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hannieoftheyear · 21 hours ago

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while he's gone | ksy & hvc

𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒉𝒆'𝒔 𝒈𝒐𝒏𝒆 // 𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒚, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒈𝒐𝒕 𝒎𝒚 𝒏𝒖𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓.

★ pairing: vernon x f. reader; established hoshi x f. reader ★ genre: open relationship, fwb to lovers au; smut, fluff, lite angst ★ summary: your boyfriend's on tour, but vernon's still in town. ★ rating: explicit. minors do not interact with this or any of my work. ★ warnings: i am reiterating that this is an open relationship so there is NO CHEATING!! i don't wanna hear it!! soloist hoshi, producer vernon, i wax way too poetic about music and interior design, swearing, alcohol, use of pet names, one miscommunication, one tiny argument that gets resolved, discussions about polyamory. everyone being in love and down bad for one another. ★ smut warnings: mentions of threesomes, voyeurism (over the phone), dirty talk, oral sex, dry humping??, protected vaginal sex, marking/biting, multiple orgasms, sex toys, cuckolding, recording (photos/videos), masturbation, teasing, cum play/eating, lingerie. please tell me if i forgot anything! ★ wordcount: 12.6k ★ credits: cam (@highvern) for spreading the "hoshi holding vernon's head down" agenda far and wide. bee (@imnotshua) for telling me when my words don't make sense and fixing them. jess (@starlightkyeom) for reading this over. ★ author's note: more cursed thoughts thanks to a conversation about monsta x with @aeristudios. i've been wanting to write a fic based off "got my number" for ages, so here we are! a lil treat dedicated to @sailorsoons for girlbossing her ass off these last few weeks (and pulverizing her knee). i would also like to apologize to all the hansol truthers. i typed it out once and had a visceral reaction, much like i did using hoshi's government name, so he's just vernon.

Your boyfriend’s flight departed from Incheon just shy of four p.m., though he’d left the apartment long before that.

Needed time to make the hour and a half drive. Fix his hair and makeup before he hopped out and posed for Dispatch. Push his way through the horde of fans and to security, get his face scanned and passport checked. Needed time to make it to the privacy of his terminal lounge where he could catch his breath and lock himself in the bathroom. Needed time to send you a mirror selfie: hoodie unzipped to the middle of his bare sternum, hat pulled low to cover his eyes, tongue just barely peeking out from between his lips.

Made it 😘, it said.

Beneath that, even though the two of you have been through this exact scenario more times than you can count—even though it’s the same every time and he said all the same things as he was fucking you into the mattress last night and again this morning, as he was kissing you goodbye at the door hours ago:

Soonyoung: Love u babe. Gonna miss u sooo much~ I’ll text u every chance I can !! Soonyoung: Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do ㅋㅋㅋ just kidding don’t u dare behave Soonyoung: Send me pictures tho. What if I get lonely 😔

There was a thought: your boyfriend on tour, all alone between the cold, crisp sheets of his hotel bed, no one to occupy all that extra space. You’d snorted at that. Replied with the eye-roll emoji and wondered, privately, if he was going to meet up with the same old flames; if he was going to send you pictures with faces and bodies you recognized. Anticipation clawed its way up your spine and settled in your gut, left behind an insurmountable want.

Saying goodbye was always hard, but this part? It felt like Soonyoung held the forbidden fruit in his hand, sliced and fed to you on the point of a paring knife.

Delicious, in other words.

Whatever you and Vernon have fallen into can best be described as a foregone conclusion: Soonyoung leaves, Vernon arrives, and there’s no need for the discretion or the habit, but you can’t deny there’s a certain allure to it. It feels scandalous, dirty—something that only happens in a dark corner away from prying, garrulous eyes—even though it isn’t. Not really.

Soonyoung will be in Japan, Indonesia, Malaysia, Thailand; he’ll be in Berlin, Paris and London; he’ll go across North and South America. In every one of those places, someone will keep him company until he comes home to you. And, after every single time, you’ll have something in your inbox to mark the occasion—a text, some pictures, a video—because your boyfriend is nothing if not a pervert.

So no, the discretion isn’t necessary. You and Soonyoung are free to do as you please, both separately and together, which is how all of this started, anyway: his album release party, prod. by VERNON in the credits, you safely sequestered on the other side of a velvet rope. Not a secret, just… not out in the open, either, which was both a little embarrassing and difficult to explain to Vernon over the deafening, teeth-shattering background noise as he unabashedly hit on you.

He’d known, of course, that Soonyoung had been writing love songs about someone, but he hadn’t known it was you he’d helped him write about.

Not that it mattered much in the end. Soonyoung had slunk over, drunk on the spotlight and the status it afforded him, the most important man in the room, and looked Vernon dead in the eye. Pushed his tongue into the fat of his cheek, looked like a real sleazy piece of shit, and said, “You wanna fuck my girl?”

He did, admittedly, and Soonyoung had rewarded him for his honesty. Took both of you home and held Vernon’s head down as he told him how to eat you out, wet and messy and filthy. You came in record time, and a man that made you come in record time was not one you were itching to get rid of.

Vernon fucks you right and doesn’t ask a lot of questions you don’t have answers to. Doesn’t mind your unconventional relationship and definitely doesn’t mind recording the way you suck his cock: the way spit pools in the corners of your mouth and glistens under the flash; the way you moan around him as he rasps out husky praise; the way he says shit—fuck, baby, just like that, cock’s so far down your fuckin’ throat, huh; how wet your eyelashes are and the tears tracking down your cheeks.

Vernon fucks you right and doesn’t ask a lot of questions and calls Soonyoung hyung even though they’re colleagues, but that’s the sort of relationship you naturally fall into after you have a threesome and fuck said colleague’s girlfriend, you suppose, and Soonyoung doesn’t mind it. Because he’ll go away for whatever it is he gets called away for and Vernon will come over and tell you to ride him as he pulls out his phone and says shit like, “God, hyung, she’s about to come all over my cock. I don’t think she’s thinking about you at all. You aren’t, are you, baby? You’re not thinking about Soonyoung-hyung at all, are you? Only me,” between gasping, fractured moans.

And Soonyoung knows how that feels, is the thing. Knows the feeling of being suffocated in your tight, wet heat and how it can drive a man nearly to madness, and all he feels is pride. That’s his girl, bringing another man to his knees.

Hence the routine.

Normally you’d go out—a swanky new rooftop bar, a nightclub owned by a friend of a friend. Your drinks would glow neon blue under the blacklights, skinny red straw stuck in a plastic cup that matched the cherry at the bottom. Your skin would glisten with sweat as one of your friends twirled you around, kaleidoscope shapes behind your eyelids, both of you laughing breezy and sweet.

At some point throughout the night, Vernon would text you. You’d send him your location. He’d show up in an outfit contradicting the exclusivity of wherever you were, shower-soft, Sauvage on his wrists and neck, and he’d lean in close, ask if you wanted to stay or get out of there. Discarded on your bedroom floor, pooling at his feet in the club bathroom—it no longer mattered what he was wearing, because it never stayed on very long.

So here you are. While Soonyoung’s 800 kilometers away, undoubtedly trying to charm someone into his bed, you’re at home biding your time until the inevitable, no urge to go out. Instead, you indulge in yourself, work yourself up. Soonyoung, Vernon, both of them together—regardless of who you think about, the results are the same: you pinpoint the anticipation in your stomach and press, let your body sink beneath the weight of it.

Your boyfriend has only been in Osaka a handful of hours when the inevitable happens.

Vernon’s name lights up your screen. Transforms the slow simmer of expectation into full-blown wildfire. Has you squeezing your thighs together, bottom lip tugged between your teeth, when you open the text thread. Before tonight, the last time he’d texted you was three months ago: two o’clock in the morning, a video with a completely innocent thumbnail belying its content, already sent this to hyung but figured u might want it too written underneath.

Vernon: heard soonyoung hyung’s out of town for a while Vernon: what are u doing tonite

You exhale a soft laugh. As if Vernon just happened to stumble upon this information. As if he doesn’t already know what you’ll be getting up to tonight. As if he also isn’t falling victim to the desire. As if his lowercase letters and disregard for his ego with a double-text aren’t feigned nonchalance.

But just because you both know exactly where this is heading doesn’t mean you can’t have a little fun.

So you pull your shirt over your head and toss it aside. Open up your camera and angle your body the way you like: glossed lips parted, the bruise Soonyoung sucked into your skin this morning just beneath your collarbone, cleavage framed perfectly, curve of your ass center frame, both covered in cheeky forest green lace. You snap a photo and another one with a painted-on pout; snap a third as the tips of your fingers delve beneath the waistline of your panties.

You: [Attachment: 3 Images] You: Hopefully you?

At the receiving end, Vernon swears, drops his phone. Of course you’re bathed in his favorite color. Of course you’re wrapped in sheets he’s lucky enough to know the feel of. Dizzy, his breath catches in his throat; tries to stave off feeling like he’s in free-fall. He’s no stranger to this kind of insatiable hunger—becomes reacquainted with it every few months, in fact—but it always catches him unaware. Always comes back with such a vengeance, as if all the times before had simply been the prefix.

He grabs his jacket.

Vernon’s barely been at your place twenty minutes when your phone rings.

You groan as he rolls his cock against you, jeans undone but still sitting low on his hips, zipper biting into your skin every time he presses you further into the mattress. The next sound you make he swallows with his mouth. Moves his lips to the column of your throat, the underside of your jaw, the spot just beneath your ear. Takes your lobe between his teeth, asks, “Is it him?” and lets you feel the way he smirks.

Blindly, you reach toward the sound, that horrible scattering across your nightstand that makes your teeth ache. It must be Soonyoung because it’s relentless, another call just as the first one ends, and you’re trying, you really are, but Vernon’s relentless, too. Abandons your space, takes your common sense and all his heat with him as he sits back on his haunches and moves his hands beneath your ass; drags you closer until your cunt—still covered in that dark lace and growing darker the wetter you become—is back against his cock and ruts.

You’re speechless, head thrown back against the pillows, the synapses of your brain misfiring and coming up empty. Both of you are still clothed and Vernon’s still having his way with you; still smirking dirty and arrogant out of the side of his mouth. Almost looks like he’s sneering a little as he asks again, “What’s the matter, baby? Not gonna answer him?” At your continued silence, he amends, “Oh, or maybe you can’t?”

You want to roll your eyes, shut him up with some sharp retort, but he’s got you exactly where he wants you. It’s a place you don’t mind being, either, because whether it’s the way his thick cock feels rubbing against your clit or the result of months of waiting, it doesn’t matter, it all feels divine. Has your breathing labored and heavy, has sweat pricking at your skin, has Vernon staring down at you with a gaze so pointed it cuts through the haze.

So he makes the decision for you. Reaches over and grabs your phone, tucks it between his ear and his shoulder. Keeps his hands free so he can keep moving you against him and greets your boyfriend with a, “Sorry, hyung, she’s a little busy right now.”

You can hear Soonyoung’s bark of laughter from where you’re laying, and then more muted chattering. He must give Vernon instructions, because Vernon puts the phone on speaker and tosses it somewhere on the bed. “Hello, princess. Are you having fun?” All you can manage is an uh-huh that’s fractured in the middle, punctuated with another roll of Vernon’s hips. “Mm, you sound so good, baby. Miss hearing you like that already. Can I see you, too?”

Vernon catches your eye as he reaches for your phone again. Waits for your nod before he points the camera at you and switches it to FaceTime. You hear Soonyoung suck in a breath. Wonder what he looks like. If the low light of his hotel room casts amber shadows across his face that intensify his stare, sharpen it to a point. If he’s got his arm tucked behind his head, laissez-faire in that way that drives you crazy, sensual without having to try. You almost ask Vernon to see, but then Soonyoung clicks his tongue and says, “That set is your favorite, isn’t it?”

The man he’s addressing looks down at you, eyes full of stars. “Yeah, hyung,” Vernon says, and it’s breathy, barely counts as separate words. Through the camera, Soonyoung watches as Vernon runs his fingertips over the hickey he’d left, over the swell of your breast and the space between each rib. Watches as Vernon grips at the meat of your thigh; as his hands flex before he grabs at you again.

“You want to touch her, don’t you? Properly.” He watches as Vernon nods, the camera wobbling with the intensity of it. “Put your mouth on her, Vernon-ah—she loves that so much.”

You can hear the shit-eating lilt to his tone and you know he’s enjoying this. That he loves watching you. Loves that Vernon’s always so fucked up over you and that he gets to direct these scenes. Loves what he gets to experience with you: something enduring and impenetrable, something that grants him freedom and indulgence. Loves you, most of all, but there will be time for that later.

Right now, he wants to watch Vernon make a mess of you. Wants to watch him pull those little lace panties to the side and eat you out, fervent and messy. Wants to hear it when he starts sucking at your clit and you keen high in your throat. Wants to watch the way you grab at his hair and force him closer as you roll your hips and seek out your own undoing.

Right now, Vernon hands the phone to you. “There’s my pretty girl,” Soonyoung says, and your face grows hot—as hot as the hands that skim over your skin and move to take off your panties. Soonyoung loves this part—loves watching someone unwrap you like a present; loves the tension even when isn’t there for it—so you flip the camera so he can see. “Leave them on,” your boyfriend instructs. Vernon’s brows pinch together. “You know she wore that set just for you, so leave it on when you fuck her. Make a mess of it. Cum all over it and ruin it, and then maybe I’ll let you take my card to buy her a new one.”

Vernon’s eyes flutter closed, long lashes fanning across his ruddy cheeks, so fucking pretty.

Anticipation sinks its claws into you again. Feels like an eternity passes before Vernon’s hands start moving again. Before he presses the pads of his thumbs into your hips and the contact makes both of you gasp. Before he leans in closer and kisses all the places he’d left fingerprints. Kisses your stomach, hips, the tops of your thighs and down, down, down until he’s where you want him—until you can feel his breath against your cunt, goosebumps rising from the warmth.

You only tear your eyes away from him to look at Soonyoung. Even through the screen you can tell he’s growing restless: pupils blown wide, teeth worrying at his bottom lip, breathing unsteady. You reach for Vernon, thread your fingers through his hair and tug, and at his resulting whine Soonyoung flips his own camera. What greets you is an expanse of familiar tan skin, his defined abs, legs spread wide, cock curved and hard.

There isn’t an ounce of shame to be found as he palms at himself. Just a ghost of a touch before he squeezes at the base and groans. All the times you’ve watched him do this… you can imagine the way his head rolls back, lips parted, muscles tensing.

“You look so good,” you murmur, and there’s no telling who it’s directed at—because Soonyoung looks good, just as he always does, but Vernon is a vision.

Especially when he’s between your legs.

There’s a glimpse of a half-cocked smile before he flattens his tongue and delves between your folds, stealing the breath from your lungs. One stripe and then another, all parallel lines as he works you over. Wraps his arms around your hips and pulls you closer to his mouth, doubles his efforts, doesn’t pay any mind to the mess he’s making, both of the sheets and of you.

You tug harder at Vernon’s hair. Roll your hips in time with his tongue, both of you endlessly noisy. Vernon groans as he sucks at your clit and you feel the sparks like lightning. Feels like he’s making a mockery of you. Feels like all he knows is your pleasure. Feels like an eternity has passed since he’s worked you over like this, and Soonyoung must agree because he almost sounds whiny as he says, “God, I missed this. Missed seeing you two together.”

You dare a look. Soonyoung jerks himself slowly with a loose fist, drags it out, savors every second and shiver that dances up his spine. Hisses through his teeth when he gathers the precum at the tip and spreads it along the length of his shaft. You want to see his face. Want to see the way his dark hair falls into his eyes when he shudders and curves into himself, the crease that forms between his brows, his eyes when they’re glassy and unfocused.

But then Vernon does something with his mouth that has you crying out—a strangled sound halfway between shock and gratification. Has you mirroring the exact image you expected to see on Soonyoung’s face. There’s poetry in that, you think, and that’s the last thought you have before Vernon drags your orgasm from you and your world tilts on its axis.

When you come to, vision still out of focus and fuzzy around the edges, you’re covered in a thin sheen of sweat, your phone is lost somewhere in the duvet, and Vernon’s still between your legs.

You choke. Feel around desperately for your phone and can barely hold onto it, weak and trembling, all your energy drained. Try to clamp your thighs around Vernon’s head for some reprieve but he knows you too well, knows you can take it, so he forces them back open.

