#jung stack

[lyxchen]

Genuienly I can't get behind all the Squid Game promotion stuff Netflix does. It's kinda gross to me. All the Squid Game events in different cities where you get to play the games and people go around taking pictures with the pink guards and idk posing sexually or calling them 'daddy' and don't even get me started on Squid Game The Challenge. Like no hate to the people taking part in this, they're just having fun but I just don't think this is cool. I don't think seeing kids costumes of players and pink guards is cool. I don't think recreating a show in real live and taking out the bad parts, the parts that are there to send a message is cool and fun. I know a lot of shows have serious themes and I'm not against fandom for Squid Game at all and I also think having fun with the show in fandom without always bringing up its serious messages is totally okay (I do that too) and I also think that Netflix can of course promote a very popular show. But I think once it gets to a point where Netflix makes it silly and cutesy is when it has to stop. Netflix going around different citys and putting up the Red Light, Green Light doll and having random people on the street play the game is just... For what? For promotion? For money?? Of course it's for money but I think it's kind of so gross. Nothing else is irl promoted as much as Squid Game is. I don't see nearly as many events for Bridgerton or Stranger Things. But Netflix RECREATED this show about Horrible Things happening to people, who don't know how to help themselves anymore stuck in a system that is actively working Against them, with real live people stuck in similar situations. For Entertainment. And you know who gets the most money out of it?? Netflix!! A show about poor people taking huge risks to get a better and livable life and in the end Netflix is still the one making all of this money off of it. And they're squeezing every last bit they can out of this show. And it's so disgusting to me. Again I'm not blaming people who take part in this, who go to those events. I just think Netflix shouldn't be making these events in the first place

[webcomixwastaken]

our beloved Hobi is walking out of those gates and never looking back at this moment (if I've timed this correctly)

[wooyoungiewritings]

Sports Car - Jung Wooyoung x Reader

Inspired by the song "Sports Car" by Tate McRae

"I think you know what this is"

Summary: You run from your life for the summer. No plans, no promises, just the hunger for something reckless. And then you see him. Jung Wooyoung. He’s everything you're chasing: fast cars, faster nights, and a smile that dares you to misbehave. He races like he’s got nothing to lose and looks at you like you’re the next line he’s ready to cross. But the more you get tangled in each other’s lives, the more you realize, rules don’t mean shit when you’re both the type to break them. And now? You’re not sure what’s more dangerous: the races… or the way he looks at you.

Word count: 26.6K

Genre: Street racer!Wooyoung x reader, oneshot, angsty, drama, smut

warnings: Wooyoung with reader (fem pronouns), smut, fem reader (fem pronouns), blood mentioned, angst about disappearing, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, dirty talk, choking, unprotected sex, Wooyoung is dominant, lmk if I missed anything!

A/N: I have not read this through so I hope it's good! someone requested a wooyoung-fic where he isn't this "usually bubbly" character, and I had so much fun writing him as a tease but with an edge to it! literally I think he's so hot lmao, I love him. Enjoy pookies!!!

The rooftop is already humming when you step out of the elevator, heat clings to your skin, music spills into the open sky, and a blur of voices laughs like nothing in the world could touch them. You haven’t planned on coming tonight. You didn’t even come here to have fun. You came here to forget. To get out. To breathe without everything collapsing on top of you.

Back home, everything had started unraveling. Bills stacked on the counter, messages piling in that you didn’t want to read, expectations pressed into your skin so tightly they’d left bruises. People needed things from you. Constantly. Quietly. And if you slowed down for even a second, the whole system started to fail.

So you ran.

You packed a bag, booked a one-way plane ticket, and told everyone it was a “short break.” A getaway for the entire summer. You didn’t tell them that the idea of staying one more day in that life made your stomach twist into knots.

Now you’re here.

A few days into your stay in this town, visiting your cousin, living in a random Airbnb you just managed to afford. Here, no one knows what you’re running from. And for the summer, that’s exactly the point.

“Holy shit, you actually came.” your cousin’s voice snaps you back. She weaves through a group of people and pulls you into a loose, alcohol-warm hug. “I was starting to think you chickened out.”

You offer a weak smile. “You said there’d be tequila.”

“There’s also gin, cheap beer, and a guy puking off the fire escape. We have everything.” She shoves a cup into your hand and links your arms, dragging you into the heat.

You force a laugh and let her drag you toward her friends. The usual suspects. Half of them you met last weekend. The other half look like they belong in a music video, glossed lips, messed-up curls, tattoos they’d lie about the meaning of. Music thuds through the speakers. A girl danced barefoot on a bench with glitter in her hair and zero fear in her eyes.

You want to be her. You want to be anything but yourself for a while.

You’re halfway through your first drink when something, someone, catches your eye.

Not from the center of the party. From the edge. Leaning against the low wall like he belonged to another world. Half-lit by the string lights overhead. One boot hooked over the other. A cigarette hanging from his lips, the orange tip flaring each time he breathes.

His jacket is black, leather, worn in like a second skin. He wears it open over a faded black shirt that clings to his chest in the heat. His hands, veins, rings, knuckles, looked like they knew how to break things. Dark hair curled around his ears like he hadn’t bothered to style it. And his face? Unbothered.

He isn’t looking at anyone. Not watching. Not performing. Just existing.

Your cousin follows your gaze, and when her eyes land on him, then roll her eyes before her expression shifts into something like caution. “Yeah,” she says, low. “That’s Wooyoung.”

You blink. “Who?”

She gives you a look. “You haven’t heard about him?”

You shake your head, eyes drifting back to the guy in question.

Another friend chimes in, voice already tipsy: “He’s bad news.”

“He’s been here forever,” your cousin says. “Born reckless. Drives like a lunatic. Hooked up with half the people on this roof and ghosted the rest.”

“Wrecked his car last year racing out by the docks,” someone else adds, cracking open a beer. “Didn’t even flinch. Climbed out with blood on his hands and laughed.”

You glance at him again. He just tips the bottle to his lips, throat working, cigarette still balanced between his fingers like a forgotten afterthought. His jaw is sharp, and the curve of his mouth looks like it only knows how to smirk or sneer. And when his eyes scan the room, they land on you.

It’s not subtle.

He watches like he’s already bored of the outcome, like he knows exactly what happens when he looks at someone long enough. Like he’s already counted to three and you’re about to fall.

But you hold his stare. You don’t smile. Don’t flinch. Let him look. 

And then you look away.

Your cousin touches your arm. “Don’t even think about it.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re so thinking about it.”

You turn away, take another drink, and try to pretend you don't feel that pull. That spark. That quiet ache for something reckless.

But you do. And you’re not here to be safe.

A little later you drift away from the group. You feel him before you see him. You glance sideways and he’s already there, leaning a little too casually against the cooler, cigarette behind one ear, that reckless grin barely tugging at his mouth like he’s doing you a favor by showing up.

Wooyoung.

Even if you didn’t already hear whispers about him, the kind that circle like smoke, you’d know. You’d know by the way he moves like he owns the room without touching it. The kind of man who thinks he doesn’t need to ask.

“You look like you could use another,” he says, chin-tilting toward your near-empty cup. “Let me grab you one.”

You don’t answer at first. You just look at him. Not up or down, not obvious, but right in the eyes. He’s used to curiosity, flirtation, maybe even awe. You give him something else.

Nothing.

And then, a soft, almost polite: “No.”

His smile quirks. “You sure?”

“Very.”

He laughs under his breath, gaze dipping once, quick. “Tough crowd.”

You don’t smile. You don’t frown either. Just turn slightly toward the bar, like you’ve already dismissed him. “I’m not thirsty,” you add. Cool. Flat.

He shifts closer, not enough to crowd, just enough to be felt. “What about a ride, then? Later. I could show you around. You new here, right?”

You blink up at him, head tilting like you’re thinking. For half a second, you let him think you might say yes. And then…

“No again.” You take a sip from your cup, slow. Letting the silence linger between you as you let him try to read you. You smile then, just the corners of your lips, like a secret he doesn’t get to know. “Thanks, though,” you murmur, already turning away. You walk back into the crowd, eyes ahead, leaving behind the heat of him, the weight of his stare burning a hole into your back.

It’s late now. The rooftop has thinned, half the crowd gone, music lower, conversations quieter, messier. You’re near the edge again, drink long gone, and the sky bleeding into deep navy when you feel him behind you.

You don’t turn. You wait.

“You always say no that easy?” he says, and the way his voice grazes the shell of your ear makes your spine straighten just slightly.

You turn then, slow, like it costs you nothing. And there he is. His mouth is quirked like he’s in on some joke, but his eyes are sharp, focused entirely on you. He’s even prettier up close. Prettier in the way knives are, sharp and gleaming and made to draw blood.

“I’m heading out,” he adds, casual. Like this is nothing. Like you’re just another option. “Want a ride?”

You want to get in his car. Want to see how fast he drives when there’s no one telling him to slow down. You want to feel the engine roar under your feet, his voice slick in your ear, want to taste what danger actually feels like when it’s not a metaphor.

But you also want to see what he’ll do when he doesn’t get what he wants the first time. So you take a beat. Let the silence stretch. Your gaze drags down his body and back up again, slow enough to make sure he feels it. Then you look him dead in the eye.

“Maybe.”

You don’t wait for his reaction. You just turn, hips swaying, and make your way back to your friends. And you feel his eyes on your back the entire walk across the roof.

It’s late. The party’s over. The rooftop has emptied, music cut off mid-song, and everyone’s filtered into rides or rideshares or stumbled off into the night together.

“Text me when you get home, alright?” your cousin says, pulling you in for a quick hug before she disappears into the uber with the last of the stragglers.

“Yeah, yeah,” you mumble, waving her off as the door shuts behind her and they drive off.

And just like that, the noise is gone. The music. The bodies. Now it’s just you. Quiet. Cool night air on your bare legs. Streetlights blinking over cracked sidewalks. You check your phone, four minutes until your Uber. You lean back against the brick wall. 

And then you hear it.

That engine.

It purrs low, like a warning or a promise, and you look up just as the black sports car pulls up to the curb. Same matte finish. Same cocky presence. He’s behind the wheel, of course he is, one arm slung lazily over the door, dark hair ruffled, eyes hidden under his lashes like he’s still half-bored, half-waiting.

Your stomach twists. In a good way. You were hoping he’d try again.

But you don’t show it. You keep your expression smooth, brows lifted just slightly in mock surprise.

“Y’know,” he says, voice deep and seemingly unbothered. “for someone who says no so much, you sure know how to look like someone who would say yes.”

You smirk. “For someone who hears no so much, you sure keep trying.”

That gets a glint of something behind his eyes, not offense. Amusement. Maybe even respect.

You check your phone again. Two minutes.

He nods at it. “Uber?”

“Mhm.”

“Cancel it,” he says, like it’s obvious. “I’ll drive you.” He studies you, slowly. 

“You’ve had alcohol.” you say.

“I’ve had one beer, correct. I can still drive,” He leans back in his seat, one finger tapping on the steering wheel like he’s deciding how long to wait. “One of these times, you’re gonna say yes.”

You glance at the street. Then back at him. “Maybe.” You keep your voice light. But the way your heart skips when he licks his bottom lip like he’s already imagining what maybe might mean?

“So now what? You’re just gonna go home safe and sound to your own bed?”

You shrug, not quite meeting his eyes. “Safe’s not exactly what I’m after.”

He laughs softly, the sound like gravel sliding over glass. “Good. Because I’m not about safe.” He gestures to the passenger seat. “Get in. I’m taking you somewhere that doesn’t care about safe.”

You hesitate a moment, “You don’t even know my name.”

His smirk deepens, eyes glinting with something dangerous. “We’ll talk about that in the car.”

You glance back at your phone, then to the dark leather interior of the car where he waits, the door cracked open like an invitation. The night hums around you, the promise of escape, the thrill of the unknown.

And for the first time since you got here, you do the first reckless thing. You push yourself off the brick wall, reach out, fingertips grazing the door handle, and slide inside.

The door shuts behind you with a soft, final thud, and in that instant, everything feels different. The engine comes alive under his hand, a low purr that vibrates up through the floorboards and settles in your spine. He shifts into drive with a lazy flick of his wrist and pulls into the street like he owns it. The silence stretches, thick and full, like the pause between lightning and thunder.

One minute, it’s neon signs and sirens and people yelling from balconies. The next, it’s just open road, the dark curling around you like smoke. He didn’t say where you’re going, and you didn’t ask. Maybe that’s part of it. You came here to stop asking questions.

He drives like he was born with a steering wheel in his hands, fast, aggressive, but never reckless. You glance at him. One hand on the wheel, the other draped casually over the gearshift. Long fingers, silver rings. 

You stare longer than you mean to.

He notices. He doesn’t look at you, but you feel it, some part of him clocking your gaze. He smirks, like he likes being watched. “You’re quiet,” he says, finally.

You glance at him. “I don’t really know where we’re going.”

“That’s the point.”

The lights of the city are long gone now, swallowed behind the bend of a hill. When he pulls off the road, your stomach dips.

The tires crunch against gravel as he eases the car up a narrow path that looks like it was never meant to be driven. Your fingers twitch where they rest in your lap, but you don’t ask him to stop. You want to see where this leads.

Then the road opens up.

It’s not a lookout point. There’s no fence, no benches, no other cars. Just a slab of cracked asphalt at the edge of a cliff, a wide, feral view of the city lights flickering far below. Wind rushes against the windshield. The drop is sharp. Dangerous.

Exactly what you wanted. He kills the engine and the silence rushes in. You don’t move. Neither does he. Finally, he says, “Scared of heights?”

“No,” you breathe.

“Perfect” He’s already looking at you. That cocky, knowing tilt to his mouth again. Like he’s testing what scares you. Like he wants to find the exact line you’ll make him cross.

“So,” he says. “What do I call you when I make you regret getting in my car?”

You don’t flinch. You meet his stare, steady. “Y/N.”

He lets it settle, your name on his tongue. Rolls it once, like he’s tasting it. “Y/N,” he repeats. “Fitting.”

You tilt your head. “And you? I don’t like calling strangers ‘guy who doesn’t know when to quit.’”

That grin flashes, quick and crooked. “Wooyoung.”

You hum. “Mm. That one’s fitting too.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s heavy. Saturated. His eyes don’t leave you, dark, focused, hungry. You should look away, but your pulse is a drumbeat behind your ribs, and you want him to see it. You want him to know it’s because of him.

“You always stare at people like that?” you ask.

His voice is lower now, more deliberate. “Only when I want something from them.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And what is it you want from me?”

His tongue traces the edge of his bottom lip. “The obvious answer?”

You nod, slow. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “I want you in my lap, messing up my hair, moaning my name like it’s the only thing you know.”

The words slam into you, blunt, confident, filthy. Your throat tightens around your breath, your legs press together without thinking.

He sees that too.

But you don’t back down. You raise your chin, hold his gaze like it’s a challenge. “You say that to all the girls you drive out here?”

Wooyoung leans in, just slightly, enough that his voice hits deeper, lower. “Nah. Most of them don’t make me work for it.”

There’s something raw in the way he says it, unapologetic, shameless. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing and doesn’t care if you do too. He doesn’t play pretend. He doesn’t flirt to charm. He flirts to ruin.

You don’t move. Don’t look away. The cliff below disappears into a blur, the city glows like it doesn’t even know you left. It’s just you and him, and the space between you that’s shrinking by the second. “I want to stop thinking,” you say, voice low, steady. “That’s why I got in your car.”

Wooyoung’s eyes darken slightly. The smirk fades, replaced with something quieter. Sharper.

You keep going. “I want to stop caring. Stop worrying about the next thing, the smart thing, the right thing. I just want to shut everything off for a while.”

He’s still, like he knows not to interrupt.

“And you…” you look at him then, all dark eyes and bad decisions, his hand loose on the steering wheel like he’s not even pretending to care about control. “You seem like the kind of guy who doesn’t ask for consequences. Or commitment.”

His tongue swipes the inside of his cheek, and he exhales a soft laugh. “That obvious?”

You shrug, but there’s a glint in your eye. “Kind of your whole thing, isn’t it?”

He leans in a little more, elbow on the door, body turned toward you now. “So you want to do something reckless?”

“I got in your car, didn’t I?”

That gets a reaction, a slow grin, one side of his mouth curling with pure, unfiltered interest. “I don’t make promises,” he says. “I don’t do rules, or tomorrow. But if you want tonight, no strings, no pretending, just the rush-”

“I do.”

Two words. Honest. Simple. And you don’t look away when you say them.

He leans closer, gaze dropping briefly to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “Then come here.”

You don’t hesitate this time. You crawl across the seat without a word, knees brushing the leather, breath catching when your thigh grazes his. When you settle in his lap, his hands find your hips instantly, grounding you, greedy. 

“You sure?” he murmurs, and it’s not hesitation, it’s courtesy, like giving you a final out he already knows you won’t take.

You slide your hands into his hair, fingers threading through the dark mess of it. “Don’t ask again.”

That’s all he needs.

He surges forward, and your mouths crash together like the tension had teeth. There’s nothing soft about it. His tongue finds yours without asking, and you meet him head-on, like you’ve wanted this since the second you saw him flick ash from his cigarette.

He tastes like trouble, smoke and whiskey and a little bit of adrenaline, and you can’t get enough. His hand slides up your back, under your shirt, dragging warm fingertips along your spine. You arch into it.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your mouth, like he didn’t expect you to kiss like this, to move like this. He bites your bottom lip, just enough to make you gasp, and then kisses you again, deeper this time, like he’s chasing something down in your throat.

“God, you feel good,” he groans, hips rolling up into yours, and you grind down in answer. The car creaks slightly under the weight of you both, the windows fogging, your breaths too loud in the silence of the hill.

This isn’t careful. It isn’t pretty. It’s fast and messy and hot. 

You kiss him like you’re starving, because in a way, you are. Not for romance or sweet nothings. For chaos. For heat. For the perfect, destructive distraction that he is. Wooyoung’s hands roam like he has every right. Under your shirt, up your thighs, gripping like he’s trying to leave fingerprints. The center console digs into your thigh, but you don’t care. 

“Take this off,” he mutters, tugging at your top.

You obey, quick and clumsy, flinging it to the passenger seat. His eyes rake over you, your bra, your breathless expression, your flushed skin. He drags his hands up your stomach slowly, deliberately.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. Then he leans in, pressing a trail of kisses from your collarbone to the swell of your breast, tongue flicking out just enough to make your breath hitch. “You like being bad, don’t you?”

You laugh, barely. “I like not thinking.”

He grins, dark and cocky. “Good. ‘Cause thinking’s the first thing I’ll take from you.”

One hand unhooks your bra. The other grips your ass, pulling you harder against him. He dips his head, mouth latching onto your breast, sucking until you arch into him, fingers tangled in his hair. Your moan breaks out sharp, raw.

“Fuck,” you whisper, because this is already more than you expected, hotter, filthier, better. You reach down between you, fingers touching him over his jeans. He’s hard. Big. Thick. You wrap your hand around the shape of him, and he groans, deep in his chest.

“What do you want me to do to you?” he asks, placing wet kisses on your skin.

“I don’t care, just make me come.” you breathe against his jaw, licking just beneath his ear.

Wooyoung adjusts the seat back slightly, giving you space but not distance. The second time you roll your hips against him, it’s not slow. It’s shameless. You moan, not even trying to hide it.

One of his hands leaves your waist. It trails down your stomach, smooth and slow. He slips it under your skirt like he’s done it a thousand times, no hesitation, no asking, just confident fingers dragging over your heat until you gasp and grab tighter at his hair.

“God, look at you,” Wooyoung murmurs, breath hot against your ear. “Already falling apart.” He rolls the windows down halfway, lazy, casual. The breeze slips in, cool against your skin. You realize what he’s doing, letting the night hear you. Letting the whole city know who you’re moaning for.

Cocky bastard.

“You want to be loud for me?” he whispers against your jaw, fingers teasing your folds, slipping between them with perfect pressure. “Want to let them hear how good I make you feel?”

Your body tenses, eyes fluttering shut, breath caught on a moan as his fingers slip inside you, deep, slow, fucking up into you with confidence.

You grind down against his hand, head falling back. “Wooyoung…”

He growls. Literally growls.

“That’s it. Just like that.”

You’re sitting on his lap, backlit by the city, your skin bathed in moonlight and sin. Your shirt and bra are long gone, tossed somewhere into the passenger seat, your skirt barely hiding anything. You’re undone, flushed and panting, his fingers buried deep inside you, and he can’t look away.

He exhales sharply, like he just got hit. “Jesus,” he mutters, but it’s not a prayer, it’s a celebration. 

You grind against his hand shamelessly, your head tipping back as you let the sounds escape your throat. You don’t care if the city hears. You hope it does.

And neither does he. His free hand cradles your jaw, forces you to look at him, and you do. Eyes glassy, lips parted, your breath catching as his fingers curl just right again. You cry out, and he grins, proud, possessive. “That’s it.”

He leans forward to press his mouth against your chest, sucking a bruise into the soft curve beneath your breast, biting down just enough to make you twitch. “Louder,” he murmurs, tongue trailing hot and slow along your skin. “Let them hear how good I make you feel.”

The windows are down, the night air hitting your flushed skin, but you’re burning up. On fire from the inside out. And just when you think you’re going to tip over the edge…

“Come for me, pretty girl,” he whispers, eyes wild. “C’mon, I want to feel it.”

That’s all it takes.

You fall apart with a cry, nails dragging down his chest, hips grinding helplessly into his palm as he works you through it, as if he could drag it out longer just because he can. You ride his hand until you’re limp and breathless, your head falling forward onto his shoulder. Wooyoung keeps his hand there, holding you open, feeling you twitch around nothing as you come down.

You’re still panting, slumped against his chest, the city lights flickering behind you like a dream. You’ve never felt so raw. So wrecked.

So alive.

He finally slides his fingers out of you, slow, wet, deliberate, and lifts them to his mouth, sucking them clean with a smirk.

“Sweet,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Knew you’d taste like trouble.”

He leans back slightly to look at you, the glow of the city behind your head like a halo.

And fuck if you aren’t the most dangerous thing he’s ever seen.

***

You don’t even remember how you got home after that night. One minute you’re burning against him, the next you’re in your bed, shirt crumpled in your hands, the city’s glow bleeding through your curtains. He drove you back, fast, silent, like the night didn’t want to hear you talking. No promises. No phone numbers. Exactly what you wanted.

No strings. No ties.

Just that raw escape from everything that’s expected of you. 

A few days later your cousin’s car sputters its last breath three blocks from the apartment, and now you’re both standing in the office of a mechanic’s garage, listening to the buzz of fluorescent lights and the low rumble of hip-hop from the back.

“You guys take walk-ins?” your cousin asks the man at the front desk.

“Depends who’s free,” the guy says, barely glancing up before he clicks a button and mutters into the intercom. “Yo, someone’s gotta check this Corolla in bay two.”

You almost don’t register the sound of footsteps behind the garage door. Almost. It swings open, and he walks in like it’s any other day. Black t-shirt, grease-stained hands, that same smug posture, lazy, lethal confidence in every step.

Wooyoung.

Your stomach flips. Your pulse forgets what it’s doing.

He doesn’t freeze. He clocks you in a second, eyes dragging from your shoes to your lips, and smirks like he knew this would happen eventually.

The garage smells like oil and gasoline, thick and sharp. Your cousin pops the hood of her beaten-up car and starts explaining the issues to Wooyoung. He listens quietly, nodding, hands tucked in the pockets, eyes flickering toward you more than once. His dark hair is tousled, shadows playing across his face. He’s calm, collected, but there’s something electric beneath that cool exterior.

“Gotta head to their office, handle some paperwork,” your cousin says without looking back. “Be back as soon as I can!” She walks off, leaving you alone with Wooyoung.

The silence is thick. Wooyoung’s there, crouched by the open hood, cigarette resting behind his ear, muscles flexing as he works. He doesn’t look up immediately, but the moment he does, his eyes catch yours with a slow, knowing smirk.

A smirk curls at the corner of his lips. “Didn’t think I’d see you again. Thought you’d be too smart for that.”

You cross your arms, eyes locked on his. “I’m full of surprises.”

He smirks, that cocky tilt of his head making your stomach flip. “Is that supposed to be a warning or an invitation?”

You laugh, sharp and unbothered. “Maybe both. Depends if you can handle it.”

Wooyoung’s gaze sharpens, amused and intrigued. He steps closer, the air tightening between you. “I race. Late nights, no rules, just speed and risk. You ever been to one?”

You cock your head, curious but guarded. “Can’t say I have.”

“Race’s tonight,” he says flatly. “Old pier, Maple Street. Ten o’clock. Show up.”

You meet his gaze evenly, lips curling into a faint smile that doesn’t give anything away. “Maybe.” Without another word, you turn and walk toward the office, the sound of your footsteps sharp in the quiet garage. Behind you, you feel his eyes burning, like a spark waiting to ignite.

***

You didn’t plan on coming. You told yourself that more than once, heels clicking too confidently across the cracked asphalt now.

The lot is packed tonight, headlights cutting through smoke, the low thrum of engines and bass mixing with the scent of exhaust and beer. There’s laughter somewhere behind you. A fire pit burning on the outskirts. 

You’re not here for him. You’re here for the thrill. The mess. The chaos.

That’s what you tell yourself… right until you spot him.

He’s got the hood of his car up, hands deep in the engine under the yellow haze of the parking lot lights. Sweat glints at his temple. Leather jacket stretching as he moves. There’s something brutal and beautiful about him like this, focused, filthy, in his element.

You don’t stare long. Just a second. You tell yourself it’s curiosity, nothing more. Long enough to feel that old pull in your gut. Then you turn your head, pretend he’s nothing. Sip from your cup like you didn’t come here hoping he’d show.

The crowd buzzes around you, bass from someone’s speaker, the smell of gasoline and cheap weed and summer sweat. Your heels click softly when you shift your weight. The hem of your black skirt creeps higher when you cross your legs.

“You actually came.”

You glance over, deliberately slow. Wooyoung is standing next to you now, casual as ever, hands in his pockets, smirk lazy across his face.

“Didn’t realize you were the welcoming committee.” you tease.

He smiles, teeth sharp under the buzzing parking lot lights. He’s close now, not touching, but he never needs to be. His eyes drop, track the tiny black skirt hugging your hips, the heels that make your legs look miles long. You feel the way he looks at you, possessive, greedy, intrigued.

“You came here alone?” he asks, voice low, like a secret passed too close to your ear. 

You raise a brow, sip from the red cup in your hand. “Why? You worried?”

His gaze cuts to the guy who had been trying to talk to you before, then back to your mouth. His stare is slow, deliberate. Territorial in the kind of way he won’t admit out loud. “I should be.” Then, softer, almost too quiet beneath the bass and city noise, but it hits you square in the chest. “You shouldn’t come here looking like this.”

You smirk, weight shifting onto one hip as you tilt your head at him. “Scared you might get some competition?”

His eyes drag down your legs. Slowly. Taking their time. “Are you doing this on purpose?”

You blink up at him, lashes thick. Innocent, like you don’t know exactly what he means. “Doing what?”

He steps closer, just a breath between you now. His voice drops. “You wanna be looked at?” His eyes flick to the crowd, jaw tightening. “You want every guy here thinking they’ve got a chance?”

You hum, almost amused. “I’m just having fun.”

His tongue drags across his bottom lip as he fights the twitch in his smirk, that look of barely restrained hunger already flooding back in. “You’re trouble.” he says simply, shaking his head. “Fucking trouble.”

Then, without asking, he slides his jacket off and drapes it around your shoulders. Heavy. Warm. Smelling like oil and smoke and him.

“I’m not cold,” you murmur, eyes narrowing.

He shrugs. “Didn’t say it was for that.” He leaves without another word. Just a look, something unreadable, sharp-edged, and hot enough to sink into your spine. 

The buzz of the crowd floods back in as soon as he’s gone. Music from someone’s speaker thumping through the pavement, tires squealing nearby. Laughter. Catcalls. You move, slipping through clusters of people, past hoods popped open and boys hyping up their cars. You find a low ledge near the corner of a building and climbs up, tugging his jacket tighter around your body as you settle. It still smells like him. Smoke, grease and something reckless.

Then you see him.

He’s stepping toward his car, the same one he made you come in last week. There’s a light sheen of sweat on his neck, messy strands of hair falling over his forehead. His jaw’s tight, focused. The cocky confidence is still there, but cut with something else, something darker. Dangerous.

You let your eyes trail over him slowly, drinking it all in: the way his eyes scan the street, calculating. Alive. You feel it from here, the pull, the high. He was made for this.

And then, just before he gets in, he looks up. Straight at you.

It’s not casual. It’s not an accident. His eyes find you like a match to gasoline. You don’t look away. You let him see you. Legs longs, his jacket barely covering the sin of your skirt, lips parted from the liquor and heat of it all. You tilt your head, just a fraction, enough to let him know you like what you see.

He grins. Barely there, but it cuts through the dark. Then he’s gone, slipping into the driver’s seat, engine revving like a war cry.

The flag drops and the cars launch forward like bullets, engines roar like wild beasts unleashed, tires screeching against the cracked asphalt. You’re breathless, heart pounding so loud it drowns out the crowd. 

The car beside him tries to keep pace, but it’s like watching a child chase a shadow. He’s too good. Too confident. Too alive. He takes the first turn tight and fast, almost too fast, but he grips it, tires screaming in protest.

You bite your lip and smile, pulse ticking high. You weren’t looking for meaning.

But this? The danger, the speed, the burn in your veins?

This might be exactly what you needed.

Back on the straightaway, his car roars ahead, slicing through the night like a knife. The other driver strains, but Wooyoung’s already miles ahead. The city lights blur past, but he’s a sharp contrast, focused, untouchable. The finish line rushes toward him, and he crosses it first with a triumphant roar from the crowd.

The roar of engines dies down, and the crowd begins to thin after a while, their chatter fading into the night as anticipation for the next race lingers in the air. You step away from the edge of the track, your heels clicking softly against the pavement, heart still pounding from the rush. You find a spot behind a half-gutted van and lean back, letting the chaos fade. You breathe in the night and feel your pulse begin to settle.

Then a voice behind you cuts right through.

“Running off already?” he drawls.

You don’t jump. You don’t turn around too quickly. Just lift your gaze toward the sky for one long second, then shift to glance over your shoulder. 

He’s there. Lit up in the dim glow of a busted streetlamp, black t-shirt, eyes hot. His hair’s a little messy from the wind, jaw sharp with leftover adrenaline. Smug, as always.

“I figured you’d be busy,” you say, neutral.

“I am,” he shrugs. “But I saw you walk away.”

You face him fully now. “Congratulations, by the way.”

He steps closer, just a little. “You came to see me win?”

You tilt your head. “I came for the thrill.”

He laughs under his breath like he knows better. “And did you get it?”

You don't answer. Just let your gaze sweep over him, slow and deliberate. There’s a sheen of sweat on his neck, veins prominent from gripping the wheel. 

“I always knew you were trouble,” he murmurs, mouth twitching. “But that skirt? That walk? You just confirmed you’re doing it on purpose.”

You smirk. “You’re not the only one who likes a little attention.”

That makes his tongue press into his cheek, makes his eyes darken just a shade. Then he jerks his head toward the lot. “Come on.”

You raise a brow. “Where?”

“Away,” he says simply. “You’ve seen enough here, haven’t you?” He doesn’t wait for your answer, just starts walking toward his car like he knows you’ll come. And maybe that’s what makes you move, the confidence, the danger, the not-knowing.

Because you want to. The engine rumbles to life like it’s impatient, just like him. He doesn’t say a word when you glance at him, just flicks the headlights on, rolls down his window, and pulls out without looking back.

You don’t ask where he’s going. He doesn’t tell you. His hand is steady on the wheel. One arm draped over the top, wrist loose, like he’s done this a thousand times, like he owns every road. That’s when you see it. The rose inked on his forearm, just above the wrist. You never noticed it before. Sharp lines, bold petals, thorns curled close to the stem. Beautiful. Quietly dangerous.

Just like him.

After a while, you catch the scent of salt. The car slows, headlights cutting across uneven sand and gravel before dipping low, settling in front of a wide, open stretch of black water. The ocean looks infinite like this, still, deep, unbothered by the world they came from.

Wooyoung kills the engine.

The beach isn’t much, not the kind you'd take photos at, but it's empty. Silent. The kind of place people come to forget. Or to be alone, together.

“You always bring people out here?” you ask finally, your voice low, not because you're shy, but because anything louder might snap the moment in two.

His mouth twitches. “No.”

That’s all he gives you.

You unbuckle your seatbelt slowly and open the door. The air outside is colder than expected, and the wind off the ocean hits your bare legs like a slap, but you don’t flinch. You walk barefoot into the sand, heels dangling from one hand. His jacket hangs off your frame like a secret you shouldn’t be keeping.

You don’t look back. You don’t need to.

You hear him follow a few seconds later. The door shuts with a heavy thud, and his footsteps crunch behind you in the sand. And you feel it: his stare. Heavy. Hot. Carving into the back of your thighs like he’s still sitting behind the wheel, still imagining your legs slung over his seat.

“You gonna keep staring?” you ask, not turning around.

“I’m trying not to.”

You smile, slow. “You’re bad at that.”

He lets out a short laugh, the low kind that hums in your stomach. Then he steps closer, sand giving way under his boots.

“That skirt’s gonna be the death of me,” he mutters.

You finally turn your head, raise an eyebrow. “What does it do to you?”

He laughs under his breath, low and sharp. “You want the full list?”

You face him now. The hem of the jacket skims just above your thighs, the wind teasing it up every so often, just enough. And he's looking. His tongue swipes along his bottom lip, like he’s thinking too much. 

You blink up at him, heart in your throat but your expression smooth. “I’m starting to think you’ve got no self-control.”

“Oh, I don’t,” he says easily, taking another step forward. You don’t back away. “Not with you standing there like that. Jacket slipping off your shoulder. Those pretty little heels in your hand like you just got tired of playing nice.”

The air between you is thick now, too hot, too still, too quiet. Just the wind, the dark waves behind you, and the way he’s looking at you like every second without touching you is driving him fucking insane.

“You’re not making it easy,” he says low.

“I’m not trying to.” 

He exhales a sharp laugh, then grabs your jaw and kisses you. There’s no warning. No slow lead-in. His mouth crashes onto yours like he’s been starving, like he’s trying to taste everything he missed. You kiss him back just as hard, breath catching in your chest as your free hand fists in his t-shirt, pulling him closer. He groans against your lips, palms skimming down the sides of your thighs, up under the hem of your jacket.

Then he pulls back, just enough to speak, voice rough and low, eyes dark. “Get in the backseat.”

You blink, chest heaving. “What?”

His hand is still gripping your thigh, thumb stroking slow against the inside. “You heard me. Backseat. Now.”

It’s not a suggestion. It’s a command that lights something wicked inside you. Without a word you walk around to the passenger side, pulling the door open with your heart pounding. He’s already climbing into the back, shoving the front seat forward to make space. The dome light overhead flickers on and then dims as you slide in beside him.

The second the door shuts, he’s on you again.

The car fills with the sound of breathless gasps and the shuffle of clothes, the scent of him closing in as his hands roam with renewed urgency. He tugs you into his lap, your knees straddling his thighs, your skirt riding high as you grind down against the bulge already straining in his jeans.

“Fuck,” he hisses, fingers digging into your hips. “This-, this is what I should’ve done last time.”

You kiss him again, deeper this time, biting his lip just hard enough to make him curse again. His hands slide up your back, underneath the jacket, skin against skin now, and it’s not enough. Nothing is.

“Keep the jacket on,” he mutters between kisses. “Looks better on you anyway.”

You laugh softly, a sound that breaks into a moan as he grinds up into you, the friction delicious and overwhelming. You know this is going to get messy. Exactly the way you want it.

Because this time, he’s not stopping.

He curses under his breath, hands sliding up your thighs, gripping, pulling you down harder onto him as he bucks up. “You’re gonna drive me insane,” he murmurs, biting down on the edge of your jaw, hard enough to make you gasp. “Making those little noises, grinding like that-, fuck-”

Your hands are already at his belt, unfastening it with practiced ease, the clink of metal loud in the quiet car. His breath catches the moment your fingers brush over the hard line of him, still straining against his jeans.

“Shit,” he mutters, eyes dropping to where your hand moves. He leans back slightly, hands gripping your thighs as you shift just enough to pull him free, hot and heavy in your palm, thick and already leaking. He hisses when your thumb swipes over the tip.

“I’ve thought about this,” he says low, watching you from beneath heavy lashes. “You. In my car. Wearing my jacket. Getting me this fuckin’ hard without even trying.”

“You’re the one who didn’t fuck me last time,” you whisper, breathless, teasing.

His jaw tightens. “Yeah. And I’ve regretted it every damn day since.” Then he reaches down between you both, pulls your underwear to the side with one hand, rough, impatient, and notches the head of his cock against your entrance. You rise to your knees to angle yourself better, nails digging into his bare shoulders. He meets your gaze, voice low and hoarse. “You ready?”

You nod. “Don’t you dare hold back.”

And he doesn’t.

He pushes in slow but deep as you sit down, eyes locked on yours the entire time like he’s watching your reaction. You clutch at him as your body stretches around him, breath hitching when he’s finally buried all the way inside you.

“Fuck,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours. “Tight as hell. Fucking perfect.”

You roll your hips experimentally and both of you moan at the friction.

His hands grip your waist, guiding you, dragging you along his cock in slow, dirty motions. The car creaks beneath you, the windows fogging with condensation, but neither of you notice. You’re too wrapped up in the heat between your bodies, the wet sound of you sliding over him again and again, your soft gasps clashing with his filthy praise.

“Just like that,” he pants, teeth gritted. “Ride me, baby. Take what you need.”

Your hands slide into his hair as you start to move faster, bouncing slightly in his lap. The jacket slides open, but you leave it on, feeling his hands grab your ass, tugging you down harder each time you rise.

“You look so good like this,” he rasps. “So fucking filthy. You like fucking me in my backseat, huh?”

You moan, nodding against his neck.

He thrusts up harder suddenly, making you cry out, nails raking down his chest. He grabs your jaw again, kissing you hard, tongue dragging over yours as his hips slam up into you with rough, desperate rhythm.

Suddenly he grips your hips tight and flips you without warning, your back hitting the seat, knees bent over the edge. He’s between your legs in seconds, shirt rucked up around his waist, jeans barely pushed down his thighs. The jacket is still on you, wide open now, framing your body like he meant for it. His body cages yours completely.

“Keep your eyes open,” he says, voice thick. “I want you to see.”

You do. God, you do.

Because the sight of him like this, cock wet and thick, already pushing back into you, is obscene. His jaw clenched, chest rising and falling hard, lips parted with the filthiest groan when he sinks into you again. Your mouth falls open at the stretch, at the slick sound of it. You’re soaked for him, and he knows it.

“Look at that,” he grits out, glancing down between you as he drags out and slams back in, harder now. “You see how fucking good you take me?” He’s got a hand around your throat now, thumb dragging under your jaw as he stares down at you like he owns the moment. Sweat at his temples, veins in his neck, and that look in his eyes. Feral.

“You like seeing me fuck you? Like how deep I go? How filthy I get when I lose it over you?” he growls, watching every flicker of your expression. 

You try to hold eye contact, but your eyes flick down, greedy, hungry, obsessed. The way his cock slides in and out of you, the wet slap of it, the muscles in his stomach tightening with every thrust, it’s too much. Too perfect.

You nod fast, moaning, your nails digging into his arm. He’s relentless now, pace brutal, and all you can do is take it, back arching, toes curling, your voice high and breathless.

“Come for me,” he says low, rough. “Right now. Wanna feel it.”

And fuck, when he leans down and bites your neck, when his hand moves back to your thigh, spreading you wider so he can go even deeper, you fall. Hard. You break apart with a strangled moan, legs trembling around his waist, nails scraping down his back. He watches you fall apart, eyes locked on yours, hips never slowing.

“Goddamn,” he growls, voice tight. “You feel that? How you’re gripping me? Gonna make me-, fuck, gonna fill you up, baby. Just like this.”

You hold onto him as he groans, deep and raw, stuttering into you with one final thrust, spilling inside with a curse. You feel all of it. Every pulse. Every inch.

His palm slides up your thigh, and you feel every inch of him still inside you, thick, pulsing, stretching you open just right.

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t even move.

His head drops back, breath harsh, chest rising fast under that clingy black t-shirt. You watch the muscles shift beneath it, the way a single vein trails down his forearm, twitching slightly. He glances down between you, lips parting.

“Look at that,” he mutters, voice like gravel. “Still so fucking tight around me.” His hand slips under the jacket again, palm dragging up your skin. “You kept this on,” he says, almost to himself. “Fuck, you really wanted to kill me tonight, huh?”

You try to speak, but he shifts his hips, slow and deep, and your mouth falls open in a quiet moan instead.

He grins. “That’s what I thought.”

He pulls out slow, deliberate, watching the mess he’s made of you. You try to close your legs, but he doesn’t let you. He taps your inner thigh, and you let him spread you open again, even if your body protests.

“Stay like that,” he murmurs. “Wanna look at what I did to you.”

And you do. You let him look. You let him take it all in, cocky eyes dropping to where you drip down onto the backseat, your thighs trembling, lips swollen from the way he kissed you.

You stay wrapped around each other in that charged silence, the world outside fading away until all that exists is the heat, the touch, and the undeniable pull between you. The night is yours, messy and unfiltered, and you wouldn’t want it any other way.

***

You’re wrapped in a towel, hair damp, steam still clinging to your skin from the shower. The night outside your Airbnb window is soft and still, the kind of quiet that only comes after a long, hot day. You’re not thinking about him, not actively, anyway. But your mind’s been drifting all week, every time your fingers brushed the edge of your mouth like they could still feel his kiss, like your thighs remembered how he fit between them.

You definitely weren’t expecting a knock at the door.

You freeze, blink toward the entrance. No one knows you here. Another knock, this one lazier, a little amused. You pad barefoot to the door, frowning, water still sliding down the back of your neck.

You open it, and there he is.

Wooyoung.

He leans against the doorframe like he was born to fill that space, in his black jacket, a black tee that hugs his chest, his hair messy like he’s been driving with the windows down. His eyes sweep over you, lazy and unhurried, from the damp strands stuck to your cheek to the towel knotted just above your breasts. His mouth curves, that signature smirk tugging at the corner. He lifts his eyes back to yours, full of something dark and warm and very sure of itself.

“Hey, trouble.”

Your heart stutters. “What-, How did you-”

He nods toward the hallway behind him. “Was driving around. Was in the area. Figured I’d stop by.”

“You remembered the address,” you say slowly, more to yourself than him. You hadn’t thought much of it when he drove you home, twice. Definitely didn’t expect him to turn up on your doorstep because of it.

He lifts a shoulder. “Wasn’t that hard.”

You tighten the towel slightly. “What made you think showing up unannounced was a good idea?”

Wooyoung shrugs, but there’s a glint in his eye. “Didn’t think. Just came.” His gaze skims over you again, slower this time. “Good timing, huh?”

Your chin tips up just slightly, a smirk tugging at your lips now, small, smug, impossible to hide. You’re tempted, and you hate how much you like the power shift. How good it feels to make him wait on your word. He steps forward, just enough for the toe of his boot to cross the threshold.

You glance down at it, then back up at him. “You gonna stand there or come in?”

He raises a brow like he wasn’t expecting you to say it out loud, but the smirk that follows says he was hoping. “Didn’t wanna be rude,” he says, stepping closer like it’s nothing.

You just step back, towel still clutched to your chest, heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with modesty. The door clicks shut behind him and you turn away, heading back toward the bedroom without waiting.

He follows. Of course he does.

You don’t say anything as you walk, still towel-wrapped and dripping faintly onto the hardwood. He’s behind you, quiet, but not subtle. You feel his eyes on your back, your legs, the curve of your spine. You don’t rush. Let him look. Let him want.

"Didn’t think you were the kind of girl to answer the door dressed like that,” he murmurs.

“Didn’t think you were the kind of guy to show up uninvited,” you toss back, stepping into the bedroom.

“No phone number. Kind of had to improvise,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

You glance at him over your shoulder. He’s leaning in the doorway now, arms crossed, that cocky gleam in his eyes like he knows he’s already gotten under your skin. “You make a habit of showing up at girls’ doors hoping they’re half-naked?”

He smiles. “No. Just yours.”

You don’t answer, just turn your back to him and let the towel fall. It slips off your skin in one clean motion, landing at your feet with a soft rustle. You don’t look back. You don’t have to. You know what this does to him. The silence that falls between you says more than any words could.

Without looking back, you slip on a pair of black thongs slowly, then grab a white tank top. You don’t rush. You feel his eyes burning into you the entire time. The top clings to your still-damp skin, nipples pressing clearly through the fabric. You could’ve dressed. You chose not to. You like watching him struggle to keep his cool. “So,” you say, voice dry, turning around. “What do you want, Wooyoung?”

He shrugs, smile slow and lazy. “Thought maybe you’d let me stick around.”

You toss the towel onto a chair and brush past him on your way to the kitchen. “And if I don’t?”

He follows you again, of course. Closer this time. “I’ll change your mind.”

You open the fridge, bend down just enough to give him a view, and pull out a bottle of water. When you stand again, he’s closer.

“No plans tonight?” he asks.

You twist the cap off. “Was thinking about heading out.”

“Date?”

You look at him over your shoulder, sipping slow, the cool water sliding down your throat. “Why? You jealous?”

He smirks, but there’s something tighter in his jaw now. “I’d be stupid not to be.”

You laugh under your breath and turn, leaning against the counter, letting the cold bottle rest against your bare hip. “Would it stop you from showing up uninvited?”

“Not even a little.”

You study him for a beat. He’s not pretending not to look, his eyes flick to your chest again, linger. You know he wants to touch you. He’s barely keeping it together.

And you love it.

“So where were you thinking of going?” he asks, resting his hands on the counter across from you.

“Some bar a few blocks from here. Thought I’d look around.”

“You gonna make me watch you flirt with someone else tonight?”

You smile lazily. “You gonna stop me?”

He doesn’t answer, just steps closer again, hands braced on either side of the counter behind you now, caging you in. His voice drops a little. “Don’t really like the idea of anyone else looking at you.”

You arch a brow. “Mm. So here you are.”

His gaze drags down your body, slowly, all the way to your thighs, down to the swell of your breasts under the thin white cotton, and then back up. He doesn’t answer right away. You expect a flirt, a tease, a deflection, but when he speaks, his voice is steadier. Honest.

“I thought about you.”

Your chest tightens, just for a moment. You recover quickly, he doesn’t need to know what that does to you. So you lift your bottle again, let it cool your lips.

“I don’t make a habit of showing up for people,” he adds. “Not unless I want to.”

You lower the water, studying him now. “And what is it you want, exactly?”

His gaze moves across your face. “I don’t know yet,” he admits. “But I’m not done finding out.”

You stay quiet. The silence stretches between you, long and warm. You could break it, make it light again, but you don’t. Instead, you smile. Slow, knowing, and utterly unreadable. Not yes. Not no. Just… this. He catches it, the challenge in that smile. And it’s enough.

You step away, leaving your water on the counter, turning toward the bedroom without another word. Your fingers slide over the fabric of your skirt as you pull it on, eyes catching your reflection in the mirror, dark, a little wild, definitely dangerous.

From the doorway, you hear him speak, voice low, almost reluctant. “You always this hard to read?”

You turn slowly, letting your hair fall over one shoulder. “I’m not looking for easy,” you say quietly. “Not tonight.”

He nods, eyes sharp and steady. “Good. Me neither.”

You pull out a delicate black crop top, barely there, high neck, open back. You pull the old white tank top over your head and slide on the new one. The cotton clings to your curves, your nipples visibly peeking through the fabric from where he stands. You don’t fix it. You don’t care. In fact, you tilt your head and catch his reflection in the mirror. He’s staring, jaw tight again, mouth parted just slightly like he’s fighting the urge to say something or maybe do something.

You lift your hair, twisting it up casually to check how the top sits. “Still planning to stay?”

He steps behind you, slow, then reaches up without a word, catching a strand that slipped and tucking it gently behind your ear. His knuckles graze your cheek. His eyes hold yours in the mirror, and they’re darker now. Serious. Like you’ve peeled something open in him he hadn’t planned on showing.

That does something to you. And you hate that it does. Because this wasn’t supposed to be anything. Just tension. Just heat. Just one night in the back of his car and nothing else. But now he’s in your room. Talking like he means it. Looking at you like he wants to memorize what you look like under this light.

“Where are we going?” he asks.

You smirk at your reflection. “Somewhere you can watch me walk away all night.” And when you glance at him again, his tongue swipes over his bottom lip like he’s trying to behave. But you know better.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “you think I’ll be able to keep my hands off you that long?”

You slide on your boots with a smirk. "Come on, then."

He’s still standing there when you straighten, grab your purse, and cross to the door. He follows like a shadow. And as you step out into the hallway, his fingers brush the small of your back, low and fleeting.

You say nothing. But you don’t stop him either.

The bar isn’t loud, but it hums, low light, red leather booths, the sharp clink of glass, the bass of something dark curling through the air. He holds the door open for you and lets you walk in first, doesn’t say anything, just watches the sway of your hips as you pass. He hasn’t stopped watching you.

You slide onto a stool without waiting for him, legs crossed, skirt riding high. He stands beside you for a second, watching, just watching, then pulls his stool in too close and sits.

You glance at him sideways. “No room anywhere else?”

He leans in without hesitation, breath brushing your jaw. “Didn’t come here to sit far away from you.”

You order and the bartender slides the drinks over and disappears. You take a sip without waiting. He doesn’t touch his glass yet. “You came dressed like this,” he murmurs, “and then invited me out?”

Your eyes flick to his. “I didn’t invite you.”

“You said come with you.”

“And you showed up uninvited to my apartment before that.”

He grins, teeth sharp, voice low. “And you let me in.”

You glance over, tongue touching the rim of your glass just because you feel like being a little cruel. “You like watching, huh?”

His jaw twitches. “I like knowing I’m the only one who gets to.”

You smile, slow and sharp. “That’s cute.”

He exhales a laugh, finally taking a sip of his drink. “It’s not cute. It’s dangerous.”

You hum. “That supposed to scare me?”

“No. It’s supposed to turn you on.”

There’s a pause. You don’t look at him, not right away. You set your glass down. Shift slightly so your bare thigh brushes his jeans. You feel the way he tenses. And then you glance up, slow. Your voice is silk when it comes out. “It does.”

He drags his gaze across your face like he’s memorizing every flicker of expression, then drops it again, to your chest, to your lips, to your thighs. His fingers flex around his glass. “You’re driving me fucking insane.”

You tilt your head. “Yeah?”

“I’m trying to be good.”

Your smile is wicked now. “Why?”

He looks at you, really looks at you, and for a second, something real flickers there. But then he leans in, close enough that your knees brush. “Because if I weren’t, I’d already have you in the back of the bar. Up against a wall. Hands on your hips. My mouth on your neck.” 

You laugh softly, but your heart’s racing. “And you think I’d let you?”

“No,” he says, eyes flicking down again. “I think you’d beg for it.”

The air between you crackles. But then you shift back, take another sip, re-cross your legs just to fuck with him. “Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t.”

He watches you with that burning, tethered hunger like he’s seconds from snapping it. But his voice stays calm when he says, “You’re not like anyone I’ve met.”

You rest your elbow on the bar, chin tilted. “You don’t know me.”

“Not yet,” he says. “But I’m gonna.”

There’s silence again. Not awkward, something heavier. Hungrier. He’s watching you like he could devour you whole. And you let him. You want him to. A couple people pass behind you, loud laughter and perfume in the air, but it doesn’t break the line between you.

“Drink,” you murmur, nudging his glass with your fingers.

He obeys. A beat. Then: “Let me take you home after this.”

You tilt your head. “You don’t want to watch me flirt with strangers first?”

His jaw ticks. “I’ll break his nose.”

You smile. And that’s the moment you know you’ve got him exactly where you want him. 

He leans in, his breath ghosting over your ear, voice low and raw. “I don’t want you anywhere but with me.” His fingers curl tighter around your hand, a silent promise and a warning all at once. You catch the fire in his eyes, fierce and unblinking.

You don’t pull away. Instead, you trace your thumb over the back of his hand, letting the electricity spark between you both. “Then take me. I’m all yours.”

Without another word, he signals for the check, hands never leaving you. Outside, the night air is cool against your skin, sharp and fresh. He opens the car door for you like he owns you already, then slides behind the wheel with a confidence that makes your heart race.

You drove for hours without direction, his hand resting heavy on your thigh, thumb tracing idle, possessive circles on bare skin. He made it clear between sharp glances and sharper words that he didn’t do the whole dating thing, didn’t play house, didn’t promise anything past the next time he could get his hands on you. And though it seemed dangerous to play like that, you couldn't stop chasing him. The hunger in it. The freedom.

You let him pull off into some dark, empty lot halfway across the city and fuck you in the backseat again, his mouth everywhere, hands rougher this time, more desperate, like he'd been holding back all night. Afterwards, the windows fogged and your pulse still high, he drove again, nowhere in particular, just fast, just far, before ending up at your place. And when he had you again, finally, inside your own bed, it was slower, but not softer. He still didn't ask to stay. He didn't need to.

***

It wasn’t supposed to be a regular thing.

You didn’t plan on seeing him again the night after the bar. Or the night after that. But then he kept showing up and you did the same. One ride becomes two. Then four. Then too many to count. Now, it’s routine, a rhythm carved out of adrenaline, midnight, and want.

At first, it was easy. Just fast rides and faster hands. Parking lots with the windows fogged, whispered laughs and skin flushed from the cold. But then came the in-betweens. Gas station pit stops at 2 a.m. where he’d buy you snacks you didn’t ask for. Lazy mornings when he didn’t leave right away. He takes you to races, slips an arm around your waist like it’s second nature.

You never called it anything. You never talked about it like it mattered. But he was always there. And you kept letting him in.

Your cousin still thinks you’ve been keeping to yourself. Staying quiet. Healing. If she asked, you wouldn’t lie, but you wouldn’t tell her everything either. Because whatever this is with him, it’s not simple. It’s not safe. It isn’t supposed to last.

You promised yourself when you came to this city for the summer that you wouldn’t overthink. Wouldn’t chase anyone’s expectations. Wouldn’t waste time second-guessing every move you made. You were here to feel, not fix. To want, not explain.

And Wooyoung made that easy.

He had a way of clearing your mind like smoke filling a room, thick, dizzying, inescapable. Dangerous in a way that didn’t scare you, but hooked you. Like he was your own walking addiction, all sharp smiles and reckless charm, and you were already too far gone to pretend you didn’t like the way he burned.

You visit him when he works at the garage, sweat on his neck, grease on his fingers, and you leaned against the wall until he pulls you in. Mouths hungry. Hands rough. You’ve fucked against that garage door more times than you can remember, the metal always cold against your spine.

It happens everywhere. Every time.

The front seat. Backseat. Hood of his car when the engine’s still warm. In the car in a random alley in town. Once, behind the mechanic shop, half-hidden, half-exposed, and he didn’t even care. 

You’ve been to more than a few races by now. Long enough to know the scent of smoke and rubber. But nothing compares to watching him out there.

You live for that split second before the race starts, the way his jaw tightens, eyes dark and locked in, fire flickering behind them. Every time he wins, and he always wins, you catch yourself biting your lip, adrenaline tangled with pride. Like it’s your victory too. Because in a way, it is.

You’re already wearing his jacket when you step out of the car, the oversized black thing swallowing your frame, sleeves pushed up, and unmistakably his. Everyone knows it. They’ve seen you in it more than they’ve seen him wear it lately, and that says something.

Everyone knows not to look too long. They’ve learned. The hard way.

The race lot is alive, headlights burning through dusk, bass thumping from open trunks, engines snarling like wolves waiting to be let loose. You settle on the trunk of Wooyoung’s car, skirt riding up your thighs, legs crossed slow. 

And you know the eyes are coming.

You feel them before you see them. Some from the usuals. Most from the new ones. Men who don’t know better yet. Or maybe they do, and they’re just stupid.

Wooyoung’s bent under the open hood, checking something in the engine with a cigarette tucked behind his ear. You’ve been at this long enough to recognize faces. Wooyoung’s team. The regulars. And the ones from the rival crew, all bravado and cheap insults, waiting to be flattened.

One of them’s eyeing you too hard.

Some rival team idiot, leaning on a car that doesn’t belong to him. He lingers a few feet away, lean build and smug expression, drinking out of a red solo cup like he owns the place. He doesn’t. And you don’t bother acknowledging him. Not until he walks past you and whistles. Loud. Sharp.

“Damn,” he says, looking you up and down, eyes shameless. “She’s got a better rear than your car.”

Your head turns slowly. You don’t flinch, don’t frown, just arch a brow, roll your eyes, and look away like he’s not even worth your breath. He’s grinning like he hasn’t just stepped into a minefield. His eyes drag over you like he’s entitled to it. 

