sincerelyneo - Tumblr blog

sincerelyneo · 6 days ago

Text

air hostess | p.js

“you know i hate to fly, but i feel much better…”

💿now playing: air hostess by busted

❯ summary: Jisung hates flying—but the hot flight attendant in the blue uniform is making him rethink that opinion. Especially when you’re on your knees for him.

❯ pairings: jisung x fem!reader

❯ genre: strangers to lovers, idol!au, smut

❯ words: 4.1k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, slight objectification, pervy jisung, making out, blow jobs, deep throating, nipple sucking, protected sex, edging, quickie, spit, restraints, sloppy sex, dirty talk, public sex, switch!jisung, switch!reader, swearing, reader uses she/her pronouns, literally just jisung joining the mile high club ✈️

Jisung hates travel days.

They’re long. They’re loud. They’re lined with fans and cameras and—like clockwork—he, somehow, ends up being the only member flagged at the metal detector when he arguably wears the least amount of jewellery.

Not to mention, he just generally hates flying, overall. The food’s bland, Chenle never shuts up, his ears pop, he can never seem to sleep—

Holy shit.

Everything in his mind stutters to a stop.

Because as he sits in this godforsaken terminal, waiting for whatever flight to whatever city he’s supposed to be touring in tonight, Jisung sees you.

An air hostess. In a blue uniform that fits like it was sewn directly onto your body. The kind of fit that’s carved to torment him. The kind of fit that makes him shift in his seat—subtly—because the last thing he needs is to trend on Twitter for pitching a tent in his sweats. Not when the first thing he needs is your name.

“Damn,” Chenle whistles, low and filthy. “I love flying sometimes.”

“You’re gross,” Jisung says, coughing. He shoves Chenle’s shoulder.

Chenle groans, biting into his sandwich, “Hey! That’s rich coming from the man who’s popping a semi right now. Have some self-control, buddy.”

“I am not—” Jisung cuts in, sucking in a sharp breath, because apparently oxygen might help him come up with a defence. It doesn’t.

Chenle grins, all teeth. “Sure you’re not.”

Before Jisung can land a half-decent comeback, the gate agent calls their flight. He stands, shoving his boarding pass into his hoodie pocket, falling into the slow shuffle toward the counter. Chenle is still talking—(he told you his friend doesn’t shut up)—as Jisung hands over his passport. The attendant scans it without sparing a glance.

More of Chenle’s talking. Jisung’s not entirely sure what about—something to do with a new playlist he’s curating with Mark, then what restaurant they’re going to check out tonight, then his idea for a podcast “because the world deserves a Chenji This and Chat.”

When he steps onto the plane, and makes his way towards the back, Chenle, being the menace that he is, sidesteps Jisung to slide into the window seat.

“You got it last time,” he says, like a sibling arguing over the shotgun seat on the school run.

Jisung doesn’t care. He rolls his eyes, shoves his bag into the overhead bin, and drops into the aisle seat. Chenle’s mouth is already moving again.

He leans back in the window seat and smirks, “What do you think joining the Mile High Club is like, anyway?”

Jisung turns. “Dude, I don’t know because I haven’t had sex on a plane—”

A deliberate, polite ahem cuts through the row.

Jisung freezes as be looks up.

You’re standing there in that uniform—blue skirt, thin shirt, sheer tights, silk scarf knotted at your neck, which has him thinking of all the ways he’d like to wind it around your wrists. Fuck. That look on your face—half-amused mixed with professional��makes him certain you’ve heard everything.

His stomach drops. His face flushes.

You tilt your head, one brow lifting the tiniest bit. “No sex on my plane, thank you, boys. You’ll have to wait until you land to see to each other’s needs.”

Jisung jerks to his feet so fast he nearly elbows Chenle. “What? No—no! That’s not.” His voice cracks like he’s fourteen again.

Chenle’s smirk, though, is pure evil. He catches Jisung’s arm, tugs him back into his seat. “Don’t worry, we will—”

“Chenle!” Jisung growls, then whips back to you. “We don’t—that’s not—we don’t fuck!”

That gets Mark and Jeno’s attention from across the aisle. Both turn, staring at them completely dumbfounded, and Jisung knows then, that this will live forever in the group chat.

Sensing the situation spiralling, you cough, crouch, and promptly drop the laminated safety cards you were here to hand out in the first place.

The pilot’s voice crackles over the speakers—‘Welcome aboard flight 739 to Tokyo… estimated flight time, six hours and forty-three minutes… cruising altitude, thirty-seven thousand feet…’

That’s your cue to start the safety demonstration.

Jisung sits there, spine stiff, cringing so hard it’s a miracle he hasn’t folded in on himself. Damn Chenle. For the first time in months, the flight attendant on a flight is hot—sexy enough to take his mind off the fact he’s trapped in a metal tube in the sky—and now he can’t even enjoy you showing him where the exits are, or how to inflate a life jacket, or what to do when the oxygen mask drops from the ceiling.

Because his mind is thinking about how the whole plane thinks he and Chenle… fuck. Or don’t fuck. He doesn’t know which is worse—being thought of as Chenle’s secret mile-high fling, or there being an environment where he has to clarify that he’s not.

Ugh.

You’re gesturing to the nearest exit, and he’s trying—trying—to keep his eyes on your hands and not your legs in those sheer tights, not the way your scarf bounces against your chest when you move.

Chenle, of course, leans over and whispers, “You’re making it worse. You look like you’re picturing her naked right now. Perv.”

“You know,” Jisung grips the armrest so he doesn’t throttle Chenle mid-takeoff, “I’m going to fucking kill you when we land.”

You wrap up the demonstration with that same professional smile, hands smoothing over your skirt before you move down the aisle to stow the props.

For about ten minutes, Jisung thinks he’s known peace. Then he remembers why he hates flying. Because he’s paired with the biggest nuisance on the planet—one who’s just decided to see how many times he can call you over purely to fuck with him.

Suddenly Chenle’s got an appetite for Pringles. And cashew nuts. And, apparently, he’s impartial to an alcoholic drink every five minutes now, too. Jisung can’t help but scowl.

But it’s when Chenle gets the bright idea to toss a packet of peanuts down the aisle that Jisung knows it’s gone too far. It’s so stupid. So rude. So disrespectful, actually. But it has you coming over to their section of the plane.

And unlike anyone else dealing with celebrities (who would find this situation so annoying and entitled), you smile. You bend down to scoop up the mess, the neckline of your shirt dipping low enough to flash a clear view of the soft curve of your tits, and you actually smile.

Jisung feels hot. It’s like the cabin’s pressure is rising—or maybe that’s just his cock. Chenle’s fist digs into his thigh then, snapping Jisung back to reality.

“Dude,” he murmurs, voice low and shameless. “I know you’re the one ogling her, but I think I might cum in my pants because she has the prettiest tits I’ve ever seen.”

Jisung scowls again, jaw tight, ears burning, wishing the oxygen masks would drop so he could shove one over his face and never speak to Chenle again. But he doesn’t have to wish for long because Chenle, mercifully, seems to drop it. Probably because he’s drunk himself into oblivion by now—head pressed against the window, mouth open, snoring softly.

That’s when Jisung gets his idea. To fix… whatever this is.

He glances at his Coke. No ice. And the cabin is hot, right? It’s totally okay to want ice in your drink when the plane is sweltering. (It’s definitely not because he can’t stop staring at you, replaying that smile, that bend at the waist, the perfect dip of your tits.)

He stands, stretches his long limbs casually, and makes his way to the back of the plane. You’re leaning against the counter, flipping through a glossy magazine. The lighting is low back there, warm. When you glance up, it’s with the prettiest—no, sexiest—eyes he’s ever seen.

Jisung swallows. Panics.

“I’m not gay.”

It explodes out of him—blurted too loud, too blunt, and so wildly unrelated to anything he came over to say, that he immediately wants to rip open the emergency exit and let the sky swallow him whole.

Your eyebrows lift slowly. Then you laugh, with just the slightest curve of a smile. “I know, I was just teasing about you and your buddy taking care of each other’s needs.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah.” Jisung rubs the back of his neck. “I just… wanted to clear that up.”

“It’s clear.” You close your magazine and set it on the counter. Looking up at him fully now, you say, “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

The way you bite your lip when you ask has his entire body going rigid. He wants to groan. He wants to moan. To lean in. To catch that lip you're taunting him with between his teeth just to see if you’d gasp.

Instead, he coughs, “No—well… yeah.” His voice stutters over itself. “Ice. I need ice. Please.”

You take the glass from his hand, fingertips brushing his, which sparks a flash of heat from his fingers up his arm. He feels himself shivering as you plop a few cubes into his Coke, the clink loud from how silent and still he’s being.

“You know,” you murmur, handing it back, “you didn’t have to come all the way back here for that. You could’ve just pressed your attendant button.”

“I know that,” he says quickly. “But my buddy’s been asking so much of you already. Thought I’d save you the trip. In fact, the only reason I came back here was to apologise for his—”

“I thought you came back here for ice?”

“Well, yeah,” he says, blushing now, “but mainly to apologise.”

You lean one hip against the counter, smirking. “It’s okay. I didn’t mind, actually.” You step a little closer. “I’m always happy to help,” you add, voice dropping half an octave. “That’s what I’m here for… to serve my passengers.”

The word serve wraps around him, his fingers tightening around the glass just to keep them distracted from the need he has to serve you.

You shift then, leaning past him to reach for something on the counter behind. The movement makes your shoulder brush his chest, bringing you close enough for him to catch the faint trace of your perfume. Jisung feels the warmth of your skin, the soft swish of your skirt against his knee—and he knows he can’t stay distracted much longer.

Especially when you don’t straighten right away. Your lips linger near his ear, your whisper curling down his spine.

“Is there anything I could help serve you with, Jisung?”

He blinks, almost in disbelief.

Are you… coming onto him?

His mouth opens, closes. He’s floundering like a fish—words slippery, useless. You pull back to meet his eyes, a smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth like you already know exactly how rattled he is.

“If you need me…” You smooth your palms down the front of your uniform. Then, as if to seal the thought, you drag a single finger across your lips. “I’ll be in the bathroom.”

And then you’re gone, walking away with that easy sway of your hips, leaving him standing in the galley with a glass of Coke, a head full of static, and the very distinct, very uncomfortable realisation that he’s about thirty seconds away from making a very bad decision.

A bad decision that could leak to the paps.

A bad decision that could tank headlines.

A bad decision that he quite literally could not give a single fuck about—because he’s already following you to the bathroom like a lost puppy.

The second the door clicks shut, you’re on him. Lips crashing into his—wet, messy, sloppy. You can’t help but nip his bottom lip, suck his tongue, let your hands map every inch of him that’s so broad and inviting. You knew he was hot the minute you saw him slump down in his seat, but the feeling of his abs—solid and firm—has your panties dripping.

He responds instantly to your touch—how could he not? You’ve been taunting him since the terminal. Tight clothes, low-cut top, a neckline that’s been driving him insane, and a safety demonstration that was like a strip tease. He needs to touch you. Needs to feel your tits in his palms, even if it’s through fabric, even if it’s rushed and clumsy.

Almost like you can hear the thought in his head, you break away just long enough to pop the buttons on your shirt. Then you’re back—pressing your mouth to his because you need to breathe him in, taste him, lick that pretty pink mouth until it’s swollen and perfect just for you.

It’s a kiss all tongue and teeth. Breath and spit. You don’t know who’s hungrier, more careless, because you’re both greedy and chasing. Then, Jisung’s hands are on your tits in seconds. Blue lace covering you. Pretty. Completely in his way.

He squeezes your tits, thumbs dragging over your nipples through the fabric, and you’re already gasping because—God—it’s not enough. He must feel the same, because there’s no finesse here. No unclasp. Just the lace shoved up, wire pressing into your collarbone, your head tipping back when his mouth drops to your chest.

A wet stripe down your throat. Another over the swell of your breast. And then—fuck—he’s sucking your nipple into his mouth like he knows what you like. Like he’s done this before, and he’s not a complete stranger who doesn’t know your name.

You choke out a curse, your hand moving to his hair. “Yeah, don’t stop. Don’t you dare fucking stop.”

The aeroplane bathroom feels even smaller. Hotter. Every sound slipping from your mouth bounces off the walls—the slick of his tongue, your panting, the low groan he lets out against your skin. Every noise.

You lean down, breath hot against his ear. “Bet you wanna fuck me in here, huh?”

He freezes, just for a second, then snaps his head up, eyes burning like you’ve flipped a switch. That’s when he sees it. The scarf. The one you’ve had knotted around your neck all flight. The one that’s been taunting him since the terminal.

He grabs it before you can blink, reaching for your wrists.You stop him, pressing a finger to his chest.

“Nuh-uh,” you tease, stepping into his space. One slow push until the backs of his legs hit the toilet. “Sit.”

He does. So obedient, like he can’t help himself not to be. You hook your thumbs in the waistband of his sweats, dragging them down. Boxers too—just enough to free him, the heavy length of his cock already hard in your hand.

Then you take the scarf from his fingers. But not for your wrists—for his. You guide his hands behind his back, tying them there in a loose knot that still keeps him bound. He lets you, completely.

“I told you…” You drop to your knees on the cramped floor, looking up at him through your lashes. “I’m here to serve you.”

You drag your nails down his thighs—slow, just to watch him twitch—before wrapping your hand around him where he’s hot and hard and already leaking.

You give one lazy stroke to his length. Then two. Then your tongue’s on him, starting at the tip, licking up the mess like it’s water and you’ve been stranded in the desert for weeks.

“Fuck—” His head tips back, hitting the wall, knuckles flexing against the scarf.

You suck the head into your mouth. Let your tongue swirl, teasing, like you’ve got all the time in the world. You don’t. You both know it. Which makes it hotter. Then you pull back to spit—messy, dirty—and watch it drip down the length of his cock before you take him in again. Deeper this time. Gag once. Twice. Three times. Keep going.

The bathroom smells like him now. Feels like him. The slick sound of your mouth working him over is obscene, lewd, along with his low, desperate groans.

“Jesus—how are you real? Fuck!”

You hum around him, smug as the vibration makes him curse again. You pump him with one hand while you suck on him, twisting your wrist enough to make his hips jerk. There’s saliva on your chin, his precum on your tongue, but you can’t stop. You don’t want to stop.

“You have to be a fucking dream,” he rasps, “Prettiest fucking girl on your knees in a fucking aeroplane bathroom—”

You pull back just long enough to drag your tongue from base to tip, locking eyes with him.

“Uh-huh, serving you,” you whisper, and then you’re back on him, taking him to the back of your throat until your eyes water and you can barely breathe.

He’s a mess now—sweat at his hairline, hands flexing uselessly behind his back, hips twitching like he’s fighting not to fuck your face. It’s not like he could anyway.

He wants to—God, he wants to—hold the back of your head, fuck his cock into that filthy little mouth until you’re gagging on him. But his hands are bound. Useless. You’ve got him under your control, and all he can do is sit there and take it. Whining. Groaning. Hips twitching like the friction might break the scarf if he tries hard enough

You make it worse. Spit pooling on your tongue before you let it drip over the head of his cock, watching it slide down the shaft. Your hand spreads it, slow, as your tongue flutters over the tip—light, teasing, filthy.

“Fuck, gorgeous—don’t—” he gasps, but you know exactly what you’re doing. Your mouth is pure sin, hot and wet and relentless, until his thighs tense under your hands. Until you feel it—his whole body going tight.

And just when he’s there, right on the edge, you pull off him with a wet pop. He chokes on a groan, eyes wide, chest heaving.

“What the fuck—no,” he groans, biting his lip.

You giggle at his whining, wiping your lips with the back of your hand. Not your chin, though—which you leave glistening with spit and him. You want him to see that. Then you reach behind him to untie his hands, and the second you do, he’s on you again.

Mouth crashing into yours, absolutely savage. You moan into it because it’s too much—need, want, lust—and because he’s still a stranger. A famous one at that. Another fact that makes this so much hotter.

He hikes your skirt up in one motion. Rips your tights because they’re in his way. And shoves your panties to the side, his cock sliding through your wet slit, teasing, pressing, but not pushing in. He wants to push in. But it's like something clicks in his brain, and he stills.

Fucking the flight attendant was one bad decision.

Doing it bare would be another.

Doing it bare and not pulling out… yeah, that has the potential to be three. (And after the head you just gave him, he’s sure your pussy would be heaven—and he wouldn’t stand a fucking chance.)

“Fuck,” he mutters, dragging himself away, hands raking through his hair.

You’re panting. Needy. Looking at him. You could climb him, you think, if you wanted, but you can see it—the flicker of panic in his eyes.

“Under the sink. Condom.”

He quirks an eyebrow at you. “What happened to no sex on your plane?”

“I lied.” You shrug, lips curling. “Grab one and fuck me.”

Jisung crouches then, reaching under the sink, brushing past paper towels until he finds the box of small foil squares. He grabs one, but before he straightens, his gaze catches on it—the scarf. Disregarded on the floor.

He picks it up, already building the scene in his head. You had your fun. You called the shots. It’s his turn.

“Open your mouth.”

You blink at him, thrown for half a second. But the way he’s looking at you? Deep, dark, commanding brown eyes so full of heat, they leave no space for questions. For defiance. So you part your lips and obey.

The fabric’s soft for a second, teasing over your tongue—then he stuffs it in deep enough to muffle the sound that leaves your throat. It makes you feel… possessed, owned.

“Gotta keep that pretty mouth shut,” he says, smiling, before he tears the condom open with his teeth and rolls it down his length in one smooth stroke.

Then he’s on you—or in you.

One shove and your back hits the wall, the impact rattling the mirror. Your skirt’s bunched at your hips, panties still shoved aside like an afterthought. He lines up, and then he’s inside—deep, hot, stretching you open in one filthy thrust that steals the air from your lungs.

You moan, the sound broken and muffled around the scarf.

“Can’t let everyone on this plane know I’m fucking the hot flight attendant, can we?” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear.

You shake your head because that’s all you can do, and even that’s shaky.

“Good girl,” he breathes, and it’s almost sweet—until he drags his cock out slowly, just to slam back in hard enough to make you whimper into the fabric.

The bathroom’s too small, too hot. Every thrust shoves you into the sink, the wall, him. The smell of sweat and sex mixes with the faint scent of disinfectant, the slick sound of him moving inside you loud enough to drown out the hum of the engines and air pressure.

His grip on your hip is bruising, the other hand braced against the wall like he needs the leverage to fuck you harder.

“Bet you do this all the fucking time,” he says, all hoarse and throaty, “so much you have a little condom stash.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders, sharp through his shirt.

“But you wanted it to be me today, huh?” he adds, a little cruel, hips slamming forward again. “Serving me drinks in this little fucking skirt and wondering if I’m ever gonna bend you over in here.”

You moan, high and desperate, but he swallows it with a kiss—his tongue forcing its way past the scarf just enough to taste you. It’s then he feels you clench around him, mouth leaving his lips as your head falls back against the mirror and your eyes roll.

“Shit,” he groans against your mouth, hips still pounding, “you feel fucking unreal. Tight little pussy cumming around me, and I can’t even touch you the way I want ‘cause I’d wake the whole damn plane.”

He pulls back to look at you—flushed, glassy-eyed, scarf wet with spit—and he groans again, like the sight’s enough to wreck him. His pace changes. Less control. Less rhythm. Just messy, urgent thrusts that have you scrambling for balance, fingers clutching at his shoulders like you might fall.

The scarf muffles your sounds, but not enough. You’re still loud. Too loud. Every moan, every gasp echoes off the cramped bathroom walls.

“Shit—” he grits, hips snapping forward, “you’re so fucking wet. You’re drenching me.”

You can feel it. The way each thrust gets harder. Sloppier. The results of his chasing. The plane rocks gently beneath you then, a reminder that you’re thousands of feet in the air, seconds away from someone potentially knocking on the door—and you don’t care. Neither does he.

“Gonna make me lose it,” he groans, his grip on your hip almost punishing now. “And you—” thrust, “—don’t—” thrust, “—even—” thrust, “—have shame.”

You shake your head, eyes wet, utterly breathless now.

“Fuck,” he growls, staring down at where you’re joined. “You’re taking me so deep, gorgeous. All of me.”

He slams in hard, buries himself, and you both feel it—that rush, that coil winding tight in your stomach, no turning back. Your nails rake down his back again. His breath stutters. He’s close. So close. You’re closer. Again.

“You gonna cum with me this time?” he pants, forehead pressed to yours. You nod, frantic, hips pushing into his, chasing it.

“Good—fuck—cum for me. Right here. Right now.”

The last few thrusts are brutal, needy. The bathroom’s all fever and breath and the slap of skin, your muffled cries against the scarf as the coil snaps and you cum hard around him, dragging him along with you. He groans into your neck, hips still moving, riding it out until the aftershocks have you trembling against the wall.

For a second, there’s nothing but panting. The faint hum of the plane and the slow drag of him pulling out, condom slipping free before he tosses it into the tiny trash. And then he looks at you—hair a mess, lips swollen, scarf hanging loose from your mouth—and smirks.

Because he just claimed the air hostess at 37,000 feet in the air.

#nct smut #nct dream smut #park jisung smut #jisung smut #nct x reader #nct dream x reader #park jisung x reader #jisung x reader #nct hard hours #nct scenarios #kpop smut

625 notes · View notes

sincerelyneo · 6 days ago

Note

PLEASEEEEE TELL ME THERES GONNA BE A PART 3 FOR BACK TO FRIENDS 😢😢😢😢

i do have a part three plotted (since i’m not totally evil, i will give the ppl who want a HEA a HEA) but i just haven’t written it yet. trust me, everything will come full circle, i just need a little break from that universe and that pairing.

#💬paigetalks #there will be a happily ever after #to be determined #anon

7 notes · View notes

sincerelyneo · 6 days ago

Note

Back to friends literally killed me 😭 please it was so good

i live to kill the ppl 🙂‍↕️

#💬paigetalks #this is a joke (mostly)#angst propaganda #real angst lovers get it #anon

1 note · View note

sincerelyneo · 6 days ago

Note

i just read all of back to friends and oh my god … you’re so talented ?????? m(__)m just the way you format scenes and the flow of the dialogue is so human and natural ugh i have a million and one praises, seriously. yn and renjun are also just so distinct in mannerisms and the way they speak, i’m obsessed TT

AHHHH THANK YOU SO MUCH ☺️☺️

i was a little bit nervous to post a long fic because me and dialogue can sometimes be enemies (i have very niche humour too) and i was worried about boring ppl to death ahahahah

#💬paigetalks #ppl telling me i have good writing ☺️👅

4 notes · View notes

sincerelyneo · 9 days ago

Text

back to friends | h.rj | (2)

“how can you look at me and pretend, i’m someone you’ve never met?”

📀now playing: back to friends by sombr

❯ summary: Renjun didn’t really do friends. He never needed to—he already had one, and that was more than enough. But then his boss went and hired a pretty summer temp. A girl who's all sunshine grins and jokes. His complete opposite. And suddenly Renjun thinks maybe he could do friends. Hopefully even more.

❯ pairings: virgin!renjun x fem!reader

❯ genre: grumpy x sunshine, college!au, workplace!au, smut, slowBURN

❯ words: 31.4k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, angst, fluff, loss of virginity, hand job, breast worship, fingering, porn with plot, banter with a slice of world building, unprotected sex (don’t do this!), slight hurt, inexperienced renjun, mentions of therapy, protectiveness, swearing, mentions of food, difficult family dynamics, mentions of anxiety, literally just a slowburn angsty fic that’s also fluffy idk

(AN: i had to split this into two post because of blocking issues, and i didn’t want to format it any differently since the way i write—especially dialogue—is important.) PART 1

Renjun’s car isn’t quite what you imagined. Sleek. Black. (Okay, that part’s totally predictable) But then there’s the undeniable part: it’s definitely, unquestionably expensive. Almost like he can sense your hesitation hanging just outside the passenger door, he opens it for you, gestures you in, and says,

“My first big purchase from this job.”

You gape, your eyebrows slowly climbing. Before you can press him for more, he shuts your door with a gentle-but-firm click—like a full stop to the conversation. Which, of course, is a mistake.

Because you may be slightly upset. You may be discombobulated and, yes, may be having an emotional clusterfuck in your mind. But you’re still you. You’re still nosy.

“How long did it take you to save? Yuta pays in buttons.”

That earns you a warm laugh. “I thought you got special treatment. You know, being a nepo baby and all that.”

“You would think so, wouldn’t you?”

Another laugh, softer this time, before: “Seat belt.”

You click it into place.

“Seriously,” you persist. “How long did this take you?”

He checks his mirrors, glances over his shoulder, flicks on his blinker. “You’ll have to direct me. I don’t like sat nav—”

“Renjun! How long did this take you to afford? Or are you secretly rich?” You gasp then. “Don’t tell me you’ve been hiding the fact that you’re also secretly a nepo baby?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head with the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “I just… I’ve worked at the theatre a long time. Six years, maybe.”

“No shit,” you say, genuinely impressed. “You’ve managed to stay loyal to the same high school job well into your college years?”

“I don’t like change,” he says simply.

“Clearly.” Your eyes sweep over the spotless interior—black leather, not a single crumb in sight. “I guess that’s a good thing, though. For a second there, I thought you’d been letting me sit in the nepotism guilt alone, and that would’ve made me very upset with you.”

“Phew,” he says, mock-relieved. “Because now that I know what you look like upset, I’m glad I don’t have to deal with your wrath.”

You sink deeper into the passenger seat, the leather molding around you. The laugh you’d just shared evaporates, replaced by the hollow weight that’s been trailing you all day.

Renjun catches it. Your change in mood. You don’t have to look at him to know—he’s gone quieter, his fingers flexing once against the steering wheel like he’s checking himself. For a second, you swear you can hear his internal monologue debating whether or not he’s just put his foot in it again.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

“Want is the wrong word.” You rub at your temple. “Need? Probably. Take a left here.”

Renjun knows he should leave it alone. He knows exactly what it’s like to not want to talk about something. To need space. He’s built his entire adult coping mechanism around giving people the distance he craves for himself. But with you? He doesn’t want to.

He wants to know why his sunshine girl isn’t smiling, why you’re sinking into his expensive seats on the verge of tears, why the first time you’re in his car is out of necessity—because of some asshole ex—and not because you wanted to hang out with him.

Woah.

He wants you to want him.

Shit.

“I don’t want to go home,” you say quietly.

His eyes flick over to you, confusion tugging at his features—but also relief, because you just derailed the spiral he was about to launch himself into. “Okay…?”

“That’s where all my problems are. They’re never here. With you.”

Okay. Abort mission. That was not you giving him a pass to shelve the whole why do I want her to want me revelation. That was you flipping on a neon sign in his chest that reads ‘EXAMINE FEELINGS NOW’.

And he is not ready for that.

At some point—he’s not sure when—you’ve managed to fold yourself into the passenger seat, legs pulled to your chest.

[Feet on the seat, may he add. Something he yells at Hyuck for. But, because you look sad, he drops it. Only because of that.]

“Where do you want me to take you…?” He coughs then, jerks his gaze back to the road like you might catch him staring.

“Nooo…” you groan, letting your head drop against the window. “You pick. I always pick.”

“Y/N—I don’t like—”

“Anything? I know.” Your voice softens, but there’s a tiny smile in it. “You pretend not to be interesting, but you’re a liar. You’re so loyal—to Hyuck, to me, to Yuta, to your job. You like cars. Nobody who doesn’t care spends years of saved paychecks on something this expensive. You like to draw—I see you doodling when I’m studying. And you hum. A lot.”

“I do not hum.”

You roll your eyes.

“And despite being the most defensive person alive, you’re also the most thoughtful. You told me the bus wasn’t safe and made me get a ride. You put yourself between me and a guy double your size—twice. You bring me Skittles to work even though I know it personally offends you that I eat them…” You keep going, almost like you can’t help yourself.

“Your thing, Renjun, is caring. You notice. You’re thoughtful. It makes you happy—I know it does. So please…” Your voice dips quieter, something almost shy. “You pick. For me.”

Renjun feels like a goldfish—open-mouthed, slow-blinking—because you’ve just cracked him. Cracked the code Joy’s been working at since he was fourteen, in less than two months. Read him front to back despite the fact that the cover has been deliberately, stubbornly uninviting.

It shouldn’t matter. It really, really shouldn’t. But it does.

He keeps his eyes on the road—convinced that if he looks at you, you’ll see every emotion flickering through him clear as day. Not just the inferred parts.

His fingers tighten on the steering wheel. He swallows. He knows exactly where to take you.

The first thing you notice when Renjun pulls into a random parking lot is the painted pawprint on the sign—bright blue, with a slightly chipped edge. The second thing you notice is the sound: a muffled, overlapping chorus of barks and soft, impatient scratches from somewhere beyond the walls.

An animal shelter.

You turn to him slowly, your smile instant. “See? I told you. You’re such a thoughtful person. You knew I liked animals.”

Renjun doesn’t smile back—no, he does something worse: he nods, slides out of the car, rounds to your side, and opens the door. Then he helps you out.

(And he has the nerve to say he’s not thoughtful. You think otherwise.)

The bell above the shelter door chimes softly as you step inside. The air smells faintly antiseptic but still can’t mask the warm musk of fur.

“Hey, Junnie!”

A voice floats over from the front desk—a girl, maybe your age, maybe younger, ponytail bobbing.

Your skin prickles at the nickname. Junnie. The one he claims to hate. The one he swats away every time you try it on him. Your brain decides to spiral and ask the worst possible question: Did he just pretend to hate it? Or—worse—did he just not want you saying it?

You glance sideways at him, your pulse flickering.

“I see Hyuck’s been talking to you,” Renjun says dryly to the girl. “Told you all about my nickname, huh?”

“Seems only fair I get to know there’s a cringey nickname for you, dear cousin,” she fires back. “Considering you sent your sex-pest best friend into my shelter—my place of work—with, yes, the cutest stray kitty ever, but still.”

Cousin.

The prickling on your skin deflates like a popped balloon, replaced by something heavier and way more embarrassing to admit. Because it’s not like you have any claim on him. It’s not like you should care that a pretty girl uses the same nickname you use for him. You didn’t even invent it. You need to—seriously—get a grip.

“Hyuck has a crush on you,” Renjun states to the girl.

“Hyuck has a crush on everyone,” she says. “That doesn’t mean you send him into my happy place with a cute cat so he can try and—I don’t know—finesse me!”

You watch the girl ramble and flail helplessly, and suddenly you see the resemblance to Renjun. Same mannerisms. Same distant coldness. Same anxious state.

“No.” He continues, “Hyuck likes to mess around. He really likes you.”

