#hwang hyunjin | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

leriexoxo · 3 days ago

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Wrong Place, Right Time

Bff! Hyunjin x Fem reader

Tags: friends to lovers, angst, smut, possessive best friend, sexual awakening, forbidden tension, oral (f, m receiving), praise kink, dom!hyunjin, corruption kink, emotional sex, jealousy, complicated love, voyeurism.

Word Count: 8.8k

Summary: You’ve known Hyunjin your whole life—tall, infuriating, and stupidly beautiful. He’s your best friend, your biggest headache, and the reason no guy ever stuck around. Because Hyunjin is everywhere. Too involved. Too protective. Too everything. And yet… never yours. He’s a player. A heartbreaker. The kind of guy who gets head at his own house parties while you crash on the couch downstairs. He doesn’t see you like that. Not you. You’ve always been the safe one. The exception.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!

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Hyunjin had always said you didn’t belong at his parties.

He said it with a grin, every single time—one hand ruffling your hair, the other probably still smelling like some girl’s perfume. “You? No way. Too soft. You’d cry by midnight.”

You’d roll your eyes, toss a pillow at his stupidly perfect face, and mutter something like “Don’t flatter yourself” even though you both knew he always would.

You’d been best friends since before he got hot. Before the cheekbones sharpened and the jawline could cut glass. Before girls started whispering in class and giggling when he walked by. And definitely before Hyunjin turned into the kind of guy who could get away with murder as long as he looked good doing it.

Your friendship had survived everything—school, distance, jealousy, college. But it came with rules. Unspoken ones.

Rule one: Hyunjin could sleep with whoever he wanted, and you couldn’t say anything.

Rule two: You could date, theoretically—but not really. No guy ever stuck around long enough to matter.

Rule three: You didn’t ask about what happened at his parties, and he never let you come.

It worked. Sort of.

—

You were on his bed. Technically. You were half-sprawled on his floor, legs tangled in a blanket, your laptop propped against his dresser while Hyunjin sat cross-legged above you, lazily scrolling through TikToks with the volume off.

“Are you even watching this?” you asked, glancing up at him.

He looked down at you, hair a mess from where he’d flopped back earlier, shirt hanging off one shoulder like he couldn’t be bothered to exist properly.

“Nope,” he said.

“Then stop judging my taste.”

“I’m not judging,” he said. “I’m just silently suffering.”

You threw a rolled-up sock at his face. He caught it without looking. Showoff.

“Anyway,” you said, trying to focus, “I was thinking I could come stay over this weekend, so I’m thinking Friday night. Unless you’ve got some raging orgy planned.”

Hyunjin snorted. “You make it sound so scandalous.”

“Don’t you throw parties every Friday?”

“I throw gatherings.”

“With a body count.”

He didn’t even pretend to look ashamed. Just shrugged and leaned back on his elbows, stomach peeking through his shirt where it rode up.

You looked away. Not because you were embarrassed—just… used to it. That was the thing about Hyunjin. He was beautiful in a way you were supposed to stop noticing if you were around him long enough. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

“You’re not invited,” he said casually.

“Wow.”

“It’s not an insult,” he added quickly. “You just… wouldn’t like it. It gets intense.”

“I’m not a child, Hyunjin.”

He gave you a look that said he begged to differ.

“No offense, but the last time we went to a club, you ended up crying in the corner because some guy slapped your ass.”

“That was a valid response.”

“Sure.” He grinned. “Just proving my point.”

You glared at him, but there wasn’t much heat behind it. It was always like this with you two—him being overbearing, you pretending not to care. A push and pull that never went anywhere.

Except lately… it felt like it was going somewhere. Somewhere new. Somewhere you weren’t sure you wanted to go.

Like last week, when he came over after hooking up with someone new. He never told you names—just vague details and smirks—but that night he was weirdly quiet. He sat next to you on the couch, warm and flushed, smelling like sex and vanilla.

You’d tried not to notice. Tried not to care that his hair was still damp from the shower he’d taken before coming over.

You told yourself he was just Hyunjin. And you were just you. The best friend. The safe one.

That night, when you got back to your dorm, you couldn’t stop thinking about his mouth. Not because you wanted it—just… curiosity. It had looked swollen. Like someone had kissed him hard. Bitten him.

You’d closed your laptop, turned off the light, and lay there in the dark, wondering what it would feel like to be wanted like that. Even just once.

Not by him, of course. Just… in general.

—

That day on campus, you didn’t mean to get annoyed with him.

It was just a look. One single look across the quad, Hyunjin sprawled on the grass next to some girl whose laugh carried all the way across campus. She had her hand on his chest and her legs crossed just a little too tight, and he wasn’t even trying to be subtle. He was leaning into it, eyes half-lidded, lips tilted in that lazy, infuriating smirk that you’d seen way too many girls fall for.

He caught your eye just as you passed. And he winked.

Not a cute wink either. A you know exactly what I’m about to do to her wink. You hated that you understood it. Hated that it made your stomach twist the way it did. You weren’t jealous. You weren’t.

You just… wanted him to stop looking at you like you were still twelve years old and needed babysitting every time you wore lipstick.

So that night when he texted you as usual, you didn’t text him back.

You were brushing your teeth the next morning when he let himself into your dorm.

“I brought you coffee,” he announced like some kind of peace offering.

You rinsed, spat, and didn’t bother looking at him. “Why?”

He frowned. “Because you didn’t answer last night.”

You shrugged, too tired to fake cheer. “I was busy.”

He raised an eyebrow. “With what? You weren’t at the library. I checked.”

“You checked?”

“Yeah, I was in the area.”

You turned to face him, arms crossed. “Why do you keep doing that?”

“What?”

“Showing up. Keeping tabs. Acting like you own me.”

Hyunjin looked genuinely caught off guard. “I don’t—what are you talking about?”

“I’m not a kid, Hyunjin.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?” you snapped. “Because sometimes it feels like you only see me as Minho’s little sister. Or that friend you have to protect. And maybe I’m just tired of that.”

He was quiet for a second, fingers tightening slightly around the coffee cup.

“You don’t want me to look out for you anymore?”

“No,” you said, voice quieter. “I just want to make my own choices. Even if they’re messy.”

He took a step closer, voice low now too. “Some messes aren’t worth it.”

You hated how your heart skipped at that. How close he was. How serious he looked.

“Maybe,” you said, trying to sound braver than you felt. “But maybe it’s not your call to make.”

⸻

By Thursday, you’d made your decision.

You were going to his party.

He hadn’t invited you—of course he hadn’t—but you’d heard it through your mutuals. Same time, same house, same rules: first floor for fun, second floor off-limits unless you were invited.

You weren’t stupid. You knew what happened upstairs.

You weren’t going to go up there. You weren’t going to look for him. You were just going to be there. Exist in his world for once without asking permission.

So you got dressed in something a little riskier than usual—tight black jeans, a halter top that made you feel powerful, mascara that made your lashes look dangerous. You even curled your hair. When you looked in the mirror, you didn’t see his best friend.

You saw a girl he didn’t know how to look at yet.

The house was packed when you arrived.

Music throbbed through the floorboards, bass shaking your bones as you pushed through the crowd. Bodies swayed, drinks sloshed, someone bumped into you hard and muttered an apology. You smiled, told yourself this was what freedom felt like.

You kept your head high as you walked through the haze of perfume and weed and laughter. Eyes followed you. Some familiar, some not. You ignored them.

You didn’t see Hyunjin at first. Just his world. The girls in too-short dresses clinging to the staircase banister, the guys on the couch shouting at a drinking game. You wondered which of them he’d kissed already. Which ones he would kiss tonight.

You were halfway through your second drink when you finally saw him—on the far side of the room, lounging back in a chair like a king at his own damn court. His legs spread, arm draped over the back of the couch, surrounded by people but still so obviously bored.

Until he saw you.

His eyes widened, then narrowed. You couldn’t hear him over the music, but his mouth formed your name.

You gave him a smile. Sweet. Defiant. And then you turned away.

He found you fifteen minutes later near the kitchen.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, voice tight, one hand curling around your arm.

“Enjoying myself,” you replied coolly.

“I told you not to come.”

“No, you said I wasn’t invited. That’s different.”

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

You met his gaze, unflinching. “Maybe I don’t care.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Anger, maybe. Or something deeper. You couldn’t tell. You didn’t care.

“Go home,” he said quietly. Too quiet.

“No.”

“Why are you being like this?”

You leaned in, lips almost brushing his ear. “Why are you always trying to stop me from living?”

You pulled back, held his gaze for one long moment, then disappeared back into the crowd before he could stop you.

You didn’t see him again after that.

Not downstairs.

Not until much later. But then, you hadn’t meant to go upstairs.

The second floor was off-limits during parties, just like he always said—laced with invisible caution tape, a no-man’s land reserved for secrets and shadows and things you weren’t supposed to know about. But maybe it was the alcohol making you bold. Maybe it was pride. Or maybe it was something darker. Something bitter blooming in your chest since the moment Hyunjin pulled you aside and told you to leave.

You hadn’t left.

And now you were here—bare feet whispering over the hardwood, hand trailing lightly along the banister as the sounds of the party dulled below. The upstairs hallway smelled different. Not like beer and cologne, but something warmer. Skin. Sweat. A hint of vanilla, musk, and something faintly feminine—lip gloss and moans pressed into pillows.

The light from the bathroom spilled into the hallway.

You turned toward it—and then the world shifted.

Hyunjin stood there.

Leaning back against the bathroom wall, one hand planted flat beside him, the other tangled in the hair of the girl on her knees.

You froze mid-step.

Your breath caught and stayed there, suspended in your throat like it refused to move past what your eyes were seeing.

His head was tilted down, gaze heavy-lidded, mouth parted just enough to make you think he’d been groaning a second ago. His chest rose and fell slowly, like he’d been at this for a while—and was far from done.

The girl knelt between his legs, shoulders squared, hands resting against his thighs for balance as she bobbed steadily, deliberately.

Your eyes dropped—without permission, without thought—and the breath you’d been holding turned to ash in your lungs.

Oh my god.

Hyunjin’s dick—long, thick, flushed dark and wet near the head—was disappearing into her throat like she’d done it before. Like she knew exactly how to take it, how to breathe through her nose and relax her jaw, how to slide down slow and deep until her chin met his pelvis.

You felt heat rush to your cheeks, your ears, your fingertips—like your whole body was blushing. Embarrassment, shock, something else entirely. You couldn’t look away. Your brain told you to. Your legs twitched like they were trying to backpedal. But your eyes stayed locked.

He looked up. Caught you. And didn’t stop.

No—he smirked.

It was slow. Sinful. Eyes half-lidded, arrogant and lazy, like he’d expected you to show up. Like this was a show and you were the audience of one.

His grip tightened in her hair, and she let out a choked whimper around him that made his cock twitch—you saw it. Felt it in your spine like it had happened to you. Then he pushed her down harder, deeper, until her lips met his base again and her throat made a sound that was part gag, part desperate moan.

He was so hard.

The lighting from the hallway caught on the flushed veins of his shaft as it reappeared with every pull back, wet and gleaming, before vanishing again inside her. It was hypnotic—the slow, slick drag of him sliding in and out of her mouth, her spit stringing between his skin and her lips every time he pulled out too far.

Your thighs pressed together. Automatically. Shamefully. There was no conscious thought behind it—just a tight, startled squeeze like your body had short-circuited under the weight of something sharp and unspoken.

He knew what he was doing. Knew you were there.

And that’s what ruined you.

It wasn’t just the act. It wasn’t the dick. It wasn’t even the girl, who was so gone on him she hadn’t noticed you yet. It was the look in his eyes. Like he was using you—your shock, your presence—to push himself deeper into pleasure. Like your gaze turned him on.

His smirk curled darker.

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t stop.

And for one dizzy, breathless second, you thought he might even come like this—with you watching.

You stumbled back, breath hitching as your shoulder hit the hallway wall. The jolt snapped something inside you. Like surfacing from a dream.

You turned around fast and fled, nearly tripping over yourself as the sound of her mouth followed you—slick and obscene and real.

You didn’t stop until you were back downstairs, heart pounding, hands trembling, the crowd a blur of noise and color you couldn’t hear over the blood in your ears.

You needed air.

You needed answers.

But more than anything—You needed to understand what the fuck just happened to you.

He came after you.

You didn’t see him. But he did.

Just as you shoved through the front door of the house, your heart in your throat and the image of his dick still seared behind your eyes, Hyunjin’s hand released from her hair. He blinked—once, twice—like waking from a trance, like suddenly the oxygen had returned to the room and he remembered who was watching. What he’d just done.

He pushed the girl off him with a muttered curse, barely registering her dazed protest, and stumbled into the hallway, half-zipped, eyes scanning wildly for you.

He was too late.

You were already peeling out of the driveway.

He barely caught the flash of your taillights vanishing into the dark, headlights bouncing over gravel as your car sped down the road. No chance to call out. No way to stop you.

You were gone.

