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sunshineangel0 · 2 months ago

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half past promises ! 약속의 절반

genre: angst, hurt/comfort, idol!au, established relationship, fluff. summary: you’re tired of waiting up for him, tired of missed calls, cold dinners, and the quiet ache of loving someone who belongs to the whole world. but tonight, on your anniversary, Felix shows up in the rain with roses, soft apologies, and a promise to stay. pairing: lee felix x reader. word count: 2.0k warnings: arguments, hurt feelings, swearing, soft make-up kisses, mention of loneliness, mild emotional whiplash, felix being a golden retriever bf who tries his best. a/n: this sweet angsty peace was written based on this ask by @sunsh1ne-ch4nlix with the prompt: “I don’t want you to fix me. I just want you to stay.” I hope you enjoy!!!

You were done giving him the benefit of the doubt. Done defending the missed dinners, the “five-minute” callbacks that turned into ghost hours. Tonight was supposed to be different, your anniversary. A night you’d clung to like a promise.

Rain lashed at the windows while you stalked the living room floor. The apartment smelled like takeout you hadn’t touched. Your phone, warm from your grip, vibrated once, a spam text, and you nearly hurled it at the wall. The clock over the kitchen door ticked so loud you wanted to scream.

When the front door finally creaked open, your heart jumped, then dropped like a stone. Felix stood there on the threshold, hair plastered to his forehead, hoodie half unzipped, droplets trickling off him onto the welcome mat. His eyes widened when he saw you, all storm and heartbreak waiting for him in the soft glow of the single lamp you’d left on.

“Hey-” he tried, voice gentle, almost hopeful.

“Don’t.” Your voice was ice over an ocean of exhaustion. “Just… don’t.”

He froze, keys still dangling from his fingers, bag slung low on one shoulder. A puddle gathered around his sneakers. Outside, thunder rumbled like the world wanted to echo you.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, softly, as if he didn’t already know.

“What’s wrong?” The laugh that cracked out of you was sharp, painful. “It’s our anniversary, Felix. Did you even remember?”

He dropped the keys with a metallic clatter, stepping forward like he might make it better with proximity. You took a step back, the distance a shield.

“I know what day it is,” he said, quieter now, like he was trying not to wake a sleeping animal that might bite. “I swear baby-”

“Don’t call me that.” The way your voice broke made something inside you twist. “I waited for you. Like a fool. Again. Do you even care? Or am I just… a filler? A pit stop between everything else that’s more important?”

Rain battered the hallway window behind him. He blinked, mouth parting, words bubbling up only to die on his tongue. You watched him try to pick the right lie, the gentle one, the one that would hurt the least.

“I don’t want you to fix me,” you whispered, throat tight, eyes stinging. “I just want you here. I just want you. That’s all I’ve ever asked.”

He stepped closer again, slower this time. You didn’t move. Couldn’t. You were too tired to run from him tonight. Too tired to brace for the same old ache.

He turned, reached behind the half-open door, like he’d hidden something from the storm. When he turned back, your breath caught in your chest.

A bouquet spilled from his hands, roses so red they looked black in the low light, baby’s breath tangled like frost. A silky ribbon drooped, damp at the ends. In his other hand, a glossy shopping bag, the corner of a receipt still peeking out like proof he’d tried.

“I didn’t forget,” he said, voice almost childlike. “I wanted to surprise you. I thought, I thought you’d smile.”

You looked at him, really looked. The wet, platinum blonde hair curling at his temples, the freckles dusted across his nose, the way the streetlight behind him caught the tears that weren’t rain on his lashes. He looked like a boy, not a man, standing there soaked and sorry.

“Felix…” You pressed your palms to your eyes, trying to push back the sting. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“I wanted it to be special,” he murmured. “I thought… I thought I could still do something right.”

He set the flowers down on the cluttered coffee table, careless with the fancy bag, like none of it mattered now that you were looking at him like this. He stepped forward, hands warm on your wrists, coaxing your fingers away from your face. His thumbs caught the tears before they could fall all the way.

“Please don’t cry,” he whispered, forehead brushing yours. His breath smelled like rain and cold night air. “I’m here. I’m staying. I promise.”

You searched his eyes for the truth, for the same old lie. You found both, wrapped in that stupid, sincere, reckless love of his. You hated him for it. Loved him more for it.

A sharp laugh tore out of you before you could swallow it down. “You always do this, Felix. Always. Promises you can’t keep. Birthdays, dinners, weekends, you vanish and I’m left here setting the table for two like an idiot.”

His jaw tightened, rain still dripping off his hair. “You think I want to miss those things?” he shot back, voice low but sharp. “You think I like picturing you alone, waiting on food that’s gone cold, because I’m halfway across the world in another hotel room?”

You flinched. His words cracked something open in you. But you pressed on, stubborn. “You could call. You could text. Just something. You disappear for hours, days..”

“Because I’m working,” he snapped, louder now, frustration bleeding through the careful calm he always wore for you. “I’m working, angel. For us. For this. For you.” He gestured helplessly around the room, the lights, the rent, the gifts, the life you’d built in the gaps between his tours. “You think I don’t hate it too? I miss you more than you miss me, you know that?”

You opened your mouth, ready to throw back another hurt, but the words caught in your throat. Because he looked so tired. Bone-deep tired. Dark circles blooming under his eyes, the kind that no makeup could hide on stage. The hoodie clung to him like second skin, rainwater soaking into the floor you’d mopped clean hours ago in a stupid rush to make the apartment perfect.

Your chest caved in on itself. “I know,” you said, quieter now, the fight slipping through your fingers. “I know you do. I just..” You wiped at your cheeks, embarrassed by the mess of yourself. “I just get so lonely, Lix. And then I get mean. I’m sorry. I know it’s not fair.”

He stepped closer, tentative, like he thought you might push him away again. “I’d give it up for you,” he whispered, voice hoarse with truth. “All of it. I swear to God, I would. But you’d hate me for it. And you know it.”

Your breath caught, a soft sound in the hush between you. You hated how right he was. Hated how much you wanted him to shine, even when it scorched you.

Felix let out a quiet sigh, like he’d been holding it in for weeks. He stepped closer, close enough that the damp heat of him soaked into your skin. His hands found yours, cold from the rain but careful as they threaded through your fingers. He lifted your knuckles to his lips and pressed a kiss there, warm and soft and trembling a little.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against your skin. “I’m so, so sorry, baby. I hate hurting you. I hate that I make you feel alone. I swear I never want you to feel like that.”

Your chest cracked wider, relief and regret flooding through the cracks. “I shouldn’t have said all that,” you murmured. “I know you’re trying. I know it’s not easy. I just… miss you too much sometimes.”

He let out a soft laugh, breathless. His thumbs brushed over your pulse like he could calm the storm inside you by touch alone. He leaned in, nose brushing yours, eyes so close you could see the flecks of tired gold in them.

“I made a reservation,” he said, voice like a secret meant just for you. “I swear. At that place you kept showing me on TikTok, the fancy rooftop one. I thought we could watch the city lights and pretend we don’t have to share the world with anyone else.”

Your breath hitched, your lips parting, but he stole the words from you with a kiss. Slow, tender, tasting of rain and apologies. He kissed you like he was reminding himself you were real, that this, the two of you, was still here to come home to.

When he pulled back, his grin, that crooked, sunshine grin, broke through the shadows under his eyes. “Go put on that dress,” he said, brushing your hair from your face with a touch so gentle it made your eyes sting again. “The one you sent me a photo of, remember? You looked so pretty, angel. Wear it for me tonight, yeah?”

You let out a shaky laugh, half-sob, half-love. You nodded, forehead resting against his. “Okay. But you’re changing too. I’m not going out with a drowned puppy.”

He chuckled, pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth, like he couldn’t help himself. “Deal. Just don’t run away while I shower, okay?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered.

The city spread out below you in a glittering sprawl of lights and distant thunderclouds. The rooftop restaurant was all soft music and warm, flickering candlelight, the kind of place you’d both scrolled past a hundred times and sighed about visiting one day. Tonight, Felix made it real.

He hadn’t let go of your hand since you stepped out of the cab, his palm warm and sure on your thigh under the linen-draped table. He kept brushing his thumb over your knuckles, like he still couldn’t believe you were really here, beside him, in that dress.

“You look unreal,” he murmured, low enough that only you could hear over the soft clink of glasses and distant hum of laughter. His eyes flicked down to where the silk neckline dipped, then back up with a grin that made your cheeks warm. “I knew you’d look perfect in it.”

You nudged his ankle with yours under the table. “You’re not so bad yourself, Lee Felix.” He’d traded the hoodie for a crisp black shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show his wrists, hair pushed back and still a little damp at the ends. He looked expensive and soft and yours.

Halfway through dessert, a tiny chocolate something you both barely touched, he shifted, cleared his throat, and slipped his hand into his pocket.

“Okay, don’t freak out,” he said, trying for casual but failing completely. He pulled out a small white box, the LV logo stamped in gold that caught the candlelight and made your stomach flip.

“Felix no-” you started, but he cut you off with that sunshine grin, soft and almost shy.

“I wanted to give you this earlier. But… we were busy yelling at each other.” His laugh was soft, self-deprecating. He nudged the box across the table with two fingers. “Happy third anniversary, angel.”

Your hands shook just a little as you lifted the lid. Inside, nestled in velvet, was a necklace, delicate, glinting gold with the tiniest, sparkling charm at its center. Elegant. Timeless. Just enough to say I love you without needing words.

“Felix…” you breathed. The city lights blurred a little at the edges. “It’s beautiful. You didn’t have to..”

“I wanted to,” he cut in, voice gentle but firm. He reached over, lifted the necklace out like it was spun glass. “Turn around for me?”

You did. His fingers brushed your neck, cool metal kissing your skin as he fastened the clasp. When he was done, he pressed a soft kiss just below your ear, sending shivers all the way to your toes.

“You deserve everything,” he whispered, lips brushing your skin. “Everything I can give you. And more.”

When you turned back, his eyes were so warm it almost hurt to hold them. He tugged your hand back into his lap, kissed your fingers one by one like they were the only thing worth worshipping in this whole shining city.

“Thank you,” you murmured, voice thick.

He smiled, that sunshine smile that made you forgive him every time. “Thank you. For staying. For still choosing me.”

Outside, the city pulsed on. But here, above it all, it felt like just the two of you, your hand in his, his smile soft and golden under the candlelight. And for tonight, that was enough.

©sunshineangel0 𖹭 if you liked this work, please consider reblogging, commenting or liking! xoxo franzi 💋

skz general @velvetmoonlght @scarlet789 @estella-novella @nightmarenyxx @channiesluvrclub @slut4junho @bobaluvzz @channiesbaby1433 @wonniesjungdimple @yxna-bliss @m-325 @rockstarkkami @felixleftchickennugget @oceanz7 @seungminsbest @fackeraccount @takuoshuji @xoxomanicpanic @catsforlife6864 @lezleeferguson-120 @angellcvkes @lezleeferguson-120 @doliveiraa @breakmeoff @soona-huh @cleverperfectionchild @yourfavoriteakutagawakinnie

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sunshineangel0 · 2 months ago

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That single dad sm fic was beautiful 🥹

aww tysm!!!! im really glad you liked it!!!

#skz imagines #stray kids scenarios #stray kids x reader #skz

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sunshineangel0 · 2 months ago

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wanna request an unholy headcanon so prepare your holy water

Its how ot8 skz would be obsessed with your tits-

have it ready to post during the next few days YAY !!!

#stray kids #skz #stray kids smut #stray kids x reader #skz scenarios #skz imagines

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sunshineangel0 · 2 months ago

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press play to ruin me ! (maknae line)

i present: stray kids and their own, private porn collection!

genre: pure smut, nsfw, sub!reader, dom!skz, recording kink, minors do not interact please word count: about 3k again warnings: unprotected sex, explicit sexual content, recording during sex, degradation, praise, light bondage, creampie, overstimulation, cum play, possessive behavior a/n: part two of happy 1k ! here is our maknaes getting off on filming while pounding into you hehehe🫠 please enjoy xoxo

-> hyungs

(한) HAN JISUNG

The first time Jisung hits record, it’s an accident. Well, kind of.

You’re in his studio. You’re bent over his mixing desk, knees trembling, your skirt bunched up around your hips, his cock splitting you open so deep you swear you’re going to sob.

He’s been teasing you for hours. Told you just one more take, just one more adjustment, until you were so worked up you climbed in his lap and ground yourself on him until he finally snapped.

Now he’s buried balls-deep, one hand on the back of your neck, the other gripping his phone like he’s texting. But he’s not. He’s filming. He’s been filming for five minutes, your pretty moans echoing through his studio speakers like the filthiest track he’s ever produced.

“Look at you,” he pants, voice cracked, desperate. “Bending over my desk like a slut. You know how fucking hot you sound through these speakers?”

You try to answer but it comes out as a gasp, your thighs quivering under the force of his thrusts. The desk shakes with every slap of his hips, pens rolling off the edge, a mug knocked to the floor. Neither of you care.

“Say hi,” Jisung groans. He lifts your chin with the hand that’s holding the phone, makes you stare into the lens. “Hi, baby. Say hi to my camera. Gonna save this forever.”

“Hi, oh fuck, Jisung-"

He grins. Wide, filthy, boyish, his hair stuck to his forehead, sweat dripping onto your back.

“Good girl. Good fucking girl. Gonna make you watch this later. Gonna jerk off to it when you’re not around, fuck, bet you’d like that, huh? Me stroking my cock to the sound of you crying for it?”

He flips the camera to show where you’re connected, your pussy stretched tight, cream pooling around the base of his cock. He spits on your back, rubs it in with his palm, grabs a handful of your ass just to make you squeal.

“Look at that mess. Gosh, look at that mess.”

He drops the phone on the desk, angles it perfectly to catch everything, your red cheeks, your parted lips, the way you push back on him even when you’re moaning no more, no more like a liar. “You’re so fucking greedy,” Jisung pants. “So fucking greedy for my dick. This tight little pussy just can’t get enough, huh?” You choke out a yes and he laughs — breathless, manic. His hand slides around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your vision go sparkly.

“You gonna cum for me? Gonna cum like a good girl while daddy records it?”

“Please, please, Ji, need it-”

“Yeah? You need it?” His thrusts get messy, erratic, desperate, his cock twitching inside you. He presses down on your neck until your cheek is flush against the desk, your eyes locked on the phone screen.

“Look at yourself, baby. Look at this sloppy little slut. Look how pretty you are when you break for me.” And when you do break, thighs clamped together, back arching so hard you nearly knock the phone over, Jisung loses it.

He buries himself to the hilt, cock pulsing, hot cum spilling deep inside you until it drips down your thighs, pooling on the studio floor. He keeps the camera on it the whole time, low angle, filthy angle, your cunt twitching around him, milking every last drop.

When you’re shaking, boneless, face sticky with sweat and drool, he finally turns the phone off. Or so you think.

Because two hours later, he’s got you in his lap on the studio couch, legs spread, your pretty hole still leaking with his cum. He’s got the video playing on loop in one hand, his other hand between your thighs, two fingers buried inside you.

“You hear that?” he whispers in your ear, voice cracked from overuse. “That’s you, baby. That’s what you sound like when you’re all fucked out for me.” He hits record again, a fresh file, a fresh moan, your voice wrecked and raw, and he saves it to a folder labeled ‘New Album Demos 🐰.’

You’ll find it next time you borrow his phone. Right next to a dozen voice memos of you moaning his name like a prayer.

(필릭스) LEE FELIX

Felix is soft. That’s what you always tell yourself. He’s soft. Sweet. Gentle.

And then his phone comes out , and all that sweetness turns into something darker, stickier, a need to claim every second of you coming undone on video so he can watch it later with his pretty hand around his cock.

“Stay just like that for me, baby.”

