#AU: Dinner is not ready | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yogirl-willow · 2 months ago

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The Crimson Pact | Part 3

SoulBond!AU

Pairings: Yandere!Saja Boys x F!Reader

Synopsis: You were never supposed to remember them.

Four hundred years ago, a pact was made—a blood-soaked bond tying five demons to one human soul: yours.

They’ve waited lifetimes for your reincarnation, cursed with obsession, tethered by fate.

And now that you’ve returned?

They’ll burn the world before they let you go again.

Warnings: Soul bond with the Saja Boys, Yandere themes!, obsessive behavior / possessiveness, romantic psychological tension, mentions of implied past death / reincarnation, intense emotional fixation, yearning, dark romance, comfort and control, hurt/comfort (if you squint)

A/N: Reading all your comments and reblogs always makes me smile! This part is a bit longer than the rest. I wanted to focus on building her trust and relationship with the boys, so there will be much more interactions and intimacy than the previous parts. I hope you all enjoy!

───────── ༺🜃༻ ─────────

The Saja boys are all demons.

They are wrath and ruin. Jealousy and death.

And yet, before her, they kneel.

Because she is the Heart. Because her soul is what keeps them from unraveling into true monsters. Because they were bound by her love and her curse.

They don’t just crave her—they depend on her. Without her presence, their minds deteriorate. Their bodies decay. Their hunger becomes unbearable.

Only Y/N’s touch tames the demon inside.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

Part 3:

If You Stay

You don’t remember falling asleep. But you remember waking up.

The guest room is dim, wrapped in soft shadows, the silk sheets pulled up to your chin. The faint scent of rain and cedar lingers in the air—Jinu, you think distantly. It clings to your skin like a memory. One you shouldn’t have.

You must’ve fallen asleep after your talk with the boys in the afternoon. You’d admit, that did take a toll on you, and you were still feeling quite unwell from yesterday’s events. Hangovers don't just go away in a few hours. One of the boys must’ve carried you in here.

You sit up slowly. Your headache from earlier is gone. But something inside still hums. A weight behind your ribs. A tugging sensation that pulses faintly… toward them.

You still had too many questions you needed answers to. They said they were demons, so why are they here? They didn’t look like demons. They were sinfully beautiful, so you assume that definitely plays a part in it. Why did they sell their souls to Gwi Ma? Who was this Gwi Ma? Who were you to each of them in your past life? Just how many past lives have you had exactly?

And most importantly, if they were demons hundreds of years old, why in the flying fuck are they in a K-pop idol group?

There’s a knock at the door, ceasing your thoughts. You freeze. But it doesn’t open.

“Y/N?” It’s Romance’s voice, low and careful. “Dinner’s ready. If you’re hungry.”

You don’t answer right away.

Not because you don’t want to. But because you’re afraid of what it means that you do. Still—you follow the sound.

The dining room is too elegant for six people. The table could seat twelve, But only one side is set—six seats arranged close together. The lighting is warm, soft. As if they’d planned for comfort. For your nerves.

The boys are already seated. But they all rise the moment they see you. Romance is the first to move, pulling out your chair with a slow, exaggerated flourish. “Right here, angel.”

You meet his eyes and you feel the pull again. He’s looking at you with the most tender expression. Like you’re the most precious thing in the world to him.

And you were.

Plates are filled before you can ask. Abby gently sets a bowl of soup in front of you—your favorite kind. You don’t remember telling them that. You’re not even sure you remember liking it until the smell hits you. Baby places a glass of water before you and you suck in a nervous breath as you feel a light kiss on the crown of your head.

You’d never been treated like this before. Cherished. Not even by your own family. It was so foreign, you doubted it could be real.

But as you gazed at each and every one of them, you could see it in their faces. The quiet relief. The tenderness. Their want to do these things for you. It was a feeling you had to get used to.

You didn’t touch the food right away. You just stared down at the dark wooden table, the linen napkin folded too neatly on your lap, and the spoon resting next to a bowl that smelled like home. If home had five soul-bound demons who watched you breathe.

Jinu watches carefully from across the table. He hasn’t touched his food.

“Eat,” he says quietly. “You’ll need your strength.”

You hesitate.

Romance spoke next. “If you’re waiting for poison, don’t worry. We only do that to each other.”

A faint smile tugged at your lips. It was too much. All of it. You took a small sip. And then another. And the warmth spread to places in you that hadn’t been warm in months. You sighed, strangely feeling so much more at ease.

Romance leans closer. His voice is honey and hooks. “You’re still not feeling well during the day, right?”

You nod. Slowly.

“That’s the bond,” Jinu says. “It’s active. But unstable.”

“The further you are from us,” Abby adds, “the worse it’ll get.”

“I’ve been alone for years,” you mutter, fingers tightening around your spoon. “I’ll be fine.”

“No,” Baby says from the end of the table. Quiet. Sharp. “You won’t.” You flinch at his tone. But it doesn’t feel cruel—just true.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Romance sets his fork down and places his chin in his palm, eyes glittering in the candlelight. “You’re not a prisoner, you know.”

Your brow furrows.

He smiles. “We’re not keeping you here. But…we did have this place built for you.”

Your eyes snapped to him. "What do you mean you had it built for me?"

Romance’s smile was soft. Too soft. "Darling, this whole place was bought and designed for you. For when we found you. We just live in it."

You blink.

Had they been waiting for you that long? You hadn’t really thought about it before. The logistics of their story hadn’t fully registered.

“You’d have your own space,” Jinu says softly, ever the diplomat. “A guest room. With a lock, if that makes you feel safer.”

Abby immediately frowns. “Why can’t she just stay in her room-room?” he grumbles, arms crossed. “It’s closer to mine.”

Your brows knit together. “Wait. My room?”

Romance’s smile is slow and feline, like he’s been waiting for that moment. “Of course. We had it ready since… well. A while.”

You blink. That didn’t answer your question.

Jinu doesn’t flinch. “Because that room doesn’t have a lock.”

Abby scowls, muttering something under his breath. Romance hums beside you. “Wouldn’t want one anyway.”

You whirl on him. “What was that?”

He holds up both hands in mock surrender, grinning like the devil. “Just saying. But okay, okay—guest room with a lock. For now.”

There’s a silence. Then Mystery murmurs almost too quietly: “…We’d break it if we had to.”

Your stomach twists. They’re joking. You hope they’re joking.

“You wouldn’t be alone,” Mystery pipes again. He’s seated closest to you, his plate untouched. His eyes never leave your hands. He wanted to grasp them. Feel your warmth. Feel your hands massage his hair just as you used to in your past life. He swallowed.

You press your lips together. It’s not that you don’t believe them. It’s that you do. And that terrifies you.

Romance watches the doubt dance across your face. He leans forward, just enough that you’re forced to look at him.

“You don’t have to say yes forever,” he says, voice low and intimate. “Just… stay. For now. Let your body heal. Let the bond stabilize. You don’t even have to talk to us. We’ll keep our distance if that’s what you want.”

At least that’s what she’ll think. Romance thinks to himself. With these guys? Yeah right.

You don’t speak. His voice softens. “You’ve been carrying this alone for so long, haven’t you? You’re getting sick. Dizzy. Faint.”

Your throat tightens.

“You’re tired. You’re having headaches. And we’re the only ones who can ease it. You feel that. So why are you still punishing yourself?”

You try to deny it. To push the tears back. But his words hit something raw. And real.

“I’m not trying to punish myself,” you whisper. “I just… I didn’t ask for this.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “But that doesn’t mean we’ll let you suffer for it.”

"You’ll be safe," Abby added gruffly. "No one touches you here. No one even gets close."

The silence that follows is thick. Your breathing is shallow. Their words registering. Was it really so bad? Letting them care for you? Being here with them. Having them treat you like you’ve never been treated before?

Why were you still fighting it? There was so much you didn’t know, but as of this moment, you did know one thing. That they loved you in your past life. And love you still. Did that count? They yearn for you, and have been for lifetimes. And you knew deep in your heart you were starting to feel the same. Was that really so bad?

To let them in?

They were strangers, but they weren’t. They claim to be yours, so why do you keep questioning it?

Then, slowly—almost in spite of yourself—you nod. “Just… a little while,” you say. “Until I feel better.”

You don’t see the look they share. The way Jinu’s shoulders finally lower. The flicker of possessive triumph behind Romance’s lashes. Or the way Mystery exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the moment you left him last.

You don’t see any of it. But you feel it. The shift. The settling. Something ancient and invisible clicks into place behind your ribs. And you don’t fight it anymore.

The bond sighs.

They insist on collecting your things that night. “We’ll go,” Abby says immediately. “You stay. Rest.”

“No, I—” You start, but Jinu raises a hand. “You’re still weak. If the bond flares while you’re alone, it could be dangerous. Let us.”

You glance between them—five men who could tear the world apart for you—and for once, it feels less like a threat and more like a promise.

“…Okay,” you say quietly. “Just—don’t touch my underwear drawer.”

Romance smirks. “No promises.”

“Romance,” Jinu snaps.

Mystery growls.

You sigh. I guess you did need underwear. “Fine. Just… don’t be creepy.”

Abby winks. “We’ll be fast. Promise.”

As they move, as doors open and shoes slip on, you stay behind with Baby, the silent protector watching your every move. But for some reason, it doesn’t scare you now.

He approaches you, eyes intense and never as wary as the others. Like he’d never be sorry for having you and taking what’s rightfully his. He was silent, but intentional.

He walks you to your room and you shiver as you feel his large hand on your lower back. He holds the door open for you before briefly muttering a faint “Goodnight, sweetheart” and closing the door shut. And for the first time in weeks… You don’t feel sick.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

You sit on the same dining table for breakfast. Jinu had made you some toast sandwiches. The boys looked chirpy. Looks like someone’s in a good mood…

It was still so surreal to them how you were here- having breakfast with them. The very thought of this domestic life with you, caring for you, providing for you like partners almost made them purr in ecstasy.

You were still in Jinu’s hoodie despite all your clothes laying in messy duffle bags, sleeves swallowing your hands, hair slightly damp from a quick shower. It took much restraint from Jinu to not pull you in his arms the moment you walked out of your room.

His hoodie looked right on you. Like it had always belonged there—like you had always belonged there. You didn’t realize it, but every thread of that oversized fabric clung to you like a memory, like a claim. It smelled like him, and that alone made something feral claw beneath his skin.

His jaw tightened as you crossed the room, bare legs brushing against soft fabric. You moved so carelessly, so trusting, not realizing you were walking a tightrope over a thousand years of obsession. Of agony. Of aching need.

You didn’t know he used to dream about this. That centuries ago, he’d wake from nightmares of you slipping through his fingers only to whisper your name into the night. He had waited lifetimes to see you like this again.

And now? Now, you were right there—wrapped in his scent, in his clothes, in his world—but still unsure if you belonged.

He smiled softly as you reached for a mug, but his hands twitched at his sides. He wanted to cage you to his chest, press his lips to your neck, and whisper, “This time, I’ll never let you die.”

He would never let you go again.

They were all quiet around you, letting you eat in peace. It should’ve been normal. It wasn’t.

"Are you going to work today?" Mystery asked, tilting his head.

"...Yes?"

"We don’t think you should go," Jinu said plainly.

You nearly choked on your toast. Say what now? "I have bills."

"You could quit," Romance offered. "Stay here. Rest. Sketch. Paint. Sleep."

You looked at him like he’d grown a second head. Sure, the offer sounded nice—dreamy, even. But it was the kind of nice that belonged in fairytales. People didn’t just quit their jobs and live off vibes and good intentions. In this economy?

You waited for the punchline… but it never came. They were all staring at you—completely serious. Like quitting your job was the obvious solution. Like it was the answer to every problem you’d ever had.

"What would I even do? Just exist as your little house pet?"

Mystery looked hopeful. Abby smiled. You sighed. "No way. I’m not freeloading."

"You could be our assistant," Abby grinned. "Take notes. Carry snacks. Pet Mystery when he gets upset."

"Not happening."

They let it go.

But Romance’s eyes gleamed. Like he was already planning a way to make it so.

After breakfast, you went to your room to change into your work clothes. Stepping out and closing the door firmly, you make your way to the kitchen where Jinu hands you another toast claiming you needed another ‘energy boost’ for the day. You take it in thanks and drown out his last ditch effort to convince you to quit, waving him off with a cute smile that shut him up. You make your way to the entrance and stop in your tracks. Abby, leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with himself for 8:30 in the morning. His sweatshirt hung loose over his frame, hood drawn up, but there was no hiding that build. Or that face. Or the smirk that crept up the moment he saw you in your work clothes.

"Hello there, sweetheart," he drawled.

You froze, mid-bite, a piece of toast tragically dangling from your mouth. "...If this is another attempt to get me to quit my job, you can turn right back around."

Abby grinned like the smug menace he was. “Sadly, no. I’ve accepted your tragic refusal of our generous sugar-demon lifestyle.”

He leaned against the doorframe, hands in his hoodie pocket like this was totally normal. “So instead, I’ll be escorting my darling little starshine to work today.”

You blinked. “I’m sorry—your what now?”

“My darling. Little. Starshine,” he repeated, grinning wider with each word.

You deadpan, a blush of pink rising to your cheeks. “Try that again and I’ll call HR.”

He laughed. “Okay, okay. I’m walking you to work. Orders from the Bond Gods. Or Jinu. Same thing, really.”

“You all really expect me to be escorted to work?”

“Yes,” he says simply. “You’re still weak. The bond’s healing you, but slowly. We won’t let you go alone again. Not when you’re like this.”

You hesitate. He steps closer, but not too close. “Let us keep you safe. Just for today.”

“…Fine,” you mutter.

“And tomorrow…”

“Really?”

“And the day after that…”

“Okay, I get it. Fine. But you have to hide.”

He blinks. “Hide?”

“I’m not walking next to Abby from the Saja boys. I’ll be the talk of the entire district. They’ll probably think I’m kidnapped.”

He snorts. “Technically…”

“Abby.”

“Fine, fine.” He pulls his hood lower. “But I draw the line at hiding my abs.”

You roll your eyes. “Just… be normal. Please.”

────────── ⚘ ──────────

Even in a hoodie and mask, he doesn’t look normal. He looks like a movie star trying not to be recognized—and failing. Your coworkers notice him immediately.

“Y/N…” one of the baristas whispers as you clock in. “Who. Is. That.”

You pretend not to hear.

Another coworker giggles. “Is he your boyfriend? Oh my god, did you meet him at the club?”

“No!” you say too quickly.

“But he didn’t come inside with us… where did you meet him then?”

You force a laugh. “He’s just a friend. He’s helping me out since I’ve been sick.”

They seem to buy it—until someone brings up the guy from the other night.

“Hey, what happened to Jae? He said he’d walk you home, but we never heard from him. Did he ghost or something?”

You freeze.

“I, um… ran into someone else before he could. Didn’t see him after that.”

You stare hard at the pastry tray, pretending to adjust the layout. But inside, your stomach twists. What did happen to him?

You’d ask the boys later. …If you wanted the truth. Though, you’re not quite sure if you really do.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

Your shift drags on longer than usual. Not because of work.

Because of him.

Baby sits at the back corner, hoodie pulled low, sipping a black coffee he hasn’t touched in twenty minutes. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches. Your coworkers whisper, asking if he was an idol or something because he looked too handsome to be just a normal customer. You cringed at that.

It hasn’t really registered until now just how insane it was, really. You were now co-living with one of the rising pop-groups in the country. You almost laughed at the ridiculousness of it all.

You try to focus. But you can feel his eyes. Not just looking—possessing. Guarding. Burning. Everytime you talked to a customer (particularly male) you could feel his eyes harden, glaring holes into whoever it was that talked to you.

One of them tapped you on the shoulder to get your attention, asking with an “excuse me” if he could get some hot sauce with his order. Baby nearly jumped out of his seat if it weren’t for your warning glare.

You approach the brooding demon, flipping open your notepad. “You’re not subtle, you know.”

He doesn’t smile. “They shouldn’t look at you.”

Your heart thumps. “It’s a customer’s job to look…and order…and ask...”

“They shouldn’t talk, either. Nor should they ever touch.”

You try not to smile. “You’re terrifying.”

His eyes flick up. Dark. Hungry. “Good.”

You bring him a refill anyway. “Behave.”

He doesn’t.

He waits outside when your shift ends, hands in pockets. Doesn’t say a word as you fall into step beside him. The air between you buzzes. You glance over. “Why do you look like someone kicked your favorite pet?”

He doesn’t answer. You poke him in the side. “Baby.”

His jaw flexes. Fighting his control to pull you in closer as people walked by. “I don’t like them talking to you.”

You sigh. “We’ve been over this. It’s my job.”

“You don’t need it.”

“I do.”

“You have us.”

“That’s not a job.”

“You could quit. Let us take care of you.”

“No.”

He frowns, lips twitching down.

“You’re pouting.”

He looks at you, expression unreadable. You reach out, amused, and gently press his cheek. Something shifts. He grabs your hand—fast but gentle—and kisses your knuckles.

The world slows.

“You’re mine,” he whispers. “Even if you don’t remember. Even if you never say it.” His eyes hold you in place. Burning. Certain. There’s no hesitation in his voice. No tremble. Just absolute conviction—like he wasn’t stating a hope, but a law of the universe.

Baby steps closer, the streetlights casting silver on his sharp features. His gaze drops to your lips like he’s already imagining how they’d feel crushed beneath his.

“You don’t have to love me back yet,” he says, voice low and velvet-dark. “But don’t ever think I’ll stop. Even if you don’t want us to take care of you. I’ll keep pushing.”

Your stomach flips. You hate how warm your skin feels. How part of you leans toward him without meaning to. How his scent—like storm-wet pine and danger—makes your fingers twitch with a need you can’t name. His hand lifts to your face, gentle despite the fire in his eyes, knuckles brushing your cheek like you might vanish if he touched too hard.

“If anyone else touches you again,” he adds softly, “I don’t care if they’re your customer. They won’t have hands left to touch with.”

You don’t answer.

But your heart races all the way home.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

After dinner, the boys were gathered on the second floor of the apartment. They had turned it into a studio to practice their choreo for performances. You could hear their music and their footsteps as they danced to the beat.

You padded around the apartment to explore in the meantime. The apartment was massive. You didn’t realize how massive until you started walking. Every hallway turned into a gallery. Every room had windows tall enough to drown in. You passed a music room, a library, a room full of costumes and stage lights. You had no idea such penthouses existed in the city. But then again, they were demons who’d been in existence for hundreds of years. Who knows how much money they got.

On the kitchen counter, you found a sketchbook. Yours. But filled with things you didn’t remember drawing. Five faces. A moonlit shrine. A shattered sword. You still hadn’t gotten used to drawing what you figured were memories from your past lives. This was evidence in itself that they were telling the truth. You decide not to fight it anymore.

On the dresser, you find an earring. No pair. You picked it up and your chest twisted, it felt a bit familiar.

In the lounge, a scarf folded neatly on a velvet chair. You held it to your face and inhaled. A scent you couldn’t name, but the fabric felt soft. Again, familiar.

You didn’t know whether to scream or cry. It was like finding single pieces of a gigantic puzzle. You were sure these things meant something to one of them. You’d ask, in time.

After their practice was over, the boys found you sat in the livingroom. You were reading the book Romance had given you which made him smile. They greeted you one by one, some went off to shower, some to the kitchen for a snack.

It was Jinu who sat next to you.

“How’s the choreo going?” you ask, eyes never leaving the page.

“Good. How’s the book?” He nodded. He knew how badly Romance had wanted to give that to you.

“Good.” You looked up to softly smile at him. You were halfway through the story. The characters blurred together—tragic lovers separated by fate, drawn to one another through time. A story too close to your own.

Jinu looked at the book title with a gaze you couldn’t recognize. Like he was debating on something he wanted to say.

“Did you want to hear another story?”

That piqued your interest. You slowly shut the book, placing it down on the couch as a sign for him to continue. Jinu didn’t look at you. His gaze remained downcast. There was a moment of silence before he spoke.

“I wasn’t always someone people bowed to.”

You looked up at him. The air around him seemed to change—heavier, stiller. Like his shadow was longer than it had been a second ago.

“I was born in a fishing village by the bay,” he said. “Back when the tides still carried salt and prayers.”

“My mother was a seamstress. My sister was eight years younger. We were poor. Poor enough to boil weeds and pretend it was soup.”

Your breath caught. His eyes seemed distant. Far away as he recalled his life four hundred years ago.

“The only thing we owned of value was a bipa. My mother’s. She taught me how to play it before her hands got too swollen to hold the strings.” His eyes went distant, haunted. “I played in the markets for coins. It was never enough.”

He paused, jaw tight. “Then one night, I heard a voice.”

“Gwi Ma offered me everything. Fame. Gold. Silk sheets and stages carved from jade. And I said yes.”

You stared at him. He finally met your eyes—and this time, the pain there was real.

“I left,” he whispered. “Without a word. My mother. My sister. I never even turned around. I don’t know if they lived another week.”

You released a breath as you felt your heart fracture at his words.

“I just… ran. Into the palace. Into adoration. And never looked back.”

He exhaled, eyes heavy with guilt. “The crowds worshipped me. I performed for kings and their consorts. They called me divine. The courtiers fought for my smile. And it still wasn’t enough.”

“I didn’t deserve peace,” he said, voice brittle. “But then I saw you.” His voice softened—fragile like old silk.

“You were a maid. You had ink on your fingers and a habit of humming while sweeping the floors. You didn’t bow. You didn’t flatter. You rolled your eyes at me.”

Your chest tightened. So that’s who you were in your past life when you first met him.

“And when I asked you why… you said I looked lonely.”

A pause.

“I fell in love with you the moment you looked at me like I was a boy. Not a god.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “But I made you weak. I brought you too close. It was impossible for someone like you, so pure of heart, to exist in that palace. I should’ve known there would be vipers waiting to strike.”

You didn’t interrupt. You couldn’t.

“There was a concubine who used to love watching me play. She’d call upon me to her chambers for performances. Pay a hefty sum for an appearance in her parties. She saw you and I in one of the pavilions and she didn’t like it.” A look of anguish flashed on Jinu’s face. “I knew it was only a matter of time before someone found out. I wasn’t a fool. I knew the women of the palace liked me for more than just my voice.” His fists tightened on his lap.

“She poisoned your tea. I found you in the gardens…you…you were still smiling.”

He blinked once. Just once. “You died in my arms. And I didn’t even know how to mourn.”

You stared at him, tears pricking your eyes. You wished so hard to remember. To recall who he was back then. Something, anything, so you could share a memory with him.

“I went back to Gwi Ma. I begged. I offered everything again.” He swallowed. “That’s when the pact began. He told me… if I could bind other demons to your soul, tether you tightly enough, you’d return.” His eyes flicked to yours. He was trembling.

“So I did. I found them. One by one. I gave up pieces of myself to forge the bond. Even if I had to share you, I- I was willing to do anything to have you back. I waited lifetimes. We all did.”

He reached out now, slowly, like you might disappear. “And now you’re here.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But your body leaned toward his—drawn like a string was being pulled behind your ribs. He exhaled shakily. “I still don’t know what happened to them. My mother. My sister. I never went back.”

You reached for his hand. Fingers brushing his wrist. It was the gentlest thing you’d ever done. Jinu held onto your touch like a lifeline as the pain of his memories came rushing back.

“I think… they’d forgive you,” you whispered. He laughed softly. Bitter. Grateful. “I don’t.”