⸻

Your hands clenched the steering wheel so tight your knuckles turned white. The streets blurred past your windows in long, lonely streaks of light. You weren’t thinking about how fast you were going. Or whether it was safe. Or even why your throat was tight with something you couldn’t name.

You were thinking about him.

That fucking look in his eyes.

The way he stared straight through you while that girl sucked him off like she was born for it. The way his hips shifted forward ever so slightly, deeper, like he liked knowing you were watching. Like you being there was part of it.

The worst part?

It worked.

Your thighs hadn’t stopped clenching since.

You went straight to your dorm, threw the keys onto your desk with a clatter, and shut the door behind you like you were sealing something in. You weren’t even sure you’d locked it.

You leaned back against it, breathing hard.

Eyes wide. Mouth dry.

And wet between the legs in a way that felt wrong.

You sank to the floor without meaning to, knees folding under you like they couldn’t hold up your shame.

What was wrong with you?

You’d seen Hyunjin with girls before. Had heard the stories. Had walked in on his hookups before—once in his car, once in the hallway at some shitty house party where a girl’s lipstick smeared across his neck like war paint. You always rolled your eyes. Always scoffed.

You never felt this.

Never felt that cold flash of shock, followed by the heat creeping up your neck, then down, coiling in your stomach like hunger.

Because tonight… you saw everything.

His dick.

His face.

The way he controlled her—used her—and the way she let him. Willingly. Eagerly.

The sounds. The slick, wet rhythm. The twitch of his abs. The sharp jut of his hips. Her throat flexing to take him.

And his fucking smirk.

Like it wasn’t a blowjob. Like it was a performance. Like he was testing you.

You pressed your palms to your burning cheeks.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to rewind the night and punch him in the face.

You wanted to— Your hips shifted without you realizing. A slow, involuntary grind against the heel of your foot.

Your breath caught.

No. No, no, no, no.

But your body didn’t listen.

Your thighs squeezed, chasing the ghost of friction. Your stomach fluttered with shame and heat and the kind of arousal that came from places you’d never touched before—not like this. Not about him.

Not about your best friend.

Not about Hyunjin.

You pushed up from the floor with a groan, trying to shake it off. Walk it out. Breathe.

You stumbled to the mirror above your desk and froze.

Your reflection looked wrecked.

Eyes glassy. Lips parted. Hair wild from the wind and your trembling hands. You looked like someone who’d been touched—even though no one had laid a hand on you all night.

No one except your own thoughts.

And his eyes.

You hated him.

You hated that you didn’t.

You hated how your body was still humming from the sight of him.

You hated how wet you felt under your jeans.

And most of all, you hated how you knew—deep in the pit of your stomach—that something inside you had changed.

This wasn’t something you could forget.

You’d seen Hyunjin before.

But tonight… He’d let you see him.

And now there was no going back.

—

You ignored his texts.

Left the first two unread. Opened the third and fourth without responding. Then stopped opening them altogether.

He called you that night—twice.

You stared at his name lighting up your screen like it might burn through your retinas. You didn’t pick up. Couldn’t. Just lay in your bed, curled on your side with your phone face-down and your mind running in exhausting, endless circles.

You told yourself it was fine.

It was one mistake.

You’d both move on.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

And neither did he.

The next morning, you got up early on purpose.

You knew your routine would be off. It didn’t matter. Anything to avoid seeing him on campus, or worse—having him catch you off guard and look at you again the way he had the night before.

Not during. After.

Not like Hyunjin.

Like someone else. Someone who saw you differently now. Who made you see him differently too.

You dodged the usual lunch spot, skipped your shared class by faking a stomach ache, ignored the texts that were now showing frustration between the lines.

Hyunjin [9:43 AM]

You okay?

Hyunjin [11:02 AM]

Seriously, are you mad? Just fucking talk to me.

Hyunjin [1:14 PM]

Don’t do this. Please.

You hated him for making you feel like this.

But more than that—you hated yourself for how much you kept replaying it. Over and over, like some sick loop.

You avoided him all week.

By Friday, you thought maybe—maybe—he’d give up.

Until the knock came.

It was hard and sharp—three impatient raps at your dorm door like he was ready to break it down if you didn’t answer.

You froze mid-bite of your cereal, spoon dangling in the air.

Knock knock knock.

Your chest tightened.

You didn’t even have to look through the peephole. You knew that knock. The same rhythm he used every time he showed up uninvited, unannounced, acting like he owned your space—because for years, he kind of did.

Knock. Knock.

Then, “Open the door.”

Your pulse stuttered.

“Y/N.”

You gripped the counter. “Go away, Hyunjin.”

“No.” The word came through low, controlled, but something about it carried weight. You heard the restraint in it. The kind of self-control that didn’t last long on him. “We’re not doing this. Open the fucking door.”

You didn’t move.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

You pressed your forehead against the cold fridge. Closed your eyes. Prayed he’d leave.

He didn’t.

“Seriously?” he said, tone hardening. “I’ve been trying to talk to you all week. And you��ve been pretending like I don’t exist. You won’t text me back. You dodge me on campus. Are you kidding?”

You stepped forward quietly, still not unlocking it. “I just need space.”

“You don’t get space. Not like this.”

Your chest flared with anger. “Yes, I do. You don’t get to decide—”

“I didn’t mean for you to see that.”

Silence.

He hadn’t raised his voice. But those words hit you in the gut, sucked the breath right out of your lungs.

You stared at the door like it might crack and show you his face.

“You shouldn’t have been up there,” he said, more gently now. “But I shouldn’t have—fuck—I didn’t think.”

You swallowed. Hard.

“I know what you saw. I know how it looked. And I know it was fucked up. I’m not making excuses, but I need you to look at me and let me explain. Not just hide like I’m a fucking stranger.”

You hesitated.

Because he wasn’t a stranger.

He was Hyunjin.

And that was the real problem, wasn’t it?

That you couldn’t look him in the eye now without remembering that smirk. That cock. That twitch of his hips while she swallowed around him.

And worst of all—how wet it made you.

You hated yourself for it.

Your hand moved before you decided anything, fingers fumbling at the lock.

It clicked open.

And then you stepped back.

Hyunjin stood there, hair pulled back in a loose bun, hoodie thrown over his shoulders like he hadn’t even dressed properly—just rushed over here, raw and unfiltered and wide-eyed.

He looked at you.

And for once, he didn’t smile.

He stepped inside and shut the door behind him. “Talk to me.”

You couldn’t meet his eyes.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Try.”

You shook your head. “I’m embarrassed.”

He stepped closer. “Why?”

You glanced up at him. “You know why.”

A long silence stretched between you.

And then, slowly—he nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

He didn’t come closer.

Not at first.

He just stood beside your door, eyes on you like you were something breakable, like if he moved too fast he’d make this worse.

You hated that. Hated how careful he was suddenly being with you.

Like you were the one who needed gentle handling after he—

You exhaled sharply and walked toward your desk, needing distance, needing to not smell his hoodie or feel the way your skin buzzed with awareness now that he was in your space.

Hyunjin’s voice came from behind you. Low. Almost cautious.

“You’ve never ignored me before.”

Your back stayed to him. “That was before I saw your dick halfway down someone’s throat, Hyune.”

He flinched at your voice. At the sharp edge of it.

But you weren’t sorry.

You were embarrassed. Humiliated. Turned on.

And you were angry that he didn’t get it.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen like that,” he said again, quieter this time. “It was just… one of those nights.”

“One of those nights,” you echoed flatly, turning to look at him now, arms crossed. “Where you get sucked off by some random girl in the hallway with the door open?”

His jaw clenched. “I didn’t know the door was open.”

“But you knew I was there.”

A pause.

You didn’t miss the way he shifted.

The flicker in his expression.

“I didn’t mean to keep going,” he said. “I just—fuck—I looked up and you were standing there, and it was like—my brain short-circuited. I wasn’t even in my body.”

Your voice was barely a whisper. “You smirked at me.”

He looked away. You wanted to punch him. Or kiss him. Or something.

Instead, you laughed bitterly. “I don’t even know what that was. You’ve never even looked at me like that. Like I was someone who could be affected by you. Like I was a girl at one of your parties instead of just… me.”

He stepped forward.

Slow. Controlled. Deliberate.

“I didn’t think you’d ever look at me like that either,” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

“At the top of the stairs,” he said softly. “You looked like I’d ripped something out of you. Like you didn’t know whether to run or come closer.”

Your lips parted.

You forgot how to breathe.

“I’ve never seen that look on your face,” he continued, stepping closer again, voice low and burning. “And it fucked with my head. I’m not gonna lie to you.”

You couldn’t speak.

Your heart was thudding so loud it drowned everything else out.

“Say something,” he said.

“I don’t know what to say,” you whispered.

“Then say the truth.”

You swallowed. “The truth is that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”

His breath hitched.

“And I hate that,” you added quickly. “I hate how it made me feel. I hate how it changed everything. I don’t want this to change things.”

“But it already did,” he said. “Didn’t it?”

Silence.

Your face felt like it was on fire. Your palms were sweating. You couldn’t even look at him now, because if you did, you might fold.

“I don’t want to be just another girl in your rotation, Hyunjin,” you said finally. “I’m not built for that.”

He stepped right into your space now, so close you had to look up at him.

His voice was softer now, almost pained. “You think I’d let you be just another girl?”

You hesitated. “Wouldn’t you?”

He stared at you.

Then, quietly—honestly—“No.”

Your breath caught.

“Then why didn’t you stop when you saw me?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, his eyes flicked over your face like he was memorizing it.

And when he spoke again, his voice was rough and full of something you didn’t want to name yet.

“Because when I saw you standing there, I got hard in a different way.”

You felt the floor tilt.

“What?”

“I’ve had a number girls on their knees for me,” he said, unapologetic now. “But none of them ever made me feel like you standing there did.”

You couldn’t move.

You couldn’t think.

You could only feel—heat crawling under your skin, confusion knotting in your throat, arousal twisting low in your stomach.

And guilt. So much fucking guilt.

“You’re my best friend,” you whispered.

“So then why,” he said, stepping even closer, “can’t I stop thinking about what it would feel like to see you on your knees instead?”

His words echoed in the air between you like something pulled from a fever dream.

You didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

Just stared at him—Hyunjin—your best friend—like you didn’t recognize him anymore. Like you did, but through new eyes. Through the haze of something thick and hot and wrong.

Your voice came out barely audible.

“Don’t say shit like that.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth. “Tell me you don’t think about it.”

You wanted to. You should’ve.

But you didn’t. Instead, your body betrayed you—tipping forward, breath hitching, skin burning under his stare.

“I don’t,” you lied.

His jaw flexed. “Bullshit.”

And then something cracked wide open between you.

You didn’t know who moved first.

Maybe it was both of you.

But suddenly his hand was in your hair, and your mouth was crashing into his, and the taste of him hit you like a punch to the lungs—mint and something darker, something that shouldn’t have been familiar but was.

He kissed like he wanted to imprint on you.

No hesitation. No apology. No space for thinking.

Just tongue and teeth and years of silence breaking all at once.

You gasped against his mouth, and he swallowed it—tilting his head, chasing the sound, backing you into the wall like gravity had flipped and he needed your body to stay standing.

“Fuck,” he breathed, lips dragging down your jaw, rough and open-mouthed. “Fuck, you don’t know what you’re doing to me—”

“Hyunjin—” you tried, but it was breathless, weak.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes wild. “You think I haven’t imagined this? Every fucking day since that night—”

Your chest heaved.

His hand slid down, gripping your hip, pulling you against him—and fuck, he was hard.

So hard it made you dizzy. So hard you couldn’t lie to yourself anymore either.

“Hyunjin—”

But he kissed you again before you could say anything else, and this time it was desperate. Less control. Less distance. Just the hot, undeniable press of his body against yours and the slick, obscene sound of your mouths meeting again and again.

Your fingers curled into his hoodie, tugging him closer, and he groaned into you like he’d been waiting years for this.

Like maybe he had.

Your head was spinning.

You weren’t supposed to want this.

You weren’t supposed to love the taste of him, the feel of his hand gripping your ass like he owned it, the low, broken sound he made when your thighs shifted and brushed where he was hard for you.

This was Hyunjin.

Your best friend.

The one who used to braid your hair when you were sick. The one who punched a guy in eleventh grade for calling you “easy.” The one who never looked at you like a girl.

But now?

Now he was looking at you like a man who’d been starving for too long.

And you were letting him.

You were kissing him back.

“Tell me to stop,” he panted against your lips. “Right now. Just say the word.”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it again.

He groaned—pained, like he wanted to be the better person.

But neither of you moved.

Because you couldn’t.

Because your body wanted this even if your mind was screaming.

And he could feel it in the way your hips tilted against his.

The way your lips parted for him again, again, when his tongue brushed yours.

So when he kissed you the third time, it was slower.

Angrier.

Like he was mad you let him do this. Mad at himself for needing it.

And when he finally broke away—breathing hard, eyes searching yours like he might come undone—you said the first honest thing of the night.

“I can’t stop thinking about it either.”

