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heesvnqie · 17 days ago

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Drunk On You-Park Sunghoon

pairing: professor!sunghoon x student!reader genre: crush to lovers, smut warnings: explicit sexual content, unprotected sex (wrap it up irl!), oral (m & f receiving), rough intimacy, overstimulation, possessive themes word count: 8k

The first time you saw Park Sunghoon, the world tilted, as if someone had cranked the volume on your heartbeat and dimmed everything else. It was three years ago, your first week at Seoul National University, and you were a frazzled freshman, clutching a crumpled campus map like a lifeline, already late for your introductory lecture.

The autumn air bit at your fingertips, leaves crunching under your sneakers as you raced across the quad, your backpack thumping against your shoulders. You were so focused on deciphering building names that you didn’t see the figure lounging against a tree, one leg propped up, a book dangling carelessly in his hand, until you tripped over a gnarled tree root and nearly ate dirt.

“Well, damn, you’re making quite the entrance,” a voice called out, smooth as whiskey and laced with a grin you could hear before you saw it. You looked up, cheeks flaming, to find a pair of dark eyes sparkling with mischief.

He was tall, unfairly so, with sharp features that could’ve been carved from marble, softened only by a smirk that screamed trouble. His dark hair fell just messy enough to look intentional, and he was watching you like you’d just handed him the punchline to his favorite joke.

He snapped his book shut—a dog-eared copy of The Stranger by Camus—and sauntered over, offering a hand with a flourish. “Need a hero, or are you good at crashing and burning on your own?”

“I’m fine,” you muttered, scrambling to your feet before he could touch you, though the gesture sent a spark through your chest. You brushed dirt off your jeans, avoiding those piercing eyes. “Just… new to this place.”

“New, huh? I can tell. You’ve got that ‘lost puppy’ vibe going on.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “Don’t worry, I’m an expert at rescuing damsels in distress. Name’s Sunghoon, by the way.” His smirk widened, revealing a flash of dimples that made your stomach flip.

“Y/N,” you said, trying to sound composed despite the heat creeping up your neck. “And I’m not a damsel.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he teased, tilting his head as if appraising you. “You’re giving off some serious fairy-tale energy right now. Bet you’d look cute in a tiara.” He winked, and you nearly choked on your own breath.

“Thanks for the… help,” you managed, clutching your map tighter. “I’m late for class.”

“Humanities block’s that way,” he said, pointing with a lazy flick of his wrist. “Try not to trip over any more trees, princess. I might not be around to save you next time.” He shot you one last grin before turning back to his book, leaving you to stumble away, heart racing, his voice echoing in your head.

That was the moment Sunghoon became your obsession. Over the next few months, he was everywhere, like a song stuck on repeat. You’d spot him in the campus café, leaning back in a chair, flirting shamelessly with the barista while she blushed over his coffee order.

Or outside the library, tossing a football with friends, his laugh loud and infectious, his eyes catching yours for a split second before he’d flash a wink that left you flustered. He was a whirlwind of charm, always surrounded by people but never out of reach, like he knew exactly how to keep you hooked.

You didn’t dare approach him again, not after that mortifying first meeting, but you couldn’t stop watching. In the café, you’d pretend to read, your textbook a prop as you studied the way he’d lean in to talk, his voice low and teasing, or how he’d ruffle a friend’s hair just to get a reaction. In the library, you’d linger in the philosophy section, hoping he’d show up, which he did, often, pulling books from high shelves with a confidence that made your knees weak.

Once, you’d been bold enough to hover nearby, pretending to browse, but he’d been too busy flirting with a classmate—calling her “trouble” with that same damn smirk—to notice you.

Your crush grew like ivy, quiet but relentless, wrapping around every corner of your mind. You told yourself it was harmless, just a fantasy about a guy who probably didn’t remember you.

But every time you saw him—sprawled on the quad’s grass, tossing out one-liners to make his friends laugh, or striding past with that effortless swagger—your heart did a stupid little somersault. You’d replay his words from that first day: princess, damsel, the way he’d said your name like he was tasting it. It was ridiculous, but you couldn’t stop.

By your second year, you’d pieced together more about him. He was older, maybe mid-twenties, and he seemed to know everyone—slipping into conversations at poetry readings, debate club meets, even frat parties, with a charm that made him the center of gravity. You overheard he was studying something vague, maybe philosophy or literature, but no one had specifics.

He was like a campus legend, all charisma and mystery, and you were just one of many caught in his orbit. Still, you couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes would linger on you sometimes, like he remembered that clumsy freshman who’d tripped into his life.

You’d changed too, settling into your applied mathematics major—a practical choice, though it bored you senseless—and finding a circle of friends, including your roommate, Mina, who’d have a field day if she knew about your crush. You kept it locked away, letting it spill out only in quiet moments, like when you’d lie awake at night, imagining what it’d be like to talk to him, really talk to him, without tripping over your own feet.

Your third year was when everything shifted. You were 21, more confident but still a mess when it came to Sunghoon. You’d had a few fleeting interactions since that first meeting—a grin in the café when he’d caught you staring, a playful “Still tripping over trees, Y/N?” when you’d passed him in the library—but nothing real. He was still a stranger, just one you’d built an entire daydream around.

The night it all changed started with Mina dragging you to an off-campus bar, a gritty spot packed with upperclassmen blowing off steam after midterms. You weren’t a big drinker, but Mina’s “You need to have fun” speech was relentless, and soon you were sipping a vodka soda, the music vibrating through your bones.

The bar was chaos—bodies pressed together, laughter drowning out the bassline—and you were trying to keep up with Mina’s energy when you saw him.

Sunghoon was leaning against the bar, a beer in hand, looking like he’d just stepped out of one of your fantasies. His button-down was rolled up to the elbows, his hair slightly tousled, and he was laughing with a group of guys, his grin sharp and reckless. Then his eyes found you, and that smirk spread across his face, bold and unapologetic.

“Well, look who’s out of her library cave,” he called, sauntering over before you could hide. His voice was teasing, his eyes glinting as he leaned against the bar next to you. “Y/N, right? Or should I stick with ‘princess’?”

You flushed but held your ground, the vodka giving you courage. “Only if I can call you ‘trouble,’” you shot back, surprising yourself.

His laugh was loud, head thrown back like you’d just told the best joke he’d heard all night. “Oh, I like that. You’ve got some fire in you.” He leaned closer, his shoulder brushing yours, and you swore you could feel the heat of him through your jacket. “So, what’s it take to get you out here more often? I don’t see you enough.”

“Maybe you’re not looking hard enough,” you said, heart pounding as you met his gaze. His eyes were dark, playful, but there was an edge to them, like he was daring you to keep up.

“Trust me, I’ve been looking,” he said, his voice dropping low, and the way he said it made your stomach flip. He ordered you another drink, waving off your protest with a wink. “On me. Gotta keep my favorite damsel hydrated.”

The night spiraled from there. You talked—really talked—for the first time, his boldness pulling you out of your shell. He was relentless, tossing out flirty comments like they were second nature: “You know, you’re way too cute to be hiding in math class,” or “If I’d known you were this fun, I’d have chased you down years ago.” You gave it back as best you could, teasing him about his cryptic campus vibe, and he’d laugh, leaning in close to whisper something that made your pulse race.

“Let’s dance,” he said, not asking but declaring, his hand already grabbing yours. You weren’t a dancer, but he didn’t care, pulling you into the crowd with a grin that said he knew you’d follow. The music was loud, the bass thumping, and Sunghoon was a force—his hands on your waist, guiding you, his body close enough to feel every move. He’d spin you, then pull you back, his lips brushing your ear as he teased, “You’re making it hard to behave, princess.” You’d laugh, breathless, drunk on the moment and the way he looked at you like you were the only one in the room.

Hours blurred into drinks and laughter, his flirty edge never fading. He’d catch your wrist to stop you from stumbling, smirking, “Can’t have you falling for anyone else but me.” By the time you left the bar, both of you tipsy, the night air was a shock, but his arm around your shoulders kept you warm. You were giggling, leaning into him, his scent—cedarwood and something sharper—mixing with the alcohol in your veins.

“You’re a mess,” he said, his voice playful as he steadied you, but his eyes were softer, lingering on your face. “Gonna regret this tomorrow, you know.”

“Worth it,” you shot back, and he grinned, pulling you closer as you stumbled toward your apartment. Inside, the world shrank to your dimly lit living room, the streetlight casting shadows across the couch. You were close, too close, his breath warm against your cheek, his hand lingering on your hip.

“You’re gonna get me in trouble,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, but there was a heat in his eyes that made your heart race. He leaned in, his lips hovering just above yours, daring you to close the gap.

“Maybe I like trouble,” you whispered, bold for once, and that was it. You kissed him, or he kissed you—it didn’t matter. It was hungry, messy, three years of longing pouring out in a rush of heat and need.

His hands were everywhere, pulling you closer, and you let yourself fall into it, the world fading until it was just him—his taste, his touch, his bold, flirty grin still there even as he kissed you like he’d been waiting for it as long as you had.

The next morning, your head was a war zone, the hangover pounding like a drum. You groaned, rolling over on your couch, flashes of the night hitting you in waves. Sunghoon’s smirk, his teasing voice, the way he’d pulled you onto the dance floor, the kiss. Oh god, the kiss. And everything after. Your cheeks burned as you buried your face in a pillow, the reality of last night sinking in like a stone.

You dragged yourself to the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face, trying to shake the fog. It had been perfect, hadn’t it? Sunghoon had been everything—bold, flirty, larger than life. But now, doubt crept in. Was it just the alcohol? Just a game to him? You didn’t have time to spiral—you had math class in an hour, and you were already late. You threw on a hoodie and jeans, grabbed your bag, and bolted across campus, each step jarring your aching head.

The lecture hall was half-full when you slipped in, sliding into a back seat, hoping to disappear. Then the door opened, and your heart stopped.

Sunghoon strode in, but he wasn’t the Sunghoon from last night. No rolled-up sleeves, no messy hair. He was all professor—crisp button-down, tailored slacks, glasses perched on his nose like he’d been born to wear them. He wrote Professor Park on the board, the marker squeaking faintly, and your stomach dropped.

“Good morning, everyone,” he said, his voice smooth but commanding, carrying that same bold edge that had teased you last night. “I’m Professor Park, your substitute for Dr. Kim for the next few weeks. I’ve been with the university for over five years, though I don’t usually teach this course.”

Five years. The words were a punch to the gut. He wasn’t a grad student, not even close. He’d been a professor this whole time, teaching in some other department—philosophy, you’d later learn—while you’d been pining over him, thinking he was just a charming older student. Your mind raced, piecing together every moment you’d seen him on campus, every flirty comment, every wink. Had he known you were a student? Had he known last night?

His eyes scanned the room, and when they landed on you, there was a flicker—recognition, maybe guilt, but that playful spark was still there, like he couldn’t help himself. He adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat, and launched into the lecture, but you couldn’t hear a word.

All you could see was him—the way he’d grinned at you in the bar, the way he’d kissed you like he meant it, the way he was standing there now, untouchable, your professor.

The hour was torture. You scribbled nonsense in your notebook, avoiding his gaze, but every so often, you’d catch him looking your way, his expression unreadable. When class ended, students filed out, but you stayed, your hands shaking as you packed your bag. You didn’t know what you wanted to say, but you couldn’t just leave.

Sunghoon was erasing the board when the room emptied, the silence heavy. He glanced over, catching your eye, and that damn smirk flickered across his face, bold and infuriating. “Sticking around, princess?” he said, his voice low, teasing, like you were still at the bar.

You stood, clutching your bag. “You’re a professor,” you said, the words half-accusation, half-disbelief.

He turned, leaning against the desk, arms crossed, his grin unapologetic. “Surprise. Bet you didn’t see that coming.” He tilted his head, eyes glinting. “In my defense, you didn’t exactly scream ‘math major’ last night.”

“You knew I was a student,” you said, stepping closer, your voice shaking. “And you still—”

“Hold up,” he interrupted, raising a hand, but his tone stayed playful. “I knew you were a student, yeah. Seen you around for years, tripping over roots and staring at me in the café like I’m some kind of mystery novel.” He smirked, and you wanted to wipe it off his face. “But I didn’t know you’d be in my class. That’s a plot twist even I didn’t expect.”

“So what now?” you asked, your voice barely steady. “Last night was… we can’t just ignore it.”

His grin faded, but the boldness didn’t. He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell that cedarwood cologne, and lowered his voice. “Oh, I’m not ignoring it, Y/N. Trust me, I’m thinking about it plenty.” His eyes flicked over you, playful but sharp. “But I’m also your professor now, so we’re gonna have to play this careful. Unless you like breaking rules as much as I think you do.”

You swallowed, your heart racing. “I’m not saying anything,” you said finally. “I don’t want trouble.”

He chuckled, stepping back, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. “Good girl. But for the record, you’re already trouble.” He winked, then turned back to the board, leaving you to gather your things and walk out, your mind a mess of everything you’d felt for him—and everything you shouldn’t.

Your life became a tightrope walk after that morning, each step a battle between restraint and the reckless pull of Park Sunghoon. He wasn’t just a professor, you learned—whispers around campus painted him as the untouchable son of the university’s owner, a man who could bend rules like they were made of rubber. That explained the swagger, the way he sauntered into lecture halls like he owned them, the way his eyes lingered on you with a boldness that made your pulse stutter. He was a storm, all sharp edges and playful fire, and you were caught in his orbit, helpless and electrified.

The next few weeks were a game of cat and mouse. Sunghoon didn’t let up, his flirty edge sharpening with every class. He’d call on you in the middle of a lecture, his voice dripping with mischief. “Y/N, care to explain why this equation looks like it’s begging for mercy?” he’d say, leaning against the podium, glasses slipping down his nose just enough to make you forget how to speak. The class would snicker, and you’d fumble through an answer, his smirk burning into you like a brand. “Not bad, princess,” he’d murmur as you sat down, loud enough for only you to hear, the word sending a shiver down your spine.

Outside class, he was worse. You’d spot him in the café, lounging with a coffee and that damn Camus book, his long legs stretched out like he was daring you to trip over them again. “Still staring, huh?” he’d call out, catching you mid-glance, his grin all teeth and trouble. “Careful, Y/N, I might start charging for the view.” You’d roll your eyes, muttering something about his ego, but he’d just laugh, low and rough, leaning closer to whisper, “You love it, don’t lie.”

He was relentless, weaving himself into your days like he belonged there. Once, you were in the library, buried in a problem set, when a shadow fell over your desk. Sunghoon, of course, sliding into the chair across from you without asking, his knee brushing yours under the table. “Math, huh? Thought you’d be more… poetic,” he teased, snatching your pencil and twirling it between his fingers. “Need a break? I’m great at distractions.”

“Some of us actually study,” you shot back, grabbing for the pencil, but he held it just out of reach, his eyes dancing with that fierce, playful glint.

“Oh, I study plenty,” he said, voice dropping, his gaze flicking to your lips for a heartbeat. “Just not the kind of stuff in your textbooks.” He leaned closer, resting his chin on his hand, his cologne—cedarwood and something dangerous—filling the air. “Bet I could teach you something way more interesting.”

You snatched the pencil back, heart hammering. “You’re my professor, Sunghoon. Behave.”

His grin was pure sin. “And you’re my favorite troublemaker. Guess we’re both bad at following rules.” He stood, ruffling your hair like it was nothing, leaving you flushed and glaring at his retreating figure.

The worst part? He knew exactly what he was doing. As the owner’s son, Sunghoon carried an air of untouchability that made his boldness fiercer, like he was daring the world to call him out. He’d slip into your orbit at the worst moments—brushing past you in the hallway, his hand grazing your back just long enough to make you freeze, or tossing you a wink during a department event while he charmed a crowd of professors like it was his day job. He was a wildfire, untamed and untouchable, and you were the fool who kept inching closer to the flames.

One evening, after a particularly grueling day of exams, you found yourself at another bar with Mina, who was blissfully unaware of your Sunghoon saga. You were nursing a soda, trying to drown out the memory of his latest stunt—calling you “his star student” in front of the entire class with a grin that said he meant anything but academics—when he walked in. Of course he did. Dressed in a black leather jacket and jeans that hugged his frame like they were tailored for him, he looked less like a professor and more like a rockstar who’d wandered into the wrong room. His eyes locked on you instantly, and that smirk spread, slow and deliberate.

“Fancy seeing you here, princess,” he said, sliding onto the stool next to you despite Mina’s wide-eyed stare. “Didn’t peg you for a barfly.”

“Didn’t peg you for a stalker,” you retorted, sipping your drink to hide the way your hands shook. Mina’s jaw was practically on the floor, but Sunghoon ignored her, his focus entirely on you, like you were the only person in the room.

“Stalker? Nah, I just follow my instincts,” he said, leaning closer, his voice a low rumble. “And they always lead me to you.” His fingers brushed your wrist, featherlight but deliberate, and you swore the air crackled. “Dance with me.”

You glanced at Mina, who was mouthing “GO” like her life depended on it, and sighed. “You’re impossible,” you muttered, but you let him pull you to the dance floor, his hand warm and firm around yours. The music was slower this time, a sultry beat that matched the heat in his eyes. He didn’t let go, his hands settling on your hips, guiding you with a confidence that made your knees weak.

“You’re getting better at this,” he teased, his lips close to your ear, his breath sending a shiver through you. “Or is it just me making you look good?”

“Keep dreaming,” you shot back, but your voice was shaky, and he knew it. His grip tightened just enough to make you hyper-aware of every inch of space—or lack thereof—between you. He spun you, then pulled you back, his body pressed against yours, his lips so close you could feel the heat of them.

“Dreaming’s fun,” he murmured, his voice like velvet, fierce and flirty all at once. “But this? This is better.” His eyes held yours, daring you to look away, to pretend you didn’t feel it—the pull, the heat, the reckless edge of him that made you want to throw every rule out the window.

The song ended, but he didn’t let go, his hands lingering as he walked you back to the bar. “Don’t stay out too late, princess,” he said, his tone teasing but his eyes serious, like he was staking a claim. “I need you sharp for my class tomorrow.” He winked, then disappeared into the crowd, leaving you breathless and Mina practically vibrating with questions.

The next day, you walked into his lecture like you were stepping into a lion’s den. Sunghoon was already there, leaning against the desk, all sharp jawline and effortless charisma. He was explaining a derivative problem with that same playful edge, tossing out jokes that had half the class laughing and the other half swooning. When his eyes met yours, he paused, just for a heartbeat, and that smirk flashed—bold, fierce, like he was daring you to make the next move.

“Alright, everyone,” he said, clapping his hands. “Pair up for the problem set. Y/N, you’re with me.” The class erupted in murmurs, and your stomach flipped as he beckoned you to the front, his grin all trouble. “Let’s see if you can keep up, princess.”

You stood, your legs unsteady, and walked to the board, marker in hand, his presence looming beside you. He leaned close, ostensibly to check your work, but his lips brushed your ear as he whispered, “You’re blushing. Thinking about last night?”

“Focus, Professor,” you hissed, scribbling numbers to hide your shaking hands, but he just chuckled, low and dangerous.

“Oh, I’m focused,” he said, his voice a tease wrapped in a promise. “Question is, are you?”

The rest of the class passed in a blur, his flirty remarks disguised as teaching, his bold touches—hand grazing yours, shoulder brushing yours—masked as accidental. He was playing with fire, and you were too, because every time you shot back a retort or met his gaze, you were daring him to push further. He was the owner’s son, a professor, a rule-breaker by nature, and you were the student who couldn’t stop chasing the thrill of him.

By the end of the week, you were a wreck, torn between avoiding him and craving the next encounter. Late one evening, you were in the library again, trying to focus on your notes, when he appeared, sliding into the seat across from you like it was his personal throne. “Burning the midnight oil, huh?” he said, his voice playful but his eyes fierce, like he was hunting something and you were it.

“You’re here a lot for someone who doesn’t teach math,” you said, trying to sound casual, but your voice betrayed you.

He grinned, leaning forward, his glasses catching the light. “Maybe I’m here for the view.” His eyes flicked over you, bold and unapologetic, and you felt like you were drowning in that cedarwood scent again. “Or maybe I’m just checking if my favorite student needs… extra credit.”

You slammed your book shut, heart pounding. “You’re gonna get us both in trouble, Sunghoon.”

His smirk didn’t falter, his eyes glinting with that fierce, reckless energy. “Good thing trouble’s my specialty, princess. Question is, how much do you want to play?” He stood, leaving you with that challenge hanging in the air, his footsteps echoing as he walked away, bold as ever, knowing you’d be thinking about him long after he was gone.

The library encounter left you reeling, your skin buzzing with the memory of Sunghoon’s voice, his scent, the way his eyes stripped you bare without a single touch. He was a drug, and you were hooked, each flirty quip and fleeting glance another hit that left you craving more. But then, like a ghost, he vanished. No lectures, no café run-ins, no late-night library appearances. For three days, Park Sunghoon was a phantom on campus, and the absence of him carved a hollow ache in your chest, sharp and relentless.

Every moment without him was torture—your mind betrayed you with flashes of his smirk, his cedarwood scent, the way his lips had claimed yours that night at the bar. You were desperate, your body thrumming with a raw, primal need that kept you awake, tossing in your dorm bed, imagining his hands pinning you down, his mouth devouring you. You were a wreck, craving him like a drug, and the fact that he was the university owner’s son, untouchable and reckless, only made the want burn hotter.

You tried to focus—on integrals, on Mina’s chatter about some new club, on anything—but your mind was a traitor, replaying every moment with him. The bar, his hands on your hips, the kiss that had burned through you like wildfire. The way he’d called you “princess” in that low, teasing drawl, his lips so close you could’ve tasted them again. You were desperate, embarrassingly so, your body thrumming with a want that made your cheeks burn in the quiet of your dorm. Nights were the worst—lying awake, imagining his hands, his mouth, the way he’d looked at you like he could devour you whole. You were drowning in it, in him, and he wasn’t even there.

By the fourth day, you were a mess, snapping at Mina over nothing and checking your phone for campus gossip, hoping for a crumb about where he’d gone. Nothing. Just whispers about his father’s influence, how Sunghoon could skip town and still keep his job because of who he was. The owner’s son, untouchable, a rule unto himself. It made you want him more, the idea that he could break every boundary and pull you along with him.

Mina noticed your edge, dragging you to another off-campus party to “snap you out of it.” You didn’t want to go, but the alternative was another night alone, your fingers not enough to sate the hunger he’d sparked. So you slipped into a black dress—skintight, barely there, a reckless choice that screamed trouble—and let Mina pull you to a sprawling house party, the air thick with sweat and liquor. Your heart pounded, half-hoping he’d be there, half-terrified he wouldn’t.

The second you stepped inside, you felt him. Sunghoon was across the room, leaning against a wall, a beer dangling from his fingers, looking like he’d been forged for sin. His leather jacket hung loose, his white shirt unbuttoned to reveal a slice of taut chest, his hair a perfect mess that begged to be grabbed. His eyes locked on yours, and that smirk—bold, filthy, and dripping with intent—spread slow and deliberate, like he knew exactly how much you’d suffered without him.

“Fuck me, princess,” he drawled, pushing off the wall and stalking toward you, his gaze raking over your dress, lingering on the way it hugged your thighs. “You wore that to torture me, didn’t you?” His voice was low, a growl that sent heat pooling between your legs.

“Where the fuck have you been?” you snapped, trying to sound sharp, but your voice shook, laced with the desperation you’d been drowning in. He saw it, his eyes darkening, that playful spark turning predatory.

“Missed me that bad, huh?” he said, stepping so close his cologne—cedarwood and whiskey—hit you like a drug. “Family business. But I’m here now, and you look like you’re about to beg.” His fingers grazed your wrist, and the touch was a spark to gasoline, your body igniting. “Tell me, Y/N, how many times did you touch yourself thinking about me?”

You flushed, but the vodka in your system made you bold. “Every fucking night,” you admitted, voice low, and his grin was pure sin, his eyes eating you alive.

“That’s my girl,” he growled, grabbing your hand and pulling you through the crowd, his grip possessive. “Dance with me. Let’s see how much you can take.”

The music was heavy, a pulsing bass that matched the throb in your core. He yanked you onto the dance floor, bodies pressed tight, his hands claiming your hips like they belonged there. He moved with a raw, filthy confidence, grinding against you, his thigh slipping between your legs, teasing the ache that was already unbearable. “You’ve been a mess without me, haven’t you?” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot and teasing. “Bet you were soaking just thinking about my hands.”

You shivered, clutching his shirt, the fabric bunching under your fingers. “Shut up,” you hissed, but it came out like a moan, and he chuckled, dark and dirty.

“Oh, I’m just getting started,” he said, spinning you so your back was against his chest, his hands sliding lower, gripping your ass through the thin fabric of your dress. His lips grazed your neck, teeth nipping just enough to make you gasp. “You’re gonna be screaming my name by the end of the night.”

Your body was a live wire, every touch sending shocks through you. He was relentless, his hands roaming, one slipping under your dress to tease the bare skin of your thigh, inching dangerously close to where you were already dripping. “Sunghoon,” you breathed, and he groaned, his hips pressing harder against you, letting you feel how much he wanted you.

“Fuck, say it again,” he demanded, turning you to face him, his hands cupping your face, his lips crashing into yours. The kiss was raw, messy, all tongue and teeth, a clash of need that left you dizzy. He tasted like beer and sin, and you were lost in it, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling hard enough to make him hiss. “You’re gonna ruin me,” he growled, biting your lower lip, his hands sliding to your thighs, lifting you until you were pressed against him, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

He didn’t wait, carrying you through the crowd, ignoring the stares, his lips never leaving your skin. He found a staircase, taking it two at a time, and kicked open a bedroom door, the music muffled but still vibrating through the walls. He threw you onto the bed, the mattress creaking under your weight, and stood over you, his eyes dark and ravenous, like he was starving and you were the meal.

“Fuck, look at you,” he said, his voice rough as he climbed onto the bed, caging you beneath him. His hands were everywhere, ripping your dress up to your waist, exposing you to his gaze. “Been Squares dressed like this, begging to be fucked.” He yanked his shirt off, revealing a chiseled chest that made your mouth water, and your hands reached for him, desperate to touch.

“You have no idea how bad I want you,” he growled, tearing your underwear off in one swift motion, his fingers finding you soaked and ready. He groaned, low and primal, his eyes flashing with hunger. “So fucking wet for me.” His fingers slid through your folds, teasing, and you arched, a desperate moan escaping your lips.

“Sunghoon, please,” you begged, your voice breaking, and he smirked, that fierce, filthy grin that made your core clench.

“Patience, princess,” he teased, but his fingers were already working you, sliding in deep, curling just right, making you writhe. “You’ve been dreaming about this, haven’t you? My fingers, my mouth, my cock?” His thumb circled your clit, and you cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“Yes,” you gasped, and he leaned down, his lips sucking hard on your neck, marking you as his fingers pumped faster, relentless, driving you toward the edge. “Fuck, I need you.”

“You’ll have me,” he growled, pulling his fingers out, leaving you whimpering at the loss. He shoved his jeans down, freeing himself, and your eyes widened at the sight—hard, thick, and so ready for you. “But first, I’m gonna make you scream.”

He didn’t give you a chance to respond, spreading your thighs wide and diving between them, his mouth hot and merciless. His tongue flicked over your clit, fast and rough, and you screamed, your hips bucking against his face. He pinned you down, his hands like steel on your thighs, sucking and licking until you were shaking, your body shattering under his tongue.

“Sunghoon, fuck!” you cried, and he growled against you, the vibration pushing you over the edge again, your vision going white.

He didn’t stop, climbing back up your body, his lips slick with you, kissing you deep and filthy. “You taste like fucking heaven,” he said, lining himself up, his eyes locked on yours as he pushed in, slow and deliberate, stretching you until you gasped, the fullness overwhelming. “You’re mine now.”

He didn’t hold back, thrusting hard, his hips slamming into yours, the bed creaking under the force. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his hands gripping your hips, bruising, as he fucked you relentlessly, each thrust deeper, harder, hitting spots that made you see stars. You clawed at his back, your nails leaving marks, and he hissed, his eyes blazing with that fierce, possessive heat.

“Harder,” you begged, and his smirk was pure sin as he obeyed, flipping you onto your stomach, pulling your hips up, and slamming into you from behind. The angle was brutal, his cock hitting deeper, and you screamed into the pillow, your body shaking with another orgasm as he pounded into you, his groans growing louder, more desperate.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he growled, his hands gripping your ass, spreading you wider as he fucked you senseless, the room filled with the sound of skin slapping skin, your broken moans, his ragged breaths. “You’re gonna make me lose it.”

“Then lose it,” you gasped, pushing back against him, and he groaned, his thrusts growing erratic, his control slipping. He reached around, his fingers finding your clit again, rubbing hard, and you shattered, your body convulsing as he fucked you through it, his own release hitting with a guttural moan, his body shuddering against yours.

He collapsed beside you, both of you panting, slick with sweat. He pulled you close, his lips brushing your shoulder, his voice soft but still teasing, that bold, flirty edge never gone. “You’re fucking incredible,” he murmured, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your skin. “I’m never gonna get enough of this.”

You turned to face him, your body still trembling, and his eyes met yours, fierce and soft all at once, like he was claiming you in a way that went beyond the bed. “Good,” you whispered, your voice raw, “because I’m already addicted to you.”

He grinned, that reckless, untouchable grin, and kissed you slow and deep, like he was sealing a promise. “Get used to it, princess,” he said, his voice a low rumble, his lips brushing yours as he spoke.

"Well, let's go for round 2?" Sunghoon smirked.

He didn’t tease, plunging two fingers deep, curling them just right, making you cry out as your hips bucked against his hand.

“Sunghoon,” you moaned, your head falling back against the wall, his fingers pumping fast, relentless, his thumb circling your clit with brutal precision. Your legs shook, pleasure coiling tight in your core, and he leaned in, lips sucking hard on your neck, teeth grazing your skin as he marked you.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he said, voice low and dirty, his free hand grabbing your thigh, hitching it over his hip to spread you wider. His fingers fucked you harder, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room, and you were already close, your body trembling, chasing the edge. “Come for me, princess. Let me feel you.”

You shattered, a scream tearing from your throat as your orgasm hit, your walls clenching around his fingers, soaking his hand. He didn’t stop, working you through it, his lips on your ear, whispering, “That’s it, baby, give it to me.” Your nails raked his back, leaving red lines, and he hissed, his eyes flashing with hunger.

He pulled his fingers out, licking them clean with a groan that made your knees weak, his eyes locked on yours. “You taste like fucking heaven,” he said.

“Turn around,” he ordered, voice rough, and you obeyed, bracing your hands against the wall, your legs spread, ass out. He grabbed your hips, pulling you back, and you felt the blunt tip of him at your entrance, teasing just enough to make you whimper. “You want this, don’t you?” he growled, his hand sliding up your spine, gripping your hair and tugging your head back. “Say it.”

“Fuck me, Sunghoon,” you begged, your voice raw, desperate. “Please.”

