#***ff

[ilynpilled]

i love characters who do the “i worship the myth i make of you” and in turn dehumanize and get wrong the object of their devotion and love. yes project a thing that does not exist onto a pedestal and kneel at it like it is your altar. this will surely not blow up in both of your faces eventually

[foldingfittedsheets]

When I was a TA for the freshman art class in senior year my students really adored me. It was so sweet. I’d had classes that were more ambivalent toward me but these guys were all about me.

I loved working with that teacher too. He was the kind of crunchy art nerd whose own kid didn’t know what candy was, who loved bird watching and wearing tweed. We’d chat while they worked and it was just a three hour pleasure rather than work.

When the class switched from charcoal to gouache a devil medium, the evilest watercolor, the students struggled. We’d have in class painting where they’d spend the whole time trying to mix one color instead of just accepting something as good enough and trying to practice other skills.

So one day I showed up to my shift and announced, “I have stickers. If you get color down for the whole composition, you get a sticker.”

They wanted. The stickers. So bad. Students who had agonized before about keeping lines neat and perfect plowed ahead. The first student to call me over I tsked at. “Putting grey on everything doesn’t count,” I chided, “I asked for colors on each object.”

The classroom worked in furious joy, young adults who had seen my bird and cactus stickers and gone feral. The teacher was flabbergasted. “Why do they want stickers? They could just buy stickers…”

I held up my water bottle and showed him a tiny 3D bubble sticker the program director had brought to my game teams space last week. “You never grow out of wanting to earn a sticker.”

By the end of class everyone had a sticker. There was more visible improvement in the work too, which surprised them since they’d been rushing. “Gouache looks terrible before it looks good. It’s okay to start messy and then refine.” The teacher had said the same thing but looking at their frantic sticker paintings they finally saw the truth of it.

[lillybean730]

[bebx]

me reading smut and calculating in my head the positions the characters are in

[aetherixart]

"Just know, I'll be here waiting."

[enhaflixer]

CUMMING OF AGE

bsfs brother!Heeseung x f!reader - when you ask him to teach you how to masturbate. (pure porn with plot. MDNI 18+, explicit, masturbation, cunnilingus, phone sex, ANGST, fluff too so its fine.) “If she’s not cumming, she’s not listening to her pussy.” “And if she won’t listen…” “I’ll make her.”

You’ve always had a hate-hate relationship with masturbation.

Not the “haha I don’t know what I’m doing” kind. Not the shy, innocent kind. The kind where you tried, over and over again, and every time it ended in that same aching, pathetic way—panties soaked, fingers numb, pussy throbbing, and absolutely nothing to show for it.

No finish. No orgasm. Not even a fucking twitch of satisfaction.

You rubbed and rubbed, like everyone said to. You found your clit. You circled it. Pressed it. Flicked it. Tried soft and slow, then fast and desperate. Tried with spit, with lotion, with fucking coconut oil once. But nothing ever felt right. Just this frustrating hum of almost. Like your body was teetering on the edge of something big and just… refused to jump.

You’d end up sore. Agitated. Your legs would shake, but not the good kind. Your pussy would swell, throbbing like she was mocking you for trying.

It made you feel broken. Or worse—boring. Like your body was wired wrong. Like you’d missed the most basic feminine skill everyone else seemed to be born with.

Girls talked about cumming like it was breathing. Like they could do it in five minutes flat with one hand and a good imagination. You’d hear them talk about shaking through the sheets, arching off the bed, seeing stars—and you’d smile and nod and laugh along, pretending like you got it, like you knew what it was like to get wrecked by your own hand.

You’d never even come close.

You tried toys. You bought a vibrator and nearly cried when it did nothing but make your arms go numb. You tried grinding on pillows until the friction made you raw. You tried porn. You even tried watching yourself once in the mirror like some kind of twisted self-help therapy. Nothing worked.

You’d touch and touch and chase and beg for it in your head—please, just this once, just let me finish, please—and still end up breathless, sticky, empty.

You’d cry sometimes. Just a little. From the frustration of it. From the absolute humiliation of being so fucking horny and not being able to do anything about it.

You hated that about yourself. Hated the way your body seemed to enjoy the build and not the release. Hated the way your clit would throb for attention and then get overwhelmed the second you gave her any. Hated the need. The noise. The mess with no reward.

But the worst part—the actual worst part—was how much you still wanted it. How much you still tried. Like a dog chasing its own tail. Like some needy little loser who couldn’t leave it alone.

You were eighteen, for fuck’s sake. You were supposed to know your body by now. You were supposed to be able to make yourself cum. You were supposed to own your pleasure.

Instead, you were stuck with a pussy that got wet at the idea of being touched and then shut down the second you did.

It made you feel fucking insane.

So you gave up. Mostly. You still touched yourself when you needed to—when it built up too much and made your thighs ache. But it wasn’t about cumming anymore. It was maintenance. A reset button. A pressure valve. You did it in the dark, quietly, quickly, just to shut your body up.

You didn’t even think about pleasure anymore.

You didn’t dare.

-

Evie—Heejoo, but you only ever called her that when you wanted to piss her off—was your best friend in the world. Ride-or-die since ninth grade, bonded over a shared hatred of your chem teacher and the fact that neither of you fit into your school’s carefully manicured social circles.

Where you were sharp and quick with your mouth, she was soft-spoken and wide-eyed, just sweet enough to disarm anyone who got too close. You balanced each other out. She calmed your storm. You stirred hers.

You were over at her house so often it barely felt like visiting anymore. You knew the code to their garage door. You had your own toothbrush in her bathroom. Her mom kept your favorite cereal in the pantry like clockwork. You even had a drawer in her room, mostly old hoodies and stolen pajama shorts that smelled like her perfume.

It wasn’t unusual for you to spend the weekend there, or three nights in a row, or an entire spring break. Her parents didn’t mind. They liked knowing where you both were—liked having an extra body in the house, even if they never said it out loud.

And then there was Heeseung.

Her older brother. Four years up. Barely a presence.

When you were younger, he was just the older guy who sulked in his room and stole her chargers. Sometimes he’d give you a ride when Evie asked, sometimes he’d walk past you in the kitchen and grunt a greeting, but that was about it. He was there, and then he wasn’t—off to college, off to god knows where, vanishing from your life as quickly as he’d drifted through it.

You had a tiny crush on him once, freshman year. The kind that sparked quick and stupid, fed by his lazy smirk and the way he wore his backwards cap while fixing his car in the driveway. It died fast—suffocated by time and distance and his complete disinterest in acknowledging your existence beyond a nod or a side-eye.

By the time he moved back home post-grad, you barely noticed. He was older now, busier, always in his room with the door closed, voice low behind it, like he was on constant phone calls or late-night games or… something.

You didn’t think about him much. He was just Evie’s brother. Part of the background. White noise.

Your focus was always Evie.

She was the one who held your hair when you puked. The one who lent you a dress before every shitty date. The one who knocked on the bathroom door when you were taking too long and said, “You better not be edge-cumming again, bitch,” like it was the most normal sentence in the world.

She talked about sex like it was just part of the air. Blunt. Effortless. She could make herself cum in three minutes flat. She said it with confidence, like breathing.

You hated how easily it came to her. You loved her anyway.

You always felt safe in her house. Safe in her bed, tangled up under a shared blanket, legs overlapping like twins born too far apart. Her room smelled like vanilla and lip gloss and safety. It felt like yours.

-

The house settled around you like it always did—quiet, gentle, familiar in a way that made your muscles loosen and your brain drift. Even the silence felt padded here. The hum of the fridge downstairs, the occasional pop of cooling pipes, the subtle click of the thermostat shifting—background noise you’d grown so used to, it almost felt like home.

Evie was out cold beside you, one arm thrown carelessly across your stomach, her breath hot against your ribs. She always slept fast after wine. She always slept on you, too—like her body never quite understood boundaries even after all these years. You didn’t mind. It was comforting, the weight of her. Like a grounding wire for the anxious, electric static building low in your belly.

Sleep wasn’t coming for you, though.

You’d been lying there in the dark for the better part of an hour, phone dimmed to nearly unreadable brightness, eyes burning from the glow. Nothing on your feed caught your attention. You’d scrolled past the same content three times already, thumb swiping out of pure muscle memory.

Something restless twisted beneath your skin, persistent and irritating. Not quite horniness, not quite insomnia—just that same pulsing tension that had been sitting heavy between your legs all night. Like your body was trying to tell you something without using words. You shifted under the blanket, trying not to disturb Evie, thighs pressing tighter together to relieve the dull ache. It only made it worse.

The urge to do something about it had been growing for hours.

You’d thought about sneaking off to the bathroom. You’d done it before—quiet, quick, businesslike. Just enough friction to take the edge off before falling asleep, still unsatisfied but too tired to care. The idea barely tempted you anymore. You already knew how it would end: the usual mess of spit-slick fingers, your clit swollen and sore, pussy wet and pulsing and still refusing to give you anything real.

Just the thought of trying again made you clench your jaw.

It was pathetic, the way your body teased you. Wet for no reason. Needy without payout. Over and over again, like clockwork. Like punishment.

You turned your phone off with a quiet sigh and let the screen go black.

For a moment, all you could hear was the creak of the floorboards expanding under the weight of a settling house. A branch tapping against the window. The subtle drag of Evie’s breathing. You stared at the ceiling, tired but tense, willing yourself to shut down the frustration building behind your ribs.

A man’s voice, deep and casual, barely audible through the cracked bedroom doors. Not enough to make out words. Not yet. Just the soft cadence of speech, rising and falling like a secret being shared too close to the edge of the world.

Heeseung’s door was open. Or cracked. Just enough to let a sliver of sound spill out. You hadn’t even realized he was home tonight.

Your body stilled, like it always did when you felt watched—except this time, you were the one doing the watching. Listening, technically. Just barely.

There was a pause, then a laugh. Not his. Another voice. Someone else. Male. Maybe one of his friends from school, the ones who came and went without warning. You couldn’t place the sound, and you didn’t care.

Your focus sharpened the second Heeseung spoke again.

“It’s not that hard. Girls make it harder than it is."

“If she’s not cumming, she’s not listening to her pussy.”

The sentence dropped like a stone in the middle of your chest.

Not whispered. Not dirty. Just… stated. Like a law. Like fact.

Your fingers flexed unconsciously against the blanket. Heat flushed your neck and settled low in your belly, familiar and unwelcome. You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

There was something about the way he said it. Not performative. Not like he was trying to sound cool. Just calm. Confident. Like the kind of guy who got women off without effort and never thought twice about why.

Every hair on your arm lifted. He didn’t stop there.

“And if she won’t listen…I’ll make her.”

No laughter followed that. No teasing. Just a quiet moment where it hung in the air, unchallenged.

You lay frozen in the dark, heart thudding, mouth slightly open. Your legs ached under the blanket, thighs tense and pressed together. You weren’t just turned on—you were caught. Cornered by something you weren’t supposed to hear and couldn’t let go of.

Something clicked. Not like a revelation, not some dramatic internal monologue, just… a shift. A tilt in the floor beneath your feet. A door opening in a room you didn’t realize you were trapped in.

You didn’t even know what you wanted in that moment.

But for the first time in your life, you wondered—really wondered—what your body would feel like under instructions that weren’t your own.

-

You tried not to think about it for the rest of the day. Swore you wouldn’t spiral.

You kept the overheard words tucked somewhere tight in your chest, smothered under fake laughter and half-listened stories while Evie walked you through her latest dating app disasters. You made it through brunch, through an entire Target run, through two face masks and one trashy Netflix documentary—and you almost convinced yourself you were over it.

But when the house quieted again that night—when Evie fell asleep curled up on the far side of the bed with her arm draped over a pillow instead of you—you gave in.

You waited a while. Just in case she wasn’t fully out. The kind of sleep that could crack open with the creak of floorboards.

And when her breathing evened out, soft and deep and oblivious, you slid out from under the blanket, grabbed your phone, and slipped into the hallway.

The bathroom door closed with a soft click behind you.

You didn’t turn the light on right away. Just stood there for a second in the dark, breathing.

The air was cooler here. The tiles cold against your feet. The smell of Evie’s shampoo still clung to the room—vanilla and something floral, sticky-sweet. You stared at your reflection in the mirror above the sink, barely visible in the silver sliver of hallway light. Your face looked flushed. Too open. Like something had already been peeled back.

You sat on the closed toilet lid, tugged your hoodie over your thighs, and pulled your phone into your lap.

No buildup. No browsing. You knew what you were looking for.

The video you always came back to. The closest thing you’d ever found to what worked. A deep voice. Slow instructions. Just audio—nothing to watch, nothing to focus on but sound.

It wasn’t him, but it didn’t have to be. Not yet.

Your underwear stuck to the heat between your thighs as you slid it down. Still wet from the tension that had been building since that morning. From the second you saw Heeseung in the kitchen and felt your legs press together automatically.

The wetness should’ve been a good sign.

But you already knew how this would go.

You played the video. Turned the volume down low. Closed your eyes.

Your fingers found your clit easily. Rubbed gentle circles, the way the voice said. You tried to breathe through it, tried to slow down, to listen.

There was too much pressure too soon. Your skin twitched with every touch. The angle was wrong. The rhythm never quite synced. Your body jerked between feeling almost there and feeling absolutely nothing.

You tried harder.

Tried picturing something—someone. His voice. His mouth. The way he looked at you this morning like you weren’t just Evie’s friend, like he saw something else.

That made your fingers move faster. Your hips twitch up from the seat, trying to find something—anything—that would tip you over.

But it never came.

Just heat. Just sweat. Just the same stinging tension in your thighs and the wave that built up, crested, and refused to break.

Your hand dropped. Your chest heaved with a breath that sounded too much like a sob.

You sat there for a full minute in silence, pussy swollen, twitching, soaking your hand—and still nothing. You hadn’t cum. Not even close.

Not even fucking close.

Your palm dragged across your inner thigh as you reached for toilet paper, the wet slick of your own arousal catching against your skin, obscene and bitter and useless. You wiped your hand clean, flushed, washed it under the tap in a daze.

Your reflection stared back at you in the mirror, flushed cheeks, wild eyes, bottom lip bitten raw.

This wasn’t working.

You couldn’t do this by yourself. Not anymore.

The shame didn’t even hit you until you opened the door, stepped back into the hall, and looked toward Heeseung’s room.

You didn’t remember walking from the bathroom to his door. Not really. Your body moved on instinct, fingers still damp with failure, breath shallow and uneven like you’d been running—not down a hallway, but in circles inside your own skin. Everything felt hot and wrong, like you were standing too close to something dangerous and still leaning closer.

The light from under his door was soft, pale blue. The kind of glow that came from a computer screen and sleepless hours. It made the hallway feel colder. Your skin felt clammy beneath your hoodie, thighs still tacky with your own arousal, pulse thudding hard behind your ears. You didn’t even try to calm yourself before raising your hand. There wasn’t enough time. There wasn’t enough anything left.

You knocked.

Soft, quick. Regretted it immediately.

Nothing.

The silence on the other side stretched just long enough to make you feel stupid. You should’ve gone back to Evie’s room. Should’ve locked the bathroom door and buried your face in your hands like you always did. Should’ve swallowed the shame and left it to rot where it always did: at the bottom of your throat.

Your hand was already dropping when the doorknob turned.

Heeseung opened the door halfway, leaning into the frame, and for a second you couldn’t speak. You weren’t expecting him to look like that—hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms, collar askew, hair a damp mess like he’d run his hands through it one too many times. His sweatshorts hung low on his hips, legs bare, skin flushed warm like he’d just come out of the shower… or just come. You had no way of knowing which. And it made your brain short-circuit either way.

He didn’t look surprised to see you. Just confused.

His eyes dragged down your body with a slow kind of calculation, and you swore you saw the moment they caught on the way your thighs were pressed together, your bare legs twitching under the hem of your hoodie. The way your breath hitched in your throat. The way your fingers—still wet, still trembling—curled tighter at your side.

He blinked once, brows pulling in slightly.

“You good?”

The question was simple, quiet. But it hit like an echo in a room with no furniture. You were not good. Not even close.

Your voice came out before you could soften it. Flat, direct. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

He blinked again. Caught off guard this time.

“…What?”

“I just need to know,” you said quickly, words tumbling over each other. “Before I say anything. It matters.”

He stared at you for a beat, mouth twitching like he wasn’t sure if he should be amused or suspicious.

“No. I don’t.”

You exhaled like someone had untied a knot inside your chest.

“Fuck.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “What?”

“If you said yes,” you muttered, eyes darting to the floor, “I would’ve had an excuse not to ask you.”

That made him pause.

He shifted his weight, crossed his arms over his chest, leaned into the doorframe like he was settling in. His voice was a little lower when he asked, “Ask me what?”

Your whole body burned. There was no easy way to say it. No casual phrasing. No safe distance between you and the truth anymore. You didn’t have the energy to dance around it.

“You said something last night,” you started, forcing yourself to look at him. “About girls who can’t finish. About how they’re not listening to their bodies.”

He watched you carefully. No expression, just the slow, measured study of a man waiting for the rest.

“I heard it,” you added. “By accident. But it’s been stuck in my head. And I thought—I don’t know, I thought maybe you were right.”

Still nothing. Just his gaze crawling over your face, down to your knees, like he was trying to see where this was going before letting himself speak.

You swallowed, the taste of failure still thick in your throat. “I tried again tonight. Bathroom. Just now. I’ve been trying for years, and it’s always the same. Nothing works. I can’t finish. I touch myself, and it just—goes nowhere.”

Your cheeks burned. You didn’t even know why you were telling him all this. You barely knew the guy. The last time you’d had a real conversation was probably three birthdays ago when he offered you a ride and you said no because he smelled like weed and fuckboy cologne.

But here you were. Standing in front of him like some half-dressed, sweat-slick confession, spilling everything.

And he still hadn’t said a word.

Your next breath shook as it left you.

“I don’t want you to touch me,” you said, quieter now. “I just want to ask… if you’d tell me what to do.”

That got something out of him. A small breath through his nose, not quite a laugh, not quite disbelief. His eyes dropped—lower this time—to your legs again, to the edge of your hoodie, to the bare skin flushed and prickling under the hallway air.

He nodded once toward you, chin tilting. “Your hand’s still wet.”

You froze.

His voice was low, unreadable. “You tried that hard, huh?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

He stepped back.

Just a few inches. Just enough to open the door wider. The light from inside poured out around him, cool and soft and full of static.

He held your gaze.

 “Come in. Close the door behind you.”

The door shuts with a soft click behind you, and just like that, the house disappears. Evie’s room, the hallway, your entire carefully contained world—it all drops away. There’s only the low glow of his monitor casting pale blue light across the carpet and the quiet hum of something electric in the corner, like the room itself is holding its breath.

You hover near the door for a second, not sure what to do with your hands, your legs, your shame.

Heeseung’s already sitting, legs wide in his desk chair, turned toward you like he was waiting the whole night for this. He shifts, pushes himself up slightly, and drags the chair forward—lazily, unbothered—until it sits right in front of the bed. Close enough that if you spread your legs, he’d have a front-row seat.

Then he flips the chair around, straddling it backwards like some cocky delinquent in detention, arms crossed over the backrest, chin resting casually on top. His expression doesn’t change. He just watches you.

“Go ahead,” he says, voice calm and low, like this is just another Tuesday night. “Sit.”

You make your way to the bed, legs tense, breath shallow, and perch at the edge like it might bite. Your thighs clench on instinct, hoodie pulled low, trying to shield what you already know he’s seen. You’re still warm from the bathroom. Still soaked. Still aching.

His eyes drift down. Slow. Lazy. No shame.

You fidget.

Heeseung doesn’t move. “Don’t get shy on me now. You came in here asking for a masturbation lesson, not a bedtime story.”

Your lips twitch. You almost laugh. Almost.

He lifts his chin. “Tell me what you usually do.”

The question lands harder than it should. Not because it’s dirty, but because it’s so simple.

You blink. “Like… where I touch?”

“Yeah.”

You hesitate. “I usually just go straight to my clit.”

“Figures.” He doesn’t miss a beat. “And then what? Rub the fuck out of it ‘til it gets sore and wonder why it doesn’t work?”

Your mouth falls open in a small gasp. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs one shoulder, unbothered. “Don’t take it personal. That’s what most girls do. It’s not your fault you think the goal is speed over sense.”

You don’t respond, but your silence is answer enough.

He leans in a little, forearms resting on the chair back, gaze glued to your bare thighs. There’s no hunger in it—not yet. Just observation. Like he’s assessing you.

“If your pussy had a voice,” he says smoothly, “she’d be screaming at you to chill the fuck out.”

You’re quiet for a long second. Because the worst part is… he’s not wrong.

He watches you squirm, and something like amusement passes over his features. Not cruel, but smug.

“Take your time,” he says, gentler now. “You rush her, she locks up. Doesn’t matter how wet you are.”

“…She?” you murmur, lifting a brow.

Heeseung shrugs again, like it’s obvious. “Yeah. She.” His eyes flick to yours. “You don’t gotta name her or write poetry about her, but you should probably stop treating her like a vending machine.”

Your laugh breaks before you can stop it. Quick and sharp, nerves bleeding out of your throat. “You’re so annoying.”

“And yet, you’re still here,” he says with a smirk, eyes dark. “Go on. Show me how you start.”

Everything tightens. You feel the weight of his voice low in your belly.

You don’t move right away.

He raises a brow. “You said you didn’t want me to touch you. That’s cool. But I need to see what you’re doing wrong.”

Your breath hitches.

Your hand moves on instinct—slow, shaky—and dips beneath the hem of your hoodie, then under the band of your panties. You’re already wet. Embarrassingly wet. And when your fingers graze over your clit, you flinch. It’s too sensitive. Too much. Your hips jerk a little, and you pretend not to notice the way his eyes follow the motion.

You rub. Once. Twice. It’s not bad. It’s what you always do.

But still—nothing clicks.

Heeseung tilts his head. “You’re too stiff.”

“I’m nervous,” you admit quietly.

“Don’t be.” His voice drops half an octave. “You look hot.”

The way he says it—it doesn’t sound like a compliment. Just a fact. Like he’s telling you what time it is. Like your soaked fingers and clenched thighs are something he’s been picturing all night.

“You’re thinking too much,” he adds. “Trying to force it instead of feel it.”

Your hand stills.

He leans forward slightly, his voice quieter now, more intimate. “Try this. Press your hand flat. Just hold her. No rubbing. No tapping. Just… feel her.”

You hesitate, then obey.

The flat of your hand settles between your legs, heat blooming up your arm from the contact. Your whole body clenches around it.

“Feel that?”

You nod. Barely.

“That’s what she likes,” he murmurs. “You’ve been poking at her like she’s a fucking keyboard. No wonder she’s not putting out.”

You let out a breathy laugh—half scandalized, half aroused. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re soaking through your panties,” he says, deadpan.

Your breath catches. Heeseung doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t look away.

He sits there like he’s got all the time in the world. Like he’s doing you a favor. Like he’s enjoying this. You’re not even sure he’s hard yet—but he will be. You can feel it building. Between you. In you.

He lets the moment hang.

Then: “Now—slow circles. Don’t speed up unless she tells you to.”

“She doesn’t talk,” you whisper, teasing without confidence.

His gaze is heavy. Steady.

“She does,” he says, voice like heat sliding under your skin. “You just haven’t been listening.”

The room feels hotter now.

Not just the air—your skin, your mouth, your thighs. Sweat clings to the backs of your knees, damp beneath the bunched-up hoodie, and your panties are so wet they’re practically glued to one thigh. Your hips keep twitching without your permission, rolling up slightly with every pass of your fingers. It’s not graceful. It’s not some porn fantasy. It’s messy and uneven and real, and Heeseung is watching every second of it like it’s the only thing worth watching.

You keep thinking you should feel embarrassed. Ashamed. You’re spread open on his bed, hand stuffed between your legs, whining softly every time you stroke a little too hard and have to ease back again—but you’re too far gone now to stop. Your cheeks are flushed, lashes wet, lips parted, and you can’t look away from him.

He hasn’t blinked once.

Heeseung is still straddling the backward chair, elbows resting on the top, chin on one hand like this is casual. Normal. Like you’re just some half-naked girl jerking off in front of him for practice and he’s your substitute teacher for the night.

The only thing that’s changed is his posture.

His knees are spread wider than before. His forearms are tense. One hand grips the edge of the chair a little tighter every time your body jerks, and you don’t miss the way his jaw flexes every time your breath stutters or your voice cracks.

You’re doing this to him.

But not enough.

Not enough to make it stop hurting. Not enough to make the ache go away. Not enough to finish.

You’re trying. God, you’re trying.

Your fingers rub in slow circles, not too fast now. You’re listening. You are. But your body keeps tensing at the edge, like it’s scared to fall off the cliff it’s been building for years. Your hand’s cramping. Your clit throbs. Your stomach clenches like you’re close—and then it dips, again and again.

It’s good. So good.

But it’s not enough.

You choke on a frustrated sound, somewhere between a sob and a moan, and your free hand fists the blanket beneath you like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

Heeseung speaks, finally, voice low and steady. “Still rushing her.”

“I’m not,” you whisper.

“You are. I can see it.”

You shake your head, breath stuttering. “I’m not trying to—I swear, I’m—” You gasp. “It’s just—it’s not—”

You stop. Words catch in your throat. Your hips are rocking now, involuntarily, chasing a sensation that keeps pulling away the second you get close. Your fingers are wet, your pussy’s pulsing, and it still feels like you’re just rubbing up against a wall.

“It’s not enough,” you breathe out, broken. “I—I can’t—fuck—she’s not listening.”

Heeseung leans forward slightly, something sharp flashing in his eyes.

“Oh, she’s listening,” he says. “You’re just not talking to her the right way.”

You whimper. “Then tell me what to say.”

That makes his mouth twitch—just barely. Like he’s been waiting for that.

“Tell me what she’s feeling first.”

“I—” Your voice cracks. “She’s tight. Warm. I feel her—pulsing. Like she wants something but—she’s not opening.”

He tilts his head slightly, gaze dark. “She wants to be filled.”

You nod.

“No,” he says. “Say it.”

Your chest heaves. Your hand hasn’t stopped moving, rubbing slow, desperate circles around your clit. “She wants to be filled.”

“Say it like you mean it.”

“She wants to be fucking filled,” you whine. “She’s throbbing—she’s soaking—fuck, I can feel her squeezing nothing.”

Heeseung exhales slowly, eyes flicking down between your legs again.

“There you go,” he murmurs. “Now she’s talking.”

Your fingers glide lower, catching more slick and sliding back up. Everything’s soaked. You’re dripping down onto the sheets, and your thighs are trembling from the strain of keeping your hips lifted just right.

“She needs more,” you pant. “She’s clenching—she’s starving—”

Heeseung’s hand flexes around the edge of the chair again. His voice drops, almost to a growl. “So feed her.”

You moan—high and breathy—and press harder, circling your clit faster now, the way your body wants. Your lips are wet, your fingers slipping, but it doesn’t matter. Everything is slick and hot and alive.

“You’re soaked,” he mutters, eyes burning into you. “Look at your fucking fingers.”

You do. It’s obscene. Your hand shines in the light, your fingers coated in slick. You barely recognize your own body like this. Ruined. Responsive.

“She’s begging,” he says softly. “And you’re finally listening.”

You whine, eyes squeezing shut. Your free hand presses against your lower belly, trying to hold the heat in. Your pussy twitches at the pressure.

“She’s so fucking greedy,” you gasp. “She won’t stop pulling—I can’t—I can’t keep up—”

“You don’t have to,” he says. “She knows what she’s doing. Let her take it.”

You don’t even realize how loud you’ve gotten until you hear yourself moan again—shameless, cracked open, shaking from the inside out.

Your legs spread wider. You’re not trying to hide anymore. Not from him. Not from yourself.

You’re right there.

You’re going to break.

He’s just watching. Like it’s his favorite thing he’s ever seen.

You’re right on the edge, and this time it’s not teasing.

It’s sharp. Fast. Inevitable.

Your legs are trembling now, hips jerking with every motion, and your fingers are soaked—slipping against your clit, coating your inner thighs, dripping down the crease of your ass like your body’s trying to fuck itself open. Every stroke sends another wave of tension through you, and there’s no holding it anymore. Your body is begging. Your pussy’s leaking, twitching, clenching around nothing—and Heeseung watches like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You don’t even realize you’re moaning until you hear it echo back at you in the small room. High-pitched. Desperate. Wet.

The sound of your pussy is louder now too. Sticky and obscene, each rub slicker than the last. You can hear it every time you roll your hips into your palm.

Heeseung doesn’t say a word for a second too long.

You lift your head, eyes glazed over, panting.

His eyes are darker now. Half-lidded. Focused on your pussy like he’s reading it better than your face.

He shifts in his chair. Spreads his knees wider. His hand dips into the front of his sweatshorts, slow and casual, like he can’t ignore it anymore. You catch a glimpse of his fingers wrapping around himself—and your breath catches so hard your vision blurs.

He’s so hard.

His voice comes out deeper. Filthy. Measured like it’s the only thing anchoring him in the room.

“Look at that messy little cunt.”

Your body jerks at the word. You’ve never heard it said like that. Never felt it hit like that.

Heeseung strokes himself once, slow and firm under the fabric.

“She’s drooling all over your fingers. So fucking hungry. Bet she’s never been this loud for you before.”

“She hasn’t,” you breathe. “She never—she never—”

“You’ve been starving her,” he says, still jerking himself lazily. “Touching her like she’s a problem instead of a fucking meal.”

Your hand speeds up, and he sees it. Hears the slap of slick. You’re humping into your fingers now, sloppy and desperate and so close you could scream.

Heeseung leans forward, one elbow braced against the back of the chair.

“You wanna cum, baby?”

You nod frantically, but it’s not enough.

“Use your words.”

Your voice comes out cracked. “Yes. Please—I wanna cum—I need it—”

“Need what?” he pushes.

“I need her to fucking break,” you sob. “She’s clenching—she’s begging—she needs to cum, she needs it—”

“Then let her,” he growls. “Don’t fucking hold it. Let her make a mess.”

You whimper, fingers frantic, back arching off the bed.

And that’s when he says it—low and hot and foul.

“Let her fuck your fingers, slut.”

You snap.

Your body locks up, then shatters. You cum so hard your legs shake, hips jerking forward, thighs squeezing around your own hand as your pussy gushes over your fingers in sticky, messy waves. The moan that rips from your throat is broken, cracked, half-wet from tears.

It doesn’t hit you right away.

At first, there’s just white. Blinding. A full-body seizure of pleasure as your cunt clenches around nothing, soaking your own fingers, mouth open in a moan that doesn’t even sound like you.

It crashes over you fast. Wet. Messy.

You cum harder than you ever have in your life—harder than you thought was even possible—and your body just keeps going, hips jerking, slick dripping past your knuckles, your voice cracking on every gasp.

Heeseung is still there.

You know he is. You can feel his eyes on you, feel his breath in the space between your bodies, but you can’t look at him. Not right now. Not like this.

And then it fades.

That warm, bright static in your brain flickers out. Your thighs twitch. Your hand finally drops, fingers soaked, wrist aching, clit too sensitive to touch again.

What’s left is the sound of your breathing. The slick, wet mess beneath your hips. The embarrassment flooding in all at once like a second wave.

Reality slams back into you hard.

You’re laid out across his bed—sweaty, flushed, thighs spread wide and soaked all the way down to the crease of your ass. Your pussy’s still twitching, swollen and glistening, your panties bunched at one knee, hoodie halfway pushed up your stomach.

Your fingers shine in the low light. Still wet. Still shaking.

You sit up fast, panic sweeping over your skin like ice water. “Shit—fuck.”

Your hand fumbles to pull your hoodie down, yanking it over your thighs, shoving your panties back into place even though they’re absolutely soaked through. The fabric clings wetly to your pussy and only makes the mess feel worse.

Heeseung hasn’t moved.

Still in the chair. Still one hand inside his shorts. He looks completely unbothered. Calm. Like you didn’t just cum your entire soul out in front of him.

You can’t meet his eyes.

He watches you fuss with the hem of your hoodie, your hands still trembling slightly as you try to make yourself look decent.

“Didn’t say stop,” he says mildly.

You glare at him, cheeks burning. “I came. Pretty sure that’s the goal, right?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Just surprised you’re acting all shy now. That pussy was practically talking thirty seconds ago.”

“Jesus—” you squeeze your eyes shut, bury your face in your hands.

Heeseung grins. Not mean. Not mocking. Just amused.

“You do realize how loud you were, right?” he adds. “I thought the bed was gonna snap in half.”

“Please stop talking,” you groan, voice muffled.

“You were crying,” he says like it’s a compliment, hand still lazily palming himself under his shorts. “That shit was beautiful.”

You peek at him through your fingers. He’s still hard. Still watching you with that same steady calm, like this is fine. Like this is normal.

He doesn’t even seem fazed.

That somehow makes the ache between your legs flare again. Weak, overstimulated, but greedy.

You clear your throat. “I didn’t realize I—um. That I could… do that.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Cum?”

You shoot him a look.

Heeseung laughs, finally letting go of himself. “You’ve been fighting her for years. All I did was give you directions.”

You tuck your knees up into your chest, arms wrapped around them. You feel like you just stripped naked in front of someone who stayed fully clothed—and now he’s just lounging there like you didn’t just show him the most private part of yourself.

You sit in that awkward silence for a few seconds longer.

Heeseung stretches, chair creaking slightly. “So,” he says, tone casual. “Lesson two tomorrow?”

You blink.

“…There’s a second lesson?”

He smiles slow, eyes dropping to your thighs again. “You think she’s done learning?”

Your pussy twitches beneath your soaked panties.

-

Your legs are still weak from the first night when you leave.

Just a few days back home. Just a quick visit. You didn’t think it would matter—but the second you cross the county line, your pussy starts aching like she knows she’s been abandoned. Like she misses his voice already.

You think about texting him before you even unpack your overnight bag.

 It starts that fast—barely through the front door, barely through dinner with your parents, barely through pretending to care about someone’s new side hustle or whatever cousin just had a baby, and already your mind is slipping. 

Already you’re restless. Already your body feels too awake. You can still feel the slick sticking to the inside of your thighs from last night, from the way he sat in that chair like he was doing you a favor while you touched yourself for the first time like it meant something. It hasn’t gone away. The ache stayed with you. 

That trembling throb between your legs that didn’t fade after one orgasm—or two—or three. And now, here you are. Sitting in your childhood bedroom like you didn’t just learn how to listen to your pussy in someone else’s bed with someone else’s voice in your ear.

You last all of twelve hours. Maybe thirteen if you count sleep, but that’s cheating. You keep checking your phone like a freak. Not even for a message—just to see his name.

 You scroll through the notifications like maybe he’ll magically show up. You open his contact. Stare at the little circle icon. You type a text. Delete it. 

Type again. Delete. Pace the room. Pull your hair up. Let it fall. Lie on the bed. Toss the blanket off. Roll onto your stomach, then your back, then sit up again because your body’s too hot and your thoughts won’t stop dragging back to the sound of his voice saying “Good girl. She’s listening now.”

You try to distract yourself. Put music on. Stare at the ceiling. Scroll through reels. But the tension is building and it’s not casual. It’s deep. It’s mean. 

Like your pussy’s crawling up your spine and whispering call him over and over again. And finally, like a fucking addict, you give in.

You don’t try to be subtle. Your fingers tremble as you type the message—“Can I call you?”—and hit send before you can regret it. Your breath catches in your throat. Heart pounding. Shame twisting in your gut like you’ve already crossed a line and he hasn’t even replied. But then your phone buzzes. Two texts in a row. You click without thinking.

No. I’ll call you.

Speaker on. Hands ready. Nothing else.

You don’t even get a second to prepare. The call comes in instantly, and you fumble to answer it, press speaker, toss the phone onto your pillow and sit back, legs shaking under your blanket. You’re wearing nothing but a big t-shirt—no bra, no panties. Like your body already knew what was coming.

His voice is in your ear the second the line connects.

Low. Thick. Wrecked.

“You waited all day just to fuck yourself to my voice, didn’t you?”

The sound alone makes your thighs clamp together. You can’t answer. You don’t know what to say. You feel called out, ruined, exposed, and he hasn’t even seen you.

“You’re pathetic,” he breathes, and it’s not cruel—it’s reverent. Like he’s turned on by the depth of your desperation. “You left for less than twenty-four hours and she’s already starving.”

Your breath comes out shaky. “She hasn’t shut up.”

“I bet. That little pussy’s been crying for attention, hasn’t she? Soaking your panties, throbbing for no reason. Did you even try to touch her?”

Your hand slides down your stomach. Shame floods your chest. “I tried last night.”

“And?”

Your fingers drift over your mound, soft and slow.

“…Didn’t work.”

“Of course it didn’t.” He doesn’t miss a beat. “Because she’s not trained to your fingers. She’s trained to my voice.”

You nearly choke.

“Take the blanket off.”

You do.

“T-shirt stays. I want you messy under it. Like a filthy little secret.”

You obey, chest rising. The air hits your bare skin and your nipples pebble instantly under the thin cotton. You slide your hand under the hem and find yourself dripping already—your folds slippery and warm, your clit throbbing at the first brush.

“Fuck. You’re already wet.”

You don’t answer.

“Don’t ignore me. Say it.”

You whimper. “I’m wet.”

“Where?”

Your hand slides lower. “Everywhere.”

“Let me hear it.”

You drag your fingers through your folds, then lift them to the mic.

Squish. Slick. Wet.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “She’s fucking leaking for me.”