—-

It had been days since the kiss. Days since you both crossed a line and refused to talk about it. Days since every room you walked into with him felt like it was seconds away from combusting.

And the worst part?

You liked it.

You liked how his eyes followed you now. How he sat a little too close. How his thigh brushed yours and didn’t move. How his fingers sometimes caught your wrist and held you there a second too long. Like he didn’t mean to. Like he meant every second of it.

But most of all, you liked what it did to your head.

You thought about it all the time.

The bathroom. The way he looked. The size of him in her mouth. The way he didn’t stop when he saw you. The way he looked at you while she was still there on her knees. Like it didn’t matter who was pleasuring him—only who was watching.

It was sick. And hot.

And it made you touch yourself three nights in a row with your bottom lip between your teeth and his name barely whispered against your pillow.

Tonight, it finally broke you.

“Can I ask you something?” you said, too quietly, while you sat on his bed, knees drawn up, trying not to look at him.

Hyunjin was at his desk across the room, spinning a pencil between his fingers. He didn’t turn.

“Yeah?”

Your voice wavered. “Do you think things would go back to normal if I just… got it out of my system?”

He froze.

The pencil stopped spinning.

“What?”

You swallowed. “Like—if I did it. If I just… sucked your dick. Just once.”

Now he turned.

Full-body. Chair scraping against the floor.

You didn’t look at him, but you felt it.

Felt the weight of his stare.

Felt the breath leave the room.

“I’m serious,” you added when he didn’t speak.

His voice, when it came, was low. Disbelieving.

“You want to suck my dick.”

“I just…” You finally looked at him. “I can’t stop thinking about it. About that night. About… you.”

He blinked like he didn’t trust what he was hearing.

You kept going, digging the hole deeper. “I just want to know what it feels like. What you feel like. And maybe then… maybe it’ll stop haunting me.”

He stood up. Not even slowly. It was too fast, too jarring, and your breath hitched before you even realized you were backing against the headboard.

His voice was darker now. Low and flat. “You think blowing me is gonna cure you?”

“I think trying might,” you said. “And I trust you.”

He laughed—harsh, like it hurt to do. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because if you’re on your knees for me, I won’t be able to pretend it’s just for closure.”

Your thighs pressed together.

“Then don’t pretend,” you said.

He stared at you.

And then, without another word, he stepped between your knees and looked down at you like he was on the verge of snapping.

“Last chance,” he murmured, breath uneven. “Tell me not to do this.”

You didn’t.

You slid down to the floor in front of him instead.

Your fingers curled around the waistband of his sweatpants, and he hissed softly when your hands brushed the outline of him.

Big. Thick. Heavy.

You already knew. You’d seen it.

But this—this was real.

You pulled them down slowly, watching as he sprang free—half-hard and still intimidating.

Your mouth went dry.

He wasn’t just big. He was gorgeous.

Veins and flushed skin, already thickening in your palm, and when your thumb brushed the slit, he groaned—low and guttural like it had punched out of him.

“Fuck—don’t tease me.”

You didn’t.

You wrapped your lips around the head and felt his thighs tense instantly. He wasn’t fully hard yet, but he was getting there—fast—thickening in your mouth, pulsing against your tongue.

He tasted like sweat and skin and salt, and when your tongue flattened along the underside, he cursed again, head falling back.

“Jesus, you’re—fuck, you’re good at that.”

Your hand pumped what didn’t fit, stroking him in rhythm with your mouth, slow and wet and wanting. You sucked harder and felt him twitch in your throat, and when you looked up, his eyes were already on you—burning.

That smirk you remembered was gone.

There was no smugness here.

Just hunger.

Your best friend. Undone.

He carded a hand through your hair—gentle at first, then tighter.

“Don’t stop,” he rasped. “Don’t even think about stopping.”

You didn’t. You let him slip deeper. Let your lips stretch wide, eyes watering when the tip kissed the back of your throat.

And when he moaned—actually moaned—you thought you might come from the sound alone.

“Fuck, baby—” he groaned, voice wrecked. “You have no fucking clue what you’re doing to me.”

But you did.

You felt it in the way his hips started to move, shallow thrusts into your mouth as he got closer, the grip in your hair becoming possessive, desperate.

You weren’t just erasing the girl from the bathroom.

You were replacing her. Branding yourself into the part of his brain where he kept his dirtiest memories.

When he finally warned you he was close—breathless, twitching, shaking—you pulled back enough to look up at him, lips wet, chin messy.

“Let me swallow it,” you whispered.

He cursed. Loud.

And then he came. Hard and hot, spilling into your mouth with a broken groan as his hand stayed tangled in your hair, his other braced against the wall behind you.

You swallowed everything.

Didn’t flinch. Didn’t break eye contact.

And when he finally opened his eyes again, you saw it.

The shift.

He wasn’t going to recover from this. And quite frankly, neither were you.

He was still catching his breath.

Still gripping the wall.

Still twitching between your fingers, glistening from your mouth.

And when you looked up at him like that—wide-eyed, flushed—he let out a ragged, broken sound.

Then he hauled you up off the floor with both hands.

You barely had time to gasp before his mouth was on yours, kissing you like it wasn’t enough. Like he wasn’t enough. Like nothing in the world could ever satisfy the way he wanted you right now.

“Fuck,” he growled against your lips, voice low and frantic, “I can’t stop touching you—I can’t fucking stop.”

He kissed you deeper, tasting himself on your tongue, his fingers already gripping your waist too tightly, trailing up your spine like he needed to know every ridge, every breath. His palms cupped your jaw, then dropped to your ass, pulling you flush against him even though he was still half-soft and oversensitive.

You whimpered into his mouth.

“Hyunjin—”

“I know,” he rasped, lips trailing down your neck now, biting just hard enough to make you gasp. “I know, baby.”

His hand slipped under your shirt, then under your bra—like he couldn’t wait, like he’d been dying to do it and didn’t even realize it until now. His touch was rough, frantic, worshipping as he palmed your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple until your knees buckled.

You tried to speak—tried to stop it before it got out of hand again—but you couldn’t.

Because he was already dragging your soaked thong down your thighs, snapping it off like it offended him, like he needed it gone yesterday.

“You wore this to my room?” he muttered, eyes dark as he tossed it across the floor. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t—” you breathed. “I didn’t know it’d happen like this—”

“Yeah?” he hissed, thumb brushing between your thighs now, rubbing your slit once, slow and purposeful. You jolted. “Then why are you this wet already?”

You couldn’t answer.

Didn’t get the chance.

Because then he flipped you onto the bed, dropped to his knees in front of you and buried his face in your pussy like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

You cried out—hand flying to his shoulder, his hair—anything to ground yourself as his mouth locked onto your clit and sucked so hard it stole the air from your lungs.

“Hyunjin—oh my god—”

He didn’t stop. Didn’t hesitate.

He groaned against you, lapping at your folds, tongue flicking and curling as he dragged you closer by the thighs, shoving one over his shoulder for better access. His fingers dug into your ass, tilting your hips just right so he could fuck his tongue into you deeper, wetter, filthier.

You couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t think.

Could barely stay upright.

Your back hit the headboard behind you, head thudding softly as he devoured you like he’d been starving for it—like he’d been dying for a taste ever since that night and just didn’t know it.

You sobbed his name, thighs shaking around his head, and he moaned in return—loud, guttural, desperate—sending vibrations straight through your cunt.

Your orgasm was building too fast. It was crawling up your spine, wrapping itself around your lungs, choking the words in your throat as you trembled against the wall.

“Hyun—Hyunjin—I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he growled, voice muffled in your heat. “Come on my tongue, baby—I want it.”

You shattered.

Head back. Fingers fisting his hair. Legs giving out completely.

And he kept going.

Licked you through it.

Swallowed everything.

Kept your legs open with his hands, his shoulders, his whole body, until you were twitching from overstimulation and trying to wriggle away.

Only then did he pull back.

His lips were swollen, chin slick, eyes glazed over with something feral.

“You thought sucking my dick would get me out of your system?” he panted, climbing back up your body.

You blinked at him, dazed.

He grabbed your jaw. Kissed you deep again, tongue tasting you on your own lips.

He was still breathing like he’d run a marathon.

Still gripping your waist like if he let go, he’d lose you again.

And then, out of nowhere, his voice broke—actually broke—low and hoarse and pleading against your neck.

“I need you… please.”

It wasn’t cocky. Wasn’t teasing.

It wasn’t a game anymore.

You froze.

Because hearing Hyunjin—your Hyunjin—say that like he was begging for you, like he needed you more than anything, did something to you. You didn’t even have to think. Your body moved before your brain caught up.

You pulled back just enough to look at him—his blown-out pupils, the way he swallowed like he was choking on his restraint, the barely-there twitch in his cock where it still hung thick between you, wet with need.

And just like that, you made your decision.

No fear. No hesitation. Just need.

You pushed his hands off you—softly. Watched his brows furrow in confusion for just a second before you reached for the hem of your shirt and lifted it slow.

Deliberate.

His breath caught.

Your bra followed��dropped to the floor in silence.

And his eyes trailed down like he didn’t know what to look at first: your nipples tightening under the cool air, your flushed skin, the steady rise and fall of your chest as you unbuttoned your jean skirt that was already bunched at your waist.

“Wait—” he rasped, almost winded. “What are you—”

You slipped them down your legs, shoving everything else with it—your last bit of modesty peeled away and kicked off until you were lying fully naked in front of him, bathed in the soft amber light from his lamp. You didn’t hide. Didn’t look away. Not even when your cheeks flushed.

Instead, you leaned back slowly, then spread your knees wide with zero shame, hands sliding down your own inner thighs as you held yourself open for him—soaked, needy, shameless.

Ready.

“I want you,” you whispered, voice wrecked. “I don’t care what happens after. I just… need to give this to you.”

He blinked once—twice—like his brain short-circuited.

Then he broke.

He stumbled forward, his cock hardening again right before your eyes, fingers twitching at his sides like he didn’t know what to touch first.

“Fuck—fuck—you’re unreal—” he hissed, dragging his gaze across your body like it physically hurt him not to be inside you already. “I thought about this—so many times—and I didn’t even know I was thinking about it. You—you’re gonna kill me.”

You leaned back slightly, baring yourself even more. “Then die.”

That was all it took.

He was on you in seconds.

Kissing you deep, moaning against your lips like he was in pain, dragging his cock along your soaked folds with the kind of reverence that bordered on obsession.

“Do you even know what you’re doing to me?” he whispered into your skin, hands gripping your hips like you’d disappear. “Fuck, baby, I’m gonna ruin you—I have to.”

You arched up, hips bucking, cunt clenching around nothing.

“Just do it.”

He lined himself up, breath hitching—eyes locked with yours.

Then slowly—deliberately—he started to push in.

You felt him stretch you inch by inch—hot, thick, impossibly deep.

And the moment Hyunjin sank in all the way, both of you just… froze.

He was buried inside you to the hilt.

His jaw clenched so tight it trembled.

And your walls fluttered around him, helpless and raw, like your body couldn’t believe it was him.

“Jesus…” he whispered, voice breaking as he pressed his forehead to yours. “You’re perfect. You’re fucking perfect.”

You couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t think.

All you could do was whimper his name and clutch at his shoulders, the stretch of him lighting up nerves you didn’t even know existed. No one had ever filled you like this. No one had ever even come close.

And he knew it.

Hyunjin started to move—slow at first, like he didn’t want to rush it.

Each roll of his hips was molten, deep, pulling out just enough to press back in with maddening force, grinding against your sweet spot so perfectly it made your eyes roll.

“Fuck,” he moaned, voice low and reverent. “You take me so good, baby. So tight for me. Like this pussy was made for me.”

Your whole body jerked under him at that—at the pure filth of his praise, the way it slipped so easily from that mouth that had kissed your forehead a thousand times.

He saw it. Felt your cunt clench hard around him.

“Yeah?” he growled, gripping your wrists and pinning them above your head. “You like that? Being fucked by your best friend?”

You nodded frantically, back arching. “Hyun—Hyunjin—please.”

“Please what?” he hissed, thrusts snapping faster now. “Tell me. I want to hear it.”

“Please fuck me harder—don’t stop—don’t ever stop—”

That did it.

He growled something broken—unintelligible—and slammed into you harder, hips pounding against yours with a rhythm that had the whole bed shaking, creaking, your breath knocked out of you with every thrust.

You were already close again.

The pressure was building so fast it scared you—but you couldn’t stop it, didn’t want to. You wanted to fall apart beneath him, wanted him to ruin you.

He leaned down suddenly—kissed you, deep and filthy, his tongue sliding against yours, swallowing every moan, every cry.

Then he pulled back to look at you. His expression softened—but it was worse, somehow. More intense. More raw.

“I’ve never wanted anyone like this,” he panted. “I swear to God—you’re the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

His thrusts slowed again—not stopping, but savoring now.

“You’re art,” he whispered, cupping your face, brushing his thumb across your cheek as he rocked into you so deep you gasped. “And I get to ruin you.”

You whimpered, tears brimming now—not from pain, not from fear—but from the weight of being seen like this. Loved like this. Even if he hadn’t said the word yet.