He didn’t make you wait, slamming into you in one hard thrust, filling you so deep you screamed, the stretch almost too much but so fucking good. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he groaned, his hands bruising your hips as he set a punishing rhythm, each thrust slamming you against the wall, the sound of skin on skin loud and filthy. Your body jolted with every snap of his hips, pleasure spiking through you, your moans broken and breathless.

“Harder,” you gasped, pushing back against him, and he growled, yanking your hair tighter, his thrusts turning brutal, hitting that spot deep inside that made you see stars. His hand slid around, fingers finding your clit, rubbing fast and rough, and you were gone, another orgasm ripping through you, your walls pulsing around him as you screamed his name.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he groaned, his rhythm faltering, his grip tightening as he fucked you through your climax, chasing his own. He slammed in deep one last time, his body shuddering as he came, his groan low and primal, his lips pressed against your shoulder, teeth sinking in as he rode out the high.

He stayed there, panting, his body pressed against yours, both of you slick with sweat. His hands softened, sliding up your sides, turning you to face him. His kiss was slower now, still hungry but laced with something softer, his fingers brushing your cheek. “You’re fucking incredible,” he murmured, his voice rough but warm, his lips lingering on yours.

You smirked, still catching your breath, your body humming with the aftershocks. “You’re not so bad yourself, Professor.”

His grin was back, all trouble and fire. “Round three’s starting,” he said, scooping you up like you weighed nothing, carrying you toward the mattress with a look that promised you weren’t sleeping anytime soon.

Sunghoon’s lips lingered on yours, the kiss deep and consuming, his hands still gripping your hips like he couldn’t bear to let you go. His fingers still slick from the way he’d just unraveled you. The air was thick with the scent of him—cedarwood and whiskey—and the heat of your bodies, pressed so close you could feel every beat of his heart. His glasses were fogged, slipping down his nose, and you wanted to rip them off, to see the fire in his eyes without any barrier.

But his phone buzzed, sharp and insistent, cutting through the haze. He groaned, pulling back, his forehead resting against yours as he caught his breath. “Fucking hell,” he muttered, his voice rough but laced with that playful edge that made your core clench. He grabbed the phone, his thumb swiping the screen, and you braced for the tension. But instead, his lips curved into a small, almost fond smile as he read the message.

“What?” you asked, your voice still shaky from the orgasm he’d just pulled from you, your body aching for more even as you tried to ground yourself.

He glanced up, his eyes meeting yours, and that smirk was back, bold and teasing, but softer somehow, like he was letting you in on a secret. “It’s my dad,” he said, tossing the phone onto the bed side table with a careless flick. “Checking in. He’s been texting me all morning, worried I’m ‘overworking’ myself.” He chuckled, low and warm, shaking his head. “He’s too damn understanding for his own good.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Wait, your father? The university owner?” The man who could have you expelled, who could fire Sunghoon for what you’d just done with him. Your stomach twisted, but Sunghoon’s laugh was easy, unbothered, like the risk was nothing.

“Yeah, that’s him,” he said, leaning closer, his hands settling on your thighs again, thumbs tracing lazy circles that sent sparks through you. “He’s not what you think, Y/N. He’s… soft. Always telling me to live a little, to stop hiding behind the ‘professor’ bullshit.” His voice dropped, his lips brushing your ear. “If he knew about you, he’d probably cheer me on. Tell me to go for it.” His teeth grazed your earlobe, and you shivered.

“Go for what?” you asked, your voice breathy, half-challenging, even as your body arched into him, craving more of his touch. “You’re my professor, Sunghoon. This is already a mess.”

He grinned, all teeth and trouble, his hands sliding higher, pushing your skirt back up, his fingers finding the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. “A mess I’m fucking addicted to,” he said, his voice a low growl as he kissed you again, hard and hungry, his tongue claiming you like he owned you. “You think I care about the rules? You’re mine, princess, and I’m not letting a title stop me.”

His words lit you up, your body responding before your mind could catch up. You yanked him closer, your lips crashing into his, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling hard enough to make him hiss. “Then prove it,” you whispered against his mouth, your voice a challenge, your nails scraping his scalp. “Show me how much you want me.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. His hands were on you, rough and desperate. His mouth was on your neck, sucking hard, leaving marks you’d have to cover later, but you didn’t care. You wanted him to mark you, to claim you in a way that felt permanent. Your legs spreading as he stepped between them, his body hard and unyielding against yours.

“Fuck, you’re so perfect,” he groaned, his hands cupping your breasts, thumbs teasing your nipples through the thin lace of your bra. He yanked the fabric down, his lips closing over one peak, sucking hard, his tongue flicking until you moaned, your back arching off the bed.

You screamed, the sound muffled against his shoulder as your orgasm hit, your walls clenching around his fingers, your body shaking. He didn’t stop, working you through it, his lips on your neck, whispering filthy praise that made your head spin. “That’s it, baby, give it to me. So fucking good.”

“Fuck me again, Sunghoon,” you said, your voice raw, your hands pulling him closer, and he groaned, slamming into you in one hard thrust, filling you so deep you gasped, the stretch burning but so fucking good. He didn’t hold back, his hips snapping with a brutal rhythm, the bed creaking under the force.

“Goddamn, you feel like heaven,” he growled, his hands bruising your hips, his lips crashing into yours, swallowing your moans as he fucked you senseless. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, your nails raking his back through his shirt, marking him as yours. The pleasure was blinding, each thrust hitting that spot that made you see stars, your body already climbing toward another release.

“Harder,” you begged, and he delivered, flipping you over so your stomach was pressed against the bed.

“Come for me again,” he demanded, his voice a growl, and you did, your body convulsing, your scream muffled against the desk as he fucked you through it, his thrusts growing erratic, his groans louder, more desperate. He came with a guttural moan, his hips stuttering as he buried himself deep, his grip tightening as he rode out his release.

You collapsed against the bed again with him on your side,

You smirked, still catching your breath, your body humming with aftershocks. “God,” you said, your voice teasing but raw. "I’m not done with you.”

He chuckled, but his phone buzzed again, and this time he answered it, his voice shifting to something lighter, almost playful. “Yeah, Dad, I’m fine,” he said, his hand still resting on your hip, his thumb tracing lazy circles. “Just… caught up with a student. Extra credit stuff.” His eyes flicked to you, his grin wicked, and you rolled your eyes, swatting his chest.

When he hung up, he pulled you close, his lips brushing your forehead, a gesture that felt too intimate, too real. “He wants to meet you,” he said, his voice soft but serious. “Says he’s curious about the student who’s got me ‘distracted.’ His words, not mine.”

Your heart skipped, the idea of meeting the university owner—Sunghoon’s father—making your stomach twist. “What? Why?” you asked, pulling back to look at him, your voice a mix of nerves and defiance. “He’s not going to care, is he? You said he’s understanding.”

Sunghoon’s grin widened, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you closer. “Oh, he’ll love you,” he said, his voice teasing but warm, his lips brushing your ear. “He’s a romantic. Probably already planning our wedding.” He laughed, but there was a flicker of something serious in his eyes, like the idea didn’t scare him as much as it should. “He just wants to know who’s got his son breaking all his own rules.”

You swallowed, the weight of it sinking in. This wasn’t just a fling—it was a scandal waiting to happen, a professor and his student, a line crossed that could cost you everything. But Sunghoon’s father being supportive changed the game, made it feel less like a secret and more like… something real. “And what do I say?” you asked, your voice softer now, your hands still on his chest, feeling the heat of him through his shirt.

“Tell him you’re the one who’s got me losing my mind,” he murmured, kissing you again, slow and deep, his hands sliding under your blouse, fingers grazing your bare skin. “Tell him you’re worth every fucking risk.” His lips moved to your neck, sucking gently, and you melted into him, your body already craving more, even as your mind raced with the implications. "Tell him that you're the one who got Sunghoon drunk on you."

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almostwisegalaxy · 2 months ago

Text

Mama's boy Her boy.

Yeon Sieun x fem!reader

The reader has a shy character in this story

..................................................................................

The following Monday, it was raining.

Not a heavy rain, but that constant drizzle, almost annoying, that makes the air heavy and humid, as if the sky itself was caught in a silence filled with unshed tears. Yeon Si-eun was waiting, his back against the worn wall of the school's annex. He wasn't supposed to be there, but he had volunteered for the tutoring program. Not out of altruism. He had simply thought it would fill the void in a useful way.

Then she entered the room. Y/n. She was wearing an oversized sweatshirt, the sleeves covering her hands, and her bag seemed to almost slide off her shoulder. She didn't say anything, just nodded, her eyes avoiding his. But Si-eun had already noticed the slight tension in her fingers, the careful handling of her notebook, the way she stood between presence and erasure.

That was his way of observing.

The first sessions were silent, almost cold. He explained, she nodded. Sometimes she asked a question, her voice soft but firm, never looking at him for too long. He pretended it didn't bother him, but his mind, usually as orderly as a strategy game, began to fall apart.

He didn't understand. Why, when his eyes met y/n's, did he feel as if he was truly seen for the first time? Not as a smart or distant boy, nor as a tool for knowledge or controlled violence, but simply as a boy. Just a boy.

And that was the beginning of the obsession.

He began to look forward to these sessions like a starving animal. He noted everything: the way y/n paused to think, the way she switched pens while nibbling on the old one, the little smile she allowed herself when she understood something. He even started to hang around the community center where she sometimes came with her younger siblings.

He watched her take care of them with a tenderness almost fierce. They pulled at her arms, climbed on her back, knocked over her bag. And she, instead of getting annoyed, laughed softly. A laugh so discreet, yet so alive, that it took his breath away.

Si-eun, on the other hand, had never been held in loving arms.

Not even by his mother. Especially not by her.

The rare times she was around, she would stand in the kitchen, looking at her phone. She would nod when he spoke, but her eyes were always elsewhere. He remembered, as a child, tugging at his mother's sleeve to get a glance, a word, a gesture. But she was always too busy. Too absent. And eventually, he had stopped asking. What was the point?

So, when y/n occasionally brushed against him without thinking – a light touch of an arm, a hand brushing – it felt like a soft burn, an unbearable warmth he longed to replicate.

And he did.

One day, he pretended to have a headache. He staggered as he sat down. Y/n, concerned, placed her hand on his arm, then gently on his forehead.

He closed his eyes.

He wanted time to stop.

When he opened them, she was looking at him. And there was no fear. No pity. Just sincere concern.

Then, little by little, he allowed himself. One day, he leaned in, testing the waters. Another, he asked if she liked kids, feigning indifference. Then he dared more: he stayed after class longer. He walked her to the bus stop. He got into the habit of waiting for her.

Then, one night, he cracked.

It was raining again. Still that fine rain.

She had offered him an umbrella, and without really knowing why, he stepped closer. Too close. She smelled like soap and wind. And he held her. Against him. Against his chest. Barely, just enough.

He didn't say anything. He couldn't.

But his hands were shaking. He buried his face against her, like a lost child. And she didn't push him away. She even held him tighter.

That night, he cried.

Not loudly. Not sobbing. But those silent tears, almost shameful, that come from too far. From too deep. The ones that never find their way except in a moment when everything breaks just a little.

Y/n didn't say anything. She just kept her arms around him. Like a port. Like a refuge. And Yeon Si-eun thought: is this love?

Or was it simply the desperate need to finally feel loved?

Sometimes, when she laughed, he felt a hole in his chest. As if something wanted to get out, but he didn't know how. He wanted to tell her everything: the loneliness, the silences at home, the lack of attention. But he couldn't. So he just looked at her. With his sad eyes, those that silently said: love me. See me. Welcome me.

And she did.

He became dependent. On her arms. On her presence. He loved lying against her when he could. Once, she had run her fingers through his hair, thinking he was asleep. He wasn't asleep. He carved that moment into him like a promise.

But a persistent fear remained.

What if she left? What if she looked at him one day the way his mother looked at him? Without really seeing him?

So he became a little colder, a little more distant. To protect himself. But she, she didn't give up. She held on. She came back. Again and again. Each time.

And little by little, he thawed. Not like in the movies. Not all at once. But over time. With her.

He loved her. No, he was crazy about her.

It wasn't a loud love. It was a feline, gnawing, vital love. She was everything he had never received. Everything he had never dared ask for.

And every day, he silently prayed: let her stay.

Let her keep looking at him.

Let her keep loving him.

Because in her arms, for the first time, Yeon Si-eun was a loved son, a protected boy, a young man in love.

Finally alive.

---

Si-eun found himself in a place that, once upon a time, would have seemed nonsensical to him. A place that had no place in his cold, controlled world. At y/n's house. He never thought this could happen. Not him, the forgotten child of a constantly absent father, the cold silhouette of a rejected son. But reality was there. In her arms. In her breath against his. In the familiar sounds of the evening, the soft light of the entrance to her home.

He had never wanted to go, but she had invited him, insisting with a tone that allowed no objection. "You deserve to relax. You don’t come enough." And so, he had come, the first time. He stayed. He left. But his mind never left that place.

y/n lived in a house full of children's laughter, hurried footsteps, and voices that never stopped. She had two younger brothers and a sister. Every time he came, they greeted him with raw enthusiasm. He remembered their first glance. They had studied him, this strange boy who seemed so different from their older sister. But they had become attached to him, like children do with a protective figure. He, who had never had that.

y/n’s parents were rarely around. Often gone for work or other obligations, like invisible shadows in y/n's life. This left a void that she filled with her kindness, her patience. Si-eun had once seen her take care of her siblings after a long school day, her hands constantly moving, her gaze always gentle and reassuring. But when she saw him, she became something else, calmer. She didn't need words to express how she felt about him. And him... he no longer needed to pretend.

The first time he had nestled against her, he hadn’t thought. He had simply given into the warmth, this warmth he had never known. She was lying on the couch, her legs curled up, and he had sat next to her, then slowly, like a child seeking protection, he had leaned in until their bodies were almost touching. y/n hadn’t said anything, but her arms had surrounded him. And, suddenly, the world stopped spinning for him. All that mattered was the beat of her heart against his own. This connection, silent but meaningful.

It became a silent ritual. After school, he spent more and more time at her place. Sometimes, he just came to be in the same room as her. Sometimes, he lay beside her, closing his eyes. Their conversations were simple, but so full of unspoken words. Talks about trivial things that, somehow, seemed to resonate with a depth he had never known.

One evening, after playing a game with her siblings, he sat next to y/n on the couch. She was reading a book, but her fingers barely touched the pages. He watched her, his eyes never leaving her face. A slight smile played on her lips. "You have tired eyes." She looked at him, a little surprised, but didn’t say anything. Then she turned toward him. "It's because I worry about you."

Her words struck his mind like a cold wind, piercing the barrier he had built. Why would she worry about him? Her, the light in his life? Her, who knew how to give without asking? Why would she have empathy for him, a boy no one wanted to see?

She felt his silence. "You know, Si-eun, I’m not that naive. I see what you’re hiding. I see that you’re tired, that you carry all of this alone." She placed a light hand on his thigh. "You don’t have to carry it all alone."

It was strange. Her words, simple, hit him with such force that it hurt. She wasn’t rejecting him. She wasn’t fleeing from that dark side of him. She accepted him. She accepted him as he was. For him, it was nothing short of a revolution. No one had ever accepted him. Not even his mother. He looked up at her, his lips trembling slightly. "I... I don’t know how to be... the person you want."

She shook her head gently, her hair swaying slightly. "I don’t want anything from you, Si-eun. I just want you. All of you."

He swallowed. She didn’t understand. Or maybe she understood more than he thought. He pulled back slightly, embarrassed. But she didn’t let him go. She gently pulled him back toward her. And, without a word, she held him in her arms. This time, he didn’t pull away. He nestled against her, tighter, longer. He let her hold him. Her arms around him were a silent promise of protection. He allowed it. He had never had this feeling of being at home, of being truly at home, in someone else’s arms.

She rocked him gently, almost as if she had known him forever. She blew softly in his hair, her hands sliding slowly over his back, soothing. "I’m not going anywhere, Si-eun. You are my home. I’ll always be here."

He felt the warmth of her breath. His heart raced in his chest. He closed his eyes, a weight on his shoulders slowly dissipating. He didn’t need words. This contact, this simple embrace, was more than anything he could have asked for. The fear of abandonment, of rejection, melted into the air. He was no longer afraid. Because y/n was there.

A kiss. Soft, light. But everything changed. Her lips met his, at first timidly, like a question with no immediate answer. Then the kiss became more urgent, more essential, as if they had both been waiting for this moment without ever daring to say it. He gave himself to her, to this warmth that had always been missing in his life.

They stayed there, in that gentle silence, in that refuge. Si-eun had never wanted to be loved. But he had needed it so much. And there, in y/n's arms, he was no longer that cold and distant boy. He was just a man, a man in love, who had found his home.

She stroked the back of his neck, slowly, without haste. He didn’t move, enjoying every second. No need for more. Just to be here, with her. She kissed him again, her lips brushing his. A kiss to tell him he wasn’t alone. A kiss to tell him he was loved.

That night, he slept in her arms. Not out of desire, but to hear her breath, to feel her warmth. He had never wanted to sleep anywhere but here, in this place where he was welcomed, loved. He didn’t have to be anyone else. He could just be himself. And he knew, deep down, that he would always be with her.

At her place. At home. Together.

Forever.

..................................................................................

Requests are open. Enjoy!

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strayingawayy · 3 months ago

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ugly crying ft. gentle purring...

...the one where you're doubling over with sobs but minho's there. and so are your three fur babies.

warnings: ugly ass crying, mental breakdown, mention of hospitals

a total vent fucking fic that is incoherent tbh. reader just has a terrible fucking breakdown. if you need comfort for that from minho, feel free to read. happy fucking monday.

you wish mental breakdowns came with a goddamn warning sign.

you’re simply sitting on the chair, staring blankly at the tv, your hands limp against your lap. you feel off, like something’s wrong, but you can’t really place it. you knew something's coming but you didn't really predict that it's gonna be this bad.

then it crashes down.

the sob that rips out of you is violent, like something being torn from deep inside your chest. you don’t even have the presence of mind to slap a hand over your mouth to muffle it, it comes out, loud and raw, and the force of it sends you doubling over, choking.

"oh, fuck-"

minho is there. he always somehow is.

you didn’t even hear him come into the room, but suddenly he’s crouching in front of you, hands braced on your arms, his big , brown eyes wide and alert.

"hey, hey, what the- what’s wrong jagi?"

you can’t answer. you can’t even breathe properly. your chest heaves, but it feels like no air is getting in, and the crying just gets uglier, gasping, wailing, shaking so hard your knees knock together.

minho barely hesitates.

he’s pulling you forward before you can fully collapse, guiding you off the couch before you slide off of it. your legs fold uselessly beneath you as he brings you to the floor, your whole body slumping forward until your forehead presses against his shoulder.

"shit," he mutters, his voice softer now, realising you need his tenderness now more than ever, his arms wrapping around you, keeping you close. "okay, okay, breathe. just. breathe, jagiya."

but you can’t.

the stress, the frustration, the godforesaken helplessness. it’s been building for weeks. you’ve been following the doctor’s orders, keeping it together, trying not to be a burden. but now it’s crashing over you, suffocating you, and there’s nothing you can do except sob, breath hitching, hands curling uselessly into minho’s shirt.

"i fucking- i can’t- i dont wanna-minho, i-"

you’re not even making sense, the words breaking apart between sobs. your whole body shakes against his, and he lets you shake, lets you hold onto him because he's the only thing keeping you from falling apart in shambles right now.

"shhh," he soothes, voice steady, fingers carding through your hair. "it’s okay. i’ve got you."

but for once, it’s not okay. none of this is okay.

the hospital. the seizures. the way your body doesn’t feel like yours anymore. the restrictions, like chains wrapped around your wrists, pulling you down, making you feel heavier than ever.

"i hate this," you choke out, another sob tearing through you. "i hate- hate hate hate hate it!" you yell out, palms hitting the floor with every word before minho pulls it away and holds your hand against his heart instead.

his grip on you tightens for a moment before he shifts, guiding you into his lap with practiced ease. it's like he’s done this before. like he knew this was coming. you'd been strong for too long after all.

"i know," he murmurs, pressing his lips to your temple. "i know you do."

"i can’t. i need to do things, i need to work, i need-"

"no, you don’t," he says, firmer this time. his arms squeeze around you, grounding you. "you need to breathe and you need to rest."

"but i can’t just-"

"you can. and you will."

his voice leaves no room for argument, but it’s not cold. just steady. certain. he’s willing you to believe it, to trust him.

you can only let out another wrecked sob, burying your face against his chest, and he lets you. lets you cry, lets you break, lets you lose it completely in his arms.

and then, soft padding. a quiet, inquisitive meow.

you barely register it through your crying, but minho huffs out a small, amused sound.

"oh great. now you’ve upset the kids."

you lift your head just enough to see them, your babies, soonie, doongie, and dori, all three of them, tails twitching, ears perked up as they stare at you with wide, concerned eyes.

your breath hitches again, another sob threatening to break free, but soonie steps forward and plops down right against your leg, pressing his warm weight against you. doongie follows immediately, rubbing his head against your arm, while dori hops right into minho’s lap and paws at your hoodie, almost upset that he's not the center of attention.

you let out a choked, broken laugh, and minho smirks.

"see? even they know you’re being ridiculous."

you glare at him through your tears, but it’s weak, and he just smirks harder, reaching up to wipe your damp cheeks with the sleeve of his hoodie.

"you’re allowed to fall apart," he murmurs, the teasing laced with something softer, more real. "but you’re not doing it alone."

your face crumples again, fresh tears spilling down your cheeks, and he's gently pulling you in, tucking you against his chest, warm and safe as you hiccup.

"cry as much as you want," he says, fingers tracing soothing circles along your back. "i’m not going anywhere."

and with the company of your three meowing babies, and the big kitty holding you tight, you know you'll find it in yourself to feel okay again. and until you don't, they'll be there. and they'll be there, even once you are.

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arxiwon · 4 months ago

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[Thread] What Vampire!Enhypen Would Do If Their Girlfriend Was Dying

1. Jungwon 🩸 | The Reluctant Savior

Jungwon freezes, his mind racing between his morals and his love for you. He knows what he has to do, but turning you into a vampire means cursing you with immortality. His hands tremble as he cradles your dying body. "I can't lose you... but will you forgive me for this?" he whispers before sinking his fangs into your neck, sealing your fate with his.

2. Heeseung 🩸 | The Desperate Lover

Panic sets in as Heeseung sees the life fading from your eyes. He’s lived through centuries, but nothing has terrified him more than losing you. "No, no, no—stay with me!" His voice breaks as he bites into his wrist, pressing it against your lips. "Drink, baby. Please. Live for me." He refuses to let you go, even if it means turning you into something monstrous like him.

3. Jay 🩸 | The Broken Protector

Jay has spent his entire existence keeping you safe, yet now, you're slipping away in his arms. "This isn’t how it’s supposed to be," he grits out, his jaw clenched. His instincts scream at him to turn you, but deep down, he fears what eternity might do to you. "If I do this, there's no going back," he whispers, his fangs grazing your skin. But as your heartbeat slows, he makes his choice.

4. Jake 🩸 | The One Who Begs

Jake is wrecked, his body shaking as he holds you. "You promised me forever," he sobs, pressing desperate kisses to your forehead. His throat burns with hunger, but he refuses to take you without your permission. "Please, just wake up and tell me it’s okay," he pleads, knowing time is slipping away. In the end, he can't let you go. He bites down, choosing damnation over loneliness.

5. Sunghoon 🩸 | The Ruthless Decision

Sunghoon watches the light fade from your eyes, his usually cold demeanor cracking. He’s spent years guarding his heart, but with you, he let himself feel. And now? You're dying. "I won't let this happen," he declares, voice like steel. Without hesitation, he bites into your neck, ignoring the consequences. "You’re mine," he growls, holding you tightly as your transformation begins.

6. Sunoo 🩸 | The One Who Hesitates

Tears well in Sunoo’s eyes as he clutches you. "You'd hate me for this," he whispers, shaking his head. He doesn’t want to take away your humanity, your warmth, your light. But as your breathing grows shallow, he realizes there’s no choice. "I'm sorry," he murmurs before his fangs pierce your skin, his own tears mixing with your blood.

7. Ni-ki 🩸 | The One Who Loses Control

Ni-ki isn't thinking—his mind is blank except for one thought: save you. He acts on instinct, his fangs sinking into your neck before he even registers what he's done. The moment he feels your body jolt in his arms, he exhales shakily. "You scared the hell out of me," he mutters, pressing his forehead to yours. "You're not leaving me. Ever."

Which reaction do you love the most? Would you accept becoming a vampire for them?

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hrtfelt4u · 4 months ago

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collision. | anton lee.

003. patrón trauma.

(ignore timestamps unless otherwise stated)

previous | masterlist | next

pls comment, dm, or send an ask to join/leave the taglist.

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call-me-strega · 2 days ago

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I was just hit with the image of Jinu going around the demon realm looking for demons who were attractive or could sing and being like “Join my emo k-pop demon boy band”

#k pop demon hunters #kpop demon hunters #jinu #saja boys #demon boy band #I need to know how he recruited the others #Imagine you’re a demon and some rando walks up to you and asks you to join their literal evil band

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lara635kookie · 12 days ago

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Rumi and Jinu again pt.2: (Made by Me)

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heesmiles · 9 days ago

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HATE TO HAVE YOU p.js

synopsis ⤑ You were here for work. That was it. You didn’t even like hockey players. They were too raunchy, too noisy, just too much. You were a put your head down and listen to classical music through your headphones, type of girl. Your brother was a hockey player, your dad as well. All you wanted to do was help people, not fall in love with clients that were off limits. Clients who were the captain of the hockey team your dad coached. No, he was very much off limits and he would most certainly hate to have you.

pairings ⤑ hockey player!jay x coaches daughter!reader word count ⤑ 34k

warnings ⤑ smut, oral (m. rec.), forbidden romance, mentions of hockey injuries, angst, parental angst, kinda yearning jay???

crossing the line masterlist here.

a note from rain; it's done. crossing the line is finally finished, and the last one this one is the longest. Honestly, my favorite one is Sunghoon's but this one is i will hold dear to me since it is the conclusion. Thank you to everyone who has read and loved crossing the line as much as i have. ily

The diner always smelled like old coffee and fried memories. Grease clung to the air like a second skin, settling into the cushions of red vinyl booths and the strands of your hair no matter how tightly you kept your hood drawn. Outside, Seoul had cracked open into winter’s throat, grey light pressing through the glass like fogged breath on a mirror, leaving halos around the fluorescent signage. You sat in a corner booth by the window, jacket still zipped, hands tucked into your sleeves like you could hide your disappointment in the folds of fabric. The waitress didn’t ask for your order; she knew you. You’d been here before, many times before, waiting for a man who never came. So she brought your tea without a word and left it there to steep and grow cold. You were not surprised.

No, this sort of thing had long ago stopped being shocking. You were just…tired. Tired in the way only daughters of distant fathers could be, tired in your bones, your breath, your blood. You stirred your tea absentmindedly, watching the bag swirl like a limp ghost tethered to nothing. Your phone sat face-up beside the cup, silent and useless, save for the three unanswered texts and one call that had gone straight to voicemail. You didn’t leave a message. What was the point? If Coach Bennett cared to call you back, he would. But he never did, not when you scraped your knees learning to ride a bike, not when you stood alone at your middle school science fair, not when you left home for university. Hockey always came first. Always.

And yet, somehow, impossibly, you still wanted his help.

You weren’t here to be his daughter today. No, you were here for something more transactional, something clinical, something you thought he might be able to handle better than love. You were studying to be a sports therapist. Four years of aching backs, anatomy charts, injury reports, textbooks that read like they’d been translated from another language. You wanted to help people. Heal them. Tape their fractures, ease their bruises, guide them gently back to the things they loved. It made sense, in some twisted, ironic way, that your professors had suggested you intern under your father’s team. He was a seasoned coach, after all. Revered. Tough. Efficient. And you were nothing if not logical, so despite the rotting ache in your chest, the cold cup of tea, the flaking vinyl under your thighs, you had agreed to meet him and ask for the position. You’d rehearsed the words. I’m not asking for favoritism. I just want experience. I can do the job. I’ll keep my head down. I promise.

But now, the booth was empty except for you and your churning disappointment. Even the jukebox refused to play, the silence punctuated only by the clink of cutlery and the occasional bell over the door. Your eyes drifted to the window again, catching your own reflection faintly superimposed over the world outside: still, with shadows under your eyes and something hollow about the mouth. Not sad. Just used to it. There’s a difference. Eventually, the weight of waiting tipped you out of the booth, and you slipped your coat back on like armor. Your headphones dangled around your neck, the edges of a Bach concerto still humming faintly from the right side, but you didn’t lift them up. Not yet. You needed clarity, not comfort.

There was only one place he ever went this time of day. The ice rink. And so, you walked. Outside, the wind curled under your scarf like fingers seeking a pulse. Streetlamps flickered overhead, their bulbs blinking like tired eyes. Seoul was a city that didn’t sleep so much as dream with its eyes open, neon blinking against concrete, traffic lights blinking in cold Morse code. You passed through it like a shadow in motion, barely noticed, anonymous. Just the way you liked it.

When you reached the rink, it loomed like a cathedral of frost and echo. You could see your breath crystallizing in the air as you stepped inside, the glass doors groaning shut behind you. The chill wrapped itself around your bones, but you welcomed it. Cold was easier to handle than hurt. Cold made you sharp. Precise. Focused. The fluorescent lights buzzed above as you made your way down the corridor, the familiar scent of rubber and sweat filling your lungs. The hum of skates on ice reverberated faintly through the walls, scrapes, stops, a dull thud against the boards. Music, in its own rough language. You passed trophy cases lined with glimmering relics, photographs of boys with helmets crooked on their heads, their eyes wild with victory. One of them was your father, decades ago; before he grew bitter and distant, before he learned how to love the game more than he could ever love a family.

You expected the rink to be quiet, still and empty as a prayer unspoken. But as you stepped through the doors, the cold air kissed your cheeks with the gentleness of a ghost, and you heard it: the unmistakable scrape of blades against ice. Not chaos, not the frenzied thunder of a team in motion. Just one. A lone figure gliding back and forth, carving perfect arcs into the surface like a calligrapher with a silver pen. You paused at the boards, the glass cool beneath your fingertips, watching him move, fluid and sure, even in solitude. He skated like someone who didn’t need an audience. Who wasn’t chasing applause, just clarity. Repetition. Discipline. He wove through imaginary obstacles with practiced grace, the sound of his skates echoing like poetry in an empty room. You could almost forget how much you disliked hockey in moments like this, when it looked like dance, when it sounded like breath, when it shimmered with something close to silence.

You lifted your hand, tapped gently on the glass. Just once. He startled. The boy spun with a sharp jerk, arms splaying briefly for balance before he caught himself, chest rising with the kind of laugh you could only hear in body language. He glided toward you, a sheepish grin tugging at his mouth, strands of dark hair falling into his eyes beneath the helmet. He stopped just before the boards, breath fogging the space between you, and when he pulled his mouth guard down, his voice was warmer than you expected.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, with an apologetic nod, “but this is a closed practice.” You blinked. Not at the words, but at the way he said them, so earnestly, like a knight gently turning away a princess at the edge of a battlefield. His voice didn’t have the bite most hockey players used with girls near the boards. No teasing arrogance, no swagger. Just simple, practiced courtesy.

