#JIHYO IS SO POWERFUL | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

leejenowrld · 4 months ago

Text

back to you — one

pairing — lee jeno x reader

word count — 58k words

genre — smut, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers

synopsis — lee jeno forces his way into your life, first by pushing into one of your college projects and then refusing to leave. as mark’s best friend, you’ve always hated jeno—arrogant, reckless, and everything mark isn’t. but what starts as reluctant tolerance spirals into a secret affair fueled by lust, obsession, and the thrill of keeping it hidden. as lies and jealousy pile up, your connection becomes a dangerous game that pushes you to confront how far you’re willing to go—and how much you’re willing to lose—for the one person you swore you’d never fall for.

chapter warnings — college au, small town vibes, explicit language, explicit sexual content(18+), explicit themes, one tree hill inspired, early 2000s vibe, dominant!reader/submissive!jeno (yeah hehe), power struggles and control shifts, forced eye contact, choking, spanking, face slapping, name-calling and degradation, oral sex (male receiving), explicit descriptions of penetration, vaginal sex with deep and rough thrusts, reader rides yeehaw, overstimulation, mutual orgasms, squirting, possessive behavior, cum play, explicit body worship and focus on physical sensations, graphic descriptions, strong language, emotional manipulation and mind games, depictions of toxic relationships and power struggles, angst and emotional tension, forbidden relationships and moral ambiguity, mentions of alcohol consumption, intense arguments and interpersonal conflict, jeno and reader can both be seen as very toxic and always wanting to one up another, very sexually tense scenes, reader can appear very cold, detached but she’s super cool and observant (trust me), haunting descriptions, heated college party scenes as expected, just read it, trust me you’ll love it <3 there’s not much i can reveal, mentions of nct '00 line and other '99 and '00 liners and jihyo!

listen to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 whilst reading <3

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐋

authors note — the word count… i’m sorry 😭 your girl got carried away. but no, i’ve been obsessed with writing this, and it’s been my secret little obsession for so long. i totally tricked you guys by saying it’d come out in spring, but hehe surprise!! i’ve been working on it nonstop for the past two months. every part of this fic is going to be long, and that’s just the way it’s gonna be. this story is a lot—intense, mind-fucking, emotional, and filled with twists you won’t see coming. you’re in for a ride, and yes, it’s going to be detailed and deeply layered. the world-building? the emotions? the tension? yeah, i went all in. it even got so long i had to cut a whole scene from this part 🥲 so please, buckle up and prepare yourselves. it’s going to be a journey. positive feedback, comments, asks, likes + reblog are always welcome :)

this fic is the second and final instalment of the love + games universe, read mark’s here (you don’t need to read mark’s to read this but it’s recommended)

Jaemin doesn’t struggle because he’s stupid—he struggles because he’s impatient. The first thing you noticed about him was how his notes sat in disarray, pages flipped with unnecessary force as if they were to blame for his confusion. His brain outruns his pen every time, leaving words half-formed, thoughts leaping ahead without ever landing. It’s not a lack of intelligence; it’s an inability to tether himself, to pause long enough for clarity. You’ve been tutoring him for weeks now, and it’s always the same: his frustration simmering just beneath the surface, a quiet storm waiting to break, while you remain calm and steady, pulling him back to the fundamentals with unshakable composure.

The early morning light streams through wide windows, painting soft, golden patterns across polished wooden tables. The room hums with quiet focus—the scratch of pens on paper, muted whispers of explanations exchanged. You sit across from him, composed and poised, a notebook spread open before you. The pages are lined with impossibly neat handwriting, each equation so precise it feels premeditated, like it existed in your mind perfectly formed before it ever met the paper. Your voice cuts through the stillness—calm, steady, deliberate—as you guide Jaemin through the problem once more, unraveling it into smaller, manageable pieces, your methodical approach leaving no room for confusion.

“Don’t rush,” you say, your tone balanced—calm but unyielding. “You’re skipping this part because you think you already know the answer. That’s exactly why you’re missing it.” Your pen glides smoothly over the paper, circling the overlooked section of the equation with precision. Jaemin leans closer, his brows knit tightly, frustration radiating from him in waves. You don’t flinch; you’ve seen this reaction countless times before.

As you speak, your mind operates on parallel tracks, a seamless machine of analysis and order. You’re gauging his comprehension, dissecting his furrowed expressions, and calculating the next step in your explanation. But even now, your thoughts stray beyond the table—to meetings waiting to be had, deadlines looming, and projects requiring your attention. You’re already arranging them all into the meticulous schedule that keeps your world running. Structure is your sanctuary, the one constant that assures you everything is exactly where it should be.

“This part,” you say, circling the error lightly with your pen, “you forgot to account for the variable here. Try shifting it before you simplify.”

Jaemin’s brow furrows, but he nods and adjusts his work. You wait patiently as he works through it again, the pause in his movements finally breaking with a quiet sigh of satisfaction when he reaches the solution. He glances at you with a small smile, proud but almost reluctant to show it.

That look—the fleeting satisfaction in his expression, the way his tension unravels—sends a quiet jolt through you. It’s not just about teaching him the material; it’s about control, precision, the satisfaction of knowing you’ve guided someone to the right answer, that your effort has been acknowledged. His success reflects on you, a silent confirmation that your meticulousness has value, that you’re needed. It’s not kindness that fuels you—it’s the clarity of seeing your work pay off, of proving, even in this small way, that you know what you’re doing.

You clear your throat, breaking the silence as Jaemin pauses mid-sentence, his pen hovering over the paper. Something had been on your mind since the start of the session, and you figured now was the time to bring it up. “So there’s this project I’m working on,” you begin, keeping your tone casual but deliberate. “An extracurricular for credits. It’s focused on performance under high-pressure environments—analyzing behavioral patterns, stress responses, that kind of thing.”

Jaemin glances up at you, curiosity flickering in his eyes. He leans back slightly, twirling his pen between his fingers. “Sounds cool, but what does that have to do with me?”

You tilt your head, your gaze dropping briefly to the basketball jersey he’s wearing. It’s crisp, his number bold against the fabric, and it clicks—you’d almost forgotten there’s a match later today. Yet here he is, squeezing in a tutoring session, driven and diligent even with the game looming over him. “Basketball,” you say, meeting his eyes again. “That’s what this has to do with you. I chose it because it’s high-pressure, fast-paced, and everyone involved—players, coaches, even the crowd—responds to stress in different ways. It’s the perfect setting to measure those responses in real-time.”

You pause, watching his reaction. “I’d be observing things like body language, facial expressions, and decision-making under pressure. Maybe even gathering data about physical signs of stress—like heart rate, if I can get it—but nothing invasive. Just detailed observation, maybe a few interviews. It’s not difficult or complicated, educationally speaking. Actually, it’s a lot simpler than it sounds.”

Jaemin raises an eyebrow, amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. “That sounds super interesting, and I know how you’re always doing all these extra projects—like you need the extra credits.” He rolls his eyes good-naturedly but continues, “I digress. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m failing. Bad. That’s why you’re tutoring me, remember?”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I could use someone on the actual team,” you admit, the hint of a smile playing on your lips. “I could interview and make observations about you, starting with the match later today.”

“What about Mark?” Jaemin’s question lingers, and your lips soften into a quiet smile at the mention of him. Mark. Your best friend. His name alone carries a comfort few things in your life do.

Mark has always been a steady presence—not loud or demanding, but consistent in ways that matter most. He’s the kind of person who notices when your energy dips, quietly handing you water or slipping a snack onto your desk without saying a word. You think of all the moments Mark has been there for you: staying up with you through late nights, even when his own schedule was clear, walking beside you on empty streets just to make sure you felt safe.

His care never feels forced; it’s a quiet, steady presence that’s simply part of who he is. Mark doesn’t ask for recognition or gratitude—it’s in the way he listens when you vent, remembers the smallest details about your day, and always shows up when you need him. There’s a warmth to him that you’ve never questioned, a constant reassurance that, no matter what, Mark will always have your back.

You shake your head slightly, the smile lingering on your lips. “Of course Mark isn’t insufferable like the rest, he’s my best friend. But he hasn’t been playing in the professional environment of basketball for long at all, so it wouldn’t make sense to work with him for my project.”

He recently joined the Seoul Ravens, approaching the basketball court with the quiet determination you’ve always admired. Mark doesn’t boast about his abilities, but you’ve seen the hours he’s put in, the focus and care he pours into everything he does. Today is his first official match, and you feel proud because he’s doing something that reflects all his hard work and dedication.

Jaemin chuckles, the sound low and easy, pulling you back to the moment. “Makes sense. Also, you know…” His gaze flicks toward you, a teasing glint in his eyes. “The other boys on the team aren’t bad once you get to know them.” You raise an eyebrow but don’t respond, letting your silence speak for itself. He leans back slightly, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “You really want my help for this project?”

“Yes.” Your words are deliberate, purposeful, as you glance at the clock, ensuring your timing is precise. Then your gaze meets his again, steady and unwavering. “It’s a trade-off, really. You help me streamline my work; I give you an edge where you need it. Teamwork, Jaemin. It’s efficient.”

Jaemin doesn’t respond immediately, his lips twitching into a half-smile as his eyes shift toward the door. There’s something unspoken in the way he tilts his head, a flicker of recognition or intrigue flashing across his face. “Looks like your next project just walked in,” he murmurs, his tone light and teasing, but the weight of his words lingers. He doesn’t answer your pointed question about the project; instead, his focus drifts entirely, and you know something—or rather, someone—has disrupted the calm of the room.

You don’t respond, keeping your pen poised over Jaemin’s notebook, but your focus falters. The air shifts, heavier now, more charged. You feel it before you hear him, a presence that has a way of bending the room around it. When the door creaks shut behind him, the quiet hum of pens scratching on paper feels too faint, too distant.

Lee Jeno strides in, his duffel bag slung casually over one shoulder, but there’s nothing casual about the way he moves. His duffel bag hangs lazily over one shoulder, the strap digging into his hoodie where it lies half-zipped, just enough to reveal the deep maroon of his basketball jersey beneath. The fabric clings to his frame, the cut emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and the lean strength of his build. His hair is damp, stray strands sticking to his forehead as though he’s come straight from practice. There’s a casualness to the way he carries himself, but it’s deceptive. He’s too controlled, too aware of the eyes that follow him, his presence impossible to ignore.

He doesn’t even glance at Jaemin—not directly, at least. His gaze sweeps the room once, brisk and indifferent, before locking onto you with sharp precision. His attention is singular, cutting through the space like a blade, leaving no doubt about who he’s here for. Jaemin, seated only inches away and his best friend since childhood, might as well not exist.

“Got a minute?” Jeno’s voice slices through the quiet, smooth but carrying an edge that ripples through the air. It isn’t a question—it’s a demand dressed in courtesy, the kind you recognize instantly. His tone doesn’t ask for permission; it takes.

Your pen pauses mid-stroke, but you don’t immediately look up. Instead, you force your attention to linger on Jaemin’s notebook, the deliberate delay giving you a fleeting sense of control. When your gaze finally lifts, it’s sharp and unwavering. “Not really,” you reply, your tone calm but cutting, steady enough to deflect the weight pressing down on the room. “I’m in the middle of something.”

Your eyes meet his, and the tension snaps taut, hanging heavy in the air between you. Jeno doesn’t blink, doesn’t waver. His confidence is a steady hum, but there’s something deeper, something restless in the set of his jaw and the darkness of his gaze. It’s a quiet storm, restrained but threatening, and it crawls over your skin like a warning.

The stillness stretches, charged and unbearable. His focus is razor-sharp, the kind that demands without words, and it lingers on you like a touch. You hate the way it unsettles you, hate the way it feels like a challenge you don’t want to rise to. But you don’t break—you hold his gaze, even as something hot and volatile simmers just beneath the surface, too close to dangerous for a quiet morning like this.

Unfazed, Jeno drops into the seat across from you, leaning forward with an ease that feels calculated. “I need your help,” he says, his voice low but insistent, laced with just enough charm to almost mask the edge in his tone. “Tutor me. You’re the best in the class, and I could use the boost.”

You arch a brow, finally meeting his gaze fully. “You have the second best grades after me,” you counter flatly, your tone sharp and unyielding. “You don’t need tutoring.”

For a moment, his smile falters, but he recovers almost instantly, slipping into something smoother, more convincing. “Basketball’s eating up all my time,” he says, the lie rolling off his tongue effortlessly. “I’m stretched too thin.”

He keeps his expression neutral, but beneath the surface, his thoughts churn with barely restrained tension. He didn’t come here for tutoring. This isn’t about college, and it never was. It’s about Mark—stepping onto his court, into his world, with a confidence that makes Jeno’s teeth grind. Mark isn’t just a new player; he’s something else entirely. A reminder of things Jeno doesn’t want to confront. A half-brother in name only, an unwelcome shadow creeping into spaces that were never meant to be shared.

The thought makes Jeno’s jaw tighten. Mark doesn’t know what it means to earn a place, to claw for respect under the weight of someone else’s expectations. He hasn’t lived the life Jeno has, yet somehow he’s here, taking up space that Jeno fought for. Worse, Mark isn’t just a part of the team—he’s in Jeno’s way, shifting the balance Jeno worked so hard to control.

Mark’s presence feels like a shadow creeping into every corner of Jeno’s life, and if he can’t push him back directly, he’ll find another way to assert control. You’re part of that plan—a tool, a move on the board, a way to get under Mark’s skin and remind him where the balance of power lies. It’s not about fairness; it’s about regaining control. Winning. And Jeno has no intention of losing.

Jeno sits down without asking, his duffel bag dropping to the floor with a muted thud. His movements are precise, intentional, the kind that demand attention without asking for it. He leans forward, his broad shoulders angling toward you as if closing the already minimal distance. The heat from his body is subtle but palpable, a reminder of his proximity, and the sharp set of his jaw tightens as his eyes fix on yours. He radiates confidence, but there’s something beneath it—something simmering, restrained. Frustration, annoyance… and maybe something more.

“I need your help,” he says again, his voice measured and steady but unmistakably pointed. The repetition isn’t accidental—it’s deliberate, calculated. He’s testing you, trying to wear you down in that way he’s so used to doing with everyone else. His tone carries an edge, a challenge just daring you to push back.

“No.”

The simplicity of your response hits him harder than expected. His brow furrows slightly, and there’s a brief flash of disbelief in his expression before he composes himself. “No?”

“You heard me.” Your tone doesn’t waver, each word delivered with cool precision. You level with his gaze, your eyes sharp and unwavering. “You don’t need help, and I’m not going to give you help.”

For a moment, his composure slips. His mouth twitches, as if he wants to say something but can’t quite form the words. There’s a beat of silence, heavy with unspoken frustration. Then his jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing slightly as he leans in closer, the air between you growing thicker.

It’s not just the rejection that unsettles him—it’s the way you deliver it, so unbothered, so certain. He’s used to being in control, used to commanding attention, and your calm defiance throws him off balance. And that, more than your words, is what he can’t seem to shake.

His excuse is quick, almost too quick, like he’d been waiting to use it. “I’m juggling a lot,” he says, his tone clipped, brushing past specifics as though the weight of his responsibilities should be self-evident. “Figured you could help me stay ahead.”

His excuse is flimsy, and he knows it. But the way your brow arches, how your lips part to challenge him, it stokes something deep in his chest. You’re too composed, too steady, and it only sharpens his frustration. You can see the cracks in his logic, the way he’s deliberately vague, sidestepping any real explanation. It stirs something in you—part annoyance, part intrigue.

“You know,” you counter, your voice sharp but steady, “you could’ve signed up like everyone else. Instead, you’re here, expecting me to drop everything just because you asked. That’s not how it works.”

Jeno doesn’t move back. Instead, he leans in further, his forearms brushing the table, his jaw tight as his eyes meet yours. “I thought you’d appreciate a little initiative,” he bites back, his voice lower now, a challenge lacing every word.

Your gazes lock, the space between you heavy with unspoken tension. His face is so close now, close enough that you can see the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his hairline, close enough to feel the restrained energy thrumming beneath his skin. He’s waiting for you to flinch, to react, but you don’t. Instead, you tilt your head slightly, your expression calm, your voice steady.

“If you’re serious, then go sign up,” you say, enunciating each word with deliberate control. “I don’t have any time for this or you.”

His lips twitch, his composure fracturing ever so slightly. “Right.”

The tension simmers hotter now, your stubbornness colliding with his in a battle neither of you wants to back down from. His fingers tighten on the strap of his bag, and for a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. The frustration etched in his face is almost palpable, but so is the undercurrent of curiosity he can’t seem to suppress.

Finally, he stands abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. “Fine,” he mutters, his voice clipped but laced with something darker, something unresolved. His gaze lingers on you for a beat too long, his eyes scanning your face as if searching for a crack in your armor. “See you around.”

You watch him leave, his shoulders rigid beneath the maroon of his basketball jersey, each step deliberate, charged. The room feels quieter without him, but the air isn’t lighter—it hums faintly, an unwelcome echo of his presence prickling at the edges of your thoughts.

Jaemin leans back in his chair, letting out a low, amused whistle. His lips curl into a smirk as his gaze flicks from you to the door Jeno just walked through. “Didn’t know tutoring included… hands-on benefits,” he teases, his tone light but pointed. There’s a glint of mischief in his eyes, but it doesn’t quite mask the curiosity simmering beneath. “Or is that a special service just for him?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” you snap, sharper than intended, though you don’t look up. Your hand grips the pen tightly as you force your attention back to Jaemin’s notes, the strokes of ink digging deeper into the paper than they should. The tension doesn’t settle; it lingers, weaving itself into the quiet of the room, refusing to be ignored. You hate how his presence lingers, how his gaze feels imprinted on your skin, sharp and unrelenting, even now.

For Jeno, walking away feels like defeat, and that’s not something he’s used to. His jaw clenches, his fists tightening against the strap of his duffel bag as he stalks down the hallway. You’ve unsettled him, thrown him off balance in a way that makes his frustration curdle into something sharper, something hotter. Control has always been his, always within reach—on the court, in his relationships, even in the way he fucks. It’s in the sharp precision of his movements, the calculated pressure of his touch, the dominance he wields like second nature. He’s the kind of man who knows exactly what he wants and how to take it, leaving no room for uncertainty. But at the end of the day, control is nothing more than an illusion.

But with you, he feels it falter. Even after one brief interaction, it slips through his fingers, leaving him raw, exposed in ways he doesn’t understand. You’re a puzzle he doesn’t know how to solve, a challenge he can’t resist. There’s something about the way you hold your ground, the way you don’t crumble under his gaze or yield to the power he’s so used to wielding. It unnerves him. Excites him.

And Jeno doesn’t back down from challenges. Not ever. But for the first time, he’s starting to realize that control might not be something he holds—it might be something you’ve taken from him without even trying.

The sun dips lower in the sky, its pale light fractured through the skeletal branches lining the path, pooling on the pavement in jagged patches. The air is sharp, biting, and carries the faint, bitter tang of autumn’s decay—leaves curling at the edges, their scent clinging to the quiet corners of campus. With each step you and Jaemin take, the dry crunch underfoot mingles with the faint echoes of distant conversations and bursts of laughter, sound rising and fading like restless waves.

The campus feels different tonight—its usual rhythm muted, as if the impending game has drawn all attention inward, leaving everything else hollow. Groups of students pass, their faces half-hidden in the dimming light, voices subdued but edged with anticipation. The arena looms ahead, stark against the bruised blue of the sky, its lights glowing faintly like a promise of the chaos waiting inside. The air tightens the closer you get, tension curling into your lungs, weighing heavier with each breath. Even Jaemin, usually irreverent and quick with a joke, is quieter, his focus gradually shifting toward the arena ahead.

“You know,” Jaemin says, his voice finally breaking the stillness, conversational but laced with something knowing, “Jeno’s not as bad as you think.” He glances at you sideways, the faintest smirk playing on his lips as he gauges your reaction.

Your gaze stays fixed ahead, mapping the narrowing path with precision, each step carrying you closer to the glowing entrance of the arena. “Didn’t ask,” you reply, your tone sharp and deliberate, slicing through the air with an edge that leaves no room for argument. You don’t look at him or waver.

Jaemin chuckles, the sound low, unbothered. “Just saying,” he continues, unfazed. “Off the court—away from the noise—he’s not what you think he is.” His words linger, insinuations woven through them, but you don’t take the bait, keeping your focus ahead, your steps deliberate and steady.

The arena looms in front of you, massive and overbearing, its sharp angles cutting into the darkening sky. The glow of its entrance beckons, casting shifting shadows on the pavement, but the pull it exerts isn’t welcoming. It’s invasive, pressing against your thoughts with a strange weight. The crackling energy in the air clings to you, sharp and electric, as if the building itself is watching, waiting for you to step inside.

By the time you step through the heavy double doors, the hum has become a roar. The scent of sweat, rubber, and buttery popcorn saturates the air, thick and inescapable. The harsh overhead lights reflect off the polished court, amplifying every sound—the screech of sneakers, the chatter of players, the low pulse of the crowd. Jaemin doesn’t stay long. The moment he spots the team near the court, he’s already gone, drawn like a moth to flame. “Catch you later,” he says over his shoulder, his grin quick but distant, already halfway absorbed into the knot of players and cheerleaders huddled near the baseline. His absence leaves a hollow sting, a sharp reminder of how quickly the crowd swallows its own, leaving you standing alone, untethered, at the edge of their world.

You’ve been in rooms like this before—not arenas, but spaces where chaos and hierarchy hum beneath the surface, where everyone seems to know their place except you. It reminds you of growing up in a house that wasn’t yours, at dinners where polite conversation veiled deeper fractures. Here, as then, you scan the scene for something to hold onto, a point of familiarity to ground you, but there’s nothing. The tension coils tighter in your chest as your eyes sweep the room and land on nothing but movement, noise, and faces that barely register your existence.

The low murmur of conversation, the undercurrent of motion—it all ebbs and flows with a rhythm that excludes you entirely. Your gaze lingers, not searching but absorbing the way the world moves seamlessly without you. No one pauses, no one looks your way, and the absence doesn’t sting. It never does. It’s an emptiness that’s carved itself into you, a weight so ingrained it feels like part of your foundation, like it was always meant to be there. It doesn’t just settle—it grips, sharp and unyielding, pressing deeper with every passing moment, steady and inescapable.

Your gaze moves quickly, catching on the Seoul Ravens huddled near the baseline—a whirlwind of animated shouts, easy laughter, and camaraderie that feels almost theatrical in its intensity. The cheerleaders hover nearby, their bright smiles and poised beauty seamlessly stitched into the scene, like they’re as much a part of the game as the players themselves. And then there’s Mark. He stands slightly apart, his posture straight but detached, his energy quieter than the others. He doesn’t demand attention, but it lingers on him anyway, magnetic in the way stillness can be when surrounded by motion.

Karina stands at the center of it all, her long black hair falling in sleek waves, perfectly framing her sharp features. The cheer uniform clings to her figure, the short skirt swaying lightly as she moves with a deliberate, polished ease. Her beauty is striking, the kind that lingers in your mind even after you look away. She doesn’t need to try to stand out; her presence commands attention without effort. People glance at her cautiously, as if hesitant to stare too long, yet unable to resist the pull. She carries herself with quiet confidence, every step and gesture exuding a natural control over the space around her.

Then there’s Areum, Jeno’s girlfriend. She stands close to him but with a quiet restraint, her posture straight and her movements careful, never drawing attention. Her gaze shifts across the room, focused yet fleeting, taking in everything without lingering too long on anything. She doesn’t speak or engage much, but nothing about her seems uncertain. There’s a composure to her, steady and deliberate, but it’s paired with a distance that feels intentional. She stays on the edge of the energy around her, observing but never fully part of it. It’s not hesitation, and it’s not discomfort—it’s precision. She reminds you of Mark, both of them existing apart from the noise, though her distance feels purposeful, where his feels unguarded.

Your eyes flit briefly to Jeno, standing at the heart of it all, the nucleus of the team’s energy. His laugh cuts through the noise, low and magnetic, the confidence in his movements so ingrained it borders on arrogance. He’s impossible to ignore, not just for the way the team orbits around him, but for the sharp contrast he makes to Mark. Jeno belongs here; he’s thrived in this environment for years, molded by it, commanding it. And yet, even from this distance, his gaze feels like it cuts through the crowd, deliberate and pointed, before shifting back into the fray.

Your fingers curl around the clipboard you’re holding, its weight anchoring you in the moment. Your project isn’t just a distraction—it’s the reason you’re here, the justification for standing on the edges of a world that isn’t yours. A study on the psychological effects of competition on team dynamics, assigned by one of your professors, the kind of work that demands you observe everything: the players, the crowd, the interactions, the cracks beneath the surface. The tension simmering in this arena, the chaotic bursts of noise and movement, all of it is fodder for your research. It sharpens your focus, dulls the edge of your nerves, even as the uneasy energy lingers at the back of your mind.

But most importantly, you’re also here for Mark.

That’s what keeps your feet moving, carrying you closer to the court, even as the weight of the arena bears down on you. Mark has been your best friend for as long as you can remember, the one constant in your life when everything else felt uncertain. You’re here because he would be here for you if the roles were reversed, and that thought alone keeps your focus steady. The lingering stares, the unspoken judgment in the room—they don’t matter. Let them assess, let them dismiss. You’ve never cared about fitting in here, and you’re not about to start. You’re here to support him, to remind him he’s not alone in this, the same way he’s done for you a hundred times over. Whatever they think, whatever this space feels like, none of it changes the fact that you’re here for Mark, and for yourself.

As you move closer to the court, Karina and Areum’s attention shifts toward you. Their glances are pointed, sharp, cutting through the noise like a silent commentary aimed directly at you. Karina leans in toward Areum, her voice low but deliberate, and whatever she says earns a quiet laugh. You don’t need to hear the words to know they’re about you. You feel it in the way their eyes linger, assessing, dismissing, as if you’re a puzzle that doesn’t belong in this picture. But you don’t stop, and you don’t give them the satisfaction of even a glance. Their opinions are as irrelevant to you as the hum of the crowd. Your focus stays fixed on Mark, standing near the edge of the team. His posture is straight, his expression unreadable, but there’s a familiarity in the way he carries himself—steady, grounded, it’s what makes him distinctively him. It’s enough to cut through everything else, to remind you why you’re here.

When you reach him, you tap his shoulder lightly. He turns quickly, his brows furrowed for a split second before his expression softens. The tension in his posture eases as soon as he sees you, and his lips twitch into the kind of small, relieved smile that makes you wonder if he’d been holding his breath all night.

“You made it,” he says, his voice low and steady, but there’s an edge of disbelief there, like he hadn’t expected you to show.

“Obviously,” you say, nudging his arm. “What kind of best friend skips this? First game with the Ravens? That’d be friendship treason.”

Mark lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah. You just wanted a front-row seat to watch me trip and ruin my career before it even starts.”

“Mark, you’re not going to trip,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Don’t even start with that. I’ve seen you work harder for this than anyone else. Freezing nights at the river court, mornings when you could barely keep your eyes open—this is what it’s all been for. You’re ready. You’ve always been ready.”

Mark opens his mouth to respond, but his gaze drops to the clipboard in your hand, and he raises an eyebrow. “Seriously? Another project? What is this, your tenth one this term?”

You smirk, lifting the clipboard just enough to make your point. “What can I say? Some of us have standards to maintain.”

Mark raises an eyebrow, his tone dripping with teasing disbelief. “You know, normal college students go out, party, get drunk, and hook up. You should try it sometime. Might even loosen you up.”

Your smile doesn’t waver, but there’s a faint pause, barely perceptible, before you answer. “I’ll think about it,” you say casually, shifting the clipboard in your hands, the movement smooth, practiced. “Anyway, I actually like doing these projects. No one forces me to take them on—it’s my choice every time.”

Mark furrows his brows slightly, his teasing demeanor softening just a little. “You know you don’t have to prove anything to anyone, right?” he says, his voice quieter now, not accusatory, just matter-of-fact.

The words hang in the air for a beat, and you shrug lightly, your smile still intact. “I know,” you reply, quick and even, like that’s the end of it. The tightness in your grip on the clipboard goes unnoticed as he glances toward the court.

You lean in before he can say anything else, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “Good luck, okay? You’ve always made me proud,” you say softly, your tone steady, before stepping back and turning toward the stands.

For a second, Mark just looks at you, his teasing expression fading into something softer. “Thanks,” he says quietly, and even though it’s just one word, you can hear everything else he’s not saying.

“You’re welcome,” you say lightly, stepping back. “Now, go. Win. I’ll let you know if you’re worthy of a real congratulations afterward.”

Mark huffs out a laugh, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as he shakes his head. “No pressure, right?”

“None at all,” you say with a grin, turning to head to the stands.

As you walk away to get to the stands, you make your way through the cheerleaders, weaving past their perfectly straight lines and perfectly straight teeth. Their gazes sweep over you, eyes narrowing just slightly, quick glances that linger a beat too long, assessing. You can feel the silent commentary behind their stares, the unspoken judgment in the way their bodies shift to make space for you— not welcoming, but begrudging, as though your presence is a disruption to their order. It’s the kind of dismissal you’ve felt before, the silent reminder that you don’t belong in spaces like these.

Your grip tightens slightly on the clipboard, but your steps remain steady, your head high. It’s a practiced reaction, one you’ve honed over time: keep moving, show nothing. Let them think what they want. Their opinions don’t matter. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

But then you cross paths with Karina and Areum, standing off to the side, their conversation halting the moment you enter their space. Karina turns to look at you, her sharp eyes raking over you from head to toe. Areum, in contrast, doesn’t even look at you. She leans away from Karina, her focus on her nails, inspecting them with a casual indifference.

Karina doesn’t wait for you to pass before speaking. “Seriously? A clipboard?” she says, her voice loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. “What are you doing, running a study on how not to fit in?”

Areum’s laugh comes quick and light, almost like a reflex, but her attention isn’t fully on you. She doesn’t say a word, her gaze briefly flickering your way, her smirk widening for a second before she looks back down at her nails, uninterested. It’s not malice—it’s detachment, like she’s barely invested in the exchange but finds Karina’s remarks amusing enough to entertain. Her presence doesn’t add weight to the moment, but the laugh lingers, brushing against your already-fraying composure.

The weight of their judgment presses against you, but you don’t stop. You bite your tongue, your jaw tightening slightly. Without pausing, you keep your head held high and walk away, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a reaction. By the time you sit down, your focus is already on the notes in your lap. You start jotting down notes, forcing their words out of your mind. It’s just noise. You’re here for your work, for Mark.

It’s not that you’re unaware of the stares, the laughter, the low hum of judgment behind you—you feel it as clearly as the pen in your hand. But you’ve long since learned to focus through it, to let it blur into the background. You scribble away, pen scratching against paper, your jaw tightening for a fleeting second before you press it down and keep writing. You don’t stop to wonder if anyone might step in. Why would you? People don’t defend you. They never have.

It’s easier this way—to stop convincing yourself that anyone was ever meant to stand with you, to let the fire rise and take what it will without reaching for hands that were never there. The laughter doesn’t cut anymore; it drifts by, hollow and distant, as inconsequential as the faces behind it. You’ve unlearned the need to want, stripped away the instinct to hope, and in its place, something sharper remains—a clarity that feels almost intoxicating. The weight of solitude no longer presses; it stays steady, familiar, like a second skin. This isn’t defeat, nor is it grief. It’s an undeniable truth, calm and unwavering: some paths are meant to be walked alone, and maybe that’s where the strength lies.

But what you don’t notice is that someone does care. Someone does look out for you when you’re not paying attention. Mark had been watching you this whole time—since you walked away from him, weaving your way back toward the crowd. He’s seen this before—the steady but distant way you carry yourself, like you’re holding onto space that always feels just out of reach. He knows the weight it takes to be here, the quiet effort it costs to keep your head high when everything around you seems designed to press you down.

Karina and Areum command attention, as always. Karina’s confidence is calculated, every word designed to wound while her sharp-edged smile masks the intent. Her presence demands space, loud and unapologetic. Areum moves differently, her quiet magnetism effortless and untouched by the noise around her. Mark knows why he’s always noticed her, why his feelings for her linger ever since they were younger, quiet but persistent. It’s not about the way she shines, but the ease with which she moves through spaces that still feel foreign to him. Yet tonight, something in him shifts.

He watches her stand beside Karina, laughing lightly as Karina’s words turn cutting. Areum’s silence isn’t malicious, but it stings all the same, mingling with the precision of Karina’s cruelty. And then there’s you, walking away with your head high, shoulders stiff, the clipboard in your hands gripped too tightly.

It twists something in him, sharp and immediate. He knows that walk, knows how hard you’re working to hold yourself together, and for the first time, it hits him differently. It’s not just about Karina’s words or Areum’s laughter—it’s the sight of you being treated like this, dismissed like you don’t belong, when he knows how much it took for you to be here.

The sting burns hotter, pulling Mark forward before he can think better of it. His footsteps are firm, deliberate, cutting through the noise of the gym as he moves toward Karina and Areum. Their laughter falters as they catch sight of him, their conversation dying mid-sentence.

Karina’s eyes widen first, surprise flashing across her face before she masks it with that sharp-edged smile, her confidence curling back into place like armor. Areum’s reaction is quieter—her lips part slightly, her brows knitting together in subtle confusion, but it’s the way her gaze locks with Mark’s that lingers. There’s something unspoken in the look they share, a tension that neither seems willing to name. It feels heavier than the moment, deeper than the words left unsaid between them, but Mark doesn’t let himself sink into it. Not now.

He stops in front of them, his presence carrying a weight they weren’t expecting. The air shifts, the silence stretching just long enough to make Karina shift uncomfortably, her confidence wavering for a fraction of a second. “She’s got more of a place here than you do,” Mark says, his tone sharp, cutting through the air like a blade.

The shift is immediate. Karina falters, her eyes flick to Mark, and her expression softens, her tone changing in an instant. “Relax, Mark,” she says, her voice smoother now, practiced. “It was just a joke.” She steps a little closer to him, her body language shifting—her shoulders turning slightly toward him, her gaze lingering in a way that’s anything but casual. Mark doesn’t miss the way she brushes her hair back, her smile edging into something almost flirtatious.

Areum shifts uncomfortably beside her. She doesn’t speak, her earlier amusement replaced by a kind of unease, her gaze flickering between Mark and Karina before settling on the floor.

Mark doesn’t let up. “Maybe you should focus on your own life instead of hers,” he says, quieter now but no less cutting. His jaw is tight, his shoulders squared, and there’s nothing in his expression that suggests he’s willing to let it go.

Karina’s laugh comes, thin and strained. “Whatever you say, Mark,” she mutters, her smile still in place but lacking its usual bite. Her eyes linger on him a beat too long before she steps back, finally breaking the tension.

Mark doesn’t wait for her to add anything else. He turns sharply, heading back toward his team, his steps firm, his shoulders tense as the weight of the moment clings to him. The gym’s noise begins to swell again, the confrontation fading into the backdrop as if it never happened. But it did, and everyone who saw it knows it did.

Mark doesn’t feel it immediately, but the attention follows him as he walks away, the weight of lingering glances pressing heavier than before. For years, he’s been the quiet one, his presence steady but overlooked, his name spoken in passing while louder, flashier figures like Jeno commanded the spotlight. At the river court, he was a constant, but not the kind of presence anyone lingered on. Yet something has changed, subtle but undeniable. People are starting to notice—not just his game, which has sharpened with every hoop, every deliberate play, but the way he moves now, deliberate and steady, as though he’s no longer willing to stay in anyone’s shadow. There’s a gravity to him that wasn’t there before, something that draws attention and holds it. Even Karina had felt it, her words softening, her gaze dragging over him like she wasn’t used to seeing him this way. She noticed, and so did everyone else. Mark wasn’t invisible anymore, but the weight of being seen is one he doesn’t dwell on—not when something else matters more.

You’ve fully zoned out, lost in your own world. You don’t notice Mark’s eyes following you, the way they try to catch your attention, to anchor you to something outside of yourself. You don’t see him watching, the tension in his jaw or the stiffness in his shoulders, like he’s holding something back, something heavier than words. For you, this moment is no different from the ones you’ve endured countless times before—another invisible cut to add to the rest, another reminder of how easily you slip to the edges, always slightly out of step with the rhythm everyone else seems to follow so naturally.

The stares are always first, dragging over you like they’re waiting for the moment you crack. Then come the whispers, deliberate and sharp, just loud enough to reach you but not enough to let you defend yourself. The laughter follows, inevitable and bitter, wrapping around you like an echo of something you’ve long stopped trying to drown out. It presses against you—not crushing, but constant—a dull weight you’ve carried for so long it feels easier to let it settle than to push it away.

And yet, even as you sit there, trying to convince yourself it doesn’t matter, something shifts. Mark watches you from the corner of his eye, his gaze lingering as though to make sure you’re okay. He cares—more than you’ll ever realize—and even though you’ve never expected anyone to step in, he already has. You’ll never know that he defended you, and that he would again, without hesitation. For Mark, this wasn’t just another moment to let pass. It wasn’t just about what was said or who said it. It was about a line crossed, one he refused to let go unnoticed. He stepped out of the shadows for you—not for attention, not for recognition, but because you deserved better. Even if you never know it, even if you never see it, it mattered. To him, it always will.

You’re still sitting in silence, the weight in your chest dull but persistent, when a voice cuts through the gym’s noise. “Oh, look who decided to show up,” Donghyuck’s familiar tone cuts through the noise, amplified by the mic in his hand. He’s got his portable speaker slung over his shoulder, his grin sharp and full of mischief. “Ladies and gentlemen, the queen of overachieving herself has graced us with her presence. A round of applause, please!”

Your head snaps up, irritation flickering, but it dissolves as quickly as it comes. Donghyuck strides toward you with exaggerated confidence, dragging everyone else in his orbit. Chenle’s already laughing, Yangyang has a bucket of popcorn tucked under one arm, and Shotaro waves both hands high like he’s signaling a plane to land. Nahyun, trailing behind, nudges Shotaro lightly in the ribs, her expression somewhere between amusement and exasperation.

“Donghyuck, stop,” you say, leaning back in your seat.

“Oh, she speaks,” Donghyuck drawls into the mic, his gaze flicking toward you. “What’s the matter? Too preoccupied to notice pure brilliance right in front of you?”

Before you can respond to Donghyuck’s jab, Chenle grabs the mic from his hand, cutting him off effortlessly. “Ignore him,” he says with a smirk, his gaze flicking over to you. “But seriously, I can’t believe you almost didn’t show up. What kind of friend does that?” It’s true—you had been close to staying in, the weight of your project and looming deadlines pressing down on you, convincing you there were more important things to focus on. But then there was Mark—his debut wasn’t just important, it was something you couldn’t miss. You’d seen him work for this moment, and staying home would’ve felt like a betrayal. And then, of course, there was Chenle, who had called earlier, his teasing charm cutting through your hesitation and leaving you with no real excuse to stay away.

“Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?” you reply, shifting in your as Yangyang plops down beside you, the popcorn now balanced on your lap.

“Yeah, yeah,” Yangyang says, ruffling your hair with exaggerated affection before leaning back into his seat. “I brought popcorn. You’re welcome.”

You roll your eyes, a soft smile tugging at your lips despite yourself, before standing to hug them all. Donghyuck is first, pulling you into an exaggerated, theatrical hug. “Finally, you’ve come to a match!” he exclaims dramatically, his voice loud enough to catch the attention of a few nearby. “I’ve been saving all my best material for you, and you’ve been missing it. Do you know how much harder it is to narrate these games without my number one audience?”

Donghyuck’s “material” isn’t just his usual sarcasm—it’s his self-proclaimed role as the game’s unofficial commentator. Armed with a mic connected to a portable speaker slung over his shoulder, he spends every match narrating the plays with the flair of a professional broadcaster. He embellishes every move with ridiculous metaphors, overly enthusiastic descriptions, and enough wit to make the crowd laugh—even if half of them roll their eyes at his antics.

Chenle pulls you into a quick, firm hug next, clapping your back in that no-nonsense way that feels more grounding than anything else. Yangyang doesn’t bother standing, just pats your head twice before reclaiming the popcorn like it’s his lifeline. Then there’s Shotaro, who pulls you into a full-body squeeze so intense it knocks the air out of you. You wheeze a laugh as he steps back, grinning wide.

When it’s Nahyun’s turn, her smile is smaller, softer. She reaches out, her hands warm against your shoulders as she hugs you, her embrace unhurried. “It’s good to see you,” she says, her voice quiet but sincere.

“You too,” you reply, matching her tone, and for a fleeting moment, the weight that’s been sitting on your chest feels just a little lighter.

When the whistle blows, the gym seems to hold its breath for a fraction of a second before erupting into movement. The ball is tipped into the air, and the game begins with a sudden, sharp energy. Players streak across the court, their sneakers squeaking against the polished wood, the ball bouncing rhythmically as it moves from hand to hand.

Shotaro leans closer to you, his voice low and steady, explaining the setup. “Mark’s starting as shooting guard,” he says, nodding toward the court. “He’s got to control the pace, look for openings, and capitalize when they find them.” His explanations are precise, but his eyes never leave the court, his focus unwavering.

“Jeno’s in as a small forward tonight,” Shotaro says, his voice low but deliberate. “He’s been the shooting guard since, like, forever. For Coach to move him? That’s unheard of, Jeno’s spot on the team has been untouched… until now.”

You glance toward Jeno, your attention catching on the way he stands just outside the action, shoulders squared, his jaw tight. He doesn’t look at Mark, doesn’t look at anyone, really, his focus locked on the ball as though willing it to find him. There’s an edge to his movements, sharp and restrained, like he’s holding something back.

He fits here effortlessly—physically, at least. The jersey clings to his frame, his stance rooted in the kind of confidence that’s been built over years of owning his place on the court. But something feels off. It’s subtle, the way his posture stiffens when the ball shifts away from him, the way his eyes flick to Mark for just a fraction too long before looking away again.

Mark, on the other hand, is easy to spot. He’s quick but measured, his movements are purposeful as he shifts around the perimeter, scanning the play with sharp focus. When the ball finds him, his hands are steady, fingers splayed as he calls for it, his voice cutting through the noise of the gym. The reaction is immediate as Donghyuck’s voice booms through the speaker, brimming with exaggerated flair. “There it is, ladies and gentlemen! Number twenty-three, Mark Lee, officially making his debut with a clean pass that’s smoother than butter!”

Your friends erupt into cheers, their voices blending into the crowd’s growing roar. Chenle pumps his fist into the air, Shotaro nods approvingly, and Yangyang leans forward in his seat, his eyes locked on Mark as if willing him to succeed.

The ball comes back to Mark seconds later, this time just outside the three-point line. His movements are fluid, his form perfect as he fakes a defender with a quick pivot and drives toward the basket. Donghyuck narrates every second. “Did you see that? A fake that could break ankles—Mark Lee with the drive! Look at him go!”

The shot is clean, the ball arcing through the air before swishing through the net. The crowd surges with noise, and so do your friends.

“Yes!” Chenle shouts, clapping so loudly you think his hands might sting. “That’s how you do it!”

Yangyang exhales sharply, his grin widening. “He’s standing out already,” he says, his tone filled with awe. “First few minutes, and everyone’s already watching him.”

And it’s true. The curious eyes of the crowd seem to stick to Mark every time he touches the ball. There’s something magnetic about the way he moves—calculated but confident, the kind of presence that demands attention without asking for it.

Donghyuck doesn’t let up, his commentary a mix of genuine pride and playful exaggeration. “Ladies and gentlemen, I don’t think you’re ready for this. Mark Lee is owning this court. Someone call the league because we’ve got a star in the making!”

Yangyang leans closer, his gaze still fixed on the court. “This is wild,” he says, his voice quieter now, threaded with something heavier. “We used to play until we couldn’t feel our fingers, and now he’s here. Real jersey, real court. He actually made it.”

Chenle nods, his tone softer. “Worked harder than anyone. No one else could’ve done this. He earned all of it.”

Mark glances toward the stands after another clean pass, his gaze sweeping over the crowd before pausing, just briefly, in your direction. His expression is unreadable, but something in his posture eases, the tension in his shoulders loosening as if he can feel your presence there.

Your chest tightens slightly, not with worry anymore, but with something closer to awe. You’ve seen Mark play a hundred times before—on cracked concrete, under dim streetlights, with nothing but scraped knees and determination to show for it. But this is different. This is Mark stepping into a spotlight he’s never had before, and already, it’s like he owns it.

The ball comes back to him, and the crowd leans forward as one. Mark moves with ease, weaving through defenders like it’s second nature before going for a layup that’s so clean it feels almost effortless. The scoreboard buzzes, the points adding up, and the gym erupts again.

Shotaro claps, his expression calm but his pride evident. “That’s Mark,” he says simply, like nothing more needs to be said.

Yangyang shakes his head, a small laugh escaping. “We used to joke about this, you know? Like, ‘what if he actually makes it?’ And now…” He trails off, his eyes fixed on the court. “Now, it’s real.”

“Meanwhile,” Donghyuck’s voice cuts in through the speaker, “we’ve got Jeno Lee, usually the pride of the court, looking a little out of rhythm tonight. Guess even stars stumble when the spotlight shifts, huh?” His tone is playful, but there’s an edge to it, enough to draw a few murmurs from the crowd. Your attention flickers back to Jeno, his movements tense, controlled to the point of rigidity. He’s not playing poorly, but there’s a hesitation in him, a subtle weight that wasn’t there before.

Your gaze catches on Jeno near the baseline, his movements precise yet brimming with a tension that feels almost dangerous. He carries himself with an intensity that pulls focus without trying, each motion deliberate, calculated, but edged with something raw. His shoulders are set, his jaw tight, every shift of his body radiating control that feels like it might snap at any moment. There’s something magnetic about him, the way he commands his space with an unspoken arrogance, like he knows exactly how to draw attention—and keep it.

But it’s the cracks in that control that hold your focus. The slight flare of his nostrils when the ball slips out of his reach, the way his hands flex like he’s suppressing the urge to lash out. His eyes flick to Mark, dark and unreadable, before darting away again as Mark sinks another clean shot. It’s subtle, but it’s there—a flicker of frustration, or something sharper, lurking just beneath the surface. You can’t decide if it’s anger or something else entirely, but it simmers in the set of his shoulders, in the deliberate sharpness of his next move, and it doesn’t let go.

You notice the way his shoulders tense, the way he’s caught between holding back and wanting to dominate. His aggression is layered, restrained enough to stay controlled, but just barely. Jeno doesn’t just play the game; he pushes it, toeing the line between brilliance and frustration. He’s not easy to read, but that’s what makes him impossible to ignore.

From the corner of your eye, you catch movement at the edge of the gym. Taeyong Lee—Mark’s and Jeno’s father—stands by the sideline, a stark figure against the chaos of the game. His posture is impossibly still, his sharp features betraying no emotion as he watches the players. He’s not just observing; he’s calculating, the weight of his presence dark and deliberate. There’s something unsettling about him, a quiet menace that doesn’t need words to be felt. The resemblance to Jeno is striking—the sharp jaw, the controlled stance—but where Jeno’s tension simmers, Taeyong’s feels unshakable, like a blade waiting to be drawn. You don’t know if his attention is fixed on Jeno, Mark, or something else entirely, but the unease his presence brings is undeniable.

Jeno doesn’t look at Coach Suh on the sidelines, but you can feel the weight of his coach—and his father—in every movement he makes. Coach Suh, known for his precision and demanding leadership, stands with his arms crossed, his sharp gaze fixed on the court. A former player turned renowned coach, he’s as much a strategist as he is a disciplinarian, a figure who commands respect without ever needing to raise his voice. He’s shaped players for years, turning raw talent into polished skill, and his expectations are nothing short of perfection—especially for his own players.

You force yourself to keep taking notes, eyes skimming over the scribbled lines, but your focus falters when it drifts to Coach Suh. He stands at the edge of the court, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the players with a calm intensity that feels too precise. There’s something about the way he carries himself—steady, deliberate—that makes your stomach knot, a tension blooming in your chest that you can’t quite suppress. Your lips press into a thin line, the motion subtle but instinctive, before you force your eyes back to your notes. The pen in your hand hovers, unmoving, as the quiet weight of his presence lingers.

For a moment, the noise of the gym recedes into a distant hum, replaced by a sharper, more personal tension. It’s not the first time his presence has unsettled you—not the first time your composure has felt fragile under the gravity he seems to carry—but tonight, it feels heavier, cutting through your practiced detachment like a blade grazing too close to old wounds. You don’t look up again, but the tightness in your chest doesn’t ease, no matter how hard you try to will it away.

Nahyun leans in, her voice low but insistent, cutting through the thick haze of your thoughts. “I know Coach Suh is really hot, but you were really staring just now,” she says, her lips curling into a small, knowing smile.

You blink, caught off guard, before a quiet laugh escapes you, the tension in your chest loosening just slightly. “I wasn’t staring,” you mumble, though the heat creeping up your neck betrays you.

“Sure you weren’t,” Nahyun replies, her giggle light and teasing, but her tone isn’t sharp. It’s the kind of comment only she would make—honest but harmless, pulling you out of the moment without pushing too far.

For a brief second, the weight in your chest eases, but your gaze drifts back to the court, where Jeno’s intensity hasn’t faltered for even a moment. Mark, on the other hand, is thriving. Every pass he makes is precise, every shot purposeful, and the crowd is feeding off his energy. The gym hums with excitement, spectators leaning forward in their seats as they watch the new addition to the team move like he’s been playing here his entire life.

You catch a glimpse of Coach Suh and his assistant, their wide eyes betraying a mix of surprise and approval. They exchange quiet words, their expressions unreadable but focused on Mark. It’s clear he’s exceeding expectations, a standout in his very first game. The spectators clap and cheer louder with every shot he makes, and the gym’s energy feels electric, vibrating with the kind of unity that only a win can bring.

Donghyuck’s voice booms through the mic, loud and playful as always. “Ladies and gentlemen, can we just take a moment to appreciate number twenty-three, Mark Lee? He’s not just a rookie—he’s a revelation! Someone get this man a cape, because he’s carrying the Ravens to glory tonight!”

Your friends erupt in cheers as the final countdown begins, the seconds ticking down like thunder. “That’s our boy!” Yangyang shouts, pumping his fist in the air. Chenle and Shotaro join in, their voices blending with the roar of the crowd. Even Nahyun claps, her usual quiet demeanor replaced with genuine excitement. It’s not just pride—it’s joy, infectious and overwhelming, the kind that pulls you in completely.

The buzzer sounds, and the Ravens secure their win. The stands explode into celebration, students jumping to their feet, shouting and clapping in unison. And at the center of it all is Mark, the clear standout of the night. His teammates pat his back, their smiles wide as they pull him into a huddle. For a moment, everything feels lighter, the weight you carried into the gym replaced with something brighter as you watch Mark soak in his victory.

But the shift comes fast, sharp, and unexpected.

Your gaze catches Jeno breaking away from his teammates, his expression unreadable but his steps purposeful as he moves toward Mark. The celebration continues around them, but there’s a sudden tension that coils in the air, snapping your focus back to the court.

Jeno’s voice is low, his words too quiet to reach you, but whatever he says makes Mark turn sharply, his smile fading into something harder. Mark squares his shoulders, his hands rising slightly as if to diffuse the moment, but Jeno doesn’t stop. He steps closer, his stance confrontational, his frustration from earlier spilling over like a dam breaking.

The punch comes before you can fully register what’s happening. Jeno’s fist connects with Mark’s jaw in one sharp, brutal motion, and the sound of it cuts through the gym like a crack of lightning. Gasps ripple through the crowd, the celebration grinding to a halt as Mark stumbles back, his hand shooting up to his face.

“Whoa, whoa!” Donghyuck’s voice booms through the mic, shock laced into his usual dramatic tone. “Someone call security, because that is not regulation play!”

Mark doesn’t retaliate, at least not immediately. His eyes blaze as he steadies himself, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Blood smears across his knuckles, but he doesn’t back down. Instead, he steps forward, his voice sharp as he fires back at Jeno. You can’t make out the words, but the intensity between them is palpable, a storm brewing in the center of the court.

Teammates rush to intervene, pulling them apart before it escalates further. Jeno struggles against the hands holding him back, his chest heaving, his eyes fixed on Mark with a fury that feels unrelenting. Mark, on the other hand, seems calmer now, though the tension in his jaw doesn’t ease as he’s pulled toward the sidelines.

The gym is no longer celebrating. The buzz of excitement has drained out of the room, leaving only a suffocating silence as the aftermath of Jeno’s outburst settles like smoke in the air. Spectators shift uncomfortably in their seats, whispers rippling through the crowd as everyone tries to piece together what just happened. You can’t look away. Your heart pounds in your chest as you watch Jeno being pulled toward the bench, his jaw clenched tight, fury still radiating off him in waves. Across the court, Mark stands tall, though his jaw is red from the impact, and there’s a tension in his posture that betrays the calm he’s trying to project. The victory—the joy of the Ravens’ first win with Mark on the team—feels like it was hours ago, eclipsed by the chaos that unraveled in a matter of seconds.

“Let’s go,” Yangyang mutters, already moving down toward the court. You follow instinctively, weaving through the thinning crowd with your friends close behind. Mark is surrounded by his teammates, their congratulations now muted and uneasy, but he’s still smiling when he spots you all approaching. The moment his eyes land on you, the earlier tension in his shoulders eases just slightly, and he steps forward to greet you.

You reach him first, pulling him into a tight hug without thinking. “I’m so proud of you,” you whisper, your voice steady despite the knot in your chest.

Mark’s arms tighten around you briefly, grounding you even amidst the chaos. “Thanks,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now. When he pulls back, his eyes meet yours, and for a second, you see the weight he’s carrying—the strain behind the composed exterior. “Really. It means a lot.”

You hesitate for only a moment before speaking, your tone softer now. “Are you okay? You shouldn’t have to deal with him,” you say, the words edged with quiet anger. “Jeno’s an ass, Mark. He’s always been like this, and you don’t deserve it.”

Mark shakes his head, a tight-lipped smile crossing his face. “I’m fine,” he says, the words steady but leaving little room for argument. “It’s part of it, right? Just something I’ve gotta handle.”

You don’t agree, but you don’t push either. Instead, your voice lowers, firm but full of care. “He’s lucky that’s all you gave him.”

That pulls a faint laugh from Mark, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “You’re not wrong,” he says, the tension in his expression easing, even if just for a moment.

The others swarm in after you, the tension easing as Donghyuck throws an arm around Mark’s shoulders, ignoring the red mark on his jaw. “Dude, that was insane,” Donghyuck says, his voice brimming with enthusiasm, as if the fight hadn’t even happened. “Seriously, I’ve got a whole commentary reel planned for you. Starting with: Mark Lee, the pride of the Ravens—taking hits on and off the court!”

“Cut it out,” Shotaro says, but there’s a small smile on his face as he passes Mark a towel. “You did great out there. Really.”

“Seriously,” Yangyang adds, his usual playfulness absent. “We know what it took to get here, and… well, just don’t let idiots like him ruin it for you.”

Mark laughs, but it’s quiet, a sound that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m good, I promise.” he says, but there’s a tension in his tone that none of you miss.

“You sure?” Nahyun asks, her voice softer, steadier. She’s watching Mark carefully, her concern clear in the way her gaze lingers on him.

“I am,” Mark insists, but when he looks at you, there’s a flicker of something vulnerable, something unspoken. “Really. I’ll be fine.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, and you all let them sit, knowing he’s holding back more than he’s letting on. The pep talk that follows isn’t just for him—it’s for all of you, a way to push back the nervousness gnawing at the edges of your thoughts.

“Chenle’s right,” Donghyuck says, his tone lighter now but no less genuine. “Screw Jeno. He’s just pissed because you’re better than him, and he knows it.”

“And because Taeyong knows it,” Yangyang adds, glancing toward the sidelines where Jeno’s father watches with a gaze sharp enough to cut steel.

“Taeyong’s not playing,” Shotaro says firmly. “This is your game, Mark. Don’t forget that.”

Mark nods, his smile small but real this time. “I won’t,” he says. “Thanks, guys. Really.”

The Ravens’ bench is a stark contrast to your group, the tension between the players palpable. They’re scattered, avoiding each other’s gazes, their confusion and unease as visible as the sweat on their brows. Even Jaemin, who rarely lets his composure slip, exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to physically shake off the discomfort of being stuck between Mark and Jeno.

The chaos doesn’t just sit with the Ravens, though. It’s there in your group too, beneath the laughter and teasing, in the way your friends stick close to Mark like they’re guarding him from the fallout. You all know what this team means, what joining the Ravens will cost him. It’s not just about the game. It’s about Jeno, about Taeyong, about the pressure that’s already weighing on Mark’s shoulders.

Chenle breaks the tension with a grin, leaning in to nudge Mark. “Just don’t forget about us when you’re a big star, alright? You might be getting a lot of fans and attention now, but we paid attention to you first.” His voice is light, teasing, but there’s an edge of sincerity beneath it, a quiet plea wrapped in humor. Chenle rarely says what he means outright, but the way his gaze lingers on Mark, steady and uncharacteristically serious, gives him away. It’s not just a joke—it’s a reminder of where they started, a subtle way of grounding Mark when everything else around him feels uncertain.

Mark doesn’t even pause to consider his response. “Never,” he says firmly, his voice cutting through the noise around you with a conviction that feels unshakable. His gaze sweeps across your group, and you can see it in his eyes—the promise isn’t just for Chenle. It’s for all of you. “It’s home. Always will be.”

The words are simple, but the weight they carry is anything but. There’s something unspoken that passes between all of you in that moment, a reassurance you didn’t realize you needed until it settles in your chest. Mark might be here, on this bigger stage, surrounded by new teammates and a louder crowd, but he’s still yours. No matter how far he goes, no matter what heights he reaches, Mark’s roots are with you, and he’s not leaving that behind. He’s not leaving you behind.

He’s still the same Mark who sat with you on the cracked pavement of the river court when life felt too heavy, the basketball forgotten at his feet as he listened without interrupting. The same Mark who stayed until the sky turned dark, the faint hum of the river filling the spaces where words couldn’t. He’s still the same Mark who played with you until the streetlights flickered on, who laughed until his sides hurt when Donghyuck tried to narrate the games like a professional announcer.

Yangyang claps Mark on the shoulder, breaking the quiet thread of nostalgia with his crooked grin. “You better not,” he says, his voice low but firm, his usual humor taking on an edge of seriousness. “Because if you do, we’ll drag you back ourselves. No way you’re leaving us in the dust.”

Mark’s laugh is quiet, but it’s real, a soft sound that feels lighter than anything that’s passed between you all tonight. For a brief moment, the weight of the fight, the tension in the gym, and the unease that’s lingered since the final buzzer all seem to fade. It’s just you and your group, the people who’ve been there for Mark through everything, and who always will be.

When he turns back to you, his expression softens, and there’s a hesitation in his eyes that pulls at something deep in your chest. “Did Mum come?” he asks, his voice quieter now, almost unsure.

You look at him for a moment, as if searching for an answer, even though you already know it. Finally, you shake your head, matching his tone as you reply, “No. She didn’t.”

Mark nods slowly, his smile faltering for just a second before he recovers, smoothing it out into something steady and practiced. “It’s fine,” he says, his tone even but distant. “It’s not her thing anyway.”

You don’t press, and neither does anyone else. The silence hangs heavy for a moment, before Donghyuck, ever the deflector, slings an arm around Mark again. “Alright, alright, enough with the moody stuff,” he says, launching into an exaggerated monologue about Mark’s “heroic performance” on the court, complete with mock commentary and over-the-top gestures. The absurdity finally earns a real laugh from Mark, one that ripples through the group like a wave, lightening the air around you.

The tension lingers in the background, but it doesn’t define the moment. What stands out is the way your group comes together, the way each of you leans into your roles without even thinking—Donghyuck’s humor, Yangyang’s blunt honesty, Nahyun’s quiet warmth, Shotaro’s steady presence, Chenle’s sharp wit—all of it meshing into something that feels solid, unshakable. It’s effortless, a kind of belonging that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud, and for a second, it feels like nothing outside of this small circle could touch you.

The Ravens linger on the court, their movements stilted, their expressions uncertain as they glance toward Mark. Their unity feels like an illusion—strained and held together by necessity rather than genuine connection. The difference is glaring. It’s not hard to see where Mark truly belongs, where his foundation lies. It isn’t with the polished façade of his new team, where harmony feels more like an obligation than a bond. It’s here, among the people who’ve been with him before the spotlight, before the stakes were this high. The ones who don’t need a crowd or a jersey to know who he is, who will stay long after the lights fade and the noise disappears.

But then your gaze shifts, pulled by something darker, something unspoken that cuts through the lightness of the moment like a blade. You feel him before you see him, an unseen ripple in the air that brushes against your senses, cold and invasive, like the first breath of winter creeping through a cracked window. It isn’t sound or movement that gives him away—it’s the weight, a suffocating presence that clings to your skin, seeps into your chest, and settles heavy, like an omen you can’t ignore. He’s a shadow stretching long before dusk, a storm carving silence into the sky, waiting to break. By the time your gaze finds him, it’s almost too late—he’s already there, fixed and unrelenting, a wound you didn’t realize you’d opened.

Jeno.

He sits on the bench, his body honed and sharp as a predator in stillness, elbows braced on his knees, the loose fabric of his jersey stretching over shoulders that seem carved to intimidate. His posture is coiled, almost too controlled, as if the slightest shift would unleash something you aren’t ready to see. His jaw is tight, the sharp line of it catching the light, and a faint pulse throbs at his temple, rhythmic and precise, like the ticking of a countdown. His eyes—dark, endless, and cutting—are locked onto your group with a focus that feels inescapable.

It isn’t anger flashing in those depths; it’s something quieter, more insidious, a steady burn just beneath the surface. It’s the kind of gaze that knows its own power, that pins you in place, a hunter with no need to chase. He’s beautiful in a way that doesn’t soften the sharp edges; it amplifies them. The shadows clinging to him aren’t imperfections—they’re the thing that makes him impossible to look away from.