And somehow that made you want to forgive him more. You let him pull you closer. Let your head fall beneath his chin, chest pressed lightly to his side. He held you like you might break. Like he didn’t deserve to hold you at all. This was the closest he’s ever been to you since first seeing you in that square. His heart constricted.

“I won’t make the same mistake again,” he murmured. You felt the words against your scalp. “I will never leave you. Even if it kills me.”

You tilted your head up—slow, searching. His lips hovered a breath away. The look in his eyes was agonizing: pure want, reverence, restraint. He was begging without words.

And maybe you wanted to say yes. Maybe you wanted to close that distance.

But something in you hesitated. The memory of danger still ghosting your ribs. The smell of blood. The crackle of old fire. You shouldn’t want this. He was a demon.

But then again—

He was yours.

Jinu didn’t move. Not really. But his eyes…God, his eyes were starving.

Like a man who hadn’t eaten in centuries and now sat trembling before the one thing he was never allowed to touch. His fingers flexed once on his thigh, like he was holding himself back from grabbing you. From yanking you into his arms and claiming what had always been his.

His lips parted—his breath shallow. “I shouldn’t,” he whispered, voice ragged. “Not yet.”

That almost did it.

Not yet.

Not no.

He wasn’t denying that he wanted to. Only that he was trying—failing—not to. You felt something pulse low in your spine. The bond again. Soft and hot, like a wire coiling tighter. Tighter.

You leaned closer. Not much. Just enough for your shoulder to brush his chest. His breath hitched.

“Y/N…” he warned. Or maybe it was a plea. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

But you did. You knew exactly.

Your hand grazed his chest—over fabric, over his heart. It beat like a war drum under your palm. And he—this ancient thing with a voice like honey and a soul soaked in sin—shook under your touch.

“You waited for me,” you said softly. “Across lifetimes.”

He gave a shaky laugh. “Every night. Every fucking century.”

“And now I’m here,” you whispered.

“And now you’re here.”

He reached up—finally—like a man about to touch something sacred. Fingers grazing your cheek so gently it made you ache. You didn’t flinch this time. You leaned into it. And when he cradled your face in his hands, it wasn’t just touch.

It was claim.

The bond lit up like a match to kerosene—searing, seeping through every crack in your soul like molten gold. You gasped. So did he. His forehead pressed against yours, and for a moment, the whole world narrowed to this.

Him. You. Breath tangled. Thread pulled tight. Two hearts beating like one.

His voice broke against your mouth.

“I loved you. Before I even knew what love meant. I loved you in that garden. In that palace. In every life you bled through. I loved you while you died in my arms. And I love you now.”

Tears slowly gathered in the corner of your eyes at his confession. Your chest tightening with every word he uttered. Let all reason be damned. Nothing in the world could be more true right now, more real, than this.

Your lips brushed his when you exhaled. You didn’t mean to. You were just breathing—but it was enough.

It shattered him.

He kissed you like he was starving. Like this was his first meal in centuries. Like his immortality had meant nothing without this.

The kiss wasn’t soft. It was ruinous. Possessive. His mouth moved against yours like he’d memorized it across time—hungry, reverent, desperate. Like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

And you…

You kissed him back.

Because some part of you remembered. The garden. The incense. The ache of his name in your mouth before it was ever spoken.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer. His hand slid to your waist. He groaned low in his throat when you pressed into him, fire threading under your skin, a live wire finally connected.

The kiss slowed. Deepened.

When he finally pulled back, barely an inch, his eyes were wild.

“You’re mine,” he whispered. “You always were.”

And in that moment, you didn’t deny it.

Not this time.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

The kiss hadn’t been loud.

Barely a sigh. A whisper of fabric. The faint rustle of limbs and emotion finally giving in.

But they felt it.

From different corners of the apartment, the bond trembled like a shared heartbeat. A hush fell over the rooms like snowfall. Every boy froze.

Abby paused in the hallway with his forehead pressed to the doorframe, eyes shut.

Romance stood motionless in the kitchen, hands tight around the edge of the marble counter, breath held like a confession.

Mystery curled beneath his bedsheets, face half-buried in the sleeve of your old hoodie, his claws twitching against the mattress.

Baby sat in the far window seat of the lounge, unmoving, eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable—except for the slight twitch of his jaw.

They knew. They didn’t need to see it. They felt it through the bond—the hum, the spark, the slow unfurling of something sacred.

You kissed Jinu.

And something ancient and knotted in all of them unclenched. Not jealousy. Not really. It wasn’t rage or bitterness that stirred in their chests.

It was relief.

Because Jinu deserved this.

He had waited the longest. He had suffered the most. He had built the very foundation of the Crimson Pact with trembling hands and bloodied knees, driven by the memory of your lifeless body in his arms. He had found them. Bound them. Led them.

And now…He had finally been given a sliver of what he lost.

Abby exhaled a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. His hand closed into a fist against the doorframe. “Good for you, hyung,” he whispered.

Romance closed his eyes and tilted his head to the ceiling, the corner of his mouth lifting into a quiet, almost reverent smile. “Took him fucking long enough.”

Mystery blinked slowly, purring low in his throat. “She’s starting to remember,” he murmured into the blankets. “She’s letting herself feel it.”

And Baby… Baby didn’t move. But in his eyes, a hunger lit up. Not the kind that devoured. The kind that waited. That watched from the shadows with claws pressed to his ribs.

It would be his turn soon. He could wait. He’d waited before. But not much longer.

Across the apartment, the bond shimmered—warmer now. Alive in a way it hadn’t been in lifetimes. Each of them felt it. Not just the connection, but the hope.

She’s letting us in. She’s starting to fall again. Their hands twitched. Hearts pounded. Mouths parted with breathless need. And beneath it all, one singular thought pulsed through the Crimson Pact:

Soon, it’ll be me.

Not out of competition. Not to steal the moment. But because you belonged to all of them. And in every life, one by one… you had.

Jinu had always kissed you first.

But he would not be the last. TO BE CONTINUED

───────── ༺🜃༻ ───────── A/N: Huaaah I died inside writing this chapter! I hope you guys enjoyed this one. The next chapter follows the same theme of relationship building and we'll get to see more intimate moments and backstories of the other boys! Let me know your thoughts in the comments and feel free to Reblog and Like this chapter if you enjoyed it! Till next time! Willa x.

───────── ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆ ─────────

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sparklingchim · 4 months ago

Text

next move; m | jjk

pairing: jungkook x reader

word count: 13.7k

tropes: hockeyplayer!jungkook, richgirlie!oc, college!au, fwb, brother's best friend

rating: 18+

warnings: alcohol consumption, lots of teasing, jk hooking up with someone else 🤢, oc goes a bit insane <3, smoking (ew), angry koo 😠, messy blow job, spit, cum on boobies, gagging, multiple orgasms, cum play, dick slaps on face n pussy, doggy, overstimulation, dirty talk, eating out, hair pulling, mirror sex, doggy, a few spanks, sum butt stuff, oc is addicted to shopping 🫂 (we both need help), pretends to help with uni stuff just to get dick, naughty thoughts abt jk at dinner with friends??, vulnerable oc <3, proud jk <3

summary: pov: you’ve spent so long pushing jungkook away, but now you’re the one trying to pull him back in.

a/n: i hope this feeds ur tummies well ! 😋

masterlist

⭒☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆⭒

“What is wrong with you?”

These being the first words Taehyung directs at you when you enter the kitchen at 9 in the morning makes you want to claw his eyes out and head back to bed again.

“I’d fight you if I wasn’t sleepy right now,” you mutter as you shove past him to get to the coffee machine.

“No, I’m being for real,” Taehyung says, inspecting you through critical eyes.

“I’m not wearing make-up. Get over it.”

“It’s not that,” he presses. “You’ve been acting strange the past few days.”

He catches you off-guard with that. You can’t think of a lie fast enough to cover up the fact that you’ve been kinda dumped by his best friend and are no longer fuck buddies, hard times, so you blink a few times to keep your composure.

Your brain, struggling to function at this hour, lands on the most groundbreaking response: “Huh?”

“You didn’t want chicken when I asked if I should bring you some yesterday.” Taehyung crosses his arms, leaning against the counter.

“I already ate when you called,” you quickly – maybe too quickly? You don’t know – defend yourself as you watch the coffee stream into your mug.

“Right. Tell me one time – just one – where you’ve turned down chicken.” He raises an eyebrow. “By the way, I still got you some. It’s in the fridge. But I knew something was up, because you never-”

“Wait, really?” you cut him off, perking up. “You got me chicken?”

You rush to the fridge, flinging the door open. There isn’t much in there to begin with, so it’s easy to spot your beloved meal. You grab it and get it ready for the microwave.

Taehyung completely ignores your excitement over the food and continues his questioning.

“You didn’t react when I switched one of your reality tv shows for something else the other day.”

Did he? You don’t even remember that happening.

“You came home after a long day. I was just being a sweet sister,” you deflect, waving him off.

“Point is – I can tell when my baby sister is sad. And I don’t need you to feign indifference for me, because it’s okay not to be okay,” he says, gentle. “And I wish you’d come to me about whatever this is to make you feel better, because, I don’t know, I thought that’s what we’ve been doing as siblings.”

Your heart squeezes.

He just wants to comfort you. Be there for you. And it clearly pains him that you’ve been keeping this from him.

“No, yeah, I know, it’s just.” God, you hate this. Having to lie to him. “It’s honestly not that serious, Tae. I’m just being dramatic about it, you know how I am.” You try to laugh it off, but he doesn’t let it deceive him.

“It’s about a boy, isn’t it?”

You need to tweak your acting skills. And your reactions too, because why did you look away after he asked you that?

“A boy?” You stretch the word out in an exaggerated drag to make his inquisition sound ridiculous. “There’s no boy in my life.”

“If I find out Eunwoo is causing trouble, I’ll-”

“God, no.” You shake your head vehemently. “He’s fine. He’s not doing anything.”

You retrieve the chicken from the microwave and set it next to your coffee. A questionable breakfast choice, but right now, comfort food is comfort food.

“Want some?” you offer, grabbing your chopsticks.

Taehyung sighs deeply, shaking his head. His lips press into a thin line, but there’s no anger – just concern softening his features. “Wanna talk about it?” He pauses, voice dropping lower. “Who do I have to fight?”

Your stupid best friend, who walked out on me because, apparently, he doesn’t like it when I’m with other boys and was so dramatic about it, but I lowkey do understand him because I don’t like seeing him with other girls too but I can’t tell him because I don’t want him to know that I care and maybe everything is my fault but I am sad and upset and I can’t tell you anything about it because you’d hate me for it.

You keep these thoughts to yourself though and bite into a piece of chicken instead.

“Tae, no.”

“To both of my questions?”

“Mhm-hmm,” you answer with your mouth full.

His shoulders slump in defeat.

Placing your chopsticks down, you step forward and wrap your arms around him.

“You’re an amazing brother, Tae,” you mumble against his chest. “And I promise that I’m doing fine. You’d know if I wasn’t. I think I’m just getting my period soon, honestly. I’ve been hating everything and everyone lately.” You squeeze him tight. “But I love you.”

“I love you,” he replies, resting his chin on your head. “You’d come to me if you needed me, right?”

“Of course. I love to annoy you about my problems.”

You feel his chuckle rumble through his chest.

“You’re coming to dinner with us after the game, right?”

You draw you head back slightly, peering up at him.

“Define us.”

Taehyung’s brows knit together.

“Like, everyone.”

You so don’t want to see Jungkook. It’s been a week since he left you confused in your room.

Detangling yourself from Taehyung, you shoot him an unimpressed pout. “I don’t know if I’m in the mood for that many people.”

“I’m not gonna let you lock yourself up in your room, ___,” he says, a slight edge creeping into his voice. “You can bedrot another day.”

He’s right – you probably should socialise a little more. And with so many people around, you might not even notice Jungkook’s presence.

“I’ll come,” you relent defeatedly, picking up your tray with breakfast. “Good luck with the game.” You reach up on your tippy toes to ruffle his hair with your free hand, earning an exasperated groan from him.

So, when you thought you could just ignore Jungkook at dinner, you failed to consider one crucial detail – the universe lives to humble you. Because, of course, out of all the empty seats, he had to take the one right next to you. Rookie mistake. Amateur behaviour. A tragic miscalculation on your part.

Now, you’re stuck playing the world’s most intense game of Pretending He Doesn’t Exist, which, unfortunately, is pretty difficult when he’s breathing in your general direction.

“Can you guys believe that I got a C for my essay?” Seokjin announces after chomping down a big piece of meat.

“Was it the one with the ducks?” Jungkook questions.

“Yeah, I was so excited to hand it in ‘cause I had so much fun writing, and then I get a C.” Seokjin tilts his head in remorse. “I was at a Lotte World parking lot when I got the notification, and it felt like someone stole my firstborn. I hope that never happens to me, I don’t think I could go through the emotions a second time. Honestly, not even the bumper cars could distract me after that.”

“Sure you don’t wanna sign up for drama class?” Taehyung teases. “You’d be such an asset to it.”

“I’m so close to doing it.”

“Wait, you wrote an essay about ducks?” you ask.

“Not just about ducks, silly,” Seokjin explains. “I wrote an essay on whether someone would rather fight 100 duck-sized horses or 1 horse-sized duck. You know, deep stuff like answering questions if it is morally better to fight one large opponent or many small ones.”

“What would the world do without you, Jin,” Yoongi chimes in.

“I’d choose one horse-sized duck, I think,” Eunji says, who thankfully sits next to you, so you’re not completely surrounded by people who you dislike (yes, you might’ve forced her to come with you – she wanted to study in the library, but you dragged her here with the promise of showering her with your never-ending love).

“But a duck so big is scary, no?” you ponder, tapping your chopsticks against your mouth as you think.

Listening in on your conversation, Jungkook says, “The horse-sized duck would be easier.”

You frown, turning to him. “That thing would be massive, and it’s a duck. Ducks are unpredictable.”

“Okay, but 100 duck-sized horses would overwhelm you,” he argues. “You’re assuming they’re just gonna stand there like cute little ponies. What if they’re really aggressive? They’d be all over you, biting, kicking. That’s chaotic.”

“How would you manage fighting a huge duck, though? I don’t see that happening,” you scoff.

“I’m not saying it wouldn’t be hard, but at least it’s just one thing to focus on. It’s straightforward.” Jungkook leans back, dragging his gaze over your face before he says, “But of course you’d prefer the more chaotic solution.”

You raise your eyebrows. “What are you on about?”

You’re talking about ducks and horses. Or so you thought.

Jungkook shrugs. “Nothing. I just think your decision is stupid.”

His eyes don’t waver, and you don’t back down either, because what the hell? Jungkook’s picking a fight over nonsense and has the audacity to glare at you like you personally offended him. His brows are drawn tight, frustration evident in the sharpness of his expression.

As you glare back, you can’t stop your brain from taking an unexpected detour to memories in which Jungkook wore a similar expression. On top of you, a little sweaty, cheeks flushed and – oh my god, you feel the heat rush to your cheeks and swiftly turn away.

“You’re annoying,” you mumble under your breath, picking up your chopsticks again.

Where did these thoughts come from? Do you miss him? It’s been one week. You need a distraction.

"See how riveting my essay topic is?” Seokjin chimes in, pointing his chopsticks at the two of you. “A C is criminally underappreciated.”

“I don’t think anyone can get under ___ skin like Jungkook,” Taehyung chuckles, placing more meat onto your plate.

“Oh no, don’t worry, you still take the first place,” you quip.

“Don’t say that too loud. Jungkook’s too competitive.”

“He’s a mini version of you.” You turn to Jungkook when you say it, scrunching your nose to display your dismay.

“There’s nothing mini about Jungkook,” Yoongi interjects.

The boys laugh while Eunji and you choke on your food.

“Okay, gross?” Eunji coughs.

“What? Have you not seen his muscles? He’s a big guy,” Seokjin defends, eyes wide as he studies Jungkook’s physique. “That’s no secret.”

“That’s why Sooyoung wants him again,” Jimin teases with a wicked grin stretching across his face.

“Oh, fuck off.” Jungkook kicks him under the table. “I said we’re not talking about this.”

At the mention of a name that rings a bell but you can't quite place it yet – one Jungkook clearly doesn’t want brought up – you perk up. “Not talking about what?”

It’s silent next to you.

Jungkook tenses, his posture stiff, the only giveaway a rough, forced clearing of his throat.

One game. You miss one game, and apparently, all the drama unfolds without you.

“You should’ve been there, ___,” Jimin drawls, eyes twinkling with mischief. “His ex was practically his personal cheerleader.”

Your brows lift as you turn to Jungkook. “Sooyoung, huh?”

You never got the chance to meet Jungkook’s ex. He was dating her during your senior year of high school, and they broke up while you were still in school.

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look at you. Instead, he focuses way too hard on his plate, shoving a piece of meat into his mouth like it’s the most interesting thing in the world and then finishing his beer in a few, big sips.

Jimin, on the other hand, is thriving on the attention. “Oh, yeah,” he hums. “Front-row seat. Didn’t take her eyes off him.”

At that, Jungkook kicks him again, harder this time. “Can you not?”

“Oh, come on, man. It was cute.”

You tilt your head, watching Jungkook’s reaction. “And you didn’t like that?”

His eyes finally flick to yours, the slight curve of his mouth betraying him. “I didn’t say I didn’t like it, I just don’t want to talk about it.”

“She waited outside the locker room for him,” Jimin continues.

You hold back a roll of your eyes. You don’t care. You don’t care at all.

“Did she?” Eunji fuels the fire with her excited question.

“She said hi. That’s it,” Jungkook mutters.

Jimin snorts at Jungkook’s reply. “Man, that’s not what I saw.”

“And you,” Jungkook directs at Jimin. “You were eye fucking her friend the entire time, so don’t act all high and mighty when you could barely keep your hands to yourself.”

“Sue me!” Jimin exclaims. “Yeah, I do think her friend’s hot, lock me up for it. I need her ig handle or something. I wanna see her again.”

“You’re both hopeless,” you comment, nails tapping against your glass.

“Hey, if she’s hot, she’s hot.” Jimin shrugs, grinning from ear to ear. “You can’t blame me for appreciating the view.”

Yoongi gives him a pointed look. “I’m pretty sure you’ve been ‘appreciating’ the view from every girl in the restaurant for the last hour.”

Jimin laughs loudly, clearly unbothered. “Guilty as charged.”

“What else is new?” Eunji asks. “Besides Seokjin thinking being unhinged will get him an A in his philosophy class, Jungkook having an over-attached ex, and Jimin being a total playboy? Anything else exciting happened this week?”

“I bought a blind box today,” you announce. “And got upset because I didn’t get the one I wanted.”

“The sonny angel figures?” Jungkook asks casually – way too casually.

His tone is so easy, so natural, that for a split second, you forget, just like he forgot. You almost answer just as effortlessly, almost fall into the usual rhythm of conversation with him. But then it hits you—the sharp, perfectly timed reminder that you’re pissed at him.

So instead, you hesitate, fingers tightening around your glass. “Yeah,” you say, a little clipped “Those.”

“I say you stop spending so much money for dust-collecting shit,” Tae comments, and you don’t even have the chance to defend yourself, because Seokjin calls him out for his own questionable spending habits.

While they bicker, you giggle at their antics, distracted for a moment. You reach to dip your dumpling into the sauce, but just as your fingers hover above the dish, you brush hands with Jungkook, who was doing the same.

You kick his hand with yours, expecting him to pull back, but he doesn’t budge.

“Do you ever stop being annoying?” you ask.

“Not when the person I’m annoying is you.”

“You gonna be like this all night?” Your hand sinks, touching the table. “I thought you were mad and would want to ignore me,” you say, much quieter now, even though everyone else is too caught up arguing whether Taehyung’s fifa pack spendings are justified.

“Weren’t you trying to do the same?”

Well, yeah. You were trying to ignore him – that was the sole reason why you even came – but you somewhere along the way, you veered off that plan, and now here you are.

“I guess you’re just too pretty for me to ignore.”

Jungkook freezes at that. You use the opportunity to nudge his hand aside and dip your food into the sauce.

“Funny, didn’t seem to be a problem when you were texting that dude next to me the other day.”

Your chewing slows. The words hit exactly where he intended, sharp and precise, a reminder of exactly why he’s pissed in the first place.

The conversation around you carries on, oblivious, but between you and Jungkook, the tension is suffocating.

You pull away completely, shifting in your seat so your legs are angled away from him and into Eunji’s direction.

Ignoring him is easier, less of a headache – and less of a heartache – than acknowledging his existence.

Later that night, you drown yourself in reality tv, letting the mindless drama fill the living room and keep your thoughts from wandering to the interactions you had with Jungkook tonight, because you really need a break from that boy.

You and Eunji had left the restaurant before the boys, her excuse being that she wanted to study, and yours being that you’d had done enough socialising for the day and it was time to go back home. Yeah, you do realise that you have a self-destructive tendency to isolate when things get difficult.

So, here you are, curled up on the couch, journaling about feelings and situations and –

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

You freeze, pen hovering above the paper as the sound of the front door code being punched in echoes from outside. The lock clicks, and the door swings open.

A familiar head of dark hair peeks inside first, followed by annoyingly familiar second one.

“You’re still up?” Taehyung asks, shrugging off his jacket and toes off his shoes.

“Tae,” you say slowly, looking at Jungkook. “Why is he here?”

“Figured we’d hang for a bit more. Play some fifa together.”

“You figured?” You turn to Tae with a deadpan expression.

Taehyung shrugs. “He looked sad.”

“I didn’t look sad,” Jungkook mutters, finally stepping inside and shutting the door behind him.

“You looked all emo when everyone got up to leave,” Taehyung says.

“Whatever.” Jungkook rolls his eyes and heads towards the kitchen, like this is his house now.

You exhale through your nose, pressing your fingers to your temple. “Do we look like a halfway house for emotionally constipated men?”

Jungkook’s voice calls out from the kitchen. “I can hear you.”

“Good.”

“Please try and act civil while I go change,” Taehyung pleads, already disappearing down the hallway.

Jungkook emerges a second later, settling onto the couch, a glass of water in his hand. His tatted fingers wrap around it, long and steady, as he takes a sip. You watch the way his Adam’s apple bobs, the way his throat moves, how the tiniest droplet of water escapes before his tongue swipes it away – completely unbothered. Casual. Like he isn’t taking up too much space in your head already.

“Headache from all that beer?” you ask, trying – hoping – that you sound unaffected by whatever it is about him that’s making your stomach flip.

He exhales, tipping his head back against the couch, stretching his neck just enough to make it unfair. The angle sharpens his jaw line.

His gaze flickers to you. “Something like that.”

Jungkook looks at you. Really looks at you.

His eyes drag over your bare legs, stretched out in tiny shorts that are basically just suggestions of clothing. They hesitate on the curve of your thighs, the hem barely covering anything, before sliding up to the delicate strap of your camisole, the curve of your shoulder. His fingers tighten around the glass just enough for you to notice.

You meet his gaze, unblinking.

Jungkook’s fingers twitch.

You smirk, stretching deliberately, arching your back slightly as you reposition yourself.

And then – his eyes flick downward, landing on the open journal beside you.

You don’t think anything of it at first – until his brows furrow slightly, head tilting as he squints.

“Wait,” he mutters, leaning forward. “Did I just see my name in there?”

Your stomach drops.

Panic sets in at lightning speed.

You slam the journal shut so fast it’s borderline violent.

“Mind your business.”

Jungkook blinks, then grins, slow and smug. Oh, you hate him.

“There is literally nothing for you to see.”