You smiled without thinking, soft and shy and almost surprised by your own reaction. “I’m too young to be called ma’am,” you murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. He blinked, then fumbled for a response, cheeks blooming with something faint and pink, even in the cold. “Oh—God, I—sorry. I just—my mom raised me that way. To be respectful. To women. Not that you’re old—I didn’t mean—I wasn’t saying that—” He trailed off, face contorting with the kind of mortified sincerity you rarely got to see outside of romantic comedies.

You let yourself laugh. Quiet, melodic. Just enough to lighten the air. “It’s okay,” you said gently, your voice muffled just slightly by your scarf.

He blinked again, eyes flicking briefly down, then back up, as though recalibrating everything he assumed about the world and his place in it. His hands fidgeted with the edges of his gloves, and he glanced over his shoulder, as if remembering that he was the only one on the ice. “Still, I’m sorry, really. The rink’s closed to non-personnel. I — I can’t really let anyone just come in. Even if you’re not a… ma��am.” His smile was a little crooked now, tilted with humor at his own expense, and you couldn’t help it, you liked the way it softened his face. You liked the way he stood there, unsure, waiting, instead of telling you to leave outright. You lowered your hood, let your voice rise just enough to reach him clearly.

“I’m looking for Coach Bennett,” you said. “He’s my father.” The effect was immediate. He straightened like he’d been struck by lightning, helmet tilting back slightly as he stared at you with wide, stunned eyes.

“Wait—Coach Bennett’s daughter?” he echoed, like the words didn’t quite fit in his mouth. Then again, more flustered: “You’re—oh my God, I—I didn’t know—I mean I would’ve—God, I’m sorry.” He scrambled to unclip his helmet, fingers tangling in the strap before he finally pulled it off, revealing a mop of dark hair and a face flushed with either embarrassment or exertion, or both. He was handsome in a way that didn’t feel intentional. His features were sharp, yes, and he had the jawline of a boy who could ruin hearts without meaning to. But there was something open about him, something too human to be threatening.

“Really sorry again,” he said, standing straighter now, as though trying to look more official. “Coach is in his office—I can show you where it is. If you want. I mean, of course you want. You’re here to see him. So yeah. Come with me.” You bit your lip to hide another smile and nodded, falling into step behind him as he pushed open the side gate and stepped off the ice with surprising grace. The blades of his skates clinked against the rubber matting as he led you down the corridor. He didn’t speak at first, and neither did you. It was comfortable, the silence. Not the awkward kind. Just… quiet. Reverent. As though something soft and strange had entered the air and neither of you wanted to scare it off.

When he stopped outside your father’s office, he turned to you again. His eyes were warmer now. Curious. Kind. “I’m Jay, by the way,” he said. “Captain of the team.” Of course he was.

You nodded once. “Nice to meet you, Captain.” And then you knocked. But for a heartbeat before your father’s voice called you in, you could feel Jay still looking at you, like he was trying to solve a riddle written in your eyes. And in that fleeting moment, you didn’t feel like a coach’s daughter. You felt like a secret worth keeping.

Coach Bennett’s office smelled like old sweat and ambition. The kind that settled into the corners, into the folds of jackets slung over chairs, into the woodgrain of the desk itself, soaked in over years of lost games and close calls. The room wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t cold either. It felt clinical, hollow, like it didn’t belong to a person so much as to the idea of one. Hockey posters curled slightly at the edges, clinging to cinder block walls. The light overhead flickered with a low hum, casting everything in a tired, blue-toned glaze. He was there, hunched over a chaos of papers like a priest at his altar, eyes scanning injury reports and scouting notes as if he could rearrange fate with a red pen. You didn’t knock. Not this time.

The door creaked open like a protest, and your footsteps broke the hush as you stepped inside. He didn’t look up at first, so absorbed in his paperwork that he didn’t hear the threshold of silence cracking like ice beneath your presence. But when he finally did, when your shadow crossed into his peripheral and your scent, faintly like jasmine and old books, stirred the air, he looked up, and his whole body stilled. His eyes widened with something between guilt and surprise, the pen in his hand faltering mid-sentence. The creases in his brow deepened like riverbeds. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath, pushing the papers aside like they were something shameful. “I forgot. I—I’m sorry, I—”

“Don’t,” you cut in, quiet but sharp. Not angry, just done. The kind of tone that grows in the lungs of girls who have been left at too many diners. “It’s whatever.” You stepped closer, not to bridge the gap, but to exist plainly in the room; as yourself, not a child in need of anything emotional. Just a student now. A professional. Someone with a clipboard of her own, even if metaphorical. You kept your coat on. Your scarf still looped tight at your throat. You weren’t here to unpack old things. You were here to ask for a favor. He sat back in his chair, watching you warily now, like you might say something he wasn’t prepared to hear. “What’s going on?” he asked, voice carefully neutral.

“I need a team,” you said simply. “For my internship.” He blinked, clearly caught off-guard. You inhaled slowly, pressing your hands into your coat pockets so he wouldn’t see how tightly they curled. “For the school. I’m in the sports medicine track. Therapy. I need a team to tour with. Help the players after games. Manage muscle strain. Recovery. Things like that.”

You watched his face shift as he absorbed the words. Something almost like pride flitted behind his eyes for a moment, brief, cautious, as if he wasn’t sure whether or not he was allowed to feel it. “Of course,” he said without hesitation. “You can work with us.” That fast. No negotiation. No warnings. No conditions. Just an open door.

You didn’t smile. Not really. But a breath left you; just one. Like the first note in a song you hadn’t realized you’d been holding in your chest. “Thank you,” you said, not out of gratitude, but necessity. The way you might thank a stranger who held a door open. Polite. Distant. You turned to leave. But of course, he had to say it. Had to reach across the gulf between now and then. “I really am sorry,” he murmured, just as your fingers grazed the handle. You paused. Not long. Just long enough for him to hope.

Then you shook your head once, gently, like you were brushing a snowflake off your shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.” Because you’d learned long ago how to build yourself from all the words he didn’t say. You didn’t need apologies. You didn’t need explanations. You needed a future. And you’d just stepped into it.

Outside, the sound of skates had stopped. Silence had settled again like fresh snowfall. And somewhere in the belly of the building, Jay was probably unlacing his boots, running his hands through his hair, wondering about the girl who tapped on the glass like she belonged on the outside looking in. And maybe she still did. But not for much longer. Because from here on out, you would walk through every door like it owed you something. And whether they liked it or not, you were on the team now.

The rink always had a certain silence before practice, like a church before mass, where the faithful trickled in one by one, lacing up their skates like ritual, shrugging on jerseys like armor. The air was sharp, biting, clean in the way winter mornings were clean, unforgiving but pure. Jay had always liked that about hockey: the brutal grace of it. How something so violent could also be so precise. How blades could slice through frozen water like poetry written too fast. He stood at center ice, tapping the butt of his stick against the boards while the rest of the team gathered, jerseys fluttering slightly in the wake of their motion. There was a quiet hum of voices, low laughter, murmured complaints about the early hour, the chill, the drills surely to come. Jay felt the same pre-practice electricity that always curled under his skin, warm and charged and constant, but there was something else today. Something different. A shift in the air.

Sunghoon slid up beside him, eyes narrowed. His movements were slower than usual, still cautious after weeks of physical therapy. But there was that familiar smirk, like mischief lived permanently in his mouth. “Any idea why Coach called us early?” he asked, stretching one leg experimentally behind him.

Jay shook his head, brows furrowing. “No clue. This wasn’t on the schedule. Even I just got the text.”

Sunghoon raised an eyebrow. “And the great Captain Jay doesn’t know? Guess it’s serious.” Jay didn’t answer, but his mind turned. Coach Bennett didn’t do things last minute, not unless something was off, or something was about to change. And Jay had learned, over the years, to pay attention to change. To study its rhythm. To anticipate the way it could shatter routine like glass beneath a puck. Coach appeared then, stepping out from the tunnel with that familiar commanding presence, clipboard in hand like a sword, whistle bouncing lightly against his chest. His expression was unreadable. It always was. But today there was a glint in his eye, a sharpness, like he was bracing for something no one else could yet see. The team quieted instantly. Skates stilled. Conversations stopped.

“Listen up,” Coach said, voice firm but even. “I’ve got an announcement.” Jay felt his spine straighten out of instinct. He always did when Bennett spoke like that; like something important was about to be carved into stone.

“My daughter,” the coach began, pausing just a second too long, “will be joining the team.” A beat of silence. Then confusion cracked through the ice like a jagged fault line. Heads turned. Eyebrows raised. A few muttered responses, some curious, some amused.

Sunghoon leaned in again, voice low. “Wait — coach has a daughter?” Jay didn’t respond. He was too busy sorting through the flicker of memory from the night before: the knock on the glass, the girl with the music still folded around her like armor, the soft voice that said I’m too young to be called ma’am. The gentle dismissal, I’m here to see Coach Bennett.

Coach cleared his throat. “To clarify, she’s not playing.” A few guys chuckled awkwardly, one of the rookies whispering something under his breath about whether Coach’s daughter could skate. He was promptly elbowed. “She’s a student in sports medicine,” Bennett continued, eyes scanning them like a general addressing soldiers. “She needs an internship. She’ll be traveling with us, working with you all post-practice, post-game — helping your muscles recover, monitoring fatigue, treating strain. You’ll see her on the bench. In the locker room. On the road.”

Jay watched as the team absorbed this. Some looked impressed, some still confused. A few clearly still processing the idea of a girl, the coach’s daughter, no less being part of their inner circle. Coach’s gaze fell to Sunghoon. “You’ll be working with her the most at first.”

Sunghoon blinked. “Me?”

“You’re still coming off that leg injury. She’ll be helping your mobility and monitoring your recovery. You miss any check-ins, I’ll know.” Sunghoon nodded slowly, the surprise quickly replaced by professionalism. Jay knew he hated being treated like glass, but he’d also never refuse a chance to speed up healing. Not when playoffs were on the horizon.

Coach looked back at the group as a whole then, jaw set like he was preparing to say something final. “She’ll be here tomorrow. Watching your style. Observing how you move. How you break down. How you come back.” He paused again, the silence stretching like a taut wire. “She’ll be with us every day. Every game. Every trip.” Then his voice dropped just slightly, softer, but more dangerous. Like frost underfoot you didn’t notice until you were falling.

“And she’s off limits.” That silenced even the whispers. “No dating. No flirting. No ‘accidental’ drinks after practice. She’s not here to be your distraction. She’s not here for you to impress. She is a part of this team now. And that means she’s under my protection.” Jay felt something tighten in his chest, an invisible thread pulling taut. Because the words made perfect sense. They were rational. They were fair. Still, he couldn’t shake the image of her from the night before. The way she stood with snow melting on her coat, headphones tucked like secrets around her neck. The way she didn’t smile with her mouth, but with the corner of her eyes. The way she said thank you like it wasn’t a gift, but a necessity. Polite. Distant. And now she would be here, every day. A ghost walking among them. Not haunting; but changing the temperature of every room.

“Understood?” Coach asked, his tone leaving no room for misinterpretation. The team nodded. In uneven unison. A few shared glances. One or two looked like they’d already started mourning the idea of flirtation. Jay just said nothing. He wasn’t planning on breaking any rules. He never had. But something in his gut told him that this particular rule wouldn’t break loudly. It would break quietly. Like a blade slicing through ice. And the sound wouldn’t be heard until it was too late.

The locker room after practice was its own kind of cathedral, sacred, exhausted, and a little broken. The air still hummed with the echoes of movement: the scrape of blades off concrete, the thud of pads being stripped away, the muffled laughter of boys who were half-wolves when they played and half-children when the ice was gone. It always smelled like the aftermath of effort, sweat, steel, cold leather, and adrenaline fading into silence. Jay moved like a ritualist through it, toweling off damp hair, peeling away his jersey, hanging it neatly in his locker like a soldier laying down his colors. The room had grown quiet now, most of the team already gone, off to late dinners, to laugh about drills over ramen and muscle aches. Jay remained behind, as he often did, not because he had to but because some part of him needed the stillness.

He liked to stay until the air was empty. Until it was just him and the hum of fluorescent lights above, buzzing like tired thoughts. He didn’t hear Coach Bennett at first. Not until he felt the weight of a presence at his back, and then the familiar sound of heavy boots on tile. Jay turned, towel slung around his neck, hair dripping dark at his temples. The man stood there, shoulders squared, arms folded across his chest. He didn’t speak immediately. He never did. He was the kind of man who let the silence do the talking until the words felt necessary.

“Coach,” Jay said softly, straightening a little, though the comfort between them ran bone-deep. “Everything alright?” Coach’s eyes flicked over him, assessing, calculating, not as a player, but as a person. He gave a small nod, stepping forward. “Got a favor to ask you.”

Jay nodded instantly, without thought. “Anything.” And he meant it. Because if Jay had a compass in this world, it pointed north toward Bennett. Always had. He didn’t come from much, not stability, not praise, not the kind of family who cheered at games. But Coach saw him. Had plucked him out of obscurity like a diamond mistaken for coal, shaped him, believed in him when no one else even bothered to learn his name. Made him captain. Made him better. Taught him that strength wasn’t loudness, but consistency. That leadership wasn’t glory, but showing up, day after day, even when no one clapped.

Coach laid a hand on his shoulder, heavy and solid like a benediction. “It’s about my daughter.” Jay stilled, just slightly. The name unspoken but implied, hanging in the air like frost, delicate and dangerous. He swallowed once, slowly.

“She’s new to all this,” Coach went on, voice quieter now, like the edges of him softened when he spoke of her. “And I know this team. Hell, I built this team. I know how boys act when there’s someone soft in the room. And she’s not here for that. She’s here to work. To learn.”

Jay’s jaw tensed faintly, but he kept his voice even. “Of course, Coach.”

“I need someone to make sure the guys don’t get any ideas. That they remember she’s not a conquest, or a game, or something to write about in a group chat. And she doesn’t need to know I asked. She’d hate that. She’s got my pride.” He gave a small, humorless chuckle then, rubbing the back of his neck like the confession cost him something. “She already thinks I don’t see her. If she finds out I’m watching her through other people’s eyes, it’ll just make it worse.”

Jay nodded again, slower this time. The weight of the request sank into his skin like bruises not yet visible. He could feel it, the invisible line being drawn, taut and fine and humming with tension. The line between loyalty and temptation. Between what was right and what had already started to stir quietly in the marrow of him. “I’ll keep an eye on her,” Jay said, and his voice didn’t falter, not even once. “I’ll make sure the guys don’t bother her. She’ll be safe. I promise.”

Coach’s eyes lingered on him, long and searching. For a moment Jay wondered if he saw it, whatever it was that had flickered in Jay’s chest when she knocked on the glass, when her eyes met his with that quiet, disarming clarity. But if he did, he didn’t speak of it. He just gave one firm nod, and a clap on the back that thudded like approval, or gratitude, or maybe a little bit of both. “Good man,” he said simply. “I knew I could count on you.” Jay smiled faintly. It was small. Hollowed.

And when Coach walked away, leaving the door to his office open behind him, Jay sat back down on the bench. The metal was cold beneath him. The silence returned, thick and echoing. Only now, it felt different. Because promises, he’d learned, were like the game itself.

They seemed simple from the outside, pass, skate, score, but beneath the surface, they were brutal. They cracked bones. Split skin. Cost you more than you realized when the puck first dropped. And now he’d made one. To the man who had given him everything. About the girl who didn’t know he existed yesterday. And something about that equation already felt like a game he wouldn’t win. Not cleanly. Not without bleeding a little.

The next day you walk into the rink with your headphones on like armor, like a barrier of strings and sonatas against the roar of blades slicing across frozen ground. The music didn’t have words; just aching violins and mournful piano keys, the kind that curled around your ribs like ivy and whispered things no one else could hear. You liked it that way. Preferred it, in fact. A world where no one expected anything from you but observation. Where you could move quietly, head bowed, tucked into yourself like a letter never meant to be opened. The rink was alive with noise, the kind of chaotic, youthful clamor that echoed endlessly in the domed cavern of the arena. Hockey boys were everywhere. Loud, brash, laughing with the type of ease you had never possessed. They moved like wild creatures in a frozen jungle, owning the space with the kind of confidence that repelled you. You wanted none of it. You were here for school. For requirement. For the credits that would get you closer to your degree, to a future far away from this cold-blooded sport that had always taken more than it gave.

You didn’t want to be here because it meant being near him, Coach Bennett. Your father. The man whose love always came in second to a scoreboard. You hadn’t even told anyone he was your dad until college forced your hand. Until the paperwork made you declare your internship, and your professor raised a brow when you mentioned the team he coached. "Isn’t that your father’s team?" they'd asked. And you had smiled, thin and bitter, the kind of smile that knew it was a confession more than a truth. Now, standing at the edge of the rink, you felt the cold creeping through the soles of your boots, settling into your spine. You scanned the ice, eyes drifting lazily across the players in warm-ups; men with sticks and padded shoulders, like warriors readying for a war made of bruises and bloodied lips. You didn't know most of their names. Didn’t care to. But one face stood out, again.

Jay. The captain. He was skating like it meant something, like each stride was a prayer, a promise. His eyes were focused, intense, not like the others who grinned and jostled and cracked jokes. He skated like he was carrying something, like the weight of the team sat across his back and he had no choice but to bear it. When he saw you, just for a second; only a second, his eyes met yours. The glance was sharp and immediate, but then he looked away, just as quickly, like the connection had burned too hot, too fast. You didn’t think much of it. You barely knew him. And besides, you weren’t here for moments. You were here for muscle strain and injury reports.

You made your way to the benches, setting your things down with clinical precision. Notepad. Pen. Clipboard. You moved like a doctor in a morgue, dispassionately pulling back the veil. You were already scribbling notes about posture, alignment, joint tension, before the first whistle blew. And then it did. Your father stepped out of his office and blew the whistle with the kind of command that could stop time. It pierced through the air, slicing straight through conversations and momentum alike. In a heartbeat, every player stopped. The way they lined up felt orchestrated, almost like choreography, the kind of order that came from months, maybe years, of discipline drilled into bone. They formed ranks, shoulder to shoulder, breathing hard, eyes alert. Soldiers in helmets. Artists in blood and bruises.

Coach Bennett tilted his head toward you. It was subtle, but it might as well have been a spotlight. You straightened awkwardly, your headphones still dangling around your neck like a noose of quiet rebellion. Your legs moved toward him before your heart caught up, and soon you stood beside him, exposed and scrutinized, every eye on you like you were some strange new species being introduced to a pack. “This is my daughter,” he said. No warmth in it. Just the words, dropped like a coin into a vending machine. Clink. Fact delivered. Move on.

There was a flicker of confusion in the air, brief and bewildered, but your father cut through it before it could grow. “She’s not here to play. We already discussed this yesterday. She’s here as part of her medical program. She’s going to be working closely with Sunghoon—” he nodded toward the boy in question, who shifted his weight onto one leg with a lopsided smile, “—but she’ll be observing all of you. Watching how you move. Learning how to help you recover.” He paused, and then added, with a finality that could crack glass, “She’s officially part of this team now. That means she’s under my protection. Act accordingly.” And then, just like that, practice began.

You faded back to the bench, taking refuge in your notebook like it was the only world that made sense. Scribbling notes as the players moved, trying to catch the little things, the slant of a shoulder, the twist of a knee, the strain in a calf that hinted at fatigue or overuse. You wrote like you were solving equations, like the body was a riddle you could unravel with enough observation. But part of you was still listening. Watching. You paid attention to Sunghoon especially. His recovery was evident, he moved smoothly, mostly, but every so often you’d catch a limp, a shift in balance that told a different story. You jotted it down: Left leg bears less weight on turns. Compensation in hip angle. Follow up post-practice. His injury had been bad. You remembered reading about it. The kind of injury that ended careers. But he was back. They always came back, stitched together with willpower and tape and the kind of stubbornness only athletes seemed to possess.

Your eyes flickered once more to Jay. He moved with that same elegance, only sharper. Cleaner. Like he was made for the ice. Like the rink recognized him as its own. You wanted to look away. But something about him made you linger a little longer.

The whistle blew like a sudden gust, sharp and liberating. It sliced through the rhythm of skate blades and sent a collective exhale through the room, a pause carved into the body of practice like a rest note in a long and relentless symphony. Coach’s voice echoed through the chilled air "Ten minutes" and the boys broke off in various directions, some slouching against the boards, others throwing their helmets onto the bench with a satisfying clunk, already gulping down water like it could cure every bruise they've ever earned.

You sat at the edge of the bench, body still and stiff, the kind of ache blooming at the nape of your neck that only comes from too much focus, from staring at bodies in motion, at joint tension and gait compensation and every angle of athletic wear and tear. The muscles of your own body felt coiled from stillness, from quiet endurance. You pulled your headphones down around your neck and exhaled, shaking out your head like a bird flicking off water from its feathers. Your eyes burned slightly, not from emotion but from overexertion, your thoughts running laps, your pen still ink-stained from the first hour of meticulous note-taking. And then, instinctively, you looked up. And he was looking at you. Jay.

It wasn’t a curious glance. It wasn’t fleeting or accidental. It was… deliberate. His gaze held weight, anchored like a stone skipping across still water, disrupting something in you that you’d carefully kept dormant. For a heartbeat, time stalled. Not in a romantic way; no, you didn’t believe in that kind of thing. But in the way a deer pauses when it senses it's been seen, body still, breath caught. And then he looked away. Too quickly. Like he’d been caught committing some small crime. Like your eyes had burned him and he hadn’t expected the flame. You tilted your head, puzzled but unwilling to overthink it. Not your business. Not your problem. You were here for work, not curiosity. You weren’t a girl who chased after glances. You weren’t here to peel back the layers of hockey boys with brooding eyes and sharp cheekbones. You were here to help, to heal. Not to unravel.

Still, the interaction clung to your ribs as you stood, notebook in hand, purpose hardening your spine like steel beneath silk. If your father wasn’t going to introduce you properly, then you’d do it yourself. You’d show them that you weren’t just the coach’s daughter, you were the intern, the analyst, the healer. You walked with quiet authority across the ice-chilled floor, each footstep sure, your notes pressed tight against your chest like scripture. First, Lee Heeseung. Tall, almost too tall to be real, with a kind of radiance that caught light like polished glass. He moved like he was made for attention, but your trained eyes saw what others didn’t; the slight forward hunch, the overextension in his reach, the way his shoulders bore weight wrong, unevenly, like a house built on a tilted foundation. You stepped toward him, gentle but firm.

“Do your shoulders ache?” you asked, voice calm but clear.

He blinked at you, eyebrows pulling upward in bemusement. “Uh… yeah, actually. Constantly.”

You nodded. “Because your form’s too open. You reach too far with your stick and overcompensate with your back muscles. You’re burning out your deltoids before you even get to the second period.” He stared, dumbfounded, as if you had read it off a hidden manuscript folded inside his bones.

“If you rotate more from your hips instead of your upper back, you’ll take pressure off the joint. I’ll show you how to fix it after.” He said nothing, only nodded with an almost reverent curiosity, as though he were seeing you for the first time. You moved on.

Next, Sunghoon. He was lounging against the wall, sweat dampening his dark hair like ink spilled across paper. You studied the subtle shift in his stance, the way he favored one leg. It wasn’t overt, but to you it was a glaring neon sign. He didn’t wince, but his left side moved slower, more cautiously. “You’re compensating,” you said, making him look up.

He grinned. Not a cocky grin, but the kind that folded warmly around the edges. “Can’t help it.”

“You’re doing well, considering. You land softly, roll through your hips, you don’t put too much pressure on the joint; but I can still see it.”

He shrugged. “My girl’s a figure skater. Taught me how to fall pretty.” That made you smile. A real one. One that cracked the ice around your ribs a little. You nodded in approval. “She taught you well.”

And then, Jay. You approached him last. His expression was unreadable, but something in the air around him shifted as you neared, like the temperature dropped a few degrees. He sat on the bench, helmet resting beside him, forearms braced on his thighs. Up close, he looked even more cut from marble, angular and quiet, a monument to restraint. He didn’t look up at first, not until your shadow settled over his lap like a silent challenge. “Does your knee hurt?” you asked, flipping a page in your notebook.

His head rose slowly, his gaze flickering over your face like he was trying to piece something together. There was no trace of the sheepish boy you’d startled in the rink a few nights ago. This Jay was guarded, mouth tight, voice low. “I’m fine.”

Your eyes didn’t waver. “You favor your left side. Every time you cut left, you hesitate. You don’t fully extend through the glide.”

He scowled faintly. “It’s nothing. I know how to stretch.”

You raised a brow, the edge of your mouth tugging upward; not in amusement, but something sharper. “Obviously you don’t. Or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

His jaw ticked. “I don’t need help.”

“This isn’t up for debate,” you said, your voice steady as a blade sheathed in silk. “You’re not exempt just because you’re the captain. If you want to avoid tearing something before playoffs, meet me after practice. I’ll show you the stretch.” And with that, you turned on your heel and walked away, leaving the weight of your words lingering in the air like smoke after a firework.

Practice ended not with a bang, but a slow unraveling, a sigh across the rink, the hiss of skate blades leaving ice, gear clattering into duffels like thunder softened into memory. The tension of the game dissolved into the scent of sweat and the chill of melting frost on players' necks. You lingered by the boards with your notepad, pen scribbling observations in swift, decisive loops. Notes about posture and movement, pain disguised as endurance, tight shoulders masked by bravado. Each boy became a puzzle, a map of injuries and habits and patterns, bodies writing stories in the snow, and you were trying to read them in a language only you understood. You made your rounds with professionalism sewn into your spine like armor. Softened your voice for Sunghoon, smiled gently at Heeseung, offered a shoulder tap and quiet praise where it was earned. But your eyes kept slipping, to the back corner of the locker room, where the Captain sat like a storm gathering in silence. Jay, half-shadowed, alone.

He was stretching. Technically. But he was doing it all wrong. The angle of his knee, the twist of his ankle, the way his weight was distributed, off, completely off. It wasn’t just inefficient; it was dangerous. You watched him for a minute too long, notebook momentarily forgotten. Something about the way he moved, so precise and careless at once, frustrated you. Like watching someone trying to read with their eyes closed, convinced they didn’t need light. You sighed, a breath curling like frost against your throat, and tucked your notepad under your arm.

Your footsteps echoed lightly across the tiles as you approached him, the hum of the fluorescent lights above buzzing like the wings of an insect trapped in amber. “You’re doing it all wrong,” you said simply, voice even but firm. Not mocking. Just true. Jay didn’t look at you at first. He exhaled hard through his nose, like your presence was an ache he didn’t know how to stretch out. Then, he rolled his eyes with all the weariness of a boy who’d spent his life hearing people tell him what to do.

“I told you already,” he muttered. “I don’t need help.” You laughed. Not a bright laugh, not one made of bells or sunlight. It was dry and sharp, like the snap of a twig underfoot, unexpected, dismissive, real. “Yeah, well,” you said, stepping a little closer, “I’m here whether you like it or not.”

He didn’t respond. He stayed seated, hands braced behind him on the bench, jaw tight. You knelt beside him carefully, knees folding like paper cranes, your movements deliberate. You reached for his leg, intending to guide it gently, to correct the twist in his stretch; But he flinched back, gaze snapping to yours, guarded and immediate. “Why are you touching me?” he asked, low, almost startled. As if your hand were a flame and he hadn’t expected to get burned.

You froze, hand hovering midair, your breath catching in your throat like a note not quite played. “Sorry,” you murmured, retreating an inch. “But I kind of need to touch you to show you how to bend your knee properly. That is… if you want to stop tearing ligaments before you’re twenty-five.” He looked at you for a long moment. His eyes weren’t angry, just… unreadable. The color of storm-drenched bark, of something old and rooted and worn by wind. Then, finally, a single slow nod. Permission granted.

You inched forward again, carefully, the space between you electric and small. Your fingers found his knee, warm through the thin fabric of his compression pants, and turned it just so, guiding his leg into a safer, smoother line. You spoke softly, explaining the movement, the angle, the way the muscles needed to engage. Clinical, composed, but your voice wavered just slightly beneath it all, like a violin string drawn too tight. He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. But his eyes never left your face. You felt the weight of them, like moonlight poured too heavy, like winter sun through an old windowpane, quiet but inescapable. You tried not to notice. You focused on your task. You were a professional. You were your father’s daughter. You had no room to blush under scrutiny.

But still, his gaze burned. Not cruel, not invasive, just… watching. Like he was trying to solve something about you. Like he didn’t expect you to exist the way you did. Like you were a song in a genre he’d never listened to before and suddenly couldn’t stop playing. Your hands paused, still resting on his leg. You looked up, the air between you catching on your ribs. “You’re holding your breath,” you said quietly.

Jay blinked, startled. Then slowly exhaled, a sound so faint it could’ve been mistaken for silence. “I didn’t realize,” he said. You nodded, pulling your hands away, letting the warmth of his skin fade from your fingertips. You stood slowly, brushing off invisible dust, the ghost of contact lingering like the smell of smoke on fabric.

“Well… now you do,” you replied. You didn’t look back as you walked away, not even when you felt his eyes follow you. You didn’t need to. You knew. Something had shifted. Not broken. Not begun. Just shifted. And shifts, small as they seem, have been known to start avalanches.

The ice rink hums behind you, echoing with the aftertaste of exertion; shouted jokes, distant thuds of sticks dropped to concrete, the hiss of showers roaring to life. You’re gathering your things slowly, as if the weight of your bag is heavier now, as if the moment you shared with Jay, fleeting as a spark, has thickened the air around you. Your fingers fumble with the zipper of your notebook pouch, and the stretch in your chest still lingers, not quite tension, not quite ache. Your pulse is a quiet metronome, steady and unhurried, but a part of you wonders, why did it feel like he was looking at more than just the position of your hands? You shake the thought loose, like snow from your shoulders. You’ve always been good at untangling what doesn’t belong.

You slip your headphones over your ears out of habit, though the music hasn’t started yet, and turn to go, ready to leave behind the clattering cold, the conversations you’re not a part of, the ache behind your eyes that only fluorescent lights and long-held disappointment seem to bring. But just as the door brushes open, his voice stops you. “Hey—wait.” It’s your father.

Coach Bennett. To them, just Coach. To you… a name wrapped in thorns and fatherhood, a man who taught you to ride a bike and then promptly missed every school play after. You turn, slowly, shoulders still braced with the tension of too many unsaid things. He’s leaning by the locker room threshold, towel looped around his neck, clipboard in hand, a man caught between work and worry. There’s something weathered about him, eyes rimmed in fatigue, mouth tight as if every word is weighted with the pressure of needing to win. Always needing to win.

“You headed out?” he asks, trying for casual, like he didn’t leave you waiting in that diner with a glass of tea sweating between your fingers and a heart already resigned to being forgotten.

You nod. “Yeah. I’ve got notes to type up.”

He clears his throat and glances down, as if suddenly remembering something that’s been burning a hole in his clipboard. “Right, well, your mother and I… we were hoping you’d come to a dinner at our place.” You blink. The sentence feels foreign. Bent out of shape.