The gym hums with life around him, the sound of laughter swelling as Mark smiles, as your friends lean into each other’s easy rhythm like nothing else matters. But Jeno’s gaze cuts through it all, invasive and heavy, pressing against your chest like it knows where you’re weakest. It’s not just loneliness—not the hollow ache of solitude—it’s sharper, crueler, the kind of emptiness that demands to be filled.

Even his stillness is deliberate, a quiet defiance against the chaos of the gym. He doesn’t belong here, not among the fleeting ease of laughter or the bright warmth of companionship. He’s the shadow cast by the light, the storm biding its time. The muscles in his forearms flex subtly as his hands curl into fists against his knees, and you realize the tension isn’t just in his body—it’s in the room, in the way everything seems to shift under the weight of his presence.

His stare is slow, deliberate, and every time his eyes lock onto yours, it feels as though the world grinds to a halt. That gaze—it’s sharp enough to slice, dragging over you like a scalpel cutting too deep. There’s no fury, no malice, but it doesn’t need either. It’s the precision of it—the way it peels you open, lays you bare, and leaves you exposed to something raw and unrelenting.

He holds it, letting the moment stretch thin and taut, the air between you charged with something you can’t name but feel in every nerve. The gym falls away; there’s only him, watching you like a man standing on the edge of something he can’t turn back from. His beauty is almost unnerving up close—the symmetry of his features made sharper by the darkness in his eyes, the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth a whisper of something dangerous.

And just as quickly, it’s gone.

He leans back, the movement unhurried, fluid, the kind of grace that seems effortless but deliberate, like every shift of his body is crafted to draw your attention. The loose fabric of his jersey pulls against his chest and shoulders as he stretches slightly, his physique etched in sharp lines and hard edges, a perfect blend of power and control. His jaw tightens for a fraction of a second, the muscle flexing beneath his skin before his expression smooths out, closing off like a door slammed shut. His fists tighten briefly on his thighs, the veins running along his forearms stark and pronounced, a quiet reminder of the restrained strength lying just beneath the surface. When he exhales, it’s measured, calculated, a coldness settling over him that feels more like armor than indifference. But the weight of him doesn’t leave. It lingers, creeping into your skin, slow and invasive, a chill that roots itself deep. Even when his eyes are no longer on you, their imprint remains, like a scar carved by a blade you never saw coming.

A sudden warmth pulls you out of your thoughts. Yangyang’s arm slides around your waist, his voice low and steady. “What’s up? You’ve been zoning out all day.”

You blink, shaking off the heaviness that clings to you like a second skin. “I’m fine,” you say quickly, forcing a small smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

Yangyang doesn’t push, though the slight tilt of his head tells you he doesn’t believe you. Before he can press further, Donghyuck’s voice cuts through the moment, brimming with energy. “Alright, listen up! Post-victory meal, my treat—unless Mark’s paying, which he should be, considering he’s the star tonight.”

Mark groans, rolling his eyes as the rest of the group chimes in with cheers and playful demands. Chenle nudges your shoulder, smirking. “You coming, or do you have another meeting to attend? You’re always running off somewhere. Deadlines to crush, right?”

You shake your head, letting out a soft laugh. “I’ll meet you guys there. I have something to take care of first.”

“Of course you do,” Donghyuck teases, tossing a glance your way as the group starts to head out. “You practically live on campus anyway. Do they even let you leave, or are you just chained to your deadlines?”

You roll your eyes but don’t reply, the weight of your next destination already pulling at you. The group moves ahead, their laughter a distant hum, fading into the background as you take a different path. The echo of Jeno’s gaze lingers, an unwelcome shadow pressed against your thoughts, sharp and piercing. You push it aside, but it clings to you, a reminder you don’t have time for.

The court feels unnaturally quiet now. The noise and energy that had filled the space are gone, replaced by a heavy stillness that settles in the corners. You stay near the sideline, notepad balanced on your palm, the pen in your hand tapping absently as your focus shifts. The remnants of the game—the tension, the collisions, the unspoken hierarchies—replay in your mind as you sift through your hurriedly written notes.

You flip to a blank page, drawing a line to separate the chaos of the match from the clarity you needed now. The fragmented thoughts scrawled earlier in the heat of observation begin to take shape, sharp edges forming where before there had only been loose ends.

Notes from Match Observation:

Team Dynamics — Disjointed. Evidence of strain between players, particularly between Mark and Jeno. Tension palpable during high-pressure plays. Needs further analysis—determine if conflict is personal or role-based.

Mark — Quick on his feet. Adjusts easily to dynamic shifts. Shows natural leadership qualities, but lacks rapport with senior players. Body language relaxed, even during high-pressure moments. Maintains focus despite external distractions.

Jeno — Aggressive playstyle. Repeated possession turnovers suggest emotional interference. Observable frustration when Mark assumes control. Physical responses to perceived loss of dominance (e.g., tightened jaw, clenched fists, heightened aggression). Behavior warrants deeper psychological analysis—potential patterns of territorialism or insecurity.

You paused, rereading the notes about Jeno. The way he moved on the court stuck with you, more than anyone else’s performance. His aggression hadn’t just been frustration; it was personal. His focus had lingered too long on Mark, his movements sharper, almost reckless, when the ball left his hands. It wasn’t just about winning—it was about control.

Potential hypothesis for the project, you wrote, underlining the phrase. Jeno’s performance linked to perceived loss of position and authority. Explore psychological response to shifting team roles.

The project was still forming in your mind, but the path was becoming clearer. The study wasn’t just about the game itself; it was about what happened beneath the surface—the interplay of ego, competition, and vulnerability in a team dynamic. Jeno, whether he realized it or not, had become central to your observations. His reactions on the court offered more insight into the psychological strain of competition than anything you’d seen in prior matches.

But the plan went beyond just observing. You would have to dig deeper—find the cracks in the polished surface and figure out what made players like Jeno tick. It wasn’t enough to watch. You’d have to challenge them, push them, get under their skin in ways they wouldn’t expect.

You scribbled another note on the page, bolder this time: Focus: Jeno. Fractured team hierarchy—monitor response under controlled pressure.

The quiet of the court was beginning to feel heavy, oppressive. You exhaled, pressing your pen to the page one last time. The plan was taking shape, but the weight of it was settling in your chest. This wasn’t going to be easy, not with players like Jeno in the mix.

Closing your notebook, you glanced toward the gym’s exit. The next step was clear, and your meeting was waiting. You square your shoulders, tucking the notepad under your arm as you make your way toward Coach Suh’s office, the project already shifting in your mind, gaining sharper edges with every step.

The walk to Coach Suh’s office was short, but the weight of anticipation stretched it, each step landing heavier than the last. The muted thud of your shoes against the polished floor echoed faintly in the empty hallway, a sound that seemed to grow louder in the silence. Your grip tightened on the neatly stacked notes in your hand, the edges digging lightly into your skin—a grounding sensation against the hum of thoughts swirling in your mind. By the time you reached the door, your mask of composure had settled firmly into place, every movement deliberate as you raised your hand to knock twice, the sound sharp and decisive before you stepped inside.

Coach Suh was both a seasoned coach and an adjunct professor in sports psychology, overseeing several interdisciplinary studies, including yours—a project on the psychological effects of competition. His dual roles made him an intimidating figure, but his insight and fairness were undeniable, and you valued the rigor he brought to your work. It was his belief in the importance of understanding team dynamics and mental resilience that had made this project possible.

His office reflected the complexity of his role, blending academic precision with a personal history rooted in basketball. The polished wooden desk at the center of the room gleamed under the warm glow of a desk lamp, its surface organized with neatly stacked papers, a clipboard, and a single coffee mug faintly stained at the rim. Behind him, shelves stretched to the ceiling, crammed with psychology textbooks, binders filled with meticulous notes, and scattered awards gleaming faintly in the light.

Framed photos of championship wins lined the walls, capturing moments frozen in time—his younger self alongside triumphant teams, the exhilaration of victory etched in every face. Notably absent, however, was a photo of the current Seoul Ravens holding the state championship trophy. That picture didn’t exist yet; they hadn’t won. The space where it could hang seemed to glare as a reminder of the pressure that loomed over the team, the weight of expectations yet unmet.

Beside them hung detailed diagrams of plays and strategies, their edges worn from years of reference. A basketball, worn smooth from countless games, sat proudly on a stand in the corner, its surface scuffed with the marks of a career steeped in competition.

The room smelled faintly of leather and coffee, grounding yet charged, and the hum of the air conditioning added a low, constant backdrop. It was a space that felt deeply personal yet exuded structured professionalism, every detail chosen to reflect both his authority and his humanity.

But you weren’t prepared for Jeno.

He was slouched in one of the chairs, his long frame sprawled in a way that seemed deliberately enticing—like he was daring the room to notice him. His posture feigned ease, but the tautness in his jaw betrayed him, and the restless rhythm of his fingers against the chair’s arm hinted at a frustration that wasn’t meant to stay contained. There was something magnetic about him, a pull you couldn’t deny, even as his irritation crackled in the air like static. The loose fabric of his jersey stretched over his chest and shoulders, the exposed skin at his neck glistening faintly under the office’s fluorescent lights, and his legs, spread wide, radiated a careless confidence that felt far from accidental.

“…completely unacceptable, Jeno. I don’t care how frustrated you were out there. You’re the captain—you set the tone for the team. This isn’t just about you.”

Jeno’s nostrils flared slightly, his lips thinning as though he was physically swallowing the retort clawing its way up his throat. He didn’t move, but the air around him shifted, charged with something volatile. His gaze burned like a smoldering coal, the weight of it heavy and deliberate as it dragged over you the moment you entered the room. He didn’t look at you like you were interrupting—he looked at you like you were trespassing. And yet, his eyes lingered, dragging over you with a heat that felt out of place in the sterile office, searing and unsettling.

You don’t feel conflicted about interrupting them—not even for a second. Whatever tension you’d walked into, it didn’t belong to you, and you weren’t going to let it settle on your shoulders. Jeno’s sharp gaze might have been meant to unnerve you, but it slid off like water against stone. This was your meeting, your project, and your purpose in this room wasn’t secondary to his reprimand. You stepped forward with steady composure, the cool detachment you’d mastered over the years serving you well now. Whatever storm you’d walked into, you didn’t plan on getting caught in it.

However you apologise out of common courtesy “Sorry to interrupt,” you said evenly, your voice steady as you moved further inside. The door clicked shut behind you, and the sound felt louder than it should have in the tension-filled room. You turned toward Coach Suh, keeping your focus sharp. “I’m here for our meeting.”

Coach Suh’s stern expression softened slightly as his attention shifted to you. His demeanor was still authoritative but carried a familiarity that felt both reassuring and dangerous. He gestured to the empty chair beside Jeno. “Right on time, as always. Have a seat, Y/N.”

You moved toward the chair, acutely aware of Jeno’s eyes tracking your every step. Jeno didn’t adjust his posture as you passed him, but you felt the weight of his gaze tracking you, his annoyance now mixed with something harder to place. You settled into the seat, placing your notes on the table and smoothing them out as if to physically organize the tension crackling in the air.

Coach Suh resumed speaking, his tone sharp but composed as he turned back to Jeno. “Your role as captain isn’t just about skill, Jeno. It’s about leadership. You can’t afford to lose your head during a game. What you did tonight put the entire team at risk.”

Jeno’s jaw ticked, and his hands curled into loose fists on the armrests, the veins along his forearms standing out against his skin. He exhaled through his nose, a short, sharp sound that felt more like a warning than a concession. His eyes flicked to you again, narrowing slightly, as if your presence added another layer to whatever war was raging beneath his skin. The corner of your mouth twitched, but you kept your expression neutral, your gaze trained on Coach Suh.

You didn’t need to look at Jeno to know his body language screamed defiance. You could feel it in the taut silence between his words and his barely restrained movements, in the way his fingers curled and straightened against the armrest like he was trying to grip the air itself. It wasn’t just the reprimand that had him on edge—it was the fact that you were here to witness it.

And yet, he said nothing. For all his irritation, his silence was its own kind of rebellion, simmering and sharp, just waiting for the right moment to explode.

You set your pen down beside your notes and finally broke the silence. “Should we get started?” you asked, your tone professional but with an edge of confidence. You weren’t about to let Jeno’s simmering irritation throw you off. This was your space now, not his.

Coach Suh gave a sharp nod, his focus shifting to you. “Yes, let’s.”

Coach Suh leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on the desk, his sharp gaze fixed on you as you explained the framework of your project. “The psychological impact of team dynamics and competition,” you began, your voice measured and steady. “I want to examine how roles, rivalries, and external pressures affect both individual and collective performance under high-stakes conditions.”

“And your methodology?” Coach Suh asked, his tone challenging but not dismissive.

“I’ve started with observational data from games and practices—analyzing body language, verbal communication, and physical responses during pressure moments,” you replied, meeting his gaze directly. “That’s supplemented with self-assessments from players and, eventually, post-game interviews to compare their internal perceptions to observed behavior.”

Coach Suh nodded slowly, the gesture deliberate, his approval subtle but palpable. “Interesting approach. And you believe these observations will lead to actionable insights for the team?”

“Yes,” you said without hesitation. “The goal isn’t just analysis. It’s identifying patterns and providing strategies to improve cohesion, reduce conflict, and maximize performance.”

Jeno’s presence, however, was impossible to ignore. He hadn’t moved much—his arm still draped over the backrest of his chair, the other resting lazily on his thigh—but there was an electric undercurrent to his stillness, like a predator waiting to pounce. His fingers tapped against the chair’s edge, an uneven rhythm that grated against your nerves. His gaze burned into you, heavy and unreadable, and every now and then, a quiet scoff slipped past his lips, deliberate enough to make sure you noticed.

You ignored him, for the most part, focusing instead on presenting your findings. But as you reached for your notes to hand them over to Coach Suh, Jeno moved faster than you anticipated. His hand shot out, snatching the pages from yours, the brush of his fingers against your skin fleeting but searing. He leaned back in his chair, unfolding the notes with an air of casual arrogance, his lips curling into something between a smirk and a sneer.

Jeno’s scoff deepened as his eyes flicked down each page, scanning it with a deliberate slowness that felt almost mocking. His fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the notebook, his brow furrowing at certain lines. A muscle in his jaw ticked, but he said nothing at first, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably long. Finally, he glanced back at you, his lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smirk.

“This is what you’re so proud of?” he said, his tone cutting. “Psychological impacts? Team dynamics? What’s next, diagnosing us all with daddy issues?”

Your jaw tightened, but you didn’t flinch. Instead, your hand darted forward, fingers curling around the other edge of the page to snatch it back. For a fleeting moment, your fingers brushed against his. His skin was warm yet rough against yours, and for that brief, electrified moment, it was impossible to ignore the tension pulling taut between you.

His eyes snapped to yours at the touch, dark and unreadable, as if daring you to say something.

You muttered under your breath, barely audible, “Wouldn’t be hard considering who your father is. He’d give me enough material for a dissertation.”

Jeno’s head snapped toward you, his eyes narrowing, tension coiling around him like a wire pulled too tight. “What did you just say?”

You straightened slightly, meeting his sharp gaze with a coolness that only seemed to stoke the fire in his expression. “I said, if you’re feeling particularly exposed, maybe that’s a reflection of your own behavior,” you shot back, your tone cutting and deliberate, the weight of your earlier mutter still hanging unspoken between you.

“So, basically, you’re just going to watch us, scribble a few notes, and decide who’s the problem?” His voice was low, biting, but his words landed with the precision of a thrown dagger.

You turned toward him, your expression calm but sharp. “Not at all,” you said evenly. “Besides, if there’s a problem, it usually makes itself obvious.”

Jeno’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. “Sounds like you’ve already decided how this ends.”

“Only for people who give me something to write about,” you shot back, your tone cool and unyielding.

His gaze flicked up to meet yours, the air between you shifting, tightening, until it felt like the whole room was holding its breath. He let the words hang for a moment, the tension palpable, before his lips curled into something dangerously close to a sneer. “Right,” he drawled, tossing the notes onto the desk in front of Coach Suh with deliberate carelessness, “because watching us like we’re lab rats is definitely going to help the team.”

“You’re not that interesting, Jeno,” you said coolly, your voice steady despite the fire licking at the edges of your composure. “But if you think my observations might shed some light on your temper tantrums, feel free to keep reacting this way. You’re making my job easier.”

Jeno leaned forward now, the arm he’d draped lazily over the chair falling to rest on his knee. His eyes locked onto yours, the intensity in them almost suffocating. “You really think you’ve got me figured out, don’t you?” he asked, his voice low and edged with something darker.

You didn’t back down, your gaze unwavering as you met his. “I don’t need to figure you out,” you replied, your voice sharp and unwavering. “You’re doing all the work for me.”

The corners of Jeno’s mouth twitched, his lips curving into a faint, taunting smile that didn’t come close to reaching his eyes. He leaned back, his body settling into a posture that screamed ease, though the charged air around him told another story. “You’ve got quite the mouth on you,” he murmured, his voice a low drawl, laced with a dark amusement that made your stomach twist. His gaze flicked over you, deliberate and heavy. “Let me guess—you think you’re the smartest person here. That whatever this little project of yours is, it’s actually going to matter.”

You let his words hang in the air for a beat, your fingers curling tighter around the edge of your notebook. Slowly, you tilted your head, meeting his gaze with a calm that didn’t waver, though your pulse thrummed in your ears. “I am the smartest person in here and it matters enough to get under your skin,” you replied, your voice smooth but cutting, each word measured. You leaned forward just slightly, the movement deliberate, like you were closing the distance without actually touching him. “For someone who acts like they don’t care, you’re trying awfully hard to prove it.”

Jeno’s expression hardened, the mocking curve of his lips flattening as his eyes darkened. He didn’t say anything for a moment, just let the weight of your words hang in the air between you. The room felt too small, the tension pressing against your skin like a vice, but you refused to break eye contact, your fingers tightening around your notebook as if it could ground you.

Then, he shifted, rising slowly from his chair. The scrape of the legs against the floor echoed in the tense quiet, sharp enough to set your pulse racing, but you stayed seated, your back stiff and your chin lifting just slightly in defiance. He didn’t say a word as he moved closer, his steps deliberate, calculated, the weight of his presence pressing down on you with every inch he closed.

Stopping just in front of you, he leaned down, one hand gripping the back of your chair, the other settling on the edge of the desk beside you. His scent—an intoxicating mix of cedarwood and something darker, like smoke and the faintest trace of cologne—washed over you, unsettling in its familiarity. The proximity was dizzying, his broad shoulders framing your view, his presence magnetic in a way you couldn’t ignore. The way he loomed over you wasn’t just intimidating; it was suffocating, every inch of closeness a silent dare.

“For someone who claims to have me all figured out,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp that slid down your spine, “you’re spending an awful lot of time looking at me. Writing about me.” His eyes flicked down briefly, catching on your notebook still clutched in your lap before dragging back up to yours.

Your grip on the notebook tightened, but you didn’t flinch. “I’m doing my job,” you said, your voice steady despite the tremor threatening to creep into it. “If that bothers you so much, maybe stop giving me so much material.”

Jeno let out a low, humorless laugh, the sound vibrating in the charged air between you. His gaze dropped to your lips for just a fraction of a second before snapping back up. “You think you’re clever, don’t you?” he said softly, leaning in closer, his breath brushing against your skin. Without touching you, he leaned in, the space between you evaporating as his hand slid along the desk, bracing firmly against its surface. The movement was deliberate, calculated, and as his arm inched closer to your shoulder, the proximity boxed you in completely. His breath ghosted over your skin, warm and faintly uneven, and the sheer weight of his presence felt like a challenge you weren’t sure how to answer.

“And you think you’re intimidating,” you shot back, your voice sharp and unwavering, even as the air between you crackled with tension. Your heart was racing, a rapid, pounding rhythm that betrayed the calm exterior you wore, but you didn’t shrink away. Instead, you tilted your chin higher, meeting his gaze with steady defiance. You leaned forward ever so slightly, your movement instinctive, a flicker of something unspoken drawing you closer.

Jeno’s reaction was immediate, though fleeting—a slight hitch in his breath, the faintest flicker of surprise breaking through the tension in his expression. His gaze dropped, sweeping over you as if recalibrating, before locking onto your eyes again, sharper now, darker. His jaw tightened, his grip on the desk shifting subtly, his knuckles brushing the edge as if grounding himself.

“You really don’t know when to stop,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower, the words almost a growl. Yet, for all the bite in his tone, there was something else lingering in the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his gaze swept over the angle of your jaw, your mouth. It wasn’t intimidation he was trying to hold onto now—it was control.

You leaned in slightly, your breath brushing against his jaw as you spoke, your voice calm but edged with challenge. “You know, all you’re doing is proving my point,” you murmured, your words deliberate, carrying a weight that matched the tension between you. Your hand shifted subtly, resting against the arm of your chair, grazing the space where his fingers gripped the desk. The movement wasn’t calculated, but the way his breath hitched, the flicker in his eyes as they dropped to the closeness, told you he’d felt it too. You tilted your head just enough to meet his gaze fully, daring him to say more.

Jeno’s eyes dropped to your lips, the movement subtle but unmissable. He didn’t hide it, didn’t even try, and the deliberate slowness of it sent a jolt through you. The air between you felt impossibly heavy, the heat of his body so close it brushed against your skin. Your hand shifted on the chair’s arm, the movement unthinking, but it brought your fingers close to his on the desk, grazing just barely. His breath hitched, the sound almost imperceptible, but it was there.

His gaze snapped back to yours, darker now, his pupils blown wide. “You really think you have the upper hand here?” he asked, his voice low and biting, the edge of it sharp enough to draw blood.

You didn’t blink, didn’t flinch. Your lips curved just slightly, and you answered with a simple, defiant, “Yes. Of course I do.”

There it was—the faintest stifle of a sound in his throat, one he couldn’t quite swallow back. His tongue darted out, dragging across his lips in a way that seemed more reflex than intention, but his eyes were glued to yours—or, no, to your lips. The intensity of his stare burned through the space between you, and it felt as though the air itself had thickened, holding the two of you in place.

The moment stretched unbearably long, charged with an energy that had nowhere to go. His hand pressed harder against the desk, veins tightening against his skin, while his shoulders shifted, leaning just enough closer to make you feel like he was about to say—or do—something neither of you could take back.

“Am I interrupting?” Coach Suh’s voice cut through the tension like a knife, sharp and clear.

You didn’t move. Neither did Jeno. Your eyes stayed locked, breaths shallow, the weight of Coach Suh’s question lingering somewhere outside the charged bubble neither of you dared to acknowledge. His lips were slightly parted, his breathing uneven, and despite every shred of composure you clung to, your gaze flicked there—just for a moment, just long enough to make the heat between you unbearable.

But you didn’t stop. Your eyes traced the sharp line of his jaw, the faint flex of tension in his throat as he swallowed hard, the way his tongue ghosted over his lower lip like he couldn’t help himself. Something unspoken crackled between you, thick and suffocating, and when your eyes snapped back to his, they were darker, hungrier, as if he’d caught you staring and wasn’t letting it go.

Still, neither of you flinched, neither of you gave in, your breaths coming too shallow and too close, mingling in the small space between you. His hand, still braced on the desk beside you, tightened briefly, his knuckles brushing against the edge of your armrest. You leaned in just slightly, so slightly it wasn’t deliberate—but the effect was devastating.

His pupils dilated further, the sharp inhale he took barely audible, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. His gaze dragged down again, tracing the curve of your mouth, then slowly back up to your eyes, holding them with a force that sent a shiver skimming down your spine. The room might as well have disappeared.

Coach Suh cleared his throat again, louder, pointed, and still neither of you turned. The tension hung heavy for one more breath before Jeno shifted, leaning back slightly, though the heat of his presence didn’t fully retreat. His fingers stayed braced against the desk, his eyes lingering on yours, daring you to break the moment first. You didn’t.

“That’s enough,” Coach Suh said sharply, his voice slicing through the tension like a blade. He leaned forward, placing a hand on the notes Jeno had carelessly tossed onto his desk, his eyes narrowing. “Y/N’s work isn’t just about pointing out flaws, Jeno. It’s about understanding how we can work as a team. You’d do well to listen. Right now, your attitude is one of the biggest problems this team has. If you’re so determined to be involved, start by proving you’re part of the solution instead of the reason we need one.”

Jeno didn’t respond immediately, his jaw tightening as his gaze flickered briefly to Coach Suh. But the tension in his shoulders didn’t ease; if anything, it seemed to coil tighter. Slowly, his eyes slid back to you, and for a fleeting moment, it felt as though every breath in the room had been sucked away. He exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair, his lips curling into a smirk that wasn’t amusement—it was provocation, sharp and deliberate.

Coach Suh’s eyes moved between the two of you, his tone now laced with warning. “If you’re both finished,” he said, his voice low but firm, “we still have a meeting to conduct. I suggest we get back to it before this spirals into something that becomes out of control.”

You straightened in your seat, shifting your focus back to Coach Suh with as much composure as you could muster. But the energy in the room didn’t dissipate. Jeno didn’t leave, didn’t even shift far from where he sat, his presence as heavy as a storm cloud on the horizon. His hand remained braced against the desk, his posture deceptively casual, though his gaze stayed locked on you for just a second too long before he finally leaned back further into his chair.

Even as you resumed explaining the next phase of your project, detailing your observations and plans with measured clarity, you could feel his eyes lingering on you, dark and calculating. It wasn’t over—not by a long shot. Whatever reason he had for staying, it wasn’t just to listen, and the weight of his unspoken motive hung between you like a challenge you couldn’t yet name.

Coach Suh leaned back slightly, his arms folding across his chest as his gaze flicked between you and Jeno. “Alright, Y/N. For this project, I assume you’ll need direct input from the team. Have you decided who you’d like to work with?”

You straightened in your chair, calm and collected, though the weight of Jeno’s stare was impossible to ignore. Your fingers brushed the edge of your notebook as you replied, your tone measured. “Jaemin. He’s reliable, and I think his dynamics will give me a well-rounded perspective.”

The creak of Jeno’s chair pulled your attention despite yourself. He leaned forward, his elbow braced against the desk, and his voice broke through with a forced casualness that was anything but. “That’s it? No room for the captain?”

Your gaze didn’t waver from Coach Suh, your expression neutral. “I’ve already made my choice,” you said smoothly. “But thank you for your interest.”

Jeno’s response was instant, his voice dipping lower as he said, “I wasn’t asking.” The sharpness in his words made your shoulders tense. You turned to him, meeting his unyielding gaze head-on. His eyes locked on yours, dark and intent. “If you’re going to be watching us, writing about us, you’ll need the full picture. And last I checked, I’m the one leading this team.”

“Last I checked,” you countered, your voice cooling with every syllable, “I choose who contributes to my project.”

Coach Suh cleared his throat, the sound cutting through the tension like a blade. His expression was neutral, but there was a finality to his tone. “Jeno has a point. As team captain, his perspective could be valuable.”

You pressed your lips together, the frustration curling tight in your chest. “That’s not necessary,” you replied, turning your attention back to the coach. “I’m more than capable of getting what I need without his… input.”

Jeno leaned back then, his smirk infuriatingly smug, like he’d already won something you didn’t know was a competition. “Guess you’ll have to deal with it anyway,” he said, his tone smooth, almost lazy, but with an undercurrent sharp enough to cut. “Because I’m joining.”

You didn’t look at him right away, your fingers tightening briefly on the edge of the desk. When you did turn, the weight of his gaze slammed into you, dark and unyielding, daring you to challenge him. “You don’t get to decide that,” you said, your tone measured but edged, like the calm before a storm. “I don’t need you. I’ve already decided.”

His smirk deepened, the curve of his lips sharp, deliberate, as his eyes darkened with something unreadable. “And you think I care?” he said, his voice low, edging closer as he leaned forward. The weight of him pressed into the space between you, suffocating and electric. “You’re picking apart my team, pulling us apart like we’re an experiment, and you thought you could leave me out of it?”

“This isn’t your project,” you shot back, turning to meet his gaze head-on, the heat between you immediate and suffocating. “It’s mine. And frankly, I don’t need your temper or your control issues derailing it.”

His smirk vanished, replaced by something sharper, more dangerous. “Control issues?” he repeated, his voice almost a growl. “You’re writing a whole damn thesis on me, and I’m the one with control issues?”

You leaned back slightly, crossing your arms as you let out a sharp laugh. “You have nothing to give me,” you said flatly. “I need something useful, not someone wasting my time.”

The shift was subtle but immediate. Jeno straightened slightly, his hand pressing against the desk, his fingers brushing dangerously close to yours. “You don’t think you’ll get what you need from me?” he murmured, his voice dropping just enough to make your pulse skip. “Or are you just afraid you’ll get more than you bargained for?”

Your stomach twisted, a flicker of heat rushing through you that you shoved aside. “I’m not afraid of you, Jeno,” you said coolly, meeting his gaze head-on. “But I’m not interested in indulging whatever game you think this is.”

“Enough,” Coach Suh’s voice cut through, sharp and commanding, slicing through the tension like a blade. Both of you turned to him, the weight of his authority undeniable. His gaze shifted from you to Jeno, lingering on the latter with a look that was more judgment than approval. “Jeno, you’re joining this project.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Coach Suh held up a hand, cutting you off with a firm gesture. “This isn’t negotiable,” he said, his tone steady but sharp. His gaze shifted to Jeno, his words deliberate and cutting. “Your behavior on the court has been affecting the team. I want to see you take accountability, and this project is an opportunity for you to reflect and improve.”

He cleared his throat, the sound slicing through the tension lingering between the three of you. “And let me make one thing clear, Jeno—if you’re not on board with this, I have no problem benching you for the next game. That includes the second half of the season if necessary.” The weight of his words hung heavily in the air, quieting the unease that had begun to stir in the small office.

“Sure,” Jeno said, leaning back slightly, his tone casual and annoyingly smug. “Whatever you say, Coach. I’m in.”

Jeno’s gaze flicked to you, his smirk widening as if he knew exactly how much his compliance had thrown you off. “Guess you’ve got your player,” he added smoothly, his voice dripping with mock enthusiasm. “Should be fun.”

You blinked, struggling to process his reaction, the calm exterior you tried so hard to maintain now wavering. “This is ridiculous,” you said finally, turning to Coach Suh, your voice tight with frustration. “He’s just going to disrupt everything.”

“That’s on you to manage,” Coach Suh replied, his tone measured but firm. “And Jeno—don’t think for a second this means you get to coast through this. You’ll contribute, or there will be consequences.”

“Gladly,” Jeno said, his voice smooth and dripping with taunt. His eyes stayed fixed on you, sharp and unwavering, the satisfaction in his tone curling through the air like smoke. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint.”

You clenched your jaw, swallowing the retort that burned on the edge of your tongue. Your fingers brushed over the edges of your notes, the motion brisk and deliberate as you redirected your focus to the desk in front of you. “Guess we’re going to be spending a lot of time together,” Jeno murmured, his words quiet, but laced with amusement that grated against your composure. His tone was low, meant only for you, and it crawled under your skin.

You didn’t look at him again, forcing your eyes to remain locked on Coach Suh as he resumed speaking. But Jeno’s presence wasn’t something you could simply ignore—it lingered, pressing down on you with an unspoken challenge. It was a storm you could feel building, relentless and impossible to escape.

Jeno’s lips curled into a slow, smug smile, a rare, genuine satisfaction lighting up his features as Coach Suh confirmed he’d be your partner. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it lingered—a quiet triumph glinting in his eyes. He leaned back in his chair, stretching an arm over the backrest like he’d already won something, and his gaze flickered to you. But you didn’t notice, too busy jotting notes to catch the shift in his demeanor.

Internally, he was calculating, already deciding how he’d spin this situation to his advantage. You were observant, sure—annoyingly so—but if he could steer your attention away from assessing him, focus it elsewhere, maybe even use your diligence to his benefit, he could get through this project unscathed. After all, it was just another game, and Jeno had always been good at playing the game.

Yet beneath that smugness, Jeno was fuming. He’d never intended to actually participate in your project; his goal had simply been to annoy you and shift your focus. Now, he was stuck, and the idea of spending more time with you—dealing with your sharp tongue and infuriating composure—was already grating on him. And still, there was something there, a flicker of something he refused to name, let alone acknowledge. A part of him—small but persistent—was intrigued by you. You weren’t like anyone else he knew. You didn’t crumble under his presence or fawn over his charm like others did. Instead, you stood your ground, matching his fire with your own sharp edges, and somehow always managing to get the last word.

It was maddening, frustrating in a way he couldn’t quite place, but it was also addictive. The way you carried yourself, the way you didn’t fold under the weight of his reputation or his attempts to push your buttons, only made you more fascinating. It wasn’t attraction—not exactly—but it was something close enough to unsettle him.

Jeno’s smile lingered, masking the whirlwind of conflicting thoughts beneath. He thought he’d won this round, that he’d managed to take control of the situation. But there was a nagging feeling at the back of his mind, one he stubbornly ignored. He didn’t realize yet how wrong he was. This wasn’t a game he was prepared to lose. And with you, losing might not even be the worst outcome. You were already a step ahead, even if he couldn’t see it yet.

The hallway outside Coach Suh’s office was eerily quiet as you stepped out, the door clicking shut behind you. The air felt heavier somehow, the tension from the meeting lingering like a shadow pressing against your chest. Your pulse still raced, the leftover adrenaline making it hard to focus as you tried to replay the exchange in your head. Relief flickered at the edges, but it was overpowered by frustration—the way Coach Suh’s finality had left no room for argument, and the way the entire conversation had left you feeling unsteady. You rubbed at your temples, exhaling slowly, trying to regain some semblance of calm as you moved down the dimly lit hallway.

The faint hum of the overhead lights gave way to the distant sounds of the campus at night as you made your way toward the parking lot. Your steps felt heavier than usual, each one a reminder of the tangled emotions clawing at your chest—irritation at the unresolved tension, a reluctant satisfaction that the meeting was over, and a quiet unease at what lay ahead.

Near the line of cars, you spotted them—Mark and Yangyang—waiting just outside, leaning against a lamppost. Yangyang scrolled idly on his phone, his face illuminated by the blue light, while Mark stood with his arms crossed, his head lifting as he caught sight of you. The sight of them caught you off guard, and you hesitated, blinking in surprise.

“Finally,” Yangyang said, grinning as he slipped his phone into his pocket. Mark gave you a small nod, his expression neutral but his presence grounding.

“You shouldn’t have waited,” you said, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder. Your tone came out softer than you intended, touched by the unexpected warmth of their gesture.

“It’s late, and you don’t drive,” Yangyang replied with a shrug, as if the decision was obvious.

“Ouch,” you muttered, your lips twitching into a faint smile. Yangyang chuckled, the sound light and teasing, and even Mark’s lips curved slightly at your reaction.

Mark pushed off the lamppost, his arms uncrossing as he approached you. “You okay? How’d it go in there?” he asked, his voice low but warm.

His words hit you harder than expected, the genuine concern behind them making it difficult to mask the lingering tension in your chest. You paused, gripping the strap of your bag tightly before finally meeting his gaze. “It went…” you started, but the words felt insufficient. You let out a breath, shaking your head slightly. “It’s fine. Just tense. You know how these things are.”

Mark’s eyes narrowed slightly, his concern shifting into something more thoughtful. “You sure? You seem… off.”

You hesitated, the weight of the meeting still pressing against your ribs. “I’m fine,” you said again, but your voice lacked conviction. The truth was, you weren’t sure how you felt—relieved, frustrated, and somewhere in between. And from the way Mark’s gaze lingered, you knew he wasn’t convinced either.

“I know something that can cheer you up,” Mark said after a moment, his voice steady but quieter than Yangyang’s teasing tone. “The group’s at that food place near the river court. Figured we’d wait and head over together.”

Your stomach growled loudly, cutting through the moment and making Yangyang snicker. “Sounds like someone’s ready to eat.”

A soft laugh escaped you, the tension in your chest loosening slightly. “Guess I am,” you admitted, your lips curving into a genuine smile. Mark smiled back, and Yangyang gave a mock bow, gesturing for you to lead the way.

And then you felt it—that shift, subtle but undeniable, like the air had thickened around you. Your steps faltered for a fraction of a second, the sound of Yangyang’s teasing fading into the background as your senses honed in on something—or someone.

And there he was.

Jeno stood beside his car, its sleek, dark frame glinting faintly under the glow of the streetlight, half shrouded in shadow. The contrast between his vehicle and Mark’s couldn’t have been starker—Mark’s car, parked just a few feet away, was practical, unassuming, and a little rough around the edges, while Jeno’s looked every bit the luxury statement it was meant to be. His stance matched his car’s energy: effortless, confident, yet inherently confrontational. One arm rested on the car’s roof, his fingers tapping idly against the polished surface, while his other hand hung loosely by his side. The shadows played tricks across his face, obscuring parts of him but never dulling the sharp intensity in his gaze. He wasn’t trying to hide his focus; his eyes followed you as you stepped closer, flicking to Mark just briefly before settling on you again, deliberate and unrelenting.

The space felt charged, and as the three of you approached, the unspoken weight of Jeno’s presence drew a tension so palpable it made Yangyang glance your way, his grin faltering slightly. “What’s his deal?” he muttered under his breath, his voice barely above a whisper but loud enough for you and Mark to hear.

Mark’s posture stiffened beside you, his gaze narrowing as it locked on Jeno. The tension between them was immediate, the air thickening as Jeno shifted just slightly, his movements slow, calculated. His lips curled into the faintest smirk, the kind that barely reached his eyes but still managed to drip with something darker than amusement.

“Something on your mind?” Mark finally asked, his voice low, steady, but carrying the weight of a challenge. He took a subtle step forward, his body angling slightly in front of yours as if anticipating what was coming.

Jeno let out a quiet laugh, pushing off the side of his car and taking a single step closer, his movements deliberate. “Just appreciating the view,” he said smoothly, his gaze sliding from Mark to you, lingering just long enough to make the statement feel personal. His tone was light, but the tension behind it was anything but.

The contrast between them was striking—Mark’s controlled resolve against Jeno’s unsettling ease, his presence like a shadow that refused to be ignored. The difference in their cars felt like an extension of their unspoken rivalry, a visual reminder of the tension simmering between them now.

Jeno’s lips curved slightly, the faintest trace of a smirk that sent a shiver down your spine. The satisfaction in his expression was undeniable. Smug. That was the word. Smug, because he’d forced his way into your project. Smug, because you’d have to deal with him now, day after day, night after night. Smug, because he knew what you didn’t want to admit—that proximity could be dangerous. And yet, there was something darker behind his satisfaction, something aimed squarely at Mark. For Jeno, this wasn’t just about the project. It wasn’t even about you, not entirely. It was about Mark.

Mark had taken something from him. Stolen it. His place on the team, the spotlight, and the validation that should have been Jeno’s. As far as Jeno was concerned, Mark hadn’t paid the price for stepping into a life he had no business claiming. Their rivalry was born in moments like this, where the weight of their shared history loomed like a storm cloud. Two brothers who were never really brothers, whose lives had only become more entangled as time dragged them into each other’s orbit. Jeno resented every inch of it, every loss that he blamed on Mark’s presence. This project? It was leverage, another weapon in his arsenal, another way to prove that Mark didn’t belong.

Mark had a hard time holding back—always had, but especially when it came to Jeno. The tension between them was palpable the moment you stepped outside. You caught it in the subtle way Mark’s body stiffened, his shoulders squaring as though bracing for a hit. Yangyang, who had been leaning casually against Mark’s car, noticed the change immediately. “Here we go…” he muttered under his breath, his tone laced with exasperation as he straightened, his easy demeanor fading in an instant.

“What are you doing here?” Mark’s voice was calm but edged with steel as he stepped closer, subtly angling himself between you and Jeno. Protective, as always.

Jeno pushed off his car, his smirk widening into something razor-sharp. “Just making sure Y/N got out of her meeting alright,” he said, his tone drenched in mock concern. “Didn’t realize she had an entourage.”

“She doesn’t need you to make sure of anything,” Mark shot back, his jaw tightening as his patience thinned.

Jeno’s eyes flicked toward you briefly, his smirk deepening before he turned back to Mark. “Doesn’t seem like she needs you either,” he said, the words delivered with surgical precision, designed to hit where it hurt. His voice carried something darker—possessive, taunting, a deliberate dig.

Mark stepped forward, his voice dropping. “Why don’t you say what you really mean?”

Jeno didn’t hesitate. His smirk sharpened into something cruel as he met Mark’s glare head-on. “Alright,” he said, his voice smooth, low, and cutting. “You’ve been pretending like you belong here, acting like you’re on my level, but we both know the truth. You don’t belong on this team. You’ve never belonged and I’m not about to let you get in my way.”

Yangyang shifted uncomfortably, his hand brushing Mark’s arm in a futile attempt to defuse the tension. “Guys, seriously, this is—”

“Stay out of it,” Mark snapped, shrugging Yangyang off without breaking eye contact with Jeno. His voice was taut, sharp-edged, and his body moved instinctively closer to Jeno’s, drawn in by the confrontation. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Jeno’s head tilted, his smirk darkening as he met Mark’s glare. “Don’t I?” he said, his tone low, deliberate. “Let’s not pretend, Mark. You’re just holding a spot—taking up space that’s not yours.”

Mark’s jaw tightened as Jeno took another deliberate step closer, the air between them heavy with tension. “What’s your problem, Jeno? You can’t stand not being the center of attention for five minutes?” His words were sharp, anger cutting through the controlled tone he tried to maintain.

Jeno tilted his head, his smirk turning colder, crueler. “Center of attention?” he repeated mockingly, his voice smooth but layered with disdain. Then, without warning, his focus shifted, his gaze boring into Mark’s with a sharper intent. “You know, you’ve never mattered to him.” His voice dropped lower, heavier, carrying a weight designed to hit its mark. “He’s never spoken about you. Not once. Not even your name.” Jeno leaned in just enough to make Mark stiffen, the movement deliberate, calculated. “You don’t exist to him, Mark. And you never will.”

Mark’s fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles whitening as he absorbed Jeno’s words. The tension in his jaw was visible now, his teeth gritting against the weight of what had just been said. His breath hitched, just for a second, before his eyes snapped back to Jeno’s, blazing with something that burned hotter than anger.

“You don’t get to talk about that,” Mark said, his voice low, strained, but steady. Each word came out like it was pulled through glass, sharp and deliberate. “You think you know everything? You think this is some kind of game?” His body shifted forward, stepping into Jeno’s space, the distance between them evaporating. “You can keep running your mouth, Jeno. Keep throwing shit around like it’s going to break me. But we both know the only reason you’re standing here is because you can’t stand what’s already broken in you.”

The tension crackled, heavy and suffocating, as Yangyang hovered nearby, his eyes darting nervously between the two of them. “Alright, alright,” he muttered, holding up his hands as if to defuse the situation. “Can we just—”

“Meet me at the river court,” Mark cut in, his voice slicing through Yangyang’s attempt at peace. The challenge in his tone was unmistakable, as was the fire in his eyes. “Let’s settle this.”

Jeno blinked, his expression blank for a split second before a slow, calculating smile spread across his face. He took another step forward, his presence looming as his gaze bore into Mark’s. “You sure about that?” he asked, his voice quieter now but loaded with implication.

“More than you’ll ever be,” Mark shot back, not flinching under the weight of Jeno’s stare.

Yangyang groaned audibly, running a hand down his face. “This is a terrible idea,” he muttered, but neither of them paid him any attention.

You didn’t step in. You should have—your better judgment whispered it, but something deeper, something darker, kept you rooted. They were two forces destined to collide, and for reasons you couldn’t fully articulate, you let it happen. Let them tear into each other. Let the tension explode. It wasn’t indecision; it was deliberate. Their words were knives, flung with precision, cutting through the air as you stayed silent. Perhaps it was frustration, a morbid curiosity, or the flicker of something more unsettling—an unspoken desire to watch the chaos unravel, to see who would break first. Whatever it was, you didn’t stop them. You simply watched, a quiet conductor letting the storm play its symphony.

Jeno’s smile lingered as he finally stepped back, his hands slipping into his pockets with an air of smug satisfaction. “Don’t be late,” he said, his voice deceptively light, before turning on his heel and walking to his car. Even as he walked away, the weight of his presence clung to the air, heavy and suffocating, a shadow you couldn’t quite shake.

The rumble of his engine broke the silence, low and menacing as his car pulled out of the lot. His taillights disappeared into the dark, but the tension he left behind didn’t fade.

Mark was still. His shoulders, rigid moments ago, slackened slightly, but his silence spoke louder than any words could. You watched him from the corner of your eye, waiting for him to move, to speak, but he didn’t—not at first.

Finally, he turned to you, his expression steady but his eyes searching, holding a weight you hadn’t seen before. “Do you think this is a good idea?” he asked quietly, his voice low and deliberate. “Should I even go through with this?”

You met his gaze, the answer forming before you even had to think about it. “Destroy him,” you said simply, your voice unwavering.

Mark didn’t hesitate. He nodded once, his jaw tightening as if the words solidified something in him.

Yangyang groaned, dragging a hand down his face as he stepped back, frustration evident in the sharp exhale that followed. He muttered something incomprehensible under his breath, shaking his head as though resigning himself to the inevitable. Without another word, he fell in line behind you and Mark, his footsteps slower but steady, trailing as the three of you made your way to the car.

The river court buzzed with energy as you arrived, the kind of energy that prickled against your skin and made the air heavier, like it was bracing for what was to come. The sky hung low in a muted purple, dusk casting a hazy glow over the cracked pavement. The court was worn but alive, its faded lines and chipped concrete bearing witness to years of games that were more than games—rivalries fought and friendships forged under the open sky. Just beyond the court, the river flowed steadily, its rushing sound threading through the air like a heartbeat, a constant reminder that time moved forward, even when everything here felt suspended. The streetlights flickered reluctantly to life, their uneven glow spilling across the edges of the court and stretching the shadows of the gathering crowd into long, distorted shapes.

The court wasn’t just a place. For you, it held a kind of familiarity that was hard to explain but impossible to ignore. You’d been here before—countless times. Not as a player, but as a spectator, a supporter, someone who had seen it in every light and weather. Late summer evenings, where the sun dipped low, casting orange streaks across the river’s surface, and the games ran long into the night. Damp mornings, when the court was slick from rain but still drew in the faithful who didn’t care about getting their shoes wet. You remembered the laughter that echoed here, the sound of sneakers skidding on concrete, and the rare moments of silence, when the outcome of a game hung in the balance, everyone holding their breath.

It wasn’t just a court; it was its own world, separate from the polished gyms and structured arenas. It was raw, gritty, and completely unforgiving—a place where there were no refs, no rules, only pride and skill. For you, it was also a place of memories, fleeting but vivid. The times you stood on the sidelines with your friends, sharing snacks and commentary, your voices carrying over the court. The way the river glimmered in the background, a backdrop to so many moments that felt small then but monumental now.

It was where you learned to read people—the way their body language shifted, how tension seeped into a game before the first shot was even made. Watching those games, you’d started piecing together what made people tick: the subtle shifts of insecurity masked as arrogance, the way rivalries simmered beneath seemingly friendly smiles. You didn’t know it then, but those countless hours spent as a quiet observer shaped how you moved through the world now—calculating, precise, always looking for the things unsaid. The river court wasn’t just familiar ground; it was where your instincts sharpened, where you learned that every move, every glance, carried weight. And tonight, as you stood on that same cracked pavement, it felt like the court was daring you to see it all again.

Tonight, it didn’t feel like the same court, though. The tension in the air was almost physical, clinging to your skin like the humidity of an oncoming storm. It wasn’t just a game tonight. The stakes, the crowd, the undercurrent of emotion—it felt like the river court itself had absorbed all of it, as if the cracked pavement carried the weight of what was about to unfold. This wasn’t just about basketball; it was about something deeper, darker, more personal. You could feel it in the way the crowd shifted, their voices louder but more uncertain, and in the way the court seemed to hum, as if it, too, was waiting for the storm to break.

Mark pulled up first, his car’s headlights cutting through the fading twilight. He stepped out with a quiet sort of confidence, his movements deliberate, his face composed but taut. He didn’t need theatrics to announce himself; his presence alone spoke volumes. Your friends had left their food and the warmth of their plans to be here, standing with Mark. They didn’t agree with this conflict—most of them thought he should’ve walked away—but their loyalty was steadfast. That was the thing about Mark’s side: smaller, quieter, but unwaveringly close-knit. Their warmth was palpable, a sharp contrast to the restless crowd gathering for Jeno.

And then came Jeno.

He pulled up late, as expected, his sleek, polished car skidding to a halt and kicking up gravel. The gleaming vehicle, pristine and out of place, clashed against the gritty, weathered backdrop of the river court. He moved with an aggression that mirrored the tension building for days, slamming the car door shut as his group of friends—Jaemin, San, Wooyoung—spilled out behind him. They carried themselves with the same air of superiority, the confidence of boys who thought the world was their playground. But it wasn’t them who caught your eye. It was Jeno’s girlfriend, Areum.

Areum followed behind, her expression tight, her posture stiff, moving with the kind of tension that couldn’t be disguised under the polished image she and Jeno projected. This is what they are. Jeno and Areum aren’t just well-known—they’re desired. They’re the kind of couple people talk about, whispering behind their backs, dissecting their every move. People want to be them or be with them. You’ve seen it—the way eyes linger on them too long, filled with envy and something darker. It’s intoxicating, the kind of attention that uplifts, seduces, makes them untouchable in the eyes of everyone watching. But it doesn’t fool you. They can’t fool you.

Areum didn’t cling to Jeno, didn’t move with the ease of someone who felt at home in his orbit. Their relationship was strange—polished on the outside, like a perfect photograph, but hollow where it mattered. They didn’t touch, didn’t exchange glances, and the space between them spoke volumes. You’d noticed it before, the way Areum often felt more like an accessory to Jeno than an equal. Tonight, though, the cracks in their facade felt deeper, the distance between them more glaring, like even the weight of this night couldn’t pull them closer.

You glanced around. Karina was here too, along with a mix of people who didn’t belong—girls batting their lashes at Jeno, boys who barely knew the river court but wanted to bask in the chaos. And then there were the eyes. You felt them, sharp and lingering, their gazes flitting between you, Mark, Jeno, and Areum. They wanted to see you all fall apart, to dissect the tension.

The stark differences between the two sides were impossible to miss. Jeno’s supporters were bigger in number, louder, their voices already filling the space with jeers and taunts. Most of them weren’t even familiar faces, people who had never stepped foot on the river court before. They were just here for the spectacle, drawn in by the promise of drama. Even some of the Seoul Ravens were here—guys who wouldn’t normally be caught dead on this cracked pavement. The river court wasn’t theirs. It wasn’t shaped by them, and they weren’t shaped by it.

Mark’s side was smaller, quieter, but there was a warmth to it, a solidarity that made you feel grounded despite the tension swirling around. Jeno thrived in moments like these, you knew. He lived for the attention, the validation of the crowd. Mark, on the other hand, didn’t need it. He wasn’t here for the spectacle; he was here for himself, for something more meaningful.

The air at the river court was electric, anticipation buzzing through the crowd like static. You stood by the sidelines, arms crossed, watching as Donghyuck stepped forward with a mix of confidence and unease. His eyes flicked to the unfamiliar faces lining the court, a far cry from the usual crowd. The tension in his posture betrayed him, but when he spoke, his voice was smooth, lighthearted, masking the unease.

“Welcome to the river court showdown!” Donghyuck’s voice carried a steady confidence, though the way his gaze darted between Mark and Jeno betrayed his unease. “Tonight, we’ve got a clash of brothers—Mark Lee, the underdog with everything to gain, and Lee Jeno, the Seoul Ravens’ star point guard, the player who’s built his reputation on moments like this. The stakes? As high as they’ve ever been.”

The crowd buzzed with anticipation as Mark grabbed the ball, his movements smooth and composed. He turned it between his fingers, his gaze calm and focused, a quiet intensity radiating from him. Without breaking his focus, he passed the ball to Jeno, the exchange seamless but loaded with tension. Jeno caught it and slammed it into the pavement, the sound slicing through the murmurs like a challenge. His stance was coiled, every movement sharp, deliberate, and charged with aggression. Where Mark’s focus was inward, controlled, Jeno’s energy spilled over, his eyes scanning the crowd with a smirk, feeding off their attention like fuel. They were night and day—one steady and resolute, the other bristling with raw, unrelenting force.

Donghyuck continued, his voice steadying as he found his rhythm. “On one side, we’ve got Jeno—fast, sharp, a force to be reckoned with. On the other, Mark—focused, precise, with everything to lose.”

You glanced at your friends. Their support for Mark was unshakable, but the nervous energy was palpable. Yangyang shifted on his feet, biting his lip, while Hyeju whispered something to Shotaro, her expression tense. Chenle, standing just behind them, crossed his arms and let out a low whistle, a habit he had when trying to steady himself. You, however, felt none of it. Doubt had no place here—not when it came to Mark. The quiet determination in his eyes didn’t need to be loud or flashy to make its point. You’d seen it before, how he moved in this space like it was built for him, how his focus cut through everything else. This wasn’t just a game—it was Mark in his purest form, and there was no scenario in your mind where he didn’t own it.

Mark dribbled the ball to center court, his movements fluid, every step deliberate, the rhythm of the ball hitting the pavement steady and composed. Jeno shadowed him, his stance wide, his body coiled with tension and energy that seemed ready to snap. The whistle cut through the air, sharp and commanding, and Donghyuck’s voice followed, light but laced with gravity. “And here we go—Mark Lee, steady as ever, playing like the court’s an extension of him. Lee Jeno, the Ravens’ star, all fire and precision, ready to remind everyone why he’s the name they chant. This one’s going to get heated, folks.”

The match was unrelenting, a clash of tension that seemed to ripple through the court itself. Jeno was all motion, fast and volatile, his movements a blur of power and precision. Every dribble was sharp, every step purposeful, and his trash talk was a weapon, thrown out with the confidence of someone who’d never needed to doubt his place. “You don’t belong here, Mark. This isn’t your world.” His voice cut through the crowd, loud enough to leave no question of its target.

Mark didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. His silence wasn’t passive; it was deliberate, like he was saving his energy for something that actually mattered. But when Jeno closed in, his taunts like sparks looking for fuel, Mark finally answered. “If it’s not my world,” he said, his voice low but clear, “what are you doing here?” The words weren’t meant for the crowd; they were for Jeno, deliberate and heavy, slicing through the air with quiet authority. It wasn’t a question. It was an indictment.

You didn’t just watch the game—you studied it. Mark moved with a precision that wasn’t flashy, but it made you proud, a quiet reminder of why you’d always believed in him. His shots didn’t just land; they cut through the tension, crisp and clean, like a scalpel finding its mark. Jeno, on the other hand, burned too hot, his aggression almost feral, every step brimming with intensity that verged on desperation. But Mark’s game wasn’t reactionary. He wasn’t here to prove Jeno wrong; he was here to prove something to himself. And watching it unfold, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of what this moment meant—not just for them, but for the quiet battle of identities this court had come to represent.

Donghyuck’s voice carried over the court. “Mark with the shot—nothing but net!” His tone was lively, carrying the energy of the crowd but none of the surprise. Unlike the murmurs rippling through Jeno’s side, Donghyuck didn’t sound shocked—why would he be? This was Mark, and anyone who truly knew him understood this wasn’t luck. It was skill, honed and steady, the kind of precision Donghyuck had seen countless times before.

Jeno’s frustration was impossible to miss. His movements grew sharper, more frantic, his dribbles louder, as though he could force the game back into his control. His shots, once fluid and automatic, began to falter, each miss tightening the tension in the air. But Mark didn’t rise to the bait. He didn’t look at Jeno, didn’t acknowledge the taunts or the growing desperation. This wasn’t about outplaying Jeno—it was about playing his own game, proving to himself that he could stand tall here, on his court.

You saw it all happen in what felt like slow motion—the perfect arc of Jeno’s shot, the way the ball seemed destined to slice through the net and shift the momentum in his favor. But then there was Mark, moving with a speed and precision that made it seem as though he’d read Jeno’s mind. He leapt, arm outstretched, and the slap of his hand against the ball reverberated through the court like a firecracker, louder and sharper than any cheer. The ball flew out of bounds, scattering the tension like shrapnel, and the crowd erupted.

Donghyuck’s voice cut through the chaos, his tone brimming with excitement. “Jeno shoots… and misses!” He paused, his disbelief almost theatrical as he added, “Holy crap, did you see that? Someday men will write stories about that block, children will be named after that block, and Argentinian women will weep for it!”

This wasn’t like any game you’d ever watched before. It wasn’t just basketball—it was something raw and alive, every second steeped in stakes that went beyond points on a scoreboard. And yet, as the cheers echoed and your chest tightened with pride, you couldn’t help but feel like this moment belonged to Mark. His focus, his determination, his refusal to bend to the pressure—it wasn’t just impressive, it was something more. You didn’t just feel proud—you felt certain. Certain that this court, this game, this moment, was his.

“Mark with the rebound. He’s fast. He’s focused.” Donghyuck’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and clear, as Mark’s movements were steady, deliberate, and unrelenting as he drove toward the hoop. Jeno was on him, aggressive and desperate, but Mark didn’t falter. Each dribble was purposeful, each step a quiet display of control that left no room for doubt. The court seemed to shrink around them, every sound fading except for the rhythmic echo of the ball hitting the pavement. When Mark reached the edge of the key, he paused just long enough to find his opening. Then, with a quick shift, the ball left his hands in a clean arc that felt inevitable, as though the basket had already accepted it.

The sound of the ball snapping through the net was sharp, definitive, and the crowd erupted a moment later, the realization crashing over them. “And that’s it! Mark Lee wins!” Donghyuck’s voice rang out, full of triumph, his words slicing through the noise like a declaration.

The celebration that followed was instant and chaotic. Mark’s friends surged onto the court, their shouts of excitement filling the air. Yangyang nearly tackled him, laughter spilling out as Nahyun and Shotaro cheered wildly from the sidelines. Chenle was the loudest of them all, his voice carrying over the chaos as he jumped up and down, grinning like he’d won the game himself. You stayed back, the chaos of the celebration folding into the background as your focus sharpened on Mark—not the noise, not the others, but him.

His posture shifted, shoulders easing with relief rather than triumph, the subtle curve of his mouth acknowledging the moment without boasting. Every movement was deliberate, as though the victory wasn’t for anyone but himself. When his gaze swept over the crowd, it lingered briefly, grounding him, marking the moment as his own—not for dominance, but as someone reclaiming what had been taken. This wasn’t just a win over Jeno; it was a quiet, resolute statement that he belonged here. You saw it in the way he carried himself—a transformation so understated most wouldn’t notice, but you did.

You lingered at the edge of the chaos, an observer rather than a participant, fingers brushing the pen in your pocket as you replayed the details in your mind. The celebration faded into irrelevance—noise and emotion held no value compared to the mechanics of what unfolded before you. From a distance, you watched Mark, dissecting the subtle shifts in his posture, the small, deliberate adjustments that spoke volumes. His shoulders eased—not in triumph, but in something quieter, more personal, like relief settling into his frame. The faint curve of his mouth wasn’t a smile; it was a fleeting acknowledgment meant for no one but himself. His gaze swept the crowd, steady and deliberate, cataloging rather than basking, grounding him in something inward. You made mental notes, knowing they would translate later into the project you’d dedicated yourself to—the study of body language under pressure, the unspoken truths told through movement. Each step he took, controlled and methodical, fit into your need to understand, to deconstruct moments like this. You weren’t pulled by the celebration but by the precision of it all, the quiet reclamation in his stance, every shift etched in your mind with the meticulousness you pride yourself on.

But there was something else—something you hadn’t expected. Mark was the center now. The shift was sudden, almost jarring, as if the court itself had realigned its axis around him. Those on Jeno’s side—the people who moments ago were silent in defeat—found themselves glancing at Mark, as though he had somehow claimed not just the game but the space itself. He was the orbit, drawing everyone into his pull with a quiet, understated power that felt impossible to resist. You caught Areum’s gaze lingering on him, her expression unreadable, like she was seeing him in a new light. Karina and the other cheerleaders stood off to the side, biting their lips and batting their lashes, their attention clearly fixated on Mark in a way that was hard to ignore. It was subtle but palpable, a whiplash moment where you realized the court wasn’t just his stage anymore; it was his world.

Your friends’ voices called out your name, cutting through the still noise in your head, but you didn’t turn. You stayed where you were, still and unmoving, rooted at the edge of the celebration. The chaos behind you rolled on—cheers, laughter, movement—but it didn’t pull you in. You weren’t drawn to the noise or the excitement. Instead, your focus lingered on the quieter details, the things others wouldn’t notice. The court felt different now, smaller somehow, as if the space itself carried the weight of what had just happened. It wasn’t that you didn’t care—it was that you cared differently, drawn to the stillness and the meaning left behind after the noise had passed.

But then, something shifted. At first, you barely noticed it, just a flicker on the edge of your awareness—a break in the background noise you’d trained yourself to filter out. You stayed rooted, clinging to the stillness you’d worked so hard to maintain, your focus steady on the court and the aftermath it carried. Yet, an unfamiliar tension crept in, threading its way into your calm. It wasn’t immediate, wasn’t sudden, but like a weight pressing slowly against the edges of your mind, demanding attention you didn’t want to give.

Your senses betrayed you first. A pulse of awareness tugged at your periphery, pulling your focus away from the grounded silence you depended on. You resisted, tried to bury it under the usual steady rhythm of observation, but it was there—persistent, undeniable. Your gaze wavered, almost imperceptibly, before landing on him. Jeno. He was still, rigid, his frame holding a tension that rippled outward like an unseen force. He stood apart, fists tight at his sides, his jaw locked so firmly you could feel the strain even from here.

You told yourself to file it away, to make it part of the project. The mechanics of his stance, the stillness of his form—details to catalog, nothing more. But even as you tried to frame it that way, your thoughts began to fracture. Your gaze lingered too long, no longer following patterns or posture but drawn by something deeper, something that wasn’t supposed to matter. For all his confidence, all the ease with which he usually commanded attention, it was gone—replaced by something raw, something exposed.