“Oh, but there was something,” he muses, stretching an arm along the back of the couch like he isn’t about to drive you insane. “You wrote about me?”

You cross your arms. “What if I did?”

“Depends,” he says, just momentarily allowing his gaze to drop to your chest. “What exactly are you writing about me?”

Jungkook’s smirk deepens, eyes flicking between you and the journal.

“You’re acting awfully guilty right now,” he taunts, shifting slightly, his thigh pressing against yours.

“Because you’re being nosey.”

“No, because you’re hiding something.”

You roll your eyes, gripping the journal tighter. “You’re not that interesting.”

He hums, tilting his head. “Then lemme see.”

“Absolutely not.”

It happens so fast you barely have time to react. One second, Jungkook is sitting there, all relaxed and smug. The next, he’s lunging forward, reaching for the journal with one hand, the other bracing against the couch to trap you in place.

“Jungkook—stop!” you shriek, twisting away, holding the journal out of his reach.

But he’s relentless.

He shifts closer, practically caging you in, his body warm and solid against yours. His arm brushes your bare thigh as he reaches again, fingers grazing the cover. You twist further, laughing, but the movement only makes things worse—your back presses into the cushions, and suddenly, he’s right there, hovering over you, weight balanced between his knees and one hand pressed into the couch beside your head.

The laughter dies in your throat.

Because now it’s just you and him, tangled up, breathing the same air. His face is inches from yours, the heat of his body seeping into your skin, the scent of his cologne mixed with something distinctly him. His gaze flickers downward – just for a second – but it’s enough. Enough for you to feel the shift. Enough for the teasing to suddenly feel like something else entirely.

Jungkook swallows.

Your heart is in your throat.

His gaze drops to your lips.

You freeze.

His fingers tighten slightly where they rest near your hip. The journal is still caught between you, forgotten, and for the first time, neither of you moves to break the moment.

Until –

A door creaks open down the hallway.

You both jerk back at the same time.

Jungkook moves first, clearing his throat as he drops back onto the couch, running a hand through his hair like that’ll somehow erase the past ten seconds. You sit up just as Taehyung strolls back in, glancing between the two of you with mild suspicion.

“Did you guys kill each other yet?”

“Nearly,” you retort, fixing your hair.

Tae grabs two controllers and plops onto the couch next to Jungkook. “Why’d you scream?”

“Your idiot of a best friend is obsessed with me and tried to sneak a peek into my journal,” you huff, dramatically clutching said journal to your chest.

“Oh, boy,” Tae clicks his tongue. “She’s serious about this thing, Jk. Wouldn’t advise you to –” he waves a hand vaguely, “–poke the bear.”

Jungkook looks like he is actually considering telling Tae what he saw in your beloved journal. His lips party slightly, brows furrowing, before he shakes the thought off. Good for him. You wouldn’t even know where to begin explaining why Jungkook’s name is written in there.

Taehyung hands one of the controllers to Jungkook.

“Is this my cue to turn off my show?” you ask, lips forming a natural pout of disappointment.

“Sorry, spontaneous boys' night,” Tae says with a shrug.

“Please never say that again.”

Jungkook snorts, finally looking at you.

You raise a brow. Challenge him silently.

He just grins, popping his dimples, rolling his shoulders back like he has the upper hand.

God, you hate him.

You stay in the living room while they game – despite considering retreating to your room multiple times when Jungkook and Tae started yelling at each like an old married couple.

But you quickly realise how fun it is to mess with Jungkook, especially when he gets roasted for his lack of skills by an oblivious Taehyung. Which, judging by the way Jungkook’s jaw keeps ticking and his grip on the controller tightens, is absolutely getting to him.

“Want more snacks?” you ask sweetly as you rise to your feet, collecting the empty bowls. One slips from your grasp, landing on the carpet. You bend over to grab it, in front of Jungkook, and maybe, just maybe, you move slower than necessary. Maybe shifting your hips a little too much. Maybe giving him a view he definitely does not deserve.

Tae, completely unbothered, waves you off like a fly buzzing around his screen. “___, get out of the way,” he complains impatiently, fingers rapidly clicking on his controller. “But I’ll have some more chips, thanks.”

Jungkook, however, isn’t saying shit.

You glance over your shoulder, just in time to catch the flicker of his eyes meeting yours before he collects himself and redirects his attention back to the game.

“You good, Jungkook?” you ask innocently.

His nostrils flare. Through gritted teeth, he mutters, “Just move.”

So you do, slow and smug, your shorts sliding back over your thighs as you pad toward the kitchen.

Right as you’re reaching for the drawer, you hear Taehyung ask, “What are you gonna do about that Sooyoung girl?” Your movements slow. “You interested?”

The nosiness and urge to gossip definitely runs through your genes.

“Nah, I don’t want her back.”

When you glance back, Jungkook’s still focused on the game, but there’s something absent in the way he’s holding the controller – like he’s playing on autopilot.

“That bad, huh?”

“Just wasn’t that deep.”

You busy yourself with the drawer, fingertips grazing over the handle as you bite back the urge to comment. Just listen.

“You never really said why you two broke up.”

“No, I did tell you,” Jungkook says, easy but firm. “You just never believed me.”

“That’s because it always felt like there was more.”

“There wasn’t. We just didn’t fit.”

Didn’t fit how?

You open the drawer and grab more snacks.

“Yeah...I don’t know. You never seemed truly happy with her.”

Jungkook exhales sharply through his nose. "I wasn’t miserable," he finally says.

“You weren’t happy either.”

“I don’t know. Maybe I stayed with Sooyoung because it was easy. No drama. No real emotions involved.”

With the snacks in tow, you walk back to the living room. “That sounds really sad, Jaykay,” you say, not trying to hide that you’ve been listening to them.

He shrugs. “Maybe. But at least it didn’t mess with my head.” His gaze lingers on you. “Didn’t make me feel like I was losing my mind.”

“Fuck, no, if someone makes you feel that way – leave, immediately,” Taehyung says.

You grab a bag of chips, tearing it open as you lean against the side of the couch. “You guys done being dramatic yet?”

Taehyung glances over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes. “You’re still here?”

“I live here.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately?” you repat. “You were the one who happily agreed when mum and dad suggested that I move in with you. I wanted my own place!”

“Oh no, the princess didn’t get what she wanted. How dare they?” Jungkook mocks you.

You faintly remember the discussion of moving into an even bigger place, where all three of you would live together, but Jungkook denied that idea back then, saying the dorm that his athletic scholarship is providing him is good enough for him.

You scoff, shoving his shoulder as you pop another chip into your mouth. “Okay, first of all, you don’t get a say in this. Second of all, I’m not a princess.”

Jungkook tilts his head, a smirk playing on his lips. “Sure you aren’t.”

Taehyung snorts, eyes still glued to the screen. “You literally whined for two weeks straight about not having enough closet space.”

“That was a valid complaint,” you argue. “You take up, like, half of it with your stupid jerseys.”

“They’re collectibles.”

“They’re ugly.”

Jungkook laughs, finally leaning back into the couch, looking far too amused. “I see living together is going great for you two.”

“Oh, it’s fantastic,” Taehyung deadpans. “Every day is a blessing.”

“You’re so dramatic,” you mutter, but you can’t help the way your lips twitch. “I liked this conversation more when you gossiped about Jungkook’s life.”

Taehyung rolls his eyes, then jerks his chin toward Jungkook. “Dude, hurry up and lose so we can switch games.”

Jungkook, who has barely been playing at all, huffs. “I’m not gonna lose on purpose.”

“You’re already playing like shit,” Taehyung points out. “What’s up with you? Did Sooyoung get into your head or what?”

“Quit mentioning her,” Jungkook grumbles, jaw tightening.

Sooyoung?

No, that is not who is on is mind.

Why would he be thinking about her when – okay, you need to calm down. It’s not that serious.

You just need to call it a night, crawl into bed, and sleep it off.

“Heading to bed,” you announce, grabbing your journal from the coffee table.

“Alright, sleep tight,” Taehyung replies.

“Night, princess.” You flick the back of Jungkook’s head for that.

“Okay, very out of character for me, but we need to stop drinking for a sec and you need to tell me why the hell you keep looking back at Jungkook?” Eunji asks you all of a sudden, voice barely carrying over the muffled bass shaking the walls of the packed frat house.

The kitchen is one of the only semi-breathable spaces in the frat house, though the counters are a war zone of spilled liquor, sticky cups, and questionably abandoned drinks. The air reeks of cheap booze and sweat, but none of that is stopping Eunji from interrogating you.

You blink perplexed. “Out of character for you?” you ask back, eyeing the way she pulls back the cup you were just mixing a drink in. “I think that is very true to your character – very you. I’d be out of character for me to stop us from drinking.” You snatch back your cup.

“Did I say that?” She’s lost in her mind for a moment. “I don’t even remember. Am I that drunk already? I don’t wanna wake up hungover tomorrow.” She laments. “I still got this assignment due, and I wanted to get most of it done tomorrow, but – oh my god. Do not distract me from the question I just asked you.” She stares at you with sharp eyes. “Why do you keep looking back at Jungkook?”

“Am I?”

She huffs. “You don’t get to play this game with me, ___.” She pokes your tummy. “Answer me.”

You fully turn to her, abandoning the cup with the godawful alcohol mix – yes, it’s your creation, no, you’ve never had any talent for mixing drinks.

“I might have to tell you something.”

Her eyes widen. Immediately. Mouth opening in an unbelievable expression of pure, unfiltered drama. One that belongs in a reality show confession booth.

“Shut up. You did not – did you? Oh my god, shut up!”

“We might have hooked up for, like, a good few months.”

Her palm flies to cover her mouth. “Behind Taehyung’s back?” she whisper shouts.

“Well, obviously.” You point to yourself. “You think I’d be alive if he knew? You think he’d be alive if Tae knew?”

“You whore!”

“For Jungkook? Kinda,” you admit defeatedly.

You take a glimpse into his direction. Eunji shoves you on the shoulder for that.

“Don’t make it obvious!” she exclaims. “But you need to tell me everything. Right now.”

You sigh, leaning against the counter.

“The first time we hooked up was before I enrolled in uni. It was the summer before when Tae and Jungkook spontaneously visited and-“

“Okay, I need you to stop,” Eunji interrupts, fingers massaging her temples. “The summer before uni?” she repeats, exasperated. “You’ve been keeping it a secret since summer? I need more booze before you continue.”

“I’m sorry for not telling you, but we didn’t want anyone to know. He’d be pissed if he knew I told you.”

“No, don’t be sorry. I get it, I really do. I just didn’t expect this at all.” After pouring something inside her cup, she takes big gulps from it.

“I mean, what was I supposed to do? He’s hot, he’s pretty, and I’ve had a crush on him since, like, forever. I had to give in when he showed interest. What’s a girl gonna do?”

“How have you been able to keep it from Taehyung? They’re with each other 24/7.”

“He comes over when I know Tae’s gonna be out for a while. Or the other way around,” you reply, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “You can make anything work if you really want to, and I really wanted Jungkook.”

Still do, if you’re being honest.

You pause, then wave it off dramatically. “But that’s ancient history. We’re totally over that weird situationship.”

“What?!” Another shocked gasp escapes her. “Why?!”

“I don’t even know, to be honest. He just – we fucked, and then he...I dunno.” You grab your cup and down the rest of your drink, grimacing at the taste of whatever you concocted. “He got mad at me for texting Eunwoo after we had sex. I didn't even think he’d be all sensitive about it, especially since, you know, he’s with other girls too. But he got so pissed and we argued. And guess what?!” You throw your arms out, face dramatically incredulous. “He just leaves me in bed! Like, straight up walks out, saying stupid shit like I sleep around and only text him when I’m bored. Acting like we’re some exclusive thing, which we’re not! How dare he get so upset?” you argue theatrically, voice rising in pitch. “I’ve got better shit to do than this,” you mimic in Jungkook’s deep voice, eyes rolling for extra effect. “He’s so annoying.”

Eunji scrutinizes you for a brief moment before coming to her conclusion.

“Oh, he wants you bad.”

“Huh?” Your brows furrow. “He left me.”

“Because he wants you two to be exclusive and you don't. Why should he stay?”

Why should he stay?

You stare at Eunji, her words settling over you like an unwanted truth.

“He did ask me to be exclusive before,” you admit, twirling the empty cup in your hands. “But I always thought it would be a bad idea. Because being exclusive is so much more serious, and I want to be anything but serious with him. We don’t work that way. I can’t have that happening and risking Tae finding out. It would ruin everything.”

Eunji gives you a long, unimpressed look. “But being exclusive friends with benefits doesn’t have to mean more. It could just stay that way. Why do you always make things complicated?”

You huff, frustration bubbling up. “I don’t know.” You drop your forehead against her shoulder.

She pats your back like you’re a lost puppy.

“You’re and idiot, babe.”

“I know.”

“You also like him.”

You groan into her shoulder. “Shut up.”

“Just saying,” she singsongs.

It’s only now that you realise just how much you needed this – to talk to someone. To get all these tangled thoughts out of your head instead of letting them fester in silence. You’ve spent so much time convincing yourself that none of it mattered, brushing it off like it was nothing, but saying it out loud makes it real. And weirdly, that feels... good. Cathartic, even. Like exhaling after holding your breath for too long.

“Do you think I should-“ You start to lift your head, but Eunji pushes you back down with a firm hand.

“Everything will be fine, ___,” she babbles, patting your head a little too aggressively. “Just, you know, don’t be too sad.”

“What are you on about?”

“Just stay here for a sec.”

“Eunji.” You force yourself out of her grasp.

She’s looking somewhere past you, eyes flickering toward the living room, but when she realizes you’ve caught on, she quickly averts her gaze. Too quickly. Suspiciously.

You turn around, scanning the area to find what she doesn’t want you to see.

Your tummy churns in an instant when you see it.

Jungkook.

Heading up the stairs.

With Nayeon.

Even in the hazy lighting of the party, he stands out – broad shoulders wrapped in a dark, well-fitted tee, his silver chain glinting against his collarbone. He moves effortlessly, the easy confidence in his stride something you know all too well. His hand rests low on Nayeon’s back, fingertips grazing the thin fabric of her dress as she leans into him, whispering something into his ear.

Your throat tightens.

Eunji shifts beside you, watching your reaction carefully. “Hey, maybe it’s not-“

“I’m gonna throw up.”

The words leave your mouth before you can even think. You grab Eunji’s cup and down the last of her drink, but the alcohol does nothing to wash away the bitter taste in your mouth.

Your eyes scan the room frantically. “Wasn’t Eunwoo somewhere here too?” You rise onto your toes, searching the sea of bodies. “I think I just need to get my mind off things.”

“Oh, no, no, no, no,” Eunji immediately cuts in, grabbing your wrist before you can make any rash decisions. “We are not doing this.”

“Doing what?”

She levels you with a look. “You are not about to make a dumbass decision just to get back at Jungkook. Not on my watch.”

“I really, really hate him right now.”

“I know,” she soothes. “But no petty comebacks for situations where we absolutely do not need to make fools of ourselves, yeah?”

Your brain is screaming at you to make Jungkook feel just as shitty as you do, to do something reckless and distracting, but deep down, you know Eunji’s right.

You steal another glance at the staircase. They’re gone.

The realization sinks in, and suddenly, the air in the frat house feels suffocating. The bass of the music thrums in your chest, the chatter around you blurring into an overwhelming hum.

“I need air,” you mutter, pushing past Eunji before she can stop you.

She sighs but doesn’t follow. She knows you need a moment alone.

You slip through the crowd, weaving your way toward the back door. The night air hits you instantly, cool against your heated skin, but it does little to settle the storm raging in your chest.

Leaning against the railing of the porch, you inhale deeply, forcing your nerves to settle.

This is fine.

“Can you promise you won’t puke on me?”

“I mean, I can, but I don’t know if I can keep the promise.”

You spotted Chanyeol with another guy—Jackson, you think—smoking and went over to chat with them. It wasn’t until they finished their joint that curiosity got the best of you. One thing led to another, and Jackson went inside to roll you one. Now, all three of you are standing outside, two pairs of curious eyes fixed on you.

“She’ll be fine,” Jackson says as he exhales a slow stream of smoke, watching it curl into the night air.

Chanyeol eyes you warily as he sparks up your joint. “I don’t know how much you drank tonight, but please tell me if you feel sick.” He holds it out for you.

You hesitate for half a second before taking it between your fingers. It feels weird, unnatural. “So I just…?”

“Inhale, but not too hard. Hold it for a second, then let it out,” Chanyeol instructs.

You follow his guidance, pulling in a slow drag. The taste is harsher than you expected, earthy and a little burnt, making you cough almost instantly.

“Classic first hit,” Jackson says, but it’s not as reassuring as he thinks. “Give it a sec.”

“How do you feel?” Chanyeol asks, watching you closely.

“Feels very icky,” you tell him, nose scrunched up. “But I’m feeling okay.”

“Yo, Jackson!” some dude yells from the back. Jackson disappears, leaving Chanyeol and you alone.

“You sure you’re fine?”

The night air feels heavier now, the music from inside muffled like you’re hearing it through a wall. Your fingers tingle slightly, warmth spreading through your limbs. You shift on your feet, suddenly hyper-aware of the way your body moves.

You blink at him. “I think my brain is moving slower than my body.”

He laughs. “Yeah, that happens. Just ride it out.”

You exhale, watching the smoke swirl in front of you.

“The fuck?”

Your head snaps toward the voice.

Jungkook stands a few feet away, brows furrowed, looking like he just walked into some kind of crime scene. His eyes flick between you and the joint in your fingers, then to Chanyeol, before settling back on you.

For some reason, your eyes wander to his hands. He’s probably touched so many things tonight, so many body parts. Did he wash them?

“The hell you’re doing?” Jungkook asks, walking towards you.

“Uhm, having fun?” you try, watching his frown deepen.

“This is not something you do, ___.” Jungkook directs his glare at Chanyeol. “Why the fuck would you give this to her?”

“Fuck, Jungkook, if you wanna be angry be angry elsewhere,” Chanyeol says, rolling his eyes.

“You fuck off,” Jungkook counters.

“As if you have never smoked.” Chanyeol raises his brows.

“I don’t smoke.”

“Trying to maintain a squeaky-clean image for those scouts who might be watching?”

“Mind your fucking business.”

“Jungkook, you’re being rude.” You turn to him, pointing a finger at his broad chest. “You’ve been going around, having fun yourself but can’t let other people have fun. That’s not nice of you.”

You stare up at him, a sullen pout on your mouth before pulling another slow drag and trying hard to not cough, but a small cough slips out anyway.

“Get that shit away, ___,” Jungkook demands, unimpressed by the smoke surrounding his face.

“Why do you care? Lemme have fun.”

“This shit fucks with your head.”

My brain’s already fucked, you think. Thanks a lot.

“It’s just weed?”

“Taehyung will lose his mind.”

“Is Tae with us now?”

Jungkook arches his brow.

“Oh, you wouldn’t.”

“Stop right now or I’ll call him.”

You hold his gaze, daring him. “You’re bluffing.”

Jungkook pulls his phone out of his pocket without hesitation, thumb hovering over the screen. “Try me.”

You wait, staring at Jungkook’s screen until he actually calls Taehyung.

Before the call can connect, you groan and shove the joint into Chanyeol’s hand. “God, fine, I’m done.”

He hangs up before Taehyung can answer.

You glare at him, but he only tilts his head toward the house. “Let’s get you some water.”

He guides you towards the house with his hand splayed across your side. At first, you shy away from his touch, mind racing with thoughts you’d rather not acknowledge. But as the night air presses cool against your skin, you let yourself relax, leaning into him slightly as you walk up the stairs.

“You’re so mean, you know that?” you huff.

“I’m just looking out for you,” he replies, in a softer tone than before.

“You didn’t have to be mean with Chanyeol. It wasn’t his weed. Chanyeol was actually very kind, made sure I was feeling okay-“

Jungkook stops at the threshold of the house.

“I’m gonna have a little chat with Jackson.”

“How do you know-“

His hand slips from your waist. He turns, leaving you standing on the porch, and disappears in the crowd.

Because that’s just easy for him – leaving you.

Why should he stay?

You don’t care.

And if you keep telling yourself that, maybe – just maybe – you’ll start to believe it.

Flash forward a week, and you can now say –proudly, with your full chest – that you do care.

You’ve never not cared. Pretended? Yes. But gotten over it? Not even close.

Which is why it’s not surprising that you find yourself at yet another party, drink in hand, scanning the room without meaning to. Or maybe you do mean to. Maybe you want to see him. Maybe you want him to see you. Maybe you want him to know that he didn’t get to you. Even though he did.

You’re sunk into the couch, surrounded by your friend group, half-listening as they go on about today’s hockey practice – boy gossip, oh how you love it.

“Coach told him he’s probably getting benched next game,” Jimin says, shaking his head as he leans back against the couch. “Too many penalties last match. Dumbass just keeps throwing hits for no reason.”

“That’s what happens when you let your ego get ahead of you,” Jin chimes in, stretching his legs out. “Coach is tired of his shit. And honestly? Fair.”

“I heard he almost fought Yoongi in the locker room,” Taehyung adds, arching a brow as he takes a sip of his drink. “Over something stupid too, like warm-up drills.”

“Swear to God, that guy needs to chill,” Jimin scoffs. “He’s got all the talent, but he plays like he’s trying to prove something every damn game.”

When Taehyung gets up to grab himself another drink, you catch him by the sleeve.

“Can you get me one too, please?” You hand him your empty cup.

Taehyung eyes the cup. “You’ve been drinking a bit more lately.”

“It’s just my second drink?”

His sharp eyes linger on you for a moment before he reluctantly takes your cup and walks off. He hasn’t missed the shift in your behaviour these past few weeks. You try to hide it, but there’s only so much you can do.

“Could say the same thing about Jungkook, though,” Jin says.

Jin’s words linger in the air, but you don’t dare react.

“Jungkook’s always been like that,” Jimin says, tipping his drink back. “Plays like he’s got something to prove, but I guess he kinda does. He wants to go pro, so it’s not like he can afford to slack off.”

It’s stupid, silly even, how easily his name can unravel you. How even when he’s not here, he’s everywhere.

“Isn’t your dad gonna come to the next game?” Jimin directs at you.

You shrug. “Maybe? I dunno.”

Given that your dad is an NHL executive, former team owner, he tries to find time in his busy schedule to attend the hockey games. The boys probably see him more than you do.

“Where is Jungkook anyway?” Hobi asks. “Is he gonna come over at all?”

Dear god, you hope, pray, he won’t.

You can’t live through seeing him disappear with another girl upstairs. You don’t have Eunji with you today to keep you from doing reckless decisions.

“He’d be all over Nayeon anyway. Doubt he’d even remember we exist,” Jin chuckles, unknowingly ruining the rest of your night.

The sound of their laughter grates against your nerves. The more you sit here, the more unbearable it becomes. The thought of him, of her, of what they could be doing, poisons your mind until you can’t take it anymore.

Taehyung returns, pressing a fresh drink into your hand. He barely gets a word in before his gaze sharpens. “You okay?”

You nod stiffly. “Yeah.”

“Liar.”

His voice is quiet enough that no one else hears, but it makes your stomach flip. He knows you too well. And if you sit here any longer, he’s going to drag the truth out of you, whether you like it or not.

So you stand abruptly, mumbling something about fresh air before slipping through the crowd, out into the cool night. The moment you’re alone, you let out a breath, pressing your fingers to your temples. It doesn’t help. Nothing does.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you pull out your phone, scroll down to the name you should ignore, and press call.