But you also know better than to think Wooyoung didn’t hear it. You know what’s coming. You know Wooyoung hears these comments, and you know exactly how he’ll respond.

You feel it first. That shift in the air. That tension that hits just before lightning strikes.

Then you hear it.

His laugh.

It’s low. Dangerous. It cuts through the bass like a blade through silk. Everyone around you stiffens because it’s not the kind of laugh that invites company. It’s the kind that warns. A sound that simmers with violence, a fuse already lit.

Wooyoung tosses the rag he was using onto the ground without a word and walks, each step deliberate, calculated. He doesn’t look at you as he passes. His eyes are locked on the idiot who’s about to learn a very painful lesson.

“Say that again,” Wooyoung says calmly, still with a disturbing smile on his face.

The guy chuckles nervously, looking around for backup that isn’t there. “Relax, man. It was a joke.”

You see the guy start to crack, the tension in his shoulders, the way he suddenly can’t look Wooyoung in the eye.

“You look at her like that again, or say some shit like that again,” Wooyoung murmurs, low enough that only the two of them, “and I’ll break your fucking legs. You understand? I’ll drag you behind my car and leave you in pieces by the end of the lot.”

His hand claps down hard on the guy’s shoulder, making him flinch. “Say something. Please. Give me a reason.”

The guy doesn’t say shit. Just stumbles backward, muttering apologies, practically tripping over himself as he bolts into the shadows.

Wooyoung doesn’t move for a long second.

You’re still perched on the hood, legs swinging lazily, pretending your whole body isn’t thrumming from the spectacle Wooyoung just made. When he turns, his smirk’s already in place. That cocky tilt to his mouth, the slow prowl in his walk. Like he knows you’re watching him just as closely as everyone else is.

And he knows exactly what he just did to you.

“Jesus,” you say as he stops in front of you, “You gonna mark your territory next?”

He chuckles low, eyes raking over you, from the collar of his jacket hanging loose on your shoulders, to the bare stretch of skin above your knees. His fingers hook into your waistband like it’s instinct. You bite your bottom lip, slow and deliberate, letting your gaze drop to his mouth, then drag lazily back up to meet his eyes. You know exactly what you’re doing.

“Don’t tempt me.” His mouth crashes against yours before you can say another word.

It’s not gentle. It’s all heat and teeth, a kiss that claims. He kisses you like he’s mad you made him feel anything at all. Like he’s trying to erase the sight of someone else’s eyes on your skin with every rough slide of his tongue. He drags your hips toward the edge of the car, like he wants you spread out and helpless for him right there.

When he pulls back, his lips are red, swollen. His voice is a whisper against your jaw.

“You keep teasing me like that, baby, and I’ll fuck the attitude out of you, right here, right now.”

***

It’s been over a month now.

You didn’t mean for it to turn into anything. It just... happened. 

Most mornings start in your kitchen, you in his shirt, him barefoot and sleepy-eyed, making something that smells better than it has any right to. He’s a good cook, like, suspiciously good, and you tease him for it constantly. Ask if he’s hiding a wife and three kids somewhere. He just tosses you a berry or flicks water at your leg and tells you to shut up and eat.

Sometimes you don’t leave the Airbnb all day. He puts something on the TV you’re not really watching, and you end up sprawled across his lap, his hand tracing lazy circles on your bare thigh, not even trying to be sneaky about it. Other days, you follow him to the garage, sit on a crate while he works on his car. He gets grease on his cheek, his neck, the curve of his collarbone, and you wipe it off for him with a teasing smile while he watches you like he’d rather pull you onto the hood and forget whatever else he was doing.

But you haven’t told him. That you’re only here for the summer. That this, whatever it is, has a timer on it.

Maybe it’s selfish. Maybe it’s smart. But you’ve heard him talk. Heard his friends joke. Heard the girls he used to fuck and toss to the side mention that he doesn’t do relationships, doesn’t do feelings, doesn’t stay. You’ve heard it in his own voice too, casual, offhand comments when someone asks if you’re his girl and he shrugs it off or changes the subject, suddenly preoccupied with something else. It stings a little every time. Not dramatic, not devastating, but quiet, like a bruise you don’t want to press on. Like maybe he wants you, but not really wants you. Not all the way.

So you keep it to yourself.

And in the meantime, you ride with him everywhere. Sit in his seat, steal his fries, kiss him in the glow of red lights. You let him cook for you. You brush his hair back when he lets it grow too long. You laugh at his dumb jokes. He never says what this is. And neither do you.

But he always shows up. And you always open the door.

Tonight, you’re at yet another of his races. 

Engines rumble like thunder, headlights cutting through the night. You’re standing at your usual spot, perched on the edge of the crowd, his jacket zipped halfway up your chest, hair pulled back just enough to see everything. Your eyes never leave the sleek black car rolling up to the start line, Wooyoung’s.

He pulls in like he owns the asphalt, engine growling beneath him like it wants to be let loose. His gaze sweeps over you, slow, loaded, then he smirks, that cocky little thing he does right before he tears the world apart.

And still, all you can think about is the way he kissed you ten minutes ago. Hot, full, tongue first, like he couldn’t hold back. You still feel it, the heat of it, the taste of him, the way he murmured “Stay where I can see you” against your lips like a warning, or a promise.

The flag girl steps forward. He revs his engine once, twice, your heartbeat syncs with the rhythm. The light turns green, and he’s gone.

You don’t cheer. Just watch, transfixed. The way he takes turns, precise and wild, engine howling as he cuts through the competition like it’s nothing. It’s art. It’s war. It’s him. The matte black machine moves like it’s part of him, sleek, brutal, untouchable. Every time he shifts gears, it feels like the ground itself vibrates beneath your feet.

And then–

“COPS!”

The scream rips through the air, high and raw and terrifying. Then the first siren wails.

All hell breaks loose.

Blue and red lights explode across the lot like fireworks. More sirens. Shouts. People start running in every direction, drinks spilling, tires screeching, screams rising. A girl next to you shoves past you so hard you stumble back, heels slipping on the uneven concrete.

The panic is total. A stampede.

Someone crashes into your side. You spin, disoriented, trying to find an exit through the chaos, but bodies are slamming against each other, climbing over cars, scrambling for cover. You can’t see anything, not the streets, not where the cops are coming from, not even Wooyoung.

You try to run. Make it three steps before your foot catches on something, a curb, a bottle, someone’s leg, and you crash to the ground hard, knees scraping raw against pavement. Pain blooms sharp and hot as your palms catch you, barely.

Panic grabs you by the throat. You’re alone. You don’t know where he is. The cops are coming fast.

And then-

A hand wraps around your arm.

Strong. Unshakable. Familiar.

You look up and he’s there, Wooyoung, eyes wild with adrenaline, jaw tight, his voice low and cutting through the noise like a blade. “Come on.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. Just yanks you up with one swift pull and hauls you against his side. He’s already planned his route. His car is parked in the shadows between a dumpster and a dead-end wall. He doesn’t slow down. Throws open the passenger door and shoves you inside. You barely register the click of your seatbelt before he’s in the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut behind him.

“Hold on.”

The tires scream as he throws it into gear and peels out of the lot, weaving through fleeing cars and panicked people like the devil himself is on your heels, and maybe he is. You see flashes of uniforms in the rearview mirror. 

And then he’s driving. Not just fast, fucking insane.

He weaves through the mess like it’s nothing, dodging people, cars, even a barricade. You clutch the edge of the seat with both hands, heart slamming into your ribs. “Wooyoung-,” you start, breathless, but he cuts you off with a sharp, “Hold on.”

A sharp turn. Another. He ducks down a narrow alley and surges back onto the road. Blue lights flash behind you, distant, then farther, then gone.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even slow.

You have no idea where you are, what neighborhood, what street, but he drives like he owns it. Like he knows every shortcut, every shadow, every alley that leads nowhere. He turns down a quieter street, dim, still, lined with apartment buildings. Finally, finally, he slows, pulls into a nearly empty lot, and kills the engine.

The air between you feels tight. You stare ahead, still locked in the adrenaline-fueled fog of escape, limbs buzzing, throat dry. Every part of you feels too tense to move. You’ve never been here before, in this area, and you don’t ask. Not yet.

Beside you, Wooyoung sits with both hands on the wheel, eyes fixed forward for a long moment like he’s trying to decide whether to say something or let the silence win. Finally, he turns his head toward you, his jaw tight but his voice softer than you expect. 

“You okay?”

You almost say yes. You almost lie. But then your gaze drops, and you notice the sting in your palms, the throb you’d tuned out in the panic. You glance down to find both your hands scraped raw, speckled with gravel and blood. Your knees too, now that you notice it, dark streaks running down your shins. You hadn’t felt it when you fell, too busy chasing your breath through a stampede of strangers and spinning lights. Now the pain is catching up.

Wooyoung sees it before you can say anything. His hand reaches out, catches yours before you can tuck them away. He turns your palms over in his, his thumbs brush carefully along the edges of your cuts, not pressing, just grounding. He doesn’t flinch at the blood. 

“Come on,” he says quietly, rising to his feet. He opens his door and steps out, coming around to yours, opening it before you can reach for the handle. You follow him, still half in a daze, leading you up two flights of concrete stairs and through a door you’ve never seen before.

The apartment is dim when he pushes it open, warm light spilling from a single lamp near the couch. It’s cleaner than you expected, simple, utilitarian, not dressed up, but lived-in.  You barely have time to look before he disappears down the hallway and comes back with a first aid kit and a damp towel. He doesn’t say a word. Just gestures to the couch, and when you sit, he kneels in front of you without hesitation.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just works in silence, jaw tight, eyes locked on your hand like it’s something breakable. The towel is warm and damp, his fingers careful as they blot the blood away from your palm. It stings, but you don’t flinch. Not from the pain, not from him. His touch is gentler than it has any right to be, considering how fast he’d just driven you through the night.

You want to say something, maybe make a joke to ease the weight in the room, but your throat is too tight.

“You should be more careful,” he finally says, voice low, rough-edged. It’s not scolding, not teasing. It’s something softer than either, quiet concern trying not to sound like it matters.

You glance at him, a bitter smile pulling at the edge of your mouth. “You’re not my boyfriend.”

That makes him pause. He looks up, eyes catching yours like he heard everything you didn’t say. “Didn’t say I was,” he murmurs, something unreadable flickering across his face. “But that doesn’t mean I want to watch you fall apart.”

Your mouth goes dry. The way he says it, it’s not romantic. Not sweet. It’s honest. Raw. And it disarms you more than anything else tonight.

He moves on to your knees next. His fingers graze bare skin and your breath catches, but he doesn’t look up. He just keeps working. Focused. Steady. Like you’re both pretending this is normal. And you don’t realize until he’s done, until the last bandage is pressed into place, that the silence between you has grown heavier. 

He runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to think straight, and then suddenly stands, stepping away from you like he needs distance just to breathe. His fingers twitch at his sides. And then his voice cuts through the room, low but cracked with something he can’t keep down. “I don’t fucking do shit like this,” he says, almost to himself. “I don’t come back for people. I don’t panic. I don’t care like that.”

You get to your feet slowly. Barefoot. Still a little dazed. The pain in your knees is sharp but distant, dulled by the weight of everything he’s saying.

He scoffs, but it sounds too raw to be cynical. “You-, fuck. You fell. You were bleeding. You were on the ground and I couldn’t find you. I didn’t even-” He swallows, shaking his head like the memory itself stings. “I swear to god I couldn’t breathe for a moment. I didn’t know if you were-”

He swallows hard. Shakes his head. “I didn’t know if I’d get to you in time.”

Your heart aches in your chest, a dull, spreading thing. He’s still talking, more to the air than to you, and it’s clear he hasn’t unpacked what any of this means.

“I didn’t even think. I just ran. Like some idiot in a movie. Like you mattered more than getting caught. More than the car. More than myself.”

You walk to him slowly. Not interrupting. Just moving until you’re close enough that he has to feel you there. “I’m okay,” you say gently.

He turns, finally meeting your eyes, and what you see in his face makes your breath catch. There’s fear there. Not the kind from flashing lights and sirens, something deeper. Something quieter. Like he’s afraid of what he just felt. Afraid of what you mean.

“I don’t know what this is,” he murmurs. “But seeing you fall like that? Seeing blood on your hands? I-, I didn’t even know it could fucking hurt like that.”

He’s not touching you. Doesn’t reach for you. Like he’s afraid even that might be too much.

So you reach instead. You lift your hand, still bandaged, and place it softly on his chest. Right over his heart. “It’s okay,” you say. “We’re both okay.”

He stares at you for a long moment, and the silence stretches, not awkward, just full. Full of what neither of you is brave enough to name. Then he leans in slowly, carefully. Like you’re something fragile he’s afraid to break. His lips brush yours, the barest touch, and then he pauses, giving you the chance to pull away.

You don’t. So he kisses you. Soft. Scared. Reverent.

A kiss so soft you aren’t sure if you ever felt him so careful before. He cups your face, doesn’t push or tries to make the kiss escalate into anything. Just a kiss full of words neither of you can say out loud.

You both start getting ready to bed shortly after. He digs through a drawer and pulls out a worn t-shirt, faded black, soft from too many washes, and holds it out to you. You peel off what’s left of your clothes without a word, not bothering to leave the room. You’ve done far more with him than change in front of each other. Modesty was gone the second you got in his car the night you met him.

The shirt falls low on your thighs. His eyes flicker over you for a second, but he doesn’t say anything. You watch as he reaches for his own shirt, pulls it over his head.

That’s when you see it.

Not the faint bruises or the surface scrapes he usually calls battle wounds, this is different. A scar, brutal and deliberate, slices across his back. It’s old, but deep. Twisted. Ugly in a way that doesn’t fade with time.

He catches your reflection in the mirror. Sees the way your eyes lock onto it. And he doesn’t flinch this time. "You gonna ask?" he says, voice low.

You don’t. You just walk closer, slow. Let your fingers ghost along the raised skin. He flinches, not because of the touch, but because of what it means.

“I’ve never seen that one before,” you say softly. You glance up. "You’ve told me every scar you’ve got came from racing.”

“That one didn’t.”

You wait. Let him decide if he wants to keep running.

“My mom had this boyfriend when I was younger. Real piece of shit. Loud. Drank too much. Always mad about something. One of those types that got mean when no one was looking.” He pauses. Breathes. “He didn’t like that I was in his house. Didn’t like that I was… me.”

Your breath hitches, but you don’t say anything yet. 

“One night, I told him to go fuck himself. Didn’t even yell it. Just said it. He didn’t like that either.” He runs a hand down his face. “He threw a bottle at me. Then pushed me through a glass door. Said it was an accident when he told my mom.”

You stare at him, horror rising slow and bitter in your throat.

“She believed him. Or she pretended to.” He lets out a breath, tired and rough around the edges. “The rest of the shit? Yeah. That came from racing. From working on cars. From fights I chose. But that one…” He finally drops his eyes from the mirror. “That one stayed.”

“How old were you?”

“Fourteen.”

You don’t ask what happened after. You don’t need to.

He laughs once, dry and humorless. “Told people I got it from flipping my first bike. Sounds cooler than getting shredded by some drunk asshole trying to prove he was bigger than a kid.”

Your hand moves gently, fingertips brushing the scar that runs ragged and long over his back.

“I figured I’d lie about it forever,” he murmurs.

“Why didn’t you?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

“Because you saw it. And I…” He swallows hard. “I feel like I can tell you.”

You don’t answer with words.

Instead, you press a kiss to his back, right above the scar, right where it starts. Then another, lower. Then your arms wrap slowly around his waist, your cheek resting between his shoulder blades. You feel him exhale when you hold him. Deep, shaky, like the air was trapped somewhere in him all this time and he’s only now letting it out.

Your fingers curl around his stomach. His hands come up, covering yours. Eventually, the silence shifts. “C’mon,” he murmurs, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Let’s sleep.”

You follow him without question, crawling onto the bed as he switches off the light. Darkness swallows the room, and you hear him move around the other side, the mattress dipping under his weight when he gets in.

There’s a beat of silence. Another.

Then his arm reaches out in the dark. It lands on your hip, hesitant at first, like he’s still not sure he’s allowed to touch you like this, without hunger. Without heat. You roll onto your side and press your back against his chest.

That’s all it takes.

His arm curls tighter around you, and he tucks his face into your neck like he needs to hide there. Like your skin might silence all the chaos still crashing inside him. He exhales like he’s been holding that breath since the car.

Tentatively, he shifts closer, arm slipping around your waist. It’s unsure, gentle, like he's still figuring out how to hold someone when it’s not about claiming, when it’s about comfort. When it means something.

This is the first night you fall asleep together without bruises between your thighs or adrenaline in your blood. Just warmth. Just the weight of his body behind yours, heavy and grounding.

It feels like you finally stopped running.

***

You don’t talk about what this is. Not once.

Not in bed, not on long drives, not when he kisses you like he’s terrified to stop. Not even when you’re curled up in his passenger seat at 2AM and his thumb strokes the inside of your wrist like a secret.

There’s too much at risk. Too much truth that would ruin the thrill of not knowing.

Because he doesn’t do relationships. Doesn’t do promises. He’s said it before, with words, with the way he’s lived. And you? You came to this city to escape all of that. Rules, opinions, weight. You’re still only here for the summer, something he doesn’t know, and you haven’t figured out how to say.

So you don’t say it.

Instead, you live in your Airbnb like it’s permanent. Like you belong in his car, like his jacket is just something that naturally belongs on your back. You leave your lip balm in his glove box. Your extra phone charger in the center console. A bag of snacks in his trunk because you’re always hungry after races.

And he lets you. Doesn’t ask questions.

But Wooyoung? He’s changed.

People know now. At every race, every meet-up, every underground garage, it’s known: you’re his. Not in any official way. No one dares call you his girlfriend, not after the way he handled it last time someone tried.

It was offhand, just a throwaway comment from a guy near the starting line, half-laughing when he said, “Didn’t know you were bringing your girlfriend tonight.”

Wooyoung didn’t laugh. Didn’t even look your way. He just reached for his drink, shrugged once, and changed the subject like the thought didn’t even deserve space in his head. Like the idea of you being something more than what you already are was ridiculous.

You smiled, pretended you didn’t notice, but something in your chest went tight and stayed that way the rest of the night. It’s not like you expected him to correct the guy. Not like you expected him to say yeah, she’s mine in front of everyone. But still. The way he ducked the question entirely, like it was easier to pretend nothing existed at all, left you feeling just a little less wanted.

Even still, he makes it known. The jacket he tosses you without asking. The way he watches from across the crowd, eyes locked on you like a storm waiting to break. The way he always drives you home himself, even if it means leaving early.

He doesn’t call you his. But he acts like you are. And somehow, that contradiction is the part that’s starting to hurt. 

Because Wooyoung would rather die than have someone else think they have a chance with you.

Like the night at the food truck. You’re standing behind him, trying to decide if you want fries or a burger, when a guy from another team slides too close beside you. Tries to flirt. Tries to joke. Light, easy, harmless. But Wooyoung hears your polite laugh. The subtle shift of your body. He turns around and the look on his face silences everything around you. He doesn’t touch the guy. Doesn’t raise his voice.

Just says, “You always this brave, or is it a head injury thing?”

It’s calm. Dead calm. That terrifying kind of stillness that means danger’s already here. The guy stutters, laughs nervously, backs off fast. You’re quiet as Wooyoung orders for you both without asking what you want. He already knows.

Another time, you're out in public together, grabbing coffee, of all things. You're standing beside him in line, scrolling your phone, not paying attention when someone brushes too close behind you in the cramped café.

Wooyoung notices. And it's not subtle.

He shifts, steps between you and whoever the guy was, planting a hand flat on your lower back like a warning. His fingers are warm, rings cold, tattoo peeking from under his sleeve. His eyes cut across the room, jaw clenched tight. The guy moves. Fast. Like he can feel it too, that Wooyoung isn’t fucking playing anymore. He doesn’t talk much when it happens. Doesn’t shout, doesn’t cause scenes. 

Just steps in, makes it very clear without saying much at all: touch her and die.

Even in quieter moments, it’s there.

When you reach across the console to grab his hand, he laces your fingers together, tight, like he’s holding on for both of you. He walks you to your door every single time now. Doesn't leave until you’re inside, lights on. Waits for you to text him. If you forget, he calls. If you don’t answer, he shows up.

You once cut your finger in the kitchen, barely a scratch, but when you flinch and suck in a breath, he’s already there. Ripping a paper towel, pressing it gently to your skin.

“It’s fine,” you say.

He doesn’t answer. Just wraps it for you, checking it twice like you might bleed out. You see it in his eyes, it’s not about the cut. It’s the idea that you could be hurt when he wasn’t there. That he can’t protect you from everything.

Later, you find a box of bandages in his car. You didn’t put them there.

Even in bed, it’s different. Still intense. Still raw. Still him taking control, pushing you exactly where he wants you, but now there’s a tightness to it, like he needs to make sure you’re still here. He checks in more, holds you longer.

He kisses you when it’s over. Not just because it’s hot. But because he needs to. Needs to remind himself that you’re real and still wrapped up in his sheets and not leaving. Not yet. And he never says it, neither of you do, but it’s all there.

The way he glares at people who so much as look your way. The way he drives faster when you fall asleep in his car, like getting you somewhere safe is the most important thing in the world. The way his hand always finds your thigh when you’re beside him, not to tease, but to anchor himself.

Neither of you say it. Because if you say what it is, you might have to admit what it’s becoming.

And then you’d have to face the truth: That you were supposed to stay untethered. And he was never supposed to care this much.

***

You’ve been coming by the mechanic more often than you meant to.

It started casual, dropping off food, sitting on the hood of his car while he worked. Now it’s just… habit. Comfortable. Like muscle memory. No one bats an eye anymore when you stroll through the side door with a drink in hand and his name on your lips.

Today’s no different, at least, it shouldn’t be. You push open the rusted side gate, the sun hitting the back of your neck, and move past the usual row of busted-up cars. His car is here. You spot it immediately. You already know the license plate by heart.

It’s almost your last week in the city.

You haven’t told him yet.

You’ve meant to. You meant to today. You even practiced what to say on the way here, something light, something like a joke, even though there’s nothing funny about it. You just wanted to see how he’d react. Maybe you were hoping it’d tell you something.

Instead, you hear voices from the other side of the office wall. And suddenly, none of your plans matter.

You’re about to head toward the office when you hear voices, low and muffled through the cracked window. You pause without meaning to. It’s his coworker, the chatty one with a loud voice. You’ve seen him around. He’s always giving Wooyoung shit. He’s doing it now. He’s saying, “I don’t know, man. Feels risky. Letting someone get close like that.”

Wooyoung doesn’t answer right away.

The colleague keeps going, tone easy but serious. “I mean, it’s cool she hangs around, I like her. She’s not dramatic or clingy or anything. But you always said you don’t do the whole relationship thing.”

Another pause. A longer one.

Wooyoung’s voice finally comes, quiet, like he’s not really sure how much he wants to say. “Yeah. You’re right”

The colleague responds right away, voice teasing. “Come on. Don’t act like it’s not true. You’re not built for that shit, dude. You’d die if someone asked you to label anything.” He laughs again, louder this time. You hear a clink of a socket wrench hitting the metal table.

Wooyoung says something else too soft to catch.

The colleague snorts a little. “No, I remember what you said. You were all ‘yeah, she was cool, nice hookup, chill vibes, that’s it.’”

Wooyoung doesn’t laugh at that. Doesn’t argue either. He stays quiet.

And it’s that silence, that silence, that makes something tighten in your chest.

Because you know what this is. You knew walking into it. You knew from the first night when he didn’t ask your number and you didn’t offer. You both agreed, wordlessly, on what this wasn’t.

But lately… it’s felt like something more. Or maybe that was just you, reading too much into the way his hand would rest on your thigh even after everything was over. Or the way he always made sure you got home. Or how he never let anyone else so much as look at you sideways.

And still, when it mattered, when someone asked, he didn’t say anything. Not she’s not just a hookup. Not I like having her around. Not even yeah, it’s not like that.

Just silence.

You step back from the window before you can hear more. The drink in your hand is still cold. You bring it with you again and leave before anyone sees you. You don’t slam the gate. You don’t text him. You don’t say a word. You just vanish, like maybe you were never supposed to be there in the first place.

***

The sun is starting to set when your cousin calls. “You’re going home next week. You have to come to the party.”

You’re halfway through folding a pair of jeans, your suitcase open on the floor like it’s mocking you. Your Airbnb’s quiet mess, zippers half-pulled, makeup bags tossed to the side, a pair of heels you haven’t touched in weeks abandoned by the door.

“I don’t think I can,” you tell her, voice even. “Still a lot of packing left.”

There’s a pause on her end. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired.”

She doesn’t press, which you’re grateful for. You hang up after promising to text if you change your mind. Your phone buzzes again a few minutes later.

wooyoung: party’s still on?

You hesitate before answering.

you: yeah. go without me though. i’ve got a headache. go have fun, i’ll see you tomorrow maybe :)

You add the smiley like punctuation. Like proof that you’re fine. Like it’ll make him believe it. He replies quickly.

wooyoung: should I be worried?

You stare at the screen for a second too long, then type back:

you: no, go have fun. don’t worry about me

You set your phone face-down on the bed.

Across town, Wooyoung’s been sitting at the bar too long. The drink in front of him has gone warm. Condensation slicks down the sides of the glass, untouched, just like every conversation around him. People come and go, throwing smiles, bumping his shoulder, asking if he’s alright.

He shrugs them off. Nods once. Plays it cool.

But he’s checked his phone maybe six times in the last twenty minutes. Still nothing. No double text. No “changed my mind” or “come get me” or even just a stupid emoji. He keeps glancing toward the front door anyway, hoping you’ll walk through like you always do, unbothered, lowkey, dressed like you didn’t mean to wreck his whole night.

But the door doesn’t open.

He exhales, tips his head back against the wall behind the bar. The music is relentless, some overproduced club track bleeding through every surface, but his thoughts are louder.  And then, from a few stools down, like fate’s cruel hand, he hears your name. Not shouted. Not screamed across the club. Just mentioned in passing, carried casually from the girl standing a few feet away, and it makes his spine straighten.

“Well, it’s almost her last week here.” a girl says casually, voice raised just enough over the beat.

He doesn’t move, but his eyes shift. Three girls. Mid-conversation. Loud over the music but not enough to draw attention. Then one of them, your cousin. He remembers her. The same girl you ditched once to meet up with him instead.

“She flies out next week,” she says with a little laugh. “She was very clear from the start, just here for the summer, nothing permanent.”

His stomach drops. Next week.

Another girl blinks. “Right. That’s wild. It went by fast.”

“She’s been here since June,” your cousin adds, shaking her head fondly. “Kind of kept to herself most of the time. Said she just needed a break from everything. A reset. She said she wanted it low-key, didn’t want a big sendoff or anything. Just… come, live a little, leave.”

Wooyoung stands up.

He doesn't hesitate, doesn’t weigh his options or think about whether it’ll blow your cover, he doesn't even fucking care. He walks straight toward them, shoving his way past a group of guys to get to her. Your cousin turns, laughing mid-sentence, and then her face twists into startled confusion when she sees him.

“Wooyoung?”

He doesn’t wait. “What did you just say?”

Her brows crease. “About what?”

“You said she’s leaving.”

She blinks. “Y/N? Yeah… she’s going back home next week. Saturday, I think.”

His voice drops. “Why?”

Now she’s really confused. Her head tilts, but there’s no edge to her, just honest confusion. “I mean… she’s going back home? She was just here for the summer.”

Wooyoung swallows hard. Temporary. Like he was temporary.

The cousin squints a little. “Why are you-,?” She doesn’t finish. Wooyoung is already turning away.

Something hot flickers behind his ribs, deeper than confusion, heavier than jealousy. A fire that starts in his chest and spreads fast, scorching through every moment you spent in his passenger seat with his hand on your thigh like you belonged to him. Every time you smiled like you had time. Like you weren’t planning to vanish.

You didn’t tell him.

And with every step, his hands curl tighter into fists. Not from rage, from betrayal. Not because you’re leaving, but because you never gave him the chance to ask you to stay.

***

You’re perched on the edge of the bed, absentmindedly spinning your phone between your fingers. Not texting. Not calling. Just… holding it. The silence stretches, filled only by the low hum of the fan and the distant sound of kids playing outside.

A half-finished iced coffee sweats on the nightstand. You haven’t touched it in an hour.

Your eyes drift toward the sneakers by the door, the laces knotted from the last time you ran through the city barefoot after a night out. That night ended in his car. His laugh still echoes in your ears sometimes.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

You freeze. Three sharp raps against the door, no hesitation, no time to think. You walk to the door slowly, heart climbing your throat, hands slightly shaking. You open the door.

And there he is.

Wooyoung. Standing on your doorstep like a storm you forgot to prepare for. His jaw is tight. Eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them, like they’ve been chewing on a fire he can’t put out. He’s still in the clothes from the club, shirt slightly rumpled. One look at him and the walls you’ve spent the last twenty-four hours building start to crack.

He doesn’t ask to come in. He doesn’t smile.

“What the hell were you gonna do?” he says, voice low, tight with something brittle. “Just leave?”

He knows.

You open your mouth, close it. The hallway feels too narrow. The room behind you too full of all the things you’re not saying. “I wanted to tell you,” you say, barely above a whisper.

His eyes narrow. “When, exactly? When you're already on a flight? After I'm wondering why you’re not picking up anymore, when I’m standing around like a fucking idiot waiting for you to show up like you always do?”

You flinch. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

His head jerks like you hit him. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

You inhale sharply. And it all rushes out.

“I didn’t think it mattered because you’ve been telling me for weeks, that whatever this is, it was never going to be real to you,” you say, voice shaking. “Every time someone mentioned the word relationship, you changed the subject. Joked it off. Acted like it was a disease you’d catch if you got too close.”

He flinches.

“You don’t know what that feels like,” you go on, eyes stinging now. “To be there with you. Around your people. At the shop. At those stupid races. Knowing everyone knows what this is, but still… I’m nothing. I’m not yours. I never will be.”

“That’s not-” he starts, but you cut him off.

“You wanted me,” you say. “You want me. But not really. Not in the way that matters. You wanted the thrill, the adrenaline, the sex, the way I look sitting on the hood of your car. But you didn’t want me. Not all of me. Not the kind of want that keeps someone.” You laugh, bitter and low. “Do you know how fucking awful that feels? Like the thought of being with me was the worst fucking thing in the world.”

His jaw clenches, but he says nothing.

“You made me feel like I was asking for too much by just… existing. Like being wanted, really wanted, was too much to ask from you.”

He steps forward, hands balled at his sides, struggling to breathe like the weight of your words are crushing his ribs.

His laugh is bitter. “You think you’re the only one hurt here? You were gonna leave without a word like I was nothing. Like I’m just a pit stop until you find something better.”

He stops, looks at you with eyes that are almost wild. “I’m not good at this, at talking, at feelings, at... anything like that. Hell, I never thought I needed to be. I told myself I’d never need anyone. I built these walls so fucking high, so no one could get close enough to tear me apart.”

His jaw clenches. “But then you show up, and it’s like everything I thought I knew gets smashed to shit. You weren’t supposed to be the one I gave a damn about. You weren’t supposed to be the one who made me wanna drop my guard. But you did.” He swears under his breath, fists clenched. “And now? Now I find out you’re leaving, just like that. No warning, no fight, no ‘hey, I’m scared, I wanna talk.’ Nothing. Just packing up and going like I was never even here.”

His voice cracks just a little, anger tangled with something rawer. “Do you know how it feels to be the idiot? The one who let himself hope, who let himself need someone, only to get punched in the gut when they bail?”

He laughs bitterly. “I don’t know if I’m pissed at you or myself more. Maybe both.” He takes a step closer, voice low but fierce. “But I do know this, If I’m here, if I let you in, it’s because you meant something. Because it meant something to me for the first damn time ever.”

You try to speak, but he cuts you off.

“Save it. I don’t wanna hear the excuses. I get it, you didn’t think it mattered. That’s exactly the problem.”

He takes a step back, a dead laugh escaping him, low and bitter. “Well, congratulations. You just showed me what it feels like to be on the other side. To be lied to. To be played.” He stares at you, eyes cold now, voice hard. “Hope it was worth it.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turns sharply and storms away.

***

For the whole week, the tears don’t stop. They come uninvited, sometimes silent, sometimes raw and shaking, but always leaving that hollow ache buried deep inside your chest. You find yourself crying in the quiet moments: sitting on the edge of the bed, in the shower with water running over your face, staring out the window when the world moves on without you.

Each morning, you wake swollen-eyed, sun pouring through the curtains, bright and uncaring, as if nothing has changed. But everything has shattered. You miss him so deeply it twists your stomach into knots, a sickness that won’t ease. The nights are the worst. 

You also couldn’t keep hiding it from your cousin anymore. Or, she figured it out on herself. “You’ve been off lately.” your cousin had said, eying you up and down.

You hesitated. “I’m just tired.”

She arched a brow. “Is this about him?”

You froze. “Who?”

“Wooyoung.” She didn’t say it mean, just like she’s trying to piece something together. “I don’t know what’s going on, but the way he looked when I mentioned you leaving… It was weird. Like he knows you more than you’ve told me.”

You couldn’t look her in the eyes. Seconds away from breaking into a full sob for the twelfth time that day. 

“Anyway,” she said quickly, waving it off. “Whatever it is, whatever it was, just let it go tonight, okay? Party like it’s the last night of your life.”

And you’ve continued to try and enjoy your last days here, but it’s impossible. Your head is a mess, thoughts crashing and spinning, none of them making sense. Should you text him goodbye? Call him? Pretend none of it happened? But what if silence is worse?

You pace the apartment, heart pounding in your chest, every breath thick with uncertainty. You don’t know what you want, or maybe you do, but you’re too scared to admit it.

Eventually, you drag yourself toward the door, ready to leave the place for a minute, to get some fresh air and maybe clarity. You open the door, but something steals your attention. A folded piece of paper taped carefully to the wood.

Curious, you pull the letter free and unfold it. Your breath catches the moment your eyes land on the handwriting, unmistakably his. The paper feels heavier than it is, like every word inside carries weight you weren’t prepared for.

***

It’s now late evening.

You haven’t moved from your spot in hours. Curled into the corner of the couch, knees hugged to your chest. Still haven’t touched the tea you made earlier. It’s cold now. Forgotten. Like everything else.

The letter sits on the table in front of you, creased, slightly crumpled at the corners from your fingers folding and unfolding it again and again. You know every line by heart, but your eyes keep scanning it, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something easier. Something less devastating.

You almost grab your keys three times. You almost text him. You almost call.

But it’s like there's a wall of glass between you and the right decision, and you just… stare through it. Paralyzed. Terrified that if you make a move, it’ll shatter wrong.

He bared his soul in that letter. And you haven’t done a damn thing. You hate yourself for how long you’ve been sitting here, frozen in uncertainty. One half of you screams to run to him. The other whispers all the reasons you shouldn’t, how complicated it is, how much you still don’t know, how you’re still leaving regardless because your life isn’t in this city. You can’t stay. 

But then your phone rings.

A harsh buzz against the silence. You jolt upright, heart lurching, eyes narrowing at the unknown number lighting up your screen. You hesitate only a second before answering.

“Hello?”

There’s a pause on the other end, filled with heavy breathing and the sound of wind. “Hey-, sorry, shit, I know this is random, but you’re the only person I thought might come. It’s about Wooyoung.”

Your heart stops. You sit up straighter. “What about him?”

“Something’s wrong,” the voice says. Young, male, familiar in a distant way. One of the crew, maybe. You’d met him once. “He left not long ago for a race. Not one of ours. This one’s… rough. Real shady crowd. No rules, no spotters. Just pure fucking chaos. We tried to stop him but-, he's gone. He’s fucking gone.”

The room spins. You grip the edge of the table to stay upright. “Gone where?” you whisper, voice sharp.

The guy on the other end swears again, fast and breathless. “We don’t know exactly. We lost his signal halfway through the city. He left alone,” The guy’s voice breaks, low and anxious. “He wasn’t listening to anyone. He-, he wasn’t himself, okay? He sounded... off. Like he didn’t give a fuck.”

Your stomach drops. Ice seeps into your spine.

“I didn’t know who else to call,” he continues, breath shaky. “But I thought-, if anyone could talk him down, or stop him-, fuck, I thought maybe it was you.”

You’re already on your feet. Your coat is halfway on. You grab your bag with one hand, shove your keys in your pocket with the other. “Where is it?”

“We don’t know exactly. But I’m sending you the last pin we had on his phone before it cut out. We got a few guys out looking for him, we can come pick you up.” 

You don’t even know what information you’re giving him. You just know you agreed to whatever it took to find him, end the call and bolt out the door, your blood pounding like war drums in your ears.

Somewhere unknown, Wooyoung steps out of his car. He doesn’t belong here.

He lights his second cigarette with the last flick of a dying lighter, cupping the flame with trembling hands. The smoke scratches down his throat, a pathetic distraction from the coil of chaos tightening in his chest. He leans against his car, the only clean machine in a sea of monsters, stripped down, souped-up beasts patched with rust, dents, and blood.

This isn’t his turf. This isn’t some friendly underground run on the edge of town. This is hell. The kind of place no one talks about. Where names don’t matter, and losing means more than wrecked metal. It’s the kind of place where engines scream louder than people, where egos shatter on the pavement, and no one gives a fuck who makes it home.

And he’s alone. No crew. No backup. No one knows where he is and that’s the whole point. Because if anyone saw him like this, they’d ask questions. They’d see the truth behind the glassy eyes, the clenched teeth. They’d see he’s already come apart.

But he’s here to forget his thoughts. To feel something. No matter what it is.

Someone laughs nearby, short, sharp. Like a knife sliding out of a sheath. Wooyoung doesn’t turn, not right away. But he can feel eyes on him. He’s too clean. Too obvious. A target painted in neon across his back.

Footsteps crunch on gravel. “Didn’t expect to see golden boy down here. You’re lost, sweetheart?” The voice is male, rough. The kind that’s been marinated in alcohol and old fights. “Or you finally decided you wanna die somewhere interesting?”

Wooyoung lifts his eyes slowly. A man steps into the dim wash of flickering floodlights, heavyset, sleeves torn off, scars up his arms like tally marks. A long one slices through his cheekbone and disappears into his beard. His fists are wrapped in old tape, stained with something dark.

He smirks at the sight of Wooyoung’s face. “I remember you. Pretty boy from the East Strip. You used to race clean, yeah? Thought you were better than this.”

“I’m not here to talk,” Wooyoung says flatly.

The man chuckles. “Yeah, I figured. Heard some talk. Heard your little pretty thing ain’t been around lately. That’s why you’re out here? Trying to forget her?.”  

Wooyoung’s entire body goes still.

Scar-Knuckles keeps going, oblivious or cruel, maybe both. “She was a real fine thing, too. Damn shame. Wouldn't mind taking her out for a ride.”

“You say one more fucking word about her,” Wooyoung growls, stepping forward.

Scar-Knuckles doesn’t back off. His grin just stretches wider. “Or what? You’ll throw a punch? You think anyone here cares if I beat your face into the asphalt? This place doesn’t give a fuck about you or your sob story.”

Behind him, engines scream, test runs or warnings. The smell of gas and rage fills the air. “No one here’s gonna come looking if you don’t walk away from this, you know that?” the man says. “You lose out here, you lose everything. Car. Money. Life. Depends on who’s watching. Or who you piss off.”

Wooyoung steps even closer, eyes locked with his. “That supposed to scare me?”

Scar-Knuckles stares at him for a long second. Then he laughs again, colder now. “No. I think you already decided nothing matters.” Scar-Knuckles gives a soft chuckle and steps back, letting the darkness swallow him. “Go ahead then. Race your heart out. Let’s see what’s left of you when this is over.”

The man walks off with a shrug, leaving behind the echo of truth.

Wooyoung breathes hard through his nose, blinking against the sting of smoke and his own exhaustion. He gets in the car, slams the door, and rests his forehead against the steering wheel for half a second. His hands are shaking. Not from fear, at least not fear for himself. He’s past that.

He exhales and turns the key. The engine snarls to life like it’s hungry for blood.

And if the road ahead wants to kill him? He’ll fucking let it.

You’ve been driving for hours. Your phone is clutched in your hand like a lifeline, screen cracked at the corner from how hard you’d thrown it earlier, after the fifth voicemail you left him, each one angrier, shakier than the last.

The streets blur outside the windshield. You’ve checked every place he used to go when he wanted to be alone. Back lots. Rooftops. The edge of the highway where you once caught him chain-smoking, staring at nothing. A crew member is driving now, one hand clenched tight around the wheel, the other scrolling through group chats and rumor threads on his phone.

You’ve never felt this level of rage and terror at the same time. You want to scream, to hit something, to shake Wooyoung until he realizes what the hell he’s doing. But more than anything, you just want him alive. Breathing. Standing in front of you so you can yell at him properly for pulling this shit.

“He’s never done this before,” The crew member mutters, jaw tight. “Not without backup. Not without at least one of us watching his back.”

That’s what scares you the most. You’ve been in enough of those street scenes to know, some places don’t play fair. Some places, if your car flips, no one stops. If you piss off the wrong people, they don’t argue. They retaliate.

“Come on,” you whisper under your breath, staring at the dark horizon like you can summon him out of it. “Come on, you idiot. Where the fuck are you?”

The crew member rattles off a list of names. Small-time crews, illegal races still rumored to be active tonight. You recognize only half of them. The further the names go, the worse it gets. Places known for sabotage. For fights breaking out mid-race. For bets that go beyond money. For people who don’t give a fuck if you crash and burn.

You turn to him, breath catching. “Let’s go to the worst one.”

He raises a brow. “You sure?”

“No.” Your throat tightens. “But I need to find him.” Even if it drains every last piece of you. Even if you fall apart the moment you lay eyes on him. Because right now, the alternative is worse.

Right now, the alternative is never seeing him again.

You don’t say much as the car swerves through another dark stretch of road. Every second feels like it’s scraping your nerves raw. Your knee bounces restlessly, your arms crossed so tightly over your chest they hurt. “Fuck,” you whisper, voice barely holding together. “I don’t know where else to look.”

But then he slams his foot on the brakes. “Wait-, what the fuck is that?”

You lurch forward as the car skids to a halt on the side of the road, dust clouding around you like smoke. Your eyes snap forward.

And you see it.

Off the edge of the road, maybe thirty feet down a barely-visible side trail eaten up by weeds and mud and fog, there’s a car. The shape of the car is unmistakable. Low, black, dented on the passenger side door from a scrape weeks ago. You’ve spent too many nights leaning against that car, riding in it, practically living in it. You know it like you know him. And it’s just sitting there, quiet. Still.

“That’s him,” you breathe. “That’s his car.”

He curses. “That road’s not even on the map.”

He reverses hard and jerks the wheel to take the turn, tires grinding against the gravel, kicking up dirt as you veer off the main path. The closer you get, the harder your pulse hammers, because the lights are still on but no one is moving. No music. No engine running. Just the car. Waiting. Alone.

The moment he slams the brakes, you’re out the door and running, feet crunching through weeds and dirt.

And then you see him.

Leaning back against the hood, one foot on the ground, cigarette half-burned between his fingers. His head is tilted back, eyes closed like he’s been there for hours, maybe longer. He looks like the ghost of himself, silhouetted in the mist and high beams. Still. Dangerous. Untouchable.

He looks down as you approach. Sees you. And doesn’t move. Like you’re a hallucination. Like he’s not sure you’re real.

The closer you get, the more your fury uncoils.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” you scream, slamming both hands into his chest with all your weight. “You came out here alone? You shut off your phone? You didn’t tell anyone where you were going?!”

He doesn’t move. Not at first. Just stares at you like you’re something he dreamed up in a fever. Like you couldn’t possibly be real. 

You don’t give him the chance to speak. 

“I’ve been looking for you all night,” you yell, hitting him again. “We all have! You could’ve gotten hurt-, or worse-, and no one would’ve even known where to start! You think you’re invincible, is that it?! You think nothing can fucking touch you?!”

Wooyoung just stands there, staring at you like you're a ghost. His cigarette is long forgotten, half-burned, dropped to the dirt near his boot. 

“You’re not!” you snap. “You’re not invincible, Wooyoung. You’re just a fucking idiot with a death wish!” you bite out, trembling all over. “You could’ve died, Wooyoung. You could’ve left me-,” You choke on the word, a sob rising in your throat before you can swallow it down. “-left me here, alone.”

He flinches. That word punches the air from his lungs. But you’re not done.

“I came here thinking maybe you were in a ditch somewhere. I came here thinking I might have to pull your body out of a wreck. I hate you so fucking much right now-” You press your hands to his chest again, less forcefully now. Your fingers tremble, curling into the fabric of his jacket like you’re holding yourself together.

“I love you, you idiot.”

The words come out before you can stop them. Raw. Unfiltered. Not a confession, not a whisper in the dark. A curse. A scream. A truth ripped from your chest.

“I fucking love you, and you didn’t even think-” You shake your head, voice cracking. “You didn’t think about what that would do to me.”

Wooyoung stares at you like the earth just shifted under his feet. And that’s when he finally moves. His hand lifts, hesitant, like he thinks he might scare you off if he touches you wrong, and rests against your wrist, where your fingers are curled into his jacket. His grip is gentle. So fucking gentle.

“You’re here,” he says, voice low, rough. Like he doesn’t believe it.

You’re both shaking now, but for very different reasons. Your hands rise, cup his jaw, your thumb brushing over the corner of his mouth where he’s biting the inside of his cheek, trying not to fall apart.

“I love you,” you say again, softer this time. “You absolute fucking idiot. Don’t you ever pull something like this again.”

His breath shudders out.

And then he moves. Grabs your waist. And then he kisses you, fast, hard, desperate. Like he’s never going to get the chance again. His hands slide down to your hips, fingers digging in like he's grounding himself. 

“I love you,” he whispers back into your mouth. “Fuck, I love you.” His mouth is on yours again before the last word leaves his lips, devouring the space between you. Your back hits the hood of his car with a thud. You don’t flinch. You arch into him.

“Tell me this is real,” he whispers, burying his face in your neck. “Tell me you’re not gonna disappear when I wake up.”

You cup his face and make him look at you. “I’m right here,” you say.

The way he kisses you after that feels like the end of the world. It’s not sweet. It’s not soft. It’s fire meeting fire. Chaos kissing recklessness. All your rage and fear and need slamming into him like a fist. You taste the danger on him. The gasoline. The smoke. The guilt. But underneath it, he's warm. He's alive.

And you’re still here.

He's breathing against your mouth now, kissing you back like he just realized he still has something to lose.

The door slams shut behind you, and he doesn’t waste a second.

His mouth is on yours in a heartbeat, hot, frantic, desperate. Like he needs you to forgive him through the kiss, like he’s trying to make you forget what he just put you through. You clutch at his jacket, pulling him closer, grounding yourself in the solid heat of him.

“I thought I lost you,” you breathe against his mouth, voice trembling with the aftershock. “You fucking idiot, I thought-,”

“I know.” His voice breaks. “I know, baby. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Your back hits the door with a soft thud, but he doesn’t press hard. Not now. He cages you in with his body, but it’s not about possession, it’s surrender. He kisses you slower now, deeper, like he’s tasting the words you screamed at him earlier. I love you.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he groans into your skin, the only thing he says, and even that sounds like a confession. His jacket’s half-off already, pushed down by your greedy fingers, and he shrugs it off without pulling away, never breaking contact. His hands are everywhere, your waist, your hips, your thighs. Like he can’t decide what to touch first, what to memorize.

When his lips dip lower again, dragging down your throat like he’s starved, you tilt your head back to give him more. He takes it like an offering.

“You’re gonna let me make this up to you,” he mutters between kisses, dropping to his knees with a thud that echoes in your spine. His hands grip your thighs, fingertips branding you through the fabric of your pants. “Right here. Right fucking now.”

And you let him, because you don’t want apologies.

You want him. Every reckless inch. Every frantic breath. Every desperate kiss he can’t stop giving you.

His mouth drops to your hipbone first. Not to tease, he’s past that. You feel the way he exhales against your thigh, shaky, reverent. Then his hands hook under the waistband of your pants. His fingertips press into your skin as he drags them down.

He presses his cheek against your thigh for a second, breathing you in. “God, I missed this. Missed you. I couldn’t fucking think straight.”

When your panties catch at your hips, his eyes flick up, and that look, wrecked, pleading, makes your breath catch in your throat. He doesn’t say a word. He just tugs the last layer down and off, letting it fall to the floor like it doesn’t matter, because it doesn’t. He guides your thigh to rest on his shoulder, giving him better access to you.

And then he leans in.

His tongue flicks out to taste you, one deliberate stroke that sends a sharp gasp ripping through your lungs. You grab at his hair, your hips twitching forward, but he holds you firm, anchoring you against the door with those strong hands on your hips.

His tongue finally finds your clit, and it’s slow. A slow, dragging stroke that has your spine arching away from the wood behind you. His lips close around it, warm and wet, and the sudden suction makes your legs tremble.

“Fuck, you taste so good-, so sweet, baby, fuck,” he pants between licks. He licks and sucks with maddening control, every stroke perfectly placed, like he knows your body better than you do.

And he does. Fuck, he does.

He tilts his head slightly, and the next pass of his tongue has you gasping, sharp and broken. Your hands tighten in his hair, tugging without meaning to. He dips his tongue lower, tasting you fully, deeply, a slow glide up through your folds before sucking your clit back into his mouth again.

You can’t breathe. You can’t think. “Shit-, fuck, right there-,” Your voice is cracked open, raw. 

Your entire body is on fire, heat coiling low in your belly, thighs shaking, breath coming out in ragged moans. He lets one hand drift between your legs now, two fingers slipping between your folds with ease. He strokes you slowly, coating them, until he finally sinks one inside.

The stretch makes you gasp. His mouth doesn’t stop. “Yeah, come on,” he growls, the vibrations of his voice shooting straight through your core. “Let me feel it. Come on my face, baby. Give it to me.” He curls his finger, searching for that spot he knows so well, and the moment he finds it, you fall apart.

Your knees buckle. Your head hits the door with a soft thud. Your cry is half-sob, half-moan, your whole body trembling as the orgasm rips through you. He holds you there through it, mouth never leaving your clit, finger still stroking inside you in perfect rhythm. 

You’re panting by the time he pulls back, mouth and chin soaked, his eyes black with lust and something darker, devotion, maybe. Something that looks too much like love. He rises slowly, and your gaze drops to the way his chest rises and falls, how his fingers flex at his sides like he’s still holding himself back.

You barely have time to catch your breath before he lifts you, hands locking around the backs of your thighs, arms straining with need. Your legs wrap around him instinctively, and your back slams softly against the door as he catches your weight. His mouth finds yours again, and this kiss is deep. 

He groans into your mouth when your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling hard. “I should be mad at you,” you pant between kisses. “I should fucking hate you for scaring me like that.”

“I’d let you,” he whispers against your lips, dragging them open with his tongue, tasting the words. “I’d let you do anything, baby. Just don’t leave me.”

He turns, carrying you down the hallway, kissing you like it’s killing him not to be inside you already. The walk is messy, his lips never leave yours, your hands gripping the collar of his shirt, his fingers pressing bruises into your thighs from how tightly he holds you. 

“Jesus, I missed this,” he groans. “Missed the way you feel. The way you sound. I’ve been going fucking insane without you.”

He nearly kicks the door open.

The second your back hits the bed, he follows, never letting go. His hands are everywhere, sliding up your ribs, pushing your shirt up, cupping your breasts through the fabric with a groan.

“So fucking perfect,” he murmurs, burying his face between them, sucking the curve of one, then the other. He strips himself, rips the shirt over his head and tosses it somewhere behind him, then goes for yours, his mouth glued to your skin the moment it’s off. 

Your fingers are shaking as they move to his jeans, tugging the button open, sliding the zipper down. You push the denim off his hips and he kicks it away, breath ragged. His cock springs free, flushed and heavy and leaking at the tip. You bite your lip at the sight, thighs squeezing together.

“I need to be inside you,” he rasps, crawling up your body like he owns it. “Need to feel you.”

You nearly cry from how empty you are, grabbing at him, wrapping your legs around his hips. “Then do it,” you whisper against his lips. “Don’t you fucking dare tease me right now.”

That earns a growl low in his throat. He fists his cock, lines it up, and presses in slow. The stretch steals the air from your lungs. It’s deep, too deep after going so long without it, and your head hits the pillow with a strangled moan. “Oh my God, you feel-, fuck-”

“Say it,” he pants, burying himself all the way. “Say who you belong to.”

“You,” you gasp, hands clawing at his back. “You, always-”

He starts to move and it’s chaos after that. The rhythm is rough, relentless, desperate. His hips snap into yours like he’s chasing every second he lost, every moment you spent not tangled up in him. His hands are on your jaw, your throat, your waist, gripping like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you all over again.

“Turn around for me,” he whispers suddenly. “Wanna see you ride me.”

You barely register the words before he pulls out, already reaching for you. He tugs you up by the hips and you straddle him without thinking, bracing your hands on his chest as he guides his cock back to your entrance.

“Take it slow,” he says, voice low, hands gripping your thighs. “Let me watch you.”

You do. You sink down onto him slowly, gasping at the stretch from this angle. His head falls back, lips parting, chest rising in heavy breaths as you take every inch of him. He doesn’t move, just lets you settle, eyes flicking down to where you’re joined.

“Shit,” he groans, hands sliding up your waist. “You-, fuck, you look so good like this.”

You start to roll your hips, finding that rhythm again, slow and grinding. His hands drift everywhere, your thighs, your waist, your back, your ass, pulling you down harder when you move just right. His voice is wrecked now, quiet curses and praises tumbling out between groans.

“Just like that, baby. Fuck, ride me-, ride me just like that.”

You grind down harder, hands splayed on his chest, riding that perfect drag of him, the way he hits so deep like this, the way his cock twitches inside you every time you moan his name.

“Feels so good,” you whisper, voice cracking. “You feel so fucking good-”

He sits up suddenly, mouth hot against your collarbone, arms wrapped tight around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. One hand slips down to your ass, gripping hard, and he moves with you, deeper, harder, like he needs to carve himself into you.

Your breath shatters as you clutch his shoulders, shaking under the weight of it all. “I should’ve told you,” you choke out against his skin, voice breaking apart. “I should’ve said something, I didn’t know how-, fuck, I was so confused-”

He mouths at your throat, your jaw, your cheek, but you can’t stop now. You’re unravelling.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” you cry, hands shaking as you hold onto him. “It wasn’t supposed to be this. I was only supposed to be here for the summer-, I thought I could leave-, I thought I could fuck you and feel nothing, but you-, God, you-”

His mouth finds yours before you can say anything more. Kisses you like he’s trying to memorize it. Like he already knows. His hand slips into your hair, keeping you close, and when he finally pulls back, his voice is rough but steady.

“I don’t care where you go,” he says, forehead pressed to yours. “I’ll love you anyway. No matter where you are. I’ll fucking love you from anywhere.” Then he thrusts up harder, making you cry out, and everything gets sharper. Faster. Wetter. Needier.

That’s when it breaks.

“I’m sorry,” you cry out, your voice cracking open around the words. “I’m so sorry-, I didn’t mean to-, I didn’t mean to fall like this, fuck-” You’re shaking in his arms, tears hot on your cheeks, your fingers digging into his back like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you let go. “Didn’t think you’d want me like this. I didn’t think-”

“Too late,” he growls, voice almost breaking, and he holds you tighter, thrusts deeper, grounding you in him. Sweat beads on his forehead, his jaw clenched, neck straining, but his eyes are locked on yours like he’s memorizing this, memorizing you. “You’re mine,” he groans, voice wrecked as his hands grip your hips, keeping you moving, guiding you harder. “You always fucking were.”

Your clit brushes against the taut muscle of his abdomen with every thrust, sending sparks skittering down your spine. Your whole body starts to tighten, pulse quickening, breath catching.

“Fuck, I’m close,” you gasp, voice pitched high, wrecked. Your nails rake down his back. “Harder, fuck, right there-”

He wraps one arm around your back to hold you flush against him, grinding into you so deep it makes your thighs tremble. “I got you, baby,” he growls. “I got you. Come for me.” He grabs your face with one hand, pulling you down into a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth and raw emotion. 

You break the kiss, moaning as you ride him faster. “I love you,” you whisper, voice cracking. 

“I love you,” he breathes against your mouth, like it’s a vow. “God, I love you.”

That’s what does it.

You shatter around him with a cry, clutching his body like he’s the only thing anchoring you to the earth. His cock pulses deep inside you, stretching you wide, the thick drag of him enough to push you to the edge all over again.

“Shit, fuck, baby-,” he chokes, and then he’s spilling inside you with a broken sound, grinding into you as he pumps thick and hot, ropes of cum flooding your tight, soaked heat. His fingers dig into your hips, holding you there as his body jerks through every last twitch of release.

You’re both panting, still clinging to each other, your chest pressed to his, your face buried in the crook of his neck. His heart’s pounding so hard you can feel it against your own. His hands stay on your back, sliding up and down, stroking your skin. 