You tried to force your thoughts back into order, to rebuild the detachment that had always come so naturally to you. But with every passing moment, the calm you clung to unraveled further. Your eyes betrayed you completely now, tracking the way he stood as though tethered to the court, refusing to move. It wasn’t anger, not entirely. It was something heavier, something that held you in place just as much as it held him.

No one—not your friends, not anyone—had ever drawn your attention away from the steady rhythm of your thoughts, the meticulous focus that always kept you grounded and apart. But Jeno did. His presence reached into that protected space and shattered it, scattering your carefully constructed thoughts until they spiraled in ways you couldn’t control. He hadn’t even looked at you directly, but he didn’t need to. The weight of him was enough—suffocating, consuming, like an unspoken command pressing into the air between you.

You should have stayed rooted in Mark’s win, let Jeno’s loss be a quiet, satisfying afterthought. But the way he stood, so still yet so loud in his silence, wouldn’t let you. His figure was unyielding, locked in place as though the loss itself hadn’t finished with him. He didn’t turn to his friends, didn’t shrug it off, didn’t hide the cracks the way he always had before. He just stood there, unshaken by the noise around him, yet radiating something that made it impossible for you to look away. He wasn’t just in the moment—he was the moment, consuming it, distorting it, and pulling you further from yourself with every second that passed.

You didn’t understand why you couldn’t look away, why the weight of Jeno’s stillness seemed to press against you like gravity. Was it empathy? The thought felt foreign, almost laughable—you weren’t the kind to feel for someone like him, someone who wore his arrogance like armor. Maybe it was curiosity, a morbid fascination with the cracks in his composure, the way someone so sure of himself could falter so completely. But even that didn’t sit right, because it wasn’t just curiosity—it was something heavier, something that twisted uncomfortably in your chest.

Around him, the court began to empty, the crowd thinning as people drifted toward their cars, their voices hushed, their energy subdued. A few lingered at the edges, stealing glances at Jeno but saying nothing, and even his teammates hung back, hesitant, like they didn’t know whether to approach or leave him alone. And he was alone, his presence towering and isolating all at once, his fists tight at his sides, his shoulders tense as if bracing against the silence. It unsettled you, the way the moment seemed to cling to him, and no matter how hard you tried to dissect your reaction, to rationalize why you cared, you came up empty.

The diner hummed with life, its retro charm illuminated by the glow of neon signs that flickered in soft pinks and blues, casting a nostalgic haze over the checkered floors. A jukebox in the corner cycled through crackling tunes from decades past, its rhythm barely audible beneath the chatter and clatter of plates. The air was thick with the scent of sizzling burgers, greasy fries, and milkshakes topped with whipped cream, sweet and heavy like the moment itself.

You slid into a vinyl booth near the back, its cushions worn but inviting, sticking faintly to your skin as you settled in, Yangyang pressed against your side with a closeness that felt familiar. Across from you, Mark claimed his seat, his phone buzzing incessantly on the table, its screen lighting up with every notification. Donghyuck elbowed Chenle for room, while Shotaro balanced precariously on the edge, and Nahyun draped an arm along the backrest as if she owned it. Laughter bubbled up around you, filling the air with a warmth that contrasted sharply with the adrenaline still humming in your veins. The energy was contagious, amplified by the clink of milkshake glasses and the shuffle of servers weaving between tables, balancing trays piled high with burgers and fries.

Mark’s phone buzzed again, the sound cutting briefly through the conversation, but no one seemed to mind. The win had done its job—lifting everyone’s spirits, filling the booth with a kind of camaraderie that felt earned. The river court might’ve been left behind, but its electricity lingered, settling into the diner like it belonged.

“Alright, who’s ordering the milkshakes?” Donghyuck asked, flipping through the laminated menu with exaggerated focus, even though he clearly had it memorized. He tapped the plastic cover dramatically. “I’m thinking vanilla, but if anyone dips their fries in it, we’re fighting.”

“Bold of you to assume your milkshake won’t get stolen first,” Chenle shot back, his grin wide as he leaned over and snatched the menu from Donghyuck’s hands.

“You’re all wrong,” Yangyang chimed in, throwing an arm casually around your shoulders like he’d been crowned the authority on diner orders. “Strawberry milkshakes are undefeated. Right?” He glanced at you, his brows raised expectantly.

You shrugged, biting back a smile. “Depends on who’s paying. I feel like getting chocolate tonight.”

Nahyun leaned back, her nails clicking against her phone case as she slid it into her pocket. “Order whatever you want,” she said lightly, her tone breezy but definitive. “It’s on me. Consider it my treat for Mark’s win.”

Mark glanced up briefly, his lips twitching into a polite, tight-lipped smile. “Thanks, Nahyun,” he said, his voice soft. Her eyes lingered on him just a second longer than necessary, her expression unreadable before she turned away.

“You’re so sweet,” Shotaro teased, resting his chin on his hand as he looked at Nahyun with adoration. “Our girl’s out here spoiling us.”

Nahyun grinned, rolling her eyes as though she wasn’t the least bit flustered. “You’re all broke, and someone has to keep us fed.”

Yangyang shot you a quick, knowing glance, his lips quirking up in silent acknowledgement. Nahyun was loaded, after all—her father was a well-established businessman with a name that carried weight in every room it entered. She didn’t like to boast about it, though, always downplaying the resources that made moments like this seem effortless for her.

“Mark deserves it,” Nahyun added, her voice gentler now as she leaned forward slightly, her gaze briefly flicking to him. “The win, the attention—you’ve worked hard for this.”

Mark’s smile softened, though his focus seemed to drift as his phone buzzed again on the table. “Thanks,” he murmured, but it was clear his mind was elsewhere.

“Mark’s big now,” Donghyuck teased, leaning over to nudge his shoulder, his tone exaggeratedly playful. “The river court king. Bet half the campus is sliding into your DMs.”

Mark laughed, locking his phone with a shrug. “It’s not that serious,” he said, though the flicker of pride in his expression betrayed him.

“Not serious? You’ve been glued to that thing all night,” Yangyang quipped, tossing a fry in his direction. “Who’s got you so distracted? Don’t tell me it’s Areum.”

At the mention of her name, something shifted—not in Mark, but in you. His response was easy, casual, the kind of thing anyone else would accept without a second thought. “It’s nothing. Just some texts,” he said, and his voice carried the same calm steadiness it always had. But you knew him too well, knew the weight of his pauses, the way his focus drifted even when he tried to stay present. It wasn’t anything obvious, not a conscious change, but you felt it anyway, a quiet pull that instinctively made you hesitate.

The laughter and teasing at the table felt distant, like you were watching it play out from a step behind. You’d known Mark for so long, understood his rhythms in a way no one else did, and this was different. Subtle, but there. The slight shift in how he carried himself, how he let the group orbit around him, how his attention flickered in and out. It wasn’t that he was pulling away deliberately—it was more like a current you couldn’t see but could feel, pulling him toward something else, leaving you tethered in a place that no longer felt the same. It wasn’t loud or dramatic, but it was there, a quiet pull you couldn’t ignore.

Still, the energy around the booth buzzed on, as chaotic and lighthearted as ever, pulling you back into the present. Chenle, predictably, had stolen Yangyang’s burger, holding it just out of reach while Yangyang swatted at him. “You’re insufferable,” Yangyang grumbled, leaning across the table with exaggerated annoyance, his arms flailing dramatically as the group erupted into laughter.

Donghyuck, leaning back against the booth with a smirk, shook his head. “It’s like watching two toddlers fight over a toy. Pathetic.”

Shotaro laughed, breaking a fry in half before tossing one piece at Chenle. “Just share the burger, man. Yangyang’s probably starving.”

“Starving for attention,” Chenle shot back, grinning as he finally handed the burger back.

Nahyun, ever the composed one, glanced up from her milkshake. “You boys are exhausting. Remind me why I hang out with you again?”

“Because you love us,” Donghyuck quipped, winking at her. “And you pay for our food.”

Mark chuckled quietly, the sound soft but warm as he leaned back in his seat. Finally, he had set his phone down and cleared his throat. “I keep getting messages about Jeno’s party,” he said casually, his tone light but purposeful. “I think we should go.”

The table fell quiet, all eyes turning to him. Donghyuck raised an eyebrow. “Really? You want to party with Jeno after what just happened?”

Mark shrugged again, leaning back in his seat with a casual air that didn’t quite match the flicker of something unsure in his eyes. “Why not? We deserve to celebrate, and he throws good parties. Plus, what’s he gonna do to me? To us?”

Donghyuck snorted. “I can think of a few things. None of them are great.”

Shotaro frowned slightly, clearly uneasy. “It feels weird, though. After the game and everything… would he even want us there?”

Mark leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Does it matter? He’s not going to do anything. It’s just a party. And honestly? I’m not gonna let him think he can intimidate us. We deserve to have a good time.”

Yangyang hesitated but finally nodded, tossing a fry into his mouth. “If Mark says it’s fine, it’s fine. Who’s going to argue with him after that win?”

The group began to come around, one by one, as Mark’s quiet confidence settled over the table. Even Nahyun, who had initially looked skeptical, sighed and leaned back. “Fine. But if it turns into a disaster, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

Mark laughed softly, his gaze finally landing on you. “What about you?”

You frowned slightly, your reluctance clear in the way your fingers tapped lightly against the table. “Do I have to?”

“For me,” Mark said simply, his tone softer now, almost persuasive in its simplicity.

You hesitated, the weight of the moment pressing against your chest. You didn’t want to go. The idea of stepping into Jeno’s world felt wrong, like crossing a line you weren’t ready for. But Mark’s gaze held steady, and you knew the answer before you spoke. “Fine,” you muttered finally. “For you.”

The group’s mood lifted again, the earlier tension dissolving into laughter and teasing as plans were tossed around for what to wear and who would show up. But the unease lingered at the edges of your mind, quiet but insistent. Mark’s growing confidence, his ease with stepping into Jeno’s orbit, felt like the start of something you couldn’t quite name yet—and you weren’t sure if you wanted to.

The upscale apartment towered over the skyline, a shimmering pillar of glass and metal that exuded wealth and exclusivity. Even from the sidewalk, it drew stares from passersby, the kind of building that made you stop and wonder who could possibly afford to live there. As you and your friends approached the entrance, the conversation faltered, each of you glancing upward, wide-eyed and momentarily silenced by the sheer grandeur of it.

Inside, the lobby was sleek and cavernous, the kind of space designed to intimidate. Marble floors stretched out in gleaming, uninterrupted perfection, reflecting the soft golden light of chandeliers that hung like modern sculptures. Every detail was curated—the smooth black leather chairs arranged in precise symmetry, the abstract artwork that lined the walls, the faint scent of something expensive and floral lingering in the air. You hadn’t been here before, but the weight of it pressed against your chest. This wasn’t just an apartment; it was a symbol, a statement of status that felt like it had nothing to do with the lives most people lived.

Yangyang let out a low whistle, his gaze sweeping the space. “This is where he lives? Seriously?”

Donghyuck snorted, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Of course it is. It’s Jeno. Did you think he was going to live in a regular dorm like the rest of us?”

Chenle raised a brow, his voice light but tinged with disbelief. “This isn’t even a home—it’s a fortress.”

You stole a glance at Mark, catching the faintest flicker of something in his expression as he took it all in. His posture was steady, but his jaw tightened, and his eyes narrowed slightly as he surveyed the lobby. Indifference. That’s what it looked like on the surface, but you knew him too well to miss the weight behind it. He didn’t say anything, but you could feel the dissonance in him. This world, Jeno’s world, was so far removed from his own—a world where appearances and wealth dictated everything.

The elevator ride was silent, the mirrored walls reflecting back the tension none of you dared to name. Each passing floor only heightened the unease, and though Mark kept his head high, his hands curled into loose fists at his sides. You wondered if he was thinking about the river court, the place he’d claimed as his own, the place he fought to hold onto. The implications were stark—Jeno’s life was one of privilege, his apartment a stark testament to a kind of luxury Mark had never known.

And yet, Mark didn’t falter. When the elevator doors slid open, revealing a hallway bathed in soft lighting and lined with minimalist decor, he stepped out first, his movements steady. You saw it then, the subtle shift in his shoulders, the way he squared them just slightly, like he was ready to walk into another game. “Let’s go,” he said, his voice low and calm, though his gaze lingered for a fraction too long on the massive double doors ahead of you, the sound of distant bass thumping behind them.

The party hit you before you even stepped through the door, the bass vibrating through the walls in relentless, bone-deep pulses. As the door swung open, the scent hit you—a dizzying mix of expensive cologne, spilled liquor, and something rawer beneath it: smoke, sweat, and the faint bite of something illicit. It was overwhelming, like walking into a storm of excess, where every sensation was heightened, every edge sharpened.

The apartment itself was striking, luxurious in a way that felt almost clinical. From the outside, it had been a fortress of wealth, gleaming and untouchable, but inside, the chaos unraveled its perfection. The once-pristine marble floors were sticky with spilled drinks; velvet cushions were tossed haphazardly onto the ground, stained and trampled underfoot. Sleek black leather couches, carefully arranged for mingling, had been overtaken—strangers lounging, laughing, or passing joints back and forth like they owned the space. A glass-top coffee table bore the brunt of the mess: red solo cups, half-eaten snacks, and the unmistakable burn marks from ash that hadn’t quite made it into the tray. The air reeked faintly of weed, the scent clashing with the sharper tang of alcohol soaked into the upholstery.

Everywhere you looked, the apartment bore Jeno’s mark—modern, sleek, and deliberately impressive. The walls were lined with trophies, sports medals, and action shots of him mid-game, frozen in moments of triumph. Framed magazine covers featuring Jeno in his prime hung near the mounted TV that dominated the living room, but their significance was buried under the noise of the party. A tall bookshelf near the corner displayed a mix of Jaemin’s art books and a few carefully placed plants—small signs of someone quieter, someone who didn’t thrive in this chaos. Jaemin’s reading chair, tucked beneath a tasteful lamp, was the only corner of the room untouched by the storm, its presence almost laughably out of place amidst the mess.

The open space was designed for gatherings—couches arranged for conversation, edgy bar stools in brushed steel pulled up to a sleek black granite counter—but the party had warped it. Furniture had been shoved aside to accommodate the crowd, and the careful curation of Jeno’s life was slowly being erased by the sheer weight of it all. A framed photo of one of Jeno’s biggest wins lay shattered on the floor, symbolic of how his true self—the ambitious athlete, the rising star—was being buried beneath the excess he hosted.

“Jeno’s parties are insane, he has a reputation.” Donghyuck muttered, leaning in close enough for you to catch the hint of tequila on his breath. His gaze swept the room with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. “Remember that one time someone ended up naked in the pool? Fully dressed when they got here. Ended up naked. In December.”

Chenle, already nursing his second drink, let out a sharp laugh. “That was Jeno’s fault. Pretty sure he dared them.”

“Not Jeno,” Shotaro said, swaying slightly as he leaned against the counter, eyes glassy from the buzz. “It had to be Jaemin. He’s the quiet troublemaker. You know, the ones you don’t see coming.”

Yangyang leaned casually against you, his elbow brushing yours as he scoffed. “Jaemin? That guy doesn’t dare anyone to do anything. He’s probably off somewhere reading. If it was anyone, it had to be Jeno. You’ve seen him—he eats this kind of chaos up.”

Donghyuck snorted, grabbing a shot and passing it to Chenle. “Eats it up? He runs it. Guy stirs the pot, sits back, and watches it all go down.”

“Remember that time someone got caught hooking up in Jeno’s bathroom?” Chenle said, barely containing his laughter. “I swear the guy ran out without his pants.”

Yangyang leaned back, biting back a grin. “Not before Jeno walked in and decided to stay. Didn’t he just… join in?”

Donghyuck barked out a laugh, slamming his drink on the counter. “He didn’t just join in—he locked the door and told everyone to wait their turn.”

Chenle doubled over, tears in his eyes. “The way people were banging on that door for ages, like their lives depended on it. Only Jeno could turn his own bathroom into some kind of sex den.”

“You think that’s bad? Look over there,” Donghyuck added, nodding toward the dark hallway where a couple disappeared seconds ago. “Guarantee he’s set up the guest room for round two.”

You stared at them, shaking your head in disbelief. “Wow, Jeno is such a jerk. Doesn’t he have a girlfriend? Hasn’t he been with Areum for several years?”

Mark, who had been quiet up until now, looked up from his drink with a shrug. “Not exactly. They’re on and off a lot. Honestly, they’ve spent just as much time apart as they have together.”

Your brow furrowed, and you glanced back toward the chaos. “That’s… complicated.”

“Welcome to Jeno,” Donghyuck said again, raising his glass like he was toasting the chaos itself.

“Don’t forget the guy who lit a joint with Jeno’s scented candle,” Chenle added, grinning as he tipped his drink back. “High as hell and smelling like lavender.”

You shake your head in disbelief as the group exchange stories back and forth. You didn’t belong here. Not really. But your friends were with you, grounding you in their chaotic way. Donghyuck had already taken a shot and was loudly challenging Chenle to do the same, while Shotaro swayed to the music with a looseness that made him look like he’d been born to dance. Yangyang was at your side, his hand brushing your elbow whenever you seemed to falter, his presence a quiet anchor in the madness. “You good?” he asked, his voice barely cutting through the din, his eyes scanning your face for any sign of discomfort.

“I’m fine,” you lied, forcing a tight smile. The truth was, the air felt too thick, the music too loud, the sheer volume of people overwhelming. But you stayed. For Mark. For the group.

Mark was at the center of it all. People you didn’t know—some you recognized from the river court, others from campus—seemed to orbit him, clapping him on the back, offering him drinks, pulling him into conversations. His phone buzzed constantly in his hand, but he barely acknowledged it, his gaze drifting now and then to Areum. She stood with Jeno on the other side of the room, flanked by Karina and Winter, their presence impossibly polished, their beauty almost weaponized in the way they commanded attention.

Jaemin stood near the edge of the chaos, his expression unreadable as his eyes flickered over the mess that sprawled across the apartment. He sighed, shaking his head, the movement subtle but telling. You only knew Jaemin from tutoring him, but it had become clear early on that he was someone who valued his peace and personal space. He had a calmness about him, a quiet, introverted nature that seemed at odds with the chaos of the wild parties Jeno was known for throwing. He wasn’t the type to seek attention or thrive in the noise—he preferred stillness, his presence subdued but steady. It was almost jarring to see him here, surrounded by the mess and the loud, unruly energy, yet somehow still managing to keep a part of himself separate from it all.

It surprised you that he was on the basketball team at all, let alone so closely tied to Jeno. The bond between them was evident in the way Jaemin moved through the space with a familiarity that spoke of years spent by Jeno’s side. They weren’t just teammates; they were something deeper. Best friends since childhood, practically brothers. There was a loyalty between them that ran deep, even when their personalities seemed to diverge so sharply. Jeno was loud, commanding, thriving on the chaos he created, while Jaemin was his quieter counterpart, the steady presence who stayed even when it didn’t seem like he fit.

In contrast, the other Seoul Ravens dominated a corner of the room, their energy loud and brash, their voices and laughter cutting through the space like a blade. Soobin, San, and Wooyoung didn’t need to dance to draw attention; their charisma was magnetic, pulling eyes and energy toward them like a gravitational force. They were effortless, their confidence bordering on arrogance, but even they couldn’t outshine Jeno. No one ever did.

Jeno was everywhere and nowhere, his movements fluid as he worked the room, drink in hand, a sharp smile cutting through the tension that seemed to cling to him like a second skin. He wasn’t sulking, wasn’t brooding—but the anger from earlier hadn’t entirely left him, simmering beneath the surface. You hated how easily he drew your gaze, the way his shirt clung to his frame, the veins in his arms catching the dim light when he tipped his drink to his lips. He was beautiful in the most infuriating way, his presence commanding without effort. But Areum at his side was an afterthought. They barely spoke, her hand resting on the stem of her glass while his attention wandered. It felt… off. Detached.

Yangyang nudged you, pulling you out of your thoughts. “You look like you need some air.”

You didn’t argue. The party was too much—too loud, too hot, too suffocating. You hated parties for this exact reason: the way they seemed to demand something of you, the expectation to blend in, to enjoy the noise and chaos when all you wanted was a quiet corner and a little distance. Yangyang led you through the throng, his hand on your back guiding you until you slipped through a side door and into the cool night.

This place was a maze, the kind of sprawling luxury that felt both overwhelming and impersonal, but Yangyang moved through it with surprising ease, his confidence unshaken as he led you through the labyrinth of rooms and corridors. His sharp jawline caught the dim light as he glanced back at you, his hand brushing against your elbow in a subtle, protective gesture that didn’t go unnoticed. After a few wrong turns, you both stumbled onto a quiet pocket of the apartment: a balcony with a stunning skyline view. It stretched wide, the sleek glass railing giving way to an unobstructed view of the glittering city below. Tall stools were arranged near a brushed-steel bar cart, the surface polished to perfection, though it seemed untouched tonight. The space was eerily empty, a quiet reprieve from the chaos inside.

You leaned against the bar, Yangyang passing you a drink as you glanced around. Small plants lined one side of the balcony—succulents in pastel planters, a tiny herb garden pot nestled among them. They were a gentle contrast to the sharp, high-tech edges of the rest of the space. Inside, the apartment carried the same contradictions: a shelf stacked with sleek, framed sports memorabilia next to an understated stack of art books, and a cold, modern sectional softened by an oversized, well-worn knit throw.

You turned to Yangyang, the question bubbling up before you could stop yourself. “Yangyang,” you said softly, your voice low against the hum of the city, “does Jeno live with anyone?”

Yangyang nodded, taking a sip from his cup before answering. “Jaemin’s his roommate. They’ve been close forever—like brothers, practically.”

You exhaled, leaning back slightly. “That explains it.” The contrast made sense now—the scattered pieces of personality you’d noticed throughout the apartment. The herb garden on the balcony. A reading corner tucked away in the living room. The occasional soft touch amid Jeno’s sleek, modern display of wealth. You could see both of them in the space: Jeno’s need to impress and Jaemin’s quiet search for peace.

Yangyang walked toward the glass railing, gesturing for you to join him. As you approached, the view below caught your breath in your throat. The city lights stretched endlessly in one direction, glittering like a sea of stars. But just beneath the balcony, a hidden garden sprawled—a pocket of calm in the middle of the chaos. String lights draped between the trees, casting a warm golden glow over stone pathways and soft greenery. The scent of damp earth and night-blooming flowers reached you even from here, clean and grounding, and for the first time that night, you felt like you could truly breathe.

Yangyang handed you a plastic cup, his fingers brushing against yours briefly. The rim was cool against your lips as he encouraged you to drink. “Better?” he asked, his voice quiet, his gaze steady and warm as it lingered on you.

“Much,” you admitted, exhaling a long breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. These quiet moments were everything—the antidote to the overwhelming night you’d been navigating.

He smiled, soft but with a flicker of playfulness that you knew all too well. “See? I know what I’m doing.”

A small smile tugged at your lips, the tension in your chest loosening just a little more. “You’re a good friend.”

The peace didn’t last. A shout cut through the stillness, sharp and angry, slicing through the muted hum of the city below. Both your heads snapped toward the noise, your breath catching as Yangyang instinctively straightened beside you, his drink set down with deliberate care. His expression shifted, tightening, and you missed the way his jaw ticked when you said the word friend with a conviction you wholeheartedly believed.

You and Yangyang stood above the garden, leaning slightly over the railing as you gazed below. The soft glow of the string lights cast flickering patterns over the greenery, but it wasn’t enough to distract from the voices rising from the apartment. Inside, near the far wall, Jeno and Areum stood locked in a tense standoff. Their words, low and cutting, drifted out, slicing through the muted hum of the party as if the air itself had been stilled by the weight of their argument. Around them, the usual chaos of the party seemed to pause, as though everyone was quietly attuned to the tension radiating from that corner.

“Are you serious?” Areum’s voice rose, trembling with a mix of anger and disbelief that carried across the room. “You bet on me?” Her words cut through the air like a slap, and even from where you stood, the rawness in her tone made your chest tighten.

Jeno’s response came in a low growl, the words edged with venom and frustration, though you couldn’t make out every detail. His stance was unyielding, his shoulders squared, but there was no triumph in his posture—only a kind of cold, simmering fury.

“Let’s go to my room,” he bit out suddenly, the sharpness of his voice leaving no room for negotiation. He didn’t look at her, didn’t look at anyone, his gaze fixed somewhere distant as he turned on his heel. His movements were rigid, his usual confidence replaced with something harsher, more volatile.

Areum hesitated, her expression shifting between fury and humiliation as her hand tightened around the stem of her glass. For a moment, it seemed like she might stay rooted there, but then she followed him, her steps brisk, the tension in her frame palpable. The sound of the door slamming shut reverberated through the space, silencing the murmurs that had begun to ripple through the room.

Yangyang nudged your arm gently, his voice low. “Come on,” he said, tilting his head toward the main room. “Let’s go find the others.”

You followed him reluctantly, your thoughts still tangled in the confrontation you’d just witnessed. Inside, the chaos surged again, but it wasn’t the same. The buzz was different now—hushed whispers, curious glances, and stolen conversations feeding the room like static electricity.

“Did you see Areum storm off?” Donghyuck exclaimed as soon as you rejoined the group. He was already holding a drink, his cheeks slightly flushed. “That was brutal.”

Chenle leaned in conspiratorially, his grin as sharp as ever. “Brutal? Jeno had a full meltdown. I’ve never seen him like that.”

Shotaro, oblivious as always, swayed his way over to you mid-dance move, his hands raised in mock innocence. “What happened? I was on the dance floor!” he exclaimed, his movements loose and carefree, as though he hadn’t just walked into the aftermath of a storm. The contrast was almost comedic, his carefree rhythm completely out of sync with the tension simmering around him.

“Jeno’s a mess, that’s what,” Donghyuck said with a smirk, swirling his drink. “Shit like this is always happening at his parties. This is just another Friday for him.”

Your gaze swept the room, catching sight of Mark lingering near the bar. His expression was hard to read, his fingers idly toying with the rim of his drink as if he were deep in thought. Something about his stillness struck you, and before you could second-guess yourself, you walked over to him.

You made your way toward Mark, your steps cutting cleanly through the noise around you, the weight of what you’d overheard pressing heavily on your chest. Areum’s words replayed in your mind, sharp and cutting: that Jeno had a deal with Mark, one that involved her as some twisted prize. The very idea of it unsettled you, twisting your stomach into knots. “What’s this about you and Jeno betting on Areum?” you asked, your voice low but firm, each word deliberate and sharp, demanding an answer.

Mark blinked, his head snapping toward you. “Who told you that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you said, your arms crossing. “Is it true?”

Mark sighed, his shoulders dropping as he glanced away briefly. “Yeah… before the showdown, Jeno and I made a bet. If I won, I’d get to stay on the team—and I bet I could have Areum. If he won, I’d have to leave.”

The words hit you like a slap, and before you could stop yourself, you jabbed him hard in the arm, your expression tightening with disbelief. “What the fuck, Mark? Betting on a girl? That’s not like you at all.” He winced, rubbing his arm as his gaze met yours, his posture shifting uncomfortably under the weight of your accusation.

“I wasn’t serious,” he defended, his voice low but firm. “I just wanted to give him a taste of his own medicine. You know how he is—arrogant, always trying to one-up everyone. I wasn’t going to follow through.”

You stared at him, your chest tightening with disbelief. “I can’t believe you’d even think something like that, whether you’d follow it though or not. You’re one of the good guys, Mark.”

Mark’s jaw tightened, his expression softening slightly. “I would never actually do it. I just… I wanted to put him in his place. That’s all.”

Before you could respond, the sound of murmurs pulled your attention to the surrounding partygoers. Their whispers had grown louder, feeding off the tension in the room like vultures circling prey. You glanced around and realized people nearby were eavesdropping, their gazes darting between you, Mark, and the aftermath of Jeno and Areum’s confrontation, hungry for the next piece of gossip.

Yiren, Aisha, and Mia stood near the drinks table, their voices low but sharp, ensuring their words carried just far enough to be heard.

“Wow,” Yiren muttered, swirling her drink lazily. “That’s… rough.”

“Sucks to be her,” Aisha added, her tone flat, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at her lips.

Mia let out a short, dismissive laugh. “Guess she’s learning the hard way.”

Their remarks hung in the air, dripping with feigned detachment, their lack of sympathy slicing through the atmosphere. They didn’t bother to hide their interest, their words quiet enough to pass as casual but biting enough to linger.

Across the room, Karina and Winter—Areum’s closest friends—stood by the bar. Neither of them looked concerned, their expressions carefully indifferent. It was almost jarring, their lack of reaction, but you could tell there was more to it. Maybe they were used to this kind of drama. Or maybe they blamed Areum for getting involved with Jeno in the first place.

Amidst the heavy drama, you caught glimpses of Donghyuck and Chenle at a makeshift drinking game with a few of the Seoul Ravens guys. They were clearly hammered, Chenle’s laugh carrying over the din of the party while Donghyuck shouted something unintelligible, waving his glass in the air. Every so often, they yelled for you or Mark to join in, but the weight of the night kept you rooted, too consumed by the fallout to respond.

Shotaro, oblivious as ever, was happily dancing among random partygoers, a carefree contrast to the tension that gripped the room. Yangyang, ever the anchor, hovered nearby, his eyes darting between you and Mark. He tried to check on you more than once, his hand brushing against your arm in quiet concern, but each time, something else demanded your attention, leaving him trailing behind, his brow furrowed in frustration.

Nahyun stood further away, sipping from her glass as her gaze flickered between Mark and the chaos. Her expression was unreadable, but she kept glancing at him, her focus lingering longer than it should have. Shotaro, meanwhile, remained blissfully unaware, too lost in the rhythm of the music to notice anything beyond the dance floor.

Then Donghyuck appeared, stumbling slightly as he reached you, his words slurred but sharp enough to land. “Word is Jeno just dumped Areum. And for good.” He paused, letting the weight of the revelation settle. “Apparently, she’s sobbing upstairs. He made it clear—this isn’t one of their breaks. It’s done. Over. She’s heartbroken.”

The words hit you, and you gasped, the shock twisting your stomach. You turned to Mark instinctively, searching his face for a reaction, but he was already moving away, his shoulders rigid as he slipped into the crowd without a word.

Your eyes followed his path through the throng of people, bracing yourself when you saw Mark and Jeno crossing paths near the edge of the room. Their interaction was brief—a few words exchanged that you couldn’t hear—but the energy between them was unmistakable. It wasn’t tense, not outright, but it wasn’t friendly either. Somewhere in the middle, simmering with unspoken frustration and emotions that seemed ready to boil over at any moment.

But then, without a glance back, Mark disappeared, his steps purposeful as he ascended the staircase leading upstairs. The room felt smaller, heavier, as if everything hinged on what would happen next. This moment, you realized, was a pivot point.

It would be the one to change his life forever.

The party felt like it had been swallowed by a dark undercurrent, the energy pulsing with something heavier than the bass vibrating through the walls. Amidst the clinking glasses, careless laughter, and swaying bodies, one thread of tension stood out: Jeno. His presence loomed, even when he wasn’t in sight, like a storm cloud gathering on the horizon.

The fallout from the river court was still fresh, his loss to Mark an unspoken shadow over the night. Add to that the bet, the breakup, and Jeno was more than just a name on people’s lips—he was the source of the drama everyone had come to revel in. You caught snippets of murmured conversations, hints of his movements through the apartment. Someone mentioned seeing him nearly knock over a table in frustration, another laughed about how he’d brushed off a girl trying to flirt with him.

Jeno wasn’t sulking, wasn’t brooding—he didn’t need to. Even without trying, his energy was volatile enough to crackle through the walls, drawing eyes and igniting speculation. A few bold partygoers seemed almost eager to provoke him, circling closer, testing boundaries. It felt as though everyone was waiting for something—an eruption, a confrontation, a moment where the tension snapped and spilled over.

You couldn’t take it anymore. The party, the tension, the endless whispers—it was all too much. “I’m heading out,” you announced, your voice cutting through the noise. You avoided their surprised looks from your friends, already standing up and brushing imaginary lint off your clothes.

Yangyang immediately straightened, his brow furrowing. “I’ll take you home.”

“Me too,” Donghyuck added, already reaching for his jacket.

You shook your head, offering them a small smile to ease their concern. “It’s okay. I can handle it. I’ll book an Uber.”

Yangyang hesitated, his eyes scanning your face, but you stood firm. “I’ll be fine,” you said, your tone leaving no room for argument. “Just… stay here. Have fun. I’ll text you when I get home.”

Donghyuck exchanged a glance with Yangyang, then shrugged. “Fine. But if you don’t text, we’re coming to find you.”

A hollow laugh slipped past your lips, more reflex than amusement, as you forced a nod. “Deal.” Without looking back, you turned toward the hallway, the distant pulse of the party fading behind you like an afterthought. But as the sound grew quieter, the weight in your chest grew heavier. Leaving wasn’t just about escaping the noise or the heat of too many bodies pressed together; it felt like trying to outrun something larger, something sharp and inescapable that had settled deep in your chest.

The hallway stretched before you, lined with identical doors and sharp, minimalist edges. Everything gleamed under muted lighting, the kind of cold perfection that left no room for warmth. You moved through it with purpose, but as each turn led to another unfamiliar corridor, your determination began to unravel. The apartment was a labyrinth, designed more for show than function, and you were caught in its web, spinning deeper into its maze-like silence.

You told yourself you were simply searching for the exit, but your steps slowed, hesitation creeping in with each door you passed. Something about this place made you linger—curiosity, fascination, or perhaps the knowledge that leaving wasn’t as urgent as it had first felt.

A door caught your eye. Slightly ajar, it stood apart from the others, a faint glow spilling into the dim hallway like an invitation. The handle was cool under your palm as you pushed it open slowly, the breath catching in your throat as the room beyond revealed itself.

It was a monument to his achievements, a gallery of accomplishments that demanded attention.

Trophies glinted under warm light, their metallic surfaces catching and reflecting the glow like captured fire. Medals hung in perfect symmetry, their ribbons vivid against the dark shelves. Framed jerseys lined the walls, their bold numbers standing out like markers of past victories. Photographs were scattered throughout—Jeno mid-jump, his face a mask of fierce determination; Jeno drenched in sweat, his hands gripping a trophy; Jeno smiling with his teammates, the picture of triumph.

But it wasn’t just basketball. Academic certificates were framed alongside the sports memorabilia, their polished plaques and embossed seals a testament to a relentless pursuit of excellence. Engineering awards and science fair ribbons filled the spaces in between, balanced with letters of recognition from world-class institutions you knew well—MIT for engineering, FIBA for basketball. You always knew Jeno was intelligent, but seeing him acknowledged by names of this caliber felt almost surreal. Every piece was deliberate, curated, a seamless display of achievement.

As your gaze swept across the room, it caught on something that disrupted the flawless symmetry—a torn jersey, encased in glass. Small and clearly from his youth, its fabric was frayed and stitched together with uneven, amateur hands. The imperfections stood in stark contrast to the polished brilliance surrounding it, yet it commanded attention. It was the only piece that revealed struggle, rawness—a crack in the otherwise impenetrable armor of perfection.

Your feet carried you closer without thought, drawn to the display. The jersey’s stitches told a story—of effort, of failure, of resilience. It didn’t fit the flawless narrative surrounding it, but that only made it feel more real, more intimate.

You leaned into the wall’s cool surface, fingers curling instinctively around the spiral of your notebook. The pen moved without hesitation, tracing the polished lines of the room onto the page—the trophies catching the light, the torn jersey stitched with uneven hands, a single imperfection amidst calculated perfection. The motions were practiced, precise, capturing each observation as though the details alone could unlock something vital.

Your notes shifted, bleeding seamlessly into fragments from earlier: the river court, sharp words cutting through the air, the weight of tension in every movement. The faint bass from the party hummed beneath it all, a distant thread pulling at your focus, but you pressed on, turning the moment into something structured, something useful. This was for your project—at least, that’s what you told yourself, even as the stillness of the room wrapped tighter around you, every detail anchoring you deeper into its grip.

A faint smile touched your lips as you jotted down a final note, your heartbeat finally evening out. Just a few quick observations, you told yourself. Then you’d leave. But you didn’t stop. The pull was stronger than you expected. Quietly, almost guiltily, you reached for your phone, snapping a few photos of the room. The soft click of the shutter seemed too loud, echoing in the silence. This was for your project, you reminded yourself, though the tightness in your chest whispered otherwise.

But the calm shattered when the door behind you snapped open.

Your entire body went rigid, the notebook clutched so tightly to your chest that your fingers ached. Jeno stood in the doorway, his broad frame shadowing the room, shoulders tense and chest rising with slow, controlled breaths that betrayed the storm beneath. His jaw was clenched so tightly it looked carved from stone, a vein in his neck pulsing visibly under the dim light. His eyes, dark and unrelenting, locked onto yours with a heat that made your stomach twist, flicking briefly to the notebook in your hands like it was a weapon aimed directly at him.

“What are you doing here?” His voice was low, dangerous, carrying a jagged edge that scraped against your composure. The door clicked shut behind him with a quiet finality, sealing you in, the sound loud in the silence.

Your throat went dry, but you forced yourself to speak, gripping the notebook as if it could shield you from the weight of his gaze. “Nothing. I’m just leaving.”

He didn’t move, but his presence expanded, his gaze cutting through the air and landing squarely on the notebook in your hands. His eyes lingered, heavy and sharp, as if dissecting every inch of it—of you. The muscle in his jaw ticked, a brief yet telling betrayal of the tension coiled in his frame. His anger wasn’t loud; it didn’t need to be. It pressed into the room, hot and suffocating, like a force you couldn’t ignore. You shifted instinctively, no hesitation in your steps, aiming to brush past him without a word, your shoulders back, your head high, but his hand shot out, lightning-fast and unforgiving. It wrapped around your wrist, firm but not crushing, halting you mid-step.

The impact was immediate. In one fluid motion, he pulled you and turned, your back colliding with the wall with a soft thud. A startled gasp left your lips, your notebook slipping from your fingers to dangle uselessly by your side. His body followed, a solid, immovable force pressing into yours, caging you between him and the cold wall. His chest barely grazed yours, enough to steal the air from your lungs, his proximity overwhelming. Heat radiated from him, a searing contrast to the chilled surface at your back.

You tried to inhale, to regain control, but his scent wrapped around you first—Something heady and sharp, a woodsy scent tangled with the faint bite of smoke, cutting through the air like a temptation you couldn’t escape. The weight of his hand remained on your wrist, pinning it just enough to keep you still but not enough to bruise. His other arm braced against the wall beside your head, boxing you in completely.

“What the hell is this?” His voice was a low snarl, and he nodded toward the notebook still clenched in your hands.

The words were barely out before you planted your hand firmly against his chest, shoving him back just enough to create space, reclaiming a fragment of control in the process. His sharp eyes followed the movement, narrowing with unrelenting focus, but he didn’t resist. Not yet. The heat of his body lingered, palpable even with the small distance you’d forced between you. Your breath hitched as you steadied yourself, flipping open the notebook with deliberate precision, the pages whispering against your fingers. Then, without hesitation, you let the words pour out, each one landing like the sharp crack of a whip.

“Lee Jeno,” you began, your voice sharp, deliberate, each word calculated to land like a blow. “Arrogant. Reckless. Self-absorbed.” The pen in your hand moved with purpose, its scratch against the paper slicing through the heavy silence. You didn’t just write the words; you said them, letting them hang in the air between you. “Short-tempered. Led by ego, not logic.” Your gaze lifted briefly, meeting him with a challenge, before returning to the page. It wasn’t an accident. It was a provocation.

The weight of his presence pressed against you like a storm building at your back, his silence louder than anything he could have said. You didn’t falter. “Irresponsible,” you continued, your tone colder now, sharper. “Thinks he’s untouchable.” The tension was suffocating, his breath audible behind you, but you refused to stop, the pointed edge of your words cutting deeper with every stroke of your pen.

The tension shattered in an instant. With a speed that left you breathless, Jeno moved, tearing the notebook from your grip before you could even think to hold on tighter. The sheer force of it left you gasping, the sound sharp and startled as your back hit the cold wall behind you. The heat of his body closed in, erasing the space between you, suffocating in its intensity.

“Your project,” he hissed, the venom in his tone sinking into your skin as his fingers tightened briefly around your wrist before releasing it. His hand braced against the wall beside your head, caging you in, while his other hand lifted the notebook, the motion swift and deliberate, like he was ripping away your control. “You mean this?” he continued, his voice low and cutting, the notebook dangling from his grip like a taunt, daring you to respond.

He held it above you, using his height advantage effortlessly, his smirk sharp, deliberate, like the blade of a knife pressing into soft flesh. His body was so close, the heat of him licking at your skin, his chest brushing faintly against yours with every slow, measured breath. His arm stayed raised, muscles taut and flexing just enough to draw your attention, a silent reminder of his strength, his control. The weight of his dominance was physical, palpable—his free hand resting on the wall beside your head, caging you in as his scent, heady and sharp, filled every shallow inhale you managed. His eyes dragged over you like a slow burn, flicking from your parted lips to the slight rise and fall of your chest, as though cataloging every reaction you couldn’t suppress.

He flipped the notebook open, pressing it against the wall with one hand, his eyes moving swiftly over the pages, the crease in his brow deepening with every note he absorbed. The corners of his mouth twisted into something between amusement and irritation, a sharp exhale slipping past his lips as he caught glimpses of your observations. He didn’t care that he was invading your space, your secrecy—it wasn’t even about the notebook anymore. It was about peeling back every layer, uncovering every thought you’d dared to put on paper about him, dissecting the way you saw him as if it held the answers to his frustration. His grip on the notebook tightened as he lingered on a particular line, the muscle in his jaw twitching in a way that betrayed his otherwise cool exterior. The need to read everything, to know exactly how you thought of him, burned in his eyes, unrelenting, as though your notes could explain the unrelenting pull between you.

Above you, the notebook became both a shield and a weapon, his towering frame closing the space further, radiating power and dominance as if he knew exactly how to wield it. He snapped it shut with a deliberate flick, the sound sharp and final, before letting it dangle carelessly from his grip, mocking in its weightlessness, his presence pressing into you like a command you weren’t sure you wanted to disobey.

“Every move I make, every mistake—you write it all down, don’t you? You love dissecting me. His voice dropped lower, smooth but cutting, each word dragging across your nerves like a deliberate provocation. “Tell me,” he leaned in closer, his breath brushing against your temple, “what did you think you’d find? Something worth understanding?”

“Give it back, Jeno,” you snapped, your voice sharp with rising fury. You reached for it, but he held it higher, his smirk twisting into something cruel. “I’m done with this party. I just want to leave.”

“Running away again?” His tone was mocking, the sarcasm cutting. He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing as he studied you. “You always watch from the sidelines, scribbling in your little book. And then you vanish. But not this time.”

He stepped closer, his body pressing more firmly into yours, the heat between you becoming unbearable. You could feel every shift of his muscles, the unrelenting tension rolling off him like static electricity.

“Jeno, stop,” you tried again, your voice faltering but firm.

“Stop what?” he bit out, his voice sharp, his breath brushing against your cheek. “Stop calling out your bullshit? Or stop letting you treat me like some experiment?”

You exhaled sharply, your anger surging past your unease. “Your meltdown isn’t my responsibility,” you spat, your words cutting through the charged air like a blade. “You humiliated yourself.”

His expression flickered—pain, pride, fury—all flashing across his face in a heartbeat before his smirk returned, colder this time. “Maybe I’ll humiliate you next.”

Your chest heaved against his, the sensation maddening as you struggled to gather the strength to push him away. But the storm in your chest betrayed you—frustration, defiance, and something darker tangled together until you could barely tell them apart. “Let me go,” you snapped, the sharpness in your tone falling flat beneath the tension, a crack in the armor you were desperately trying to maintain.

Jeno didn’t flinch. If anything, your demand only deepened the smirk on his lips, sharp and dangerous. “You keep saying let me go,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp that scraped against the edges of your composure, hot breath grazing your ear. “But you keep pulling me closer.”

You gasped, the sharp sound catching in your throat as the weight of his words settled over you. It was only then that your brain caught up to your body—realizing, with a jolt of clarity, what you had been doing all along. Your hands, which had meant to push him away, fisted into the fabric of his shirt instead. The soft sound that spilled from your lips, unbidden and undeniable, felt like a confession, one he noticed immediately. His eyes flickered with something darker, his body pressing closer, the heat of him bleeding through the thin layers of clothing between you.

The hard line of his cock ground into you, the contact deliberate and unrelenting, sparking a tension so electric it made your thighs clench involuntarily. Your gasp turned into something closer to a moan, half-caught in your throat as your head tipped back against the wall, the cold surface a stark contrast to the fire licking through your veins. His hips rolled, slow and measured, dragging against you with a precision that felt calculated to drive you insane.

Your hips moved instinctively, grinding into him with a deliberate defiance that matched the fire in your voice. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” you demanded, your words trembling with anger, but the heat behind them betrayed something darker—desire, raw and undeniable, pulsing through every deliberate motion.

“What you’ve been asking for,” he bit out, his voice rough. His hand, once braced against the wall, moved with purpose, sliding down to your waist. His fingers curled into your hips with bruising intent, pulling you into him, eliminating any space that might have offered you reprieve. His breath ghosted over your neck, warm and ragged, his lips grazing close enough to tease but never landing. Instead, he focused his weight, pressing you back into the wall, the firm lines of his chest and abdomen crushing into you as though daring you to deny this.

“Don’t play innocent now,” he hissed, his voice low, dripping with arrogance. “You’ve been watching me, writing about me, tearing me apart piece by piece in that notebook of yours.” His eyes burned into yours, daring you to deny it, but you couldn’t find your voice. “So tell me—” he ground his hips against you again, the motion deliberate, devastating, dragging a guttural sound from the back of your throat, “—is this the part you wanted to see? The part you couldn’t write down?”

The grind of his hips was deliberate and devastating, his erection a blunt, heated pressure against your core. He didn’t move cautiously, didn’t hold back. The roll of his body into yours was unrestrained, the friction igniting something raw and animalistic between you. Your gasp broke the heavy silence, high and desperate, and your hands moved without thought, clinging to his shirt like an anchor against the overwhelming tide of him.

Jeno’s grip tightened, his fingers digging into your flesh as he pulled you even closer. His hips surged forward, the hardness of him dragging along the seam of your jeans, the layers of fabric doing nothing to dull the shocking intensity of the contact. A low sound escaped his throat—half a groan, half a growl—as if he, too, was unraveling under the weight of the moment. His other hand slid from the wall, trailing down to join the first at your waist, pulling your body flush against his with a force that made you arch into him.

You could feel his muscles tense and shift beneath his clothes, his strength tangible and all-encompassing as he moved. Each thrust was hard and precise, leaving you breathless as your thighs clenched against the wall, your body caught between unrelenting heat and the cold, unforgiving surface behind you. Your breaths came faster, shallow and broken, each exhale brushing against his neck as the space between you ceased to exist.

“You feel that?” he rasped, his voice rough, laced with a dark edge as he leaned closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “That’s what you’ve been wanting, isn’t it?” His words sliced through the air, sharp and cutting, their effect only amplified by the next grind of his hips, harder this time, as though punishing you for every unspoken thought he’d somehow dragged to the surface.

You didn’t answer—couldn’t answer. The push and pull of his body against yours had robbed you of coherent thought, leaving only the heat and tension and the maddening friction that made your head tilt back against the wall, exposing your throat to the warm rush of his breath. Your nails scraped against his chest, desperate for purchase, for anything to ground you, but the smirk tugging at his lips told you he had no intention of letting you find it.

Jeno’s hands slid lower, gripping your hips so tightly you could feel every ridge of his fingertips through the fabric. He pushed you down into him, his next thrust leaving no room for subtlety as his cock ground into the most sensitive spot between your thighs, sending a bolt of electricity up your spine. The sound that tore from your throat was involuntary, a mixture of frustration and something far more dangerous, and his answering groan was a low, guttural sound that made your stomach tighten.

“You don’t get to walk in, fuck with my life, and think you can just walk out,” he growled, his lips brushing the curve of your jaw, his voice fraying at the edges with the rawness of it all. “This is what you wanted—so take it.”

His hips surged forward again, harder, faster, his hands pulling you into every punishing thrust, leaving you gasping for air, for control, for anything that wasn’t him. But Jeno wasn’t offering you an escape—he was pulling you deeper, dragging you into the chaos he’d been holding back until now.

The tension snapped taut, and Jeno’s voice cut through the charged air like a blade. “You will not analyze me like I’m some kind of lab rat,” he growled, his tone low, firm, laced with a sharp edge of warning. His hand braced against the wall near your head, the other still gripping your hip, a physical manifestation of his need to assert control. “You’re going to listen to me. For once. No scribbling notes. No sideline stares. Just me.”

The heat of him pressed into you, each word dragging against your composure, unraveling it thread by thread. “Say something,” he demanded, his voice dark, dangerous, the kind of command that made defiance feel futile. “Don’t just stand there. You came into my space, took me apart in that little book of yours—own it.”

For a moment, you let him believe it—the commanding stance, the clipped words. His proximity, his intensity, all felt like a calculated act of dominance. And yet, something in the air shifted. Your breath hitched involuntarily, your voice trembling just enough when you tried to counter, “This isn’t—”

“Don’t.” His grip tightened, fingers digging into your hip with enough force to draw a sharp inhale from your lips. “You act like you’re untouchable—like you’re better than all of this—but you’re not. Stop pretending.” His other hand slipped from the wall, curling under your chin to tilt your face toward his, his gaze piercing and unrelenting. “You want to tear me apart? Do it here. Look at me. Say it to my face. No hiding behind your notes. No running away.”

Your hands moved on instinct, gripping the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as your hips rolled against his in deliberate defiance. “You want me to say it to your face?” you challenged, your voice darkening with every word. “Fine. You’re messy, arrogant, impossible. You push too hard, take too much, and it drives me insane. And still, here I am.”

The weight of your words didn’t settle; they ignited. The moment hung heavy between you, the heat, the pressure, his commands wrapping around you like a vice. For a fleeting second, your silence gave him the victory he wanted, the illusion that he was in control. But even he couldn’t fully ignore the way your breath wavered, the unspoken tension that pulsed between every defiant inhale.

Jeno leaned in closer, his voice dropping into a low snarl that sent heat curling through your stomach. “See what you do to me?” His hips shifted slightly, the movement deliberate and devastating, the friction between you enough to draw a soft gasp from your lips that you couldn’t suppress.

“This is messed up,” you bit out, your tone sharp but breathless, trying to keep some semblance of control. “You can’t just—”

“I can do whatever I want,” he interrupted, his voice a dark rasp as his grip on your waist tightened, his hand slipping lower with the kind of confidence that left no room for doubt. “This is my place. My rules.”

When someone called his name from beyond the door, the sound was jarring, slicing through the haze between you. Your heart kicked into overdrive, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as your instincts flared with the threat of being caught. But Jeno didn’t flinch; his gaze remained locked on yours, unwavering, burning. The name came again, louder, more insistent, but he didn’t so much as glance toward the door. Instead, his grip on your waist tightened, his hips rolling into yours with a grinding motion that stole your breath.

“I’m busy!” he shouted, his voice rough, guttural, carrying a raw edge of impatience that matched the fire in his gaze. The footsteps hesitated outside, the muffled voices trailing off, and the moment stretched between you, charged and unbearable.

The sound of your notebook hitting the floor snapped you back to reality, the weight of his dominance crackling through the room. “Get out,” he commanded, his voice low, vibrating with finality. His hand slid from your waist, leaving a burning imprint behind as he stepped back, the sudden loss of contact a jarring contrast to the heat that had engulfed you moments ago. “Take your stupid notes and go.”

With a sharp breath, you bent to retrieve the notebook, your fingers brushing against the cold floor as his shadow loomed over you, heavy and deliberate. Just as your hand closed around the spiral binding, his presence surged closer. You stiffened when his hand moved, fingers grazing along the curve of your hip and trailing down, settling at the waistband of your jeans. The pressure was firm, the rough pad of his thumb brushing just under the hem of your shirt where it met denim. It was a touch that made your breath hitch—not gentle, not hesitant, but entirely purposeful.

Straightening abruptly, your glare locked onto his, fury searing through every muscle, but it only seemed to amuse him, his smirk dark and deliberate. “Fuck you, Jeno,” you spat, your voice shaking with equal parts venom and the heat coursing between you, every word cutting through the suffocating tension that bound you both. Yet, even as you stood your ground, the phantom of his touch lingered, burning hotter than it should have.

You hated how he acted like he held all the cards, as though every move you made was under his control. The way he pressed his dominance into every look, every word, every graze of his hand—it made your blood boil. But what you hated most was the way your body responded, as if betraying the firestorm in your head, craving the very control you wanted to snatch from him.

So you didn’t leave. Not yet. The moment was cut too short, the fire roaring in your veins demanding more—demanding control. You stepped closer, your hands fisting into his shirt as you spun the two of you around with a force that startled him. His back hit the wall with a sharp thud, the sound reverberating through the room. Your body pressed into his, not gently but with purpose, your hips driving forward to meet his with a ferocity that made him inhale sharply.

You wanted him to feel it—the power, the control shifting from his hands to yours. The heat radiating from him only fueled you further, your body moving instinctively as your hips ground against his in a rhythm that felt raw, undeniable. The hard press of him beneath his jeans brushed against you in a way that made your breath catch, but you refused to give it a name, refused to admit what it ignited in you. All you focused on was the way his chest rose sharply against yours, the way his hands twitched as if they didn’t know whether to push you away or pull you closer.

Your fingers gripped his shirt harder, nails digging into the fabric as you tilted your head up to meet his gaze. His smirk had faltered, replaced by something darker, something uncertain, and for the first time, you felt it—the satisfaction of making him unsteady, of seizing the upper hand. You wanted him undone, caught in the very chaos he tried to pin on you. And if he thought he could still hold control, the press of your body against his made it clear—he was wrong.

Jeno’s eyes widened briefly, shock flickering across his face before it was overtaken by something darker, hungrier. His hands found your hips, his grip unrelenting as he pulled you closer, the friction between your bodies igniting a fire that burned hotter with every deliberate motion. His breath hitched, a low groan escaping his throat as your movements grew bolder, your hands sliding down his chest with an authority that left no room for misinterpretation.

“You’re not in control,” you murmured, your voice low, firm, each word dragging across his nerves like a challenge. His fingers flexed against your hips, digging into the flesh as though he could tether you to him, his body grinding against yours in desperate, unrestrained retaliation. Your hands moved with purpose, sliding up the expanse of his chest until your fingers found the first button of his shirt. With slow, deliberate movements, you began to undo it, the pads of your fingers grazing his skin with every flick. Each undone button revealed more of his taut, heated flesh, and you caught the sharp inhale he failed to suppress as your touch ignited a tension that went beyond control.

His voice, low and ragged, finally broke through the heavy silence. “You think you can—” he started, but the words faltered, lost in the sharp exhale he released as your hands flattened against his chest, sliding down to his abdomen. The warmth of your palms seared through the fabric of his shirt, your touch deliberate, unhurried. His tone shifted, quieter now, reverent, like he couldn’t quite believe the situation he’d found himself in. “You don’t fight fair.”

Your lips curved into a faint, knowing smirk, your movements slow, calculated, as you leaned in, your breath skimming over the hollow of his throat. His pulse pounded beneath your proximity, and you could feel it quicken. “And you don’t seem to mind,” you murmured, your voice velvet and sharp, a perfect taunt. The words slithered through the air, unapologetic in their bite, their confidence making his breath hitch.

Jeno knew better than anyone how deceiving appearances could be—how the cleanest, most composed surfaces often hid the darkest edges. But even then, he hadn’t expected this. You were the kind of girl he’d automatically slotted into a category: a goody two shoes, the rule-follower, the one who kept her head down and did what needed to be done without stepping out of line. You weren’t supposed to be the kind of person who would back him into a wall, your hips grinding against his like you owned him. The disconnect was maddening, and the sheer audacity of it made his jaw tighten, his chest heaving with labored breaths as he fought to regain some semblance of control. But control was slipping fast, burned away by the way you looked at him—eyes sharp, unyielding, daring him to do something about it. You were confident in a way that wasn’t just hot—it was intoxicating. And with every deliberate movement of your body against his, he realized how thoroughly he’d underestimated you. You weren’t just rewriting the image he’d had of you—you were setting it on fire.

His hands moved instinctively, trailing up your sides with a deliberate slowness, his touch trembling slightly, caught between hesitation and need. His fingers flexed, brushing the fabric of your shirt, stopping just shy of your waist as though unsure if finally gripping you would set him alight. But the heat between you demanded more, and the tension in his hands betrayed his restraint, every flex screaming a hunger to claim, to ground himself in the chaos you commanded. His lips parted, his breath hitching, but no words came—just a sharp, shaky exhale that betrayed the unraveling control he clung to. The weight of your dominance bore down on him, your presence a palpable force stripping him bare, leaving him trembling beneath your gaze. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, the rhythm breaking under the pressure of you. He wasn’t used to this—wasn’t used to you—but the way you moved, the way you dismantled him with every sharp, calculated motion, left him powerless to stop it.

“Why are you so quiet now, hm? You wanted me to listen, didn’t you?” you murmured, your tone so low and enticing that it sent a shiver down his spine. You tilted your head, forcing his gaze to lock with yours, the weight of your command clear in your eyes. “This is me listening. Now what are you going to do about it?”

His jaw twitched, his silence betraying him, the usual edge to his demeanor dulled by the firestorm building in the space between you. The rhythm of his breaths staggered, your nearness, your audacity pulling him under. Finally, he swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper, the words dragged out like an admission he hadn’t meant to give. “I don’t know,” he rasped, his tone raw, laden with something between awe and frustration. “What do you want me to do?”

And still, he didn’t move. His control, his power—everything he’d used to define himself—crumbled in your hands, and for the first time, he didn’t hate it. He didn’t hate that you were the one taking the lead, that you were the one pressing into him with an intensity that made him dizzy. He didn’t know what to do with you—but it was clear you knew exactly what to do with him.

The air between you didn’t shatter—it stretched, thin and taut, vibrating with the weight of something unsaid as Jeno leaned closer. His breath skimmed your lips, warm and deliberate, a quiet threat disguised as temptation. The moment was agonizingly slow, a pull so visceral it felt like gravity itself had shifted to align with the space between you. His gaze burned into yours, daring, dark, and for a fleeting second, you felt the heavy inevitability of his mouth on yours, like it had already happened in another life.

But just before his lips could meet yours, you moved—decisive, sharp, unstoppable. Your palm flattened against his chest, firm and commanding, halting his advance mid-breath. The soft laugh that spilled from you wasn’t gentle; it was a weapon, slicing through the air and carving your dominance into the space he thought he controlled. Your fingers curled slightly into the fabric of his shirt, your nails scraping just enough to make his breath hitch, but you didn’t close the gap.

Instead, you tilted your head, your lips brushing the edge of his jaw as you murmured, “You really thought I’d let you kiss me?” The words were slow, each syllable dripping with taunt and precision, as though you were savoring the power of holding him suspended like this. You shifted closer—not enough to close the distance, but just enough for your body to graze his, letting him feel the weight of your control. “Not a chance,” you finished, pulling back just enough to see the flicker of something desperate and undone flash across his face, feeding the fire you had no intention of extinguishing.

His frustration was a tangible thing, a heat that radiated off him, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths as his parted lips trembled with words that never came. You leaned in, the brush of your lips barely skimming the shell of his ear as your hand slid lower, gliding over the taut planes of his torso. Your touch was slow, deliberate, and excruciating, your fingers tracing the waistband of his pants with a teasing pressure that made his breath stutter.

When your palm pressed firmly against the rigid heat straining beneath the fabric, his body jerked, the faintest sound—a mix between a groan and a gasp—escaping his throat. “So hard for me,” you whispered, your voice dripping with taunt and power, every word deliberate and cutting. Your fingers flexed slightly, drawing a sharp inhale from him, your lips curving into a smirk as you tilted your head to meet his wide-eyed, breathless gaze. “Is this what you wanted, Jeno?” you murmured, your tone silk and fire, dragging the tension higher as you let your palm press harder, savoring the way his composure crumbled beneath you.

A broken moan escaped his throat, raw and guttural, as his hips pressed into your touch instinctively. His hands twitched at his sides, unsure whether to grip the wall for support or touch you, but he didn’t move. You relished his submission, the way his control shattered under your dominance, the power shifting entirely into your hands.

You crouched slowly, each movement deliberate, your lips hovering mere inches from the bulge in his pants. The tension between you was unbearable, your breath ghosting over the straining fabric, teasing, testing the limits of his control. You lingered there, savoring the way his body reacted—his chest heaving, his fingers twitching at his sides as if restraining himself took every ounce of his will.

Then, with agonizing slowness, you leaned in, pressing a kiss against him through the fabric, the heat of him searing against your lips. Your tongue followed, a languid flick over the barrier of his pants, tasting the faint salt of his anticipation. The sound he made—a guttural, raw groan—sent a shiver through you, his hips jerking involuntarily toward your mouth as though chasing the relief only you could provide.

“Please,” he rasped, his voice raw, wrecked, laced with a desperate edge that made the air between you crackle. Your name fell from his lips, not like a prayer, but like a demand barely restrained, broken and yet brimming with need. His hand moved to your shoulder, tentative at first, then tightening with an urgency that betrayed the control he was struggling to hold onto, his grip firm but trembling. “Don’t stop,” he growled, the words dragging rough and low from his throat, teetering between pleading and commanding, as if he couldn’t decide whether to beg you or take what he wanted.