Jungkook answers on the second ring.

“Did you call me on accident?”

You ignore his question, your fingers tightening around your phone as you shift your weight from one foot to the other. Instead, you ask, “Are you gonna come to the party?”

“No, I have some assignments to do,” he answers, hesitantly. “Why’d you ask?”

“Are you sure?” Your eyes close, waiting for the confirmation that you won’t have to see things (Jungkook and a girl that isn’t you) that you don’t want to see (him hooking up with someone that isn’t you).

“Yeah, positive.” There’s a pause, and then he adds, “Is there something you don’t want me to see? Or—wait, are you just making sure I won’t be around to ruin your night?” Jungkook laughs and you realise how you’ve missed that sound. “It’s your lucky day. You won’t see my face poking around in the crowd. You can have fun.”

You frown at the nonsense he’s saying. He couldn’t be more off.

“No, you don’t get it.”

“What am I not getting?”

You stare into the night sky, the stars blurred by the city lights. You consider hanging up, letting the moment pass, but then you remember what Eunji told you. Talk to him. Get the discomfort out of the way.

“You know I’m not an insecure person.” You cross one arm over your body, rubbing your bare skin against the rising cold. “Like, I’m confident in who I am. I don’t compare myself to others because, y’know, I don’t care enough about stuff like that.”

“Yeah, of course I know that. You’re a confident girl. Have always been.”

“But you know what makes me go crazy?”

“What?”

“Seeing you with someone else.” The words slip out before you can catch them, but now that they’re out in the open, you can’t take them back. You don’t want to. Or – I dunno if it’s just that. I want you to want me. And you don’t. Which I get, I’ve been a bit shitty, so you deserve to want someone that isn’t like me, but – it just makes me go a bit insane, because I thought you did want me again the other night. At my place.” Your voice drops on the last sentence, barely above a whisper. “But then I see you with Nayeon and you just don’t care.”

You take a break, trying to organise your thoughts, but it’s fruitless because it’s just a tangled mess up there.

“Eunji said to talk with you but still give us a bit time, but oh my god I just want it to be okay between us again. I’m feeling so confused, and I don’t even really know what’s going on, but all I know is that I want things to be like before. When you still wanted me, and I wanted you and everything was good, easy,” you say, exhaling a helpless breath. “Do you think that’s possible?”

It’s silent for a beat. You don’t blame him – you couldn’t recite half the stuff that just poured out of your mouth.

“Fuck, ___.” He sounds a bit helpless himself.

Jungkook sighs on the other end, and you hear the faint rustle of fabric, like he’s shifting, maybe running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what to say to that,” he finally admits.

“Say anything,” you murmur.

“What do you want me to do, ___?” His voice is quieter now, more controlled, but there’s something simmering beneath the surface. “Stop seeing other people? Pretend like none of this ever happened? Or do you just want me to tell you that, yeah, I still want you?”

Your breath hitches. “Do you?”

“I thought I made that obvious,” he mutters. “But every time I think we’re on the same page, you pull away and act difficult. So, forgive me if I stopped trying to figure you out.”

“I don’t mean to act difficult.”

“Then why do you?”

You don’t have an answer. Or maybe you do, but you’re scared to say it.

Jungkook waits, but when you don’t respond, he lets out a dry laugh. “You know what’s funny? I wasn’t even gonna go to the party tonight. But now I kinda want to.”

“Why?”

“Maybe I wanna see what happens when you have to look me in the eyes.” His voice is lower now, rougher. “Because talking like this? It’s too easy for you.”

“No, don’t come.” You think of the worst-case scenario – arguing with Jungkook, him getting frustrated, turning to Nayeon because she’s easier, likes her more than you. And you couldn’t stand seeing that.

“Or maybe do, if you want,” you add, voice quieter. “I think I’m gonna leave anyway. Wanna go home.” Avoiding situations – your strong suit.

“How much have you had to drink?”

You stare at the untouched drink in your hand before lifting it to your lips. The sweetness hits first, masking the barely-there burn of alcohol (thanks, Tae). “Starting my third drink now.”

“I can walk you home,” he offers.

“It’s not a long walk to my place. You don’t have to.”

“I want to.” A rustle of movement on the other end before he adds, “On my way right now.”

“I’ll wait at the front for you.”

You weave your way back inside the house to find Taehyung, who’s still in the living room chatting with one of his teammates.

“Gonna go home, Tae,” you say, your voice cutting through their conversation. He glances up, distracted for a moment, before raising an eyebrow. “Also, here–” You hand him the drink he made for you. “This is not fun to drink at all.”

Taehyung rolls his eyes at your sassy comment but takes the cup from your hand. “Learn how to enjoy a party without getting drunk.”

“You tell me to get out of my room more, and when I do, this is what you say? Pick a side,” you grumble.

“Why do you wanna go home?” His fingers adjust the top of your strapless dress absentmindedly as he asks. “You okay?”

“Eh, just a bit bored.”

“We’re gonna play truth or dare in a bit,” Taehyung’s friend pipes up, raising his eyebrows in an exaggerated manner. “Maybe you should stick around.”

“I think I’ll skip,” you say. “But please do me a favour and fill me in on all the drama I’ll be missing out on.”

He winks at you. “Will do.”

“I’ll walk you home,” Taehyung says, stepping towards you.

You know he won’t allow you to go home by yourself, so you opt for telling him the truth. “Jungkook’s coming to take me home.”

“Jungkook?” he asks, surprised. “Did you call him?”

“Yeah, I asked him. Didn’t wanna annoy you. Go have fun doing...” You glance over at Jimin and Hobi, who are holding an impromptu drinking competition. Hobi’s attempting to chug straight from a bottle of something clearly too strong for him, while Jimin’s pretending to be the host of a weird, offbeat game show. “...whatever that is,” you finish, trying to hold back a laugh.

“You really can’t leave those two alone for a second, can you?” Taehyung lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Tell Jungkook to swing by here once he drops you off.”

“He didn’t sound like he was in the mood to stop by, but I'll tell him.”

“Text me when you get home, yeah?” he says over his shoulder, already walking back toward Jimin and a very much unconscious Hobi, who’s sprawled out on the couch looking like he’s had one too many rounds.

Jungkook finds you almost immediately. You barely have time to register his presence before he’s already slipping his zip hoodie over your shoulders, his hands smoothing over the fabric like he’s tucking you in for the night.

“You should’ve waited inside,” he mutters, fingers lingering at the collar like he’s seriously considering zipping it up for you too.

You swat his hands away, glancing around quickly. “Jungkook, don’t – everyone’s watching.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Who’s watching?”

You look over your shoulder. “I dunno. People.”

Jungkook huffs a laugh, stepping closer. “Right. Because me making sure you don’t freeze to death is so scandalous,” he jokes. “But smoking weed the other day was okay to do outside? With all the people there?”

“As a friend you’re supposed to forget my mess-ups, not remind me of them.” You huff, faintly remembering when you tried weed for the first time. You did puke that night. Luckily not on Chanyeol. “You didn’t have to come,” you grumble, even as you tug the hoodie tighter around yourself, his warmth and the faint scent of his detergent wrapping around you like a second skin.

“I know,” he says, tilting his head. “But I wanted to.”

And then, because he’s annoying, he reaches up and tugs the hood over your head, effectively swallowing half your face in fabric.

You let out a muffled noise of protest, pushing it back down immediately. “Stop that.”

Jungkook just grins, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he starts walking. “You look cute like that, though.”

You glare at him but fall into step beside him anyway, the hoodie still draped around you like it belongs there. The night air nips at your skin, but his warmth lingers, and you swear he notices the way you pull the sleeves over your hands like it’s yours.

“So…” His voice is quieter now. “What you said on the phone earlier.”

Your stomach twists. “What about it?”

“I just—” He starts, then pauses. “I don’t know what you want from me, ___. One second, you’re pushing me away, and the next, you’re telling me you can’t stand seeing me with someone else. You –” He falters, his voice catching slightly. “Do you even know what you want?”

“I know that you ruined me for other boys, for one,” you say, sighing deeply before you continue. “I want things to be like before,” you reply. “When everything wasn’t so…” You gesture vaguely. “Complicated. I don’t like this. And I don’t like how I feel when I see you with –” You cut yourself off before the name can leave your lips. He knows anyway.

Jungkook watches you carefully, hands still stuffed into his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched. “I wasn’t trying to rub anything in your face,” he says after a pause. “I didn’t think it’d… affect you.”

“Well, it did,” you say, a little too fast, a little too defensive. “And I hate that it did, because it’s not like I have a right to be mad about it.”

Jungkook tilts his head. “Don’t you?”

That stops you in your tracks.

Because – do you? You don’t know what this is, don’t know what you want from him except for more. More of his attention, more of his time, more of him. But not all of him, right? Because that would mean–

“God,” you mumble, rubbing your hands down your face. “Why are you making me say things?”

Jungkook chuckles, nudging your side. “You called me, remember?”

You groan. “Worst decision I’ve ever made.”

“Harsh.”

“Accurate.”

Jungkook lets out a short laugh, but then he’s quiet for a beat before he says, “Look, I don’t wanna play games. If you want me, then say it.”

You swallow. “I do.”

“But we don’t want each other like that,” he adds.

“Yeah, no.” You chew on your lip, pulling his hoodie tighter around yourself. “I just… don’t want to see you with other people. And I don’t want to pretend that it doesn’t bother me.”

“I don’t wanna see you with anyone else either.” Jungkook exhales, running a hand through his hair. “You want to keep fucking but be exclusive.”

You wince. “Could you not say it like that?”

“What, say it like the truth?”

You purse your lips, staring at him. “Is it a no?”

Jungkook doesn’t say anything for a second. Then, he sighs. “It’s not a no. I’ve been asking you for this, and you always pushed me away.”

“You know am not good with serious conversations. I like it when things are easy.” You cross your arms, trying to shield yourself, but your eyes can’t help but flicker towards him. “I don’t mean to push you away,” you admit. “I just– I get scared.”

His lips part slightly, like he wasn’t expecting that. And then – without a word – he reaches out, pulling the hoodie up so the zipper meets your chin, like he’s tucking you in.

Your heart trips over itself. “What are you doing?”

He grins, hands still lingering near your collar. “Making sure you don’t run away before you finish talking.”

“I wouldn’t run,” you protest.

Jungkook raises a brow.

“…Okay, maybe I would,” you mutter.

His grin softens into something fonder. “Well, you didn’t,” he says simply. “You’re talking to me now.” His thumb brushes over the fabric near your shoulder. “And I know that’s not easy for you.”

Your face grows hot. You roll your eyes, looking away. “Okay, don’t be nice about it.”

Jungkook laughs, bumping your forehead lightly with his. “Sorry, can’t help it. I’m proud of you.”

Your stomach flips. You shove at his chest. “Ugh. Shut up.”

He just laughs harder, catching your wrist before you can push him again. “Too late.”

You elbow him, but he catches your arm, smirking as he tugs you closer. “So that’s it?” His voice drops slightly. “You’re mine, and I’m yours, but we don’t call it anything?”

The words send a shiver down your spine. Mine.

“…Yeah,” you say. “Something like that.”

Jungkook hums, his grip on your wrist loosening but not quite letting go. His fingers brush against yours for a second before he shoves his hands back into his pockets.

“Just stay with me.” You glance at him. “Don’t leave.”

“I’ll stay. Don’t worry.”

You continue walking, the quiet hum of the streetlights and distant city noise filling the silence.

“Taehyung said he wants you to stop by at the party once you drop me off,” you tell Jungkook, letting the information hang in the air before you ask, “But hang out with me instead?”

“You know, I was doing very important things before you called.”

“You never do uni stuff and this is the day you’re deciding to do a personality rebrand?”

“What do you mean? I’m on top of my grades...Kinda.”

You huff at his response. “Then, I dunno. Wanna be nerdy together? I can help you with your assignment.”

You’re pretty sure your marketing major and fashion design minor won’t do much to help him with stats, but you’re definitely down to stick around just to be close to him.

“I don’t think you can, but being nerdy together sounds extremely intriguing, so come on.” He holds his hand out for you and drags you the other way around to his dorm.

It’s not far, just a few blocks over, but the way his fingers loosely wrap around yours makes the walk feel shorter.

Here’s how the rest of the night goes: Jungkook, the ever exemplary student, continues working on his assignment, while you – an accomplished liar who successfully deceived Jungkook into believing you would help him – pretend to help for all of five minutes before succumbing to the far more important task of online shopping for cute clothes.

It’s being nerdy together (your version).

Every so often, he glances at you, probably wondering if you’ll suddenly become useful. You do not. Instead, you kick your feet up on his bed, adding yet another item to your cart that you definitely don’t need.

Your thumb hovers over the screen, eyes locked on the top that has no business being so cute. A strapless, velvety pink crop top. The entire front is held together by a line of sparkling, rhinestone heart clasps, leaving slivers of skin exposed.

“Do you think this is cute?” You turn your phone toward Jungkook.

“Very pretty.” Jungkook nods in approval, until his eyes flick down to the price. “What the fuck, ___.”

“What?” Add to cart. “It’s cute, no?”

“You’re a terrible study partner,” he mutters, typing on his laptop.

“I never claimed to be one,” you say, scrolling past a top that you absolutely do need. “Isn't being in my presence motivating enough?”

Jungkook snorts. “Right. I’m so motivated by your commitment to retail therapy.”

“Good,” you say, adding another item to your cart. “Then I’m doing my job.”

You watch him work on his assignment, your gaze drifting to his hands resting on the keyboard. His fingers are long and lean, the veins running along his wrists just noticeable under his skin. It's like every little movement is getting your attention, and suddenly, all you can think about is how good those hands would feel on you.

“What about this,” you say, a ghost of a smirk dancing at the corner of your lips. “When you finish your task, we can look through some lingerie. You can help me pick out a few things.”

The back of Jungkook’s head hits the wall. His eyes wander to the mirror on the opposite side of the room. You catch him staring – specifically at your propped-up legs, his gaze lingering a little too close to where your dress has ridden up, just enough to reveal a peek of lace.

“Hey, no peeking,” you scold, snapping your legs shut and stretching them out flat on his bed again, smoothing your dress down for good measure. “That’s also for later, when you finish your assignment.”

Smirking, you shift on the bed, just to test him.

“Must be so hard,” you muse, pretending to stretch as your dress slides just a little higher on your thighs. “Having a mirror right there, nowhere else to look.”

He scoffs. “If I wanted to see, I wouldn’t need a mirror.”

Jungkook doesn’t break eye contact, like he’s daring you to react. And maybe you should. Maybe you should roll your eyes, call him cocky, say you wish – but your brain isn’t working fast enough to form words.

“Remember how I fucked you against it?”

In his jersey. How could you forget?

And the way Jungkook’s lips twitch, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, makes your face heat up instantly.

“When has it become so easy to make you shy?”

“I’m not.” You glare at him, but it only seems to amuse him more. His lips quirk higher, that same infuriating twitch like he’s enjoying this way too much.

You sit up straighter, leaning forward just enough so your dress pulls a little higher on your thighs, the movement slow and deliberate.

Jungkook’s eyes move to your legs, and you see that flicker of desire flash across his face. His fingers twitch, like he wants to do something – anything – but he stays still.

“Wanna have a little taste to get some motivation to finish your work?” you tease, the giddy rush that heated your body fading as you flash him a mischievous smile.

“Anything to distract me from this shit,” he replies, already pushing the laptop off his lap, the screen still filled with charts and statistics problems. Ugh.

You shift to your knees and grab the back of his neck, crashing your mouth against his. He deepens the kiss a little, his lips soft against yours, the taste of him sweet and familiar. His breath mingles with yours, warm and steady. His hand lands on your waist, fingers lightly tracing the curve of your body.

You pull back just a little, eyes fluttering open to meet his, and for a second, you both just smile at each other, breathless and giddy.

“Should’ve been doing this instead of staring at those charts,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing your cheek as he gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

You laugh softly, heart fluttering, before kissing him again – this time with more confidence, more warmth. His arms wrap around you, pulling you closer as if he can’t get enough. His touch is gentle, but you can feel the quiet desperation behind it.

His rosy lips are swollen after a few more minutes of kissing and touching and grinding.

You slide off the bed and drop down to the floor, your hands running over his thighs, silently urging him to move closer. He shifts toward you, letting out a sharp breath when your palm him through his grey sweatpants.

You want to start of slow, want to take your time, but you’re also so needy and greedy for him, that you can’t help but tug his sweatpants down his legs, along with his briefs.

You take his semi hard dick in your hands and begin to stroke him. You let a drop of spit fall onto his cock for lubrication.

Jungkook puffs out a deep breath. You want to hear more of that.

“What happened to a little taste?” he asks, barely able to contain the moans that leave his mouth.

“Can’t help it,” you shrug, watching him grow bigger and harder in your hand.

His hand reaches for the hoodie he gave you earlier, which was carelessly thrown on his bed. He places it gently on the floor in front of you.

“Sit here,” he says, smoothing out the fabric. “Don’t want your knees to hurt.”

You shuffle your knees onto his hoodie, adjusting yourself, and continue stroking him up and down. At some point, you use both of your hands. You missed feeling his heavy cock in your hands, sitting beneath him and just playing with him.

“Spit on it, baby,” he says, voice low as he grabs his cock by the base and holds it for you to spit on. “Good girl.” He watches you with hooded eyes rub your spit all over him, mixing it with the precum leaking from his tip.

His cock is shiny, glistening with veins adoring his length. You stick out your tongue, gently swiping it over his head. Jungkook hisses when you swirl your tongue around his tip, teasing him with slow moves. He strokes himself while you play with his tip.

“Missed this view.” He pulls away his cock and starts slapping it against your tongue, the heavy feeling and wet noises immediately making you press your thighs together. “Look so pretty on your knees. Such a pretty girl.” Jungkook slides his head into your mouth. “Suck, baby.”

You close your mouth around his cock while you lock eyes with him. Slowly taking him deeper until you can’t take more. Your eyes are already watery and you didn’t even get most of him inside your mouth. You bob your head up and down in a slow, leisure pace.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he praises, threading his fingers through your hair to push it away from your face. “Relax your throat for me, yeah?”

When you do, he presses his hand on the back of your head, pushing your down on his cock and forcing you to swallow nearly half of him. Jungkook lets out a pretty moan when he feels the tightness of your throat around his cock, closing his eyes for a moment. Tears sting your eyes when he pulls you back, your hands gripping his thighs for leverage.

He lets you catch your breath before pushing you down again, moving your head in a tempo to his liking. When he shoves his cock particularly deep into you, you gag, tears rolling down your cheeks. You’re an absolute mess when he pulls out.

“What a good girl you are,” Jungkook says, his voice hoarse and low. “You just love sucking cock, don’t you?” He rubs his sticky cock against your mouth before slapping his head against it. He moves to your right cheek, smearing the mess over your skin and lightly tapping his cock. “Hm, princess?” he asks softer, almost with fake sympathy. He raises his brows in question, looking down at you like there’s just you and no one else.

“Love it so much,” you agree, moving your head along to the mess he’s making on your face.

Putting his cock back into your mouth, Jungkook leans back, watching you with pleasure etched into his expression as you move your head swiftly, twisting your hand around the part you can’t reach.

“So good,” he mutters, his tatted hand against your cheek just to feel you.

You tug your dress down and bring his cock down to your tits. You spit between the valley of your tits, using his tip to catch it and spread it across your boobs. You moan when his head brushes over your perky nipples. You circle his cock around them in small movements, breathy puffs escaping your mouth with how sensitive you are.

“You’re so fucking hot.” Jungkook fondles one breast with his hand, kneading it with his long fingers. He lets a little drop of spit fall onto your chest too, hungrily watching as you rub it against your soft skin with his cock. “Just want a mess everywhere, right?”

You nod, dragging his cock back into your mouth because you just need to taste him.

Jungkook curses under his breath when you start playing with his balls with your other hand. “Fuck, baby. Gonna cum if you keep going.”

Music to your ears.

You continue, swirling your tongue around his cock as you move up and down, trying to go as deep as you can. You can tell he doesn’t want to cum yet, but he doesn’t drag you off his cock, he’s too needy and horny.

“Cum on my tits.” You shift, jerking his cock in front of your chest.

“You want me to?”

“Please,” you beg, pushing your tits together with your arm, looking up at him with big eyes.

He moans at that sight, spurts of cum shooting across your chest. He paints your tits white with a big load. Your mouth hangs open slightly at the cum dripping from his cock. You lick his cock clean before looking down at your tits.

“You came so much.” You hold your tits in your hands. You flick your finger through some of the cum, putting it in your cum afterwards.

“Fuck, ___, please.”

You giggle at his reaction. You rub the cum into your skin with his still hard cock before it can drip down and create and even bigger mess. Your tits are all shiny from his cum when you’re done.

A shaky breath bubbles from Jungkook’s mouth when you stroke him once more, for good measure. “Pretty sure you got every drop.” He taps your elbow, motioning for you to get up. “Come here.” He pats the bed. “Get on all fours for me.”

While you get comfy on your knees on his bed, he takes off his clothes. Jungkook pushes your dress up your ass, the fabric bunched around your waist.

Jungkook slides one finger between your legs, slowly tracing your pussy through your panties.

“My dick in your mouth got you so wet, huh?” He pushes your panties aside, uttering a soft groan at the sight of your slick pussy. “So needy for me.” He bends down and you can feel his breath on your folds.

“Jungkook, please,” you whine.

“Please?” he repeats. “Such a well-mannered girl.” His tongue darts out, licking a stripe across your pussy.

You’re so incredibly sensitive, been yearning for this for so long, that you back arches immediately, thighs starting to quiver at Jungkook’s mild torture with his tongue.

Jungkook moves to your clit. He switches from little flicks to your nub and sucking on it, creating wet and filthy noises. He’s skilled with his mouth – perhaps a bit too skilled for your liking. But right now, you don’t have the energy to think too deeply about it, you’re just focused on the tingling pleasure that shoots through your tummy.

“Right there, Kook. Don’t stop.”

You watch him through the mirror – the way he is keeping your cheeks apart with his hands, face buried between your thighs, fluffy hair bouncing along with his movements. So handsome, so pretty, so yours.

“Pussy tastes so fucking good,” He mumbles, his fingers sinking deeper into your skin.

“So close. Wanna cum, Jungkook.”

Jungkook hums against you, the vibration making your breath hitch. It’s just his mouth on your pussy, but he knows his way around, knows how to make you squirm.

The pressure builds, winding tight in your core, seconds from snapping. “Jungkook,” you gasp, voice wrecked. “I’m–”

He groans into you, gripping harder, and that’s it—that’s all it takes. The tension in your body breaks all at once, pleasure hitting so hard your vision goes hazy. A choked sound spills from your lips, legs trying to squeeze shut, but he doesn’t let you. Just stays there, working you through it, dragging it out until you’re nothing but shivers and gasps, completely undone beneath him.

Only then does he pull back, breathing heavy, lips slick and swollen. He looks up at you through the mirror, something dark, almost possessive in his gaze, and swipes his thumb over his mouth like he’s savouring the taste.

You look back at him, smiling at his shiny face. His lips are covered along with his chin and his nose and a bit of his cheeks.

“This is, like, one of your best looks.”

“What, fresh out the pussy?”

You giggle. “Yeah,” you mutter, swiping your finger over the tip of his nose to clean him.

“I could have my face buried down there forever. I don’t think you realise how good you taste.” You feel his finger spreading your folds. “But I know my girl is very needy, so she wants cock, hm?”