You’re still joined, still shaking, still wrapped around each other like you can’t believe it finally happened.

Because this wasn’t just sex.

This was the shift.

The one where everything changed, where love stopped being a dangerous thought and started being the truth, spoken between broken kisses and whispered confessions, claimed through every thrust, every gasp, every slow grind of your bodies trying to say what words can’t hold.

***

You were supposed to leave Saturday.

But then you saw the way he looked at you, like losing you would destroy him. Like he’d just found something worth crashing for. So you changed your ticket. Just three more days.

Three more days with him. Three more days of being completely, wildly, his. And he doesn’t waste a second of them.

He keeps you in his bed and barely lets you come up for air. He fucks you like he’s starving, like he’s never going to get enough of you, because he knows he won’t. You come apart under his mouth, his hands, his voice in your ear whispering mine while he pulls you over the edge again and again.

He moans your name like it’s holy. Tells you he loves you between kisses, between thrusts, in the shower while shampoo runs down your back. You say it back every time. You mean it more every time.

You wear his jacket everywhere. Like it’s a flag. Like it’s armor. His crew barely blinks anymore.

At the races, you’re glued to his side. He spins you into his space, your back pressed to his chest, one hand resting heavy across your lower stomach. His fingers tap against your waistband like a warning. You’re his center of gravity, his magnet, his anchor.

And he’s not subtle about it. He’s got one hand on you at all times, like someone might be stupid enough to try something. His eyes track every guy that lingers too long, like he’s daring them to make a move, just so he can remind them exactly who the fuck you belong to.

He doesn’t just show you off, he marks you with every touch. Pulls you in by the belt loops, kisses you hard in front of everyone, talks to you with that low voice that turns your insides molten. He’s not sweet with it, not shy. He’s proud. Like claiming you is the boldest, smartest thing he’s ever done.

And you? You kiss him at red lights. Whisper filthy things in his ear just to watch his jaw clench. You’ve never been more yourself. Never felt more wanted.

It’s messy. Loud. Bare. Real. The sex is addictive. The love is worse.

He holds you like he’s scared you’ll disappear every time you fall asleep. You run your fingers through his hair and pretend you’re not counting down the days in your head. He tells you you’ll be okay when you leave.

But you both know that’s a lie.

Your last night in the city feels like a fever dream. He keeps you in bed for hours, touching you like it’s the last time, because it is. He doesn’t hold back. Neither do you. You cry a little. He kisses it away. When you finally collapse together, bodies soaked in sweat and love, he holds you tighter than ever and doesn’t let go until morning.

And then it’s time.

The morning you leave, it rains.

Not enough to drown the city, just enough to make everything feel heavier. Dimmer. Like the world knows you’re about to break your own heart. His arm is heavy across your waist, one leg thrown over yours, his nose pressed to the curve of your neck like he’s trying to memorize your scent. You feel the steady thump of his heart against your back, strong and fast, like he never really fell asleep.

You don’t move. You can’t. Because if you do, it’ll be real.

You let yourself have one more minute. One more heartbeat of pretending this is just another morning, just another day where you’ll stay in his bed until noon, steal his shirt, kiss him slow and lazy like you’ve got forever.

But you don’t.

He stirs when you shift. His fingers curl tighter around your waist like he already knows. “No,” he rasps, voice wrecked with sleep and something heavier. “Don’t.”

“I have to,” you whisper, swallowing hard. Your throat burns. His hand slides up your side beneath the sheets, warm and possessive, tracing every inch he already knows by heart. He presses a kiss behind your ear and then another to your bare shoulder, lips lingering. You turn in his arms and he’s already looking at you. His eyes are swollen with sleep but open, searching your face like he’s trying to carve it into his memory. You reach up to trace his jaw, soft and slow, and the second your fingers graze his skin, he leans in.

The kiss is gentle. Painfully so. There’s no hunger in it, just grief. The kind that sits low in your stomach and makes your chest feel tight. And when he pushes the sheets down and moves between your thighs, it’s not fast, not frantic.

It’s reverent.

When he pushes into you, it’s quiet but not silent. There’s breathless gasps and whispered names. Little nothings and everything at once. He whispers I’ll miss you into your skin. You breathe don’t forget me into his mouth. He makes love to you in the grey morning light, slow and devastating. There’s no performance, no rush. Just his mouth on your neck, your shoulder, your chest. His hands gripping your hips like he can anchor you here a little longer. When you come, you clutch his back like you’re scared you won’t feel him again, and he kisses your tears without even teasing you for them.

When it’s over, he stays inside you as long as he can. Breathing heavy against your neck, arms wrapped around your back. You just lie there, tangled up in sheets and sweat and each other, listening to the minutes tick away.

“I should get up.” you say softly.

“No.”

You huff a laugh into his neck. “I’m gonna miss the flight.”

“Good.” He says it like a reflex. You lift your head and meet his eyes.

“You know I have to go.”

“I know.” He cups your jaw, thumb tracing the edge of your cheekbone. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Eventually, you pull yourself from the warmth of his bed. Pull on yesterday’s clothes. Start shoving things back into your bag. It feels mechanical. Distant. Like you’re packing someone else’s life. He watches you the whole time. Silent, jaw clenched. Then he steps out of the room, just for a second, and comes back holding the leather jacket.

His jacket.

The one that’s been through hell and back with him. The one that smells like gasoline and wind and everything he is. He holds it out. Doesn’t speak.

You freeze. “You’re giving me this?”

He shrugs. Looks away, jaw tight. “What, you thought I’d let my girlfriend fly across the country without it?”

Girlfriend.

The word sucker punches you right in the chest. Not because it’s new, you’ve both known what you are, but because hearing him say it like it’s obvious, like it’s real, undoes you completely.

Your throat burns. “Say that again.”

He meets your eyes. “You’re my girlfriend.”

Your lip trembles. He notices. Steps forward and cups your face with both hands.

“You’re mine,” he says, softer now. “I don’t care where you go. You’re still mine.”

You drive to the airport in his car. Of course you do. There’s no way he’d let you leave the city in anything else.

His hand stays on your thigh the entire ride, thumb brushing slow circles into your skin. His knuckles are white on the wheel, jaw tight, eyes locked on the road like it’s the only thing keeping him from turning around and driving the opposite way.

He doesn’t say much.

You do.

You talk, not because the words matter, but because the silence feels like a countdown. You ramble about airport food, how you’ll probably get something stupid like a soggy sandwich. You joke about your job, how it’s going to eat you alive the second you clock back in. You even try to make him laugh by telling him how weird it’ll be to sleep without the sound of engines in your dreams.

His fingers tighten on your thigh once, and you know it’s coming before he even opens his mouth. “You could stay.”

Your heart stutters. You stare ahead. The traffic light turns green. “I can’t,” you say quietly.

“Don’t say ‘can’t,’” he mutters. “You can do anything.”

You reach for his hand on your thigh. Squeeze it hard. “You know I want to.”

He exhales, almost like a laugh. It’s not a happy one. “I know.”

You lean your head back against the seat, eyes fixed on the side of his face. “I have a life back there,” you say. “My job, my apartment, my family…”

“I know,” he says again. But this time his voice is softer. Distant. Like maybe he’s already watching you walk away.

The rain gets heavier. A full-on downpour now.

When he finally pulls up to the airport drop-off, everything looks washed out, the sky, the pavement, the shape of people dragging suitcases beneath umbrellas. It all feels unreal. In a few more minutes, you’ll be nothing but a silhouette walking away through security. And he’ll be just a boy behind the glass, watching everything he wants disappear.

Your hand slips from his, and even that feels like too much, like a wound tearing open. You reach for your bag in the backseat and open the door before the storm of emotion inside you can make your legs freeze.

The rain hasn’t let up, but neither has he.

Wooyoung is out of the car in an instant, rounding the front before you can even lift your suitcase. He takes it from your hand like always, like muscle memory, like second nature.

He doesn’t speak much as you both walk through the terminal, but his hand doesn’t leave the small of your back. He keeps you tucked close, his fingers spread possessively across your side like he’s still trying to convince the universe that you’re his.

Every time you glance up at him, his expression is unreadable. Stoic. But you know him now. You know what it means when his jaw locks like that, when his throat moves like he’s swallowing something back. You know what it means when he won’t look directly at you too long, because if he does, he might not be able to look away.

Check-in. Baggage drop. Security line.

The minutes disappear too fast.

He stares at you like he’s trying to etch you into memory. Like he can’t decide which part of you to commit to first, the curve of your mouth, the crease between your brows, the tears welling in your lashes that you’re trying so hard to blink away.

He exhales hard through his nose. He steps forward, crowds into your space, and cups your face with both hands like he’s trying to hold you in place, to stop time, to stop you.

“Can’t believe I’m letting my girlfriend get on a fucking plane without me.”

Your stomach turns over. You choke on a laugh that’s more sob than smile. “I’ll come back.”

“You better,” he says, voice breaking on the edge of it. “If you don’t, I’ll come find you.”

You close your eyes. Press your forehead to his. You can feel his breath. His pulse. The heat of him, even through the thunderstorm building in your chest.

“I’m serious,” he whispers. “I’ll show up in your city. At your job. At your apartment. I don’t give a shit. You’re not getting rid of me.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Good.”

He kisses you then, hard. With teeth and tongue and something frantic behind it, like he’s trying to brand himself into your mouth. Like it might make this less unbearable. When he finally pulls back, he’s breathing like he just ran a race. He swipes your tears away with rough fingers. Lingers on your cheek like he can’t make himself let go.

You press your face to his neck and breathe him in one last time. “I’ll come back,” you promise again.

“Fuck,” he breathes, holding you tighter. “You better.”

You pick up your bag. Step into line. He stays until the very end. Right up to the point where the TSA agent tells you to move forward. Right up until the barrier he physically can’t cross. And even then he doesn’t leave. 

He’s still standing there. Still watching you like you’re everything he never expected to need.

And now can’t imagine being without.

***

Weeks have passed since you left the city. Since you left him.

You’re back in your hometown now. The familiar streets, the same cracked sidewalks, the same tired coffee shops. Everything feels smaller somehow, quieter, but your heart is loud.

You wear his jacket like armor. It’s thick, heavy with his scent, leather and a hint of something uniquely Wooyoung. You wrap it tighter around you on the cold days, pretending it’s his arms instead of just fabric.

You crave the feel of his hands on you, not the polite, careful touches, but the ones that claim, that drag you into chaos and leave you raw. You hear it in his voice when he talks, rough and low, hinting at nights he’s spent thinking about you the way you think about him, 

You talk constantly. Texts that never stop. Calls that stretch deep into the night until you’re both too wrecked to speak. You fall asleep with the phone on your chest, wake up to good morning messages that should not be that obscene.

He tells you about the races, the wins, the near-misses. Brags about how he fucked up some cocky kid on the asphalt, then drops his voice just enough to say, “But I was thinking about you the whole time. Thinking about your thighs around my head while I floored it. Sick, right?”

You love when he says shit like that.

He laughs, dark and low.

Most nights end the same way. FaceTime calls that start off innocent, just him in bed with the covers low, tattoos out, chain resting on his bare chest. And he’s shameless. Hair messy. Smirking like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Because he does.

“You touching yourself already?” he’ll ask like it’s nothing.

And then his hand is on his cock and yours is between your thighs, and there’s nothing sweet about it. He tells you where to put your fingers. How deep. How fast. Groans when you whimper, begs you to be louder, to let him hear how ruined you are. Sometimes he talks you through it, filthy, detailed, claiming you with every word.

“Wish I was there to spit in your mouth,” he growls, hips jerking under the camera. “Want to fuck you open and make you beg for it. You’d take it, wouldn’t you? All of me.”

You whimper his name like it’s a prayer.

“Louder.”

And you do. Because he owns you even from hundreds of miles away.

He groans your name like it hurts. Tells you how good you look falling apart for him. How no one’s ever going to touch you like he does. And then he says the things that make your toes curl and your heart twist.

“My girl,” he mutters, low and breathless as he strokes himself. “You hear me? You’re my fucking girl.” He always smiles then, dangerous and soft all at once.

And when it’s over, when you’re both wrecked, sweaty, boneless in separate beds, he stays on the line. Tells you about the engine he’s rebuilding. The fight he almost got into at the garage. How nothing feels the same without you there.

And then, after it all, the silent goodnights come heavy with promise. The way he says, “Soon,” like it’s the only word you both need to hear. Because it is.

Today starts like any other shitty weekday.

The sun’s setting slow and syrupy, casting everything in burnt gold. Your feet ache from standing too long, your shoulders are sore from stress. Work was a mess. Your phone’s dead. You forgot to eat lunch. You just want to collapse.

You step off the bus with a sigh, your breath fogs in the air. You pull his leather jacket tighter around yourself, the weight of the worn leather and the scent still faint but unmistakably his.

Then, out of nowhere, something shoves its way into your thoughts, a flash of black, sleek and familiar, parked right across from your building. Your heart stops. You freeze mid-step. The shape, the shine, the way the fading light glints off the leather interior, there’s no mistaking it. His car. His goddamn car. Here. Outside your apartment.

Your heart stutters. You stop dead on the sidewalk, stare at it, like if you blink it might vanish.

No fucking way.

Your steps quicken, your pulse louder than your footsteps. You glance around, heart in your throat. There’s no sign of him. Your fingers twitch, itching to reach out, to touch something real. You drag your palm over the hood, still warm from the engine, the heat pulsing faint against your skin. It’s so tangible, so utterly him.

You swallow hard and turn toward your building, your steps quickening. You race up the stairs, every echo of your shoes against the concrete sounding impossibly loud in the silent hallway. Your keys shake in your hand. You don’t even remember making it to your floor, you're too frantic, breath shallow, thoughts spinning.

You reach your floor and immediately stop. There. At the end of the hallway, by your door, leaning against the wall like he owns the space. His silhouette is sharp against the dim light, casual but magnetic. One foot crossed over the other, his head tilted down just enough for the loose strands of hair to fall over his eyes.

You can’t move. You can’t even think. Then, slowly, he lifts his gaze. His eyes find yours. And that smirk, that fucking smirk, spreads across his lips. It’s cocky and knowing, the kind of smirk that says he’s been here all along, waiting for you to notice, waiting for this exact second.

His voice, low and rich and dripping with everything he’s been holding back and all the fire he’s ready to unleash.

“Hey, trouble.”

And just like that, everything shifts. Time slows, your world narrows to the space between you two. The city, the distance, the ache, none of it matters anymore.

Because it was always going to be him.And you were always going to be his.

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[lcvejjoong]

never liked you

pairing : playboy! wooyoung x nerd! fem! reader

synopsis : You thought he was different. But when the truth unraveled, so did everything you believed about love.

genre : fluff, angst

warnings : none

author’s note : ngl i crashed out somewhere near the end but it was fun to write ig 🥹

word count : 4.5k

──────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────────

Does love ever last?

You didn’t know.

You never really tried to find out. Having many exams to ace and projects to finish, it didn’t really help in your love life.

Come on, just give him a try. You never know, maybe he’s the one!

You were willing at first, thinking that nothing will go wrong. But when your classmate ran into class bawling her eyes out after her boyfriend dumped her, you hesitated.

After a few days of thinking, you told the boy that you weren’t ready for that kind of commitment yet. That resulted in an awkward moment for him, considering the fact that he had a bunch of flowers in his hand.

You felt bad. Really bad. You liked him, yes, but you were afraid that whatever happened to your classmate will happen to you.

You never really thought about it after. Several boys put letters and gifts in your locker on Valentines, but they all went unanswered, courtesy of you cooped up in your dorm, furiously reading through your notes and pulling all-nighters for exams.

Your friends had begged you to try again, saying that your life will be ‘boring’ and ‘lonely’. You brushed them off, saying that studying is your life. “Plus, I have you guys,” you added, nudging them while laughing.

But then again, life has other plans for you.

──────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────────

Love.

The teacher’s sharp voice brought you back from your daydreaming.

You looked up to see her standing by the door with a student, saying something about being late. Although you were seated at the far back of the room, you could make out the tall figure and the long black hair of the boy.

His eyes met yours, and he gave you a smirk with a playful wink.

You turned away, rolling your eyes.

Jung Wooyoung. The school’s playboy, known for breaking girl’s hearts.

For fun.

And though you have zero interest in him, you found your cheeks feeling a little hot. Luckily, the teacher didn’t notice, ushering Wooyoung back to his seat before beginning the lesson.

Once again, you were drifting off, staring outside the window thinking about what to eat during your break.

Suddenly, you heard : “Jung Wooyoung and Kang Y/N.”

You whipped your head to board, finding a big ‘Research Project’ written on it. “This project will be 50% of your final grade, so please take it seriously. If you have any questions, feel free to email me.” The teacher continued, stacking up her books and preparing to leave the classroom.

You hurriedly packed your bag, ignoring the calls of your classmates. Your head was a mess. There was no way this was happening.

“Y/N!” Wooyoung’s voice cut through the hallway, causing you to walk faster.

He jogged up in front of you, waving several pieces of paper in your face.

“You forgot to take the project paper. Luckily, I got you,” he winked.

You scoffed, snatching the paper and continuing your walk to your dorm to reflect on what you did to deserve this.

His fingers closed around your wrist, bringing you to a sudden stop and forcing you to face him.

You tried to pull away, but his grip only tightened.

“Let go of my hand,” you said, your voice low and threatening.

He held your gaze and said, “Look, I don’t care what you think about me — I need this grade.”

You pulled back slightly, startled. “I thought you didn’t care about grades.”

“Unfortunately, I can’t risk being kicked out of school, so I’ll have to make do.” He smiled a little, releasing your hand. “So, your place? Mine’s a little messy.”

You let out a breath. “Alright. 1 p.m. tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

He did a little salute and said, “Can’t wait!” before running off.

“Don’t forget to bring your books!” you yelled, earning a faint “Yes, madam” in return.

──────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────────

You didn’t know if you were anxious or excited.

Staring at the cookies baking in the oven, you were leaning on the small table top in your kitchenette. Brushing your fingers against your wrist, you remember the gentle but firm grip of his hand.

There was just something about him that made you constantly think about…

The sharp doorbell interrupted your train of thought. Hurriedly, you opened the door to find Wooyoung standing outside, books on one hand and a plastic bag on the other.

“Hey,” he smiled, lifting the bag he was holding, “I brought us some drinks.”

“Come in.” you replied, offering him a small smile, stepping aside to make way for him.

He took in a breath and asked, “Are you baking cookies?” You nodded, “Yea, I was bored so I figured I’d bake while waiting for you.”

“Well it must be a sign because I love cookies,” he grinned, helping himself on the couch. He took the plastic bag and pulled out 2 drinks, handing one over.

You took it tentatively, looking at it with an unsure expression.

Noticing your hesitance, he chuckled and said, “Don’t worry, I didn’t poison it.” You looked at him with utter disbelief. “It’s not that. This is actually my favourite drink. Only my closest friends know that.”

“Then I must be destined to be your friend.” He joked. You rolled your eyes, muttering a ‘whatever’.

But what you didn’t realise was that you were smiling.

──────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────────

After a few hours of reading, writing, joking around and munching on cookies, you were finally done with a section of the project. You let out a huge yawn, stretching your arms while briefly closing your eyes.

When you opened them, you found Wooyoung staring at you.

“Is there something on my face?” You panicked, hurriedly wiping at whatever unknown particle on your skin.

He didn’t say anything, only standing up from where he sat. You quickly stood up, thinking he was going to leave already.

But instead of going towards the door, he made his way towards you.

He took a step closer, then stopped, just inches from you, his body trembling slightly.

His hand hovered, uncertain, near your cheek. His fingers twitched, just a fraction of a movement, as if they wanted to reach out.

Your breath hitched, waiting. He leaned in, lips hovering right above yours. You could feel the heat in the air, making your heart race, the beat quick and erratic, like it was trying to escape from your chest. You could feel his breath hitting your nose, shallow and fast.

You wanted to pull away. But a part of you made you stay where you were. Your mouth went dry as you watched him licked his lips, and unknowingly, you leaned in closer.

“Are you sure…?” he whispered, his voice barely audible, as if asking for your permission.

You didn’t answer, your mind not responding. Slowly, almost painfully so, he closed the gap. His hand moved to your jaw, finally touching your skin, the warmth of his face grounding you in the moment.

Then, with a hesitation that stretched out like an eternity, he kissed you.

And without thinking, you kissed him back.

The kiss wasn’t rushed, wasn’t forceful. It was gentle, tentative, as though he were testing the waters, feeling you out. It was the kiss of someone who had wanted this for a long time but was too afraid to make the first move.

When you pulled away, both of you breathless, his hand lingered against your cheek, his thumb grazing your skin. You didn’t say anything, heart pounding in your chest, still racing from the kiss, but your mind was slow to catch up.

He didn’t move, didn’t say anything right away. Instead, he just stared at you, his lips still slightly parted, eyes wide, like he was processing it too. And that uncertainty… it made you feel even more exposed. Was he playing you? Or was he waiting for you to say something? Your mouth felt dry again.

“I…” he started, the expectancy growing in your heart. But his words trailed off, and the panic rushed back into you.

“I’m sorry, did…did I scare you?” he asked. “I shouldn’t have done that.” His hand dropped from your cheek. He straightened, shuffling back.

“Uhm…I should probably get going. It’s pretty late.” You didn’t trust yourself to say anything, so you just nodded. Picking up his bag and making his way to the door, he gave you a soft smile and said “Thanks for today, y/n,” before stepping out of your dorm.

That night, you lay in bed, tangled in blankets, staring up at the ceiling as if you could find the answers to your questions hidden in the cracks of the paint, before falling into a dreamless sleep.

──────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────────

“Y/n!”

You blinked. Once. Twice. Your head jerked toward the front of the room.

Your teacher was staring right at you, arms crossed. The rest of the class turned in unison, a wave of curious glances and stifled snickers.

“You want to join us back on Earth?” she said, voice laced with just enough sarcasm to make your cheeks flush.

You looked down, embarrassed, from all the stares of the classroom, especially from Wooyoung, who was sitting a few tables away.

You purposely came earlier to avoid seeing him at his usual spot against the lockers, and ignored the texts he sent.

You couldn’t stop replaying it. Every detail was etched in your memory: the way his hand had brushed your cheek, the way his breath had felt against your skin, the quiet after the kiss when neither of you spoke. Your heart fluttered in your chest as you tried to ignore the warmth spreading over your cheeks.

Stop thinking about it, you told yourself. There was no reason to. No reason to replay that moment over and over again, imagining how it would feel, how it might change everything. You clenched your fist around your sleeve. Wooyoung was a playboy. It didn’t mean anything to him. It didn’t mean anything to you.

But part of you wanted to believe that it did. You weren’t sure what it meant, or why it made you feel so… unsteady.

You sighed, rubbing your temples, attempting to calm yourself down. Glancing at the clock, you were relieved to find the class ending in a minute. Great, I won’t see him for another two days after this. You hurriedly shoved your books in your bag, waiting for the signal to leave from your teacher. Once you heard ‘that’s all for today’, you bolted out of the classroom.

You turned the corner of the hallway, turning back to check if anyone had followed you. You let out a small breath of relief, straightening your clothes before walking away calmly.

“Y/n.”

You turned on your heel, attempting to run. You didn’t want to talk about it. Didn’t want to look at him. Didn’t want to see what was written all over his face—regret? Confusion? Or worse… nothing at all.

But you didn’t get far.

A hand wrapped around your wrist, firm but gentle, halting you in your tracks. Your breath caught as you turned halfway, refusing to meet his eyes.

You didn’t answer, still not meeting his gaze. “Why are you avoiding me?” You didn’t answer, still not meeting his gaze. “Is it because of yesterday?”

You kept your gaze down. Your free hand clenched.

“It was a mistake,” you said. He let out a short breath, almost like a laugh but not quite. “Then why are you running?”

You flinched at that. Not enough for anyone to notice, but he did.

He was still holding your wrist, but not pulling you back. Just waiting.

“I’m not running,” you said, still not facing him.

“Right.” A pause. “Then look at me.”

You didn’t. Couldn’t.

You shook your head. “I’ve got class.”

“Say that, then,” he said, quiet but certain. “But don’t stand there and pretend that kiss meant nothing. Not when you’re shaking like that.”

You hated that he could feel it—how your wrist trembled ever so slightly in his hand.

Slowly, you turned to face him. Your expression was guarded, eyes hard. The kind of look you give someone when you're trying not to fall apart in front of them.

“Did it even mean anything to you?” you asked.

His jaw tensed slightly, like he hadn’t expected the question. Like he’d been preparing for a fight—not honesty. But he didn’t answer.

Your heart sank. You had expected it, but it still hurt more than you thought it would. You shook your head, “Like I thought, it didn’t. Another fling for the playboy.” You attempted to yank your hand from his grip, but it only got tighter.

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t say it like that.” You shook your head, “But it’s true, isn’t it. I’m just a fling to you, another random girl for you to kiss.”

“But you're not.” He said. “I…I wanted it to mean something. I just thought that you didn’t want it to be anything.”

You froze. Did you hear him correctly?

He looked down. “I like you. I really do. But if you don’t want to, I understand.” He dropped your hand and sighed. “I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable.” He was about to walk away but you stopped him.

“Do you mean it? Do you actually like me?” You questioned. He paused, turning around. “I do. I asked the teacher for tuition and used it as an excuse to be paired with you.”

Then, unexpectedly, you smiled.

Not big. Not dramatic. Just this small, sideways grin tugging at the corner of your mouth, the kind that betrayed everything you’d been trying to hide.

“I like you too,” you said, turning to face him fully now. “I was confused at first. But I think…” you paused, looking up at him, “I think I acted by my feelings.”

“You really thought I kissed you just to run away forever?” you asked, not even bothering to hide the laugh in your voice.

His mouth parted, like he wanted to say something, maybe even smile back. You looked at him, and something in his face shifted. The hesitation was gone, replaced by this slow, surprised softness.

“I didn’t know you could talk like that.” You laughed, and he grinned. “Does that make you my girlfriend now?” Your eyes lit up, and you gave him a small nod. He opened his arms and you naturally sank into them, wrapping your arms around him as he embraced you. “I won’t be going anywhere,” he whispered.

And for once, you believed him.

──────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────────

It’s been a few months now.

And somehow, it still catches you off guard sometimes—like when he grabs your hand without thinking, or says something under his breath in class that makes you laugh when you were supposed to be paying attention. Or when he looks at you like you were the only person in the room, even when the hallway was packed.

You never made a big deal out of it. No announcements, no labels screamed into the void. Just you and him. Quiet moments. Shared playlists. Fingers brushing across notebooks. Late-night calls where you don’t even say much, just listen to each other breathe.

And it’s easy. Easier than you expected. No games. No second-guessing. Just someone who makes you feel like you can show up exactly as you are—and he’ll still look at you like you matter.

Your friends had been skeptical at first, given his reputation in school. But after seeing how happy you were with him, they didn’t say anything.

After all, they were the ones who had asked you to get a boyfriend.

Maybe you can finally answer your own question. Maybe love does last forever.

But then again, life isn’t always that easy.

It was a typical Friday evening, and you were seated on Wooyoung’s couch, fidgeting with his hoodie on your lap.

You two will usually meet at his place to watch a movie every week, but today he texted you, saying that he would be late due to a hold up in class, telling you to make yourself comfortable and pick a movie while waiting for him.

Putting the controller down on the table, you got up to prepare some snacks to eat during the movie. Bringing the bowl to the small table in front of the couch, you were about to take a bite of the chocolate when your phone buzzed. Thinking it was Wooyoung, you quickly picked up your phone to reply to him, only to see an unknown number pop up on your screen.

At first you thought it was a scam. But when you unlocked your phone to block it, you found a short video followed by a “I’m sorry.” after. Curiosity got the better of you and you tapped into the chat.

The video was taken at an awkward angle, suggesting that the person was recording in secret. You turned your head to getting a better view of the people in it.

There were three boys gathered around a hooded guy leaning against the lockers and they were talking about something. The recorder moved closer, opening a locker to make him or her less suspicious. The guy leaning on the locker turned his head, revealing the unmistakable dark hair of Wooyoung. Your heart fluttered at the sight of him, eyes darting towards the bowl of chocolates waiting on the table.

You snapped your focus back to the video when the guy with a perfect slim nose asked, “So, you gonna target any girls this term?” Wooyoung shrugged, “I don’t know man. There’s no more fun girls anymore.” “That’s because you got them all already.” The guy with long silver hair and feminine features joked, nudging Wooyoung with his shoulder. “Now you’re just flattering me.” Wooyoung laughed.

The guy that looked like a giant puppy then said, “Isn’t there a girl in your class called Y/n?” “You mean Kang Y/n?” Wooyoung mused, “She’s a nerd in my literature class.” The silver-haired guy commented, “The girl sitting at the back of your class? She’s cute. You should try her.”

The guy with the slim nose shook his head. “She’s known for being obsessed with her studies. Her friends say she’s impossible to get to.” He sighed, “Poor Jongho wasted his money on the bouquet of flowers and got rejected. He really liked her.”

The giant puppy guy turned to Wooyoung and said, “If you can make her fall for you in a week's time, I’ll buy you new strings and a strap for your guitar.” Wooyoung straightened from his position, “Add in a new stand and I’ll do it.” The puppy guy smirked, “Done.” They shook hands and the screen turned black.

It then switched to another scene. Wooyoung and his friends appeared to be at a bench in the schoolyard, and you recalled the outfit he was wearing after sending you to class.

“So, how did you do it?” The silver-haired dude asked. Wooyoung took a sip of his soda, “The literature teacher loves to pair us according to the alphabetical order. Persuading her to meet at her house was a piece of cake. I didn’t really do anything much. ” The puppy guy chuckled, “Now you’re just flexing.”

“While you wait for your prize to come, you should be worried about how to get rid of the girl,” the slim nosed guy smirked.

Wooyoung laughed. “Real. I never liked her anyways. She was so easy to fool.” he says, taking another sip from his can before the screen pauses, marking the end of the video.

You sat still, knees pulled to your chest, phone resting loosely in your hand. The video played again—you didn’t mean to hit replay, but maybe a part of you needed to hear it twice. Needed to be sure.

His voice, once warm and familiar, felt foreign now. Sharp in ways it had never been with you.

Every word peeled something away. A layer of trust. A piece of the girl who thought she knew him. Your chest felt hollow, like someone had carved out everything good and left only silence.

You didn’t know what to think. Right now, you just felt small. Embarrassed. Like you’ve been the only one playing a role in a story you thought was real.

The signs were so obvious. The way he suddenly showed a random interest in you. You knew the teacher for 2 years. You knew that she loved to pair students by the alphabet. Not only that, but the obvious fact that he was a playboy. Your friends had warned you many times, but you had ignored them, saying that he had changed for you.

You didn’t cry right away. It wasn’t sadness at first—it was numbness. A quiet dissociation from the version of yourself that had believed in him so completely.

And somewhere underneath all that numbness, a quiet seed of anger started to grow. Not for him, not yet. But at yourself—for not seeing it sooner.

You loved him loudly, unafraid, thinking that he really changed. But in the end, it only resulted in his betrayal and your heartbreak.

Keys jingled, and the door creaked open.

“Baby! I’m back!” The sound of his voice cracked something in you. It sounded so sincere. Unlike what the video suggested.

Wooyoung appeared in front of you, giving you a soft smile and pecking your cheek. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, sitting down beside you, “the teacher couldn’t stop talking.” He picked up a piece of chocolate, taking a bite. “Where did you buy this? It tastes so good.”

When you didn't reply, he stopped. Putting the chocolate down, he reached for your hand, resting it on yours. “Baby, what’s wrong? Are you feeling unwell?” he asked, face scrunched up with worry.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you pulled out your phone, found the video again, and placed it face up between you.

His smile faltered, face going pale. His hand twitched on the table. “Where.. did you get this?”

“Why?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He shook his head, struggling to get the words out. “That was a long time ago. It isn’t like that anymore, y/n. I do love y- ”.

You looked at him, shifting back a little. “Do you really?” You gestured to your phone, “Because it shows that you're just playing me. Like the playboy people warned me about.”

“Y/n, please listen. It was just a stupid bet- ”

“Is that all I am to you? A stupid bet?” You questioned, tears slowly forming at the bed of your eyes.

“I should have known,” you said. Your voice broke a little on the last word, but you swallowed it down. “you would never change. You’re a liar, a player. You are a coward.”

He reached across the table, but you pulled your hands back, folding them tightly in your lap.

“I trusted you,” you whispered. “I loved you.”

“I know,” his voice shaking, “I know. It wasn’t true at first. But over time, you made me feel nothing like I’ve never felt before. I fell for you instead.” You turned away, unable to stop the tears flowing down your face.

He kneeled down before you. “Please Y/n…give me another chance. I’ll treat you better.”

He said your name like it was a prayer, like it could undo what he’d done. But prayers are for the desperate, and you weren't desperate anymore.

You stood up, wiped your tears, and gathered your things. Your movements were careful, deliberate. You didn’t rush, didn’t stumble — you refused to show that you were devastated.

You didn’t look back as you ran out the door, the cold night air hitting your face like a slap. You wrapped your arms around yourself and kept running, each step feeling impossibly heavy.

You could hear Wooyoung running after you, calling your name over and over again. But you didn’t falter, not until you reached the familiar door in front of you, pushing it open and steeping inside.

You collapsed onto the cold floor, your knees giving out as the weight of it all finally caught up to you. The silence around you felt heavy, like even the walls were holding their breath. Tears streamed down your face, hot and fast, leaving damp trails on your cheeks as you pressed your hands into the ground, trying to steady yourself against the shaking in your chest.

Your sobs were broken and uneven, small gasps of pain you couldn’t hold back anymore. It wasn’t just sadness—it was frustration, fear, loneliness all tangled together. And in that moment, sitting there with nothing but the sound of your own heartbreak, you let yourself fall apart, because you couldn’t pretend to be strong any longer.

In your head, you replayed everything—every small look, every inside joke, every moment that once made you believe you two were unbreakable. You thought about your first date, awkward and sweet, and about all the times he made you feel like you were the only girl in the world.

You pressed your face into your hands, breathing in slow, shaky gulps of air, calming yourself down. You laid on the floor, curled up until sleep overtook you.

──────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────────

After that night, you decided to take a break from your studies.

You spend most of your time in bed, sometimes shedding tears, rethinking your days with him. Otherwise you were just staring into your ceiling, mind empty.

You had received several texts from Wooyoung, asking about your wellbeing or saying that he was sorry, wanting to meet up and talk it out. But you ignored him, putting your phone on do not disturb.

2 weeks went by, and you decided that you were not going to fall behind on your studies just because of some stupid break up.

When you walked into class, you were greeted by some of your friends, answering questions and assuring them that you were fine.

As you were talking out your books for class, the door opened, and you heard your teacher nagging. You looked up, and your breath instantly stopped. Standing at the classroom door, Wooyoung looked up at you, eyes wide. He had cut his hair short and dyed it blonde, enhancing his facial features.

You looked down, avoiding his gaze, and started to chat with your friend. At the corner of your eye, you could see him bowing to the teacher, walking towards his seat. His eyes lingered on you for a moment before sitting down.

You could constantly feel his eyes on you during the lesson, but you ignored him, acting like you have never talked to him before.

When the class ended, you didn’t bother to rush out of class. Packing your bag slowly, you could feel Wooyoung deciding to approach you. But after a few seconds, he turned away, following his friends out of the classroom. You breathed a sigh of relief, slinging your bag over your shoulder and making your way out.

You entered the schoolyard, a drink in your hand, and sat down on a bench.

And you realised you finally had an answer to your question.

Does love ever last?

No, it doesn’t.

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© lcvejjoong, 2025

[haologram]

how to be a latin lover ♡ h.js (m)

♡ synopsis: the dreadful semester has started — meaning your summer vacation has come to end, and so has your summer fling…or has it? ♡ genre: summer fling au ; big dummy dumb idiots to lovers ; ta x student dynamics. ♡ pairing: spanish ta!joshua hong x chaebol!fem!reader | side pairings: lee chan x jung haerim (weki meki) ; wen junhui x lee saerom (fromis_9) ♡ word count: 26.8k ♡ rating: 18+. minors do not interact, i beg. ♡ warnings: honestly, a little toxic if you squint. lots of pining. hella slow burn. lots of suggestive commentary but no smut because i'm ass at it (sorry if you wanted some, maybe during the lore drops for this fic later this year i'll add some) and very, very toxic mother-daughter dynamics [official warnings: joshua and y/n are absolute idiots. i’m talking the dumbest mfs you’ve ever encountered, you’ll want to scream at them through the screen.] ♡ what to listen to: otro atardecer - bad bunny, the marías ; get to you - mac ayres ; sky full of stars - coldplay ; brave enough - leehi ; qué locura enamorarme de ti - eddie santiago ♡ a/n: it's finally here! thank you to @camandemstudios for allowing me to be a part of such a wonderful collab (and i promise hoshi will be out by next week!) thank you to @tomodachiii , @wqnwoos and @highvern for betaing this stupid behemoth and telling me to stop being a little bitch (no one said that). hopefully i will see everyone soon with the hoshi version! thanks for reading!

Monday, August 29th.

Summer is over.

A sad fate deemed inescapable, despite your sunkissed glow and endless array of swimsuits begging you to stay on the beach – you were forced to return to reality after spending six weeks in Mexico, away from the shackles of your mother's constant nagging and the fall semester of impending doom. Your trip was all-expenses paid, of course – thanks to daddy's big, fat wallet.

You had no worries – your skin was clear, your hair was bouncy, your belly was full of delicious food as you pranced the streets of Puerto Vallarta with your best friend, Lee Saerom. Your father didn't even know he'd footed the bill for her, too. He didn't check the credit card report after you booked your trip – just nodded absentmindedly and waved you off, his voice echoing the walls of the office. "Have fun, honey."

Well? The fun you had…is now here to bite you in your sweet, sunkissed ass.

Summer flings have been your thing since you were eighteen – so since your parents finally let you out of their grasp to 'explore.' Whatever the hell that meant, you didn't know, but you gladly took the plane tickets and went off to wherever they sent you. One year, it was Greece, and your summer sweetheart grew a bit too obsessed with you – leading you to change your number and start using burner phones for vacations.

You covered all your tracks. You didn't even give this guy your social media accounts, you gave him your burner number…you didn't even tell him your last name. Yet, you are so undeniably screwed.

"Hello, everyone!" He scans the room as he takes a sip of his coffee, glancing at the door. "I'm unsure if you all received the email, but Professor Lee won't be in today." He's still scouring faces, taking in new ones and recognizing old ones. He hasn't seen you, and you're sure if you just sink a bit further down, he won't. "I'm Joshua Hong, and I'm Professor Lee's teaching assistant this year. She asked me to review the syllabus with you, in lieu of her absence." He taps the stack of papers on the large oak desk, clicking his tongue. "I'm gonna put the digital copy up on the projector, and you guys can just pick one of these up on your way out. Sounds good?" The class seemingly nods simultaneously, and you find yourself sliding down your chair as he walks to dim the lights. "That being said, welcome to Beginning Spanish Conversation! I took this course last year, and Professor Lee is super nice so you won't have to worry about getting into any scuffles with her."

He's speaking to himself as he connects everything, the home screen of his laptop popping onto the projector screen. It's him and two other guys dressed as the Powerpuff Girls. He giggles to himself before using the laser pointer. "Not that you guys care, but these are my friends." He points to the one dressed as Buttercup, tied to a moving dolly with a sour expression on his face.

"This is Jeonghan. He's another TA on the East Campus, and the secretary of my fraternity! If you ever see me off campus, I'm likely with him and this guy." He points at the one dressed as Bubbles with a tiara on, a guy you recognize but can't seem to place. "This is Seungcheol. He's President of Beta Tau Omega, in case you're wondering where you've probably seen him before." You freeze as he opens his Safari, hoping that comment wasn't directed at you. It opens to the syllabus, and you feel your lips twitch at how cute Professor Lee made it. There is a floral border surrounding the page, and he points the laser on the screen again.

"Okay, so. Again, I'm Joshua Hong and your professor is Lee Hyori. This is Beginning Spanish Conversation, so we'll be learning a lot of vocabulary and common phrases. Enough to get you by in case you're ever stranded in the middle of Guadalajara with no phone and no money." He smiles, and someone raises their hand in the front.

"Are you speaking from personal experience?" It's Jung Haerim, a girl from your World Cultures class last semester.

His smile only grows slightly wider as he shakes his head. "No, and yes. I got lost in Denmark. Copenhagen, to be exact, and I had to flirt my way onto the train. Not as fun as it sounds, trust me." He returns to the screen, carefully going over what the students could expect in the coming weeks. He reiterated that Professor Lee loves pop quizzes, so stay prepared. It was only then when he finally stopped speaking, flashing yet another award-winning smile. 

"Any questions?"

Your hand is crawling to cover your face as people start asking questions, further prolonging your suffering – when you feel eyes on you. Peeking through your fingers, you see him peering at you over the rim of his tumbler. They hold a mischievous glint, and he casually continues answering questions.

Where are you from?

"Los Angeles. I moved here when I was about…nineteen? Yeah." You already knew this.

How was your summer?

"Pretty good, I spent eight weeks in Puerto Vallarta. I got back maybe three days ago, and only then did I find out I got this position." You knew this, too. He probably remembers you.

What's your major?

"I'm a Music major, with a minor in Jazz Studies." He told you this on your third night together, over an IPA and a shared basket of chips and salsa. You burned your tongue on your food that night, you couldn't taste for days.

Oh? Why that?

"I've always been passionate about it. Funny, I took Spanish to broaden my horizons for it. I'll hopefully be a producer after graduation."

Your impatience begins to show as you bounce your leg irritably, and it's almost like he can hear your thoughts. "Alright, alright. I'll literally be here every time you guys are, so save your questions about me. Or, find me after! We can hang, I'm usually at the frat anyway." He shrugs, gesturing to the pile of papers on the desk.

"Syllabus, take one!" His smile is bright as you scramble down the steps, snatching the piece of paper off the desk and just about sprint to the door. You can feel your cheeks heating in embarrassment as you barrel down the hallway, deciding to skip your next class in hopes of drowning in your shame.

You spot Saerom a few feet down the hall, smiling and talking to one of your other friends, Chan. He was rushing that stupid fraternity this year, so if your math was right – you wouldn't be able to avoid Joshua at all this year.

"Saerom, I'm so fucked." You call, and she immediately spins around, a look of discernment on her face.

"Y/N, what are you on about this time? The last time you said that, it was because you left your Dior lip oil in Morocco." She deadpans, and you scoff. "Maybe it's about her classes." Chan reminds her coolly, and you sigh as you slump your forehead against his chest, earning a pat on the back from him.

"For once, the twink is right." Groaning, you bury your face further into Chan's chest. "I've got to transfer out of Spanish, or the University. I cannot be on this campus."

Your words are muffled against Chan's shirt, earning a sigh from Saerom as she places her hands on your shoulders. "Get a grip, Y/N! It's the first day of your last year, it's not the end of the world. You will not see any of these people next semester, trust me."

She's not understanding the severity of your issue, and only when you hear someone stop behind you, do you attempt to explain. "Saerom, you're not listening–"

"Saerom, is that you?" 

She looks up, her eyes lighting up as she gently gestures for you to hang on, pushing past to envelop whoever it was in a hug. You look over your shoulder, eyes wide as you see him looking down at your best friend.

"Shua! Oh my God, it's been so long! How's your mom?!" Shua. Oh, you feel sick.

Your breath hitches in your throat, before Chan's amused face comes into your line of vision as he drapes his arm over your shoulder – effectively hiding you from Joshua. "We'll let you guys catch up. See you later, Saerom?"

He tugs you away without getting an answer from her, and you almost make it out of the hall when you hear your name slip from Saerom's lips. "Oh, Y/N is my best friend! I'll have to introduce you sometime, you'd love her."

You barely catch Joshua's response as Chan makes a left out of the hall.

"I'm sure I will."

Friday, September 2nd.

"So…anything you want to tell me?" 

Saerom is standing next to you, placing forks next to slices of cake. The two of you had missed three birthdays on your trip, and you'd invited said birthday buddies over for a celebratory movie night to make up for it. You'd bought a cake on your way home from your first Organic Chemistry lab, and Saerom had set up the apartment with the small gifts you'd brought back from Puerto Vallarta.

To your luck, Saerom had pulled you aside while you were cutting the cake to talk to you.

"Uh, no? I skipped Spanish today? I used the last of my face wash?"

She rolls her eyes, crossing her arms as she turns to face you. "You were never gonna tell me that you slept with someone this summer?" 

"I don't know what you're talking about? Obviously, you knew I'd find someone." 

You try to hold in the heat of embarrassment, but Saerom's like a dog with a bone. "Right, of course. How would I, your best friend, not know that you, my best friend, slept with a guy over the summer?" Soonyoung, Junhui and Nagyung were playing Mario Kart on your television, and couldn't hear the conversation being had in the kitchen. You felt your cheeks warm as you stared into the cake, a bit of chocolate frosting smeared on your knuckles. "Sae, it was just some random guy I met when you slept in. Why does this matter?" "It matters…" She huffs, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, and you give her a look of get on with it. "It matters because he's my cousin, Y/N."

Your grip on the spatula tightens. You can feel your stomach drop, eyes wide as you look back at her. "He's your what?"

"I'm not mad at you, if that's what you're thinking. I'd never be mad at you for that…even if it is weird for me." She says quietly, and sighs as you feel panic set into your skin. "I just…Why didn't you tell me? I transferred to this university for you, I tell you about all my hookups, and I had to find out through him that you guys were sleeping together for the last three weeks of our vacation?"

"How could I have possibly known the two of you were related? Better yet, why does it matter? It was just a stupid fling, Sae. I'm not trying to marry into your family, God." You mumble, placing the spatula in the sink and covering the rest of the cake with the plastic lid. "If it makes you feel any better, I didn't think it would come back to bite me in the ass." "It doesn't. I thought you already considered me family, Y/N. It seems I've been under the wrong impression for a while." Her eyes are cold as she moves the cake slices onto a tray, and you feel taken aback. "What the hell does that mean?" "What the hell did you mean? As if marrying into my family would be so fucking bad? We're a great family. We're loving, open, and honest. Nothing like you, it seems!" 

You gape at her, before you feel a bit of anger claw at your throat. "Saerom, I didn't think I'd ever see him again! Of course I'm going to hope he doesn't expect anything more from me, because I can't handle that. I want a career, I want to own my parents' businesses after graduation. I can't let a guy tie me down, no matter who he is to my friends. You have to get that." Her eyes are hurt, contrary to the furious tug on her brows. She knows what you want out of life, she always had – at least, what you would let her believe. Your parents had expectations, and you, as their only daughter, had to fulfill everything. Taking over your father's companies, inheriting your mother's properties, continuing the bloodline. It was all on you.

God forbid a girl have a little fun on vacation.

"It's always about you and your career, isn't it?" She mutters, grabbing the tray and walking towards the living room. She stops in front of the doorway, looking over her shoulder. "I thought I could trust you, Y/N. It seems that being a Risk Analyst may not be my perfect fit, after all."

You kind of hate that this is happening.

No, scratch that. You hate that this is happening. You don't even really understand what just happened, or how Saerom could have possibly interpreted what you said as something bad. Despite these horrible circumstances, you knew that Joshua couldn't possibly be a bad guy. Granted, you'd skipped your Spanish class twice now, doing everything in your power to convince Chan to enroll into it so you wouldn't have to face Joshua alone. You even said you'd pay his stupid fraternity dues if he got in, no matter how bad you hated Beta Tau Omega.

Joshua was sweet on vacation, but everyone has their vacation persona, and their normal life characteristics. At home, you were serious, studious, and even slightly uptight.

On vacation, you were…flirtatious, unhinged, a bit wild. You took shots from strangers and stayed out in clubs and bars until the wee hours of the morning. You'd play games of chicken with cute guys, letting them kiss you in bathrooms and put their hands up your skirt.

Joshua did none of that, he didn't indulge your behavior. At least, not right off the bat.

He'd caught your eye at a restaurant, speaking perfect Spanish to the waitress. He looked…refreshing. Sweet, different from your past romances. He looked like someone you'd actually date, but you were on vacation and you weren't looking for a long-term, potentially long-distance boyfriend. A quick fuck, a cum-and-go, if you will.

You'd bought him a mimosa, ignoring his line of vision as you befriended a few girls you'd met at the pool of your hotel. Saerom decided to sleep in that morning, and almost every other time you managed to catch Joshua alone – she wasn't in your presence. Maybe that was the universe protecting the both of them, while scorning you.

He'd sent a glass of white wine to your table, also avoiding your gaze and continuing his breakfast conversation with his friends. Jeonghan and Seungcheol, now that you can put a name to the faces. You didn't bother then, it didn't matter.

Not until now, of course.

You remember walking past his table on your way to close out your check, slipping your name and burner number on a napkin. You remember his friends teasing him, even hearing one of them give a low whistle. You remember said burner phone buzzing in your pocket less than an hour later, and meeting up with him that night at a salsa club down the beach.

You also remember cuddling on a hammock with him, pointing out stars you'd memorized as a kid because you wanted to be an astronaut. You remember him kissing your fingertips as you talked about your life back home, leaving out details of where you lived, where you went to school and who your parents were. You remember his eyes scanning your face, lingering on your lips as you sighed, voicing your unhappiness.

You had truly opened up to a stranger faster than you had anyone else. Even Saerom didn't know you felt this way about your life. How could she? She was under the impression that you loved it, you loved feeling important, you loved the money your lifestyle was funded by. That you didn't care about your parents' emotional absence, and the overwhelming amount of nannies being rotated in and out of your childhood in place of them.

Some things are better left unsaid, you remind yourself. You have to remind yourself that this façade needs to be upheld. You have to make your parents proud. You have to.

Right?

You're still standing in the kitchen when Nagyung appears in the doorway, her voice soft as she calls out to you. "Y/N?" You jump, a hand to your chest as you look up. She apologizes, "Sorry! It's just…the movie is starting. Are you coming?" "Yeah, sorry. I'll be right there." You gesture at the mess of cake crumbs and frosting, and she gives you a quick smile before scurrying back to the living room. You turn to wash the spatula, your mind just reminiscing as you grab the soapy sponge.

"So you're going to take over your father's business?""Yeah, I'm an only child, so I don't have much of a choice. If I don't take it, it just goes to the highest bidder. In my mind, it wouldn't be the end of the world if that happened, I'd get to pursue my own path."

"If you think that, why are you taking it over? Why not tell your parents that you have dreams you want to pursue? I know it's easier said than done, but office jobs are not good for the soul in my opinion." He spoke confidently, his fingers twirling your hair.

"I'd be ungrateful, I'd be throwing away hundreds of properties and investors. I'd be throwing away this lavish life I live, funded by my father's money. I'd be throwing away a secure future…and I'd be letting them down."

You didn't want to be an astronaut anymore. You'd long let that dream go, along with an eight-year-old you that had posters of Yi Soyeon and constellations plastered all over your room. You remember your mother standing in the doorway of your bedroom when you got your first poster of a supernova, a glass of Merlot in her hand as she sighed. "You'll never be like them, you know? Going into space…eating peanut butter on crackers and floating. It's not possible." She had been right, anyway. You had put all of those posters up in your attic, along with your rocket models when you moved for college. The only thing you kept and brought with you to University was the orrery your last nanny gifted you for your fifteenth birthday. It sat pretty on your desk in your room, mocking your every move.

You were getting a business degree. You were majoring in Marketing. You're taking Spanish for the same reason Joshua did, to broaden your horizons, and make business boom. To feed the greed that festered in your parents, and give them what they want.

But…unbeknownst to them, you were also majoring in Physics. You wanted to give yourself the sliver of hope that they wouldn't actually want you to take over the firms, that you'd get to continue your education and get your doctorate. That you'd be a plasma physicist and watch everything happen in real time for space research, without having to leave Earth's surface.

Delusions, all of it.

"Welcome. You missed the first fifteen minutes." Soonyoung scoots over, offering you the lit joint between his fingers as you sigh. Taking it, you plop down on the couch cushion, your leg draped over the armrest. "Takes time to have a clean house, Hoshi." Saerom glances at you from her spot on the floor, her eyes unreadable as she blinks. She frowns slightly, returning her attention to the television. You can tell she feels uneasy about the entire situation. She's probably asking herself how she didn't catch on, or why she didn't ask.

And the truth is, you're kind of glad she didn't. Had she done so, you probably wouldn't have slept with him. You probably would've found out they were family and completely ghosted him, or at least told him that you were her friend. You would've let him down much more easily, instead of leaving Puerto Vallarta without saying goodbye and throwing your burner phone in the garbage at the airport.

Everything would have been different, you would have acted differently.

Nonetheless, you can't dwell on the past. You can't keep skipping Spanish, and you can't let your grades slip over some stupid summer hookup. What you can do is pretend it didn't happen. Pretend you've never seen him in the nude, pretend you don't know what his lips feel like. Pretend like he didn't affect you deeper than he did, because it wasn't just sex.

And you hate that it wasn't.

Monday, September 5th.

"You love me, Lee Chan!" You'd done it. You'd convinced him to join your class so you wouldn't be subjected to Joshua's nonexistent wrath alone. Seeing Chan leaning on the wall next to the door was a sight for sore eyes – even if he was trying to subtly flirt with Haerim.

"Y/N, you're going to scare the hoes!" He speaks through gritted teeth, allowing you to envelope him in a tight hug. "Ugh, you've saved me from a world of misery." "You're so needy." He mutters into your hair, making you pull away with a smug look on your face. "Well? Why is everyone out here?" "Professor Lee isn't here today. We're waiting for Joshua to get the door open." Haerim speaks as she locks her phone, shoving it into her pocket. She eyes you up and down, noticing the slight frown on your lips. "Why did you skip twice already? The semester just started." Grimacing, you make up a lie. "Prior commitments. Couldn't miss 'em." "Right…" She gives you a look of discernment before fishing her phone back out of her pocket. "I'm gonna skip, actually. You still have my number, right? Can you forward what you guys do today?" Upon seeing your nod, she gives you a lazy smile and worms her way through the crowd of students forming around the door. Everyone is whining and complaining, but you're now searching the hall to see if you can also make a run for it…

"Hey! So sorry, guys. Professor Lee just called me." A slightly disheveled Joshua appears behind a group of girls, holding up a set of keys. You look away, meeting eyes with Chan – who is squinting at Joshua as if he knew him. "Is that…Isn't he the Vice President of Beta Tau Omega?"nk

"Leave it up to one of my best friends to befriend the enemy." You scowl, before looping your arm in his to tug him into the classroom. The front few rows are already filling out, with Joshua regaining his composure at Professor Lee's desk. You and Chan make a beeline for the back of the classroom, taking the last two seats in the third row.

"I'm rushing this year, I need to know my higher ups." Chan whispers back, and the two of you whip your heads towards the front of the room at the sound of Joshua clearing his throat. "Sorry again, everyone. Unfortunately, a late start will be followed by a quiz." He winces as a collective groan follows his announcement, and you feel your stomach flip. You don't know enough Spanish to pass this class by the seat of your pants. You barely retained how to introduce yourself from high school. "Don't worry, since this is the first quiz of the semester, I'll go easy on you. Just some general conjugation, and it's to see where you fall on the scale." Joshua speaks confidently as he walks around the room, handing stacks of the quiz to the first person in the row. You feel your eyes glued to the floor as he holds the stack out for you to take, and you hate how your hand shakes as you do so.

What you hate even more?

"Nice to see you in class, Miss Y/N." He whispers, before crossing his arms behind his back and walking down the steps. Chan snickers next to you, earning a smack. "Not funny!" You grit, whacking him again with the stack of quizzes.

"Once you are done with your quiz, I will grade it. You may then leave for the day, because I really do not have the energy to think of anything else to be done." He's rubbing his temples, and you hear a few people sigh in relief.

"Easy money." Chan whispers to himself, before clicking his pen and beginning the quiz. You glance down at it, your lip tucked behind your teeth. The quiz seems standard – a few conjugations, a few multiple choice. One short answer at the bottom, asking you to describe what you did over the summer in Spanish.

"Fuck." You mumble.

You can't lie to yourself, you probably fucked yourself over by skipping those last two classes. They probably reviewed, took notes. Maybe even engaged in actual conversation with each other, with Professor Lee…with Joshua.

Nonetheless, you feel your skin crawl when you notice that you've spent so much time agonizing over this, that you're one of the last students left. Chan finished at some point and you didn't notice, because now he's waiting by the door for you. You feel your throat tighten, forcing you to zero in and just scribble an answer at the bottom of your quiz.

Grabbing your backpack, you fling it over your shoulder before trekking the steps, noticing Joshua giving you a warm smile.