You’re on his bed, knees up, panties shoved aside, skirt bunched around your waist like a desperate little doll. Felix has his phone propped up against his pillow, lens angled perfectly to catch the sloppy mess between your thighs.

He’s on his knees in front of you, one hand wrapped tight around the base of his cock, the other teasing two fingers over your soaked folds, spreading you open, pressing against your clit until you squirm.

“Look how pretty you are,” he murmurs, voice deep and warm, dipping into that low, husky growl that makes your cunt flutter. “All spread out for me. So wet — fuck — you’re dripping for the camera, baby.”

You whimper, trying to close your legs. He tsks, grabs your thighs and pushes them wider. “Don’t hide. Let me see. Let the camera see how greedy this pussy is for me.”

When he pushes i, thick cock splitting you open inch by inch, the stretch hits so deep your breath stutters out in a choked moan. Felix groans right back, dropping his forehead to yours, sweat already dripping from his fringe.

“You feel that?” he whispers, hips rolling slow and mean, deep enough to make your eyes roll back. “This is all for you. Gonna fill you up so good, baby. Gonna watch it later and see how fucking sweet you look taking it.”

He lifts his head, glances at the phone screen. Smirks. “Smile for the camera, angel. You look so fucking gorgeous when you’re stuffed full.”

Felix fucks you like he’s recording his life’s work. Slow, deep, filthy. He drags it out, pulls almost all the way out just to slam back in and catch the way your tits bounce on video. He mutters praises in your ear, “good girl,” “such a perfect little hole,” “mine, mine, mine”, punctuating every word with a thrust that knocks the air from your lungs.

When you start to cry, he melts. His big hands cradle your jaw, thumbs brushing your tears away, even while he’s splitting you open and stuffing you full.

“Aww, baby, don’t cry,” he coos. “You’re taking it so well. You’re so good for me. So pretty when you cry for my cock.”

When you’re close, when your hips start to stutter and your hands claw at his shoulders, Felix grabs the phone, flips it to face you both in the mirror above his bed. He tilts your chin so you have no choice but to watch.

“Look at that, princess,” he pants, voice cracked. “Look how fucked out you are. Look how you squeeze me so tight, fuck, you’re gonna milk me dry, huh? Gonna make me cum inside this sweet little cunt for the camera?” You nod, babbling his name over and over like a prayer. He just groans, buries his face in your neck, thrusts so deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach.

When Felix cums, he stays inside you. Deep, full, warm. He makes sure the camera catches every twitch, every soft cry from your lips as he floods you until it drips down his thighs.

He pulls back just enough to film the mess, your swollen pussy, his cum leaking out, his fingers pushing it back in with a soft coo of “Stay full for me, angel. Just like that.”

Later, when you’re half-asleep on his chest, you hear him replay it. Soft audio echoing from his phone. Your moans, his filthy praises, the slick sound of him splitting you open.

He kisses your forehead, voice low and wrecked. “Next time, we’re filming it in the shower too. Gotta keep the collection going, baby.”

(승민) KIM SEUNGMIN

It starts because you begged for it.

“Please, Min,” you whine, cheeks flushed, panties already ruined under your skirt. “Please can you record it? Just once?”

He laughs in your face. “You’re disgusting,” he says, voice cold but eyes glittering. “You really want me to film you while I fuck you dumb? So you can watch it back later when I’m not here? Touch yourself to it like a filthy little slut?”

You nod. He hums, amused, tilts your chin up and taps your cheek twice with his palm, not hard but enough to make your cunt clench.

“Fine. But don’t you dare try to act shy when the camera’s on. I want it all.”

So here you are, back pressed to his headboard, knees pulled up to your chest, wrists tied to your own ankles with his belt so you can’t close your legs even if you want to.

He’s sitting between your spread thighs, phone in one hand, his cock in the other, lazily stroking himself as he stares at the mess he’s made between your legs.

“You see that?” he murmurs, angling the camera so it catches your soaked, twitching pussy in perfect detail. “Look how wet you get for me. Fucking embarrassing.”

You try to squirm away, but you can’t move an inch. He laughs, presses the tip of his cock against your clit, just enough to make your hips buck.

“Stay still. I said, stay still. Or I’ll start over.”

When he finally pushes in, he does it slow. Inch by inch, watching your lips part, your head tilt back, watching the tears prick the corners of your eyes when the stretch burns too good.

He catches it all on camera, zooms in on the way your cunt stretches around him, the slick, obscene sound of him bottoming out with a grunt.

“Look at you,” Seungmin huffs, hips grinding deep. “All stuffed full. Acting like this isn’t exactly what you begged for.”

You try to hide your face in your shoulder. He slaps your cheek, sharp enough to sting. “Eyes on the camera.”

He sets a brutal pace, not fast, but deep, deliberate. Each thrust hits so perfect it makes your thighs shake, your breath stutter out in choked little gasps. Seungmin loves those sounds. He tilts the phone to catch your face, your tear-smeared mascara, your drool-slick lips, the way you moan his name like a prayer.

“You hear that, baby? That’s the sound you make when you’re ruined. You sound so fucking pathetic.”

You whimper please, over and over, but he just smirks, fucks into you harder, deeper, pushing your knees back until your thighs press to your chest.

“Please what?” he mocks, voice dripping with condescension. “Please more? Please harder? Please let me cum? You think you’ve earned that?”

He drags his thumb across your spit-slick lips, pushes it past your teeth until you gag. “God, you look so pretty like this. You were made to be filmed. Made to be used.”

When you finally break, thighs trembling, cunt fluttering around him so hard you nearly pass out, Seungmin groans like he’s cumming too, but he doesn’t. Not yet.

He pulls out, strokes himself with one hand, keeps the phone steady with the other, aims it right at your ruined pussy, your hole clenching around nothing, begging to be filled again.

“You want my cum?” he huffs, voice all mock affection. “Beg for it. Beg for the camera.” You do, voice raw, throat sore, spit and tears smeared down your chin.

When he cums, he paints your cunt with it, thick ropes across your folds, your thighs, your swollen clit, then pushes two fingers inside, shoving it all back in while you writhe under him.

“Keep it in,” Seungmin growls, camera capturing every twitch of your overstimmed hole. “Wanna see how much leaks out later when you can’t hold it anymore.”

When it’s done, when you’re shaking and used and half-conscious, he tosses the phone beside you, cups your jaw, kisses you sweet and slow.

Then he smirks, voice soft but wicked in your ear. “You better not touch yourself when you watch this. If you do, I’ll know.”

(아이엔) YANG JEONGIN

Jeongin plays dumb. That’s his whole act. He blushes when you flirt. Laughs nervously when you pout at him. Stammers when you beg him to fuck you like he means it.

But then he does. And he never forgets to grab his phone first.

“Don’t look so surprised, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and sticky sweet. He’s got you bent over the kitchen counter, panties around one ankle, skirt pushed up so high it might as well be gone. “You wanted to show me how desperate you are? Guess you don’t mind showing my camera too.”

He taps his phone against your lower back, the soft vibration of it buzzing when he flips to record. Your eyes go wide in the reflection of the microwave door, hair a mess, lipstick smeared, thighs shaking.

“You look so fucking cute like this,” Jeongin purrs, pressing his cockhead against your dripping pussy, not giving you an inch yet. “All pretty and dumb and ready to be ruined in HD.”

You try to complain, Jeongin, someone could walk in, but he just laughs, low and cruel.

“Aww. Scared you’ll get caught? You should be more worried about what this camera’s catching. Open wider. Wanna see that greedy hole swallow me.”

When he pushes in, it’s fast. No warning, no teasing, just one sharp thrust that makes your hips slam the counter edge and your voice break on a sob.

“Oh my god, fuck, you’re so tight,” he groans, phone aimed right at the mess where you’re stretched around him. “You hear that? Listen to yourself, baby. Listen to how wet you get for me.”

He drags out every sound, slick, sticky, the slap of his hips against your ass echoing in your tiny kitchen like a filthy cooking show gone so, so wrong.

“You gonna cum already?” Jeongin teases, voice soft but mean, one hand gripping your throat to tilt your head back for the camera. “God, you’re so easy. Bet you’ll watch this later with your hand between your legs, huh? Rewind your own whines like a fucking porn star.”

You choke out a yes, yes, please, want it, and he moans, the sound wrecked and desperate as he snaps his hips faster. “Yeah? Then say hi for me. Say hi to future you.” “Hi, fuck, hi-” “That’s my good girl.”

When you cum, he doesn’t stop. Of course he doesn’t. He pulls out just enough to let you feel empty, then shoves back in hard, grinding so deep you swear you feel him in your belly.

“Such a mess,” Jeongin pants, phone still rolling as he bites your shoulder, his other hand sliding under to rub your clit raw. “Can’t even stay quiet, fuck, baby, ’m gonna fill you up so pretty for the camera. Gonna watch it later and jerk off to my own cum leaking out of this pussy.”

When he finishes, it’s sloppy, mean, he pulls out slow just to film the way his cum spills down your thighs, smearing across the countertop. He laughs, soft but breathless, as you tremble under him.

“You should thank me,” Jeongin murmurs, kissing your shoulder sweet and sharp. “Most girls don’t get to star in their own private porn.”

When you catch him watching it later, headphones in, eyes half-lidded, fist wrapped around his cock while your own voice moans from his phone, he just smirks at you through his lashes.

“Better than any video I could find online, baby. Now come here and help me make another one.”

©sunshineangel0 𖹭 if you liked this work, please consider reblogging, commenting or liking! xoxo franzi 💋

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sunshineangel0 · 2 months ago

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hey did u get my ask?

ill try to write all requests as soon as i cannnnn!!!!!!

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sunshineangel0 · 2 months ago

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Hi! Can you write something with Felix? Something angsty with fluff? Based off of one of your prompts, “I don’t want you to fix me, I just want you to stay” like you two argued because he kept forgetting your dates, and your last straw was when you THOUGHT he had forgot the anniversary, he didn’t got you a HUGE bouquet of flowers and some presents from LV, but before he could give you them you confronted him, ending up in a small argument, mid argument he just pulled out the roses, and you guys end up just going on a date and all that lovey dovey stuff something like that:) hope it makes sense:P

omg this is so adorbs!!! ill try to get to writing as soon as i can!!

#stray kids #skz imagines #skz #stray kids x reader #skz scenarios

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sunshineangel0 · 2 months ago

Text

press play to ruin me ! (hyung line)

i present: stray kids and their own, private porn collection!

genre: pure smut, nsfw, sub!reader, dom!skz, recording kink, minors do not interact please word count: about 3k warnings: unprotected sex, explicit sexual content, recording during sex, degradation, praise, light bondage, creampie, overstimulation, cum play, possessive behavior a/n: happy 1k you filthy little pervs 🫶 you asked for filth and i delivered. these boys can’t keep it in their pants or off their camera roll 🫠 enjoy xoxo

-> maknaes

(방찬) BANG CHAN

You don’t even see the phone at first. You just see him. Shirt off, hair pushed back, sweat gleaming at his temples. The way he stares at you, hungry, locked in, like you’re not even a person, just something warm and soft and his.

“Spread your legs for me,” he murmurs, voice dipped low like honey and gravel.

You do it without thinking. Of course you do. You always do. Chan climbs onto the bed, thick thighs bracketing your hips. He runs his hand up your stomach, pushing your shirt higher until your tits spill out. He laughs under his breath when he sees how hard your nipples are. Brushes a thumb over one, watches your back arch.

“You ready to be good for me?” he asks, tone teasing, a little condescending.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Please—“

“Shhh. Gotta make sure you’re really ready.”

He shifts, and that’s when you see it, his phone, propped up on the nightstand. Camera pointed right at your spread, needy body.

Your breath catches. “Chan, are you filming?”

He just grins, leaning down to kiss you, sweet and slow, tongue dipping into your mouth like he owns every sound you make.

“Course I am, baby. Gotta keep a memory of my good girl, right? So you can watch it later when you miss my cock.”

You try to close your legs, but he’s already there, big hands forcing your knees wider, his thumb slipping down to press against your clit. He circles it lazily, just enough pressure to make you gasp.

“Look at you squirm,” he murmurs, glancing at the screen to make sure it’s all in frame. “So shy now? But you were begging for it ten minutes ago. You think I’m gonna waste that pretty begging voice?”

You whine. He spits on his fingers, rubs it into your cunt, slow and filthy. The slick sound makes your face burn.

“Gonna fill you up so good,” Chan growls, more to himself than to you. “Gonna stuff you full, watch it all drip out for the camera. You’ll watch it with me later, see how pretty you look when you take every drop.”

He lines himself up, thick head pressing at your entrance. Doesn’t push in yet, just teases, nudging your hole until your hips buck up desperately.

“Beg for it. The camera’s on. Be good for me.” You bite your lip. “Please, Chan. Please, need you—need your cock—”

“That’s it,” he groans, finally sinking in, slow and punishing, bottoming out so deep you swear he’s splitting you in half. The stretch is obscene, he’s big, he knows it, he loves it.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he hisses. “Look at the camera, baby. Let ‘em see that pretty fucked-out face.”

He sets a brutal pace—slow enough to feel every inch, deep enough to make you sob. His hand grips your jaw, forcing your gaze at the phone while he pounds into you like he’s trying to rearrange your guts.

“Don’t look away. You wanna cum? You keep those eyes right on the lens.” You do. Because you’ll do anything for him. Because you love how filthy it feels, how owned you feel.

And when you break, when your back arches and your thighs shake, Chan doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, talks you through it, praises you for being so good for the camera while your pussy milks him for everything he’s got.

He cums deep, hips grinding down, making sure it’s all caught in perfect, ruinous detail, his cock buried inside you, your cunt fluttering around him, cum leaking out slow and warm.

He pulls out just enough to push his thumb against your hole, forcing his spend to stay inside. “Don’t waste a drop, sweetheart,” he pants, voice low and wrecked. “Gotta make it look good for the next time we watch it together.”

(리노) LEE MINHO

“You wore this for me?” Minho’s voice is low, rough, the kind of dark velvet that always means trouble.

You’re on your knees, lace panties pulled halfway down your thighs, matching bra straps barely hanging onto your shoulders. The sheer black fabric does nothing to hide how hard your nipples are, how soaked the crotch of your panties is. You’re a mess. Already. And he hasn’t even touched you yet.

He’s staring like he’s trying to decide what to ruin first.

“I asked you a question.” His foot nudges your knee wider. “Don’t make me repeat myself again.” You swallow. “Y-Yes. I wanted to surprise you.”

A grin curls at the corners of his mouth, all sharp and cruel. “You’re lucky I like surprises.” Minho doesn’t even let you stand up—he grabs you by the chin, tilts your face up, and plants a filthy kiss on your lips. Tongue deep, biting, possessive. You try to chase after it when he pulls away, but he just chuckles and lets you fall forward onto your hands like a pet begging for scraps.

“Stay.” He moves around you, boots clicking against the floor, and you hear the unmistakable click of his phone camera turning on.

You blink. “W-Wait—Minho, are you—”

“Oh, I’m filming,” he says, deadpan. “You think I’d let you get all dolled up in this little fuck-me set and not immortalize it?” He crouches behind you, the phone held steady in one hand while his other palm glides slowly, deliberately over your ass. “Look at you. Goddamn. You wanted me to make a video, didn’t you?”

You squirm, your face hot. “No—”

A sharp slap to your ass. “Try again.”

You shudder. “...Yes.”

“That’s better.” The next thing you know, your panties are off and your wrists are tied to the base of the bed with Minho’s belt. Your legs are spread wide with his hand gripping your inner thigh, holding you open for the camera like you’re nothing but a toy. His fingers slide through your folds, spreading your slick across your puffy cunt like he’s showing off his favorite work of art.

“Say hi to the camera, sweetheart.” You whimper, and he slaps your pussy just to make you moan louder. “I said say hi.”

“Hi,” you cry out, voice shaking.

