s at the door?” The sound of it rattles through him, curious, gentle as ever, and the seconds that pass stretch out in front of him, vast and unending. 

Jimin only frowns, her shoulders slumping. She seems more disturbed by the fact that now she’ll have to let him in than the fact that she’s been caught lying. “Oops,” she says simply, leaving the door open as she goes back to her room. 

Sighing, Jake leaves his shoes next to yours and locks the door behind him, his fingers fumbling a little as he twists the key. Smelling food, he goes straight to the kitchen where he finds you. You’re standing by the stove, hair covering your face, lost in the task at hand: trying to tear open a bag of cheese without scissors. You succeed. Before he says a word, you look over at him, and the grin that spreads over your lips makes his stomach swoop, butterflies tumbling around like they’re looking for a point of exit. You’re perfect. There’s something about that smile that brightens everything around you, grounding and dizzying him all at once.

“Hey,” he says, breathless, smiling too. 

You turn off the stove before stepping into his space, arms looping around his waist like you need this as much as he does. “Jakey,” you mumble into his chest.

It’s nice to see you, he can’t overstate that, and he suspects it always will be. Yet, even with you in his arms, he can’t smooth out the crease in his brows, can’t relax into your touch like he wants to—like he’s been thinking about since he left yesterday. The only thing on his mind is whatever the fuck is going on with Jimin, and how to ask you about it. 

“I see you’ve done your food shop,” he says dumbly, looking over your head at the pot on the stove. 

“Uh huh.” You nod, tilting your head back to look at him. “I even got those chocolates you like.”

Jake smiles, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, liking the way you lean into his touch. “You didn’t have to do that.”

You shrug, but the softness of your voice betrays your attempt at nonchalance. “I wanted to make sure you had a reason to come and see me.”

“You’re being really sweet,” he says, frowning. He doesn’t mean to sound suspicious, but for some reason, it’s easier to question you than to believe you might actually want him here. He presses the back of his hand to your forehead. Your skin is warm, but not feverish. Normal. Still, he keeps it there. “You feeling okay?” 

You roll your eyes, catching his wrist and pulling his hand away. “Are you okay? You look like Jimin caught you out there praying for pussy.”

It would have been less mortifying if she had. He chuckles, an awkward huff of air that sounds more like a strangled cough than anything close to a laugh. Pressing his fist to his mouth, he clears his throat as if it will somehow clear the feeling in his chest, too. As if summoned simply by Jake thinking about her, Jimin comes into the kitchen, buttoning up her coat. Her eyes skip over him like he’s not there, her smile reserved for you. 

“I have to go, but I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” she says, opening her arms. 

You step forward without hesitation, slipping into her embrace like it’s second nature. The hug is warm and sweet, the two of you in your own world while Jake is stuck in its orbit, watching it spin without him. “I’ll miss you,” you say sincerely. “Text me when you get there.”

Jimin ruffles your hair when you pull away, smiling when you protest. “I miss you already.” And with that, she squeezes your wrist affectionately before turning on her heel without so much as a glance in his direction.

At the sound of the front door swinging shut, Jake sighs, glancing at it like he expects her to reappear. To say it was all a big joke, that she was doing a bit, and hug him too—the way she would have done a month ago, before.. 

It’s quiet in the flat—just you and him. He shifts on his feet, shoving his hands into his pockets, watching you watch the pot on the stove. You take off its foggy lid, steam curling out as you sprinkle grated cheddar into it—cheese dakgalbi. His mouth waters. 

Silence persists. Not awkward, not quite comfortable. He has to ask. “Did you ask Jimin to pretend you weren’t home?”

A laugh bubbles out of you, amused by the mere suggestion. You shake your head. “No.”

Jake sniffs, his voice quieter than before. “Is she mad at me or something?” He tries for casual, but he sounds a bit pathetic. 

You give him a look—confused, as if you didn’t see the way she’d ignored him. “Did she tell you I wasn’t home?” 

He nods slowly, saying nothing about the Jaemin-shaped elephant in his proverbial mind-room. Instead, he reaches into the cupboard behind him, the hinge creaking softly as he pulls out a bowl for you. He hands it over without meeting your eyes.

“Aren’t you hungry?” 

There’s too much going on in his head to navigate your line of questioning. “What are you talking about?”

You hold up the dish like the answer to his question is written on its base. “One bowl,” you say—it isn’t, by the way, the answer. He looked.  

“I’m not staying,” he says without meaning to, though now that he’s thinking about it, he likes the idea of going home and being alone with his thoughts. It might even be nice to sit in silence on the couch with Sunghoon if he’s home. 

Putting the bowl down, you take a step back, and scoff. Defensive. Hurt, he thinks. You sigh. “Why are you here then?” 

Your question, your tone, makes him feel a little silly. Silly for cancelling his plans with Jay to come here. Really silly, actually. For thinking you missed him too. For thinking, can’t wait to see you, meant anything more than just something nice to say to a friend who’s been away. 

“Well.. I don’t know.” Jake shrugs. “I just wanted to look at you or something, I guess. Make sure you were alright.”

Your expression softens, a step towards him, eyes — wide, searching — meeting his. “Stay, Jake. Please.”

His breath catches, taken aback by this unprompted offering of vulnerability—asking him to stay because you want him to, not because he asked if he should. He wonders if it could always be like this. If you could be like this with him again. Open. Gentle. Like before. 

“Did you miss me?” Jake asks, greedy for you to open up. To give him more than just a little. “While I was away?”

“It was one night.” 

“So? I missed you,” he admits. 

Your eyes flicker over his face, but you don’t answer. No, you roll your eyes like he’s being ridiculous—it bothers him though he knows it shouldn’t. He approaches you before he can think better of it, hands finding the counter on either side of you, caging you in. You don’t resist or pull away, only tilting your head to meet his gaze. And fuck, you’re right there and so beautiful. Close enough for him to see the way your eyes widen ever-so-slightly. Close enough that his pulse trips over itself.

“Why won’t you tell me you missed me?” he asks. 

You arch a brow. “Why do you want me to tell you if you already know?” 

Jake exhales sharply, tilting his head, pressing his fingertips into the counter like it’ll ground him. “I just—” He pauses. Swallows. Tries again. “Please.”

A hesitation. He feels your hand on his waist, your fingers squeezing. Sees the way your lips part, like you might actually say it. But you don’t. “Why?” you ask instead. 

He blinks, throat working around an answer that won’t come out. And suddenly, he feels stupid. Standing here, begging you to say something he already knows, something that shouldn’t matter so much. His eyes flick to yours, and he tries again, softer this time, whispering, “Please, baby.”

Finally, you break, quietly confessing, “I hate being away from you.” And it’s a million times better.

A startled breath escapes him, soft and disbelieving. His heart stumbles over itself, warmth flooding his chest. He blinks at you, processing, the words replaying in his head, sweeter each time. His fingers twitch against the countertop, resisting the urge to touch you, but you’re looking at the floor, and that won’t do. Gently, he tilts your chin up, your eyes meeting his—all wide and pretty, uncertainty flickering in them. 

He swallows, voice unsteady. “Say it again.”

A slow smile curves your lips, and he sees the flash of realisation in your eyes—you’ve got him, you know you do. “I hate being away from you, Jake,” you repeat, confident now. 

The shape of the words on your lips, how they roll off your tongue, hitting him with so much affection it’s a wonder he doesn’t burst into tears. Those words spoken to him, in your voice, by you. He takes a deep breath. “See? That wasn’t so bad,” he says, trying to tease but his voice is too soft. 

You roll your eyes, but your lips are twitching, fighting a smile. “It was excruciating.” 

Jake hums, brushing his thumb along your jaw, memorising the feel of you, liking the way you gulp. “My poor girl,” he teases, a pout on his lips. “I was about to drop it, you know. One more why, and I’d have let you off the hook.”

And then — before you can fire back some sharp remark — he kisses you. 

He takes his time, desperate — quite frankly — to make up for what he missed yesterday morning. His hands find the small of your back, pulling you close as if he can’t bear being away from you again. Every touch is a relief, his gratitude and adoration poured into the warmth of his lips against yours. A tiny sound, low and wanting, slips from your mouth to his, stirring his chest. When he pulls away, your lips linger, and he almost can’t find in him to break the connection. You chase his kiss, whining a little—so cute it weakens his knees, and he can’t help but smile, liking the flutter in his stomach.

Looking down at you, he exhales shakily, heart pounding. Overwhelming warmth fills him up, crams itself into every single part of him, knowing that this is real. That you’re real, and you’re here, with him. 

“That wasn’t so bad either, huh?” he asks, giggling, his voice almost as light as he feels.

You beam at him before hiding your face in his chest, letting out a giddy laugh as he rubs circles on your back, chin on top of your head. You hate being away from him. The words echo in his head, surreal, sweet.

He’s not convinced he’ll ever stop smiling. 

Until his stomach growls, loud, slicing the quiet. Another laugh from you, the sound vibrating through him — too real to be imagined — as you pinch his waist. “Come on, baby,” you say, eyes sparkling. “Let’s eat.” 

You slip out of his hold, and Jake, helpless to do anything but follow, wraps his arms around your waist at the stove. His chest is pressed to your back, fingers curling into your sides so you don’t leave again. If you mind, you don’t voice it. You sway a little against him, humming the same song he was listening to on the bus. 

Why can’t he stay here, with you, like this, forever?

His bowl warms his lap while you put your glasses on, turning on the TV. Gossip Girl fills the screen, the voices familiar, comforting, fading into the background when you sit, your thigh pressed against his. He wonders if you realise how much of the space in his head you occupy. The flavours are rich, familiar, perfect—he’s never had cheese dakgalbi as good as yours. He sighs happily. Heart skipping a beat when he glances over at you, finding you already looking at him. You hate being away from him. Lips kiss-bitten, lenses foggy from the steam. You give a tender smile. 

Jake bites back a grin, stuffing chicken into his mouth so he doesn’t speak and admit to something crazy—the future in his head, with you. Your child (children if you want them, a dog if you don’t (hopefully a dog even if you do)), and countless nights together like this for the rest of your natural lives. 

Beside him, sane, you give commentary—perfect outfits, Serena’s hair, ugh, why is Chuck here? He nods, too far gone to do anything but copy your homework and change the answers a bit. That dress is beautiful, there’s probably tutorials if you look, why is Chuck here?

After he clears his bowl and what you couldn’t finish from yours, you make a pillow out of his shoulder. Sighing, you get comfortable while he inhales the familiar scent of your shampoo, your hair brushing his cheek. Shifting closer, you press into him, his arm tightening around you. It doesn’t take long for your breath to even out. Jake’s chest swells, overwhelmed by how much he likes this. He presses his lips to the top of your head, the softest kiss of his life, and lets his eyes flutter shut. 

He hates being away from you too.

Jake has rescheduled this dinner with his parents so many times, his mother actually called him. He didn’t answer. Instead, he flinched, threw his phone to the other end of the couch and waited for the ringing to stop. If it weren’t for his dad texting to ask about it, he wouldn’t be standing on the doorstep of his family home doing breathing exercises. 

He takes one last deep breath before putting his key in the lock. Inhale. One, two, three. Exhale. One, two, three. Open the door. “I’m home!” he calls out, stepping inside and taking off his shoes. 

Jake’s mother gasps in the kitchen as if she’s surprised, jogging out into the hall. “Jaeyun!” she cries, arms flung around him. “Oh, my boy, it’s so good to see you.” 

He only nods, letting go prematurely, long before she releases him. 

“It’s just a shame you’re harder to reach than the Prodigal Son.”

“Yeah.” Jake gives her a tight smile, a slow nod. “Just got a lot on at the minute with uni. Good to be home though.” 

She’s already heading back to the kitchen, talking over her shoulder. “Dinner’s nearly ready, so you’ve come at the perfect time. You might think about changing?”

With furrowed brows, he looks down at his outfit. Jeans. Jumper. Hardly unpresentable. “I think I’m alright, actually, Mum,” he says, following behind her. 

Seeing his dad stand up from the table tugs Jake’s lips into a boyish grin. “Dad,” he whispers, breathless, pleased, allowing himself to be pulled into a hug, his dad’s unchanged cologne hitting his nose. Floral, warm. Strong arms around him. 

“How are you, son?” he asks, quiet, private, just for them. 

“I’m good, Dad. I’m good.”

The simmer of broth. Oil frying eggs in a pan. The smell of beef strikes him, turning his hunger fierce. His stomach rumbles quietly, unsoothed by his attempts at rubbing it. He asks if his mother needs a hand, and she waves him off, shakes her head, it’s her pleasure to cook for her son. She’s wearing her apron, the same red checkered one she’s had for as long as he remembers, stirring a pot by the stove. She looks so motherly like this. As if she might come over and kiss the top of his head just because. Pat his back and say good job for simply existing. It’s all very maternal of her, like that instinct has finally kicked in, twenty short years postpartum. Maternal in a way that digs a nasty pit in his stomach. The mum-in-a-million, best-mum-ever figure he always thought Big Mum made up to push Mother’s Day cards. 

“Are you seeing anyone?” his dad asks. 

That word choice sticks out to him, it’s almost been a full year of anyones and peoples from his dad and it still warms his heart in a way he’s not sure he’ll ever adjust to. There had been some.. concerns when he was younger and innocently introduced his first school friend, Jaehyun, to his parents as his boyfriend. Concerns that were not entirely baseless, as Jake’s teenage years would soon reveal to him. 

“Any nice girls?” his mother corrects from the kitchen, not looking away from the drawer as she takes cutlery out. “Oh, who was that girl you used to be friends with? What was her name? From school, Jaeyun? Funny girl. Her mother used to teach you, what was she called?” 

Jake mumbles your name, reminds her that the two of you are still friends. He’s not sure why she insists on this song and dance, when both of them know she wouldn’t exactly be happy if he brought you — or anyone — home. He bites the inside of cheek remembering you — age fourteen — sitting at this very table, passing Jake the salt shaker and scrunching up your nose at the mention of church. Church? No, my parents said church is for people who think they’re better than everyone else. Only Jake and his dad found that funny.

She puts cutlery down for all three of them, looking down at him after placing his chopsticks. “The atheist?” she asks, saying the A-word with a certain level of distaste that Jake can’t help find amusing. 

“Yes, mum. The atheist,” he confirms, holding back a laugh at the amused smile his dad — the other atheist — wears.

There’s a look on her face when she hums, as if satisfied he acknowledged your lack of faith out loud. “I mean, you’re a bit young for a relationship, anyway.” 

“I’m twenty,” he points out. 

She raises her brow from over the kitchen island, stopping in her tracks with a steaming pot in hand. “Do you want to get married?” 

Jake shrugs, watching as she puts the pot on the table, letting the smell of short ribs envelop him. “I mean.. not right now, but at some point? Maybe?” The words leave his mouth unthinkingly, seeming wrong as soon as he says them. 

“So why would you be looking for a girlfriend?”

His mouth opens and promptly closes again, unsure of what to say. Jake glances at his dad, but he only takes a sip of his water. He’s not going to argue with her—he never does. 

“Look.” His mother sighs, tucking her hair behind her ears as she takes a seat at the table next to his dad. “A lot of people your age are out drinking and having sex, and I understand that’s how this country is, but that is not how we raised you, Jaeyun—we didn’t bring you here for that. Sex isn’t about your age; it’s about marriage. And until then, you shouldn’t even be thinking about it, never mind having it.”

Mortified, he runs a hand over his face. “I’m not having sex. Jeez, Mum.” It’s a lie that only gets harder to say the more he tells it. He might actually abstain — even from hand stuff — until marriage, if he has this conversation again. 

“Are you drinking?” 

“No, I’m not drinking.” This lie is easier. “I’m an athlete.” Because half of it is true. 

His mother tilts her head, affronted. “Jaeyun, you’re a Christian first.” 

A familiar tension wraps around him, not any easier to manage for how often he feels it around her. “You’re right, Mum. Sorry.” 

She seems pleased enough with this, her eyes lingering on him for a beat before they narrow. “I heard from Sieun’s mum that you weren’t at church this week.” Of course, she heard. She is always hearing things about Jake, and Sieun’s mum always seems to be the one saying them.

“I had a game.” 

“On Sabbath?” 

There is, for Jake, no winning where his mother is concerned. Because, of course, his breaking of the Sabbath is what matters right now. Never mind that he’s playing at a level she used to brag to her friends about. Never mind that he’s doing that, and getting top marks in his classes, and still finding time for family dinner every other week. Never mind that last term he spent two days with an IV drip in his arm from overworking himself and she didn’t text him back when he told her.

Jake’s jaw tightens, teeth grinding as he forces himself to swallow the words burning on his tongue. A glance at his dad, who’s staring down at his empty plate, pretending not to hear. Finally, he clears his throat, setting his glass down with deliberate care, a delicate arm over his wife’s shoulders. “Honey..” He trails off, eyes flicking to his son quickly. “How about we say grace before dinner gets cold?” 

Conflicted relief settles over Jake’s shoulders at this. He knew his dad would step in eventually. He had to. This is the man who sat him down at thirteen and explained consent to him in careful, measured words—again at seventeen before he moved out. The man who passed him a beer on a fishing trip when he was sixteen, told him to sip slowly, to learn the taste so he wouldn’t feel the need to prove anything to anyone later. Who had wrapped him in a hug, kissed the top of his head last year when he said he likes boys too. You’re my only son, Jaeyun. I want you to be happy. He can’t look at his dad, see the hard lines of his face, the silver strands of his hair, without seeing that too.

He nods obediently when his mother tells him to pray, holds hands with his parents, closes his eyes. His dad’s rough hand squeezes his and he smiles. “Dear Lord, thank you for giving us the opportunity to sit around the table tonight as a family. Please bless the food we’re about to eat, and the hands that made it. In your name’s sake we pray, amen.”

With that, they eat ugeoji galbitang—Jake’s favourite. He likes it too much to let anything, even his mother (who makes it best), ruin it for him. Luckily, his dad steers the conversation, shares his wins at work, compliments Jake’s highlight tape from the game over the weekend, talks about the trash movie he’s got lined up for them to watch tonight. 

Tonight. Together. As a family. Jake always spends the night after dinner, no exceptions. But he’s certain that if he spends any longer than he needs to in this house, he’ll die. He needs to come up with something, an excuse, a lie, something suddenly remembered. A commitment heavy enough that he must leave at once to attend to it. He thinks about Sunghoon, about you—but Jake’s mother is a blood is thicker than water kind of woman, and in her eyes, the only things thicker than blood are God and school. 

He clears his throat, takes a sip of water, keeps a hold on his glass even when he puts it down. “That sounds great, Dad—I mean Operation Christmas Drop sounds truly awful, but I have a paper due tonight and it’s saved on a USB so I’ll have to go home to submit it.” 

His mother continues to eat, unbothered. It’s hard to watch his dad’s smile falter, but he nods, understanding. “Another time, then.” 

Dinner continues, marked mostly by the clatter of cutlery—chopsticks on side plate, spoon on bowl. There are a lot of negative things Jake could say about his mother, but she’s the only woman in the world who could call him an embarrassment for quitting violin at fifteen, then console him with her cooking. Even the simplest sides — her fried eggs and white rice — move Jake beyond words.

He clears the table when they finish eating, his parents packing up the leftovers while speaking quietly to one another as Jake washes the dishes. He strains his ears over the running water, but it’s no use, only catching murmured honeys and nos. Coming home is a bit like being caught in a loop sometimes, like he’s checking off boxes on a list: 

1. Mum warns Jake about premarital sex

2. Jake lies and says he’s not having it

3. Dad sits in silence, pretending he didn’t buy Jake condoms when he went off to college

4. Substitute sex for some other mostly harmless vice 

5. Rinse and repeat. 

This absurd script they’re following, these roles they all fall into, time and time again. He can’t be the only one exhausted by this. 

Jake dries his hands with the dish towel hanging from the oven door and scratches at the back of his neck. “I’d really better go,” he says. “Thanks again for dinner, Mum.” 

He doesn’t hang around for her response, taking the stairs two at a time until he gets to his room. Slipping on his jacket, he looks around at the walls again. Certificates, postcards. Barer now since he took some of his favourite posters with him when he moved. Still, his Dune poster, brought home from a midnight showing, hangs above his bed. He’d stayed at Jaehyun’s house that night—his mother would never let him out so late with friends. As much as he loves it — the outline of Timothée Chalamet, Paul, tall and trim in his stillsuit — he left it behind. A quiet reminder of his small rebellion. 

Leaving always feels so final, like he has to memorise the details of his childhood room even though he’ll be back in two weeks. A sighs, more than ready to leave, but stops short, seeing the photo booth strip under his light switch. You and him, frozen in the pink frames of a four-cut photo, sixteen forever. In the last shot, your arm is around his shoulders, lips pressed to his cheek. Back then, he didn’t think he liked you—not the way he does now. But his skin had burned where you kissed him, and he hadn’t washed his face that night, afraid to lose the trace of your clear lip gloss. 

After four years, the memory sends a swarm of butterflies through his stomach, his fingers reaching up to brush his left cheek. He takes the photo, slipping it into his jacket pocket before joining his parents at the door. 

“I just want you to make good decisions,” his mother says, hugging him. Her perfume is floral, familiar. He breathes it in, holding on just a second longer than normal.

“I’m trying.”

“Come on, I’ll walk you out,” his dad says, already putting on his shoes.

Jake’s chest tightens. He gulps, nodding, waves at his mother. Her eyes burn holes into his back as he follows his dad out. March’s breeze whips his jacket, lunchboxed leftovers warm his palms. They walk in silence to Jake’s car. 

“Are you happy, Jaeyun?” His dad’s voice is soft, careful. “None of this matters if you aren’t.” His calloused fingers rub at the back of Jake’s neck—a comfort. “Not your grades, not football, not church.. It’s no use working so hard if you’re not happy.”

Jake nods. “I am usually,” he admits. 

A grin. Crinkled eyes. “That’s all I ask of you.”

“Are you happy, Dad?”

His dad’s face softens, shoulders relaxing. “With you as my son?” A chuckle slips out of him. “How could I not be happy?” He pulls Jake into a tight hug, his arms strong and steady. Jake squeezes back, fingers gripping his dad’s shirt.

“I love you,” Jake says, the words muffled against his dad’s shoulder. 

His dad holds him even tighter. “I love you, son.”

They pull apart slowly, reluctant. A shared exhale. Breeze biting, still. 

“Drive safe, okay?” 

Jake nods, unlocking the car. “I will.”

His dad smiles again, giving him a nod before heading back to the house. The porch light is off when Jake starts his car. 

Thirty silent minutes pass by in a blur, unregistered until he’s taking off his seatbelt outside his building. Backpack on, leftovers in hand, he goes inside, dragging his feet up the stairs to the eighth floor. He doesn’t even have to slow his pace or catch his breath at the door to his flat—at least the gym is paying off. 

Sunghoon isn’t home. Monday night. Evening practice. Jake leaves the food on the kitchen counter to cool down and goes to his room. His bed, neatly made, fresh sheets, looks tempting, but he has other plans for the night. He gets changed and sits on the couch, waiting for Sunghoon.

For the next hour, his phone goes off regularly, but none of the notifications are from you so he doesn’t care. It only dawns on Jake that he can simply text you when he wants to see your name in his phone.

Jake: Can I come over? 

YN: I thought you had family dinner tn?

YN: Oh. I’m not at home but you can call me!!! My signal is a bit shit on the train rn but you can always call me, Jake

Jake: It’s okay, usual shit w my mum lol

Jake: Idk why I always think things will be different when I go there and always get surprised when they’re not

YN: I’m sorry she gives you such a hard time, baby

YN: I know you don’t feel like it but you’re doing such a good job. You’re juggling shit I don’t even want to imagine and you still make time for football and all your uni stuff and to make everyone in your life feel special. I promise you’re not fucking anything up at all.

YN: You don’t have to keep going over there, you know.. I get you like seeing your dad but surely you two can hang out alone? Another fishing trip, maybe? I know you had a really good time in the summer

The summer—the fishing trip, the beer, the hug. He smiles. 

Jake: Yeah, maybe

When he hits send, a key turns in the lock. Sunghoon—whistling to himself after practice. It’s nice one of them had a good Monday, that’s half of the people in the flat. Much better than thirty seconds ago, when a hundred percent of people in the flat were having a terrible day. His footsteps pad down the hall and he freezes in the doorway, brows raising in surprise. A beat. “Hey, buddy. I didn’t know you’d be back tonight.”

Jake clears his throat, but the roughness of his voice persists. “Left early.”

Sunghoon hums, nodding once before he leaves, coming back in a t-shirt and sweatpants, two beers in hand as he sits on the couch. He hands one to Jake, pulls the tab on his own, and takes a long, slow sip. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” Jake shakes his head. “I put some ugeoji galbitang in the fridge for you. I don’t know if you saw.”

“Nice, man, thanks.” 

These are the last words from either of them for hours. Even when one of them gets up to use the toilet, or Sunghoon goes to get more beer. It’s not until two a.m. that they speak again. 

“Are you alright if I turn in? I need to be up soon.” Sunghoon yawns, arms stretched out in front of him. 

Jake nods, yawning too. “Yeah, of course. I should get some sleep anyway.” 

Sunghoon lingers, his hand curling and uncurling on the edge of the couch. “You sure?” he asks, only standing when Jake nods again. 

Jake collects the cans, flicking the lamp off on the way out. He turns towards the kitchen but stops in his tracks, looking over his shoulder. Sunghoon’s heading to the bathroom, hand on the doorknob when Jake says, “Thank you.” For being my best friend. For doing nothing with me for hours, he doesn’t say. 

Yet Sunghoon seems to understand. He always does. In three steps, he reaches Jake, a reassuring pat on his shoulder. “You’re my best friend,” he says, matter-of-factly, and leaves Jake in the hall, locking the bathroom door behind him. 

When Sunghoon is done, Jake goes to the bathroom, brushes his teeth. He steps into the shower, appreciating the heat of the water on his skin, how he reddens under it. Washes his face, his hair. Stands aimlessly under the spray until he starts worrying about the planet. He feels a bit better after this. Moisturises in his room, puts Vaseline on his lips, gets into bed. 

He’s lying on his side, staring at the wall. He pats around the mattress for his phone, finding it and calling you without thinking. It rings out, because, of course, you can always call me, Jake, does not mean: call me at three in the morning. 

He looks at his screen for so long it locks. Too dark to see his reflection on it. Thankfully. He opens your text thread, drafting a message. Called by mistake HAHAHAHAHA dw! Delete. Sorry for calling so late, maybe we could hang out when you’re up? Coff—there’s a knock at his door and he locks his phone, tucking it under his pillow like a child. 

“What is it?” he calls out. 

The door clicks open behind him, closes softly. Your voice. “Hey, Jakey.” 

He sits up immediately, your name falling out of his mouth like a question. You’re standing there in your pyjamas, angelic, everything he’s ever wanted, blued by the moon shining through his window.  And if he wasn’t so upset, so convinced he’s making this all up, he would scold you for coming over at this time in only a vest and shorts. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move too abruptly, so as not to disrupt the dreamscape. Slowly, carefully, he lifts the end of his duvet, a silent invitation. You step towards him, crawling into his arms, soft skin warm on his, a kiss to his chest. 

This is.. real? 

You are real?

Turning on his lamp, he pushes your hair from your face, studying you. Soft bow of your lips, gentle slope of your nose, flutter of your lashes when you blink. Lamplight cuts sharp orange angles over your cheekbone, carving you out of the dark. He kisses you, a fleeting press of his lips to yours. To check. 

You are real, and breathtaking, always so breathtaking, and here, with him.

“How did you..?” He trails off, unsure what to ask—get here? Know I needed this? 

“Hoon called and came to pick me up,” you say, answering both of his questions at once.

This is.. overwhelming. Beyond. That Sunghoon would think to call you, go so far as to pick you up at this hour. That you would get out of bed for this—for him. That there are people in his life, bound only to him by choice, who care this much. Jake swallows around the lump in his throat, eyes stinging with hot tears, desperate to spill. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, cupping his cheek in your palm. “I’m so sorry, baby.” 

Baby. Your baby. He has half a mind to tell you he loves you, but he’s touched, not insane, so he bites his tongue. Hides his face in the crook of your neck. 

“Oh, Yunie,” you say, stroking his back, your touch a grounding force. “I wish there was something I could do.”

He kisses the spot where your neck and shoulder meet. Lifts his head. Smiles as the first tear slips from his cheek onto yours. “You’re here.” 

Jake kisses your lips—soft, fleeting, hardly more than a peck. It’s not enough. Another kiss, longer, lingering, your warmth undoing him. Wrapping you in his arms, he tucks you close to his chest, clinging onto you like a lifeline. I love you. Over and over, he thinks it. Prayers on a rosary. So loud in his head he’s not convinced you can’t hear him. His eyes flutter shut, and with your steady breath on his skin, he lets himself fall asleep. 

Jake wakes up first, grinning at the sight of you curled against him, your face squished into his chest. His arms tighten instinctively, as if to keep you there, as if you might slip away. He watches you, still as he can, taking in the quiet, the warmth, you. As if sensing his gaze, you open your eyes, sleep-heavied blinks as you look up at him. You shift in his hold, turning your head enough to see his alarm clock. 08:46. A groan leaves your lips, and you bury your face back into his chest. 

He kisses the top of your head, mumbling against it. “Morning, baby.” 

Your groan doesn’t stop, drawn-out, dejected, rumbling against his skin until you tip your head back. “Come shower with me.” Your voice is thick with sleep, the words said as if you think it might be the only solution for your suffering. 

And it would be rude of him not to at least help you find out.

Jake has definitely had more productive showers, but he’s never had a better one than this. Skin on skin. Lips on lips, and neck, and chest. Slippery hands all over each other. Wet heat overwhelming him—press of bodies, rush of water. Trembling breath, racing heart. Your fingers around his wrist, guiding his hand between your thighs. 

By the time you’re clean, and moisturised, there’s only twenty minutes until your class starts. Pulling a pair of his sweatpants over your hips, you make a joke, laughing to yourself as you blame Jake for what you started. He’s a terrible influence, using his masculine wiles to seduce, corrupt, and make you late. 

He snorts, shaking his head. “So I’m a pervert in this fantasy of yours?” 

“I think you like it, Jakey,” you say, walking towards him, arms looping around his neck, fingers in his hair, chuckling. “Making a harlot out of an honest woman.”

Jake pinches your waist, liking the way it makes you jolt and squeal—trying to focus on that instead of the sharpness of the word harlot against his ears. He almost shudders, jarred by its dissonance. Sounding more like a word that might share a page with some of the other words that have disturbed him recently. Words he’s done a good job of pushing to the back of his mind—words he’s putting in a lot of effort to keep there. He sniffs, leaning down to kiss you. It was a joke, Jake. You were joking. It was a Christmas joke.

“Alright, Virgin Mary,” he mumbles against your lips, pulling away before you accuse him of further debasing. “Let’s go.” 

He drives you home so you can get your stuff, and you make a beeline for your room when you arrive. He doesn’t follow. Instead, he takes a deep breath and knocks on Jimin’s door. 

She groans when she sees him, head falling back. “What?” she huffs, voice thick with irritation. 

“Can we talk?” he shifts on his feet. “Please?” 

Jimin’s answer takes a while. She eyes him with her arms crossed over her chest. He can’t help looking over his shoulder, at your closed door, wondering how long you’ll take to change and pack your bag. With a sigh, Jimin steps aside, and he takes a cautious step in, making a point to stay near the door as he closes it—unsure how welcome he really is. 

“What did I do to you?” he asks hesitantly, watching as she sits on the end of her unmade bed. 

“You didn’t do anything to me.” Jimin shrugs, continuing when Jake opens his mouth to speak. “But I’m sure you’ll forgive me if I don’t trust the ‘innocent’ guy best friend who pounces at the first chance he gets.”

“Pounces?” he repeats, like it’s his first time hearing the word. “I’m not an animal, Jimin. There was no pouncing. If anything, she pounced on me.”

“So she’s an animal, is that what you’re saying?” 

Jake sighs, seeing there’s no way to win here. “Sure,” he says dryly. “She’s a tiger. Happy?” 

This doesn’t amuse Jimin. “What do you want with her?” 

He shrugs like he hasn’t given it much thought. “I want whatever she wants. If she wants to hook up, we’ll hook up. If she doesn’t, we won’t.” 

“You like her.” It’s not a question, but an accusation that softens her voice, raises her brows. 

Jake chews his lip, and that’s enough. Jimin’s jaw drops. “Oh, my God. I was worried you were going to hurt her, and this whole time I should’ve been worried about her hurting you.” She shakes her head, a laugh of disbelief coming out. “Good luck.”

He’s not sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this. 

Until it involved him, Jake hadn’t heard much about your sex life since first year. Thankfully. Kim Mingyu — Hot Mingyu, as you and Jimin still call him — is the last name he remembers. Older, massive, lived up to his moniker. He was always talking about the gym or his tech start-up, and eventually, he ended things because he didn’t believe Jake was just your friend. Jake suspects that the memory of Hot Mingyu will stick with him forever, because it was the first time it ever occurred to him that he didn’t want to be just friends with you. 

Jimin apologises, opening her arms and approaching him. She says that she should’ve known. Quiet, sympathetic, Jake thinks, hating it. But the door swings open, hitting his back before she can hug him. You poke your head into the room with a smile, oblivious. “Ready to go?” 

Back in the car, you try to peer pressure Jake into speeding, and he appeases you, doing thirty-two miles per hour in a thirty zone. Giving up with a huff, you turn your body away from him, knees against the passenger door. He’s too busy thinking about what Jimin said to comment—what the fuck does good luck mean?

And he’s so busy trying to figure that out, he doesn’t even realise you’re still wearing his sweatpants until you get out of the car. “Thanks for the lift, Jakey.”

Jakey smiles. Jakey waves. Jakey watches you leave. Jakey sits in his car for an hour before going home. 

He finds Sunghoon—home from practice, and eating an early lunch by the kitchen window. Standing, like he always does when he eats alone. “Hey, buddy,” he says, glancing quickly over his shoulder. “Feeling better?” 

Without a second thought — or a first one — Jake charges towards him, tackling him more than he hugs him. “Thank you.” 

Sunghoon goes stiff, completely tense in Jake’s hold. A shrug, slow and unnatural. “Don’t mention it,” he says, voice strained. A single, awkward pat of Jake’s back. “Could you please let go of me now? For a minute?” 

Apologising, Jake quickly releases him, feeling bad for the ambush. “I’m going to thank you again for last night, and I need you to accept it this time. You didn’t have to do that for me, but you did it anyway.”

Sunghoon turns, amused, leaning against the wall and taking a spoonful of yoghurt to the mouth. “I’m waiting.”

“Thank you, Sunghoon. Really.”

“You’re welcome, Jake,” he says, monotone, but his eyes are soft and he’s smiling. “And if you’re going to the library today, can we go together? I’m slacking, man—I need to lock in. Quickly.”

Jake chuckles at his deflection, but nods and says, “Of course.” 

They have different approaches to studying — Sunghoon puts his headphones on, and hyper-fixates on his task for as many consecutive hours as he can; Jake swears by Pomodoro, twenty-five minutes on, five minutes off — but they work alongside each other quite effectively. Jake squints at AutoCAD. Sunghoon scrolls through physio clinic listings. Jake texts his dad, asking if they can go fishing soon. Sunghoon continues to look for summer placements. Parallel play. 

His Pomodoro timer goes off silently, a notification in the corner of his laptop screen, and he lets out a relieved breath—he has high hopes not to study anything architecture related after this term, in a perfect world, he’ll never have to so much as look at a building again. When he checks his phone, his dad has replied, suggesting that they go next weekend, and he’s still typing when Jake opens their thread.

Dad: And if you want, you can bring that ‘friend’ of yours. It would be nice to see her again. 

Dad: The atheist. 😆.

Jake: Yeah, dad, that sounds good haha. I’m sure she’d love to! I’ll ask

Sunghoon takes off his headphones, thick brows furrowed as he looks over at Jake. “Training starts, like, now, no?”

The time is bright and reproachful on Jake’s screen. 19:55. Five minutes to get to Coach’s office on the other end of the building. A jolt of panic launches him out of his seat, shoving his laptop and notebooks hurriedly into his bag while Sunghoon watches, yawning.

“Can I come?” 

The question catches him so off guard, his hand freezes over the zipper of his backpack. “What? To training?” Jake asks, cocking his head. “I mean, probably. We have analysis before we start so I’m not sure about that, but you can definitely watch us on the pitch if you want.” 

A sigh of relief, as he stands. Firm hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Thank God, bro—can’t be fucked walking home.”

They’re the last to arrive, but thankfully Coach isn’t there yet. None of the guys question Sunghoon’s presence, they’re actually more pleased to see him than they are their own teammate. He leads Sunghoon to the end of the room, instructing him not to draw attention to himself—he gives a thumbs-up, whispering, got it, when the door clicks open. 

The first thing Coach says is, “Who the fuck is this guy?”

Why he thought his gargantuan best friend could be inconspicuous anywhere, never mind standing right behind him, is anyone’s guess. Sunghoon, for some reason, says nothing. Jake clears his throat. “He’s—uh—he’s my flatmate, Coach.”

Coach sighs, rubs his face with his hand. “Whatever. Don’t speak unless I speak to you. Understand?” 

“Sir, yes, sir.” Sunghoon gives a firm nod, raising a hand in salute. 

Another sigh from Coach, wrinkles in his forehead showing as he mutters something to himself. “We have a lot to cover, so let’s not waste more time.” He pulls up the match video on his laptop—always calling them the highlights, but criticises them aggressively. “Yang, what have I told you about hogging the ball?” 

Jungwon’s smile is audible. “That I’ve improved a lot, and you’ve never seen a better sportsman than me.” This answer wins him a death glare. “Fine, I hogged the ball a little, but we won!” 

This seems to amuse Coach, who laughs and looks around the room. “A little, the boy says.” The video starts—a minute long clip of Jungwon with the ball at his feet, neglecting multiple opportunities to pass. No cuts. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t bench you.” 

“I’m not seeing the big deal here. We literally won.” 

“You didn’t win this weekend because you have a selfish striker,” Coach says coldly. “You won because the other team was incompetent. And if you keep playing like that, you’ll cost us the season.” 

Jungwon isn’t smiling anymore.

Analysis goes on like always. Backhanded praise; thinly-veiled insults; Coach is pleased with his decision to appoint Jay Captain—words that no longer form a lump in Jake’s throat. In fact, he even pats Jay on the back, smiling sincerely when he looks over. 

Jake: Post-match went well 💪

Dad: Of course, son. You played brilliantly! So proud. 😆. 

Training flies by in a blur of five-a-side games and recreations of some of the poorer plays from Saturday’s game, Coach giving real-time corrections with varying degrees of rudeness. And before he knows it, the final whistle blows, dismissing them. Jake jogs off the pitch, legs heavy with exertion, mind buzzing with the rush of playing. His shirt is damp with sweat, sticking uncomfortably to his stomach, but he can’t look away from his reflection in the locker room mirrors. Cheeks and neck flushed, glowing. He looks good. Feels good—too good to just stand there staring at himself. So, he takes his shirt off, and without much thought sends you a photo. 

YN: Day 537727272724733 without dick: I came just from seeing this picture

Jake: Has it been that long? 

YN: I can’t count how many times I squirted while looking at that

YN: Fr though come over rn. Need that bad.

Jake: Are you objectifying me?

YN: Is it working . 

Jake: Yes. But I need to drop off Riki and Hoon then shower so……..

Jake: Wait up for me?

YN: Fine. 

The drive to Riki’s place has never been so long, and Sunghoon sleeps the whole way. Growing impatient, Jake almost starts driving off before his teammate is even all the way out of the car. Every light is green on the way home, no traffic at all—a blessing, Jake thinks. He takes a quick shower, brushes his teeth, and leaves the flat in a hurry, sprinting down the stairs to get back to his car. 