Bliss spreads like wildfire. Starts in your toes and works its way into your bloodstream. Feels like you’ve been carved out of kerosene and matchsticks. It’ll be Vernon, you know—he’ll be the catalyst, light the spark that consumes and overwhelms you.

Especially when he’s like this.

When you’re the only thing that exists to him. When he’d forego pleasure for the rest of his life if it meant drowning in your pussy and getting you off. When he pays no mind to your boyfriend’s obscene goading—“Can you taste me, Vernon-ah? Did she tell you I filled her up this morning? That it was so much it was leaking out of her?”—and stays focused on you. When he runs two fingers through your mess and presses them inside, right against the spot that nearly folds you in half, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, pressure mounting.

“Oh my god. Vernon, please, it’s too much, I’m gonna—”

You feel him smile against your cunt. Pulls back only far enough to bite at the juncture of your thigh and say, “I know you can take it,” in his hoarse voice. With lips that are covered in you. “You’re gonna come again, aren’t you, baby? And you’re gonna be a good girl and soak through these fucking sheets while your boyfriend has to jerk himself off.”

That’s exactly what happens.

The cord inside you snaps. Soonyoung swears as he watches you come again, body pulling taut, Vernon’s name spilling from your lips like a mantra. Vernon’s on you immediately, setting the phone on your nightstand and kissing you senseless. Lets you taste yourself and the way you claimed him. Slots his body between your legs, careful as he presses against you because he knows how oversensitive you get. Waits until the tremors subside and he can feel you tracing shapes against his back before he murmurs a quiet okay? into your ear.

It takes a second for you to nod, but you do.

Vernon looks to his right at your phone. “Still want her fully dressed, hyung? She’s made a pretty big mess already.”

Soonyoung laughs, breathy and a little disbelieving. He loves this part, too, when Vernon dishes back as good as he gets. Both of them know it’s not a competition and would never treat it as one, but Soonyoung can’t help himself sometimes. Loves to stir shit just because he can—because Vernon is younger and looks up to him, but also because you like Vernon and he enjoys teasing you just as much.

So Soonyoung laughs. Asks, “How are you feeling, pretty girl? You want him to fuck you?” and continues stroking himself, pace leisurely, cock glistening with spit and precum, balls tight.

He’s always affected.

And so are you. You nod. Readjust your body beneath Vernon’s so he can press in tighter, so you can wrap your legs around his waist and delight in the sounds he makes—first like the breath’s been punched out of him, then more intentional as the electricity ebbs away and settles into his bones. His fingers grip at your thigh, movements fluid as he rocks his hips, unconcerned with the stickiness seeping through the fabric of his briefs.

Vernon wants you every second of every single day, and he doesn’t care who knows it.

You move your hands to his face. Let your thumbs rest on the high points of his cheekbones and settle into the contours there. Press your lips to his and lick into his mouth, all teeth and tongue and no savoir-faire. Vernon responds in kind. Starts moving frenetic and mindless, vehemence making up for his lack of composure, swallowing everything you give him.

Fucks you up a little that he still tastes like you—that you’re not all that easy to rinse out.

“Shit,” he swears, slurring the word against your mouth, lips bitten red and swollen. “Need you so bad, baby, please.”

Your vision swims, the raw urgency in Vernon’s tone making everything look like television static. All you can do is nod, spread your legs wider, press your body into him and hope he knows what to do with it, but he needs you to say it. “Tell me,” he says, settling a hand around your throat. Not tight—just so he can feel your words, just so he knows they’re there. “Tell me you want me. Tell me how you want me to give it to you.”

“Want you. Wanna ride you,” you answer. “Wanna be able to look at you. So pretty, Nonie—you look so pretty when you cum, I wanna see it.”

Vernon swears again. Sits back and has his jeans and underwear pulled off before you can process what’s happening, rolls on a condom, and that’s where you meet him, in the center of the bed. You move into the space between his spread legs, drape your arms over his shoulders as your knees bracket his hips, spit into your hand and work it over his cock, thumbing at the head just to make him whine.

“Babe—”

And then you’re pulling your panties to the side and sinking down on it.

The stretch is overwhelming. Steals the air from your lungs. Has Vernon pressing his forehead to yours, sharing your breath, dimpling your hips with bruising fingerprints. “Slow,” he pleads, and you’d give him anything, so you kiss the spot just beneath his eye, say okay, okay, and turn your attention to Soonyoung.

Not far off from how you’d left him: touching himself with reverence, not an ounce of shame to be found; sounds spilling from his lips that sound like home. He doesn’t notice you watching, but it doesn’t matter, he’s a performer in every aspect of his life. Thrives when he’s under the spotlight, demanding everyone’s attention, all eyes on him. Sex is no different. Always goes into it with eyes wide open, so you’re not surprised when he feels yours on him. When he says, “What’s the matter, princess?”

Beneath you, Vernon’s starting to gather his bearings. Thrusts slow and shallow and groans. “Did you bring it?” you ask Soonyoung, trying to keep your voice steady as Vernon fucks into you.

“The—”

“Yes,” you interject, already knowing what he was going to ask. Shit, Vernon feels so good. “Get it out. Use it. Wanna see you cum that way.”

Soonyoung swears. Says, “Fuck—god, yeah, I’ll get it,” and disappears from the screen. Vernon’s lips move to your chest, your neck, your mouth. He’s moving in earnest, now—doesn’t care what he sounds like, that he’s devolved into staccato whines and half-syllables. Doesn’t care about the mess between your legs.

Doesn’t care that when Soonyoung comes back onto the screen, you’re wholly focused on him, grinning pleased and wicked. If you want him to work for it, he will. If you want him to give it to you so good you’re not even thinking about your boyfriend, that’s what he’s going to do. If you want him to fuck you so hard you can’t even speak, well, that’s the goal.

So he doubles his efforts. Plants his feet on the bed and uses the leverage to bury himself as deep in you as he can. He’s done this enough to know his angles, know how to have you dripping and shaking, but he wants to savor this. Wants to drag it out for you. Some sick, selfish part of him wants this to be the fuck you’re thinking about later as you’re about to drift to sleep even though you aren’t his to claim. Not like that, anyway. He can still paint you in bruises that match Soonyoung’s, undecipherable from one another. No telling what’s his work and what’s Vernon’s.

“Tell me what to do.”

Vernon glances sideways. Watches as his hyung dribbles lube all over his cock, slicks himself up. Glances at you and sees you watching. Sees the way your jaw ticks, your eyes darken. Can feel how endless your love is for Soonyoung and he wants to burn up.

But then you say, “Fuck yourself the way Vernonie’s fucking me,” and the words soothe over him like a balm. Even more so when Soonyoung listens; when he grabs the pocket pussy and works it slowly down his shaft, moaning long and drawn out the entire way.

“God, I’m about to fucking bust.” Soonyoung laughs. “Tell me how he’s fucking you, pretty girl. Bet it feels even better than this, huh? Bet he’s making you feel so good.”

Everyone’s about to make an early exit at this rate. Vernon tells (begs) him to shut up in so many words. Tries to focus on himself, thinks about every terrible thing in the world to stave it off, but the way you’re nodding along with Soonyoung’s words are hurtling him towards the end at record speed. The way you look at Vernon with constellations in your eyes. The way you’re reduced to mindless babbling, all your words slurring together as you say, “It’s so good. So good, Soonyoungie, he’s so deep, fucks me so good, god I’m gonna come again—”

Vernon panics, bites at your collar bone, knows he wouldn’t survive feeling you clench around his cock. Tells you, “Not yet,” even though he’s barely able to choke out the words; even though he can barely endure you now, cunt spasming, walls fluttering around him. The unbelievable white-hot heat, the vice grip. Fuck, he wants to do this every day. Wants to do this for the rest of his life.

And you must be able to tell. Must see how spaced out he looks, because you move your hands to the center of his chest and dig your nails in, urge him backwards until he’s propped up on one elbow. This is what Vernon sees when he closes his eyes, when it’s been months since he’s seen you and he’s cumming all over his fist: the lines of his own body, the coarse strip of hair that leads from his stomach to where your bodies connect; you on top of him, hips sinuous and sinful as you circle them.

You put on a show of your own. Move your hands to his knees and spread your legs wider. Vernon’s cock looks obscene inside of you, trapped beneath your lace panties, so he grabs your phone, makes sure Soonyoung can see what he’s seeing. Makes sure Soonyoung can see the sheen your wetness leaves on his skin as you grind back and forth on him. Makes sure Soonyoung can hear the slapping of your and Vernon’s skin, the way your pussy squelches, how lewd everything sounds in the still air of the bedroom the two of you share.

“Jesus—fuck,” Soonyoung says down the line, voice metallic and fucked out. “You two are so goddamn hot together. Make her come, Vernon-ah, and then I wanna see her covered in you. Wanna see you ruin my pretty girl.”

Vernon shudders and nearly folds in on himself. Grabs your hip to slow your movements, refusing to get off before you, but you’re determined. Your grin is devilish as you move his hand to your clit and tell him to get to work. As you lean forward briefly to kiss him before you’re moving in earnest again, more intentional than before, and it’s all Vernon can do to stay conscious. All of it’s too much: the way you look above him, head thrown back, the marks he’d left on your throat; the way you’re able to handle both of them at once, riding Vernon into the mattress while you talk Soonyoung over the edge, the most filthy words spilling out of your mouth.

The way you gasp as Vernon thumbs circles against your clit and reach for his hand, trying to ground yourself as your pussy clenches, as you barely have time to stammer out the words before you’re coming on his cock.

“Shit, shit, shit.” Vernon pulls out, almost cries at no longer being enveloped in your heat, pulls off the condom and fists his cock once, twice, and then watches, entranced, as he does what his hyung said and covers you in cum.

Your tits, your stomach, the fabric of your panties.

For a moment, everything is quiet, everyone still coming down and trying to catch their breath. You’re spent, exhausted and satiated in ways you haven’t been in months. Every muscle in your body feels overworked. Your throat feels raw. Every inch of skin that’s bruised feels like a branding iron, and it is, you suppose. Soonyoung’s, Vernon’s, it doesn’t matter—you wear them both.

“Don’t wash those,” comes Soonyoung’s voice.

It takes you a second to realize what he means. “My panties?” you ask, shock apparent. You’d known he was a freak, of course, but the depths of his perversion continue to surprise you. “Soonyoung…”

“Don’t kink shame me, princess, I’m covered in my own jizz and I need another shower. I came so hard I think I had religious visions. How’re you feeling, Vernon-ah?”

The man in question doesn’t answer. You’d think he was asleep with his eyes open if you knew he was capable of it, but that’s not what’s going on. Vernon’s fixated on you. Can’t tear his eyes off of you and the cum that’s drying into your skin, and you know you shouldn’t, that you should give him a break, but there’s no fun in that, so you trail your fingers through the mess on your stomach and suck them into your mouth.

“Yeah, don’t need to ask after that. Goddamn. I’m gonna go shower before you get me hard again. Good luck with her.”

The call disconnects. In the aftermath, the silence is almost stifling, almost makes you feel a sense of guilt that’s entirely undeserved, but then Vernon’s sitting up and crowding your space, hands behind your back as he works at the knots he finds there. Pulls you in closer. Presses a spun-sugar kiss to your forehead that makes your heart skip a beat.

The thing is, though: he doesn’t stay.

It’s not a rule. It’s not something Soonyoung requested to keep some semblance of boundaries in your relationship. He doesn’t care, and neither do you, but Vernon does. Doesn’t want to overstep and muddy the lines. Doesn’t want to make it seem like more than it is, and you’ve always been fine with that, but something about this time feels different. Strikes you someplace deep, hidden away, tucked behind your ribs. Vernon runs you a bath and changes the sheets while you’re soaking your aching muscles and when you’re tucked into bed, he presses another kiss to your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose, the corner of your mouth. Promises to text you later in the week.

And then he lets himself out.

You’re still awake an hour later when your phone lights up with a string of texts, and you force yourself not to think about what it means that you’re disappointed it isn’t Vernon.

Soonyoung: Going to sleep. The two of u wore me out ㅋㅋㅋ Soonyoung: I’ll text u in the morning. Got an early day tomorrow 😭 Soonyoung: Love u baby. Sleep tight ❤️

With Soonyoung in Paris, it’s hard to make the time difference work.

Seven hours usually isn’t a problem—it’s worse when he goes to the Americas, for example—but it’s been weeks since your technological ménage à trois and you aren’t feeling any less unsettled. All you want to do is talk to him. Ask him what the hell is going on with you, why you can’t seem to shake this, what it all means, but it just never works out.

Not the right time. Not enough time. Soonyoung often has his own plans that keep him occupied until the early hours of the morning wherever he is, and by then he’s too exhausted and you’ve been awake for hours, already well into the monotony of your day.

Still, it eats at you. Makes you feel guilty in ways you can’t rationalize. You know you haven’t done anything wrong. Haven’t done anything you haven’t done plenty of times before; haven’t done anything Soonyoung isn’t also doing when he’s not around to answer your calls. And that’s fine—even though it’s unconventional to most, you love the dynamic the two of you have. Wouldn’t change it for anything except Soonyoung himself, so you know he’s not the point of contention.

No, it’s you—you’re the problem here.

Something’s changed, but whatever it is isn’t all that keen to let you in on the secret yet.

So you do your best to push it down and swallow it. You go to work. You meet your friends for dinner and drinks. You suffer through your gym sessions just to give the anxiety and jitters someplace to go. You clean your and Soonyoung’s apartment top to bottom until there’s not a speck of dust to be found and all the countertops start to squeak. You go shopping and charge whatever you want to Soonyoung’s credit card because he’d want you to.

None of it works.

It’s no wonder, then, that you break by the time Soonyoung gets to Paris. That you’re sending up flares and paying little attention to the time difference. That you text him—

You: Can you make some time to call me today? You: I don’t care about the time. You: It’s nothing bad, I promise. Just need/want to talk to you.

—and expect something, anything, in return: the familiarity of his tone, his overuse of emojis, the way he always calls on FaceTime and always greets you barefaced and with a relieved smile, like you’re the only thing he wants to see at the end of a long day. You expect him to say anything for my girl—or, at the very least, can’t today baby 🙁 I’m so sorry, but I’ll have time tomorrow and I’ll call first thing, ok ??

You don’t get any of that.

What you get is silence.

Your texts go unanswered. He doesn’t call. You double-check your calendar just to confirm you hadn’t gotten the date confused, but he doesn’t have a show tonight. Rehearsal and a team dinner, maybe, but nothing that should make him so unavailable to you.

Well, except one very obvious thing.

There’s a flashbang of hurt you immediately try to tamper down. Soonyoung can’t read your mind. He’s never ignored you when you’ve needed him or given you reason to believe he’d do something like this intentionally and maliciously—not to mention that the arrangement the two of you have has never been an issue before, so it’s nothing to get upset over. You know it’s nothing to get upset over, but knowing doesn’t suck the poison out.

A temporary lapse in communication is all this is. You’ve survived worse.

It’s just—

This shapeless, undefinable thing that’s clawed its way inside of you isn’t going anywhere. And you can deal with the stopgap emotions until you’re able to put a name to it—the anger and confusion, the abstract betrayal—but it’s always easiest to carry burdens with two sets of hands, is all.

Hours tick by. What was two hours without a response turns into four; four turns into six turns into you readying yourself for bed and spending the night tossing and turning, checking your phone every time you awake in the middle of the night. When your alarm goes off at eight o’clock and there’s still nothing, all those ugly feelings come swimming back to the surface.

Your first call rings and rings until it goes to voicemail.

So does the second.

Soonyoung answers the third out of breath, voice gravelly. A woman’s laughter greets you before he can, and for the first time ever, it makes you sick to your stomach. Makes you wonder what the fuck you’re doing. Has your hands trembling, all your words stuck in your throat, frustrated tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

Another twinkling laugh that your boyfriend responds to with a husky one of his own. “Hello? Hi, baby, I’m a little—”

Busy, he’s going to say. You’ve gathered as much. Busy is laughing in your ear, probably has her hands all over him, and it’s always been like this, the sharing and the nonexistence of possessiveness, but you come first. That’s the rule. Both of you come first to one another, so busy isn’t acceptable. Busy has resentment biting at your heels. Has your blood pressure spiking, your skin flushing hot.

Has you cutting him off, saying, “So busy you couldn’t answer my fucking texts?” with so much animosity all noise at the other end of the line immediately ceases.

You hear footsteps and the shutting of a door, the turn of a lock. “Okay, I’m alone,” he murmurs softly; you wish it did anything to comfort you. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”

A laugh of your own, derisive and disbelieving. “Yeah, that’s what I’ve been trying to do.”