“She won’t stop,” you pant. “She’s been clenching—she’s needy. I can’t—I can’t even think straight.”

“She doesn’t need you to think. She needs you to listen.”

You nod like he can see you.

“You touching your clit yet?”

“No,” you whisper. “Just teasing.”

“Don’t tease her. Feed her.”

You obey. Your fingers find your clit and press slow, warm circles into the swollen skin. Your hips twitch immediately. Your body jolts with relief. Like it’s been waiting for this.

“Fuck. That’s it. Let her roll her hips. Let her grind on your fingers.”

You do.

And you moan. Loud. Wet. Pathetic.

“You sound like you’re crying.”

“I might be,” you choke out. “I’m—I’ve been on edge all day. She’s screaming—”

“Then shut her up.”

Your fingers move faster. Your breath turns ragged. The slick is everywhere now—coating your palm, sliding down your ass, soaking the sheets beneath you. You can hear it—slap, slap, slap—and you know he can too.

“God, listen to her,” he says. “She’s fucking talking again. Slapping wet, loud as hell, crying to be filled.”

Your thighs start to shake.

“Don’t you dare stop.”

“Heeseung—fuck, I’m close—”

“She wants to cum. So let her.”

You cum hard, back arching, legs tensed, voice cracking open around a sob as your pussy convulses around nothing—just your fingers, just your shame, just his voice dragging it out of you with nothing but command.

“Again,” he growls. “Don’t you dare take your hand off her. You begged for this. You waited all fucking day for it.”

You keep going. Because you can’t stop. Because this is his now.

-

You don’t get a break.

Heeseung doesn’t let you.

After that first call—the one where you came so hard you swore you saw stars—you thought maybe the tension would ease up. Maybe you’d get to breathe. But you don’t. Because the second you wake up the next morning, there’s already a text waiting for you.

Morning. She hungry?

Your pussy clenches on reflex.

You bite your lip, cheeks flushing under the covers.

Yes.

His reply is instant.

Good. edge yourself until you’re shaking. No cumming. No cheating. You’ll send me a pic of your fingers when you’re done.

That’s it. No teasing. No sweet talk. Just commands. Direct. Cruel. And of course—you obey.

You finger yourself that morning with shaking hands, grinding into your palm in the silence of your old bedroom with one hand over your mouth to muffle your cries. You stop just short of release three times. Your panties are soaked. The sheets beneath you are ruined.

You send the photo.

Two slick fingers, gleaming. One droplet hanging from your wrist like a taunt.

He doesn’t reply until hours later.

Beautiful. Don’t clean her up. Let her stick to your skin. I want her to haunt you all day.

That’s how it starts.

Sometimes it’s a call. Sometimes it’s just a photo prompt. Sometimes it’s voice notes—low, slow, whispered filth that you replay in the bathroom on full volume with your thighs clenched so tight you can barely breathe.

Another day: make a mess on your favorite pair of panties. Send proof. Don’t wash them. Fold them and put them in your drawer like a secret. Like she remembers.

When you can’t call—family dinners, company in the house, a wedding event—he doesn’t complain. He just adapts.

He sends you three voice notes in a row, each one filthier than the last.

“Are you wearing panties right now?”

“She’s wet just from this, isn’t she?”

“Put your phone between your legs. Let my voice buzz against her while you grind.”

You do. In the middle of the day. On the edge of your childhood bed. With the door locked and your hand clamped over your mouth to muffle the sound of you cumming on command.

Every time you text him, he knows what you need before you say it.

On your knees. Two fingers. Say my name when you finish. That’s all.

You cum like a trained animal.

By the end of the fourth day, you’re overstimulated and aching. Your cunt stays warm. Your clit stays swollen. You can’t think straight without hearing his voice. You can’t fall asleep without a pillow between your legs and your phone under your ear, replaying the way he said your name like it tasted good.

He doesn’t let you get comfortable.

I want her ruined by the time you get back. Wet stains on your thighs. Bruised from your own fingers. No excuses. You belong to me now, yeah?

-

You’re at the dinner table when the text comes in.

There’s a bowl of pasta in front of you. Your uncle’s talking about traffic. Your mom’s pouring more wine. And your phone buzzes in your lap—one tiny, harmless vibration you almost ignore until you see the name on your lockscreen.

Heeseung.

Your chest tightens immediately. A hot ripple runs down your spine. You unlock it under the table, heart already picking up speed, thighs pressed tight together like that’s gonna help anything.

You expect a voice note. Maybe an instruction. Instead, it’s just a single message.

Don’t open this here. I’m serious.

You excuse yourself. Bathroom. You try to walk casually, but your legs feel unstable, like your body knows what’s coming and is bracing for it. You shut the door. Lock it. Sit down on the closed toilet seat. And then you open the message.

It’s not a photo. Not a voice note. Just a block of text.

And it destroys you.

I want you dripping. Right now. I want your thighs sticky. I want your pussy hot and twitching and swollen like she’s just been edged for an hour and she’s still not allowed to cum. I want her pulsing around nothing. Squeezing air. Leaking like she misses my cock even though she’s never had it. That’s how good I want her trained. That she misses me even though I’ve never fucked her. I want you to slide your hand into your panties and feel her spit for me. Feel how filthy she’s gotten just from reading my words. Not even hearing my voice. Just letters on a screen and she’s frothing like a brainless little thing. I want her throbbing. Sore. Pink. Aching. I want you to pull your panties to the side and look at what I’ve done to you. How she opens for nothing. How she clenches for nothing. How she cries, fucking cries, when she doesn’t get touched. I want her messy. Slutty. Wet enough to embarrass you. Wet enough you can’t clean it up with one tissue. Wet enough that if someone walked into that bathroom right now, they’d smell her. No fingers. Not yet. Just pressure. Palm down. Let her hump. Let her grind. Let her get yourself dirty. She knows what to do. She doesn’t need permission anymore. You’re gonna leak down your leg just reading this, aren’t you? She’s already twitching. Already soaking. She knows what she is now. A thing that exists to be used. To be made wet. To be trained.

You stare at your screen. Eyes wide. Chest heaving.

And you feel it—that slow, steady drip.

You slide your hand down between your legs and whimper when your fingers meet your panties—soaked through. Hot and sticky, your folds puffy and swollen, everything throbbing with need.

You spread your legs wider. There’s no stopping it. You have to.

You push your panties aside, just like he said, and when you look down, your cunt is shining. Slick lips parted, clit swollen and begging, a string of wet clinging between your folds when you breathe too hard.

You cup her with your whole palm and rock once.

You grind again. Harder. The heel of your hand pressing directly on your clit. Your hips move faster, panting now, forehead pressed against your bent knee as your pussy humps your own hand like she’s starved.

You’re fucking yourself with no fingers. Just pressure. Just filth. Just his words rotting your brain and your pussy loving it.

You don’t stop until your legs lock, jaw clenched tight to muffle the moan that rips through your throat. Your pussy convulses, grinding down hard, cumming in waves against your own palm until you’re crying silently, thighs soaked, panties a mess, body twitching from the force of it.

When it’s over, you’re wrecked. You sit there in silence. Breathing heavy. Panties still pulled to the side, hand drenched, cunt gaping and twitching like she’s still looking for him.

You snap a photo.

Not of your face. Just your hand. Soaked. Ruined. Slick covering your wrist, dripping down your knuckles.

You send it. No caption. A minute later, his reply lights up your screen.

That’s how she’s supposed to look. Every day until you get home.

-

You don’t even knock.

You could, but what’s the point? He told you to come over as soon as you got back. No texts. No warning. Just a short message yesterday night:

You better show up dripping.

And you are.

The shorts you wore are damp at the crotch, your hoodie clinging to the sweat on your lower back. Every shift of your thighs against the car seat on the drive over made you squirm. By the time you’re standing in front of his door, your cunt is throbbing. Empty. Trained. Starving.

He opens it like he already knew you were there.

Barefoot. Hoodie. Nothing underneath.

He stares at you for a second, quiet. His eyes drop to your legs, to the way you’re fidgeting, clenching, trying not to press your thighs together. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t speak.

Just opens the door wider and lets you in.

You step past him. Silent. Heat prickling under your skin. His presence is loud, even without words. You can feel the pressure building already—your pussy knows. She’s aware. Aware of the air, of the scent of him, of how close he is now after five days of only hearing him through a speaker.

He closes the door behind you. And waits.

You turn to him, hands still curled into your sleeves. “I did everything.”

He lifts a brow. “Yeah?”

You nod. Swallow hard. “Every day.”

Heeseung steps forward slowly. Stops in front of you. His eyes flick down, over your body, like he’s looking for confirmation.

“You leaking?”

Your breath catches. “Yes.”

“Prove it.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. But you don’t hesitate.

Your fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts and tug them down in one smooth motion. They hit the floor and you step out of them, bare underneath, thighs sticky and glistening. Your hoodie barely covers your hips now. One inch higher and he’d see everything.

He doesn’t touch you.

“Show me,” he says, voice low.

Your breath hitches again—but you drop to your knees. Not because he asked. Because your body knows what to do now.

You kneel between his feet on the hardwood floor, hands moving to part your thighs so he can see. You pull the hoodie up to your waist and slide two fingers between your folds—dripping. It spreads so easily. Glossy. Viscous. Your pussy folds open for your own touch like it’s nothing new. Like she’s been practicing all week.

You keep your eyes on him the whole time.

And when your fingers come back up, soaked and glistening, you hold them out. Heeseung watches you in silence.

Then leans forward, slow and deliberate. He takes your fingers into his mouth and sucks—deep, slow, tongue curling around them like it’s a reward.

Your hips jerk slightly. Your cunt clenches hard. He pulls off with a wet pop and stares down at you.

“She tastes trained.”

You nod.

“She beg yet?”

You exhale. “She never shut up.”

He clicks his tongue. “Yeah?”

Then he grabs your jaw. Fingers firm but not rough, tilting your face up to his.

“You want her filled?”

You nod again. “Please.”

“Not yet,” he says. “She’s not ready.”

“I’m ready—she’s so ready, I’ve been—”

“I don’t care what you think. You’re not here to make decisions. You’re here to do what I say.” He lets go of your face. “You wanna get fed? Earn it. Lay down. Show me how she begs.”

You scramble onto the bed.

Flat on your back. Legs spread. Cunt on display. Dripping.

You’re already on your back, knees drawn up, thighs spread and trembling, cunt pulsing with heat that’s been building all week. You don’t try to hide it. You can’t. Your pussy’s wet. Loud. Lips glossy and parted, folds flushed and twitching like she knows the moment has finally come. She’s been teased. Trained. Denied. You’ve been filling her with fingers and pressure and your own voice, but never this. Never him. And now he’s standing at the edge of the bed, staring down at you like he’s finally ready to eat.

But he doesn’t touch you first.

He picks your shorts up off the floor, turns them inside out—and finds your soaked panties tangled in the legs. He peels them out slowly, sticky with your slick, the thin fabric darkened and clinging to itself. You watch, breath caught, legs still open, burning with shame as he brings them up to his face.

And sniffs.

Deep.

He inhales like it’s a fucking ritual. Eyes half-lidded. Thumb pressing into the crotch to smear the wetness around before dragging it across his lip. His tongue flicks out—tastes it.

“Jesus fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “She’s been marinating in this.”

Your body jolts. Your hands fist the sheets.

“She’s loud, too.” His voice drops lower. “I haven’t even touched her and she’s already talking. Look at her. Fucking twitching. Dripping. Spreading herself open like she knows who she belongs to.”

“Heeseung—” You whimper.

“Shut up.”

He tosses your panties to the side and climbs onto the bed, slow and smooth, eyes never leaving your cunt. He settles between your legs and just kneels there for a moment. Breathing her in. Hands on your thighs. Pushing them wider. Spreading you so open you can feel the air hit your slick.

You’re soaked. You know it. You can feel it, the slick sliding down into the dip of your ass, the way your folds part with every breath, your clit poking out, hot and swollen.

He just stares.

“You fucking trained her like this,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You really did it. Came like a good little slut every night just to keep her hungry.”

“She’s starving,” you whisper, voice shaking.

“I can see that.”

His thumbs press into the crease of your thighs, holding you open. His face lowers. Inches away. His breath hits your folds and your hips twitch violently.

He doesn’t lick you.

Not yet.

He just hovers. His nose skims your inner thigh. Then up. Right up the slick slit, dragging his breath across your folds until your body shudders. He breathes her in again—this time slower. Longer. Right at the source.

“God,” he mutters. “She fucking smells like obedience.”

You sob.

And then he spits.

Right on your pussy.

Hot. Heavy. Messy.

It splashes over your clit, drips between your folds, mixes with your slick and makes everything worse.

Your hips roll. You can’t stop it.

“Don’t you fucking move,” he growls. “She’s getting attention. She better stay still.”

And finally—finally—his tongue drags up your slit. A long, slow lick from hole to clit that ends with his mouth wrapped around it, sucking hard.

Your hands fly to his hair. Your spine arches off the bed.

But he pins you with one forearm across your stomach and doesn’t stop.

He eats you like a man starved. Like you’ve been feeding her for him. Keeping her ready. Keeping her needy. His mouth is everywhere—tongue licking up everything you’ve been saving, spit and slick and mess pooling under your ass while he moans into you.

“That’s it,” he groans against your clit. “Let me taste five fucking days of begging.”

You cry out, thighs clenching.

But he slaps your pussy with his hand—sharp, wet, punishing.

“Open.”

You go limp. You can’t fight it. You don’t want to.

He eats you like it’s personal. Tongue flat. Licking. Circling. Spitting again. Your clit’s too swollen, too sensitive, but he doesn’t care. He mumbles into you—filth you can barely understand because he’s too focused on devouring.

“She’s so fucking loud. She won’t shut up. You hear that?”

You do.

Your pussy makes noise with every lick—squelching, wet, obscene.

“I didn’t even fuck her yet,” he growls. “And she’s already creaming.”

You try to cum. You try.

But he pulls back just as your thighs start to shake, just as your stomach seizes.

“Nope. She’s not getting fed all the way until I’ve felt her on my cock.”

You nod frantically, fingers gripping the sheets, desperate.

Heeseung leans back, licking his lips, chin soaked, eyes wild.

“She’s ready,” he says. “She’s starving.”

He’s already got two fingers hooked inside you when he tells you to open your mouth.

Not to kiss him. Not to speak. Just to take it.

He shoves his fingers past your lips—soaked in your own slick, the same fingers he’s been curling deep inside your cunt, dragging against that spot that makes your eyes roll back. You gag around them, moaning as the taste floods your tongue—salty, sour, yours. He pushes them down onto your tongue, presses hard until your spit leaks out around them and drips down your chin.

“Swallow it,” he mutters, eyes locked on your face. “That’s what obedience tastes like.”

You do. Of course you do.

Because you’d do anything he says.

And he knows it.

He wipes the slick from your lips with his thumb, drags it down your throat, then shifts forward—kneeling between your trembling thighs, lining himself up with your soaked entrance like he’s been waiting years for this moment.

You stare down at his cock, thick and flushed and leaking at the tip, and your whole body tenses. You’re already open, already dripping, already fucked dumb—but none of it’s going to prepare you for this.

“Look at her,” he mutters under his breath, dragging the head of his cock through your folds, smearing pre-cum across your clit. “She’s fucking begging.”

“She wants it,” you pant, voice shaking. “Please—”

He doesn’t give you time to finish.

He presses in—slow, deep, cruel.

The stretch hits you all at once. Your back arches. Your breath leaves you in a choked gasp, and your pussy clenches hardaround him, sucking him in inch by inch like she never wants to let him go.

“Ohhh, fuck,” he groans. “She’s trained alright.”

You moan. Loud. Desperate. Writhing beneath him as he bottoms out, his hips flush against your ass, his cock buried all the way to the base.

She’s full.

Finally fucking full.

Your cunt grips him tight, fluttering around his cock like she’s been starving for it—and she has. Every inch of him hits something you didn’t know existed. Your body shakes under the pressure. You’re soaked. Stuffed. Used. And you want more.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say what she is.”

“She’s yours,” you gasp. “She’s a hole—your hole—she’s been waiting for this—”

He pulls out halfway, then slams back in.

You scream.

“You’re goddamn right she’s mine,” he snarls. “You trained her just to take my cock.”

You nod frantically, crying now, pleasure too thick in your throat to hold back.

He starts to fuck you in earnest—hard, relentless, loud. Skin slapping skin. His cock slick from your wetness, dragging through every twitch and squeeze, pressing deep, deeper, forcing your body to stay open for him. You feel it in your stomach. Your spine. Your fucking brain.

Every thrust knocks your thoughts loose. And you want to thank him. You want to feel him. You want to taste him.

So you lift your head—try to kiss him.

You lean up, lips parting, mouth open and begging.

He pulls back.

His hand grabs your throat, presses you flat into the mattress. You gasp, eyes wide, blinking up at him in confusion. He smiles. Cruel. Mocking.

“No,” he says coldly. “You don’t deserve to be kissed.”

Your breath shatters.

“Kisses are for good girls,” he spits. “You’re just a trained little hole.”

Your pussy clenches around him so violently he groans.

“That’s all you are now, isn’t it?” he sneers. “A stupid little cunt that opens on command. You get used, not kissed.”

Tears spill over your cheeks.

And you cum. Just like that.

From the words. From the shame. From the humiliation.

Your pussy spasms around his cock, soaking both of you as you scream into his hand still wrapped around your throat. Your hips jerk. Your vision goes white. But he doesn’t stop.

He fucks you through it, hips pounding, cock punching into your oversensitive cunt like he’s trying to reprogram you from the inside out.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Let her milk me. Let her show me how much she needed this.”

You’re sobbing. Gasping. Too wrecked to speak.

“Fucking knew it,” he groans. “You were never gonna be satisfied until you got split open.”

He leans down, mouth right by your ear.

“But don’t ever reach for a kiss again. Sluts like you don’t get kissed.”

You’re already limp when he flips you.

Your body gives out so easily—shoulders pressed into the mattress, arms numb, legs trembling, hips cocked up on instinct the second he yanks you onto your stomach. His hands drag you by the waist like a ragdoll. Like something boneless, brainless, ruined. Your face is buried in the pillow. Your cheek sticks to the fabric. You’re crying, still, but there’s no shame left. Just the raw ache of your cunt pulsing around nothing—because he pulled out.

You whine, pathetic and wordless, hips rolling back into the air, leaking down your thighs.

“Still hungry?” he mutters behind you.

You nod into the pillow.

“Say it.”

“She’s empty,” you whimper. “She’s twitching—she wants you back in—she’s not done—she’s never done—”

You gasp when the head of his cock slides back in. Just the tip.

He doesn’t give you the rest.

You wiggle. Cry. Press your ass back against him and moan when your folds stretch again, split open all over his length.

“You trained her to take it,” he says. “Now you’re gonna train her to keep it.”

He presses forward.

His cock buries to the hilt in one brutal thrust, and your whole body spasms. Your hands claw at the sheets. Your cunt clenches so violently it forces a sob out of your chest, high-pitched and broken. You’re still sensitive. Still throbbing from the last orgasm. But he doesn’t care.

He starts fucking you again like he owns you.

The slap of skin echoes in the room, wet and obscene, his cock pounding into your raw pussy like she’s just a hole to conquer. You don’t even try to move anymore. Your body takes it. Open, obedient, used.

“You like that?” he pants. “You like being my little fucktoy?”

“Yeah, you do. You’re trained now. A good little cocksleeve who comes when she’s told. Cries when she’s full. Cums from being humiliated.”

“I do,” you choke out. “I’m yours—I’m your toy—just your fucktoy—use me—use her—”

“That’s it,” he growls. “That’s what she wanted, isn’t it? Not kindness. Not kisses. Just cock. Just someone to shove it in and remind her she’s nothing but a messy, wet little pussy.”

He thrusts harder. You scream into the sheets.

“She’s so loud,” he snarls. “So fucking wet. She’s gushing. Every time I pull out she cries.”

You don’t even recognize your own voice when you cum again.

It’s raw. Ugly. Loud.

You scream—clawing at the sheets, nails ripping fabric, your body wracked with spasms as you squirt all over his cock, wet exploding out of you in waves, soaking the bed, your stomach, your thighs. You can’t stop it. You don’t want to.

He fucks you through it—harder.

“Let her break,” he growls. “Let her fucking split.”

And when your body finally collapses, hips falling, spine trembling, Heeseung doesn’t even slow down.

He grabs your hips, hauls you up, and drives in deep one more time—and stays there. His cock pulses inside you. Thick. Hot. Flooding you.

You feel it. You feel his cum shoot deep, thick ropes filling your already ruined pussy until your belly aches with it.

He stays inside. Keeps you cockwarmed, plugged full, hands rubbing down your spine like this is the aftercare.

Not words. Not love. Just being kept full. Like you should be.

You barely breathe. Your eyes are glassy. Your mouth’s open. You feel him lean over you. Feel the slow drag of his lips against your ear.

“You’re not starved anymore,” he whispers. “She’s fed now. Finally.”

You nod. Barely. Weak. Fucked out. His cock twitches.

“She’s still twitching,” he murmurs. “She wants to sleep like this.”

-

You wake up to the burn in your thighs.

The stretch. The ache. That slick-dried, too-sensitive sting between your legs from being filled for hours without a break. Your skin’s flushed. Clammy. You shift slightly under the covers, still half-asleep, and you feel it—him.

Still there. Still inside you.

You blink. Breathe. Try to make sense of your body—but the pressure between your legs is still warm. Your cunt clenches instinctively, and his cock twitches in response.

A slow, deep ache spreads in your gut.

His arm is draped over your waist. His chest is pressed against your back. He’s asleep—soft breaths on your shoulder, jaw resting against the side of your head. And his cock is still buried to the base in your pussy. Warm. Heavy. Plugging you full like it belongs there.

But something else creeps in too.

You lie there for a moment. Silent. Still. Pussy fluttering, heartbeat slowing, and that awful little ache growing in your chest. The one that started the second he pulled away last night. The one that settled into your ribs when you reached for him and he said “You don’t deserve to be kissed.”

You swallow. You whisper it before you even think about it.

“Are you really not gonna kiss me?”

It’s soft. Not needy. Just… there.

His breath shifts against your skin. His arm tightens slightly around your waist.

You almost regret asking.

Until he exhales through his nose and mutters, voice rough and low and real, “I’m still fucking inside you, you brat. You think I’m gonna spend the whole night cockwarming my favorite pussy and not kiss her in the morning?”

You twist under him, face flushed, and turn your head over your shoulder—and his mouth is already there.

No hesitation. He kisses you hard.

Mouth slanting over yours, tongue sliding in with no patience, lips full and hot and filthy with morning breath and spit. You moan into it, deep and broken, cunt clenching around his cock again like she’s reacting to the kiss like it’s touch.

His hand grips your jaw, thumb dragging over your cheek as he devours your mouth. He licks into you like he means it—like you’ve earned it—like he’s been wanting to do it since before he ever called you a slut.

You’re whimpering into his mouth when it happens.

Your lips slide against his, sticky with spit, your breath still uneven from how long you spent crying into the pillow, your cunt still fluttering weakly around his cock. He hasn’t pulled out. He’s still inside you. Still twitching, half-hard again already, thick and warm, stretching your still-leaking pussy while your body curls back into him, needy and clingy and soft in a way you didn’t get to be last night.

His hand cups your jaw now. Gentle. Finally. His thumb drags along your lower lip, slow and possessive, like he’s re-learning your mouth after denying it. His tongue pushes into you with unhurried filth, and your hips shift just barely, like your cunt’s trying to pull more of him in. Like she doesn’t even know how to be empty anymore.

And then you hear it.

“Heeseung?”

It’s distant. Not loud. Sleepy. But your blood freezes.

“Hey—have you seen Y/N?”

Evie. She’s awake. The breath dies in your throat.

Your eyes fly open. Heeseung’s hand freezes on your jaw. Your whole body locks. His cock is still deep inside you, softening now, but still heavy. Still leaking. You can feel him dripping down your inner thighs as your brain flips inside out with panic.

“Shit,” you mouth, barely audible.

Heeseung exhales through his nose, calm, but his arm is already tightening around your waist like he’s trying to figure out his next move in real time.

“Y/N?” she calls again. “Where’d you go?”

You scramble out of the bed like you’ve been shot. Legs wobbly. Pussy sore. You trip over the blanket as you reach for your discarded clothes, yanking your hoodie on over your head, trying not to scream as your shorts catch on your ankle. You’re still soaked, your panties still twisted around your thigh from where he shoved them earlier, and you can feel his cum still inside you, wet and hot and fucking obvious.

Heeseung’s already sitting up, dragging his hoodie on, running a hand through his hair to make it look like he just woke up.

You’re panicking. “Do I go back to her room? What do I do—what if she’s in the hallway—?”

Heeseung stands up, grabs your shoulders, kisses your forehead once—quick, mocking, cocky—like this is funny to him.

“Bathroom. Now.”

You sprint for it. Just as he opens his door.

His voice is casual. Sleep-rough.

“Yo.”

“You seen Y/N? I woke up and she wasn’t in bed. Her stuff’s still there though.”

Heeseung stretches in the doorway, voice smooth as fucking silk.

“Nah, haven’t seen her. She probably went to the bathroom.”

“She didn’t text me.”

“She probably didn’t want to wake you.”

You’re crouched in the bathroom, hands over your mouth, hoodie soaked at the hem, thighs still trembling. You glance down and see a smear of his cum on your leg, glistening in the morning light like a neon sign of guilt.

“Whatever. Tell her I’m making pancakes.”

“Will do.”

Door shuts. Heeseung turns, leans into the bathroom, finds you crouched by the sink.

“You owe me.”

You punch his chest.

He grabs your wrist. Kisses it.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers, voice low. “You’ll pay me back tonight."

-

It’s early.

Evie’s downstairs making coffee. You can hear the clinking of mugs, the stupid hum of whatever playlist she plays when she’s in a good mood.

You’re in Heeseung’s lap. Hoodie on. No underwear. His back’s against the headboard, his cock deep inside you, and you’re grinding slowly—hips circling, cunt fluttering, hands pressed to his chest to keep yourself upright.

You’re not allowed to bounce. Not allowed to moan.

Just slow, controlled rolls—like you’re milking him without giving yourself away.

“You sound like you want her to know,” he whispers against your throat.

You shake your head. Breathe through your nose. Keep moving.

“Then be quiet, baby. Or I’ll hold your mouth and your hips still, and you won’t cum at all.”

You almost cry. He grabs your ass. Tilts your hips just right.

“If she walks in, you better keep her name off your lips while I fill you up.”

You do. Barely.

You cum with your hand clamped over your mouth, twitching around his cock like you were made for it—and Heeseung cums seconds later, low and quiet, mouth on your collarbone.

Downstairs?

Evie sings along to the chorus.

-

It’s disgusting.

There’s no other word for it.

You’re on all fours, face buried in Heeseung’s mattress, drooling, moaning, thighs trembling with every wet squelch of his fingers plunging into you from behind. His mouth is glued to your cunt, spit running down his chin, tongue working your clit in slow, sloppy laps while one hand spreads you open—and the other, lower, slick with your cum, is rubbing tight circles around your asshole.

You’re whining his name. Filthy. Wordless. Brain-melted.

“Fuck, she’s drooling for it,” he mutters into your pussy. “She wants both. She’s ready. One in her ass, two in her cunt—you wanna be stretched like a proper little hole, huh?”

Your face is soaked. Your body’s trembling. Your pussy flutters around his fingers, slick squelching with every slow drag in and out. Your rim clenches, raw and wet from the friction. You try to answer, but all that comes out is a pathetic sob.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say what she wants.”

“I want it,” you gasp, voice cracking. “I want you to open my ass—wanna be full, wanna cum like a fucktoy—please—please—”

And then—

“Y/N?”

You hear your name like it’s being spoken through a tunnel.

You freeze.

Every muscle in your body locks.

Heeseung doesn’t move.

You can feel his tongue hovering right at your clit. His finger is still circling your asshole.

And then you both look up.

In the doorway. Mouth open. Eyes wide. Chest heaving.

Evie.

Her face doesn’t go red. It goes white. Like her blood just dropped to her feet.

She stares at your body—at your back arched, knees wide, your ass open, Heeseung’s hand buried between your cheeks, your best friend’s brother with his mouth on you and your spit in his beard.

And then she gags. Audibly. Violently.

Her whole body jolts forward like she’s about to puke right there in the hallway.

“Oh my—fucking—god—” she chokes. “What the—what the FUCK—”

She turns. Presses her palm to the wall. Leans into it. Her other hand clamps over her mouth and you see her shoulders jerk. Once. Twice. A horrible, broken sound crawls out of her throat.

“No—no—no—no, no, no—”

She’s panicking.

Can’t breathe. Her body is shaking so hard you think she might collapse.

“Evie—” you start, voice already wet. “Evie, please—please just listen—”

“DON’T.”

The scream hits like a slap.

“Don’t talk to me. Don’t—don’t even say my fucking name—”

You’re sobbing now. Reaching for the blanket. Falling off the bed. Barely able to pull your hoodie down over your sticky, twitching body.

Heeseung moves. Not fast enough. Still shirtless. Still hard. His fingers still glistening.

“Heejoo—”

“DON’T. CALL ME THAT.” Her voice is shrill, raw, wrecked. “You’re my fucking brother.”

She looks at you. Like she doesn’t even know you.

And then her expression cracks completely.

Her face contorts—pain, betrayal, disgust, hatred—all in one devastating collapse.

“You were inside her,” she whispers, and her voice breaks. “You had your—your—you were licking her while you were fingering her ass—”

“You’re both fucking insane.”

You crawl toward her. Not thinking. Just begging. Your knees burn. Your hands shake.

“Evie—please—please just let me explain—”

She flinches.

Flinches.

Like your voice touched her skin. Then she goes still. Her breathing slows. Her hands drop to her sides.

She looks empty.

“Don’t come near me.”

Her voice is flat now. Robotic.

“Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Don’t even fucking breathe in my direction.”

You can’t speak. Can’t move. She steps back.

Looks at Heeseung. Then at you.

“You’re both dead to me.”

-

​​You don’t remember the walk home.

You don’t remember grabbing your phone, or leaving the house, or what the weather was like. You don’t remember how long you cried, or how many people stared, or how fucking long it took for the heat between your legs to fade into something cold and ugly. You just remember sitting on your bedroom floor—hoodie still wet between your thighs, your underwear balled up in your pocket—and trying to breathe without choking on it.

Because it doesn’t stop. The image. Her face.

Evie, hand over her mouth. Evie, gagging. Evie, stepping back like you were something dirty.

She meant it. Every word.

“Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Don’t fucking breathe in my direction.”

She meant it.

You try to text her that night. You don’t even know what to say. There are three different messages in your drafts: one with just her name. One that says “I’m sorry.” One that says nothing at all.

They don’t send. You’ve been blocked.

He doesn’t text either. You don’t even know if he can.

The silence is so big it feels like a second death. You lie in bed every night with your phone face-up on your pillow, waiting for it to light up with anything. A call. A voice note. Just a name.

It never comes.

But you still feel him. In your body. In your bones.

Every time you try to sleep, your body curls like it’s expecting to be filled.

Some nights you wake up sweating—panting, pussy twitching—because you dreamed of his voice again.

You still miss him. Even after all of it. Even after how it ended.

Even after Evie’s face broke in half at the sight of you—wet, spread open, her brother’s finger sliding into your ass while you begged for more.

You still miss him. And that’s the part that makes you sick.

-

It’s been nearly two weeks since you watched Evie recoil in that doorway, hand clamped over her mouth like she was actually going to vomit.

You can’t erase the memory of her face—how disgust bled into betrayal, how her gaze slid right past you like you didn’t exist, then landed on Heeseung as if he were some twisted stranger in her own home. You tried to bury the image, tried to make it small and unimportant, but it lives in your chest now, swelling every time you breathe.

You haven’t talked to either of them since. Not one word to her, not a single text to him.

It’s as if the world paused on that moment: her voice ripping through the room, your body half-naked, his spit drying on your thighs, your stomach churning with guilt.

Now the doorbell rings, and somehow you already know who’s on the other side.

You open it slowly, hesitation weighing on every movement of your hand.

Heeseung stands there in a wrinkled hoodie, dark circles stamped beneath his eyes. He looks thinner—like the shape of him has caved in from the inside out. His hair is unstyled, his shoulders hunched, and the way he stares at you feels desperate.

Neither of you speak for a few seconds, the silence pressing into your lungs.

Then you break it, because you can’t handle him looking at you like that. “Why are you here?” Your voice comes out flat, echoing the numbness you’ve been living in.

Heeseung swallows, gaze skittering between your face and the ground.

“I had to see you.”

The words feel like they’re meant to fix something, but all they do is twist the knife. You give a hollow laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

“You already saw enough.”

He exhales shakily, bringing a hand up to scrub at the back of his neck.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he says, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “I know that’s not—there’s nothing I can—” He trails off, struggling, guilt carved into every line of his face. When he finally speaks again, his voice strains.

“You think we haven’t replayed it a hundred fucking times?” he asks. “The door. The blanket. You moaning. Me—God—we were still fucking with each other right there, even when she—”

“Stop.” Your voice cracks. “Don’t say it.”

“We saw her face,” his voice keeps going, low and fast and pained. “We saw it, and we still didn’t stop, like fucking animals. I see it every time I close my eyes. I hear her say my name like I was never hers, like you were never her friend.”

You speak,

“I can’t look at you without hearing her gag.”

The confession slashes the air, and his lips part like you’ve slapped him.

“I can’t hear your name without remembering what it felt like to be in her house, in her family, doing… that, while she thought I was asleep down the hall.”

For a moment, neither of you breathe. Then he forces himself to speak, voice cracking.

“I know. I fucking know, and I hate that we didn’t let go even when we heard her. I hate that she looked at us like we were monsters. I hate that part of me still wanted to stay inside you, and part of you still wanted me there, when we should’ve both stopped.”

You close your eyes, replaying Evie’s strangled gasp in your head, recalling the numb disbelief that followed when she told you not to speak, not to look, not to fucking breathe in her direction.

“I can’t talk to you,” you whisper, voice trembling despite your best efforts. “I can’t even hear your name without feeling sick.”

He swallows and nods, like he’s been waiting for those exact words. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he sounds like he’s about to shatter. “I won’t—if you never want to see me again, I understand.” He drags in a breath that rattles in his chest. “I just needed to know you were… alive.”

For a moment, you want to ask him if he’s okay too, if he’s been eating or sleeping, if he wakes up sweating like you do. But you lock it down, because you can’t afford to care right now.

“Well,” you say, and your voice is colder than you intend, “now you’ve seen me. Congratulations.”

A faint tremor passes through him, and he nods once. There’s nothing else. No lecture, no pleading. He just steps back, shoulders slumped, and turns away.

-

It happens in the grocery store, of all places. You’re pushing a half-empty cart down the cereal aisle, trying not to think about how much quieter life has been since you lost your best friend and the boy you broke her heart with. You’re scanning the shelves for something to distract you when you catch sight of a familiar figure at the other end of the row. 

Your heart lurches, your fingers tightening on the cart handle as your stomach flips. 

Because there, frowning at the boxes of cereal, is Evie—or Heejoo, or however she wants to be called now. You don’t have time to decide whether you should turn and run or force a hollow smile. She glances up, and your eyes meet. Neither of you moves.

 The aisle feels too narrow. Her cart sits between you, an invisible barrier.

She looks different—her hair is shorter or maybe just pulled back in a careless ponytail, dark smudges under her eyes, shoulders tense. She seems hollowed out in the same way you feel. 

Some part of you wants to say hey or I miss you or please talk to me, but the words dissolve in your throat. She’s the one who steps forward first, letting her cart roll behind her. Her heels click on the tile, echoing your every heartbeat.

“Having fun?” she asks, and it doesn’t sound like a question so much as a thinly-veiled jab.

You grip the handle of your cart, mouth suddenly too dry to speak.

“Evie—”

“Don’t call me that,” she snaps, eyes flicking away like the name itself stings. “You don’t get to pretend we’re okay. You don’t get to act like we’re still friends.”

Her arms fold across her chest, nostrils flaring with each breath, and you feel your own pulse jump in your neck. “I—I’m sorry,” you manage, voice trembling. It’s not enough, you know that.

She scoffs, a breathy, humorless sound. “That’s it? You’re sorry? You think that magically fixes everything?” She gestures sharply, and you notice how tightly she’s clenching her fists. “You screwed around with my brother like it was nothing, and I walked in on—” Her voice breaks, face twisting as she fights off the memory. “I was just the idiot friend who never saw it coming, right?”

Shame flares in your cheeks. You hold your ground, though it hurts to meet her eyes. “I know I betrayed you,” you say. “We—God, I don’t even have the words for how messed up it was. We both knew better. We both let it happen.”

Her hand lifts to cut you off, shaking with the effort. “You think it’s just that you hurt me?” Her voice wobbles between anger and heartbreak. “You hurt him too, you realize that? He was my brother, you were my best friend, and you both blew yourselves up in front of me. Like you had no idea what it would cost.”

Your stomach knots in a way you haven’t felt before. She’s right. It wasn’t just her—it wasn’t just you. It was all three of you, tangling and twisting until it snapped. “I know,” you say more quietly. “And we’re all paying for it. He’s… he’s not okay. I’m not okay. And you’re definitely not okay. There’s no part of this that isn’t broken.”

She lets out a short, bitter laugh. “Do you think that helps? Hearing you say it’s broken doesn’t change the fact that I can’t even look at either of you without wanting to scream.”