He buckles his belt with shaking hands, a text lighting his phone screen. Checking it immediately, he sees that Sunoo sent a Reddit link to the team group chat: like palmer’s not one of the best players in the league rn. Curious, he clicks it, the app’s familiar logo colouring his screen orange, and before Sunoo’s video has the chance to load, something else catches his attention—the number 54 sitting on his notification tab. His heart sinks to his stomach, he knows exactly what’s waiting for him under there. But he clicks it anyway, rereads the post he made only two weeks ago now. And looks straight at the comments, knowing what they’ll say before he sees them. 

It is a sin, brother. And there is a demon inside of you that wants you to keep committing this sin. You need to repent and flee from fornication at once. This sin is extremely demonic, it took me away from Christ completely, and I was on my way to h*ll. 

The Holy Spirit is working in you. Thank God for giving you a conscience and do not go through with it no matter what. 

You want advice? Turn to 1 Corinthians 7:2 and Hebrews 13:4. The Bible is very clear that the only acceptable time for sex is after marriage. 

Honestly bro, just marry her lmao 

I lost my job, my girlfriend left me, and I got hit by a car after indulging in fornication. It is not worth it, my brother, take heed. I will pray for you. 

Jake’s brain buffers, the words blurring together as he scrolls, searching for a different answer. Someone, anyone in the comments telling him it’s okay, that he will be okay, and he’s not going to hell for simply wanting to have sex. 

Nothing. 

A humourless laugh comes out of him, an exhausted huff. He rests his heavy head on the steering wheel—he can’t be bothered anymore. This isn’t just sex for him. There’s a future here—he’s not sure what it is, or how he’ll get there. But surely, surely, something good, something worthwhile is at the end of this. And isn’t that worth something? Wouldn’t God want him to enjoy himself? 

Jake takes a deep breath, white-knuckle grip on the wheel, and says a prayer. “Dear Lord, thank you for all you’ve done for me—but I’m not waiting any longer. I’m really going to do this, Jesus. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.” 

Jake pauses, peeking around the car with one of his eyes to check for hellfire—the coast is clear. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Amen.” 

It’s the most cautious drive of his life, checking every mirror and blindspot thrice, hands sitting firmly at ten and two—kissing twenty miles per hour the whole way. Parked outside, he climbs over the centre console to use the passenger door because it opens out onto the pavement, and no way one of those cars that’s going around striking down the sexually immoral is going to spawn there. He uses the stairs instead of the lift, and makes it to your flat in one piece. 

He doesn’t even have a chance to knock before you pull the door open, telling him he took so long as you take him by the hand and tug him over the threshold. “My fault, baby,” he says, apologetic. Jake bites his lip, eyes trailing over you. Fallen strap of your tank top, nipples pressing through thin fabric, shorts riding up. Good God. He gulps, dick stirring in his pants as you drag him to the living room.

Sinking into the couch, he looks up at you, eyeing him like you want to eat him alive—he’d let you, he wants you to. He pulls you into his lap, kissing you. A moan tugged out of his chest when you grind down on him. At this, you pull away, chest heaving. Lips swollen, wet. He can’t help but reach out and touch them, tracing your mouth with his thumb, pressing down on your plush bottom lip, before pushing it past your teeth. Fuck. Your eyes meet his, hazy, unfocused as you suck on his thumb, letting your tongue graze the tip. Holding his wrist, you stroke it and take his finger all the way to the knuckle, looking at him the same way you do when you’re kneeling between his spread thighs.

You tug at his shirt, mumbling around his finger. “Why are you still wearing this?” 

“Waiting for you to take it off of me, baby.” 

An imperceptible hitch of your breath before you reach for the hem, tugging it over his head. You bite your lip, admiring him and his cheeks burn scarlet under your gaze. “Can’t believe you look like this.” Warm hands on his skin, fingers trailing his abs and the fading love bites you’d left behind. “Such a lucky girl,” you whisper, awestruck as you kiss him urgently. 

Emboldened, eager for more praise — and frankly, extremely turned on — he stands, grip firm on your ass when he does. 

“Holy shit,” you utter, pulling away, eyes blown and unguarded. “Have you always been this strong?” 

This acknowledgement of his efforts makes his entire body flush, hot and bothered from head to toe. As he shrugs sheepishly, he can’t help wishing he could be more nonchalant when it comes to you. Wishing he could just nod, say yeah—even though you both know the strength and the muscle definition are new. Jake’s stomach flutters when you smile, leaning back into him, kissing and mumbling against his lips that he’s so hot. 

In your room, the two of you collapse onto the bed, attached at the hips and mouth. He begins to understand some of those freaks in the subreddit, how this — how you — could easily knock him off-kilter and take over his life. You grab his wrist, tugging his hand towards the spot between your legs, and killing his train of thought in the process.

Nothing else registers except your soft cotton shorts, drenched against his fingers and stuck to you. “Holy fuck,” he mumbles. 

“Do something about it.”

Nodding, he pulls the fabric off of you, moves it to the side. Sucking a breath through his teeth, he stares straight ahead. Shocked, turned on by how wet you are, and his fingers slip around so much he has to focus to keep them on your clit. It’s worth it, more than, for the way you whine, rutting your hips on his hand. Groaning, he lets his finger slip into you, adjusting his pants when you moan, his thumb working your clit in circles. Another finger slips inside, so easy, so slick and so warm, your walls clenching around him. The sound alone makes him dizzy. “So fucking wet,” he says, pressing deeper, fingers curling, watching your mouth fall open. “You’re killing me, baby.” 

Completely under your spell, he can’t look away from the spot where his fingers disappear into you. “My pretty girl.” He hums, licking his lips. “So pretty all over.” Jake’s dick actually hurts looking at you, straining against his pants, darkening the fabric with precum. Adding a third finger, he presses harder on your clit, groaning when your back arches off the bed. “You like it, huh? Feels good?” 

You only moan in response, clutching the sheets in your fists as you shake against them. It doesn’t take long for you to gasp, letting out a cry of his name as your body gives in, release spilling out around his fingers all while he stares in awe, open-mouthed. The soft curves of your body, flushed and shuddering and perfect. 

Panting, you look up at him with sparkling eyes and tug lightly at your waistband. He guides your hips up gently, pulling your shorts down and leaving them at the end of the bed. “Your turn,” you breathe out. Jake stands up from the bed to take his sweats and underwear off without a second thought. Your gaze traces his body, tongue wetting your lips, eyes caught on his dick as it smacks his stomach. “Need a minute.” 

“Course, baby.” He needs a minute too, hardly able to tear his eyes off the cum painting your pretty pussy white. As gently as he can, he runs his fingers through it, bringing them to his lips and humming around them. Oh, my God. “Tastes so good.”

A lazy smile curves your lips and you nudge his chest with your foot, leaning up on your elbows. “Twelve days. It’s been twelve days, Jake.” 

Confused, he tears his eyes from between your legs, looking up at you instead. Sweat-slicked skin glowing in the dim lamplight. No one has ever looked so beautiful, he’s certain. “Of what?” he asks, stroking himself absentmindedly. 

Your eyes follow the movement of his wrist, chewing on your bottom lip for a beat before your gaze flicks up to meet his. “Earlier, I said some stupid number and you asked if it’s been that long.” 

“Twelve days,” Jake repeats, hardly believing it. Hardly believing the fact that you’re laid out in front of him, glowing, gorgeous, and he’s still waiting—for what, he’s not sure. “Whoa,” he mutters, leaning over you, his hand on your cheek. “Twelve?” 

You nod, pouting. “Twelve,” you repeat, holding onto his wrist, kissing his palm. “Don’t make me wait any longer.” 

“Condom, baby.” He pulls away, but your grip on him tightens. 

“Don’t need it.” 

Jake raises a brow. Sceptical. Horny. “Are you sure?” 

“Certain. But I’ve never..” You trail off, clearing your throat. 

He knows what you mean, and his stomach flips over. “Same,” he admits. “Where should I..?”

“Inside. Please.” 

His eyes widen, searching yours, staring. You nod again, saying, please. 

Leaning down, he kisses your cheek. “Missed this, baby. Missed you,” he admits. He feels you shudder under him, a shaky breath fanning his skin when he nudges your clit with his tip. Lifting his head, he looks down at your face, taking you in. Lidded eyes blinking heavily, fluttering lashes, sweat beading along your hairline. “Still can’t believe it—how lucky I am, getting to see you like this.”

“Never wanted anyone this much.” 

His breath ceases, butterflies tumbling in his stomach. “Me neither.” The words feel bigger than they should, heavy as they settle between you. A beat passes slowly, his heart shifting in his chest. He leans in, pressing his lips to yours and hoping this kiss is enough to tell you everything he can’t quite say out loud. 

“Please, Jake,” you say, mumbling against his lips.  

So hot and so soft and so wet. Holy fuck. He sinks his teeth into his lip, freezing. It’s his tip, literally just his tip, but it’s enough to leave him lightheaded. He wonders if he’ll even last long enough to get to the part where he’s all the way in. “Won’t last long like this,” he says out loud, his own voice seeming distant.

You’re looking up at him with wet eyes, shaking—breath harsh, shallow. “Good,” you whisper. “We can go again, however you want it.” 

Again, he thinks, looking forward to it. As if he’s not already losing his mind. 

“Need more,” you breathe. “More, baby. Please.” 

Rocking his hips forward, slow as he can, he holds his breath at the feeling of you opening up around him, inch by precious inch. It’s incredible he went so long without this. Twelve whole days. Unfathomable now—impossible, surely. Both of you whine as he bottoms out, a ragged sigh coming out of him, his head falling. Relieved. Wound up. He opens his eyes and regrets it immediately—you, mouth agape, eyes screwed shut. Holy shit. “You okay, baby?” he manages. 

A smile spreads over your lips, a content breath slipping out of you. “Perfect, Jakey. Always forget..” You trail off, shaking your head, struggling to get the words out. “Forget how big you are.” 

His entire body flushes, set alight. “You always take it so good, though. Such a good girl, yeah? Fit me just right.” He knows how it sounds, but he means it. Truly. It’s never felt like this. He didn’t even know it could feel like this — so perfect, so right — until you. The rightness of it all is so intense he almost comes then and there, biting his lip so hard he tastes copper on his tongue.

The clench of you around him is raw and startling, forcing stars behind his eyelids with each blink. There’s a brief, stunned silence when Jake finally pulls his hips back, like neither of you quite believe it. There’s nothing between you like this, no clear distinction between your body and his. Your hands skim his back, delicately tracing the column of his spine with your nails, careful, venerating, plump lips apart as your eyes meet.

Before he knows it, he’s thrusting all the way back in, one smooth, desperate stroke. A half-gasp, half-sob cry of his name comes out of you, unravelling him entirely as your legs wrap around his hips. Breath staggered, shallow, he tries to keep his cool, letting his mouth find your neck—trailing the distance from top to bottom. Four kisses long. 

Not bothering to suppress his own moans and whimpers, he sets a steady rhythm, relieved that you seem to be enjoying this as much as him, mewling and clawing at his skin. Trembling, gasping, you — cut and pasted from his dreams — pull him in and the need to spend forever like this consumes him. With another cry of his name, you tense around him, head tipping back into the pillows as your orgasm hits. And he’s right there with you, skin burning from the inside out as he falls apart, gasping your name when he comes, filling you up. 

He doesn’t move right away — he’s not sure if he can — staying on top of you while you card your fingers through his hair, panting. As his heartbeat steadies, he leans up on his palms. You look at him, all soft and sleepy and perfect, still catching your breath. 

“Hi,” you whisper, smiling. 

“Hey, baby.” 

Neither of you seem to be in any rush to move, so he rolls you onto your sides, all tangled up and face to face. You press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth before curling into his chest, your skin damp and hot. Bowing his head, Jake offers a silent prayer—not seeking forgiveness, but giving thanks. 

A week goes by as usual—football, uni, seeing you. No pestilence or famine. No mark of the beast branded on his chest. Two suspiciously placed pimples on his forehead that have not sprouted into horns. No vehicular retribution. So far, no smiting.

The spring sun sets slowly, pinkening Jake’s wall through the cracks in his blinds. He has the apartment to himself while Sunghoon’s at training, so he’s making the most of his alone time. Head on pillow, phone in hand, switching through apps every few minutes as it nears time for him to leave. It’s a dangerous game, his favourite perhaps — doomscrolling time in bed — one that typically ends with him missing his plans, or staying up into all hours of the night watching Cole Palmer edits, and eighty-seven part Tiktok storytimes.

Tonight’s plan — every Wednesday night’s plan — is Bible study at church. And it’s not like he doesn’t want to go, honestly, he’s looking forward to it. It’s just that Chelsea played Arsenal yesterday, and won, so the edits are extra good, hot off the press and populating his for you page. Jesus would understand, surely. Would do the same, probably. As it stands, he’s watched this one edit of Palmer’s last-minute goal four times, and finds himself reciting, City’s boy is Chelsea’s man, with the commentator as your name pops up on his screen. A phone call. 

“Jakey, hey,” you say, voice so sweet his lips curl up. “Can I see you? In like, an hour, maybe?”

“Are you alright?” 

You hum in response. “Just want to see you.”

Something about the words, their softness, sincerity, knocks the wind out of him. He clears his throat, pulling the phone from his ear to check the time. 18:30. His stomach flutters, his heart racing, suddenly struck by your absence as if he hadn’t realised he was alone. A voice he’s gotten good at tuning out reminds him that he already missed church this week because he slept in, so he should at least go to study tonight. 

“I have Bible study in an hour, and it’s on until like half eight, but I’m free after that.” 

“Ugh,” you groan, and you sound so genuinely perturbed by this news that he has to fight a smile. “Jimin and I are having the girls over at nine.” 

“Thirty minutes is plenty,” he points out.

You sigh. “I don’t mean sex, Jake. I just.. want to spend time with you,” you say softly, “I’m kind of missing the friends part of this whole thing.” 

Jake shifts against his pillow, a pit in his stomach. He frowns, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Okay, yeah, I’m sorry. Of course.” The words come out quickly, tripping over his tongue. “I’m all yours tomorrow, I have nothing on,” he says, only slightly lying—he has football training in the evening. 

“I’m not free until Sunday..” You trail off. “What if I come to your Bible study? Can I do that?” 

A slow moment passes while he considers this. You? Come to Bible study? “But you’re.. an atheist.” 

“So what? If your church friends are as hot as you, I’d like to see for myself.” 

“They aren’t, but I’m happy you said that.” This is.. only slightly untrue. If you ask Jake, his church friends are hotter than him. In a silent prayer, he wishes ill on Mark Lee and Hamada Asahi. Nothing major, of course, just enough that they can’t make it tonight—an itchy throat, runny nose. Anaphylactic shock, maybe. 

“Do I have to dress up or anything?”

He shakes his head even though you can’t see. “You can wear whatever you want, it’s casual. Do you need a ride?”

“A ride home, maybe?” you say, sounding unsure. “I’m out right now.”

“What are you doing?”

You hesitate, stumbling over your words to say, “I’m—uh—I’m looking at records with Heeseung.” 

This information makes Jake’s stomach tense—just a little. Lee Heeseung. Tall. Older. Freakishly handsome. Sits at the friends-you’ve-kissed table with Jake. And Jaehyun. And Yizhuo. An—have any of your friends gone unkissed? Sigh. He feels significantly unspecial. 

“Oh..” he offers, trailing off, unsure what to make of that. “Find anything cool?” 

“Like you won’t believe!” The excitement in your voice is not lost to the phone, in fact, it’s so clear he can picture you rocking on your feet as you speak. He grins at the thought, distracted enough not to worry about when Heeseung graduated from drunken makeout to sober hangout. “Okay, I have to go, but I’ll see you in an hour!” 

Jake laughs on an exhale. “See you in an hour.”

With the end of the call, his Palmer edit starts again, and Jake falls back into the for you page like nothing happened. Edit after edit, each more creative than the last slip by at the swipe of a thumb, but now he’s starting to think that maybe he should wash his hair before he sees you, and you know, put on a suit, or something. In a casual way. Hair washed. Suit on hanger. It only takes four tries to settle on the perfect hoodie and baggy jeans, and with a spritz of his good cologne, he leaves the flat. 

It’s colder out than he’d like, the March chill nipping at him as he sits on the church steps, worsened he’s sure by his lack of a jacket. He prays you had the foresight to wear a jacket. If you didn’t—well, there’s not much he can do if you didn’t. Why didn’t he bring one for you? Jake sighs, breath clouding in front of him like smoke. Logically, he knows he’d be better off waiting in his car or inside, but he’s glued to the spot. What if you get lost? What if you miss the massive, traditional cathedral with the steeple and the steps? Or his car in the parking lot? What if you somehow miss all of those things located at the address he sent you? 

Bible study starts in ten minutes, but time stops when he sees you. Wearing a jacket, zipped all the way up to your chin. He exhales, relieved, a part of him unravelling. Before he realises, he’s jogging over, pulling you into a hug. He can’t resist breathing you in — all soft vanilla and coconut — glad to see you. Your arms loop around his neck, hands — ice cold — on his skin, making him shiver. You pull back, just a touch, and press your lips to his cheek in a soft kiss. Jake stiffens, his breath catching as the warmth of your lips lingers on his skin. 

As you walk ahead towards the church, he can’t stop focusing on the spot where your lips brushed his skin, resisting the urge to reach up and touch it. You’ve been talking, he realises, and he hasn’t heard a word—a distant hum until he catches the question in your voice.

“What did you say?” he asks, eyes flicking up towards you as you turn to face him on the steps. 

You’re a whole head taller like this, gaze trailing over every inch of his face. “Are you alright? You look a little sick.” 

Jake forces a smile, nodding. “All good,” he says, trying to convince himself more than you. 

He moves ahead, deliberately putting space between you, avoiding any chance for you to press further. His stomach flutters when you take his hand, the touch small, soft, but he smiles nonetheless as you give it a gentle squeeze. The foyer is empty when you arrive, but the murmur of voices from the Parish hall reaches his ears, grounding him. 

Jake holds the door open, gesturing for you to go in first as he follows behind you, taking stock of the room. No Asahi (thank gosh), but Mark is here, beaming, talking to—is that Park Jihoon? Back from college? Today? (What the fuck???) Sunghoon, at least, is a grounding sight, a sigh of relief slipping out of Jake when he sees him—sitting with.. Kim Chaewon? Of ‘Park Sunghoon, you’re dead to me,’ fame. Incredible. Somehow, your being here is the least surprising part of this whole affair. 

Sunghoon grins when he sees Jake, but he jumps from his seat seeing you, and jogs across the room to say hi. Much to Chaewon’s displeasure, he throws his arms around you, and Jake sees her eye twitch. With his hands on your shoulders, Sunghoon looks at you like it’s been years, genuine delight on his face. “I hope you feel blessed tonight, really.” 

Jake eyes his friend, trying to suss him out, but he can’t discern the source of his elation, which makes him wary. If he knows his friend—Sunghoon’s happiness is coming at Jake’s expense. 

“May God bless you, Jake.”

He can’t help rolling his eyes. “Thank you, Mr Chaewon.” 

“It’s not what it looks like,” Sunghoon says wearily, shaking his head. 

Jake’s brows touch his hairline, hardly believing his ears. He leans in, asking quietly. “You’re not sleeping with her?” 

“Okay, yeah, it’s exactly what it looks like.” Sunghoon scratches the back of his neck, excusing himself before going back to his seat and leaning toward Chaewon, whispering something in her ear that makes her smile. 

Quiet lingers in Sunghoon’s absence, just long enough for Mark to come over, elated, as he daps him up. “Hey, man! Good to see you,” he says, grinning. He means it. It really is good — for Mark — to see Jake. And to think, Jake had been praying for this guy’s demise just an hour ago. Guilty, embarrassed, he echoes Mark’s sentiment, smiling at this ray of sunshine man in front of him. 

“I’m Mark,” he says, extending a hand for you to shake. He repeats your name when you say it, nodding, that warm smile on his sweet face. “Thank you for coming, I’m so glad you made it,” stupid, charming Mark continues, still holding onto your hand. 

You lean up to Jake’s ear when Mark leaves, whispering. “I thought you said your church friends were a bunch of ugly, incel freaks.”

He snorts, eyes on his shoes. “They are.” 

“Mark definitely isn’t.” 

“He’s abstaining,” Jake blurts out, looking around to make sure no one’s close enough to overhear. “Which is fine,” he adds, trying to play it off. His gaze catches on Jihoon and his new college biceps, and in a panic, he stumbles over his words trying to deter you from him too. “And Jihoon.. well..” Jake’s voice falters. A pause. “He’s in love with Mark.”

“How convenient.” You roll your eyes, sitting down in the empty seat behind you. “Who’s Jihoon?”

Jake shakes his head, checking his phone as he sits. “Nobody.” 

Hoon: You brought her to Bible study bro?

Jake: She wanted to come

Hoon: You picked a good night, I’m excited to get into tonight’s study! 

Hoon: Godspeed, brother. Amen. 

He sighs, shaking his head as he tucks his phone into his pocket. Beside him, you shift a little, your knee bumping his. 

Mark clears his throat, pulling Jake’s attention back to the circle. “Is there anyone who wants to say a prayer to get us started?” he asks, looking around the room. 

From the other side of the circle, Sunghoon’s hand shoots up, and Jake has to stop himself from sighing in relief. Some of the other more.. enthusiastic members of the church pray for a while, but Sunghoon has a certain way of getting to the point. Bowing his head, he clasps his hands neatly in his lap. “Dear, Lord. Thank you for bringing us here safely this evening,” he starts, voice steady and sincere. “Please bless the study we’re about to take part in and help us to understand. Thank you for touching Jake’s heart and allowing him to bring a friend, may she be filled by your word.” He pauses, clearing his throat. 

At this, Jake steals a glance up, eyes flicking to Sunghoon, only to see him staring already, a wide grin on his face. What the Hell? Jake’s stomach twists as he looks away, focuses on his hands in his lap, the white-knuckled grip he has on his pant legs. 

“In your name’s sake we pray, amen.”

A resounding amen follows, and when Jake looks at you, you’re shooting Sunghoon a thumbs up like he just delivered the prayer of the century—not a terrifying snippet of what the night might entail if he has anything to do with it. In his seat, Sunghoon crosses one leg over the other with a smirk, winking at Jake.

Who needs enemies with a best friend like this?

“Uh, thank you for that, Sunghoon,” Mark says, taking a seat. “Jake, can I ask you to open 1 Corinthians 6:18, and read it out for us?” 

“Of course.” 

Jake ignores Sunghoon’s eyes on him as he pulls out his phone, searching for the verse in his Bible app. 1 Corinthians. Perfect. He’s at ease, trying to remember its exact wording, something about how love is patient and kind. Sunghoon was right, with a study topic like this — light, inoffensive — tonight is a good night to have brought you along. Who knows? Maybe divine intervention will have you confessing your undying love for him before the night’s over. 

He sits up straighter in his seat when he finds it, smiling. “Reading from the New International Version, 1 Corinthians 6.18: Flee from sexual immorality—” Wait. What? Jake stops short, his stomach dropping. He skims the rest of the verse and offers a silent prayer, suggesting to Jesus that now is a perfect time for His second coming—you know, if He’s planning on it. Amen. There’s a choked-off snicker from the other side of the circle. Sunghoon.

“Uh—sorry. Going on.” Jake clears his throat, ignoring the heat creeping up the back of his neck. “All other sins a person commits are outside the body, but whoever sins sexually, sins against their own body.” 

Before he has a chance to lock his phone or launch himself out the window, Jihoon starts speaking. “I think it goes without saying that this is not a space for judgment. Everyone’s journey is their journey and no one here is without sin.” 

“Exactly, Hoon,” Mark says, nodding. “So now that I’ve scared you all into abstinence, is there anyone who wants to talk about what they think that verse might mean?” 

Silence. Everyone glances at each other, waiting for someone else to speak. No one does. 

Mark exhales, slumping in his seat. “Really? Nothing? Great. Well—uh.” He rubs the back of his neck, his eyes flicking to the ceiling as if God might come down and help him out. Maybe even rapture him. That could be cool, and Jake could maybe be raptured next. “Look, I didn’t pick this topic to scare anyone. I mean, I don’t even pick the topics—there’s a whole timetable, and, well.. some of your parents are freaking out about you.” His mouth twists like he shouldn’t have said that. “Anyway—that’s not the point. What I mean is..” 

He straightens up, trying again. “If you don’t want to wait, that’s your choice. I’m not here to judge anybody—it wouldn’t be fair. And honestly? I think there are ways to have sex that can honour your body, you know? Staying safe, using protection, getting tested. Being clear about consent, setting boundaries, being open with your partner.” 

Mark’s words hang in the air, oddly light, completely unexpected—quieting the uncertainty in Jake’s head for the first time in weeks. Sex as an act of honour to the body. Not negative, nor neutral, but.. positive. That this idea could exist at all, never mind be voiced in church of all places, seems so absurd that he looks around the circle to see if anyone else is as surprised as him—but they aren’t. 

“It’s about making choices that protect you — emotionally and physically — while respecting whoever you’re with.” Into the silence that follows, Mark clasps his hands together. “How about we wrap things up here, and go home early, huh?” More silence. “Great. Okay. Does anyone have any prayer requests? Anything they want to thank God for?” 

It takes a while, but mentions of sudden illness and new jobs go in one of Jake’s ears and out the other as Mark prepares to say the closing prayer, and Jake hardly realises everyone’s standing up and moving their seats until you nudge him. 

“You okay?” 

Clearing his throat, Jake nods, stacking your chair on top of his and adding them to pile in the corner of the room. He introduces you as his friend to a seemingly unending carousel of the nosey people he grew up around. Of course, you already know Sunghoon, and Chaewon is extremely pleasant when she realises you’re not vying for his attention. 

In his car, you tell Jake about the records you found—loads of folk stuff, first-press hip-hop LPs from the mid-’90s, obscure bootlegs people had brought in going for dirt cheap. You didn’t get anything, but it was a great trip. Heeseung got this insane home-pressing of songs by Laufey and the Black Eyed Peas for the girl he’s seeing. When Jake parks the car, you show him the picture you took of the jacket—a poorly Photoshopped monstrosity of the Monkey Business cover with Laufey’s face over all the members. 

“We’ll have to go together when you have time.” You shake your head, laughing. “Oh, and thanks for letting me crash—it can’t have been easy having the Whore of Babylon sitting next to you, but I had fun tonight. It was funny.”

“Funny?” Jake repeats. 

“Yeah.” You shrug. “I don’t know, it just seemed like Mark was trying to be nice about the whole.. premarital sex is damning thing.” 

The thought doesn’t even make him cringe. No pit in his stomach. Steady heartbeat. Is he.. cured? 

Jake hums. “He was, wasn’t he?” A mumble, spoken more to himself. 

“Don’t you find that phrase sort of funny? Premarital sex—as opposed to the pure and moral matrimonial sex.” You laugh, head falling back against the headrest. “I’m not trying to be rude about it or anything, I just find it amusing.”

Shaking his head, Jake smiles. “No, I know.” A beat. “I think I do too.” He means it. 

You reach for your seatbelt, pressing the button and taking it off. Jake does the same, hesitating before reaching for the door handle. “Are you free next weekend?” he asks, chewing on his lip.

“Yeah, how come?” 

“I’m going fishing with my dad, and he was wondering if you’d want to join us.” 

“Your dad was wondering, but..” You trail off, looking out over his shoulder, like you’re checking for pedestrians or anyone else who might behold your Jake-related vulnerability. “Do you want me there?” 

“You know I do.” 

Turning your body to face him, you lean against the door. “Mm.” A sage nod. “But I want you to tell me.” 

“You mean a lot to me, so it would mean a lot if you came with us.” Jake takes your hand in his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I really want you there.” 

At this, your gaze falls to your linked hands, fingers intertwined in your lap. Holding his breath, he waits for your response, half-expecting you to brush him off, roll your eyes. Traffic flows outside, heavy, Jake thinks, for this time on a Wednesday evening. More quiet—too many clumsy beats passing to count. 

Finally, your eyes find his, a smile on your lips, voice soft under the hum of cars passing in the street. “You mean a lot to me too.”

The lake house—his dad’s childhood home. Unchanged. Perfect. Dark wood floors that bear the scuffs of time—some from Jake’s own football boots as a child, others older, carved by lives before his. Faint scent of saltwater and old books with cracked spines. Frozen in time, but not untouched. 

Three months have passed already since Christmas, the last time he and his parents were here. No gifts, no tree, just shit films and quality time. But the lake house always strikes him anew. The fleeting nature of this solid structure, this sanctuary where his father had been a boy. Eight-year-old handprints immortalised in the patio concrete, height marked on the living room doorway. The boy in the photos that Jake will never meet, though looks exactly like—his broad-nosed, full-lipped father.

Your voice is sudden over his shoulder. “Whoa.” Jake almost flinches despite its softness. He can’t believe you’re here. 

“Yeah,” he utters, finally looking at you. 

Jake has never dared to imagine you here, worried it wouldn’t ever live up to the real thing. And he was right. His heart stutters like a skipped stone. In your winter coat, chin hiding under your fluffy scarf, hair frizzed on the left side from where you’d slept against it in the car. The spread of the trees, vastness of the lake peeking through them, all framed by the open door behind you like something from a postcard.

Jake carries your bags upstairs, and you follow, getting a tour. The master bedroom is the last stop—queen-sized bed, en-suite bathroom, a space meant for two. You’ll be sharing it for the night—news that would mortify his mother if she found out. A thought that, only in theory, delights Jake. 

In the kitchen, you prep ingredients for dinner while discussing Gatsby—his dad’s favourite. Materialism. Affluence. The American Dream. The excitement is mutual. You, eager to pick his brain. His dad, grateful for an audience more responsive than his students. Jake listens in silence, peeling carrots—heart warmed by the ease with which you converse. Comfortable, unmarred by years apart. 

“Gatsby could’ve had anything he wanted in the world—but he never got to have Daisy,” his dad says, checking the fridge. 

You hum in response, a soft sound of disagreement. “He had Daisy in some ways, I suppose,” you offer, sounding hopeful, seeking approval, Jake thinks.

“I think that might be more tragic than if he’d never had her at all.” 

In the corner of his eye, Jake sees you tilting your head, brows furrowed. His dad laughs, not mean-spirited, no, an endeared sound he remembers from childhood—too scared to get back on his bike after his first fall; first wobbly tooth wrenched from his mouth by his own hand. 

“A taste doesn’t make a meal, sweetheart—it just leaves you hungry,” he says after a moment. 

In the same split second that Jake looks up at you, your eyes flick over to his. He can’t be hungry forever, surely not, that would just be cruel. His stomach curls in on itself at the thought. For a single, fully indulgent second, he lets himself believe that you might be hungry for him too. 

“Jesus, kid,” his dad says suddenly, gripping Jake’s wrist and dragging him towards the sink. “You’re bleeding.” 

Surprised, Jake blinks down at his hand, vivid red spilling from his index finger down the drain—carrot still half-peeled and bloodied.

“Fuck, Jaeyun,” his dad goes on. “That could’ve been really nasty. Are you alright?”

Jake only nods, distantly hearing his dad tell you where to find the first aid kit. Your footsteps disappear upstairs. Quickly, the stinging behind his eyelids turns into a pathetic flow of tears, his shoulders wracking as his dad wraps an arm around him. A kiss to the top of his head. “You’re alright, kid. Everything’s going to be alright.”

He doesn’t want to be hungry anymore. 

All thanks to Jake’s little episode, the two of you are banished from the kitchen, and decide to take a walk. His feet lead you toward the dock, and you light up—jogging ahead, eager to reach the water. Standing at the edge, swaying, wind whipping your hair around your head. Leaning forward, you point out a green shed in the distance. A smile in your voice. “East Egg,” you say happily. 

Jake remembers enough from the film to at least understand this reference, smiling too. “Alright, Mr Gatsby.” He wraps a protective arm around your waist, pulling you back. “That’s enough, baby, you’ll fall in.” 

You laugh, turning in his hold. He’s hooked on your lips, their shape, how they part to form your words. “I do say, Old Sport.” You start. “You’re looking rather flushed.” 

Air flees from his lungs, stolen. You — his Daisy — wrapped up in his arms, palms flat on his chest. Everything he wants, but can’t have. Tragic maybe. But wasn’t Gatsby brave, at least, to want in spite of what was feasible? Isn’t Jake? He shakes his head slightly, clearing the thought—you are not Daisy, nor is he Gatsby. There need not be tragedy here. 

For a second too long, your gaze lingers on his lips—you’re waiting for a kiss that you won’t initiate. Everything about this moment feels primed for it. Alone on the water, the steady crash of lake against rock, virtually no space between you. But he’s stuck. Unmoving. The wind stings his ears. You shiver, teeth chattering before you press your lips together. Jake can feel the window shutting, but still, he does nothing. 

Clearing your throat, you blink up at him. “Let’s head back, Jakey. We’ll freeze to death out here.” 

Jake opens his mouth. Falters. Then, softer than he means to, he asks, “Will you kiss me?” The words startle him, borrowed from you and that night—almost two months ago now. 

You nod, smiling. No hesitation, no second-guessing. Just the curl of your fingers around his jacket, the tipping of your chin. The steady, certain, press of your lips on his. Relief crashes into him, unfurling the tension in his chest. Warmth, soft and overwhelming all at once, sinking into his skin.

By the time you get back from the dock, dinner is almost ready—late lunch, really. Budae jjigae curling through the air, filling the house completely. The three of you eat together at the table, conversation weaving in and out between bites. Jake eats like it’s his first meal in ages, tearing into the steaming jjigae like it might disappear.

Full to the point of fatigue, he washes the dishes and sinks into the couch, head resting against the cushions, limbs loose and heavy with contentment. He twists the cuff of your sleeve between his fingers when you cuddle into his side, nursing a glass of water. In the armchair, as always, is his dad, book open in his lap, though he’s hardly reading. You keep pulling him into conversation, peppering him with questions about lecturing you must have been holding onto for years. 

Eventually, the wind settles, and armed with fishing rods, and bait his dad picked up on the drive over, the three of you make your way back to the dock. Empty-handed, you run off ahead, giddy laughter, and a called out, come on, over your shoulder.

“She hasn’t changed a bit,” his dad says fondly, gaze lingering on Jake. “You haven’t either.”

He gives him a curious look. “Is that a good thing?” 

A shrug, warmth in his dad’s eyes. “I think so.”

On the dock, Jake kneels by the tackle box, patient as ever as he shows you how to hook the bait, and hold the rod steady. His voice is quiet, calm, guiding your hands with his own until you get the hang of it. Following his instructions, you take it quickly, your cast smooth—a smile in his dad’s voice when he tells Jake you’re a natural. Pride swells in his chest as if the compliment was for him. Your line tugs almost immediately, breath catching in your throat as Jake scrambles over to you, an incredulous laugh from over his shoulder. 

“You’ve got one!” he calls out, more excited than you are. “Reel it in, you have to reel it in!” 

You fumble a little bit, but get it when you calm down. A flash of silver breaks the surface, water scattering in drops. Jake grins from ear to ear, like you’ve made the biggest catch of the season. Or at least caught something slightly more inspiring than a fifteen centimetre ssogari. 

His dad chuckles, clapping you on the back. “Wow, sweetheart. Great job!” he says, nodding affectionately. 

With some help, you hold up your catch, shaking with excitement — fear, maybe — while Jake snaps a photo, capturing the moment and sharing it with Sunghoon. 

Jake: Baby’s first catch 😭😭😭😭😭

Hoon: So cute, no way !!! Where’s yours? 

Hoon: Bring me next time I miss your hot dad :( 

Jake furrows his brows, locks his phone without replying, and turns back to you. 

“Are we going to cook it?” you ask, curiosity piqued. 

“Uh, no.” He shakes his head, laughing softly. “We just look at them for a bit and then put them back.”

It’s a busy day in the water apparently, for you and Jake’s dad at least. Jake, for all his enthusiasm, catches nothing—the fish did not choose him this weekend. Eventually, as the sun starts to dip, you all pack up, leaving the water behind in exchange for something warmer. 

In the garden, the night settles over you, thick with cold as the fire pit does what it can to fight off the chill. Flames flicker, snapping into the quiet, soundtracking your laughter and stories, the smell of smoke curling around you. In the seat beside Jake, your arms are wrapped around his, your head resting on his shoulder. His dad across the fire, its glow catching in the lines of his face, softening them and showing off his fond smile. 

Eventually, Jake’s dad rises, brushing off his hands with a yawn. He leans down, pressing a kiss to the top of Jake’s head, and one to yours. A quiet goodnight, familiar, unhurried. In the doorway, he pauses, pointing a finger at his son. “Make sure the fire’s all the way out before you go to bed, okay?” 

Nodding, Jake wishes him a goodnight again. Through the glass door, his dad moves through the kitchen, checking the sockets before flicking the light off, and disappearing down the hall. Resting his head on top of yours, he exhales. “You want another drink?” 

“No, thank you.” You lift your half-full can, cider sloshing noisily. “I’m good, baby.” 

Jake gets up, stretching his arms and legs before heading into the house, enveloped by the quiet of the kitchen. Pulling open the fridge, harsh light spills across the tiles as he reaches for a beer. Cold beads of condensation slip against his fingers, a relief as he lifts it, presses it to his cheeks to quell the heat blooming there. Baby. He giggles. Will he ever get used to that? 

Opening his can, he sits back down and kisses your temple. A sip of beer warms his insides, he looks at you and smiles. “Did you have fun today?”

You nod eagerly, then seem to think better of it. Tilting your head. Pursing your lips. “I’m a little disappointed though.” 

“Oh, yeah?” He arches his brow, leaning back in his seat. “How so?” 

Your lips twitch. “It’s stupid but I guess I had it in my head that you were like—I don’t know, actually good at fishing, or something. But wow, Jakey.. You suck.” 

“Ever heard of beginner’s luck?” he says, rolling his eyes, too endeared by you and the grin on your lips to bite back. “You’re lucky I like you too much to take that personally.” 

A suggestive lift of your brow, a smug smile. “Oh, so you like me, huh?” 

Briefly, Jake entertains the thought of telling you — finally fucking telling you — that he like-likes you. It seems simple enough, only three words. Four technically if he says ‘like-like’ out loud the way a child might. He watches you, searching—do you already know? And if you don’t, and he tells you, will anything change? 

Firelight flickers over your face. Jake shrugs. “Yeah, quite a lot, actually.”

Chuckling, you bring your cider to your lips and take a long, slow sip. Over the edge of the illustrated can, you eye him. Gaze steady. Unnerving. Like you’re in on something he’s not. 

You shrug. 

Reaching out, his fingers curl around your wrist, gently lowering the can. His lips find yours, soft, insistent. Pineapple and raspberry, artificial and sweet, from your tongue onto his. He hums against your mouth, a quiet, come here, before pulling you in, guiding you into his lap. You straddle him easily, arms draped over his shoulders. The kiss deepens, slow at first, then desperate as heat pools in his stomach. 

Hands mapping skin through your layers, fingertips pressing, still curious, eager after so long. Your chests rise and fall in sync when you pull away, trembling breath clouding together in the cool air. Blinking down at him, an expression he can’t read takes over your face. “You really like me?” you whisper. Your question clarifies the look on your face—expectant, waiting for an answer he’s scared to give. 

As he sees it, there are only two ways for this to go—worst case: you laugh, cackle, call him insane for thinking he has a chance with you; best case: his confession doesn’t repulse you. Clearing his throat, he tries to calm the storm in his chest. “I do,” he says after too long, startling himself with his volume. 

You don’t take off running for the hills, which he can only assume is a good thing. Instead, you smile. Cradling his face in your hands and kissing him. Then, movement. Slow shift of your hips back and forth against his—maddening. Press of chest to chest, hushed moans shared between you. A kind of tender desire that turns the cold night sweltering. 

After too long, dazed and sleepy — fire extinguished — the two of you giggle, hand in hand, all the way upstairs. Brushing your teeth together in the en-suite, letting peppermint kisses turn warm and lazy as you pull Jake into the shower with you. 

He pinkens in the heat, warm water slipping over your bodies in rivulets. Skin sliding over skin, pressed together. Steam curls, fogging the glass. Hands on your cheeks, holding your face to his—lips locked. Slow, lazy, taking his time. Trying his best to make the morning last forever like this. Kissing. Smiling. Your fingers card through his hair, tugging the wet strands, pulling groans from his mouth into yours. 