You’d heard the stories about Jeno—late-night whispers curling through dorm rooms like smoke, tales of a man who didn’t just fuck but ruined people, leaving them trembling, insatiable, chasing after something only he could deliver. He was calculated, relentless, a master of control in every movement, every breath. He took his time, they said, dragging you to the edge and keeping you there until your entire body begged for release. His prowess clung to him like a second skin, an invisible crown he wore without effort, without arrogance. You’d seen it, felt it even now—the way his presence wrapped around you, heavy and suffocating, like the air itself couldn’t ignore him. He made you want to step closer, to see if the promises in his gaze were true, or to push him away just to prove you didn’t need him.

But tonight, those promises didn’t matter. You knew why he wanted this, and it had nothing to do with you. His bruised pride wasn’t subtle; it burned off him like smoke from a fire, stoked higher by the sting of losing Areum. This wasn’t about desire—it was about power. About proving to himself that he could still have anything, anyone, if he just reached for it. And if he thought you’d give him that satisfaction? That you’d unravel for him because he leaned in close, whispered your name like a secret, and let his lips hover just out of reach?

Not a chance.

You lingered, lips brushing against the fabric one last time, deliberately slow, leaving the faintest trace of your warmth. The act was intimate and deliberate, each second dragged out until the tension in the air felt unbearable. Straightening, you let your gaze lock with his, the smirk tugging at your lips daring and victorious, a reminder that you controlled this moment. “Maybe next time,” you murmured, your voice soft yet dripping with authority, a silken dismissal that cut deeper than words should.

With a casual motion, you wiped your hands on your jeans, an effortless contrast to the chaos you’d ignited in him, and turned to leave. Each step was unhurried, your exit deliberate, knowing he wouldn’t—couldn’t—look away. Just as your hand touched the doorframe, an instinct made you pause. You glanced back over your shoulder, and the sight that greeted you was nothing short of devastating.

Jeno was undone. His head was tipped back against the wall, his chest rising and falling in uneven, labored breaths. His lips parted, releasing quiet, wrecked groans, each sound more raw than the last. One hand braced against the wall as if anchoring himself, his knuckles white, while the other was buried beneath the waistband of his pants, his movements slow and desperate, chasing the edge you’d left him teetering on.

The sight was primal, magnetic, every inch of him radiating a vulnerability you’d never expected, and for a brief moment, you hesitated, letting it sear into your memory. But you didn’t stay. You didn’t need to. The image of him—wrecked, ruined, and completely at your mercy—would linger with you long after you left, his soft groans trailing behind you like a confession as you disappeared into the shadows of the hallway.

jihyo — y/n, are you asleep?

The screen glared back at you, her message cutting through the fog of your thoughts. You didn’t respond, didn’t even let yourself process it, just locked the screen and slipped your phone back into your pocket. She must’ve messaged you by mistake, you told yourself. Tonight wasn’t your night to deal with anyone’s chaos but your own.

You didn’t need to turn back to know exactly where he was—still against the wall, hand working desperately beneath his waistband, chasing what you’d denied him. By the time the night was over, you had no doubt he’d bury himself in someone else, finding release in another body, someone who’d give in without hesitation. That was Jeno’s way—fast, raw, and detached, his pleasure stripped of meaning. But tonight, you weren’t going to be his easy satisfaction, his fleeting indulgence. You could feel it in the charged air you’d left behind, in the weight of his need you refused to satisfy. Let someone else fall into his orbit; you weren’t going to be another mark on his tally.

Slipping past the crowded living room, you kept your head low, avoiding the glances of anyone who might stop you. Your chest tightened as you moved, the apartment’s maze-like corridors taunting you with their sharp turns and identical doors. It felt like you’d never find the exit, like the building itself was conspiring to keep you there. But then, finally, a side door appeared, half-hidden by shadows, and you slipped through it like a fugitive.

The cool night air hit you like a blessing, the weight in your chest easing as you stepped into the quiet. The contrast was stark—inside was a war zone, outside was stillness. The distant hum of city life felt surreal, as if it belonged to a different world entirely.

You glanced around, scanning for any sign of Jeno. His car was still parked where it had been earlier, a sleek black beacon in the dim light. Relief flooded through you; he hadn’t followed. He was still inside, probably oblivious to the fact that you were already gone.

But then your eyes caught something—someone—further down the street. A gasp escaped you before you could stop it, your body freezing as you recognized the figure leaning against a car. Mark. His familiar frame was impossible to miss, even from this distance. Your breath hitched, and instinctively, you stepped back into the shadows, your heart racing. He didn’t see you—his entire focus was on Areum, who stood close beside him. Too close.

They looked… intimate. His hand brushed hers briefly, his posture tilted toward her like he was trying to comfort her. She looked upset, her expression barely visible from where you stood, but the way Mark leaned in, the way their bodies angled toward each other—it told a story you weren’t sure you wanted to know.

Mark and Areum? The thought twisted in your chest as you watched them climb into his car together. You didn’t even realize it had gotten to this point. Whispers from the party earlier floated back to you, snippets of gossip you’d brushed off at the time.

“Did you see Mark leave with Areum?”

“Jeno’s ex hooking up with his rival? Wild.”

You’d dismissed them as rumors, exaggerated drunken chatter—but now the evidence was staring you in the face.

The night felt heavier than before as you called for an Uber, your fingers trembling slightly as you typed in the address. You were drained, every part of you screaming to go home, to crawl into bed and pretend none of this had happened. But as you climbed into the car, your phone buzzed again.

jihyo — hey, can you come over? i really need you right now.

You hesitated, your thumb hovering over the screen, the message from Jihyo burning into your mind like an unspoken demand. You weren’t scheduled tonight. You didn’t have to go. College loomed in the morning, the weight of deadlines and responsibilities already pressing down on you, a sharp reminder of how tightly you’d orchestrated every detail of your life. Structure was your safety net—plans meticulously crafted to keep chaos at bay. But tonight had already upended all of that. Jeno’s touch still lingered like a bruise on your resolve, the firestorm of his presence leaving cracks in the walls you’d built so carefully. To go now would be a departure from everything you tried to hold steady. And yet, staying meant sitting in the wreckage of a night you couldn’t undo, letting it fester.

jihyo — i’ll pay extra. trust me. it’s important.

You exhaled sharply, Jihyo’s words cutting through the exhaustion draped over you, but igniting something buried deeper, something restless. The money mattered, sure, but that wasn’t what made your pulse quicken. Those nights had their own gravity, pulling you into a space where everything sharpened—where the lines blurred between control and chaos, between exhibition and escape. It wasn’t just the thrill of stepping into that world; it was the power it gave you, the way it stripped everything raw. Eyes watching you, wanting you, yet never able to touch what you didn’t allow—it wasn’t just a distraction. It was a reckoning, a way to take back what the day, the world, or even Jeno had tried to steal. It left you electric, a storm gathering force, untouchable yet so dangerously alive.

you — fine. on my way.

The driver glanced back as you changed the destination, his expression unreadable, but you ignored it. No rest for you—not tonight. You were already in the storm; you might as well keep going. The car merged onto the main road, the city lights blurring past the window as you braced yourself for what came next.

The door clicked shut behind you, swallowing the last remnants of the outside world and plunging you into the bar’s embrace—a space carved out of darkness, hedonism, and heat. Smoke coiled through the air, not lazy but purposeful, weaving tendrils that clung to your skin like an invisible hand, teasing your senses. The low hum of neon lights pulsed overhead, bathing everything in shades of crimson and cobalt, the colors spilling across the room like spilled wine—dark, intoxicating, and staining everything it touched. Shadows played along the walls, stretching and shifting, hinting at secrets shared in low whispers and heavy gazes.

The leather booths gleamed like ink under the sultry glow, their deep cushions practically inviting bodies to sink into them, to forget everything but the pleasure of proximity. Tables stood scattered like forgotten lovers, their polished surfaces catching flashes of light, betraying the careless fingerprints of those who came here to taste sin and leave nothing behind. The floor, slick and reflective, mirrored the sharp heels of women striding past, the flex of muscle beneath fitted suits, and the languid movements of hands resting too low on thighs.

Behind the bar, rows of bottles glinted like trophies in a predator’s lair, their contents catching the light in amber and emerald hues. The faint clink of glasses, the steady rhythm of liquid pouring into crystal, blended into the room’s soundtrack—an undercurrent of murmured conversations and occasional bursts of low laughter. A mirror stretched across the back wall, catching glimpses of sweat-slick necks, the curve of lips wrapping around the rim of a glass, and the hollow of throats exposed as heads tipped back to swallow.

The air was heavy, oppressive, but not stifling—a perfect, suffocating warmth designed to coax bodies closer. It reeked of whiskey, sweat, and the faintest trace of musk, an unrelenting mixture that clung to your nostrils, seeping into your lungs with every breath. The scent mingled with something sharper, darker, primal—a promise of bodies pressing together in shadowed corners, of hands gripping too tight, of mouths tasting what they shouldn’t.

Everywhere you looked, the bar seemed alive—alive in the way a predator watches its prey. Velvet curtains hung in uneven folds along the far wall, their deep red fabric glowing under the faint light, hinting at spaces hidden behind them where the rules of this room didn’t apply. Low-slung chandeliers dripped with chains instead of crystal, their edges sharp, casting fractured shadows that danced like foreplay across bare skin and rumpled clothes. A faint graffiti scrawled along the wood near the booths read like confessions of sins past, promises unfulfilled, and moments stolen.

This was nothing like the chaos of a college party; there was no raucous laughter or frenzied energy here. This was curated, intentional—a realm of indulgence and raw tension, crafted for those who came searching for something darker. This wasn’t just a bar; it was a temple to indulgence, to raw, carnal desire. Everything about it whispered permission—permission to touch, to taste, to lose yourself. The air itself felt alive, pressing into you, pushing boundaries you didn’t even know you had. The faint vibration from the bassline crawled up your legs, a visceral reminder of where you were and what this place demanded. It wasn’t just a space—it was a promise, a provocation, daring you to step further into its embrace.

Jihyo caught your gaze the moment you approached. She was a force of nature, her grungy, tattooed frame exuding authority. Dark hair fell in lazy waves around her sharp features, her lips curled into a smirk that carried no softness. She leaned against the bar, one hand braced on the counter as she handed off a glass to a waiting customer without breaking eye contact. Her fitted black tank revealed toned arms, and the silver rings on her fingers reflected the neon haze. “Don’t keep them waiting,” she muttered, her voice low but loaded with intent.

You didn’t respond. There was no need. You knew your role here, the unspoken contract that hung between the two of you like smoke in the air. You moved with precision, slipping through the crowd. Men in tailored suits and loosened ties leaned into their drinks, their gazes heavy with expectation but never once settling on you. They didn’t see you now. You were invisible until you chose not to be. You recognized some of them, regulars whose eyes would burn with recognition the moment the lights hit you. But for now, they were just part of the background.

The hallway to the back room was narrow, quieter, the sound of faint music pulsing in your ears as you stepped inside. The dressing room was small, unassuming. A rack of costumes hung to the side, their vibrant, provocative fabrics glinting faintly under the overhead light. You moved quickly, shedding your everyday clothes with the kind of efficiency that came from practice.

Your outfit was more skin than fabric—a two-piece ensemble of black and crimson lace. The top clung to you like a second skin, the delicate material dipping low enough to frame the swell of your breasts, daring anyone to look closer. The thin straps looped over your shoulders, leaving your back bare, the lace barely covering anything more than necessary. The matching bottoms were scandalous—a high-cut thong that left the curve of your ass exposed, with sheer panels running down your hips. Over-the-knee stockings in the same black lace hugged your thighs, the faint shimmer catching the light. Heels completed the look, sleek and deadly, adding inches to your already commanding presence.

You slipped a sheer cover over the outfit as you stepped out, the translucent material doing nothing to hide the boldness of what lay beneath. The contrast between this version of you and the one who existed outside these walls was stark, but here, you owned it. The weight of the outfit, the makeup, the stage—it wasn’t a mask. It was power, weaponized and perfected.

The air thickened as you moved back toward the main floor, clinging to your skin with an almost tangible heat that promised indulgence. Every detail of the bar seemed alive—the low murmur of conversations, the rhythmic click of glasses meeting wood, and the bassline vibrating through the floor, steady as a pulse. You stepped into it seamlessly, the chaos bending around you, feeding into your calm. This was your world, a place where you thrived, where the night was yours to command.

Jihyo lounged against the bar like she owned not just the room but the energy pulsing through it. Her ripped jeans sat low on her hips, the cropped leather jacket hinting at smooth, taut skin beneath. Her dark waves fell just past her shoulders, intentionally messy, as if the chaos of the bar itself had shaped her. She didn’t need to posture; her presence was enough—a sharp contrast to the haze of smoke and dim light around her. Her eyes locked on you, assessing with the precision of someone who knew the stakes. “About time,” she said, her voice low and cutting, designed to carry. “They’ve been waiting. Don’t make me regret it.”

You offered her a faint smirk, slipping through the crowd with ease. Hands reached out, voices murmuring things you didn’t bother deciphering. They were just noise. You were above it. You were untouchable—at least until the lights hit you, and then you’d become something else entirely.

The room shifted as you stepped onto the stage, a low thrum of noise rippling through the crowd like an electric charge. The smoky haze wrapped around you, thick and deliberate, distorting the neon reds and blues into streaks of fire and ice against the darkened corners of the bar. Men filled the space—leaned against the bar, lounged in leather booths, or stood near the stage, their gazes following you with blatant hunger. Some whistled, some cheered, their voices cutting through the murmur of clinking glasses and low conversations. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t need to. This was your territory, a place where their attention didn’t intimidate but fueled you.

Your outfit wasn’t just something you wore—it was a part of the performance, inseparable from the electric guitar slung across your body. The black lace and bold straps didn’t merely adorn you; they claimed their place under the lights, commanding attention as much as you did. Over it, the sheer slip clung to your frame, translucent in a way that revealed just enough to tempt, every line of your body hinted at with a calculated elegance meant to provoke. It wasn’t meant to conceal—just the opposite. It was a challenge, an invitation for their imaginations to linger, to want it gone, to fantasize about tearing it from you. But you kept it on, a barrier as much as a weapon, daring them to think they could earn the right to see what lay beneath.

The plunging neckline framed you like a spotlight, drawing attention to every deliberate curve, while your thighs, bare except for the sheen of thigh-high stockings, seemed to catch the glow of the lights as if the stage itself bent to your command. The guitar rested against your hips like it belonged there, its sleek design a mirror to your presence—bold, unapologetic, and impossible to ignore. Each strike of your boots against the floor resonated through the room, not just a sound but a signal, an assertion of control. The stage lights burned hotter here, casting shadows that danced across your bare skin, accentuating the sharp edge of your makeup—smoldering eyes framed by dark liner, crimson lips curving with intent, and cheekbones kissed with gold, gleaming like a challenge to the crowd below.

This wasn’t the controlled environment of a college performance. This was raw, unfiltered life. Jihyo’s bar wasn’t for the faint of heart—this was a world that thrived on indulgence, a crucible of lust and longing. For a music major accustomed to structured critiques and the polite applause of recitals, this was the ultimate test—no safety nets, no scripted feedback, just raw energy and the unspoken challenge to dominate the room. You’d spent nights here, studying its rhythm, commanding its energy, bending its wild currents to your will. Tonight would be no different.

The stage was intimate but powerful, elevated just enough to force their gazes upward, demanding their attention. You draped the guitar strap over your shoulder, the motion deliberate, a slow sweep of control that carried through the room. Fingers lingered over the microphone as you adjusted it, the faint scrape of metal against your palm drawing their focus like a spark in the dark. The subtle glint of your rings caught the light, a quiet accent to your movements that added an edge of elegance, of authority. The crowd stirred, their energy thickening as you struck a single note, the low, resonant hum rolling through the air and settling deep in their chests. Conversation stilled, eyes locked on you, the weight of their anticipation pressing against your skin. You felt it—the shift, the slipping of the everyday you into something sharper, bolder, untouchable. The stage demanded it, and you gave in, letting the persona settle over you like armor, every movement calculated to feed the tension until it was yours to command.

The first chords came slow, deliberate, matching the rhythm of your pulse. Your voice slipped into the room like smoke, low and melodic, pulling their attention closer, deeper. The lyrics dripped from your lips, edgy and provocative, laced with innuendo that lingered just long enough to make them wonder. This wasn’t just a performance—it was control. You let your hips sway in time with the beat, the thin straps of your outfit shifting with each movement, teasing the audience, daring them to want more.

For the first few minutes, you kept to the plan—a carefully orchestrated set that teetered on the edge of seduction without ever tipping over. The bar hummed with its usual energy, smoky and intimate, the kind of place where regulars stayed long enough to blur the line between night and morning. It wasn’t the sort of place anyone stumbled into; it was hidden, unmarked, known only to those who needed its refuge. That was why you came—because the world outside couldn’t find you here. No familiar faces. No unexpected encounters. Just you, the stage, and the pull of the crowd.

Your eyes flitted across the room as you moved, your guitar humming low against your body. The regulars were in their usual places—men leaning back in leather booths, their gazes fixed on you with a hunger you knew how to wield. They didn’t intimidate you; they gave you power, their expectations feeding your confidence as you leaned into the mic, your voice curling around the lyrics like smoke.

But then, the door creaked open.

Your brow furrowed, your fingers faltering over the strings for a split second before you recovered. No one ever walked in this late. The bar wasn’t the kind of place that welcomed wanderers or drew in curious strangers. This was a den for the initiated, a haven for those who knew its rhythms. You cast a glance toward the entrance, the faint glow from the streetlights outside cutting through the haze for a moment. And there he was.

The moment your eyes caught his, it was like the room contracted, pulling all its weight into that single point. Jeno. His name wasn’t a thought—it was a sensation, crawling down your spine and sinking low into your stomach. You didn’t look away, though every nerve in your body begged you to. His gaze was steady, unrelenting, a tether you hadn’t agreed to but couldn’t break.

Your stomach coiled, your pulse stuttering with a certainty that was both sharp and undeniable: he wasn’t supposed to be here. He couldn’t be. This wasn’t some calculated move on his part, no deliberate hunt to corner you after the chaos of the party. He hadn’t followed you—you’d left him where he stood, undone and occupied, and this bar wasn’t the kind of place anyone stumbled into without intention. It wasn’t just hidden; it was deliberately unmarked, an enclave you’d chosen for its anonymity. Here, you existed beyond recognition, beyond anyone’s reach. Yet now, his presence fractured that carefully built illusion, the one you’d relied on to ensure this life stayed separate from the other.

He took a seat at the far end of the bar, the kind of spot that seemed designed to swallow a man whole. The broken neon light above flickered unevenly, throwing his sharp features into alternating patches of crimson and stark white. It was a seat of contradictions—a beacon and a shadow, a throne and a confession booth—its placement isolated but deliberate, as if it had been waiting for him. Smoke coiled lazily through the air, softening the sharp angles of his leather jacket, but nothing could dull the weight of his presence. He fit too well here, as though the atmosphere itself bent around him, drawn to the tension coiled in his frame.

The leather creaked faintly under him as he leaned back, his hand curling loosely around a glass of whiskey, its amber surface catching the flicker of light. He didn’t slouch; his posture was a restrained defiance, his shoulders pulled back with just enough tension to suggest a man holding himself together by a thread. The muscles in his jaw shifted, a faint tic betraying the storm behind his calm exterior. He moved like he belonged here, like the low hum of the bar’s indulgent haze was something he had mastered—but you knew better. This wasn’t his world; he hadn’t been here before. And yet, the way his fingers traced the rim of his glass, the calculated ease of his movements, made it feel like he had already claimed it as his own. It was unnerving how natural he looked in a place that thrived on artifice.

His hair was the first thing you noticed, even in the dim lighting—black with streaks of dark blonde, each strand catching the faint neon glow as though it had been deliberately placed to draw the eye. The contrast was intoxicating, rebellion and refinement fused together. The black served as the perfect base, rich and glossy, grounding him in something darker, while the golden highlights shimmered like fleeting promises, perfectly framing the cut of his cheekbones and the line of his jaw. The layers of his hair were deliberate, falling in a way that suggested he’d just run his fingers through it moments before stepping inside, each strand a statement of effortless chaos.

His outfit demanded attention. The brown leather jacket clung to his shoulders, every crease and fold amplifying the lean muscle beneath. It was open, revealing a ribbed white tank that hugged his torso, the fabric stretched taut over the hard planes of his chest. A silver chain rested in the hollow of his throat, glinting faintly as he shifted, the simple accessory exuding a quiet power. His pants, black and tailored, sat low on his hips, sharp lines accentuating the languid grace of his movements. Everything about him felt polished but raw, as if he carried chaos beneath his skin, barely restrained.

He exuded a magnetism that didn’t beg for attention—it commanded it. The sharp line of his jaw flexed subtly, tension coiled beneath the surface, hinting at a storm he kept firmly restrained. His gaze, dark and deliberate, moved through the room like a current, assessing and discarding with a precision that felt unnervingly purposeful. The faint clink of the glass in his hand punctuated the stillness around him, his fingers gripping the rim with a controlled force that betrayed the energy thrumming beneath his composed exterior. Every motion, from the subtle shift of his shoulders to the way he leaned just slightly forward, felt charged, deliberate, as though the space bent to accommodate him. It wasn’t restlessness—it was calculated patience, a quiet certainty that wherever he looked, the room would eventually meet him on his terms.

Your gaze caught him from the corner of your eye, but you knew he didn’t see you. Not really. The dim lighting played tricks, the haze of smoke blurring edges and muting details. You were cloaked in stage lights, your face and body transformed by the bold makeup, the provocative outfit, and the sheer persona you wore like armor. This wasn’t the girl he’d argued with at the party or Coach Suh’s office or the girl who left him gasping against the wall. You were someone else here—a performer, a presence, a force he couldn’t yet name.

His gaze skimmed past you at first, hungry but detached, as if you were just another face in the haze of smoke and dim light. He wasn’t really seeing you—not yet. His focus drifted the way it did with the other women in the bar, drawn to the stage out of instinct rather than intent. Lost in the pull of his drink and the muted hum of the room, he seemed adrift, the alcohol softening the sharp edges of his attention. For a fleeting moment, you felt an unfamiliar sense of relief. He didn’t know it was you—not under the glare of the stage lights, not with the veil of makeup and the electric energy you wore like armor. It granted you a power you hadn’t anticipated—the freedom to hold his gaze on your terms, unburdened by history or expectations.

But then, something shifted. It was subtle at first—a flicker in his expression, the faint crease of his brow as his eyes lingered just a second too long. There was a rhythm in the way you moved, a note in your voice, the precise way your fingers danced over the guitar strings—it pulled at something buried in his subconscious. The realization unfolded in pieces, each one hitting him harder than the last. His body froze, the glass in his hand stilled mid-motion, and his chest heaved with a single, sharp breath. And then it hit him fully, recognition breaking over him like a storm, his eyes locking onto yours with a weight that made your pulse skip.

Your lips curved into a private smirk, the tilt of your head deliberate, daring him to come to terms with what he was seeing. His eyes burned now, no longer detached but heavy with something deeper—lust sharpened by disbelief, an attraction laced with a hunger that felt almost territorial. He leaned forward, his glass forgotten, every line of his body drawn taut as though the air itself had become charged with electricity. His chest rose in deliberate, uneven breaths, as if he were trying to steady himself but failing under the weight of his own realization.

The noise of the bar faded into the background, the cheers and whistles from the crowd mere static. For you, there was only his gaze, and the way it pierced through you with an intensity that left you breathless. For the first time, you felt seen—not just looked at but truly seen. And it wasn’t just the desire in his eyes; it was something raw and deeply personal, something none of the other men in the room could offer you.

His hand flexed once against the bar, as if grounding himself, but the motion was futile. There was something magnetic in the way his gaze locked onto yours, something unrelenting. It wasn’t just his attention—it was possession, unspoken yet impossible to ignore. His lips parted slightly, as though words might follow, but they never came. Instead, his silence spoke louder, the tightening of his jaw and the dark flicker in his eyes unraveling you piece by piece.

But nothing would ever make you lose focus. Focus. Be the performer now. Forget the party. Forget him. The voice in your head tried to command your body, but it was a losing battle with the way his attention clung to you like a second skin. The crowd roared as one of the regulars broke the tension, his voice cutting through the smoky air with a drunken “Woo! Take it off!”

You tilted your head toward the mic, your lips curving into a teasing smile. “Maybe…” you murmured, your voice dripping with a sensual lilt, “if you tip enough.” The crowd erupted in laughter and cheers, the noise folding into itself like waves crashing against the shore, but it only served to highlight the stark silence from him. Jeno didn’t laugh, didn’t cheer—his eyes were fixed, his gaze heavy, his jaw tightening as though trying to hold something back.

The stage had always been a metaphor for your liberation—a place where control didn’t mean confinement but something far more powerful. You weren’t the neat, restrained observer the rest of the world thought you were. Up here, you owned the chaos, commanded the energy, and embraced the wildness that simmered beneath the surface. This wasn’t about pleasing them; it was about owning yourself.

And tonight, as you teased the slip off your shoulders, it wasn’t just about the crowd. It was about him—about the way he looked at you, like he was unraveling piece by piece, like you had shattered everything he thought he knew. You’d never stripped on stage before; you didn’t need to. But this was your stage, your rules, your power. And for the first time, you wanted to see what it would feel like to take it further, to step into that raw, unapologetic space you’d always hovered just outside of.

Plus, you liked the way Jeno was looking at you.

That was all the reason you needed, the spark igniting something bold, something unrestrained inside you. Your breath caught for a fleeting second, but you didn’t falter. Instead, you leaned into the tension, letting it coil and settle around you like a second skin. His recognition fed your confidence, the weight of his gaze fanning a fire you hadn’t realized you were ready to set loose.

Slowly, deliberately, your fingers hooked under the edge of the sheer slip, the movement deliberate enough to pull every eye toward you. The fabric slid from your shoulders, cascading down in a soft, sinful whisper until it pooled at your feet. The crowd erupted, their cheers slicing through the haze like a knife, but it all dissolved into nothingness. None of it mattered—not the noise, not the lights, not the sea of faces below.

The moment was yours, and you owned it completely.

Jeno didn’t move, didn’t blink. His gaze locked onto yours, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, as though the air between you had grown too thick to inhale. Unlike the others—whistling, shouting, drunk on the spectacle—he was silent, his reaction starkly different from the intoxicating frenzy around him. It wasn’t the kind of hunger that screamed for attention or demanded more; it was quiet, devastating, consuming.

His eyes trailed the line of your body like a slow burn, lingering on every curve with a heat that made your skin feel bare in ways the crowd couldn’t match. And when you had stripped into nothing but the lingerie you had on, his gaze didn’t shift, didn’t darken into a baser territory like the others. It remained steady, unwavering, as though he wasn’t seeing less of you but more, something deeper, something only he could touch. It was intimate, maddening, as if he’d reached straight through the noise and lights and found the parts of you no one else could.

You tilted your head again, the strands of your hair sliding under the stage lights, catching glimmers of red and gold as though even the air around you conspired to accentuate your movements. Each shift of your body became calculated, a weapon wielded against the unrelenting intensity of his gaze. The slow roll of your hips was no longer just part of the rhythm—it was deliberate, provocative, designed to make him feel the weight of your control. His eyes followed every curve, every tilt, as though mapping out the exact places where his restraint would falter. And falter it did. His posture betrayed him—leaning forward slightly, his chest expanding with a breath that seemed too sharp for the smoke-filled room. His gaze dragged over your bare shoulders, lingering at the delicate way your fingers toyed with the edge of your slip.

Your hand slid down the mic stand in a languid motion, the small gesture enough to draw his attention downward before you reclaimed it with the arch of your back, the subtle twist of your waist. The lace of your outfit glinted in the light, a fleeting tease that dared him to imagine what it concealed—and what it didn’t. Your fingers danced along the strings of the guitar, the low, sultry hum of sound coaxing the room to quiet, but it wasn’t the music that had him transfixed. It was you, owning the stage and pulling him into a space where he was no longer just a man nursing a drink—he was your audience, your captive. Every breath he took felt heavier, charged, the grip of his hand on the bar white-knuckled and desperate for stability. But his hunger for you was anything but stable.

And then, you parted your lips—a soft, teasing exhale that hovered in the air like an unspoken promise. It wasn’t a lyric, not yet, but the anticipation it stirred was palpable. His chest rose and fell with a rhythm too uneven to be casual, the lines of his jaw tightening as though bracing himself against something inevitable. The heat between you burned brighter, sharper, the distance between stage and bar dissolving in the heavy weight of his stare. Whatever barrier you’d maintained before now felt irrelevant, shattered under the pressure of the moment. His expression shifted, the raw hunger in his eyes replaced by something even more consuming—a blend of want and need that left you unsteady for just a second. But only for a second. Because the power was yours, and you weren’t done with him yet.

For a second, the world stilled, and it was just the two of you—no stage, no crowd, just the raw, unfiltered connection that burned between you like a live wire. His silence spoke louder than the shouts around him, his eyes a promise, a challenge, a plea wrapped in desire. He was unraveling. For the first time, it felt like the entire performance was for one man, and you leaned into that, letting your body speak what words couldn’t, knowing he was the only one who truly understood.

It was in the way he looked at you—like he’d been the one peeling the slip from your shoulders, his gaze dragging over every inch of exposed skin with an unbearable intensity. It wasn’t just watching—it was devouring, a slow, deliberate claiming of space between you, charged with a hunger that felt almost dangerous. Every shift of your body made his focus darker, heavier, sharper, as though the world around him had dissolved and all that remained was you—bare, commanding, untouchable, and somehow still completely his.

With the last hum of your guitar, the applause crescendos, swelling to fill every crevice of the dimly lit bar, but it barely registers in your mind. Your gaze remains fixed on him, as though tethered by something neither of you can name. Jeno stands near the edge of the room, the smoky haze and flickering neon light carving out sharp lines in his features. His eyes, dark and unrelenting, don’t waver from you, and in the space between your final note and the eruption of cheers, the world tilts, just slightly, aligning you both on the same magnetic plane.

As the sound begins to fade, you slip the thin, translucent layer of fabric back over your shoulders, a deliberate act that feels like a dare. Jeno doesn’t blink, his gaze dragging over the slip as though he’d stripped it away himself and was now punishing himself by watching it return. The weight of it settles over your skin like silk, but the fire in his eyes burns through every layer, searing into you. Your pulse quickens—not because of the applause or the tips that litter the stage—but because of him.

Jihyo gestures wildly from the side, mouthing, “What the fuck are you doing?” You see her, hear her command, but your body moves before your mind can catch up. There’s no logic to it, no plan—only the magnetic pull that drags you forward, deeper into something you know you shouldn’t want. You’re supposed to stay put, bask in the aftermath, rake in tips, flash smiles, but none of it matters. Not when he’s there. Not when the fire in his gaze makes your skin burn in ways applause never could. He isn’t just a prize; he’s a temptation, glittering and dangerous, something you should leave untouched but can’t help craving. Every step closer feels like surrender, like giving in to the bad habit you’ve tried to quit but never truly wanted to. You know better. You can’t stand him, he’s insufferable. He’s made Mark’s life a living hell, torn through everything steady and safe, leaving nothing but chaos in his wake but the ache inside you wants more—wants him.

You step off the stage, moving through the crowded floor, your steps drawn toward him as if the pull between you is something tangible. He moves, too, cutting through the maze of bodies in your direction, but the path isn’t easy. The press of people closes in around you, and suddenly, you’re intercepted.

“Let me buy you a drink, sweet thing,” a slurred voice murmurs, too close, as a hand slides to your waist.

Your smile is polite but forced as you step out of reach. “Thanks, but I’m fine.”

He doesn’t take the hint, his fingers grazing lower. The tension in the room shifts, heightened, buzzing in your veins. You glance at Jeno, who has stopped, his jaw set, his hands flexing at his sides. There’s a storm in his eyes, a crackling intensity that makes the room feel smaller, hotter, and infinitely more dangerous.

“I said I’m fine,” you repeat, sharper now, but the drunk man is insistent, leaning closer, his breath heavy with whiskey.

Your gaze snaps back to Jeno, drawn as if by instinct, a fleeting glance that feels more like a confession than a look. His eyes meet yours, dark and commanding, a silent pull that roots you in place and sends your pulse spiraling. The air between you crackles, and before you can think, before reason has any hope of catching up, the words spill from your lips, soft and breathless, like they’ve been waiting there all along.

“My boyfriend wouldn’t like that.”

The air shifts again as Jeno moves with an ease that feels almost too deliberate, each step closing the space between you with unbearable tension. His focus is razor-sharp, cutting through the chaos around him, but it’s not the crowd he sees—it’s you. The heat in his eyes doesn’t waver, doesn’t drift; it pins you where you stand, as if daring you to look away. The curve of his mouth, the set of his shoulders, the way his body shifts with purpose—it all draws you in, tightening something low in your stomach. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t falter, as though every motion was designed to pull you closer. By the time he reaches you, you’re caught entirely in his orbit, and the man beside you barely exists in the wake of his presence.

“Hi, baby,” Jeno says, his voice smooth, unhurried, as if the word was made for him. He slips into the role so naturally it startles you, an ease you didn’t expect. His hand finds your waist like it belongs there, his fingers curling just enough to anchor you to him. The motion isn’t rushed or hesitant—it’s grounding, a quiet declaration. His eyes hold yours with a warmth that burns slow, the kind of gaze that makes it impossible to look anywhere else. “You were incredible tonight,” he murmurs, his voice dipping lower, softer, like he’s letting you in on something meant only for you. “The whole room couldn’t take their eyes off you. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

The words send a shiver down your spine, but it’s the subtle ways he moves—angling his body to shield you from the drunk man, the slight press of his fingers against your waist—that catch you off guard. There’s a thoughtfulness in the way he takes off his black jacket and drapes it over your shoulders, the gesture unspoken but so deliberate it feels like second nature. The fabric settles around you like an unspoken promise, heavier than the air around you and infinitely more secure.

He leans closer, his breath brushing your ear, his lips grazing the shell just enough to make your stomach flip. His voice drops, a quiet rumble only for you. “Boyfriend, huh?” There’s a faint, teasing curve to his words, but beneath it lies something deeper, sharper. “I like the sound of that.”

Before you can respond, the drunk man speaks again, his tone laced with disbelief. “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend. I’d know if you did.”

You arch a brow, your voice steady but razor-sharp. “There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me.”

He scoffs, stepping forward as if to challenge you, but Jeno moves faster. He turns, his hand sliding up to cradle your face, and then his lips are on yours.

The kiss crashes over you, fierce and unrelenting, pulling you under its weight and leaving you breathless. His mouth crashes onto yours with a heat that burns through every barrier. His hand fists in your hair, tugging just hard enough to draw a gasp from you, your lips parting instinctively as his tongue sweeps in. The taste of him is intoxicating—warm, electric, and maddeningly assertive as he deepens the kiss without hesitation, claiming every inch of you with each deliberate stroke. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his top, yanking him closer, your body pressed so tight against his you can feel the flex of his chest against yours.

His teeth catch your bottom lip, biting down just enough to send a shudder ripping through you, before he soothes the sting with a slow, deliberate swipe of his tongue. A low, guttural moan escapes from deep in his throat, vibrating against your lips, and the sound makes your knees weaken. His free hand slides down your spine, the heat of his palm branding your bare skin. His fingers skim lower, gripping at the curve of your ass where nothing but the thin band of your thong separates you from him. He squeezes hard, possessive and unapologetic, pulling you even tighter against him until there’s no space left between your bodies.

The kiss grows filthier, wetter, his tongue tangling with yours in a rhythm that’s as desperate as it is deliberate. Each drag of his lips against yours feels like fire, each press of his hands against your body a silent command. You meet him with equal hunger, your nails scratching lightly at the nape of his neck as you tug him down, urging him to keep going, to take more. His groans deepen, his breath hot and ragged against your skin as he angles his head, capturing your mouth harder, deeper, like he’s devouring you.

His hands roam without restraint—one slipping to continue to knead the bare flesh of your ass, fingers pressing into your skin, the other sliding back up to cradle your face as though to keep you exactly where he wants you. You moan into his mouth, the sound shameless, and his lips curve against yours in response, his control faltering for just a moment as he bites down on your lip again, harder this time. The sting only heightens the need coursing through you, your body arching into him, chasing his heat.

The world falls away entirely, the noise of the bar drowned out by the wet, erotic sounds of your lips and the desperate gasps that escape between kisses. Time stretches, warps, until the only thing that exists is him—the scrape of his teeth, the slide of his tongue, the way his hands hold you like he never wants to let go. When you finally break apart, it’s not because either of you wants to stop, but because breathing feels like a necessity. His forehead presses against yours, his breath heavy and uneven as his thumb grazes your cheek. His eyes meet yours, dark and blown wide, and for a moment, it’s as if the whole world is burning just for the two of you.

The drunk man mutters something under his breath before slinking away, but neither of you spare him a glance. The moment is yours, and for the first time, it’s not about riling each other up or gaining control. It’s about surrendering to the pull, to the unspoken connection that’s been building, crackling, waiting to ignite.

Your breath catches, but you don’t look away. The tension crackles louder, sharper, until the only thing you hear is the thrum of your pulse in your ears. You lean in just enough to feel the warmth of his breath on your lips, your voice barely above a whisper. “What are you doing tonight?”

His lips curl into the faintest smirk, his hand sliding down to rest on the curve of your ass, squeezing possessively. “That depends,” he murmurs, his voice low and dripping with suggestion. His thumb brushes against your bare skin, teasing. “What are you doing tonight?”

You feel yourself leaning into him, your body responding before your mind can catch up. Your hand slides to the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair. “You,” you whisper, letting the single word hang in the air, thick and undeniable.

Jeno’s eyes darken further, his grip tightening as he pulls you flush against him, his voice a quiet growl against your lips. “Let’s get out of here.”

The crowd outside dissolves into static as Jeno’s hand wraps firmly around yours, his grip confident, his strides purposeful. He tugs you along without hesitation, his broad shoulders cutting a path toward the front door. There’s no pause, no glance back, like he’s certain you’ll follow, falling effortlessly into step behind him. His fingers tighten, the weight of his presence commanding without effort.

But then your heels dig in. The abrupt resistance jolts through his arm, halting him mid-step. His head snaps around, the motion sharp, confusion clouding the dark intensity of his eyes. “My place,” he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly, the words brushing against the static hum of the night. His free hand finds your waist instinctively, sliding there like a reflex, his grip almost possessive. It lingers, coaxing, as though he’s guiding you forward even now, oblivious to the shift in control already beginning to slip from his grasp.

“Too far,” you murmur, the weight of your words pressing like a palm against his chest. His lips part, as if to argue but you’ve already moved. Your hand slides from his grasp, cool and deliberate, only to knot tightly with his own. Your grip is firm, not a suggestion but a command, and before he can react, you’re steering him down the narrow hallway. The air shifts around you, dim light casting shadows that ripple as your steps quicken. His pace stumbles, caught between following and being pulled, and yet he doesn’t resist. The faint scrape of his shoes against the floor echoes the heat in his gaze—smoldering, restless, entirely at your mercy. Every step you take leaves no room for doubt: you’re leading, and he’s already given in.

By the time you reach your dressing room, the tension between you feels suffocating, a palpable charge in the air that crackles like static. You shove the door open, pulling him in behind you, and with one smooth motion, you kick it shut and turn the lock. The metallic click reverberates through the cramped space, the sound echoing in the silence as your eyes meet his.

The room is small, stifling almost, the faint scent of your perfume mingling with the lingering heat from the performance. Clothes hang haphazardly on a rack against the wall, makeup scattered across the vanity, a worn chair tucked into the corner. But none of it matters. Not when he’s looking at you like that—his chest rising and falling, his lips slightly parted, and that damn smirk pulling at the edges of his mouth.

Your grip on his arms is defiant, a silent refusal to yield, but it doesn’t matter—his strength eclipses yours, sharp and deliberate. In one fluid motion, he spins you, your back meeting the wall with a jarring thud that reverberates down your spine. The cold surface seeps through the thin barrier of fabric, a biting contrast to the heat coursing through you. His body presses into yours, solid and unrelenting, a force you can’t escape, no space spared between the hard planes of his chest and the soft curves of your frame. His presence consumes, each breath he takes pushing against you, every inch of him demanding to be felt, leaving no room to question who’s in control.

His lips pull away from yours, leaving your skin tingling, as if the heat of him has seeped beneath the surface. His breath comes in shallow, ragged bursts as his head tilts back, exposing the taut line of his throat, and his gaze flickers over your shoulder to the wall holding you there. The chipped paint and uneven surface press into your back, a subtle but insistent reminder of how tightly he has you pinned. His eyes shift again, landing on the worn chair by the dressing table, his brow furrowing as though calculating where he’ll take you—against the wall, where you’re trapped under his weight, or on the chair.

The indecision lingers for a heartbeat, thickening the air, but then his gaze snaps back to yours. The hesitation evaporates in a flash, replaced by something darker, hungrier. “Not a bad idea,” he murmurs, his voice low and cutting, its teasing edge sending a jolt through your core. The smirk tugging at his lips deepens, sharp as a knife, and he leans in, reclaiming your mouth with a kiss that’s rough and all-consuming, matching the unrelenting pressure of his body pinning you in place.

This time, he descends on you with a force that borders on reckless, his mouth slanting over yours in a kiss that’s all hunger and demand. There’s nothing careful in the way his lips move—hard and insistent, a clash of teeth and heat, as if he’s determined to strip you down to nothing but raw instinct. His breath mingles with yours, feverish, intoxicating, his confidence threading through every movement like an unspoken dare.

His hands slide over your body, dragging down your sides with a roughness that sets every nerve alight. His fingers curl into your waist, blunt nails digging into the fabric of your dress with just enough force to make you squirm. It’s not just touch—it’s possession, each grip and squeeze leaving your skin hypersensitive, the imprint of him burned into you in ways you’ll still feel tomorrow.

Then, without a word, he shifts. His hands are on your thighs before you realize what he’s doing, spreading wide to anchor your legs as he lifts you effortlessly. The movement is sharp, dizzying, and your breath catches as your body twists mid-air, a startled sound breaking from your throat. Before you can recover, the solid, unyielding surface of the wall meets you again, your chest pressing flat against the cold plaster. The shock bites into your skin, a sharp contrast to the heat still pouring off him as he pins you there.

Your spine arches instinctively, the chill forcing you to react, but his hands are already back on you. They move lower, greedy and deliberate, gripping the curve of your hips, his thumbs pressing hard enough to make your breath stutter. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t ask—he acts, his body crowding yours, his presence so consuming it feels like he’s claiming more than just space.

Jeno’s lips find your neck, his breath scalding as he works his way down with kisses that aren’t soft—they’re bruising, his teeth scraping your skin, his tongue soothing over each bite only to do it again. His hands are everywhere now, mapping the curve of your waist, the swell of your hips, before settling on your ass. His grip tightens, fingers kneading and squeezing with a bruising intensity, pulling soft, involuntary moans from your lips.

His breath fans against the back of your neck, his voice low and hoarse as he growls, “Don’t move.” His fingers hook into the thin straps of your thong, tugging them down with maddening slowness, the fabric dragging against your skin until it pools at your feet.

The air shifts, thick with anticipation, before the sharp crack of his palm meeting your bare skin breaks through it. The sting is immediate, fire spreading across your ass as you jolt against the wall. He doesn’t wait for a reaction, his hand smoothing over the heated skin before striking again, harder this time.

You don’t answer, your breath catching as silence stretches between you. The tension snaps with the sharp crack of his palm against your skin, the sting blooming instantly as his hand lingers. “Did you think you could ignore me?” he growls, the sound dark and dangerous, reverberating through the cramped space. He kneads the reddened flesh, his touch rough and possessive, each squeeze leaving your body trembling.

His hand slides lower, slower than before, his fingers grazing the slick heat between your thighs. He moves deliberately, each teasing stroke designed to pull a reaction from you, to remind you who’s in control. A soft gasp escapes your lips despite yourself, and he chuckles darkly, his breath hot against your neck. “That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, his fingers pressing deeper, claiming more, as his grip on you tightens.

He chuckles darkly, leaning in until his lips brush against your ear. “You’re soaked,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “You can pretend you’re not loving this, but your body’s giving you away.” His fingers dip further, gathering your wetness before sliding back up to press against your clit.

The sharp crack of his palm meeting your ass echoes through the room, each strike landing harder and faster, a punishing rhythm that leaves your skin burning under his touch. The sting spreads like wildfire, the heat intensifying with every slap, every deliberate swing of his hand, until the ache becomes something molten, something you can’t help but arch into. His hand lingers between strikes, fingers kneading the soft flesh roughly, possessively, before pulling back to deliver another.

Your breath comes in short, ragged bursts, each exhale jagged as the relentless pace of his punishment leaves your legs trembling. The warmth radiates from where his palm lands, blooming outward and seeping into your core, the pain and pleasure indistinguishable now. His grip on your neck tightens slightly, a grounding force that keeps you pressed firmly against the wall, pinned exactly where he wants you. His fingers dig into the nape of your neck, holding you still as his other hand continues its torment, the cadence unyielding, every movement a silent assertion of control.

“You take it so fucking well,” he mutters, his voice dark, hoarse with arousal. His lips graze the shell of your ear, hot breath spilling across your skin as he lands another sharp slap on your ass. The sound echoes through the room, louder this time, the sting spreading fire through you. “So fucking beautiful—marked up, trembling for me. You take it so well, I can’t get enough of you.”

But he doesn’t see it slipping. With every strike, every grinding roll of his hips, the control he’s convinced he has starts to unravel. His rhythm falters, the confidence in his grip turning just a little hesitant, his actions betraying how lost he is in you, how tightly he’s gripping onto the dynamic he doesn’t realize he’s already lost.

You twist sharply, moving faster than he anticipates, his balance tipping just enough for you to break free. Before he can react, your hands shove him hard, slamming his back against the wall with a thud that leaves him momentarily stunned. His shoulders hit the surface, his breath catching as his lips part, his gaze meeting yours with wide eyes, half-lidded from lust but entirely caught off guard.

Your body presses flush against his, pinning him there, and you don’t give him a second to recover. One hand slides up his chest, slow and deliberate, the pads of your fingers grazing the heat of his skin through the fabric before curling around his throat. Your grip is firm, your thumb pressing against the rapid flutter of his pulse, and his head tilts back instinctively, lips parting in a soft, breathy gasp.

The sharp click of your tongue fills the silence as you tighten your grip on his throat, tilting his chin higher until his eyes meet yours. His breath catches, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts as he struggles to process the sudden shift. “What do you think you’re doing?” you whisper, your voice low and deliberate, a calm veneer masking the storm beneath.

His jaw tenses at the sound, the movement sharp, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. His lips part like he’s about to answer, but all that comes out is a strained, “…Fucking you?” His voice wavers, caught somewhere between confusion and the lingering need that tightens his body against yours.

A slow, mocking laugh spills from your lips, warm and soft against the side of his face as you lean in, your breath brushing his ear. “‘Fucking you?’” you repeat, each syllable dripping with amusement and a condescension that makes his breath stutter. “Is that what you think you’re doing?”

He blinks at you, dumbfounded, his lips still parted as though searching for a retort that refuses to come. Your hands shift, sliding down his chest, your nails grazing over the hard planes of muscle beneath the thin fabric. The touch is slow, almost languid, a deliberate reminder of the control slipping from his hands.

Before he can react, your grip tightens, and with a sharp push, you shove him backward. His body stumbles into the chair behind him—the one tucked neatly in front of your vanity, its chipped wood and faded upholstery an unassuming witness to what’s about to unfold. The wood creaks loudly under his weight as he lands, his legs spreading instinctively, his body folding into a position that leaves him utterly exposed.

Jeno stares up at you, chest heaving, his expression caught between shock and arousal, the sharp edge of his usual confidence dulled by the realization that he’s no longer in control. “Who said you get to control things here?” you ask, stepping between his legs, the heat of your body brushing against his thighs as you lean forward. Your hands grip the arms of the chair, trapping him in place, your face close enough to feel the shallow, uneven rhythm of his breath.

The flicker of defiance in his eyes doesn’t last; it crumbles under the weight of your stare, unrelenting and burning with a fire that leaves no room for argument. You drag your fingers down his chest, each pass slower, heavier, before pressing him firmly back against the chair. The reflection in the vanity mirror catches your attention, the image of him looking up at you—wide-eyed, lips parted, completely at your mercy—only fueling the satisfaction curling low in your stomach.

“Do you think you’re in control tonight?” you whisper, tilting your head just enough for your lips to ghost over the corner of his mouth without fully touching. “Because you’re not. Not tonight. Tonight, I’m going to ruin you.”

Jeno’s groan is immediate, raw and guttural, spilling out like something torn from deep within him. His head tips back against the chair, the tension in his body unraveling in ways he didn’t know were possible. His hands twitch at his sides, hesitating, unsure whether to grip the arms of the chair or reach for you, the uncertainty foreign to someone who has spent his entire life mastering control.

And control is all Jeno has ever known—his constant, unwavering companion. On the court, every move is deliberate, precise; in life, every decision calculated, a performance for everyone watching. Even in bed, he’s always the one steering, leading, dictating. But now, with you standing over him, your eyes sharp, your touch deliberate, and his body pinned beneath the weight of your dominance, that control feels distant, useless, slipping from his grasp like sand through his fingers.

It’s unfamiliar, terrifying—and intoxicating.

His chest heaves with every shallow breath, the tension he’s carried for years fraying at the edges as his body betrays him. He’s never allowed himself to feel this exposed, this vulnerable, but the sight of you towering over him, your fingers sliding lower, commanding his every reaction, sets him alight in ways he didn’t think possible. He’s so used to being the one in charge that the sudden, absolute loss of it is dizzying—and yet, it feeds something buried deep within him, something he didn’t know he craved.

“Fuck,” he breathes, the word half-growled, half-broken as his body shivers beneath your touch. His hips jerk involuntarily, his restraint cracking with every deliberate stroke of your fingers teasing the waistband of his pants. “You don’t even fucking know… what you’re doing to me right now.” His voice is strained, frayed with tension and desire, his usual confidence nowhere to be found. “You’ve got me so fucking hard I can’t think straight—can’t think about anything but you.”

Your smirk deepens, the sight of him unraveling beneath you igniting something sharp and primal inside you. “Oh, I know exactly what I’m doing,” you murmur, your tone soft but laced with unshakable control. Your hands slide lower, grazing the hard, unrelenting line of him through the fabric, and his breath hitches, sharp and loud, filling the small space between you.

You glance down at him, your vantage point offering a view you could never tire of: Lee Jeno, always so composed, always so in control, now trembling beneath your hands. His head tips back, exposing the taut line of his throat, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts as though he’s forgotten how to breathe properly. His lips are parted, swollen and wet, the slightest quiver betraying the effect you have on him. It’s a sight you want to etch into memory—Jeno, stripped of his carefully constructed control, utterly undone by the simplest brush of your touch.

“You know,” you murmur, leaning closer until your lips brush the curve of his jaw, your breath warm against his skin, “I haven’t even fucked you yet.” Your voice is low, teasing, every word deliberate, and you feel the sharp hitch in his breathing as your lips ghost over him. His body tenses beneath your hands, every muscle coiled and trembling as you drag your palms higher along his thighs, grazing the firm muscle beneath, each touch slow and deliberate.

“You haven’t even had my mouth around you,” you continue, your tone soft but dripping with intent, your teeth grazing his jawline before your lips press against it. The first kiss is deliberate, calculated, and when you hear the faintest sound slip from his throat, you press harder. “Haven’t felt me ride you,” you murmur against his skin, trailing lower, your lips finding the sensitive spot just below his ear, “until you can’t think, until you can’t breathe.”

His hands twitch at his sides, his head falling back further, baring his neck to you without thinking, and you take full advantage. Your mouth moves lower, sucking at the skin just above his collarbone, hard enough to leave a mark. His breath stutters, the sound rough and broken as you work your way back up, your teeth scraping the edge of his throat.

“Look at you,” you whisper, your lips brushing over the rapid flutter of his pulse. “You’re already falling apart—and I haven’t even started yet.”

His breath catches, a sharp intake of air that barely makes it past his lips. His voice is rough, breaking as he murmurs, “I know… fuck, I know.” His head tilts further, exposing more of his throat to you, his body trembling under your touch. “You’ve got me so worked up, I can’t—” His words falter, his jaw tightening as a low, guttural groan escapes. “I’ll do whatever you want… just don’t stop.”

“You’re not used to this, are you?” you murmur, your lips brushing against his skin again. “Letting someone else take the lead.” Your tone is soft but cutting, each word a reminder of just how deeply he’s falling into unfamiliar territory.

“No,” he admits, his voice barely audible, his eyes fluttering shut. “But I don’t want you to stop.”

And that’s when you realize—it’s not just desire coursing through him; it’s need. He needs this. Needs the weight lifted from his shoulders, the persona he so carefully wears stripped away, and the relentless pressure to always lead momentarily silenced. You see it in the way his body trembles beneath your touch, his breaths uneven, his hands clenching as though he’s barely holding himself together. And you? You’re more than happy to take it all from him.

With deliberate ease, you lean forward, sliding onto his lap, your knees bracketing his thighs as your weight settles against him. His breath stutters, and his hands instinctively find your hips, gripping them like he needs something to ground himself. “Come here,” he whispers, his voice hoarse and low, even though you’ve already made yourself comfortable in his lap.

You adjust slightly, your hips pressing closer to his, and the contact makes his body tense under yours. Your movements are slow and calculated, your chest brushing against his as you shift, letting him feel the deliberate roll of your body against his. His eyes drop immediately to your chest, his gaze fixated on the swell of your breasts, and you see the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard.

“Jeno,” you call softly, your tone sharp enough to pull his attention back to you. His head snaps up, and his eyes meet yours, wide and glassy with arousal. “Eyes up here,” you tease, your lips curving into a small, knowing smile.

You lean in closer, your hands sliding up to cradle his jaw as you tilt his head back slightly. Your lips press softly against his, the touch so gentle it feels almost out of place in the charged atmosphere between you. His breath catches, and for a moment, he’s still—frozen beneath you like he can’t believe it’s real, like the tenderness is too foreign in a moment so thick with desire.

When he finally responds, it’s hesitant, his lips moving against yours as though he’s afraid the fragile connection might break. His hands tighten on your hips, pulling you closer, his body instinctively seeking more of you. The kiss deepens, soft and slow, and you feel the tension bleeding out of him, the weight he carries melting away as he lets himself sink into the moment.

But as you kiss him, something shifts inside you, the heat between you tempered for just a moment by the vulnerability you feel in his touch. His hesitation, the way he trembles beneath you, makes you pause. Your smirk falters, and you pull back just slightly, your lips brushing against his jaw as your hands slide down to rest on his chest.

Your palms press against him—not demanding, but grounding—and you feel the rapid thud of his heart beneath your fingers. He’s so used to control, to leading, to bearing the weight of expectation. But here, now, he’s unraveling, the walls he’s so carefully built starting to crumble under your hands. And suddenly, you need to know—need to hear him say it.

“Is this what you want?” you ask, your voice quieter now, stripped of the teasing edge you’ve carried so far. It’s raw and unmasked, a question that feels as much about him as it does about you. “Do you want me to lead, Jeno?”

The question hangs between you, the vulnerability in your tone catching him off guard, and for a moment, his breath stills. His eyes meet yours, wide and dark, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice soft, almost fragile compared to the tension between you. Then, stronger, with a desperate edge: “Yes. Fuck, yes. I need this. I need you.”

The honesty in his voice hits you like a jolt, but you don’t let it show—not fully. Your lips brush his again, firmer this time, as your hands slide lower, teasing over the hard, unrelenting line of him through his pants. His head falls back again, a quiet, desperate groan slipping past his lips.

“You’ve been so good to me tonight, helping me out with those guys earlier” you continue, taking a step closer to him, the heat in your tone softening into something that feels almost like praise. “You deserve something for being such a good boy, don’t you?”

He nods and you take a moment to admire him—flushed, breathless, utterly undone. The sight of him, usually so cocky, now reduced to this trembling, obedient version of himself, sends a wave of satisfaction rushing through you. He’s listening. Actually listening. Not arguing, not resisting, just sitting there, wide-eyed and waiting for your next command.

Your smirk sharpens, your fingers trailing down his chest, tracing the lines of muscle beneath his shirt. You press your palm flat against him, feeling the erratic thud of his heart beneath your hand as you lean in, your dominance radiating in every deliberate movement.

“Then take your pants off,” you say, your voice soft but unyielding, every word laced with heat. You step back, your eyes boring into his, daring him to disobey. “Now.”

His hands move quickly, trembling as he struggles with the waistband of his pants, finally pushing them down just enough to free himself. His cock springs forward, thick and heavy, flushed with need, the sight alone making your breath catch. He’s bigger than you anticipated—bigger than what you’re used to—but you bite down on the flicker of hesitation, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing. You won’t let him see the challenge he presents or give him any room to feel smug.

You step forward, pressing one hand flat against his chest and pushing him back until his shoulders meet the chair. He’s perched at the edge, his legs spread wide, his breath shallow and erratic as he stares at you, his cock standing rigid against his stomach. “You’re going to sit there and take it,” you murmur, your voice low and commanding, the words laced with heat that makes his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard.

Lowering yourself onto your knees between his legs, you drag your hands up his thighs, your nails grazing his skin lightly. He shudders beneath your touch, his muscles tensing as you lean in closer. “You’ve been good so far,” you whisper, glancing up at him, your voice teasing but firm. “Let’s see if you can stay that way.”

His breath hitches as your lips ghost over the tip of his cock, soft and feather-light. His hips jerk involuntarily, a strained groan slipping past his lips. “I didn’t say you could move,” you chastise, your tone sharp, dripping with condescension as your nails dig into his thighs, holding him in place.

“Fuck—sorry,” he chokes out, his head tipping back against the chair, his knuckles white as he grips the edges of the seat. His chest heaves with the effort of keeping still, every inch of him taut with restraint.

Satisfied, you let your lips brush over him again, your tongue flicking out to tease the sensitive head. The taste of him spreads across your tongue, rich and musky, and you hum softly, your hands tightening on his thighs. You take him into your mouth slowly, deliberately, your tongue swirling around the tip before sliding lower, inch by inch, until the weight of him fills you.

A guttural moan escapes his lips, his thighs trembling beneath your hands as you begin to move, your mouth working him with precision. You hollow your cheeks, letting him feel the tightness, the warmth, your tongue pressing against the underside of his cock as you take him deeper. He’s big, stretching your jaw, but you refuse to falter, refuse to let him see anything but control.

“Fuck—God, you’re so fucking good at this,” he mutters, his voice ragged, breaking with each shallow breath. His head tips back further, his lips parted as his moans grow louder, the sound reverberating through the small space.

Your pace quickens, your movements relentless as you take him deeper, letting the head of his cock nudge the back of your throat. His body jerks involuntarily, and his hands twitch against the chair, his knuckles tight and trembling as he fights the urge to reach for you.

“Don’t you dare move,” you warn, pulling back just enough to let a trail of saliva connect your lips to his cock. You glance up at him, your gaze sharp and unyielding, your voice a low, commanding hum. “You don’t get to come until I say so. Understand?”

“Yes,” he groans, his voice cracking, desperation lacing every word. “Yes, fuck—anything you want.”

You smirk, satisfied with his surrender, and take him into your mouth again, deeper this time, your hands gripping his thighs to keep him still. His groans turn to loud, broken cries as you work him mercilessly, your lips sliding down his length, your tongue pressing and swirling with every movement.

The mirror catches your attention—a perfect reflection of the way his body trembles under your control. His head is thrown back, his eyes squeezing shut before rolling open again, his lips parted as he moans without restraint. His hips jerk slightly despite your grip, his entire body betraying his need.

“Please,” he chokes out, his voice wrecked as his eyes meet yours in the reflection. “I can’t—fuck—I can’t take it.”

“Yes, you can,” you reply, your voice muffled against his cock as you take him even deeper, the strain in your jaw undeniable, but the power in his unraveling making it all worth it.

His thighs tremble harder beneath your palms, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts as you quicken your pace, hollowing your cheeks and sucking harder. He cries out, his voice breaking as his hands grip the arms of the chair so tightly they shake.

“Good boy,” you murmur, pulling back just enough to let your tongue drag over the head of his cock, swirling around the sensitive tip before sliding back down. “That’s it—stay just like that.”

“Fuck—fuck, please,” he whimpers, his voice barely audible as his head tips back again, his jaw slack. “I need—I’m so close—please, can I?”

You smirk, your nails digging into his thighs as you pull back slightly, meeting his wide, glassy eyes. “Not yet,” you command, your tone sharp enough to make him groan in frustration, his body trembling as he struggles to obey.

You take him back into your mouth, relentless now, your pace unforgiving as his cries grow louder, echoing in the room. His hips buck slightly despite your grip, his restraint crumbling as he gasps your name, his moans broken and desperate.

“I can’t—fuck—I can’t hold it,” he chokes out, his voice trembling, his body shaking as his head falls back against the chair.

You pull back just enough to speak, your voice low and dripping with authority. “You can. Be good for me, Jeno.”

His response is a strangled groan, his eyes rolling back as his body tenses beneath you, every muscle trembling as he fights against the edge. His hands grip the arms of the chair with a desperation that borders on pain, his chest heaving as he gasps for air, barely holding himself together. His lips part as if to beg again, but no words come, just broken, needy sounds spilling out as his head falls back against the chair.

You let the moment stretch, the tension thick and almost unbearable, your lips brushing against the head of his cock, teasing him with light, deliberate flicks of your tongue. “Not yet,” you murmur again, your voice a quiet warning, the control in it making him whimper softly. When you finally pull back, meeting his dazed, glassy-eyed stare, you let a smirk curve your lips. “Alright,” you whisper, your tone soft but commanding, dragging out the words as if savoring his desperation. “Come for me.”

The second the words leave your lips, he shatters. His hips jerk, his hands flying to grip the chair as his cock pulses in your mouth. The heat and saltiness flood your tongue, but you don’t stop, your movements slowing only to milk every last shudder from him. His cries echo in the room, raw and unrestrained, his body trembling violently as he surrenders completely.

