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tinycatharsis · 11 days ago

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wait another bae dropped omg

THE WAY I LOVED YOU — park sunghoon

Years after a quiet, painful breakup, you are assigned to write a profile on South Korea’s most elusive figure skater, Park Sunghoon, who just so happens to be your ex-boyfriend. What was supposed to be a byline quickly spirals into a collision of unresolved feelings, buried emotions that are edging too close to the surface, and the slow thaw between two people who once meant the world to each other. With every step you take back into his orbit, the line between story and truth begins to blur—and the version of him you thought you knew starts to unravel.

word count: 44k (LMFAOOOOOOO)

pairing: figureskater!ex!sunghoon x sportsjournalist!afab!reader

featuring: yunah, minju, and moka from illit

genre: figure skating au, exes to lovers, the one that got away, sunshine x midnight rain, second chance romance, right person wrong time but also becomes right time(?), opposites attract, slow burn, ANGST

warnings: this story contains miscommunication at its PEAK, emotional distress, mentions of injury, past breakup, abandonment, and themes of regret, long-distance, sunghoon ice prince stereotype, mutual pining, girl putting more effort than guy, hopeless romantic core, emphasis on love language, usage of profanities, slight indication of intimacy (literally like one paragraph if you squint), angst, angst, angst, and oh! angst, also maybe slight inaccuracies to real life sports delegations(?)

disclaimer: this is a work of pure fiction. If any context is similar to any other stories, it's either inspired (in which credit will be given) or just a coincidence. the characters' personalities, words, actions and thoughts do not represent them in real life. any resemblance to any real life events or person, present or past, are purely coincidental. i apologise in advance for any spelling or grammar mistakes. characters are aged up for plot purpose.

notes from nat: ngl. i almost didn't want to put this out. but I know people have been waiting and I can be overly critical with myself sometimes... and 44k words is ALOT to just leave it in the drafts, so here you guys go! highly recommended to read with the playlist i curated in order! without further ado, enjoy!

tags: #tfwy thewayilovedyou #tfwy au

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The office is louder than usual for a Monday morning. Keyboards clatter like a percussion ensemble, and the faint hum of printers competes with the buzz of hurried conversations. The aroma of coffee lingers, sharp and bitter. You sit at your desk, staring at your laptop screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard but typing nothing.

Your new assignment email glares at you with a subject line you never thought you’d see: "Profile Piece on Park Sunghoon."

Park Sunghoon. Even his name feels heavy in your chest.

Memories surge to the surface—his laughter ringing through late-night phone calls, the sparkle in his eyes when he spoke about skating, and the tension in his voice during those last arguments before everything unravelled. It’s been years, but the ghost of him lingers like a song stuck in your head.

“Y/N, you’ve got the Sunghoon piece, right?” your editor, Yunah, calls out, snapping you out of your trance. She’s a whirlwind of energy, dressed in a sharp blazer with a coffee mug permanently glued to her hand.

“Yeah,” you reply, trying to sound casual, though your voice wavers slightly. “I’ve got it.”

“Good,” she says, striding over to your desk. “The story’s got legs. Everyone’s buzzing about his reappearance and return to Korea. Olympic dreams, media darling, potential scandal… you’ve got to dig deep on this one. Make it personal.”

“Personal?” The word makes your stomach churn. “Isn’t that more tabloidy than what we’re used to?”

“Sports tabloids pay the bills, sweetheart,” Yunah says with a shrug. “And you’re the perfect person for this. You’ve got the knack for human stories, and Sunghoon’s story is nothing if not human. Besides, you went to the same university, right?”

The question hangs in the air, deceptively light. You hesitate for a moment too long, and Yunah’s brows lift, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips. “Ah, I see,” she says teasingly. “Well, use it to your advantage.”

Of course. You forgot you're surrounded by people who read body language for a living. There’s no hiding anything from her.

She walks away before you can respond, leaving you with the sinking realisation that she’s not entirely wrong. Who better to cover Park Sunghoon’s meteoric rise—and whatever personal demons he’s carrying—than the girl who once loved him?

By lunchtime, you’ve done enough digging to know exactly what you’re up against.

Sunghoon’s name is everywhere.

His face—still frustratingly photogenic—plastered across articles, feature spreads, and fan-edited clips with dramatic music overlays. They all show a polished, confident man, far removed from the awkward boy you used to know. His dark hair is perfectly styled, his tailored suits scream sophistication, and his trademark smirk has only grown more enigmatic.

You scroll through write-ups that gush about his triumphant return to the ice. They speculate whether he’ll qualify for the next international season, drop cryptic mentions of a “new fire in his eyes,” and cite sources that can’t seem to agree whether his hiatus was due to injury or personal issues. Or both.

There are whispers about a reality show stint during his time in Spain—something lowkey, never officially aired, but leaked through blurry screenshots and strategically placed fan theories. A training arc in disguise, if you had to guess. Classic Sunghoon: disappearing, reinventing, and re-emerging like nothing happened.

And now? He’s starting to make headlines again.

Which makes sense, you suppose. He hasn’t been in the public eye for months. Not since that withdrawal from the Grand Prix final. Not since the buzz about that infamous tussle—the one that sports reporters avoided naming outright but loved to allude to. The speculation only made him more mysterious. More magnetic. The kind of story that writes itself: the fallen star, re-forging his crown.

Yunah’s right—the story’s got legs. You just wish you weren’t the one chasing it.

You stare blankly at the screen, lips pressed together as your cursor hovers over yet another article about him.

You were supposed to be over this.

And yet, you can’t deny the tightness coiling in your chest—not jealousy, exactly. Not regret, either. Just something far messier. The kind of feeling that comes from watching someone you once loved be glorified by the same world that never saw the nights you spent waiting for him to call. The world that didn’t witness the quiet crumbling of a girl who poured so much of herself into someone who didn’t know how to hold it.

You slam your laptop shut.

If he’s back on the ice, fine. Good for him.

But you’re not the same girl who used to cry over his missed calls and make excuses for his silence. You have a job to do. A byline to earn. And if this rink ends up being his comeback stage, then so be it.

You’ll be there—not as the girl who once loved him, but as the reporter who can write his rise without flinching.

The first step is setting up an interview, which means reaching out to his management. This whole thing could very well end here. You’ll send the email, Sunghoon will reject the request—just like he does with every other news agency or tabloid that thinks they can score an exclusive interview with him. Yunah will realise you’re not some journalistic prodigy, and she’ll move on to the next big headline.

That should comfort you. When Sunghoon says no, it’s over—no awkward reunions, no dredging up memories you’ve spent years trying to bury. And yet, you hesitate, fingers trembling as they hover over the keyboard.

The email stares back at you, every word perfectly composed, detached, professional. It doesn’t betray the tangle of thoughts fighting for dominance in your mind.

From: You Subject: Interview Request for Park Sunghoon Profile Piece Dear Ms. Yoon, I hope this email finds you well. My name is Kang Y/N, and I’m a journalist with Manifesto Daily. Our team is planning a profile piece on athlete Park Sunghoon, focusing on his inspiring journey as a professional athlete and his return to Korea. I would like to request an interview with Mr. Park to discuss his career, his aspirations for the future, and any personal insights he’d be willing to share with our readers. The piece aims to highlight his achievements and provide a deeper understanding of the person behind the athlete. Please let me know a time and date that would work best for Mr. Park’s schedule. I am happy to accommodate and can meet at his convenience. Should you require any further details about the story or our publication, please don’t hesitate to reach out. Thank you for considering this request. I look forward to your response. Best regards, Kang Y/N Senior Journalist (Sports Division) Manifesto Daily +82 XX XXXX YYYY

Highlight his achievements and provide a deeper understanding of the person behind the athlete. You scoff. As if you don’t already have enough material to craft an in-depth exposé on Park Sunghoon—complete with anecdotes, vivid details, and a treasure trove of receipts that you’ve kept buried at the back of your mind, and perhaps in a folder on your computer.

You know the kind of person Park Sunghoon is. You’ve seen him at his most passionate, the fire in his eyes when he spoke about mastering a new routine, and at his most vulnerable, when doubts about his own abilities kept him up at night.

You’ve also witnessed him at his ugliest—those moments when he seemed completely disinterested during your calls, only for you to catch glimpses of him laughing unabashedly in his training mate’s Instagram stories. When he sent curt, dry texts that cut to your insecurities, leaving you questioning if you were the problem. And yet, now here you are, facing the daunting question: Who is he today? A polished media darling, exuding poise and confidence, or a jerk who simply broke your heart?

You’re not just writing a profile; it’s about untangling the complexities of the boy you once loved and the man he has become, all while confronting the version of him that’s lived rent-free in your head for years.

When you finally hit send, you lean back in your chair, exhaling deeply. It’s done. Now all you can do is wait.

The reply comes faster than expected.

For a moment, you stare at the screen, rereading the email as if the words might change.

He said yes. The one answer you hadn’t prepared yourself for. A mix of relief and dread washes over you in waves, leaving you momentarily frozen.

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: Interview Request for Park Sunghoon Profile Piece Dear Ms. Kang, Thank you for reaching out. Sunghoon has reviewed your request and is happy to make time to participate in the interview for your profile piece. We appreciate your interest in highlighting his journey and achievements. The interview can be scheduled for this Thursday at 3:00 PM at the Olympic Training Rink in Seoul. Please confirm if this timing works for you. Additionally, let us know if there are any specific topics or questions you’d like Sunghoon to prepare for in advance. Should you require further assistance, feel free to contact me directly. Best regards, Yoon Ji-eun Executive Assistant, Park Sunghoon +82 XX XXXX YYYY

“Happy to make time,” you mutter under your breath, staring at the email on your screen. A bitter laugh escapes before you can stop it. Does he even remember you? Or are you just another journalist to him now, a faceless name lost among the countless people chasing for a headline?

He must remember you. Right? After all, you were together for over four years—four long, formative years that shaped so much of who you are. And out of those four, at least three were good years. Happy years. The kind of memories that even if you wanted to forget, you couldn’t.

He isn’t just part of your past; he is your past. From the moment you met him in freshman year college during orientation, to your graduation, and all the way up to the day he left for Spain to chase his dreams, Sunghoon was a constant—a gravitational force you couldn’t escape.

Late-night study sessions that turned into early-morning phone calls. The excitement of travelling to watch his competitions, where his focus on the ice was matched only by the way his eyes would light up when he found you waiting in the stands. The quiet moments, too—the ones where he’d rest his head on your lap after a long day of training, eyes closed, his walls momentarily lowered.

You remember all of it, vividly. How could you not? It’s etched into the foundation of who you are, whether you like it or not. He alone made up your youth.

And he alone crushed it.

The day of the interview arrives quicker than you’re ready for. The sky is overcast, mirroring the grey swirl of nerves in your stomach as you make your way to the Olympic Training Rink. The moment you step inside, a wave of cold air hits you—crisp and unforgiving, seeping through your coat like a reminder of why you're really here.

The rink is quieter than expected. No coaches shouting instructions, no background music blaring. Just the sharp, rhythmic slice of blades on ice echoing through the vast, open space. The sound is hypnotic.

You spot him immediately. His movements are unmistakable—precise, elegant, detached—just like the version of him the world sees now. It’s surreal. For a moment, you're frozen. He’s always been like this on the ice, as if he belongs to a world the rest of us can only watch from the sidelines.

When he finally notices you, he skates over, his expression unreadable. Up close, he’s both familiar and foreign. The boy you loved is still there, but he’s hidden beneath layers of polished professionalism and years of distance.

“Y/N,” he says, his voice even. “It’s been a while.”

You force a smile, clutching your research papers like it’s the only thing tethering you to professionalism. “It has. Thanks for agreeing to this.”

He nods, gaze unwavering. “Anything for the press, right?”

The faintest curl of his lip accompanies the words, not quite a smirk, but it lands somewhere between sarcasm and civility. There’s a hint of irony in his tone, and you can’t tell if he’s mocking you, the situation, or himself. Either way, it stings in a place you wish was long numb.

You follow him as he skates toward the side lounge near the rink, where a table and chair have been set up for you. You set your things down, press the recorder button, and glance at your questions. But already, you can feel it—the reckoning of something unspoken humming beneath every word, every breath.

The breakup was as cold and sharp as the ice he mastered so effortlessly. Sunghoon’s inability to express himself had always been a quiet undercurrent in your relationship, but distance magnified the cracks until they became impossible to ignore.

At first, you told yourself it was temporary. A phase. Just the price of loving someone whose dreams demanded everything of him. While he trained under the Spanish sun—chasing medals, perfection, legacy—you remained behind, stuck in the grey stillness of routine. Every morning was a quiet scroll through his tagged posts: flashes of sunlight on ice, arms slung around new faces, effortless smiles captured in perfect golden-hour light. He looked happy. Free. And you… you were still waiting, clinging to half-hearted apologies and empty reassurances.

The timezone difference was a fact of life, yes—but it wasn’t the hours that made him feel far away. It was the way he spoke with one foot already out the door. Every call became more strained, the conversation shallow, like he was rationing his energy and you were the last on his list. His words were careful, rehearsed, as if emotional honesty was a risk he couldn’t afford on top of training and public scrutiny.

Sometimes he wouldn’t even call, and when they did come, they hurt more than the silence. His eyes flickered elsewhere on the screen, distracted by movement off-camera or the notifications lighting up his phone. His voice was flat, barely warm, like he was speaking to a colleague—not someone who used to fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat. The nickname "Ice Prince" had once made you laugh, made you tease him during post-practice ramen dates. But it wasn’t funny anymore. It became a prophecy fulfilled—he had built walls you could no longer scale, frozen over the places you used to call home.

When the arguments came, they were frigid and brittle, snapping under the weight of unspoken frustrations. You started to memorise the pauses in his speech, the way he hesitated before saying your name—as though he wasn’t sure how to feel about it anymore.

It wasn’t just the miles between you that drove you apart—it was the glacier of his guarded heart, one you couldn’t thaw no matter how hard you tried.

And then one night, wrapped in a hoodie that still smelled faintly of him, you sat curled up on the steep edge of your windowsill, your knees pulled tight to your chest, eyes scanning the city like it might offer you answers. The lights blinked on like constellations you couldn’t name anymore, and you realised—with a crushing, reluctant clarity—you were holding him back.

But more importantly, he was holding you back.

Your lives had become separate timelines that only intersected on screens and stilted calls, and even then, it felt like you were orbiting each other with no gravity left to pull you close again. The connection you once cherished had thinned until it became a thread you had to squint to see, and even then, it felt like a lie.

So you did the one thing that felt more honest than any of your recent conversations: you typed out the words you’d been avoiding for weeks, hands shaking, eyes blurry.

“Maybe we’re both better off letting go.”

And hit send.

Just like that, another four years passed without him.

Time, as always, moved in quiet, unremarkable ways—through the steady ticking of clocks and the dull rhythm of workdays blending into each other. You had slowly, stubbornly, climbed the ranks of your publishing company, carving a name for yourself as a senior reporter. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was yours.

Unexpectedly, you had found yourself swept into the whirlwind of sports journalism—ironic, in retrospect, considering how closely that world is being tied to him. But you told yourself it was coincidence. That it was your choice now. That your world, your career, your interests, were no longer shadowed by Sunghoon's orbit or shaped by the way he used to talk about the thrill of competing and nailing six-minute routines like they were sacred.

You insisted you were free. And maybe that was true. But in the quiet spaces between deadlines and press boxes, in the few spare seconds before interviews began or crowds broke into applause, you couldn’t stop that lingering, almost shameful thought from blooming: that maybe, just maybe, some part of you had always hoped to run into him again.

Not to rekindle anything. Not to reach for what had already slipped through your fingers.

But to show him. Show him that you had thrived. That you were still standing after everything. That the girl he left behind was long gone, replaced by someone sharper, stronger, more whole.

But now—now that you find yourself in this predicament, frozen in place on the edge of a rink you never expected to be at, watching the familiar curve of his form cut across the ice with the same breathtaking grace—you feel like a fool for ever thinking you were ready.

You want nothing more than for the ground beneath you to crack open and swallow you whole. Because seeing him again doesn’t fill you with triumph. It doesn’t validate anything. It just hurts.

Worse than it should.

And it terrifies you how easy it is to fall back into that ache.

“Hello? Earth to Y/N.”

You blink, startled out of your reverie by the sight of Sunghoon waving a hand in front of your face. You hadn’t even realised you'd spaced out.

“Sorry,” you murmur, clearing your throat. Your fingers fumble with the papers you had so meticulously prepped—highlighted, annotated, sorted in order—yet now you pretend to look for something among them, just to avoid his gaze. You know it’s a weak cover. And karma hits fast.

A gust of air from the heater overhead flutters your stack of papers, and before you can react, a dozen sheets slip from your grip and scatter. Some land across the floor. Others fly dramatically over the rink’s low barricade, drifting like paper snowflakes onto the pristine ice.

“Oh, shit—” you hiss, already scrambling to gather them, crawling after loose pages that slip under chairs and along the skirting of the rink. You’re mumbling curses to yourself under your breath as you pick up the pieces of paper off the floor when your eyes zone in on a particular page that landed upright. Your breath catches.

Reference 4: Compilation of Netizens’ Impressions on Athlete Park

+62 -12 wow as expected park sunghoon! young, rich and handsome. must be a dream to date someone like him Dream or nightmare? Not really sure but okay.

+120 -24 kyaaaa he’s so handsome!! I’m a fan! What’s the point of being handsome? He’s a jerk!

+82 -4 wow how can someone look so perfect… he looks like a disney character Correct. More specifically, that giant ice golem from Frozen -.-

+32 -6 i wonder if he has a girlfriend. There must be so much pressure dating someone as perfect as Park Sunghoon. It’s okay, i’ll volunteer!! No pressure. He doesn’t open up enough for you to feel pressure. Still, may the odds be ever in your favour.

Your stomach drops. You’d forgotten those were even there—your sardonic, late-night annotations scribbled in red pen. Bitter, sharp, personal. And littered all over your research stack.

You snap your head up, and horror freezes your limbs.

Sunghoon is on the ice leaning casually against the rink barricade, one of the annotated pages in hand. His expression is a cocktail of amusement and disbelief, and worst of all—a hint of knowing. He reads aloud in a slow, deliberate tone, his voice dripping with mockery.

“‘Park Sunghoon is a block of ice personified. If you want to know what it's like dating a block of ice, 10/10 recommend.’”

He scoffs, dropping the page slightly to meet your eyes.

“Interesting research.”

Your blood rushes to your ears. You feel exposed, raw, like someone’s just peeled the skin back from every nerve ending and left them pulsing in the open air. You can’t even remember writing that annotation—but of course it’s in red, underlined, and impossible to ignore. One of many off-handed comments scrawled across your notes, never meant to be seen. Certainly not by him.

“I—I didn’t mean for that to—” You falter. What can you even say? You were angry when you wrote those, bitter and alone at 2 a.m., trying to turn pain into sarcasm.

Sunghoon studies you, his expression unreadable again. But there’s something in the way he watches you—like he’s trying to figure out if you’re the same girl he once knew, or someone entirely new. Someone just as guarded now as he once was.

“Didn’t mean for what?” he drawls, raising an eyebrow. “You mean you didn’t mean to write all these berating comments in bold red ink all over your research paper?” He plucks up another sheet from the scattered pile, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Let’s see what else we’ve got.”

You instantly recognise that one. Your heart sinks. It’s that page—the one where you’d printed promotional shots of him modelling for an active sportswear brand. Not only had you annotated it with snide remarks about his ‘unnecessarily photogenic jawline,’ but you’d also drawn little devil horns and moustaches across his face like a deranged kindergartener with a vendetta.

“Oh my god, give me that!” you blurt out, reaching instinctively over the rink barricade in an attempt to snatch it back. But of course, Sunghoon is Sunghoon—a whole seven inches taller and built like someone who only lives and breaths protein. He easily keeps the paper just out of reach, lifting it higher with an infuriating flick of his wrist.

And then there’s the bloody barricade. Cold, unyielding metal pressing against your ribs as you lean further than you probably should. You’re close enough now to see the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, the smug glint in his eyes that says he’s enjoying this far too much.

“Wow,” he muses, inspecting the doodles with mock appreciation. “You even gave me fangs. That’s new.”

“Sunghoon, I swear to God—”

“Relax.” He folds the paper with exaggerated care and waves it around in the air, taunting you. “I’m flattered you still think about me. Even if it’s in your own… special way.”

You feel a slow, rising heat on your cheeks, accompanied by the realisation that you’re no longer sure who’s in control of this interview anymore—you or the boy you once loved who is now laughing at your annotated emotional breakdowns.

You’re burning with embarrassment. Mortification. But more than that, you’re furious—at him, at yourself, at the stupid page still clutched in his hand like a golden ticket. Without thinking, you shove open the rink’s side gate and step onto the ice.

“Y/N—” he calls, warning laced in his voice. But you don’t listen.

Your flats hit the ice and your body immediately regrets the decision. You’re not dressed for this. The soles of your shoes slip against the surface, and gravity betrays you in a matter of seconds.

“Shit—!”

You yelp as your foot skids out from under you. The papers in your hand fly upward in a dramatic arc, and your arms flail as you lose balance completely. A part of you braces for the impact, the cold bite of ice against your back and the guaranteed humiliation that’ll follow.

Four years since you’ve seen your ex-boyfriend, and you’re about to face-plant onto the very place that drove him away from you.

Damn this ice rink. Damn you, Park Sunghoon.

But the fall never comes.

Instead, there’s a sudden blur of motion—fast, practiced, effortless. Arms wrap around you just in time, steadying your momentum as your body lurches forward. You slam into something solid—someone solid—and for a moment, all you hear is the rapid pounding of your heart and the low whoosh of his skates cutting against the ice.

You look up.

Sunghoon stares down at you, jaw tight, one arm around your waist and the other gripping your wrist where he caught you. The smirk is gone now, replaced with something quieter—unreadable.

You’re close. Too close. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his breath, the lingering warmth of his touch against your coat sleeve. He steadies you like muscle memory, like no time has passed at all.

“You never change,” he mutters under his breath, but there’s something indecipherable in his tone—annoyed, maybe. Or amused. Or maybe he just doesn’t know what to feel either.

You pull away quickly, too quickly, slipping again slightly before you regain your footing with a shaky huff. Your palms are planted against his chest, and you can feel the familiar beat of his heart under all that armour of fabric and calm. It rattles you more than the near-fall did.

You open your mouth to snap something biting—maybe about how you didn’t need his help, or how you’d rather eat the ice than owe him—but then you see it.

A flicker of pain across his face. A wince.

It’s subtle. So quick that anyone else might’ve missed it. But not you. You’d studied that face for years. You know what his mask looks like when it slips.

He straightens a little too stiffly, his jaw tightening as he shifts his weight from one leg to the other. It’s slight, but telling. Your brows draw together as a thought rises, uninvited and stubborn.

The rumours about his injury.

It wasn’t reported officially—just whispers that circulated through the sports journalism grapevine. A rumoured altercation in Spain with another figure skater. A "tussle," they called it. No names, no details, just speculation buried in a few poorly sourced articles and message board threads that vanished almost as quickly as they appeared. Some even said it was the real reason he disappeared from competition for two entire seasons.

At the time, it had seemed like nothing more than gossip. Now, watching the way he stands with deliberate caution, the rumour doesn’t seem so far-fetched.

“You okay?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

He pauses, then gives a short nod, not meeting your eyes. “Fine. You’re the one slipping all over the place.”

You bristle. “Well, maybe if you didn’t dangle incriminating evidence over the ice like a Bond villain—”

He actually laughs at that. It’s quiet, caught off guard, and so startlingly familiar that it sends a jolt through your chest. For a second, just a second, you forget everything else—the sarcasm, the history, the sharp words—and remember how that laugh used to feel like home.

But it fades quickly. And in its place is that wall again—the carefully constructed version of him the world sees.

You dust yourself off, avoiding his gaze as you mutter, “Thanks. For not letting me faceplant.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says, voice neutral again. “Would’ve been a liability issue.”

You roll your eyes and crouch to pick up another page, trying to focus on your scattered notes rather than the ache settling low in your chest. He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his eyes on you, can feel the weight of everything unsaid pressing down between you.

Your mind also lingers on the way he winced—on the possibility that something deeper still lurks beneath the polished exterior.

“I’m on a tight schedule today. Let’s get the interview started, shall we?” Sunghoon says coolly, handing you the last of your scattered notes.

You take it from him, eyes briefly flickering to the page. Another cringe ripples through you—more scribbled sarcasm in the margins, barely legible under your rushed handwriting. Fantastic. But you school your expression, swallowing the urge to snatch it back and set it on fire.

“Thanks,” you say evenly, forcing composure into your voice as you tuck the page into your folder. “Let’s begin.”

You sit back down, smoothing the creases from your notes as you click the recorder on again. Your pen hovers above the page for a second too long.

“Alright,” you begin, adopting your neutral reporter tone, “let’s start with something simple. You’ve been back in Korea for a little over three months now. How has the transition been, returning after so long abroad?”

Sunghoon leans forward slightly, arms crossed in that easy, guarded posture you remember all too well.

“Busy,” he says. “Familiar, in some ways. But the pace here is different. Everyone’s watching. Everyone expects something.”

You jot that down, even though it doesn’t say much. It’s a good warm-up answer. Controlled. Polished.

“Does that pressure ever affect your performance?” you press gently, eyes flicking up to catch his expression.

He shrugs, gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder. “Pressure’s part of the job. If it affects you, you don’t belong here.”

You resist the urge to raise a brow. There it is again—that edge in his voice, so calm it almost passes for indifference. Almost.

You move to your next question. “You’ve recently partnered with Belift for their new activewear line. What drew you to them over the other offers on the table?”

A pause. A flicker of amusement tugs at the corner of his mouth. You realise too late that this is the same line of questioning printed on the devil-horned page still sticking out of your folder.

“I liked their vision,” he says, but the glance he gives you is pointed. “Something about... sharp lines and ice tones. Felt on-brand.”

You cough lightly, ignoring the jab. “And the photoshoot?” you ask, pen poised again. “You received quite a response online. Some say it marked a shift in your public image—less ‘Ice Prince,’ more...”

“‘Devilishly handsome and emotionally unavailable’?” he offers, arching a brow.

You shoot him a look. “That’s not exactly what I was going to say.”

“Sure it wasn’t.”

A beat of silence passes before you recover. “Let’s pivot. In Spain, you were training under Coach Morales. How did his style compare to what you were used to in Korea?”

Sunghoon exhales, shoulders dropping slightly. For the first time, his answer comes without a filter.

“He was tougher. Stricter, but less traditional. He didn’t care how I was perceived—only what I delivered. And if I didn’t deliver, he made sure I knew it.”

Something flickers in his eyes—something heavy and lived-in. You don’t push. Not yet.

You scribble a note before asking, softer this time, “Was that hard for you?”

He pauses. “No,” he says after a moment. “What was hard was unlearning everything I thought I already knew.”

The sentence lands with a thud in your chest.

You nod slowly, tapping your pen against your notebook. “Unlearning can be the hardest part,” you say, and you’re not sure whether you’re talking about figure skating... or each other.

You glance at your next question, fingers tightening slightly around your pen. The rhythm of the interview is shifting—balancing between surface-level poise and the weight of everything that hasn’t been said.

“Your return to Korea has been a hot topic amongst our readers,” you begin, tone level. “It’s been a solid three years since the last time you were in the country for the Winter Olympics. Naturally, people are curious—what brought you back? Especially considering the new season is starting soon.”

Sunghoon leans back in his seat, arms loosely crossed. “I can't give away too many details,” he says, gaze cool but not unkind. “Long story short, I’m in the country for some personal reasons that I'd prefer not to disclose.”

You nod, jotting something down even though it’s barely usable. Your next question hovers on your tongue, heavier than the others. “I see. Well, there have been some rumours… surrounding an altercation with another figure skater—someone else under Coach Morales’ regime. Do you have any comment on that?”

His eyes flick to yours—sharper this time. He doesn’t respond right away. You hear the faint rustle of paper, the soft crunch of his skates shifting on the ice. “Is that part of the interview? Or just personal curiosity?”

You look up at him, your expression unreadable. “Does it matter?”

“Well, I assure you there was no altercation,” he says smoothly. “Just minor disagreements.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Care to elaborate?”

“Not really.”

The tension in the air thickens, more palpable than the chill radiating off the ice behind him.

You clear your throat. “Alright. Then what about your injury? How’s recovery? Two seasons is a long time to disappear. Many fans were concerned when you missed the CS Lombardia Trophy in Italy last year. That was a pretty high-profile absence.”

You don’t even know where that came from. The question is not on your list—not even in the margins. But the words slip out anyway, fuelled by instinct more than intention. A part of you just wants to know. Wants to see if he’ll flinch again, if he’ll tell the truth, if he’s still capable of letting someone in—even if it’s just for a moment.

At first, he’s stoic. But then you see it—the shift in his posture, the twitch of tension in his jaw. He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t even flinch.

Instead, he says, “That’s not the story you’re here for.”

“Maybe not,” you murmur. “But it’s the one people would care about.”

A long silence stretches between you, taut as a drawn wire. He’s no longer smirking. No longer deflecting. Just staring, as if weighing something inside himself.

“I don’t believe I ever mentioned being injured,” he replies, with a short, hollow laugh. “These rumours get way too out of hand and invasive sometimes, don’t you think, Reporter Kang?”

That tone again—playful on the surface, barbed just beneath.

You lower your pen slowly, your professionalism fraying at the edges. “Look,” you say, voice quieter, firmer. “If you're not going to give me anything to work with, why'd you even say yes to this interview in the first place?”

The recorder is still running. The room is still silent. But something in the air has shifted—subtle, but irreversible. The space between you no longer feels professional. It feels personal.

Not reporter and subject.

Just you and him. Two people orbiting the same history, waiting for someone to say the next honest thing.

He moves first. Exhales through his nose—almost a laugh, but not quite. “You’re still the same.”

“No,” you say softly. “I’m really not.”

He studies you at that, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s trying to read a story written in a language he once knew by heart. “You’re bolder now,” he admits. “Sharper around the edges.”

“And you’ve learnt how to talk like a press release.”

He huffs a short breath, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Comes with the territory.”

“Right. Just a clean-cut, polished professional athlete now.” You tuck a paper into your folder, but your eyes linger on him a moment longer.

Still so familiar. Still so far.

You slide the last paper into your folder, but your hands don’t move to close it. You just sit there, the silence pressing down between you again. Your gaze drops to the recorder, still blinking softly.

“Do you want me to turn it off?” you ask quietly.

Sunghoon doesn’t answer right away. His jaw tenses, like he’s debating something with himself. Then, slowly, he nods.

You reach forward and press the button. The soft click echoes louder than it should.

For a while, neither of you speaks. It’s not awkward, but it’s weighty. Careful. Like standing on a frozen lake, knowing one wrong move could crack the surface.

“I didn’t come back for a sponsorship,” he says eventually, his voice lower than it’s been all day. “Or to prep for the season. Not really.”

You glance up, meeting his eyes.

“I came back because I didn’t know where else to go,” he admits. “I needed to feel... something familiar. Just for a while.”

His fingers tap a slow rhythm against his thigh, a nervous habit you remember well. The same one from when he used to sit beside you during exams, whispering under his breath that he was going to flunk—only to ace the paper every time.

You just nod, not sure how to respond to this sudden vulnerability. Truthfully, throughout your four years of dating, he had never truly let himself be vulnerable in front of you. Not fully.

Sure, you’d seen him tired. You’d seen him frustrated. You’d seen the cracks on the surface when pressure pushed too hard—but he always wore his pride like armour, always bounced back with a smirk or a shrug, always insisted he was fine, even when you knew he wasn’t.

But this—this quiet confession, this barely-audible tremor in his voice—it feels different.

Feels like he's reaching out to you.

And it guts you more than you’d like to admit.

You shift slightly in your seat, unsure if you’re meant to comfort him or just bear witness. “Is that why you said yes to this?” you ask. “To the interview?”

His eyes flick toward you, then away again.

“I wasn’t sure,” he says after a beat. “Maybe I just wanted to see you.”

Your breath catches. The words aren’t said with romantic flourish, not laced with sweetness or longing—but they still land squarely in your chest, knocking something loose.

You don’t know what to say. For once, your head isn’t filled with questions or comebacks. Just the ghost of a hundred conversations you never had, and the echo of all the things that could have been different if either of you had said the honest thing first.

But it’s too late for that now.

You glance down at your folder, lips pressed into a thin line. “Thanks for your time,” you say, and it’s so formal, so distant, it might as well have come from someone else entirely.

"I'm assuming I'll hear from your legal representative if I use any of these in my piece."

Your voice is calm, steady—too steady. The sentence lands like a wall slamming back into place between you, brick by brick. You don’t say it to be cruel. You say it because you need to anchor yourself in something safe, something distant. Because the moment felt too raw, too real, and you don’t know what to do with the part of you that wanted to reach across the table instead of retreat.

Sunghoon stiffens. Just slightly.

“No,” he says after a moment. “You won’t. Off the record’s fine. Not like it matters now, anyway.”

You nod once, curt. “Got it.”

And just like that, the spell breaks. The weight in the room doesn't lift, but it shifts—muted now, buried again beneath layers of detachment and professionalism. The kind you’ve both grown too good at.

You don’t look at him when you stand. Don’t give yourself the chance to. Your hands move on autopilot—closing the recorder, tucking your pen away, zipping your coat with fingers that tremble ever so slightly. And then you’re moving, steps brisk and deliberate, the sound of your boots against the concrete floor too loud in the quiet.

Behind you, you hear nothing.

No apology. No explanation. No plea.

Just silence.

Sunghoon opens his mouth—his hand halfway raised, like he’s about to call your name. But the words never make it past his lips. He watches you go, jaw clenched, the moment slipping through his fingers before he even realises he still wanted to hold onto it.

For him, seeing you again was something he knew he would never truly be prepared for, no matter how many times he rehearsed this conversation in his head. Because you were never a script he could memorise.

You were always unpredictable. Slipping through moments like sand through his fingers—too quick, too sharp, too full of feeling. He remembers how your emotions came in layers—some loud and impulsive, others quiet and impossible to decipher. And maybe that’s what scared him the most.

Because he never quite knew how to meet you where you were.

You made decisions faster than he could process. You said the things he only thought about. And you demanded a kind of presence, a kind of emotional honesty, that he had spent most of his life trying to avoid. A part of him had admired that about you. Another part? It drove him insane.

Now, as your figure disappears through the doors without so much as a backward glance, he feels that same ache blooming in his chest again—familiar and bitter.

He told himself that this would be closure.

But it doesn’t feel like the end. It feels like a page he never finished reading.

And you’re already gone.

You spend the next few hours drafting the profile piece that was supposedly meant to “provide a deeper understanding of the person behind the athlete.” Though with the material you’ve managed to gather, it’s unlikely you’ll even graze the surface.

Whatever. Just give them the Sunghoon they want: the enigmatic comeback king, the prodigy turned recluse turned headline again. You’ll quote his stats, mention his precision, maybe even throw in a poetic metaphor about how the ice has always been his canvas. You’ll do your job. Professionally. Neutrally.

You’ve done harder things. Covered messier stories. Interviewed athletes who could barely string a sentence together. Sat through twelve-hour matches just to get three lines of gold. Writing about Sunghoon, someone you know—knew—should be easier. Right?

Wrong.

So incredibly, painfully wrong.

Because the moment you sit down to outline your first paragraph, every sentence you draft sounds clinical. Distant. Like you’re trying too hard to keep your voice out of it. But your voice is in it. It’s everywhere. Between the lines, in the phrasing, in the careful omission of details only you would know.

You stare at the blinking cursor on your screen like it’s mocking you. Because no matter how objective you try to be, there’s no deleting the fact that the man skating his way back into the spotlight is the same one who once skated straight out of your life.

And now you have to write about him like he’s just another assignment. Like he wasn’t the one story you never really finished.

Still, you’re a professional—and Park Sunghoon is nothing if not a compelling subject. Enigmatic, polished, untouchable. Every photo released of him looks like it’s been run through three rounds of edits and an entire PR team’s approval. His public image is a masterclass in controlled narrative, curated to the last detail, but his backstory remains a blank canvas to most.

Well, not to you.

You have a folder of photos from when he was still just Sunghoon—before the endorsements, before Spain.

Sunghoon also never said you couldn’t dive into his university life. And it’s not like he gave you much to work with anyway.

That’s fair game.

No media-trained responses, no glossy interview clips—just a black hole of the years he spent quietly grinding through lectures and training sessions, tucked far from the spotlight.

To the public, it’s a blank space. But to you? It’s fertile ground. You were there. You knew the version of him who lived off convenience store food and energy drinks, who stayed up late tweaking final projects and icing swollen ankles at the same time. You knew the boy who forgot to reply to emails but remembered to text you good luck before your presentations.

You know the difference between the way he smiles for cameras and the one that used to slip out mid-yawn, when his guard was down. You know the scar above his ankle—not because it’s ever been mentioned in press, but because you were there when he got it, wrapping it in gauze while he hissed through gritted teeth. You know how he taps his fingers when he’s nervous. How he tightens his jaw before speaking truths he doesn't want to admit. How his laugh used to crack in the middle when something really got to him, how his voice used to trip over words when he was excited or flustered—not like the carefully paced cadence he gives the media now.

He may have grown into a mystery, but once upon a time, he was the most knowable person in your life.

So yeah, you dig. Not out of spite. Not exactly. You’re just doing your job. Sourcing old event flyers, class photos, public records, and a few strategically placed emails to former professors and classmates. You tell yourself it’s just research—nothing personal. Just building a fuller picture for the piece. The audience deserves depth. Authenticity. A glimpse of the man behind the athlete.

Besides, it’s not like you’re digging for scandal. You’re just… revisiting old ground.

Still, there's something undeniably sharp about the way your fingers move as you pull up archived yearbooks and student publication blurbs. How your lips twitch at the memory of him stumbling through a group presentation in first-year psych, cheeks red, voice shaking as he tried to explain semiotics with a skating metaphor. The same boy who once dropped his cue cards and muttered, “I’m better on ice, I swear,” to a room that actually laughed with him.

And maybe—just maybe—it wouldn't hurt to slip the story into the draft. Tactfully. Casually. A humanising touch. A reminder to the world that he wasn’t always so untouchable.

You add a line about his time at university, his balancing act between training and lectures, the quiet discipline that preceded his fame. And though it’s not in your style to get sentimental, you let yourself write one soft line, just one:

You keep it sharp. Clean. Balanced. The words come easily, like muscle memory. You stitch together the facts, layer in the charm, and add a sprinkle of speculation where it’s appropriate—just enough to give readers something to chew on. You reference his decorated track record, his quiet re-entry into the spotlight, the way his name is starting to echo through rinks again like a whispered rumour of greatness returning.

You even write about the growing murmur among commentators: that Park Sunghoon might just be gearing up for a full-blown comeback.

Even though he told you—specifically, clearly—that he wasn’t prepping for the season.

But facts don’t sell as well as fantasy. And he’s always been better as a myth than a man.

So you keep your voice light. Objective. Not too close, not too distant. Just enough ambiguity to make it seem like you’re on the outside looking in. Just enough plausible deniability to protect you from the truth threaded beneath every line. You write him like a legend resurrected. Like someone who left the world breathless, disappeared, and is now daring to return.

Before you know it, you're signing it off.

And as you read over the final draft—flawless, well-paced, and entirely detached—you can’t help but feel the faintest pulse of something beneath your skin.

Because this isn’t just a story about Park Sunghoon.

It’s a story about how well you still know him.

And how expertly you’ve learned to pretend you don’t.

You don’t even attempt to read it over another time. You just hit send.

The email whirs off to your editor, and with it, the story. Not the whole one. Not the one you carry in your chest like an old wound. Just the one the world gets to see.

And if he reads it—

Well.

Let him wonder how much of the truth you chose to leave out.

[MANIFESTO EXCLUSIVE] The Ice Doesn’t Melt: A Closer Look at Park Sunghoon’s Return to Korea

By Kang Y/N, Manifesto Daily

Three years since his last appearance on home soil, South Korea’s beloved figure skater Park Sunghoon has returned—not with the fanfare some expected, but with a quiet presence that speaks volumes. After a two-season absence from competitive performance, Park, now 27, has chosen to settle in Seoul again, sparking both curiosity and speculation among fans and professionals alike.

“I needed something familiar,” he said during our brief but telling interview, when asked about his decision to return. He didn’t specify more than that, and true to form, left the rest hanging in the air unsaid.

Park Sunghoon has always been a study in restraint—on and off the ice. From the moment he first captured public attention as a prodigious teen gliding across the rink with terrifying precision, he has maintained an image both pristine and impenetrable. Nicknamed “The Ice Prince” by fans and media alike, Park built a reputation not just on technical skill, but on his ability to keep the world at arm’s length.

His return to Korea comes on the heels of years spent overseas—Spain, to be exact—where he reportedly trained under a discreet but rigorous programme with world renowned Coach Alex Morales.

Park was last seen in competitive skating during the 2023 Grand Prix, where he shocked the world by abruptly withdrawing from the final. At the time, he was considered a strong contender for the gold, making his sudden exit all the more startling. The incident was never formally addressed by his management, and Park himself has avoided discussing it altogether. The silence that followed only fuelled speculation—injury, burnout, conflict—but no answers ever came. Just absence.

Still, those who’ve recently spotted him during early morning solo sessions at the Seoul Ice Arena report that his technique is sharper, cleaner—almost startling in its control. But what truly draws attention is the absence of spectacle. No press conference, no sponsor-driven welcome, no grand statement announcing his intentions. Just quiet re-entry.

“He doesn’t skate like someone preparing for a comeback,” one former coach, who requested anonymity, shared. “He skates like someone trying to remember why he loved it in the first place.”

Yet, it’s not just his time abroad that shaped the man returning now. Long before the endorsements and Olympic buzz, Park had quietly juggled his dual identity as both athlete and student. Few fans are aware that between competition seasons, he completed a degree in media and communication at a local university. Classmates from that time recall him as a quiet presence—always punctual, often reserved, but not unfriendly. He kept to himself for the most part, but those who got close remember his dry humour, his encyclopaedic knowledge of classic film, and a surprising tendency to ramble nervously during group presentations.

“He once tried to explain a semiotic theory using a skating routine as an analogy,” one classmate laughed. “It didn’t make much sense, but he was so earnest about it, we just let him finish. After that, he was known as the ‘semiotic boy’ among our coursemates.”

Those stories paint a softer, more human picture of the man the public still views as near-mythic. But those who knew Park Sunghoon before the spotlight remember someone more boy than myth—equal parts unsure and brilliant, like he hadn’t quite figured out how to carry the weight of his own potential. Just a young man balancing essays and exhibitions. Late-night editing sessions and early morning ice drills.

This return has reignited questions about what Park wants now—what comes after the medals, the global tours, and the silence that followed. His name still commands weight, still trends with the slightest public appearance, yet there’s a noticeable shift in how he carries it. Less prince. More person.

There’s been no official word on whether Park will rejoin the competitive circuit, though murmurs within the skating community suggest he’s been quietly invited to participate in the upcoming 2026 Winter Olympics team tryouts. Whether he intends to accept remains unclear—Park has neither confirmed nor denied the rumours, keeping his future as intentionally unreadable as ever.

And perhaps that’s the story. Not a triumphant return. Not a redemption arc. But presence. The act of being. The quiet audacity of choosing stillness in a world that only ever celebrated his movement.

In many ways, Park Sunghoon remains an enigma. But for those who’ve followed his journey, that isn’t new. What’s new is the version of him that doesn’t seek to melt the ice—but instead, has learned to live with it.

Only time will tell what that means for the future of figure skating’s most elusive son.

“Our dear Y/N, you’ve done it again.”

Applause breaks out the second your foot crosses the threshold of the office. It’s 9 a.m.—too early, too loud, and at least three hours behind the amount of sleep you need to properly function. You blink, trying to place what exactly you’re being celebrated for.

“Bravo. That was an excellent article,” Minju, the team’s ever-enthusiastic publicist, grins as he pats you on the shoulder in passing.

Oh.

That was going out today?

You didn’t even have your morning coffee yet.

By the time you’ve dropped your bag onto your desk and opened your laptop, your inbox is already a mess. The subject lines blur together:

[RE] Manifesto Exclusive – Park Sunghoon IS HE BACK FOR REAL?? The Ice Prince has feelings?? Thank you for this. I cried.

You open a few out of morbid curiosity. Fans are flooding your public inbox with praise, speculation, and—because the internet is the internet—several unsolicited theories about a secret marriage and a love child. Your copy editor, Moka, forwards you one with the subject line: “if he doesn’t want to melt, i’ll melt FOR him.”

On social media, it’s even worse. Or better. You’re not sure yet.

His name is trending. #ParkSunghoon.

Followed closely by #IcePrinceReturns, and the truly cringy #TheColdDoesntBotherHoonAnyway.

Tweets fly across your feed:

@/ice_princess: this article just made me want to lie face down in the snow and whisper Park Sunghoon’s name to the frost

@/manifesto_daily_stan: Kang y/n i’m free on thursday if you want to do god’s work again

@/plscomebackhoon: she said he doesn’t need to melt. he just needs to exist. do you HEAR that??? DO YOU.

You rub your temples, overwhelmed, equal parts proud and terrified. It was just a profile piece. A quiet one. No exposés, no scandals—just a man and the silence he didn’t bother filling.

And somehow, that’s exactly what everyone needed.

Editors are thrilled. Readers are emotional. Former skaters are sharing it. Someone on Twitter even called it “the most human thing written about an athlete in years,” and you don’t know whether to be flattered or panicked.

Because it wasn’t meant to be that personal.

Not really.

And yet—how could it not be?

You told the truth, sure. The visible one. But between the lines, there were pieces of you too. Tiny, hidden echoes of everything you remembered and everything you refused to say. And now it’s out there—immortalised in print and pixels—being consumed by people who will never know what you left out.

You’re halfway through scrolling a tweet thread titled “25 Times Park Sunghoon Looked Like a Heartbroken Studio Ghibli Protagonist” when a new email notification pops up.

From: [email protected] Subject: That Article

You squint.

How... tacky.

You open it, already bracing yourself for either legal threats or sarcasm.