“Dinner?” you echo, like it’s a language you haven’t spoken in years.

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s cooking. We’re having the Yang family over. You remember them? They used to come to your birthday parties when you were little.” You remember. Vaguely. A woman with kind eyes and a son with sticky fingers who pulled your hair when he thought you weren’t looking. You remember the way your mother always smiled too hard when she hosted, like she was trying to win some unseen game.

“I don’t know,” you say slowly. “I have stuff to do. I was gonna —”

“Your mother would really like you there.” The words land gently. But they wrap around your ribs like guilt. You stare at him, this man who knows how to rally a team, who can read the trajectory of a puck midair but never quite learned how to read you. Still, something in his voice is softer than usual. Maybe it’s the way he says her name. Maybe it’s the fact that he said we. You sigh. Your fingers tighten around your strap. You tell yourself you’re doing it for her, not for him. That there’s a difference. That the knot in your stomach isn’t because he asked you like he meant it.

“Fine,” you mutter, eyes dropping to the floor. “I’ll go.”

He nods, relief flickering in his features for just a breath. He doesn’t say thank you. He doesn’t have to. You both know that this is just another quiet truce in a long line of unspoken compromises. And just like that, you step out of the locker room, into the sharp wind curling through the corridor, your footsteps echoing down a hallway that always felt too wide for love. The evening air slips beneath your jacket, and you slip your headphones back on, press play. A cello fills your ear, slow and mournful, dragging its bow across your bones. You walk alone, music in your blood, but the memory of Jay’s eyes watching you refuses to fade. Like a handprint pressed to glass. Like a ripple after the stone is gone.

Your dorm smells like lavender detergent and pencil shavings, the remnants of college life settled like dust in corners you’ll never quite reach. The moment the door clicks shut behind you, you let the weight you’ve been holding all day slide off your bones. Your bag slumps to the floor with a thud that echoes like a memory, and your limbs follow suit, dragging you toward the bed like gravity’s favorite child, like weariness itself lives beneath your skin. You plop down with all the drama of a sigh swallowed whole, limbs sprawled like you’ve been dropped by life itself. The mattress dips beneath you, cradling your exhaustion like it knows every ache by name. You stare at the ceiling. That blank, indifferent canvas.

The plaster above you doesn’t blink when you ask it silent questions. It doesn’t flinch when your heart tugs in that old, familiar way; a tender throb behind your ribs that speaks not of heartbreak but of something older. Something more foundational. A longing not for romance, but for recognition. You think about the way your father spoke to Jay earlier today. The firm hand on his shoulder. The way he called him “son” with that gravelly voice full of trust and something perilously close to affection. You picture Jay, upright, respectful, attentive. A good soldier. A son made in the image of the game your father worships. And somehow, it makes sense. Of course he sees Jay like that. Like someone to be proud of. Like someone worth asking anything of.

You turn over, your cheek pressing into the cool cotton of your pillow, and let your eyes flutter closed. But sleep does not come. Instead, there’s that image again: your father, standing tall and certain beside Jay. There’s something about the way they fit together, coach and captain, like two sides of the same coin. A partnership born on the ice, forged by whistles and drills and the quiet understanding of shared purpose. And you? You were always just orbiting that world. A speck caught in the gravity of pucks and sweat and chalk-drawn strategies on whiteboards you weren’t supposed to read. You learned early on how to be quiet in a room full of roars. How to braid your silence into usefulness. How to stitch your dreams into shadows.

You swallow hard, turning again, burying your face deeper into the pillow as if it could erase the bitterness clinging to the edges of your thoughts. There is no use in comparing. You tell yourself that. You chant it in your mind like a prayer you almost believe. But it doesn’t stop the twinge. That sting of jealousy, quick and sharp like the slap of cold air when you step out of the rink. You hate it. You hate feeling this way. It makes you feel small, like a child standing in the doorway of a room where they were forgotten. You were never enough to pull him away from the ice. Not really. Not when it mattered.

Your thoughts spiral, curling tighter and tighter, like leaves drying in the sun, until they crack and crumble into a quiet resentment you’ll never say out loud. It isn’t rage. It isn’t even hurt. It’s that soft, bruised ache of a girl who stopped asking a long time ago. Your fingers clutch the edge of your comforter. You inhale deeply, try to ground yourself in the scent of fabric softener and the faint trace of your shampoo clinging to your sheets. This is your life now. Your space. Your silence. You’re here to work, to help, to heal. You are not here to unravel. You are not here to bleed. You exhale slowly, trying to empty yourself of all the noise you never say aloud.

And yet, as your body finally begins to still, mind untethering from the day’s demands, you can’t help but remember the way Jay had looked at you. Eyes tracking your every move like you were a constellation he didn’t expect to find. As if he didn’t understand you, but wanted to. And worse still… the part of you that didn’t mind it. You clench your jaw and squeeze your eyes shut harder. No. You’re here to observe. To support. To become what you’ve always wanted: a healer. Someone who listens to pain and knows what to do with it. Someone who helps others move forward, even when she’s stuck in place. You are not here to fall. Not for the captain. Not for the boy with tired eyes and a voice that turned cold when you got too close. Not for the one your father already loves.

You curl beneath your blanket, trying to block out the sound of the skating rink still echoing in your head, like ghosts tracing figure-eights across the floor of your memory. But they linger. All of them. Every step, every look, every word not spoken. And outside your window, the moon begins to rise like a watchful eye, silver and silent, bearing witness to your quiet war.

The frat house buzzed with the soft murmur of voices and the low thump of bass-heavy music, vibrating faintly through the wooden floors like a second, impatient heartbeat. The air was warm, too warm, thick with the scent of beer-soaked upholstery, half-eaten takeout, and a kind of restless boyhood energy that lingered like smoke. The overhead light flickered with a kind of tired stutter, casting shadows that leaned against the walls, distorted and lanky, as if even they were eavesdropping on the night. Jay sat perched at the edge of the couch, elbows on knees, fingers absently turning his water bottle in slow circles. It squeaked quietly against the condensation pooling beneath it, an accidental metronome keeping time with his drifting thoughts. Around him, the world blurred into soft focus. Heeseung lay sprawled like a cat on the floor, his hair a mess, flipping a bottle cap into the air with lazy grace. Sunghoon was halfway into the armchair, legs dangling, his voice doused in mischief as he picked apart the drama of someone else’s heartbreak with all the casual cruelty of young men who’d never had their own hearts split open properly. They were all happily in love anyway.

“Swear to God,” Sunghoon was saying, “the second Yunjin started that book club she didn’t invite him to? I knew she was checking out.”

Heeseung scoffed, his laugh low and sharp. “Nah, it was when she posted that solo beach trip pic. The one with the mysterious shadows and cropped-out shoulders? Amateur breakup announcement.”

Jay should have laughed. Should’ve said something clever and mean. But the words got lost somewhere between the memory of your hands on his knee and the way you’d looked at him, not like he was special, but like he was stubborn and wrong and in desperate need of correction. He didn’t know why it stuck with him. There’d been dozens of people who’d corrected him before, coaches, trainers, even professors. But you... you’d done it with a tilt of your head, a certainty in your voice that was almost tender and almost cruel. As if you weren’t trying to prove a point, but trying to protect him from himself. And that smile you gave afterward. Small. Smug. So real he could taste it on the back of his tongue.

“You good, Jay?” Jake’s voice slid in, calm and grounding, like a stone skipping across water.

Jay blinked, head snapping toward him as though waking from a fever dream. “What?”

Jake gave him a look, familiar and knowing. “You’ve been staring at the coffee table like it offended your ancestors.”

Jay exhaled, trying for a laugh. It came out more like a sigh. “Just tired.”

Jake grinned, leaning back, fingers running through his messy hair. “Join the club. Sera’s been doing these 3 a.m. concerts lately. I think she’s rehearsing for some kind of sleep-deprivation competition.” At that, Jay smiled. It was easier now, hearing Jake talk about his daughter, his eyes softening in the way only a father’s eyes do, even a young, exhausted one. It reminded Jay that not all responsibility weighed the same. Some burdens were chosen. Some were gifts disguised as sleepless nights.

“How is she?” Jay asked, voice quieter than before. At once, Jake lights up. It’s the kind of brightness that’s hard to fake, pure, paternal, cracked wide open with joy. “She’s perfect,” he says. “I mean, I don’t sleep anymore, and I’ve memorized the words to like six lullabies I didn’t know existed, but... when she grabs my finger with her whole hand? Man.” He grins, shaking his head. “I get it now. That stupid thing people say about how it changes everything. It does.” Jay listens. Really listens this time. There’s something grounding about Jake’s voice, the softness of it, the awe. It steadies the storm in his chest for a moment, like wind pressed flat under a gentle palm. “We are...figuring it out. But yeah. She’s everything.”

Jay nodded slowly, absorbing it. He tried to picture it, being someone’s anchor, someone’s whole world before they even knew what a world was. He wasn’t sure he could. His own childhood was too quiet, too cold. His father’s hands had never lingered in his hair, never tucked in his jersey, never taught him how to be soft. But Coach Bennett had. In his own gruff way. He’d shown Jay how to lace up ambition like skates, how to hold his chin up even when the game turned against him. He’d made Jay captain when everyone else had told him he was too intense, too focused, too rough around the edges. Coach had believed in him, and Jay never forgot that kind of loyalty. It was the kind that carved itself into your bones.

Which is why it was maddening, this new pull, this flickering tension every time your eyes met his. You were Coach’s daughter. A line drawn bold and black across the ice. He couldn’t even skate near it. But still. He kept remembering the way your brows furrowed while watching the team, the soft movements of your pen against paper like some orchestral conductor writing a silent symphony of muscle and breath and pain. The way you didn’t flinch under the weight of so many eyes. The way you didn’t once search the crowd for your father’s approval. That part, especially, had lodged itself in his throat. Because it wasn’t just that you were off-limits.

It was that you were untouchable in ways that had nothing to do with rules and everything to do with the ache he’d spent years learning to ignore. Jay shifted on the couch, elbows tightening against his knees. “She’s different,” he murmured before he could stop himself.

Jake raised a brow. “Who?” Jay looked up, startled, caught.

“No one,” he lied. But his thoughts were already spiraling, your hand on his knee, your voice in his ear, that laugh, dry and sarcastic, like a dagger wrapped in silk. He didn’t know what game this was, but it wasn’t one he knew the rules to. And worse still, he wasn’t sure he wanted to play fair.

It was the kind of night that felt like a sigh, long and low and inevitable. The sun had dipped behind the hills hours ago, leaving behind a sky bruised in soft purples and melancholic blue, like the hush before a confession. And still, here you were, standing at the edge of your parents’ driveway, dread curling around your ribs like ivy. You would’ve given anything to turn around, to walk back into the familiar solitude of your dorm room where silence hummed in soft harmonies and your music knew how to hold you without asking for anything in return. But no, the pull of obligation was a cruel thing, thick and choking, and tonight, it dragged you home. The house was lit up like a stage set, warm lights glowing from the windows, casting golden halos against the glass. You inhaled once, twice, steeling yourself, then stepped inside.

“Sweetheart!” your mother’s voice lifted into the air like a melody composed of saccharine niceties and desperate hope. She wrapped her arms around you before you could brace for it, her perfume, something powdery and expensive, sinking into your coat like memory. “I’m so glad you made it,” she whispered into your shoulder, though it felt less like a welcome and more like a plea. You nodded, lips pressed into a polite smile that didn’t quite touch your eyes. The scent of roasted garlic and marinated meat drifted in from the kitchen, thick and inviting, almost enough to distract you; almost. But then you heard your name called, and when you turned, you were met with the carefully curated smiles of two strangers standing too close to the polished mahogany of the entryway table. People you’ve seen before but don’t really know.

“This is Mr. and Mrs. Yang,” your mother said, her voice bright with a rehearsed kind of joy. “And their son, Jungwon.” Jungwon. His name hit the air like a pebble in still water, creating gentle, rippling waves of expectation. You gave them a nod, soft, distant, the same way one acknowledges clouds passing in the sky. He was handsome in the clean, quiet way some boys are, shirt tucked in too neatly, posture molded by years of piano lessons or polite dinners just like this one. He smiled at you, polite and kind. But your heart remained unmoved. There was no stirring, no ache, no static hum beneath your skin. He was fine. But you wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else.

Without a word, you slipped past them and made your way into the kitchen, the sound of your boots echoing against the tiled floor like the punctuation to a sentence no one had the nerve to say. “Hey,” you murmured, your voice low but warm, as you stepped behind your brother, who was busy laying out silverware with an absent frown. Jaehyun didn’t look up at first, just kept folding napkins like it was some kind of test.

“You made it,” he said flatly, glancing over his shoulder.

You bumped his arm with your knuckles, a small sibling gesture of truce. “Unfortunately.”

He snorted. “Tell me about it. They made me help prep. Felt like I was in culinary boot camp.”

“How’s hockey?”

At that, he shook his head, tousled brown hair falling into his eyes. “Brutal,” he muttered, the word pulled like a string from his throat. “We lost by five. My shoulder’s still sore from that last check.”

You laughed, though it was more of a breath than a sound. “You’ll live.” He rolled his eyes, but you could see the ghost of a smile playing on his lips before your mother’s voice called again, floating in from the hallway like a chime in a storm.

“Dinner’s ready!” Just like that, the spell broke. Jaehyun gathered the last of the glasses and followed behind you into the dining room where the long table waited like an altar, gilded with candlesticks, lace runners, and plates of food that looked too pristine to eat. You took your place near the end, far enough from the guests but close enough for civility, your back straight, your hands folded in your lap like the good daughter they always hoped you'd remember how to be. The Yangs spoke in soft, lulling tones, words that barely scratched at the surface of anything real. Their son sat across from you, occasionally meeting your gaze like he wanted to say something, something clever, or thoughtful, or maybe just nice, but you weren’t in the mood for pleasantries. Not tonight. Your smile was a veil, your laugh a curtain. You were not here. Not really.

Your father sat at the head of the table, his expression stoic, eyes moving from plate to plate, from person to person, as though dinner was just another meeting he had to manage. He asked about hockey like it was the weather, predictable and detached. He spoke more to Jaehyun than he had to you all week. And as the meal wore on, you found yourself chewing more on thoughts than on food. You thought about how he called Jay “son” sometimes in passing. How his voice softened when he talked to his players, how he clapped them on the backs with the kind of praise you used to dream about. You thought about the way Jay had looked at you today, the way his eyes followed your fingers, the heat of his skin beneath your hands, the tension of muscle and meaning that neither of you dared acknowledge.

You closed your eyes for a moment, pushing your fork through a piece of untouched chicken. You were tired of feeling second. Tired of the way your family only saw you when they wanted to show you off, when your presence meant something shiny and packaged. You thought about how Jay had rolled his eyes at you earlier, and how, weirdly, that had made you feel more seen than this whole table full of curated smiles and forgotten birthdays.

Dinner dragged on like a clock with too many hours, and you responded when spoken to, nodded at the right moments, said thank you when dishes were passed. But your mind wandered, to the rink, to the feeling of being useful, of having something to offer, even if the captain of the team found you irritating. At least that irritation was honest. And honesty, you were learning, was a rare delicacy in this house.

The clink of forks against porcelain had become a steady rhythm, a kind of soft percussion to a dinner that already felt twice its length. Small talk meandered between sips of wine and half-hearted compliments, your mother commenting on Mrs. Yang’s earrings, your father asking about Mr. Yang’s latest business venture with the polite detachment of a man doing what he was told. Across the table, Jungwon answered when spoken to, his voice low and kind, a boy raised to be gentle, to make eye contact, to smile when he felt uncertain. You didn’t mind him, not really. He seemed sweet. But sweetness, you were beginning to learn, rarely held weight when placed against the fire of ambition or the ache of unmet need. You chewed on a piece of bread, nodding along to a joke your brother made, when your father cleared his throat. The kind of clearing that meant a shift, a tone, a pivot into purpose.

“So,” he began, looking down the table as though he weren’t already directing the spotlight right at you. “Jungwon will be joining the team this semester. Equipment assistant.” Your eyes flicked to the boy across from you, his cheeks pinkened slightly, bashful beneath the weight of your father’s pride. You gave him a polite smile, one that said, Good for you, but not I care.

“He’ll be on the sidelines with you,” your father added casually, as if mentioning the weather again, but there was something careful in the way he said it, something staged. You caught it immediately, the way his gaze slipped from Jungwon to you and then lingered just a moment too long. You stiffened slightly in your chair, already sensing the script he had in his mind.

“That’s great,” you said lightly, reaching for your glass. “We’ll be co-spectators then.” But your father wasn’t finished. Not by a long shot.

“You two should spend more time together,” he said, letting the suggestion unfurl itself with the soft force of velvet gloves. “Jungwon’s a good kid. Focused. Thoughtful. Comes from a good family.” His smile flickered toward the Yangs like a candle catching draft, then returned to you, heavy with intention. And there it was, the curtain lifted, the illusion gone. You blinked slowly, letting the silence settle just a beat too long before speaking.

“I’m not dating right now,” you said plainly, though your voice was calm, even lyrical. A stone skipping across still water. “Not planning to until after I graduate next year. Boys are a distraction.” You said it like fact, not defense. Like gospel truth carved into stone tablets handed down by a wiser version of yourself. And maybe it was. After all, how many years had you sacrificed for perfect scores, for internships, for the dreams that danced just beyond reach like distant galaxies? You had no room for curated love stories or staged introductions masked as fate.

Your mother chuckled softly, a little forced. “Darling, no one’s saying you need to rush anything.”

But your father leaned forward ever so slightly, elbows on the table like this was suddenly a negotiation. “It wouldn’t hurt to keep an open mind.” You met his eyes then, really looked. Not through him, not past him, but at him. The man who gave his softness to the boys on his team, who wore fatherhood like a jacket he could take off when it became too warm. You didn’t glare, didn’t raise your voice. But your gaze was steel behind a glass window. Clear. Unyielding.

“I know what you’re doing,” you said, barely above a whisper. “And I’m not interested.” The room went still for a moment, the way a violin string quivers just after it’s been plucked. Jaehyun looked down at his plate, chewing slowly. Jungwon rubbed the back of his neck, clearly embarrassed to have been made a piece on someone else’s chessboard.

Your mother, ever the conductor of delicate recoveries, let out a laugh that sounded like it belonged to someone else. “Well! Why don’t we pass the salad around again? There’s more in the kitchen.” But you’d already pushed your plate aside, appetite gone, your chest tight with the strange ache of not quite belonging anywhere, not even here, not even with the people whose house you were raised in. You weren’t angry, not really. Just tired of the orchestration, the planning of your life as though it were a charity auction item passed between polished hands.

You didn’t want curated affection. You wanted to be chosen for who you were, not for who you were supposed to be. And outside, behind the thick curtains, the wind picked up in a hush, as though it, too, was trying to say something no one else could quite hear.

After dinner the table sat stripped of its former warmth, plates cleared, wineglasses emptied, napkins folded in the hush of a meal that had long since soured in your mouth. The laughter had faded like perfume lingering on a dress after the wearer has gone, and the only sounds now were the distant humming of the dishwasher and the shifting of chairs against hardwood as the front door shut behind the last of the guests. The air was still, thick with the kind of silence that waits to be broken, and you could feel it crawling up your spine like a storm on the edge of breath.

You stood there for a moment in the half-light of the dining room, your arms crossed against your chest like armor, your lips pursed in a line that threatened to break. Your mother moved quietly through the kitchen, her hands busy with cleaning, like always, her fingers always searching for distraction. Jaehyun yawned and leaned against the doorframe, phone in hand, already halfway out of the scene. But your eyes were fixed on the figures seated at the kitchen island: your parents, still playing their parts, still pretending that everything had been done out of love and not control. You stepped forward then, your voice calm but edged with the kind of cold that burned. “I didn’t appreciate what you tried to do tonight.”

Your mother looked up from the sink, the sponge pausing mid-scrub. Your father set his glass down, the click of it against granite too loud in the stillness. “We were just trying to help,” your mother said, gentle and practiced, the way someone might approach a wild animal, afraid of startling it.

You shook your head, swallowing down the heat that rose in your throat. “No. You weren’t helping. You were arranging. You were deciding for me.” Your father’s brow furrowed, his voice firm, that coaching tone slipping through like oil under a door. “We just thought you could use someone stable. Jungwon’s a good kid.”

“I don’t care,” you said. “That’s not your choice to make.”

There was a beat of silence before your father leaned back, his arms crossing, his jaw tightening like the locking of a gate. “Well, I already told the boys not to even think about you. I made it very clear; you’re off-limits to that team.” And there it was. The line drawn in blood. The decision inked into law without your consent. Your chest rose, breath shallow and burning, and for a moment all you could hear was the rush of your own heartbeat in your ears, like the distant roar of a tide pulling away from the shore.

“You what?” you asked, though you had heard him perfectly. You just needed to hear it again, to confirm the absurdity.

“I told them you’re off-limits,” he repeated. “I won’t have distractions on my team. You’re not there for that.” Something inside you cracked, quietly, the way a branch bends too far before it finally breaks. It wasn’t about boys. It wasn’t about Jungwon or Jay or anyone else on that ice. It was about you, your choices, your agency, your life being treated like a project in his playbook, another thing to coach into submission.

“You don’t get to decide that,” you said, your voice trembling, not with fear, but with the sheer weight of everything you’d carried. “You don’t get to police my life just because you missed out on being a part of it before.” Your mother gasped softly, the words hitting her like a gust of wind through an open door. Jaehyun had long gone silent, his eyes darting from you to your father like a spectator at a match he didn’t want to see. Your father looked stunned, as if he hadn’t expected the defiance, as if the girl he’d always seen; dutiful, distant, quiet, had finally stood up and lit the room on fire.

“You don’t get to be their father and mine only when it’s convenient,” you whispered. “You don’t get to show up now and act like you’ve earned the right to guard my future.” There was nothing left to say. Not really. You turned on your heel, grabbed your bag with trembling hands, and stormed toward the door, your footsteps loud against the wood like drumbeats announcing a war. No one stopped you. No one dared. The air behind you folded in on itself like paper, creased, tense, ready to tear.

Outside, the night was cold, the stars bleached white against a velvet sky. You walked fast, like maybe the wind could carry your fury away or the moon could catch the tears you refused to let fall. You didn’t cry, though. You were done crying. You had your own life to live.

The rink was a cathedral of stillness when you arrived, the kind of sacred hush that only exists before the world wakes up fully, before blades scratch across ice, before whistles pierce the air, before voices rise like a storm. The overhead lights cast long shadows across the rink’s frozen surface, a pale, dreamy silver that shimmered like moonlight trapped beneath glass. You moved quietly, your footsteps muffled against the concrete, setting your things on the bench with the kind of careful intention that comes from routine born out of necessity. The cold curled around your ankles and fingers like a ghost; familiar, but not quite welcome. You slipped your headphones on, the music like a balm against the clutter of your mind. It dulled the noise from last night, dimmed the echo of your father's voice, the barbed twist of his authority. You had buried your anger beneath a layer of icy professionalism, telling yourself that this was work, just work. This was about anatomy and muscle tension, about tape and breath and recovery, not about fathers who try to cage you or boys with dark eyes and heavy gazes who can make your pulse falter with a look.

You sat with your notebook open, sketching out plans, rotations for dynamic stretches, observations from the last practice, notes about posture, fatigue, habits of the body you were learning to read like language. You were deep inside your own head, scribbling something about joint stabilization and impact absorption, when a gentle tap on your shoulder sent a shock through your bones. You turned fast, heart stuttering as you tugged your headphones down, blinking up to find Jungwon standing just behind you. His hands were up in mock surrender, a soft smile pulling at his lips like sunshine trying to break through a curtain of clouds.

“Sorry,” he said, voice low, a little sheepish. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You let out a breath and gave a small shake of your head, smiling despite yourself. “No, it’s okay. I was just… somewhere else.”

He nodded, eyes flicking to your notebook, then back to you. “I just, uh, I wanted to apologize. About dinner. I had no idea our parents were planning that.” His voice was genuine, and something about the tilt of his head and the nervous shuffle of his feet told you he meant it. You relaxed, the tension in your shoulders loosening like laces unthreading.

“It’s not your fault,” you said, voice softening. “I could tell you were just as surprised as I was.”

He smiled at that, a little embarrassed, and glanced toward the cooler by the far wall. “I’m here early to fill water cups. I like getting everything done before the chaos starts.”

You glanced at the rows of plastic Gatorade cups lined up like soldiers waiting for orders and raised your brows, amused. “You take your job seriously.”

“I try,” he replied with a small shrug. “I’m not on the ice, but it still matters.”

You nodded, watching him for a moment, then turned back to your notebook. “I come early for the quiet,” you said after a pause, almost without thinking. “It’s like…the silence here has texture. It feels like something you can fold yourself into, like a blanket that doesn’t expect anything from you.” He looked at you then, really looked, like he was trying to memorize the way the words left your mouth, the way your eyes stayed downcast even though the thought you’d just spoken hung shimmering in the air like frost on windowpane. There was a flicker in his gaze, surprise, understanding, maybe a touch of admiration. Something tender bloomed between you, unspoken and strange, the way dawn makes you pause even when you’ve seen it a thousand times before.

You talked after that, quietly at first, about nothing and everything. The weather, school, how strange it was to be pulled into something bigger than you without consent. You learned that Jungwon liked history podcasts, that he hated the taste of mint and that he had a younger sister who adored figure skating. You told him about your internship, about your coursework, about the way you sometimes felt like no matter how hard you tried, your father would never see you as someone separate from his plans. And Jungwon listened, nodding, offering soft words that didn’t feel like pity but presence. You didn’t notice when the first skates hit the ice. Didn’t hear the buzz of the locker room doors or the scuffle of blades being adjusted. Time warped, folded into something tender and slow, and it wasn’t until a burst of laughter echoed from the tunnel and the boys began to file in like birds in flight, loud, messy, full of life, that you realized how long you’d been talking.

Your eyes flicked up instinctively, scanning the incoming flood of players, and there, in the midst of them, Jay. He looked good with the morning light painting silver into the dark of his hair, but his gaze was unreadable, distant. For a moment, just a flicker, your eyes met. He didn’t look away this time. But he didn’t smile either. And then the moment was gone, swallowed whole by the whistle of your father calling for warm-ups, the clash of skates against ice, and the ache in your chest that you didn’t want to admit had settled in for good.

Jay pushed open the doors of the rink with purpose, his duffel slung over one shoulder, skates clinking softly against the strap. The air hit him like a second skin, cold and sharp, the kind of cold that woke you up and carved clarity into your bones. It smelled like ice and effort, like old sweat and tape and victory dreams long since frozen in the boards. The kind of air that said this is where we fight, even if the war is only against the self, against time, against the nagging voice in your head that says you’ll never be enough. The week had been long, coiled tightly around the pressure of expectation. Their first game loomed on Saturday, close enough to taste, close enough that even his sleep had taken on the rhythm of the game, his dreams broken by phantom goals and aching limbs and the roar of a crowd that may or may not come. He was ready. Or at least, he was supposed to be.

He was lacing himself with determination as he stepped into the rink, threading it into every muscle. His footsteps echoed in the early hour, crisp and measured. He knew his role. Captain. Enforcer of grit and order. No time for softness, no space for distractions. Today was about execution. Focus. Edge. But then he saw you. You were perched on the lower bleachers, a notebook open on your knee, a pen in your hand like a wand drawing invisible maps through the air. You weren’t wearing your headphones this time. You were smiling. That soft, crooked kind of smile that looked rare on you, like something tucked away for safekeeping, only pulled out when no one was supposed to be watching. And you weren’t alone.

There was a boy beside you, shorter than him, younger-looking, with kind eyes and easy laughter, his body angled toward you like a sunflower turning toward the light. Jay hadn’t seen him before, which made something in his chest curl tight and sour. He felt it at once, sharp and unexpected: that gnawing sense of displacement, of not being in on something, of something already being taken. It was ridiculous. He barely knew you. You had spoken what, three times? You’d argued, mostly. Clashed like fire meeting stone. And yet… And yet.

Something about the sight of you sitting there with this stranger stirred up a noise inside him he couldn’t quiet. He told himself it was irritation, annoyance at having his morning disrupted by something irrelevant. That it was just the weight of practice and captaincy and pressure twisting his mood. But he knew the truth. Or at least, he feared it. He was jealous.

Not in the loud, possessive way of boys who’d already claimed something. But in that terrible quiet way that sneaks in when you weren’t even aware you’d begun to care. It crept in through the cracks, through the way you had corrected his stretch without blinking, through the way your fingers had pressed against his knee like a dare, through the way your voice held thunder even when you whispered. He hadn’t meant to remember the shape of your mouth or the way your eyes flared when you were angry. He hadn’t meant to notice the way your laugh sounded reluctant, like it had to fight its way past pain. But he had. And now here you were, smiling at someone else. Someone who made it look so effortless. And Jay, who lived his whole life wrapped in performance and grit and silence, felt, for a moment, like he was drowning in something he couldn’t name.

He tore his gaze away, jaw tight, back straight. He said nothing. Walked past you like you were a ghost and he was a man haunted. But even as the coach called the team to warm up, even as blades began to scratch their war-song into the ice, Jay couldn't help but glance back once more; just once, like a secret. And you were still laughing. God, he hated how beautiful you looked when you weren’t looking at him.

Practice begins like it always does, cold and unrelenting, the sound of skates slashing against ice like knives against glass, every player carving their hunger into the rink, hungry for speed, precision, and that brutal dance of dominance. You sit at the edge of it all, notebook in hand, eyes trained like a lighthouse beam over the curling mist of motion. The air bites, numbing fingers through your gloves, but your mind is sharp, cutting through every stride and swing with the precision of a scalpel. Your gaze is calculating, watching the way Sunghoon adjusts for his healing leg, the way Heeseung still hunches slightly too much on his left shoulder, compensating with poor posture. But today, something feels… off. Unsettled, like the silence before a storm when the trees go still and the birds forget to sing.

And it doesn’t take long for you to realize that the eye of that storm is Jay. Jay, whose presence on the ice is usually a poem in motion, a wolf weaving through wind, disciplined and razor-focused. Jay, who has always worn his title of captain like a stitched-on second skin, no room for error, no time for weakness. But now, he’s fraying at the edges. There’s something in the way he’s skating that makes your breath catch, a subtle stutter in his turns, a tension in his shoulders, like he’s being chased by something no one else can see. His movements are all wrong, off by mere seconds, fractions of angles, but wrong nonetheless. You notice his hesitation, how he favors the leg he’s always guarded like a secret. His eyes aren’t focused, not really. They’re vacant, elsewhere, like his mind is pacing in some far-off room, and his body is merely a ghost skating through the motions.

You frown, gripping your pen tighter, every instinct in you whispering a quiet warning. And then it happens. It’s not theatrical, no loud snap of bone, no scream echoing through the rink, but it is enough to silence the room. Jay goes down, a crack of imbalance catching in the middle of a play. His skate catches on the edge of a turn, his body unable to compensate in time, and suddenly he’s hitting the ice hard, elbow first, knee twisted beneath him in a tangle of velocity and weight. The sound he makes is more frustration than pain, but it’s guttural, and it sinks into your bones like cold water. He stays down for a heartbeat too long. Long enough for every eye to turn toward him. Long enough for your own lungs to forget how to breathe.