You bow your head, voice almost inaudible. “I wish I could take it back.”

She swallows, and for a fraction of a second, the hostility in her eyes flickers with pain. “Well, you can’t.” Her grip tightens on the cart handle until her knuckles whiten, and she exhales shakily. 

“I want my brother back, you know. I want my friend back. But I don’t get either of those things, because you two decided to… to destroy what we had.”

Your throat closes up, tears pricking at your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

She stares for another few seconds, jaw clenched as she holds herself together. Then she moves around you, snatching her cart by the handle, the wheels squeaking in protest. 

“Enjoy the produce,” she mutters under her breath, voice dripping with bitterness as she passes.

-

It doesn’t happen overnight.

 There’s no single conversation that wipes the slate clean, no perfect gesture that makes Evie’s betrayal vanish, no magic wand that repairs the gaping wound in your chest. 

But over time—slow, grudging, step by hesitant step—you all begin to realize that staying in this darkness is killing you. Staying strangers, orbiting the same guilt without looking one another in the eye, is worse than facing the truth. And that truth is messy, fragile, and riddled with scars.

It begins with Evie texting you, late at night, a week after the grocery store encounter. 

Just three words: We need to talk.

You stare at the screen for a solid minute, heart pounding like it’s trying to break out of your chest. 

Your hands shake as you reply, Yeah, okay. 

That’s all. No apology, no second-guessing, just acceptance. You wait for her to say when or where, but she doesn’t text back until the next afternoon, telling you to meet her at the park near her house. 

And then she clarifies: Just you.

You show up after sunset, nerves jangling in every limb, expecting hostility, or silence, or both. 

Instead, you find Evie sitting on a faded wooden bench under a flickering streetlight. She looks smaller than you remember, knees drawn up under her chin, arms hugging herself for warmth. As you approach, you open your mouth to say something—anything—but she holds up a hand, shaking her head.

“Don’t,” she says, voice tight. “Not yet.”

You stand there, awkward and guilty, waiting for her permission to speak.

She lowers her hand and sighs, staring at a patch of dead grass near her feet. “I asked you here because… this is killing me,” she mutters. “Being this angry all the time. Hating you. Hating him. I can’t keep up with it. It’s turning me into someone I don’t recognize.”

Her words break something inside your chest, and your throat goes thick. You sit down on the far edge of the bench, leaving a wide space between you, unsure if you’re allowed to be any closer. “I… I know,” you manage, voice unsteady. “I feel it too. It’s like I’m rotting on the inside.”

She nods once, gaze flicking to you before sliding away again. “I’m not saying I forgive you,” she warns, and you nod, heart pounding. “I’m just saying I don’t want this to be my life anymore. This—rage. It’s not me.”

She exhales, shoulders curling inward. “And I loved you. You were my best friend. And he… he’s my brother, and I loved him too. So how did we all end up here?”

Silence lingers. You fight back tears that threaten to spill. 

“We messed up,” you whisper, voice cracking. “We both did. Me and him. We used your house, your trust, your everything for our own messed-up… needs, and it was stupid and selfish and we ended up shattering everything.” You swallow a lump in your throat. “I know none of that fixes it. But I swear to you, we never wanted to hurt you.”

Evie laughs bitterly, a hollow sound. “Well, you did. And I can’t pretend you didn’t.” 

Her gaze shifts to the distance, to the halo of light under the streetlamp. “But I don’t know if I can keep hating you. Or him.” 

She hesitates, words coming out slow. “I saw him last week. He looked—God, I hardly recognized him. Like a ghost of himself.”

You nod, biting back the urge to defend him or to ask a dozen questions. “He’s… not doing great,” you say simply, remembering his hollow cheeks, the way his voice cracked when he said he couldn’t sleep.

She wraps her arms tighter around herself, rocking slightly. “Neither are we,” she points out. “None of us are okay. And I guess that’s what I’m realizing. That we’re all stuck in the same crater, staring at the same wreckage. Maybe we shouldn’t be trying to fix it on our own.”

Your eyes burn with unshed tears. “What do you want to do?” you ask, feeling the weight of her words press into your chest.

She’s quiet for a long moment. Then she looks directly at you, tears shimmering at the edges of her eyes. “I want us to talk,” she says. “All three of us. In one place. I want us to put it all on the table, no hiding, no running out. Because if there’s any chance of moving forward—together or apart—we have to face it."

“I’ll text him,” she says, voice ragged. “Don’t expect miracles. But I can’t do this alone.”

A teardrop escapes your lashes and slips down your cheek. “Neither can I,” you whisper. “Thank you.”

She doesn’t respond, just stands up and motions for you to follow. 

-

Evie’s living room is dimly lit, and the air feels thicker than it should—as if everything you’ve said to each other in the last hour is still hovering in the space between. Outside, it’s already dark, the muffled hum of passing cars bleeding in through the windows. You’re all drained—physically, emotionally—yet no one moves to leave. Not yet. It’s not finished.

Evie is perched on the armchair, knees drawn close to her chest. You’re on one end of the couch, Heeseung on the other, and there’s still a gulf of guilt and confusion separating you. But you can feel the conversation building toward something bigger than apologies or confessions of regret.

Evie tugs at the sleeves of her sweater. She glances between you and her brother, mouth pinched tight, but her voice is gentler than before.

“I’m not pretending this is easy,” she begins, clearing her throat. “We’ve all hurt each other. I just want to know what you… what you both actually feel.” Her gaze settles on you, question clear in her eyes. “Do you two even care about each other beyond… beyond whatever it was you were doing?”

You swallow, your mouth dry. This is the moment you’ve been pushing down for weeks, refusing to think about. The reason you woke up gasping sometimes, alone in your bed, missing a warmth you never should have craved in the first place. You take a shaky breath, feeling your pulse hammer in your temples.

“I—” you begin, then stop. Your voice wavers, but you force yourself to speak. “I’m in love with him.”

It comes out bare, unpolished, stripped of excuses. You feel the words echo in your chest, leaving you vulnerable. Across the room, Evie’s eyes widen for half a second, and you can see her guard tighten, just a bit.

Heeseung exhales sharply, his head snapping up. You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. Instead, you focus on the floor, heart pounding.

“I know,” you continue, voice trembling, “that he might not feel the same way. I know we started this all wrong, that I messed up your trust, that I hurt you”—you glance at Evie—“and maybe I don’t deserve a happy ending. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t love him just because I’m ashamed of how we got here.”

Evie inhales like she’s bracing for another blow, her arms tightening around her knees.

“You’re saying you love him, even if he doesn’t love you back?” she asks, carefully, like she’s afraid of the answer.

You let out a breath that feels like it’s been caged in your ribs for months.

“Yes. It’s not… it’s not his responsibility. If it’s one-sided, that’s on me.” You glance fleetingly at Heeseung, face flushing. “I don’t expect anything from him, or from you. I just—” Your voice cracks. “I needed to say it out loud.”

Silence envelops the room, charged with tension. Heeseung is staring at you, eyes wide and glossy, like you’ve knocked the air from his lungs. Evie shifts, chewing on the inside of her lip.

Heeseung finally speaks, voice rough.

“You… love me?”

You manage a small, trembling nod. “I do,” you say, meeting his gaze at last. “And if you don’t love me back, that’s okay. I know how messed up this is. I’m ready to… to accept that.”

He looks startled, as if no part of him expected you to be okay with that possibility. His hands flex on his knees, knuckles blanching. Then he breathes out, shoulders sagging.

“God,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievably stupid.”

You flinch, heart jolting—though there’s no real malice in his tone, only a shaky awe and raw disbelief that seems to be tying him in knots. He forces himself to meet Evie’s eyes for a flicker of a second, as if silently asking for permission to go on.

“Don’t call her that,” Evie snaps, voice quivering at the edges. She fixes him with a sharp glare, arms folded tight across her chest. “I don’t care how you meant it—she’s not stupid, and you don’t get to insult her in front of me.”

“Shut the fuck up Evie, one second,” He turns to you, “Because you think I’m not in love with you? That I’d leave you hanging with all this guilt?”

Your heart stutters, the floor tilting under you. “Heeseung…”

“I’m in love with you too,” he says, and the words hang in the air with tangible weight. “I can’t believe you’d be ready to walk away, believing it was one-sided. That you’d… accept it. God, do you have any idea how much it hurts to see you in so much pain, thinking I don’t feel the same?”

A soft sound escapes your throat—some blend of relief and shock—and tears gather at the edges of your vision. Across the room, Evie exhales shakily, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment. You can see the swirl of emotions crossing her features: anger, hurt, jealousy, and underneath it all, a lingering care for you both.

Heeseung scrubs a hand over his face, then looks to Evie, voice trembling.

“I love her. I know I messed up. We messed up. We never should’ve lied. But I can’t take back how I feel.”

Evie drags in a deep breath. She pushes herself up from the armchair, pacing a short line across the living room. Her head is down, hands in her hair. When she finally looks at you both, there’s pain in her eyes, but not the same raw fury as before.

“Jesus,” she mutters. “You two…” She chews the inside of her cheek. “I hate what you did. I hate how you did it. But if you love each other—really love each other—I can’t tell you not to.”

 Her shoulders slump. “I want to be angry forever, but… seeing you like this, I—” She presses her lips together, tears brimming, then sets her jaw. “I guess I just want us to find a way to exist without destroying each other.”

A thick silence fills the space. Your chest feels ready to burst from conflicting emotions—gratitude, guilt, longing, terror. You look at Evie and see the ghost of the best friend you once knew, who might be willing to stand beside you again one day, even if it won’t ever be the same.

You open your mouth.

“I know it won’t be easy,” you say softly. “I don’t expect you to forgive everything in one night. But maybe… maybe we can start moving forward?”

Evie dashes a tear off her cheek and gives a tiny nod.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “Maybe.”

Heeseung watches her, watches you, then rises from the couch. He hesitates, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch you. You stand up, heart pounding, and drift closer. Neither of you quite meets in the middle, leaving a careful gap where all your remorse hangs. But it’s less than before.

Evie clears her throat, hugging herself.

“I can’t stay down here with you two being… whatever you are. I need time, okay?”

You nod quickly.

“Of course.”

Heeseung nods as well, voice soft.

“Anything you need.”

She steps back, wiping her eyes, and there’s a hint of a weary smile ghosting across her face, like she’s relieved but not sure how to show it.

“You two can talk, or… or go, or do whatever. I just…” Her breath catches. “I’m gonna go upstairs. That’s all I can handle right now.”

You don’t stop her.

Then you turn to him, tears slipping down your cheeks, a tremulous hope fluttering in your chest. He lifts a hand—tentative, like he’s scared to break you—and cups your cheek, thumb brushing your damp skin.

He exhales shakily.

“I love you,” he murmurs, the words raw with emotion. “I’m sorry for everything.”

You nod, voice catching in your throat as you rest your hand over his.

“I’m sorry too,” you whisper. “But I love you, and maybe… that’s something we can start with.”

His eyes close in something like relief, and he presses a soft, uncertain kiss to your temple. It isn’t a triumphant moment, not the kind of romantic victory you might’ve once imagined. It’s tender, laced with guilt and fear. But it’s also real—genuine and fragile, the only piece of warmth you’ve had in a long time.

-

Things shift slowly, almost imperceptibly at first. You and Heeseung start keeping your distance whenever Evie’s around—no subtle hand-holding, no lingering touches, certainly no sneaking off to lock yourselves behind the nearest door. 

It’s not that you’re ashamed of each other; it’s that you can’t stand the thought of rubbing your relationship in her face. You both know you’re lucky she’s even letting you in the same room without storming out.

So you dial it back. You let your bodies stop running the show. 

It’s harder than you expect—he still sets your nerves on fire by simply looking at you—but you remind yourself that Evie’s feelings matter, that you owe her more than just half-hearted consideration. You give her space, which means giving yourselves space too. 

No sex. No heavy make-out sessions. No pressed-up-against-a-wall confessions. Just… time and gentle contact.

Heeseung seems as restless as you. 

Sometimes, when it’s late and you’re on a phone call—whispering so Evie won’t hear through the walls—he sounds downright desperate. 

You can hear his breath catch when you say you miss him, can practically feel the tension radiating through the receiver. 

Yet both of you agree: this is how it has to be for now. If you want Evie to believe that what you have is more than just an addiction to each other’s bodies, you need to show her you can exist outside a bed.

So you go on dates. Real dates. Movie theaters, yes, but also bookstore trips, late-night drives to nowhere, strolling through a local fair when it rolls into town. 

You hold hands only if you’re well away from Evie’s neighborhood—fearful that any small sign of affection might break the thin thread of tolerance she’s extended. 

The first time you walk along the riverside in the evening, sipping cheap coffee from a convenience store, it hits you that you’ve never really done this part before: the tentative, day-to-day romance of building a real relationship. It’s both comforting and nerve-wracking. 

You can feel the charge sparking under your skin every time he smiles at you, like you’re seconds away from losing your careful resolve. 

But you don’t. Neither of you wants to risk undoing the fragile progress with Evie.

And that progress is slow, but present. 

She doesn’t cringe as much when you and Heeseung enter a room together. 

She no longer flinches if you happen to stand on the same side of the kitchen.

 Maybe sometimes she rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t snap. You see the tension in her shoulders when you’re all in the same space, though—like she’s bracing for some new betrayal. 

You can’t blame her. You still offer to leave the moment you sense her discomfort rising. Surprisingly, she’s started telling you to stay.

But the real sign that things might be healing comes one weekend night when Evie texts you, out of the blue:

Girls’ night?

She doesn’t dress it up with a cute emoji or an explanation; it’s bare bones, almost clinical. And you stare at your phone with your heart hammering, wondering if this is a test, or maybe a begrudging olive branch. 

You answer with a shaky yes, and spend the next few hours trying not to read too much into it. You tell Heeseung you’ll be hanging out with Evie, and he just smiles—wide and genuine, telling you to have fun, to text him if you need anything.

Evie’s room hasn’t changed much since the night you snuck out of it to see Heeseung. The layout is the same, the posters the same, the bedspread the same. It all feels loaded with history. 

She sits cross-legged on her bed, handing you a soda—no alcohol tonight, no false bravado. You sense she wants you both stone-cold sober for whatever might be said. 

There’s an awkward pause, and then she gestures for you to sit, too.

For a while, conversation comes in bursts: updates about random classmates, stories from her day at work, small talk about the show you both used to binge-watch together. It’s stiff, but not hostile. 

She picks at her blanket, and you notice how she won’t hold your gaze for too long. Yet each minute that passes without snapping or bitterness feels like a victory.

Eventually, she slides a bag of nail polish across the bed toward you. “You, um… you still like doing this, right? It’s been a while,” she mumbles, glancing at your nails. 

It’s such a small gesture, but it makes your throat tighten. You nod, and she exhales something that might be relief. 

For a solid hour, the two of you paint and chatter, as if practicing how to be friends again. Her shoulders are less rigid. You’re careful not to misstep. Neither of you mentions Heeseung.

At least not directly. But you feel his presence in the air, the unspoken pivot point around which your every interaction revolves. It’s only when Evie finally fixes you with a long, assessing look, half-concern and half-uncertainty, that the moment arrives.

“Are you two, like… okay?” she asks. Her voice is laced with discomfort, but there’s no hatred in it. “You said no more sneaking around. But are you—happy?”

You swallow hard, carefully blowing on your newly painted nails. “We’re… doing our best,” you say. “Trying to be good for each other. Not just physically.”

She nods, lips twisting like she’s turning over your words in her mind. “I guess… that’s what I wanted to know,” she admits softly. “It still weirds me out sometimes, but I’d rather it matter to you than be some… fling.”

A wave of gratitude surges in your chest, making it hard to speak. You nod. “It matters,” you whisper. “I swear.”

She blinks a few times, then sets her nail polish aside. The tension in her shoulders relaxes just enough that her spine curves against the headboard, more comfortable than you’ve seen her in weeks. “Good,” she murmurs, tone stilted but earnest. “Don’t… don’t make me regret trying to rebuild this, okay?”

Your own shoulders slump in relief. “I won’t,” you promise. Your voice shakes with the weight of it. “And if I ever do, you can—and should—kick my ass.”

That draws a small, genuine laugh from her—a sound you haven’t heard in what feels like ages. She nods, letting the humor fill the space that was once suffocating with tension. “Deal,” she says.

You stay up later than expected—talking about nonsense, painting your nails in mismatched colors, occasionally lapsing into awkward silences. 

But each time, one of you breaks it before the air can go stale. By the time midnight rolls around, you’ve settled into a strange new normal: not quite what you were before the betrayal, but not strangers anymore. Something between you is mending, fragile but real.

When you leave, she walks you to the front door. It’s still weird, stepping out into the hallway where so much damage happened. 

But Evie’s behind you, not in front, and you can’t help feeling that the dynamic has changed in a way that actually might last. You glance back at her, and though she still looks tired, she doesn’t look hostile or betrayed. Maybe just… cautious. It’s enough.

“Night,” she says, one hand resting on the doorknob.

“Night,” you reply, voice quiet. “Thanks, again.”

She nods and closes the door gently behind you—no slamming, no huffing. Just a simple, private goodbye.

 As you slip into the night, you realize you’re smiling, mind already whirring with what you’ll tell Heeseung when you see him next. You catch yourself wondering if you’ll meet up for another date soon. Or if you’ll just call him on the way home, excitedly spilling the details of your slow but tangible progress with Evie.

-

The new place is barely furnished. A couch that’s still covered in plastic. A mattress on the floor. Takeout containers littering the kitchen counter. The floorboards creak with every step. The windows are wide open, and there are no curtains yet. It’s not home—not really—but it’s his. 

And most importantly, it’s finally, blessedly, fucking private.

When he opens the door and lets you in, he doesn’t kiss you right away. He just watches you step inside like you’re something he’s trying to memorize. His hands stay in the pocket of his hoodie. His jaw’s tight. His eyes flicker to the bag in your hand, then to your shoes, then up your legs so slowly it makes you feel exposed even though you’re still fully dressed.

You don’t say anything at first. You set the wine down on the counter. You take in the space—empty and echoing—but your skin’s already buzzing. You hear the door close behind you with a soft click, and something shifts.

He clears his throat.

“I haven’t kissed you yet,” he says, voice low. “Not really.”

You turn to look at him. “No.”

There’s a beat.

“Can I?”

You nod.

And that’s it. That’s all it takes.

His hands are on your face before you can blink, warm and rough and needing. The kiss starts soft, but only for a breath. Then it turns—hungry, desperate, filthy. Your back hits the counter with a thud, his tongue already in your mouth, his body pressing into yours like he’s trying to crawl inside you through your lips.

You moan into him, and he groans, deep in his throat, like the sound broke whatever shred of self-control he was hanging onto.

“You have no idea,” he pants, mouth hot against your jaw, “how long I’ve wanted to ruin you in peace.”

Your shirt’s pulled up before you can answer, his mouth already sucking marks down your neck. His hands are everywhere—gripping your tits through your bra, unbuttoning your jeans, fingers slipping into your waistband like he owns the place. Like he owns you.

You gasp as his hand slides between your legs, cupping you through your underwear, his breath catching when he feels the heat there.

“Already wet?” he mutters, voice ragged. “Fucking knew it.”

He yanks your jeans down to your ankles, then sinks to his knees on the kitchen tile without another word. His hands push your legs apart, pulling one up to rest over his shoulder. And when his mouth presses to the soaked fabric of your panties, you cry out—sharp, helpless, needy.

“You wore these knowing I’d take them off with my teeth, didn’t you?” he growls, dragging the fabric aside with his nose, his tongue already lapping through your folds like he’s been waiting for this for months.

You can barely breathe. One hand flies to the counter for balance, the other fists in his hair. He licks you with obscene, wet sounds, groaning into your pussy like the taste is sending him over the edge. You grind against his face shamelessly, whining when he flattens his tongue and drags it up through your slit, over and over again.

“Fuck, Heeseung—please—”

He pulls back just enough to spit directly on your clit. “What do you need, baby?” he pants, thumb spreading it around with tight, deliberate pressure. “You want me to make you cum with my mouth like a good little whore? Is that it?”

You nod frantically, hips rocking against his hand.

“I missed this pussy,” he mutters, diving back in. “Missed how fucking loud she is.”

And she is. Your pussy’s wet, sloppy, noisy, every flick of his tongue echoing off the bare walls. You cum hard, legs shaking around his shoulders, crying out his name as your vision blurs.

But he’s not done.

He stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then grabs you by the waist and turns you around, bending you over the counter.

“No more pretending,” he growls in your ear. “No more quiet. You’re gonna scream for me this time.”

He pulls your panties down and spreads you open, groaning like a man unhinged.

“God, you’re dripping. You fucking missed this too, didn’t you?”

You try to answer, but he’s already stroking his cock against your folds, rubbing the head through the mess between your legs, smearing it everywhere.

“Say it,” he demands.

“Yes—yes, I missed it—fuck, Heeseung, I missed your cock—”

He sinks into you in one sharp, brutal thrust, and you wail.

No condom. No pause. Just the stretch of him filling you up in one smooth, devastating stroke.

“Oh my God,” he groans. “You’re fucking swallowing me.”

You’re moaning, writhing, drooling onto the counter. He doesn’t start slow. He doesn’t give you time. He fucks you—relentless, pounding, like he’s been waiting to do this since the moment you first touched him.

Your ass slaps against his thighs with every thrust. Your pussy is loud, the kind of wet, messy squelch that would embarrass you if you could think.

He slaps your ass hard, making you jolt forward. “Listen to her,” he growls. “She’s been crying for me.”

You don’t stop him. You beg for more.

He grabs your arms and pulls you back onto him, using your own body to fuck you harder.

“Keep taking it,” he snarls. “Be my good little cumrag, just like you used to be.”

You scream. You scream for him.

You cum again, sobbing into the crook of your arm, your entire body trembling.

He pulls out and flips you around, lifts you up onto the counter again, and kisses you like he’s devouring you from the inside out. Your legs are trembling so hard you can barely hold them up, but he spreads them open and spits straight onto your cunt, rubbing it in with two fingers, moaning when you jolt at the sensitivity.

“Wanna fuck you on the floor next,” he mutters against your lips. “Wanna fuck you on the mattress, on the couch, against every wall. Wanna ruin this apartment with the sound of your pussy screaming for me.”

You grab his face, breath ragged. “Then do it.”

He throws you over his shoulder and carries you to the mattress on the floor, where he fucks you in every position he’s ever imagined. He keeps you cockdrunk and leaking. When your voice gives out, he fucks you in silence. When your legs stop working, he props them up and keeps going. And when he finally cums—inside you, deep, claiming—he doesn’t pull out.

He just collapses on top of you, both of you drenched in sweat and slick and the aftermath of something feral.

You can’t move.

You don’t want to.

You just lie there, shaking, full, used, satisfied in a way that makes you dizzy.

Heeseung kisses your shoulder and whispers against your skin.

“I’m never being patient again.”

-

TL: @naurwayyyyy @ziiao @somuchdard @ijustwannareadstuff20 @ddolleri @beariegyu @zzhengyu @annybah @seonhoon @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee @m3wkledreamy @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @bloomiize @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4ss @starniras @wonuziex @sol3chu @simj4k3

[blackshvck]

Kung Pow Penising is now illegal

[virtualgirladvance]

[ggukivrse]

JUST THIS ONCE | JJK

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

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

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre: friends to lovers, smut, fluff (?)

word count: 5.1k

warnings: you’re gonna get sick of the title loll, brief alcohol consumption, this is lowkey pwp (there will be more plot soon i promise) swearing, explicit sexual content, kissing, making out, fingering, oral (m. receiving), he’s very cocky but also pathetic, multiple orgasms, lots of banter and teasing as dirty talk, petnames (baby), jk calls oc a brat x2, multiple positions, insinuated aftercare, let me know if i missed anything!

notes: you guys built this fic!! this was supposed to be out on thursday but i realised i was being wayy to ambitious cuz i definitely needed more than two days to write this loll. but alas, it’s here :3 as always, likes, comments, reblogs, feedback and asks are very appreciated! enjoy reading angels <33

ps. THERE WILL BE A PART TWO!!

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback

You fumble with your keys, swaying just slightly as you try to jab the right one into the lock. Behind you, Jungkook’s laughing under his breath, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath on the back of your neck.

“Need help?” he asks, the amusement in his voice unmistakable.

“I’ve got it,” you say, jabbing the key with exaggerated precision. The door finally clicks open, and you push it in with a triumphant, “Ha!”

“You’re so competent,” he deadpans, clapping a mock applause as he follows you in. His shoulder bumps yours as he passes. “It’s honestly inspiring.”

You kick off your shoes, tossing your keys into the bowl by the door. “And you’re so annoying,” you mutter, but there’s no heat in it.

Jungkook drops onto your couch like it’s his own, sprawling out like he owns the place. Which, in some ways, he kind of does.

A hoodie of his is already slung over the back of a kitchen chair, from some night two weeks ago when he stayed too late and decided not to drive home. There’s an energy drink in your fridge with his name written on the lid in Sharpie. The blanket he’s tugging over his lap? That’s the one he gifted you for Christmas, mostly so he could use it whenever he came over.

It’s always been like this.

He tosses his denim jacket on the couch as you grab two bottles of water from the fridge, chucking one to him without warning. He catches it with the ease.

“You were definitely flirting with that bartender,” he says, unscrewing the cap and looking at you with that maddeningly smug smile.

You scoff. “He had a mullet and called me ‘miss.’ It wasn’t flirting— it was survival.”

“Sure,” he says, nodding like he totally believes you. “That’s why you laughed at everything he said, even when he asked if you liked your tequila neat.”

“It was neat!” you say, defensive and laughing at the same time. “And besides, you flirted with the girl in the fishnets for, like, an hour.”

He shrugs. “Guilty. She had good taste in music. And thighs.”

You groan and flop down beside him on the couch, letting your head fall back against the cushion. Your thigh brushes his, but you don’t move. Neither does he. The buzz from the party is still warm in your blood, and the apartment feels too quiet now — too intimate without the noise and lights and other bodies.

“You ever think we’re just... really bad at dating?” you ask, staring at the ceiling.

“Constantly,” Jungkook says, without hesitation.

You glance at him. “Like, maybe we peaked in college.”

He makes a face. “Don’t say that. I refuse to believe my best years happened while I was still eating instant ramen and failing comp sci.”

You laugh, and he turns his head toward you, watching you with that soft-eyed expression you know too well. There’s something about Jungkook when he’s like this — no bravado, no teasing smirk, just... present. His hair is a mess from the wind, and a dark tank top hugs his figure.

He’s too comfortable here. Too familiar.

“I genuinely think I’ve forgotten what a good kiss feels like,” you say, mostly to the ceiling, like it’s a throwaway thought.

Jungkook hums. “That bad, huh?”

“It’s not even bad, it’s just...” You trail off, searching for the word. “Empty. Mechanical. Like everyone’s going through the motions, but nobody’s actually there.”

He shifts slightly, angling his body more toward you. “So no decent kissers at all lately?”

You shake your head. “No decent anything, if I’m honest.”

He raises an eyebrow, curious.

You hesitate, but the alcohol in your system makes it easier to say what you probably wouldn’t sober. “I haven’t slept with anyone in like... almost a year.”

Jungkook blinks, not in judgment, just surprised. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” You rub at your temple with a laugh. “I didn’t plan it or anything. It just kind of... kept not happening. And then it became this weird streak, and now here we are.”

He’s quiet for a moment.

“Well,” he says eventually, “maybe your standards are just too high.”

“Or maybe men are just mid,” you shoot back.

That gets a laugh out of him, loud and bright. He tips his head back, and you watch his throat move as he laughs. Too long. Too hard. When he calms down, he gives you a look — something mischievous that you've grown to know too well over the years.

"What?" you ask, narrowing your eyes at him with a smile.

He shrugs. “I mean... I could help."

“With my standards?”

“With the streak.”

You snort. “What, you offering?”

“Maybe.”

You tilt your head. “So what? You wanna bang it out?”

It’s meant to be funny. You’re grinning when you say it. But when you look at him — really look — he’s not laughing.

His gaze lingers on your mouth for a beat too long. Then his eyes flick up to yours.

“Just this once?” he asks, voice low. Careful. Like he’s giving you an out.

You don’t answer right away. The room goes still. The hum of the fridge feels too loud. His eyes are still on you, and it’s not a look you’ve ever seen from him before.

Your heart stutters in your chest.

You swallow. “Wouldn't it be weird?”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away.

“Only if we let it be.”

You sit there for a second, the weight of it all hitting a little too fast. Your brain’s still catching up to your mouth, to the way your body’s buzzing — not from the alcohol anymore, but from him. From the heat in his eyes, the way he said it — almost like a dare.

And then his expression shifts.

His eyes flick away, and his tongue runs over the silver ring on his bottom lip, like he’s pulling it back, reeling it in.

“Only if you want to, obviously,” he says, quieter this time. “We don’t have to.”

He starts to lean back like he's resetting the mood — like this moment can still be folded back into the safety of your usual teasing — but you stop him.

You move first.

You grab the front of his tank top — not hard, not dramatic, just enough — and you pull him in.

You kiss him.

It’s abrupt. Heat over hesitation. A split-second decision that tastes like tequila and impulse, like comfort and fuck it all wrapped up in the same breath.

At first, he doesn’t move, frozen in surprise. But then he kisses you back — really kisses you back — and suddenly you're not thinking anymore.

His hand slides to your thigh, just enough pressure to ground you, and you shift toward him instinctively, knees brushing his. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of focused laziness, like he’s savouring it. Like he’s trying to figure out exactly how you taste.

You pull back half a second, just to breathe, lips brushing his as you mutter, “Took you long enough.”

He laughs into your mouth, low and smug. “You kissed me.”

“Yeah, well. You looked like you were gonna bail.”

“I was being respectful,” he says, voice muffled against your jaw as he starts kissing along it. “But sure, let’s call it bailing.”

You gasp a little when he nips at your neck, just enough pressure to make you arch toward him. Your hands slide under his top, fingers skimming the warm skin of his back, and he shivers under your touch.

“Jesus,” you murmur. “How are you this built? You eat, like, gas station snacks and leftover noodles.”

“I work out,” he mutters between kisses, grinning as he drags his mouth back to yours. “Also, you’ve seen me shirtless.”

“Yeah, but not like this.”

“Like what?”

You tug him closer until your chest presses to his. “Like I get to touch.”

That shuts him up real quick.

He kisses you again, this time more urgently, and you feel the change in the air — less teasing, more want. Your legs shift to straddle his lap without thinking, your hands sliding up into his hair, tugging just a little.

He groans, deep and rough, biting down on your bottom lip before kissing it better. You rock your hips forward slightly and he bucks up into you with a hiss.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

You smirk against his mouth. “You offered, remember?”

“Yeah, and I’m rapidly realising that was a dangerous choice.”

You laugh, breathless, before kissing him again. He tastes like beer and something sweeter — probably the gum he always chews. You bite his lip and feel him groan into your mouth, hips jerking beneath you.

His fingers slip under your shirt, warm on your skin. Not rushed, just exploring — like he’s been curious for a while and is finally allowed to look.

You roll your hips again, slower this time, and his head drops back against the cushion with a low fuck that makes your stomach flip.

“You still sure about this?” you ask, teasing, as your hands drag down his chest, fingers playing with the hem of his shirt.

His eyes open — dark, focused, amused.

“You gonna stop me if I say no?”

You shake your head. “Nope.”

“Then yeah,” he says, breath hitching as your fingers reach his abdomen. “I’m very sure.”

He catches your fingers before you can finish unbuttoning his jeans.

You raise a brow, breath still uneven. “Seriously?”

He nods, steady, calm in a way that only makes your pulse pound harder. “I said I was helping you, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but I thought that was like... a mutual helping situation.”

His mouth twitches. “You always gotta argue when I’m trying to do something nice?”

You open your mouth to throw something back — something biting, something stupid — but he leans in and kisses you before you can get the words out. One hand still wrapped around your wrist, the other cupping your jaw.

He pulls back just enough to speak.

“Let me take care of you.”

You stare at him for a beat, heart kicking hard in your chest.

“Fine,” you mutter, trying to sound unbothered. “But don't expect any thank yous or shit.”

“I’ll survive,” he says, already smirking as his fingers work at your jeans. “Though, for the record, I think you’re gonna want to.”

You snort — right before he pops the button of your jeans and drags the zipper down, knuckles brushing your skin. You shiver.

“God, you’re cocky.”

He glances up, eyes flicking to yours. “You saying I haven’t earned it?”

You don’t answer. Your breath stutters when his hand slips beneath the waistband of your panties, palm flush against you.

He stills.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice dropping. “You’re wet already?”

“Shut up.”

He smiles cockily.

You roll your eyes — try to, anyway — but your thighs are already parting, your body moving without conscious thought. His fingers slide into you, testing the waters, and your head tips back with a soft sigh.

He watches your face like he’s waiting for something. When your mouth parts, when your hips twitch toward his hand, that’s when he moves.

His thumb finds your bud and he's gentle at first. Circling, then rubbing just a little firmer. You bite your lip hard, trying not to give him the satisfaction of the noises building in your throat.

“Still not thanking you,” you say through clenched teeth.

“Oh, you will,” he says, low. “Eventually.”

You glare at him. He grins back, fingers dragging lower, slipping in without resistance. You suck in a breath, and he laughs softly under it.

“Okay?” he asks, suddenly serious again.

You nod, maybe too quickly. “Yeah. More than okay.”

He starts moving his fingers — slow at first, too slow. Like he’s enjoying making you wait. You squirm, trying to rock your hips into his hand, but he tightens his grip on your thigh.

“Nuh-uh,” he says, eyes gleaming. “You’re letting me do the work, remember?”

“I hate you.”

“You’re literally grinding on my hand right now.”

You reach out blindly and smack his chest. He doesn’t even flinch — just slips another finger in, and your breath catches so hard it punches the air from your lungs.

“There it is,” he murmurs.

His thumb picks up a rhythm again, and the pressure starts to build fast. He knows it, too. His free hand slides around your waist, steadying you as your body starts to shake. Your fist curls into the soft fabric of his top, needing something to hold onto.

“Still hate me?” he asks, voice rougher now, his breath tickling the shell of your ear.

“Don’t flatter yourself— fuck—”

“Yeah?” His fingers curl just right, and your whole body tenses. “Right there?”

You nod, desperate, eyes squeezed shut. Your thighs are shaking. You’re so close you can’t even keep up the bit.

“Say it,” he says.

“Say what?”

“Tell me how good I make you feel.”

You groan. “Jesus, Jungkook—”

He slows down suddenly, barely moving his hand.

You whine. Actually whine.

“That’s not what I asked for.”

“God, you’re annoying,” you say, breathless.

He grins. “You're the one being the brat here.”

You drag your eyes open and glare at him, but it’s all heat now. All want. You lean in close, lips pressing against his.

"Fuck— fine. You feel so fucking good, Kook. Please, just don't stop."

He doesn’t.

He kisses you hard and fast, and his fingers start again, slick and firm and relentless. Your body clenches around him and this time, you don’t even try to hold the sounds back. His name leaves your mouth like muscle memory, and he groans into your kiss, like he’s the one coming undone.

When you break the kiss to suck in air, he presses his forehead to yours, voice rough in your ear.

“That’s it. Let go for me.”

You do.

Your body arches, thighs trembling as the orgasm washes over you sharp and fast. Your fingers dig into his back, into his top, into anything that keeps you tethered.

He doesn’t stop until you’re gasping, twitching, pushing his hand away because you’re too sensitive now.

He pulls back finally, breath warm against your skin, his fingers wet. He looks at you, gaze heavy, lips parted.

Then, without a word, he brings his fingers to your mouth.

“Open,” he says, low and steady.

You blink at him, your body still humming, brain half-melted. “What—?”

He brushes two slick fingers against your bottom lip, and your mouth parts on instinct.

“You said no thank yous,” he says, smirking. “So this’ll do.”

You glare at him, but your lips close around his fingers anyway. He watches every second — the way your mouth wraps around them, the way your tongue slides against the pads. His expression flickers from cocky to wrecked.

“Shit,” he mutters, voice rough now, the smugness cracking around the edges.

You suck once, slow and purposeful, eyes locked on his, and he jerks slightly under you — hips twitching like your mouth is on him instead. When you pull off with a soft pop, your lips are swollen and wet.

“You said mutual help,” you murmur, breath still catching on the end of every word. “It’s your turn.”

He blinks, like he’s short-circuiting.

You slide off his lap slowly, hands dragging down his chest, and his breath catches when you settle between his legs on your knees. You palm him over his jeans, and he hisses, already hard under your touch.

“Fuck,” he mutters, head tipping back.

“You okay there?” you ask, voice sweet, taunting. “Or do you need me to go slower?”

He looks down at you, pupils blown, jaw clenched. “Don’t be a brat.”

You unbutton his jeans, real slow, enjoying the way he twitches under your hands. “No promises.”

You drag the zipper down, tugging his jeans and boxers low enough to free him. He’s flushed and heavy, tip already glistening, and you swear you see his hips flex at just the sight of your mouth this close.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “You look way too good down there.”

You wrap your hand around his cock, giving one slow stroke, and he groans like it surprises him.

You start slow. Just your hand. Thumb brushing over the sensitive ridge under the head, watching his thighs tense beneath your touch. His head drops back against the couch cushion, and you feel the way his hips subtly shift toward you, like his body’s trying to chase more without him even realising it.