Hey. Took your email off the internet, hope you don't mind. Nice article. Although, I don't think I approved any of those pictures you used in it. Especially the one where I’m mid-blink and look like I just saw God. Bold choice. P.S. You really quoted my classmate calling me “semiotic boy”? That’s... deeply unnecessary.

You stare at the screen, lips twitching despite yourself.

It’s so him—passive-aggressive, smug, and annoyingly charming. The kind of email only Park Sunghoon would send instead of just texting like a normal person.

At the bottom, there’s no sign-off. No best regards, no sincerely, not even a name.

Just one final line, added like an afterthought:

You still overuse em-dashes, by the way.

You exhale a laugh. God, of course he noticed that.

You stare at the screen, blinking. Once. Twice.

Of all the emails you expected today—from eager fans, nosy editors, one conspiracy theorist convinced Sunghoon is a time traveller—this was not on the list.

You lean back in your chair, arms crossed, rereading the message like it might change if you blink hard enough. But no. Still the same. Still signed off with zero punctuation, zero emotion, and 100% Sunghoon.

You scoff.

[email protected]. You can’t get over it. You don’t know what’s worse—the fact that he still uses the nickname he’s allegedly “not fond of,” or the fact that he sent this at 9:46 in the morning, as if he’s just casually emailing his accountant and not the ex-girlfriend who roasted his public persona to poetic effect.

Bold choice, he says.

This, from the man who once wore leather gloves indoors during summer and called it “a vibe.”

And semiotic boy? That quote was gold. If anything, he should be thanking you for making him sound like an emotionally tortured academic with cheekbones.

Still… your fingers hover over the keyboard.

The sensible part of you says to delete it. Or at the very least, archive it and go refill your coffee. You already got your exclusive. You did your job. The story’s out there, and it’s done.

But the curious part of you—the one that still knows how he takes his coffee, still remembers the shape of his laugh—can’t help but wonder what this email really means.

You don’t respond. Not yet.

But you don’t delete it either.

You just stare at the screen, lips pressed together, and whisper to yourself—

"I need a coffee break."

With that, you grab your cardigan, slip on your trainers, and leave the email open on your desktop as if stepping away from it might somehow make it disappear. The air outside bites at your cheeks—crisp, early, and a little too cold for spring. Your mind buzzes more from the lack of sleep than caffeine, and your only plan is to make it to the café on autopilot.

The café is still quiet at this hour, the kind of place where the clinking of ceramic cups and the occasional low murmur of conversation hums like white noise. The bell above the door chimes softly as you enter, and immediately you're greeted by the warm, grounding scent of roasted coffee beans and sugar syrup.

You exhale, shoulders easing slightly when you notice the queue is short. You move toward the counter, already calculating how much espresso you can legally ingest in one sitting, when a voice calls out from the seating area.

“Didn’t get my email?” The tone is casual—annoyingly casual. “Or did you read it and purposely decide not to respond?”

You freeze mid-step.

No way…

You turn, slowly—like you're afraid if you move too fast, the moment will solidify into something real you’re not ready for.

And there he is.

Park Sunghoon.

He’s standing just a few feet away, leaning with practiced ease against the edge of a table like he belongs there, like he hasn’t just completely upended your morning, looking frustratingly well-rested for someone who supposedly prefers early ice sessions. He’s dressed casually—black coat draped over a fitted charcoal jumper, those black-rimmed glasses he used to wear in university when he was trying to be invisible. But he was never very good at that.

His gaze locks with yours—calm, steady, unreadable—and it takes everything in you not to let your expression betray the punch of memory hitting you square in the chest.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter, half under your breath.

“Sorry?” he says, feigning innocence.

“Nothing,” you say quickly, crossing your arms, trying to compose yourself. “Just… surprised...”

“Surprised to see me,” he says, finishing the thought as if he’s been rehearsing it in his head.

“Yeah, at my coffee spot,” you sneer, narrowing your eyes. “What, are you stalking me?”

He gestures lazily toward the table behind him, where a half-drunk latte sits beside a copy of some obscure paperback you’re certain he’s only pretending to read. “I was here first. Technically.”

You smile, tight-lipped, the professional mask slipping neatly into place. “Well, I apologise if you felt like I had something against you. I get thousands of emails every day—your mail must’ve just gotten lost in the flood of junk mail. If it was really that urgent, you could’ve just texted.”

It’s a big, fat lie. You won’t even pretend otherwise. You read it. Multiple times. But you’re not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing that.

His response is immediate. “You changed your number a few years ago. Didn’t leave much choice.”

The way he says it is deliberate, a little too sharp around the edges, like he’s been holding onto that fact longer than he’d care to admit. And what is he implying? That he’s tried contacting you over the years? What for?

You raise an eyebrow. “Right. And instead of, I don’t know, asking your assistant for it—you know, the same assistant I literally emailed last week—you thought it would be less invasive to go digging through old contact forms and hope I still checked my public inbox?”

He shrugs again, shameless. “It was surprisingly easy. And I figured it’d be less awkward than asking someone for it directly.”

You narrow your eyes. “Because nothing says respecting boundaries like showing up at my local café after sending a mildly passive-aggressive email.”

“Oh?” he says, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “So you did read it?”

“No.”

“Then how’d you know it was passive-aggressive?”

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing just a touch. “Because I know you.”

The silence that follows is dense and immediate, settling between you with the weight of everything left unsaid. It hums beneath the chatter of the café, a fragile thread stretched so tight that you swear it might snap if either of you so much as blinked wrong.

Then, mercifully, the barista calls out for the next person in line—that’s you.

You move instinctively toward the counter, but before you can even begin to open your mouth, he’s already there, casually stepping beside you.

“Long black,” Sunghoon says, voice smooth as ever. “Make it a double shot.”

You turn your head slowly, eyes wide. “You remember my order.”

He doesn’t flinch. “Some things are hard to forget. Especially if it's the most atrocious coffee order known to mankind.”

And just like that, you’re thrown. Not by the gesture, but by the way he says it—like it means something. Like maybe he's not just here to pester you about emails and profile photos. Like maybe there’s something else behind those carefully guarded eyes.

But you're not ready to unpack that. Not here. Not now.

So instead, you nod stiffly, and say nothing.

Not because you have nothing to say—

But because you know, with Park Sunghoon, even the smallest word might start something you’re not sure you’re ready to finish.

You’re still reeling from the fact that he remembers minuscule details—like the exact way you take your coffee—when he casually steps in front of you and pays for it before you can even open your mouth to protest.

“You didn’t have to,” you say, surprised but keeping your voice neutral.

He waves it off, already pocketing the receipt like it’s no big deal. “Still have no idea how you even drink that shit,” he mutters, eyeing the dark brew with a look of theatrical disgust. “But consider it a compliment. For the article. It was… good.”

You glance up at him over the rim of your cup as you take your first sip, letting the heat hit your hands before the taste even registers. “Just good?”

He shrugs, nonchalant, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “You didn’t use my best angles.”

You pause, lips curving slightly. “Oh, don’t worry,” you reply smoothly. “I’m saving those for the next feature: Park Sunghoon’s Top 10 Most Smug Expressions.”

That earns a laugh from him—genuine and unguarded—and it catches you off guard. Not the manufactured chuckle he gives in interviews. Not the polite, PR-approved smile. This is real. Honest. The kind of laugh you haven’t heard in years, the kind that used to sneak up on you in moments that felt weightless.

It hits you like hearing a song you forgot you loved—familiar and warm, laced with a nostalgia you weren’t ready for. A reminder of the version of him that existed before all the distance, before the silences, before the press statements and polished answers.

You don’t say anything in response. Just shoot him a look over the rim of your cup. A quiet don’t push it.

He meets your gaze, and for a beat, neither of you speaks. Then he nods, like he understands exactly what you’re not saying.

And somehow, that nod feels like the most honest thing exchanged between you all morning.

You’re back at your desk, the café detour doing little to clear your head. The email is still open, still flashing on your screen like it’s waiting—mocking you, almost. You stare at it for a long moment, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

You shouldn’t. You don’t need to. But something in you itches to respond anyway.

So you do.

From: You Subject: Re: That Article Hey. Glad you thought the article was good. I’ll be sure to file that glowing endorsement under “career highlights.” Also, I stand by the photos. Especially the one where you blinked mid-sentence—you looked relatable for once. Anyway. Thanks for the coffee. – Y/N P.S. Don’t ambush me at my local café again. Only if it’s urgent: +82 XX XXXX YYYY

Sunghoon is lying on his couch, one arm draped over his eyes to block out the soft afternoon light filtering through the curtains, the other still loosely holding his phone against his chest. The café encounter from earlier keeps playing in his mind on a slow, involuntary loop—your face, your voice, the way your brows lifted when you saw him, and especially that look you gave him when he ordered your coffee like he had any right to still know that.

He knows he probably shouldn’t have emailed. The moment he hit send, there was a part of him that regretted it. But then again, he’s never been particularly good at letting things go quietly—not when it comes to you. Not when the silence between you has always felt more like a wound than a clean break.

It’s been years since the breakup. Long enough, he thinks, that you should both be able to function like civil adults. Maybe not friends, but at least... acquaintances. Whatever that word means when it’s wrapped in history and the kind of silence that’s never quite neutral.

His phone buzzes once against his chest, and he lifts it almost automatically—more out of habit than hope, not expecting much. Maybe a curt response, a one-liner soaked in professionalism, something non-committal that closes the loop without opening any new ones.

But what he finds isn’t quite that.

His eyes skim the message quickly the first time, catching on your usual clipped humour, your dry phrasing. Then he sees the P.S.—and it stops him cold.

Don’t ambush me at my local café again. Only if it’s urgent: +82 XX XXXX YYYY

He stares at the line, the digits at the end anchoring his attention. His thumb hovers over the screen, then lowers.

He reads it again. Then again.

It takes him a moment to process that you didn’t just reply—you invited a reply. Not in so many words, but you didn’t have to.

He blinks, the message still glowing softly in the palm of his hand, and feels something shift—subtle, but undeniable.

You had tried to play it off with that line—“only if it’s urgent”—like it was a formality, a throwaway detail tossed in for the sake of convenience. But Sunghoon knows you better than that.

You don’t do anything without intention.

Even back then, when things were good, your words were measured—never careless. Whether it was drafting an essay or choosing what to say during a fight, you always calculated the weight of your words before you let them go. He used to admire that about you, even when it frustrated him. Especially when it frustrated him.

So no, he doesn’t believe the number was a casual addition. Not from you. Not after all this time. You wanted him to see it. You wanted him to know.

He sits up slowly, the email still open in his hand, thumb brushing absentmindedly over the edge of the screen. For a second, he considers calling. Just to hear your voice again—to see if it sounds any different now that everything between you has changed.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he just quietly saves the number into his contacts—Y/N, no emojis, no titles. Just your name, plain and familiar, like it’s never really left his phone at all.

His thumb hovers for a moment as the screen confirms the entry, and then he leans back, eyes flicking toward the ceiling, letting his mind wander—almost involuntarily—through an absurd list of scenarios.

He snorts softly.

What counts as urgent, exactly?

Would “it was raining and thought of you” qualify? Or maybe, “accidentally bought your favourite chips at the convenience store and they’re expiring tomorrow”?

His mouth twitches at the thought, the corner of a smile he doesn’t let fully form.

He’s not going to reach out—not tonight. Whatever this fragile, undefined space is between you now, he doesn’t want to risk crowding it too soon. He knows better than to force something still learning how to exist.

But the number is there now, quietly saved, tucked away like a folded letter waiting for the right moment to be opened. And that—simple as it is—is more than he had before.

So he stays where he is, stretched across the quiet of his apartment, letting the silence linger—not as a weight, but as something strangely tender. Something almost sacred. Because it no longer feels like the end of something.

It feels like the pause before a beginning.

And he waits.

Just like you did for him all those years ago.

The airport is chaos, as airports always are—the dull roar of overlapping conversations, the mechanical drawl of flight announcements overhead, the clatter of suitcase wheels rolling over the slick, polished floors. But somehow, in the middle of it all, it feels like there’s a bubble around the two of you, a quiet space carved out by the sheer force of everything you’re not saying.

Sunghoon stands a few feet away from the security gate, backpack slung over one shoulder, his boarding pass crumpled slightly in his hand from how tightly he’s holding it. Mr and Mrs Park are with him, tearfully fussing over their son—Mrs Park tugging at the hem of the jacket that's too big for him, hanging awkwardly off his frame in a way that makes him look both older and younger at the same time—like he’s already halfway into another life and trying to pretend he isn’t scared.

You stand nearby too, arms crossed—not out of defiance, but because it’s the only way you can keep yourself from falling apart. You don’t trust your hands otherwise.

When Sunghoon finally turns to you, you force yourself to smile.

“You’ll do great,” you say, forcing your voice to stay steady even though the lump in your throat makes it hard to breathe.

He smiles at that—a soft, tired thing that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I don’t know about that,” he says, laughing under his breath, glancing down at his shoes like the words he really wants to say are hiding somewhere in the scuffed leather.

Your heart twists painfully at the sight.

And then he steps closer, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him properly, close enough that you can see every crease of worry etched into his usually smooth expression.

“Can you…” he starts, then falters, running a hand through his hair the way he always does when he’s nervous. “Will you wait for me?”

The words hang between you, raw and clumsy and completely un-Sunghoon-like. No flourish. No ice. Just a boy asking for something he doesn’t know how to promise in return.

You look at him then—not the rising athlete, not the polished skater everyone else sees—but the boy who once spent three hours helping you build a wobbly IKEA desk, who remembered exactly how you take your coffee, who mumbled useless astronomy facts at two in the morning when neither of you could sleep.

And you nod.

Because how could you say no?

“Of course,” you say.

He exhales, and for a moment, it looks like he wants to say something more—something that could make this easier, something that could anchor you to the idea that this distance will be temporary, survivable. But whatever it is, he swallows it down.

Instead, he squeezes your hand once, quick and clumsy, like he’s afraid that if he holds on any longer, he won’t be able to let go at all.

Then he steps back. One step. Two. The space between you widens in a way that feels irreversible.

You stand there, rooted to the spot, as he turns toward the security line, his figure blending into the tide of travellers wheeling suitcases and juggling passports. He doesn't look back, and you tell yourself that’s a good thing—that it’s easier this way.

You don’t realise you’re holding your breath until his silhouette finally disappears around a corner, swallowed up by the sterile white lights and directional signs pointing toward Departures.

Only then do you let yourself breathe out, shaky and slow.

The airport continues moving around you—announcements, crying babies, the low thrum of engines preparing to carry people across oceans—but somehow, it feels like everything inside you has stilled. Like the moment he walked away, something small and quiet inside you went with him.

You watch another plane lift off in the distance, disappearing into the clouds. And even after his parents insists you go home, you stay a little longer, long enough for the ache to settle, long enough to be sure you won’t cry until you’re safely back in the taxi home. Pretending that saying “of course” didn’t cost you more than you could admit at the time.

Because if there’s one thing you promised him, and yourself, it’s that you would be strong enough to wait.

Except you didn’t know what waiting would mean at that time.

You were confident this long-distance thing could work.

After all, at that point, you and Sunghoon had been dating for over three years. You knew each other’s routines, each other’s moods, each other’s silences. You had weathered exams, competitions, internships, stupid fights about stupid things—surely, you thought, an ocean between you couldn’t undo what you had built.

You believed that love, real love, was supposed to be enough.

But love, you will learn, isn’t always louder than distance.

And sometimes, people leave—not because they stop loving you, but because their dreams need a bigger sky than you can give them.

You told yourself the time difference was just an inconvenience. That the occasional missed calls, the shorter texts, the longer silences were normal. That he was just busy. Tired. Adjusting.

And for a while, you made it work.

You sent each other photos—your morning coffee, his late-night practices. You had clumsy video calls where the signal dropped and you’d laugh and call each other back like it was no big deal. You celebrated tiny victories over Wi-Fi connections, reassured yourselves that the months would pass quickly, that this was temporary.

You even started saving for plane tickets, bookmarking dates and circling holidays on your calendar, telling anyone who asked that yes, it was hard, but yes, it was worth it.

You meant it.

You meant every word.

But what they don’t tell you about long distance—the thing you only learn the hard way—is that sometimes love isn’t enough when the other person starts building a life you’re no longer part of in the daily, ordinary ways. When your names are still tied together but your days stop overlapping. When missing someone becomes part of your routine instead of your exception.

And Sunghoon—sweet, steady, ambitious Sunghoon—was chasing a dream that required all of him.

There wasn’t much left over.

Not for you. Not for the late-night phone calls he stopped picking up. Not for the promises that started to stretch thinner and thinner until they broke without either of you realising it at first.

You waited.

You waited longer than you should have.

And even now, some stubborn, aching part of you still remembers how sure you were at that airport when you said, of course.

Because you weren’t just waiting for him to come back. You were waiting for the version of him that left—to stay the same.

But some things, you’ve learned, aren’t meant to be held in place.

And some people, no matter how tightly you hold onto them, will always belong to a future you don’t get to walk into with them.

Now, sitting at your desk, staring at the faint glow of the monitor, you can’t help but drag a hand over your face in frustration. God. What was I thinking?

You lean back in your chair, the cheap leather groaning under the movement, and close your eyes for a moment, wishing you could rewind the last ten minutes and snatch the email back before it left your outbox. Before it could make you look like the fool you swore you wouldn’t be again.

Because re-reading it now, all you can see is desperation threaded between the lines. You might as well have stamped please still care about me in bold at the bottom.

You told yourself it was nothing. A witty reply. A polite thanks for the coffee. A number offered up casually—as if you wouldn’t notice whether he used it or not.

But you know better.

And so would he.

The truth is, no matter how many years have passed, no matter how much you've convinced yourself you've moved on, a part of you still folds too easily around him. Still softens at the memory of a boy who once asked you to wait for him, and the girl you were—the one foolish enough to believe that waiting would be enough.

You hate that about yourself sometimes. Hate that a few casual words from him, a coffee, an email, still have the power to make you feel like you’re standing in that airport all over again, arms crossed against your chest, watching him walk away.

You open your eyes, exhaling slowly. The office hums around you—phones ringing, fingers tapping on keyboards, Yunah shouting about deadlines across the bullpen—and you’re struck by how absurd it is that your life has continued without him, and yet he still feels like an unfinished chapter you never really closed.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That he’ll probably ignore the number. That he’ll chalk it up to courtesy and leave it at that.

But deep down, you know it’s too late for pretending.

Because no matter how you dress it up—witty, polite, indifferent—you handed him a door. And now, whether he steps through it or not, you’ll have to live with the fact that you opened it first.

The days pass, slow and uneven, the way they always do when you’re waiting for something you’re trying to pretend you’re not waiting for.

You throw yourself into work—churning out profiles, editing pieces that aren’t yours, picking up assignments nobody else wants just to fill the spaces in your mind. You sit through endless editorial meetings, nodding at all the right moments, scribbling half-hearted notes in the margins of your planner like it matters. You grab late-night convenience store dinners with Minju and Yunah, laughing at their jokes even when your chest feels hollow.

You live.

You function.

You check your email more often than necessary, always under the excuse of work, even though you know exactly what you’re hoping to find. You flick through your phone sometimes too—half-scrolling through newsfeeds, half-wondering if maybe, just maybe, there’ll be a notification that isn’t there.

But Sunghoon doesn’t reply. No email. No text. No missed call.

Nothing.

And slowly, inevitably, you start to fold the hope away. The way you fold an old jumper you know you’ll never wear again but can’t quite bring yourself to throw out.

You told him he could reach out only if it was urgent. And clearly, you’re not urgent.

Maybe you never were.

And you take it as a sign—maybe the only sign you’re going to get—that you should finally do yourself a favour and move on.

Because apparently, you haven’t. Not really. Not after all this time. You didn’t expect his return to unravel you like this—to pull at threads you thought you had stitched up long ago. But it has. And you can’t pretend anymore.

So you’ll move on for real this time. Not the half-hearted version where you paste on smiles and throw yourself into late nights at the office, where you tell your friends you’re fine while secretly checking your phone at red lights, while pretending you don’t still wonder if he thinks about you too. Not the kind where you fold the memory of him into smaller, quieter compartments of your mind, pretending it's just nostalgia, not hope.

No, this time, you tell yourself, it will be the real kind—the clean break, the neat ending.

And for a while, you almost believe it.

Until your phone buzzes, cutting through the quiet.

Just a single, unremarkable vibration against the desk, one you almost ignore—because it’s late, because you’re tired, because you’re used to the world asking for pieces of you at all hours now. You glance at the screen without thinking, already preparing to swipe it away like a dozen other notifications.

But then you see it.

Unknown Number.

For a moment, your brain stalls, fumbling for a rational explanation—maybe it’s a delivery update, maybe it’s a scam, maybe it’s one of those automated text from some subscription you forgot to cancel.

Still, your hand moves on instinct, betraying every rational excuse you try to conjure.

You unlock your phone.

And you read:

Hey. It’s me. Not sure if this counts as urgent. But... I saw something today that made me think of you. Do you have time?

Your breath catches in your throat, sharp and sudden, and the world around you blurs for a second—the hum of fluorescent lights overhead, the muffled buzz of printers, the distant tap-tap-tap of someone typing across the office—all of it fading under the weight of those few simple lines.

You read it again. And again. As if the words might rearrange themselves into something else if you look long enough.

But they don’t.

It’s him. Sunghoon.

Reaching out not because he had to. Not because it was "urgent."

But because he thought of you.

And even though your mind races ahead with every reason you should be cautious, with every reminder of how long it took to rebuild the parts of yourself he once splintered, you already know—deep in your chest, in the place you don't let logic touch—that you’re going to answer.

You don’t let yourself overthink it this time.

No typing, erasing, retyping. No staring at the blinking cursor until it mocks you into silence. You just move your thumbs over the screen, letting instinct take the lead before the part of you that’s scared has a chance to intervene.

You type:

You: You should probably introduce yourself next time. "It’s me" doesn’t really help if I don’t already know how you text. And depends. Is it something worth hearing about?

You barely have time to set your phone down before it buzzes again.

Sunghoon: Definitely something worth hearing about.

Another message follows almost instantly:

Sunghoon: I’m free tonight if you are. Just coffee. Nothing crazy. If you want. There's also a favour I'd like to ask.

You sit there, blinking at the last line, reading it twice as your mind scrambles to catch up.

A favour?

It throws you off more than the coffee invitation itself. Coffee is easy—coffee is surface-level, casual, the kind of thing you can chalk up to old acquaintances being civil. But a favour? A favour means intention. A favour means he’s thought about this. About you.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, your pulse quickening in that annoyingly familiar way you wish you had outgrown by now. You’re not naive enough to think this is anything more than it is. He probably just needs help connecting with someone, getting a contact, maybe even needs something for the press if he’s easing back into the public eye.

Still, a part of you hesitates.

Not because you don’t want to go. But because you’re not sure if you trust yourself not to want more.

You take a breath, steadying your thumb over the screen.

You type:

You: Where and what time?

The message sends before you can talk yourself out of it, and you drop your phone onto the desk, face down again, like it’s too hot to hold onto for even a second longer. You exhale a long, slow breath, staring up at the ceiling, trying to calm the restless beat of your heart.

Because tonight, you realise, you’re going to see him again.

Not as professionals. Not as a lingering what-if. Not as a name floating in your inbox or coincidental meetings.

But real. Present.

And no matter how much you tell yourself that you’re ready—that you’re different now—you know a part of you is still bracing for impact.

Sunghoon arrives at the café first.

It’s your spot—he knows that now. He also knows you probably don’t come here because the coffee is any good—you always made that clear with a scrunched nose and a dry comment about “caffeine being caffeine”—but because it’s close, convenient, easy to fold into your day without having to think too hard.

He settles into a table near the window, where the soft spill of the sunset stretches across the tabletop in muted golds and pinks. He sits with his backpack slung over the back of the chair, a cup of hot tea resting untouched in front of him, and for a brief moment, he looks less like the man you’ve been writing about—and more like the boy you used to know.

He wasn't a hundred percent sure you'd say yes to meeting him. When he sent that message, part of him assumed it would disappear into the void, swallowed up by everything unsaid between you.

But you answered. And you did in the way you always did—dry, sharp, a little guarded—but underneath it all, you answered.

And now, sitting here in this too-bright, too-loud café with a lukewarm tea and a racing heart he can’t fully rationalise, Sunghoon feels the weight of it settle in his chest.

He glances at the door again, even though he knows it’s still early. His knee bounces under the table, betraying the nervous energy he can’t shake, no matter how carefully he tries to hide it under indifference.

Maybe tonight won’t fix anything. Hell, it’s not meant to.

But you’re showing up.

And somehow, that already feels like more than he deserves.

The bell above the door chimes, sharp and familiar, cutting through the low hum of conversation and clinking cups.

Sunghoon looks up almost instinctively—and there you are, stepping into the café with a kind of restless energy tucked into the set of your shoulders, like you’re already bracing yourself for something you can’t name yet.

You don’t see him at first.

Of course you don’t.

Because out of pure, unconscious instinct, you’re scanning the corners of the café—the tucked-away tables, the quieter spots shielded from the main crowd—just like you always used to.

Sunghoon feels a tight tug in his chest, something that pulls and aches all at once, because he remembers.

He remembers how you used to tease him for always choosing the seats against the wall, how you said he acted like a cat looking for the best vantage point, somewhere he could see everything without being seen himself.

He remembers you pretending to sulk when he dragged you to the corner booths instead of the bright window seats you preferred—and how, secretly, you never really minded.

And now, without even thinking, you’re still looking for him in the places where you remember him being.

And without even realising, he had chosen a place where he remembered you liking.

He doesn’t call out to you.

He just watches.

Watches the slight purse of your lips when you don’t spot him right away. Watches the way your fingers tap lightly against the strap of your bag—an old nervous habit he’d forgotten he remembered—like your body is leaking out the anxiety you refuse to show on your face.

And God, you look—

You look pretty.

Not in the polished, deliberate way people try to look when they know they’re being watched.

You look real.

Soft in the fading light, like the world around you hasn’t quite caught up to you yet. Your hair a little mussed from the breeze outside, your cheeks flushed with the leftover heat of the setting sun. There’s a quietness to you, a rawness—like you’re still made of the same stubborn hope and sharp edges he used to love, except time has worn them softer, gentler, more dangerous in ways he doesn’t even have the words for.

You look like a memory he’s been trying not to miss.

You look like the version of you he’s been carrying around all these years—

Real. Tired, maybe. A little guarded. But still luminous in a way he can’t describe without sounding ridiculous, without pulling old, unfinished feelings up from the place he thought he’d buried them for good.

Something shifts in his chest, painful and sweet all at once.

Because in the handful of minutes he’s spent sitting here convincing himself to stay calm, convincing himself that this was just coffee and nothing more—you’ve walked through the door and reminded him, without trying, exactly why forgetting you had never really been an option.

He straightens slightly in his chair, the leg of the table bumping softly against his knee.

And for a moment—just a moment—Sunghoon forgets why he’s here at all.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder, scanning the café with a quiet frown starting to settle between your brows.

Sunghoon watches the hesitation flicker across your face—the way you linger a fraction too long at every corner booth, the way your fingers brush nervously against the hem of your jacket, like you’re grounding yourself without even realising it.

And then—finally—your gaze catches his.

The moment stretches, taut and delicate, like a held breath.

You blink, as if to double-check it’s really him. Your lips part slightly in surprise, a faint hitch of breath visible even from where he’s sitting, and for a second, neither of you moves, both suspended in that thin, brittle space where time slows down just enough to make you feel the weight of it.

You glance at the window beside him, your eyes catching the reflection of the streetlights bleeding into the glass, and for a moment, confusion flickers briefly across your face.

That’s why you didn’t spot him immediately when you walked in.

You weren’t looking by the windows—you never had to.

Sunghoon never sat there. He hated it. Hated having his back exposed, hated being on display. You’d spent years weaving through crowded cafés and restaurants, instinctively scanning the corners, the quiet spaces tucked away from the flow of people, because that’s where he would always be—where he could watch without being watched, where the world couldn’t reach him unless he let it.

But tonight, he’s here.

By the window.

Plain as day.

And without him saying a word about it, you realise it—another small, unconscious version of Park Sunghoon you were still holding onto without even realising it.

A version you thought was set in stone, carved into your memories.

A version you never prepared yourself to outgrow.

Sunghoon doesn’t smile. He doesn’t look away.

He just meets your gaze head-on, steady and quiet, letting the moment settle between you without rushing to fill it with anything easy or safe.

You square your shoulders after a heartbeat too long, forcing your body into motion, and start making your way towards him. Your steps are measured, careful, almost cautious, but there’s no mistaking the way your fingers clench slightly against the strap of your bag, no hiding the guarded look in your eyes that says you’re still ready to turn around and walk away if this goes wrong.

He stays seated as you approach, watching you close the distance between you, something tight and aching lodged in his chest, something he’s too afraid to name yet.

When you reach the table, you don’t sit down right away.

You just stand there, staring at him for a moment longer, as if trying to gauge how much of the boy you used to love is still sitting there, underneath the polished surface he’s learned to wear like a second skin.

Sunghoon clears his throat lightly, a small, awkward sound that feels jarringly loud in the otherwise soft hum of the café.

“You found me,” he says, voice low and almost shy, like he's not sure if he's allowed to sound relieved.

You shrug, shifting your weight onto your other foot. “Didn’t think you’d make it so easy,” you reply, your tone light, almost teasing, but there’s no real bite behind the words—just a tired kind of fondness that feels too familiar, too stubborn to shake.

And just like that, some of the tension splinters—

Not all of it.

Not enough to call this easy.

But enough to remind both of you why you’re here.

Wordlessly, you pull out the chair across from him and sit down, setting your bag carefully by your feet.

Sunghoon’s hand twitches slightly against his cup, the tea inside long cold by now, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

You fold your hands in your lap, lift your chin just a little, and say, “Alright. You’ve got my time. Let’s hear it.”

“You’re not even curious what reminded me of you?” Sunghoon asks, one brow lifted, his voice dipping into that familiar, teasing cadence you used to know so well.

Of course you’re curious. Of course your mind has been spinning endless possibilities from the second you read his first text. But you’re not about to hand that over to him so easily—not when you’re still trying to convince yourself you’re not sitting here half-holding your breath.

You lean back slightly in your chair, crossing one leg over the other in an easy, breezy posture you absolutely don’t feel, and shrug. “What reminded the oh-so-charismatic Ice Prince of me?”

The corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk—the same infuriating, boyish smirk that once had the power to completely undo you, the one you thought time and bitterness would have dulled. It hasn’t. Not even a little.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

Instead, he reaches into the inside pocket of his coat, moving slowly, drawing out the suspense just because he knows it’ll get under your skin.

When he pulls out a small box and sets it gently on the table between you, you blink down at it in surprise.

It’s a Popmart blind box.

The exact kind you used to collect like trophies after long study sessions or bad days, back when you needed small, ridiculous joys to get you through.

You stare at the familiar design, the cutesy pastel art printed on the cardboard, the gleaming plastic seal still unbroken—and for a second, it’s like the years peel away and you’re back in a different time, a different version of yourself. One who used to drag Sunghoon to random mall kiosks and lecture him on the probability rates of getting the secret rare figure, completely oblivious to how patient he was being with you.

He watches your reaction carefully, elbows propped lazily on the table, but his eyes are sharp—searching.

“You’re kidding,” you murmur, finally breaking the silence, your voice somewhere between disbelief and something softer, something a little too close to fondness.

He shrugs, that infuriating smirk deepening. “Saw it at a convenience store on my way to practice this morning.”

You shake your head, the smallest, almost unwilling laugh slipping out of you. “You used to roast me for buying these.”

“And yet,” he says, tapping the box lightly with one finger, “I bought one almost every time I passed that Popmart near my place. For research purposes, obviously.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t fight the smile pulling at your lips, nor the way your chest tightens at the thought of it—him, in another city, another life, still thinking of you in the small, quiet ways that mattered when words weren’t enough.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The box sits between you, unopened, full of some stupid, mass-produced trinket that somehow feels heavier than anything else in the room.

You glance up at him, and he’s already looking at you—not with expectation, not with the smugness you were half-braced for—but with something quieter. Something careful.

“Thank you,” you say, the words slipping out before you can overthink them, barely more than a whisper, but somehow steady. It’s the only thing you can conjure in the moment, the only thing that feels honest and real enough to offer. You’re a little surprised you manage to say it out loud at all, your throat tight with all the other things you’re not ready to admit.

Sunghoon leans back in his chair, his eyes bright with something that looks dangerously close to amusement as he tilts his head at you.

“It’s the least you could say,” he teases, tapping the box again with his fingertip, “after I spent almost twenty dollars on that.”

The exaggerated grumble in his voice cracks the tension like a hairline fracture, and before you can stop yourself, a laugh escapes your lips—short, surprised, but real.

The sound of it seems to hit him harder than you expect.

For a second, he just stares at you, like he’s been momentarily stunned, like some long-frozen part of him is trying to remember how to breathe properly.

And if you weren’t so caught up in trying to pull your own defences back into place, you might have noticed the way his posture softens, just slightly, as if the laugh is something fragile he’s afraid of shattering.

You smirk, shaking your head as you reach out and nudge the box with two fingers, sliding it just slightly toward you.

“You bought this to bribe me into helping you with that favour, didn’t you?” you say, lifting your gaze to meet his fully now, your voice laced with teasing accusation but your heart still hammering too hard against your ribs.

He has the audacity to look mock-offended, clutching his chest like you’ve wounded him. “Bribe?” he echoes. “Wow. No faith in me at all.”

“You literally showed up with a Popmart like some kind of peace offering-slash-negotiation tactic,” you point out, arching an eyebrow.

“And yet…” he trails off, a slow grin tugging at his mouth, “you’re still sitting here. You’re still talking to me.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the way the corner of your mouth betrays you, tilting upward just enough for him to catch it.

He sees it.

Of course he does.

And somewhere, buried deep under the layers of sarcasm and half-healed scars, you know he feels it too—the tiny, reckless flicker of something that neither of you is quite brave enough to name yet.

“So?” you prompt, your fingers idly tracing the rim of the coffee cup in front of you, the casualness in your voice a little too forced even to your own ears.

Sunghoon shifts in his seat, the easy smirk fading just slightly as he straightens, as if the weight of what he’s about to say demands a little more gravity.

“I wanted to ask if you could help me write another article,” he says, the words slow and deliberate, like he’s weighing each one carefully before letting it leave his mouth.

You blink, surprised but trying not to show it. “What about?”

He leans back, exhales once through his nose, and says it:

“I’m going to be participating in the Olympic tryouts.”

The announcement hits harder than you expect, knocking the air from your lungs for half a second. You sit up a little straighter, your mind racing to process it, because the last time you talked he was adamant he wasn’t preparing for the season. He said it so easily, so convincingly, that you hadn’t thought to press harder.

Sunghoon must catch the flicker of confusion across your face, because he adds quickly, almost defensively, “It’s not a comeback. Not really.”

You narrow your eyes slightly. “What do you mean?”

He pauses.

You can see it—the hesitation. The way his shoulders tense just the slightest bit, the way he looks down at his hands like the answer is written somewhere in the faint lines of his palms.

“I—” he starts, then stops, chewing the inside of his cheek in frustration. His fingers curl lightly against the table, the same nervous tic he’s had since he was a teenager trying to explain why he bombed a practice session.

“I just need you to write the article for me,” he says instead, voice softer now, almost tentative. “Please?”

Here’s the thing about Sunghoon.

He’s always been good at giving you just enough—just enough smiles, just enough softness, just enough quiet promises without ever saying the words aloud—to make you feel like maybe, just maybe, there was something sturdy here.

Something real.

Something worth holding onto.

And then, just when you reached for it, just when you let yourself believe you were on solid ground, he would pull back.

Carefully.

Effortlessly.

Leaving you standing there, empty-handed, wondering if you were the one who had leaned in too far, if you had asked for too much, if you had misread all of it from the start.

It wasn’t cruelty.

It was worse than cruelty.

It was kindness, just enough to hurt. Just enough to make you doubt whether it was ever real.

You lean back slightly, arms crossing over your chest, not because you want to be defensive but because you need the distance, need something to ground you against the sudden rush of old feelings. “Why me?” you ask, genuinely. “The last time I wrote something for you, you were too busy complaining about the photos I used to actually say thank you.”

It’s a weak jab, but you both know the real question you’re asking has nothing to do with photos.

It’s why now?

It’s why me, when you could have gone to anyone else?

Sunghoon meets your gaze without flinching, his expression surprisingly earnest.

“Because,” he says simply, “I trust you.”

You open your mouth to say something—something sarcastic, something to deflect—but he cuts you off before you can.

“I trust that you won’t spin this into something else. I trust that you’ll tell it the way it is. Not the way people want to hear it. Not the way the sponsors or the federations want it dressed up.” His voice stays calm, but there’s something raw underneath it, something that edges dangerously close to vulnerability. “Just… the truth. That’s all I want.”

You stare at him across the table, your fingers curling slightly around the rim of your cup, and for a moment, you don't say anything. You just sit there, letting the request hang in the air between you, heavy and trembling like a thread pulled too tight.

Part of you—the part that's bruised and still sore from all the years of learning the hard way—wants to say no. Wants to lean back in your chair, laugh it off, tell him to hire a better PR team like every other professional athlete with something to prove. Wants to remind him, and maybe yourself, that you’re not the same girl who would have dropped everything the moment he asked.

Because you know better now. You know how this story goes. You say yes, you step closer, you open the door just a crack—and he slips through, quietly, effortlessly, until you're standing in the wreckage again, wondering how you didn’t see it coming.

But another part of you—the stubborn part, the hopeful part you haven't managed to kill off no matter how hard you've tried—can’t quite look away from him. From the way he’s sitting there, tension riding his shoulders, fingers tapping a restless rhythm against his cup. From the way he asked—no bravado, no posturing, just a simple, almost clumsy honesty that feels so rare you almost don't know what to do with it.

You glance toward the window, watching the way the last blush of sunset catches against the glass, and for a moment you imagine what it would feel like to say yes.

Not because you owe him. Not because you’re chasing the past.

But because, somewhere deep down, you still believe in telling stories the way they deserve to be told.

You still believe some promises are worth making again, even if it terrifies you.

Your stomach twists, your chest aching with the sharpness of it, but you find yourself already knowing the answer before your mouth even moves.

You inhale slowly, letting the silence stretch for just a beat longer than necessary, then exhale through your nose, pushing aside the complicated tangle of feelings you don't have the energy to unravel tonight.

"Fine," you say at last, voice even, businesslike, like you're trying to convince both of you that this is just another assignment and not something heavier slipping under your skin. "Get your assistant to email me the details. I’ll personally send over the draft before pushing it to the editorial team."

You reach for your cup as you say it, needing something to do with your hands, something to anchor yourself to this new line you’re drawing in the sand.

But before you can even take a sip, Sunghoon leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table, his expression soft but firm in a way that pins you in place more effectively than anything else could.

“Don't bother,” he says simply. “You can just publish it directly.”

You pause, the cup poised halfway to your mouth, his words hanging there between you like an invisible thread you’re not sure you want to pull. You lower the cup slowly, setting it back down against the saucer with a faint clink, buying yourself a second to think. To breathe. To understand.

You search his face for the catch, for the usual hesitation he so often laced into moments like this—those little cracks where you could see him calculating the safest move, the one that let him stay just close enough without ever being vulnerable.

But this time, there’s none of that. Just him, sitting there, arms folded over the table, looking at you like he’s already decided.

"Are you sure?" you ask, the words slipping out lighter than you feel them. "No proofread? No management red flags?"

Sunghoon’s lips twitch into a smile—small, wry, but not mocking. If anything, he looks... relieved that you asked. Like he was expecting the pushback, maybe even hoping for it, because it means you’re still cautious enough to take this seriously.

"I’m sure," he says simply.

A muscle ticks once in your jaw, the urge to press further bubbling up, but you force yourself to stop. And in it’s place, a lump forms in your throat, sharp and unexpected, because if there’s one thing you didn’t expect to find tonight—certainly not here, not like this—it was trust.

Not just trust in your professionalism. Not just trust in your writing.

Trust in you.

Because whatever else has changed, you can feel it: This matters to him.

Not the article. Not the media coverage.

This.

Reaching out to you.

Trusting you with the fragile, unfinished thing he's trying to build for himself again, knowing full well you could burn him with it.

And somehow, hearing him say it—so plainly, so quietly—makes it harder to breathe for a moment. Because even after everything, even after the distance and the silences and the growing pains you both carried separately, some part of him still sees you as the person who would protect his story. The way you once protected his heart.

And you don’t know what terrifies you more—the fact that he still trusts you, or the fact that, deep down, you still want to be the person worthy of that trust.

It rattles something loose inside you—the version of yourself you thought you had to kill off to survive him once.

You shift slightly in your seat, trying to hold onto your composure, trying not to let him see the way those simple words—those few inches of offered faith—shake the foundation you’ve been standing on for years.

"Alright," you say at last, keeping your voice light, controlled, even though your hands tremble ever so slightly beneath the table.

"But don't blame me if you don't like how candid I get."

Sunghoon smiles at that, the edges of his mouth curling in that way that makes your chest hurt for reasons you’re too tired to name.

"I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t mean it," he says simply.

You let out a soft breath you hadn’t even realised you were holding and glance down at your watch, the second hand ticking steadily forward. It’s getting late. And even though neither of you says it, you both know this fragile truce you’ve built tonight can only stretch so far before it snaps under the weight of everything you’re still not ready to talk about.

You stand, gathering your bag with slow, deliberate movements, and Sunghoon rises too, out of habit more than necessity. Always the gentleman, even when he had no right to be.

You sling your bag over your shoulder, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and look at him one last time.

There’s so much you could say. So much you shouldn’t.

So instead, you just offer a nod. Small. Measured. Almost formal.

"I’ll be in touch," you say.

And before he can say anything that might make this harder, you turn and walk toward the door, the cool night air rushing in as you step outside.

You don’t look back.

But you feel it—the weight of his eyes following you, lingering in the space you leave behind.

You’re back in that tiny, overheated apartment off campus—the one where the windows always fogged up too easily and nothing ever really dried properly unless you left it near the fan. The scent of burnt popcorn still clings faintly to the air from earlier that evening, and the dull hum of traffic bleeds in through the thin walls, but even that doesn’t distract from the tension steadily rising in the room like pressure before a storm. Sunghoon is slouched on the couch with one hand tangled in his hair, exhaling yet another sigh—his fifth in the past ten minutes. You’ve been watching him carefully from across the room, patiently waiting for him to reach out first. But after three years together, you know better. Park Sunghoon doesn’t do well with vulnerability. He never has. "Something’s on your mind, isn’t it?" you ask, finally breaking the silence as you settle down beside him on the couch. He flinches at your sudden proximity, as if this isn’t your apartment, as if he’s only just realised you’re still here. He doesn’t look at you when he answers. "No, I’m just tired from training, that’s all." You let out a breath—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “You know, three years is a long time. Long enough for me to know when you’re lying to me. Just because I don’t call you out on it doesn’t mean I don’t see it happening.” That makes him freeze. His hand stills in his hair, and his jaw goes tight. “Park Sunghoon,” you say slowly, letting each syllable settle like a weight between you. The name sounds foreign in your mouth—formal, distant, pointed. He flinches. Not visibly, not dramatically—but you see it. A slight stiffening in his posture. The barest flicker of guilt behind his eyes. Because he knows what it means when you use his full name. You only ever say it like that when you’re done waiting. “You’re keeping something from me.” The words come out flat and exhausted, with none of the softness you’ve been clinging to for weeks—because whatever this thing is, whatever he’s hiding, it’s starting to rot the air between you. And you’re too tired—too frayed around the edges from all the late-night phone calls that ended too early, the dinners where he barely looked up from his plate, the countless conversations that brushed against the truth but never quite touched it. He blinks at you like you’ve just blindsided him. "Babe, what are you talking about?" "Don’t do that," you snap, your voice rising before you can stop it. "Don’t act like I’m imagining things. You’ve been distant for weeks. You barely look me in the eye when we talk, and every time I try to ask what’s going on, you throw me the same half-hearted excuses—‘I’m tired,’ ‘Training’s been intense.’ You expect me to just accept that forever?” His jaw flexes, and this time you see it—clear as day—that flicker of guilt he can’t hide fast enough. Your stomach sinks. You soften your tone, even if it cracks on the way out. "Sunghoon, we’re supposed to be in this together. I want to be there for you. Please." He hesitates, swallowing hard like the words are caught in his throat. "I—I received a training offer." For a second, you just blink at him, caught off guard. "That’s great, Hoon. Why would you hide that from me?" He doesn’t answer right away, and for a second you think—maybe it’s nothing. Maybe he really is just tired from training and you’re overreacting. But then, almost reluctantly, he says it.

“It’s in Spain.”

The words land heavy between you.

Spain.

Not just a different city. Not even just another country. Another continent. Another time zone. Another life.

The air leaves your lungs before you can stop it. Not in a dramatic gasp, not in a theatrical way—but in a slow, silent collapse, like something inside you just quietly folded in on itself.

If the offer’s in Spain… then it’s not just about training. It’s about moving.

Leaving.

Staying gone.

“When were you planning on telling me?” you ask, your voice cracking at the edges despite your best effort to keep it steady. “Were you going to let me find out through someone else? Or just… let me sit here, waiting for you to come clean?”

He winces, just slightly. “I didn’t know how.”

And that’s when it really hits you. The worst part isn’t the distance. You could handle distance. You’ve done long hours. Late-night calls. Time apart.

No—the worst part is that he didn’t tell you. That he’s been sitting with this, carrying it silently, while showing up in your apartment like nothing’s changed.

Because this isn’t just about fear or nerves or awkward timing.

This is about trust. About the fact that somewhere, deep down, he didn’t believe you’d understand. Didn’t believe you’d stay.

You feel the sharp sting of that realisation clawing at your chest. You’ve always known Sunghoon wasn’t great at talking about hard things, but you thought… you thought you were past that stage. You thought you were partners.

“I didn’t want to make you worry before I even knew if it was real,” he adds, and the moment stretches thin between you—just long enough for the ache to settle in properly.