And when he finally rises, it’s with a sharp grimace and a tight jaw. He limps, not dramatically, but noticeably, dragging pride along with that wounded leg as he makes his way to the bench. You’re already up before your mind can catch up, your body drawn to him by something magnetic, something wordless and inevitable. You clutch your notebook to your chest, knuckles white, as you cross the ice’s edge with quick strides. By the time you reach him, Jay has torn his helmet off and flung it against the bench with a metallic clatter, the sound echoing like a gunshot. His gloves are off next, thrown down in a storm of self-loathing. He mutters curses under his breath, short and sharp, like they’re meant to punish the very air he breathes. His hair is a mess of sweat-damp strands, stuck to his forehead, and his eyes are wild, filled with that raw, reckless anger that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with pride.

You don’t say anything at first. You simply sit down beside him, close but not too close, letting the silence stretch thin and humming between you. Letting him cool like a blade just pulled from fire. You watch him from the corner of your eye, the way his chest heaves, the clench of his fists, the storm tightening and loosening behind his gaze. And finally, when the heat of the moment has dulled to a quiet ache, you speak. “I’ll need to look at that knee after practice.”

Your voice is soft. Not gentle, not coddling, just calm. Firm in that way that says you’re not asking for permission, but not picking a fight either. You expect the pushback, the snide remark, the roll of his eyes, the stubborn “I’m fine” that he usually keeps locked and loaded. But it doesn’t come. Jay doesn’t argue. He just nods, curt and silent, like something inside him has cracked open a little too wide to bother trying to hold it all in. Like he’s tired of fighting everything, including himself.

You don’t press him further. You don’t say what you’re thinking, that he’s been off since the moment he walked in, that you saw him watching you earlier with that dark, unreadable look. That you can feel the jealousy clinging to him like smoke. You don’t say that maybe you understand a little too well what it means to be someone who feels everything too much and yet can’t say a word of it aloud. You just sit with him, watching the other players file back onto the ice like nothing happened, like the world didn’t just tilt slightly off its axis. And in that quiet, in that fragile space between heat and healing, something unspoken passes between you.

You glance down at his knee, at the way he’s holding it like he’s not sure if he can trust it anymore. And your hands itch to help. To touch. To fix. Not just the bruises in his body but the ones buried in places far deeper, places that you, too, have learned to protect like sacred, broken things. Practice continues without him, Coach barking out instructions, pucks ricocheting off the boards, skates slicing like silver across the white. But the two of you remain seated, tucked just slightly out of reach from the rest of the world, bound together not by words but by silence and circumstance and a tangle of emotions too complex to name. You jot down a few notes in your book, pen gliding mindlessly now, thoughts half-drowned in the electricity that hums quietly between your shoulder and his.

Jay leans back, rubbing his hands over his face like he’s trying to scrub something out of his thoughts. And you don’t look at him, not directly. But you feel him there, beside you, in the weight of his breathing and the simmer of his presence. You wonder if he feels it too, the way the space between your knees barely touches, the way your shoulders almost brush, the way every breath you take feels just slightly heavier because of him.

After practice, the rink is quieter now, emptied of the thunderous rhythm of blades on ice, the thudding pulse of pucks striking boards, the boyish laughter and the barking drills. The fluorescent lights above buzz faintly, a tired orchestra of static and hum that fills the cavernous space with a ghostly kind of stillness. You sit cross-legged on the bench, notebook splayed open like a journal of war wounds, a ledger of flaws you’re determined to help fix. Jay is beside you, not quite close, not quite distant, but sitting with the kind of posture that speaks of restlessness buried deep in muscle and bone. The kind that no stretch can ease. You glance sideways, pencil poised above the page, waiting for the conversation to start, for him to meet you halfway. But he doesn’t. He’s there in body only, shoulders drawn taut beneath his hoodie, jaw clenched, eyes fixed somewhere out past the rink walls like he's seeing something far, far away. Something he won’t share.

You clear your throat softly, trying not to let the irritation creep into your tone. “Are you even listening?” you ask, voice light, teasing almost, but there’s an edge there, a sharpness hidden behind the casual. “Because if you don’t care about getting better before the game, then we’re wasting our time.” Still, no answer. Just the faint sound of him shifting his weight, his knee probably still throbbing beneath his clothes, though he refuses to complain. Jay has always worn pain like a badge, never seeking sympathy, only challenge. But this, this silence, it isn’t stubbornness. It’s something else. Something quieter, more personal. It feels like a wall rising up between you again after you’d both spent so long trying to tear it down with quiet gestures and silent understanding. You set your notebook down slowly, turning to look at him fully now. And that’s when he speaks.

“Who was that boy you were talking to in the beginning of practice?” His voice isn’t biting, not sharp or mocking like you expected. It’s careful, too careful, like he’s trying to sound casual but failing entirely. It lands in the space between you like a stone in still water, sending ripples that reach far deeper than he’ll admit. And for a moment, you just stare at him, lips parting slightly in confusion, the question catching you so off guard you almost forget to breathe.

You blink. “Jungwon?”

There’s a pause. A beat that stretches too long. Then: “Yeah. Him.”

You furrow your brow, unsure whether to laugh or scold him. “What does that matter?” Jay shrugs with the lazy grace of someone pretending not to care, but you see the way his fingers twitch against his knee, the way his jaw ticks slightly. He’s too composed for someone who's supposedly just ‘curious.’ His eyes don’t meet yours now. Instead, he busies himself with examining the tape on his wrist, like it holds answers he’s too afraid to find in your face.

You narrow your gaze. “That’s not really any of your business, you know.” And there it is, the truth unsaid, the fragile line you both keep walking. The tension coiling beneath every word you speak to each other, a dance of proximity and avoidance. His eyes finally lift to meet yours, something unreadable in them. A spark of something you can’t name. Not yet.

He shrugs again, but this time it feels like armor. “Didn’t say it was. Just… wondered.” You exhale, the sound heavy with frustration, but not just at him. At yourself. At how quickly your chest tightened when he asked. At how easily you could read between the lines of his too-casual tone. You pick up your notebook again with shaking fingers, trying to will the heat from your face, trying to shove the moment back into something clinical, something safe.

“Well,” you say after a pause, voice clipped as you flip a page, “I’d like to get back to your stretches now, if you don’t mind.” Jay doesn’t respond immediately. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, head tilted slightly toward you. He watches the side of your face like he’s trying to memorize it, trying to see something in your profile that you won’t say out loud. But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask again. Just lets the silence stretch between you like a fraying thread. And still, even in the stillness, you feel the weight of him beside you like a gravity pulling at the edges of your restraint.

You begin to talk again, reciting what needs to be done, which muscles he needs to target, what angles he needs to avoid to stop aggravating the joint. But your voice sounds strange to you now, too tight, too careful, like it’s been dressed in armor. You glance up briefly and catch him staring again, not at your hands, not at your notes, but at you. Always at you.

Time stretches, slow and sticky like sap from a wounded tree, as you move through the remainder of your notes, explaining each stretch again in patient, measured tones. Your voice is soft but firm, the kind of gentle insistence that comes from knowing what you’re talking about and caring too much to be dismissed. Jay listens this time, even if his expression is unreadable, more shadows than light. He sits with his back curved, eyes lowered, brow furrowed in a quiet storm of frustration and focus. You ask him if he’s been doing the stretches you assigned and his reply is a low grumble, almost a growl, as if admitting defeat to the air rather than to you.

“Tried,” he mutters, voice roughened by pride and something he can’t quite name, “but they hurt more than they helped.”

You sigh, the sound carrying a weight that doesn’t belong solely to this moment. You kneel before him, brushing your hair behind your ears like a soldier tying back their banner before battle. “Then you were doing them wrong,” you reply, the words not scolding but certain, like the slow unfolding of spring after a bitter winter. You rise and move toward him, slipping into the space beside his seated form on the bench, your fingers brushing over his wrist gently as you coax him to stand. He obeys, but not without reluctance, the kind of resistance that doesn’t come from distrust, but from something deeper, something tangled in his own ribs, knotted in the cords of his heart. You demonstrate the posture again, turning slightly to show how your knee aligns with your hip, how the stretch should feel like a pull and not a tear. But as you step back to make room for him to try it, your foot catches on the edge of your own bag, traitorous and silent, and suddenly the world tilts. You flail forward with a gasp, arms reaching for something solid, and Jay catches you before your body can meet the cold, uncaring floor.

His arms come around you swiftly, instinctually, like muscle memory, like he’s caught you a thousand times before in dreams he doesn’t remember. His breath escapes him in a hiss as the movement jars his knee, and you gasp in tandem, both of you locked in a suspended, breathless moment of mutual alarm. You straighten in his hold, hands resting lightly against his chest now, your palms splayed over the steady drumbeat of his heart. It’s only then that you realize he’s still holding you. And you’re still letting him. For a heartbeat; no, for a whole symphony of heartbeats, you don't move.

His arms, warm and trembling ever so slightly, are wrapped securely around your waist. His eyes, dark and lit with something you can’t quite decipher, stare down into yours with an intensity that steals the air right out of your lungs. The fluorescent lights above seem to fade, casting the moment in a softer glow, as though time itself has folded inward and left only this suspended pocket where nothing exists but you and him. And then, without even thinking, without fully realizing what your body has decided, you begin to lean in.

Your breath catches. His lashes lower. The world narrows to the mere inches of space between your mouths. You can feel the heat of him, his breath, the soft rustle of the fabric at his collar, the barely-there tremble in his hold. You’re close enough now to see the faint freckle at the corner of his jaw, the smudge of tiredness beneath his eyes, the scar just above his brow. You are close enough to kiss him. And you want to. God, you want to. But just as your lips begin to close the distance, just as the air tilts toward something irrevocable, Jay turns his head sharply to the side. You freeze. Mid-motion. Mid-breath.

He clears his throat awkwardly, a hand coming up to grip your arm, not harsh, but firm enough to guide you back to earth. “Sorry,” he mutters, almost too quiet to hear. “I — my knee, I shouldn’t be holding you like that.” And then, carefully, gently, like you’re made of spun glass or secrets too delicate to break, he sets you down on your own two feet again.

The warmth leaves you immediately, as though someone has opened a window to let in the cold. You step back, confused and suddenly small, the edges of your confidence curling in on themselves like burning paper. You blink down at your shoes, cheeks heating, pulse racing as if your body hasn’t quite caught up to the rejection your heart just received. “Is there anything else you want me to do?” he asks, his voice quieter now, strained and formal. He doesn’t look at you.

You hesitate, your throat tight, your pride frayed. You shake your head, a whisper caught in your chest. “No. That’s… that’s all for now.”

Jay nods, expression unreadable once more, a mask of cool indifference pulled over the face of a boy who just looked at you like you were made of starlight. “I better get going then.” You say nothing. You can’t. You watch as he limps slowly away, each step echoing like a closing door, like a heartbeat fading in the dark. And then he’s gone.

You sit down slowly, notebook still open in your lap, pages fluttering in the draft he left behind. The silence that fills the rink is different now, thicker somehow, as if it holds echoes of things unsaid. And you’re left there alone, heart stinging, face warm with humiliation, and a bitter taste blooming at the back of your tongue. You want to scream, or laugh, or cry, or maybe all three. But instead, you sit there with your hands still trembling slightly, wondering what exactly just happened. Wondering if it meant something. Wondering why it couldn’t.

The days pass like breath caught in your throat, never quite exhaled, never quite released. You keep your head down, hands busy, heart shelved like an old book collecting dust behind your ribs. You move through practice with the cold efficiency of someone who knows what they’re doing and refuses to be shaken by sentiment; at least not anymore. If Jay notices the way you don’t linger by the benches anymore, or how your gaze drifts anywhere but in his direction, he doesn’t say anything. Or maybe he does notice, maybe he notices everything and simply doesn’t know what to do with it, with you, with the heavy silence left in your wake. You’ve found a temporary anchor in Sunghoon, who’s been limping slightly on his left leg for a few practices now. He’s easier to work with, smiling, receptive, appreciative without crossing invisible lines. You offer him techniques, adjustments, reminders to ice and rest. He listens. He thanks you. And though your mind drifts back to Jay more times than you’d like to admit, flashing in those brief seconds between movements, appearing like a shadow every time you blink, you push those thoughts down, burying them like seeds in winter soil.

But you notice.

Of course you notice.

Jay’s limp, though masked well beneath his stubborn pride and athletic grace, returns the day before the first game. Subtle to the untrained eye, just the slightest falter in his stride, the tiniest hesitation when he pivots too hard on his left side. It cuts through your self-imposed indifference like a blade, sharp, inevitable. You clench your jaw, fists tightening around your clipboard, war playing out behind your eyes. You don’t want to care. You don’t want to still care. But here you are, caring anyway. Coach calls for a ten-minute break, his voice echoing through the rink like a church bell, and you take that sound as your cue. You move toward Jay without thinking, clipboard held like a shield, resolve coiled tight in your chest. You tell yourself you’re here to be professional, that this is part of your job, that your heart is nothing but a quiet organ beating behind your ribs, it has no business interfering with tendons and joints and routines. Jay sits on the edge of the bench, pulling at the tape around his wrists, and your shadow falls over him before your voice does.

“I noticed your limp’s back,” you say, even and clinical, like you’re reading out symptoms from a chart instead of acknowledging the ache that’s been burning a hole in your chest for days. You don’t look at him. You can’t. He straightens slightly, wiping sweat from his temple with the back of his glove. “I’ve been doing the stretches.”

You nod once, still focused on your clipboard, though the words blur and bleed together on the page. “Before tomorrow’s game, stretch early and ice immediately after,” you say. “Don’t skip it.” He’s quiet for a moment, like he’s waiting for something more, like he’s holding something in his mouth, something fragile that might shatter if he breathes too hard. Then, carefully, his voice cracks the air between you like a pebble on glass.

“About the other day in the locker room—” Your spine stiffens. Your pulse stumbles. But you don’t let your mask falter. Instead, you cut in, your voice brisk and precise.

“I was thinking we could try a different form of therapy,” you say. “Something that focuses more on low-impact stretches and deep tissue. It might help more long-term.”

He exhales, and it’s not frustration or anger; it’s confusion, maybe even hurt. “That’s not what I was going to—”

“It’s fine,” you say, and this time your voice does falter, just slightly, like a violin string pulled too tight. “You don’t have to explain. It was clear.” His mouth opens. You keep going. “You don’t feel the same way,” you say, and now your eyes lift, finally meeting his. And it’s a terrible thing, because he’s looking at you like he doesn’t understand the words coming out of your mouth, like he’s never been more stunned in his life. But you don’t let yourself get swept up in it. You keep your voice level, sharp with embarrassment, honed by the weeks of silence and avoidance and pretending. “I’d appreciate it,” you say, and your voice is soft now, almost breaking, “if you wouldn’t bring it up again. Just… spare me the humiliation, okay?”

And then, before he can speak, before he can call out your name or reach for you or cast another look that might make your knees weak, you turn and walk away. The sound of your boots on the ice-polished floor is the only thing you hear. Not the beat of your heart, not the breath caught in your throat, not the echo of your name behind you, only the silence that follows you like a shroud, thick and unyielding. You walk until the cold air bites at your cheeks and the rink fades behind you. You walk until you are just a girl again, alone in the echoing hallway, heart bleeding quietly inside your chest.

Finally, It’s game day.

The air feels heavy with electricity, like something important is about to break. The rink is abuzz with the quiet war-drum of preparation, sticks clacking against the ground, skates carving soft grooves into rubber, the rustle of jerseys being pulled on like armor before a battle. You stand in the back corner of the locker room, tucked away from the fray but still inside its rhythm, your clipboard abandoned for now, your laughter light and warm as it floats into the stale air. Jungwon is beside you, easy company with a boyish grin and a kind sort of curiosity that doesn’t ask for anything more than what you’re willing to give. His presence is uncomplicated, a balm to the storm that’s been churning in your chest for the past week. He’s cracking jokes, a little sharp but clever, and you laugh freely for once, like the sound doesn’t cost you anything. There’s something about today that feels strange though, like you’re standing at the edge of something. A precipice. A cliff with no railing.

Jungwon nudges your shoulder with his, eyes twinkling with mischief as he leans in to whisper something only you can hear, something stupid about the way Heeseung tapes his socks too tight or how Jake brought his baby’s pacifier instead of his water bottle. You giggle into your hand, shoulders shaking, just in time for a voice, deep, commanding, like thunder cracked through a glass sky, to slice through the locker room. “Huddle up.” Everyone moves instantly.

Jay’s voice is unrecognizable from the one you’ve grown accustomed to, the one laced with sarcasm or irritation or those low, quiet murmurs you’ve only ever heard in the in-between moments when it was just the two of you. No, this voice is a war cry. It’s sharp and magnetic, dragging the eyes and ears of every player to him like he’s the only sun in the room and they’re just desperate, orbiting things. You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until you exhale. Jay stands in the center of the locker room, tall and broad, chin tipped up, one fist closed around his helmet and the other gesturing with subtle but unshakable control. His dark hair is damp and pushed back, beads of sweat just beginning to prick along his brow from the warm-up, and his eyes are twin daggers, focused, deadly. You realize, then, that this is Jay as captain, Jay in his final form, Jay as the version of himself that eats pressure for breakfast and spits out excellence. You’ve never really seen him like this. And it hits you square in the chest.

God, he’s beautiful like this. Beautiful and terrifying. Like lightning dancing across a frozen lake. Like something wild that could burn you alive if you got too close. You stand frozen, wide-eyed, caught in a kind of reverent silence that only deepens when Jungwon leans close again, voice low and teasing: “You’re staring.” You laugh — too loud, too quick, startled out of your daze, and that’s when it happens. Jay stumbles. Not on his feet, no, his posture stays rigid, his stance the same, but the words in his mouth, once flowing like riverwater, trip over themselves. A stutter, subtle but jarring, breaks the air like a skipped heartbeat. You blink, confused at first, and then you follow the line of his gaze; his eyes locked directly, unflinchingly, on you. Your laughter dies in your throat.

Jay looks away fast, like your face was too bright, too blinding. He shakes his head once, hard, trying to dislodge whatever momentary ghost took hold of him, and when he speaks again, his voice is firm and clean. No cracks. No hesitation. But the pause, the falter, it lingers in the air like perfume. And everyone felt it. Maybe they don’t know what it means, but you do. Oh, you do. You stand a little straighter, Jungwon now just a shadow beside you as your focus returns wholly, helplessly, to Jay. He commands the huddle with renewed authority, drawing the team in like stars around a sun. And still, beneath all that composure, you know it, you can feel it, the tension that thrums in the silence between his words. The weight of what was left unsaid in that locker room. The awkwardness of that almost-kiss, that half-second eternity where your heart had leapt and his had pulled back. You wonder if he feels it too.

When he finishes the pep talk, the team breaks with a unified roar, sticks thudding against the benches, skates scraping as they rise to storm the ice, but Jay doesn’t look your way again. Not once. He keeps his gaze forward, unyielding, captain-steady. And yet, for that one fractured breath, he’d looked at you like you were the only thing in the room. Like maybe the words he couldn’t say had filled his mouth all at once and rendered him speechless. And it lingers. Like smoke after fire.

The arena is alive. Electric. It thrums with the kind of energy that only belongs to game night, shouts and whistles, sneakers scraping against concrete, the distant reverberation of blades cutting across frozen ice like poetry etched in glass. The crowd swells and hollers and surges in waves like a storm kept just barely at bay, but you, you are still. Poised at the edge of the chaos, pen between your fingers and a notebook cradled in your lap like it holds the whole universe. You’re supposed to be calm. Collected. Clinical. But beneath the soft tap of your pen against paper, your pulse is racing like something wild caged beneath your skin. They’re doing it. They’re actually doing it.

Every note you wrote, every correction you whispered beneath fluorescent locker room lights, every careful observation you tucked into the quiet margins of your planner, it’s breathing now. It’s real. The team is moving like a single beast, every shift on the ice more seamless than the last. Their passes are tight, clean, threaded like silver through the seams of the opposing defense. Their positioning is sharp, adjusted just as you suggested, and Jay, God, Jay is a storm in motion, skating with such relentless precision it nearly makes you dizzy to watch. There’s a moment when he pivots on a dime, receives a pass from Jake, and nails a slap shot that rockets straight past the goalie’s glove with a sound like thunder, echoing, undeniable, final. The whole crowd erupts. And your chest swells with pride so fierce you forget to breathe for a second. You don’t cheer. You don’t scream. You don’t jump up and throw your arms around like the rest of the spectators who are all giddy limbs and painted cheeks. But your smile; quiet, soft, almost secret, could light the whole rink.

There’s a strange ache in the joy. Because it’s not just about the win. It’s the knowledge that they trusted you enough to listen. That the time you’ve spent, invisible and tireless, is finally seen in the way they skate, in the way they communicate on the ice like a language you helped translate. And maybe, just maybe, you matter here, something more than a daughter, something more than a placeholder. You’re part of the architecture. The bones beneath the flesh. Jungwon darts past you in a blur, a clipboard under one arm and a trainer’s bag in the other, his cheeks pink from exertion. You call out something teasing, and he shoots back a reply that makes you snort into your scarf, the two of you slipping into that easy rhythm that’s started to settle between you, like an echo, like something familiar that never needed to be explained. He’s good at what he does, even if he’s still learning. And there’s something charming in his eagerness, his instinct to over-prepare, to over-perform. You can’t help but admire it. He’s not trying to impress you, and maybe that’s why it’s so refreshing to be around him. He doesn’t want anything from you that you aren’t willing to give.

You glance to your left where Heeseung and Sunghoon’s girlfriends are perched on the edge of their seats, wrapped in puffy coats and scarves and radiant with adrenaline. They’re shouting their boys’ names at full volume, jumping and gasping and squealing at every near miss and every stolen goal. Normally, the noise would drive you crazy, but there’s something endearing about the way their voices crack when they cheer. You watch one of them grab the other’s arm and shake her when Sunghoon skates too close to the boards, laughing like she’s afraid and thrilled all at once. There’s love in it. Raw and sweet and loud. You wonder, absently, what it must be like to feel that kind of closeness, to wear your heart on your sleeve without fear of how hard it might be broken.

And still, your eyes find him. Jay.

Every time you think you’ve pulled yourself out of the orbit of his gravity, your gaze is drawn back like a tide to the moon. He skates with his teeth gritted and his shoulders tight, every movement packed with intensity. He’s not reckless, but he’s ferocious, like something is burning behind his eyes and this is the only way he knows how to put out the fire. You see the slight limp in his stride, the subtle favoring of his left leg, but he masks it well, well enough that your father hasn’t caught on, but you notice. Of course you do. You know him too well now, even if you pretend you don’t. Your fingers tighten on your pen. There’s a moment when he looks toward the bench during a shift change, breath fogging up in the cold, jaw clenched. His eyes sweep the stands, and for a breathless second, you swear they land on you. You sit frozen. His gaze holds, unreadable. And then, he’s gone again, swallowed up by the game. You pretend not to notice the flutter in your chest.

The scoreboard blinks and buzzes, a mechanical hymn to their success, and the crowd surges forward in delight. The game marches on, and you try to return to your notes, to professionalism, to detachment. But it’s hard when your hands are trembling, not from cold, but from something far more dangerous. From hope. From confusion. From want.

The air is electric in the aftermath of victory. The walls of the locker room hum with the echoes of triumph, whoops ricocheting off metal lockers, the sharp clatter of skates being kicked off, towels slapping wet skin, voices riding high on adrenaline and pride. It smells like sweat and ice and something more sacred, like the echo of glory, like the start of something golden. The boys move through the space like kings returning from battle, bumping shoulders and laughing with that rare kind of joy that only comes from shared struggle turned into triumph. Heeseung’s lopsided grin is as bright as the scoreboard, his arm slung over Jake’s shoulder as he recounts a moment on the ice with exaggerated flair. Jay gets the loudest praise, backs patted, hands clapped, helmets nudged against his in celebration. He stands at the center of it all, looking like something carved out of fire and iron, stoic and silent, but there’s a glimmer in his eye that betrays the satisfaction he won’t speak aloud. You keep your distance.

It’s become your safe place, that edge-of-the-room observation. You smile when spoken to, you nod when needed, you laugh when the jokes make their way to you, but your heart is folded up tightly, tucked beneath the quiet task in front of you. You’re kneeling by the therapy corner, setting up Jay’s post-game ice bath, something you insisted on weeks ago when the limp first returned, something he never complained about, not even after the... moment between you. The container is half full already, the ice bucket humming beside you as cubes tumble in with mechanical rhythm. Your fingers are cold from testing the water, your breath fogs lightly in the sterile air, but your mind is far, far away, adrift on memories of locker room silence, almost-kisses, and the sound of his voice when it turned soft for you and only you. Most of the team is gone now, filing out with damp hair and open jackets, loud voices echoing down the hall. Even Jungwon gives you a wave goodbye before disappearing with your father to inventory the equipment one last time. You murmur your farewell, gaze flickering, pulse steady. Or at least it was, until the warmth of a hand wraps suddenly around your elbow.

You startle, spinning halfway as a gasp lifts in your chest, but it’s Jay. His hand is firm but not rough, callused fingers pressing into the crook of your arm as if trying to tether you to the moment. The look on his face is unreadable, carved from stormclouds and moonlight. You straighten, trying to compose yourself, your lips parting for a question you never get the chance to voice. He cuts you off before it can form. “Are you dating Jungwon?”

The words are sharp and blunt at once, like being struck with something soft but heavy. You blink up at him, confusion furrowing your brows, heart stuttering in your chest. “What?” you manage, voice more breath than word, but he interrupts again, more urgent this time.

“Just, please. Are you dating Yang Jungwon or not?” There’s something vulnerable hidden behind the edge of his voice, something frayed and fierce. He looks at you like the answer might shatter him, like he’s already halfway broken by the not knowing.

You shake your head. “No,” you whisper. “Not that it’s any of your business.” But he doesn’t seem to hear that last part. Or maybe he does, and chooses to ignore it entirely. His eyes are still locked on yours, black as night and brimming with something you don’t yet have the language to name. Something heavy. Something real. He leans in. Not fast, not abrupt, no. Jay moves like he’s afraid to break the air between you. Like every inch is sacred. Like he’s measuring the distance to your mouth with centuries of longing compressed in his chest. And when his face is so close that his breath brushes yours, he murmurs, “Say the word, and I’ll stop.” It’s the gentlest threat you’ve ever heard. The sweetest cliff you’ve ever been asked to jump from. But you don’t stop him.

And when his lips finally meet yours, soft and uncertain and tender in a way that rips the breath from your lungs, it’s not fireworks that you feel. It’s silence. That same kind of silence you chase in the early mornings. That rare, impossible peace that only exists when the world forgets to spin. His kiss is reverent, hesitant, but aching beneath its restraint. It tastes like all the things he’s been trying not to feel, all the things he thought he wasn’t allowed to want. You make a sound, small and startled and aching, and then you're leaning into him, reaching up, fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you let go. He kisses you again, deeper this time, and everything unravels. His hand finds your waist, the other rising to cradle your jaw like something precious, something fragile. You feel your back press against the wall as he walks you backward, the air around you thick with want. He kisses like a man who’s been waiting too long, like he’s trying to memorize you, like he wants to carve the shape of your mouth into the backs of his eyelids. And then it gets deeper, hotter.

His body presses into yours, anchoring you to the wall with a force that makes your breath catch, that makes your knees feel untrustworthy. His lips trail down to the edge of your jaw, your throat, breath warm and desperate. You arch into him, eyes fluttering shut, drowning in the scent of him, sweat, cedarwood soap, something uniquely him that drives you mad with the simplicity of it. But then, he pulls back. He lets go with a gentleness that makes the moment worse, like the kiss had been holy and ending it was sacrilege. He exhales slowly, still so close his breath dances across your skin.

“Is there anything else you want me to do?” he says quietly, his voice low, almost pained.

“Keep going.” You breathe, the air shot from your lungs as his mouth found yours once again, soft but urgent. Like he was giving himself to you slowly and deeply, like his heart was a locked box with the key now in your hands.

The kiss deepens, not in haste but in gravity, as if time itself has bent its laws to accommodate the want simmering between you. Jay’s hands are a prayer pressed against your waist, the curve of your jaw, the span of your back as if committing you to memory beneath his palms. He kisses you like you’re not just a girl but a revelation, like he's been wandering ice-covered roads for years and you’re the first warmth he's felt. His body shields yours from the cold tile of the locker room wall, and you can feel every inch of him, tense and trembling with the weight of restraint, of something that borders on reverence. You’re gasping softly into him, losing all sense of place, of direction, of anything that isn’t the taste of his mouth and the staccato rhythm of your pulse thundering between your ribs.

There is nothing polite about this desire, it is vast and raw and aching, a tether pulled taut between you, stretched across every stolen glance and unsaid word since the first time he looked at you and didn’t speak. Every second of tension in the past weeks has culminated in this: the electricity when your bodies align, the reverberation of heat low in your belly, the way his lips move against yours like he’s not just kissing you; he’s trying to say something in a language only the two of you can understand. And then, The sharp groan of a door creaking open cleaves the moment like a blade through silk.

You both jolt as if shocked by lightning, Jay stepping back just enough to break the kiss, though his hands linger at your sides, still warm, still trembling. Your breath catches in your throat as you both snap toward the sound, and there, standing frozen in the doorway, is Soobin. Tall, sweet-faced Soobin, with wide eyes and a half-twist of a smirk he’s trying (and failing) to suppress. “I was just coming to get my water bottle…” he says, his voice pitched high with embarrassment, words slow and uncertain like they’re skating across black ice. He gestures vaguely toward the benches, where his half-drained bottle sits beside a crumpled towel.

Jay doesn’t move. Neither do you. You’re still pressed up against the wall, lips flushed, heart a living drumbeat in your throat. The silence stretches out, taut and teetering on awkwardness. Finally, Jay gives a tight nod, measured, unreadable. Soobin grabs his bottle in the silence that follows. “I’m gonna go… good game,” he mumbles, already halfway out the door before the sentence finishes falling from his mouth. And then he’s gone, leaving nothing but the click of the door echoing in his wake and a sudden rush of cold air that feels like the world snapping back into its natural order. And for a second, the tension remains suspended, like a note left hanging at the end of a song.

Laughter.

It bubbles up inside you so quickly you can’t hold it back. It starts as a breathy exhale, then spills out of you in waves, warm and full and uncontrolled. You lean forward slightly, your head falling against Jay’s chest, laughter shaking through your ribs. It's the kind of laugh that comes only after a release of something heavy, something long held in, the absurdity of the moment, the sweetness of it, the fact that you were just caught making out with Jay in the locker room like a scene pulled from the pages of some high school drama. You can’t stop. Jay watches you for a beat, stunned and dazed, and then a smile slowly curves across his lips. His own laugh escapes like a sigh of relief, low and rich, a sound like melting snow in spring. His arms circle your waist again, tugging you close, and he tucks his face into the crook of your neck for a moment like he’s trying to hide from how much he’s smiling. You feel the sound of his joy vibrate against your collarbone and it feels so impossibly intimate you almost tear up. When the laughter fades, you look up at him, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.