You’re not about to spill your guts when Busy is in the next room over touching herself so she’s primed and ready to go when your boyfriend ends the call, goes back into the bedroom and says, sorry about that, and climbs back on top of her. You’re not about to spill your guts and feel like an inconvenience.

So you scoff and shake your head, say, “You know what, Soonyoung? Don’t even worry about it. Go back to fucking whoever the fuck she is and forget I even called.”

“Baby, come on, wait—”

You’re not about to spill your guts, so you rewrite the script.

You end the call. You ignore the texts that follow.

You text Vernon and ask if he’s free after work.

He is.

Vernon gets done work a little after ten.

You get off the train a few stops early and decide to walk the rest of the way. It’s been so long since you’ve done this. Since you’ve breathed in the smell of the samgyaetang and dakgalbi restaurants, the tteokbokki and bungeoppang from the street food vendors. Since you’ve thought the neon lights of Hongdae Street were going to blind you and shielded your eyes. Since you’ve walked by groups of friends posing for selfies in the middle of the sidewalk, apple cheeks from wide smiles pressed together; couples doubled over in laughter as they try to jump on one another’s backs. Since you’ve watched patrons stumble out of bars and clubs with queues to get in, faces flushed from the alcohol they’ve already consumed.

Vernon lives in Mapo, in an artsy high-rise in Seogyo-dong. New construction that’s meant to look much older, meant to resemble the industrial loft apartments found in older American cities, warehouses made irrelevant as the 21st century moved in and took hold. They’re all exposed brick, twenty-pane windows, concrete floors, neo-expressionist paintings hung in the lobby.

A block away, a bingsu restaurant is closed until the next afternoon, but it’s what lies beneath that piques your interest: a basement rock bar, show flyers plastered all over the door, live music pounding the pavement and spilling onto the sidewalk.

You’re in the lungs of the city, and it’s every bit as alive as you expected—and hoped—it would be.

You feel at home here, surrounded by people and nightlife and unrelenting noise. Where you and Soonyoung live isn’t dissimilar, just different—more refined and inhibited, more concerned with appearances than letting loose. You’ve gotten good at rubbing elbows with those types of people, as necessary and inevitable as it is, but sometimes you just miss the unpolished grime of ordinary people.

Vernon’s outside waiting for you when you reach his building.

Hat pulled low over his eyes. An oversized black hoodie that drowns his lithe frame, makes him look smaller than he is. Face lit up by the glow from his phone. A lollipop stuck in his mouth that he presses into the fat of his cheek when he looks up, sees you, and smiles.

“Hi,” he greets you, arms twitching at his sides, unsure of what to do—what’s okay, what isn’t. If he’s allowed to be affectionate with you in public. If anyone can know, even though you’re no one to these people and he’s as out of the spotlight as you are.

So you make the decision for him. Place a hand on his waist, lean in and press a kiss to his cheek. When you pull back, his cheeks are the same shade of cherry red as his lips and tongue. He ducks his head, tries to hide it, but there might as well be a flashing sign above his head to signal his embarrassment. “Oh,” he says quietly, touching the spot where you’d kissed him.

You swallow. The Vernon standing in front of you is a stark contrast to the one you fall into bed with. This one is all soft, rounded edges: shy, chivalrous, almost self-conscious—the kind that wouldn’t bruise if you bumped into him. You try to ignore the way your heart is hammering away in your chest, but the duality is making your head spin.

“Do you want to grab a drink first, or should we just…” He trails off, coughing to cover himself when all you do is quirk an eyebrow just to see if you can get him to blush again. “There’s a pretty cool LP bar down that way, if you’d be into that sorta thing? But I also have vinyl at my place, so I guess it doesn’t—”

You know laughing will only mortify him more, but you can’t help it. “Are you nervous?”

“No,” comes his automatic response.

“Are you sure?” you tease, watching as his fingers—covered to the second knuckle by his sleeves—worry insistently at the fabric of his hoodie. He flushes again, mouth opening and closing around words that don’t materialize, and it’s almost painful how endeared you are by him. “Come on, then,” you say, deciding to put him out of his misery, “show me this pretty cool bar.”

It’s a short walk, only a few blocks, but Vernon sets a slow pace and holds your hand anyway. Neither of you acknowledge that his is sweat-slick, and you can tell he’s thankful for this bit of reprieve. Must help him settle, because it isn’t long before he starts yapping away, animated and buoyant. He talks about work, about the album he’s mastering and how he hasn’t yet gotten the sidechain compression on the bass where he wants it. Tells you about a group the company recently put together that he’s excited about and thinks could be really successful.

“I don’t see them much since they’re always at practice,” he explains, slowing further as you approach a convenience store, “but when they have free time some of ‘em like to sit in the studio and watch me work. This GS25 gave me a black eye once.”

“What?”

He sounds straight out of a nature documentary as he tells you the story. How he’d wanted convenience store ramen because they had a 1+1, and on the way decided he needed a Yonsei bread, too, except he was piss drunk and didn’t realize the doors weren’t automatic, so yeah—hence the black eye. And it’s not particularly funny, but you laugh until your stomach hurts anyway; laugh until both of you are off-kilter from it, shoulders knocking into one another, tears blurring your vision and making the city look crystalline.

You laugh all the way to the bar, and Vernon only lets go of you to open the door and help you inside, hand reassuring and warm when it moves to the small of your back.

A two-seater table is open in the far corner. You sit with your back to the wall and a Blondie poster above your head, content to take in the view. Vernon’s content to let you. Asks what you’d like to drink and doesn’t bat an eye when you request a midori sour. You throw him an exaggerated wink as you say, “If you ask them to put a cherry in it, I’ll show you a magic trick.”

Vernon nearly cums on the spot.

But he does as you say. Returns to the table with two drinks and a pencil and paper. “For your song requests,” he explains when he sees you eyeing it.

“Thank you,” you say, taking your midori sour from him. “What are you gonna request? And what are you drinking?”

“It’s a Coke and something,” he answers, “but I’m not telling you what.” You roll your lips to keep from laughing. As if you couldn’t smell the coconut from across the bar. As if you can’t smell it on him now, when all you can think about is if you’ll be able to taste it on him later when he’s licking into your mouth. “I think you promised me a magic trick.”

A group of American girls taught you this in university, back when you were a starry-eyed freshman completely out of your comfort zone, friendless, more wallflower than functioning human. You just need a party trick, one of them had said, something to break the ice, and that’s how you learned to tie a cherry stem with your tongue.

Just like all those impressionable, hormone-riddled college boys, Vernon is stunned when you stick out your tongue to present it to him. Gets that dazed, faraway look in his eyes; has to clear his throat to get his lungs working again. Turns the tables on you when he reaches out and grabs it, putting it in his pocket for safekeeping, and then it’s you who feels like they’ve been punched in the chest.

It’s maddening, how oblivious he is to the effect he has on you.

“Did I ever tell you I was born in New York?” He drums the pencil against the table. Looks around the bar that’s grown steadily busier. “I moved here when I was five so I don’t really remember much, but it’s always felt like this huge part of me, so I went through this phase a few years ago—read a ton of books on the history of the music scene there, listened to all the albums they said were influential.”

You jot down some songs. “And? What was your verdict?”

He takes a sip of his drink. Laughs a little as he scratches at the back of his neck. “I got really into Tom Tom Club,” he answers. “You know Talking Heads, right? Tom Tom Club was the side project of the drummer and the bassist of that band. Husband and wife.”

Over the speakers, a bluesy folk song starts playing, soft and melodic. You’re not as musically inclined as your boyfriend or the man across from you, but you’re still able to be moved by it. Still able to appreciate in others when they love something so much it becomes tangible. When a bluesy folk song starts playing in a bar and it brings a smile to Vernon’s face. When he talks about artists and albums he’s discovered and speaks with all the reverence of an archaeologist digging up ancient riches thought to be long-forgotten. When you glance at the songs you’ve written down and don’t have to worry that they won’t be cool enough, because everyone here just loves music, no matter what form it takes; are able to find something to appreciate everywhere they look.

“Talking Heads had already put out, like, four or five albums I think by the time Tom Tom Club formed,” Vernon continues. His drink is almost gone. “But David Byrne had released some solo stuff by then with Brian Eno, so they wanted to do something, too, and what they made was this really funky, kind of unexpected new wave album.

“They did some really weird stuff production-wise—103 bpm when everyone else was doing 120, deliberately tuning Tina Weymouth’s bass to 150 hertz, using a really crunchy synth. I find myself going back to it every time I get stuck, mostly because it’s the sort of thing you can listen to and feel how much they loved making music.” He pauses. Almost looks horrified when he sees there’s nothing left in his glass but half-melted ice. “I—oh my god, I’m sorry, I can’t believe I’ve been talking your ear off about this.”

Head tilted to the side, you smile. “We’re in a music bar,” you deadpan. “I’d go so far as to say we’re in the perfect place for you to talk my ear off about this.”

“Yeah, but—” You give him a look that has him holding his hands up. “Okay, okay! I’ll go refill our drinks since it’s the least I can do. Do you have your…?”

That aforementioned smile morphs into something more mischievous when you hand him your slip of paper. You watch as he looks it over, nods at the picks he thinks were in good taste: “Dreams” by The Cranberries, “Don’t Push It Don’t Force It” by Leon Haywood, “Smalltown Boy” by Bronski Beat, “When I Come Around” by Green Day just to take the piss out of Vernon, who seems to have an endless collection of faded, worn Green Day t-shirts with loose necklines. Then, you watch as he gets to the last song on your list and his brows furrow.

He looks up at you. Even against the dark backdrop of the bar, against the red green blue lights casting technicolor shapes across his forehead, his cheeks, you can tell Vernon is stunned. Can see how wide his pupils have blown.

There, at the bottom of your list, is “Fantasy” by Mariah Carey.

Arguably the most well-known song to sample “Genius of Love” by Tom Tom Club.

Vernon’s apartment has three bedrooms.

One is used as a home studio, with a massive L-shaped desk that nearly takes up the entire room. In the middle, a laptop hooked up to a massive curved monitor with immaculate resolution, flanked on each side by monitor speakers. Stereo receiver. Preamps and input patch bays. A midi controller and a drum machine.

The rest of the room is taken up by instruments. An upright piano against one wall, clearly purchased secondhand; beside it, a two-tiered stand containing a keyboard and analog synthesizer. Two electric guitars, one acoustic, one bass. More microphones and over-ear headphones than you’ve ever seen in a single room.

Another resembles the LP bar: two walls of floor-to-ceiling built-ins that house his extensive vinyl collection, sorted first by genre then alphabetically. More records sit in milk crates on the floor, waiting to be catalogued and put away. To the right, on the only remaining wall that isn’t fully windows, sits a vintage credenza, most likely Japanese mid-century. You don’t have to ask—just by looking at it, you can tell Vernon’s hi-fi setup is top of the line, each item carefully chosen after hours of research and trial and error. Two plush armchairs, angled toward one another. Colorful shag rug.

His actual bedroom contains none of those things, but there are still touches of him everywhere.

Framed prints from his favorite artists and films. A concerning number of plain white t-shirts hung on a chrome clothing rack. On his nightstand, a well-used Replica candle (Jazz Club; smells like him) sits atop a stack of books with neon spines: Virgil Abloh. Nike. ICONS, Sofia Coppola Archive, Yoshitomo Nara. There’s a lamp on his dresser meant to look like entrance beacons of the New York City subway. Above his bed hangs a neon sign of Basquiat’s Beat Bop album cover, and on the floor, a black and white checkered rug.

As for the rest—well, you hadn’t been given much time to admire it before Vernon was laying you in the middle of the bed and kissing you breathless.

(It does taste like coconut when he licks into your mouth.)

And it isn’t like you needed a reminder—you never do with Vernon—but it serves as one anyway. That the two of you spent the last few hours of a Friday night drinking together in a bar, laughing at one another’s song requests, laughing at Vernon’s drinks mixed with coconut rum, laughing in general. That it’d taken a few rounds, but after the laughter faded and he plucked up the courage, he asked about your and Soonyoung’s relationship: how you met, how it started, how it works. That you answered all his questions because there was only curiosity beneath them.

That he paid your tab and held your hand as you left, giddy and eager to get back to his place. That when the two of you reached an intersection, no walking sign lit up, he pressed his chest to your back and wrapped his arms around your shoulders, pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

That when you passed the GS25, you cracked a joke and asked Vernon if he wanted to stop and get ramen and Yonsei bread.

That he’d clenched his jaw and sent you a look that was pure heat; grabbed you by the waist and leaned in close, whispered in your ear, “I’ve been ready to bust in my fucking pants since you decided to torture me with that cherry, so I’m not doing a fucking thing that isn’t taking you back to my place and making you come over and over.”

Now here you are.

Vernon’s pace is bruising. It’s frenzied and unpredictable, like he’s trying to prove a point. What it is, you don’t know, but you find it hard to care when he’s like this. When he sheds his shyness like a second skin and is brazen in the way he wants you. When you’ve crossed the threshold of his bedroom and he makes it clear selfishness doesn’t exist here—that all you have to do is lay claim to what he’s willing to give.

And maybe that’s the thing: you can’t put a name to what you want. “Everything” feels too heavy, too much. When it’s exactly what’s on offer, it feels like the weight of the world. I couldn’t possibly ask for that, you think, and Vernon is right behind you asking, Why can’t you?

So you’ll take it, for now. You’ll let Vernon’s deft fingers undress you with reverence and you’ll claw at his back and help him pull his hoodie over his head. You’ll revel in his proximity; how it never, ever feels like he’s close enough. You’ll steal the breath from his lungs and wrap your legs around his waist to keep him draped over you like chiffon. And the first time your phone vibrates you’ll ignore it. The second and third times, too.

When it doesn’t let up, Vernon pulls back. Asks, “Is that…? Should I grab it?”

You only have a split-second to decide how things are going to play out—not only this, right here, but everything that comes after. You and Soonyoung come first to one another, but you still feel scorned. A bit petty. Hi, baby, I’m a little busy, still feels like a bruise; has hurt coursing you like it came from a blood bag.

So you thread your fingers through his hair—impossibly soft; the color of molten chocolate—until they’re resting at the back of his neck. Bring his mouth back to yours and let the taste of him transport you someplace else. Vernon groans as he fits his hands to the curve of your waist.

Your phone is still ringing. Vernon opens his mouth and you shake your head. “No,” you answer, voice unwavering, “this one’s just for us.” He stares down at you. Everything he’s feeling shows clearly on his face, but it’s still undecipherable: the push and pull of the tide, always changing. “Kiss me.”

He does. Whatever fire had consumed him earlier has cooled off considerably, replaced only with the need for closeness. Every press of his mouth against your body is delicate. Every brush of his fingertips and knuckles against your skin is tender. When he kisses down your body and makes you come with his tongue, it isn’t booming fireworks but a quiet gasp into the crook of your elbow.

When he rolls on a condom and presses into you, he twines your fingers together again, and they aren’t sweaty. When he rests his forehead on your shoulder, the words he speaks against you are full of velvet praise. When he moves his hips, the sound of his skin against yours reminds you of a symphony: adagios bookended by scherzos, culminating in a shared finale that leaves you both glowing and euphoric.

Four a.m. looks different from Vernon’s apartment.

More down to earth, not as deep into the clouds. You’ve called Seoul home for the entirety of your adult life, but you’re still learning its secrets. Here, on Vernon’s side of the city, it’s more lively. Sleeps less. You watch as dot-sized people duck in and out of 24/7 shops; as groups of friends converge and separate like starling murmuration. You watch through bleary eyes as the city lights start to blur together.

This is where Vernon finds you, sitting on his living room floor, knees tucked against your chest.

Wordlessly, he sits beside you. Stretches his legs out, hands planted on the rug behind him. He’s close enough that you can feel the warmth still stuck to his skin, see every breath he takes from the corner of your eye. And you think you should say something—maybe apologize if you woke him—but four a.m. is built for silence.

Minutes pass. The traffic signals go through their sequence, green yellow red green yellow. The stream of dot-sized people remains steady. The man beside you is steady, too, but he’s also perceptive, and usually it’s a perception that lets you initiate, come closer once you’re ready, doesn’t push. Not this time. This time, he turns to face you and studies your profile. Must notice something, because his eyes narrow, perfect brows pinching in the middle. “You okay?” You nod. Give him a smile you hope is convincing. Four a.m. is a lot of things, but it doesn’t feel like the time or place for this kind of revelation.