Breathless, he pulls away, tucking his head against your neck. His arms fall around your waist, keeping you close. Noses along the sensitive skin there, inhaling your shower gel—syrupy sweet, so painfully you. He presses his lips together to keep from saying something stupid. Your touch is delicate, tender, on the back of his head, fingers curling around the overgrown locks at the nape of his neck. 

It’s unfair to be going home so soon, the shortest trip of his life. Behind closed eyes, Jake can’t help picturing weeks here in the summer with you. Long days spent swimming in the lake. Short nights spent cuddling despite the heat. Sunscreen on hot skin. Aloe vera on burns. Tan lines and salt air. Summer. He’d be your boyfriend by then, right? 

“I don’t want to go home,” you whisper.

He kisses your damp skin. “Just say the word and I’ll bring you back, baby.” His voice is low, muffled into the base of your neck. “In the summer, maybe? We can stay for ages if you want.” 

Saying it out loud, this partial voicing of his thoughts for you to hear, summer feels much bigger than just a word, a season. Much bigger than anything he can imagine. An almost confession. A promise to you. To himself. He clears his throat, feeling exposed. 

Your eyes are wide when he looks at you again, cupping his face in your palm, thumb stroking his cheek. You lean up, pressing your swollen lips to his. “Summer,” you repeat, smiling.

Jake doesn’t sleep, he’s not sure if he could if he tried. He’s laying there, flat on his back, your head warm and sleepy on his chest. His fingers move absently through your hair, slow and repetitive, more for him than for you. Your breathing is steady, relaxing him. A thought comes to mind—the sunrise. He shifts carefully, not wanting to wake you yet as he reaches for his phone. 05:47. Smoothing his palm over your shoulder, he whispers your name. You only hum in response, stirring. 

“Come on,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to your hair. “I want to show you something.” 

“The sun isn’t even up yet,” you grumble into his skin, eyes still shut. 

“That’s the point.” His voice is gentle but insistent. Leaning in, he presses his lips to your temple. “It’ll be worth it, baby.”

You groan, rolling away from him, face in the pillow. “Fine.” And as if in protest of the early morning, you don’t say much else. You do let him help you into your jacket though, smiling as he zips it up and kisses your forehead. 

Hand in hand, the two of you trudge slowly along the trail, footsteps soft in the grass. Saltwater and pine fill the air, seeming stronger in the waning dark. Finally, through the trees, the lake unfolds, a glassy mirror of the brightening sky above, day’s first light stretched thin over the horizon.  

When you reach the rocks, you whisper, “Whoa.” Taking a seat next to Jake, pulling your knees to your chest and leaning into him when he wraps his arm around your shoulders. 

The sky splits open above your heads, dawn unfurling in soft brushstrokes of pink and orange. A dreamlike shimmer in the water—silken ripples of gold rolling towards the shore, crashing against the dock. The hues grow deeper and more vibrant, shifting quickly before his eyes. For years, this sunrise has been his favourite view. But now, with you sitting in it, soft and golden, hair ruffled from sleep and the wind? Fuck—he couldn’t think of anything better if he tried. 

Whispering, he asks, “Worth it?” 

You turn to him, eyes soft, smiling. “Very.” You let a long beat of silence pass before asking. “How many hookups have you brought here, Jakey?” Your voice is soft, a little more than curious. 

Breathless, Jake laughs, suddenly nervous as if there’s a right and a wrong answer. “Hookups aren’t really my thing,” he admits, shaking his head. “So, zero.” 

Your brow lifts, sceptical, but you don’t press. Not immediately, anyway. You even let Jake turn back to the water, following his gaze when he nods towards the horizon, and mumbles, look. You let the colour bloom for so long he thinks you’ve dropped it. 

You haven’t. “Are you lying to me?” you ask quietly. 

“You of all people should know I wouldn’t even kiss someone, never mind hookup with them, if I wasn’t losing my mind over them.” The words slip out before he can stop them, before he can think better of it. If you’re overthinking what he said, you don’t show it. 

He doesn’t have anything more to say, so he doesn’t say anything at all. But in his peripheral, you’re still watching him. There’s something in your eyes he can’t decipher. At least not correctly. It reads love. It reads you want him how he wants you, and it’s disarming. 

A while passes before Jake is ready to speak, his voice coming out softer than he means for it to. “What’s up?” 

“It’s—” You cut yourself off, looking around. Amused, hesitant somehow, as you laugh—soft, and content, and nervous, he thinks. “Your dad thinks we’re together, you know,” you tell him eventually. 

Jake puts a lot of effort into keeping his eyes from rolling, knowing exactly what his dad is up to. The prospect of his dad acting as a wingman is both relieving and mortifying. He arches his brow. “Together how?”

You sniff, eyes on his. “He thinks you’re my boyfriend, and I didn’t correct him.” 

For a second, he forgets how to breathe, heart hammering against his ribs. Brain scrambling to catch up with you and what you just said about not correcting him. A thousand questions threaten to spill out at once, but none of them make it past his lips. Why not? Do you want that? Do you want me? It would be easier, he’s sure, to say nothing and kiss you instead. But your eyes are still on his, steady, not giving anything away, and he has to ask, voice low, cautious. “Are you going to correct him?”

“Do I need to?” You sound so calm, so relaxed about it all that Jake’s skin heats under your gaze. 

He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” 

“Then no,” you say, smiling—small but certain, like you’ve made up your mind. Like you made up your mind long before this conversation. Your hand finds his cheek, thumb tracing his jaw. “I’m not going to correct him.” 

And before he can reply, your lips are on his. Soft. Gentle. Everything he wants for the rest of his life.

By the time you make it back — boyfriend and girlfriend, hand in hand — Jake’s dad is sitting on the couch, curled around a cup of coffee and his book. He’s smiling, eyes gleaming as he makes a joke, something about the love bird catching the worm, and Jake is too happy to do anything but grin from ear to ear as you hide your face in his chest. 

Upstairs, you share the shower, eager hands tracing dips and curves innocently until you leave with pruned fingers. Skincare, then moisturiser, then clothes. Stolen kisses whenever he has the chance. Jake’s dad is flipping pancakes at the stove when you get to the kitchen, forbidden bacon crackling beside him. Despite his best efforts, morning slips into afternoon with no regard for what he wants. Breakfast is eaten. Bags are packed. Your lips have been sufficiently kissed. It’s time to leave already. 

The drive is fine, uneventful mostly, until his dad pulls into a rest stop. “Alright, everybody out. Stretch your legs, use the toilet if you need,” he says, cutting the engine. 

You rush out of the car, yelling, one minute, over your shoulder as you run towards the building. Standing by the passenger door, Jake stretches his arms above his head, exhaling long and slow. Over the car’s roof, his dad clears his throat. “I’m sorry I haven’t done more for you—about your mum.” He hesitates, then says, quieter, “I love you, son. We both love you so much. I’m on your side, okay? You’re my only son, Jaeyun.” 

Jake’s arms drop. He feels silly for having them up at all. Overwhelmed, he nods once, sniffing. “I love you, Dad.” 

Smiling, his dad gets back into the car and Jake follows. Hardly a moment passes before he sees you through the windscreen, running back, so beautiful and all his—finally, actually his. Your eyes are sparkling when you open the door. 

“They had these awesome keychains at the gift shop—look, Mr. Sim, it’s an angler!” You thrust the plush fish toward him, grinning like you caught it with your bare hands. 

A chuckle, hand squishing it. Jake’s dad ruffles your hair, a gesture so familiar, so lived in, that Jake can’t shake the feeling that he’s dreaming. The fondness in his dad’s smile is overwhelming. “That’s great, sweetheart. I love it,” he says, voice thick with pride—again, like you caught the fish with your bare hands. 

“It’s yours.”

“Oh, I can’t accept this.”

“Mr. Sim, it’s a keychain that cost me a pound, not real estate.” You hesitate, then add, quieter, “I actually got one for all of us. My father never took me on any kind of trip, so..” 

At the mention of your father, Jake’s jaw tightens. His fist clenches in his lap, memories pressing in—too many nights spent comforting you over the phone, or sneaking out to do it in person. A quiet beat passes, stretched taut and straining at the edges, your words lingering, heavier than you probably meant them to be. Closing his fingers around the keychain, his dad clears his throat before he speaks, firm and sincere. “The three of us can go wherever you want, alright?” 

You don’t say anything, but your nod is enough. And with a small smile at Jake, you hand him a matching angler, fingers brushing his. He can’t resist bringing your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles.

From the driver’s seat, a quiet exhale. “Now’s as good a time as any I suppose.” Jake’s dad reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out two keys. “Got these cut this morning. It’s ours, kid. Use it whenever you like.” 

Jake feels the cool metal against his skin. Turning it over in his hand as his dad presses the second key into your palm. He can’t look away from it, silver catching the light. No big speech, no song and dance—just his dad extending a promise, sharing this part of him with Jake, and with you. The weight of his uncertainty melts away. Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he glances at you, lips twitching up. Safe and familiar, solid and long lasting—the lake house. Yours. His. Ours. A future that doesn’t feel quite so far, or so unattainable anymore.  

EPILOGUE

The lake house. Summer, finally. You’re sitting on the countertop while Jake makes breakfast—a view that has quickly become your favourite.

He reaches up into the cabinet, newly formed muscle shifting under tan skin. Shoulders solid and broad, the visual representation of all the strength he’s been using on you—picking you up and tossing you around like it’s nothing. His hair is still messy from bed, longer than ever and curling around his ears. Plaid pyjama pants sitting low, showing off the love bites staining his hips in pretty blooms of red and purple. 

Sighing, he runs a hand through his hair. “I know how to scramble an egg,” he says, so long after your comment, you’d forgotten you said anything at all. His voice is low, thick with sleep even though you’ve been up for a while now—he’s definitely playing it up, but you like it too much to complain. 

“I know you do, Jakey. I just—” 

He interrupts you with a kiss, faint peppermint clinging to his lips as he mumbles, “I want to cook for you. Will you let me do that, darling? Please?”

Darling. Your heart does a flip, abrupt and ungraceful. “Fine,” you concede, twirling his hair with your fingers. “But I’m making dinner.”

Jake groans, resting his forehead on your shoulder. “Right, because I’m an idiot sandwich, and you’re Little Miss Gordon Ramsay.” 

“Mm.” You smile. “Exactly.”  

Nodding, he tips his chin up towards yours until your lips brush. “Yes, Chef,” he says, and it makes you laugh too much to keep on kissing him. But he tries anyway, teeth bumping as you share giggles. Eventually, he gives up, pressing his forehead to yours, hand on your waist. “Going to miss having this place to ourselves.”

You can’t even remember the last time you spent so long away from Jimin, and as much as you’re looking forward to seeing her — and Sunghoon — again, you’d be lying if you said you won’t miss being alone too, and the freedom of walking around the house in varying degrees of undress. A soft smile pulls at your lips. “It’s only one weekend, baby—Hoon has his placement to get back to,” you say, a voice of reason even though you feel the same. 

Two weeks. Two whole perfect weeks with Jake—entire days spent out by the lake. Swimming or reading Emily Henry while he tries to fish. Big hands smoothing sunscreen over your back, plump lips pressing kisses to your tan lines. The press of solid muscle on soft flesh, sweat-slicked skin on sweat-slicked skin. 

Jake’s lips curl into a grin, wide, boyish. So handsome—unbelievably so. “A lot can happen in one weekend.” 

Unfortunately, he raises a good point, but you won’t admit that for him to hear. A lot can happen in one weekend—it did. But it wasn’t the time frame, it was the lake. You’ve deduced it has magical properties. An ability to make days slip into each other, to draw large feelings out before you can properly think them through. Yesterday, while Jake tied your bikini back up — deft fingers slick with the sunscreen he’d just rubbed on your back — you told him that you want this, with him, for the rest of your life. The words tumbled out of you, tugged from your brain by the lake. And so, like any mature twenty-year-old girl would, you promptly rolled off of the dock and into the water, refusing to emerge until it hurt to hold your breath. Jake only smiled when you came back up seconds later, pushed your hair from your face and kissed you. Told you that he wanted it too. 

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, big brown eyes staring deep into yours. 

“My boyfriend.” It’s a word that still makes your stomach flutter, that hasn’t lost its novelty even after three months. 

“Your boyfriend,” Jake repeats, nodding along. “Mm, handsome guy, I’ve heard. He’s super lucky.” 

Heat floods your cheeks, and you can’t help but look away, biting back a smile. “Easily distracted too,” you point out. “He’s burning my breakfast.”

With wide eyes, he glances over his shoulder, a horrified look on his face. “Fuck,” he mutters, turning back to you. He doesn’t move though, only leaning in to kiss you again. His soft lips on yours, unhurried, like he’s got all the time in the world. 

Admittedly, you’d let him kiss you like this forever if it weren’t for the smell of burnt egg — and burgeoning fire hazard — drifting between you. You pull away, shoving his shoulder with a laugh. “Go, Jake.” 

“They’re already burnt.” He shrugs, unconcerned, as a lopsided grin spreads over his lips. “I’ll eat them.” With that, he returns to the stove, turning off the burner and flipping the charred eggs onto a plate.

Outside, you sit at the wooden table Jake built when you first arrived. You’d made an offhand comment, said it might be nice to have breakfast out on the deck, and he went off in search of scrap wood. He was successful, putting together a neat little table for the two of you to eat at—your initials and his etched into the grain, housed in a wonky love heart that gives you butterflies every time you see it. The sun warms your shoulders through one of his t-shirts, your legs crossed in your seat, and his palm heavy on your knee. You can’t look away from him. You don’t want to. There’s something about Jake, this way. The patch of raw skin on the bridge of his nose, scattered freckles dusting the centre of his face, faint band of pale skin where his sunglasses have been living recently. Jake. Your Jake. Leaning in, you press a kiss to his soft lips—your local heaven. 

© zreamy (2025), all rights reserved. do not repost, translate, or plagiarise my work. do let me know your thoughts !

extra note: happy zreamy blog birth omgggg my first fic nothing to lose came out two years ago today (apr 3 2023) and i can finally say i've written at least one fic for each member 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ thank u sm to everyone for being so lovely, it means a lot !!! all my love, zo xoxo

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[si-chen-g]

the subtleties of being in love

summary: kuroo tetsurou is the spider-man. he’s also your best friend. he’s also hopelessly in love with you. between fighting crime and juggling college, kuroo barely has the time to confess his feelings to you. lucky for him, you’ve got him covered. or, five times kuroo tetsurou tries to ask you out, and one time you ask him out instead.

⇢ pairing: spider-man!kuroo tetsurou x fem!reader ⇢ contains: fluff, mild angst, best friends to lovers au, spider-man au, college au, debatable attempts at comedy, idiots to idiots in love, 5+1 things, profanity, mentions of violence but nothing graphic—please let me know if i’ve missed anything! ⇢ word count: 5.0k

ONE — THE SUBTLE ART OF SWINGING INTO A WALL

Kuroo Tetsurou swears he isn’t trying to be stupid. 

It’s just that when he sees you, his mouth dries up, the words he want to say get stuck on the tip of his tongue and he can’t force them out no matter what, he feels his brain turn to mush and his legs turn to jelly, and—

You’re laughing. At him.

All because he swung face-first into a goddamn brick wall.

You don’t even know it’s him—he has a mask made out of spandex covering his face, thankfully—but he saw you on the street, talking to the old lady who sells churros next to the sandwich place both of you love. He may have lost all directional sense after that, because one minute he’s watching you gesture animatedly while you converse with the shopkeeper, and the next he slams solidly into the brick-red compound of the building he was supposed to swing over.

At least his webbing is still intact.

Kuroo’s pride, on the other hand? Completely, utterly shattered.

For a minute, there’s silence—a sort of muffled, hazy silence that blankets everyone, the kind that’s impossibly rare to come by in a city which never sleeps—and then every single person whips out their phones and takes pictures, giggling to themselves throughout. It’s not every day Spider-Man accidentally swings into a wall, after all.

Kuroo can already picture the headlines: City’s Masked Superhero Can Fight Aliens But Is Apparently Blind When Confronted By A Gigantic Barricade. Or worse. He can hear J. Jonah Jameson’s voice in his head, bellowing into the cameras, “Breaking news everyone, this just in: Spidey has been caught lackin’! Is he truly good at his job or is he just a farce? We may never know.”

He peels his head off hard brick, contorting his neck to relieve all the cricks, and that’s when he makes direct eye contact with you.

He swears his heart stops beating—but it starts again in less than a second, starts rabbiting around like it always does when he sees you, before settling back down into its regular rhythm. It’s only then that he remembers his feet and fingers are still glued to the wall.

He pries them off, wincing at the hoots and hollers from the crowd, and glances at you again. 

You have a few churros in your hand, wrapped neatly in butter paper—no doubt a gift from the old lady—and you have your phone in your hand. He watches your fingers fly rapidly over the screen, notices the slight tilt to your head, the way your tongue pokes out of your lips slightly, the amusement at his mishap still running through your veins.

He hears the ping of the notification through his mask before you even put your phone down. 

The letters swim in front of his eyes, on the screen in front of him.

(11:36) You: KUROO!!!! u wont BELIEVE what i just saw!!!! I SAW SPIDERMAN CRASH INTO A WALL LMFAOOOO

Kuroo winces. He should probably tell you that there’s a hyphen separating the words ‘spider’ and ‘man’, but he doesn’t want to burst your obvious elation at the city’s most prominent superhero’s accident. (Despite the fact that you’re the cause for him losing all common sense, in the first place.)

He doesn’t get the chance to form another coherent thought before a yell from below gets his attention. Specifically because it’s your voice.

“Hey!” You have your hands placed on your waist, your bundle of churros tucked into the corner of your arm as you squint up at him. “Need some help getting down?”

Unlike the jeers of the onlookers with their phones still out, you don’t sound malicious at all. You sound genuinely concerned, as though he isn’t Spider-Man, who’s fought off a hundred different villains and rescued the earth from alien infestations. You talk to him like he’s just a regular guy who accidentally swung onto a building and now finds himself in this precarious position.

His chest warms at the thought. “No thanks!” he hollers back. “I’m good.”

He lets his feet loosen up, feels his muscles relax and then he pushes himself off the wall, letting the momentum pull him through a graceful somersault before he lands softly in front of you.

“Are you okay?” You ignore the passersby.

“I’m fine,” Kuroo replies. “Are you okay?”

You look at him strangely, and Kuroo can feel his cheeks heat up. “I’m not the one who almost broke my nose because I wasn’t looking at where I was going.”

Kuroo shifts from one foot to the other, chewing on the inside of his cheek. You have a point, he supposes. He clears his throat. “Right, um. Thanks for offering to help me out.”

“No problem,” you reply easily, the corners of your lips rising upwards. “I’m glad you’re okay. Can’t have our city’s best line of defence get obliterated because of a wall.”

Kuroo’s not sure whether he’s supposed to feel happy about the fact that you’re worried about him despite not knowing who he is or if he’s supposed to be embarrassed at you pointing out his lapse of attention.

“Listen,” he begins, feeling a rush of adrenaline surge through his veins, run its course throughout his body, and settle at his heart, “do you… maybe want to get some coffee with me? As a thank you. For offering to help.”

You raise an eyebrow sceptically. “I’m not sure that warrants a coffee date.”

“It’s not,” Kuroo hurriedly says, heart thumping erratically, “I swear. I just want to thank you.”

You purse your lips, drawing out a sigh that’s in between contemplation and refusal. Kuroo’s heart sinks—he knows that expression of yours all too well. “I’m sorry, Spider-Man. You’re a great superhero and I’m sure you’re a really nice person behind the mask, but… I’m actually running late for a meet-up with my best friend. I’m sorry.” You shrug apologetically. “Maybe next time.”

“Okay, uh—” Kuroo licks his lips— “n-no worries. I’ll see you around.”

“Break a leg, Spider-Man.” You salute him with two fingers. “Not literally, but you know what I mean.”

He manages a smile, then realises you can’t see it through his mask—and then realises that the friend who’s meet-up you’re running late to is with him, so he’s going to see you again, anyway. The thought makes him smile again, this time wider, and he can feel his cheeks crinkle at the corners.

He stretches an arm out, presses his web shooter and swings onto the top of the building. Maybe he’ll have to deal with you retelling the story of how he crashed into a wall with extreme detail and lots of exaggeration, and Kuroo should probably feel extremely embarrassed about it. Instead, he finds himself looking forward to it.

Maybe he should crash into walls more often.

TWO — THE SUBTLE ART OF ACCIDENTALLY ASKING YOUR PROFESSOR OUT

Kuroo Tetsurou is decidedly fucked.

He’s late—unbearably so—but what else is he supposed to do if a platoon of aliens show up in the middle of his Introduction to Organic Chemistry class and he has to stop them from blowing up the president’s summer retreat? Once the situation is wrapped up and the foreign visitors agree to sign a peace treaty with earth, he’s effectively missed three classes, skipped lunch, and is currently running late to a study session you planned out after classes.

He supposes he can make up for it—he’s not sure how, but… something is better than nothing, right? He swings down in front of a flower shop, hurriedly asks for a bouquet and a box of chocolates, places a wad of money bills on the counter and swings away. The whole interaction takes place in less than fifteen minutes, but Kuroo is in a hurry. He has a slew of texts from you, all detailing the same thing: That if he doesn’t magically appear in the next ten minutes, you’re leaving, and you better make it up to him somehow.

Kuroo touches down on the rooftop of your university’s library and quickly removes his Spider-Man suit, stuffing it into his backpack and shouldering it. He heads down the fire escape, taking two steps at a time, and comes to a standstill in front of the Biology section of the library. It’s the least crowded part of the library, which is why you and Kuroo have chosen it as your designated spot.

He sees you immediately and braces himself for the telltale quickening of his heart. You smile at him as soon as you spot him, raising a hand in greeting. Books and sheets of paper are scattered around the table in front of you, and your hair is messy, swept up hastily. You’re wearing your favourite sweater with the coffee stain down the front, because even though it’s not something you would wear in public, it’s still the most comfortable piece of clothing you own.

Kuroo’s lips curl upwards on their own accord. The words form on the tip of his tongue, as they always do. He wants to tell you—he’s been in love with you since he first laid eyes on you—and it would be so easy to confess right then and there. He walks towards you.

Fate is never kind to him, it seems.

Kuroo keeps his eyes fixed on you, which is why he doesn’t notice his Organic Chemistry professor walk right across him.

In his defence, Professor Suzuki is short, with a head full of bountiful grey curls and a pink flower-patterned umbrella always tucked underneath her arm. She barely comes up to Kuroo’s shoulders, so she’s never in Kuroo’s line of vision unless he’s sitting down.

It’s no wonder he collides into her. 

Professor Suzuki lets out a startled “Ooh!”, the stack of papers in her hand flying out of her grip and falling around him and his teacher like snowflakes on a winter morning. She twists her lips at him, mouth downturned like she just sucked a lemon raw, and tuts disapprovingly at him.

Kuroo feels his cheeks blaze as he bends down and gathers all the loose sheets of paper and stacks them. He doesn’t need to look at you to know you’re gleefully watching the whole encounter. He tucks the bouquet and chocolates into the crook of his arm and hands the stack of papers to Professor Suzuki, mumbling an apology.

“Well, you better be sorry,” she says, looking up and down at him—except she has to crane her neck at him to meet his eyes, and the sight is so hilarious, Kuroo needs to stifle his laughter. Then her eyes narrow in recognition, and Kuroo stiffens, dread pooling in his stomach. 

She pauses for a minute. “Aren’t you the young man who ran out halfway through my class? Is your stomach feeling better now?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see you snort and then cover it up as a cough. 

Kuroo wants to melt into the floor, pretend like he’s one of the tiles on the ground. “Yes ma’am,” he answers politely instead, hoping his voice doesn’t betray him.

“Hmm.” She scrutinises him carefully, reaching out with her free hand and pinching his stomach. “Indigestion is a serious issue, young man. Make sure you have enough ginger in your diet—it helps with your toilet problems.”

“I will, ma’am.”

“Now, how do you plan to make up for your lost lesson?” 

Kuroo licks his lips. “I’m… not sure. I could come over for a remedial class—”

“Oh, please. You insult me.” Professor Suzuki lets out a giggle. “Remedial classes are such mediaeval methods. These days teachers will let anything go for a small price. Young, handsome men like you especially…”

Kuroo nearly chokes on his own spit. “I—”

“Just some flowers and chocolates will be fine,” his teacher waves him off good-naturedly, as though this is a conversation she has all the time. Her eyes land pointedly on the flowers and the chocolate box still tucked safely in his arms. 

“Oh. Um.” Kuroo curses his luck. He’s Spider-Man, after all—shouldn’t he get some slack? All he wants is to ask you out, and if not that, at least spend some time with you without getting caught up in outworldly situations all the time. 

Professor Suzuki’s expression turns serious upon noticing his hesitation. “Of course, not every teacher is as lenient as I’m being. Some would—and I’m really just throwing it out here—assign compensatory essays, or—”

He hurriedly shoves the bouquet and the chocolates into Professor Suzuki’s waiting arms. 

“No, ma’am. Thank you very much for being so kind to me.”

“Not a bother, not a bother,” she waves him off again, smiling thinly at him. “Anything for my students.”

Kuroo bows and waits patiently for her to skitter away from him, finally letting out a loose breath that has his shoulders slumping forward and his head hanging dejectedly. He drags himself to your table, places his bag on the desk, and buries his head into his arms in such a way that half his upper body is spread-eagled across the wooden desk. A tired, muffled groan escapes his lips.

“Rough day?” Your voice is soft, and you tentatively reach out and gently run a hand through his hair.

Kuroo lets out another groan in response, closing his eyes when he feels your touch. He lifts up his head and props his chin on the desk, glancing at you. You have a soft smile playing on your lips, eyes twinkling.

“You recorded all of that, didn’t you?” It’s more a statement than a question; Kuroo has all your tendencies mapped out in his head, and you would never pass up on an opportunity to record his humiliation.

“Yup.” You grin at him, patting your pocket where your phone is stowed away. “I won’t show it to anyone, don’t worry.”

It’s a small consolation. He decides to let it slide. “By the way, the flowers and the chocolates were for you. To apologise for being late.”

“Oh.” To Kuroo’s surprise, you sound… bashful, almost. His heart skitters at the revelation. “That’s alright. I’m not a big fan of flowers anyway. Are you hungry? You skipped lunch, too, didn’t you? We could go get some ramen.”

“That sounds good.” Kuroo smiles wearily at you. He just hopes there isn’t another national emergency to divert his attention from you and the time he gets to spend with you.

THREE — THE SUBTLE ART OF ALMOST DATING YOUR HOMIE

If Kuroo Tetsurou has been Tokyo’s one and only Spider-Man for the past two years, then Bokuto Koutarou, his roommate, is his designated Guy-in-the-Chair.

He’s the only one who knows about Kuroo’s secret identity, and Kuroo relies on him to make up some believable reason for his often and sudden disappearances. The last time, when he had to escape in the middle of his Organic Chemistry class and that whole debacle with Professor Suzuki took place, Bokuto had said Kuroo had indigestion. He assumes his roommate has fun coming up with excuses. As long as his secret remains safe, Kuroo’s not too concerned.

Despite all the help Bokuto has provided him with, he wants nothing more than to toss him over their shared apartment’s balcony.

For the past half an hour, he’s been consistently badgering him. Specifically about you.

“Have you told her you like her yet?”

The question drags a tired sigh out of Kuroo’s lips. He’s hunched over his Physics textbook, scribbling down notes, and he could really appreciate some peace—but that’s not something he should expect when he lives with the human equivalent of a hamster on a wheel.

“No, Bokuto,” he reiterates, “I haven’t had the time.”

Bokuto flops dramatically across the couch. “Dude. You need serious help.”

“Do I?” Kuroo murmurs absent-mindedly, wondering how to calculate the coefficient of friction with the variables he’s been given.

“Yes.” When he notices his roommate not paying attention to him, Bokuto rolls his eyes. “Stop doing homework, you have more important matters to attend to.”

Kuroo finally tears his tired gaze away from the numericals printed out on the page. He locks eyes with Bokuto, barely aware of the tic in his left eye. “Like what?”

His roommate throws his hands up in the air exasperatedly. “Like your best friend! And the fact that you’re in love with her!”

“Okay.”

“This isn’t going to work. C’mere.” He gestures to Kuroo to come sit next to him on the couch. Once he makes his way to the couch and sits next to him, Bokuto takes both his hands in his. “Consider this an intervention.”

Kuroo leans back and lets his head fall against the couch cushions. This is going to be good.

“Okay, so,” Bokuto begins, “she doesn’t know you’re Spider-Man—no one knows that except me—but you love her, don’t you? Just walk up to her, tell her you can show her something she’s never seen before, swing her up to a rooftop somewhere, and watch the sunset with her. Tell her you love her and that you can’t live without her, and your heart beats only for her—trust me, girls love romantic stuff like that—and then tell her you’re also Spider-Man. Easy.”

All Kuroo can do is laugh. There’s no way Bokuto is serious about this.

“I’m being serious,” Bokuto says. “How long are you going to keep hiding this from her? She’s your best friend, don’t you think you should tell her that you’re basically in mortal peril every other day?”

“That’s exactly why I’m not telling her,” Kuroo says. “What if some villain finds out she’s special to me and does something to her to get back at me?”

His friend looks dubious. “You really think that could happen?”

“Yes.” Kuroo turns his head to look at Bokuto. “That’s why I didn’t want to tell you either.”

Bokuto chews his lip thoughtfully. “I kind of see what you mean. But…” He squeezes Kuroo’s hand once, gently. “I think she would want to know.”

Kuroo considers it—for a brief half-minute, he actually thinks about it—and then shakes his head. “It’s better to keep her safe.”

You have the worst possible timing. (Perhaps it’s Kuroo’s fault for having given you a spare key to his apartment.)

The door swings open and you walk into the living room, two bags of takeaway in your hand. “Guess who’s got food!”

Then you pause, survey the situation in front of you, and your jaw drops.

Kuroo and Bokuto, both on the couch, sitting so close to each other, their knees are brushing. Kuroo’s hands are still being held by Bokuto, the latter rubbing circles on his palm. Belatedly, Kuroo realises what this must look like to you.

He shoots up to his feet. “It’s not what you think—”

“Oh my God.” You raise your arms. “Am I interrupting something? I’m so sorry, I had no idea! I’ll just—”

“No, wait! Bokuto and I, we’re not—”

“No, no, it’s okay!” Your repeated reassurances don’t do anything to assure him. “You guys look good together! Congratulations on graduating from cherry boy university, Kuroo!”

Kuroo lowers his head, crimson creeping up his cheeks. He turns around and faces Bokuto, who’s busy snickering on the couch. “This is all your fault.”

You look between them curiously. “Are you both dating?”

“No,” Kuroo says at the same time Bokuto says, “Possibly.”

He glares at his friend. “No, we are not together. Bokuto knows I like someone else.”

“You like someone else?”

There’s the barest hint of hurt in your tone, a slight hitch in your voice that Kuroo picks up on easily. “I—yes.”

“You never told me.” 

Your voice is carefully calm and you fiddle with the handle of the takeaway bags. Kuroo winces; he takes a step forward and grabs your elbow, gently forcing you to look up at him. “I was going to tell you. I just… forgot.”

It's the worst possible excuse he could come up with. Your eyes harden. Thankfully, Bokuto swoops in. “He’ll tell you soon. He just never has good timing.”

You poke your tongue in the inside of your cheek. “It… doesn’t matter. I brought Chinese,” you say, lips pursed into a threadbare smile, “so all that’s left is to pick the movie.”

You move into the living room and playfully poke Bokuto’s legs to make space. Kuroo closes the door behind you, a heavy feeling in his gut.

He’s fucked up. Big time. No matter what, he can’t get the look of dejectedness on your face out of his mind.

Kuroo decides he’s going to tell you. Somehow. Even if you don’t return his feelings, at least he’ll be free of the burden of keeping them hidden. 

With new conviction in his head, he strides over to where you are.

FOUR — THE SUBTLE ART OF GETTING HIT ON

Kuroo loves you—he really does—but despite his obvious affection towards you, he still thinks you’re acting slightly (read: extremely) delusional.

“A… Spider-Man love blog?” he asks weakly, sitting opposite you.

“Yeah!” You nod your head vigorously, obviously excited. “J. Jonah Jameson started a Spider-Man conspiracy theory blog, so I figured I need to start a blog to support Spider-Man and all his endeavours. Too much hate is a bad thing, and… well, he is kind of hot. Objectively speaking.”

Kuroo doesn’t know whether to grimace at the fact that J. Jonah Jameson started a page on conspiracy theories about him, laugh at the fact that you want to start a blog to support him, or melt like an ice cream on a hot summer afternoon at the fact that you just called him objectively hot.

He tries to do a mixture of all three. You glance at him, concerned. “Did you just have a stroke or something?”

Kuroo purses his lips together. “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” you say dismissively. “Well, what do you think of the blog idea?”

“I think it’s a good idea,” Kuroo agrees. “It’s like a little Spider-Man support group.”

“Exactly!” you agree, perking up even more. “That’s actually a really cool slogan, thanks Kuroo.”

“No problem.” Kuroo feels his mouth dry, but before he can second guess himself, he says, “Hey, you said Spider-Man is hot?”

“Hm? Yeah, what about it?”

“You know who else is hot?”

“Tom Holland?” Your eyes widen excitedly. “Oh, I know! Andrew Garfield!”

“No—I mean, yes but—” Kuroo heaves out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I wasn’t talking about them.”

You cock your head to the side. “Who do you mean, then?”

He takes in a deep breath, forcing his heart to calm down. “I was talking about—”

He’s about to say you when the fire alarm rings. You stand up, eyes widening—not with excitement, but with panic flaring up inside you. Kuroo stands up too; how did he not notice something was off? The hair at the back of his neck tingles. He needs to get you out of here—now.

“Hey,” he says hurriedly, “you need to leave. Go out the fire escape.” He shoves you none too gently towards the fire escape, but you stumble forward and then stop.

“Kuroo,” you say, and he can hear the mounting fear in your voice, “what about you?”

“I’ll be right behind you,” he assures. A series of bangs follows his statement, and he narrows his eyes at the direction of the sound. “But you need to leave. Now.”

You open your mouth to say something, but when you hear a loud clang echo down the stairwell, you close your mouth and run towards the staircase. Kuroo waits for you to disappear from his sight, before turning on his heel and grabbing his suit from his bag.

God, supervillains really have the worst timing. All Kuroo wanted to do was tell you he thought you were hot, too, but that he found you more beautiful than anything else.

FIVE — THE SUBTLE ART OF EXPOSING YOUR CRUSH

Kuroo is so, so tired.

He lands in front of a small, quiet lake in a park you used to come to with him. The ambience is perfect for when you want to spend time alone, in solitude. A family of ducks paddles gently over the water; it’s peaceful and serene—completely unlike the destruction he just had to deal with, and the turbulence currently running through his mind.

He pulls his mask off his head and runs a tired hand through his hair. Wearily, he sinks down onto the grass, feeling the cool breeze caress his skin and the rustle of the leaves of the giant tree under whose shade he’s sitting.

He blinks once, slowly, and then again, and when a duck lets out a quack, he opens his mouth and lets everything spill out, like sand pouring through an overturned hourglass.

(He’s aware he’s talking to ducks. He doesn’t care.)

“Screw this shit. I never wanted to be a hero, you hear me? I never wanted to be bitten by a stupid spider, I didn’t ask for all this—I didn’t ask for all this! God, what does a guy need to do to have some time to tell his best friend he’s in love with her?!”

His rant falls on silent ears—but then, he hears the crunch of dried leaves, and he whips around.

Your head pokes out from behind the tree trunk. “Kuroo?”

“Oh,” he breathes out, scrambling to his feet. “What are you—”

“You said you’d be right behind me!” Despite the false bravado in your voice, he can hear how wobbly you actually sound.

“I-I was. Technically.” He takes a tentative step towards you, one arm stretched out placatingly.

“You never told me you were Spider-Man!” Your voice increases in pitch steadily with each word.

“I didn’t tell you to protect you—”

“Oh my God, you were in mortal peril every day and I didn’t even know!”

“Bokuto said the same thing, but—”

“Bokuto knew all along, of course he did!”

“I only told him because—”

“And—and now you’re telling me you’re in love with me!”

“Okay, I wasn’t telling you, I was telling the ducks, but—”

“Kuroo!” You throw your hands up in the air wildly, gaze roaming rapidly across his face. “You’re in love with me!”

He sucks in a breath sharply. “I feel like that’s not the most important thing here.”

Of all the ways he thought he would confess to you, this is decidedly not something that crossed his mind even once. He’d always pictured flowers, holding your hand, maybe even a romantic stroll down this very park. He’d certainly never imagined you’d find out about both his secrets on the same day—all while he was busy ranting about his hero complex to a bunch of birds who didn’t pay him any attention.

“Please,” he tries again, “please let me explain.”

You shake your head. “No. There’s nothing there to explain.”

With that, you turn away and walk past him. Kuroo’s heart sinks. He crumples the material of the mask in his hand, feeling the cloth twist underneath his fingertips just like his heart twists into knots with every step you take away from him.

PLUS ONE — THE SUBTLE ART OF KISSING YOUR BEST FRIEND

You have Kuroo cornered, your arms crossed across your chest and your expression stern. “You need to listen to me.”

Kuroo gulps. It’s been a week since he accidentally let both his secrets slip, and this is the first time he’s talking to you in person since then. You’d sent him a text with a simple message. Library, first thing after lunch. Kuroo had complied, and here he is now.

“So. Bokuto explained everything to me,” you say. 

“He—he did?”

You glance at him shortly. “Yeah, he did. I… I understand why you didn’t tell me about—about your condition, Kuroo. I’m sorry I didn’t give you a chance to explain yourself.”

“It’s okay,” he replies immediately. “If I found out my best friend was a secret vigilante risking his life every day, I think I’d react the same way.”

You smile at him then, and his heart jumps inside his chest. He smiles back. “But that’s not the main reason I called you here,” you continue. “What I really called you here for was…”

You trail off, looking down, and Kuroo is hit with a sudden sense of nostalgia. Why are you being so bashful around him all of a sudden? “Was…” he gently prompts.

You swallow, lifting up your chin and looking him in the eye. “I wanted to tell you that I’m in love with you too.”

Kuroo Tetsurou swears time stops, and the whole world comes to a standstill. The words ring in his ears, echoing inside his head. His lips part, and he stares at you, flabbergasted.

“I— Say that again.” His voice is barely more than a whisper.

He sees the flicker in your eyes, notices how you’re ready to compete with him for this. “I love you, Kuroo Tetsurou. I don’t care about the fact that you’re Spider-Man.”

Kuroo takes a step towards you, holding your shoulders gently, like you’re made of glass. “I love you too.”

You grin at him, your own arms encircling his waist and coming to rest on his back. “I know that.”

And then you tip your head forward and capture his lips with your own. He gasps at first, before kissing you back with equal force, one hand tugging you closer to him and the other curving around your torso.

You giggle into the kiss, and Kuroo’s lips twitch upwards. He’s giddy, weightless, floating through the air like a feather being carried by the wind. The feeling he gets when he’s swooping through the rooftops of the city is nothing compared to the feeling of your lips slotted against his and his arms wrapped around you.

Kuroo Tetsurou swears he doesn’t try to act stupid normally. But if it makes you smile, he’s willing to do anything.

[si-chen-g]

“are ya sure yer not dating (y/n)?” osamu suddenly asks his brother during a quiet lunch between the two of them.

atsumu chokes on the grains of rice in his mouth, coughing violently and punching his chest. when he finally settles down, he throws a glare at his brother. “what the hell, ‘samu?”

“that’s not an answer.” osamu continues to press.