You sigh, melting into his touch when you feel him slap his dick against your pussy instead. “You know me so well.”

The dick slaps are so wet, and your haze-filled mind craves nothing more than for him to shove his cock inside you, raw and deep, filling you the way you need – no barriers, no hesitation.

But Jungkook is actually able to still form sensible thoughts through the horny haze and grabs a condom from his nightstand.

He doesn’t tease you much before he enters you, just slowly, inch by inch, sliding his cock inside you.

��You good, baby?”

“Uh-huh, you can move.”

You gasp, the feeling almost overwhelming but exactly what you wanted. His hands grip your hips, pulling you back toward him as he starts a steady pace from behind, each thrust making your head spin.

“Missed this pussy,” Jungkook rasps, sneaking one hand down to your ass to spank it, eliciting a surprised moan from you. “So tight, so perfect.” He grabs a handful of your ass. “So mine.”

He fucks you rough, doesn’t give you any chance to think of anything but him. Your hands are clutching at his covers, holding the fabric tightly in your palms.

You feel him spit down on your ass. He rubs his finger over your puckered hole, making you whine and bite your lip at the feeling.

“Oh, Jungkook.” He slides his thumb inside, just the tip of his finger, and yet it feels like so much more, the pleasure intensifying.

“You’re such a slut for me, aren’t you?” he asks, not stopping his relentless pace. “Love getting all your holes filled. So, so dirty.” Contempt is dripping from his voice, and you can’t help but have your pussy throbbing at that.

“Just for you,” you breathe. “Just you, Jungkook.”

“That’s, right.” He pushes his thumb a bit deeper, making your fingers tighten around Jungkook’s sheets. “You’re my girl.”

Your heart is racing, pulse pounding in your ears, and all you can do is nod, your body responding to him without thought, your need for him overwhelming.

With his other hand he tugs at your hair, wrapping it around his hand and creating a makeshift ponytail.

“Look at how pretty you look.”

You turn your head to the mirror. Your back is fully arched, and Jungkook’s all over your, his muscled and tatted body towering over you with his cock deeply buried inside your pussy.

He withdraws his thumb from your hole, delivering another spank to your ass.

“Make me go fucking crazy,” he mumbles, wrapping his hand around your tummy and pulling you up against his chest.

“Kook,” you mumble, resting your head in the crook of his neck. You don’t know what you want, only that you’re feeling this irresistible pull to him, like you want to be even closer to him.

He lets your hair go, moving his hand to your tits and squeezing them.

“Cum with me,” he whispers into your ear, immediately sending shivers down your spine. “Look at yourself when you cum, baby. Want you to see how pretty you are.”

When he sneaks his hand that was wrapped around your tummy down between your legs and starts flicking his fingers over your clit, it’s officially over for you.

You still try to keep your eyes open like Jungkook told you so as you teeter off the edge, your climax consuming you. You watch him come undone too, his brows knitted together, and bottom lip caught between his teeth.

You’re weak on your knees, but Jungkook keeps you firm to his chest, not letting fall as he thrusts into you in a slower, sloppier pace. He peppers your neck and shoulders with little kisses, and you giggle a little, delirious on your high. Your hand reaches for his bicep and you squeeze it.

His skin is hot under your touch, muscles flexing as he holds you up, keeping you steady against him. The slow drag of his movements sends waves of overstimulation through your body, but you don’t pull away.

“I know, baby.” Jungkook hums against your shoulder, his lips still ghosting over your skin, pressing lazy kisses between heavy breaths. “Still with me?” he murmurs, voice low, teasing, as his fingers brush down your sides.

You nod, melting further into him, body pliant against his.

Jungkook pulls out. You whine at the loss. He tosses the condom on the floor – you're too spent to tell him how gross that is – and shifts on the bed, lying down together with you.

His arm drapes over your waist, pulling you close, your body naturally moulding into his like it’s second nature. His skin is still warm, his breaths deep and steady as he settles beside you.

You glance down on yourself – you’re a mess. Panties still on, just pulled to the side like he liked, dress bunched around your waist, evidence of him all over you.

“Can I take a shower before I leave?”

“Sure.”

You wait.

You look up at Jungkook. “You’re not gonna ask if you can join me?”

“I thought that was clear?”

You smile. “Good.”

“Hey – will you now tell me what you wrote in your journal about me?”

“I know we’re back to being friends with benefits, but please know your place.”

“It was worth a try.”

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clover-the-awesomest · 2 years ago

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THIS DPOESNT MEAN WE AINT GETTIN AN UPDATE TODAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I SAW THE SNEAK PEAK AND I AM N O T R E A D Y

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Me: okay, the update is almost ready. Huh all I need to do is some writing

My brain: but what if……listen….but what if we make it longer?

#Guys prepare yourselves #HGDVSWHFUYGDHJSOUIDCFUQGDHIJAXICID I AM SO NOT READY #Also just fyi I came back from dinner chanting “Cass update Cass update Cass update” like a psycho cuz I knew it's tonight #I am so excited but also just. Not ready. At all.#Gonna be keepin tabs on Cass's blog all night istg #blog/ask stuff #cass apocalypse au

1K notes · View notes

enhaflixer · 6 months ago

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psh - king of tears.

Chaebol Husband!Sunghoon | Queen of Tears AU FULL FIC

📌 summary: your marriage to park sunghoon was supposed to be a fairytale—until it wasn’t. now it’s cold stares across the dinner table, separate bedrooms in a mansion too big for the both of you, and divorce papers waiting to be signed. you were ready to walk away. he let you. so why does he look at you like he’s the one who lost everything?

word count: 20K genre: angst | slow burn | second chance romance | marriage in crisis | Queen of Tears AU | SMUT ANGST FLUFF (in that order) content warnings (explicit, minors dni!): a marriage falling apart but neither of you can let go, divorce papers as a weapon but neither of you sign them first, staring at an empty side of the bed and pretending it doesn’t hurt, pregnancy, watching him struggle alone but being too proud to help, , high society pressure, and pretending everything is fine when it’s not, angst-heavy sex (sex while crying, sex while angry, sex while pretending it doesn’t mean anything) "we’re supposed to be over, so why are you still fucking me like you love me?" breathless, mentions of a miscarriage, desperate sunghoon (bc when he breaks, he breaks) sunghoon is sick, weak, exhausted—but still strong enough to pin you down "i don’t love you anymore." // "then stop moaning my name.", luxury penthouse sex but it’s tragic, a hand around your throat but it’s not just about control—it’s about possession, he fucks you like he’s trying to remind you who you belong to, aftercare that isn’t really aftercare bc he still won’t say he loves you,

The room is filled with laughter, delicate clinks of fine china and crystal flutes, and the low hum of a jazz quartet playing something elegant and forgettable in the background. The city’s elite have gathered here tonight—not just business moguls, but socialites, investors, and politicians, all dressed in designer labels, all engaged in carefully curated conversations.

The air is thick with power and wealth, a reminder of the world you and Sunghoon exist in. A world where appearances matter more than emotions, where a marriage is not just about love, but about status, about alliances.

You’re used to this now—the expectations, the smiles, the weight of scrutiny disguised as admiration. You’ve mastered the art of being Park Sunghoon’s wife.

Sunghoon stands beside you, dressed in a sleek black suit, looking every bit the composed, untouchable CEO that people admire and envy in equal measure. His features are as sharp as ever, but there’s something distant in his gaze, something almost clinical in the way his hand rests lightly against the small of your back.

To an outsider, it’s a gesture of affection. A claim. A reminder that you belong to each other.

To you, it’s just for show.

"Smile."

His voice is low, quiet enough that no one else hears. It’s not a request. It’s a command.

Your lips curl into something effortless, something practiced. It’s not real, but it doesn’t need to be.

"Ah, our favorite couple has arrived," a familiar voice calls from across the room.

Turning toward the source, you’re met with the warm but calculating gaze of Chairman Park, Sunghoon’s father. His mother stands beside him, dressed immaculately as always, a refined smile on her lips.

"We were wondering when you two would make your grand entrance," she says smoothly, reaching out to take your hands in hers.

Her grip is light, delicate. Deceptive.

"You look beautiful, dear," she adds, her sharp eyes scanning you from head to toe.

You already know she’s assessing. Cataloging. Comparing you to the polished, obedient daughter-in-law she expected you to be.

Sunghoon’s father, however, has other interests.

"You’re glowing tonight," Chairman Park remarks, taking a sip of his whiskey. His eyes crinkle slightly at the edges. "It must be a sign that we’ll be hearing good news soon."

You barely have time to process his words before another voice chimes in—one of Sunghoon’s aunts, a woman who has made it her life’s mission to interrogate you at every family gathering.

"Yes, yes!" she gushes, already leaning in as if she’s about to hear a confession. "It’s been what? three years since the wedding? We were just saying the other day how we still haven’t heard any news!"

There it is. The question that always comes, in one form or another.

The polite, well-mannered, socially acceptable way of asking: Why haven’t you given him a child yet?

You see it before you hear it—the way Sunghoon’s fingers tighten around his champagne flute, the subtle twitch in his jaw. But he doesn’t say anything.

Of course, he doesn’t.

So you do what you always do. You smile. You deflect. You play your part.

"Work keeps us busy," you say smoothly, taking a slow sip of champagne. "There’s still so much we want to accomplish first."

The aunt clicks her tongue, shaking her head. "Ah, but what’s all this success without a family to share it with?"

You feel it then—the weight of your in-laws’ eyes on you, the expectation pressing against your ribs like an iron cage.

Sunghoon’s mother hums, a soft, carefully measured sound. "Children bring a different kind of happiness," she says, voice light but laced with meaning. "Of course, it’s ultimately your decision… but I do hope you aren’t waiting too long."

Another aunt leans in, faux sympathy dripping from her tone. "There aren’t any problems, are there?"

It’s a dagger cloaked in silk. The insinuation. The unspoken judgment.

You don’t have to look at Sunghoon to know he’s bristling beside you. You can feel the tension in his silence.

Still, he says nothing.

The moment stretches, uncomfortable and suffocating. And then—

A soft laugh. Controlled. Collected.

Sunghoon turns his head slightly, his expression unreadable as he finally speaks.

"We appreciate your concern," he says, voice smooth as glass. "But when we have something to share, you’ll be the first to know."

There’s nothing in his tone that suggests anger, but the way his mother’s lips press together ever so slightly tells you she’s caught the warning beneath his words.

The conversation shifts, flowing into another topic, but you no longer hear it. You’re still holding your champagne flute, fingers gripping the stem a little too tightly.

Sunghoon doesn’t look at you. Not even once.

The meal is extravagant, an elaborate showcase of wealth and refinement. Each course is served with meticulous precision, arriving in waves of delicate flavors and carefully plated masterpieces. Crystal glasses remain full, refilled before they ever have the chance to empty, while waitstaff glide through the room with the kind of quiet efficiency that only comes from years of training. Around you, conversation flows as smoothly as the wine, punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter from tables where people have had just enough to drink to let their guard down.

The atmosphere is lively, engaging. A room filled with the kind of people who measure success in numbers and influence rather than in anything tangible like love or happiness.

You and Sunghoon don’t speak.

It isn’t new.

It’s been months—maybe even longer—since you’ve had a real conversation. These events used to be something you faced together, an exhausting but necessary part of maintaining appearances in your world. There was a time when he would lean in close, whisper something wry against the shell of your ear just to make you laugh, his hand resting on your thigh beneath the table as a silent reminder that, no matter how long the evening stretched, you would leave together.

Now, his presence beside you feels like nothing more than habit. The weight of expectation.

To everyone else, you are still Park Sunghoon’s wife—flawless and poised, an extension of his success, the perfect image of a woman who belongs at his side. But to each other, you are barely anything at all.

You watch as he listens intently to the conversation at hand, nodding along as one of his board members drones on about upcoming market trends. His features remain unreadable, his fingers steady as he lifts his glass to his lips, sipping at his wine without a second thought. His ability to be present yet completely unreachable is something you once admired about him. Now, it’s something that drives you insane.

At some point during the meal, while the conversation has drifted toward a discussion on recent company acquisitions, a new voice cuts through the air.

"You remember Soojin, don’t you?"

It’s not a question so much as a strategic opening, delivered with the practiced ease of a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing.

You shift slightly, already knowing where this is going before you even turn your head. Sunghoon’s mother is smiling, her expression warm and pleasant in the way that only someone raised in high society can master. It is a look that has fooled many, but not you. You’ve spent too many years in her presence to mistake it for anything but a well-placed maneuver.

Her gaze flickers toward a table across the room, drawing your attention to the woman seated there. Soojin.

She is beautiful in the way that women in your world are expected to be—polished, refined, her makeup flawless, her hair styled to perfection. The kind of woman who commands attention without even trying.

The kind of woman Sunghoon’s mother would have preferred as her daughter-in-law.

"Her father’s company just finalized a deal with ours," she continues, lifting her glass to her lips. "It’s an impressive partnership."

You say nothing.

She doesn’t need you to.

"She’s always been such a sweet girl," she adds, her smile never faltering. "Smart. Beautiful. And her family is so well-connected."

The words are light, conversational, but the weight of them is suffocating.

She doesn’t say it outright, but the message is clear.

You are not the only option.

There are women who would make the perfect Mrs. Park—women who would be better suited for the role, who would know how to uphold the family name, who would understand the responsibilities that come with being married to someone like Sunghoon.

Women who would not have made the mistakes you did.

Your grip tightens around your fork.

You keep your expression neutral, refusing to react. You won’t give her the satisfaction. You won’t let her see that the words sting in a way they shouldn’t, that they burrow beneath your skin, scraping against wounds that never quite healed.

"I’m aware," Sunghoon says, finally setting his wine glass down with deliberate ease.

Two words. Nothing more.

His mother studies him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she smiles again, as if the moment never happened.

The conversation moves forward.

You exhale slowly, setting your glass down, your fingers still curled around the delicate stem. No reassurance. No defense. No effort to correct what was just implied.

I’m aware.

A bitter taste lingers on your tongue, but you swallow it down, lifting your chin slightly as you redirect your attention to the meal in front of you.

You already know how this night will end. The same way it always does. With silence.

The moment you step inside the penthouse, the carefully constructed facade of the evening begins to crumble. The sterile glow of the overhead lights does little to ease the weight pressing against your chest, the silence between you and Sunghoon thick with something sharp, something unsaid.

You hear the quiet rustle of fabric as he shrugs off his suit jacket, draping it over the arm of a chair before undoing the first few buttons of his dress shirt. His movements are methodical, controlled, as if he’s following a script that no longer holds any meaning.

You should keep walking. You should disappear into the bathroom, wash the night off your skin, lock yourself behind a door like you have so many nights before. But instead, you linger, fingers still curled around the strap of your bag, your gaze tracing the familiar lines of his back, the tension in his shoulders.

"You didn’t say anything."

The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. Your voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it, a challenge buried beneath the exhaustion.

Sunghoon doesn’t turn. "About what?"

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. "About what?" you repeat, laughter bubbling up, bitter and humorless. "About your mother. About your aunts. About all of them sitting there, questioning me like I’m some failed investment."

A pause.

Then, finally, he glances over his shoulder. "What did you want me to say?"

The way he says it—steady, detached, devoid of any real curiosity—makes your stomach twist.

"Anything," you say, because that’s the truth of it. You just wanted something.

His lips press together briefly before he turns back toward the dresser, rolling up his sleeves. "It wouldn’t have changed anything."

And there it is.

That unbearable indifference.

The quiet, unshaken finality of a man who has already made peace with his own silence.

It shouldn’t feel like a slap to the face, but it does.

"You never fight for anything," you whisper, voice barely audible over the hum of the city outside.

He doesn’t say a word, but you can feel it—the way his gaze trails over your bare skin, the way his fingers twitch at his sides, like he’s holding himself back.

It only takes a step. One step forward, and everything snaps.

His hands are on you before you can think—gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him, the heat of his body bleeding into yours. His mouth crashes against yours, rough, unyielding, a kiss that isn’t sweet or tender, but desperate, punishing. You gasp against him, your fingers tangling in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp as he presses you back against the dresser.

"You always do this," he mutters against your lips, his breath hot, his voice sharp. "Come to me when you need to forget."

You don’t answer.

You don’t need to.

His hands slide up your thighs, pushing them apart with ease. He’s impatient, reckless, fingers slipping beneath the lace of your panties, dragging them down before you can protest. A sharp inhale leaves your lips as he presses two fingers against your clit, circling slow, teasing, just enough to make your hips jerk forward.

"Already wet," he muses, dragging his fingers through your slick folds. His tone is mocking, but his voice is hoarse, strained. "That desperate for me?"

You bite down on your lower lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. But your body betrays you, hips rolling against his hand, chasing the friction that he’s refusing to give.

Sunghoon chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. Just something bitter, something dark.

Without warning, he presses two fingers inside you, stretching you open with a slow, deliberate pace. Your breath hitches, nails digging into his shoulders as he curls his fingers, stroking the spot that makes your knees tremble.

"You can pretend all you want," he murmurs against your throat, his lips trailing down, teeth scraping against your skin. "But your body knows who it belongs to."

His free hand moves to your chest, fingers tweaking your nipple, rolling it between his fingers before his mouth replaces them, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin. You arch into him, a whimper slipping past your lips, your thighs tightening around his wrist.

"Sunghoon," you gasp, a plea or a warning—you’re not sure.

He pulls away, his fingers slipping from you, leaving you empty and aching. Before you can protest, he turns you around, pressing your front against the cool surface of the dresser, his body crowding you from behind. His hands roam your body, over the swell of your ass, down to your thighs, spreading them apart as he presses the hard length of his cock against your heat.

You exhale sharply as he grips your hips, dragging the tip of his cock through your folds, coating himself in your slick before pressing forward. The stretch is sharp, deep, and you gasp, gripping the edge of the dresser as he sinks into you, inch by inch, filling you completely.

"Fuck," he groans, his fingers tightening against your hips, like he’s barely holding himself together.

He gives you a second—just one—before he pulls back and thrusts into you again, setting a brutal, relentless pace. Each movement is rough, deliberate, the sound of skin against skin mixing with the soft, breathy moans slipping past your lips.

The dresser rattles beneath you, your body rocking with each thrust, and you can do nothing but take it, the pleasure sharp and consuming. Sunghoon grips your hair, pulling your head back as he leans in, his breath hot against your ear.

"Let them keep talking," he mutters, voice ragged, punctuated by the snap of his hips.

Your breath catches, your walls clenching around him at his words.

Sunghoon lets out a low groan, his thrusts growing deeper, sharper, his fingers moving back to your clit, rubbing slow, torturous circles. The tension coils tighter, your body burning, unraveling beneath him.

"Cum," he murmurs, his voice softer now, breathless.

And you do—pleasure washing over you in waves, your thighs shaking, your moan muffled as he presses a hand against your mouth, keeping you from making too much noise.

He follows soon after, his grip tightening, his cock pulsing inside you as he groans low against your shoulder, spilling into you with a shudder.

For a moment, there is only silence.

Then, just as expected, he pulls away.

Rolls onto his back.

Says nothing.

You stare at the reflection of yourself in the dresser mirror—flushed skin, swollen lips, empty eyes. You should leave. You should.

But you don’t.

Instead, you slip beneath the covers, curling away from him, pressing your knuckles against your mouth to keep yourself from shaking.

Because tonight, at least, you don’t want to feel alone.

The morning is quiet.

You wake up to an empty bed, the sheets beside you already cold. The absence of warmth shouldn’t bother you—it hasn’t in months—but today, it does. The ache in your body from the night before lingers, a dull, throbbing reminder of something you wish you could forget.

For a moment, you stay still, staring up at the ceiling, tracing the patterns of light and shadow that spill through the curtains. The penthouse is bathed in soft gold from the rising sun, a warmth that contrasts the cold emptiness beside you.

There was a time when mornings like these meant something. When you’d wake up tangled in Sunghoon’s limbs, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns along your back, his lips pressing lazy kisses against your shoulder. When the weight of his body against yours felt grounding instead of suffocating.

Now, there’s nothing but space.

You take a slow breath, blinking against the dryness in your eyes before finally sitting up. The silence is deafening, the type that only exists in places too large for two people who no longer belong to each other.

When you step out of bed, your legs feel unsteady, soreness creeping up your spine. You ignore it. You move toward the bathroom, turning on the sink, splashing cold water on your face as if it’ll rinse away the heaviness in your chest. It doesn’t.

Your reflection stares back at you, eyes slightly swollen, lips faintly bruised from the way he kissed you last night. You press your fingers against them, swallowing down the memory of his touch, of the way his hands had held you so tightly as if he could keep you from slipping away.

But he didn’t.

He never could.

By the time you make your way downstairs, the smell of freshly brewed coffee lingers in the air. The sight of Sunghoon sitting at the dining table shouldn’t make your stomach tighten the way it does. He looks like he always does—effortlessly composed, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand while his other scrolls through his phone.

Like nothing happened.

Like last night was just another night.

The illusion of normalcy almost makes you hesitate. Almost.

Instead, you step forward, setting the folder down on the glass surface of the table with a deliberate thud. The sound cuts through the silence, drawing Sunghoon’s attention as his eyes flicker up to meet yours.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t react, just studies you for a moment before his gaze drifts downward to the document between you.

Divorce Agreement.

His fingers pause against the rim of his coffee cup.

"Where were you?," you say, your voice steady, carefully controlled.

"Work," he replies, taking a slow sip of his coffee.

You cross your arms, exhaling through your nose. "You knew this was coming." Your voice is measured, even, despite the tightness in your throat.

Sunghoon finally sets his mug down with a soft clink, his expression unreadable. "I did."

"Then sign them."

A long silence stretches between you. You hold your ground, standing tall, watching as he leans back slightly in his chair, his fingers idly tapping against the surface of the table. He doesn’t look at the papers, just at you.

"You really want this?"

The words are simple. Too simple.

You hate the way they make your stomach twist. Hate the way your throat tightens because this shouldn’t be hard. This shouldn’t be something that makes your hands curl into fists at your sides.

"Yes."

His lips press together briefly before he exhales through his nose. Without another word, he pulls the folder toward him, flipping it open, skimming the terms with the same impassive ease he applies to every contract he reviews at work.

For a second, your breath catches.

You almost expect him to argue, to fight, to say something—anything.

But he doesn’t.

Not when he turns the page. Not when his eyes flicker across the fine print. Not when he reaches for the pen beside him.

And then—

He stops.

His fingers hover over the paper, the tip of the pen barely touching the page. Then, instead of signing, he clicks the pen shut and sets it down.

The air in the room shifts. Your stomach twists.

"Not tonight." His voice is smooth, final.

You blink. "What?"

He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest, his expression completely unreadable. "I’ll think about it."

Something in your chest tightens, frustration curling in your throat. "Think about what?" You gesture to the papers between you. "This isn’t something that needs consideration, Sunghoon. This is happening. It’s already over."

His gaze darkens slightly, but his face remains composed. "Then why are you still here?"

Your breath catches.

Because you haven’t left yet. Because some part of you still needs this conversation. Because some part of you is waiting for him to say something that changes everything.

The silence stretches, heavy and unbearable. His fingers drum against the glass once, twice, before he reaches for his whiskey glass instead, taking a slow sip. His lips part slightly, as if he’s about to say something, but then he just shakes his head.

"You’ll have them back tomorrow."

But you already know—he won’t sign.

Not tomorrow. Not the next day. Maybe not ever.