“And I should be flattered?”

“I would say no,” Renjun replies, “but only because the idea of my cousin dating my best friend makes me want to bleach my brain. Hyuck is way too TMI—”

“What are you doing in my animal shelter so late?” she cuts in, eyes narrowing at him before darting to you.

Renjun turns toward you too.

“Oh…” she says, dragging it out.

Your brows knit. “What is ‘oh’?”

Her mouth curves into a mischievous smile. “Oh, nothing. Just that my dear cousin here had his friend Hyuck drop a cat off here a couple weeks ago. Hyuck mentioned that I had to take it because Renjun is absolutely besotted—”

“Watch it,” Renjun growls. “Remember who’s Grandma’s favourite.”

She rolls her eyes but lets it go, turning that smile on you instead. “I’m guessing he brought you here to see that cat?” She shoots Renjun a look for confirmation.

“Do you still have her?” he asks.

Her grin widens, and she leads you both down the hallway, taking a right into a quieter section. She stops in front of a crate, where a familiar ginger tabby sits like she owns the place.

The minute she sees you, she lets out a yowl. Your heart actually stumbles in your chest as you crouch down. “Oh my god!”

The cat doesn’t hesitate—presses herself into you, rubbing her cheek along your arm with the kind of possessive affection usually reserved for people who bring snacks. You stroke down her spine, fingers sinking into the plush warmth of her fur, and she purrs so hard you can feel it in your ribs.

From the doorway, Renjun’s cousin clears her throat. “So this is Kitty Girl.”

“I think I heard the bell on the door chime,” Renjun says through clenched teeth, glaring at her.

She sighs, unbothered. “You didn’t. But since I’m an excellent cousin, I’ll stop cockblocking you and pretend there’s a customer out front at almost nine p.m at night.”

“You’re not cockblock—”

She’s already gone, her footsteps fading down the hall.

Renjun turns back to you, looking down at where you’re crouched on the floor with the cat curled against your thigh. There’s the faintest smile tugging at his mouth—weak, almost reluctant, like he’s not sure he should be wearing it.

“Cousin, huh?” you ask.

“Did you think she was my sister? Most people do. They say we act the same, but I don’t see it.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “No, actually. I thought she was…”

The words choke off before they can betray you. Because what right do you have to sound even a fraction jealous? Zero. Less than zero, actually. But Renjun—observant to the point of irritation—waits.

“…Your girlfriend,” you finish.

“First of all, gross,” his face twists into a grimace. “Second of all, why would I bring you to meet my girlfriend when you asked me to pick a place for you?”

He’s got a point. Which is annoying.

“I don’t know,” you say with a shrug, feigning nonchalance you absolutely do not feel. “Why wouldn’t you? We’re friends. It’s important I meet the people who matter to you. You just met Jeno.”

His brows draw together. “Jeno the ex… is still important to you?”

Shit.

Fuck.

No.

This is exactly the conversational landmine you’ve been tiptoeing around all day, and now you’ve stepped right on it, stomped down with both feet, and waved a little flag to announce your location.

“No—that’s not—” You gently place the cat back in her crate and push to your full height, suddenly needing the armour of vertical distance. “Jeno’s like family… because of my brother”

Renjun’s jaw works once, twice, before he says, “Right.”

You can feel it. The mood has changed, and you’re pretty sure it’s your fault. You want to say something—anything—to pull it back, but your thoughts are tangled. Because the reason everything feels sour is because of the one thing you refuse to examine too closely.

[The way your ribcage felt like it was cracking open when you walked into the animal shelter and thought he had a girlfriend. The idea of him having someone smiling at him from across a coffee shop table. Someone else hearing that soft, reluctant laugh he hides from everyone but gives you.]

It’s absurd. You’re absurd. He’s your friend. He’s just your friend. And then, because apparently your self-control has been left at the movie theare, your mouth opens.

“I mean…I’m just being silly about all of it, really. It’s not like any of that really matters anyway.”

His brows pinch again. “What doesn’t matter?”

You wave a hand. “Oh, you know—like, girlfriends, boyfriends, important people in our circles… all that. Because we’re friends. Just work friends.”

The words come out fast, rushed, like ripping off a bandage. Except instead of relief, you get… a weird hollowness in your chest. He watches you, unreadable, which is somehow worse than if he’d laughed or argued or rolled his eyes.

“Okay,” he says finally. The same flat tone as before, but there’s something under it now. “Well then, I’m going to go help out front. Let you two reconnect.”

“Renjun—”

But he’s already turning toward the door, leaving you there with the ginger tabby and your swirling thoughts. The cat yowls, batting at something metal that clanks against the side of her crate. You glance down and see it: a small silver plaque.

Bonnie.

You press your fingers against it, guilt pooling in your stomach.

Renjun is suspiciously quiet when you get back to his car.

The rain has picked up again, smearing across the windshield. And because he’s too fucking nice for his own good, he slips the strap of his backpack off his shoulder and presses it into your hands, holding it over your head while you cross the short stretch of pavement. He still opens your door. Still waits until you’re tucked in, safe and mostly dry, before shutting it and making his way around to the driver’s side.

You don’t speak as he starts the engine. The rain thrums on the roof instead.

“Did… that make you feel better?” he asks at last.

And of course he asks. Because he still cares—is still thoughtful—even though you’re almost certain you’ve just made it awkward between you. Pretty sure you’ve hurt him. But equally, he doesn’t fucking communicate. He doesn’t tell you where he stands, doesn’t give you a single foothold in the terrain of his feelings.

Maybe if he did, you wouldn’t be sitting here—jealous, possessive, unraveling—over a man you have no official claim to. Over a work friend, for god’s sake.

Ugh!

You huff out a breath. “No. It didn’t.”

His frown is immediate, brows pulling together. “Is it because you can’t adopt Bonnie yet? Because I can call and reser—”

“No, Renjun, it’s not that!”

You don’t even understand why you’re snapping at him—why you’re snapping at all. If anything, seeing a sweet, soft ball of ginger fur should have been the perfect remedy after the day you’ve had. After the ambush of your brother and your ex (an ambush you’re almost certain your father orchestrated, because in your family nothing is ever accidental) you should feel lighter. Happier.

But you’re not.

You’re confused. And conflicted. And frustrated. And, you’re certain that none of it is really about the cat.

“Then… what is it?”

“It’s—!” The word is jagged, harsh. “I don’t know! Avoiding my problems doesn’t mean they go away. I know you think that. I know you’ve mastered that craft. But for me? Putting a plaster over a bullet wound doesn’t mean I’m not going to bleed out.”

“I don’t think that.”

“You do.”

“I don’t.”

“Yes, you—”

He sucks in a slow breath, loud enough to cut you off. “I know it looks that way. I know I definitely avoid my problems. But that doesn’t mean I think they go away,” he says. “The opposite, in fact. They… they exist in my head permanently.”

“They don’t have to, though,” you reply. “You have people who’ll listen. Me, Hyuck… you have friends.”

“I know.” His throat moves as he swallows. “I’m well aware of that now.”

Maybe it’s the way his voice dips on the last word, or the way his hands tighten on the steering wheel. But you hear it: the punch.

It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t sting. But it does—because it’s one thing to be put in the friends category by anyone else. With him, it feels… wrong. Is this how he felt when you—

You swallow the thought before it can fester into something messier. Instead, you hear yourself blurt, “Take me to the beach.”

He cuts his gaze to you.“It’s raining, Y/N.”

“I know.”

“You’re going to get a cold.”

“I’m not. It’s August.”

“It doesn’t work like—” He breaks off with a sharp exhale. “It’s late. Dark,” he tries instead.

“I know,” you say again, tilting your head toward him. “You’ll be there with me.”

His groan vibrates low in his chest. “I hate the beach.”

“Then don’t come.”

He scoffs, glancing at you like you’ve just suggested the stupidest thing. “Y/N, I’m not leaving you at the beach on your own. In the dark. In the rain.”

“I know.” You let the smallest curve of a smile slip onto your lips, because, well, you’ve clearly won. “So take me there.”

And he does.

Straight down narrow lanes until he pulls into a gravel lot, and the ocean comes into view. The tires crunch to a stop, and before the engine even winds down, you’re unbuckling your seatbelt and shoving the door open. Rain greets you instantly—cool, wet, soaking into your hair until it clings in damp strands against your bare neck.

You don’t think. You just run. The wet sand shifts beneath your feet as you cross it, your fingers tugging at the buttons of your polo until it’s loose enough to take off. Your shorts follow too, dropped in a pile without care.

“Y/N!” Renjun’s voice cuts through the rain all sharp and worried. “What the hell are you doing?”

You keep walking, toes sinking deeper into the packed sand until the foamy tide kisses your ankles, then your calves, then climbs to your thighs. Your bra strap slips against your damp shoulder as you ease in. When the water reaches your ribs, you dive forward, letting the ocean swallow you.

“Y/N, stop! This isn’t funny!” He’s closer now, voice practically shaking. “It’s dangerous—

You turn in the water, hair plastered to your cheeks, grinning at him. “Come in! What’s the worst that can happen? You’ll get wet?”

He shakes his head, a disbelieving huff escaping him. But you see it—you see the way his jaw works, the restless shift in his weight. Then his teeth catch on his lower lip, like he’s physically holding back, before he rips his own rain-soaked employee polo over his head.

The rain slides over the bare planes of his shoulders. The sight is enough to make your breath stutter—enough to make you nearly forget you’re supposed to be treading water.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, flinging the shirt onto the sand. His pants follow in a similar motion, and you look away.

[You curse yourself for looking away!]

And then he’s in, moving through the water toward you. For half a second, you debate whether or not to goad him some more. Try swimming farther out, just to watch him lose his mind. Give him a heartattack, maybe. But you don’t get the chance. Because suddenly his arms are around you, hauling you into his bare chest.

Your brain flatlines.

It’s all too much, too fast. You two haven’t touched—not really. Maybe a brush of knuckles when you pass him a popcorn bucket, a graze of fingers when you exchange candy. But hugs? Full-body contact? Basically naked? Absolutely not.

“That wasn’t fucking funny!”

The shout snaps you back into your body, into the fact that he’s holding you like he might actually never let go.

“Do you have any idea how choppy the water gets when it rains—” He’s still talking, voice edged with panic, and your chest tightens. Because what was fun for you, a reckless little thrill, has clearly rattled him to the core.

He’s looking over your body now, and unlike you (who’d been very much appreciating his toned, unfairly pretty physique) he’s scanning for injuries. Checking that you’re breathing, steady, not bruised.

“I’m sorry,” you manage. “I didn’t think—”

“You never do!”

You haven’t seen this Renjun in a long time—the serious one, the methodical one, the stoic, unflinching one. You press your palms to his chest—not to push him away, but to get him to loosen up.

“Hey,” you say, softer now, “relax, okay? This was just… my way of showing you my band-aid on a bullet wound technique.”

“Endangering yourself!?”

“No,” You suck in a breath, shaking your head. “Impulse.”

That makes him pause. You can see the gears turning in his head. And then there’s this twinge of recognition, the quiet oh. Because he knows. He’s seen it before: you stepping in front of moving traffic to scoop up a stray cat; charging headfirst into arguments you should probably walk away from; refusing to back down against his coldness when most people would fold.

It’s then, for the first time everything registers for him—that he’s holding you, skin to skin. His cough is abrupt, like he’s choking on the realisation. A blush spills over his cheekbones as he clears his throat and looks sharply away. His hands fall from you, because they technically don’t belong there.

“You’re… um… fine. Sorry—” His voice stumbles, breaks a little. “I just—yeah.”

He starts edging back, putting water and air between you both, and you watch him do it—like he’s physically removing himself from the epicenter of… whatever this is. Then you splash him.

“Hey! What’re you—”

“I want to talk about it,” you say, letting the droplets fall off your fingertips “I’ve had a really shitty day.”

“Right now?” In the middle of the sea?”

“Yes, now. I told you—my problems don’t just go away. I believe if you never bleed, you never grow.”

“So… a band-aid is pointless then? Regardless of whether it’s going over a bullet wound or not?” he asks, a half-smile twitching at his mouth.

“Shut up,” you say, splashing him again.

He laughs. It’s short, almost a reluctant burst of air before he then relents, giving you the kind of space he’s infuriatingly good at giving.

You take a breath and start. “This is such a first-world problem, but… my dad’s forcing me to be tutored by Jeno or he’ll cut me off. And I don’t want to because—you know—he’s my ex. We ended fine, but that doesn’t mean I want the guy I thought I was going to marry one day in my space, you know?”

[Renjun does not know. He does not know what it feels like to have someone he thinks he might marry on this earth at all, actually. Well—not until—]

“You thought you were going to marry him?”

“It’s complicated,” you say quickly. “I told you my family has indirectly planned out everything for me—job, husband, probably my future kids’ names, so something ugly.” You snort. “But Jeno and I… we never clicked like that. I love him—like a brother, more than anything. But even then, I think it’s because he’s always been around. I hardly know life without him. Plus my family like him. He obviously likes them.”

“Makes sense.”

“I just feel…” you swallow hard. “Like when I’m with my family, I’m outside of my body. Like I’m watching this version of me—this good daughter they’ve designed—and I constantly have to try, try, try to be her. And I’m not. Naturally, I’m just… not. But I’ve let it spiral so far out of control that now they control everything now.”

You don’t even realise you’re crying until the salt on your lips tastes more like you than the sea. Or maybe it’s just the rain—either way, he notices. Renjun hesitates, like his mind is having a quiet fistfight with itself, before his hand lifts. And then—so gently, he wipes your cheek with his thumb.

You give him the smallest smile.

“You know…” you clear your throat, cough around the lump. “When they said they’d cut me off, I didn’t even flinch. I laughed. I had this job. I liked it. But then they reminded me—they control that too.”

“Hey—if Yuta tried to get rid of you, I’d vouch for you. Unfair dismissal.”

“It would only be you,” you laugh, soft. “Yushi still hates me for the Icee machine thing. Honestly, I should’ve been fired then. But I was happy to reap the benefits of nepotism then.”

“It was your first day—”

“You don’t have to defend me.” You smile again, this time no teeth. “I remember how pissed you were. Same day as the cat in Yuta’s office.”

There’s a pause, long enough that you almost expect him to stay in his lane, because he’s the listener. But then, almost like he’s testing the weight of the words before handing them to you, he says—

“I know what it feels like. To be outside of your body.”

You blink at him, but he’s looking past you.

“With my family,” he adds. “It’s like… they never tried to understand me. Not really. They just—” His mouth tightens. “Shoved me into therapy because my emotions were too much. Until I learned to do the thing. The good thing. Ignore it. Play the part.”

It’s strange, hearing him say it out loud. Not because you didn’t suspect, but because you’ve never heard him speak about himself this way—plainly, without the sarcasm. Like he’s finally bleeding to grow.

And suddenly he’s not just Renjun, your friend. He’s the one person who doesn’t make you feel like you’re watching yourself from third person. He’s here. With you. Looking past you, but seeing you.

You can hear your own breathing. It sounds foreign. You tell yourself not to do it. You do it anyway.

Your hand moves first. Slow and testing. Fingers brushing over his jaw—so warm, startlingly warm against the cool rain still clinging to your skin. He flinches just barely, eyes snapping to yours like you’ve just crossed a line. And maybe you have.

It would be so easy to move back. Not change this. But you don’t.

You stay there, inches from him. Watching the way his wet lashes lower. Watching the way his mouth parts. Your thumb grazes the defined edge of his cheekbone, that flush you’ve been thinking about for weeks finally beneath your fingertips.

Then you’re leaning in, until your mouth is on his. You wait for him to stop you, but he doesn’t. Instead, the kiss is hesitant at first—an almost-kiss, until it’s not. His breath hitches against your mouth, the faintest tremor in it, like he’s learning you in real time and scared to get it wrong. Like he’s letting you lead.

It’s messy, too close—rain in your hair, the sound of your heartbeat louder than the cars on the street. And when you pull back, you’re still close enough to feel the way he exhales, like he’d been holding it the whole time.

“You’re shivering,” you say when his eyes finally flicker open.

“Y-yeah. Cold.”

You laugh, and it pulls his eyes down to your mouth, again. He lingers there for a second too long before dragging his eyes back up, like he’s making sure you’re still here. Still real.

“You, uh…” He swallows, voice catching. “You taste like—”

“Don’t say rain,” you warn, the corner of your mouth tugging up.

He exhales something close to a laugh, quiet enough you feel it more than hear it. “Fine. Not rain. Skittles.”

You roll your eyes. “Romantic.”

“I’m not—” He stops himself, shakes his head once. “I’m not good at this.”

“I know.” It comes out softer than you intended, and you watch as his ears turn a warm, shade of pink.

You’re about to say something else when voices split through the quiet. Loud and slurred. A group of college guys stumble past on the opposite sidewalk, their laughter booming.

“Oi! Get a room!” one of them yells, followed by a chorus of cruder suggestions that knot your stomach.

The moment is gone.

It only dawns on you that night—sometime between brushing your teeth and wondering where you put your favourite pyjama bottoms—that despite spending every single working hour together over the summer (four, ten, twelve-hour shifts), you and Renjun have never exchanged numbers.

Not when he shielded your body from the street while you tugged your uniform back on on the beach. Not when he drove you home with one hand on the wheel and the other warm and heavy on your thigh. Not when he pressed the quickest, softest peck to your lips before watching you climb your porch steps.

You hate it. You wanted to talk to him that night. Debated it. Finally caved and looked him up on Instagram. Unsurprisingly—because he’s committed to living like a senior citizen—he isn’t on it.

So when your shift starts the next morning, 9 a.m. for you, you’re devastated to see his doesn’t start until 1 p.m. It feels like the universe is actively punishing you, depriving you of this boy who makes you feel like you can actually breathe. The boy whose presence got you through a lecture at the breakfast table from your parents, and a “talk” from your brother in the car on the way to work.

The theatre door creaks open, and your head snaps up.

Finally.

You don’t even check before you extend the packet of Skittles you’ve been methodically sorting for the past fifteen minutes. Only the yellow and green remain. Which—yes—you’ve been saving for last, because you are a generous, self-sacrificing human being and Renjun always eats them without complaint.

Except.

The hand that dips into the bag is not Renjun’s. It’s attached to an entirely different boy. One with teddy bear hair: Hyuck.

He tosses an unholy amount into his mouth in one go, crunching obnoxiously before grimacing like he’s been personally wronged. “Yuck! Offering Skittles when there’s only yellow left? You’re an evil woman, Y/N.”

“They weren’t for you.” You yank the packet back, clutching it to your chest. “I thought you were Renjun.”

Hyuck’s brows shoot up. “Oh? So you save the sour flavours for Renjun? Do you hate him? Did he hurt you?”

“No,” you laugh. “What are you even talking about? Renjun told me he likes the yellow ones.”

“Well, no,” Hyuck says, shrugging like you’re the one not making sense. “Honestly…I’m more flabbergasted that you got him regularly eating Skittles at all. He only lets me have them once a month during our movie nights—since we share—and when we do, he always eats the red first. Man fucks up anything strawberry flavoured.”

“But he said…for weeks he’s been—”

You blink, but your heart decides to do this dumb, stuttering skip like it just tripped over its own feet. Because you vididly remeber Renjun saying he does not like strawberries that much…and then it clicks.

Hyuck’s expression shifts into pure, unholy glee. “That little shit has been letting you eat the red first, hasn’t he?” He leans back, shaking his head. “And here I was thinking he had no game.”

Just then, Yuta storms out of his office. His eyes lock immediately on Hyuck—who’s got one hand elbow-deep in your Skittles despite having a visceral reaction to the flavours left—the other giving a cheerful, mocking wave.

Yuta rolls his eyes so hard you’re honestly worried they’ll never come back down. Then—oh God—his gaze snaps to you.

“Y/N, I need you to start clearing up the kids’ party that just took place in Screen Seven.”

You groan, deeply. “Can’t I just wait for Renjun to help me? His shift’s about to start any minute.”

“No,” Yuta says, with the exact amount of scorn that makes you want to hurl a popcorn bucket at his head. “Because the idiot said he’s cashing in on a favour. He’ll be a few minutes late. Something with this ‘Joy’ person he knows running over.”

He waves a hand like he couldn’t care less about this ‘Joy’ person. You wish you could say the same.

“I don’t know what you college kids do anymore,” he finishes.

College kids? As in… Renjun and Joy? Two college kids?

Joy, which sounds like a very female name. Your mind immediately starts running every possible, awful scenario: Renjun and some effortlessly gorgeous girl named Joy, who probably doesn’t stress him out or leave him with the yellow candies, who doesn’t annoy him or dump her life story on him.

You feel so stupid. Like, how did you let him kiss you? Is she his girlfriend? If so, what does that make you? An accomplice in whatever last night was? Oh God, no.

Almost like he can sense the million questions swirling in your head, Hyuck reaches across the box office counter and grabs your arm. “Y/N, hey—”

You shake him off.

This is Renjun’s best friend. He knows him better than anyone. He has to know if Renjun has a girlfriend. He’d cover for him. Right? God, Hyuck definitely has Renjun’s number. Renjun’s probably told him about the kiss already. And now Hyuck’s probably convinced you’re some filthy little homewrecker.

You press both hands to your lips, trying to steady yourself. “Tell Renjun to meet me in Screen Seven when he gets in. If you’re still here.”

“Y/N—” Hyuck insists, but you’re already pushing past him into the screening area, somewhere he has no right following unless he buys a ticket.

You lock Screen Seven behind you just in case.

You’re twenty minutes into cleaning the theatre room, filled with stray popcorn, empty candy wrappers, and what you’re pretty sure might be actual snot. (Seriously, Yuta needs to stop booking kids’ parties.) When the lock on Screen Seven jiggles, and he walks in.

At least, you assume it’s him—because you can’t imagine Yushi, the only other person on shift, abandoning the front desk to help you clean when he could be people-watching and eating popcorn instead. And Yuta? Yeah, he definitely wouldn’t help.

You keep your focus on the last stubborn popcorn kernels stuck in the carpet.

“I’m almost finished,” you say through tight teeth. “Basically did everything myself. You might as well go out front and help Yushi or something.”

Still not turning around, you bend down, crouching low to scrape. But then you hear footsteps coming up the stairs anyway.

“I don’t want to help Yushi.”

Now you have confirmation it’s him. That voice. Indisputable.

“Well,” you say, straightening up, trash bag in hand, peeling off your rubber gloves and blowing a quick breath upward to cool a trickle of sweat on your forehead, “unfortunately, this is a workplace, and you don’t get to slack off—”

“I know you know about Joy.”

Oh. So he’s just…ripping the bandage off? Typical Renjun. You don’t know why you’re surprised he’s being direct. He never offers you anything different, really. Though, in the beginning, he used to be shy about it.

“The real question is, does she know about me?” You ask.

Renjun swallows. “She does. And I know I probably should’ve spoken to you about everything first—”

“You think?”

“I know.” He runs a hand through his hair, frustration catching at his jaw. “She said I should work this out with you, not her—”

You scoff. “I don’t know about that. She clearly is a priority, since—you know—she’s your girlfriend!”

That actually startles him—like, physically jolts him back a fraction. Brows pulling in before they lift again, his mouth twitching in a way that makes you instantly want to kill him, because…is he going to smile, right now?

“Y/N, you think…You think Joy is my…girlfriend?”

You cross your arms, feeling protective and defensive of yourself all at once. It feels like your body might fold in around the tiny embarrassment blooming in your chest any second.

“I don’t know. Is she?”

“No,” he deadpans.

“Well, she’s clearly important to you if you’re skipping work to hang out with her.”

“We had a lot to talk about,” he shoves his hands into his pockets. “A lot happened yesterday.”

Okay, now he’s being an asshole. A weird, smug fuckboy asshole. You clomp down the steps toward him, setting the trash bag aside just so you can poke at his chest.

“You’re. A. Dick.”

His hands stay in his pockets as you land each hit, his body shifting back with the force but never resisting.

[It’s hot. You hate that.]

You go to storm past him on the stairs, aiming for the aisle, but his hand wraps around your wrist, pulling you just enough to turn back around. And now you’re regretting walking yourself down this way because now he has the higher ground. Now he’s looking down at you from above, under those lashes you remember being wet, framing pupils so dark they’d swallow the brown whenever they’d look at your mouth, your body—

“Joy’s my therapist,” he says.

You flounder, like a fish. “You’re what?”

“My therapist,” he says, voice soft. “I told you yesterday—my parents have had me in therapy forever because I feel too much. And with you... I guess I feel a lot.”

“Ren—”

“That was my first kiss,” he blurts out, like you’ve swapped brains. Him, suddenly vulnerable. You, quiet, listening. “Well, not first first. I mean, I’ve had pecks and stuff. But not like that. You know, with tongue and teeth and like…”

It hits you then. This is him bleeding—wanting to grow, to let you in.

“It was nice. I liked it. I didn’t know if you did, and I couldn’t ask. Didn’t know if it was appropriate, honestly. And then, because we were, you know... half-naked, I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Because I liked it. A lot.”

“Me too,” You whisper, and you swear you see your favourite colour bloom all over him—right down to his fingertips.

“Well, that’s what I was asking Joy about,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, heat rising in his cheeks. “She said the only person who could give me answers was you. But I had to, like, psych myself up in her office because I’ve never done this before, and I think I’m rambling—”

Without thinking, you rush up the steps and press your lips to his. Your arms snake around his neck, pulling him close, letting you feel that flush of heat on his skin against yours—that burn.

Renjun freezes for a second, hesitating, like he’s trying to figure out if this is real or just something his brain is making up. Then, slow and careful and with a little prompt from you, his hands slide around your waist. It’s light, almost afraid, like he’s scared of grabbing too much, too little, too hard.

It makes you smile against his mouth.

The kiss isn’t smooth, not even close. It’s chaotic—teeth bumping, breaths stuttering, lips finding and losing each other before finding each other again. You taste the nerves on him, feel the subtle tremor in his fingers where they rest on your sides.

There’s a tight, raw ache in your chest. You want this. You want him. And when you pull back, you see it in his eyes too—the same wild softness, the same wanting, but wrapped in hesitation he’s not ready to voice.

You’ve never taken the lead before. But you’ve also never been so sure about anything in your life. Not like you are right now. Here. In this exact movie theatre—the one you swear sounds dramatic but has, somehow, changed your life.

He has changed your life.

You undo the buttons on your polo shirt, the same way you’ve done a thousand times before in front of him—carelessley, now you think about it. But his reaction? That deep, rattling swallow, that has his Adam’s apple bobbing just right against his skin? It’s been the same. Every. Damn. Time.

It’s like you’re moving in slow motion just to torture him, he thinks. He nods eagerly, keeping his eyes locked on you, silently begging for more. For faster. The last button slips free beneath your fingers then, and you peel the polo off your shoulders. Heat licks across your skin under his stare in just your bra.

He doesn’t pounce or rush to devour. He just looks. Because he never got to last night. Not with the water and the dark and the boundaries he was so scared to cross. But now, his gaze traces the elegant dip of your collarbone, lingers on the soft swell of your breasts beneath the fabric. Now, his gaze is greedy.

Eventually, his hands finally find you, they start at your waist, before sliding higher. Higher. Higher. Until palms spread warm against your back, fingertips drawing lazy, invisible circles. Then he moves to the front, cupping you, kneading you through the thin barrier of lace.

Your whimper cracks the stillness. His head dips needily, lips brushing your shoulder. He murmurs something low and unintelligible into your skin, causing a vibration that shivers down your spine. A sound of his own catches in his throat, a broken little whimper that melts against the slope of your very bare neck.

His hands keep kneading your tits as his mouth trails up, licking, and sucking, and teasing the column of your throat. You tip your head back, offering him everything, letting your eyes fall shut.

You want to let go—of thought, of control—and sink into the weight of his hands, his mouth, this intoxicating, fragile kind of tenderness.

But then you feel it. The subtle shifting of his hips, the slow, restrained rut against you. You notice the way his breath keeps stuttering, catching every time his body brushes yours. Lust floods low in your belly, but it’s chased by a different thought—you’re not ready for anything to be over.

[Not when he’s still fully dressed. Not when you haven’t had the chance to feel his naked skin under your palms.]

Your fingers slip to the hem of his shirt, curling in the fabric. You push it up enough to brush your fingertips against the ridges of his stomach, the twitch of muscle under your touch. His breath hitches again, this time sharper, like he’s holding back a groan.

“Off,” you whisper.

He moves instantly, pulling back to strip the shirt over his head. You’re already reaching behind you yourself, unclasping your bra. The straps fall down your arms, and that’s it—his eyes go dark, pupils swallowing the colour.

It’s like something takes over him, something primal and single-minded. One moment he’s staring, the next his mouth is on you—hot, desperate—sucking your nipple into his mouth like he’s been starving for it. His groan vibrates against you, low and guttural. And—

“Fuck!”

You fist your hands in his hair, holding him there, arching into the pull of his mouth. His tongue swirls, teeth scraping. His other hand cups your other breast, kneading with a roughness that makes you want, thumb brushing over your peaked nipple until your knees go weak.

When he finally pulls back, there’s a wet sheen on your nipple and a dazed look in his eyes.

“For someone so shy, you’re very eager,” you tease, breathlessly.

He swallows, still holding you, thumb brushing over the spot his mouth just left. “You have no idea.”

Your lips curl in a slow smile—until you feel it. The subtle press of his hips again moving forward, the insistent hard length of him straining against his jeans. The nervous way he immediately tries to pull back, like he’s worried about overstepping. Or moving too fast.

“Renjun,” you murmur, sliding your hand down, cupping his bulge through the denim. He gasps, eyes going wide.

“I don’t know if I made it clear but—I’ve… I’ve never…” His voice trails off, and you feel the tremor in his thighs.

You lean in, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I know. Let me take care of you.”

The button on his jeans pops open beneath your fingers, the zipper dragging down in a metallic hum. His flush deepens, colouring the delicate skin along his cheekbones, but he doesn’t stop you. When you slip your hand inside, over his boxers, the strangled sound he makes nearly undoes you.

“God, you’re so—” you start, but his mouth crashes into yours, cutting off the words as you free him. He’s hot and hard in your palm, and the way his breath hitches with every stroke is so fucking sexy.

Every so often, you feel him twitch—sharp little spasms that make him instinctively pull back. You hate that distance, but you recognise it for what it is: his overthinking, his mental brakes, his worry for cumming too quick.

That suspicion is confirmed when his hands shift to your shorts, fumbling for the buttons, clearly eager to please you too. Renjun’s hands are clumsy at first when he slides between your thighs, fingertips skimming over the thin cotton of your panties before pushing them aside. His touch is cautious until you guide him, curling his fingers inside you.