“we’re not!” atsumu answers, picking up a piece of chicken katsu with his chopsticks. “i don’t like them like that. they don’t like me like that. we’re just friends.”

the bright red-pink of his ears speak otherwise. you see, osamu knows his twin better than he knows himself. he knows that whatever comes out of atsumu’s mouth is a load of crap. just friends? yeah fucking right.

osamu has never seen his brother look at anyone the way he looks at you, starlight and pure adoration swirling in his irises. he acts as if your every word were an earth-shaking prophecy sent by the heavens. his honey brown eyes stare, and he smiles so gently that it makes him sick.

friends aren’t touchy in the way you guys are. you hold each other’s hand like it’s nothing. with interlocked fingers, atsumu will trace his thumb down the back of your hand for no apparent reason. when you’re bored, you’ll take atsumu’s hand into your lap and play with it, bending his fingers, comparing hand sizes, and running a featherlight touch across the expanse of his palm to see if he’ll react.

osamu notices how you never miss the opportunity to find a seat on his brother’s lap. whether there are no seats of available or ten open ones, you will always choose atsumu. and it’s not like he’s complaining about it. in fact, osamu thinks that he waits for it because atsumu would never want to miss the chance to secure his arms around your waist and whisper into your ear amidst a loud conversation.

and you can’t forget the cuddles, and the hugs that linger longer than they should, and the way you’ll cup atsumu’s face, and the way you play with his piss blond hair.

you’re the one person atsumu lets wear his jersey to his game. he ensures you get the best seat to watch him play. osamu doesn’t miss the way his twin looks at you before every serve or the way you cheer the loudest when he scores an ace.

osamu doesn’t think that someone who “doesn’t like you” would be thinking about you every time they shop. “(y/n) likes this snack”. “(y/n) would love this shirt”. “oh hey, (y/n) showed me this”. “‘samu, should i buy this for (y/n)?”.

osamu has never seen two people so madly in love before. he doesn’t know how you guys haven’t realized it yet. and he can’t keep playing along because atsumu’s katsu looks really good right now.

“right…” osamu chooses to answer, dipping his chicken into the tonkatsu sauce. “i sure hope they’re gonna have fun on that date they have today.”

his brother’s chopsticks clatter onto the table before rolling onto the floor. the sight of atsumu’s open mouth filled with rice is unsightly, and osamu has to suppress his laugh.

“they didn’t tell you?” osamu raises an eyebrow.

“no?!” atsumu suddenly stands, slamming his palms into the table.

“yeah, i think they’re gonna leave soon.” osamu lies easily. there is no date. but of course, does ‘tsumu really need to know that?

the blond twin practically bolts away from the dining table and out of the house. when the door slams shut, osamu grins to himself, reaching for the unfinished plate in front of him.

“he can thank me later.”

atsumu brainrot never ends. something short and sweet bc school is kicking my ass.

[si-chen-g]

this is so best years by 5sos actually

⋅ GENRES: best friends (to strangers) to lovers; angst, fluff & smut

⋅ PAIRING: neighbor!Sunghoon x fem!reader

⋅ WORD COUNT: 27.4K

⋅ WARNINGS: idiots in love, but make it slow-burn; forgive their dumb decisions at some points, they were scared; soulmates references although it’s not a fantasy au; mentions of alcohol and drugs; unprotected sex

                  TRACK 02 OF TAKE MY HAND

There had been a time when Sunghoon thought that you and he were meant to be forever. 

And to be fair — his assumption used to make sense. For years, you had been best friends, halves of a whole, and the downfall of your friendship certainly was something no one could have predicted.

But that’s the thing about life — one moment people think they know exactly where they are headed, and the next, everything changes. The wind drifts the other way and suddenly, it is five am at the beginning of another Saturday. Sunghoon is clinging to his couch, wondering who he is looking for because you don’t go to parties anymore.

You were only ten when you first met Park Sunghoon. 

While some parents ventured to the bustling cities in search of better opportunities, your parents decided to take the opposite turn and move to Uljin. About two hundred twenty-four kilometers southeast of Seoul and bordering the East Sea, it was a county of sand-dirtied streets, a single commercial avenue, and no twenty-four hour parlors.

The breezes always carried the brine scent of the seashore, and the houses were built in the same bungalow style. No one within the limits of the county escaped the low-pitched roofs with wide eave overhangs nor the exposed rafters at the front porches. But a lucky person could have the beach just one deck away, and a luckier one could have Park Sunghoon as the boy next door.

And well — you were as lucky as luck could be.

The first time you had ever seen him, he stood on the sand with Yeji, a telescope stuck nearby, and the moon softly bathing his features as he looked up at the vast expanse of the night sky.

It was too cold to be outside, honestly, an autumn night that felt like winter on your bones, but you also had heard about the meteor shower that would happen that night. A celestial orbit that passed the Earth once every seventy-six years, and it had been the only reason you decided to sneak out that night, wandering to the beach with a scarf rolled around your neck not just once but twice. 

Although his little sister had been the first to acknowledge your presence, it had been Sunghoon who offered to share the telescope with you, the corners of his mouth shyly tucking with a smile as dimples flirted at the soft skin of his cheeks.

Looking at him then, you didn’t know what he would become to you — how important he would become to you. But on the next morning, he rang the bell of your new house and asked if you wanted to go to the commercial avenue with him, and just like that Park Sunghoon became shared cakes in the autumn, snowball fights in the winter, bike rides to the school in the spring, and your whole summer. During the bright days, Sunghoon would laugh heartily with you, his eyes gleaming with mirth as his dimples never failed to appear, and then when the night fell, he would whisper into the darkness of your room. His back side by side with yours until the sun broke and colored the walls tangerine and pink because you never bothered to close your curtains. 

Throughout the seasons that turned into years, Sunghoon became your best friend, and as foolish as it could be — your other half.

            ULJIN-GUN, NORTH GYEONGSANG

SUMMER OF 2020

It was later than usual when Sunghoon called that night. Your parents’ television always turned into some reality show until ungodly hours had long been turned off and the house was nothing but the sea breezes coming through the opened windows, softly spreading through and blending in with your phone’s ringtone.

“Sunghoon.”

“Can you come outside?” he asked at the other end of the line. 

You leaped off your bed, moving as quietly as you could to the window. It wasn’t as warm as it had been, autumn already pressing onto the late august nights, and tingling your skin, but when you spotted Sunghoon standing at the end of your family’s deck stairs, his jacket was hanging in one of his hands instead of his shoulders.

“I don’t know, can I?” you asked, immediately stealing a smile from him. Even in the distance, you could see it tucking at the corners of his mouth and flirting dimples at his cheeks.

Sunghoon peered up at you, head tilted to the side in a false consideration. During the course of your friendship, you had done it far too often, but still — Sunghoon always started with the same question, and you always replied in the same way. It was a monologue never really planned or written down, but that both of you had accepted and played.

“Just come already, teeny. I brought you a jacket,” he said, slightly shaking the piece in his hands.

You couldn’t help but smile, your heart already pounding in your chest as you tip-toed through the darkness of your family’s house and its back deck, barely making it to the sand before Sunghoon slagged his jacket on your shoulders, a sneering huff escaping through his lips because while you settled on your height at the age of fourteen, he continued growing — his jackets turning harder to fit you with the passing years. But Sunghoon was still careful with it, adjusting it as best as he could despite you being a few good centimeters smaller than him now.

“Teeny,” he hummed, giving his jacket one final pat before he held his hand out for you. His fingers spread so you could fill the small gaps in between as he guided you toward the sea.

Sunghoon stopped just before the water could reach your feet, but still, the breeze caught the cold sprinkles, brushing them against the exposed skin of your cheeks.

“Let’s go somewhere else.”

“At three in the morning?” you asked. “I don’t think there is anything open kilometers from here.”

“No,” he laughed. “It’s going to be our last semester of high school, so I have been thinking, we should go somewhere else after our graduation.”

“Do you want to leave Gyeongsang?”

“It’s just — I don’t think there are many good options here, and my father has been trying to convince me to try a scholarship at Konkuk University.”

“Seoul? Seriously?”

“Well, Konkuk is one of the best for biological science, and — it happens to be one of the best for linguistics too,” he said. “It’s what you want to do, isn’t it?”

Something filled the inside of your chest with his question, so warm and tender. You couldn’t find the words to reply, so you only nodded at him, a smile already tucking at the corners of your mouth because even in his dreams, Park Sunghoon included you.

“I just thought that we should do it together,” he said. Although he didn’t give himself enough time to doubt the wisdom of saying it, the words came weakly — almost getting lost in the breeze before you could even clasp them. You pulled his jacket tighter around your body, tugging the collar up to your mouth and accidentally breathing in everything about it: the citrus perfume blended with the brine scent of the seashore, which was the same as saying Sunghoon’s scent. “You are my best friend, plus — you would miss me too much if we ever went separate ways.”

You looked up at him, but he didn’t return your gaze. Sunghoon was still looking at the sky, watching it with the same intensity as when you first met him years and years ago.

Late august nights were never really warm in Uljin, and the air carried a particular humidity that caused his hair to curl fondly. You were glad your mouth was covered and hid the smile you couldn’t control from forming with the realization that it was true — you would miss him.

“Let’s do it together,” you conquered. “Let’s stay together.”

“It’s a promise now,” Sunghoon said.

He looked down at you, suddenly letting go of your interlaced hands. But before you could sorrow the absence of his warmth, he held his pinky finger at you. The gesture was so silly that you couldn’t help but laugh, the sound tingling across the night as you curled your pinky finger around his.

“It’s a promise now,” you echoed.

But you should have known — some promises were simply meant to be broken.

GWANGJIN-GU, SEOUL

SUMMER OF 2022

Kim Haneul was the messiest person you had ever met, and you told her this.

Konkuk University’s dormitories weren’t spacious — actually, just enough had been the term you used to describe it to your parents, but this afternoon, Haneul seemed to be on a mission to make it unbearable. With the approaching due date to empty the dormitories for the summer vacation, the floor of your shared room had suddenly become cluttered with her old textbooks and past projects, some pinkish post-its sorting their destination between home, donation, and trash in her bubbly handwriting as her clothes took every other space.

You had offered to help many times, but your roommate insisted on doing it by herself. What left you no other option than to stay at your desk chair, pulling your legs up, and wrapping your arms around them in an unconscious attempt to save some more space as you watched her fumbling through a pile of clothes. 

“Is this yours?” she asked, completely ignoring your comment. 

You looked at the apricot dress Haneul had picked up. It was a beautiful backless thing, and the straps were so delicate, you couldn’t help but wonder how it managed to hold everything in place. However, despite its beauty—

“I have never seen it before,” you told her. 

“Being honest, I don’t remember ever seeing this either,” she sighed, long and heavy. “I was about to complain once again about this system of us having to empty the dorms every summer but then I remembered that I have graduated, so I would have to leave anyway.”

“You will manage it — you always managed it.”

“I know, I am just stressed,” she said, abandoning the apricot dress and moving her attention to a buttery yellow one. “You know what? My flight is only tomorrow night and you are only leaving for Uljin on Sunday, we should go out.”

“Like right now?”

“One of my classmates is throwing a party tonight.”

“I don’t go to parties,” you blurted, immediately receiving a look from her.

It wasn’t a lie — although it hadn’t always been like this. 

A year ago, it wouldn’t matter whose party it was or what they were commemorating — if Park Sunghoon was there, you would be there too, hands intertwined and sharing the same doubtful cup until it was hard to tell if it was really late or really early. But you couldn’t go back to the university dormitory without getting a warning, and your only option was to crash in his frat house, slipping underneath his blankets as his arms curled around you and brought you a centimeter too closer to him.

His roommates weren’t even surprised anymore. Heeseung barely batted an eye as he caught you wandering around in the kitchen in the mornings afterward, and Jake already had an extra cup of coffee prepared for you.

But then, Sunghoon started to have flings.

Hyuna at the end of the winter semester, Sunhee at the beginning of the spring, Chaeyeol at the end of it, and some others in the middle of all of this.

He still insisted on taking you to the parties, the black Jeep his father gifted him parked in front of your dormitory’s door and ready to take you anywhere. But his girls were always hovering around, their eyes narrowed and unable to conceal the hate they had for you.

Sometimes they were so good at keeping Sunghoon away from you that you didn’t even see him until the party was over, and you had awkwardly been alone for hours, uncertain of what to do or where to go. So eventually, you didn’t feel like going anymore.

Of course, you were still friends outside the furor of the parties. But with the new reality of Sunghoon and his flings, plus you beginning your relationship with Jongseong, you both drifted apart. Days without hanging out turned into weeks, weeks turned into months of no real conversations, and then, Sunghoon canceled the last plan you ever made together and a shouting phone call was the last thing you remembered before your lives had gone on without each other in them. The new and strange became familiar, and all the promises you once made turned into nothing but a memory of a different life.

“You know you are allowed to go to parties without Sunghoon, right?” Haneul asked.

His name whispered through you, and you tightened your arms around yourself, fighting back the flood of feelings that threatened to overwhelm you at the mention of him.

One thing was to have Sunghoon hovering around your mind, another was to have him verbally put into a conversation.

“Of course, I know it,” you said, forcing out a smile.

Haneul walked towards you, softly wrapping her hands around your elbows, and you could tell she was choosing her words carefully even before she said them.

“You better, because it has been a year since you both stopped talking, and I don’t know. You were never here during the weekends, but now it’s hard to find you outside,” she said. “I don’t want to be that person, but Jongseong spoke some truth in the breakup speech — it seems like a part of you simply disappeared together with Sunghoon.”

“So let’s do something fun tonight. I am going back to the matchbox my hometown is and I have no idea what my life is going to be from now on,” she continued. “Consider this my graduation wish.”

“Wasn’t your graduation wish to get drunk on the university’s artificial lake last Sunday?”

“My graduation wish with you,” she mended.

You breathed in, turning your focus away. Despite it already being seven o’clock, the sun was still hefty outside, and suddenly, you had the impression the room had turned dimmer in comparison. The late june sunset pressed against the windows of your room, and shafts of golden luminescent streamed through the smudged glass.

You could feel the beginning of another summer slowly settling in. And how strange it was — to have the whole season caught in a breath that wasn’t his.

“I will think about it,” you said.

Haneul smiled, giving you a tiny squeeze before she abruptly let you go.

“I know you already have your answer.”

┈

You weren’t sure whose house it was, but there was graffiti on the walls and some lousy music was blasting through a pair of wireless speakers at the corner of the living room. The device long pushed against the wall just like the rest of the furniture so people could dance under the colorful lights, purple and red bouncing on their faces.

By the time you encountered Haneul from your trip to the bathroom, a different song picked up, less lousy but still trembling the floor and stealing the sound of her delighted scream.

“Let’s dance,” she yelled, pushing her cheek against yours because it was the only way you could hear her beneath all the furor of the place.

“You go on and have fun,” you yelled back. “I am going to get another drink.”

“You really need it.”

You playfully rolled your eyes at her, but she only smiled, leaving you to shove past people, and accidentally elbow a few couples who were too busy making out to open space.

The makeshift bar didn’t change from the last time you had been there. Aside from the notable decay of quantity, the options remained cheap beer and even cheaper soju.

You reached for a beer with a crinkled nose — bitter drinks definitely weren’t your favorite choice, and to add to your distress, someone had disappeared with the bottle opener.

It’s not like you hadn’t seen bar tricks already, people opening bottles with their teeth or countertops, but to perform it seemed different.

You didn’t want to take the risk of breaking a tooth, so you placed the bottle cap on the top of the ledge, carefully studying your next move, yet before you could do anything, he reached for you, his hands brushing against yours more like an echo of touch than in fact a thing as he took the bottle away.

“Careful,” he said. “You might hurt yourself like this.”

You knew it wasn’t a real thing, but you could swear your heart quelled at the sound of his voice, that tiny gap where a heartbeat should be.

You had molded the moment you would encounter Park Sunghoon in your mind enough times to believe you would be prepared when it finally came into reality. Yet there was something strange about seeing someone after so long — a sudden uncertainty if time had passed correctly.

A year seemed like an eternity once, but not anymore. When you looked up at Sunghoon, you weren’t sure if a single day had passed ever since you both parted ways.

His gaze felt heavy on you, taking in how you had pushed your hair back due to the house’s warmth, brushing it behind your ears, and allowing your shoulders to be on exposure. Your skin was glowing beneath the colorful light, sparkling with slivers of gold glitter some woman insisted on brushing on you when you left the bathroom. But Sunghoon lingered only a beat on it, choosing to follow the apricot dress Haneul had pulled you in before he finally met your eyes.

Both of you stood there for a second, maybe two, and then Sunghoon cleared his throat and moved, abandoning his own bottle so he could focus on yours. He placed the cap on the top of the ledge, but different from you, he brought his hand down on it with no ado. The beer spilled with the roughness of the act, and the scent of fresh alcohol filled your senses.

“Here,” he said, handing it back to you. Your fingers slipped on his, and although you hadn’t even taken the first sip yet, you were already dizzy.

“Thank you.”

“When Jake said he saw you here, I was about to drag him home saying he had enough drinks for a night,” he said. “But turns out you are really here.”

“It has been some time. How have you been?” Sunghoon asked, retrieving his beer and bringing it up to his lips. You watched as he screwed his face, his nose scrunched because the warmth of the house had accentuated the bitter taste of the alcohol and turned it unpleasant. But he didn’t say anything, his eyes were still on you, shining beneath the colorful lights and waiting for you to talk.

“I have been fine, yes. How about you?”

“Fine,” he said. “Same old thing, classes, the frat house, and parties every weekend.”

The edge of a smile formed on his lips. It was such a small, quiet expression, but it lit him up, and you yanked your gaze to the bottle in your hands, desperate to find something else to put your attention on before the full force of his smile could reach you.

But you had turned your face away too late, and the familiar twinge his smile always made you experience had already occurred.

“Are you going to Uljin for summer?” he asked then.

“I always do,” you replied. You didn’t sound harsh or angry. If anything it was just you saying a factual truth, yet the words seemed to hang longer than it was necessary in the air, and in the rush of the moment, you talked yourself down. “I mean, I have to. They use the summer for inspections and reforms, so we are obligated to leave.”

You made the mistake of looking up, catching Sunghoon’s gaze as it felt on you in the same motion.

Behind him, a man appeared, friendly punching his shoulders before he moved to the makeshift bar and fumbled for a new beer. Sunghoon raised three fingers at the stranger, absently, and barely looking in his direction.

“When?” he asked.

“Sunday,” you replied. “June twenty-six is the last day to empty the room.”

“I am also going back to Uljin,” he said. “I could — I could give you a ride on Sunday.”

You straightened yourself at the suggestion, fingers anxiously finding a rhythm against the bottle. It was silly the way your heart was pounding in your chest — silly the way your skin was warm in a way that you knew it wasn’t due to the early summer heat.

It had been a year since you last spoke to each other — a year since you had last made plans together. Everything was starting to feel too familiar beneath the awkwardness of the night, and for another moment, you didn’t know how to respond, choosing to swallow a good amount of the alcohol instead.

In the earnestness of your silence, Sunghoon studied you, his gaze unflinching even as he shrugged away, pressing his back against the cool of the fridge. His whole body moved with the guilt of someone who was taking their foot off the brake and still — was going to pretend what was coming next was an accident.

“Let’s bet,” he said. “Like the old times, c’mon.”

Sunghoon stepped past you, abandoning what remained of his beer at the makeshift bar, and sparing not even a single look back. He simply trusted that you would follow him, and you knew it wasn’t the greatest idea, but perhaps it had been the alcohol already simmering below your skin, or perhaps it had been simply because it was Sunghoon, but you did follow him.

God — you would always follow him.

The living room was even more crowded than a few moments ago, with too many people fighting for the same space on the makeshift dance floor, and Sunghoon reached his hand out behind him. It seemed involuntary, almost as if his body had moved on its own, and he didn’t notice what he had done, but you did.

You wouldn’t lose each other in the middle of the stranger’s living room, but once, when you were thirteen, you had reached out to him in the middle of a crowd, and then, he had never stopped reaching back to you.

Even now.

At first, he just pinched the tip of your fingers, but as he opened space through the living room and moved into the stairs, his fingers found the slots between yours, and you let him intertwine your hands.

He caught the second story just as a group was leaving it. They had that happy air of those who had gone too far on their drinks, the alcohol effects heaving through as one of them nearly collided with you. Sunghoon pulled you closer then, guiding you through the corridor before the other could even apologize.

You didn’t know whose house this was, but apparently, Sunghoon did. He took you to the last room without a hint of doubt, as if he already knew it was a game room. The walls painted in the extravagant tone of maroon as a pool table took the space in the middle, the velvet smooth beneath the dim light.

Sunghoon let go of your hand only to gather the balls in the center of the table, carefully alternating by stripes and solids before he turned to the wall and took two cue sticks from the hangers.

“If I win, you go back to Uljin with me. If you win, it’s your choice,” he said, giving one of the cue sticks. “Do you know the rules?”

He didn’t need to speak loudly nor lend to your side to be heard anymore. The music was quieter up there, almost an echo through your feet, but still, Sunghoon did — his breath brushing warmly against your cheeks as he spoke.

His accent didn’t escape you this time — that faint echo of the North Gyeongsang lull.

Although you had grown up there, you never acquired that way of rolling your tongue through the vowels and stretching the end of the phrases the way people of the province did, and to hear it made your chest ache.

“I don’t think so,” you said.

“Didn’t your boyfriend teach you anything?” he asked, stepping back. The question had been crafted merely as a tease, but you felt like you had been verbatim attacked at the mention of Jongseong.

He hadn’t been your boyfriend for weeks now, yet the news didn’t seem to have reached Sunghoon, and to be honest, you didn’t mind his oblivion on the topic. Sunghoon never tried to mask his ill feelings toward Jongseong — as cruel as it could be. And perhaps it was the reason that although it was an opportunity, you didn’t say anything about the breakup.

“He taught me a few other things,” you said instead. “He taught me how to drive.”

Sunghoon snorted at that, an unpretty thing that he somehow always made it work as cute.

“I don’t believe you. You hate even the idea of driving. You always refused when I asked if you wanted me to teach you.”

“I always had you to drive me whenever I needed. There was no point back then,” you retorted.

Your tongue had come loose, and you didn’t know if it was the alcohol, or simply the duration of Sunghoon’s presence, but immediately, you wished you could take the words back like air into your lungs.

You turned your gaze away, but still, you could feel his eyes on you, that same unflinching gaze he had in the kitchen and your cheeks burned.

“But no,” you quickly added. “He didn’t teach me pool or anything like that.”

“Let’s make the game simple then,” he said. “I am the stripe, and you are the solid.”

“Do I have to pocket all mine or yours?”

“Yours and the eight-ball.”

“I do not like it already,” you declared.

“I will teach you.”

You settled over the stick, and he was on you again, chest pressing against your back as his hands found yours, cupping them into disappearance.

When you breathed in and his scent caught in your lungs, the same citrus perfume he used back in the years, and although now he carried the smell of tobacco instead of the brine scent of the seashore, it was all too familiar to you.

“You have to lose your grip,” he said, his voice was right by your ear, lips almost touching the shell of it.

“I told you. I don’t know how to play,” you replied, but Sunghoon only hummed, guiding you through a stroke and drilling the cue ball.

He let you go suddenly, circling the table and taking another practical stroke. This time, he pulled a ball into the pocket, and when he straightened himself back, you noticed he had glitter on him. The golden sprinkles the stranger had rubbed on your skin fetched to his dark jacket.

“You should learn if you don’t want to go with me to Uljin.”

“I didn’t agree on the bet.”

“We are already playing,” he said.

His gaze lifted, finding you still on the other side of the table, considering him, or perhaps, just watching him.

Down below, a mixture of cheers and noises erupted, but there was such a stillness between you, almost as if you were somewhere else.

“Alright,” you determined. “But if I lose, you have to be at seven in front of the dorms’ door — seven sharp, so I still can take the train if you don’t appear.”

“I will be there,” he said, a smile spreading across his face, transforming his features but this time, you did not look away, watching as his bare happiness spread through, crinkling the corners of his eyes, and flirting dimples into his cheeks.

Sunghoon looked so boyish like this, so soft, so — yours.

You had to remember yourself to breathe.

“If I lose,” you said.

“If you lose.”

On the following morning, Sunghoon was waiting for you at the front door of your dormitory, the engine of his black Jeep still on as he leaned on the hood with an apparently unaffected indifference.

His hands had been shoved in the pockets of his dress pants, and a pair of sunglasses had already been equilibrated at the bridge of his nose despite the fact it was barely seven o’clock, the whole campus still in a sleepiness state that only came with the beginning of the summer vacation, and the sky was still a mix of lilac and pink against the clouds.

It had been a year since you fell apart, but it had been years of friendship, and you still could read Sunghoon like no one else. He wasn’t the type to allow his faltering to show easily, but it was only necessary to look a little bit more to notice it was there — a sense of absently over him, almost as if his body belonged to someone else. His eyebrows had no expression to them somehow, drawn in two straight lines and you didn’t need to see his eyes to know they were unfocused.

When you approached him, he immediately managed to pull a smile, pushing himself away from the car. And everything about it was so compelling — so genuine. You almost could doubt if you had read him right.

He walked toward you, taking his sunglasses off and perching them on the collar of his t-shirt.

“Just those two?” he asked, referring to your luggage, and you nodded, more like an involuntary deed than an answer as Sunghoon was still focused on the objects.

He took both handles, finally looking at you, but your gazes met for a few seconds too long, and it became more awkward than necessary. Perhaps you should have accepted Haneul’s farewell gift. Although you disliked soju — it doesn’t matter if it had been conserved with the best tangerines from Jeju. A dose of alcohol would do some good on your system now.

“Yeah, just these two,” you finally said.

You trailed closely behind him to the Jeep, not sure what to do aside from watching as he opened the trunk and efficiently hauled your luggage there.

There was something that should be said at that moment, you could feel it trickling through the corners of your mind, but before you could find what exactly it was, Sunghoon had already turned his attention back to you.

“I told you I would be here,” he said suddenly, and almost unwittingly, but the words ached within you so wonderfully that you felt something warm blooming very deep inside of you.

Sunghoon guided you to the passenger side, opening the door and waiting for you to fold yourself into the front of his car before he closed it with a soft slam.

The Jeep felt smaller than you remembered — cluttered with him and his everyday things, and the density of it overwhelmed you. A notebook was thrown at the carpet at your feet, opened to reveal his meticulous handwriting, always in black tint pens and telling you something you couldn’t comprehend about marine science or whatever subject biological students had.

You let out a breath you didn’t even know you’d been holding, and when you breathed in again, it too, was filled with him, his citrus perfume, and the faint scent of tobacco that you hoped was still from one of his roommates and not his.

“Have you eaten?” Sunghoon asked.

“No, not yet,” you said.

“I thought about stopping at that café,” he said, fingers thumping against the wheel. “The one we stopped when we first came to Seoul.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

┈

Just off the interstate, Daon lived almost like a secret in the middle of the old factories and massive warehouses. Although the café had been running for years, the exterior remained with the same brownstone facade, black roof, and matching glass panels, blending almost imperceptibly with the rest of the neighborhood buildings, but maybe it had been the owner’s intention.

The sign itself had a bit of a marvel in that it was only a black plating with the name written in a Palatino font. And nothing — absolutely nothing, advised it was a café.

You couldn’t remember how Sunghoon found it. Perhaps it had been lucky, maybe it had been a bit of destiny, yet you loved the place.

As soon as you stepped inside, the smell of coffee surrounded the air around you, wiping the harsh exterior with a single intake. The wooden tables lined against the walls, crammed side by side to make room for the amount of plants and crafts scattered throughout the place.

It was a secret — perhaps, a secret within a secret.

Sunghoon trailed behind you to the counter, looking over your shoulder as you fumbled through the menu, and when you were about to turn the page from the drinks to the pancakes, his hand met yours.

“I haven’t finished,” he said, voice winding into your hair. His breath was warm against your exposed shoulders and suddenly, everything on you focused on his presence close behind you. His breath brushed against your ear, and his hand held onto yours, a few seconds more than it was necessary every and each page as if he was reluctant to let it go.

Your skin protested as Sunghoon turned to the waitress, tingling with the sudden coldness, and you had to give yourself a moment before turning too.

“Hey, lovelies. What can I get for you?” the waitress asked. She was in her early fifties, with gray sideburns and a smile on her cherry-tinted lips that made strangers feel like family and perhaps it was the only reason you didn’t falter there.

You couldn’t decide on a smoothie, so Sunghoon ordered both — strawberry and mango. And when he suggested the strawberry walnut tartlet, and you refused, his eyebrows went up beneath his bangs.

“It was your favorite,” he remembered.

“It’s alright,” you said, and Sunghoon hesitated, licking his lips as he looked from the waitress to you a few times.

“Go on and grab a table,” he said then, subtly cleaning his throat “I will pay for the order.”

“I should pay my part.”

“Buy me something in Uljin,” he said.

You looked up at him, and he smiled. The words had left his lips as nothing, but still — they carried a real meaning. Sunghoon wanted to do something together in Uljin, and how could it be so odd yet familiar at the same time.

For a moment, you stood quiet, a furrow of uncertainty pressed between your brows before you nodded, walking to an empty table.

You wondered if it would be awkward if the silence would stretch on too long, and the spaces between words would be filled with awkwardness. But when Sunghoon came after and took the chair in front of you, he was already asking about your classes and Haneul. He asked about the teacher you hated and the project you had forgotten you had done last winter until he mentioned it. You breathed a little easier at that and asked about his classes and his roommates — Heeseung, Jake, and the younger guy you couldn’t remember the name of.

“Riki,” Sunghoon remembered. “Or mini Jake, whatever you prefer.”

“Except for the part that he is way taller than Jake.”

“Don’t say that,” he asked, but there was a bite of a smile on his lips. “Jake will be hurt.”

The waitress came with your order then, pulling the plates perfectly in front of each of you. You both slid your plates to the center of the table simultaneously and without a single question, arranging them in a way that would allow you to share, just as you had done so many times when you were younger.

And when the silence appeared for the first time between a bite and another, you finally mustered up the courage to ask what you had been wondering about all along.

“Why did you decide to go back this time?” you asked.

“I just — I just felt like it was the right thing, I have been away for too long,” he said, but there was a note in his voice that hadn’t been there before.

It was nearing ten o’clock, and the world was a little more alive. The sun was coming hefty through the windows of the café, bathing over the two of you. It caught on the glass vase in the middle of the table, scattering shafts of light everywhere. Sunghoon opened his palm to it and then closed, almost as if he could catch the light with his bare hands, and you felt the strange desire to study his face in detail, searching for — something, although you weren’t sure what something would be.

Sunghoon didn’t seem to have changed much throughout the year. Although his skin had lost the last remains of Uljin’s sun and he’d grown his hair out, the tips hanging down past his ear in a way you had never seen before, he was the Sunghoon you always remembered — freckled cheeks and dark strands. Boyish as he was pretty.

His eyebrows furrowed at something, and you wanted to ask him what he was thinking, but you couldn’t remember the last time you had shared secrets, and suddenly, the question got stuck in your mouth — that easy thread within both of you breaking once again.

The waitress returned, carrying a piece of the tartlet you had refused. For a moment, you thought Sunghoon might have ordered it for himself, but she put it in front of you, clicking her tongue against her cherry-tinted lips and calling you “such a cute couple” before she left.

“Did you order it for me?” you asked. Sunghoon nodded his head affirmatively.

“Thank you, Hoon, but I haven’t ordered it because they use walnut pieces. I found out I am allergic to it,” you said, the words trailing out in a breath. “I came here with Jongseong when he drove me to Uljin last summer, and I had the same stretches I did with you. He thought it was strange and took me to a hospital later. We did a few blood tests, and it came out that I am allergic to walnuts—”

You continued talking, but something had settled inside of Sunghoon. Strong enough to make him dizzy, great enough to ache.

The problem itself wasn’t that you had shared this place with your boyfriend but that Sunghoon finally had noticed how your life had kept going without him.

Between one word and another, Sunghoon stood up, desperate to get away, to escape this conversation and all the realization it brought. He made it to the parking lot, somehow finding his Jeep before he crouched down. He didn’t hear you walking up behind him, but you were there, making the breeze slightly tender with your sweet perfume.

Neither of you said anything. The echo of the interstate was the only sound for a minute, maybe two, and then Sunghoon sighed, heavy and world-weary as he scrubbed a hand through his hair.

“We have really become strangers, haven’t we?” It had been a question. However, the last two words were spoken so slowly — so humbly. He didn’t want to hear the answer, so you didn’t attempt to give one.

A breeze rushed through the parking lot, scattering the greenish leaves of summer in its wake. You were still kilometers away from Uljin, but you could swear the air already carried that faint brine scent of the seashore.

“I am sorry,” you said. “I could have just eaten it.”

“And have allergy reactions until we arrive home?”

“It would be just minor scratches,” you murmured.

“I don’t care what it is,” he said. “If it’s bad for you or if you simply dislike it, I am not allowing you to take it.”

Sunghoon looked at you, lips parted to say something else, but you were already reaching for him, finding the precise place where his hair had grown above the collar of his t-shirt, and he stopped, mind stuck in the middle of a sentence he would never say. His skin was warm there, already loved by the summer heat, and you could feel his pulse hastily reaching for the tip of your fingers before it came into peace.

“I am sorry,” he whispered.

“It’s alright.”

The motions from there were silent and vaguely awkward. Sunghoon stood up and stepped past you, going to the passenger door to open it for you. He waited until you folded yourself back into the Jeep just like he had done this morning and many other times before. Nonetheless, you couldn’t gather the courage to look at him and thank — not even when he settled himself into the driver’s seat.

Your fingers were still tingling with the memory of his heartbeats against your skin.

Sunghoon paused, his hand hovering over the ignition before he inserted the key and turned it with a firm hand. The Jeep wailed to life, the sound of the engine and the radio filling the air around you.

“Did something else happen through those months?” he asked. “Any other allergies?”

“No — not that I remember,” you replied. “How about you? Anything happened?”

“Not that I remember, but if I do remember something, I will tell.”

“Ok.”

“Ok,” he echoed.

The car fell silent, the radio being the only furor between you as he drove out of the parking lot, but for the first time since the party, neither of you tried to fill it.

┈

Uljin wasn’t your hometown.

Being honest, you didn’t even know the existence of the county until you were ten, sitting at the kitchen counter of your childhood house and listening to your parents telling you they wanted to start fresh, start new — a new clinic somewhere closer to the coast, and then, you were leaving the only life you ever knew by the time summer wittered to autumn.

However, you never sorrowed it. The county had a feeling that could be embedded in any person willing to open their hearts. There was nowhere else like Uljin. The sun seemed to shine softer once you passed through the limits of the county, and the breezes brushed a little lighter. Everything about this part of the world made a little bit more tender.

As soon as Sunghoon drove past the welcoming sign, you rolled your window down, allowing the wind to thread through your fingers as you held your hand out, soft and warm, just like a kiss would be.

Sunghoon sighed, not the heavy and world-weary sigh he had released in the parking lot, but a small, quiet, and ragged sigh, almost as if he had not meant to let it escape. You shifted your gaze to him then, watching as he closed his eyes. The wind caught and mussed his hair — already working to bring the curls you had a long time not seen. And it suddenly occurred to you it was the first time both of you were in Uljin ever since high school.

“Eyes on the streets,” you said, loudly enough to be heard over the wind.

“Yes, let’s not try to cause the first accident in ages.”

Sunghoon drove past the emerald mountains, the greenish field being the only thing spreading beneath the sun until you had reached the main avenue.

Other than the renewal of the ice cream parlor and the opening of a new café, the main avenue was the same as it always had been — the same old stores telling their stories through their facades bleached by too much sun and sea breeze.

The bakery opened the avenue, an inviting display window beckoning anyone closer with crunchy tarts, pieces of bread dusted with sugar, and all the other pastry art. And then came the tiny bookstore and a music school closed due to the summer months. Laughter rolled everywhere, and you wondered if you should ask Sunghoon to stop, just for a quiet second but he kept heading to the coast — heading home.

Your houses remained unchanging as the rest of the county — two bungalows spared by not even two full meters and bathed in the late june sunlight. When Sunghoon allowed the engine to die, you heard the sea crashing against the shore, the sound resonating with the wind bell your mother kept on the front porch, and all of it whispered the same thing:

“Home,” he said.

Back where you both started.

Neither of you needed to knock on your doors. The moment you stepped out of the car, you noticed your mothers and Yeji sitting at the table on the Park’s front porch and sipping on some iced drinks.

Yeji was the first to reach you, her arms coming around your waist as she buried her face in your shoulders. Her hair was still wet from the sea and smelling like salt, a wonderful denounce of how she had spent her Sunday morning.

“You came,” she said.

“I always do.”

“Yes, you are the best sister ever.”

“I am right here, you know?” Sunghoon said.

“Oh, sorry for not including you in our sisterhood, stranger,” Yeji said. However, despite her harsh words, she turned to him, her arms wide and outstretched in an invitation he gladly accepted.

Jiyoung reached for you after, cupping your face between her palms as she took a good look at you. And you took the opportunity to look at her too.

Although Sunghoon always said he looked more like his father, you always defended he also looked uncannily like Jiyoung. It was a fact that Sunghoon had gotten his father’s fair skin and thick eyebrows, but whenever he smiled it was all Jiyoung. The corner of her eyes crinkled, and dimples flirted on her cheeks as she smiled at you.

“How can you get prettier every time I see you?” she asked.

“It’s your eyes, Jiyoung.”

“No sense, darling,” she said. “I bet Jongseong has a lot of problems.”

“Not really.”

“But anyway,” Jiyoung continued, her eyes straying to where her children stayed for a brief second before she moved it back to you. “I am so glad you came. I kept asking Sunghoon how you were doing during the semester, and he always replied ‘Fine’.”

“And she is, isn’t she?” he replied, but it went completely ignored by her.

“We prepared a homecoming lunch,” she told you. “I hope you are not tired from the trip.”

“Not tired enough to refuse your lunch,” you said, immediately stealing another smile from her.

“Let’s come inside then,” Jiyoung said, giving you a tiny squeeze before she abruptly let you go. “Yeji, come help me — Sunghoon, unload the car.”

“Hugs and kisses for her,” Sunghoon murmured. “Unload the car for me.”

“That’s what you earn by never coming home,” his mother screamed from the front porch.

“I came on Christmas!” he screamed back. The information had barely been processed by you before Jiyoung screamed again.

“Almost two years in Seoul, and you only came on one Christmas day!” she said, stepping inside the house, but not before you noticed how the corners of her mouth were still tucked in a teasing smile. And you loved it on them — loved that bickering tenderness only the Parks had.

Your mother approached you then, her arm curling around your waist as she guided you to the front porch.

“Are you alright?” she asked, her accent coming so clipped and low after the previous exchange. “Was everything alright during the trip?”

“We should talk later, but yes, everything was fine,” you confirmed. “Where’s father?”

“Inside with Kwangho,” she said. “And hopefully not burning Jiyoung’s lasagna. She spent the whole morning on it.”

Just like all the houses in the county, the Parks had those open floor plans where the front hall ran into the living room, and the living room ran into the kitchen, and the kitchen ran into a double door that gave access to the back deck. Although you couldn’t see it, you knew the sea was right there — just a few steps away by the way the sun bathed into the house in shafts of white light, illuminating everything from the double door to the front hall.

When you moved to Uljin, you thought that eventually, the scenery would start to fade out of your consciousness — that someday you would wake up no longer amazed by the pristineness of the sand and the immensity of the sea. But it never happened and by now, you doubted it could. 

Sunghoon once had called it tourist fortes. But you defended that you simply had found a home.

Your father was leaning on the kitchen island together with Kwangho, a cup of his favorite whiskey already hanging in his right hand as he used the other to reach for you, hopping you affectionately beneath his arm and interrupting his conversation with Sunghoon’s father.

“Safe trip?” your father asked.

“With Sunghoon driving?” Kwangho questioned before you could reply. “I bet my son never passed the speed limit. Am I wrong?”

“Absolutely not.”

Sunghoon pushed the front door open, and immediately, the early summer air rushed in, carrying that brine scent of the seashore, and everything smelled like the beach and Jiyoung’s lasagna, still simmering with the warmth of the oven.

He stepped into the house, catching you as you walked to the center of the room. Sometimes, you forgot how tall Sunghoon had gotten until he was standing right in front of you, bottling you in the shadows with his full height and setting a chill on your skin.