"Miss Y/N." He greets, taking your paper. You give him a tight nod, before spinning on your heel to leave. You're barely two steps in the right direction when you hear him again. "Ah, ah, ah! We need to speak, Miss Y/N. Turn around." You're semi-grateful that the classroom is nearly empty, because you know you look embarrassed as you turn back around. "Yes, sir?" His smile drops as you stand in front of him, and he taps his pen on your quiz. "You missed two classes consecutively. Per the syllabus, you can only miss six classes per semester, and we don't accept late work. You can't excel in this course if you're not physically here, you know." He's not being a douche. You know he's not, but you can't help and slightly bristle.

"I had other matters to attend to, sir. I'll be on time for the remainder of the semester."

This doesn't seem to satisfy him, and his brows furrow slightly before he shakes his head, sighing. He turns your quiz over, the capital C minus grade in red ink. 

"I know you don't want to be here, it's clear in your attitude. However, if you intend to pass this class, you have to show up. My tutoring hours are on the syllabus, revisit them and send me an email when you get a chance so we can get you back on track."

Your mouth opens slightly, and Joshua gives you a rather stern look. "Don't. I'm trying to help you." "Yes, sir." You mutter. He tilts his head towards the door. "You can leave." Huffing, you storm out of the room and nearly shove Chan out of the way when you reach the door. "Woah, hey! Don't kill me, Y/N!" He grabs your elbow, and you groan loudly. "Dude, what's your deal?" Chan asks, taking hold of both your shoulders as the two of you round the corner out of the hallway. 

"My deal, Chan, is that I fucking slept with the TA over the summer! That's my deal, dude!" You throw your arms up in exasperation, and a lightbulb seems to go off in Chan's head as his mouth forms an O-shape. You lean against the brick wall of the building, slowly sliding down and covering your face with your hands. 

"You..fucked Joshua Hong." He speaks, and you let out another groan, similar to that of a goat. "Yes, Chan. I fucked Joshua Hong in Puerto Vallarta in a random villa on the beach." "Spare me the details, will you?" He grimaces, running a hand through his hair. He squats next to you, making you look up at him with his hand. He gives your look of defeat a laugh, a concerned smile remaining on his lips as he touches his head to yours. "Don't worry, Y/N. He won't be anything but professional, I promise you."

"How do you know?" You whine, Chan's smile of concern turning into one of reassurance. "He clearly takes his job seriously, and he could've told the entire frat by now. Joshua Hong banged the biggest chaebol on campus, Kang Y/N. Crazy." You can tell he's trying to make you feel better, but you already knew Joshua wasn't the type to kiss and tell. Tell anyone other than Saerom, of course – but the two of you didn't speak much over the weekend so you felt a bit down in the dumps anyway. You didn't have dinner together or even go on a morning coffee run like you usually did – choosing to rot in your own rooms until hunger forced you out.

"He's Saerom's cousin, Channie." You pout, allowing him to tug you up off the wall and fling his arm over your shoulders. He sighs, resting his head against yours before he speaks. "Well, it can't get any worse than this, can it?"

– ☆ – 

You scribble a reminder on a sticky note to kill Lee Chan for his earlier words – it has gotten worse.

You had forced yourself to review the syllabus upon returning home, especially after your Organic Chemistry professor informed everyone twenty minutes before class started that it was canceled. You then forced yourself to type out a concise and polite email to Joshua Hong, and you forced yourself to press send. 

Ten minutes later, you forced yourself to read his reply.

And now, fifteen minutes after reading it, you were parked in the lot, your head resting against your steering wheel as you repeated some positive affirmations. "I can do this, I can do this. He's gonna be professional, I'm going to fix my hours, and I'll be on my way home."

Hopping out, you make sure to press your keyfob twice to hear it lock. Breathing in deeply, you made your way towards the hallway, seeing a few stragglers still on campus. It was nearly six in the evening, so they were probably also in office hours. Seeing the small office come into view, you stare at the names on the bronze plaques. Wow, you think. How important.

Kim Namjoon…WED. 3PM-7PM.

Jennie Kim…THURS. 4PM-8PM

Joshua Hong…MON/TUES/FRI. 2PM-6PM

Jeon Soyeon…MON-FRI. 10AM-1PM, OCHEM II ONLY.

Sighing, you grabbed the doorknob and twisted, pushing it open to reveal Joshua speaking on the phone. His eyes dart to you, a hand to his chest before gesturing to the table in the corner. You roll your eyes, before shutting the door and flipping the sign that reads In Session.

"Yes ma'am…mhm…I will get that done." Joshua is pinching the bridge of his nose, making you snort to yourself as you sink into the surprisingly comfortable chair in the corner of the room. You set your backpack on the floor, pulling your laptop out and a notepad. Clicking a pen, you fold your hands in your lap, waiting for him to finish.

"Yes, I will see you on Monday, Professor. Alright, take care." He hangs up, taking a moment to process. He blinks twice, before shaking it off and opening one of the drawers. "Good to see you, Miss Y/N. This is the review that you missed on Wednesday, and you missed an oral introduction on Friday." Standing, he holds up a packet. "This is just verb conjugation. I was originally going to use this for extra credit, but seeing as you got the highest grade out of anyone in the morning session, I think it's safe to say you probably won't need it." You're silent as he hands it to you.

"You will have to make up for lost time here, so you can stay for…an hour today, and then you can make up the other two on Friday." He's checking the calendar by the door, taking a pen from his pocket to write it in. "Sounds good?" You don't answer, just nodding your head. He raises his brow at you, "Cat got your tongue?" Grimacing, you glance up at him. "Sounds fine, sir." He smiles a bit, before clicking his tongue. "Actually, just take it. You can go, Miss Y/N." 

He walks to the desk, shutting his laptop. Confused, you look at him. "You want me to go?" "I don't want you to be anywhere you don't want to be, even if it's for your own benefit. You can leave." He nods, sliding his laptop into his bag, zipping it up and hiking it over his shoulder. "I have a prior commitment I can't miss, so consider this a favor." Snorting, you just shake your head as you put your things away. "I don't need any favors from you." You mutter to yourself, and Joshua smiles brightly as he holds the door open for you. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, Miss Y/N. Have a good night." "You too." You grumble, pushing past him to see Jeonghan and Seungcheol leaning against the wall. Seungcheol is holding an extra cup in his hand, and Joshua just lets out a sigh before greeting them warmly. Unfortunately, they're walking in the same direction as you, so you reach into your hoodie pocket for your headphones – but not before you hear a low whistle. "She looks familiar."

You just shove your other hand in your pocket, wondering if they'll keep talking. Does the other one remember you? Do they know you slept with Joshua? Did he tell them? "It's funny to think you'd remember anyone, when you're one of the biggest whores on campus." One of them speaks, and you can hear Joshua laugh lightly. "She's my student, so shut up. Anyway, how'd things go with the new OChem professor? I heard he's a mess, canceling classes back to back." You decide to tune them out as you reach the end of the hallway, not wanting to entertain them as the parking lot comes into view. You can see from where you're standing that there is a ticket stuck under your windshield wiper, and you groan. "Son of a bitch."

Jogging over, you take it off and see that it's not actually a ticket, but a note from someone saying they hit your car. Gasping, you round your car and see a huge dent in your bumper, black paint scraped off and your tail light broken. "Motherfucker!" 

You can hear the trio of men getting closer, hearing the beep of the car next to yours as it unlocks. Scowling to yourself, you take your phone out to call your father. He should know what to do..right? His assistant picks up on the second ring. "Kang Enterprises, Gyuri speaking."

Sighing, you speak to her for a moment. She tells you he's in a meeting, and can't come to the phone at the moment. It's nearly seven at this point, what could he possibly have a meeting about? She says she doesn't know, but that your mother is also at the office and she's available. You reluctantly agree to speak to her, leaning your forehead against your rear windshield.

"Y/N? Why are you calling?" She sounds disinterested in whatever matters you may have, and you feel Jeonghan skirt past you as he rounds to the driver's side. "Sorry," He mumbles, and you scoff before moving out of the way. He grimaces before hopping in, and you can hear Joshua speaking to Seungcheol as he also rounds to the driver's side. 

"Hello, Mother. Someone hit the beamer–" You barely get the words out before she starts responding. Yelling, actually – and so loud you have to pull the phone away from your ear. Joshua is unfortunately hopping into the passenger seat, and he can see the look of defeat on your face. He gives you a sympathetic smile, and you frown before turning away.

You're still standing there as they pull out, but you've put her on speaker now. She's yelling about how irresponsible you are (and let's not forget you weren't the one who hit a car here) and that she can't believe you expect them to send you another. "I don't want another, I just want Daddy's advice on where to take it to get it fixed." "I don't care, Y/N. We'll get another one down there tomorrow. Just…be more responsible, will you?!" 

She hangs up, and you tongue your cheek so as to not cry in frustration. You don't want to drive the car home in this condition, you could get pulled over and then it's worse. Pulling up your messages, you scour who you could call. Chan is at a stupid pledge thing, you're not speaking to Saerom. Sighing, you quickly shoot Soonyoung a text, before calling the local towing company. They towed Chan's car last year when the two of you accidentally swerved into a fire hydrant trying to teach Nagyung how to drive.

Msg From: Soonyoung 🐯

[7:01PM] tf you mean someone hit ur car

[7:01PM] your PARKED car??? i'm literally in the shower, y/n

[7:03PM] ok uhh i think jun is on his way, if you wanna wait for him? if not i can finish up here in like 10 mins

Great.

Wednesday, September 7th.

"Shua." You hear Haerim speak from the front of the room. Your mother had angrily called you last night and said Gyuri would be dropping off your replacement vehicle today, so you were anything but focused until you heard the nickname slip from her lips.

"Haerim." He speaks, not taking his attention away from the corkboard he's putting up on the wall. It has Polaroids of all the students in your class and a few others you don't recognize. They probably took those on the days you weren't here.

"If you don't mind me asking, are you single? My friend drops me off on her way to French with Professor Bae and she thinks you're cute." Haerim is very casual with her conversation, making Joshua laugh lightly as he turns, holding a few thumbtacks between his fingers. "I am single, but I am unfortunately not on the market. Sorry to your friend, Haerim." She shakes her head, about to speak when you hear another person pipe up – Kim Myungjun, a guy you hooked up with at a sorority stoplight party your sophomore year. "How come? Did you get your heart broken or something?" Joshua smiles gently, sticking another Polaroid onto the board. He sighs, before turning back to face the room. "Something like that. I met a girl over the summer. Didn't end very well."

You can't believe your ears, and you can feel your eyes narrow as Chan shifts uncomfortably in his seat. You're willing to ignore it, until you hear Myungjun speak up. "Man, don't let that deter you from finding your soulmate! Love is everywhere, if we let one person dictate our confidence, we give their opinion value. I read that somewhere." Joshua nods, his smile never wavering, when he meets your eyes. His head tilts to the side, but he speaks while looking at you anyway. "I dunno, man. Something about that girl…she was different." Chan coughs awkwardly next to you, and you welcome the distraction as you tear your angry eyes away from Joshua's mischievous ones. You pat Chan's back, offering him a sip of your water bottle when Joshua returns to his conversation with Haerim (and apparently, Myungjun.) "Anyway…yeah. I'm alright for now." You spend the rest of the class with your face hidden behind your hair, studying the stupid Quizlet link Joshua had sent out last night. Professor Lee would finally be in this Friday, and she was expecting all A's across the board that day. You watch the clock on your phone, willing time to go faster with your mind.

The moment the clock strikes noon, you're out of your seat – only to hear Joshua call after you.

"Chan, Y/N, if the two of you could hang back for just a second." He says, as the students shuffle out. You glance at Chan, who has an unsettled look on his face. The two of you take the steps down quietly, waiting for everyone to file out when Joshua holds up the pink Instax camera. "You guys weren't here for class photos, so I just wanted to get those out of the way. Professor Lee uses them to remember names." Chan engages quickly, and you feel your phone buzz in your pocket.

Msg From: Jang Gyuri (K. Ent.)

[12:05PM] Miss Y/N, I am outside with your new vehicle. It seems I am on the West Campus.

Shit.

The panicked look on your face doesn't go unnoticed by Chan, even as he's blinking away the effects of the camera flash. "Are you okay?" "Gyuri is here, and she has my keys." You respond, clicking away on your phone when Chan covers the screen, wiggling his eyebrows at you. "I'll get them for you! Please, please, please—" "You're only asking because you think she's pretty." You roll your eyes, and Chan flashes you a mischievous smile. "Correction, I think she's beautiful. C'mon, I literally do everything for you!" "Fine, fine. Only because you make me feel guilty." Chan beams at you as he hitches his bag over his shoulder, the both of you completely forgetting this meant you'd be alone with Joshua. He calls over his shoulder that he'll wait for you in your new car, making you snort.

"You can stand right here." Joshua points at the small piece of tape on the floor. You grimace, sliding your bag onto Professor Lee's desk and fixing your shirt. "Your necklace is twisted," He speaks again, and you feel around for it.

"Here…can I?" He sets the camera down, and you give him a rather sour look before agreeing. "Fine." "No need to act like this, Y/N." His breath is minty, and it's softly hitting your skin as he works the clasp to the back of your neck. Your grandmother gave you this necklace. He knows, you told him about it tipsy off a mango margarita.

"She got me this on my tenth birthday. I have never taken it off.""She believed in you.""What a shame, right?"

His fingers linger on the glittering pendant, before centering it on your blouse. "Ready?" "What did you mean by different?" You blurt, and his eyes widen as he reaches for the camera. "What?" "You said I…nevermind. Just take the picture, I have somewhere to be." You force a smile, and Joshua gives you a questioning look. He positions the camera, but sighs. "Too forced. Just relax, Y/N."

Huffing, you soften your face, letting your cheeks reach your eyes as you smile gently. "Much better." He whispers, taking the photo quickly. You blink a few times, before reaching for your bag. "And Y/N?" "What!?" You gripe, and he smiles. "Not everything is about you, pretty." Rolling your eyes at the slight lurch in your stomach. Pulling your bag over your shoulder, you stop as he huffs. "Wait, it came out wrong. Can you stand here again?"

He flicks the faulty picture onto the desk, and you quickly position yourself in front of him again. You clear your throat, smiling again as you move your hair to your face – when you see him smiling tenderly behind the camera. "Why are you looking at me like that?" "Hm?" He snaps the photo, taking it as it prints and covering it with his hand from the light. "Nothing, you look a lot nicer when you smile." You don't reply, waiting silently to see if the photo develops nicely. He doesn't speak either, before flipping the photo. You're smiling back at him, and he holds it up. "Satisfied?"

"Yeah, whatever." You shrug, and he nods. He hands you your bag, and gives you a warm look. "Have a good day, Y/N." You hesitate, but take your bag. "You too."

– ☆ – 

"Hey, Shua."

He looks up to see Saerom standing in the doorway of his bedroom, her arms crossed as she drags the tip of her shoe against the hardwood.

"Hey! What are you doing here? And if you say you're here to see any of these perverts, I'm going to escort you out myself." She just laughs, shaking her head as she enters his bedroom. It's a bit larger than the others, and she flops onto his bed. "Why did you tell me you slept with Y/N?" Joshua chokes on his spit, coughing harshly in his desk chair. Saerom looks slightly amused as he regains his composure. "Just right out with it, huh?" "Well, she's my best friend. I don't know how I didn't know you were in Mexico, too. I literally watch your Instagram stories." Saerom pouts, and Joshua laughs. "Maybe because I like to live in the moment? I don't document every part of my life, Rom." "I mean, yeah, but still. And how did you guys even have time to meet? I was with her all the time." Saerom wails, making Joshua just shake his head. "She did mention she was on vacation with her best friend. She never mentioned your name, and we also hung out mostly at night. I'm assuming if you guys didn't share a room, you wouldn't have been able to notice, anyway." "We never share a room when we go on vacation together. We like our privacy." She rolls her eyes, and Joshua smiles knowingly. "I know, I was there with Cheol and Han, and I practically begged the front desk to get me one of the beach villas. I did not want to share a room with them, or whatever girl they managed to tag team."

"As your cousin, this is a weird conversation to have. As Y/N's friend, I feel awkward. We fought a bit, and I can't really talk to her knowing that you guys…did it."

"You're so…Okay." He snorts at her theatrics, before opening his laptop. He sees the photo he took of you in the corner of it, your smiling face peeking out at him. He shuts it quickly, having forgotten he took it with him. The photo developed after you left, so it's not like he lied.

"Anyway, she's such a cold person normally. It's hard to get in there." Saerom sighs, and he feels a pang in his chest. You'd opened up very quickly with him, but Saerom didn't know that – nor did she need to. "I guess it works, though, she can be personable when she wants to. Can't believe she wants to own that big ass company her father has. I'd cry myself to sleep if I had that much pressure on my shoulders." You're living such a double life and your best friend doesn't even know it. How can you hide those things from her? Do you fear being judged, or being seen as less than? Someone who can't handle the pressure of being the golden child, someone who can't hold a candle to her parents? Someone who disappoints.

"Yeah, me too."

Saerom keeps talking about you, but he can barely hear her. His phone is open in his lap, and he's staring at the message thread with your burner number.

Msg To: Y/N (PV)

[06/29] hey, this is joshua. [06/29] you left your number at my table.

Msg From: Y/N (PV)

[06/29] hi handsome ;) [06/29] are you free tonight?

He had been free.

He remembers the stupid white dress you wore when you met him at the salsa club. He remembers the confidence radiating off you when you asked the bartender for your drink. You made it evident you didn't need him, that you weren't looking for anything serious – but you slowly dropped the act. You let him in just a bit, you danced with him and you let him walk you down the beach to your hotel room.

You were the one who asked to sit on one of the hammocks on the beach. You were the one who asked him about himself, wondering what his own life was like. You encouraged him to dig deep and tell you his darkest secrets, assuring him you'd share your own as well.

Your life was much more intense than his. He was studying music, he was living it, breathing it, enjoying it. He wanted that, more than anything, and nothing was going to get in his way. But you…you wanted so much more than what you were told you could have.

You wanted to be more than your parents. You wanted to explore, you wanted to live. He remembers how sweet you were when he told you his dreams. how gentle you were when you voiced your opinion on them. He appreciated your honesty and your kindness, and he enjoyed your presence.  You…were more than just the intimacy. More than just the makeout sessions you initiated, including that night in the hammock. More than the way you made him chase you just enough. About as much as one can for a vacation fling, anyway.

"...And she makes the best bolognese, Shua. You'd love it." Saerom sighs, making him nod quickly. "I'm sure." "Anyway, I gotta go. I was supposed to pick up dinner, so I can extend the olive branch." She chuckles, getting off the bed. "I'll see you around, Shua." "Bye, Rom. Be safe, let me know when you get home." "Will do." Saerom exits his room, closing the door behind her. He opens his laptop, fishing the photo of you out of the corner and shoving it into his wallet. He should feel weird about keeping it, but that means a perfectly good photo is going to waste! It'll be safe in his wallet.

Unlocking his laptop, he sighs as he sees his email pinging him.

From: YNKANG@SNU.EDU

Subject: Office Hours

Sent: 10:32PM

Hello. I hope this email finds you well.

I am not able to attend Friday's office hours. I will also not be able to attend office hours next week, as I have prior commitments I must tend to. I know it is rather unorthodox, but would you be available tomorrow? I do not have classes after 1PM and I frankly don't need a language class to tarnish my perfect record.

Let me know if this works for you. Thanks.

Best,

Kang Y/N

010-1230-1995

Thursday, September 8th.

From: JHONG@SNU.EDU

RE:Subject: Office Hours

Sent: 11:21PM

Thank you for reaching out. I understand prior commitments can make attending office hours difficult. 

I am not able to promise availability for Thursday. Jennie Kim has the office, she is the TA for Professor Lee Chaerin in French II. This being said, I can accommodate in two ways.

I can give you an assignment to be turned in on Friday. You will have to come by the classroom to retrieve it. Or, you can get a study room in the library and I can offer two hours of my time for your use. Please email me back before 10AM if the latter is your choice.

Best,

Joshua Hong

010-9999-8212

Bad idea, Y/N.

Very, very bad idea.

You should have gone to pick up the stupid assignment. You should have picked up the stupid, fat packet he was going to torture you with to make you regret being a douche to him despite basically making the guy fall in love with you over the summer.

Instead, you suffer here. You suffer inside these four walls, with a freshly showered Joshua Hong standing in the doorway, his friends bidding him goodbye. Jeonghan and Seungcheol peer in, their eyes twinkling with something devious – making Joshua roll his eyes as he shut the door with his foot.

"Sorry about that, they're nosey." He's holding a basketball under his arm, backpack hiked over his shoulder as he walks around the room to settle at the table.You haven't spoken yet, just eyeing him down. "Your hair is wet." "Damp, not wet." He corrects you, opening his bag for his sweatshirt. "It's freezing in here, Jesus Christ." "Maybe wear a proper shirt next time." You roll your eyes, opening your laptop to see the digitals you had developed from your vacation. Saerom took a lot of them – you drinking out of a fresh coconut, you wearing a pretty pink dress to the beach, you in a new swimsuit you bought specifically for the trip. There were photos of the two of you together – one a little girl took of you having a picnic on the beach, another of the two of you getting matching tattoos on your ankles.

And one you took of Joshua.

You were sitting on him, right after the two of you woke up in your hotel room. The photo was taken from an odd over-head angle, but his smile was wide and so natural. You were making him laugh, you remember.

"Come on, just one picture!"

"You literally just pinched my leg to wake me up, give me a second!""God forbid a girl wants to wake you up. Come on, I leave in two days!"

You'd lied, you left that night. You dumped your burner in the airport trashcan, not bothering to read the few texts he'd sent you only moments earlier to your arrival there. They were gone forever – and you hadn't felt guilty then, not really. You knew you'd miss him a bit, you knew yourself that much.

You wouldn't have missed him at all if you knew that you'd see him again…for sixteen consecutive weeks. And possibly for the rest of your time on this campus. And possibly, the rest of your life, since you were best friends with Saerom.

The pictures haunt you a bit, you notice.

You're staring at them in silence, feeling a bit of anxiety crawl up your throat when you hear Joshua clear his own. "I brought a few assignments, in case you don't want to do…this." He gestures to the room, and you just shake your head.

"Paying for the class, I might as well try and get along with you." You mutter, clicking your tongue when the photo of Joshua comes back into circulation. "I'm going to the vending machine, do you want anything?" You abruptly get up, grabbing your wallet out of your bag and stalking to the door. He looks up at you, a soft look in his eyes as he shakes his head. "I'm okay." Nodding, you retreat to the vending machine down the hall. You're staring at the ground as you walk, fully expecting to have an uneventful trip not even ten feet away.

However, it seems that even that can't go right for you.

"Hey. You're Y/N, right?" Your head snaps up, seeing Seungcheol and Jeonghan at the vending machine. Your eye twitches a bit, and you clear your throat before nodding. "And you are?" Jeonghan gives you a knowing look, but entertains you. "I'm Jeonghan. This is Seungcheol." With pursed lips, you nod. "Uh, nice to meet you. You guys are in…Beta Tau, right? My friend is rushing it." You stand awkwardly, and Jeonghan gives you a slight smirk. "Yeah? Good luck to your friend, Y/N.' "Yah, don't be like that. Did you want the vending machine? We're still deciding." Seungcheol tugs Jeonghan back a bit, and you quickly feed in your change, pressing the buttons to get what you want. In your frenzy, you get two bottles of jasmine tea.

"Say, Y/N. How was your summer?" Jeonghan asks gently, and you feel your shoulders tense before you glance over with a scowl. "Is it really on your mind that much? I fucked your friend, so what?" "Wow, no need to get so feisty! Kitty has claws." He smiles, elbowing Seungcheol, who just pinches the bridge of his nose. "Whatever, man. God forbid a girl has fun on her summer vacation." You turn on your heel, walking back down the corridor and hearing Seungcheol scold Jeonghan behind you. You nearly rip the handle off the door of the study room, seeing Joshua standing in front of the whiteboard with a textbook draped open in his hand. He looks back to see your furrowed brows, and the two teas in your hand.

"Are you alright?" "Did you have to tell all your friends that we slept together? Because I didn't tell anyone. I didn't even tell my best friend, you told her. I'd appreciate if you would stop ruining my fucking reputation." You slam the bottles on the table, and Joshua gives you a surprised look. "What the hell are you talking about, Y/N?" "You know exactly what I'm talking about, Joshua. Your stupid friend just cornered me at the vending machine, asking me all these stupid questions like he knows something about me. Newsflash! He doesn't, and neither do you!" You sit with a huff, and Joshua's ears are slightly red as he tongues his cheek. He glances down at the textbook in his hand, closing it and sliding it onto the table. You don't bother looking up at him, hearing the jingling of the door before he speaks. "Excuse me."

The door shuts behind him, and you look up to see that he didn't take any of his things. Meaning that he'd be back, after doing God knows what, and you'd have to deal with it. Sighing to yourself, you rub your temples, wondering how things got like this.

The semester just started. You didn't have time for this.

Silently, you begin to pack up your things. Your laptop goes in the designated slot, your extra tea gets packed snugly into the front pocket. You click your tongue, about to get up when the door opens and Joshua emerges with Jeonghan in tow, looking like a kicked puppy.

Your brows nearly reach your hairline as Jeonghan shuffles forward. Joshua gives him a hard look. "Apologize."

Sucking his teeth, Jeonghan gives you a once over before speaking quietly. "I'm sorry that my assumptions and behavior made you uncomfortable, and it won't happen again." The hand gripping your backpack loosens a bit, and Seungcheol pops up from behind Joshua with a sheepish look on his face. "I'm also sorry, Y/N. I know this is an odd situation for the two of you, and our instigation doesn't make it any better." Your jaw is a bit slack, and Jeonghan looks at Joshua. "Can I go now?" "Did you hear her accept your apology?" He asks, and Jeonghan sighs. "I guess not." Blinking, you just give Jeonghan a thumbs up. "You're…you're good, yeah. Uh, don't worry about it. You either, Seungcheol." You look over Joshua's shoulder to the older man, who smiles in response.

"We'll get going, then. We've got a party to plan." Seungcheol says warmly,  and Jeonghan turns on his heel to exit the room. "I don't want to hear this shit from you guys again." Joshua mutters, all but slamming the door after them.

"You didn't have to do that." You mumble, and he looks at you with a scoff.

"Yes, I did. Whether we slept together or not is none of their business, and the only reason they know is because they were there. I don't need that being spread around campus or them being douchebags to you." He grabs the textbook again, uncapping the dry-erase marker before glancing at you. "Sit down, you've got me for two hours." You don't like the slight flutter in your stomach, or that your body involuntarily does as he says. You silently unpack your bag again, and he finishes writing example problems on the whiteboard. Feeling your stomach a bit uneasy, you uncap the tea to take a sip.

"Conjugation is very important. When I was grading your quiz, I noticed that was your biggest problem. I don't know how you got a B, really, when most of that quiz was conjugations, but I digress. Can you do these for me?" He holds out the marker, an expectant look in his eyes.

"Sure."

Friday, September 16th.

It'd been a little more than a week since you met with Joshua in the library.

And since the two of you officially acknowledged that you'd slept together. What you didn't know was, while he was having his own feelings about the history that weighed the two of you down, he wasn't going to force you to return his affections. In fact…he even felt a bit silly, liking you so much off of three weeks of getting the full experience of…well, you.

Better yet, he wasn't even going to tell you there are any residual feelings on his end. If he knew anything, it was you and your type. If he came off too strong – flowers, a date, chocolates and the like, he'd scare you off even more. You were skittish, like a deer, and he had to either slowly gain your trust…

Or irritate the living hell out of you every chance he got.

Subtle flirting, double entendres, maybe the occasional lingering look. He knew that if he wanted a chance, and man did he want it – he was going to have to work for it. No problem, though. You were definitely worth the wait.

"So, as you can see, the proper conjugation is hablar, not hablando." His laser pointer is steady at the bottom of the projector screen, and he looks up to see half of the class staring intently and the other half jotting down notes. You were neither of the two – your head was resting on Chan's shoulder, eyes low. He cleared his throat, your head jumping up and a wince crossing your features.

Joshua knew Chan was really no threat. The fraternity really liked him, and he was set to move in this weekend. According to Chan's Instagram story, you'd been at his dorm the night before helping him pack up. Saerom had also been there, and Soonyoung – another Beta Tau member. You had been holding a can of Red Bull and in one of the following videos, you were shotgunning another.

"Any questions?" He calls out, and Haerim shoots her hand up. "Yes, Haerim?" "Since this is a conversational class, how would we ask someone out? Or, for their number?"

The classroom fills with childish snickering, and Joshua just smiles as he shakes his head. "Well, I-" "I don't think this is an appropriate question, to be honest." Your voice is heard from the back of the classroom, and Haerim turns in her chair, a wicked smile crossing her lips as Joshua rounds the desk, perched on the edge of it. "And why not, Y/N?" She asks, and Joshua can see you shift uncomfortably in your chair.

"This is Beginner Spanish Conversation, not Coffee Meets Bagel. Flirt on your own time, at your own pace." You scoff, and Haerim's smile only grows wider. It's like she knows something about you, and Joshua notices you begin to bristle slightly. "Why are you so uptight about it, Y/N? It's just a question." "I'm paying for this class, as is everyone else. I think I'd like to appreciate my money's worth by learning something I'll actually use." "Alright, ladies. Honestly, Miss Y/N is partially correct. This is not Café y Rosquilla, but I do think that this is…a learning moment. Asking someone out does involve conversation, you know." Joshua attempts to diffuse, but he can see your subtle annoyance at his siding with Haerim. "So, for example, if I wanted to ask out…" He looks around the room, before a flash of diablerie crosses his eyes. "If I wanted to ask out Miss Y/N, I'd have to make conversation. I'd say…eres muy bonita." "Yeah?! What else?!" You hear Myungjun shout from the far left side of the room, and you can feel Chan's knee bumping yours. You scowl at him, earning a smile as he hides in his hoodie. "I'd say…" Joshua scans your face, and he knows you're probably embarrassed. Embarrassed, but enjoying his subtle attention. He pushes off the desk, pacing in front of the students. "Hm, I'd probably say I like her dress, or me gusta tu vestido."

He watches you cross your legs, tucking the extra fabric of your black dress under your thighs. "Okay, but how do you ask her out!?" Haerim interrupts excitedly, and Joshua is on the first step of the stairs before he catches your eyes again.

"You don't just ask someone out flat out like that. You build repertoire, you make conversation." He rolls his eyes playfully, and you think you're about to get off without any further embarrassment when you hear Chan speak up next to you. "How much repertoire can you even build at this point? Psychology says it only takes two minutes to decide if you like someone." Joshua sees you gape at Chan, before pinching his bicep. Chan pouts in your direction, rubbing his arm as Joshua holds back a laugh. "Psychology also says that there are five components to figuring out if we will have a crush on someone. Physical attraction, proximity, similarity, reciprocity and familiarity. Miss Y/N is very pretty, so physical attraction is checked off. Proximity is also checked, as we see each other three times a week for this class." "What about similarity?" Myungjun pipes up again, making you sink lower in your seat. Joshua is enjoying making you squirm a bit, and he steps up a few more. "Hm, I think that's something I'd have to figure out. Tell me, Miss Y/N, do you enjoy…long walks on the beach?" Your eyes are full of fire, and you'd be almost scary if he didn't notice the way your lip wanted to twitch into a smile. Haerim shouts for you to answer the question, making you send her a scornful look – and she just sticks her tongue out at you like a child. "I do…enjoy long walks on the beach."

"What a coincidence, so do I! Now, we have a similarity. Miss Y/N is familiar, because again, I do see her quite often. Now, it's about reciprocation. This is when you ask the question, this is when you try and make a move." "Shua, how do we make the move!?" Chan asks, and you kick his shin, about to tell him to shut up when Joshua finally reaches your row. He's looking you dead in the eyes, his hand gently wrapping around the edge of your desk. He leans forward, and you can hear the stupid woo-ing of your classmates. "Señorita Y/N, ¿le gustaría salir conmigo?"

Somehow, this all feels like some stupid romcom for the both of you. The class is egging you both on, and Chan is next to you with the most idiotic smile you'd ever seen. You huff, the class is now chanting for you to agree to said…"fake" date.

"No." You say quietly, and Joshua feigns pain. He holds his hand to his heart, a pained expression on his face. "You wound me, Miss Y/N."

He turns to the class, all of which are giving you the dirtiest look ever. "Now, now. This was just an example, don't look at her like that." He scolds, and the class turns back to face the front as he barrels down the steps, checking his watch. 

"Shit, it's already ten past noon. You guys are free to go, and if any of you are taking Psych with Professor Seo Jungkwon, tell him I fulfilled his lecture for the day." This earns a laugh from the class, except you. You're angrily stuffing your laptop into your bag, the class eagerly exiting the room. Chan is holding your arm, apologizing most likely, but you don't seem like you want to hear any of it. By this point, Chan looks a bit like a kicked puppy as he quickly takes the steps down, with you following slowly behind him.

Chan is out the door by the time you make it to the last step, and the classroom is empty.

You arms are crossed as you approach the desk, where Joshua is quietly shutting down the projector. His eyes don't meet yours as he disconnects the machine from the wall, winding the cord up to tie together. "Y/N." He calls gently, and you huff angrily. He bites back a smile.

"Why do you insist on embarrassing me? The first week, it was you running your mouth to my best friend. Last week, you practically held Jeonghan at gunpoint to apologize to me. Today, it's putting me on blast in front of an entire classroom with people I will continue to see for the rest of the year."

"Oh? Was it embarrassing?" He's nonchalant as he looks up, tucking the wrapped cables behind the projector. Your eyes are narrowed, and it seems you've caught onto his little game. "Do you get off on this or something? Knowing you fucked one of your students?" "Hm, not necessarily. And none of what was done was done to embarrass you, per say. It's just decent honesty, and we both know you deserved an apology for Jeonghan's behavior." He states matter-of-factly, making you purse your lips. "What about your behavior? You asked me out in front of all these people!" You gesture to the empty room, and Joshua gives you a small smile. "And you rejected me in front of all of those people. The way I see it, it's a teaching moment."

He's on the same side of the desk as you now, resting against it as you complain. HIs smile seems to be getting under your skin, because you grab his shirt by the collar, pulling his face close to yours before you speak through gritted teeth. "Use someone else as your stupid guinea pig. I don't want to be with you, Hong." You're holding him so close, your lips just barely brushing his. He can't help but scan your face quickly, his hand reaching to brush a stray curl off your face. Your eyes follow his fingers, feeling them tuck the hair behind your ear before he swallows carefully. You can feel your stomach flip slightly as his hand drops, ghosting over your hip as he pushes off the desk, making you slightly stumble back. His fingers grab you gently, pulling you flush to him before his nose is touching yours. "Tell me you don't want me," He whispers, his breath hitting your lips making your lashes flutter closed as you press your lips to his. A whimper escapes his throat as he kisses you back, his grip tightening as your hand lets go of his shirt, your palm resting against his stomach as your other hand holds his waist. The kiss is slow but desperate, your tongue licking into his mouth in the way that drove him crazy over the summer. 

He can't help himself, his hand moving to tangle in your hair, moving his lips down your jaw and exposed neck. A sharp inhale from you as he reaches one of the many sweet spots he'd discovered, a soft whine sounding in his ears making him feel dizzy as he nips at your skin. Pulling back, he holds your face close to his as he speaks again. "Tell me you don't want me, and we can stop this right now. I'll be nothing but professional for the rest of the semester."

He can tell that wasn't what you were expecting. Your eyes are wide and full of mixed emotions, but overall, they flash with a bit of fear. "I…" Your hands move to rest on his hips, a frown on your lips as you let go, and he does the same. His arms cross with an expectant look on his face, and you grimace.

"Stop embarrassing me in front of people, and if you don't have a good reason to talk to me or be near me, don't engage at all." 

He gives you a nod, his smile reappearing as he reaches to wipe your lip gloss from his lips. "That being said, I'm guessing you will not be attending office hours tonight?" Huffing, you look away. "No. I have to help Chan move into the frat house with you and your hooligan friends."

"So I'll see you tonight anyway." He speaks with a grin, and you tongue your cheek. "Leave me alone, Joshua."

You spin on your heel, but his arm is on your elbow before you can walk away. He pulls you back, pulling you into a hug, pressing his lips to your hairline as you hesitantly wrap your arms around him. He speaks against your hair, "One more. For the road."

"Joshua." You groan, trying to hide the giddy feeling spreading in your stomach. He smiles at you, planting a kiss to the tip of your nose. "Just one, and I'll let you slam out of here like we were arguing."

You roll your eyes, but let him slot his lips with yours, the minty taste of him still lingering from the previous kiss. This one is much gentler, the warmth of his body against yours comforting as he pulls away with a chaste kiss. And another. And another.

"You said one." You grumble, swatting at his side to make him let you go. He smiles, his thumb coming to wipe at your lips. Your lipgloss is gone entirely, just glitter remaining. "Mmh. I'll see you later." "Whatever." You pull away from him, and he watches as you slam your way out of the classroom, a few students from your class still lingering in the hallway catching his eye. They look questioning, but he just shrugs as the door closes. He sighs as he looks around the empty lecture hall, a glimmer on the third step up calling his eyes. 

Making his way towards the steps, he sees the gold plating of a seven-pointed star, a message engraved in the back. 

For my brightest star, Y/N.

Picking it up, the diamonds mock him.

He feels slightly stupid to think this is fate, while knowing that once you realize it's gone, you'll be panicking. It seems nothing is really going right for you these days – your car being hit, fighting with Saerom, not being able to stand your ground against him…and now your necklace is 'gone'. He wants to be selfish and say it's because you're being a bit of a jerk to him.

So he'll believe that.

– ☆ –

"Chan! It's not here!"

Your hands feel disgustingly dry, having practically ripped apart every cardboard box you helped him pack. You'd managed to haul everything from his dorm to the fraternity house a few blocks down, having begged Saerom and Soonyoung to help you steal a flatbed from the construction majors. The three of you were helping Chan unpack a box of his underwear when you swiped your hair back from your neck, not feeling the chain of your necklace on your skin.

The four of you had stopped unpacking the moment you started panickedly patting yourself all over, and even standing up to shake off your shirt and hair. Now surrounded by a few of Chan's blankets, you were doing all but ripping up the carpet in the bedroom to find your cherished gift.

"It's not in the hallway! Going downstairs!" You hear Saerom call, and Chan is emerging from the bathroom with his flashlight on. "I swear you had it on when we fought earlier."

"Fuck, what if it fell off there?" You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to remember if you felt anything off after leaving the room. People stared at you as you barreled out of the language hall, you kissed Joshua…

You kissed Joshua.

"I'm pretty sure I had it on when I left! Remember, I even changed clothes when I got home so I wouldn't dirty my dress helping you move. I swear I felt it!"

At this point, you're shaking your hair out once more and Chan is throwing ripped cardboard into the hallway, hitting a passing Joshua. "Ouch!"

"Shit, sorry!" Chan winces, and Joshua scours the room, before his eyes land on you. Your hand is gently patting at your chest, where your necklace would usually sit as you shake out your sweater. He gives Chan a look, making him look back at you. Joshua glances at the cardboard boxes on the floor, and Chan gets the hint.

He clears his throat, garnering your anxious attention, "I'm going to take these down to recycling, and I'll check outside, okay? Just keep looking in here, it's gotta be somewhere."

Your eyes are slightly wild, and you just nod as you begin to shake Chan's blankets. A pair of underwear falls out, making you huff as Chan exits his room. Joshua leans on the doorframe, watching as you move around calculatedly. "What's got you so frantic?" You look over your shoulder, now squatted over a pile of shirts. "Why is it any of your business?"

He sucks his teeth, hands resting in his hoodie pocket. "Maybe I can help you? Ever think that I'm not out to get you like some sort of Boogeyman?" Your shoulders sag in defeat, and you just beckon him into the room. "Shut the door." You mutter, and he does just that before squatting in front of you, his ringed fingers splayed across the shirts in your hands. 

"Shake these off." 

"For?" He asks, but takes the first one and does as you ask. You feel a tear threaten to escape, but blink rapidly as he takes the next shirt. "Just do it." He does, but by the fifth shirt, he looks up at you. "You know…if you tell me what you're looking for, I may be able to help further." He says it like he knows something, and you just roll your eyes as you move onto the stack of Chan's sweatpants. "I lost my necklace, okay? I can't find it."

Stopping his movements, he smiles at you. "Hm, any idea where?" "No." You sigh, shaking off another pair of pants. A dollar bill floats out of the pocket, but neither of you bother to touch it as it floats down to the carpet. "I think you're wasting your time looking in here, actually." You look at Joshua, who is now moving to stand up. Scanning his face, your eyes narrow. "Where is it?" Stretching, he extends a hand to help you up. You scowl, getting up on your own as he shrugs. "Come on." He walks towards the door, flinging it open as two of the members run past with a basket full of eggs. "You better not be throwing those in here!" He barks, and their giggles only get louder as they barrel down the stairs.

He leads you to his bedroom, leaving the door ajar for you to close as you enter. 

Your eyes scan the bedroom – it's very…serene. It's bigger than Chan's, and the bed is right under the window. There is sheet music pinned up to a corkboard above his desk, a few guitars propped up against the wall. His walls are covered in photos of him and his friends, and you spot one of him and Saerom as kids pinned higher on the wall than the rest. There is a small bookshelf, with a Bible and a few candles on top of it.

You're standing at the foot of this bed when you feel his hands on your neck, making you jump slightly. "Relax." He murmurs, the cool metal of your necklace making you shiver slightly.

"I found it on the steps in the classroom. Your clasp broke, so I took it to my friend in town. She's a jeweler, and she fixed it. I have the original clasp, in case you wanted to keep it." He holds up a plastic baggie, no bigger than the palm of his hand. You turn to look at him, your hand ghosting around for the star that hands in the middle of your chest.

"I should have texted, or emailed, at the very least. I just figured, I'd see you anyway—" "Thank you." You interrupt, your arms instinctively enveloping him into an embrace. You squeeze slightly, his own hands hovering over your back before touching you gently. "You're welcome." Without moving away, you speak into his sweater. "I'm sorry I've been such a douche to you lately."

He laughs a bit, his chest moving against your cheek. "Yeah…you have been. I'll send your parents an invoice for emotional damage." His fingers are rubbing circles in your back, and you hate that he knows you joke about your parents' emotional unavailability. Biting back a laugh, you push off him. Your hands linger at his sides, and he tilts his head.

"I meant what I said, you know." He states, and you glance up at him with a quizzical look on your face. "What?"

"That if you don't want to do…whatever this is, I'll leave you alone. I'll be professional for the rest of the semester." He gestures between the two of you. You don't look as taken aback as you did in the classroom, but a scoff does escape your lips as your arms fold across your chest. 

"Okay? What does that have to do with now?" He steps a bit closer, making the back of your knees hit his bed. You sit out of instinct, watching as he runs his hand through his hair. He's so handsome.

"It has everything to do with you, and your general existence. Your best friend is my cousin. You're friends with Soonyoung, Jun and Chan, and they're all members of my fraternity. You're a student in a class I assist, we're going to be around each other no matter our feelings about each other." He's not really giving you an out of this conversation.

"I know you don't like that I told Saerom about what happened between us during the summer, and I want to apologize for telling her in the first place. It just slipped out, and I am sorry." He speaks sincerely, and you blink up at him before scooting slightly back on his bed, crossing your legs. He takes this as a sign to continue.

"I also want to say that what happened between us doesn't have to mean anything to you, at all." He shifts uncomfortably, making your eyes narrow. "I know it was just a fling, and I'm probably just confused about my feelings." 

You hate the way tears prick at your eyes, before he spins his desk chair out, sitting down and leaning forward.

"I wanted to ask if you want to be transferred out. I have the transfer form ready, there is a spot in Professor Yoon Mirae's class. She said she'd gladly take you if that was the case." Your head snaps up at this, his eyes boring a hole into the pictures on the wall. "You…want to transfer me out?"

He stares at his fingers, toying with one of his rings as he replies. "I think it would be best for you. It only meets twice a week, and you'd probably get along better with Somin." He looks up at you, and you don't know what expression is on your face for him to immediately soften. "You don't want to?" "I think you…" You swallow thickly, scooting towards the edge of his bed, moving to stand up. "I think we need to forget that anything even happened between us." You whisper, and you can see hurt lace his eyes before he clears his throat, looking away from you as he nods. "Right." "I don't want to hurt you, Joshua." You fake confidence, noting the way he blinks rapidly, before standing up. "You're not hurting me, Y/N. We fucked over the summer. It's not like we dated."

You wince at his use of words. "Yeah, but–" HIs hand pushes the baggie with your clasp in it into your hand, "Don't worry about it, Y/N. I'll see you in class on Monday." Your fingers instinctively close around his, moving to squeeze his hand before he pulls it away. You stare up at him, feeling your face slightly burn in humiliation. You know that he's sensitive, and that the kiss earlier today probably meant a lot to him. Why is he acting like this? Like you didn't open up to him and tell him everything you couldn't even tell your best friend, like you didn't sleep with him for three weeks straight before leaving Puerto Vallarta.

You remember Chan's words…something something forming a crush in two minutes. 

What can happen in three weeks?

"Was that all it was for you?" You ask gently, watching as he turns away from you. "I really don't want to have this conversation right now." He mumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose and walking towards the door. He tugs his hoodie off, the white muscle tank showing off his broad shoulders. Shoulders you dug your nails into that summer, and you can see the remaining faint lines from you trailing down his back. 

"Was it just sex?" You ask again, and he sighs. "No. It wasn't."

He hangs the hoodie up on the hook behind the door, and you take a step to him. "Then why are you acting like this?" He turns to look at you, eyes wide with incredulity. "Me?! Why are you acting like this? For almost a month you couldn't keep your hands off me, you couldn't stop talking about hating your life here, and suddenly, through whatever force of the universe, we're both stuck in this life that you dread. Excuse me if my best effort isn't enough for you." Eyes narrowed, you can feel your stomach bubble with a bit of anger. "There's no way you're the same guy I fucked for three weeks, Joshua. We were on vacation in a foreign country. I was telling you everything about me because I wasn't worried about ever seeing you again." "No, you did that because you're a liar." He mutters, making you suddenly feel a lot smaller than usual. "I am the exact same person I was then, Y/N! I'm not like you, I can't just flip-flop between two personalities. I can't lie to everyone that I care about just because I'm too afraid to stand up to my parents. You're doing yourself a disservice." 

He's breathing heavily, and you can feel the tears threatening to spill from your eyes. Your pride is stronger, though, and you let out a humorless laugh. "I'll see you on Monday."

You shove past him, throwing his door open and slipping out before you slam it with all your might. You see Jeonghan carrying a basket with Chan's name on it down the hall, his eyes wide as you storm past him.

"Are you o-" "Fuck off." You spit, not bothering to swing back into Chan's room for your stuff. Saerom could bring it home, or leave it there, you don't really care. All you really know is that this place has got to be the most suffocating you've ever felt.

Wednesday, October 12th.

It'd been almost a month since you'd last spoken to Joshua.

You weren't in class the following Monday, having instead driven out to one of your mother's properties. You stayed the weekend there, and only drove back in the middle of the night on Tuesday. Professor Lee emailed you, and so did Joshua – though his was very much a copy-paste email. You didn't seek him out, you didn't speak to him. He didn't even attempt to make eye contact, almost always being the first to exit the classroom. You didn't even really talk to Chan or Saerom since you'd helped him move into the frat house, and you could tell they were growing worried about you.

Especially Saerom, as she heard Wherever You Will Go by The Calling play through your speakers almost everyday since. You played this song the first time the two of you went on vacation together, you were nineteen and your grandmother had just passed away that past November.

You didn't have time to worry about their feelings, though, as you parked your car in the lot, Chan silently unbuckled his seatbelt. It was nine-forty-six in the morning, and the two of you sighed simultaneously. "Want to take the long way? We've got fifteen minutes." You check your watch, and Chan gives you a slight nod. "Sure." The long way was walking around the language building into the technology hall – and Chan decided now would be a good time to update you on how Jeonghan and Seungcheol had an ongoing prank war with Mingyu and Wonwoo. It apparently wasn't going to end this weekend, and the reason? Beta Tau Omega was notorious for holding the best Halloween ragers. They held the largest one every year, with the other frats on campus stumbling to be pre-game parties and sororities simply giving up and going to the parties instead of hosting. The problem here was sourcing – Seungcheol, Jeonghan and Joshua planned the party every year, including the random Jell-O wrestling and drinking contests. The liquor was never-ending, and the clean-up after was a mess (and at the hands of the newest members.)

This year, Mingyu insisted that he and Wonwoo could plan an even better party than the trio – hence, facing the wrath of practical jokesters Seungcheol and Jeonghan. Joshua insisted he wasn't involved in this, and would help either duo with the planning if necessary.  

"Are you even listening?" You hear Chan snap his fingers in your face, and you blink at him. "Yeah, sorry. Planning?" He begins to speak again, allowing you to loop your arm with his and rest your head on his shoulder when you look up – and see Joshua leaning against the wall, twirling a strand of Baek Hyejin's hair. She was the Organic Chemistry TA, you got your labs graded by her. She was always very sweet.

You can feel eyes on you as you and Chan walk in lockstep down the stairs, and you see Joshua staring at you as Hyejin speaks to him. Nodding along as if he's listening, as if he cares. You scoff inwardly, shaking your head as you force your eyes forward, ignoring the sinking feeling in your stomach.

It doesn't even matter. You don't like Joshua, and you wouldn't date him, either. You had too much to lose.

Seeing as you drove down to one of the properties, you met with your mother, as well. Your Saturday was spent in your mother's office, designing a new building with her to place on one of her newest properties down south. "You're going to manage this one first. The other tenants don't know you yet, and you'll have to ease into getting them to like you."Your father wasn't around the entire weekend. Your mother sighed repeatedly over dinner, before ultimately abandoning her plate at the table and whisking herself away with a bottle of Merlot. You didn't ask many questions, but you do remember walking by her study before going to the guest bedroom and hearing her on the phone, presumably with her sister.

"I wonder when she's going to get married. He can't be some random guy…do you still keep in touch with the Mins? Maybe Yoongi is willing this time." You hadn't even graduated yet, and she was already trying to pawn you off. Your father had stated strictly that he didn't want you to marry until you were firmly situated within the companies he owned, and your mother constantly bickered against it. No one ever asked you what you wanted.

Not that it mattered, anyway.

"...And so, Mingyu had to wash flour out of all his bedsheets. I think we'll have to get a new washing machine." Chan sighs as the two of you turn into the language hall, and you grimace. "You probably will, that shit sticks like glue." "Yum, gluten patterns." Chan laughs as you shiver, walking into the classroom. Somehow, Joshua is already there, making your grip on Chan's arm tighten a bit. He gives you a concerned look, but allows you to pull him slightly closer to you as you climb the steps to your regular seats in the corner.

"Good morning, everyone!" Joshua calls with a smile, and you hear the majority return the greeting as you and Chan situate yourselves. Crossing your legs, you face forward to see Joshua holding up a three-page packet. "There is a quiz!" A collective groan echoes the room, and Joshua gives a sorry grin. "I know, I know. However, it is an open-note quiz! Feel free to use your notes, and there is no time limit, even if you go over the noon end of the class. Take your time, and you can leave right after you're done." The class just fills with murmurs as everyone begins fishing through their bags for their notebooks, but you made no effort to do so as Joshua began walking around to distribute the papers. He hands two to Chan, who passes you yours and you notice the way Joshua's eyes linger to Chan's jacket on your shoulders before going back down the steps.

"I'll be grading these tests over the next two days, and I'll submit your grades by Thursday night. That way, we can review on Friday and you can attend office hours later that day if you're not satisfied with your grade or just feel like you need a little more help. Sounds good?" He asks, and earns a resounding yes from the class.

Time seems to be dragging on as you carefully read and re-read every question, hoping that your lack of notes won't fuck you over. You remember Chan giving you shit last week for only taking notes on your laptop – and you probably should have listened to him when he told you. Why? Because now you're without notes and you're possibly a little more than screwed, you've only been studying for your other classes.

Your 'how hard can it be?' mindset was now biting you in the ass.

You glanced up to the clock, seeing that there was fifteen minutes to noon – and three students remained aside from you and Chan. Clearing his throat, Chan inched his notes closer to the edge of his desk, making you kick his foot to move them back. He huffed, closing the notebook and standing. He tucks it into his backpack before hiking it over his shoulder, whispering that he'd meet you at the cafe as you'd planned last night. You nod, blowing him a joking kiss before hearing Joshua clear his throat.

The two of you look up, seeing the assistant with a raised brow, beckoning Chan towards the front. Chan gives you a small smile, before making his way to the front. You can hear them whispering at each other, and another two students stand up. You can feel a bit of nervousness sinking into your stomach as the last student stands as well, her bag on her shoulder as she drops her test on Joshua's desk. They chat for a bit, and you hate how you can hear his smile.

"B plus, way to go, Jiwoo. Keep this up, you'll get an A on the final!" He cheers, and she gives him a thumbs up before prancing out of the room. You feel small in the giant room, and Joshua sighs as he leans back in his chair. His laptop is out, and you assume he's going to start inputting grades.

Instead, you hear soft music flowing from the laptop as he starts moving around, grabbing the broom from the corner of the room. "Let me know if it bothers you, I'll turn it down." He speaks, and you just wave him off without looking at him.

You're staring at the stupid question for five minutes before huffing, not knowing why the difference between the subjunctive and the indicative mood even matters for this class. (Yes, you do. You're just being stubborn because you don't know the answer and it bothers you.) "Having trouble?" Joshua calls from the front, a smile on his face as he texts someone back on this phone. Probably Hyejin.

Probably planning a stupid date at a stupid restaurant where they'll order stupid dishes. Probably staring at each other like idiots and liking each other so much that nothing seems to satisfy their carnal needs–

You stop scribbling on your paper, blinking at your sudden train of thought. Why do you even care? Why does it even matter who he's texting, and what he's doing after this? Why? "Y/N?" He calls gently, and you look up to see a worried look on his face. "You okay? Thinking kind of hard, aren't you?" You huff, grabbing your bag by the strap and slightly crumpling your paper as you grab it. Your anger seems to radiate off you as you rush down the steps, nearing the desk with a sour look on your face. "So much for taking my time, huh?" He gives you a small frown, holding his hand out for your quiz. "I wasn't rushing you, just asking if you're alright. Your face was scrunched for twenty minutes." You know it was. You can still feel the tension between your brows as you rub it gently, a pout on your lips as you hand him the paper. "Yeah, well…your job isn't to stare at me. See ya."

"Hmm, but I like staring at you." He hums, uncapping his pen with his teeth as you make your way to the door. "Have a good day, Y/N." You hate the sing-song of his voice.

– ☆ –

The cafe had been super packed, so you and Chan decided to take your drinks to go. Unfortunately, Saerom was holding a study group at the apartment, so your only option was Chan's room at the frat house. You begrudgingly let him try to cheer you up as you sulked up the stairs to his room, holding your drink as Chan carries your bag for you.

"You know, one of the brothers thought we were dating? They asked me after I left Spanish earlier." He ponders aloud, and you snort. "Yeah, I can see why. I do get…pretty affectionate." You reply sarcastically, taking his hand in yours for extra emphasis.

He rolls his eyes as the two of you reach the top floor, and he fishes his keys out as you continue to tease him. "I'd never date you, you're a snotty-nosed brat. I bet you don't even know how to kiss." He sticks his tongue out at you, making you gape.

"I may be a snotty-nosed brat, but I'm a great kisser. Not that you would know, you've never felt the touch of a woman." You bite back, making him gasp. "I have too felt the touch of a woman! You literally took my-" He cuts himself off, looking over your shoulder down the hallway. You furrow your brows, looking over to see Joshua whispering sweet nothings in Hyejin's ear as he hugs her, and her giggles as she brushes her nose against his.

"I'll see you later?" He mumbles, eyes low as he nearly kisses her. She giggles again, before placing her manicured nail on his chest. "Bye, Joshie." "Bye." He smiles, letting her spin out of his arms, watching as she walks down the hall to the stairs. Only then does he notice that you and Chan are standing there, and his face flushes lightly. "Hey, guys. Sorry you had to see that." "Don't be." Chan nods awkwardly, his hand finding your hip to pull you into his bedroom. You grimace in Joshua's direction, before skirting into Chan's room. Chan lingers at the door, before sighing, and entering his room.

"Don't be upset, Y/N." He murmurs as you kick your shoes off, setting your drink down on his desk and shrugging off his jacket. "I'm not upset." You mutter, grabbing your bookbag and pulling out your laptop.

"I can tell you are." He sighs, slipping his shirt over his head, and opening his drawer to reach for a new one. "He's just our TA for a little longer, then we'll both pass the class and get the hell out of there." You look over your shoulder as he pulls a new shirt over his head, rolling your eyes. "It doesn't matter. He's gonna fuck who he wants to, so all I can do is the same." "Y/N, I am only a man." He gives you a warning look, and you snort. "Not you, you rabid dog." "Hey! I've gotten better! I even invented a stroke, I call it the helicopter." He moves his hips in a circular motion, making you shriek out a laugh. "You're a fucking freak."