He felt your body tense beneath him—felt the way your cunt started to clamp down, so close to the edge you could taste it.

“You gonna come for me?” he whispered against your lips, voice breaking. “Come on, baby… Let me feel it. Let me feel you fall apart around my cock.”

You shattered.

Your back arched. Your mouth opened in a silent cry. Your whole body clenched so tight around him that he swore, stuttered, lost rhythm completely as you came around him.

“Fuckfuckfuck— you feel like heaven—” he groaned, then pulled out fast, stroking himself with messy, frantic hands. “Where? Where do you want it?”

You blinked up at him, still trembling. “My stomach. Please—just—show me.”

He let out a sound like he’d been holding his breath for years—then came hard with a desperate grunt, spilling hot and heavy all over your bare skin, streaks painting across your navel and hips as he moaned your name.

You lay there, both of you panting, your thighs still twitching as the aftershocks hit.

He collapsed beside you after a moment, still kissing your shoulder, your neck, your temple like he couldn’t stop.

Then he whispered, breath warm against your skin:

“I’m never letting anyone else touch you again.”

“What’s new?” You chuckled.

—-

The room was silent—Not the awkward kind. No.

Just heavy, saturated, sated silence. Like the whole room had exhaled with you.

You laid there on your back, your chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. Your legs were limp. Your pulse was thrumming in your ears.

Hyunjin was beside you, chest heaving, one arm draped across your waist like his body had moved on instinct—like he still needed to keep you close even now. Especially now.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Your mind was too scrambled. You couldn’t even remember how to move, let alone what to say.

So you stared at the ceiling, the faint glow of the bedside lamp catching the sheen of sweat on your skin. You could still feel his hands on you—still feel the phantom stretch of his cock inside you. Your core ached in the most devastating, delicious way.

And then…

“…What the fuck did we just do?”

His voice was quiet. Like he was asking himself as much as he was asking you.

You blinked. Swallowed.

The words you were supposed to say—the things that would make it better, easier, less permanent—they just didn’t come. Your mouth opened, but your voice caught.

He shifted onto his side to face you, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek.

His eyes were so soft.

Too soft.

And that was when the fear crept in.

Not fear of him, not of the sex, not even of how good it felt—but of the possibility that you’d broken something. That maybe your friendship couldn’t go back. That maybe you didn’t want it to.

“I didn’t mean for you to see me like that, you know? With her.” He started suddenly.

You winced.

“I know.”

“I tried to go after you when you ran off, you know?” he murmured. “Tried to talk to you after, but you just kept running from me.”

You bit your lip. You didn’t want to admit that it wasn’t because you were mad. It wasn’t because you were hurt. It was because you were so turned on it scared you. Because every time you looked at him, you couldn’t stop imagining that girl in the bathroom, couldn’t stop wondering what it would feel like to be on your knees instead.

And now… you knew.

He leaned over you, hovering, but not crowding. Watching you with that same intensity he always had—but now it felt different. Loaded. You could feel it in your blood, in the way your body still buzzed from him.

“I should be sorry we took it this far,” he said. “But I’m not.”

Your breath caught.

He reached down, fingers brushing through the mess he’d left on your stomach, slow and reverent, like he couldn’t believe he’d done that to you—with you.

“I’ve wanted you like this for longer than I was willing to admit.”

You blinked. “But you never… You never looked at me like that.”

“I didn’t let myself.”

His voice dropped, rough and raw again.

“I didn’t want to fuck this up. You were the only thing that wasn’t a game to me. I didn’t want to ruin you the way I ruin everything else. But the second I saw you watching me… that night… the second I realized what I’d done—what I might’ve just lost—I couldn’t stop.”

You swallowed.

Something twisted in your chest—sharp and sweet all at once.

“I don’t know what this means,” you whispered.

“I do,” he said simply. “It means I’m all yours now.”

You laughed, breathless, half-shaky. “Since when?”

“Since always,” he said. “You just didn’t know it yet.”

You paused. Heart thundering.

Then slowly, you turned toward him—reached out and dragged your fingers down his chest, resting them just above his heart.

And this time, when he kissed you, it was slow. Intentional. Worshipful.

He pulled the blanket over your bodies, curled around you like you were something sacred.

Neither of you said another word.

But you knew.

Things weren’t going back to normal.

They were becoming something better.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: Guys i have so much unfinished fics 😭 i see all your requests i promise and i am writing them!! But yeah lets have some Hyunjin love today 😍😍🤭🤭 Tell me if you want to be added or removed from my taglist! But dont forget to like and reblog 🍒

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skzophreniic · 12 hours ago

Text

⍣ ೋ cw: explicit sexual content, exes to lovers, mutual masturbation , penetrative sex, creampie, crying during sex, pet anxiety, mentions of pregnancy, artist!hyunjin, mdni

notes: in which your situationship ex hyunjin from college asks you to watch his dog for the week--and things spiral from there.

You almost don’t answer.

Your phone buzzes across the table, skittering like a beetle over the wood, and you glance at the screen with the reflex of someone who doesn’t expect surprises anymore.

Hyunjin. The name glows up at you, unfamiliar only in the way it makes your stomach twist—like a song you haven’t heard in years but still remember every lyric to.

It’s been months since you last spoke. Maybe a year since you last saw him. A coffee meetup that turned into wandering aimlessly through the park, talking like nothing had ever gone wrong between you, except it had. That night ended with a long hug and a promise to keep in touch that neither of you kept.

And now he’s calling.

You stare at the screen for another ring. Then another.

Then you answer.

“...Hello?”

There’s a beat of silence, just long enough to make you wonder if he hung up, and then:

“Hey,” he says, breathless like he’d been holding it. “Sorry—sorry to call out of nowhere. I didn’t know who else to ask.”

His voice hasn’t changed. Still soft in a way that wraps around your ribs. Still threaded with that low, careful tension like he’s always thinking five things at once and only saying one.

You shift in your seat, heart suddenly too loud in your chest.

“Okay,” you say slowly, warily. “What’s going on?”

A soft rustle comes through the line—maybe the jingle of keys, maybe his bracelets sliding against his wrist. You picture him pacing his apartment, the same way he used to during finals week, lip caught between his teeth, hair tucked behind one ear.

“I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t important,” he says. “And I get that it’s weird. Us not talking, and then—me dropping this on you.”

You glance toward the window, try not to let your voice shake. “What is this, exactly?”

He hesitates. “I have to leave the city. It’s an art residency. Last-minute. It’s… big.”

Your stomach twists again, but this time it’s sharper. Of course it’s big. Hyunjin was always meant for something more.

You lean back in your chair, eyes tracing the rain sliding down the windowpane like it’s trying to draw an answer for you. A part of you wants to ask where he's going, what the project is, if he’s excited—because of course he is, he always was, always buzzing with vision and color and a kind of hunger you never could name. But that part of you lives behind a glass wall now. You’re not sure you’re allowed to tap on it.

So you don’t ask. You swallow the words like coins dropped into a well—silent, swallowed, never coming back up.

“I’m happy for you,” you say instead, and it’s almost true. “You deserve it.”

Hyunjin exhales, and for a second you wonder if he’s smiling. “Thanks. That means more than you probably think.”

It shouldn't. But you don’t say that either.

“I wouldn’t call if I didn’t really need the help,” he adds, voice dipping a little lower now, like he’s bracing for the ask to land wrong. “It’s Kkami. My sitter canceled last minute, and everyone else is either busy or allergic. You were the only person I thought of who could handle him.”

You laugh softly, mostly out of disbelief. “Handle him? Hyun, your dog hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Hyunjin says, though there’s something too quick in his defense, too breathless—like maybe he’s trying to convince himself. “He’s just... territorial.”

You huff a dry laugh. “Yeah, I remember. He tried to piss on my jeans.”

“That was one time.”

“Twice.”

“Okay, but in his defense, they smelled like me.”

You pause. The silence that follows is sharp and sudden, the kind that cuts deep and clean. It’s the kind of silence that remembers.

Because those jeans had smelled like him—after that night. The last one. The one where he’d backed you against the wall of your own bedroom with his fingers still wet from your mouth, where he’d said things he probably didn’t mean and kissed you like he hated how much he did.

The night you both decided—without saying it—that it was over. That whatever “thing” had been pulsing between you wasn’t something either of you could hold without bleeding.

And yet. Here you are. Picking at it like a scab that never healed right.

Your throat works around the memory before your voice does. You don’t say anything at first—just sit there, hand wrapped too tightly around your phone, eyes fixed on some vague point on the wall like if you don’t move, it won’t reach you. Like you can’t still feel him, breath hot against your neck, hands fisting in your sheets, mouth tracing every soft part of you like he was trying to memorize the map of a place he had no business returning to.

He clears his throat on the other end, and it sounds like guilt. Or maybe longing. You’ve always had trouble telling the difference when it came to him.

“Look,” Hyunjin says, quieter now. “I wouldn’t be asking if I had another option. Kkami doesn’t do well with new spaces, and I can’t board him. He’s too anxious, and if he’s not with someone he knows, he’ll make himself sick.”

You finally speak, though your voice is thin. “So you want me to stay at yours.”

A beat. Then—“Yeah.”

Just like that. No sugarcoating. No backpedaling. Just Hyunjin, honest and bare in the way he always was once he stopped pretending not to feel everything at once.

You run a hand down your face. “Hyun, we haven’t talked in almost a year.”

“I know.”

“You haven’t even seen me since—”

“I know.”

He’s not angry, not defensive. Just… raw. Like the words are scraping him on the way out. You can hear the scrape.

“I didn’t think I’d ever call you again,” he admits. “I thought that was the deal. But when they offered me this residency, and I realized I had to leave tonight—you’re the only person I could trust. With him. With my home.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, hard enough to taste the coppery edge of restraint.

His home.

It’s stupid, really. How easy it is to fall back into this rhythm. How even now, after all the months, all the distance, he can still lace your name with history. You’d been friends once. Kind of. You’d laughed a lot, touched a lot, fucked even more—on couches, against doors, in the low hush of early morning when everything was tender and wrong. It was always supposed to be temporary. Temporary, but all-consuming.

But the feelings crept in like rot through the walls. And neither of you were brave enough to call it love, so you called it off instead.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” you say, but even you don’t sound convinced.

“I’ll wash the sheets,” he jokes weakly.

You laugh, soft and involuntary, the sound catching somewhere in your throat. It’s not really about the sheets.

It never was.

And the silence that follows—god, it aches. Not sharp like the aftermath of a fight, but dull and lingering, like a bruise you don’t remember getting. Like a conversation left open on a table, gathering dust.

You clear your throat. “What time’s your flight?”

“Late,” he says. “But I still have to pack a few pieces and drop off the canvases. It’ll be tight.”

“Do you need help?” The words are out before you can catch them. You curse yourself immediately for the softness in your voice.

He hesitates. “No. It’s fine. Just—just the dog. That’s all I need help with.”

Right. The dog.

You glance at your calendar. Clear. Of course it’s clear.

Of course the universe decided to leave space for this.

“Alright,” you murmur. “Just send me the code. I’ll stay at yours. It’s fine.”

“You don’t have to bring anything,” he rushes to say, and it’s like he’s trying to compensate for the ask with over-kindness. “I washed the old blanket. The one you used to crash under on the couch. It’s still there.”

Your fingers tighten around your phone.

He doesn’t mention that the last time you slept under that blanket, you were still tangled in him. Half-dressed. Half-drunk on him. That he pulled it over your hips after, when you were too spent to move, and he kissed your shoulder like he wanted to stay but didn’t know how.

You don’t bring it up either.

Instead, you breathe out slow. “Cool. I’ll head over in an hour or two.”

“Okay.”

Neither of you say I missed you.

Neither of you say This is weird.

Neither of you say Is this going to break us again?

Instead, Hyunjin adds quietly, “I’ll leave a note.”

“For the dog?”

“For you.”

You close your eyes.

“Okay.”

He doesn’t say goodbye. Just… hangs up.

And you let the dial tone ring for a few seconds longer than you should, like maybe he’ll change his mind. Like maybe you will.

But the silence stays.

And when you finally move, dragging out your overnight bag and stuffing it half-heartedly with essentials, you can’t stop thinking about the smell of his apartment. The way the floor creaks by the hallway. The coffee mugs he used to leave near the sink, rimmed with paint. The pictures he never hung. The sketchbook that held a drawing of you in fading graphite—one he never knew you found.

You wonder if it’s still there.

You wonder what else of you is.

The building hasn’t changed.

You hate that you notice. Hate that your fingers still know the keycode before you even read the text. Hate that the elevator creaks on the same floor. That the hallway smells like turmeric and old wood and the trace of him—Hyunjin, in incense and paint and something vaguely sweet.

His apartment door is unlocked, just like he promised. A sticky note is taped to the front, scrawled in the quick, crooked handwriting you used to recognize across lecture halls and grocery lists alike.

“Come in. He’s dramatic, not dangerous. Don’t let him guilt trip you.” —H.