“I left your luggage in your front hall,” he said.

“Thank you,” you replied. Sunghoon briefly nodded, before he was gone, further into the house and to where your fathers stood. Differently from you, he was greeted in that manly way. They talked loudly, palms hit shoulders in the middle of half hugs. His father extended him a whiskey cup for a toast, and your nose wrinkled at the exact moment his did. Sunghoon had tried whiskey for the first time at a club near the university campus, his knees brushing against yours at the bar’s counter as he swallowed the amber drink and said it was the worst thing he had tried in his whole life. He had burst out laughing then, and you had laughed with him, your body inclining into his direction, hand on his chest before you had even noticed it, and only when he had brushed the tips of his fingers through the back of your ear did you notice how close you had come.

His gaze encountered yours, and it felt like the months that had passed hung suspended in the fine particles of air.

Your mother passed by you, reaching for the dining table with plates and cutlery pulled in her hands. You used the excuse to help her and turned your back on him, your whole body warmer by the memory.

“Oh, do not bother yourself with it,” your mother said. “Bring a stool from the kitchen instead. We are minus a seat.”

“Is someone else coming?”

“Someone else came,” she whispered, her words barely audible beneath all the chaos of the room. And you knew by the way she had leaned to your side that whatever she was telling you, she wasn’t supposed to. “Until Friday, Sunghoon said he wasn’t coming home. Jiyoung only found out he was coming today when you called a few minutes ago — she is fuming.”

“But he told me-”

“The stool,” your mother said abruptly. You looked up at her, ready to question what caused her sudden change in tone. But you noticed Sunghoon approaching from a distance, and you allowed the question to slip and slide with a single inhale.

“I have been banished from the kitchen. Maybe I am more helpful here?” Sunghoon asked your mother.

“Of course, Sunghoon. I will put the plates, and you put the cutlery,” she said. “And darling-”

“The stool, I am on it,” you said.

You brought the stool as Jiyoung set the lasagna in the center of the table, followed by Yeji and the blend of salad she had seen somewhere online last summer and turned into her signature on dining reunions. And before any discussion was made, the seven of you crowded around the table that initially was meant for four.

“Are you free tomorrow afternoon?” Yeji asked, leaning in to whisper the question to you. You didn’t think it would make any difference at all. So many things were happening that you doubted anyone would notice she was sharing secrets with you. At the other side of the table, your father opened the first two bottles of wine, and your mother poured, acquiring a comment from Kwangho, something you didn’t quite catch, but it made all of them burst into a laugh, the sound rolling through the ceiling.

“I am,” you said. “Why?”

“I would need your help — I have been asked on a date,” she confessed, earning a playful gasp from you.

“What are you both conspiring about?” Sunghoon called out. Although his words had been accusatory, you sensed a tease in his tone.

You didn’t notice he had taken the seat by your side until he was leaning in too, both of the Parks siblings scents blending your lungs. Citrus all together with the salty scent of the sea.

“Girl’s stuff,” you said at the same time Yeji declared it was nothing. Your voices piled over each other, and you wished you had said nothing at all. But Sunghoon glanced up at you, and if anything, he smiled and straightened himself back to his seat, promptly accepting the salad his mother was offering.

“I will call you,” Yeji said, her voice barely audibly before she straightened herself too.

Nothing really happened between the salad and the main course. Your father talked about business with Kwangho, and your mother discussed something Jiyoung had heard on the main avenue. Yeji complained about school, and it was so familiar and timeworn by the amount of Sundays you had spent like this — so pleasant that you didn’t notice Jiyoung was requiring your attention until Sunghoon’s pinched at the tip of your fingers.

“How’s things with your boyfriend?” Jiyoung asked. “Jongseong, right? Is he fine? I thought he would come this summer as well.”

“Oh, Jongseong is fine,” you said, subtly cleaning your throat. There was no way you could escape it this time. “But we — we actually have broken up.”

The impact of your words was instantaneous.

In your peripheral, you saw your parents looking at each other, a silent conversation going through with just a raise of your father’s eyebrow. Jiyoung and Yeji hung with their lips slightly parted in surprise, one being the perfect reflection of the other. Even Kwangho gasped, a mess of words that sounded much like “the convertible guy?” but it was Sunghoon’s surprised question that caught everyone’s attention.

“You what?” he demanded.

“You didn’t know?” Yeji asked.

“I don’t think I have told anyone aside from my roommate,” you said.

“But you know what? That’s a good thing,” Sunghoon said. “That guy was just too dumb to realize what he got.”

The words hover steadily and straightforwardly, without a single trace of anything held back. He didn’t even seem to notice the utter silence he had induced. Usually, the house would have been a flurry of activities, glasses being put on the table with audible clicks, dishes being cleared, and two parallel conversations going on beneath the main topic. There would be no room for a single hitch of breath. But now, the soft playlist Yeji put on the wireless speaker was the only sound heard, and in the sudden stillness, Sunghoon’s words echoed through your body, growing heat into your cheeks.

“Well, I agree with Sunghoon,” your father said, raising a cup of whiskey to his lips. “I never liked that guy.”

“Gosh love,” your mother hissed.

“Was it the one with the convertible?” Kwangho asked again, this time directing it to your father in the hope of being answered.

“Yes,” your father replied.

“No way,” Kwangho said, at the exact moment Yeji screamed at your side.

“Exactly!” she said, “She doesn’t fit convertible car guys.”

“What do I fit then?” you asked.

Yeji opened her mouth to respond, but before she could even articulate the words, they stuttered and stammered, preferring to stay on her tongue. She turned her attention to Sunghoon then, silently asking for his help, but if anything, he shook his head, unable to do anything further.

He would never admit how his heart was pounding in his chest.

“You know what? We forgot to toast,” Jiyoung said, already raising her wine glass. “To their return?”

“What else?” your mother asked.

“Summer,” Yeji suggested.

┈

You had known what would come next, but still, it seemed to come too fast.

As you followed your parents out of the Parks front porch, Sunghoon reached for you, his fingers slightly curling around your bare wrist to catch your attention.

You glanced up at him, watching as patches of sunlight danced over his shoulders, over the striking features of his face. His dark hair almost looked gold beneath the late sunlight. And there was something so humble and awed in the way he stood, something so familiar and known that you only could nod when he asked if you wanted to go to the beach.

Sunghoon led you between the two houses, the air warm and trapped between the walls before it opened up to the expanse — to the beach, and the sunset spilling across the waves in shafts of pinky peach, and tangerine. You couldn’t help but sigh at the view, an appreciation that came from your bare heart. Sunghoon raised his head at the sound of you, but instead of following your gaze, he turned to you.

“Here,” he whispered, extending his hand so he could help you through the small climbdown. The white sand that almost seemed the color of rose quartz beneath the setting sun slipping under your shoes.

Sunghoon gently released your hand as the sand spread flatly, giving you the freedom to decide whether you wanted to accompany him closer to the sea or not.

Guilelessly, you chose to follow him, stopping far enough for the water to not sprint on your shoes.

Two years ago, you both had stood in this exact place, making a promise neither of you knew how to keep. And as you looked back it seemed a lifetime since you both had been there — it seemed like no time at all.

“I missed this place,” he said, his voice coming so low, you barely could hear him through the sound of the sea waves.

“It always has been here,” you reminded him. But Sunghoon didn’t reply — he didn’t even look at you, his eyes remaining on the sea instead.

“It was lonely without you here,” you said then. You could feel the emotions rising in your throat, your doubts threatening to stammer the word away. But perhaps because you were in Uljin, and things were always easier there, perhaps because the night was approaching, and the memory of this felt like it could disappear together with the sunlight, you allowed them to come and slip through.

“I understood you not coming home on the first Christmas because of the extra class, but last summer when you didn’t appear to pick me up at the dorms — I couldn’t really comprehend why you wouldn’t come,”

“When I called you just said you decided to stay, and if it wasn’t for Jongseong offering to drive me here, I don’t know what I would have done,” you admitted. “I waited for you until the last minute, you know? Luggage in hands and everything. But it was the day I realized that maybe we were no longer who we were used to be.”

“It’s just — it always had been you and me against the world, Hoon, but suddenly it was just me,” you said. “I kept waking up in the morning and feeling like I was missing something, I knew that there was something wrong, and then, I remembered, I didn’t have my best friend anymore.”

Sunghoon opened his mouth — his lips parting as if he was about to say something, and you braced yourself for a confession, a reluctant truth, some explanation for the mess you both became throughout the past year and a half. But instead, he only seized a shuddering breath, his own doubts silencing him.

He stayed like this for a moment, maybe two, looking down at his own hands as if he was trying to sort his thoughts and you turned your gaze toward the sea.

“When we moved to Seoul, I couldn’t sleep because of how noisy the city was,” he said. “We can always hear the echoes of the roads through the house, the train line, the baseball team training until late hours.”

You weren’t sure why he chose to tell you about his insomnia problems, especially given it was something you already knew. But there was a tone in the way his words came through that told you it was the confession.

“Then I called you one night,” he continued. “And the moment I heard your voice I felt like I was here — exactly here.”

You smiled, heart softening at his admission. It was exactly how you felt when you heard his voice. The softest hello teeny after a long day at the university, and the I am coming over although he could never pass through your dorm’s door and you could never leave because of the strict rules. But he would come anyway, parking the Jeep just by your window’s sight and talking until it was easy to breathe again.

“I missed you terribly,” Sunghoon continued. “I know I am the one who fucked up when I started drifting away and canceling our plans. I know I was the one who pulled us apart last summer and I am so sorry.”

“I never meant to turn into a stranger, you were still my best friend,” he said, his voice quieted then to something less than a whisper. “You are still my best friend.”

Sunghoon had hurt you, it was an undeniable truth, and perhaps there was a part of you that would never manage to forget it. But he also had been with you for so long that you couldn’t remember if ever there was a you that didn’t know him. He was your history, and it was so hard to throw history away. It was almost as if you were throwing away a part of yourself.

You looked up at him, but his eyes were already on you, as if he had never looked away.

The first time you ever promised to love Sunghoon was a mystery for you. Someday, you only knew that it had happened, and you had passed through years already loving him. And maybe — maybe you could never recreate that moment exactly, go back and discover when your heart first decided it would give a piece of it to Sunghoon, but you felt like this evening was a living echo of it.

When he reached out, gently pulling his hand towards you. You felt a tiny epiphany that you were giving a piece of your heart to him again.

His fingers spread as if he was just waiting for you to pull your hand in his and fill the small gaps in between, and so you did. It was a small gesture, something that you both were so used to, but it felt more meaningful than ever.

“I am sorry,” he whispered.

“I am sorry too,” you said, your tone coming as soft as his. You weren’t sure why you were whispering to each other. But you liked it, the intimacy of the moment.

He used your connected hands to bring you closer to him and pull you against his chest. He was warm beneath the cotton of his clothes, all his body already loved by the summer sun as he caught you around the waist, lifting you off your feet.

Sunghoon laughed then, only once, but his eyes remained in the shape, unable to conceal his pure and unfiltered happiness as he carried you through the centimeters that separated you from the sea. Just when you thought he wouldn’t drop you, he did, the waves drenching your jeans up to your thighs.

“You are a pig, Park Sunghoon,” you gasped, kicking water on him, but if anything, Sunghoon laughed some more, his dimples appearing as he threw his head back and allowed the sound to catch and spread across the breeze.

His happiness was so contagious that you couldn’t help but laugh too. And when it died from your chest, you felt something else taking the space — something so wonderfully light and warm. You wished you could hold it like a breath, keep it in to whenever you felt like faltering.

┈

As the afternoon shadows grew longer, Sunghoon gestured towards the back deck of your house. And as you followed him, the sound of the sea grew louder and more distinct, the rhythmic crashing of the waves against the shore stealing the sound of your footsteps.

“About Jisung-” Sunghoon suddenly said.

“Jongseong,” you corrected.

“Whatever,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper in the breeze. “I am sorry, I had no idea you had broken up.”

“I think I have told no one aside from Haneul, being honest, and he was wonderful, but-” you stopped, immediately wishing you could swallow the last word.

“But?” he echoed.

“It couldn’t work.”

Sunghoon acknowledged your statement with a slow, deliberate nod, his eyes momentarily unfocused before he moved his attention back to the beach. You didn’t say it wasn’t working, or it didn’t work. It had been the future already pressed into the present, and although he wanted to question it, he didn’t.

“You should get inside,” he said. “The breeze is starting to pick.”

“I guess I will see you around,” you said.

“Yes, of course.”

“Of course,” you echoed, and he wished he could hold time — prevent it from ticking forward as he kept both of you on this afternoon through the sheer force of his will. However, you took the knob, swirling your family’s back door open.

“Night, teeny,” he said as simply as that — two syllables falling from his tongue, but the old nickname tingled through your body, making heat grow into your cheeks.

“Good night, Hoon,” you whispered.

He sighed with the click of the door, an almost imperceptive sound, but it reverberated with him as he made the way back through your stairs, kicking mounts of sand and going back into his house.

Yeji stood in the middle of the kitchen, barefoot and as braced as a fifteen years old girl could look.

“Park Sunghoon,” she started, hands coming to her hips.

“Park Yeji,” he said, mocking her posture by mirroring it.

“You said you weren’t coming this summer.”

“I decided to come last minute,” he admitted

“Last minute as?”

“Yesterday morning?” he said. It had been an affirmation, but the way his voice raised in embarrassment subtly turned the period into a question mark.

“Would it be because of Y/N?” Yeji asked.

“You know what? I think it’s time for you to go to bed, Yeji,” he answered instead.

┈

When you left the shower, the night had already settled outside. The peace and silence only Uljin seemed to have already on its full leverage.

You found your mother sitting at her usual place on the back deck. Her chair facing the sea, and a book balanced on her knees. She wasn’t a keen reader, but she had a habit of trying, and you admired her for it.

“Seems like I lost a lot during those past weeks,” she said as soon as she caught sight of you.

The wind had enmeshed, but the floor was still warm with the memory of the sun beneath your feet as you walked closer and took the seat next to her, allowing yourself a brief second before you replied.

“I only agreed to come with Sunghoon yesterday.”

“It was indeed surprising when you called saying you were in the car with Sunghoon,” your mother said. “Especially after he left you waiting with luggage in hands last summer — but I meant Jongseong. You didn’t tell me you have broken up with him.”

“I kept forgetting.”

“That you have broken up?”

“No — that it’s something important enough to talk about,” you admitted. “I feel terrible admitting it, but I didn’t feel anything when we broke up, so I never remembered to tell it over the phone.”

“Your dummy,” your mother said, the words coming so affectionately that you barely noticed she had just scolded you. The chiding softened by the kindness in her voice. “You have to be in love for a breakup to hurt. I know you cared for Jongseong, but you have never been in love with him although you tried to.”

She did nothing to make her words easier to accept this time and your breath caught audibly with the sudden harshness of it, the salty air heavily setting on your lungs.

“Jongseong said almost the same thing,” you whispered. “He said I was always searching for Sunghoon’s ghost.”

“And were you?” she asked. You looked back at her, lips parted and tongue already rolling into a reply, but the words met an impasse in your mind, and you failed to.

Your mother sighed then, reaching for your hand and giving it a gentle squeeze.

“I wish Sunghoon knew,” she said.

Although it had been Yeji who had called you on the following day, Sunghoon was the one standing at their deck’s stairs waiting for you, barefoot, and with only a pair of washed jeans and a white t-shirt completing his attire for the day.

You stared at him, more conspicuous for the fact that you tried to be inconspicuous about it. Ever since you both had moved to Seoul, it had been rare to see Sunghoon in anything that wasn’t dress pants, and button-down shirts, and the old familiarity of it pierced you.

It was a bright day, the sky a pale blue painting above the sea, and the hefty sunlight illuminated his features with such a soft glow. You could swear he had turned younger.

“Yeji is going on a date,” he said as soon as you stepped closer enough. “Did you know about it?”

You stopped, feeling a little lurch at that. The idea of lying seemed to attempt you. It would be so easy to simply say no — so easily to pretend you didn’t know why Yeji had called you. However, you had allowed the question to hang in for too long, and when you noticed, it was already too late to do so.

Sunghoon looked at you — really looked at you, his eyes narrowing as his jaw followed the same tensing motion. At first, you thought he was merely annoyed, but it suddenly occurred to you that he was feeling uneasy. In the middle of your silence, his gaze had absently unfocused. It could have been an insubstantial change to anyone else, but you knew Park Sunghoon all too well.

“Hoon,” you started. Although you didn’t know the words that would follow. Nothing sounded like something Sunghoon would be pleased to hear. And before you could think it through, Yeji appeared at the back door, a mug in her hands, and the most peaceful expression someone had ever moved towards you.

“Don’t worry about him,” she said. “He has been like this the whole morning, just come to my room.”

Yeji vanished almost as fast as she appeared, leaving you no option but to follow her ruling. You could feel Sunghoon trailing closely behind you as you entered the house and climbed up the stairs.

For a moment, Yeji said nothing about her brother’s following you into her room, the rotating fan being the only sound between the three of you, but then, she reached for a pillow and threw it, aiming at Sunghoon’s head.

He caught it in the air before he sat on the floor.

“Go on, girls,” he said. “I won’t bother.”

And he didn’t. Aside from occasional huffs, Sunghoon didn’t say anything. He remained silent throughout the whole time you helped Yeji with her clothes and makeup. And only when she was checking the final result in the mirror, he spoke.

“Where is the mysterious boy taking you?” he asked.

“I am not telling you.”

“I think it’s a valid question, Yeji,” you said. “We should at least know where you are going.”

“The open-air cinema at the southern beach,” she said, dramatically rolling her eyes. The answer had been for you, but her reaction was entirely for her brother.

“Happy?” she asked.

“Not really,” he replied, which meant he was — at least, a little bit.

The house’s bell rang, and Yeji sprinted at the echo of it, her bare feet pounding against the hardwood floor as she raced down the stairs.

You had prepared yourself to hold Sunghoon, but differently from what you expected, he remained still, legs outstretched with a deliberate calmness.

The front door was opened and then closed again, and only then did he move, looking up at you, a bite of a smile spreading on his lips before he finally stood up.

“Let’s go,” Sunghoon said, reaching for the pillow his sister had thrown at him and then one of her folded blankets, shoving both items beneath his arms.

“Where?”

“Suddenly, I feel like watching a movie at the beach.”

“No.”

“Yes,” he said. “Let’s go, teeny.”

┈

The southern beach was bustling in a way you had never seen before. Colorful blankets had been spread all over the white sand, and the air was thick with the scent of caramel popcorn, which was such an uncharacteristic scent for the Gyeongsang beaches. Yet the afternoon was slowly reaching the orange hours of sunset, the sky turning into a blend of orange and pink against the clouds. Everything about it being so carelessly beautiful — you knew it was something only the county could do.

You sat down on the just-spread blanket, legs outstretched and drenched in sunlight as you leaned your head back, looking up at Sunghoon. He stood quietly on the sand, his position somehow a disconcerting and otherworldly indicative of the persistence of his uneasiness, and a twinge of concern settled over you.

“Hoon,” you called.

He flinched, his gaze darting towards you, but if anything he took your hand as you extended it to him, palm up and spread in an invitation that required no words. He slowly flung himself down on the blanket with you, his head on your lap and his body sprawled out to the remaining sunlight.

Sunghoon had always been beautiful, a storybook prince, your mother had once conveyed within shared whispers when you were younger. And although he was older now, he was still the same. His dark hair swept across his forehead tenderly and you brushed it back, fingertips pressed against his scalp ever so lightly before you tucked it behind his ear. He shivered despite the warmth of the day, his whole body reacting solely to the sensation of your fingers on him.

“Yeji is fifteen,” you managed to say. “It’s time for her to go on dates.”

“We didn’t go on dates when we were fifteen,” he debated.

“Of course, we were so glued to each other that no one wanted to come between us,” you said. “Well, I mean, except for some girls from your fan club — but back to the point, everyone else in our class was going on dates.”

Sunghoon fell quiet at that. The rustling of the other moviegoers being the only furor between both of you. Everywhere voices rose and fell, but the words themselves had been reduced to the echo of the sea waves.

You traced the back of his ear, a single finger following its curve and his eyes fluttered — as defenseless as he could be.

“I miss that time,” he confessed, but the words had left his lips so softly that if you weren’t paying close attention to him, you would believe it was just another wave crashing against the shore.

You leaned over him, casting him in a shadow. Your hair tickled over his cheeks and he went very — very still, a breath stuck into his lungs, but whatever you were going to say was interrupted.

“Is it Park Sunghoon and his teeny?”

You straightened yourself back, searching for the source of the voice, but Sunghoon didn’t immediately do the same. You had allowed the sun to bathe him again. And suddenly, it was too warm there, the summer air pressing firmly against his skin and making him dizzy.

“It is Park Sunghoon and his teeny.”

Although it had already been two years, Daeyeol didn’t seem to have changed from high school time. Your ex-classmate still bleached his hair into the impossible tone of white, and his infamous leather jacket hung above his tank top even though it was one of the warmest months of the year.

Sunghoon met your gaze and held it, a silent conversation happening within the seconds Daeyeol took to approach both of you.

“Daeyeol,” Sunghoon called, sitting back up.

“First of all, tell me, are you guys dating already?” he asked. It took you a heartbeat longer to make sense of what he had said, but when you did, you immediately could feel the heat growing into your cheeks.

“We are just friends,” you said, looking at Sunghoon, waiting for him to confirm your statement, but this time, he didn’t return your gaze. His eyes still focused on Daeyeol as his jaw clenched for a second, barely the length it takes to draw a breath.

“Too bad,” Daeyeol said. “We made a few bets on the graduation party, and I bet you both would be together within a year.”

“But anyway, I didn’t know you both were back in town. I am throwing a party at my new apartment on Saturday,” he continued. “I am inviting the whole class, and of course, it includes you both.”

Daeyeol made a theatrical turn to leave, ankles almost digging in the white sand, but then, he stopped, looking at Sunghoon through his shoulders. Only then did you notice the joint carelessly placed behind his ear.

He really didn’t change.

“Still with the same phone number, Sunghoon?”

“Yeah.”

“Great, I will send you the address.”

“It was-” you started.

“Unexpected?” Sunghoon supplied. “Strange?”

You nodded a little bit too eagerly to the alternatives, which earned a laugh from him. The sound had been so open and effortless — you found a smile rising to your lips as you watched him flange back on the blanket and turn his focus to the sky. The first stars had already begun to appear, tiny flecks softly mingling the sunset and reflecting on his eyes.

“You are right about Yeji,” he said. “She is grown up enough to commit her own mistake, and I will just be here to say, “I told you, men are all wolves”.”

“Sunghoon!”

“Also, should we go to Daeyeol’s party?” he asked, completely ignoring your protest.

“I don’t go to parties anymore.”

“I don’t go to parties anymore,” he mocked, changing his accent so he could clip the end of the words and steal their last syllable exactly like you. “I have seen you on one just three days ago.”

“Because it was Haneul’s last university party,” you retorted.

“Ah, c’mon,” he said. “I miss going to parties with you.”

It was three minutes to seven in the evening when Sunghoon appeared at your front door. His university jersey above a white t-shirt and black dress pants on.

You opened your mouth, tongue already rolling onto the tease he just wanted to brag about having being accepted at a university in Seoul, but before you could do so, you heard the house phone ringing in the kitchen. Your mother gasped as she answered it, something initially incoherent, but then she directed it to you.

“Darling, the phone is for you,” she said.

You turned around, feeling the weight of Sunghoon’s gaze as you stepped further into the house and to the kitchen.

“Who’s that?” you asked, hauling your high heels from one hand to another to accept the headset. You couldn’t remember a soul that had your house’s phone number much less that would call on a Saturday night. But instead of coming up with an answer, your mother only shook her head, her eyes following the path to where Sunghoon stood almost guiltily.

“Hello?”

“Y/N, hi — it’s Jongseong,” he said as if you wouldn’t recognize his voice after months of dating. “Sorry, for calling at your house, but you didn’t pick up your phone.”

“I wasn’t- I wasn’t with my phone throughout the afternoon.”

“Sorry,” he said again.

“It’s alright, something happened?”

“No, it’s just that I am in Gyeongsang, my grandmother lives here too-”

“Pohang. We spent Christmas there, I remember.”

“Yes,” he said, his voice coming a bit stuck as if he had half held his breath. “I am driving back to Seoul on the first week of august, and I was thinking that maybe — maybe we could meet up?”

You looked behind and noticed that Sunghoon was still standing at your door. However, he had turned around, his hands shoved inside the pockets of his jacket as he gazed toward your family’s front garden with an attention too unpretentious to be unpretentious. 

Sunghoon was interested in who might be on the phone, he only didn’t want you to know it.

“I-” you tried, turning your gaze away. But the word met an impasse between your mind and your tongue and you couldn’t find the strength to say no.

But being fair, you never found the strength to say no. 

“Lunch, or just coffee — anything you feel comfortable with,” Jongseong said, and he sounded like he always did. He was barely twenty, but he had that easy cadence in his voice, the slow precision of someone who knew the weight of his being. He blamed his father, you thought he was just born different, but you had been together for a year and had known each other for another six months, and you came to learn that behind all of this, he was insecure.

You almost could picture him at the other end of the line: his bashful smile, almost like he was apologizing for even considering it, and you were suddenly back at the university campus a year and something ago, sitting in the garden as he asked you on a date for the very first time.

It was spring back then, but winter had been lingering in, turning his cheeks pink and fogging the glasses you didn’t even know he used.

“Alright.”

“I will message you once I settle the day,” he said.

“Alright.”

“Y/N?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you,” he said.

Jongseong hung up so softly, it took another second for you to notice he did and another one to let go of it before you walked back to where Sunghoon stood.

You placed the high heels on the floor, avoiding Sunghoon’s gaze, but before you could do anything he was already kneeling in front of you, filling in your vision as he took one of your ankles in his hands and helped you put on your heels.

“Is everything alright?” he asked.

“Yes,” you said, the word hacking out of you. Sunghoon looked up at you then, and you knew he had heard the uneasiness in your voice too, but if anything he nodded at you, moving to your other ankle at the same time, a breeze picked up, chiming your mother’s wind bell, and filling the settling silence with a tangle of glass notes.

Sunghoon stood up, bottling you in the shadows with his full height. You couldn’t meet his eyes, so you concentrated instead on his shoulders, and how his collar didn’t lay flat against his skin because of his collarbones.

“Ready to have a blast?” he asked.

┈

The ride to Daeyeol’s apartment complex had taken twenty minutes, maybe twenty-five. But as you left the car, it felt like you had gone a hundred thousand kilometers away from Uljin.

It wasn’t just that the breezes no longer carried the brine scent of the seashore or that the houses hadn’t been built in the bungalow style you were used to. But, compared to the coastal part of Gyeongsang, everything here seemed new and expensive.

You once had heard that Daeyeol was the heir of a big retail chain, the sheer number of stores under his family ownership being so high that people stopped trying to hold them accountable when it had expanded to America.

And perhaps he was, but you still did not care about knowing.

Sunghoon took your hand, easily sliding his palm against yours and intertwining your fingers as he guided you through the street and closer to the complex.

As you approached the apartment, the sound of music hit you like a wave, the volume so loud and blaring. You wondered how none of his neighbors had filed a complaint yet.

“I bet he intimidated his neighbors to not file a complaint,” Sunghoon said.

You weren’t sure if you had vocalized your wonders or if Sunghoon had the same thought as you, but either way, it had been amusing.

“I bet he bribed them to not — it is more Daeyeol’s style,” you replied, stealing a laugh from Sunghoon.

“Or he convinced all his neighbors to come.”

“Fine, that’s Daeyeol’s style.”

As Sunghoon looked down at you, the corners of his lips quirked upwards, and his eyes crinkled. The sound of his laughter still lingered in the air, filling the space between you both with a warm and contagious fuel. He seemed so happy nowadays. You couldn’t help but smile in response, feeling a sense of ease wash over you by simply being with him.

“Let’s go,” he said.

There was no point in knocking if no one could listen, so Sunghoon only pulled the front door open and stepped inside. The mossy scent of the woods immediately being overtaken by tequila, and too many damp skins, weed, and the cheap beer from the forgotten cups scattered through the few pieces of furniture he held.

You took in a breath, wishing it would fill you so you wouldn’t need to breathe on the intoxicated air ever again.

“Sunghoon and his teeny!” Daeyeol screamed. But whatever came after had been only for Sunghoon, the furor of the place engulfing his voice before you could clasp it.

Daeyeol pointed at the end of the corridor, and you followed it, catching the makeshift bar before your ex-classmate stepped in front of your view, giving you only a wink and turning his attention entirely on something else.

“Do you want a drink?” Sunghoon asked, shouting in your ear. The vibration of his voice scattered shivers throughout your spine.

You nodded, and he moved through the apartment as people stopped you, greeting both of you with an acknowledgment you couldn’t return. Your mind was always stuck between families’ names and faces you were sure you could recognize if Sunghoon hadn’t pushed further so soon.

He only eased up when he reached the makeshift bar. The options were tequila, beer, soju, and a great variation of flavored vodka.

You thought of asking for the tequila just to see the surprise on his face because you always had gone for the sweet and Sunghoon knew it. Actually, he had been the first one to point this fact out, so instead, your finger immediately followed the patch to the flavored vodkas, and he caught two cups, extending one to you, and taking the other.

Sunghoon emptied the cup with a quick and practiced movement of his wrist before he smashed it on the table.

You laughed, taken aback at his sudden outburst as you followed suit. The process was repeated enough times for the alcohol to make its effect, and your thoughts began to slur.

The song changed then, almost too loud to be fully understood, but you recognize it, an old pop song which you didn’t truly know the name of, yet it played so many times on the radio and at parties for you to not know at least the idea of the lyrics. Sunghoon recognized it, too.

You weren’t sure if you had been the one to reach for Sunghoon first or if he had been the one to reach for you. But your hand was on his as he pushed back through the apartment, finding the dance floor. And as the song hit the chorus, his hands were on your waist, bringing you closer to him and swinging you to the song.

Sunghoon was being careless in a way that made your whole body tingle, dizzy in alcohol and happiness, tripping all over.

You shouted the lyrics to him, and he shouted the lyrics back to you. And suddenly, both of you were laughing senselessly as if it was the only thing you ever thought about doing — like it could have been just the two of you in the world.

You were close — too close. Sunghoon had to look down to find your gaze, and when he did, you felt his breath against your mouth, the softest gust of warm air against your lips. The seconds seemed to melt together, and you couldn’t tell how long you had been breathing on each other when his fingers spread at the side of your neck, thumb seizing for your cheek as he angled you up to him. You were already warm from the sticky air and dancing, but you could swear you grew even warmer when he closed his eyes and came closer, brushing his nose on yours.

Your every sense was acutely aware of his proximity. You could feel the firmness of his chest pressing against yours, and the steady rhythm of his breath. Sunghoon was all around you, all inside of you, the scent of his citrus perfume and the Uljin breezes laboriously overtaking the intoxicated air. And you trembled with the thought, a little chill settling through your skin despite the warmth of the place.

But then, he clenched his jaw, brows knitted together as if something was suddenly hurting him, and before you could ask what happened, he moved, abruptly and all at once stepping back.

“Let’s go,” he said. And the moment slipped through — like a dream you wake up too hastily from. By the time his hand reached for you, fingers finding the slots between yours and guiding you through the mess of bodies, you wondered if you truly almost had kissed your best friend.

“Doesn’t this type of place usually have fire escapes for emergencies?” he yelled.

“I think so,” you yelled back. “Are we in an emergency?”

The question seemed to have taken Sunghoon anew because he looked at you, lips parted in a retort that wasn’t coming fast enough.

“Yes,” he exhaled in the end. “The smell of weed is making me sick, and it’s too warm in here.”

Sunghoon reached for a window in the back wall, shoving it open. A cool breeze rushed in and caressed your skin, tingling it as you watched him jump out onto the fire escape. His figure momentarily silhouetted against the backdrop of the street lights.

He held his hand out to you, helping you jump through the window frame. His hands were firm on yours even as you landed on the stairs. The sun had long set, the world settling hazy and dark, lavender clouds high up in the sky, but the breeze was calm that night, and the heat was still lingering, making the air heavy and all summer-made.

You followed Sunghoon through the stairs and away from Daeyeol’s apartment, or rather, he followed you, standing tall behind you, and always within reach. He had an open hand just hovering by your side as if he was ready to catch you if you tripped over because of your poor choice of shoes.

The rooftop was empty. No lawn chair or anything that would be expected for a place like this. If anything, someone had abandoned a beer can there, what had remained of the alcohol used to extinguish a cigarette.

“I am so tired,” you said, lying down on the rooftop. The shingles were warm beneath the thin material of your dress, and you almost sighed with the memory of the afternoon sun against your skin.

Sunghoon took his jacket off, putting it above your legs before he lay down too, coming down beside you. You rolled onto your side to look at him, and he did the same.

“Am I getting old already?” you asked, immediately stealing a laugh from him. It had been a hardly there sound, but you could taste the vodka on his breath, feel the bitter taste on your tongue although you weren’t even sure when you had wandered that close again.

“Definitely, but when was the last time you have been to a party and enjoyed it like this?”

“I think it was during the winter last year,” you said. “With you still.”

“We used to go stupid every night,” he said.

“What a tragedy.”

“And then you started dating Jongsuk-,”

“Jongseong,” you corrected, but he continued as if you had never spoken, rolling onto his back and turning his attention to the sky.

“And stopped going to parties.”

“No!”

“Yes, when you started dating him, you stopped going to parties.”

“Don’t mix up things like that,” you argued. “You started dating the whole university campus, and I had no one to stay with during the parties so obviously I stopped going, but when I started dating him, I went a few times.”

“Fine, you did go, once or twice.”

“Because he disliked those parties, and if I didn’t go with him I would be alone,” you said. “Also there was that time you got so wasted, you started yelling at Jongseong—”

“That he didn’t deserve you,” he said. “Maybe I was too passionate on the way I had said it that night, but I still believe he doesn’t.”

You snorted, your hand bumping into his.

“I am serious,” he said. “The moment you accepted to share the telescope with me and Yeji that night you became my problem, and by my problem, I mean I care about who is with you.”

“So who would deserve me then?”

You looked at him, but he didn’t return your gaze. His eyes were still focused on the night sky, watching the lavender clouds rushing through. Despite the absence of light, you could see how his cheeks were flushed by the combination of summer heat and alcohol.

Sunghoon licked at his lips, and for a moment you thought he had decided to ignore your question, but then, he started, his voice so lowly it almost got lost in the middle of night.

“You deserve someone who loves you with every single beat of his heart, someone who thinks about you constantly, someone who spends every minute of every day just wondering what you’re doing, where you are, and if you’re alright. You deserve someone who will treat you with respect, and love every part of you, including your flaws,” he said. “You should be with someone who could make you happy, really happy — and I never felt like you were really happy.”

Sunghoon finally looked at you again, and suddenly, you couldn’t breathe. The humidity air had curled his hair in the same fond way you remembered and when he smiled, his dimples appeared.

Although it had been a novelty to hear Sunghoon speaking like this, it hadn’t been a surprise. Sunghoon was the type of person who laughed easily, and forgave even faster. He gravitated toward the person in most need in the room without even noticing.

And maybe that’s why he came to you.

You needed him — more than you would ever tell.

To move to Uljin at such a young age had been easy, but looking back, you wondered if it would have been the same without him.

If it would have always felt like a home.

“You know,” you said, barely hearing yourself beneath the sound of your pounding heart. “If you ever find this guy, bring him to me, I will marry him in no time.”

He laughed at it, slightly throwing his head back and when he looked at you again, his eyes were soft — the night sky turning his brown eyes even darker as he reached for you. The tip of his fingers ran along your cheek before he cradled the side of your face.

“You are my best friend,” he said.

“And you are mine,” you answered, but your chest ached with each and every word. 

You were just looking at each other. There were no hard edges to grab hold of, no different characteristics on this moment’s beginning or end, nothing to separate it from the other millions you had. But you for the first time after so long you caught yourself thinking what if — what if you wanted something more?

And what a terrifying thing it was.

For someone who managed to escape the furor of the parties for almost twelve months, you have been catching yourself quite a lot on it lately.

You didn’t like pool parties — especially if it was Jang Yujin’s pool parties. But late July brought the record of high temperatures to Uljin, the weight of summer pressing and ensuring that the entire county stayed spared between the sea and particular pools.

As Yeji’s friends took the sea behind your houses, Sunghoon felt it would be better for you to go somewhere else. So, despite the fact that you hated Yujin, you found yourself barefoot on the fresh grass of her family house as Sunghoon handed you a cup of cherry vodka.

“Fruity drink to my soft drinker,” he said.

You hardly registered his saying before you caught sight of Daeyeol approaching Sunghoon from behind, a mischievous grin that matched his companion.

“Anything valuable in the pockets?” Daeyeol asked.

“No,” Sunghoon replied, but if it had been to the question or a protest to what was about to come was uncertain. Daeyeol was already lifting Sunghoon by his armpits as your other ex-classmate took his ankles. Your drink fell from Sunghoon’s hand and between one breath and another, Sunghoon was launched into the pool.

The effect was instantaneous. As Sunghoon hit the water with a smack, the whole backward turned into a mess. Some people cheered as others decided to get into the water too.

You worried Sunghoon would be mad, but as he appeared up the surface, scrubbing a hand through his hair, he was smiling.

“Help me out, teeny,” he said.

“Promise me you won’t pull me in,” you said, immediately regretting it. If it hadn’t passed through Sunghoon’s mind, it now was the only thing he could think about.

You stepped back, but he was already leaving the pool, coming in your direction in fast steps. And before you could run away, one of his arms wrapped around your waist as the other found the back of your knees. He held you tight to him, his soaked clothes already cooling your body as he moved and hurled both of you to the edge of the pool — water folding around the both of you for a moment before you resurfaced.

“I am here,” Sunghoon said. The first thing you ever hear after the dull sound of the underwater.

You didn’t notice how agitated you were until you felt his hands moving through your body, shifting you so you were straddling his waist.

“You should have let me teach you how to swim when we were younger,” he said.

“Why? I always had you to hold me,” you replied, and Sunghoon laughed, an easy and unpretentious burst of sound whistling across the breeze, and your heart lurched at it. You pressed your forehead against his shoulder, fingers blindly curling on the front of his shirt as you closed your eyes. That sound suddenly reminded you of shared cakes on his mother’s coffee table and nights spent on the hardwood floor of your bedroom.

“Yes, you always had me to do everything for you,” he said.

Sunghoon’s grip tightened on you, his fingers deepening into your skin as if his touch itself was a promise he wanted to make. His chest pressed against yours, and you wondered if he could feel your heartbeat — if it was rattling against your ribs as loud as it seemed to be.

All around you, people were still on their own fun, laughing and pushing friends into the water as the sun kept going down, shafts of orange and pink streaming across the water, but you only knew him.

You felt hazed by his closeness, by the way his citrus perfume blended with the scent of chlorine and cedar — by the way he shivered beneath your touch, his breath hitching when you slipped down, mouth accidentally running through his shoulder.

“Teeny?” Sunghoon called, his voice all soft and compelling. “You will always have me. I mean it this time.”

He pressed his cheek to the side of your head, and for a while, neither of you moved, lingering in this moment of close silence for what felt like ages.

“I think I will go inside and get something to eat,” you said then, and Sunghoon nodded, carrying you to the edge of the pool and sitting you there, but he didn’t immediately let you go. Sunghoon lingered there, thumbs stroking circles into the soft skin on the inside of your leg, just above your knee as his fingertips hid underneath the hem of your dress.

He tugged at the edge of it, fingers light and playful, and it made the air feel warmer, heavier — like the sun was suddenly warmer above you.

You could feel his eyes on your chest, just above the neckline of your dress, catching the scattering of moles that seemed to be growing each other day beneath the Uljin’s suns.

And then his lips were on your cheek, pressing a kiss wet from the water still.

“Bring me something too?”

┈

Inside the house, the air conditioner was fully working, tingling your skin and making you follow the path to the guest room instead of the kitchen.