The groan that rips out of him when he feels how wet you are is almost pathetic.

“Is that—good for you?” he asks.

“Better than good,” you breathe, rocking into his touch.

The hesitancy bleeds out of him with every soft sound you make, every needy roll of your hips. Soon his fingers are moving to work, fast, unforgiving circles into your clit, giving way to a steady rhythm that has your body coiling tight.

You match his pace, stroking him faster, feeling him twitch in your grip. His forehead presses to yours like he’s holding on for dear life. “If you keep—God, I’m gonna—fuck!”

“Not yet,” you whisper, pulling your hand away.

The whine he lets out is immediate, raw. “Please?”

You shake your head, still close enough to press against his and whisper against his lips. “I want you inside me when you cum.”

His eyes go impossibly wide. “You—? But… I don’t have—”

“Don’t care. I’m clean. On birth control,” You cup his jaw, steadying him. “I want you. Just you.”

His hand curls tighter around yours, and before you can say anything else, you’re moving—half-stumbling, half-dragging him toward the closest empty row of seats. You push him into the far corner, the fabric creaking under his weight.

“Sit,” you order softly.

He obeys instantly, still wide-eyed as you climb into his lap, your knees bracketing his hips. His hands hover, trembling, until you take them and press them to your waist.

“Here,” you murmur, guiding him. “Hold me.”

The armrest bites into your thigh, the seat too narrow, but it doesn’t matter. You lean in, kiss him deep—slow and hungry—until his whole body loosens beneath you. Your hips rock, dragging over him where he’s already painfully hard.

“God…” His voice is almost nothing.

You shove your shorts down just far enough, then tug his jeans and boxers low in one clumsy motion. The dim light hits his face. He’s flushed, stunned, wanting you so badly he can barely look at you, but also can’t look away.

“You sure?” you ask, hovering over him, giving him the last chance to pull away.

He nods too quickly, almost frantically, you nearly laugh until—you sink down onto him. The laughter you feel is gone in an instant, replaced by the sharp, perfect stretch of him filling you. His head tips back hard against the seat, fingers digging into your hips like they’re the only thing keeping him tethered.

[They are.]

“Oh my—” His inhale cuts him off, shuddering and sharp.

You still, stroking your thumbs along his cheekbones as he adjust to the feel of your pussy, wet and warm, wrapped around him. “Breathe, Renjun.”

“I’m—” His voice is rough, wrecked, almost breaking. “I’m trying.”

You shift against him, rolling your hips again, and that’s all it takes to encourage—he starts moving. Short, shallow thrusts at first, like he’s afraid of hurting you. Each one makes his breath hitch, the sound shaky and almost boyish.

“That’s it,” you murmur, brushing your nose against his. “You can go deeper.”

His eyes flick up to yours—and he tries. The next thrust is clumsy, off rhythm. You let out a whimper.

“You like that?” he asks.

You smile, stroking the back of his neck. “I like you.”

Something in him melts at that. His hands slide up your back, holding you closer as if that will make him better at this. He wants to be better for you. He tries again—finding a slightly better angle, though he still stutters when your thighs tighten around his hips.

“You feel so… tight,” he says, brows knitting

“Focus, Renjun,” you tease, kissing the corner of his mouth.

“I am focusing!” It comes out as a breathless laugh, and you can feel him trembling beneath you.

You guide him with more small movements of your own, rolling your hips back and forth, coaxing him into something that almost feels like a pattern. But it never lasts—every time you clench around him, he falters, groaning low into your neck before having to start again.

“Gonna… I can’t—” His voice cracks, raw.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, threading your fingers into his hair. “Just let go. I’ve got you.”

He buries his face deeper into the curve of your neck, hips pushing up hard one last time before he cums—hot and deep inside you—with a soft, helpless sound that’s almost a whimper. His arms wrap tight around your body like he’s afraid to let go, even after his body stills.

You stay like that, bodies still joined, breaths uneven. Your fingertips draw slow, aimless shapes over his back, feeling the tremor in his muscles slowly fade. When he finally lifts his head, his hair is messy, his lips pink, and there’s a small, sheepish smile tugging at them.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “That was… not very good.”

You cradle his face in your hands, brushing your thumb along the flush in his cheek. “That was perfect. You were perfect.”

His eyes soften and you kiss him until you’re both breathless. Then you stay, tucked against him, your ear over his heart, neither of you moving. You don’t know how long you sit there, both too afraid to break the moment, too careful not to disrupt the tenderness.

But what you do know is this: when you finally get dressed this time, you ask for his number before you part ways.

Renjun doesn’t think he’s ever had a summer this good.

Hyuck says that’s just what having regular good sex does to a person. Renjun rolls his eyes because it’s more than that. Yes, the girl and the sex are a fantastic new discovery this year, but it’s not just flushed cheeks and sneaky kisses on his lunch break that’s good. It’s the fact that he’s tanned—actually tanned—at the beach, gone camping, and finally said yes to Hyuck’s family’s annual lake trip instead of coming up with excuses.

He’s making memories.

[Joy thinks you’ve brought him out of his shell. He’d agree.]

But as the Sunday of the lake trip begins to fade into evening, there’s a faint sourness in the air that Renjun can’t name. He wants to call it a gut feeling. His therapist would probably call it his persistent hypervigilance creeping back that has him ready for something to go wrong. Still, he’s trying to be optimistic. That’s all anyone’s ever asked of him—right?

It’s only when Hyuck (Hyuck, who practically bleeds look on the bright side propaganda and “positive mental attitude), pulls him aside in the kitchen of the lakehouse that Renjun realises maybe he’s done too much healing and has been too optimistic.

“Don’t you think it’s weird she hasn’t called?”

“No…” he replies slowly, finishing the plate he’s drying. “We text every day.”

“I know that, buddy, it’s just—” Hyuck tosses a dish towel over his shoulder then. “You went from calling every night, sending pictures, making everyone nauseous with your lovesick crap… and now? Since the start of this trip? All you’re getting is one-word answers.”

Renjun feels the familiar twitch in his chest—the one that used to send him spiralling, but he’s better now. It’s probably nothing. People get busy, conversations slow down. It’s not a red flag; it’s a scheduling conflict. And just because Hyuck’s noticed, it doesn’t mean it’s time for him to panic.

“Maybe she’s just busy,” Renjun says, because that’s easier than thinking too hard. “College starts back next week, and you know she’s on that event planning committee. She’s probably swamped with welcoming freshmen.”

Hyuck just… looks at him until eventually, he exhales and turns back to the sink. He finishes drying one of his parent’s favourite mugs and sets it carefully on the counter. Then, without warning, his palm lands warm between Renjun’s shoulder blades.

“Yeah, you’re probably right, buddy,” Hyuck says, the corner of his mouth tugging up but not quite making it to a smile. “I just—worry about you.”

“I know,” Renjun says, meaning it. “But you don’t have to.”

“I know.” Hyuck tosses the dish towel onto the counter and heads for the doorway. “I’m gonna head to bed.”

Renjun wishes it was only that time at the lake he had to defend you to his best friend. Back then, he thought you were just busy. But when one-word texts turn into full-on ghosting three weeks into classes, he starts to notice the correlation between your withdrawal and the start of his senior year.

[Joy’s voice in his head then—optimism, be brave, be bold, don’t fear rejection.]

So he starts showing up in places he never had much reason to before. Sitting on the low brick wall in the campus quad at lunch, pretending to read while his eyes flick automatically to every passing figure. Lingering in the gym building, always—coincidentally—when volleyball practice is on. (Okay, that one was maybe a little weird. But he was desperate.)

It’s like you’ve disappeared off the face of the earth.

And he hates it—hates how much he hates it—which is so fucking ridiculous, because a couple of months ago he barely knew you. He knew of you. Could’ve picked you out of a line-up, sure.

But now he knows your favourite candy. And the order you eat it in. Your favourite colour. Your disdain for biology. The exact argument you make when someone tries to claim pink doesn’t belong in the rainbow. He knows your dream job. Your stupidest fear. The sport you love but swear you’re awful at. What you smell like. What you taste like. He knows you feel trapped, and lost, and like your family has a remote control with your name on it.

You’ve basically set up camp in his subconscious, rent-free, somewhere between the back of his mind and the pit of his stomach.

Which is maybe why—after three weeks of nothing from you, three weeks of surviving on scraps (memories of tangled limbs, stupid breathy jokes, and a bag of Skittles he still can’t bring himself to finish)—he ends up at the animal shelter.

[And no, he is not talking to Joy about this. Because Joy would point out the obvious: lines have been blurred, sex is involved, and that’s why he’s acting like a lovesick puppy. Which is wrong. Because Renjun is not clingy. He swears.]

He tells himself (lies to himself, really) that he’s only here to see Bonnie—the cat. Only because he’s worried about all sheltered animals, and he likes cats. Not because Bonnie feels like the only tangible proof that this summer actually happened. That you happened.

[That he heard from his cousin that you started volunteering there last week.]

The bell above the shelter door rattles faintly when he reaches for it. He’s already picturing Bonnie’s lopsided ears, the way she noses into his hands—when the door jerks open from the inside.

You come spilling out. Laughing. You’ve got a girl tucked under your arm in a close and familiar way that can only suggest friendship. Miyeon—he recognises her from the volleyball team.

Your laughter dies the second your eyes land on him. Like someone pressed pause. Or threw water over you. The curve of your smile flattens. Your arm doesn’t move from Miyeon’s shoulders, but Renjun sees the way it goes rigid.

Miyeon looks between you two. “Uh…?” she says lightly, almost a question, but neither of you answer.

Renjun feels stupidly aware of himself in this moment. He suddenly remembers he has hands and absolutely no idea what to do with them. His ears are hot. And all he can think about is the time you traced your fingertips along every flushed inch of his body.

God, he’s not good at this. He’s not good at girls. And he’s especially not good at girls who’ve made him cum, shared their secrets with him, made him feel like he might actually be fun to be around—and then vanished.

Still, it’s him who breaks the silence. Because someone has to. Because the alternative is drowning in it.

“Hi.”

Your mouth opens like you might say something, but no sound comes out. Miyeon’s eyes bounces between you two like she’s watching a very slow, very awkward tennis match. The air is thick. Heavy. Full. And all those things you told him this summer—about feeling trapped, about feeling controlled—they’re here, too.

Only now, they’re aimed straight at him.

“Hi,” you finally say back, but it’s short, clipped, already swallowed by the cold September chill. You fold your arms across your chest like you’re trying to keep him out.

Miyeon swoops in before he can respond. “Hi, I’m Miyeon. You are…?”

Renjun feels it—a tiny, precise sting right in the chest. You haven’t told your friends about him. Not only did he tell you about Hyuck, you also know about the whole Haechan thing. He clears his throat. Hands disappear into his pockets like maybe they can take the embarrassment with them.

“I’m Renjun.”

“Ohh, so this is theare guy?”

Miyeon’s eyes cut to you as she says it. Big, round, a little too knowing. And Renjun—suddenly very aware of how he’s standing, breathing, existing—feels an uncomfortable itch of self-consciousness. Because…theatre guy?

“All good things, I hope. Haha.”

He tries a joke. You like jokes. Your friends probably do too. He’s never chased likability a day in his life, but right now he wants it like oxygen.

Miyeon tips her chin, mouth pulling into a not-quite-smile. “Mhm. Right.”

Well… that response definitely doesn’t feel good. No, it feels like a slow-blooming bruise he already knows will ache later, when he’s lying in bed staring at the ceiling and poking at it just to see if it still hurts. (It will.)

You’re not looking at him. You’re not even looking near him. Somehow that’s worse than if you’d just be flat out cruel to him. Because this—this polite, indifferent cold—is so much worse.

He hates that his mind immediately drags him back to summer. To you in his car, knees pulled to your chest, hair damp from the the sea, telling him you felt like you were living in someone else’s life. That no one ever really listened. That you didn’t feel seen.

And god, he’d wanted to be the exception. He’d thought maybe he was.

Because you were his.

You turn to Miyeon. “Can you wait in the car? I’ll be done in a minute.”

She hesitates, glances between the two of you like she’s considering whether to refuse. Then she nods, tosses him one more unreadable look, and walks toward the car in the parking lot.

And then it’s just you. And him.

Except this version of just you and him feels… wrong. Different.

You’re not loose-limbed and bright-eyed like you used to be. You’re still folded in on yourself—arms crossed, chin tipped down, body angled as though his very proximity is violating your personal space.

He tells himself not to read into it.

[Which is hilarious, because that’s literally all he’s been doing for months.]

“You changed your hair,” he says finally, motioning to it.

“Yeah. It’s a new term.” Your voice is flat, almost bored.

He tries again—leans into what he thinks is your thing with him. “New haircut for a new term. Not a late-night existential crisis with scissors?”

You don’t laugh. You don’t even look at him. You just say: “No, Renjun.”

The way you say his name—measured, distant, blunt—makes him want to shake you until you remember the stupid, ridiculous Junnie nickname Hyuck told you about.

He swallows. And because apparently he enjoys punishment, he tries again.

“Okay, but you have to admit my suspicions were valid. New haircut, total radio silence—classic crisis stuff.”

Nothing. Not even the twitch of your mouth.

And it’s… baffling. Because the you he knew this summer would’ve played along, rolled your eyes and smiled, shoved his shoulder, told him to shut up. Now you’re looking at him like maybe you wish you’d never told him anything.

He can feel it—this yawning gap between the person he thought you were and the one standing in front of him. He keeps trying to throw a rope across it, and you keep letting it fall.

Jokes clearly aren’t working. He shifts tactics.

“How’ve you been?”

“Busy.” A shrug.

“I saw Yuta took you off the schedule…you didn’t want to stay on?”

“It was always going to be a summer temp job.”

He knows that. Knew it the moment you started. But some selfish, stupid part of him thought maybe you’d want to stay anyway. That you liked the job. That you liked… him.

“Right.” His shoe scuffs at the pavement. “So… busy?”

“Jeno started tutoring me.”

The name hits him square in the sternum like a brick. “…Your ex, Jeno?”

You shift then, eyes dropping to the floor, lips pressing into something that’s almost a pout. For a second—just a second—Renjun thinks you might step forward, might bridge the distance with a half-hearted apology for the cold shoulder, for disappearing.

But then you swallow.

“I’m trying not to fail my classes this year.”

“I get it,” he says, though he doesn’t, not really. “I just thought you were going to talk to your parents about… you know. The major thing.”

The last conversation plays in his head, happy and giddy in a way this one isn’t. You were leaning forward, voice quick with excitement telling him all about you wanting to switch to journalism. How your hands wouldn’t stay still when you told him your plan to finally tell your parents about it.

Something flickers in your eyes—longing, maybe—and then you cough, blink it out, shake your hair out of your face.

“I was, but… the more I thought about it, I figured I’ve already spent three years in my current major. A whirlwind summer and a dream isn’t enough to make me change my whole life plan.”

“Your whole life plan?”

You swat the air, dismissive. “You know what I mean.”

[He doesn’t. Last time you spoke, you were ready to take a match to any life plan involving biology and watch it burn.]

“Okay then…” He presses anyway. “What happened to not wanting to be in close proximity to an ex?”

“He’s not an ex.”

Renjun’s entire body feels like he’s on fire. The words land like a blow. It feels like you’ve slapped him. Like you’ve poured acid straight into his veins. Like you’ve driven a blade between his ribs and twisted—not for the kill, but to see what happens when he bleeds.

And maybe you can see it, the hurt on his face. Because your eyes lift—just barely—like you’re tempted to take it back.

“Well, he’s not—” you rush, tripping over the words. “We’re—It’s complicated.”

“Then uncomplicate it for me,” he says.

You stop dead. Like he just asked you to speak a language you don’t even know. Your gaze darts. Quick. Frantic. Stuck between a rock and a hard place. Between him and the life you still have to answer to.

You breathe out, and a small cloud of white drifts from your lips, dissolves into nothing.

“He was just—” You stall. “You know he’s close to my family.”

Renjun doesn’t blink. “So what? That gives him permanent immunity to flit in and out of your life?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“You didn’t have to.” His voice is quiet, almost calm, and somehow that’s worse. “Because what I’m hearing is: he’s in the inner circle, and I’m… what? Disposable?”

You shake your head. “No, that’s not—”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s just—it’s easier—”

His eyebrows lift. “Easier than me?”

“This isn’t a competition.”

“It feels like one.”

“This has nothing to do with you, Renjun.”

“Really?” He laughs, dry as dirt. “You going back to your ex after we’ve been fucking all summer has nothing to do with me?”

The words slice. You pretend they don’t. He stares at you, hard, like he’s trying to peel back your skin and see what’s underneath.

“That’s not fair,” you say.

“What’s not fair? The fact that you’re pretending I was just a way to kill time?”

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are. You’re acting like this, us, was nothing.”

“I’m not acting. I’m telling you it wasn’t—” You break off, jaw tight. “We weren’t… whatever this is, it wasn’t serious.”

Ouch.

Renjun feels like you just reached in and gutted him. Ripped him open from sternum to navel and left his insides on display. Because nothing about you and him was ever casual. People who aren’t serious don’t talk about the things you talked about. They don’t tell each other the ugly stuff. They don’t hold you in the middle of the fucking sea, in the rain whilst you slur and sob.

So for you to stand there and say it wasn’t serious—it feels like you’re spitting on him.

He swallows it, though. The pain. Pretends it doesn’t hurt as much as it does. Pretends he isn’t thinking about every time you smiled or laughed or offered him candy

“Sorry,” he croaks, tasting the word, letting it burn his tongue.“I must have gotten confused because it sounded pretty serious when you gave me the cold shoulder because you thought I was dating my therapist.”

“Renjun—” You stop, your throat working.

“Do you remember the last conversation we had?”

Your face changes instantly when he asks. He sees it—the way the memory plays behind your eyes like a film reel. For a second, he swears your pupils blow wide, but that anxiety monster he’s been keeping on a leash lately yanks hard on the chain.

[Her pupils are not dilating because she’s thinking about you, idiot. Pupils don’t dilate over people who aren’t serious.]

When you nod, Renjun continues.

“You wanted to be a news reporter. You were so sure of it. We talked about it for hours. You were lit up about the whole thing—like nothing could touch you. Not your dad. Or your brothers. Or Yuta.”

Your throat works once before you answer. “Things change.”

He shakes his head. “Not that quickly.”

“You did!” You shoot back. “You went from this grumpy and shy guy to funny and playful and… nice. All in, what, two months?”

“I know,” he agrees without hesitation. “Because someone reminded me—a really pretty girl—that I’ve always been that way. I just didn’t let anyone see.”

“She sounds smart,” you say, small. It’s an attempt at a joke, but your voice barely lifts.

“She has her moments.” He smiles. “Mostly when she’s not letting her family dictate her career… her relationships—”

“Don’t.” You cut him off, voice sharp but trembling. Your eyes are glassy now. “Please don’t.”

“You don’t, Y/N. Don’t do this. We were close. We were friends””

“Were we?”

“What?” He blinks, caught off guard.

You swallow, eyes darting somewhere past him—like the chipped wall behind him is easier to look at than his face. “I think we were both just…lost? Craving connection?”

He stares. “Craving connection?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No,” he says, lower now, more dangerous. “I don’t think I do. Because as far as I remember, you were the one who wanted to be my friend. You were the one who pushed. You were the one who put a name on it. And now—” His voice falters, but only for a second. “Now you want to lie about how you feel, just because it’s… convenient?”

“It’s not just that—” you say quickly, then softer, almost to yourself, “You know it’s not.”

He almost laughs, pure bitter. “Do I?”

“Yes. My family—” You stop, breath catching. “They wouldn’t want… this. Us. They’ve already—” You bite your lip hard enough he thinks you might draw blood. “I can’t ignore them, Renjun.”

“Yes, you can.”

You shake your head. “You don’t get it. It’s not that simple. Everything I have—everything I am—it’s tied to them. My career. My… safety.”

“So you’re just going to let them choose for you?”

“I’m choosing to make it easy.”

“For them.”

“For me,” you insist.

He takes a step closer, and the air between you sharpens. “You can’t just erase what happened between us. You can’t convince me none of this was real.”

“I’m not trying to convince you.” Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “I’m telling you.”

Renjun’s jaw works like he wants to say something else, but he doesn’t. He just stands there, staring. And it feels like there’s this raw, invisible thread between you both—thin enough that if either one breathed too hard, it would snap.

The silence swells. Your throat burns. Like somehow the words you just threw at him have ricocheted and came back to hit you harder than they ever could’ve hit him.

You can’t stand it, so you move. Stepping around him, shoulder brushing his, and it’s the smallest thing—an accident—but it feels catastrophic. Because you used to lean into that touch. Seek it out without thinking. And now you can’t.

Because you made your decision.

And it wasn’t him.

And now you have to figure out how to navigate the rest of your college life pretending you don’t know what it’s like—what he’s like. To be held by this boy. To be seen by this boy. To laugh with this boy. To be loved… by this boy.

Instead, you’ll look at him like he’s nothing. Like he’s a stranger.

Like you never met him at all.

#nct smut #nct x reader #nct dream x reader #nct dream smut #renjun smut #renjun x reader #nct hard hours #nct scenarios #nct one shot #kpop smut #renjun angst #nct angst #nct dream angst

254 notes · View notes

sincerelyneo · 9 days ago

Text

back to friends | h.rj | (1)

“how can you look at me and pretend, i’m someone you’ve never met?”

📀now playing: back to friends by sombr

❯ pairings: virgin!renjun x fem!reader

❯ genre: grumpy x sunshine, college!au, workplace!au, smut, slowBURN

❯ words: 31.4k

(AN: i had to split this into two post because of blocking issues, and i didn’t want to format it any differently since the way i write—especially dialogue—is important.) PART 2

“Dude,” Hyuck says, already leaning too far over the counter. “You have to sneak me some tickets to the Superman showing tomorrow.”

Renjun doesn’t even bother to look up. He flicks on the popcorn machine and starts wiping down surfaces like he always does at the start of a shift.

“No,” he replies. And to anyone unfamiliar with his chronic grumpiness, it would’ve sounded borderline mean.

“What is the actual point of having a best friend who works at a movie theatre if you’re not going to abuse your power for me?”

Renjun shrugs. Keeps wiping. Hyuck isn’t easily deterred though.

“Come on,” he groans. “That girl I’m seeing from the art club—she’s a film major. I’m trying to surprise her.”

Renjun finally looks up, eyebrows raised. “By getting her free tickets to a movie?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Casanova! Didn’t realise you were an expert in the delicate art of romancing women. That must be why you’re still clinging to your virginity like it’s a family heirloom—in your senior year of college.”

Renjun hisses—an actual hiss, like a feral cat—snapping his head away from the Icee machine to glare at Hyuck. It’s a glare that says shut up without needing syllables. A few patrons at the ticket machines look over, amused.

Renjun exhales, hands on his hips now, like a frustrated mother.

“You know,” he mutters, staring down his so-called best friend, “if I hadn’t known you since we were six, I think I might’ve actually killed you by now.”

It’s a joke. Friends have never come easily to Renjun. His parents say it’s his temper. His therapist calls it a deep-rooted fear of abandonment. He thinks it’s neither—or both—but honestly, he doesn’t care. The labels are irrelevant. Because he has Hyuck. And Hyuck is enough.

[Plus, it's hard to break bonds forged in adolescence. And his bond with the idiot in front of him is cement.]

“Look, you don’t even have to comp the tickets, buddy,” Hyuck pleads. “I just need you to set two aside for me.”

“Can’t,” Renjun says flatly. “My hands are tied. Yuta literally said no reserves—get your hand out of there!”

He swats at his friend’s hand, which has made a criminally stealthy dive into the jelly worm cube. Hyuck yelps dramatically, pops one into his mouth anyway, and recoils like he’s been poisoned.

“Okay! Okay! God!” he says, half-choking around the worm. “I’m just trying to reap as many best friend benefits from this job as I can.”

Renjun rolls his eyes aggressively. But still—he doesn’t kick Hyuck out. Because, well. Cement.

“I’m just saying,” Hyuck continues, “I’d keep two tickets aside for you if I worked here…”

He’s mid-rant—something about how movie theatre minimum wage should at the very least include a best friend stipend of unlimited nachos—when you walk in.

[You don’t know how long you’ve been there, but it’s long enough to agree with the loud one—best friends should get perks. Still, not really your place to chime in. You haven’t technically got the job yet.]

You clear your throat.

They both turn.

Renjun recognises you immediately.

A girl from campus. All sunscreen and saltwater and chipped nail polish. Denim shorts that have absolutely seen better days, and a tank top clinging to your collarbones in the current humidity that makes everyone else look damp and miserable—but not you. No, you look beautiful.

You’re glowing. Girls like you always are. The ones who exist in crowds—always laughing, always surrounded. The kind of girl you notice across the campus quad, and immediately file under: not for you, not in your league, move on buddy.

At least, that’s what Renjun did the first time he saw you in freshman year.

“Hi…” you say, offering the smallest, friendliest smile. “Are one of you Renjun? Yuta said you’d be here to tell me about the summer temp job?”

Renjun stares at you for a second too long. Long enough for Hyuck to clock it and make a mental note he’ll absolutely weaponise later.

Renjun shakes his head like it’ll rattle his brain back into place. Blinks, like he wasn’t just ogling you like a man with no self-control, and straightens his back. He turns stiffly to the calendar pinned to the wall behind him and squints.

Fucksake.

He never gets his dates wrong. He’s methodical to the point of neurosis—another thing his therapist says with deep concern. His world is colour-coded and alphabetised and held together with industrial-grade tape.

But there you are. And here he is. And shit—he’s not ready.

Hyuck is the first to recover from your presence. He straightens up, all confidence, and leans back against the box office counter—freshly wiped down, might Renjun add, after he spent ten full minutes already cleaning it.

“Well hello,” Hyuck says, dragging it out like he’s George Clooney. “I’m Haechan. And you are?”

Renjun groans. Out loud. Rolls his eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t get stuck in the back of his head.

“No one calls him that.”

Hyuck clutches his chest dramatically. “Ex-fucking-cuse me? Just you wait, Junnie. When I’m famous one day—and I will be, by the way—everyone will be calling me Haechan. It’s premature branding.”

“Sure, Hyuck,” Renjun sighs. “Except I don’t think they give out Grammys for delusion. Maybe an oscar?”

You bite back a smile. You can’t help it. This is stupid. And weirdly charming. Like watching two cats fight.

“I take it you’re Renjun, then?” you ask, glancing pointedly at the guy behind the counter. “Junnie?”

Renjun visibly winces, then he closes his eyes and sucks in a breath through his teeth.

“That’s not—” He throws Hyuck a murderous look before looking back at you. “Don’t call me that.”

“What? You love it,” Hyuck grins, then throws a dramatic hand to his mouth as he stage-whispers to you, “He loves it.”

“I do not.”

“Pfft, you’re obsessed with it. Have been since we were ten.”

Renjun groans, pinches the bridge of his nose, and gestures toward the swinging door behind the counter. “Yuta’s office is through there,” he says to you. “He wants you to do paperwork first—I’ll be right through once I call pest control.”

“I am not a pest!” Hyuck scoffs, offended.

Renjun bares his teeth. “You seem to live in the walls of my job like one.”

You disappear through the swinging door. Then, after a second of silence and a clasp:

“She’s hot,” Hyuck announces.

Renjun grabs the spray bottle again—same lemon-scented one he’s been using for the past half hour—and starts scrubbing at a spot that’s already clinically clean.

“Like, dangerously hot,” Hyuck adds now in sing-song. “And funny. You’re so fucked.”

“I am not fucked.”

Hyuck leans on the counter again, folding his arms like this is all wildly entertaining for him. Which it is.

“Buddy,” he starts, “I love you, I do, but you just glitched.”

“I did not glitch.”

“You stood there and stared at her for three whole minutes, Jun. I counted.”

“You did not count.”

Hyuck swats his hand in the air, “Obviously not, you’re so literal, Junnie.”

Renjun stops cleaning long enough to fire a sharp look his way. “I said don’t call me that.”

“Okay, okay. I get it. You’re embarrassed I told your new little crush your childhood nickname.”

Renjun scowls. “She’s not—whatever. Can you just drop it?”

But Hyuck doesn’t drop things. He’s physically incapable. He’s like a wasp. Loud, annoying, and somehow immune to being swatted away.

“She’s your type,” he continues, tapping his knuckles against the surface. “Like, to an embarrassing degree. Pretty eyes, pretty smile. You’ve always been a sucker for that opposites attract thing, Mr Scowl.”

“I do not scowl,” Renjun mutters, “And I don’t have a type.”

Hyuck’s smile is knowing. “No? What about that girl from last spring?”

“That wasn’t a thing.”

“Exactly. You never have a thing. You just pine. And sigh. And overthink. And talk to Joy about your compulsive need to repress every human emotion you dare to feel.”

[For reference: Joy is the therapist his parents have forced him to see every Thursday since freshman year of high school. Lovely woman. Too many cardigans. Always smells like cinnamon. Unfortunately, she’s infuriatingly good at her job according to his dad.]

Renjun exhales through his nose, letting his eyes flutter shut. He tries counting to ten—another therapy thing—but only manages to get to four before entertaining the pros and cons of homicide against his best friend.

“Can you just…not?” he says instead.

But Hyuck never nots. It’s a biological impossibility. He exists purely to press buttons. And Renjun’s are flashing red.

Because the truth is—Renjun feels too much. He always has. So somewhere along the line, he decided it was safer not to feel at all. And you—with your chipped nail polish, lazy smile and flawless skin—are a threat to that whole system.

You’re a problem.

A problem in denim shorts (tiny ones, too, which he was absolutely not looking at—except he was, and he hates himself for it). A problem he’s going to have to endure for the next two months when all he wanted was a quiet summer before starting his final year of college.

Hyuck lets the silence settle for exactly five seconds before ruining it.

“Seriously, though. When Yuta said he was hiring a summer temp, I thought it was gonna be some high school kid trying to make enough cash for festival tickets or something. Not—” he gestures vaguely toward the door, “—a hottie with cheekbones.”

Renjun just stares at him. Hyuck doesn’t stop.

“Like who—who—wants to spend their summer break selling movie tickets and sweeping up popcorn…”

“Hyuck,” Renjun says slowly, firmly. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”

“Okay, okay. That was maybe a tiny bit foot-in-mouth. But come on, don’t be so sensitive. You get one pretty coworker and suddenly you’re all get out of my theatre—”

“I swear to God—”

“Alright, alright, I’m gone. Sheesh,” Hyuck throws his hands up. “Didn’t realise I had to evacuate the premises just because you’re having your first crush since puberty.”