He laughs like it’s the hottest thing he’s ever heard. “That’s my good little slut.”

Minho makes you look directly into the camera while he fucks you with two fingers, curling them just right to make your back arch. The squelch is obscene—wet and messy and loud enough to make you cringe. But he loves it. Keeps the camera close to your dripping hole, watching it twitch and clench around his fingers as you grind back like a needy bitch.

“I should send this to the group chat,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Let them see what kind of pathetic little cumdump you are for me.”

You cry out, but he just slaps your ass again and drives his fingers deeper.

“Don’t act shy now. You knew what this was. You begged me to ruin you.”

And ruin you he does. He fucks you on camera until you’re drooling. Until your mascara runs. Until your voice is hoarse from screaming his name. Then he flips you over and makes you ride him while he holds the phone steady, filming your tits bouncing and your eyes rolling back as you fuck yourself stupid on his cock.

“God, look at you,” he pants, sweat dripping from his hairline. “Fucked out and still going. You’re disgusting. You’re perfect.”

You cum with your fingers digging into his shoulders, sobbing into his neck while he fucks you through it, still filming, still degrading you sweetly. And when he finally cums inside you—deep, thick, a lot—he doesn’t pull out. No. He lifts you up by the hips and tilts the camera down to catch the exact moment his cum starts to spill out of your cunt.

He zooms in. Moans. Then shoves two fingers in to push it back in, just to see your stomach twitch again.

“This one’s going in my favorites,” he says, kissing your cheek like he didn’t just film your entire breakdown. “Might even watch it next time I jerk off.”

(창빈) SEO CHANGBIN

You swear you didn’t mean for him to find the folder. But he did. One accidental flash of your phone screen, the folder in your camera roll named “bin only 🫦” and that was it. The switch flipped.

Now you’re on your knees on his bedroom floor, knees red from the carpet, wrists tied behind your back with his gym shirt, the one that still smells like him, sweat and soap and a promise you’re not leaving that spot until he says so.

He’s on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, legs spread wide. Thick cock resting heavy against his thigh, flushed and leaking, the sight of it alone making your throat clench.

“Look at this,” Changbin scoffs, voice low, hot. He tilts the phone down to you, the screen shows you, legs spread, fingers buried in your own cunt, whimpering his name. “You filmed this for me?” he asks, tone dripping with mock sweetness. His free hand threads through your hair, tight at the roots. “Or were you gonna send it to someone else?”

You whimper. “You, only for you —”

“That’s right.” He tightens his grip and forces your head back. “You’re mine. My little fucktoy. My pretty slut. All these videos—” he swipes through them slowly, each one worse than the last, you bent over the bathroom sink, riding your pillow, whining like a bitch in heat “and not one of them’s got my cock in it.”

He clicks record. “Well, we’re fixing that.”

The next few minutes are a blur. He starts with your mouth. Forces your lips open with two fingers, spits on your tongue, taps his leaking cockhead against it until precum smears your lips glossy and ruined.

“You love this shit, don’t you?” he snarls, angling the camera down to catch the way your mouth opens wider, the desperate little whimper in your throat. “Look at you. Fucking drooling. Pathetic.”

You try to say yes, but it’s muffled when he pushes inside, slow at first, letting you feel every inch, then faster, rougher, until your nose bumps his abs and you’re gagging around him. He holds your head still with both hands now, phone propped on his knee, filming every sloppy, wet gag that echoes off his walls.

When your eyes water, he moans. When you gag, he groans. When your throat tightens and you swallow around him, he laughs, deep and low, filthy and fond.

“Look at the camera baby,” he pants. “Open those pretty eyes. Wanna see how fucked you look while you choke on daddy’s cock.”

Your vision’s blurry but you try — you really do — blinking up at the lens while tears run hot down your cheeks. He pulls out with a wet pop, slaps his cock against your tongue so hard it stings. “Good girl. Messy little slut. You think you deserve a reward for that?”

You nod, mindless. He drags you up by the hair, pushes you down onto the bed on all fours, flips the camera to catch your ass in the air, your thighs slick and shaking.

He doesn’t ease in. He never does. He splits you open, one brutal thrust that knocks the air from your lungs and makes your vision white out. The stretch is insane — you’re soaked, but it still burns, and he loves it.

“Say hi,” Changbin growls behind you, phone catching every bounce of your ass against his thighs. “Say hi to the camera, pretty girl.”

You slur it out, hi, choked and broken, half moan, half sob.

“That’s it. Let everyone see what this pussy’s for.”

He fucks you like he’s mad at you, like your cunt owes him rent and he’s collecting every overdue penny in bruises, gasps, slick-slick-slick sounds that echo in the filthy little recording he’ll probably watch on the treadmill tomorrow, pretending it’s just “music.”

He presses your cheek into the mattress, phone right there to catch your fucked-out expression. He reaches around, rubs your clit just to watch you cry.

“Gonna cum for me? Gonna squirt all over daddy’s cock for the camera?”

You can’t even answer. You’re too busy gasping, trembling, trying to breathe around the way his dick keeps hitting that spot that makes you see god. “Shh — don’t fight it. Be a good girl. Make a mess for daddy’s camera.”

And you do. You break apart all at once, a sob, a scream, your thighs shaking so hard he has to pin you down to keep you from crawling away. He doesn’t pull out. Not yet. When he cums, it’s deep, thick, hot, so much you swear you feel it leaking before he’s even done pumping you full.

“Smile,” he pants, voice ruined, breathless. “Smile for daddy’s camera. Show everyone what a good little cumdump you are.” When he pulls out, he films the mess — your hole twitching, stretched wide, his cum spilling out only for him to push it back in with two fingers, just to watch you shudder all over again.

(현진) HWANG HYUNJIN

It starts with a mirror. Of course it does. Hyunjin’s obsessed with reflections. The way they catch the light, catch you, catch the way your body folds for him. He sets you up in front of his big bedroom mirror, lights low, phone propped perfectly against a stack of books, camera trained on the two of you like it’s a private fucking film shoot.

And it is. “On your knees. Right here.”

His voice is gentle but his grip isn’t—he tugs you down by the hair until you’re kneeling between his spread thighs, your reflection showing just how ruined you look before he’s even touched you. Lacy panties already soaked through. Eyes wide, glassy, fixed on the massive bulge straining against his sweatpants.

Hyunjin laughs when you whimper.

“Aw, baby. Look how needy you are already. Do you know how pretty you look like this?” He picks up his phone, flips it so you can see the live view—your own face staring back at you, pupils blown wide, lips parted. He drags the camera down your body, lingering on the way your thighs squeeze together like you’re shy.

“You gonna show the camera how good you suck my cock?”

You nod, but he slaps your cheek lightly—just enough sting to make your pussy clench.

“Use your words.”

“Y-Yes. Wanna show you—wanna be good—”

“That’s my girl.”

When he pulls his cock out, it’s already flushed, veins thick along the shaft. He taps the tip against your lips, smearing precum over your mouth. Smiles when you dart your tongue out to taste it, so obedient, so hungry for him.

He doesn’t push all the way in. Not yet. He makes you lick him first—slow, messy stripes from base to tip, your eyes locked on the mirror the whole time. One hand tangled in your hair, the other holding the phone steady as you drool all over his dick.

“Look at yourself,” Hyunjin purrs. “See how pretty you look with your mouth stuffed full of daddy’s cock?”

You moan around him. He thrusts deeper, slow, then harder when you gag. Tears spill down your cheeks and he groans like he’s watching the best art film of his life.

“Fuck, you look so good like this. Cry for me, baby. Cry all over my cock.”

You do. Of course you do. When he’s had enough of your throat, he pulls out with a wet pop, your lips slick, chin shiny with spit and precum. He lifts your face to the mirror, phone still recording every second.

“See that? See that messy little mouth? That’s mine.”

And then he’s behind you, kneeling, spreading you open so the mirror reflects everything. His cock head slides through your folds, teasing your clit until you’re whining, pushing back for more.

He chuckles, low and mean.

“So desperate. So fucking cute. Beg for it.”

“Please—Hyunjin, please, fuck me—”

“Good girl.”

He slides in slow, bottoming out in one smooth thrust that knocks the air from your lungs. The stretch is perfect, painful, perfect, his hands tight on your hips to hold you still. “Keep your eyes open,” he growls in your ear, phone catching the mirror view of your fucked-out face. “Watch yourself. Watch how pretty you look taking daddy’s cock.”

He sets a brutal pace, hips snapping against your ass, the slap of skin so loud it echoes under your broken moans. His free hand sneaks around to toy with your clit, rolling it just right until your legs shake.

“You gonna cum? Gonna make a mess for the camera, baby?”

You nod frantically, eyes rolling back. He grabs your cheeks, forces your gaze forward.

“Eyes open. Want you to see exactly what you look like when you break.”

And you do, see the moment your mouth drops open, your thighs clamp tight, your cunt spasms around him so hard you swear you black out for a second.

Hyunjin fucks you through it. Doesn’t slow down. Just moans how tight you are, how perfect, how he’s gonna fill you up so good it leaks all over the mirror.

He pulls out at the last second—grips his cock tight, jerks himself over your back with his phone filming the whole thing. Warm ropes of cum splatter your ass, your lower back, your thighs, dripping down so pretty it looks staged.

“Stay still,” he pants, breath hot against your ear. “Gotta get this part. Look at that, fuck, look how pretty you look covered in me.”

Later, when you’re half-asleep, sore, mind fuzzy, he’ll curl up behind you, phone on the pillow, replaying every ruined, sloppy second until you can’t look anymore.

He’ll whisper, voice soft but wicked, “Next time we’re sending it to your phone too. So you never forget who owns this pretty little body.”

©sunshineangel0 𖹭 if you liked this work, please consider reblogging, commenting or liking! xoxo franzi 💋

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sunshineangel0 · 2 months ago

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if stray kids were animal crossing villagers !

Bang Chan | K.K. Slider

okay, not technically a villager… but come on. chan is the perfect fit for k.k. musically gifted, soulful, always showing up at 1 am to check on everyone. plays every instrument, gives everyone advice, and carries the whole island on his back.

Lee Minho | Wolfgang

tough on the outside, secretly soft. he’s got the cool, aloof energy, but once you’re close to him, you’ll find he has a heart of gold and a love for cats (he probably has doongie, soonie, dori memorabilia). would definitely organize surprise events for his friends and pretend it’s no big deal.

Seo Changbin | Bam

gym-loving, full of chaotic good energy, and always hyping you up. changbin and bam both have that cute-tough combo going on. loves to talk about working out and writing lyrics, and secretly bakes cupcakes for the villagers.

Hwang Hyunjin | Julian

dreamy, artistic, sparkles wherever he goes. julian is hyunjin in unicorn form: loves painting, poetry, stargazing, and dramatic flair. gets caught dancing in the plaza at midnight. Smells like moonlight and lavender.

Han Jisung | Raymond

smart, slightly chaotic, multi-talented. han and raymond both have that “i’m a genius but i just tripped over my shoelaces” energy. always working on 20 projects, tells the funniest stories, but then says something super deep out of nowhere.

Lee Felix | Stitches

the definition of warm and cuddly. felix and stitches both make everyone feel safe, love snacks, and nap a lot. he decorates his house with fairy lights and gives you gifts he made himself. probably smells like cookies and sunshine.

Kim Seungmin | Marshal

dry humor, secretly sentimental. seungmin’s sarcasm and marshal’s smug wit are a perfect match. he’ll roast you in one breath and give you his last medicine in the next. always has the most aesthetically pleasing house.

Yang Jeongin | Lucky

soft, a little mysterious, and very sweet. lucky’s bandaged look fits i.n’s unpredictable yet lovable energy, he’s the baby of the group but full of surprise layers. likes ghost stories, plush toys, and helping you catch fireflies.

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sunshineangel0 · 2 months ago

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can’t even make it in before they cum ! (maknae line)

i present: stray kids cumming before they’re even fully inside you because they missed you so fucking bad - part two !

genre: pure smut, nsfw, minors do not interact please word count: 450~ish warnings: unprotected sex, premature ejaculation, overstimulation, begging, filthy language, possessiveness, post-tour desperation, crying, creampies a/n: continuation of the needy gal chronicles. stray kids as pussy drunk (hot) losers just does it for me.

HAN JISUNG this man is a disaster. you open the door and he’s kissing you, tripping over his own feet, dropping his bag and already whining about how bad he needs you. he gets one pump in and then just loses it. “i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i couldn’t help it—fuck, i didn’t even move yet.” collapses onto you like a man undone, whispering filthy apologies as he twitches inside your pussy. “you’re so warm, i swear you’re something else.” after a little break and maybe some snacks, he’s back in action, harder, needier, and determined to make you finish and forget how fast he blew it.

LEE FELIX felix tries. he really tries. he paces around the hotel room when you surprise visit him on tour, muttering to himself, “don’t cum like a loser, don’t cum like a loser,” but the second he feels your pussy hug his cock he just folds. eyes wide, mouth open in a silent moan, he stills completely—just dumps a whole load inside without a single thrust. “i’m so sorry, angel. i didn’t mean to, i swear—please let me stay inside. i can go again, i promise.” he’s genuinely upset about it until you start teasing him, and then it becomes a mission. mission: cum more times than you can count. spoiler: he succeeds.

KIM SEUNGMIN he acts like he’s gonna tease you, like he’s got control, telling you to beg, to show him how bad you missed it. but the second his cock kisses your entrance, that smug look cracks. he shudders hard and lets out this broken moan before slamming into you with one sharp thrust and just unloads. “fuck, you don’t know what you do to me,” as he keeps rocking into you even while cumming, your walls squeezing every last drop out of him. he won’t admit it, but he loves how quickly he falls apart for you. and yes, he absolutely makes you cum on his tongue before he even thinks about going again.

YANG JEONGIN jeongin gets overwhelmed. you’re in nothing but one of his old hoodies, all cute and clingy, and he’s already hard before you even kiss him. he whines the second your thighs part, palms sweaty, cock twitching. “just the tip, just for a second, i swear—” and then boom. he’s whimpering, hips jerking, cum pouring into you before he even fully sinks in. looks up at you with big guilty eyes, cock still trying to nudge deeper like it’s not already done. “wait, let me go again. i can do better, promise.” and he does. four rounds later.

©sunshineangel0 𖹭 if you liked this work, please consider reblogging, commenting or liking! xoxo franzi 💋

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sunshineangel0 · 2 months ago

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can’t even make it in before they cum .ᐟ (hyung line)

i present: stray kids cumming before they’re even fully inside you because they missed you so fucking bad - part one !

genre: pure smut, nsfw, minors do not interact please word count: around 500 warnings: unprotected sex, premature ejaculation, overstimulation, begging, filthy language, possessiveness, post-tour desperation, crying, creampies a/n: they’ve been gone too long and your pussy is home and im just a needy gal with too much creativity 🧎‍♀️

BANG CHAN he barely gets the door shut behind him before he’s got you pressed up against it, breathing you in like it’s the first time. muttering shit like “fuck, i missed this—missed you so much, baby,” while his hands fumble to shove his sweats down just enough to get his cock out. he’s already rock hard and leaking, rutting up against you like a dog in heat, and when he finally sinks into your warm, wet cunt. he loses it. lets out this guttural groan and drops his forehead to your shoulder, hips twitching as he spills deep inside you barely halfway in. “fuck, fuck, i didn’t mean to—didn’t even last a second, shit.” he’s apologizing and kissing you all over, but his cock is still twitching inside, already hardening again. and you better believe he’s gonna make it up to you.

LEE MINHO cocky bastard walks in with that stupid smirk like he’s in control, like he’s not about to cum just from seeing you in his shirt. but the second your pussy clamps around him, he chokes. “you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” tries to play it cool “not my fault you’ve got a slutty little cunt that makes me bust like a virgin.” acts annoyed like you made him cum this fast. and honestly? you kinda did. he pulls out after the first spurt, kneels between your legs, and starts eating you out while still panting from the orgasm he just had. “don’t worry, baby. that was just the appetizer.” and he means it. he’ll fuck you properly when he’s hard again, which is in about 3 minutes flat.