Sunghoon’s jacket was still on the pile of clothes and purses above the bed. As you reached for it, you felt a phone ringing in his pocket. At first, you thought it would be his, but as you took it, you noticed it was yours.

Yeji’s name shone for you, and you hadn’t a second thought before picking it up.

“Why aren’t you picking up?” she asked, the words coming stuttering as if she was forcing them through.

Your heart hummed against your ears so loud you couldn’t even think straight. You and Sunghoon had left her safety to enjoy the beach with her friends, and if there was something genuinely dangerous, you couldn’t think of it.

“Yeji, what happened?”

“I was stupid, sis, he doesn’t like me.”

You breathed in, taking a quiet second to calm your pulse.

“Hey, it’s alright,” you whispered. “Where are you? Are you home still?”

“Yes,” she said. “Can you come — can you come here?”

“Of course, wait for me just a bit, alright?”

┈

By the time you stepped out of the house, Sunghoon had already left the pool, a borrowed towel in his hand, and Jang Yujin standing by his side. She touched all over him, her fingers grazing his chest before she curled it on his shirt, leaning closer as she pretended to help him.

It was silly the way you felt your heartstrings being pulled at the view especially because it was no novelty — Yujin acted like this back in high school too, but you couldn’t help it despite the fact that you had bigger problems than someone flirting with your best friend.

“Hoon,” you called. You didn’t intend to make your voice sound frantic, but it came that way. And perhaps it had been because you already had his jacket hurled around you, one hand twisted on the material as the other held your previously abandoned high heels, Sunghoon was already slipping away from Yujin, walking towards you as if there was no one else in his eyesight.

“What happened?” he asked, hands promptly cupping the sides of your neck to angle you up to him.

“Yeji called. She was crying,” you said. “I didn’t — I didn’t understand well, but it’s something with the guy she went out with.”

Sunghoon nodded, his thumb drawing reassuring circles on your skin as he availed the situation.

“Have you gotten the car keys?” he asked. It was your time to nod. “Alright, let’s go.”

┈

It was eight in the night when Sunghoon pulled into his driveway, his house so dark that it was hard to imagine Yeji was still there. Even her room had the lights turned off, and only when you called for her did she move, but it had been only enough to peer through the edges of her sheets.

Although there were six missed calls on your phone, Sunghoon’s phone had been idle throughout the whole party. And if it didn’t make it clear that she wanted to talk to you, the way her eyes traveled between you and Sunghoon a few times in hesitation was.

“Hoon,” you called. “I think the bakery is still open, could you bring us something?”

His gaze encountered yours for a brief second before he sighed, walking toward Yeji, and kissing the top of her head. He said nothing at it. He just quietly slipped into his role as an older brother and left.

You crawled into the bed with her, wrapping your arms around her from behind.

“You are smelling like chlorine and alcohol,” she murmured.

“Sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

“Do you want to talk?” you asked.

“Even with you, I feel embarrassed.”

“Why so?”

“I feel stupid, you know?” she said. “He asked me out and I was already head overhill for him, and now I am like this because I found out he just wanted to make his ex jealous.”

You breathed in, perhaps so harshly that it had overtaken all the other sounds in the room.

Yeji chuckled at you.

“It’s alright, I have already gone through all the phases of mourning throughout the afternoon,” she said. “I am not blaming you and Hoon, please, do not take it like this. But I think I rushed to the first nice guy because I have grown up with people talking about how you and Hoon are soulmates.”

“A fate written in the stars, mom always says,” Yeji continued, and although she claimed to have passed through all the mourning already, her voice broke at the end, and although you couldn’t see her, you knew fresh tears had sprung to her eyes. “I wanted to live it too.”

You tightened your arms around her, bringing her so close that when she sobbed, the force of it resonated as if you were the one crying.

“Yeji, what is yours is reserved. And I am not only talking about a great love but anything in life. Sometimes we get so tied up in an idea that we miss out on the amazingness of what we could actually have,” you said. “What’s yours will come at the right time, so do not stress about anything. You will only get hurt.”

“I am hurt,” she said.

“I know, and I am sorry for it.”

“I am sorry too.”

You weren’t sure how long you had been there, but by the time Sunghoon arrived, Yeji had already drifted off to sleep, her breathing so slow and steady. You rose to your feet holding your breath, trying to make as little noise as possible until you were back in the living room, finding Sunghoon laying out the pastries on the coffee table.

He caught sight of you then and rewarded you with his best smile.

“I took a bit longer because I guessed Yeji wanted to talk with you alone,” he said.  “How’s she?”

“Better, I think, she fell asleep,” you told. “I didn’t imagine she would.”

Sunghoon nodded at you, moving his attention back to the coffee table. You thought he would offer to walk you home, call it a night, and let you go, but instead, he gestured to the pastries.

“I got your favorite,” he said. “And absolutely nothing has walnuts, I swear.”

It was so natural to fold yourself on Jiyoung’s furry rug, so familiar to help Sunghoon line all the sweets and share. For a moment, you were ten again, doing it for the first time on a winter night. You were fourteen again, doing it after your middle school graduation.

“Is it the moment when I say ‘I told you so, men are all wolves’?” Sunghoon asked, bringing you back to the present moment.

“It is,” you admitted. “But please don’t.”

Maybe it had been because of the way you seemed sad there, the full frown that had taken over your face, but instead of continuing with his scolding, he reached for you across the coffee table, his trained fingers finding the slots between yours and squeezing your hand a little tighter, and it was such a small gesture, but something about it felt so reassuring.

“Yeji will be fine,” he said. “I will make her tell me his name, and I will end him.”

A laugh burst out of you at his words, and that was it — the spell was broken. Sunghoon laughed back at you and you squeezed his hand again, a signal for him to stop it and be quiet, but he did not, and you came to the conclusion you actually didn’t mind it.

His laugh was perhaps your favorite sound in the world.

“Try this one,” he said, extending you one of the pastries. “The baker said it was a new flavor.”

You leaned over the coffee table, taking his wrist with your free hand and guiding the pastry to your mouth so you could taste it. Your lips barely brushed against his fingertips, but his heart raced beneath your touch, and you let him go.

“It was kinda different,” he murmured. “The bakery.”

“The owner had been planning to do a renovation since last summer,” you said. “He told me when I went there with Jongseong.”

It’s a simple answer, a way to keep the conversation going, but when Sunghoon found your gaze, you could feel the heaviness that Jongseong’s name settled in the conversation.

“Jongseong,” he whispered, and you knew it had been an accident — his thoughts coming too loudly because Sunghoon never cared to say Jongseong’s name correctly. “Do you still talk?”

“We weren’t, but — but he called last week,” you confessed. “He is visiting his grandma. She lives in Gyeongsang too so he wanted us to meet.”

“And you agreed?”

“I did.”

“Do you really love him?” Sunghoon asked. The question stunned you unwillingly to silence, heart racing all together with your mind.

“No” would be the most logical answer. You knew you never really fell in love with Jongseong, but you also knew the implications this statement carried being said out loud — that overwhelming confirmation that you had been in love with Sunghoon instead.

“I don’t think so,” you could have said, but you had already allowed the question to hang in for too long, and in the middle of your silence, Sunghoon had created his answer.

“I still think he doesn’t get you, but I want you to be happy,” he said. “And if it’s with him, I will try to support you.”

“Try,” you echoed, earning a smile from him. But despite his fond reaction, he looked distant, halfway here with you and halfway deep inside of himself.

Sunghoon dropped the pastry back into the bowl and spilled himself on the rug. You followed after, being as close as you could without touching.

“Thank you for always taking care of Yeji,” he suddenly said.

“She is my sister too, remember?” you asked, immediately causing him to snort.

Back in the years, it had been a threat, she was your responsibility when her desires were too girly, or when Sunghoon was too tired to follow, but it became something you didn’t mind.

Yeji was as much as your sister as she was Sunghoon’s.

He reached for you, twisting a lock of your hair between his fingertips before he pulled it behind your ear.

“Of course I remember.”

A faint glow came through the windows, painting stripes of light and shadow over the walls, over Sunghoon’s cheek. There was enough light just for you to see his smile. And you wished you told him then, that he smelled like summer and citrus grooves on the sun, that he smelled like childhood and home.

You wished you told him how much you loved him.

“Can you stay the night?” he asked, and almost unconsciously, you held your breath. “Just in case she wakes up, all I will be able to say is ‘I told you’ and I doubt it is what she needs to hear.”

You doubted it would be Sunghoon’s reaction, but you nodded nevertheless.

“I can,” you whispered. “Of course, I can.”

“We should go to the bed instead of sleeping on the floor,” he said. But neither of you tried to stand up, and you reached up to his shoulders, he shifted onto the rug, maneuvering closer to you. One of his hands found your waist as the other reached up to your neck, his fingertips brushing and twisting on the hair at your nape. There was a certain stillness on it — your fingers on each other, your breaths getting tangled in the small space between you.

And despite the fact you could feel your chest aching, you had to admit that you were happy.

Perhaps Yeji was right. People lived their whole lives without getting to experience this type of intimacy, and you were a lucky kind to have found it with Sunghoon.

Perhaps he was your soulmate, and you were in love with him. But you would rather have this tiny sliver of him forever than have all of him for just a moment and know you had to relinquish all of it when you were through.

You could never lose Sunghoon again.

You couldn’t.

It doesn’t matter if your parents were out of town, it was Sunday night, and your seat was reserved on the Park’s dinner table as it always had been. 

Sunghoon came to pick you up, showing up at your front door and holding his hand out for you as if it were too dangerous to jump the bunches that separated your families’ properties and walk the path to their front porch on your own. 

The Park’s front door hung open that evening, and you could hear Yeji’s selected playlist already resonating through the speakers in the living room, some love song from the 80s reaching for you across the summer breeze altogether with Jiyoung’s faint commands. 

“How is Yeji?” you asked, stopping at your troughs.

Sunghoon stopped by your side, peering inside his family’s house before he turned to you. The sun was still hefty despite the fact it was already seven o’clock, patches of sunlight dancing over his shoulders, over the striking features of his face. His hair almost looked gold beneath all of this light and you had to tell yourself to not reach for him — to not trace the soft line of his jaw and comb the hair back from his forehead.

Especially when he smiled down at you, his lips curling almost blearily.

“She says she is alright, but once in a while I catch her staring at the walls with a frown,” he said. “But don’t worry,” 

“I will still get his name and end him,” Sunghoon whispered, leaning into your side and you could feel the smile in his voice, the warmth of it scattering and weaving from where his lips met your skin to your whole body. 

You knew it was a fake threat, a joke you were supposed to follow, but you couldn’t. Your body was somehow still stuck in his proximity and you let his words hang in. The evening was still warm from the late july sun, but it had become almost unbearable with his proximity. You could barely breathe beneath his attention and you were suddenly thankful when Jiyoung appeared at the front door and caused him to step away.

“Come in, the table is all set,” she said. “I prepared bossam for the night.”

“My favorite,” you said, earning a smile from her.

And for a while, everything was fine again — easy even. But Jiyoung had recently discovered her new favorite wine and by the time the dessert was finished and Air Supply started singing about his secret inner thoughts through the wireless speakers, she was drunk, stumbling to her feet.

“Kwangho!” she exclaimed. “We danced to this on our first date.”

“We know,” Yeji quickly remarked with a scowl.

When Jiyoung got drunk her brain seemed to always reach for the same memories: her first date with Kwangho, a terrible dinner with her parents, and her marriage.

Tonight it seemed to have selected her first date with Kwangho.

“Dance with me,” Jiyoung said, causing a chuckle to escape from your lips as you watched her holding a hand to her husband and standing him up. 

They retreated from the table laughing through their drunk state and stumbling until they found the back doors and disappeared, leaving the room suddenly too calm — not quiet, the chords of the love song kept resonating and dispersing through the whole place together with Sunghoon’s parents’ small talk coming from the open doors but it was steady, peaceful, an echo of the approaching late hours.

“I will take the dishes,” Yeji said.

“I will help you,” you offered, reaching for your plate, but Yeji was fast on taking it away. 

“Drunk or not. Mom will kill me if she knows I allowed you to do any real chords in this house.”

You looked at Sunghoon in search of some support then, but he only shook his head, his lips already curving into a fond smile.

“I don’t want to get killed too,” he said.

You could feel your mouth opening in another protest as you turned back at Yeji, but Sunghoon brushed his knee against yours and when your gazes encountered, he didn’t wait for you to say what was on your mind, he immediately held his hand in the small space between you.

“Dance with me too,” he whispered.

You blinked at him, body going slack as you tried to find any sign of a joke on him. But Sunghoon remained still, his cheeks flushed by the same alcohol you indulged in and the late summer heat as he stared at you.

“I don’t know how to slow dance,” you finally said.

“Neither do I, but we can figure it out.”

You took his hand, allowing him to stand you up and take you to the side of the room.

It was no novelty to have Sunghoon guiding you, but there was something different about doing it outside the furor of the university parties and cheap clubs, away from the dimmed lights and intoxicated air.

It felt softer.

He placed your hands on his shoulders, but he didn’t let go easily. You felt his fingertips slowly tracing your pulse before his hands molded to your waist, bringing you closer at the same time he leaned in — just enough to rest his cheek against yours, but every contact was like a static shock, a spark of life where his skin met your skin, and your heart picked up.

“It’s such a sad song,” Sunghoon pointed out. “I don’t know why mom gets so happy over it.”

“Since when have you been fluent in English?” you laughed.

“I have been studying, but living with Jiyoung you have to know the lyrics of this song,” he said. “Between the fiftieth time and the fiftieth first you get curious about it.”

“And what do the lyrics say?” you asked, moving back to look at him. Your hands slid to the back of his neck for support, but your palms fitted so well on the slope curve that you couldn’t help but run your palm over it, fingers curling at his hair and making Sunghoon shiver beneath your touch, the soft rustle of his breath hitching against your skin almost imperceptibly.

It took him another moment to reply.

“He likes this girl — no, he is obsessed with her,” he whispered. “And he knows he is lost without her, but he is also afraid of letting her know it.”

“Why?”

“Well — this part is not in the lyrics,” he said, and you laughed at it, softly and ignoring the fact that your heart was slamming inside of your chest. “Was my analysis approved by my linguist student?”

“I don’t know,” you said. “I always thought he simply meant love could be made out of nothing.”

“So plain.”

Sunghoon swirled you, a twist of his body that led you away from him, spinning on the tip of your toes for a quiet second, before he brought you back to him. His hand caught your waist again, slipping through the thin material of your dress until his fingers found the lace on your waistband.

“Nevermind. I think we are doing it wrong,” he said, letting you go suddenly and abruptly before he sunk himself onto his family’s couch.

You followed after, less forceful as you took the space at his side. You didn’t touch him, but you could feel the heat radiate from his skin and it was just as dizzying.

“When is your date with the dummy?” Sunghoon asked. 

“Jongseong,” you corrected, but now it was a name that carried more emotions than facts. “He will be here on Tuesday, and it’s not a date.”

“Sure.”

“He probably just wants to catch up — we were friends before dating.”

The song changed on the wireless speakers, and the one that came on next was faster, sprightly, and lively. You could hear his parents laughing on the back deck, but when his fingers thumped against his thighs, you knew it was a reaction to his uneasiness rather than him following the rhythm of the song.

“You don’t need to do this, you know?” he asked.

“Do what?”

“Please everyone. You started dating Jongseong because you felt sorry to reject him, and I am quoting you on this. You went to that party because Haneul asked you,” he said. “You are everywhere Yeji asks you to be — you are everywhere I ask you to be, and I admit my guilt about it.”

“If you want to go on a date or whatever you want to call it with Jongseong, it’s alright, but if you don’t — please, don’t force yourself to be there.”

“Hoon,” you called, although you weren’t sure what words were supposed to follow, the ideas of your thoughts coming faster than the certitude of it.

“Call me,” he whispered then. “If something happens there.”

“Sure,” you whispered back. 

“You are my best friend, teeny.”

“And you are mine.”

August was what your grandma used to call the fickle month. It was the seam between july blue skies and september rains. Just yesterday night, the sky was clean, with not a single cloud to bloat the stars, but as you opened the front door, you not only encountered Park Jongseong but also the promise of rain. The low rumble of thunder that could be heard in the distance, and made the air almost static.

As you glanced past Jongseong’s shoulders, you couldn’t help but notice his showy convertible parked on your family’s driveway — its roof down as you always remembered. Jongseong must have caught your gaze, for his smile turned into something closer to embarrassment.

“Not the best option for the weather,” he said. “But it’s the only one that I got. I can close the roof if you want.”

“People buy a convertible for only one reason,” you said, and Jongseong laughed at that. The sound was so open and easy that you couldn’t help but allow a smile to rise to your lips.

Once, when you both were still dating, you had questioned why he would have bought a convertible when he lived in Seoul, such a rainy city for the majority of the time, but he only smiled and said the exact same thing, a bite of a smile crossing through his lips before he raced through the night and beneath the city lights.

So he drove you with the hood down, the wind trailing and tangling through your hair with the heady smell of rain as the county rolled past you.

Jongseong wasn’t the type to make small talk, so he didn’t attempt to speak under the thrumming engine, nor when he opened the café shop door, holding it still as you stepped past him. 

You found it easy to slide into a booth across from him, easy to let your gaze meet his, small smiles playing on both of your mouths. You ordered a smoothie as Jongseong ordered a coffee and a plate of cake for each of you — the same flavor, and you had to bite your tongue to not say it would be a waste because you could share.

But sharing cakes was your thing with Sunghoon.

“How have you been?” Jongseong finally asked.

“Fine, yes, how about you?”

“Fine,” Jongseong said. “Nothing like spending a month at Nana’s house.” 

“I can understand, your grandmother is such a lovely person.”

“She asked about you — actually, she asked how I allowed you to escape,” he said, and you laughed at this, cheeks turning a bit warmer and Jongseong’s lip twitched up. 

“You have been asked about too,” you said.

“Sunghoon’s mother or yours?”

“How did you-”

“They were the only ones that didn’t seem to genuinely hate me,” he said, head ducking the way he did whenever he was unsettled. 

“I am sorry,” you said because you really were — because you didn’t know what else you could say to him.

“That’s fine,” he said. “Actually, that’s the whole point — everyone knows your history with Sunghoon is way deeper than what you both tell. I knew it even before we started dating and it was my option to ask you out,”

“When I told Heeseung I was going to do it he said ‘Y/N? You mean Sunghoon’s Y/N?’.” Jongseong laughed, but you couldn’t do the same. “There was also that night when we just had started to go further into our relationship and you were at my studio. It was three in the morning or something, and Sunghoon called you really wasted,”

“You were so worried about him that I knew there was no one else in the world for you like him. And when we arrived at his place and he started shouting because you were with me late at night, I knew there was no one else in the world for him too.”

A look of disappointment passed over Jongseong’s features, too vivid and too unmistakable to be something buried in the past, and once again, you felt sorry. 

“Then you both stopped talking and I know it’s so selfish to say, but I thought something was going to change,” he said. “Yet I only saw you lose the last sparkle in you. I always knew that you loved him, but I feel like I threw it on you when we broke up.”

“You didn’t.”

“I felt like I did,” Jongseong whispered, his gaze holding steadily onto yours, and you could feel he was studying you even before he continued. 

“Listen, and please do not take it as your ex-boyfriend saying, but as a friend instead,” he asked. “Heeseung told me that Sunghoon lost it all after you two stopped talking. He would cling to the couch until the parties were over, staring at everything as if he were looking for something that was never coming. ‘Vultures spinning above of what was left of him’ were his words actually,”

“I don’t know what keeps you two from going after each other. If you can’t see it, or if it’s all about doubt and fear, but if he is too scared, you should do it,” Jongseong said. “It’s sad to see you losing yourself in the midst of it.”

You didn’t argue with him. You couldn’t. Your heart was beating too fast, tripping over each heartbeat and making it impossible for you to think straight. 

Behind him, the café was still blasting with life. A couple just a table away were sharing the same piece of cake, and when the woman laughed, you felt a longing inside of your heart.

You looked back at Jongseong, but he was already taking the last sip of his coffee.

“Let’s go, I will take you home.”

┈

Jongseong left you on the Park’s driveway, not waiting for you to get to the door to make a turn, his convertible disappearing through the street before you even reached the first stair, and honestly, it was better that way — no eyes watching as you mustered the courage to simply keep moving forward.

You rang the bell once, and then twice, but no answer came. Sunghoon’s Jeep was the only car in the driveway, with no sign of Kwangho’s gray sedan and you took a deep breath before you gathered up the courage to reach for the handle and turn like you knew you could. 

The door scraped open, and you shuffled yourself in, blinking at the sudden lack of clarity until your vision got adjusted. The only source of light came from the back door, the sun hid behind the storm clouds cutting through the open floor.

As you glanced upward, you caught a glimpse of Sunghoon as he emerged from his room upstairs. He absentmindedly fastened the final buttons of his crisp, blue shirt, reaching down the first few stairs.

Sunghoon paused when he found you, his lips slightly parting in surprise.

“You didn’t pick up the door,” you mumbled. 

“I was on it,” he said.

“Sorry.”

“Not that I mind,” he said, making his way down the stairs. When he stopped in front of you, he bottled you in the shadows with his full height, and it was one of those moments when you realized how much he had grown up. 

“Where’s everyone?” you asked. “It’s so silent here.”

“Dad has a conference in Angok, mom always goes with him and Yeji decided to stick around because of the food,” Sunghoon said. 

“Smart, I miss my dad’s conferences,” you said, immediately earning a snort from him. 

“I thought Jongseong took you out to eat, but you seem as hungry as ever,” he said. “C’mon, I think there’s something in the kitchen.”

None of you bothered to turn the lights on. The path from the stairs to the kitchen was so familiar that you could have done it with your eyes closed. You knew where to step, and where to move so you didn’t hit any of Jiyoung’s furniture. So you both leaned on the kitchen island with the dim light of the end of the afternoon and mixed leftover pastries with what Sunghoon called Yeji’s experimental cupcakes.

“So,” Sunghoon said, subtly clearing his throat. “Are you two back together?”

“No.”

He stopped at your answer, all at once, and for an instant, something flashed across his face. But it had been too brief, too fleeting — stolen by surprise when thunder hit the shore and his gaze fled to the back doors. 

“Why?” he whispered, and it had been so low that if you weren’t paying close attention to him, you doubted you would have noticed it.

“Hoon,” you called, and you hated how you sounded desperate then. The verge of your tears coming in before your thoughts. 

You didn’t remember making the decision to move toward Sunghoon, but suddenly, you were there, standing so close that the air felt snuffed. His hands promptly found the sides of your neck, holding you up to him. And when his gaze encountered yours, his eyes were surprisingly bright beneath the dim light.

“Because I couldn’t — no, because I can’t love someone as much as I love you.”

Sunghoon stopped at your words, and the silence that followed was almost mocking. You had lived a good part of your life in Uljin, but you couldn’t remember a day when the waves had been this silent. Your mother’s wind bell had gone idle, and the breeze carried nothing but the promise of the rain — even the thunder had ceased.

“Teeny,” he whispered, and perhaps it had been the way his voice broke at it — perhaps it had been the way his hands fell away from your skin, but your heart wavered in your chest.

You could take a rejection from everyone but him. 

You could lose anyone but Sunghoon.

In your mind, you saw Haneul, perhaps the first person who ever had put into words what everyone only spoke as half thoughts. You heard Yeji telling you about Jiyoung and soulmates, and you thought of Jongseong, just a few hours ago saying how there was no way Sunghoon didn’t love you back.

How could they all be so wrong?

“Teeny,” he repeated. 

The kitchen was too warm, too sweet, pastries and cupcakes sugary all together with the scent of his perfume and suddenly you felt like you couldn’t breathe.

“You really know how to drive one’s mad,” he said. “I didn’t know the difference between loving you and being in love with you. You’ve been in my life for as long as I can remember,” 

“And then you kissed me at that New Year’s party.”

You lurched at his words, an incredulous gasp fleeing through your lips before you could even control it. You couldn’t remember doing it. New Year’s party or anywhere else, you couldn’t remember ever kissing Sunghoon.

“After we opened the second bottle of flavored vodka or something. It was close to midnight already — we were pretty drunk, and you—” he stopped. One of his dark brows lifted, but there was no amusement in his face as he considered you. “You really don’t remember it, do you?”

You only could shake your head.

“We kissed — actually, we made out in the middle of the living room and I swear, if you didn’t tell me you were starting to feel dizzy when I carried you to my room, I would have—” Sunghoon stopped once again, and you could feel his words stuttering and stammering. “I held your hair as you threw up — I held you throughout the whole night as you were sick, but when you woke up in the morning, you said we should forget about everything because it was just too embarrassing for you.”

There was no way the world tripped, but you felt as if the ground had slipped through your feet. Everything was so unstable that you shrugged away, pressing your back against the kitchen island for support.

“I don’t remember,” you whispered. “I mean, I remember getting sick, but before it—”

“Yeah, I — I realized it now, but I thought you were embarrassed about having kissed me and I took it as a rejection, so I started dating random girls, anyone, really. I tried to take my mind off you, tried to forget about your kisses and how you made me feel,” he said. “And it was going half alright, well, until you started dating Jongseong,”

“And I know I had become the worst friend then, and you had the whole right to stop talking to me. But I had this thought for a while that maybe — maybe we could be like the old times again because now I’ve realized that no matter where you are or what you are doing, or who you are with, I will always honestly, truly, completely love you and I would hold this forever — I could be forever your best friend if it meant you were happy where else.”

His words pounded against you with an intensity that only made your chest ache a bit more. You could feel his words seeping into your skin, leaving a lasting impression that was hard to escape from. Outside, the rain had finally started to fall, and the sound of it only added to the overwhelming feeling of being caught in a deluge of emotions.

“When Jake told me he saw you at that party, I thought that was my opportunity,” he said. “That’s why I insisted on you coming with me to Uljin.”

You didn’t notice you were crying until he leaned in, his hands spreading at the island’s top and on each side of you as his lips promptly found your wet cheeks and kissed the heaving tears away. 

“Don’t cry, teeny.”

“We broke each other’s hearts just because we were afraid,” you said.  

“We did, but what is important is what we are going to do from now on.”

“When did you get so wise, Park Sunghoon?” you asked, and he smiled at you, his dimples flirting at the soft skin of his cheeks. 

“Losing you got me really undone.”

“Yeah, I heard something like ‘vultures spinning above of what was left of him’.”

Sunghoon laughed at this, and then, he laughed some more, this time throwing his head back. He felt as if he had experienced all the possible emotions throughout these last minutes.

“Can’t believe Jake’s saying reached you.”

“Was it Jake’s?” you asked. “Because I heard it from Jongseong who heard from—”

“Don’t say his name,” he asked. “Not now.”

“Fine.”

His hands slid to your waist, bringing you impossibly closer and your skin tingled beneath his touch.

“Can I kiss you?” he whispered, the question coming little more than a whisper over your lips.

It was adorable the way he smiled there, boyish and warm eyes gleaming in the dim light of the approaching evening. 

“Of course, you can kiss me, Hoon,” you said. 

“Won’t you tell me it was too embarrassing by tomorrow morning?”

You placed your hands at the slope curve of his neck, palms fitting as perfectly as they did a few nights previous, and you brought him down to you.

“I won’t,” you assured. But Sunghoon didn’t kiss you immediately, no — he took his precious time, hovering his lips just a single centimeter from yours as if he was checking if you would regret it and move away, and only when you didn’t, his mouth slide over yours, taking you slowly, softly, and different from how his fingers burrowed into your dress as he lifted you to the kitchen island, and sit you there.

You had no acknowledgment of how your first kiss with Sunghoon had been, but something within you knew, it had been exactly like this. There was no searching or learning, it was all about you already knowing each other. It was natural to push yourself into him — natural to part your knees and curl your legs around his hips, bringing him so close that you couldn’t tell where your heartbeat ended and his began.

His tongue brushed against your lips, a tiny demand that told you how much he had missed the taste of your lips, and when you opened your mouth for him, letting him press his tongue over yours, he groaned, his whole body pushing harder against you, and a gasp glided from your lips with the overwhelmingness of it. You moved back, but Sunghoon was still leaning in, eyes closed, and lips parted as he followed you through the few centimeters you created.

“Sorry,” he whispered, straightening himself. It had been just enough to encounter your gaze, yet his eyes stayed fixed on you as if he couldn’t imagine anything more fascinating than looking at you — as if all the gravity of the world was centered on you. 

But then, there’s the sound of the engine on the driveway, the headlights of Kwangho’s sedan hitting the front window, and you barely had time to jump off the kitchen island, patting your dress in the hope there were no wrinkles before the door was opened and the rest of the Parks spilled in like a skimped part of the rain.

A gust of kind smiles and fond expressions.

You wondered if they could see the way you were blushing in the dim light — if they could see the way Sunghoon scrubbed a hand through his hair as he turned around and fought to catch his breath.

When the lights were turned on, Kwangho took a seat on the couch, followed by Yeji as both of them complained about the sudden change of weather.

It had been Jiyoung who approached you, giving both of you a peck on the cheek before she exclaimed how happy she was. 

And then you knew that they could and they did.

┈

Sunghoon walked you home with the rain still pouring down, his hand on yours as you both jumped the bunches that separated your family’s property like you always had.

“I will give it five minutes until she calls your mother to tell,” he said.

“I would say they are already on a call,” you replied, reaching for the first stair, but Sunghoon stayed behind, allowing his hair to get soaked beneath the rain, curling at the ends, dripping water down his cheeks, over his lips.

He looked unfairly pretty, but to be honest, he always had. 

“Is it crazy?” Sunghoon asked. 

“What?”

“That I want to ask you on a date,” he said. “We have run this town from back and forth so many times. We moved to Seoul just to be together and I still want to take you on a date.”

“It’s not,” you whispered. 

Sunghoon smiled at you, using your still connected hands to pull you beneath the rain with him — to pull you to him, and when he kissed you, he still tasted like sugar, all pastries and cupcakes sugary and home.

You held onto him, feeling the heat of his skin through his wet shirt, and this time, you were the one to lick into his mouth, pressing your tongues together and stealing a gasp from him.

You couldn’t help the way you surged up — onto your tiptoes, giving all your weight for him to catch and hold until you were both out of breath.

“Tomorrow then? Around this time?” he asked.

“Alright,” you said. “Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise,” he answered.

“Can I at least know what I should dress?”

“Formal,” he said, not even blinking and you furrowed your eyebrows at him. “I am serious.”

It had been a long time coming — you and Sunghoon.

It had been spoken within whispers when any of you were nearby, talked when none of you were there.

It had been so waited up, that your parents only fondly smiled as you appeared formally dressed on the following afternoon and said you had a date with Sunghoon.

He waited outside, the engine of his black Jeep already on as he leaned on the hood, watching as you slipped out of your front door and walked towards him, high heels carefully avoiding the stones and pebbles of your family’s driveway.

“You look beautiful,” he said, and you smiled at him, cheeks suddenly growing warm because he had slid his hands to your neck, thumbs pressing gently into your skin as he tipped your head back, and angled you so you had to look at him, taking in his gleaming eyes. You could tell Sunghoon was no longer making any effort to hold it back, his pure affection towards you taking all over his face.

The weather had gotten better since yesterday, twilight light settling over the county and lighting him in a tangerine glow that when you pulled yourself closer to him, you could feel the warmth of it beneath his suit. 

“You don’t look bad yourself,” you said, and he laughed at it, a burst of sound whistling across the breeze as his dimples found their way to flirt into the soft skin of his cheeks.

Sunghoon didn’t tell you where he was taking you still, but there was a picnic basket on the back seat and he took the road out of town, driving through the same emerald mountains and greenish fields you passed on your way back to the town weeks and weeks before.

You reached for him as he passed the county’s welcoming sign, palm resting above the back of his hand on the gear stick, and he shifted beneath your touch, turning his palm to you and slowly interlacing your fingers.

And God — you were really doing it.

He dropped down a few gears just several minutes after, parking on a clifftop somewhere, a pretty little spot where you could take off your high heels and sink on a blanket on the warm grass as you watched the sun come down on the sea in shafts of pinky peach and tangerine.

“It’s so beautiful,” you whispered, but if anything he only smiled at you. He had unpacked the picnic basket content, spreading neatly prepared sandwiches and perfectly sliced fruits on the blanket. Even a mini champagne had been included and you smiled when Sunghoon spared it in two flutes, the bubbles sparkling in its glasses in the softest tone of rosé because you always preferred it sweet.

“Have you prepared all of this?” you asked.

“Aside from this,” he said, extending you one of the flutes. “Mom and Yeji prepared everything — when I told them I was taking you out on a date, they got genuinely committed to help.”

“I can imagine how,” you laughed, and he moved closer to you, his free hand reaching for your hair, tucking a stray lock behind your ear.

“I was a bit scared of your father, you know?” Sunghoon said. “That’s why I waited outside.” 

“Why? He loves you.”

“I don’t know, he hated Jongseong.”

“I don’t think my father — or anyone there hated Jongseong as a person,” you said. “They hated what he represented.”

“They hated that he was not you, you know?” you explained. “They made that same welcoming lunch last summer, and you should have seen their faces when it was Jongseong passing through your front door holding my hand.”

“Everyone expected that it was me and you in the end, didn’t they?” he asked.

“They still do.”

“Good thing it is me and you in the end.” 

“Is it?” you asked, but his lips were already reaching to yours. His hand spread on your cheek, fingers brushing and tangling through your hair as he brought you closer as if he believed his existence lay in the acknowledgment of you — on how your heartbeats resonated together, how naturally your hands fit on the slope curve of his neck, and the sensations your bare fingertips are capable of drawing on him as you slipped it beneath the shoulders of his suit and pushed it away. The piece fell with a soft thud on the grass, and it was the last thing you were aware of before his tongue slid against your bottom lip, softly yet demanding, and you obliged immediately, letting him press his tongue on yours in a way that made your whole body solely focused on him.

You couldn’t help but pull him closer, fingers burying on the thin material of his shirt as his arms came around you, lifting you over and on top of him. Sunghoon was already hardening beneath you, the solid length of himself pressing between your thighs, and the sensation alone was so pleasurable that a whine escaped through your throat before you couldn’t even notice it.

But he did, stopping at the sound of you, hands coming up to your waist, and pinching you just to make sure you were looking at him, but you were — you always had been. The sun had disappeared completely beyond the sea, and when he tilted his head back to encounter your gaze, the remaining luminosity turned his eyes lighter, a blend of honey and whisky as his lashes cast shadows over his flushed cheeks.

And God — he was so beautiful.

“Is it really ok?” he asked, and you suddenly felt like joking about it, saying that it was as fine as having your first time together on an open field could be.

It’s not that you were awkward about having sex. Actually, you have been more straightforward about it than many of your friends, but there’s something about having it with Sunghoon — something that made your chest ache with a feeling deeper than bare desire.

The moment seemed to take forever, it seemed to take no time at all. In the middle of your silence, Sunghoon licked at his mouth, his tongue brushing against his already swollen lips as if he was suddenly afraid that he had gone too far — too fast, but if there was something you were sure of was that you and Sunghoon had never gone too fast.

“Yes, of course it’s fine,” you said.

You weren’t sure if it was you or him who ended the gasp between your mouths. You knew you had put a small pressure on his shoulders and he was already on you again, nose pressed to your cheek, lips sliding easily over yours, and already too well practiced in the art of making you sigh. 

It was dizzying to be kissed like this. Fast, open-mouthed, and noises swallowed by one another, but Sunghoon didn’t move his lips away from yours, not unless it was to press his mouth to your neck instead, his tongue swirling against your skin, sucking and kissing little bruises that said everything he suppressed throughout all those years.

You were his — you were his just as much he always had been yours.

“I missed your smell,” he blurted out, the words tickled against your body, and when you shivered you weren’t sure if it had been it or the way his hands slipped beneath the hem of your dress. “It took weeks for it to fade from all my bed cushions, months to fade from all my jackets — and still, there were days I caught myself searching for it.”

His palms followed the curve of your thighs, finding where the skirts of your dress had gathered in the crease of your hips, working through your skin, and peeling the piece up to your waist — to your shoulders, taking it off completely.

He barely gave it a moment before he reached for the clasps of your laced bra, opening it and releasing a tight exhale at the whole view of you.

“You made me go crazy every day throughout this past year, teeny, every day,” he confessed. “You still do.”

And it hadn’t been hard for you to believe it. Sunghoon was looking at you as if he wasn’t all that sure if it was real — if you were real, if you weren’t a dream, if you weren’t a mirage that would vanish at any moment and he would wake up for you ringing the bell of his family’s house again, but this time saying you were back with Jongseong instead.

His breath quicked at the thought, and you rubbed your nose against his, lingering so close that he could feel your next words.

“I am here,” you whispered, hands finding that one spot on his neck, and drawing him down to the blanket — to you, urging him to settle between your legs before your fingers moved through his clothes, finding and curling around the buttons of his shirt almost carelessly as you opened it. “I am here.”

Sunghoon’s muscles tensed as you grazed through his low abdomen, nails scratching his skin ever so slightly but when you hurled around the waist of his pants, he reached for you, carefully moving your hands away.

“Let me take care of you first,” he whispered. “You have no idea how much I waited for it, so I want to take my time with you.”

You looked at him, drawing out a retort despite the fluttering in your chest. But Sunghoon was already cutting you off with a kiss, his lips lazy against yours, and being a perfect match to the way his hand trailed through your body, the tip of his fingers blindly flirting with the edge of your panties, tracing along the laced trim before he moved further.

A gasp glided out of you as he swiped over your folds. It was a barely there touch, lazy brushes that didn’t even part you beneath the cotton of your panties, but it was enough to make you falter, your whole body shifting into him, and he smiled against your mouth, a way too proud grin because you were where he wanted you to be.

You were exactly where he wanted you to be.

“You are so pretty,” he said, pressing a little harder and feeling the cotton growing damp beneath the tip of his fingers. The fabric clung to you with his every move, and it was dirty in a way that would have made you burn in embarrassment if it had been with anyone else but Sunghoon.

But it was Sunghoon, and you were sure you could come just by the slip and slide of his finger over you, the soft circles he did on your clit, but you wanted more — you wanted Sunghoon all and whole.

It might have been that strange string between both of you, but at your thought, Sunghoon pulled your panties aside, pushing two fingers inside of you with no previous note. You immediately clenched down around him, back arching and making Sunghoon tilt his hips against your thigh, a curse escaping his lips.

You couldn’t comprehend how he knew you so well — how he knew exactly how to move, how to make his name escape from your lips a little bit more frantic, and how to make you grip on his shoulders for some relief. Yet he knew, and it was almost maddening. The knot in your stomach got tighter with no ado, each curl of his fingers drawing you closer to the loss instead, to the burning on your spine, but before you could reach it, Sunghoon stopped, slipping out of you all at once.

You whined when he moved to kneel between your legs, finishing to pull his shirt off with two practical moves.

“Lift your hips for me, teeny,” he said, and you were way beyond rational thoughts to retort, doing whatever he said and allowing his fingers to curl at the laced trim of your panties, hands almost adoring as he dragged your last clothing down over your legs.

“Hoon,” you whined. “Please, I need you.”

It might have been the words, the small plead that took Sunghoon anew because he would never refuse anything you asked him, or perhaps it was the way you said them, a bit choked up because you couldn’t control it anymore, but either way, he gave in, unbuckling his belt, and shoving his pants down just enough to free himself.

“So impatient,” he said, snorting, but you couldn’t mind the tease on it. He was already lifting your legs to his hips and pushing into you, his breath hitching as he whispered your name, pronouncing it with a deliberate slowness that you couldn’t help but moan at.

It was one of those perfect august evenings when the air buzzed with the sea scent and there was not even a single cloud in the sky — the ghost of the stars falling on his hair as he hovered back above you.

Sunghoon hissed, looking down between your bodies, eyes all warm and glazed as he watched how you fit together. And you sobbed when he clutched at the blankets, knuckles turning white as if he was struggling to not be impatience himself because you did understand. This was more than you had ever felt about anything — it was more than just your body coming apart, but something like feeling your heart splitting at the stitchings, and it was terrifying — vulnerable.