You lean in and lick a slow stripe from base to tip, tongue flat, deliberate. His breath catches — then shudders out of him like you’ve knocked the air from his lungs.

“Shit,” he mutters again, voice strained.

You hum like you agree, and wrap your lips around the head, just barely. You suck, not hard — just enough to make him twitch. Your hand works in tandem, slow, steady strokes, and your mouth follows, inching lower until the tip presses against the back of your throat.

He moans, raw and wrecked. “Fuck, baby—”

The pet name is barely more than a gasp, almost like it slipped out without permission. Your stomach flips at the sound it.

His voice borders on the line of sounding pathetic, and it makes you want to press your thighs together.

You fall into rhythm — your lips sliding over him, tongue pressed firm underneath, hand twisting where your mouth leaves off. Every now and then, you let yourself get sloppy. Let the sound of it echo between you, let him hear what he’s doing to you.

He’s falling apart above you. You can tell by the way his hand flexes and releases in your hair, the way his thighs tremble every time you sink a little deeper. He’s breathing hard now, jaw slack, eyes barely open. Watching you. Like he still can’t believe this is real.

“God, your mouth—” His voice cuts off into a moan when you swallow around him, deep and slow. "You're gonna be the death of me."

You pull off just long enough to breathe, lips slick, chin wet. “You deserve it.”

He laughs, but it breaks halfway through. Your hand doesn’t stop moving.

“You like watching me fall apart, huh?”

You look up through your lashes, tongue flicking over the head. “More than a little.”

You go back down — deeper this time — and he chokes on a groan. His hips jerk up too sharply and he curses, hands fisting hard in your hair.

“Shit— I’m—” He’s panting now, thighs shaking. “I’m not gonna last if you keep— fuck, don’t—”

You suck harder, then moan around him just to hear the sound he makes. It’s almost a whimper.

“Baby, stop— wait— fuck— please—”

You pull off with a wet pop just before he tips over the edge, lips red and swollen, saliva clinging to your chin. He’s barely keeping it together. Chest heaving, flushed to the neck, cock twitching where it rests against his stomach.

“You were right there,” you say, feigning innocence, voice soft and ruined.

“Exactly," he says, sitting up. "I'm not done with you yet."

He drags the fabric of his top over his head, tossing it aside without a second thought. The moment it’s off, your breath catches.

Fuck.

He’s all golden skin and sharp lines, chest heaving, abs flexing with every breath. His tattoos curl over his shoulder and down his arm, black ink stark against flushed skin. His cock’s still hard, flushed dark, resting against his stomach, twitching when he sees the way you’re looking at him.

And you — still kneeling between his legs — can’t look away.

Then you rise, shaky but determined, and pull your top over your head, letting it fall. His eyes snap to your chest, lips parting like he’s just been punched in the gut. You're movements are purposefully slow as you pull down your jeans, then your panties.

“Jesus,” he mutters, eyes dragging down your body. “You’re a fucking dream.”

You crawl back into his lap, your bare skin meeting his, and the contact makes both of you gasp. You straddle him, knees on either side of his thighs, and he groans the moment your heat presses against his cock.

He fumbles for a condom, pulling it out from an inner pocket in the jacket he’d draped onto the couch earlier.

You watch as he tears it open and rolls it on, fingers practiced but tense. You reach between your bodies, guiding him to your entrance, and the second his tip slides against your soaked folds, his grip tightens on your hips.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice shaking.

You sink down slowly, inch by thick inch, and your nails bite into his shoulders as you stretch around him. He’s big — your pussy gripping him tight, wet and pulsing as he fills you up. Every nerve lights up, every breath gets harder to catch.

“Holy fuck—” His head drops to your chest, groaning against your skin. “You’re so tight. So fucking warm. Gonna make me lose it.”

You whimper as you bottom out, walls fluttering around him. You can feel every vein, every twitch. It’s almost too much. Almost.

But not enough.

You start to move — slow, dragging lifts of your hips, circling them on the way back down. He watches, hands clamped on your ass, guiding the grind of your body like he already knows how to make you fall apart again.

You ride him, pace picking up fast, desperate. Every time your hips drop, the base of his cock grinds against your clit, slick sounds filling the room with every slap of skin against skin. His cock hits deep, stretching you wide, and a moan passes your lips.

He groans are low and guttural, eyes locked to where your bodies meet. “Goddamn, baby. Watching you fuck yourself on my cock— shit— never gonna forget this.”

You’re panting now, thighs burning, rhythm faltering. You try to keep going, but your legs are shaking.

He notices.

Without a word, he shifts under you, plants his feet flat on the floor, and grabs your hips tight.

“Let me help you, yeah?”

You nod. “Please.”

He starts thrusting up into you.

You cry out, spine arching, hands flying to his shoulders to hold on as he fucks you from underneath, sharp and deep. His hips snap up into you, cock pressing into your sweet spot over and over again.

The new angle is obscene. Filthy.

“Fuck, Jungkook— holy shit—”

He smirks up at you, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead. “That’s it. Take it, baby. Look at you— so cockdrunk already.”

Your pussy clenches around him, soaked and messy, and the sound of it is downright pornographic. His balls slap against your ass with every brutal thrust, and you can’t even think anymore. Just feel.

Your head falls back, hips rocking with his. “W-we’re still best friends, right, Kook?”

His rhythm stutters, hips slamming up too hard, too deep, and his jaw drops slightly like he’s not sure if he actually heard you right. His pupils are blown, face flushed, and he stares at you like you just kicked the last brain cell out of his skull.

“What the fuck,” he pants. “You can’t say that. Not when I’m— fuck— inside you.”

You whimper, walls clenching around him like your body’s reacting to how wrecked he sounds.

“That’s so fucked up,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Say it again and I might actually come on the spot.”

You huff out a weak laugh at that, hands tangling in his hair, and he groans, fucking you harder, deeper — like he needs to wipe the thought of friendship off your brain with every snap of his hips.

“Y-Yeah,” you gasp. “So close, fuck— don’t stop—”

He doesn’t. One hand slips between your bodies, fingers rubbing tight, fast circles over your clit while he pounds into you. You sob his name, hips stuttering, body locking up.

“Come on,” he grits out. “Wanna feel you squeeze me.”

That’s all it takes.

You break with a cry, body clamping down around him as your orgasm hits like a fucking freight train. Your pussy pulses around his cock, milking him, soaking him, your whole body shuddering with the force of it.

He slows just a little — just enough to let you ride it out — but he doesn’t pull out. He’s still hard inside you, jaw tight, eyes blown wide.

You collapse forward, panting into his neck, spent.

His hands slide down your spine, warm and possessive. “You good?”

You nod, still breathless. “Yeah. Jesus.”

"Good." He swiftly lifts you off him just enough to slip out, and you whimper at the sudden emptiness. But he doesn’t give you time to think.

He shifts, guiding you onto your back, his body following yours down to the couch. His hands frame your face as he settles between your legs, and when he presses back into you — thick and hard.

His eyes roam over you like he’s never seen anything more obscene or more beautiful. Your lips are swollen, parted in a messy moan. There’s a faint smudge of mascara under one eye from when you’d cried out his name, and your skin’s glowing — sweaty, flushed, wrecked.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he says, voice gone rough. “All fucked out for me.”

You pull him down into a kiss before you can think. It’s open-mouthed, greedy, teeth clashing a little. His hips start to move again, slow at first — long, deep thrusts that make your breath catch every time he bottoms out.

You wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into his back to pull him deeper. His chest brushes yours, sticky skin against sticky skin, and your nails rake down his back.

He gasps into your mouth. “Fuck—”

“More,” you breathe, nails dragging again, leaving angry red lines down the muscle of his back. “Please.”

His hips snap harder, pace picking up again. He braces one hand beside your head and the other slides up your thigh, gripping tight enough to bruise. Your body rocks with every thrust, his cock slamming into you, the slap of his hips against yours louder now.

“You feel that?” he grits out, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping down his temple. “How tight you are around me? Fuck— I’m so deep, baby, you’re taking me so fucking good.”

You moan loud at his words, head falling back against the cushions.

He kisses down your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breast — open-mouthed, wet kisses that make your skin burn. Then he’s back at your mouth, kissing you like it’s the only way he knows how to breathe.

He watches you with the kind of hunger that makes your stomach flip, watching how your brows pinch, how your mouth trembles, how you twitch around him with every stroke like you’re on the edge all over again.

And fuck, you are.

“Touch me,” you gasp, voice raw. “Kook, please—”

His fingers snake down your stomach, rubbing tight, perfect circles against your clit, synced with the rhythm of his thrusts. You cry out, thighs shaking around his waist, and he just watches — eyes dark and wild, like he can’t believe what he’s doing to you.

You clench hard around him, and he curses, slamming into you deeper, grinding at the end of each stroke.

“Gonna come again?” he pants. “Wanna come on my cock like that, baby? Let me feel you soak me?”

You’re nodding before he finishes, tears prickling in your eyes from how fucking intense it is. “Yes— yes, fuck, don’t stop—”

He kisses you as you fall apart — moaning into your mouth, swallowing every sound. You come again, whole body seizing around him. Your nails dig in, and he hisses at the pain, thrusting through it, fucking you right through the high.

When it ebbs, your body goes limp under him, chest heaving, lips swollen, slick dripping between your thighs.

Jungkook fucks into you again — slow, deep, like he’s trying to memorise the feel of you pulsing around him. His breath stutters, muscles drawn tight, every thrust rougher than the last.

“I’m not gonna last,” he pants, voice wrecked.

You bring your hands up to his hair, lightly tugging at his locks as you whisper, “Wanna feel you.”

He chokes on a moan, slamming into you one final time as he comes hard, cock twitching deep inside as he fills the condom.

His arms shake, muscles locked tight, and his face is buried in your neck as he rides it out, breath ragged, skin flushed and burning. You feel every pulse of it, every tremble in his frame, and all you can do is hold him there — legs wrapped tight around his waist, arms tangled around his shoulders, your nails still leaving stinging trails across his skin.

He presses kisses against your neck and jaw, eventually trailing up to your lips before pulling back to just look at you.

"I— you're perfect."

You smile, a familiar warmth enveloping your cheeks. "Yeah, yeah, you can stop with the flattery."

But he doesn’t smile back right away. He just watches you, quiet. Like he’s still catching up to the weight of what just happened. What’s still happening.

His hand drifts to your waist, thumb brushing lazily over your damp skin. “Let me run you a bath.”

You blink. “A bath?”

He nods, lips brushing your temple. “Yeah. You’re shaky. And I kinda wrecked you.”

You snort, catching the smugness in his voice. “What happened to, ‘Shit, baby, if you don’t stop I’m gonna come down your throat’?”

He groans, laughing. “Okay, first of all— rude. Second, I don’t sound like that.”

“Mm, you definitely do.”

He pinches your side lightly. “Keep talking, I’ll re-enact it right now.”

You shut up. But you’re smiling.

He stands a moment later, disappearing into the bathroom. You hear the water running, the soft clatter of bottles, his voice humming something low and familiar.

When he comes back, he tosses you a towel and holds out a hand, that same easy smile on his face. The one you’ve known forever. The one that makes everything feel… normal.

Even now.

You lace your fingers with his, let him pull you up.

Your legs are jelly. His hand doesn’t let go.

And as you follow him into the bathroom, skin still marked by his touch, lips still swollen from his kiss, a quiet thought flickers at the edge of your mind.

You guys were still best friends.

Right?

→ read part two here

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[mrsbarnesblog]

wrecked

masterlist

summary: you get into an accident with Rafe's car

words count: 1.3k

warnings: car accident, Topper and Kelce🥸, protective Rafe

You didn’t want to take Rafe’s car at first. He usually was the one who drove you whenever and wherever you needed, insisting that he felt calmer about you being okay. But he was busy from an early morning at work, and you really didn’t want to disturb him, even if you desperately needed to go. 

Also, he didn’t mind you taking his car, even allowing you to practice on his favorite one. He just wanted you to be careful. Though you were always hesitant, not wanting to scratch it or accidentally break something, because you knew how much Rafe cherished his cars. 

So it was not your fault when some asshole drove on the red light. It happened so fast that you couldn’t even do anything about it. One moment you were driving down the street, and the next the sound of tires, breaking glass, and scratching metal filled your ears. Rafe’s car spun around from the force of the hit, and the airbags deployed, preventing you from hitting your head too hard, but it still knocked the wind out of you. Your hands were shaking on the steering wheel, your heart pounding in your ears louder than the car horn that wouldn’t stop blaring. 

You sat there, frozen, chest heaving as you tried to process what had just happened. Your ears were ringing, eyes darting around to make sense of the chaos. The taste of adrenaline coated your tongue, bitter and sharp.

People started to gather, voices muffled as if underwater. Someone knocked on the window, asking if you were okay, but all you could think about—stupidly, helplessly—was Rafe’s car. The one he waxed on weekends, the one he never let anyone else touch until you. And now it was ruined.

Your fingers struggled to unclasp the seatbelt. You were okay, you realized as you looked down to see whether there was blood or not. Maybe bruised, but okay. Still, tears welled up in your eyes from shock, guilt, and something else deeper you couldn’t quite name. A stranger helped you to get out of the car, holding you under your arm and asking you something, but you could not respond. Your eyes darted to another car, the men looking almost unbothered by what he had done. 

Just a few minutes later, an ambulance and police arrived, and you sat in the ambulance car, with a thin blanket over your shoulders, while a woman checked you. That’s when you saw Kelce and Topper walking nearby, and you could see the realization hit them, their faces changing. Topper whipped out his phone and started dialing. Kelce stood there, wide-eyed, like he’d just been in that car himself.

They didn’t even look at you at first.

Then the call ended. Fast.

“He hung up the second we told him.” Topper muttered, walking towards you looking with this weird mix of pity and disbelief. “He’s gonna lose it. You know how much he loves that car.”

“Yeah, he really fucking loves that car.” Kelce agreed, scratching the back of his head and looking at you with the same expression Topper did. “That’s literally his baby.”

You felt your stomach dropping, his friends’ words settling in and making your guilt even worse. Your hands trembled on your lap, whether from the adrenaline or from fear of Rafe’s anger. Would he snap? Would he hate you for that? You didn’t know, and you didn’t want to. 

But then he got there.

You saw Rafe before you even heard him. His blue truck was parked carelessly in the middle of the street, his eyes almost wild and hair in a mess, as he was scanning the people for you. He didn’t look at the wrecked car, the random people, or the police. Once his eyes found yours, he ran. 

Rafe felt like he could breathe again the moment his hands touched you. His arms wrapped around you so tight you could feel how hard he was shaking. Hands moved over you in frantic patterns—your face, your shoulders, your arms, your ribs—like he needed to feel each part of you to believe it wasn’t all some nightmare. 

The woman who was checking you looked at him sideways but didn’t say anything, probably noticing his trembling hands and wild eyes. She stepped aside, giving you some space, and you couldn’t be more grateful.

The warmth of his body and his familiar scent made you completely break down, nuzzling closer to him and sniffing. “I’m sorry.” You choked out, your voice barely audible, like the words were stuck in your throat. “I didn’t mean to take it—I just—I’m so sorry, Rafe.” You tugged at his shirt. “He-he crushed into me, I c-couldn’t do anything.”

Rafe pulled back, taking your face in his hands and shaking his head with a deep frown. The tears streamed freely down your face as all of the emotions finally got out. Rafe gently wiped them away with his thumbs, leaning even closer to you. “Sh-h, baby.” He mumbled. “I don’t give a fuck about the car, do you hear me? I thought you were hurt, I thought I might lose you.”

You stared at him, stunned. He didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, just cupped your face like he was anchoring himself there.

“That’s the only thing I care about. You hear me? Not the car. You.”

​​Topper shifted awkwardly, glancing between the wrecked car and the two of you, a strange tension hanging in the air. His gaze flickered back to Rafe, and after a beat of hesitation, he finally spoke up, his voice laced with disbelief.

“Wait, hold up. You’re seriously not gonna care that your car’s wrecked?” He asked bluntly, tone edged with a mix of confusion and judgment. “It’s a fucking mess, Rafe. It costs a shitload of money.”

Kelce, standing beside him, nodded along, a skeptical frown crossing his face. “Yeah, dude, you always lose your shit over stuff like this. She wasn’t supposed to take your car in the first place. You’re just gonna let her—”

Rafe cut him off before he could finish the sentence, his voice low and dangerous. His grip tightened around you, pulling you a little closer, the protective instinct in him flaring up. “Shut the fuck up before I break your jaw.” He growled, his eyes hardening as he turned to face them, shielding you. “Don’t talk to her like that. Don’t even look at her. I’m not in the fucking mood for your dumbass jokes.”

Topper took a step back, hands raised in defense, his voice tight. "Hey, man, we were just—"

Rafe’s glare cut him off, his voice low but deadly. "I don’t give a shit about the fucking car, Top. My girl was in that car. You think I’m gonna give a damn about a stupid piece of metal when she could’ve got hurt?"

Kelce swallowed hard, clearly taken aback by Rafe’s intensity. "Rafe, we—"

"I said, shut the fuck up." Rafe repeated, stepping closer. "You wanna keep running your mouths, or do you wanna walk away with your teeth?"

For a moment, there was silence, the tension hanging thick in the air. The two of them just stood there, processing Rafe's fury, and then they both slowly backed away, glancing nervously at each other.

"Yeah... alright, man.” Topper muttered, still clearly rattled. "We get it."

“Then go.” Rafe didn’t take his eyes off them until they slowly turned and started to walk away, their pace quickening under his gaze. He exhaled sharply, shoulders still tense.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Rafe turned back to you, his face softening instantly, but there was still a fire in his eyes. He pulled you into his arms again, pressing his forehead against yours, the intensity of the moment lingering between you both.

"Don’t listen to them." He murmured, his breath shaky. "They don’t fucking get it. All I care about is you." His hands ran over your forearms to your neck. “And I promise that I’m gonna lock up the one who did it, baby. He will pay for it, for almost hurting you.”

You nodded, still shaken, but feeling a sense of relief wash over you as Rafe’s arms enveloped you again, grounding you in the safety of his presence.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

The Wizard Cowboy War (Wizboys VS Cowards) continues on.

[foldingfittedsheets]

For reasons known only to adolescent girls my friend Kate and I started communicating with extremely loud calls of, “Ka-kaw!” at some point during high school.

When trying to locate each other on the quad in lieu of cell phones we made do with good old fashioned screeching. The first call was always a lower tone. When one of us heard the cry we’d immediately echo it back at a higher pitch like dinosaurs playing Marco Polo.

This was probably obnoxious for all our classmates but man did we zero in on each other right quick. It was great. I never had to look for her in a huge crowd I just had to unleash my lack of social decorum in sonic waves. My only defense was that we only used it for out of doors. We weren’t monsters.

It served us extremely well the one time we went skiing together. She was a newer skier and got off the ski lift before I did after a stroke of bad luck and poor planning on our parts. By the time I had my skis on the snow I couldn’t see her. Worried, I took off down the mountain, not spotting her.

I planted my skis when I realized I must have passed her somehow. She couldn’t have made the same time as me. I threw my head back and shrieked, “Ka-kaw!!”

The sound cut across the cold thin air, sharp and carrying. To my delight and the surprise of several snowboarders going past me there was an answering “Ka-kaw!!!” from further up the mountain, reverberating joyously.

I’ve had this turkey post pinged several times, I can only say that I’m glad my friend and I aren’t the only bird girls out there.

[shovlison]

In a sport that credits and even praises Jos Verstappen for the discipline and talent of Max, be like Anthony Hamilton, Marco Antonelli, David Bearman and Adam Norris.

[jaysbaefie]

babysitter | pjs

synopsis: in which your reckless driving leads to you spending your summer babysitting your father’s business partners son.

genre: rich dad au

pairing: chaebol!jay x younger bratty!reader

warnings: 12 year age gap! reader is 23 and jay is 35, lots and lots of tension, bratty!reader, meandom!jay, possessive!jay, bickering, lots of cornering (like a lot), forced submission, spanking ass + pussy, dub-con in some instances, (oral f. rec), fingering, choking, manhandling, binding with belt, rough p in v (unprotected), forced confession of feelings, cum eating, lots of talk about age. i think that’s it ….

wc: 22.4k

a/n: holy fuck balls you guys. this was the longest piece i’ve written and i feel like ive lost my mind. i feel like a changed woman with all this plot and the minimal smut… like what happened. also wtf is a 1000 block limit…? i had to go back and merge paragraphs because tumblr has a limit apparently. so now, it’s just merged together which is so annoying. anyways, this is for those who voted for babysitter jay! stay tuned i plan on putting another pole out for the next fic. thank you for all the love on my fics <33 notes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated. enjoy :)))

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

 

you should've known something like this would happen. when your father instructed you to go to his office to pick up some papers for him, you had a gut feeling that something bad was going to happen.

it was your father's fault, really. if he hadn't called you in the middle of the day, nagging about how you needed to "grow up" and "take responsibility" and "learn a thing or two from your old man," you wouldn't have been so distracted. and if you hadn't been so distracted, you wouldn't have slammed your car straight into the back of someone else's.

a very expensive looking car at that.

your heart was still hammering against your ribs as you sat stiffly on the sidewalk, your car parked haphazardly next to the damaged luxury vehicle you had just rear-ended. you stumbled out of your car, not having the guts to walk up to the car you had absolutely demolished to talk to the owner.

people passing by casted you pitying glances, but none of them could possibly understand the deep, all-consuming regret swirling in your chest.

your father was going to kill you.

worse, the owner of the car was going to kill you.

"you've got to be fucking kidding me."

a deep voice cut through the sound of honking cars and murmuring pedestrians. you squeezed your eyes shut, already dreading the moment you'd have to turn around. but you had no choice, so with a slow inhale, you finally lifted your gaze.

oh fuck my life.

and immediately wanted to crawl into a hole.

"oh, you've really done it this time," you muttered under your breath, swallowing harshly as the man you recognized as jay park, your father's business partner, the ceo of a multimillion-dollar company, and the man whose car you just destroyed—stood in front of you.

looking absolutely livid.

jay was wearing a crisp black suit, but his jacket was slung over his arm, and the top buttons of his white dress shirt were undone. despite the clear annoyance twisting his sharp features, he still managed to look ridiculously handsome. infuriatingly handsome. disregarding your history with the man, you didn't know if you wanted to jump his bones or get on your knees and beg for forgiveness.

his dark eyes flickered from the dent in his car's bumper to where you sat on the sidewalk, one brow raising as realization dawned on him.

"you have got to be kidding me," he repeated, voice laced with disbelief. "of course it's you". his dark eyes narrowed down on your smaller frame, his mouth twisted in a scowl as he ran his hand through his thick black locks in frustration.

you scowled, crossing your arms. "what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

fuck his forgiveness.

jay let out a sharp laugh, rubbing a hand down his face. "it means i'm not even surprised. reckless, irresponsible, and spoiled? sounds exactly like you."

"let me guess? daddy's going to take care of this for you? typical," he sneers down at you.

your blood boiled, immediately getting up from the sidewalk so you could stalk up to him. "oh, please. don't act like you know me." he scoffed, leaning down slightly so that his face was closer to yours. "i don't need to know you. your reputation does all the talking, brat."

you clenched your jaw at the name.

he wasn't completely wrong, but you'd rather die than admit that.

jay exhaled heavily, moving back up and pulling out his phone. "i'm calling your father."

your eyes widened in panic. "wait! no, you don't have to do that—"

but it was too late. jay was already dialing, his expression unreadable as he brought the phone to his ear.

you felt like you were about to throw up.

you didn't hear the full conversation, but based on the way jay's jaw tightened and the glance he shot you, you could tell it wasn't going well. after a few more exchanges, he hung up, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

"so?" you asked hesitantly, already bracing yourself for the worst. jay crossed his arms, looking far too pleased with himself. "your father and i came to an agreement."

you narrowed your eyes. "what kind of agreement?"

jay smirked. "instead of paying for the damage, you're going to babysit my son as reparation."

you stared at him. blinked. "what?"

he checked his watch, clearly done with the conversation. "i'll send you the details later. don't be late." and just like that, he walked off, leaving you standing by the sidewalk, utterly speechless.

this could not be happening.

babysitting? you?

you groaned, letting your head drop back.

this was going to be a nightmare, and you needed to wake up.

you make your way to your car, your fists clenching as you mentally prepare yourself to talk to your father.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

"this is so unnecessary, dad."

your father scoffs half heartedly, "you made a mistake, this is the least you could do, __."

"why can't we pay for the repairs, this is completely unnecessary!" you exclaim, your perfectly maintained brows shooting up as you cross your arms—staring at your father with a pointed look.

"besides, he could get anyone who's actually good with children to babysit his kid," you add on with a huff.

he sighs, his eyes shutting in temporary defeat, "__," he says with a warning tone. "mr.park is being nice enough to not file a report and get points deducted from your licence and possibly have your permit suspended. the least you could do is babysit his son, it shows that you are remorseful for your actions. the kids well behaved and you only need to be there for a few hours." 

you roll your eyes, this was stupid. it's not like he even cared about the car, so what you crashed into it.

"fine, but just this once. this isn't going to be a reoccurring thing, right?" you hiss at the end, looking at your father with resentment when his face changes into one of relief.

"i may have mentioned that you're not taking classes in the summer, and that you're free throughout the week so we'll see..." he trails off, watching your expression morph into one of disbelief.

"are you ser—" you begin only for knocking at the door to interrupt your sentence. you whip your head around harshly, ready to verbally abuse whoever had dared to interrupt you. "come in."

the door opened slightly, a house maid peering her head between the crack. "mr.__, mr.kim is here," she informs timidly, catching onto the bad energy in the room.

your father smiles, "we'll be right down, thank you teresa."

you scowl at her, her eyes widening for a moment before she scurries off—shutting the door behind her.

"dad i—" he cuts you off, "—__, we will continue this conversation next time. mr.kim is waiting for us downstairs, you know what to do when mr.park contacts you, right?" his eyebrows furrowed as he stares at you with narrowed eyes.

you let out a frustrated sigh, "yes, dad."

"good, be on your best behaviour."

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

later that evening, you had sufficiently screamed into your pillow and considered packing your bags to flee the country. you were on the phone with one of your best friends, minho, who attempted to comfort you through your mental break down.

"you don't understand, minho. my life is ending," you wailed softly, pressing your face against your pillow—almost suffocating yourself.

minho rolls his eyes behind the screen, he was lucky you weren't on facetime or you'd have his neck.

"__, you're literally just babysitting for the man. you'll be fine."

"no, minho. you're still not getting it! it's the fact that i have to babysit for that asshole. i swear to god i've had beef with him for the last 4 years. he always has a stick up his ass," you ramble.

"are you sure you have beef with him? sounds one sided to me.." he trails off making you let out a gasp—offended at his words.

"you're supposed to be on my side, dick. whatever, i'll talk to you later. if i'm not dead," you whine dramatically.

minho scoffs, "yeah, yeah. love you, talk soon."

"love you too, bitch. bye."

you hang up the phone, staring mindlessly at your roof as you think about the events of today. jay wouldn't be so bad if he wasn't so uptight all the time. he was actually hot. really, hot.

you think back to the times where the two of you interacted, the fake polite nods you sent his ways and the way he tried to hide his dislike for you behind his charming smile whenever there were others around. the way he'd brush up against you whenever he walked by you, or how his voice deepened when he said your name.

you had noticed his gaze slide up and down your frame on multiple occasions, choosing to ignore it but secretly loving the way he looked like he hated you. however, all these moments get pushed aside when you remember all the times he was an absolute dick towards you.

jay had a way of making himself the most infuriating person on the planet—whether he did it on purpose or not. and judging by the smug way his lips always curled whenever he got under your skin, you knew it was always on purpose. he liked seeing you riled up, he liked it when you bit back at him.

the first time you met him, he completely ignored you. it was at some stupid business dinner your father had forced you to attend. while everyone exchanged pleasantries, jay didn't even acknowledge you. not a single glance. not even when you introduced yourself. instead, he sipped his whiskey, eyes trained on anything but you. it wasn't until you had walked past him that he finally said something.

"spoiled little princess, huh?"

you turned back, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "what did you just say to me?" this was the first time he had talked to you, and this is what he has to say?

he smirked over the rim of his glass. "nothing."

you scoffed, rolling your eyes in distaste before sauntering away. jay's eyes following every movement of your hips as you slowly get lost in the crowd.

he loved pointing out your mistakes.

when you got a flat tire outside your father's office, jay happened to be walking by. you were already frustrated, struggling with your phone to call for roadside assistance, when his voice rang out behind you.

"let me guess. you don't even know how to change a tire, do you?"

you scoffed, glaring at him. "do you?"

he chuckled, shaking his head. "of course i do. but i don't help people who look at me like they'd rather set me on fire."

he always had a comment about your attitude. "you pout too much."

you blinked, pausing mid-sip of your drink. "excuse me?"

jay leaned against the bar counter at yet another business event, swirling the ice in his glass as he looked at you with mild amusement. "you pout too much. like a brat who didn't get what she wanted."

you scoffed, setting your glass down with a little too much force. "maybe that's just my face."

he smirked, eyes flickering to your lips before meeting your gaze again. "yeah? then why do you only do it around me?"

it was safe to say that you hated him and overall wanted nothing to do with him or his kid.

you groan into your pillow, "why me," you whine. suddenly, your phone pings.

you received a text from an unknown number.

jay: 9 am sharp. don't be late. i don't tolerate irresponsibility.

you rolled your eyes so hard they nearly got stuck in the back of your head.

you: don't worry, i wouldn't dare disappoint you, your highness.

his reply came almost immediately.

jay: that's mr. park to you.

you: my deepest apologies, park jongseong.

he didn't respond after that.

dickwad.

you tossed your phone onto your bed, groaning into your hands.

this was going to be a very, very long summer.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

you were not a morning person, and your lack of sleep was not helping. so when your alarm blared at an ungodly hour, your first instinct was to throw your phone across the room and go back to sleep—but you couldn't. because you had a job to do.

a job that you weren't getting compensated for.

or, more accurately, a job you were being forced into doing. it was unpaid labor by your father.

"consider it a way to build character and experience," he had said to you, sipping his coffee without a shred of sympathy or remorse as you gaped at him.

"consider it a way to ruin my life," you had shot back, but it hadn't mattered.

so here you were, running on three hours of sleep and a whole lot of resentment, pulling up to jay park's house—a sleek, modern mansion that screamed wealth. the kind of wealth that made you roll your eyes but also, begrudgingly, admire just a little. the driveway alone could fit at least six cars, and the front door? massive, dark wood, and intimidating as hell.

jay displayed his wealth proudly, whereas your father preferred to keep himself grounded. you get out of the car, your father had insisted that the driver drop you off.

"we don't need you crashing into another one of mr.park's cars," he had said, ushering you out the door.

you rolled your eyes, begrudgingly agreeing, not because you agreed that you were a terrible driver. but because you were tired and didn't have it in you to argue with him and get your way.

"when shall i pick you up ma'am?" your driver asked you.

you think for a second, "i'll inform you when."

you sighed, running a hand through your hair before pressing the doorbell.

within seconds, the door swung open. revealing a rather, dare you say, scandalous looking jongseong.

his typically neatly slicked back hair was frazzled, strands of his dark locks picking onto his forehead. he was wearing a thin white dress shirt with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the first few buttons of his shirt undone, a thin silver chain adorned on his neck and his exposed collar bone. his plump lips were pulled into a rather lazy smirk in contrast to his typical scowl that you were used to him greeting you with. his sharp gaze flickering over you like he was already unimpressed.

it was entirely unfair how good he looked this early in the morning.

his lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smirk but wasn't exactly friendly either.

"you're late."

your eyes narrowed, glancing at your phone. "it's 9:02."

jay raised a brow. "exactly."

your jaw clenched. two minutes. he was seriously acting like two damn minutes was a crime.

you forced a tight-lipped smile. "where's the kid?"

before jay could respond, a small figure peeked out from behind him—a little boy, no older than five, with round cheeks and big, curious eyes.

jay made a cute kid, you'll give him that. jay placed a hand on his head, his expression softening just slightly. "this is seojun. seojun, this is __. she's going to be taking care of you today."

he steps aside, allowing you into his home. you admire the interior, mouth opening in awe as you take off your shoes.

seojun blinked up at you before stepping forward, arms crossed in a stance far too judgmental for a five-year-old.

"do you know how to make pancakes?"

what happened to 'hello, how are you?'

you hesitated for a moment, looking up at jay in confusion only for him to give you a 'well, do you?' look. "uh... sure?"

seojun narrowed his eyes. "do you actually, or are you lying?" jay let out a soft chuckle, and you immediately shot him a glare.

"i can make pancakes," you insisted, then quickly added, "probably."

seojun sighed like a man three times his age, shaking his head. "we're doomed."

jay patted his son's head, lips twitching. "good luck," he says. he reaches for his trench coat and bag that were set neatly by the door on a cushioned bench.

your eyes widened. "wait, you're leaving?"

"that's usually how work goes."

"you could at least pretend to care about abandoning your child with a stranger." 

jay gave you a pointed look. "you crashed into my car. this is me pretending. and i have 911 on speed dial." you opened your mouth to argue but stopped when you felt a tiny hand grip your wrist.

"you're wasting time," seojun said seriously, already pulling you toward the kitchen. "if you burn my breakfast, i'm calling the cops."

jay smirked as you shot him one last glare before getting dragged away by his tiny, opinionated son.

ten minutes later, and you were already regretting everything. you stumbled around the kitchen blindly, allowing the spawn of satan to boss you around.

"that's too much flour."

"are you sure you cracked that egg right?"

"why does the batter look like that?"

"are you even qualified to be in a kitchen?"

you turned slowly to seojun, who was sitting on the counter with his arms crossed, watching your every move with a level of scrutiny that made you nervous. truth be told, you had never made pancakes. you were going off memory of what your housemaids had put into the batter when you asked for pancakes one morning—happening to pay attention to them cooking.

"do you wanna make the pancakes?" you asked, raising a brow—getting tired of his attitude and critiques.

"no," he said simply. "i just don't want to die eating them."

you exhaled sharply. "listen here, you little—"

"language," seojun cut in, and you swore you heard jay's smug influence in that tone.

you were never having kids.

ever.

despite his relentless judgment, you somehow managed to make edible pancakes. you plated them with a dramatic flourish, sliding one in front of seojun before grabbing a plate for yourself. he stared at it for a long moment before finally taking a bite. you held your breath.

"...not bad," he muttered.

you gasped, pressing a hand to your chest dramatically. "was that a compliment?"

he rolled his eyes. "don't get used to it."

little shit.

you smirked, finally digging into your own breakfast, only to be interrupted by the sound of the front door opening.

jay was home. already?

he stepped into the kitchen, shrugging off his coat, his eyes scanning the scene in front of him. the not-burnt pancakes. seojun eating without complaint. and much to his disappointment—you, still alive.

his brow lifted in shock, "huh."

you glared at him, "what?"

jay leaned against the counter, arms crossed, "i figured you'd give up by now."

you scoffed. "sorry to disappoint."

seojun swallowed his bite, glancing between the two of you before shaking his head. "you guys fight too much. i thought adults were mature."

jay smirked. "we don't fight."

you scoffed. "we absolutely do."

"no, you just get mad when i say things that are true."

your eye twitched. "i literally hate you."

"see? fighting," seojun interrupts.

"oh my god."

seojun groaned, dropping his fork. "i liked it better when you were just burning pancakes."

jay chuckled, grabbing a coffee mug from the cabinet. "get used to it, kid."

you narrowed your eyes at him. if you weren't being forced into this, you would have walked out already.

but you were being forced into this.

which meant you had no choice but to deal with jay fucking park.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

babysitting, as you had quickly come to realize, was hell.

seojun was a tiny dictator with far too many opinions for a five-year-old. after breakfast, he interrogated you about your ability to tie shoelaces, your knowledge of dinosaurs, and whether or not you knew how to build a proper lego tower.

you did not, apparently.

"how do you not know how to build legos," he exclaims, his tiny hands waving in the air dramatically as he watches you go through a mental break down.

"well, i'm sorry. i didn't play with legos as a kid, i played with barbie's."

seojun twists his face in disgust, "barbie's? that's for girls."

you look at him with a deadpan expression, "i'm a girl."

"oh."

"what do you even do all day?" he asks, hands on his hips as he watched you struggle to connect two lego pieces. "i exist," you grumbled, scowling at the colorful bricks in front of you. "isn't that enough?"

seojun sighed. "you need better life skills."

"oh, i'm sorry, i didn't realize i was signing up for a performance review."

"i'm just saying," he shrugged, "i expected more from someone who's supposed to be an adult."

this kid.

"i'm only 23," you grumble to yourself. you exhaled sharply, deciding to ignore his judgment as you tried again to build something that wouldn't collapse within seconds.

but then—the sound of the front door opening.

jay was home. again.

you weren't sure why this surprised you. maybe because most ceos didn't have time to just pop in and out of their mansions all day. you begin to wonder, what was the point of having you babysit his son if he wasn't going to fuck off?

seojun perked up at the sound, immediately abandoning you and your lego struggles to run toward the living room. you followed, stopping just before the hallway, eyes landing on jay.

he was pulling off his coat, dressed in a fitted dress shirt and slacks, the sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal his forearms.

his oh so veiny and thick forearms.

not that you were looking.

except you were. damn it.

"why are you back?" you asked, forcing yourself to look anywhere else.

jay glanced at you, expression unreadable. "this is my house." answering you as if you were stupid and unable to comprehend basic knowledge.