SEO CHANGBIN binnie boy’s been edging himself the entire tour, too busy to jerk off, and your pictures were not helping. so when he gets home and finally gets your thighs around his waist, he’s done for. just the heat of you, the way your pussy parts for him, how tight you grip the head of his cock, it’s over. he cries. not even quiet about it either. “fuck, baby, i didn’t even get all the way in,” as he ruts into you pathetically, chasing his high with his cum already leaking out of you. apologizes like ten times while his hips keep stuttering into your folds, still half-hard. gives you the best oral of your life out of guilt and overstimulates himself trying to go again way too fast.

HWANG HYUNJIN whiny mess. all fluttery lashes and bitten lips as he’s trying to line himself up with shaking hands, whispering about how much he dreamed of this moment while on tour. and when your pussy clenches around just the tip, he gasps, head thrown back, trembling, cum leaking before he even pushes in more than an inch. “oh my god. oh my god. you feel so fucking good, muse.” breath hitching in his throat, body twitching with the force of it. he doesn’t stop either. keeps pushing in even as he’s still cumming, making little sobbing noises against your neck and promising to fuck you properly after. “let me stay inside. i missed you so much, please.”

©sunshineangel0 𖹭 if you liked this work, please consider reblogging, commenting or liking! xoxo franzi 💋

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sunshineangel0 · 3 months ago

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TO HAVE AND TO HOLD —﹙ K.SM ﹚

⌁ wc 9.1k warnings marriage of convenience, single dad!seungmin, nsfw content, unprotected intercourse, light choking, emotional tension, slow burn, fake marriage, mild angst, soft comfort, small town meddling. a/n wow i didnt think i would write almost 10k words!! but here i am and got carried away with seungmin (i should study but lets ignore that). ive just finished reading "wild side" by elsie silver and this idea immediately sparked in my head!! this was so seungmin coded and i just needed to write it. i hope you all like it!! 💕 ⌁ part two of the "twin heart series"

The sky over Summerdale wasn’t just darkening, it was bleeding out. A deep lavender haze rolled in slow from the water, swallowing the last threads of daylight like it had something to say and no rush to say it. The tide lapped against the cliffs below the bluff, whispering its secrets through the pine trees that edged the shoreline, soft and rhythmic, like breath against a sleeping body.

Down on Main Street, the neon sign above The Scallop Heaven blinked in its usual broken pattern "Sca op Heaven" thanks to the leftmost ‘L’ giving out sometime back in February. Nobody had fixed it. Nobody cared. That was the thing about Summerdale: things broke, people shrugged, and life just went on. You either made peace with the cracks or you left. Most people didn’t leave.

You pulled into the back lot, headlights sweeping over the dumpsters and salt-stained siding. The gravel under your tires made that familiar grinding sound, like bones rolling in a socket. You turned the engine off and exhaled a breath that felt like it had been aging in your lungs for years. Your body slumped just slightly in the driver’s seat, caught in that strange twilight stillness where movement felt like too much to ask.

The envelope on the passenger seat stared up at you, sealed but scuffed, the corner bent, the weight of it far heavier than the ounces it contained. It wasn’t just paper. It was intention. Agreement. Consequence. It might as well have been a brick.

You didn’t reach for it. Not yet. Just kept your hands on the wheel and watched the lights flicker off in the upstairs apartment, one room at a time. Soft glows blooming behind worn curtains. Minseo’s bedtime routine was unfolding exactly as expected: the nightlight shaped like a crescent moon staying on, the lullaby playlist humming from the old Bluetooth speaker, and three bedtime stories, in the same order every night. God help you if you swapped them. She was stubborn like that. Solid in her routines. Maybe because everything else in her life had already shifted too much.

Finally, you picked up the envelope and stepped out into the thick, salt-touched air. The car door shut behind you with a quiet, final thud.

Inside the bar, the world was dim and warm in a way that didn’t invite questions. The lighting came mostly from mismatched neon signs advertising brands like Schlitz and Genesee, none of which had been stocked in the fridge since at least 2014. The air smelled like lemon cleaner, spilled whiskey, and wood soaked with too many conversations people pretended not to remember. The kind of place where silence spoke louder than music.

A TV in the corner muttered through a baseball game, the announcer’s voice low and static-filled. Nobody was paying attention.

Behind the bar, Seungmin moved like a man trying to keep from unraveling. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, forearms tensed as he wiped the countertop in slow, punishing strokes. His face was unreadable, carved from quiet resolve and low-grade irritation. Like he was always one memory away from breaking something he couldn’t fix.

He didn’t look up right away when you walked in. Just kept working the cloth like it had insulted him personally.

Then the bell over the door jingled, and his head lifted. His eyes met yours. No smile. There never was, not lately. Not with you. Not because he didn’t want to—but because with you, he didn’t allow himself to slip. Not even for a second.

“You’re early,” he said, voice even, low.

You lifted the envelope slightly. “You’re always here.”

That earned you a shrug—one of those quiet, almost imperceptible movements that said more than words could. A shrug that meant so what, what else is new, what choice do I have.

You crossed the room and slid onto the barstool closest to the register, dropping the envelope between you like a gauntlet. He looked at it like it might bite.

“Everything’s in there,” you said. “License forms, witness sheet, affidavit, notarization schedule. We just need two signatures. And someone willing to lie with a smile.”

He nodded once, then reached for a clean glass and started drying it, gaze fixed somewhere behind you.

“Minseo asleep?”

“Out cold after book number three,” he said. “Same one she always picks. The penguin with the astronaut helmet.”

You smiled without meaning to. “She likes the ending.”

“Because it makes sense,” he said. “It’s the only part that does.”

And there it was again—that stretch of silence. The kind that settled in when two people didn’t know how to name the space between them. Or maybe they did, and neither one wanted to say it out loud.

“I talked to the social worker today,” you said, voice quieter now, like it might spook something. “She asked if we’d set a date.”

His hands paused for just a second. A flicker.

“And?”

“I told her February fourteenth.”

That got his attention. He looked at you for real this time, not just the flick-and-glance. His stare pinned you—focused, assessing, familiar in its intensity.

“Valentines day,” he said. “Day of lovers. Good omen.”

“It’s also three weeks from now.” “I know.”

You studied him—jaw clenched, scar on his knuckle still visible from the bar fight last spring, a faint smear of blue ink on his wrist. Minseo’s markers. Her favorite color.

“You still okay with this?” you asked.

For a beat, he didn’t answer. Just dried his hands slowly, folded the towel, and leaned forward onto the bar.

“I’m not doing it for me.” Soft. Quiet. Unflinching.

“I know,” you said, almost on a breath.

Because this wasn’t about him. Or you. It wasn’t about whatever unfinished history lived in the way he never quite met your eyes when you got too close. This was about the girl upstairs, whose parents had vanished under the weight of their own failures. About keeping her out of the foster system. Out of the trauma mill. Out of courtrooms that didn’t care if she still slept with a stuffed giraffe.

You’d offered your name. He’d offered his time. Together, you’d offered a lie that looked enough like stability to pass as truth.

“This place smells like regret and fried seafood,” you muttered, fingers tapping on the bar. “We couldn’t have met literally anywhere else?”

Seungmin lifted an eyebrow. “This is where I work. This is where I live. This is where she eats.”

He didn’t add and this is all I’ve got, but it echoed anyway. Subtext carved into every breath.

“I’m sleeping in the spare room,” you said. “I figured.”

“And if you snore, I’m buying noise-canceling headphones.” “Be my guest.” “And if this gets weird—” “It’s already weird,” he said. “But we’re still doing it.”

You looked down at the envelope again. It didn’t look heavy anymore. Just final. Your name, written beside his, in ink that wouldn’t wash off.

“You ever think we’re gonna wake up one day and regret this?” you asked.

Seungmin didn’t flinch. “Every day.” And then, with the same calm he used to pour drinks, he peeled the envelope open, pulled out the first form, and flattened it against the counter like it was just part of the job. You watched him. The steadiness of his hands. The restraint in his voice. The quiet ache tucked in the corners of his expression. This wasn’t love. Not yet. But it was something. Duty. Survival. A pact made over coffee and desperation. And somewhere beneath all of it—rising, quiet and patient—was the beginning of something else. Not fake. Not anymore.

You watched Seungmin slide the paperwork out of the envelope like it might disintegrate if he moved too fast. His fingers were steady, precise—the kind of steadiness that comes from trying to hold it together when everything else is coming apart. He didn’t rush. Didn’t fumble. This wasn’t someone signing a few forms for convenience. This was someone about to step out onto a high wire, fully aware there was no net.

He didn’t speak. He almost never did when the stakes were high.

Instead, he read. Line by line. Eyes scanning the page like every word might bite. That was Seungmin’s armor—silence. Careful, controlled, and sharp-edged. But you saw the way his gaze caught on a single line near the top of the form:

Minor child: Minseo Kang.

The name was printed in a government-issued font, uniform, cold, sterile but it still made his jaw tighten. His shoulders shifted, almost imperceptibly, like the weight of her name landed somewhere real. Somewhere that hurt.

He didn’t say Yeji’s name. You didn’t either. That part of the story lived under your tongues now, heavy and unspoken. But the memory didn’t care about silence. It showed up anyway.

Three months ago, your phone rang out of nowhere. The name on the screen stopped you cold: Seungmin. It looked like a mistake, like a ghost dialing from a part of your life you’d already packed away.

You hadn’t spoken in nearly a year. Not really. Just a handful of polite holiday texts. A few heart reacts on mutual friends’ photos. Enough to say we still exist in the same orbit, but nowhere near enough to call it closeness.

Back in high school, you’d barely lived in the same world. You ran with the loud ones, the party crowd, the kids who cut class and vacationed in the Hamptons like it was a birthright. Seungmin had been the quiet boy in the back row, always scribbling in the margins of his textbooks, always turning in homework on time even when no one else bothered.

Then, junior year, he surprised everyone by trying out for the baseball team. Surprised them even more when he became the best batter your school had seen in years. His swing was clean. Focused. Brutal. You remember someone saying he hit like he had something to prove.

But after graduation, when the rest of your class scattered, NYU, UCLA, study abroad programs, gap years in Europe, Seungmin stayed in Summerdale. That always stuck with you. That he stayed. Like the town had something left to hold him, even when most of you couldn’t wait to run.

You picked up expecting awkward small talk. Instead, his voice hit like a car crash. No hello. No lead-in.

Just: “She’s gone. She left her at the apartment and she’s gone. Might need a lawyer at hand.”

She was Yeji. His ex-wife. A hurricane of a woman with pretty lies and a self-destruct button she kept pressing. You remembered her as beautiful, brittle, always halfway out the door. Addiction clung to her like a shadow, quiet at first, then louder, then everything. It had eaten her slow, until there was nothing left but smoke.

Minseo had been six. Alone in the apartment. Crying. Clutching a crumpled lunchbox and a handful of crayon drawings like they could keep her safe.

By the time CPS showed up, the caseworker took one glance at Seungmin, a bartender, single, rent two weeks overdue, and started filling in the foster home recommendation before he’d finished his sentence.

That’s when he called you. Not because you were the best option. Not because you were qualified. Not even because you were particularly close anymore.

He called because you were the only person who wouldn’t ask why him.

Minseo wasn’t his, not on paper. Not biologically. But Yeji had been four months pregnant when she and Seungmin met and got married a few weeks later, and that had never mattered to him. Not once. He’d been twenty-three and drowning in side gigs, barely making enough to cover groceries, but when Minseo was born, he’d signed the birth certificate without hesitation. He’d rocked her to sleep at three a.m. He’d learned how to braid hair. He’d shown up for parent-teacher meetings when Yeji stopped pretending to care. He’d never called her his stepdaughter. He never would.

That night on the phone, you remembered his voice cracking just once. Then he swallowed it down and said, “She’s mine. Even if the paperwork doesn’t say it. She’s mine.”

And before you could even think it through, you said, “Then I’ll make the paperwork say it.”

And then, a breath later: “We’ll get married. For you to get custody.”

There was silence on the line. Heavy. Shocked. Real. He didn’t argue. Didn’t ask if you were joking. He knew you didn’t joke about things like this.

Finally, he said: “Okay.”

And now, here you were. In a half-lit bar that smelled like regret and lemon cleaner, watching him flip slowly to the last page.

The pen between your fingers felt heavier than steel. He paused. Voice low. Careful. “You don’t have to keep doing this. If it’s too much, if you want out, say so now.”

Your fingers curled around the edge of the bar. “Don’t insult me.”

“I’m serious.” “So am I.”

You stood. Not fast. Not dramatic. Just moved, steady and quiet, around the bar until you were close enough to see everything. The faint hollows under his eyes. The smudge of ink on his wrist, still there from Minseo’s last doodle session. The scar on his chin from the fight two springs ago, when some drunk said something about Yeji and didn't walk away fast enough.

“She’s a kid,” you said. “A good one. She says thank you when people hold doors. She remembers birthdays. She cries every time Bambi’s mom dies even though she knows it’s coming. She’s still soft. Still kind.”

His throat worked once. He didn’t speak. “She deserves more than being handed off to a stranger just because the system can’t figure out what love looks like without a blood test.”

When he finally spoke, his voice was wrecked. “And you deserve more than a fake husband with joint custody trauma.”

You huffed. “Don’t flatter yourself. This is strictly bureaucratic foreplay.” A beat of quiet. Then—dry, but soft:

“Liar.” Your stomach flipped.

Not because he was wrong. Because he wasn’t.

But you didn’t let it show. Instead, you held the pen out between you, steady and certain. “Let’s get married, Min.”

He looked at you.

Really looked. Like he was cataloging every piece of you—hair, expression, the resolve in your spine—so he’d remember what you looked like before things changed.

Then he took the pen. And signed.

The Marigold House looked like a set designer’s fever dream, whitewashed clapboard siding gleaming under the late afternoon sun, every window framed with blue shutters that matched the hydrangeas blooming in the front garden. The walkways were lined with crushed shell gravel, crunching lightly under dress shoes and kitten heels, and a trellis of marigolds curled over the gate like the house had grown into the name. It smelled like vanilla, orange blossoms, and something sugary-sweet, like a candle shop or a memory you couldn’t quite place.

You hated it.

Not because it wasn’t beautiful. It was. Everything was, too much so. Too coordinated. Too pretty. The kind of place where people threw real weddings, not legal chess moves disguised in tulle.

The courtyard out back was a honey-drenched watercolor, rows of white folding chairs, cream ribbons fluttering in the breeze, mason jars full of wildflowers perched on every other aisle. It was staged to perfection. Like someone had tried to manifest joy with Pinterest boards and afternoon light.

You stood just off-center from the archway, draped in gauze, strung with fairy lights, clutching a bouquet you didn’t like. Too much lace. Too many peonies. But Minseo had gasped when she saw it that morning and whispered, “You look like the fairy queen from the movie,” and that was the only reason you kept it. Not taste. Not tradition. Her.

Your hands didn’t shake. But your stomach was a war zone.

Across the aisle, Seungmin stood like a man sentenced, navy suit crisp, jaw locked, posture stiff like he was daring the moment to knock him down. He didn’t fidget. Didn’t even blink. Just watched the archway like it might collapse on him. Like maybe he was hoping it would.

He looked good. Too good. Tailored in ways that were unfair, broad shoulders in clean lines, throat dusted with stubble he hadn’t shaved close enough. A bruise-like shadow under one eye from too many sleepless nights. Still, somehow, he looked like gravity. Like a person you’d follow off a cliff if he asked with that voice of his.