You roll your eyes and open the door.

It looks the same. Lived-in, messy in a way that’s curated. An art book cracked open on the coffee table. Two mugs in the sink. One of his hoodies flung across the back of the couch like he wore it last night. And maybe he did.

You hear the growl before you see him.

Kkami stands in the middle of the living room, ears pinned back, hackles raised, tail stiff like an accusation. He looks you dead in the eye and lets out a snarl so pointed you actually step back.

“Oh, fuck off,” you mutter, tugging your bag higher on your shoulder. “We’ve been over this.”

He growls again. Louder.

You raise your hands. “I come in peace.”

He barks.

You take a careful step inside, nudging the door shut behind you. Kkami follows your every move like you’re an intruder in a palace he was knighted to protect.

“I’m not stealing your shit,” you tell the dog. “I’m just crashing here. Ask your absentee father.”

Kkami doesn’t find it funny.

You inch toward the kitchen, where Hyunjin’s written schedule sits neatly beside two bowls—one for food, one for water. Both full. Fresh.

You glance at the clock. He’s probably already at the airport. Maybe already boarding. Maybe looking down at the city through a plane window, tapping his fingers against the glass like he always did when he was anxious. You wonder if he thought about calling you again. You wonder if he’s relieved you didn’t call him first.

Kkami lets out a soft, pitiful whine behind you. When you turn, he’s sitting but tense, eyes never leaving you. Suspicious. Wounded. Territorial, like Hyunjin said.

“Jesus, you’re worse than him,” you sigh.

A folded slip of paper catches your eye. It’s tucked under the magnet shaped like a paintbrush on the fridge. Your name is written across the front.

Your throat tightens.

You don’t open it. Not yet.

You drop your bag by the couch and finally take a seat, letting the quiet settle around you. The apartment hums with memory. You used to sit here wrapped in his hoodie, eating leftover tteokbokki at midnight, legs draped across his lap while he rubbed lazy circles into your shin. You used to kiss in this corner. Fuck in this corner. Sleep in the bed down the hall like it meant nothing, even when it meant too much.

Kkami barks once—sharp and offended—then hops up onto the other end of the couch and curls into a tight, annoyed little donut.

“Truce?” you offer.

He sneezes. Well then.

You sigh and reach for your phone. Maybe you can FaceTime Hyunjin later. Let the dog see him. Hear him. Maybe that’ll help.

Or maybe it’ll make everything worse.

You glance over at the folded blanket. The place where you used to lay your head.

And wonder how long it’ll take for this place to feel empty without him in it.

You don’t sleep well that first night.

Kkami stays curled at the farthest edge of the bed like he’s punishing you, his little back turned, ears twitching at every shift you make beneath the sheets. He doesn’t bark, but he lets out these occasional, theatrical sighs—deep, betrayed, bone-deep things—like you’ve committed the ultimate offense by existing where Hyunjin should be.

You get it.

You feel it too.

In the morning, you wake before the sun finishes rising. The air in the apartment is cold, the kind of cold that seeps into your joints, your thoughts, the hollow behind your ribs. You drag Hyunjin’s blanket from the couch and wrap yourself in it, settle on the floor near the window with a mug of instant coffee that tastes like cardboard and nostalgia.

Kkami watches you from the kitchen doorway, still suspicious.

“Do you have a schedule, or are we just winging it?” you ask him.

He sneezes and turns his head. No comment.

The hours pass slow. You walk him—twice. He barks at a bus, growls at a stroller, and refuses to let you tie his leash to the bench while you grab a coffee from the corner place Hyunjin used to love. You wind up going without.

At noon, you wander the apartment, not touching anything but looking at everything. A half-finished canvas still rests on the easel in the corner. It’s abstract—something celestial, maybe. Blue and smoke and gold bleeding together like bruises in motion. You don’t know if it’s new. You don’t ask.

You think about texting him. Just something simple. He misses you already. Or He hasn’t peed on anything today. But the words feel too light. Too personal. You settle for:

12:31 PM — [You]: he ate most of his food. drank a lot of water too. no accidents.

The read receipt comes instantly. His reply is a few minutes later:

12:36 PM — [Hyunjin]: thank you <3

The heart curls in your chest. You close the app.

You make pasta for dinner and Kkami doesn’t touch his kibble until you sit beside him on the floor and pretend to eat a piece. Then he snarfs it all down like he’s proving a point.

That night, he won’t sleep again. He whines. He paces. He jumps down from the bed and runs to the door, then back again. Tail twitching. Eyes darting.

When you try to pet him, he flinches like he’s expecting a trick. You sit on the floor again, cross-legged in Hyunjin’s oversized hoodie (you told yourself you brought it by accident), and say softly, “He’s not here. It’s just me.”

He whines again. Low and pitiful.

“Me too,” you whisper.

You glance toward the kitchen. Toward the fridge. That little slip of paper still waits, untouched beneath the magnet shaped like a paintbrush. Your name in his handwriting. Like a bruise. Like a dare.

You haven’t opened it. Not yet.

You slept on the couch.

Not because the bed wasn’t made—Hyunjin had even tucked in the corners, left a glass of water on the nightstand like he thought about what you’d need—but because you couldn’t bring yourself to crawl into the same sheets you used to wake up tangled in. Not when the scent of him still lived in the pillowcases. Not when the memory of his hands on your bare back still lingered in the seams of the duvet.

So you curled up under the old blanket instead, the one you used to steal during lazy afternoons and Netflix half-watched kisses and accepted the fact that your neck was going to ache in the morning. Kkami refused to join you. He spent most of the night pacing between the door and the hallway, growling at shadows.

The second night is worse.

Kkami is inconsolable. He won’t eat. Won’t lie down. Won’t stop pacing between the front door and the window like he’s waiting for Hyunjin to materialize from thin air. At one point, he noses Hyunjin’s shoes—left by the entryway—and lets out a sound so hollow and pitiful it actually makes your eyes sting.

You try everything. Treats. Music. White noise. The blanket that still smells like Hyunjin’s shampoo. But nothing works. It’s like something inside him is unraveling, the cord pulled too tight and fraying with every hour he doesn’t see the one person he’s built his little world around.

Same, you think bitterly, and feel stupid for it.

You end up sitting on the kitchen floor around midnight, your legs numb, your patience thinner than it’s been in weeks. Kkami’s resting his chin on his paws but still letting out this tiny, high-pitched whine every few seconds, like he’s trying not to cry but can’t help it.

And that sound—god, that sound shatters something in you.

You sigh, rub your face with both hands, and reach for your phone.

12:04 AM — [You]: he won’t sleep. he’s been crying for an hour. won’t eat either.

You don’t expect him to reply. Not at this hour, not while he’s halfway across the country doing Important Artist Things.

But your screen lights up with an incoming FaceTime call within seconds.

Your heart drops into your stomach.

You hesitate. Just for a second.

Then answer.

And for the first time in nearly a year, you see him.

Hyunjin’s face fills the screen—soft-lit and sleepy, hoodie bunched around his neck like he’d just been getting ready for bed. But it’s not just the setting that throws you. It’s him.

The long hair you used to run your fingers through—gone. All of it. In its place: a buzzcut. Clean, close, severe in a way that shouldn’t suit him but somehow does. It makes his features sharper, more present. Like there’s nothing to hide behind anymore.

You blink. You don’t mean to stare, but the shock is immediate, visceral.

“Hi,” he says, quiet.

You swallow. “Hi.”

He sits up straighter. “Is he okay?”

You shift the camera toward Kkami, who immediately perks up. His ears shoot up like radar, and he lets out a small, startled bark before beelining to your lap—bumping his snout into the phone like he’s trying to crawl through it.

Hyunjin laughs. It’s breathless. Disbelieving.

“God, he’s dramatic.”

“He gets it from you,” you mutter.

Kkami presses against your chest like he’s trying to bury himself in your heart, finally calm now, finally still. You stroke a hand down his back and try not to think about the fact that it took Hyunjin’s voice to soothe him.

You glance at the screen again. Hyunjin’s watching you, not Kkami.

There’s a beat where neither of you speak. The only sound is Kkami’s soft breathing and the low hum of the city outside the window.

Then, gently:

“I left you something,” he says.

You swallow. “I know.”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d find it.”

“I did.”

“You gonna open it?”

You glance toward the fridge. The note still waits, tucked under the paintbrush magnet like a secret too fragile to touch.

“Not yet,” you say.

And he doesn’t push. Just nods. “Okay.”

Kkami shifts closer to your thigh and exhales, finally resting his chin on your knee. You pet him with one hand, still holding the phone in the other.

“He’s sleeping now,” you whisper.

“So are you.”

You blink. “What?”

“Your eyes,” he says. “They do that thing. The little flutter when you’re about to crash.”

You’re too tired to argue. Too tired to ask why he remembers that.

“I’ll hang up,” he offers.

You don’t say no.

You just murmur, “Goodnight, Hyun.”

And you hear the softness in his voice as he says it back:

“Goodnight.”

You don’t sleep much better that night.

But Kkami doesn’t cry again.

The next few days fall into a strange kind of rhythm—quiet, off-kilter, but somehow soothing in the way old routines can be, even when they’re made of things that weren’t meant to last.

Kkami still hates you by daylight.

He growls when you walk into the room. Barks when you open the fridge. Refuses to eat unless you pretend not to look. He doesn’t let you pet him unless he’s half-asleep or tricked by a treat, and he definitely doesn’t let you forget that this is his house, his couch, his missing person.

But at night, when Hyunjin calls, it’s like a switch flips.

Kkami leaps into your lap the moment the ringtone echoes through the apartment. He curls there, fast and warm and trembling just slightly, like he’s spent all day building tension he doesn’t know how to unspool without Hyunjin��s voice in the room.

You always answer on the couch, blanket pulled tight around your shoulders, phone propped up against a half-full glass of water. Hyunjin always looks a little tired, a little flushed from wherever he’s just come back from—a gallery tour, a studio session, a walk through some city that doesn’t have your footprints on its sidewalks.

He tells you about the art residency. The gallery director who makes coffee that tastes like battery acid. The studio space—wide and cold and full of light. He tells you about a piece he’s working on: abstract, rough, loud in a way he hasn’t painted in years.

“You’d hate it,” he laughs, voice crackling faintly through the call. “It’s all jagged lines. Chaos. I think it’s about… hunger. Or maybe grief. I don’t know.”

“I never hated your work,” you say.

Hyunjin quiets. Then, low:

“You hated what it did to me.”

Your breath catches.

Because he’s right.

You did.

You hated the way he disappeared into it—into himself—those long stretches of silence when he wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t touch you unless it was desperate and fleeting, like he was chasing the ghost of something he could never quite hold. You hated the way he used his own pain like paint thinner, diluted himself until all that was left was color on canvas and a shell of the boy you used to fall asleep beside.

But you don’t say that.

You just sit there, curled on his couch in his hoodie you’ve stolen from his drawer, your phone glowing in the soft hush of midnight.

“I hated how much it hurt you,” you say instead. “That’s not the same thing.”

Hyunjin nods slowly, his lips pressed into a line. “No. It’s not.”

Kkami shifts in your lap, stretching a little, his snout nudging your elbow before he sighs and drifts deeper into sleep. You stroke his fur absently, eyes still locked on the screen, on Hyunjin’s face—the new angles of it, the way the buzzcut makes him look older, sharper, like a wound that finally scabbed over.

He watches you for a while. Then murmurs, “I was scared to call you.”

You smile, tired and small. “I figured.”

“I thought you’d say no. That you wouldn’t even answer.”

“I almost didn’t.”

His throat bobs. “Why’d you say yes?”

You don’t answer right away.

Because it’s not just about the dog. Not just about the key he left under the stairs or the food already stocked or the note still waiting on the fridge like a breath you’re not ready to exhale.

You look at him. Really look.

And when you speak, it’s quiet. Honest.

“Because I missed you. Even when I hated missing you.”

The silence after is different this time.

He blinks. His mouth parts like he’s going to say something, but all that comes out is a whisper.

“Fuck.”

You let out a laugh—dry, breathless. “Yeah.”

He shifts on the screen, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “You still sleep on the couch?”

“Every night.”

“Why?”

“Because the bed remembers more than I’m ready to.”

His eyes flicker. He nods once. Like he understands. Like he hasn’t been sleeping either.

Another pause. Then—

“I dream about you,” he says.

And it’s not a confession. It’s a bruise. Something he’s been pressing on in the dark just to see if it still hurts.

You blink. “Hyun—”

“Not just the sex,” he adds, voice hoarse. “Though… yeah. That too. A lot, actually.”

You glance away, heat creeping up your neck. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I want to,” he says. “I want you to know I still—”

He cuts himself off. Breathes out hard. Shakes his head.

Kkami stirs in your lap, shifting slightly. The air feels too tight suddenly, the silence too loud.

You focus on Kkami. On the slow rise and fall of his small body, the way his paws twitch in sleep like he’s chasing something warm. It grounds you—barely.

Hyunjin exhales on the other end of the line. You can hear it, soft and ragged, the kind of breath that holds everything he didn’t say. Everything he still might.