"I'm just saying, I'm available. If not, I heard that Myungjun is still into you." He shrugs, taking a sip of his drink. You wrinkle your nose, taking a seat on his bed. "Hell no. He likes to talk about his hookups, I don't like blabbermouths." "Then you're fucked, Y/N." He smiles, taking a seat at his desk. "But, I have a proposition." "Chan, if it involves your dick anywhere near me, I'm going to kill you." "You liked it the first time!" He throws an eraser at you, and you snicker. "I didn't know any better then. Anyway, I see the way you look at Haerim. You're not slick." You wag your finger at him, and he flushes lightly.

"So my plan is, I let you act a fool in here and make it seem like we're fucking, and you have to help me get Haerim. Tit for tat." He points his pen at you, and you scoff. "That is so not tit for tat! Haerim is a distinguished young woman, she'd never go for a gremlin like you." "Hurtful!?" He slumps in his chair, making you snicker. "I appreciate your help, Channie. But really, I don't care. It's his life." You shrug, and Chan knows you're lying. "I'm gonna get some water, I'll be back."

You hop off the bed, smoothing your skirt as you open the door. "Can I also steal snacks?" You ask, and Chan nods. "Go for it, Seungcheol buys them." He snorts, and you give him a grin as you close the door behind you. 

You take a deep breath as you brace the stairs, hearing a few of the frat brothers speaking quietly in the den. Peering over the banister, you see a card game strewn on the coffee table, with Jeonghan, Seungcheol and Joshua holding cards. They're all dressed comfortably, and Seungcheol has an ice pack on his knee. He looks up, seeing you peering over the banister. He doesn't speak as you smile at him, only returning it as you continue down the steps. You make it back down to the first floor, giving them a curt nod as you walk past them into the kitchen. "Gentlemen." "M'Lady." Jeonghan replies without looking up, and you look over his shoulder to see that he's got a dirty deck of cards, and he's about to win. "Don't mind me." You skirt into the kitchen, grabbing two cups out of the cupboard and helping yourself to the ice machine. You mind your business as you move around, grabbing a bag of chips and a packet of Gushers, before you see a woven basket on the counter with an assorted amount of condoms. You grab a rope of them, holding it between your teeth as you tuck the chips under your arm and the glasses in your hands. You move back across the den, once more greeting the men. "Gentlemen." 

Joshua looks up to see why your voice is different, seeing the blue foil packet reflecting the light. Seungcheol snorts, "Have fun, don't be too loud. Minghao is sleeping across the hall from you." "Will do, Cheol." You reply, carefully trekking the stairs. You can hear a soft Ow! What'd you do that for!? as you reach the top floor, hearing the front door slam. You put the cups down on the windowsill next to the stairs, and look over the banister to see Seungcheol and Jeonghan snickering. "Did he leave?" You call, and Jeonghan gives you a thumbs up. You rip the top condom off the thread before tossing down the rest. "Thank you, Beta Tau Sluts!" 

"You're welcome!" Seungcheol calls back, catching the condoms before they land in his drink. You grab your drinks again, carefully opening the door with your elbow and Chan looks up to see you. You set the glasses down on his desk, holding up the condom between your fingers.

"Use this with a really special girl, I just pissed off the Vice President of your frat with it." You snicker, and Chan just shakes his head. "Get in here, idiot. We need to study, or OChem is going to eat us for breakfast." "Oh, me first!"

Friday, October 14th.

Joshua put in grades the night before, and you were one point shy of a B minus.

You pretend it doesn't bother you.

Chan was sick, so he'd texted you that morning asking to take notes for him. You took the opportunity to invite Haerim to sit with you – and talk him up. Luckily, there wasn't much talking to do – she already thought he was very cute, but didn't make a move because she thought the two of you were together. You were honest about the past between you, and she just snorted, admitting she'd done the same with a friend of hers.

Msg To: Channie ♡

[10:33AM] mission haerim x chan is a go! [10:33AM] i gave her ur number so…don't fumble.

"Hello, everybody." Joshua calls from the front, and you and Haerim snap your heads up. He starts setting up the projector after everyone replies to his greeting, and she glances at you. "I wonder who broke his heart over the summer." She sighs, and you nod.

"I don't think she meant to." You shrug, your heart warming a bit at the memories. You really regretted it, of course – and it bothered you that it didn't bother him more. You'd been spending a lot of your nights just thinking about it, about him, about opening up to him.

"Well, I hope he heals. She definitely messed up, I've heard he's an absolute sweetheart." She nods, and you smile tightly. "Yeah, he is. His cousin is my best friend. Saerom?" She nods again, "I have Psych with her." "Alright, we're reviewing today." He sighs, and you notice how tired he looks. Eyes are a little swollen. Maybe Hyejin dumped him.

You don't like the giddy feeling you get at that thought.

The review goes by quietly, with Joshua's voice growing more and more tired as he speaks, and he wraps the class up with almost thirty minutes to go. Students walk by and say they hope he feels better, and he just nods at them. You linger, telling Haerim you need to talk to Joshua about office hours, and she leaves without a second thought.

The door closes behind her, and you clear your throat.

"Sick?" You ask, holding out a bag of cough drops. You'd bought them that morning, after Saerom complained of sore throat. He glances at you, and the bag, before shaking his head. "I'm good." Frowning, you step closer to him as he puts his laptop in his bag. "Then what's wrong?" Your voice is gentle, and he stiffens at the sound of it. "Nothing is wrong, Y/N. Thank you for worrying, but I'm fine."

He looks up at you, his eyes lightly rimmed red. You go to speak, but he pulls his bag over his shoulder, moving away from you. "I'll be at the house today, Chan is sick. If you need to talk." You say, before spinning on your heel to leave.

He doesn't respond, only turning away with a frown. "Have a good day, Joshua." "You too, Y/N."

– ☆ –

You were standing in front of the Beta Tau house, waiting for someone to come open the door. Jun was at a study session with Saerom and Soonyoung was out teaching a class, so you were at the house alone. Hearing the doorknob jingle, you look up to see a sleepy Seungcheol opening the door.

"Hey, Y/N. Come in, Chan is in his room." He yawns as he opens the door wider, and you just shake your head in amusement. He and Jeonghan had stopped being a problem after Joshua called them out, and it wasn't long for you to figure out they were friendly based on their treatment of Chan. Very brotherly…very…teasing.

"Hey, Y/N." Jeonghan gives you a curt nod as he stands in front of the mirror by the stairs, giving himself a once over before turning to Seungcheol. "I look okay?" "Yeah." He nods, and you look at Jeonghan over your shoulder. There is a silver packet sticking out of his pocket, "Might wanna tuck that in a little further." You call, before turning back around and trekking the stairs.

"Thanks!" He calls, shoving his hand in his pocket with wide eyes. Seungcheol laughs as you reach the top, before you hear the door open and close with Jeonghan's departure. "Boys." You roll your eyes, before reaching Chan's door. You carefully open the door, trying not to let too much light in.

Chan is draped across his mattress, a fever patch plastered on his forehead. There are half empty bottles of electrolyte drinks all over the floor, and a bowl with Jeonghan's name printed across it. You look inside, seeing broth lingering. 

They're taking care of him.

"Y/N?" You hear him croak, and you almost coo. "Oh, Chan. You're a mess." You set the bag of goodies down on his desk, fishing the thermometer out. "Open." You command, peeling the patch off his forehead and sticking the thermometer in his mouth.

You pick up a bit before the thermometer beeps, and you stare at the numbers. "Pretty mild, you've got a 101° fever." You grimace, shaking the thermometer off before skirting around to unpack the bag.

"I'm going downstairs to make you some tea, okay? I'll be right back." You mumble, before peeling the plastic off another fever patch and sticking it to the back of his neck. He shivers a bit, but nods as he closes his eyes.

Exiting the room just as carefully, you sigh. Taking the stairs quickly, you spot Seungcheol on the couch, "Hey." "Hey. He took some Advil a bit ago, and we've been alternating." He informs, and you can feel warmth spread across your chest. "Aw, you guys really care about the pipsqueak." "He's a good kid." Seungcheol nods, taking a sip of his water before eyeing the ginger root in your hand. "Cutting board is in the bottom cabinet, to the left." "Thanks." You smile, making your way to the kitchen. You see Joshua standing against the dishwasher, arms crossed and eyes closed. There is a popcorn bag in the microwave, likely his. You don't bother to say anything, just quietly opening the cabinet and retrieving the stone cutting board, rinsing it with water.

"He's also thrown up everything we've given him the past twelve hours." Joshua murmurs, his eyes still shut as he nods. "Oh. Sounds like viral gastroenteritis." You sigh, opening the drawer for a knife as the microwave beeps. He doesn't move towards it, but fills a pot with water for you and puts it on the stove. He watches silently as you slice up the ginger root, your shoulders tense.

The water starts to heat up, and you move to find a mug and honey. "Here." Joshua pulls one out from behind him, water droplets still on it from being freshly washed. You take it, "Thank you." "Can we talk when you're done? I'll be in my room." He murmurs, and you nod slowly. "Yeah, sure. I just need to feed him, something is something." He nods, opening the microwave to pull out the bag. He turns, opening a cabinet to retrieve a bowl and pour the popcorn in. He gives you a tired nod before exiting, and you peek around the corner to see him hand the bowl to Seungcheol, who thanks him quietly.

You sigh, forcing yourself to focus on the task at hand. You strain the boiled ginger tea, pouring it over three cubes of ice and a hefty amount of honey. You clean up quickly, and organize things in the kitchen before exiting again, a spoon in your hand in case they didn't give you one for the porridge you bought.

"Good luck." Seungcheol smiles at you, and you give him a soft laugh. "Thanks, I'll need it." 

Trying to get Chan awake proves to be most difficult once you get back to his room. He rolls over lazily, and you have to prop him up so he can drink the tea. You also carefully prepare his porridge, even going as far as spoon feeding him.

"It's so bland." He whines, and you just shake your head at him. "It's supposed to help your stomach, Channie. Just eat." He gets halfway through the bowl before he decides he doesn't want anymore, asking you to just leave it. You nod, putting the lid back over the top and choosing to clean up the mess in his room. Bottles, plates, cups, all in your arms as you exit the room once more, carefully walking down the stairs.

Seungcheol sees you, and quickly gets up to take them from you. "Woah, I didn't realize it accumulated so fast. Here, I got it, pretty." He grabs everything in one hand, before taking it to the kitchen. You follow, rolling up your sweater sleeves when he waves you off. "You're a guest. I got it, go." You find yourself floating back into Chan's room one last time, just peeking in to make sure he's sleeping. You call out, telling him to call you if he needs anything, that you'll be here for a bit. He just gives you a thumbs up. You take a deep breath, seeing Joshua's door slightly ajar. You walk over slowly, knocking on the door gently and poking your head in. He looks up from his desk, his laptop open to six different tabs and a drafted email. "Come in."

"Hi." You greet, closing the door behind you. He sighs, rubbing his palms on the fabric of his sweatpants. You inch toward him, looking at his screen. It's full of drafted projects, and the email is addressed to a certain Kwon Jiyong, DMA. You reach over and gently close the laptop, his tired eyes watching you do so.

"What's wrong?" "I'm sorry." He confessed, and you tilt your head. "Hm?"

"I was a jerk to you, the other day." He blinks up at you, and you stand for a moment, thinking back. "You mean when you called me a liar?" You smile, a soft laugh escaping. "I'm not mad anymore, you're weren't wrong. I am a liar." Shrugging, you point to the bed. He nods, and you take a seat. "Whether or not you are one…doesn't give me the right to treat you the way I did. I blew up on you, and I never do that, and it's frankly been eating away at me." He admits, and you nod, trying not to let your eyes go too wide. "Losing sleep?" "Unfortunately." Muttering, he opens the laptop again, typing in his password for the tabs to pop up again. "This isn't helping, either." he spins the mouse all over the screen, and you nod.

"Maybe you should take a breather. Go for a walk, find a muse." You offer, and he looks at you with a pained expression. You think this is the smoothest conversation you've had since your reunion. "Come on, let's go on a walk." You stand, offering your hand. He looks at it, and you wiggle your fingers.

He stands, taking it cautiously as you walk forward, grabbing his sweater off the hook and handing it to him. You open the door, seeing Haerim in the hallway with a bag in her hand.

"Haerim?" You call, your hand tightening around Joshua's, and she jumps. "Shit, Y/N. You scared me." She holds her hand to her chest, before holding up the bag. "I bought him some stew, Mingyu told me he's been really sick." Joshua peers over your head, making Haerim's eyes widen like saucers. "Shua?" "Hey, Haerim." He nods, and only then does she see the tight hold you have on Joshua's fingers. "I can explain–" You start, and she just smiles widely. "Damn, I didn't recognize your game. Respect." She nods, holding her hand over her mouth. You wince as he shrugs, tugging you slightly forward. 

"Text me." She whispers as he walks past you, and you nod quickly. The two of you walk down the stairs, and Seungcheol is now sitting on the couch again – and he gives you a lazy smile. "Damn, Y/N. You've got hella game." You laugh embarrassedly, as Joshua fixes the way your hands are intertwined. He slots his fingers between yours, grabbing his keys off the hook by the door and opening it. "Ladies first." He murmurs, and you wave goodbye to Seungcheol before stepping out into the cool October air.

"Where to?" He asks, closing the door behind himself. You shrug, shivering slightly as you start down the path. "Wherever you need to." 

The two of you walk aimlessly, before you spot the hill you used to visit during your sophomore year, before you finally convinced Saerom to transfer to your university. You'd lay on this hill with Jun, staring at the sky and talking to him about the stars. He was always surprised about how much you knew, but was kept in the dark like everyone else.

Everyone but Joshua.

"Here. I used to come here all the time." You point at the lavender-covered hill, and he lets you lead him up, before standing amongst all the flowers. "Look at the sky." 

You tilt your head up, watching as the evening sunset looms overhead. He does the same, before speaking quietly. "I'm not dating Hyejin." Your head lolls to the side, a knowing look on your face. "I know." You lie, shrugging nonchalantly as you turn back to the sky. "How?" "You like me. Hard to move on so fast." You hesitate, and he inches closer. "Yeah?" "Yeah." You breathe, feeling the warmth of his body radiating onto you. You shiver a bit, and he sighs, tucking you into him. His sweater is open, and he lets go of your hand to wrap your arms around him. He does the same, wincing lightly at the cold feeling of your hands on his back.

"I'm still very sorry, you know." He laments, and you give him a tight smile. "I shouldn't have said any of it, especially not about your parents." He looks down at you, your eyes peering up at him already.

"My parents suck, don't take back what you say about them." You shrug, scanning his face. "I am confused about the Hyejin thing." "Right, that." He sucks his teeth lightly, a slight blush coating his cheeks. "She…asked for my help, and I have a really hard time saying no." "Of what nature was this 'help?'" You make air quotes, and Joshua can see a glint of the green-eyed monster in your demeanor. He smiles, moving to card his fingers through your hair gently. "Making an ex-boyfriend jealous kind of help." "Doesn't explain why you two were about to kiss when Chan and I got up the stairs." You say pointedly, his fingers toying gently with your earring. Another gift from your grandmother, he remembers these, too. A sun and a moon. "Let's just say I could recognize your voice from a mile away." You quirk a brow at him, before scoffing. "You're obsessed with me." "Since I saw you in that white dress." He nods, making you roll your eyes. You bite back your smile, "Can I kiss you?" "You're asking?" He tilts his head, and you snort. "Some of us don't like to assume things." You say with a tinge, and he shrugs. "I know when someone wants me." "I don't want you." You shake your head, a frown on your lips as you run your own hands through his mussed hair, peering over his shoulder to see an empty campus. Odd, for this hour. "Oh, you don't?" He entertains your shenanigans, before tilting your chin up to look in your eyes. "Nope." You pop the 'p', nuzzling your nose with his. His fingers are gently tracing your jaw before he presses his lips to yours. You melt into his touch carefully, his other hand softly holding your hip, squeezing before he pulls away, touching his forehead to yours. You blink up at him, "I don't want you. I need you."

"Did you sleep with Chan?" He asks, a bit roughly as he adjusts his hold on you. His hands move to rest on your back, and you shake your head. "Not recently, no." "Recently?" His eyes widen, and you snort. "Once, three years ago." You roll your eyes, and he nods. "No plans of sleeping with him soon?" "None." You murmur, and he bites his lip, a smile threatening to take over. "Plans of sleeping with anyone else?" "Don't know, there is this one guy." You pretend to think, pulling his hands to the front and lacing your fingers with one, taking him further down the hill slowly. The flower field comes into view, and you look up at the sky to see it's darkened remarkably. "Do you know the story of Altair and Vega?" "The story of Altair and Vega?" He echoes, allowing you to sit him down, plopping down next to him before clearing your throat. You nod, placing his hand on your inner thigh. "For warmth." You roll your eyes, before leaning back on your hands. "It's an old Chinese legend. Altair is the brightest star in the Aquila constellation." You search the sky for it, before spotting it overhead. "There." You point, and he nods. 

"You told me about those three stars over the summer. Vega, Altair and Deneb." He recalls, and you feel your smile take over your face. "You remember that?"

"We can talk about that later." He shrugs, pressing a kiss to your cheek as you nod carefully. "Right…so, out of the three, Vega is the brightest. In their story, Altair is nothing but a shepherd. He herds cows after being abandoned by his family, and he yearns for love. His only love is music, and he plays lovely melodies on the flute."

Turning slightly to face him, you shrug. "Vega was said to be a goddess, from the Heavens that was forbidden from interacting with mortals, but she heard his song and it was love at first sight. She would leave the Heavens at sunrise and sunset to be with him. They even had children together. Her mother grew suspicious, and demanded she return to the Heavens. She did so."

"The shepherd had a beautiful ox with thick skin. Seeing the way his owner yearned for the love of the goddess, he offered his skin as a sacrifice to reunite them. It didn't work." 

"Why?" Joshua asks gently, his eyes still staring up at the stars overhead. "Her mother was enraged. She created a band of stars to separate them. Their love can't be, not the way they want it." You sigh, and he glances at you.

"So what are you saying?" His voice holds no malice, only curiosity. You feel his hand tighten around your thigh slightly, prompting you to remove it and swing your leg over his lap, adjusting yourself to sit on his thighs. He gives you a look of confusion, but you just lace your fingers with his before taking a deep breath. "I'm saying that I'm a coward." You admit with a mutter, not able to look him in the eyes as you blink back the sting of tears. "I'm saying that…I want to, you know. I want to be brave, I want to tell my parents that I'm not their puppet, I want to pursue my own dreams." "What's stopping you?" He murmurs, his thumb rubbing small circles into your skin. "Fear." You sigh. "Fear of failing. Fear of…not being good enough." "Good enough for what? You're smart, you're passionate. You love this." He gestures at the sky, and you look into his eyes, his face blurry behind tears as you whisper just loud enough for him to hear you. "Good enough for you."

He sighs at this, reaching his fingers up to wipe at a few fallen tears. "There is another story in your legend, but in Greek mythology." Your head tilts to the side, and he smiles. "Lyra, means lyre. Orpheus was a musician in mythology, and a renowned poet. He even went down to Hades' hell to try and save his wife." "Eurydice." You murmur, and he nods. "He loved her more than anything, alongside his music. The story of how Lyra came to be, is that Eurydice died. She was bitten by a venomous snake and had long died by the time Orpheus found her. He was so heartbroken, he played the saddest melodies known to man and it affected everyone else just as much as it did him. He loved her so much, he went to the depths of Hades' hell to beg for her back, to live her full life, to enjoy her time."

He scans your face, feeling your fingers trace shapes into his abdomen. "Hades broke the rule, one time. He sympathized with Orpheus, and since they were both mortals, he knew they'd eventually return to him once their lives were over. The catch?" He took a piece of your hair between his fingers, twirling it through nimble fingers.

"Eurydice had to follow him out, and he wasn't allowed to look back at her until they got back to Earth, lest he'd send her right back." He said with a hum, watching as your lips pursed in discontent. "He turned back, didn't he?" "He feared she'd get lost in the dark. Just before they got back, just before they made it, he looked back and the gates to Hades' darkness were shut. He wept for her, for seven days and seven nights outside of those gates, but he never saw her again." He sighed, tucking the strand of hair behind your ear. "He was beaten to death by drunk women four years later, during a celebration for Dionysus. He never moved on, and was deemed a woman hater because he consistently rejected any and every woman for his Eurydice. His lyre was thrown in the river, and Zeus sent an eagle for it. That's how you got Lyra." 

Pointing at the sky, the two of you watch how the sky slowly turns. 

Without looking back at him, you whisper, "What are you saying?" "I'm saying…I don't want you to be Eurydice. Lost forever because I can't let you go." He splays his large hands across your thighs, the cold of his fingertips making you look back down at him. "But, I know that Orpheus and Eurydice deserved a happy ending. And I know that three weeks is a very short time to get to know someone, but I think…I know you better than almost anyone in your life." You stifle a laugh, nodding. "Nobody knows me like you, Joshua. Saerom doesn't even know I'm a double major." "Bad girl, very bad." He scolds you teasingly, before his thumbs press lightly into your thighs. "I want you to be happy. And if it means that this…whatever, we are…is a secret for a while, I'm okay with that." He shrugs, and you glance down at him.

"You know you deserve better, right?" You murmur, and he sighs. "It's either you or that lunch lady from my freshman year that's been after me for ages. Please, please save me." His tone is joking, but the look in his eyes is serious, solemn.

"Are you sure?" Your thumb pads his slight under eye bags, and he leans into it. "Yes, but don't give in to me so easily. I like the little mind games you play."

Snorting, you flick his nose gently. "What, so you want me to keep being defiant?"

"It's kind of hot." He crinkles his nose at the admission, and you let out a laugh. A genuine laugh, unlike your normal ones. "You're so…" He trails off, tilting his head to the side before sighing.

"I'm so what? Annoying? Stubborn? A snotty-nosed brat?" You prod, and he just smiles. "Yes, all of that. But…I don't know. You're so…easy to love."

"You…love me?" The confusion in your voice makes his chest ache. "I can't, uhm, I can't say I'm super well versed in the topic." He clears his throat, seeing your eyes become slightly glossy. "I just…I know that you feel right. I know that seeing you makes me less stressed. Nobody has been able to pull me away from my desk all week, Cheol had to physically drag me out earlier to eat something. I keep thinking back to our first night together, because the stress of some deadlines I have coming up is just driving me mad. But closing my eyes and just thinking about you, and knowing that you're not really this person you've painted for ages, I know. I think I feel closer to you, knowing that you've confided in me to keep this secret of yours, and I'm honored. I want to make you feel…wanted, needed. I want you to know that you are so much more than 'good enough.' If anything, I will never be enough for you, and I could spend the rest of my life working to earn you and your love." You're silent for a moment, taking in his words as your hands ghost over his. You give him a small smile, toying with the ring on his finger. "I should get you home." You murmur, and he smiles as he straightens, placing his hands on your back so you don't topple. "Anywhere you are is home, Y/N."

You don't respond, choosing to give him a chaste kiss. "We really need to get you home, I have to check on Chan." You speak against his lips, and he nods. "Fine, fine." The two of you get up, and Joshua files your lack of response into the back of his mind. Was it too much? Did he cross a line? 

The walk is quiet, but you're holding his hand tighter than you had on the stroll earlier. You're holding him closer, even holding onto his arm with your opposite hand and resting your head slightly on his shoulder. When you reach the frat, he unlocks the door to see Seungcheol and Jeonghan debriefing about Jeonghan's date on the couch. Jeonghan almost calls him over when he sees you float in after him, a loud whoo! from his mouth.

"Shut up!" You groan, gesturing up the stairs. "Chan is sleeping!" "Woo!" Jeonghan cheers again, albeit quieter, and you roll your eyes. Joshua takes your sweater off your shoulders, and you allow him to do so as he hangs them on the rack by the door. "How was your date, Jeonghan?" "Good! She was very sweet, good taste in music." He smiles softly, before glancing between you and Joshua. "Did you…talk?" He clears his throat, and you feel Joshua's hand on your back, his eyes looking up the stairs.

"We can debrief what happened between us…at a later date." You smile, and Jeonghan gives you a knowing look. Seungcheol sips his beer with a smirk, shaking his head as the two of you climb the stairs gingerly. "Check on Chan." Joshua whispers, kissing the back of your neck before turning to his room.

Knocking gently, you open the door to see Haerim watching him carefully. She's holding the thermometer in her hand, shaking it as she sighs. She doesn't startle when she sees you, a warm smile on her face as she holds it up. "Still mild fever." "No vomit, right?" You ask, closing the door behind you. She shakes her head, pointing at the empty stew bowl she brought. "He practically inhaled it." "Traitor, he didn't want to eat the porridge I brought him." You scoff, and she laughs. "How was…you know." She gestures in the direction of Joshua's room, and you feel yourself get a little giddy. She notices the wry smile on your lips, giving your arm a soft smack before nagging you. "What happened!" "He likes me." You shrug, biting back your squeal as she bounces on her toes with a toothy grin. "He likes you?!"

"Yes!" You giggle, bouncing with her, and Chan groans behind the two of you. You both clench your teeth shut, lowering your voices. "I'll update you some other time, okay? I'll be at his beck and call, so don't worry about Chan." Haerim nods, not bothering to probe before she hikes her knapsack over her shoulder. She leans, pressing a soft kiss to Chan's hairline, telling him she's leaving. He nods weakly, squeezing her hand before she pulls away. "Should I get one of the guys to walk you home?" You ask, and she shakes her head. "My roommate's been waiting for ages for me to call her. I'll see you on Monday?"

She walks towards the stairs, and you nod. "See you, Haerim." 

"Chan, I'm going home. Call me, or have one of the guys call me if you need anything." You call into the room, and he groans in response. You snort, grabbing your purse off his desk and carefully shutting the door, sighing as you take a few steps down the hall to Joshua's room. You knock lightly, opening the door when you hear him hum.

He's sitting in front of his laptop again, a frustrated look on his face as he connects a soundboard to his laptop, before feeling your presence. You smile at him, arms crossed before you speak, perching on the edge of his desk. "I'm going home."

"I know, I asked Cheol to walk you because I really need to focus." He says, a bit of sadness peeking through. You nod, "Thank you." "Can you text me when you get home?" His question is more of a demand, but you can see he's not trying to push it. "Yes, sir." You push off the desk, reaching to wrap your arms around his neck as he leans into his computer.

"Don't work yourself too hard, lover." You whisper in his ear, pressing a kiss to his temple before feeling his hand on your wrist, twisting his head to look at you. There's a soft blush coating his cheeks. "What'd you say?" "I said I'm going home." You change your expression to a stoic one, and he almost chokes on his laugh. "I'll see you on Monday." 

"Yeah, for sure." He gives your wrist a gentle squeeze, "Let me walk you out, at least." "Don't kiss me in front of your friends." You warn, and he snorts. Standing, he watches as your arms drape to your sides before you clasp your hands in front of you before walking out into the hallway. You both barrel down the stairs, and hear Jeonghan whining over a bottle of tequila about his date. "She's so hot, Cheol, you don't get it." "I get it, I get it." Seungcheol replies distractedly, his eyes flickering up to you and Joshua reaching the foyer. "Ready to go, Y/N?" He stands, going to the closet to rummage for a jacket. "Yeah, thanks for doing this." You smile sheepishly, and Jeonghan looks up. "Oh, you're going home?" "Yeah, Chan's sleeping and…" You clear your throat, giving Joshua a quick glance. He catches on, "I'm busy. Doing shit. Important, you know."

"Tell us more about how you wouldn't be able to control yourselves, why don't you?" Jeonghan grimaces, and you snort. "This is why you're here, yearning for your date instead of being back at her apartment." "The hell is that supposed to mean!" He pouts, and Joshua snorts as he helps you pull your jacket on. "It means you're a bitch, Han."

"Don't make me tell Y/N all your dirty little secrets, Hong." Jeonghan tilts the shot glass in his direction, making you go wide eyed as Seungcheol returns, a blue and white varsity jacket draped over his shoulders. "Alright, let's scoot. The night is young." He stretches, and you smile at Jeonghan.

"Hope you get the girl, Hannie." You say softly, and his eyes soften. "Thanks, Y/N." "Bye, Joshua." You murmur as Seungcheol steps outside, muttering about the cold under his breath. Joshua looks to Jeonghan, who has his eyes closed, before pulling you into him. "One for the road?" You roll your eyes, "One for the road."

Thursday, December 29th.

The past two months had been a mess. Your parents had continuously dropped by randomly (and they dropped by the night of the Beta Tau Halloween rager), making both you and Saerom annoyed. She'd recently started seeing Jun (which kind of makes you grateful you're not in the apartment for their study sessions, who knows what freak shit they're on) and neither of you could study or rest in peace without feeling like they'd drop by.

Missing the party was the least of your worries, because you knew Joshua wasn't going to be involved in it anyway. He sent you a text from his desk, his guitar needing to be restrung because he couldn't pull himself away from his work. You'd told him to go for a walk.

Message From: Joshua Hong (TA) [11/03] What use is a walk if you're not there to kiss my worries away? You hadn't replied, opting to choose to scream into your pillow like a giddy teenaged girl.

In this time, you'd also managed to sit Saerom down and really speak to her about yourself. You told her that you didn't feel like yourself, and when she asked why, you broke out a bottle of wine and the two of you broke down the last few years of your lives. You admitted that you didn't want any part of your family's business, and Saerom had only given you a softened look.

"Don't pity me, Rom. You know I hate that shit.""I don't, my love. I don't pity you at all."

You'd cried quite a bit, and she'd just watched quietly and wiped your tears as they came. She understood, and she voiced that she thinks she would also do the same – the lying, the escapism, the misunderstandings. She apologized, saying she was sorry that she ever made you feel like you couldn't confide in her – smiling slightly when you said that she was never the problem, it was knowing that you'd be admitting to failure. She understood that, too.

The apartment felt more homey after that – Saerom took the time to go out and buy a few things she thought you'd like – a few constellation posters, a Lego set for you to build together of the Milky Way. She built the astronaut and NASA shuttle herself, placing those in your room when you texted her a few days after she bought them saying you'd had a rough day. She heard you crying in your room, only entering to comfort you when she heard you call her name.

These weeks were also particularly difficult because you'd seen less and less of Joshua. You never considered yourself the clingy type, and the Beta Tau brothers were definitely becoming more familiar with you as the days passed. You saw Joshua outside of class maybe twice, and it was once during office hours and once by going to the house to check on Chan right after Joshua admitted his feelings for you. He'd gotten a lot better, but you'd picked up his assignments from classes you didn't share so he wouldn't fall behind. He'd asked you what was going on between you and Joshua, and you just shrugged.

"We're taking it slow."

"Please don't fuck while I'm still sick, I don't want to hear it."

You and Joshua seemed to have no plans of doing so, it seems. Your schedules did not line up, and you could see him become slightly more stressed every time you saw him. Your classmates noticed something different about him, and you and Haerim just giggled in the back when he'd steal a glance at you. She never said anything to anyone, either.

Once school let out for the winter break (and you disappointedly passed Spanish with a B minus), you did everything in your power to avoid going home. You told your parents any lie you could grapple at – Saerom was sick, you were sick and didn't want to get them sick.

The truth? You just wanted to ring in the New Year with your…boyfriend? You didn't know what the two of you were, and you weren't afraid to admit that to yourself. He was graduating soon, and possibly taking a gap year before continuing his studies. You knew this much through texts – the one thing the two of you did have time for. He sent you voice notes on his way to anywhere, he'd send you pictures of the night sky before going to bed – asking if you could point out any constellations for him. 

Message From: Shua <3 [11:32pm] Are you home? [11:33pm] Before you answer this, is Saerom home? I don't feel like explaining myself, I just want to lay the fuck down.

You snort at his message, giggling to yourself at his new contact name. You don't know if you'll ever get used to it.

Message To: Shua <3 [11:33pm] Saerom went home for the break. Something about introducing Jun to her mom.

His reply is almost instant. Message From: Shua <3 [11:34pm] Open the door, I'm freezing.

From your seat on the couch, you hear Joshua groan behind the door and you laugh. Tossing your phone to the side, you quickly get up and unlock the door. You see a pouty Joshua holding a bag of takeout, eyelashes lightly coated in snow as he enters the apartment. "You hate me." He whines, and you snort.

"I can make you go back out in the cold, if you'd like." You shrug, making him scoff as you carefully unravel his scarf. He closes his eyes as you take his jacket, and yank his beanie off his head with no care. "When do I get my kiss? I haven't seen you since finals, I deserve a kiss."

"It's like, twenty minutes until your birthday. You can't wait?" You roll your eyes, feeling a ball of fabric hit your back. You look down to see his pink glove on the floor, making you scoff out a laugh. "Now you're definitely not getting a kiss." "Oh my Goooood, you hate me!" He pouts, grabbing your arm and pulling you close to him. You shake your head, gently nuzzling your nose to his cold one. "Not one bit." You still hadn't told Joshua you loved him. Granted, the two of you were not dating and hadn't properly seen each other in literal ages – as much as 'ages' can be for two idiots in love. 

"Why are you dressed like this? And why have I never been here before? This place is cool." He looks around, spotting the astronomy figurines Saerom had started getting for you, the walls covered in photos of you together and he spots the photo of you and your parents gathering dust on one of the shelves. He doesn't mention it.

"Dressed like what? My pajamas?" You look down, and he tugs at the seam of your shorts. "Rather…provocative." "Shut the fuck up, it's almost bed time." You roll your eyes, swatting his hand away from the bare skin of your thighs. He smiles amusedly, planting a soft kiss to the tip of your nose, before peppering them all over your face. His lips meet yours lightly, a chaste taste of his strawberry lip balm lingering on your plush lips as he pulls away.

"The bag is just mochi. I already had dinner." He says sheepishly, and you shrug. "I did, too. To be honest, I wasn't expecting company." "I didn't think you'd stayed on campus." He nods, and you sigh with a sad smile. "Don't wanna see my parents." "Right. How's that going?" He asks, pulling you to the couch with one hand. You let him lay down, pulling you on top of him. Your knees hug his hips as you straddle him, his hands resting high on your thighs. "It's…going. I should call them, but I really don't want to–" You hear the doorknob wiggle, tensing in Joshua's hold as you turn. The lock turns, and your muttered whisper of fuck makes all the alarms in Joshua's mind go off. You climb off of him as the door is pushed open, and you can feel your skin heat in embarrassment as your mother scoffs, stepping into the apartment. Joshua carefully slides off the couch, stepping next to you.

"Jesus, she keeps this place a mess." She groans, looking at the bag of takeout on your dinner table. She hasn't seen you yet, placing her giant designer bag on a chair as your father comes in behind her. "All you do is judge the girl, no wonder she doesn't want to come home." He rolls his eyes, but they land on you – standing with beet red cheeks and an equally embarrassed Joshua by your side. Your father's eyes dart to the link between you – Joshua's hand gingerly interlocking your fingers. You don't speak, and he looks at Joshua's eyes filled with slight worry.

"Can you go get her? She's probably holed up in her room, looking at those stupid mo– Who the fuck are you?" Your mother has turned now, her narrowed eyes on Joshua before landing on you. "Who the fuck is that? You said you were sick, and you have company over?" Your throat is dry, and you feel frozen when Joshua steps in front of you, shielding you from your parents' view. "You must be Y/N's parents. I've heard a lot about you, I'm Joshua."

He extends his hand, and your father eyes it before taking it, shaking it firmly. "Nice grip you got there, son." Your mother scoffs, tugging her scarf off her neck with a visceral anger. Joshua can feel you cower behind him, your fingers gripping onto the back of his shirt. "Joshua what? What do you do for a living?" He clears his throat, watching as your mother walks around the apartment without taking her shoes off, taking down stuff from the walls. "Joshua Hong. I'm a producer." He lies through his teeth, and your mother scowls as she sees the Lego version of the Milky Way hung right by your bathroom. She takes it down, tossing it carelessly on the couch.

"A producer? You won't make much money." 

"That's enough." Your father speaks up, and sees you peer at him from behind Joshua. "What are you to Y/N? Boyfriend?" "Not allowed!" Your mother announces, her hands now occupied by your opened mail. Bills, bills, a credit card statement, bills…and your summer internship at the Korea Astronomy and Space Institute.

"I am…her boyfriend." Joshua whispers, losing a bit of confidence as your mother angrily walks back to your foyer. "What's this?" She holds the acceptance letter up, your eyes shutting closed as you see it in her hand. "Fuck." You murmur behind Joshua, and your mother begins to read it aloud.

"Esteemed Miss Kang, it is with great pride that we award you with the July KASI internship studying plasma physics." She crumples the paper slightly in her fist, and your father pries it from her hold as you step out from behind Joshua, and she really lays it on you.

"We told you from the start that these silly little dreams about space and stars were not going to happen. You are the sole heir to the companies, the properties, you have to continue the family business. Don't you care about that? Don't you care about paying us back for everything we've given you, and continue to supply you with? Don't you get that this is not an option?" She's not yelling, but her words cut deep as you nod slowly, the words tumbling out before you can stop to think about them properly. "I don't care." Your mother looks taken aback, and you feel your stomach flip as you clear your throat. "I don't care about properties, or companies. I don't care about money, or marrying for wealth. I…" You breathe in shakily, and Joshua instinctively puts his hands on your shoulders, an act not unseen by your mother's beady eyes.

"I don't care about being part of a family that is fueled by greed. I can't do it anymore. I hope that…you find another fit." The last part comes out as a bit of a sob, and you cover your mouth quickly. Your mother is fuming, and she turns to your father, who is silently reading the letter in his hands.

"I didn't know you liked plasma physics." He murmurs, and you feel Joshua's fingers squeeze your shoulders lightly. "I didn't even know what you were studying, if I'm being honest." Your father admits sheepishly, smoothing the crumpled edge of the sheet carefully. 

"This is a very hard program to get into. I would know," Your father holds the letter out to you, and you reach to take it, holding the corner gingerly in your fingers. "You would know?" Joshua echoes, and your father nods.

"I applied. I got the June internship for aerospace engineering, my best friend was so jealous." You don't know the last time you saw your father smile. "I'm…proud of you. I know it's a little late in saying that, I've been quite the absent father.I guess, I can't even really say father."

Your mother is tapping her foot, garnering your attention again. "Whatever rebel strike you're on isn't cute, Y/N. I've got investors waiting to meet you, wanting to draw up contracts, to build new properties with your name across the front." Your father sighs, shaking his head as he looks at the two of you again. "Joshua, could you give us a moment?" 

You turn to look at him, your eyes pleading him not to leave. He gives you a sorry smile, squeezing your shoulders before kissing your hairline. "I'll be in your room." He murmurs, and you nod, watching as he walks away, slipping into the only open door in the hallway. He shuts it behind him. 

Your father sighs, leaning against the door frame. "Your mother and I are getting a divorce."

You can feel your eyes widen as far as they go, your mother flushing furiously. "Can I ask why?" "It's none of your business." She grits, and your father scoffs. "I'm selling the company. I'm tired, Y/N. Being in business is not what I want to do." He shakes his head, and you try to bite back a smile.

"It's not?"

"No. I'm donating the money to the Aerospace Engineering program here, actually." He gestures around you, indicating the University. You feel your lips tug into a smile, your father's warm eyes matching yours. "I don't understand why you can't just leave the company in Y/N's name so she can take over when we're both dead and gone. At least it sets up a stable future for her!" "She won't be happy, Bora! That's why I can't do that. Nothing in this life means anything if we're not happy." He groans frustratedly, and you feel almost taken aback by your father's words. He'd always been a silent man – a bit cold, with two friends and love for one thing: baseball. 

And space, you now know.

"This is fucking ridiculous. I cannot leave my investors hanging, and I refuse to hand over my properties to someone I don't even know!" Your mother is exasperated, and you almost want to laugh at how you and your father shrug simultaneously. 

"Whatever." She grumbles, snatching her purse off the chair, pulling it over her shoulder. She gives you a nasty look, "I assume this means you will also bail on meeting the Mins' youngest son? Yoongi has been waiting to meet you." 

"Yoongi can shove it." You shrug, and she just shakes her head in disappointment – but for once…you don't care. She slams out of your apartment, her scarf flung over the back of your couch. Your father gives you a gentle smile, and you return it. 

"I'm sorry for not being a better father to you, Y/N. I should have tried harder." He laments, and you see his eyes begin to gloss over with tears. You step forward, enveloping him in a loose hug. "I think…standing up for me and what you believe in, is a step in the right direction. I haven't been a very present daughter, either."

He laughs shakily, giving you a tight squeeze. "How about you and I get dinner in the next few days? You can even bring Joshua, I kind of like that kid." He mumbles, and you feel your stomach flutter at the mention of your…boyfriend's name. "I'll check our calendars and shoot you a text, okay?" "For sure, kid." He pulls away, softly patting your head. "I'll see you, okay?" "Yeah. See you." You nod, opening the door for him. He leaves with another word, your mother's scarf in his hand as he exits your apartment. You feel a wave of relief wash over you, but bite back your tears as you lock the door and march to your bedroom. Opening the door, you see Joshua flopped diagonally across your bed, phone in his hand.

It's twenty minutes past midnight, and the date reads December 30th.

"Hey, you." He looks over his shoulder, and watches as you pin the acceptance letter to the corkboard above your dresser. You put your hands on your hips, staring at it with a bit more content in your heart. 

"Hey, boyfriend." You say, turning to face him. His ears turn pink, and he sits up. "It just came out, okay? I'm sorry, I know I haven't even taken you out to dinner or anything but I really, really–" You crash your lips to his, pushing him back onto your bed as you straddle him. "Yeah, yeah. No need for explanations." You peel your shirt off, tossing it to the side as he looks at you with wide eyes. "Are you sure?"

"Happy birthday, lover."

Saturday, May 6th.

"Joshua Hong." 

You cheer loudly from the stands as he crosses the stage, watching his cheeks tinge pink as he hears you over the clapping and yelling from his fraternity. He smiles as the photographer takes his picture, before looking up at the stands to find you. You wave excitedly, and his eyes brighten all the more. I love you, he mouths.

I'm proud of you, you mouth back. Wimp.

– ☆ –

"Hey, gorgeous. You a tourist?" You're standing at the bar of the same salsa club you and Joshua danced at last summer when you hear Joshua's voice behind you, and you struggle not to roll your eyes. The two of you only stayed at the graduation long enough to watch Jeonghan cross the stage, before Cheol texted the group and said he was sneaking out. 

The three of them had booked a last-minute trip…back to Puerto Vallarta.

"The city where you fell in love!" Cheol teased as the group loaded into the car, with you sitting on Joshua's lap in the backseat. Saerom was sitting next to you, and Junhui was giggling at the redness of your cheeks as the pair of douchebags teased you to no end. It didn't matter though – you felt Joshua smile into your shoulder as the group pulled into the airport.

"Yeah, I am. Are you?" You played his game, waiting until he finally came into your line of vision with the same baby blue guayabera you first saw him in. Your stomach flutters lightly as his hand ghosts your back. "Nah, I've been here before. Got my heart broken by a cute thing, she looked a little like you." "Alright, that's enough roleplay you weirdo." You scoff, shoving his hand away from you as he laughed, He stepped slightly closer, ignoring your faux annoyance. "Right, right…I know some cool places here, if you'd care to join me." His eyes twinkle something mischievous as the bartender slides you your drink. You take it with a thank you, before sighing and linking your arm with Joshua's. "Do you, now?" "I do. There's some pretty hammocks down the beach, you can see all the stars right now." He glances up at the sky as the two of you leave the club, your shoes clutched in his hand as your toes sink into the warm sand. You smile up at him, "What do you know about stars?" "Someone very special once told me a story about two lovers who couldn't be…and they reside in these very stars." He points at the sky, and you nod. "You know, I once heard a story like that, but they were involved in Greek mythology." You stare up at the sky, when you reach the hammock the two of you shared that first night.

"Really? Was it about Orpheus and Eurydice? I love that one." He smiles as he helps you on, fixing the skirt of your dress to cover your legs more. "Your star-crossed lovers, were they Altair and Vega?"

"So you do know stars." He slides in, and you rest your head on his chest. "I do. Love them, actually." "You're my brightest star." He murmurs, kissing your forehead lightly as his hand maps out the Lyra constellation. "It's so pretty, isn't it?" Looking back down at you, he sees the gloss over your eyes and sits up. "Babe! Don't cry, oh my God–" "I love you." You blurt, watching as his brows raise, his ears tinging pink in the low light of the moon. He lays back down slowly, and you scrunch your face before sitting up and looking down at him. "Hello? Big moment here, asswipe?" "Just a second." He smiles painfully, and your brows only furrow more. "What the hell is wrong with you?" 

"I'm hard." He whispers, making you glance down. "Don't look at it! What's wrong with you!" He pouts as you burst into laughter, your hand resting on his stomach as you muffle your laughter with his shoulder.  "It's not funny."

"You're such a LOSER!"

Pulling back, you wipe at your eyes, catching your breath.

"But you love me too, right?" You ask, peering down at him as he rolls his eyes, smiling widely. He brings you closer to him, his lips ghosting over yours as he speaks softly.

"I love you so much, I'd bring down the stars if you asked me to."

haologram © 2024 || no translations, reposting or modifications are allowed. do not claim as your own. viewer discretion is advised. your media consumption is your responsibility.

[hameesstuff]

"Pirouette of Thorns"

Title: Pirouette of Thorns

Genre: Slowburn | Angst | Smut | Fluff | Arranged Marriage | Mafia x Ballerina AU

Pairing: Mafia Husband! Jaehyun x Ballerina Wife! Reader

___________________________________________

PART 1

You had always danced with ghosts.

In the silence of your rehearsal room, under the watchful eye of cracked mirrors and dust-flecked sunlight, you moved like grief personified—beautiful, fleeting, achingly distant. Every pirouette was a memory, every plié a protest. You had your art, your discipline, your pain.

And then you had him.

Jung Jaehyun.

The man you married not for love, but for peace. A truce between families, written in blood long before it was sealed with rings. He wasn’t cruel. But he wasn’t kind either. He was unreadable—Mafia royalty, silk-suited and stone-faced, with a voice like slow poison and a gaze that held storms.

The wedding had been cold marble and colder smiles. You didn’t cry. You didn’t even flinch when he slid the diamond onto your finger, its sharp glint mocking you in the candlelight.

"You're mine now," he said softly. Not possessive. Not romantic. Just factual.

You nodded.

Because what choice did a ballerina have when the stage she danced on was made of glass?

The penthouse was quiet when you returned from rehearsal one night. Your muscles ached. Your bun was falling apart. You carried your pointe shoes in one hand, your dignity in the other.

He was seated at the long dining table, sleeves rolled up, black shirt unbuttoned at the throat. A glass of bourbon sat untouched beside a stack of ledgers and phones that never stopped buzzing. You walked past him in silence, the hardwood cold beneath your feet.

“You’re limping.”

Your steps faltered. “It’s nothing.”

“Did you fall again?”

“Why do you care?” you snapped before you could stop yourself.

The silence that followed was thick and dangerous. You expected his usual dismissal, a cool glance and returned focus on business.

But tonight, he stood.

Tonight, he followed.

You reached your shared bedroom and closed the door behind you. Locked it.

You didn’t expect him to knock.

You didn’t expect the door to open anyway. He had the keys. Of course he did.

“Tell me what’s going on.” His voice was low. Controlled.

You turned to him, hair a mess, tights ripped at the knee. “Nothing’s going on. I fell. That’s all.”

“You’re hiding something.”

“I’m tired.” Your voice cracked. “And I don’t owe you answers.”

“You’re my wife.”

“And you’re my cage.”

The fight escalated quickly. Words like razors. You’d been quiet for so long, the pain had festered.

“You don't even look at me unless it’s for appearances,” you shouted. “You have all your little soldiers, your secrets, your crimes—and I’m just the pretty doll on your arm.”

He took a slow step forward. “Is that what you think?”

“Don’t play dumb, Jaehyun. You married me to clean your hands in public. To make your sins look romantic.”

Something dark sparked in his eyes. “You married me too.”

“I was forced!”

“And now?” he asked, voice like iron. “Now when you stare at me across the dinner table, when you breathe my name in your sleep—”

“You’re imagining things.”

He smirked, deadly. “Am I?”

___________________________________________

PART 2

You stormed into the bathroom, your chest heaving.

Behind you, his voice followed like thunder. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”

You whirled around, fire in your throat. “Oh, I don’t? Because you’re what, Jaehyun? My husband or my warden?”

He stopped at the doorframe, jaw clenched. “I’ve given you everything.”

You laughed bitterly. “Everything but yourself.”

He looked away for the first time. And that small gesture—him avoiding your gaze—stung more than any insult could.

“You know what?” you said, quieter now. “Forget it. Go back to your empire. Your kingdom of guns and shadows. I’ll keep dancing for the ghosts.”

After that night, you barely spoke.

But he noticed things. Silently. Obsessively.

He noticed how you winced as you walked up the stairs, how you tied your ribbons with trembling hands. He noticed how you kept a photo of your late mother by the mirror in your dance studio.

And every week—without your knowledge—he sat in the back of the private theater where your company rehearsed. Unseen. In shadow. Watching.

You were heartbreak in motion. And it broke him to know you didn’t know he was there.

Weeks passed.

Then came the gala.

An annual event held for “philanthropy,” but really it was a mafia masquerade—lavish, deceptive, gleaming with lies. You wore a crimson silk gown that clung to you like a second skin, your hair swept back, your expression unreadable.

He couldn’t take his eyes off you.

“You clean up well,” you said coolly when he offered you his arm.

He smirked. “You always look like a sin.”

At the gala, tensions snapped.

You danced with someone else—just one of the donors. Too close. Too long.

Jaehyun watched, unmoving, a storm behind his mask.

And when the dance ended, he pulled you aside into the nearest corridor.

“Are you trying to make me lose my mind?”

You tilted your chin. “Why? Jealous?”

He stepped closer, heat radiating off him. “Don’t test me.”

“Or what?” you whispered.

His hand gripped your wrist—not harsh, but firm.

“You have no idea how hard it is to pretend I don’t care.”

His words hung heavy between you, like the lingering scent of a storm that never quite broke. You stood frozen, breath catching.

“Then don’t pretend,” you said, barely above a whisper.

Jaehyun blinked, surprised. His hand loosened on your wrist, fingers trailing down your palm instead—slow, unsure. Tender.

“I didn’t think you wanted me to care,” he murmured.

“I didn’t think you could.” Your voice cracked. “You’ve spent so long building walls I stopped trying to climb them.”

He looked at you for a long time—really looked at you. And for once, there was no mask. No façade.

Just Jaehyun.

“I watch your shows,” he confessed softly. “Every one of them. I sit in the back. I don’t breathe when you dance.”

You swallowed hard, eyes stinging. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I didn’t want to taint it. What you do… it’s too pure for someone like me.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

So he kept talking.

“I remember your first solo. You were in white. You didn’t see me, but you cried after. In the dressing room. I stayed outside the door for twenty minutes, not knowing what the hell to do.”

You stared at him. Your heart felt like it was breaking open in slow motion.

“And I’m sorry,” he added quietly. “For not being the man you deserved. For not knowing how to be a husband when I’ve only ever known how to be a weapon.”

Something inside you shifted.

You reached up, brushing your fingers over his lapel, smoothing it gently like muscle memory. “I never needed a perfect man, Jaehyun. Just an honest one.”

Back at the penthouse, things were... different.

Not loud or dramatic. Just quiet. Gentle.

You changed into a cotton robe, tying your hair back. He poured tea instead of whiskey. You sat on opposite ends of the couch, knees brushing. His hand found yours under the blanket.

No words were needed.

The TV flickered. Some old foreign film you barely paid attention to. You leaned your head on his shoulder. He didn’t flinch.

When he kissed your forehead that night before bed, it wasn’t possessive.

It was patient.

The restaurant was dimly lit, all soft jazz and gold-tinted chandeliers. Private. Expensive. One of the few places in the city where Jaehyun wasn’t constantly looking over his shoulder.

He adjusted his tie in the private washroom mirror, frowning at the knot. It had been a long time since he’d tied one himself. His fingers worked slowly, methodically, until he was satisfied.

The door clicked open behind him. Silence.

When he stepped out, smoothing down the cuffs of his charcoal suit, he paused at the top of the curved staircase that led down into the secluded lower dining area reserved just for the two of you.

And then he saw you.

You hadn’t noticed him yet.

Standing near the table, your fingers lightly traced the rim of your wine glass. The navy blue dress you wore flowed like ink over your figure—sleek, elegant, entirely devastating. Your hair was swept off your shoulders, neck bare save for a simple chain, skin glowing under candlelight.

For a brief second, Jaehyun forgot to breathe.

It was different tonight.

Not because of the dress, but because of the way you wore it—like armor and softness all at once. Like you were still healing, but standing tall.

And he realized with startling clarity: He wanted to earn the right to stand beside you.

His footsteps were quiet as he descended the stairs, but you turned before he could speak.

Your gaze met his—and everything in you stilled.

He looked breathtaking.

The suit, the tie, the way his hair was pushed back slightly in waves. But it was the way he looked at you that burned the slowest.

Like he’d been falling in love in silence for weeks. And tonight, he finally let himself admit it.

“You look…” he trailed off, then cleared his throat softly, voice quieter. “Like you stepped out of a dream.”

You tried to smirk, but your breath caught instead.

“So do you,” you whispered.

He pulled out your chair, waiting for you to sit before joining. There was no rush. No sharp edge to his presence tonight.

Just warmth.

“Try the wine,” he said. “I remembered it’s your favorite.”

Your heart ached in that beautiful, aching way that only happens when walls start to fall.

And as the dinner began, the candle between you flickered like a promise:

Something was changing.

The dinner ended late.

Neither of you spoke much on the way out, but it wasn’t the uncomfortable silence from before. It was a warm one—like a lullaby humming between shared glances and half-smiles.

The city was nearly empty as you walked together, Jaehyun’s jacket draped over your shoulders. The streets were slick with old rain, lamplight reflecting off the pavement in golden puddles. There was something almost cinematic about it—how quiet everything had become, how close he was walking beside you without touching, but every inch of your skin could feel him.

And then it started again.

A soft drizzle. Then a sudden, whispering downpour.

You gasped and laughed, lifting your face to the sky. The rain clung to your lashes, kissed your skin.

Jaehyun chuckled, deep and quiet. “We should find cover.”

You caught his hand.

“No,” you said, voice bright. “Dance with me.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Here. In the rain. Just one dance.” You spun once, water clinging to the navy silk of your dress, eyes wide with mischief and light.

Jaehyun shook his head with a soft laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

But you were already pulling off your heels, letting them drop to the side of the pavement.

You stepped out into the center of the road—empty, glistening—and began to move. Barefoot. Wet. Glowing.

A pirouette. A graceful arch of your arms. You leapt into a jeté, your soaked dress fluttering like broken wings. The street became your stage. The world fell away.

And Jaehyun stood still—utterly transfixed.

Your hair was drenched, your makeup smudged, but your smile was radiant. Free. Like you’d finally escaped the prison of silence you’d been trapped in for so long.

“Come on,” you whispered through your laugh. “Just watch.”

And he did.

He memorized the way you looked when you let go. The curve of your smile. The raindrops slipping down your collarbone. The shimmer of happiness on your skin.

When you finally stopped, out of breath, your eyes met his.

He walked to you slowly, rain soaking his suit, his hands raised like he didn’t know what to do with them—like you were too much to hold.

“You’re insane,” he murmured.

You grinned. “And you love it.”

And that was it.

He kissed you.

Soft, slow, reverent. As if he’d been waiting years for this moment but didn’t want to break it. His hand cradled your cheek. Your fingers fisted his wet shirt.

The rain poured around you.

But for once, you weren’t dancing for the ghosts.

You were dancing for him.

The rain had followed you home like a secret.

Everything in the penthouse was hushed. Dimmed lights. Fogged windows. The smell of rain and skin and something tender blooming quietly between your bodies.

Jaehyun stood in front of you, his white dress shirt clinging to him, half unbuttoned, hair still damp from the storm. But it was the look in his eyes that undid you—like he was staring at something sacred.

You.

His fingertips found your collarbone first, tracing the water droplets like he was learning your body all over again.

“Come here,” he whispered, like the words themselves might break.

You stepped toward him slowly, breath caught in your chest. He leaned in, kissing your forehead. Then your temple. Your cheekbone. The corner of your mouth.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t lust.

It was longing that had softened into love.

“I don’t want this to feel like a storm,” you murmured.

“It won’t,” he whispered back, cupping your face. “Not tonight.”

You undressed each other in silence. Gentle hands. Pauses. Deep breaths. When your dress slipped down your hips and pooled at your ankles, his gaze swept over you like poetry in motion.

“You’re art,” he breathed, voice wrecked with awe.

And when he laid you down on the bed, it wasn’t with weight—it was with reverence.

He kissed every inch of you slowly: the curve of your shoulder, the soft skin under your breast, the inside of your wrist. His hands held you delicately, like he feared you’d vanish if he gripped too hard.