In the second row, Chan leaned toward F/N with something snarky on his tongue. She elbowed him before he could finish. You caught her looking at you, and for a moment, her smile softened into something almost tender.

You looked away.

The officiant, a woman named Dottie who gardened with combat boots and baked lavender scones for the PTA, stepped forward with a clipboard in one hand and dirt still under her nails. She cleared her throat with theatrical warmth. “Let’s begin,” she said, a little too loud, her consonants clipping like she was used to reading storybooks to children. “Today, in front of friends and family, we gather to celebrate the union of Kim Seungmin and Y/N L/N”

Union.

The word hit your chest like an elbow. You wanted to laugh. You wanted to leave.

Instead, you felt the small, certain tug of a hand at the hem of your dress.

Minseo. She sat in the front row in a white cotton dress and a flower crown too big for her head, eyes wide, face glowing with the kind of happiness that didn’t know how to question itself yet.

She beamed up at you like this was the best story in the world, and you were the hero.

And just like that, the ache in your stomach stopped mattering.

The ceremony became a blur. Words like commitment, home, forever washed over you like fog. You didn’t hear half of it. You nodded in the right places. Smiled just enough. You remembered the feel of sunlight on your cheek and the way your bouquet weighed heavy against your wrist. You remembered the moment Seungmin reached for your hand.

His touch was calm. Unflinching.

Your breath caught. He wasn’t acting. He looked at you, not like a friend, not like a partner in some plan, but like someone seeing something for the first time that he’d known all along. Dottie smiled like she could feel the shift. Like she’d seen it before in other people and was already rooting for you.

She turned to Seungmin. “Did you prepare something?” He nodded. Slowly. Pulled a folded page from his jacket pocket. But he didn’t unfold it. Didn’t read it. He just held it. Like he needed to know it was there. Then he spoke. Low. Steady. No theatrics.

“You already know I’m not good at this. I don’t do speeches. Or… gestures. But I do what matters. I show up. I stay. I try. Even when it’s hard. I know Im not the best man or... lover or father. But as long as were married I promise to give my best to ensure that you, and Minseo will always have a warm home and a... person you can come home to. I know Im a hard guy. But you said yes. When you didn’t have to. When no one else did. And I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to be someone who deserved that.”

Silence. Thick and dense. No one moved. No one breathed. You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat sharp and unfair. Your chest ached like someone had pulled it open and replaced your ribs with strings. His words were so honest. Raw, Truthful. It made you wonder how long he had thought about them. About what to say. An now you felt bad.

Because you didn’t have vows. You weren’t supposed to have anything.

But then Dottie looked at you, that warm-patient-knowing expression, and suddenly you were speaking. You didn’t remember deciding to.

“I...", you looked up, directly into Seungmins steady brown eyes. They look like hot chocolate swirls, the ones after you stirred the liquid in the mug for minutes with a spoon. They look warm. Sincere. And like theyre holding the world together. Your troath went completely dry, but you continued talking:" I didn´t say yes because someone had to, but becasue I wanted to. Because you never asked for anything, even when everything hurt. Because you carry more than you should. Because the second you said Minseo was yours, I believed you. Ive known you since high school, Seungmin. Even though I didn´t always acknowledged you back then, ignored you most of the time in class, to be honest, I still always had an eye on you. On the hardworking student doing his homework inbetween classes, trying to keep his 90 average just so he can get a scholarship for college. I always saw more in you than just the quiet boy. I always knew you deserved more. And I hope that I will be the one who can give you that”.

Seungmin’s hand gripped yours just a little tighter. Behind you, Minseo sniffled. “That was so good,” she whispered. Way too loud. Someone laughed. Someone else wiped their eyes. You smiled, small. But real.

Dottie beamed. “By the power vested in me by the great state of California and the overwhelming desire of everyone here to see you kiss already—kiss your wife.”

Seungmin didn’t move. Not at first. Then, slowly, like gravity had to decide for him—he stepped in. Closed the distance.

His hand found your jaw, thumb brushing the edge of your cheekbone, and he leaned in like he was stepping over a line neither of you had dared touch before.

And when his lips met yours, it was quiet heat.

He kissed you passionately. Not like he was following a script. Not like he owed anyone anything. But like he was choosing it. Choosing you. Choosing this. And for a moment, the world went still.

His hand stayed steady, fingers curled at your neck. Your mouth opened slightly—only slightly, and he breathed into it, like he was trying to remember the shape of you. It ended before it could deepen.

But you knew. He was choosing you. Choosing this. Like you daydreamed about in class when you were a teenager. About the quiet boy, whose plush lips you wanted to feel against yours so so desperately and who you just wanted to feel close to you. And how you punished yourself back then for being this dumb and not befriending him because you belonged to the popular kids.

But now, he was choosing this. And for a moment, the world went still.

No lie. No paperwork. Just lips. Just warmth. Just the sound of your heart saying finally, finally, finally.

The sun was sinking fast behind the cliffs, casting long shadows over the bluff as guests trickled into the reception space—once a quiet garden, now transformed into a makeshift ballroom draped in paper lanterns and fairy lights. Tables sprawled beneath the open sky, centerpieces spilling with late-summer blooms, wax-dripped candles flickering in rhythm with the coastal breeze. Someone had already hit play on the playlist: soft indie-folk weaving between clinking glasses and easy laughter.

You didn’t let go of Seungmin’s hand right away. Neither did he.

Then Minseo came bounding toward you, arms flung wide, crashing into his side like she’d waited all day for this moment. He caught her without flinching—solid, instinctive—one arm around her tiny frame. The other let go of yours. Gently. Like he didn’t want to. Like maybe he shouldn’t have.

Back to the plan.

You slipped into the crowd like a shadow in tulle. Smiling when you had to. Nodding through small talk. Thanking people for coming. Hugging people too tightly or not tightly enough—people who didn’t know half the story. Most of them thought this was love. That was the point, wasn’t it? Selling the illusion. Convincing them. Convincing yourselves.

Chan found you by the dessert table, which had already been ravaged—cupcake casualties thanks to sugar-hyped toddlers and nostalgic uncles. He had a wine glass in one hand and that unreadable smirk in place.

“So,” he murmured, just loud enough for you. “That kiss?”

You gave him a flat look. “Let me guess. Looked fake as hell.” Then, quickly, to not raise any suspicion, you added: “You know… because we had to do it in front of family and all.”

He tilted his head. “Well actually? Looked pretty damn real.”

You took a sip of champagne instead of answering. Not because you were hiding anything—because you didn’t know what the answer was. Not anymore.

Across the patio, Seungmin caught your eye.

He was crouched by Minseo again, adjusting the strap on her glitter-covered sandal while she chattered wildly, arms slicing the air. He nodded along, completely absorbed. Like nothing else existed. Like this—her, now—was the only thing that mattered.

F/N came up beside you, slipping her arm through yours. Quietly anchoring you.

“You okay?” she asked. Light tone, but real. You nodded. “I think so.”

She glanced toward the empty arch where the ceremony had been, lights still strung across its frame like stars caught in the wood. “You looked happy up there.”

You followed her gaze. “I was.” Just for a moment. Just long enough to think—maybe you weren’t pretending anymore.

Dinner passed in a blur: speeches you half-heard, bites you barely tasted. The dance floor opened. Chan spun Minseo until she collapsed into laughter. Seungmin stood at the edge, hands in his pockets, eyes on her like she might vanish if he blinked.

You drifted off again—habit by now. Toward the edge of the garden, where the lights thinned and the music turned into a distant hum. The grass felt cool under your bare feet when you slipped off your shoes. Finally, the air had cooled too, kissed with salt and stillness.

Then came footsteps. Measured. Familiar. Seungmin.

He stood next to you, saying nothing at first. Just quiet presence. Shoulders a little tight. Hands in his pockets.

“She had fun,” he said eventually. “Said she felt like a princess.”

“She looked like one.” You both smiled. Yours faded first.

“This is going to get harder, isn’t it?” He didn’t play dumb. Just nodded once. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t think it would feel like this.” You turned to look at him. “What does it feel like?” He didn’t answer right away. So you did.

“Like I’m in something I don’t know how to want… but I don’t want to lose it either.”

He nodded again. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

The silence between you didn’t stretch awkward—it stretched heavy. Full. Like it had weight. Like it was holding everything you couldn’t name. Everything that kiss had awakened, shifted, stirred. Then he said, “Thank you. For today. For… all of it.”

You didn’t say “you’re welcome.” Instead, you said, “If this is what faking it feels like… I’m scared to know what real would even look like.”

He didn’t answer. Not with words. He just stepped closer.

Close enough for you to smell the faint citrus of his aftershave, the warmth rising from his skin, the lived-in softness of him that always felt a little like home.

“Then let’s find out,” he said—so soft you almost missed it.

You didn’t kiss him again. Not yet. But you didn’t walk away either.

The bridal suite looked exactly how a stranger would imagine it: One bed, drowned in rose petals you didn’t ask for. A bottle of unopened champagne sweating in a silver bucket. A clawfoot tub in the corner, positioned like it was waiting for a romance novel cover shoot. Everything white and soft and staged, like someone tried to force intimacy into the decor.

You stood in the doorway for a moment too long, shoes dangling from your fingers, unsure what to do with all that... expectation. It hung in the air heavier than the jasmine-scented diffuser on the vanity.

Seungmin stepped in behind you, hesitated, then shut the door with a soft click. The noise of the party downstairs vanished, sealed off in an instant.

Silence, now. Just the two of you. No Minseo, no guests, no cameras, no pretending.

Only you. And the one bed.

He scratched the back of his neck, already tugging at the stiff collar of his dress shirt. “So... this is what we’re working with.”

You gave a short laugh. “It’s aggressively romantic.”

“Feels like a setup.” You glanced at the petals on the bedspread and snorted. “That’s because it is.”

He didn’t answer, just moved toward the window and cracked it open an inch. The sea breeze filtered in immediately, tugging at the curtains and carrying with it the scent of salt and night-blooming flowers. You walked to the armchair in the corner, dropping your heels beside it and sinking into the cushion.

Your feet were sore. Your back ached. Your head buzzed with champagne and things left unsaid.

“We can flip for the bed,” you offered after a beat.

Seungmin glanced over his shoulder. “Flip?”

“Yeah. Winner gets the bed. Loser gets the... uh.” You looked around. “The chaise lounge that looks like it’s built for Victorian fainting, not sleep.”

He gave a half-smile. “Or, hear me out, we’re adults. Were... officially married. It’s a big bed. We can both fit.”

You stared at him for a second, waiting for the punchline. But he didn’t flinch.

“Yeah,” you said slowly. “Yeah, okay.”

You stood and padded toward the bathroom, peeling out of your dress with practiced movements. You folded it neatly over the back of the chair and pulled on the hotel-provided robe, soft, oversized, impersonal. The makeup wipes felt cool on your skin, like an eraser dragging away the bride mask you’d worn all day. You shortly cleansed your face and dabbed on a serum and moisturizer, before fiddling your hair into a quick braid.

When you stepped back into the room, Seungmin was already on his side of the bed, facing the window. Still in his dress pants and undershirt. The top three buttons undone, tie tossed over the bedside table. He hadn’t touched the champagne either.

You crossed to the opposite side, climbed under the covers cautiously. The sheets were crisp and cold and smelled faintly of bleach.

The mattress dipped with your weight. The room felt smaller somehow.

You lay on your back at first, arms pinned close, staring up at the ornate crown molding. He did the same. For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then “Can’t sleep?” His voice was low. Barely more than a murmur.

You smiled at the ceiling. “Didn’t even try yet.” More silence. Not awkward. Just... thick. Pregnant with whatever was pressing at the edges of this whole night.

“I keep thinking about earlier,” you said eventually. “The kiss. What Chan said.” Seungmin’s voice came slower this time. “Yeah. Me too.”

You turned to face him. He was already looking at you. Eyes open. Vulnerable. Like he didn’t know what the hell to do with how close you were now, physically or otherwise.

Your knees bumped under the covers. Neither of you moved away.

“I didn’t expect it to feel like that,” you admitted. “Me neither.”

Another beat. Then you asked, “What did it feel like to you?” He licked his lips, eyes darting across your face like he was searching for the safest way to answer. “Like I was breaking a rule... but it was a rule that never made sense in the first place.”

That stopped your breath for a moment. The quiet pressed deeper between you, wrapping you both in it. Your fingers shifted beneath the covers, brushing against his by accident—or maybe not. He didn’t pull away. His pinky grazed yours. Then lingered.

A whisper of contact. Stupid and small and devastating. Your breath hitched.

He heard it. Of course he did. His hand turned palm-up, open. Waiting. You didn’t think. You just slid your fingers into his.

The sheets rustled as he shifted slightly toward you. Closer. So close now, your knees aligned. The line of his body was heat and muscle and hesitation.

“Do you think we’re making a mistake?” you whispered. He shook his head, the motion barely visible in the dark. “No. I think not doing anything would be the mistake.”

You exhaled slowly, heart thudding so loud it felt like he could hear it. Then he said, “Can I touch you?”

The question landed like a drop of warm honey in your chest, slow, deliberate, sweet.

You nodded. “Yes.”

His fingers lifted to your face, brushing your cheekbone. Gentle, reverent. He traced the line of your jaw, then your bottom lip, his thumb barely grazing it.

You leaned into it, eyes fluttering closed. Everything in the room faded—the rose petals, the champagne, the fake romance. What remained was something quieter, rawer. The truth, maybe. Or at least the beginning of it.

You shifted closer, chest to chest now, knees tangled.

You could feel his breath on your skin, the hitch of it as your hands explored the space between shoulder and waist, slipping beneath the edge of his shirt. Warm skin. Steady heartbeat. Every inch felt like a confession.

Neither of you rushed it. But the ache was building. Slow and hungry.

And this time, when you kissed him, there was no audience, no plan, no pretending.

Just you. Just him. Just real.

The kiss started slow.

Cautious. Soft. A testing of boundaries neither of you had dared cross before now. His lips brushed yours once, featherlight, almost reverent. Like he was asking permission even as your bodies already answered.

You kissed him back. That was all it took. Something inside Seungmin snapped, some invisible thread that had held him in check all day, through the ceremony, the photos, the act. It unraveled in a heartbeat.

He surged forward, mouth hungry, hands threading into your hair as he deepened the kiss like he wanted to climb inside you. His tongue licked into your mouth, desperate and sure. You moaned, breath caught, thighs instinctively parting beneath the sheets.

“Fuck,” he growled, pulling back just enough to look at you, hair messy, pupils blown wide, lips already swollen. “Sorry. Im so sorry, but gosh, Y/N. Do you know how long ive wanted to do this? Do you know how hard it was all day, marrying you, making you my wife and having to pretend you haven´t been showing up in my wet dreams since high school?", he growled. "Pretty, popular Y/N L/N. You know how bad I wanted to fuck you back then? Do you know how bad I want you right now?"

"Show me,” you whispered. That did it.

He moved fast, tugging the robe off your shoulders, baring skin inch by inch like unwrapping something sacred. His hands didn’t fumble. They claimed. Traced. Gripped.

“Look at you,” he murmured, dragging his mouth down your throat, over your collarbone. “So fucking beautiful. My wife.”

The word sent a jolt straight through you. You weren’t used to hearing it like that, hot and reverent in the same breath. You didn’t think it would turn you on the way it did. But Seungmin said it like a vow. Like a right. Like he was ready to worship you with his mouth and his hands and every sharp edge of him.

“If we’re already married,” he said against your chest, licking a slow stripe up your sternum, “we might as well act like it.”

Then his mouth closed around your nipple and your back arched hard.

He sucked deep and slow while his fingers slid between your thighs. No teasing. Just heat and friction and filthy, slick pressure. You were soaked already—your whole body trembling, wrecked from a day of pretending.

He kissed lower, dragging the sheets with him, settling between your thighs with a low groan.