When you finally pull back, his chest heaves, his eyes half-lidded and glassy as he stares at you, his lips parted, his voice barely a whisper. “Fuck,” he breathes, his hands shaking as he reaches for you, but you push him back into the chair, smirking.

“Good job,” you murmur, your voice soft but laced with satisfaction. “But don’t think we’re done yet.”

You rise slowly, the weight of your body shifting just enough to brush against him, your thighs straddling his hips, your knees pressing into the chair on either side. The air between you feels thick, charged, and the sight of his cock—hard, flushed, twitching as it stands against his stomach—sends a rush of heat through you. His chest heaves, his breaths uneven, and his hands tremble where they grip the arms of the chair, knuckles white from restraint. His lips part, and the words spill out in a cracked, desperate voice, like he’s already forgotten how to hold them back.

“Please,” he gasps, his breath catching like the plea has been ripped straight from his chest. “I—I need you. Please, just—fuck, I can’t take it anymore.” His eyes flicker wildly, darting between your face, your body, the space where you hover just above him. His hips twitch upward, chasing contact, and his fingers flex against the arms of the chair like he wants to grab you but doesn’t dare. “Please,” he repeats, voice cracking again, thick with desperation.

You sink down onto his lap, your weight settling on him without fully taking him in. His cock presses against you, caught between your bodies, and the moan that escapes him is guttural, raw, his hips jerking as if he expects you to move.

But you don’t.

Instead, you stay perfectly still, your nails grazing along his jaw as you smirk at the way his breath stutters, his chest heaving against yours. The tension in his body coils tighter with every second, and the moment he realizes you’re not going to give him what he wants, the begging starts.

“I can’t—fuck, I need it. I need to feel you,” he groans, his voice shaking as his hips jerk beneath you, the thick length of him pressing insistently against your heat. “Please,” he chokes out, the words tumbling out in broken desperation. “Let me have your cunt. I’ll do anything—fuck, anything—just let me feel it, please.” His eyes are wild, glassy with need, his entire body trembling as he fights against the unbearable tension you’ve wrapped him in.

You drag your nails down the column of his neck, light but deliberate, until your hand rests firmly on his jaw. Tilting his chin, you force his gaze to meet yours. “You need it?” you murmur, your voice sharp and teasing, but there’s steel in it, enough to still him completely. Your thumb brushes the corner of his trembling lips, and his breath stutters, his head tilting into your hand as though it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Yes,” he breathes, his voice rough and uneven, his body trembling beneath your touch. “I’ll take anything—whatever you want, just… fuck.” The words break off into a desperate groan, his eyes locking onto yours, wide and glassy with raw need, his pupils dilated as if he’s losing himself entirely in you.

The corner of your lips curves into a slow, deliberate smirk as your palm slides to his cheek. For a moment, your touch is light, almost soothing, before you slap him—not hard, but enough to make his head jerk to the side and a broken sound escape his throat. His cock twitches violently against you, the sharp crack of your palm against his skin reverberating through the charged air.

“Again,” he moans, his voice wrecked, raw with need. His head snaps back, his gaze locking onto yours with a fervor that makes your stomach clench. His hands grip the arms of the chair harder, the veins in his forearms straining as he fights not to touch you.

You oblige without hesitation, slapping him again, slower this time, your palm lingering to feel the flush of warmth spreading across his skin. His hips jerk beneath you, a guttural groan ripping from his throat as his body trembles with barely restrained desire.

“Pathetic,” you hiss, leaning in closer, your nails grazing along the edge of his jaw. “Look at you—begging, shaking like you can’t survive another second without me. Do you even hear yourself?”

He whimpers, his lips parting, his head tilting back slightly as though offering himself up to you completely. The sound is raw, guttural, filled with something so consuming it makes your smirk widen.

You straighten, lifting yourself just enough to position him at your entrance. His cock presses against you, the heat and weight of it making your breath hitch despite yourself. Beneath you, his chest rises and falls in frantic bursts, his body shuddering as though he might snap from the tension.

When you sink down onto him, it’s slow, punishingly so, every inch deliberate, your body taking him in entirely as you watch the way his jaw slackens, his eyes rolling back as a choked groan tears from his throat. His hips buck, but your nails dig into his chest, sharp and grounding.

“Stay still,” you snap, your voice cutting through the haze of his desperation. “You move when I say you can.”

“Yes,” he gasps, his voice nothing more than a rasp. “Yes, I—fuck, I’m sorry—fuck, I’ll be good.”

Your pace starts slow, calculated, each roll of your hips pulling another broken sound from his lips. When you lean forward, your fingers wrapping around his throat, your thumb pressing lightly against his pulse, he shudders beneath you, his body trembling like he’s unraveling one second at a time.

“You don’t come until I say so,” you murmur, your voice low and sharp, watching the way he fights to hold on, every ounce of his control slipping through his fingers as he trembles beneath you.

When you start to bounce, it’s immediate and feral, your movements savage and unrelenting, driving down onto him with a pace that leaves no space for tenderness or adjustment. Each thrust sends a jolt through your body, the wet, obscene slap of skin meeting skin echoing in the charged air. His cock fills you completely, the stretch almost too much, but you refuse to let it show, your focus locked on his reaction. His head snaps back, his jaw slack as a guttural, animalistic groan tears from his throat, his body helpless against the onslaught.

“Fuck—oh my god, you’re so fucking tight,” he chokes out, the words tumbling from his lips in broken desperation. “It’s like—shit—I can feel every fucking inch of you gripping me.” His breath hitches, his fingers clawing at his thighs, digging into the muscle as though the pain might ground him. “You’re—fuck—you’re squeezing me so tight I can’t—” His words cut off in a ragged groan, his cock throbbing as your walls drag against him, pulling him deeper with every brutal thrust. “It’s too much, too fucking good,” he gasps, his head tipping back as his body shudders beneath you.

You lean in, your voice a soothing contrast to the brutal rhythm of your hips, “Shh, baby,” you murmur, pressing your lips softly to his temple. “I know it’s a lot. You’re doing so well for me.” Your fingers trail gently down his chest before curling around his jaw, tilting his face up so his glassy, desperate eyes meet yours.

You slam your hips down harder, the impact sharp and merciless, drawing another desperate cry from him. His breath stutters, his chest heaving as he chokes out, “I can’t—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“Don’t even think about it,” you snap, your voice razor-sharp, cutting through his haze of need. You grind down on him between thrusts, your hips rolling in a way that forces every inch of him deeper inside you. The friction sends a thrill up your spine, your nails digging into his chest to steady yourself as you keep him exactly where you want him.

His body jerks beneath you, shuddering violently, his hips bucking despite his efforts to stay still. You catch the movement instantly, your hand darting to his throat, your fingers curling tightly enough to make his gasp catch. “Already wanting to cum?” you taunt, a smirk curling your lips as you lean in closer, your breath brushing against his ear. “I haven’t even started.”

The words make him groan, his cock twitching inside you as his head tips back against the chair. “Please,�� he whimpers, his voice cracking, wrecked and raw. “Please, I can’t—” His words dissolve into a broken moan, his hips lifting as though he’s trying to chase the friction you’re controlling.

“You’ll hold it,” you growl, your tone cold and commanding as you ride him harder, faster, your pace unrelenting. “You’ll hold it until I say you can. Do you hear me?”

“Yes,” he chokes out, the word a strangled sob, his hands trembling as they grip the chair like a lifeline. His cock throbs against your walls, each bounce sending him closer to the edge, his entire body writhing beneath you. His voice grows desperate, his cries sharp and guttural as your movements grow even more punishing, driving him into complete submission.

Each bounce is merciless, your ass meeting his thighs with sharp, punishing force that sends shocks through both of your bodies. The relentless drive of your hips forces his cock to fill you completely, the stretch and friction so intense it borders on unbearable. The sound of wet, obscene slaps echoes in the air, mingling with his broken moans and your sharp breaths. Every thrust grinds him deeper, the brutal rhythm pulling sharp gasps from your lips as your nails rake down his chest, leaving red trails in their wake.

Your nails dig into his shoulders as you lean forward, your body grinding down onto him with a deliberate roll of your hips that pulls a ragged groan from his throat. His chest rises and falls in frantic bursts, his head falling back, the column of his throat exposed as if in surrender. He can’t keep still—his body jerks and twitches under yours, his muscles taut as if they’re about to snap. You feel every tremor, every pulse of his cock as your walls squeeze around him mercilessly, refusing him a moment of respite.

The chair creaks beneath you, the rhythm of your movements relentless, driving him deeper and deeper until it feels like he’s splitting you open. Your breaths mix with his, harsh and uneven, your control unwavering even as his moans turn into desperate, incoherent sounds. He tries to shift beneath you, his hips bucking slightly, but you slam him back down with a firm hand on his chest, your strength keeping him exactly where you want him.

“Don’t even think about it,” you hiss, your voice sharp and commanding. His eyes flutter open, wide and glassy, his pupils blown as he looks up at you with a desperation that sends a wave of heat straight through you. He opens his mouth to speak, but the words are swallowed by a guttural cry as you slam your hips down again, the force of it pushing him deeper, the angle leaving him gasping.

Your pace shifts, faster now, the intensity ramping up as you grind down onto him between thrusts, the friction sparking a raw, unbearable pleasure that leaves you both shaking. His cock throbs inside you, each pulse a testament to how close he is, how completely he’s unraveling beneath you. His hands twitch at his sides, his fingers curling into the fabric of the chair, and you smirk at the sight of him—wrecked, trembling, completely under your control.

He whines, the sound pitiful and raw, his eyes fluttering open only to meet your gaze. The desperation in them makes you smirk, your hand sliding to his jaw to hold him still. “Is this too much for you?” you ask, feigning sweetness, your lips curving into a mocking smile as his chest heaves beneath your touch.

“No—no, please,” he stammers, his voice breaking, his hips jerking up involuntarily only to be met with your punishing grip. “Please—don’t stop—don’t fucking stop.”

“Don’t worry,” you purr, leaning closer, your breath hot against his ear. “I’m not stopping until I’ve ruined you.”

Your fingers tighten around his wrists, the raw strength in your grip forcing his arms high above his head, the hard press of your body keeping him pinned. His biceps strain, the muscles flexing as he instinctively fights for control, but you’re unrelenting. You shift slightly, your thigh bracing against his forearm, ensuring he has no leverage, no escape from the restraint of your body. His chest heaves, frantic and uneven, as you lean in, your breath brushing over his neck, the sheer dominance in your presence leaving him trembling.

Your other hand glides up his chest, fingers splayed wide before wrapping firmly around his throat. Your palm molds to his skin, thumb pressing into the frantic pulse hammering beneath it. The column of his throat arches, his head tipping back involuntarily, a guttural sound breaking free from his lips. His cock throbs deep inside you, every twitch dragging heat through your core as your walls squeeze around him, owning every inch.

“You’re mine,” you snarl, your voice low and cutting, the intensity in your words making his body jerk beneath you. You lean closer, the sharp curve of your hips grinding down onto him, your pace slowing, deliberate, teasing. “Every inch of you belongs to me right now. Don’t forget it.” The sound he makes is wrecked, raw, a broken moan that spills from his parted lips as his eyes flutter shut, his fingers twitching uselessly against your grip.

His head tilts forward slightly, lips brushing against your shoulder as though he’s desperate for contact, but you don’t relent. “Look at me,” you command, tightening your grip on his throat just enough to pull a sharp gasp from him. “Eyes open. You don’t get to hide from this. You don’t get to forget who owns you right now.”

As your grip loosens around his throat, you lean back slightly, allowing him a moment to catch his breath. His chest heaves, his pupils blown wide as he looks at you with a mix of hunger and reverence. His hands, trembling from restraint, rise tentatively, brushing against your sides before trailing upward.

Your lips curve into a smirk as his fingers reach your breasts, his touch hesitant at first. “You’re bold,” you tease, your tone laced with amusement, but there’s no protest in your voice. You arch into his hands, the deliberate movement pressing your chest into his palms.

“I can’t help it,” he chokes out, his voice trembling, every word spilling past his lips in broken desperation. His fingers pinch your nipples harder, his breath stuttering with each punishing roll of your hips. “You’re too fucking perfect—so soft, so—fuck—I couldn’t stop myself.” His grip tightens, his hands kneading the soft flesh of your breasts with a fervor that borders on frantic, the heat in his touch sending sparks straight to your core.

His thumbs circle over your nipples, the firm strokes drawing sharp, electric pleasure that makes your walls clench tighter around him. A guttural groan rips from his throat, his head falling back as his body jerks beneath you, trembling with every wave of sensation. But his eyes snap back to yours in an instant, wide and glassy, like he’s terrified of missing a single second of you.

You let him indulge for a few seconds longer, watching as his touch becomes rougher, more insistent. The way his hands mold to your body, gripping and squeezing like he can’t get enough, makes heat coil low in your stomach. But when his movements grow frantic, you grab his wrists, wrenching them away with a strength that startles him.

“What did I say about touching?” you hiss, your tone sharp, dripping with authority as you press his hands back against the chair. His eyes widen, his lips parting to stammer out an apology, but you don’t give him the chance. Instead, you soothe the tension briefly with a gentle touch, your fingers stroking down his chest, only to strike harder with your palm against his skin. The sound echoes through the room, sharp and commanding.

“I—I’m sorry,” he stammers, his voice hoarse, cracking as he squirms under your hand, his breath hitching with every strike.

“You think begging will save you?” you mock, your nails dragging across his chest, leaving faint red trails in their wake. His cries grow louder, his body arching as your words cut through his haze of desperation. “You’re going to take everything I give you, Jeno. Every. Fucking. Second.”

When you strike again, harder this time, his guttural moan makes your core tighten, his body trembling under your control. “Sorry isn’t good enough,” you snap, your palm delivering another blow, leaving his skin flushed and hot beneath your touch. “You’re going to learn to listen.”

His tears brim, his lips trembling as he gasps for air, his submission so raw it sends a thrill straight through you. You tilt his head up, forcing his glassy eyes to meet yours as you press your fingers to his lips. His tongue flicks out instinctively, tasting you, and the sight alone makes your breath hitch.

“Open,” you command, your voice soft but firm, and he obeys immediately, his mouth parting as you slide your fingers inside, pressing against his tongue. His lips close around you, the heat of his mouth making you smirk. “Deeper,” you instruct, your tone low and teasing as you push further, feeling his throat constrict around your fingers as he chokes slightly. His eyes flutter shut, his face reddening as he struggles to take you.

“Look at me,” you snap, your free hand tugging his hair roughly to hold his attention. His eyes snap open, wide and glassy, tears slipping down his cheeks as he meets your gaze. “I didn’t tell you to stop looking.”

His throat bobs as he sucks harder, his lips wrapping tightly around your fingers, his breaths ragged and broken. You press deeper, your control absolute as you watch him tremble beneath you, his entire body reacting to your dominance. When you finally pull your fingers free, they leave a trail of spit glistening along his lips. You smear it along his jaw with deliberate slowness, your eyes never leaving his.

“Good boy,” you purr, your hand sliding back to his throat, your fingers curling tightly as you slam your hips down onto him, harder and faster. The brutal rhythm pulls a wrecked moan from him, his body jerking against you, his cries raw and broken as you take him apart.

“You’re so fucking pretty when you listen,” you murmur, your tone laced with dark satisfaction, each word punctuated by the sharp snap of your hips. His submission is total now, his body yours to use as you see fit, and the sight of him like this—wrecked and trembling—only drives you to push him further.

He is fucking breathtaking.

It’s undeniable, an unfair truth etched into every perfect angle of his face, almost cruel in its certainty, the kind of beauty that lingers in your vision long after you’ve looked away. Every inch of him seems carved with intention—the sharp angles of his cheekbones catching the dim light, the line of his jaw taut as his head tips back, and the delicate flush blooming across his neck and chest. Sweat glistens on his skin, running in rivulets that trace the contours of his body, each droplet catching on the dip of his collarbones and the curve of his throat like liquid stars. His dark eyes, usually so composed and guarded, are utterly undone—blown wide, glassy, and filled with the kind of desperation that makes your stomach clench.

Right now, he looks otherworldly—utterly wrecked by you. The sheen of sweat on his temple, the way his lips part around ragged moans, trembling and red, make him almost too much to take in. His hair sticks to his forehead in damp strands, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. He’s the kind of breathtaking that feels like a punch to the ribs, an ache that spreads, unbearable in its intensity. Like the sun sinking into the horizon, beautiful enough to make you want to reach out and touch, even if you know it’ll burn you.

Your rhythm falters, your grip tightening on his shoulders as you lose yourself in the sight of him. For a moment, all your control slips through your fingers, and the words spill out in a soft, broken moan, surprising even yourself. “You’re so fucking pretty,” you gasp, leaning forward, your hands trembling as you cradle his jaw. “So handsome.”

You’ve always known it, even through the years of hating him, resenting him, wanting to be anywhere but near him. It was an unshakable truth that no amount of anger could erase: Lee Jeno was, quite simply, the most handsome man you’d ever laid eyes on.

It’s a fragile admission, out of place amidst the raw hunger of the moment, like a fragile bloom growing in the cracks of a storm-battered stone. The words hang in the air, vibrating with the kind of vulnerability that feels dangerous, but you can’t pull them back now. You lean in, pressing your lips to his in a kiss so tender it feels like it doesn’t belong here. It’s desperate in its softness, a startling contrast to the roughness that came before, like silk brushing against jagged edges.

For a moment, he’s frozen, his breath catching against your lips, as though he can’t quite believe this is happening. Then, slowly, his lips move against yours, hesitant at first, before matching the quiet desperation in your kiss. It’s messy and uncoordinated, all teeth and open mouths, his moans spilling into yours like confessions. His breath stutters as his teeth graze your bottom lip, and when your hips roll against him, pulling a strangled sound from deep in his chest, it feels like the ground beneath you is shifting.

His body shudders beneath your touch, his hands twitching as if to reach for you, only to falter, his restraint holding by a thread. You feel the weight of his surrender, the way he melts into the kiss, giving you everything without hesitation. It’s intoxicating, watching someone so breathtaking, someone who could have the world with a glance, completely undone by you.

You pull back just enough to meet his gaze, your breath still mingling with his in the charged air between you. His chest heaves, each rise and fall frantic, his lips swollen and slick from your kiss, slightly parted as if he’s forgotten how to breathe. His eyes—half-lidded and glazed over—lock onto yours, dark and unfocused, brimming with a desperation he can’t quite conceal. For a fleeting moment, it feels like looking into his soul, a raw, vulnerable window to something usually locked away beneath his composed exterior.

The intimacy feels like too much, too exposed. The softness lingers in the air like an uninvited guest, pressing against the raw edges of the moment. You shake your head slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if to dispel the weight of it, a silent denial of the connection crackling between you. Vulnerability wasn’t part of this—it wasn’t supposed to be. You came here to take, to dominate, to unravel him until nothing was left but submission and need. This? This fleeting tenderness feels misplaced, like silk trying to smother a flame.

Your grip tightens on his jaw, a reminder of control slipping back into your hands like a mask you wear too well. With deliberate force, you tilt his head down, breaking the fragile spell and redirecting his attention to where your bodies are joined. His cock is buried so deep inside you it feels like he’s trying to carve himself into your very core, every inch of him slick and glistening with how greedily your cunt swallows him. His breath catches, a guttural noise tearing from his chest as his hands clench into trembling fists at his sides, every part of him strung so tight he looks ready to snap.

“Look at that,” you murmur, your voice cutting through the charged air like a blade, your dominance settling back over you like armor. “Look at how perfectly you fill me up, Jeno. Every inch of you disappearing into me.” You roll your hips, slow and deliberate, forcing your walls to clench around him, pulling a strangled gasp from his lips. “And yet,” you pause, letting the weight of your words press into him, “you can barely hold it together.”

“I—I’m trying,” he stammers, his voice trembling as his cock throbs inside you, twitching with every cruel grind of your hips. His head falls forward, his forehead brushing your shoulder as he struggles for control, but you shove him back against the chair with an unrelenting grip. “Fuck, I’m trying—I swear—”

“Trying isn’t good enough,” you snap, your fingers tangling in his hair instead, tugging sharply as his head jerks back, a broken whimper spilling from his lips. The tension in his body ripples under your control, his throat bared to you, vulnerable and exposed. “You’re already falling apart, Jeno, and I haven’t even given you my best yet. What does that make you?”

His jaw tightens, his lips parting as though he’s about to argue, but all that comes out is a broken, wrecked moan. “Yours,” he finally manages, the word shaky and soft, like he’s barely holding on. “I’m yours. Fuck—do whatever you want—just don’t stop.”

A smirk curls your lips, the sight of him trembling, undone, making heat surge through you. You lean forward, your breath brushing his ear as your voice dips lower. “You sound pathetic. Like a desperate little toy, begging for me to use you. Is that what you want, Jeno? To be mine to ruin?”

“Yes,” he chokes out, his voice cracking under the weight of his need. “Yes, please—I’ll do anything.”

You lift your hips slightly, just enough to make your cunt squeeze tighter around him before slamming back down with brutal precision. The wet, obscene sound of him filling you completely echoes in the room, and his entire body shudders, his cock twitching violently as if it’s trying to bury itself deeper. He’s trembling now, his fingers twitching at his sides, his eyes glassy and unfocused as he struggles to breathe through the overwhelming sensation of you taking him completely.

“You’re mine,” you snarl, your nails dragging along his chest again, this time down to the sensitive skin just above his navel. His hips buck involuntarily, trying to meet your punishing rhythm, but you press him back with surprising strength, keeping him pinned. “And you’re going to sit there and take it while I make you fall apart.”

“Fuck—please—” he whines, his voice a wrecked whisper, his head falling back as he groans. “I can’t—fuck, I can’t take it.”

“Can’t?” you mock, gripping his chin tighter and forcing him to meet your gaze. “You’ll take every inch of me, Jeno. You don’t have a fucking choice.” You tilt his head back further, making him watch as your cunt swallows him whole, the sight of him disappearing into you completely leaving him gasping for air. “Look at you,” you sneer, grinding down harder just to hear him cry out. “Pathetic. So desperate. You can’t even handle how tight I am around you.”

His hips jerk again, his control slipping further as his moans turn into something almost feral, his body arching against you. “Please,” he gasps, his voice raw, wrecked, broken. “You’re so—fuck—you’re perfect. I need more—I need—”

“You don’t get to need anything,” you hiss, leaning down until your lips are a breath away from his. “The only thing you get is what I decide to give you. And right now? You’re going to stay right here and watch while I ruin you.”

But the moment cracks, his control shattering as you lift yourself slightly, your body taut and poised to slam back down onto him. His palm snaps to your lower back, holding you in place with a force that’s as commanding as it is infuriating, while his other hand digs into your hip, the bruising grip leaving no room for escape. Before you can argue, the air shifts, thickening with the wet, lewd sound of him gathering spit. You open your mouth instinctively, heat flooding your core as his head dips, and he spits directly onto your tongue—hot, filthy, and deliberate. It pools there for a moment before you swallow, your lips parting again as his eyes darken with something raw and primal. He doesn’t stop. Another wet strand lands on your chest, sliding down to the curve of your breast, the glistening trail catching the light before his hand smears it lower, dragging the slick mess down your stomach and over the arch of your back. His palm presses harder, his cock throbbing deep inside you as his lips curl into a smug, defiant grin.

His hands move immediately, smearing the spit across your skin with deliberate, controlled motions. His fingers press firmly into the soft flesh of your ass, spreading the wetness with maddening precision, working it over every curve as if he owns you. His grip tightens, kneading and pulling, his palms hot against your skin, the pressure sparking heat that radiates through your body. His cock twitches inside you, thick and pulsing, sending shocks of pleasure that coil in your stomach. He leans in, his breath hot and heavy, his hands sliding lower to spread the spit even further, as if marking every inch of you as his. “Look at you,” he growls, his voice dripping with contempt and possession. “So fucking filthy. So desperate. Do you even realize how pathetic you look right now?”

“Pathetic?” you bite back, your voice sharp, cutting through the haze of his dominance. Your hands shoot out, grabbing his wrists as you shove his grip away. “I’m the one riding you. Don’t forget that.” You grind your hips down hard, forcing a guttural groan from his throat as his head falls back. His smirk falters for a second, replaced by a flash of vulnerability in his darkened gaze.

But he doesn’t relent, snapping his hips upward with a brutal thrust that forces a broken cry from your lips. “Feel that?” he growls, his voice low and dripping with smug satisfaction. “You’re shaking around me. You’re the one falling apart. Admit it—you’re fucking addicted to me.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you hiss, leaning forward, your fingers curling around his throat. You squeeze lightly, enough to make his breath hitch as your hips shift to take him deeper. “You don’t get to talk. Not when I’ve got you like this.”

His response is a low, defiant chuckle, even as his thighs tremble beneath you. “That all you’ve got?” he rasps, his voice rough, but the quiver in his tone betrays him. “You’re trying so hard to be in control, but look at you. You can’t even stop moaning.”

Your nails drag down his chest in retaliation, leaving angry red trails that make his cock jerk inside you. “You’re going to regret that,” you snap, slamming your hips down hard enough to make his eyes roll back. The wet, obscene slap of skin meeting skin echoes around you, and the sight between your legs—the way his cock disappears into you, stretching you, slick with your arousal—makes your breath hitch.

“Fuck,” he groans, his hands twitching at his sides like he’s barely holding himself together. “You’re so—shit—how do you keep getting tighter?”

“And you’re going to feel every second of it,” you murmur, your hips grinding down in slow, teasing circles that make his breath hitch. His hands flex at his sides, and you lean in, pinning his wrists above his head with a smirk. “Stay still. You’re mine to break, Jeno.”

But he doesn’t stay still. His restraint snaps, his hips slamming up into you with enough force to leave you gasping. “Is this how you’re going to break me?” he bites out, his voice strained but defiant as his hands grip your hips, holding you in place. “Look at you—shaking like that. You’re barely holding on.”

“Shut up,” you snap, trying to force him back down, but he doesn’t let up, his smirk cutting through your attempt at control.

“Make me,” he growls, thrusting deeper, his gaze locked on yours, daring you to take it back.

“You asshole,” you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders as you try to regain control, your body arching with each brutal thrust. “You’re so fucking desperate. Can’t even last without trying to take over.”

His laughter is wrecked, strained, as he leans up, his lips brushing against your ear. “And you’re soaked, trembling, fucking yourself on my cock like you can’t get enough. So who’s desperate now?”

Your bodies collide in a frenzy of dominance and submission, both of you battling for control even as the pressure builds to an unbearable peak. His cock drives into you, relentless and unyielding, the stretch almost too much to bear, but you meet him thrust for thrust, refusing to back down. Your nails rake down his back, and he shudders, his breath stuttering against your lips as his movements grow erratic.

“Fuck,” you gasp, your voice breaking as the heat between you threatens to consume everything. “I’m—Jeno, I’m—”

“Let it go,” he groans, his voice strained, his own control hanging by a thread. “Come on, baby. Together.”

The tension snaps all at once, your release crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your body clenches around him, a scream tearing from your throat as you shatter, the wetness flooding between you, spilling out in an uncontrollable gush that leaves both of you gasping. Jeno follows a second later, a guttural moan ripped from his chest as he buries himself deep, his cock pulsing inside you as he fills you with everything he has.

Your hands grip his shoulders, your nails digging in as his hips jerk uncontrollably, prolonging both of your highs. His forehead falls to yours, his breaths coming in ragged bursts as the tremors in your body echo in his. For a moment, neither of you move, the silence filled only with the sound of your labored breathing and the sticky, heated mess between your bodies.

Your body feels wrecked, trembling with aftershocks as you try to catch your breath. Your skin burns where his hands had gripped you, his touch still ghosting along your thighs, your hips, everywhere he’d claimed you. Your chest heaves, your pulse erratic, and when your gaze locks with his, it sends another jolt through you. His eyes are dark, wide with something raw—shock, maybe regret, but laced with hunger that hasn’t quite faded. His lips are swollen, parted slightly as he struggles to steady his breathing, and the way he looks at you makes everything tighten again, an ache blooming low in your stomach. You see it there, in the way his brows pull together, in the slight tremor in his hands still resting on your hips—he’s just as undone as you are, and it terrifies you.

This isn’t a beginning; it’s the wreckage of everything you swore to keep intact—a body trembling beneath the weight of its own undoing. The room feels unbearably quiet now, the sound of your shared breaths the only thing grounding you both. You’ve just fucked him—Mark’s brother—the one person you should have never touched, and it feels like you’ve set fire to everything you’ve built. The heat still lingers between you, searing, scorching, and yet it’s the aftermath that threatens to suffocate—the realization that you’ve not only crossed the line, you’ve obliterated it. The moment feels like a collapsing star, all-consuming and inescapable, and yet neither of you moves, as though staying in this broken, twisted orbit might somehow keep the inevitable from swallowing you whole.

taglist — @clblnz @flaminghotyourmom @haesluvr @revlada @kukkurookkoo @euphormiia @cookydream @hyuckshinee @alltimernctzen @hyuckieismine @fancypeacepersona @minkyuncutie @kiwiiess @outoforbit @lovetaroandtaemin

authors note — hi loves! if you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading! it truly means the world to me. i poured so much effort into this, so if you could take just a moment to send an ask or leave a message sharing your thoughts, it would mean everything. your interactions—whether it’s sending an ask, your feedback, a comment, or just saying hi—give me so much motivation to keep writing. i’m always so happy to respond to messages, asks and comments so don’t be shy! thank you from the bottom of my heart! <3

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gyuswhore · 2 years ago

Text

Hits Different (...'cause it's you) (1)

«« I trace the evidence, make it make some sense Why the wound is still bleedin' »»

PAIRING: kim mingyu x reader

SYNOPSIS: Kim Mingyu was the first friend your brother had brought home for dinner. Fast forward a couple years, his toothy smile and pierced ears would wedge their way into a permanent place in your heart. Nail to a coffin, never to escape.

or;

in which you get rejected by the only boy you've ever loved; a rejection you can't quite shake off.

GENRES: based off of 'Hits Different' by Taylor Swift, brother's best friend!au, brother!seokmin, fluff, angst, smut (in part 2) [MINORS DNI], friends(?) to lovers, university!au.

PLAYLIST: right here!

WORD COUNT (full fic): 40k (im actually embarrassed)

Part 1: 20.2k | Part 2: 20k

masterlist

WARNINGS : slowburn, angst, fluff, mingyus a bit of an airhead and an ass, reader has a hard time managing her feelings, lots of frustrated tears, one sided pining, user toruro x minghao make an appearance, swearing, there's another woman (gasp,,,,,but shes cool so), Nayeon is a darling, Seungcheol is kinda annoying here but we love him, smut tags in part 2

(Comments from @toruro): "oh shizzle", "yeah bitch", (on jihyo) "mother", "ME X HAO FIRE EMOJI", "men (derogatory)"

[A/N]: Tumblr is annoying and won't let me post the entire 40k in one go so i have to break it up (part 2 is out tomorrow!!!) i hope you guys enjoy this, thank you for all the love on the teaser, i hope this is able to live up to the hype, thank you so much for being patient with me <33 (ty @toruro for encouraging me when i felt shit ab this gkjnrgvkjrng and beta-ing ofc)

As someone who could vomit at the mere thought of throw-up, you tried not to stare into the toilet bowl as you emptied your guts in this questionable club bathroom.

It was proving to be easier than you’d anticipated, naturally, when your eyes were blurred with bubbling tears. Were they because of your wretching or the feelings that churned in your heart? You can’t be entirely sure, nor can you find yourself having the mental strength to figure out. There’s a banging on the door behind you, one that sends your already aching head into a hurling spin.

“Open the door, I have water for you, it’ll help!” You hear Mika blare from the other side, concern lacing her voice.

You try to blink the tears away but they cascade down your cheek anyway, rubbing at them furiously before preparing to haul yourself off the disgusting bathroom floor. Taking a deep breath was a horrible idea, you realize when an atrocious mixture of scents hit your nostrils, cringing visibly.

Washing your hands at the sink took you another five minutes, scrubbing furiously at your palms and nails with the dollar store soap the club graciously placed in a fancy dispenser, pumping more than a normal amount to rid yourself of the paranoia of tainted hands.

Unfortunately for you, your palms were tainted with entities beyond mere soap and water’s powers.

It was evident with the way you exited the bathroom feeling perhaps worse than you went in. Mika was nowhere to be seen in the hall, moving along to the private room where the rest of the group was to find her springing up as you enter.

“You weren’t answering, so I left. Here, water, I told you to be careful with what you drink; you haven’t had a bite to eat either.” She reprimands.

“Sorry,” you smile sheepishly, not having a reasonable excuse to give her.

Joshua peeks over her shoulder, “You feeling any better?”

The water is slow to go down as you sputter before replying in a hoarse voice, “Yeah. Way.”

To be fair, the water did help. But it was you who was the problem, blaming the alcohol for the behaviour all your friends knew perfectly well where it was stemming from. Not a word was said though, for your sake or their own. You wrap up quickly after that, Joshua insisting to drop you off home himself, quoting how Seokmin would have his head if he left you in the hands of a taxi driver in this state — age gap be damned. You can only thank him as he pulls up to your destination, hoping you’ll remember this in the morning to return the favour in the future.

“Before you go, can we talk for a second?” he piques, halting you as you remove your seatbelt.

“Sure, yeah. What is it?”

“I’m not gonna ask if you’re doing alright, not when you’re gonna give me the same answer as always. But…please take care of yourself. You’ve been drinking quite a bit lately, and it can’t be helping you at all”

You listen to him silently, not a thought in your brain. But you nod anyway.

“Thanks for looking out, Shua. I’m…I’m probably not gonna be going out for a while, you’re right,” you reply, quietly, a small smile on your face that you can only hope is reassuring.

“I don’t mean lock yourself up, either. You don’t give yourself a break and then try to make up for it by drinking your self faint every week, that’s never gonna help you. You know that.” He speaks in a soft, soothing voice, a hand coming up to pat your hair before landing on your clasped hands on your lap. “You know what, I’ll pick you up tomorrow night, we can go the fair just me, you and Seok-”

“I have class tomorrow.”

“Like showing up hungover is gonna help you retain any information. Just skip.”

You sigh a deep exhale, deciding to simply be upfront. “I kinda just wanna stay home for a while, going out’s kinda making it worse. I think rotting in front of my laptop’s what I really need right now”

Throwing in a tinkle of a laugh, you hope you’ve sold yourself.

“Alright,” he sounds slightly unconvinced but doesn’t push you further, “I’ll drop in to bother you tomorrow though, don’t try stoping me”

“Okay,” you say, smiling a little wider. “I’m gonna go now, goodnight.”

“Wait!” he stops you once again, right before your about to shut the door. “Have you talked to Mingyu at all?”

“There’s nothing to talk about, Shua. Night”

With that you’ve slammed the door of his car shut, missing the ghost of a “goodnight” that leaves Joshua’s lips as he watches you walk inside the building.

“And stop staying out so late at night! What were you supposed to do if Joshua wasn’t there?” Seokmin rants as he walks back and forth grabbing you water and pills as you finish your forced breakfast.

“Take a taxi?” you suggest sarcastically.

“What? And get me called to the station to identify your body parts when some dude decides he wants to play cannibalistic butcher?” he screeches, and it has you wincing and grabbing onto your head at his volume. You dramatize it a little, hoping he’d shut it with his nagging if you gained some extra sympathy. He doesn’t stop talking, but he does tone it down.

“Whatever, I’m not going out anymore.” You push your plate and bowl away as you hop off the stool and stalk off to your room, making as much noise as possible in the process.

Your brother calls after you, but you don’t stop. Your head was pounding,

“Are you gonna take your meds? HELLO? Or do you enjoy the feeling of having your head split open?” he slams open the door of your room mid-sentence, going on at your blanket-clad figure on the bed.

“I’m going back to sleep.”

“No, you’re taking your fucking meds.” A cup of water is thrust into your hands as you pick up the pills from Seokmin’s open palms, swallowing before he decides to shove it down your throat himself.

He waits on the edge of the bed, checking to make sure you actually swallowed the pill instead of hiding it under your tongue like you’ve done since you were kids.

“I’m not stopping you from going out if that’s what you think I mean,” he starts, a lot softer this time, and you’re taken back to your conversation with Joshua last night. “You’ve been going out and coming home wasted a lot more than normal lately. I don’t know if it’s because your college agendas are finally catching up to you or what.”

“I’m just…My friends are always out and I wanna be with them, it’s normal,” you grumble, disappearing deeper into your sheets.

“You’d tell me if something was bothering you, right?”

‘Yeah, yeah, now shoo. Your voice is making my head hurt worse, I doubt Advils are immune to your yapping.”

“Fine, fuck you too” he mumbles, leaving the room only to pop back in a second later. “Mom called last night, told her you were at a study group. Might wanna call her back before she catches a flight herself.”

You wave two fingers up in a salute from your flat position on the bed, hearing him close the door. You don’t sit up until you hear the TV blare from the living room, knowing he had parked himself on the couch and has his attention diverted.

The headache wasn’t actually that bad, you just really wanted to be left alone, and your brother had a habit to do the opposite when asked, so it had to be done.

What on Earth were you supposed to tell him, anyway? That his best friend in the whole world rejected his sister on the spot when she confessed her decades long feelings? That she was ruining her liver and kidneys every weekend over a rejection? By his best friend in the whole world?

Yeah, that’s an easy conversation.

Snuggling into the covers you try not to think back to the abomination that was your birthday party just a few weeks ago, but your thoughts yank you there anyway, as if to remind you of every wretched detail of the encounter like it was wasn’t already burned into your frontal lobe like a brand.

You were on a high; too happy, too excited. It’s not like you were expecting anything for your first birthday at uni anyway, you were too old for pink blowout parties and too young for the madness of college level clubbing. You were excited for takeout with your brother, to sit in front of the TV for the rest of the night, maybe even stick a candle in one of your burgers and call it your cake. Plans were changed when you walked into your home, ready to wind down for the night and celebrate in your own way.

It was a full house, food and drinks everywhere, complete with a loud “SURPRISE” as you walk through the door. You remember hugging both your brother and Mingyu when they tell you they did all of this for you, an overwhelming feeling overcoming you as you grip them tight, hoping it’ll transfer all the gratitude you couldn’t express.

You’re breathless as the night progresses, trying hard to focus on the conversations at hand, trying to be a good host. Failing miserably, you can’t force your gaze from wandering every few minutes, searching for Mingyu in the crowd, watching him move his mouth as he talked, throw his hair back as he laughed, smile that beautiful, beautiful smile of his, perfect teeth on display.

It had been bliss these past few weeks, the lingering smiles he would give you, the flirtatious attempts never gone unnoticed. The smoothest of words slipping right off his tongue as he gave you eyes that twinkled and sparkled and blew air directly into the embers in your heart. You would still yourself as they would happen, like the mirage would crack and shatter if you even dared to breathe; it felt unreal. After all these years, you realised soon, Kim Mingyu may have began to like you.

You’d be lying if you said you were completely sober when it happened, drinks were passed around and as the birthday girl you didn’t seem to have a choice to back down, already a little hot and wide eyed barely halfway through the night.

And when Mingyu doesn’t interact with you all night, you go to him as the numbers in the house dwindled, cornering him as he collected bottles in the kitchen.

“Hey!”, he sounds enthusiastic, “You having fun yet?”

“Yeah, thanks again for doing this.” your remember fidgeting with your fingers and nails, digging them into each other as you let yourself spew.

“Are you gonna say thank you at every chance for the next six months? It's your first birthday away from home. Besides it was Seok’s idea, I just helped out.” He had said, beaming.

“Mingyu, can I talk to you about something…?”

You sigh loudly as you replay the memory, face pushed into the covers as you bite back a scream at the blood rushing to your head.

Stupid. Idiot. Absolutely brainless.

“Oh.” He had breathed out when you had spilled your entire heart out to him standing in that kitchen, visibly taken aback at your abruptness. “I…I’m sorry I’m not quite sure what to say.”

You still remember that sickening feeling, that big ball of junk and emotions that sank lower and lower in your abdomen, settling a deep hurt in your chest that made it difficult to breathe.

Laying in your bedroom, weeks after the fact, you can still feel your breathing go slightly erratic at the memory, hot tears springing your eyes, burning before you wipe them away. You were aware how baffling it was, how you were letting it affect you to this degree, but you justified it with the years you had remained quiet, yearning on the sidelines.

You deserved to wallow in this pit.

At least that’s what you thought. But after last night you wonder if you had stopped indulging in the sorrow and let it ruin you instead. A sigh escapes you at the thought of ending yet another night in a dirty bathroom, makeup smeared and guts removed, misery becoming the only thing you were allowed to feel in the aftermath.

You reach for your phone on the bedside table, flicking through your unread messages, barely registering a word as you leave them opened and unanswered. There wasn’t an ounce of willpower in you even after a full night’s sleep, turning your phone off before shoving it in your bedside drawer, forgotten. You take a moment to stare at the ceiling, having no energy to get up to turn your lights off. Until the doorbell sounds.

Of course you knew who it was the second you heard, but the voice paired with your brother’s conversing outside was enough to have you catapulting out of bed. You slap your hand over the switchboard, turning off all your lights, moving across the room to pull your curtains shut, cascading complete darkness in the room. You fly under the covers as a last effort to convince, covering your face with the sheets just as you hear a knock.

The door creaks open slightly as Seokmin calls out your name.

“Are you up? Mingyu’s here, he brought coffee.” He whispers slowly. You don’t respond.

He calls out your name one more time before you hear the door click shut. You don’t move till you hear his muffled voice on the other end, “She’s knocked out, her head was hurting, better let her rest.”

Heat pricks the sides of your face as your body finally relaxes, borderline embarrassed at how you were hiding from him like a middle schooler who thinks she’s in love. Which you were at one point; now you're a college kid who thinks she’s in love.

You try not to focus too much on the sounds coming from outside, burying under the covers to attempt at sleep for real this time. Eyes screwed shut, you can’t help but open them at every other intonation. There was no way you could figure out what they were saying if you tried, between the door and the TV, it was all a taunting buzz in your ears.

You do end up falling asleep. But only after you hear the droning of the TV turn off, and the distinct goodbyes as the front door clicks shut.

Keeping to your promise, you stay away from late nights for the next couple of weeks. Joshua so far as commends you for declining invitations, offering dinner on him on one particular phone call.

“You know, I was serious when I said I was proud of you.” Joshua voices solemnly as you attempt to cut a strip of meat onto the grill. You snort as a response.

“I wasn’t like, an alcoholic, you’re making it sound worse than it was.”

“It was still bad for it to affect you in that way. Takes a lot to get back up from heartbreak”

“Especially one that’s lasted for nearly a decade.” You sigh as you give up on the meat, handing the scissors and tongs over.

“Are we still talking about that?” He raises his eyebrows.

A smile makes its way to your face, nibbling on a radish, “No.”

“Good. Because we need to talk about if we want our noodles hot or cold.”

“Seok! SEOK! Where the fuck did you put my pimple patches?” Your screams echo across the house yet garner no response. Opting to yank open the fridge, you dig through through the box of face masks to find them possibly laying at the bottom, forgotten. Seokmin bounds into the kitchen, towel in hand as he pats at his damp hair.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you huff, shoving the unfruitful box back into the cabinet, "you used up all the patches.”

“Patches? Pimple patches? We’ve been out for a month, just use this tube in the drawer.” Pulling open the drawer, he rummages for a moment before emerging with a sickly yellow tube of what looked like poorly marketed toothpaste.

“You want me to put this on my face?”

“Yeah, it works, zit on my nose was gone by morning.” He stuffs the tube back in the drawer not before squeezing a small amount on his fingers to dab on your face.

“Ew, get your dirty hands away from my face.” You grip his wrists before he tries to move in further.

He does nothing but shush you, shaking off your hands as you grumble in silence, letting him finger paint on your face. You move up to fix a roller on your head, undoing it before rolling the bit back in, resulting in another “tsk” emitting form your brothers concentrated face.

“Okay, enough! I don’t have that many zits.” You pull away as Seokmin moves to wash his hands.

“Are you going to bed right now?” He asks as you move over to the door.

“Yeah. I’m not going to sleep, though.”

“Gyu’s coming over, you were asleep when he was here last too.”

It seemed as though every bone in your body rattled against your flesh.

“When is he coming?” You ask quickly, frozen in your spot.

The doorbell rings.

“Right now, I guess.” He snickers to himself.

You can only watch in mild horror as he moves to open the door, words escaping you. You follow behind him, trying to stop him, yet not doing much other than reach the front door yourself, fingers frozen yet mildly trembling.

“Wait!” You finally whisper-shout, “Don’t open it!”

Seokmin pauses to give you a look, “Why? He’s seen you look worse, it’s fine”

The door wrenches open before you can protest any further, a cartoonish moment of the hunched figure of you, hands out in a nearly there grip. You’ve failed, and the chorus of ‘hey’’s reach your ears in almost a mocking manner. There’s a conscious effort on your end to not look up too high, keeping to chest eye level for your own sanity. What you find once your vision clears from the white blur, is that there’s not one, but two people at the door.

Mingyu’s brought a girl.

Standing behind the door meant there was no immediate attention on you, which should have been a perfectly good opportunity for you to book it to your room, but you don’t. You stand there instead, staring at the back of their heads like a child in wonder.

Once you are noticed by your brother, he winces at your appearance, a silent apology, like he didn’t know about this new guest either. Or he was apologising for what he was about to do next, you wouldn’t know, because you wouldn’t be hearing him out when you throttle him later.

“This is my sister”

All three sets of eyes are on you now, a moment of silence as they take in your appearance. The grandma nightgown, in all its blue and collared glory, does absolutely nothing to boost your confidence in front of the very pretty lady, whose hair cascades down her back, whose skin stands as clear as a summer sky.

“Hi!” She breaks the awkward silence first, “I’m Jia, it’s nice to meet you! I’ve heard a lot about the both of you.”

What?

“Mingyu has a hard time keeping his mouth shut, I’m not surprised.” Seokmin tries to joke as he motions for the couch in the centre of the room. You catch him kicking a stray sock out of the way as he urges them to sit.

With the way your brother is acting, you don’t doubt this is his first time meeting this girl. Mingyu is yet to clarify why he would bring a friend to the house unannounced, but something tells you you already know. You remain on the sidelines, inching away to the hallway slowly, trying your hardest to not bring attention to yourself.

“I haven’t seen you around campus ever, are you new?” Seokmin prods, his voice slightly on edge.

“Oh, um-” Jia begins but is cut off by Mingyu as he speaks for her.

“Jia doesn’t go to our uni, we met at Seungcheol’s, we’ve been dating for a couple months.”

There it is.

“Oh! Couple months? How come I didn’t know?” You don’t miss the hurt laced in your brother's words, your fists clenching slightly at the oncoming silence.

“That’s on me, sorry. It’s just…I didn’t want anyone to know ‘cause I thought he was playing around when he said he liked me, I wanted to see if he was being real or not.” She laughs nervously, and you see the back of her head move as she talked. You can’t help but note the arm that’s swung across the back of the couch where she sat. “Please don’t be mad at him! I promise it was me that stopped him.”

You don’t hear too much of what happens afterwards as you slip away into the crevice of your bedroom, standing in the entryway in absolute silence, attempting to absorb what you had just witnessed outside. Approaching the full length mirror on the other end, it takes a lot out of your to bring yourself to look straight into it, regretting it immediately as you acknowledge your appearance.

Of course, the woman who actually succeeded in winning over the man that rejected you had to witness you in the unappealing yellow paste that your brother graciously dotted all over your face, not leaving the giant rollers in your hair to cut you any slack either. You could cry about it, but you don’t. Instead you lay back in your bed, sniffling in the dark, just as you had the last time Mingyu was over.

It’s significantly easier to drown out the voices this time round, especially when your mind is preoccupied with a couple months. Your birthday was a couple months ago, does that mean they started dating right after that conversation? Or were they already offical and you had waltzed in with your princess dreams about your brother’s best friend being in love with you.

It made perfect sense at the time, and no sense at all anymore as you wonder why on Earth he was being so forwardly flirty with you if there was another girl all along. There’s a bitter taste in your mouth as you recall how he had quit perceiving you altogether after that night, and you can’t help but mentally commend Jia for testing him by keeping it quiet. Especially when he was going around flirting with his best friend’s sister.

It didn’t take long for you to guage Mingyu’s reputation when you first dropped into university, the senior having made himself a reputation none less similar than he had in high school. He was popular, but with his outgoing personality and a face like that it was hard not to be liked. Your brother was right there beside him, living it up as carefree college kids, suddenly remembering he now had a little sister to tend to. You were grateful for the both of them for being there to help you take your first baby steps, all the rites of passage and which professors sucked the least, not leaving the leaky water fountain to never drink from.

That was when Mingyu’s (supposed) advances had begun.

You’re projected back to first semester, when both of them had dragged you to the same couch outside, talking about an “important thing you should know”.

“You walk into class one day, expecting nothing out of the ordinary. Your professor drones on as usual, your classmates look bored as usual, you’re tired as usual. But then!” Seokmin breathes in sharply, and you hear Mingyu bound to the other side of your vision, emerging on the opposite end of the room with a backpack swung over his shoulder.

“The man of your dreams walks by…” Seokmin continues and you snap your head towards him in a panic, suddenly afraid he had found you out. He’s busy though, making ethereal hands in Mingyu’s general direction, while the latter walks in comedic slow motion like he’s in a K-drama b-roll, complete with passes over his hair and a nonchalant yet controlled expression.

“What is this about?” It comes out snappier than you had intended, but you’ve had one scare already.

“Just!” your brothers hands turn from graceful to clenched, like it was you he was trying to squish you for interrupting him, “Listen, alright?”

“The man of your dreams walks by,” he goes back to his narrator voice, “and you wonder where he’s been all your life. You start talking, you’re enamoured. You start thinking about introducing him to your parents, what your wedding’s gonna look like, what your kids are gonna look like!”

Your face is becoming increasingly warped the more you listen to him speak, not being able to fathom where this was going.

“But no!” It’s Mingyu that speaks this time, pushing a jolt out of you as he slams the backpack on the floor, pointing directly at you for added effect, “You’re better than that!”

“What the fuck-” you start, but are shushed by a physical finger on your lips as Mingyu shushes you. Seokmin slaps his hand away.

“Our point is, that you’re probably gonna come across someone who you think is your next boyfriend.” Your brother continues, “But lucky for you, you have two seasoned professionals here to tell you that it’s nothing but fresher’s fever.”

“It’s a new place, new people, loads of new experiences; you’re bound to latch on one of the first couple pieces of meat. Our advice is don’t, because it will happen to you. But you also now know that your just in a deluded stage right now. Give it a semester before you start dating people, trust.” Mingyu finishes for Seokmin as he thumps down on the couch next to you.

“So all of this was just another stay away from boys lecture?” You raise your eyebrows.

“Yes and no. You can date whoever you want,” Seokmin answers coolly before quickly adding, “but not right now.”

It was laughable, the thought of latching onto another person when you’d been trying exactly that for years. To have anyone catch your eye, to have anyone sweep you away from this madness that came in the form of Kim Mingyu. Neither of these seasoned professionals had a thing to worry about though, because you weren’t latching on anything that came out of this institute. You had already done so, in a stage more impressionable than this, years and years before any of them knew of the dangers of young girls and new boys in their vicinity.

“Okay, I know you’re like on a self inflicted party ban and all that…” Joshua starts the second he places himself at your table, still haggard looking from jogging across campus.

“Don’t even try.” You warn with filled cheeks.

“Girl, let him finish.” Nayeon chides next to you.

You exhale through your nose heavily, going back to pick at your tray as Joshua continues.

“Cheol’s throwing a little party tonight to celebrate the end of midterms.” He starts, “You should come, it's only gonna be a handful of people.”

“A handful?” You repeat, unable to bite back the amusement in your voice.

“Come on, your brother’s going as well! You’ll be fine, I promise we’ll keep you in check.”

“I don’t need to be kept in check, I’m fine.” You grumble.

“Perfect! Nothing stopping you then, I’ll pick you both up at 8.” The words are barely out of his mouth before he’s back to sprinting out the vicinity, garnering looks from oncoming traffic, off to his next pestering destination

“I don’t think I’d explicitly agreed.” You voice.

“He got what he wanted.” Nayeon snorts, “Whatever, we’ll get ready at my place after this.”

“Weren’t you guys worried about me? Now you’re actively dragging me to parties.” You drop your utensils onto the tray.

“Too much of either isn’t a good thing, you went from forgetting what home looks like to exclusively holing yourself up in there.” She stabs a piece of potato with a chopstick and tries to pry it in your mouth. “Besides, Cheol’s parties are always super intimate, they’re all gonna be people you know, don’t worry.”

‘Super intimate’, as Nayeon had put it, had amounted to at least fifty people as you take in the crowd at the floor of the house. Despite not being packed to the brim, it was still coming out to look like a full house, random items already scattered across the floors in true frat party fashion.

“Do you want a beer?” Nayeon asks, dragging you to the kitchens by the hand as you crane your neck to spot people.

“Uh, no. Is there juice?”

“Um, there’s a questionable looking fruit punch.” she wrinkles her nose at the blaring red bowl on the counter.

You sigh, grabbing a cup, “I’ll risk it.”

Joshua was air the second he had walked in with you, whisked away to socialize with his own hoard of acquaintances, leaving both you and Nayeon to fend for yourselves. You’re yet to spot your brother, granted you’d only been here a mere five minutes, his rowdy demeanor making him quite easy to spot in usual circumstances.

Taking a casual sip of the electric red liquid you’re forced to make a face as you register the flavour, alerting Nayeon, who was too busy fiddling through multiple crystal bottles.

“What? Is it bad?”

“What the fuck is that?” You sputter in astonishment, wondering how the bowl was already half empty. “Who’s drinking this stuff?”

She grabs the cup from you before taking a gulp herself, emerging the same gagging mess you were, eyes watering at the taste. It seemed almost comical when Seokmin shows up behind her, waiting to greet only to find both of you doubled over. His eyes move over to the potion in Nayeon’s hand and passes a knowing look.

“He’s brought The Whole Shabang out of retirement.” He states like it was the obvious answer.

Nayeon spits first, “Are we supposed to know what that means?”

“Cheol got drunk one time in freshman year and mixed every ounce of alcohol he owned into one big bowl of despair. We retired it last year when the bowl broke and stained his counters. But anyway, beginners are supposed to dilute it before downing it.”

“That’s great and everything but why is it so red?” You ask.

Another voice speaks from behind you, turning around to find Seungcheol himself. “There’s an entire thing of food colouring in there, gives it an edge don’t you think?”

“I’m scared of you.” You deadpan, a sour expression remaining on your face.

Seunghceol is quick to suggest the backyard for some fresh air to distract from the flavour it’s left in your mouths, commenting on the nice weather. Neither him nor your brother stick around for too long though, dipping at the holler of their names somewhere inside. You’re comfortable though, despite being blocked off by a concrete railing, the stairs make a nice haven for the both of you to lie down and stare into the clearer than usual sky. Cheol was right, it was nice outside.

“I can’t lay down like this, I need to get a drink.” Nayeon announces not even five minutes later.

“Why didn’t you get one when we were there?” You groan, but she doesn’t respond as she hops back inside, throwing a promise to be quick in the air behind her.

The wall supports you as you deflate into it, legs sprawled across the steps in disarray. Nobody could see you anyway, taking full advantage as you practically manspread. The side of the pool that’s in your vision is empty by grace; calm save for the giant flamingo floaty that bobs itself into view from the edge of the wall you lean against. A breathy laugh leaves you at the sight.

The railing on your other side is mostly concealed, you can still make out the wicker sofa set, complete with an unlit fireplace. It’s unoccupied, for the time being, as you register a conversation floating closer and closer to your ears. Wondering if Nayeon had brought friends, you stand up quickly to look over the railing to check for her face over the sliding door that leads inside.

There’s no Nayeon in sight.

But there is Mingyu.

His mere presence knocks your butt back onto the concrete the second you see him stumbling over the threshold with a hoard of his friends, nothing short of his picturesque party strut. There was little reason for you to hide from him at all, considering the very possible notion that he would look right past you if you happened across his line of sight. Space floating in, he’d ignore you for your sake or his own, perhaps even both.

For now, he’s seated himself with a few other people on the wicker sofas, leaving you hugging your knees to your chest, head on the concrete wall with the lingering feeling akin to that of a trapped mouse. Closing your eyes, you blow out air in an attempt to relax yourself, take light of the situation you’ve found yourself in. You could get up and leave in this very moment, possibly go unnoticed if you stalked back inside before they began their rattle not meant for your ears.

And yet, you find yourself unable to move, not even when you hear their topic shift to Mingyu’s new beau. Suddenly you wish you’d moved inside the moment you saw him.

“Was it you that stopped Jia from coming to parties?” You hear somebody ask.

“Why the fuck would I do that?” Mingyu grumbles, he pauses and you assume he’s taking a swing of his drink. “We started going out and suddenly she didn’t wanna come, that’s fine though, it isn’t her vibe anyway.”

There’s a snigger that moves across everybody seated, you hear loud thwack before Mingyu speaks again, “What’s so fucking funny?”

“This girl’s made you work for it, huh?”

“Isn’t that like, his brand? Don’t look at me like that, you’re the one yapping about liking a challenge all the time.”

“Yeah, remember Minji?”

“I still think she was only pretending to not like you, her clique was always smacking at her to straighten up when you’d come over like we couldn’t see everything.” You could almost hear the eye rolling.

“Change the subject, will you?” Mingyu proposes, sounding exhausted at the prodding already.

“I apologise for the ex talk and nothing else.”

There’s a pause for another choke of laughter across the group, and you wonder what it was that they found so funny.

“I don’t know if I should say this…” Somebody begins, but is cut off by Mingyu.

“Then don’t say it.” He snaps, but you don’t miss his own jest.

“I honestly thought you were gonna date Seok’s sister at some point. I mean, common consensus is that bagging your best friend’s sister is… what you’d call a challenge.”

What the fuck.

You feel your eyes drifting closed at the turn this conversation has taken, wishing to simply fall asleep at what it’s come to. Somebody speaks up.

“Nah, that’s like, the grand slam prize, that one comes after he’s done hanging with the side quests.”

The situation is making itself out to be something out of a fever dream.

Mingyu tsks, and you note a jostle happening through the gaps of the railing. “I’m leaving.”

You find yourself hugging yourself tighter, eyes shut like he wouldn’t be able to see if you couldn’t see him. Not that it was possible unless he peered directly through the railing in his peripheral.

“OKAY! Okay! We’re kidding.” There’s a pause. “Okay, but really…”

Another pause, this time longer. You hate how you can picture the ghost of an exasperated smile on Mingyu’s face, a bite of his lip perhaps, dejected at the shoulder with his longing, distant look. You hate how your mind fills the gaps of him the railing won’t allow you to see.

“Seok’s not the type to beat me up if I dated his sister. And besides…” He sighs, halting his words.

“Besides what?” Somebody chimes in.

“I’m not interested in going after someone who’s chased my tail for the past fifteen years.”

There’s a chorus of hisses and oh’s, a few bounts of laughter in their disbelief. You can feel your stomach twist, heat pooling your figure.

It would’ve been better if his words had hit you like a gong, maybe the aftermath wouldn’t have felt as horrid. But the connotations crept up on you like a million spiders making their trek up to your brain, waiting to stick their crawlers in the bits that would allow those words to hold meaning for you. You can feel the electric red of Seungcheol’s god awful concoction begin to rise up in your throat like bile; burning, imprinting.

Mingyu had said what he had said. And everything was in it’s place, in finality.

Despite the nearly four year age gap, you and Seokmin had co-existed without the semblance of an older-younger duo. It was mostly owed to Seokmin's shy nature, and his difficulty making solid friends. That, however, didn’t last long as your brother progressed through middle school.

You had met Mingyu for the first time when Seokmin brought his first ever friend from school home for dinner.

Despite being barely nine years old and half spoon fed by your mother at the same table, the prospect of Seokmin’s new friend was equal to you having a new friend – which caused enough excitement as you brought your favourite cartoon books into your brother’s room to show this new person after dinner.

As the following year progressed, you saw less and less of your brother, and more and more of newer faces of ‘friends’ that you weren’t allowed to play with. It was distressing enough to be told by your mother that something of your brother’s was not yours, but even more so when you were kicked out of the room by Seokmin himself for the very first time.

It wasn’t as trauamtising as it felt in the moment, because you grew to find your own group of friends, doing the same as you’d kick your brother out for being annoying – except unlike you, he was doing it on purpose.

Mingyu was a recurring face, one that was nicer to you on the days your brother was meaner, more forgiving on the days your relatively new middle school was relentless. He fit himself in your life easier than you had realised, more comfortable than you soon found you were comfortable with.

“Did you take my guitar picks?” Your brother bursts into your room just as your about to fall into your after school nap, grip loosening on the book in hand.

Jolting awake at the sound of loud voice, you don’t respond as you attempt to orient yourself.

“Well? Did you?” He demands again.

“What? No, I don’t know where your stupid guitar pick is.” You grumble. “Get out.”

“It’s not in my room that has to mean you took it, where is it?”

Mingyu emerges from behind him, hand on his arm as he tries to pull his iron grip off of your doorway. “It’s probably just in your bag, you haven’t even looked!”

Kicking the covers off, you sit up in a disarray, progressively annoyed at your brother for ruining your perfect descent into dreamland.

“I don’t have shit, you just suck at keeping tabs on your stuff!” You grit.

There’s a stagnant pause as he stares at you from the doorway. You can sense it coming. And it does.

“MOM! SHE JUST SWORE!” He yells into the hallway, bounding to where your mother was, leaving an unsure Mingyu in your doorway.

Surprisingly, you were just glad he was gone, wanting to melt back into the covers. You make eye contact with Mingyu. “I really don’t have it.”

“It’s probably in there somewhere, he’s just not looking.” He mumbles, standing a little awkward. “Um, go back to whatever it was, I’ll close your door.”

He does so, allowing you to finally slump back into your pillows to go back to your nap.

You find out quickly that you couldn't sleep after that.