Jay reaches out, tender and slow, and tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing the shell of it like a secret. His touch is feather-light, reverent, and it stills something wild in you. You swear the whole room stills with it. He leans in again, but this time it’s gentle, slow. No rush. No chaos. Just him, kissing you like you’re the calm in his storm. His lips move over yours with a softness that makes your eyes flutter shut, with a quiet longing that tastes of something deeper; something that might become love if left to bloom.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. His breath is soft, his voice even softer. “Good night,” he murmurs, a whisper sealed against your skin, a kiss wrapped in syllables. And then he steps back. Not far. Just enough. His eyes hold yours for a moment longer, and then he turns and walks toward the exit, leaving you still leaning against the locker room wall, your lips tingling, your heart dancing somewhere halfway to the moon.

You don’t move right away. You just stand there, smiling like a girl who has a secret no one else knows, eyes dazed and warm and so full of something sweet it could carry you away. You’re on cloud nine, weightless, golden, floating. And maybe, just maybe, starting to fall.

The night air wraps around them like a loose scarf, warm enough to leave their jackets slung lazily over their shoulders as they leave the arena, the scent of ice and sweat still clinging to their skin like ghosts from the game. Their footsteps echo on the pavement, scuffed sneakers and boots dragging over gravel and cracks, their voices a low current of triumph and teasing that rides on the heels of victory. Jay walks with Jake on his left, Heeseung and Sunghoon trailing a step behind, their laughter low and lazy, the kind of carefree sound that always blooms after a win. There’s a looseness to them, shoulders unknotted, mouths grinning wide, and Jay finds himself smiling too, just enough, just the corners of his mouth, but there’s a subtle difference in the curve of his lips. Because while they talk about the game, about Sunghoon’s near goal, about the idiot who almost got benched for not backchecking, Jay’s thoughts are stuck in the locker room, with your lips against his, your laughter blooming like a secret in the hollow of his chest.

Jake throws an arm over Jay’s shoulders, leaning into him as they walk. “So,” he says, voice drawn out and heavy with mischief, “we thinking post-game celebration at the house? Open invite? You know… keep the momentum alive.”

“Yeah, sounds good,” Jay murmurs, brushing a hand through his hair, still damp from his quick rinse after the game. “Maybe we invite… her,” he adds, not daring to say your name but letting it hover like perfume in the air, thick and noticeable. Heeseung, ever the perceptive one, arches a brow, lips quirking into a half-smile that says he’s already ten steps ahead. “Her, huh?” he echoes with a lilt of curiosity and amusement, shooting a look over Jay’s shoulder. “You mean Coach’s daughter?”

Jay just smirks, the kind of smirk meant to deflect without answering, one corner of his mouth curling while his eyes give away nothing. “I don’t kiss and tell,” he says casually, like it’s a motto, a rule etched into his spine. Jake lets out a low laugh, nudging Jay in the ribs, his grin all teeth. “Guess Coach’s orders don’t apply to the golden boy, huh?” And that’s when it hits. The truth of it.

Jay’s smile falters, not dramatically, not so much that anyone watching would think he’d been struck, but inwardly, he feels the fault line open just beneath his ribs. For a brief moment, he’d forgotten. Forgotten that you weren’t just you. That you were Coach’s daughter. That there was a silent border etched in the ice between what was allowed and what wasn’t. That all this, the kiss, the way his heart had lunged forward at the sound of your laughter, the heat that had stirred when you leaned into him, wasn’t just a risk. It was forbidden. He’d let himself feel weightless with you, floating in the space of almost, and now gravity pulls him back down with a vengeance.

Sunghoon sees the shift, quick as a cut. His eyes sharpen, his joking tone dropped like a stone. “Oh no,” he says, not unkindly, but with an edge of understanding that slices clean. “Coach doesn’t know, does he?”

Jay shakes his head, once, the movement short and stiff. His jaw flexes. “There’s nothing to know,” he says, too quickly. Then again, slower. “It means nothing.” A beat passes. It’s the kind of sentence meant to close a door, but it doesn’t quite shut. It hangs there in the air between them, fragile and unconvincing, like a paper shield against a rising tide. Jake looks over at him, not buying it. Heeseung doesn’t say anything, but the raise of his brow deepens, a silent accusation or maybe just concern. And Sunghoon, ever observant, watches Jay like someone looking at a puzzle with one corner piece missing.

Jay stares straight ahead, jaw clenched, heart dragging behind his ribcage like an anchor. The truth echoes loud in his head, though he won’t speak it: it didn’t mean nothing. It meant everything. The way your lips trembled against his, the way your laughter cracked something open in him, the way he felt more like himself, more like someone he didn’t have to guard, when you looked at him with those eyes that didn’t expect him to be the captain, or the golden boy, or anything but just… Jay. But he says nothing. Because what can he say? That he kissed the one girl he’s been told to stay away from? That in the span of a few moments, he’s already losing the fight against the feelings he wasn’t supposed to have?

So instead, he settles for silence. The kind that tastes like regret and fear all at once. The guys let it go, at least on the surface. They start talking again, lighter topics, shallow water. The conversation shifts toward what drinks to bring, who to invite, how late to stay up. But Jay barely registers it. He’s lost inside himself now, knee-deep in thoughts he can't outrun. The stars overhead glimmer faintly, veiled by the streetlamps and campus haze. He thinks of you again, of how soft your lips were, of the gentle way you laughed like you had the sun inside you, of how your hands felt when they pressed against his chest like a heartbeat, unsure and wanting. And beneath all of it, like the faint growl of distant thunder, he hears your father’s voice. The warning. The rule. And wonders just how far he’s willing to fall to keep touching the one thing he was never supposed to have.

Still, he picks up his phone and sends you a text. Even if it was wrong, it felt right.

You step through the threshold of the frat house like a swimmer entering the ocean at dusk, hesitant, but pulled in by the current of something irresistible. The air is thick with warmth, buzzing with music that pounds like a second heartbeat beneath your ribs. The lights are dim, golden and hazy like candle flames through whiskey-stained glass. Laughter echoes against the walls, tangled with the clatter of red plastic cups and the stutter of music that skips every so often when someone leans too hard against the stereo. Bodies move around you like a tide, fluid and flushed, the scent of beer and cologne clinging to everything. You feel a bit out of place, dressed more nicely than most, a little too alert to be fully one with the crowd. But there’s something thrilling about it too, about being here, in this noise and light and heat, as though stepping into a life just slightly tilted off your usual axis. You belong to the world your father tried to keep you from, and even though you’re standing still, your heartbeat is already racing.

Your gaze sweeps across the room, through knots of people, couples kissing in dark corners, teammates whoop-laughing over some inside joke you can’t hear. You spot Heeseung near the window, kissing his girlfriend like it’s the last night on Earth, hands tangled in her hair, their bodies pressed together in a way that makes you look away with a soft laugh caught in your throat. You weave your way further in, bumping shoulders with strangers, eyes searching. And then, just as you pause near the base of the staircase, two arms wrap around your waist, strong and familiar, pulling you backward into warmth that makes every nerve in your spine flare. You whirl around with a sharp breath, only to find Jay grinning down at you like the world just tilted in his favor. His smile is boyish, easy, but his eyes, they hold that steady fire that always seems to look right through your defenses. “You came!” he says, surprised but pleased, voice barely audible over the hum of music and laughter. You nod, letting a smile curl slowly over your lips. “Of course I did,” you murmur, and you don’t say it, but it’s the truth, you would’ve followed him anywhere tonight.

Jay’s hand finds yours and it’s instinctual, the way your fingers fit together like puzzle pieces. He tugs gently, leading you across the crowded room toward the far couch where Jake, Sunghoon, and Heeseung are half-lounging, half-sitting, deep in a conversation about the game that had them all riding high with adrenaline. Heeseung’s girlfriend is curled up next to him, glowing with affection and soft laughter, and you’re pulled into the circle like a ripple in still water. The jokes start almost instantly, teasing remarks flung like soft snowballs, warm and harmless, and you laugh in return, each giggle shaking loose the tension that had clung to your shoulders since you stepped through the door. For a few moments, you forget about boundaries. About who you are and who Jay is. You forget about your father’s rules and the ache of rejection that had lived in your chest not so long ago. Here, among Jay’s friends, among your friends, maybe, you feel light. Like you’ve found something that belongs to you, something you’ve been missing. That is, until Soobin stumbles in like a storm no one saw coming.

He’s already glassy-eyed and red-faced, his gait loose and uncoordinated, that unmistakable sway of someone who’s a few drinks past his limit. He barrels into the living room like a wrecking ball, slinging an arm around Jay’s neck with the kind of heavy-handed affection only drunkenness can excuse. “Chill out on the drinks, man…” Jake says, reaching for Soobin’s cup, which is dangerously tilted and threatening to soak Jay’s shirt. His voice is careful but not unkind. “I’m good,” Soobin slurs, blinking as he tries to focus. His voice is too loud, too relaxed, carrying a reckless kind of weight. “Anyone know any single girls around here?”

Sunghoon chuckles, tossing a comment over his shoulder about Soobin’s breakup with Yunjin. There’s a teasing edge to his words, but Soobin doesn’t flinch. He just shrugs like the loss of someone he loved is an old wound he’s decided to stop tending. Then his gaze shifts, and lands on you. Recognition hits his face like a lightning strike. “Hey—” he slurs, pointing at you with a crooked smile. “Did coach lift the ban on dating his daughter—?”

The question hangs in the air like a guillotine. But Jay is quick. “Shut up, Soobin,” he snaps, voice low and sharp enough to cut. His arm tightens slightly at your waist. Soobin blinks, confused for a beat, then throws up his hands in surrender. “Damn. My bad.” Jake grabs him gently by the arm, steering him away toward the kitchen, his voice hushed but firm. “Come on, man. Let’s get you some water.”

The group’s laughter doesn’t return. The bubble pops. The easy lightness vanishes. And suddenly, all you feel is every pair of eyes that had glanced your way during that too-loud moment. You don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing until Jay’s hand gently slides into yours again. “You wanna go upstairs for a bit?” he asks, voice soft this time, quieter, like he’s asking if you want to escape. You don’t hesitate. You nod.

Jay’s room is quieter than the rest of the house, sealed off like a snow globe from the riotous storm downstairs. When you step inside, you pause for a moment just beyond the threshold, unsure of what to expect but immediately hit by a surprising stillness. The air is tinged with something faintly woodsy and familiar, maybe his cologne or the way his jacket always smells when he leans too close. You drift further in and lower yourself slowly onto the edge of his bed, fingertips brushing the neatly tucked comforter, as your eyes sweep over his space with a subtle curiosity. Everything is tidier than you imagined it would be, books lined up like soldiers on his desk, sneakers in a straight row near the foot of the bed, a single jacket hanging from the back of his chair. It’s lived-in, but purposeful. A room that carries him in every corner. It doesn’t scream for attention. It doesn’t try to impress. It’s just... him. And maybe, for some reason, you aren’t surprised by that. Jay is a boy of precision, quiet control, even when the world around him spins out of balance. He closes the door with a soft click, leans his back against it for a moment like he’s collecting himself, and then lets out a breath. “Sorry about Soobin,” he murmurs, not quite meeting your eyes.

“It’s okay,” you say, your voice soft. It’s not the first thing on your mind, not even close. But it’s easier than diving straight into the waves crashing inside your chest. The silence stretches, heavy with everything you aren’t saying. Jay crosses the room slowly, but not to sit beside you. He hovers near the desk for a second, hand drifting across a stray pen, eyes lost in thought. You know he feels the tension, same as you. And maybe, for once, silence isn’t the answer. So you break it.

“I don’t care what my dad says,” you tell him, your voice low but steady, slicing through the quiet like a blade. “He can’t dictate my life.” That catches him. Jay turns to look at you fully now, the weight of your words visibly landing in the set of his jaw, the slight furrow of his brow. But he doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he lets out a rough sigh, dragging a hand down his face like he’s trying to clear the thoughts clouding his mind.

“Your father’s been like… a father to me,” he finally says, voice strained and quiet. “I don’t think I’d still be playing if it wasn’t for him. He’s given me so much. And now—” He exhales sharply. “Now I feel like I’m betraying him.” You swallow hard. Not because you’re angry, but because you understand. You know what your father has meant to Jay, how he took him under his wing, coached him, mentored him, praised him in ways you only ever watched from a distance. But it still hurts, because the man Jay reveres has always kept you at arm’s length.

“At least he acted like a father to someone,” you say, and there’s something quiet and broken in your voice you hadn’t meant to let slip. Jay straightens, confusion flickering in his gaze.

“What do you mean?” You look down at your hands, fingers laced tight in your lap. “I mean… he was never really there for me. Not in the way that matters. He was always on the ice, always yelling plays, chasing glory. And when he wasn’t focused on the team, he was focused on Jaehyun. Because Jaehyun played hockey. Because Jaehyun was his golden boy. And me?” You shrug, bitter laughter bubbling in your throat. “I was background noise. Just a complication he had to keep out of the way.”

Jay doesn’t speak, but he moves, slowly, cautiously, sitting beside you now, close enough that your knees brush. His eyes are on you, unreadable but soft, like he’s seeing pieces of you he hadn’t known to look for before. “He doesn’t get to tell me who I can care about,” you say, voice firmer now. “Not when he didn’t care enough to be a father to me when it mattered.”

Jay swallows hard, his throat bobbing with the weight of everything he’s holding back. And then, almost cautiously, he reaches for your hand. When your fingers touch, it’s like the air shifts again, warmer, charged, trembling with something unspoken. “Then we should tell him,” Jay says quietly. “We shouldn’t hide it. If this is real, if you’re willing, then we should tell him. Together.”

You stare at him, heart thudding, and slowly you nod. “Okay. Together.”

And something shifts in his expression, relief, maybe, or quiet awe. But you don’t have time to name it, because he leans in. The kiss is gentle at first, slow and uncertain like he’s afraid to break you. His lips press to yours with the care of someone tasting something they never thought they’d get to have, a wish whispered into reality. Your hand lifts instinctively to his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat under your palm, and he deepens the kiss, his fingers finding your waist like they’ve always belonged there. The air around you grows softer, heavier, your breaths mingling in the small space between your bodies. And when the kiss turns into something more — when it becomes less about proving something and more about being seen, there’s no fear. Only trust.

He touches you like he’s memorizing you. Like every moment might be his last. You guide him just as much as he guides you, hands and lips and hearts speaking in the language only the two of you understand. There’s nothing rushed or reckless about it, only an aching tenderness that bleeds into every motion. You hold him like a promise, and he holds you like a prayer. He moves inside of you with practice poise and heavy breathing. “You feel so good.” He breathes onto your shoulder, his forehead stuck to the skin, leaving feather-like kisses along the column of your neck. You arched into his touch with gasp leaving your mouth like wind.

“Jay” You whined, nails scratching at the skin of his back. No doubt leaving marks in their track. “Jay Jay Jay” His name became a chant, a prayer. Your heat in tandem with his movements, your bodies so close it leaves little room to be desired. You loved him, in this moment you loved him. You don’t know how real it was, or if the euphoric feeling of being so close to him was clouding your mind but you didn’t care. This is where you wanted to be. And when it’s over, when the hush settles around you once again, Jay wraps his arm around your waist and draws you against his chest, your legs tangled under the sheets, your head on his shoulder.

Neither of you says anything for a long while. There’s nothing that needs to be said. His fingertips trace idle patterns along your spine, and you close your eyes, letting the rhythm of his breathing lull you into something peaceful. Something safe. You know the world won’t make this easy. You know the storm is still waiting just outside the door. But here, in this small, stolen moment, it’s just you and Jay. And for the first time in a long time, it feels like that’s enough.

Morning clings to your skin like sunlight through gauze, gentle, golden, slow to wake. Jay’s room is dim, the blinds cracked just enough to allow the earliest threads of dawn to filter in and cast warm slants across his bare shoulder, across the soft rise and fall of his chest where your cheek had rested not long ago. You’re still tangled in his sheets when you press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, his skin tasting like sleep and dreams and something sweeter still. He hums, barely conscious, but his arm curls around you reflexively, keeping you close for a second longer, like even in sleep he can’t quite bear to let you go. “I’ll see you at practice,” you whisper, brushing your fingers across the mess of his hair. And Jay, with eyes still heavy and lips curled into the faintest smile, murmurs, “Yeah. You will.” It’s not a promise, exactly, but it feels like one. A truth passed quietly between two people who’ve crossed a line they can’t uncross. A line they don’t want to.

You leave his room feeling like you’ve been rewritten. Every step down the stairs, out the door, into the crisp morning air is wrapped in the strange, shining veil of newness. The sky above is still pale and sleepy, the trees rustling with the hush of an early wind, and the world, for once, seems like it’s moving in rhythm with your heartbeat. It’s all the small things you notice now. The way the clouds stretch like long strokes of white across soft blue. The way your lips still buzz with the echo of his. The way your heart tugs you back toward him even as you walk away.

You don’t want to leave this bubble. You don’t want to break the illusion, the sweet, delicate dream you and Jay carved for yourselves in the safety of his room. But the real world waits, loud and sharp and unavoidable. And as you climb into your car, as the engine hums to life and your fingers grip the steering wheel, a new weight settles in the space behind your ribs, the knowledge of what’s coming. Because sooner or later, this secret won’t stay wrapped in soft cotton and whispered kisses. It’ll be exposed. Confronted. And though Jay hadn’t said it with urgency or fear, you could tell in the way he looked at you last night, bare and serious, that it mattered to him. That this thing between you wasn’t something he wanted to hide in shadows, even if it meant facing the hardest part of all: your father. You sigh as you pull into your neighborhood, the sun climbing higher behind you like a slow, burning truth. You’ve gone over it a dozen times already in your head — what you’ll say, how you’ll say it, how your father will react. But the words never quite line up. Not in a way that doesn’t twist your stomach into uneasy knots. Because you know your father. You know his pride, his protectiveness, the fire behind his eyes when someone breaks the rules he’s set in stone. And this? You and Jay? You’ve broken more than just a rule. You’ve stepped directly into the one place he made clear no one was allowed to go. But how can you explain that Jay is worth the fallout?

That behind the hard shell of his quiet and his discipline is a boy who holds you like you matter. Who listens when your voice wavers, who catches you when your steps falter, who kissed you like he was both terrified and thrilled to finally get to do it. Jay isn’t just a boy on your dad’s team. He isn’t just another name on a roster. He’s the reason your heart races when you walk into a room. The reason practice feels like more than just routine. He’s the one who’s made you feel, truly feel, after years of being tucked into the corners of someone else’s life. But will your father care about any of that?

You pull into the driveway and sit there for a moment, your hands trembling faintly over the wheel. The house is quiet. The world is quiet. But inside you, a thousand questions scream to be answered. You wish it could be easy. You wish you could walk through the door, look your father in the eye, and tell him that for once, you chose something for yourself, and that you’re not sorry for it. Instead, you think about how to crack the surface. How to ease into the truth without igniting it like a fuse. Maybe over dinner. Maybe after the game next week, if the mood is good. Maybe if he sees that Jay respects you, if he knows this wasn’t reckless or flippant. Maybe then, Your phone buzzes softly in your bag, drawing you out of the spiral. A message from Jay. “Made it out of bed. Barely. Miss you already.”

And just like that, a smile tugs at your lips. Even in the shadow of what’s to come, he finds a way to make the light reach you. And maybe that’s enough to keep going. To brave the hard conversations. To start telling the truth, piece by piece. You text him back.

“See you at practice, golden boy. ❤️” Then you take a deep breath, open the car door, and step out, each footfall soft and deliberate, like walking a tightrope strung between the memory of last night and the weight of the day ahead.

Practice is a familiar rhythm now, a melody you’ve memorized without meaning to, clipboards and crisp notetaking, laced-up skates echoing against the boards, the low bark of your father’s voice commanding drills like a general at war. You drift through it in your usual way, purposeful and observant, always keeping one eye on movement, posture, the subtle twitches of discomfort or strain in the players’ bodies. You jot things down. You offer suggestions to Jungwon, who takes your advice with a grateful grin and a chuckle. He’s become a good friend, easy to talk to, funny without trying too hard, unbothered by your silences when you’re deep in thought. And today, like most days, he’s helping your father by handing out gear and managing water bottles, moving with that natural rhythm he has, an ease like he was born for this, even if he doesn’t have the bruises or battle scars of the guys on the ice.

But today is different. Not for any visible reason, not for any change in the air, but because Jay is here, and he’s looking at you like you hung the stars he’s been skating under. And you? You’re trying your best not to look back. You fail, of course. Miserably. You catch yourself glancing at him over the rim of your clipboard, pretending to check a stat when in truth you're watching the way his jaw clenches when he’s focused, the way his brows furrow as he lines up a shot. There’s a softness to him now that you know what his kisses feel like. A gravity in the way he moves that you notice only because you’ve seen him at his most unguarded, tangled in sheets and moonlight. Every time your eyes meet, his mouth pulls into a lopsided grin, and once, when your father is turned and barking instructions at Heeseung, Jay has the audacity to wink at you. You nearly drop your pen.

It becomes a game. A subtle, delicious one. Eyes across the rink. Smirks hidden behind hands. He bumps shoulders with Jake and Sunghoon like normal, but every time he skates past your side of the rink, he finds an excuse to glance your way. And though you keep your expression mostly neutral, dutiful, professional, you feel like a teenager sneaking glances at a crush across a crowded cafeteria. There’s something electric in the secrecy of it, something young and stupid and wonderful. Then break is called. Water bottles pop open, helmets are tugged off, and the room settles into temporary chatter. Jay meets your gaze again, this time not playful, not teasing, but something more. A tilt of his head. A quick nod toward the hallway. You blink, then lower your clipboard and move, careful, subtle. You duck past the bench, past Sunghoon and Jungwon chatting near the entrance, and slip into the hallway like you were meant to be there all along.

The moment you round the corner, he’s there, leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting hours instead of seconds. He straightens when he sees you, that familiar smile blooming across his face, and before you can say a word, he steps forward and kisses you. It’s fast and warm and a little clumsy from urgency. You make a surprised squeak against his mouth, but the sound dissolves into laughter as you push playfully at his chest. He chuckles, pulling back just enough to look at you, and there’s mischief in his eyes. “I’ve been wanting to do that all practice,” he murmurs, still close enough that you can feel the breath of the words on your lips. You shake your head, heart racing, but your grin is impossible to hide. “I’ve been wanting you to do that all practice.”

He kisses you again, slower this time, like he wants to memorize it, the way you taste like mint gum and something undeniably you. His hands settle at your waist and for a moment it’s like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. There’s no ice, no drills, no clipboard or game or coach waiting to shout your name. There’s just this hallway, and the silence between your joined mouths, and the pulse of something bright and blooming in both your chests. When he finally leans back, brushing his thumb across your cheek, his tone softens. “Did you think more about what we talked about? Telling your dad?”

The smile slips a little from your lips. Not completely; but enough to show the weight of it. You nod, slowly. “Yeah. I think we just need to do it. Rip the bandaid off. Clean, quick, no waiting around for the perfect moment.”

Jay lets out a breath, half-laugh, half-nerves. He leans back against the wall, rubbing the back of his neck. “God. You’re braver than me.”

“You’re the one who said we should tell him.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d actually agree.” You laugh, but there’s truth nestled in the heart of it. “He’ll get over it,” you say, but the words taste like hope more than certainty. “Eventually.”

He nods. The silence is longer this time, but not uncomfortable. It’s thick with unspoken things, what-ifs and maybes and fears that neither of you are ready to voice yet. Then, from the far end of the rink, your father’s voice cuts through the quiet like a blade. “Hey! Where’d you go?”

Jay straightens like he’s been electrocuted. You stifle a laugh as he leans in quickly, kisses your temple with exaggerated tenderness, and says, “Guess that’s my cue.” You roll your eyes, turning to follow him back into the rink, but then, like he can’t help himself, he smacks your butt lightly with one hand. You yelp in surprise, twisting back to glare at him, but he’s already walking away, grin stretching wide across his face. He tosses a wink over his shoulder before disappearing around the corner.

The weight of practice has barely settled into Jay’s muscles before he hears it, his name, sharp and unmistakable, barked across the rink like a slap. “Park!” Coach Bennett’s voice booms above the low hum of skates and post-practice chatter, and it lands like a stone in the pit of Jay’s stomach. He straightens instinctively, spine stiffening, turning his head toward the source. The coach is standing at the threshold of his office, arms crossed, brows low with that permanent scowl etched into his weathered face. It’s impossible to tell if he’s furious or just...being himself. But Jay knows that tone. Knows it too well. It’s the tone that means come here. Now.

He nods once, respectful, as if he isn’t panicking inside. As if his hands aren’t suddenly clammy and his heart isn’t hammering against his ribs like it wants out. He gives a fleeting glance back toward the ice, where you’re still collecting equipment with Jungwon, your eyes catching his for a moment, just a flicker. He doesn't smile this time. Just turns and walks. The office door clicks shut behind him, sealing out the familiar chaos of the rink. In here, it’s quiet. Sterile. A single desk lamp casts a dim, amber light over the papers scattered on Coach Bennett’s desk. Framed photos of past seasons hang on the walls, championships won, trophies hoisted high, a dozen versions of the same proud scowl that the coach wears now, as he motions silently for Jay to sit.

Jay obeys, lowering himself into the chair like he’s done a hundred times before. But today, the air feels thicker, like it’s pressing down on his chest. He keeps his expression neutral, hands clasped tightly between his knees. Captain’s posture. Soldier’s stance. Coach Bennett doesn’t beat around the bush. “Jay, I’m going to be honest,” he begins, his voice rough as gravel, fingers laced tightly together as he leans forward on the desk. “I’ve heard some rumors.”

Jay’s mouth goes dry. The coach continues, eyes boring into him like a spotlight. “Rumors that someone on this team has been fooling around with my daughter. Even after I forbade it.” Jay blinks, once. The seconds stretch and bend like rubber bands. His throat tightens.

“Do you know anything about this?” He wants to lie. Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he wants to rip the words from his chest and lay them out plain. He swallows hard. “No, Coach, I–” But Coach Bennett doesn’t let him finish. He leans back, cutting him off with a raised hand.

“I trust you,” he says, voice suddenly softer. And for a flicker of a moment, a single heartbeat, Jay feels relief. His breath catches on the cusp of hope. Maybe this is his way of saying it’s okay. Maybe he knows, and he’s offering a backdoor blessing. Maybe, just maybe —

“I trust you,” the coach repeats, voice firm now, “to nip these rumors in the bud.” Jay’s heart stops. “You’re the captain. That means handling this, loudly and clearly. In front of the whole team. If someone is messing around with my daughter, I want to know who. And I want them dealt with.” Jay opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Coach Bennett isn’t finished.

“Whoever it is, if I find out, they’re suspended indefinitely. Until I decide if they ever come back.” He folds his arms across his chest. “I don’t care how good they are. Rules are rules. And I don’t break them for anyone.” Jay’s stomach churns. Then the killing blow.

“You’re like a son to me, Jay. That’s why I made you captain. I trust you.” Jay tries to swallow the guilt rising like bile in his throat, tries to keep his features smooth and unreadable. But it’s like a knot has formed in his chest, thick and tangled and impossible to ignore. Like a brand seared into his ribs. The kind of pain that doesn’t scream, it smolders.

He nods once. “Yes, Coach. I’ll take care of it.”

The coach leans back in his chair, apparently satisfied. “Good. You’re dismissed.”

Jay stands, body on autopilot, legs heavy as stone. He walks out of the office slowly, blinking against the harsh fluorescent lights of the hallway. The air out here feels colder. Sharper. Like the truth is a knife pressed against his neck. He should feel proud. He said the right thing. Wore the right mask. But he doesn’t feel proud. He feels hollow. There’s no ice bath waiting for him now. Only the silent weight of guilt, trailing him like a shadow as he heads for the locker room. And for the first time in years, Jay isn’t sure if he deserves the “C” stitched to his jersey, or the way you look at him like he’s someone worth trusting. Because he’s lying to the only two people who’ve ever mattered. And that lie is starting to rot in his chest.

Practice ends beneath the low hum of fluorescent lights and the faint echo of skate blades scraping against ice, but Jay’s world has long since tilted off its axis. He doesn’t even register the ache in his body anymore, not the dull throb in his knee nor the stiffness in his arms. He’s moving on instinct, eyes only searching for one thing, you. You’re by the bench with Jungwon, laughing at something he said, your hair falling in a way that makes his heart clench. For a moment, Jay forgets the weight in his chest, the pressure behind his eyes. You look so soft in the cold of the rink, a calm tucked away in chaos. He doesn’t have time.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, the words falling from his lips like lead. You turn to him, confused, eyebrows furrowing, lips parting to ask what he means, but he’s already walking away, like a man marching toward his own execution. And maybe that’s what this is.

He doesn’t glance back as he calls for the team to gather. “Line up,” he shouts, his voice sharp and firm, echoing off the walls. The players shuffle toward him in loose lines, shoving each other, still high off adrenaline from drills. You’re watching now from the sidelines, your clipboard held tightly in your hand, curiosity pinching your expression. Jay forces himself not to look at you. If he does, he’ll lose the will to speak. “I have an announcement,” he begins, loud enough to silence the chatter, his voice ringing out into the stillness. And then the words leave him, like poison.

“There are rumors floating around that someone on this team has disobeyed Coach Bennett’s orders regarding his daughter.” The moment your name hangs in the air, not spoken, but pointed at, like a dagger, everything stops. You freeze, blinking at Jay, disbelief warping across your face like a crack in glass. Your breath catches in your throat. It doesn’t make sense. Is he —?

“She is off limits,” Jay continues, his jaw clenched, every word a betrayal. “If you’re caught with her, you will be suspended pending review by the coach. If he decides you’re no longer necessary to the team, you’ll be removed entirely.” The silence is deafening.

You step forward like your bones are no longer willing to sit back and let this happen. Your face is a map of fury and heartbreak, eyes blazing, jaw trembling. “What the fuck, Jay?” you shout, voice rising like a wave crashing against the shore. “What the hell is this? What are you doing?” He can’t look at you.

You shove past the stunned players and stomp into the center of the rink, your voice climbing in volume, sharp and sure. “I’m not a fucking piece of meat. I’m not something you can pass rules about like I’m property.” Your voice wavers with rage, with disbelief, with the sudden sting of being betrayed not only by your father, but by the boy who kissed you like you were everything. “I’m my own person. You don’t get to control me.”

Coach Bennett’s voice cracks like a whip across the silence. “Rules are rules.”

You spin on him now, eyes flashing, years of buried resentment erupting like magma. “Your rules are bullshit! They’ve always been bullshit. You think you can control everything with a whistle and a clipboard, but you can’t. You were never there for me. You were there for Jaehyun. For hockey. But not for me.” The entire team is frozen. Nobody dares to breathe.

Coach Bennett’s face darkens. “I can’t dictate your life,” he says lowly, “but I can dictate theirs.”