Renjun doesn’t even dignify that with a response. Hyuck lingers anyway.

“You know you’re allowed to like people, right?”

His shoulders still.

“You act like having feelings is gonna make you explode. Like caring about someone means handing them the power to shatter you. And maybe it does. But if you keep letting that fear run the show, you’re gonna miss out.”

Renjun keeps pretending the countertop needs attention. Hyuck sighs. He doesn't want to push, but he also kind of has to.

“Look,” he says on a bated breath, “I’m just saying—if you keep building these walls, you’re gonna trap yourself inside them. You’ll never let anything good in. You’ll never meet anyone. Never let anyone meet you.” He gestures between them. “Hell, look at us.”

Because honestly, they shouldn’t even be friends. The only reason they are is because a six-year-old Renjun bit Hyuck over a blue toy car. He thought bringing it to school made it his alone to play with and that sharing was optional. (Spoiler: it wasn’t. Hyuck bit him back with the maximum ferocity a kid with three missing teeth could manage)

There was a detention. A forced apology. And without his teacher’s sense of moral responsibility, Renjun probably still wouldn’t have a single friend to this day.

“All I’m saying is…you’re not a robot, Junnie. You’re allowed to glitch a little. Because I’ll still love you. You’re my brother.”

Silence.

Then Renjun exhales, slow and reluctant. “If you ever call me Junnie in front of anyone again, I will slash your tires.”

Hyuck presses his lips together as he smiles. In Renjun-speak, threats of violence are the closest thing to ‘love you too’ you’re ever gonna get. They’re also a neon sign for deflecting. But Hyuck’s not Joy, and he’s not stupid—he knows better than to poke that particular bear when his ride home is being threatened.

He starts toward the door. Almost out. Then, because he physically can’t help himself, he calls over his shoulder.

“Oh, and if Cheekbones has a sister, ask her to set me up.”

Renjun rolls his eyes again. “What happened to film major?”

“The theatre attendant cock blocked me for tickets to impress her!”

Once the door shuts behind Hyuck and the theatre quiets, Renjun lets out a breath and tosses the spray bottle onto the counter. He rakes a hand through his hair and walks toward the back room.

And wishes he hadn’t.

Because there you are. Legs crossed, comfortably stationed at Yuta’s desk, chewing on the lid of a pink fucking gel pen. You’re writing in soft, loopy letters that curl at the edges when you look up at him.

He looks away. Immediately.

[Because pretty girl.]

And you’re not the safe kind of pretty—not the girl-next-door kind. If you were, maybe he’d be able to act normal. (He wouldn’t.) You’re summer wreckage pretty. Glossy lips and thick thighs sticking to cheap plastic chairs kind of pretty. The hot kind of pretty. The kind of pretty that makes him glitch.

So, no. He can’t exactly look at you.

“You can tell Haechan—no sister,” you say casually before adding, “Only brothers.”

He freezes. Then flushes all the way to the tips of his ears. God. He hates when he does that. He hates that you can see it.

“You… heard all that?”

“Not all of it,” you say, shrugging. “Though I imagine I’d love to know all of it.” A smile. “Just caught the end. I was gonna head out since I finished the last few pages, but then I heard your friend leave and figured you’d be coming back here anyway.”

You hold out the clipboard. He takes it, glancing down at the cursive, ridiculously neat, heart-dotted i’s, cherry scented writing against the brown HR forms.

“Right,” he coughs, awkward and quiet. Because his brain has officially stopped producing real sentences.

“Cute, isn’t it?” you grin, eyes bright. “The pen and the hearts. My professors hate it, obviously—but I don’t know, it feels like… my own personal branding. Kind of like your buddy, Haechan.”

Renjun scoffs at the mention of the devil himself. “You literally don’t have to call him that. His name is Hyuck—no one is on board with the Haechan thing.”

“I know, you said that,” you hum, tilting your head just slightly. “But don’t you think it’s fun to indulge your friends’ delusions sometimes?”

He levels you with a stare. “No. I do not.”

“Okayyy…” you draw out, rising slowly from Yuta’s chair. “I see someone’s allergic to whimsy and fun.”

“You’re right,” he mutters. “It makes me break out in hives. You should probably quit now or it’s going to be a long summer for you…” His eyes flick back down to the clipboard, scanning to find it. “Y/N.”

Of course. Equally pretty name for an equally pretty girl. The universe hates him.

“Ahhh,” you hum, like you’ve discovered something rare and thrilling. “So you do do jokes. They just come in the form of weaponised sarcasm. I can work with that.”

He clears his throat, a little too loudly, because he definitely doesn’t like where this is headed. He doesn’t like that someone other than Hyuck is able to handle—and even smile at—his sarcasm as if it’s not one of his best defence mechanisms, honed to perfection over years. And he absolutely doesn’t like that the person doing it is you.

“So uh,” he says stiffly. “If this is all done… your first shift is Monday. I’ll be here to teach you the ropes.”

You blink at him. Then smirk. “You’ll be teaching me the ropes?” You tip your head, feigning innocence. “That sounds… kinky.”

Renjun is certain he’s gone the exact colour of your gel pen.

“That’s not—I—uh—” He scrambles, tragically. “I meant the basics. Like, how the register works. Safety drills. Stockroom layout. Not—”

“I’m kidding,” you say with a giggle. “Although that was painfully easy.”

He coughs again to hide the fact that his brain has just short-circuited. Obviously you were joking. Obviously you do not want to get kinky with him in a supply closet whilst he shows you how to restock. He’s just—god—he’s so fucking bad at this.

“Well,” he says tightly, latching onto protocol like a lifeboat, “I suggest you reread the HR forms you just signed. Because jokes like that are definitely… crossing a boundary.”

There’s a beat of silence. You blink at him like you’re waiting for a punchline. It never comes. And then your face sort of… shifts. Because you realise he’s being serious.

Your first instinct is to laugh—to roll your eyes and tell him to relax, because it was just a joke—but something about the awkward way he’s holding the clipboard, the way he’s not meeting your gaze, makes you pause.

Instead, you bite your tongue. Hard. You tilt your head and school your features into something neutral.

“Right,” you say. “Okay. I’m sorry. That was inappropriate. You’re the boss.”

That makes him flinch. “I’m not—well—I mean, technically Yuta’s the boss, I’m just the floor lead, and I wasn’t trying to—” He sighs. Gives up.

“It’s cool,” you say, already backing toward the exit. “You’re allergic to fun. You told me.”

“No, that’s not—”

“Anything else?” you cut in. Thumb hooked under your bag strap now, one foot already turned to go.

Renjun swallows, visibly. Then clears his throat again. “Uh. No. Just… be here Monday. Noon.”

“Got it,” you nod, already turning.

And that should be it. That should be the end. He should let you go. But he doesn’t. His fingers move before his brain does, and he reaches out to wrap his hand around your wrist.

He regrets it instantly. His mind screams at him: What are you doing? She’s leaving. Let her leave. Why can’t you ever just let things be easy? Stop being weird. You’re always weird.

[Joy is going to have a field day with this.]

“I didn’t mean to upset you—” he starts, then falters.

God, what is he doing?

You glance down at his hand, then back at him.

“No, it’s my fault,” you say, voice quiet. “I shouldn’t have made a joke like that with you… we don’t know each other. It was unprofessional.”

Renjun hates this. Hates that he can’t just be cool and let things roll off his back. Hates that you—this bright, unbothered girl with hearts on her i’s—feel like now you have to walk on egg shells because of him. Because he’s too literal and too guarded and too much.

Always too much.

Allergic to fun.

“No. It’s not you,” he says quickly. “I know you were joking—I just… got in my own head. I was embarrassed…I don’t want you to leave here thinking I’m a jerk.”

“I don’t,” you say simply. “And I won’t.”

You gently slide your wrist out of his hand. He lets it go like it burned him.

“Well,” you say, brushing invisible lint from your shorts, casual again. “I’d love to stay and chit chat, but I’ve got a bus system to go and figure out.”

He frowns. “You’re taking the bus?”

You shoot him a look. “That is how public transport works.”

“No—I meant—what part of town?”

You tell him. His frown deepens. Two transfers. Forty minutes. Maybe more. He does the math in his head without meaning to. There’s cleaning, locking up, sometimes Yuta makes them wait for suppliers. Midnight isn’t unheard of.

And you’re going to walk to a bus stop? Alone? Take the bus at night? Alone?

“Don’t you have a boyfriend who can come pick you up?”

Your brows shoot up, as you give him a big, open-mouthed grin. “Now who needs to reread the HR manual?”

His spine goes taut like you’ve jabbed him in the ribs. “No—I didn’t—” He blinks, flustered, then pauses. “That was… a joke?”

“Yes,” you say sweetly. “See? They’re fun, right?”

“Hm,” he murmurs. “I’m just saying… sometimes shifts run late. It would be in your best interest to make sure you don’t leave alone. Especially at night.”

“In my best interest?”

He nods. “Uh-huh. Maybe walk out with one of the others. Or… have one of those brothers come get you. Just to be safe.”

Your brows twitch, curious. “Are you… worried about me, boss?”

“No,” he blurts, too fast, too defensive. And it hangs there, brittle and stupid, until he rushes to add, “I just don’t want the theatre to be liable if something happens.”

“Right,” you nod. “Of course. Liability. Got it.”

Renjun shifts his weight and avoids your eyes. He regrets opening his mouth in the first place now because he is worried and he doesn’t even know why. You’re probably fine. But then again, this part of town can get weird after ten.

“Well,” you say, adjusting your bag. “I’ll be sure to consult one of those brothers of mine about an escort home. Per your very professional advice.”

Renjun rolls his eyes, but it’s half-hearted. “You’re a liability and a smartass, I see?”

“I am a fabulous multitasker, my friend,” you grin, tipping him a wink as you back toward the door. “But hey—look at you, really getting the hang of this whole joke thing.”

And then you’re gone, out the door and down the narrow hallway, your sneakers squeaking against the battered theatre tile. Renjun stands there for a second, alone in the hum of the back office, feeling oddly off-balance. He exhales. Pinches the bridge of his nose.

It’s going to be a very long summer, he thinks.

Renjun’s anxious.

Which, isn’t exactly breaking news—he’s always a little anxious, it’s his baseline condition. Something his therapist calls persistent hypervigilance. But today it’s worse. More acute. More itchy under the skin. Because you start work in precisely twelve minutes. Not that he’s counting.

[He is. He absolutely is. Because you said the word kinky the other day, and he hasn’t had a coherent thought since.]

He starts fiddling with the Icee machine. Messing with the nozzles. Cleaning them. Again. Even though only one person’s ordered one since he clocked in. But logic isn’t the point. Rational productivity is dead in the water when his brain’s doing a hundred miles a minute. He just needs to keep busy. Needs to move.

Needs to not think about the fact that you’ll be behind this counter soon. In that tight-looking employee polo. Your name on a tag just above your left breast. And—

Stop. Fuck.

He drops the rag with a huff, heat crawling up the back of his neck. He glances at the clock. Ten more minutes. He might actually throw up.

Then—a noise. No. A commotion.

Raised voices float in through the theatre doors, loud and irritated. There’s the low shuffle of feet, a collective murmur as patrons begin to file out, pulled toward the disturbance. Renjun frowns. Steps closer.

Outside, the sidewalk crowd has swollen, huddling in a messy half-circle around something—someone—just beyond the glass doors.

And then he sees you.

You’re standing on the curb, that employee polo clinging to your chest, the cotton damp from the humidity and stuck in all the wrong—or maybe right in different context—places just like he thought it would. He’s not sure he’s built to survive two months of working beside you in that ridiculous shirt.

Your hair is a mess, curls frizzed and haloed around your flushed face. And you’re livid. You’re flapping your arms at a red pickup truck, cursing all the while you're holding a cat. An actual cat. Small and orange and clearly feral, tucked against your chest.

The cat yowls.

You shout louder.

Renjun doesn’t like this. His chest goes tight. He doesn’t like the way your voice cracks with fury. Doesn’t like that you’re yelling.

And he especially doesn’t like that you’re being yelled at back—by a man twice your size, now fully out of his truck.

The engine still rumbles behind him, door swinging wide. He’s stomping forward in that puffed-up, red-faced way of men who try to intimidate. Renjun sees the way your body squares up in retaliation, your arms curled tight around that scrappy cat. You don’t move. Don’t back down or flinch. Not even when the guy jabs a thick finger in your direction.

Renjun really doesn’t like that.

And maybe that’s why he doesn’t think and instead, he just moves. One quick step forward, sliding himself between you and this big, burly man. He just stands there like a quiet barrier. A nervous boy with shaking hands, who clearly doesn’t like confrontation, but is standing here with his shoulders squared, back straight, arms slightly out like he’s making space for you to breathe behind him.

But you don’t want to breathe. You want to yell. So you do—right over his shoulder.

“You bastard! You nearly ran over this cat! This poor innocent stray cat! I swear he sped up—It was just crossing the road—”

"Woah," Renjun says, even though his heart is thundering so hard he thinks it might crack his ribs. “Y/N. I need you to breathe. Just—calm down, okay?”

“Lady,” the man spits, ignoring Renjun completely. “You jumped right into the road! I swerved—nearly hit a pole—because of you! You could’ve been killed.”

You stiffen. And your voice hits a brand-new pitch. “Don’t you lady me! Do I look forty-five to your shitty eyesight?”

The guy blinks, confused and vaguely offended. Which—good. That’s what he gets for yelling at women in the street. You’re certain if it had been a man who jumped into the road, this guy wouldn’t be half as eager to square up. You adjust your grip on the squirming cat, who yowls again in solidarity.

“You sped up! I saw you! What kind of man sees something alive in the road and presses the gas?”

“I thought it was a plastic bag!” The guy shouts back, throwing his arms wide. “What psycho dives into traffic for a stray cat?!”

Renjun flinches. Because—well, that part isn’t a completely unfair point. You did leap into traffic. And you could’ve been hurt. And that thought—the image of it—it makes him nauseous.

“Okay,” Renjun says, stepping forward just a little more. Just enough that your shoulder brushes his. Just enough that you have to lean around him to keep arguing. “Okay, let’s—let’s maybe not scream in the middle of the street, yeah?”

“Scream?” you echo, eyes wild. “You think this is screaming? I’ll show you both—!”

“Alright.” Renjun gently but firmly wraps a hand around your elbow. It’s a quiet tether, enough to guide you back towards the movie theatre. He casts a look back at the man, his voice an icy sneer.

“Maybe next time ease off the gas, yeah? It’s a twenty zone for a reason on this boulevard. Kids come here.” Then—an extra beat. “Oh, and maybe watch how you speak to women.”

The man scoffs. But doesn’t reply. Just mutters something under his breath and stomps back toward his truck. Which pisses you off even more—because of course. Of course he backs down the second it’s not just you. Because man doesn’t rise to man.

Coward.

Renjun turns his back on the dude completely. Tugs you along past all the bystanders that start scattering. His hand is still warm on your elbow. You’re vibrating with leftover anger, there’s no denying. The cat still in your arms yowling along egging you on as you retreat toward the theatre doors.

You look feral. Passionate. A little unhinged.

Beautiful.

Enough damn brain!

He exhales and pulls you down the hall—past the other employees he actually trusts to hold down the fort, past the staff room—until you both stumble into the familiar back office.

Yuta’s desk is a disaster. A crooked tower of paperwork, an abandoned protein bar, a rogue Minion figurine grinning in the corner that you think is weird. But then again—you’re the one carrying a stray cat into your new workplace. So. No leg to stand on, really.

You stride straight over, and carefully lower the cat onto the desk like it’s royalty. The thing hisses. Knocks over a cup of pens.

Renjun just stands there. Frozen. No, worse—dissociating. He’s absolutely seconds from combustion because no amount of persistent hypervigilance could have prepared him for the scene in front of him.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. Eyes squeezed shut like that might somehow reset the last twenty minutes of his life. Because—what the fuck? This is supposed to be your first day. You were meant to show up fresh-faced and vaguely apologetic for being new. You were meant to shadow him for the afternoon, maybe ask him where the spare straws go. Not show up, technically, ten minutes late with a ginger tabby.

He’s spiralling.

You, meanwhile, are busy tearing open a granola bar from your bag and crumbling it in front of the cat, like that’s a normal thing to do in your place of employment.

“What the actual hell are you doing?”

“What?” you say, feeding the cat another chunk of granola.“The poor thing nearly died. She’s probably hungry.”

Renjun stares at you. Hard.

“Okay,” he says, dragging a hand over his face. “Let me rephrase. Why is there a cat in my boss’s office? Why are you feeding it when I’m supposed to be training you? And most importantly—what the hell are you planning to do with it until your shift ends at ten o’clock?!”

“Oh,” you say slowly, “I dunno. I figured I’d put her in a cardboard box in the stockroom?”

“You can’t put a cat in a cardboard box in the stockroom.”

“Why not?”

“Other than the fact it’s definitely a health and safety violation,” he starts. “We keep the ice in there, Y/N. Literal ice. For drinks. For paying customers. It’s freezing.”

You frown. “I’ll find a blanket.”

“You cannot—” he breaks off, pressing his fingers into his temples. He’s actually sweating now. “Where did Yuta find you?”

You shrug, entirely unbothered, and unzip your bag again. You’re rustling around in there like a raccoon until eventually, you pull out a pack of Skittles. Renjun shudders.

“Skittles?” he mutters like it personally offends him. “That’s your candy of choice?”

You ignore that. Rip open the bag and start eating the red ones. Then you answer his first question, mouth half-full. “He’s my uncle.”

Renjun blinks. “He’s your what?”

“Uncle,” you repeat, already moving on to purple. “Yuta. Technically by marriage. He promised my dad he’d get me a job this summer.”

“Yuta Nakamoto,” he says slowly, like you might have confused him with someone else. “Our manager?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Is your uncle?”

“Yup,” you say, popping an orange Skittle this time. “I’m a nepo baby. Sorry.”

The cat purrs. Renjun is convinced he’s in some sort of fever dream. Or maybe he’s getting punked. There’s too much happening at once. His head hurts. The office smells like granola and stray animal and coconut shampoo.

He wants to dig into the nepotism bomb you just dropped, but unfortunately there are more urgent issues. Like the cat—that is now hissing at him.

“I can’t believe you almost got hit by a car for a cat,” he mutters, half to himself.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re one of those,” you shoot back immediately.

“One of what?”

“Men that hate cats,” you accuse. “Reeks of misogyny, if you ask me.”

“I don’t hate cats!” he snaps, defensively. “I like them. A lot. Very much, actually.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Really? Should we name her?”

“We are not naming the cat.”

“Fine, I’ll name her,” you shrug, even though that was your plan all along. “She feels like a Bonnie to me.”

Renjun groans. “I’m calling Hyuck. He can pick her up and drop her at a shelter.”

“Oooo, Hyuck,” you echo, tone lilting. “Your famous friend.”

“He’s not famous.”

“He said he was going to be,” you say confidently. “I like him.”

Renjun scoffs, pulling out his phone and dialling his best friend. “Don’t let him hear you say that. He’ll ask you out.”

You grin. Bite the inside of your cheek. “He is pretty cute.”

Renjun stops mid-scroll then, and looks up. “What?”

“Hyuck’s handsome,” you say all airy. “He’s got that boy-thing. You know. Big smile, symmetrical face, very charming if you’re not really listening.”

Renjun blinks at you once. Then again, slower. He swallows. It looks a bit painful. Like he’s just tasted something bitter.

“He’s about 80% confidence,” you continue. “And most girls like that.”

There’s a silence

Renjun’s phone is still in his hand but his thumb’s gone still over the screen. He’s not looking at you anymore. He’s staring somewhere just to the left of your shoulder, like the thought of you and Hyuck in the same sentence has mildly electrocuted him.

“Do you?” He asks dryly, then has to cough. “Do you… like that I mean?”

It’s so quiet you almost don’t catch it.

You tilt your head. Study him. The slouch in his posture that’s turned just a little stiff. That small, twitchy crease between his brows. The pink creeping up his ears.

“I think confidence shows up differently for everyone,” you say, softly this time. “Hyuck's is...a cocky confidence. He’s the kind of boy that walks into a room and makes everyone look just because he wants to be seen.” You pause. Then shrug. “And that’s cool. I get it. But I don’t know if that’s the kind I find truly hot.”

Renjun swallows again.

Still says nothing.

A knock rattles the flimsy office door.

You both turn. You with a Skittle half-melted between your fingers, Renjun like someone’s just snapped him out of a very intense daydream. His spine goes even straighter—if that’s possible—and he opens the door with a sigh. It’s Yushi, another employee.

“Jun,” Yushi says, already rubbing the back of his neck. “There’s a lady out front asking for a supervisor. Her tickets aren’t showing up in the app, but she has no proof of purchase and she’s yelling at me.”

You watch Renjun close his eyes, then drag a hand down his face like he’s reconsidering every decision that’s ever led him to this job, this moment, this timeline.

“Great,” he mutters. “How is it only Monday?”

Yushi cranes his neck, glances past Renjun into the office—and blinks. His eyes lock on the cat licking crumbs off the corner of Yuta’s desk. He tilts his head slightly, drops his jaw.

“Don’t ask me about that thing.”

You interject, chipper. “Her name is Bonnie.”

Yushi stares.

“I’m getting someone to take care of it,” Renjun tells Yushi firmly, ignoring you.

Yushi nods weakly. “Right… and what about the lady out front?”

“I’ll come deal with it,” he says, already moving but then he remembers you and pauses in the doorway. “Can you—just run Y/N through the basics? Show her around until I get back. Lobby, screens, break room. Don’t let her near the Icee machine!”

“I told you not to let her near the Icee machine.”

“She insisted!” Yushi defends, throwing his hands up like a victim. “And besides, we all have to learn the Icee machine eventually.”

“Not from you, Yushi—” Renjun inhales. His brain repeats: deep breaths. Count to ten. Pretend you’re not actively inhaling the scent of blue raspberry. “This was supposed to be orientation. Like you showing her where the mop lives. Not—” he gestures wildly, “this.”

This being the now semi-splintered Icee machine, currently haemorrhaging red and purple and radioactive green all over the lobby. Customers are stepping around the mess like it’s a crime scene.

“You did not make that clear,” Yushi states flatly.

Renjun’s nostrils flare. “I did not make that clear?”

You, from your perch on the counter, swat the air. “Come on, guys. Let’s not cry over spilled slushies.”

Renjun swears he has the patience of a saint. Truly. Because today alone, he’s: prevented you from fighting a man in the middle of the street, watched you hand feed a cat in Yuta’s office like it was a toddler, handled a woman threatening to sue the theatre because her app glitched, and sprinted to the back to sneak Hyuck in and out of the staff hallway so he could take the cat to the shelter.

[Okay, that last one was not professionally necessary, but—well—he didn’t love the idea of you seeing Hyuck. Not now. Not after you said you thought he was pretty cute. Which Renjun has no right to not like. But still, he doesn’t. Get in line to sue him, along with the lady.]

And now this. The Slushie Apocalypse.

He closes his eyes for a beat. Breathes in. Breathes out. When he opens them again, you’re licking Icee off your knuckle.

He might combust. The universe clearly wants him to suffer.

“Jesus Christ,” Renjun says tightly, dragging a hand through his hair. “Yushi—get Sion. You two are on clean-up. All of it.”

Yushi opens his mouth to protest but then he takes one look at Renjun’s face and wisely closes it again. He slinks off to the supply closet.

You swing your legs off the counter and land lightly on your feet. “You’re very bossy when you’re stressed.”

Renjun turns to you slowly. Eyes dark.

“You,” he says, pointing. “Are coming with me. You’re learning the register. Now.”

You salute him. “Aye aye, Captain Scowly.”

He blows out a long breath and mutters something under it—something that sounds a lot like God, help me—before stalking toward the front. You trail after him, biting your lip to hide your grin.

“Okay,” he starts once you’re both behind the register. He taps the touchscreen twice, clicks into a menu, but doesn’t look at you. “This is your main screen. Left tab is for concessions, right tab’s for tickets. Don’t mess them up. The system’s temperamental and I’m not patient enough to fix it.”

“Clearly.”

Another scowl. Which is sort of his default setting with you. With everyone, actually.

“Joke,” you add, holding your hands up. “That was a joke.”

Finally he looks at you. And it’s a mistake. A catastrophic, retina-burning mistake on his behalf.

Because you’re leaning on the counter. And smiling. That wide, lazy smile you have. And your polo’s dipped just enough to reveal a lick of your cleavage and the top of your bra, which is red.

He. Sucks. In. A. Breath.

“This is the comp tab,” he says, voice suddenly hoarse. “You only use it on the rare occasion Yuta comps tickets. Or if there’s a delay. Otherwise, don’t touch it.”

You nod like you’re taking it all in. But really—you’re just staring at him. Like really staring. Because you haven’t had the time to yet, not properly. Not between the cat and the Icee machine and the fame-hungry best friend. But now, here, you finally look at him.

And—oh. Oh.

He’s cute. Actually no—he’s hot. In that awkward, tense, scowling and grumpy way that makes you want to poke at him just to get a reaction. He looks like he’s permanently nervous, and you weirdly like that about him.

“You okay?” you ask suddenly. “You’re… breathing weird.”

“I’m fine.”

But he’s not. His fingers twitch over the screen.

“Your hands are nice,” you say, like it’s nothing.

He stiffens.“I—what?”

You shrug. “Did I just break the HR handbook again? Because I was just saying. They’re like… veiny. And twitchy. It’s a compliment.”

“Veiny and twitchy is not a compliment,” he says, flatly. “That’s something you say about an old man.”

You blink. “You have veiny, twitchy old man hands?”

“I can’t do this,” he sighs, leans both palms flat against the counter and lets his head hang between his shoulders. “I actually can’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“This,” he gestures again, aimless, like your existence is giving him a migraine. “You. With your little comments. And your…voice.”

You feign offence. “What’s wrong with my voice?”

“It’s loud. And distracting. And chipper.”

“Woah,” you say, hand to heart. “That was rude. You make it sound like you hate me.”

“Maybe I do,” he mumbles. “Jury’s still out.”

You laugh, and Renjun hates the way it lodges somewhere deep in his spine, all warm and unsettling. You have absolutely no right to laugh like that, not today, not here, not with the day he’s having and you’re the centre of all of it.

You lean in a little. Elbows on the counter. “Do I make you nervous, Renjun?”

His jaw tightens. “No.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.”

You’re not buying it, and you don’t pretend to.

“Can we please focus?” he manages. “This is supposed to be you learning the system.”

“I am learning. I just also happen to be observing your blood pressure spike in real time. Told you, I’m a fabulous multitasker.”

He needs strength. God give him strength. He breathes out slowly. Through the nose. “Okay. I’m gonna have you try and ring up a small popcorn and a student ticket.”

“Sure.” You press a few buttons. Squint at the screen. “Wait, do I hit this or—”

Renjun leans over. His shoulder brushes yours and it’s subtle, but you feel it like static. He points to the correct tab, fingertip barely grazing yours. You swallow.

“Here,” he says, quiet now. “That one.”

You nod, but you’re not really listening. You’re watching the way his hair falls over his forehead. The angle of his jaw. The little muscle that twitches there when he’s concentrating too hard. You’ve never thought yourself a lover of grumpy men with a talent for brooding—but Renjun wears his scowl so beautifully. His lips curl, not in smiles, but in disdain. His eyes don’t glint. They glare. And God, it’s hot. Stupidly hot.

“You’re kind of pretty when you’re focused,” you blurt.

It’s out before you can catch it. A rogue thought made audible. You’d been teasing up to now—light jabs, nothing serious—but this one? This one came from nowhere and was completely impulsive.

He recoils from the register, like you just touched a nerve.

“Are you incapable of just—not doing that?” he asks, voice taut.

“What? Complimenting you?”

“Flirting,” he grits.

You blink, playing dumb. You weren’t flirting. Not technically.

(Okay, maybe you were. But you’ve never had a boy be so viscerally opposed to your charm before—it stings. Is he not attracted to you? No, he has to be. You saw the way he looked at you last Friday. He was totally checking you out.)

“I’m not flirting,” you say, shrugging. “I’m observing.”

“Aren’t you the multitasker? He asks. “Maybe you’re observing and flirting.”

You narrow your eyes. “I wasn’t. You clearly don’t know what girls flirting with you actually looks like if you think this counts, Scowly.”

Something shifts then. Renjun goes still and it feels hollow. Because you don’t say the words like they’re meant to cut, but they still slice him anyway. And you don’t understand—you can’t understand—because in your world, the idea of girls not flirting with him is absurd. A joke. He’s hot. He’s brooding.

But in his world, the rules are different. In his world, he doesn’t know how to flirt. Doesn’t understand the metrics. (Joy tells him flirting doesn’t have metrics and that the sooner he understands that, the sooner he’ll understand everything else. He doesn’t believe her.) He only knows how to observe from the edges. How to want things without touching them and live without expecting.

He doesn’t know how to stand in the middle of a moment like this and not feel like he’s already misread it.

“Wait—did I… that was—” you start, suddenly unsure.

“Another joke?” he finishes for you.

Because of course it was a joke, he tells himself. Of course it was. How could it be anything else? Because you—this girl, beautiful and happy—would never flirt with him. You could never like him. Of course you don’t. He needs to stop being stupid. He needs to stop hoping.

Suddenly, he feels very young. Very stupid. Very…awkward.

“Renjun, I didn’t mean—” you start again, but your voice sounds far away now.

He doesn’t let you finish.

“Sion!” he calls out loudly over your shoulder. “Can you help Y/N finish her training?”

Renjun doesn’t wait for a response. He turns and leaves and forces you to watch his retreating back disappear down the hallway. Then Sion appears beside you, casual as anything, already logging into the register. The keys click and clack beneath his fingers in quick, practiced motions.

“I don’t know what that was, but don’t take anything Renjun does personally,” he says, eyes on the screen. “He’s just… like that.”

You blink, still a little stunned. “Like what?”

“Pissy. Serious. A bit of a recluse. Weirdly allergic to happiness. Take your pick.”

You hesitate. “I haven’t upset him, have I?”

Sion glances at you then, just before looking back at the screen. “Nah,” he says, “Nothing upsets Renjun. Not really.”

You frown. “That can’t be true. He’s a human.”

“Allegedly.”

“Sion.”

He chuckles softly, types in a code. “Look—he’s a closed book. Doesn’t really talk to any of us, but I’m sure he’s fine. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

But you do. Because that sickly little knot in your stomach hasn’t gone anywhere. And now it’s got claws.

“So… he doesn’t have friends?”