“Been thinking about this since I saw you today,” he admitted, breath hot against your core. “That little white dress. You didn’t even know how good you looked, did you?”

You whimpered as his mouth found you, tongue firm and greedy, licking you open like he was starving. You couldn’t stay still, hips grinding, thighs clenching around his head. He didn’t stop. He held you there, hands anchoring you down as his tongue fucked you deeper and his voice vibrated against your skin:

“Take it, baby. You can take it. That’s it... that’s my girl.”

You were already close, embarrassingly fast, but he pulled back just before you tipped over.

“No,” he muttered. “Not yet. I want you to come on my cock first.”

He crawled up your body again, his chest flush with yours, cock heavy and hard between you. One hand grabbed your jaw, angling your face to meet his eyes.

“Last chance,” he said, voice dark and low. “You want me to stop?”

You shook your head fast, desperate. “No. Don’t you fucking dare.”

He growled and kissed you again, messy and deep, grinding against your core like he was already inside you.

“I’m going to fuck you raw,” he whispered into your mouth. “I’ll pull out. I swear. For now. But I need to feel you. All of you.”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Yes, yes, just do it, Seungmin, please.”

The blunt head of his cock slid against your entrance, wet, hot, perfect. He pushed in slow, inch by inch, jaw clenched so tight you thought he might snap.

“Jesus,” he hissed. “You feel... fuck, baby, you feel like heaven.”

You weren’t quiet either. You dug your nails into his back as he bottomed out, the stretch too much and not enough all at once. The feeling of him bare, skin to skin, filled some kind of void you hadn’t realized was aching.

Then he started moving. And the rhythm wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t careful. It was raw.

He fucked you like he owned you, like he’d earned it after every second of pretending, every fake smile, every polite touch that meant nothing compared to this.

The bed creaked. Your moans turned high and desperate. His grip bruised your hips as he drove into you harder, faster, head pressed to your shoulder.

“You’re mine tonight,” he groaned. “Mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped. “All yours.”

“Fucking right you are.” One hand reached up and wrapped around your throat, not tight, but enough to claim. To hold. To make your breath catch as he pounded into you, each thrust snapping something loose in your brain.

You clawed at him, pulled him closer, whispered his name like a prayer.

When your orgasm hit, it was violent, body locking, back arching, vision gone white. You sobbed his name, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes.

Seungmin cursed low and pulled out just in time, spilling hot across your stomach with a strangled noise that sounded half-pain, half-devotion.

He didn’t collapse immediately. He stared down at you, panting, flushed, ruined and whispered, “You’re everything.”

Then he kissed you again. Slow now. Gentle. Full of wonder. And for the first time all day, the act was over. This was real.

The room was warm now. Too warm.

The air felt thick with sweat, breath, and everything unsaid. Your heart still pounded in your ribs like it hadn’t caught up with the rest of your body yet. Your chest rose and fell in slow, uneven waves, the world quiet except for the soft rustle of sheets and the muted whistle of the breeze through the cracked window.

Seungmin was still above you, braced on his elbows, forehead resting gently against yours like he couldn’t quite let go yet. Like if he moved, the spell might break.

You weren’t in a rush either. His breath ghosted over your cheek. Warm. Human. Steady. “I wasn’t supposed to do that,” he said, voice low and ruined.

You didn’t move. “But you did.”

“Yeah,” he breathed, more to himself. “I did.” His thumb brushed your jaw. Just once. Soft. Reverent.

“I should’ve taken it slower,” he murmured. “You deserved more than that.”

You turned your head, met his gaze in the dim light. “That was more,” you said, quietly. “That wasn’t nothing, Seungmin.” He exhaled like he’d been holding that breath for days. You reached up and pushed the damp hair off his forehead. “You okay?”

He nodded, slow and quiet. “Yeah. I just—”

His mouth opened. Closed. He rolled onto his side, pulling you gently with him so your body settled into the curve of his chest. One arm wrapped around your waist. Not tight, but firm. Protective.

You felt safe. It startled you a little, how safe. “I kept thinking about it,” he said into your hair. “All day. You. Us. I told myself I wouldn’t... not unless it meant something.”

You pressed your palm to his chest, right over his heartbeat. “And did it?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. It did.” Silence stretched between you again. This time, it felt like a blanket. “I used to think about you,” you said, your voice a murmur in the dark. “In school. In class. I’d pretend I didn’t notice you, but I did. Every time.”

He let out a quiet breath, the hint of a laugh buried in it. “I used to imagine you were way out of my league.” You smiled into his chest. “I kind of was.”

“Yeah,” he said. “You were. And now you’re... my wife.” The word made your stomach twist in a way you weren’t ready for. “You don’t have to keep calling me that,” you said, light but careful. He pulled back just enough to see your face, his expression unreadable.

“I want to.” You swallowed. “Okay.”

His hand stroked down your back, slow and soothing. “This doesn’t have to be anything we’re not ready for,” he said. “But I’m not going to pretend anymore, either.”

You blinked. “Pretend what?” “That I don’t want you. That I haven’t wanted you for a long time. That this... doesn’t feel like the start of something.”

Your throat tightened. “We made a plan. For Minseo. For—”

“I know,” he said. “And I meant it. I’ll keep my promise. We’ll raise her right. We’ll keep her safe.” His hand slid under the blanket, palm warm against your spine. “But I’m allowed to want the rest too. If you want it.”

You turned in his arms, meeting him fully, heart raw and exposed. “What if I’m scared?” you asked.

He cupped your face again, his touch almost unbearably gentle now. “Me too,” he whispered. “But if we’re going to build a lie that feels this real... maybe it’s not a lie anymore.” Your breath hitched.

“I meant what I said,” he added. “You didn’t have to say yes. But you did. And I want to be the man who makes that mean something.”

You felt the tears sting before you could stop them. “Seungmin...”

“I’ve got you,” he said, voice breaking just slightly. “Whatever this turns into. However long it takes. I’ve got you.” He kissed your forehead. Then your nose. Then your mouth. Slow. Tender. Nothing urgent, just connection. Just care. He held you like something precious. Like something he’d finally been allowed to keep.

THREE WEEKS LATER

The mornings had started to find their rhythm.

Not perfectly. Not smoothly. But real.

You woke to the smell of pancakes, again. Seungmin had a thing about breakfast, apparently. Said it anchored the day. You suspected it was more about giving Minseo something constant, something warm to start from. She still clung to her routines like a life vest.

You padded into the kitchen barefoot, robe slung haphazardly around your body, hair in a loose braid that had barely survived the night. The sound of cartoon voices filtered in from the living room, Minseo’s Saturday morning ritual, and over it all: the low sizzle of batter on a skillet, and Seungmin humming some unidentifiable tune under his breath.

He looked up when you walked in.

His hair was a mess. He hadn’t shaved. There was flour on his wrist and a smear of something syrupy on the hem of his shirt. He looked like someone who belonged in a kitchen at 8:07 a.m., tired but present.

His eyes lingered for a beat too long on your legs. “Good morning, wife,” he said, voice still sleep-scratchy.

You rolled your eyes, fighting a smile. “We’re still doing that?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Feels right.” You walked over and stole a piece of half-cooked pancake off the spatula.

“Hey,” he protested, swatting at your hand half-heartedly. “That’s illegal.”

You shrugged, mouth full. “Sue me. But as far as Im concerned Im the lawyer in this household. You can punish me if you want, though”

“I already married you. Isn’t that punishment enough?” Behind you, a tiny voice shouted from the living room: “I heard that!” Seungmin snorted. “She’s always listening.”

You leaned against the counter and watched him flip the next pancake, his movements efficient and quiet. You could tell when he was tired, he moved slower, less crisp. There were new shadows under his eyes. He’d been picking up extra shifts again, covering for a coworker who disappeared without warning.

You crossed the kitchen and slipped your arms around his waist from behind.

He paused for half a second, then relaxed into it, leaned back slightly so your cheek fit into the curve of his shoulder.

“This okay?” you murmured. “Yeah,” he said. “Better than okay.”

He turned the stove off and let the last pancake settle in the pan. Then he turned around, arms sliding around your waist now, pulling you in close.

It was still new, this touch. Familiar and strange at once. Domestic. Intimate. The kind of thing people didn’t notice when they’d been doing it for years. But for you, every brush of skin still felt like a step forward.

He looked down at you, eyes soft. “I like this,” he said. “Us. Here.”

“Even with Minseo insisting on watching that weird octopus show every morning?”

“Even then.” You reached up, brushed a strand of hair off his forehead. “You look exhausted.”

“I am.”

“You could sleep in once in a while, you know.”

“And miss Saturday pancakes?” You rolled your eyes again, but your heart ached a little. With love. With guilt. With everything you still didn’t quite know how to say out loud. Minseo called from the couch, “Is it ready yet?”

Seungmin kissed your temple. “That’s my cue.” You watched him go, watched the way he moved toward the small girl sprawled on the carpet in her dinosaur pajamas, plate in hand, grin already blooming.

She squealed when she saw him. He sat cross-legged beside her, balancing the plate on his knee, feeding her bites between episodes like it was the most natural thing in the world. You leaned against the doorway and just… watched.

Watched the man who used to be a stranger to you, now barefoot in your house. Watched the girl who used to cry herself to sleep, now giggling through a mouthful of pancake. This wasn’t love yet. But it was something. And it was growing.

SIX MONTHS LATER

The laundry never stayed folded.

Minseo had this habit of digging through the baskets looking for the dress, the blue one with the sparkles and the spaghetti straps and the small ink stain that hadn’t washed out. It didn’t matter that there were six other perfectly fine outfits. That was the one. Always had been.

So when you walked into the bedroom and found her standing triumphantly on the bed, arms up, mismatched socks already on, blue dress clinging to her sides like a second skin, you didn’t bother arguing.

Seungmin looked up from the dresser with a crooked smile and no energy to stop her.

“You wanna tell her it’s not weather-appropriate?” he asked.

You looked at Minseo’s messy braid, her socks pulled up to her knees like legwarmers, and shrugged. “I’m not trying to die today.”

“She’s terrifying when she’s committed.”

“Gets that from you.”

He smirked and walked past, pressing a soft kiss to your jaw on the way to the kitchen. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t tense. It wasn’t new anymore, this casual touch, this quiet affection. It happened all the time now. In the mornings, when you passed each other at the bathroom sink. At night, when you reached for his hand in the dark. Mid-conversation, when he tucked your hair behind your ear like he’d been doing it forever.

It had crept in slowly. The love. It hadn’t arrived like fireworks. It hadn’t needed to.

It came in the form of grocery lists and hair detangler and "I already took out the trash" and “Did you eat today?” and the way Minseo had stopped correcting people when they called you her mom. It came in the form of a fully lived-in life.

The apartment reflected it. Messy in the corners, clean where it mattered. A basket of crayons on the coffee table. Three jackets by the door. A fridge full of leftovers in takeout containers labeled in Seungmin’s blocky handwriting. Pictures on the wall, Minseo in the park, Seungmin asleep on the couch with her on his chest, a blurry photo Chan had taken of the three of you, laughing so hard it looked fake. But it wasn’t.

You spent Sunday mornings in bed now, all three of you, tangled in sheets and limbs, cartoons playing quietly in the background. Seungmin called it “the family puddle.” Minseo insisted on pancakes every time. Sometimes he burned them. You still ate them anyway.

He never said I love you with words. But he said it when he kissed your shoulder in the kitchen. When he pulled you back into bed after the alarm. When he wrote “get home safe” on the inside of your wrist with a marker before you left for court one morning.

One night, long after Minseo had gone to bed, her nightlight casting blue stars on the ceiling, you sat on the couch, half-draped over Seungmin’s chest, and whispered, “Do you ever think about how this all started?”

His fingers kept tracing slow circles on your back. “All the time.”

You tilted your head to look up at him. “Do you think we were faking it at first?” He shook his head. “I think we were afraid to believe it was real.”

Silence passed like a heartbeat. “And now?” you asked.

Seungmin looked down at you. The smallest smile curved his mouth. “Now it’s just us.”

You nodded, pressing a soft kiss to his chest, over the spot where his heart beat slow and steady. “Yeah,” you whispered. “It is.”

Minseo stirred in the next room. The wind rustled the trees outside the window. The clock ticked. The radiator clicked.

It wasn’t magic. It wasn’t extraordinary. It was real. And for the first time in your life, real felt like enough.

The windows fogged faintly from the heat inside and the chill of the ocean air outside. Salt crusted the edges of the glass, and the soft clang of pans echoed faintly from the open kitchen. The smell of frying bacon, buttery toast, and strong coffee settled into the booths like an old friend.

It was early enough that the rush hadn’t started. Just a few regulars with coffee cups refilled without asking and a waitress wiping down the sugar dispensers with a rhythm born from muscle memory.

Minseo sat in the booth, legs swinging, a chocolate chip pancake face-down in syrup, her cheek smudged with powdered sugar. She was in one of her moods, singing quietly to herself, narrating her breakfast like a cooking show host. You and Seungmin sat across from her, shoulder to shoulder, a shared cup of coffee between you, half-sipped.

You were barefoot in sneakers. He was still rubbing sleep from his eyes. This was your life now. Breakfast booths. Sticky menus. A child quietly humming a melody to her strawberries. And it felt… good. It felt settled.

“Be honest,” Seungmin said, leaning in, voice low and conspiratorial, “You think she’s going to finish that pancake or wear it as a hat first?”

“She’s definitely wearing it,” you whispered back. “Excuse me,” Minseo said through a mouthful, “I can hear you.”

You both laughed, one of those quiet couple-laughs, full of shared language and affection that didn’t need names. The bell over the diner door chimed.

Yang Jeongin stepped through, carrying a clipboard and a half-zipped jacket, his hair still damp from the ocean air. He moved with the kind of ease you only earn when you’ve come home and decided to stay.

“Hey,” he called, nodding toward the booth as he passed. “Morning, folks.” Minseo perked up immediately. “Mr. Jeongin! You’re late!”

Jeongin grinned. “I prefer fashionably delayed.” He ruffled her hair as he passed and headed behind the counter, slipping into a soft rhythm, checking the order forms, restocking napkins, greeting the cook with a backhanded high five. The place already looked more alive under his care, like it remembered how to breathe again.

Seungmin watched him for a moment, then leaned toward you. “Can you believe he came back?”

You raised a brow. “You mean the boy who once said, and I quote, ‘I’d rather eat my diploma than run a diner in Summerdale?’”

Seungmin smirked. “The very same.”

“You guys still talk?”

“Sometimes. Late shifts. He’s… different now. Softer. In a good way.”

You glanced over to see Jeongin talking to F/N by the pastry case. Her eyes lit up in that way that was half surprise, half defense, like she hadn’t expected him, and yet somehow always had. Something unspoken passed between them.

Seungmin followed your gaze. “He’s not here just for the diner.”

“No,” you agreed. “He’s not.”

Then Seungmin turned back to you. Minseo was now constructing a pancake tower with a level of engineering brilliance that might win her a scholarship someday. The diner clinked and buzzed around you. And suddenly, everything slowed.

You looked at Seungmin, and he looked at you, and it wasn’t one of those cinematic, heart-racing, swell-of-music moments. It was quiet. Steady. Earned.

“I love you,” he said. Just like that. Your breath caught, but you didn’t freeze. You just smiled. Slowly. Like something inside you had clicked into place.

“Took you long enough,” you murmured. He kissed the back of your hand, soft and sure. “I know.” From across the table, Minseo looked up.

“Is this one of those gross love moments?” she asked.

You both nodded, grinning. “Good,” she said. “Because I want waffles next time.”

You laughed, leaned into Seungmin’s side, and let the moment settle.