Because you like him.

Something of this magnitude should feel world-altering, you think, but it doesn’t. Even if it was subconscious, you’ve known this, so it feels the same as when you look at the sky and see it’s blue, when you look at the grass and it’s green—the universe as advertised and in perfect working order. The way things are meant to be.

But you aren’t sure where the lines are drawn anymore, or if there’s anything left of them at all. Both you and Soonyoung have been here before: feelings that came out of nowhere, hookups that left a more lasting impression than others, the occasional short-term fling. All of it was within the boundaries of your relationship, but something about this—about Vernon—feels different. Feels like something you don’t want to lose.

You suck in a deep breath. “I’m okay,” you confirm, “I just… there are things I need to talk to Soonyoung about, I think.”

Vernon nods. “I figured as much with all the phone calls.”

And because it feels like something you don’t want to lose, you need to be honest. “We got into an argument yesterday morning, before I texted you. It wasn’t—I don’t even know if I’d actually call it an argument, really, because I just got pissed and hung up, but.” You sigh. Place your chin on top of your knees. “I needed to tell you that, because I don’t want it to seem like I used you. It’s not like that for me with you, but I also can’t lie and say I’m not still stung about it.”

Vernon hums. Asks, “Did you want to hurt him?”

“No,” you answer immediately, because it’s true. You never want to hurt him. “I know the relationship me and him have doesn’t make sense to a lot of people. Most people, probably. It works for us, though, and because it’s always worked, I’m not always sure what to do when it doesn’t.” A sigh. “I’m not jealous, you know? I love him, and I love that other people love him. I don’t want someone else’s normal.”

A half-smile ghosts across Vernon’s face. “I’m sensing a but coming.”

“No but.” You laugh. “Well, maybe a but—ever since you left a few weeks ago, I’ve just felt… off? I couldn’t put my finger on it. I couldn’t shake this feeling I’d done something wrong, and I tried talking to Soonyoung about it but we couldn’t make the time difference work, so I texted him and asked him to make time, but he never responded, so I called him yesterday morning. I’m sure you can guess where this is going.”

“Mm, yeah,” comes his simple reply.

“I overreacted, and I need to apologize for it, but I wasn’t ready to have the conversation until I figured out what was weighing on me.”

“And?” His fingers inch closer to yours. “Did you figure it out?”

You place yours over them. “Yeah, I did.”

Vernon had gotten called into the studio just after eleven.

Both of you had tried holding onto the last dregs of excitement of waking up together for the first time. Tried blinking the exhaustion out of your eyes and showing some semblance of life as you danced around one another, brushing your teeth and getting dressed. Vernon paid for your ride home and kissed you goodbye at the door, but not before promising it’d all get figured out.

The drive takes you down streets lined with cherry blossoms in full bloom, petals covering the asphalt, blowing in the breeze. Morning doesn’t often find you philosophical, but there’s something comforting about the changing of the seasons. Winter will always give way to spring in the same way everything will always work out, just like Vernon had promised, and it makes you feel light, finally unburdened, so you dig your phone from your bag.

You: I’ll be home soon You: I know it’s early where you are, but I’m around if you’re up and want to talk

Soonyoung doesn’t answer, but this doesn’t surprise you—the message just sits there, undelivered.

So you thank the driver when he drops you outside your apartment. Without much else to do, you stop into the grocery store to grab a few things, including a bundle of yellow and pink flowers, and the café next to your building after that, where you order something strong and not watered down. You soak up the sun on your skin, let it warm you from the inside out, and after half your coffee’s gone you start to feel human again.

This only lasts as long as it takes to get to your apartment and open the door.

Because there’s your boyfriend asleep on the couch. Soonyoung, whose mouth is hanging open and is snoring lightly. Soonyoung, who’s supposed to be in Europe. Soonyoung, whose phone is laying on the floor, halfway under the couch. Soonyoung, who startles awake when you call his name and punctuate it with a question mark.

Soonyoung, who realizes it’s you and crosses the living room in milliseconds. Who pulls you into his arms before you can breathe life into another question. Who peppers kisses all over your face and sighs when you thumb away the tears beneath his eyes simply because you’re touching him. Who presses his forehead to yours, content to hold you, and you, who fists your hand in the fabric of his shirt, content to let him.

Once the shock wears off, you realize you’re still holding the flowers. Say, “Let me just…” as you gesture at the bouquet. “Then we can talk?”

He’s reluctant to let you go, but he nods anyway. Doesn’t say a thing about the dozens of flowers already covering the kitchen island. When you spin around, his cheeks are dusted pink, teeth worrying at his bottom lip. “I ordered them to be delivered first thing this morning,” he explains. “Well, no—I ordered them yesterday, but they couldn’t deliver that many on such short notice. They also thought it was fake, since I was ordering them from France, so I had to call them, but—”

“They’re beautiful,” you whisper, rubbing a rose petal between your fingers. “Thank you.”

“I panicked. I thought you were breaking up with me.” You don’t mean to laugh, but one tumbles out anyway. Soonyoung pouts around a smile he tries to tamper down, doesn’t take any offense because he, too, knows how absurd it sounds.

“Why would I ever do that?”

He nods his head in the direction of the couch—his favorite place to have these kinds of talks. Says having serious discussions standing up gives him heartburn. Really, you suspect it’s so he has pillows within grabbing distance for when he inevitably starts crying and needs to cover his face in embarrassment, but you’ll give him this. You’ll sit in your usual spot and wait as he sits in his, and then you’ll stretch out and place your feet in his lap like you always do. And he’ll try to apologize first like he always does because he can’t stand things being tense between you, even when it’s your fault.

Today, though, you don’t let him.

“I owe you an apology,” you say, and you want to laugh again at the shocked look on his face, that he can’t believe you beat him to the punch, but you don’t. “I shouldn’t have reacted that way. It was out of line and I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve it.”

“I did a little,” he snarks, all self-deprecation. “I am never, ever too busy for you, and I made you feel like I was.”

“I know.” He moves to protest; you hold up a hand to stop him. “Just let me try to explain this. After Vernon left a few weeks ago, everything felt really off. I had this overwhelming sense of guilt, like I’d done something horrible and I couldn’t figure out what it was, because it’s not like I’d crossed any boundaries, you know? Everything was above board. But I wanted to talk to you about it in case you knew something I didn’t, and then we couldn’t—”

“You like him.” Soonyoung says this as a declaration rather than a question. He says this with a shit-eating grin on his face. He says this as if he’s an old philosopher imparting ancient wisdom upon you, like he’s predicted historical events and has yet to be wrong. “You do, don’t you?”

“I—yeah, but how did you know that? How long have you known that?”

He laughs. “Baby, it’s been obvious to everyone except the two of you since that first night.” You sputter, ready to defend your own honor—Soonyoung’s album release party feels like ages ago now, so surely you would’ve been able to put two and two together before now if what he’s saying were true? “I know you,” he adds, tone far more serious and gentle. “I know what you’re like when you have feelings for someone, remember? I’ve watched you fall in and out of love; not only with me, but—”

You gasp and nudge him in the ribs with your foot. “First of all, I have never fallen out of love with you. Don’t even joke about that—”

“Yes, ma’am.” Soonyoung salutes you sarcastically. Captures your foot and acts like he’s going to tickle you just to get a rise.

“Soonyoung, don’t—you know how ticklish I am! I won’t be able to control my body and I’ll kick you in the ribs or the dick or whatever and hurt you and you’ll get all upset! Also, we are in the middle of a serious conversation here! Stop derailing!”

“I’m not even doing anything,” he lies. “Please continue.”

With a groan (and a very deadly stare), you convince him to stop fucking around. He doesn’t release you entirely, but he forgoes the threats of tickling to press his thumbs into the arch of your foot instead. It works. In an instant, you’re calm, half-melted into the fabric of the couch.

“I went out with him last night.” You swallow, feeling the guilt creep in again. Soonyoung digs in deeper. “I texted him after I hung up on you. I didn’t intend for it to be one, but it very much turned into a date. I slept there.”

“Did you have fun?”

“Yes,” you answer honestly. Soonyoung pulls you closer, moves his hands to your calf and works at the muscle there. “I didn’t tell him.” You don’t know whose sake you’re saying this for—if it’s for Soonyoung or you or even Vernon—but it feels important to admit. To acknowledge that Soonyoung still comes first to you; that, as chaotic as things feel, one thing hasn’t changed. “Wanted to talk to you first.”

“Okay,” he replies breezily. “Let’s talk, then, pretty girl. Let’s figure it out.”

And you do.

The two of you talk for hours. Mostly apologies and promises to do better, but Soonyoung wants to hear all the perverse details of your night spent at Vernon’s apartment. Can’t help himself. Laughs when you scold him for getting hard, but you’re laughing, too. He asks if you want to date him—properly, not only when you’re feeling spiteful—and you ask if it’d be okay if you did. Briefly, you wonder if such a question is presumptuous. After all, you haven’t talked to Vernon, haven’t put your feelings into plaintext, but then you think back to the way he’d touched you last night and come to the conclusion it isn’t.

The two of you talk about the future. Soonyoung makes a point to revisit the original agreement; needs to make sure the two of you are on the same page. “It’s okay if you don’t want this anymore,” he assures you. “I just want you to be happy.”

There’s something in his tone that has you eyeing him. “Do you still want this? You’ve never floated the idea of closing the relationship before.”

“I had a near-death experience,” he jokes. “You know how they say your entire life flashes before your eyes right before you die? That’s all I could think about on the flight home—that it’d be my fault if you left and I’d deserve it because I was selfish; that no one I’ve been with could ever come close to you and none of it would’ve been worth it.”

Everything’s starting to sound waterlogged again. Soonyoung takes you into his arms when you crowd his end of the couch and fit yourself against his side. “If you just want it to be the three of us, that’s more than enough for me.” You press a kiss to his shoulder. “Or we can decide later when I feel less like a deer about to get destroyed by a car.”

You snort. Say, “You can decide. Whatever you want is okay with me. I know it’d be a big adjustment for you.”

“Don’t say what you think I want to hear.”

“I’m not,” you affirm. “I’m really, truly, one-hundred-percent okay with whatever you want to do, even if, like, fifty-five-percent of that is because I’m way less enthusiastic about butt stuff than you—”

“Hey!”

With another shared laugh, the air is cleared. Together, the two of you erase the existing lines and draw new ones. Talk about what it would look like for two to become three. Has another moment of self-doubt and apologizes that he is who he is, that he can’t love you in public the way he desperately wants to, the way you deserve to be loved out in the open. “You love me in the ways you can,” you tell him, “and they’re more than enough because they come from you.”

You talk until the sky begins to darken and the conversation devolves into nonsense. Until Soonyoung realizes he never plugged his phone into the charger and his team’s probably in a panic. Until his stomach rumbles and he suggests ordering a ton of food for delivery, except he really does mean a ton, and when you ask him who’s possibly going to eat it all his cheeks redden and he says, sheepish and a little nervous, “I thought we could invite Vernonie over?”

Another playful groan. “You’re back home for—what, barely 48 hours?—and your main concern is having another threesome?”

“And if I say yes?”

You text Vernon and ask if he’s free after work.

He is.

If you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading! Sharing and reblogging my work is the best way to show you enjoyed it, but I also accept any and all feedback and screaming in my inbox. <3

#YO #this is a duo i never knew i needed until now #holllllly mother of god #hot and filthy and so sweet #tho the monogamy truther in me was getting angry ngl #i still enjoyed it a lottt #and their last conversation was so sweet✊️😖#ema.recs vernon #ema.recs hoshi

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hannieoftheyear · 1 day ago

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okay... i think my phone just glitched😭 but you guys if you see any glitches or errors on my posts please lmk!!

did warning signal's "read more" just vanish?? why is tumblr gligching so much omfgjsjrjd

#ema.talks

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hannieoftheyear · 1 day ago

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did warning signal's "read more" just vanish?? why is tumblr glitching so much omfgjsjrjd

#ema.talks

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hannieoftheyear · 2 days ago

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Clarity (k.mg) TEASER

Mingyu doesn't want to pay you any mind. To him, you're just another girl that'll get her heart broken by his dumb best friend.

Why would he care, right? He shouldn't care about the crying sounds he can hear from his bedroom when his friend leaves you there alone for the girl he's actually in love with. And he shouldn't be getting close to you. He shouldn't dread the day his friend decides to end things with you and bring someone else home. He shouldn't be wishing to have met you first.

✧˖* pairing: mingyu x f!reader (with a side of toxic bf!jungkook)

✧˖* estimated release: middle of May! hopefully

✧˖* w.c: 1,4k for this teaser, full work around 20k (i think... it'll probably be longer).

✧˖* genre: bf's roommate mingyu, (awkward) acquaintances to lovers, the other side of the f2l trope, angst, smut.

✧˖* content warnings (full work): emotional cheating, but not actual cheating, jk is in love with his girl bsf, being with someone uninterested, crying, self-manipulating, jealousy, jk and reader break it off before anything actually happens with mingyu, also mingyu's kind of an asshole at first too, maybe a love triangle? i don't personally think it is but i see how it could look like one | explicit smut (not in teaser),body worship, praise, protected penetration. I'll probably add more as I'm still writing :)

THIS FIC IS FOR +18 READERS ONLY! I can't control what people read, but I can control who interacts with my blog. MINORS CAUGHT INTERACTING WILL BE BLOCKED.

✧˖* note: hi! I'm so happy to be sharing this will you! I hope you'll like this as much as I'm liking writing it ♡♡ also, I changed a few details after copying and pasting this scene onto tumblr, so there might be a few mistakes I forgot to change here! (like the girl bsf's name 😖)

comment this post to be added to the taglist! (minors and ageless blogs wont be added)

The waitress carries two pieces of cake and the biggest strawberry smoothie you’ve ever seen in your life, heading to your table. The size of the cup brings out chuckles from both Jungkook and you, but as soon as it gets placed between you on the table, the two straws draw your attention, and Jungkook asks the waitress for another smaller chocolate smoothie.

“You can have that all for yourself babe, I know how much you love strawberries.”

You don’t admit that you were excited for the corny romantic moment of sharing a smoothie with two straws, appreciating that he at least remembered your love for berries.

Jungkook’s phone keeps vibrating with notifications, which he reads but doesn’t respond to, trying his best to focus on whatever you’re telling him. His mind is anywhere but the diner where you decided to have an afternoon snack, battling between answering Cathlyn’s worrying texts and listening to the ideas you gave for the congress you’re doing with your research group soon.

In the middle of your story is when you realize Jungkook hasn’t said a word, his eyes lost to the much more interesting brown swirls on the wooden table.

“Is everything okay?” He’s been noticeably distracted lately, getting lost in thought more often, taking longer to reply to your texts. You attribute it to the time of the year, as he’s busier at work and with his studies, and so are you. But even if he says he’s fine, you’re beginning to worry.

“Yeah babe, sorry, just a little tired.” His lips line up in a tight smile in an attempt to reassure you. “Do you mind hanging out at my apartment after?”

Scraping your plans to catch an afternoon movie, you hum and nod before returning to eating your piece of cake, seemingly disguising your disappointment since he doesn’t ask any more questions.

Jungkook leaves his plate exactly the way the server left it for him, the piece of chocolate cake with not even a particle less, his fork unused and clean on the side. He gulps down his new personal smoothie in a second, and as soon as the last piece of your cake is entering your mouth, he’s asking the waitress for the bill. He knows you’re still talking to him, he can see your lips moving, but your words enter one ear and leave through the other, having no meaning in his mind.

He pays without asking for your share, which you weren’t even going to argue with him about. You’re usually a heavy supporter of each person paying for what they ordered, but as the minutes pass by, it’s becoming harder and harder to not get mad at him, so you’re going to spend his money without feeling bad about it. You know you should ask him about it, but shouldn’t he tell you if something was wrong? Especially after you’ve already asked him? Between being a pushover and pretending nothing’s happening, you end up choosing to just spend the rest of the afternoon with him and hope he’ll just tell you the truth.

The walk to his apartment is less than 10 minutes long, but every dreaded step drags heavily, making everything move slower, with the both of you in silence, and the incessant notifications blowing up his phone acting as a remainder of his true priority.

Jungkook’s trying to ignore the constant ping coming out of the pocket of his jeans, pretending he isn’t dying to just answer whoever keeps trying to contact him.

And you have a vague idea of who it could possibly be.