Your voice comes out quieter this time, more hollow. “How long ago?”

He hesitates. Again. And you already know the answer’s going to hurt.

“A month.”

You blink. Once. Twice. Trying to understand what kind of person holds onto something that big for thirty days—sharing meals, messages, kisses—without so much as a hint.

"A month,” you repeat, because you need to say it out loud to believe it. “You’ve known about this for a month, and you didn’t think to tell me?”

He doesn’t answer.

And in that silence, your mind fills the blanks for him: You weren’t part of the decision. You weren’t part of the plan. You were just… something temporary. Something not worth factoring in.

You want to yell. You want to cry. You want to disappear.

But instead, all you can do is ask, barely above a whisper—

“How long would you be gone?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “The contract’s renewable. Season by season.”

So not just gone.

Possibly gone for good.

Your vision blurs for a moment—not from tears, but from the force of everything hitting you at once: the betrayal, the loneliness, the terrible, gnawing possibility that he’s been slowly easing himself out of this relationship long before Spain ever came into the picture.

"I'm sorry for not telling you earlier... I was scared.” His voice is low, almost breathless, like he’s only just admitting it to himself. His hand reaches out, tentative at first, before settling over yours where it rests on the couch. And you hate it—how that simple gesture, plain and quiet and embarrassingly overdue, still makes something inside you soften. The bare fucking minimum, and it still sways you.

"Hell, I’m scared too, Sunghoon," you whisper, not bothering to hide the shake in your voice. "But you should’ve told me. I deserved to hear it from you—not from the silence that’s been stretching between us for weeks."

His other hand comes up to run through his hair, eyes squeezing shut for a second. "I don’t even know if I want to take it up. I mean, I could stay. I could keep training here in Korea."

You shoot him a look—sharp, disbelieving, almost angry.

"Are you crazy?" Your voice wavers on the edge of breaking, not because you don’t mean it, but because meaning it hurts more than you want to admit. "It’s a good opportunity, Sunghoon. One you’ve worked your whole life for. You should go for it."

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just stares at you, searching your face like it holds the answers to every impossible question he hasn’t dared to ask. And you know the moment he finds it—the flicker of fear. The tightness in your smile. The regret you tried so hard to keep buried shows in every inch and crease of your face and he sees it as clear as day.

"I love you, Sunghoon." You say it firmly. Desperately. "And loving you means being there for you. Supporting your dreams. That’s what this is. It's not like we’re breaking up, right?"

He reacts instantly. "No! God, no.”

His grip tightens over your hands, voice urgent, pleading.

"I love you too, and I never want to lose you."

You hold his gaze. Let yourself believe him—for now. Because in this moment, with his hand wrapped around yours and his eyes wide and scared and filled with something real, you need to.

"That’s all I needed to know," you say softly.

And it is.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself. You eventually came to terms with it—because you’re good at rationalising things that hurt. You tell yourself that dreams come with sacrifice. That love, real love, isn’t always about staying close—it’s about staying with someone, even when they’re far away. That maybe love isn’t about convenience, but compromise. But still… you guess, even then, even in that moment where you let him go with your blessing—a part of you already had that small flicker of doubt gnawing quietly at the back of your mind. Did he see you in the life he was chasing? Or were you just the thing he had to let go of to chase it faster? The cursor blinks at you, tauntingly. A small, persistent beat on a completely blank page. Like it’s waiting for you to figure out how to write about someone you’ve spent years trying not to think about. It’s not like this is your first article about him. In fact, the last one made the rounds faster than you expected. People called it raw, honest, even moving. They praised your ability to write “authentically,” like you’d peeled back layers no other reporter had dared to touch. Like you knew him. And you do. Or at least you did. Can’t be that hard to churn out another article about him. Your gaze drifts to your desk, where a small, unopened box sits tucked to the side—innocent, pastel-coloured, with a soft shimmer under the lamp light. The Popmart. You blink at it, then let out a quiet laugh. Not bitter. Just tired. Surprised. Of course he didn’t know. You’d already completed this series over a year ago. Bought the final missing figure off some reseller at a ridiculous markup. You’d even double-sleeved it in plastic wrap and stuck it on the corner of your shelf, not because you still cared about the collection, but because it had started to feel like proof of something. Proof that you could finish something on your own. That you could love something—and walk away when you needed to. That you didn’t need anyone else to give you closure. And yet… here it is. Sitting unopened on your desk, brought to you by the very person you spent years training yourself not to miss. A memory in a box. A joke you both once shared, delivered too late and too gently. You pick it up slowly, turning it over in your hand, and smile to yourself—small, worn, a little sad. He still thinks he knows you. Still buys you things like he’s allowed to remember you this closely. And maybe that’s the problem. Because part of you still wants him to.

You're back at the ice rink, your breath catching slightly as the cold air settles into your lungs the moment you step inside. The familiar scent of ice and rubber greets you, sharp and sterile. It’s quieter today—no full team practices or busy skaters gliding across the surface—just the soft, distant hum of the facility and the occasional sharp cut of blades against ice. You texted Sunghoon earlier this week, asking for a favour. A simple photo op, you said—nothing serious. You needed fresh shots for the article. Every news outlet had been recycling the same tired gallery of him from years ago—arms raised in victory at the 2022 Winter Olympics, a candid smile from a post-win press conference, that one dramatic shot with his head bowed in slow-motion grace during a routine. Beautiful images, sure, but outdated. You needed something that showed the version of him now. And if you were being honest with yourself, a small, treacherous part of you just wanted to see him in motion again. To see the Sunghoon that only existed when he was skating. The one who couldn’t hide behind polished interviews and measured words. He agreed with barely a pause.

Sunghoon: Sure. Come by Thursday. I’ll block the ice for an hour.

So you’re here. The camera you borrowed from your illustrator slung over your shoulder, scarf tucked under your chin, fingers already tingling from the cold. You set your things down near the boards, scanning the empty rink until you spot him. And there he is. Sunghoon is already on the ice, warming up with long, fluid strides, his blades carving out familiar patterns beneath him. He hasn’t seen you yet. Or maybe he has, and he's just letting you watch first. Either way, for a moment, you forget you’re here to work. Because seeing him like this—alone on the ice, body moving like muscle memory itself—it tugs something loose in you. Something old and buried but not entirely gone. And you remember: this is what he was born to do. Even if it broke both of you along the way. Without wasting another second, you’re already moving to unzip your camera bag and pull your gear out. You work methodically, slipping off the lens cap, adjusting the settings, checking the battery with a practiced flick of your thumb. It’s almost muscle memory—this part of you that lives in quiet attention. The last time you held a professional camera like this was for a university project, one that had taken weeks to prepare and execute. Back then, Sunghoon had been your muse too—sharp lines, steady movement, that inexplicable sense of stillness in motion that made him impossible to look away from. And now here you are again. The lens finds him at centre ice, where he’s stretching out a tight muscle in his leg, movements slow and careful, like he knows you’re watching now. Maybe he does. Sunghoon always had a sixth sense for that—for when eyes were on him, especially yours. You angle your lens slightly, tracking the curve of his body, the set of his jaw. Click. The shutter snaps. He glances over at the sound, a half-smile tugging at his mouth—mischievous, unbothered, almost like he’s posing without trying. But that’s just how he’s always been. You used to call it his camera face. He used to call you dramatic.

Click.

Sunghoon starts skating again. He doesn’t ask for direction, and you don’t offer any. You don’t need to. You track him through the lens as he glides through a spin, body coiled and precise, before he launches into a clean double axel that lands with barely a sound. The shutter clicks with each motion, capturing his lines, the angles, the fleeting expressions that flash across his face like sunlight through a curtain. You capture the way the light reflects off the ice, how the blade flares white against the surface—it’s all a picture you’ve seen before, but never quite like this. Never with this strange ache nestled beneath your ribs. There’s a moment—between the leap and the landing—when he looks directly at you. And it almost knocks the breath out of you. Because in that split second, it feels like the ice disappears, the years disappear, and it’s just you and him again, the version of him that used to look for your eyes in every crowd. The version that used to skate not just for medals, but for you. You lower your camera slowly, heart thudding a little louder in your chest than it should. “Don’t tell me that was your good side,” you say, aiming for lightness, adjusting your grip on the camera as you lower it from your eye. The teasing is automatic, familiar—the kind of banter you used to toss back and forth like a tennis ball, soft enough not to bruise, sharp enough to mean something. Sunghoon coasts to a stop near the boards, blades carving a soft arc in the ice, his breath visible in the cold air. His chest rises and falls steadily, not from exertion—he’s not pushing himself yet—but from the kind of focused calm he only ever shows on the ice. “It was all my good side,” he replies, deadpan. You roll your eyes and let out a soft, incredulous laugh, more fond than you mean it to be. Of course it was. He’s always been like this—smug and quietly self-aware in the way only someone who knows they’re good can be. You roll your eyes, but your lips are already curling upward. You glance down at the display screen, reviewing the shots, already knowing you’ve got what you came for—and maybe a little more than you meant to take. “Tell me I don’t look good,” Sunghoon says, a quiet challenge in his voice as he raises an eyebrow, still watching you. You scoff, lifting the camera again mostly to hide the expression threatening to spread across your face. “Just try not to look like you’re holding a grudge against the ice,” you reply, letting the words land somewhere between playful and pointed. “I don’t,” he says, and this time, there’s something else there. Something softer. A hesitation in the space between his words. And for a second, it sounds like he means it. You lower the camera slightly, eyes on him through the frame but not taking the shot. Your voice drops without you meaning it to, just a notch lower, quiet like a memory surfacing. “You always looked best when you weren’t trying,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. A truth you’ve always known but never said aloud. But he hears it. And he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t tease. He just turns back toward the centre of the rink, pushes off without a word, and starts skating again. You track him as he speeds into another combination—a triple toe loop followed by a clean step sequence, blades carving elegant arcs into the ice. You’re almost lost in it, the way the movements catch light, the shutter syncing to the beat of his pace like muscle memory. Then it happens. It’s subtle. Barely a misstep. But you catch it—the way his landing falters, how his right skate wobbles just slightly before he corrects. It would’ve been imperceptible to most. But not to you. Your fingers freeze on the camera, instinctively holding your breath as you watch him pull out of the sequence early, gliding to the boards instead of continuing.

He’s hiding it. But not well. His right leg drags just a fraction longer than it should with each glide—barely noticeable to the untrained eye, but you’ve spent too many hours watching him skate not to catch it. It’s the kind of minute detail only someone who’s memorised his movement would notice. And it makes your stomach lurch. You lower the camera, resting it carefully at the edge of your bag, the weight of it slipping from your fingers like the moment itself is slipping from your grasp. Your eyes track his every motion as he skates to the edge of the rink, bends low—too low, too carefully—and begins adjusting his laces. A decoy. A deflection. His back is to you, but the lie is written all over the tension in his shoulders. You step closer to the rink’s edge. “Sunghoon.” He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t acknowledge you with anything more than a vague, distracted, “One sec.” It’s the way he used to respond when you caught him avoiding a question. The same rehearsed calm, the same nonchalance that always made you feel like you were overreacting—until the truth came out in pieces. “Don’t do that.” A pause. Then, reluctantly, he straightens and looks over his shoulder. His face is composed, but you see it—the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the way his hands clench a little too tightly around his laces like he needs them to steady himself. It’s in his eyes too. That flicker of guilt. That stubborn need to pretend. And for just a second, you see it flash across his face—that same look he wore four years ago in your apartment. When you said his name with a tremble in your voice. When you caught the lie before he could even shape it with his mouth. It hits you all at once: the déjà vu, the sick familiarity of it. He’s doing it again. Tucking pain behind a polite smile. Folding the truth into excuses he hasn’t said out loud yet. And this time, it’s not your relationship that’s fraying—it’s his body. “It’s nothing,” he says. You wait for him to add on, say something—anything—to reassure you. A quiet I promise or the don’t worry about it. But he doesn’t. Doesn’t matter if he did anyway. You know he’s lying. And just like that, the rumours—the whispers that had floated through the sports forums, half-buried in speculation and dismissed by press statements—crash into your chest with brutal clarity. The injury. The reason he pulled out of finals. The reason he disappeared. You cross your arms. “That ‘nothing’ looked a hell of a lot like something.” “I just landed weird.” “Bullshit,” you snap before you can stop yourself. “You’re injured.”

He freezes. The sound of your words—sharp, laced with something dangerously close to panic—hangs between you. The silence between you stretches like taut wire, thin and sharp and ready to snap. You watch the way his jaw locks, the way his arms hang stiffly by his sides, like he’s bracing for a blow you haven’t decided if you want to deliver. And maybe that’s what hurts more than anything else—not the lie itself, but the fact that he’s willing to let it hang in the air. Unchallenged. Unexplained. Like your concern isn’t worth the truth. Your hands clench into fists before you even realise it, nails digging into your palms as you watch him turn fully now, the faintest strain in his movement betraying what his mouth won’t say. He doesn’t even meet your eyes. And that—that makes something hot and sharp rise in your throat. Anger. That’s the first thing that hits. Because he knew. Knew this wasn’t something he could hide forever—and still, he didn’t tell you. Not when you asked. Not when you agreed to write the article. Not when you sat across from him in that café, trusting him with something you weren’t sure you even had left to give. And he did this again. Like back then. When Spain was just a pin on a map and you were left in the dark, forced to make sense of a future he already knew he wasn’t going to share with you. But right on the heels of that fury comes something else—something slower, heavier. Worry. Because you know him. You know how much the ice means to him. You know what it took for him to get here. And you can see it now, etched into every tight movement and every silent wince he tries to bury beneath composure. He’s skating on borrowed time. The sadness creeps in after, quiet and cruel. Because maybe you were hoping—foolishly—that this time would be different. That this new version of you and him, cautious but healing, would be built on honesty. And yet here you are again. Watching him lie to you, not with words, but with silence. Because you’ve been here before, haven’t you? Waiting on him to meet you halfway while he stands still. And still, a part of you—stupid, stubborn, impossibly soft—wants to close the gap.

You take a step forward. It’s instinct more than decision, your feet moving before your pride can catch up. The edge of the rink is cold against your palms as you lean over the barricade slightly, just enough to close the space between you. He looks like he might flinch again—like he’s caught somewhere between preparing to argue or retreat. But you don’t raise your voice. You just say, quietly, firmly, “Don’t do this.” His eyes flicker—just barely. But you see it. “Don’t shut me out like I’m just another reporter,” you continue. “Don’t feed me lines like ‘it’s nothing’ when you know I see through that better than anyone.” Still, he says nothing. So you press harder, voice trembling now—not with anger, but with the weight of everything you’re holding back. “I watched you limp, Sunghoon. I saw it. And you think I’m just going to nod and take your word for it?” He exhales slowly, but you can tell he’s holding his breath in all the places that matter. You shift again, trying to find steadiness in your words, even as your chest tightens. “If the rumours were true—if you’ve been skating on an injury this entire time—why wouldn’t you just tell me?” A pause. A breath. A crack. “Do you really think I wouldn’t have cared?” That lands. Because his eyes drop—not in shame, but something closer to fear. Not of you. But of what his silence might’ve already cost him. He doesn’t answer, not yet. He just stands there, your words still echoing in the space between you. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out—just a soft, frustrated exhale. His jaw works like he’s chewing on the words, trying to force them out, but they keep getting caught somewhere between his chest and his throat. It’s like he’s standing at the edge of something—something terrifying and uncharted—and he can’t bring himself to take the final step. You can almost see the war going on inside him: the urge to speak versus the instinct to protect himself, to guard the parts of him that still feel too raw to share. For a moment, you think he’s going to brush it off the way he always does—wrap it up neatly with a nonchalant shrug and a quick change of subject. Like he’s too proud or too scared to let you see that raw, unguarded part of him. It wouldn’t be the first time. After all, that’s what he’s always done—deflect, dodge, build walls where there should be bridges. He couldn’t be honest with you when you were dating. What makes you think he’d be any different now, when there’s even more distance between you? You almost let him off the hook. Almost open your mouth to tell him it’s fine, that you don’t need him to explain himself. You’re already bracing yourself to swallow the ache, to bury it with everything else that’s gone unspoken between you. You’ve become good at that—pretending it doesn’t hurt. Pretending the disappointment hasn’t lingered all this time, festering quietly just beneath the surface of your every breath. And Sunghoon sees it. Sees the way your eyes begin to glaze over, the way your posture shifts—not quite closed off, but tilting in that direction. A half-given-up look that reads like surrender. Like you’re moments away from letting go completely. And something in him panics. A wave of it crashes through his chest, sharp and suffocating. Because if he fucks this up—if he lets you walk away now, after everything—it’s really over. No more second chances. No more waiting. He feels the weight of it settle on him all at once. That this—you—is the moment he can’t afford to lose. So, unexpectedly for you, he speaks.

“A year after we broke up,” he says, his voice quiet but steady, like he’s forcing himself to stay composed. “I was sent onto a new reality programme in Spain. Kind of like a training feature-slash-documentary series. Mostly for sponsorships.” He swallows hard, his jaw clenching as he gathers his thoughts. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks—his eyes fixed on some far point beyond the rink, beyond this moment, as if the memory itself is something he can’t look at head-on. “During our break… there was this skater, Hugo.” The name clicks instantly—Hugo Franchez. You’ve heard of him. He’s one of Coach Morales’ other students, known for his flamboyant public persona and his tendency to stir up drama both on and off the ice. Brash, talented, and unapologetically loud. The kind of guy who thrives on attention, whether it’s positive or negative. Before you can fully process what that connection means, Sunghoon cuts through your thoughts, almost as if he knows exactly what’s running through your mind. “Doesn’t matter who he is,” he mutters, voice sharper now, almost defensive. “One day during practice, that prick made a comment. Said my standards had dropped since you left me.” “I didn’t care at first,” he says. “It was petty. Stupid. I’ve heard worse. And honestly, he wasn’t wrong. I was a mess back then. I didn’t care what anyone said.” There’s something tight in his expression, like he’s forcing himself to stay detached—to treat it like a story he’s telling rather than a wound he’s reopening. You stay silent, but you feel your stomach twist into a knot, cold and heavy. The words settle like stones in your chest, bitter and suffocating. You don’t know what to say—don’t know if anything you could say would make a difference. “But then he said something else,” Sunghoon continues, and his voice tightens like it’s physically difficult to push the words out. “He started talking about you. Joking—if you can even call it that. Said maybe he’d try you out next. That someone like you didn’t need love, just a good—” He cuts himself off, hand flexing slightly at his side. You don’t need him to finish. Your breath catches in your chest, a mix of disgust and disbelief building behind your ribs. Your hands tighten on the rink’s barrier, knuckles turning white. You can’t seem to move, your mind struggling to make sense of the sheer audacity—the venom laced into words that shouldn’t even exist. Sunghoon’s fingers drum restlessly against his thigh, a telltale sign that he’s more upset than he’s letting on. His mouth presses into a thin, unforgiving line, and for a moment, he just breathes—deep and controlled, like he’s trying not to let his frustration seep through, but there’s a tremor in his voice that betrays the anger still simmering under the surface. “Hoon…” you whisper, your voice barely audible, raw with sympathy and anger that doesn’t know where to land. Sunghoon’s heart leaps at the familiar nickname, but the feeling doesn’t last long as he’s reminded of the story he’s telling. “That’s when it happened,” he continues, finally lifting his gaze to meet yours. There’s something broken there, vulnerability seeping through the cracks in his usual calm. “I snapped. Took a swing at him. Next thing I know, we’re being pulled apart. Cameras everywhere. People yelling. Coach Morales losing his mind. The programme was discontinued after that.” You take a small, steadying breath, unsure of whether to feel relieved that he defended you or angry that it came to this.

“And your injury?” you ask, the words careful, soft, like you’re afraid of breaking whatever fragile, rare occurrence is happening between you. He hesitates, the tension in his posture growing taut again. “When we went down, I didn’t even notice it at first. Adrenaline, I guess. I thought it wasn’t a big deal. It hurt, yeah, but I could still skate. I figured it’d pass. I didn’t want to make it anything more than what it was.” You watch the shift in his expression—the shame, the defensiveness, the echo of pain he’s tried so hard to bury. “That’s why you pulled out of the finals,” you say, the pieces clicking together all at once. He nods. “Turns out I tore a ligament when I landed wrong. I didn’t realise how bad it was until I couldn’t even put weight on it. Rehab took months. Had to retrain my whole posture. Thought I’d never land a clean jump again.” The silence that follows isn’t empty—it’s heavy with everything unspoken. You can feel the ache settle in your chest, not just for him but for the both of you—the version of him who tried to hold it all together, and the version of you who never knew. You want to scream at him for being reckless. For not telling you. For carrying all of this alone when he didn’t have to. But instead, you just stare at him. And he stares back. Both of you standing there, in the middle of a truth that neither of you asked for—but one that’s been waiting, quietly, to be told. “But you’re better now, right?” Your voice comes out more hopeful than you intended, a tight, almost desperate note clinging to the words. “I mean… you’re skating fine. You’re prepping for the tryouts, right?” Sunghoon hesitates, his eyes dropping to his hands where his fingers are still restlessly drumming against his thighs. He swallows hard, and the tension in his jaw doesn’t ease. “Barely,” he admits, the word thick and reluctant. “The injury relapses whenever I overexert. Some days it’s fine, and other days… it’s like I’m right back to square one. There’s no pattern. No warning. Just pain.” You feel a hollow ache forming in your chest, and you can’t help the frustration that bubbles up alongside the worry. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He looks up at you then, a flicker of something pained and conflicted crossing his face. “Because it wasn’t your problem to deal with. You didn’t need to know. I couldn’t—” He breaks off, running a hand through his hair in a way that’s almost angry. “I couldn’t stand the thought of you worrying about me. Not after I’d already messed things up between us.” You open your mouth to argue, to tell him that’s not how this works—that you wouldn’t have seen him as a burden. But you can’t find the words, because deep down, you know Sunghoon has always carried things alone. It’s just who he is. Protecting people from his own mess, even when it tears him apart. He’s still watching you, shoulders tense, waiting for the backlash—like he’s already bracing himself for the worst. And you can’t help it—you laugh. Not a happy laugh. Not even a bitter one. Just a short, exhausted sound that slips out before you can stop it. “That’s it?” you murmur, shaking your head. “That’s the reason you didn’t tell me? Because you didn’t know how to believe that I’d want to help you?” Sunghoon’s jaw clenches, and his eyes flicker with something like hurt. “You don’t understand—” “No, I don’t,” you cut in, and your voice wobbles despite your best efforts to sound composed. “I don’t understand how the guy who always told me to be honest, to be open with him, just decides on his own that I wouldn’t care? You didn’t even give me the chance, Sunghoon.” He doesn’t respond. Just lowers his gaze, looking at his own skates like they might hold an answer. You take a slow breath, forcing yourself to ease back the frustration threatening to spill over. “You think I wouldn’t have cared? That I would’ve just—what—written you off as some failure because you got hurt? After everything?” His silence feels like an admission. And it hurts more than it should. “Was I really that easy to leave behind?” you ask, softer now. Your hands curl tighter around the edge of the boards, knuckles turning white. “Did I make it that easy for you?” He finally looks up, and his expression is raw, stripped down to something you haven’t seen in years. “No,” he says, almost too fast. “It wasn’t easy. Nothing about leaving was easy. I just—I didn’t know how to handle it.” You swallow the lump in your throat, letting his words sink in. You’re speechless, your mind a whirlwind of the why and the how and the what ifs that he’s not giving you. Then you zone into what he said: Not after I’d already messed things up between us. He’s aware that the reason for your falling out was because of him. “Never mind after we broke up. In the last few months of our relationship, why were you so distant then? Why wouldn’t you tell me anything? Why did we break up, Sunghoon?” His head jerks up, eyes widening. For a second, he looks like he didn’t expect you to ask, like he thought you’d just let it stay buried. But you can’t. Not anymore. “I didn’t mean to lose you,” he whispers, like it’s something he’s only just now realising. “But by the time I figured out how to come back… it felt like I didn’t deserve to. Not after everything.” You open your mouth, then close it again, the words heavy on your tongue. There’s a long pause—weighted, expectant. You shift slightly, pressing your palms against the edge of the rink as if to steady yourself. And then, quietly—because you need to understand, because you deserve to—you ask:

“What happened in Spain? Please, I need to know.” Sunghoon meets your gaze and for a second, it really felt like he was finally meeting you halfway. He lets out a shaky breath before he speaks again, voice low and unsteady. “When I left Korea, it was like everything just… fell apart. I thought skating would fix it. That if I just pushed through, everything would fall into place. It was going to be worth it, I’d feel like myself again.” His voice is quieter when he continues, almost like he’s talking more to himself than to you. “After we broke up, I kept telling myself it was for the best. That I needed to focus on skating. But… after a while, it didn’t matter anymore. I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t even skating because I loved it. I was just… doing it. Because I didn’t know what else to do. Because I didn’t know who I was if I wasn’t moving forward. And without you… I just felt stuck.” The weight of his confession presses down on both of you, heavy and unforgiving. You let your hands fall from where they’ve been gripping the rink barrier, flexing your fingers like you’re trying to shake off the cold—or maybe just the ache creeping into your chest. Sunghoon skates closer, not enough to close the gap entirely but enough that you can see the way his eyes are glossed over, the pain he’s too proud to let fully show. “I lost you. I lost skating. And I didn’t know how to come back from that.” You don’t know how to respond. You don’t even know if there’s anything left to say. So you just stare at him, taking in the vulnerability on his face—the way he’s finally, finally letting himself be seen. And despite the anger, despite the sadness, a small part of you—the part that never really stopped missing him—starts to unravel. Because this isn’t the Sunghoon you remember leaving. This is someone who’s been trying—fumbling, falling, but trying—to find his way back. You don’t move, but you don’t push him away either. You just stand there, caught between wanting to reach for him and wanting to protect yourself from being hurt again. And Sunghoon sees it—that hesitation. He takes a shaky breath, his hands falling to his sides, fingers flexing like he doesn’t know what to do with them. He’s still looking at you—eyes wide, raw, like he’s afraid of what your silence means. Finally, he forces the words out, voice rough and unsteady. “I know it doesn’t mean much now, but I’m really fucking sorry, Y/N.”

His eyes drop again, like he can’t bear to see your reaction. “I was an emotional wreck when I realised I was falling out of love with skating. It felt like I was losing the only thing I’d ever been good at, and I didn’t know how to handle that. And in the middle of that mess… I didn’t know how to give you the love you needed.” The admission hangs between you, heavy and unguarded, and it’s like you’re seeing the cracks in him for the first time—not the public figure, not the professional skater, but the boy who had once loved the ice so much that he didn’t know who he was without it. You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting the tremble threatening your voice. “You should have just… told me. You didn’t have to go through it alone. I was right there, Sunghoon. I would have—” “I know,” he cuts in, voice almost desperate. “I know you would have. But I didn’t know how to let you. I kept thinking if I just pushed harder, trained longer, it would click again. That the love for it would come back. But it didn’t. And the more I kept failing, the less I could bring myself to tell you.” You swallow down the hurt lodged in your throat, forcing yourself to stay steady. “So instead, you just shut me out? Kept me in the dark?” “I couldn’t handle it,” he says, a bitter edge cutting through his tone. “All of it. You being so damn supportive. Telling me I could do it when I knew I couldn’t. I was falling apart, and you kept telling me I was going to make it. It just—” He shakes his head, lips pressing into a tight line. “It made me feel like a fraud. Like I was dragging you down with me.” You stare at him, disbelief and frustration mixing with the ache in your chest. “You’re kidding. And suddenly it's my fault? That I cared too much?”

“No! I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quickly, voice hoarse, trembling around the edges of regret. “God, that’s not what I meant at all. Fuck.”

He grips the back of his neck like he’s trying to ground himself, eyes flickering everywhere but yours—walls, floor, ceiling—anywhere that isn’t the firestorm in your gaze.

“I meant…” he finally forces out, lowering his hands. His shoulders sag. “I meant I didn’t know how to handle it. You gave so much and I—I didn’t know how to match it. I was scared I’d ruin it. So I pulled back. I shut you out instead of admitting I couldn’t keep up with the way you loved me.” Your heart clenches, torn between anger and sympathy. You take a deep breath, forcing the words out even though they taste like heartbreak. “You didn’t have to make that choice for me. I would’ve stayed, Sunghoon. Even if it hurt. Even if you were falling apart—” “That’s why I didn’t tell you!” The words burst out of him, louder than he meant them to. The sound echoes slightly in the quiet of the rink, raw and cracked at the edges. You flinch—not because you’re afraid, but because it’s the first time he’s raised his voice with you in a fight. Sunghoon’s expression falters the moment it leaves his mouth. His chest rises and falls unevenly as the weight of what he’s said settles between you. He blinks fast, and for the first time, you see the glassiness in his eyes—the way his lashes tremble under the strain of holding everything in. “I didn’t want you to feel guilty,” he says again, softer this time, like he’s trying to undo the sharpness from before. “Or worse… like you had to fix it. I couldn’t bear the thought of becoming something you felt responsible for instead of someone you just… loved.” He swallows hard, gaze falling to the floor as if he’s ashamed of the outburst, the truth, or maybe both. Your chest tightens at his words, but not out of anger. Not even sadness. Just this overwhelming ache for the boy in front of you—the boy who thought love was something that had to be earned only when he was okay. You exhale slowly, trying to steady the crack in your voice. “You think I loved you because you were strong all the time? Because you had it all together?” He doesn’t answer, but the tension in his shoulders says enough. “Sunghoon, I didn’t want to fix you. I just wanted to be there with you.

For a moment, he just stares at you, like he’s trying to understand why you’re still here, still fighting to know the truth. And in that silence, you realise that he’s never really stopped carrying the weight of that decision—never really forgiven himself for it. The guilt. The loneliness. The fear. It’s all still there, buried under years of trying to pretend it didn’t matter. And it hits you then—how much of himself he gave up just to make sure you didn’t drown with him. You’re not sure whether to scream at him for being so stupidly self-sacrificing or cry because he thought pushing you away was protecting you. His next words come out in a whisper, like he’s afraid of breaking the fragile truce between you. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I swear. I just… didn’t know how to love you and love skating at the same time. And when skating stopped feeling like love, I didn’t know how to love myself either.” Something inside you softens, and you feel the fight drain out of your body. You lean back, exhaling shakily, trying to process it all. Maybe you thought the anger would feel good. Like if you just yelled loud enough, it would drown out the ache that’s been festering since he left. But now, standing here with him—raw, exposed, finally admitting the truth—you just feel tired. And maybe, just maybe, a little relieved. Because at least now you know. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. It was that he didn’t know how. Without thinking, you reach out over the barricade, your fingers brushing against his. When he doesn’t pull away, you take his hand in yours. His shoulders slump, the fight draining out of him, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he lets himself lean into you—no walls, no distance, just the raw truth of it all between you.

He lets out a rough, almost bitter laugh. “Funny, right? I spent so long trying to protect you from my problems that I ended up creating a whole new one.” You squeeze his hand gently, feeling his warmth seep into your skin. “You didn’t have to go through it alone,” you whisper. “You didn’t have to push me away just because you thought you were sparing me.” His eyes dart down to your joined hands, but he doesn’t pull away. “I know that now,” he says quietly. “But back then, I thought keeping you out of it would make things easier. For both of us.” You swallow the knot in your throat, wondering how many more pieces you’d have to unearth before you finally made sense of everything that went wrong between you. “But it didn’t, did it?” you murmur, half a statement, half a question. Sunghoon’s shoulders sag, like the weight he’s been carrying finally buckles under your words. He breathes out slowly, shaking his head, a rueful, almost self-deprecating smile tugging at his lips. “No. It didn’t.” Sunghoon takes a deep, trembling breath. The kind that rattles from somewhere deep in his chest, like he’s holding back more than just words. Slowly, carefully, his fingers slip from yours. The absence of his touch is immediate—sharp, cold, like the air around you shifted. He stuffs his hands into his pockets, like maybe that’s the only way to keep them from shaking, from betraying just how unsteady he really feels. His gaze drops to the ice at your feet, avoiding your eyes with an almost boyish kind of shame, as though looking at you would only make the truth harder to say. “And I didn’t reach out to you after my injury because…” He pauses, swallows. His voice when it comes out is brittle, like he’s forcing it through a throat full of glass. “Because I didn’t want you to feel like you were a second option. Like I was only coming back to you because skating was no longer viable.” Your breath catches. The words hit in a place you didn’t expect, a sharp, unexpected pang that lodges deep beneath your ribs. You blink, startled, searching his face like maybe you misheard him. “What?” you whisper, barely audible. The word is soft, too soft. It slips from your lips like a secret, afraid to make the moment any heavier than it already is. He lets out a laugh—but it’s dry, hollow, laced with bitterness and self-loathing. “It’s stupid, I know. But I didn’t want you to think that… that I only wanted you because skating didn’t work out. I thought if I showed up after everything fell apart, you’d look at me and think I was just using you to fill the gap.” You shake your head slowly, the motion dazed, your thoughts struggling to keep pace with the revelation. “Sunghoon… I never—” “I know,” he cuts in, quickly, almost harshly. His voice cracks, raw and unfiltered. “I know you didn’t. But I was so fucking lost, Y/N. I didn’t know who I was without skating. And the idea of crawling back to you, looking for comfort when I had nothing left… it felt selfish. Like I was just dragging you into my mess because I couldn’t handle it on my own. You deserved better than that.” There’s a silence that follows—not the empty kind, but the kind that weighs down the air like fog. Heavy. Still. Unavoidable. Your arms fold in tightly against your chest as if bracing for something colder than the rink air. There’s a tightness there, something fragile pressing hard against your ribs, and it takes you a moment to recognise it for what it is. It’s the part of you that never really stopped caring. “You’re an idiot,” you say, voice thick, the words catching on the knot in your throat. You almost choke on it, the mix of pain and tenderness. “A complete idiot.” He finally looks up.

And it’s the way he looks at you that undoes you. Eyes rimmed red, glassy with unshed tears, but wide open—unguarded in a way he’s never let himself be. The vulnerability in them is devastating. It makes your own eyes sting, and you press your lips together hard, willing yourself not to break down in front of him. You can’t afford to. Not after everything. But the way he’s looking at you, the way he’s baring his heart after years of hiding—it hurts. The ice rink is eerily quiet now. The distant hum of the arena lights above buzzes like white noise around you, but everything else is still. Time feels like it’s slowed down, like the two of you exist in a bubble suspended in grief, in truth, in the aftermath of everything that wasn’t said when it mattered. You don’t know what to say—don’t know how to put into words the mess of emotions clawing at your chest. It’s tangled and bruised and beating far too loudly. There’s relief, yes. A bit of anger too. But mostly, there’s just this deep, aching sadness for the boy who thought he had to fight his battles alone. But eventually, you find your voice. Quieter. Softer. “I never needed you to be perfect, Sunghoon.” Your voice wavers despite how hard you try to steady it. “I just needed you to be honest.” He closes his eyes for a moment, like the words hit him physically. The mess inside his chest doesn’t have clean edges. It’s tangled and bruised and beating far too loudly. His brows pull together, and his shoulders—always so tight, so high, like he’s been bracing for impact for years—finally sink. The tension in him melts, slow and subtle, like he’s deflating under the weight of finally letting the truth out. Then he nods. Once. Barely. But it’s enough. Enough to know that he heard you. And that alone makes your heart ache. You know you shouldn’t give in. Not this easily. But you’ve never been one for restraint. It’s always been your fatal flaw—feeling too much, too fast, letting your heart speak before your head can catch up. And maybe that’s why this moment feels so inevitable. Because despite everything—despite the heartbreak, the silence, the years—you still want to close the distance. It’s a mystery how you and Sunghoon even started dating in the first place, how two people so fundamentally different found their way to each other. You, all fire and instinct, and him—quiet, composed, like he was always walking a tightrope with his heart tucked out of reach. You were sunshine, and he was midnight rain. You wanted comfort, but he was chasing medals and glory. Well… he used to. Back then, he didn’t know you’d come into his life. Didn’t expect that your laughter, your stubborn heart, your ability to see straight through him would start to matter more than medals ever did. Didn’t realise that somewhere along the way, it wasn’t skating he was chasing anymore.

It was you. And by the time he figured it out—by the time he realised you were the thing he’d always been reaching for—you were already slipping through his fingers. Not because you didn’t love him. But because he didn’t know how to stop running. Not for the crowd. Not for the gold. But from someone who would’ve stayed if only he’d asked. Maybe that’s why it worked for a while. Maybe that’s why he never stopped yearning. His eyes are still fixed on the ice, refusing to look at you, like if he stares hard enough, he can will himself invisible. His posture is closed in, like he’s trying to shrink himself, like if he folds in far enough, he can disappear into his regret. You take a step forward. Then another. Your shoes click softly against the rubber mats until the last one slips onto the smooth, glinting surface. You cross the threshold onto the ice without thinking, heart first, fearless—like always. The cold greets your ankles instantly, the faint burn of it rushing up your calves. Your feet come into his view, and he startles slightly, blinking as he realises how close you are now. “What are you—?” His brow furrows, alarm flickering in his expression. “Careful, you’re gonna fall again if—” You hug him. There’s no warning. No speech. No careful calculation. You just move, because your heart gets there before anything else can stop it. Your arms wrap around him—firm, grounding—and his breath stutters as if the contact knocks the wind out of him. He stays frozen for a second, like his body doesn’t believe it’s real, like he thinks if he moves, you’ll vanish. "It's okay," you murmur against his shoulder, your voice soft but steady. "I know you'll catch me even if I fall." And somehow, that’s what does it. That quiet faith in him—even now, after everything—cracks something open. He exhales, the breath hitching on its way out, and you feel the tension leave his body piece by piece. Slowly, hesitantly, he melts into you. His chin dips to rest against the curve of your shoulder, and his arms—those shaking, unsure arms—wrap around your back and hold on. Not tight. Not desperate. But like someone who’s been cold for far too long, and finally, finally found warmth. Like your presence alone is something he's relearning how to deserve. You close your eyes, steadying yourself with the quiet rise and fall of his chest against yours. Then you speak—gently, but with purpose. "Don’t take this the wrong way," you say, your fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his jacket. "This isn’t forgiveness. I’m not there yet. This is just… me showing you that I still care. As a friend." He stiffens slightly, but you don’t let go. You press on. "I’m sorry this happened to you," you whisper. "I know skating meant the world to you." Sunghoon doesn’t answer. Not out loud. But his arms tighten—just a little—and his breath shudders, and the thought echoes in his mind with a force that nearly brings him to his knees: You mean the world to me, still. He doesn't say it. He doesn’t need to. It’s there—in the way he holds you now, in the way he leans into your warmth like it’s the first real thing he’s touched in years. And for a moment, you let him. You both do. Not as the people you once were. But as the broken, rebuilding versions of yourselves—still trying, still reaching, still here. This quiet moment.

You remember this feeling. The stillness. The unspoken. The way the world seems to hush when you’re in his arms—not because everything is perfect, but because somehow, even in the mess, it feels safe. You used to crave more. Words. Reassurance. The kind of affection you could point to and name. But as time passed, you learned to understand him in these smaller, quieter ways. The way he’d wait for you after late classes just to walk you home, even when he never said why. The way he’d leave extra pairs of gloves in your bag before competitions. The way he never quite let go first. It’s the way Sunghoon has always shown love to you. Not through grand gestures or flowery words, but through presence. Through the way he leans in, silent and steady. Through the way he holds you like you're something he’s afraid to break. Through the quiet weight of his hand resting at the small of your back, like a promise he’s never quite been brave enough to say out loud. This right here—this silence filled with meaning—has always been his way of saying I’m here. I care. I love you. And that’s why, when his presence stopped feeling like love—when the silence turned from comfort to distance—you felt discarded. Unwanted. Like love had quietly exited the room and no one bothered to tell you. His inability to say what he felt, to put to words what you meant to him, only made it worse. Because you were still there, waiting for something—anything—to hold onto, while he kept retreating behind walls you couldn’t climb. But now, standing here, with his arms around you once again, you feel it. All of it. Even if he still hasn’t found the words. You realise then—he never stopped caring for you, too. The silence. The omission of truth. The way he held everything in, thinking he was protecting you by keeping you out. You used to mistake it for distance, for disinterest. But maybe that was just the way he loved you. Complicated. Flawed. Quiet in all the places you needed noise. It wasn’t the way you loved—not loud and vulnerable, not open and all-consuming—but it was still love. Just… his version of it. And you—all heart before reason. You loved like it was oxygen, like holding back would be the same as holding your breath. You said too much, felt too deeply, asked for honesty even when he didn’t know how to give it. You needed presence, yes—but you also needed words. Needed something solid to hold onto when his silence left too much room for doubt. And still—that was the way you loved him. Messy. Unfiltered. Brave in all the ways he wasn’t ready for. You offered him your whole heart without a safety net, while all he wanted was to protect you from his fall. And it hits you then, in a way that’s both soft and sharp—this was always the story. The gaps, the miscommunication, the mismatched ways of showing up. It was never about not feeling enough. It was about feeling too much, in entirely different languages. You, speaking in open wounds and raw confessions. Him, answering in silence and distance. Two people standing on opposite ends of a love that was real—just not always right.

And maybe that’s the tragedy of it.

Not that you didn’t love each other. But that you did.

Just in ways the other didn’t know how to hold.

You and Sunghoon spend the next few hours sitting on the cold bleachers, catching up on the last four years—what was said, what wasn’t, and everything that existed in between. It’s not an invitation to get back together. That much is clear—spoken and understood without the need for awkward disclaimers. This is something else entirely. A truce, maybe. An unspoken agreement to lay the past to rest without erasing it. An invitation to let go of the bitterness. To make sure the four years you spent loving each other—messy and imperfect as they were—don’t go down the drain as nothing but regret. And anyway, nobody ever said ex-lovers couldn’t stay friends… You learn that Hugo Sánchez—the skater Sunghoon had that infamous tussle with—was caught up in a drug scandal just a few months later. It never made headlines, swept under the rug with hush money and quiet handshakes behind closed doors. But word still got around. Coach Morales blacklisted him, and by extension, so did every major name in the circuit. “Guess karma’s real after all,” you mutter, brows raised as Sunghoon nods. “He got what he deserved,” he replies quietly, but there’s no real satisfaction in his tone. Just a kind of weariness. The kind that says it still wasn’t worth what it cost me. You offer a small, understanding smile, then shift the conversation—gently. You tell him about your career. How you fell into sports journalism by accident, how you hated it at first. How you stuck with it anyway. About the sleepless nights, the thankless deadlines, the rush of chasing a story and the heartbreak of killing one. You tell him how strange it is, writing about athletes when you once dated one—how sometimes you catch yourself comparing their routines, their postures, their voices to his. You don’t mean to say that last part. But it slips out, unfiltered. Sunghoon glances at you then, a soft crease forming between his brows, and for a moment, you think he might say something. But he doesn’t. He just listens, the same way he always used to—quietly, intently, like your voice alone is enough to anchor him. You’re halfway through telling him the story about your first major reporting slip-up—something about mistaking a gold medalist for a retired curling coach—when Sunghoon breaks into laughter.

Real laughter.

Not the polite kind. Not the breathy exhale he’s used to giving when he’s holding too much in. But the kind that lights up his whole face. His head tips back slightly, shoulders shaking, eyes squinting in disbelief as he nearly doubles over from how hard he’s laughing.

“You what?” he wheezes, clutching his stomach. “Please tell me you didn’t salute him and ask about his war medals too. He probably thought you were calling him a grandpa, not an Olympian!” You’re laughing too, unable to help it. “Listen, the man had a beard and a windbreaker and that very ‘I peaked in Vancouver 2010’ vibe.” “And that screams retired Olympian to you?” he chokes, still catching his breath. “You probably set athlete-media relations back a decade.” “I was nervous, okay?” you defend, wiping at your eyes, the kind of laughter that makes your ribs hurt already fading into little aftershocks. You lean back against the bleachers with a sigh, finally calming down—only to notice he’s gone quiet. You turn to find him just… looking at you. Not with amusement anymore, but something softer. His expression has shifted—gentle, open, a little vulnerable in a way that makes your breath catch. He’s watching you like he forgot what it was like to see you laugh like that. Like he’s trying to memorise the shape of your smile and hold onto the sound of it. You raise a brow, playful. “What? Do I have something on my face?” He blinks, startled, like you caught him in a secret. “No,” he says, quickly averting his gaze. Then, quieter, “Just... forgot what that sounded like.” “What did?” you ask, even though you already know. “You. Laughing like that.” He shrugs, keeping his eyes on the rink. You pause, suddenly aware of how close you’re sitting. How his knee brushes yours every so often when he shifts. How the warmth between you lingers even in the chill of the arena. “Well,” you finally say, nudging his shoulder with yours, “don’t get used to it. I’m a very serious journalist now. No more giggling.” He glances at you with a crooked smile, eyes full of mischief. “Sure. I’ll believe that when you don’t snort the next time you laugh.” You gasp, scandalised. “I do not snort.” Sunghoon leans in slightly, teasing. “You literally just did.” You stare at him, lips parted, fully ready to argue—until you realise he’s right. And then you’re laughing again, shaking your head as you gently shove his arm. “Asshole,” you mumble through your grin. And just like that, the weight between you both lightens again—still present, but tucked neatly beside something warmer. Familiar. Almost like the beginning of something new. Or maybe just the gentler end of something old. Either way, it’s something.

That night, when you finally reach home, your cheeks are still warm. You’re still smiling a little too easily at nothing in particular. The chill of the ice rink has long worn off, but Sunghoon’s laugh—low, genuine—lingers in your ears like a recent vocal stimulation. It’s been years since that sound last came from him, at least directed at you, and it sits somewhere in your chest now, unexpectedly soft and stubborn. You kick off your shoes, shrug off your coat, and collapse onto your couch with a sigh that’s half-exhaustion, half-daydream. Your mind is foggy, a little giddy. Like you’ve just had caffeine on an empty stomach or you’ve stepped into some alternate version of your life—one where the world’s been tilted just a few degrees off-centre and nothing’s quite the same anymore. Then your eyes fall on your laptop. Still open. Still glowing. And suddenly, reality tugs you back down. You’d forgotten about the article. The one you had barely started drafting. The one with Sunghoon’s name in the headline. The one meant to announce his participation in the Olympics tryout. You sit up straighter, the comfort in your muscles draining fast as a chill crawls up your spine. Because all you can think about now—over and over, like a stuck record—is the way he said it: “The injury relapses whenever I overexert.” He’d said it so casually, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it was just a fact of life now. A quiet asterisk next to his name. He said he wasn’t planning a full comeback. He said he wasn’t sure. But he’s still showing up to tryouts. Still skating. Still pushing. And suddenly, what once felt like a career milestone—this exclusive, this rare chance to write the first profile on Park Sunghoon’s inevitable return to the ice—feels... invasive. Too sharp. Too personal. Your fingers hover over your phone, the urge to text him immediate.