There’s a pause.

“He has that one friend,” Sion says after a moment, like it’s just come back to him. “Hae-something. I don’t remember.”

You glance toward the hallway again, even though you know Renjun’s not there anymore.

“But he doesn’t have any friends here?” you ask, softer this time. “Like, he’s not close to anyone?”

“Not really,” Sion says, pressing a few more buttons. “I’m serious when I say he doesn’t talk to us. Just barks orders and disappears. We all kind of leave him to it.”

You nod slowly, that coil tightening a bit more.

“Must be lonely,” you murmur, mostly to yourself.

Sion hums. “I think he likes it that way.”

“No one likes being lonely.”

Sion leans back slightly, considers you. His eyes aren’t unkind, but they don’t look understanding.

“You don’t know Renjun,” he says.

“Yet,” you correct, still looking at the screen. “I don’t know Renjun yet.”

“Yet?” Sion echoes, a little laugh tugging at his mouth. “You actually want to get to know Renjun?”

You glance at him. “I do. I think he needs a friend.”

That gets a laugh. A real one. “Pfft. Good luck.”

But you don’t need luck. You’ve made homes out of strangers before, and friendships out of enemies. What you have isn’t luck—it’s stubbornness. Grit. And you’ve decided—Renjun from work will be your friend.

Eventually.

Whether he likes it or not.

Renjun used to hate that Yuta dumped all of the manager duties on him. It felt like being promoted without a pay rise. But lately—this past two weeks—he’s been grateful for it. Because being in charge means he can quietly orchestrate the schedule to make sure your shifts don’t line up with his.

If you work mornings, he volunteers for nights. If you’re on nights, he switches to mornings.

He’s never needed space from a coworker before. Then again, none of his coworkers have ever been hot girls who make his ears burn and his cheeks flush just by existing. More than that, none of them have ever made him this self-conscious.

He’s still kicking himself from the last time he spoke to you. Still embarrassed. About his lack of experience. His lack of coolness. The way he shut down when he didn’t know what else to say—and how his default setting has always been retreat.

[In his session last Thursday, Joy told him that not everything people say is a direct attack on his self-worth. That sometimes, things are just a joke. And also, maybe, if he wasn’t always waiting to be rejected, he might stop hearing rejection in everything people say. But Renjun had disregarded that, because a ‘maybe’ is not protection. And he likes protection.]

But when Yushi texts last-minute to let him know Yuta’s approved him to have this weekend off for some music festival, Renjun stares at his phone in quiet horror for a full five minutes. Because the only person left to cover the shift… is him. With you. Which is exactly what he’s spent two weeks meticulously avoiding.

He considers calling around. Sion, Riku, Chenle—maybe even that kid, Sungchan, who quit last month. No one’s biting.

In hindsight, he probably should’ve made more of an effort to befriend his coworkers, if only so he could frame this as a favour. But unfortunately, his default setting is stoic and unapproachable, which doesn’t really invite casual alliances.

So, he sighs. Accepts his fate.

It’s a long shift, but the floor doesn’t really need two people. Not when you—according to Sion in the staff room—are already “lowkey better than Renjun at talking and deescalating situations with customers, no offence.”

[It was offensive. But Renjun said nothing.]

So he’ll do stock.

He’ll disappear into the back, under the guise of reorganising inventory or checking barcodes against order sheets. Anything that keeps him out of your line of sight. Anything that lets him avoid small talk. Or big talk. Or—God forbid—eye contact.

He won’t even eat in the staff room. He’ll take his lunch break outside, near the bins, like a little gremlin. It’s fine. He’s fine.

Totally fine.

That is, until he walks through the theatre complex doors and sees you—already there. Sat cross-legged on the counter, giving him a view of your bare legs in those tiny denim shorts that taunt him. An open bag of Skittles in one hand, popping them into your mouth like they’re vitamins. It’s 8 a.m.

Renjun almost scoffs. Not only because Skittles are objectively the worst candy—but because this wasn’t in the plan. He always gets in before anyone else on an open shift. That’s his thing. His quiet, controlled, nobody-talk-to-me-until-I’m-ready thing. You’re disrupting that. With your early arrival and your awful choice of candy.

He stalls for a moment, debates the pros and cons of just leaving. Maybe, if he comps those Superman tickets for Hyuck, he’ll cover the shift.

[Yes. He is, in fact, that pathetically awkward around you; he’s willing to bribe his best friend that you for some reason, ‘find cute’ into working with you instead of him. He hates the idea. But he also hates standing here, sweating, as—]

You wave at him. With your perfectly manicured hand and that pearly, sunbeam smile.

Fuck. His. Life.

Knowing he’s been spotted—and therefore robbed of his default setting—Renjun adjusts the strap of his bag and trudges through the doors of the theatre.

You hop down from the counter as he approaches, far too happy for someone about to spend eight hours in an employee polo shirt. It's criminal, really. The optimism. The bare legs. The way your mouth is stained red from those damn Skittles.

The way that turns him on.

He sets his bag on the counter and avoids eye contact, but when he glances up—there you are. Holding out the bag like it's a peace offering. He stares at it. Then at you.

Your brows pinch, confused. “I’m offering you one.”

“I can see that,” he mutters. “Why?”

“Because…it’s early and work is depressing and everyone likes candy?” A pause. “And it’s summer. We’re trapped inside. And this is probably the only sliver of joy in a long, miserable day.”

“Skittles are not candy,” he rebukes.

You cross your arms, lips quirking. “Yes, they are. They’re literally in the candy aisle in the store.”

“So is gum. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna call a stick of Extra a sweet treat.”

You gasp, offended. “That’s different. Skittles taste nice, and you actually ingest them.”

“They’re just sugar and food colouring in a hard shell,” he argues.

“Oh. So basically every candy ever, then?”

He looks scandalised. “No. You don’t get to lump Skittles in with Jelly Babies. That’s disrespectful.”

“Hold on!” Your eyebrows shoot up. “You’re attacking me for liking Skittles, but you rate Jelly Babies?”

He crosses his arms. Stands taller. “Absolutely.”

You sigh. “You know, I really wanted to try being your friend, but I’m not sure I want to associate with Skittle-haters. That’s a hard line.”

That gets his attention.

“Why would you be trying to be my friend?”

He asks it carefully. Suspicious, almost. Like the concept doesn’t quite make sense in his head. Which makes you feel…a little sad, honestly.

But to Renjun, no one—especially not co-workers—wants to be his friend. And that’s fine. He likes it that way. It’s easier. Safer. But this? You? That’s new territory. And he doesn’t know how to navigate it.

You pause, eyes flicking over him, taking him in. The defensive posture. The furrowed brow. The half-step of distance. You debate sugar-coating it. But Renjun doesn’t look like the kind of boy who likes things sugar-coated.

He hates Skittles, for God’s sake.

So you settle on the truth. “Because you don’t really talk to the other guys here…You just seemed kind of lonely, I don’t know.”

He stiffens like you just poked him. “I’m not lonely.”

“Okay, okay.” You lift your hands in surrender. “Just an observation. If I’m wrong, I take it back.” You pause again, chewing your lip. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Or what I said the other day, either—”

“I know,” he says quickly, cutting you off. “I was just… a little overwhelmed that day.”

“I’m sorry. I was probably to blame for most of that.”

If you only knew.

He shrugs. “Mhm. Well. It’s fine now.”

There’s an awkward lull.

You purse your lips and tilt your head. “So… do you want a Skittle or not? The red’s gone. Sorry. They’re my favourite.”

He looks at the bag again. Sighs, but still takes one. A yellow one.Tragic choice, you think. He pops it into his mouth and chews slowly.

“The yellow tastes the best,” he shrugs, “Still disgusting though.”

You beam. “See? Progress.”

He makes that low, disgruntled grunty-mumble sound he’s weirdly good at—somewhere between you’re annoying and fine, whatever. You busy yourself opening the register, pretending not to notice how he’s still there—arms slowly uncrossing, one hand resting on the counter like he’s trying very hard not to look like he’s hovering.

He is, though. Hovering in his own prickly, reluctant way. You don’t mention it. You don’t want to scare him off. He’s skittish, like a cat that can’t tell the difference between affection and threat.

He watches you for a second longer, then frowns. Like something’s just occurred to him, and he doesn’t like it.

“What are you doing here so early anyway?” he asks. “Did Sion give you a key? Because I told him—”

“Calm down, Scowly,” you cut in breezily. “I’m a nepo baby, remember? I asked Yuta.”

He scowls harder. “Why would you do that? Why would you even want to start your shift early?”

“Because you’ve been avoiding me.”

That stops him cold.

He stiffens. Then—shoulders lifting, face smoothing into that lazy, unimpressed scowl he wears like armour—he shrugs. “I haven’t.”

You blink at him slowly. Like you’re giving him time to come to terms with his own lie. Then: “Okay. Great. Have lunch with me today.”

He should say no. He wants to say no. He had a plan—cold Diet Pepsi, last night’s leftovers, and the rest of break pretending to reorganise the stockroom by expiry date. No questions. No small talk. No you.

But now you’re looking at him like you’ve caught him red-handed.

“No,” he says anyway. Because no is control. No is routine. No is safe.

“Why not?” you counter. “If you’re not avoiding me, what’s the issue with lunch in the staff room, buddy?”

He says nothing.

Because here’s the thing: he didn’t just avoid you because you flustered him. He avoided you because deep down, he doesn’t know what he’d do if you did like him. And even worse—he has no idea how to keep breathing if you get to know him and decide you don’t.

But there you are. Bold. Beautiful. So damn determined. You’re so forward, he genuinely can’t tell if he should be intimidated or turned on.

[He chooses intimidated, but only because he doesn’t want his cheeks and ears going pink again. But let the record show—he is very much turned on. Like, tragically.]

You don’t break eye contact. You just wait, like you’re sure he’ll fold eventually. Which he finds annoying. Because you’re right. Which means he’s wrong. And he hates being wrong.

He shifts his weight, jaw twitching. The corner of his mouth does this little muscle flicker like it’s debating a frown or a smirk. Smirk loses the battle so he frowns harder.

“You’re very persistent,” he mutters.

“And you’re very reluctant,” you counter, cheerful as anything. “Look at us. Balance.”

He closes his eyes like you’re giving him a headache. But then he exhales—long, through the nose—and it’s the kind of sound someone makes when they know they’re about to do something they’ll regret but do it anyway.

“Fine,” he says. The word is begrudging, but it’s still a yes, so you don’t care.

You grin, victorious. “Great! I’m clearly in charge of bringing the candy.”

“I’m bringing my own lunch,” he grumbles, turning to go. “This isn’t a picnic.”

“Aw, no sharing?” you call after him, all singsong.

But he’s walking away now, and you swear you catch the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth—tiny, and crooked, and pretty. You don’t mention it. You don’t want to scare it off. You just let it sit. Because it feels like progress. And it’s cute. And you wouldn’t mind seeing it again over lunch.

Renjun presses the phone to his ear and paces the narrow hallway outside the staff room. His lunch is still in his backpack, sweating beside a crushed bag of crisps, begging to be eaten. But he’s in no rush. Because inside that room—inside that very enclosed, too-small room—is you.

Hyuck answers on the third ring, voice thick with sleep and absolutely zero sympathy. “Dude. You better have a damn good reason for waking me up before 2 p.m. on summer vacation.”

Renjun ignores that. “She asked me to have lunch with her.”

There’s a pause. “Who?”

“The Queen of England—who do you think, dumbass?”

“Y/N,” Hyuck says, finally connecting wires that apparently weren’t plugged in. “Okay… and the problem is?”

Renjun makes a strangled sound. “The problem is I said yes.”

There’s silence on the other end. Then the telltale crinkle of sheets. “Buddy. I’m really trying to meet you where you’re at here, but I still don’t get how having lunch with the pretty girl you obviously have a crush on qualifies as an emergency.”

“Because I said yes to her, Hyuck. Me. In the staffroom. With talking. And chewing. And eye contact.” He stops pacing, forehead thunking against the wall like maybe he can press the anxiety out through his skull. “What if I forget how to swallow?”

“You’ve been doing it pretty well for twenty-odd years, Junnie. I think your throat’s got it covered.”

“You’re not taking this seriously.”

“I know,” Hyuck says, not even pretending. “Because it’s lunch. Not an episode of the fucking Bachelor.”

Renjun groans and lets himself slide dramatically down the wall until he’s sitting on the cold tile floor. “I just… I don’t know what to say to her.”

“You’re asking me for flirting advice?” Hyuck sounds vaguely delighted. “Oh my God. My son is growing up—”

“No. No—it’s not like that,” Renjun snaps, immediate and defensive. “She said she wants to be my friend.”

There’s a very knowing pause where Hyuck doesn’t say anything.

“She did!” Renjun insists.

“Mhm. And I definitely read Playboy for the articles.”

Renjun groans again, “Look…I—I don’t know how to talk to friends,” he continues to mutter, all awkward panic. “I only know how to talk to you. And even then, it’s mostly just me freaking out about something and you laughing.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“Exactly. So, unless you’re planning on hiding under the breakroom table and mouthing answers for me, I’m going to say something stupid and then want to climb into a hole and die.”

“Okay. Dramatic much?” Hyuck drawls with a yawn. “First of all, you’re not going to die. Second, you don’t need my help. She asked you to lunch. She already likes you. Lean into yourself.”

“I can’t lean in. Leaning in is how people fall.”

Hyuck groans, a wry chuckle in his tone. “So literal. Jesus. Look, you just need to be…” He pauses, as if sifting through a mental thesaurus for words that won’t send Renjun spiralling further down his anxiety rabbit hole, “…a little less emotionally constipated than usual.”

“I’m not—”

“You are. Don’t argue with me.”

Renjun sulks. Full pout. Eyes rolled up like he’s waiting for the ceiling to cave in and take him with it.

Unbothered, Hyuck keeps on. “Start basic. Ask her about her favourite music, her favourite food, any weird little obsessions she might have. People love talking about pointless shit no one else really cares about. You don’t even have to say much—just nod like it matters and make those ‘mm-hm’ noises you do when I explain movie plotlines you couldn’t care less about.”

“I do care,” Renjun argues. “It’s important to listen when people are talking. It’s rude otherwise.”

Hyuck’s tone softens. “I know, Junnie. That’s why you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“That doesn’t make me feel less worri—”

“Huang Renjun,” Hyuck interrupts, tone snapping. “Stop stalling and get your dramatic ass off the phone and go eat lunch with your not-girlfriend before she thinks you’ve ghosted her like an asshole.”

“I’m not—”

But the line’s already gone dead.

Renjun sighs, dragging himself upright. He brushes invisible dust off his shirt and looks ahead at the door to the breakroom. He takes a trembling breath, swallows hard, and tells himself it’s just lunch. Just a girl. Just talking.

Then, with a final, reluctant courage, he opens the door and sees you.

Hair piled carelessly on top of your head. One leg tucked beneath you, the other bouncing. A highlighter (pastel pink, of course) twirls absently between your fingers. The table in front of you is covered in clutter: textbooks and worksheets and sticky notes.

You’re already chewing—which, to be fair, is completely justified. You’re ten minutes into your break thanks to his endless pacing and procrastination outside. But your brow is furrowed, eyes narrowed in on what looks to be a biology diagram.

You don’t even notice him at first. But then the door clicks shut behind him, and you look up. Freeze.

“Oh my God—sorry, sorry!” You blurt, one hand flying to your mouth, the other scrambling to gather up papers, your hicken salad still very much mid-chew. “I didn’t think you were coming—God, I thought you were gonna stand me up or something, ahah—”

Renjun thinks this might be the most human he’s ever seen you. And somehow, the panic that had been eating him alive in the hallway melts.

“I wouldn’t stand you up,” he says quietly, walking in and letting his backpack slump to the floor. “I just…” he gestures vaguely toward the hallway, “…had to make a call.”

You blink at him, cheeks puffed, chicken salad still working its way down. Then, with an exaggerated chew and swallow, you finally speak again.

“Right. Yeah. Makes sense,” you say, nodding. “Totally narcissistic of me to assume you'd be straight off the clock and racing in here to hang out with me. I just—uh—thought you maybe forgot. Or changed your mind. Which is fair, since I was sort of bossy about this. Bit of a dictator, my brothers say.”

You make yourself laugh. It barely makes it past your throat, tangled in nerves. Your hands move faster now—gathering sticky notes, closing a textbook, trying to make the table look less like a warzone.

Renjun watches you. You’re flustered. Which is strange. You’re not usually like this. You’re the one who walks in already laughing. Says something quick and clever before anyone else can even breathe. Always a little untouchable. But now, you’re all half-sentences and twitchy hands, hair falling out of its knot, sleeve shoved up, pink highlighter smudged along the back of your hand.

It’s…cute.

Which he hates noticing.

He leans forward and grabs a worksheet you’d missed. He lets the paper crinkle between his fingers, for a moment, so you can gather yourself back to normal. He knows all too well what it feels like to be overwhelmed. To need space and not be offered any. So he waits.

[Hyuck said: Take an interest. Care about what she cares about.]

“What were you working on?”

“Oh—this,” you say, shoving papers aside. “I—I’m in college. It’s all stuff for that…”

Renjun lifts an unimpressed eyebrow. “I gathered,” he says, voice dry. “You do realise I go to the same college, right?”

You blink. Squint. Tilt your head like you’ve misheard him. “Wait… You go to my college?”

His other eyebrow joins the first. “Your college?” he echoes. “Yes. I attend our college.”

“No, come on. Like, my college. As in, we go to the same one?” You stare at him. Then laugh like this has to be a bit.

He simply stares back. “Yes. That’s what I’m saying.”

Your smile twitches, turning lopsided.

“Wait,” you say, “are you a freshman?”

“No. I’m a senior.”

“You’re a senior?”

He nods once, slow and sure. “Same as you.”

You stare at him, mouth slightly open, jaw halfway to the floor. There’s a full-on moment of you trying to reboot. Because that… that doesn’t make sense.

You’ve never seen him at a single party. Or a student union thing. Or in the campus quad. You’re on the events board. You run half the events. You know people. You know who’s in your year, who’s dating who. You’re the type who knows faces, voices. Surely, you’d remember him.

Wouldn’t you?

“I just thought you like… worked here,” you say slowly.

“I do work here.”

“No, I mean like—I thought this was your full-time job. Like a real job.”

You’re rambling now. You can hear it happening.

“Because, like, you’re just… always here. Not like the other college hires who are clearly only here for the popcorn and the comp tickets. You actually—like—do stuff. You take it seriously.”

There’s a pause. A long one. You immediately wince.

“That sounded so rude. I didn’t mean it to sound like that.”

Renjun shrugs. “Didn’t sound like a compliment either.”

You groan, dragging your hands down your face. “This is going so badly. I’m supposed to be trying to be your friend, but I’m pretty sure I’ve just offended you.”

Across from you, Renjun doesn’t meet your eyes. He wants to be offended. That would be simpler. If he acted insulted right now, he’d have an excuse to leave this lunch meeting he’d been internally spiraling over for the past two hours. He could shrug, shut down, write you off as just another person who pokes at things that aren’t theirs to touch.

But Hyuck’s voice loops in his head like a virus: She already likes you. Lean into yourself. Ask her about her favourite food. Favourite music. Weird obsessions. Nod like you care.

[If you keep building these walls, you’re gonna trap yourself inside them. You’ll never let anything good in. You’ll never meet anyone. Never let anyone meet you.]

Renjun clears his throat. His eyes fix on something just past your shoulder, anywhere but your face. (Baby steps.)

“What’s with the school stuff anyway?” he asks finally, jerking his chin at your open workbook. “It’s summer break.”

You shift at that—uncomfortably. Like he’s the one doing the poking now.

“I—yeah. It’s…” You glance down at the notes, at the highlighters and dog-eared pages and scribbled annotations. Your mouth twists. “It’s embarrassing.”

He raises an eyebrow.

You swallow. “If I tell you, you have to give me something embarrassing back.”

Renjun narrows his eyes, slow and sharp. “That’s not how it works.”

“That’s how I work.”

He exhales through his nose, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Joy’s voice floats in like a windchime in a therapist’s office: It’s okay to be vulnerable, Renjun. Vulnerability is how you form deeper connections—real connections.

[He would argue that vulnerability is also why the girl he liked in tenth grade told him he “looks like someone who doesn’t get invited to things.”]

He crosses his arms. “So let me get this straight. You want me to spill some personal shame so that you’ll… what? Tell me why you’re revising in August?”

You nod. “Exactly.”

He stares.

You stare back.

“This feels like an unfair trade,” he says. “Since I’m in a constant state of embarrassment around you. Like that first conversation when you mentioned that—um…”

You raise an eyebrow. The universal sign for go on.

He coughs, eyes darting to the side. “That thing you said. About me showing you the ropes sounding… kinky.”

You laugh, and it’s loud. Louder than you mean it to be. Loud enough to throw that pretty flush across his cheeks just like the first time. Strangely, you want to press your finger to it.

“That’s different,” you say, leaning back in your seat like you’re not suddenly aware of how small the table between you two feels. “I never asked you to be embarrassed about that.”

“And I never asked you to be embarrassed about doing schoolwork in summer,” he fires back. “You just decided it was, without giving me a fair assessment.”

You suck in a breath. “Okay. Fine.”

He looks at you, waiting. And you hate how that makes you feel—like he’s sucking your secrets from your chest to examine. You wonder if that’s how you make him feel.

“I’m revising because I failed my exams,” you say.

It’s quiet after that. You glance down at your notebook. Your handwriting looks awful now. Unintelligible. Pathetic. You want to close it.

“My professors are letting me resit my exams in September,” you continue. “Mercy resits. You still haven’t told me your stance on nepotism, but my dad had some strings pulled. Connections. I think he’s sick of seeing me spiral.”

You shrug. Try to make it sound light, like you’re not bleeding all over the table separating you.

“I tanked this year. Like, genuinely. Turns out, everything I should be good at, I’m not. And I could give you a whole monologue about stress and expectations and pressure and whatever else sounds noble—but I wouldn’t want to bore you with it.”

And that’s when Hyuck’s voice surfaces again, like a particularly smug ghost in Renjun’s head: People love talking about pointless shit no one else really cares about.

But it’s not pointless. Not if he cares. And he does. He really, really does.

“I wouldn’t be bored.”

You still. “What?”

“If you told me,” he says. “About all that stuff.” He pauses—just a beat, like he didn’t mean to say that truth out loud, but now he has and he has to process it. “I wouldn’t be bored,” he says again.

You finally glance up at him. He’s not laughing. He’s just watching you. And you watch him.

And for once, he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t deflect or look away or throw up some dry, clipped comment like a shield. His eyes—God, his eyes—are open in that way that’s pure. Sweet, almost. Which is ridiculous, really. There's nothing sweet about Renjun.

Except right now, where he’s… eating a sandwich?

You’re not even sure when he pulled it out. It’s just there suddenly, in his hands as he looks back at you. He takes a slow bite. And it’s weird—so weird—how vulnerable it feels. If it were anyone else you wouldn’t bat an eye. But it’s not. It’s him. Him who’s sitting and eating and showing no sign of retreating.

And all you had to do was be honest.

So you keep going.

“You’re serious?” you ask, voice small but steady. “You’d be interested?”

He pauses mid-chew. Nods once.

You breathe out slowly, nervous energy bubbling up in your chest. But you don’t stop.

“I mean, I know I sound super privileged, complaining about getting a second chance.” You laugh, but it’s brittle. “But it started when I chose the wrong major. Or—no. I didn’t even choose it.”

He swallows. Sandwich forgotten, just resting in his hands now.

“My parents picked it,” you say. “Technically my dad did. But they were both on board. Said it was tradition. All my brothers are in it. A family of doctors, hopefully.”

You bite the inside of your cheek.

“And I was supposed to fall in line like a good little legacy. Smile for the university photos. Intern at the practice my parents own over summers. Learn to love it, or at least pretend.”

“But I hate it. I hate it. Every second. Every lecture where I have to sit there and pretend I know what’s happening. Pretend I care. I hate how I know I’ll never be as good as them. How they’ve already mapped out my life. Even being here they decided for me because I wasn’t ready for a real work environment and need experience.”

Your voice shakes a little. But you don’t stop.

“I didn’t forget to study,” you say, and this time you’re not even looking at him, just at your own hands, clenched tight in your lap. “I did a lot. It just… doesn’t click.”

There’s a silence, then—deep and thick and full somehow. But not in a bad way. Not the kind that strangles your lungs or wraps around your throat like barbed wire. Not the kind that makes you want to run. This one feels like space.

Like he’s giving you space.

When you finally meet his eyes again, that softness is still there. That stupid, impossible sweetness stitched into something that looks an awful lot like understanding. Like knowing. Like seeing.

And he doesn’t say I get it, the way your friends do. The way people do when they want to sound kind but really mean I actually don’t care and didn’t expect you to get all deep and serious.

He just sits there. In it. With you. Which—somehow—is worse. But also better. God, you don’t know!

Renjun finishes chewing, sets what’s left of his sandwich gently back into its sad little crinkled wrapper, then says: “What would you do instead?”

You stare. “What?”

“If it was up to you,” he says. “If you could actually choose. No family politics. No guilt. No expectations. Just…” He shrugs, glancing at you. “What would you pick?”

You hesitate.

And you hate that you hesitate. You, who always has an answer. But this—this isn’t something people ask you. No one’s ever cared what you want.

You glance away, swallow hard around the lump in your throat that shows up uninvited.

“I don’t know,” you admit. And then, after a beat, “Something like PR, maybe. Or…communications. I’ve always loved media stuff. Talking to people. How we all have stories to tell.”

He huffs out a small laugh.

You shoot him a defensive look. “What?”

He shakes his head, that half-smile tugging at his mouth again. “Nothing. Just… that’s fitting.”

“Fitting?”

“Yeah,” he nods, and shrugs, like he’s trying not to make a big deal of it. “I mean—you’re talkative and persistent. Kind of annoyingly so, actually. And you’re like—” He waves a vague hand at your face. “Very expressive. I could see you doing something like journalism.”

You stare at him. And then you laugh. Actually laugh. The sound bubbles up all surprised and kind of stupid. He smiles back too, in his own little way. Not full-teeth, not wide.

“Thank you.”

His brow furrows. “For what?”

You look at him, a little sideways. “No one’s ever asked me that before. What I want.”

That seems to catch him off guard. He doesn’t say anything for a second. The softness in his expression is different now. Less curious. More pity. And then, so quiet you almost miss it:

“…They should’ve.”

Over the next two weeks, Renjun’s surprisingly not anxious.

Turns out, there’s no real need to be. Not when his shifts line up with yours—something he’s been subtly, progressively, trying to orchestrate.

[Subtly, in this case, meaning he’s spent an embarrassing amount of time swapping shifts and inventing flimsy reasons for doing so with Sion.]

The two of you have developed… not a friendship exactly, but something dangerously close to it. A rhythm. You get there earlier than him most days—still with the spare key Yuta gave you—and by the time he wanders in, you’re already halfway through your signature bag of Skittles.

Lunch is always together now. Sometimes in companionable silence, sometimes talking about your classes. You tell him about biology; he tries to help where he can, but he’s a math major, so the best he can offer is the occasional pep talk and a skeptical look when you call cellular processes “evil.”

There are days when you’re buried in textbooks and your knee won’t stop bouncing from stress. On those days, Renjun will dig into his bag and pull out an extra packet of Skittles—already opened, already sorted, already purchased before work—pushing the reds and purples toward you without comment.

[He’s discussed this with Joy, of course. She raised an eyebrow and asked if it was a “thoughtful gesture” thing because he cares. Renjun rolled his eyes and insisted it wasn’t—he just doesn’t like the red or purple ones, and the yellow ones have started to grow on him, and really, what’s the point of wasting perfectly good candy?]

Like he said—you're not friends. You haven’t exchanged numbers. You don’t text.

[He does, however, know your middle name and your birthday, and that you’re one of those people who cries during sad movies but still like them anyway. You know equally random facts about him. (No middle name, March 23, absolutely no to sad movies.)]

And somehow—despite neither of you graduating to the official title of friends—he doesn’t hate coming to work as much. Because you’re funny. You make him feel funny. Like maybe he isn’t always three conversational beats behind like he is with Yushi or Sion.

Besides, it’s good that the two of you aren’t friends, because his attraction to you is definitely not friendly.

Especially not today.

Peak summer, the air thick and heavy, the fans doing absolutely nothing except pushing around warm air. Your cheeks are flushed from the heat, strands of hair sticking damp to your temples. Sweat glistens along your hairline, trickling down in a way that gives his brain ideas he is absolutely not proud of—ideas that make his ears burn and that, mercifully, he can blame on the weather if anyone asks.

You turn at the Icee machine, pressing your cup under the nozzle, and casually unbutton the top button of your employee polo. His eyes track it before he can stop himself.

“Fuck me,” he blurts, way too fast. Recovery is essential. He needs to not look like a teenage boy undone by the suggestion of a collarbone. “I mean—it’s so hot! I swear this government is unethical, making us work on a day like this.”

“You know…” You glance at him over your shoulder, smirking. “I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you curse like that. Nice to know it’s legislation that gets you riled up. Man of morals, I see.”

“Of course,” he mutters, tugging at his own collar now. “There should be… I don’t know, an emergency heat clause. Like if it’s over thirty degrees, everyone gets a day off. Paid.”

You hum in approval. “Mmm, paid time off? I like how you think, Junnie.”

The sound you make—a soft, almost careless hum—shouldn’t be a problem. But then there’s the heat. And that ridiculous nickname Hyuck told you about but he likes on your lips. And the way you shake your head so your hair catches on your neck, then gather it up, baring skin he has no business noticing. The arch of your arm, the way your neck is suddenly bare, the little wisp of hair curling at your nape.

He swallows again, throat tight.

You loop the hair tie around your ponytail and, like you’re trying to finish him off, grab another from your wrist. In one swift motion, you gather the loose hem of your polo and knot it at your waist. The cotton pulls tight, and there’s suddenly an inch—maybe two—of glistening midriff in plain sight.

That’s it. His brain flatlines.

Renjun stares like an idiot for a fraction of a second too long, eyes fixed where they shouldn’t be, before jerking them away so fast his neck twinges. His throat is so dry he might actually choke on his own breath.

“Renjun!”

He jumps, nearly dropping the stack of paper cups in his hands. Yuta’s voice booms from the back office, sharp and impatient.

“You deaf boy? I said my office. Now!”

Renjun clears his throat—pointless, because it still feels like sandpaper—and mumbles something that might resemble “coming.”

“O-oh, sounds like you’re in trouble,” you giggle, playfully.