Park Enterprises runs on three things: money, power, and the ability to avoid Park Sunghoon and his soon-to-be-ex-wife in the same room at all costs.

This isn’t an official company policy, but if you asked anyone—from the executives to the janitorial staff—they’d all agree: keeping their two highest-ranking officials away from each other is the best way to ensure the company doesn’t collapse in on itself.

This is why, over the past few months, a silent, unofficial, yet highly efficient system has developed.

It begins every morning.

6:45 AM: Sunghoon arrives, coffee in hand, barely glancing at the receptionist before disappearing into his office. If he sighs immediately upon entering? Bad day. If he slams his office door? Get the emergency evacuation plan ready. 7:15 AM: You arrive, headphones in, already on a call, looking like you’re mentally preparing for battle. If you greet anyone? Good day. If you walk straight to your office without making eye contact? Avoid, avoid, avoid. 7:30 AM: Your PA, Nishimura Riki, updates the "Safe Zones" list. Any floor occupied by both you and Sunghoon is immediately deemed a no-go area.

By 9 AM, the "Daily Avoidance Protocol" is in full effect.

Incoming text: 📲 [Riki → Legal Team] 🚨 Sunghoon spotted near the finance department. Legal team, take the back elevators. DO NOT, I REPEAT, DO NOT TAKE THE MAIN LOBBY.

Incoming text: 📲 [Sunoo → Executive Team] 🛑 Your boss is stomping through the 18th floor like a woman on a mission. She just told an intern to "never, ever look that stressed in front of her again" and I don’t think she was joking.

Incoming text: 📲 [Riki → Sunoo] i heard ur boss threw his pen at the wall this morning lol wtf did u do to him

[Sunoo]: nothing yet but im about to stir the pot for fun.

[Riki]: bet.

And then, of course, there’s lunch.

There used to be a time—back when things were different, when things were better—when you and Sunghoon would eat together. Now?

Now, entire lunch routes are planned out in advance to make sure the two of you never end up in the same restaurant, let alone the same hallway.

Incoming text: 📲 [Sunoo → Riki] Depressed male boss is heading toward the rooftop restaurant. tell ur people to evacuate the 10th floor cafe IMMEDIATELY.

Incoming text: 📲 [Riki → Legal Team] 🚨 ABORT. ABORT. DO NOT GO TO THE CAFÉ. I REPEAT, DO NOT GO TO THE CAFÉ.

By 3 PM, most employees think they’ve made it through the day safely. Until they check the meeting schedule. And realize. There’s a joint executive-legal meeting scheduled at 4:30 PM. Which means.

They have to be in the same room.

The boardroom at Park Enterprises is a high-stakes battlefield.

The executives and legal team are already seated, carefully keeping their faces neutral, their eyes trained on the reports in front of them. No one dares to speak. Everyone is pretending to be busy, flipping through documents they’ve already memorized just to avoid being caught in the crossfire of what is about to happen.

At one end of the table, Sunoo twirls his pen lazily between his fingers, a small, knowing smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. Across from him, Riki updates the betting pool on his phone, typing at lightning speed while shooting occasional glances toward the door.

It’s only a matter of time before the two storm fronts collide.

The first arrival is you.

You stride in with effortless confidence, shoulders squared, back straight, file in hand. Your heels click sharply against the polished floors, announcing your presence before you even reach your seat.

You don’t acknowledge Sunghoon’s presence.

Your team watches as you settle into your chair, flipping open your folder with a level of precision that makes it very, very clear you are not in the mood for incompetence today.

Riki immediately clocks the stiffness in your posture. He subtly pulls out his phone under the table, fingers flying over the screen.

📲 Incoming text: [Riki → Legal Team] boss lady is MAD mad. don’t make eye contact, stay low, survive.

Barely thirty seconds later, Sunghoon walks in.

He doesn’t look at you.

Instead, he exhales sharply as he takes his seat, flipping open his laptop with measured ease, his expression unreadable. The sound of his pen clicking open is the only thing that breaks the silence.

he just sighed. that’s a bad sign. let’s all start praying now.

For the first ten minutes, everything is fine.

Reports are reviewed, revenue projections are discussed, and for a fleeting moment, there’s the illusion of normalcy. You make your points with cool efficiency, and Sunghoon listens without interruption.

"The merger contract," one of the executives finally says, carefully glancing between the two of you like he’s about to light a match in a room full of gasoline.

You don’t hesitate. You already know where this is going.

"The terms still require legal review," you state, flipping to the necessary section in your file. "The current liability clauses remain too vague for approval."

Sunghoon doesn’t even look up from his laptop. "The legal team has had two weeks to finalize those clauses."

Your brows lift slightly. "And yet, they’re still a problem. Imagine that."

The temperature in the room drops.

Sunoo, who had been casually taking notes, suddenly stops writing. His eyes flicker between you and Sunghoon, realization dawning.

Riki, seated to your right, visibly winces. His grip on his pen tightens before it slips from his fingers and rolls off the table.

Sunghoon finally looks up, his dark eyes meeting yours with quiet intensity. "You’re delaying a time-sensitive deal over minor details."

Your lips curl, the faintest hint of amusement playing at the edges. "Minor details? You mean, like, the ones that could potentially cost us millions in damages?"

His jaw tightens. "There’s a deadline for a reason."

"And there’s a reason you need my approval before proceeding," you counter, tone perfectly composed. "Which, let me remind you, you don’t have yet."

The silence that follows is deafening.

Sunoo leans back in his chair, murmuring to Riki under his breath. "They’re fighting in full sentences today."

Riki nods slowly, still typing. "This is worse than last week’s passive-aggressive email exchange."

Sunghoon exhales sharply, sitting back in his chair. His fingers drum once—just once—against the table before he speaks again.

"Fine," he says smoothly, but his tone is sharp. "Take another day. No more than that."

You hum thoughtfully, feigning consideration as you flip another page in your file. "I’ll let you know if that’s feasible."

Sunoo, who is now openly grinning, tilts his phone toward Riki.

📲 Incoming text: [Riki → Legal Team] the CEO looks like he wants to kill someone but is trying to stay professional. ten bucks says he slams his laptop shut first.

📲 Incoming text: [Sunoo → Executive Team] LMFAO he just clenched his jaw so hard I think he cracked a tooth.

Your heels click against the polished floor as you walk further in the penthouse, but you don’t call out for him. You don’t need to. You already know where he is.

The scent of whiskey lingers in the air—subtle, but unmistakable. Your eyes land on Park Sunghoon, sitting on the couch in the dim light of the living room, his posture relaxed, one arm draped over the back of the cushions, his other hand resting near the glass of amber liquid on the coffee table. His tie is loose, the first few buttons of his dress shirt undone, his sleeves rolled up as if he’s been here for a while, waiting.

But that isn’t what catches your attention.

The divorce papers sit between you on the glass surface.

Untouched.

Your throat tightens as something bitter and exhausted coils low in your stomach. You set your bag down near the door with more force than necessary, the sound sharp against the silence. You’re tired—of the fights, of the push and pull, of this thing between you that refuses to die no matter how much you try to smother it.

"You haven’t signed them." Your voice is level, controlled, giving away nothing. But inside, your pulse is unsteady, your fingers curling into fists at your sides.

Sunghoon doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he reaches for his whiskey, taking a slow sip, his movements measured, deliberate. When he sets the glass back down, the faint clink against the glass table feels deafening in the quiet room. His gaze lifts to yours, dark and unreadable, his expression betraying nothing.

"No."

The single word lands between you like a gunshot.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, nails pressing into your palms as frustration flares up in your chest. "Sunghoon—"

"Say it."

His voice is quiet, but the weight of it cuts through the space between you with an edge sharper than steel.

You frown slightly, tilting your head in question. "Say what?"

His eyes remain steady on yours, holding you there, unrelenting. There’s no coldness in them, not like there usually is, but something deeper, heavier, more dangerous.

"Say you don’t love me anymore."

The air in the room thickens, growing heavy with something suffocating, unbearable.

It should be easy.

You should be able to say it, to lie through your teeth and tear the last fraying thread between you. You’ve spent months trying to unlove him, convincing yourself that walking away is the only choice left.

But the way he’s looking at you now—the way his fingers ghost over the edge of the divorce papers but never actually touch them—it makes something sink deep in your chest, twisting into something that feels like regret.

Your jaw tightens, shoulders drawing stiff, as you inhale slowly through your nose. "Don’t do this," you murmur, voice quieter now.

Sunghoon leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees, the corner of his mouth curling into something resembling a smirk, but there’s no amusement behind it. "Do what?"

Your pulse hammers against your ribs as anger rises in your throat, sharp and bitter. "Pretend to care when you never did."

Something snaps.

Fast. Brutal.

Before you can react, you’re on the couch, pinned beneath him, Sunghoon’s hand wrapped around your throat.

Your breath catches as your back presses into the cushions, your pulse stuttering beneath his fingers. The grip isn’t tight—not enough to hurt—but just enough to hold you there, to remind you exactly who he is.

His face is close, too close, his breath warm against your lips, his jaw clenched so tight you can see the tension in every muscle. His gaze flickers between your eyes, searching, burning, filled with something dark and raw.

"You think I never cared?" His voice is low, rough, dangerous in a way that sends heat curling through your stomach.

Your body tenses, then melts, as his other hand trails up your thigh, fingers barely skimming your skin, teasing, not touching where you need him to.

"You think I don’t want you?" His breath is uneven now, his fingers tightening just slightly around your throat before loosening again. His thumb brushes along the side of your neck, slow, deliberate. His body is pressed against yours, solid and warm, every inch of him so close, too close, not close enough.

Your fingers wrap around his wrist, nails pressing lightly into his skin, grounding yourself, grounding him. Your breath is shaky when you speak, barely above a whisper. "I think you don’t know how to want me without ruining me."

A muscle in his jaw ticks.

For a second—just a second—he looks wrecked.

Then, his grip tightens.

Your breath stutters, a soft gasp slipping past your lips as heat pools low in your stomach. His lips brush against your ear, his voice lower now, rough, a quiet warning.

"Tell me to stop."

You should.

Sunghoon waits, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, his fingers tightening around your waist, his grip flexing against your throat just enough to make your pulse quicken.

"You won’t, will you?" His tone is almost amused, but there’s something darker underneath, something that sounds almost like relief.

You shake your head.

And then his lips crash into yours.

The kiss is deep, hungry, filled with everything you’ve both been pretending doesn’t exist. His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your sides, pulling you closer like he wants to memorize the shape of you all over again.

Your fingers tangle into his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp, and he groans into your mouth, his body pressing you further into the couch, his knee parting your thighs. His hands slide under your dress, rough palms trailing against your skin, teasing, making you ache.

"Still wet for me," he mutters, voice dark, breathless. His fingers slip beneath your panties, dragging over your soaked folds, slow and deliberate, just to prove his point.

You whimper against his mouth, thighs trembling as he strokes you, not giving you what you need, just teasing, just pushing you closer to the edge.

"Sunghoon," you gasp, a plea, a warning.

He smirks against your skin, lips pressing against your throat, sucking at the sensitive skin before sinking two fingers into you, curling just right.

"You hate me, remember?" His voice is taunting, wicked.

Your back arches, hips rocking against his fingers, chasing more, chasing him.

Your breath comes out in shuddering gasps as you whisper the only thing you can manage. "I hate you."

Sunghoon lets out a breathless, bitter laugh.

"Liar."

"That’s not how we do things at Park Enterprises, Mrs. Park," Sunghoon muses.

He leans back in his office chair, fingers tapping against the polished surface of the table. The way he says it is deliberate, lazy, like he’s testing you.

The meeting room is as usual, closer to World War 3 (total destruction edition) than a collaborative good-vibes-only space.

You still, fingers curling slightly against the stack of legal briefs in front of you. The flicker of heat that rushes through you isn’t fondness—it’s pure irritation.

"Don’t call me that." Your tone is measured, sharp.

Sunghoon’s lips twitch, but there’s no humor in his smirk. "Habit."

Your gaze hardens, your nails pressing into the contract as you slam it down in front of him.

"Then break it."

The entire room freezes.

Sunoo, seated two chairs down, makes a sound that might be a laugh but immediately covers it with a cough. Across from him, Riki subtly slides his phone out to update the betting pool on how long this fight is going to last.

The tension only thickens when Sunghoon reaches for the contract, flipping through the pages like he isn’t remotely affected. His expression is smooth, almost bored, but you don’t miss the way his jaw tightens just slightly.

"You seem invested in this," he muses, signing his name on the margin like he’s humoring you. "Why? Worried about my financial well-being?"

You exhale slowly, forcing down the irritation curling in your chest. "No. I just don’t like being dragged into your reckless decisions when you know I’ll have to clean up your mess later."

Sunghoon’s eyes flick up to yours. There’s something there, something sharp, dark, something that makes your stomach twist.

"You always do," he murmurs. "Clean up after me."

You refuse to react, refuse to let him see that he’s getting under your skin. Instead, you push back your chair, standing with a level of poise that takes effort.

"I don’t work for you, Sunghoon," you remind him, voice cold. "I work for the company."

His lips press together, but he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t tell you you’re wrong.

Because you aren’t.

📲 Incoming text: [Sunoo → Riki] he just flexed his fingers like he wanted to throw the pen LMFAO ur boss literally just called him reckless in front of the entire room. this is peak entertainment.

📲 Incoming text: [Riki → Legal Team] ceo looks ready to commit murder. we might need security.

📲 Incoming text: [Sunoo → Executive Team] he just sighed through his nose. we are in DANGER.

The morning sun spills into Park Enterprises, painting streaks of gold across the marble floors of the top executive offices. Everything looks pristine, polished—exactly the way Sunghoon keeps it. But today, something is off.

You push open the heavy glass door to his office without knocking, a thick stack of contracts tucked under your arm. Your heels click against the floor with precise, deliberate steps, each one punctuating the tension lingering between you.

Without hesitation, you slam the folder onto his desk.

“You’re going to sign this,” you declare, arms crossing over your chest, voice clipped, firm.

Sunghoon doesn’t respond right away.

You expect the usual pushback—some sarcastic remark, a knowing smirk, the casual dismissal of your concerns—but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he stays where he is, leaning against the edge of his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened just enough to suggest exhaustion. His fingers press lightly against the smooth wood surface behind him, as if steadying himself.

He looks off.

Not tired—Sunghoon is always tired. But off.

You narrow your eyes. “What, no argument?”

He blinks at you, slowly, like it takes more effort than it should. His grip on the desk tightens briefly before he exhales, dragging a hand through his already tousled hair.

"Are you okay?" The question leaves your lips before you can stop it.

Sunghoon finally reacts, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips—small, forced. “Worried about me now?”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “I just don’t want you dying in my office.”

He chuckles, but the sound is weak, quieter than usual. He straightens up, shifts his weight slightly, but the way he moves is wrong—like he’s trying too hard to make it look effortless.

"If I did," he murmurs, "I’d haunt you."

Normally, that would be enough to pull an eye roll out of you. Maybe even a snarky remark. But something about the way he says it makes your stomach tighten.

You watch him carefully. The way his fingers flex against the desk. The slight tension in his shoulders. The way his smirk falters at the edges.

Sunghoon has always carried himself with control—measured, deliberate, never showing a single crack in the façade. But right now, standing in front of you, he looks off balance.

The last time he looked like this, the last time he held himself together just a little too well, something had been wrong then too.

Something you didn’t realize until it was too late.

The memory presses at the edges of your thoughts, but you push it down.

“Maybe you should sit down before you do something stupid,” you mutter.

Sunghoon raises an eyebrow, clearly amused, but he does exactly that. He sinks into his chair, rolling his shoulders, letting out a slow breath before picking up the contract.

“Relax,” he says, flipping through the pages. “I’ll sign your stupid paperwork. No need to get sentimental.”

Your jaw tightens, irritation curling at the edges of your concern. “I’m not being sentimental. I just don’t want to deal with the PR disaster when you inevitably collapse.”

Sunghoon lets out a quiet huff of laughter, but the way his fingers drift to his temple, pressing lightly, does not go unnoticed. He rubs at the tension there, eyes briefly fluttering shut before he shakes his head, pushing through whatever is bothering him.

“I’m fine.”

You don’t believe him. But you don’t push. Because the last time you did, you lost.

It had been late.

Past midnight. The city outside your bedroom window was still awake, alive with light and movement, but inside, the world had gone silent.

You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, exhaustion pressing into your chest like a weight you couldn’t lift. You weren’t crying. You had already done that. There was nothing left inside you except emptiness.

Sunghoon lay beside you.

Awake. Motionless. Silent.

His back was turned to you.

And the worst part, the part that haunted you even now, wasn’t that he hadn’t said anything.

It was that when you had reached for his hand, he had let you hold it.

But he hadn’t held yours back.

The memory lingers even as you push it away.

You watch Sunghoon as he picks up the contract, flipping through the pages with minimal interest. His fingers tighten slightly when he turns each page, like he’s holding back something.

Pain. Fatigue. Something worse.

"You look like shit," you say finally, leaning against his desk, arms crossed.

Sunghoon hums, barely glancing up. “Charming as always.”

"You should get checked out."

He snorts, shaking his head. “If I wanted medical advice, I wouldn’t take it from my ex-wife.”

"Not ex yet."

And for some reason, as you turn to leave, you can’t shake the feeling that you just missed something important.

The Park family never asks for favors.

Not officially, at least.

It’s always subtle, always wrapped in polite smiles and casual requests, laced with just enough manipulation to make refusal feel impossible.

Which is why you’re seated in the Park family’s private lounge, sipping tea that’s gone cold, listening to Sunghoon’s mother and his uncle discuss the delicate legal situation that has suddenly become your responsibility.

“It’s just a small thing,” his mother insists, waving a dismissive hand as though corporate fraud allegations against one of their subsidiary partners are a minor inconvenience rather than a full-blown lawsuit waiting to happen.

You keep your expression neutral, fingers laced neatly over your knee. “It’s not a small thing,” you correct evenly. “You’re looking at a serious case of financial misrepresentation, and if this isn’t handled properly, it could affect all of Park Enterprises. This isn’t something I can just sweep under the rug.”

His uncle chuckles like you’ve just told a particularly amusing joke. “Oh, we know that, dear. That’s why we’re bringing it to you.”

Dear.

You resist the urge to tense, keeping your posture composed.

Because this is what you’ve become to them.

Not a daughter-in-law. Not family.

A lawyer first, a liability second.

“You’ve always been so good at handling these sorts of things,” his mother adds, smiling that elegant, carefully practiced smile that never quite reaches her eyes. “And with your position at the company, it only makes sense for you to oversee it personally.”

Of course. Personally.

They won’t trust this kind of thing to an outsider. But they also won’t officially involve you, because that would mean compensation, responsibility, accountability.

Instead, they’ll let you handle it just enough to clean up their mess. They’ll let you do the work, bear the stress, and take the fall if things go wrong.

And Sunghoon?

Sunghoon won’t say a word.

You glance to your left, where he’s seated quietly, fingers tapping lightly against the rim of his coffee cup. He hasn’t spoken once since this conversation began.

Not to defend you. Not to refuse. Not to say anything at all.

Just… silent.

Your fingers tighten around the folder in your lap.

“I’ll review the case,” you say finally, voice clipped, controlled. “But I won’t guarantee anything.”

His mother beams, reaching forward to squeeze your hand like you’ve just agreed to Sunday brunch, not to clean up yet another one of their family’s legal disasters.

“I knew we could count on you,” she says sweetly.

Sunghoon still says nothing.

Not when his mother praises you.

Not when his uncle jokes about how lucky Sunghoon is to have married such a “resourceful” woman.

Not when the conversation finally ends, and they rise from their seats, leaving you with a stack of documents, a heavier workload, and a headache that has nothing to do with legal strategy.

It isn’t until you’re alone with him in the car, on the drive back home, that you finally let your frustration boil over.

“So that’s how this works now?” Your voice is flat, gaze fixed on the city lights outside the window. “Your family gets into trouble, and I’m the free labor you offer up to fix it?”

Sunghoon exhales, tilting his head back against the seat. “It’s not like that.”

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “No? Because from where I’m sitting, it sure as hell feels like it.”

His fingers flex against the steering wheel. “You’re the best lawyer they know,” he says after a beat, like that somehow makes it better. Like that somehow makes this okay.

You turn to look at him, eyes narrowing. “And that’s all I am, isn’t it?”

He went back after dropping you off.

His mother had barely glanced up from her tea. “She’s always been so difficult,” she sighed, setting the cup down with a delicate clink. “It would be easier if she simply cooperated without arguing every little point.”

Sunghoon’s jaw had clenched at that.

His uncle had smirked, shaking his head. “Women like her are sharp, but they forget that they’re meant to—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

The room had gone silent.

His uncle blinked, raising a brow. “Excuse me?”

Sunghoon had leaned forward slightly, voice measured but laced with something dangerous. “You don’t get to talk about her like that.”

His mother frowned slightly, but the warning in his expression kept her from speaking.

His uncle, however, wasn’t as quick to read the room. “She’s my niece-in-law, I can—”

“She’s not yours anything,” Sunghoon cut in, tone sharp. “And the next time you speak about her like that, you won’t like how I respond.”

His uncle had scoffed, muttering something under his breath about being too soft on a woman who clearly didn’t respect her place, but the discussion didn’t go any further.

Because Sunghoon had stood up, buttoning his suit jacket, gaze level.

“You wanted her help?” he had said coldly. “You’ll take what she’s willing to give. And if she decides she’s done dealing with your bullshit, you won’t push her. Understood?”

The first sign that something is wrong comes in the form of silence.

For the past few days, Sunghoon has been more irritable than usual. Not outright angry, not obviously upset, just… distant. He works longer hours, avoids unnecessary conversations, and brushes off every single instance you or his team ask if he’s okay. It’s nothing new—he’s always had a habit of overworking himself into exhaustion, pushing himself too hard, acting invincible even when he’s clearly not.

You’re used to it.

But today, something feels different.

Maybe it’s the way he barely acknowledged you in the morning meeting, his focus wavering during discussions where he’s usually sharp. Maybe it’s the way his grip tightened just slightly around his pen, like he needed to steady himself. Maybe it’s the way he looked at you—like he wanted to say something, but chose not to.

Or maybe it’s the way his entire office is empty when you pass by hours later, and his assistant, Sunoo, is nowhere to be found.

You stop in your tracks.

"Where is he?"

Riki looks up from his phone, startled by your sudden appearance at the executive floor. ��Uh—meeting with finance, I think?”

You frown. “No, that ended an hour ago.”

Riki hesitates. He knows better than to lie to you. “He wasn’t looking too good earlier.”

Your stomach twists.

He’s been pushing himself too hard. You knew this would happen.

You spin on your heel, already moving before you can second-guess yourself.

When you find him, he’s exactly where you feared he’d be.

Collapsed on the floor of his office.

Sunghoon is slumped against the base of his desk, one hand still loosely gripping his chair, as if he had tried to stop himself from falling. His usually sharp, polished composure is completely gone—his dress shirt is slightly undone, his face pale, sweat beading along his brow. His breathing is shallow, his eyes half-lidded like he’s barely clinging to consciousness.

The sight of him like this—weak, vulnerable, not in control—makes something in your chest tighten painfully.

"Sunghoon," you breathe out, dropping to your knees beside him. Your hands hover over him for a second, uncertain, before you press against his shoulders, shaking him lightly. “Hey. Hey, look at me.”

His head tilts slightly, his gaze flickering to you, but it’s unfocused.