You type something—delete it. Type again.

Hey. Are you really okay to skate?| | Are you sure you’re not pushing too hard?| | Let me know if there’s anyway I can help.| | But none of them feel right. Because you barely just started talking again. Because one evening of laughter on a set of cold bleachers doesn’t erase four years of silence. Because you’re not sure if checking in now would cross a line you don’t have permission to step over anymore. So instead, you lock your phone screen and place it face down on the table. And you sit there in the quiet, trying not to worry. Trying not to think of the pressure on his leg, the sting in his joints, the way he’d smiled when he told you—not proud, not hopeful, just... resigned. But worry, of course, doesn’t ask permission. It settles in the pit of your stomach like lead. Because you know him. And you know he’ll keep skating—even if it breaks him again. And worst of all, he’ll do it without ever asking for help.

[MANIFESTO EXCLUSIVE] Park Sunghoon Announces Participation In 2026 Winter Olympics Tryout

By Kang Y/N, Manifesto Daily It’s been nearly two years since figure skating prodigy Park Sunghoon last performed on Korean ice.

Once heralded as one of South Korea’s most technically refined athletes, Park disappeared from the public eye following an abrupt withdrawal from the 2023 Grand Prix Final. No formal statement was ever released. No interviews, no explanations—just a silence that, for a time, swallowed even his most devoted fans’ questions.

Until now.

This week, Park’s name quietly reappeared on the athlete roster for the upcoming 2026 Winter Olympics tryouts. And in an exclusive conversation with Manifesto Daily, Park has officially confirmed his participation.

Park’s return marks a significant moment in the national figure skating circuit. Known for his precision, control, and signature composure on the ice, his performances have long drawn praise from both domestic and international judges. His participation is expected to bring renewed attention to the men's singles category in the upcoming season.

Tryouts are scheduled to take place early next month, where top-ranked skaters will compete for coveted spots on South Korea’s Olympic delegation. While Park has kept a low public profile in recent years, anticipation surrounding his return remains high. His past record includes a gold medal finish at the Four Continents Championships, a bronze medal at the Beijing 2022 Winter Olympics, and consistent placements in the Grand Prix circuit, making him a strong contender as the nation gears up for Olympic selection.

Fans and officials alike will be watching closely as Park takes the ice again—not only for his technical capabilities, but for what his presence brings to a new generation of skaters: legacy, poise, and a renewed standard of excellence.

Further details regarding the tryout schedule and national team lineup are expected to be released by the Korean Skating Union in the coming weeks.

For now, one thing is clear: Park Sunghoon is officially back in contention.

The day of the Olympic tryouts arrives cloaked in a biting chill, the kind that slips past your collar and lingers in your bones. You arrive earlier than necessary, nerves already humming beneath your skin. Not as a reporter this time. Not officially, anyway. Sunghoon had pulled strings—quietly, discreetly. A whispered favour here, a signature there. He got you in as “internal support staff,” listed under his team’s management, though you’re carrying nothing but your notepad, your name badge, and a heart that won’t sit still. Reporters aren’t allowed inside the venue during these closed sessions. That’s the rule. But Sunghoon has always had a way of bending the edges when he really wants something. And today, he wanted you there. You flash the ID badge at the security checkpoint, and it works. You’re ushered in with the rest of his team—coaches, assistants, the tech specialist checking his skates for calibration. You keep your head down, hands wrapped tightly around the warm paper cup of coffee you didn’t finish. You don’t think you could stomach anything right now anyway. You find yourself blinking a little harder than necessary as you take your seat in the shadows of the side bleachers, tucked away from the officials and judges gathering near the front. Your hands grip the edge of the bench automatically. Your eyes find the centre of the rink without thinking. And there he is. Sunghoon. Hair slicked back, posture impossibly straight, wearing a crisp black jacket with his country’s emblem stitched just above his heart. He hasn’t noticed you yet—he’s locked in, eyes narrowed, lips set in that focused line you know too well. It’s not his competition face yet, but it’s close. You feel a rush of déjà vu so strong it makes your chest ache. Because you’ve been here before. Not here exactly, but in a hundred different rinks just like this one. Sitting in the same quiet corners. Watching him from a distance. Sometimes holding your breath without realising it. Sometimes the only person in the arena clapping when he stuck a landing during rehearsal. Back then, you knew his routines by heart. Knew the way his fingers twitched before a jump. Knew when he was proud and when he was pretending to be. And now, somehow, you're here again. Only this time, there are four years of silence sitting between you and the memory of who you used to be in his orbit. Still, when he glides to the edge of the rink and spots you in the stands, his expression softens just a fraction. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t wave. But he holds your gaze long enough for you to know: He sees you. The same way he did four years ago.

When you used to wait by the edge of the rink with a scarf and a warm drink. When he’d skate over to you before practice just to tap your forehead with his finger and say don’t blink this time. When he was still learning how to balance pressure and affection—and you were still learning how to love someone who rarely said what he felt. The way he’s looking at you now—it’s not loud. Not grand. But it’s enough to pull at the thread of every memory you thought you’d neatly tucked away. Sunghoon exhales slowly, eyes trained on the centre of the rink as the announcer’s voice fades into the cold, echoing silence. The blades of his skates feel heavy beneath him—not because they’re any different, but because he is. His heartbeat thrums steadily beneath the layers of his costume, fast but controlled. A familiar rhythm he used to draw comfort from. Now, it only reminds him of everything riding on this final run. He flexes his fingers once, then again. The nerves are there—no point pretending they aren’t. They’ve settled deep into his bones, coiled tight like springs. But there’s no fear. Not of falling. Not of losing. Because he already did that. He already lost the version of skating that once consumed him. Already stepped away from the spotlight, already let go of the expectations. What remains now is something simpler. Smaller. This isn’t about medals anymore. This is the end of something. Or maybe the beginning of what comes after. He guesses that’s the one thing he was keeping from you. Not because he didn’t trust you, but because saying it out loud would’ve made it real—that the dream he built his life around had slowly started to unravel. That somewhere along the way, skating stopped being love and started feeling like obligation.

You think he’s here to chase after redemption. To reclaim what was lost. To silence the whispers, the speculation, the question marks that trailed behind his name for years. You think he’s here to prove that he still has it—that the boy wonder of South Korea’s figure skating circuit never truly fell from grace. But you’re wrong. Because redemption implies he owes something to someone. And Sunghoon’s done with owing. This tryout isn’t about reclaiming his reputation. He’s not here for the judges. Not for the headlines. Not even for the crowd that once screamed his name. He’s here for something far quieter. Something far more difficult to earn. Closure. Not the kind that comes with medals or press conferences, but the kind you feel in your chest when you finally stop running. When you stop skating to meet expectations, and start skating to meet yourself again. This is not a comeback. It’s about reclaiming why he ever skated in the first place. It’s about the quiet mornings on empty rinks. The way cold air fills his lungs and clears his thoughts. The ache in his legs after hours of training that no one ever saw. It’s about the pieces of himself he left scattered in every routine he never got to finish. He shifts his weight slightly, grounding himself. This routine isn’t built for spectacle. It doesn’t chase applause. It’s clean. Honest. Unforgiving in its simplicity. And if this is the last time he performs under Olympic lights—if this is the closing chapter of a decade-long pursuit—then he wants to be the one who chooses how it ends. Not the injury. Not the press. Not the silence. He takes one last glance toward the bleachers. And there you are. Watching. Just like you used to---back then, when his world was still laced with possibility, and your quiet presence was the only constant that ever kept him sane.

And with this last performance—with this one final act—it’s not about the world. It’s not about redemption.

It’s about himself. About stepping onto the ice one final time not to impress, but to release. To mourn. To honour everything this love once was

And maybe—just maybe—it’s for you too. The girl who believed in him before the world knew his name. The one who stayed long after the spotlight dimmed.

He wishes he could say that. Wishes he could turn and tell you: This is for you.

But Sunghoon has never been fluent in the language of declarations.

So instead, he skates, The music begins—something classical, restrained, just a touch mournful—and Sunghoon moves. No flourish. No dramatic opening gesture. Just a quiet push forward, blades slicing into the ice with the same precision you remember from years ago. But this time, there’s something different. There’s stillness in him. Control so complete it doesn’t scream—it whispers. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t force it. He lets the music carry him, lets the silence in the arena wrap around him like a second skin. One edge. Then the next. Arms extended, posture flawless, his body slicing through space like he belongs to it. His first jump—a quad toe loop. Clean. Effortless. His landing doesn’t so much hit the ice as it touches it. The blade barely sings as it connects. The motion is seamless, and for a second, no one breathes. Not the judges. Not the staff. Not even the other skaters who’ve trained beside him years ago and know just how good Sunghoon really is. They fall quiet—everyone does—because what they’re seeing isn’t just a routine.

It’s artistry.

His movements are elegant, measured. Each spin folds perfectly into the next, centre tight, shoulders relaxed, neck lengthened. His step sequence flows like water—no excess, no hesitation. And then the triple axel—the jump that sidelined him years ago—comes out of nowhere.

He lands it perfectly.

Not a wobble. Not a check. Not even a breath out of place.

Someone in the stands exhales sharply, as if they forgot they were holding their breath. One of the younger skaters watching from behind the boards drops their phone in shock. Even the coaches—stoic, experienced, always hard to impress—exchange glances. Subtle, but wide-eyed. No one expected this. Not from someone who hasn’t competed in years. Not from someone they assumed was skating on borrowed time. But there he is. Moving like the ice never betrayed him. Like the injury never happened. Like he’s not returning from anything, but arriving exactly where he belongs. The closing spin begins—slow, low, deliberate. He lowers into a final sit spin so clean it looks animated, the motion a perfect blur. Then he rises, centres himself, and ends in silence. No dramatic bow. No fist in the air. Just Sunghoon. Standing still, chest rising, eyes closed. Like he just let go of something he’s been carrying for years. And for a moment—just one—no one claps. Not because it wasn’t brilliant. But because brilliance demands reverence. The applause comes late. Staggered. And then all at once. But even then, it feels too small for what they just witnessed. Because what Sunghoon gave them wasn’t just a performance. It was a goodbye disguised as grace.

The moment the tryouts conclude, the applause still echoing faintly in your ears, you don’t hesitate. You’re already halfway down the stands before your brain catches up with your legs. You weave through rows of folding seats, shoulder past lingering staff and curious onlookers, scanning the crowd of skaters, coaches, and judges now spilling onto the ice and rinkside floor. Your heart is racing. Not from excitement. From urgency. Like if you don’t find him now, this moment—his moment—might slip away before you get to say anything. And then you spot him. Near the far side of the rink, his posture relaxed now, his jacket back on and unzipped. He’s speaking to someone. You recognise the man instantly: Coach Im, his university coach. Stern but warm. Always had a thermos in hand and a stopwatch around his neck, even when he wasn’t timing anyone. You saw him often—back when you used to sit through Sunghoon’s practice sessions, bundled in jackets, pretending to read while keeping your eyes on the ice. Sunghoon laughs at something the coach says, his shoulders shaking with a lightness you haven’t seen in years. You feel something stir in your chest as you step closer. Coach Im spots you first. His eyes light up in recognition as you approach, his voice lifting cheerfully over the din. “Oh hey—isn’t this Y/N?” he says, clapping a hand on Sunghoon’s shoulder. “So lovely to see that the two of you are still going strong!” The words hit you like an unexpected gust of wind, warm and jarring all at once. Sunghoon startles slightly, glancing quickly in your direction with wide eyes—like even he didn’t see that coming. You blink, then laugh—just a breath, soft and awkward. “Oh, um… it’s not like that. We’re not—” But Sunghoon doesn’t say anything right away. He just looks at you. Not surprised. Not embarrassed. Just… thoughtful. A crease forming between his brows like he’s considering what to say next—if he should say anything at all. Coach Im looks between the two of you, clearly confused, then lets out a warm chuckle. “Either way, it’s good to see you again. I remember you always being there in the bleachers during Sunghoon’s training sessions. It was nice knowing he had someone by his side. Kept him grounded, you know?” You smile politely, heart doing a strange little dance in your chest. And as the coach excuses himself to greet someone else, you and Sunghoon are left in a bubble of silence.

Just like old times. Only now, everything feels different.

And yet—somehow—exactly the same.

You clear your throat, stepping a little closer, nerves fluttering at the base of your spine. "Hey, I just wanted to—"

"I'm sorry, Y/N," Sunghoon cuts in, his tone gentle but clipped. He avoids your gaze, already half-turning away. "I promised to meet some old friends from uni to catch up."

You pause. Blinking. The words take a second to land.

"Oh. Right. Yeah," you say, forcing a small smile as you nod, even though your chest tightens. "I'll... see you around?"

"I'll text you, yeah?" he offers, already moving backwards, already fading into the crowd.

You nod again, slower this time. "Huh? Oh. Yeah. Okay." And just like that, he’s gone. Swallowed up by the familiar buzz of coaches, skaters, and congratulations. You stand there a beat longer than you should, the cold of the rink creeping back into your fingertips. The moment you thought you were chasing slips quietly through your hands—unfinished. And all you can do is exhale. Pretend it doesn’t sting. Pretend it isn’t you who’s waiting for him again—who’s standing here with something halfway between closure and hope tangled in your chest. You tell yourself it’s fine. That he skated beautifully. That this day wasn’t about you. But beneath all that composure, you feel it—the ache of almost. Because maybe you expected too much. Or maybe, for a second, you forgot you were just someone he let in again—not someone he kept.

But the truth is, Sunghoon didn’t know how to face you without tearing up. Didn’t know how to walk toward you without pulling you into his arms and asking you to stay, to say something—anything—that might ground him after what just happened on the ice. But the moment Coach Im said your name, smiled like it was still you and him, like time hadn't split everything in half, Sunghoon panicked. Because he’s not sure what this is. Not yet. And he’s not sure you’re open to confronting it, either—whatever it is, this delicate thing hanging between you like a conversation neither of you has found the courage to start. Maybe he read too much into your eyes during warm-up. Maybe the way you looked at him wasn’t about wanting him back. Maybe it was just nostalgia—soft, forgiving, but not something you wanted to carry forward. Maybe you were just proud of him. Maybe you were just letting go. He doesn’t blame you. Because deep down, Sunghoon knows he never really forgave himself for the way things ended—for the silence, the confusion, the months where he let you carry the weight of a love he couldn't name, let alone hold properly. He knows he hurt you in the worst way: by making you feel like you had to ask to be chosen. And though time has passed, and the ache has dulled, another part of him still isn’t sure—still isn't confident—that he’s capable of giving you the kind of love you deserve. But then again—this. This miscommunication. This habit of circling around instead of stepping in. This assumption of what he thinks you want—what you don’t want—it’s what drove the two of you apart in the first place. All the things he never said. All the things you tried to. All the maybes that built a house out of hesitation and called it home. He thought silence would spare you. You thought silence meant indifference. And somewhere along the way—between protecting and pretending, between misreading and mistiming—you both forgot how to meet in the middle.

And now here you are again.

You, still waiting.

Him, still too afraid to walk closer.

Each of you assuming the other doesn’t want more. Each of you convincing yourselves that almost is close enough.

Even when it never was. Even when it never could be.

And as usual, the text he promised never really came. At first, you gave him the benefit of the doubt—told yourself he was probably just busy, caught up in post-tryout formalities, in media briefings, in reconnecting with old friends or navigating the aftermath of a performance that stunned everyone in the arena. But deep down, you knew the silence wasn’t unfamiliar. It never had been. After all, the foundation of your relationship in those final months was built on this same cycle Sunghoon giving just enough. Just enough warmth, just enough apology, just enough softness to keep you waiting—to keep you hoping that maybe if you held on a little longer, he’d choose you fully, finally, without hesitation. And you—God, you—with your foolish heart that had only ever known how to love in full measure, never halfway, never with one foot out the door—you waited. You waited like you always did. And maybe that’s why, when the Korean Skating Union releases the official roster of Olympic athletes and his name is printed boldly at the very top—like it never left, like it was always meant to be there—something in you shifts. You feel it, a spark lighting in your chest, sharp and sudden and wild, and before you’ve even thought it through, you’re already reaching for your coat, already grabbing your keys, already walking out the door with your heart hammering too loudly in your chest. You could’ve texted him. Could’ve called. Could’ve sent a simple message like “congratulations,” could’ve played it safe the way people do when they’re pretending not to care as much as they do. But you don’t. Because something in you needs to see him—needs to see his face, his eyes, the way he stands now that the weight is off his shoulders, now that he’s done it, now that he’s reclaimed skating the way he always wanted to. Because if any part of what you shared still matters—if any part of him still looks at you the way he used to—you want to be there to see it. Not through a screen. Not in a message thread that never starts.

But in person.

So you go. Because maybe this time, you're done waiting.

You stand just inside the entrance of the skating arena, the cold air hitting your skin like a memory. The official delegation is supposed to make a public appearance today—an Olympic tradition of sorts. Which means Sunghoon should be here. Somewhere. Your eyes scan the crowd. Clusters of athletes in sleek national jackets, coaches and press weaving through them like old threads. But it doesn’t take long before you spot him. Tucked away in a corner, half-shadowed by the edge of the bleachers. He’s deep in conversation with one of the national Olympic coaches—Coach Baek, if you remember correctly. The older man’s expression is tight, gestures sharp with frustration. You can’t hear what’s being said, but the energy between them is tense. Sunghoon stands there, arms crossed, nodding slowly, his jaw tight but unreadable. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t flinch. Just listens. When the coach finally exhales, the tension softens—barely. A few more words are exchanged, and then a hand lands on Sunghoon’s shoulder, firm and final. A goodbye, or maybe a warning softened into encouragement. Then the coach walks away. And as Sunghoon turns slightly to see him off—shoulders still drawn tight from the conversation—his eyes land on you. You freeze for half a second, caught mid-step, unsure whether to wave, speak, or turn back the way you came. But before the indecision fully settles, he starts toward you, closing the distance with a familiarity that shouldn’t feel as natural as it does.

“Hey,” he says, breath a little visible in the rink’s chill. “I was just about to call you.” You arch a brow, tilting your head. “You were?” His mouth lifts, half a smile, half something else you can’t quite name. “Yeah,” he says quietly, like he’s testing the weight of his own words. You cough, trying to mask the genuine surprise, and maybe joy in your tone. “What was that about? He looked like he was about to throw you back into juniors. Training hasn’t even started and you’re already pissing the coach off?” Sunghoon laughs, and for a second, it lightens his whole face. “Yeah… about that…” You narrow your eyes. “What now?” He takes a small breath, then meets your eyes. “What do you think about writing another exclusive?” You blink. Once. Twice. “What, that you made the Olympic team? That’s hardly exclusive.” His smile fades into something more serious. “No, that’s not it.” You watch him carefully now. “I’m retiring.” Your breath catches. “What? When?” “Effective immediately,” he smiles as he says. “I’ve officially pulled out of the Olympic delegation.”

You just stare at him, stunned. “But—Sunghoon. You worked so hard for this. Recovery took years. You’ve been training nonstop—” “I know,” he says, not unkindly, but firm. “And that’s exactly why.” You’re still trying to catch up, your brain scrambling to make sense of it. “I don’t understand. Then why did you go through the tryouts? Why fight so hard just to walk away?” He exhales, like he’s been carrying the answer for a while. “Because I needed to know it was still there. The feeling.” His eyes meet yours, steady. “I wanted to remember what it felt like to skate—not for medals, not for judges, not for anyone else—but just for me. To feel that I could still love it, even if it no longer loved me back the same way.” Then, softer—almost apologetically—he adds, “I’ll never be able to skate like I used to, Y/N. I’ve already accepted that.” It hits you then—that his silence, the tension with the coach, the performance that felt too clean, too perfect—it was all part of a farewell. You’re quiet for a moment. “So this was… what? A planned goodbye?” He nods once, steady. “Maybe not from the beginning. But somewhere along the way, yeah. I think I knew I needed to end it on my terms. Not when the pain told me to. Not when the judges did. When I decided it was enough.” “But—skating. It meant the world to you—” Your voice comes out softer than you expect, the disbelief tangled with something else. Not anger. Not disappointment. Just the ache of watching someone walk away from something that once lit them up from the inside out. Ironic, since you were once someone that lit him up—maybe still is. Sunghoon doesn’t flinch. He just looks at you, eyes steady, voice calm in a way that tells you he’s already made peace with it. “It did,” he pauses, breath curling in the cold, as if he's choosing his next words carefully. And in that moment, you realise that his performance wasn’t a comeback. It was a love letter.

And a goodbye. “Which is why,” he continues, quieter now, “this is the last thing I can do for myself. To leave it the way I want to. I didn’t want my last memory of skating to be hospitals, setbacks, or walking away because I had no choice. I want to remember it the way I’ve always loved it. For what it gave me. For who I was when I first stepped on the ice.” And you’re hit with a painful ache in your chest as he says it—sharp, sudden, the kind that lodges itself between your ribs and blooms quietly like grief. Because if this is the ending he chose for skating—on his own terms, with love and clarity and closure—then what about you? Where is your ending?

Where is your closure? The question surges up before you can catch it, before you can bury it under composure or timing or pride—and it spills out of you, raw and quiet and too honest. “In that case, what do you remember me by?” Sunghoon freezes. His shoulders tense, breath catching so subtly that only someone who’s known him—really known him—would notice. “Y/N…” he says, and you can hear it in his voice—how he didn’t expect that. How he doesn't know what to do with it. You didn’t even realise you’d said it out loud. The weight of it lingers in the air between you, heavy, uninvited. You straighten your posture, instinct snapping back into place. Professional. Controlled. Detached, even if your pulse is anything but. “I should go,” you say briskly, already taking a step back. “I’ll email your management the article draft. Or… do I not need to?” He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out fast enough. “Anyway,” you continue, your voice clipped but polite, a shield you know too well, “feel free to have your assistant text me. Thanks.” You don’t wait for his reply. You turn. And this time, you’re the one walking away from something that once lit you up from the inside out. Even if it hurts to do it. Even if every step feels like it’s tearing something open again. Because you can’t keep standing in spaces where you’re only half-held, half-answered, half-remembered. That evening, you write the article. You sit at your desk long after the sun has dipped below the skyline, long after the city has quieted into its nighttime hush, and you start typing with steady fingers—trying, desperately, to be as professional as you can be. Because this is big news. A world-class athlete pulling out of the Olympic delegation at the peak of national anticipation. A retirement no one saw coming. It’s the kind of journalism that gets you recognised. That fills portfolios and lands bylines in places that matter. But none of that crosses your mind. Because all you can think about—despite the ache still blooming in your chest, despite the lingering bitterness of unanswered questions and things left unsaid—is how to honour him. You still feel the weight of him on the page. Still feel the obligation to present him in the best light. To tell the truth, yes, but also the quiet parts—the parts no one else saw. The discipline. The years of pain. The choice to walk away, not out of defeat, but dignity. You write him with care. With empathy. With the kind of understanding that only someone who once stood in the inner orbit of his world could ever give. And no matter how hard you try, you can’t stop your heart from leaking into the words. Because telling his story means telling yours, too. Not the public version. Not the headlines. But the quiet history of two people who once thought love alone would be enough. The version of you that sat in cold arenas, waiting for him to look up. The version of him that carried the weight of a dream too heavy for his body to bear. The version of both of you that was too young, too scared, too stubborn to survive it back then. It’s almost midnight when you finish the piece. And when you read it back, you realise it’s not just about skating.

It never was.

It’s about letting go of something beautiful—not because it wasn’t enough, but because it ran its course. And for the first time, you understand what he meant.

To end it your way.

To remember the love, not the loss.

So you click send.

And in doing so, you decide—quietly—to let it go.

To let him go.

Ms Yoon (PA): Reporter Kang sent over the article draft. PR said it was good, but thought you might want to read it for yourself. [Attachment: 1 File]

Sunghoon is mid-workout when the message comes in. His hands are chalked, his hoodie damp with sweat, breath still recovering from his last set of strength drills. The notification buzzes faintly against the speaker where his phone sits docked, half-muted beneath the beat of the music pulsing through the rink’s private training gym. He almost ignores it—figures it’s a reminder or scheduling update—until he catches the preview of the sender’s name: Ms. Yoon. He wipes his palms on a towel, walks over, and unlocks his phone, chest still rising and falling in slow recovery. The file is there, bold and unopened. His fingers hover over the screen a moment longer than they should, suspended in a strange quiet. He’s not sure what he’s expecting to feel. Pride? Closure? Guilt, maybe. But whatever it is, he taps the file. And begins to read.

FINAL DRAFT [MANIFESTO EXCLUSIVE] The Final Bow: Park Sunghoon Withdraws from Olympic Delegation and Announces Retirement By Kang Y/N, Manifesto Daily . . . . . In related news, Park’s withdrawal comes just days after the delegation announcement, and in his place, 21-year-old rising star Han Jihoon has been selected to represent Korea in the men’s singles category. Han, who placed fourth at the national tryouts, is widely regarded as one of the most technically gifted athletes of his generation, with a growing fanbase and a reputation for innovation on the ice.

As for Park Sunghoon, he leaves behind a legacy not of statistics, but of stillness. Of dignity. Of skating that always seemed to say what words could not.

His career was never loud. But it was unforgettable.

Goodbye, Park Sunghoon, And thank you for everything you didn’t have to say.

Before he knows it, he’s halfway out the door—keys clenched in one hand, the other rapidly typing a message to his assistant.

Sunghoon: Do you happen to know Y/N’s address? Forward it to me asap. Thanks.

The article is still echoing in his head, playing back in quiet waves he can’t shut out. Lines that hit too close. Lines that cracked open things he thought he’d buried for good. Words that sounded like truths he never gave you the space—or the safety—to say out loud. Because was it just him—or did your article sound like a defeat? Not the kind written in bitterness, but in surrender. An epiphany dressed in grace. Like you had finally laid everything down—your hope, your waiting, your quiet what-ifs—and decided that telling his story was the only closure you were ever going to get. His heart pounds harder now than it did during his entire workout. Not from strain. From urgency. From the sudden, all-consuming fear that he might be too late—too late to explain, to show up, to fix the way silence unraveled everything. Too late to ask for something he didn’t know he was still allowed to want. Something that had always lingered just beyond his reach—not because it wasn’t there, but because he never dared to reach out and take it. That you were still willing to give after all these years, If only he had asked. If only he had trusted that maybe, just maybe, love wasn’t about timing or pride or silence—but about the courage to choose it anyway. And now, with your words still ringing in his head and the ache of what-ifs pressing into his ribs, he runs. Because for the first time in a long time, he isn’t afraid of falling. He’s afraid of missing the chance to fall with you. A notification lights up his screen, and it’s from his assistant—your full address, no questions asked.

Sunghoon doesn’t waste a second. He tosses his phone onto the passenger seat, starts the engine, and drives like his heart’s pacing him—fast, frantic, barely keeping rhythm. The city blurs past in streaks of gold and grey, and his knuckles grip the steering wheel like it’s the only thing holding him together. By the time he reaches your apartment, he doesn’t bother fixing his hair, or the way his hoodie clings to him, soaked from sweat and adrenaline. Or the fact that its well-past midnight and he’s here at your apartment building. He takes the stairs two at a time, too restless for the lift, too afraid the silence will make him second-guess what he’s come here to say. You open the door mid-knock, eyes wide, mouth parting in surprise. “Sunghoon?” your voice is a mix of concern and disbelief. “How did you know I lived here?” You stare at him, bewildered, heart stammering against your ribs. He looks at you like you’re not real. Like he’s been chasing something impossible and suddenly, impossibly, it’s standing right in front of him. There’s yearning in his eyes—raw and unguarded—and when he takes a step closer, you notice it. The limp. Subtle, but there. “Did you run here? God—your injury—” But you don’t get to finish. Because he closes the distance and pulls you into him—arms wrapping around you in one fluid, desperate motion, like his body moved before his mind could catch up. There are no words. No explanations. Just the solid, trembling weight of him anchoring himself to you, like he’s been carrying the absence of this moment for too long, and can no longer bear it. You stand frozen, caught off guard by the heat of him, the quiet urgency in his embrace, the way he fits against you like he’s spent the past four years trying to unlearn the shape of this—and failing. “Sunghoon,” you say, your voice fragile, unsteady, trembling at the edge of disbelief. “What are you—?” But he doesn’t let go. “Don’t leave me,” he chokes out, the words low and fractured, muffled into the fabric of your t-shirt. You feel his breath at the side of your neck before you hear his next words. “Please…” You feel it then—how hard he’s shaking. How tightly his fingers clutch at the back of your shirt like a lifeline. The weight of his body pressed against yours isn’t just exhaustion—it’s grief, longing, guilt—all of it simmering under the surface and spilling out in a single, vulnerable plea. Your hands hover awkwardly at your sides, unsure where they’re allowed to go. Unsure if they’re still his to reach for. And somehow, that hesitation—your silence, that flicker of doubt—it splits something open inside him. “I’ll wait,” he blurts suddenly, pulling back just enough so he can look you in the eye. His own are red-rimmed, glassy, but there’s a sharp kind of clarity there too. “I’ll wait for you, Y/N.” “Sunghoon…” you whisper, your voice unsteady, caught somewhere between confusion and something that feels dangerously close to hope. “Where is this coming from?” His chest is rising and falling against yours, uneven. He swallows hard, and you see it—the way his jaw flexes like he’s trying to keep himself steady. His eyes flicker, not away from you, but like he’s searching for the words he’s never learned how to say out loud. His breath catches once, then again, before he finally forces himself to speak. “I read the article,” he says, quiet but clear. And immediately, you understand. Because you know exactly what part he’s referring to—not the skating analysis, not the announcement of his retirement. He means the parts laced with goodbye. The parts where your words stopped being objective and became soft, tired farewells tucked between the lines that only he would recognise. It was a goodbye to skating. But more pressingly—for Sunghoon—it read like a goodbye to him.

“Let go—” you start, trying to get some space, to breathe, to make sense of the tangle you’ve both fallen into. But his grip only tightens. “That article—” You pause, biting down the rush of emotion rising in your throat. “That article wasn’t meant to change anything.” “I know,” he says, his arms still around you. “But it did. It made me realise just how much I’ve tried to pretend I could move on from you.” You freeze. Not because you don’t understand him, but because you do. Too well. And that terrifies you.

“Let go,” you say quietly, voice strained, like you need to put space between you before you drown in everything he’s saying. “Just… let go so we can talk.” He hesitates, then releases you with reluctance, his hands falling to his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them now that they aren’t holding you. You catch the way his shoulders rise, tense and uneasy. How his hands shake slightly at his sides. And when he blinks, that’s when you see it—his eyes glossing over, the shimmer of something threatening to spill. “I never stopped loving you,” he says, his voice cracking at the edges. “Even when I left. Even when I convinced myself it was better that way. I still loved you. I just… didn’t know how to be with you and still be okay with myself.” “Now suddenly you’ve figured it all out?” you ask, and the bitterness in your tone surprises even you. But it’s real. You’re not trying to punish him—you’re just scared. Scared of falling back into something that once left you hollow. “No,” he says immediately, and there’s no defensiveness in his voice—just quiet truth. “Not suddenly. But I’ve had time. And space. And it turns out neither of those things taught me how to forget you, Y/N.” You look at him—really look—and it hits you just how much effort it’s taking him to say these things. How his shoulders are drawn tight, how he can’t keep still, how his fingers twitch like they want to ball into fists but won’t. He’s not used to this—exposing himself, risking the quiet between you. And you hate how much you want to believe him. How even now, your heart betrays you by leaping at his words, melting at the sound of your name in his mouth like it still belongs there. You press your lips together, trying to swallow the ache building in your throat. You want to scream, to cry, to ask why he’s doing this now—why he always waits until it’s too late. Why he only finds the words once your heart’s already been rearranged around his absence. But all that comes out is, “You’re saying everything I wanted to hear back then, Sunghoon. But that’s the thing—it’s back then. I’m not the same girl you remember. I’m not the girl who was always waiting for you to show up.” And yet, even as the words leave your mouth, you know that was a blatant lie. Because the truth is, you were that girl. For far longer than you’d ever admit.

“You asked me then,” he starts, voice barely above a whisper, “What do I remember you by.” You freeze. It’s not the sentence itself that gets you—it’s the way he says it. Careful. Almost reverent. Like the question has been haunting him all this time, long after you threw it into the air thinking it would vanish unanswered. “I remember you as the girl who poured her entire heart into everything she touched—your academics, your friendships… me, even after I left for Spain. You were relentless in the way you showed up for people, even when they didn’t always know how to show up for you.” He doesn’t look at you immediately. His gaze drifts somewhere over your shoulder, like the weight of the memory is too tender to hold eye contact just yet. Your heart clenches. You hate how easily those memories come flooding back—the all-nighters, the deadlines, the way you clung to structure and control because it was the only thing you could manage while everything with him felt like trying to build a home on sand. “I remember our first day. Freshman orientation. You couldn’t even look at me properly when we got paired up. I thought you hated me,” his lips twitch, faintly, like he’s caught between a smile and something sadder. “But then you offered to carry half the pamphlets because I looked tired from training, and I realised—you were just shy. You were this quiet, nervous girl who still somehow managed to be kind when she was uncomfortable.” Now his eyes return to yours, and there’s something in them that makes your chest ache. He’s remembering you, in detail, like he carried those moments with him even when he left you behind. And that shouldn’t make you feel warm. But it does. And you hate that. “I remember the blush on your cheek when you asked me out for the first time,” he says, smiling faintly. “You were so nervous I thought you were going to change your mind halfway through. But you didn’t. You stood there, eyes wide, hands shaking, and still said it anyway.” You hate how clearly you remember that moment too. The way your heart had raced. The way he smiled at you like you’d surprised him in the best possible way. “I remember you sitting in the bleachers,” he continues. “Head down, focused on your notes, your laptop. But you were watching me, too. Even when you didn’t say anything, you were always there. And God, that meant more than I ever told you.” Your grip tightens over your sleeves, arms crossed to stop your hands from shaking. “I remember how your eyes would light up when you opened those Popmart boxes, like it was magic every single time. You’d show me the little figurine like it was gold. And you’d smile at me like you wanted me to be excited with you. I didn’t always get it. But I remember thinking, I hope she knows how loved she deserves to feel for the rest of her life.” Your eyes sting. He shifts, like the next words are heavier, harder to pull from his chest. “I remember your words,” he says now, gaze locked on yours. ”The ones you gave so freely when I was too buried in pressure to ask for them. I remember your voice when you encouraged me, when you believed in me, when I didn’t believe in myself.” “I remember the warmth of your hugs. I remember the shape of your lips when you kissed me. And everything in between.” His eyes lower for a beat. His tone changes—not dimmer, but honest in a way that hurts.

“And I remember the fights too. The arguments. The silences. The doors that closed too hard, and the words that came out sharper than we meant them to. I remember how frustrated you got. I remember how I pulled away. And I remember that, too—because even those moments mattered. Even those were you loving me in the only way you knew how: by fighting for us.” He looks back at you now, fully, like he’s trying to hand you all of it—every memory, every piece. Your chest tightens, breath caught between inhale and collapse. “You loved me enough to care. Even when it got messy. Even when I made it hard. You cared when I didn’t know how to. You stayed when I didn’t make it easy to be around me.” The tears come then. They track down his cheeks slowly at first, then faster, like something’s come loose inside him that he can’t hold back anymore. He doesn’t wipe them away. He just stands there, crying in front of you like he’s spent years trying not to.

“And I think about that version of us all the time,” he says. “Not just the good. Not just the beautiful. But all of it. The whole you. The real you.” “That’s how I remember you, Y/N. I remember you as the girl who loved me when I didn’t know how to love myself. And even now, I’m still trying to figure out how to be someone who was worthy of all that love."

Your breath catches, but you don’t let it out. Not yet.

Because something in you knows that if you exhale, if you react, you might fall apart entirely.

His words are still hanging in the air, soft but sharp, like silk laced with barbed wire. They’re gentle—but they hurt. Because they’re real. Because they’re him. The him you waited for. The version you wanted to hear from long before all the damage was done. And now he’s here, finally saying all the things you once begged for in silence. And you don’t know what to do with it. You feel a tear slip down your cheek before you even realise it’s there. Your heart is making too much noise in your chest. Every beat sounds like a memory—of those bleacher nights, of ramen cups shared between lectures, of the small, quiet joy of feeling seen, even when he never said it out loud. You remember all those things too.

And that’s the problem.

Because part of you wants to believe it. Wants to step forward. Wants to reach for him and say, I remember you, too. Not the public figure. Not the Ice Prince. But the boy who once laid his head in your lap after a long day and asked you to stay, even if he couldn’t say the words. But another part of you—older now, wearier—pulls back. Because love wasn’t enough the first time. Because his silence hurt. Because you were the one who waited. Who stayed. Who forgave and forgave and slowly lost parts of yourself trying to hold everything together while he figured out who he was without ever asking who you were becoming. And now, here he is. Saying the right things. Crying real tears. Standing still when he used to run. But what does that mean now, when you’ve taught yourself to survive without him? You feel your throat tighten, your arms crossed like a shield, like maybe if you just hold yourself hard enough, the years between you will stop trembling through your spine. You want to speak—but nothing comes out. Because how do you respond to something so tender when all you’ve learned since him is to protect yourself from softness? You blink up at him, your eyes burning, and part of you whispers, He means it this time. And another voice, quieter but steady, asks, But is that enough? So you say nothing for a moment. Just stand there. Your whole body a battlefield between memory and survival. And then, softly, you speak.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” you admit, eyes flicking away from him. “I don’t know how to trust what you’re offering. You hurt me, Sunghoon. You left. And I carried that.” You see the hope falter just a little in his eyes. But he nods. “I’m not asking you to do anything,” he says. “I just… I couldn’t let your words be the last thing between us. I needed you to know that I remember you. That I never stopped loving you.” You don’t respond right away. You don’t know how to. Your heart is loud in your ears, screaming all the things you’re too scared to say. Because this feels like standing on a cliff again, and this time, you’re not sure if there’s anything on the other side to catch you. “I’ll wait,” he says suddenly, voice rough, but steady with something fierce. “If you need time, I’ll give it. If you need space, I’ll step back. But just—please” Your throat tightens. “And what if I don’t have anything left to give you?” “Then I’ll understand,” he says, voice rough. “I’ll carry that. But I had to say it. I had to try. And I know it doesn’t make up for anything, but it’s all I’ve got. I’m standing here, telling you I love you, and I will wait—for however long it takes—because I don’t want to live the rest of my life wondering if you ever would’ve said yes.” And just like that, you feel the air leave your lungs in one long, shaking exhale. Not from panic. Not from pain. But from a bittersweet relief. The sincerity in his voice is unmistakable—stripped bare of pride, of performance, of everything he used to hide behind. This isn’t the Sunghoon who pulled away, who stayed silent when it mattered. This is the boy who finally understands what it means to show up.

After four years of silence, a leg injury that will never truly heal, and a heart broken into a million pieces—yours, his, both—shattered by time, by distance, by everything neither of you had the words to fix back then. And Sunghoon—your Sunghoon, the one who knows you better than you’d like to admit—watches you carefully, like he’s afraid you’ll misinterpret everything he’s just said—afraid you’ll think this is another case of bad timing or misplaced nostalgia. Then, after a long, tentative pause, his voice softens—but there’s no doubt in it. “And I know we already talked about this the other day,” he says, his voice careful. “But just so we’re clear… I need you to hear it again.” You look up, heart thudding as he meets your gaze head-on. “This… us… me being here,” he says slowly, deliberately, “it’s not because skating didn’t work out. It’s not some knee-jerk reaction because the ice stopped being kind to me.” His throat bobs as he swallows, blinking back the weight behind his words. “I fell out of love with skating a long time ago,” he continues, “but I never fell out of love with you, Y/N.” The silence that follows is immediate. Heavy. Because no matter how hard you’ve tried to bury the thought—or pretend it never crossed your mind—it still lingers in the quiet, persistent and sharp: If he hadn’t lost skating… would he have come back at all? But now, with that truth laid bare between you, your breath catches.—and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like someone he remembered too late. You don’t feel like the consolation prize. Or the safe fallback.

You feel chosen.

He’s here. He finally ran to you—not out of impulse, not out of guilt, and most certainly not because he had nowhere else to go. But because he wants to stay. In the mess he created. In the aftermath. In whatever comes next.

He made sure to communicate that clearly to you. And for the first time—he’s the one offering to wait. He’s not asking for guarantees. He’s not walking ahead, expecting you to catch up. He’s right here. Meeting you halfway. The same halfway that, truthfully, you’ve never walked away from. Not really. Not fully. Because even in the silence, even in the years you spent convincing yourself you’d moved on, there was always a part of you standing in place—waiting—in every version of yourself you tried to become without him, wondering if he’d ever meet you there. Now he has. And the truth is, you still want him just as much as he wants you. You don’t know the exact moment the clarity came. Maybe it was the way his voice cracked when he said your name, like it physically hurt to speak it aloud. Maybe it was the way he remembered every tiny, unremarkable piece of you—the girl who sat in the bleachers, who lit up at Popmart figurines, who loved so loudly it scared him. Maybe it was the way he cried—openly, without shame—or how he waited for your silence like he was willing to carry whatever your answer might be. But when it hit, it was quiet. Gentle. Unmistakable. You still love him. You never stopped. You tried. God, you really tried. You built a life without him, crafted a version of yourself that didn’t flinch at his name, convinced yourself you were fine—that you could breathe without the weight of his absence crushing your ribs. But even on your best days, there was always that ache. That dull, ever-present ache that no one else ever quite touched. “I’m sorry for making this complicated for you,” Sunghoon says suddenly, voice so soft it nearly gets swallowed by the quiet. “I’ll give you time to think.” He starts to turn away, the line of his shoulders already retreating, his eyes cast to the ground like he’s ready to disappear again. You should say something. But you don’t. You just move—more instinct than anything. One step, then two, and wrap your arms around him from behind like you’re anchoring yourself to the only thing that’s ever felt simultaneously this terrifying and this right. Sunghoon freezes. Completely still. You feel it first in the way his shoulders tense, tension rippling through his body like your touch startles something buried too deep to name—then the slow, excruciating way he exhales, as if he’s been holding his breath the whole time.

You press your forehead lightly into his back. He’s warm. Solid. Real.

Sunghoon shifts, beginning to turn toward you but your grip tightens ever so slightly. “No. Don’t turn around yet,” you say, your voice trembling. “Not yet. Just… listen.” His breath catches again, but he nods, hands limp at his sides, letting you press your heart against the shape of his back like it might finally say all the things your mouth never could. You close your eyes and let the words come—raw and unpolished, everything you’ve buried for far too long. “I hated how you shut down when things got hard between us. I hated how I always had to be the one to reach out, to fix things, to guess what you were feeling when all I wanted was for you to just say it.” His shoulders flinch slightly. You can feel the guilt settle into the line of his spine. His heartbeat picks up, echoing between you like thunder. Still, he doesn’t move. “I hated how you always made decisions on your own—like I wasn’t part of the picture. Like love was something you had to protect me from instead of something we could’ve fought for together.” Your voice cracks on the last word, but you push through. “I hated how you walked away without telling me the truth. How you let me believe I wasn’t worth holding onto.” Your grip loosens as your voice softens. And as you do, Sunghoon’s fingers twitch near yours like he wants to reach for your hand but doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

“And worst of all I hate that even after all of that—after the silence, the heartbreak, the wondering—I still can’t forget you.” His fingers curl slightly, not quite fists, but as if holding himself in place. As if your words are the only thing keeping him from falling apart. “I love the way you lace your skates, the way you scrunch your nose when you laugh, the way you never let go of your childhood dreams even when they broke you. I love how you tried to protect me—even if it hurt. I love how you remember everything about me, even the things I thought didn’t matter. Even the things I was sure you forgot.”

You speak.

“I love how you cuddled me in my sleep—I hate how you let the quiet speak for you. I love how you loved me, even when you didn’t know how to show it. Even when I hate the fact you didn’t know how to show it.”

He listens.

And with every word you spill, every confession you finally give voice to, something in him unknots. His spine softens against you, leaning back into your embrace—just enough for you to feel the weight of him, the way he surrenders to the moment. His heartbeat thrums steadily beneath the fabric of his hoodie, loud and alive where your cheek presses lightly into the space between his shoulder blades. “And I hate how I still love all those parts. The beautiful ones, the difficult ones, the ones that tore me apart.” Sunghoon doesn’t speak right away. Doesn’t even move until he’s sure you’re done. “I never stopped loving you, Sunghoon. That’s the problem.” When you whisper those words, you swear he stops breathing altogether. You feel it rush out of him, like the weight of that truth floors him where he stands. “I don’t need time,” you add, barely audible. “I just needed to be sure this was real. That you were.” You take a shuddering breath, close your eyes, and press your cheek more firmly against him—hoping, in some impossible way, that you can feel him even closer than he already is. “I’m scared,” you admit. “I don’t know how to do this again. I don’t know how to trust what we were, or what we could be. But I know I still care. I know I still want you.” “And I’m tired of pretending I don’t.” God, you want to laugh. Or slap yourself in the face because of how terrifyingly easy it was to believe him again. How a few trembling words and tear-soaked confessions cracked through years of hurt like they were never there to begin with. How your heart, traitorous and stubborn, still knows the shape of him like a story it never stopped rereading. And your stupid, foolish heart—bruised from all the almosts and maybes—is choosing to continue writing that story.

You don’t say anything more.

And that’s when he moves.