Renjun does not feel playful.

In fact, he refuses to look at you. Absolutely refuses. Because if there’s even a fraction more of bare skin on show than there was five seconds ago, whatever’s left of his senses will absolutely fry.

He has no idea how long Yuta’s been yelling, but the man sounds pissed. Normally, that would trigger a mild panic attack, (Renjun likes this job, and he’d prefer to keep it) but right now? Any excuse to escape you—flushed and gorgeous and absolutely lethal—is a blessing.

He shuffles past, heat prickling up his spine in a way that has nothing to do with the air temperature, and slips into Yuta’s office. The door clicks shut.

Yuta immediately does the most suspicious thing imaginable—peering out into the hallway like a man being tailed by the FBI. Then, satisfied no one’s watching, he slams it shut and sucks in a breath.

For a moment, Renjun considers the possibility that his boss has gotten himself involved with the mob, and is actively trying to recruit. Then he remembers: this is the same man who owns a display case for his Minion figurines.

“…Can I help you, boss?”

Yuta leans forward, eyes darting toward the closed door like someone might be listening. “TheACisbroken,” he whispers in a single, panicked breath.

Renjun blinks. “…What?”

“The. A. C.” Yuta chops the air with each letter, like he’s testing whether or not Renjun’s deaf. “It’s. Broken.”

Renjun stares at him. “That’s what you called me in here for? I thought—” He stops himself, “Why is this a big deal?”

“It’s a big deal because,” Yuta starts, eyes deadly serious, “it’s a violation of workplace regulations to not maintain a safe temperature in this building. And I don’t know whether you’re aware but, it’s sweating balls out there. If the customers—or employees—find out, we could be sued.”

Translation: he could be sued.

Renjun was joking earlier about there being some kind of heat clause. But now here’s his boss, deadpan serious, confirming that not only does it exist—he’s currently in breach of it. He can’t wait to tell you—

“Wait.” His thought derails. “If the employees can’t know… why are you telling me?”

“Sheesh!” Yuta groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I thought you were one of my smarter ones.”

“That felt… backhanded.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Yuta swats the air, already moving on. “I need you to help me evacuate the theater. Employees out. Tell them it’s a leak. No more ticket sales.”

Wait—”

“There’s only one showing left,” Yuta barrels on, ignoring him entirely. “It’s got about an hour remaining. Then you lock up.”

“You want me to…” Renjun’s brows furrow, “lie to everyone, kick them out, and then close the building? All because the AC is broken?”

Yuta straightens. “Yes. And do it quietly. No panic, no lawsuits. Happy as Larry.”

Renjun opens his mouth, closes it again. He’s not sure what’s worse—being the one who has to clean up this mess, or that his boss is completely fine with knowingly committing what has to be several workplace violations.

Maybe he should be glad he’s one of the favourites. Right?

Yuta doesn’t keep him long after that. He’s not exactly the chatty type unless he needs something, and apparently, Renjun has been “needed” enough for one day.

When he finally gets the all-clear to leave and push the office door open, the wave of humid air in the lobby almost knocks him back. And there you are—perched on the counter, elbow braced on your knee, watching him like you’re waiting for a confession.

“What did you do, bad boy?” you ask, low and teasing, a slow grin creeping across your face as you hop down.

Renjun groans—a mix of a sigh and a choke—running a hand over the back of his neck. “Nothing. And don’t call me that.”

“Then what did Yuta want? Come on. Spill.”

He exhales. “He wants me to end—”

The theater door bursts open, and a teenage boy—short, hoodie, backpack, pimpled face—ambles up to the counter. You don’t miss a beat, not anymore, leaning forward with your perfected customer-service smile.

“Hi there! What can I get you?”

Renjun slides in before the kid can answer. “All showings are closed, sorry buddy.”

The boy hesitates, in the middle of fishing for his wallet. Then says: “No, they’re not.”

“Exactly. They’re very much open.” Your head swivels toward Renjun, eyebrow lifting. He does not relent.

“No. They’re not.”

“There was a showing that started twenty minutes ago,” you scoff. “I sold tickets for it.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Pretty sure it does.”

He folds his arms, jaw tightening. “Closed.”

You stare at him for a beat, then exhale through your nose, turning back to the kid. “Sorry, buddy. You’ll have to come back tomorrow. And hey, be sure to ask for Y/N—I’ll give you a discount for the inconvenience.”

The boy shoots Renjun a confused look before retreating.

As soon as the door swings shut behind him, you fix Renjun with a suspicious squint. “Is there a reason you’re turning away my uncle’s customers?”

“Is there a reason you’re offering discounts when you don’t have that kind of power?”

You lean in, voice conspiratorial. “Two words, Junnie: Nepo. Baby.”

He snorts. “Ah, yes. How could I forget.”

“So… let’s have it,” you press. “Why are you scaring off the clientele?”

Yuta’s words echo through Renjun’s brain. He should tell you the truth. You two are close—not necessarily friends, no. Because you haven’t said that word out loud or asked him to be one since the first lunch. (Do people even announce friendship past the age of eight anymore? He’ll have to ask Joy.) But Yuta made it clear: Tell them it’s a leak.

Renjun feels a bead of sweat slide down his temple. He’s ninety percent sure it’s heat-related. Ten percent sure it’s you-related. “There’s… uh… a leak.”

“A leak?”

“Yes. A leak.” He gestures vaguely upward, as if the ceiling might spontaneously cave in right this second. “Dangerous. Unstable. Very… leaky.”

“From what rain? It’s cracking the flags outside.”

“A loose pipe.”

You hum thoughtfully. “Uh-huh...”

“Yuta told me he’s shutting down for the day, actually, so…” Renjun sucks in a breath. “I suppose that means you’re allowed to get off early. Yay.”

You eye him skeptically but decide to let it slide. “And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Are you getting off?”

“Me? No.” He shrugs, cheeks colouring. “Not yet, anyway. Not until the last showing is evacuated and cleared.”

“I can stay and help—”

“No need.” Renjun waves you off. “Yuta put emphasis on getting everyone out of here. Don’t think he’d be thrilled if I kept his precious niece behind. What did you say again? Nepo baby?”

You cross your arms, chin tilting. “You really think I’m just gonna leave my favourite co-worker to clean the theatre in potentially dangerous circumstances, alone? I cannot, in good conscience, let that happen.”

His brain stops on favourite co-worker.

Favourite. As in—number one. The word does something alarming to his chest, and it’s very inconvenient because he’s supposed to be shooing you out the door, not wondering if that’s a subtle way of you claiming his friendship.

He shakes his head. “Yes. That’s exactly what I think you’re going to do.”

You groan. “Renjun, I’m happy to help—”

“Nope.” He cuts you off, pointing at the door “Out. Go. Frolic. Spend your uncle’s money. Get a tan.”

Your brow arches higher. “You’re hiding something.”

“I’m hiding nothing. Just doing my job.”

“Renjun—”

“Y/N.” He does you the service of logging your employee account out of the register before you can argue again. “Go. Before Yuta accuses me of endangering his favourite niece.”

“I’m his only niece.”

“All the more reason to keep you alive.”

You sigh, finally stepping aside toward the staffroom. “Fine.”

Renjun doesn’t relax—not fully—until you disappear through the door. And even then, he’s left with the echo of that favourite co-worker comment ricocheting around his skull.

Favourite. It’s absurd how much he wants to believe you meant it. Like, statistically, it could have been sarcasm. Or a playful joke, you like those. Or an attempt to butter him up so you can sneak extra free Icees from the machine without him reporting it to Yuta. And yet…

You reappear a minute later with your tote slung over your shoulder, hair slightly mussed. He pretends not to notice the way his chest loosens when you come back into view.

“I’m still not convinced you’re not hiding something,” you say, swiping your timecard through the time clock with a satisfying beep.

“I’m not.”

“Right, well, enjoy your leak,” you toss over your shoulder as you push the door open.

He salutes you with two fingers, like this is just any other end-of-shift goodbye and not you walking away with a word—favourite—that has somehow turned into a problem for him.

You give him a quick wave before stepping out into the bright afternoon. The theatre door swings shut behind you, and Renjun is alone with his thoughts and the faint scent of your shampoo.

It takes Renjun exactly two hours to clean out the patrons and the theatre. Thankfully, Riku—the other employee on shift, a sophomore in college with zero attachment to minimum-wage hours—took almost no convincing to go home early. And now, it’s his turn.

He kills the lights, wrestles with the lock until the key finally relents, and turns—and freezes.

Because there you are.

Across the boulevard, crouched on the pavement, absolutely besotted with a puppy. The owner—a wiry old man in a flat cap—stands next to you looking equally happy. Renjun blinks a few times. Does a double take. Because you’re not supposed to be here. You were supposed to be halfway home by now.

The old man looks up, spots Renjun, and points at him. Just—points.

Renjun frowns. He definitely does not know this man. The ratio of elderly patrons to teenagers at this theatre is laughably low, and he can count every senior citizen he’s seen walk through the doors over the years on one hand.

You glance up, following the man’s finger. Your smile curves into something different—mischief, maybe—and you say something to him before giving the puppy one last affectionate stroke. Then you straighten, thank him, and start walking.

Toward him.

Shit.

Renjun’s face contorts, because why are you walking toward him?

“Have fun clearing up?” you call, your voice carrying across the street.

“Why haven’t you gone home already?”

“I was waiting for you.”

Renjun blinks. The words land like someone’s taken a baseball bat to his frontal lobe. You were waiting for him. Waiting. For him.

His first instinct is to do that defensive, flustered thing he does—cross his arms, scowl, pretend he’s too busy for this, for anyone. His second instinct is to ask why, but his mouth is already dry and his pulse is doing something it has no business doing.

And now you’re close enough that he can see the faint crease between your brows, the smug curve of your lips.

He swallows. “Why?”

“Because it’s not every day your boss gives you the day off in the middle of summer vacation,” you say, coming to a stop in front of him. “It’s only three p.m. We should do something.”

Renjun blinks. “Like… hang out?”

You laugh—light and easy, like obviously. “Yes, Renjun. Like hang out. What did you think I meant, start a gang?”

He swallows hard, because this—this is not in his wheelhouse. Hanging out is something other people do. People with large friend groups and brunch plans. People who don’t consider listening to Hyuck explain the “multi-verse” to be the pinnacle of their social life.

He doesn’t hang out with anyone except Hyuck, actually. And maybe Riku when they’re stuck on the same shift. And sometimes Yuta if you count the awkward five minutes before closing when Yuta comes to do the books.

But you? Outside of work…?

“I—uh—” His voice cracks, which is humiliating, so he clears his throat and tries again. “No… thank you?”

Your smile drops, and it’s like someone dimmed the sun on this entire street. “No thank you?”

“No, thank you.”

“Renjun,” you say, firmly, “I waited two hours in this fucking heat—”

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“No, but I did because I want to hang out with you.” You flail your hands in emphasis “I thought you were the one making a protest about wanting the day off. Heat clause, remember?”

“Yes—but… I… didn’t think—” He cuts himself off before he says something stupid. Like, I didn’t think you’d actually want to hang out with me. Or worse, I was only talking about the heat clause because I got turned on by the sight of your bare neck.

You fold your arms, studying him like you’re trying to work out if he’s being deliberately obtuse. “What would you be doing now anyway?”

He shrugs.

“You obviously have a plan,” you press. “Yuta has just given you the rest of the day off. Where were you headed right now?”

“Home.”

“Home?” Your disbelief is almost comical. “In this heat? You wouldn’t, like, go to the beach?”

“No.” He says it like it’s obvious. “I don’t like the beach.”

“You don’t like…Everyone likes…” You pause, sucking in a breath like you need to reassess the entire situation and what you’re dealing with. “What do you like, then? How do you even hang out?”

Renjun briefly contemplates the pros and cons of admitting that he is a senior in college who… does not hang out. Not in the conventional sense. His days consist of drawing in his room, the occasional call with Hyuck, and—if he’s feeling particularly social—a game of chess with his mother or Scrabble with his father. Not making plans in town with pretty girls who somehow turn him on just by looking at him.

“I don’t like anything,” he says finally.

“Not true.” Your eyes widen in disbelief. “You have to like something.”

He shakes his head, and the small, stubborn tilt of it makes you want to groan. He’s not being fair right now—not when you’ve been patient and curious and more than willing to overshare about yourself.

“You know everything I like,” you argue. “Where I shop, the clubs I’m in, my favourite cocktail—” (The little boutique run by that fashion student on 12th Street, volleyball, Sex on the Beach—yes, he turned red the first time you told him that.) “But you? You don’t talk about you. I want to know you.”

“I’m not that interesting.”

“Not true either,” you huff. “You have a best friend who thinks he’s the next Justin Bieber. You saved me from a burly truck driver when I was possibly—possibly—in the wrong. And Yuta trusts you enough to tell you the real reason he shut down the theatre today and not anyone else. You’re layered, Renjun. You have to be. I want to know."

Renjun has never considered himself someone worth knowing. That’s probably why he’s such a good listener—because listening means the focus isn’t on him. Because he’s perfectly content with the brief little fact files you hand him. Enough to build a clear picture of you without ever offering his own in return. Without facing judgement.

“I’m serious, Y/N,” he says, and he is. “I don’t really enjoy anything. I’m scowly. I hang out with Hyuck sometimes to watch movies. My favourite hobbies are… solo activities.”

You watch him carefully. You see it—the quick flicker in his eyes that says this is me letting you in. It’s subtle, so subtle most people wouldn’t notice. But you do. Because you want to.

“Right. Okay.” You swallow, plant your hands on your hips. The move shifts your tied-shirt just enough to reveal another small strip of skin, and Renjun’s eyes flick away so fast it’s almost comical. He swallows too, but not for the same reason.

“Well, how about this…” you say slowly, “we find a two-person activity you like.”

He groans, dragging out your name. “Y/N…”

“How do you feel about fro-yo?”

No. Absolutely not.

Renjun is not a pervert—he swears he isn’t—but the mental image that crashes into his brain is entirely inappropriate. You, in this heat, still in that fitted employee polo, licking a melting swirl of frozen yogurt…that’s not an activity.

“How about mini golf?” you ask, like you’re just spitballing here.

No. Absolutely not part two.He knows he’s bad at mini golf, and knowing you, you’d end up standing behind him to help him with his swing, which means touching, which means smelling your shampoo, which means your boobs pressed to his back. That’s not a recreational activity.

You tilt your head. “Okay… bowling?”

Definitely not. Bowling means you bending over to roll the ball, and Renjun’s moral compass is not equipped for that kind of challenge. Not with your tiny shorts.

“All right, then. What about—”

“No.” He cuts you off before you even finish. He doesn’t know what you were going to say, but statistically speaking, it probably involved you doing something hot and him not surviving it.

You stare at him for a long beat, and he can see the moment you abandon subtlety. “Fine. We’re getting ice cream.”

His jaw drops. “That’s basically just fro-yo—”

“Wrong. It’s better. And everyone likes it.” You step back, already grabbing his arm and pulling him along. “We have to start somewhere, and if I keep letting you decide, you’ll brush me off forever.”

The metal chair outside the ice-cream parlour does nothing for your spine. It wobbles every time you shift, but since you insisted on eating your sweet treats outside in the sun—much to Renjun’s protest—you grit your teeth and settle in anyway.

“Mint chocolate?” You ask, because how can you not.

Renjun doesn’t even look up from his cup. “Yes, mint chocolate.”

“I don’t know why I’m surprised, actually,” you lean back, arms folded. “You’re the kind of person who likes the yellow Skittles. Like a freak.”

His eyes flick to yours, amused. “Oh, excuse me, Miss I-eat-the-red-Skittles-first-and-leave-none-for-anyone-else-so-they-have-to-eat-the-yellow-and-green.”

“That’s an awfully long winded nickname you have for me, Junnie.”

He shrugs, entirely unbothered, and spoons a scoop of green-speckled ice cream into his mouth. “I suppose you getting strawberry makes sense too, then. Clearly your favourite.”

The spoon you have stalls halfway to your mouth. “Do…” your voice cracks, which is just great, so you clear your throat. “Do you actually like the red Skittles? I assumed you didn’t. Since you made fun of my candy choice the first day. I thought you were only eating the yellow ones because I had them. You know, convenience.”

Renjun hums thoughtfully. “They are convenient, I suppose. I don’t mind them overall. You clearly like the red. You always grab red first, then purple, then orange. So, I’m fine with letting you have them.”

Something in your chest twists. You just… look at him.

He blinks back. “You’re not gonna kill me for not wanting the red ones, are you? You’re not overly defensive about your favourite flavour or anything, because I was only trying to do something nice, sheesh.”

“No.” Your voice is sharper than you mean it to be. “That’s not it.”

His brows pull together, a crease forming between them. “Okay…?”

“You know the order I eat my Skittles in?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, “You eat them every shift.”

The moment the words are out, Renjun wonders if that’s… weird. He thinks about it. He’s memorising your candy consumption pattern. Is that creepy?

[He wishes he could text Hyuck right now—Hey, hypothetical question, if you happen to know someone’s sweet hierarchy without them telling you, does that make you a stalker or just observant?]

Before he can spiral too far down that mental rabbit hole, you interrupt his thoughts.

“My ex-boyfriend would always eat the red first when I bought them,” you say.

Renjun freezes, spoon hovering midair. He’s not sure which part of that sentence he dislikes the most. Actually—scratch that—it’s all of it. Mainly the part where you had a boyfriend who didn’t notice small things like that. But selfishly, he likes that he didn’t notice. Because Renjun has. And now he knows exactly what you look like when you eat Skittles in your preferred order. Happy.

Then he remembers he has absolutely no right to be comparing himself to your ex-boyfriend.

“Were they his favourites too?” he asks instead. “Because I’m not the biggest fan of strawberries, but if there were mint-choco Skittles, I’d fight you for them. Tooth and nail.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Okay, we get it. You like mint choco. But no—he didn’t care about Skittles. Used to say the same thing you do, actually—that they all taste the same. Sugar and food colouring.”

Renjun smirks. “I’d say he sounds smart, but… he’s an ex for a reason. So maybe I should say he’s… not shit?”

“Surprisingly not,” you say, still laughing. “We ended on good terms. He was my brother’s friend. I don’t think we were ever really right for each other, you know? We just… had the same group of friends.”

He hums, listening closely, but his grip on his spoon is tight.

You cough lightly. “So… what about you?”

“W-what about me?” Renjun asks, voice cracking in a way that makes him want to melt straight into the pavement.

“You know.” You lean back in your wobbly chair. “Any ex-girlfriends who made fun of your mint-chocolate obsession?”

He blinks. “Oh.” Then again, after a pause. “Uh… no. Not really.”

Your brows lift. “Not really, or…?”

He clears his throat and waves his spoon vaguely, like that will shoo the question away. “I mean—why would they? Mint-chocolate’s objectively the best. You’re just a hater.”

“Am not!”

“Are too.” He shovels another big bite of ice cream into his mouth, like stuffing it full is the only way to keep you from asking follow-up questions. He needs to change the subject—fast.

“Anyway, speaking of being hateful—”

Your phone buzzes against the table then, the sharp little vibration cutting him off. You glance down, thumb swiping across the screen. Whatever’s on it wipes the grin clean off your face—the dimple in your left cheek (the one Renjun has privately made it his mission to coax out as often as possible) vanishes like it was never there. The sight makes something in his chest pull tight.

“You can answer that, you know?” he says carefully.

“I know…” You keep staring at the screen, then sigh, shoulders slumping. “It’s just—my brother. He’s being a suck-ass to our dad and is trying to set me up with a tutor.”

Renjun frowns. “Isn’t that a good thing? I’m pretty sure you said you wanted one last week.”

“I did. I do.” Your fingers tap an absent rhythm on your cup, the strawberry ice cream inside already beginning to melt. “It’s just… the tutor he’s trying to set me up with is his friend, Jeno—my ex.”

Renjun’s not sure why the word ex is suddenly the loudest thing in his head, like it’s bouncing off every wall in there.

Jeno. Friend-of-your-brother Jeno. Tutor Jeno. Ex-boyfriend Jeno. (Who you ended on good terms with Jeno!)

He doesn’t even know the guy, but the fact that this Jeno person exists and gets to be in proximity to you again makes Renjun want to fold his arms and tell you it’s a terrible idea. Not because he’s… jealous or anything. Obviously not. He just—well—tutors should be unbiased, right? And how unbiased could someone be if they’ve, you know, dated you?

“Seems… unprofessional,” he mutters, stabbing his spoon into his ice cream hard enough that a little chunk flies over the rim and onto the table. “You should… probably get someone else. Just saying.”

You give him a deflated look. “I know that…” you sigh. “Can we talk about you instead? Your major?” You ask, leaning forward a little. “I know it’s math, but what do you want to do with that?”

Renjun’s spoon stills in his cup.

He knows that sigh. The subject-change sigh. The problem is—that’s his move. His escape hatch when you’re poking at something he doesn’t want to talk about. And for some reason, watching you use it now makes something restless uncurl in his chest.

Because you didn’t actually agree with him about Jeno. You didn’t say, Yeah, you’re right, I should get someone else. You just… sidestepped.

And now he doesn’t know where you stand on the whole being in close proximity to an ex thing. Which is not his business. He knows that. He has no right. He just—hates not knowing more.

“Math,” he says finally. “It’s my major because I like it.”

“Way to rub it in.”

“Har-har,” Renjun exhales, glancing down at the table. “I don’t… know yet. What I want to do with it, I mean. Probably be an accountant.” He shrugs, trying for nonchalance but not quite getting there. “I just… like numbers. They’re predictable. You know where you stand with them.”

“Sounds very… stoic.”

“I am stoic.”

“I know, but…” You take a deep breath, choosing your words. “Is that really what you want to do? You asked me about dreams… are these really yours?”

He thinks for a moment. As boring as it sounds, these are his dreams. The reason he’s so strangely protective of them, so steady and—yes—stoic, is because everyone treats them like he’s settling. Like giving up. But the world needs accountants. They help the tax year go smoothly.

“I know they sound boring,” he says, “but for as long as I can remember, I’ve craved stability. Wanted the boring because unpredictable freaks me out.”

[This feels like a breakthrough. He makes a mental note to tell Joy about it next Thursday—he’ll just say it happened with Hyuck to avoid any other awkward prodding questions. He doesn’t want to unpack that.]

“Is that why you didn’t like me at first?” you tease. “Because I’m a mess?”

“No,” he laughs, shaking his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever not liked you. I’m just…”

“Scowly?”

“Scowly,” he agrees.

“You know,” you say, licking the last spoonful of your ice cream, “you sound like my parents’ wet dream.”

He snorts, a genuine laugh escaping. “You’re kidding—because you’re my parents’ wet dream too.”

“Me?” You throw your hands up in disbelief. “The chronic partier? The one who failed half her junior year? The ringleader of that absolutely ridiculous campus protest about pink pens in exams?”

“That was you?”

“Uh-huh,” you grin.

He shakes his head, still smiling, eyes warm. “You forget to mention the emotionally vulnerable part. The interesting part. The sociable part.”

“And you’re all those things too, Renjun. You just…never allow yourself to be.”

The words hang between you, but he doesn’t say anything.

You nudge his shoulder gently. “Maybe one day,” you say quietly, “you’ll let yourself be all of it.”

He meets your gaze again, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Renjun’s not sure what’s gotten into you today. You seem... off. Like your usual spark has dimmed. He first noticed it when there was no early morning greeting—which, sure, maybe you don’t need to be here at the movie theatre that early just to say hello, even if his brain had started to think it was normal. Started to expect you waiting by the door like clockwork.

But there’s no jokes, either. Just the occasional twitch of your lips when he tries to tease or toss out sarcasm, but no bite back. Hell, there’s not even a packet of Skittles in your bag. He’s brought an extra packet, just for himself, he swears. Insists, actually. When he offers them during lunch, like he always does, you just shake your head and push his hand away.

It’s like you’ve done a complete 180.

Is it his fault? Was it because he let a tiny piece of himself slip through—showed you a side of him that’s basically a boring loser with nothing to offer? And now, because you know, maybe you don’t want to be his friend anymore. Not that he’s even sure you were friends in the first place.

It’s only when the clock hits 8:00 p.m. (time for you to clock off) that you give him the smallest, most hesitant smile. Renjun wants to savour it, to hold onto that flicker of warmth, but the smile is paired with a goodbye, and suddenly it feels less like a gift.

Hyuck’s voice rings in his head then: “Your overthinking has been simmering, man.”

It’s about to re-simmer.

Because right now, as you smile—really smile—for the first time today while saying goodbye, Renjun can’t help the whisper of doubt curling in his chest. Maybe you’re glad to get away from him. Because he’s weird.

[Joy’s voice cuts through the spiral next: “People are allowed to have bad days, Renjun.” Sure, she was talking about you during that session, but Renjun is pretty sure it applies here too. So, forcing himself to play nice, he pushes past the knot in his throat.]

“You’re not… waiting for the bus in this weather, are you?”

The sky is bruising purple now, sunsetting, the air humid with rain that feels like it might actually save you from getting sick—but Renjun knows better. All rain is bad rain.

“Nope,” you say with a small grin. “I’ve been taking your advice from day one. Got one of those brothers of mine to escort me home. Turns out, the buses around here are weird.”

He allows himself a small smile in return. “That’s… good. Well bad, I suppose.”

“Yep.” You sling your tote over your shoulder and glance down at your phone. “He’s outside. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

Renjun nods, and then immediately berates himself silently. Ask her if she’s okay, idiot. She always asks you. Why can’t you?

“Yeah,” he says instead, voice a little too flat.

And just like that, you’re gone—for all of five minutes.

“Ugh! I told you not to do this, Jeno!”

Renjun stops his methodical cleaning of the counter so his eyes can snap to the glass doors of the theatre. That name—Jeno—rings loud and clear, in his head. So does that voice. Your voice.

You’re stalking through the doors, tote swinging on your shoulder, jaw tight, and—something new—anger flashing in your eyes. That frown. Renjun hasn’t recognised this version of you since your first day with road rage. And yet, he immediately recognises he doesn’t like it.

“Y/N…pleaese. I wanted to talk to you and you wouldn’t—”

“So, you went scheming with my brother to what…?” You snap. “Force me to talk?”

“No–I—”

The stuttering guy trailing behind you looks way too tall, way too handsome to be stumbling over his words like this. But this is you. Renjun knows all too well what it’s like to be a stuttering mess around you.

Except… you’ve never directed this look at him. And God help everyone, you look pissed.

You’re furious—short, sharp breaths; knuckles white around your tote strap.

“I don’t want to hear it,” you bite out. “I’m not in the mood. You can turn around and leave. I’ll make my own way home.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, it’s pelting out there,” Jeno says, stepping forward, too close. Way too close. “Let me take you home. We don’t have to talk about the—”

“Leave.”

Now you’re seething. Ready to erupt. Anyone with survival instincts would already be halfway to the parking lot. But apparently Jeno’s survival instincts are… nonexistent. Because he has the audacity—the sheer gall—to reach for your wrist.

Renjun’s teeth clamp down.

It’s not jealousy. Obviously not. He’s reasonable. He’s composed. Stoic. But there’s a heat curling low in his chest now. Protective, he decides. That’s all it is. Like the day with the truck driver. Same thing. Definitely not because your ex is touching you like that.

“Y/N,” he hears himself say before he even means to—stepping out from behind the counter, voice completely steady. “Everything okay here?”

“She’s fine,” Jeno says, without looking at him.

Renjun’s eyes cut to him. Sizes him up.

[Hyuck would tell him it’s not a fair fight, that he should quit while he’s ahead and call security. But that’s not the point. The point is you.]

“Okay. But I was asking her,” he says quietly. “So I’ll ask again. You okay?”

“I’m okay,” you answer, eyes still fixed on Jeno. “I just want him to leave.”

Renjun shifts his focus. The look he gives Jeno is measured. Scowly. Then: “What are you still doing here?”

Jeno lets out a short, bitter laugh. “Who the fuck do you think you are? You don’t even know her. Y/N, why are you—”

“Don’t talk to him like that!”

“Oh, I get it,” Jeno sucks his teeth. “ I can’t yell at him but he can talk to me like he’s some big hotshot, swooping in to save you?”

“So you admit it,” you say. “That I need saving—from you?”

Jeno’s jaw tightens. “I’m trying to do your brother a favour—”

“Exactly.” Your voice slices clean through his. “You’re doing this for Y/B/N, for my dad. Not for me. Go.”

The sound of his teeth clicking shut is almost louder than the rain. He yanks out his wallet, pulls a twenty, and shoves it into your palm, with more force than necessary.

“Don’t get on that shitty bus,” he says. “Take a cab.”

Then he’s gone. The theatre door swings shut with a slam that echoes for a breath too long before dissolving into the hush of rain against the glass.

From the corner of your eye, you catch Renjun moving. A hesitant shuffle—like he’s carefully calculating each step he takes toward you. His mouth opens.

“Whatever you’re going to say. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Y/N—”

“Please.” You turn fully now, eyes glassy but not spilling. You hate the idea of spilling in front of him over this. “I respect your boundaries about stuff like this. It’s bad enough you had to see it. Don’t make me explain.”

He almost laughs because that might be the most inaccurate sentence you’ve ever said. You do not respect his boundaries. Like, at all. You’ve bulldozed them since the day you waltzed into his life, making BDSM jokes, breaking the Icee machine he told you not to use yet, getting into shouting matches with truck drivers over cats, coercing him into lunch, dragging him out for ice cream, trying—relentlessly—to be his friend.

You haven’t just ignored his boundaries. You’ve tested them. Worn them thin. And maybe—just maybe—it’s time he returns the favour. Baby steps.

“Let me take you home.”

You shake your head. “You’re still on shift.”

Renjun shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “I’ll get Riku to cover me. He owes me one.”

You bite your lip, hesitating. “No. You don’t have to—”

But he cuts you off with a quiet, sure smile. “I know. But I’m offering. Keep that twenty bucks from that idiot, and I don’t know—buy yourself a Sex on the Beach or something.”

The corners of your mouth twitch up—lighter than anything you’ve managed all day. “I think I need it…”

He hums softly, eyes flicking down to watch your fingers rub up and down your arm.

“Okay,” you finally say.

“Okay.”