The cold apartment doesn’t feel welcoming as you enter through the door, lights off and deadly silent. Excusing yourself to the bathroom, you tiptoe around as if in fear. Your reflection in the mirror looks unmistakably disappointed and sad, and you wonder if Jungkook really didn’t notice or just didn’t care.

He can be charming and gentle when he wants to, always so polite and respectful, but the ability to be aware of your feelings may be something he could work on. Or at least understand that the things he does ultimately affect you too.

On the kitchen, he’s already forgot his one rule for the date, and is carefully reading every message he got, the glasses of water he was filling for the both of you forgotten on the counter.

When he hears you come out to the living room, Jungkook rushes to sit with you, with a plan already in mind.

“Babe, will you get mad if I go for a bit?” His fingers trace lines on your forearm, and you begin to lean into him before your brain registers his words.

“What? Why?”

“Cathy called me,” he takes a second to think about the best words to use, “she had a fight with her boyfriend, and I have to be there for her.”

Jungkook never liked Cathlyn's boyfriends. Something about them always feels off to him, as if none of them are ever right for his best friend. In his eyes, he just wants the best for her, someone who'll really be able to care for Cathlyn in the way he thinks she deserves.

“Oh, I hope she’s okay.” Deep down, you wonder if it really is so serious that Jungkook feels obligated to stand you up. But it’s fair, she needs her best friend when she’s having a bad time. The fact that her best friend is your boyfriend is just a coincidence.

“I’ll be back before dinner and I’ll make it up to you, okay?” He’s already standing up, his arms on both of your sides as he crouches to give you a quick peck goodbye.

The door closes shut before you can ever utter a reply, and his steps echo on the hallway, getting further away every second, until you’re left in complete silence.

In the quietness of the apartment, you instantly feel out of place, unwelcomed by the inanimate objects surrounding you. Seconds turn into minutes, the ticking sounds of the clock being the only sense of time you have left. You don’t even want to grab your phone, in an intent to avoid the inevitable feeling of disappointment that’ll take over you if there are no texts from Jungkook waiting in your notifications.

How stupid is what you’re doing? How desperate? Waiting for your boyfriend to come back from the home of the woman that seems to be his priority? You shouldn’t be feeling this way, especially since he's already told you that there’s nothing more to their friendship. But it’s still hard.

The back of your eyes burn as tears threaten to come out, blurring your vision just as you hear a key turn, heavy steps entering the home you’re not supposed to be in.

Mingyu knew he'd find you at his apartment.

Jungkook texted him that he had an emergency and had to leave in a rush. And Mingyu knows what “emergency” really means in that context. It means Jungkook rushed over to Cathlyn's at the first sign that she was feeling off, and he wanted to hide it from him so he wouldn’t have to hear the same reprimand again.

What Mingyu didn’t expect was to find you on the verge of crying on his couch, scattering to find any form of tissue paper somewhere inside your bag.

His friend put him in an awkward situation once again. Mingyu doesn’t want to get to know you more than he already does. He knows you're on a different major and that’s enough, because one day, in the near future, it’s going to be another girl walking through the door instead of you, and he’ll never see you again.

Mingyu would usually come home from work, put on his headphones, and spend a few hours on his computer until his stomach urges him to eat something. But for this particular afternoon he’s been put in, he skips the headphones in case you need something, or at least until Jungkook comes back, which he isn’t even sure is going to happen.

A project for work distracts him for a good while, organizing different stats and numbers on the excel sheet his boss sent him earlier in the day. He almost forgets you’re on the other side of the wall. Almost.

If he loses his focus on his computer screen, he can hear when you move around on the couch. What can you possibly be doing? Is what he asks himself at any noise that reaches his ears, but there’s never an answer. Until something alerts him that you’re not doing well. The same sniffle he heard days ago as you were watching a movie with Jungkook echoes against the walls of his bedroom.

can't wait to share this with you! don't forget to comment this post to be on the taglist! :)

#icymi :)

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hannieoftheyear · 3 days ago

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sabotage! | wicked games series | k. mg

You had just walked away from something neither of you was ready for—but you couldn’t avoid much it longer. You were falling for Mingyu. And you had to admit it.

☆ pairings: kim mingyu x female reader ☆ genre: angst, fluff, smut (18+) ☆ aus: bartender mingyu, friends to rebound fucking, no strings attached ☆ word count: 12.5k

› CHAPTER ONE – CHAPTER TWO – READ MORE

☆ warnings: smut with plot, toxic dynamics, possessiveness, soft dom mingyu, sub reader, unprotected p in v sex, reader is on birth control, oral sex (f. receiver), fingering, dirty talk, creampie, sex on the floor. reader is chubby. pet names: baby, shorty, sugar, sweetheart (hers)

☆ disclaimer: minors DO NOT INTERACT. this post is intended for 18+ readers ONLY. please have your age stated in your blog description and try not to look like a bot please 🙂

sabotage!

The fan turned slowly, rustling the leaves of the plants hanging from your ceiling. Every time it swept your direction, a wave of relief washed over you. The heat emanating from every wall of the apartment was unbearable—bad enough that you’d grown used to spending your evenings in the little office you rented just to escape it.

But you had to be at home. At least sometimes.

The open window allowed no breeze in. The building’s ventilation was so poorly designed it felt like the heat was sitting on the back of your head. Heavy. Suffocating. You moved slowly through the haze, trying to focus on the chores piling up around you.

Mingyu was supposed to come over in a few minutes. But the apartment was in such a state that you couldn’t procrastinate any longer.

Two things made that nearly impossible: Mingyu. And the damn heat.

“I could bring ice cream. Or beer. Or both,” read his most recent text.

You could read it in his voice.

“No ice cream, no entry,” you replied, shaking your head and huffing at yourself for smiling at your screen.

You left your phone charging on the kitchen counter and returned to rinsing the plates. A few seconds later, it buzzed again. You nearly dropped one bowl, scrambling to check your phone.

“Oof. Cruel. Chocolate or vanilla?”

“Not cruel. Just fair. Strawberry.”

You paused, eyes on the screen, waiting for those three little dots to appear. Then, without meaning to, you scrolled back through hundreds of messages. Conversations that wandered from the mundane to the ridiculous to the deeply personal. The memes, the TMIs. As if you’d never stopped talking.

It was as though those years without seeing each other had never happened. As though those years had happened in one day. You hadn’t seen Mingyu since you both turned eighteen. After school ended, life pulled you in opposite directions. Years without contact—until now, of course.

You rinsed off the last plate and placed it neatly in the rack. Leaning against the counter, you stared out of the window, even though there was nothing to see but the windows of the next building reflecting the heat from the summer.

Your phone buzzed one more time on the counter, and you raised it to read Mingyu’s text causing your tummy to clench. “On my way”

You didn’t know exactly when it had started—this ache inside you whenever Mingyu texted. Or whenever you began checking your phone every morning and before going to bed. Your heart did this anxious little flip every time you knew he was coming over or every time he called.

It isn’t like that. You told yourself sternly. It’s not like you’re in love already. It can’t be.

Then, like a mantra, you repeated to yourself: no strings, no expectations. It’s casual.

Would it be so bad, though? To fall for someone who has shown you affection, and cares for you. Not only that but—Mingyu looked good. Better than you remembered. In school, he was one of the good-looking ones, but quiet, and focused. Top of the class. Not the flirty type. Now he was taller. Broader. He carried himself proudly. He was stronger and softer all at once. The baby fat was gone from his face, but the boy you knew was still there—the same warmth behind the smile, the same gentleness in the teasing and bantering.

You, on the other hand, did not have the same figure you had at school. Your body had changed, your chest and hips had filled out and, although you still had some belly and fluffy thighs, you felt comfortable in your skin. Good, even.

And what was best of all was that Mingyu made you feel seen.

Not that it meant a thing, though. The last time you talked, you were still labelled your thing as friends. Friends who have crossed a line no friends usually do.

You looked around your apartment and suddenly were very aware of how it looked. It wasn’t messy, just a plain picture of how you were living your life currently. Like someone who was doing their best to keep up with life, work, and such. A cluttered rack of shoes. A forgotten bowl of cereal sitting beside your laptop. A load of clothes spinning in the washing machine.

That wasn’t the problem, though. You felt that the real mess was in you. But you weren’t ready to admit that yet.

The last breakup was still a wound you hadn’t dared to touch again. Your ex had waited years to tell you he didn’t believe he would want marriage, nor something more committed. And even if Mingyu’s breakup was a different kind of heartbreak, you weren’t sure he’d understand yours. Even worse—you weren’t sure you would recover if he didn’t.

You were about to fold the blanket thrown on the couch, suppressing the thought of checking your phone. But you knew there were no new messages. Mingyu was coming. And that was almost both the comfort and the problem. As though you wanted to see him but push the truth as far as you could.

You wanted to tell him the truth. But you also wanted to stretch what you had before you gathered the courage to tell him.

Your heart gave a leap inside your chest when the doorbell rang. You ran to the door to get it, taking a deep breath before pulling the door open.

Mingyu stood there. Perfect in all his six-foot-something glory, wearing green cargo pants, a plain white t-shirt, and that beautiful smile that made your tummy twist. In one hand, he held a bag of groceries.

He lifted the bag to show off the pint of ice cream. “Strawberry, as Milady requested,” he announced with a goofy tone.

You huffed despite yourself, leaning against the doorframe. “Wow. You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Cute and also melting,” he said with a heavy sigh, looking at you in plea. “Please tell me your fan is working.”

“It’s barely hanging in there, but it’s working just fine,” you rolled your eyes playfully, stepping aside so he could get inside your apartment.

He kicked off his shoes at the door and headed straight for the living room, dropping the bag on the kitchen counter along the way. The second the fan hit him, he groaned in delight, collapsing onto the couch as though he lived there.

You didn’t want to admit that hanging out with Mingyu was becoming addictive. So much so that your body was starting to depend on him. You felt as though you could finally breathe now that he was there.

“So this is the screen,” he said, pointing at the rectangular box propped against the wall. Then he comically slid off the couch to sit beside it on the floor, inspecting the unopened stand box like it was a Christmas gift waiting for it to be opened.

“It came yesterday,” you replied, putting the ice cream in the freezer and the beer in the fridge.

“And this is the stand?” he asked, turning the box over.

“Yup,” you said, closing the fridge. “I haven’t had the time to put it up.”

“Or to get rid of the packaging I see,” he added with a playful grin.

You shot him a glare. “God forbid I have a life.”

“Sure, yeah,” he teased, his eyes flitting to the stack of dishes and the rumble of your washing machine.

You rolled your eyes, crossed the room and stood over him. “Your visiting privileges are gonna be revoked real soon.”

Mingyu clicked his tongue and reached for the back of your knee, tugging it lightly. With his other hand, he took yours and pulled you down beside him on the floor. He was warm, as he usually was. And you hated how good it felt to have his touch on you again.

You sat down next to him, your knee brushing his.

Mingyu looked at you, his gaze softening as it drifted from your eyes and then to your lips. “I bought you ice cream,” he said like it meant something.

“I know,” you replied, grinning while looking at him expectantly.

“Don’t I get something in return?” he asked, his tone low.

You laughed lightly, though your heart was fluttering like crazy. “You get a thanks,” you said.

Mingyu smiled, slipping a hand on the back of your neck to pull you into a kiss. His lips met yours in a tender kiss, fleeting. “Mmn,” he mumbled. “That’s enough.”

He kissed you like he meant it. That’s what you wanted to believe—because it was what you felt. “Okay,” you giggled sweetly, kissing him again. “Thank you for the ice cream.”

He gave a small smile and nudged the box again. “So where do you want this thing?”

You pointed to the bare wall across from the couch. “Right there.”

Mingyu pulled back slightly. “You have a good eye,” he said, grinning when you just clicked your tongue. “What? I mean it!”

Mingyu got to work while you just hovered, handing him screws, and the drill. Almost like playing doctor—he’d say, “Drill,” and you would pass it to him. “Screw. Hold this. Now give me a kiss.”

While he worked, you tried not to stare, but something about watching him work, his focused brow, the sleeves of this t-shirt rolled up to his pits, the sweat trickling down his forehead… he made it impossible not to gawk.

It took a little over half an hour, and a bit of playful bantering over how low or how high the TV should go, considering you were, in his words “A cute baby.” But the TV was successfully mounted. And he gave it a firm pat like he was proud of a job well done.

“Okay, you’re hired,” you said as he turned to you, almost completely covered in sweat.

“I’ll accept payments in ice cream and kisses,” he shrugged with an incredible ease.

The two of you ended up back on the floor again, the fan humming in front of you, the screen glowing in the dark with the opening credits of some mind-numbing action movie neither of you had the interest to actually watch.

But he sat beside you, legs extended on the floor, his thigh brushing yours, his arm slung loosely on the couch behind you.

You felt the need to relax into his arm. To stay in the comfort of his warmth and not think too hard.

“Do you want more ice cream?” he asked softly as the movie dove into another mindless action scene. It was a car chase this time, and it was so long that both of you just disconnected.

“Yes, please,” you said, getting ready to stand up.

“Stay here. I’ll bring it to you,” he said kindly, getting your mug and his.

You watched him go to the kitchen, but you were suddenly distracted by his phone buzzing on the floor right beside you. The screen lit up, and you wouldn’t have looked, but the name was too easy to watch with just one blink of your eyes.

Gigi: Give me a chance to explain. I think we made a mistake… Read the preview message on the screen.

But before you could even muster a reaction, he was coming back, two mugs full of ice cream in his hands. He plopped down beside you with a sigh, completely oblivious to his phone, or the stammering pain in your heart.

The TV screen cast a soft light across the room, flickering over your face, and the faint sheen of sweat on your collarbones. You weren’t really watching the movie anymore, or eating ice cream. Instead, your eyes kept drifting toward his phone. It lay between you and Mingyu, silent. But your heart was still buzzing with the name you’d seen flash on the screen.

Gigi.

You didn’t know her. Not really. You hadn’t dared ask. Mingyu had mentioned his ex only a couple of times when he told you about her, about the things she did to leave a mark on him.

But you never pressed. Maybe because you were afraid of what he’d say. Or deep down, you didn’t want to be compared. You didn’t want her to exist in your mind. A faceless, nameless competitor.

But now, she had a name.

You were sure it was her. Who else would be texting those words?

You shifted slightly, pulling your knees up to your chest and hugged them tightly. You pretended to focus on the movie. Mingyu laughed at something, nudging your shoulder. You laughed too. But you were on autopilot now.

Your throat tightened.

No strings, no expectations. This was supposed to be casual, and easy. You had agreed to this. You said yes to casual. You said yes to him, even when you knew that you weren’t getting all of him.

But here you were, trying to get rid of the pain invading your chest.

It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine.

The phone buzzed again—furiously this time. The screen lit up. Gigi was calling now. You swallowed hard, pretending to get your mug to swallow half-melted, but still cold strawberry ice cream.

Mingyu reached for his phone, pressing the Decline button and discarding the phone too easily. There was no expression on his face, nothing. He was too sure that you hadn’t seen anything because he leaned on you again like nothing had happened.

He declined the call. He didn’t even react. He was here, beside you.

Still, the pain inside you tightened.

You glanced at him, his profile soft in the glow of the screen, his lips slightly curled in a downturned smile.

He looked relaxed. Happy, even. And it made something sting deep inside you. You felt that it was unfair that you were upset over something that he didn’t even give a second thought to. You wanted to be present in the moment. You wanted tonight to be just another night of comfort, of kisses, of strawberry ice cream.

You blinked slowly, forcing a breath through your nose.

Don’t say anything. Don’t ruin it. You’ll scare him off. You’ll make it something it’s not. It’s casual. It’s casual. It’s casual.

You leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder like you didn’t see his ex calling his phone. Like you weren’t spiraling underneath your mask.

Mingyu didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his arm around you, letting his fingers trail gingerly along your arm.

At that moment, you decided to believe that this was enough.

You closed your eyes. He felt so close, and yet you felt so detached from yourself.

You could smell his cologne—the smell that lingered on your pillows for days. Citrusy, a mix of coconut and vanilla. Like summer, and so familiar. You could hear his soft breathing beside you, his little huffs of amusement when something in the ridiculously action-packed movie made him laugh.

And still, you felt stiff under his arm. Every nerve in your body recoiled at the gentle circles he was drawing on your shoulder. You tried to will yourself to relax, to enjoy his caress on your skin.

But you couldn’t stop the thoughts now. Had Gigi ever felt this too? Had she been leaning against his shoulder, skin prickling at those same soft circles Mingyu drew with his fingers?

You tried to push those thoughts away, to swallow the knot in your throat.