"you know what i meant. don't you have stuff to do?" he walked past you, ruffling seojun's hair before grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.

"had a meeting nearby," he said, twisting the cap off. "figured i'd check in."

"to make sure i haven't killed your son yet?"

jay smirked. "basically."

you rolled your eyes. "wow. the trust is overwhelming."

before jay could respond, seojun tugged at his sleeve.

"dad, she sucks at legos."

you gasped, glaring at the boy. "excuse me?"

jay chuckled, taking a sip of his water before glancing at you, "i can't say i'm surprised."

oh, that was it.

"you know what?" you huffed, hands on your hips. "if i suck so much, why don't you do it?"

jay's brow lifted. "you want me to build legos?"

"i want you to prove you're better," you challenged. "unless you're all talk, park."

seojun gasped dramatically. "she's challenging you, dad."

jay stared at you.

you stared back.

then, to your absolute horror, he smirked. "fine," he said, setting his water down. "let's play."

oh.

you immediately regretted this.

twenty minutes later, and you had never felt so humiliated in your life.

"how the hell—" you gaped at the fully functional lego castle jay had built. "this is rigged."

jay leaned back, completely smug. "some of us have talent."

you glared. "some of us have jobs that should keep them too busy for this. old man."

seojun, sitting beside his dad, was thrilled.

"you suck at this," he declared.

"okay, you don't have to rub it in," you muttered, feeling sad that the older man had beat you.

jay stood, dusting off his hands. "guess that settles it. you suck, i don't. end of discussion."

you groaned. "i hate you."

jay smirked. "i know."

seojun clapped. "yay! dad wins!"

you slumped onto the couch, staring up at the ceiling. you were never agreeing to anything ever again. jay checked his watch. "i have another meeting. try not to lose to a five-year-old while i'm gone."

you didn't even have the energy to glare at him. but you did flip him off.

jay just laughed, disappearing out of your sight.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

babysitting seojun had somehow turned into babysitting jay's goddamn ego.

he was infuriating.

it had been a full week since you started watching seojun, and in that time, jay had developed an annoying habit of randomly showing up at home between meetings, offering you nothing but sarcasm, smugness, and unsolicited criticism.

"you can't cook."

"your attention span is worse than my son's."

"what do you actually contribute to society?"

you had held your tongue, barely, choosing to channel your rage into rolling your eyes so hard it was a miracle they hadn't gotten stuck.

but today? oh, today you were done playing nice.

"__, can we please go to the park?"

the boy had asked you nicely and hadn't bullied you all day, so you said yes as a reward. seojun had wanted to go to the park, so you took him. simple. no issues.

until jay called.

"where are you?" his voice came through the speaker, low and sharp.

did the fucker have a tracker on his kid or something?

"out," you answered, watching seojun run toward the swings. a small smile makes its way on your face as you watch him giggle and make himself comfortable on the swing. he waves his hands around, trying to catch your attention.

"push me, noona!" he squeals. you grin, making your way to seojun.

"out where?" you almost forget he was on the phone.

"does it matter?" you roll your eyes with a huff.

"jesus, __." his frustration crackled through the line. "you're with my kid. tell me where you are."

you sighed. "we're at the park five minutes from your house. calm down, dad of the year."

there was a pause."stay there. i'm coming."

he hung up before you could argue.

okay then...

you huffed, shoving your phone into your pocket.

"jay's being dramatic again," you muttered to yourself, giving the little boy a push as he squeals and giggles to himself.

"he does that a lot," seojun said wisely.

even his son agrees.

when jay arrived, he looked pissed. tight jaw. furrowed brows. stiff shoulders. his hair was tousled and his shirt was ruffled slightly as he stalked his way up to you.

hot. 

not the point.

"you didn't tell me you were taking him out," he said, crossing his arms. his biceps bulged in his shirt, your mouth watering slightly before seojun's giggles break you out of your trance.

you mentally slap yourself for thirsting over the man. "because it wasn't a big deal," you shot back.

"it is when you're responsible for a five-year-old who isn't yours."

you groaned. "god, you're so controlling."

jay took a step closer. "and you're reckless."

"it's a park, not a battlefield."

"it's about responsibility, __." his voice dropped, tone edged with irritation. "but i wouldn't expect you to understand that."

you froze. "excuse me?"

jay tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. "you heard me."

oh, hell no.

you stepped closer, chin lifting defiantly. "what exactly is that supposed to mean?"

his gaze flickered over your face before settling on your eyes. "it means you're a little spoiled brat who doesn't know how to take care of herself let alone another person."

you scoffed. "oh, i'm sorry, are you my father now?"

"god, no," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "i don't have the patience for that. but if i was, trust me, you'd be put in your place a long time ago."

you pause, your mind blanking at his words. "then stop acting like you know me."

jay let out a dry laugh. "oh, i know you just fine."

"bullshit."

his brows raised. "you think i don't see it? the way you pout when things don't go your way? how you expect everything to be handed to you? the way you act like the world owes you something?"

your hands clenched at your sides. "you don't know a damn thing about me."

fuck you. he did know you.

jay leaned in, his breath warm against your face. "i know enough."

your heartbeat spiked. not from anger. not entirely.

because up close, jay was all heat and intensity, his cologne clouding your senses, his voice a slow drag down your spine. your lips parted, a sharp retort on the tip of your tongue—but then he smirked.

that arrogant, knowing smirk.

and just like that, the spell broke.

you shoved him back, ignoring the way his chest was way too solid under your hands. "get over yourself, park." his expression darkens at your touch, the heat of your palms against his chest making his body twitch.

jay barely budged from your shove. but his smirk did fade.

his jaw tensed. his fingers curled into fists.

"watch yourself, __," he murmured, his voice darker than before. "you're playing a dangerous game."

so why did it feel like he wanted you to keep playing?

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

your entire body was on fire.

standing in jay's kitchen, chest heaving, hands curled into fists at your sides, you couldn't decide whether you wanted to slap him or...

no. not that.

for the past eight hours, you had been subjected to jay's controlling and condescending attitude. the constant comments, the smug little smirks, the way he seemed to take way too much pleasure in watching you struggle. you had tried, really tried, to keep your cool. 

but now, standing in his sleek, modern kitchen, you were done.

"are you kidding me?" you scoffed, slamming the fridge shut. "you don't even have juice? what kind of psychopath only stocks sparkling water and black coffee?"

you were crashing out over some juice, for fucks sake.

jay barely looked up from his position, leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his broad chest. "a grown man who doesn't drink sugar like a child?"

your eyes narrowed. "oh, fuck off."

his lips twitched. "watch your mouth, princess."

princess. you hated when he called you that. hated the way it sent a pulse of heat through you, how it made your stomach twist and your thighs clench. you turned to glare at him. "why are you even here? don't you have some billionaire meeting to attend?"

he shrugged. "i cleared my schedule."

"why?"

jay's smirk deepened. "because i don't trust you alone in my house."

your jaw dropped. "excuse me? i think i've proved myself trust worthy in the last few weeks."

he pushed off the counter, stepping closer, his gaze lazy and unimpressed. "you're reckless. irresponsible. spoiled."

it was always the same few adjectives that he used to describe you, it was starting to grow old. your nails dug into your palms. "and you're a control freak." he hummed, pretending to consider. "maybe. but at least i don't go around crashing into people's cars and then whining when there are consequences."

oh, fuck him.

your nostrils flared. "it was a tiny scratch!"

jay arched a brow. "a tiny scratch that cost six figures."

you gritted your teeth. "maybe if you didn't drive a car worth more than some people's houses—"

"maybe if you learned how to drive—"

your breath came short, your heart pounding in your ears as you held yourself back from launching yourself onto jay and tackling him to the ground.

"you're so fucking full of yourself," you seethed, eyes locked on his, fury bubbling under your skin. "you walk around like you own the whole damn world." jay smirked, taking another step forward, forcing you to lift your head to keep glaring at him. "maybe because i do." you let out a humorless laugh, crossing your arms which, unbeknownst to you, pushed up your chest under your tank top. "god, you're insufferable." 

jay swallowed a groan, he held in everything in him whenever you'd show up in your tiny shirts and skirts. giving a clear opportunity for  his gaze to wander down your form.

he wondered if you wore those things intentionally— if you’d bend down in front of him with purpose, and genuinely, he was starting to think so. all the times you'd brush up against him when wearing your little skirts — how you'd push up your chest when you'd cross your arms in frustration — it was slowly driving him insane.

his eyes flickered over your posture, his smirk deepening as he watched your chest rise and fall heavily. "and yet, you're still here."

"i didn’t have a choice!" you snapped. "if it were up to me, i wouldn't be within ten miles of you."

he hummed, looking entirely too amused. "funny, considering the way you're looking at me right now."

your jaw clenched as you glared at him, "and how am i looking at you exactly?" jay tilted his head, studying you like he knew your every thought, every single fucking move you made. like he could see right through you— the way your breath came a little quicker, the way your fists weren't just curled in anger but in restraint of jumping his bones.

his voice dropped, soft but teasing. "like you want me."

your stomach flipped violently.

"fuck you," you spat.

his smirk didn't waver. "say the word, princess."

your whole body burned.

you wanted to wipe that arrogant smirk off his face, to shove him away, to yell at him until you couldn’t. but you also wanted to have him bend you over in the kitchen right then and now.

you sucked in a sharp breath, shaking your head. "this is ridiculous." jay took another step forward, erasing the last bit of space between you. his chest nearly brushed yours, his scent clean, musky, and undeniably him—flooding your senses.

thank god, seojun was asleep.

you refused to back down. refused to be the first to move. you maintain eye contact, your eyes flickering to his lips occasionally making your breath stutter.

his voice dropped lower, rough around the edges. "tell me to stop."

you should.

but you didn't.

because deep down, you knew this had been building for years. every heated glance, every sharp-tongued remark, every little touch that lasted a second too long—it had all been leading to this very moment.

you liked pushing him.

you weren't stupid, you knew there was an age gap—and that's what was holding him back.

12 years.

you were 23, and jay was 35.

so what?

it wasn't like he was some old man. if anything, he was in his prime—successful, powerful, hot as fuck. he carried himself like a man who had already conquered the world and wasn't pressed about proving anything to anyone.

except, apparently, to you.

because you made him nervous.

you saw it. the way his jaw clenched whenever you got too close, the way his eyes lingered on your legs when you crossed them or how they glanced down at your chest, the way he gripped his glass just a little tighter whenever you threw some bratty comment his way.

you knew he wanted you.

so why was he still fighting it? you knew the answer before you even asked yourself.

it was the age gap. he thought it was a big deal. he thought it mattered, and that pissed you off.

because to you, it wasn't about age. it was about power.

jay hated that he wanted you. hated that you weren't intimidated by him. hated that you saw right through his self-control. that you saw the way he stiffened when you brushed past him, saw the way his eyes darkened when you tested his patience.

you liked seeing him unravel.

he acted like he was above it, like he was some mature, responsible man who didn't get affected by a girl like you.

but you knew better.

because every time you got too close, every time you laughed at his scolding—you could see his self control break.

jay's fingers brushed against your waist, testing his limits.

your breath stuttered.

his smirk widened, "what's wrong?" he murmured. "cat got your tongue?"

"noona? dad?"

jay immediately pulls back as if your touch suddenly burned him. he looks at you in shock, as if you had made the first move.

little seojun had woken up from his nap, now stumbling into the kitchen half asleep. he immediately makes his way to you when he sees you cornered into the kitchens counters. "noona, i'm hungry," he mumbles before he's reaching his arms out indicating that he wants you to pick him up. you swallow harshly, leaning down to carry him before you shoot jay a sharp glare.

"how'd you sleep, jun?" you ask the boy, rubbing his back as he slowly regains his energy.

jay watches the scene with a heavy heart, seeing you and seojun get along was endearing. he never expected to see his son get close to another woman this way, let alone you—not after his wife.

"good. what were you and dad doing?"

you immediately whip your head around to stare at jay who looked equally as shocked.

"uhm."

"i was just helping, __ with her uh...hair. it got stuck in her necklace," jay fibbed, nervous that his son would catch onto his lies. he mentally curses himself for making his son so smart.

seojun just nods, still half asleep. "__, hair is long. pretty."

you smile down at seojun who has his head leaned against your chest. it was a rare occurrence that the little boy wasn't on your ass and teasing you, so you basked in his innocent silence.

"well, i'll be going now," jay coughs out lamely, turning around and walking out of the kitchen.

you roll your eyes, "what does junnie want to eat?"

"grilled cheese!"

"grilled cheese it is."

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

the day had been long and draining, filled with the usual chaos of babysitting seojun.

"noona, you burnt this side."

"the waters too cold, you're going to turn me into a popsicle!"

"it's a shame that you're not improving on your lego skills."

you had spent most of your day absorbed in your own thoughts, determined to keep your distance from jay's constant, prickly presence. you didn't know what was going between the two of you, but the constant teasing and proximity was starting to affect you—and you did not like that. but nothing could have prepared you for the moment when you saw his car pull into the driveway again.

it was late in the afternoon, your mind occupied with tidying up the living room after seojun's afternoon nap when you heard footsteps approaching. you looked up just in time to see jay step through the front door—this time, accompanied by a woman whose presence sent an unfamiliar twist of jealousy and confusion through your chest.

she was striking: tall, elegantly dressed, her dark hair falling perfectly around her shoulders. for a split second, your mind raced with possibilities. was she just a friend? a casual companion? or something more? the answer was not provided—jay made no attempt to introduce her with any clarity. he simply walked past you with a polite nod, the woman silently following at his side—not acknowledging your presence.

the bitter taste of jealousy swarmed you, she was exactly what you'd think jay would go for in a woman. beautiful and sophisticated.

you forced a neutral expression as you went about your tasks, though inside you seethed. you couldn't help but notice the way jay's hand briefly brushed against hers, the soft laughter they exchanged in the hallway, as if they shared an intimacy that you weren't meant to be a part of. every detail stung, and you kept your face impassive, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing you riled up.

the rest of the night passed in a haze of quiet tension. seojun remained asleep in his room, unaware of the storm brewing between you and jay. you moved through your duties with mechanical efficiency, silently cursing the timing of his unexpected guest. every time you caught a glimpse of jay glancing in her direction or sharing a private smile, a bitter mixture of jealousy and humiliation washed over you. you had no idea why you felt this way—jay was never yours, and you were only here to babysit his son. yet, every little detail of that moment lingered painfully in your mind.

you wondered if the woman was seojun's mother, they shared a resemblance of some kind. jay had never mentioned seojun's mother before, and you had never asked. all you knew was jay was a single parent and the mother of his child was simply not in the picture.

unable to bear the emotional turmoil, you decided to leave earlier than usual. you slipped out of the house quietly, leaving a brief note on the counter that simply read, "i'm done for today." the cool night air hit your face as you got into the car, your driver picking you up.

the next morning, you arrived at jay's house for your babysitting shift, your mood still dark and distant. as usual, jay greeted you at the door with his characteristic calm, yet something in his eyes held a note of confusion. "good morning, __," he said, his tone neutral. "i'm glad you're here."

oh, are you now?

you gave a curt nod and stepped inside without making eye contact. throughout the day, you kept your responses short and your distance intentional. jay tried several times to spark small talk, commenting on seojun's behavior, asking how your night was—but you offered nothing more than a hum and silent stubborn stares.

by late afternoon, the tension had grown almost unbearable. the usual spark that might have accompanied a playful banter was replaced by a wall of silence that left the air thick. finally, after seojun was settled in his room for a nap, jay approached you in the quiet of the kitchen.

the silence in the room was palpable as you stood there, hands on your hips, glaring at jay. his presence in the room felt overwhelming, his posture relaxed, but his eyes sharp, never leaving yours. you were getting under his skin, and you could feel it.

the problem was, you liked it.

"you've been so difficult all day," he muttered, his voice low, almost a growl. "what's your problem?"

you crossed your arms, taking an exaggerated step back, trying to assert some space between you and him. the way his eyes followed you made the hairs on your neck stand up, and you hated it. you hated the effect he had on you. you hated how badly you wanted him even though you knew you never could.

"my problem? you're the one being impossible! i didn't sign up for this. i'm not your babysitter," you snapped, fighting the urge to back down. "your son isn't even the issue. it's you."

actually, it's the woman you brought home yesterday.

he raised an eyebrow, a smug smirk forming on his lips. "me? you're the one acting like a spoiled brat. maybe you should learn some patience."

your fingers clenched at your sides. the way he spoke to you, like he was trying to control you, was beyond irritating. you took another step back, but jay didn't move. instead, he shifted, closing the distance between the two of you in one fluid motion, trapping you against the counter. his chest was a mere inch from yours, his presence suffocating. it humoured you that you two always ended up on the same position, jay closing in on you.

"i don't need a bratty attitude right now. i've had a long day, and the last thing i need is you making it worse," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, but the edge to it sent a shiver down your spine.

"long day? you've been home all day! what's even the point of me being here if you're going to be up my ass," you hiss.

"__, enough," his tone low as he warned you.

your heart raced as you stared up at him. "what are you going to do about it, huh?" you shot back, not wanting to back down. you didn't know what it was about the situation. maybe it was the tension, how he made you feel when he was this close, or maybe it was just that damned smirk on his face.

jay's eyes darkened, a spark of something dangerous in them. "i think you need a reminder of who's in charge here."

your breath hitched, and you could feel the heat building between you, but you refused to give in. you had enough, you didn't need to deal with him. you pushed past him, walking toward the kitchen, only to feel a firm grip on your arm—strong, unyielding.

"don't walk away from me," jay growled, spinning you around to face him. you were so close now, you could feel the heat radiating off of his body.

his grip on your arm was firm and rough, but not rough enough to where it hurt. his knuckles turned white as he tries to hold himself back from pushing you against the nearest wall and have you at his mercy.

you glared up at him, your face flushed from the proximity and the argument, but you knew you weren't going to let him win. "you don't control me, jay," you said, trying to keep the defiance in your voice.

he smirked again, stepping closer so your arm was planted against his chest, forcing you to tilt your head just enough to meet his gaze. the air between you crackled with uncontrollable tension, keeping you on your toes for god knows how long. "you keep acting like this, and i'll make sure you know exactly who's in charge."

your breath caught. something shifted in the way he looked at you—a warning, a promise, a dare. the line between anger and attraction was blurring, and you weren't sure where one ended and the other began.

before you could respond, he stepped forward, backing you against the kitchen counter, again. his hand found the counter beside your hip, trapping you in place. his gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, his jaw tense.

"look at me," he said, voice low, almost a rasp. "if you want to keep pushing my buttons, go ahead. but i'll make sure you regret it."

your heart raced in your chest, your breath shallow, but you kept the same defiant expression. "you think you can scare me, jay?"

he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear. "i don't need to scare you, __. i just need to show you what happens when you push too far."

you stood there, rooted to the spot — your body trembling under the weight of his words,  the unbreakable tension that had emerged between you two. his fingers brushed against your arm, and for a moment, you could feel the undeniable pull. the fight between you was reaching a breaking point, and you didn't know which way it would go.

but for the first time, you weren't sure if you wanted to fight anymore.

the tension was unbearable, and in the silence that followed, jay's hand moved to the back of your neck, pulling you closer. your body responded before your mind could—his lips brushed against yours in the smallest of touches, enough to send your pulse skyrocketing. he pulled back just as quickly, a dangerous smirk on his lips. "you're lucky i don't have time for this right now," he muttered, his tone sharp, but there was something else beneath it—a flicker of something more intense. "but don't think for a second this is over."

with that, he stepped back, giving you space to breathe again. you were left standing there, caught between fury and something else you couldn't quite name. your heart was racing, your mind spinning, but you refused to let him see how much he affected you. you turned away, trying to steady your breath, but the tension between you two was getting overbearing. it wasn't over. you both knew that.

but one thing was for sure—you were both playing a dangerous game. and neither of you was ready to stop.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

the kitchen was quiet, the only sound being the slow, rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall. you leaned your head against your hand, staring off into space and you rethink all of your life decisions.

you had spent more time at jay's home than your own for the last month—not that you minded. as much as you hated to admit, seojun had grown on you. what you hated was how you didn't get to enjoy your summer how you originally wished, with your friends—getting drunk and high, maybe dosing on random shit at some frat party.

minho had been blowing up your phone for the last few weeks, asking, no—begging to hang out.

"__, why have you left me?" he groaned dramatically into your ear when you finally picked up his calls.

you rolled your eyes, "i told you i was going to be trapped, but no, you didn't want to take me seriously."

"i didn't think that you'd have any days off. can you ask for one day off, please? i miss my best friend," he pleas. if you could see him right now, he'd most definitely be flashing puppy dog eyes at you.

you sighed, "fine, i'll try to ask jay. but if he says no and i get scolded, i swear to god.” you'd ask jay if you could have the weekend off when he got back home.

you sat perched on one of the barstools, one knee drawn up, the other foot lazily swinging. your fingers traced the rim of a glass of water you hadn't even taken a sip from. seojun had gone to bed over an hour ago, his tiny body curled up under his blankets, blissfully unaware that his father still wasn't home.

you, on the other hand, were all too aware.

your phone sat face-up on the counter beside you, dark and undisturbed. no messages. no missed calls. nothing.

jay was late. really late.

your brows knitted together in irritation. you weren't sure why you cared so much—it wasn't your problem if he wanted to stay out all night. you weren't his wife, his girlfriend, or even someone he owed an explanation to. you were just the babysitter, forced into the role by your father's guilt. but something about his absence, about the way he hadn't even bothered to check in, made irritation simmer beneath your skin.

your knee bounced impatiently as you stared at the front door, waiting.

then, finally—the sound of keys jingling.

the door swung open, and jay stepped inside, looking unfairly put together for someone who had clearly spent the night out. his dark button-up was slightly unbuttoned at the top, the sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal his forearms. his black dress pants hung low on his hips, and his hair—slightly tousled like he'd run his fingers through it. he looked so good it made your stomach twist in frustration.

he barely even looked at you at first. instead, he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he kicked off his shoes. it was only when he turned toward the kitchen that his eyes finally met yours.

he slowed to a stop.

you pretended not to notice the way his gaze flickered down, the momentary pause as his eyes dragged over your frame. you were only wearing a thin tank top and an old pair of shorts—the kind you only ever wore to bed, soft and barely covering your thighs. but the way jay's eyes darkened for just a split second, the way his jaw tensed, told you everything you needed to know.

he was flustered.

good.

he covered it quickly, masking whatever flicker of thoughts had just crossed his mind with that insufferable smirk of his.

"you're still up?" he asked, his voice as smooth as ever.

you rolled your eyes, shifting in your seat just enough to make the hem of your shorts ride up slightly. "obviously."

jay's gaze flickered downward again, just for a second. you caught it, and your lips twitched. "what, were you waiting for me?"

you scoffed, tilting your head. "don't flatter yourself. but since i'm responsible for your kid while you're off doing god knows what, yeah, i was expecting you to come home at a reasonable hour." jay exhaled sharply, finally stepping fully into the kitchen. he walked past you to the fridge, and you didn't miss the way his shoulders squared slightly—like he was trying to shake off whatever thoughts had just plagued his mind.

"seojun was fine, wasn't he?" he asked, grabbing a bottle of water and twisting the cap off.

"that's not the point," you shot back, crossing your arms over your chest. "the least you could do is let me know when you're coming home late. or is common courtesy too much to ask from a man like you?"

"plus, what's this sudden trust coming from? just a week ago you talked about how you had to monitor me because you didn't trust me to take care of seojun." jay let out a low chuckle, taking a slow sip of water before leaning back against the counter.

"jesus, you're dramatic," he muttered, shaking his head. "were you worried about me?" completely ignoring the other things you had said. 

you clenched your jaw. "no," you lied smoothly. "i just don't appreciate being left in the dark. i'm not some live-in nanny, jay. if i'm stuck here, i at least deserve to know when you're coming home. look at the time, it's 1am, what time do i even go home?” his tongue ran over his bottom lip as he tilted his head slightly. "you're acting like i abandoned you here with seojun."

"you might as well have."

jay exhaled through his nose, clearly annoyed now. "you really don't let shit go, do you?" you smiled sweetly. "not when it's my time being wasted."

he shook his head, muttering something under his breath. then, after a beat, he glanced back up at you, his gaze sharp and unreadable."or maybe," he said, voice slower, "this isn't about me coming home late at all."

your stomach twisted, but you refused to let your expression falter. jay took a step closer, arms crossing over his chest. "maybe this is about something else." you scoffed. "like what?" his lips twitched like he knew something you didn't. "like the other night," he murmured. your brows furrowed, but he didn't give you time to respond. 

"you're mad about the woman i brought home." your body tensed before you could stop it, and that slight reaction was all jay needed to confirm his suspicions. his smirk widened.

"i don't care who you bring home," you said quickly, hoping he wouldn't call you out on how unconvincing you sounded. "mm," jay hummed, unconvinced. "so if i told you that woman was mi-na, my sister, you wouldn't feel stupid for being jealous?"

you blinked. the irritation in your chest fizzled out for a moment, replaced by confusion. "your—your sister?" jay's grin widened. "yeah. my little sister. the one who came to visit for the weekend." your face burned. you had spent the past two days brooding over nothing.

but you refused to let him win.

"whatever," you muttered, crossing your arms again—the action causing your tits to spill out of from the top. "i wasn't jealous." his eyes immediately zero in on your chest, swallowing harshly before he lets out a chuckle—stepping closer. you could feel the warmth of his body now, his scent lingering in the space between you. "yeah?" he murmured, voice dipping. "then why are you blushing?"

"i'm not."

jay reached out, his fingers grazing the hem of your shorts before ghosting over your hip. his touch was barely there, but it made your breath hitch, "you sure?"

your heart pounded. your skin tingled where his fingers had been. but you refused to back down. "you're insufferable," you gritted out. jay smirked, his fingers teasing along your hip before pulling away just as quickly. "and yet, you're still here."

"forced to be here," you mutter under your breath, but jay heard it. your body was on fire, your skin still warm from where he had touched you. but you wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a reaction. "i hate you," you muttered, turning away. jay only chuckled, voice rich with amusement. "whatever you say, princess."

you rolled your eyes at him, getting off of the barstool as you make your way to the living room to grab your belongings and change out of your clothes—preparing to go home. "wait. stay the night, it's late," he says coolly, his eyes racking down your frame as you bend down to grab your things.

your shorts had bunched over your ass, your legs on full display to his hungry eyes. jay mentally slaps himself for his gaze, but it continues to linger. you scoff, "and who's fault is that?" jay sighs, his brows furrowing, "quit being a brat. i'll get a room set up for you," and with that he walks away—setting his decision into stone.

as much as you wanted to argue, to remind him that you had your own place to go back to. jay had already walked off, leaving no room for discussion. "asshole," you muttered under your breath, but you still set your bag down on the couch with an annoyed sigh.

jay's house was big—too big for just him and seojun. it had that cold, modern look, with spotless marble floors and sleek furniture, the kind that felt more like a showroom than a home. you doubted he spent much time here outside of work and parenting, and somehow, that made it worse.

you waited a few minutes before deciding to move, begrudgingly heading toward the guest room he'd set up for you. it was next to his, with seojun just down the hall. as you stepped inside, you had to admit—he at least had good taste. the bed was huge, covered in soft gray sheets, and the room smelled faintly of clean linen.

but there was one problem.

the pillows sucked. they were flat and thin, one would think that someone as rich as jay had good quality pillows. with a dramatic huff, you rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling before finally giving in to your annoyance. you deserved at least one decent pillow if you were being forced to stay here. without much thought, you swung your legs off the bed and padded down the hall toward jay's room. the door was slightly ajar, and you didn't bother knocking—if he was going to boss you around all night, you had no problem returning the favor.

"hey, do you have—"

you stopped dead in your tracks, mouth suddenly dry.

jay was standing near his dresser, shirtless, his toned back facing you as he ruffled a towel through his damp hair. he must have just taken a shower because his skin still glistened slightly, water droplets trailing down the sharp lines of his shoulders and back. your eyes dipped lower, taking in the way his sweatpants hung low on his hips, revealing just enough of the defined v-line that disappeared beneath the waistband. you should've looked away. you should've turned around and walked out like you hadn't just shamelessly checked him out.

but you didn't.

instead, you stood there, gripping the doorframe a little too hard as heat crept up your neck. jay finally noticed your presence, turning slightly to glance over his shoulder. his dark eyes flickered with amusement as he caught the way you quickly averted your gaze.

"something you need?" his voice was deeper, rougher, probably from exhaustion, but it still sent an embarrassing shiver down your spine. you cleared your throat, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "i need another pillow." his lips twitched, and you hated the way his smirk made your stomach flip. "you barged into my room for a pillow?"

"it's not my fault the ones in the guest room suck," you shot back, crossing your arms over your chest. jay turned fully now, walking toward you with that lazy confidence that always managed to get under your skin. you took an instinctive step back, but he reached the doorway before you could fully escape, his tall frame now blocking your path.

"you always this demanding, or do you just save it for me?" he mused, tilting his head slightly as his eyes dragged over your face, down to the curve of your throat, lingering there a second too long. your breath caught, but you refused to let him have the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. "i wouldn't have to demand anything if you had done it right the first time."

jay let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "always got an attitude." you were about to snap back when you noticed his gaze flicker downward, his smirk faltering for just a second. it was quick, barely noticeable, but you caught it—the way his eyes lingered on your tank top. his eyes zeroed in on your chest, you had taken off your bra when you got into the room—your nipples poking out of the thin fabric.

you raised an eyebrow, a slow smirk tugging at your lips now. "something wrong?" jay's jaw ticked, and just like that, his expression was back to that unreadable mask. "go to bed, __." you should've listened. you should've taken the damn pillow he handed you and walked out. but the way his voice had dropped an octave, the way his fingers had brushed against yours when he passed it to you, sent a thrill through you that you weren't ready to let go of just yet.

so instead, you lingered.

"why? am i making you nervous?" you teased, tilting your head up at him, watching for any crack in his composure. jay let out a low breath, his hand gripping the doorframe as he leaned in just slightly. "trust me," he murmured, his voice low and dangerous, "if you were making me nervous, you'd know." the air between you was heavy, thick with something unspoken, something that neither of you were willing to address just yet.

but it was there. and it wasn't going anywhere.

jay finally took a step back, running a hand through his still-damp hair before nodding toward the hall. "go to bed, __." this time, you listened. but as you walked back to your room, pillow in hand, you couldn't ignore the way your skin still burned from his gaze. and from the way he had looked at you, you knew you weren't the only one feeling it.

it was just a matter of time before one of your cracked.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

the sizzle of bacon filled the kitchen as you flipped another pancake onto the growing stack. you had seriously improved on your cooking skills in the last month you had been taking care of seojun. the pancakes were round, crispy and the perfect shade of golden brown.

the morning light streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a golden glow over the countertops. you had woken up early, deciding to make seojun's favorite breakfast before he got up.

but, apparently, you weren't the only one awake.

a warm presence appeared behind you, and before you could react, a large hand reached out toward the plate. without looking, you smacked it away. "ow," jay muttered, shaking his hand. "what the hell?"

"it's for seojun." you barely spared him a glance as you poured more pancake batter into the pan. jay let out a low, sleepy sigh, ruffling his already messy hair. his dark strands fell over his forehead, making him look effortlessly good despite just rolling out of bed. dressed in sweatpants and a fitted t-shirt, he leaned against the counter, watching you with a lazy gaze.

curse him for looking so good.

"so i don't get breakfast?" he asked, a small pout gracing his face. 

"nope," you said simply, reaching for another egg. he scoffed, pushing off the counter to stand beside you, crowding your space. "wow. what kind of babysitter are you? neglecting the person who actually pays you." you rolled your eyes. "oh, please. you don't pay me."

"you live in my house, eat my food, use my water." his voice was dripping with smugness. "sounds like payment to me." you narrowed your eyes at him. "your house? last i checked, my dad is the reason you even have half your company's assets."

jay just smirked, watching the way your brows furrowed in irritation. he loved getting under your skin. before you could throw another insult his way, you decided to change the subject. "anyway, i wanted to ask if i could have the weekend off. i wanna go out with my friends." jay, who had just taken a sip of his coffee, barely reacted. "fine."

you blinked. that was easy. too easy.

"minho's driving, so i don't have to worry about taking my car, that means no chance for accident. he's a pretty good driver, i actually learned how to drive from him," you added casually, turning back to the stove. jay froze. the silence was thick enough to make you glance over your shoulder. his expression had darkened. his grip on his coffee mug tightened.

"he?"

you frowned. "yeah. minho. my friend." jay set his mug down slowly, the sound of ceramic meeting marble eerily sharp. "no."

you turned fully to face him. "no?"

jay leaned against the counter, his posture too relaxed, too controlled. but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. "you're not going."

your brows shot up. "why not?" jay took another sip of his coffee, completely unfazed. "i need you here."

you scoffed. "for what?"

"seojun likes having you around."

"seojun will be fine for one weekend,” you retorted. jay tilted his head, pretending to think. "hmm. no, i don't think so." 

you let out an exasperated laugh. "you literally just said i could go." jay shrugged. "i changed my mind."

"bullshit," you snapped. jay's eyes flickered with something dangerous. "watch your mouth."

you rolled your eyes. "you're just mad because minho is a guy." jay didn't react at first. then, slowly, he placed his coffee cup down and took a step closer to you.

got him.

you refused to back away. "you don't know what you're talking about," he said, voice low, controlled. "don't i?" you shot back, all of sudden feeling smug. "it's not my fault you can't stand the idea of me spending time with another man." 

jay's jaw ticked. "this isn't about me."  you let out a humorless laugh. "sure it isn't." he stepped even closer, forcing you to tilt your head up to meet his gaze. the space between you was nonexistent, his body radiating heat.

"you think i care that much?" his voice was nearly a whisper now, but there was an edge to it. "you think i'm losing sleep over who you spend your time with?" you smirked. "seems like it."

you were right.

jay's fingers curled into fists at his sides. you could feel the restrained tension rolling off of him in waves. "you're not going," he said again, this time firmer. you crossed your arms. "and what if i do?"

jay exhaled through his nose, his patience running thin. "you won't," he said simply, his confidence making your skin prickle with irritation. "watch me," you challenged. jay's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smirk but wasn't amusement either. "you really wanna test me right now?" the way he said it sent a shiver down your spine, but you refused to show weakness.

"maybe i do," you whispered. jay's gaze dropped to your lips for the briefest second before he clenched his jaw and stepped back, running a hand through his hair. "fine," he muttered, grabbing his coffee. "do whatever the hell you want."

you frowned. that was... unexpected.

he turned on his heel and walked toward the living room. but then, just as he reached the doorway, he glanced over his shoulder. "but don't come crawling back when you realize no one else can handle you like i do."

and with that, he disappeared down the hall, leaving you standing there, heart pounding, fists clenched.

jay cursed at himself for wearing his feels on his sleeve. it felt wrong for him to feel the way he did about you. jay hated thinking about the numbers.

12 years. he was 12 years older than you. it shouldn't have mattered.

right?

jay had spent his whole life doing whatever the hell he wanted, without a single care for what people thought. he made decisions with confidence, stood by them, and never looked back. but with you? you made him hesitate.

you were 23. young, reckless, still figuring out life. and jay? he was 35, a father, a man who had seen and done everything—a man who should have known better. but fuck, he didn't feel old when he was around you.

you were a problem. not because you were immature. no, that wasn't it. you were sharp, stubborn as hell, constantly challenging him, constantly making him feel like he was the one being tested. but that was the problem.

you weren't a little girl with naive ideas about love and life. you were a grown woman, a dangerous woman, who looked at him like he was something worth teasing, something worth playing with.

and he let you. god, he let you.

you tested his patience like no one else. you talked back, you got under his skin, you pushed him to his limit. you walked around his house like you belonged there, like you belonged to him. in those tiny shorts and tight tops, throwing him looks you knew would drive him up the wall.

it wasn't just the way you looked. it was the way you knew. you knew exactly what you were doing to him, and jay hated himself for liking it. because he shouldn't want you.

he shouldn't want you the way he did—shouldn't think about you at night. he shouldn't imagine what it would be like to take what you clearly wanted to give him. he told himself, over and over, that it was just a stupid attraction. that it was nothing more than an itch he could ignore. he had to hold himself back from giving into your temptations every time he had you cornered, telling himself that it was wrong.

but his restraint was starting to fall weak. 

but then you'd bite your lip and roll your eyes at him. or you'd throw some snarky remark his way, just to get a reaction. or worse—you'd act like he wasn't a threat at all, like he was just some older guy who didn't intimidate you in the slightest.

it fucking killed him. because the truth was, the age gap only mattered when it worked against him. when it made him hesitate. when it made him question himself.

but when you smiled at him like that—when you pushed his buttons and made him feel like a man, not a father, not a boss, not some guy who should be acting his age.

he didn't give a fuck about the numbers. and he surely didn't give a fuck about some boy who thought he could have you, when you belonged here—with him.

this wasn't over. not by a long shot.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

you had been looking forward to this all week.

a night out. no responsibilities. no bratty five-year-old testing your patience. no jay fucking park. the music was loud, the bass thrumming through your body as you nursed your drink. the club was packed, neon lights flickering against a sea of bodies, and for once, you could finally breathe.

"so," minho drawled, draping an arm over your shoulders, "you gonna tell me why you've been checking your phone like a girl waiting for a text from her sneaky link?" you rolled your eyes, shoving his arm off. "i have not been checking my phone."

minho gave you a knowing look, sipping his beer. "uh-huh. so you're just casually looking down at your bag every five minutes? right." you huffed, taking a sip of your cocktail instead of responding. but then, as if on cue, your phone buzzed again.

you peeked at the screen.

jay (23 missed calls).

you turned the phone face down. minho whistled. "jesus. who the hell is blowing you up like that?" 