The controller is becoming increasingly uncomfortable to hold. It doesn’t help that you’re brother is chewing on his four additional pieces of gum behind you on the couch, making obnoxious comments about your gaming form.

You’re also sitting a foot away from Kim Mingyu on the floor, with whom you’re forced to battle out on Mario Kart.

“Why’re you clicking the buttons so hard, chill out.” You heat Seokmin say, continued by his wet chomping right by your ear.

“How hard is it to chew with your mouth closed?” Mingyu grits.

“What? Like this?” Seokmin leans over to Mingyu, chewing even louder, mouth wrenched open and closed right into his ear. Mingyu makes a sound before falling to his side, covering his ears at the ghastly sound, pushing him back with his free hand to shut him up.

You barely crack a smile at the unfolding, watching them continue to wrestle half on the floor. It’s noisy when you set your controller down, chest heavy, unfolding your legs to walk into the hallway to your room. Unnoticed.

You only reemerge to feed yourself, inspecting the fridge for possible leftovers. Settling on an apple, you’re closing the fridge when you see Mingyu walk in, seemingly taken aback to see you there. You freeze with your mouth still attached to the apple to take a bite.

“Oh! Where’d you go when we were playing? Didn't notice you gone till I got him to spit that wad of gum out his mouth.”

“Uh, just tired. Took a nap.”

He hums in response and you're just about to leave when he starts talking again.

“Hey, did you move the popcorn somewhere else? Could’ve sworn it was in here last week,” he mumbles as he rummages through a cabinet.

“Oh. Um. It’s in the pantry.” You move before you can think, grabbing the box and slamming it on the counter, pausing briefly before reaching for the popcorn bowl and setting it on the counter next to it. “Here.”

You don’t wait for a reply before grabbing your apple and moving out the kitchen, only to bump into your brother at the door.

“Where’ve you been?”

“Napping,” you say, moving around him to go your own way but are stopped yet again as he calls for you.

“We’re gonna watch a movie! You can lie on the couch.”

Turning around, you catch sight of your brother still in the doorway, and more intriguing, Mingyu also expecting an answer from inside the kitchen behind him. You gulp as you attempt to remain casual.

“Nah, I’m good. You guys have fun.”

You’re nearly at your door when you hear your brother speak. “She didn’t even ask what we were watching.”

Nayeon catches up with you before you notice, pulling your headphones away from your ears to announce her presence, not slowing down as you walked to campus.

“Are you still upset about that Mingyu thing?” She asks when noting your silent demeanor. “We talked about this, come on.”

“Yeah and we concluded that it’s not an easy thing for me to just get over.” You huffed.

“You know what he’s like…”

“Which is why I should’ve seen this all coming.” You turn around the corner with her.

“That’s not what I meant either.”

“I don’t know what came over me that day. I was doing so well for so long and I had to go ruin it because I’m – I deluded myself into thinking I had a chance.” You’re breathing heavily when you find a table in the air conditioned common room, yanking your bag off and slumping into the sofa. “None of this would’ve happened if I just shut the fuck up.”

“What wouldn’t have happened?” Seungcheol plops down next to Nayeon, butting into the conversation.

“Aren’t you intrigued.” Nayeon muses.

“Especially when it’s none of my business.”

“Charming.”

“Anywho,” he sighs, throwing himself back against the couch. “I’ve been tasked with rounding people up for an assignment.”

“Are you gonna experiment on us?” you ask, referring to his chemistry major.

“Nah, this is for an elective. Faculty needs volunteers for a photography class.”

“So they need models?” You ask.

“I mean, anyone who signs up is automatically a model, so yeah they need models.”

“Are we getting paid?”

“You get to say you modeled for me.”

“How convincing.” Nayeon deadpans.

You’re stifling a snicker as you see Joshua walking up to where you were sat, planting himself next to you.

“What’re we talking about?” He asks, pulling his laptop out almost immediately.

“Nothing, just how Seungcheol needs a reality check,” you sigh.

He barely acknowledges the comment, going straight to business typing away. “Hey, you're staying for the summer right?”

“Ew,” Seungcheol voices.

“I am,” You confirm.

“For what?” He sputters.

“Is this you offering to pay for a round trip?”

He silences quickly after that, giving room for Joshua to ask his next question.

“Are your parents coming for your brother’s grad?”

“Mhm, only for the night, though.”

“Oh, did you hear back from the bookstore too?” he asks.

“I’m gonna apply right before break, I’m swamped right now.”

“Let me know when you do, the restaurant might need another hire, you could work there if you want.”

You make a face. “Appreciate the sentiment but I don’t think I’m in the right state of mind to be working in customer service.”

Joshua’s hands freeze over his keyboard as he breathes out a delayed laugh. Nayeon mimics him.

“Right state of mind?” Seungcheol’s eyebrows are furrowed. “Wait, what were you talking about before I sat down again-”

He’s cut off by a voice bellowing your name from across the common room. All four of you perk up at the sound, locking in on Mika aggressively pointing her wrist at you from yards away. You sit up with a jerk, checking the time. You were nearly thirty minutes late for your lecture.

“Josh, move.” You basically climb over him to get out of your seat, waving a hasty goodbye as you sprint to an exasperated Mika.

“I’ve been waiting outside the hall for ages, you said we’d go in together!” she chides as you both speedwalk.

“Sorry, I lost track of time…” You huff out a breath. “I just started talking about…whatever.”

“Why’d you have that face on in there?” she asks.

“Huh? Oh, I was-”

“Nevermind, I don’t wanna know.” She picks up the pace and reaches the door before you do, rendering it impossible for you to speak to her after that.

You’ve forgotten about it by the time you come home to an empty house, both Mika and Nayeon in your arms. It doesn’t take long for them to make themselves comfortable on the couch, looking at you expectantly like children waiting to be fed. You do that, courtesy of the half eaten pizza that sits on the coffee table.

“I think you need to get drunk,” Nayeon voices from her end of the couch.

Mika is immediate with her response, “Don’t encourage her.”

“Hey!” You pout, “I haven’t gotten drunk in a while.”

“Keep it that way,” she shudders, “don’t need another Mingyu fiasco.”

Your chewing slows at the sound of his name, a strange feeling settling in your stomach at the thought of him. Setting down your half eaten slice, you brush off your fingers.

“I mean…” Nayeon starts after a long pause.

“We don’t. Need another Mingyu fiasco, I mean.” You cut in.

“If only he’d learn to shut up.” Nayeon grumbles, a sour expression on her face.

Mika’s been shifting looks between the both of you, seemingly confused. “Am I missing something?”

Despite not having the intention, you find yourself telling her what you heard while enclosed in the staircase. You attempt to keep it concise, for the sake of your own sanity, but Nayeon’s grumbling is only pushing you deeper into a rant. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t let a couple frustrated tears make their way down your face.

Mika’s response as brisk as your explanation was passionate, brushing over the topic quickly before you got too heated. You appreciated it.

“Have you considered signing up for the photography thing?” Mika asks.

“You know, I was thinking about that too.” Nayeon pulls a finger up in signed patience to wait till she finished the remaining pizza in her mouth. “You should do it. It’ll put your mind off…him. You’ll be busier too.”

“I have a million things to do, I’m busy enough.” You retort.

“You’re busy studying at home. Where he could drop in at any point of day.” She points.

Your open your mouth to rebut again, only to close it as you fail to find a reason to deny her point. “Okay, still!”

“Just – think about it, okay. It’ll put more on your plate but maybe it’ll help.”

That was the last of your Mingyu talk, not that you could carry on when your brother comes slumping into the house after his class, stealing a slice of pizza as he makes his way to his room. He’s slumped at the shoulders, and you egg him to take a nap before he collapsed on the living room floor.

Both Nayeon and Mika are quick to leave after that, leaving you with leftover pizza and your thoughts.

You sprawl your things out on the coffee table, taking advantage of the silent house to get some work done. Nayeon was right, as you think of the prospect of Mingyu entering at any given moment to bother your brother as a constant threat.

It’s not until your prepping dinner with Seokmin that the project is brought up again.

“There’s leftover Chow Mein Mingyu made yesterday, shove that in too.” He yawns as he pushes the box over.

You can only stare at the box in mild agitation, contemplating if you should simply chuck it into the garbage chute. Unfortunately, by experience, you knew Mingyu made really good Chow Mein, so you begrudgingly slide the opened box into the microwave to heat up, deciding you’d push Seok to eat it before you have a chance to take a bite.

It’s silent while you eat, Seokmin still in a daze from his earlier nap, shoving spoonfuls of noodles in between bites of pizza. It’s not until your halfway through eating before he jolts up slightly like he’d just remembered something.

“Did you hear about that volunteering thing from the photography department? They want models for some project.”

“Oh, yeah.” You pause, thinking back to what Nayeon had proposed. “Are you gonna sign up?”

“No, but you should.”

“I don’t know, I still have a lot of prep for finals.”

“You get extra credit if it helps,” he notes.

That was news to you. There’s a frown on your face as you deny, “No, you don’t.”

“They’re doing it ‘cause they weren’t getting the response they wanted. I found out just now too, they’re gonna put it up on the bulletin tomorrow. Might wanna decide before then.”

There were no questions asked after the realization, blue light of the laptop casting your face aglow in the darkened room as you hit the big blue Confirm button on the website. Skimming through the subsequent email, you find you won’t be needed till next week, the date and time making it’s way to your calendar.

Now, if you had known what the next week truly held for you, there was no doubt you’d be sending in a cancellation email at first chance.

But you didn’t know. So you simply went to bed, falling asleep to the vague idea of searching for modeling tips on youtube during the coming weekend, entertaining the mild possibility that this might be the thing that puts you at peace at last.

The photography classes are held in regular lecture rooms, as you find out as you file into the sparingly filled hall at the date your calendar has graciously alerted you for. There was an image of a larger, more spacious area for a discipline pertaining to the arts, yet to be fair, the idea of having to create this form of art within a four walled containment did seem a little counter productive.

Nonetheless, you find yourself seated in a spare chair, waiting for the clock to hit nine on a Saturday morning for the shuffling professor at the front of the room to begin. Your eyes make passovers across the gradually filling room, searching for a semblance of Seuncheol’s bright blond hair to wave him over. There’s no sign of him five minutes before the minute hit twelve, and you’re thinking about slipping to the restroom before it can to kill the remaining time.

There’s another person filing into the room as you rise from your chair, and you pause in attempt to recognize Cheol in the grey zip up.

Except you don’t find Seungcheol, not at all.

Mingyu is walking into the classroom, gaze sweeping across the hall as he seats himself in the front bottom row, head thrown back as he sifts through his perfect hair with his fingers.

You aren't sure why your brows furrowed like they did, or why you planted your butt back onto the chair with the force that you did; especially when all you wanted to do was book it out of the room in full velocity.

He was taking this class. Of course you knew that, especially when it was all he would yap about at any point he graced your presence.

You can feel your purpose in the room fade to nothing as you register him as a unit. You want to blame someone, but you know it’s all you fault. You knew he’d be here; if your mind had only thought fit to remind you at any point in the past week.

In regular Mingyu fashion, if he’d seen you, he does nothing to show it as you find him unraveling a loose thread off of his jacket. You keep your eyes on him, remaining mortified at your blatant disregard to the information that Mingyu was also in this class. Come to think of it, it was probably Mingyu who told Seokmin about the added credit in the first place. You want to kick yourself for not questioning your brother’s apparent magical source of information.

There’s nothing that can be done as you feel Seungcheol finally slip into the seat next to you just as the professor in the front of the room begins to speak. You’re not in the right headspace to make conversation, so you're grateful for the small acknowledgment as the professor begins to drone.

“Each student has been given a theme to work with, they’re all different and given to the people whom I saw fit for the job. You’ll be receiving your packets with your theme today, so remember to pick them up from the front desk before you leave,” she begins.

“As for your models,” she switches to the next slide over to reveal a spreadsheet full of names. “Their names will be right next to yours, the photography students.”

The entire room lurches forward as a unit, eyes squinted and whispers exchanged as they search for their partners in the sea of names. Seungcheol is zooming in on the picture he took with his phone, eyes zooming over to find his name.

“Hey, I found yours!” he announces, moving the phone over to you.

He’s zoomed into your full name on the screen, and your moving the picture aside to see the name across from it. Except, you find you wish you hadn’t.

—Kim, Mingyu.

If you needed more confirmation that the universe was simply against you, you’d gotten the message as you prayed the letters would morph into something else before your very eyes.

You seem to have been staring at the name for too long, because Seungcheol snatches his phone back from your grip to see for himself after you refused to answer his questions of what the name next to yours was.

“Oh, it’s Mingyu! That’s easy, you're basically related.”

You wanted to slap him.

Before you can stop him, he’s yelling the boy’s name across the room amidst the growing chatter, the biggest, stupidest grin on his face. “Mingyu! I found your model, she’s right here!

You wanted to squeeze Seungcheol’s neck till his head popped off.

Mingyu turns around at the call, registering his friend’s words despite the growing noise. He registers you and you watch as he turns his head back at the projection, like he was confirming it was true.

Of course he’s as petrified as you are, if not more. But the embarrassment of his apparent disbelief made its hot way into your stomach and chest nonetheless, your breakfast threatening to make its way back up.

By the time the professor’s done with her bit and the room has begun to file out, you’ve found yourself standing outside the lecture hall in uncomfortable movement, shifting your weight between both feet and fiddling with the straps of your bag. Every passing face sends a jolt though your stomach as you calculate how jarring it would be if you left right this second without seeing him.

You're counting his steps inside your head, how he’d shuffle for his name on the packet he’s meant to receive, counting in any conversation he’d start with a friend or with the professor. A thought occurs to you, and you wonder if he was searching for you inside. You’re weighing between walking inside and leaving altogether when he makes the decision for you, walking out of the room, booklet in hand.

There goes the toast blaring its way back up your esophagus.

“Hey,” he says unceremoniously.

You respond with an unreasonably meek “Hi.”

“Seok didn’t tell me you signed up for this.” He points casually.

Well, Seok doesn’t need to tell you everything.

“Oh, I told him while he was like half asleep, pretty sure he thought he dreamt it.”

Mingyu snorts a little at that, a slight smile appearing on his face as he pictures a sleepy Seokmin.

“I can imagine,” he says, before he’s brought back to the matter at hand by you.

You clear your throat before you begin to talk, expression remaining neutral. “Do we need to get started right away?”

“Oh.” He seems a little taken aback at your forwardness. Like he didn’t know why you didn’t want to make small talk with him. “Uh, I don’t even know what theme I have yet. I’ll read over the packet and plan a couple things out before you have to come in.”

“That’s great.” You hold on the straps of your tote. “Text me when you need me.”

With that, you had spun on your heel and stalked away, not leaving room for him to retort with anything at all. You don’t look back.

Nayeon can do nothing but gape as she watches you hold back frustrated tears, picking apart the grass under you as you curse the heavens for your horrible fate. She’s absorbing the situation as you wallow, finding the words to say.

“Fuck, this is my fault,” she breathes out.

“No!” You gasp out, furiously wiping away the irritating tears. “It’s not. I just forgot, it’s my own fault. You were right for trying to get me to do it, it just…”

“You can’t ask to change partners?” she asks.

“I can’t!” You wail, “I’m supposed to not care, how is this me not caring?”

It was ridiculous. Truly. You were sobbing like a child over this, screaming about wanting to not care. But you did care. Too much. Nayeon can do little but hold you as you sniffle into her lap, feeling sick to your stomach at your own childish behaviour.

“Why am I crying about this, this is stupid.”

“You’re stressed, hon, that’s it. You’ve got a lot going on and this just multiplied it.” She’s running a soothing hand over your back. “Just let it out, you need it.”

You emerge from your hunched position to sit up straight, sniffling a little less as you calm down. “Should I withdraw from the project?”

“I mean, if you really want to,” she says softly.

“But?” You sense her apprehension.

“But, maybe you should give it a go.”

You can only blink at her with wet lashes.

“Think of it this way. You need to… build resistance, keep yourself around him regardless. There’s bound to come a point where you start to feel…nothing.”

“Are you trying to work exposure therapy on me?”

“Maybe? If that’s what it means. If you take yourself out of the project, it shows that you care. You need to pretend to not care before you can stop feeling the real thing.”

There’s a pause as you attempt to find reason in her words.

“Listen, I may be talking out of my ass, and if you do end up doing it, it’s gonna be hard – like a lot, but–”

“No. You’re making sense.”

“I am?” She blinks, taken aback at the realisation that you may be listening to her. You nod quietly, “You’re right, I can’t keep running away.”

“So, you’re gonna do it?” She confirms with wide eyes.

Once again, you find it within yourself to nod.

Yeah. You were gonna do it.

Being in Mingyu’s presence and feeling nothing may be the goal, but you realise quickly it’s going to take you a while to restrain the trailing eyes that follow him wherever he goes. Nayeon had warned you, but you realise you may be slightly ill-prepared.

The theme is light. Vague to you but he doesn’t seem too bothered by it. He isn’t looking at you as he talks, eyes darting between the laptop screen and the plethora of papers he’s scattered on the coffee table. “I don’t really have a colour preference for this one but a a deeper blue or a purple would fit pretty well with the sunlight on here.”

You can only nod along in mild understanding, most of your effort exerted on trying to keep your eyes on the screen where he’s pulling up a color wheel. “I probably have something.”

“Do you still have that button up Seok bought you? The one with the stripes?”

You recall the deep blue shirt your brother had gotten you for your first in class presentation, picturing it hung still in your closet. “Uh, yeah I do. I’ll wear it.”

“Bring options, whatever fits the colours. No turtlenecks or crewnecks though…” Mingyu continues to talk, taking notes for you in the process. Your mind, however, is somewhere else.

You hate how your mind takes you to a murkier place, one where the thought of him retaining memory of your closet pieces unprovoked has your neck tingling and your cheeks lifting. Trying to snap out of it before he notices your dazed expression, you pretend to flip through the couple papers in front of you, noting nothing.

“Other than that–” he’s cut off by his phone ringing on the table. Both your gazes dart to the caller ID, and you immediately wish you hadn’t as you register the pink heart on the end. Jia was calling.

He barely spares you a glance as he excuses himself in a mumble, something about being back in a second. You watch him leave through the cafe altogether, emerging on the other end of the glass walls in your direct vision. For the nth time that day, you find it impossible to tear your eyes away from his positively elated face, teeth out on display as talks to his girlfriend. You wonder what they’re talking about, if her face is beaming like his own, wherever she is.

You zone out as you wonder what it’d be like to be the receiving end of an expression like that. To have something within you to be worth his smile, his mumbled pardons and his uninterrupted space. There’s a part of you that wonders if its greed – you’ve gotten to see him nearly everyday for the past decade, perhaps you’ve run your tickets dry.

You realise quickly that Mingyu is no longer in your line of sight as you feel a ruffle on the chair as he sits back on his seat.

“I think we can wrap up here, let me take the first couple shots before I can see where to go with it afterwards.”

You sense his eager want to leave, and you cannot help but beat him to it for your own sake.

“Alright. I’ll see you friday then.” SLiding out of your seat, you make a halfhearted attempt at shuffling his papers in a neater pile, throwing him a half smile before grabbing your bag.

He isn’t watching you leave, you know that. Yet you find yourself refusing to slow down or look back till you round the corner, letting your shoulders finally slump and your pace to come to a temporary halt. It takes you another beat before you begin walking again, breathing in slowly as you navigate your way through the moderately crowded sidewalk. Nearly ramming into a fire hydrant, you shake off the seize that remains in your body, picking up the pace hoping it’d promote less thoughts.

It works, as you unlock your front door, finally shaking off the autopilot. Shifting to the kitchen is easy, rummaging the cabinets for your hidden stash of moonpies with the intention to devour the family box whole. You’re contemplating texting Seokmin to bring you actual food as you make your way to your bedroom, wanting nothing more than to let your covers absorb all the feelings that make you human.

You find it unfortunate as you catch sight of yourself in the full length mirror and the outfit you’d put together before you had left. Your mind goes back to pandemonium as you take in the details, wondering why on earth you’d put in so much effort for a conversation that lasted less than an hour. You tear your eyes away before you begin to truly hate yourself, ripping your jewelry off as you make a beeline to wash your face clean of the makeup you’d put on.

It becomes increasingly difficult to look at yourself even in the bathroom mirror, moisturizer going on more aggressively than what’s good for you. You feel a sting in the back of your eyes and owe it to the face wash.

It’s easier once you’re in bed, your laptop at the ready, and a text on its way as you bug your brother to bring you your favorite burger and milkshake combo. You put your immediate faith in your moonpies for now as you rip the first one open, letting the sweetness bring you a deluded happiness.

“His name hurts.” Your voice comes out echoey, the sound reverberating in the cavern of your chest. The shot on the table is inviting, but you can’t help but feel nauseous at the thought of downing it. Your fizzled out sprite is being good to you, so you let it.

“Hearing you talk about him hurts,” Mika slurs, slumping down onto the beanbag she’s dragged onto the scene, joining you and Nayeon next to the couch.

Letting out a loud sigh that you doubt she can hear over the bass booming across the house, you settle to rest your head back on the couch backrest, staring into the ceiling. “Imagine what it’s doing to me then.”

“I don’t need to.” You can hear the exasperation in her voice.

“Oh, hey, Hao!” Nayeon drags next to you and you lift your head up to see Mika’s boyfriend join her on the already tiny beanbag. He huffs out a hey between a slight smile, slumping almost entirely on his girlfriend. She pats his hair in silent regard.

“I read this research paper about how they can delete the memories out of your brain squiggles,” Nayeon pops in.

“Since when do you read academic material for interest?” Minghao mumbles, fingers busy playing with Mika’s hair.

The pair continue to bicker as your eyes trail across the moderately packed house, the party looking more lowbeat than any other Seungcheol extravaganzas. Not that you were complaining, but when you spot a certain someone, it’s hard not to.

Mingyu files into the kitchen with your brother in tow, beaming face evident over the island as he pours himself what looks like orange juice. Your mood is instantly soured.

“What study was that again?” You poke at Nayeon, the image of the man you wished for gone burned into your forebrain. She glances over to the open kitchen and realises what you’re talking about, coming around with a face of her own.

“That one’s gonna be a hard one to scrub out. But it’s okay, even the toughest stains succumb to bleach that’s strong enough,” she sighs. You’re barely listening to her analogy, not when he’s standing right there rendering it impossible for you to look anywhere else.

“You sound like a commercial.” You can almost hear the crinkle in Mika’s nose as she comments, and you can’t help but breathe out a laugh.

The rest continue with their conversation as you remain quiet for most of the exchange, eyes filling your heart heavy with the way they remain glued to the figure far out into the kitchen. It was less about the fact that you just wanted to look at him and more of how it was forcing you to think about your predicament; something that was weighing you down yet something you couldn’t help.

You can’t be entirely sure how long you managed to stare without getting caught, but when Mika calls your name out harsher than expected, you snap around to divert your attention.

“Huh?”

“Sixth time’s the charm, huh? Get it together, he’s not gonna look at you,” she huffs as she slumps back onto the beanbag, alone this time as you note that Minghao is gone.

It takes you a moment to gather what she had said, mouth gaping open and close as you try to conspire a proper response. “I wasn’t trying–”

“No. Save it. It was my fault for thinking I could sit here without having to sit through more of your Mingyu bullshit.” She’s shuffling out of her bean bag with mediocre difficulty, exasperation on her face as she trudges away to sit with her boyfriend and his friends on the seats on the middle of the floor.

The air seems to have knocked out of your chest as you find the capacity to process what just happened. Seemingly forgotten Nayeon was also here, you note the hand she places on your elbow as a sober attempt to get you to look at her.

The rest of the night passes in a nauseous blur, none that you could really make sense of. You bid Nayeon goodbye as you assured her you’d go home with your brother, waving goodbye to blurred taxi lights as she leaves you alone in front of a dwindling house.

The breath you let out is shaky as your feet remain planted on the concrete, the remnants of tonight passing over you as they came. Deciding you owed it to yourself, you let the tears well up in your eyes. As tired as you were of crying over what was essentially the same thing over and over again, you let yourself tire yourself out once more.

The party was over, and you knew that because you were walking home alone, hoping Nayeon would forgive you for lying to her. But you couldn’t possibly explain the tear stains on your cheeks to your brother, not when he knew nothing. It was better that way; you refuse to be the person that potentially ruins a friendship that’s lasted longer than any other.

You try to keep your sniffling to a minimum as you trudge slowly in the dark, not bothering to wipe your tears. Your stomping grows louder the more you grow frustrated with your thoughts, and it proves not too well for you. There’s a pair of headlights throwing light onto the oncoming street, illuminating you in the process. You want to kick yourself as the realisation settles in, praying the car would simply pass you. Considering the late hour and the fact that you were alone is hitting you at the worst time, wondering if you could pretend to make a call as you walked.

It’s a black sedan that rolls up next to you, slower than what’s considered a normal speed on an empty street. It honks and you nearly halt, owing to the shake that passes through your knees. It honks again, and you can’t help but look to the side to find a window rolled down.

Mingyu sits on the driver’s seat, leaning over to the empty passenger side to grab your attention.

“The Uber’s free! So is the driver,” he yells out the window. “Hop in.”

“I’m alright. I kinda wanna walk.” You shift your weight between your feet, the distance adding an awkward feel.

“Wasn’t asking. It’s the middle of the night, I’m not letting you walk alone.” As he speaks, another car passes from behind him, slowing down. You note the look the other driver is giving you through the window, and it’s enough to convince you to step into Mingyu’s car.

“I think we’re way past the point of formalities, don’t know why you hesitated.” He chuckles as he motions for you to click on your seatbelt. You fumble with it for a moment, his own fingers coming to the rescue to latch it on. You retract your fingers before they can brush with his own any further.

Settling into your seat, you choose to look forward as he picks up speed. “Uhm, just wanted to walk, it was nice outside.”

“Take someone with you next time, it’s nearly midnight,” he warns.

There’s a twinge of annoyance that emerges in the back of your mind for some reason, despite knowing full well that he was right. You just didn’t want to hear it from him.

It’s silent for a bit as the radio plays an uncharacteristically upbeat tune, prompting you to wonder if it was just you who felt the atmosphere pressing in on your chest.

“Did you not bring your car today?” he asks out of the blue, eyes remaining on the road as you glance up at him. One look at his side profile and you’re turning your gaze away.

“No, it’s at the workshop. I came with Nayeon.”

“Why didn’t you leave with her?”

“I…” You pause. “I told her I was gonna go with Seok.”

“Hm. That didn’t happen.”

“It’s like I said,” you mumble.

He hums again in response, dropping the subject.

“Listen, are you…are you okay?” he starts again and it has you looking back up at him.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” You try to hide the bitterness in your tone but it proves difficult.

“I couldn’t help but overhear but I was sitting right there. Hao was talking to Mika about something she’d said to you, about…” He trails off. “I mean, you looked a little upset, I just wanted to ask if you were okay.”

You bit your tongue. Hard.

He knew you were staring at him, he knew you weren’t over him. He knew you were still standing on the same square confinement from months ago. Never changed.

“I’m fine,” you reply, snappier than you had intended.

“Are you sure? I felt like I should’ve said something but Nayeon was right there so I thought…” He sounds unsure and when you see him look at you, with eyes filled with an emotion that makes you nearly gag, you almost lose it. You did not want him to pity you. Nor care for you; especially when it came from a place that nullifies your feelings. You didn’t want him to care for you for the sole reason that you were his best friend’s sister.

“Mingyu, I think it’s best if you drop it.”

“Of course. But it might help if you wanna, you know, feel your feelings.”

Fuck no, you weren’t crying in front of him. Not when you're sure he’s noticed the tear stains on your makeup.

“Mingyu, I said drop it. I don’t need your help, I don’t need to feel anything, I need you stop feeling like you’re obligated to care about me because you’re not.” The words come tumbling out before you can stop them, irritation laced in every snap and dent.

He says your name in an attempt to smooth you over. It only lands him in more trouble.

“No, listen, I get it. You’re uncomfortable about everything but you feel like you need to check up on me at the same time, and I’m here to tell you that you don’t have to worry about that. What happened, happened, and it’s my job to pick up the pieces because it’s my fault. You don’t need to meddle.” You’re breathing hard as you finish, finally settling back in your seat.

He’s already pulling up to your building, heat still penetrating the silence. You unbuckle your seatbelt, mumbling a thanks for the ride.

“Seok’s staying at Cheol’s tonight,” he calls out as you shuffle out the door. “Remember to lock the door.”

You stand sheepishly holding the open door as you nod quietly. “I’ll see you tomorrow for the shoot.”

Middle school was harder than you thought.

Not that you expected it to be easy, but you remained hopeful nonetheless. Fifth grade came plowing for you with an unexpected vigor, which you were feeling especially as you gripped your red marked paper with a vice grip.

It was Mingyu who had found you on the kitchen island sniffling, waiting for your mother to come home and ask you for your dreaded test results.

You drop your head in shame (even more so) when he asks you the inevitable question of “what’s wrong?” Your voice comes out as a mumble. “I failed my first test.”

He blinks as he stops in front of the fridge, opening it to emerge with a carton of chocolate milk and two monsters. He slides the carton over to you as he takes a seat on the other chair.

“Well, what did you get?” he asks as he pops his can open, ears studded black from the piercings he’d gotten done.

You mumble out the number in incoherence that has him hunching down to hear you.

“What?”

“A fifteen!” you finally huff out in exasperation.

“Hm. Better than me I think I got a two at some point. Don’t worry about it, it's not the end of the world.” He says. “D’you want me to turn that into a seventy five?”

You look up confused. “How?”

“You’ll see. Get me your test. And a red marker.”

On that day, Mingyu aided you in your first con, pulling lines to turn the one into a seven right before your eyes.

“There. Now don’t let her look at it too hard or check your answers. And only give it to her if she asks for it.”

He had left back to your brother’s room with the spare can of monster, leaving you to stash your test into your bag and move to seat yourself in a more natural position. You’d gotten away with it as your mother pats you on the back for your first attempt at a fifth grade paper, leaving you with a lesson to work harder, and a memory that stayed with you for years.

The following day is met with a pit of guilt sitting in your stomach before you could even recall the events of last night.

There’s little that you can do to prep as you’re supposed to change at the studio anyway, pushing the remnants of your makeup products into a pouch as a second thought. Your hair seemed fine, deciding you’d see to it if it needed changing when you got there.

You push your departure as far as you could, finding more things to do and more chores to finish before you were due to leave. It takes you a final look at the time before you finally decide to trudge to the door with your things. You cross paths with Seokmin who’s only just coming home, looking worse for wear. He barely acknowledges you as he makes a beeline for his bedroom, disappearing.

He’s probably fine.

By the time you get to the studio Mingyu is already in the middle of setting up, immersed in the switches behind giant studio lights. It’s dark, save for the one studio light thats already on, casting a light on the white backdrop, a single stool sits at the front. Looking around, the place casts an eerie atmosphere, the unattended stations and dark back rooms casting a shiver down your spine despite the Afternoon light outside. Perhaps you were acclimated to the hustle and bustle in behind the scene videos of photoshoots, yet here it was just you and Mingyu.

He doesn’t notice you come in right away, and you’re thankful for the opportunity to recast your words in your head, waiting to be uttered as soon as you say your hellos.

“Oh, hey,” he says normally.

“Hope I’m not too late.”

“No, you’re fine, I’m nearly done setting up,” he says, as he switches the second studio light on, doubling the glow in the room.

“Oh, okay.” Your voice comes out as an uncharacteristic whisper. “Uh, listen, Mingyu, I just wanted to apologize about last night. You were only asking and I was being too harsh.”

He picks up his back from his bent position to look at you, hand coming to rub the back of his neck. “Oh, no, don’t say that, It’s me who should be apologising. I shouldn’t have pried when you said you didn’t wanna talk about it. I’m sorry, really.”

You're opening your mouth to rebut, nails clashing onto each other as your fidgeting gets worse, but you decide to end it. “We’re both sorry, let’s just end this here.”

Both of you have slightly uncomfortable smiles on your faces as Mingyu continues to fidget with his cables and equipment. It went smoother than you’d thought, silently thanking him for keeping it from getting awkward – more awkward than necessary anyway.

“These ones are gonna be basic studies, establishing the usual studio lights in the beginning before we move to the more experimental shots.” He drags his own stool forward to sit directly across from you in front of the plain white backdrop. “Did you bring another black top?”

“I did, do you want me to change?”

“Not yet.” He positions the camera higher, looking like he’s ready. “Okay, relax your body. Shoulders back, chin down. Okay, now a smile, really small, barely there.”

He snaps his first photo and you nearly knock yourself backwards on the stool, lights going off at the shot damn near blinding you.

“You good?”

“I thought the flash was just gonna be your camera.” You frown, coming round.

“Nah, you’ll get used to it. Okay, back in position.”

He takes a couple more pictures, urging you to make miniscule changes to your poses, whatever feels good. You find yourself loosening up, your posture aiding you instead of working against you. “Try putting your hands on the stool, yeah like that, lean forward. Chin up a little more.”

The directions continue from behind the camera as he continues to flash away, and you do your utmost to not let the lights disorient you too much. He lets you take a break when you make a comment about the pure thermal energy in the room, your face no doubt shiny and red from the lights. You’re done after you take a couple more pictures after an outfit change, rendering you free to leave within the hour.

“I think you’re done,” he announces, stretching as he leaves his own stool. “I’ll send you deets for tomorrow, we’ll probably get a lot more done.”

“Oh, cool.”

Gathering your stuff doesn’t take you as you go up to tell him you’re about to leave. You find him fiddling with cables, packing everything up before leaving himself. You make a split second decision, dropping your bag before announcing yourself.

“Let me help.”

“Huh? Oh no, it’s fine. I just need to shove them in storage.”

“That’s alright, I’ll help. What d’you want me to do?”

“Uh, Maybe unplug all the ports, and um, turn the lights on too, I guess. It’s gonna get dark if you don’t.”

Cleaning up was easier when those god awful studio lights weren’t overheating the entire hall, collecting cables and putting equipment back into their places. It was over before you knew it.

“Is your car back from the workshop?” Mingyu yells from inside one of the side rooms collecting his stuff.

“Not yet, I’m getting it back on the 15th. Ordered a cab.”

“You’re going home from here, right?” He emerges from the room, arms in the middle of slipping into his jacket. “I’ll drive you.”

“No, it’s fine I have to meet Nayeon at uni and–”

“Even better, I was going there too. Come on, I just need to kill the lights.”

You’re out of saviours, evident as you slide into his car, yet again with no choice. It’s meant to be a short drive, considering the studio is barely ten minutes away from where you need to be, yet it feels like an impromptu road trip with the way the roads seem to stretch.

It’s significantly less awkward than last night, perhaps owed to him not being as inclined to make conversation, unlike last night.

By the time he’s pulling up, you already have your bag in hand, a thank you frozen on your tongue as you register who it is that’s standing outside the library. You groan internally as you see Nayeon waiting for you, immersed in something on her phone. Praying she stays occupied, you rush your, “thanks, I’ll see you tomorrow,” as you hope she doesn’t see you slip out of the familiar car.

She does notice. Looking up at the sound of yout door opening, she catches clear sight of you stepping out of the car, Mingyu in the driver’s seat. You can tell she’s subdued her reaction, but the eyebrows gives her away as they shoot up at the sight. Trudging up to her is a nightmare and a half, dreading the questions she’s going to ask as you hear Mingyu rev away.

“Are my eyes deceiving me?” she breathes out, eyes wide, mouth open in jest.

“Quit it, I have work to get done.” You choose to lead her straight into the library where you know she won’t be able to ask you any more probing questions.

That doesn’t seem to sedate her though as she continues to whisper a million questions, watching you pull your stuff out.

“I had a shoot with him today, he offered to drop me off and I couldn’t say no!”

“Oh my gosh!” she exclaims a little too loud, owing a couple nasty surrounding looks her way, including yours. She continues quieter, pulling your laptop away from you so you’d pay more attention to her. “How’d it go? Did you pose all sexy for him, did he look nervous?”

“I did not pose sexy, I posed normally, because I have a conscience,” you snap, yanking your laptop back from her grip.

She’s smiling like an idiot, unaffected by your annoyance. “Is he gonna drop you off after every shoot? Oh my god! Don’t you dare get your car from the garage, give it to Seokmin, or, or, tell them to keep it!”

“Nayeon, shush!” It’s your turn to whisper shout at her gradually increasing volume, pushing her to quit leaning over the desks.

“Okay, okay.” She sobers up.

“I’m supposed to be getting over him, why are you so happy about this? Indifference, remember? It was you who brought it up.”

“Yes, but you can’t tell me it doesn’t look, I don’t know, like, you know!”

Once she’s a little less giddy, you finally tell her about last night – leaving out the bit where he droppped you home for the sake of the library and its inhabitants.

“I mean, I know we aplogised and everything, but I felt a little less… on fire around him. Other than those stupid studio lights, those were turning the place into a sauna. But I could meet his eyes without hyperventilating,” you explain, eyes downcast as you speak.

“I imagine his eyes were covered with that camera anyway, but progress, I guess,” Nayeon comments.

“Maybe I needed to get mad at him to feel better, I don’t know. But it feels like I’m making progress for the first time.”

“I told you this would be good for you, give it a couple more weeks and it’ll be like Mingyu never happened.”

It takes a conscious attempt to not scoff. Like Mingyu never happened to your heart. That’s a heart you can’t recognise.

The first time Seokmin had brought girls over was a day you couldn’t forget, no matter how hard you tried.

You were padding down to the kitchen, still bleary eyed and pyjama clad from your nap, making a beeline for the fridge to get a glass of water. Your trip is cut short, however, when you realised the living room was not as empty as you expected. It’s a crowd (to your eleven year old self, anyway) of people your brother’s age. You catch a couple familiar faces, friends of your brother who visited often, Mingyu is part of the lumps on the couch with them.

What stumped you, however, were the girls that were seated in between, eyes equally trained on you as everyone else in the room.

“Oh, who’s this Seok?” one of the girls asked.

“My little sister. D’you wanna say hi?” he asked you, neck craned to look at you.

“Uh. Hi,” you whisper, gulping.

There’s a chorus of hi’s that came bounding at you. You could feel the embarrassment creep up your entire body, feeling conscious for the first time in your life. They were staring at you. They were smiling, but you hated it.

You weren’t thinking as you turned around to sprint back upstairs, not missing the tinkle of laughs coming from the living room.

“Oh, she’s cute,” you had heard. That had you nearly starting to cry.

You’d be lying if you said your little crush on Mingyu hadn’t started blossoming for a while at that point. Being younger meant you were constantly fighting to be seen, even more so when you’d do anything for Mingyu to look at you. Hogging your brother’s bean bag until you were kicked out, putting sparkly clips in your hair before you went to the kitchen, laughing especially loud when you knew he could hear.

And yet, despite everything, for the very first time, you hated that Mingyu was looking at you, watching you idle and awkward while he sat next to a bunch of prettier, older girls.

That night was of many firsts, including the first time you had ever cried over Mingyu.

Mingyu claimed this was the last shoot, that he’d be done after this final set of shots.

You’re having a hard time though, because he’s decided his studio for the day was gonna be at the top of a mountain at the asscrack of dawn.

“We have fifteen minutes,” he announces.

“To live?” You heave, crouching on the gravel to give your body a break.

“Till sunrise,” he interjects, reversing to get to your crouched figure. You feel him grab hold of the straps of your bag, swinging it over his own shoulder. “Come on, just a little more.”

“You’ve been saying that for an hour.” You groan, picking yourself up off the path to resume your trudging. Mingyu stays next to you this time.

“Did you pack your entire house in here, the fuck is this so heavy for,” he grunts.

“You're the one asking for a bajillion outfit changes, I’m just doing what you asked.”

“One change of clothes and a compact doesn’t weigh this much, are you disposing a body up here?”

“Might be yours if I don't see that damn railing in a minute.”

“I think you're hungry,” he huffs out.

“I think I need to never agree to do this again.”

“Salavation!” he yelps as he sees a vending machine in the distance, quite literally glowing (with its fluorescent lights).

“I don’t need a water bottle, Mingyu, I need to lie down.” Your voice grows more gruff by the minute, legs nearly giving away.

“No, the vending machine means…” He bounds up the last couple leaps to the glowing box with a burst of motivation. The slope turns flat at the horizon. “We’re here.”

Nearly falling to your knees at the sight of the long awaited arrival point, you drop to a nearby bench and lay flat on the stiff wood.

“How long till I need to look presentable? Because if it’s anything under thirty minutes, I’m tapping out.” You declare.

“I can give you five minutes, take it or leave it.” He barely sits down as he speaks while already unzipping his camera bag. The thought of lifting your arms is excruciating, so you rest your tongue and bite back a whine.

By the time you do find it within yourself to swing your legs back over the bench, the sky is shifting to a smoky navy, urging you to hurry up as you dry your sweat. You’re cringing as you press powder on your unclean face, but power through the final touches as you stretch while standing up straight.

The first rays of sunlight are just coming through as Mingyu calibrates his lenses, trying to figure out the best shots in the limited time frame you have. You listen to him as he directs you where he wants you, contorting your face into something akin to faux serene. It’s near impossible when the frown has molded itself into your face after what you’ve put your body through today.

“Think happy thoughts.” Mingyu calls out from behind his camera.

“Oh, I’m thinking real happy thoughts. Like the ice cold shower I’m about to take when I get home. My clean bed that’s gonna be nice to me when I lay in it. The leftover pasta in the fridge. My moonpies.”

He has to bring his face away from the camera to throw his head back in a breathy laugh, smile as wide as it could go. It does things to you, but you ignore it.

The summit isn’t entirely empty, noting a few people leaning against the railings, rendering it mostly quiet. All the more jarring becomes Mingyu’s phone as it blares into the silence, causing the both of you to jump at the sudden sound.

He checks the caller ID only to silence it and slip it back into his pocket.

You don’t get to ask who it was calling him so early in the morning, but get your answer when he immediately announces he’s done with his shots. The sun is higher up at this point, casting a more even orange glow across all the eye could see.

You suppose he’s in a hurry to get home, seeing as he has someone waiting on him. “Should we leave then?”

He swings the camera strap around his neck, forearms on the railing as he admires the view. “Give it a couple more minutes, I need to mentally prepare myself for the next hour.”

It’s hard for you to deny that, so you let yourself place your head into your crossed arms over the railing, staring into the glow. It’s silent for a while as the rays hit your face, warming you more than you’d like. You don’t make any effort to move though, deciding to appreciate the view while it was here, doubting you’d ever make the trek up here again. Not willingly, at least.

There’s a camera shutter that goes off next to you and you find Mingyu fidgeting with his camera as he tries to begin packing it up. You would help, but you’ve found yourself refraining from touching anything when it comes to his actual camera setup, opting to watch as he disassembles his lenses and pushes buttons to power off.

By the time you're trudging down the path you’d come up from, it’s bright and sunny, rendering it warmer than before. Going down, however, is proving easier as you appreciate the reduced strain in your calves, letting the recent conversation take you to a smoother route.

“When d’you think your gonna be done editing?” You ask at some point, the thought occurring to you that you’d only seen a couple pictures that he’d taken so far, oweing to his disapproval showing you all the raws before editing.

“Kinda have to get them edited and annotated by the due date, so probably by the end of the month.”

“D’you think I could get the ones you edit?”

“Why? D’you wanna kickstart a portfolio?” he muses.

“I think it’s normal to ask for my pictures you took of me,” you grunt.

He laughs it off. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll send them over.”

Mingyu doesn’t drop you off home this time, both of you slipping into your own cars at the base of the hiking trail, bidding your goodbyes. You’d gotten an earful from Nayeon for getting your car back from the garage so quickly, and while sitting in a car with him wasn’t so bad anymore, you choose to retain that distance regardless. This was work, You’re doing this because you have to, and the stupid extra credit that roped you into this in the first place.

Alas, as you start your engine, eyes cast towards Mingyu’s number plate right up front, you can’t help but feel…sad… remembering this was your last shoot. As emotionally vexing the experience was, you had grown to look forward to his discreet location pins and outfit plans, growing more comfortable with him by the meeting.

It almost felt like you and Mingyu were friends.

Your brother’s graduation was an ordeal to say the least. Your parents flying in was a plus, getting to see them at least once for the summer, even if it was just for the day.

The night is wrapped up fairly quickly, a big dinner with yours and Mingyu’s family to congratulate the freed graduates from their academic shackles. It dials back when Mingyu announces he’s gonna take a summer course for now to keep himself busy, wanting to wait a little before job hunting. Seokmin seems to express the same, wanting some time off for himself before entering the corporate world.

It’s when you get home and your brother is sending you all the pictures of today that you note one that stands out. It was of you and Mingyu, an inevitable one as your parents took turns to make sure everybody got solo shots with everyone.

You’d applaud the enthusiasm, but it was particularly unfortunate for you when the camera was thrust into your hands as Mingyu and Jia posed for nearly fifty pictures. You wouldn’t mind usually, but it just felt like a little too much in the moment.

Despite everything, you find yourself clicking on the Save button on the picture where you’re smiling a little too wide right next to him, for the sake of yourself.

Summer break rolls around with no more hiccups, if you’d count finals as anything other than strenuous. You were happy, with a new job to keep you company for the next three months as you lament not being able to go home.

Getting the job at the bookstore was easy, your shifts were reasonable and it didn’t pay half bad. You would’ve guessed they were desperate for a hire, but you appreciate the activity regardless. It’s not really hard work, you find out quickly. Manning the desk, shelving deposits and restocking supplies. Monotonous tasks yet ones that you find yourself slipping into quite easily.

After the last shoot at the mountain, it was basically radio silence from Mingyu. Not being able to catch him the rare chance he stopped by the house, both of you swamped with the end of semester throw up. You doubt he’d noticed, and you despair at the fact that you did, even if it was just a little.

“Oh, great, you’re here!” The owner greets you as you walk into the store, all smiles. She was a sweet lady, nicer than any other boss you’d ever had. “Was just waiting for you so I could leave, my daughter has a play she’s putting on today!”

“Oh, sorry to keep you!” You rush to set your bag down as she picks up her own things, coming around from the table to take her leave. “Hope the recital goes well, tell her I said good luck.”

“Will do.” She smiles before adding, “Oh and, somebody called an hour ago asking about our book bundles, he said he’d come in to check but he hasn’t yet. Thought I’d let you know in case he asks about the phone call.”

“Got it,” you confirm, waving as she walks out the door, “I’ll see you tomorrow!”

Breathing out a sigh, you find yourself relatively free this afternoon, a slow weekday as you pick your current read out of your bag to get comfortable for the long shift. You’re nearly through the halfway point when you hear the first jingle of the day, the bells attached to the door making their familiar chime

“Good afternoon!” You look up to greet the customer, dog earring your book before standing up from your seat.

The person who’d walked in wasn’t just any customer, you soon realise as you recognise the familiar shag of hair. Mingyu was here.

“Oh.” You can’t help but let it out when you register him, his own eyebrows shooting up at the sight of you behind the counter. Your next greeting comes out a little dumbly. “Hi.”

“Hey. What’re you doing here?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed as he takes you in.

“Um,” you glance at your obvious name tag. “I work here.”

“Oh, right, Seok mentioned you started working at a bookstore.” He throws his head back at the memory. “Hey, was it you over the phone earlier today? Didn’t sound like it.”

“Oh no, that was my boss, my shift started like an hour ago.” You confirm.

“Ah, I see.”

The silence is awkward for about five seconds before you jump into action. “You asked about a bundle over the phone?”

“Right, um,” he pauses to fish his phone out his pocket, scrolling for something. “It’s Jia’s birthday coming up, and there’s this book series she’s been wanting. Here.”

You need to remind yourself to pat yourself on the back for not shaking as you received his phone, mind remaining in the moment. “Oh yeah, we have those. Let me grab ‘em for you.”

He follows you through the columns of shelves as you navigate to find what he was looking for, stopping in front of the shelves. “There’s three of these, I can put them in a sleeve for you. Probably put a bow on it too if you want.”

“Okay, perfect. Do you guys have LP’s too?” he asks.

“Uh, yeah. Hold on, let me put these up front.”

You lead him to the back of the store. “The selection’s pretty small, the first shipment only came in like a month ago. I’m not sure if you’ll find what you want here.”

“She’s been talking about getting more LP’s after she got a new record player. Hasn’t mentioned anything she wants though,” he voices, thumbing through the selection.

“What does she listen to normally?” You ask before quickly adding, “So I can, maybe, help pick something she’d like.”

“Uh, older stuff? I should’ve snooped before coming, fuck.” He mumbles, thinking hard. “She barely plays it when I’m around but most of her LP’s are like Frank Sinatra and…Duran Duran was it?”

“Hm…” You hum as you flick through the dated section of the stockpile, “How’s this?’

He’s taking a look at the record you’ve handed him, scanning the tracklists on the back. “I’ll get this, I guess. I can always bring her around to get more that she likes.”

“D’you want a bow on this?” You ask, referring to the books you’re putting into the set sleeve, “You can pick your colour.”

He’s quick to pick the lilac ribbon, watching you as you tape it prettily on the box. You’re trying to curl the ribbon at the ends when he tries to make conversation.

“When does your shift end?”

If the man wasn’t quite literally buying a birthday present for his girlfriend (or if you had any memory of your own birthday), you’d think he was trying to hit on you. But he’s not. You know that.

“Ten-ish. Closing’s on me so I could technically leave an hour early and no one would know.” You snort.

“Everyday?” he asks incredulously.

“Minus weekends, the family takes care of that. They just need someone for afternoons and evenings on the weekdays. It’s not like I’m taking summer classes or anything, and it’s easy work.”

“Well, you’ll be pleased to find out you’ll most likely be available on the 27th of August, then.” He sing songs as he fishes his phone out to pay, a cheeky air in his expression.

You blink at him in confusion, waiting for him to explain. “Was I supposed to get that?”

He pushes his shoulders back, content expression on his face as he continues. “There’s a cultural art exhibition in two months, and I, have just found out I’ve been shortlisted for a spot.”

“A spot? Like to display your photos?!” You drop the card machine with a thud.

“Your photos. Prof liked the project so much she submitted some of ‘em as entries. It was super short notice, but they liked them, I guess.” His grin is wide, one that you find impossible to not reciprocate. “I just need you to sign a consent form and I’ll be all set to start prepping.”

“That’s insane, Mingyu, congratulations!” You exclaim, genuinely excited. “Are you gonna be using the same pictures?”

“Yup, I just need to fix the editing with my prof before they go up. You’re the first to find out, I just got out of the meeting.”

There’s a mix of hesitation before you utter your next proposal, a split second of bewilderment at what you were about to suggest. “Come over tonight, we can celebrate with Seok. Bring Jia along too, we can celebrate an early birthday.”

“I’ll see, she might be taking a bus home tonight for the weekend, might have to bother you by myself.”

The ache in your cheeks didn’t stop until well after Mingyu had left with his cargo, the elated feeling remaining for even longer after the fact. There was a point where it took you convincing to rid yourself of another intrusive, uneasy feeling, like you were taking a step back by being happy at his announcement.

It was, however, safe to call Mingyu a friend. Safe to be happy for him. Safe to have your heart swell at his achievement, having watched him work hard for it.

It was safe to feel.

This was horrible.

Truly.

You were trying to ignore it, the strange thumping noises coming from under your car, like it would go away if you pretended to not hear. There was a sliver of hope for you, barely five minutes away from home that you’d make it before your tire decided it had enough of trying to grab your attention.

But then it started screeching, and you had to stop before you caused a road fire.

“Tire? Didn’t you get them changed like last month?” Seokmin asks over the phone.

“Didn’t know new tires were immune to industrial blades, too. Are you gonna tell me I got ripped off?”

“Mingyu has a scissor jack, I’ll tell him to come to you.”

“Wait! You have a scissor jack, too! Why can’t you come?” You sputter at the sound, glancing at the 21:42 on the dial.

“He has my scissor jack, he’ll change it for you.” He grits back. “Besides, I’m not letting this face pack go to waste I just put it on.”

“Seok!”

“Stay in the car, lock the doors till he gets there.” He grounds.

“Seokmin!”

Beep.

The bastard hung up.

“Ugh!” you break from a tightened jaw, slamming the car door shut with passion as you huff into your seat, waiting for Mingyu.

Was Mingyu busy at 10:30 PM on a weekday? He was, actually.

He’d scrambled to finish up the last of his meeting with his professor, wrapped up in planning for the exhibition despite the two month time frame he’d been given. Exhibitions were a lot of paperwork, as he was finding out as he sweet talks Jia over the phone, promising to be with her within the next five minutes. Well, ten maybe, he has to grab butter from the store.

She sits on the kitchen counter as Mingyu makes her favourite. A strenuous task, but he’s willing to go through the double frying to make up for the time he’s lost. It’s not until he’s doing the post dinner dishes while Jia’s picking a movie in the living room that he’s met with another dilemma to handle.

He’s deflating as he stands, phone to ear as he listens to Seokmin about your situation. Glancing at the near 10:30 PM hand on the clock, he finds it difficult to refuse, especially when he’s told you’re alone and stranded on a highway. He thinks to Jia in the living room as he tells Seokmin he’s leaving the house to get to you.

He’d only be gone for barely 20 minutes. He’s changed plenty of tires, this should be quick and easy.

Slipping into the living room is easy, wrapping his arms around Jia from behind is even easier. It’s when he has to open his mouth that he begins to falter. Twenty minutes, he reminds himself.

“I have two I’ve heard are really good, you can pick which one we watch first,” she voices as she fluffs the pillows on the couch, ready to tuck in for the rest of the night.

“Babe?”

She spins around in his arms, coming up to fluff his flat hair too. “Hm?”

“Seok just called…”

Her face falls as he talks despite his best attempts to assure her he won’t be long.

“Twenty minutes?” she parrots, wanting his word.

“Fifteen.”

Whether Mingyu would keep his word is something he’d find out, but you had kept your word to Seokmin, staying in the car, doors locked till you saw Mingyu’s car pull up behind you in the rearview. The wretched scissor jack that’s caused all of this sits in his own boot as he yanks it out to bring it over to your car, where you stand arms crossed, face dejected.

“Were you waiting long?” He asks as he immediately crouches to fit the jack where he wants it.

“No, not really,” you reply. “I’m sorry you had to come all the way out here, if only Seok remembered to take the stupid scissor jack–”

“No, no, it’s okay. I wasn’t doing anything.” Lies. But you already sounded apologetic and he didn’t wanna hear you apologize any further.

“No, it’s not okay. The idiot’s relaxing with a stupid face mask on while you have to come out here and change a fucking tire, God, you have class tomorrow too, don’t you?”

“Not until the afternoon, I’m in the clear.” He springs up from his crouched position, pulling the jack with him. “Open the boot.”

Placing the scissor jack in your boot, he continues, a little breathless. “There, I’ll tell Seokmin I left it in your car. Or, you could do that.”

“Thanks, Mingyu. Really.”

He does nothing but flash a smile, doing his best to convince you you weren’t an inconvenience before having to see your apologetic face again. “Alright, I wanna see you drive off before I leave, go on.”

By the time Mingyu’s slamming the door of the house shut, it’s eighteen minutes on the dot. Jia doesn’t say much, excited to have him back in her arms.

“Wait!” he suddenly yelps, once he’s tucked in with her.

“What now?” she groans.

Mingyu’s bounding back to his bedroom, emerging a few moments later with a dark paper bag. He goes back to sit next to her on the couch, sliding the bag and its contents towards her.

“Here. We’re not gonna be together for your birthday, might as well give you your present the night before you leave.” His eyes are glinting, hopeful.

Jia expresses her thank you’s commenting on the ribbon and his LP choice, grinning widely.

Your name comes tumbling out of Mingyu’s mouth before he can stop himself. “She helped me pick it out!”

“You…took her with you?” She asks after a moment.

“She worked at the store! I didn’t know till I went there either.” Mingyu’s voice grows increasingly enthusiastic, seemingly unaware that his girlfriend was growing slightly irritated. “I’ll take you there when you get back, the selection’s small but she’ll probably help you pick out something you’d like. I only had to give her like two names before she figured it out.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” she comments, tight smile on her lips as she collects the book sleeve and the LP, placing them back into the bag and leaving them on the floor next to her.

Mingyu is blissfully unaware of the fuel he’s added to growing embers, munching away on his popcorn, eyes trained on the TV and its stimulating colours.

“I was talking to Jihyo the other day, super random but it came up while we were talking about you,” Jia starts experimentally.

“Huh?” He has her attention. And when she mentions your name, the part of him that’s always wondered when she’d bring it up comes out of dormancy.

“She said she…I don’t know, she said she liked you at some point, Like a lot, and for a while.” Jia sounds unsure, like she didn’t know if it was a good idea to bring you up.

Mingyu sighs as he rears himself for the inevitable conversation. “It’s—well, it was—just puppy love. I was around all the time and I guess she latched, I don’t know.”

Jia pauses, eyes remanging trained on the movie. “Does it make you uncomfy? That she liked you? Maybe she still does.”

“It doesn’t matter, does it? I’m around Seok which means I’m sometimes around her by default. Can’t help it. I mean, the photography thing kinda just happened but, I don’t really care. And she seems over it.”

Mingyu is rambling. He can feel it. Which is why he tries to end the conversation right there, tone nonchalant as he hopes the topic breezes past.

It doesn’t.

“You seemed pretty adamant in leaving, though.”

“Huh?”

“When she called just now.”

“Seok called, I had his scissor jack!”

“Why couldn’t he have grabbed it for you and helped his sister himself? He has a car too.” Jia’s paused the movie at this point, moving away from his arm she was leaning on, shifting to look at him fully.

“It would’ve taken him forever, she was alone in the middle of a highway at nearly eleven, you wanted me to leave her there?” Mingyu finds the conversation ridiculous, and it shows in the irritation that rises in his own voice.

“Mingyu, you can’t be upset with me right now,” she breathes out exasperated.

“I’m not? I get that you’re upset, I haven’t been around as much but you also know what this exhibition means to me. I need to put everything I have into this and it’s only for a couple months–”

“Mingyu, it’s not just the exhibition!”

“Jia, I can’t know if you don’t tell me what’s really bothering you, talk to me.” Mingyu’s begging at this point, wondering how it’s come to this in the first place.

“You can’t expect me to be okay with you going around wherever, whenever, when I know what kind of lifestyle you’ve come out of not even six months ago!”

Mingyu had come a long way from his galvanizing tendencies, doing absolutely everything he could to convince Jia he was serious about her. Unfortunately, this was not the first time his past had been brought up; in an argument or in a light hearted setting, and he wasn’t particularly fond of it.

“Are we in six months ago? Are you saying I’ve done nothing substantial for you to think I’m still fucking around? Either give me an instance or figure out what the real issue is!”

There’s a plaster of suffocation in the room, neither soul speaking a word. Until Jia finally speaks. “I wanna go home.”

It didn’t matter to Mingyu if she was expecting him to grovel, to ask her to stay and talk about this further. It was clear she wasn’t about to talk about anything pertinent at all, and definitely not tonight. He was tired, and frankly wanted to be alone right now.

“Fine.”

Silence penetrates all of his air for the entire car ride up until he’s entering his apartment for the third time that day. Not bothering to clean up the living room, he thinks he does himself a service so as to not be reminded of the past couple hours. He’s casting the place in complete darkness before moving to his room. Might as well get some work done.

There’s a conscious effort to not start slamming things, he succeeds mostly, his graphic tablet receiving the short end of the stick. Turning on his monitor, he’s met with his ongoing project still brought up on the screen.

It’s a picture of you. One he took in a greenhouse off the outskirts of the city, something you complained about extensively as the heat ruined both your mood and your hair. You were smiling regardless; a wide, happy smile as you looked into the camera, petunia’s and dahlia’s framing an illusion around your figure.

Mingyu feels the tension in his muscles begin to relax, his breathing evening out after what felt like hours. He becomes almost excited to pick up his stylus and work on the photo, the set up allowing him to dive right in. There was barely any work left, moving on as he finishes the photo and saves it.

It isn’t until he happens to click on the the last folder, the one where you both caught the sunrise after a strenuous hike. He can’t help but break into a hint of a smile at the memory of your broken figure at the pathway, cursing him for bringing you here so early in the morning. The pictures had come out good, especially when Mingyu opens a particular photo at the bottom of the folder, an extra from his initial round of editing for his actual project.

It’s of you (of course) with your chin tucked into your arms as you gaze at the scene from up above, beyond the railing. The sun is up higher at that point, but the cast remains as the top half of your face that wasn’t tucked in your arms is lit in an orange glow, eyes glistening like stars during the day, wide and beautiful.

Mingyu remembers the shot. It was an accident.

In an attempt to fiddle with the settings to turn off the camera, he ended up snapping a picture instead. The distinct click was noticed, never bothering to check what came out of it when he stuffed his camera back into his bag, nor when he sifted through his SD card.

It was like he was seeing the picture in a new light, and the potential it had to become something worth ogling at. He wonders what had come over him when he had placed the photo as a secondary option without another thought, lamenting at what could’ve been his actual final piece.

He stares and stares, attempting to draw maps of color rendering in his mind, yet all that comes up is his eyes zeroing in on your own. How they glisten. How they sparkle.