When he finally entered you, it was with a quiet gasp against your lips. His body sank into yours as though it had always belonged there. A perfect, aching fit.

You wrapped your legs around him, holding him closer, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.

He moved inside you like a melody—slow, deep, patient. You didn’t rush. You just felt. Every roll of his hips was deliberate, like a verse, a promise, a prayer. His hand cradled the back of your head as he whispered things he’d never said aloud before.

“You make me feel human.”

“I love how your eyes close when I touch you like this.”

“I didn’t know softness until you.”

You moaned softly, lips parting as your body arched to meet him. Every thrust sent sparks up your spine, but it was the way he looked at you—like he was falling apart just to be sewn together in your arms—that unraveled you completely.

You came together like that—wrapped in each other’s arms, foreheads pressed, hands clasped tight.

Not chasing euphoria, but collapsing into it.

And afterward, when the only sound was the slowing rhythm of your breathing, he kissed your knuckles one by one, whispering:

“You’re the only home I’ve ever wanted.”

Epilogue – "Just Like Her Mother"

The theatre was packed.

Golden chandeliers lit the vast hall in a warm glow, murmurs filling the air like an orchestra warming up. But Jaehyun wasn’t listening to any of it.

He was watching the red velvet curtain.

Hands clasped tightly in his lap, tie perfectly knotted, his expression unreadable—but his eyes… his eyes were bright.

You leaned into him slightly. “You nervous?”

He exhaled a soft chuckle. “Terrified.”

You smiled.

Your hand found his on the armrest. It was trembling. He hadn’t looked like this since the night you danced at this same theatre for the first time. Back when he watched from the shadows, unseen. Longing.

But now, he was front and center.

And tonight, he wasn’t watching you.

He was watching her.

The music started.

The curtain swept upward.

And there she was—tiny, poised, radiant in a soft pink tutu. Hair slicked into a perfect bun. Her little satin shoes kissed the stage floor as she stepped into the spotlight.

Jaehyun’s entire body stilled.

“My God,” he whispered.

Your heart ached.

She moved with grace far beyond her years—light, floating, every step filled with purpose. And when she looked out toward the crowd with wide, earnest eyes, Jaehyun stood without realizing it, breath caught in his throat.

“She’s dancing for you,” you whispered.

“No,” he said, voice breaking, a hand over his heart. “She’s dancing for us.”

Half the audience turned to look as he clapped louder than anyone else when her solo ended. He didn’t care. Not when her eyes found him across the rows and she gave the tiniest, secret smile before leaping into her final pose.

Just like you used to.

She bowed with trembling hands, cheeks flushed, and the lights dimmed.

After the show, she ran out of the backstage door with her slippers half off, into Jaehyun’s arms.

“Did I do okay?” she asked breathlessly.

“You were magic,” he said, kneeling, scooping her up with a kiss on her damp forehead. “Absolutely magic.”

“I want to dance again tomorrow.”

He looked at you over her shoulder. You smiled, nodding.

Jaehyun hugged her tighter. “Then we’ll be right here. Every single time.”

As you all walked back to the car—her between you, holding both your hands—she chattered about costumes and spotlights and how she almost slipped but didn’t.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Jaehyun looked up at the night sky and felt completely, peacefully whole.

“She's just like her mother,” he said softly.

“No,” you murmured with a grin. “She’s better. She’s us.”

The End.

[hwallazia]

❅ ₊ ⋆ A LIL’ NASTY UNDER THE MISTLETOE

nic’s notes ⋆ hello, lovelies, and welcome to my very first event! i figured that since i’ve been ia for a little too long, i could repay y’all in some way. <3 i’ll do my best to complete everything. happy almost xmas season! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

warnings ⋆ all the scenarios will contain mature content. minors, please, do not interact with any of them + all fanfictions will have their warnings explicitly stated right below the link to the story.

fancy joining santa’s naughty list? click here.

TAKE MY DICK GIFT ! feat. kang yeosang.

⋆ synopsis. xmas eve’s finally here, and you & yeosang start your little gift exchange. you had bought your boyfriend — apart from a huge stack of videogames for him to vibe with & new headphones — some naughty gifts such as a little bullet vibrator & a fleshlight. little did you know he did the exact same thing. xmas eve was about to get real nasty.

warnings. tba

SUGAR SLEIGH RIDE ! feat. jeong yunho.

⋆ synopsis. caught in the chaos of an unexpected snowstorm, you and your brother’s best friend find yourselves stranded with no choice but to take shelter at his apartment. as the temperature drops and the cold seeps in, the crackling fireplace isn’t quite enough to keep him warm—so he turns to you for a different kind of heat.

warnings. tba

XMAS DINNER GOES WRONG ! feat. jung wooyoung.

⋆ synopsis. it seems like your husband can’t keep it in his pants, not even on a fucking christmas dinner with his family. but, as the lovely wifey you are, you gotta give him some relief, right?

warnings. married! au, almost getting caught, teasing, dirty nasty talk, squirting, unprotected sex, etc.

TIE ME UP LIKE I’M YOUR GIFT ! feat. song mingi.

⋆ synopsis. using restraints in the bedroom had been a fantasy of yours for the longest time—and xmas felt like the perfect excuse to make it a reality. armed with red velvet ribbons and a cheeky plan, you were ready to heat things up. but what you didn’t anticipate was just how much your fiancé would enjoy the idea—maybe even more than you.

warnings. tba

A LIL’ SEASONAL TURBULENCE ! feat. park seonghwa.

⋆ synopsis. on a flight to korea to visit your in-laws, seonghwa decides that a simple “merry xmas” just won’t cut it. instead, he opts for something far more daring—a surprise that leaves you breathless and pulled into the airplane’s tiny bathroom.

warnings. tba

ARCH MY BACK LIKE THAT VIOLIN ! feat. choi san.

⋆ synopsis. chosen to perform a violin solo for a xmas recital, he practices tirelessly at home. the haunting melody fills the air, but it’s the way his fingers move masterfully over the strings that stirs something deep within you, leaving you shifting in your seat. when his sharp gaze locks onto yours, he realizes exactly what kind of performance you’re craving—and he’s more than ready to deliver.

warnings. bf violinist! san, praise kink, dacryphilia, bulge kink, squirting, breeding kink, finger fucking, creampie, etc.

HOT TO GO ! feat. kim hongjoong.

⋆ synopsis. during a xmas eve dinner with your family, your best friend disappears. concerned, you search the entire apartment complex, only to stumble upon him watching porn alone. unable to resist, you decide to tease him a bit about it.

warnings. friends to lovers! au, getting caught, teasing, praise, blowjob, getting interrupted, dirty talk, etc.

· all credits are reserved to © hwallazia — 2024.

[onceinablueberrymoon]

lemon pie | husband!salesman x reader

scenario: you have a craving for lemon pie. the salesman is on the case. setting: before season 2 word count: 1.1k warnings: mention of gambling addiction; second and third person POVs; no use of y/n; recruiter is called salesman here notes: this was originally for pi day, but i rewrote this way too many times💀 gi-hun is not the target this time (surprisingly!). just a simple fluff piece with classic squid game vibes :) please enjoy! borders by @enchanthings-a!

4 p.m.

It was finally time to clock out. 

You stretched your arms above your head and let out a yawn. 

At least it was the weekend, you thought. It had been a rough week at work and you were just relieved it was finally over.

You decided to get a little something to cheer you up. A pie. Not just any pie, but your local bakery’s house special: lemon pie.

Checking the time, you concluded that there wouldn’t be enough time for you to get to the bakery before it closed. Then, you had an idea. Your husband was working at home today. Maybe he could get to the bakery in time?

You sent him a message.

Really craving lemon pie from that bakery. Could you pick one up?

Your husband replied almost instantly, promising to get you your pie. You couldn’t help but smile as you packed up your things. He really was the best!

‧₊˚ ⏾. ⋅

The familiar chime of a bell rang as the salesman entered the bakery. The smell of baked goods wafted through the air. The bakery wasn't very busy, thankfully. Only one customer was at the counter, a man.

The salesman went to stand behind him, patiently waiting for his turn. The man in front of him didn’t take long, soon leaving with a plastic bag in hand. 

“Hello,” the salesman greeted the cashier. “I would like one of your lemon pies.”

She frowned slightly. “Unfortunately, the last pie was sold to the gentleman who just left.” 

“I see,” the salesman mused, pondering what to do next. You were really counting on that pie to lift your spirits. “Thank you,” he bowed slightly to the cashier before leaving the bakery. 

Once the salesman stepped out, he spotted the man walking across the street. An idea popped into his head.

He followed the man to the nearest subway station. Once on the platform, he made his move.

“Hello, sir. Could I talk with you?”

The man looked confused. “Sure? Can I help you?”

The salesman smiled politely. “I would like to make you an offer. Have you played ddakji before?”

The man chuckled. “The kids game? Of course.” He paused. “Why?”

The salesman clicked open his briefcase to reveal stacks of won bills. The man gasped.

“If you win, I’ll give you 100,000 won.” 

The man’s eyes widened into saucers. 

“But if you lose…” The salesman looked down at the plastic bag in the man’s hand. “You give me your pie.” 

The man looked at the bag, then back at the salesman. “It’s my daughter’s birthday. This pie is her favourite dessert…” He seemed conflicted.

“We don’t have to play,” The salesman said as he began closing his briefcase.

“Wait!”

The salesman smirked. No one could resist the allure of money. 

“I’ll… I’ll play.” The man looked desperate. 

The salesman gave his signature smile. 

“Then, let’s get started.”

‧₊˚ ⏾. ⋅

“There’s no way-! One more round!” 

The two men played five rounds before the salesman spoke up.

“I believe I’ve won.” The salesman held out a hand, a polite smile on his face. “Pie, please.”

The man begrudgingly handed it over. “What am I going to tell my daughter? Now I have nothing for her.”

The salesman tsked at the man. He took out a crisp 50,000 won bill from his briefcase and held it out. “Here, get your daughter something nice.” 

The man nearly leapt to collect the money. He held it up to analyze it, his eyes wide with disbelief. 

The salesman let out a huff. “Don’t go spending that at the races, all right, Park Jung-bae-ssi?”

The man froze, his eyes darting to the salesman. “H-how… How do you know my name?” 

The salesman just looked at him with his usual polite smile. “Park Jung-bae. Marine Corps Class 746. Originally worked at Dragon Motors, but after the strike, was laid off. Attempted to start several businesses afterwards, none of which would last longer than a couple years.”

Jung-bae stumbled backwards. “Who… just who are you?!”

The salesman ignored him and continued to speak. “You’ve acquired quite a large sum of debt these past few years. And to top it off, your ex-wife only allows you to see your daughter a couple times a year.” He almost pitied Jung-bae. 

Almost.

The salesman stepped towards Jung-bae and handed him a card. “There are other games where you can make more money than just 50,000 won. If you’d like to participate, give us a call.” He gave a short bow and lifted the plastic bag slightly. 

“Thank you for the pie.” 

The salesman walked away, leaving Jung-bae in stunned silence.

‧₊˚ ⏾. ⋅

The sound of the front door closing woke you up from your post-work nap. Looking out the window, you noticed it was already dark.

You got out of bed and went to the kitchen where the salesman was washing his hands. A bag was next to him on the counter.

“Did you get it?” You asked, peering into the plastic bag. 

“Of course,” he replied. You cheered, pulling him into a hug. To your surprise, he hugged you back.

“Thank you so much, I’ve been craving it all day!” You exclaimed.

He chuckled, then added, “It was the last one, too.” 

You gasped. “No way! You really got lucky.” 

He shrugged.

You moved to get some plates and a knife to cut the pie. “Would you like a piece?” You offered.

He shook his head. “It’s all for you.”

You cut yourself a big slice and went to eat it on the sofa. You turned the TV on to watch the nightly news. Your husband followed you, taking his place beside you. You snuggled into his side and began eating your pie.

“Is it everything you hoped for?” He asked. 

You nodded and kissed him on the cheek. “It’s even better because I’m with you. I’ve been dreaming of this moment all week.”

The salesman smiled, a fuzzy feeling enveloping his heart.

The joy on your face, the way you practically melted as you savoured your dessert… It was all worth it.

And he recruited another player at the same time. Two birds with one bullet. 

Your happiness meant everything to him. He always tried his best to care for you, even if his ways could be a bit unconventional sometimes. 

The salesman cherished you dearly, and he would do anything for you. That’s what people do for those they love, right?

Just then, the latest news in horse racing flashed on TV. They were interviewing a man who had won big at the races. But there, in the background, the salesman could pick out Jung-bae amongst the crowd, his expression distraught. 

Your husband scoffed.

Well, maybe not everyone.

tags: @muchwita

[hwaslayer]

vivrant thing (jwy) | four.

—SPOTIFY PLAYLIST / SERIES MASTERLIST

—SUMMARY: after getting into a little accident, wooyoung decides to do his sister a favor by pretending to be your date at the company summer party. as soon as the night ends, wooyoung would go back to his usual routine of hanging out with his boys, keeping his distance from committed relationships and being a typical brother to jiwoo. except, the favor comes with more than what wooyoung expects and he finds you occupying his mind more than usual. 

—PAIRING: jung wooyoung x f. reader

—GENRE: (18+ - minors dni) bestfriend’s brother au | fluff, angst, smut

—WORD COUNT: 6.2k

—CHAPTER CONTENT / WARNINGS: cussing, mature language/sexually implied content, angst angst angst, accusations are being thrown, jiwoo is mean, wooyoung is angry, hongjoong tryna play peacemaker, oc is sad, crying, its kinda a mess??, some insecurities coming to surface, mentions of past relationships and wooyoung's fuckboy history

One thing you also don't expect at Jiwoo's family lunch is how incredibly tense and awkward you and Wooyoung are. Maybe you need to wake up a little more and sit with your reality, but you surely hate the feeling it brings. It's almost obvious how you both freeze at the sight of each other, the both of you trying your hardest to keep it together but avoid eye contact.

Wooyoung's first mistake was keeping you [somewhat] at a distance after the party. Truthfully, he was scared as he sorted through his thoughts— not really sure how to make sense of any of it. Even though, he knew deep down that he did have newfound feelings for you and it wasn't something he could ignore. It wasn't like anything he's felt before, and he knew it'd only grow despite him trying to push it aside to buy him more time.

Wooyoung's second mistake was leaving you that morning without saying much afterwards. Leaving you and him in limbo. Though, this was the one core moment when he could honestly and truthfully say his feelings grew for you. He was locked in, and there was no going back. He should've told you right then and there instead of making you feel like one of them.

One of his hookups, his tap-n-dash's, his toot-it-n-boot-it's. 

You were not that. He meant every word he said to you that night, and he should've fucking told you. Now, he's stuck with not knowing how to do it after some time has passed.

—FLASHBACK

Wooyoung's eyes flutter open to the sun beaming into your studio, causing him to squint and shift a bit in his position. He tries not move too much when he realizes your back is pressed against him, and he's got an arm around you. Luckily, the movements don't wake you and Wooyoung can't help but smile to himself at how tired you seem to be. He snuggles against you for a few more minutes, giving you tiny kisses on your shoulder, the back of your head. His hand gives your side a soft squeeze, and he finds that this is how he'd like to wake up every morning.

With you, in particular.

But as equally as the thought is exciting, it is also frightening. Because every moment seems to make this more and more real and he's not sure how to act. So, he freezes. Those 'few more minutes' are suddenly over, and he's slipping himself out of your bed gently. He needs time to figure out what to say and how to say it without sounding like an idiot. He slips into his clothes and finds a stack of post-its nearby, scribbling a quick note to leave on your nighstand to at least let you know he's thinking about you. He is, he truly is. He doesn't wanna rip himself off you, but he has to cause he needs time—

morning cute stuff! text me when you wake up. had to run off cause im shy and don't want you to see my morning face lol jk need to meet up with san for a workout. talk to you later! hope you slept well :)

Which, isn't entirely a lie. He does need to meet San for a workout, it's just hours later.

He darts out anyway, giving your door one last look before he heads to his car and begins his journey home. When you wake about 15 minutes after he leaves, your heart drops when you realize Wooyoung isn't behind you anymore. You were giving him the benefit of the doubt, thinking he might be locked away in the bathroom.

But, nothing.

His clothes are gone.

Wooyoung is gone.

And although the note leaves a small smile on your face, you can't ignore the way your chest tightens knowing he left in somewhat of a hurry; at least, before you could wake up. Was it because this was always how Wooyoung was? Did he really mean everything he said last night?

Or were you just like them?

The thoughts don't make it any easier on you, and you've swallowed the lump in your throat in an attempt to push the tears back. You can't help but feel hurt despite knowing how Wooyoung was. You weren't any different, and you shouldn't have relied on that. You shouldn't have gotten so comfortable, you shouldn't have opened up to him the way you did.

You were a favor to Wooyoung, nothing more, nothing less.

jiwoo: goodmorning to my baby!!!

jiwoo: sorry i didnt text you last night after dinner, we can catch up later!

jiwoo: come with me to my family lunch tomorrow? we can have a girls day after since i feel like its been so long

jiwoo: we can get our nails done and go shopping then just cry over our favorite movies!!

Then, the reality hits you even more. You're gonna have to tell Jiwoo what happened because even if you try to hide it, you're terrible at lying and Jiwoo will catch on eventually. She'll know something has changed, she'll know something has hurt you.

And you're not ready to tell her it's her own brother.

you: okay 😌 i'm down for lunch and a girls day tomorrow. i need it.

jiwoo: okay, yay! 💕 me too!! i'll pick you up around 11:30 tomorrow.

you: sounds good.

—END

"The most important people have arrived! Sorry to worry you guys. It was kinda traffic." Jiwoo says, greeting her family and San.

"No one asked." Wooyoung glares at her before making a face while she hugs him tightly. "Get off." He whines when she doesn't pry her arms around her brother right away, making her giggle mischievously. When she finally lets go and moves onto San, Wooyoung shifts his attention to you.

"Hey Y/N." He says with a pursed smile, bringing you in for a one-armed hug that feels forced and too stiff.

"Hi." You softly respond, avoiding all eye contact. It sucks, it sucks, it sucks. You didn't end up texting him that morning. As much as you wanted to, you didn't wanna look sad and desperate even though you longed for Wooyoung's company. You spent time with your grandpa to get your mind off of it, but it was difficult. He didn't take the chance to text you either, so that told you more than you needed to know.

Sometimes silence can be the most deafening.

You scurry along to say hello to San before greeting their parents, back to hiding behind Jiwoo as you all wait to be seated.

"Where's Hongjoong?"

"Not here because it's a girls day after this." Jiwoo links her arm with yours as she follows her parents into the restaurant when they're called, Wooyoung and San following behind.

"Girls day? What are you ladies doing afterwards?" Their father asks as all of you settle at a round table. You fall in between Wooyoung and Jiwoo, of course, and you almost wanna tell his sister to switch just for your own sake.

But, you don't. You suck it up. 

You sit. He sits.

It's quiet.

Wooyoung grabs chopsticks from the center container and passes them out to his parents, San, then you and Jiwoo. He doesn't really say anything else, he can't really look at you just like you can't with him.

And all of this is so awkward for no reason.

Well, there are reasons, but it doesn't have to be this way and Wooyoung is constantly calling himself dumb for creating this divide, this distance. For making you feel this way. All he wants to do is hug you, kiss you a few times, hold your hand. Be all cute with you.

He's an idiot.

"Gonna get our nails done and go shop."

"I'm surprised Yeosang didn't come." Wooyoung pauses as he's skimming through the dim sum menu, hoping you don't catch the way his jaw slightly clenches. How he almost rolls his eyes at the sound of his name. He doesn't have a reason to dislike Yeosang at all, but he finds himself getting irked knowing that Yeosang has feelings for you. He shouldn't, though. He can't claim you like that, especially if he's being dumb and not knowing how to be upfront about his feelings properly.

"Oh, no. That probably won't happen for awhile." Jiwoo says.

"Aw, why not? Is he just busy nowadays?"

"Busy sulking." Jiwoo mutters playfully. "Didn't snag the girl of his dreams." She teases you and you roll your eyes.

"Stop that."

"He'll live." Wooyoung adds nonchalantly while him and San check off items on the list, and Jiwoo doesn't even bat an eye at the comment.

"What happened?" San whispers to Wooyoung and he furrows his brows at him. "Did Yeosang ask Y/N out or something?" But before Wooyoung can respond, his mom cuts in with the same question—

"Aw, no! Did he ask you out?" At this point, the waitress brings water and a kettle full of hot barley tea.

"Yeah, but we just decided to stay friends." You look at her so innocently Wooyoung can't fucking take it. Jesus Christ. Kinda reminds him of the other night.

"We, more like you." Jiwoo teases and you glare at her.

"Well, she was honest and I'm sure he appreciated it." Their father chimes in. "You don't ever wanna force anything, that's the number one rule." 

"If he truly values you and respects you as one of his good friends, he'll understand and won't treat you differently from before." Their mom adds. 

"That'll be awkward for them." San says lowly to Wooyoung just as he hands the checklist off to the waitress in passing.

"He's a grown ass man, he'll get over it. You win some, you lose some." San furrows his brows at Wooyoung's reaction. He truly can't help but notice that his bestfriend has been on edge ever since you and Jiwoo came. He's not sure he's ever seen Wooyoung so awkward and.. weird. And he knows you're pretty shy, but you're also acting very weird and.. avoidant?

"I guess so." Is all San says.

"Is there someone else?" Wooyoung almost chokes on his water. The heat instantly rises to your cheeks and you feel somewhat suffocated from the question alone. "Jesus, Wooyoung. I told you to drink slowly." Their mom adds. 

"Mother chismosa. All up in her business." Jiwoo laughs at Wooyoung's response.

"I'm just wondering! She's like my baby, too." She furrows her brows at her son before returning to you with a smile on her face. 

"Oh, um. No. There's no one else." You pause, missing the way Wooyoung is looking at you through his peripherals. "Just thought we're better off that way."

"I see. Well, you know Y/N, the right person will come in time. Don't rush it."

"Sometimes, I wish Wooyoung could find a nice girl like you." His dad chimes in. "He is a pain in the ass, though."

"I'm sorry, I'm confused. Did we gather around over some dim sum just to get on my ass? Did I miss the agenda?" Jiwoo and San snicker.

"Stop it, you're making him embarrassed." Their mom shifts her attention back to you. "Y/N, anyway. How's Papa been?" Jiwoo pours you more tea to drink.

"He's been okay. I spent the day with him yesterday. He hasn't been feeling the greatest, though."

"Oh? Is he sick?" You shrug.

"He seemed to be fine yesterday. He just says he's more tired lately, been feeling this on-and-off dull pain in his lower back. I told him we should go to the hospital, but he doesn't think it's a big deal. He thinks he just needs to keep exercising and stretching properly."

"I see. Otherwise he's been okay?"

"Mhm." You give their parents a small, toothless smile, tugging your turtleneck sweater up when you feel everyone's eyes on you for a second. "He's the same." Underneath the material are the little marks Wooyoung left, and they've barely started to fade away.

"That's good to hear. Please bring him by soon, we'd love to see him again." You nod.

"Girl, aren't you hot wearing that turtleneck?" Jiwoo tugs on the material and you kinda shimmy away from her grip.

"No, I'm okay."

"Is it just me then? Am I getting hot flashes already?" Her mom clicks her teeth and tells her to stop being so dramatic. At this point, the food is rolled in and placed on the table like a game of tetris. Everyone automatically digs in, passing food along until everyone's satisfied with their first serving. Usually by now, Wooyoung has at least teased you one way or another, cracked a joke or poked fun at you. That's how he typically is with you. Today, you're seeing a very different side of him, and you're not sure what you did wrong.

When you finish your food, you try to reach over for another piece of dimsum but it's a little further out than expected. Suddenly, Wooyoung grabs a few pieces and places it on your plate— still not making any eye contact with you.

He's so confusing.

You're not sure if you want it to be like this.

You quickly decide that you don't. You don't want to be this way with someone, you don't want someone to ever be unsure of you. You don't want someone to make you feel the slightest bit of doubt. Which, is crazy to think about. Because Yeosang could've been that person, but you were too busy wanting Wooyoung. You were too busy having feelings for Wooyoung, and even though you still feel guilty about the whole thing with Yeo, there was no way you could've forced yourself to feel a certain way.

Wishful thinking, perhaps?

At least, now you know, and you'll never allow yourself to do that shit ever again.

You continue to eat and engage in small conversation with Jiwoo and her parents, Wooyoung and San mostly in their own world together off to the side. He was seemed to be fine with San, and you don't know if you made it worse for you. You tried to push it to the back of your head, trying to tell yourself that you shouldn't feel this way. That you didn't need to be so hung up over Wooyoung. That you didn't do anything wrong.

Still hurts, though. You wonder if he'll ever talk to you again or bring it up.

When lunch is over, their parents pay for the bill and leave a hefty tip, passing out the little candies that were brought over with the receipt. Jiwoo quickly shuffles you away, thanking her parents for lunch before taking you down the street to a popular nail shop for your appointments. 

The nail shop is as busy as it gets on a Sunday, but you don't wait long before you and Jiwoo are seated at the spa chairs for the pedicures. Jiwoo starts to tell you about how her and Hongjoong are going on a last minute trip to Japan and that you were welcome to come along if you wanted. You've gone on little trips with Jiwoo and Hongjoong before, and they've never made you feel like a third wheel. But, you wonder when you'd get to go on trips with your own special someone, your person.

Would this change things in the future? When Jiwoo and her family invite you on their trips?

Would this change everything?

It makes you feel like you really should've thought about your decisions before letting things escalate that night. Everything feels like a hard ass lesson, and you hate it. Everything is reminding you of your recklessness, of how you relied so much on the way Wooyoung treated you at the party. You can't say you regret it though, but it's starting to feel like a mistake.

When you politely decline and tell her to have fun with her boyfriend, another tech comes to work on your hands, beginning your gel manicure while the other tech continues with your pedicure.

"Has Yeosang texted you?" You shake your head.

"No." You sigh. "We probably won't be the same for a bit. He did say he needed time."

"I'm sorry." Jiwoo looks at you with a small pout. "He'll be okay, though. I know he cares about you regardless."

"And I care about him, too. I just want us to be okay."

"Are you sure you don't wanna come with us? Leave this place for a few days. Work won't care if we're both off last minute, we have enough team members to cover." You chuckle.

"I'm good. Promise."

"What do you wanna do after? Should we shop, then pick up some takeout so we can watch our movies?"

"Sure. I do need to buy some new clothes. I haven't spoiled myself in a bit." She gasps dramatically.

"Same."

"You went shopping when we bought our dresses."

"And that was awhile ago." She shrugs. "I'm on the lookout for this thick zip-up jacket. My brother has one and I keep taking it from him. He keeps getting mad." You don't respond. "I hate to say it, but Wooyoung has taste. Sometimes."

"Hm." You hum.

"Did you notice Wooyoung being all quiet today? It's not like him."

"I guess so."

"Well, he was quieter than usual. It's so unlike him."

"Why don't you ask?"

"Because my brother won't say a thing. I could tell him all my problems, but he won't tell me most of his. You know this. I dunno if it's some kinda façade or front to maintain this strong, older brother image. I know things bother him, but I also know a lot of things don't. It's difficult to read him." Ain't that so, you think. He is terribly hard to read.

"Do you think it's over a girl?" You awkwardly ask, looking to see what her reaction is.

"Wooyoung sulking over a girl? I doubt it. I haven't seen him do that since him and his exes broke up, and that was years ago. I'm convinced stuff like this isn't worth it to Wooyoung anymore. I haven't seen him be different around anyone."

"Oh." 

"Yeah, well. Whatever. I'm sure he'll get over it."

"Yeah, I think so." You respond softly, which Jiwoo kinda catches on. She sees how quiet you've gotten and how you've managed to hide back in your shell— you probably tried not to make it so obvious, but as your bestfriend, it's easy to pick up on your switches, too.

It is a little odd, but she won't bother. She just wants to have a good girls day with you.

After the nail appointment, the both of you make your way down to the biggest mall in town to shop, especially for her trip. You find a few new outfits, one you can't wait to wear out and flaunt. Wooyoung briefly comes to mind, but you shake it off and correct yourself— because no, you're excited to wear and flaunt the new outfits for yourself. 

No one else.

You were genuinely happy for the first time today. You felt good about yourself.

Until tonight comes, and all of that goes out the window rather quickly.

When you get back to Jiwoo's apartment, the both of you are pretty exhausted from the long day being out and about. It's a little past 6pm when you drag yourselves in. You take a quick shower and wind down for the evening, changing into comfier clothes that you've packed in case you wanted to spend the night at Jiwoo's. You lay out the food on the living room coffee table while Jiwoo takes her shower. You've already decided on a lineup of movies tonight: Brown Sugar, The Wood, Love and Basketball. As you wait for Jiwoo to be finished, you scroll through your phone to see if there's been any new updates, new texts.

Nothing.

Though, you've noticed Wooyoung has posted on his Instagram story. You're not usually one to peep, but you are curious; you can't help yourself. For the most part, they're just random photos of the city, San. There are two photos that do catch your eye and you're not sure if Wooyoung meant to post this for a particular reason or just cause. The first photo that catches your eye is an old vintage poster of Spirited Away. It's alongside other vintage Studio Ghibli posters, but he posted this one in particular. The second photo is of the view. You remember that Wooyoung goes there to clear his mind. You wonder if San tagged along.

"What a day!" Jiwoo comes out of the bathroom, hair still damp. She rushes over and plops next to you on the floor in front of the coffee table and TV, sending Hongjoong a quick text. "Ready, babe?"

"Mhm." You nod, the both of you popping your lids to your bowls open as the movie begins. "Thank you for today."

"Of course, are you kidding?! I love a good girls day with my bestfriend." She smiles at you, digging into her food. You swallow the lump in your throat when the truth settles in the pit of your stomach, almost making you lose your appetite completely. She gives your arm a good squeeze. She's so happy— you can't believe you're gonna be the reason why all of that changes. You needed to be honest with her, if not yourself. 

Because what happened, happened. There was no going back to change it.

You give it a good hour or so, making sure the both of you have finished your food and are satisfied while you sit in your thoughts and determine it's probably a good time to talk to Jiwoo about everything. The night has settled, the climax of the movie has passed. You don't wanna wait too long, and you feel like you shouldn't; somehow hoping it'll lessen the damage, lessen the blow.

"Jiwoo." You poke her arm softly.

"Yeah?"

"Can we talk?"

"Sure, of course." She looks at you with concern, pausing the movie. "What's up, babe?"

"You know the other night, when I had dinner with Yeosang?"

"Mhm."

"There were other things I didn't get around to telling you."

"Did something else happen with him?" You look at her and you already feel the impending breakdown ready to take over in about 0.5 seconds.

"N-no. Not Yeosang." You physically shrink as you try to gain the courage to continue on.

"Huh?" Silence. "What is it, Y/N? What're you hiding from me?"

"I-I—" You feel tears welling up in your eyes. "Your brother. I meant to text you while I was drinking at the convenience store, but I accidentally texted your brother. He ended up swinging by and he walked me back home. A-and—" You pause, tears now slowly streaming down your cheeks and they seem to keep coming even with you constantly wiping them away.

"And, what?" Quite frankly, she knows where this is going. Jiwoo just doesn't wanna believe it. But, she has no choice when you hit her with the:

"We hung out for awhile, and things went further."

"Further as in?" You start to cry a little more. "Further as in.. what, Y/N?"

"Things just escalated so quickly, I'm—"

"Escalated? Did you sleep with my brother?" She's in utter disbelief and her tone says it all. She doesn't even need to hear a verbal response from you because your face completely gives it away.

"Jiwoo, I'm sorry. Things just happened and—"

"My brother? Out of all people? Was that why you were so quiet today?" More silence. "Y/N, what were you thinking?! He's no good for you! All he's gonna do is hurt you like he does with every girl that gets tangled up with him. He doesn't care, he's—" She stands as she keeps going, but you aren't hanging onto one word she's saying. You just wanna get this over with, you just wanna get away. You don't wanna hear what you already know. It's your fault; she told you so. You should've known.

"Jiwoo." You plead with your eyes, hoping she stops. It doesn't make anything better, and you feel like a child getting scolded.

"What did he say to you?" She pauses. "What did he say to you? Did he say some sweet shit to get into your pants or what? Were you really that naive?"

"Jiwoo, enough. Please." You cry. "He didn't have to say anything to me, things just happened and it wasn't just Wooyoung. I played a part in this, too." You're not really sure why you're explaining it the way that you are, but you feel as if you have no choice at this point.

"Yeah." She says, almost mockingly. "So, what now? Has he even talked to you after that?" You shake your head pathetically and your tears fall even more. "Exactly, I thought so. Because that's who he is, Y/N. I thought you knew that! He's not gonna change. Now you're here crying over him like the rest of them usually do!" You cry harder, feeling like you're about to be shoved in a corner for timeout. "You can't tell me you actually have feelings for him." She scoffs.

"I'm sorry." Is all you say. What you're sorry for, you're not sure. For yourself? For how things quickly unfolded? For having feelings for her brother?

All of the above?

"Did he even tell you he had feelings for you? Did he tell you anything before he ran off and got what he wanted from you?" You shake your head. "Unbelievable." She grabs her keys and her purse. "You should go."

"I'm sorry. I thought—"

"Please, Y/N. I need some time to process this."

"Where are you going?"

"To my brother's. Quite frankly, I can't look at the both of you right now, but I need to talk to him." You shake your head.

"It's not gonna change anything."

"It's not, but he also deserves to hear it since you're here crying in my living room about it." She furrows her brows in deep disappointment before giving you one last look. "Thought you knew better than that." She turns on her heel and leaves you in her living room. You cry, and you cry. You cry that you don't even know what you're crying over, what you're feeling hurt over.

You cry because one bestfriend is mad at you, and the other bestfriend needs his time away from you.

You cry because you have feelings for Wooyoung.

You cry because you feel so naive and stupid for admitting it, for going along with everything.

Were you wrong for feeling the way you do over him?

You quietly clean up and gather your things, sadly throwing the duffle bag over your shoulder as you lock her door from the inside and walk out. Your head hangs low when you start to walk to the nearest bus stop, taking the long way back home so that you can clear your mind and stop by Papa's apartment on the way over. Honestly, you don't blame Jiwoo for acting the way she did. You knew she was very protective of you, and you knew she was coming from a good place. You kinda just wish everything went down a little differently.

So, you continue quietly. Tears streaming down. Phone tucked away and on silent. Shutting down and ignoring the rest of the world like you always do when things go awry.

"Baby, don't you think you should just simmer down first before talking to your brother?" Hongjoong says over the bluetooth in her car.

"Simmer down for what? I can't believe he'd do that to her."

"Well, you don't really know if he actually had bad intentions. It does take two to tango. You ever think maybe, he's always had it for her and just never realized until he had to be her date? He probably needed the time. I don't think Wooyoung would mess around with Y/N like that."

"Kim Hongjoong. Aren't you supposed to be on my team right now?"

"I am, that's why I'm trying to tell you this is probably not a good idea."

"He was wrong, okay! She's naive, he knows that." She groans, causing Hongjoong to sigh.

"There were better ways to go about it, sure. I just don't think he's intentionally trying to hurt her like you think he is."

"I'll hang up in 5 seconds, Hongjoong." He clicks his teeth.

"Where is Y/N anyway? Thought you two were having a girls day."

"We were until she dropped all of this on me. She's probably on her way home."

"Why did you just leave her?"

"Because I'm angry and I can't deal right now."

"Then, go back home. You can yell at your brother any day, but you shouldn't leave her."

"I'll call you later. I'm at Wooyoung's."

"Jiwoo—" But before Hongjoong can say anything else, Jiwoo is ending the call and shutting off the car. She slams the driver's door and heads into the lobby, furiously pressing the elevator button to bring her up to the 6th floor. When she gets off and heads to his door, she repeatedly knocks until she hears shuffling on the other end.

"What the fuck is wrong with you!" Jiwoo storms into Wooyoung's apartment as soon as he swings the door open. He knew this would happen at some point— he just didn't think it'd be tonight, exactly.

"You really don't have to yell—"

"My bestfriend!? Why would you sleep with her! She's not one of your fucking girls to toy around with, Wooyoung!" He's actually appalled at the way Jiwoo is coming at him right now. Most of the time, he can handle her. Today is just one of those days where he can't, and he feels himself losing it a lot quicker due to the sensitivity of the subject. He hates how Jiwoo looks at him this way, and he hates how she's so quick to badmouth him, especially when it comes to you.

What if he truly, truly cared about you?

"No one said she was!" Wooyoung matches her tone and San is awkwardly sitting off to the side, unsure of what to do. He didn't think he'd ever hear it this way, let alone didn't think Wooyoung would ever sleep with his sister's bestfriend. It wasn't a secret that Wooyoung thought you were cute, attractive. He just never crossed those lines because he didn't think he should, especially with the way he had tendencies to be a dick.

San is so unsure of how to take all of this.

Did Wooyoung just cave after the party? Did he plan for this to happen? How did he even get you to do all that with him?

"What else can I call it? Why would you take advantage of her—"

"Slow your fucking roll, Jiwoo. I never said I was just using Y/N for anything, nor do you have the right to assume that." Wooyoung says seriously. It's true, and he finds himself hurt at the wild accusations Jiwoo is spewing out. He wasn't always good, but he wasn't entirely bad. He's made some terrible decisions and acted poorly in certain situations, but he never failed to  learn from his mistakes and be the bigger person about it. He'd be honest, and in the end, he would never let his pride win just to get away with it.

"What am I supposed to think with your amazing track record?"

"I don't care if I made some mistakes or fucked around in the past, you don't get to say all that just because you're angry."

"All of a sudden you're good and pure when it comes to Y/N." She groans. "I swear to god, Wooyoung. The favor was supposed to be just a favor, not a window for you to add her to your roster—"

"Aye, stop while you're ahead." Wooyoung cuts her off. "You don't get to come into my space and yell at me for shit you know nothing about. Stop painting me like that, Jiwoo. I'm not this shitty person you like to think I am. For real. I don't appreciate it. You're spitting out all these crazy accusations when you have nothing but my past to refer to. I was never planning to 'put her on my roster' or treat her that way, I never meant to hurt her in any way. It's fucking wild you'd assume that."

"Then, why haven't you talked to her if you wanna claim this is different, Wooyoung?"

"Because I just need time to sort through my shit, okay! As much as I wanna talk to her, I don't know how and I'm trying to figure it out, that's all. Sorry. I'm not tryna mess this up more than I might've already done."

"You're unbelievable." Jiwoo glares at him. "Do you have feelings for her or not? It's a simple yes or no. Stop dragging it out so unnecessarily—"

"No. We're not doing this right now."

"Wooyoung!"

"I don't care! That's not for you to decide, so don't push it." He says sternly. "I'm not answering your question cause we're not talking about this right now, not when we're both angry. We're gonna go in circles like we always do and we're not gonna get anywhere. So no, I'm not saying anything to you, especially until you stop yelling and accusing me of things." He glares at her. "I sure as hell hope you didn't come at Y/N this way because she didn't do anything wrong. You don't get to talk to her like that either." He pauses. "Where is she?"

"I told her to go home."

"Oh, so you left her alone just to do this? The hell is wrong with you?"

"Can't I say the same shit about you? Leaving her that morning without saying a word." She scoffs while he bites his tongue, hoping she'd leave after getting this out of her system. "I thought so. You better fix this properly." Is all Jiwoo says before she turns on her heel and slams his door shut.

"And you should fix your attitude while you're at it!" Wooyoung yells. He groans loudly and plops onto the couch with a loud sigh. "Sorry." Is all he says to San, who is still dumbfounded over the argument that just went down.

"It's all good." Wooyoung is running a hand down his face before tossing his phone onto the table and resting his head back against the couch. As much as he loves to push his sister's buttons, he doesn't enjoy it when they fight. He doesn't like it when they're heated and angry at each other. He knows she can't help but protect you [rightfully so], but he hates the way she treats him like he has zero common sense. He wouldn't do that to you, especially out of all people. 

You would never be just another girl to him.

"So, what happened exactly?" Wooyoung lets out a breath.

"It was the other night, after she had dinner with Yeosang. She meant to text Jiwoo while she was drinking at the convenience store, but she accidentally texted me. I swung by to make sure she was okay, and things just escalated that night."

"That's why you two were weird around each other today."

"Yeah, but that's mainly my fault. I ran off when I shouldn't have. I didn't talk to her the way I wanted to because I froze. I haven't really felt like this in a long time and it scared me. It's a dumb excuse."

"Woo, are you sure this isn't just a phase or something?"

"A phase?" San shrugs. "You're not serious, right?"

"I don't know. I just have to ask. I feel like you've had moments when you thought you liked someone, but it wasn't like that."

"San." Wooyoung almost looks hurt when he turns to him. His expression says all.

"Hm?" Wooyoung shakes his head.

"It's not like that at all. I-I genuinely have feelings for Y/N. I really, really like her."

"Oh." San looks at him, a mixture of confusion and concern plastered on his face. "Oh, okay. So it is like that."

"Fuck." Wooyoung groans. "I fucked up. I should've just told her. Fuck!" He repeats, now pacing around his living room. San doesn't even respond because he's not sure how to. He watches as his bestfriend runs his hand through his hair, quickly texting away before making a call.

Wooyoung's third mistake is letting this linger. Now, everyone, including you and his sister, are continuing to paint him as this bad guy; a bad guy that he has a tendency to be, had a past history of being. But, with you, he's different. He needs you to know that. He should've done this differently.

He just needs to be honest, and he knows he can't put this off any longer. It's time.

Wooyoung feels the inner panic when he tries to call you a few times, but you don't answer. He sends a few texts asking where you're at. If you're safe. If he can come see you so he can talk to you because he really needs to.

wooyoung: y/n. i know you probably don't wanna talk to me right now, but i really wanna explain.

wooyoung: i'm so sorry y/n, i fucked up. can i come see you so we can talk about this properly?

wooyoung: at least let me know if you're okay and safe if you don't wanna talk tonight.

And you see the missed calls and texts from Wooyoung. But, they're overshadowed by the missed call notifications from Papa. You barely get a chance to let it marinate, especially when you approach his apartment and all you're welcomed with is chaos.

Bright lights. 

"Papa?" You walk closer to his apartment, seeing the paramedics coming out with your grandfather on a stretcher. "Papa!" You cry, pushing your way through them to get a good look at your grandpa. He's conscious, barely clinging onto it, though. He gives you a small smile as you hold his hand and climb into the truck, sitting right by his side. He called because he needed you, and you weren't there. You weren't there because you were too busy justifying your actions to Jiwoo, you weren't there because you were too busy trying to find out how to tell her you had feelings for her brother.

You weren't there, and he's here.

Wooyoung is the last thing on your mind right now.

—TAGLIST: @asjkdk @interweab @woojirang @svintsandghosts @cheolliehugs @persphonesorchid @mxnsxngie @jycas @cowboydk @heyitsmetonid @ldysmfrst @intaksfav @wooyoungsbrat @hyukssunflower @yunhoswrldddd @gotthicbish @thespiffynerd @jaytheatiny @yoonrixx @aurorajoye @i-love-ateez

[meadowfics]

keep your eyes on me

berlin (song jung-ho) x f!reader

based off of this request here

warnings: threats, mentions of injury, jealousy

you've never been the jealous type, or at least that's what you tell yourself.

however, there's something about the way tokyo looks at berlin, something about the way they exchange glances in silence, the way they seem to understand each other without words even in their arguments and fury.

it's been poking at you since the heist began. it's probably nothing. berlin has been yours for years now, since the moment he crossed into south korea, bloody and half-dead, desperate for escape.

tokyo has a thing with rio anyways. however, you've stood by berlin through everything, watched him rise again, rebuild himself into something terrifyingly magnificent. y

ou've seen every inch of him, every flaw, every secret...so why does tokyo make you feel like you're missing something?

maybe it's the stress. maybe it's just the paranoia that comes with a job this big. every time you see them lock angry eyes across the mint’s floor, your stomach knots up, and your hands clench into fists.

so, you decide to do something about it.

it starts small.

you stop standing at berlin's side, opting to linger near denver instead. denver, who is easy to get along with, who doesn't have the same unreadable expressions and complicated histories as berlin. denver, who laughs with that ridiculous hyena-like cackle, who doesn't take everything so damn seriously.

he flirts easily, and you let him. even though the both of you know damn well that you guys do not like each other. denver has a thing with that beautiful hostage, and you support it.

however, denver seems to notice that you're using him and he wants to piss off berlin too as revenge.

you let yourself laugh a little louder with denver. you touch his arm when you talk, lean into him when you're standing close. it’s harmless...at first.

then you start choosing denver’s side over berlin’s.

when a small argument breaks out over how to handle a hostage trying to make a run for it, berlin says to use fear. denver says to use charm. you agree with denver.

you make a point of siding with him, nodding along as he grins. berlin’s face barely changes, but you know him. you know the tension in his jaw, the slight twitch in his fingers.

so you push further.

when denver struggles to move a heavy stack of cash pallets, you rush to help, grinning as you brace against the weight with him. berlin watches from the other side of the mint, his arms crossed over his chest.

he doesn’t say anything, but you feel the weight of his stare, burning into you like a brand.

it’s working. god, it feels good.

you don’t speak to berlin unless necessary. if he gives you an order, you act like you don’t hear him the first time. you only respond when he repeats himself, your tone clipped and indifferent.

he isn’t used to this. he’s used to controlling you, to knowing where you stand, to having you in his orbit. he doesn’t like this new distance.

by the second day, berlin has had enough.

the professor is gone, caught up in his careful dance with the inspector. the others are preoccupied. the moment he finds you alone in the office, berlin shuts the door behind him and locks it.

the sound of the bolt sliding into place echoes in the small space, and before you can react, he’s in front of you, his hand wrapping around your neck...not tight, not enough to hurt, but enough to command your full attention.

“i know what you’re fucking doing.”

jung-ho's voice is low, controlled. the man's thumb brushes against your pulse point, and you know he can feel how fast your heart is racing.

still, you tilt your chin up, keeping your expression blank.

“what are you talking about?”

berlin lets out a quiet, humorless laugh, shaking his head.

“don’t play dumb, barcelona. i know you too well.” jung-ho's grip tightens just slightly, just enough to make his point.

“you think i don’t see the way you’ve been throwing yourself at denver? the way you go out of your way to undermine me?”

“i don’t know what you’re talking about,” you repeat, voice steady, even though your whole body is tense.

“don’t you?” he leans in, lips brushing against your ear.

“you’re trying to make me jealous. trying to piss me off.”

you scoff, trying to ignore the way your skin burns under his touch.

“get over yourself, berlin.”

berlin hums, considering you. then, his other hand trails down your side, slow and deliberate, his fingers pressing into your waist.

“you want to know how i know?” he asks, almost lazily, “ it is because i threatened denver today.”

your breath catches.

he smiles, slow and sharp, like he can taste your reaction,

“told him if he didn’t stop entertaining your little games, i’d make sure he regrets it. and the hostages? well, let’s just say they almost suffered for your little stunt.”

your stomach twists. you know berlin. you know he’s capable of anything. your anger flares, hot and sharp.

“you’re sick.”

“and you’re reckless,” he counters, “playing with fire just to get a rise out of me? you should know better more than anyone else here.”

you glare at him, hands pressing against his chest, shoving him back just enough to breathe.

“maybe if you weren’t so fucking close to tokyo and arguing with her all of the time, i wouldn’t have to.”

berlin blinks, then exhales through his nose, amused.

“so that’s what this is about.” he tilts his head, eyes searching yours, “you’re jealous.”

“i’m not—”

“yes, you are.” berlin's fingers trace patterns along your collarbone.

“you think i want her?” he leans in again, lips just barely brushing against your jaw, “when i have you?”

your breath stutters. you hate how easily he does this to you, how effortlessly he dismantles your defenses.

“tokyo means nothing to me,” he continues, voice softening, but not losing its edge, “she’s a soldier. a piece in the game. but you?” his thumb presses against your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“you are mine.”

you hate how much you love hearing it.

berlin watches you carefully, reading every flicker of emotion across your face.

“say it,” he murmurs, “say you’re mine.”

the silence stretches between you, thick with tension. you should fight it. you should push him away, walk out that door, keep playing your game.

you don’t.

“i’m yours.”

berlin’s lips curl into a victorious smile, “good girl.”

then, he kisses you...hard, claiming, punishing. you meet him with equal intensity, fingers twisting in his hair, pulling him closer. berlin's grip on your neck eases, sliding down to your back, pressing you flush against him.

the heat between you is undeniable, electric, all-consuming.

when he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your lips, his hands finally leave your body.

“no more games, barcelona.”

you nod, but you both know better.

berlin may have won this round, but the game between you is far from over.

masterlist

[luxerians]

The Last Mask (16)

Hwang In-ho/Oh Young-il/Player 001 x Reader

Chapter 16 - Caught You

Story Masterlist

NEXT : Chapter 17.1

PREV : Chapter 15

The fourth game finally ended after twelve grueling rounds. In total, 49 players were eliminated. It was supposed to be 48, as only four players were meant to be eliminated in each round, but one round had five players caught in the elimination zone. They couldn’t come to a unanimous decision about who would be spared, and as a result, all five were executed.

You and soldier 011 had put your masks back on – you in your square mask and her in her triangle one. The players had left and descended the stairs back to the dormitory. Only you, manager 009, and several circle guards remained in the game location. The workers quietly cleaned the conveyor belt, erasing the blood and tidying up the room.

Once everything was in order, you and manager 009 left the area, walking through the labyrinth of corridors. The silence between you was heavy, but it didn’t last long.

“Where’s 019?” manager 009 asked.

You kept your gaze forward, your voice calm and steady in disguise. “Not sure. They should’ve been back by now.”

Manager 009 didn’t press further, and the conversation ended there. The two of you continued toward the control room in silence.

When you entered, the first thing you noticed was the Front Man standing in the center of the room. The screen displaying the pictures of the surviving players glowed brightly beneath him. Beside him stood the masked officer as they both gazed at the massive screens showing live feeds of the dormitory.

Your eyes scanned the room, and you spotted manager 009 walking towards their previous station. Taking that as a green light, you made your way to your own monitor and sat down.

Just as you settled into your seat, the double doors leading to the dormitory slid open, breaking the tense silence of the room. The sound drew everyone’s attention. A manager flanked by 16 soldiers marched in and they took their positions in front of the door.

You realized what was coming next. It was time to announce the results of the fourth game: the number of players eliminated, the remaining survivors, and the updated total of the accumulated prize money.

The manager announced, “Congratulations to all of you for making it through the fourth game. Here are the results of the fourth game.”

The dormitory lights dimmed, casting the room into an eerie semi-darkness. The only illumination came from the glowing piggy bank suspended near the ceiling. All eyes were drawn upward as stacks of bills cascaded into the transparent container. The players watched, some with awe, others with blank stares, as the money continued to fill the bank.

When the flow of money stopped, the manager’s voice echoed again, cutting through the silence. “49 players were eliminated in the fourth game. The prize money accumulated up to this point is 43.2 billion won. Since there are 24 players remaining, each person’s share would be 1.8 billion won.”

A ripple of reactions swept through the room. Half of the players erupted into gasps of delight, their voices rising in excitement.

“Wow!” one player exclaimed, their face lighting up as if they could already feel the weight of the cash in their hands.

The jubilation of some players stood in sharp contrast to the shock etched on the faces of others. Gi-hun’s team, in particular, exchanged flabbergasted glances. Jun-hee and the mother were looking at the floor, still in shock about their near-death experience. Gi-hun’s jaw clenched, his gaze flickering between the piggy bank and the delighted players. Dae-ho’s expression was pale and distant.

However, Yong-sik and Jung-bae initially looked somewhat elated to hear the announcement, faint smiles creeping onto their faces. However, one stern glance from the mother to Yong-sik and from Gi-hun to Jung-bae caused both of them to restrain themselves, quickly lowering their smiles as guilt and unease replaced their fleeting excitement.

The manager continued. “You will now take a vote to decide whether to continue the games or not.”

As the announcement hung in the air, a line of circle guards – the workers – entered the room. They set up the familiar voting counter at the front of the dormitory.

The manager added, “The vote will be held in reverse order of your player numbers. Player 456.”

Slowly, all eyes turned to Gi-hun. Whispers rippled through the group as they recognized him not only as the previous winner of these games but also as the one who had instigated the failed uprising against the game management. Some players stared at him with a mixture of awe and resentment, while others seemed to hold him responsible for the chaos and loss they had endured.

Gi-hun stood stoic, his jaw tight as if he was aware of the silent scrutiny bearing down on him. He then moved out of the crowd of players and headed towards the voting counter.

Behind your mask, you frowned in concern. Gi-hun must be blaming himself for almost everything, including the deaths of Young-il and other players. You knew he was kind and selfless, but when he became adamant about something, he could cross into selfishness. It was either that, or he had a heavy hero complex, or a gambling addiction, or he hadn’t yet realized the full impact his actions had on others. Even so, you couldn’t help but think he didn’t deserve the silent judgment radiating from the other players.

Gi-hun reached the voting counter and stopped. He stared at it for what felt like an eternity. The players behind him began exchanging confused glances, whispers rippling through the group. Even you felt a flicker of bafflement behind your mask. Gi-hun, the one who had tirelessly urged everyone to quit the games, the one who had orchestrated the failed revolt against the management, was actually hesitating?

What is he doing? you thought, your pulse quickening. He never hesitated to press X before. Why is he taking his time now?

Gi-hun’s hands hovered over the buttons, but he didn’t move. Then, his gaze slowly lifted. His scowl deepened, and his eyes locked onto one of the CCTVs in the dormitory. The intensity of his glare made your breath hitch. From the control room, one screen now displayed a clear feed of him staring directly into the lens. It wasn’t just a look of defiance; it was a challenge, a silent declaration to the management that he wasn’t finished. It was as if he wanted to show them that his fight wasn’t over – that he still had more to give.

You glanced at the Front Man, who remained as still as a statue in the center of the control room. His attention was fixed on the screen as if he too was assessing Gi-hun’s intent. The tension in the air was suffocating, the room silent except for the faint hum of the monitors.

After what felt like an eternity, Gi-hun lowered his gaze back to the voting counter. His jaw tightened as he raised his hand and pressed the X button. A lighter ping echoed through both the dormitory and the control room, signaling his vote. Without looking at anyone, he turned and walked to the X zone.

The voting process continued. One by one, the players approached the counter to cast their decision. Jung-bae, Dae-ho, Se-mi, player 333, Jun-hee, the mother, Hyun-ju, and Yong-sik all voted for X. You knew they would vote for the right thing. Including Gi-hun, that made a total of nine X votes. It gave you a glimmer of hope that you all could finally leave this place.

But the other players, they voted for O. Among them were the greedy old man with a ten-billion debt (100), his equally greedy underling (226), the late Thanos’ friend (124), and the shaman (044). Their choice was no surprise, but what angered you more was how they whispered and schemed during the process, influencing the undecided voters with hushed conversations and manipulative gestures.

In the end, the results were announced: [X: 11 | O: 13]. The outcome sent a wave of crushing disappointment through you. It had been so close to a tie, so painfully close to everyone finally going back home. To you, disguised as manager 007, the result felt like a punch to the gut.

The 13 players in the O zone erupted into hollers of delight and triumph. Their cheers filled the dormitory, their voices dripping with greed and selfishness. It didn’t matter to them that Jun-hee was pregnant. That fact had become apparent to many since the fourth game, but it didn’t sway their decision. They couldn’t care less about forcing a pregnant woman to stay here longer for the sake of their greed. Behind your mask, you furrowed your eyebrows in indignation.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed a movement. Glancing over, you saw the masked officer turning to face you. His voice, distorted by the mask, rang out. “Manager 007 and 009, continue with your next task.”

Manager 009 rose from their seat without hesitation. You mirrored their movement, rising and following them as they moved toward the back of the center. The two of you positioned yourselves behind the masked officer and the Front Man, standing like a pair of bodyguards.

The Front Man’s gaze remained fixed on the live feeds of the dormitory. Everyone could feel it, including yourself. His commanding presence that demanded respect and fear in equal measure. You stared at him from behind your square mask, your mind drifting back to the conversation you had with 011 during the fourth game.

***

[Flashback begins…]

“What do you mean he will spare me?” you asked, your voice hushed but sharp with confusion. Behind your triangle mask, your eyes widened, trying to process the weight of 011’s words. The two of you were still disguising as one another – you wearing her triangle mask, and 011 now donning your square one.

011 hesitated, a rare pause that betrayed her own uncertainty. She didn’t meet your gaze as she finally spoke. “I’ve worked under him as a pink guard for years. In all that time, I’ve never seen him issue an order like this. Telling the guards not to shoot a specific player. He’s strict, but it’s always been about fairness. He treats guards and players with the same rules. That’s why I think… even if you reveal yourself to him, he might spare you.”

Her words hung in the air, leaving you reeling. You stayed quiet, mulling over what she’d said. The idea of revealing yourself to the Front Man… Could you trust that he’d spare you? And even if he did, at what cost?