You don’t speak. Not yet. Because what could you say? I still touch myself to the thought of you? I still wear your hoodie like armor when I can’t sleep? I still think about that night on the floor when we couldn’t stop, even though we knew it was already over?

None of it would come out right.

So instead, you keep your voice even when you ask, “Do you paint me?”

The question slips out before you can stop it. You don't even know why you asked it. Maybe its because you're so sleepy you can't filter you're thoughts. Maybe because he mentioned it once, over soggy cereal over the golden morning light that filtered through the blinds, over the laughter you've never quite had again.

Hyunjin stills.

On the screen, he doesn’t look shocked. He looks… worn. Like someone who’s been carrying the answer around for a while and doesn’t know where to put it.

“I try not to,” he says eventually. Quiet. Careful. “But you always end up there.”

Your breath falters. You nod slowly, like that’s an answer you expected—because it is. Because you knew. Somehow, you always knew.

You shift the phone slightly, angle it so he can see the window behind you. The dark skyline. The reflection of the room, soft and gold and full of ghosts. Your voice is steadier than you feel when you say, “I haven’t opened it.”

“I know,” he replies, just as soft.

“I want to. But…”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“I think I need more time.”

“Take it,” he murmurs. “I left it because I had to, not because I needed anything back.”

You nod. Not that he can see it—not really. But somehow, you think he feels it anyway.

“Okay,” you say. It's the only thing you can manage that doesn’t crack under its own weight.

A pause stretches between you. Soft. Not cold. Just full. Like the breath before a confession. Like the second before a kiss.

Kkami snores lightly, curled deeper into your lap now, his whole body lax with trust. You glance down at him, stroke a thumb between his ears, then look back at the screen.

Hyunjin’s still watching you. Not the dog. Not the view.

Just you.

“You’re wearing my hoodie,” he murmurs, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You shrug, suddenly shy. “Didn’t pack enough layers.”

“I knew you’d steal something,” he says, teasing, but low—like he's remembering the way you used to steal everything from him. His clothes. His time. His breath.

“You left the drawer cracked open on purpose.”

“Maybe.”

His smile softens into something quieter. More real.

“I used to love seeing you in my stuff,” he adds. “Used to come home and hope you’d be there. Curled up in it. Pretending to wait for me.”

You swallow. It’s harder than it should be. “I wasn’t pretending.”

Hyunjin blinks slowly. Like that hit him somewhere unexpected. Somewhere tender.

And then, quietly, almost afraid to hope: “Are you still?”

You could lie. You could deflect. But instead, you meet his eyes through the screen.

“I haven’t been with anyone else.”

His jaw works. “Neither have I.”

The words land between you like a marker—drawing a line not to separate, but to measure distance. And maybe the distance isn’t as wide as you thought.

Your fingers curl a little tighter in Kkami’s fur.

“I should go to bed,” you say. Your voice is quiet. A little raw.

“Okay,” Hyunjin whispers. “Me too.”

But neither of you move. The seconds tick by. You don’t even blink.

Eventually, he says, “Tomorrow night. Can I call again?”

You let out a soft breath, not quite a laugh. “Hyun… you’ve been calling every night.”

His smile doesn’t fade, but it shifts—tilts into something deeper. Less playful. More certain.

“I know,” he says. “But that was for Kkami.”

You blink. “And tomorrow?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. Not once.

“That’s for you.”

It knocks the wind out of you a little, the way he says it. Not romantic. Not dramatic. Just simple. True. Like he’s only just letting himself say it out loud, but he’s known it all along.

Your throat tightens. “Oh.”

Hyunjin watches you carefully. “Is that okay?”

You nod once. “Yeah. It’s… more than okay.”

Something in his posture loosens then, like he’s been holding a breath he can finally let go of. His shoulders drop. His mouth twitches again, a smile fighting its way to the surface but not quite forming—like he’s still afraid to want too much, to hope too fast.

You don’t know what tomorrow will bring. Not really.

But you know you’ll answer.

And maybe this time you’ll stop pretending it’s for the dog.

“You’re on the bed.”

Hyunjin says it the moment the screen connects. No hello. No lead-up. Just those four words, soft and low and unmistakably aware.

You blink at him from where you’re sitting, back pressed to the headboard, knees pulled up beneath the comforter. His comforter.

You almost lie. Almost say you were just passing through. That the light was better in here. That Kkami stole the couch.

But Hyunjin’s already smiling—slow and knowing, like he’s been waiting for this.

You exhale through your nose. “Kkami’s on the couch.”

“Mm,” he hums, a little amused. “So it’s just you in my bed.”

Your fingers tighten around the phone, feeling a little flustered. “Is that going to be a problem?”

His eyes darken a shade, but the smile stays. “Not even a little.”

You roll onto your side, careful not to let the phone slip. The sheets are warm beneath you, still smelling faintly like cedar and fabric softener and something only he ever carried. His presence is everywhere in this room. On the walls. In the folded clothes. Under your skin.

Hyunjin shifts on his end of the call—he’s propped up on pillows, a fitted black tank clinging to his chest, the cut of it leaving little to the imagination. His toned arms are on full display, lean muscle catching the dim light, subtle and sculpted like something sketched in charcoal. His expression is unreadable, caught somewhere between reverence and restraint.

“I thought about you today,” he says after a beat.

You tuck your face into the pillow, just a little. “Like you usually do?”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “But this time I didn’t fight it.”

Your heart thuds against your ribs, slow and heavy. “What were you thinking?”

His gaze dips, like he’s shy all of a sudden. “That I miss you. That I used to wake up to you in that bed.”

You swallow, voice thinner now. “It’s a little colder without you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The silence that follows is different from all the others before it. It’s thick. Electric. It hums with all the things neither of you have said but haven’t stopped feeling. The kind of silence that shifts when the air gets warmer, when the breath starts catching, when the ache finally starts to slip through.

Hyunjin wets his lips. His voice is barely a whisper. “You look good there.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “I feel... restless.”

He shifts again, almost imperceptibly. “Tell me.”

Your gaze flickers. “Tell you what?”

“What you’re thinking. Right now.”

You hesitate.

But then, softly, deliberately: “I was thinking about your hands.”

Hyunjin’s mouth parts slightly.

“I was thinking about how you used to touch me here,” you say, dragging your fingers over the blanket, slow, just below your collarbone. “And here.” Down, lower now, to the place between your ribs.

His breath stutters through the speaker.

“And I was wondering…” you murmur, voice barely above a hum, “if you miss the way I used to say your name when you touched me like that.”

Hyunjin closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them again, they’re dark, focused, hungry.

“I think about it all the time,” he says. “Every fucking night.”

Your thighs press together under the blanket. You feel your pulse everywhere—behind your knees, in your fingertips, between your legs. It’s not even about the sex. Not yet. It’s about the weight of being wanted by someone who remembers you—who still remembers.

“I haven’t touched anyone else,” you say.

He swallows hard. “Don’t.”

“I don’t want to.”

Hyunjin nods slowly. “Me either.”

Then, quiet: “Can I stay on the call?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he says, voice rough now, “if I asked you to touch yourself… would you let me watch?”

Your breath catches. Not from nerves. From need.

You don’t say yes. You just let the phone settle against the pillow beside you, angled toward your face, the way he used to tilt your chin when he wanted a better look at how undone you were.

The sheets shift as your hand moves lower.

Hyunjin watches. And when he speaks, it’s barely a whisper, like he’s already somewhere far beneath the surface with you.

“Fuck. You always looked so pretty like this.”

You inhale shakily, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts, slow and careful, testing the heat already gathered there.

Hyunjin’s eyes drag down your body. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips. His voice is rough with memory.

“Remember that time on the floor? After your exam? You were so out of it—barely undressed. I just shoved your panties to the side and made you come in, what, two minutes?”

You let out a quiet, choked sound at the back of your throat.

He smiles—crooked, dark. “Yeah. You clenched so hard around my fingers I thought I’d lose them.”

You whimper softly. Your hand moves slow, wet, dragging through the mess of your own need, slick pooling beneath your fingertips like your body remembers him even better than your mind does.

“God, that sound,” Hyunjin breathes. “That little gasp when you’re just starting to touch yourself. Same one you made when I used to run my fingers down your stomach—real slow, just to watch you twitch.”

You press harder against your clit, circles tightening, mouth falling open as your back arches into the memory. He’s not even touching you, and still—your body bends like it’s learned him by muscle memory.

Hyunjin notices. Of course he does.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice gone low and ragged, the kind that scrapes the inside of your throat just hearing it. “All spread out in my bed. Fucking yourself open with your hand like you want me to see everything. Like you know I used to make you feel better than anyone else ever could.”

You moan, breath catching, and Hyunjin’s smile sharpens.

“Touch your tits,” he says, not as a command—but a conjuring. Like he already knows you’re aching for it. “Lift your shirt for me.”

You obey without a sound, pushing the hem up slowly, just enough to expose the curve of one breast, the soft point of your nipple hard and aching from the friction of your shirt.

He groans. “You remember how obsessed I was with your tits? Couldn’t stop sucking on them. Couldn’t stop biting.” His jaw clenches. “You used to beg me to be gentle. And then beg me not to stop.”

Your fingers slide down again—slippery, desperate. Your thighs shake under the weight of it. The rhythm is messier now, your hips chasing pressure. Hyunjin watches all of it, his hand dragging down his torso, disappearing beneath his waistband.

“Touching yourself in my bed,” he growls. “Wearing my shirt. Letting me watch while you make yourself come for me.”

He’s panting now, hand working slow, deliberate strokes beneath the screen. His tank top clings to his chest, sweat beading along his collarbones. His buzzed hair is messy, sticking slightly to his forehead, and his mouth—his fucking mouth—is red and parted, like he’s still tasting you.

“You remember the way I used to fuck you from behind?” he says. “Pushed your face into the mattress, held your hips like you’d run from me if I let go?”

You whimper—your fingers falter, then speed up.

“Could barely breathe, baby. You’d just sob into the sheets. You loved it. Took every inch, crying like you couldn’t handle it—and still begged for more.”

Your body goes taut, heels digging into the mattress, orgasm hovering just out of reach.

Hyunjin's voice drops to a growl, breath quick and filthy. “Bet your pussy’s fucking tight right now. Clenching like it forgot what it’s supposed to take—like it’s trying to remember the shape of my cock.”

He groans, low and wrecked. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll teach it again. I’ll stretch you open so slow you feel it for days. Won’t stop ‘til you’re dripping all over my sheets, crying into the pillow, begging for more.”

You whimper his name—helpless. Shattered.

“You want me to say it?” Hyunjin pants, fist working now, muscles flexing. “Want me to tell you how I’d do it?”

You nod, frantic. Desperate.

His voice turns molten. Thick with lust, arrogance, something cruel and beautiful.

“I’d start slow. Tease you with just the tip. Let you feel the stretch, let you beg for the rest of it. Then I’d give you all of it at once—deep, hard. Just to see you fucking cry.”

You do cry out. The tension in your body snaps tighter, hips lifting off the bed, toes curling. So close.

“I’d fuck you into the mattress,” he growls. “Grip your hips and slam into you so hard you’d lose your voice. You remember how I’d do that? Say, ‘You’re not done yet, baby. You can take it.’ And you always fucking would.”

You’re whimpering now, moaning into your own shoulder to muffle the sound, fingers moving in slippery, filthy rhythm. The orgasm’s close—so close—spooling at the base of your spine, hot and tight and relentless.

“Oh, fuck, there it is,” he gasps, fucking into his fist now, stroking faster. “You’re close. I can see it—hear it. Just like that, baby. Let go for me. Come for the boy who still dreams about the way you taste. Come for the fucking lunatic who’d trade his last painting just to feel your pussy clench around his fingers one more time.”

That breaks you.

You moan his name—soft, ruined, high-pitched—and you come with your hand buried between your thighs, eyes fluttering, back arching. The pleasure pulses through you in waves, soaked and frantic and unstoppable.

“God, you’re still so fucking perfect,” he grits out. “I could’ve painted this. You—like that. That’s my favorite version of you.”

You whimper, still trembling.

He grins. Dark. Gleaming. “Wanna see what you do to me?”

You nod, dizzy.

He shifts the phone—just enough for you to see the slick length of him in his hand. Red at the tip, dripping, veins thick under taut skin. His pace is ruthless now.

“I used to fuck your thighs just to tease you,” he pants. “Not even your pussy. Just that pretty space between them. Used to slide my cock right there and come all over your stomach.”

You let out a breathy sound of disbelief, hips twitching in aftershock. Your cunt flutters around nothing, empty and aching.

“Fucking ruined me,” he snarls. “You ruined me. No one else has even come close. No one sounds like you. No one feels like you.”

And then, through gritted teeth:

“I’m gonna come thinking about your mouth. That filthy little tongue. That sweet fucking smile you gave me while I fucked your throat.”

Your legs tremble again.