Mingyu shifted beside you, pulling you slightly closer to him, and you let him. But you couldn’t relax. Because you felt that if you did, you would sink deeper into the spiral. And he’d vanish. He’d leave like your ex did.

You had to come clean now. You had to admit it. You had fallen for someone who was never really yours. And you had done it willingly.

He leaned his head gently against yours. His voice came quiet and soft. “You okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I’m just tired.”

He mouthed an okay and didn’t press any further. You realized then, that he never insisted. And that was part of the problem.

You wanted him to ask. You wanted to believe that if you allowed yourself to be vulnerable with him, he would say the right thing, do the right thing—stay. Tell you he feels the same.

You curled in closer and said nothing. Mingyu welcomed you in, his lips brushing the top of your head. He made a trail of soft kisses from your forehead to the tip of your nose, ending in your lips.

It almost made you cry.

The credits began to roll on the screen, the living room now splashed by blueish and greenish lights from the movie ending in a slideshow of the names of the cast. You were still curled into him, his arm loose around your shoulders, his body warm against yours.

You could feel his breathing, steady against your skin.

And for a second, fear loosened its grip around your heart.

You turned to him, lifting a hand to brush your fingers against his cheek, commanding his eyes to yours. You looked at the shape of his jaw, and the way his eyes focused on you. He looked peaceful. Present.

You opened your mouth, the words hovered on the tip of your tongue.

“I think I’m falling for you.”

But they stayed there. Heavy. Waiting.

You blinked, dropping your gaze to the floor again. The TV screen kept flashing, and the fan kept turning, brushing the back of your neck with its weak, rhythmic breeze. It wasn’t enough to cool the heat that had settled in the back of your head.

You swallowed hard. “Hey,” you said, your voice soft, so soft.

Mingyu tilted his head toward you. “Hm?”

You looked at him. Your chest ached with the thought of how easy it would be to love him.

But you swallowed your words. Maybe you were wrong to say yes to no strings. Maybe you were afraid to love again.

“I need to tell you something.”

But instead, you smiled.

“Thank you for the ice cream.” You said, tilting your head to press a kiss on his lips.

Mingyu smiled, pulling you closer to return the kiss to you, cupping your cheek with his hand. “Anytime.”

You leaned in against his body, kissing him deeper. His hand found your waist, clutching it gently as he slid his tongue on your lower lip. A moan bubbled in your chest before you could stop it. You didn’t want to moan. But it was too late now.

It was his effect. The effect his lips had on you. It was so irresistible, and addictive that you just couldn’t help it.

Mingyu smiled into the kiss, backing away a little, pressing a ghostly kiss on your lower lip. “I like it when you do that,” he whispered softly.

“When I do what?” you asked dumbly, afraid to open your eyes. You were just so flustered already that you didn’t want to see his stupidly beautiful face.

“Those sounds,” he said, closing the little space between you to press more featherlight kisses on your lips, using a hand on your chin to keep you in place.

“Yeah?” you breathed, becoming more and more drunk on his kisses.

“Yeah,” he replied in kind. “Makes me a little crazy,” he added, diving for another kiss.

Another moan got caught in your throat, but you kissed him back, tasting the strawberry ice cream on his tongue. Mingyu clutched your waist, his fingers brushing the sliver of tummy spilling between your shorts and your t-shirt that had hiked up your waist.

Your heart was racing now, feeling like you were on the verge of insanity. You didn’t care anymore—about no strings, about her name displaying on his phone.

Mingyu wasn’t yours. But he was here.

And he was kissing you like you were his. Touching you like your skin belonged to him and no one else. That was all that mattered. All you needed.

Your hand found his torso, loving the way his body was always warm, the way he always seemed to radiate warmth. As though even the sun loved him so much that he carried it everywhere.

You slipped a hand beneath his t-shirt, shyly feeling his lower tummy, the way his muscles clenched softly upon feeling your hand against his warm and soft skin. His breath hitched as he paused between kisses, and that almost made you stop.

But Mingyu grabbed your wrist, guiding your hand further up his torso, telling you where he needed your touch. You felt him up, his lats, his pectorals, inadvertently pushing his t-shirt up with your hands.

You backed away slightly, taking his t-shirt off and left it beside you on the floor. Returning your hands to him, you kissed him now with abandon, moaning salaciously in his mouth. You felt his chest, the warmth of his skin and the vibrations when he moaned back.

His hands roved on your back, dipping beneath your tank top to feel your skin freely. You let out a tiny moan when his fingers reached the line of your bra. He pulled away to remove your tank top, leaving it on top of his t-shirt.

Mingyu sent a silent glance at your face, right before his fingers slipped beneath the straps of your bra, tugging them down your shoulders. His hand moved back, unclasping your bra efficiently and leaving it on the floor.

You closed your eyes, releasing a sigh as his hands cupped your tits, palming them gently as his thumbs found your nipples to play with them. The fan swept over your half-naked bodies, making your skin prickle under his hands.

Mingyu wanted control that night. You could tell when he motioned you to lay back on the floor, and so you did, letting him have whatever he wanted from you. He started kissing your neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses from the crook of your neck to your collarbones.

You sighed blissfully, a hand cupping the back of his head, feeling his long hair beneath your fingertips. You swallowed hard as his lips reached your chest, a hand cupping one of your tits again as he kissed and licked your skin.

“God—Mingyu,” you called softly in praise as his mouth wrapped around one of your nipples, humming softly as his tongue rolled around your areola.

Your breathing hitched embarrassingly, your fingers curling around the strands of his hair as he nipped and tugged at your nipple with his teeth. Your mouth parted, letting out a soft moan that was barely audible.

The TV continued streaming another movie, one that you were too entranced to even pay attention to. But the soft glow coming from the screen allowed you to look at Mingyu as he glanced at your eyes. A soft smile appeared on his lips as he pressed a peck on your nipple before teasing the other.

Noises filled the room, the movie playing on the TV, the fan turning on one corner, Mingyu’s lips on your skin and your moans.

His trail of kisses continued down your tummy, kissing every inch of your skin slowly, as though he wanted to cover your whole body with affection. You flinched slightly when his hands clutched your waist, his fingers sinking onto your skin as his lips reached the spot below your belly button.

Mingyu pulled back as his hands grabbed the band of your shorts, pulling them down, and bringing your panties along. You raised your knees, helping him get the last two pieces of clothing you were wearing. He left your clothes aside, stopping to look at you—splayed on the floor, completely naked for him. The only thing illuminating the room was the soft glow coming from the TV screen, but it was enough to see the entranced look on his face.

You were about to ask—just pry a little into the meaning of that look he was giving you. Your heart was racing like crazy, and even though you wanted to, you couldn’t bring yourself to speak up.

Mingyu beat you to it. With a sigh, he said, “You’re beautiful.”

Your heart paused, unsure of what to say. It was certainly not the first time he had said something like this, but you were too stunned or too entranced to even reply with a simple thanks.

“I have something to tell you, Mingyu,” your inner voice spoke, over and over as he continued loving your skin with kisses, sending you looks while his lips descended to your mound.

His hands parted your thighs gently, and you closed your eyes as he ran his tongue on your inner thigh, bringing a lewd moan from you. Feeling his mouth so close to your pussy sent you into a frenzy, making you nearly forget everything. He continued kissing and licking, prepping you until your pussy was dripping.

And when he finally licked you, your body became ablaze with pleasure. You arched your back on the floor, your fingers reaching for his hair as he licked your pussy with broad strokes, tasting you, drinking you in.

“Fuck—Mingyu,” you moaned, the sound so lewd, so sweet that it made him moan against your pussy.

His tongue slid up and down your folds, teasing you until you were reaching desperation. You buckled your hips slightly, trying to tell him where you needed his mouth the most.

But his hands gripped you by the thighs, forcing them open and commanding you to hold steady, right before his lips trapped your clit, sucking it gently. You cried out loudly, thankful that the movie playing on the TV was loud enough to cover your noises.

He suckled your clit, tugging it gently and slowly as his tongue started teasing it too, pushing it with slow motions. You were breathing hard, your body limp with pleasure, skin prickling under his hands.

You opened your eyes and saw his head between your thighs, pleasuring you like there was no tomorrow like there was no other girl in the world.

That was when the phone on the floor next to the couch came back on. The soft glow cast a slight shadow on the ceiling above you. You didn’t need to look. But your eyes moved anyway. Gigi. She was calling again.

You stared at the screen for a second, your heart racing. But Mingyu kept pleasuring you, oblivious to his surroundings, so wrapped up in you that he hummed against your skin.

Two of his fingers slipped inside you, curling gently against your walls. You exhaled a moan, the pleasure so great, so sweet that you decided to ignore the phone. It was still buzzing on the floor, sounding so faint in contrast to the TV screen that he remained blissfully oblivious to it.

So you stroked his scalp with your fingers, gently brushing his hair as he ate you out. Suddenly, something came over you, something so ugly you didn’t know how to get rid of it—Mingyu was here, while his ex was trying to reach for him. And you couldn’t even bring yourself to feel sorry for the girl.

Because when Mingyu made you cum, it was the best experience you had ever felt in your life. Your orgasm was so long, so intense that you felt like you were falling from the tallest building, out of control. You screamed his name, you gasped, you cried until you couldn’t breathe.

And when he finally climbed on top of your body, you wrapped your arms tightly around him as he fucked you. You forgot about his ex the minute his cock was inside you.

She didn’t call again. And Mingyu slept in your bed.

The next few days were slow. It was a lazy morning for Mingyu. The apartment was quiet, aside from the TV running on low volume.

Mingyu saw on the couch, sprawled with one arm tucked under his head, his eyes barely on the screen. His coffee sat untouched on the table, and he believed that it had already gone cold.

He checked his phone lazily, seeing your name from a message you had sent half an hour ago. He didn’t want to open it, not yet. Not when his ex’s name was just below yours.

Wonwoo came out of his bedroom, curiously sending his gaze over the living room. “Morning,” he said flatly, entering the open kitchen.

“Good morning,” he replied with a soulless tone.

Wonwoo grabbed the cereal box, and a bowl and got the milk from the fridge with mechanical movements. “Everything okay with you?”

Mingyu shook his head no. He sighed again, opening his phone to block Gigi’s number after sending her a simple text that read, “Don’t look for me anymore” and turned off his phone again.

“What’s up with you, then?” Wonwoo asked.

Mingyu didn’t look at him. “I’m just tired.”

Wonwoo raised an eyebrow. “No, this is new.”

Mingyu exhaled, rubbing his hands over his face. “It’s not a big deal, hyung.”

“Which only means that it is,” Wonwoo said with expert ease, moving to sit on the other end of the couch.

Mingyu remained silent, and this was his biggest tell. He was usually the talkative one, not Wonwoo. Their dynamic as best friends and roommates had always been easy. But ever since Mingyu and his ex broke up, Wonwoo had been selecting his words carefully.

“Is this… about your ex?” Wonwoo dared to ask.

Mingyu huffed. “I just blocked her,” he rolled his eyes.

Wonwoo cocked his head to one side. “Really?”

“Really. This isn’t about Gigi.”

Wonwoo gaped a little. “So this is about her,” he realized, not hiding his surprise. “Isn’t your thing casual?” he asked carefully, pushing his frames up the bridge of his nose with one knuckle.

Mingyu nodded, sitting up straight on the couch. “Yeah, that’s the problem.” He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back and releasing a heavy sigh. “I don’t know. Maybe… I mean—it’s easy with her. But I’m starting to think that I’m just not doing this for fun.”

Wonwoo listened quietly.

Mingyu continued, “She makes me feel—” Mingyu stopped, pausing to glance at the ceiling. “I don’t know.” He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “She makes me feel like being with someone again isn’t such a bad idea.”

Wonwoo let out a breath. “But that’s good, isn’t it?” he asked.

Mingyu shrugged. “It should be.” He said half-heartedly, leaning his head on the headrest of the couch, his eyes swimming upwards. “But every time I think about labelling it something, I freeze. I don’t even have the courage to take her on a date. I feel like I’ll mess it up.”

The moment Wonwoo heard that, he went rigid. Mingyu had told him so little about how his relationship with Gigi ended. But he was there to see the state that Mingyu had been in when they broke up.

It was as though the very life had been drained from him. The kind, charismatic Mingyu was replaced by the shadow of a stranger. Cold, lifeless, broken.

Something unfamiliar stirred deep within Wonwoo. He thought about keeping his judgement light, and impartial. But he couldn’t help but feel a slight twinge of worry—not only for Mingyu but for you as well.

“I may not know her like you,” Wonwoo said after the long pause. “But I know that most women don’t want a perfect guy, just someone that cares.”

Mingyu continued staring at the ceiling, letting the words sink in. “Yeah, I know. And I care.”

Wonwoo refrained from pointing out the way that Mingyu uttered those last words. It was a detached manner, weak. Just off.

Mingyu sighed, running his hand over his face again. “Okay, maybe I’m not all in,” he confessed, drawing his words weakly. “I think it’s easier this way, you know? If I don’t care, it won’t hurt when she leaves once she figures I’m not enough for her.”

“Why are you so sure she’ll leave?” Wonwoo asked slowly.

Mingyu shook his head lightly, chewing his lip like it was the best way to keep his mouth from saying something stupid. “Gigi left like it was nothing. Like all the time we were together was nothing.”

Wonwoo sat there, rigid. He wanted to get a better look at Mingyu’s face, to understand what was happening behind those eyes.

But Mingyu remained looking at the ceiling, it was the best way he could keep himself talking without giving too much. So he continued, his voice lower now: “And now I have this girl who actually listens. She makes me laugh. She makes me want to do things again. But I keep thinking—Mingyu, you’re going to fuck this up.”

Wonwoo waited for Mingyu to keep talking. But when nothing more was said, he racked his brains for something smart to say. But the truth was, Wonwoo was a calculated man. His advice was always straight to the point. And he didn’t have a lot of experience with romantic feelings.

He was a guy that just knew what he wanted, but sometimes people wanted what they couldn’t get. And Wonwoo knew that well enough.

“Maybe. Maybe you will. Maybe you won’t,” Wonwoo said, remembering vaguely the things he said to you the last time he saw you. “Maybe she’s not Gigi.”

Mingyu snapped, his gaze panning to Wonwoo. “She’s not.” He said without hesitation.

Wonwoo huffed, rolling his eyes with faux annoyance. “You care.” He said. “It’s blatantly obvious that you do. So stop acting like it’s casual. Because if you’re not all in, then that would make things ugly. Not only for you, but for her too.”

Mingyu swallowed hard, he didn’t speak. Something in his entire demeanour softened, and then he sighed, blinking for a long second. “Yeah,” he whispered.

Then he reached for his phone, opened it, and looked at your message. His thumbs hovered over the keyboard before he started typing.

Wonwoo got up from the couch, patting Mingyu’s head gently. “You’ll be fine,” he said quietly.

Mingyu didn’t reply, his eyes lifting to look at his best friend. He smiled softly, nodding at him before driving his attention back to his phone.

Maybe Wonwoo was right. Maybe Mingyu won’t fuck this up. Maybe he will. But he had to at least try.

The next week, the gym was buzzing with energy—loud music playing through the speakers, weights clanking, fans turning on the ceiling.

You were now taking a liking to coming here late in the morning when it wasn’t too packed. You were midway through the second set of weighted squats, trying to keep your form perfect and your gaze away from the mirrors.

But a looming figure over your body made you lift your gaze, spotting Jungkook behind you, grinning like an idiot.

“You need a spot or just trying to show off?” he said with a tone you hated to hear from him.

You rolled your eyes but ended up smiling. “Don’t you have other people to bother?”

He leaned against the support bar of the smith machine, tattoed arms crossed over his puffed chest. “I do. But none of them clap back at me like you.”

“Pfffft.” You racked the bar, grabbing your towel. “Trainer and local menace. You really do multitask.”

“Triple threat,” he said, half-joking. “I’m also a hottie. And on top of that, I make playlists that motivate you to take over the world.”

You laughed, genuinely this time. “Sure. Can you make a playlist to motivate me to not have an emotional crisis?”

“No. But I took a course on self-therapy,” he said, scratching the back of his head. “Do you want to talk?” he asked genuinely.

You smiled at him, shrugging off. “I’m okay,” you reassured him, though deep inside something protested against your lie. “I’m just here to clear my head.”

“And look great while doing it,” he added without missing a beat.

You gave a dramatic gasp. “Jungkook, are you hitting on me again?”