Slowly, cautiously, Sunghoon turns in your arms, and the look in his eyes nearly shatters you. Hope. Guilt. Wonder. All of it, all at once. His eyes are glossy, lips parted in disbelief. His hands rise, trembling as he cups your face—so gently, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers if he blinks. You feel the pulse in his fingertips where his thumb brushes your jaw—still racing, still loud. Like your presence alone is enough to send it surging. Like he’s never been more alive than in this quiet, fragile moment with you. He gently rests his forehead against yours, the space between you shrinking until it barely exists. His hands are trembling, but his touch is impossibly tender—thumb brushing against your cheek, catching a tear, and then another. You hadn’t even realised you were full-blown crying until his fingers found the evidence. And then—just when you think your heart can’t take any more—his next words knock the air from your lungs like a punch and a prayer all at once. “Can I kiss you?” he whispers, voice hoarse and breaking with every syllable. “Please… tell me I still can.” The plea hangs between you, fragile and breathless. His chest is rising and falling in shallow, uneven rhythm, his pulse frantic beneath your fingertips as you reach up—slowly, instinctively—and wrap your fingers around his wrist. You can feel it there: the raw, aching thrum of his heartbeat, louder than words. Like your touch alone is enough to undo him. He’s never looked more vulnerable. Never more real. There’s no mask, no distance, no practiced calm—just him. Just Sunghoon, standing in front of you with nothing left to offer but his whole heart, held out in both hands. You let out a shaky breath, the corners of your lips lifting despite the tears still wet on your skin. And then—soft, quiet, but certain—you say, “Yes.”

As soon as the word leaves your lips—soft, breathless, and trembling with everything you’ve held back for years—Sunghoon moves. There’s no hesitation. No time wasted. The moment he hears your yes, he closes the distance like a man starved for something he thought he’d never taste again. His hands frame your face with a yearning so delicate it makes your heart ache. And then—he’s kissing you. It isn’t hurried or rough. It’s deep and devastating, like an apology and a promise all wrapped into one. Like he’s trying to pour four years of silence, of longing, of every missed chance into a single touch. He kisses you like it’s the first time and the last time all at once. And you—god, you melt into it. Into him. Into the feeling of home rediscovered, of time folding in on itself. Your fingers find their way into the hem of his hoodie, clinging onto him like you’re afraid he might vanish if you let go. But he doesn’t.

He stays.

And so do you. When you finally find it in you to pull away, you do so slowly—reluctantly—as if your body hasn’t quite caught up with your mind yet. As if some part of you still isn’t ready to let go. Your foreheads stay pressed together, breath mingling in the narrow space between you, warm and uneven. You’re both breathless. Messy. His hair is damp at the edges, your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes sting with the remnants of unshed tears. His thumb lingers at your jaw, gently tracing the skin as if to memorise the feel of you all over again. You feel the tremble in his breath when he exhales, feel the soft thud of his heart still racing beneath your fingertips. He doesn’t speak right away. Neither do you. Because in that moment, there’s nothing to say that could possibly match the weight of what just passed between you. You’d been broken once. Both of you. But right now—in this quiet, tangled stillness—it feels like the pieces are finally trying to come back together. You lean in again, lips parted, drawn to him like gravity—like your heart still hasn’t had enough. But just as your breath brushes against his skin, he gently places a hand on your shoulder and eases you back. The moment stalls. You blink, startled. A flicker of panic rises in your chest—was this a mistake? Did he change his mind? But then he smiles. Soft. Steady. The kind of smile that anchors you. He pulls you into his arms, wrapping you tight against his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he holds you any less carefully. “Believe me,” he murmurs into your hair, voice thick with restraint, “I want you so bad.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, thumb tracing your cheek, his gaze unbearably tender. “But not like this. Not when your heart’s still racing and your thoughts are a blur. I don’t want this to be another moment we look back on and wonder if it was real.” His forehead rests gently against yours again, breath fanning over your lips. You’re stunned by his honesty—by the weight of his restraint, the care in his voice. And you can’t help but compare him to the Sunghoon from four years ago. The boy who never quite knew how to sit still in the presence of raw emotion, who’d grown so used to skating past vulnerability that he forgot how to let someone in.

Back then, he would’ve kissed you anyway. Not out of selfishness, but out of fear—fear of the silence that might follow, fear of what waiting might reveal. He didn’t know how to confront intimacy without flinching. But this—this Sunghoon in front of you now—isn’t running from the stillness. He’s standing in it. Letting the quiet settle between you like a promise. He’s not rushing. He’s not deflecting. He’s choosing you with intention. “I want to do this right. Slow, if that’s what it takes. With all of you—not just the part that’s still reeling from the fall. ” You nod. “You can stay the night if you like… on the couch, of course.” He grins, eyes flickering with something fond, something teasing—but there's warmth behind it, restraint. “Starting from ground zero, I see.” He lets out a breath, gentle and steady. “I’m grateful. Really. But I won’t overstay tonight. I think…” he pauses, gaze dropping to the floor for a brief second before finding you again, more grounded now, “I think we both have some thinking to do too. And frankly speaking, if you look at me like that any longer, I might actually lose my shit.” You laugh, soft and disbelieving, the sound muffled by the sleeve you raise to your mouth. And as much as your heart aches to keep him close, to fall back into the comfort of familiarity, you both know tonight can’t be about slipping into old rhythms too soon. Not when everything between you is still new and fragile in its honesty. He reaches out and brushes a hand over your arm. “Let me put you to sleep,” he says, voice lower now, softer. “And then I’ll go.” And you don’t fight him on it. Because for the first time, he isn’t leaving to run. He’s leaving to give you room to choose. The moment your head hits the pillow, and you feel his lips press a gentle kiss to your forehead, your body sinks into the mattress like it's exhaling. You're not sure if it's the exhaustion from everything that’s unravelled between you earlier, or the undeniable familiarity of having him close again—his scent, his warmth, the quiet hum of his breath near yours—but sleep finds you almost instantly. It's as if your body remembers him. Trusts him.

Sunghoon lingers. He sits by the edge of your bed, watching the rise and fall of your chest, the soft creases of worry smoothing out from your brow now that you're resting. A small, breathy chuckle escapes him as he leans down, brushing a few strands of hair from your face. “So peaceful,” he whispers, almost to himself, “and still somehow managing to look like you carry the weight of the world.” He stays a second longer than he should. Maybe two. And then, quietly, he stands to leave—only to catch the soft glow of your laptop screen still open on your desk. He walks over, intending to shut it, give you the rest you deserve. But as his eyes flicker toward the screen, he recognises the subject line immediately. It's the email to your editor. The article draft. The cursor blinks steadily at the end of the draft—the same paragraph that started it all. Goodbye, Park Sunghoon, And thank you for everything you didn’t have to say.| The words land like a quiet echo in his chest. He glances back at your sleeping form on the bed, a faint, solemn smile tugging at his lips. Then he turns, quietly taking a seat at your desk. His fingers hover above the keyboard for a moment. And then—backspace. Letter by letter, he deletes the final paragraph. In its place, he types slowly. Carefully. Like each word is a stitch trying to mend what’s been frayed for too long. When he’s done, he hovers for a moment, rereading every word—then clicks “Send.” The email spins off toward your editor. He stands, casts one last look in your direction, and quietly lets himself out.

The next morning, you wake groggy but oddly clear-headed, like your body is still catching up to the storm of feelings it weathered the night before. The room is quiet. Sunlight spills in softly through the blinds, casting golden slats across your blanket. For a moment, you wonder if any of it was real—if he really came, really stood in your doorway, cried in your arms, asked to kiss you like it meant everything. But the slight indent on the couch cushion. The mug he used. The scent that still lingers faintly in the air—all of it confirms: he was here. It was real. Your heart thumps at the memory, but it’s interrupted by a harsh vibration rattling on your nightstand. You blink at your phone, screen flooded with notifications—dozens of missed calls, texts, and pings from your editorial team.

Chase headlines, not men. Catch exclusives, not feelings. ✍️

Yunah: @/you I know you're off today, but I just wanted to say CONGRATS on your story!! See, I knew you could pull this off. [Attached: 1 Link]

Moka: The internet is LOSING it over the article!!!

Minju: Still can’t believe you landed exclusive on top of exclusive with Park Sunghoon. Legend behaviour.

Yunah: I’m equally shocked he’s been hiding that injury all this time 😭

Minju: I don’t want to stress you out but… our public inbox is full of people sending selfies of themselves crying. Literal tears.

Moka: I mean did you READ that last paragraph??? I sobbed too.

You blink at your phone, stunned. Messages keep pouring in—some from colleagues you barely know, others from strangers outside your publication, all echoing the same thing: the article hit them hard. Which is… strange. Because you don’t remember sending the draft. Brows furrowed, you scroll up through your texts until you find the link Yunah sent. You tap it. The article is live. You hold your breath as you read through the byline—your name, front and centre. The formatting. The intro you agonised over. The quotes, the story, the soul of it. And then you scroll to the end. A smile tugs at your lips, and you pull up your chat with Sunghoon.

You: [Attached: 1 Screenshot] Was this your doing?

His reply is almost instant.

Sunghoon: Good morning :) Maybe? PR said they wanted to switch it up.

You: And by PR you mean... you?

Sunghoon: 😂 I meant every word. It’s what I wanted to say to you and to the world. Why… was it too corny? I’m sorry if I overstepped.

You bite your lip, heart stupidly fluttering as you reread his words.

You: No no. Just kinda mad I didn’t think of that myself 🙄

Sunghoon: Well, you can’t beat years of media training 🤷‍♂️

You: Sunghoon, I WORK for the media…

He replies almost immediately, like he’s been waiting for your comeback.

Sunghoon: Let me make it up to you for one-upping you. Dinner tonight? My treat.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a beat before you reply.

You: I would not accept otherwise.

You set the phone down, unable to contain the quiet laugh that escapes you. Because despite everything—the heartbreak, the years apart, the mess of it all—you’ve never felt more like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

The two of you walk slowly along the riverbank, hands gently entwined, his thumb occasionally sweeping across your knuckles like he's still making sure you're real. The evening is still, like even the world has paused to listen. A breeze brushes past, gentle and cool, carrying the scent of spring and something sweet that lingers—something that smells like beginnings.

You glance down at your interlocked fingers, how naturally they fall into place—like no time has passed at all. The rhythm of your footsteps syncs without effort, the silence between you not heavy, but full. Comfortable. Honest. Familiar in all the ways that matter.

“This feels like our first date,” you say, smiling without meaning to, the corners of your lips tugged by something warm and indescribable.

He laughs under his breath, a soft, breathy sound that makes your heart swell. “Maybe it is,” he replies. “The first one where I finally know what I’m doing.”

You don’t reply. Not because you have nothing to say, but because every part of this moment already says it for you.

The sky above is endless, dark velvet speckled with stars. The world moves quietly around you—boats drifting in the distance, couples passing by, the faint sound of laughter from a nearby cafe. But for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like you’re watching it all from behind a glass wall. You’re here. Present. With him.

And he’s here too—really here, not as a shadow of a memory, not as someone you're chasing or mourning. But as a man who's finally choosing to stay beside you.

And you think—if the world ended right now, if the river froze and time stopped still—you would not ask for more than this. Not more than his hand in yours, his voice low beside you, his presence finally steady after years of disappearing acts and empty spaces.

You look at him—not the athlete, not the headline, not the boy who once walked away—but the man who returned with no armour, no excuses, only truths. Who stood in front of you trembling, terrified, and still chose to stay. And when you speak, your voice is quiet but certain.

“You could’ve come back with promises, with charm, with all the right words at the wrong time. But you didn’t.”

There’s a small beat of silence where he stops walking and you do too, feet planted at the edge of the path where the river glistens. He faces you fully now, his hand still holding yours.

“You came back to me with everything I ever needed,” you continue.

He opens his mouth, but no words come—just the subtle tremble of his chin, the storm of emotions flickering behind his eyes. You take a step closer, pressing your forehead against his, feeling his breath shudder out as though even now, this is too much to believe.

“This,” he says, almost to himself, “is what I should’ve fought for back then.”

"All that matters is you are now," you whisper. "You left, and then you learned. You grew. And then you came back.”

And that’s the difference. That’s everything.

This isn’t about returning to the past. This is about two people, standing in the aftermath of everything they weren’t ready for then, finally finding each other in a version of the world where they are. Choosing to begin again—not from scratch, but from everything they’ve carried and learned and lived through.

His hand stays in yours, steady and warm, like a vow made without words.

You kiss him.

And this time, the kiss isn’t a promise or an apology. It’s not an act of desperation or regret. It’s a homecoming.

It tastes like relief. Like forgiveness. Like all the years that tried to pull you apart finally surrendering to the truth that you were always meant to find your way back.

When you pull away, he doesn’t say anything right away. He just holds you closer, like letting go would unravel the universe itself.

You rest your head on his shoulder, and in that embrace—quiet and undramatic, warm and steady—you finally understand what it means to be loved not just in the way you wanted, but in the way you deserved.

Because he loves you now in the way that matters most.

Not as the boy who left. Not as the echo of a love lost to time. But as the man who finally came back to put every broken piece back together with his own hands.

This isn’t the love you spent years waiting for.

It’s the love he had to fight to grow into. The kind born from mistakes, shaped by time, and strengthened through absence. It’s messy. Flawed. Earned. Real.

It's the kind of love that's loud in his words as much as it is in his presence.

It’s the kind of love that sees all of you. Not just the polished, loveable parts, but the fractured ones too—and stays anyway.

And for Sunghoon, this is the love he has worked to deserve. The kind of love that took almost losing everything to understand.

Skating. Himself. You.

Skating was his first love—the kind that demanded everything and gave just as much, until it didn’t. And like most first loves, it burned bright, glorious, then quietly slipped beyond reach.

And when he said he fell out of love with it a long time ago, something inside you aches.

Because you remember. God, you remember how much he loved it. How much it meant to him. You were there for the early mornings, the ice-burned skin, the sacrifices. You watched him speak with his body when words failed, carve art into frozen ground like it was the only way he knew how to breathe. Skating wasn’t just something he did. It’s his compass. His language. His sanctuary.

You mourn the love he lost—because it was beautiful. Because it made him who he was. Because you can only imagine what he must’ve gone through to lose that love. To say it out loud. To bury it. And because it hurts to know that even something so beloved can slip away.

And yet… here he is. Standing in front of you, offering up the ashes of what once fuelled him, just to prove that loving you never burned out. That you outlasted the thing that defined him for most of his life. That somehow, someway, you came out on the other side—not as a consolation, but as a constant.

Even now, you don’t know what to do with that kind of love. A love that gave up the world just to come home to you.

Because you know what it cost him. What it cost you.

And even though some part of you swells at the thought that he never stopped choosing you, there’s another part that grieves for everything he lost along the way.

But one thing is certain:

While skating may have been his first love, Sunghoon intends for you to be his last.

So you’ll love him with both hands open. With reverence for the boy he used to be, with gratitude for the man he’s become, and with tenderness for all the versions of him in between.

You will carry the echoes of the boy who once chased gold on the ice and hold space for the man who let it go.

And that’s the way you’ll love him—

The way he loves you.

[MANIFESTO EXCLUSIVE] The Final Bow: Park Sunghoon Withdraws from Olympic Delegation and Announces Retirement

By Kang Y/N, Manifesto Daily

In a move that has taken the sports world by quiet surprise, South Korean figure skater Park Sunghoon has officially withdrawn from the 2026 Olympic delegation and announced his retirement from competitive skating.

Park, who recently stunned audiences with a breathtaking performance at the national Olympic tryouts, was widely anticipated to lead the men’s singles category for Team Korea. His name sat at the top of the final athlete roster released by the Korean Skating Union, cementing his spot after years spent away from the competitive spotlight.

However, behind the seamless technique and poise he displayed during the tryouts, Park had been skating through pain. After sustaining a severe tendon injury to his right leg during training abroad in 2023, he underwent a long and difficult recovery—one that, according to the athlete, never fully restored his capacity to train at the level he once held. Despite managing the condition in silence, Park made the decision to step away before risking further damage to his body.

Having spent the last few years recovering and training quietly overseas, Park re-entered the national circuit not to chase medals, but to rediscover what skating meant to him beyond the pressure of podiums and public expectation. His performance at the tryouts was not only a technical feat but also a statement. A reclamation. A reminder that skating, at its core, was always more than a career. It was a language of feeling.

In his official statement, Park expressed gratitude for the opportunity to return to the ice one last time: “I want to remember it the way I’ve always loved it. For what it gave me. For who I was when I first stepped on the ice.”

Park’s career has never been defined by loud declarations. He was known for his quiet discipline, his ability to translate stillness into power, grace into precision. From his early victories on the junior circuit to his more introspective, mature performances in recent years, he has remained one of the few athletes whose artistry often spoke louder than any press release.

Though his departure from the delegation was unexpected, it wasn’t without intent. Park’s decision to step back at the height of anticipation is a reminder that not all victories are won under stadium lights. Some are claimed in the quiet resolve to walk away on your own terms.

In related news, Park’s withdrawal comes just days after the delegation announcement, and in his place, 19-year-old rising star Han Jihoon has been selected to represent Korea in the men’s singles category. Han, who placed fourth at the national tryouts, is widely regarded as one of the most technically gifted athletes of his generation, with a growing fanbase and a reputation for innovation on the ice.

As for Park Sunghoon, he leaves behind a legacy not of statistics, but of stillness. Of dignity. Of skating that always seemed to speak in the spaces where words fell short.

And maybe that was the point all along. Maybe it was never about the podium. Maybe the real victory was simply finding your way back to loving something you once thought you had to leave behind.

#yve tbr #TRUST I SHALL BE HERE SOON

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tinycatharsis · 12 days ago

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does stoner jay know im psychotic and insane and would ride him until he cries

— stoner!jay who is your plug and makes sure you only get the best of the best.

— stoner!jay who rolls your blunts and places them between your lips and lights them for you so you never have to lift a finger.

— stoner!jay who sits you on his lap during a smoke sesh, feeling you up while you take long hit from the bowl he packed for you.

— stoner!jay who lazily makes out with you with his hands on your hips, joint between his fingers and his name spilling from your lips.

— stoner!jay who smokes you out and doesn't even pause for a second until you're both properly feeling good.

— stoner!jay who blows his smoke in your face while you lay under him, clad in your panties and one of his old tees.

— stoner!jay who eats you out while you take hit after hit of his blunt he made just for you.

— stoner!jay who lets you hotbox his car before making you ride him in the backseat, fogging the windows up to hell.

— stoner!jay who texts you to come over and smoke with him just so he can see you and watch you fall apart on his cock.

— stoner!jay who is convinced he'll never have anyone quite like you again, and he'll do anything to make you his.

#this is not enough #I NEED MOREEEEEE #MAKE UR DAMN SOUP FASTER #waiting… patiently waiting for u to return to our dms #i am so normal about jake #but this post is about jay so #okay lets go back #yve reccs!#yv.reviews #MY MANNNNN.#me and hoon are one and the same #im no better than a man #i need him #jay…….#please let me hit #pleasepleaspleasepleaspelsplease

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tinycatharsis · 12 days ago

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bae dropped

IN ALL YOUR PERFECTS

〔 𝒾 〕 How did you get so lucky as to bag one of the hottest men on campus, Sim Jaeyun? That question rings in your head often, even in moments you shouldn't feel insecure. And every answer is too unkind to speak out loud to the beautiful boy stealing hearts on the lacrosse field and upending your world with every smile he gives you. But he can sense something is off, and if you don't explain why soon, you may just be the downfall of everything.

𝐬𝐢𝐦 𝐣𝐚𝐞𝐲𝐮𝐧 𝓍 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 12.2K ⋮ 18+ ⋮ fluff, angst, smut, plus-size!reader, lacrosse player!jake, semi-fwb au, college au, downbad!jake, insecurites (of the reader), self-manipulation, negative self-talk and thoughts, body worship, praise kink, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, creampie ᯤ 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈: 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 — 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘭𝘥𝘭𝘧𝘦, 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 — 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘸𝘢𝘢𝘭, 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 — 𝘤𝘰𝘪𝘯, 𝘥𝘪𝘻𝘻𝘺 — 𝘺𝘶𝘦𝘬𝘶, 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 — 𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘵, 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 — 𝘥𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘣𝘰𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭, 𝘬𝘪𝘴𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘴 — 𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘳𝘰𝘺𝘢𝘭𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦!

⌗ 𝐨𝐩𝐚𝐥'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 ── First and foremost, thank you for all the love the teaser for this fic got, it makes me so happy that everyone was receptive to this premise and wanted to see the entire story! All of my loves who read this (@lovetaroandtaemin @frenchkisstheabyss @xomakara @innocygnet @tinycatharsis @xylatox @aeristudios and many others), I love you guys and thank you for motivating me to continue it. And to all of you, like I said in the teaser, you are greater than your worst thoughts, and the love that you deserve is waiting for you no matter your size or self-doubts. I hope you enjoy!

You never step out of the car.

It's routine to pick Jake up after every Tuesday and Friday lacrosse practice. You detested the idea at first. You didn't know Jake's teammates and friends—you made a point not to—but you predicted long ago they would smell your anxiety the second you shifted gears on the pavement. "Just have San or someone else do it, please?" You'd responded with something to that effect the first time he asked, and the subject was dropped.

But sticking to your guns became especially difficult once Jake discovered your undoing via his incessant pouting and perfectly-executed neck kisses. Ultimately, your resolve crumbled.

You've driven to and away from the field many times in the past four months, yet your physical reactions in between the driving never change. You sit with bated breath as you see the clock on your dash shift, ten minutes past when you were supposed to be here passing in a blur. Fingers tap against the steering wheel in time to the beat of the song, the melody humming low from your speakers. All of the humdrum habits and safety of your car keep you from feeling small, but the second your head turns, or a sound pulls you from your daze, you're fucked.

Your 2011 Volkswagen is no match for the Audis and Range Rovers surrounding you in the parking lot next to the lacrosse field. In the 9 PM moonlight, they all shine something fierce. The chrome and glossy finishes are in excruciatingly stark contrast to the chipped paint on your front bumper and aged rubber lining your tires.

You can't picture what the field must look like. Booster parents and college alumni's donations ensured top-dollar amenities for the team that you've never seen play once. The Red Hawks have to be formidable in some capacity in order to garner such adoration from your peers and financial support from the school administration.

Jake laughed it off when you said you never went to a game before him and didn't plan on doing so even after ending up in his bed. He just went back to kissing you at the time and let it go because he knew the truth: it wasn't a part of the deal you both agreed upon.

"Yet picking him up is?" Jungwon asked one morning after you told him about taking Jake home the night prior. You lovingly told your best friend to fuck off and mind his business. The questions on his face could have easily cracked through your cool resolve, but you wouldn't let them.

All that can do that is your own nerves, psyching you out in a million ways before Jake can step away from the field and make it to your passenger side door.

Ultimately, though, finally seeing his sweat-soaked hair and cherry-red uniform hugging his body makes the fears dissipate enough for you to breathe normally again. A handful of guys walk off, but Jake and a few friends remain near the edge of the field. You can hear his laugh before he can get to your car, his conversation with his teammates turning from strategy to straight comedy, no doubt. Felix and Vernon share brotherly handshakes with him before making it to their own cars. You tell yourself not to follow them with your eyes, but they betray you the second the two men leave your peripheral vision. The girls waiting outside their vehicles are eager to greet them, sporting denim cutoffs and tank tops meant to show off their midriffs.

Subconsciously, your hand drifts to your own stomach. The skin there hasn't seen the sun in a hot minute. The last time had to be when you were too drunk to care. Now, more than clearheaded, you feel the hard truths come in like tidal waves. The outfit you could never pull off taunts you like the cars do. It's another piece of the puzzle to prove you don't fit in, not really.

The light but purposeful taps to your window pull you from the precipice of another mental spiral. You turn to find Jake fogging up the glass with his quick breaths. His megawatt smile is electric, unfurling your somber mood like a bird's wing. He may desperately need a shower and some rest, but he's never looked more radiant than with his flushed cheeks and damp curls. For how bright the moon shines outside, he's the sun incarnate.

He gets in the passenger side once he sets his equipment in your back seat. After he's settled in, his smile is back on you, warming you with silent heat.

"You smell," you say before pecking his lips. The kiss lasts for only a few seconds, but it could be a lifetime from how slow and smooth it feels, numbing your thoughts to their core like novocaine.

"Oh?" he asks when you pull away, poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue.

"You're lucky I'm into that."

He chuckles. His lips are back on yours in the next second, the sound of his laughter still rumbling on his tongue when it enters your mouth. He presses his hand to your cheek, pulling you into him. The protective taping wrapped around his hand, running from knuckles to wrist, rubs against your cheek with every move of his mouth and fingertips.

You pull away to catch your breath, dizzy from the force of him. He whispers, "Let's go home."

He says the last word reverently, like home is just the two of you and nobody else. Exactly as it should be in his eyes. You try to believe it as you start the car, his hand firm on your thigh as you begin the drive back to his studio apartment. You want to take his words to heart, the only reassurance you'd ever need to quell the fear of opulence and beauty you barely possess, but you know the facts.

It won't last, so you have to enjoy what you can while you have it. But even that seems to be the hardest feat in the universe when you're reminded of what will soon be gone.

"Jaeyun—holy shit—right there." You gasp, moving your hips harder against Jake's soft lips. His tongue swirls around your clit as his fingers enter and exit your spongy walls. The brush of his fingertips hits you as hard as the murmurs of his words against your folds, praise leaving his lips as he admires the essence around his digits. You tighten around them with every swirl of his mouth on the hood of your cunt. He's desperate to make you fall apart once more, nuzzling deeper into you and moving faster.

You made it to his apartment quickly, the tension between you dissipating your earlier worries and transforming them into pure need. He may see it only as an expression of his desire for you, his stamina never-ending despite hours of practice. For you, it's the perfect way to make your ghosts go away, if only for a little while—his shower and rest be damned.

"She's sucking me in so well. Fuck, I love it," Jake comments, more for you than himself. He's a particular type of vulgar in bed. In normal conversation, he barely curses. Sure, he's still a guy surrounded by raging testosterone who possesses some fraction of perverted humor, but when he's lost in you and the sheets, he's feral. His composure becomes frayed in all the right ways when he sees your pussy flutter around his fingers, his tongue, his cock. He can't control it, and you don't want him to.

"God, please let me come again." You sink into his sheets as you arch your hips, chasing the feeling with eager and sweaty limbs. He pins you down harder, squeezing your plush skin between his palms while unraveling you. Jake's too good at this, snug amongst your soaked thighs and warm heat. Maybe he's made to live there in a land of skin and slick, forever existing between your legs.

"Yes, pretty girl. Let me feel it around me this time."

He switches positions quickly, sinking his aching tip inside of you as his wet fingers rub against your clit. He only manages a few strokes before you're losing your composure completely, clutching tightly to his shoulders with weak hands but lit-up nerve endings. His hips flex as your tongue shapes curses and half-completed moans.

"You're so perfect—ah, goddamnit—when you come. It's incredible. You're incredible." Sweat quickly paints his face as he maintains his slow but deep pace. He gains speed only once he feels his high trickling up his spine. "Where do you want it tonight, beautiful?"

You roll your eyes lazily, your head turning into the pillow from his praise. He always asks, although you both know the only correct answer. But you're so lost in him and the afterglow, you swallow the rhetorical barb on your lips and whisper, "Inside, Jaeyun. Fill me up, please? I want it all."

Jake curses once more before he ruts into you. Animalistic, choked cries erupt from deep in his diaphragm when he reaches his orgasm. He already had no composure left to speak of, but it’s as though he's finding it again by letting himself fall apart above you. Ropes of his seed coat your insides with warmth, and you think that this must be what he meant when he said "home" earlier in the car. There's nothing inside or outside of your bubble to fear when you're both so intertwined, so attached to one another in the most primal form.

You lay there together for a moment, evening the tempos of your heartbeats and pace of your breaths together. It's peace at its barest elements. The quiet of your mind feels as foreign as a new language, but Jake makes it easy to learn when he swims the uncharted waters with you.

But that's the trick with ghosts. They creep in the moment after a person believes they've bested them once and for all.

"I gotta ask you something," Jake whispers. He rubs his hands against the expanse of your back, but it's no longer soothing. The warmth you felt a mere ten minutes ago turns to ice, the calm waters transforming into a harsh current you're preparing to drown in. Jake senses the sudden rigidness of your body in the aftermath of his statement. He chuckles and pulls you in closer. "Relax, I'm not proposing to you."

You huff, quietly relieved. "Would've been an odd way to ask, anyway."

His chest rumbles with laughter. Your fear lowers to a manageable degree, but you remain on your toes. Possibilities flicker across your mind, the cryptic message capable of anything. Will he make another stink about you seeing one of his games? Does he want to risk you finally agreeing to attend one of the dumb house parties you've said no to a million times over, only for you to swat him on the arm and tell him to go to bed?

Your throat dries up in anticipation of the inevitable. After a moment, he says, "I want you to meet my parents."

You try silence to listen as Jake explains further, but you're running on half concentration and half inner turmoil. A few of his words play in a loop in your brain as you watch his lips move.

Jake's parents. Home from overseas. He wants to introduce you to them.

There were only a handful of rules established at the onset of whatever your relationship was. One of them was not to make the relationship itself intimately known amongst friends and family. Jake's teammates and your friends are aware you both are seeing each other, but that's the beginning and end of it. There's no showing off photos of each other, no bouts of PDA to make people envious or uncomfortable, and definitely no sharing of personal information.

You like it that way. It keeps the outside world from creeping in and expanding the doubts already adequately sized in your mind. You don't think you can take that reality, the one where everyone pulls their two cents together for the destruction of what little you've scrounged up with Jake, so you live in this one instead. You're at an arm's length from the entirety of him and his life, but he's still reachable. And you're still safe.

Only now, Jake is threatening that safety by wanting what's outside of your bounds, asking you to give parts of yourself you can't breach.

You pull away from him sharply, tasting alkaline metal in the back of your throat. In response, Jake's blush-painted cheeks go white. He presses both hands to either side of your face before you have time to move further away. His touch is so sweet, but it doesn't save you from getting lost in your head. "I know it's a lot, but they'd love you right away. And I—"

"What would we even say?" You interrupt him with bite, your teeth gnashing together in hard clamps. "'Hi, Mom, this is the girl from my organic chemistry class I've been fucking all semester. Dad, that's a nice tie'?"

"I wouldn't exactly put it like that," he jokes. He pushes some of your sweaty strands of hair from your face as he composes his next words. "And my dad doesn't wear ties, so we're good there."

"Jaeyun, you're missing my point!"

"I'm seeing it loud and clear, babe. I'm just saying there's nothing to worry about, especially my dad's fashion choices."

His teasing only makes your stomach sink deeper. How can you make him understand your perspective without cracking open months' worth of anxiety? You aren't officially dating, but it's been working just fine within the parameters of no labels. Why screw it up? "Yunnie, I can't. You know why."

He gulps and rubs one thumb along the apple of your cheek. He says nothing, but his brown irises and downturned lips hold all the questions in the world you can't answer. The biggest one of all nearly upends your willpower: Why can't you want more?

The problem is not that you don't. You do, so much so the desire for it could suffocate you. There's no woman on this planet who could sleep with Jake for this long and not grow fond of him. And that fondness has only grown stronger with time, time to be breathless with him by your side and time for your mind to race around thoughts of him when he wasn't there.

But you can't get lost in fantasy; you must be realistic. There will be a day he realizes you both are on two different planes of existence. You're perpendicular lines that, by some galaxy's grace, converged once and never will again.

He's Sim Jaeyun, lacrosse co-captain and statuesque head to toe. And you're you, the girl who your middle school bully nicknamed "Pudding" as she poked your stomach with a ruler. The teenager who delivered love notes to your friends from boys searching for less love handles and more sex appeal. The woman molded from pitiful pats to the chin and words of judgement caked with sugary understanding. "It's just baby fat, darling. We all get it, and it'll go away when you hit a growth spurt one day."

That day never came, and the extra tissue stayed. But, with time and effort, you grew callous to protect what remained soft inside of you.

Jake is the only person who seems to seep past the hard edges you've built without knowing any of your history, and it terrifies you. It makes you believe for a millisecond that he could make all the intrusive thoughts disappear if you'd let him.

But he can't, not when he asks for things that will never come, and definitely not when you're positive he won't care when he leaves you behind.

It doesn't make the pain on his face any easier to bear, though. It sags from defeat, and his lips turn in the pout you adore when he sees you don't want to hurt him any more than you already have by saying no. Before he can utter another word, or his expression can wound you deeper, you shut him up with something you'll regret later, a trade that feels like a death sentence. "The Hawk's Gala."

His eyes widen. "What?"

"The Hawk's Gala's this Sunday, right? After Saturday's game?" You swallow your fear like a dry pill. "I'll go with you."

Jake asked you weeks ago if you would attend the team's annual gala to celebrate the midway point of the season. One night, he mentioned it when you were too preoccupied with his cock in your mouth to give him a definitive answer. You expected him to not broach the topic again after you left him with no elaboration. But he had no room to complain after you swallowed every bit of his cum and mental energy. Unfortunately for you, he asked one more time after that, and you blew him again to make the invitation disappear from his mind.

Now, you’ve sprung the idea back on him to escape from the original conversation, but it only makes you feel worse as every pore on Jake's face lights up. "Really?"

He's like a kid sneaking a peek at his birthday present, tentative but ready to burst at the seams. You nod, not smiling but not frowning either, and the dam of his excitement breaks.

He squishes you back into bed, unaware of the terror in your eyes as he smatters kisses across your face and neck. His elation breaks your heart evenly down the middle, the hope seeping out of him souring instead of sweetening your mood. He's buzzing with the beginning of something more while you see the slow crawl to your end. The credits are rolling quickly past your eyes, the cackles and judgement ringing in your ears, and you can do nothing to stop it.

Working retail has to be one of the worst jobs you've ever had. It's monotonous to boot, the only upside being the extra money in your pocket for extra college expenses.

For all the glamour of the glitzy tops and convenience of the mall's constant markdowns, you have thought of quitting almost twice a day. Once customers see the name tag pinned to your shirt, you cease to be a person and become another goal post to the shopping bag they'll walk out of the store with.

The only bright spots have been your coworkers. Like Heeseung, who runs a tight ship as the store manager, and Sunwoo, your right-hand man when you need him to help with folding or handling rowdy teenagers.

Well, them, and the rare occurrence when Jake breaks your rules and stops by after classes to see you. It may only be ten to twenty minutes of time, most of those minutes being spent near the pretzel stand adjacent to the store, but it means more than you'd ever admit to anyone.

Today, you know it will be one of the hardest shifts of your life. Watching Wonyoung walk into the store with a random guy on Jake's team on her arm is like the knock of Death's fist on your door. You assume the poor kid is on the team from the Red Hawks letterman jacket he's wearing. The scoff that leaves your mouth is unavoidable. She couldn't be more transparent in her tactics to make her ex-boyfriend jealous when he's not even around.

Her presence makes a knot form in your throat as you finish rearranging the jeans on the display near the cash registers. What could she want in this store on this night when you're one of the few employees working the floor? Heeseung's on his half-hour lunch break while Sunwoo's been delegated to dressing room duty. You could use your walkie, call for backup and pretend the SOS is for a legitimate emergency, but then Heeseung would pry into it as your friend and superior. In short, there's no escaping the situation presented to you on a cruel, platinum-blonde platter.

When Wonyoung appears in front of you with a lacy dress in one hand and her boy candy's hand intertwined with the other, you stifle the bile crawling up your throat and paint on your best smile. "Welcome to Fatal Trouble Fabrics, what can I help you with?"

Wonyoung's own smile is more artificial than yours, saccharine yet glazed with venom. "Is XS the smallest size you guys have? I think it may be too roomy in the hips for me."

Your jaw ticks, and you tug the corner of your bottom lip between your teeth. "There's always alternative sizing options on our website. We go from XXXS to XXXL in almost all of the garments." You can hear the clinical objectivity in your voice, but it's the only way to get through the hell that is this conversation.

She's everything you're not in too many ways to tally up. She's half your weight soaking wet and effortlessly dolled up in the most natural makeup you've ever seen. Not to mention she has two years of experience with Jake to speak for that you'll never measure up to. He’s spoken about her in the rarest of times, only saying it ended badly during his second semester and he would never venture down that path with her again. His reassurance was a slight comfort, but not enough to quell the insecurities she springs out of you.

The second her eyebrow quirks up, your urge to vomit heightens. She can see she's getting to you; with the way her lips purse, she has to have some inkling. Knowing you’re going against a snake ready for the last strike against its defenseless prey, you steel yourself for whatever will come next.

She looks past you to the rack with tube tops in multiple colors. She lets go of Boy Candy's hand to rifle through the clothes, completely silent. Then, she pulls one bigger-sized article off the display before saying, "I'd love to buy this for my sister, but she's a bit chubbier than this. You know, your size."

Boy Candy can't fight the laughter that sputters past his lips. Your face twitches once, only once, but it makes your sight turn to the smallest capacity of tunnel vision you've ever known. She didn't have to go there, yet she did. You don’t have to feel the bruise of her insult, yet you do. It’s all over your posture now, and you can’t avoid it.

You grip another pair of jeans tighter in your hands. Turning to fold them, you say over your shoulder, "You should check out the website, then. It’ll have a lot more options for…easily accessible clothing, if you get what I mean."

Just as she's about to step closer to you, her plastic grin turning to a pissed-off pout, Jake saunters through the store and immediately wraps his hand around her upper arm. You know he's not hurting her, but it still makes your blood run cold seeing him in this protective mode. It's not one he's ever had to use for you, or maybe anyone, before. "Won, don't do this here. I mean it."

"Dude, you can't do that!" Boy Candy interjects with a high-pitched yell. He shrinks immediately when Jake turns in his direction, looking at the smaller and younger kid with rigid apathy.

"Kai, get lost before I tell Coach to bump you to second line just for pissing me off."

Kai raises his hands in defense and walks backwards to the store entrance, leaving Wonyoung to fend for herself. Jake goes back to staring down his ex-girlfriend, his expression on the cusp of explosion. “I’m asking you nicely to not cause a scene. Next time, I won’t.”

She huffs and yanks her arm from Jake's hold. "Whatever. Call me when you get tired of slumming it with food court trash." She looks back at you with a smirk before walking away towards Boy Candy.

You want to throw all the pairs of jeans at her until her smug face disappears from your mind. More importantly, you want to muffle the thoughts now overloading your headspace.

Please keep it together, you tell yourself when Jake puts his hand on your hip with reverence, a gesture that makes your heart swell but your breath quicken. Don't remind me I don't deserve him right now.

"Are you okay?" he asks patiently, moving his hand to run his thumb under your shirt. No coworkers or customers are around to see him be so secretly intimate with you, but you blush all the same.

You nod. "Yeah. I just wanna get through this shift,” You manage a smile, and he visibly relaxes when you affirm you’re fine. “You could've texted and said you were coming by."

"Well, it was a surprise." Jake moves away from you to take a box from his denim jacket. It's wrapped with a white bow, but he quickly unties it in order to open the packaging. "I know you said no gifts, but I wanted to give you this."

A gold necklace appears between his fingers. The rectangular pendant hanging from its center features a cutout of a bird, the negative space forming the shape of a hawk in flight.

You could cry if you weren’t awestruck by the gift’s beauty. Combing through your memory, you realize nobody has ever given you something so precious. It would be criminal to say no to it, although every basic instinct tells you not to fall for the false comfort it provides. But how could it be false when Jake looks at the jewelry like it's his own heart laid bare for you to take?

Without a word of protest, you turn and tuck your hair away from your shoulders so he can put the necklace on you. You can feel his smile without looking, and your knees buckle a touch.

Jake secures the clasp at the back of your neck. The pendant falls perfectly over your heart, shining against the store's halogen lights. His fingertips brush your nape as he moves away. He lights your skin on fire in every way, but the subsequent smile he gives you is what makes your belly ache with need. "I know you're going to look beautiful, but I couldn't have you going to this dinner without wearing something…symbolic."

"Symbolic, huh?" You smirk, feigning confidence, but you feel as vulnerable as he does when you ask it.

"Yeah, I think so." He runs his hand across your waist again, like he wants to pull you closer and harder against him. "If it wasn't unprofessional of you to make out with a customer, I'd have kissed you already."

You giggle, your smile beaming. "I don't think anyone's around to stop you, Sim."

He mumbles a "Fuck it" before attaching his mouth to yours, warming you to the bones slowly. You smile into his kiss and let it wash away the pain. For a moment, you think you might come out of the dinner in a few days without issue. As long as he never leaves your side, you think you can do it. Maybe.

Your fingers were tentative against the bruise marring Jake's shoulder blade. Tinted a shade deeper than his normal skintone but visibly lighter at the edges, the bruise will fade in another few days. You know this from asking him a few hours ago how it happened. "From practice, it's fine—just let me touch you, please," he had said in haste to pull you closer and take your clothes off.

Now, you tread across it gently as you sit shoulder-to-shoulder with him, covers pulled up to your chest to cover your naked skin.

"Broken blood vessels cause the bruise itself," he says. "It can take up to two weeks for the body to break down the buildup of blood, depending on the level of injury." He runs his bottom lip along your forehead, and you shiver against him, making him chuckle. "You could try listening, you know. I'm giving you important medical information here!"

You laugh into his neck, playing with the ends of his hair. "I am! Just didn't expect you to know so much about the anatomy of a bruise when your degree is for veterinary medicine."

He shrugs, suddenly bashful. For all the talk of Jake around campus as a beast on the field, he's incredibly intelligent. One class was enough for you to see how engaged he was with his studies, more than just some jock you knew by name only. He always asked questions, took diligent notes, and collaborated in discussions without dominating the conversation. In truth, it was a shock that he asked to exchange lecture notes with you over coffee two months ago.

"You're one of the only people who jots down everything Mr. Choi says!" You tried not to sound rude when responding to his proposition, but you were unsure what exactly he wanted from you in the first place. Especially when he was the equivalent of a movie starlet and you…well…

He just smiled and said, "Well, it was kinda hard to do that today when I spent half of his presentation staring at you."

You shake away your bout of reminiscing, coming back to Earth to hear Jake's breakdown of bruises for dummies. He rolls his eyes dramatically after you apologize for losing your train of focus. "Anyway, that's why bruises can be hot to the touch. It's also why they change color little by little as the blood is broken down.

"From black and blue…" Jake presses a kiss to the spot between your eyebrows. He drags his mouth across your face with every pause he takes between speaking. "…to brown…sometimes green and yellow…"

His lips on your neck make you tremble once again under his touch. Your body acts as though he didn't already spread it out for the taking a mere half hour ago.

"…and then back to its normal color," he murmurs before another tantalizing kiss lands on your lips. You stifle a moan, but a partial sound squeaks out anyway that turns your cheeks a rosy hue. "Good as new."

"Now who's losing focus, huh," you jest.

"I think I'm doing just fine in that department, pretty girl."

The edges of your mouth turn up before you press your mouth to his wounded skin. His body feels all kinds of warm against your lips. He groans unabashedly, his own gooseflesh perking up on his arms and neck from your attention. You giggle like a teenager, vulnerable in a way that isn't sounding off alarm bells in your brain.

He's the beginning, middle, and end of safety, every emotion stirred up in your heart cared for with his gentle hands.

"Who needs the body's healing process when you can just kiss it better?" he teases before pinning you between his body and his bedsheets.

You scoff playfully. "Do those lines work with all the girls?"

He pokes his tongue at you before booping your nose with his index finger. "Hopefully just one, the only one that matters."

You think Jake may be your own personal bruise, an unexpected force that's affected every inch of your body. But you don't want him to fade, not now and not ever.

You wake from your dream to the sound of your phone's text alert. Jake's contact photo lights up your phone, but what catches your attention the most is the time on your homescreen. "Fuck," you mutter before leaping from bed. Your hands make quick work of rifling through your closet as a million more curses leave your lips.

You thought a quick hour nap before getting ready would quell your anxieties about the gala in question finally coming around the corner. Unfortunately, your anxieties also made you forget to set a damn alarm, and thus left you with only an hour and a half to get ready.

And the brutality of your nerves smacks you in the face as you scroll through Jake's messages.

J 🤍 [04:15]: Hey, pretty girl. Just in case you forgot and want to coordinate, I'll be wearing red ;) J 🤍 [04:18]: Well, a red letterman jacket and a dress shirt. But red! J 🤍 [05:05]: Ok, a bit worried you haven't responded, but I don't want you freaking out about anything. You could walk in wearing a sack and you'd be gorgeous like you always are… J 🤍 [05:07]: I mean, don't come in a sack if you think that's too basic, but I'll love whatever you wear. Text me when you're on your way. J 🤍 [05:59]: Is everything okay?

"Damnit," you say before typing a quick response back to him that you're okay despite oversleeping. You end the text with a winking emoji and a heart that will ease his worries.

If only the little pixels could assuage yours.

The pit in your stomach from this morning was the size of a golf ball, manageable until you needed to sleep to take your mind off of its presence. Now, it's the size of a dinner plate pressing down on your ribcage with each and every dress you put on. They all fail to impress you, none of them doing the work of making your burdens disappear. One burgundy dress that falls to the middle of your thighs is passable, but you still want to punch a hole through the mirror hanging on your bathroom door when you see your reflection.

Even as you run heaps of makeup across your face and curl your hair, you feel like a clown that's missing the best parts of their costume. In the next second, you swipe too much lipstick on your upper lip and let out the wail of a wounded animal. It's ragged and spent, tattered from all sides.

At that moment, the first truth becomes an unmistakable blow to the stomach: every pretty garment and expensive cosmetic in the world won't keep you from embarrassing Jake. You will stick out like a sore thumb at that dinner, a stain over the picture-perfect moment he could have if you stay out of sight and mind.

In the next moment, the second truth appears: you won't be leaving your apartment tonight. You set the lipstick tube down on your desk and try not to dry heave, waddling back to your bed to disappear under the covers.

You'll break his heart for breaking your promise, but all you can do is hope he'll allow you to mend it. Maybe some part of him will understand there's a valid reason you missed it, one you cannot verbalize, but he recognizes under the layers of pretty words you'll use. That will be better than knowing the entirety of your excuse for blowing him off.