"no one important," you muttered. minho smirked. "sure. that's why you look like you're about to throw your phone across the club." 

"it's just—" you sighed, running a hand through your hair. "it's jay. he thinks he owns my time." minho raised an eyebrow. "the rich, single-dad jay?"

"the asshole jay," you corrected.

"so why don't you answer?"

"because i'm off tonight," you said, exasperated. "and whatever he wants can wait." minho chuckled. "damn. he must be real desperate if he's calling you this much."

you were about to brush it off, but then another buzz. you groaned. "i swear to god, if this man does not—"

but then you read the message.

jay: seojun has a fever. it's bad. he keeps asking for you.

your stomach dropped. "shit," you muttered, grabbing your bag.

minho frowned. "wait, seriously? you're actually going?" 

"it's not for him," you said quickly. "it's for seojun." minho sighed, grabbing your wrist before you could dart off. "you really think this isn't a setup?"

you hesitated.

minho's voice softened. "look, i don't know this dude. but if he's calling this much, and now suddenly the kid is sick on the one night you're not there? sounds sketchy as hell."

"minho," you sighed. "i don't have time for this." minho raised his hands in surrender. "fine, fine. but if he's lying, you owe me a drink."

"deal." you had practically sprinted out of the club, gotten into a cab, and rushed over in record time.

when you got to jay's house, you were pissed. the second you stepped inside, you knew something was off. the house was dimly lit, silent. too silent. you stormed down the hall toward seojun's room, but before you could even reach for the door the sound of clapping stops you.

slow, deliberate claps echoed behind you. you turned, and there he was. jay park, leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his broad chest, wearing a smirk that made your blood boil. "look who finally decided to show up."

your heart was still racing, the adrenaline from the panic you felt for seojun's health still surging through your veins. but now, it wasn't panic—it was anger. "what the hell is wrong with you?" his voice was low, rough, his grip firm around your wrist as he yanked you away from seojun's room and into his own—slamming the door shut behind you.

your heart pounded, still catching up to everything. rushing out of the party, speeding over here, the sickening worry that had settled in your gut the moment you saw his message about seojun. but now, standing here, looking at him, you soon realized. seojun wasn't sick.

the house was quiet, the lights dim. you peeked past jay, your brows furrowing. "where's seojun?"

"asleep," he said, his tone maddeningly casual. your eyes snapped back to his. "what?" jay didn't let go of your wrist, his grip tightening just slightly as he stepped closer. "he's asleep," he repeated, slower this time, like he was spelling it out for you.

the realization hit, sharp and cold. "you lied to me?" his jaw clenched. "what was i supposed to do, huh?" you yanked your arm back, glaring. "i don't know, maybe not fucking manipulate me?"

jay's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smirk, but held just enough arrogance to make you want to slap it off his face. "and if i didn't? you would've stayed out all night with him?" you exhaled sharply through your nose, shaking your head. "are you serious?" jay stepped forward, closing the space between you in an instant. your breath caught when your back hit the wall, his body mere inches from yours.

"tell me," he murmured, voice lower now, softer—but no less dangerous. "did he touch you?" your stomach flipped, heat rushing up your spine. "minho is my friend," you gritted out.

jay's hand lifted, fingers brushing against your chin. "did he touch you?" he asks again, his tone threatening. you turned your head away, jaw clenching. "you're insane." his fingers caught your chin, gently but firmly turning your face back to his. "i don't like repeating myself, sweetheart."

the pet name sent something electric through your veins. you hated that it did. "and i don't like being controlled," you shot back, voice sharp.

jay let out a quiet chuckle, dark and humorless. "funny, because you sure came running when i told you to." your face burned. you hated that he was right. his thumb brushed over your bottom lip, almost absentmindedly, like he was testing something. his eyes flickered down for a fraction of a second, then back up. you hated that even now, with how pissed you were, your body still reacted to him. the way he carried himself, the way he looked at you, the way his voice dipped just low enough to make your stomach flip. you shook your head, trying to push past him, but jay grabbed your wrist, pulling you back.

"let me go," you snapped. "or what?" his grip didn't tighten, but he didn't let go either. "you gonna run back to him?"

your brows furrowed. "what?" jay exhaled a short, humorless laugh. "minho," he bit out, like the name itself annoyed him. "you think i don't know where you were? at the club. surrounded by men. men that would eat you alive if you gave them the chance."

you glared. "you don't get to be mad about that." his eyes darkened. "the hell i don't." you tugged your arm back, finally breaking free. "you're not my fucking boyfriend, jay. i don't owe you anything."

his jaw ticked, but he didn't say anything. you scoffed. "god, this is ridiculous. i'm leaving." before you could take another step, jay moved. one second you were standing there, and the next, your back was against the wall, jay towering over you, his hands planted beside your head.

"you're not going anywhere," he murmured. your breath hitched. "you ran the second you thought seojun needed you," he said, voice lower now, rougher. "but what about when i need you, huh?"

your chest tightened. "you—" jay leaned in, his lips barely an inch from yours. "you think i don't see it?" your pulse pounded against your skin. "see what?" you respond, almost breathless. his hand lifted, fingers brushing over your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his, "how bad you want me."

your breath stuttered. "you can play your little games all you want, sweetheart," jay murmured. "but we both know where you belong." 

"you belong here," he murmured. "not out there, playing games with some guy who doesn't even know what to do with you." your breath hitched. "and you do?" jay didn't answer immediately. he just looked at you—really looked at you. his hand moved, sliding down the side of your neck, fingers grazing over your pulse point, feeling the rapid beat beneath his touch.

then, he leaned in, voice barely above a whisper. "you have no idea."

your breath hitched. he was so close now, his cologne wrapping around you, his body heat pressing into yours. you swallowed hard. "you don't own me, jay."

his jaw ticked. "maybe not." his gaze dropped, trailing down your frame. you were still in your club outfit—tight dress, heels, your skin still warm from the alcohol. his tongue darted out, running over his bottom lip. "but you still came running, didn't you?"

your pulse pounded in your ears, attempting to move out of his hold only for him to pin you down with his hips. "you're not leaving," he murmured, voice dangerously low. you lifted your chin defiantly. "watch me."

jay exhaled a sharp laugh, shaking his head. "you're so fucking difficult."

"because i don't let you control me?" you shot back. he tilted his head. "because you pretend you don't like it."

your stomach flipped. jay leaned in, so close his breath ghosted over your cheek. "you want me to let you go?" he asked, his tone deceptively soft.

your throat bobbed. his fingers traced the inside of your wrist, featherlight, sending shivers up your arm. "say the word," he whispered. "say you don't like it when i tell you what to do."

your heart hammered against your ribs. but you didn't say anything.

because you didn't want to lie.

jay smirked. "thought so." his thumb brushed against your jaw, tilting your chin up. your lips were inches apart. you were still angry. furious. but that fury burned into something else, something hotter, something more dangerous. you should leave. you should shove him away.

but you didn't move. neither did he.

and in that moment, you both knew. you weren't going anywhere.

his eyes narrow down to your lips, something switches in his gaze—almost as if he had finally had enough.

"fuck this," he mutters lowkey before he's crashing his lips onto yours. your eyes widen in surprise, feeling his lips mold onto your own as you stand frozen in shock. you feel jay run his hands down your side, situating themselves on your ass as he squeezes your fleshy mounds. you gasp into his mouth, jay seizing the opportunity to push his tongue into your mouth.

you moan when you feel jay grip your bare ass, lifting your short dress up to your hips—your arms wrapping around his neck as you push yourself up against him. "you think you can go see other men while you spend your days with me and my son?" he says against your lips, his grip on you getting rougher as pushes your dress up higher. you groan against him, "minho is my—" you try to explain only for a sharp smack to interrupt you.

he had spanked you.

your mouth drops open in shock, "what the f—" jay's hauling you up, your legs now wrapped around his waist as he pushes you down on his painfully hard cock. "i don't care who he is. you're not to be alone with another man," he says gruffly, dropping you down onto his bed.

you're flat against his soft linen sheets, legs now spread apart roughly by jay who stares down at you with a dark glint in his eyes. you glare up at him, breathless. "you can't tell me what to do." jay scoffs, leaning over you, one hand gripping your thigh as he spreads you open further. "the hell i can't," he murmurs, voice low and rough. "you think you can act like a brat, push me to my limit, and then run off to another man?"

"it's not like that," you argue, voice shaking, but he just smirks, eyes flickering down to where your dress is bunched up around your waist. "doesn't matter," he says, dragging a rough hand up your thigh. "you're mine. do you understand that?" you bite your lip, refusing to answer, which only makes jay angrier. he grips your chin, forcing you to look at him. "say it," he demands. "say you're mine."

you tilt your head defiantly. "make me." jay lets out a dark chuckle, his grip tightening. "oh, you don't want me to do that, sweetheart." he leans in, lips brushing against your ear. "because if i do, you won't be able to walk out of here, much less run to him."

"yeah right," you scoff, taking his threats lightly but your heart still stutters in your chest. his chest heaves up and down erratically, as if he was fighting himself from what he was about to do to you. his expression turning grim at his words yet his eyes sparking up in excitement. he finally had you where he wanted you, and not even god could pull him away.

he reaches to pull off his shirt, your mouth watering when you see his toned abdomen come into sight. jay took pride in his body, eating well and working out consistently to maintain himself throughout his years.

he grabs your hips roughly, a small squeal leaving your mouth when he drags you to the edge of the bed—your core connecting with his crotch. your legs wrap around his waist automatically while he kneels on the bed—looming over you. jay's hand grips your waist firmly as he stares down at you, his jaw tight with frustration. "you really don't listen, do you?"

you smirk up at him, still feeling defiant. "i listen just fine. i just don't take orders from you." his eyes darken at your words, and before you can react, his palm comes down sharply against your thigh. the sharp sting makes you yelp, your body jerking against the bed.

your mouth drops open in shock. "jay, what the—" another smack lands, this time on the curve of your ass, harder. your whole body tenses, the heat from his palm lingering. "you don't take orders from me?" jay scoffs, pushing your legs off of him before he's flipping you over and dragging you up so you're on your hands and knees—arching your back just the way he wants. "then why do you keep acting out just to get my attention?"

"i'm not—ah!" you gasp when another slap lands, harder than before, making your skin burn. jay leans over you, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "minho doesn't get to see you like this," he growls, his hand smoothing over the spot he just punished, before giving you another harsh slap.

smack!

smack!

smack!

your fingers clutch at the sheets as you let out a broken whimper. "you belong to me," he murmurs, his voice thick with possession. "and i'm going to make sure you never forget that." he looks down at the sight in front of him, just how he had always wanted you to end up. bent over for him, battling submission as he forces you into it. your behind was a bright red, your panties doing a poor job at hiding your soaked core.

"fuck," jay groans, his palm smoothing over the burning skin of your ass before landing another sharp slap. you jolt, gasping, but his grip on your waist keeps you from moving an inch. "such a fucking brat. but you love this, don't you?" you bite your lip, refusing to answer, but jay sees right through you. his fingers trail up your spine, sending shivers down your back. "you fight me, you push me, but at the end of the day—" he lands another slap, harder this time, making you cry out. "—you always end up right here."

his voice dips lower, rough with something dangerous. something raw. "you don't even realize what you do to me, do you?" he mutters, his lips brushing against your temple as he pulls you up against his chest. his breath is hot against your ear. "watching you play house with me and seojun. cooking breakfast, tucking him into bed, walking around my home like you belong here." his hands tighten on your hips, and you can feel how hard he is, pressing against you with no shame.

his lips graze your jaw. "you love it too, don't you?"

"jay—"

"shh." his grip slides up, fingers curling around your throat—not tight, just enough to remind you who's in control. "you act like you don't, but i see the way you are with him. how soft you get when you think no one's watching. how you look at me when i come home late and you're the first thing i see standing in my kitchen." he chuckles darkly, dragging his lips down your neck. "you play the role so fucking well, baby. the perfect little wife—except you're still a goddamn brat." his confession makes your breath hitch. you can feel it now, how deep this runs for him. how much he's wanted this—wanted you.

"you think i don't see the way you tease me?" jay murmurs against your skin, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear. "walking around my house in those tiny fucking shorts, looking at me with those defiant little eyes, making me chase after you like some desperate idiot." his hand lands sharp smack on your thigh, and you let out a whimper before you can stop yourself. jay groans, gripping your throat even tighter. "fuck, i love that sound. love every little thing about you."

his words send a thrill through you, heat pooling low in your stomach. "i love this, baby," he murmurs, voice thick with hunger. "love your bratty little mouth. love putting you in your place. love how you fight me just so i can take you apart like this." he kisses the corner of your mouth, his grip firm, unrelenting. "and you love it too, don't you?" your breath is shaky, but you refuse to give in so easily. "i hate you," you whisper, even as your body melts against his. jay chuckles, dark and knowing. "you hate how much you love this."

"you're delusional."

his hands roam lower, his lips finding yours in a heated, possessive kiss. you're drowning in him, in the fire between you. and as much as you want to fight it, you already know—jay park always gets what he wants. and right now, what he wants is you. he grips your arms, a small whine escaping your mouth when he manhandles them behind you. he pushes you back down, "oh, princess. you're going to eat your own words."

you feel something wrap around your wrists, your eyes widening when you realize what he was doing. he had taken off his belt, wrapping the leather material around your arms to stop you from moving around. everything happens so quick, your pushed flat against your back with jay now face to face with your throbbing core. his fingers dug into the plush of your thigh, holding them back from closing. "look at you," he coos softly, looking at giant wet patch on your panties as you squirm in shame.

"fuck you," you spit weakly. he smirks, "we'll get to that, princess. we have all night." you mewl when you feel him lick up your covered slit, his tongue tracing up your cunt as he digs into your thighs. you buck your hips up, jay's laughter making you stop your actions. "so fucking needy. you must be so used to getting what you want, hm? my spoiled bratty princess," he hums.

you huff, "do it." he raises his eyebrows in faux confusion, "do what?"

you rolls your eyes, "take them off and eat my pussy."

his smug expression drops at your bratty words, "seems like you haven't learned anything from earlier." you open your mouth to retort only for a sharp pain between your legs to stop you. you squeal out in surprise, jay landed another strong smack to your centre. "it's okay, by the end of this i'll have you begging and crying. then you'll finally behave yourself."

your body jolts at the sharp sting between your legs, a breathy gasp slipping past your lips before you can stop it. jay tilts his head, watching you with dark amusement, his hands never loosening their grip on your thighs. "there she is," he murmurs, fingers tracing slow, teasing circles along your skin. "i was starting to think you'd never stop running your mouth." your wrists pull against the restraint of his belt, but it's useless—he's tied you up too well. the frustration bubbles in your chest, mixing with the unbearable heat pooling in your stomach.

"you're such an ass," you hiss, glaring up at him. jay only smirks, completely unfazed. "and yet, you're still here. still dripping for me." his fingers ghost over the soaked fabric of your panties, pressing down just enough to make you whimper. you try to twist away from his touch, refusing to give him the satisfaction, but jay isn't having it. he grips your hips firmly, keeping you in place, his strength making it clear that resistance is pointless.

"you keep fighting me like you have a choice," he scoffs, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. "but we both know how this ends, don't we, princess?" your breathing is ragged, your body betraying you as he drags his lips higher. your skin burns where he touches, and the worst part is—you want more. but you refuse to admit it.

"you're crazy," you bite out, even as your body shudders at his touch. jay chuckles, his breath hot against your core. "am i?" his fingers curl around the waistband of your panties, tugging them down at an agonizing pace. "because from where i'm sitting, you're the one desperate for me." the flimsy fabric landing on the floor as he situates himself right front of your leaking cunt. he pauses, eyes locking onto yours with a wicked glint. "and the best part? you know i'm right."

your lips part, a sharp retort on the tip of your tongue—but before you can say anything, jay moves, leaving you utterly speechless. his tongue comes down to run over your bare slit, moaning at the taste before he's yanking you down by your hips—nose buried into your cunt, you squeak at the sensation, his tongue gliding up at down your clenching hole as his nose nudges your clit with each movement.

"f-fuck, jay," you pant softly, your body writhing as you fight against his belt. jay grins against your pussy, his fingers digging into your thighs as he holds your legs back from completely suffocating him. his tongue moves slowly and skillfully, circling your clit before making its way down to your sopping hole.

he moans at your taste, not afraid of getting messy with his movements. he peers up, watching your head lull back as he begins to lick figure 8s on your clit repeatedly. your thighs tremble, your back arching off the bed as jay's tongue flicks over your swollen clit with torturous precision.

every swipe sends sparks shooting through your veins, your breath coming in ragged gasps. you tug uselessly against the belt binding your wrists, the leather only tightening the more you struggle. you whine at the almost painful sensation of being bound, his leather belt now digging into your wrists—slowly cutting of circulation. jay hums against your soaking cunt, the vibrations making you whimper. his grip on your thighs is ironclad, refusing to let you squirm away—not that you really wanted to.

you gasp when you feel his digits intrude your walls, a load moan escaping you before you could even hold yourself back. "fuck look at you, princess. you're sucking my fingers in so well," he groans, watching your cunt greedily take in his digits as he begins to roughly pound them in.

your mouth stays open in an 'o' shape as you move your hips in hopes of catching more of what he was offering. jay catches on to your movements, clicking his tongue as he looks at you smugly. "so desperate hm, princess? look at you, so fucking filthy." you whine at his words, "go fuck yours—" jay removes his fingers from your sopping cunt and smacks them down on your clit. "—oh fuck!" you sob out.

"you're going to learn to control that mouth, __. and here i was, being so gentle and kind with you. but clearly, bratty girls like you don't deserve such treatment," he tsks while teasingly rubbing your clit in small firm circles with his thumb. you scrounge your mind for an insult to throw at him before his actions take your breath.

literally.

jay moves quickly, suddenly his hand is wrapped around your throat and he's looking over your shaking and twitching body. he moves behind you, letting you lean against his strong chest as he spreads your thighs wide open—hooking his legs with your own, leaving you unable to squirm. he clamps down his hand firmly between your legs, cupping your cunt as you look up at him dumbfounded.

he gives you no answer, looking down at you with what you could only assume was pure deep dark desire. you moan out in pain, the stretch of his fingers making your eyes rolls back as jay leaves you no time to adjust. his begins to fuck three of his fingers into your cunt, his grip on your throat tightening.

"who knew you took things in you so well, hm? look at you, gushing all over my fingers," he murmurs darkly into your ear. his pace was ruthless, his palm smacking your clit with each thrust. you're a moaning mess, crying out everytime jay pushes into your gummy walls. jay had enough of the noise, moving his hand from your neck to stuff two fingers down your throat—gagging you.

you choke against his digits, looking up at him with bloodshot eyes. your makeup was smeared, your mascara running down your cheeks and your lipstick smudged around your mouth—yet jay thought you looked beautiful. he could see tears run down your cheeks and saliva running down his fingers and you struggled to contain yourself. "you close, princess? i can feel you clenching around me," he grins, curling his fingers in you in a 'come here' motion.

"m'close," you try to say only for it to come out as muffled sobs due to his fingers down your throat. he smirks against your skin, "so fucking greedy. come on princess, cum for me. cum all over my fingers," he murmurs in your ear, your eyes rolling back as you feel your body violently convulse at your high. jay looks at you in surprise.

you had squirted.

"holy shit, princess." he removes his fingers from your mouth, finally letting your aching jaw rest—his thumb still rubbing at your clit, helping you ride out your high. "do you know what you just did?" he asks, his hands grabbing at your waist before hes pulling off your dress completely. you lay against him, unable to comprehend anything after you came. when you don't respond he continues, "you just squirted, princess. that's not going to waste."

he moves you away from his chest, letting you lay back against the bed before he's between your parted thighs again. he doesn't give you a chance to recover before his tongue is licking up your slit, his hands gripping the plush of your thighs—holding them back from closing in on his head. "you taste so fucking good," he growls, lifting his head just enough to watch your face twist in painful pleasure. "all that attitude, and here you are, shaking for me like a good little slut." you slowly regain your sense of thought, still hazy from before—but not enough to stop you from acting out.

you bite your lip, glaring down at him through hooded and now swollen eyes. "fuck—you," you pant, but your words lose all their venom when he dips his tongue back inside you, curling just right against that sweet spot that makes your toes curl. jay chuckles darkly, the sound sending another jolt of heat straight to your core. "still talking shit?" he pulls back, smirking at the way your hips chase his mouth. "maybe i should just leave you here, all tied up and desperate. let you think about how badly you need me."

your stomach clenches at the thought, but you force yourself to let out a weak scoff. "like you could walk away." jay's eyes darken, his fingers trailing up to circle your clit, pressing just enough to make you gasp. "try me."

you don't get the chance to respond. in one fluid motion, jay flips you onto your stomach. his weight pins you down, his hard clothed cock pressing into the curve of your ass.

"you don't get to call the shots here," he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "not until i say you've earned it." you whine as he grinds against you, the friction maddening. "jay—"

"what?" his hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back. "use your words, princess. tell me what you want." you swallow hard, pride and desire warring inside you. but the way his fingers tighten in your hair, the way his cock pulses against your ass—it's too much.

"i want—fuck—i want you to fuck me," you finally admit, your voice shaking. "i'll fuck you when you stop being a brat and admit it." 

you whine, shaking your head in defiance. you had made it this far without admitting your feelings, what's a bit longer?

"say it."

you shake your head furiously, breath shaky as you glare up at him. "no." jay clicks his tongue, his grip on your waist tightening. "wrong answer, princess." you whimper, body trembling, but you still refuse to give in. you won't let him win—not like this. jay leans down, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, "you're so fucking stubborn. but you'll say it. we both know you will." your fingers curl into the sheets, your pride the only thing keeping you from giving him what he wants.

"fuck you," you grit out.

jay only laughs, shaking his head. "not until you tell me the truth." you squeeze your eyes shut, refusing to look at him. you can't. not when he's so close, not when his voice drips with that dangerous confidence that makes your heart race. he grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. "look at me." you do, reluctantly, your body burning under the weight of his stare.

his eyes darken. "you love this. you love me." you inhale sharply. "i—"

"say it," he commands. "say you love me, or you don't get my cock." your pride wars with your need, but jay is relentless. he watches you like he already knows he's won. you try to hold out, but his smirk deepens as he pulls away slightly, putting even more distance between you. your chest rises and falls rapidly. you can't take it anymore.

"i—" you hesitate, jaw clenching. jay waits, patient but smug. you hate him for this. you hate him for making you want him so badly.

"i love you," you finally gasp out, the words falling from your lips like a confession you've been holding in for too long. jay exhales, his smirk turning into something deeper, something real. "that's my girl," he murmurs, pressing a slow, possessive kiss to your lips.

you barely have time to recover before he pulls back, eyes locking onto yours with a dark promise. "now," he breathes, "let me show you just how much i love you too." in one swift motion, he flips you back over, his hands sliding under your thighs to hook your legs over his shoulders. he leans down, his lips brushing yours, so close you can taste yourself on his tongue.

"good girls get what they want," he murmurs, his hands pulling down his boxers. and then he's pushing inside you in one sharp thrust, stretching you, filling you, stealing the breath from your lungs. your back arches off the bed, a broken moan tearing from your throat as jay bottoms out inside you, his grip bruising on your hips. you cry out in pain and pleasure, the stretch of his cock making you dizzy as your walls flutter around him—struggling to adjust.

"mine," he growls, his voice rough with possession. and as he starts to move, hard and deep, you realize—you always have been. the years of back and fourth bickering, dirty glares and snarky comments. all of that, had led to this moment.

jay's hips snap forward, each brutal thrust driving the air from your lungs. his cock is relentless, pistoning into your slick cunt with a rhythm that leaves no inch of you untouched. the slap of skin against skin echoes in the room, mingling with your desperate whimpers as he fucks you into the mattress. your bound hands twist against the belt, the leather biting into your wrists, but the burn only feeds the fire coursing through you. jay's fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thighs, his grip possessive, claiming—like he wants to leave bruises. like he wants you to remember this tomorrow when you try to walk away like you always do.

"f-fuck, jay—" his name spills from your lips, ragged and broken, as he drags his cock almost all the way out before slamming back in, the tip hitting that perfect spot deep inside that makes your vision blur. jay feels you clench around him, grunting as he fucks into you—making sure there was no inch of you that he hadn't touched.

one of his hands come down to grab at your tit, pinching your nipple almost painfully when you begin to close your eyes—making you whine. he leans down, his lips brushing yours in a mockery of tenderness. "what, baby? gonna come already?" his voice is rough, dripping with amusement. "you're so fucking tight around me. bet you're close, aren't you?"

you squeeze around him involuntarily, your walls fluttering as pleasure coils tighter in your belly. you don't answer, you can't. he's angling his hips just right, grinding against that swollen spot inside you with every thrust—your orgasm is right there, hovering just out of reach. jay growls, sensing it, and suddenly his thumb is on your clit, rubbing tight little circles that make your whole body jerk.

"come on," he demands, his breath hot against your ear. "cum on my cock like the greedy little spoiled slut you are." you shatter. your back arches off the bed, a scream tearing from your throat as pleasure explodes through you, white-hot and consuming. your cunt clamps down around jay's cock, milking him as waves of ecstasy crash over you. he doesn't stop.

jay fucks you through it, his thrusts turning erratic as he chases his own release. his fingers dig harder into your hips, the pain of your high coursing through you. "gonna fill you up," he snarls, his voice thick with need. "gonna pump you so fucking full of me, you'll drip with it." the filthy promise sends another shiver through you, your oversensitive body trembling beneath his. and then he's burying himself deep, his cock twitching as he spills inside you with a groan, his hips grinding against yours to make sure every last drop is where it belongs.

you pant beneath him, boneless and wrecked, the only sound in the room the ragged pull of your breaths. jay finally pulls out, his cum already leaking from your well-used cunt. he leans down, his lips brushing yours in a slow, filthy kiss. "now," he murmurs, his thumb swiping through the mess between your thighs before pushing it past your lips, "tell me again how you feel about me."

you suck his thumb clean, your eyes locked with his. and this time, you don't bother lying.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

you wake up to the warm morning light slipping past the curtains, painting soft lines across jay's sheets. your body aches, sore in places you didn't even know could ache. your throat dry from the sounds he pulled out of you the night before.

you blink slowly, adjusting to the light. the bed is cold beside you. jay is gone. you groan softly as you shift, the soreness between your thighs making it nearly impossible to move without wincing. "jesus christ," you mutter under your breath, rolling onto your side. your fingers instinctively brush the soft cotton clinging to your skin. it's a plain white t-shirt, oversized and hanging low on your frame. his scent clings to it, to you.

your legs dangle over the side of the bed, and you wince as you slowly stand. every step is careful, every movement a reminder of what he did to you—what you let him do. you spot your phone on the nightstand and grab it with shaky fingers. it lights up immediately.

minho (12 missed calls) dad (8 messages) dad (4 missed calls)

you sigh, heart sinking a little. it all comes rushing back—what you left behind last night. the party. the lie. jay's anger. and now... the aftermath. you pull your hair up loosely and make your way downstairs, your bare feet padding softly against the wooden floor. the house is eerily quiet. no tv, no kitchen sounds, no jay.

your heart sinks in your chest. your eyes dart around as you descend down the flight of stairs—no trace of him. the living room is spotless, the kitchen untouched. not even a half-drunk cup of coffee left behind.

your heart skips for a second.

did he leave?

you glance toward the hallway and peek your head into seojun's room. the little boy is still curled up under his blankets, breathing soft and steady. safe. peaceful. you step back out and stand in the middle of the quiet house, unsure of what to do with yourself. "where the hell did you go, jay..." you mutter, fingers tightening around your phone.

your thumb hovers over minho's name, but you can't bring yourself to call him. not yet. not when your body still carries evidence of last night. not when you still smell like jay. the silence around you is loud—too loud. and the way your mind spins with questions only makes it worse.

what did last night mean? 

why did he leave you alone like this?

is he even coming back?

you let out a soft sigh and head toward the kitchen, aimlessly grabbing a glass of water just to keep your hands busy. your reflection catches in the oven door—jay's shirt draped over your frame, legs bare, lips still a little swollen. you noticed that your face was clean and bare, jay had taken off your makeup last night.

well, whatever was left of it.

you look like you belong here. but for the first time. you're not sure if that's a good thing.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

the sound of the front door unlocking makes you flinch slightly as you're crouched down in the living room, gathering all of seojun's toys. jay walks in like he didn't flip your world upside down last night.

"hey," he says casually, shrugging off his coat and kicking off his shoes. his voice is easy—too easy. like nothing happened. like he didn't press every button you had until you broke, until you confessed things you'd been biting your tongue about for weeks. "morning," you mutter without looking up, trying to keep your expression neutral as you tug the lid of his toy basket open.

jay steps into the living room, eyes glancing over the scene— the living room now spotless as you sit on the floor with your legs folded awkwardly under you like you hadn't spent the entire night being ruined by the man. the same man who was now acting like your confession wasn't still echoing in his ears. your phone buzzes again beside you on the couch. minho's name flashes across the screen for the sixth time that morning. you finally texted him.

minho: hey u get there ok?

minho: heeelllloooo

minho: istg if ur getting dicked down rn

minho: U SO R

minho: OMGGG

minho: u slut

minho: call me after or ill acc burn ur house down

minho: u so owe me a drink

you: i'll call u later ..

minho: U BETTERR

your dad had also called twice. he was worried, demanding to know where you'd disappeared last night. you told him the lie you'd practiced in your head: i stayed over at minho's. i'm at work now.

jay gives you a glance then, brief and unreadable. "he still asleep?" he asks, nodding toward the stairs. you nod once, "should be up soon."

jay hums. he runs a hand through his hair, moving past you both to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. no acknowledgment. not of your night together. not of your confessions. not even the smallest smirk or sly comment he's usually so quick to throw your way. it stings more than you thought it would.

"so this is just nothing?" you say quietly.  you keep your voice low, tense. "you're really going to pretend nothing happened?" jay doesn't turn around. he twists the cap off the bottle, takes a sip. "didn't say that."

"then what are you doing?" you snap, standing. you're still in his clothes—his t-shirt drowning your frame and his sweatpants tied loose around your waist. "you spent all night dragging it out of me. making me say things i wasn't ready to admit, and now what? you ignore me?" jay finally turns, his jaw set, expression unreadable. "what did you expect?" he says flatly. "you think we can just pretend like that shit doesn't complicate everything?"

you blink, stung. "you complicated it. not me. you crossed the boundaries. not me." he takes a step toward you. "you think i didn't feel it too?" he snaps. "you think this is easy for me?"

"you sure act like it is." jay's breathing hard now, his eyes dark as they search your face. "i'm trying not to make things worse. you said what you said, and yeah, i heard you. but i don't know what the hell to do with it yet. it's not like i didn't tell you how i felt."

your throat feels tight, heart racing with hurt and frustration. "then maybe you shouldn't have forced it out of me." he doesn't respond right away. just stares, like he's trying to figure out whether to argue or admit you're right. you glance away, swallowing hard. "i meant what i said," you whisper, "and i hate that i did."

jay steps closer then, enough that you can feel the heat from his body. he's silent, watching you, torn between his own emotions. "...i didn't hate hearing it," he finally says, voice lower, softer. "but i can't pretend i know what to do with it either." you don't say anything, just cross your arms tighter over your chest.

it's quiet for a long moment. then jay murmurs, "but if it means anything... i don't want you with anyone else." your gaze snaps to his. "last night wasn't just sex," he says, voice rough. "and you damn well know it." you swallow around the lump in your throat, arms still crossed tight like it'll protect you from how exposed you feel. like it'll keep your heart from beating too loud.

"so... what now?" you ask, your voice quieter than before. more hesitant. "what are we supposed to do?" jay's eyes drop, his thumb tapping against the water bottle in his hand. he looks like he wants to pace but forces himself to stay still. "i don't know," he admits. "i've been trying to figure that out since last night."

you frown. "what's stopping you?" he exhales sharply. "everything. you're 23, i'm 35. your dad would kill me if he knew what happened last night." he glances up at you. "you were just a kid when i met you."

you flinch at that. "i'm not a kid now." "i know," he says quickly, his jaw clenching. "believe me, i know. last night proved that more than anything." you look away, chewing the inside of your cheek. "you think this is just a phase? that i'll grow out of it?" jay steps closer, his voice low. "no. i think that's what scares me the most."

you meet his gaze again, your heart thudding. "...was it ever just me?" you ask, needing to know, needing to hear it. "or am i just filling a space someone else left behind?" his expression hardens slightly, like the question caught him off guard.

"is this about her?" you push, barely whispering. "seojun's mom?" jay's face shifts, something bitter and tired flashing through his features. he looks away, jaw tight. "she left the second he was born." your eyes widen in shock, "what?" 

"she didn't want to be a mom," he says flatly. "we were never in love. it was a mistake. she got pregnant, and i told her i'd raise him. she agreed and walked out of the hospital with a suitcase and a plane ticket." you stare at him, stunned. he's never talked about her. never even hinted.

"so it's just been you," you murmur. he nods. "just me. for the last 5 years." you don't know what to say. you feel your chest ache for him—for the boy upstairs, for the man who's been carrying the weight of parenthood alone, pretending like it never crushed him.

"and then you," he says, voice quieter now. "you crash into my life, literally. and then suddenly you're here, and seojun loves you, and i—" he cuts himself off. you blink. "and you...?"

his eyes lock with yours, expression unreadable as he forces himself to swallow his words, "—and i don't know how to let myself want something that feels like it'll ruin everything." you step forward this time, closing the space between you. "what if it doesn't?" jay looks at you like he wants to believe it. like the hope hurts more than the fear. you reach up slowly, resting your hand against his chest. his heart's pounding under your palm. "you don't have to protect me from this," you whisper. "just... tell me what you want."

he looks at you, his voice hoarse. "i want you." you feel it in the way he says it—like it's been sitting on his tongue for days, weeks, maybe years. like it's the one thing he's been trying not to say. your breath catches. "then why are you acting like last night never happened?"

jay exhales, finally turning away from you—unable to look you in the eye. he runs a hand through his hair and mutters, "because i don't know how to be around you without wanting more." you bite the inside of your cheek, heart pounding. "you think i don't want more too?" his back is still to you, shoulders tense. "you don't understand what more looks like with me. it's not just cute dates and taking seojun to the park. it's complicated. it's messy."

you step toward him, slowly. "i'm not scared of messy." he finally turns around, eyes meeting yours again—and this time, it's all there. the frustration. the want. the guilt. the hunger. "i forced you to say it last night," he says quietly. "i made you admit you loved me just so i could hear it. do you know how fucked up that is?"

your chest tightens. "maybe. but it doesn't make it a lie." jay doesn't say anything. his eyes just search your face like he's trying to make sense of you. the silence stretches, so loud it feels like it might shatter between you when suddenly— "daddy? noona?" a sleepy voice calls from the stairs.

you both snap your heads toward the sound. seojun stands there in his pajamas, hair sticking up in every direction, clutching his stuffed lion. jay's face softens instantly. "hey, buddy."

you blink away the emotions clogging your throat, quickly moving toward the stairs. "come on," you say gently, crouching down to his level. "you want breakfast?"

he nods, rubbing his eyes. "pancakes." you laugh softly. "you always want pancakes."

as you lead him into the kitchen, you feel jay's eyes on you the whole time. there's so much unsaid between you both, but right now, you fall into routine—mixing batter, pouring it onto the hot pan, seojun sitting on the counter watching you with half-lidded eyes. it looked like a scene out of a movie, jay admires your relationship with his son based one the circumstances the two of you had bonded. seojun loves you, and as complicated as his feelings make things—jay loves you too.

jay joins eventually, helping slice fruit, moving around you like muscle memory. and then he brushes past you to grab a plate, and his hand lingers a second too long on your waist. your breath hitches.

you don't look at him. but you feel it.

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

the house was finally quiet. seojun had gone down for his nap without a fuss, leaving you sprawled across the couch in jay's living room, phone pressed to your ear.

"okay, wait—start from the beginning," minho's voice crackled through your speaker. "did he take his shirt off or did you rip it off?" you rolled your eyes with a laugh. "neither! i wasn't some feral animal."

"please, you definitely were," he teased. "i know that tone in your voice. you're trying to act like it wasn't the hottest night of your life."

"shut up," you said, biting back a smile. "you're so annoying."

"you moaned his name, didn't you? tell me you did." he then pauses, clearing his throat as he prepares his best girly impression, "oh jay! jay right there." you roll your eyes, letting out a small laugh before glancing down at the little scratch marks on your thighs. "...maybe."

minho gasped like he'd just won the lottery. "i knew it! i need the full play-by-play. what was he like? slow and sensual? aggressive? did he say something like—'you're mine now, princess'?" he deepened his voice dramatically. you snorted. "why are you like this?"

"i live through your drama. and honestly? the hot single-dad boss fantasy? ten out of ten." you rolled your eyes again, but the smile stayed on your face. "you're insane."

"no, i'm just invested. i mean, your dad's going to lose his mind when he finds out you're hooking up with his business partner. this is better than any k-drama." you were mid-laugh when a throat cleared from the doorway.

you froze. you turned your head slowly to find jay standing there—back early from his meeting, suit jacket slung over his shoulder, eyes fixed on you with that unreadable expression he wore when he was annoyed... or worse, jealous. your heart dropped.