“Do you know what he would do to me if he finds me?” you asked, your curiosity laced with unease.

011 answered, “No. I don’t. But I’ve heard whispers among the guards. Rumors that it might have something to do with the VIPs. Not sure if it's true or not.”

You furrowed your eyebrows beneath the mask. “VIPs?”

She hesitated again, the silence stretching just a moment too long. Whether she regretted bringing it up or was unsure herself, you couldn’t tell.

“You could think of them as investors,” she finally said, her tone quieter now. “They fund this operation. They’re the ones who ensure it keeps going. That’s what I know so far. And from what I’ve heard, they watch these games regularly. For their entertainment.”

Your skin prickled with fear, the mere thought sending an icy wave down your spine. One thought sprang to mind almost instantly. You could be handed over to these so-called VIPs. Sold to them, perhaps. The idea made your stomach churn.

Before you could fully process the implications, Gyeong-seok’s voice broke the tense silence.

“They’re watching us?” he asked, his alarm palpable even through the distortion of his triangle mask. “Could it be that one of the VIPs likes her? And that’s why there’s an order not to shoot her?”

His words made your blood run cold. A fresh wave of fear surged through you, twisting in your chest like a vice. Your hands trembled uncontrollably and you promptly hugged them to your chest, trying to steady yourself. The thought of being singled out – not for safety, but for something darker – made your heart race with dread.

“That’s…” you started, your voice faltering. “That can’t be it. Right?”

011 seemed hesitant, her voice quieter than before as she replied, “I’m not sure. If you ask me, I don’t think that’s the case. But it’s best to stay safe and alert.”

Her words did little to calm your nerves. You sat there, mulling over everything she’d said. Fear and apprehension tightened in your chest. The thought of being under constant scrutiny – while you were supposed to guard the Front Man – made your stomach churn, but an even darker fear gnawed at you: what if you were being reserved for one of the VIPs? The possibility sent a chill through your veins. You couldn’t let yourself get caught, not by him or anyone else who might have plans for you beyond this nightmare.

“What should I do then?” you asked, your voice low and uncertain. “I’m going to be his guard soon enough.”

When 011 spoke, her tone was solemn. “Try to adapt as fast as possible. Do not speak unless you’re spoken to. Whatever he tells you to do, just do it. And always be on alert. Watch everything. Listen to everything. He doesn’t tolerate mistakes.”

You nodded, taking in her advice even as the apprehension gnawed at you. This wasn’t just about survival anymore. It was about navigating a dangerous, unpredictable situation with a man who held absolute power over everyone here.

“Does he really need guards?” Gyeong-seok asked, his tone curious and innocent, as though the thought had just occurred to him.

011 glanced at him briefly before answering. “It’s customary to have two managers with him wherever he goes. He has a lot of tasks to oversee, and the managers assist with those duties. It’s as much about maintaining order as it is about support.”

Her explanation was straightforward, but it only added to your apprehension. You couldn’t afford to make a single mistake, not when you were walking such a thin line. And above all, you couldn’t shake the feeling that the Front Man’s presence was more than just commanding. It was suffocating, like he could see straight through any disguise you wore.

[Flashback ends…]

***

Back to the present, you and manager 009 waited in silence, standing for a few minutes as the Front Man surveyed the live feeds and ensured every operation was running smoothly. His imposing figure was still, his masked face tilted slightly toward the screens as if scrutinizing every detail with precision.

Then, without warning, he spun around, striding toward the exit and eventually walking past you both. Manager 009 immediately fell into step behind him, and you quickly followed. The two of you flanked and followed the Captain as he descended into the labyrinth of colorful stairs, the vibrancy of the walls contrasting sharply with the dark-coloured control room.

The three of you arrived at the armory, a large, sterile room lined with racks of weapons. Rows of MP5 guns, pistols, and other equipment were neatly arranged. Multiple circle guards were stationed throughout the room, diligently performing tasks such as logging weapon serial numbers, testing firing mechanisms, and cleaning the firearms. Overseeing them was another manager who moved diligently between stations.

“Status report on the firearms,” the Captain commanded, his distorted voice filling the room.

The manager stepped forward and answered, “All weapons are accounted for, Captain. The inventory has been cross-checked, and all MP5s have been resecured. Pistols have been redistributed to guards as per protocol.”

The Captain gave a curt nod and turned to 009. “Ensure the biometric systems have been fully calibrated. Test random samples to verify their functionality.”

“Yes, Captain,” 009 replied, moving toward one of the nearby stations where guards were monitoring the equipment.

You stood quietly, waiting. The Captain’s gaze swept over the room before it landed on you.

“007,” he said finally, “verify the safeties on the pistols. Ensure they’re properly engaged.”

The task was very simple, and you couldn't be more glad. You nodded and moved toward the rack of pistols. You meticulously checked each one, toggling the safeties to confirm they were engaged. It took only a few minutes to complete and then you returned back to stand behind him.

Once 009 finished their task and the armory was taken care of, the Captain led the way through another series of corridors, descending a staircase until you reached a room marked with no identifying signage. The door slid open, revealing a sprawling IT hub filled with rows of computers and massive screens lining the walls. Workers in circle masks sat at the terminals, their fingers flying across keyboards as they edited and managed live feeds from across the facility. One manager was present, walking slowly as they supervised everything.

The Captain strode into the room, his presence commanding immediate attention. “Report.”

The manager straightened up and informed, “All live feeds are edited and being transmitted to the VIPs as scheduled. Editing for clarity and focus is underway. No interruptions have been detected.”

“Good,” the Captain replied. He turned to manager 009. “Check every videos that have been transferred online. Ensure the footage meets the required standards for transmission.”

“Yes, Captain,” 009 said, immediately moving to one of the editing stations.

The Captain’s masked face turned slightly in your direction, his geometrical mask facing you for a fleeting moment. Your breath hitched and you braced yourself inwardly, waiting for any task he would give to you. But instead of speaking, he simply turned away, his focus shifting back to the workers and the room’s activity.

You stood behind him, feeling tiny compared to his tall, strong figure. From where you were, you noticed the sharp lines of his coat and the way his gloved hands rested at his sides. He looked like he was completely in charge of everything, and even though neither of you said a word, it felt like the air between you was charged with some kind of energy. You couldn’t explain it, but it made you feel nervous, like he could see right through you without even speaking.

Your gaze drifted upward, catching the faint reflection of yourself in one of the monitors. Beneath the square mask, your heart pounded, your thoughts racing. Why had he looked at you? Why hadn’t he given you anything to do? Was he testing you?

“009,” the Captain’s voice broke the silence after a few minutes, deep and distorted as always. “Report.”

009 responded immediately, “The edits are nearly complete, Captain. All footage meets the standards for clarity and focus. There are no delays in the transmission to the VIPs.”

The Captain gave a small nod in approval. Before he could say more, his radio crackled briefly. The distorted voice of the masked officer came through. “Captain, there is a commotion among players in the hallway close to the restrooms.”

Your attention snapped to the conversation immediately. You straightened instinctively, your heartbeat picking up speed. The Captain gave no visible reaction, his body language calm and composed as he lifted the radio closer to his masked face. “Report.”

“Several O players started a fight against the X players,” the masked officer reported. “Some of them were player 124, 100, 388, 333, and 222.”

Your eyes widened beneath your mask, your breath catching in your throat. Player 222… Jun-hee. The image of her flashed in your mind. Her small, trembling form, her hands protectively cradling her pregnant belly. Fear surged through you. What is happening? Why is she involved?

The masked officer continued, “Do we intervene, captain? Further losses of players would ruin the next game.”

The Captain said nothing at first, the silence hanging heavy in the room. Then, he turned his masked face directly toward you. The weight of his gaze pinned you in place. Even though you couldn’t see his eyes, you felt as though he was peering straight into your thoughts. You stared back at him, your heart thudding loudly in your ears. You didn’t need him to say it. You already knew what he was about to ask.

“007,” the Captain finally said. “Go.”

You bowed your head respectfully. You spun on your heel and left the room in a calm demeanor. But as soon as you were out of sight, you quickened your pace, practically jogging as you navigated the labyrinth of colorful staircases.

Your heart pounded fiercely against your ribs, every beat a reminder of the urgency of the situation. The bright, almost whimsical colors of the walls felt jarring, out of place against the heavy dread settling over you. Jun-hee… what were they doing to her? Was she hurt? Was she safe? The thought of her, vulnerable and frightened, made your stomach churn. She didn’t deserve this.

As you descended another flight of stairs, two triangle guards appeared from a side corridor. They immediately fell into step behind you. You glanced over your shoulder briefly, your pulse spiking until you recognized the marks on their uniforms.

It was 011 and Gyeong-seok; the latter still disguised as soldiers. It seemed they had caught wind of the commotion. Their familiar presence sent a small wave of relief washing over you, though your anxiety remained. They flanked you without a word. The three of you moved as one, your pace quickening as you closed in on the hallway near the restrooms.

“This way,” 011 said softly, her voice barely audible beneath the hum of the facility. You were grateful for her guidance and you followed. Your focus was razor-sharp now. Whatever was happening, you had to get there. You had to protect Jun-hee and your friends. In this place, survival wasn’t just about making it through the games. It also meant defending yourself against players who had no qualms about killing one another.

The three of you arrived at the source of the commotion, the sound of shouting and scuffling growing louder with each step. The moment your gaze landed on the scene, you froze, your breath catching in your throat. Behind your square mask, your eyes widened in horror.

Player 124, the late Thanos’ friend, was towering over player 333, his fists flying with relentless fury. Each punch landed with a sickening thud, and player 333, sprawled on the floor, tried desperately to shield himself, his arms raised defensively. He couldn’t get up; the assault was unrelenting, leaving him completely at the mercy of his attacker.

Nearby, two more O players were savagely kicking another figure who was curled into a tight fetal position. His arms were wrapped protectively around his head, his knees pulled to his chest. You could clearly see his entire form trembling as if in extreme fear. From your vantage point, you couldn’t see who it was, but the viciousness of the attack made your stomach churn.

Then your eyes darted to Jun-hee, who was on the floor a few feet away. She was crawling, her trembling hands stretched out toward the man being kicked, as though trying to shield him despite her own fear and condition. Before she could reach him, one of the O players broke away from the group and stormed toward her, his face contorted with rage.

“You bitch!” he roared, his voice echoing off the walls. “You should’ve been dead! You should’ve been eliminated, and because of you, that round restarted and all my friends are gone!”

He must be referring to the Open, Dongdaemun game, when Jun-hee, the mother, and three other players were caught in the area of elimination and you restarted the round.

Jun-hee’s flushed face turned upward, tears streaking down her cheeks as she cradled her belly protectively. She froze, wide-eyed, as the man raised his fist, ready to strike.

But then something tugged at his ankle. The man staggered slightly, his focus snapping downward. There, on the floor, was Dae-ho. Blood dripped from his battered face, his nose swollen and bleeding, but his eyes burned with determination. Despite his injuries, despite the beating he’d already endured, he clung to the man’s ankle with all the strength he had left.

“Get away from her!” bellowed Dae-ho, his voice hoarse but unwavering.

The O player sneered, kicking at Dae-ho’s hand to free himself. Then another voice joined in, “You should’ve just stayed down!”

It was player 226. He stood beside player 100, who watched the chaos unfold with greedy and sickening enthusiasm. They were encouraging the Os to continue as they were content to let the others do their dirty work.

Player 226, his sneer widening, stepped forward and raised his leg, ready to drive his shoes into Dae-ho’s already bloodied face. However, you’d had enough.

Reaching for your revolver, you unlatched the safety in one smooth motion. Raising it to the ceiling, you fired a single shot. The deafening crack echoed through the hallway, silencing the chaos in an instant. Every head turned toward you, their expressions a mix of shock and fear as they registered the weapon in your hand.

“That’s enough,” you said, your voice distorted behind the mask but still commanding. The air around you seemed to shift as you stared down the O players who you knew for sure had started this bloody fist fight. 011 and Gyeong-seok were behind you, holding their MP5s at ready. For the first time, you felt... powerful.

Player 124 and the Os who had been beating and kicking player 333 and Dae-ho backed away immediately, retreating toward the wall. Player 333 and Dae-ho, battered and bruised, struggled to their feet. Blood smeared their faces, hands, and uniforms as they limped to stand protectively in front of Jun-hee, who was still trembling near the opposite wall. Her hands were tightly cradling her belly, tears streaking her flushed face.

“Hey!” player 100’s voice rang out, filled with indignation. He jabbed a finger in your direction, his fury evident in the way his eyes widened like saucers unevenly. “Why are you interrupting us?! Aren’t you supposed to just stand aside and let us be?! Why are you stopping us now, of all times?!”

For a moment, the hallway fell silent except for the heavy breathing of the injured players. All eyes were on you, waiting for your response. You felt the weight of their stares. Behind your square mask, your mind raced to formulate an answer that would justify your interference while maintaining the facade of authority.

You stood still for a moment, your thoughts racing behind the mask. You knew that the players weren’t the only ones watching you. Somewhere, the guards in the control room were likely observing through the CCTV too. You had to justify yourself to everyone.

Then again, the Captain had told you to “go”. That must have been a green light to intervene, right? You gripped the revolver in your hand tightly, resolving to follow through with his unspoken directive.

“Unnecessary fights will no longer be tolerated,” you stated, your voice calm but firm. “The total number of players is already critically low for the next game. Any further disruptions will jeopardize the next game to run smoothly.”

“Tolerated?” player 100’s voice rang out, laced with mockery and anger. He stepped forward slightly in defiance. “Since when do you care about what’s tolerated? You guards didn’t care when people were dying during lights out, did you? What changed now?”

011 raised her MP5 slightly, the weapon’s barrel glinting under the harsh lights of the hallway. Her voice cut through the rising tension, calm yet carrying an unmistakable edge. “Listen to the order, 100.”

“Order?” player 100’s voice rose, echoing through the hallway. “Give me a break! You didn’t care about ‘order’ when people were dying left and right during lights out. What’s so different now? Is it because there is a pregnant woman here?”

“The difference is,” you said, still calm, “your fist fight jeopardizes the next game. Further disruptions won’t be tolerated.”

“Jeopardizes the games?” he spat, stepping forward slightly. “What, because one player’s pregnant? Is that it? Are we supposed to pretend like there’s no special treatment here? Because it sure looks like there is.”

Your grip on the revolver tightened slightly, but your tone remained controlled. “The rules apply to everyone equally. Any player, pregnant or not, who participates in the games is subject to the same conditions. Your actions, however, directly endanger the balance of the competition.”

“Don’t make me laugh!” player 100 shouted, gesturing wildly. “We’re all fighting to survive, and now you expect us to play fair? Give me a break. You think you can scare me? You think that gun in your hand gives you power over us?”

Your patience, already stretched thin, finally snapped. Without a word, you strode forward, your shoes striking the floor with deliberate force. The revolver in your right hand glinted faintly. Player 100 faltered, his bluster evaporating as you closed the distance between you and him.

When you were mere inches away, you stopped, your masked face level with his. The air between you crackled with tension, and the other players shrank back, their eyes wide as they watched the confrontation unfold.

“Do you have a problem listening to orders, 100?” you asked, your voice low and cutting. The question hung in the air like a blade.

Player 100 stumbled back a step, his bravado completely gone. His gaze darted to the revolver in your hand, then back to your mask. For a moment, he looked like he might try to retort, but the words never came. Instead, he glared you up and down and muttered something under his breath.

He then turned around and stormed off. Player 226 shot you a stinky side-eye before following player 100. The rest of the O players trailed behind, with player 124 flicking off player 333 as he left.

Once the O players disappeared down the hallway, you turned your attention to player 333, Dae-ho, and Jun-hee. The two men immediately checked on Jun-hee, their concern evident.

“You okay?” Dae-ho asked gently.

Jun-hee nodded but then looked at him with worry. “But you… you're bleeding.”

Dae-ho quickly shook his head, forcing a grin. “I’m fine. This is nothing.”

“Like I said,” player 333 spoke up, his voice firm but calm, “we can’t let you go to the bathroom alone. It’s better to have two men with you at all times. Everyone now knows you’re pregnant.”

“But, Myung-gi…” Jun-hee’s voice softened as she turned her gaze to him. “You’re hurt too.”

So his name is Myung-gi, you thought, filing the information away.

Myung-gi straightened his lips and gave her a small nod, his tone reassuring. “I’m fine. Let’s go back.”

The three of them turned toward you and the other triangle guards, preparing to leave. As they began to walk past you, Jun-hee suddenly winced, her steps faltering slightly as her hand swiftly moved to her belly.

Your hand shot up instinctively, steadying her by placing it lightly on her shoulder. Jun-hee froze momentarily but avoided meeting your gaze, murmuring softly, “Thanks…”

You urged her calmly as your hand subconsciously brushed gently over the top of her head, smoothing her hair back toward her neck, “Go.”

Jun-hee’s reaction was immediate. Her wide eyes snapped to your masked face, her expression filled with surprise, almost disbelief. Her stare lingered, and for a moment, you felt a flicker of confusion. Why was she looking at you like that?

“Jun-hee,” Myung-gi called. “Let’s go.”

Jun-hee hesitated for a moment longer, her gaze lingering on you as though searching for something. But eventually, she turned and followed Dae-ho and Myung-gi. You stood still, watching as they moved further down the hallway, her steps slow and careful. Even as they walked away, Jun-hee’s gaze flickered back to you briefly, again and again.

You and the two triangle guards – 011 and Gyeong-seok – remained where you were until the trio disappeared from view. The silence in the hallway felt heavy, but none of you spoke. Instead, you exchanged quiet glances, a mutual understanding passing between the three of you. There was no room for discussion here. You all knew you were being watched. Somewhere in the labyrinth of colorful corridors, CCTVs were likely trained on you. And through those cameras, the masked officer and the Captain were likely observing every move.

Without a word, the three of you began to walk back the way you came. After a few minutes, 011 and Gyeong-seok peeled off from you in different direction. You didn’t look back as you continued alone.

***

The next thing you knew, two hours had passed. Time seemed to blur as you followed the Captain wherever he went. Manager 009 was always beside you, the two of you sticking close to the boss like shadows.

During this time, the Front Man went from room to room. He gave commands and checked on tasks to make sure everything in this twisted operation was running smoothly. He never raised his voice, but the way he spoke made it clear he expected perfection. Manager 009 got most of the work, being handed one task after another. Each one seemed complicated and time-consuming, but 009 handled them all quickly and without hesitation.

And you? Over those two hours, you only got three tasks. Each one was so simple it almost felt like a joke. You stood guard at a door for five minutes, delivered a report to a nearby circle guard, and checked a number on a screen. None of it took much effort. You finished each task easily, but the simplicity of it all left you confused.

Why was the Front Man treating you differently? Was it because 009 had already proven how capable they were, while you hadn’t yet? Or was there something else going on? The thought kept nagging at you, even as you tried to focus on blending in. You couldn’t decide if you should feel relieved that your tasks were so easy or offended that you weren’t trusted with more responsibility.

It reminded you back when you were tending to your part-time job. Even here, you were still worrying about how you looked in the eyes of your “boss.” Old habits, it seemed, were hard to break.

However, thirty minutes into this, the three of you were ascending towards the control room when the Front Man suddenly halted in his tracks. The abrupt pause in the all-purple hallway made you and 009 stop as well. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, as the Captain slowly turned around to face you directly.

“007,” he said in his deep, distorted voice. “Head to the control room and take the elevator. It will lead you straight to the host's room above. It requires inspection. Check the lighting, furniture placement, and any potential issues. Check every room. Make a mental note of anything that needs attention, and inform the workers to handle it later.”

You blinked behind your mask, caught off guard by the sudden request. Now this was a difficult one. The host’s room? You had never been there but you didn't want to question him for fear of endangering your disguise and even show him that you were incompetent. So you kept your thoughts to yourself, lowering your head.

“Understood, Captain,” you replied.

The Captain stared at you for a moment longer before he turned to manager 009. “Continue with me to the next game's location. Ensure all workers are ready for tomorrow.”

“Yes, Captain,” 009 responded. Then, the two of them went back the way they came from down the hallway. You watched them for a second before turning toward the path that led to the control room.

You walked into the control room and saw managers sitting at their monitors, focused on their screens. You glanced around and noticed an elevator tucked beside the door you had just walked through.

Stepping up to it, you noticed the panel beside the door had only one button – an ‘up’ arrow. You pressed it. The doors slid open right away, revealing an elevator so bright unlike any other setting in this place. The inside was decorated in black and gold, looking fancy and elegant. The walls shimmered under soft lighting, and the floor was polished like a mirror. It felt too luxurious for this facility.

You stepped inside, glancing around quickly. There was only one floor option. You pressed the button, and the doors closed with a quiet hiss. The elevator moved up smoothly and seconds later, a small chime sounded and the doors slid open again.

The sight before you was stunning. The entire area was decorated in black and gold, making it feel grand and important. Directly outside the elevator was a long hallway with black doors on either side. At the end of the hallway, the space opened into a massive living room.

The living room looked like something out of a magazine. A huge television screen covered one wall, reflecting the soft glow of a fancy chandelier hanging above. Beneath it sat a single-seater sofa, placed right in front of the television. A small nightstand stood beside it. Other furniture was placed around the room – a table, a low cupboard with a diorama on top of it. The furniture and decorations were neatly arranged, making the living room look simple yet elegant, with the black and gold colors giving it a fancy and important feel.

You hesitated at the doorway, staring at the overwhelming luxury before you. Everything about it felt strange. You had seen wealth before, but this was different. It wasn’t just expensive. It was personal, like stepping into someone’s private space. Not only that. It felt like someone was watching you, even though you were completely alone.

The sound of the elevator doors beginning to close startled you into action. Without thinking, you quickly stepped forward into the hallway, the doors shutting behind you with a quiet finality.

Walking past the hallways and into the living room, you moved cautiously, inspecting the space. The sofa was perfectly neat, the cushions untouched. The nightstand held nothing above it. Then, the diorama caught your eye. It was a detailed miniature version of what seemed like a group of men playing musical instruments with a lady as a singer. Looking around, you realized there was another cupboard with a wired telephone.

Everything looked pristine, with no obvious technical issues in sight. Still, you wanted to inspect as much as possible per the Captain’s order.

In a way, you felt a small sense of satisfaction. Unlike the simple tasks he had given you before, this one required more effort. It almost felt like a test. It’s as if he was finally trusting you with something more significant. Not only that, but he had allowed you to enter this exclusive, luxurious space. Perhaps, through this task, you could learn more about this place and the way it operated.

You started by thoroughly examining the living room. You checked the lighting and other electronic systems. The television was in perfect condition, and the diorama sat undisturbed. The shelves were dust-free, and every piece of furniture was arranged with precision. It was as if no one had ever disturbed the space.

Satisfied with the state of the living room, you walked back into the hallway. Your gaze landed on the series of black doors lining the corridor.

You hesitated for a moment, debating whether to proceed further. Then, you remembered the Captain’s instructions – Check every room. That was as clear a green light as any.

You stepped up to the first door and pushed it open. The room inside matched the rest of the place, following the same black and gold aesthetic. It appeared to be a study with an expansive wooden desk in the center and several bookshelves lining the walls. Everything was arranged neatly with no signs of disarray. You checked the lighting, the air circulation, and the furniture’s condition before moving on.

The second room was a bathroom, designed with the same black and gold aesthetic. A large, polished black marble sink stretched along one side with gold-trimmed mirrors above it. The walk-in shower featured sleek glass doors and golden fixtures and a luxurious bathtub sat in the corner. It looked so deep and inviting. Like the study, this room was also flawless.

The third room contained what seemed to be a small, private meeting area. A circular table sat in the center, surrounded by four chairs. The walls were adorned with subtle gold accents, and a sleek control panel rested on the far side of the room. Like the others, this space was pristine with no indication of recent use.

Then, as you moved to the next door, you found yourself stepping into... a dressing room? Across from the door stood a mannequin dressed in a sleek black suit, its head adorned with a golden mask resembling an animal. Positioned on a raised platform, it gave the impression of something highly significant. Heavy black curtains flanked the display, adding to the dramatic presentation. To your left, a dressing table with a large mirror reflected the dim lighting of the room.

You glanced around and noticed a door, partially hidden behind the curtain. Curiosity tugged at you as you stepped closer and pushed it open. The moment you crossed the threshold, you stopped short. The lighting in this room was noticeably dimmer. It took you a moment to fully process what you were seeing. 

A bedroom.

A wide single bed was covered in black sheets, one pillow neatly propped against the headboard. A wardrobe stood to one side. A nightstand rested beside the bed. On the opposite side, a study desk held a large PC monitor. Several books were arranged precisely on both sides of the desk, accompanied by a lamp, a box of tissues, and a set of writing utensils. The air carried a distinct scent – leather, or perhaps a trace of cologne. In this room, the scent and presence of the Front Man lingered unmistakably.

On the other side of the nightstand was a solid black door. Before stepping through, you decided to check the bedroom thoroughly. You scanned the furniture, electronics, and every small detail, making sure everything looked normal.

Once satisfied, you finally approached the door and opened it. What lay beyond surprised you. A narrow brick hallway stretched to the right, dimly lit by a single flickering bulb. At the end of the hall, a staircase led downward toward another door.

Glancing over your shoulder, you checked for anyone nearby. You felt like you were sneaking around, but technically, you weren’t. The Captain had told you to check every room, and this was no exception, even if it seemed strangely hidden. Like no one was supposed to access it except the boss himself.

Taking a deep breath, you descended the stairs slowly. When you reached the bottom, you hesitated before pushing the door open. The room was completely dark. Your hand searched along the wall until you found a switch. With a quick flick, the lights came on, casting a yellowish glow over the space.

The walls, like the hallway, were entirely made of brick. Rows of shelves lined every side of the room, filled with neatly stacked files, books, and documents. One wall was blocked by a shelf of drawers, each labeled, though the text was too small to read from where you stood.

Careful not to disturb anything, you walked further inside, scanning the shelves and the layout. Everything was perfectly arranged, untouched, as if no one had been here in a long time.

Once you were sure nothing was out of place, you turned back toward the door, ready to leave. But just as you moved, something unusual caught your eye. Sitting on a shelf close to the door was a small black box wrapped in a neatly tied hot pink ribbon. Unlike everything else in the room, this object looked so out of place, so different than other documents here.

You wondered why this box seemed so different from the other documents in the room. Curiosity sparked, you moved toward it and carefully grabbed the box.

Lifting the lid, you found a single framed sheet of paper inside. The heading at the top read, “Round 6.” Below, two neatly organized tables filled the page, and in an instant, you understood what it was. This was a record of winners from this game, dating all the way back to 1988.

Your mind immediately flashed to Young-il. He had told you he was the previous winner of this game in 2015. His name had to be here. Maybe seeing it would bring you some comfort, even if only a little.

You quickly scanned the list, searching for the year 2015. Your eyes landed on the correct row, and you followed it across to the winner’s name.

Except… it wasn’t his name.

“Hwang In-ho?” you murmured, confusion washing over you. That wasn’t Young-il. No. It was supposed to be Oh Young-il.

Your grip on the frame tightened as your mind raced. Who was Hwang In-ho? And why wasn’t Young-il listed as the winner of the game he claimed to have survived?

Wait. You lifted your gaze from the framed paper and stared into space, a sudden coldness running down your spine. Was he lying to you? Was he never a previous winner? But he knew so much about the game.

A thought struck you. Your eyes darted to the shelves filled with records. There had to be complete participant records somewhere in this room. Setting aside the box and framed paper, you rushed toward the rows of meticulously arranged files, scanning them carefully.

Each file was labeled neatly along the spine. After a quick search, your fingers stopped on a section titled “List of Players.” Your heart pounded as you searched for the year 2015. It was easy enough to find since the files were organized chronologically.

You pulled out a thick folder labeled “List of Players 1, 2015” and flipped it open. Page after page detailed the participants, but you quickly realized you had forgotten Hwang In-ho's player number.

Rushing back to the framed paper, your eyes locked onto the number next to his name. 132.

You hurried back to the file, flipping through pages as you repeated the number under your breath. Your fingers trembled as you searched frantically.

Finally, you found it. Player 132.

Your breath hitched as your gaze landed on the ID player photo attached to the upper left corner of the page. Your eyes widened in shock.

It was Young-il. A much younger version, his face softer, carrying a faint, hopeful smile. But then your gaze drifted to the name printed beside it.

Hwang In-ho.

Your pulse pounded in your ears. But… wasn’t his name supposed to be Oh Young-il?

The loud, jarring noise of the door swinging open sent a violent jolt through your body. Your breath caught in your throat as your heart slammed against your ribcage. You had been so completely absorbed in the record that the sudden intrusion felt like a gunshot in the silence.

Your head snapped toward the entrance, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights behind your mask. There, striding purposefully into the room, was the Front Man.

His masked face turned directly toward you, his entire posture exuding an imposing authority. The door shut behind him with an ominous finality, locking you inside with him. The weight of his presence sent a wave of overwhelming fear crashing over you.

You had been caught.

Your hands trembled as you slowly straightened up, the weight of the file slipping from your grasp. It hit the floor with a loud, unceremonious thud.

The Front Man took a step toward you.

Instinct took over. You took a step back.

Another step forward. Another step back. He was closing in, his slow, deliberate pace like a predator closing in on its prey. The fear gripping your chest made your breaths shallow, quick, and sounded deeper and distorted behind the square mask you're wearing. You kept moving backward until your spine met the cold, unyielding brick wall. Your breath hitched.

He did not stop.

His approach remained unhurried, measured, yet filled with intent. The air around you thickened as if the shelves around you were closing in. You felt suffocated. You pressed yourself against the wall, fingers splaying against the rough brick as if searching for a way to melt into it, to disappear entirely.

Then, in his deep, distorted voice, he finally spoke.

“007,” he said, his tone slow and deliberate. “Did you really think I wouldn’t recognize you?”

A cold chill gripped your heart, squeezing until you thought you might choke on your own fear. He knew.

You swallowed hard but your throat felt dry as sandpaper. Your body refused to move, paralyzed under his scrutiny. Every nerve in your body screamed at you to run but there was nowhere to go. No escape. You were trapped in the narrow space between the shelves and him.

You opened your mouth, but no words came out. Your mind raced, searching for a way to turn this around, to escape, to do something other than just stand there, vulnerable and completely at his mercy.

Your breath came in rapid, shallow pulls as your eyes darted across the dimly lit room, searching for any escape. The shelves boxed you in, towering with records of past games, past players, past victims. There was nowhere to go.

The Front Man were closing in on you, his presence suffocating you.

“You should’ve known you’d lose in this hide and seek game,” he said, his tone eerily calm yet heavy with unspoken threats.

Your fingers twitched at your sides. If you got caught now, what would happen? Would he spare you? 011 had said he would. But at what cost?

Your mind spiraled into terrifying possibilities. If you were spared, would he hand you over to the VIPs? Would you be nothing more than a prize, a twisted plaything for their amusement? The thought sent ice through your veins.

No. You had fought too hard. You had killed to protect yourself, to protect the people you loved, and to protect your body as a woman. You had survived this long and you weren’t about to surrender now. Every fiber of your being screamed at you to move, to fight.

Your breaths turned sharp, loud and unnatural through the mask. The Front Man took another step, his slow, measured pace sending a fresh wave of panic through you.

Then you remembered.

Your pistol.

The standard issue sidearm every square guard carried rested in the pocket of your jumpsuit’s bottom. Your grip tightened.

You braced yourself. The Front Man was getting closer, his figure looming over you, casting an inescapable shadow.

“You’ve been running long enough among these trashes,” he said, voice thick with certainty, with finality.

That was your moment.

You lunged for your pistol, fingers wrapping around the grip, yanking it free as you unlatched the safety in one swift motion. The cold weight of the gun grounded you. Without hesitation, you lifted it and fired.

But the Front Man moved with inhuman speed, ducking just before the bullet could meet its mark. His arm shot out to the side. You had no time to register what he was doing. Instinct took over, and you fired again.

Your shot met resistance, but not flesh. He had grabbed a thick file from a nearby shelf and raised it as a shield. The bullet struck the stack of papers, piercing but not stopping him.

Then he charged.

Like a predator finally closing in, his movements were terrifyingly fast, like a beast that had played with its prey long enough. He lunged forward, his dark form swallowing the space between you in an instant.

Your pulse spiked, adrenaline crashing through you. The walls of records blurred as your only thought became survival.

You had to move fast.

However, he caught you first. His gloved hand clamped around your wrist, twisting it just enough to force the revolver from your grasp. The weapon clattered to the floor. You gasped, breath hitching at the sudden loss of control – and at something else. His movement was eerily familiar.

Before you could dwell on it, he shoved you back. Your head was about to strike the brick wall and you instinctively shut your eyes tight. But instead of harsh impact, you felt a firm yet controlled buffer. His other hand had moved to cradle the back of your head, protecting your head against the wall with his gloved palm.

Your pupils dilated as the realization sank in, but there was no time to process. The Front Man was right there, his geometrical mask so close to yours that you could feel the heat of his breath through the distorted air of your own mask. His other hand wrapped around your throat. Not tight enough to choke, but enough to remind you that you were completely at his mercy.

Your legs were tangled. One of yours had slipped between his, and one of his was between yours, locking you both into place. The space between your bodies had nearly vanished, and the sound of rapid breathing filled the archive room. It belonged to yours and his, mingling together in the stillness.

A charged silence stretched between you. The tension was suffocating. Your chest rose and fell against his as adrenaline within you remained.

“You have allies,” his deep voice rumbled, low and unwavering, “among my guards.”

Before you could react, his gloved fingers slipped from your neck to the edge of your jumpsuit’s hoodie. A chilling realization gripped you. He was about to pull it down. To take off your mask. To expose you.

No.

Clenching your teeth behind the mask, you scrambled for a plan, for anything to break free. And then you felt it. His thigh, firm and brushing against yours.

With a sharp inhale, you moved. You slammed your knee against his, knocking his leg away, creating just enough space between your tangled bodies. Without hesitation, you raised your foot and kicked him squarely in the abdomen.

A grunt escaped him as he staggered back. You took the brief moment of respite to move. You turned sharply, gripping the nearest shelf, and with a raw, breathless yell, you shoved every file within reach off the shelves.

Papers and heavy binders cascaded toward him, crashing against his body, momentarily throwing him off guard. You didn’t wait to see how he recovered.

Heart pounding, you lunged past him, sprinting toward the door. Your fingers gripped the handle, yanking it open as you bolted up the stairs. Just as you reached the top, a heavy set of footsteps thundered behind you, fast and relentless, closing the distance far too quickly.

You didn’t dare to look behind you. Bursting through the door, you sprinted into the bedroom, but before you could make it halfway across the room, a force yanked your jumpsuit from behind. Your momentum was ripped away in an instant, fabric tearing as you were violently pulled backward and shoved onto the bed.

You landed sideways on the bed with a deep, distorted yelp behind your mask. Panic surged through you and you immediately scrambled to push yourself up but something heavy pressed down against you, shoving you back onto the mattress.

The Front Man.

He loomed over you, his weight pressing into you, keeping you pinned. You thrashed, twisting and bucking wildly beneath him, muffled grunts of struggle escaping your lips. His grip found your wrists and forced them down against the sheets.

Your legs were your last weapon. You kicked out violently, aiming for anything. His stomach, his ribs, even his groin. But he was faster as if he had anticipated your moves. In one swift motion, he maneuvered between your flailing limbs, pressing his legs firmly between yours to keep you restrained.

Even as he overpowered you, you refused to submit. You twisted, arched, struggled with everything you had, but he was stronger – far stronger. Unlike other men who had tried to take advantage of you, he wasn’t sloppy, he wasn’t careless. He was calculated and precise.

He held you there, unmoving like a boulder above you, as you thrashed beneath him. You fought with every last ounce of strength in your body but he didn’t budge. His sheer force pinned you down, absorbing each desperate attempt to break free.

Your breath came in sharp gasps, muscles screaming in exhaustion. Soon, your struggles slowed, jerky and uncoordinated, until they faded into mere trembling beneath his weight. Every attempt at escape had drained you, leaving your limbs weak and sluggish.

The only sounds in the room were your ragged breaths mixing with his heavy ones. Your chest rose and fell erratically, each inhale loud and desperate. His grip on your wrists didn’t waver. You glared up at the geometrical mask hovering inches above your face.

You felt the heat radiating between your bodies and the closeness. He remained still. The weight of his presence pressed into you, making your exhaustion feel even more overwhelming.

Your heart pounded wildly against your ribs, the realization settling in. You were trapped completely. He finally caught you.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. But in that heavy silence, an unspoken intensity hung between you.

He moved your wrists above your head, securing them in a firm grip with just his right hand. Your weakened struggle did nothing to deter him. His free hand reached for your hoodie, and this time, you didn’t resist. Your chest still heaved from exhaustion, breath escaping in rapid, uneven pulls as he pushed the fabric back.

Once your hoodie was down, his fingers slid to the back of your mask. With practiced ease, he unclasped it and pulled it away from your face. The mask left your skin, and he tossed it aside, letting it clatter somewhere in the distance.

Cool air kissed your damp skin, a stark contrast to the suffocating heat that had built beneath the jumpsuit. Sweat glistened along your face and neck, strands of hair clinging stubbornly to your skin. The sudden exposure made you hyper-aware of how raw and open you felt, your breath finally unfiltered, free in the space between you.

You glared up at him, your eyes burning with defiance despite your exhaustion. But he only stared. His mask tilted so slightly as if studying you. At this moment, his silence felt even more suffocating than any words he could have spoken.

Then, to your shock, he moved his left hand to the side of your face. His gloved fingers brushed against your damp skin as he gently tucked a few strands of hair behind your ear. Your breath caught in your throat. This action – so soft, so familiar – sent a jolt through you. Only one person had ever done this before. But why was he doing it?

Slowly, he withdrew his hand and moved it to his own hoodie. Your glare faltered when he pulled it down out of the blue. You could hardly believe it when he reached for the clasp at the back of his mask, unfastening it with ease. Your breath hitched, heart hammering against your ribs, as he slowly lifted it away.

And then, you saw him.

Your entire body locked in place, your breath caught in your throat. The world around you shrank, all sense of logic dissolving as your mind struggled to grasp what you were seeing.

It was him.

Young-il.

The man you thought had died. The man who had protected you, shielded you, fought alongside you. The man you had—

Your chest tightened, an overwhelming rush of emotions surging through you all at once. Relief, disbelief, betrayal, longing. The edges of your vision blurred and all you could do was stare, wide-eyed.

He looked just the same, but his hair was now slicked back neatly with oil, giving him an air of maturity and refinement that made him seem almost like a different man.

Your entire body trembled, overwhelmed with a torrent of emotions too vast to contain. It's like every emotion crashed into you all at once, leaving you breathless. You had mourned Young-il. You had thought he was gone forever, lost in the bloodshed of the uprising. Yet here he was, standing before you, alive. Breathing. Real.

But with that relief came something heavier, something darker.

Your chest tightened as realization set in. He had been behind that mask all along, watching, orchestrating, controlling the very nightmare you had been trying to survive. The games, the deaths, the suffering. Had all of it been at his command? Your mind raced, replaying every interaction you had with him back then, every moment of trust, every fleeting instance where you had allowed yourself to care. Had it all been a lie?

Was he ever truly one of us?

Your throat felt dry, your breath uneven. Why had he disguised himself as a player? Was it all some kind of elaborate test? A way to manipulate those around him? Or had there been something else – something deeper? Had he once been a victim of this place, just as you were? Or had he been in control from the very beginning?

Young-il stayed still above you, staring at you, his expression raw. The subtle tremble in his face betrayed the inner turmoil he tried so desperately to contain. His lips parted slightly as if he wanted to speak, to offer some kind of explanation, but no words came.

The silence stretched between you, thick with tension, with questions left unspoken, with truths too painful to acknowledge.

His eyes, always so guarded, flickered with something you couldn’t quite decipher. Regret? Pain? Guilt? You don’t know anymore.

Your breathing was still uneven, chest rising and falling with the weight of everything crashing down at once.

“You…” Your voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “You were behind it all?”

His expression faltered, the conflict within him breaking through for just a moment before he steadied himself. But you had seen it. The hesitation, the uncertainty, the battle he was fighting within himself.

And it terrified you.

Because despite everything, despite the betrayal, despite the horror of what he had done… He still looked like the man you had fallen for.

He leaned down, his face inching closer to yours. You realized in that moment that you hadn’t moved at all. His grip on your wrists was weak yet you remained still, your body slack. The moment you saw his face, it was as if Young-il had turned off your resistance. After all, before all of this, he was the one who made you feel safe.

His warm breath mingled with yours. His eyes flickered between yours and your lips, searching, waiting. Your chest rose and fell with each shallow breath, your mind racing. Should you resist? Should you let him?

The tension between you both thickened as he halted just an inch away. He hesitated, waiting for the slightest sign of resistance from you. When none came, he finally moved. Tilting his head slightly, he closed his eyes and pressed his lips against yours. You kept your eyes open, staring ahead, seeing his face so close to you. His lips were firm, yet soft, pressing against yours with calm restraint.

You should resist. He orchestrated this entire operation. He had bloods on his hands. He betrayed you.

Yet, memories flooded your mind. The way he had taken care of you, how he protected you time and time again. How he shielded you from danger, ensured you were safe, treated you like someone precious. Was it real? Or had it all been part of a larger deception?

But you wanted to believe. Wanted to believe that when he said you were his purpose, when he told you that you were worth protecting, that he wanted to take care of you more than as friends – you wanted to believe it was all real.

You were lost in the trance of the moment until he deepened the kiss, his lips pressing more insistently against yours. You could feel it. He could barely restrain himself the longer he kissed you. A quiet sound escaped you as he pulled you further into it. And you found yourself liking it. Your lips parted shyly and he took the invitation, his tongue delving into your mouth with increasing hunger.

His grip on your wrists disappeared, his hands moving to unzip your jumpsuit instead. Yet, you kept your hands where they were, fingers brushing against the sheets above your head, as your eyes fluttered closed, surrendering to the moment and to him.

NEXT : Chapter 17.1

PREV : Chapter 15

Story Masterlist

Please feel free to leave comments and feedback about my story, the characters, the "you", and practically anything! I love reading your comments, especially long ones! It motivates me a lot! What do you think about you guarding the Front Man and you remembered a flashback when 011 told you that you might be spared because of the VIPs? Do you think that's the case? And what about the brawl between Myung-gi, Dae-ho (while protecting Jun-hee) against Nam-gyu (124) and the O players? Do you think scene like this will appear in Season 3? Also I want to know your thoughts on you finally confronted player 100 in that scene. And why did Jun-hee kept glancing at you afterward? Next, why do you think the Front Man suddenly gave you the task to inspect the host's room? And now, the moment you all have been waiting for. What do you think about the Front Man confronting you in the archive room? Then you two had a brief scuffle - and he did not even try to harm you - and then you were pinned to his bed. What do you think about the scene of you two on his bed, finally seeing one another's face? Do you like this direction I take to reveal his face? I've been thinking a lot about this moment and could finally write this down. What do you think about the kiss?

Besides that, I want to know. How many of you are underage? You might want to avoid the next chapter. Now I wonder how to separate the NSFW scene from the next chapter so underage readers couldn't read it.

Leave a comment on the masterlist post to be added to the taglist.

[kittenan2]

Diamond Necklace

Pairing: Jung Hoseok (J-Hope) x Reader Genre: Romance, Smut, Idol AU, Fanfiction Rating: Explicit (18+), contains mature themes, sexual content, and strong language Warnings: Explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, possessive behavior, light dom/sub dynamics, mentions of alcohol, obsessive thoughts, and public teasing. Proceed with caution. Summary: A flirty dance cover of BTS’s Dynamite with a cheeky “diamond necklace” innuendo blows up, catching the eye of J-Hope himself. What starts as spicy DMs with a mysterious stranger spirals into a steamy, obsessive night in Seoul that leaves you marked—literally and figuratively. Word Count: ~3.5k

The bass of Sweet Dreams pulsed through your cramped apartment, your phone balanced on a precarious stack of novels. You’d spent weeks perfecting this dance cover—every hip pop, every smirk, every flick of your wrist dialed to precision. Your cropped hoodie rode up with each sway, flashing a glimpse of skin, while your leggings hugged every curve. As the final note hit, you struck a pose: lip bitten, eyes smoldering, a playful wink thrown at the camera.

You collapsed onto the couch, breathless, and grabbed your phone for the outro. “Alright, Army, I’m wrecked,” you laughed, sweeping damp bangs from your face. “But real talk? I’d sell my soul for a diamond necklace from J-Hope. Too much to ask?” Your smirk lingered, the innuendo dripping for the fans who’d get it. You hit post without a second thought.

The “diamond necklace” line was a nod to Army Twitter’s filthier corners, where fans traded sly jokes about Hoseok’s charm. J-Hope was your bias—his radiant energy, fluid dance moves, and that killer smirk were your undoing. You didn’t expect the reel to do more than your usual few thousand likes.

By morning, it was at two million views.

Your notifications were a warzone:

“Y/N, YOU WILD FOR THIS 😭” “DIAMOND NECKLACE? GIRL, I’M DEAD 💀” “Living our Hobi thirst dreams, we stan 😍”

Fan edits poured in—slow-mo clips of your hips rolling to Daydream, your hair flip synced to Ego. Brands slid into your DMs, but so did the weirdos. As a small-time Instagram influencer known for K-pop covers and flirty vlogs, this was your brand: bold, teasing, a little dirty. Just another day.

Until it wasn’t.

In a dimly lit Paris hotel room, Jung Hoseok sprawled across a king-sized bed, phone glowing against the dark. He’d been following you for months on a burner Instagram account—@random7digits, no pic, no trace. Not even his members knew.

It started with a fan edit of you slaying his Chicken Noodle Soup choreo, your sensual precision making his pulse spike. He’d binged your profile: dance covers, thirst traps, Q&As where you answered with a wink. You were magnetic, and he was addicted.

Then came the “diamond necklace” reel.

Hoseok watched it on loop, your sultry moves and that bold line—“a diamond necklace from J-Hope”—hitting like a shot of adrenaline. The innuendo was filthy, and it stirred something possessive. He knew you were teasing the fandom, but it felt personal, like a dare meant for him.

“She’s trouble,” he muttered, smirking. “And I want it.”

His thumb hovered over your DMs. From his burner, he typed:

Careful, princess. Wishing for diamonds like that might get you in trouble.

He hit send, heart racing, already hooked on the game.

You woke to a DM that stopped you cold:

Careful, princess. Wishing for diamonds like that might get you in trouble.

The account was a blank—random numbers, no face. Probably a troll, but the cocky tone sent a thrill down your spine. You bit your lip, typing:

Trouble? My favorite kind. You offering diamonds or just talk?

His reply was instant:

More than diamonds, princess. But you gotta earn ‘em.

Your stomach flipped. This guy had game. Over the next week, the DMs became your fix—each message bolder, hotter, laced with tension. He matched your flirtation with a mix of charm and edge, keeping you glued to your phone.

That dance today… you know what you’re doing. Teasing like that’s gonna get you in deep.

You upped the ante, posting a story for him: a slow-motion Ego cover, your body rolling in a tight tank top, sweat gleaming on your collarbone. Caption: Deep? Only if you can keep up.

His response was a video: no face, just a lean, toned torso in grey sweats, moving to Mic Drop with lethal precision. His abs flexed, hands—long fingers, veins popping—tugging his waistband low, revealing a V-line that made you choke.

Keep up with this, princess.

You rewatched it, thighs pressed together, heat pooling. You sent a photo: you in a lacy bralette, leaning forward to flaunt cleavage, lips parted. Your move, mystery man.

The escalation was relentless. His voice notes(using voice changer)—low, husky—were pure sin. “You keep sending shit like that, I’m gonna lose it,” he growled, the words sinking into you. You fired back a breathy note: “Good. I want you wrecked.”

One night, after a Butter cover where your hips swayed and fingers traced your neck, he snapped:

You’re begging for it, aren’t you? Touching yourself like that, knowing I’m watching.

He wasn’t wrong—you’d been thinking of him, this faceless stranger who had you unraveling. You typed, reckless:

Maybe I am. Gonna do something about it?

His reply was a photo: his hand gripping a whiskey glass, knuckles tense, a silver ring glinting. Keep pushing. I’ll give you everything you’re asking for.

You pushed harder—a shower clip, steam blurring the glass, your silhouette teasing as water slid down your shoulders. Oops. Slipped.

His response was feral: You’re fucking killing me. That body… I’m gonna ruin you.

The game was addictive, each message a spark setting you both on fire. You didn’t know his name, but he was under your skin.

Ten days in, he dropped a bomb:

Meet me. Seoul. This weekend. Lotte Hotel penthouse. No questions, just us. Say yes.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. Meeting a stranger who’d been driving you wild? Insane. But the promise of that penthouse, the mystery, the way his words made you ache—it was too much to resist.

You typed, fingers trembling:

You’re nuts. Rules: safe word, no sketchy shit, and you better be as hot as you sound.

His reply:

Safe word’s ‘sunshine.’ I’ll take care of you, princess. You won’t regret it.

You spent the next days in a frenzy, packing, texting your best friend (“If I die in Seoul, avenge me”), and boarding a flight. The uncertainty only fueled your want.

The Lotte Hotel was a glittering maze of marble and gold. The penthouse was obscene—black marble floors, silk-draped bed, a bottle of champagne chilling in ice. The air was heavy, intoxicating.

You stepped inside, heels clicking. “Hello?” Your voice wavered. No answer. Your pulse raced as you set your bag down, nerves and anticipation colliding.

You poured champagne, the bubbles sharp on your tongue. Then you felt it—a shift in the air, a presence behind you. You turned.

He stood in the shadows, black cap low, fitted shirt clinging to a lean frame, dark jeans slung low. He moved like a predator, all controlled power. Then he lifted his cap.

Jung Hoseok. J-Hope. Your bias.

Your glass almost shattered on the floor.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, legs buckling. “You’re… him.”

He smirked, closing the distance, eyes dark and possessive. “Still want that diamond necklace, princess?” His voice was velvet, laced with sin, sending heat to your core.

You couldn’t speak, brain short-circuiting. Hoseok—Hoseok—was real, devastatingly hot, his gaze promising everything.

“I…” You swallowed. “Yes.”

His smirk deepened, predatory yet soft. “Good girl.”

Hoseok stepped into your space, his cologne—musky, spiced—flooding your senses. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb dragging across your lip with deliberate slowness.

“Been dreaming about you,” he murmured, lips close. “Every night, watching you tease me. You’ve got no idea what you do.”

Your breath hitched, hands gripping his shirt, feeling muscle beneath. His kiss was filthy—tongue sweeping, teeth nipping, all hunger. You moaned, melting into him as he backed you against the wall, the cool surface a shock against your heated skin.

His hands gripped your hips, pressing himself against you. You gasped—he was hard, straining against his jeans.

“Feel that?” he growled, grinding slowly. “All for you.”

He lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the bed. He pinned your wrists, his other hand yanking your dress up to reveal soaked lace panties.

“Fuck,” he breathed, eyes raking over you. “Dripping already.”

He tore the lace, the rip loud. His mouth was on you—hot, relentless, tongue swirling over your clit, then plunging inside. You screamed, hips bucking, but he pinned your thighs, devouring you like a man starved.

“Hoseok—fuck,” you gasped, trembling. His fingers joined, curling deep, hitting your G-spot with precision.

“Taste so good,” he rasped, lips glistening. “Could do this all night.”

He edged you, pulling back as you neared the peak, leaving you whimpering. “Please,” you begged, tears pricking.

“Not yet,” he said, licking his lips. “You cum with me inside.”

He stripped, revealing lean abs, sweat-slick skin. His jeans dropped, and you stared—he was thick, veined, glistening. He climbed over you, kissing you, letting you taste yourself.

“Ready?” he whispered, softer now, checking in.

“Yes,” you breathed, arching into him.

He pushed in, slow and deep, the stretch intense. He paused, forehead against yours, breath ragged. “So tight,” he groaned. “Perfect.”

His thrusts were powerful, each one hitting deep, his hips angled to strike your G-spot. The bed creaked, headboard slamming as he drove into you. His dirty talk was relentless:

“Wanted my cum, didn’t you? Begging for it in front of whole world.” he growled, biting your neck. “Gonna mark you, make you mine.”

His fingers found your clit, rubbing tight circles. You screamed, the edge nearing. He denied you once more, stopping as you trembled, leaving you a sobbing mess.

“Please, Hoseok,” you cried. “Need it.”

“Okay, princess,” he murmured. “Cum for me.”

His thrusts deepened, fingers relentless. Your orgasm crashed, vision whiting out, body convulsing as you screamed his name. He fucked you through it, thrusts erratic, then pulled out, spilling across your chest and neck, marking you in thick, warm ropes.

“Mine,” he whispered, smearing his release across your collarbone, sealing the claim.

Hoseok collapsed beside you, both of you slick with sweat. He pulled you close, lips soft on your forehead, your cheeks.

“You okay?” he murmured, brushing hair from your face.

“Better than okay,” you whispered, dazed.

He smiled—bright, sunny, your heart stuttering. He cleaned you gently with a warm towel, then pulled a velvet box from the nightstand. A diamond necklace—delicate, sparkling—clicked around your neck, his lips brushing the clasp.

“Next time you want something,” he said, low, “you come to me.”

You laughed, still reeling. “Think I just did.”

He grinned, tucking you into his arms. You fell asleep, the necklace a cool weight against your skin.

You woke alone, panic flaring until you saw the note:

Flight to catch. Keep the necklace. Call me when you want more. - H

A Polaroid showed Hoseok, shirtless, smirking, holding a card: Mine.

Your phone buzzed—a text from his official Instagram:

Liked your necklace, baby. Ready for round two?

You grinned, typing: Only if you bring a matching bracelet.

Days later, you filmed a Blood Sweat & Tears cover, the diamond necklace glinting, hickeys blooming across your collarbone. Your hips rolled, fingers tracing the marks, a smirk for the camera.

The reel went viral. Army lost it:

“Y/N, THOSE HICKEYS?? SPILL 😳” “DIAMOND NECKLACE AND LOVE BITES? QUEEN SHIT” “Isn't this J-HOPE coded?? I’M UNWELL”

Twitter exploded with edits—zooms of your marked skin set to Euphoria. Theories flew: “Y/N’s mystery man is an idol, bet it’s Hobi.”

A DM from Hoseok’s official account: a screenshot of a tweet: Y/N’s hickeys + necklace = J-HOPE CLAIMED HER, I’M SCREAMING.

His message:

Showing off my work, princess. Wear those marks like a crown.

You typed back, grinning:

Just giving the people what they want. More next time?

His reply:

Count on it. Bracelet’s ready. So’s round two.

You touched the necklace, the hickeys tingling. The world could guess, but only you knew—and the promise of more burned bright.

A/n: Okay so my 2AM thoughts are getting wild I guess. But seriously all I need is diamond necklace from J-Hope. Is it too much to ask? 🤭

P.S.: My @kittenan account tumblr messaging is not working and also I am unable to comment. So I created a backup account. Please follow and support.

Taglist: @the-djarin-clan . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things . @micdropitlikeitshot . @softhaes . @littlebluhellfire . @niqueesthings . @nocturnalsingularity . @syudoeslove . @namjoonbaby17-blog

[gffa]

The Acolyte | June 4th, 2024 #I AM SO FUCKING READY #LET'S GOOOOOOOOO #LOOK AT THOSE LIGHTSABER FIGHTS #LOOK AT THAT GORGEOUS SCENERY #LOOK AT MANNY JACINTO #AND LEE JUNG-JAE #AND CARRIE-ANN MOSS #AND AMANDLA STENDBERG #AND DAFNE KEEN #THIS CAST IS FUCKING STACKED #AND WE'RE GETTING AN AVALANCHE OF COOL FIGHT SCENES #JUNE CANNOT COME SOON ENOUGH!!!!

[kpoplustzone]

Moving K drama Smut - Go Youn-jung as Jang Hee Soo - Part 1

Get that scholarship

Part 2 on Ko fi - Link

Hui Soo stood nervously in front of Mr. Kim’s desk, her shoulders slumped with worry. The head teacher, Mr. Kim, whom her friends affectionately called “Sam” behind his back, though Hui Soo would never dare, looked up from his stack of college applications with a concerned expression.

“Hui Soo-ah, please, have a seat,” Mr. Kim said gently, gesturing to the chair opposite him. “You seem troubled.”

Hui Soo sat down, her gaze fixed on her hands, which she nervously twisted in her lap. “Mr. Kim, it’s about college… the application fees, the entrance exams… and then, if I even get accepted, the tuition.” Her voice trembled slightly. “My father… he works so hard at the market, but I know it’s a struggle. He wants me to go to a good university, but I can see the worry in his eyes when he talks about the cost.”

Mr. Kim leaned forward, his elbows resting on his desk. “I understand, Hui Soo. College expenses are a significant burden for many families. You’re a bright student with excellent grades. Have you considered applying for financial aid or scholarships?”