Your fingers spread at his cheeks, angling his forehead against yours, pressing kisses to his lips, cheeks, and jaw, mumbling how it was alright if he grew impatient — it was alright if it didn’t last tonight.

It was not like it would be the only time.

But he was careful with you still, sweet nothings brushing against your temples even as your body came tight around him, your hands grabbing at his hair, desperately trying to hide the fact you were shaking as he continued to move his hips into you.

Sunghoon came when you did, as defenseless and relinquished as he could be, wrapping his arms around, and holding you until both of you had driven out of your highs.

He collapsed by your side, and you wanted to say something, but as you looked at him, you had the strange comprehension that there was nothing he didn’t already know. He was your best friend, your first crush, your favorite kiss, your lover, and half of your soul. He had caught all your secrets through your eyes — tasted them on your lips and body, so you only reached for him.

Your hand caught his easily, tiny and softly, and he allowed you to curl your fingers around his, pulling him a little closer and burying your nose on the curve of his shoulder to take him in. Sunghoon smelled like he always did: his citrus perfume blended with the brine scent of the seashore and home — your home.

He lifted your hand, kissing the inside of your wrist, a sweet gesture that gave no hint of how he would brought the tip of your fingers to his mouth a second later, two digits being pressed to his tongue as he sucked it.

You blew out a shaky breath, stuttering out a little laugh that Sunghoon was fast to follow.

“Hoon,” you whispered. “Let’s go back to Uljin.”

“Alright.”

“I meant after the graduation,” you said. “I know the main goal shouldn’t be to go back to our parent’s house after graduation, but there are a lot of nice places in Uljin — Daeyeol’s apartment complex seemed a bit expensive, but maybe we—”

“Is this your way of saying you want to stay with me, teeny?” Sunghoon asked, almost earning a gasp from you. But his laugh quickly made you stop, swallowing the sound of your surprise together with your embarrassment. His grip tightened around you, bringing you so close — you didn’t only hear the next words, but you felt them rushing through your skin.

“Alright,” he repeated. “Let’s go back, Uljin is our place anyway. And being honest, I have been thinking about it for quite a while. People in the city are always so stressed. There is traffic everywhere, and everything smells like smoke and street food. I prefer it here — with you.”

Park Sunghoon was tapping against your window. A hastened and insistent gait that only ceased when you lifted your head off your pillows, eyes all soft and glazed because the clock on your desk was still marking three in the morning.

And was he on your roof?

You leaped off your bed, moving as quietly as you could to the window and shoving the glass open.

“What are you doing?” you asked. But he didn’t reply. Sunghoon seemed comfortable sitting there, an easy smile playing on his lips as he spread his palms through the roof tiles and moved his gaze to the sky, observing it for a few moments before he lifted his right hand to it, grazing through the air as if his fingertips could reach for the stars.

“Can you come outside?” Sunghoon asked, and there was no way time had changed, but you felt like the seconds were turning into something more. You were twelve again, sneaking out for the first time on a night in july with him. You were eighteen again, barefoot on the cold sand of august and promising you would stay together endlessness.

“I don’t know,” you whispered. “Can I?”

“Please, I had to climb your rafters,” Sunghoon said, lowering his hand.

“You weren’t picking up your phone,” he explained. “And to call the fixed line at three in the morning didn’t seem a nice step, although your parents love me.”

You had to control your will to roll your eyes at his words. It had been weeks since you had confessed to each other in his family’s kitchen, weeks since you officially launched it to your parents on the typical Sunday dinner, and it had been weeks since your father started calling him son.

“Please, I will catch you,” he said.

“Catch me?” you echoed, but he was already slipping through the roof tiles, and jumping into your family’s back deck.

You breathe in, not giving yourself time to think before you carefully swing over your bedroom window and edged your way onto the roof. Outside, the night sky was colored in shades of lavender and mauve — a typical summer night in Uljin, but the breeze rushed with the wet scent of rain and warned autumn was slowly coming in.

“Can’t I use the back door like a normal person?”

“C’mon,” he said. “I will catch you.”

“Hoon,” you whined, quickly stealing a laugh from him.

“If you are too scared, you can use the back door,” he said, his voice laced in fondness. “But I promise you, it isn’t that high.”

“Will you catch me?”

“Didn’t I tell you so?” he said, extending his arms at you.

You jumped, and he caught your waist as you landed, pulling you against him. And all of sudden you could scent him — his citrus perfume blended with the brine scent of the seashore, and home.

“Caught you,” he whispered, voice winding into your hair. His breath was warm against your exposed skin and you knew it was supposed to be just a statement, but his words tingled through your body.

He stepped back, holding his hand out for you, fingers spread so you could fill the small gaps in between as he guided you toward the sea. Sunghoon stopped just before the water could reach your feet, but still, the breeze caught the cold sprinkles, brushing them against the exposed skin of your cheeks as you watched him take a box out of his pocket with his free hand and extend it to you.

“I thought we should renew our promise before going back to Seoul tomorrow,” he said.

You took the box suspiciously. It was far too small to be anything but a jewelry or mittens. But the confirmation only came when you had peeled the ribbon, and opened the box, allowing the moonlight to glitter above the necklace.

“Merry Christmas,” Sunghoon whispered.

“Hoon, it’s beautiful,” you replied. “But it’s not even September and we never exchanged gifts.”

“I know, but I got it for you back in December,” he said. “I came here on Christmas solely to give it to you, but you weren’t here and when I went back to the antique store to return it, the witch-looking grandma had disappeared together with the whole place.”

“Are you telling me you bought a cursed necklace as a present?” you asked and there it was. Sunghoon couldn’t control his smile from growing wider, too happy with how you always knew how to come up with his jokes.

“How did you know it was exactly what she called it?”

“You are so annoying.”

“Let me help you,” he said. You turned your back on him, allowing Sunghoon to brush your hair away. It was a brisk, soft, barely-there touch, but his fingertips created shivers through your skin and you shivered as he tied the necklace.

“What was the curse?” you asked, but he didn’t reply. He allowed your words to be carried together with the breeze long enough for you to decide to turn back to him. And when you did, Sunghoon brought his hands to your cheeks, holding you so you had no other option than to encounter his gaze.

His eyes were bright then, reflections of the stars and his appreciation towards you.

“You are stuck with me for eternity,” he said, and you laughed at him, the sound of it whistling through the air and brushing through his lips as he leaned in, resting his forehead against yours.

“It’s surely a curse,” you said. Your tone was merry, teasingly, but Park Sunghoon knew you like no one else in this world.

“I love you too,” he whispered.

There had been a time when Sunghoon thought that you and he were meant to be forever.

And to be fair — his assumption used to make sense. For years, you had been best friends, halves of a whole, and the downfall of your friendship certainty was something no one could have predicted.

But that’s the thing about life — one moment people think they know exactly where they are headed, and the next, everything changes. The wind drifts the other way, and they simply have to follow through.

Yet best friends always find their way back to each other — soulmates always end up together, and Park Sunghoon surely was it: your best friend and your soulmate.

[si-chen-g]

IMPERFECT FOR YOU (18+)

you, doing a friend a favor, have to tutor miya osamu. but instead of learning about chemistry, he’s more interested in learning about you.

WC: 5.8k (send an ambulance)

WARNINGS: explicit drug (marijuana) usage, dubcon (sex under the influence), mentions of female anatomy and female identifying reader, use of ‘baby’ as petname, this is severely under-edited i’m so sorry

TAGS: frat/popular!osamu x nerdy/unpopular!reader, f!reader, porn with (some) plot, college au, post-timeskip, smut, hair-pulling, cunnilingus, petnames, reader has anxiety somebody pls give her a hug, if you get a magnifying glass osamu has a corruption kink

NOTE: i needed a palate cleanser so i can get back into writing so thus this was born. i intend to make this a mini-series (maybe?) or maybe just blurbs/headcanon series, who knows! let me know what you guys want <3

“Absolutely not.”

“C’mon,” Your friend whines, folding her hands together in mock begging, giving you the best puppy eyes she could muster even throwing in a quivering lip for her dramatic performance. “He’s a perfectly nice guy!”

“So what you’re telling me, this guy–” You begin, dumping a sugar packet into your coffee.

“Who I’m tutoring.”

“Right. The guy you tutor, who never comes to class–”

You stir your coffee. She nervously chuckles.

“Who is on the verge of failing–”

You stab your straw into the cup. She lets out a tense ‘mhm’.

“And needs to pass this final to avoid being on academic probation–”

You raise the straw to your mouth. She nervously fiddles with her fingers.

“... Needs to be tutored by me instead?”

You take a sip of your coffee as your friend shrinks into the booth seat. 

“Well, you didn’t have to put it like that,” she grumbles through a slurp of her drink.

You should have known that when your best friend offered to take you out to your favorite cafe, on her, she was up to something. And you knew that when she bought you your favorite muffin, she was going to be asking you something ridiculous. The last time you were offered a free muffin, you ended up having to pretend to her parents that you were dying in the emergency room so that she could sneak out to her hookup’s place. 

The plan almost worked until they came to visit you out of concern, only to find you both not there. She was grounded for another two months.

You turn to her.

“And why can’t you do it?” Your friend was supposed to be the one tutoring him, so you were confused about why it suddenly had to be you instead.

“Because,” She grumbles as if it were obvious. “I’m already busy trying to pass my own exams, that stupid research paper for Professor Takeda is driving me crazy, babysitting my piece of shit brother–”

Translation: I’m in over my head.

“Besides, everyone knows you’re a genius and you’ll pass no matter what, so why not take on a charity case in your free time, huh?” 

She grins at you, not bothering to hide her obvious attempt at fluffing your ego to convince you.

“Does this guy even have a shot at passing?” You sigh, taking a sip of your latte. “I mean, if he doesn’t bother to come to class, how much effort do you think he’s gonna put–”

“He’s a smart guy, trust me! It’s just… y’know how college is.”

Right, he’s a college guy. He was probably knee-deep in parties instead of his textbooks.

“Why’s it on you to let this guy pass? I mean, it’s not your problem–”

“Well, his brother sorta said if I’d help him, I’d be invited to all the frat parties on campus this semester…” There it is.

She trails off but still stares at you with pleading eyes, and you notice her sliding her muffin towards you.

“You’re not gonna let up on this, are you?” You ask as you inspect the blueberry-crusted pastry now on your plate. 

“Nope,” she replies, popping the ‘p’ and grinning with her coffee straw dangling in her mouth. “Does it help that he’s super cute?”

You sigh again and pinch your nose bridge. She takes your lack of response as a victory.

“Great! I already told him that you’d come by tonight. I’ll send you his address and phone number–”

“You told him I was coming before you even knew I’d agree?!”

“Well, what else were you gonna do tonight? And don’t tell me you’re gonna watch that shitty soap opera again.”

Again, you don’t have an answer. Maybe because she’s already said it for you. But it’s not shitty! It’s romantic, moving, thrilling– okay, yeah, you’re starting to hear yourself. Maybe you shouldn’t stay in tonight.

“Fine, where does he live?”

“You have to be fucking kidding me.”

At no point did your friend mention to you that the address she was sending you to would be a frat house.

You thought it was odd that the address was in the dead center of campus– but you figured that whoever you were tutoring happened to get an apartment with a great location. It should’ve been obvious to you that this area would be Greek life housing when you realize all the houses on the block were way too nice to be afforded by a typical college student. You have never stepped foot on this end of campus. Well, you hadn’t, until now.

You should’ve stayed home, nose-deep in the romance novel weighing down in your bag. But now, you’re standing on the front porch of one of the most popular frat’s on campus.

“I’m gonna kill you,” you sneer into the phone pressed to your ear.

“Quit your yapping! It’s not like there’s a party going on or something.” You could practically see your friend rolling her eyes through the phone.

You anxiously dart your eyes throughout the house exterior. It’s massive, obviously well-funded based on how nearly every window seems to be polished, and definitely better than the shitty dorm you lived in a few blocks away. You couldn’t help but dread imagining how many frat brothers lived inside.

“I’m gonna leave–”

“Hey brat, put that down!” She screeches to presumably her younger brother on the other end of the line. “Ugh, gotta go. Have fun!”

“Wait!--”

She already ends the call before you can say anything else, and you fume at her contact information staring back at you. Seriously, if somebody axe-murdered you here, you’d make sure to haunt your friend for the rest of her life.

You weigh your decisions– a part of you wants to bolt back to your dorm, imagining the comfortable blanket and pillow resting on your bed practically awaiting your return, or you could not chicken out and actually fulfill the promise you made to your friend.

Damnit, you knew you had to pick the latter. You’d feel really shitty if you didn’t.

Besides, you’d never hear the end of it if you ran out with your tail between your legs.

You ready yourself to knock on the door, admittedly through a few deep breaths first, and as your fist is about to meet the wood of the door, it swings open from the inside. Had you been a second quicker, you probably would have tapped your tutee in the face.

Except, now that you’re looking at him, he’s quite tall. It would be more at his chest than anything. His broad chest was covered in a tight black shirt, with strong shoulders… In fact, you couldn’t even see his face if you were simply staring forward. 

“Ya the tutor?” He states simply, breaking your train of thought.

You look at him to notice that there’s a face attached to the chest you were staring at. You look up, and dammit, your friend was right. He was super cute.

His hair is dark, with heavy gray eyes– bored and lazily staring at you, dumbfounded on his doorstep There’s a series of tattoos snaking beneath his shirt and piercings you couldn’t even begin to count– you nearly forget that you have to respond.

“Uhm– yeah, that’s me,” you reply, trying to regain your mental footing. “You’re Osamu, right?” 

“Mhm, come on in,” he says, sticking his hands into loose gray sweatpants…. You should really stop staring. Or at least pretend you have a semblance of class.

You step inside and slip off your shoes as you briefly inspect your surroundings. The frat house is above all else, what you expected. Minus for the fact it actually seemed clean despite the typical frat stereotypes you heard– though, you’re sure their cushy funding got them cleaning services. There’s no way a bunch of college guys living together could keep a big house like this clean without some help.

However, that makes you take note that there is a lack of frat brothers in the frat house.

“Are ya just gonna stand there and stare or come inside?” Osamu remarks and your spine grows twice as stiff. You nod quickly and follow him inside and he leads you to what seems like a living room area– some couches and chairs around a TV and coffee table.

Osamu gestures for you to sit and you cautiously sit down, as if the couch had a trap door, leading you to fall into whatever scary basement sat beneath the house.

“Where’s–” You clear your throat, hoping you can keep a firm voice. “-- the rest of your brothers?”

“All of ‘em left on a trip for the weekend, somethin’ ‘bout a party at another school, but I gotta stay back and study for this damn final.”

You quickly pull out the textbooks and notebooks from your bag and place them on the table to ignore Osamu, who takes a seat beside you. He makes you unbearably nervous like you’re about to drop on a rollercoaster. But Osamu is… He’s… stoic? No, that’s not right. Maybe calm was the right word. You wouldn’t know– you’re anything but calm right now.

No, because, quite frankly Osamu looks like he was plucked straight out of one of the daydream sequences you fall asleep to. And you feel like your heart is about to burst out of your chest from how fast it was racing.

“So, you need help with medicinal chemistry?” You notice your voice is an octave higher than what it usually is.

“Yeah, I missed too many classes and now I don’t have a fucking clue what’s going on,” he sighed, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. Whatever you do, do not look at the way his arms are flexing or the distinctive veins charting throughout his forearms.

“We can start–” you flipped through your textbook to avoid staring at his arms any longer, “with the chapter on structure-based relationships–”

“Yer not who I thought Yuki would send.”

“I’m sorry?” You sputter back, and you think that your glasses pivot off your face. You were taken aback, did he think you were somebody else? Was he expecting someone else or?--

“She’s one of my brother’s friends. And my brother… Well, I don’t think ya would hang out with the likes of him.”

Oh, that’s what it was.

He was disappointed that you weren’t… someone more interesting, like your friend, or the people he knew in his frat, or…

It doesn’t matter. You should’ve expected this. After all, you’re just the tutor he has to tolerate for a few lessons until he passes his final. 

But still, you feel some sort of rejection. You couldn’t blame him, his Friday night was being wasted on some nerd who couldn’t even look him properly in the eye because she wasn’t used to being near cute guys, let alone one of the most attractive guys she had seen in, well, ever.

“Don’t look like that, I think that’s a good thing.”

“I look like what?” Your hand flies to your face, instinctively going to hide it.

“Like I kicked yer puppy,” he muses. 

You look back at him, and you see that he’s almost amused by your nerves. Your cheeks burn and you feel the need to wrap the cardigan you had on tighter around you, as if the wooly cotton would act as some sort of shield. But Osamu’s still right beside you, and you feel as if he’s intercepting some sort of barrier between you. But he sits still next to you.

“I like it, ya seem chill, and better than the damn morons I’m always ‘round. Yer a nice change of pace.”

A nice change of pace? You didn’t think that anyone would find your company… enjoyable.

“Please,” you laugh. The idea of you being chill momentarily makes you forget about your nerves. If only Osamu knew half the thoughts racing through your mind. “I’m a goody-two-shoes, and definitely not chill.”

“What, ya a good girl or somethin’?” 

You falter. You glance back at him and notice that his eyes still haven’t left you.

“What?” You say, but it comes out more like a squeak. You’re not dumb, you could hear the indication ever so slightly tinged in his voice.

“Ya just interest me, I guess. Wanna know ‘bout ya.” You hear slight amusement in his tone. 

“So tell me, what makes you a goody two shoes?”

“I, uhm–” You barely are processing an answer with the way his dark-rimmed eyes bore at you. “Well, I haven’t ever smoked–”

“Weed or–?”

You shake your head. “Neither.”

“Ya drink?”

“Sometimes. Not often. I don’t go to parties or anything like that, and drinking alone is kinda depressing so–”

He snorts. You aren’t sure why you were answering his sudden questions, you were just here to tutor him in chemical structures. But something about his presence beside you is commanding and you feel the need to comply.

“Maybe we can change that sometime.”

You barely compute what he just said before he turns to the textbook in front of you.

“So what’s this ‘bout structure activity?”

Osamu’s smarter than what you expect for a student possibly facing academic probation. Honestly, you question if he had ever needed you in the first place. He’s quick to pick up on the topics you lay out, and he probably could have self-taught himself most of the material if he applied himself. 

Or showed up to class, but you keep that thought to yourself.

“That’s pretty much all of chapter five,” you say, closing the textbook in front of you.

“I honestly think if you just kept studying on your own, you don’t need me to tutor you, I can send you some videos too if you’d like, but I think that you’re fine–”

“Nah, I’d prefer if ya came over.”

He says it simply in a lazy drawl. But for you, it sends your brain into overdrive. You feel like a computer whose code has an error but keeps trying to run its system. 

“Oh– Alright– I can come around sometime next week then.” You barely maintain to keep your composure. You just needed to be on auto-pilot until you got home, where you could properly freak out in the sanctity of your own room.

“Ya okay with late nights? Stupid frat schedule keeps me busier than I’d like to be.” He asks.

You nod your head. “Mhm, I’m fine being over late.”

“That too much for ya?” And there’s a lazy smile across his lips. “Ya got a bedtime or something?”

You give him another small laugh. “No, I usually stay up late anyway.”

“Ya stay up late? Doin’ what?” 

There it is again. That sliver of amusement in his tone, as if he knows something that you don’t. But he keeps his calm demeanor, the one that makes you question if you’re just reading too much into things.

“Reading, watching shows, y’know, the normal stuff.”

Reading the stack of romance novels piled in your dorm until you see the sun peak through your blinds, watching soap operas until the screen asks ‘Are you still watching?’ because they assumed you left it open when in reality you’ve watched about five hours worth of television, dreaming, and wondering if someday you could attain even a fraction of the romance you see in fiction.

Yeah, the normal stuff.

At least for you, anyway. But hell would freeze over before you admit that. 

Especially to Osamu, who you couldn’t help but feel a twinge of a flutter in your chest for.

“That’s all ya got planned for Friday night?” He hums, fingers absentmindedly twirling a pencil in his free hand.

“Yup,” you reply, softly. Great, now he probably thinks you’re a loser just like everyone else. You should have just told him you were going to head to a party, like any other normal college student your age.

“Ya wanna do somethin’ with me, then? I’m bored as hell being in this house all alone.”

For a moment, you think that you hear him wrong. Certainly, a guy, as hot, as intimidating, and– and so many things you’re not, and certainly couldn’t match to, was offering to hang out with you. No way, this doesn’t happen. Not to girls like you.

“You wanna hang out with me? Like right now?”

“Would ya prefer a different time, then?” His tone though, doesn’t suggest that he wants to reschedule. It’s painfully sardonic. It seems like it would be now, or not at all.

“N-no. I’d…”

For once, you have a chance to not have a nose in a book. To not spend your weekend alone wondering if that was going to be the rest of your college life. You have the chance to do something for yourself. 

And something as simple as hanging out with a cute guy on a Friday night could be the start of that.

You sit up straighter and hold your head up. Something is tickling in your chest as you look back at Osamu, finally meeting back those eyes that couldn’t seem to stop studying you.

“Yeah, I’d like to.”

Something is screaming inside you. This is unfamiliar territory. This is foreign. Leave now. Abort mission. But you shove it down, you weren’t stopping while you were already ahead. New is good, you told yourself. But you still feel the urge to bolt out the door to cower under your covers.

You had put all your school supplies back into your bag and nestled yourself into the corner of the couch, making yourself as small as can be. Osamu said you two could ‘watch a movie and chill’. You could do something as simple as a movie, right? 

“Ya comfy?” He asks.

“Yeah, thank you,” you say quietly, as if speaking up would take up more space in the room.

“I can tell that yer nervous,” he comments. It was that obvious, huh?

“Yeah, I don’t…” you pause to collect yourself, “usually do this.”

“Hang out with guys only after a few hours of meeting ‘em?” He laughs, relaxing himself on the couch.

“Hang out with guys,” you mutter under your breath.

“What’d ya say?” He says, looking over at you questioningly. It seems he heard you.

“I don’t hang out with guys, at all,” you replied, tone clearer now, “much less cute ones–”

Shit, shit, shit. You didn’t mean to say the last part.

“Ya think I’m cute?”

You wondered if you sank deeper into the couch, that’d you’d disappear completely.

“I mean, yeah– you’re attractive, of course.” He has to know that, right? A guy like him definitely knows he’s attractive. “And usually… guys like you don’t hang out with… people like me, that’s all.”

You’re not sure where the sudden gust of courage comes from, considering you were so anxious moments ago– but the question spills out from your mouth before you can think twice about it.

“Why’d you want me to hang out with you?” You ask suddenly, turning to him.

“Maybe ‘cause I think yer cute,” he states simply as if it were an easy answer, leaning back and looking back at the TV.

You haven’t been paying attention to whatever movie Osamu turned on– What was this? Some slasher flick?-- Something with a girl shrieking at the top of her lungs while obviously fake blood pours out of her. It’s ridiculous and you would laugh if there wasn’t a weight weighing on your mind– the weight is also sitting right next to you.

No, you can’t notice the terrible special effects when you know Osmau is beside you– warm and taking up the majority of the space on the already small couch you’re both sitting on.

You can’t help but have your brain go into overdrive over what Osamu said. Did he just call you cute and then drop the topic? What were you supposed to do? Just watch the movie and just not address it? Is this what guys did? Is that how you flirt?-- you have a lack of answers. Mostly due to a lack of experience.

You spend the first thirty minutes of the movie wondering if you were just imagining Osamu slowly inching towards your half of the couch. By the time the first half of the movie is through and the killer is on his third victim, you decide you’re right when you realize that Osamu’s thigh is ghosting yours.

Now you really can’t deny it. 

A part of you thinks Osamu wants to be closer to you. 

But also, he could just be doing it subconsciously.

It’s probably the latter, but maybe…

“I can hear yer heartbeat from here,” Osamu practically chuckles from beside you.

“What?”

You try not to stammer it. You fail, anyway.

“I can tell that yer nervous, relax. I don’t bite.”

No, you’re certain that Osamu doesn’t bite. But you know that he’s close to you. Which could be worse. In fact, that is worse.

It’s worse because your senses are going haywire from how close he is.

You can tell he smells good. He smells better than whatever cologne sample you’ve ever smelled in a store or magazine. He smells like– what’s the term? Musky? Woody? You aren’t sure, you just know it’s slowly becoming your favorite scent.

You can feel his body heat, warm and consuming. You can hear his breaths– low and steady. You focus on all these other things to ignore the fact he’s boring his dark eyes straight into you.

“I got something for ya,” Osamu suddenly remarks. “Stay right there.”

You barely process what he says before he removes himself from the couch, and heads out of the living room.

Your brain isn’t able to overanalyze like it usually does because Osamu is back in about a minute. Your defenses are still up. What could he possibly have for you? Your mind is sprawling with questions as Osamu plops himself right back beside you.

“C’mere, this should help yer nerves,” Osamu hums, as he wraps an arm around your waist to pull you closer to him.

You don’t ignore the way you feel his hands skimming over the sliver of exposed skin between your sweater and jeans, like hot coals brushing against you.

 “Ya never smoked before, right?”

“No, I’ve never…” You realize that what he was holding in between his fingers was a freshly rolled blunt.

“Would ya like to try?”

You couldn’t lie, you’ve always been curious to try, especially since your friends were always talking about how ‘amazing’ it made them feel and how it would do wonders for your nerves. 

You look at the blunt between his fingers cautiously and peek back at him.

“It’ll be okay, I got ya, nothing to worry yer pretty little head about.” 

Pretty. Did he call you pretty? He has you?-- Fuck it, you needed something to put out the fires of your nerves.

“Okay, let’s do it,” you nod meekly.

“Attagirl,” Osamu grinned lazily. You don’t even bother to think about that comment, either. If you did, you’d be dead in a minute.

You watch as Osamu digs around the coffee table for a lighter, which is conveniently laid out on the table, as if ready for this moment. You watch as he flicks a flame to the blunt. He languidly takes a hit, and the smoke that hits the air is pungent. You’re glad there’s a window cracked open so the smell doesn’t collect in the room. 

You should be studying his motions to mimic them for when it's your turn, but instead, you drink in the fact that he looks oh so fucking attractive. 

He leans back on the couch, and you watch the way he tips his head back to blow out the smoke into the air above. You study the way veins flow through his neck and the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he exhales. You feel– fuzzy, warm. Are you high already? There’s a heat creeping from your chest, and you think you feel dizzy.

Yeah, you’re high. Totally. That has to be it.

When Osamu takes a look back at you, you avert your stare to your lap– reminding yourself that you’re acting odd. Cool girls don’t gawk at a guy smoking a blunt, they would– Well, you have no idea what they would do actually because you’re not cool.

And that’s obvious from the way you look at the blunt in Osamu’s hand like he’s handing you an unpinned grenade.

Osamu clocks in on the terror painted on your face. It’s so obvious somebody ten miles away could probably sense the nerves emitting from your body. You’re hoping you aren’t giving the deer-in-headlights look you usually have.

But you definitely are.

Osamu’s face softens at you.

“Do ya still wanna try? Ya don’t have to if ya don’t wanna–”

“Nono! I wanna try it.” you nearly jump at Osamu’s words. You’re a lot of things– nervous, nerdy, probably weird if you asked the guy who sat next to you in chemistry, but maybe that’s because he’s seen you write in three separate color-coded planners before. 

“Alright,” Osamu chuckles as he watches you take the packed roll from him.

But you’re not a quitter.

There’s a sudden adrenaline rush for you, almost like you’re taking a shot of tequila. You pinch the blunt and raise it to your lips before taking a hit– your very first.

You make sure not to inhale much. You’re already on the verge of coughing from the taste alone. You pull it away, letting out a meek cough, as smoke expels from your mouth. It tastes shitty and gross, like you expected. But you feel good? 

“Not bad,” Osamu muses, and you realize he was watching you the entire time.

Osamu looks at you. He’s been looking at you a lot tonight, you realize.

But that doesn’t mean anything.

“I have no idea how you don’t cough,” you say, as you pass the blunt back to him. 

“Taste bad?” He grins lazily. His arm is still around your waist. It feels good, too.

“Horrible.” It doesn’t stop you from inhaling more of the sour smoke.

“Look at ya,” Osamu chuckles. “Like it, don’t ya?”

You’re making Osamu smile, laugh even. And it makes your head spin even faster.  It’s so good.

Good, good, good. 

Everything feels so fucking good.

Osamu makes you feel good.

“What are ya mumbling about?” Osamu asks plucking the blunt from your fingertips, and you snap out of it. Well, almost, the feeling is still pooling in your chest, head– everywhere.

“I just– I feel–”

“Feel what?”

You start giggling. Doesn’t Osamu feel it too?

But maybe he does because he’s smiling at you. It’s not the same giddy heart-melting feely smile you have plastered on, it’s more relaxed. But you almost could see… a bit of amusement.

“Figures ya would be a lightweight for yer first time– probably shouldn’t have given ya the strong shit, but’s all I had.”

“I wanna do it again,” you sleepily smile waiting for Osamu to pass you the blunt. 

But he doesn’t. Instead, Osamu pauses to look at you again. This time he seems… inquisitive. He looks at the roll between his fingers, and you can tell that he’s calculating something in his head– then he looks at you.

“Ya wanna try something?”

His voice is low and there’s that tone of interest again. 

“Try what?”

“It’s a… different way to take a hit.”

It doesn’t take much to convince you and you nod at him. You just wanted more. More of the good feeling, more of Osamu.

You expect him to pass you the blunt, maybe with some sort of instructions, but instead, he takes another hit. You’re about to ask whatever question you had before Osamu reaches for your chin and takes it firmly.

Despite your brain being foggy, your brain is working overtime. Osamu is touching you– staring at you. And now his face is ghosting yours. You’re close enough to notice the slightest freckle ghosting his left cheek. Were you always this warm? No, you’re burning. There’s a fire sweeping in your chest, your head, your face– everywhere. You’re so warm– Osamu’s so warm.

And there’s a moment where you zero in. Osamu isn’t exhaling.

You realize what he wants to do.

The smoke inside his mouth isn’t for him– it's for you.

Your lip doesn’t even quiver in the way it usually does whenever you blurt out something nervously. Instead, your lips part invitingly, and you barely even register Osamu has closed the distance until his lips are brushing against yours and there’s a wisp of smoke pooling from his mouth to yours.

Osamu still had one hand steadied on your chin and the other was caging you into the couch corner. The further the smoke spills into your mouth, the more you sink into the couch. You barely even register there’s no more smoke to inhale because your back hits the seat of the couch, and Osamu’s on top of you.

“There’s a freckle on your left ch– mmph!”

Osamu’s mashing his lips into yours in an instant. You didn’t even think there could be any more room for Osamu to close in– he was already so close to you– but you were wrong. 

The kissing– it’s sloppy, depraved, even. Your glasses press against your face painfully from how quickly Osamu pounced on you, so you pull them off your face, not even caring where you throw them. You both feverishly want more, more, more. Osamu’s grabbing at your hips, his hands big and pawing at you. Your own hands are mapping the outline of his shoulders through his shirt. Osamu’s large body dwarfs your own, his weight resting on you. Your hands feverishly grabbed at him as your lips chased after the feeling you’ve been relishing– the good feeling– the feeling is pouring straight into your lips like rushing water and you’re drinking it in. It marries itself with the dizzy euphoric feeling clouding in your mind. So, so good.

He’s everywhere– you feel him everywhere. Your head is spinning. Osamu’s lips– coated in saliva mixing with your chapstick, pull you in even further. You don’t even know how you’re breathing, you haven’t gone for air in what feels like years.

But Osamu, selfishly, wants more. And so do you. So you don’t protest when you feel him rut his hips directly into yours– the throbbing bulge in his pants hitting that sweet spot you weren’t even aware was wanting for more. You moan feverishly against Osamu’s lips, the sound barely spilling out against him.

Osamu pulls himself off your lips, burying his face into the crook of your neck so you can feel every rugged heavy breath against your skin.

“Fuck, baby.” He’s panting, his hips grinding deeper into yours. The sweatpants he’s wearing, the jeans you have on, it’s too many layers. You’re unashamedly pawing at Osamu’s pants, begging for him to take them off so you can feel more.

“‘Samu, please,” you whine. You don’t even think of the nervous, shy, girl who walked into the apartment a few hours ago. She had been replaced with someone more desperate, unashamed in being so greedy for more.

Osamu doesn’t need to ask what you’re asking for, before shrugging off his pants and kicking them off somewhere on the floor. And in a moment, he’s unbuttoning your pants and pulling them off you like it’s burning you. Osamu’s already dark eyes– grow even darker at the sight of the wet spot growing on your panties and your sweater riding up your stomach.

“Please, please,” you cry with moans of his name in the absence of movement.

“Tell me what ya want,” Osamu pants.

“Wanna feel good.”

“Fuck,” he groans, before lowering his face to meet your stomach. He trails wet, firm kisses along your stomach, trailing down until his face is centered with your dripping cunt– clearly begging for more the way it clenches when you feel his hot breath ghosting the outside of your panties.

You absentmindedly grab at his hair, pushing him further to your aching cunt, encouraging him to continue– practically pleading the way you attempt to grind your pussy into him.

Osamu yanks off whatever panties you had on, and you swear you hear fabric ripping. But you couldn’t care less when you feel Osamu’s tongue languidly lick a stripe against your slit before beginning to circle your clit.

Your back arches off the couch and your wanton moans fill the empty air. You hope that Osamu’s didn’t have thin walls. But when Osamu suddenly slips a finger into your– it’s suddenly the least of your worries. 

The combination of Osamu’s tongue suckling at your clit and his now two fingers pumping in and out of you sends you into ecstasy. Every nerve in your body was vibrating as your head clouded between the weed running through your system and Osamu buried in his pussy eating you out like his life depended on it. Fuck what you smoked, Osamu was the real drug.

There’s a moment where your nerves pinch together– and everything in your chest collects, all those funny feelings turning hot and heavy in your lower stomach, before you cum. And you cum, hard.

You grab Osamu’s hair at the roots with a moan– no, scream, almost reflective of the horror movie actress you were making fun of earlier, as you coated Osamu’s face with slick. You don’t even realize how much it was until Osamu raises his head and his mouth reflects glossily.

You’re swimming in the hazy cloud of pleasure for a while, until your breathing steadies and you’re settling into the couch with heavy pants.

“Not bad for yer first time, right?” Osamu chuckles, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“What?” H-how did he know–

“Yer first time smoking?” Osamu smirks as he pulls himself up so he can sit on the couch.

“Oh, y-yeah,” you mumble, pulling your sweater down so you can cover your lower half.

You avert your gaze from Osamu, embarrassed by the lack of clothes you had on. You felt a tinge more sober now– enough to realize that it was way past the time you thought you’d stay. The movie credits weren’t even playing anymore– the TV had just gone into sleep mode. Osamu notices this too when he takes a glance out the window.

You think about what he said. Your first time was good. And maybe… Maybe you should try having more firsts.

“It’s late, ya shouldn’t be walkin’ home at this hour–” So that’s why…

“Ya wanna just crash here?”

You let Osamu take another first.

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

LIKES, REBLOGS, COMMENTS, & TAGS ARE APPRECIATED + HELP ENCOURAGE YOUR LOCAL WRITER (ME)! ♡

[si-chen-g]

THE UNNOTICEABLE ; HAJIME IWAIZUMI

🏐 : ̗̀➛ hajime iwaizumi doesn't expect much when it comes to girls, but he thinks he might've finally found one thats out of his best friends reach.

CONTENTS // fluff / light angst / jealous iwa / i switch between iwa, hajime, and iwaizumi a lot so i hope that doesn't bother anybody / some cursing?? idk this is mostly fluff // 1.3k

PAIRINGS // hajime iwaizumi x fem!reader

A/N // I watched the haikyuu movie yesterday and it was so good icl... I wanna write for kuroo now he's so sexy. i tried out a different header theme for this one and I honestly like it more than the other one idrk. anyways enjoy this little drabble 🩷.

// MASTERLIST .

HAJIME IWAIZUMI has always been the less noticeable friend.

It's not like he doesn't get attention. He gets plenty of that. But when it comes to girls, or anything in the dating category at all, most of them flock to Tooru.

He doesn't resent his best friend for his popularity, Hajime just wishes girls didn't come up to him to get closer to his friend.

Him and Tooru are grabbing fast food after practice and a girl approaches him as he sits at the table he chose for him and his teammate. Tooru is in line, probably flirting with the girl across the counter as he orders for him and his best friend.

Iwaizumi feels a little pathetic for hoping that she's going to ask about him. That maybe, just maybe, he might be getting a chance for once. He gets his hopes up, only to be completely shut down when she asks for Tooru's number. He thinks she might notice the light in his face dim, but she doesn't acknowledge it.

"You'll have to ask him. Not sure if he wants me giving out his number to randoms." He says as he turns his attention away from her, a lousy attempt to hide his annoyance.

She nods understandingly, "W-well, thanks anyway." She stammers a bit, her voice small and nervous.

He stops assuming so much when girls approach him after that, always prepared to slide his friends socials and move on with his day.

So, when you approach him, obviously a bit hesitant as you clutch your sides and stare at him nervously, he doesn't even let you speak before he starts spouting his friends socials.

"Huh?" You ask a bit cluelessly, and Iwaizumi looks over at you.

"You're here to ask about Oikawa, right?" He says, staring down at you. He's obviously confused, a thick brow raised as he eyes you.

"N-no..? I wanted to talk to you." You reluctantly say, and he tenses up. You don't even spare a glance at Oikawa, who's entertaining a few girls a few meters away.

"Me..?" He asks, surprised.

"You." You respond, dead serious.

The puny sparks of your attempt at conversation light a wildfire in Hajime's weak heart. The small talk you try to make forms into real, genuine talking.

Although, even when you ask for his number, he can't help but think you might be trying to get close to him just to get with Tooru as he types in his number.

He doesn't tell you that he thinks you're playing him. And even if you were, you would've already had him beat because it's barely been two weeks of talking and he's already wrapped around your finger.

Hajimes lack of need for attention wasn't something you acknowledged at first. You thought it was natural because not only was this his first time talking to a girl, but it's your first time being the one approaching. You don't know what guys like unless they tell you, so you just do what you think is right.

And then you came to the subtle realization that maybe he's not desperate because he doesn't expect much from you. Is he toying with you? Was the first question you asked yourself.

On the other hand, Hajime doesn't expect much because he thinks he knows how this goes (he doesn't).

Hajime respects Tooru. And usually, he wouldn't add a but to that, but... he is willing to go to any lengths possible to keep you as far away from him as he physically can.

He knows how his friend gets with crushes. He'll either do everything in his power to completely embarrass Hajime, or he'll flirt with the girl and make her realize that maybe she doesn't like him as much as she thought.

That's his version of a loyalty test. Take the girl he likes around his best friend and observe her reactions to everything he does. So, that's exactly what he does with you.

Hajime had no idea that you've already met Tooru many times before. You light up when you see him, and Iwa can already feel his heart shattering into a thousand pieces. And then, to put the cherry on top, you go in for a hug. You're even on first name basis, no honorifics or anything. He might aswell lay in his coffin early, because watching you hug Oikawa is the closest to dying he's ever been.

You look over at Iwaizumi to see him glaring daggers at the two of you, a green eyed monster taking over his body as he scowls. Your smile drops, and you wonder what he looks so mad for.

"Are you alright, Iwa?" You ask obliviously, tilting your head and taking a step towards him. His eyes land on you, and they soften ever so slightly.

"I'm fine, don't worry about me." He responds, blinking softly.

And for the rest of the day, all you do is worry about him. The pain on his face and the damp look in his eyes whenever he looks at you interacting with Tooru.

When the two of you go back to his place that afternoon, he asks to talk.

Iwa starts, "Is there something wrong with me?" He asks. You're taken aback, but you can tell he's serious by the look in his eyes. He looks hurt.

"Why would there be something wrong with you?" You ask, reaching over to grab the hand at his side.

"I just-" His voice cracks, and you want to fall to your knees right then and there. Hajime is about to cry and you don't know what to do.