“Fuck, baby—fuckfuckfuck—”

He comes with your name on his tongue, head thrown back, muscles tensed, body shuddering through it as his hips stutter beneath the blanket. His jaw slackens, hand squeezing out the last twitch of pleasure.

The silence after is sharp. Breathless.

Your own body still buzzes, skin flushed, sheets damp with sweat and want and memory.

Neither of you speak at first. Just breathing. Just staring.

Eventually, Hyunjin looks up again. His voice is hoarse, trembling at the edges.

“Tell me this isn’t just sex.”

You don’t.

You just stare back.

And then you hang up.

You hang up, and your hand is still trembling. Your whole body is still trembling, wrecked in ways that have nothing to do with the orgasm.

It takes less than a minute for him to call back.

Then again.

And again.

You watch the screen light up with his name—Hyun—and each time, it makes your stomach twist so violently it feels like punishment. Like grief.

You don’t answer.

The fifth time, he stops calling. Thirty seconds later, your phone dings with a text.

[Hyunjin]: i’m sorry. please just tell me if that was too much. [Hyunjin]: i didn’t mean to push you. i didn’t mean to fuck everything up. [Hyunjin]: we don’t have to talk about it. we can pretend it didn’t happen if you want. i’ll follow your lead. just… please say something.

You don’t respond to those either.

You just turn off read receipts and shove the phone under the pillow.

The next few days go by in a strange, slow blur.

You and Kkami settle into a rhythm. He doesn’t bark anymore when you walk past. Doesn’t flinch when you reach for his leash. He even curls up at your feet when you’re on the couch, sometimes nuzzling his nose into your ankle like he’s already decided you belong here.

It should feel comforting.

It doesn’t.

You stop sitting in Hyunjin’s bed. You stop wearing the hoodie. You wash it, fold it, and put it back exactly where you found it, like none of this ever happened.

You send him brief texts. Clipped. Neutral.

[You]: he ate all his dinner. no accidents. slept fine.

[You]: took him for a walk. he peed on someone’s shoe.

[You]: when’s your flight again?

You don’t tell him how it feels like the walls have closed in.

How you’ve stopped sleeping in his bed again—even if the couch hurts your back. Even if the couch doesn’t smell quite like him.

How Kkami curls up beside you now without growling, without guilt. You take him for long walks. Let him tug you through the park. Let him bark at pigeons and lick your knuckles and rest his chin on your thigh when you scroll through old texts you don’t send anymore.

You don’t cry. But your chest aches in a way that feels dangerously close.

You were never going to be able to leave without feeling like this.

But now it’s worse. Because you let yourself want again.

And it’s giving you vertigo.

[Hyunjin]: should be back around 5:30. just leave the key in the box. thank you again. for everything.

You stare at the message for a long time.

Not because of what it says.

But because of what it doesn’t.

And what you don’t know is this:

Hyunjin’s lying.

His flight lands at 3:10.

He’s already halfway through the city when you’re zipping up your bag.

He’s already in the elevator by the time you’re taking out the trash.

And he’s standing at the front door—key in hand, chest tight, hands shaking—when you reach for the handle to leave.

You open the door and nearly collide with him.

You freeze.

The air catches.

Time does something strange.

Hyunjin’s just… there.

Sweatshirt slung over his shoulder, suitcase by his side, curls of damp air clinging to the collar of his shirt from the humid sprint through the city. And his eyes—sharp, dark, wide with something between relief and devastation—lock onto yours like he’s forgotten how to blink.

For a second, neither of you speaks.

Then—

“Hyun—?”

Kkami barrels into view like a missile. He lets out a shrill bark of excitement and practically throws himself into Hyunjin’s legs, circling and jumping and whining like he’s just won the fucking lottery.

But Hyunjin doesn’t look down. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.

He just stares at you.

And says, low, quiet, steady:

“You were really gonna leave.”

You clutch your bag a little tighter. “You said you’d be back at five.”

“I lied.”

You swallow. “I figured that part out.”

His jaw clenches. His hands twitch by his sides, like he doesn’t know whether to reach for you or shove them into his pockets or bury them in your skin just to make sure you’re real.

Kkami lets out another bark, trying to wedge his head between you two like he’s the center of gravity—but Hyunjin doesn’t even glance down. Not once.

All of him is focused on you.

“You weren’t going to say goodbye.”

It’s not a question. It’s an accusation. A plea. A wound.

“I didn’t think you wanted me to.”

“Bullshit.”

That makes you flinch. Just a little. He sees it. His expression softens, but only barely.

Hyunjin steps forward. Not fast—but purposeful. Like if he stops now, you’ll disappear all over again.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice taut with something sharp. “I’m sorry I came on too strong. I’m sorry I didn’t give you time. I’m sorry I didn’t say what I should’ve said months ago, years ago—fuck, the morning after. But don’t stand here and tell me I didn’t want you.”

You inhale—tight, shallow. Like there’s no room in your lungs for this.

For him.

“Hyun—”

“No,” he cuts in, but it’s not cruel. Just cracked. “You don’t get to walk out and let me find the ghost of you in my bed again. Not after you let me see you like that. Not after I—”

His voice breaks.

He swallows it down.

Kkami sits at his feet now, finally quiet, as if even he knows this part isn’t his.

“I meant it,” Hyunjin says, softer now. “That night. Everything I said. Everything I remembered. It wasn’t just to get you off.”

Your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag.

“You said you missed me,” he goes on. “But then you shut the door in my face. And I was willing to pretend I didn’t care. I was willing to take scraps just to be near you. But if you’re still standing in front of me—if you haven’t walked away yet—then just fucking tell me.”

He looks at you like he’s trying to memorize you all over again.

You look at him. Really look. And you know—he’s not going to let you run.

Not this time.

“Go get the note.”

His voice is soft, but firm. Like a command spoken through a kiss. Like an ache wrapped in velvet.

You blink. “What?”

“The letter,” he repeats. “The one I left you. On the fridge.”

You freeze.

“I know you haven’t opened it.”

You swallow. “I wasn’t ready.”

“I don’t care,” he says, and there’s a flicker of something dark in his voice—something possessive, guttural. “I want you to read it. Now.”

You hesitate.

“Please,” he adds, and that’s what breaks you.

You nod—barely—and turn without a word. Each step toward the kitchen feels thick, underwater.

You open it, and—

It’s not a letter.

Not really.

It’s a patchwork of thoughts, of half-confessions. Scribbled lines, crossed-out phrases, uneven spacing. The ink changes color midway—black, then blue, then black again. Some words are written in cursive. Some in a rush. Some like they cost him something to write.

You glance up. He nods again.

“Read it,” he says. “Out loud.”

You hesitate. Then you read.

“You once laughed in your sleep, and I didn’t sleep at all that night. I just watched you and hoped that whoever you were dreaming about looked like me.”

You swallow hard. Keep going.

The ink shifts color. From deep black to something fainter. Navy. A pen running dry, maybe.

Your voice wavers.

“There’s a sweater you left. It doesn’t smell like you anymore. I hold it anyway.”

Hyunjin’s throat works. He doesn’t interrupt.

“I never painted your face. Couldn’t do it. Couldn’t get your eyes right. But I painted your hands. A hundred times. Because they always knew how to hold me better than I knew how to ask.”

Your chest twists. You can’t speak the words out loud anymore, but you read. You read and read and read until there is nothing left, until the space between you feels alive–electric.

He steps forward. Just one step. But it’s enough to close the distance.

“I lied,” Hyunjin says, voice low, rough. “The sitter didn’t cancel.”

You blink. “What?”

“I had people,” he continues. “So many people I could’ve called. People I trust. People who would’ve said yes.”

His eyes are burning now—dark, wet, glittering with something fragile and ferocious.

“But I didn’t want them. I wanted you.”

You don’t say anything. Can’t. Your hands are trembling.

“I told myself it was about Kkami. About the timing. About convenience.” He huffs out a broken laugh. “But it wasn’t. It was you. It was always you.”

Your breath falters.

“I missed you,” he says. “So much it made me sick. I thought I could bury it. Paint over it. Work through it. But I couldn’t. I never did. You’ve always been underneath it all—under the hunger, the silence, the mess I made of myself.”

He steps closer. You’re breathing the same air now.

“I loved you then,” he says. “When we were tangled up in bedsheets and half-truths and pretending it didn’t mean anything. I loved you when you wore my hoodie and called me yours with your eyes. I loved you the second I saw you, and I—”

His voice cracks.

“And I love you now.”

You don't remember moving. Don’t remember closing the gap, dropping your bag, reaching for him with hands that should’ve known better.

All you know is this: one second, you're blinking back tears, and the next, you're kissing him like you're drowning.

Hyunjin catches you with both hands—one at your jaw, the other curling around your waist, steadying. The kiss is messy, open-mouthed, frantic. His lips part on a gasp when you press your body to his, and then he's devouring you like something starved.

Your back hits the wall. His teeth scrape your bottom lip. Fingers thread into his hair—short now, prickling at the scalp—and he groans like it’s breaking him.

You drop your bag. You don’t even hear it hit the floor.

You don’t care.

His hands are everywhere. On your waist, your hips, the curve of your spine. He pulls you in so tight you feel the tremor in his arms, the sheer desperation coiled in his chest like a spring pulled too far.

“Fuck,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “I’ve wanted this—I’ve wanted you—”

His voice breaks again, and then he’s back on you, lips trailing across your jaw, down the line of your neck. You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut, mouth parting on a moan as he bites softly into your throat—just enough to mark. Just enough to remember.

Your hands scrabble at the hem of his shirt, yanking it up, palms hungry on bare skin. He hisses as your nails drag over his stomach, muscles twitching beneath the heat of your touch.

“Take it off,” you breathe.

He does. In one motion, the tank top is gone—flung to the floor like it offended him. And you stare. You can’t help it.

He’s still art. Still all sharp lines and soft skin and lean, desperate hunger. His chest heaves with every breath, sweat glinting in the hollow of his throat, and you think: I could die like this. I could burn for him and never want to be saved.

Hyunjin kisses you again—harder this time, hungrier. Like he heard it. Like he wants to go up in flames with you.

His hands slide under your thighs, lifting you without warning, and you gasp as your back hits the wall again, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. The air shifts. Your breath catches. His cock presses against you through his jeans—thick, hot, twitching with every grind of his hips.

“I can’t wait,” he pants against your mouth. “I need to be inside you. Right now.”

“Then do it,” you breathe, dragging your nails down his back. “Hyune—please—”

Hyunjin breathes something that sounds like a curse, or maybe a prayer, and then he’s walking—stumbling, really—half-guided by the desperate way you’re clinging to him, the press of your mouths, the sharp hitch of your breath when he grabs at your ass to hold you higher. You barely register the shift from wall to bedroom until your back hits the mattress, until the world becomes sheets and skin and the low rasp of his voice murmuring your name like it’s sacred.

The mattress gives beneath your weight, springs groaning under the tangle of limbs and heat and history. Hyunjin follows you down like gravity itself — hands sliding, mouth chasing, body already slotting between your thighs as if it never forgot where it belonged.

His shirt is gone. Yours joins it. He kisses you through every inch of skin he unveils, frantic and starved and reverent, like he’s not sure whether to worship you or ruin you.

You arch beneath him when his tongue traces the curve of your breast, the bite of his teeth following fast after — a soft sting that makes your breath catch, your fingers dig into his shoulders. He groans when your nails drag down his back, when your thighs fall open wider.

And then he’s there — rutting against your center, clothed still but so hard it aches through the friction, the weight of him pressing perfect and punishing between your legs.

You can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can only move — hips grinding up to meet every desperate push of his, your cunt soaked and aching with the need to be filled.

Hyunjin’s hand slips down, hooking your thigh over his hip. He grinds into you through the last barrier, jeans rough against your soaked underwear, and it’s filthy the way your body answers—already arching, already clenching around nothing. You chase the friction shamelessly, trying to wring every ounce of pressure you can from the maddening drag of his cock pressed to your core.

He hisses against your throat, breath hot, teeth scraping the fragile skin there. You’re drenched. There’s no mistaking it—the way your panties cling, the way your slick seeps through them and stains his jeans, how he shudders just from the heat of you pulsing against the fabric.

The zipper’s down before you can even register the motion. He pushes his jeans low enough to free himself—hard and heavy and flushed dark with want. Your mouth waters at the sight of it. He tears your panties off with a quiet growl, not cruel, just crazed with the need to feel skin on skin, no more layers, no more time.

When he lines up and pushes in, it’s one long, devastating stroke—his cock thick and perfect and stretching you open like you were made for it.

You gasp—sharp, strangled. Your nails sink into his back.

Hyunjin goes still.

Buried to the hilt inside you, his entire body trembling with restraint, every muscle locked tight like he’s trying to keep himself from coming right then and there.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “You—oh my god—”

His forehead drops to your shoulder. He’s shaking. You feel it. In his arms, in his breath, in the way his cock pulses deep inside you without moving. The kind of overwhelmed that turns to worship. The kind of ruin that feels like coming home.

You tighten around him instinctively—hungry, pulsing—and he lets out a strangled moan against your skin.