"i gotta go," you mumbled into the phone.

"why? what's—" you hung up before minho could finish. jay didn't say anything at first. he walked in slowly, setting his keys on the counter. his gaze stayed on you the entire time."minho, huh?" he said finally, his voice casual—but the edge was there, sharp and unmistakable. you shifted on the couch. "he's just a friend. you know that."

"yeah, i know," he said, but he didn't sound convinced. "didn't realize your 'just a friend' needed all the juicy details about what happens in my bed." you flushed. "you were eavesdropping?"

"i walked into my own house," he said coolly, raising an eyebrow. "and caught you giggling about our sex life." "we weren't giggling,” you murmur, embarrassed.  "sure," he said, stepping closer. "so you didn't tell him how good i made you feel? how you squirted all over the bed? how loud you got when i—"

"okay, stop," you cut in, face burning. "you're being jealous over nothing." he tilted his head. "maybe. or maybe i just don't like the idea of some boy thinking he's got a chance with you." you blinked in confusion, "minho doesn't—"

"he does," jay interrupted, stepping even closer. you crossed your arms, not backing down, "and what exactly are we, jay? we haven't talked about last night properly. what we did, what we are. so you suddenly get to be possessive now?" his jaw flexed. "i don't know."

that caught you off guard. "i don't know," he repeated, softer now. "i didn't plan for this to happen. i didn't plan for you. but now you're in my house, you're in my bed, and my son asks for you before he asks for me." you blinked, heart stuttering.

"i think about what this means," he said. "what your dad would say. how he'd probably try to kill me." you cracked a smile. "he would. slowly and painfully." jay didn't smile back, not finding amusement in having to deal with your father, "and what seojun would think... if he knew. if he understood."

your expression sobered. "i don't want to confuse him," jay said quietly. "he's already had to grow up without a real mother. your chest ached.

"so it's always been just me and him," jay continued. "and now... there's you." you looked at him, your voice gentle. "do you want me to be there?" his eyes met yours, something raw in them, "yeah," he said. "i do." your breath hitched.

"but this won't be easy," he said. "not with the age gap. not with your dad. not with the way i feel when some kid like minho calls you and makes you laugh like that." you stepped closer. "i'll deal with my dad, and you know minho is my friend." jay scoffs at the last bit. "and seojun?" you paused, a smile appearing on your face when jay mentions the little twerp, "he loves me."

jay softened, "he does." you looked up at him. "so maybe this can work. maybe we just take it one day at a time." he studied you, then nodded slowly. "one day at a time."

and just like that, you felt the air between you shift—something fragile and uncertain, but also real. jay reaches for your hand, the warmth of his fingers interlocking with your own. you sigh in content. "no more secrets," he said.

you nodded. "no more eavesdropping." he smirked. "we'll see."

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

"are you and appa married now?"

the question drops like a bomb in the middle of the warm living room. you freeze where you're kneeling, halfway through tying seojun's tiny sneaker. your eyes snap up to meet his, wide and innocent—but there's something suspiciously knowing behind them. he had a small grin on his face, looking at you mischievously. 

smart ass.

"what?" you blink, confused and shocked. "what makes you say that?"

"because appa never lets anyone touch his hair, not even me!" seojun says seriously, eyes narrowed like he's putting the clues together in his tiny head. "but you touched it yesterday and he didn't even yell. and you didn't yell at him either. you said 'thank you' when he brought you water."

"i always say thank you," you mumble, suddenly very interested in the velcro strap you're adjusting. you begin wondering if they make velcro sneakers for adults. "no you don't," he says bluntly. "you fight all the time. but now you smile. and he smiles too. and he puts his hand here when you walk." he pats the small of his back, mimicking jay's subtle touches. "so... are you his wife now?"

you sigh, resting your forehead lightly against his, "no, junnie. i'm not his wife."

"but do you love him?" your heart lurches. you swallow at his bluntness, "you ask a lot of questions for a 5 year old." he shrugs like an old man. "i'm smart. i know things."

you pull back, smiling softly at him, "yeah, you really do." just then, jay walks into the room, ruffling seojun's hair. "ready to go, bud?"

"appa," seojun turns to him seriously. "if she's not your wife yet, you better hurry. i want her to stay. she makes good pancakes." you look at the boy offended, gasping at his words, "so you only want me here for pancakes?" seojun grins in response, squealing when you attack him with tickles on his tummy.

jay glances at you—eyes dark, flickering with something unspoken and then he chuckles, low and affectionate. "working on it, buddy," he murmurs.

you roll your eyes, cheeks burning at his words "liar." jay smirks when he sees your face turn red, "brat."

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

jay gave you a quick pep talk before you left his home to finally see your father.

you chew at your lip nervously as you stand in front of your father's study door, your fingers twitching by your sides. he had texted earlier asking where you'd been the night before, and you lied—again. but you're not sure if he believed you this time. not when he knows how close you've gotten with jay. not when he's always been a little too observant for your liking. you take a deep breath, knock once, and step inside.

he looks up from his laptop, brow furrowed. "so. you're alive." you wince. "hi, dad."

he leans back in his chair, arms folding. "i'm guessing you didn't spend the night at minho's like you said." you hesitate. "no."

"then where?" you glance down, then back up. "jay's."

he doesn't respond at first. the silence thickens. "and?" he finally asks, voice tight. "is there something you want to tell me?" you swallow hard, fingers locking together. "we've... gotten close." his eyes narrow slightly at the term, repeating it with distaste, "close." 

"i care about him," you admit. "and seojun. it's not just... it's not a fling, dad. i know he's older, and i know he's your business partner, but—"

"23 and 35, sweetheart." his voice is low, clipped. "he has a child. responsibilities. baggage. you really think you're ready for all that?"

"i've already been dealing with it," you fire back, trying to stay calm. "i've been helping take care of seojun for months. i love that kid. and jay... he's—he's good to me. in his own grumpy way." your father scoffs. "grumpy is one word for it." you cross your arms. "you don't get to judge him. you've worked with him for years. you know he's not some asshole." he sighs, rubbing his temples. "i know. i know he's not. he's a good man. he's just... not who i pictured for you."

"me neither," you say quietly. he looks up at you again—less angry now, more tired. "does he make you happy?" you nod. "yeah. even when we fight. especially when we fight." he huffs out a reluctant laugh, knowing that jay at the very least was able to deal with his daughter's attitude,  "sounds like you two deserve each other."

"but that doesn't mean that i'm fully okay with this. i need to chat with mr.park as well, about this." you nod at his word, a small laugh escaping you as you watch your father struggle to contain his protectiveness.

a beat of silence passes. "just... be careful," he says finally. "this changes a lot of things."

"i know," you say softly. "but i think it's worth it." he nods once, slowly. "alright." and just like that, a line has been crossed. awkward tension still lingers in the air, but there's something softer now. something almost like acceptance.

you step forward to hug him, and after a beat, his arms wrap around you too. "just don't let him break your heart," he mutters.

you smile. "i'll break his first."

he groans. "god, you're still your mother's child."

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

it's been a few weeks since everything changed—since your father reluctantly accepted the relationship, since seojun's wide eyes and perceptive little voice called both you and jay out, and since you finally stopped pretending what was happening between you and jay was just physical. things had shifted. not abruptly, but with slow ease.

the mornings in jay's house were no longer just routine—they had rhythm. you're in the kitchen, barefoot and sleepy, stirring the oatmeal you promised seojun the night before. the little boy's perched on the counter next to you, legs swinging as he munches on an apple slice with a bag of gummy bears wound tightly in his palms—humming some made-up song under his breath.

"you gonna tell your dad i let you have gummy bears before breakfast?" you tease, bumping his knee with your hip. seojun giggles. "hmm... depends. will you make pancakes this weekend?"

"blackmail? wow, you really are his son."

"damn right," jay's voice cuts in from behind, gravelly and amused, his hair still damp from the shower. he's buttoning up his shirt slowly, eyes scanning the scene in front of him like it's his favorite sight in the world. his son and you in his kitchen, soft morning light catching the curve of your cheek, your voice warm and teasing. he lives for this now. these little domestic moments of peace. "don't tell me you're bribing my kid," he mutters, brushing a kiss against your temple as he grabs his coffee.

you roll your eyes, "he's blackmailing me and bribing implies i'm getting something out of it." jay smirks, "you get to wake up in my bed. that's gotta count for something." you shoot him a look, but your cheeks warm anyway. he never misses a chance to fluster you, and he knows exactly how to do it—especially when seojun's around and your only defense is a quiet huff and a shake of your head.

breakfast is chaotic in the way that all good families are. seojun accidentally knocks over his juice, you forget the toast in the oven, jay's tie somehow ends up in the butter dish, and yet... it all works. it's loud and messy and full of laughter.

later, after jay drops seojun off at school, it's just the two of you again. you're curled up on the couch with your laptop, trying to work as the summer was over and you no long had the pleasure of rotting around. you can feel his eyes on you from across the room. he's supposed to be reviewing contracts, but instead, he's watching you—his bratty, stubborn girl who somehow wormed her way into the quiet places of his life and made them glow.

"what?" you ask, not looking up. he shrugs. "nothing. just thinking." you lift a brow, "dangerous."

"about how you were made for this," he adds quietly. "for me. for him. for all of this. even though the beginning of our relationship revolved around constant bickering.” you scoff, half touched, half embarrassed. "so dramatic." but he doesn't deny it. just leans back, arms crossed, eyes soft. "tell me i'm wrong."

you don't. not because you can't, but because for once—you don't want to.

— enjoy this fic? check out my other ones right here!

[itendtothinkalot]

u talk, i listen

summary: you’re loud, dramatic, and one emotional spiral away from a breakdown. he’s quiet, calm, and allergic to unnecessary words. at first, you drive him insane but maybe that’s part of your charm. you make the chaos, and he makes sure you don’t burn the whole world down with it.

genre: fluff | hyper gf x calm bf

characters: sunghoon x f!reader

words: 13k

warnings: none i think!

The first time you met Park Sunghoon, you’re pretty sure he hates you.

To be fair, it was your first day, and Ni-ki—who you knew for exactly ten minutes—told you pressing the green button on the espresso machine would help "wake it up."

It did not.

Instead, it made the machine scream, shoot steam into your face, and sent you stumbling backward with a noise that sounded suspiciously like a dying goose. A tray of croissants nearly went down with you.

“OH MY GOD—Ni-ki!” a voice shrieked from somewhere near the pastry display.

You coughed, flailed, and possibly cried, when someone silently reached past you and switched the machine off with a flick of his wrist. No words. Just calm, collected competence. The kind that makes you feel even more like a human disaster.

You looked up—and saw him. Park Sunghoon.

He’s quiet. Like, unnervingly quiet. Dressed in black from head to toe with his sleeves rolled just enough to show his veins (rude), and eyes that flick to you once before looking away again. Not a single word. Just a blank expression like you’re a fly he’s choosing not to swat.

“Don’t mind him,” Sunoo said, swooping in with a comforting hand on your shoulder. “That’s Sunghoon. He doesn’t talk much, but he’s not mean. I promise.”

“I didn’t say he was mean,” you muttered, still trying to rearrange the croissants you nearly obliterated.

“You thought it, though,” Sunoo grinned, like he’s already read your soul.

Meanwhile, Ni-ki was cackling in the corner, filming your breakdown for "training purposes."

Sunghoon, still wordless, wiped the steam wand clean, glanced once at the mess you’ve made, then—finally—muttered, “You shouldn’t listen to Ni-ki.”

His voice was soft, low. Dangerous. Like he only spoke when absolutely necessary.

You blinked. “Thanks for the early intel.”

He looked at you again. Longer this time.

And then, he walked away.

No other words. Just disappeared behind the back counter like you were the one who interrupted his day.

“…So anyway!” Sunoo chirped, practically dragging you away, “Let’s get you trained before you break anything else, hmm?”

You glanced back once, just in time to see Sunghoon glance over his shoulder at you.

He looked away first.

And for some reason… that annoyed you.

—

You’d worked four shifts now. Sunoo was basically your fairy godmother, Ni-ki was your unpaid therapist-slash-chaos agent, and Sunghoon?

Sunghoon was still a cardboard box with perfect skin.

He didn’t talk to you unless he had to. Didn’t smile unless he was laughing at something Sunoo said. Didn’t even look at you unless you were actively on fire, and even then, you weren’t sure he’d do more than mildly raise an eyebrow.

Which was extra annoying because somehow he was also weirdly funny. When he talked to Ni-ki or Sunoo, he’d drop the driest one-liners out of nowhere, and suddenly everyone was on the floor laughing. You tried to talk to him? Nothing. Crickets. Maybe a blink, if you were lucky.

You were cleaning the counter one evening when you caught him saying something to Ni-ki, low and casual, and Ni-ki absolutely lost it.

“Okay, that was actually good,” Sunoo wheezed. “Where was that energy earlier when she knocked over the milk?”

“She was already dying,” Sunghoon replied. “Didn’t need to bury her.”

Your head snapped up. “Excuse me?!”

He looked at you, slow and lazy, like he was surprised you heard. “It’s a compliment.”

“How is that a compliment?”

He shrugged. “You’re resilient.”

You stared. “I—what—resilient?! I tripped over my own shoelace!”

“I noticed.”

Sunoo clapped a hand over his mouth like he was about to implode.

You blinked at Sunghoon. He blinked back.

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re so—”

He lifted a brow. “You’re loud.”

You opened your mouth, but Sunoo threw an arm around your shoulders like he was trying to defuse a bomb.

“Okayyy! Let’s all take a breath,” he sang. “Some of us process friendship through gentle banter and others process it by… doing whatever it is Sunghoon does... verbal sparring?”

“I’m not sparring,” Sunghoon said, already walking away.

You glared at his back. “You never spar. You just vanish.”

“Exactly,” he called over his shoulder.

You looked at Sunoo. “I don’t get him.”

Sunoo just smiled. “You will.”

You really thought you wouldn’t—until God bestowed upon you a tragic prophecy, disguised as the café schedule for the following week.

Mon–Fri Closing Shift (5PM–11PM): YOU + SUNGHOON

You stared and blinked, rubbed your eyes, tried processing.

Sunghoon saw it at the same time you did.

“…No,” he said flatly.

You crossed your arms. “Wow. Good to see you too.”

“Sunoo,” he called toward the kitchen. “Switch me. Please.”

“Nope!” Sunoo’s voice floated back. “You’ll thank me later!”

You both stared at the schedule like it had personally offended you. Then—slowly—at each other.

This was going to be a long week.

—

Monday was… quiet.

You tried to make conversation—about the playlist, the new coffee beans, even the weather—but Sunghoon gave you absolutely nothing. Just a few nods and hums, like you were a podcast playing in the background.

You swore he spent more time restocking stirrers than actually speaking to you.

You huffed under your breath, finding him impossible to work with. The shift felt ten hours longer than it actually was, and you were convinced the silence was slowly killing your soul.

As the evening dragged on, you caught him sitting at the back counter, pulling out a laptop in between cleaning duties. You tried not to be nosy—but it was hard not to peek.

Tabs upon tabs of schoolwork were open on his screen—assignments, lecture slides, even a color-coded spreadsheet. You blinked. Huh. Sunghoon was more hardworking than you’d expected. You thought he was just the type to show up, do his job, and disappear back into the void—but here he was, typing away like the shift never even ended.

You munched on your dinner, a sad slice of pizza you grabbed from down the street during your break. The cheese had hardened and the crust was borderline cardboard, but it was food. You leaned against the counter, chewing quietly, when you realized—

Sunghoon hadn’t eaten anything. Not since the two of you started at five.

You watched him from the corner of your eye, fingers tapping against his keyboard, face unreadable in the glow of his screen.

You opened your mouth. “Hey, do you—” But you stopped yourself. Closed it again.

He’d probably just get annoyed. Or say no in that flat, disinterested way of his. And then you’d feel stupid. Still, you kept glancing over at him, stealing quick looks in between bites. At one point, you noticed his hands pressing lightly against his stomach, like he was trying to ignore it. His expression didn’t change, but the movement said enough.

He was probably hungry. You looked down at the last bite of pizza in your hand and sighed.

Tuesday, you decided, would be different.

Tuesday, you showed up with an extra sandwich from the convenience store.

You didn’t say anything. Just slid it across the counter around 7PM, because the night before, he hadn’t eaten dinner and you weren’t about to let him pass out mid-espresso pull.

He stared at the sandwich. Then at you.

You raised a brow. “You didn’t eat yesterday.”

He blinked. “…Okay.”

“You’re welcome.”

You didn’t hear a thank you. But he didn’t give it back either.

Progress.

Wednesday, there was a cup of noodles in your locker.

Just sitting there. No note. No explanation. Just… sitting.

You marched up to Sunghoon, holding it in your hands like evidence. “Did you put this in my locker?”

He looked at the cup noodle. Then at you. Then blinked, deadpan. “…No.”

“Really.”

He shrugged.

You squinted at him.

He walked away.

You were this close to launching the noodle at the back of his head. Instead, you ate it. And maybe smiled. A little.

Thursday, you both brought each other dinner. At the same time.

You froze at the counter, holding out your plastic bag just as he set his down.

“…I got you something,” you said.

He stared at your bag. Then gestured to his. “So did I.”

You glanced at each other, at the food, and then away.

“Thanks,” you muttered.

He nodded. “Mm.”

You caught the tiniest tug at the corner of his mouth as he turned around.

You smiled too. But only when he wasn’t looking.

Friday, you didn’t expect anything. You were restocking the fridge when you heard it:

“Hey.”

You turned around, startled. “What?”

Sunghoon was standing there, one hand on the fridge door, the other in his pocket. His voice was quiet, like he was testing it out on you for the first time.

“I—uh,” he started, eyes flicking to yours, then away. “You always wear that hair clip. The pink one. With the sparkles.”

You blinked. “Yeah?”

He nodded slowly. “I thought it was dumb at first.”

“Okay…?”

“But now it’s kinda…” He paused, scratched the back of his neck. “I dunno. Cute, I guess.”

You stared at him.

“Forget it,” he muttered, moving past you.

“No wait,” you said, stepping into his path, a slow grin spreading across your face. “Did you just say I’m cute?”

He didn’t look at you. “I said the clip is cute.”

“That I’m wearing.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“Sunghoon thinks I’m cute~” you sang, spinning in a circle while he groaned and walked away.

But you caught it—right before he turned around completely.

The smile. The real one.

And for the first time all week, you were pretty sure… he might have liked you back.

The silence didn’t feel heavy anymore. It wasn’t awkward. Just quiet. Comfortable. Like a pause instead of a wall.

You were sweeping. He was mopping. The usual end-of-shift rhythm. You hummed a song under your breath—something from the café playlist that had been looping for hours. He didn’t comment on it this time. Just kept mopping in sync with you.

The air smelled like cleaning solution and vanilla syrup. The lights were dimmed to their soft closing hour glow. Outside, the city buzzed quietly under the street lamps.

Then you heard it—his voice. Low. Careful.

“I hear you’re starting college soon.”

You blinked, glancing up from your broom. He wasn’t looking at you, just focusing on a coffee stain near the back corner of the café.

“Yeah,” you said. “Orientation’s next week.”

He nodded once. “Same.”

You stopped sweeping. “Wait—seriously?”

He nodded again, this time glancing at you. “Business major?”

“Yeah. Are you—”

“Same.”

You stared. “You’re kidding.”

He shook his head, mouth twitching like he couldn’t believe it either. “Guess you’re stuck with me.”

You couldn’t help it—you grinned. “Wow. And I thought this week was the end of my suffering.”

He smirked, just a little. “Mutual, believe me.”

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks felt warm. “This is gonna be weird.”

“Probably.”

You leaned against your broom, tilting your head. “What if we get put in the same class?”

“I’ll transfer out.”

You laughed. Actually laughed. And the look on his face softened in that tiny, quiet way he did sometimes—like a blink-and-you-miss-it moment of fondness.

“So,” you said, brushing past him on your way to put the broom away, “does this mean we’re friends now?”

He paused. Looked at you.

Then—“You’re loud.”

You turned around, walking backward. “Not a no~”

He rolled his eyes. But he didn’t say no.

—

Your first day of college started in a lecture theatre that looked like it belonged in a movie.

Wide rows of tiered seats. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A massive screen at the front welcoming new students with a generic but oddly comforting "Welcome, Future Leaders!" banner.

You slid into a seat at the back row, instinctively avoiding the eager clusters forming near the front. It was still early, and the place buzzed with chatter, nerves, and the rustle of free tote bags and pamphlets.

You opened one of the pamphlets a student ambassador had handed you earlier and scanned it while sipping on the last of your bottled tea. Campus map. Co-curricular activities. After-school programmes. There was even a flowchart on how to balance academic and personal development. It was cheesy, but a part of you—the part that studied like hell to get here—felt… proud. You belonged here. You were surrounded by people who cared just as much as you did.

You let out a small sigh, the kind that came from contentment, then finally looked up—

And blinked.

Sunghoon was walking toward you.

Brown coat sweeping behind him. A scarf looped casually around his neck. Glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, framing his face in a way that made him look straight out of a campus brochure. He carried two cups of coffee in one hand, the sleeves of his coat pushed just enough to reveal the band of his watch.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just placed one of the cups in front of you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You stared at it. Then at him.

“…You stalking me now?”

Sunghoon raised a brow. “You’re sitting in the back row. That’s the least stalkable seat.”

“Mm,” you hummed, smirking as you took the coffee anyway. “So you do want to be friends.”

He slid into the seat beside you. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” You raised the cup. “Acts of service. Love language. I’m flattered.”

He gave you a look. “It’s just coffee.”

“And glasses,” you added, gesturing to his face. “You’re really committing to the college-boy aesthetic, huh? Next you’re gonna pull out a book of poetry.”

He rolled his eyes, but you didn’t miss the way his lip twitched like he was holding back a smile. “You’re annoying.”

You took a sip. It was warm. Slightly sweet. Exactly how you liked it.

“And yet,” you said, nudging his arm with your elbow, “here you are.”

He didn’t answer. Just looked ahead at the empty podium, his fingers wrapped around his own cup. But his shoulder stayed against yours—light, steady, unbothered.

And you… didn’t move away.

Then, the two of you were a part of a routine.

Ever since you both found out you were classmates, Sunghoon would wait in the apartment lobby every morning with a drink in hand—tea or coffee, depending on how late you texted him the night before.

Before 12AM? Chamomile. After 12? Iced latte, extra pumps of vanilla. No questions asked.

It had been a whole month of college, and while you were still adjusting, you were glad you had Sunghoon. (More like—Sunghoon was glad he had you.)

You were outgoing. People liked you, drawn in by your energy. Sure, you could be shy at first, but once you warmed up, you were easily the heart of any group. Loud. Expressive. A little dramatic. And though Sunghoon called you irritating more times than you could count, he couldn’t deny it was part of your charm.

Part of why he noticed you in the first place.

Now here you were—walking side by side, warm drink in hand, on your way to your first class of the day. You were mid-story about something ridiculous your professor said in a group chat. Sunghoon just walked quietly beside you, listening.

And somehow, that felt like the best part of your morning.

You were walking across the quad with Sunghoon, your cup in one hand, rambling about something dumb from class when a football came flying almost knocking you out.

A second later, a tall guy sprinted into your path, trying to catch it—and collided right into you.

You gasped, stumbling back, but before you could even register what happened, Sunghoon had already pulled you aside, his hand wrapping firmly around your arm, shielding you behind him.

“Shit—sorry!” the guy said, breathless, catching the ball. His cap was turned backwards, and strands of his hair stuck to his forehead from running. He looked at you, eyes wide. “You okay?”

You nodded, eyes locking with his.

He smiled.

And for a moment, your heart stuttered.

He was cute. Really cute. Sharp jaw, dimpled grin, that kind of effortless charm that made you forget what you were saying.

“I—uh, yeah. All good,” you mumbled.

Sunghoon’s hand slowly dropped from your arm. You didn’t notice. You were still looking at Yeonjun.

He looked at you too. “I’m Yeonjun, by the way.”

You smiled, just a little. “Nice to meet you.”

Sunghoon stood still beside you, silent as ever.

But he saw it.

The look. The smile. The way you laughed, a little softer than usual. The way Yeonjun’s eyes lingered when he handed you back the drink you almost dropped.

Sunghoon didn’t say anything.

He just looked away.

—

Yeonjun showed up at the café on a Friday afternoon, all sunshine and charm, and you were too busy juggling orders to notice him at first—until he waved from the counter with that same boyish smile.

Your eyes lit up. “Oh my god—hey!”

He leaned over casually, glancing at the menu. “Didn’t know you worked here. I guess I’ll have to stop by more often.”

Meanwhile, across the room, Sunghoon sat at a corner table with a textbook open in front of him and an untouched iced americano beside it. According to him, he was there to study. According to Sunoo, he was there to “keep an eye out for Selenur.” (Sunoo’s thoughtful codename for you, since he was very sure Sunghoon had a “thing” for you)

Sunghoon told him to shut up.

Now, he watched silently as you and Yeonjun exchanged numbers, your head tilted toward the screen, smile wide. He saw Yeonjun grin, say something that made you laugh, and hand you his phone.

Sunghoon’s jaw tightened.

Not my problem, he told himself, eyes flicking back to his textbook. Not. My. Problem.

You walked over seconds later, practically skipping, still holding your phone like it was made of gold. “Can you believe it? He asked me out!”

Sunghoon didn’t look up.

You slid into the seat across from him anyway, hitting his arm repeatedly with giddy little slaps. “Sunghoon. He asked. Me. Out!”

He sighed, finally meeting your eyes. “Stop hitting me.”

“Sorry,” you giggled, not sorry at all. “I’m just excited!”

He watched you bounce in your seat, hair bouncing with you, eyes sparkling like you just won the lottery. He hated to admit how adorable you looked when you were like this. But he had a reputation. And emotions. And he was firmly committed to ignoring both.

Still. Something didn’t sit right.

Sunghoon had done a little digging after the football incident. Nothing crazy. Just… a casual scroll through Instagram. And maybe a few archived posts. Some comments. A look at mutuals. Purely for research.

Yeonjun was a third-year business major. A senior. Popular. Handsome. And according to a few posts Sunghoon definitely did not save—someone who changed girlfriends like he changed outfits.

He didn’t like it.

He didn’t like him.

Not for you.

But what did he know?

He looked down, turning a page in his textbook. Not my problem, he chanted in his head.

Definitely not.

—

Sunghoon stood in the apartment lobby, one hand tucked in his coat pocket, the other holding your usual coffee order. He checked his phone for the time, glanced toward the elevator—then froze.

You stepped out, smile already bright, your phone in one hand and the hem of your dress held lightly in the other. It was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen you wear—soft fabric that fell just above your knees, cinched slightly at the waist, the color making your skin glow. Your hair was styled, subtle makeup dusted across your cheeks, and your lips were curved in that effortless way that made it suddenly very hard to breathe.

You looked… gorgeous.

His heart did something stupid in his chest, but he quickly cleared his throat and looked away, pretending to be fascinated by the vending machine.

“How do I look?” you asked, voice playful.

He didn’t meet your eyes. “The same,” he muttered.

“Oh,” you said quietly. “Do I?”

You sighed, and he heard the disappointment in it—saw the way your shoulders dropped just slightly.

Guilt hit him instantly.

“In a good way,” he added quickly, almost too quickly.

You blinked. “Huh?”

He finally looked at you, then down at the coffee he was still holding. “You look… pretty today.”

He cleared his throat and shoved the cup toward you before you could say anything else. Then he turned and started walking first, trying to escape the inevitable teasing.

But it didn’t come.

Instead, you smiled behind your cup and jogged up to walk beside him.

“Why are you dressed like that?” he asked after a few beats of silence.

“My date with Yeonjun’s today,” you said with a grin.

His step faltered for a split second. “You like him that much?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know about like, but… it’s just—I’ve never been asked out before.”

You tilted your head as you said it, your voice soft. Honest.

Sunghoon frowned. “I’m surprised.”

“What’s so surprising?” you laughed. “You’ve met me. Everyone’s either calling me loud or annoying.”

“Isn’t that what’s so charming about you?”

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

You turned to him, eyes wide, mouth parting. “Did you just—compliment me?”

“No,” he said immediately, gaze fixed ahead like it never happened.

You didn’t press it.

You just smiled again, even softer this time, and walked beside him like nothing had changed.

But for Sunghoon… everything had.

—-

The date started off… nice. Not mind-blowing. Not movie-level magical. But nice.

Yeonjun took you to a rooftop café near campus—fairy lights strung across the ceiling, soft music humming under the chatter. He pulled your chair out like a gentleman, complimented your dress, and told you you looked beautiful in the golden hour light. You laughed, cheeks warm, nerves fluttering. You weren’t used to this. To being seen.

“You know,” he said between sips of his coffee, “I heard you got into the business faculty because of some competition?”

You nodded, a little surprised. “Yeah. The Young Entrepreneurs’ thing in my final year.”

“That’s so impressive,” he said, leaning forward with a glint in his eye. “You must have had a really solid proposal. What was it about?”

You blinked. “Um… a sustainable student-run café model. With profit-sharing incentives and local sourcing.”

Yeonjun’s smile widened. “That’s genius. Seriously. Are you using it for any of your current modules?”

You hesitated. “Well… sort of. I’m reworking the model for this semester’s proposal project.”

He nodded slowly. “Wow. You must be at the top of your class already.”

There was a pause. You tried to smile, but something twisted in your gut. He kept asking—about the proposal, your outline, your ideas. Details most people would only bring up if they were in your group, or at least interested in the topic.

You excused yourself to go to the bathroom. The second the door closed behind you, you leaned against the sink, staring at yourself in the mirror. Something about this didn’t feel right. You couldn’t place it, but the way he kept circling back to your work felt… off.

When you returned, Yeonjun was all smiles again. Charming. Sweet. As if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just gently interrogated you for thirty minutes under the glow of fairy lights.

You tried to shake it off.

The next day, your phone stayed quiet. And the day after that. And the one after that, too.

No texts. No calls. No explanation.

Yeonjun ghosted you. Completely. Like the date never happened. Like you never happened.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it wasn’t like you were in love with him. That it was just one date. One boy.

But it still stung.

It wasn’t about Yeonjun, not really. It was about what it made you wonder.

Maybe you were hard to like. Maybe you were too loud. Or too awkward. Maybe you talked too much, or didn’t say the right things. Maybe you weren’t pretty enough. Or cool enough. Or quiet enough.

He smiled at you. Told you you were smart. Sweet. Pretty. And still—he left. Without a word.

And it made you wonder if all the things people always said about you were true. If deep down, you were too much of everything… and not enough of anything.

You didn’t even like Yeonjun like that, not really. But being left behind like you didn’t matter—that part hurt more than you'd ever admit out loud.

Especially when all you did was try to be yourself.

Then came the worst part.

You were working on a different assignment, digging through your laptop for a reference doc when you realized… your final business proposal was gone.

Completely gone.

You stared at the empty folder for a long, frozen second. Then searched again. And again. You turned the whole desktop inside out, but the file wasn’t there.

Panic bloomed in your chest. You didn’t delete it. You never would.

Desperate, you made your way to the engineering block where your friend Heeseung was camped out, headphones around his neck and an energy drink half-empty beside him.

You dropped beside him and wordlessly shoved your laptop in front of him.

“I think my file’s gone,” you muttered. “Like—gone gone.”

Heeseung frowned, pulling the laptop toward him. Fingers flying across the keyboard. You sat still, breath caught in your throat.

After a few minutes, he leaned back in his chair.

“It says here your laptop’s last file access was through a thumbdrive. Someone plugged one in, moved your business proposal, then took it out.”

You stared at him.

“What?” you said. Your voice barely above a whisper.

He clicked again, tilting the screen. “Time stamp says it happened the day before yesterday. Around 8:42 PM.”

Your mind flicked back.

Yeonjun. That was the night of your date.

No. No way. He wouldn’t— He couldn’t—

But the timing fit. The questions. The ghosting.

No. No fucking way.

—

You were pissed.

You wiped the counters with a little too much force, angrily scrubbing at invisible stains like they personally betrayed you. The blender hadn’t even been used today, but you cleaned it twice. You huffed. You sighed. You muttered curses under your breath while flinging dishrags and slamming cabinet doors just a bit harder than necessary.

Sunghoon stood at the sink, quietly washing mugs like you were a rabid animal he didn’t want to startle.

“I—” he started.

You grunted.

“You—”

You sighed.

He blinked. You hadn’t let him get out a full sentence all shift. At this point, you were acting like him, and he was the one trying to initiate conversation.

It was terrifying.

Thirty minutes of silence passed before you finally spoke.

“You know what I hate about men?”

Sunghoon froze mid-dry. He glanced down at his own very male hands. Great. He was framed by default.

“You people,” you said, voice rising, “and your terrible innate sense of justice.”

You slammed the rag down onto the counter. “Stealing a person’s work? Pfft. How stupid do you have to fucking be?!”

Sunghoon stayed quiet, lips pressed into a thin line. He had no idea what you were going on about—only that your date with Yeonjun clearly didn’t go well.

He opened his mouth to say something, but you waved a wet dishcloth in his face like a white flag of fury.

“And you know what else?” you went on, eyes blazing. “You people are just little gremlins who take. And take. And take.”

You let out another heavy sigh, leaning against the counter like you were carrying the weight of all modern betrayal.

“And for what?!”

Your voice hit a pitch so sharp that Sunghoon actually flinched. He snapped upright like you’d physically struck him.

“I’m guessing the date didn’t go so well?” he offered carefully.

“He stole my business proposal.”

Sunghoon paused. “…What do you mean?”

You exhaled through your nose like a dragon mid-breakdown, pacing the space behind the counter as you told him everything. The date. The weird questions. The missing file. The thumb drive. Heeseung’s diagnosis. The awful, dawning realization.

By the time you were finished, Sunghoon just stood there—speechless. Stunned.

“He’s an… asshole,” he said finally, slow and deliberate, like he needed to taste each word before letting it out.

“Yuhuh,” you mumbled, flopping into the stool behind the register and dragging your hands down your face. “What am I gonna do? The deadline’s on Friday. I spent two weeks on that thing. I’m screwed.”

Sunghoon reached for the industrial bag of coffee beans under the counter, tearing it open like this was a normal Tuesday. “Well, it’s not like you can sneak into his house and steal his laptop back.”

You froze.

“…Come again?”

Sunghoon paused, one hand still buried in the bag. “No. That was just a comment. Not an idea.”

“But a good one.” You turned toward him slowly, a little too bright. A little too smiley.

He narrowed his eyes. “No.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“You have to help me.”

“Why me?!”

“Because you gave me the idea!”

Sunghoon sighed. Loudly. Dramatically. Like he already knew he was going to give in but had to fight for the sake of his pride.

“You’re lucky I don’t believe in karma,” he muttered.

You grinned, victory written all over your face. “So that’s a yes?”

—

It was 3:07AM when Sunghoon found himself walking through a quiet residential street, questioning every decision that had brought him to this point.

The address you’d sent him earlier lit up on his screen. He shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets, exhaling into the chilly night, when—

“Psst!”

He turned his head toward a cluster of trees—and nearly jumped out of his skin.

You were crouched behind a bush, donned in an all-black ensemble: black beanie, oversized black hoodie, black jeans, and…

“Slippers?” he blinked.

You grinned, proud. “I see you noticed the vibe. I’m dressed up as a burglar.”

Sunghoon stared. “…Isn’t that a little on the nose?”

“Isn’t it cute?” you whispered, excited. “I got it all on sale just now.”

“At what? A Target for burglars?”

You swatted his chest with the back of your hand, ignoring the way he flinched with a low sigh.

“There,” you said, pointing toward the modest two-story house across the street. “That’s his house.”

“Okay, and what’s your—” You swat him again.

“Our plan?” he corrected, exasperated.

You beamed. “Glad you asked. See that room on the second floor? With the string lights and the cracked window?”

He squinted. “Yeah?”

“My intel says that’s his room.”

“…Your intel. You mean, Sunoo?”

“Yes.” You wiggled your brows mysteriously before turning serious. “So. We put up the ladder. I climb. I sneak in. I get the laptop. We disappear.”

“You’re actually insane for this,” he muttered under his breath.

You ignored him, eyes locked on the prize. “The windows are open, and I made sure he’s distracted tonight.”

Sunghoon raised an eyebrow. “How exactly?”

“I texted him from a fake number pretending to be a girl he ghosted last semester. He’s currently having a breakdown about his ‘reputation.’ I give us twenty minutes.”

He stared at you like you’d grown a second head.

And then he sighed. Deep. Long. Existential.

Is this worth it? He thought to himself.

He glanced down at you again—eyes full of unhinged determination, your hoodie sleeves bunched at your wrists, that tiny pout on your lips as you tried to judge the ladder distance.

God. You looked ridiculous. And cute.

So yeah. It was worth it.

“…Let’s do this,” he said.

You grinned like the gremlin you were. “I knew you liked me.”

He rolled his eyes, cheeks just a little too warm. “Regretting this already.”

But he followed you anyway.

—

You set the ladder against the side of the house like you’d done this before. Sunghoon, meanwhile, stood beside it with the stiff posture of someone definitely not okay with committing a crime at 3:15AM.

You looked back at him. “Hold it steady, okay?”

“Just… for the record,” he muttered, “this is breaking and entering.”

“I prefer the term justice retrieval.”

He sighed so hard you thought his soul left his body. “Just don’t fall and die. Please.”

You winked. “Aw, you care.”

“No, I just don’t want to explain to the police why you’re dressed like a criminal and wearing slippers.”