>>>continue to part 2: HERE

#nct smut #renjun smut #nct dream smut #nct x reader #nct dream x reader #renjun x reader #renjun angst #nct angst #nct hard hours #nct scenarios #nct one shot #kpop smut

524 notes · View notes

sincerelyneo · 10 days ago

Note

Hii are you going to write a part 2 for death by a thousand cuts by any chance? I loved it so much ❤️❤️❤️

omg hiii!! when I first wrote it, i had no intentions of doing a part 2 (that’s me with a lot of my fics ahahha). but so many people keep asking, and i keep catching myself thinking about it too. even my friends on here keep asking me about it, and we have been tossing ideas around. but overall, i have no clue what direction i would even want to take it in.

part of me wants to keep the toxic cycle going, because i’m fascinated by the idea of not being able to cut off someone you truly believe is your person. (i’m also a real angst lover and devour reading about toxic relationships 😔 i never claimed to be perfect) i also feel like all my other fics are fluffy and happy so i’d quite like to keep this one very…raw?

however, there’s another part of me that is like… maybe Y/N needs to go on a full revenge arc and, like, fuck mark or something. tit for tat. idk.

so in conclusion: no plans, but also…kind of, maybe.

#💬paigetalks #the rise of angst #anon #anon asks

11 notes · View notes

sincerelyneo · 21 days ago

Text

cursing the daylight | l.hc

“you got me calling at all times”

📀now playing: daylight by harry styles

❯ summary: Long-distance relationships suck. Hyuck spends his days wishing time would hurry up just so he can talk to you all night. But hey—at least he gets to have filthy phone sex with you once a week. Imagination is good for the brain.

❯ pairings: haechan x fem!reader

❯ genre: established relationship, smut

❯ words: 3.5k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni, phone sex, male/female masturbation, explicit and descriptive sexual fantasies, dirty talk, slight fluff, pet names, literally just hyuck coaxing you through orgasm

The worst thing about Hyuck’s job—besides the long hours and occasional nagging from choreographers—is that for a quarter of the year, he has to do long-distance with you. He hates it. Viscerally.

If he could quit and retire tomorrow, he would. No questions. He could afford to, actually. But you work just as much—if not more—across time zones, on red-eye flights, covering countless cities. You love it. You're brilliant at it. And he’d never dare ask you to slow down.

You wouldn’t let him, anyway. You don’t rely on men. Not even him. So that’s another twenty-five per cent of your relationship, spent apart.

And during that fifty per cent—the half of your lives lived out of sync—he used to get one call a day. That was the routine. No matter how tired, how loud the rehearsal room or late the flight, there’d be one call. A tether.

But now, after years of this—missed connections, dropped signals, and love stretched thin across continents and telephone wires—it’s more like one call a week. A text a day, if he’s lucky.

It has him wishing the days away. Counting down to night, or early morning, or whatever brief sliver of time you can spare. Just to hear your voice.

He thinks the boys are starting to resent him for it. The way he lingers by his phone like it’s stuck to him. The way he drags his feet when they try to pull him out to explore the cities they’ve landed in on tour—because God forbid he’s up on some rooftop taking thirst traps of Renjun for Instagram when your name finally lights up his screen.

Like right now—they’re all out at some fancy restaurant Chenle hasn’t shut up about since they landed. Mood lighting, velvet seats, overpriced wine. And he’s here. In his hotel bed, phone on his chest, staring at the ceiling. Waiting for the clock to hit 8 p.m. his time. Because that’s the time you scheduled.

And he doesn’t mind. Not even slightly.

He scrolls through his camera roll while he waits, thumb moving slow, as he takes in each pixel. A blurry photo of you in his hoodie, making a dumb face at him from across his kitchen counter. A candid you didn’t know he took, where you're reading with your legs tangled in his, sunlight streaking across your face. A video—his favourite—where you’re laughing so hard you snort, and then immediately hide your face in his chest, mortified.

God, he loves you. Like, embarrassingly so.

He thinks about the other fifty per cent of this relationship—the part where you’re home, or he is, or maybe neither of you are, but you’re in the same place at the same time, and that’s all that matters. The mornings when your cold feet find him under the covers. The way you hum when you’re brushing your teeth. How you started putting honey in your coffee because he does, even though you once called it disgusting.

The way you kiss him.

He is helpless. Hopeless. So gone for you, it’s borderline pathetic.

So much so, he doesn’t notice the clock turn 8:01. Doesn’t register your name lighting up the screen because he’s too engrossed in the memories he misses making. Still—his thumb moves. Manages to answer before the last ring finishes curling through the room.

“Hey, baby,” he mumbles, voice all honey and static from his end of the line.

On your end, you sound wrecked. Tired and stretched thin, as you sigh out a soft: “Hi.”

His brows knit together instantly. “You okay? You sound tired, baby. What time is it there?”

“It’s midnight,” you murmur. “Long day. But I didn’t want to sleep.”

He exhales through his nose, rubs a hand down his chest. Guilt blooms in his ribcage like rot. “You didn’t stay up for me, did you? Babe, I would’ve waited. I could’ve waited until tomorrow.”

And he means it. He’d wait forever if you asked him to. He still will. He’ll bury the ache, pretend the distance isn’t currently crushing him nightly, just for you to get a few more hours of rest if you want. Because hearing you sound like this—exhausted and frayed—hurts him more than going without you ever could.

But then you hum. “No. I just... I couldn’t sleep without speaking to you.”

His breath catches. He shifts on the bed, rolling fully onto his back, heart racing in that stupid, boyish way it always does when you say shit like that. When you remind him, he’s not the only one losing sleep because of the other.

“Seriously, baby,” he says, voice dipped now. “Is everything okay? What’s going on in that head of yours? Why can’t you sleep?”

There’s a pause. A heartbeat.

“I’ve just had a lot on my mind.” You say on barely a breath. “I’ve missed you. Missed us.”

He closes his eyes, head tilted back into the pillows, because fuck—he’s missed you too.

He swallows hard. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And suddenly the distance feels unbearable. Because he can’t crawl through the phone. Can’t cup your jaw in his hand and kiss you until the missing parts stop hurting. All he can do is listen. And wait. And want you.

“I’ve missed you too,” he offers.

You shake your head where it rests on the pillow—not that he can see, but he hears it. Hears it in the tiny, frustrated whimper you let slip.

“No,” you breathe, voice all silky. He’s certain that if he were there beside you, you’d have that bratty pout on your lips he loves. “I’ve missed you. Missed you, Hyuckie.”

Hyuckie.

God help him.

He knows that voice. Knows what that nickname means when it spills out like that, sweet and drawn and ruined.

You only call him that when you’re horny and want something. When your skin is hot and your thoughts are messy and your legs won’t stay still under the sheets. He can tell you’re turned on right now. Your voice is dipping into that breathless, desperate place—and fuck, it lights him up.

He shifts slightly, letting his free hand drift lower, just over the waistband of his sweats, eyes fluttering shut. Because he can feel it now. The arousal. The irritation. Because now he’s hard and there’s too much distance between the two of you for him to have you beneath him.

He misses the way you sound when you fall apart for him. Misses your little gasps, the way your breath catches when he tells you how pretty or naughty you are. He misses your noises. Your pouty mouth. Your wet eyes. Your pussy. All of you.

“I want you right now, Hyuckie,” you whisper. “I’m wet and needy and I miss you and I can’t sleep.”

Fuck.

His jaw clenches. His stomach twists. There’s a growl of something primal at the back of his throat before he exhales slowly. He keeps his head pressed to the pillows, eyes burning holes into the ceiling, the grip on his phone tightening.

“Mmm. That sounds awful, baby,” he says, voice low and thick with sleep. The kind of thick that drips. “You want me to help you take care of it?”

“Mhm,” you hum, all soft and breathy and a little whiny—just the way he likes you. “Only if you’re not too tired?”

His lips twitch at the edges. His sweet, delusional girl—like he wouldn’t peel his eyelids open with toothpicks if it meant he got even the tiniest, fleeting sliver of hearing you get yourself off. Helping you get yourself off. He wants nothing more.

“Don’t be silly, baby. I’d do anything for you.” A pause. “Tell me what you’re wearing.”

“A t-shirt,” you murmur, and he can hear the smile curling around your mouth. “Your t-shirt.”

He groans. “Yeah? What else?”

You go quiet. Barely a pause, but it’s enough to drive him crazy. He needs to know.

“Nothing else,” you say finally. “Told you I was wet and needy.”

His eyes screw shut. Like tightly. Like he’s in pain. “Y/N,” he says, all breathless and wrecked, “put me on video now.”

“I can’t.” You sound almost apologetic. Almost. “My co-worker’s asleep across the room. We have to be quiet. I just want your voice in my ear. Want you to talk me through it.”

He laughs. Sort of. It’s more like a broken sound clawing its way out of his throat. “Jesus fuck, baby. You’re so desperate, you’re getting off to my voice with someone in the room?”

Another beat.

“You’re so fucking naughty,” he says. He’s not even teasing anymore—just undone. Horny and helpless. “Are you in bed right now?”

“Mhm.”

“Door locked?”

“Mm-hmm.” That tiny, swallowed breath feels loud in his ear. “I wish you were here with me,” you whisper.

“Me too, baby. You have no fucking idea,” he groans, rolling to his side, pressing the phone tighter to his ear like it’ll somehow pull you closer. “Now put those pretty little fingers on our pussy and pretend they’re mine.”

You make this low, humming noise in your throat—halfway between shy and shameless—and it goes straight to his spine.

“Slide your hand down,” he commands. “Open your legs. Slip your fingers between them—nice and slow.

Hyuck waits. Listens for your obedience. It's torture—the good kind, the kind that drags across his nerves and settles somewhere low and unbearable on his skin. All he gets are the faint sounds: rustling sheets, a breath you don’t mean to let go of. He imagines it all. Has to. Because he can’t see you. Can’t touch you.

So instead, he reaches down and touches himself. Palm dragging along his length, over his sweatpants, gentle and testing. He’s hard already. Of course he is.

Then—you breathe in. And he knows. Yeah. You’re doing it too.

“Remind me how wet you are right now?”

You whimper. “Dripping.”

“Fuck. Good girl,” he murmurs, stroking himself over the fabric. “Now rub slow circles over your clit. Just how you like it. Let it feel good, baby. Let it feel like me.”

You moan softly—entirely for him. Because you know he loves it. And he does. Loves it so much it actually hurts.

“You sound so pretty, Y/N. Keep doing that.”

“Are you touching yourself, too?”

Hyuck glances down, finding his cock already bulging beneath his sweats—obvious, obscene. He’s solid. Already leaking. He’s allowed himself the tease, sure. But not the payoff. Not yet. Because you called. Because you needed him. He wants this to be about you. Always about you.

“Would you be disappointed if I said no?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Touch yourself with me, Hyuck. Please.

He chuckles as he pushes his sweatpants down, hips lifting off the bed to free himself. His cock springs forward, flushed and heavy, already twitching in his hand.

“Trust me, babe,” he groans, giving himself one slow stroke. “There’s not a world where you’d have to beg me to get off with you.”

You laugh, this soft little thing on the other end of the line.

He strokes his cock in one long slide. Palm moving up and down his shaft, slow and mean. The head’s already swollen, veins angry and raised, leaking just from the sound of your voice. From the image of you on the other end, legs spread, fingers between them, thinking about him.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, breath catching. “I wish I were there right now.”

“And what would you do if you were?” you ask.

He smirks. “Do you really want to do this?” he murmurs. “Last I checked, you’ve got company. You sure you want my mouth?”

“Yes. Always want your mouth,” you breathe. “Don’t be shy, Hyuckie—I know how awfully good you are at making me cum over the phone. I know it’s been a while with our schedules. Do you still remember how?”

His chest tightens at that. At the way you say it. The way you test him.

You’re grinning, probably—he can see it. Can feel it. You’re definitely lying there smug and sweet, knowing exactly what you’re doing. Knowing you’ve lit a match of a challenge beneath him. Knowing the minute he caves and starts painting a picture of all the filthy things running through his mind, he won’t be able to stop.

“Do I remember how,” he echoes, but it’s not a question. It’s a scoff. He’s laughing low, under his breath. He pumps himself again—firmer this time, chasing the pressure, the heat, you. “Are you still touching yourself, Y/N?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” A pause. “You wanna know what I’d do if I were there right now?”

“Please tell me, Hyuck.”

“If I were there,” he murmurs, eyes flitting shut as he pictures it, “I’d rest behind you, wrap an arm around your waist, and pull you back against my chest. I’d let you feel how hard my cock is for you, while it slides against your perfect ass—let you grind on it a little. Tease us both a bit.”

You let out another whimper that he wants to bottle. Frame. Tattoo on his fucking brain.

“Then I’d replace your fingers with mine. And I’d make you look down between your legs—make you watch what my hands can do to you. How well I know your body.”

“Hyuck…”

“I’d rub tight little circles on your clit,” he says, voice dropping, “just like you’re doing right now. You’re doing that, right?”

“Yes,” you whisper. “Exactly like that.”

“I’d play with you just like I always do. Get you right to the edge and then tip you over it. Make you cum on my fingers, over and over, until I’m ready to throw you on your back and devour you. Bury my face between your thighs and taste you.”

Your breath quickens. “You’re obsessed with giving head.”

“No, baby,” he groans. “I’m obsessed with giving you head. I fucking love eating your pussy. Only you.”

You moan. “Fuck.”

Hyuck feels his muscles coiling at the sound of you cursing, a delicious heat licking under his skin. His pace on his cock moves faster, grip tightening, chasing the edge of the fantasy he’s playing out in his head.

“I’d suck on your clit until you were twitching—until you were begging me to stop. And then I’d pin your legs to the mattress and make you cum again. Tongue deep. Slow and filthy. And while your pussy was still cumming, I’d slide my fingers inside you. Just so I could feel how insanely tight you’d be when I finally gave you my cock.”

“Hyuck, I need you inside me again.”

His jaw clenches. His whole body stills for half a second, then he’s fucking into his hand with a curse.

“Yeah?” he grits out.

You whimper. “I wish you were fucking me right now. Miss your cock so much.”

Running a hand over his shaft, Hyuck grips his cock so tight it’s almost brutal. “Keep rubbing your pussy, baby. Pretend your fingers are mine.”

“I wish they were,” you breathe.

And God, he wishes that too.

His hips move in rhythm, meeting his fist like he’s fucking you, not air.

“I’d open your legs even wider,” he pants, “and slowly climb over you. So slow, you’d feel me every fucking where.”

“Mmhmm,” you breathe, already gone.

“It’s been so long since I got to touch you, baby,” he groans. “Missed your legs wrapped around me. You feel like fucking heaven under me.”

Your breathing is quick, short, and shaky. “Miss having you close, Hyuck. Need to touch you. Feel you. Haven’t had you inside me in so long.”

“I know,” he grits. “Fuck.”

His hand jerks himself faster now, rougher. Desperate. Chest heaving.

“I think about it all the time. Think about you all the time. My pretty fucking girl.”

“I need to cum so badly, Hyuck.”

“Fuck, baby. Me too. You have no idea.”

“Then do it,” you whisper.

His eyes screw shut. And suddenly he’s there—sees you in his mind, back arched, legs spread, that swollen, perfect pussy slick and ready just for him. He’s hanging by a fucking thread.

“I’d suck on your neck,” he growls. “I’d kiss you so deep, my tongue slips into your mouth, and you taste yourself. See how this pretty cunt tastes like honey. My favourite. I’m fucking addicted to you, Y/N.”

“Hyuck,” you exhale. “I’m so close.”

“I’d slide my cock over your clit, slow,” he pants. “I’d make sure I was covered in you, your pussy would be so wet I’d be soaked. And while you squirmed underneath me, begging me to just hurry up and fuck you, I’d purposefully draw it out. Torture you with it. Make you understand how fucking painful it is to want something and not have it because we’re always miles apart.”

You cry out, completely undone. “Fuck, Hyuck. I’m sorry. I want it. I want you.”

A smirk ticks on his lips.

“So fucking predictable,” he muses, chuckling. “And then—when you’re desperate, like right now—I’d press the head of my cock right against you and just slide inside your perfect fucking body.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes. Please. I want it.”

His hand works in quick, short strokes now, no patience left in him. Just need.

“And you’d be warm. So wet. So fucking tight. Like always. Like you were made for me.” His voice breaks a little. “You take me so well, baby. Don’t you?”

“Mhm,” you breathe.

“I’d fuck you deep,” he says. “I’d fuck you into the fucking mattress while holding your hand. Because I love you. I love you so much, Y/N.”

“Love you too, Hyuck,” you whisper. And he feels it. In his chest. Down his spine. Straight to his cock.

“Are you going to cum for me, baby?”

You whimper, unable to fill your lungs with air. And that tells him everything he needs to know. That you’re right fucking there.

“Be a good girl and cum for me, Y/N. Please. I need it. You’re doing so good. You always do so good for me. If you cum, I’ll cum. You know that, right?”

“I want you to cum inside me,” you beg, voice crumbling. “Please, Hyuck. Please.”

“Fuck—”

Your moans tear through the line—small, breathless cries of his name like it’s the only word left in your vocabulary. And then he hears it: the raw, unfiltered sound of you falling apart mixed with the sound of you rustling against the mattress. It pushes him over the fucking edge.

He cums with a curse and your name in his mouth, body curling in on itself. It's blinding. Like being ripped open and put back together in the same second. In his mind, he sees it—the way you’d pull him deeper, thighs trembling, your fingers sinking into his back as he cums inside you. Your body soft, sated, spent, whispering quiet ‘love yous’.

His orgasm drags out—messy and hot and so much—painting his abdomen in thick streaks of cum. He pants, eyes squeezed shut, chest heaving. From your end of the phone, you breathe in. Shaky. Like your lungs have finally remembered how to work. He mirrors you. Completely fucking wrecked.

“Christ, baby,” he breathes, running a forearm across his forehead.

You giggle. “That was fun.”

He glances down at the thick mess on his stomach and groans. “I’m covered.”

You laugh again. Then, quieter, “I miss you, Hyuck.”

His eyes flutter closed again. “I miss you more.”

“You might not have to feel that way for long. My boss is thinking of offering me a permanent base back home in the new year.”

If this were Hyuck a year ago, he would’ve beamed. Would’ve already filed to terminate his own contract. But two years into this long-distance purgatory, he knows better than to let hope bite too hard.

You’re always almost coming home. Always nearly unpacking for good. Always close. But then the deal falls through. A paper doesn’t sign. A higher-up changes their mind. And he’s left again—wide awake at four in the morning, staring at the ceiling, waiting for a phone call from you, wherever you are in the world that week.

He stands from the bed, takes his naked, spent body to the sink, and wets a washcloth, wiping himself off with one hand while keeping the phone pressed to his ear with the other. He makes his voice sound light.

“That’s great news, babe,” he says. “Are you feeling better now?”

He hears the smile in your voice before you even answer. “You know I am. Maybe I’ll actually sleep now.”

Chuckling, he tugs his sweatpants back up and collapses onto the mattress. But the thought of hanging up makes his throat close.

He wants more. Always wants more. Wants to fall asleep to the sound of you breathing. Wants to wake up with the call still going. Wants your voice, your snores, your silence. Wants the illusion of closeness, even if it's just a tiny echo through the speaker.

“I don’t want you to sleep,” he blurts out, too fast. “I mean, if you’re not too tired, obviously. Do you want to stay on the phone for a while?”

You giggle. “Of course I do. As much as I love having phone sex with you,” you tease, “I do actually like talking to you, you know. Boyfriend.”

He smiles, big and stupid, and tosses the comforter over himself again. He switches to speaker, sets the phone beside his head on the pillow, and settles beside it like you’re next to him in bed again.

“Good,” he says. “Now tell me all about this long day you’ve had, baby.”

#nct smut #haechan smut #nct dream smut #nct 127 smut #nct x reader #nct dream x reader #haechan x reader #nct 127 x reader #nct hard hours #nct scenarios #nct one shot #kpop smut

640 notes · View notes

sincerelyneo · 29 days ago

Note

girl wdym ur writing angst again 🫣if u hit us with another cheating trope I wont be able to take it😣😖

hahahha no cheating trope here anon. i think i traumatised myself when writing death by a thousand cuts lmao 😭 but still i can’t promise that what i’m currently writing will be completely pain free…

#💬paigetalks #im in my evil era #anon

12 notes · View notes

sincerelyneo · 29 days ago

Text

look, i know it’s summer and the vibes are supposed to be fun and good…but i am cooking up some more angst 🤠 (i’m not sorry)

#💬paigetalks #hard times in the sincerelyneo google docs #happy endings ars so NOT back

10 notes · View notes

sincerelyneo · 1 month ago

Note

I giggled a bit at the “well - you’re boy” comment hehe

y/n is so valid because like… mark’s literally a boy. a man. it should be his responsibility to be doing the asking out!!! 🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄

#💬paigetalks #anon #this is a joke #not me reinforcing gender roles #we don’t stereotype here #i only kid

2 notes · View notes

sincerelyneo · 1 month ago

Note

Gawd the fwb/avoidant trope always gets to me 😮‍💨😵‍💫🫠 plsss n the way he got jealous n possessive over her 🙏🙏🙏

me 🤝 writing fics where they’re both so hopelessly in love they can’t eat, sleep, or think without obsessing over each other—but instead of having healthy communication, they just spiral in their overwhelming feelings and end up acting all possessive and territorial.

#💬paigetalks #i do what i can for the people #anon

6 notes · View notes

sincerelyneo · 1 month ago

Note

Bro r we like on the same effing wave length cuz first the “everyone wants him that was my crime” and the “they try to romance me but u got the nasty” is my literal jam 😱🤯😲

we have impeccable music taste i think friend 😁

#💬paigetalks #anon

0 notes

sincerelyneo · 1 month ago

Text

love me like you | l.mk

“they try to romance me, but you got that nasty and that’s what i want”

💿now playing: love me like you by little mix

❯ summary: Fucking the campus fuckboy was supposed to be simple—only curiosity, nothing more. But now he’s everywhere: in your head, in your thoughts, on your date—wait! Is that him leaning against the bar whilst you're out trying to get over him? Of course it is.

❯ pairings: mark x fem!reader

❯ genre: fuck buddies to lovers, smut

❯ words: 7.8k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, angst, arguments, jealousy, possessiveness, making out, confessions, nipple play, slight begging, blow job, unprotected sex, marking, slight hair pulling, swearing, pet names, reader uses she/her pronouns, literally just poor communication until it's not poor anymore idk

The first time you decided to fuck Mark Lee, it was—for lack of a better term—a social experiment. Simply science. He was the campus hotshot (the alleged sex god everyone had either fantasised about or had), and you were just the curious girl in a slutty nurse costume who caught him at the right moment during a Halloween party. Plus, you were horny.

It was supposed to be a one-night, no-strings investigation. Except you’re not a scientist, and he’s not a variable. He’s... Mark Lee. The—now verified—campus sex god with a perfect smile, but the newly discovered emotional availability of a locked door. And yet, you decided to let the fucking keep happening. Again. And again. And again.

The whole thing feels like a mistake now. Not because he’s bad in bed—if he were, this would all be easier—but because he isn’t. He’s stupidly good. And the thing about sleeping with someone like that is: the sex ruins you for anyone else forever. And that’s your whole thesis. The sex had ruined you. The way he looked at you ruined you. The way he said “good girl” while pushing you down on his cock irreparably ruined you.

So, you ended it. Three weeks ago. Because it started to feel cruel that he wouldn’t give you more. That he never even offered. Like he was holding all the power in this weird fuck buddy dynamic and was just watching you dangle to see how long you’d hang on.

Apparently, not long enough to impact his life the same way he had yours, because he didn’t protest. Not that you gave him anything to protest with—you’re not the type to let boys in on the location of your heart, much less its navigation system. Pride’s a stubborn thing. He just looked at you with those unreadable eyes, shrugged, and said, “Cool.”

And so now, you’re here.

Sitting in a restaurant across from a guy you think is named Chenle—he’s nice. Sweet in the way puppies and jelly babies are sweet. You’re trying to give him a chance. More for yourself than for him, because he seems like he could maybe be good for you. Also, he’s an upgrade from Yeonjun, who talked about his money for twenty-four consecutive minutes last week.

But all you can think about is how Chenle’s voice is soft. Too polite. It doesn’t sound like it would ever say anything filthy. Doesn’t sound like Mark whispering “just like that” in your ear while you fall apart for the fourth—or probably fifth—time in a night.

You press your thighs together. Sip your wine. Try not to think about that. Or him.

“Did you drive here?” Chenle asks.

You clear your throat then, blinking yourself back into the room. “No...no. I walked. My dorm’s pretty close.”

He nods, gently. “Well, I could give you a ride back, if you want?”

Do you want him to take you home? Do you want to let him kiss you in the hallway and pretend you’re not thinking of someone else the entire time? Do you want to fuck this guy on the first date? Will you enjoy it?…Probably not.

“There’s really no need,” you say, brushing his offer off with a wave of your hand. “It’s not far.”

He nods. “Of course. No pressure.”

He’s so... agreeable. You hate that for some reason. There’s no edge. No challenge.

Chenle starts talking about the dessert menu—something about cookie dough being his guilty pleasure. You try to smile, you want to seem present, but you don’t actually care. If you did, you’d probably argue. Tell him he doesn’t need to feel guilty about liking a universally adored dessert. That guilt should be reserved for real sins. The kind that keep you up at night. The kind involving dirty flashbacks of Mark’s hand gripping your throat while he dragged his mouth down your collarbone—stop it!

“God, I’m really glad we did this. You’re easy to talk to,” Chenle grins at you across the table.

You blink at him. He’s been talking at you, not to you. Still, you take another sip. “That’s nice of you.”

“You know, I don’t go on dates much,” he admits. “I’m kinda surprised you said yes to this, actually.”

That gets your attention. You glance up. “Why?”

“I dunno. You just seem… cooler than me,” he shrugs casually. “And, everyone kind of thought you and Mark Lee were together together.”

Your stomach does a weird, involuntary flip. “What!?”

He gives a half-laugh. “Did you think the two of you were discreet or something?”

“I—well—” you stammer, throat suddenly dry.

“Relax,” he says, laughing again. “There’s a lot of talk when the campus fuckboy stops going to parties, and no one’s heard a new sex story about him since Halloween. You know, when he was last seen walking you home.”

Your face heats. People were talking about the two of you? He hadn’t been seen with anyone else? You never asked him for anything. Not clarity, not commitment, not to stay. You didn’t want to give him the opportunity to say no. But now—knowing he didn’t—knowing he hasn’t—

It makes your stomach ache. You’re not sure whether it’s longing or relief.

You cough lightly, trying to buy space. “We… weren’t serious. Mark Lee doesn’t do serious.”

Chenle nods, face softening like he’s just put his foot in something. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to upset you—”

“I’m not upset,” you cut in. “It’s just… I don’t think he’ll be together together with anyone. Boys like that never are.”

He laughs, softer now. “Well, I guess I should be glad he’s one of those boys. Helped me match with you.”

You nod, trying to arrange your face into something pleasant. “Mm, I guess.”

It’s not Chenle’s fault. He’s really sweet. He’s really trying. He really thinks this is going somewhere. He doesn’t know you’re somewhere else entirely. He doesn’t know you still wonder if Mark still keeps your earrings in his nightstand. That some part of you hopes he does.

Then, the restaurant door opens, and everything inside you goes very, very still. Your skin prickles like it’s being watched. Branded. And when your eyes flick toward the bar, you find the exact reason why.

Mark fucking Lee.

Wearing that same leather jacket—the one you once threw on after he fucked you senseless on the floor of his dorm, your bare legs freezing against the tiles while he went to shower and didn’t ask you to stay. You gave it back the day you ended things.

Your mouth goes dry, an unbearable knot forming in your stomach.

He’s leaning back against the bar now, elbows splayed like he owns the fucking room. Head tilted, scanning the crowd like he’s bored with everyone in it—until he finds you. Then there’s a twitch of recognition behind his eyes. A curl at the corner of his mouth that might be a smirk, might be a snarl…like he already knew you’d be here.

Your jaw tenses. Because now that he’s here, those memories, those flashbacks of you melting the last time he called you honey with a hand between your legs, pound in your head that much more.

Chenle says something. You don’t hear it. You hear him—Mark—everywhere. The ghosts of his voice echoing in your skull. The phantom press of his fingers on your thighs. That last night—three weeks ago—when you finally said it out loud: This doesn’t work for me anymore. Which wasn’t the truth. The truth was: Please tell me I’m wrong. Please don’t let this be it. Please pick me.

But he just shrugged.

Like you hadn’t just handed him a lifeline. Like you weren’t standing in the middle of his room with your heart bleeding, waiting for him to give you something. Anything.

All he gave you was: “Cool.”

Your lip twitches. You hate him. It’s not enough that he ruined your sex life—no. He has to ruin your rebound, too, just by existing in the same fucking room.

You blink back into the present, back to the table, to Chenle—who’s still talking. Still smiling. Still blissfully unaware that you’ve just had a full-blown emotional spiral in the span of thirty seconds.

He reaches across the table, fingers brushing yours in that gentle, careful way good boys do. And you flinch. It’s slight. But it’s there. And it’s enough. Because Mark sees it. Of course he fucking does. And that stupid, smug, ruin-you smile of his curves just a little deeper. Like he’s winning.

You want to scream. Or slap him. Or maybe fuck him—right here, right now—just to purge it from your bloodstream. Like he’s a fever you can sweat out. (He’s not. He never will be. You know that. You hate that.) You want to grab Chenle’s face and kiss him until your mouth forgets the sound it makes when Mark tells you you’re good.

“You know what? I will take you up on that ride.”

You say that louder than necessary—loud enough that it startles even you.

Chenle looks up, startled. He blinks, caught somewhere between surprised and mildly confused. “Oh—yeah? Okay. Cool. Totally. Yeah.” He laughs a little under his breath, flustered now, already half-standing. “Let me just grab our coats.”

You nod, forcing a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. You don’t know what you’re doing. You just know you want Mark to see. You want him to see you choosing someone else. Even if it’s not a real choice.

Chenle disappears to pay and grab your coats. You barely stand yourself before Mark slides into his now-vacant chair across from you.

You don't look at him.

Not yet.

You won't give him that.

But you can feel the heat of him from across the table. That static charge in the air when he’s too close. Always too fucking close. And then—so casual it’s insulting—his voice:

“Cute.”

You look at him.

“Sorry?” you say, syrupy-sweet, but there’s a layer of poison underneath. “Did you say something?”

He smiles. “I said it’s cute. Watching you try so hard to prove you’re over me.”

Your chest tightens. “Who said I ever wanted you?”

“Well,” he gestures vaguely in the direction Chenle left. “It’s pretty clear you don’t want that guy.”

“Oh yeah?” You arch a brow. “And how exactly would you know what I want?”

“You flinched, Y/N.”

You bristle. Immediately.