He shrugged. “Can’t help it. It’s in my nature. And listen, if whoever broke your heart isn’t coming back, I’m totally available to make bad choices with you. You have my number.”

Your mouth was still hanging open, and you were about to fire something back, to call out his bluff. But your words caught mid-throat when you spotted a familiar figure across the room.

Mingyu.

Your stomach did a wild flip. He was walking in, gym bag slung over his shoulder, headphones half on, his gaze panning lazily across the gym floor—until it landed on you. Or more specifically, you and Jungkook.

Your breath hitched before you could control yourself.

Mingyu slowed just slightly, eyes tracking the two of you. There was a pause, a purse of his lips. He continued his stride towards you—he didn’t look happy. There was something flickering in his gaze. You were too slow to read it. Surprise, confusion? Something.

And that was when Jungkook interrupted whatever Mingyu was about to say. “Mingyuuuu. What’s up, man?”

Your stomach dropped. That was when you remembered that you had suspected Jungkook and Mingyu were friends. But you had to pretend you were none the wiser. “You two know each other?” you asked.

Jungkook looked between you both, genuinely confused. “Y-yeah? Mingyu is my best friend,” his brow furrowed. “Wait—” he looked at you, then at Mingyu. Then back to you. “Oh my god,” he drawled the words out. “You two know each other?”

Neither of you answered right away. But the silence made it more than obvious.

Jungkook blinked dumbly. “Wait. Like… know each other?”

Mingyu shrugged. “Yeah.”

You shot him a quick glance, then gave Jungkook a tight smile. “We have known each other since high school. We’ve reconnected recently.”

Jungkook’s jaw dropped. “You guys are—?” he pointed between you. “Like… you’ve—?”

Mingyu crossed his arms. “We’ve hung out.”

Jungkook stared at you both, then let out a breathy, awkward laugh. “Wow. Okay. Wow—”

“Stop it.” You deadpanned. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I would never,” he said, crossing his heart. Then he turned to Mingyu. “I swear I had no idea, man. I would’ve dialed the flirting back if I’d known she was your girl.”

Mingyu flinched a little. “She’s not.”

Your heart squeezed so hard that the air in your lungs disappeared. You could tell that he didn’t mean to say it like that, but it was too late to take it back. Or to fix it.

“Oh,” Jungkook said, his eyes flicking to you. Then he seemed to understand something. He knew you well enough now to see the pain in your eyes. “Okay, then.”

You swallowed around the knot in your throat. “Mingyu, do you want to spot me?”

He nodded. “Sure.”

Jungkook stood between you, hands on his hips and looking like he had nowhere to go. “Alright. I’ll be… here if you need anything.”

Mingyu nodded silently, following you as you made your way to the rack where you were doing your squats.

Looking at Mingyu through the mirror, you noticed that his features were rigid under an emotion that you couldn’t quite place. This was when you realized that you had never seen him this serious—or upset.

You positioned yourself in the rack, pressing the bar on your shoulders and firmly gripping the it with both hands.

Mingyu got behind you, close enough to make you feel his presence as he surveyed your form. His gaze travelled from your figure and stopped in your eyes. “Ready?” he asked.

You replied with a nod, tightening your grip around the bar and pushing it from the rack. The weight on your shoulders was uncomfortable at first, as you were standing back from the rack.

But he seemed to catch something that you were unaware of. “Don’t carry the weight with your back,” he instructed, using a hand to motion at the area of your quads and glutes. “Focus on using the area here.”

“Okay,” you sighed and counted from one to three quietly before sinking down in a squat. Mingyu followed your movement, watching that your form was correct.

“Go lower,” he instructed now.

“I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he cut in.

You sent him an alarm look. “But I—”

“No buts,” he snapped, shaking his head twice. “You have to go lower. Half squats don’t count as reps.”

You gaped at him through the mirror, still carrying the heavy barbell on your shoulders. You couldn’t come up with any contradictions. You repeated your movements, sinking lower with the bar on your shoulders. The squat was deeper and required Mingyu to squat with you when you felt like your knees were about to give out.

“That’s it, baby,” he praised behind you, his eyes flitted to your reflection in the mirror, but then he looked somewhere else.

You followed his gaze, your stomach twisting violently when you realized that he had looked at Jungkook for a split second.

The bar clicked back into place with a metallic clank. You took deep breaths, feeling like if your knees weren’t giving out, your head would. You felt dizzy but weren’t entirely sure that it was because of the extraneous exercise.

Mingyu had helped you place the bar back, so his hands lingered on the bar, looking like he needed to grip himself back to earth.

You turned around, chest still heaving. His jaw was tight, his eyes trained on the mirror, and you knew who he was glaring at now.

“Mingyu,” you said cautiously.

He raised his eyebrows, pulling his gaze back to you. “Hm?”

“You’re staring,” you pointed.

He blinked, his features softening at once. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“Are you sure?”

He lowered his head a little, but his gaze remained on you. He was still gripping the bar, as though he needed something solid to hold onto. “I just…” he whispered, unsure. “I didn’t know you and Jungkook were that close.”

“We’re not,” you said quickly. “We’re just friends.”

Mingyu nodded, his eyes flitting away from your face. “Does he know that?”

You went rigid, feeling confusion stunning you beyond your will. “Excuse me?”

Without meeting your eyes, he said, “He’s into you.”

You hadn’t quite recuperated from the exercise, you were still breathing hard. But realizing that Mingyu was genuinely jealous might have made you even dizzier.

Mingyu shook his head. “I mean, I can’t blame him,” he glanced back at your face. “You’re beautiful.”

You were too stunned to take his words as a compliment. “Does that bother you?”

Mingyu looked at you for a long second. “Yes,” he admitted with a soft tone. “It does.”

There was a pause, silence. You couldn’t comprehend the sudden surge of emotions that overcame you. A mix of confusion, excitement, relief…

But he sighed, lowering his gaze again. “I know we agreed to no labels. But when I saw him with you… when he said he has flirted with you, I—” He swallowed his words, and you knew well that he was also trying to push down his feelings. “I’m sorry,” he admitted. “I’m not being fair to you.”

You blinked at him, your heart pulsating in your ears. You wanted to tell him a million things. You wanted to tell him the exact thing he was feeling, you felt it when you saw his ex’s name on his phone the other night. You wanted to tell him to label this thing between you.

“I understand,” you said, cursing yourself for being a coward again. “It’s okay. You’re being honest. But Jungkook and I are just friends. I don’t flirt with him—or anyone else.”

That made him look at you again. “Me neither,” he confessed, and you could see it in his eyes, the honesty was still there.

And you knew you were crazy because the fact made you feel happy. It made you feel special.

You showed him a light smirk, closing the distance despite the bar that was still between you. “You know,” you mumbled sweetly at him. “I’d kiss you right now.”

That caught him off-guard. He blinked twice, a smile tugging at his lips. “And what is stopping you?” he mumbled too, his voice low and sweet. It made something stir inside you.

“I’m all sweaty,” you giggled. You hated the sound. Sweet, honeyed.

He rolled his eyes playfully. “Baby don’t be ridiculous,” he said, slipping a finger beneath your chin, tilting your head back. He pressed his lips on yours a couple of times, giving you sweet kisses. Like those kisses, he gave you in the mornings.

You smiled softly, backing away to look at his eyes. “I’m not done,” he mumbled, placing his hand on your cheek before he kissed you again, deeper this time.

“Gyu, we’re in public,” you whispered.

He smiled. “And? I haven’t seen my girl in days.”

Your breath hitched.

“Oh, I’m your girl now?” you asked playfully, ignoring the wild leap your heart gave.

He went still, pulling back so he could make eye contact with you again. “We need to talk about it but…” he sighed softly. “I’m not seeing anyone else. Just you. And I don’t want you to see anyone else either.”

Your heart fluttered and then sank a little. Because you understood where this conversation was going.

He was talking about exclusivity. Not commitment.

“I don’t understand,” you whispered, not hiding how alarmed you were sounding. “I thought we said no—”

“I know, I know,” he said quickly, his thumb brushing your cheek. “We’ll talk about it. Okay?”

You hesitated. But nodded all the same. “Okay,” you echoed.

However, you finished training before he did. Since you’d arrived earlier, you were already gathering your things by the time he was halfway through his long push workout. And you had to go—you were behind on work, and there were a dozen other things demanding your attention.

But you didn’t want to leave.

Mingyu was in the free weight section, focused on a set of bench presses. He looked glorious—sweaty, tired, but determined. His long hair was a mess, sticking damply against his face, and he kept pushing it back in between sets, clearly annoyed by it.

You walked over, gym bag slung over one shoulder.

Mingyu caught your reflection in the mirror, eyes flicking up to meet yours. He returned the bar to its rack with a loud metallic clang, then sat up and pulled his headphones down.

“You heading out?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

You nodded, slowly. Hesitant.

You wanted to say something. To ask if now was the time to talk about what had happened earlier—that weird little twist of jealousy, the accidental “my girl.” And also to talk about what had happened the other night at yours. You wondered if he had gotten around to talking with his ex after her incessant calling.

But the words stayed stuck in your throat.

Instead, you pulled the elastic band off your wrist and handed it to him. “You look like you need this.”

Mingyu smiled, taking it without hesitation. “That bad, huh?” he asked as he tied his hair up into a messy half ponytail with ease.

“Not bad,” you shrugged. “I kind of like it. It’s messy.”

He stood from the bench in one smooth motion. The proximity made your heart lurch. He somehow looked buffer, taller.

You barely had time to react before his hand slipped to your lower back, tugging you gently against him. You giggled in protest. “Mingyu.”

“Hm?” he murmured, dipping his head. His lips grazed your cheek.

“You’re sweaty,” you sighed as he kissed the corner of your mouth.

“You mind?” he mumbled, voice low and unhurried.

You shook your head, a sweet smile tugging at your lips.

He smiled back knowingly—then kissed you properly. It wasn’t a long kiss, but it was deep, full of all the things neither of you had said nor talked about yet. The jealousy, the possessiveness, the longing. Like he wanted to show you off to someone. And you knew who.

When he pulled back, his forehead touched yours for a second. “I’ll call you, okay?” he said gently.

“Okay,” you whispered. It was all you could manage.

You left after that.

And as soon as the gym door swung closed behind you, a hollow ache settled in your chest. You felt like you’d just walked away from a conversation neither of you was ready for—but you couldn’t avoid much longer.

You kicked your shoes off the moment you got to your apartment, dropping the gym bag beside the shoe rack and letting it slump to the floor.

The apartment felt warmer than usual. Still and heavy with humidity. You opened a window and turned the fan on, the soft hum filling in the noise that you were beginning to dread again.

You tossed your keys onto the counter and stood there. You just stood in the kitchen, as though you were a stranger in your own space. You needed to do something.

Mingyu had kissed you like he meant it. He told you he didn’t want to see anyone else. He didn’t want you seeing other men. He called you his girl like it was nothing. It was almost like he knew what he was making you feel.

And part of you wanted to believe the meaning behind his kiss. You wanted to believe that him calling you his girl wasn’t accidental, or the product of his jealousy. You wanted those things to be enough. You wanted to let his admission of jealousy be the closest thing to clarity. Or assuredness.

But you’ve been here before.

You peeled your shirt off slowly as you headed to your bedroom. Moving on autopilot now, you started a cold shower. Then you did what you always did; skincare, dress in comfy clothes and get yourself get busy. It was the only ritual that brought you peace.

You sat on the edge of your bed, tapping the phone screen with your fingers. Anxiety was creeping in, you knew it.

You opened your chat with Mingyu. Read over the last few texts, checking for any signs that told you something. You saw the little black heart emoji you had added to his name tag.

Then, you started typing, your fingers trembling and making dumb typos that you struggled to correct.

Mingyu. I have something to tell you.

You stared at the words. Then you backspaced.

Hey, Gyu. Can we talk?

Backspace.

I’ve been wanting to tell you something.

You couldn’t do it. You backspaced again.

You tossed your phone somewhere on your bed, deciding to forget about it. To push it away for a little while longer.

The Spot was unusually quiet for a Thursday. The kind of quiet that would let you work on your laptop while slowly nursing a cold beer.

You were tucked into the farthest booth, screen open, fingers hovering over the keyboard. But you weren’t really working.

Mingyu had been busy since you arrived. You suspected his boss had something to do with that—giving him a list of endless tasks just to keep him busy and away from your table. You didn’t really mind. In fact, you were grateful for the distance. You were also trying to avoid him, to avoid the fluttering, anxious feeling that his smile stirred in your tummy.

You hadn’t had a chance to talk. Not really. And yet, your connection hadn’t slowed. You still saw each other almost daily—at the gym, before his shifts, and sometimes after. You were both playing along. Avoiding the conversation. Avoiding the words that had started looming over you both: we need to talk.

So here you were, on a Thursday night, pretending to work while waiting for Mingyu to finish his shift. It wasn’t the first time. And you were almost certain that the second his boss saw you walk in, he found more things for Mingyu to do.

But that wasn’t the only reason you hadn’t typed a single word in twenty minutes.

You felt a heavy gaze on you. Wonwoo wasn’t nearly as busy. Just kept himself occupied with small tasks such as restocking the fridges, organizing the bar, and wiping down the same glass over and over.

From the corner of your eye, you caught him moving toward the fridge. He opened the door, and pulled out a fresh bottle of beer. You glanced down and realized yours was empty. You hadn’t even noticed you’d finished it.

Wonwoo approached and placed the new bottle on your table without a word. You blinked up at him, startled—pretending like you were only now realizing how long he’d been watching.

“Thanks,” you said.

Wonwoo had always shown himself to be cold. Reserved. Sometimes you swore he looked vaguely annoyed whenever he saw you with Mingyu. The only times you’d exchanged words with him, they left a bitterness lingering in your mouth.

You wrapped your fingers around the neck of your beer bottle, took a sip, and pretended to keep working on your laptop.

Wonwoo was still looking at you. Not saying anything. Just observing.

You were used to his observant nature by now. And as you took a longer gulp of beer, you geared up for what would no doubt be another awkward exchange.

You cleared your throat. “You’re staring,” you said, not bothering to look up.

He shrugged. “And you’re loitering.”

You raised your eyes from the screen. “I’m waiting,” you corrected. “I’m here for Mingyu.”

“Of course you are,” he snapped, crossing his arms.

There it is, you thought. That edge in his voice. The sarcasm he used was like a mask.

“You don’t like me much, do you?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

That caught him off guard, just for a second. The mask slipped off. Something flickered across his face—quick, but you saw it.

“Did I say that?” he replied flatly.

“You don’t have to.” You gave a faint smile. “I can tell.”

You exhaled, glancing behind Wonwoo to make sure Mingyu wasn’t nearby. “Look,” you said, quieter now. “I get that you’re protective. You’re his best friend. I understand.”

Wonwoo’s brow furrowed, just slightly. It wasn’t anger. It was something closer to confusion.

You watched him beneath the red neon lights and the soft, yellow glow from the lamps overhead. His expression was shadowed, unreadable. But it wasn’t cold anymore.

“But Mingyu’s not some wounded puppy that needs guarding,” you continued. “He’s smart. He knows what he’s doing.”

Wonwoo raised a brow. “Does he? With you?”

The words stung. “Yes,” you said, voice firm. Steady. “He’s been through a lot. But he’s trying. That’s more than I can say for most people.”

Wonwoo didn’t respond.

But something in his face softened. But barely. Like something shifted behind his mask—just enough to notice.

“You don’t have to like me,” you said. “But don’t assume I don’t care about him. Because I do.”

Your words came out shaper than you had intended, and they hung between you. Fear flickered inside you, certainty slipping away from you. You knew you had a point, but there was something underneath it.

You watched Wonwoo’s face, he didn’t respond right away. You expected him to say something snarky, to question you, to scoff. But he just kept looking at you quietly, like he was trying to make two pieces of a puzzle fit.

The silence stretched between you and Wonwoo said nothing. And you were starting to feel how exposed you really felt.

A part of you wondered if Wonwoo suspected the reason why Mingyu and his ex broke up—the real reason. Mingyu had been cheated on. And he decided to keep this concealed from all of his friends out of shame.

You suspected because of the way Wonwoo looked at you—like you were a temporary fix. Like you were going to leave once you’ve had your fill. Like you were wandering aimlessly.

Maybe you weren’t just defending Mingyu. Maybe you were defending yourself too. Maybe Wonwoo saw this.

Wonwoo straightened his back, his expression hard to read. He said nothing, and somehow that made it worse.