You began to climb.

The first few steps were fine—until one of your slippers nearly slipped right off.

“Oh, fuck—” you hissed, gripping the ladder.

“Do you need to wear those?” Sunghoon whisper-yelled from below, clutching the base of the ladder like his life depended on it.

“They’re comfy!”

“They’re a hazard.”

You ignored him, determined, as you reached the second-floor window. The breeze fluttered through the half-open pane, moonlight pooling gently across Yeonjun’s empty room. His laptop sat on the desk, closed. Glowing faintly.

Target acquired.

You carefully pushed the window open wider and swung one leg through.

Sunghoon watched from below, jaw tight, muttering to himself like a man saying his last prayers. “This is how I go down. Helping a girl in bunny slippers commit theft.”

You managed to slide inside without knocking anything over. Heart pounding. Hands slightly shaking.

You tiptoed across the carpet, grabbed the laptop, and slipped it into your drawstring bag like the world's most underqualified spy.

You were halfway back out the window when—

“HEY! WHO’S THERE?!”

A voice rang out from somewhere downstairs.

Your eyes widened. You turned to look down at Sunghoon, who was still grabbing the bottom of the ladder.

“Go, go, go—!” you whispered harshly.

You clambered down the ladder as fast as you could, nearly taking Sunghoon out as you reached the bottom. He caught your wrist before you could stumble, pulling you into a sprint without a word.

Your feet pounded against the pavement—slippers slapping, bag bouncing, hearts racing. Behind you, a door slammed open.

“HEY!” Yeonjun’s voice echoed into the street.

Sunghoon didn’t slow down. “Left!” he hissed.

You turned sharply, ducking into a narrow alley between two quiet apartment buildings. The shadows swallowed you both instantly.

“Over here—quick,” he muttered, yanking you behind a large trash bin and squeezing into the tight space beside you. It was small. Barely enough for one person, let alone two.

You pressed your back to the wall, chest heaving, adrenaline thrumming in your ears.

Sunghoon’s face was too close. Way too close.

You turned to whisper something, only to notice the way his profile was still partially visible, his cheek nearly poking out past the safety of the shadow. Panic surged through you as Yeonjun’s footsteps grew louder.

Without thinking, you reached out and grabbed Sunghoon’s face—gentle but urgent—and pulled him toward you, forcing him deeper into the corner.

He blinked, startled, his hands landing on either side of you to steady himself.

And suddenly—everything stopped.

His breath hit yours. Warm. Shaky. His nose nearly brushing yours. Your fingertips still on his cheek. You could feel the heat rising between your bodies, your heart hammering against your ribcage.

You were so focused on listening for footsteps that you didn’t notice the way he was looking at you.

His eyes were locked on yours, soft and unblinking. Like you were something precious. Something fragile. Something he wasn’t supposed to want but couldn’t help reaching for.

But then—he cleared his throat.

You blinked, still slightly dazed, and smiled—completely unaware of how close you were until you finally pulled away.

He stepped back the moment you did.

You laughed, breathless, heart still sprinting inside your chest. “I can’t believe we just did that.”

“I can’t believe you dragged me into it,” he said, grinning despite himself.

Your laughter echoed down the alley, light and free and bubbling with triumph.

And even as the moment passed, and the footsteps faded, and you both stumbled back out into the quiet night—

Sunghoon couldn’t stop thinking about how your hands had felt on his skin.

—

Sunghoon unlocked the door and stepped into the apartment as if nothing about the situation was even remotely unusual. You followed close behind, hoodie pulled low over your head, black beanie snug, sleeves covering your hands, and—most incriminating of all—a pair of fuzzy bunny slippers completing the look. If anyone had seen you on the way over, they might’ve called the cops.

Inside, the living room was dimly lit, the glow of the TV casting flickering light across Jake and his girlfriend, who were curled up under a blanket, halfway through a rom-com rerun and clearly deep into their peaceful little couple night. That peace shattered the moment Jake looked up and saw you.

He froze with a chip halfway to his mouth. His girlfriend stiffened beside him. Their gazes locked on your all-black ensemble, eyes trailing from your hoodie to your slippers, as if unsure whether to scream, laugh, or call for help.

“Sunghoon,” Jake said slowly, narrowing his eyes. “Why is there a burglar in our house?”

You smiled brightly, completely unfazed. “Hi!”

Jake blinked, turning to Sunghoon for confirmation. Sunghoon simply sighed, kicked his shoes off, and muttered under his breath, “Not how I wanted you to meet her.”

“You brought her to the house,” Jake said, still staring. “At 3 a.m. Dressed like that.”

You shrugged, strolling toward the desk and pulling Yeonjun’s laptop from your drawstring bag. “We’re breaking into a computer, not the house. Totally different vibe.”

Jake’s girlfriend leaned forward. “Are those bunny slippers?”

You nodded proudly. “They’re for stealth.”

“Right,” she said, blinking. “Very… quiet.”

Sunghoon dropped his keys on the table with a sigh, already preparing himself for the chaos about to unfold.

“She’s trying to hack into a guy’s laptop,�� he said, walking to the kitchen like he needed caffeine and therapy at once. “Don’t ask.”

“Why are you helping her?!” Jake asked, scandalized.

Sunghoon opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. “I’m not.”

“You literally held the ladder for me twenty minutes ago,” you called over your shoulder.

Jake choked. “Ladder? What ladder?!”

You turned around, laptop booted up, the login screen glowing faintly. “The one I used to climb through a second-story window.”

Jake gaped. His girlfriend quietly set the chip bag down, her expression somewhere between horrified and fascinated.

“I love her,” she whispered to Jake.

“I fear her,” Jake whispered back.

Sunghoon leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. He looked at you—messy hair peeking out from under your beanie, eyes focused, face lit by the laptop screen. Completely unbothered by the scene you’d walked into.

And for some reason, despite all the madness, he still thought you looked kind of cute.

“God help us all,” Sunghoon muttered.

By the time you cracked into the laptop, Jake and his girlfriend had already retreated into their bedroom. Sunghoon had closed the door behind them with a roll of his eyes and a muttered, “That’s just code for they’re about to smash, so we should probably play some music or something.”

You’d snorted at the time, but now the silence in the room felt heavy.

The soft hum of the laptop was the only sound between you, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the floor next to Sunghoon’s desk. He sat beside you, legs stretched out, arms loosely folded, eyes flicking over the screen with quiet interest—until he glanced at your expression and realized you’d stopped scrolling.

“What is it?” he asked.

You didn’t answer.

Your eyes were fixed on the folder open in front of you. Document after document lined the screen, all titled neatly with class names and—oddly—names. Different ones.

Mina. Elly. Jisoo. Grace.

And then… your name.

You clicked on it. Your proposal opened, just slightly reworded, your diagrams rearranged—but it was yours. Every piece of it.

You stared at the screen and crossed your arms tightly, a cold knot settling in your chest. The adrenaline was gone now. In its place was something much heavier. You felt small. Humiliated.

“I was just another one,” you muttered.

Sunghoon looked over, brows drawing together.

“Just another girl he got close to for an assignment,” you said, voice flat. “Was I that boring? That forgettable? Was I really so—unlikable—that the only time a guy showed me attention, it was because he needed my fucking work?”

You laughed bitterly, shaking your head as the words tumbled out, unfiltered. “God. What is wrong with me? What did I think was gonna happen? That someone like him actually liked someone like me?”

You let your arms drop and folded your hands over your face, pressing your palms into your eyes.

“I’m so stupid,” you whispered.

Sunghoon didn’t say anything at first. He just sat beside you, close but not touching, eyes fixed on the floor like he was trying to figure out the right thing to say and coming up completely empty.

You wiped at your face with the back of your sleeve, but it was no use—your mascara had already betrayed you, running in streaks down your cheeks. You were crying harder than you realized, tears silent but relentless.

You turned to him, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “So you’re just gonna stay quiet?”

He looked up, startled. His gaze met yours, and for a moment he forgot how to breathe. You looked—God, you looked like a mess. Eyes red, lashes damp, your hoodie sleeves pushed up unevenly, and cheeks stained with tears.

And somehow, he thought you’d never looked prettier.

You weren’t pretending. Weren’t smiling for the sake of others or hiding behind jokes. You were just… you. Raw and hurting and real.

He cleared his throat and scratched the back of his neck. “What do you want me to say? I’m not good at comforting people.”

“I don’t know,” you sniffled. “Say he’s an asshole or something.”

Sunghoon shrugged a little. “Well, he is.”

You looked at him, still waiting, unsure if that was all he had in him. He looked like he was about to say more, and then—he did.

“He is an asshole,” Sunghoon repeated, louder this time. “I don’t know why you even agreed to go out with him.”

You opened your mouth, confused. “I—”

“You’re loud,” he said suddenly. “You’re pretentious. You’re annoying—”

Your eyes widened, and you flinched.

“What—”

“You interrupt people all the time,” he continued, voice rising with something that wasn’t quite anger—something messier. “You talk too much. You never stop moving. You’re chaotic and stubborn and you don’t think things through—”

Tears were streaming down your face again, this time faster. You looked away, chest tightening.

But then his voice softened.

“...And you’re also caring. Kind. God, you’re the only person I know who goes to the store at four in the morning to feed stray cats in an alley every two days.”

You blinked. Slowly turned back to him.

Sunghoon exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

“You’re funny. You’re thoughtful. You remember the little things people say even when they forget they said them. Anyone would be lucky to be your friend… let alone always be with you.”

He looked at you then, eyes steady and full of something warm. Something aching.

“I’m lucky,” he said, quieter now. “I’m the luckiest bastard alive, as long as I get to stand next to you and call you my friend.”

You stared at him, heart pounding, lips parted, breath caught somewhere in your chest.

Because for the first time… it felt like he wasn’t just calling you a friend.

—

Maybe it was the crying. Maybe it was the emotional whiplash of the night—the heist, the heartbreak, the sudden unraveling of every thought you’d kept tucked neatly away. Maybe it was the way Sunghoon had looked at you when he said he was lucky.

But either way, you couldn’t keep your eyes open.

One moment you were sitting beside him, the warmth of his words still lingering in your chest like a quiet heartbeat. The next, the world had blurred softly at the edges, and your body gave out beneath the weight of it all.

So now, you were on his back.

He’d barely hesitated before lifting you, tucking your arms around his shoulders and hooking his arms under your knees. You didn’t even protest—you were too tired to argue, too comforted by the way he held you like he’d done it before.

Your cheek rested against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut. You felt the steady rise and fall of his chest as he walked, the rhythmic sway of his steps, the subtle hum of a tune you didn’t recognize—but it was sweet, and low, and made your heartbeat slow down.

Sunghoon didn’t say anything. He just walked.

Past the quiet streets. Past flickering streetlamps. Past your favorite corner store and the alley you fed cats in and the bus stop where he first bought you coffee.

He didn’t complain about your weight. Didn’t tease. Didn’t say a word about the mascara smudged against the fabric of his coat.

You didn’t know if he knew you were still half-awake, but when he gently adjusted your leg, you heard him murmur so softly you almost missed it:

“You’re not stupid.”

Your heart ached.

And then you let sleep take you.

Because if there was ever a place to rest— It was here. On his back.

—

You woke up warm.

Too warm, actually. Wrapped in layers you didn’t remember putting on. The hoodie you had on last night clung loosely to your body, sleeves pushed halfway up your arms, and your slippers were neatly placed by the side of your bed—something you definitely hadn’t done.

You sat up slowly, blinking at the sunlight streaming through your curtains. Your room was quiet. Peaceful. And completely unfamiliar in the sense that… you had no idea how you got there.

You rubbed your eyes, your body aching in the most confusing way—like you’d run a marathon, cried through an entire movie, and fought off an emotional breakdown all at once. Oh. Right.

The heist. The yelling. The crying.

Sunghoon.

You swung your legs off the bed, still a little dazed, and padded out of your room.

That’s when you smelled it—eggs. Butter. Something slightly burnt, but in a way that made your chest tighten.

You turned the corner and froze.

Sunghoon was in your kitchen.

His hair was messier than usual, falling into his eyes as he stood in front of the stove, flipping something that might have once been a pancake. He was wearing the same hoodie from the night before, sleeves pushed up, a spatula in one hand, your mismatched cat-print apron tied haphazardly around his waist.

You blinked, brain short-circuiting. “What the hell…?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “You’re awake.”

“I…” You looked down at yourself. “How did I get home?”

“You passed out,” he said simply, turning back to the stove. “I carried you.”

You stared at him. “You carried me?”

“Like a princess,” he deadpanned. “Except you drooled on my shoulder.”

You gasped. “I did not.”

“You did.”

You groaned and dropped your head into your hands. “This is so embarrassing.”

He flipped another pancake—slightly more edible this time—and shrugged. “You needed the sleep.”

You looked up at him again, softer this time. “Why are you making breakfast?”

He didn’t look at you. “Felt like you could use something warm.”

You felt your throat tighten. You wanted to say something, but the words sat too heavy on your tongue. So instead, you just stood there in the doorway, watching him quietly.

And for the first time in what felt like weeks—you felt safe.

Breakfast passed in silence.

Not awkward, not heavy—just... silent. The kind of silence that settled like sunlight through the window, warm and gentle and unspoken.

You sat across from him at your little dining table, your knees brushing every so often beneath the wood, your plate mostly untouched. He ate like nothing was different, like he hadn’t carried you home last night, like he didn’t make pancakes in your kitchen while wearing your cat-print apron.

And yet, something had shifted.

You kept stealing glances at him in between tiny sips of orange juice. The way his lashes dipped as he focused on his food. The subtle curve of his mouth as he chewed. The way his hair curled just slightly at the ends when he didn’t style it.

Your heart fluttered.

Your stomach twisted—but not in the way it did when you were nervous or sad. This was... different. Lighter. Warmer.

What is this? you thought. This weird, floaty feeling in your chest. This little ache every time you looked at him.

Sunghoon glanced up, catching your gaze.

You quickly looked down at your plate.

He didn’t say anything for a moment—just reached for his cup, took a sip, then set it down with a quiet clink.

“Go take a shower and get dressed,” he said casually.

You blinked. “Huh?”

He leaned back in his chair. “You heard me.”

“But it’s Saturday. I don’t have any—”

“I’m taking you out.”

You stared at him. “Out? Like… out out?”

“Let’s go,” he said again, nonchalantly, like it was no big deal. Like he hadn’t just casually turned your whole world upside down with three words.

You opened your mouth, then closed it. You felt the heat rush to your cheeks.

“Oh,” you said. Quiet. Surprised.

Sunghoon stood and collected your plate like it was the most normal thing in the world. “I’m not giving you the plan. Just go shower.”

And then he walked off toward the sink, sleeves rolled, calm as ever.

You sat there for another ten seconds, frozen, heart racing.

What is this feeling?

And why did you suddenly never want it to stop?

You stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the hem of your yellow chiffon babydoll dress for the third time. It swayed lightly around your thighs, soft and airy, the color bright against your skin. You’d tied your hair into two loose pigtails, hoping it came off cute and not childish—just… soft. Sweet. Something that might look good next to him.

Sunghoon, with his wardrobe of tailored coats and muted sweaters. All clean lines and high-end simplicity. He never had to try, and he always looked perfect.

You hoped—just a little—that standing beside him, you wouldn’t look too out of place.

You took one last look in the mirror, then stepped out of your room.

He was sitting on your couch, one leg crossed over the other, scrolling casually through his phone like he hadn’t just changed your entire Saturday morning. He looked up when he heard your footsteps.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours.

Then back down to his phone.

No double-take. No compliment. Not even a blink.

“Let’s go,” he said, standing up with a stretch.

You stared at him, jaw tight. “Stupid idiot,” you muttered under your breath.

“What was that?” he asked, turning toward you, brows raised.

You plastered on a fake smile so quickly it nearly hurt. “Nothing.”

He watched you for a beat, unreadable as always, then looked away.

“You look pretty,” he said softly—so quiet it was almost drowned out by the rustle of his coat sleeve as he reached for his keys.

You blinked.

But before you could respond, he was already walking toward the door, acting like he hadn’t said anything at all.

Typical Sunghoon.

Your heart fluttered anyway.

—

“Are we there yet?” you sighed for what had to be the fifteenth time.

Sunghoon didn’t look at you—just kept walking ahead with that maddeningly steady pace. “Almost,” he said.

“You said that two hours ago.”

“Mm.”

Just a hum. No explanation. No sympathy.

You followed anyway, flats sinking further into the mud with every step. You’d taken two buses, a ten-minute train ride, and now you were walking deep into a part of the park you didn’t recognize at all. Far from your neighborhood. Far from everything.

You glanced down at your shoes, now spotted with dirt and regret. This dress, the hair, the whole effort—you were starting to think it had all been a mistake.

Then Sunghoon’s pace suddenly picked up. His eyes lit up, focused on something just beyond the next turn.

“There,” he said softly.

And before you could ask what he meant, he reached for your hand—sudden, unthinking—and pulled you with him.

Your breath caught in your throat.

His hand was warm, firm around yours, fingers interlaced like it had always been that way.

You didn’t say a word. Just followed.

He led you past a line of trees, through tall grass, and down a narrow slope. Then finally—you saw it.

A small, glimmering pond hidden in a clearing. The water was still, mirror-like, catching the soft gold of the late afternoon sun. Willow trees bent low over the banks, their branches swaying gently in the breeze. Wildflowers bloomed in quiet clusters along the edge—lilac, yellow, soft blue—and dragonflies skimmed the water’s surface, their wings catching the light like tiny stained-glass windows. It was quiet. Peaceful. Untouched.

Like something out of a fairytale.

You stared, mouth slightly parted. “How’d you even—how’d you find this place?”

Sunghoon didn’t answer right away. He just stood beside you, still holding your hand loosely.

“When I was younger,” he said after a moment, voice softer than usual, “my family came here for a vacation. My sister and I snuck out one morning and found this by accident.”

You glanced over at him. He wasn’t looking at you—just at the water, like it still held something sacred.

“I used to take her here when she cried,” he continued, “whenever she got scolded by our mum. I don’t know... it always calmed her down.”

You smiled, quietly listening.

“Why’d you bring me here?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He laughed under his breath, the sound light, almost shy.

“It’s silly,” he said, eyes still on the pond. “But last night, when you were crying…”

You looked at him then—really looked at him.

His expression was unreadable, caught between memory and now. He glanced at you finally, voice quieter.

“You reminded me of my childhood. Of her. You looked so… innocent.” He gave a faint, crooked smile. “And maybe I thought this place would cheer you up.”

Your chest ached in the most unexpected way.

Not from sadness. Not even from joy.

Just from the quiet knowing that someone had thought of you that deeply.

You looked down again at your joined hands.

Still holding. Still warm.

The two of you made your way closer to the water, weaving past the low-hanging branches until you found a flat patch of grass near the edge. You sat down carefully, smoothing the fabric of your dress beneath you, your feet dangling just above the still surface of the pond.

Sunghoon dropped beside you, resting his arms lazily on his knees, legs slightly apart, sneakers almost brushing the water. The breeze was cooler here, brushing your cheeks with the scent of wildflowers and grass. The only sounds were the rustle of leaves, the distant hum of cicadas, and the quiet ripples of the pond.

He didn’t speak.

Of course he didn’t.

You’d grown used to his silences. They weren’t cold, or distant—not really. They were just… Sunghoon. Thoughtful. Still. The kind of quiet that made you want to fill the space, not because it was empty, but because he made you feel safe enough to.

So you talked.

About everything. About nothing.

You told him about the weird dreams you’d been having lately, about the girl in your class who kept trying to copy your notes, about how you once tried to bake cookies for your primary school crush and forgot the sugar. You pointed out shapes in the clouds. Gave names to the dragonflies. Talked about the playlist you made for a fictional road trip you hadn’t taken yet.

And Sunghoon?

He just listened.

Not distracted. Not fake-listening like some people did, nodding along while their mind was elsewhere.

He listened with his whole body. Slight tilts of his head. The way he’d glance at you when he thought you weren’t looking. The quiet little hums when something made him laugh. The barely-there smile when you said something completely ridiculous.

You kicked your feet gently above the water.

“Sorry,” you said at some point, half-laughing. “I talk too much when you’re quiet.”

He shook his head slowly, still looking out over the pond. “I like it.”

You blinked. “You do?”

“You talk like you’re alive,” he said softly.

You turned to look at him.

His expression was unreadable, gaze fixed somewhere across the water. But his voice—his voice sounded like truth.

Your heart beat a little faster. You looked down at your hands in your lap, trying to will the blush away.

The two of you had been sitting there for a while now, feet dangling over the edge of the pond, sunlight dancing on the surface of the water. You’d done most of the talking—naturally—and Sunghoon had just sat beside you, quietly listening like always, eyes half-lidded from the warmth, arms resting lazily over his knees.

You were halfway through a very dramatic retelling of the vending machine incident from earlier in the week when something soft landed on your head.

You paused, blinking. “Did something just…?”

Before you could reach up to check, Sunghoon leaned in.

His hand came up slowly, fingertips brushing through your hair with careful precision. You stilled completely. He was close—closer than usual—and the moment stretched, your voice caught somewhere in your throat.

His face hovered just inches from yours, eyes focused as he plucked a single pink petal from your hair. The breeze tugged at your dress, your heart did a weird little somersault, and your brain short-circuited trying to process the proximity.

You barely dared to breathe. His breath brushed your cheek, warm and soft. He didn’t move away.

And somehow, your mind made the leap.

Oh my god. He’s going to kiss me.

Your heart leapt. You shut your eyes without thinking, every nerve in your body suddenly very, very aware of the shape of his mouth and the way your knees were touching.

But instead of a kiss, you got—

A throat clear.

You opened your eyes to find Sunghoon leaning back like nothing happened, examining the flower petal with the clinical interest of someone assessing a grocery receipt. Like he hadn’t just completely hijacked your central nervous system.

You blinked at him, heat flooding your face.

He glanced up, clearly fighting back a smirk. “Did you just—”

“No.” Your answer was immediate. Loud. Defensive.

“I didn’t even finish my senten—”

“Shut up.” You whirled on him, hands flying dramatically as the full force of your embarrassment took over. “You scooted so close to me, and you leaned in and, and I—I didn’t know what to expect, okay?!”

Sunghoon’s eyes sparkled, lips twitching. “I was taking a petal out of your hair.”

“You took your sweet time, that’s what you did,” you huffed, arms flailing now. “God, you and your–cold–cold boy exterior. I can’t read your face! You could be about to kiss me or about to tell me my card got declined, and I wouldn’t know the difference.”

He let out a soft laugh, the kind that made your chest ache a little. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Excuse me for assuming I was about to have a romantic moment by a magical pond with a boy who—”

He reached forward suddenly, both hands cupping your cheeks, and you froze mid-rant.

The world slowed.

His palms were warm. Gentle. Holding your face like you were made of something delicate. You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

Then his voice came, low and steady.

“Do you want me to?”

Your words died in your throat. Your heart thundered somewhere behind your ribs.

You stared at him, wide-eyed, unsure what to say.

He didn’t press. Just looked at you with that infuriating, calm expression—the kind that made it impossible to tell if he was teasing you or being completely serious.

And somehow, that only made you fall harder.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again.

“I—” you tried.

Sunghoon waited.

You panicked. “You took way too long with the petal.”

He laughed. This time, fully. And God, if your heart hadn’t already betrayed you, that laugh would've done it.

“Okay,” he said eventually, letting go of your cheeks like he hadn’t just gently cradled your entire soul.

You immediately buried your face in your hands.

You hated him. You adored him. You had no idea what this was.

But you kind of never wanted it to end.

—

The walk back was quiet.

Not the comfortable kind that usually settled between you and Sunghoon. This one was thick. Tense. A silence so loud it felt like it echoed.

You hadn’t spoken a word since leaving the pond.

He’d glanced at you a few times as you walked side by side, but you kept your gaze stubbornly forward, arms crossed, cheeks still warm from earlier. You couldn’t stop replaying the moment in your head—his hands on your face, that question, your silence, the way your heart had practically stopped beating altogether.

And now, here you were. Standing outside your apartment. Streetlights glowing gold above you. Crickets chirping. The air cool and still.

He hadn’t said anything either.

Not until now.

Sunghoon cleared his throat softly. “You’ve been quiet since the park.”

You let out a small, unbothered-sounding tch, keeping your eyes fixed on the sidewalk.

What a stupid question. He knew why.

You were embarrassed. Flustered. Emotionally compromised and desperately trying to hold it together. And he just stood there, calm and collected, as if he hadn’t casually almost kissed you and then walked away like it was nothing.

You turned toward him, fire rising again. “You—!”

You raised your hands, ready to start waving them mid-rant like you always did. But before a single word left your mouth, Sunghoon stepped forward and grabbed both your wrists gently, stopping them midair.

You blinked.

“What are you—?”

And then he leaned in.

Soft. Quick. Certain.

He pressed a kiss to your lips—just a brief, featherlight touch that made your breath catch and your thoughts scatter in all directions.

It was simple. Barely a second long. But it knocked the wind out of you.

“There,” he said, voice low and calm, as he pulled back.

You stared at him, completely frozen. Mouth slightly parted. Eyes wide.

“Y-You—” you stammered, hands still in his.

Sunghoon didn’t flinch. “You were being loud in your head. I could hear it.”

“I—That’s not—You don’t just—!”

He raised an eyebrow, completely unfazed. “Feel better now?”

Your heart was a mess. Your brain was fuzz. But still… you nodded.

He let go of your hands slowly, his touch lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“Goodnight,” he said, and turned to walk away.

You stood there, stunned, watching him go. And somewhere between your heart trying to reboot and your hand brushing against your lips…

—-

The library was quiet, save for the occasional turning of pages and the distant hum of the printer.

You were trying to focus. Really, you were. But it was hard.

Not because of your thesis—which was enough of a monster on its own—but because of him. Sitting right next to you.

Sunghoon.

The boy who kissed you once. Who sent you home after and said nothing. The boy who still picked you up for class, still shared his earbuds, still split convenience store snacks with you like nothing had changed. And maybe it hadn’t. Not really.

You weren’t kissing everyday. You weren’t dating. There were no labels. Just… this strange, sweet in-between. And it was driving you insane.

You’d been hanging out every day, and yet neither of you had brought up the kiss. Not the one by the pond. Not the one on your doorstep.

You were somewhere between friends and more, and he seemed perfectly content to sit in that quiet space—while you were losing your mind wondering what it meant.

You were currently scanning the shelves, trying—and failing—to find a book for your thesis. You swore it was here. The catalogue said it was. But after combing through the aisle three times, you were ready to throw yourself into the return bin.

“Ugh,” you muttered, turning to scan the shelf one more time.

And then, like some book-finding angel, Sunghoon stepped beside you. He reached forward casually, plucked the exact book from the shelf above your head, and handed it to you without a word.

Your jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me?”

You snatched it from his hand, dramatic as ever, and turned to him with wild eyes.

“I’ve been here for twenty minutes! And you—!”

Your hands flew up instinctively, ready to gesticulate in full rant mode when—

He caught them.

Both of them.

Warm fingers wrapping around your wrists, stopping you mid-rant with that infuriatingly calm expression on his face.

And then he leaned in.

And kissed you.

Just like that.

Soft. Steady. No hesitation.

Your breath caught completely. Your brain shut off. The library, the thesis, the confusion—all of it disappeared under the pressure of his lips against yours.

It was over in seconds.

He pulled back like nothing happened, still holding your hands.

“Loud,” he said, voice low and amused.

And then—he let go and walked away.

You stood frozen in the aisle, mouth still parted in disbelief, the book clutched to your chest like it had personally witnessed a crime.

Your heart was pounding. Your face was burning. You were sure your soul had just left your body.

And once again… He didn’t look back.

Typical Sunghoon.

You were unwell.

Absolutely, fully, catastrophically unwell.

Because Sunghoon kissed you again.

In a library.

After handing you a book like it was the most normal thing in the world.

And when you raised your hands—to explain, to demand answers, to yell in three different emotional languages—he just… kissed you. Again. Calmly. Casually. And walked away like it hadn’t just restructured your entire brain.

You tried not to think about it. You really did.

But the moment you sat back down at the table, book open in front of you, and he slid a highlighter across the desk toward you like he hadn’t just emotionally detonated you—

You exploded.

“Okay,” you said, too loudly for a library. “What are we?”

He looked up from his notes, blinking once.

You leaned forward. “Because you kissed me. Twice. And you keep holding my face like I’m a traumatized woodland creature and then walking away before I can process anything.”

He tilted his head, resting his chin on his palm. “So you have been thinking about it.”

You sputtered. “Of course I’ve been thinking about it!”

Sunghoon nodded slowly, flipping to the next page of his notes.

You blinked at him. “Are you ignoring me?”

“I’m studying.”

“I’m spiraling.”

“Noted.”

Your hands flailed.

And just as you raised them again, fully prepared to unleash wave two of your emotional breakdown—

He stood up from his seat, leaned across the table, and kissed you. Right there. Again.

Quick. Soft. On the corner of your mouth this time.

You froze.

“I—” you squeaked.

“You were getting loud again,” he said, sitting back down like he hadn’t just completely ended your speech mid-sentence.

You gawked at him, face on fire. “You can’t just kiss me every time I get dramatic.”

“That’s what you think.”

You opened your mouth. He raised an eyebrow.

You closed it again.

He handed you your highlighter. “Let me know when you’re done with denial.”

You stared at him, heart pounding so hard you could hear it echoing in your skull. He was calm. Unbothered. Absolutely smug.

You hated him.

You wanted to kiss him again.

You highlighted the same sentence seven times just to avoid looking at his stupid perfect face.

—

You were walking home from the library with Sunghoon again. Just like always. Quiet sidewalk, golden streetlights, late-night hum of the city in the background.

Except nothing about it felt normal anymore.

Not after the kisses.

Not after the looks he kept giving you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. Not after your brain had chewed itself into pieces trying to decode what you were to him.

And tonight—you were done pretending you were fine with it.

“I just think,” you said for what felt like the fifth time, voice rising as your steps quickened, “that if you’re gonna keep kissing me, then maybe—and this is wild—I deserve to know what it means!”

Sunghoon didn’t answer. He kept walking beside you, hands in his pockets, face unreadable. Infuriatingly calm.

“And if it doesn’t mean anything, that’s fine,” you added, already lying to yourself. “But then stop doing it! You can’t just weaponize your mouth to shut me up like some human mute button—”

He stopped walking.

You blinked, still mid-rant, too fired up to notice that he’d turned until his fingers wrapped around your wrist and tugged you back—swiftly, gently, deliberately—until your back hit the cold brick wall of the nearest building.

The shock of it knocked the words straight out of your mouth.

“Wha—”

And then he kissed you.

Hard.

No hesitation. No teasing.

His lips found yours in one clean, fluid motion, like he’d been waiting, burning, counting every second leading up to this moment. His hand pressed firmly against the wall beside your head, his body angled toward yours—not pushing, just close. Too close. Close enough that you felt the heat radiating off of him, the weight of everything he hadn’t said.

You didn’t even get the chance to breathe before his other hand slipped to your jaw, tilting your face up slightly—and then his mouth opened against yours, and his tongue slid in. Slow. Confident. Sure.

You gasped softly into him, your fingers gripping the front of his sweater like it was the only thing keeping you from collapsing. And God—he tasted like mint and quiet danger, like late nights and secrets he hadn’t told you yet.

He kissed you like he was trying to memorize your mouth.

Like he wanted you breathless and boneless and ruined in the best way.

And you let him.

You kissed him back like it had been building inside you too, like you’d been waiting for him to break first—waiting for this exact kind of dizzying, spine-melting surrender.

By the time he pulled back, you weren’t sure where you were anymore.

Your chest heaved. Your lips tingled. Your back was still pressed to the wall, legs weak, thoughts tangled.

Sunghoon didn’t move far—just enough to speak, his thumb still brushing softly along your cheek.

“You’re loud,” he murmured, his voice rougher than usual. “But not when you’re kissing me back.”

You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t even glare. Your eyes were still wide and unfocused. Your body felt like it had been struck by lightning wrapped in velvet.

And him?

He just took your hand again like nothing happened.

“Let’s go,” he said, like he hadn’t just absolutely wrecked you against a wall.

You followed.

Stunned. Silent.

And for the first time in your life— You understood exactly why he did that.

Because nothing had ever shut you up like that before.

—

The next morning, Sunghoon was already waiting outside your apartment by the time you stepped out, bleary-eyed and still emotionally unstable from the night before. He stood there with his usual sleepy calmness, one hand in his pocket, the other holding your usual coffee order.

Of course he knew you hadn’t slept.

He hadn’t either.

Because while you were lying awake replaying that kiss over and over again, so was he. He’d tried to read, tried to distract himself—but every time he closed his eyes, all he could feel was you against the wall. Your fingers in his sweater. The way your lips opened under his, soft and wanting. The sound you made when he bit down gently on your lip before pulling away.

He was in trouble.

You walked toward him slowly, eyes puffy, your hoodie a little crooked from sleep. You didn’t say anything—just snatched the coffee from his hand and took three aggressive gulps like it personally wronged you.

“Hmph,” you huffed, before storming three steps ahead of him like an angry little duck.

Sunghoon blinked.

Then he laughed.

God, he was so gone for you.

“Why are you mad?” he asked, catching up easily.

You didn’t look at him. “Because—because you won’t tell me what we are. You keep kissing me every time I get dramatic, and you don’t say anything after, and you won’t tell me if you even like me, and—”

“Don’t you like it when I kiss you, though?” he asked casually, like he wasn’t setting your entire nervous system on fire.

You stumbled. “I—! I—”

He looked far too smug. You hated how good he was at this.

“You can’t just say smug shit like that and make me not want to choke you—”

You didn’t finish. Because just like last time, he moved without warning.

In one sharp, fluid motion, he backed you into the nearest tree, the rough bark grazing your spine as your back hit it with a quiet thud. His hand slid around to the small of your back, pressing you against him, while the other gripped your waist and dragged slowly down to your hip, fingers curving around it possessively.

His mouth was on yours before you could speak. No hesitation this time.

His lips crashed into yours—hot, hungry, open. He tilted his head, deepening it fast, his hand tightening at your waist as he pulled you harder against him. Your gasp disappeared into his mouth.

His tongue slipped past your lips, slow and deliberate. He kissed like he knew exactly what he was doing—like he knew how to pull sound from your throat without a word. His body pinned yours to the tree, firm and steady, his hips brushing into yours just enough to make you lose your balance and grab his sweater for support.

He groaned lowly when you kissed him back, your fingers bunching at his chest, his thumb digging into your side as his mouth moved harder, needier, lips parting, tongue sliding deeper.

And then—he bit down on your bottom lip, just enough pressure to make your breath catch.

“You didn’t stop me,” he murmured, breath warm against your skin.

Your mouth opened. “Because—”

“Because you like it,” he said again, low and certain.

You glared at him. “And what if I do?! At least I’m being honest with my feelings.”

Sunghoon raised a brow. “Are you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Because you haven’t really told me anything about your feelings,” he said simply.

You threw your hands up. “Is it not clear?!”

You folded your arms, frustration bubbling up.

“Is it not clear that I clearly like you?!”

And just like that—he was silent.

Sunghoon had always been calm, collected, a little unreadable—but something in his expression faltered then. His cool cracked just a little, the tiniest stutter of surprise flickering across his face.

His heart was doing things he would never admit out loud.

Because no matter how smooth he could be, no matter how many times he kissed you like he knew exactly what he was doing—you were the only one who could completely unravel him.

He looked at you, smiling softly.

“Look under your cup.”

You frowned. “What?”

“The cup,” he said. “Turn it over.”

You squinted at him suspiciously, lifting the cup over your head like it owed you answers. And there—scrawled in slightly smudged black marker under the base—was one word, just barely legible in his messy handwriting:

GIRLFRIEND?

Your breath hitched.

Your arms dropped.

You stared at it, then at him.

He stood there with his usual hands-in-pockets posture, pretending to be all calm and collected—but you saw it. The way his ears were just a little too red. The faint twitch of his mouth like he was holding his breath.

You blinked. “You wrote it… on the bottom of a coffee cup?”

“I thought it was romantic,” he said, completely deadpan.

You raised a brow. “You know people usually use, like, their mouths to say these things, right?”

“I figured this way, you’d actually read it instead of yelling over it.”

You paused.

Touche.

“You truly are a man of few words.”

He shrugged. “You use enough for both of us.”

You rolled your eyes—but your grin gave you away.

And then, quietly, you held the cup closer to your chest.

“…Yes,” you muttered.

His lips twitched. “You’re supposed to say it louder.”

You glared. “Don’t push your luck, loverboy.”

He smiled, wide this time. “Too late.”

Before you could react, his hands wrapped around your waist—confident, steady—and he pulled you in all at once. You let out a small yelp, half laugh, arms instinctively catching onto his shoulders as he swept you closer like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And then he kissed you.

His lips pressed into yours like he already knew you’d say yes, like your quiet little “yes” had unlocked something in him. There was no teasing this time, no smirk hiding behind it—just him, kissing you like he meant it.

His grip tightened around your waist, grounding you against him, your body flush to his as his other hand came up to cradle the side of your neck, his thumb brushing just below your ear. You melted into him without a thought, your fingers curling around the back of his sweater, trying to pull him even closer.

You could feel his heartbeat, fast but steady, pressed right against yours.

When he finally pulled back, just barely, his lips hovered over yours—still close enough to steal another breath.

“I’ve been waiting to do that properly,” he whispered, voice low and warm.