Outside, the sea crashed in its usual rhythm. Inside, your family ate pancakes in a booth under flickering fluorescent lights. And it was perfect.

skz general @velvetmoonlght @scarlet789 @estella-novella @nightmarenyxx @channiesluvrclub @slut4junho @bobaluvzz @channiesbaby1433 @wonniesjungdimple @mythicmochi @m-325 @rockstarkkami @felixleftchickennugget @oceanz7 @seungminsbest @fackeraccount @takuoshuji @xoxomanicpanic @catsforlife6864 @lezleeferguson-120 @angellcvkes

twin hearts: @lixies-favorite-cookie @skyearby @reignessance @bee-gremlin @angel-writes-skz-here @abbiestearsricochet @alisonyus

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sunshineangel0 · 3 months ago

Text

VALENTINES DAY PACT —﹙ B.C ﹚

⌁ wc 6.2k warnings nsfw content, protected intercourse, afab reader, greedy chan, childhood friends to lovers, one bed, fake dating, unresolved feelings, small town au! ⌁ part one of the "twin heart series"

Y/N stared down at the RSVP card like it had personally insulted her. Like if she focused hard enough, maybe the gold-embossed lettering saying "Save The Date, for this Valentines day, for the long anticipated Wedding of Kim Seungmins and F/N L/N!", would curl up in flames, the heart-shaped wax seal would melt into a puddle of regret, and the whole thing would vanish from the little round diner table of the "Seaside Diner" between her and Bang Chan. No such luck. It sat there, pristine and mocking, practically radiating smugness with its “You’re Invited!” script and tasteful floral border.

Across from her, Chan took a lazy sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim of the mug. “You’re seriously going to fake an engagement?” he asked, like he was asking about the weather, like this wasn’t the most absurd idea either of them had heard before 9 a.m.

She didn’t blink. “No,” she said slowly, eyes flicking up to meet his. “I’m seriously going to fake our engagement.”

He choked, just slightly, and set the mug down with a thud. “I beg your pardon?”

“Unless you want me to show up to this wedding alone, in a pastel tulle dress I didn’t choose, forced to make small talk with Jamie’s third cousins while everyone gives me the ‘poor Y/N’ look and offers me consolation shrimp,” she said, voice rising with every syllable.

He blinked. “You’re not even in the bridal party.”

“That’s not the point,” she snapped, then sighed, folding her arms over her chest like armor. “Sunhoo’s going to be there. With her. Because Seungmin literally invited every every single person in Summerdale, and everyone still thinks my glory days ended after prom night.”

Chan tilted his head, considering this with all the seriousness of someone analyzing a chessboard. “I mean… you did peak at seventeen.”

Her foot connected with his shin under the table before he could smirk. Not hard enough to bruise, but enough to make her point.

Chan grinned, that easy, lopsided one he always pulled when he was trying to cut the tension. But this time, it didn’t stick. Slowly, the smile faded, leaving something quieter behind — something almost solemn.

“You know I’ll do it, right?” he said, his voice softer now. “If you want me to. You just have to say the word.”

He made it sound simple. Too simple. Like this was just another favor. Like he was offering to carry her groceries or kill a spider in her apartment, not upend their already-complicated friendship for a weekend of smiling through their teeth and pretending to be in love.

She didn’t answer right away. She couldn’t. Because it wasn’t simple. Not by a long shot. Y/N stared into her coffee like it might offer some clarity, but all she saw was her own reflection, warped and blurry. She felt her pulse ticking in her wrist, in her throat.

Chan leaned forward a little, forearms on the table, fingers laced together. Waiting. Not pushing. That was always the worst part with him—he never pushed. He let her make the first move. The last move. All the moves, really. “You don’t have to decide right now,” he said, gently. “You could ask one of your book club girls. Or… I don’t know, that guy who sold you your couch?”

“You mean Jae the furniture perv?”

“Right, forget Jae.”

She exhaled a slow, shaky breath and looked up at him. “I don’t want them. I want—” She cut herself off. Bit the inside of her cheek. He raised his eyebrows slightly. “You want?”

She hated how steady he looked. Like none of this touched him. Like the idea of pretending to be her fiancé didn’t stir up years of complicated history and one specific memory neither of them ever acknowledged: a truck parked by the beach, a humid July night, her skin pressed to his, the sound of crashing waves and a thousand stars above them that saw everything.

“You said you’d do it if I asked,” she said finally. “But you didn’t say you wanted to.”

Something shifted in his expression then. A flicker of something buried. Old. Familiar. Dangerous. “I didn’t say I don’t want to,” he replied. His voice had dropped a little, rougher now. “I’m just trying to be sure you do.”

Silence stretched between them. Not awkward—never awkward with him—but taut, like a thread pulled tight. She took another sip of her coffee, if only to buy herself time. When she finally set the cup down, she still didn’t feel ready. But she said it anyway, the words heavier than she expected.

“Okay. Be my fiancé.”

For a moment, he didn’t react. Didn’t move. Just stared at her like he was reading a page in a book they’d both sworn not to open again. Then something flickered in his eyes—just for a second. Not quite a smile. Not quite pain. A memory, maybe.

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Guess I better find a ring.”

She tried to smile. Tried not to think about how easily he could borrow one from his sister. Tried not to think about how it might fit. Or how it might feel. But they both knew the truth. There was no version of this that wouldn’t mean something. And maybe it always had.

The word fiancé looked wrong on her screen. Too formal. Too fake. Like she was trying on someone else’s shoes and pretending they fit.

Still, she typed it out anyway. Committed to the bit. Or maybe just too far in to back out now.

Y/N: meet me at Bella´s after work Y/N: i need a ring Y/N: bring that hot fake fiancé energy 🔥💍

The three dots appeared instantly, which was either comforting or terrifying.

Fiance (Chan): i always bring the energy Fiance (Chan): but yeah, i’m free after 6 Fiance (Chan): you paying, or am i getting the diamond discount?

She snorted, thumbs already flying across the screen.

Y/N: were going to a pawn shop, chan. Y/N: you’re getting cubic zirconia and raw ambition

A pause. Then his reply:

Fiance (Chan): sexy Fiance (Chan): see you at 6, almost-wife

She stared at that last text longer than she meant to.

Almost-wife. Even as a joke, it buzzed in her chest like static—wrong and right all at once. She locked her phone without answering and tucked it into her bag, trying not to think too hard about what they were really doing.

Fake rings. Fake names. Real feelings they’d agreed to ignore. One night of pretending had already changed everything once. What would a whole weekend do?

She stood in front of the glass case at Bellas’s Trinkets feeling like she’d just committed a felony. Everything inside the case sparkled too much. Too bright. Too knowing. Like the rings themselves were in on the lie.

They glared up at her in neat little velvet boxes—diamonds, sapphires, gold bands winking like they knew exactly what kind of mess she was walking into. What kind of mess she already was.

Beside her, Chan crouched down to get a closer look, resting his forearms on his knees like he was evaluating ancient artifacts instead of pawn shop jewelry. His expression was pure theater—brow furrowed, lips pursed, head tilted slightly to the side.

“So,” he said thoughtfully. “What says ‘I’m hopelessly devoted to Y/N, but also not actually in love with her, except maybe a little bit in denial about it’?”

She didn’t dignify him with a glance. “Probably not the heart-shaped one.”

He followed her gaze and snorted. “Yeah. That one’s giving eighth-grade promise ring. Like I should be wearing a puka shell necklace and quoting The Notebook.”

She scanned the rows until her eyes landed on something understated—a slender gold band with a pear-cut stone. Not flashy. Not loud. Elegant, but practical. Like it belonged to someone who didn’t need to prove anything.

She pointed. “What about that one?” Chan leaned in. Studied it. “Hmm. Classic. Safe. Kind of like you.”

That made her turn. One eyebrow arched, hand on her hip. “Did you seriously just call me safe?” He looked up at her, unbothered. “Yeah, but like... in the way that you always have Band-Aids and backup snacks in your purse. You’re comfort-core.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Chan.” He gave a small shrug, then straightened up slowly, closing the distance between them by half. His voice dropped just a bit, enough to shift the tone.

“Okay. Fine. You’re the kind of safe that ruins men.” She blinked. He kept going. Steady. Sure. “The kind they meet thinking they’re fine, and then suddenly they’re reorganizing their entire lives around a woman who alphabetizes her spice rack and remembers how they take their coffee without asking.”

Her mouth opened. Then closed again. It shut her up, and he knew it. Smug bastard.

Before she could fire back, Bella—the owner, nosy and beaming—popped out from behind the counter, her apron dusted with rhinestone glitter. “You two picking out an engagement ring?” she asked, clasping her hands like she’d just stepped into a Hallmark movie.

Y/N opened her mouth, brain scrambling to assemble a plausible excuse, but Chan beat her to it.

“Yep,” he said smoothly, reaching for the ring she’d pointed out. “She said yes last night.”

Bella gasped like she’d won something. “Oh, honey! That’s wonderful! How’d he do it?”

Y/N turned to Chan, giving him the your move look. He held the ring up between his fingers and grinned. “Tell her, baby.” Oh, we’re doing this, she thought. Her pulse jumped. Without missing a beat, she looked Bella square in the eyes. “He wrote ‘marry me’ on a Post-It and stuck it on my fridge. Very on brand.”

Chan chuckled. “She’s lying. I spelled it out in candles on the beach. Nearly set myself on fire.” Bella clutched her heart like she was watching a proposal at Disneyland. “Young love,” she sighed. Y/N rolled her eyes, but when Chan slid the ring onto her finger, something in her chest skipped—hard. It was just for show. Just a prop.

But it fit. Perfectly. Of course it did.

Because nothing about this was supposed to feel real. But it did. Too real. Too easy. Too dangerous. Chan didn’t let go of her hand right away. And the scary part was—neither did she. And that specific feeling, of her hand in his, let her mind wander to a certain summer night almost ten years ago...

FLASHBACK — SUMMER, SENIOR YEAR

The heat that summer didn’t come from stolen glances or fake promises. It came from sunburned skin and sticky night air, from sand stuck between toes and sweat pooling at the base of her spine. It came from the restless pulse of being eighteen and wanting something you couldn’t name—only feel.

They were in the back of Chan’s dad’s pickup, parked behind the old boat shed near Breaker’s Cove. Hidden, mostly. The kind of place only locals from Summerdale knew about, where the dunes curved like secrets and the sea whispered too low for anyone to hear.

The truck bed creaked beneath them as they shifted—bodies tangled, skin flushed, nerves raw in the salt-heavy air. The blanket underneath them was faded, scratchy, smelled like garage dust and beach bonfires. It didn’t matter.

Nothing about that night had been planned. Not the way his hand found hers when she laughed too hard. Not the way he’d looked at her like she was something rare. And definitely not this—her fingers curled in his shirt, breath catching, hearts pounding.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” she whispered, her voice barely louder than the ocean. Chan leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder. “We don’t have to.” She held onto him tighter. “I want to.”

The words settled between them, anchoring something that had always been drifting just out of reach.

It wasn’t perfect. It was awkward—fumbling and unsure, the way firsts always are. A knee bumped the wheel well. Someone laughed, half-nervous. Her hair got caught on a snap in his jeans. But when it was quiet again, when it was just skin against skin and breath syncing up like waves, it didn’t feel wrong.

It felt true.

Afterward, they lay side by side in the truck bed, bare shoulders touching. The stars above them were bright and wild, scattered across the sky like someone had spilled salt. The sea murmured in the distance. The smell of driftwood and seaweed clung to the air.

She looked up and said nothing. Neither did he. Because anything said out loud might’ve made it real. Might’ve forced them to admit that this was more than curiosity or timing or heat.

And maybe they weren’t ready for real.

The next morning, she saw him at the Seaside diner. Her hair was still damp from a quick shower. His shirt was wrinkled. Their friends were loud, laughing, oblivious. They didn’t touch. Didn’t mention the truck or the stars or the way he’d held her after, like he didn’t want to let go.

They pretended it never happened. But later, when she reached for the syrup, his hand brushed hers. Just for a second. And it felt like remembering a secret no one else knew.

Back in the pawn shop, Chan finally let go of her hand. His fingers slipped away slowly, like they didn’t want to, like they hadn’t gotten the memo that this was all pretend. “It looks good on you,” he said.

His voice was unreadable—smooth, casual—but something in it tugged. Like he was trying too hard not to sound like anything at all. Y/N stared down at the ring. The stone caught the overhead light and threw it back at her in a hundred fractured angles.

“Let’s just hope your mom doesn’t recognize it from Bellas when we show up,” she muttered, trying to sound dry, detached, whatever the opposite of spiraling was. Chan chuckled, low and easy. “She won’t. But she’s definitely gonna ask how I proposed, so... we should get our story straight.”

Y/N nodded, forcing a smile. “Right. Proposal logistics. Just part of the illusion.” But her fingers were still tingling where he’d touched her.

This was fake. This was for show. This was supposed to be simple.

A weekend of make-believe. A ring. A few photos. One big lie tied in a bow.

And yet—

The weight of the band on her finger felt real. Heavy, like it meant something. Worse was the way Chan was looking at her—calm, careful, unreadable in all the ways that used to mean he was thinking too much. Or not enough. She tore her eyes away before she could start imagining things that weren’t there. But some part of her knew: she'd remember this. Not just the ring. Not just the shop.

Him. Letting go. Too slowly. Like maybe he didn’t want to.

The thing no one tells you about pretending to be engaged to your best friend? Everyone suddenly thinks your relationship is public property. They touch your hand, grab your arm, ask inappropriate questions with glossy-eyed sincerity and zero boundaries.

Y/N learned this twenty minutes after arriving at The Marigold House—a coastal bed-and-breakfast straight out of a Pinterest fever dream. Whitewashed clapboard, blue shutters, ivy curling up the trellises, and that faint, inescapable smell of vanilla potpourri and multigenerational secrets. It was charming in a “please don’t haunt me” kind of way.

They barely made it through the front gate before a cousin—Tiffany? Brittany? Something ending in -ny and wearing coral satin—latched onto her like they’d been close since preschool.

“Oh my God, look at that ring!” she squealed, catching Y/N’s left hand in both of hers. “You are so lucky. And you,” she said, pointing an acrylic-nailed finger at Chan, “locked him down? Seriously? You always gave off commitment-phobe energy.”

Chan didn’t even blink. Just smiled, that casual, unreadable smile he wore when he was lying with ease. “Guess I found the exception.”

Y/N didn’t miss the way his hand tightened around hers—subtle, firm. Like punctuation. Like backup. They navigated the social minefield of the lobby—the cousins, the vaguely familiar faces from high school, the girl who once threw up on her shoes at prom—and finally reached the front desk, where a too-cheerful concierge in floral pastels slid them a key with a wink. She made a mental note in her head to give Seungmin later a lecture on who-and-who-dont you invite to your wedding.

“One queen bed,” she said brightly. “Super cozy. Perfect for newlyweds.” Y/N opened her mouth. Absolutely not— Chan beat her to it. “Perfect,” he said smoothly. “We love cozy.” The key was already in his hand.

Once the door clicked shut behind them, the performance cracked like cheap veneer. “One bed?” Y/N said, tossing her bag down like it had betrayed her. “Are you kidding me?” Chan shrugged out of his hoodie, already at ease. “You RSVP’d with a fiancé, babe. Couples sleep together. It’s kind of the whole point.”

“You could take the floor.”

“You could stop pretending you mind.” She shot him a glare. That smug, maddening, not-wrong face.

She turned away, crossing to the window to hide the flush creeping up her neck. Her hand still tingled where he’d held it. The ring still felt heavier than it should have. And her body—traitorous, inconvenient—was already very aware of the fact that she’d be sharing a room, and a bed, with someone she once knew naked under a sky full of stars.

That smug, unbothered tone. That stupidly correct face. That fucking handsome face.

She didn’t answer. Just turned away, crossing to the window to hide the heat rising in her cheeks. Her fingers still tingled where he’d held them. The ring on her left hand was just cheap metal and cubic zirconia, but it felt heavier than gold.