“I swear to god,” he whispers, forehead pressing to yours. “If I move, I’m gonna come like a fucking teenager.”

Your nails dig deeper into his back, anchoring him there, as if you could stop time with the press of your fingertips. His cock twitches inside you, thick and throbbing, and it feels like too much and not enough all at once.

Hyunjin groans—low, raw, like the sound is being dragged out of him by force.

“Fuck, baby,” he pants. “You feel… I forgot—fuck, I forgot how perfect you are.”

You whimper, breath caught in your throat. You’re stretched so full it feels like splitting—blissfully unbearable. Like he’s carved to fit you, or maybe you were carved for him.

He doesn’t move. Can’t. His whole body is locked in place, every muscle drawn taut with the kind of restraint that hurts.

“I’m gonna embarrass myself,” he rasps. “You’re so warm, I—I need a second.”

You nod, gasping. “Okay.”

But your body doesn’t care. It’s greedy. Slick clings to your inner thighs, to the base of his cock. You pulse around him again—tight, hot, involuntary—and he shudders, a curse breaking on his lips.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” he whispers, biting your shoulder.

“I’m not,” you breathe, but your hips roll anyway, a tiny grind up into his stillness.

Hyunjin moans—loud, broken. “Baby, I’m serious. You do that again and I’ll fucking—”

You clench again, on purpose this time.

He snaps.

In one hard thrust, he pulls out halfway and slams back in. You cry out—sharp, wanton—as your body folds around his. The stretch. The impact. The sound of skin on skin.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, your head tipping back, throat exposed.

Hyunjin watches the way your mouth parts, how your breasts bounce with every desperate snap of his hips. He groans then drops his mouth to your chest, sucking a bruise over your heart.

“This mine?” he pants, dragging his cock out slow before plunging back in. “Still mine?”

You can’t speak. Can only nod, breath caught in your throat. He fucks you through the motion, slow and deep now, the grind of his cock so obscene you swear you can feel him everywhere—behind your knees, in your throat, echoing in every part of you that remembers how he used to love you.

“No, baby,” he murmurs, voice fraying, fingers sliding under your knee to push your thigh back, opening you wider. “Say it. Let me hear you say it.”

“It’s—” Your voice breaks on a moan when he thrusts deep again, dragging against that spot that makes your vision go white at the edges. “It’s yours, Hyunjin. Always.”

He groans into your chest like the words punched the air out of him. Then he’s fucking you harder, deeper, like he’s trying to anchor himself in the way you take him. The bed creaks, the headboard thuds against the wall, but you don’tHe moans into your chest like the words physically hit him, his thrusts growing messier, more frantic. His hand finds yours and pins it above your head, fingers lacing together tight, grounding him even as he loses himself in the slick, pulsing heat of you.

You’re soaked, ruined, trembling under every thick slide of his cock. He hits so deep it borders on pain, and yet you arch into it—into him—dragging him closer, clawing at his back like if you could just get closer, it might be enough.

“I missed this pussy,” he growls, the words slurred and broken against your throat. “I fucking dreamed about it. Thought about it every night with my cock in my hand—nothing felt as good, nothing—fuck—”

You keen, high-pitched, overwhelmed. Your body pulses around him again, tight as a vice, and it makes him stutter—a half-thrust cut short by the shudder that runs through him.

He kisses you then—desperate, biting, tongue dragging into your mouth like he wants to consume you from the inside out.

You’re moan is swallowed by his mouth when he hits that spot—deep and relentless—and your whole body jolts. Your back arches, your legs tighten around his waist, dragging him deeper.

“Right there?” he growls. “That the spot, baby?”

You nod, frantic, mouth open but no words coming—just breath, just heat, just the sound of him splitting you open again and again.

Hyunjin grins. It's crooked. Crooked and cocky and dizzy with something feral. Like he’s gone. Like you’ve pulled him under with you.

“Yeah,” he breathes, thrusting deeper, slower now, grinding his hips in a filthy circle that makes your eyes roll back. “I remember. Right there. Got you clenching like you’re about to cry.”

contine this: His voice breaks on a moan, guttural and reverent. “Fuck, that’s so pretty—so fucking pretty, baby—your face when I fuck you like this.”

He’s unraveling, you can feel it—his rhythm fraying, pace faltering, every thrust a prayer half-remembered. He buries himself deep and stays there, hips pressed flush, cock pulsing inside you like a heartbeat. His forehead falls to yours again, and he’s breathing so hard it shakes both your bodies.

“You gonna cry for me?” he whispers, voice all fray and silk. “Wanna see it, wanna feel you fall apart. I’ll take care of it—I’ll hold you through it, I promise.”

You don’t mean to. But it’s been too much—his mouth, his voice, the stretch of him splitting you open in perfect, deliberate ruin. Your eyes blur, your breath hitches, and before you can stop it—

A tear slips down your cheek.

Hyunjin sees it. And something inside him shatters.

“Oh my god,” he chokes, fingers trembling where they hold your thigh. “That’s it, that’s—fuck—”

He fucks you through it, slow and deep, every stroke angled to keep you on the edge. His free hand cradles your face, thumb brushing the wetness from your cheek. And he’s murmuring now, wrecked and ragged and sweet:

“You’re so good for me. So perfect. I don’t deserve you—I don’t—”

You cry out again, back arching as your orgasm hits—wave after wave of unbearable heat crashing through you. You seize around him, walls fluttering, hips stuttering beneath his weight.

Hyunjin groans like it’s killing him. Like the feel of you falling apart around his cock is undoing him thread by thread.

“Can I—fuck, baby, where do you want it?” he gasps, teeth gritted, body coiled so tight you think he might break apart if you say no.

“Inside,” you breathe, wrecked and shameless. “Want it inside—please.”

That last word shreds him.

He thrusts once—deep, sharp—then again, slower this time, drawn-out like he’s trying to memorize the way you feel. His eyes flutter shut. His mouth falls open. And then he’s coming—hard.

A low, desperate sound tears out of him as his cock jerks inside you, spilling warmth in thick, molten pulses. He buries himself as deep as he can go, arms trembling around you, breath stuttering in your ear. His whole body shakes with it, every muscle straining to stay rooted in you as pleasure rips through him like lightning.

He stays like that—deep inside you, trembling, breathless—until the shudders fade to something softer. Something quieter.

The kind of silence that feels like safety.

His forehead rests against yours, damp hair brushing your temple, and you can feel the weight of him everywhere—his chest pressed to yours, his arms wrapped around your waist, the steady thrum of his heart syncing with your own.

Neither of you speaks.

There’s nothing left to say.

Just breath. Just warmth. Just the slow, wet drag of him slipping out of you when his body finally yields, when your bodies finally remember they’re separate things again. You wince a little, overstimulated, but he’s careful—gentle hands guiding your hips as he settles beside you.

The bed is a mess. You’re a mess. But in his arms, none of it matters.

He pulls you close, one hand curling behind your neck, the other splayed low across your spine. You fit against him like you were made to—legs tangled, faces barely apart. His eyes find yours, dark and soft and unreadable. And then—

He kisses you.

Slow. Tender. Unhurried. Like he’s not trying to restart anything—just thank you, silently, for letting him fall apart in your arms.

Your fingers slip into his hair. His thumb draws circles at the base of your spine.

And in that quiet, breathless space—there is no ache, no past, no noise.

The gallery hums with low conversation and champagne glasses clinking. Golden evening light filters through tall windows, casting Hyunjin’s paintings in soft amber and dust. He stands near one of his larger pieces—stark, aching, all deep reds and pale ivory brushstrokes layered like wounds healed over—speaking to a small crowd of critics and curators, hands moving with slow confidence as he explains his process.

It’s been years since he’s spoken like this—without apology. Years since he let the world see him this raw and unguarded. He’s dressed in black from head to toe, long hair tied back loosely, wedding band glinting when he gestures. He looks settled now, anchored. And you know what it took to get him there.

You weren’t supposed to come.

He’d kissed your forehead this morning, hand warm and reverent on your swollen belly, and told you to rest. “You’ll just get exhausted,” he’d said, brushing your hair back, “and I’ll be distracted the whole time wondering if your ankles are swollen or if the baby’s doing backflips again.”

But now you’re here.

Standing just inside the gallery, framed by the door like something sacred. You wore the dress he loves—the one that drapes gently over the curve of your belly, soft and simple, glowing in the dusk light. One hand rests instinctively at your side, the other slipping under the swell of you. There’s a quiet smile on your lips, half proud, half bashful, and your eyes are locked on him.

Hyunjin doesn’t see you at first. He’s mid-sentence, talking about brush technique and layered memory, about how grief isn't linear, how art can be a body trying to heal. His voice is steady. His hands are sure.

Then he glances up.

And freezes.

You watch it happen in real time—the shift. His mouth stutters around a word, vowels cut short, fingers faltering mid-gesture. And then—god. That smile. Unrehearsed, boyish, wide in a way that crinkles his eyes and ruins all pretense. A pure, delighted thing that belongs only to you.

A few people glance over their shoulders, curious. But Hyunjin barely notices.

He catches himself, coughs once, and somehow fumbles through the last few lines of his explanation. His voice is softer now. Almost sheepish. He wraps up quickly, answering a question with a vague nod, thanking the crowd with a half-bow.

And then he’s moving.

Straight through the gallery, long strides purposeful, eyes never leaving yours.

You open your mouth—maybe to apologize, maybe just to greet him—but he’s already cupping your face in his hands before you can speak. His fingers are cool from holding a champagne flute, but his palms are warm. Familiar. His touch gentle despite how frantically he reaches for you.

“You’re unbelievable,” he says, kissing your forehead. “I told you not to come.” A kiss to your nose. “I specifically said—” another to your cheek, “—that I’d worry—” your chin “—that you’d get tired,” he murmurs against your skin, peppering kisses like punctuation. “That your feet would swell. That you’d—fuck, baby, I said stay home.”

You smile, tilting your head just enough to meet his gaze—warm and full of something playful. “I know, but—”

He kisses you.

Soft and certain, his mouth presses to yours before the words can even leave your lips. It’s instinctive, almost impatient, like he couldn’t bear to hear the excuse when you’re standing right here, glowing and breathless and his. His hand curls at the back of your neck, thumb brushing the line of your jaw. You feel him smile into it, lips warm and reverent, like maybe he’s trying to convince himself he’s not dreaming.

You giggle against his mouth.

It bubbles out before you can stop it—light, easy, surprised by your own happiness.

“Hyunjin,” you laugh, gently pushing at his chest. “Let me speak.”

He leans back only a little, just enough to see you again. There’s a smudge of your lip gloss at the corner of his mouth, and you wipe it with your thumb, grinning.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmur.

Hyunjin pulls back just enough to look at you—really look. His eyes trace every inch of your face like he’s memorizing you all over again. His thumb sweeps over your cheekbone. “You take my breath away,” he murmurs, like a confession. “Every damn time.”

You want to say something—something light, something teasing—but the way he’s looking at you leaves no room for irony. Just warmth. Just wonder.

And love. So much of it, it floods the space between you.

His hand slips down, resting over the swell of your stomach, and he sighs when he feels the smallest kick beneath his palm. “Little traitor,” he whispers to your bump, grinning. “You two planned this, didn’t you?”

You feign innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Mhm.” He leans in and kisses you again—soft, slow, not quite chaste. Like there’s no one else in the room, no critics still lingering, no gallery full of people pretending not to watch the artist come undone in the arms of his muse.

Eventually, he pulls back—just a little. Just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“Stay?” he asks, almost shy. “I want to show you something. After everyone leaves.”

You nod.

You nod, and his smile deepens—boyish, brilliant, the kind that still makes your knees weak even now. He kisses you one last time, quick and giddy, before reluctantly pulling away with a soft groan, dragging his hand down your arm like he’s tethering himself to you.

“I’ll be quick,” he promises, squeezing your fingers before turning back toward the crowd. “Don’t go into labor while I’m gone.”

You roll your eyes fondly. “No promises.”

He shoots you a look over his shoulder—mock-scandalized, lips twitching with laughter—and then he’s swept back into the flow of guests, nodding politely, shaking hands, answering a few last questions as people begin to drift toward the exit.

You watch from the side, sipping sparkling water from a plastic flute someone handed you, perched on the edge of a velvet bench like you belong in one of his paintings. A few guests glance your way—some with recognition, some with curiosity—but none of them matter.

You only watch him.

And he watches you too—between conversations, between thank-yous and signatures, his gaze keeps sliding back—like a tether, like gravity, like a vow that’s already been made a hundred times in silence.

You smile around the rim of your glass and press a hand to your belly, where the smallest flicker answers back. A quiet reminder of everything the two of you have built in the quiet spaces between the chaos. In the brushstrokes. In the breathing.

The gallery empties slowly, like a tide pulling away from shore. But you stay, bathed in golden light, watching the man you love exist in a room full of people who will never know him like you do. Who will never see the version of him that wakes up sleep-tousled and soft, who talks to your stomach like it already understands him, who paints love into everything he touches because he’s learned how to survive by making beauty out of ache.

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