You don't bother wiping off the wreck you've made of your face or discarding the dress in the heap of clothes you've made on the floor. You toss and turn under the comforter, tears streaming down your face and hands clutching your necklace as the sun sets. Hearing the sounds of the outside world greeting dusk, you feel half your size but steel yourself to sleep with the knowledge it's better this way. It has to be.

Jake has tried to be patient.

He knows he could not have been more reasonable and nonjudgemental as he watches your chest rise and fall in your sleep. Your figure in the throes of your slumber is so beautiful, especially when your fingers remain wrapped around the pendant at your throat. He swears to himself he could fall in love with you all over again tonight if he wasn't so disappointed and pissed off. And with those emotions too present in his gut to avoid, he knows you've worn his patience down to the quick.

He waited for a half-hour outside of the restaurant for you to show, biting the skin around his nails as each minute passed by with your face nowhere in sight. Texts went unresponded to, calls unanswered, even video chat requests went through dead air. He had half a mind to run away from the venue to make sure you hadn't slipped in the shower or something far more dangerous kept you from meeting him.

Throughout the entire dinner, he brushed the concerned questions from his teammates off and said you fell too ill to make it. The guys said nothing and continued on with the engagement, but Jake remained rattled through the rest of the night. When he said his goodbyes, he felt a small semblance of relief, because that meant he could drive straight to you for the answers he desperately sought.

He didn't expect to find you passed out. You usually greet him at the door with eager arms and peckish lips, but you were too fatigued and lost in sleep to hear him unlocking your front door and stepping inside. He was also floored to find your apartment in ruins, the place akin to a bomb going off in all directions that gave no clues as to what happened to you. So, all he could do was sit at your bedside and watch you, your eyelids and body twitching as you dreamed.

Jake's been patient long enough, more than understanding for you, the girl he loves, but now he needs some sense of direction that only you can provide.

Jake runs his thumb over the lipstick smudge on your cupid's bow, and he curses himself when your eyes flutter open. You look peaceful for a moment as you wake up, but your irises immediately flood with fear at Jake's presence and the darkness surrounding you both. "What time is it?" you ask.

"One on the dot," he responds. "I used the spare key in the plant pot by your door."

You rub your face and rise, shame flooding every part of your body. You ran through the cycle of chastising yourself and swearing you were doing the right thing a thousand times over before you passed out, but facing Jake is a new breed of raw. His hurt is palpable, especially in the quiet cold of the night. It pierces you long and hard when he asks, "What happened?"

You mumble, "Nothing looked nice enough to go out in." You shrug, balling the fabric of your dress between your fists. "And I couldn't come out and meet everyone like this."

"I think this looks just fine," he says with an incredulous expression, still tainted with pain but newly inscribed with wholehearted empathy. "Better than that, actually."

Jake's hand comes to meet the side of your neck, brushing the gold necklace along your nape, and you bite down on your lip hard to fight the swell of emotion crawling up your throat. "I need you to talk to me," he whispers as you taste blood in your mouth.

You step away from him to grab your hamper, pawing at the heaps of clothing on your floor with trembling hands. If you can't control the conversation, the least you can do is make your house less of a war-zone. Anything is better than facing Jake head-on right now. "There's nothing to say besides that I didn't come and I'm sorry, I really am." You look at him directly in the eyes, forcing some confidence to rise to the surface. "Can we please just drop it?"

He scoffs at your question. "You stand me up, refuse to give me a valid explanation why, and think it's okay to ask me to drop it?" He makes you stop grabbing clothes from the floor by clutching both of your shoulders in his palms. "What is going on with you?"

You shake your head so fast it makes you dizzy. "I can't do this, Jaeyun. Please."

"Baby, I just need help understanding this, 'cause I'm so fucking confused right now." His arms run up your skin to rest on your face. "Is this about what happened the other day with Wonyoung?"

"Partly," you admit. You walk away from his touch again, but he follows behind you as you move around your small apartment. When you've done enough tidying up, you throw the hamper to one side by your bed, unbothered if the mess of clean clothes is now mixed with your dirty laundry. "How about I tell you how the night would have played out if I did show up? Your friends would've looked at me like a zoo attraction but tried to keep the peace by making small talk that means fuck-all to anyone. And no matter how polite or funny I was, they would've thought to themselves or said to their girlfriends by the end of the night that you're fucking insane for spending time with…"

The silence is impenetrable, charged with words you can't say but you hope Jake can make sense of without needing verbalization.

His face morphs in the quiet, seething.

"With what?" Jake invades your space, his quiet voice and stoic face chilling you to the bone. You lose all sense of courage to continue, but he quirks an eyebrow up as his eyes darken. "Finish the fucking sentence. With what?"

You swallow hard, terrified to say the words rattling around in your brain. You settle on something simple, but the two letters feel anything but. "Me."

The tears slide down your cheeks like knives, cutting you open for Jake to see. This is the moment that you've been dreading since the second he made a home in your heart. It won't go back to the way it was before, before every insecurity was laid bare.

"I'm fucking disgusting, Jake," you mutter with despair. "It's a miracle I've gotten past being terrified of you seeing me naked, but everyone in your life knowing that we're together would be too much because it's obvious that—" You choke on the words, the tears now coating your throat like poison. "I'm not meant for you, and you should be going out with someone like your ex, someone who's beautiful by every standard known to man." You laugh sadly. "Or maybe someone who meets even half of that criteria. But not—"

"Fuck you." He slams his letterman jacket down on the desk. A mixture of your makeup falls on the floor when the jacket meets the wood slab, but you barely hear the crack of your compacts or tubes of lipstick on the laminate tile. You're too focused on Jake's appalled and betrayed face to notice anything but him. "You have no right telling me who I'm supposed to be with, who I should want, who to love. That's nobody's business but mine. And you must think somewhat highly of yourself to think you can control that. Screw my friends' opinions or anyone else's."

"It should! They matter to you."

"You matter more, more than anyone!"

He inhales a sharp breath as his eyes water. You thought his pouts broke your heart before, but seeing him worn down like this is true heartbreak. He's broken from how broken you are, and you wish you had the power to stitch him back together. Clearly, you've made a bigger mess than you intended to, and now there's no going back.

Jake takes a few short, tear-stricken breaths before saying, "Fuck I—I love you, okay? I love you so much that all of the criticism in the world is background noise when I look at you. You're the one person, the only person I've ever known, who makes time stop for me and my problems matter less. And you're so gorgeous I can't think straight sometimes." A hollow laugh escapes him, but you can't react to it properly. Not when you're crying as hard as he is.

"I wish you could see yourself how I see you, so much it kills me, but I can't do that for you. You have to see that for yourself."

You're stunned into complete silence, your heart denying his confession as your brain computes he's walking closer to the door, prepared to leave before you can find an adequate response. You don't find one in time as he turns the knob and prepares to leave.

Before he can, he says with a somber lilt to his tone, "I hope whoever gets to see the version of you who loves herself as much as I do knows they're lucky. Because that girl will be invincible."

The slam of your door is a gunshot, piercing your chest and staining your dress a darker shade of burgundy. You manage to grip Jake's jacket between your hands and hold it close, the only thing keeping your shattered heart held together being his scent on the fabric. What could you have said to keep him, to make him stay? How could you tell him you love him too despite all the disdain you hold for yourself being what drove him away in the first place?

Your cries converge with piercing screams, rubbing your voice raw until there's nothing else to do but continue sobbing silently in a ball on the floor with his jacket as your lifeline.

The last week has been hell, to say the least.

You didn't try reaching out to Jake the next morning when you woke up. You were too hollow, too shaken. At the same time, the last words he said filled you with a sensitivity you could not find words for, and trying to pretend that didn't happen would be disrespectful to both of you.

And, to make it worse, there was no outreach on his end. He didn't show up to class on Monday or Wednesday, and there were no messages or calls from him to springboard off of. What else could you do besides leave him be? Why else would he walk away from you the way he did, spent and out of chances to give, if he didn't want to be left alone?

Hours rolled into days of silence, both parties unsure how to break the now insurmountable block of ice. You felt like a coward with every passing day, missing him desperately in spite of your lack of words. The newfound hole in your chest, inscribed with Jake's name, could only be filled by him, and it grew wider while you waited for the day he'd return or for you to find the strength to undo the pain you caused.

You sweep the store floor with your aching heart, eager to end your Sunday shift in an hour and sink into bed once again. Without Jake, your routine has been heading to work or school, running home to eat takeout, streaming a movie to cry to, and passing out. It's not that dissimilar from the habits you had before he came into your life, but it's even more soul-crushing knowing the before and after of his presence is starkly different.

Just as you walk over to the counter to grab your dustpan to collect the dust, Felix and Vernon appear like phantoms near the register.

"Jesus Christ!" You immediately stick your broom in the space between you and the two men, and their eyes widen at your defensive stance. "How the fuck did you get in the store? We closed ten minutes ago."

"We bribed some blonde kid to let us in," Vernon responds, rubbing the back of his shaved head with a sweaty palm. Although he still looks surprised you're using a cleaning tool as a weapon, his voice is deadpan.

"Fucking Sunwoo," you mutter under your breath. "Listen, you guys might be great with lacrosse sticks, but I'm even better with this broom." You waggle it to prove your point. "So, you should get the fuck out before I knock one of you on the head."

"Please, just hear us out," Felix starts. His deep voice, thicker than his counterpart or even Jake's, stuns you. "J is miserable without you."

"Yeah," Vernon confirms. "He had to sit out of the game yesterday."

You're surprised your heart can still beat after being so perfectly decimated a week ago, but it breaks once again hearing about Jake's disposition. "The feeling's mutual."

"Okay. Then talk to him and say you're sorry, simple." Felix gives you a close-lipped smile, but it seems more forced than friendly.

Your brows furrow as your hand raises up to clutch the pendant close to your heart. "He's the one that left me."

"After you stood him up," Vernon interjects, pointing a finger out. Your lack of a response makes Vernon huff out an exasperated breath of air. Before he can say anything else, Felix cuts him off.

"We shouldn't have come, this is clearly pointless."

"Oh really?" You clench your fist around the broom, the curved plastic biting into your skin.

Felix's lips mold into a deep frown, hurt rather than anger coating every feature on his face. "You made judgements about us before we even got a chance to meet you—"

"Yeah! That's pretty fucked up, by the way. We wouldn't fat-shame you. We like curvy girls!" Vernon defends himself, and Felix fights the urge to smack his older friend upside the head.

"Thanks," you respond. The word on your lips is more of a question than a statement, but you appreciate Vernon's sentiment.

"And yet you were worried we would look at you a certain way," Felix continues.

"Is that so surprising?" you justify, eyes on the verge of watering.

Felix nods before responding with, "Because the things you were so worried about were built up in your own head. It wasn't Jake's or anyone else's doing."

You bite your bottom lip, unable to deny his declarations, but offended. "Tell that to Wonyoung."

"Won's a bitch to almost everyone. She doesn't count," Vernon counters, and Felix can't help but laugh a little and nod.

Felix turns serious again. "Jake loves you no matter what you think others see when they look at you, and if that isn't apparent by now, you're not the person he told us so much about."

Felix walks towards the entrance, and Vernon leaves you with some ultimate words of advice before following his teammate out. "Just…talk to him, please."

You feel like a kid with a stomachache, scolded for eating too much candy and expecting a different result. In a way, your reactions have been admittedly childish, despite every good intention you had keeping Jake on the outskirts of your worst self-critical thoughts. But maybe he wouldn't have shied away from you that night if you had been honest from the beginning about the fears you had beginning a relationship with him. Maybe you would have survived it, perhaps even thrived despite all the monsters insisting you two weren't fit for each other.

But that was the past. Now was undetermined, and maybe it could still turn in your favor.

Sunwoo steps into view after the two guys exit the store. Your eyes burn with ire for your younger coworker, but he raises his hands immediately and says, "I need a new hard drive, and they gave me twenty bucks!"

You let go of the irritation directed at Sunwoo and finally make work of picking up the dust from the floor. If anything, it reminds you of all that still needs fixing, especially between you and the boy you can't forget.

But it's all down to you, and whether you can put in the effort to dispel your own demons once and for all.

(scene seven)

You begin healing.

On Monday morning, twelve-ish hours after seeing Felix and Vernon at work, you skip class and head to the university's counseling center. It's two hours of intake forms and appointment setting, but it makes all the difference in the world walking out of that office a few pounds metaphorically lighter.

You talk to Jungwon and Sunwoo in a coffee shop off-campus and unload the fears that have plagued you your entire life, their voices of reassurance being the first ones you've ever heard that allow the tears to lessen and the reality of your situation to settle on your body like a warm blanket.

"You're a human with anxieties," Jungwon says as Sunwoo rubs your back in circles. "You need support like any other person. It's not right to go through it alone."

And you don't. You sit with them through lunch and dinner, drinking coffee and acknowledging your mindset needs to change.

When your head hits the pillow that night, you go to sleep with the comfort of knowing you're taking the first steps to a version of you that's better.

Wednesday, you prepare to talk to Jake. You have the words picked out perfectly in your head, recognition of your mistakes and willingness to change littered throughout. Only he never shows, and your heart sinks. He certainly can pass without a few days of attendance, but if he's putting this much effort into avoiding you, is it too late?

Was this your penance, having figured everything out after getting it so irrevocably wrong?

The answer to the question comes in the form of a sweaty Felix on the cusp of dusk. He grabs your shoulder just before you can get into your car, the day's fatigue and sadness weighing down your bones.

"J's meeting his parents tomorrow for dinner at the Italian place across from the field," Felix says through ragged breaths. "He better look like a dog with a bone when I see him on Friday at practice or I will kick your ass personally, girl or not."

You chuckle, tears lining your eye ducts. "Thank you. Really."

"Yeah. Thank me after you talk to him. He loves you but you know as well as I do that he's a stubborn fucker sometimes." He gives a last nod for good luck before running in the opposite direction.

You park in front of the restaurant with two bouquets in hand and your anxiety shot to hell. Nerves entrench your body from head to toe as you walk into the place, too busy with the flowers to bite your nails.

Before, you would pick out everyone else's clothes and physiques compared to yours like a ruthless guessing game, the only players being you and your harshest critics. Do I look as hideous as I feel? Can everyone tell? Now, that's the furthest thing from your mind. All you care to do now is fix what you've damaged.

"Welcome to Maggiano's," the perky hostess says as you walk closer to the podium. "How can I help you?"

"I'm meeting a party of three. S-Sim should be the last name on the reservation." You stutter over your words. You're unable to see Jake or his parents in the sea of crowded tables under dimmed chandelier lighting, and it throws your confidence off even more.

She directs you to their table, a corner booth off of the kitchen, and you will yourself to make the trek over to them with the last of your strength. Jake's gaze remains focused on his parents, and it's a small kindness that you don't need to face him just yet.

His parents notice you first, and they smile kindly at you. "Hello there," the woman you assume to be Jake's mother says, eyes crinkling with a smile that is all too familiar.

Jake turns to meet the subject of his mother's attention, and a million emotions flash across his eyes like shooting stars when he sees you, brief but telling. Only pain remains when the surprise wears off, and you wish his face held any other emotion but the one you know so personally.

You smile at his parents politely. "I'm Jake's girlfriend. I apologize for being late, but I was busy grabbing these." You hand one bouquet to his mother, her face lighting up at the peonies wrapped in pink tissue paper. You give Jake his own set of flowers, yellow marigolds. "For tomorrow's game. The florist said they represent good luck, not that you need it."

"Thank you," he whispers, his voice hoarse but cheeks immediately flushing pink. He turns to his parents, the couple still surprised and happy to see you. You can only wonder what Jake has told them about you, but Jake cuts your wondering short when says, "Can you guys give us a minute to talk?"

His hand in yours as he pulls you away feels too right, too easy to fall back into. A thousand memories cross your mind as you recognize this may be the last time his skin touches yours. Sleeping in and missing class as the sun rose high in the sky. Nights after practices where you couldn't remember your name unless Jake was saying it in sighs and curses. And the last ones where you were the source of his disappointment.

Can the good outweigh the bad at this point? You can only hope so.

When you're a respectful distance away from the table, Jake stands in front of you with his hands nestled in his pockets. You can see him fumbling with his thumbs under the cloth, a telltale sign of nerves he doesn't want to show. "What are you doing here?"

You swallow heavy air, your gut tightening. "I came to apologize. I should have told you from the beginning that there were these terrible opinions of myself and my body image. And keeping them from you didn't stop them from coming, but I should've given you more credit. You never made me feel like I was unworthy of being with you. That was all me."

He nods, sadness tugging the edges of his lips down. "I know."

"I'm actually turning things around, believe it or not." You laugh, the sound filled with promise rather than desolation. "And it helped me to realize now that living behind a wall I thought kept me safe did nothing but hurt you, the only person I've ever loved, and I'm so sorry."

His face perks up hearing the last few words on your lips. You clutch the pendant on your neck for strength, and his face softens at the realization you're still wearing it. You never stopped.

"I love you," you confess, "the guy who fidgets with everything at his desk when he's bored, and even when he's not. I love you because it's heart-stoppingly cute when you talk about the atomic makeup of random objects just for fun. Because you're an incredible friend, a beautiful person, and someone I want to keep getting the privilege of knowing. You saw and loved me, past all the reasons I found to hate myself." Your words fall apart by the end, voice fragmented from vulnerability, but you continue. "And you may not be in love with me anymore, but you deserve to know that you are loved by me still, and I'm thankful I had the chance to—"

You don't recognize Jake is kissing you until he places both his quivering hands on your face, the brush of his lips on yours being everything necessary to heal the hole in your heart. It's so unexpected, but essential for you to breathe again. Jake kisses you like he knows it too, like he feels the same ache inside of him that needs repairing with your help.

Tears run down your face until you taste saltwater on your tongue, but you don't care. You refuse to waste another second without him. Home is here with him, with all of your ghosts revealed.

Jake pulls away softly. "I missed that," you confess against his lips, water still trickling down your face.

"Me too," he affirms, his own wet lids reflecting in the lights of the chandeliers. "I love you."

You giggle, relief flooding your body. It's cool water over parched earth, saving a being close to the brink of ruin. "I love you more."

Jake laughs too, shaking his head like you've said the silliest words known to humankind. "Not possible." He tucks his hand under your chin before kissing you again, his lips the only salvation you'll ever need.

His dad whistles at the two of you, and Jake begrudgingly lets go of your face. "Lovebirds, we need to put in our order!" he yells from across the restaurant, and almost everyone in the room laughs. You can't fight it, laughing too into Jake's suit jacket as he holds you close.

Tonight, you don't mind the spotlight, especially with Jake nearby.

The ride back to your apartment is so long it feels like you're suffocating with every minute that remains of your ETA. You try abiding by the traffic laws and staying in your lane, but you may die if another stoplight keeps you from taking Jake home. "Patience," Jake murmurs with a smirk, rubbing small circles into your outer thigh.

"Coming from you, that's ironic." You squeeze your thighs together for friction, and Jake chuckles to himself. It's unsurprising the way your body reacts to him and his words, both charged with electric currents you've gone without for too long.

The way up to your apartment is tense, only for the fact you're trying to listen to his earlier warning of patience and not pounce on him the second you both walk through the doorway. He sets the marigolds on your kitchen counter with a shit-eating grin, one that makes it even harder to maintain composure. "Beautiful flowers from a beautiful girl. How did I get so lucky?" He pulls you in, the notes of lavender and sage from his cologne tickling you to the core.

"It helps that you're beautiful also." You hide your face in his broad chest, your necklace rustling against his dress shirt. "Thank you," you whisper into his clothes.

"For what?" He rubs your back soothingly, the responding words easy to release when he's holding you so delicately.

"Not giving up on me when you had every reason to."

"I could never," he admits. He pulls your face away from his shirt to run his fingers across your cheek, adoring you with the simplest touch. "Just wanted to make you squirm a little longer."

You mock offense with a hand to your chest. Jake chuckles and kisses the corner of your mouth. "So mean," you taunt.

"You haven't seen mean, pretty girl." Jake brushes your hair away to kiss the nape of your neck, making you shiver. Trailing his lips down to your shoulder blade, he bites down on the curve of it to elicit a yelp from you. He eagerly swallows the sound with his lips, tongue entering your mouth without protest from you.

Jake knows all the ways to make you acquiesce, to fall deeper into him without thinking of looking back up. He makes you want to live in his touch like a second skin, and it's clear he feels the same when he holds you tight against his body.

Jake's thigh rubs your core through the front of your dress, and you whimper against his lips. He moves you both to the bed, slowly undressing you with reverence and soft kisses to each piece of newly revealed skin.

Once you're naked, save for your underwear, he sits up on his knees to admire the view. You don't shy away or cover yourself, too restless to touch and be touched to feel timid. And there are still too many clothes on him.

You tsk. "Not fair," you mumble, but you make quirk work of unbuttoning his shirt and pants with keen hands. You kiss the pulse point at his neck, his chest, and the tuft of hair below his belly button. By the time you're done, his flush cock poking your thigh and your cunt pulsing with need, you're both shaking with desperation.

"Sit on my face, pretty girl," he whispers.

You giggle, breathless and dazed. "What?"

"You heard me. I've been without this pretty pussy for too long," he emphasizes his point by moving your panties to the side and running his finger through the wetness along your folds. You're already breaking, and he treasures that. "I want to show her how much I missed her."

You both get comfortable, you positioning your legs on either side of his head and Jake running his hands along the outside of your thighs. You hover above his lips, scared to truly suffocate him between your skin, but he immediately slams you down onto his chin and makes work of lapping at your cunt.

His whimpers and whines match yours, his nose bumping your clit with every drag of his tongue along your core. It's like he's never tasted it before, the way he's lapping so vigorously. A starved man waiting for his last meal, so desperate yet so giving. Jake runs his tongue around your hole before sinking it inside, his eyes rolling back at the essence gathering on his tongue.

"Fuck, so sweet," he gasps, "My beautiful girl's dripping down my chin. I love the way you taste, you know that? You're amazing."

You nod, moaning wantonly, without true acknowledgement of his words. He retracts his lips from your cunt, and you whimper at the loss. "Say it, beautiful. I want to hear you say how amazing you are."

Jake teases his tongue along your wet walls again, and you buckle down against his face, riding it harder. "I-I'm—oh shit mmph—I'm amazing."

He hums in pleased agreement. He goes faster, bumping your clit with every quick lick and suck. You thrash with the encroaching release your body ardently craves. It wraps around you with each press of his mouth and tongue, and you want to let him take you to the precipice. "I know you're close, beautiful," he whispers into your mound, drunk on the feeling of your body at his mercy. "Be my good girl and come all over my face."

You do as you're told, crying out as your orgasm takes over your senses, endorphins washing over you in expansive ripples. You ride it out until the waves calm to a steady sea, your body wholly and utterly boneless. "Ah, fuck," you breathe out once you come down.

Jake repositions you so you're resting in his lap, his aching cock leaking pre-cum at the sight of your essence soaking your thighs. He presses kisses all over your face, not bothered by the sweat coating your forehead and cheeks. "So beautiful."

You flush, glowing under his praise. Without warning, he sheathes himself fully inside of you, your wetness making the glide effortless. There is still some give, your walls clenching around him as he slides in like he's finally back where he belongs.

"Oh fuck. You're so tight, every time." His head bumps the headboard as your pelvic bones brush, his hips flush with yours when he sinks you further down his cock. "I've missed this—fuck, missed you—so much."

"Me too, Yunnie. So much." Your body bows, taking him in completely without complaint.

"Think I'd die if I didn't get to feel you wrapped around me again," he babbles, lost in the feeling of your velvety walls encasing him. They flutter around him as you begin riding him, your movements slow but calculated to induce tremors. And he feels it, every touch of your hips against his, your slick thighs against him with each time he bottoms out. It's hedonistic heaven, a serene oasis he wants to drown in.

He groans into your chest before sucking one of your nipples into his mouth. You keen, arching your back into him deeper as you slam your hips down onto him. "Bounce on me, baby," he says, releasing your nipple with a pop before teasing the other one with his tongue. "Show me how much you've missed me."

Under his spell, you cater to Jake's every whim, rocking against him harder and grinding faster to push him closer to his release. He bites down on your collarbones to muffle his cries, the pleasure overloading his senses to the point he needs to occupy his mouth and hands with something else. He kneads your breasts as he sucks and licks the skin of your upper chest with care when it blooms a dark color under his lips. "So perfect, and all mine," he mumbles, rutting underneath you, creating stars when you close your eyelids.

"Fuck, Jaeyun, I'm gonna come again," you mewl.

"Me too, pretty girl. Come with me."

You fall together in pieces, the beautiful parts of both of you intermeshing until you're one again. Jake groans as his semen fills you with warmth, ropes of cum spurting out until you feel both of your releases seeping down your legs in droplets.

It's happiness, a passion so pure shared between two people sheltered from the outside world with their intensity.

It's perfection, the way Jake loves you so well. All you can do now is pray he knows you love him just as much, if not more.

Jake wraps himself around you, encasing you tightly after you exit his lap. Your thighs burn, your skin is sweaty, but you feel lit up from within Jake's arms.

"You look happy," Jake says finally with a dopey grin, chest rising and falling.

Once upon a time, you would've brushed his words off with a quick kiss and witty comeback to hide your denial. Now, you don't deflect. You take him and his words with acceptance, knowing for the first time that his words go beyond the surface, their truth undeniable.

"I am."

This time, you step out of the car.

You nod at the respective girls waiting for their boyfriends as you rest against the passenger side door of your car. Your clothes aren't as revealing as theirs, but that's okay; someday you will be ready to be as confident as them, but the first step was exiting the driver's side. "Progress," as Felix would say with a teasing smirk and elbow to your side.

The girls all smile and acknowledge you, but Winter, Felix's girlfriend, waves back with a jovial energy that makes you wave back. Your heart swells thinking about how close you've gotten to Jake's friend group in only two months, even when you believed you would be shamed or outcasted for your appearance. Sometimes, you kick yourself for believing they would repeat the history of taunts and teases you know too well. Building armor was necessary years ago, but now, you can disarm without fear of judgement.

Sure, people like Wonyoung will continue to exist, and the doubts will always fester somewhere in your head like unpickable weeds. But you can dispel both with self-affirming words and kindness now, no longer weak to the worst skeletons in your closet. You're stronger, for both yourself and the boy you love.

There's not a lot of certainties in life, but one promise you can keep without fail is never coming so close to losing Jake again.

Like clockwork, Jake and your mutual friends walk off of the field with their gym bags in tow and sweat drenching them head to toe. Felix's newly dyed red hair is practically the same color as their practice gear, and you chuckle at the sight.

Hearing your voice, Jake's eyes lock on yours. He rifles the stray bangs from his eyes almost to confirm it's you waiting for him and not an apparition. His ensuing grin is so bright it can put the moon to shame, as usual.

"Whoa, guys," Jake says with a flourish, raising both of his arms to stop his friends from moving further across the parking lot to their significant others. You roll your eyes as you smile, shy for all the right reasons. "That's my girlfriend, right? Or am I seeing things?"

"Can you not be so down bad for her in front of us, Sim? It's gross," Felix teases, but he smiles in your direction when you wave to the guys surrounding your boyfriend.

"Whatever, cherry bomb. Tell Winter I said to go easy on the Splat next time." Jake slaps his friend on the shoulder before running towards you, his gym bag swinging in all directions while strapped to his shoulder. His teammates holler at their captain for his eagerness to be next to you, but neither of you care.

You both may be out of the shadows, but you still feel like the only two people in the world when you're with each other, onlookers and inner critics be damned.

"Hi." Jake says when he makes it to you, his body a few feet from yours. He drops his bag at his side before intertwining your fingers together, his hot and moist palms making a home in your cold ones. "You look beautiful."

"You look sweaty." Before Jake can compose a rebuttal, you slam your lips into his, teeth clashing as your tongues meet. Jake kisses you back earnestly, sounds of pleasure muffled against your mouth. He rests his hands on your hips as your fingers weave through his hair, scratching your nails along his scalp. His lips taste like salted caramel and fatigue and home, and it makes you fall in love for the thousandth time. "But I'm still into that," you say with a grin when you pull away.

"Oh, really?" His smirk reminds you of all of his kisses, his touches, and his love that has brought you here. And today, for the first time in a long while, there's no fear at all. No doubt creeping in to keep you on guard or tell you the happiness is temporary.

It's just peace.

"Always."

── .✦ 𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧 (𝗔𝗣𝗣𝗟𝗬 𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘):

@xylatox @tinycatharsis @filmnings @lovetaroandtaemin @gyubookeries @jaylaxies @innocygnet @anormieee @lollipop3 @fancypeacepersona @luvksnn @k1ttyjwon @hii01mii @nithxhoon @cutehoons02 @invsomnixa1 @lilyofthevalley6 @mossarine @blooqz @firstclassjaylee @seongiewon @rairaiblog @jakessrealwife @bbokaricentral

#yve tbr

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tinycatharsis · 12 days ago

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bts friends ! i’m looking for a performance video that i have very little memory to go off of (my mom is asking as she is a huge army)

she says she remembers me making her watch a video from “a couple years ago,” so probably 2018-2019 of bts performing with a “really big japanese rock band that starts with an S” and they’re wearing long military-esque coats.

do y’all have any idea what she’s talking about ??

#boosting for bae #idk either but the other armies in my acc might 😭

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tinycatharsis · 12 days ago

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I would give them the most sloppiest, wettest, creamiest, soul taking, slimy, life changing, death dropping, heaven sent, flabbergasting, hypnotizing, heavenly, astonishing, leg trembling, hands desperately grabbing the sheets, legs stretching out again and again, toe curling, voice breaking, whimper causing, waist slowly moving up and down, small heavy breath, "I can't take it much longer" breaths getting quicker, twitching throbbing eyes shut lip biting, back arching, edging begging for relief, warm hot rush bubbling up spit upon spit tongue twisting ground tip-talking against month sideways spit from the end and lick from the bottom to the top then spit from the to and lick to the bottom deepthroating mascara dripping down my face, slower then faster faster than little faster then perfect pace twisting mouth around each side, hands in my hair brutally using my mouth, spiritually enlightening chakra balancing, mangekyo sharingan unlocking, golden light like a halo around the top, noise from the very edge of their throat for the final release head ever. And THEN l'd let them pound me so hard into the bed and use my body as though it doesn't belong to anymore that they literally throws me around and does as they please. I wouldn't argue, I wouldn't raise a word, no sir, not to daddy, absolutely not. They could ruin me, corrupt me, hit me, choke me, tie me up, bite me, I would absolutely encourage everything they does as long as I get a smidge of their attention and love. These men could make me fuck myself on their fingers and I wouldn't argue even if I ended up passing out, they could bruise me up and laugh at me and I would take it just to listen to them praise me. I would take them for 50 rounds in 60 positions cause never back down never what???? NEVER GIVE UP and I am not giving up to screw me till my mind becomes nothing but subservient to them.

ˋ 𑁍 ⨾ BACK FOR MORE

when your boyfriend’s basketball team wins their championship game, of course they’re expecting a grand celebration for it—a big, shiny prize. that prize comes in the shape of you, and you letting them do absolutely whatever they want to you. but, this isn’t the first time you’ve been the prize, and it won’t be the last either.

❛ 투바투 𝑥 𝑓!reader ❜ 𓄵 𝓯𝒕. basketball captain!heeseung 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 (𝗐／ 𝗍𝖺𝖾𝗁𝗒𝗎𝗇), 𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗍, 𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗂𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗉𝗅𝗈𝗍, 𝗀𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖻𝖺𝗇𝗀, 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽!𝗍𝖺𝖾𝗁𝗒𝗎𝗇, 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝗍𝖻𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌!𝗍𝗑𝗍 ✴︎ 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘶𝘴𝘦, 𝘦𝘹𝘩𝘪𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘮, 𝘷𝘰𝘺𝘦𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘮, 𝘴𝘦𝘮𝘪-𝘱𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘤 𝘴𝘦𝘹, 𝘶𝘯𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘹, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘤𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘴, 𝘱𝘶𝘴𝘴𝘺 𝘥𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘬!𝘵𝘹𝘵, 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘰𝘮!𝘺𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘫𝘶𝘯, 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘮𝘴!𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘪, 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘮𝘴!𝘵𝘢𝘦𝘨𝘺𝘶 (𝘵𝘩𝘰 𝘵𝘺𝘶𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯), 𝘮𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘹, 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴, 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 (𝘮. 𝘳𝘦𝘤), 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘧𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘹 (?), 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩 𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘴, 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘱𝘦𝘵 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴 (𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺, 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭), 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘦, 𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘴𝘦𝘹, 𝘥𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯／𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 (𝘴𝘭𝘶𝘵, 𝘣𝘪𝘵𝘤𝘩, 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘦), 𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 (𝘧. 𝘳𝘦𝘤), 𝘥𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘺𝘱𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘢, 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘢 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘺, 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘣𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘶𝘮𝘴 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘵, 𝘤𝘶𝘮𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘴, 𝘤𝘶𝘮 𝘴𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘫𝘰𝘣, 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘦𝘹, 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩, 𝘨𝘢𝘨𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘤𝘰𝘸𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 & 𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘸𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭, 𝘴𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘫𝘰𝘣, 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨／𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭𝘴, 𝘪 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺!! 𓏸 1O,6OO ╱ 𝓶. list

( 𝓷 )。 wrote this because i went into a lust-filled craze after i saw this video of the boys after their korea uni performance… it’s so filthy i’m sorry LMAOO (つ ω ≦；) the warnings are so long god… i didn’t mean for it to be this long but yknow!! hehe enjoyyy!!~~ ♡♡

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You flew to your feet as the stadium erupted into cheers, your own screams falling from your lips. You didn’t think as you ran down the stairs, pushing past anyone who was in your way, you just had to make it to the team.

“That was amazing!” you yelled as you ran towards Taehyun, who just made the winning shot right at the buzzer. It was forty to forty-three, the home team taking the championship. You jumped into his arms and he spun you around, his hold on you tightening. He was dripping with sweat, but you didn’t care one bit. Taehyun put you back down on your feet and you took a step back to get a good look at him. “That,” you started, catching your breath a little, “was amazing! You got it on the buzzer too!”

Taehyun smiled at you as he looked over at his cheering teammates who were still on the basketball court. They caught sight of the two of you and he waved them over. “Wasn’t it?” Taehyun asked rhetorically. “I wasn’t even expecting it—I wasn't even thinking when I shot from halfway across the court, but it went in anyway!”

You pulled his attention back down to where you stood next to him so you could kiss him. Taehyun smiled into the kiss, rocking you back and forth for a moment before the two of you parted just in time to be engulfed by the rest of the team.

Sweaty limbs were all over you and the air around you was filled with laughter. It was such an electrifying moment, that you couldn’t help but feel like you were part of the team. Taehyun liked to call you his “good luck charm.” He claimed that whenever you were at one of their basketball games, which most of them, that they always won. You’d like think that it was just their pure talent, but you bathed in how the team hoisted you up onto their shoulders and chanted, “Good luck charm! Good luck charm!” Some even went as far to tell the opposing team to suck it.

You were laughing so hard that your stomach was hurting, but the night was far from over. The celebrations have only begun.

Taehyun pulled you to where him and his close friends on the team stood and away from the rest of the team who were now making their way to the locker room. Yeonjun pulled you into his sweaty side, his arm wrapping around your shoulders. “So, are you gonna reward us for winning the championship?” Yeonjun asked with a flirty tone, looking down at your frame.

Taehyun made a face as he grabbed your wrist and pulled you into his chest. “What the fuck, man? She’s my girlfriend!” Taehyun said, disgusted. Yeonjun just laughed at him, the other four boys joining in. The smile grew on your face and you buried it into Taehyun’s chest.

“That didn’t seem to be a problem last game,” Beomgyu replied. Taehyun’s disgusted attitude dropped and he harshly nudged Beomgyu away. He fought the smirk on his face as he pushed away the boys and kept you at his side.

Yeonjun yanked you into his chest, his hands traveling down to cup your ass. “Come on,” he dragged out, “It was so much fun last time, wasn’t it?” Yeonjun leaned down and whispered the latter half of his sentence in your ear as his hands traveled back up your body. “You can’t even deny it, we were all there. We could start right now—right in the locker room.”

Beomgyu pulled you away from him, throwing a dirty look over his shoulder. “At least treat her like a lady, Yeonjun!” He hissed at him.

“She wasn’t asking to be treated like a lady when we were all inside of her,” Yeonjun threw back. The group laughed and heat rose to your face as you thought about what happened between the six of you at their last game. Flashes of a hotel room crossed your mind and you could almost feel the stickiness and the sweat all over your skin. You crossed your legs at it, laying your head on Beomgyu’s shoulder to try and focus on the conversation that they were having.

“You two are quiet, what are you thinking about, huh? Thinking about how you’ll try to last longer than five minutes this time?” Beomgyu asked Soobin and Kai, the vibration of his voice travelling down your side. The boys laughed and Soobin and Kai grew red. “Or maybe they’re thinking about different positions to put her in when it’s their turn…” Beomgyu trailed mockingly, and Kai laughed.

It was a little embarrassing how they were talking about all of this so out in the open, like they werent even aware that there were others still around them. Fans of both teams were passing you by, staring with wide, lustful eyes at the teammates and they didn’t even give them a single look. They were completely tuned in to the conversation they were having about putting you into different positions and splitting you completely open like it was just another day, like they were talking about the weather.

They didn’t even mind that they were talking about you in front of you either. “Yeah,” Kai started a bit awkwardly, “Maybe this time I’ll just have her suck me off. Maybe deepthroat her?” Soobin then hurriedly chimed in, “Dude, you’ll be missing out! Her pussy is heavenly, I’ve never felt anything like it before.” While they talked, Beomgyu’s hands trailed lower and lower until his thumb was playing with the hem of the skirt you wore. Occasionally he dipped it under and rubbed his thumb along the smooth skin there.

“All that I know,” Taehyun spoke over the others, his voice a bit louder than before and catching the attention of a group that walked past you all, “is that she’s my girlfriend, so I get to finish her off completely.” You cringed a little at how the passing group’s eyebrows raised at the innuendo.

Yeonjun snorted at Taehyun’s words, “Not that there’ll be much left when we’re done with her.”

Taehyun glared at him. “Fine, then we’ll go oldest to youngest.” The group groaned, but Yeonjun smirked at you, his eyes trailing you up and down and stopping at Beomgyu’s thumb at the hem of your skirt. His nose twitched a bit before he looked away.

“How is that any fair?” Kai asked. Soobin quickly cut in, “You said that you just wanted to deepthroat her! You don’t need her to be not fucked out for that, Kai.”

Kai rolled his eyes at him, muttering under his breath. “Let’s go then,” Yeonjun spoke, walking up to you and pulling you from Beomgyu’s grasp. “I’m gonna make sure you don’t even realize that the others are there once I’m done with you. I hope you like me being rough.” He looked back at you for a moment, his eyes trailing over your hand in his as you followed him like a waiting puppy. “What am I even saying? Of course you do. Let’s hope your boyfriend doesn’t get too jealous.”

The six of you walked back to the locker room, chuckles and muttered words leaving your lips at each twist and turn of the way there. The closer you got to it, the more your heart raced. For some reason, this time made you more nervous.

When they jokingly purposed the idea last time—which was mainly Yeonjun’s doing—it was all excited nerves and fiery skin. The thought of them all taking turns being inside you thrilled you, especially since you found them all attractive. That time was them just testing the waters, seeing how far you would let them push your buttons until you pushed them away. After all, you were still Taehyun’s girlfriend. This time, however, all bets were on the table, all opportunities. And this wasn’t just any regular win—this was the championship win. The big, golden shiny medal. And you were the celebration, the prize.

To say you were excited and nervous was an understatement, and the boys weren’t shy on voicing exactly what they wanted to do to you either.

Yeonjun pushed the locker room door open and that zealous feeling overwhelmed you. Thankfully, the rest of their teammates have already filed out, most likely doing interviews somewhere in the building. The room was completely empty—not that you would have cared if you had a broader audience at this point—and Yeonjun looked back at where you stood in the doorway and smirked. “Looks like I got you all to myself.”

“We’re all still here, dipshit,” Taehyun scoffed, taking your hand and leading you further into the room. He walked you to the bench near the lockers and motioned for you to sit. “Take your clothes off,” he then said, his voice soft, as he looked up at his teammates getting their stuff together around the room. You did as he said, shaky fingers excitedly tugging at the hem of your shirt. Taehyun pulled at the collar of his jersey behind his neck before taking it off all in one motion. He tossed it down onto the bench next to you before moving to grab his things from his locker.

You were wiggling the skirt you were wearing down your legs when Kai appeared in front of you. He trapped you against him with his arms at the sides of your body with a teasing smile. Kai was shirtless too, and you looked down at the way his abs tightened with his laugh. He leaned in closer to you, and in a low voice he said, “You’re eager.”

“What girl wouldn’t be?” you responded, your lips brushing up against his with each word you spoke. Kai chuckled again, shaking his head a little, before he pressed his lips to yours. You leaned more into the kiss and your tits pressed up against his chest. Your arm wrapped around his torso to pull him closer as your lips parted to give him more access to your mouth.

Kai graciously accepted your invitation, groaning into your mouth like its been ages since he’s kissed anyone. His hand moved to the top of your thigh and your back practically arched at the electrifying touch, at the hint of what was to come. “Please,” you muttered into his mouth, the sound coming out muffled, but Kai heard you anyway as his hand trailed to your inner thigh.

It was like the two of you were the only ones in the room. You didn’t care one bit that you were suppose to be with Yeonjun right now instead of Kai. The rules flew completely out of the window as soon as Kai’s lips were on yours. All you wanted to do was show him just how well you could use your mouth, and you were sure that Kai was wondering about the thought as well. The only person you sucked off besides your boyfriend was Beomgyu, and he made sure to show the rest of the group how deep your throat could take his big cock. “Wow, Taehyun… you really trained her to take dick well! I wasn’t expecting this,” Beomgyu remarked as the sound of you gagging and the other boys’ moans filled the hotel room as they got themselves off at the sight of it.

You remembered looking at Kai then, tears streaming down your hot face and saliva dripping down your chin. It must’ve stuck with him this whole time.

Before you and Kai could go any further, he was ripped away from you with a short gasp. Yeonjun had a tight grasp in Kai’s damp ashy blonde hair and his eyes held a fury unlike anything you’ve seen from him before. He was completely naked, save for a towel haphazardly thrown over his shoulder, and you greedily took him in despite him not sparing you a single glance. His focus was completely on Kai.

“Do I have to teach you a lesson on waiting your turn?” Yeonjun hissed in Kai’s ear, his grip tightening. Kai winced, but shook his head at the question, breathing out a quick “No!” Yeonjun pushed him to the side and away from where you still sat on the bench, half naked and panting with desire as you watched the scene unfold. Your cheeks were burning, but not because you were embarrassed at being caught. You wanted Yeonjun to turn his attention onto you next, to scold you too.

You quickly looked around the room. The rest of the boys were in various stages of being naked too, their items scattered as they put stuff away and got ready for their celebration. Taehyun caught your attention from across the room. His boxers were hanging low on his hips and his sweaty hair was pushed back off of his forehead to dry out of his eyes. He just shook his head at you, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. Taehyun already knew what you were trying to do, it came as no shock to him. You smirked and hid it by biting your lips as you looked back to Yeonjun.

Yeonjun looked over his shoulder at your boyfriend, “I knew your girl was a slut, but I didn’t know it was to this extent. Can’t even get my hands on her before she’s flying to someone else.” Finally, Yeonjun turned to look at you, and you inhaled sharply.

His brows were drawn together and his face was twisted into one of almost disgust along with the underlying anger from catching Kai with you before him. Yeonjun’s lips were pulled back in a mocking smile that showed his teeth. It was almost embarrassing how hard you were breathing, how your chest rose and fell vigorously with how excited you were. You locked eyes with him, licking your lips as you wiggled to push down your soaked panties and let your skirt fall to the tile with it, and bared yourself to him completely.

Yeonjun just turned and walked away from you.

Your mouth fell open, and you hunched into yourself a bit. “Where are you going?!” Taehyun asked Yeonjun as he passed by him, annoyed on your behalf. Yeonjun’s answer was short in response, “To shower.”

Taehyun looked back at you for a moment and you stared at him with wide eyes. “What about her? It’s your turn!” Yeonjun walked back to where the showers were and threw his towel over the side of the wall. His other shower supplies were already sitting there. “Tell her to come on,” Yeonjun simply said and turned the water on.

Your gaze returned to Taehyun, hesitancy radiating off of you. He tilted his head back to where Yeonjun was showering and returned back to getting his stuff together. You sat on the bench for a moment before you stood on shaky legs.

The walk back to the showers seemed endless and the sound of the water only grew. You peeked around the wall to the shower Yeonjun was at to see his back was turned to you as the stream of water poured over him. “Yeonjun?” you called in a soft voice, stepping into the open shower. Your feet were met with warm water as you stepped closer.

Yeonjun turned at the sound of your voice, his eyes half closed so the water didnt drip into them. He ran his hands through his wet hair to get a better look at you and you lingered a couple feet from him. “Why are you acting so shy now? Come here,” he says while stepping out of the water a bit.

You don’t know why you were so shy either. Maybe it was the way Yeonjun turned from you like he didn’t want to fuck you, despite it all being his idea. Maybe it was because he was the only one who didn’t voice exactly what he wanted to do to you besides asking if you liked him being rough. The showers weren’t what you were imagining when he said “rough,” and you struggled to picture how you’d even manouver in here.

When you were right in front of him, Yeonjun didn’t hesitate to bring you closer. He hugged your naked body tight to his and roughly kissed you like he had a problem.

Yeonjun drowned out your gasp by sticking his tongue inside your mouth instead at the golden opportunity. His hand was on the back of your neck so you couldn’t move from his hold, his fingers tangled in the strands of your hair as your lips moved as one. You couldn’t help but moan, and that seemed to egg Yeonjun on even further as he pushed you up against the wall and away from the water completely.

He pulled away from you, just mere inches so your face was fully in his view. “Never do that again,” he said lowly. That same anger from earlier lingered deep within it, but you decided to act clueless to it anyway. You look up at him with big eyes, glancing at how his lips were wet with your shared saliva and how it still connected the two of you. “Do what again?” you asked innocently.

Yeonjun’s eyes narrowed at you, not as amused as Taehyun would be if it was the two of you in this situation. “Don’t play dumb with me,” Yeonjun said in response. “You’ll only piss me off more. You know what I’m talking about.”