Part 2

6K notes · View notes

vanillakook · 4 months ago

Text

DOPAMINE (PT. 2) ꔫ - JJK

synopsis: jungkook has a question for mingyu’s sister

paring: brothersbestfriend!jk x fem!reader

info & warnings: explicit language, angst, risky rendezvous, forced proximity, tones of corruption, established crush, sexual tension and slow burn, oral sex (m. receiving), face fucking, hair pulling, manhandling, dom!jk, pretty short but it’s preparing to transition into a much longer pt 3 🙈

a/n : part 2/3! comment to be added to the taglist for this series! first part here: <3

“do you think i’m stupid?”

jungkook’s irritated voice rang through you. you had officially pissed him off, and for the last time at that. annual vacations with your family to jeju were usually jungkook’s favorite. your parents owned a cozy little house by the beach that you went to a few times a year. he had the privilege of getting away from school and work for a week. just a full week of kicking back by the ocean with some beers and seeing his favorite girl in a way too revealing bikini that mingyu planed on burning when you were back at the house. even jihyo tagged along, this being her first vacation with the kim family, to which your parents were ecstatic, and oh– and he’s here. jaehyun.

jungkook knew he didn’t hate anyone... but it was all too easy for him to hate jaehyun, all because of your maniacal actions on this getaway. having jaehyun win stuffed animals for you, sharing boardwalk treats with him, and clinging by his side had been enough for poor jungkook, who really enjoyed annual vacations to jeju. things escalated from a simple boardwalk treat to rubbing sunscreen down your back, and drying you off with his towel after dunking yourself in the ocean. he was no longer enjoying his annual vacation to jeju.

the worst part about it all? it was his fault. he knew you’d never touch jaehyun, not even with a ten foot pole. yet after the moment you and jungkook shared in his car, you might as well. after he dropped you off at home something changed. jungkook was around less and when you needed a favor he was suddenly busy. it was like nothing had mattered. all of the things you had done together, the things you had said, nothing mattered anymore. he left you in the dark, and you were two strangers with a secret now, nothing more. he had to be the bigger person. if jungkook couldn’t tell you no then he would just have to start acting on it, even if it meant ignoring your existence all together.

if jungkook wasn’t going to fuck you, there was someone who wanted to. and who better than jaehyun, who’s pants form a tent when you do as much as smile at him– and who better to flaunt your power around than jungkook. which bought you here, laid out on your beach towel, sipping on your soju mixed cocktail and reading a novel when jungkook came to you with a scowl on his face and a question ready on his tongue.

“do you think i’m stupid?” he couldn’t hold himself together anymore. you were prancing around in a tight bikini and letting another man touch you. a man that wasn’t him. so he took his chance when your brother, jihyo, and jaehyun joined a volleyball game on the far side of the beach. he finally caught you after you made yourself very unattainable during this trip.

“you’re blocking the sun, too big. move.” you moved your sunglasses up on your face.

“listen, come back to the house with me. i think we should talk–”

“about? about how i was another pussy to you, is that the conversation you want to have?” now he had your attention, because talk? about what?

“get up.”

“no.” you turned a page on your book.

“y/n,” a very frustrated jungkook pinched his nose. “i said get the fuck up.”

“and i said no. the fuck do you think you are? my brother?” you spat back.

“nah, i’m worse.”

now you were being dragged by your arm down the beach, up the boardwalk, and back to the house. you stumbled up the sandy porch with your things in hand, jungkook angrily flinging your arm from his tight grip and trailing behind you. once the door was unlocked and you were being pushed inside, coming into the dimmed living area that had sun sneaking in through the curtains. “okay, i’m here. now what? and make it quick because they’re probably looking for us.”

“i let gyu know i walked you back to change.”

“to change? i– okay sure. my parents will be home soon though.”

“they’re out at dinner. so i’ll ask again, do you think i’m stupid? just picking at me, trying to piss me off.” he had you corned, taking another step back with every word that fell from his lips until your bare back hit the door. “you’re gonna get that lil boy hurt y/n. mingyu’s one thing, but me? tsk tsk.” he sucked his teeth. “he won’t walk intact around me.” his voice dropped a few octaves and you had nowhere to look but his disrespectfully, good looking face.

“who’s fault is that?” you couldn’t help the smirk that came onto you when jungkook indirectly confessed just how bothered he was. “you’re the one that’s gonna get him fucking hurt. now hyunnie has to get whacked by mingyu because you wanna ghost me.” jungkook thought it was comical. your mouth was too big for your body, constantly trying him, picking at him, and now you were folding under his strong gaze. his eyes were darker than what they usually were, holding something more intense.

“hyunnie?” he raised his eyebrows, letting out a loud cackle. jungkook actually laughed out loud. “you’re so full of shit. both of you, probably made for each other even.”

“mhm pretty much.” your eyes rolled dramatically. he was close enough to where you were able to poke at his hard chest, landing your finger four times to match the speed of your words. “such. a. fucking. hypocrite– i can’t take you! god forbid i flirt with jaehyun to pass some time. i forgot you’re the only one that can eat my pussy and dip out as if it never happened.”

he put his hands on his waist, shut his eyes, and took a deep long breath. “i never forgot about us, i didn’t want to just forget, but i had to.”

“two months! two jungkook!” you screamed, waved your fingers in front of him. “that’s how long i’ve waited for you to speak to me, touch me– fuck– something! this right here,” you gestured to the little space around you. “i’d rather have us arguing like this than nothing at all!” it was hard to mask the hurt in your voice, it certainly didn’t go unnoticed by jungkook. yet his own jealousy had been too persistent for him to calm down right now.

“and that’s how you went about it? hopping on mediocre dick to spite me?” his voice, his fucking voice. you hated how it made your bikini bottoms cling to your pussy. “have fun fucking on somebody that can’t make you cum. thought that’s what you wanted though, right baby?“

“get a fucking life, jungkook.” you couldn’t even look at the man. probably because the atmosphere was getting thicker and you could hear his voice dripping with the same condescending tone that got you into this mess.

a maniacal smirk spread across his face. he could do this all day with you, he wanted to do this all day. “jaehyun too? mhmm just gonna ruin that boy’s life. that’s cool, when im telling mingyu about his backstabbing friend i wont tell him how much of a slut his lil sis is. secrets safe with me.”

“but you’re gonna leave out how you had his slutty little sister first?” you stepped forward, closing the gap between you. the two of you couldn’t help your wandering eyes, his eyes taking in your lips and sandy skin, yours being stuck on his mosaic of tattoos and the piercing in his lip that you desperately wanted in between your teeth. it was all a matter of who was going to break first now. “going on and on about how pretty my pussy is, so wet and tight for you wasn’t it kookie?”

“mouth way too big for your body, baby.”

“what? can’t handle it? oh and you are fucking stupid by the way. and you’ll look even stupider when jaehyun is balls deep in this–”

“go upstairs.” his voice was so quiet, yet ringing in your ears like bells. his resolve was the thinnest it’s ever been when it’s come to you. “i can show you what’s stupid, come on.” he titled his head towards the stairs, starting up them while you stayed put, defying him for the last time.

“come and get me then.”

just like that, the composure, the respect, all came crashing down. without warning, jungkook tangled his fist in your hair, wrapping the strands around and around until his hand was full. his grip was rough, making sure to make a statement, not with pain, but control. “on your knees. you woke me up now baby.” before you could do you were being forced. here he had you, making you crawl for him while he pulled you along by your hair. like a fucking mutt. it was a scene so lewd and degrading to where you didn’t even think you could muster up the thought of it.

“jungkook– ouch!”

jungkook stopped your journey mid way. with a fistful of your hair still, he turned his half naked body towards you, ducking down just so the metal of his piercing was grazing your ear. “oh uh uh, where’d she go? what happened to my big, bad pretty girl? what? can’t handle it?” he cooed, spitting your words right back at you as he ignored your whining and continued to walk you up the stairs and into your bedroom. a bedroom he’d known since childhood due to how much he and mingyu terrorized you in it during family vacations. now decades later he was dragging you into the same bedroom, ready to fuck some sense into you. still on your knees, you rested yourself against your door and watched him.

“gonna ruin that cute face, but we’re gonna clean up that attitude.” adrenaline ran through you when you realized just how much bigger he was than you. his broad shoulders, veiny forearms, meaty thighs– it had just occurred to you how screwed you were. jungkook yanked down his swim shorts, damp cloth still clinging to his legs and outlining the muscle. he bit back a laugh when he heard the way you audibly gasped when his cock slapped against his stomach. he was already leaking for you, fuck he’s been leaking since your tits were ready to fall out of that excuse of a bathing suit.

“clean up my attitude?” and still your mouth was moving. “if you can–” jungkook quickly made use of your mouth, taking ahold of your locks again and sank inside of your warmth. deeper, deeper, deeper, until you became a drooling, slobbery, babbling mess who struggled to adjust to his size. he mustered up a groan when he began moving. bottoming out, dragging himself back down your warm tongue, and leaving you just to suck on his tip. he repeated the same motion which felt like a thousand times over. you breathed in sharply when bullied his cock just deep enough into your hole so that your nose tickled his pelvis. tears started to prick your eyes, your face flushed with violent heat, along with muffled cries for him to slow down. your cunt had a mind of its own, only wanting his torture to continue further.

“aht aht. pretty girls don’t talk with their mouths full.” this was who he really was, mocking and plain evil. “that’s how you listen? when you’re full of my cock huh?” no response. now you were being pulled up for air, your once comfortable and full mouth now deserted. he held his thick cock in one hand and your hair in the other. “i asked you a question doll.”

you nodded slowly through stained tears and plump, glistening lips. slow nods transitioned to quick and now he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. his snippy girl finally had no more fight left in her. “i– i listen.” you nodded frantically. “i listen when im full of you.”

“full of me? use all those nasty words you learned.”

“i listen when im full of your cock koo.”

a laugh rumbled through him, now it’s koo and kookie again when he’s making a mess out of you. “well look at that, i fucked this cute hole into obedience.” he pushed himself back down your throat with the goal of watching you slurp up his nut– until you both heard the front door creak open, followed by the familiar footstep pattern of none other than–

your brother.

your face morphed with panic, trying to push back at the same man you weren’t supposed to be giving into. jungkook wasn’t letting you off easy, you were going to finish exactly what you started. he didn’t give a fuck who came in, he wasn’t done with you. so if he had to finish you off with your brother knocking on the other side of your door so be it. “y/n! jungkook! where are you guys?!” mingyu called throughout the quiet house. your names rang from each end that he searched. “guys? you’ve been gone for like an hour!” your fear filled eyes locked with a way too calm jungkook who did nothing but move to lock your door and hit the back of your mouth with his tip again. his tatted finger went up to his lips and now you were wondering if you’d come out of this alive.

both of you.

“gyu!” jungkook called out. you could hear your brothers footsteps get closer until they stopped at your door. your heart thumped against your chest so loudly you felt like he could hear. he tried the door, jiggling the knob. “hey man calm down, i’m naked.”

“naked? in here?” mingyu said with disbelief.

“relax, y/n just let me use her bathroom. you know her room has the best shower,” he sounded completely at ease. way too at ease for someone face fucking his best friends sister. “she isn’t here, changed and went back out to the boardwalk, you probably walked past her.”

mingyu sighed. “fucking figured, all her shit is all over the living room. just dropped it and went back out?” why did the thrill of potentially being caught have you opening your mouth wider, tongue resting against the underside of his shaft while you waited for him to spill into your mouth. “we’re finishing up on the beach though now. also we’re doing snores tonight, so we might have to make a store run. she left her phone downstairs so if you see her just let her know.”

“gotcha, i’ll be– sshit–” jungkook didn’t mean for that to come out as a grunt, but he was so close and you felt so goddamn good. “i’ll be on the lookout for her.” he said just as he spilled down your throat. he kept himself so well put with mingyu on the other side, you’d think he’s snuck around like this before.

“thanks man, and hey, i’m glad you and y/n are talking again. hated this vacation at first.” you heard mingyu strut back down the stairs. you felt like you could breathe once you heard the front door slam shut. jungkook pulled your head up, his cock dropping from your mouth with a pop! he didn’t even have to tell you to swallow. it was already done, and you were already showing him that you swallowed it all like the big girl he knew you were.

“did so well for me doll, s’ pretty and all mine.” he caressed your face with gentleness after using you as if you were nothing to him. you’d never done something like this, so lewd and obscene. now you felt like an addict, aching for your next fix. jungkook’s jaw tensed as he gazed at you, a flicker of guilt breaking through his cocky exterior. “if we’re going to do this, we need some ground rules… are you sure you want this?” he said firmly, though his touch betrayed his reluctance to let you go.

“jungkook,” you sighed softly. “we’re too far gone.”

“i didn’t ask you that. i asked you if you want this.”

you stared at him, the weight of his question settling in your chest. “this is all i’ve ever wanted,” you whispered, the words barely audible but firm. jungkook’s eyes softened for a split second before a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

“good,” he muttered, pulling you up from your spot in the floor and into his arms. his mouth was on yours before you could say another word, firm and demanding, yet fleeting enough to leave you wanting more. when he pulled back, the cocky glint in his eyes was back in full force. “see how you just saved a man’s life? your little boyfriend gets to live.”

You rolled your eyes. “you’re insufferable, you know that?” you shot back, grabbing a nearby throw pillow and launching it at him. He dodged it effortlessly, laughing as he caught your wrist before you could grab something else.

“had you choking on this insufferable dick though,” he quipped, his hand lingering a moment too long before he finally let go. the moment he did you landed a hard punch on his chest. “now, get dressed, with actual clothes.” as much as he liked looking, you were no longer prancing around like that for as long as jaehyun was here. in fact, jungkook was declaring him banned from any family vacations from here on out.

“i hate you.” you said, but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you as you followed him into your bathroom.

later on that night while the boys were helping setting up with your parents, you and jihyo stayed in the kitchen to prepare some smores. you thought you were the only one who knew about your secret rendezvous with jungkook, to which you were about to learn– was completely wrong. as you and jihyo yapped about everything under the sun you learned a lot about her that you’d prefer you didn’t know. yet she knew more about you than you did. “jihyo– okay ew. anymore talk about my brothers private parts and no one’s having smores because my throw up will be covering them.” you cringed for hopefully the last time after she thought it was hilarious to tell you how good mingyu was with his tongue.

“okay fine, you then lil gyu.” she grinned deviously, nudging your side while assembling the smores stack. “someone’s been pinning after you, how’s that going?”

“oh– me and jaehyun? that’s never gonna happen,” you let out a nervous giggle. “he’s nice and all but not my type. gyu also wouldn’t ever let me date his friends. over before it started.”

jihyo’s silence and smile only grew. “i wasn’t talking about jaehyun… in fact, i think you guys are more obvious than you realize.” you froze. before letting panic settle you remembered, it’s just jihyo. however you still looked around the perimeter of the kitchen and living room, even glancing at the sliding patio doors to make sure mingyu was far away from them.

your hands stopped their actions and you breathed in once, a heavy sigh following. “do we make it too obvious?”

“umm with that cold war that you two dragged everyone else into? hell fucking yes!” she turned to you dramatically, growing serious for a moment. “don’t worry, mingyu doesn’t have enough brain cells for it to click for him yet.”

you stared outside, taking in the sight of your parents joking around with jungkook. jaehyun and mingyu were still throwing wood into the pit, ready to chuck one at jungkook for being the one with the most muscle yet not helping. “do you think he’ll be mad at us? at him?” jihyo gave you a small pout at first, but her lips quirked into a smile. you never cared about yourself in this situation. you knew you’d always be mingyu’s sister, his full fledged family.

but would jungkook always be mingyu’s friend?

jihyo walked you over to a stool and sat you down. she took your hands in hers and gave you the best she could. “i think it’ll be… an adjustment. there’s no thought in the back of his head telling him jungkook might have feelings for you. so when he knows, yeah he might be taken aback.” in other words, mingyu was going to have yours and jungkook’s heads on a stick. she tried to sugar coat it as much as she could, but you knew her sweet words for you had a double meaning.

“feelings?” you could laugh out loud. “if you count feelings as leaving me high and dry and then randomly deciding to look at me again when you feel threatened by someone else then yeah, feelings… i guess. we’re still working out the kinks.”

now you had jihyo laughing out loud, slapping her knee even. “you two don’t even have to acknowledge each other. it’s seeping off of you. you really are lil gyu, plain ole stupid.” the two of you giggled like schoolgirls, hitting each other lightly. it felt good to have someone to speak to about this. your friends were heavy liabilities, if they knew then mingyu knew. you couldn’t even speak to your sibling, and you couldn’t even imagine his hurt when he’d find out. suddenly all the cares you never had were coming to the surface, you understand jungkook now. could you… really do this?

your thoughts were interrupted by three rowdy, hungry boys who made their way through the sliding doors and into the kitchen. in just a matter of seconds they had managed to steal half of your prepared smores stacks, which earned them a nice scolding from a very mean jihyo.

as the banter continued between the five of you, it had been distracting you long enough to realize that jaehyun’s repeated attempts at you had finally come to a halt. mingyu must have given him a stern talking to while jungkook was busy dragging you to the house to give you an equally stern face fucking. with a few beers cracked open and everyone working in tandem on the smores, there left a lot of room for usually unnoticed things to start coming to light.

mingyu, who was still lazily holding jihyo’s waist, suddenly straightened as the chatter in the kitchen became background noise. he took another swig of his beer, but his eyes stayed locked on the way jungkook leaned slightly toward you, his shoulder brushing yours as you both laughed softly at something only the two of you could hear.

it wasn’t anything obvious—no stolen glances or shy touches— but just the way jungkook’s body naturally angled toward you, like he couldn’t help it.

mingyu’s grip tightened on the beer bottle, his gaze narrowing ever so slightly. he knew jungkook well—better than anyone—and this wasn’t just friendly. realization hadn’t settled just yet, maybe he was just mistaken, reading too much into it.

it was just odd. the way your smile lingered just a bit longer for him than anyone else, it was odd.

masterlist

taglist <3: @jungshaking @junecat18

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urno1luv · 3 months ago

Note

Can I get a possessive dom jihyo who went to the gym and met a pretty pillatis instructor and she decided to sign to be in her classes and be close to her and fantasy her.

summary: jihyo falls in love with a pilates instructor, and love blooms between the two in a strange but beautiful way

tags: possessive jihyo, overprotective jihyo, car sex

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You’d been teaching Pilates for a while now, long enough to recognize the types of people who signed up for your classes. Some came to de-stress, some wanted to tone their bodies, and some just wanted an excuse to wear expensive yoga pants.

Then there was Jihyo.

She signed up for your beginner’s class out of nowhere, her name appearing on the roster without much fanfare. You didn’t think much of it at first. But the moment she walked into the studio, you couldn’t ignore her presence.

She didn’t look like your usual clientele. Dressed in all black, her leggings and hoodie clung to a frame that was undeniably powerful. Her sharp jawline and dark eyes gave her a cold, almost intimidating aura, and when she brushed past you to claim a spot at the front of the room, she didn’t so much as glance in your direction.

You’d had plenty of serious gym-goers in your classes before, but Jihyo was different. She didn’t talk to anyone. She didn’t smile. She just stared straight ahead, her jaw tight, her focus unshakable.

By her second class, you noticed something odd.Jihyo wasn’t just serious—she was intense. Her eyes followed you everywhere you went, her dark gaze piercing and unwavering. If you moved to correct another student’s form, she’d track the interaction with a look that sent shivers down your spine.

At first, you thought you were imagining it. Maybe she was just focused, or maybe she was trying to learn from your demonstrations. But then it started happening outside of class, too. You’d see her at the front desk, casually talking to the receptionist. Or lingering near the juice bar, her eyes flicking to you whenever you walked by. Once, you even caught her waiting outside the studio after hours, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed.

“Long day?” you’d asked, forcing a smile to hide your unease.She shrugged, her tone clipped. “Something like that.”You told yourself it was a coincidence, that Jihyo was just naturally stoic. But the way she looked at you—like you were something she wanted to claim—made your heart race for all the wrong reasons.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Jihyo’s possessiveness became harder to ignore as time went on.

She started showing up early to every class, always taking the same spot in the front row. If someone else tried to claim it, she’d glare at them until they moved.

During partner exercises, she’d insist on working with you, her grip on your arm a little too tight when you demonstrated a stretch.

“Careful,” you said once, trying to keep your tone light. “I need my arm in one piece to teach.”Her lips twitched into what could barely be called a smile.

“Sorry. I’ll be gentle.”

But she wasn’t. Her touch always lingered just a little too long, her hands firm and unyielding. You started to wonder if she even liked Pilates at all, or if she was only here for you.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Things escalated one evening after class.

You were chatting with another student, a friendly guy who had been coming to your sessions for months. He was harmless—always polite and cheerful, with no ulterior motives. But when Jihyo walked in and saw you laughing with him, her expression darkened. She didn’t say anything at first, just stood there with her arms crossed, her glare sharp enough to cut glass.

But when the guy reached out to pat your shoulder in a friendly gesture, Jihyo’s jaw clenched so hard you thought she might crack a tooth.

“Is there a problem?” she asked, her voice low and icy.The guy froze, his hand dropping to his side. “Uh, no? Just talking to—”

“Class is over,” she interrupted, her tone leaving no room for argument. “You should go.”He glanced at you, confused, but you didn’t know what to say.

The tension in the air was suffocating.After he left, you turned to Jihyo, your heart pounding. “What was that about?”

Her eyes softened slightly when they met yours, but there was still an edge to her voice.

“I don’t like people touching what’s mine.”

“Yours?” you echoed, your stomach twisting.She stepped closer, her presence overwhelming. “You don’t see it yet, do you? You’re mine, whether you realize it or not.” You opened your mouth to protest, but the words caught in your throat. The intensity in her gaze was terrifying, but there was something else there, too—something that made you feel weak in a way you didn’t want to admit.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Despite her intensity, there was a part of you that couldn’t stay away from Jihyo. She had a magnetism that drew you in, even when you knew better. She started showing up outside of class more often, waiting for you at the end of the day or offering to walk you to your car. When you told her it wasn’t necessary, she shrugged it off.

“Just making sure you’re safe,” she’d say, her tone casual. But the look in her eyes said something else entirely. You tried to set boundaries, to remind her that you were her instructor, not her property. But Jihyo didn’t take rejection well.

One night, as you were locking up the studio, you found her waiting outside. “Jihyo,” you sighed, clutching your bag tightly. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” she said, stepping closer. Her proximity made your pulse quicken, and not in a good way.

“This isn’t a good time.”

“It’s never a good time,” she muttered, frustration flickering across her face. “Why do you keep pushing me away?”

“Because you’re scaring me!” you blurted, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

Her expression softened instantly, guilt flashing in her eyes. “I don’t mean to scare you,” she said quietly. “I just… I don’t know how to do this. How to feel like this.” You stared at her, your anger melting into confusion. “Feel like what?”

“Like I’d do anything to protect you. To keep you safe. Even if it means keeping everyone else away.”

The weight of her words settled over you like a heavy blanket. You should’ve been terrified. But there was a vulnerability in her voice that made your chest ache. “Jihyo,” you said softly, your hand hesitating before brushing against hers.

“You can’t control everything. Love doesn’t work like that.” She flinched at the word “love,” but didn’t pull away. “I don’t want to lose you,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re not going to lose me,” you said, even as part of you wondered if you were making a mistake.

“But you have to trust me. You have to let me breathe.” She nodded slowly, her grip on your hand tightening. “I’ll try.

For you, I’ll try.”

And in that moment, you believed her. Or maybe you just wanted to.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The turning point came on a rainy evening.

Class had just ended, and most of the students had already left. You were packing up when Jihyo appeared at the door, her hoodie pulled up against the rain.

“Need a ride home?” she asked, her voice casual.

You hesitated. “That’s nice of you, but I’m okay. I can call a cab.”

“It’s late,” she said firmly. “And raining. Just let me drive you.”

Something about the way she said it left no room for argument.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

In the car, the silence was comfortable, though you could feel Jihyo’s eyes flicking toward you every so often.

“Why do you care so much?” you asked suddenly, the question slipping out before you could stop it.

Jihyo’s hands tightened on the wheel. For a moment, you thought she wasn’t going to answer.

“Because,” she said finally, her voice low. “You’re important to me.”

Your breath caught.

“Jihyo…”

“I know I’m not good at this,” she said, her jaw clenching. “I’m not good at talking, or showing how I feel. But I can’t stop thinking about you. I want to protect you. To be close to you. Even if it’s selfish.”

Her words hung in the air between you, heavy and raw.

You reached out, your hand brushing against hers. “It’s not selfish,” you said softly. “I care about you, too.”

For the first time, Jihyo’s stoic mask cracked, and she looked at you with something close to disbelief.

“Yeah?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

You smiled. “Yeah.”

And in that moment, the tension between you increased, the air getting hotter the more you stared into her deep eyes.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The rain pelted the windshield in rhythmic taps as Jihyo drove, her hands gripping the wheel a little too tightly. The soft hum of the car engine filled the silence, but the tension in the air was almost palpable.

You glanced at her from the passenger seat, noting the sharp line of her jaw, the way her brows furrowed slightly in concentration. It wasn’t the first time she’d driven you home, but something about tonight felt different. Heavier.

“Thanks for the ride,” you said, breaking the quiet.

Jihyo didn’t take her eyes off the road. “You don’t have to thank me.” Her tone was clipped, almost curt.

You shifted in your seat, your fingers playing with the edge of your bag. “Still, I appreciate it. It’s pouring out there.”

She gave a small nod, but her grip on the wheel didn’t ease.

For a moment, you let the silence settle again, your gaze drifting to the streaks of rain on the window. But the tension was too much to ignore.

“You’re quiet tonight,” you said, turning back to her. “Everything okay?”

Her jaw tightened. “I’m fine.”

The way she said it made you doubt her immediately. Jihyo wasn’t exactly chatty on the best of days, but this felt different—like something was simmering just beneath the surface, and you feel like you understood exactly what it was.

“Are you sure?” you pressed gently. “You seem… tense.”

At that, she finally glanced at you, her dark eyes flicking over your face before returning to the road. “It’s nothing,” she muttered. But the way her hands tightened on the wheel told a different story. You gave her a long look, seeing how her pupils dilated, her cheeks flushed slightly with the heavy stare you were giving her.

"Jihyo...?" An idea pops up into your head. Jihyo was attractive, caring, protective and very clearly ached for you attention, affection and touch. So... why not allow her to take what she wanted so badly?

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You don't know how you got here, but you're here nonetheless. Jihyo's mouth was pressed against your ear, her sinuous tongue slipping out to cradle the shell in a move that sent you arching into her fingers, which were currently fucking into you at a slow pace. "You like that, baby? Fuck, I've been wanting this for a long time, believe that." You moaned sinfully, the windows fogged up with the heat of your bodies in an erotic embrace.

Jihyo’s fingers sank into the soft flesh of your ass, gripping you tightly as she guided your body on top of hers, parting her legs so that your soaking mound rested on top of her pulsating cunt. You don't know when she got out of her panties, but you don't care to ask either, too heated up to ask.

She rolled her hips up to meet yours, her defined abs providing the best view. You could feel her clit throbbing against yours, her deep breaths sounding like an orchestra of pleasure to your ears.

"Use me however it pleases you," she whispered close to your lips before lying back down the seat, watching your body twitching uncontrollably, her own body coming closer to heaven as your pussies slid together. Jihyo could tell you were getting close, your body tensing and trembling with impending release, she shuddered as she felt your hips moving with increasing desperation, your whines growing louder and more needy.

"J- Jihyo..."

"Come for me, y/nnie, please, I need to know i pleased y-you." Your moans increased in pitch, and your body fell forward as you gushed all over her, Jihyo coming right after, a faint blush on her cheeks, and a sheen of sweat coating her face.

She's never going to let you go after this, Jihyo has concluded.

#urno1luv #jihyo x reader #jihyo x fem reader #twice x fem reader #twice x reader #twice smut #twice scenarios #kpop scenarios #kpop smut #girl group smut #girl group x female reader

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ghostykapi · 3 months ago

Text

twice and the ways to say i miss you when they are touring

im nayeon

i’m sorry but you must endure the one thousand kisses once she gets back or she will cry

demands with pouts and that cute voice that makes you cave in

what? the tour is amazing but after being weeks apart from her lover can make her do weird things (ask jeong or jihyo, they can confirm)

she’s got a whole bottle of your perfume/fragrance to cope with a your jacket so it feels like you’re always there giving her a hug

but now that she’s back >:)))

will 100%, with no miss at all, pin you down every morning to snuggle and kiss you despite your whines of you trying to be a bit early to work

oh you work from home? better make sure you work fast or she will distract you with those hands 😋 no escape for you

yoo jeongyeon

constant video calls to keep her grounded but it’s never enough to make her feel that 100% energy boost

lowkey losing it but to her members they can see how miserable she can get when you aren’t there

sorry she’s like this but she just really really needs your cuddles right now and the fact that you’re so far away makes it so so so mean :((

she manages with the polaroids of both of you that she brings everywhere

of course she won’t pressure you but good lord you also don’t know what to do without her close to you at most nights

and that’s why you’re always with her on tour once you can start working remotely, always either disguised as the “manager/staff” or straight up out to the world that you’re her lover

hirai momo

misses you and her children (read: her dogs) that when she fatetimes you she’s abt to sob

“my babies!” she says everytime you go on call and boo and dobby are with you

clings unto sana to cope (both of them are coping together through the power of friendship!!!)

one time she managed to convince all of twice to get food at 4 am to cope??? anyway yeah so there they were at 4 am at a taco cart munching away with like two other managers

everytime she comes home she brings you snacks and treats and spends most of her time with you and her dogs

minatozaki sana

on the outside she’s calm cool collected a lil flirty

in the inside she’s screaming fighting for her LIFE because wdym you aren’t a phone call away from her to cling unto you huh

clings unto her members for moral support and they always send pictures of her clinging to you (THROUGH THE POWER OF FRIENDSHIP)

buys you jewelry that she thinks looks good on you and copes with that information until she lands back home

pouncing on you the moment you see her come down from the van in front of your apartment/home

“baby!!!” she screams as she clings unto you like a koala and she’s abt to make you both fall over

sorry she’s never letting you go

you are now the latest personal bodyguard of sana for the next couple of days btw (she likes them a lil possessive)

park jihyo

she can fairly cope well for the first few days but she can feel bits of her cracking when she doesn’t get your dose of cuddles

copes by also stealing your jacket but she actually steals two so she can have two styles ready that has a piece of you with her

always playing with the necklace you got for her on your 9th date with her or with the keychain on her bag that you got on a random day proclaiming that yes that sleeping bear keychain reminded you of jihyo because both her and the keychain look cute

she’s always so busy even when she gets home so she never really gets to release that want to just be alone with you

but holds you so close and so tight when both of you are sleeping to feel calm and to convey the feelings she always has for you

myoui mina

doesn’t show it to anyone, even you, that she’s abt to break bc she misses you so much

copes with buying trinkets that remind her of you so she ends up coming home from tour

half of her big suitcase is trinkets, someone stop her

you always end up sorting the trinkets and like dedicating a space in your home for it. when she comes back you both take the time to add it to the collection together

you know those apps for u to use to signal you miss your lover yeah well mina didn't take long to convince you to download it

is that another damn trinket

kim dahyun

the most sane one in twice

she always takes you out on dates back before the tour starts so she uses those memories to cope + regular calls with you despite time differences always helps

writes yearning songs all the damn time

YEARNING IN SONG WRITING!! THAT DAMN NOTEBOOK IS ALMOST FULL SHE'S ABOUT TO BUY ANOTHER

when she returns from tour, she cherishes the most domestic things with you

case and point she fell so much harder for you when you were both just doing chores, humming the songs blasting from your speakers

son chaeyoung

shut up wdym nonchalant?? no. clingy gf realness

she is OBSESSED WITH YOU there is no way this woman won't lose it when you are not with here in tour

but your work is important so she won't pull you away

though i bet you half of her wardrobe is your clothes with your perfume smothered on them

twice members complain at how much she's always missing u, yearning for u, talking about u, yapping abt u

it's the rest of twice that begs for you to come with them the next tour to shut her up

she does not shut up but you get to distract her by kissing and it always works

chou tzuyu

her? missing you? why should she miss you when she can just bring you along??????????

only member to actually think about it and put it to action the moment you both started to become official

it took so much convincing, and like you had to also be a part of staff lowk

like who is holding the cam for her vlogs?? you babes it's you

sometimes the other members also ask for your help but honestly you don't mind and tzuyu gets to film you too sometimes so like yay bonding activities

kisses backstage!!! KISSES BACKSTAGE TZUYU CHEERED

#this was like in my drafts for TOO LONG anyway enjoy #twice x reader #twice headcanons #im nayeon #yoo jeongyeon #hirai momo #minatozaki sana #park jihyo #myoui mina #kim dahyun #son chaeyoung #chou tzuyu #twice imagine #twice scenarios #twice imagines

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zyogod · 11 months ago

Text

The conquest of the fierce lecturer (Part Two)

Tags: rough sex, blowjob, public sex, public blowjob, female idol x you, lecture x ex students, other universe story ,little threesomes, slightly humiliation

Starring : Twice Park Jihyo

4,130 words

Part 1

You looking at Jihyo face while your dick still inside her mouth even tho she seems tired she still manage too gulp every flowing sperm inside her mouth while keep sucking your dick slowly.

Minutes after you pull out your dick from her mouth with loud ‘plop’ sounds cause she was really still sucking on your dick, then you slowly grab her arm and lift her up “come on baby, are you going to sit in this alley naked forever or something?”

Jihyo gathering her power to get up with your help then trying to fixed her undone clothes and smiling at you while whipping her lips “you’re so rough even this our first day to be couple, I almost losing my breath choked at this big guy” She said with slurty voice while Stroking your dick and fixed your jeans.

You smile and looking at her “it’s just the beginning, lets heading somewhere else to do the rest” Caressing her cheek “any idea?”

“Maybe we can go to my apartment but I need to pick up my car first in university, do you willing to go with me getting the car?” She said giving the idea to go her private place, “sure there’s no reason for me to reject that idea” You said while walking with her with your left hand in her butt.

After a walking for several minutes both of you arrived inside her car in university parking lot, you look around there’s very quiet for parking lot in university area “isn’t this too quiet , last time I came here always there’s few students hanging around this parking lot” You said to her.

Jihyo looking at you with mocking smile “that’s because your era as students here just filled with bunch of brat and you’re one of that brat isn’t?” She said teasing you.

Looking at her and smirk because her words giving you an idea “so im one of bratty students of yours back then? Let me show you how bratty this boy” You leans to her direction and kiss her right on the lips with right hand groping her left boobs and left hand warped around her waist to keep her in position.

However this act of yours is surprising her since both of you in university area even inside her car, She was worried about being caught by someone if suddenly some security peeked into her car, that's make her force you to break the kiss and push you away slightly “stop st-oo-op Y/N we might be getting caught, I don’t wanna someone caught me dating my ex students” She said with worried eyes.

You just look at her and pull her even closer “so what if someone caught us dating? Im an adult already there’s nothing to worry about , If necessary I want everyone to know that I’m dating you and have you as my girlfriend, we don’t need to hide we’re both adults”.

Jihyo sigh and push your hands off her body “that’s easy for you since you’re young Y/N but it’s not easy for me when someone caught us dating and start to gossiping me behind my back like “professor Jihyo dating her ex students” That’s will be horrible for me , at least not now I promise you we can go public later, trust me I don’t have any initiations to hide you from the public it’s just still little hard for me” She said with pleading eyes.

In other hands that not an explanation that you want to hear, you was wrong thinking she will be obedient to you only after having your dick once even that’s only a facefuck, so you took hars initiative by grabbing her wrist and drag her out from the car then pinned her on the side of the car “you worrying to get caught when we make out inside the car? I think now you should be more worried” You gave her sloppy french kiss and rip her blouse making few buttons flew away and groping her pair of breast without breaking the kiss.

That’s make jihyo surprised and try to push you away and holding your wrist to stop you groping her breast , unfortunately easy for you to over powering her in this state

As she keeps trying to push you away with her hands, you become impatient and grab her hands with your right hand and hold them above her head as you stop your kiss on her lips.

“Just shut up and enjoy it Jihyo, there’s no one in this parking lot anyway stop resisting” You tell her as your left hand unbuttons her jeans and pulls her jeans down along with her panties in one smooth motion.

Jihyo became increasingly frightened and agitated at what you were doing to her, all of this made her pale “No! No Y/N stop this! I told you we can’t do it in the university area, if anyone catches us it could ruin my reputation” Jihyo said while stammering with pleading eyes.

“As I said before there is no one in this parking lot, be quiet and be a submissive woman Jihyo” You say as you turn her around to face the car and hold her head against the car window, at the same time you pull down your jeans and take out your big dick while rubbing it against Jihyo’s ass to build up your erection to be harder.

It's a dreadful experienceee for Jihyo as she feels the tip of your dick rubbing her ass in an open public place like now in her work area “Please Y/N be patient, we can do this when we get to my apartment, please stop this Y/N” Jihyo begs you through tears.

But on the other hand you who hear her continue to whine feel even more lustful, not caring about her whining you even rub your penis into her wet pussy even though she whines for you to stop your action.

“At least if you’re begging me to stop all this your pussy shouldn’t be wet Jihyo, you filthy bitch” In one smooth motion you slam your cock into Jihyo’s wet pussy from behind and immediately pump it roughly and lustfully, you can feel the tip of your cock hitting Jihyo’s womb repeatedly making her squeal between pain and pleasure

You have sex with Jihyo with passion and adrenaline that continues to push you to go wild enjoying Jihyo’s pussy which without her realizing it tightens every time you slam your cock into it, the sensation of having sex in a public place makes you happy and trapped in ecstasy for a moment enjoying the body of your fierce lecturer, you never thought about it before that you could fuck a fierce lecturer who used to always threaten you to failing her class.

Now you even fuck her at your own will even if she refuses you don’t care at all because what you care the most is your own pleasure, moreover having sex in public is very fun for you because of the adrenaline fear of being caught by people even though you honestly don’t care if anyone catches you having sex with Jihyo right now.

In other side Jihyo eyes rolling back to her skull everytime your cock hitting the end of her womb, she seems to be broken with her mout open wide facing up while her own saliva dripping around her mouth when she moaning “ah ah a-a-ahh Y/N please give me mercy it’s painful if you going too rough I can’t control myself aahh” She’s become muttered when your thrust getting deeper inside her, its making her going crazy and melted her brain.

There’s nothing to stop you fucking her more and more rougher, you keeping your pace and there’s loud clapping sounds because of your pelvic hitting her sexy ass every time you pumping your cock in and out her wet pussy ,

While you were drunk on Jihyo’s delicious pussy, you didn’t realize that a security guard accidentally caught you having sex with Jihyo in this parking lot.

The security guard just stayed quiet and hid behind a car while watching you fuck Jihyo roughly and vigorously.

The security guard became aroused by the sudden show you made with Jihyo in this parking lot, the security guard began to stroke his dick that was still hidden in his uniform pants while continuing to watch you fuck Jihyo.

Feeling tired of fucking Jihyo while standing, you pull your cock out of her pussy and let Jihyo fall limply down, you walk around Jihyo’s car and open the back trunk of her car “Jihyo come here I’m tired of standing, let’s do it here” you sit on the trunk of the car you opened while waiting for Jihyo to respond to your call.

Jihyo who is limp after receiving your big cock starts crawling towards the back of her car where you are sitting on the trunk “Y/N can’t we continue at my apartment, this is so embarrassing, let’s go home and do it at my place” Jihyo starts climbing onto the trunk. You look at Jihyo and grab her waist then lift her up onto your lap “we’re done when you make me cum, little slut” Then you align your cock into her pussy again

Your cock back inside her warm caverns and thrust her as deep as you can till you reach the end of her womb, you can feels her wall tightened and printing the shape of your cock inside her

Jihyo moaning loud , forget about she’s still in parking lot sitting on your cock and feels the pleasure you give to her “oh my god Y/N you going too deep and making me feeling full” Jihyo start to moving and riding your dick without waiting your order start to chasing her pleasure, not like a minutes ago when she was begging you to stop

You laying back to the trunk giving her space to riding you in reverse cowgirl style, in this state you can get a full display picture of her ass moving back and forth while she’s riding your dick “Go faster Jihyo ride this dick like a slut you are” You giving her few spanks to motivate her moving faster than before and making every smack sounds echoing throughout the parking lot

Jihyo moaning like a crazy whore and moves faster and faster riding your cock eagerly enjoying your cock until her eyes rolling back to her skull while her tongue sticks out “don’t call me a slut ah-ah-ah-aah ak ak I’m just enjoying my boyfriend’s big dick” Jihyo’s ass keeps moving back and forth like she’s possessed.

Seeing all this the security guard who had been hiding began to be unable to resist his lust, when he thought you would soon finish but it turned out that you were even more wild and uncontrolled.

The security guard began to think whether he should reprimand you or take advantage of this condition to enjoy Professor Jihyo’s body, which is very famous in this university as a professor with a large breast size and makes all men curious about what is under her shirt every day.

The security guard's mind began to wander like angels and demons fighting inside his head, between reprimanding you to stop or taking advantage of this condition to enjoy Professor Jihyo’s body, while seeing Professor Jihyo riding a dick in a reverse cowgirl position with her breasts bouncing up and down made the security guard’s mind even crazier “if not now, when else I can feel Professor Jihyo’s body? I guess it won’t hurt if I try to join them by threatening to spread the rumors that there’s a female lecturer having sex in the university parking lot” He muttered to himself.

The security guard gathered his courage and walked towards the couple who were drunk in lust making love in the trunk of the car.

While I only focused on supporting Jihyo's body so that she could move freely on my cock while occasionally squeezing her breasts, at this time all I could see was Jihyo's sexy back because she was riding me in reverse cowgirl style.

A few seconds later came the sound of a male cough that startled me, Jihyo suddenly stopped bouncing her sexy ass and her body shook with my cock still halfway inside her pussy.

"I guess you're doing couple activities in the wrong place, Professor Jihyo? And her young boyfriend if I'm not mistaken."

Said the male voice, I who was still lying on my back with Jihyo still riding my cock could not see the owner of the male voice who had just talked to Jihyo.

Hearing all that spontaneously I immediately held Jihyo's waist tightly and sat in the trunk of the car with Jihyo on my lap with the condition of my dick entering her pussy again, I began to pay attention to the owner of the voice and saw a man in a security guard uniform.

Until I finally saw his face.

Hearing all that spontaneously I immediately held Jihyo's waist tightly and sat in the trunk of the car with Jihyo on my lap with the condition of my dick getting inside her pussy again, I began to pay attention to the owner of the voice and saw a man in a security guard uniform.

Until I finally saw his face

"Oh my God, you're Mr. Lee!?"

I shouted with a feeling of surprise and relief.

Mr. Lee was a security guard who was quite familiar with me when I was still studying at this university, I often chatted with him and shared cigarettes when I was a student.

Mr. Lee looked at my face and tried to remember

"Song Y/N? That's you? That bastard who always smokes here with his asshole friends."

Mr. Lee finally remembered me

"That's right, how can you call me a brat huh?"

I replied with a laugh, on the other hand Jihyo was confused and agitated by my conversation with Mr. Lee.

Jihyo looked at me over her shoulder "hey let's stop this, it's not funny" she grumbled, while trying to cover her big exposed breasts and her pussy that was still filled with my cock.

Hearing Jihyo’s tone annoyed me, at that moment I grabbed both her hands and folded them behind her back and locked them with my left hand.

“Shut up you bitch, who said you could protest? Can’t you see I’m talking to Mr. Lee?” I snapped as my right hand grabbed her left nipple and pinched it hard, making Jihyo scream.

Seeing what I did to Jihyo made Mr. Lee surprised and feel sorry for Jihyo “Y/N why did you do that!?”

Hearing him talk like a saint made me feel annoyed “At least if you want to defend Jihyo, make your dick limp first Mr. Lee, or do you want to join me to fuck the hottest lecturer in this university?” I threw my evil smile at Mr. Lee.

Mr. Lee was stunned at my words, his eyes looking at me then at Jihyo’s naked body while swallowing his saliva

Mr. Lee was probably too shocked to speak, his forehead was sweating and not a single word came out of his mouth.

“Are you crazy Y/N let go of me, let’s stop this” Jihyo said as she tried to untangle herself from me, instantly I hugged her tightly and drove my cock deeper making her squeal.

I got out of the trunk of the car with Jihyo still attached up to me with my cock stuck in her pussy, and I bent Jihyo’s body forward so that her eyes were level with Mr. Lee’s waist.

“Mr. Lee take off your pants, you can use Jihyo’s mouth to satisfy your lust while I fuck her pussy, as a bonus I’ll let you squeeze Jihyo’s breasts that you’ve been craving for so long,” I told Mr. Lee.

Jihyo on the other hand tried to rebel at my words, but I didn’t care at all.

I grabbed Jihyo’s hair to hold her head, and turned her face towards Mr. Lee.

“Hurry up Mr. Lee, before I change my mind!” I snapped at Mr. Lee.

Mr. Lee who heard that immediately opened his security guard uniform pants and took out his penis which was only half the size of mine.

“Y/N You’re really going to let me enjoy Professor Jihyo’s mouth, right?”

I nodded at him “Not a professor but a cheap whore, quickly put your cock in this whore Jihyo’s mouth” I ordered Mr. Lee.

Mr. Lee also held Jihyo’s head and tried to put his penis in Jihyo’s mouth, unfortunately Jihyo didn’t let him in easily.

I grabbed Jihyo’s hair hard and slapped her ass several times to make her scream

As she screamed, I pushed her forward and Mr. Lee quickly inserted his cock into Jihyo’s mouth which silenced her screams in an instant.

Jihyo was now bent forward with my cock in her pussy and Mr. Lee cock in her mouth.

Mr. Lee and I tried to move in rhythm to fuck Jihyo together, me holding on to Jihyo’s waist, while Mr. Lee used Jihyo’s hanging breasts as handles while squeezing them roughly.

Mr. Lee hands moved to the back of her head as he forced his swollen cock deeper into her throat.

Jihyo start to panic while gagged at Mr. Lee cock inside her throat roughly, but that’s not the only problem she had cause in other side i was pound her hard, making loud clapping noise.

Jihyo felt herself gagging and for a moment couldn't breathe.

Just when she thought she was going to pass out, she felt hot salty liquid flood her throat and then felt relieved when Mr. Lee's cum slid almost completely out of her mouth.

Jihyo panted while trying to get enough air and swallowed the remaining cum in her mouth at the same time. Mr. Lee held the head of his penis right in front of Jihyo's mouth then slapped it against her mouth and face.

Jihyo showed a pleading face as she said "Please stop, you're really abusing me like an undignified woman" she said with pleading eyes.

Mr. Lee looked at me "I'm sorry Y/N, I came too soon because of the beautiful dream I had" he said as he continued to slap Jihyo with his penis, not caring what Jihyo said a few seconds ago.

While her face was still slapped with Mr. Lee's cock, Jihyo continued to whimper and sigh as I continued to fuck her roughly while slapping her ass from behind.

"Arghh ahhh ahh pleaseeee Y/N, Mr. Lee stop this, you're really torturing me too much" Jihyo said with pleading eyes while moaning.

“Torture? Really Jihyo? If you really feel tortured having a threesome in the open like this, you shouldn’t get wet and clamp my cock inside your pussy even harder, you slut!” Give her another spank.

“What Y/N said was right professor Jihyo, you even sucked the rest of my sperm in your mouth, there’s no way you didn’t enjoy it, you slut professor,” Mr. Lee snapped as he rubbed his cock against Jihyo’s face and slapped her.

I slammed my cock faster and faster into Jihyo making her body and her breasts rocking hard with every thrust.

Feeling bored in the same position made me less eager to have sex with Jijyo again, on the other hand I was quite disappointed with Mr. Lee who experienced premature ejaculation, but it was unavoidable considering Mr. Lee's age.

To build up my lust again, I pulled Jihyo's hands back until she was in a standing position with her back arched towards me and her ass against my pelvis.

In this position I tried to adjust my movements again to fuck her and said to Mr. Lee "Slap those big tits for me Mr. Lee" I started moving my hips and once again fucked Jihyo at a high speed.

As the first slap was felt on her breasts, Jihyo screamed loudly, hearing her scream made me even more excited to fuck her.

Seeing me getting excited about fucking Jihyo, Mr. Lee continued his slaps on Jihyo's pair of breasts, leaving red marks with each slap while occasionally twisting her nipples.

Jihyo felt her pussy being slammed hard and feeling each slap on her breasts made her lose her mind, her brain melting with the conflict of whether she should feel pleasure or torment.

Because Jihyo felt the pleasure growing each time Y/N pushed his cock into the tip of her womb and the pain mixed with pleasure as her breasts were slapped by Mr. Lee.

“Do you like that Jihyo? Do you like being humiliated out in the open while I fuck you and Mr. Lee slaps your big tits?” I whispered to her and gave her a small nibble on her ear

Jihyo’s body continued to rocking hard violently as she received each thrust from me at high pace, her eyes were seen only half open with her mouth gaping drooling making her breasts wet with her own saliva, “pweasee let me go, this is too much for me to handle, I’m a lecturer, please show me some mercy,” she pleaded with a sorrowful voice and a few moans still left In each of her words.

Hearing that Mr. Lee took the initiative to pinch both of Jihyo’s nipples and pull hard on them, making Jihyo open her eyes and scream “Nooooooo!”

I felt my cock being squeezed hard in her pussy as Jihyo screamed and seconds later my body was pushed back as my cock was pushed out from inside Jihyo’s pussy as she had a violent orgasm and released it like a leaking dam.

Jihyo fell to her knees with both her nipples still in the position of being pinched hard by Mr. Lee and whimpered softly on her knees and arched back , her breasts looming before Mr. Lee.

I squatted in front of her and reached my hand towards her pussy to pick up the rest of her vaginal fluid “I thought you said you were tortured and humiliated Jihyo?” I said as I wiped her vaginal fluid all over her face which immediately mixed with her tears.

“It seems like your pussy says otherwise, it doesn’t match your lips, can you tell me the truth?”

Jihyo was still whining with teary eyes looking at me “Please end all of this, don’t you feel satisfied playing with me already you bastard!?” she barked

Raising my eyebrows at that, I stood up and grabbed Jihyo’s chin.

Slapping her mouth with my cock “Satisfied? I haven’t even reached my orgasm yet, slut!” Jihyo moans every time my cock touched her face.

I let go of her chin and positioned myself behind her to penetrate even more harder and pump her pussy with all my might.

Along with the rhythmic movement of mine pounding Jihyo pussy, Mr. Lee focused on sucking her right breast and twisting Jihyo’s left nipple lustfully which made Jihyo getting more stimulated.

Jihyo could only moan and sigh like a cheap slut with her mouth gaping upwards and her body sandwiched between myself and Mr. Lee.

Moments later I felt my orgasm starting to approach its limit, I pulled out my cock then immediately thrust it back into the tip of Jihyo’s womb.

Jihyo also moaned loudly as I spilled my hot cum inside her though only momentarily as she reached her orgasm again and had my cock pushed out of her pussy as she released her orgasm, expelling my cock, my sperm, and her love juices simultaneously.

It fell like a rushing waterfall, accompanied by a melodious cry of pleasure from her mouth.

Five minutes passed, Jihyo was still limping on the parking lot floor with a puddle of her love juice.

I decorate Jihyo’s forehead with a marker that reads “Fierce lecturer free to use” and carry her to the car to take a picture

I sat at the backseat and faced outward while positioning Jihyo to sit on my laps while opening her legs wide

Mr. Lee was busy capturing the moment by taking pictures of Jihyo’s sweaty naked body and her pussy still oozing juices from our orgasm.

“Take a picture of us Mr. Lee, make sure you do it right and make the writing visible”

I asked Mr. Lee while positioning Jihyo as erotically as possible.

Jihyo could only surrender with blurred consciousness and eyes that were only half open.

And of course with a big inscription on her forehead “Fierce lecturer free to use”

#kpopsmut #twice smut #twice jihyo #male reader #girl group smut

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cornsoupflavour · 11 months ago

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Sick Day (Twice NSFW Smut)

⚠️18+ ONLY - MINORS DNI⚠️

TWICE Momo Hirai x Manager!Male Reader

Tags: 3.8k words, wholesome, manager x idol, multiple creampies, power exchange, role switching, possible romance, caught in the act

It was the day that the TWICE girls were supposed to visit an attraction together as part of a variety show, but your phone buzzed with a message from Jihyo, the leader of TWICE, the morning of the outing. Momo came down with a fever and was advised to rest. Being the group's manager, you acknowledged Jihyo's message and drove over to the hotel that they were staying in. Upon arriving, you climbed the stairs, two steps at a time, to reach Momo's floor. With a deep breath, you knocked on the door.

Momo opened the door, her dark, wavy hair cascading over her shoulders. She wore a white tee, sweatpants, and a pair of fuzzy socks. Her face is flushed and glistening with perspiration. A steaming cup of tea sits on the bedside table.

"Morning, Momo. Heard you're not feeling too good so I brought you some snacks, some hot beverage packets and a few other things. How are you feeling?" you asked, walking in and closing the door behind you.

"Oh, thank you... I'm really sorry for all this... I wish I could've gone with everyone."

"Hey, we don't ask to get sick... okay, maybe sometimes, but I know this isn't one of those times. So don't worry about it, it's no trouble at all. Trust me, alright? Let's get you all nice and well rested," you helped her to the bed, tucking her in while placing the back of your hand on her forehead to check her body temperature.

She frowned, her lips pouting a little as she spoke, "It's still pretty high, isn't it? I miss everyone already..."

"I'm sure they miss you too, but they'd want you to get better too. I'll make sure they take lots of pictures so you can have a feel of what it was like there. For now, just lay back on your pillow and I'll go make you some hot chocolate and something small to eat."

Momo nods, her eyes closing as she laid back. You set up a small table for her before heading to the kitchen, fixing her up a small meal along with a glass of warm water. You brought it over and placed it on the table with a bottle of vitamins. "Here you go, eat up, you need to eat if you wanna get better."

She sat up, and turned on the television to keep herself occupied as she ate. As she began eating, your eyes drifted to a stack of unread magazines. You picked one up and flipped through it, stopping at a page where Momo is being interviewed. She's smiling, her eyes bright, you can't help but feel bad for how she's feeling right now.

Momo looks away from the television, her gaze fixing on you, "Thank you. This is perfect."

"I'm glad you like it, when you're done, let me know. I'll come and clear the table for you and you can have your rest."

"Thank you again..." her voice damp and slightly hoarse as she leaned back from the table, allowing you to clear the dishes, "...I promise I'll make it up to you and everyone else next time." She sniffled, her nose red from her flu. You began clearing her table, bringing the dishes to the sink and washing them.

"What did I say? I told you not to worry about it. We all have our off days and it appears that today is yours. No shame in that, so just focus on getting better, alright?"

Momo smiled as she tucked herself further under the covers, her gaze momentarily locking with yours. You gave her a warm smile before planting yourself in the recliner, staying close by if she needed anything else. Slowly she drifted off to sleep.

A few hours later, you groggily stretched your arms as your eyes peeled open, feeling stiff from your position in the recliner. "Oh, shit– I fell asleep–" You glanced over at Momo, now nowhere to be seen, and your heart skipped a beat. Panic surged through you, and you're about to call her name when you spotted a note on the bedside table.

Your breath hitched, and you let out a sigh of relief as you read the contents of the note.

I'm feeling a little better, so I thought I'd go to the pool to cool down. Please don't worry. I'll be back soon. Thank you for everything. –Momo

You gave your face a quick wash in the bathroom to freshen up before deciding to head down to the pool to find her. As you take a step out of the elevator and into the hotel lobby, you're greeted by the soothing sounds of water cascading from a nearby fountain. You walked towards the glass doors that lead to the outdoor pool area, the sun hitting your skin, and you squinted as you surveyed the area.

In the distance, you spot Momo, her curvy form in the pool, the water reflecting the rays of the evening sun, her hair spread out like a fan around her. She was backfloating in a soft pink bikini. That sure is one way to cool off from a fever. She had a pair of red–lensed clear sunglasses as she floated.

You watched longingly as you slowly approached her, subtly admiring her figure. "Water's nice, huh? Enjoying the sun?" you asked, teasingly. She swam towards you upon hearing your voice, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she rested her arms and chin on the edge of the pool. "Hey, nice to see you're feeling better."

"Yeah, looks like I just needed some hot cocoa, a good rest and some care and concern from my favourite manager to help me feel better~"

"Yeah, yeah... you're my favourite too..."

"Huh? What was that?"

"I said you're all my favourites too," you answered, smirking a little.

You take a seat on a nearby poolside chair as you watch Momo try to get out. Your cheeks blush ever so slightly as you're presented with her assets, glistening from the water. Momo extended her hand out, requesting for you to pull her up, but upon grabbing her hand, she pulled you in, laughing excitedly.

Momo continued to giggle excitedly as you float next to her, splashing water at her. "You're so lucky I put my phone down before reaching out–"

After a little bit of playful splashing, you both climbed out of the pool. As you pulled yourself up, your suit and tie absolutely soaked, your gaze landed on Momo, her body glistening from the water, her assets shaking graciously with every movement. Your cheeks turned a soft red as you looked away, handing her a towel. She grabbed it and proceeded to wrap it around herself. "Much better, thank you. The water feels great, it helped cool my fever down. I'm feeling more refreshed now."

You nod, smiling, "That's great to hear. Now, let's get back to your room to get dried up. I'll check your temperature again too, just to make sure."

Momo nodded, her eyes bright, "Alright, Mr. Manager~" she giggled, leaning into your side.

Before you both start walking, she shook her head, trying to get the excess water out of her hair. As you watched, it felt as if the world disappeared and you were watching her in slow–motion.

"Shall we?" her voice snapped you back to reality. You blinked a few times, setting yourself back into the real world as you nodded, "Yeah, let's go."

As you walked, you threw on your own towel to cover your wet clothes. After a while, the two of you arrived back at the room. Upon entering, you head straight for the shower to get yourself out of your wet clothes. Once done, you threw on a bathrobe and stepped back out. Momo turned around, drying her hair with the towel.

She smiled as she walked towards you. You returned her smile, glad to see her in better spirits. "You can go and freshen up if you'd like, I'll go grab the thermometer."

"Thank you, thank you, but it's okay, I could stay like this for a while," her grateful smile tugging at your heartstrings as she stated, glancing down at herself in her pink bikini and towel. "Feels nice~"

"Alright then, at least go and dry your hair, don't want you getting sick again."

"Well, at least now if I do, I know you'll come and take care of me~" she teased before proceeding to dry her hair. You headed over to your bag and pulled out a thermometer for her to use. As she stuck the thermometer under her tongue, you placed the back of your hand on her forehead once more.

"Seems alright..."

She showed you the reading and it showed her temperature being back to normal. "Wow, looks like you're alright. I shall take my leave now, the girls should be back in a few more hours."

Momo fiddled with her towel, her gaze moving to the door, "Um, can you stay a bit longer? I'd feel more comfortable with you around, you know, just in case..." she trailed off, her voice a little shy.

You hummed, glancing back at her. "Of course, I could stay till the others get back. I'll just head to the mall downstairs to grab some new clothes. You wanna come with?"

She flashed a grateful smile, "Thank you, I appreciate it... Sure, just let me change into something less revealing. Wouldn't want to give fans a free show~" she added before grabbing some clothes and walking into the bathroom. After a while, she came out and followed you down to buy some clothes. About half an hour later, you're both back in the room.

You tossed your wet clothes into the wash, already changed into a fresh set of clothes. You took a seat next to Momo on the bed. "So, any plans on how you want to spend your 'sick leave'? Y'know, besides swimming in the pool. Or do you want to just relax and rest some more?"

Momo shrugs, her eyes drifting to the television, "I guess I'll just chill here and watch some TV... My phone's dead, so I'll be a little disconnected from the world today–" she smirked, "Not that I'm complaining," she added, her eyes meeting yours.

You chuckled, "Sounds like a plan. If you need anything, let me know."

Momo's eyes flicked back to the door, a sly smile tugging at her lips as she spoke, "Actually, there is something I need from you... I need to make sure you're not just a good manager, but a good friend as well."

Her smile grew as she stood up, swaying her hips a little as she came closer to you. Momo then straddled your lap, her body pressed against yours. She lifted her shirt to reveal her pink bikini top. She tilted her head, her hair cascading around her face, "Is there something I can get you in return, Mr. Manager? I know you like this top of mine~"

You stared, somewhat in disbelief, at the situation you're currently in. You felt a flush creep up your neck, and you gulped before responding, "Umm, I don't know, I'm not really in a position to ask for anything, but if you insist..."

Momo leaned in, her lips grazing your earlobe as she whispered, "Just be a good boy for me, and I'll make sure you won't regret it."

You nodded, a smirk appearing on your lips, along with a smug look. As she pulled back, her hands landed on your chest, gripping your shirt. She began to gently tug, her eyes locked onto yours. "You really are a good friend, aren't you?"

You responded with a flirtatious confidence, "Yes, I am~" you answered, knowing where this was headed. Momo then pulled your shirt over your head, revealing your bare chest. She trailed her fingers down your chest, her touch feather–light. You let out a soft hum at her touch. "Mmh, so strong..."

With her hands now on your abs, she leaned in, her lips just millimeters away from yours. Her breath was warm, her scent enveloping you. "Now, let's see if I can make you even stronger," she whispered, her lips brushing against yours. As she pulled back, her hands moved to the strings of her bikini top.

You grabbed her wrist, refusing to let her take the top off, "No. Leave it on... I like the way it looks on you..." She blinked with a mix of confusion and desire. She brought your hand to the center of her top, hooking your thumb on it as she slowly slipped it upwards, dragging the top with it.

"We could leave it like this, not on, not off~" she whispered, revealing her perky breasts, topped by dark pink nipples. Her eyes never strayed from yours, her mouth curving into a seductive smile.

You licked your lips, your hands reached out, tentatively, to cupping her breasts. She let out a soft, satisfied moan, arching into your touch. "Ungh, there you go, don't be shy."

You gave in, your hands massaging her breasts, kneading them, feeling her nipples harden beneath your fingers. Her nails dug into your shoulders as she leaned in, her lips capturing yours. She tasted sweet, her tongue dancing with yours as she gripped your hair, her hips rocking against yours.

Momo broke the kiss, her breaths shallow as she leaned back, a satisfied smirk on her lips. "I thought you could use a little distraction, Mr. Manager. You're doing well," she praised, her hand drifting down to the growing hardness between your legs.

You brought your lips to her neck, your head swam against it, planting kisses along her jawline. "Of course, you're my favourite distraction~ Don't tell the others I said that..." you joked but her touch and actions had you on edge. "You really are something aren't you, Momo?"