“…What are you doing here?” His voice is quiet, hoarse, like he’s barely holding onto himself.

Your heart pounds in your ears. “Shut up.” You tilt his chin up, searching his face, trying to assess just how bad this is. He’s too pale, too warm, and his breathing is far from steady.

"I’m fine," he murmurs, trying to push himself up, but his body betrays him. His limbs shake, his strength is gone, and before he can fall again, you catch him.

That’s when panic sinks in.

You barely register the way your arms tighten around him as you yell for help, your voice sharp, commanding. Within moments, Riki and Sunoo are rushing in, Sunoo already pulling out his phone to call an ambulance.

"Sunghoon, stay awake," you demand, your fingers brushing against his cheek. “Do you hear me? Stay awake.”

His lips curve slightly. Even now, he’s trying to smile.

“Bossy,” he mutters.

Your throat tightens. “Shut up and breathe.”

The hospital smells like antiseptic and exhaustion.

The waiting room is too bright, too cold, too suffocating. The dull hum of fluorescent lights buzzes overhead, mixing with the distant beeping of heart monitors and the low murmur of voices at the nurse’s station. You sit motionless, staring at the tiled floor, your arms crossed so tightly that your nails press crescents into your palms.

It’s been hours since they rushed Sunghoon in.

Riki and Sunoo are still here, but neither of them speaks. They hover nearby, their presence a quiet weight in the room, but they know better than to say anything. Everyone knows better than to say anything.

Finally, footsteps approach. A doctor stops in front of you, flipping through a clipboard. “Are you here for Park Sunghoon?”

Your breath catches. You rise immediately, ignoring the stiffness in your limbs. “Yes.”

“He’s stable for now,” the doctor says, voice calm and professional. “We ran some tests, but given his symptoms, this isn’t just exhaustion. He’s been dealing with this for a while, hasn’t he?”

Your stomach twists.

He’s been hiding this.

The doctor’s gaze softens slightly. “Are you his wife?”

The word cuts through you like a blade.

You swallow. Legally, yes. Emotionally? You don’t know anymore.

“Yes,” you say, the word tasting strange on your tongue.

The doctor nods. “Then I need to speak with you privately.”

The hospital room is suffocating.

It smells sterile, like antiseptic and something cold, something lifeless. The overhead lights cast a dim glow over everything—too bright, too harsh, too unforgiving. The heart monitor beside the bed beeps in slow, steady intervals, but Sunghoon’s breathing is anything but steady.

He looks wrecked.

His skin is too pale, washed out under the fluorescent glow. His lips are dry, colorless. There’s sweat clinging to his hairline, dampening the strands against his forehead. His fingers tremble where they rest against the blanket, curling slightly like even the fabric is too much to hold onto.

And yet, despite all of it, despite the exhaustion weighing down his body and the fever burning beneath his skin, he still looks at you with something sharp, something unyielding, when you demand the truth.

“How long have you known?”

Your voice is stretched too thin, raw from exhaustion and something deeper, something you don’t want to name.

Sunghoon exhales, closing his eyes for a second like it physically pains him to answer. When he finally does, his voice is quiet, hoarse from fatigue.

“Six months.”

The words sink into you like stones.

Your hands tighten around the metal bedrail, your grip so tight your knuckles go white. Your chest constricts, something ugly twisting inside of you, something that makes your stomach curl in on itself.

“Six fucking months?”

Sunghoon drags a trembling hand down his face, but even that looks like it takes too much effort. His body is failing him, but his voice is still there, still cutting, when he lets out a soft, bitter laugh.

“Would it have changed anything?”

Your breath catches, something sharp and painful ripping through your chest.

You let out a short, humorless laugh, something hollow and unfamiliar.

“Yes.”

Sunghoon finally looks at you, but there’s something haunted in his gaze. A long, unbearable silence stretches between you before his jaw tightens, his voice lowering, turning quiet, cutting like a blade against your skin.

“Did it change anything when I tried to hold you after we lost them?”

The air leaves your lungs.

You freeze, your entire body locking up, the grip you have on the bedrail so tight it screeches beneath your fingertips.

Sunghoon watches you carefully, but there’s no fight in his face, no anger, no bitterness.

Just exhaustion.

And pain.

Your voice barely makes it out. “You never tried.”

His breath catches.

“I did,” he murmurs, voice raw.

Your throat tightens.

“No, you didn’t.” You take a step forward, your pulse hammering, hands shaking. “You shut down. You let me—” Your breath hitches, your voice unsteady. “You let me go through it alone.”

Sunghoon doesn’t argue. He just looks away.

And that’s somehow worse.

“You acted like it never happened,” you whisper, the words barely holding themselves together. “Like they never happened.”

Sunghoon’s chest rises sharply, his fingers twitching, his breathing growing uneven again. His entire body stiffens, but he doesn’t push back.

And then, voice hoarse, shaking, wrecked,

“You think I didn’t care?”

Your hands curl into fists, but before you can say anything, before you can even process what’s happening—

Sunghoon moves too fast.

He tries to stand up, tries to close the space between you, but his body betrays him.

His IV yanks painfully, the needle shifting against his arm, and the wires attached to the monitor tangle around his wrist, pulling tighter when he moves. His breath stutters in pain, his fingers weakly gripping the sheets, but he doesn’t stop.

“Sunghoon,” you snap, eyes widening in alarm. “Sit the fuck down.”

But he doesn’t listen. He tries again to push himself up, stumbling slightly, and this time, his knees give out.

You barely catch him in time.

“Jesus Christ,” you hiss, gripping his arms as his entire weight collapses against you. His body burns under your touch, too warm, feverish, his breathing erratic. His head nearly falls against your shoulder, his body too weak to hold itself up.

His fingers clutch at the fabric of your blazer, something weak, something desperate.

And then—voice wrecked, hoarse, shaking—

“I named them.”

Your entire world tilts.

You go still.

Sunghoon doesn’t move, his forehead nearly pressed against your collarbone, his breath warm and shaky against your skin. His grip tightens, even as his body trembles.

“What?” Your voice barely makes it out, caught somewhere between disbelief and something worse.

“Every night while you were asleep next to me, I whispered their names silently. I prayed for them.”

Sunghoon exhales shakily. His legs shake beneath him, his chest heaving, his entire body drained. He’s burning up, sweat sticking to his temple, his breath shallow.

You grab him by the arms, shaking him slightly. “Say their names.”

Sunghoon winces, he shakes his head ‘no’ his face twisting like the words are physically painful to say. He exhales sharply, breath ragged.

“Say their names, Sunghoon.”

His fingers tighten around your sleeve, his whole body trembling under your touch. For a moment, he just stares at you, like saying it out loud will finally break him.

Then, barely above a whisper, like it’s being torn from him—

“Eunha and June.”

Your stomach drops.

Sunghoon exhales sharply, his entire body slumping like he just let go of something he’s been carrying for years.

“I used to imagine who they’d look like more,” he whispers, his voice so thin, so hollow. “If Eunha would have had your eyes. If June would have had my smile.”

Your throat tightens painfully.

“I wondered if they would have fought like us,” he exhales shakily, his fingers flexing around the fabric of your sleeve. “If they would have been close. If they would have had your fire. If I would have been able to protect them.”

His next breath is ragged, breaking.

“They were my girls.”

Your stomach twists.

His voice isn’t just sad. It’s grief-stricken. It’s empty.

“Mine,” he murmurs. His fingers twitch at his sides, the life draining from his voice as his chest rises and falls too quickly. “Mine and yours and no one else’s.”

A sob breaks past your lips, full and desperate and wrecked.

Before you even realize what you’re doing, you pull him in.

Sunghoon immediately folds into you, his arms wrapping around your waist weakly, his face burying itself into the crook of your neck.

He’s burning up, feverish, barely staying upright.

Your hands press into his back, feeling the too-thin frame of him, the exhaustion pulling at his body, the heat radiating off him in waves.

Neither of you speak.

For the first time in years, there is nothing left to say.

You wake up feeling… off.

Your neck aches, your back is stiff, and there’s a strange, rhythmic beeping that’s far too loud for this early in the morning.

It takes a second to register where you are.

The hospital.

Sunghoon.

The entire night before crashes into you all at once. The fight. His fever. The names. The fact that you never left.

Your stomach tightens. You should have left. You should have walked out the second he fell asleep. That was the plan.

And yet, somehow—you didn’t.

Before you can sit up, the door swings open.

“Well, this is unexpected.”

You jump, blinking blearily as Sunoo steps inside, two cups of coffee in hand, his eyes scanning the room with just a little too much interest.

He doesn’t immediately say something annoying, which means he’s definitely about to.

You shift in your chair, sitting up straighter, clearing your throat. “Morning.”

Sunoo doesn’t move, just looks at you. Then at Sunghoon, still asleep in the bed. Then back at you.

Finally—he lets out a small hum. “You stayed.”

It’s not judgmental. It’s not even teasing, really—just surprised. But for some reason, it makes you feel weirdly defensive.

“He had a fever,” you mutter, shifting under his gaze. “It was high. I didn’t think he should be alone.”

Sunoo nods. “Right.”

You hate how knowing he sounds.

Before you can scowl at him, Sunghoon groans, shifting slightly in the bed. His brow furrows, his body tensing for a brief moment before his eyes crack open.

And you know the exact moment he registers Sunoo’s presence—because instead of groaning in pain like a normal sick person, he exhales sharply, eyes barely open but already full of irritation.

“The fuck are you doing here?” His voice is rough, hoarse from sleep, but still so unmistakably Sunghoon that it’s almost impressive.

Sunoo lets out a small laugh, shaking his head as he grabs his own coffee. “Ah, there he is. Same old personality, even after nearly dying.”

Sunghoon barely cracks an eye open before exhaling sharply, pressing his head back against the pillow. “Go away.”

Sunoo, wisely, does not go away.

Instead, he takes a slow sip of his coffee. “I mean, technically, I work here. It’s my job to check on the CEO.” His gaze flickers toward you. “But wow. Look at this. The dedicated wife, staying by his side all night. It’s like something out of a drama.”

You groan, pressing your fingers to your temple. “Sunoo—”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he says, setting Sunghoon’s coffee on the bedside table. “I won’t tell the office too much. But, you know… people talk. Betting pools exist.”

Sunghoon slowly turns his head toward Sunoo.

And in the flattest, most deadpan voice imaginable, he says—

“You’re fired.”

Sunoo chokes on his coffee. “What?”

Sunghoon doesn’t even blink. “Pack your shit.”

“You wouldn’t survive a week without me,” Sunoo mutters, taking another sip.

Sunghoon closes his eyes, like he’s physically holding himself back from committing a crime.

You watch this exchange, unimpressed. “Are you two done?”

Sunoo gestures at Sunghoon. “Tell him. He’s the one being dramatic.”

Sunghoon’s eyes flick open again. “You barged in here at eight in the morning.”

“Nine,” Sunoo corrects. “And technically, I knocked.”

Neither of you remembers a knock.

Sunghoon takes a long, deep breath. “I still feel like shit. And the very first thing I see when I wake up is you. Running your mouth.”

Sunoo hums. “Okay, grumpy.”

Sunghoon glares.

Sunoo clears his throat, wisely changing the subject. “Anyway. You have the day off, obviously, but I have your morning reports whenever you’re—”

“I don’t care.”

Sunoo nods slowly. “Right. Well. I also have—”

“I still don’t care.”

Sunoo pauses. “…Okay, then.”

For the first time, he seems to sense that he’s overstayed his welcome. He takes a slow step toward the door, glancing between the two of you.

Then, mildly—“Try not to murder each other before lunch.”

And with that, he’s gone..

Sunghoon exhales sharply as he sinks into the passenger seat, eyes shut, head tilted back against the headrest. His body is still weak, and you know the car ride is taking more out of him than he’d ever admit. He doesn’t complain, though—he never does.

You keep your eyes on the road, both hands gripping the steering wheel, knuckles pressing just a little too hard against the leather. The silence stretches between you, filling the space inside the car, thick but not suffocating. Just there.

It’s not hostile. Not like before. But it’s not comfortable either.

For a while, neither of you say anything. The city blurs past in streaks of yellow streetlights and neon reflections, casting flickering shadows across Sunghoon’s face. His breathing is slow, controlled, like he’s trying not to let the exhaustion show.

But you see it.

You see the way his fingers twitch slightly against his thigh, how his jaw tenses every time you hit the smallest bump in the road. You see the way his chest rises and falls, slower than usual, deeper like he’s trying to regulate himself.

And then, finally—his voice breaks the silence.

“You don’t have to babysit me.”

It’s not sharp, not a challenge. Just… a test.

You inhale, eyes flickering toward him briefly before returning to the road. “I know.”

A pause. Then, quieter this time, a little more uncertain—“You don’t have to stay in the same house anymore.”

Your fingers tighten around the wheel, your stomach twisting in a way you don’t like.

“I know,” you say again, but this time, it sounds different. Less sure. Less like something you actually believe.

Sunghoon turns his head slightly, watching you from the corner of his eye. His expression remains unreadable, his voice careful.

“Then why are you still here?”

The traffic light ahead flicks to red. The car slows, the tires rolling to a smooth stop, but inside, everything still feels like it’s moving too fast.

You could answer honestly. You could tell him that you don’t know how to walk away from him yet, that you don’t know what the hell you’re still holding onto but you’re holding onto it anyway.

Instead, you let out a slow breath and shift slightly in your seat. “You wouldn’t last a week without me.”

Sunghoon huffs, gaze drifting back toward the windshield. “I’d last at least two.”

The corners of your lips twitch, but you press them together before the expression fully forms.

“Wanna bet?”

The breath he lets out is something close to a laugh—short, barely there, but real.

“Not really,” he mutters, exhaling through his nose.

Neither of you say anything after that.

But the silence that follows doesn’t feel as heavy as before.

The house is dimly lit, the soft glow from the hallway casting long shadows across the walls. The familiar scent of wood and clean linen lingers in the air, settling around you like something almost comforting, almost safe.

Sunghoon moves carefully, slower than he normally would, his fingers brushing against the wall for balance as he toes off his shoes. He doesn’t stumble, doesn’t sway, but you see the way his body holds tension—too stiff, too controlled, like he’s bracing himself.

You don’t say anything.

Not until he lowers himself onto the couch, exhaling as if just the act of standing had drained him.

“You should sit down,” you say after a moment, arms crossing over your chest.

Sunghoon huffs a quiet breath, shaking his head. “You just watched me sit down.”

You roll your eyes, stepping into the kitchen without another word. He’s impossible. He always has been. The worst part is, you let yourself care anyway.

You fill a glass with water and bring it back to the living room, setting it down in front of him before dropping into the armchair across from the couch.

Sunghoon glances at the glass, then up at you.

“You’re not gonna make me drink it, are you?” His voice is hoarse, rough from exhaustion.

“I will if you keep being difficult.”

Sunghoon exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face before finally—finally—grabbing the glass. He takes a slow sip, sets it back down, and leans back into the cushions.

The silence that follows is heavy, but not the kind that threatens to break.

For a few minutes, neither of you speak. The tension sits between you, waiting, stretching until you finally say—

“You need to take time off.”

Sunghoon’s brow furrows slightly, eyes still closed.

“I already did,” he mutters.

You scoff. “No, you were hospitalized. That’s not ‘time off,’ that’s your body shutting down because you refuse to take care of yourself.”

He doesn’t react at first, but you see the way his fingers flex slightly against his knee.

“I can manage,” he says, and this time, there’s an edge there.

You lean forward, resting your elbows on your knees, voice sharper now. “That’s exactly the problem, Sunghoon. You think you can manage. You think you can push through it, that it’s just something you can ignore and work around. But you can’t.”

His jaw tightens.

You exhale through your nose, hands pressing together. “The doctors literally told you what happens if you don’t take care of yourself. You might get better quickly, but if you push too hard, it’s going to get worse even faster. You don’t have the luxury of acting like this is a minor thing.”

Sunghoon shifts slightly, dragging a hand through his hair before resting his forearm against his knee. His voice is quieter when he finally speaks.

“…I know my limits.”

The words hit something raw inside you, something that has been aching for too long.

“No, you obviously don’t,” you snap, and this time, you don’t bother holding back. “You never do. You push and push until you hit a wall, and then you act surprised when your body gives out.”

Sunghoon’s fingers tighten against his knee. “I don’t need you to—”

“To what?” you interrupt, eyes burning. “To remind you? To be here because someone has to make sure you actually listen to the doctor’s advice?”

His breath catches slightly, and you hate how sickly he looks under the dim light. You hate how tired his shoulders are, how his fingers are trembling slightly against his knee, how his skin is still too pale, too warm from the fever that hasn’t fully faded yet. But most of all, you hate that he won’t just let himself rest.

You inhale, voice calmer now, but still firm. “They told you that you can’t just ‘push through’ this, Sunghoon. You’re not invincible. The whole reason you ended up in the hospital is because you ignored the symptoms for months.”

Sunghoon drags a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. “I don’t need you to remind me of what I already know.”

“Then act like you know it.”

Sunghoon leans back against the couch, his body tense, hands resting on his thighs. His gaze flickers toward the ceiling, expression unreadable.

You watch him, watch the way his shoulders rise and fall with each slow breath, the way his throat bobs slightly when he swallows.

“Are you staying in my room?”

The words are soft. Careful. Testing.

Your fingers tighten slightly against your knee. You should say no.

You should get up, go to your own room, create distance before this turns into something neither of you know how to handle.

“Just until you’re better.”

A lie. And Sunghoon knows it too. But neither of you say anything about it.

The room is still dark when you stir awake, the faintest trace of early morning filtering through the curtains. The air is cool, the kind of stillness that comes right before dawn, when everything feels softer—quieter.

You shift slightly under the blankets, your body slow to wake, your mind still caught in the haze of sleep.

And that’s when you feel it.

The warmth. The weight. The quiet, steady presence behind you.

Sunghoon.

Your breath catches, your body freezing for a moment as reality sets in. His arm—heavy, warm, familiar—draped loosely around your waist.

Not tight. Not pulling. Just there.

Your mind races, but your body remembers.

For a second—just a second—you don’t move.

Sunghoon’s breathing is even, deep and slow. His chest rises and falls against your back, steady, the faint warmth of his breath skimming the back of your neck.

Your stomach twists.

It’s been years since you’ve woken up like this—since you’ve felt his presence this close, this natural. And for a fleeting, dangerous moment, you let yourself sink into it, let yourself feel the way his fingers twitch slightly against the fabric of your shirt, like he’s still dreaming.

Then, suddenly—he shifts.

His body stirs, his breath hitching slightly, and you realize he’s waking up.

Panic flickers up your spine, but you keep still, barely breathing, waiting—waiting to see if he’ll pull away first.

But he doesn’t.

Sunghoon exhales softly, his fingers twitching again before his hand tightens ever so slightly around your waist.

Not intentional. Not forceful. Just… like he doesn’t want to let go yet.

Your throat tightens. It lasts a second. Maybe two.

His body tenses slightly. His fingers flex. His breath catches.

He’s awake now.

Neither of you move. Neither of you breathe too loudly.

And then, carefully—too carefully—he pulls away.

His arm lifts from your waist, the warmth of him retreating as he shifts slightly onto his back. You hear him exhale quietly, controlled.

You wait, counting the seconds, waiting for him to say something, for him to make a joke, for him to act like this didn’t just happen.

But he doesn’t. He just stays there, quiet.

And after a moment, you let out a breath of your own and shift to sit up, pulling the blanket back just enough to swing your legs over the edge of the bed.

Neither of you acknowledge it. Neither of you turn to look at each other.

It’s like it never happened. And that’s the problem.

Because it did.

And for the rest of the morning, you can still feel the lingering warmth where his arm had been.

You knew this was going to happen.

You knew the moment you caught a glimpse of his laptop open on the coffee table this morning, saw the unread emails stacking up, the subtle tension in his shoulders as he read through them like he wasn’t supposed to be working in the first place.

You ignored it. You let it go, for a while. But now?

Now, it’s ten at night, and Sunghoon is still sitting on the damn couch, his laptop open, fingers typing slowly, deliberately, like he’s trying to pretend he’s not as exhausted as he actually is.

You don’t let it go this time.

“You’re working.”

It’s not a question.

Sunghoon doesn’t look up. His gaze stays fixed on the screen, his fingers still tapping against the keyboard.

“It’s just an email.” His voice is calm. Too calm.

You cross your arms, leaning against the doorway, your eyes sharp.

“Didn’t we already have this argument?”

Sunghoon sighs through his nose, his jaw tightening slightly. “And yet, here we are.”

You hate how steady he sounds, how he knows exactly how to say things just to piss you off.

Your arms tighten across your chest. “We’re not doing this again.”

“Then don’t start it,” he mutters, still not looking at you.

Your patience snaps.

You step forward, standing right in front of him, blocking his view of the laptop. “Sunghoon.”

His fingers pause over the keys. His gaze lifts to yours. And the air changes.

It happens too fast, that shift in the atmosphere. The frustration, the exhaustion, the sheer stubbornness—blending into something else.

Something tense.

His eyes flicker over your face, your mouth, your throat. His voice is lower when he speaks this time. Slower. More deliberate.

“You keep saying you’re not going to argue with me.”

His fingers curl slightly against the armrest.

“And yet, you’re still here.”

Your stomach twists—not in anger, not in frustration, but in something darker, something hotter, something that you don’t want to name.

Your eyes narrow slightly, your voice sharp when you say—“Because you don’t fucking listen.”

Sunghoon tilts his head, his expression unreadable. His gaze dips, lingering on your lips for half a second too long.

Your breath comes in shorter now.

And then—slowly, carefully—he shuts his laptop. The sound of it clicking shut feels too loud in the quiet.

He leans back against the couch, arms resting on the cushions, his legs spreading just slightly, just enough to make the space between you feel smaller.

“Go on, then.”

Your pulse hammers.

Sunghoon watches you, his gaze steady, his body too relaxed, too effortless—like he’s waiting for something.

Like he wants to see what you’ll do next.

You inhale sharply, trying not to notice the way his sweatpants ride low on his hips, the way his shirt is loose enough to show a sliver of his collarbone, the way he looks completely unaffected when you’re burning.

You hate him.

You hate how good he is at this.

You take a step forward, planting your hands on the armrest, leaning in, forcing his attention back to your face.

“If you’re not going to take care of yourself,” you murmur, “then I will.”

Sunghoon exhales slowly, his jaw flexing slightly.

The tension between you pulls tighter.

He doesn’t move away. He doesn’t blink. He just sits there, waiting.

You don’t know if it’s waiting for the fight, or waiting for something else. You don’t know which one you want more.

For a second—just a second—your eyes flicker to his mouth. And you swear—you swear—his do the same.

Before either of you can do something you can’t take back—

Your phone buzzes from across the room. The moment shatters.

You inhale sharply, stepping back, hands dropping from the armrest. Sunghoon’s eyes flicker, his breath just slightly uneven now, but he doesn’t say anything.

You turn away first. You pretend your hands aren’t shaking.

You don’t look at him when you grab your phone off the counter, checking the notification even though you didn’t read a single word of it.

The moment is over. But neither of you breathe the same after that.

You hadn't planned for this.

You hadn't planned on seeing Sunghoon in the hallway, hadn't planned on him looking at you like that—like he was about to ruin you, like he needed to.

But the moment he stepped into your space, the moment his breath ghosted over your skin, you felt the air shift. It was thick, weighted with something that neither of you had the energy to resist anymore.

"Tell me you don’t want this." His voice is low, quiet but firm, laced with something deeper than just lust—something closer to desperation.