Hui Soo nodded quickly. “Yes, sir. I’ve spent hours searching online and filling out applications. But the deadlines are so close, and I don’t know if I’ll qualify for enough. I just… I wanted to ask if there’s anything else? Anything the school offers that I might not know about? Or any advice you might have?” Her voice was filled with a desperate hope. “I really want to ease my father’s burden, Mr. Kim. He’s sacrificed so much for me already.”

Hui Soo leaned forward, her posture betraying none of the worry she had initially felt. Her gaze was steady, almost piercing, as she looked at Mr. Kim. Without a hint of nervousness, she reached across the desk and placed her hand firmly on top of his. Her touch wasn’t soft or hesitant; it was a direct, confident move, and she began to stroke the back of his hand with a slow, deliberate motion, her eyes never leaving his.

“Mr. Kim,” she began, her voice low and even, lacking any tremor of pleading. “I’m not going to pretend I’m not worried about the college fees. My old man works his ass off, but this is a big chunk of change. I need to figure out a way to make this happen, and frankly, you’re the only one in this stuffy school who seems like they might have a clue.” Her fingers continued their slow caress, her gaze intense, almost challenging him to react. The boldness of her touch and the directness of her words hung in the air, a stark contrast to the typical demure student. Mr. Kim was indeed taken aback, not just by her words but by the cool confidence in her eyes and the deliberate intimacy of her touch. This wasn't a fragile girl begging; this was someone who knew what she wanted and wasn't afraid to push for it. The casual stroke of her hand on his, the unwavering intensity of her gaze, it all carried a different kind of weight, a subtle undercurrent that made the usual student-teacher dynamic feel… different.

Mr. Kim, still slightly reeling from Hui Soo’s unexpected boldness, found himself instinctively responding to her touch. His fingers, which had been resting inert on the desk, now subtly shifted, teasingly intertwining with hers. He could feel the softness of her skin against his, the gentle pressure of her strokes sending a surprising warmth through him.

Hui Soo’s lips curved into a slow, sly smile, a knowing look in her eyes that suggested she was fully aware of the effect she was having on him. Her gaze flickered from their entwined hands up to his face, and the confidence she exuded was almost palpable. Mr. Kim, usually so composed and in control in his position of authority, found himself momentarily speechless, his mind racing to catch up with the sudden shift in the dynamic between them.

Her thumb traced the lines on his palm, a deliberate, sensual movement that spoke volumes without a single word. He could see the slight rise and fall of her chest beneath her crisp school uniform, the subtle flush creeping up her neck. It was a level of intimacy that was completely inappropriate for a student-teacher relationship, yet in this moment, in the quiet confines of his office, it felt strangely… compelling.

He cleared his throat, trying to regain some semblance of his usual professional demeanor, but his voice still held a slight tremor. “Hui Soo-ah… this is… unexpected.”

Her smile widened, a hint of mischief now dancing in her eyes. “Is it… Unwelcome, Mr. Kim?” she asked softly, her fingers continuing their teasing exploration of his hand. The question hung in the air, loaded with unspoken possibilities, and Mr. Kim found himself utterly captivated by the bold advance of this seemingly quiet student. The academic worries that had likely brought her here now seemed secondary to the undeniable sexual tension that had suddenly filled the room.

Mr. Kim’s eyes darted quickly towards the closed door of his office, his mind suddenly hyper-aware of the possibility of being seen. He strained his ears, listening for any sounds from the hallway outside, the usual afternoon bustle of the school seemingly muted. A sense of forbidden excitement, mixed with a healthy dose of panic, began to bubble within him.

Meanwhile, Hui Soo, her sly smile widening with each passing second, used her free hand to slowly, deliberately unbutton the top button of her crisp white school shirt. Her movements were languid, almost theatrical, drawing his gaze like a moth to a flame. The fabric parted slightly, revealing the soft curve of her cleavage, the pale skin just visible above the lacy edge of what looked like a delicate bra. The subtle glimpse of skin was enough to send a jolt of pure lust through Mr. Kim.

Her fingers continued to tease his hand, her thumb now tracing slow circles on his palm, her touch feeling both innocent and incredibly provocative at the same time. Her eyes remained locked on his, a silent challenge in their depths, as if daring him to acknowledge the blatant sexual undercurrent that had suddenly taken over their interaction. Mr. Kim found himself completely captivated, his usual authority and composure dissolving under the weight of her unexpected and brazen advance. His heart began to pound in his chest, and his mouth suddenly felt dry. The air in the small office seemed to thicken, charged with an unspoken tension that was both terrifying and incredibly arousing.

Hui Soo slowly rose from her chair, her movements fluid and deliberate, drawing Mr. Kim’s gaze with her. She walked towards his desk, the short distance seeming to amplify the sudden intimacy between them. As she reached him, she leaned forward, lowering her head just enough to give him a deep, unobstructed view down the open collar of her shirt.

The sight was stunning up close. Mr. Kim could see the delicate lace of her bra framing the tops of her full breasts, the soft swell of her cleavage making his breath catch in his throat. He had always thought of Hui Soo as a diligent, quiet student, never noticing the subtle curves of her body beneath her uniform. Up close, her beauty was undeniable. Her big, dark eyes held his captive, her perfect, youthful face just inches from his. He could smell the faint scent of her shampoo, a sweet, floral aroma that was now mixed with a hint of something more… primal. He couldn't help but notice the toned lines of her body, a subtle firmness that spoke of the long-distance running she was known for.

Slowly, seductively, she reached out a hand, her fingertips gently tracing his lips. Her touch was feather-light, yet it sent a jolt of pure electricity through Mr. Kim. He found himself holding his breath, his gaze locked on her face, unable to speak or move. Her fingers then trailed down his neck, the delicate slide of her skin against his making him shudder involuntarily. A warmth spread through his chest, a confusing and undeniably arousing sensation. He had never imagined being in this position, so intensely turned on by a student, especially one so young. The realization, while alarming, did little to quell the desire that was now building within him.

Hui Soo shifted on his lap, the pressure of her clothed pussy grinding against his definitely hard cock sending a jolt of pure sensation through Mr. Kim’s trousers. He could feel the heat radiating from her, even through the layers of their uniforms. Her thighs squeezed his, effectively trapping him in her bold embrace.

Her voice, now a low, husky purr, dropped even further as she leaned in close, her lips just inches from his ear. “Mr. Kim,” she whispered, her breath tickling his earlobe and sending shivers down his spine. “That recommendation… it would mean everything to me. My father…” she paused, letting the words hang in the air before continuing, “Well, let’s just say I’m a very grateful girl. And I’m willing to show my gratitude… for all two years of senior high. Whenever you want. Wherever you want.”

Her hips made a subtle, suggestive grind against his lap, the pressure of her wetness through her panties unmistakable. Mr. Kim’s hands, which had been hovering nervously, now instinctively gripped her waist, partly to steady himself, partly to pull her closer.

“You understand what you’re suggesting, Hui Soo-ah?” he managed to say, his voice a low, strained whisper. He was acutely aware of the inappropriateness of the situation, the blatant violation of his professional boundaries. Yet, the feel of her hot pussy pressed against his throbbing cock, her brazen offer, was undeniably arousing.

Her smile turned even more sly, a predatory glint in her big, dark eyes. “Oh, I understand perfectly, Mr. Kim,” she breathed, her fingers now playing with the collar of his shirt, her touch sending little jolts of electricity through him. “You help me, and I help you. Seems like a fair trade to me. And trust me, Mr. Kim… I can be very, very… grateful.” Her hips gave another deliberate wiggle, and Mr. Kim felt his cock surge even harder against the confines of his pants. He swallowed hard, his internal conflict raging. The temptation was almost unbearable.

Hui Soo pressed her lips against Mr. Kim’s, her initial attempt clumsy and uncertain, a clear indication of her inexperience. Mr. Kim remained stiff at first, his mind still battling between his professional obligations and the undeniable arousal that was building within him. But then, Hui Soo’s hips began to grind against his cock with a slow, deliberate rhythm, the pressure of her hot, wet pussy through her uniform pants against his hardening erection a potent weapon against his willpower.

With each subtle rotation of her hips, each deliberate press, Mr. Kim’s resolve began to weaken. He could feel the heat radiating from her body, the insistent pressure against his crotch, and a low groan rumbled in his chest, escaping his lips almost involuntarily. The sound seemed to embolden Hui Soo. Her kiss deepened, her lips parting slightly as she tentatively licked his, mimicking the movements she was making with her hips. It was still awkward, a far cry from a practiced lover, but her raw desire and her boldness in initiating the act were incredibly arousing. Mr. Kim found himself unable to resist any longer. He tentatively parted his lips, returning her kiss with a hesitant pressure. The moment his mouth met hers more fully, Hui Soo let out a soft, muffled moan against his lips, a sound that vibrated through his body and sealed his surrender to the forbidden pleasure.

Her tongue traced a wet, warm path down Mr. Kim’s throat, lingering at his Adam’s apple with a playful nibble that made him involuntarily jerk. He could feel her hot breath against his skin, the contrast with the cool air of the office sending another shiver down his spine. Her gaze dropped lower, following the line of her tongue as it disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt.

Then, with a deliberate slowness that only amplified the anticipation, she knelt before him, her eyes locking with his with an expression that was a potent mix of boldness and raw desire. It was clear what she expected, what she was craving. Her fair, slender hands reached for his belt buckle, her fingers fumbling slightly with the leather strap before finally undoing it with a soft click.

She then moved to the zipper of his trousers, her touch feather-light yet sending a jolt of pure electricity through his groin. As the zipper slid down, revealing the outline of his thick, hard cock straining against the fabric of his briefs, a soft gasp escaped her lips. She ran her hands along the length of his shaft through the thin cotton, her touch both reverent and possessive. Mr. Kim watched her, his breath caught in his throat, a mix of shock and intense arousal swirling within him. He glanced towards the door again, his ears straining to catch any sounds above the pounding of his own heart. The muffled voices and occasional laughter of students in the hallway served as a stark reminder of where they were and the precariousness of their situation.

Hui Soo’s gaze lifted from his bulging briefs to meet his eyes, a sly smile playing on her lips. Slowly, she leaned forward, bringing her mouth tantalizingly close to the fabric that contained his erection. He could feel her warm breath through the cotton, and then her lips pressed against him, soft and insistent. She began to suck gently through the fabric, her tongue swirling and licking over the prominent bulge, making his briefs instantly damp with her saliva.

“Mmm, you feel so hard, Mr. Kim,” she murmured against his cock, her voice husky and thick with desire. “I bet you’ve been wanting this for a long time.” Her hands continued to caress him through the wet fabric, exploring the length and girth of his erection with a newfound confidence.

Kneeling before him, her short skirt had ridden high up her thighs, revealing the supple expanse of her fair skin, a stark contrast to the dark fabric of her skirt. Her dark hair spilled out onto his lap, framing her beautiful face as she lavished attention on his clothed cock. The sight was incredibly erotic, the juxtaposition of the innocent school uniform with her overtly sexual actions sending Mr. Kim’s arousal soaring to new heights. He gripped the edge of his desk tightly, trying to maintain some semblance of control as Hui Soo continued her sensual assault.

As Mr. Kim’s cock grew even harder, the tip, glistening with his own precum, finally pushed past the stretched fabric of his briefs, making its grand appearance. Hui Soo didn’t hesitate. With a low growl in her throat, she licked the exposed head, her tongue wrapping around it with a practiced ease that belied her earlier inexperience with kissing.

Then, she returned to the task at hand, her mouth работая his entire shaft through the now thoroughly soaked cotton of his briefs. She sucked and licked with a fervent intensity, her hands still caressing him through the wet fabric, exploring every vein and contour. But it was the direct contact with the tip that sent a jolt of pure pleasure through Mr. Kim. Her tongue flicked and swirled around the sensitive head, paying particular attention to the frenulum, the thin strip of skin beneath.

He could taste her saliva mixing with his own precum, a heady, intoxicating flavor that only amplified his already raging desire. His hands clenched onto the edge of the desk, his body tensing with each flick of her tongue. He could feel himself getting closer and closer to the edge, the pressure building in his groin with every wet, insistent stroke of her mouth.

Hui Soo seemed to sense his growing arousal. She increased the intensity of her suction, taking more and more of his shaft into her mouth through the wet briefs, while simultaneously lavishing attention on the exposed tip. She flicked her tongue up and down the ridge, tasting him completely, making him moan aloud, his carefully constructed composure finally starting to crumble. The risk of being caught, the forbidden nature of their encounter, and the sheer, unadulterated pleasure of what Hui Soo was doing to him were creating a perfect storm of arousal.

With a final, satisfied sigh, Hui Soo slowly pulled her mouth away from Mr. Kim’s throbbing cock, the glistening head now slick with her saliva and his copious amount of cum. She licked her lips, a genuine smile spreading across her face as she swallowed the last thick drops. Then, with a newfound confidence, she stood up, her gaze still locked on his.

Deliberately, she reached behind her neck and unbuttoned her uniform shirt. The fabric fell open, revealing the lacy cups of her bra. Her eyes met Mr. Kim’s, a playful challenge in their depths. With another slow, teasing movement, she unhooked her bra, letting it drop to the floor with a soft thud. She stood before him, her bare breasts full and perky, the nipples still hard from the earlier action. Her uniform skirt remained the only garment she wore.

“Now,” she said, her voice cool and composed, that earlier nervousness completely gone, “about that scholarship, Mr. Kim. I believe we have a lot more to discuss.” Her smile widened, a knowing look in her eyes that made it clear this was far from over. The power dynamic in the room had shifted, and Mr. Kim, still slightly dazed from his release, was acutely aware of it. The afternoon had taken a turn he never could have predicted, and the promise in Hui Soo’s eyes suggested it was only just beginning.

[calethescammer]

Don't mind me just thinking about the Kim Rok Soo of the past.

Yk, the one left behind at the time when lsh and cjs died. The one who had no idea if there could ever be a future for him (or if he ever wanted one).

So i think. Maybe afterwards, when krs finally went back to his room, alone. Maybe 'that day' was supposed to be followed by a small party at his house, just a well deserved rest. Maybe his living room was filled with drinks and snacks gathered in one place.

Worn out cards stacked together to play night-long.

A novel that krs was going to recommend to lsh (and if he didn't like it, krs planned to re-read it when the other two fell asleep)

And maybe Rok Soo had planned to cook a spicy stew, Jung Soo's favourite one, with all the ingredients already gathered.

But now, he came back. Alone. Quiet. All the snacks untouched. The cards abandoned in a corner. The vegetables smelling foul. Three empty tea cups on the table. Now forever empty.

Rok Soo kept it all the same. For a week. And then two. Till flies were buzzing around the rotten food and the crumbled cards were getting stuck to the soles of his shoes. Then he picked everything up.

Every little trace of their future. Of all that could have been.

And threw it all away.

He woke up next morning to an empty living room. And went to work again, ignoring it all.

[sweetvoidstuff]

Where You Belong - Part 3

Jungkook x Reader I Werwolf x Werwolf I Mates I Slow Burn I Asshole JK I Supernatural Romance I Yoongi I Violence

GIF von jung-koook

Summary : A festival meant to bring unity turns into something far more intimate when you catch the eye of a wolf who never intended to fall. Torn between the freedom to choose and the instinctual pull of a mate’s bond, you face both emotional and political pressure from the pack and outside forces. As loyalties are tested, the question lingers: will you run, or will you stay and claim your place?

Word Count: 35K (all Parts)

Masterlist

A/N: Hi! I’ve been meaning to post this one for a while, but I kept going back and forth on it. Life got a bit hectic, I got sidetracked, and took a few days off—so it took longer than planned. It didn’t turn out exactly how I first imagined, but for now, I’m calling it done. Maybe I’ll revisit and rewrite parts of it in the future, who knows. In the meantime, I really hope you enjoy it—please be kind, but I also welcome honest feedback.

Well, I wanted to post this as one, but Tumblr won’t let me…again... so I’ll be posting Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3 back to back. Sorry about that! Hope you still enjoy it!

Part 1 I Part 2

--------------

For a solid heartbeat, he didn’t move.

Then—after another sharp glance around the area, his ears straining for any nearby movement—he rose to his feet.

And followed you inside.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

The tent was small—at least, smaller than he expected.

The inside was simple, with thick blankets piled over a sleeping mat, a few extra layers stacked against the far end in what looked like an attempt at a pillow. It smelled like you, too, but not strongly—not like a normal omega’s tent should. Jungkook’s scent had been muted on you ever since the festival began, and now, without it, the space felt wrong.

You were already curled up on your side, your back to him, as if you were ignoring the fact that he had just stepped inside.

Jungkook hesitated for a second.

Then he crouched near the entrance, unsure if he should lay down or stay seated.

He opted for the latter.

His eyes flickered toward your still form.

After a long pause, you muttered, “If you’re just gonna sit there, you might as well lay down.”

Jungkook bit his lip.

And then, slowly, he shifted, lowering himself onto the extra blankets, laying on his back beside you.

The space was tight.

If either of you moved even a little, you would touch.

And when you exhaled, shifting slightly—your back brushing against his arm—Jungkook nearly lost his damn mind.

Jungkook needed something to ground him—anything.

And the only thing here was you.

The tight space of your tent left no room for hesitation. No space for second-guessing. The moment your back brushed his arm, the fragile thread of his restraint snapped.

He rolled onto his side, one arm snaking firmly around your waist, his chest flush against your back. The heat of him bled through the thin layers of clothing, his grip possessive, securing you against him.

He felt your tense inhale.

"Did you already decide?" Jungkook’s voice was low, a murmur against the shell of your ear.

You hummed, your fingers lightly twitching over the blankets. “Kinda.”

Jungkook’s hold tightened.

"Kinda?" he echoed, voice gruffer now. "What does ‘kinda’ mean?"

You exhaled slowly, your tone shifting into something almost teasing, yet undeniably shy.

"Well, you already decided if you're going to scent me twice a day from now on..." You paused, then added with a smirk, "for safety reasons?"

Jungkook growled.

A soft, dangerous sound, curling around the whisper of your name on his tongue. His fingers flexed, gripping your waist tighter.

“You are my mate,” he rumbled, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

His nose nudged into your hairline, inhaling deeply, and then—

He scented you.

A slow, deliberate drag of his nose from your temple to the base of your neck.

You shuddered.

His chest rumbled, another growl spilling from deep within him.

His teeth grazed the sensitive skin at the curve of your shoulder, his breath hot as his lips parted.

And when you whimpered, Jungkook nearly lost it.

"Don’t promise anything you can’t keep," you whispered, but it sounded weak. Like a plea. A warning. A wish.

"If… If this is just want—fine. But then tell me."

Jungkook’s chest ached.

He wanted to rip the doubt out of you, to prove to you that there was nothing about this—about you—that was temporary.

He exhaled sharply, his fingers skimming the edge of your ribs.

“Mark me.”

Your entire body locked up.

Your heart stuttered.

Slowly, your head turned, the dim light inside the tent casting shadows over Jungkook’s face as you twisted just enough to look at him.

Your eyes were wide.

“What?”

Jungkook growled again, this time more urgent, more raw—needy.

Your movement had shifted you slightly away, leaving a sliver of space between you, and the distance made something feral inside him snarl.

His dark gaze locked onto yours, unflinching. Unshakable.

"Mark me as your mate."

Your breath hitched.

Jungkook's jaw clenched, his pulse pounding.

"You can still leave if you want," he said, voice low, rough, as if the words physically pained him. "But I will follow you."

His fingers brushed up your spine, his touch feverishly warm.

"I will only claim you if you want me to," he swore, and fuck—he meant it. He would never take this from you, never force you into something you weren’t ready for.

But then—

His eyes burned into yours.

Raw. Unwavering.

"I want your mark on me. Now."

Your stomach flipped.

Your pulse pounded in your ears.

You were shocked. Speechless.

And fuck—

You were so goddamn turned on.

Your eyes went impossibly wide, your breath catching as you stared at him.

"Y-You don’t mean that."

Jungkook’s gaze was intense, but gentle, steady in a way that left no room for doubt.

Without hesitation, he moved.

His strong arms shifted you, guiding you until you were under him.

He hovered over you, his body looming, broad and commanding, but he wasn’t caging you in—he was holding you close.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

His weight balanced on his forearm, the one marked with ink and meaning, etched with the responsibilities of his pack. But his other arm?

His other arm was wrapped around you.

A deliberate, possessive grip.

Like he was making sure there wouldn’t be the slightest bit of space between you.

And you could feel him.

The heat of him, the weight of him, the way his scent wrapped around you like a second skin.

The way he wanted you.

Your breath caught in your throat, your body suddenly too warm, too aware of how little separated you from him.

Jungkook’s nose brushed down your neck, slow and intentional, his breath ghosting over your skin as he inhaled deeply.

“I mean it,” he murmured, his voice a dark promise.

“And I can smell that you want it, too.”

Your stomach flipped.

Heat shot through you, every nerve in your body sparking to life, making your limbs tingle.

Your shaky fingers curled into the fabric of Jungkook’s shirt, your grip weak—like your body couldn’t decide if it wanted to pull him closer or push him away before you completely lost yourself. You were practically vibrating with nerves, the weight of his body, the scent of him, the sheer need in his presence overwhelming you.

Jungkook wasn’t rushing you.

But he wasn’t stopping, either.

His nose lovingly dragged up and down your neck, lingering at your pulse point, like he was savoring every inch of you.

And then—

His lips followed.

Soft, warm, achingly gentle.

He pressed slow, open-mouthed kisses against your throat, against the hollow where your neck met your shoulder. Pressing against your pulse, lingering.

His teeth nipped at your skin, not enough to hurt—just enough to tease.

To dare you to move.

To see if you would run or stay.

Your next whimper, the next trembling inhale, the next sharp jolt of your scent pushing into the air around him—

It was too much.

Jungkook rolled his hips into you, slow and controlled, and you felt every inch of him, every sharp, burning line of his need pressed against you through the thin barriers of your clothes.

Your entire body shuddered.

Jungkook’s breath was ragged, his lips barely a whisper from your jaw as he spoke.

His voice was like honey and smoke, thick with need, with restraint, with something wild barely held back. He rolled his hips into you again. A slow, deliberate grind, letting you feel exactly what you did to him.

"Can I kiss you?" His lips ghosted over yours, his nose brushing the tip of yours. His words came out hoarse, desperate. "Please. Let me fucking kiss you, at least."

His fingers tightened slightly where they rested against your ribs.

Your lips parted, air shaking as it left your lungs, and then—

“Please.”

Jungkook groaned, his forehead dropping to yours for just a second before he finally—finally— kissed you, got to taste you.

And fuck—

It was everything.

The first press of his lips was firm, but hungry. He wasn’t just kissing you—he was claiming you, pouring everything into it, his lips moving hot and slow against yours, his tongue teasing the seam of your mouth.

His mouth was hot, urgent, starving for you, but still so goddamn careful.

He kissed you like you were something precious, something he had wanted for so fucking long—something he was desperate to make his. The moment his tongue brushed against yours, he growled, the sound vibrating deep in his chest.

And you melted.

Your fingers dug into his shirt, clutching him, needing him, and Jungkook felt like he was about to lose his mind with how sweet, how warm, how perfect you tasted, against him—

Until—

You made a pained sound against his lips, a small, pained hum muffled by the heat of the kiss.

Jungkook froze.

He jerked back, his breath was heavy, his pupils blown so wide they nearly swallowed the brown of his irises, his brows furrowing in concern.

Your lips were swollen, damp from his kisses, and fuck, you looked so beautiful like this, but—

His eyes locked onto your lips—

A thin red line glistened at the corner of your mouth. The small, still-healing cut from your fight with Yoongi earlier.

Jungkook cursed under his breath, guilt slamming into him. A low, guttural sound escaped him, something close to a frustrated snarl.

"Shit," he exhaled, his fingers lightly gripping your jaw.

Without a second thought, he leaned back in, but this time, his lips didn’t claim yours.

Instead—

His tongue dragged over the cut, gentle, careful, the warmth of him soothing the sting.

A sound rumbled from his chest—low and deep, a vibration of pleasure that was almost a purr.

Your breath hitched.

From something else entirely.

A deep rumble rose from Jungkook’s chest—not a growl, not a snarl—but something softer, so utterly full of warmth and possession, that it made your stomach flutter.

It was close to a purr.

If you hadn’t already been lying down, your knees would have buckled.

Jungkook stayed close, his forehead lightly pressing to yours.

His breath mingled with yours, his fingers twitching against your skin, like he was still trying to memorize you through touch alone.

And then, softly—so fucking softly—

“Say yes.”

His voice was hoarse, thick with something deeper than just desire.

“Say yes, and mark me right now.”

His nose brushed yours, his body still pressed so perfectly to yours.

“Say yes,” he whispered.

“And be mine.”

Your breath came heavy, your chest rising and falling too fast, too unsteady.

And then—

You nodded.

Your voice was shaky, but still, the word fell from your lips, wrapped in something breathless, something undeniable.

“Yes.”

Yes, yes, yes.

Because how could you not?

Jungkook had made your life difficult, had pushed and challenged you at every turn. But now—

Now, he was trying.

He wasn’t just taking, wasn’t just demanding.

He was offering himself to you.

If he meant it—if he let you mark him—then it wouldn’t just be you belonging to him.

He would belong to you, too.

Your fingers trembled as you slowly—so fucking slowly— pushed up the hem of his shirt.

Jungkook’s breath hitched, his entire body going taut at the first glide of your hands under his shirt, the first whisper of your touch against his bare skin.

And then—

A growl rumbled from his chest, and before you could even think, his shirt was ripped off.

Torn away like it was nothing.

Because if you wanted to touch him, if you wanted to claim him, then fuck—

He was going to let you.

Your fingers traced over the warm, hard planes of his torso, his body shuddering beneath your touch.

You were gentle at first, almost shy, your fingertips light as air over his abs, up to his ribs.

But then—

Jungkook let out a low, gravelly sound, his own larger hand capturing one of yours and pressing it flat against his chest, right over his racing heart.

“Mate,” he rumbled, the word vibrating deep in his chest—a vow, a promise, an undeniable truth.

And then he was on you again.

The intensity he couldn’t use on your lips—not with your still-healing cut—he poured into your neck instead.

He kissed you there, savored you, his lips trailing a path that burned in the best way, nipping, licking, tasting you.

You shivered, your hands growing bolder, moving freely over his skin now.

Your fingers skated up his sides, explored the taut muscles of his shoulders, then dipped lower.

And when you flicked your fingers over his nipple—just to see what he’d do—

A deep, guttural growl tore from Jungkook’s throat, his body jerking in response, a sharp inhale dragged through his teeth.

You fucking loved it.

Loved this power over him, loved the way his body shook under your touch, the way his need grew almost unbearable as you teased him. His hips rocked against yours, desperate for friction, for anything.

But then—

Jungkook wanted you in the same state of undress.

His hands moved under your clothes, hot and reverent, his touch just as exploring, just as aching.

First, his fingers glided over your stomach, smoothing over the soft curves, tracing up your ribs—

And fuck—

You fluttered under him, your body shivering at the warmth of his hands.

And when you lifted yourself just slightly, just enough for him to pull your shirt off—

Jungkook didn’t hesitate.

He sat up, gripping the hem, and in one smooth motion, he had your shirt off and discarded.

And then—

Silence.

Heavy, suffocating silence.

Jungkook’s eyes darkened, his pupils blown wide, drinking you in, taking in every inch of your bare skin, every part of you that was exposed to him now.

You should have felt powerful.

You should have felt wanted.

But instead—

Jungkook’s gaze hardened.

His jaw tensed, his nostrils flaring as his eyes locked onto the bruises littering your skin.

There were blue and purple splotches, fresh reminders of your fight earlier.

There weren’t any bandages, you didn’t care to replace them after your little swim, but there didn’t need to be. The ugly mark near your ribs was more than enough proof of what you had been through.

Jungkook growled—

Deep and dangerous.

Furious.

The second he saw your reaction, he regretted it.

Because you weren’t proud, weren’t smirking like you had won a fight.

No.

You looked ashamed.

Your gaze dropped, your body curling in slightly like you wanted to disappear.

A shiver ran over you, but it wasn’t from pleasure.

Jungkook saw it all. Felt it all.

And fuck—

It hit him like a punch to the gut.

You already knew you didn’t smell as sweet as other omegas, your scent too weak to be truly enticing.

And now—

Now, your battered body wasn’t even nice to look at for your mate.

The realization hit you so hard it felt like a physical wound.

Jungkook saw the way your body stiffened, how your shoulders sank, the way you seemed to shrink into yourself, and his chest ached.

Because no.

He couldn’t let you feel like this.

Not for a single second.

A snarl ripped from him—sharp, frustrated, not at you, but at the world for making you think this way.

And then—

His hands grabbed your face, cupping your cheeks, forcing you to look at him.

“Stop.”

His voice was low, commanding, but desperate.

You hesitated, lips parting, eyes still downcast.

Jungkook wouldn’t allow it.

His forehead pressed to yours, his thumbs stroking over your cheekbones, soft, reverent, but unyielding.

“Look at me.”

It took a moment.

A long, painful second.

But then—

You did.

And fuck—

Jungkook’s eyes burned.

Because he didn’t see flaws.

He didn’t see imperfection.

He saw you—his mate—beautiful and raw and strong.

And he needed you to see it, too.

Jungkook’s lips found your temple, pressing soft kisses to your skin, down to your cheek, over the curve of your jaw.

And then—

Softly.

Almost pleading.

“I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.”

Jungkook’s fingers traced the outline of your bruise, featherlight, like he was memorizing it, like he wanted to absorb it, take it into himself instead.

And your breath hitched.

He was so gentle it sent a shiver down your spine, something warm and twisting pooling deep in your belly.

But you still didn’t understand.

“Jungkook…”

Your voice was small, almost shy—like if you spoke too loudly, he might change his mind.

Might see what you saw.

Might realize you weren’t worthy of this.

You almost couldn’t say it.

But the words tumbled out anyway, soft, fractured—

“I… I’m black and blue. I’m not… I—”

Your entire body curled inward, as if you could make yourself smaller, as if you could hide from him, from the way he looked at you.

And fuck—

Jungkook felt sick at the sight.

How could you not see?

You weren’t some fragile thing.

You had beaten a strong beta at the festival, had fought with everything in you for your pack.

You weren’t weak.

You weren’t ruined.

You weren’t less.

You were more.

More whole, more unyielding, more alive than anyone he had ever known.

And fuck, he needed you to understand that.

With one swift, careful motion, Jungkook moved—flipping you effortlessly until you were on top of him.

His hands found you immediately—

One curled into your hair, grounding you.

The other gripped your hips, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

A surprised yelp escaped your lips, your hands bracing against his chest, wide eyes staring down at him.

You were straddling him now.

The contrast was dizzying— the way he had handled you with such ease, like he could break you in half—

And yet, beneath you, he was so fucking hard, his need pressing thick between your thighs, hot even through the layers of clothing.

Heat flared across your face, crawling down your neck.

You shifted, trying to put distance between you, your hands pressing into his chest, your knees digging into the mattress to lift yourself.

But Jungkook’s grip tightened.

The hand on your hip yanked you back down, forcing you against him again, another strangled sound breaking from his throat.

The hand in your hair held you firm, tilting your chin so you had no choice but to look at him.

And fuck—

Jungkook, an alpha, the next to lead your pack, was beneath you, hard and desperate, staring at you like you were the moon itself.

Like you were his fucking world.

His voice was low, gravelly, but so fucking sure.

“My mate isn’t some brittle flower.”

His fingers dug in, his body coiling like a predator holding itself back.

“My mate gives alphas a run for their money.”

Jungkook breathed you in, a sharp inhale, a growl deep in his chest, the scent of your arousal spiking in the air.

“Your scent is just for me.”

His hips bucked once, slow, purposeful, grinding into you, forcing you to feel him.

“And every bruise you got, you gave back twice as hard.”

His hand tightened in your hair, his next words a growl—

“Don’t you dare think I don’t want you because of that.”

Your entire body burned, your stomach coiling tight, molten heat spreading like fire in your veins.

“But…”

Jungkook cut you off—his grip firm, unwavering.

“Just because I want to treat you like my fragile little mate, doesn’t mean you’re fragile.”

His fingers slid lower, teasing at the waistband of your pants, gripping at the barrier between you, pulling you harder against him.

His next words were a promise, a growled warning wrapped in heat.

“And if you let me, I’ll show you just how often I can put you back together tonight.”

And fuck—

Your scent spiked again, another wave of arousal washing over you, unbidden, undeniable.

Jungkook felt it immediately.

Felt the way you shivered, the way your body melted just slightly, the way your pupils widened, blown black with want.

His grip tightened.

His fingers curled under your waistband, ready to tear it away—

And his next word was simple, a single command, his voice dark and demanding.

“Off.”

You were both moving.

Fumbling.

Desperate.

Pants were kicked away, clothing discarded, and then—

Jungkook grabbed you again.

But instead of pulling you back onto him, onto his length—

He lifted you higher.

Your thighs trembled as he shifted you up, your core hovering over his face now.

Your breath caught, the realization slamming into you, heat flooding your cheeks as you stammered—

“Jungkook—?”

But his grip was firm, his eyes burning, filled with absolute hunger.

His hands guided you down, his head tilting back, reaching for you, and then—

His tongue flicked against you.

And fuck—

Your legs shook, a strangled gasp ripping from your lips, fingers fisting into the sheets.

Jungkook groaned, the sound low and ravenous, his hands clutching your thighs, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

He licked you again.

Long, slow, deliberate.

You were falling. No—flying? Maybe both. Your body no longer felt like your own, overtaken by sensation, by the fire spreading through every inch of you under Jungkook’s relentless touch. His hands, strong and possessive, held you firmly in place, keeping you from escaping the overwhelming pleasure he was giving you. Every brush of his lips, every flick of his tongue sent waves of shivers coursing through you, and the quiet, helpless whimpers slipping from your lips only seemed to feed his hunger.

Jungkook was insatiable, the deep rumble of his pleasure vibrating against your core, sending tremors through your entire being. He groaned against you, drinking in your scent, your taste, every reaction you gave him like it was the only thing he’d ever crave. The way you trembled, the way you gasped and arched above him—he wanted more. He needed more. He wanted to bury himself in every part of you, to pull every sound, every movement, every ounce of pleasure from you until you were entirely his.

His grip tightened, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your thighs, holding you in place when instinct had you trying to squirm away. The intensity was too much, yet not enough, and Jungkook wasn’t about to let you escape—not when you were giving him everything he wanted. His mouth worked against you with precision, teasing, stroking, flicking, each motion designed to unravel you, to leave you shaking above him. You tried to find purchase, to hold onto something, but your limbs were weak, and the only thing grounding you was Jungkook himself.

And then he did something different—a new pressure, a shift that made your body jerk in response. He adjusted his hold, pulling you closer, locking you against him as he moved, his nose brushing against your clit, his tongue coaxing more pleasure from you than you thought you could handle. A strangled sound escaped you, somewhere between a gasp and a plea, and Jungkook’s deep growl of satisfaction sent another tremor through you. His grip tightened just a little more, as if reminding you that you were his, that you belonged to him, and the sheer possessiveness in his touch made your head spin.

Your breath hitched, body tightening, and Jungkook felt it—the way you were teetering on the edge, the way your muscles locked as the wave built inside you. He hummed against you, the vibration pushing you closer, and then, with one final movement, he sent you plummeting into oblivion. A sharp cry, a desperate breath of his name—"Kook"—was all you managed before the pleasure overtook you completely, your body shaking with the force of it. Jungkook didn’t stop, didn’t let go, holding you through it, watching with dark, heavy-lidded eyes as you came undone above him, utterly lost in the moment he had created for you.

His chest rumbled with satisfaction, his grip shifting as he slowly brought you back down, grounding you with gentle touches even as his own restraint frayed. Because he wasn’t done. Not even close.

Your breathing slowly evened out, your body sinking into the soft bedding beneath you, boneless and trembling in the aftermath. You barely had the strength to lift your head, but you became aware of Jungkook sitting back on his knees between your legs, his gaze locked onto you with something dark, something primal burning in his eyes. And for a second, you were utterly confused. Why was he still wearing his pants? Why had he held back when he was clearly fighting against every instinct to claim you?

Before you could question him, he pulled you closer again, his hands sliding under your knees, lifting your legs to rest over his thighs. His fingers traced delicate patterns along your skin, smoothing over the trembling muscles he had wrecked only moments ago. The way he touched you now was different—still possessive, still intense—but laced with something softer, something reverent. His touch soothed even as it sent more shivers down your spine. His chin was still wet from your arousal, his lips slightly parted as he caught his breath, his hair tousled and wild from how you had gripped him. And god, he looked beautiful. Absolutely untamed.

The sight made something in your chest tighten, a warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the heat between your legs. You reached for him without thinking, hands opening and closing in the air, needy, desperate for him.

"Mate," you breathed, the word slipping past your lips before you could stop it. Before you knew what you said.

Jungkook’s gaze snapped to you and froze. His breath hitched, and then a sound—deep, guttural, and dangerously close to a purr—vibrated from his chest. His pupils blew wide, his grip tightening ever so slightly on your thighs as if you had just broken him and put him back together all in the same moment. You hadn’t even realized what you had done. You had given him the one thing he craved the most—you had acknowledged him. Claimed him, even if you didn’t fully understand the depth of it.

A shudder ran through him as he leaned over you, letting you thread your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, letting your scent fill his lungs as though it was the only thing keeping him sane. His lips pressed against your throat, slow and deliberate, before trailing up to your jaw, your cheek, and then finally—your lips.

“Don’t say that,” he murmured against your mouth, his voice raw with restraint. “Not right now. I’m already using everything I have to hold back.”

But even as he spoke, he couldn’t stop touching you. His hands never ceased their slow, torturous exploration, his fingers skimming the inside of your thighs, creeping higher, testing how much more you could take. The contrast was maddening—the way he spoke of restraint while simultaneously unraveling you all over again.

His teeth grazed the shell of your ear, a teasing nip, a quiet growl vibrating against your skin. “One more,” he murmured, his voice thick with want.

Your breath hitched. "I... I—" The words barely made it out before your body betrayed you, another shudder rolling through you, your legs trembling even as he tried to soothe them.

Jungkook only hummed, his grip steady, his patience razor-thin. Because if he had his way, he’d have more than just one.

God, it was embarrassing how fast he could reduce you to this—how easily his fingers found the spot that had you keening for him, how effortlessly he had you spread open and taking him. One, then two, then three fingers, stretching you with slow, deliberate precision, filling you so perfectly that you could barely think, barely breathe. Your body trembled, a shiver rolling down your spine with every slow push and curl of his fingers inside you. You were beyond holding on at this point, your senses overwhelmed, your nerves alight, and the only thing keeping your legs from snapping shut in sheer overstimulation was the weight of Jungkook’s waist between them.

Your hands were desperate, restless, running over every inch of him, gripping at his arms, his shoulders, his chest—anywhere he would let you, anywhere but where you really wanted to touch him. Because Jungkook wouldn’t allow that. Not yet. And it was driving you insane because he sounded just as wrecked as you felt, his breath uneven, his muscles tensed like he was barely restraining himself. And god, the way he looked at you, the way he kissed you—deep and consuming, like he wanted to devour every sound you made—it had you spiraling all over again.

The next slow, deliberate thrust of his fingers sent a fresh wave of pleasure crashing through you, tightening around him, making your head fall back against the pillows. It was too much and not enough. You needed more. Needed him. And as your pleasure built higher and higher, as you scrambled desperately for something to hold onto, something to ground yourself, a broken whimper fell from your lips.

“Mate.”

Jungkook cursed under his breath, his body jolting as if the word had physically struck him. His control was slipping fast, but he didn’t care—not when he could feel the way your walls fluttered around his fingers, gripping him so tightly, so sweetly, as you shattered beneath him once more. Not when you were shaking in his arms, when you were looking up at him like that—fucked out and dazed and so incredibly beautiful.

His head spun, his blood roared in his veins, and the need to claim you, to take you completely, burned through him like wildfire. But he couldn’t let you touch him. Not yet. Because if you so much as brushed against his cock right now, he’d come in seconds. He was painfully hard, so fucking close just from watching you fall apart again and again, and as he finally shed the last barrier between you, he had to take a moment—one shaky, grounding moment—not to lose himself at the sight of you.

You were still catching your breath, your body soft and pliant, your legs trembling in the aftermath of your release. But then—god, you were a fucking minx—you looked at him through heavy-lidded eyes, gaze dropping to where he was thick and aching for you, were he held himself not to come undone just by watching you, and without a word, without even a moment’s hesitation, you slowly spread your legs just a little wider. A silent invitation.

And that was it.

Jungkook was over you in an instant, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss so deep it stole what little breath you had left. His hands framed your face, holding you with a reverence that contradicted the raw hunger in his movements, his groan vibrating against your lips as he completely lost himself in you.

He gave you whiplash—his touch still grounding, still careful, his fingers tracing over your bruises with a tenderness that sent shivers racing down your spine. But there was something barely restrained in him, something trembling at the edge of control.

"Mate," he growled, voice raw, the word vibrating from his chest like a snarl, like a plea, as if he might snap in half if he didn’t sink into you this very instant.

You met his eyes, still hazy from pleasure, still dazed from the intensity of it all, but you knew what he needed—what you needed. Without a word, you lifted one leg over his hip, opening yourself to him, guiding him closer. And slower than you ever thought possible, he began to push in.

The stretch was overwhelming, the feeling so intense it nearly knocked the air from your lungs. You could feel him everywhere, in every part of you, in every nerve ending, in the very marrow of your bones. Both of you groaned in unison, bodies trembling at the sheer overwhelming sensation of being joined like this, and fuck—you had never felt more full, more complete, more utterly his than in this moment.

But then Jungkook stilled.

You whimpered, your walls fluttering around him, pleading for him to move, to give you more. But Jungkook’s body trembled, his grip on your hips tightening—not enough to hurt, but enough to anchor himself. Unintentionally, his fingers pressed just a little too hard against one of your bruises, and the sharp gasp you let out had him groaning. He pulled back instantly, cursing under his breath.

“Fuck. Wait—don’t… don’t move.” His voice was strained, wrecked. His forehead dropped against your shoulder, his breath searing down the slope of your neck, over your collarbone, making your nipples harden further. His body shuddered. “You feel too fucking good.”

You didn’t care. You needed him to move.

“Jungkook,” you pleaded, trembling beneath him, body taut with need. “Please—move.”

He was shaking. He was trying so hard to hold himself back, but after a long, painful moment, he finally nodded, voice wrecked.

“Yeah… fuck.”

He pulled out agonizingly slowly, the drag of him against your walls, against every sensitive nerve inside you, making your toes curl and a desperate mewl escape your lips, making you whimper, your thighs trembling around him. Jungkook groaned—a deep, guttural sound—and his grip on your hips tightened, holding you still, not trusting you, not trusting himself—not right now, not with how tight and warm you felt around him.

And then he thrust back in.

Your breath hitched, a broken moan tearing from your throat, and Jungkook’s control snapped completely. His movements were still slow, but deep, hard, relentless in their precision. The force of each thrust sent pleasure crashing through you, your body arching into him, your hands scrambling for something to hold onto. Your nails raked down his back, over his arms, but Jungkook didn’t let up. He was lost in you, drowning in the way you clenched around him, the way you took him so perfectly, as if you were made for him.

Your eyes rolled back, pleasure so sharp it left you breathless, and Jungkook wasn’t fairing any better. His hair clung to his forehead, sweat beading along his temple, his breath ragged against your ear. He didn’t dare look down, didn’t dare watch where his cock was disappearing inside you, because just the thought of it was almost enough to undo him.

He needed more.

His hands roamed greedily over you. One hand tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, dragging you against him, against the heat of his skin. His scent was thick in the air, intoxicating, wrapping around you like a drug.

“Fuck, I want you,” he rasped, his voice barely more than a desperate groan.

You gasped against his throat, shivering at the sheer need in his voice. Your lips brushed against his skin, soft and warm and reverent.

“You have me.”

A tremor ran down Jungkook’s spine, his hand tightening in your hair as he fought for control. But then—

“Where will you mark me?”

The question sent a fresh wave of pleasure crashing through you, your walls clenching desperately around him involuntarily. Jungkook let out a broken moan, his rhythm faltering. He was holding on by a thread, his entire body trembling with restraint, waiting—pleading for your answer.

"I—" Your voice faltered, your mind hazy with pleasure, with need, with the overwhelming gravity of what he was asking.

But there was no hesitation in him.

"Mark me, my mate,"

His voice was rough, commanding, leaving no room for doubt. And you didn’t hesitate any longer. You tilted your head, lips brushing over the spot that had drawn your attention from the moment he had leapt after you, the spot where his pulse thundered beneath his skin. You parted your lips, tongue flicking over the skin once, twice—

And then you bit down.

Jungkook shattered.

A deep, guttural growl tore from his throat as he slammed into you one final time, his entire body locking up as he spilled inside you, his pleasure hitting so hard it sent you spiraling after him. Your own release crashed over you like a tidal wave, your vision whiting out, your body shaking as you clenched around him, milking him for everything he had.

His body covered yours, his hips rolling through the aftershocks, prolonging both your highs, until the pleasure finally faded into a warm, blissful haze.

You could feel him throbbing inside you, feel the way his breath shuddered against your skin, feel the way his hands still held you like he was afraid to let go.

You had claimed him.

And he was yours.

Jungkook collapsed against you, panting, shuddering, his lips pressing feverish, open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder, your collarbone—anywhere he could reach. His breath was still uneven, his body still trembling from the aftershocks of his release, but he never stopped touching you, never stopped grounding himself in the reality of you beneath him.

You had marked him.

There was no going back now.

He was yours.

But as you slowly came down from the high, your mind clearing in the hazy warmth of his embrace, a realization settled over you—one that made your chest tighten unexpectedly.

He hadn’t marked you.

Just as he had promised, he had held himself back, had given you the choice to wake up in the morning and decide for yourself. He had been careful, considerate, exactly as he had sworn he would be. And yet… you found yourself wishing he hadn’t. Wishing he had been selfish, had lost control, had claimed you the way you had claimed him.

Your body betrayed you, walls fluttering involuntarily around him at the mere thought.

Jungkook groaned, his body jolting in response. His head dropped to your shoulder, a soft chuckle vibrating through his chest as he realized what you had just done.

You gasped, your face burning. “That— I didn’t mean—”

But Jungkook lifted himself up, still nestled deep inside you, still keeping you close, and the look on his face nearly made you forget how to breathe. His dark eyes drank you in, half-lidded and lazy with satisfaction, yet still burning with something deeper—something raw and unfiltered. He looked wrecked in the best way possible, his skin flushed, his damp hair falling into his eyes, his lips still swollen from kissing you. And yet, it was the way he gazed at you, the way he took in every inch of you, the way his scent wrapped so thickly around you, mixing with yours—it made your stomach flip.

And, of course, the bastard knew it.

A slow, wicked smirk curled at the corner of his lips. “You’re a menace,” he murmured, voice still rough from pleasure.

You let out a breathless laugh, your body still too spent to do anything more than weakly swat at his arm. But Jungkook was faster, capturing your wrist and pinning it beside your head, his nose brushing teasingly along the curve of your throat before he playfully nipped at your skin. You squeaked, squirming, but he only chuckled again, his hands steady on your hips, making sure he didn’t slip from you just yet.

After a moment, his voice softened.

“You good?”

You took a slow breath, nodding. And then, as you met his gaze, the question that had been lingering in your mind slipped out before you could stop it.

“You didn’t mark me.”

It wasn’t an accusation, wasn’t even disappointment, just a quiet observation.

But Jungkook’s reaction was immediate.

His gaze dropped to your neck, to the exact spot where he already knew—without a doubt—his mark would one day belong. His fingers twitched against your skin, as if barely restraining himself from reaching out, from pressing his lips to that spot, from sinking his teeth in and sealing the bond.

“You want me to?”

The roughness of his voice sent a fresh shiver down your spine, but before you could even answer, you felt him twitch inside you.

A startled yelp left your lips, and now it was his turn to chuckle, clearly pleased with himself as he nosed at your throat, dragging his lips over the sensitive skin.

“Jungkook,” you whined, still sensitive, still overwhelmed.

He hummed in amusement, pressing another kiss to your neck. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Yes,” you admitted, breathlessly. “But… but not today.” You swallowed, suddenly shy. “Thank you. For… for letting me choose.”

Jungkook stilled for a moment, then pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. His gaze softened, and something warm, something dangerously tender flickered in those dark irises.

“Don’t mistake me, little mate,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “If you decide to leave the pack in the morning—which would be a fucking terrible decision after all the work it took for them to recognize you—I’d simply follow you.” He smirked, eyes dark and unwavering. “I’m yours now.”

Your heart swelled, a feeling too big, too all-consuming wrapping around your ribs, threatening to steal the breath from your lungs. You barely had the strength to say it, to let the word slip from your lips in a whisper so soft it barely existed between you.

“Mate.”

And then you kissed him, slowly, deeply, reverently, brushing your nose against his before your lips met.

Delighting in the warmth of him.

Delighting in the fact that he was yours.

Jungkook adjusted you carefully, rearranging your limbs so you could rest comfortably for the night. But even with all his care, a hiss of protest left you both when he slowly, begrudgingly, slipped out of you—dragging out the inevitable as long as he could.

Still, he helped you clean up, albeit reluctantly. Even as he wiped you down, his hands lingered, his touch reverent, his lips brushing over your skin as if he could somehow preserve the moment. And when he finally let you settle back into the furs, his scent still clung to you—enough to satisfy him, though not nearly enough for his liking.

Jungkook tucked himself against you, his nose buried in your hair, his arms wrapped protectively around your waist. Your lips hovered near his neck, your hands resting over his heart and around his shoulder, holding him just as much as he held you. Your legs tangled together beneath the blanket draped lazily over you—not that you needed it. Jungkook’s warmth, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the safety of his presence—it was all you needed to lull you into sleep.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

It was early when you stirred, blinking against the soft light creeping through the tent. Jungkook was still wrapped around you, his body heavy with sleep, his grip unyielding. With a sleepy groan, you tried to sit up, pushing away the haze of drowsiness.

Jungkook mumbled something incoherent, his arms tightening around you as he buried his face deeper into your neck.

You chuckled, trying again—only to be rolled onto your back, his weight pressing you down. His nose nudged against your throat, his breath warm against your skin, still lost in the remnants of slumber.

A laugh bubbled from your lips as you tried to wake him with kisses to his neck. He grumbled in response, pressing closer instead of pulling away, a deep sound of protest rumbling in his chest.

“Don’t start anything,” he muttered, voice thick with sleep, comfort, and something dangerously close to temptation.

You huffed, nudging him playfully. “I need to get up. I have to pack.”

The reminder brought reality crashing back in. The festival was coming to an end. Soon, the packs would return to their lands, carrying stories back to their elders. And for the first time, you weren’t bound to leave with them.

You had a choice.

A choice that both thrilled and terrified Jungkook.

Because he had meant every word—if you chose to leave, he would follow. His heart had already decided. But still, a sliver of anxiety gnawed at him. Would yesterday—everything he had done, everything he had given—be enough to make you stay?

With a deep, reluctant sigh, Jungkook finally rolled off you, though not without a few more mumbled complaints.

He helped you pack, though his mood darkened when you disappeared to freshen up. And when you returned, smelling like soap and morning air instead of him, a displeased growl rumbled low in his throat.

His scent wasn’t entirely gone—he could still catch traces of it on you. But had you deliberately left it there? Or had he marked you so thoroughly last night that no amount of scrubbing could erase him?

He didn’t know.

But what he did know was that he had no interest in finishing the rest of his morning tasks—not when he could be pulling you back into bed, pressing his scent into your skin all over again.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Before Jungkook could act on his impulse to pull you back into bed and mark you all over again, two wolves arrived. And unlike you, he wasn’t particularly happy to see them.

Namjoon and Yoongi.

They greeted you warmly, their smiles easy, their presence familiar. And Jungkook—who, just moments ago, had felt content in the lingering haze of your shared night—now found himself gritting his teeth.

It wasn’t fair, but it still made his chest tighten to see you smile at them like that, to witness the genuine affection on your face. He understood, of course. Yoongi and Namjoon had been kind to you, had offered you a place where you wouldn’t have to fight to be recognized.

But understanding didn’t make it easier to watch Yoongi hover so damn close to you.

Jungkook dropped the tent pole he’d been holding, nearly bringing the entire structure crashing down on Jimin in his haste to move toward you. Yoongi barely spared him a glance, smiling as he met your gaze.

“So, Thunder, have you decided?”

You blinked. “Thunder?”

Yoongi looked just as confused as you. “Yeah. You smell like it. Didn’t you realize?”

Your brows furrowed, and you shook your head. Jungkook’s hand hovered just over your lower back, the heat of his presence grounding you, even as you remained puzzled by Yoongi’s words.

Then, Yoongi’s sharp gaze flickered to Jungkook. His expression shifted slightly, as if piecing something together. His eyes dipped to the collar of Jungkook’s shirt—where, if one knew what to look for, they’d see the faintest hint of your mark. Barely visible, easy to miss.

Yoongi chuckled under his breath.

“So?” he pressed.

“I…” You faltered, fumbling with your words.

Jungkook clenched his jaw.

He wanted to step in, to tell Yoongi off, to grab you, scent you, take you home before anyone else had the chance to make you second-guess your choice. But this wasn’t his decision to make.

Then, just as he braced himself for your answer, you took a step toward Yoongi.

And hugged him.

Jungkook’s heart lurched.

It wasn’t a possessive hug, not the kind that sent fire roaring through his veins. It was soft. Grateful. A gesture of appreciation rather than hesitation.

“Thank you, Yoongi,” you murmured, stepping back. “Really.”

Then, you turned—your gaze sweeping over the rest of the pack.

Jimin looked like he was vibrating with nerves. Hana seemed as though she might faint. Seokjin was gripping Hoseok’s hand so tightly that his knuckles had gone white, as if awaiting the decision of a lifetime.

You chuckled.

“Thank you for seeing me,” you said, voice steady now. “But I want to truly see them before I can go anywhere. So, I have to decline.”

Yoongi nodded, hands tucked into his pockets, his smile warm but knowing. “Thought so.”

His gaze flickered to Jungkook, unreadable for just a second.

“But the invitation still stands,” Yoongi added, meeting your eyes again. “If you ever see something you don’t like—if you ever need a way out—come looking for me.”

A low, dangerous growl rumbled from Jungkook’s chest before he could stop it.

You only chuckled, nudging him in warning.

With that, Yoongi and Namjoon left.

Jungkook barely gave you time to breathe before he had you back in his arms, pulling you flush against him. His grip was firm, his lips pressing against your temple, his body curling around yours in a way that left no room for argument.

You laughed, struggling half-heartedly against his hold. “Jungkook—”

“You smell like that mutt,” he grumbled, voice dark, but not truly angry. His lips ghosted over your skin, his teeth grazing just enough to send a shiver down your spine.

“Jungkook,” you scolded, half amused, half exasperated.

“Not my fault he got too close,” he muttered, his hands sliding over your hips, as if physically reclaiming you. “Gotta fix it.”

“You can’t just—”

His nose brushed against your neck, inhaling deeply. “I can. And I will.”

But before you could say anything he continued “I meant what I said,” his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, quieter now, his forehead coming to rest against yours. “If you’d left, I would’ve followed.”

“I know.” Your hands moved from his hair to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palms. “But I didn’t want to leave. I want this. I want—”

“Me,” Jungkook finished for you, and there was a hint of something teasing in his voice, but mostly, there was relief.

You rolled your eyes but smiled, brushing your nose against his. “Yes, you, idiot.”

A deep, pleased sound rumbled from his chest. “Then let me fix this.”

You huffed. “At least let me finish packing first?”

Jungkook let out a displeased sound but, begrudgingly, let you go—“Put your stuff with mine,” though not without grumbling under his breath as you moved to help your pack. You exhaled a soft laugh, warmth spreading through your chest.

And it didn’t take long for the teasing to begin.

“Oh, he’s not letting you out of his sight, huh?” Jimin snickered, watching as Jungkook hovered near you like a restless shadow.

“You better not run off,” Seokjin called out, smirking. “I don’t think he’d survive it.”

“You’re lucky, you know,” Hoseok added, throwing an arm over your shoulder. “He never acts like this. Usually, he just scowls at everyone.”

Jungkook growled, yanking you out of Hoseok’s hold with a glare.

Hana, still looking slightly overwhelmed, gave you a hesitant smile. “I guess that means you’re really staying?”

You glanced at Jungkook, at the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the entire world. His fingers curled around yours instinctively, possessive but warm.

A slow smile spread across your lips.

“Yeah,” you said, squeezing his hand. “I’m staying.”

Jungkook exhaled, relief flooding through him, though he tried not to show just how much your words meant. But when you leaned in, pressing a kiss to his jaw, his entire body melted against yours. And as the pack continued to tease and celebrate, as laughter and warmth surrounded you, you realized—this wasn’t just Jungkook’s pack anymore.

This was your home.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Part 1 I Masterlist