That’s when it snaps. You feel it inside your chest, the last strand of restraint snapping like a violin string under pressure. You look at him, then at Jay, and the pain in your eyes could shatter the ice beneath you. “Go to hell,” you spit, your voice like fire. “All of you.” You throw the clipboard. It hits the ground with a clatter that echoes like a gunshot. And then you turn, storming out of the rink, each footfall hard and fast, your breath shallow, your fists clenched at your sides. No one calls after you. Not even Jay.

He just stands there, alone at the center of the storm he helped create, watching the person he loves disappear through a door he may never be able to open again. And the silence you leave behind is heavier than any punishment Coach Bennett could ever give.

The hallway smelled like stale sweat and antiseptic soap, like frozen water thawing too fast, and your breath came in jagged pieces, lungs aching against your ribcage as you tried to contain everything you felt, humiliation, betrayal, rage. They were blooming in you like rot, black and furious, and you couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t breathe. Your fingers were trembling as you pushed open the locker room door, letting the chill of the empty room swallow you whole. It was quieter in here, almost sacred in a way, the clatter and chaos of practice replaced by the muffled hum of old air vents and the distant drip of melting ice. You moved robotically, grabbing your notes, your clipboard, your stupid pens that you didn’t even like, stuffing them into your bag like they’d wronged you personally.

If this internship wasn’t so damn important, if you weren’t so close to the future you’d been clawing toward for years, you’d quit right now. Walk out of this rink, toss your badge in your father’s face, and never look back. But you couldn’t, not yet. How dare he try to dictate your life. And how dare Jay let him? You blinked hard, the sting of unshed tears biting at the corners of your vision. The boy who kissed you like he meant it, who whispered against your skin like you were precious, who looked at you like he was seeing something holy, that boy stood in front of an entire team and threw you under the bus like you were just some distraction. Just some problem to be managed. After everything you’d shared. After what you gave him. The door creaked open.

You didn’t have to look to know who it was. The room felt different with him in it, weighted and warm in that way that used to make you feel safe, but now made you want to scream. Jay stood there in silence for a moment, his mouth parted, like the words were caught behind his teeth. His eyes searched your face like he could still find a trace of forgiveness there. Like maybe if he looked long enough, the damage he did might disappear. “I’m sorry—” he started, voice soft, pleading.

You spun around fast, eyes wild, your voice sharp like a blade. “You humiliated me.” He flinched like the word was a slap, but you didn’t stop. “You took his side. After everything we said. After what we did. How could you?” Jay opened his mouth, but nothing came out. No excuses. No explanations. Just silence.

You shook your head, bitterly, lips tight with disbelief as you slung your bag over your shoulder. “Forget it,” you muttered, walking toward the door like you could outrun the hurt. “I should’ve known. I should’ve known better than to think I mattered more than him.”

“Please—” he called out, voice cracking. “Just… let me explain. Please.” You turned to him, hollow laughter spilling from you like a broken song. “Why should I? What I say doesn’t matter, Jay. You’ll just do whatever my dad says anyway.”

He groaned, running a hand down his face like he could pull the guilt off himself. “He’s like a father to me—”

“And he’s my father,” you snapped, your voice rising with the full weight of all the years you’d held this in, “Mine. And he treats me like I’m a fucking ghost. Like I’m not even there unless I’m making his coffee or holding his clipboard. You think it feels good to watch someone who isn’t even his blood get treated like a golden child, while his real child gets nothing? Not praise. Not love. Nothing.” Jay’s face softened with something that looked like heartbreak, his mouth trembling with words he didn’t know how to say. “He cornered me in the office today,” he said, his voice rough. “He demanded I make a statement in front of the team, to put the rumors to rest, and if I didn’t — he made it sound like I’d be finished. What was I supposed to do?”

“Tell the truth,” you breathed. “You should’ve told the damn truth.” He sighed, defeated, and sat down on one of the benches like the weight of it all had finally caught up to him. His shoulders curled forward, elbows on his knees, hands hanging limp.

Then, quietly; so quietly you almost missed it, he said, “I love you.” The air left your lungs. He looked up at you now, and his eyes were nothing like the confident boy you first met on the ice. They were soft, and tired, and afraid. “I know it’s soon,” he said. “I know everything’s a mess. But I do. I love you.”

Your heart clenched. You hadn’t expected it, not here, not like this, not in the middle of a locker room still echoing with betrayal. But even now, even bleeding, you knew your feelings hadn’t changed. So you sat beside him, your thigh pressed to his, and reached for his hand. “And I hate that he wasn’t a good dad to you,” Jay whispered, his voice cracking. “I hate it. But I can’t lie to him, not after everything. I owe him.”

You nodded slowly. “I agree, Jay. I’m not asking you to lie.” You turned to him, your voice quiet, but firm. “But I won’t be with you if we keep this a secret. I won’t be your dirty little secret. We tell him. Or this ends.”

Jay nodded, gripping your hand tighter. “Okay. Let’s—” A voice cut through the air like a gunshot.

“Too late.” You froze.

Your head whipped toward the door, and there, standing in the frame like the ghost of a thousand disappointments, was your father. Coach Bennett. Face hard. Shoulders squared. His eyes were sharp and unreadable, but the fire beneath them was unmistakable. Every nerve in your body screamed. Jay stood up slowly, but you didn’t move. You didn’t breathe. It was too late. You didn’t need to tell him. He already knew. The moment felt frozen in amber, suspended between one breath and the next. You stood beside Jay like you were both statues cast in shame and defiance, the silence between the three of you straining at the seams.

His eyes bore into Jay with something colder than ice, sharper than skates on glass. His voice came low and level, but the weight of it dropped like an axe. “I trusted you.”

Jay didn’t flinch, but you saw the way his eyes dropped, the way his shoulders curled inward slightly like he’d taken the hit straight to the chest. You wanted to speak, to say something, but you felt your pulse in your throat, thick and rising. Jay looked at his shoes, then at your father, then finally at you, his eyes steady, jaw tight. And then, slowly, deliberately, he reached down and took your hand in his. “I love her,” he said. No embellishment, no excuses. Just truth. Laid bare like a wound. “I’m sorry.” For a heartbeat, it almost felt like that might matter. Like maybe love could be enough to change something here.

But your father’s eyes darkened, his lips pulling into a grim, tired line. He didn’t even blink. “You’re suspended.” The air in the room imploded. The silence that followed was so deep it rang in your ears. You felt the earth tilt under your feet, the ripple of that sentence echoing in your bones. You didn’t move. Neither did Jay.

“Dad—” you started, your voice raw.

“No.” The word came fast and sharp, slicing through your protest before it could fully form. He didn’t even look at you. His eyes were still locked on Jay like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “You’re suspended,” he repeated, voice like splintering wood. “Until I’m ready to let you back. Heeseung will be acting captain. Now get out of my rink.”

Jay inhaled sharply, something like heartbreak flashing behind his eyes. He opened his mouth, voice trembling with the weight of everything he hadn’t gotten the chance to say. “Coach—”

“Get out.” There was finality in those words. No room for argument. No crack to slip a plea through. Jay stood still for a moment, eyes flicking to you one last time, and there was something in his gaze, something that said I’m sorry. He picked up his bag without a word and walked out, the door shutting softly behind him, the sound so gentle it felt cruel. And then it was just you and your father, the air still vibrating from all that had just broken apart.

You turned toward him slowly, your heart pounding, your face flushed with fury. There was no more space left inside you for restraint, for tiptoeing around his silence or swallowing your feelings like they didn’t matter. “How dare you?” you breathed, your voice a whisper and a scream at once.

His eyes narrowed, arms crossed over his chest like a fortress. “Rules are rules.” But you weren’t having it. Not now. Not anymore.

“No.” You stepped closer, heat radiating off you like a wildfire. “What is your problem? Why the sudden urge to act like a father now? What, because it finally gives you control over something? Someone?” He didn’t answer. His jaw clenched, his stare hardened, and you could see it, that wall he always kept between the two of you, the one made of pride and coldness and hockey schedules and missed birthdays.

“This isn’t up for discussion,” he said, like he was reading from a goddamn script.

You scoffed, bitter laughter escaping before you could stop it. “Of course it isn’t. It never is with you. It’s always do this, don’t do that, be quiet, be useful, don’t embarrass me. You never listen to me. You never see me.” He didn’t say anything. Didn’t blink. Just turned back to his desk like he could will you out of the room by ignoring you.

So you did what you always wanted to do. You left. You turned on your heel, your throat burning, your heart thundering, and walked out without another word. Not because you were giving up, but because there was nothing left to say to someone who never heard you in the first place. The door clicked shut behind you with a sound too small for how big this moment felt. And still; through the rage, through the betrayal, through the cracks, you carried one thing with you as you walked: Jay's words echoing soft as snowfall. I love you. That, at least, was still yours.

Jay’s house is quieter than you’ve ever known it to be. The kind of quiet that sinks into your skin, that makes you wonder how long he’s been alone with his thoughts, how long he’s sat in this silence with the weight of your father’s words pressing into his chest like stones. Sunghoon answers the door after only a few knocks, and his face softens when he sees you standing there. There’s something in his gaze that reads like understanding, like he knows exactly where you’re headed and what you need to say. He steps aside without a word and gestures upstairs. “He’s in his room,” he murmurs, voice gentle, as if not to disturb something sacred.

You nod your thanks, offering him a small, grateful smile, and begin to climb the steps. As you approach the top, a sound reaches you, soft, melodic, aching in its simplicity. Not loud or showy. Just… honest. It takes you a second to realize what you’re hearing: music. Guitar strings plucked with care, each note falling like a raindrop into still water. The sound is fragile and deeply personal, like a secret you’re not sure you’re meant to hear. You pause just outside his room, heart slowing to match the rhythm of the melody, and close your eyes for a moment. You let it wash over you, the way it trembles, the way it yearns. It speaks of sadness and of hope, of loss and love all braided into the same fragile thread. You push the door open gently and there he is, Jay, sitting on the edge of his bed, guitar nestled in his lap, his fingers dancing across the frets with a kind of quiet reverence. His brow is furrowed in focus, his lips slightly parted as he hums along, completely unaware that the world is watching. That you are watching. And something in you splinters, because how can someone look so heartbreakingly beautiful in their stillness?

He looks up and startles slightly when he sees you, his cheeks flushing the softest shade of pink like you’ve caught him baring something intimate. He moves to set the guitar down quickly, a sheepish laugh escaping his throat. “I didn’t think anyone was home,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes darting away.

You step into the room, closing the door behind you. “It was beautiful,” you say softly, like speaking too loudly might break the magic still lingering in the air. He lets out a small breath, almost relieved, but shrugs modestly. “I only play sometimes,” he murmurs. “When it’s quiet. When I need to think.”

You walk closer, until you’re in front of him, your gaze soft but steady. “I’d love for you to play for me sometime,” you say, and you mean it. There’s something deeply vulnerable in the way he held that guitar, something that speaks more truth than words ever could. Jay looks at you then, really looks, and you see the shadows behind his eyes, the questions, the uncertainty, the pain he’s been hiding under that quiet exterior. “Are you okay?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, as if asking it too loudly might cause him to retreat into himself again.

He exhales, his shoulders sinking as he leans back slightly, resting his arms on his knees. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I don’t know who I am without hockey.” You nod, understanding that ache all too well, the feeling of being untethered, of having the one thing that defined you ripped away before you were ready to let go. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

But Jay reaches for your hand and shakes his head, his fingers curling around yours with surprising tenderness. “Don’t apologize,” he says firmly. “You didn’t do this. I made the choice. I just… wish it didn’t feel like losing everything.”

Your heart aches for him, for the boy who’s spent his whole life trying to be good enough for a man who only saw his potential on the ice. You lift his hand to your lips and press a kiss into his knuckles. “I see you,” you say softly. “Even without the jersey. Even without the captain’s C.”

Something flickers in his expression, gratitude, adoration, a flicker of something deeper. He leans in slowly, brushing his lips against yours, tentative at first like he’s afraid you might still be angry, still slipping through his fingers. But you lean into him just as hungrily, and the kiss deepens, your hands finding their way to his hair, his neck, pulling him closer like you never want to be apart again. The guitar is long forgotten, resting gently on the bed as your bodies lean into one another. The heat builds slowly, quietly, in the soft sighs between kisses, in the way his fingers trace along your spine, in the way you fit together so naturally. There’s no rush, no desperation, only the steady, quiet need to be known. He kisses you like an apology, like a promise, and you respond with forgiveness, with fire.

The room fills with the sound of breath, of whispered names, of two people trying to love each other through the wreckage. And in that moment, wrapped in his arms, with your heart pounding in tandem, you realize that even in the ashes, something new can grow. That maybe love is the one thing strong enough to stand after everything else falls.

You lean back only slightly, your lips leaving his. “I have something that might make you feel better.” Your voice carried a heavy lit to it, sultry and sweet. Jay’s eyebrows rose, a playful smirk on his lips.

“Yeah?” He asks his tongue darting out to lick his lips, his hands finding your waist to pull you impossibly close. “How, so?”

You fall to your knees in front of him, your hair hanging around you like a veil waiting to be pushed aside. Jay let out a low groan, one that stems deep within his belly — deep and guttarl. He wore grey sweatpants, your nimble hands finding the jaw string to pull at. His eyes drank in every movement. The way you lowered his pants to his ankle, the way you pulled him out of his boxers with a hiss, a small knowing smile on your face.

“Fuck.” He choked out his hands finding your hair. Your mouth found his tip, sucking slightly. Jay’s eyes fluttered a shaky breath leaving his lips as he gathered your hair into a tight ponytail, tugging just lightly. “Agh fuck.”

His groans were only encouragement for your movements, a rhythm settling in as you bobbed your head up and down on his shaft. The hand that wasn’t holding your hair, settled on your cheeks as his fingers grazed the indentation of himself inside your mouth. “Don’t stop.” He praised, his grip on your hair tightening “Don’t fucking stop, i’m close.”

You speed your movements up — a gag in the back of your throat sounding over the harshness of Jay’s ragged breath and gurgling moans. “Where do you want it, baby?” He asked you. You nodded at him, signaling for him to finish in your mouth and that he did. His eyes squeezing shut, his hand yanking at your hair like it was a lifeline. He came down your throat – hot. You pulled away, your breath harsh swallowing all that he gave you.

“Did that help?” You smirked, whipping your mouth with the back of your head. Jay laughs his head lazily, nodding a smile on his face. “I’m glad.”

The morning is crisp and cold, the sky still tinted with the faded gray of pre-dawn. The air bites at your cheeks as you walk across the familiar parking lot, one last time. You’ve arrived early, earlier than anyone else, before the team, before Jay, even before the locker rooms have truly come alive. The hum of the arena is low and steady, the kind of hush that exists only in those sacred minutes before the world begins to move again. You clutch the envelope in your hand tightly, the edges slightly curled from how many times your fingers have clenched it overnight. It holds not just a few simple documents, but the manifestation of your decision, your first true act of defiance not rooted in emotion but in intention. Your choice. You make your way through the maze of hallways you know by heart, each echo of your footsteps reverberating off the walls like a goodbye. When you reach the door to your father’s office, you hesitate for just a second. Your fingers hover over the woodgrain, and you let out a slow breath, steeling yourself. Then, you knock.

The door opens shortly after, and your father blinks in surprise when he sees you. He’s not dressed in his usual suit and tie just yet, still in his fleece-lined warm-up gear, clipboard tucked under one arm. You hand him the envelope without a preamble. Your voice is level, your gaze steady. “I need you to sign these.”

He furrows his brow, flipping the envelope open and scanning the first page. “What’s this?”

You don’t flinch. “They’re transfer papers. I’ve accepted an intern position with the university across town. Their hockey program offered me a place to work starting tomorrow.” The silence is sharp and immediate. His eyes snap up to meet yours, laced with confusion, the beginning edge of protest in his throat. “You’re transferring? You don’t have to do that. This is rash. You’re not thinking clearly.”

But you don’t budge, don’t shrink under his stare. You won’t be talked down from this cliff. “No,” you say calmly, each word deliberate, crystalline. “I’ve thought about it a lot. This isn’t just about what happened with Jay. This is about years of feeling small around you. Of being overlooked. Of being managed instead of raised.” He opens his mouth again, some protest half-formed on his lips, but you don’t give him the space. You don’t come here for a fight, you’ve had enough of those. Instead, you keep your tone measured, professional. You say everything you need to say without a single trace of venom.

“I won’t let you ruin my life more than you already have,” you tell him. “I’m not your soldier. I’m not your project. I’m not a pawn on your team board. I’m your daughter.” And for the first time, you see something flicker behind his eyes; not anger, not frustration. Something quieter. Smaller. Maybe even guilt. But you don’t wait to hear what he has to say. You simply turn and walk away, papers left behind on his desk like a verdict. Your spine is straight, your chin lifted, but your heart pounds like a war drum in your chest. Not from fear, but from the quiet, powerful rush of choosing yourself. You don’t pause. You don’t look back. And behind you, in the stillness of that office, your father is left alone, left with the papers, with the silence, and with the heavy weight of everything he’s done to bring you here.

It had been a week of something close to heaven, a fragile but precious interlude where love bloomed without restraint. Mornings tangled in soft sheets and half-spoken promises, afternoons chasing sunlight and teasing kisses, evenings curled into each other like pages of the same chapter. Jay held your hand like it was sacred, touched your face like he still couldn’t believe you were real, and kissed you like he wanted to make time stop. And for a while, it did. For a week, the world outside didn’t matter. But the silence had started to hum. Not the sweet kind, no, this was the brittle, broken silence of something missing. You caught it in the way Jay paused when the boys group chat lit up with win updates, locker room jokes, team photos without him in them. He never said it aloud, never dared to pull at the thread unraveling slowly in his chest, but you could see it. He missed it. Hockey wasn’t just a sport to Jay; it was his identity, his language, the thing he’d bled and bruised and burned for since he was old enough to grip a stick. And now, stripped of it, he smiled with his mouth but never fully with his eyes.

You missed it, too. The chill of the rink, the warm camaraderie of the team, the way Heeseung grumbled every time you corrected his posture but secretly appreciated it. You missed teasing Sunghoon, calling him a ballerina every time he accidentally twirled like a figure skater on a bad turn. And then there was your father, a ghost in the hallways of your heart, haunting the edges of your mind. As much as his choices hurt, as much as his anger pushed you away, there was still a child inside you who missed their dad, no matter how absent.

So when the boys decided to have a barbecue that Saturday, burgers sizzling on the grill, laughter echoing through the backyard, bottles of soda clinking together like makeshift champagne, it felt like breathing again. The world righted itself for a moment. Heeseung and his girlfriend were playfully arguing over the best way to season corn, Sunghoon was making a mess of the grill, smoke billowing in a way that made Jake dramatically declare they were “all going to die,” and Jay, your Jay, was watching you with soft eyes and Sera babbling in his lap, gripping his thumb with her tiny hand. You leaned into the warmth, into the joy, just as your phone rang.

The screen lit up: Mom. Your heart stumbled. You hadn’t heard from her in a while, she was always somewhat removed, orbiting your life like a distant moon. Not unloving, but not present either. Always polite. Always brief. Her voice on the other end of the line was calm, collected, and surprisingly direct. “I’d like you and Jay to come to the rink,” she said. “Just the two of you.” The words hit you sideways, strange and off-kilter. You blinked at the grill smoke, at the glow of the afternoon sun casting long golden rays across the yard. Jay noticed your expression, his brows furrowing in gentle concern.

“Why?” you asked your mother, confused. “Why the rink?”

She didn’t explain, not really. “I think it’s time,” she said instead. “Please.”

And somehow, despite every piece of your rational mind screaming confusion, your heart said yes. Not because you knew what waited at that cold rink. But because something inside you, some sliver of hope still left unspoken, whispered that maybe, just maybe, the ice didn’t have to be a battlefield forever. So you turned to Jay, hand still wrapped around your phone, and told him. “She wants to meet us at the rink.”

His face mirrored your own disbelief. But he didn’t ask why. He just nodded. And said, “Okay.”

The sky is beginning to gray by the time you and Jay reach the rink, that familiar stretch of parking lot empty and echoing beneath your footsteps. The glass doors hiss open, letting out a breath of cool, sharp air that prickles against your skin like old memories. The sound of skates against ice, the steady drone of a Zamboni finishing its last lap, the scent of chilled rubber and piney disinfectant; it's all the same, unchanged, and yet nothing is the same at all.

Jay squeezes your hand as you walk in, and you squeeze back, his warmth grounding you. You keep expecting to see your mother, her sleek coat, her warm expression, her sunny voice carrying across the echoing lobby, but when you step fully inside, it's not her standing under the buzzing fluorescents. It’s him. Your father. You freeze. Rage unfurls in your chest, slow and molten. You turn immediately, heels pivoting toward the exit with cold finality, but Jay is quicker; he gently catches your wrist, his voice soft, pleading. “Just… stay. Please. Hear him out.”

And you don’t know why, but something in his tone, in the quiet steadiness of his gaze, makes you stay. Maybe it’s love. Maybe it’s exhaustion. Or maybe it’s hope, shriveled but not yet dead. Your father’s shoulders look heavier than you remember. There’s a strain to his face, like he’s been carrying something too long. And when he speaks, it’s not the usual bark of orders or that razor-edge tone laced with judgment, it’s low. Gentle. Sincere.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and the words hit you like the crack of a puck against the glass.

You blink. “What?”

He nods slowly, eyes on you with something startlingly close to regret. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “For everything. For… not being there the way I should have. For choosing the game over you. For being too proud to see what was right in front of me.” You don’t know what to say. This is the man who turned away when you cried, who praised your brother's goals but never your straight A’s, who ran drills longer than dinners and could name every stat in the league but forgot your favorite color. And now he's standing here, shoulders sagging, saying sorry like it costs him everything.

“I lost my daughter,” he continues, voice gruff with the weight of what he’s admitting. “And I lost the best player I ever coached. The best captain I ever trusted.” He glances at Jay, who stands beside you, spine stiff but eyes glistening. “It was like a slap in the face,” your father murmurs. “And I deserved it.”

Silence settles, a snowfall between you all. “I wish I could go back,” he says. “Wish I could change a lot of things. But I can’t. I can only move forward. And moving forward means trying to be better. Not just as a coach. As a father.” Your eyes are glassy now, throat tight. You look at Jay, and he’s watching you; not your father, not the rink, but you, like you’re the only one that matters in the world.

Your voice comes out small, trembling around truth. “Jay makes me happy.”

And that’s when your father finally turns to him, arms crossed like a coach, but not unkind. “Then I want you to be with him. If he treats you right.” Jay blinks, startled, then nods quickly, a smile breaking slowly over his face like dawn cresting the horizon. Your father lifts a brow, his voice tinged with dry humor now. “If he doesn’t… he’ll regret it.”

Laughter bubbles up, genuine and breathless. You laugh, and Jay laughs, and even your father chuckles, shaking his head like he’s only just beginning to understand what it means to let go of the past and step into something new. And in that moment, everything shifts. Not completely. Not perfectly. But enough. You walk out of the rink hand in hand with Jay, the weight in your chest lighter than it’s felt in years. The past is behind you. The cold can’t touch you. And ahead lies only the warm unfolding of a future finally, finally your own.

@hoonjayke @izzyy-stuff , @beomiracles , @dawngyu , @hyukascampfire , @saejinniestar , @notevenheretbh1 , @hwanghyunjinismybae, @ch4c0nnenh4, @kristynaaah

series taglist. (★) @saejinniestar , @vixialuvs , @slut4hee , @xylatox , @skyearby @m1kkso @jakeswifez @heartheejake @hommyy-tommy @yunverie @lalalalawon

@strayy-kidz @wolfhardbby @kwiwin @immelissaaa @fancypeacepersona @starfallia @mariegalea @adoredbyjay @strxwbloody @lovingvoidgoatee @beeboobeebss @zyvlxqht @weyukinluv @flwwon

@guapgoddees @demigodmahash @cloud-lyy @heesky @ikaw-at-ikaw @shuichi-sama @shawnyle @kwhluv @iarainha @ikeuwoniee @mora134340 @firstclassjaylee

#enhypen imagines #enhypen smut #enhypen #jay enha #jay enhypen #jay smut #park jongseong #park jay enhypen #jay enhypen imagines #jay enhypen smut #jay x reader #k pop smut #k pop imagines

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lylian333 · 4 days ago

Text

Yandere Romance x reader

warning/contact: small headcore and idea, toxic ig, please help me check if I make any mistakes or other things I forgot to include, yandere, stalking, supper random scenario or au, idk where this is going like really....

~Boyfriend au~

He loves cuddling up with you

He's probably a starve touch person and words of affection

He once even sniffed your hair while cuddling you, don't mind that much tho

He would also love going out shopping with you and especially when you ask him, "Does this look good on me?"/"Does this suit me?"

He loves dressing you up all pretty for him his taste and style, but if you don't want it or aren't feeling like it he'll go with whatever you want

He would also be a slow and deep kisser

After kissing, there will be a thin strand of saliva that clings between your lips and his, stretching with the distance until it finally snaps

your chest rising, your lips wet and swollen, a small trail of drool slipping down the corner of your mouth.(I feel like he loves it sloopy like that)

clingy 24/7

Pet names he would either call you my angle/princess /Suger cube/my sun/moon fuck if kinky enough then master/mommy

He would be the type to flirt with other girls just to see you all mad, frustrated, and jealous, and refuse to talk to him, idk he just wants to see you all tense

But if you ever dare pull up that move on other people, he'll be all sad, emo, overthinking that he isn't enough for you, and would keep asking questions like what makes them so special that you have to touch their arms, and all that

Or he would show off his clingy side in front of that person, like coming up from behind and hugging you at the waist and pushing their whole body onto your back, and placing their head on your shoulder, getting all so clingy by then you already know there's pushiment waiting for you back home

Or he'll just kill and take that person's soul after you leave (best solution out of all)

~yandere au slowly~

He seems like those guys that enjoy begging or simping hard and don't like it when other girls throw themself to him like some kind of rag doll

he wants changlle he wants to be fucking despried not only that you special to him in a particularly way

He would be so curious about you, he'll stalk your whole online site that your on if you don't have anything on there no worries, he'll just have to do it physically. He wouldn't mind rescheduling his time at all, you're worth every time he spend on.

But anyway, during signature time where the girl group and boy group join together while he was acting all cocky around with mira and abby/abs he then hear a fimallir soft voice, he instantly turn around just to see you

holy shit it's really you, you were standing there sliming and asking mira for a signature

like isn't suppose to be him? like- you caught him so off guard he didn't knew you like kpop maybe he's too carless and accidently miss your playlist many weird shits were going through his head , his expression may not say it all but one thing for sure he was stud like staring at you and not blinking you saw his expression and try to ignore it instent focusing on mira

While Mira try handing you back the photocard back he snatches it and puts his signature and number on the back of the card you couldn't refuse it or snatch it back, so you just accept it and smile at him while nodding at him

image like he had a small collection of your items, like after you left a cafe once you accidently left your hair tie behind and when he went over your table to you know...you know...to help you check if you left anything

it means the hair tie look worn out and kinda of covered with your hair, you probably don't want it anymore, so he took it and left

Back at his place, he personally hand-picked out all your hair and placed it in a small tiny box, and for the hair tie itself while he would sniff it for many purposes, even use it like it's his

The other members are curious to why he would go out when its supposed to be rest time for them to relex for the day but nope, he would dress up all weird with like black jacket sun sunglasses and mask a binne you know all those that look like a stalker, but never would have they though he's out there busy stalking someone i mean his nickname is romance he flirty as fuck

You were also be aware of a guy follow you non stop so you stop going out and rarely coming out. Instead, you used food delivery, all that, which makes him mad, like he now has to break into your house

shit that's it for now hopefully this is not too confusing its like a mix of my vomit ideas shit maybe I'll arrange it more proper in the future still hope u like my headcore and pls tell me if I did any mistake and ye any ideas u could share with me and I'll greatly consider it

#saja boys x reader #saja boys #k pop demon hunters x reader #kpop demon hunters #kdh x reader #yandere imagines #yandere headcanons #dark content #headcanon #romance #romance x reader #saja boys x y/n #yandere x reader #male yandere x reader #yandere core #headcore #k pop demon hunters #saja boys romance

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pancakeszs · 2 months ago

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sunghoon calls you clingy

♡pairing: sunghoon x fem!reader

♡contents: angst, hurt/comfort, guilt, fluff

♡synopsis: sunghoon calls you clingy and realizes he messed up

♡a/n: this is my first smau so i hope you like it!

WRITTEN BY @pancakeszs (please do not copy, plagiarize, repost, translate, or edit)

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honeyhaeya · 26 days ago

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(🔐)🖇 ༘ ⋆"How to Date Discreetly"

' ╰┈ "can i go where you go? can we always be this close forever and ever?"

' ' 박성훈 x fem!reader

🎧ྀི 'ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : Lover (Taylor Swift)

♫⋆₊˚ ﾟ. 'ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ : ▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮▮

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ genre / tags: idol!sunghoon x idol!reader, ice prince x reckless rookie, secret & established relationship, enemies to lovers (kinda), fluff, smut – MDNI, angst (minor), a pinch of comedy ੈ✩‧₊˚warnings: NSFW WARNINGS UNDER THE CUT ! smut, slight jealousy (m), language, detailed explicit scenes, angst (minor), reader on the pill (birth control), mutual hate that’s just actually horny confusion, mild hate (online), – ugh, theyre so in love, its intoxicating ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎˎˊ˗ smut warnings: unprotected sex (reader doesn't get pregnant, but you might irl, so wrap that shit up), overstimulation, oral (f. receiving), cock riding, rough sex, creampie (lol), praise kink, dirty talk, emotionally charged sex, soft dom hoon, high sex drive hoon ✩‧₊˚ wc: 6003 – 2/2 (mini series) ੈ♡ a/n: this is peak delusion. dont like, dont read. open for constructive critisism but fact checks or logical expected outcome are out of the picture, come on yall, this is fanfiction. this is the last part, y'all, pls enjoyyyy mwuah. be sure to read part 1 ! *^★ playlist: lover (taylor swift), celebrity (iu), they dont know about us (one directon), polaroid love (enhypen)

you were trembling when they handed you the trophy.

your first win.

lights blinding. fans screaming. camera zooming in.

and just when you thought you couldn’t hold it in anymore—tears starting to fall, your members surrounding you like the sisters they’ve become—

a staff passed you a note.

no name. just: practice room 3b. after stage. alone.

your heart knew before your head could catch up.

so after all the cameras stopped flashing, after the encore ended and you waved goodbye with shaky hands—

you went.

and there he was.

sunghoon, leaned against the mirror, hoodie pulled over his cap, eyes meeting yours like he’d been waiting forever.

you walked in and locked the door.

“you came,” you whispered, not quite believing it.

“of course i did,” he said. “you won.”

“we won,” you whispered, and that’s when he crossed the room and pulled you into a hug so tight your knees nearly gave out.

“i’m so proud of you,” he murmured into your hair. “i watched it live. twice.”

you laughed into his chest. “i tripped during the dance break.”

“and still looked better than me every comeback.”

you grinned. “no one’s ever looked better than you during bite me era.”