Instead of answering, your fingers twist into the front of his shirt and you pull him in.

Sunghoon exhales sharply, his restraint snapping the second your mouth meets his. He moves fast—too fast, like he's been starving for this, like he's afraid it'll slip through his fingers if he hesitates. His hands are on your waist, then your back, gripping at you like he's trying to memorize every inch.

The kiss is messy, uncoordinated, filled with teeth and tongues and frustration. Months of pent-up tension, of silent longing, of unsaid words spill into every movement. He presses you into the wall, hips flush against yours, and you feel it—how hard he is, how much he's holding back, how badly he wants this.

"You drive me fucking crazy," he mutters against your lips, his breath ragged.

"Then do something about it."

He groans, low and wrecked, before lifting you effortlessly, hands gripping under your thighs as he carries you through the house. He doesn’t stop kissing you—not when he stumbles slightly into a wall, not when he nearly knocks over a lamp.

You barely make it to the couch before he’s pushing you down, hovering over you, eyes dark with something too raw to name.

His hands move fast—too fast—pulling at your clothes, impatient, frantic. His fingers tremble slightly as he drags your shirt over your head, his lips instantly finding the newly exposed skin, teeth grazing, biting, soothing with his tongue.

"Fuck—" he exhales, hands gripping at your hips, his forehead pressing against your shoulder for a second. Like he's catching his breath. Like this is overwhelming him.

You tilt his chin up, forcing him to look at you.

"Sunghoon."

His eyes flicker to yours, something wrecked flashing across his face before he swallows hard, his fingers tightening on your skin.

"Say it again."

His lips ghost over your collarbone, his breath unsteady. You shudder.

"Sunghoon."

That’s all it takes. Then—his mouth is on you, his hands everywhere, his body pressing against yours like he’s trying to crawl inside your skin.

He whispers your name over and over, between gasps and curses, between kisses that feel too much like confessions.

And when he finally pushes inside you, his forehead drops to yours, his breath heavy, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I missed you. You were my life, you were my life."

It’s not just sex. It never was. It’s him finally admitting what neither of you have said out loud. And you don't stop him.

Because you missed him too.

The air is warm, thick with the scent of sweat and skin and something distinctly Sunghoon. His body is still pressed against yours, not with the desperation of before but with something softer, something that lingers.

Your fingers trace absentminded patterns over his back, your body still humming from him, from this, from everything.

His hand is still resting against your hip, fingers brushing against your skin, like he’s memorizing the feeling, like he’s making sure it doesn’t disappear.

You let your eyes flutter shut for a moment, exhaling slowly. You could stay like this. You could let yourself be comfortable in this silence, in the warmth of his body, in the knowledge that—for once—you both stopped fighting.

But then, he shifts slightly, pressing his forehead against your shoulder before mumbling, “We should slow down.”

Your brows pull together slightly.

Did you hear that right? You open your eyes, tilting your head to glance down at him.

"What?"

Sunghoon exhales, leaning up on one elbow, his free hand still resting on your waist, thumb rubbing lazy circles against your skin.

"I mean, we don’t have to rush this," he says, voice quieter now, more careful. His eyes flicker over your face, something unreadable in them. "I don’t want to fuck this up again."

Your breath catches slightly.

He doesn’t want this to be just about sex. He doesn’t want to let himself have you only to lose you again. He wants to be careful with you.

But you nod anyway, pretending that the way your chest tightens isn’t real. "Okay."

Sunghoon raises an eyebrow. "Okay?"

"Mhm."

Then, slowly, you shift, straddling his waist, your fingers resting lightly on his chest.

Sunghoon stills immediately.

"What are you doing?" he asks, voice cautious, his hands instinctively coming to rest on your thighs.

Sunghoon’s head falls back against the couch, his jaw clenching. He wants to argue, you can tell, but the second you grind down again, all he manages is a sharp inhale, his fingers digging into your skin.

You smirk, tilting your head.

"I thought you wanted to take things slow."

His breath shudders. His grip on you tightens. Then he laughs—low, rough, almost amazed.

"You’re a fucking menace."

You barely have time to grin before he’s flipping you over, pressing you down into the cushions, his body caging you in.

"Slow?" he repeats, voice dropping, his lips hovering over your throat.

You try to keep up the act, but your breathing is already uneven, your body reacting to him before you can think.

"Isn’t that what you wanted?" you whisper, deliberately tilting your chin up in challenge.

Sunghoon exhales sharply, his lips barely ghosting over yours.

"I changed my mind."

You barely have time to react before his hands slide down your thighs, gripping, tugging, parting you for him again.

Your breath catches.

"Sunghoon–"

"No." He shakes his head, his mouth pressing against your jaw as he smirks. "No more talking."

His fingers move lower, teasing, pressing just enough to make you gasp. And that’s when you remember—he’s still recovering. Your hand shoots out, pressing against his chest.

"Wait."

Sunghoon stills, his brow furrowing slightly, his breathing uneven.

"You’re sick," you murmur, your lips brushing against his jaw. "Let me work for it instead."

His entire body tenses.

Your hands trail down his stomach, your fingers ghosting over the waistband of his sweatpants.

"You—" he tries, but his voice is hoarse now, breathless, wrecked.

You hum, tilting your head. "What?"

His jaw flexes.

Then, without another word, he lets himself fall back against the couch. His breath comes out shaky, his head tilting back, eyes fluttering shut.

"Then work for it."

It’s been a month since then and Sunghoon has finally fully returned to work.

He’s doing much better now. His energy is back, his balance has improved, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he actually looks like himself again.

You’re not sure what you expected when he came back. Maybe for things to go back to the way they were before, full of sharp remarks and tension that could snap a room in half. Or maybe for things to be awkward, unspoken things lingering between you in ways that made your employees suffer secondhand stress.

But instead? No one knows what the hell is happening anymore.

Because while you and Sunghoon aren’t exactly different, something has… shifted.

The first sign of something weird happening was the lack of fighting.

A month ago, meetings with both of you in the same room meant employees visibly sweating, taking deep breaths beforehand, and updating their wills in secret.

Now?

Now, Sunghoon pulls out a chair for you before sitting down. Now, you ask his opinion instead of shutting it down immediately. Now, he actually listens when you talk.

People are concerned.

📲 [Executive Team Group Chat] 👥 Sunoo, Riki, Jungwon, Misc. Employees

🐧 Sunoo: guys. wtf is going on.🐥 Jungwon: ??? 🐧 Sunoo: i just saw boss lady n ceo actually agree on something in a meeting. no insults. no glaring. NO ONE DIED.🐱 Riki: LIAR.🐧 Sunoo: i have receipts.

(Sunoo sends a screenshot of the meeting notes. The section labeled 'Conflict Resolution' is EMPTY. Unedited. No bloodshed.)

🐥 Jungwon: I mean. That’s… good? Right? 🐱 Riki: NO IT’S NOT GOOD. THIS IS LIKE WATCHING PARENTS WHO USED TO HATE EACH OTHER BE WEIRDLY FLIRTY. I’M TRAUMATIZED. 🐧 Sunoo: EXACTLY.

📲 [Legal Team Group Chat] 👥 You, Your Team

⚖️ Paralegal #1: So uh. Boss.⚖️ Paralegal #2: What the hell is going on with you and CEO Park?⚖️ Paralegal #3: Did we miss a memo? Is this a prank? Are you sedated?

You roll your eyes, already regretting checking your messages.

📲 [You → Legal Team]: What are you talking about?

⚖️ Paralegal #2: You didn’t threaten to resign after he questioned your contract amendments today. You just. Smiled??⚖️ Paralegal #3: YOU AGREED WITH HIM ON SOMETHING. WE ALL SAW IT.⚖️ Paralegal #1: YOU LAUGHED AT SOMETHING HE SAID.⚖️ Paralegal #2: YOU LAUGHED, BOSS. AT HIS JOKE.⚖️ Paralegal #3: Do we need to call HR? Blink if you’re in danger.

📲 [You → Legal Team]: Go do your jobs.

It happens after a late meeting. You and Sunghoon are the last ones leaving, walking toward the elevators. Everyone else is pretending to be busy, but they’re totally watching.

The elevator doors slide open. You step inside first, then turn slightly—instinctively holding out your hand. Sunghoon takes it.

Casually. Like it’s normal. Like you always do this. And then—he laces your fingers together.

The doors slide shut.

Riki visibly short-circuits.

📲 [Executive Team Group Chat]

🐱 Riki: GUYS I JUST SAW THEM HOLD HANDS. IN THE ELEVATOR. IN PUBLIC. I NEED TO LIE DOWN. 🐧 Sunoo: Riki. Riki are you there. 🐥 Jungwon: Someone sedate him before he starts screaming. 🐧 Sunoo: THAT’S IT I’M STARTING A BETTING POOL. HOW LONG BEFORE THEY GET MARRIED (AGAIN). 🐱 Riki: I CAN’T BREATHE.

The company gala had been suffocating. Hours of pretending, of schmoozing, of wearing polite smiles while the weight of Sunghoon’s gaze burned against your skin the entire night. He hadn’t touched you once. Not in front of the board members, not during the champagne toast, not even when his fingers brushed against yours as he handed you a drink.

But he was watching.

And now, in the backseat of his car, that restraint is gone.

The moment the driver pulls away from the curb, Sunghoon’s hand is on your thigh, gripping—hard. His palm is warm against the skin exposed by the slit of your dress, fingers flexing like he’s holding himself back, like he’s trying to decide how far he’ll let himself go.

He doesn’t speak.

You don’t either.

Because you both know where this is going.

The city blurs past the windows, streetlights flickering across his sharp jawline, his loosened tie, the slight rise and fall of his chest as he exhales.

And then—his hand slides higher.

Your breath catches.

"You knew exactly what you were doing tonight." His voice is low, almost amused, but there’s a sharp edge to it, something dark and controlled.

You shift slightly, not moving away, letting his fingers graze the crease of your inner thigh. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Sunghoon exhales a short laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

His hand tightens.

"You wanted me like this, didn’t you?" His fingers ghost over your clothed core, pressing just enough to make your legs twitch. "Parading around all night in this dress, pretending you weren’t soaking through your panties while you smiled at those executives."

Your stomach flips.

You don’t respond.

Sunghoon doesn’t need you to.

Because the moment you shift your legs slightly wider—silent permission—he knows.

And that’s when he loses it.

The car jerks to a sudden stop.

The driver turns slightly. “We’re at the—”

"We won’t be long," Sunghoon interrupts smoothly, his fingers already curling around your wrist.

Then, he yanks you into his lap.

You gasp at the sudden movement, hands bracing against his chest, but he doesn’t give you a second to adjust. His mouth is on yours before you can speak, rough and claiming, all tongue and teeth.

"You’re mine," he breathes against your lips, his hands gripping your ass as he pulls you flush against him. You can feel how hard he is beneath you, his cock straining against his pants, pressing against your clothed core.

"Say it."

You bite your lip, pretending to consider, just to piss him off. "Make me."

Sunghoon growls, his fingers twisting into your hair as he yanks your head back, exposing your throat. His mouth is on you immediately, biting, sucking, marking.

"My wife thinks she’s a fucking tease." His lips drag against your pulse, his voice dark, edged with something dangerous. "That’s cute."

His hands slide up your thighs, bunching your dress up to your hips. When his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, he doesn’t bother taking them off. He just pulls, fabric tearing effortlessly in his grip.

"Sunghoon—"

"Shut up."

His hand moves between your legs, fingers dragging through your slick folds. He groans, his forehead pressing against your shoulder for half a second, like he’s barely holding himself together.

"You’re fucking soaked." His fingers circle your clit, slow, teasing, deliberate. "You really get off on being treated like a brat, don’t you?"

Your breath stutters. You hate how much his words affect you.

But Sunghoon notices.

He always does.

His free hand slides up your back, gripping the back of your neck before wrapping around your throat. He squeezes—not enough to cut off your air, but enough to make your pulse stutter beneath his fingers.

"Answer me."

You swallow, the pressure of his grip making your head spin.

"I—" Your voice catches when he presses down on your clit at the same time, two fingers slipping inside you. Your body jolts at the stretch, at the pressure, at the way he fills you without hesitation.

"That’s what I thought," he murmurs, his mouth brushing against your ear. "Always such a fucking mess for me."

His fingers work you open too fast, too rough, curling against the spot that makes you see stars. Your hips roll against his hand, chasing it, and Sunghoon laughs—low and wrecked.

"That desperate already?"

You don’t get a chance to respond before he’s flipping you onto your back, pressing you down against the leather seat.

Your head spins.

His hands are everywhere—gripping your thighs, spreading you open, dragging his cock through your slick folds before he presses against your entrance.

"You want it?" His voice is strained, his jaw tight.

"Yes—"

But he doesn’t give you time to beg.

Because in the next second—he’s inside you, all at once, filling you to the hilt.

Your back arches off the seat, a choked sound escaping your throat.

Sunghoon groans, his head dropping forward, his grip bruising where he holds your hips down. "Fuck—look at you. Taking my cock so fucking well."

You barely have time to breathe before he starts moving.

No easing into it. No gentleness.

Just rough, deep thrusts that knock the air from your lungs.

"You feel that?" His hand wraps around your throat again, squeezing just enough to make your vision blur at the edges. "This is what you wanted, wasn’t it? My wife acting like a whore all night just so I could fuck her stupid in the back of a car”

You moan, the humiliation making your skin burn in the best way.

"That’s right," he grits out, snapping his hips harder, his other hand gripping your thigh, pushing it higher. "Let me hear you."

The car rocks with the force of it, every thrust sending pleasure shooting through your spine. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your body shaking, your release already close, already—

"Come on, baby," he murmurs, his breath ragged, his forehead pressing against yours. "Come on my cock. Be a good fucking girl for me."

And you do.

You shatter beneath him, your body tensing, your thighs trembling as your orgasm crashes through you.

Sunghoon follows right after, his rhythm stuttering before he buries himself deep, his groan breaking into something almost desperate. His fingers flex against your throat before finally, finally, he lets go.

The car is silent except for your uneven breaths.

Sunghoon leans forward, pressing his lips to your forehead, softer now, his breathing still shaky. His fingers trail down your side, slow, absentminded, like he’s grounding himself.

The only sound in the car is the rhythmic rise and fall of your breathing, the occasional rustling of fabric as Sunghoon shifts slightly against you. The intensity of what just happened lingers between you, crackling in the air like an aftershock, leaving both of you too warm, too tangled, too unwilling to move just yet.

He’s still inside you, still pressed close, his body a solid weight over yours, grounding, steadying. Neither of you speak, and for a while, you simply let the quiet settle, let your fingers drift absently over his back, tracing slow, lazy shapes.His forehead is against yours, his breath deep and uneven, warm against your lips.

Eventually, he exhales, the sound low, almost satisfied, before tilting his head to press a slow, lingering kiss to your temple. His hand shifts from where it had been gripping your thigh, his touch gentler now, a stark contrast to how he had held you earlier—fierce, possessive, unwilling to let you go. Now, his fingers just rest against your skin, smoothing over the curve of your waist, the warmth of his palm familiar.

"You okay?" His voice is rough from exertion, still heavy with something raw and unspoken.

You hum, nodding slightly, your cheek brushing against his. You can’t quite find the words yet—your body still feels like it’s floating, caught between exhaustion and bliss.

Sunghoon shifts just slightly, pulling back just enough to look at you. His gaze sweeps over your face, studying you carefully, before his lips curve into a small, amused smile.

"I’ll take that as a yes." His fingers trace slow circles against your hip, his touch absentminded but deliberate, like he doesn’t quite want to stop touching you yet.

You blink up at him, still dazed, your limbs pleasantly heavy, your skin oversensitive in the best way. His words barely register before he shifts, withdrawing from you slowly. A quiet whimper catches in your throat at the loss, your body instinctively tightening around nothing.

Sunghoon notices.

His gaze darkens again, his jaw flexing slightly before he exhales through his nose, visibly restraining himself. He tilts his head, one brow raising ever so slightly, smug in a way that makes your stomach twist.

"Look at you," he murmurs, voice low, watching as his release slowly drips out of you, glistening on your inner thighs.His fingers trace your swollen entrance, dragging along the slick mess he’s made, spreading it just to watch you squirm.

"So messy," he muses, voice teasing but full of something heavier, more possessive.

Heat spreads across your cheeks, embarrassment creeping in at how wrecked you must look, your thighs still trembling, your breath uneven. You turn your head slightly, muttering under your breath, "Shut up."

Sunghoon chuckles, clearly too pleased with himself. His fingers move to tilt your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze again.

"Don’t do that," he murmurs, his voice quieter now, lower, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip.

You frown slightly, not quite understanding. "Do what?"

His thumb presses just slightly harder, a silent reprimand, a reminder that he’s still in control.

"Act shy now," he says, watching you too closely, too knowingly. His smirk is slow, deliberate, confident in a way that makes your stomach flip. "You just let me fuck you stupid in the back of my car."

Your cheeks burn hotter, mortification creeping in. You scoff, shoving at his chest halfheartedly, but he doesn’t budge."I hate you."

His laughter is soft, low, a rumble against your skin as he presses another kiss—this time to your jaw, then lower, trailing lazily toward your throat.

"No, you love me."

You take a deep breath “I do.”

He looks surprised, shocked almost, “You– you do?”

You nod. “I do, ” you look at him expectantly, “You love me?”

He laughs deep and loud, a real laugh, grabs your face in his hands forcing you closer, “Baby, when did I ever stop?”

Before you can dwell on it, there’s a knock on the window.

You freeze.

Sunghoon sighs, clearly unfazed, barely even reacting before he reaches over to roll down the window slightly.

Outside, the driver stands with an expression so perfectly neutral it’s almost comedic, like this is just another Tuesday night for him.

"Mr. Park," he says, his tone entirely professional, unaffected. "Should I… call another car for you two?"

You bury your face in Sunghoon’s shoulder, mortified.

Sunghoon, as expected, looks completely unbothered.

"No need," he replies smoothly, his fingers absently stroking your thigh as if nothing had just happened. "We’ll be heading home in a bit."

The driver nods curtly, not even blinking. "I’ll be outside."

And then, just like that, he walks away.

You groan, still refusing to lift your head. "I can never face him again."

Sunghoon laughs softly, his hand sliding up to rub slow, soothing circles against your back.

"You’ll live, you love me." he murmurs, his voice warm, teasing, but laced with something softer. His fingers thread into your hair, tilting your head up just slightly. His lips brush against yours, slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring the moment.

"Let me clean you up."

You blink up at him, your chest tightening for reasons entirely unrelated to sex.

"You don’t have to—"

His hand tightens in your hair, not to hurt, just to keep you still. He shakes his head slightly, cutting you off before you can finish the thought.

"I want to," he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours again, softer this time. "I take care of what’s mine. Of what I love."

Something invisible but heavy lodges itself in your throat.

Because he means it. Because this isn’t just sex, or routine, or an easy way to pass the time. This is him showing you, in the quietest way possible, that he loves you.

And when he kisses you again, when he reaches for a tissue to carefully clean the mess between your thighs, when he murmurs something under his breath about how ‘his wife shouldn’t be walking around with his cum dripping down her legs’

You don’t ever want to lose this again.

EPILOGUE

It starts the same way it did last time.

The nausea creeps in slowly—subtle at first, nothing out of the ordinary. You assume it’s from overworking yourself, the stress of handling legal negotiations, or maybe even just the exhaustion of being married to a man who refuses to listen when you tell him to take breaks.

Sunghoon notices before you do.

At first, it’s little things—the way you lean against the counter a little longer in the mornings, the way your appetite fluctuates, the way you pause mid-sentence with a sudden grimace, like something doesn’t sit right in your stomach. He watches you closer than usual, his sharp eyes following you whenever you touch your lower abdomen absentmindedly, whenever you shake your head at food that you normally love.

And then, one morning, you feel it.

The moment you stand up from bed, a wave of nausea crashes into you so violently that you barely make it to the bathroom in time.

You hear him before you see him—footsteps, the rustling of sheets, the quiet, urgent sound of his voice calling your name as he reaches for you.

"Hey—what’s wrong?" Sunghoon is kneeling beside you in seconds, his hand warm and steady against your back, rubbing slow, grounding circles as you try to catch your breath. His fingers stroke through your hair gently, not rushing you, not asking anything else yet.

You grip the edge of the sink, exhaling shakily, your heartbeat too loud, your pulse erratic.

Because this feels familiar. Too familiar. And that’s when you know. Sunghoon stills when you don’t answer right away.

"Baby." His voice is softer now, careful. "Look at me."

Something unreadable flickers across his face—shock, realization, something dangerously close to hope.

He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to. Because he knows, too.

And that’s how you find yourself sitting on the bathroom floor minutes later, staring at the test clutched in your hands, the two pink lines undeniable.

Sunghoon sits beside you, his knee brushing against yours, his breathing measured but uneven. He doesn’t reach for it. He doesn’t take it from your hands.

Instead, he just looks at you.

"Are we...?" His voice is barely above a whisper, raw in a way you rarely hear.

Your fingers tighten around the test, your throat thick with emotion. You nod, swallowing hard before murmuring, "Yeah."

Sunghoon exhales, slow and unsteady, like he’s been holding his breath for years. His head tilts forward slightly, his eyes squeezing shut for a second before he lifts them back to you. His gaze is so full of something it knocks the air from your lungs.

"How do you feel?" he asks quietly.

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, part relief, part disbelief. "Like I might throw up again."

A short chuckle escapes him—not out of amusement, but out of something else, something lighter.

Then, slowly, he reaches for you.

His hands slide over your cheeks, fingertips pressing just slightly, like he’s trying to make sure you’re real, like he’s trying to ground himself in this moment. His thumb strokes over your cheekbone, his breath fanning against your lips as he leans in, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, close enough that you can feel the slight tremble in his touch.

The positive test sits between you both, abandoned on the bathroom counter, but neither of you look at it anymore. You don’t need to.

Because all you can focus on is him—the way his chest rises and falls unsteadily, the way his lips part like he wants to say something but doesn’t quite know how.

And then, finally, he does.

"I won’t fail you this time."

His voice is rough, barely above a whisper, but it hits you harder than anything else.

Your breath catches in your throat, your fingers tightening slightly where they rest against his shoulders. His eyes are so unbearably soft when they meet yours, but there’s something else there, too—something raw, something desperate.

"I won’t lose you. I won’t lose them," he murmurs, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you fully against him, like he can shield you from anything and everything that might try to take this from him again.

A lump forms in your throat, because this is what he’s been carrying.

This is what he never let himself say out loud.

"You never failed me, Sunghoon," you whisper, your fingers moving to cup his face, "We lost them together."

Sunghoon swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

"I should have held you. I should have been better. I should have—" His breath stumbles, and for the first time, you see it—the way his control wavers, the way the guilt still lingers, thick and unbearable.

"Hey." You press a hand against his chest, feeling the unsteady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palm. "You don’t have to do this alone anymore."

Sunghoon exhales sharply, his forehead pressing against yours.

"I don’t deserve this," he murmurs, his grip tightening around you.

"You do." You don’t hesitate. "And we’re going to do this right this time."

His breath shudders. And then—he kisses you.

It’s not like before. It’s not desperate, or punishing, or laced with frustration. It’s slow, deep, lingering. It’s an apology, a vow, a promise.

When he pulls away, his lips hover just above yours, his eyes searching, waiting for something.

"Stay," he whispers. "Stay with me. Stay here. Always."

You smile, pressing your forehead against his.

"I already did."

fin.

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