You just smiled at him, your hands running up his abs and towards his chest. “What if I like pissing you off, hm?” You leaned in closer so your lips were just against his. “What if I think it’s hot?”

Yeonjun’s hand at the back of your neck pulled at your hair just before your lips could fully connect. His gaze was dark, but the corners of his plush lips were raised ever so slightly at your confession. “I don’t like sharing,” Yeonjun spoke, his voice still low. “Especially not with them.”

Your smile grew and you had to resist the urge to laugh. “You don’t have much of a choice, now do you?”

Yeonjun chuckled, “That’s what you think.” He parted your legs with his knee. “They all have to fuck you after I do, not the other way around. By then, you’re already used goods. Not even that boyfriend of yours gets to have you first. You’re all mine.”

He settled his knee in between your legs, right against your heat. You bit down on your bottom lip as you tried to hold in your moan and you adjusted the way you stood. Slowly, you began to roll your hips, your gaze never leaving Yeonjun’s. You felt his cock twitch against your thigh and you smiled more. “What are you waiting for then?” you asked him. “I’m yours.”

Before you could even fully finish your sentence Yeonjun was kissing you again, rough and sloppy like he just wanted to shut you up. You moved your hips faster, the water from his shower making it easier along with just how aroused you were, as a moan spilled past your lips. Yeonjun swallowed it whole.

His hands moved down to your hips and he moved them against his thigh for you. Yeonjun bit down on your bottom lip and you whined, pulling away from his lips a little.

Your moans were loud, even over the abandoned shower stream. You turned to look behind you at the boys, your gaze scanning them all. Taehyun leaned against the wall that divided the lockers from the showers, completely naked like you all now were, an unreadable expression on his face. His cock was in his hand and he lazily stroked the base of it.

Soobin was the one who seemed the most unraveled so far. His cock was leaking and red and he stroked it with quick movements. Soft pants emitted from his open mouth and every so often he threw his head back when you moaned a particular way. Soobin’s hair stuck to his forehead with the effort he was exerting. He could barely stand up on his own two feet against the lockers.

Beomgyu was leaning against a locker a few feet away from him, looking at him with a raised eyebrow. He was the only one without his cock in his hands, but it still stood tall anyway. His arms were crossed against his chest and he seemed almost bored. You could tell he was expecting more action like how the last time was instead of Yeonjun hiding you behind a wall. Beomgyu didn’t dare to open his mouth and say anything about it, though.

Kai sat at the bench you were previously at, ears red with his barely controlled lust. He had a tight hold on the tip of his leaking cock as he rubbed it slowly. It looked like he was trying to savor every moment, edge himself on until it was finally his turn and he could cum down your throat instead. When you looked at him, he nearly jerked in his spot and his face grew redder.

It all turned you on even more, made your moans louder and your hips move faster. Yeonjun’s lips were on your neck, his teeth nipping at your unmarred skin before anyone else could. He was clearly staking his claim on you for the rest of them—and for everyone else once you were all done—to see. Yeonjun trailed sloppy kisses back up and over his work, relishing in how your body jerked each time your clit dragged along his thigh and his teeth grazed over the sensitive hickeys he just left. But, he wouldn’t just let you cum that easily, not when you weren’t even looking at him—focused on him.

Yeonjun pulled his knee out from under you and you would’ve fallen to the wet tile had his hands not been at your hips. Your gaze flew to his and the look on his face alone could’ve made you cum. His head was slightly tilted and his face was a perfect mask of calmness and composure, but you could see the cracks. Yeonjun’s jaw was tense as he worked it and his eyes were darker than ever. He didn’t even bother to move his black hair out of his eyes so you could really see how much you pissed him off.

Instead, Yeonjun dragged you back out to the lockers right in the center of all of the boys and pushed you down to the bench next to where Kai still sat. Kai hesitantly looked at the two of you before standing to his feet and moving to the other side of the wall where Taehyun stood. You ran your hands down your thighs, the skin still slightly wet from Yeonjun’s. He threw a leg over the bench next to you and roughly angled you to the side. You understood his intention and got on your hands and knees on the bench.

“Little slut is dripping,” Yeonjun says loudly, enough for the rest of the boys to perk up and lean to get a look as he pushes his hand down your back. Thr same hand smacks your ass before he’s spreading your pussy open more to get a better look. “Needy little thing, aren’t you? You’re so fucking desperate for cock that it has you clenching around nothing,” Yeonjun continues, rubbing his thumb in your wetness. You wiggle your ass back at him, but he just tsks.

“Stop teasing and just fuck me already,” You murmur through gritted teeth against your arms. You were already annoyed that he stopped you from cumming once, you didn’t need him dragging his teasing out.

Yeonjun just ignored you and ran the tip of his cock between your folds. The sound your pussy made was obscene and you heard Soobin groan in front of you as he rounded the bench to stare at it. You moaned into your arm, not wanting to give Yeonjun the satisfaction anymore, but that only seemed to piss him off more. Without warning, he fully pushed himself inside of you, his thick cock stretching you out so deliciously. You cried out as you were pushed forward from the force. “Fuck!” you gritted out, biting down hard on your lip. It just reminded you of how Yeonjun did the same thing minutes before and you moaned again.

“That’s it, baby, let them all know how good my cock feels.” Yeonjun didn’t miss a beat.

He didn’t start easy either, didn’t grant you with the slow drag of his cock that increased with each trust. Instead, Yeonjun was all rough edges and a quick pace. He held your hips in place and basically fucked you on his cock himself.

The sound of skin against skin and pleasurable moans bounced around the walls of the locker room. Not just from you and Yeonjun, but from all of you. If you were outside of the locker room right now you would’ve thought that an orgy was happening inside, not just two people fucking and the rest crowded around to watch.

You didn’t realize there were tears in your eyes until your chin was being grabbed and your head was being lifted. Your blurry vision barely made out Taehyun’s face, nor did you fully recognize that he was in front of you. You were too focused on Yeonjun’s cock splitting you open and the pathetic mewls and moans that left your mouth. Each thrust of his sent you flying forward before his rough grip brought you right back down on his length. It made you dizzy, and it made your knees weak with each wave of pleasure that hit you when the tip of his cock kissed your sweet spot.

A loud mix between a moan and a gasp was ripped from your throat when you felt Yeonjun’s fingers in your hair pulling you back towards his chest, still fucking you. His lips were near your ear and you heard his grunts clear as day. “Why don’t you tell your boyfriend how much of a cock-hungry bitch you are?” Yeonjun’s voice filled your ear. “How fucking pathetic you are on someone else’s cock? Go on—” Yeonjun gritted out each word with a perfectly timed thrust “—tell him.”

You shook your head as your nails dug into Yeonjun’s thighs, causing him to curse when they broke the skin. He laughed in your ear.

Yeonjun’s hand left your hair, and you almost whined at the loss. His grip against the strands hurt, but it hurt so good. It trailed along the side of your neck before sitting at the base of your throat. Yeonjun left it there for a moment, his other hand grabbing your hip so hard that you were sure it’ll leave a bruise, as he fucked into you with a laugh.

You could tell he was laughing at the way your heart rate picked up, at how you clenched around him so hard he struggled to fuck you at the same pace. “Such a dirty little slut…” Yeonjun trailed lowly into your ear, nibbling at your lobe a bit. “You like this, don’t you? Does it turn you on?”

Before you could even respond, even think, Yeonjun was wrapping his bicep around your throat and halting the breath from your lungs from the pure shock. He didn’t hold back—his arm around you was just tight enough to make you a little lightheaded and seeing stars. Your ears rang and your eyes rolled to the back of your head. You didn’t even hear how much louder you suddenly got at the action, nor did you hear the orgasmic moans emitting from the other boys that you forgot were in the same room.

“Tell your boyfriend how much of a whore you are. Tell him how he could never make you feel like this, how forgettable he is. Tell him how you’re mine.” Yeonjun’s headlock got a fraction tighter with each sentence, teetering you right along the edge before throwing you over completely. Your pussy fluttered wildly around Yeonjun’s cock and his harsh thrusts that he refused to soften. You felt like putty in his arms, fully moldable for him, and he knew it—that was the worst part. “Tell him,” Yeonjun whispered in your ear, and you could hear his wicked smirk.

You completely unraveled, melted right into Yeonjun’s arms as your body shook and a moan that only could be heard in a cheap porno moved right through you. Cum spilled from out of you and around Yeonjun’s hard cock, but he just used it as a way to slip deeper into you.

“I’m a whore,” you spoke in a cracked voice, barely heard through your breathless pants and shallow moans. Your eyes fluttered closed from the ripples of pleasure as Yeonjun fucked you through your orgasm, his bicep still tight around your throat and his pace fast that sent you further into a haze. “And-And everyone’s forgettable and I’m yours. I’m yours…”

More tears fell down your cheeks as you felt Yeonjun’s cock throb inside of you. Your body moved on it’s own, getting all that it could from him as you circled your hips. That’s not what made Yeonjun’s head fall into the crook of your neck, his hips stuttering and his grunts turning to almost pained moans, though. You sighed out another breathy moan, your eyes finally fluttering open as Yeonjun came inside of you.

Yeonjun’s thrusts finally slowed as he kept fucking you through his own orgasm, pressing wet kisses to the side of your neck and sending shivers down your spine. When he was milked dry, his arm left your throat and you fell forward onto the bench, barely catching yourself in time.

“That was so fucking hot,” you heard Beomgyu moan out. Your surroundings clarified in an instant and hit you full force. Your body felt weak, and the feeling only got worse when Yeonjun pulled out of you and your mixed cum dripped down your inner thighs. How were you supposed to go four more rounds if Yeonjun’s turn basically took you right out of the game?

You felt your ass being grabbed and being spread apart. Looking behind you on wobbly knees, you found Soobin’s nose practically shoved into your messy cunt. A layer of sweat stuck to you, and you suddenly wished that the building had better A/C.

A hand guided your face forward again, and you looked up to see your boyfriend in front of you. Taehyun smashed his lips against yours, not even bothering to disguise how much he wanted you right now. You’d bet he was regretting going from oldest to youngest right now. “Okay, baby?” he murmured against your lips, barely parting from you to speak. You nodded, too breathless to speak. Fingers gripped your chin and you were being pulled from Taehyun’s lips. Soobin’s face came into view, and he replaced Taehyun’s lips with his own.

Soobin’s big hand found your waist, steadying you up on your knees as you gained your strength back. You raised a hand to cup his cheek before running it through his hair to get it out of his face. Giggling as the two of you parted, you took in Soobin’s appearance—how red and hard his cock is, and how messy it and his stomach were with his own cum.

“You’re so messy already!” You laughed at him, the smile lingering on your face. Soobin’s smile was just as big, his sneaky hands coming to cup your breasts. “You are too!” he responded a bit awkwardly with a laugh. Soobin’s turn shouldn’t be long, if his cum splattered all over himself and pink-tinged cheeks was anything to go by.

You bit your lip a little as you looked at him, the corner of your mouth raising. You then adjusted yourself on the bench. Sitting down on the bench, you leaned back onto your hands as you spread your legs to give Soobin a full view of yourself, your eyes never leaving his wide ones. With how he was practically drooling over you, you would’ve thought that this was his first time seeing a naked woman—let alone the first time touching and being inside one.

It was surely a sight to see, cum messily smeared all over your folds and dripping down the insides of your thighs. The heat radiated off of your body and the thin sheen of sweat made you glisten, the fluorescent light of the locker room casted a spotlight onto you and made you glow. Soobin’s eyes hungrily took in every part of you like this was his last meal on death row, and he wasn’t going to waste any of it.

Soobin stepped towards you in a trance. He stepped over the bench so his long legs hugged it and made his way to your waiting body, cock throbbing and already leaking his precum. When he got to you, he grabbed the back of your thighs and pushed them to the sides of your body, mesmerized in the way your pussy spread open and your pretty entrance welcomed him in. Soobin grabbed his cock with one hand, giving it a couple rough tugs as he licked his dry lips.

“I’m ready for you,” you whispered, back arching a little despite not even being touched. “Please, put your cock in me already.”

Unlike Yeonjun, Soobin took his time with entering you. He let his fat cockhead stretch you out inch by inch, savoring the small whimpers you let out and how warm his cock gradually got from your heat. Soobin groaned, he could cum right then and there from the feeling, but he didn’t want to get teased again for cumming too fast.

Speaking of, Yeonjun’s voice cut through the mirage, “We all know you have five seconds in you, Soobin. Why don’t you hurry this along so the others can have their turn?”

You glanced over at him, brows knitted together from the feeling of cock getting deeper inside of you and filling you up. Yeonjun was leaning back against a locker behind Soobin, his head tilted to watch his cock enter you. His hand absentmindedly trailed along the marks you left with your nails in his thighs, the wounds angry and bright red. If they hurt, Yeonjun didn’t show it. You held his gaze for a moment before Kai spoke up.

“Maybe he’ll last longer this time,” he said, still in his same spot from Yeonjun’s turn. Taehyun was next to respond. “He’s already cum, like, twice—and he hasn’t even been inside her yet.” Beomgyu and Yeonjun laughed at that.

It was like Soobin didn’t hear them. He was too focused on the way he was buried so deep inside of you and still your pussy was sucking him in more. Slowly, he began to pull back out, groaning at his cock sliding against your walls. He pulled out until just the tip of him was still inside of you before slowly pushing back in. Soobin did this a few times, his speed gradually increasing until he found a steady rhythm to fuck you at.

The slowness of it all drove you crazy. It was such a change from your previous orgasm that your body needed more. You arched your back desperately for any sort of faster friction, wiggled and whined and moaned Soobin’s name so he knew how badly you needed more of him to no avail. Soobin pinned you down beneath him, pants falling from his lips as he hovered above you. “Stay still,” he demanded.

To satiate you, he rubbed a thumb into your clit as he fucked deeply into you slow and steady. His thumb went at a different pace than his hips did, the pad of it rubbing quick circles into your bundle of nerves. It made you jolt, like lightning struck you and you had come alive.

You wrapped your arms around Soobin’s neck to bring his lips to yours. The kiss was sloppy, the two of you too caught up in your moans of pleasure and catching your breaths to keep your lips together for too long. You felt the pressure build up in the pit of your stomach as it demanded to be unleashed.

Soobin’s pace increased as he started to chase his own release. He threw his head back, eyes rolling to the back of his skull as his hold on the back of your thighs tightened, and his hips moved wildly.

You choked back a moan, still entirely too sensitive from your previous orgasm, as you began to tremble. Your chest pushed into Soobin’s with the arching of your back. Before you could even get the words out you were cumming around Soobin’s cock.

Soobin let out a string of curses as he looked down to where your two bodies met—the both of you messy and painted white. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he cursed as he quickly pulled out of you.

You whined at the sudden loss, pussy clenching around air. Soobin just groaned as he fisted his wet cock above you, the wet sounds almost too much. A small wave of disappointment hit you at not being able to feel him cum inside of you.

With a loud moan, white spurts of Soobin’s cum shot from his cock down onto your tits. He kept stroking himself until he was milked dry and you were even more of a mess and cum-covered. He sat back on his knees, his chest rising and falling roughly as he looked down at his work with a tinge of a smile.

He ran the tips of his fingers across your chest, smearing his cum along your perked nippes and down your stomach. His touch continued until he was dipping them between your folds and smiling when you started to squirm. “Her pussy is something else,” he said, mainly to the other boys—who were still recovering from their own highs—instead of you. Soobin pushed his fingers inside of you and watched how more cum spilled out. “It’s so addictive that I just want to keep fucking her no matter how spent I am.”

You grabbed onto the sides of the bench as you raised your hips towards his fingers, a loud whimper passing through your lips when they pushed in deeper. Your head was completely clouded, the only thing that broke through the haze was complete lust.

“It’s too bad your turn is over,” Beomgyu’s voice says before his face comes into view. He’s looking over you with a smirk before he’s grabbing your hand and pulling you to your feet. You wobble, and his hands find their way to your hips and gives them a little squeeze.

Beomgyu looks over you, at how you’re a mess of sweat and cum, and tsks while shaking his head a bit, “What am I gonna do with you?”

He almost played the question off as a worried one, like one finding a crying child with a scraped knee or something of the sort, but you knew his words had a different meaning. Beomgyu was wondering what position to put you in—one he hasn’t put you in before.

Beomgyu spun you around so your back is to his chest. His hands glide down your hips before he’s nudging your feet apart with one of his own. The boys come around the two of you so they’re all in front of you, red and eager cocks in their hands at the next portion of the show. Beomgyu wastes no time at prodding at your entrance with the tip of his leaking cock. He rubs it through your creamy folds before pushing himself inside of you with ease because of it. A small whine pushes through your lips and you stumble forward the slightest bit.

“Next time,” Kai says while licking his lips, “we should record this.”

The thought of a next time and the prospect of it being recorded made you clench around Beomgyu’s cock. He hummed at it, inhaling sharply as he started to chuckle. “You like that, don’t you?” he asks almost mockingly. His hands move to your elbows and brings them tight behind your back.

Beomgyu roughly thrusts into you, using your elbows to bring you back down onto his cock. “I can practically feel you heating up over it,” he smirks.

He was right, your body was alight with the idea. Your cheeks seared and you had to close your eyes from the slight embarrassment of it all since the boys were all in front of you, smirking and laughing in your face. A string of moans rang from you with each thrust Beomgyu gave to your poor spent cunt, tits bouncing with each stroke.

“Eyes open, baby,” Taehyun said, a tight grip on your chin. You swallowed hard and opened your eyes to look at him, causing a wicked smile to spread across his face. “That’s my good girl, you’re halfway done.”

Beomgyu wrapped an arm around your elbows, his other hand trailing down your thigh and leaving goosebumps before he lifted it in the air by your knee. You cried out at the sudden new angle and the boys let out various moans as the ducked down to see your pussy get fucked harder.

You were a loud, whimpering and moaning mess. The overstimulation was finally starting to kick in and tears formed at the corners of your eyes as you cried out Beomgyu’s name over and over, too dumb on his cock to say anything else. It just urged Beomgyu to go faster and deeper, and you could hear the grin in his voice when he said, “Yeah, just like that. Keep crying my name.”

When your words turned to sputters and your pussy fluttered around Beomgyu’s cock, his arm moved from where it was wrapped around your elbows and his hand ran along your breasts and up your throat to grab your chin in a vice grip. Beomgyu pulled your mouth open before sliding two fingers down your tongue slowly. Graciously, you sucked and licked them as they went further down your throat. You could taste Soobin’s salty leftover cum from your tits.

Beomgyu’s fingers were so far down your throat that when he fucked into you they would go deeper and make you gag a little. Each time a chorus of groans followed and you felt how hard Beomgyu throbbed inside of you. If he wasn’t holding you up right now you would’ve collapsed to the tile below already. Your body shook so vigorously that it was almost too much, but it felt so good.

“Beomgyu…” you cried around his fingers, vision becoming blurry. Your voice came out broken and muffled and through half a gag. You were seconds from breaking completely, stomach tight and legs wobbling.

The sound of sex penetrated the air. Creamy noises and whimpers filled your ears and you think this is the closest you’d get to heaven. You could tell that everyone was lost in it—sweaty backs leaned against walls and lockers and red leaking cocks, parted mouths that sang symphonies, and the sounds of skin slapping against skin. It was beautiful, a wonderful celebration for a grand achievement.

“Fuck, you were right, Soobin. Her pussy is addictive, I can’t get enough of it. Taehyun’s lucky he gets this whenever he wants,” Beomgyu groaned as he spoke through gritted teeth.

By some miracle, you and Beomgyu came at the same time and your body went completely limp in his arms. That didn’t stop him from fucking through the rest of his orgasm, his fingers still in your mouth making you gag as his cum pushed out from around his cock and down your leg that wasn’t in the air.

When he filled you up completely, he called his teammates over to get a closer look at the way cum spilled out of your pussy when he pulled out. Beomgyu pulled his fingers from your mouth and you inhaled deeply, leaning back against his chest to look up at him with watery eyes.

“You’re so pretty when you cry,” Beomgyu says, placing a chaste kiss on your swollen lips.

He ran his cock through your folds a couple of times, thrusting against your clit and laughing at how your whole body jolted from the sensitivity. “You’re lucky my turn’s over or I’d have you crying all night,” Beomgyu continued, pushing you from his chest.

You flew forward with a startled yelp before landing in Taehyun’s toned arms. He gave Beomgyu a quick glare before pulling you closer to him, his thumbs rubbing comforting circles into your skin. He leaned back a little to get a good look at your face. “Isn’t she so pretty?” Taehyun says, mostly to himself, as he wiped away your tears with the pad of his thumb. It was no use for what he was about to do to you.

“And she’s all mine,” Taehyun murmured, bringing his lips down to catch yours in a searing kiss.

“Not right now she isn’t,” Yeonjun scoffed, laughing afterwards.

Taehyun just ignored him, moving you back over to the bench so you could catch your breath. He threw a leg over it before sitting down, keenly fisting his cock as he looked up at you. Taehyun helped you over the bench before sitting you right on his cock. You had to bite your lip to not whimper.

“At the end of the day, she is my girlfriend. We’re just being nice enough to let you guys join us sometimes because it’s fun. Why are you trying to ruin that, Yeonjun?” Taehyun finally responded, his attention entirely focused on you as he spoke. You stared lovingly at him, completely in a trance as he touched you.

“Yeah, shut up before you ruin it for the rest of us,” Beomgyu chimed in.

Taehyun smirked at you when you leaned back on your hand and started to roll your hips towards his, moaning softly. “Besides, nothing any of you could do to her compares to what I can do to her. I know her the best,” Taehyun continued, grabbing your hips as his eyes fluttered shut.

Whatever comeback Yeonjun had died out when you placed your feet on Taehyun’s thighs and began bouncing on his cock.

“Oh my god,” Soobin drawled, the locker behind him ringing from his head being thrown back. You were almost sure he had fucked his cock raw by now.

Taehyun’s hips rose to meet yours and you nearly blacked out from how good it felt. You stopped bouncing, mewling at the feeling and already trembling. “Keep going,” Taehyun demanded, “I didn’t tell you you could stop.”

You lifted your hips until you were halfway up his cock slowly, body shaking the entire way. Taehyun thrusted upwards so he was fully inside you again. “Faster,” he said.

The way his voice sounded, the firm demands but soft tone threw you over the edge. You picked up the pace as best as you could until your arousal was splattering over Taehyun’s stomach with his strokes.

“Just like that, baby. You’re such a good girl.”

Your nails tried their best to dig into the polished wood of the locker room bench to no avail. If you were honest, it was a little embarrassing just how fast Taehyun could wrap you around his finger, especially in front of everyone else. He didn’t need to do these big displays or make you choke to show them how you belonged to him—though, he wasn’t opposed to doing that either. It was simple in the way your body responded to him, pushing itself past its limit just to do what he says.

You think you understood now why he decided to go from oldest to youngest this time—because the decision was all his. If it were anyone else, if it wasn’t him waiting near the end for you, you would’ve been passed out by now from exertion. Deep down, the others knew that. And from the last time the six of you did this, you knew deep down that Taehyun wanted to show that to Yeonjun.

Because you were his girlfriend, his to do whatever he pleased with—his.

Your hips jolted towards Taehyun’s and a whine left your lips. You thought that you were all stretched out already, but your boyfriend always managed to prove you wrong. His cock had you seeing stars and you knew that you wouldn’t be able to last much longer bouncing on it like this. Your body would completely give out once and for all from the intense euphoria.

You began shaking your head but Taehyun just shushed you, his hand moving from your hip so he could rub circles in your swollen clit with his thumb. Your body reacted immediately and there was no warning you could give before you were shaking like a leaf and cumming with a vigor you haven’t felt thus far.

“Turn around for me,” Taehyun spoke, still circling your clit with his thumb and sending lightning through your body.

You tried to move from him, but the other hand he had on your hip moved to your back and held you in place firmly. You shook your head more, “I-I can’t…”

Taehyun pulled you to him so you were chest to chest. He leaned down so his lips were at your ear, his thumb at your clit not stopping its mission to help overstimulate you more. “Don’t you want to show them how good you are? Do you really want me to punish you in front of them all?” Taehyun said in a low voice, pushing his cock in and out of you slowly. “You can,” he then said in a louder voice.

You bit your lip hard and pulled yourself off of his cock, knees almost giving out as you stood to turn around. Looking behind you, you watched Taehyun line himself up with your entrance before you sunk back down on him again, your lips parting in bliss. You sat back in his lap and placed your feet back on his thighs, shivering at the cold air on your cold and messy exposed cunt.

Leaning back against Taehyun’s chest, you looked up and kissed along his jawline. You grabbed his hand that was inching towards your clit again and brought it to your tit with a cheeky smile. You moved your hips in a circle, still not having quite the energy to start bouncing again yet.

Taehyun kissed your cheek and down your neck where Yeonjun’s marks had time to darken all while his hands moved to distract you. He started fucking into while one hand moved to play with your clit and the other came to wrap around your throat. Your heart rate picked up and immediately you were loud with the way your body felt. Taehyun’s hand just got tighter around your throat, squeezing at just the right places that made you feel extra cloudy and like you were floating.

“You think you’re funny?” he joked, grunting in your ear while fucking you harder.

You were in such euphoria that all of the pleasure almost hurt. Your hips bucked wildly on their own towards Taehyun’s hand and that motion nearly made you black out with his cock pistoning into you. But, you couldn’t stop, it all felt so good that you wouldn’t have it any other way—not that Taehyun would let you anyway.

Taehyun moaned when your pussy tried its hardest to completely suck in his cock, his pace slowing and his fingers at your clit halting with the effort of trying not to cum right then and there and spoil the rest of his turn. “Greedy little pussy,” he breathed, lips near your ear. “Feels so fucking good.”

Your hips still bucked, trying to get as much stimulation as possible despite it already being entirely too much. You needed more of him, needed his cock pounding into you harder. Head falling back on Taehyun’s shoulder, you gave him better access to your neck, which he didn’t take for granted. His hand moved further up throat, cupping around just the right spot to have you dizzy and squealing.

“S-Slow… down…” you managed to get out along with a string of broken curses. Your chest rose and fell heavily and your skin felt so hot that the two of you might start a fire right there. “Fuck,” you then loudly cried out, squirming.

Taehyun told you to stay still but you couldn’t. You were shaking so bad that had it not been for his cock inside you and the way you and Taehyun looked right now, it would’ve caused concernment. Your ears rang and you could barely hear how loud you were being nor Taehyun’s words. All you felt was his hands move and your body being shifted.

Taehyun wrapped his arms behind your knees before he brought them up next to your chest. His hands then sat at the back of your neck, locking you against him completely.

He didn’t slow, in fact, he fucked into you faster and harder. The sound of his cock fucking your pussy was pornographic, and it just spurred you forward and made you wetter. Your stomach tensed and untensed rapidly and you cried out Taehyun’s name over and over when you realized what was about to happen.

“Please, please, please, please—” you begged him, not exactly sure if you were begging him to slow down again or to keep going.

Your begging was of no use. Seconds later you were squirting halfway across the room with a loud squeal, body limp and shaking and covered in sweat. You clenched down around Taehyun’s cock so hard that he jolted, stilling inside you for a brief second at how tight you felt before fucking his cum inside of you nice and deep.

“Good fucking girl,” Taehyun praised you, his hips finally slowing and his grip around you ceasing. He brought his fingers back down to your clit and rubbed circles into it, shushing you when you started to whine his name. He kissed along your jaw before grabbing your chin and turning your head to kiss your lips. “You did so good for me, baby, I’m proud of you.”

Taehyun didn’t pull out of you until you stopped shaking, helping ease you along with his fingers at your clit. Though, when he finally did it almost sent you spiraling again. He held you close to his chest and although you couldn’t see his face, you knew he was grinning widely.

“What the fuck?” A voice spoke next to you, reeling you back to reality and sending the fact that there’s others still in the room back into your mind at full force. You had completely forgotten about Taehyun’s teammates with their cocks in their hands. “Why didn’t you tell us she could do that?!”

Your eyes fluttered open and you looked over at Kai’s bewildered expression and then over to the wide eyed looks of the other boys. Their eyes nearly popped out of their skulls.

Taehyun just shrugged. He gently closed your legs and moved them to the side so you could sit more comfortably.

“I've never seen a girl squirt in person before,” Soobin murmured, looking at you stunned. You just gave him a weak smile and chuckled a bit.

You heard Yeonjun scoff and without looking at him you could practically hear him rolling his eyes at Soobin. “You’re acting like it’s some rare commodity. It’s just squirting, it’s not that hard to do.”

Without missing a beat, Beomgyu asked him, “So then why didn’t you do it?”

As the boys argued around you, Taehyun made sure that you were alright. He had gotten one of the towels he brought and wet it so he could start cleaning you up so you didn’t have to finish the celebration with dried and sticky cum all over you making things uncomfortable. His hands were delicate, asking you if anything hurt every few seconds when he got between your legs. You shook your head and gave him a big kiss for being so sweet. If anything, besides feeling a little weak, you felt amazing.

You were standing, trying to stop the boys from a naked cat fight, when Taehyun pulled you over to him to stand between his legs. He brought his lips to yours roughly, sticking his tongue in your mouth, before turning you around and pushing you down to your knees. Taehyun called Kai’s name and beckoned him over to the two of you.

Taehyun grabbed your messy hair into his fist, angling your head back a bit. “She’s all yours,” he told Kai, who visibly gulped.

You smiled up at him, licking your lips, before you grabbed onto his already throbbing and leaking cock. You used his precum, and already previous rounds, to stroke him with a firm grasp. When you got to the tip of his cock, you ran your thumb along the slit of it and Kai moaned while pushing his hips towards your hand.

Pumping Kai’s cock a little more, you brought your lips to the tip of it and circled your tongue around the fat cockhead. Slight saltiness hit your tastebuds, but you didn’t mind. In one swift motion, you took Kai’s length down your throat, bobbing your head as you sucked in your cheeks. The tension at your head from Taehyun’s tight grip on your hair made you moan, and Kai nearly toppled over from the vibrations of it.

You pulled your mouth off of him inch by inch slowly, his cock leaving your mouth with a ‘pop!’ It hit against your lips and you smiled up at Kai.

“Her mouth is nearly as good as her pussy,” Kai breathed. His head was thrown back and his eyes were shut. You saw the way his chest rose with staggered breaths and the way his abs tightened each time you touched him. You couldn’t help but chuckle at his words, hands focusing at the base of his cock.

Flattening your tongue, you licked a stripe underneath Kai’s length from the base of it to his tip before taking him in your mouth fully again. You liked seeing him squirm.

This time you were rough and sloppy sucking his cock. You took Kai as far down your throat as you could, but Taehyun pushed your head down farther until you gagged. He would pull you back up by your hair just a little before doing the same thing over again.

Drool dripped from the corners of your mouth and down your chin, but you kept your stare up at Kai. He was too flustered to look down at you for longer than a minute. His ears were bright red and his cheeks were flushed a soft pink to match. You dug your fingers into his toned thighs and bobbed your head faster.

“Ah, my god,” Kai groaned. He brought his hands to the top of your head and his hips pushed into your face. “Your mouth feels so good, so warm.”

Each time your mouth moved up Kai’s cock, he thrusted into your mouth to bring it back down, making you gag without Taehyun’s assistance. Slowly, Kai started to fuck himself with your mouth without you having to move. His hands dug down to your scalp and he moved your head back and forth for you.

Kai hummed, brows knitted together before his hips jerked and he stopped. You gagged at the sudden movement and he squeezed his eyes shut. You felt him twitch inside your mouth and behind you Taehyun laughed at him.

“God, I hate you guys,” Kai gritted out, trying his best not to cum down your throat yet. His words just got him teased by the rest of the group.

You gagged again loudly when Kai started to fuck your throat, his strokes fast and sloppy as he pushed his cock down halfway your throat and held your head in place with his hands.

Moaning around his cock, you shifted on your knees and dug your nails in his thighs as arousal dripped down your pussy and onto the tile.

“Why are you acting like you’ve never fucked someone’s throat before?” Taehyun asked Kai incredulously. Kai didn’t answer for a moment, pure bliss and your wet mouth drowning out the words. “I-I don’t want to hurt her…” he trailed.

Taehyun laughed, “You won’t. Fuck her face harder.”

Kai didn’t hesitate, he grabbed your head and roughly brought it down his cock fully, his balls slapping against your chin and his abs tensing more at the way you gagged around him.

Kai’s cock barely left your mouth and you did nothing but gag around his length, pussy clenching around absolutely nothing. Kai was sent into pure euphoria as he used your mouth as his own personal fleshlight, and with Taehyun’s permission he didn’t hold back.

You breathed hard through your nose all while Kai’s cock throbbed in your throat. He looked down at you, at the way you looked up at him with big, watery eyes and tears streaming down your face, at how drool dripped from the corners of your mouth and down your chin and onto your pressed together thighs, it made him completely unravel and moan like he hasn’t done since the first time he fucked you. Kai threw his head back again, sloppy thrusts quickening.

Moments later, he was holding your head down and spilling his cum down your throat. He relished in the way you choke on his cock and the pain in his thighs from your nails digging in it. “Shit,” Kai sighed, shoulders dropping in relief.

He pulled his cock out your mouth slowly, breath hitching at the way your cheeks hollowed more with every inch. You swallowed thickly, the salty taste of his cum lingering behind. Taehyun tilted your head towards him and you stuck out your tongue to show him you swallowed it all, then turned back to Kai to show him too.

“Jesus, where did you find this girl, Taehyun?” Beomgyu asked, running a hand through his hair before him and the rest of the boys came near you.

Taehyun stood to his feet, the corner of his mouth raised as he looked down at you.

They all came close to your face, their throbbing cocks in their hands and they began fisting them rawer than before above your face. You shut your eyes, tongue still hanging out of your mouth and waited patiently, mouth lifted into a smile. There was a chorus of groans and whimpers above you and it made you want to start the whole celebration over again. It made you a little sad that it was over now, and so was the basketball season.

Just as spurts of cum splattered across your face and onto your tongue, the locker room door flung open loudly and startled you all. Your eyes opened and the boys turned to the door to see who was walking in. You caught the tail end of their sentence.

“—right? Honestly, I’m just glad I don’t have to do anymore interviews until next season,” came Heeseung’s voice, the boys basketball captain. There was a big smile on his face that immediately dropped when his head turned and he looked to see what you all were doing in the locker room.

There was silence in the room for a long moment as Heeseung took in each and every one of you. The sound of the abandoned shower still running pierced your ears. You licked the cum off of your lips. “What… the actual fuck are you guys doing?!” Heeseung asked.

The boys all smiled awkwardly at him, cocks in their hands still aimed at your face. “Hey, captain…” Yeonjun drew out, his smile growing along with the awkward tension in the room.

͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ REBLOGS ◜◡◝ ASKS APPRECIATED!

✉️ ⦂ me, yeonjun, and taehyun can settle this subtle fighting in bed hehehe,, sorry if the ending was a bit rushed (>w< ;) i realized that this fic was already like 10k and started to panic LMAOO… i legit blacked out while writing this, gangbangs and sixsomes hard

𖥦 ﴾ 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗈 . . . 𝗺𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 , 𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 ﴿ @innocygnet @vampsol @tinycatharsis @prkhaven @bambiihee @fangel @xylatox @whosserina @jellymochii @minaateez @lvrs-street2mmorrow @everythingvirgoes @beomieeeeeeeeeeees @sumsumtingz @riribelle @starrias @sunoosgfv @adelusionalwhore69 @byshens @bows4tyun @taebatu @writingmochi @1-800-jewon @feet4liferss @maewphoria @matchacake2 @i4tzy @hyukasningdungie @akitfffr @bingsoob @lailols @urgirls-posts @loyipampam @binzdoll @bunnysoonie @loveziehomu @yeosangslutz

#I did tell you I read the gang bang… like two weeks ago 😭#yve reccs!#yv.reviews #I ❤️ you

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tinycatharsis · 13 days ago

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Hello, I’m Sol, and I am a proud daughter of immigrant parents. Today I come to you in hopes that you can stop and read this message.

I have always dedicated this account to be a safe space for all; an escape from the busy world, and a chance to offer community. It’s easy to use these spaces as a way to tune out all the negativity that may go on in your daily lives, but with the way the world has become, there is no longer such a thing as a safe space. I refuse to let this account remain idle, knowing my platform and the potential reach— silence is complicity, and right now, it’s exactly what the government wants from us; to remain uneducated, to remain quiet in hopes that others will step up for us.

It is urgent, now more than ever, that we use our voice— exercise our rights, to speak up and look after those who are unable to do so for themselves. ICE has been sent to raid Los Angeles, they are kidnapping people and deporting them without due process, using force against protestors who are bravely demanding change and letting their voices be heard. It is an inhumane act of violence and racism that is not only affecting the defenseless, but getting twisted in the media to turn civilians against each other. People are afraid to leave their homes, afraid to go to work, to send their children to school, in fear that they may never see each other again. Families are being ripped apart— tell me, is this something that you want to watch happen, standing idly in silence?

Now, you may be asking yourself, what can I do to help? First and foremost, educate yourself. Be aware of what is happening in the world, why it’s happening, and what others are doing to strive for change. Do not let this post be your only knowledge— do your research, stay updated. Second, there are many protests that are happening all around the world; look into them, see if there are any you can go to, let your voice be heard, and show your anger. There is currently a nationwide protest happening June 14th, with a website dedicated to it: nokings.org. Do not fall for the propaganda of good protestor vs. bad protestor. When our humanity is being stripped away from us, and our rights are ignored, why should we be expected to stay in place and beg on our knees for our government to listen? Third, spread awareness, donate to organizations that help our cause— I am currently looking into opening commissions, with many affordable options, in hopes that I can donate the proceeds to organizations such as CHIRLA, who are dedicated to advancing the rights of immigrants and refugees, and HEAL Palestine, an organization dedicated to providing health care, education and aid to children, because there is no such thing as justice until we are all free. The conflict and war crimes in Palestine continue and only worsen as time goes on; the situation is dire— they are without food, without homes, without access to medical help— and it is not something that will be forgotten, even as other crises arise.

If you find yourself aggravated by anything I said, annoyed at seeing this post on your timeline, unwilling to care or take action, unfollow me, and block me immediately. I do not want you here. Now is the time to speak up and educate ourselves in a world where our ignorance is profited off of, and we are all expected to turn against each other; You do not need to “be affected” to act. Do not be a bystander, and stay safe.

Thank you.

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tinycatharsis · 13 days ago

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it actually completely unironically pisses me off that there was times when i wasn't alive and there will be times when i'm not alive. i should have been there for everything

#im sayinn

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tinycatharsis · 13 days ago

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#he just doesn’t want me to live atp

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tinycatharsis · 15 days ago

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haven’t read a work that made me this ?!?!??!!!??? in such a long time (to be fair, I haven’t read anything at all in a long time but)

not the usual type of live comment I do because I was in horny jail but tw: lots of screaming I guess? god forbid a girl is excited.

author, what about my sanity???????????

OH. MY. GOD. I don’t even know where to start because this work absolutely blew my mind. I am actually in physical pain from how much I loved it. I read this at the crack of dawn LMFAO and now I feel fully awake because what was that about!? HELLOOOOO how do you expect me to go about my day now after reading… that.

Jesus. okay, so the background setup alone had me hooked—I assumed it would be the typical oh yeah step siblings trope but something about the way you wrote it had me gasping for air?????????? ive read so many stepcest (unintentionally 😭) because it’s just what pops up on my dash but this to me is proof that even a popular- people could say overdone trope can feel so special. your voice really shined through the paragraphs, I loved it. call me a fan for the insane amount of dick riding im about to do.

*****personally***** think every single detail contributed to the atmosphere perfectly without ever feeling overdone or cliche. phenomenal storytelling 🤧 why am I in awe over smut- BUT THIS IS GOOD SMUT. hear me out !!!

can we talk about the dialogues in this???? from both jake and mc, god. They’re so hot and I want them both in my bed rn like GIRL SHE WAS SO SMART WITH IT. I love the yearning even if it’s done in a semi psychotic desperate never been touch before loser way like wow. I love a woman that knows what she wants. I was evil laughing alongside her through it all, it was so tastefully done???????

and jake. my jake 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 my baby 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 woah. I loved how you characterize him in this story. It hits this spot that not a lot of authors nail well for me (obv, because everyone interprets and sees things differently) BUT you see him the exact same way I do I felt like looking at a mirror. YOU GET ITTTT. wow, this was crazy. I feel crazy.

I mentioned the writing style a lil above but THE WRITING STYLE HELLOOOOOOOOOO it was almost like the writing itself was breathing. It had this unique voice that made every line feel intentional and vivid. I want to tattoo whole paragraphs on my body. im being serious fr this is oh my god. I hope when you read this, you can kind of imagine me laying in bed reading this and slowly as I read further into the story, im like DAMN THIS IS FIRE. and now im sitting up in bed- typing out this review like the psycho I am 😭 but I must. SPEAK. my. truth.

im just so blown away.

I love a story where both leads are so equally desperate for each other, it HURTS. I love how down bad they were for each other and how you portrayed that in this story specifically. A man who yearns is a man who earns fr. jake tried to be sweet, so sweet for you but I love how they both kind of manipulates each other to get what they want. reader with all her little antics and jake with him fake being sick, or pretending to be dumb so she can tutor him so they can spend more time together. I really ate up all those paragraphs.

I loved how fleshed out and multi-dimensional both leads were and felt for me. the fact that they only had each other made every moment feel tense and precious, like the whole world narrowed down to just the two of them. the chemistry, the slow unraveling, the way they crashed into each other??????? the way they were both fucking burning? (or felt like it to me)—electric, sparks everywhere. Im- I need to find a better word to substitute wow because. damn. bro what do I even comment on a work like this-

the pacing was so perfect for me. I think esp because this came at a time I cant read smth too short or it doesnt feel whole and I cant read anything too long because my attention span is god horrible 😭 that’s just a me issue but. I digress. every scene knew exactly when to slow down and let emotions simmer or ramp up. none of it ever felt dragged or rushed. maybe that’s part of the reason why the buildup felt so earned, so satisfying. and when the tension finally boiled down to his bday. bro i was screaming (internally)

every scene after that, you truly left me breathless. from like the moment she got him in that cab to when they got home to that SHOWER SCENE WOAH. I cant believe I get to read this for free??????? and the dialogues in there. the tension so sharp it could cut someone. im obsessed.

this might just be one of the best things I’ve read in such a long time. it had all the elements, hit everything I love 🖤 and reminded me why I love reading and writing so much. I finished it and immediately wanted to re-read it just to feel everything again.

I have tears in my eyes and tears dripping somewhere else. this was 🙂‍↕️ I will be sending this to everyone I talk to… THEY SHALL LISTEN. they shall read 🪓

HUNTED s.jy

PAIRING ↠ virgin!stepbro Jake sim x afab perv!reader

When your parents remarried, you didn’t just gain new families — you gained Jake. Your quiet, wide-eyed stepbrother, always lingering, always watching. Two years younger, painfully sweet, and hopelessly obvious — the virgin he is. The way he looks at you? Like he’s starving. Like he’s been dreaming about you for years. And maybe… you don’t mind giving him something to dream about. After all, he’s going to be your sweet little revenge.

CONTENT ↠ nsfw! smut, sub Jake, obsession, possessiveness, did I mention sub behavior jake ???, rough sexual dynamics, dry humping, unprotected sex (don’t do it), oral (R receiving), family issues, stepcon, fluff, sex obsessed jake, worshiping on reader, panty stealing, mention of slight non-con (reader does want it but keep it a secret), voyeurism, strong depiction of fantasy (he’s a yapper on what he’s gonna do but also a man of his word lol).

Before you dive, read the warnings. don’t like it, don’t read.

WORDCOUNT ↠ 10k

You weren’t supposed to make it this hard — not for your parents.

You used to be the quiet one. Obedient. Graded by how well you behaved, how little you needed. You never raised your voice, never messed up. You didn’t even know how to say “no.” Just endless praise for how perfect you were.

You played the role, learned the script. But they never really knew you. Not your father, who loved an idea of you more than the reality. Not your mother, who only ever showed up to parade you like proof of her own success.

And maybe it was better that way. They didn’t know each other either — not really. So when they both confessed, almost proudly, that they’d been cheating the whole time… you weren’t even shocked. They tore the marriage apart like it was nothing. The only surprising part? How quickly it ended.

No screaming. No court battles. Just signatures, silence — and no one asking where you wanted to go.

That’s what hurt the most. Not the divorce. But how easily they let you go. Like you were a suitcase passed between homes.

You stopped being angry somewhere along the way. The rage dulled into numbness, then into strategy. You’d get through it. Play along. Smile on command until you have your own life.

And in the meantime? You became the perfect daughter all over again. Especially at your father’s place — the house closest to your university, the one you used as your main base. Easy enough, since he was never there. His new wife wasn’t either. They were just ghosts with paychecks.

So you had the space. The silence.

And… Jake.

He was the only real presence in that house. Your new stepbrother. Two years younger. Too polite. Too handsome. Always there. Always watching.

Straight-A student, quiet, almost religious in the way he carried himself — like everything he did had to be pure, soft, perfect. He reminded you too much of who you used to be. But Jake wasn’t hiding from himself. No, he actually wore it the “good-boy act”. Almost praise-seeking. Like he needed it. Like he craved someone to reward him for behaving.

At first, you didn’t mind. He was sweet, helpful, easy to talk to, he actually made you forget your loneliness at some point. He was a lonely kid too, trying to impress his new older sister — so eager to be liked, it was almost charming.

Almost.

Because there was something else beneath that polished politeness. Something naive that begged to be broken. Jake was the kind of guy who probably kissed a few girls here and there, but never, never had a woman close enough to whisper filthy little things into his ear. He looked like he never touched a woman before to be honest. And it turned you on. The idea made you so wet at times when you selfcared yourself to the thought of him begging to taste you, to touch you, to fuck you clumsy and shy until you’ll teach him.

Was it revenge ? Or just that Jake made your brain chemistry weird ? You didn’t know. Maybe… maybe it was just Jake. Maybe he made your brain short-circuit. Because after your 21st birthday — and his 19th — something shifted. You started playing foolish games.