She had convinced herself she could handle this. Keep it light. Laugh it off. But then Chan hoisted her suitcase onto the luggage rack like he’d done it a hundred times. And maybe he had. That was the problem.

It felt too easy. Too familiar. Too them.

“Remember crashing at my grandma’s lake cabin?” he asked, flopping onto the edge of the bed. “We used to fight over who got the couch.”

“Yeah,” she said, still staring out the window.

He hesitated. “Except that last time.”

Y/N went still. Because she did remember. Just not the way he said it.

“Wrong place,” she murmured, not turning around. “What?” “It wasn’t the cabin. It was your dad’s truck,” she said quietly. “Breaker’s Cove. The summer before college.”

The air shifted. The teasing fell away. Chan sat up. “Right.”

She finally looked at him. “How could you forget that night?” He didn’t answer right away. Just watched her, carefully. Like he didn’t want to say the wrong thing. Or maybe like he didn’t want to say the right one.

“I didn’t forget,” he said. “I’ve tried to.” Y/N let out a breath. Not a laugh. Not quite.

“That night—” she started, then stopped. “We never talked about it.”

“You never brought it up either,” he said gently. “I didn’t know what to say.”

“Me either.” They were quiet for a beat.

The memory was so clear. The two of them in the bed of the pickup truck, parked just above the cove where the tide rolled in steady and slow. Salt on their skin. The blanket beneath them rough with sand and wind. Her hands tangled in his shirt, his mouth on her shoulder. His voice, low: We don’t have to. Her answer, barely a whisper: I want to.

After, they had stared at the stars like they were afraid to look at each other. And the next morning, they’d pretended it never happened. Chan leaned forward now, elbows on his knees. “If we’d talked about it back then,” he said, “I don’t think I could’ve kept pretending we were just friends.”

Her chest tightened. Because that? That wasn’t fake. Neither was the look in his eyes. And maybe it never had been.

Chan’s gaze was heavy—locked on hers like it cost him something to look, but more to look away. His voice dropped again, barely above a whisper. “If we’d talked about it,” he said, “I wouldn’t have been able to pretend.”

The weight of it sat between them, thick and electric. Something real. Something breakable. She didn’t realize she was leaning in until she felt his breath hit her lips—warm, steady, laced with mint and a hint of cinnamon from dessert. The space between them had vanished. Gone was the careful choreography of fake smiles and half-lies. Now it was just them. Bare. Unspoken. Burning.

“Chan,” she breathed, the name catching in her throat. She wasn’t even sure what she was asking. Permission? Apology? A kiss?

His eyes flicked down to her mouth like a reflex. “Yeah?”

It was right there—the moment. Teetering on the edge. Her hand twitched toward his chest, fingers aching to curl into his shirt and drag him closer. And then—

Knock knock knock. The door jolted in its frame. A muffled voice chirped through the crack, way too cheerful for what had almost just happened.

“The engagement dinner starts in ten! We’re doing a seating chart scramble, so don’t be late unless you want to sit with the kids’ table!”

The spell shattered.

Y/N blinked. The air between them popped like a soap bubble—leaving only cold, awkward space.

Chan let out a sharp breath and leaned back, dragging a hand down his face. “Perfect timing.” She stood too fast. Her knees felt wrong. Wobbly. Her pulse thundered against the base of her throat. “Yeah,” she said, clutching for something to hold onto. “Great.”

The dining room at The Marigold House was over-decorated, over-catered, and overwhelmed with tension.

Long tables glowed with golden taper candles and florals that looked like they'd cost someone a paycheck. There were name cards, clinking glasses, a four-tier cake that no one dared cut, and a band softly playing something jazzy that clashed with the heavy energy in the room.

Seungmin sat at the head table beside F/N L/N, his fiance and soon to be wife.

Y/N kept sneaking glances at them between bites of lemon risotto and lies.

Seungmin looked... still. Too still. Like someone bracing for impact. His suit jacket was perfect, pressed, charcoal-gray. But his fingers tapped restlessly under the tablecloth. His jaw worked in silence every time someone toasted him.

F/N, meanwhile, was radiant. Smiling politely. Laughing in the right places. Her hand rested lightly on Seungmin’s arm like they were just another happy almost-married couple making it through a long weekend.

But Y/N saw the way they didn’t look at each other. Or worse—the way they did when they thought no one was watching.

And it wasn't nothing.

“Earth to fake fiancée,” Chan whispered beside her, nudging her knee under the table.

She blinked. “Sorry. Zoned out.”

“Yeah, I saw. You were watching them like they owed you money.”

She smiled faintly, but her stomach twisted. “Doesn’t it feel weird? Like, shouldnt you be happier on your wedding day.”

Chan shrugged. “It’s their celebration. I think they know what theyre doing", She didn’t answer. Just watched as F/N turned to Seungmin and quietly whispered something into his ear. His expression didn’t change, but he nodded once, jaw clenched tight.

The rest of the dinner was a blur.

Cousins. Compliments. Fake laughter with a dull ache behind it. Someone asked how they met and Chan said, “college bar fight,” just to mess with them. She’d kicked him under the table, but her heart wasn’t in it.

Someone else asked when the wedding was. Someone else asked if they’d picked a honeymoon spot. Recommending the best Honeymoon Hotels in Kauai or Maui.

Chan had rested a hand on the small of her back under the table. Gentle. Anchoring. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. But her skin burned where he touched her.

When they got back to the room, the silence hit hard.

Chan closed the door behind them with a quiet click, then flipped the lock. She stood near the bed, staring at her shoes like they were fascinating.

For a long, long moment—neither of them moved. The weight of what almost happened earlier still sat in the space between them. Pressing in. Buzzing like an exposed wire. Then she turned to him. Slowly. Controlled. But her heart was not calm “You were gonna kiss me.” Not a question. Not really. Chan didn’t even blink. His voice was low and rough and too honest. “I was kissing you.”

Her breath caught. Her hands curled into fists at her sides to stop the tremble. “You didn’t,” she said, voice hoarse. His gaze dropped to her lips again.

“I’m about to,” he said, stepping forward, “unless someone knocks again.”

The room shrank.

Two feet of space between them. Then one. Then half.

She didn’t step back. His hand came up, slow and sure, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. Fingertips trailing her skin like a secret. His thumb grazed the hinge of her jaw, and she tilted toward him without meaning to.

“This is a bad idea,” she whispered, breath shivering. “Terrible,” he murmured. “Disastrous.” His other hand came to rest on her waist.

“You’re still wearing the ring,” he said softly, like it meant something. Maybe it did. “You’re still my fake fiancé,” she whispered. “Still want me to act like it?” Her lips parted. That look in his eyes—hungry and aching and afraid—it gutted her. “Yeah,” she said. “Just… don’t be too good at it.” He smiled. That same slow, devastating smile that ruined her back when they were kids. “No promises.”

And then he kissed her. And there was nothing fake about it.

Not the way his hands gripped her jaw like she was something fragile and vital, like he wasn’t sure if he was holding her together or holding himself back. Not the way her fingers fisted in his shirt—hard—pulling him closer like she was drowning and he was air.

Not the way his breath hitched when her mouth opened for him, soft and hungry, and he groaned into the kiss like it hurt. Like he’d wanted this for too long.

At first, it was slow. Careful. Like they were testing the edges of something they couldn’t name yet. A tease. A taste. But it didn’t stay that way.

It broke. Unraveled.

Turned into teeth and tongue and fingers digging into fabric. Her back hit the wall with a muffled thud, and he pressed into her, crowding her space, stealing every breath she had left. His hands slid down—one splayed at her waist, the other curling around her hip, pulling her against him so there was no space left to lie.

She gasped, and he kissed her like he owned that sound. Like he’d been waiting years to claim it.

Their mouths moved in sync—messy, frantic, starving. Every drag of his lips against hers felt like a confession. Every sweep of his tongue was a reminder of that summer night and all the words they’d never said after.

Her nails scraped along the back of his neck. He growled low in his throat and pressed harder, hips brushing hers, dangerous, deliberate. It lit her up like a struck match. Her body arched, met him halfway.

She felt it—him—all of him. Solid and hard and so ready to stop pretending. “Fuck,” he breathed against her lips. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

She kissed him again in answer—deeper, dirtier, teeth dragging over his bottom lip—and his grip tightened on her waist like he was two seconds from losing control.

She didn’t care. She wanted him unhinged. Unraveled. Real. She wanted his mouth everywhere, his hands on skin, his voice wrecked and begging.

And if he didn’t stop soon—if he kept kissing her like that—she was going to forget all the reasons they were pretending in the first place.

Suddenly, her back hit the wall with a soft thud, and for the split second his lips left hers, chan licked them before crashing into her again. Hot, rough, open. His hands gripped her hips, hauling her up like she weighed nothing. She gasped as her legs wrapped around his waist, dress riding up, heat blooming everywhere.

“You have no idea,” he growled against her lips, “how long I’ve wanted to do this.” “Show me,” she whispered.

He didn’t hesitate. He carried her across the room and dropped her onto the bed, gently, but with intent. Like he was done playing games. Like he was about to ruin her in the best way.

His mouth followed, on her neck, her collarbone, teeth dragging just enough to make her squirm.

Her hands yanked at his shirt, and he let her pull it off, revealing that body she remembered too well. Broad shoulders. Sculpted chest. That little dip between his pecs she used to fantasize about when she shouldn’t have. “God, Chan,” she breathed. He smirked. “What, baby? You want something?” She glared. “You’re not allowed to be cocky and good at this.” His voice dropped as he knelt between her thighs. “Wanna bet?” He tugged her dress up, then paused.

“Take it off,” he said. Low. Firm.

The way he said it, not asking, made her stomach flip.

She peeled the dress over her head slowly, teasing, baring herself inch by inch until she was in nothing but a lacy bra and panties that were already soaked.

Chan’s eyes darkened. “Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

He kissed down her stomach, slow, wet, worshipful, while his hands spread her thighs wide. “Keep your hands above your head,” he murmured. “Don’t move.”

She obeyed. Because the way he said it made her want to.

His mouth dipped lower. Tongue soft, then firm. His fingers joined—one, then two—curling just right, dragging moans from her throat that didn’t sound like her. Her hips arched off the bed, but he held her down with a strong arm. “Be good,” he said against her, voice muffled. “Or I’ll make you beg.” “Maybe I want to beg,” she gasped.

That made him grin. And go harder. By the time he pulled back, she was shaking. Desperate. He crawled up her body, lips crashing into hers again, letting her taste herself on his tongue.

“You want me to fuck you like we’re still pretending,” he murmured, forehead pressed to hers. “Or like I’ve been in love with you since that night in the truck?”

Her nails raked down his back. “Both.” He groaned. “That’s not fair.”

“Neither is wearing that stupid ring and pretending I don’t want you inside me every second.” That undid him.

He grabbed a condom from his wallet, classic, infuriating Chan, and pushed his boxers down with a hiss. He lined up, dragging the head of his cock through her wetness slowly, just to hear her whimper.

“You’re so soaked,” he said. “So soeaked for me” “For years.”

Then he finally pushed in. And it was everything.

Rough. Deep. Perfect. Her legs locked around his waist, and his thrusts grew faster, harder, each one dragging a broken moan from her lips. He pinned her hands above her head again, breathing hard, teeth gritted.

“You take me so fucking well,” he grunted. “You were made for this. For me.”

He gave her more. His name spilled from her mouth like a prayer, and when he felt her tighten around him, he swore, loud, filthy, before grabbing her face and kissing her hard through it.

She came shaking. Gasping. Eyes locked with his. He didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow. Not until he was right there with her. thrusts erratic, mouth on her neck, biting down as he spilled inside her. The room was silent except for their breathing.

When he finally collapsed beside her, pulling her against his chest, he whispered: “Still want to pretend this is fake?”

She didn’t answer. She just curled into him and held on like she never wanted to let go.

It had been three days. Three days since the last toast clinked against borrowed glass. Three days since the band played its last love song, the last boutonniere wilted, and the champagne flutes were cleared like none of it had ever happened.

Three days since Chan had kissed her like he was starving—and touched her like he might never get to again. Three days. And not. a. word.

Not about the kiss. Not about the way they fell into bed like gravity had finally stopped being polite. Not about the things he said against her skin or the way her name had broken in his mouth when she came undone in his arms.

They hadn’t talked. Not once.

They were back now. Back in Summerdale. Back in their own apartments with walls between them. Back in their routines—coffee shops, work, texts about nothing—but none of it landed the way it used to.

The rhythm was off. Everything was too quiet. Until the knock.

It was soft. Hesitant. Like someone afraid of what came next. She opened the door without thinking. And there he was.

Chan stood in the hallway like the world had chewed him up and spit him out. Hair a mess. Hoodie half-zipped. Hands shoved deep into his pockets like they were the only things holding him together.

No smile. No greeting.

Just: “I can’t do this.” Y/N’s heart stopped. Her breath caught in her throat.

“…Can’t do what?” He looked up at her with eyes that had stopped pretending hours ago. “This,” he said. “All of this. The pretending.”

She didn’t move. Couldn’t. He stepped closer, just one step, but it was enough. Enough to make the hallway feel smaller. Enough to feel him again—his presence, his weight, his ache.

“I told myself it was just a favor,” he said. “That it didn’t mean anything. That I could go to the wedding, wear the ring, play the part, and walk away clean.”

His voice cracked. “But I’m not clean, Y/N. I’m wrecked.”

He laughed, bitter and broken. “I’ve been wrecked since that night in my dad’s truck. Since you looked at me and said you wanted to. Since you didn’t say anything after, and I didn’t either, and we both pretended we could live with that.”

Her chest ached. Her fingers curled at her sides. He kept going, his voice raw and urgent now, as if stopping would undo him.

“I love you,” he said, the words cracking out of him like they hurt. “I love you, and I’ve loved you since you kicked me under the diner table in eighth grade for saying ‘moist.’ Since we kissed under the pier and swore it didn’t count. Since you handed me that RSVP card and asked me to lie for you.”

He swallowed hard. “I tried to lie. I really tried.”

He stepped into her space, close enough that she could feel the heat rolling off his body. “But then I kissed you. And touched you. And watched you fall apart in my arms like you were made to be there. And now—now I don’t know how to be near you and not want everything.”

Y/N didn’t say anything. She just looked at him. Looked at his trembling hands and wrecked expression and the impossible weight of the words he’d finally said.

And then—quietly, without drama—she stepped forward. She reached out.

Gripped the front of his hoodie with both hands. Pulled him closer.

“You love me?” she asked, voice barely a whisper. He let out a breath like it had been buried in his lungs for years. “Yeah,” he said. “Completely. Stupidly. Always.”

And she kissed him. Not desperate. Not rushed. But slow. Like a key turning in a long-locked door.

He kissed her back the same way—hands on her hips, then sliding up her back, like relearning something he’d never truly forgotten. She pulled him inside, kicked the door shut behind them.

The hoodie came off. Then her shirt. Then his breath was warm against her ear, voice low and wrecked and dangerous. “You’re sure?” he asked. “Oh I’m sure.”

He didn’t hesitate this time. He lifted her like she weighed nothing and set her on the edge of the counter. His mouth was on her neck, her collarbone, down to the place that made her curse his name.

And when he touched her just right—exactly right—she gasped.

“Chan—where the hell did you learn that?” He pulled back just enough to smirk, voice smug and ragged. “YouTube. Trial and error. A wildly successful imagination.”

She laughed, but it choked into a moan as he did it again. Slower. More pressure. More heat. She gripped his hair, breath wrecked, legs wrapped around his waist like this was always how it was meant to be. And when he finally pushed into her, slow and deep and perfect, she couldn’t hold anything back.

Not the cry. Not the kiss. Not the truth.

Because nothing about this was pretend anymore. This was them. Unwritten. Unfiltered. Unstoppable.

twin hearts: @abbiestearsricochet @angel-writes-skz-here @alisonyus

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