“...valid.”

and then you stayed like that, forehead to forehead, laughing softly and just being.

just breathing each other in like the chaos of the world couldn’t find you there.

a week later

the fandom wasn’t ready.

a short collab tiktok. your new dance challenge.

you posted it with your leader.

he posted it with you.

and fans went feral.

“wait. is that sunghoon and y/n???” “don’t play with me—this is a power collab” “why are they so… flirty? HUH???” “they have matching energy idc this is my otp now”

even some idols reposted it with captions like “siblings or dating???” and “get a room but make it cute”

you both just smiled and ignored the chaos.

a few weeks later

the photo spread across stan twitter like wildfire.

a local park. grainy zoom.

a girl in an oversized tee and denim shorts, cap low, platinum-blonde strands peeking out.

a guy in a hoodie and mask, arms swinging beside hers, sneakers kicking up sand as they teased and fake-ran after each other.

laughing.

laughing like they had nothing to hide.

laughing like they forgot the world existed.

“wait is that them—” “sunghoon and y/n in public?!” “no way that’s not them” “i actually think this is kind of sweet???” “you can tell they’ve been in love for a long time”

of course, some fans weren’t having it.

“if it’s true i’m unfollowing” “he should focus on his career” “i don’t support this at all”

but for every hater, there were two fans saying:

“they deserve happiness” “you can tell they make each other so happy it’s insane” “i want a love like this…”

and behind closed doors, in their bubble of stolen glances and whispered phone calls and late-night snack deliveries—

you and sunghoon just smiled.

because maybe the world didn’t know for sure.

but you both did.

and that was enough.

he didn’t even say hi.

not even a “you look beautiful,” or a “i missed you”—though god knows he did. months of schedules, oceans apart, stolen glances through screens that never felt like enough.

but the moment the door shut behind you, he was already moving. one step. two. arms around your waist, lips crashing into yours like he’d been holding his breath this whole time.

your back hit the wall gently, his hands framing your face, breath trembling as if you were something fragile, sacred.

he didn’t rush. didn’t speak. just kissed you like the world had been unbearably quiet without you.

you tasted like home.

and he tasted like longing.

his lips moved with yours, slow but deep. his hands were over your waist, pulling your body close to him.

he moved fast—you didn’t even notice his hands slipping under the fabric of your shirt, touching your bare skin. you gasped, trying to question what was going on, but he just took that moment to slip his tongue into your mouth, deepening the kiss. your knees buckled, but he was there to hold you. he always was.

sunghoon lifted you like you weighed nothing, your legs wrapping around his waist instantly. he didn’t pull away until he laid you gently on the bed, like you were fragile glass.

his lips trailed to your cheeks, your jawline, then your neck. his hand held your chin, tilting your face to the side, giving him more access to the soft flesh.

slow. steady. nipping, but not enough to leave marks for the world to see. he was careful. he hated hiding you—hated hiding this. but he had to. for both of your sakes. thank god both your schedules lined up this week. this was his only chance. now or never again.

“hoon… i don’t get it… are you alright?” you asked, your voice soft, your body pliant as you let him kiss you like that. melting beneath him.

he didn’t reply right away. instead, he pressed a kiss to your neck, then rested his head on your stomach, settling between your legs.

“i just… missed you.”

you hummed, your fingers brushing through his soft locks. “that’s obvious. i missed you too,” you replied, giggling when he buried his face deeper into your stomach. it was cute. too cute. “tell me the real reason, pengsoo,” you teased.

he smiled. “you smell good… i want to feel you… like really be inside you,” he murmured, already tugging at your clothes. and you let him.

“it’s so hard. seeing you every once in a while, then you’re gone again,” he continued, your top slipping off, your breath hitching as your bra followed seconds after. his fingers traced your bare skin, teasing your sensitive spots with praise—calling you pretty, soft… intentional with every word.

you felt shy all of a sudden. this was the man you liked, dated, got in trouble with. the one who was always there—but somehow, not really. now he was undressing you. your cheeks heated as he pulled your pants down, and you tried to cover your face.

sunghoon noticed, smiling softly as he grabbed your wrists. “i… i love you.”

your breath caught. your cheeks burned. “…i love you too.”

and then he kissed you again. his hand tugged your panties aside, not even pulling away from your lips, keeping you distracted so you wouldn’t hide. “just tap me twice if you want me to stop,” he murmured between kisses, dipping lower. his fingers found your clit—it was already soaked. you were dripping. your grip tightened on his biceps, nails digging in.

then one finger slid inside you. then two. they curled perfectly, making your back arch, your mouth falling open as you gasped into his. he moved them in and out, finding that one perfect spot that made you moan—loudly, desperately—and he loved it.

he pulled away to watch you, fascinated. your flushed cheeks, your messy hair, your eyes rolling back. your pussy swallowing his fingers. lewd. beautiful. he didn’t even notice how hard he was until you came on his fingers, screaming his name.

“fucking beautiful,” he breathed, stripping down completely until nothing was left between you. he kissed your cheeks, muttering sweet nothings and filth that made you hide your face again.

“see how hard you make me?” he whispered. “i get so fucking mad knowing other guys get to look at you like that.”

you frowned, your hand cupping his face. “i’m yours. always.”

“i’m the only one who gets to see you like this,” he murmured, leaning into your touch.

you nodded, humming. “i want to feel you.”

his cock teased your entrance as he hovered over you, his breath heavy. “p-push it in,” you whispered, holding onto him as he slid in. your walls clenched around him, swallowing him perfectly. you were a moaning mess.

“shit… you’re so tight… perfect,” sunghoon grunted as he finally bottomed out. he stilled, letting you adjust to the stretch, to the overwhelming fullness.

the heat was dizzying. your body felt weightless. then, he drew his hips back and slammed them in again, hard. you screamed, voice cracking.

his pace started slow… but quickly turned feral.

his thrusts were deep, cock dragging along your walls like he was trying to mark you from the inside. the room echoed with the wet, obscene sounds of sex—messy. “fuck, baby,” he growled, lips brushing your ear.

he pulled back just enough to watch. your tits bounced with every thrust, your mouth open in a silent moan, your body wrecked. sunghoon grinned. “so... ha- pretty.”

suddenly, he dropped your thighs and flipped you over like you weighed nothing. he tugged your hips up so you were on your knees, his hand weaving into your hair to arch your back. “you're dripping,” he said, spreading your thighs apart before sliding back in.

you’d never seen him like this. so desperate. so rough. your mind blanked when another sharp thrust hit you.

“hoonnn!” you cried out, face buried in the sheets. his hips slammed into you, hard and fast. you felt every inch.

he leaned over, chest pressed to your back, mouth against your ear. “you like this, baby? you’re fucking perfect,” he rasped.

your moans were muffled, tears slipping down your cheeks as his fingers rubbed and twisted your clit mercilessly. your whole body was shaking.

he kept pounding into you, his cock slamming your cervix, your walls clenching tight. then, he grabbed your face, turning you to kiss him, searing and possessive.

“mouth,” he ordered.

you obeyed, dazed, and he kissed you, saliva mixing with yours before leaning back, watching you. “swallow it. please…”

you did. drunk on him and gone, and he knew. he could see it all over your face.

“f-fuck! hoonnie! i’m gonna cum!” you moaned, eyes rolling back, sobbing.

you came hard, squirting and soaking his cock. he groaned, pulling out just in time as his cum spilled over your folds, hot and thick. it dripped from your swollen pussy.

“so fucking pretty,” he whispered, staring at you like art—flushed, wrecked, dripping.

he brushed the hair from your face, kissing your cheeks. “you did so well.”

and your arms wrapped around him.

your legs were trembling, body still reeling from your high. your breath came out in short, shaky gasps as sunghoon lay beside you, brushing the sweat-damp strands of hair from your face.

"you okay?" he asked gently, voice husky from all the growling, his lips brushing against your forehead.

you nodded, eyes still glazed. "never better," you whispered, wrapping your arms around his bare torso.

but he just smirked—eyes flicking down between your legs, watching how wrecked and sensitive you were. “good,” he said. “'cause we’re not done yet.”

your eyes widened, and he loved that. the way you blinked up at him, totally ruined but still willing—still eager for more.

he sat up, leaning against the headboard, pulling you gently by the waist until you were straddling his lap.

“i wanna see you ride me,” he murmured, hands stroking your hips like he was sculpting you. “want you to learn how to take me like this. slow, deep—your pace. your rhythm.”

you blushed, chewing your lip. “i don’t really… know how.”

“that’s okay, baby. i’ll teach you,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. “just trust me.”

you shifted nervously, feeling his cock already getting hard again beneath you. still messy from earlier, twitching against your thigh.

sunghoon reached between you, grabbing the base of his cock, guiding it to your entrance. “sit, baby. go slow,” he said softly.

you lowered yourself, gasping as the tip slipped in. he hissed, gripping your waist tighter.

“fuck… that’s it. just like that.”

inch by inch, you sank down on him, stretching around his length again. you whimpered, gripping his shoulders. “s-sunghoon…”

“you’re doing so well,” he praised, kissing your chest. “so fucking tight. so warm. take all of it.”

when your hips finally met his, you both let out a shaky breath. you felt full, stretched, overwhelmed all over again. but god, the look in his eyes—completely ruined, in awe of you—made it worth it.

he cupped your cheeks, kissed you gently. “okay, baby. now move for me.”

you lifted yourself slowly, then lowered again, moaning softly. “ah—hah, i feel everything…”

“yeah?” he grinned. “you feel how deep i am?”

you nodded, tears forming again from the pressure and pleasure. you started rocking your hips, rolling them in slow, deliberate circles, your hands bracing on his chest. the way he groaned—low, raw, possessive—sent heat straight to your core.

“fuck, just like that,” he said, guiding your hips with his hands, helping you ride him. “you’re so sexy like this… bouncing on my cock, eyes all teary…”

you whimpered, gripping his wrists. “feels so good, hoonnie… wanna make you feel good…”

“you are.” his voice dropped. “you’re my dream, baby.”

his hips started meeting yours halfway, thrusting up into you with each bounce. your thighs were shaking, sweat clinging to your skin, but he didn’t let go—his arms around your waist, lips pressed to your neck.

you picked up the pace, moaning louder, his cock hitting that spot that made your body jolt.

“sunghoon! h-ha, i—i can’t!”

“yes you can,” he growled, eyes dark. “show me how pretty you cum riding me.”

you cried out, your body clenching down around him. “i—i’m cumming! hoonn—!”

he wrapped his arms around you tight as you came undone, hips stuttering, your walls spasming around his cock.

sunghoon groaned, teeth sinking into your shoulder as he buried himself deep, cumming inside you without pulling out.

“fuck… fuckkk, baby…”

he held you there, cock twitching inside you, both of you breathless and slick with sweat and cum.

you collapsed against his chest, and he stroked your back, whispering sweet things as you came down from the high.

“you did so good, baby. best fucking student.”

you giggled weakly. “best teacher.”

he grinned against your skin. “lesson two’s in ten minutes.”

you were slumped against his chest, sticky and spent, your thighs trembling from the effort. sunghoon gently stroked your spine, humming softly like he wasn’t the one who just had you seeing stars.

but then you felt it.

that unmistakable twitch inside you.

you gasped.

“wait—hoon… you’re still hard?”

his voice was pure mischief now, cocky and low in your ear. “i told you. lesson two’s in ten minutes. but you’re such a fast learner…” he tilted your chin up, his smirk deadly. “thought we could skip ahead.”

before you could answer, he was shifting you effortlessly, flipping you onto your back like you weighed nothing. his body hovered over yours—warm, slick, glistening with sweat. the dim lighting made his skin look like gold, hair a tousled mess, and his lips were swollen from kissing you like he needed you to breathe.

“legs up,” he murmured.

you blinked, still hazy. “w-what?”

“legs up, baby. now. hands under your knees. i wanna see everything.”

and god—you obeyed.

he groaned at the view, pupils blown. “fuck, look at this mess… all because of me.”

he didn’t waste a second. he slid back inside with ease—your walls still sensitive, wet, perfect for him. you let out a gasping whimper, eyes flying open.

“too much?” he asked, faux sweet, brushing hair from your face.

you shook your head quickly. “n-no… don’t stop…”

he grinned. “good girl.”

he started slow—too slow—just rocking his hips in lazy, deep thrusts. each roll dragged a moan out of you, your overstimulated body twitching beneath him.

“you’ve taken me so well tonight,” he whispered, lips brushing your cheek. “you’re not even trying to run away now…”

you whimpered, fingers clutching his shoulders.

“you like it when i fill you up, huh?” thrust. “like when i don’t hold back.” thrust. “you were made for this, weren’t you?”

his hips snapped into you harder now, and your moan turned into a cry. your hands scrambled for purchase, nails dragging down his back.

“fuck, you’re squeezing me again,” he groaned, pace quickening. “you gonna cum again, baby?”

“i-i don’t know—hah, too much, i can’t—!”

“yes you can,” he growled, one hand gripping your jaw. “open those pretty eyes and look at me when you fall apart.”

and when you did—legs shaking, eyes rolling, moaning his name like a prayer—he followed right after, pushing deep and cumming with a broken gasp of your name.

he didn’t move for a moment, forehead resting against yours, both of you covered in heat and breathlessness.

finally, he chuckled. “third time’s the charm, huh?”

you could only giggle weakly, completely wrecked.

“my best student,” he whispered, kissing your lips. “but you’re not graduating yet. i’m keeping you in class forever.”

your legs were jelly. like actual, boneless, no-sensation-left jelly. sunghoon didn’t even give you time to whimper about it. no—he just swept you up bridal-style, still looking like he didn’t break a sweat, and padded right into the kitchen with his bare ass on display like he owned the whole goddamn hotel room (and you. very much you).

you blinked as he set you on the cold counter, your skin prickling.

“h-hoon… water first?”

he just smirked. “i’m thirsty, yeah. but not for that.”

you knew that look.

that glint in his eye.

the same one he had the night he bent you over the shower door.

“baby…” you started, weakly trying to protest.

but he already had your knees spread again, palms pressing your thighs apart like he was flipping open a favorite book.

“can’t help it,” he muttered, eyes locked on your completely ruined core. “you look too good like this. like you want me to make a mess in here too.”

“but—countertop—hoon this is a kitchen—”

“and now,” he purred, dragging his length along your entrance with a dark grin, “it’s where i’ll eat you, too.”

you nearly screamed.

he slid in without warning—your whole body arched off the marble. he grabbed your waist, holding you still as he bottomed out again, slow and deliberate.

“still so tight,” he groaned. “after all that?”

you sobbed a little laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“fuck, you’re incredible,” he whispered, forehead pressed against yours. “ruined and perfect and mine.”

his hips started moving, hard and fast—filthy wet sounds echoing with every thrust. your back kept thudding against the cupboards, the fridge humming violently beside you.

“anyone could walk in,” you gasped.

“let them,” he growled, hand wrapping around your throat just enough to make your head spin. “let them see who this pussy belongs to.”

your moan came out wrecked.

he drove into you like a man possessed, the counter rocking beneath your bodies. sweat dripped from his jaw, and his voice went breathless:

“gonna fill you up again,” he whispered, right in your ear. “you’re gonna be leaking me for hours, baby.”

that was all it took—you clenched around him, body trembling, and he lost it, spilling inside you with a hoarse cry of your name.

he collapsed into your chest, both of you panting, sweaty, sticky, and probably going to have to bleach the counter.

after a minute, you groaned, weakly swatting his back.

“what happened to just water?”

he smirked against your skin. “hydration starts with you.”

sunghoon’s still inside you when he leans in and kisses your temple. it’s soft. way too soft for someone who just absolutely demolished you on a hotel kitchen counter.

you’re both still breathing heavy, your chest rising against his, your thighs twitching around his waist.

but hoon doesn’t move.

doesn’t pull out.

just holds you like he’s afraid the moment might dissolve if he lets go.

“baby…” he says it quietly, like he’s scared to break the calm. “we’ve got a little time, right?”

you nod, a little dazed. “mhm.”

he finally smiles. that soft one. the rare kind. the one he only gives when it’s just you and him, wrapped up in the low hum of hotel aircon and the warmth of being close.

“then i’m not done yet.”

your stomach flips.

before you can ask what he means, he’s pulling you off the counter—slowly this time, carefully—and carrying you bridal-style again, lips brushing your shoulder.

“gonna make the most of every second, angel,” he murmurs, eyes dark. “wanna remember how you sound. how you look. how you feel.”

he lays you down on the big hotel bed, sheets still crisp and hot from earlier.

and this time?

he takes his time.

his hands move slow, like he’s memorizing you. lips pressing gentle kisses from your collarbone to your thighs, whispering between every one.

“love how soft you are…”

“god, look at you—so pretty like this…”

“gonna keep you full, baby. wanna stay with you like this until the sun comes up.”

and he does.

there’s no rush. no teasing. just sunghoon, worshipping you like you’re his last good thing in the world.

he kisses every part of you, murmurs praises against your skin, and when he slides into you again—it’s slow. achingly slow. just hips pressed together, foreheads touching, fingers intertwined like he’s holding on for dear life.

you’re not just his tonight.

you’re his home.

and maybe the world outside is chaotic and cold, but here?

with him?

it’s soft. safe. sinful. sacred.

and when he finally falls asleep, arms wrapped around you, lips ghosting “i love you” into your shoulder—you believe him.

the sun barely peeks through the hotel curtains, soft light filtering in like it’s trying to give you a break. but no. no peace. not when you’re dealing with park sunghoon.

you’re standing—well, attempting to stand—in front of the mirror, trying to shimmy on your shorts. your legs feel like noodles, your thighs ache, and your hips scream in protest with every movement.

“babe,” you groan, gripping the edge of the dresser for support. “I can’t walk.”

from behind you, he hums—fucking hums—like he didn’t just ruin your entire lower half hours ago.

“you shouldn’t have looked that good last night,” he shrugs from the bed, sheet half-draped over his naked waist, eyes heavy and smug.

you shoot him a look in the mirror. “you say that like it’s my fault my thighs exist.”

he grins. “it is your fault for looking at me like that. like you wanted dessert—and not the kind on the menu.”

“sunghoon—”

but before you can finish, he's behind you, arms slipping around your waist, lips ghosting along the curve of your shoulder. you jolt.

“sunghoon, I’m literally trying to put my pants on—”

“you don’t need pants,” he mumbles, voice low and sleepy and dangerous. “just lay down for a second. just one more.”

“you said ‘just one more’ like four orgasms ago—”

he gently tugs the shorts from your grip, lets them drop to the floor again.

“baby,” he pouts, pressing a kiss to your neck, “can’t help it. you’re walking around all sore and pretty, making those little noises when you bend, acting all shy—what am I supposed to do? respect you?”

you snort. “yes?!?”

but he’s already guiding you back to the bed, back to him, back under the covers where his hands are warm and his mouth is hungry again.

and when he pushes your legs apart, head dipping between your thighs, tongue flicking slow and evil over your inner thigh, you realize—

you’re not walking out of that hotel room soon.

[THE WALK OF “FAME”]

you step out of the hotel with sunglasses too big for your face and a cap pulled so low it nearly hides your whole soul. your body’s still screaming for rest, but your manager’s van is already parked just outside, tinted windows and all. no time to cry.

well—maybe a little whimper when you shift your legs.

you glance down at yourself. hoodie? check. shorts? regretfully, check. confidence? left it in the sheets of that king-sized bed where he is probably still sprawled, proud and shirtless.

your phone buzzes.

sunghoon: you forgot to kiss me goodbye sunghoon: also i found ur sock under the bed lol. want it back or should i keep it as a trophy?

you almost trip over your own feet from laughing. covering your mouth quickly, you slide into the backseat like an embarrassed criminal on the run.

you reply with a selfie—sunglasses, pout, middle finger up.

you: keep it. bury it. i never wanna see that cursed room again. sunghoon: cursed??? wow. so u scream my name like a prayer in cursed places now huh? got it.

you physically bite your lip to keep from smiling too hard, but your manager glances at you in the rearview mirror. you straighten up, pretending you’re just… normal. functional. not completely demolished by park sunghoon.

[THE FANMEET DISASTER THAT WASN’T]

you’d been smiling all day, hearts and polaroids flying, fans whispering sweet words that made you feel lighter. until… he walked in.

disguised in an oversized hoodie, baseball cap, mask—as if that jawline could be hidden. you almost broke character when you recognized the slouch of his shoulders, the way his fingers fiddled with the strap of his bag like a schoolboy with a crush.

you play it cool when he approaches.

"name?" you ask sweetly, not even hiding your smirk.

he tilts his head. “hoon. with an h.”

you scribble it down on his photocard, doodling a heart beside it. "thanks for coming, pengsoo. you’re really cute." then you leaned close, just enough to whisper. "you crazy bastard, if you get recognized I'm out of this."

he stares at you. “...thanks,” he says, flat. and walks away dramatically like he’s the one being played.

[THE VAN]

you finally climb into the random van later, excusing yourself from your manager and members. you even dragged a rookie staff to sit in front so you and hoon could have the entire backseat to yourselves.

as soon as you slide in, sunghoon’s arms cross. he looks away dramatically.

“oh, you’re mad now?” you laugh.

he glares. “so you treat your fans better than you treat me? I waited 40 minutes in line and all I got was a you’re cute and a smile like you didn’t make me almost break the hotel furniture last night.”

you giggle, poking his cheek. “you are cute.”

“not the point!” he whines. “you called me ‘sir’ and everything—who even taught you to be that sweet?!”

you lean in, pressing a teasing kiss to his jaw. “guess I’m just that good.”

he sighs dramatically, already pulling you into his lap.

"you're gonna pay for this. you know that, right?"

you blink innocently. “what’re you gonna do? break my legs again?”

he narrows his eyes.

“…worse. I’m gonna make you fall harder.”

the van rolls through the city, a lazy sunset washing golden light over tinted windows. you’re curled into sunghoon’s lap, hoodie sleeves hiding the way your fingers keep sneaking up his sides to poke him like you’re five.

“stop,” he says, grinning, arms wrapping around your waist. “you’re gonna get us caught.”

“you started it!” you whisper back, smacking his arm as he leans in to nuzzle your neck.

“oh my god—hoon, shh,” you giggle breathlessly, swatting at him again. “what if they hear?”

he chuckles, voice low and teasing against your ear. “shoot, haha.”

and then his hands are moving—fingers spidering up your sides, making you yelp as he tickles you mercilessly.

you squirm in his lap, laughing, trying not to be loud, but his mouth is curled in that smug smirk that means he’s enjoying every second of this.

“you’re evil!” you gasp, face warm, breath hitching when you shift and feel—

“…you’re hard,” you say flatly, raising a brow, hair all over your face as you freeze in his lap.

he stops tickling, blinking at you.

“you’re definitely hard,” you repeat, a little louder, a little smugger.

sunghoon rolls his eyes. “you’re squirming in my lap like a cute little worm, what do you expect?”

you smack him again. “don’t call me a worm when you’re—”

“raging. yeah. your fault.”

you stare at him, flustered, breathless, laughing, your forehead pressed against his shoulder as you try to calm your heart—and everything else he just activated.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

“you love me,” he whispers back, arms tightening around you like he’s scared you’ll vanish.

and you do. you really do. even if he’s currently a menace in every sense.

up front, your manager exchanges a knowing glance with hoon’s, the two of them scrolling on their phones, pretending they didn’t hear any of that.

the rookie staff just sips her coffee.

“…she’s really quiet today,” she comments.

both managers nod.

“yup. probably just tired,” hoon’s manager says, deadpan.

they’ve all known for months.

they’re just pretending they don’t.

because the love these two idiots have? it’s the kind that can’t be managed out of them anyway.

the rooftop was quiet, lit only by the soft glow of fairy lights they’d strung up in a rush. takeout containers litter the picnic blanket they brought, drinks sweating in the evening air, and the city lights below blink like they’re watching—silent witnesses to a love that never stood still.

you’re lying beside him, his hoodie pulled over your head, sleeves long enough to swallow your hands. sunghoon’s cap is low on his face, but the smile he’s been wearing all night? yeah. nothing could hide that.

“you know we’re not really disguised, right?” you murmur, nudging him with your knee. “we look like staff, sure, but we still shine like dumbass stars.”

he snorts, hand reaching out to hold yours. “it’s because we are stars. duh.”

you laugh, the sound soft and small and just for him. your manager had reluctantly agreed to this—one last date before he leaves with his members tomorrow. they’d whispered, “make it quick,” but they knew damn well these fools wouldn’t listen. love like this doesn’t follow call times.

hoon sits up, arms stretched over his head as he yawns. “should we go?”

“you wanna go?”

“no.”

you grin. “then stay.”

and just like that, he pounces.

you squeal, trying to escape, but he’s already chasing you around the rooftop like a lovesick idiot. he catches you by the waist, spinning you, your laughter echoing into the sky as you crash onto the blanket again, breathless and tangled.

“you’re crazy,” you whisper.

“you’re stuck with me,” he whispers back, nose brushing yours.

and then he kisses you.

slow at first. gentle. like he’s memorizing the shape of your lips, the taste of you, the way your breath stutters when he pulls you closer.

but it doesn’t stay slow.

not when you cup his face. not when your hands disappear under his hoodie. not when he presses you into the blanket with a soft groan like he’s trying to mold your bodies into one.

his hand slips under your shirt, warm and reverent, like he’s trying to say goodbye without ever using the word.

you kiss him harder, just to shut the sadness up.

because tomorrow’s coming.

and he’s leaving.

but tonight?

tonight, he’s yours.

in every laugh.

in every kiss.

in every heartbeat pressed against yours.

it’s quieter than usual in the company building. late, after practice hours, when everyone’s tired and scattered. the hallways are mostly empty except for you and sunghoon, sneaking through the dimly lit space like you’ve got all the time in the world… but neither of you do.

you stop in front of a door tucked at the end of the hallway—a secluded little area you two like to use when no one’s around. the walls here are soft and quiet, like they understand the weight of your secret love. hoon looks down at you, his face unreadable for a second before his lips pull into a smile, a bittersweet one.

“this is it, huh?” you whisper, looking up at him.

he doesn’t answer right away. instead, he just pulls you into him, his arms wrapping around your waist like it’s the only thing that makes sense anymore.

“you’re not going anywhere,” you murmur into his chest, but the words feel hollow even to you. because you know tomorrow, he’ll be gone.

hoon pulls back slightly, his eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them. there’s so much unsaid in that look, but then—his lips. they’re on yours before you can stop it.

it’s gentle, a slow burn of goodbye, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. it deepens as his hands slide to your neck, pulling you closer as if he wants to hold onto this moment forever. you kiss him back with everything you have, even as the pain in your chest starts to build.

the sound of footsteps approaching pulls you both apart with a snap, hoon’s fingers brushing your cheek one last time before he presses a kiss to your forehead.

“i’ll text you. and don’t forget to check your bag,” he whispers against your skin, voice low.

you blink up at him, confused, but before you can ask—he’s gone. disappearing into the hall, leaving you standing there, heart pounding.

later that night, in your shared dorm, you slump onto your bed, exhausted from the chaos of the day. your three friends—who all know the secret—are chatting around you, unaware of what you’re about to find.

you’re digging through your bag, mind on something else, when your fingers brush against something unexpected. a plastic bag, slightly crinkling as you pull it out. it’s filled with all your favorite snacks, the ones you’ve been craving but haven’t allowed yourself to eat in weeks.

your heart skips a beat, and for a moment, you just sit there in disbelief. hoon knew. you can almost hear his voice in your head—“you’re too hard on yourself. eat the damn snacks.”

you grin to yourself, because even though he’s gone, he’s still here with you. in these snacks. in his words. in the little ways he’s still taking care of you.

you text him back immediately: “you’re an idiot. but i love you.”

his reply comes almost instantly. “just wait until i’m back. i’ll sneak way more stuff into your bag.”

you laugh softly, shaking your head, because damn, even from a distance, he’s still making everything feel so damn real.

the next day, hoon’s getting ready to leave, and his members are, as usual, teasing him. sunoo and jungwon are in the van, and they’re not even trying to hide their amusement.

“dude, you’re like obsessed with her,” sunoo teases, grinning like a little shit. “you’ve barely been here all week.”

jungwon raises an eyebrow, smirking. “i thought you were supposed to be the one who couldn’t keep your hands off her, and yet... here we are.”

hoon groans, his face flushed with embarrassment. “shut up, you guys. she’s not just anyone.”

“right, right,” sunoo grins. “she’s the one.”

“can you stop?” hoon mutters, slumping back in his seat. “this is not the time to talk about this.”

but then, sunghoon’s phone buzzes. he glances at it, a soft smile creeping onto his face as he reads the text from you. his heart clenches, but before he can respond, sunoo smirks again.

“she texted you again? still sending you love notes, huh?”

hoon doesn’t say anything, just stares out the window, because damn, he’s going to miss this. miss her.

but for now? he has one more ride with his members. one more teasing session. one more stolen moment of normal before everything changes.

your night starts normal. you're back at your dorm after a schedule, hair tied up, hoodie on, eating cereal for dinner while watching a romcom you’ve seen a hundred times. your phone buzzes with messages from your members, random memes and updates. nothing special. just another quiet night.

until one of them says, “hey, did someone order food?”

you blink. “no?”

they go to check anyway, and you hear faint footsteps in the hallway. a small knock. then—quiet.

a beat.

another beat.

“um… you might wanna see this,” your member calls.

you shuffle to the door, cereal still in hand, until you freeze in the doorway. because standing there, wearing a black cap and a freaking mask under a hoodie is sunghoon.

real. in the flesh. looking at you like no time has passed.

your cereal bowl literally drops on the floor. he flinches. “whoa—are you okay?”

you don’t even answer. you launch yourself at him, arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder.

“you asshole,” you mumble. “you’re actually here?!”

“yeah,” he whispers. “i’m here. i’ve always been here.”

later that night, you’re on the rooftop again. the same one from before. the one with memories still stitched into the wind.

sunghoon brought your favorite drink, two snacks from the convenience store, and a blanket. he didn’t need to go overboard—he just needed to be there.

he pulls you into his side, both of you wrapped in that soft blanket, backs against the wall as the city lights flicker below.

“i missed you every single day,” you whisper.

he kisses your temple gently. “i never stopped loving you. even when i had to pretend.”

you look up at him. “so… what now?”

sunghoon turns toward you with the softest smile ever. “we keep going. even if we’re shadows in our own love story. even if the world never knows.”

“we’ll still have our little world?” you ask.

“always.”

he leans in and kisses you, slow and full of all the months you’ve both spent waiting. and in that moment, even the moon feels like it’s holding its breath for you two.

and your love does continue. hiding in plain sight. anonymous glances in music shows. strangers in public, lovesick fools in secrecy. hotel rooftop dates. secret messages in fan letters. little scribbles in notebooks. a hoodie that smells like the other person. staff members who pretend not to know. call signs – he'd call you yeowoo (fox or yeobo / honey), as cringe as that sounds, you call him pengsoo(nghoon) anyway. and a love that burns quietly, brightly—behind closed doors.

and maybe… just maybe… both of you’ll last.

a/n: that's the end. thankyou for readingggg

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