At first, it was innocent. Almost.

Just tight pajamas clinging to your curves while you stretched lazily across the couch. Too short shorts and tiny crop tops on the balcony while arching your back when he passed by when you exercised. Shirts with just one button too few left closed, your skin warm and glowing under the fabric while napping.

And the showers… oh, the showers. You’d always let him go after you — he insisted, of course, the gentlemen he is. But somehow, you kept “forgetting” your underwear and attire in the bathroom. Such a forgetful dumb dumb girl. And somehow, they always came back — folded neatly, quietly placed beside your bedroom door on the shelf. Like a little offering, a quiet plea. And when they started not coming back you knew, why… And that was your confirmation.

You started to notice the way he lingered when you helped him with his classes. Always a little too close. Breathing a little too shallow.

Eyes flicking to your thighs, boobs, your mouth — quickly, then guiltily when you almost caught him slacking.

You’d wear your softest perfume on purpose. Sweet, honeyed, monoi impossible to ignore in close spaces.

And Jake? He tried so hard not to breathe you in.

But you saw him. You saw the way his throat worked, the way that sinful Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed you down like a craving. His fingers clenched against his thigh, desperate to be somewhere else every time your shoulders collide. The way his pretty eyes pleaded with you, full of guilt and need.

And that bulge. Oh dear, it looked so fat. Pressing against the soft fabric of his sweatpants, twitching like it had a mind of its own. He was trying so hard to be good. To be polite. And that’s exactly what made you want to break him.

Jake made you curious — hungry. How much would it take? How far could you push until that last fragile piece of restraint snapped inside him?

It became a game for years. A delicious one. You played it filthier with each passing month, even when it felt like you were the one balancing on the edge of his palm.

You made sure he knew you weren’t some innocent girl. When he got home late, you started leaving your bedroom door cracked open just enough for the sound to leak. Those high, broken little moans — fake at first, but later… not.

And then the mirror ? You angled it perfectly. So if he even looked toward your room while walking down the hall, he'd see you.

One night you were on your knees at the foot of the bed, legs spread. His oversized hoodie hanging loose over your hips — not to hide anything, just to tease. Your panties soaked and pushed to the side. Your fingers working fast, fucking yourself. Messy. Sloppy. Your water gushing everywhere.

You didn’t call his name, but you knew he’d hear it anyway. You almost heard him yelp on the other side of the wall — barely muffled, strained. Then moans.

And when your orgasm hit, your walls clenched so tight it hurt, you weren’t touching air anymore. You were clenching around the idea of him.

And you got bolder.

Another time, your curiosity won. It happened at times you'd find yourself lazily walking around the house, entering his room looking around his books and computer, playing his games. Then… You found a file on his laptop — half-hidden in the Bluetooth sharing folder.

A video.

The timestamp? Right down to the hour and day you remembered arching your back and crying into your pillow, a dildo vibrating where it felt the best. You clicked on it. The screen lit up with you. Your body. That same mirror. That same damn dildo. He’d recorded the whole thing.

Poor boy.

You didn’t delete it.

You let him keep it.

Because the thought of him doing unspeakable things to that video every night?

It made you wetter than anything.

It really went too far the night you decided to test him. To really test him.

You weren’t even into the guy you invited over that day. This peer from uni was not your type. Too talkative, too flirty, too easy. But he served a purpose. You needed a body. A voice. A laugh. Something for Jake to see until it was two in the morning. And he made sure to always have an eye on you guys, even if he had class that day. You stopped counting the number of time he got out of his room for water and snacks, texted you “you ok ?”, “need something ?”, heard his door opening just to listen to your flirting session.

He saw how you sat close to your guest. Laughed a little too hard. Let your fingers linger when you handed him his glass. Tilted your head when he made a joke. Let him have his hand on your inner thigh. Heard the sound of loud kissing.

And when you walked him to the door, your body angled toward him just enough for Jake to imagine something — anything, you almost burst laughing.

“Text me when you're free” you said, soft but clear, just loud enough.

“Ok princess.” your unwanted guest smiled.

You didn’t even close the door right away. You let it hang open while you adjusted your shirt, as if you’d just been touched.

You felt Jake watching from the stairs.

And the next morning? He didn’t say a word. Didn’t look at you. Jaw locked. Shoulders stiff. He practically radiated that stormy silence. And you drank it in. You were already wet before the day ended. playing with the friction of your tights at the new idea of an angry Jake, bending you over some desk and fucking you dumb.

That night, he knocked. Not loud, neither confident. Just a soft, almost guilty tap — like he hated himself for even standing there.

“Movie ?” His voice almost cracked, thin and so hesitant. Like he regretted the word the second it left his mouth. You didn’t look up right away — your eyes glued to your notes — but when you did, you offered him a small smile. Soft. Painless.

“Sure.”

And you dressed the part.

Cotton shorts with cute patterns— soft and clingy, short enough they might as well be sin. No bra. Just his hoodie. Oversized, too familiar, the neck too wide, sliding off your shoulder like it belonged there. Like you belonged in his clothes.

You curled beside him on the couch, the way temptation curls around the spine — warm and impossible to ignore. Your thigh brushed his. Close enough for your breath to touch his skin. Close ²enough to burn.

The movie flickered on, but neither of you really watched it, you could bet on it. He was too busy pretending not to want you. not to look at you from the corner of his eyes. And you… you were too busy pretending not to know.

Every time you moved, it was calculated. Subtle.

The lazy stretch of your limbs. The soft roll of your hips when you shift to get "comfortable." The way your hoodie rose and fell, teasing bits of skin like secrets he wasn’t allowed to touch.

And Jake… poor Jake… He was unraveling. Silently. Inch by inch.

You could feel it — the tension in his body each time your skin brushed his. The way his breath caught when your nipple grazed his arm beneath the fabric.

His composure was a dam with cracks spider webbing through it. And you were the water, pressing harder every second.

Then, your voice — low and sugar-sweet — slid into the space between you two like a knife.

“Jake… You don’t want me to bring boys over, huh?” You tilted your head, blinking up at him with faux innocence. “You looked pretty mad…”

His jaw tensed. His shoulders twitched. He looked at you like you’d lit a match and tossed it onto his bed.

“I just…” He swallowed. “I don’t think it’s smart. Some guys… Just want…”

“Want?” you echoed, soft as silk, a dangerous little smirk tugging at your lips. “…To do me?”

The way you said it made him flinch — like the words physically hit him.

You laughed, sweet and syrupy, pretending not to notice how he clenched his fists.

“I wish…” you murmured. “But I don’t think I’m the kind of girl guys want to really fuck, you know?”

You were sure he’d shatter. Right there. He turned to you, and for a second, he looked like something fragile cracking. His eyes searched your face — pained ? reverent ? Almost angry at you for not seeing what you meant to him.

His hand came up, hesitant at first, and gently patted your head, adjusting your hair, like he didn’t know what else to do with the burning inside him.

“That’s not true,” he said, voice hoarse. “You’re… you’re gorgeous.”

You didn’t laugh this time. Because suddenly… something about the way he said it felt real. Too real.

And it settled into your stomach like a fire and confusion.

So you stood — a little too fast — pretending it was nothing.

You stretched, arms overhead, the hoodie lifting just enough to reveal the sweet curve where your shorts clung between your thighs. You felt his gaze like heat — devouring. Silently begging.

“Want some popcorn?” Your voice was casual, light. But the silence that followed was not.

You turned to glance back — and there he was, still seated, still staring. His lips parted, breath uneven. His knuckles pale from how tightly he gripped the couch cushion. His eyes were glassy with something halfway between hunger and heartbreak.

He wanted you. So badly it hurted him. And you…

You didn’t know what you wanted. But it was starting to feel like it might be him.

He blinked, like you’d just woken him from a dream. Swallowed. Then nodded — barely.

“…Yeah. Sure…” Jake’s voice was thin and shaky.

🕛

When you returned, he was sitting on the carpet closer to the screen —but he looked… Rigid. You slid beside him again, close. Pressed in. The look in his eyes disappointed like he expected you to go back to the couch and abandon him on the big fluffy rug.

And at some point, you must’ve fallen asleep. Or pretended to. You weren’t sure when his arm slipped around you too, but it happened somehow.

You only knew you woke up spooned tight against his chest, the glow of the TV flickering counting down on the last two minutes before shutting down. The air was cool, but his body behind you was so hot.

His breath brushed your neck. And then —you felt it.

Hard. Thick. Pressed flush to the curve of your ass. You froze. Not in fear. In calculation.

The slow grind of his cock against your back was not an accident. Or was he asleep too ?

No. This wasn’t a sleep twitch… This was rhythm. Friction.

You stayed still. Barely breathing. He was holding you like he needed to be inside you just to keep breathing. His arm clutched your waist like he thought you might vanish.

And that wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part was that you could hear the noise he made.

A low, strangled groan.

Your name — whispered so faintly, so pathetically — like he was praying.

You bit your lip, hard. Your panties clung to you, soaked from how hot your core had gone. You could feel your own pulse between your legs, fast and desperate. And when you shifted your hips ever so slightly and faintly— to relieve the wetness, nothing more — his mid asleep mind took it as permission.

His hips ground forward. Almost hard. Controlled.

The way his cock dragged between your asscheeks through the fabric had your eyes rolling shut. It was clumsy, hungry, dry humping like he didn’t care what dignity he had left.

The arm pillow under your head shifted, to press against your throat. to cage you. Not choking. Not violent. Just there. To keep you. To claim you.

His body was all over you now.

The humping turned to rutting — fast, erratic. and his grip started to strangle you slightly. He was panting into your hair to your ear almost licking like an animal, his breath sticky and messy, hips chasing release like it hurt to hold it back.

You couldn’t help it, you moaned. Quiet. Barely there. But enough.

And he froze. Just for a second.

But you didn’t move. Didn’t open your eyes. You let him think you were still asleep. And just like that—

He started again.

Rougher now. Curious, or gone crazy. Because he lifted your thigh over his leg like he wanted you open, more accessible, more his.

his hand ended up cupping your pussy and you almost wine at him fiding you’re wet as fuck. “Holly sh…” he whisper.

He ground into your ass like he was fucking you through his short, like he was losing his mind just from the feeling of your body under him. His mouth brushed your neck, and you heard your name again.

Muttered. Broken. Like a secret. Like a prayer. Like a sin.

And still, you didn’t stop him. You let him use you. Let him melt against you. Let him rut like a dog in heat.

Because you knew what came next. He was already ruined. And this was just the beginning.

🕜

You don’t open your eyes until the room is quiet. Until his breathing slows.

Until the soft pad of his footsteps retreats across the carpet, shaky and shameful.

He leaves you there — half-dressed, flushed, wrecked — with a blanket tucked around your body like penance. As if warmth could erase what he did. As if the trembling in your thighs wasn’t already permanent. As if you didn’t feel every hot, ragged grind of his cock rutting through his shorts like he was trying to breed you in his sleep.

And the kiss. God, that stupid trembling kiss. Soft. Barely there.

Pressed to your forehead like an apology. Like he knew he crossed a line but couldn’t help himself. And the whisper, hoarse and frantic:

“’m sorry… ‘m sorry… I didn’t mean to. I swear, I just—fuck, I’m sorry.”

As if that made him better than what he really was. As if that erased how soaked your panties were from the way he used you. You wait. Wait for the creak of the stairs. Wait for the soft click of his door.

And then — you move.

Your body curls in on itself like it’s starving. You’re fucking shaking. Your hand dives straight between your thighs, fingers pressing through the soaked cotton, trembling.

It’s so, so, so wet. Disgustingly wet. The fabric sticks to your folds like glue, like your cunt wanted to keep his shape. You bite down on the throw pillow, knuckles white, grinding against your hand like it might make you feel whole again. But it won’t. Not really.

Because he touched you. Because he left you. Because he thinks you slept through the way he rutted against you like a feral fucking animal, like you didn’t feel every ragged thrust of his hips desperate to paint you with cum, guilt and heat.

He thinks you didn’t know. Didn’t felt it. Didn’t want it.

But you did. You let it happen. You fucking invited it.

And now?

He’s upstairs, hiding upstairs like he didn’t just violate every boundary between you, fucking his mattress to the memory of you, into the same fucking shorts he creamed earlier.

Because he can’t help it. Because you’re in his blood now.

You giggle. It’s breathy, drunk, delirious — because it’s true.

He’s the one ruined. He’s the one haunted.

He came so hard trying not to wake you — and now he can’t stop imagining it.

And you… What about you ?

You climb the stairs slowly. Steady. Dripping.

You were headed to your own room. You really were. But then you hear it. The soft creak of his mattress.

That familiar, low grunt — choked and desperate, barely audible but so damn needy.

You pause. Bare feet planted on the hallway carpet. Heart pounding. Your body buzzes, strung tight as wire. You move closer. Silent. Curious.

Then you hear it. Really hear it.

The unmistakable slap of skin on skin. The low wet rhythm of his hand fisting his cock in the dark, probably red and raw from how many times he’s edged himself on your name.

And underneath? That tiny, cursed sound.

That video.

The one he shouldn’t have. The one you let him keep.

The one of you — legs spread, mouth open, giggling as you played with yourself just for him that one night, not knowing he hit record.

You never mentioned it. You never stopped him. Because deep down, you wanted him to keep it.

To ruin himself with it. Over and over and over.

But you’re just as pathetic. Your fingers are between your legs again before you even register it. The cotton is useless now. Sopping. You slide past it like it’s not even there, middle finger sinking into heat, other hand flat on his door as you grind your hips into your palm.

Then you hear it — your name. Again. Again. And again. He is obsessed for sure. He sob. Choked out like a fucking prayer as the mattress groans under him.

“Fuck, I need you—I need to be inside that fucking—fuck, please—let me fill you, let me breed you, I’ll give you everything, just—please— please—”

You moan against his door, the sound of it mixing with the video, forehead pressed to the wood, thighs clenched around your own wrist. Your cunt clenches hard around your fingers, and you feel it start to build — fast, brutal, like you’ve been edging since he left you in the living room.

And still he goes on — pathetic little noises, bed frame creaking, the wet slap of his fist around his wet cock echoing through the door.

On the other side of the door. His face is flushed. His glasses crooked and hair plastered to his forehead. Jaw tight. Shirt rolled-up in his mouth, abs twitching. The thick head of his cock leaking down his wrist as he fucks into his hand like it’s you — his other hand still wet from where he cupped you, fingers slick with your essence, and the way he brings it to his mouth — then tasting you, like he can’t get enough, savoring the remnants of you on his skin. The same shorts he ruined earlier — still damp, pushed down just enough for him to get his dick out.

He’s fucking filthy. He’s yours. Your filthy Jake.

Your orgasm hits — sharp, dirty, brutal.

You clamp your mouth shut, panting silent against the doorframe as your whole body trembles, bending on your tiptoes, fingers twitching deep inside, cunt pulsing so hard it aches.

And still — he doesn’t know.

You sink to your knees, ruined, wet, wrecked, gasping against the wood. Just in time to hear him fall apart. The gasp. The cry. The broken sob of your name as he cums for the second time tonight. And you can hear it. The wet slap of it coating his hand, the hiss through his teeth as he tries not to scream.

You smile.

The next week felt like punishment. On the very next day you wake up to your dad and wife coming back home. Your dad pesters you for not going to your mom’s like they planned.

He keeps treating you like a kid even if you’re now 22. You hear him talk like you’re 5. You get along with him and leave the same day with him to join your mom’s family for their trip. where nothing felt like yours, with two loud and intrusive big brothers : Jay and Heeseung, not even a third as kind as Jake. You spent most days fantasizing about getting back to your father’s house. The silence. The chill in the air. The presence of that needy Jake.

You booked an earlier flight back the moment you realized the date: his birthday !

You knew he’d be at Sunghoon’s place — the infamous party, the rowdy crowd, his loud-ass friends. You thought about showing up, joining the cheers, maybe giving him a gift. But instead, you went home first.

You wanted to look good. No — you wanted to look like a tentation. And when you showed up, fashionably late, hair curled into a sharp ponytail, lips glazed, your little black dress hugging you like it knew every secret Jake ever fantasized about — you found him.

On the stairs. Outside his own party.

Drunk. Gloriously fucked up. Head in his hands, murmuring to himself like the air had answers. When he looked up and saw you, his eyes locked like he couldn’t believe you were real. That you’d shown up for him. That you looked like that.

“Holy shit,” he whispered, standing on shaky legs and staggering toward you like you were gravity and he was finally done resisting. He hugged you, his arms slipping around your waist like they had every right. His mouth found your neck under the guise of a greeting, inhaling you like perfume could get him high. His fingers slid a little too far down your bare back.

You stepped away, pulse thrumming.

“Jake… are you okay?”

He blinked, all glassy-eyed and helpless. “You came,” his voice was thick with liquor and longing. “Fuck, I missed you. I missed your smell. Missed you everywhere.”

You didn’t have time to answer before a car pulled up. Sunghoon stepped out, smiling politely, playing the good host. He explained the mess Jake had made — got too drunk waiting for you, tried to get home alone, and ended up just sitting out here like a sad hot mess. You thanked him, brushed off his offer for a ride, your cab was still waiting.

Sunghoon helped Jake into the back seat. And the second that door shut, chaos took root.

Jake slumped into you, lips grazing your collarbone, breath hot and sloppy. His hand found your thigh, fingers pressing in slow, lazy circles like your skin was his drug. You flinched when he crept too high, but he didn’t stop — not until you caught his wrist.

“You ok ? Jake ?”

He blabber incoherently, but you understand the most : he is so happy you made it, he’s so happy you’re here with him, he wished you didn’t get back to your mom, how lonely he was. How your scent started to not linger anywhere. His eyes are begging but not like any other day. You stop his hand halfway to your panty, again, while trying to keep composure. Lucky you, it was peach night, all the car's lights were down and you’re sitting behind the driver.

You now understand why Jake refuses to drink. It makes his real persona oblivious.

You feel his head tilt from your shoulder to your neck making you weak, extending his tongue trying to catch a limp of your taste while murmuring excuses and plea. Even drunk he knows how to turn you on.

By the time you got home, he was practically glued to your back. You had a cake box in one hand and one very needy Jake humping your ass like it was his emotional support animal. You shoved him onto the couch, frustrated and flustered, his name already a warning on your tongue.

“Jake,” you snapped. “You reek. Go shower.”

He groaned.

“Jake…”

He sat up finally—

And then, with zero hesitation — yanked you down onto him. His thigh pressed up between your legs. His hands gripped your hips like handles. His lips? All over you. Jaw. Ear. Neck. One kiss after another, slurred and sensual.

Then pulled you under him with no force left in your body to resist. But he’s such a kiddo right now you can help but not to take him too seriously.

The couch gave way as his weight pinned you, his thigh pressing exactly where it shouldn’t. His breath hot on your cheek, smell of liquor, his mouth leaving soft, open kisses down your jaw.

“I wished you’d wear… that purple lace,” he breathed, almost begging for it. “I came…” kiss “...so hard in those.” kiss “I- I Didn’t mean to. Wanted to give them back” kiss. “But… I kept sniffing them. And I— fuck, I’m so sorry.” kiss.

His tongue flicked your earlobe and your hips arched before you could stop.

“Hey kiddo—”

“I’ll buy you new ones.” kiss. “The exact same.” kiss. “I'll buy you ivory ones.” kiss. “Just let me see them on you.” kiss “Please. I’ll be good.” kiss “I’ll— I’ll clean up.”

You shoved him off you with more effort than expected and dragged him down the hall toward the bathroom, him still pawing at your hips, nuzzling your chest like a cat in heat.

The second the cold water hit him, he screamed like the devil himself got baptized.

You laughed — hard, doubling over.

You burst out laughing for a while. While his expression got lost in his wet hair, he was silent. soaked in his cloth, his sexy hand suddenly backing up his hair. And then you saw his dark expression—he grinned. He hit the button. The shower switched to rain mode — and your clothes were soaked in seconds. Water clung to your skin like hands. His chest pressed to yours in seconds.

The world stilled for a second when your eyes locked. He stares at your lips like they were scripture. Like one kiss could save him from damnation. And when he leans in—

You step back.

His lips hovered in the air, helpless, lost. Your smile was too sweet to reject him. Too knowing. you murmure against his ear under the loud sound of falling water.

“Get your shit together. Wash up. Then come eat your cake.”

Your fingers slid beneath your dress, His eyes dropped instantly. When your hand reappeared, you were holding your purple lace panties — the exact pair he stole. The ones he came in. The ones you let him keep.

His lips trembled.

But you said nothing else. He understood your message. You turned, wrung out your hair, And without a word, you walked away. Peeled your drees off, Leaving a trail of wet footprints and temptation so thick he couldn’t breathe.

You didn’t look back. Just unzipped the dress, let it fall. Bare ass, bare back. Nothing.

And you lived with a smile. Jake adored this. No, he worshipped you.

That’s why he stayed in that shower, panting, fists clenched, cock throbbing, brain screaming. Because backing off when you said no? That was pure respect. But watching you walk away like a siren wrapped in silk and defiance, and do nothing ?

That was torture.

The cold water didn’t sober him. You did. It vanished the second you pulled away from his kiss. That one step back — it slapped clarity into his brain harder than any ice bucket ever could. And as he watched you leave, he finally realized:

You gave him a show. You knew. You fucking knew. And the worst part ? You wanted him to know that you were aware of his behavior. As if you liked it.

You weren’t his sister. Not really “family”. You were his. And he was done pretending.

That's what he kept thinking while showering.

That he’d follow you to the edge of reason. Crawl through every of your rules to get to you. Fuck his reputation. Fuck his guilt. Fuck the whisper of wrong in the back of his skull.

He didn’t want to protect you anymore. Now he wanted to pin you down. He wanted to fuck you against the kitchen island until you cried. He wanted to ruin you.

And when he did?

You’d thank him. Because you’d been begging for it too, all along.

Once showered and dressed in warm, cozy clothes, Jake made his way down the stairs. But he stopped halfway. Froze.

You.

You were in the kitchen — bathed in the dim golden glow of the pendant lights — wearing that ivory tank top that barely clung to your chest, nipples brushing against the fabric, teasing shadows, and that long cotton skirt hugging your hips like it was made to be pulled up. You were slicing cake on the kitchen island, licking a thick ribbon of cream off your fingertip like you didn’t know he was watching. Or maybe you did. God, maybe you always did.

Jake watched you like he’d never seen a woman before.

Like he’d never seen you before, not like this.

Every flick of your wrist, every sway of your hips, the little twitch of your tongue tasting frosting—it was a fucking performance. For him.

And when he realized that, really realized it, it hit him like a goddamn wrecking ball.

He liked watching you.

No—he loved it.

Loved how brushing your teeth could turn him hard. How folding laundry made his mouth dry. How watching you apply lotion had once made him jerk off so violently he had to lie down after. It broke something in him. Snapped it in two and rewired it all wrong.

Hours of porn? Worthless. Cam girls? Useless.

You—doing absolutely nothing—had become his favorite fucking show. And he was the most devoted, depraved audience.

And those pajamas you’re wearing now ? He remembered them.

The first night you moved in. Your hair was shorter, your eyes wide, your smile unsure.

You wandered that big duplex like a lost lamb, bumping into corners, unsure of where to go. You’d smiled at him when you got turned around, laughing at yourself.

Jake had probably fallen for you right then. That simple, soft moment where you looked just as displaced and unclaimed as he always felt.

He told himself he’d be good to you from that day on. He recognized something in you. A mirror. Two kids shuffled from house to house, two pieces of pretty furniture passed down and placed where others decided.

But you were walking into his cage. Not the other way around. And God, he wanted to decorate it for you. Make it soft. Make it warm. Make you stay.

So Jake vowed—he'd make you feel safe, even if it meant pretending. Pretending to suck at school. Pretending he needed help picking out new sheets just to buy the softest, girliest ones for your bed. Pretending to be sick so you'd spend the day with him on the couch. Pretending he didn’t know how to cook, just to watch you make pancakes in your pajamas.

He wanted you from the first second. You healed him in ways.

And in others, you broke him wide open. Made him into a pervert. A voyeur. A stealer.

He knew the moment he started skipping outings, leaving parties early, racing home just to catch the scent of you in the hallway. That faint trace of perfume clung to everything you touched — the couch cushions, his hoodie, the sheets. You smelled like a fucking sin. And smiled like temptation wrapped in faux innocence.

He tried convincing himself you were just being polite tho. That you were older. Uninterested. That you saw him as this shy, harmless boy who needed help with coursework and still blushed too easily.

That you didn’t know what you were doing to him. But you actually did… Wow. Not everything sure, but still…

Did you know ? That in private, he did very real things. He’d pick up the panties you “forgot” with shaking hands every time. Always lacy. Most times he resisted. Actually, he didn’t. No, he pressed them to his face and breathed in your scent like it was oxygen. Fisted his cock so hard on them to the thought of you bending over his bed, he distorted them a bit.

And you never said a word. You just kept smiling. Kept laughing at his dumb jokes. Kept running your fingers through his hair while letting him lay his head in your lap, until his brain went quiet.

You called him “kiddo” in that soft, mocking tone that made him want to shove you down and make you choke on him until you forgot that word.

There wasn't a single place in this house he hadn’t imagined ruining you on. The sofa. The kitchen island. Wanted to fuck you breathless in the hallway without caring who walked in. Bent you over the balcony railing, your thighs trembling, your voice wrecked. Raw in your room. His cum leaking from your pussy like it belonged there in the bathroom.

He imagined gaming with you riding him, headset slipping off while he whispered filth. He pictured you sitting on his face, shocking him silent with how good you tasted.

Fuck, he wanted you now.

His body moved before his mind did. Down the stairs, across the room — straight to you. You turned to face him, and the look in his eyes must have said everything, because you froze.

But it was Jake. And Jake was your sweet boy.

He didn’t jump you, he dropped to his knees. Wrapped his arms around your waist like a lifeline and buried his face in your stomach.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you murmured, shivering at the feel of his lips.

He tilted his head up, puppy-eyed, and pressed soft, slow kisses to your belly, licking where your skin was bare.

He smiled at your reaction.

"...Making you feel good..." he mumbled, voice thick with want.

The shift in him — from predator to worshipper — scratched something deep in your brain. The submission in his voice sent heat racing down your spine.

You laughed, trying to stay grounded. "Get up. Let’s eat your cake. It’s still your birthday.”

But Jake didn’t move. He tightened his hold.

“What about my gift?”

You blinked at him, half amused, half breathless. The look on his face wasn’t as childish as his attitude —it was dark, intense, almost dangerous in how calm he was about wanting you.

"What do you want?" you asked, voice soft, laced with heat.

He didn’t answer.

He moved. Slid between your thighs. Pressed his face into the soft spot between them. Rubbed himself against your heat like an animal, breathing so heavy you could feel it through the layer of your skirt and panty. His grip hurted, but you loved it. Because he was unraveling.

He moaned your name into your thigh.

“Jake—” you gasped as his grip bruised into your skin, desperate, clumsy and intoxicating.

He was trembling. Hard. Leaking through his pants. You shoved him back gently, but not far. Just enough to meet his eyes.

"You have to tell me what you want for your birthday," you said, tone suddenly sultry, dominant.

Jake’s hands slid under your skirt, gliding up your calves, slow and reverent. He stopped just before your thighs, as if asking for permission with his touch.

“Please,” he moaned. “Please let me have you. I’ll do anything. Anything you want me to. I swear—”

God. You loved when he begged. So you lifted his flushed face with your knee.

“If I let you have me,” you whispered, “what are you gonna do to me?”

He whimpered your name like it hurt. One hand slid up to grab your panties and the hem of your skirt in one fist.

“I wanna eat you,” he said, kissing your thigh. “Wanna fuck you on this island until you scream, and beg.”

you hum.

“Wanna fucking lick that pussy until your legs give out.

Wanna watch you fall apart, over and over, on my cock until you forget how to walk.”

Wanna fill you so deep you feel me for days.

“I want this pussy. I want it to take my shape,” he said, voice wrecked. “And ache for my cock whenever I’m gone.”

His words burned.

You climbed onto the kitchen island, spreading your legs like you were displaying for him.

“Fuck, Jake, do it,” you exalted. “Happy twenty-one…”

He slid your skirt up so freaking fast, smirking. Kissed the inside of your thigh like it was his last meal. When his tongue finally touched your soaked lace, he groaned like he’d been starved.

“You taste like… fuck— there’s nothing like it,” he muttered, already pulling the lacy fabric in his mouth. His tongue felt thick and ungraceful, so messy, licking like he was trying to consume you, not please you.

He groaned against your folds, loud and vulgar, smiling like he’d found the secret to life in the taste of you.

“Fuck—fuck, you’re even sweeter than I imagined,” he breathed, dragging his tongue up your slit again, messy and deep, slurping you into his mouth like he couldn’t get enough.

And then, he ripped your panties.

Didn’t even slide them off — just grabbed the damp lace and tore it with a grunt, like it offended him to be kept away from what he wanted.

You gasped, jolting when his tongue returned to your clit with zero control, his lips and chin glistening, sloppy, aggressive — but hungry, so hungry it made your stomach twist.

“Hold still,” he muttered, though he was the one moving like a man possessed, hands fumbling on your hips, trying to anchor you and explore you at the same time.

He was learning your body with every stroke of his tongue, every misstep that made you twitch, every accidental graze of teeth that made you jolt and whimper. But the more you reacted, the crazier he got. Each sound you made made his cock throb in his sweats. He kept going, like he was chasing your high just to see what it would do to you.

“C’mon, let me—fuck—let me hear it,” he groaned, pressing his tongue flat against your clit, sucking harshly, noisily, spit mixing with slick, until you couldn’t help the moan that spilled from your lips.

Your back arched hard. Too hard. The pain bloomed in your spine but you didn’t care. Not when he was doing this — devouring you like you were his first and last, one hand splayed against your belly to keep you down as your thighs began to tremble.

“Fucking hell,” he whispered into you. “The way you move—like you’re gonna break. I’m gonna break you, yeah ?”

You whimpered, shaking more, lost — too far gone to process the feral glint in his eyes.

He was memorizing every twitch of your body. Every flutter of your lashes. Every ragged inhale. Your pleasure became his experiment — and he was failing, adjusting, trying again, obsessed with getting it just right, obsessed with watching you crumble.

“You feel everything, don’t you?” he murmured, dragging his tongue down, then up again in a filthy line. “You’re so fucking sensitive. Look at how your hips move, how your legs shake—”

He pushed two fingers into you without warning, a little too rough, but your body swallowed him so eagerly that his jaw dropped.

“Oh god —fuck. You’re so tight, so warm—God, you’re—” he couldn’t finish.

Because you cried out. Because your head fell back. Because your mouth formed his name like a prayer and your thighs clenched around his head.

And it broke him.

His cock bounced, twitching uncontrollably in his pants, and he let out a pained moan, as if the sight of you like that — undone because of him — hurt more than it healed.

“Say it again,” he gasped, fingers now curling just right inside you. “Say my name like that.”

He was trembling. Worshipping. Grinding his hard length on air like a dog in heat, like he couldn’t stop himself. His mouth returned to your clit with vengeance, tongue swirling, sucking, licking—too rough, too clumsy, but desperate.

Your entire body was spasming now. Jolting. His nose bumped against your folds, fingers curling deep, knuckles wet, palm slick as he fucked you with his hand and his mouth at once.

It was too much. And he was watching. Eyes locked on you, wide and greedy, like he was filming the entire thing in his mind.

Then, in a shaky whisper, he asked:

“Can I really do anything to you?”

The words came soft, begging— but beneath them was a dark edge, a simmering madness just barely caged.

You didn’t hear it. Or maybe you were too far gone to understand it.

Because your mouth fell open, your mind blank, every nerve shredded and sparking as your orgasm built in a violent wave.

“Y-yeah, JAKE, JAKE, JAKE !!” you breathe out, barely coherent, nodding so frenetically it’s almost pitiful.

Jake doesn't wait.

Like a switch has flipped, he slips out from between your legs and props himself beside you on the kitchen island, his thigh brushing yours, one arm braced over your head against the cabinets. He stares down at your soaked center with eyes wide, dazed, reverent—and then he shoves his fingers into you. Hard. Deep.

You jolt so violently your back slams against the cupboards.

The squelch is immediate, obscene, echoing like wet slaps in the wide silence of the room—and so loud it drowns your breathless cries.

“Please—please say it again—say my name. I wanna see your eyes roll. Wanna see you fucking cry. Wanna ruin you so good you forget your own name.”

“Jake—!” you choke, your hands scrambling for purchase—his arm, his shirt, anything—before your fingers end up clawing at the collar of his tee, yanking him closer until your foreheads collide. He’s flushed, trembling, his mouth parted and panting as he watches the way your body thrashes against his hand.

And then he does it harder.

His palm starts slapping your clit on every drive, a sloppy wet percussion that sends you screaming through gritted teeth. He’s moaning with you now, completely enthralled, forehead against yours, sweat sticking between your skins. He’s watching every twitch of your mouth, every tear in your lashes, like you’re his goddamn religion.

“Y-yes, yes—fuck, don’t stop! Jake !” you beg, voice breaking as your hips roll helplessly against the rhythm.

“You’re mine,” he whispered in your ear. And your eyes plead for a kiss—anything to ground you—but Jake is gone. Lost in the ruin he's causing.

It’s only when you sob his name again, needy—“Jake—” a shattered sound— that he seems to come back to himself. He crashes his mouth into yours like a man who’s about to die without it. The kiss is messy, desperate, teeth clashing and tongues tangled, like he’s memorizing how you taste before he’s allowed to devour you again.

And you come.

So violently the island creaks under you. So fast it blinds you.

Your body convulses around his hand and he holds you through it like he’s proud of breaking you. Like he’ll never get enough of it.

He pulls back to look at the mess on his fingers, his lips parted in awe, and then—moaning—he licks them clean, slow and trembling, savoring you like something holy.

“I swear,” he rasps, “I could eat nothing else for the rest of my life.”

His cock is leaking now leaving a patch of wetness, pushing hard against his waistband like it’s about to burst. And his restraint ? Gone.

Jake scoops you up in his arms, bridal style, despite how unsteady he is—lips dragging kisses on your throat, cheek, temple as he carries you into his room.

The second you hit the mattress, he’s on you.

He undresses you in between wet kisses—pulling at your clothes like he’s unwrapping a gift he’s been waiting his whole life for. His hands are shaking. His teeth nip. He murmurs how pretty you are. How perfect. How soft.

Your panties? Gone.

“ That’s mine,” he whispered under his breath, fingers slipping through your folds again, already obsessed with how wet you still are. “Fuck…”

Then he undresses, cock springing out—thick and flushed and leaking so much it shines. Not too long, but wide. Thick enough that your thighs tense up on instinct. It twitches as he catches you staring.

“You okay?” he asks—but he’s already pushing your thighs apart, not waiting. Not anymore.

He lines up and slides in too fast—only halfway—and you cry out, back arching with a jolt.

“Too much?” he gasps—but his hips twitch forward another inch like he can’t stop himself. “You’re squeezing so tight—shit—it’s like your cunt doesn’t wanna let go—”

You’re trembling under him, moaning through your teeth, barely able to breathe around the stretch.

Jake looks like he’s losing it—jaw clenched, eyes glassy, watching every twitch of your mouth like he’s chasing the moment you break.

“I—can’t move yet,” he grits. “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me.”

You nod weakly, adjusting your hips—but it’s too slow for him. He shifts, trying to pull back, but your body sucks him in deeper. His knees buckle.

“Fuck. Fuck. I’m gonna…”

When you finally push him to lie back and straddle him—easing yourself down inch by fat inch—his head falls back with a groan so loud it shakes your chest.

“God, yes—ride me, ride me. Take it—please—I’ll be good—just move—just fuckin’ move on me—”

You grind down slow, gasping every time the stretch hits a new edge, your gummy walls gripping him like fire. And Jake? He watches with wide, disbelieving eyes, like he’s never going to recover from this. Trying to touch every patch of skin he can touch.

He doesn’t last long.

By the time you start bouncing, it’s over for him—his hands gripping your hips too tight, his head dragging against your chest, hips punching up into yours like he’s trying to leave a mark inside you. He moans your name again and again, like a curse.

He finishes inside you, painting you with the thickest load you ever felt. He barely pauses before flipping you onto your back in front of him, and lining up again.

You try to speak—protest, tease, something—but then he’s thrusting back in raw, and your body seizes under him with a high scream.

“Oh my god—Jake—”

His cum is still slicking your walls. He groans, watching the mess.

“You’re gonna take it all,” he moans, fucking deeper, slower. “Gonna keep it warm for me—let me fill you again.”

He keeps going—harder, deeper, wetter. His rhythm is messy, almost frantic. He’s not careful anymore. He’s not pretending. He grabs your hips like handles and slams in, again, again, again—

“Want this pussy loose from my cock,” he groans. “Want it to miss me—want it dripping so bad it calls for me in the middle of the night—”

You scream his name again, legs kicking as the next orgasm builds too fast. He watches you come undone with wild, manic pride—like every second of your pleasure feeds something dark and bottomless in him.

It's too freaking fast for you, but it’s too good to stop.

When he pulls out, his cum drips from your stretched, fluttering hole, and Jake stares like he’s been hypnotized.

“…It’s perfect,” he whispers.

He dips down. Licks your lips clean. Moaning, tasting himself on your cunt like he’s tasted salvation. You suddenly feel his fingers scissoring you just to measure the new gape he created. “Fuck, I hope it stay like that… Mine only.”

You chuckle, regaining a stable breath. And when you think he might be done, might finally let you breathe, he climbs back over you again. Cocks already twitching back to life.

“You said I could do anything I wanted, Yeah ?” he whispers, voice hoarse.

You nod with questioning eyes—still dazed, spent—and Jake smiles.

That smile? It’s not shy anymore. It’s hungry and deeply perverted.

Your body’s still trembling when Jake pulls you up by the hips, flipping you like a ragdoll. You barely have time to whimper before he yanks your ass up, knees under you, back arched high—exposed, dripping, ruined—and so perfect for him.

He grabs your ass with both hands, spreading you wide. His cock, still wet from the last round, nudges your slit again.

“Fucking look at this,” he breathes, voice shaking. “God—you’re still gaping. I can see where I came in you. You’re still so open waiting for me.”

Jake’s fingers tighten around your hips, he’s yanking you upright by the arm—his other arm circling under your chest, palming your breasts like they’re sacred and obscene all at once. Then he trusts again, slow but brutal, every fat inch meeting with your convulsing gummy wall.

“Look,” he pants into your neck, breath scalding, hips still twitching. “Look at how full you are—fuck, you’re dripping, it’s leaking down your thighs, and it’s still warm in—” He groans, not even finishing the thought as he runs his fingers down to catch it, spreading the slick mess over your lower stomach before pressing it back into your folds like he can’t stand to waste a drop. “You were made to be full like this.”

He thrusts his hips forward once—just to feel the bulge press against your stretch again—and exhales something close to a sob.

“I want to keep you like this. Plugged.”

You barely catch your breath before he shifts again, guiding you back to all fours, but not letting go of your breast, tweaking the sensitive peak as your spine arches.

“Want to stretch you wider, ok ? ‘m gonna push deeper than last time. Make it stick.”

He presses into you again—slower this time, but deeper—and you feel every fat inch of him slide back inside, your walls fluttering around him in overstimulated spasms.

He groans loud, needy. “So fucking warm. So tight. You’re perfect. You know ? You were made for me— You take it so good— I could die.”

You whimper into the mattress, already unraveling.

“I’ll ruin this cunt until it remembers me,” he growls, losing himself in the thrust. “Every time you sit.” He goes harder, “Every time you walk.” Again, “You’ll feel me.”

He thrusts hard—brutal and fast now—slapping into you with the force of a fevered obsession. His hand claws at your hip, pulling you back into him like he can’t bear even a millisecond of distance.

“Tell me I can fill you again,” he begs, voice cracking. “T-tell me you want it—fuck—tell me I can keep going until there’s nothing left.”

“Jake—” You gasp, trying to push up on shaky arms, but he shoves you back down, pressing between your shoulder blades with possessive weight.

“Say it,” he groans. “Please, say I can wreck you. That you want it.”

“I—” your voice breaks as he hits a spot next to your cervix, so deep your toes curl. “Yes! Fuck, yes, Jake—don’t stop—!”

He loses it. One hand fists in your hair, the other gripping your waist so hard it bruise. He pounds into you, groaning curses and sweet nothings between breathless cries of your name, like he’s chanting a prayer.

“God, I’ve thought about this—fucking obsessed. Couldn’t sleep. Had to jerk off just thinking about this ass bouncing on me, this pussy milking me dry. You don’t know what you do to me—what you make me into.”

Every thrust feels like a claim. Every sound he rips from your throat is one more piece of you handed over. You thought he was prey—but he’s devouring you. He’s been playing the long game. And now that he’s got you?

He’s never letting go.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he pants, voice splintering with madness, like it’s the only truth keeping him tethered. “Tell me you’ll take it all again. I’ll pump you so full you’ll forget your name—only know mine. Tell me.”

“Jake—”

He snarls, hips slamming into you with dizzying rhythm, cock hitting a spot so deep your vision spots. “Tell me you want me to fill you until this tight little cunt can’t forget me. Until it stays open for me. Until no one else can even fit.”

Your whole body spasms. You reach back, fingers blindly digging into his hip, trying to hold onto something.

“I love it,” you cry out, head lolling back. “I love what you’re doing—I love you ruining me—Jake—fuck, I love it—!”

You feel him twitch inside, feel the moment he breaks again—spilling inside you like it’s the only thing he was ever meant to do. He stays buried deep, shaking, moaning, pressing his hips against you with frantic desperation still spilling the remaining seeds, like he wants to seal it inside.

He collapses forward, chest against your back, kissing your neck like a sinner desperate for mercy.

And then, softly—shattered and breathless—he begs again:

“You love it ?”

Your voice is wrecked, but you find it. “I-I love it, good boy— I love what you do to me.”

He exhales, trembling, and chuckling darkly into your skin. “Then I’m never stopping.”

And you believe him. Because you’re not the one holding the leash anymore. You never were probably. You just didn’t know how good it would feel to be the one hunted.

Your eyes flutter open to the soft drag of warm fabric between your thighs.

He’s there.

You blink the haze from your eyes, watching through half-lidded lashes as Jake crouches at the edge of the bed, his face pink and still damp, hair sticking to his forehead, shirtless, the early haze of dawn casting soft shadows on his skin. He’s focused, wiping you clean with shaking hands and too much gentleness for someone who left you gasping and broken just hours ago. Every inch of your body aches in places you didn't know could feel pleasure, And he’s biting his lip—focused, like touching you now requires permission.

You stir, but he doesn’t flinch. Just looks up at you slowly. His eyes are red-rimmed but not tired. They're quiet. Obsessively quiet. Like he’s holding himself back from crawling up and kissing every bruise he left.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “I—I went too far. I got lost. I couldn’t stop. You were so—” He breaks off, clenching the cloth in his fist. “I need you to know I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You blink. Not because you’re afraid. But because something in you knew. Deep down, you wanted to provoke this side of him. But still… you didn’t expect it to be so uncontainable.

So overwhelming.

So real.

“I’m okay, Jake” you say softly. He lets out a breath like it’s the first air he's had all morning. You reach for him—touch his jaw gently. He leans into it like it’s the only thing keeping him together.

“You ruined me,” he mumbles, kissing your hand slowly, voice low and trembling. “You don’t even know it. I can't think straight anymore. Can’t stop needing to make you feel everything I feel.”

Suddenly, you pull yourself up, trying not to look too exhausted. Your feet now set themselves on his thighs. Seeing him in this position, kneeling under you makes you exalted.

His Head bowed, hands folded in his lap, waiting. The silence is electric. His breath stutters, when your legs slowly part just enough for his eyes to drift upward.

“Is this what you want?” you ask, voice steady, even if you’re burning on the inside.

His eyes close for a second like it physically hurts to contain it. He nods with shame.

“Y-you know I do. P-please. I’ll do anything. You—you can hurt me, use me, ignore me—I don’t care. Just don’t make me stop loving you like this.”

Something in you softens and sharpens all at once.

You grip his jaw tighter. “Then show me what that looks like when I’m the one in control.”

He hesitated a bit. Then kneels his head on the floor—beautiful, trembling. You let him simmer for some minutes, then, you tilt his chin up, slowly, watching the way his eyes glaze the second you touch him. “If you want me,” you say quietly, “you’ll have me. But only on my terms. You’ll kneel like this. You’ll ask for everything. You’ll learn to wait.”

His breath catches. His hands dig into his thighs, and his gaze—still glassy—locks on yours with desperate intensity.

“And if I say no?” you ask, teasingly.

He leans forward without thinking, resting his cheek on your thigh, voice small and broken:

“Then I’ll wait until you say yes. Even if it kills me.”

Your fingers thread through his hair, stroking him, calming him—but also owning him. His eyes flutter shut, his breath syncing with yours, his whole body melting into that position like it’s where he was always meant to be.

You smile.

He doesn’t know it yet—but you’re going to let him have you again. You want him too.

But next time ? You’ll tame him just enough to remind him who he belongs to.

And if he snaps? God, you almost hope he does.

Because nothing has ever felt more like home than the arms of the beast who chose to kneel.

Thank you so much for reading!

This is my first time posting (even though my drafts folder's overflowing). I’ve been sitting on this idea for a while, and with Enha comeback hitting me hard, I finally said, “Screw it—just post it!”

Originally, this was meant to be a one-shot of mutli ver. Step bro enha, but the word count and inspo had other plans, so I split it into two parts:

Jake’s: HUNTED

Heeseung’s: TRAPPED

(And possibly a third: Sunghoon’s: CHAINED)

I’d really appreciate any feedback—good or bad! It helps me improve, and honestly, just knowing someone read it means the world 💗

I’ll be doing a bit of proofreading and maybe polishing up the rest if people are into it.

xoxo~ 💋

#I actually feel dizzy after typing all that out but I also feel better #yv.reviews #I don’t even remember my review tag my tags are all messed up 😭#yve favs 🖤#yve reccs!#I usually scream more in tags but I think I said everything I wanted to outside the tags this time dhkand #sorry for subjecting you to all my eight am thoughts #back to my daily life.#uhhhh the horrors

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