He turned around, leaving your table just as Mingyu appeared from the backdoor. He was wearing that charming smile on his face as he approached you with a happy gait.

Meanwhile, your heart was still thumping in your throat. But you forced a smile as he leaned over you, planting a hand on the table and using the other one to cup your face gently. “Hey, baby,” he mumbled sweetly.

“Hi, Gyu,” you sighed, your heart melting just as his lips touched yours.

“I’m off in five minutes,” he said, pressing gentle kisses on your face. “Just gotta take out the trash, then I’m all yours.”

“Romantic,” you giggled.

Mingyu smiled. “Wait here,” he whispered, trapping your lower lip in a feathery kiss. “I’ll come get you.”

You watched him walk away and disappear through the door again. Wonwoo followed him with his gaze, and then, as though he knew you were looking, your gazes connected again.

Your tummy twisted. You turned away, shyly hiding your face behind your laptop as you silently closed the blank document you had been pretending to be working on and shut your laptop off.

Some minutes later, Mingyu returned. He was wearing a hoodie now, his backpack hung snuggly on his shoulders.

“Ready, baby?” he asked, approaching your table. He looked like he had a sudden rush of energy, perhaps from knowing he was free from work.

You nodded, rising from the booth and taking your laptop bag with you.

Then something you weren’t expecting at all happened. Mingyu smiled, his hand reaching for yours. He laced his fingers with yours, making your heart jolt. Mingyu was unaware of your reaction—your eyes widening in surprise, your breath catching in your throat.

It wasn’t the first time he took your hand. But it made you feel anxious.

You let him take you, leading you through the front door of the bar. You couldn’t help but shoot a glance at Wonwoo—who was absolutely aware of how you reacted to Mingyu lacing his hand with yours. He watched as you and Mingyu exited the bar, you felt his gaze on the back of your head as the door closed behind you.

“How was work?” Mingyu asked intently. “Could you get anything done?”

You huffed a laugh. “Nope,” you replied, popping out the p sound. “I couldn’t focus.”

“Oh, was it the loud noise? The bar could be the least ideal place to work.”

“No, it wasn’t that,” you said, looking down at your hand firmly laced with his. “I’m probably hitting a burnout.”

“I see,” he said, pouting a little as he gathered his thoughts. “Have you thought about doing graphic design? You know, the thing you really like.”

You frowned. “I can’t change careers like that.”

“Why not?” he shrugged. “You’re your own boss. Maybe you could dedicate some time to getting yourself into graphic design, little by little before you do a full transition.”

You thought about it for a long second. It seemed curious to you that Mingyu had remembered how much you enjoyed talking about graphic design when you were younger. Whenever the conversation about college popped up in your friend group, you always mentioned it.

Even you had forgotten about your lost dream of getting the degree. You found translating documents easy, and quick. And once it started making money, you thought it was convenient.

“I think it’s a good idea,” you agreed. “Maybe not a full switch-up, like you say.”

“Yeah, and it case it doesn’t work… well you already have a thing for you, right?” he squeezed your hand.

You lifted your gaze, finding his light smile. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“I got you, shorty,” he winked.

You laughed softly. Then you noticed that you were almost down the corner, and Mingyu seemed to notice too, because he stopped walking, forcing you to stop too.

“Your place or mine?” he asked.

Your heart dipped slightly. Mingyu had been avoiding talking about what happened the other day at the gym. And you had been too much of a coward to bring the subject up.

“Yours is closest,” you shrugged, your tone off.

Mingyu noticed. “You don’t want to go to mine?” he asked, a smile tugging at his lips. “Why? Is it because of my roommate?”

You hesitated but nodded all the same.

“He’s not that bad,” he giggled. “Well, he does have a temper, but he leaves us alone.”

“It’s not that,” you replied quickly.

Mingyu paused, his mouth parting slightly when he realized. “Oh—” he giggled shyly.

“Stop,” you sighed a smile, bringing your free hand to pat his tummy lightly.

“You don’t want him hearing us?” he smiled, biting his bottom lip as his hand tugged you closer.

“Of course not,” you said, giggling with him.

“Don’t worry, sugar,” he said softly, his hand meeting your cheek. “I don’t think he’ll mind.”

Your insides twisted. “Has he heard us before?” you asked.

“No,” he said firmly. “We have this thing, if one of us is bringing someone over, we just crash late.”

That brought something to your mind. You nodded half-heartedly. “Oh, okay.”

“But let’s go to yours,” he decided.

“Okay, but before we start walking,” you said, tugging his hand with yours.

“Yes?” Mingyu raised his eyebrows.

“Could you please walk a little slower?” you pleaded, almost pouting.

Mingyu burst out laughing, cupping your nape before kissing your forehead fondly. “Yes, shorty, I can.”

As soon as you crossed your apartment door, Mingyu was all over you. He expertly grabbed you by the back of your thighs, lifting you to pin you against the wall.

You locked your arms around his neck, glancing up at his eyes before he closed the distance between his lips and yours. He kissed you softly at first, as though he were dying to kiss you tenderly, to taste your lips.

Your heart dipped. You knew that there was a pending conversation between you. But for a moment, you allowed yourself to enjoy another night of pleasure, pushing away your feelings, and your anxieties. You let yourself feel.

“Gyu,” you urged. “Take me to the bed.”

Without hesitation, he carried you to your bed. In seconds your back was hitting the mattress.

Mingyu took control, taking your clothes one by one. You noticed he was in no particular hurry because once he got you completely naked, he started taking his time kissing your body, humming softly against your skin.

“I love the way you smell,” he said softly, kissing your neck.

You brought a hand to stroke his hair. “Thank you,” you replied. “You smell nice too,” you confessed. And you wanted to tell him that you loved that the smell of his cologne lingered on your pillows for days, making you miss him more.

“Thank you,” he giggled softly, pausing to give you a look. “But you smell nicer.”

“Stop it,” you giggled too. But you grabbed his hoodie, taking it off for him.

You took his clothes off, sending him shy glances as you did so. He kept looking at you with a soft twinge of endearment, smiling when you struggled to get his jeans off.

Mingyu dipped his head, littering your chest with slow and wet kisses. Getting your heart to swell and race wildly when he took his time loving and worshipping your body. It was then that you noticed he was pressing kisses on every mole that he could find on your skin.

“Gyu,” you swallowed hard.

“Hm?” he hummed, glancing at your eyes. “Are you ready for me, baby?”

You nodded quickly.

“Yeah?” he breathed.

Mingyu parted your thighs gently as he leaned over your body, pressing his front to yours. You gasped, your gaze snapping to his when you felt his hard cock on your lower tummy.

Seeing your reaction made him smile softly. But he said nothing, continuing pleasuring your body as though his pleasure wasn’t important. He pressed one elbow on your pillow, just beside your head as his free hand made its way between your bodies.

Looking into your eyes, his lips parted slightly as his fingertips slid between your pussy lips. Using his pointer and ringer fingers, he gently nudged your entrance, wetting his fingers with your arousal right before he started rubbing slow circles against your clit.

“Mingyu,” you stammered, your hands flying to hold onto him. “Please,” you swallowed hard, your body tensing with pleasure. “Fuck me.”

“Not yet,” he whispered. “I have to get you ready for me first, baby,” he said gently.

You were about to tell him to take you anyway. You liked the sting of his cock stretching your pussy. But his fingers slipped inside you, drawing out a lewd moan from you.

You blinked for a long second, enjoying the way he dragged his knuckles in and out of your walls, massaging them slowly, and so gently.

“Mmmn, look at this,” Mingyu drawled, pulling his fingers out of you to show you the wetness coating them, dripping from his fingertips to his knuckles, beginning to reach his palm.

“Please,” you whispered.

The corner of his lips curved. “What do you want, baby?” he purred, slipping his fingers inside you again, making you gasp. “Do you want my cock?”

“Yes,” you mewled instantly, your head spinning slightly at the language he used. “Please, Gyu. Fuck me.”

Mingyu got on his knees, pulling his fingers out of you. You whined in protest, making him laugh. “Needy,” he clicked his tongue, but the look of endearment on his face made your heart skip.

Your thighs twitched with anticipation, looking at him as he stroked his cock languidly, using the hand that was wet with your arousal, smearing it all over himself. Mingyu noticed that you liked that, his lust-lidded eyes outlining your body before he positioned himself.

Your hands gripped your inner thighs, keeping yourself angled and ready for him as he guided his cock to your needy cunt. A moan spilled from your lips when you felt the bulbous head of his cock nudging at your entrance.

His dark eyes were lost in your body, entranced as he slipped his cock inside you, so very slowly. His mouth dropped open, his hands gripping your hips as he started thrusting his cock in with shallow motions.

“Fuck, baby,” he gasped, tilting his head back slightly. “So tight.”

“Gyu,” you whispered, blinking away the tears that started to form in the corners of your eyes. “Please.”

“Patience, sweetheart,” he replied in kind, clearly enjoying the way you were so needy for him. His gaze returned to yours, endearment showing in his lazy smile when he saw your tears of pleasure.

You removed one hand from your inner thigh, mind blank as you gripped his wrist. Mingyu pulled his cock out, leaving only his head in for a second before he pushed his length back inside you. You moaned loudly, not caring that it was the middle of the night, and the neighbors might take an annoyance at you.

Mingyu sighed in pleasure when he heard you, his eyebrows drawn in as he glanced down your body one more time. He gritted his teeth, muffling a moan as he watched his cock disappear into your pussy.

You removed your hand from his wrist, but Mingyu caught it first, lacing his fingers with yours. He did this almost too naturally—as though you were more than friends. As though you were two lovers, making love in the middle of the night.

It was overwhelming. A sob tore through you, the sound so soft and whiny that it was masked well by the pleasure you were feeling. Mingyu glanced at your face, taking your hand to kiss your knuckles.

“You okay, baby?” he asked softly in between breaths of exhaustion.

You nodded quickly. “Yeah,” you replied, squeezing his hand with yours.

The features of his face relaxed. And you thought that he might’ve noticed something in your eyes. He leaned over your body, framing your head with his arms, closing the space between you.

Mingyu kept pushing his hips against yours, thrusting his cock deeper, slower, as though he wanted to delay his own orgasm—which you suspected that he did. He dipped his head, pressing his lips against you, kissing you tenderly.

“Hey,” he whispered, looking into your eyes. “Move with me, yeah?”

You grabbed his shoulders, nodding as you started rolling your hips at the same pace he did, grounding your feet on the bed for support.

The bed creaked, the headboard slamming against the wall but neither of you cared.

Mingyu searched your eyes, his mouth parting as he released a small moan. “Baby,” he called, noticing something in you.

“Yeah?” you whispered.

“Breathe.” He instructed gently, his hand brushing your hair back. “Breathe with me, okay?”

Then he took your hand from his shoulder, wrapping it in his as he took a deep breath in without moving his gaze away from your eyes. You followed the movement of his chest, drawing in a deep breath as he pushed inside you.

The pleasure came instantly to your body, overwhelming you. You let out a moan, your eyebrows knitting together.

“Breathe,” he mouthed, taking another deep breath with you.

“Mingyu,” you moaned sweetly, inching closer to your release.

“I know—” he replied, squeezing your hand in his. “I know, baby.”

You didn’t need to tell him, just from the expression on your face he could tell that you were closer. You breathed with him again, releasing your breath at the same time pleasure bloomed inside you, from the pit of your tummy to the rest of your body.

You let out a long cry, cumming so hard that your eyes started to brim with tears. But you continued rolling your hips with him, breathing at the same time he did. Mingyu gasped, looking into your eyes as well as his hips slowed down slightly.

Mingyu pressed his forehead against yours, gasping into your mouth before he kissed you swiftly. “I’m cumming,” he whispered, and you nodded, moaning with him as he pushed his cum deep inside you with sloppy thrusts.

You were a mess, breathing heavily under him. But that wasn’t the reason you felt out of it.

You wanted to cry. You had never in your life made love so softly to someone, let alone someone who didn’t consider himself your boyfriend.

Firmly pressed against your body, Mingyu brushed your hairline with his thumb, pressing soft kisses on your bottom lip, and the corner of your mouth.

“You’re okay?” he whispered without moving away from your body, his forehead still pressing against yours.

“I’m okay,” you replied in kind. “You?”

He smiled. “I’m okay, sweetheart.” He pushed himself from you, although he was still inside you. “Want me to start a shower for you?”

Your hand slipped from his, making your heart dip. “No, I—” You instinctively reached for his hand again, but he didn’t notice. “I want to stay in bed for a little while.”

Mingyu paused, tilting his head to one side slightly. “Sure you’re okay, baby? You seem out of it.”

You nodded. “Cuddle with me, please,” you mumbled, not caring how desperate you were sounding.

Mingyu followed without giving a second thought. He pulled out of you gently, tugging the bed covers to tuck you both in.

As soon as you were both under your bedsheets, he wrapped an arm around you, his fingers grazing the space between your shoulder blades. He looked at you for a long second, his gaze outlining every feature of your face.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.

You smiled at him. “Thanks, Gyu,” you replied. Dropping your gaze to the bedsheets, you confessed: “You’re beautiful too.”

You heard him smile, and that was what drove you to look at him again. Mingyu closed the space between you, his hand moving to cup your cheek. You thought for a moment that he would kiss your lips, but instead, he pressed his lips against your forehead.

Your heart skipped a beat. “Gyu,” you whispered.

“Mm?” he hummed, kissing your cheek.

You closed your eyes, swallowing hard. His lips were on yours, kissing you slowly, deeply.

You brought a hand on his chest, trying to hold onto him for a second. “Can I tell you something?”

Mingyu stilled, looking in your eyes. “Of course,” he said softly.

You stared at your fingers on his chest, discovering that he had a tiny mole right below your ring finger.

“I never told you the real reason why I moved here,” you said quietly.

Mingyu didn’t say anything, but you could feel that there was a shift in the air.

“It wasn’t because I wanted a change of scenery, or because of work or whatever,” you let out a shaky breath. “I moved because I couldn’t stay at my other place.”

You glanced at his face quickly. He was still looking at you, waiting, listening.

“I was with someone. We broke up eight months ago.”

You avoided his gaze, you avoided doing something that would ruin the tiny bit of courage that you had gathered.

“We were together for years, even lived together. But no matter what, he never wanted more.” You blinked slowly, hating that saying this aloud was bringing a long-forgotten ache to your heart. “I waited for so long. I thought that if I just kept being there for him, supporting him and loving him, he would change his mind.”

You paused, your heart thudding painfully, ringing in your ears.

“But he told me he wasn’t ready. And that I probably never would be,” you took a breath and let it out slowly. “And when he left, I didn’t recognize myself. I had spent so much time waiting, molding myself for him, that I didn’t know who I was anymore.”

Mingyu exhaled and his hand stroked your back again, as if he knew you needed comfort. That encouraged you to look into his eyes again. It was a fleeting glance, but you sensed that he felt something for you.

“So I packed my things and moved here. I told myself that I wasn’t going to allow myself to get involved. Not ever again. Not like that,” you glanced up at him again, searching his eyes.

There he was. Watching you, softly, gently, welcoming.

“But then, you came.”

He remained silent, and you knew he wasn’t judging you—he was just listening and waiting. But something shone in his eyes.

“I know I’m not perfect. I have baggage,” you whispered, unable to raise your voice any higher. “But I’m not here to use you. I didn’t expect to care so much about you...”

You took one final deep breath, trying to muster another shred of courage.

“But I do. I care about you.”

You didn’t expect him to say anything. But you still waited, deciding that, whatever happened, you were ready for it.

☆ author's note: hello!

i uh, eeeh have nothing to say. i don't know what came over me. i just had the impulse to write another chapter! heh

i want to use this author's note to express my gratitude toward every single one of you that commented, reblogged, and liked the previous chapter. my heart is so happy to see so many of you just engaging.

thank you so much for reading!! tell me what you guys think 🥺🩵

toodles

☆ STAY TUNED FOR PART IV! ☆ | PREVIOUS CHAPTERS | BUY ME COFFEE? ♡

#paused my night routine for this #IM HERE #so much happened i need to take a deep breath #first and foremost #jealous mingyu hot hot hot hot idcidcidc hot #i gasped so loud i mightve woken up everyone in my house #i love seeing jk and mc being friends 😖 she need a friend!#and im really interested in wonwoo's part in all this!#i want to know what he's thinking so baddd #im so glad she finally told mingyu about her ex!#im proud of her like shes my best friend you go girl!#of course i shed a few tears #and you're the best as always! ♥︎♥︎#ema.recs mingyu

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