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“I just…” You hesitate. Eyes flicking to the bar, where Chenle is still standing with the host, sweet and harmless and catastrophically wrong for you. The kind of boy who pays the bill. The kind of boy who thinks liking cookie dough is a sin. The kind of boy who would never fuck you against a wall without checking twice if you’re okay.

Sweet. Safe. Decent. And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

“I didn’t expect his touch,” you finish, quieter now. “That’s all.”

Mark hums. Low. Entirely unconvinced. Like he’s humouring you.

So you keep digging. You can’t help it.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t want him.”

His smile twitches, eyes dragging over you. “He’s not your type.”

You straighten. “I don’t have a type.”

“Sure you do,” he says like this is a conversation about wine preferences, not people. “You like bad. You like trouble. You like messy, and loud, and… complicated.”

He leans in a little, voice dipping.

“You like dirty. And nasty. And bad.”

Your mouth opens—closes—then opens again.

There’s heat blooming up your neck, across your chest, and you’re not sure if it’s rage or shame or arousal or all three at once.

“And is that supposed to be you, is it?”

Mark grins—wide, infuriating. A smirk that’s been haunting your sleep for weeks. “Woah,” he says, all mock-surprise. “Who said anything about me?”

You hate him. You actually fucking hate him. Because he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“You still think about me, honey?”

“No,” you snap, too quickly. “That’s not what I meant.”

Mark tilts his head, all faux confusion and infuriating calm. His brow quirks like you’ve just said something profoundly stupid.

“It’s not?”

Your jaw tightens. “No.”

His grin sharpens. All wolf, no boy. “So… you don’t think about me at all?”

You cross your arms. Shift in your seat, like maybe if you move far enough away from him you’ll be able to compose yourself. (You won’t.) Because your body is already answering for you. Loudly. The press of your thighs beneath the table. The heat climbing up your neck. That familiar, horrible pulse between your legs that remembers him.

You bite the inside of your cheek. Hard. “You really think you’re that special? Think I can’t help but think about you?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, “Am I? Do you?”

God. He’s so—so smug. So obnoxious. So annoyingly beautiful in that fucking jacket, smelling like he always does. You can’t stand him. And you can’t stop looking at his mouth.

You shift again. This time to put space between you, but it feels more like an admission. And Mark sees it. He sees everything. He sees you.

“Why do you care?” You ask.

He blinks. “What?”

You lean in now. Eyes narrowed. “Why are you even here? Why do you care if I flinched? If I’m into him or not? What difference does it make to you, huh?”

Mark watches you. No smirk now. No grin.

You keep going, blood hot under your skin.

“Are you jealous?”

“Yes.”

You stare at him, like maybe you misheard. Like maybe he said, guess or bless or chess. Because there’s no way this boy—this fuck boy—this emotionally unavailable, perennially half-interested, commitment-phobic boy—is jealous. Of anyone. About you.

“You’re…?” you stammer, blinking at him like he’s grown a second head. “You’re jealous?

"Yes," he says again. "I think the thought of a man that isn’t me touching you is revolting, actually. So I suppose that would qualify as jealousy. Though I can’t say it’s an emotion I’m particularly familiar with."

You stare at him. And you want to scoff. Want to roll your eyes. Want to claw your way out of the ache that suddenly balloons in your chest.

“Well.” You force the word out, brittlely. “You have no right to be.”

He tilts his head slightly, studying you like you’ve just said something objectively false.

“I’m not yours,” you add.

“I know,” he grits out. “You made that very clear.”

“I made that clear?” you echo.

He nods once. “You ended it. Not me.”

He’s right. You did. But the thing is—you didn’t end it because you didn’t want him. You ended it because it felt safer to walk away first than wait for him to do it.

"So—" you start, eyes narrowed now. "You never wanted to label it."

It sounds juvenile. Petulant. But it’s the only rebuttal you can give that won’t tear your chest open and spill everything you’ve been trying to keep inside.

“Neither did you,” he throws back.

You scoff. “Yeah, well—you’re a boy.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That’s not very feminist of you, Y/N.”

Your cheeks flush. The humiliation is instant and hot and you hate that he’s right.

“Don’t lecture me about feminism,” you mutter. “We were fucking for three months, Mark. Three months. And you never once asked me out. Never once asked me to be your girlfriend. What was I supposed to do with that?”

He studies you then. “You never asked me to be your boyfriend either.”

You laugh—harsh, humourless. “That’s what you got from that? Really? You’re deflecting.”

“And you’re avoidant,” he shoots back, eyes dark. “You run before anyone gets the chance to walk away from you.”

“Okay, fine,” you say, arms folding across your chest. “I guess that makes us both as bad as each other then, doesn’t it?”

He looks away then at the table. His jaw clenches, and when he speaks again, it’s like the words hurt coming out.

“So this is what you want, huh? You want some guy to wine and dine you? Woo you? Call you pretty and ask you to be his girlfriend over overpriced pasta?”

You blink. “Doesn’t everyone?”

He looks up at you then, eyes glassy, burning. “I don’t know, Y/N. I don’t know. If I knew, you wouldn’t be on another date right now with some fucking loser.”

You don’t say anything.

“I’m trying,” he says, and his voice breaks just enough to make your stomach twist. “I’m trying to understand you. I’m trying to be better at this, whatever this is. I’ve never had a girlfriend before, Y/N. And the only person I’ve wanted to figure it out with is you. And I’m fucking it all up.”

There’s a vulnerability in his voice that you’ve never heard before. And you don’t know what to do with it. You don’t know how to hold it. So you flounder.

You do that thing you always do—say nothing. Hope silence will cushion the ache. Avoid.

You can feel your pulse in your neck. Your fingertips. Behind your eyes. And then you feel guilty. Because you see Chenle.

He’s walking toward the table, calm and unsuspecting. You bite your lip, which makes Mark turn, following your gaze. His entire posture changes. His shoulders tense, and when he looks back at you, his eyes are already narrowed. Already knowing. Already hurt.

“You want him to take you home,” he says, voice deep, barely controlled. “But you want me to fuck you against the door when you get there.”

Your stomach drops. Your mouth parts, no words forming. Because—he’s not wrong. He’s so right it makes you nervous.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he whispers.

But you can’t.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he repeats. “Say the words and I’ll walk away from this table right now.”

No words come. Because he’s not wrong. And you’re a coward. And that’s when Chenle reaches the table. There’s a silence. An awkward one. Chenle’s eyes bounce from you to Mark, to the space between your bodies. He slows, smile faltering.

“Hey,” he says casually, but there’s a flicker behind his eyes. Suspicion. Caution. “Everything alright?”

“Perfect,” Mark says, with a nod. “We were just catching up.

Chenle doesn’t answer immediately. He glances between you both, clocking the flush in your cheeks, the tension in your shoulders, the fact that Mark still hasn’t looked away from you.

“You’re in my chair,” he says to Mark.

His tone is even. But there's something unmistakably clipped about it. A quiet edge beneath the civility. Mark doesn’t move. Instead, he leans back slightly, his smirk lazy, but his eyes—his eyes are still locked on you, and they’re anything but.

“I figured you wouldn’t mind,” he says. “Y/N didn’t.”

And it’s so deliberate. The way he doesn’t break eye contact. The way he doesn’t even glance at Chenle. Like he’s reminding you—not him—exactly who was here first.

You feel the air shift between them. A low crackle. Men.

You force a tight smile. “It’s fine. We were just leaving anyway—”

“I can take you home,” Mark cuts in smoothly, already sitting up straighter. “It’s on the way, if I remember right.”

You freeze.

Chenle’s head turns slowly toward Mark, expression unreadable now. You can practically feel the tension curdling in your chest.

“No need,” Chenle rebukes. “I’ve got it covered.”

Mark tilts his head. “Wasn’t talking to you.”

Chenle’s gaze flicks to you. His jaw ticks once. “Y/N?”

You look back at him—heart in your throat, guilt crowding your chest, shame curling beneath your skin. Because all you can hear is Mark’s voice echoing back to you—’You want him to take you home. But you want me to fuck you against the door when you get there.’

And the worst part? He’s right.

Mark leans back in the chair—his chair now, apparently—ankle casually resting on one knee like he’s lounging in his own living room, not hijacking your date. Then, with a slow glance at Chenle, he says:

“I’d be doing you a favour, you know, man?”

Chenle grimaces. “Sorry?”

Mark shrugs—one of those lazy, lopsided shrugs.“Her dorm. It’s kind of a maze if you don’t know the layout. Messy.”

You nearly choke on your own tongue.

Chenle frowns, confused but not stupid. “I think I can figure it out.”

Mark hums, tapping a lazy rhythm against the table with his fingers. “Sure. If you’re into wasting time fiddling with that broken lock she refuses to get fixed. Doesn’t like confrontation with the landlord.”

You shoot him a look—what the fuck are you doing—but he just flashes you that lazy half-smile.

Chenle’s jaw ticks. “Funny. I don’t remember you being her RA.”

Mark leans forward slightly, elbows on knees, grin widening. “Nah, not an RA. Just… familiar.”

You open your mouth—ready to shut it all down, to say Mark, stop, before I kill you—but he gets there first. Again.

“You still in that shared suite?” he asks you, breezily, like Chenle isn’t three feet away with clenched fists and murder in his eyes.

“Mark,” you warn.

But he’s on a roll now, chin in hand, eyes glittering with something dangerous. “God, your old roommate—Miyeon, right? Absolute nightmare. Likes to hex the men that come in and out the dorm that one. Beware, buddy.”

Chenle turns to you. Slowly. “I thought you two weren’t serious.”

You swallow, throat dry. “It wasn’t—it was just…a while ago.”

Mark exhales a short laugh. Cold. Pleased. “‘A while ago.’ Sure. Guess we’re playing the modesty card tonight.”

“Mark.”

He finally looks at you, and it’s obvious. The smirk is for Chenle, but the stare is all for you.

“I’m just offering some information and being helpful,” he says. “Friendly, even.”

Chenle lets out a bitter breath. “Yeah. Nothing screams friendly quite like pissing all over your territory and peacocking how much you know her just because you’re jealous.”

Mark bristles—jaw tight, lips pressing into something cold and dangerous. “Jealous?” he spits. “You think she’s yours?”

“Well, she’s certainly not yours.”

You’ve had enough. “She is right here, you absolute morons.”

They’re squaring up for part two of whatever testosterone-fueled dick swinging contest this is. But before they can hurl more barbed words across the table, you snap—louder than you meant to, trembling slightly under the exhaustion that’s settled in your bones.

“Chenle. It’s fine.”

He turns to you, brows pinched.

“He’s right,” you continue quietly. “He lives near my dorm. It’s not far. I’ll just…” You hesitate. Swallow. “I’ll call you.”

Chenle stares at you. Then past you. Then at Mark. And back to you again.

There’s a pause, and you see the moment it sinks in. Watch it bloom across his face that you’re not coming home with him. That whatever this evening was for him—the promise of something, or at least the pretence—it ends here. Under the dim glow of restaurant lighting, with your ex-situationship getting a front row seat.

You’re doing to him exactly what you say you hate. That thing—how people pretend they’re just “figuring themselves out” when really, they’re just emotionally unavailable. You’re no better. Equally emotionally preoccupied.

He exhales, quiet, like he’s swallowing everything he wants to say. Then he nods. Just once. “Okay.”

And it hurts. How polite he is. How gentle. How he gives you the grace you don’t deserve. You’re an asshole.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he says softly. Then he turns—just like that, without so much as a glance back.

You don’t move until the door shuts behind him. The silence between you and Mark hums like a live wire. You equally don’t dare look at him.

“Y/N.”

Your jaw clenches. “Don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t let me turn around and see you gloating like you just won something right now.”

He leans in closer. Not touching, but close enough that your skin buzzes. “You think this is about winning?”

You finally turn to him, eyes hot. “Isn’t it always, with you?”

His face hardens. But not cruelly. Just… like he hates that you think that. “No,” he says. “Not with you.”

And maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe he even believes it. But you don’t. Not fully. Not yet. Because you’ve been circling this boy for far too long. You know him too well, you think.

“I hurt him,” you whisper. “He didn’t deserve that.”

Mark’s face softens—just barely. “I know.”

You shake your head. “And you… You made it worse. You wanted to make it worse.”

He doesn’t deny it. And it infuriates you. How arrogant he is. How demanding. How you let him be like that with you. You shove your chair back, the legs dragging against the tile with a wince-inducing screech.

“You’re walking me home now,” you say flatly. “Since you scared off my date.”

Technically—that’s not true. It was you. You were the one who let Chenle go. The one who didn’t fight for him. But it’s easier to blame Mark. Easier to be angry than it is to be honest. Because the truth? You’re frustrated. Frustrated that no one can live up to your expectations the way he does. That no one can love you, ruin you, ruin for you—like this boy beside you.

You walk out of the restaurant together without speaking, without touching. The air is cold, but the silence is colder. It isn’t until you’re halfway down the block, your heels clicking against pavement, that he speaks again.

“Were you gonna let him up tonight if he walked you home?”

You laugh. A dry, bitter sound that tastes like blood in the back of your throat. Because—really? Who the fuck does he think he is? Where does he get the audacity?

“Does it matter?”

He stops walking.

“No… I guess it doesn’t.”

You scoff, shaking your head. Your hands are fists at your sides and your throat feels tight. “I can’t believe you have the nerve to ruin my date and then ask me shit like that.”

“I didn’t ruin anything,” he mutters. “He left. That’s on him.”

“No,” you snap, taking a step toward him. “He left because of you. Because you sat there and made it unbearable for him to stay.”

He squares his shoulders, eyes flashing. “Well, if I scared him off so easy, maybe he doesn’t deserve you. Because so long as I’m here, Y/N—” His voice cracks a little. “I’m not fucking going away.”

You want so desperately for that to be true. But it isn’t.

“You went away, Mark,” you say, shaking your head. “You let me leave. You watched me walk out of your room, out of your life, and you didn’t stop me. Not until I showed up with someone else.”

“And you didn’t ask me to stay either,” he fires back, voice rising. “You told me it didn’t work for you anymore—you ended it. I was trying to fucking respect that. I was trying to give you space because I don’t know how to do this.”

His chest heaves. “But I can’t shut my mouth anymore. I can’t sit back and pretend I don’t care. I do. I care so much.”

That floundering feeling claws its way back up your throat. Bitter and breathless. You shake your head because it’s the only thing you can do—because if you speak, you’ll unravel.

“You don’t mean that.”

He exhales sharply, rubs his jaw like he’s trying to hold himself together. “I don’t mean that?” he echoes. “How do you think I knew to show up here tonight?”

He takes a step closer.

“Haechan saw you with that guy and told me to do something about it. Because apparently, I can’t shut up about you. Because I keep talking about you like you’re mine. Because I keep bringing everything—every fucking thing in my life—back to you.”

He steps closer, and his eyes—God, his eyes. They’re wide and glassy and burning like they could swallow you whole.

“I’ve told you, Y/N. I’m trying,” he says, voice breaking. “I want to try. I want to figure this out. With you. Even if I don’t know how.”

You swallow hard, throat burning.

“There’s not a single corner of my mind where you don’t exist,” he breathes. “You’re everywhere. I lay in bed thinking about you. I wake up thinking about you.” He exhales. “I can’t stop thinking about how much I want you.”

He pauses, looks down, and when he speaks again, it’s quieter.

“I fucked up by not fighting for you. I know that. I should’ve said something—done something. But you didn’t fight for me either.” His voice cracks then, just slightly, and it’s that splintered sound that guts you. “You just… left,” he murmurs. “ One day, we were okay—or I thought we were. And the next, we weren’t.”

You bite your lip, eyes flickering away from his. “I didn’t want to be one of those girls who thinks she can fix you,” you whisper. “Who thinks she can tame you”

Mark looks at you like you’ve just slapped him. And maybe you have. With the truth.

He scoffs. Dry. “Right. Because God forbid you be one of those girls. Better to be the one who ghosts before you get ghosted.”

You flinch. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” he fires back. “You walked out. You didn’t even give me a chance.”

“Because you didn’t ask for one!” you shout. “You didn’t want one!”

“You don’t know what I wanted!” His voice breaks against the pavement, and he’s breathing hard now, jaw tight, eyes on fire. “You never asked.”

You step back, arms crossed like a shield you know won’t help. “I shouldn’t have had to. If you wanted me, you should’ve said it.”

“What do you think I’m doing right now?!” He snaps.

You don’t answer, and he stares at you. “Look, I’m not good at this, Y/N,” he says finally, voice low and breaking. “I don’t do feelings. I don’t do relationships. I don’t do… this.”

“Yeah,” you sneer. “Believe me—I noticed.”

“I don’t know how to be soft with people,” he explains. “But you kept me in this box—this neat little no-strings, no-questions, no-expectations box—and now you’re pissed that I didn’t crawl out of it? I didn’t know how to crawl out of it.”

Your silence says everything.

He laughs again, but this time it’s desperate. Fractured. “God, you’re such a hypocrite.”

“And you’re a coward,” you spit. “You wanted me, and you knew I wanted more, and you let me starve for it.”

His mouth opens. Then closes. And then he just says it.

“I didn’t think I deserved you.”

Your eyes narrow then, “And what exactly did I deserve?”

His jaw tightens, throat working around the words. “You deserve that guy,” he says, eventually. “That—Chenle guy. Because he’s sweet and he’ll be good for you. He’ll definitely romance you and probably never upset you.”

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing frantically like he’s furious with himself.

You nod, slowly. “He is,” you say.

And it stops him dead. His eyes find yours, his jaw grinding tight now. He steps in then. Close. Too close. You can feel the heat of his breath. The anger. The hurt. It radiates off him like steam.

“You were gonna let him kiss you tonight, weren’t you?”

You lift your chin. “Maybe.”

He breathes hard through his nose. “Say it again.”

“Maybe.”

And then it’s all a blur.

His hands—on your face. On your jaw. In your hair. Everywhere, just like his thoughts. His mouth crashes into yours like he’s angry at it. Like he can’t hear another word of you not understanding him.

It’s not sweet. Mark doesn’t do sweet, and he thinks that’s his problem. It’s not. You like the rough, the breathless, the unpracticed. Because it’s raw, so goddamn real you almost gasp from the first brush of lips alone.

Your back hits the brick wall of your dorm building with a thud, but you don’t flinch. You dare him. You dare him to kiss you like that again. And he does. Because this is what you want, what you crave, what Chenle could never give you.

“You were really gonna let him do this?” he mutters against your lips, voice wrecked and so far gone it makes your knees buckle. “Let him touch you like this?”

Your fingers fist into the fabric of his shirt, tight, like if you don’t hold on to him you might float away with how light-headed he’s making you feel.

“And if I was?” you breathe, lips brushing his like it hurts to pull away.

He growls—actually growls—like the question wounds him. “I’d have to kill him,” he replies, forehead pressed to yours.“Because it’s supposed to be me.”

He kisses you again, and it’s all teeth and tongue. He’s not just kissing you—he’s devouring you. You moan into it—he loses it. Presses you closer like there’s still space left to close because maybe, if he touches you deeply enough, desperately enough, he can get any other man out of your mind.

Little does he know, he’s already done that. Already claimed that part of your soul.

You don’t remember walking. Only hands and mouths.The way his lips refuse to leave yours even as you fumble toward the entrance to the elevator, backs hitting walls, breaths stolen, half-sentences, broken kisses because neither of you knows how to stop.

You mash the elevator button with a shaky hand, his mouth still locked. His fingers grip your waist like he’s warning you—this is it. This is us. No one else.

You kiss him harder.

The elevator dings. And then it’s more fumbling, more hunger, more bruised lips. His hands drag up under your shirt like he can’t wait another second; he’s willing to risk the openness. By the time the doors slide open on your floor, you’re breathless. Dizzy. Unsteady in that good way—like your legs don’t quite know whether to run or wrap around him.

He practically drags you out, laughing under his breath, but it’s not joyful. It’s all sexy and sinful.

You fumble the key into the lock, only for it to stick, like it always does. You curse. He takes it from your hand.

“Move,” he mutters.

One twist, a shoulder shove, and it opens with a groan of old hinges. And once you’re inside, he lets the door slam shut. He picks you up like you weigh nothing—like carrying you is a problem he’s craved having—and drops you onto the bed without so much as a sigh.

He crawls over you, lips never leaving your skin—your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—dragging his teeth across all the places he knows will make you gasp. And God, he knows. But so do you.

You arch into him, spine bending like you’re offering yourself up, hands threading into his hair, tugging—just enough to draw that sound from the back of his throat. That low, ragged groan that makes you feel drunk. Drenched in him.

“Why were you on a date with him,” he mutters, voice hot against your chest, “if you’d still let me touch you like this, honey?” His words scrape across your skin sharper than his teeth. “Tell me why.”

Your breath catches.

“Tell me why you picked this shirt,” he demands, eyes narrowing, fingers slipping under the hem, “When you know it’s my favourite?”

He tugs it higher, off, discarded without thought. His voice is nothing but gravel and desperation. “Talk to me. Please,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “You know where I stand. Where do you?”

His hand moves then—palming over your bra like he’s coaxing you into honesty. His eyes are fully blown, pupils swallowing the brown colour as he watches you squirm beneath his touch. He’s pleading—but there’s nothing sweet or pathetic about it.

He massages you through the fabric, purposefully. Like a punishment. Because he knows you’ll want more—knows you’ll need more—and he won’t give it to you. Not yet. Not until you break. Not until you tell him the truth.

You whine—quiet, high, broken—hips twitching beneath him, fingers clawing at his shoulders. But he waits. Certain that you’ll give in. And he’s right.

“Mark,” you whisper.

He doesn’t move faster. Just that teasing hovering. A steady pressure through the lace of your bra, keeping you right on the edge.

“I wanted you,” you gasp. “Okay?”

His hand stills, just for a second. Your eyes close. You can’t look at him when you say it.

“I wanted you to be my boyfriend. I wanted you in every way other than the sex.”

He doesn’t speak. So you keep going—because it’s pouring out now, unfiltered. (And also because his fingers are dangerously close to tugging on your nipple, and you’ve never wanted anything more, but that’s beside the point. Mostly.)

“But I was scared. Because you didn’t want that, and I thought if I asked—if I even hinted—you’d pull away. That you’d leave. I didn’t want you in some small, fractured way anymore.”

He rewards you for the honesty, hand finally slipping beneath the bra, fingers splaying over bare skin, and you gasp—the sound swallowed by his mouth, like he needs to consume that too. Everything you give, he takes.

His eyes darken—if that’s even possible. “And what about now?”

You pant, slightly dazed. “What about now?”

“I’m ninety per cent sure I’m about to fuck you,” he says, like it’s a fact. “And you just told me you don’t want me in that small, fractured way anymore.” His mouth brushes yours. “So what?” he murmurs. “You asking me to be your boyfriend?”

Arrogant little shit.

Your lips part, something between a laugh and a moan slipping out. “Are you asking me to be your girlfriend?”

“Yes,” He says without hesitation. Then his voice drops. “But I need you to know—you never look at that fucking guy you saw tonight again if you agree.” He leans in close—so close his words practically melt onto your skin. “You’re not calling him, you’re deleting his number,” he continues.“I’ve never done this boyfriend thing before, but I’m pretty sure possessiveness might come with the territory with me, honey.”

You don’t even have time to respond before he pulls the bra down completely and mouths at your nipple—hot and open and starved—and suddenly, your legs aren’t entirely working anymore.

Your hands tangle in his hair, helpless as you gasp, “That a promise?”

He pulls back slowly—cruelly. Mouth slick with his own spit. His thumb drags over your nipple, then sweeps lower, tracing the curve of your breast. His eyes drop with it, flare with something feral.

“I don’t know,” he says, and the smirk on his face is borderline obscene. “You tell me.”

You follow his gaze down—see the red mark he’s left blooming across your chest, flushed and raw, bruising like something claimed.

He looks proud. Smug. Like he’s never had the right to label you before—and now he has. So he will. Your breath shudders. Because you’re not used to being looked at like that.

“I don’t know,” he says again, dragging the pad of his thumb across your breast with a sinister slowness. “You tell me, girlfriend.”

The last word is practically a purr. Dipped in arrogance. Dipped in possession.

It should make you roll your eyes, but it doesn’t. It makes you throb, because equally, you wanted him. You knew he was your number one, and now you’re his.

You lurch up, catch his jaw in your hand and kiss him—really kiss him—this open-mouthed, almost wild thing. Messy and biting and so deserved. He groans, deep in his chest, and it’s the best sound you’ve ever heard.

“You’re such a cocky bastard,” you mutter against his lips.

“I am,” he agrees, without shame. “But I’m your cocky bastard.”

Your giggle breaks somewhere between his mouth—cut off by the way he’s rolling his hips against you, gentle and ruinous, fully clothed but pressing right where you need him like he’s been cataloguing your reactions for months. (He has.)

“Say it,” he murmurs, mouth now at your jaw, your throat, your shoulder. Nipping. “Say I’m your boyfriend.”

“Mark,” you whine, hips shifting for a lick of friction.

“Say it,” he growls again, just under his breath. “Say it or I stop.”

“You’re my boyfriend.”

And then he’s kissing you again—harder now. Hands back on your body, feeling, exploring.

“I think I’m addicted to you,” he says when he finally unclasps your bra.

But the second it’s off, the second you’re bare and trembling beneath him, something shifts. Because he’s still fully clothed. Still composed. Still smug. Still in control. And you suddenly feel far too naked for someone who just gave him your truth.

So you push at his chest.

He stares, surprised—but you don’t falter. You shove him again, harder, and this time he lands flat on his back, propped against the headboard as you paw at the hem of his t-shirt.

“Honey—” he starts, but you’re already climbing over him, straddling his hips like you were built to belong there.

“You’ve had your fun, turnabout’s fair play, boyfriend,” you say.

And oh, that word—boyfriend—it does something to him. Makes him groan like you said something filthier. Makes his eyes roll back like he’s seconds away from losing it.

You roll your hips over his bulge and he bucks beneath you—cursing, breath stuttering, jaw clenched against the sound he almost makes.

“God, you’re a menace,” he grits out.

You smile sweetly. Tilt your head. Pretend to consider it.

“No,” you whisper, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of his jeans. “I’m yours. Remember?”

He groans—loud. Borderline helpless. And it only fuels you.

“You’ve been driving me crazy for months, Mark,” you murmur, lips skimming down his chest. Your teeth drag gently across his ribs, just as slow, just as possessive. “Walking around all emotionally unavailable and unfairly hot. Do you know what that does to a girl?”

“I can imagine,” he chokes out, shivering when you kiss just above his waistband. “I did feel the same way.”

“Guess I was emotionally unavailable too, huh?”

Then your mouth hovers over the button of his jeans.

He stops breathing.

“Want me to make it up to you?”

He lets out a laugh—sort of. More of a stunned breath and a whispered curse. A sound that says: you’re going to be the death of me. But it dies on his lips when you pop the button open, tugging his jeans down enough to free him—hard and twitching in his boxers.

You wrap your hand around him. His whole body locks. Jaw tight. Eyes shut. Fingers twitching at his sides like he doesn’t know whether to touch you or simply enjoy this.

“I hate how good you are at this,” he mutters.

You smirk, lips ghosting over the head of his cock.

“I’ve barely touched you.”

“Then be a good girl and fucking touch me,” he breathes, “Please.”

You smile against him, then take him into your mouth, just the tip at first—light suction, teasing tongue—and his hands finally move. One grips the edge of the pillow behind him like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this planet. The other hovers near your hair before tangling in it.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he rasps.

You hum around him in agreement. Then take him deeper.

You hollow your cheeks, pull back slightly, then sink again, your tongue tracing that sensitive underside as you do. His grip tightens in your hair—not rough, never rough—but desperate. Like he’s hanging on for dear life.

“Fuck, baby—” he gasps. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You pull off just enough to glance up at him, lips slick, pupils blown, and smile like a girl who knows exactly what she’s doing. “Only fair.”

He laughs, but it’s breathless. Shaky. “You’re evil.”

“Says Mr Possessiveness comes with the territory,” you pump him slowly with your hand, tongue flicking the tip again like you're trying to drive him insane. “Besides…you love it.”

“I really fucking do.”

You take him back into your mouth, deeper this time until you’ve got him lifting his hips of their own accord—until he’s barely holding himself back. His breath stutters. His head thuds against the headboard. You can feel him trying to restrain himself, trying to stay composed, but he's long past that point.

“Okay—okay, stop, honey,” he groans, voice cracking as he tugs gently at your hair. “If you don’t stop, I’m gonna—”

You lift your head just enough to speak, mouth hovering over him. “You want to cum in my mouth, Mark?”

His eyes roll back. His hand flies to his face like it’ll hide the sheer, visceral reaction to hearing you say that. “Jesus Christ.”

“That’s not a no.”

He opens his mouth to reply, to give you some smartass comment—but all that comes out is a sound. A broken, needy, sound that makes your legs clamp together.

“I do,” he pants, voice wrecked. “I really fucking do, honey.”

His hand curves around your jaw, eyes locking on yours with a look so desperate, so full of want, it knocks the breath from your lungs.

“But the first time I cum with you as my girlfriend,” he says. “I want to be inside you. Please.”

And it’s not just the plea that gets you.

It’s the need in it. Like this isn’t just sex for him—because it was at one point and now he’s done with that. He needs you wholly.

You blink down at him, chest tight. And for a moment, neither of you moves.

Then you kiss him. You kiss him like you’re trying to burn this moment into his skin—into yours. Your hands dive into his hair, his wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him as he groans into your mouth.

You grind against him and he bucks, helpless, barely holding on.

“Take it off,” he demands, fumbling at the waistband of your underwear. “Take everything off.”

You do. Slowly. Keeping your eyes on him the whole time. Watching the way his breath hitches, the way his pupils darken as you climb back into his lap, skin against skin now.

You reach between you, guiding him to the entrance of your dripping cunt, and his whole body tenses.

“You ready?” you whisper, fingers threading through his.

He nods. Then shakes his head. Then groans. “God, please.”

So you sink down onto him. Inch by inch. Stretching, gasping, clinging to his shoulders as he fills you completely. And when you're finally seated in his lap, skin pressed to skin, heart to heart—he looks at you like he's never seen anything more beautiful.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel—God. You feel like mine.”

You kiss him again. Slow this time. Deep. Meaningful.

Because you are his. And for once, he knows it. You know it. And no one—not a single soul on this planet—but this man could ever love you like this. Love you right.

Nobody loves you like him.

Nobody fucks you like him.

#nct smut #mark lee smut #nct dream smut #nct 127 smut #nct x reader #nct 127 x reader #nct dream x reader #kpop smut #nct hard hours #nct one shot #mark lee x reader

2K notes · View notes