The lump in his throat grows bigger the longer he stares at you. "Why didn't you tell me you already knew Oikawa?" He asks, blinking back the tears that threaten to spill like water from a faucet. He didn't exactly mean to ask that, but he thinks it's much better than 'I thought that maybe for once someone might like me, but as always they go to Tooru.'

"What do you mean? I thought you knew?" You ask, oblivious to the thoughts running rampant through his mind. Your grip on his hand tightens when a tear breaks past the defenses he's put up. You want to ask what you did wrong. You want to ask why he's crying. But the lump in your throat from watching his sadness grow and grow is unbearable, keeping you from asking for some much needed clarification.

"Knew what?" He asks, unable to think of anything rational or any kind of explanation for this other than you're interested in Oikawa.

"Me and Tooru grew up together- He's my cousin." You say, eyeing him confusedly and sadly.

Iwaizumi pauses. A wave of embarrassment washes over him. He was getting jealous over your cousin this entire time?

The night you met Hajime, Tooru invited you, his cousin, to get drinks. He must've forgotten to clear this information with Hajime because now he's standing in front of you, his deep eyes wide and filled with tears of anger.

"What? Did I do something? Are you okay?" You begin asking questions profusely, and Hajime just stares at you.

And then he begins laughing.

You're confused at his sudden change in emotion, the humorous chuckles leaving his mouth catching you completely off guard. "Hajime, what's going on?" You ask as he brings you into a relieved hug.

"For a second there I really thought you and Oikawa had something going on." He responds as he places his head on top of yours comfortably.

You audibly gag. "Are you serious?! This entire time I thought you knew I was his cousin!" You say into his chest. He tightens the hug, a deep laugh leaving his lips.

"Man, this is so fuckin' embarrassing." He laughs, and you can't help but join in.

"Like I'd ever choose his annoying ass over you anyways."

And suddenly, the unnoticeable Hajime Iwaizumi feels seen for the first time in forever.

© AAJXS

[si-chen-g]

“this is killing me.” kuroo mumbled as he tossed his phone to his side. “just trust me bro,” his best friend-turned roommate bokuto grinned. “this works everytime for me i swear!”

kuroo sighed before grabbing phone again to refresh his instagram story views once more. several people had already viewed the post-gym mirror selfie he’d taken in attempts to garner attention from one particular follower of his; you. “maybe it’s too cringe…” he muttered while over analysing the photo that had already gained a couple of likes within the twenty minutes it had already been up for. “nah.” bokuto reassured him and pat his friend on the shoulder. “you look sexy.” kuroo stared back at the two-toned haired boy. “… thanks bro.”

this isn’t something kuroo would typically post but times were tough and he was desperate. he’d seen you around campus but luck was not on his side when it came to scheduling and the two of you barely had class time together. yet the little class time you did share, kuroo hung onto it tightly and would let scenes of these weekly one hour classes replay in his head more often than he’d like to admit.

“i feel like a modern jay gatsby,” the ex volleyball captain huffed. “my selfie is the equivalent of the wild parties he’d throw in hopes to get daisy’s attention except i don’t want to post every night, i’ve already made myself cringe with this one post.” bokuto stared back at his friend blankly. “yeah… whatever that means.” kuroo frowned back “it’s a classic, you should know what i mean!”

how much longer was he going to have to wait? bokuto had promised him quick results with this method and so far he’d felt deceived and lied to. if talking to you when he got the chance wasn’t enough to get a conversation going outside the classroom, then social media seemed like the next best attempt to start interacting more.

what were you doing? why weren’t you viewing his story? could you even see his story? did he accidentally block you?

these questions ran through his mind as he quickly rushed to check to make sure he hadn’t for some reason blocked you from seeing his story. he half wished he did because then at least he’d know what on earth was taking you so damn long to see the photo he was increasingly starting to hate more the longer it was posted.

“this is stupid.” he stated as he faced bokuto who had zero concerns in his method in gaining someone’s attention. “it works you just have to wait, trust me.”

kuroo frowned as the little red hearts of others who weren’t you fluttered from the bottom corner of the photo. “look!” his best friend grinned as he leaned over kuroo’s shoulder and pointed to the screen of his phone. “you’re getting likes on it!”

“what’s the point if they’re not likes from the person i posted this for in the first place.” kuroo grumbled back in response. he couldn’t believe he’d been subjected to such an attempt to gain some attention from you. it was ridiculous.

it had been about forty five minutes since he’d posted it and he was slowly losing his mind. sure, the post was going to be up for twenty four hours (if he didn’t give into the voices in his head telling him to delete it) so forty five minutes was nothing, but the minutes were beginning to feel like hours and he was dying inside. why weren’t you viewing it already and what could possibly be keeping you off your phone right now?

“this is stupid.” he decided as notifications from his old team mates started to flash up on his screen. the last thing he needed was lev replying with ‘looksmaxing’ to a post that was secretly dedicated to you. “no, it’s barely been up!” bokuto whined. “you look hot so you should get some replies anyway what’s the big deal?”

pinching the bridge of his nose, kuroo huffed. “the big deal is the person i posted this for hasn’t replied!” what was the point in making sure to go to the gym during a rest day just to take this photo if he wasn’t going to at least make his existence more known to you? he’d even worked his legs enough to the point of managing to achieve the sweaty but sexy look. the muscles in his legs were dying, but his dignity sure as hell wouldn’t.

the college student opened up his phone with the intention to end the mental war inside his head once and for all by deleting the post altogether. bokuto watched his friend in defeat but his eyes flashed. “yes they did!” he yelled and pointed to the screen as your name flashed at the top of his screen.

kuroo’s heart jumped at the sight of your profile picture he’d made a daily routine of staring at and the now blue dot indicating a message from your profile in his inbox. to think he was going to delete this post just a second too, what were the chances?

psyching himself up, kuroo took a few quiet deep breathes before letting the time next to your message pass for a few minutes. he wasn’t an instagram warrior by any means, but he knew enough about general rules in order to not look desperate online.

bokuto watched over his friends shoulders as the two stared in anticipation awaiting the message kuroo had been dying for. this was it. leg day two times in a row was gruelling and he’d regret it for the next few days but it would have been worth it. the countless messages from his old teammates mocking his attempts at a thirst trap could be looked past now that you had finally given into the bait he’d so carefully laid. this is what he’d been waiting for. days of preparing and deciding how to gain your attention had finally paid off and he was about to reap the rewards he’d sown.

clicking the message with baited breath, his heart raced as bokuto’s grip of his shoulder tightened. finally.

‘the label on your shirt is sticking out, make sure to cut it’

“a wins a win.” bokuto filled the silence between the pair as kuroo stared at his phone with a blank expression. “… a wins a win…”

[si-chen-g]

౨ৎ — who ru ? (lhs)

pairing. situationship! lee heeseung x fem! reader synopsis. enha try to figure you out genre. fluff & est. relationship at end wc. 2069 notes. ft. all of enha

none of heeseung’s members knew your name. 

which was ironic since they saw you nearly every day off they had. usually passing by heeseung’s slightly ajar door and taking a double take after seeing a female figure, then realizing it's just you, and wondering if you were heeseung's girl-friend or girlfriend.

they had grown used to your presence in the almost six months of you constantly around their home. yet nobody could ever figure out your name and who you were. 

despite running into you in the dorms multiple times none of the six had ever muttered anything more than a mere ‘hi’ or ‘sorry’ while passing. 

they always saw you around the dorms at least two times a week. though never once did they recall seeing you enter or leave. their eldest never brought you up, feeding into the idea you were some imaginary person.

heeseung was good at everything, including sneaking you in and out.

all of them being scared to say anything to you. acting like your identity was classified when they could just ask heeseung or you who you were.

but of course, riki loved to make anything and everything into a competition. 

after betting with his hyungs’ on who could figure out your name first, he spotted you in the house, residing in heeseung’s lap while he did some work on his computer. face buried in his neck while he typed away. 

riki camped out in the bathroom, with the door open, pretending to be cleaning the mirror. scrubbing the same corner repeatedly for almost ten minutes, waiting for you to use the bathroom. surely you would need to get up soon.

when he concluded that he couldn’t clean the mirror forever, he picked up his toothbrush and brushed his teeth. 

after brushing his teeth for a solid three minutes his plan was finally set into action. 

“hi riki,” you knocked on the open door. “how long do you need to brush your teeth for?”

“howdoyouknowmyname-” he spit out the toothpaste in shock. 

“riki, i’m here all the time,” you replied. “and you’re also a famous idol.”

“oh yeah..” he wiped his face with a towel from the counter. “why don’t i know your name though.”

“you’ve never asked,” you shrugged your shoulders at the younger boy covered in toothpaste. “do you mind if i wash my face, i think you’ve brushed your teeth thoroughly enough.”

“yeah of course,” riki set his toothbrush back in its holder and moved towards the door.

“you missed a spot by the way,” pointing to your chin to show where the toothpaste was left on him, lightly shutting the door.

riki’s plan had failed. 

the next to try and talk to you was jake.

he was confident that he could get your name out if you. maybe he’d even be good enough to figure out if you were heeseung’s girlfriend or not.

it was the day after riki had run into you in the bathroom. since it was their break before the long comeback season jake knew that you would probably be sleeping over. giving him the perfect opportunity to ask heeseung and you if you both wanted to eat ramen with him.

once the time on his phone read 11:15 he knocked on heeseung’s door.

“come in,”

“hi,” jake opened the door. “i was wondering if you wanted ramen, her too..”

this was perfect. surely heeseung would call you by name when he asked if you were hungry. everyone would owe him dinner for the week.

you and heeseung were on his bed. you cuddled up into his side while you both watched tiktoks on his phone. 

“baby are you hungry?” heeseung leaned down next to your ear. 

baby was not your name. jake frowned.

“no i’m okay hee,” you mumbled. “you can go eat though.”

he kissed your forehead before getting up from his bed to follow jake to the kitchen. 

jake’s plan had also failed, but the fact heeseung had called you a pet name gave him some idea that you weren't just a friend.

the uprise of interactions with the members confused you. they went from running away from you and avoiding looking at you every time you were within six feet of them to constantly seeking you and heeseung out. though it relieved you in a way since you were convinced that heeseung had strictly told them to act as if you didn't exist in the months you had spent together.

you and heeseung were in fact not an item, even though you both wished you were. you've known him since his nerdy bowl cut days in middle school, you weren't close before but after running into you years later that changed.

you knew that he had become an idol, it was hard not to notice when you saw his face on ads. never listening to his group but being able to recognize him if you were asked.

one day when you were on shift, at your then job as a barista at a small place. you had recognized him as you took his order. you didn't want to sound like an obsessed fan if he didn't remember you, so you simply bit your tongue the entire time. he had decided to tip you for bringing him his drink, which made you even more on edge when he left a stray napkin on his table with his number.

after that incident it was clear he recognized you from school, which was more worrying than relieving as he started to show up to your work even more.

eventually, his visiting you at work was not ideal anymore as he stuck out like a sore thumb with how tall he was paired with the black mask and sunglasses he never dared to take off.

alas, he had asked you to hangout somewhere else. now you no longer worked at that cafe and spent all of your free time off from classes being snuck into a kpop boy-group dorm to hang out with a boy who acted like your boyfriend but wasn't. awesome!

after your first encounters with riki and jake everyone followed after.

jay came in to ask if you had any allergies because he was making some lunch, again heeseung addressed you as anything but your real name.

two days later sunoo had sat down next to you on the living room couch and offered you a face mask. you nodded and you guys spent an hour together as heeseung and jay were gone filming for a variety show. right as sunoo was finally confident you guys were casual enough to ask you for your name heeseung walked in.

you jumped up from the couch making your way over and throwing yourself at him. holding onto him like a koala when he picked you up. he greeted sunoo, and brought you all the way to his room. shutting the door behind him.

you didn’t even get the chance to thank sunoo for hanging out with you.

within the same hour jungwon had barged into heeseung’s room, the door banging against the wall. 

“jungwon what the hell!” heeseung scolded, though keeping his voice at a whisper. “don’t you know to knock?”

“this is me exercising my leader privileges,” jungwon crossed his arms and fixed his posture.

“you could have woken her up..” heeseung stroked your hair, as you laid passed out on his chest.

“woken who up?” jungwon said mischievously, heeseung had to say your name now. 

“don’t act dumb, you can literally see her sleeping.” heeseung deadpanned. 

you started to shuffle in your sleep, beginning to wake up. 

“hee?” you grumbled. 

“it’s nothing, baby,” he answered. “just go back to sleep.”

heeseung sent jungwon a glare, shooing him out of the room. so much privacy for having only single room.

right when you thought it was over, it was finally sunghoon’s turn to figure you out. he contemplated creating a list of names that you kind of looked like and just shouting them throughout the house until you answered to one.

but after hearing jungwon explain how heeseung looked like he was about to chase him out of the dorm onto the street after he woke you up, sunghoon decided against his original idea.

he was sat on his bed for almost an hour thinking about what he could do. 

he concluded he should just be straightforward and ask you already. why hadn’t anyone else just asked you?

he let out a horrendous evil laugh that sunoo had given him a weird look for as sunghoon thought about how his plan was foolproof. he was about to be picking dinner every night for everyone.

sunghoon created a list in his head from what he gathered from all the other boys' failed attempts :

knock LIGHTLY on the door

make sure he is not interrupting anything

ask you NOT heeseung

get that free dinner

he waited for everyone to get to their rooms after dinner to make his way to the eldest’s room. you surely couldn’t have possibly fallen asleep yet as the sun had only just set. using his right hand, he softly knocked on the door. heeseung opened the door enough to show you sitting at his desk. 

“hoon?” heeseung questioned.

“i have a question.” sunghoon said firmly, keeping his chin up high, making himself look cocky in the process.

“shoot,” heeseung replied dryly, yawning at the end of his sentence.

“not for you,” sunghoon recalled the list floating around in his head, he pointed at you. “for her.”

overhearing their exchange, you took your attention away from the game you were playing on heeseung’s computer and spun the chair towards sunghoon. heeseung had no choice but to move aside and let the boy in as you had already taken note of his presence. 

“what’s your name? oh, and are you heeseung’s girlfriend?” he smiled, fist-bumping himself in his head as he finally did what the others couldn’t.

“i’m ____,” you grinned, finally happy someone had asked you directly like you and heeseung were hoping for. “i don’t know about the girlfriend part though.”

“____ i swear i was just about to talk to you about that soon-”

“i’m kidding hee!” you giggled. “i don’t understand why it took you guys so long, i’m always here.”

“i don’t know either,” heeseung agreed.  

“yeah right. you strictly told us not to look at her the first time jake caught her inside the dorm,” jay said as he walked into the room. 

one by one the rest of the group filtered into the room. sunghoon gives a whole speech about how he is truly the smartest and the first thing he wants for dinner is steak. which was nothing different from the usual but he was happy that he got to decide. the whole group talked for a few hours in heeseung’s bedroom.

once heeseung saw you yawn he quickly got up and ushered all the guys to get out as you were tired. while he was busy forcing riki to leave you collapsed on his bed and waited for him to join you.

“so girlfriend huh?” you teased as he climbed into the empty spot next to you. 

he scratched the back of his head with a nervous laugh before turning off the lamp on his bedside table. when the lights were off and you could barely make out each other's faces in the dark he spoke up.

“can i be your boyfriend?” he asked, his voice dripping with gentleness. he snuck an arm under your head and pulled you towards his chest.

“i mean i guess so,” you joked, causing heeseung to tickle your sides. 

you squirmed in his grip trying to bite him until he finally gave it a rest. 

you tilted your head up towards his trying to find his lips to give him a short kiss. ultimately missing due to the darkness and kissing his chin instead. the both of you giggled. heeseung then used his free hand to trace around your face to find your lips, bringing his head down to finally connect your lips to his.

the last thing you remembered before drifting off was the sound of heeseung lulling you to sleep with a song he had been working on for their upcoming album.

[si-chen-g]

CITRUS IN THE MORNING.

p — PARK SUNGHOON x gn! reader. g — fluff, lovestruck! sunghoon just being Very In Love. w — kissing. 403 words.

note — i have So Much feelings for this man and i just had to let it out somehow or else i'd die. hope u enjoy.

sunghoon, who has only ever daydreamed of holding you in his arms, feels dizzy when the citrus of your perfume hits his senses and the intoxication of your skin against his leaves his head in a blur and heart beat in a frenzy. he feels clouds over his head. he thinks he’s still dreaming.

“you look silly.”

but he’s not. it’s made apparent that you’re very real when your soft giggles hisses fireworks into his ears, when the warmth from your palms seep into his cheeks in tangerine shades, overripe from the love and adoration that swells in his chest every time he looks at you, at your eyes— what more when you’re making his midsummer daydreams come true? one word from you, and he’d melt himself into oblivion.

“is...is this okay?” he asks as if he’s committing a crime, as if holding his lover (he still isn’t used to calling you that) in his arms is a blasphemous act of treason. it’s evident in the nervous tremors of his knuckles on your hips as you’re sitting cross legged on his lap, smiling so sweetly.  it’s evident in his shaky breaths and the quiver of his throat. it’s evident when his grip suddenly becomes tighter.

the heavens should punish him for being blessed with the sight of an angel’s smile.

“it’s okay,” you hum and press a quiet kiss on jaw. he could die in your arms right now and be reborn in the earth’s soil all in the same breath just so you can slaughter him over and over again— with your warmth, with your embrace, with clementine kisses you’re peppering on his face, spritzing douses of saccharine pulses onto his cheeks. “tell me what you want. i’ll make your dreams come true, sunghoon.”

you already have, but he can’t say that out loud. he’s been granted the privilege of the dream that is you. 

“kiss me more.”

yet sunghoon surprises himself with his own greed. the sweetness of your lips all over his fevered skin must have lulled him to the senseless temptation of wanting to taste them with his own. but you’re so kind, so obliging to entertain his treacherous greed, and within a second’s notice, the electric citrus of your mouth on his bursts like a million pulps of tart and honey, and sunghoon is breathless, helpless, and smitten with the sound, sight, scent, and taste of you.

CITRUS IN THE MORNING. © hannie-dul-set, 2023.

[si-chen-g]

[midnight thoughts: sunghoon + heart eyes]

pairing: park sunghoon x gn!reader genre/warnings: fluff ! very cute very suitable 4 all audiences ! / not proofread, povs might be a bit confusing?? it's written in 2nd person/3rd person omniscient but also in hoon's pov kinda?? idk ,, i hope that's able to be understood lolol <///3, also LOVESICK HOON <////3 wc: 0.8k (i could've written more but i liked where this ended) a/n: this goes out to all my hoon stans (ESP my hoon biased moots bc ik there's a lot of u MWAH ILY PLS ENJOY this is my apology for never interacting) / i feel like this is a bit different from my normal writing style so i hope this little ramble-y mess suffices !! <3

park sunghoon is sharp; the slope of his nose is precise and pointed, his skin is even and supple while still resembling a cool block of ice, and the fiery soul of a phoenix reborn from its ashes is hidden away behind his frigid gaze. but, when he's with you—an uncharacteristic spell of heat courses through his veins; the blood under his cheeks seems to boil as they turn an embarrassing shade of vermillion, and the mystic bird is freed as you unlock the cage he has built around his heart. the way you hold him in your hands is gentle, the way you touch him is kind, and the way you kiss him makes him weak.

when he's with you, park sunghoon allows himself the chance to be soft. he melts like the chocolate sandwiched between two cozy graham crackers; his brain turns to mush, his thoughts are blurred at the edges, and his bones feel a bit too much like jello. sunghoon doesn't bother to uphold his "cool guy" reputation when you're around because he knows you prefer the real him—the one that stumbles over his words after seeing you in his clothes, the one that can't make it through watching the titanic without bawling, the one who still tries to cook for you despite almost cutting his thumb off with a mandoline slicer.

a fool, but yours nonetheless.

however, in spite of all this pure adoration sunghoon harbors for you, he still can't manage to will those eight, little letters from his plush lips. they feel too small as they sit and marinate in his mouth; he turns them over with his tongue, running the muscle along each syllable and tasting the overly saccharine residue they leave behind. they're not enough, he thinks, they never will be.

so, until he finds the right words, sunghoon settles for quiet moments like these. a wall of storms is rolling in from the coast; through the open window in the dorm's living room, the refreshing scent of impending rain spreads throughout the space. soft bouts of rumbling thunder become white noise that is almost enough to lull him to sleep, and the weight of your head in his lap evokes a certain peace that settles over every inch of his body. as sunghoon runs his fingers through your hair, he giggles to himself each time you snore on the inhale. there's a patch of drool seeping into the fabric of his joggers, but he can't bring himself to care; to sunghoon, you are perfect—in every sense of the word.

in the darkness, sunghoon's phone illuminates your napping figure; squinting, he sees that the boys have messaged the group chat, but truthfully, sunghoon is far more concerned that the vibrations might startle you out of your slumber. glancing down at you once more, he picks up the device to take a quick look at the messages.

[jake] twenty dollars that hoon's ogling y/n when we get back

[heeseung] do u even have to bet?

[jay] yeah i feel like it's kind of a given at this point

[sunoo] i just hope they're not on the couch .. i'm trying to cast the barbie movie to the tv ://

[jungwon] good luck......where Else would they be??

[niki] as long as they're not sucking face idc.....

[me] ok gross ... we r not Sucking Face u Child y/n's asleep on the couch, so don't be too loud when u get back

[jake] BOOOOO GET A ROOM !!!!!

[sunoo] UGHHH why can't u guys be a cute couple somewhere ELSE??

[heeseung] hoon's too in love ... Obviously

[me] stay jealous losers &lt;3

with a small flick of his thumb, sunghoon switches his phone to do not disturb and places it face down on the arm of the sofa. as he gazes down at you, his eyes are filled with an immeasurable amount of appreciation and fondness and gratitude. he finds solace in the sight of the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest; your deep breaths are a melodious sonata accompanied only by the sound of rain pattering against the living room window. sunghoon feels his heart pounding in his chest, and he thinks it's a bit silly just how much of an effect you manage to have on him. he sits with his thoughts, staring at the wall before him; sunghoon ponders heeseung's text, and comes to the conclusion that the elder boy is right.

sunghoon is in love—with you, to be specific.

however, he decides that he's the perfect amount of in love with you.

slowly, the calloused pads of sunghoon's fingers graze over the planes of your face, traveling down to the exposed skin of your shoulder. gently, he traces countless, miscellaneous shapes into your flesh, hoping you can feel each and every one of the triangles and diamonds and hearts in your dreams. tenderly, he tugs the blanket that had slipped down to the taper of your waist back up to your clasped hands. quietly, sunghoon prays to the gods and asks for the courage to voice his emotions, despite knowing that there is no rush—there never is. not with you.

and after a moment, softly, sunghoon tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear and murmurs, "i love you. more than you'll ever know, i love you."

[si-chen-g]

WHIPPED! . PARK SUNGHOON

pairing: camp counselor!sunghoon x camp counselor! fem!reader

genre: fluff && camp au + secret relationship au :D

word count: 0.8k

warnings: none i think? pls do lmk if there tho!

“hey campers, let’s not make y/n uncomfortable okay?” sunghoon chuckles to himself, endeared by the starry expressions on the younger children's faces as he gently guides the children away from crowding you. they groan in protest, trying to fight him off to no avail due to the sheer overwhelming lofty height park sunghoon.

“oo sunghoon is protecting y/n! he’s in love,” a little girl sings, a coy smile decorated on her face as she clasps her hands behind her and sways around. the other children join her, cheering as they exclaim “sunghoon and y/n are in looove!”

sunghoon rolls his eyes jokingly, fighting the faint blush on his cheeks and doing his best to hide the reddened tips of his ears as he feigns nonchalance with an unconvincing laugh, “y/n and i are just friends,”

“but you looove her!” the children insist with extremely determined expressions on their faces and minuscule clenched fists, “you think she’s super-duper pretty and extremely cool!”

“i am pretty cool, aren’t i?” you agree, nodding your head as you play along with the campers. sunghoon scoffs playfully, squinting his eyes in mock contemplation as he replies “i guess y/n is cool,”

“but don’t you think she’s pretty?” a kid pipes up, drawing out the last vowel. some of the children wiggle their eyebrows for added effect, eagerly waiting for their counselor to respond.

“maybe, but i’m prettier, aren’t i?” sunghoon jokes, eyeing you to signal his desperation for a way out from all of the curious children bombarding you two about your suspected relationship.

“oh? that’s debatable,” you snort, patting one of the girls’ heads affectionately as she cups her hand around you ear and whispers, “don’t listen to sunghoon, y/n! you’re super pretty! i actually think you’re the prettiest!”

“thank you, hyein, i think you’re very verypretty as well,” you smile, your heart melting at her earnest determination to dispel what sunghoon had said earlier.

“anyways! we need to head to the field now for the next activity! come on now group 6!” you clap your hands together as you stand up and motion for them to follow you. as sunghoon jogs over to stroll beside you, he inconspicuously leans in and whispers “hey, thanks for getting us out of that, let’s go to the amphitheater later when it’s time for them to play capture the flag, just us?”

-

after guiding the campers from your group to the field for their next activity and getting excused by the respective activity director, you and sunghoon slip out from the crowd and make a beeline for the amphitheater.

“hey,” he smiles, tugging you down to sit on one of the benches in the back. he positions you to lay horizontally, with your head in his lap as he sits upright. you clutch one of his hands, happily tracing his palms haphazardly.

It's a relief to get away from the crowd of rowdy children and get time alone with just the two of you, even if the campers were downright adorable and you were endeared by each and every one of them. 

“hoon, when do you think they’ll catch on? or leave the subject?” you ask, glancing up at him as he tilts his chin down to peek at you.

“about us dating and being in love?” sunghoon smirks, singing the last word the same way the children had done a few minutes prior. you laugh and pivot your head away, promptly dropping sunghoon's hand. 

“you’re so in love with me,” sunghoon continues to tease, attempting to shift your face to meet his while you stubbornly resist.

“shut up, didn’t you say i love you first?” you retort, ultimately giving in as you turn and face sunghoon, “and ask me out with the corniest love poem and a box of meiji chocolates?”

“and then you proceeded to fall madly in love with me,” sunghoon responds simply, “i mean i don’t blame you babe, who could resist my charms?”

“didn’t you ask jay and jake for help with writing the poem? and for advice on getting me to like you? and all they gave you was a joke poem that you took seriously?” you recall with a stony countenance, dealing the final card in your arsenal as a wicked grin materializes on your face, catching the smug expression on sunghoon's face slip instantly.

“we don’t talk about that,” he mutters, dipping his head down and capturing your lips in a kiss to stop you from further teasing him, “i’ll admit that i’m super fucking whipped and so in love with you. you're super duper pretty and definitely the coolest, just please don’t bring up what i asked jay and jake,”

“no promises," you giggle, shaking your head as you snake your arms around sunghoon and tug him in for another kiss, "but i am very very in love with you with you too,”

aya's notes: is it obvious that i love writing fluff sunghoon && scenarios of him sitting with ur head on his lap.

[si-chen-g]

park sunghoon as your (fake) boyfriend

pairing(s): park sunghoon x fem!reader

genre(s): fluff, mutual pining, fake dating (duh)

warning(s): none

summary: in which fake dating park sunghoon doesn’t feel like an act anymore.

note: a little something i wrote on a whim!! it’s just a bunch of one-line scenarios since i couldn’t be bothered to write anything with a plot but i hope u enjoy :)

you’re only supposed to be fake dating park sunghoon but the feeling of his arm snaking around your waist and pulling you close gives you all the comfort you need.

you’re only supposed to be fake dating park sunghoon but your lips unconsciously curl into a small smile every time his name is mentioned.

you’re only supposed to be fake dating park sunghoon but you keep wanting to share your deepest secrets and desires with him.

you’re only supposed to be fake dating park sunghoon but his mom already considers you part of the family.

you’re only supposed to be fake dating park sunghoon but you can’t stop yourself from craving his touch.

you’re only supposed to be fake dating park sunghoon but sleeping in his arms brings you peace.

you’re only supposed to be fake dating park sunghoon but you make it a point to facetime each other if you don’t meet for 24 hours.

you’re only supposed to be fake dating park sunghoon but he’s the first person you search for when you enter a room.

you’re only supposed to be fake dating park sunghoon but a blush always blooms on your cheeks when you catch him staring.

you’re only supposed to be fake dating park sunghoon but he makes you playlists and takes you out on dates more often than is required for your pretense.

you’re only supposed to be fake dating park sunghoon but he loves seeing you wear his clothes (you love wearing them too).

you’re only supposed to be fake dating park sunghoon but he’s the first person you call when something goes wrong (or right).

you’re only supposed to be fake dating park sunghoon but he claims you’re the only person he feels safe being vulnerable in front of.

you’re only supposed to be fake dating park sunghoon but he jokes about how good the two of you would be as parents after an hour of successfully babysitting your cousin together.

you’re only supposed to be fake dating park sunghoon but he cancels his schedule just to spend time with you.

you’re only supposed to be fake dating park sunghoon but your birthday is his phone’s password and a picture of the two of you is his wallpaper.

you’re only supposed to be fake dating park sunghoon but you can’t help but notice how your lips mold together perfectly.

you’re only supposed to be fake dating park sunghoon but he loves kissing your moles and using your neck like his personal canvas.

you’re only supposed to be fake dating park sunghoon but your heart aches when you think about the end of your arrangement.

you’re only supposed to be fake dating park sunghoon but you’re his emergency contact.

you’re only supposed to be fake dating park sunghoon but he takes care of you and stays by your side the entire time you’re going through something.

you’re only supposed to be fake dating park sunghoon but his wrist always adorns the hair tie you’d forgotten at his home.

you’re only supposed to be fake dating park sunghoon but you don’t think you are anymore.

you’re only supposed to be fake dating park sunghoon but you think you’re in love with him.

[si-chen-g]

sugar rush ride ….

[si-chen-g]

things the enha boys do that make your heart go wild.

enhypen x gn!reader! fluff! masterlist

✩ heeseung!

kisses you at red lights. TELL ME HE'S NOT THE TYPE OF BF TO KISS YOU AT A RED LIGHT, GO ON, I DARE YOU. he's SO that type of boy. he'll be driving, one hand on the wheel, the other one holding your hand on top of your thighs. you're chit chatting about something while soft music plays on the background. and then he stops at a traffic light, looks at you DEEP in the eyes, and just kisses you, in the middle of your sentence. I COULD GO ON AND ON ABOUT THIS, I MIGHT ACTUALLY WRITE SOMETHING.

✩ jay!

brushes your hair out of your eyes. OKAY i'm so soft for this man, and i know he will be talking to you and just 🤭 put your hair behind your ears, or brush it back! and he'll be so nonchalant about it too, like he will do it so much, eventually it'll just be normal and expected, so whenever he's around, you barely touch your hair.

✩ jake!

hugs you and keeps you on his arm for as long as he possibly can. he is the type of boyfriend to just come up to you, wrap his arms around you and STAY THERE. like just stand there like this 🧍🏻but with you. if there's people around, they will probably stare at you and be like 🤔

✩ sunghoon!

makes BOLD eye contact. i honestly think it'd be so intimidating to have him just stare at you like 😃 not in an weird way, but in a gut wrenching, heart warming, lovey dovey, "i'm so whipped for you" way. but he would do it like all the time!! you're having a conversation about trees and he'll be like "yeah, i like green 😃👀👁️👁️"

✩ sunoo!

watches your favorite show. i just know sunoo would watch your favorite show so you two can talk about it. gossip girl, grey's anatomy, friends. you name it, he watches it. and then he will get so excited about it and become a big fan! loves the show almost as much as you do 🥹

✩ jungwon!

plays with your hair. imagine just laying on his lap after an exhausting day and he just starts braiding your hair lightly, while listening to you rant about how your coworker is so stupid. and then you end up falling asleep and he just stays there, like a statue, to make sure you'll stay sleeping. top 10 dreams of mine.

✩ niki!

does stuff just because. OKAY hear me out. you two will be doing something and he'll randomly just give you a peck, and when asked why he'll go: "just because." IDIAURJJSHR!! OR OR you're watching tv, and niki will come behind you and mess up your hair, laughing at how adorable you look like that, and his explanation will remain the same.

[si-chen-g]

if the chara and trope thing is still open ... for a lil thing

can i maaaaaybe ask for a lil thing w atsumu and mutual pining or idiots to lovers LOL

send in a character + trope for a blurb

...

“oh my god, look at your hair!”

atsumu’s gaze follows your finger to where it eagerly points at a photo in your old school yearbook. after visiting his childhood home and finding the artifact practically shoved under his mattress, the two of you have spent the last hour giggling at all of the embarrassing old pictures from your teenage years. 

he scoffs at the humor laced in your voice, the one that’s poking fun at his messy dark brown mop from middle school. 

“oh please, that’s ‘samu,” he deflects. 

but growing up with the pair, you know better. he can’t fool you that easily. 

“no it's not,” you scold before cooing back at the little ‘tsumu in the picture, “look how cute you look.”

and at the compliment, atsumu directs his attention back to the book, turning it slightly his way to get a better look at the photo. “cute? lemme see that, oh yeah, that’s me. definitely me.”

a light slap is felt against his shoulder and god, he wants you to touch him again. you'd think he would’ve gotten over this by now—the giddy high he gets every time your skin brushes against his. but here he is, grown and successful and yet still putty in your soft, unknowing hands.  

he points to a candid photograph of you in the cafeteria.

“you always wore those stupid shoes,” he notes, eyeing the big clunky white sneakers that made you about three inches taller. he remembers liking how they made you eye level with him.

you hum, remembering how you’d practically worn the pair into the ground. “they were it back then.”

atsumu looks in the background of the photo to find his younger self sitting a few rows behind you, and while hidden by the camera’s blur, he knows he’s looking at you. he’s always looking at you, stupid shoes or not. 

“can i tell you a secret?” he almost whispers, and it’s unsettling how out of character it is for him. 

with a nervous laugh, you nod. atsumu smiles to himself before returning his attention back to the photo. 

“i had the biggest crush on you in high school.”

you snort, and while it's not the exact reaction he wanted, you’re smiling so he’ll take it. 

“yeah right,” you don't believe his confession for a second so he whines. 

“m’serious.”

and at his sincerity, your laughter fades and your eyes grow like saucers in disbelief. you’re looking at him like he has three heads, like he’s fourteen again and has that atrocious haircut back on his head.

“you’re lying,” you try to call his bluff, but his smile grows even wider. 

“imma lot of things,” he shakes his head at your amusement, “but a liar isn’t one of ‘em.”

“you had a crush on me?”

he watches as excitement slowly brews in your veins while you practically bounce with the need to know more. 

“the biggest crush,” he corrects with a knowing finger in your face. you swat it away as your tongue prods against your cheek in a grin. 

“so you're telling me that i could’ve bagged the atsumu miya.”

you still can, his heart aches. you always can. because it's the truth. he could be halfway across the world doing god knows what with god knows who, and he’d come home to you in a second if you so much as asked. 

but he can’t say that, because you're his friend. so he does what he does best, and he deflects.

“m’just saying! you were funny and pretty,” his voice drifts as the sentence goes on, and you’d think he was being sincere if he didn't suddenly perk up with a sarcastic, “and you gave me your homework sometimes.”

your eyes fall to the way his cupid’s bow bobs as he laughs. it makes you feel sixteen again, having a crush on your best friend and wanting to kiss the smug smile off of his stupid face.

but you can't, because he’s your friend. so you bite your tongue and passively let the moment falter. 

“yeah,” you scoff, “i’m the reason you passed geometry.” 

“and look at me now,” his head plops onto your shoulder in pride, “a genius.”

your eyes fall back on the photo. atsumu doesn't know if you see him in the background, but he hopes you feel him, hopes you know he was there. 

“i never would’ve known,” you whisper carefully. “i mean, you act the same way now that you did back then.”

exactly, atsumu wants to scream, because i still want you. i’m always going to want you. 

he can practically feel the weight of the words balancing on the tip of his tongue. he can say them, he’s sure of it. he's older now—stronger, more mature, and actually capable of being a man worthy of you. 

he opens his mouth to speak, and just as he does, your head turns and your eyes meet his. and feeling like the little boy in the picture, atsumu cowers. 

“maybe i should add acting to my long list of talents.”

[si-chen-g]

˚ ༘ ♡⋆｡˚ ﾐ the big inarizaki three's favourite artists!

✿²˖ ࣪ ➣ includes : suna rintaro, osamu miya + atsumu miya

note : THIS HAS BEEN IN MY BRAIN SINCE DAY ONEEE SUNA, OSAMU, IWAIZUMI, MATTSUN, KYOTANI AND SEMI R ALL TYLER STANS LITERZLLY FIGHT ME!!!!

suna rintaro :

!!? ok this man has 100% turned every single one of his friends onto tyler the creator. he likes to say he “discovered” him as if he didn’t have like 300 million streams at the time ?? and tbh he didn’t even discover him iwaizumi put him on 😭😭 but he’s a little liar so 🙅🏼‍♀️ but at least he has good music taste!!!!

his favourite songs by tyler the creator are :

- ARE WE STILL FRIENDS? on the IGOR album.

- FUCKING YOUNG / PERFECT on the cherry bomb album.

- MASSA on the CALL ME IF YOU GET LOST album.

!!? he will NEVER admit it but he LOVES red velvet 😭😭 he is a kpop stan till he dies and he is RIDDEN with guilt. osamu will be making fun of koreaboos (as he should) and suna will be slowly shrinking into his shirt as he starts yelling about how dumb kpop is. he truly would rather die than admit he knows every single lyric to sunny side up!

his favourite songs by red velvet are :

- BYE BYE on the reve festival 2022 birthday EP.

- russian roulette on the russian roulette: third mini album.

- BAMBOLEO on the reve festival 2022 feel the rhythm EP.

——✩⌗ HONORABLE SONG MENTIONS : give you the world by steve lacy. 505 by arctic monkeys. IMPURITIES by le sserafim. yes i’m changing by tame impala.

osamu miya :

!!? he is obsessed with cigarettes after sex! it is truly insane how it is one of the only bands that genuinely makes him cry. like he will be listening to K. with atsumu in the car and atsumu would be groaning like “dude stop with this sad shit its killing the vibe” as a single tear rolls down osamu’s cheek 😭

his favourite songs by cigarettes after sex are :

- john wayne on the cigarettes after sex album.

- affection (single).

- heavenly on the cry album.

!!? OK MAYBEE THIS IS AN UNPOPULAR OPINON but this man is 100% a shameful swiftie. he doesn't know why but he literally will not tell anybody he loves taylor swift like it is his guilty pleasure and for what ???? he loved her in her red era too, he is LOYAL he's been a fan since 2012 dude !!!!

his favourite songs by taylor swift are :

- the very first night [from the vault] on the red (taylor's version) album.

- august from the folklore album.

- i think he knows on the lover album.

——✩⌗ HONORABLE SONG MENTIONS : lovers rock by tv girl. pretty boy by the neighbourhood. apple cider by beabadoobee. SLOW DANCING IN THE DARK by joji.

atsumu miya :

!!? his favourite is chase atlantic because he's a fucking prick LMAO he is a chase atlantic MENACE he plays it everywhere any occasion and frequently LIES ab it??? he'll be like "i'm kind of a fan on the dl you know not that big of a deal haha the music is good but its whatever" and then squeal everytime he sees a tiktok of a concert 😭

his favourite songs by chase atlantic are :

- drugs & money (new mix) on the chase atlantic album.

- HEAVEN AND BACK on the PHASES album.

- goosebumps chase atlantic remix (unreleased)

!!? he will never tell anyone how badly he fucks with olivia rodrigo like he is convinced she wrote SOUR for HIM. he will lock himself in his room, walk to the corner of his room before sliding down the wall in absolute shambles as he screams all of the lyrics blasting through his poor headphones. osamu literally hates olivia for this exact reason he cannot listen to her anymore.

his favourite songs by olivia rodrigo are :

deja vu on the SOUR album.

all i want on the high school musical: the musical: the series soundtrack.

happier on the SOUR album.

——✩⌗ HONORABLE SONG MENTIONS : borderline by tame impala. beef flomix by flo milli. heartless by the weeknd. want u back by cher lloyd.