You continued to kiss down her neck, your breath warm against her skin. Momo smirked, leaning in to nibble on your earlobe as she grazed your length through your pants.

You let out a soft whimper against her neck. You gripped her hips tightly, knowing this was crossing boundaries, but you couldn't resist her. "Mmff, Momo... So eager..."

Momo sat up, her eyes bright as she pulled down your pants, just enough to release your arousal. She licked her lips, her gaze never leaving yours, "Don't worry, I'll take care of you. I'm just happy you're here for me."

You bit your lip, a smirk forming on the corners. Momo wiggled and shifted in your lap. She spread her legs slightly, inviting you to join her. You obliged, Momo's siren call was too strong. You raised her up slightly by her hips, lining her slit with the tip of your length.

Momo leaned forward as she lowered herself onto your member, her hands gripping your shoulders as she connected her lips with yours. As you entered her, a small moan leaked into your kiss. You slowly thrust up into her, her moans filling the room, as she set the pace.

You gripped her hips, your thrusts growing faster and more forceful. "Ahh, goddamn... you feel good, Momo," you panted, your voice rough. "You're so tight, so wet..."

Momo let out a soft, breathy moan, "Ooh, just like that... Nnngh~ You're not so bad, Mr. Manager."

You increased your pace, the sounds of slapping flesh filling the room with every thrust. You gripped her tighter, your lips pressing against her neck, your breath hot against her skin. "Mmh, you feel so good," you groaned, your grip tightening.

Momo's moans grew louder, her body arching towards yours as she grinded herself to meet your thrusts, her body quivering. "Ungh, yeah, don't stop, you're making me feel so good," she panted. The pleasure was building, each thrust bringing even louder moans to the pairing.

You slammed into her, gripping her hips, your thrusts growing more intense, the room filled with the sounds of flesh slapping together. Momo's moans grew louder, her head thrown back, her nails digging into your shoulders. "Mmf, yeah, Mr. Manager~ so good... I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum," she cried out.

You let out a low growl, your thrusts getting harder, "Cum for me, Momo, cum on my cock. I bet you'll look so good while you do it," you encourage.

Momo's hips bucked against yours, her body shuddering as her climax took over, her pussy tightening around you. "Ahh, daddy, yesss, I'm cumming~" she screamed out, her body trembling, her release shaking her.

Your own climax was nearing, your thrusts frenzied, "Goddamn– you're so fucking good, Momo. Fuck, I'm gonna cum too–" you groaned, your release taking you over the edge, exploding deep inside her.

Momo leaned forward, her chest pressing against your own, her breathing quick and heavy. You both enjoyed the afterglow for a while, her body still quivering, her pussy milking you softly.

You leaned down, bringing her breast to your lips, your tongue swirling around her nipple, gently pulling on it with your teeth. "Mmh, you taste so fucking good..." your voice thick with satisfaction.

Momo let out a soft, contented sigh, "Thank you, daddy, that felt so good... I can't believe I'm calling you daddy, but it feels right~"

You chuckled, giving her a tender kiss on the lips, "Well, you're my favourite, so anything goes, right?"

Momo smiled, her body still clinging to your length, "Right... My favourite Mr. Manager~"

"But I'm not done. You think with a cock like yours that I'll just hope off after one ride? You're in for a real good time~ Let me give you a 'thank you' gift for being such a good manager for us~"

You smirked, "I'll do my best to keep up with you, Momo, don't worry."

Momo grinned, her hands guiding you to lay down on your back. She raised her ass and leaned forward, her breasts pressing against your chest. She wrapped her arms around your head, hugging you into her cleavage. "This is how a good manager should be, right here, in the cradle of his favourite Momo's tits," she purred.

You chuckled, your hands gripping her hips, "So bossy, Momo, but that's what I like about you."

Momo's eyes locked onto yours, a lustful intensity in her gaze that mirrored the hunger in her soul. Her hips shifted, ever so slightly, before she began to lower herself back onto you, her lips parting in a soft moan. Inch by agonizing inch, she descended, her wetness enveloping your hardness.

Your breath hitched, your fingers digging into the flesh of her hips as she sank upon you, her pussy tightening around your length. Her breasts squished against your face, swelling slightly with each tantalizing inch. Your eyes followed the descent, drinking in her sensuality, the way her nipples hardened, the way her throat arched, the way her lips quivered in a mixture of pleasure and exertion.

Once fully impaled, Momo traced a finger along your jawline, a wolfish grin curling her lips. She began to rise, her hips grinding against yours, the head of your cock dragging against her swollen folds. The sound of flesh meeting flesh filled the room, her moans adding to the crescendo of desire.

"Mmf, daddy– My Mr. Manager~" she panted, her eyes never leaving yours, "Make me feel good." The challenge hung between you, a promise of the submission she so eagerly gave.

You gripped her hips tighter, your own arousal building. "Just like that, Momo," you encouraged, your voice deep, hungry. "Give me everything you've got."

Momo's pace quickened, her breasts pressing onto your face, punctuating her movements. Her moans grew louder, her nails digging into your shoulders, her hips rolling, her body swimming against yours. The room trembled with the intensity of the rhythm.

She continued to grind herself onto you, going from quickly to slowly, her eyes locked on yours. Her body came down on your length, her pussy swallowing you whole. She rose and fell, her tits engulfed the bottom half of your face with every movement, her eyes never leaving yours. "Mmf, yeah, daddy, make me feel good," she moaned.

You gripped her hips, your body arching up to meet her, "Just like that, Momo... I'm all yours–" you encouraged her, your voice thick with lust.

Momo let out a soft, satisfied moan, "I'll show you just how you're all mine~ Don't you dare cum without my permission, Mr. Manager," she warned, her tone playful.

You chuckled, your hips bucking up to meet her, "I wouldn't dare, Momo... But when you do let me cum, it's going to be explosive– I will flood you–" you promised, the lust apparent in your voice.

Your grip on Momo tightened, your hips bucking, matching the pace as her body rocked against yours. Her moans grew louder, resonating in the room, filling it with the sounds of pleasure. "Ungh, Mr. Manager, you're getting me so close... I can't hold it," she panted, her voice thick with lust. "Mmf, daddy, you feel so good, I'm close... So close..."

You groaned, your body arching to meet her thrusts, your voice growing hoarse, "Let go for me, Momo, let your juices coat my cock," you encouraged her, feeling your own climax nearing. From beneath her soft yet firm breasts, you took her nipples into your mouth, sucking on them as her movements became more erratic.

Momo's body shuddered, her orgasm crashing over her like a wave. "Ahh, Mr. Manager, I'm cumming~" she cried out, her pussy clenching around you, milking you with each spasm. Her moans echoed in the room as her release washed over her.

Feeling her orgasm, you too couldn't hold back, your release pulsing deep inside her. You let out a low growl, your hips bucking up one last time, "Fuck, Momo, that's it, cum for me," you groaned, your release flooding her depths.

Momo collapsed onto you, her body shuddering, her grip on you not letting go. She rested her head on your shoulder, her breathing heavy, "Wow, I don't think I've ever felt so good, that was intense... I think I should get sick more often... what do you think, Mr. Manager? Or do you prefer... daddy~?" she whispered, a satisfied and cheeky smile on her lips, her body still quivering from her climax.

You chuckled, wrapping your arms around her, your chest rising and falling in unison with hers, "Whichever you like better, Momo... But just wait until the next time, I have a feeling we'll be testing just how much we can handle," you teased, your voice laced with confidence and promise. You peaked from between her mounds and leaned up for a deep, passionate kiss. As Momo reciprocated, her body twitched at your slowly softening cock. Just as you both broke the kiss, a strand of saliva still connecting you two, the room door opened, to the excited chatter and banter from the other TWICE girls.

Both parties turned to look at one another, all their mouths agape.

"Hey, girls... back so soon...?"

[Let me know if you want a part two or if you want me to make this a long running story. And let me know who else you'd want to see a fic about.]

[ Sick Day Pt. 1 – See Pt. 2 ]

#kpop smut #x male reader #girl group smut #x male!reader #smut #female idol smut #momo x reader #momo smut #twice x male reader #twice smut

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lonewolflink · 1 year ago

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A little late but JIHYO AS OVI link your MIND!!!

i can't tell you how happy this ask made me lol

JIHYO IS OVI!!!!!

but a little more like later career ovi, less bull in a china shop more unstoppable shot elite goal scorer. young ovi would also PULVERIZE people, but jihyo isn't much of a hitter (though she's not afraid to get physical). also, like ovi, despite being the best goal scorer in the league she is utterly mid at shootouts. everyone's got an achilles heel i guess 🤷‍♀️

(if there is anyone on this earth i will eternally stan for it is alexander ovechkin i love ovi so so so so much. he got me into hockey and i haven't looked back since. i don't want to think about how much i'm going to cry when he retires. i drew quite a bit of inspiration from the ovechkin capitals (including the ensemble cast of players from that long period: nick backstrom, mike green, alex semin, tom wilson, etc.) over the years for the hockey tropes in wsc, so keep an eye out and you just might spot some!)

#asks #anon #wsc #wheel snipe celly #hockey au #god it's gonna be so satisfying when i finally write jihyo scoring that first power play goal of the season #from the ovi spot #yeji on the halfwall doing her best nick backstrom impression...#:')#god jihyo!!!!!!!!#:)))))))

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district4loading · 3 months ago

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What do you think is the top kink for each TWICE member?

Nayeon - Spanking

I think Nayeon is really into spanking as a form of punishment. She doesn't really care how you do it, as long as your hand is coming hard into contact with her ass. She'll let you bend her over your lap, bend her over the counter, or maybe just a few slaps when you're doing her from behind.

She also really likes it when you take off your belt to spank her good and hard when she's been bad. Sometimes she'll act out on purpose just so you can spank her

Jeongyeon - Dominating

Jeongyeon finds it gratifying to be on top when she's with you. She wants all the power and control. She wants you to beg for permission to cum and she wants to hear all the pleases and thank you's from you whenever she fucks you. You're basically her bitch.

Momo - Choking

Momo likes whenever you wrap your big strong hand around her neck and squeeze until she halfway loses consciousness. She likes this especially when you're pounding into her in missionary position, using both of your hands. Just a few seconds of that could have her cumming so hard she forgets how to speak.

Sana - DDLG

Sana likes to call you daddy. In return you call her a good girl and she gets off on it. All she really wants is for you to put her in her place whenever she’s being bratty.

Jihyo - Public Sex

Jihyo likes to do things with you in public. When you two go out together there's no telling what you could get up to. If you're shopping for clothes, she'll pull you into the dressing room and make you cover her mouth while you have a quickie. Or if you're out at a restaurant, she'll shove her hands down your pants while you're still ordering.

Mina - Toys

Mina loves to spice up your sex life with her arsenal of toys. She has toys that you can use, toys that she can use and toys that you could use together. There's nothing better than having a butt plug in her ass to stretch her out while you pump a vibrator in and out of her cunt—thats her opinion but you also find it fun.

Dahyun - Teasing

Dahyun's a real tease, no matter if you're in public or private she finds a way to get you all riled up. When you're in public she'll caress your arm or whisper in your ear with a tone of voice that makes your ears turn red. It's even worse when you're alone cause she'll walk around the house with clothes so revealing, they could barely classify as proper clothing. One time she walked past you wearing these tight shorts that rode up so high they almost looked like underwear.

Chaeyoung - Roleplay

Some nights, chaeyoung would like to be someone she's not for a change. Maybe she'll dress up as a sexy cop and you'll be her big strong criminal. Or maybe she's a married woman and you're the hot bartender that's been making eyes at her all night. Stuff like that brings a lot of spice to your sex life and you've noticed that she enjoys it more than she lets on.

Tzuyu - Somno

One night, Tzuyu came to you and told you to wait until she goes to sleep to touch her. To make things simple, you haven't been able to keep your hands off of her when the night time comes since then. The way she cutely sleeps, unconscious and unaware of what's to come. Then when she wakes up with you touching her, she pretends to be all surprised, knowing that she didn't wear any panties for a reason.

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kyunghwannie · 1 month ago

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Hello, author-nim.

I do want a small thoughts of yours about who is the best anal queen in TWICE in rating of 1-10?

It can be either your serious or fun thoughts.

I wanted to ask this when i saw you reblog a rate post of BJ earlier.

Hello, there as well. Before yall go in, i want to say i wrote it rather in fun thoughts and not seriously considering or thinking of how it may feel or turn out. In simple, i focused on the comical side of their persona for this tier list. (+18).

This is clearly unbiased in terms of ranking as iam a die hard OT9 forever. All of what i wrote is purely comical thinking because Anon said it can be either serious or funny.

But whatever, Enjoy it.

1. Nayeon (9.5/10) – The Bratty Anal Slut

Ass Physiology: Plush, jiggly, and built for abuse. Her cheeks swallow dick whole and clench on command.

Kink Alignment: "You think you can wreck me? I’ll wreck you first." Loves being stretched to her limit, then begging for more.

Drawback: Overconfident. Will tap out mid-session but never admit defeat.

2. Momo (9.5/10) – The Power Bottom

Ass Physiology: Muscular, bouncy, and relentless. Takes deep strokes like a champ.

Kink Alignment: "Fuck me harder—I can take it!" (She can.)

Drawback: Competitive. If you slow down, she’ll ride you just to prove she’s in control.

3. Sana (9/10) – The Playful Size Queen

Ass Physiology: Soft, perky, and made for stretching. Leaves your dick shiny with her slick.

Kink Alignment: "Mmmf~ It’s so big… but I love it~!"

Drawback: Overstimulated easily—might cry and cum at the same time.

4. Mina (8.5/10) – The Silent Masochist

Ass Physiology: Petite but deceptively deep. Takes every inch with quiet desperation.

Kink Alignment: "Ngh~… more…" (whispered between shaky breaths).

Drawback: Needs slow warm-ups—rush her, and she’ll freeze up.

5. Jeongyeon (8/10) – The Bossy Switch

Ass Physiology: Firm, athletic, and grippy. Leaves your dick throbbing from sheer pressure.

Kink Alignment: "You’re mine now." (Then flips you over and rides you raw.)

Drawback: Bruises too easily—her ass turns red after one spank.

6. Jihyo (8/10) – The Worship-Driven Sub

Ass Physiology: Thick, heavy, and clap-worthy. Built for slow, deep strokes.

Kink Alignment: "Tell me how good I feel… or I’ll stop moving."

Drawback: Stamina issues—collapses after two rounds.

7. Tzuyu (7.5/10) – The Shy but Curious Virgin

Ass Physiology: Tight, high, and untouched. Quivers at the first push.

Kink Alignment: "D-Does it all fit…?" (Spoiler: It does.)

Drawback: Panics if you look her in the eyes.

8. Chaeyoung (7/10) – The Freaky Experimenter

Ass Physiology: Narrow but surprisingly flexible. Loves trying weird angles.

Kink Alignment: "What if we… did it sideways?" (Then moans like a pornstar.)

Drawback: Gets too creative—might suggest positions that don’t exist.

9. Dahyun (7/10) – The Giggly Tease

Ass Physiology: Modest but bouncy. Perfect for quick, sneaky sessions.

Kink Alignment: "Ah! Y/N-ah, we’ll get caught~!" (She wants to get caught.)

Drawback: Laughs at the worst moments.

---

Final Ranking (All 7/10 or Higher)

Nayeon (9.5/10) – Bratty, insatiable, built for anal.

Momo (9.5/10) – Power bottom, takes everything you give.

Sana (9/10) – Playful, stretchy, loves being filled.

Mina (8.5/10) – Silent but hungry for more.

Jeongyeon (8/10) – Bossy, grippy, leaves you sore.

Jihyo (8/10) – Demands worship, rewards with claps.

Tzuyu (7.5/10) – Innocent until broken in.

Chaeyoung (7/10) – Freaky, experimental, unpredictable.

Dahyun (7/10) – Giggly, fun-sized, loves risk.

---

🔥 9 HOT Anal Facts About TWICE Members (I was just fooling around)🔥

1. Nayeon's Addictive Grip

Her ass clenches rhythmically when she cums, milking your dick like she owns it. Even after pulling out, her hole pulses visibly, desperate for more.

2. Momo's Dancer Flexibility

She can fold herself in half during doggy, letting you hit depths other girls can’t make you reach. Her muscles tighten around you with every thrust—like a vise.

3. Sana’s Instant Slickness

The second your tip presses against her, she drips enough to coat your entire shaft. She whimpers at the stretch but pushes back greedily.

4. Mina’s Silent Squirm

She won’t make noise… but her thighs shake, her back arches, and her fingers claw the sheets when you bottom out.

5. Jeongyeon’s Bruising Kink

Her ass reddens after just a few spanks, and she growls if you stop. “Harder. Don’t fucking go soft on me now.”

6. Jihyo’s Clapping Echo

Every thrust echoes off the walls—her thick cheeks amplify the sound. "You hear that? That’s all you."

7. Tzuyu’s Virgin-Tight Heat

Even after multiple rounds, her hole never loosens. It’s like fucking a brand-new ass every time.

8. Chaeyoung’s Freaky Angles

She loves being bent over furniture, countertops, even the studio mirror—anywhere that lets her watch herself getting split open.

9. Dahyun’s Teasing Reflex

The second you pull out, her ass twitches like it’s begging to be plugged. She’ll smirk and say, "Oops~ Did my butt miss you?"

💦 BONUS: Post-Anal Rituals of three members (Wrote this because i saw some of SaNaMo clips)

Nayeon – Stays gaped and plays with herself after, showing off how ruined she is.

Momo – Stretches like nothing happened, then smirks at your exhausted state.

Sana – Kisses your dick clean, humming like she just had dessert.

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leejenowrld · 2 months ago

Text

back to you — five

pairing - lee jeno x reader

word count - 43k words

genre - smut, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers

synopsis — the fallout from the bar backs you and jeno into a corner, forcing everything to unravel faster than you can control. just when the lines blur and restraint shatters, when old habits become impossible to break, you’re forced to confront a demon—but you can’t let him save you. not when the real threat has finally stepped out of the shadows, pulling the strings tighter, making sure there’s only one way this ends, and it’s not with jeno by your side.

chapter warnings/contents — college au, small town vibes, explicit language, explicit sexual content(18+), explicit themes, one tree hill inspired, early 2000s vibe, power play, dom reader/sub jeno dynamics (both switches tbh), rough sex, explicit language, i want to preface this by saying that this chapter explores heavy, dark, and deeply angsty themes. please read with care. without giving too much away, it delves into blackmail, a sense of entrapment, and the overwhelming weight of hopelessness. but i want to remind you—this is not the end of the story. we still have about four parts left, and what happens here is only a fragment of the whole. don’t take anything as final. if you see y/n break, if you see weakness, if it feels like all is lost—trust me, it’s part of the process. you haven’t seen anything yet, hard angst this chapter, get tissues ready please, this chapter is the embodiment of a roller coaster, a very needed mark and y/n bestie scene, desperate and horny smut as always, y/n riding like always, jaemin is back, descriptions of heavy emotions. please read with care, love you all 🖤.

authors note — very important note, this was going to be a single part upload but of course i can’t upload 80k worth of words in one post so like part four, it’s going to be uploaded in two separate posts. the next post will continue exactly where this post ends, just remember that as you’re reading! there’s still a lot more to take place.

listen to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 whilst reading <3

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐋

You found the bar on a night when the city felt too sharp, too loud, its edges pressing into you like glass. It wasn’t the kind of place you were searching for, not the sterile cafés or fluorescent-lit study halls where you usually passed the hours, but something about the warm glow spilling onto the pavement made you stop. The hum of conversation didn’t feel intrusive here—it folded into the low strum of a guitar, into the soft clink of glasses, into the air thick with stories left half-told. It was a place that didn’t demand anything from you, didn’t ask who you were or what you carried. It just existed, steady and unchanging, waiting for someone like you to find it.

At first, it was just another stop for a project—some academic exercise in mapping out the significance of local businesses, analyzing spaces that held weight beyond their walls. You went in with observation in mind, your role meant to be distant, analytical, outsider. But then you met Jihyo. She had been a quiet storm behind the counter, all sharp edges and unreadable expressions, eyes like dusk settling over a city. She did not welcome easily. She did not waste time on strangers. And yet, the moment your presence folded into the hum of her bar, she had looked at you—not through you, not past you, but at you, as if already dissecting what you would be before you even knew it yourself. You’re a music major, aren’t you? It wasn’t a question. It was a challenge. She had asked you to play, not out of kindness, but because she wanted to see if you had something worth offering.

Her nod, after you played, had been slow, deliberate, something close to approval. Come back next week. And so you did. The bar became yours in the way places can belong to people—not in ownership, not in name, but in the way they hold the softest, most secret parts of you. It wove itself into your skin, into the fabric of who you were when no one else was watching. Here, you were not the version of yourself the world demanded. There were no expectations, no reputations to uphold, no ghosts of the past waiting in the shadows. There was only the music, the dim glow of the lights pooling like liquid amber against the walls, the quiet hum of conversation, and the people who came not because of you, but because of the way you made them feel.

And then, you shared it with Jeno.

He wasn’t supposed to be there. He wasn’t supposed to see you like that, lost in the music, stripped bare of the carefully constructed persona you wore everywhere else. But he wandered in one night, an outsider drawn into your orbit, caught in the gravitational pull of something he didn’t fully understand yet. He stood at the back of the room, watching—eyes dark, breath slow, body wound tight with something he wouldn’t name. It wasn’t just curiosity. It was hunger. It was awe. It was the moment before a supernova—when gravity falters, when the universe holds its breath, when all that exists is the unbearable tension of something vast and inescapable teetering on the edge of annihilation. Armageddon woven into stardust, devastation dressed as inevitability, the kind of collapse that doesn’t just destroy but remakes everything in its wake.

The air between you vibrated, charged with something vast and inevitable, the kind of force that shifts planets from their orbits, that drags comets screaming through the dark. His gaze didn’t waver, didn’t falter—it only pulled, a gravity well with no escape. And you, reckless and wanting, let yourself be drawn in. It wasn’t curiosity that made you hold his stare; it was recognition, a quiet understanding that whatever existed between you now would either swallow you whole or burn everything you had built to the ground. The bar had been yours—your refuge, your world untouched—but in that moment, you felt its foundation tremble. Because Jeno had never been the kind to stand at the edges of things. He was the kind to step over the threshold, to carve his presence into a place until it could no longer be called whole without him. And somehow, you already knew—you would let him. You would let him ruin this, if only to see what it felt like to be unraveled by him.

And then, he kept coming back. Night after night, slipping into the bar like a shadow, lingering at the edges until he didn’t have to anymore. Until you started looking for him first. Until his presence wasn’t an interruption but an expectation, woven into the rhythm of the room, the silence between notes, the way your pulse stuttered the moment you felt him there. The space stopped being yours alone. He had carved himself into it, into you, a quiet inevitability.

And suddenly, the bar wasn’t just your sanctuary anymore—it was a constellation thrown into chaos, its gravity tilting, its meaning rewritten in the language of him. He was the rogue planet that had torn through your quiet cosmos, shifting your tides, unraveling your axis, pulling everything into a new and dangerous alignment. The space you had once claimed as your own no longer belonged to you alone.

The first time you let him touch you in the bar, it wasn’t planned. It wasn’t some carefully orchestrated decision, a moment meant to unfold with purpose. It happened the way gravity does, the way the tide follows the moon, inevitable and ancient and completely beyond your control. He had been sitting in his usual spot—back against the worn wooden booth, eyes dark, following the curve of your spine as you played, the tilt of your throat when you sang, the way your hands moved over the strings like they were something sacred. And when you set the guitar down, when you made your way over, drawn by the pull of something neither of you wanted to name, he had reached for you without thinking, fingers brushing your wrist, your pulse stuttering beneath his touch.

And then you were in his lap. Just like that, as if you’d been there a thousand times before, as if you were made to fit against him like this, your knees bracketing his thighs, your fingers threading into his hair, your breath hitching when his hands finally, finally settled on your waist. The bar was still there—still humming, still moving, still existing in the background—but it felt distant, irrelevant, a different world entirely. This world, the one where you were pressed against him, where his lips were at your throat, his breath warm and uneven, belonged to the two of you alone.

It was yours and now, it’s broken.

You feel it before you see it, a shift in the air so visceral it presses against your skin like an oncoming storm. The static of unwanted attention hums beneath the usual noise, something foreign, something knowing. The bar has always been a refuge, a place that belonged to you in ways no one else understood, but tonight, the edges have been breached. The weight of strangers—of interlopers—sits heavy in the space, their presence poisoning something once untouched.

You scan the crowd, and the sight of them rips through you. The basketball team—every single one of them. They didn’t come here by chance; this was orchestrated. Someone called them, and they answered. Some lean against the bar, arms crossed, postures too casual, too easy, feigning disinterest even as their eyes flick between you and Jeno. Others are scattered at tables, half-engaged in conversation, but watching. Waiting. It’s a spectacle to them, and you are the entertainment.

The cheer team. Karina sits at the center, perched on a high stool, her body angled towards Winter, but neither of them are looking at each other. Karina’s expression is too smooth, too practiced, an intentional absence of reaction. Nahyun tilts her head slightly, lips curling in something not quite a smirk, her fingers tapping a slow rhythm against her glass, she’s with Mia, Aisha, and Yiren, who giggle, whispering in hushed voices that carry just enough for you to know it’s about you. They’re poking fun at you, and they want you to know it.

Your classmates—people you’ve shared lectures with, worked on projects with—are here too. People who have never given a damn about your life before now, but suddenly, they’re watching, murmuring, collecting pieces of a story they were never supposed to be part of. Your close friends—they were enjoying themselves at first, oblivious to the shift. But then they see you. And they know.They know something is wrong. Shotaro’s face tightens with concern, and Chenle, normally so relaxed, stiffens beside him. Donghyuck and Yangyang exchange wary glances, not sure what to do, but instinctively closing ranks.

And then there’s Mark. Sitting off to the side, alone—but not really. Areum leans into him, murmuring something in his ear, but he doesn’t react, doesn’t even blink. His gaze is locked onto you, steady, unwavering, and yet so far away it feels like staring into a void. He doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t look disgusted. But there’s something worse in his expression—something hollow, like recognition slipping through his fingers. Like he’s seeing you for the first time and realizing you are nothing like the girl he thought he knew. A stranger in your own skin. A stranger he once loved. The weight of that realization cuts deeper than anything else.

The world you kept separate has collapsed into this one. And now, there’s nowhere left to run. Your fingers tighten around the mic stand. You don’t shake—you refuse to—but your pulse is erratic, hammering against your ribs in a frantic rhythm you can’t ignore. The first chords echo through the bar. Normally, music grounds you. Normally, it pulls you under, drowns everything else out. But tonight, you feel watched in a way that music can’t fix. The melody slips from your lips, the weight in the air is wrong. You don’t make mistakes on stage. You never do. But tonight—tonight, you do. A chord lands a half-second too late, your voice catches on a breath that shouldn’t have been there.

It’s small. So small no one else should notice. But Jeno does. His grip tightens around his drink, jaw tensing, tapping his fingers against his knee in that restless way he does when he’s holding something back. His phone is still out, still recording, but he isn’t watching the screen. He’s watching you. His posture doesn’t shift, but the flicker in his expression does. Something almost like disappointment. Like a realization clicking into place.

Nahyun’s fingers continue their slow, rhythmic tap against her glass. Karina doesn’t move. And then, the whispers start. Soft at first, curling under the music, threading through the melody like a parasite. They grow, multiplying, spreading through the crowd like wildfire. Someone laughs. Low. Quick. But sharp enough to slice. Your stomach clenches. You keep going. You have to. But it’s too loud now, not the noise itself, but the knowing. Because they do. They know. Someone told them.

You hear the murmurs slicing through the haze of the music. Is that her? Is that the girl Jeno’s fucking? Mark’s best friend? Accusatory, speculative, invasive. The weight of their stares turns suffocating. You look at Jeno, half-expecting to find an answer, half-hoping for reassurance—but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t react. Doesn’t so much as flinch at the unraveling of your world. And that’s when you know. The sanctuary is gone.

Jeno doesn’t notice it at first. He’s caught in the undertow of your voice, the way it sinks beneath his skin, pulls him under, leaves no room for anything else. The world outside the song doesn’t exist. Nothing else matters—not the noise, not the people, not the way the air shifts around him like something tangible. He only sees you. Only hears the raw rasp of your voice, the way your fingers move over the strings with effortless precision, the way the dim light bends to you, making it impossible to look anywhere else. You are celestial. You are his.

But something fractures. A hairline crack in the illusion. A shift in the current, imperceptible at first, then all-consuming. He doesn’t know when he feels it, only that suddenly, the bar isn’t warm anymore. It isn’t safe. There are too many eyes in the dark, too many murmurs curling like smoke, thick and suffocating. The air is weighted, carrying something cold and sharp. A secret being pried open, a wound split for everyone to see.

The music stumbles—just for a breath, a note out of place, but it’s enough. The whispers swell, curling through the air like static, thick with something heavy, something knowing. And then, a voice. Low. Meant to be heard. Meant to wound. A careless remark sharpened to cut, dressed as a joke but dripping with cruelty. Jeno sees it happen in real-time. The way your fingers clench the mic stand, knuckles whitening with the force of restraint. You don’t flinch, don’t react, but he knows. He sees the slight tremor in your breath, the way your shoulders lock into place, bracing. The way you blink once—too slow, too deliberate. It’s all the confirmation he needs.

Something inside him uncoils. Not in anger, not in blind rage, but something darker. Something quieter. The feeling creeps in slow, pooling in his chest, seeping into his limbs before he even understands it. He moves without thinking, natural instinct taking over before logic can intervene. The scrape of his chair against the floor is unhurried, controlled, but it silences the murmurs like a blade cutting through air. Heads turn. The weight of his presence settles over the room like a storm rolling in, thick with warning.

No. There’s no way this is happening. No way these people are actually here. No way you just laid yourself bare, let something real slip from between your lips—only for it to be dragged into the light, exposed for anyone to pick apart. No. No. No. The denial loops in your head like a corrupted file, skipping, repeating, refusing to compute. Your mind moves with mechanical precision, scanning, assessing, sorting through names and faces, filtering through every interaction, every whispered confidence, every moment of trust. You test each possibility, examine every variable, trace every thread that led here. And one by one, they all unravel.

Except one. Jeno. The name lands like a system failure, a short-circuit searing through you with the force of a fatal error. Your breath is shallow, pulse erratic, but your steps are steady as you turn, moving without thought, without hesitation. Backstage. Away. You don’t shove past him, don’t even spare him a glance as you walk by—but it’s deliberate. A rejection louder than words, heavier than silence.

Jeno stands frozen, still caught between confusion and something deeper, something heavier. The noise of the bar hums behind him, distant, meaningless, but he doesn’t move. His body should follow you, his mouth should shape words, but nothing happens. Nothing makes sense. One second ago, you were his gravity, pulling him in without resistance, and now—now you’re gone.

But then instinct takes over, something primal, something that doesn’t leave room for hesitation. His feet move before his mind catches up, propelling him forward, past the curious glances, past the whispers still thick in the air. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t stop. He follows the path you carved through the crowd, slipping into the same shadows you disappeared into, chasing after the only thing that matters.

The door swings open, and there you are. The air in the small backstage room is heavy, thick with something he can’t name. You stand there, motionless, as if you expected him to follow, as if you knew he would. But there’s nothing in your expression—not anger, not fury, not even disappointment. Just a vast, hollow silence, carved deep into your features like something irreversible. Your eyes meet his, deadpan, unreadable, except for the sharp undercurrent of something that cuts straight through him. Hurt. Betrayal.

The space between you stretches impossibly wide, though barely a few feet separate you. The bar still buzzes behind him, voices blending into a meaningless static, but in here, there’s nothing but quiet. And in that silence, in the absence of everything you refuse to say, Jeno feels something sink, something cave in, something break. He’s seen you angry before, frustrated, amused, indifferent—but never like this, never stripped of every emotion, never with a silence so absolute it feels like there’s nothing left at all.

Jeno opens his mouth, but before he can even form a thought, you cut through the silence. “I can’t believe you’d do this to me.” The words barely rise above a whisper, but they hit like a blow, quiet and heavy, weighted with something raw, something that makes his breath catch. It’s not anger. Not accusation. It’s worse. It’s realization. Like you’re seeing him for the first time and finding nothing of the person you thought was there.

He falters, blinking, his mind racing to make sense of it, to grasp at the threads slipping through his fingers. He didn’t bring them here. He didn’t tell anyone. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. “Do what?” His voice comes out too soft, too careful, a hesitation he doesn’t even notice.

You shake your head, slow, deliberate—not in frustration, not in disbelief, but in something far more final. “You fucking know what.”

A sharp, twisting pang lodges itself in his chest. He doesn’t know. Something about the way you speak, the way you still won’t look at him, the way your breathing is just the slightest bit unsteady—it makes his stomach turn. It makes him feel like he’s already lost. “Y/N, what the fuck are you talking about? I didn’t—”

“Don’t.” Your voice wavers, just enough to betray you. You inhale sharply, swallowing it down before it can fully break. “Don’t fucking lie to me.”

The distance between you stretches wider. Jeno feels it in real-time, the way something unravels between you, slipping through his fingers no matter how tightly he tries to hold on. His frustration coils in his throat, not at you, never at you, but at himself. At this moment. At the way everything is spiraling and he has no idea why. “Baby, I swear to God, I don’t know what—”

You laugh. But it’s not a laugh. It’s a breathless, bitter thing, hollowed out and stripped of warmth, and it makes his skin prickle with something cold. “Don’t call me that.” The way you say it, the way you spit it out like it tastes wrong, like the word itself is poisoned, makes something in him plummet.

“Y/N, please. Just talk to me.”

“Why?” The word is barely there, but when you finally lift your gaze to him, his chest tightens painfully. Your eyes are glassy, but there’s nothing behind them, no warmth, no anger, just empty space where something else used to be. “So you can lie to my face again?”

“I’m not lying to you, what are you talking about—”

"It doesn’t even fucking matter." The words come out too fast, too sharp, burning the air between you. You exhale, blinking fast, but it’s useless. Your vision is already blurred, the sting already settled deep. "Just go. Get out of here."

"No." His voice is steadier now, almost desperate. "Come on, I’ll take you home and then you can sleep on this and we’ll talk tomorrow—"

"No." The word is a wall, solid and immovable. The finality in it feels like it should shake the earth beneath you, crack the foundation of something neither of you want to name. "We’re done."

His breath stutters, chest tightening, a split-second of stillness before his voice comes again, softer now. "What?"

"It’s over, Jeno."

"You were ready to be my girlfriend an hour ago, and now it’s over just like that?" His voice wavers between disbelief and something rawer, something darker, like he’s grasping at air, at something that’s already slipped through his fingers.

You don’t debate. You don’t argue. You don’t give him anything. Every time he tries, every time his voice rises with another plea, another question, another attempt to pull you back, you silence it with nothing but a look, a shake of your head, a single, stony word. "Yes It’s done."

And then you turn. Mid-sentence, mid-conversation, mid-everything. You carve yourself out of the moment like a missing page torn from a book, leaving behind only the hollow shape of where you stood. Your spine locks into something unyielding, your steps crisp, purposeful, final. You don’t look back. Not because you don’t want to—because you refuse to. Because looking back is a trapdoor, a snare waiting to snap around your ribs and drag you under. Because if you see the way he’s watching you, the way his world is actively caving in, you might hesitate. And hesitation is how disasters are made.

Jeno doesn’t chase you. Not because he doesn’t want to—God, every fiber of him is screaming at him to move—but because he can’t. His body betrays him, feet locked to the floor, lungs forgetting how to draw breath, thoughts caught in the violent whiplash of what just happened? He watches you disappear through the haze of low-lit amber, the laughter and chatter around him muffled like he’s underwater. Like the universe has pressed pause on everything except the sound of your retreating footsteps.

And just like that, you’re gone. The absence of you is immediate, a vacuum that swallows sound, air, reason—leaving behind only the weight of everything that just unraveled between you. The realization is settling into his bones like an irreversible event, something written in the fabric of the universe long before this night ever arrived. He just lost you. And not in the way people lose their keys or their tempers—no, this is planetary collapse, tectonic shift, a fundamental change in the orbit of things. This isn’t a fight. This isn’t a misunderstanding. This is the first time Jeno truly understands—you are not his. You never were. And the universe doesn’t care how unprepared he is to exist in that reality.

The campus feels altered, as if reality has warped in your absence, as if the foundations of the world you once moved through so effortlessly have shifted just enough to unsettle your balance. The air is dense, not with fog or windy bite, but with something intangible—something weighty, crawling beneath the skin, slipping into the cracks of every conversation left unfinished, every glance that lingers too long. It clings to the walls, coils through the courtyards, distorts the familiar paths you’ve walked a thousand times until they feel like something out of a dream you can’t quite wake from.

It’s been days since that night, since the last time you saw Jeno, since you learned what he did. Days since you skipped class, something you never do, something that would have been unthinkable before. But today, you had to show up. And now, it’s the way the cold sinks deeper, how the shadows stretch longer, how even the familiar paths you’ve walked a thousand times feel foreign. The isolation clings to you like mist, curling into the spaces between conversations, slipping into the gaps between footfalls. And yet, you’re not alone. Shotaro and Donghyuck flank you on either side, their presence unwavering, their warmth solid against the chill pressing in from all directions. They walk with you, unhurried, as if the world isn’t different now, as if your reality hasn’t just been turned inside out.

You learn today that they defended you that night. All of your friends did—minus Mark, for obvious reasons. They stood up for you, argued for you, drowned out the laughter and the snide remarks with something sharper. It should be a comfort, should be a relief to know that you weren’t abandoned in the moment that mattered most, but it doesn’t feel like victory. It just feels tired. Donghyuck, never one to hold his tongue, fills you in on the gossip, his voice a steady hum in the chaos. It’s all anyone’s been talking about, he says. The incident at the bar, the breakup, you. The rumors shift like waves, changing depending on who’s telling them. Some say you dumped Jeno out of nowhere, blindsided him when he did nothing wrong. Others insist he cheated, that you made a scene, that you lost it. The worst ones are the ones that laugh, the ones who sneer, I guess she finally got what was coming to her.

You press your lips together, feeling the heat creep up your neck, the weight of unseen eyes pressing into your back. You’ve been off campus for three days. Three whole days, the first time in your life you’ve ever willingly skipped class. But you couldn’t bring yourself to face it. Not after everything. But reality was waiting, and it hit the moment you stepped into the hallways.

The whispers are immediate. Students pause mid-conversation as you pass, their voices lowering to hushed tones that somehow still reach your ears. Your name, spat out between half-hidden smirks, paired with mocking giggles and knowing glances. The details of that night have been twisted beyond recognition, warped by the relentless churn of rumor. She lost it on Jeno for talking to another girl. She embarrassed herself. She threw a tantrum. The words burrow under your skin, fester like an open wound. It isn’t just the breakup they dissect—it’s you. Your singing, your lyrics, the rawness you poured into the music. Someone sneers, Avril Lavigne wannabe, and laughter follows. Your jaw clenches.

But worst of all, it’s the disbelief. Jeno was with her? For real? That doesn’t make sense. It’s like they can’t even fathom that you were worth his attention, his time. Like it was a joke, a temporary lapse in judgment on his part.

You don’t lash out—not at first. You keep your head high, shoulders back, posture unshakable. But then someone has the nerve to stop you outright, some guy you’ve shared a class with but never spoken to, his smirk lazy and careless. “Hey, I heard you went crazy on Jeno for talking to a girl. That true?”

Something inside you snaps. “Mind your own fucking business.” Your voice is sharp, precise, carrying enough weight to send him reeling. He stumbles back a step, blinking rapidly before he mutters something under his breath and turns away. The next person who thinks to approach you doesn’t.

And yet, despite the bite in your words, despite your friends at your side, you still feel alone. The isolation isn’t just about the rumors or the humiliation—it’s about what’s missing. The bar was yours, your sanctuary, and now it’s gone. Your secret world, invaded. Your comfort, stolen. And worst of all, the one person who was supposed to keep it safe, the one person who should have protected you, is the reason you lost it.

Shotaro and Donghyuck talk, filling the silence, keeping the weight from settling too heavily. They tell you your performance was amazing, that your voice was otherworldly, that no one who matters is saying otherwise. You force a smile, nod, thank them. Because you’re grateful. Because they care. But deep down, there’s a part of you that’s just relieved.

Relieved that no one was there on the other nights, the ones where you stripped, where you performed without music, where the stage became something else entirely. Because if they had seen that version of you— You don’t think you could have survived it.

You shake your head, clearing the lingering weight of it from your thoughts. “I have to go soon,” you say, voice quieter than you mean it to be. “I have a tutoring session with Jaemin.” But before you can leave, there’s one last thing. One final certainty you need to grasp, even if you already know the answer.

In your head, you’re sure it’s Jeno who told. The process of elimination has left you with no other rational explanation. You’ve run through every possibility, every thread leading back to that night, compared every person who knew about the bar, who could have let the secret slip. None of them hold up as strongly as him. Not Karina. Not your friends. Karina is reckless, impulsive in ways that make her dangerous, but she’s also too skilled at hiding the mess she creates. If it had been her, she would’ve played it off, feigned innocence, kept her hands clean—but guilt has a way of slipping through the cracks, and you would have seen it. She isn’t careful, not really, and something would have given her away.

And your friends? There’s no reason to suspect them. They had no motive, no purpose in hurting you like this. If it had been one of them, the weight of it would be too much, too heavy to bury beneath casual conversation and knowing glances. And beyond that—none of them even knew. Not really. They found you sitting at the bar, not performing. They weren’t there the nights you stepped onto that stage, the nights you bared yourself under dim lights and heavy music. So how could they have known? How could they have spread something they never even had the chance to see? But still—you need to ask. You need to be absolutely certain before you let yourself believe it. Before you accept that there is only one possibility left.

You don’t want to make your words accusatory, not yet. You keep your voice even, steady, but there’s a seriousness to it, something raw beneath the surface. “When you guys came to the bar and found me with Karina,” you start, pausing, letting the words settle before lowering your voice to a whisper. “How did you find it?”

Shotaro and Donghyuck exchange a glance. It’s Donghyuck who speaks first. “There were posters. In the student union building,” he explains. “They listed the bar, its promotions. Discounted drinks, food deals. It looked like a vibe. We didn’t think much of it at first, but a lot of people were talking about it. It seemed like the place to go.”

Shotaro nods in agreement. “And there was something else on the poster. It said there’d be a ‘special performer.’ We didn’t realize it was you.”

Jeno wouldn’t go out of his way to print flyers, to scatter them across campus like breadcrumbs leading straight to you. A tightness coils in your chest, slow and insidious, winding itself around your ribs until breathing feels like a conscious effort. A new thread of doubt, a question you don’t want to ask but can’t push away—what if it wasn’t him? The certainty you felt that night, the conviction that made you walk away without hesitation, without looking back, suddenly feels brittle. You’d been so sure. You had laid out every possibility, tested every theory, let your mind operate like a machine, ruthless in its search for the only answer that made sense. And yet—what if you were wrong? What if, in your desperation to blame, to anchor yourself to something solid in the chaos, you had thrown him into the fire without stopping to see if he was even holding the match?

The memory of his face won’t leave you. The way his brows had drawn together, the way his voice had cracked—not defensive, not angry, just… lost. I didn’t— But you hadn’t let him finish. Hadn’t given him the chance to explain, to fight for himself, to fight for you. You had cut him off before he could even gather his footing, sealed the door shut before he could pry it back open. We’re done. And it had felt right in the moment, righteous even. But now, standing in the ruins, with the ashes cooling at your feet, you wonder if you had set fire to something that was never meant to burn.

The guilt is slow and creeping, settling in your stomach like lead. You don’t regret walking away. Not entirely. But maybe—maybe you should have stayed long enough to hear him out. Maybe you should have let him prove whether you were right before you made the choice for both of you. Because if you were wrong, if it wasn’t him, if you ended it with a finality so sharp there was no coming back—then what the fuck have you done?

For now, you have someone else to confront. Jaemin. He’s been gone for a month, away on a pediatric pre-medicine placement, working in a clinical setting with young patients, shadowing specialists, and gaining hands-on experience for his future in medicine. He’s always been meticulous about his career path, determined and methodical, the kind of person who follows through with everything he sets out to do. It makes sense that he’s been absent, buried in something bigger than campus drama, disconnected from the whirlwind of rumors and revelations that have unfolded in his absence.

But he’s back now. And whether he knows it or not, he’s about to walk into the aftermath of something he wasn’t here to witness. You exhale, rubbing a hand over your face, the weight of the morning pressing down on you. Shotaro and Donghyuck linger for a moment longer, their gazes searching, concerned, but you manage a small wave. A silent reassurance that you’ll be fine. They don’t push, just nod in understanding before heading off in the opposite direction.

Your steps feel heavier than they should as you make your way across campus, the cold biting at your skin, whispers trailing behind you like shadows. You ignore them, keep walking, keep moving, because stopping means sinking, and you can’t afford to sink. Not now. The tutoring center smells like coffee and ink, the low hum of whispered conversations weaving through the space like background noise. Usually, the quiet settles you, grounds you. But then you see him.

Jaemin is already there, waiting, leaning back in his chair like he has all the time in the world. His gaze lifts as you approach, and then comes the slow stretch of a smile, lazy, knowing. "I missed your performance," he says, casually, like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t carry weight. No greeting, no small talk, just that. "Such a shame, it’s all I’ve been hearing about all over campus."

You don’t hesitate. You roll your eyes, already exhausted. "And you missed your tutoring sessions." You slide into the seat across from him, tone dry but lacking any real bite.

He grins, unfazed. "Touché." But the amusement fades, and something softer settles in its place. "Don’t worry about what people are saying. You know how this place is. The story changes every five minutes."

You exhale, long and slow. You’ve heard this reassurance before, from Shotaro, from Donghyuck, but somehow, it still doesn’t settle right. It should be comforting, knowing that rumors have a shelf life. Instead, all you can think about is how much damage they do before they die out. Jaemin leans forward slightly, forearms resting against the table. "How was the placement?" you ask, steering the conversation elsewhere.

His expression shifts, stretching out his limbs like he’s recounting something exhausting but rewarding. "Hospitals, clinics, shadowing doctors, the whole thing," he says, stretching his arms behind his head. "Long hours, a lot of standing around, but I loved it."

You tilt your head, intrigued despite yourself. "Pediatrics? I didn’t know you were set on that."

He shrugs, running a hand through his hair. "I like it. I think you would, too."

You scoff. "That’s random."

"Not really. I learned a lot during the placement. Not just from the medical teams but from the psychology specialists, too. You know psychology ties into medicine more than you’d think—developmental stages, trauma responses, all of it. I feel like you’d love it. Your project shows you have the brain for it."

That catches your attention. "It’s always been interesting to me, but it’s way too late to change my major."

Jaemin shakes his head, amused by your sudden interest. "Not really. I feel like the dean would allow it with how much work you do in other departments outside your own. You’d actually love some of the stuff I’ve been reading. Plus, the psychology department’s got some amazing professors. Maybe you should take a class."

Jaemin doesn’t look away. His gaze is steady, thoughtful, peeling back layers you haven’t even begun to process yourself. “I heard about you and Jeno.” He doesn’t preface it, doesn’t soften the words, just lays them down between you like a truth that can’t be avoided. His change in tone and topic is swift, seamless, and you know—you know—he’s been meaning to say this.

Your fingers tense around the edges of your notebook. “Of course you did.” The words are dry, clipped, but the tightness in your shoulders betrays you.

Jaemin doesn’t let you deflect. “I know you think he told.” A pause. “But he didn’t.” Silence stretches between you, taut and fragile. His voice is measured when he continues. “Jeno wouldn’t do that. Not to you.”

You exhale sharply, but it doesn’t feel like release. Just pressure mounting in your chest, twisting into something unspoken. You stare at the pages in front of you, the words blurring into meaninglessness. “Yeah.”

Jaemin tilts his head slightly, watching you with a quiet kind of scrutiny. “You’re being weird.”

Your jaw clenches. “I just don’t know what to believe anymore.”

Jaemin leans forward, resting his arms against the table, his voice lowering—not conspiratorial, but softer, more deliberate. “That’s bullshit.” His words don’t carry accusation, just quiet disappointment. “You do know. You’ve always known.”

Jaemin exhales, shaking his head, his voice quieter now, like he’s still trying to make sense of it himself. “I can’t believe you really ended it,” he murmurs. “Just like that. No hesitation, no second-guessing. One second, you were ready to be with him, and the next…” He trails off, watching you, searching for something in your face that you’re not sure you can give him.

The weight in your chest sinks deeper. “You weren’t there.”

“No, but I didn’t have to be. I know what he was like after.” His expression shifts, something raw bleeding into his voice. “I’ve never seen him like that. He’s not—he doesn’t break easily, but that night? He shattered.”

You flinch. It’s small, barely noticeable, but Jaemin catches it. “You weren’t just some girl to him,” he continues, quieter now. “You weren’t a phase, or a mistake, or something he could walk away from.” He pauses, searching for the words. “You were it for him. You are it.”

The weight of those words lands somewhere deep inside you, cracking something open, but Jaemin doesn’t give you the space to shut it down. “And I know,” he says, watching you carefully, “that you don’t believe it was him anymore. I can see it in your eyes.” A beat of silence. Then, softer, almost like a sigh, “You feel guilty.”

Your breath stutters, your hands pressing harder against the edges of your book. You want to look away, but you don’t. You force yourself to hold his gaze, to sit in the reality of it. “I don’t know how to fix it.” The admission slips out before you can stop it, quiet and raw, and it tastes like surrender.

Jaemin exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. His frustration isn’t anger—not at you, not at Jeno. It’s something else. Something close to exhaustion, close to care. “Start by not pretending like you don’t care.” The words are gentle, but they don’t let you escape. “If you regret it, then fucking do something about it.”

You shake your head quickly. “I wish it was that easy.”

Jaemin lifts a brow, unimpressed. “Yeah? Then tell me what’s stopping you.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes. No excuse, no justification—just silence, thick and heavy, pressing against your ribs. Because what is stopping you? Your pride? The fear that if you reach for him now, you’ll find nothing but air? That maybe, even after everything, after the way you burned it all down in your desperation to protect yourself, you don’t deserve to put out the fire? That maybe he doesn’t want you to?

The thought latches onto your lungs like smoke, something acrid, something inescapable. You feel it in the way your throat bobs with a swallowed answer, in the way your fingers tense against the paper in front of you like they might keep you from slipping under. You want to say something. You should say something. But the words don’t come.

Jaemin doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t press for an answer you can’t give. He just exhales, slow and steady, watching you with an understanding that sinks its teeth in deep. Like he already knows. Like he’s seen through every layer of hesitation and self-preservation and found the only truth that matters. His voice is quieter when he speaks again, but it lands with the weight of something irreversible.

“You love him.”

Loving Jeno was never the hard part. You’ve been falling for him for what feels like forever—long before you realized it, long before you were ready to name it. It’s in the way your body recognizes his before your mind can catch up, in the way your world tilts imperceptibly toward him, even when you swear you’re standing still. You know you love him. That’s not the terrifying part.

The terrifying part is how much. It’s not a soft, steady thing—not a quiet warmth you can tuck away, not something manageable. It’s all-consuming. It’s something you feel before you think, something that exists in the space between your ribs, in the gaps between your bones, something woven into the very structure of you. It’s the kind of love that rearranges things, that rewrites every rule you had for yourself, that makes you want in a way you’ve never wanted before.

And that’s what scares you. Because it’s not just admitting that you love him—it’s admitting that this is bigger than you, that it’s out of your control. That if you let yourself fall completely, there will be no catching yourself before you hit the ground.

You love him.

The sentence lands with the force of something irreversible. Something you can’t outrun. You stare at him, pulse hammering, your chest too tight, your skin too hot. The air between you feels suffocating. There’s a second—just a second—where you think about denying it, about shutting it down before it can grow roots. But you don’t. You can’t.

Jaemin doesn’t push further. He just lets the silence settle, lets the weight of the moment wrap around you, lets you sit in the truth of it. And then, with a sigh, he flips open his textbook, breaking the moment before it can crush you completely. “Come on,” he mutters, like the past few minutes didn’t unravel something inside you. “Let’s at least pretend to study.”

You hesitate, fingers still curled too tightly against the pages. Then, slowly, you let out a breath, forcing a small, reluctant laugh past the lump in your throat. “Fine.” And just like that, the tension shifts. Not gone, not even close. But something momentarily easier to carry.

The study session stretches on longer than you expect, the weight of Jaemin’s words pressing into your ribs long after the conversation fades into equations and notes. You try to focus, to let the work ground you, but your mind keeps circling back—back to everything Jaemin said, back to the truth you’ve been trying not to look at too closely. By the time you’re closing your books, Jaemin leans back, stretching lazily. “You need to talk to him,” he says, and you don’t argue, because he’s right. And somehow, the moment you dread comes faster than you expect.

It’s later in the day, the lull of afternoon settling over campus, when your phone vibrates with a message.

jaemin — meet me by the library? i need help with an assignment, i’m actually struggling this time.

You sigh but don’t think much of it. Jaemin skipping tutoring sessions was one thing, but he never let himself fall behind. It’s easy to believe he really needs you. So you go. The lounge is empty when you push the door open, thick with the scent of old books and worn-out ambition, only broken by the occasional rustle of paper and the distant hum of the library outside.

But Jaemin isn’t there. You step inside, scanning the room, about to pull out your phone—when the door creaks again. The air shifts. A presence heavier than silence itself presses against your senses, familiar and suffocating all at once. You don’t have to turn around to know who it is. You feel it before you see it, the static charge in the room crackling like an impending storm. But you turn anyway. Jeno.

Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between your ribs, refusing to settle. He’s standing in the doorway, broad shoulders filling the space, presence so effortlessly imposing that it makes the already too-small room feel claustrophobic. His hoodie is loose, hood down, hair tousled in that way that looks unintentional but isn’t. The dim lighting casts shadows along his jawline, sharpening the angles of his face, the cut of his cheekbones, the almost unfair symmetry of his features. His lips are slightly parted, his tongue swiping along the inside of his cheek as his gaze locks onto you, unreadable. And then there’s his posture—relaxed but not. Legs slightly apart, hands tucked into the pocket of his hoodie, the fabric stretching ever so slightly across his chest. You know him well enough to recognize the tension in his stance, the barely perceptible clench of his jaw, the weight in his eyes that tells you he’s bracing himself.

He’s frozen too, staring at you like he wasn’t expecting this, like he’s still processing the fact that you’re actually here. You feel your fingers twitch, instinctively reaching toward the strap of your bag, toward the door—toward an exit. But before you can move, the unmistakable sound of the lock clicks from the other side. And then, laughter. Jaemin. And Chenle.

“Oh, fuck off,” you mutter under your breath, already shoving at the handle, but it doesn’t budge.

“Not letting you out until you two talk,” Jaemin’s voice carries through the wood, amused, self-satisfied.

“Or until we hear something else,” Chenle adds, laughter curling at the edges of her words. “Moaning. Begging. You know. Reconciliation.”

Your entire body goes rigid, heat rushing to your face. “You’re both so annoying —”

Jeno doesn’t react to any of it. He just exhales, slow and deep, then moves to one of the couches, dropping onto it with a quiet, controlled weight. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t speak. Just sits there, legs spread, arms resting against the back, head tilted slightly forward. A storm. The kind that doesn’t come with lightning, doesn’t tear through with fury—just lingers. Dark and unshaken, waiting.

You take a breath. You’re never wrong. It’s something you pride yourself on. But you were wrong about this. And for once, you’re glad you were wrong.

The words pour out before you can stop them, unfiltered, raw, dragging the weight of your guilt and regret to the surface. “I’m sorry.” The confession trembles between you, thick with something fragile, something desperate. “I was irrational,” you force out, voice uneven, splintering at the edges. “I needed someone to blame. I needed a villain, and you were right there, and that night—Jeno, it was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. Ever. And I—” Your breath shudders, throat constricting around the truth. “I panicked. I deflected. I didn’t even stop to think—” Your vision blurs, a single tear slipping free before you can stop it. You shake your head, swipe it away, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing can undo this. “I’m so fucking sorry,” you whisper, barely able to hold his gaze.

Jeno doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, quietly—so softly you almost miss it— “Come here.”

Your heart lurches. He leans back further, shifting slightly, arms open, waiting. You don’t hesitate. You cross the space in an instant, slipping into his lap, letting him pull you in, letting his warmth anchor you. You kiss him, slow and trembling, and you feel the way he exhales against your mouth, like he’s been holding his breath this entire time. His arms tighten around you, fingers sliding under the hem of your sweatshirt, skin to skin, grounding.

Your apologies pour from you, whispered into the space between kisses, pressing against his lips like a prayer. He drinks them in without hesitation, swallows them whole, his mouth catching yours again and again, deeper, slower, like he’s memorizing you all over again. His fingers skim up your spine, featherlight, reverent, tilting your chin just so—so he can kiss you deeper, so he can taste every ounce of regret and longing tangled in your breath. His hands roam with an intimacy that makes your pulse stutter, sliding over your back, your waist, fingertips dipping beneath the hem of your sweatshirt like he’s relearning every inch of you, like he needs to feel you to believe you’re really here.

Then, softly— “What made you figure out that it wasn’t me?”

You exhale, slow and uneven, forehead still resting against his, your lips brushing his every time you speak. “The person who told everyone made flyers, Jeno.” Your fingers tighten against the back of his neck, nails pressing lightly into his skin. “They went out of their way to print them, to put them everywhere—that’s what led people to me.” You shift against his lap, the movement subtle, but enough to make his grip on your waist tighten. Your voice softens, something aching beneath it. “That’s how I know it wasn’t you, you wouldn’t use that sort of method and you would never do that to me. If you wanted to hurt me, you wouldn’t waste your time running around campus, designing, printing, distributing flyers.” A quiet, breathless laugh slips from your lips, the sound fragile, edged with regret. “I know you.”

Jeno exhales sharply, the sound somewhere between amusement and disbelief, fingers flexing against your hips, thumbs rubbing slow, absentminded circles into the sliver of bare skin beneath your sweatshirt. “So that’s what made you realize it wasn’t me?” His voice is rough, low, but there’s something almost fond behind it. “Not the fact that I really fucking like you? Not the fact that I would never hurt you?”

You swallow, heart hammering against your ribs, the weight of his words sinking into your bones. You do know. You knew it the whole time—you just didn’t let yourself believe it. You shift again, slow, deliberate, just to feel the way his breath catches. “You know what I mean,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

His hands slide up, dragging heat along your skin, his nod slow, like he’s feeling the truth of it sink in. Because he does know. He knows exactly what you mean. He’s always known. “I was so stupid,” you breathe, brushing your lips against his, the kiss featherlight, teasing, a plea wrapped in something softer. “Of course you’d never do that to me, baby.” The words melt into his mouth, swallowed by another kiss, deeper this time, your hips pressing forward just enough to make his grip tighten, his breath shudder.

Jeno groans softly, the sound vibrating against your lips, and when his hands slide back down to your waist, his fingers dig in, guiding you closer, pulling you into him like he needs you closer, like there’s still too much space between you. “Yeah,” he mutters, voice low and strained, his lips trailing along your jaw, hands pressing you down against him. “You were stupid.”

His hands are everywhere—cupping your face, tangling in your hair, tracing down your spine. His touch is reverent yet desperate, mapping every curve, memorizing every inch. He kisses you like he’s savoring something he never thought he’d have, like he��s been starved for this. The warmth of his breath fans across your skin as he moves to your jaw, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses down the side of your throat, tongue flicking out to taste, lips dragging, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp.

The room is too quiet except for the sound of your ragged breathing, the slick, sinful noise of lips meeting, parting, crashing back together. Every kiss leaves you dizzier, head spinning, stomach fluttering. You can’t stop the needy little whimpers spilling from your mouth, and Jeno must like it because he groans against you, deep and guttural, his hands gripping you tighter, pressing you down against the hardness between his legs. His hips roll up instinctively, and you moan into his mouth, the friction sending shivers down your spine.

Then—banging. “Let’s hear some moaning!” Jaemin’s voice rings through the door, followed by Chenle’s cackling laughter.

You barely register it, still too lost in Jeno’s kiss, too breathless and dizzy from the way he’s kissing you, but then he lets out a quiet chuckle against your lips, forehead pressing to yours as you giggle softly. His fingers tighten around your waist, pulling you closer, his breath warm against your skin. “You wanna scare them?” you whisper, teasing, voice still breathless, still heady with the taste of him.

Jeno nods, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. You nod back, lips twitching with mischief, heart pounding with anticipation. And then, without hesitation, you throw your head back and moan. Loud. Obscene and drawn-out, practically screaming it like you’re in the middle of the best fuck of your life, body arching, hands gripping onto Jeno’s shirt like you’re seconds from falling apart. “Ohhh—fuck, Daddy! Right there, yes, yes, yes!”

Jeno bites down on his lip, shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter as he watches you put on the most ridiculous show, his hands still firm on your hips like he’s actually holding you steady through it.

From outside the door, there’s a horrified gagging sound.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—”

“I’m gonna be sick—”

Jaemin and Chenle’s voices overlap, their disgusted groans filling the space, and then you hear it—the frantic shuffle of footsteps, the unmistakable sound of them retreating as fast as humanly possible. Jeno buries his face in your neck, laughing, his whole body shaking with amusement. You dissolve into giggles too, barely able to catch your breath, clutching onto him as you both tremble from the effort of holding it together.

The gym smells like sweat and varnish, the air thick with the residual heat of bodies moving in unison. It’s the final stretch before state championships, the last few practices where every second on this court is meant to sharpen the edges of something already honed to precision. It should feel electric—the weight of preparation, the intensity of competition looming just days away. But it doesn’t. The energy is off, subtle in its wrongness, like a melody just slightly out of tune. No one says it, but everyone feels it.

You stand at the edge of the court, your sneakers pressed against the polished wood, a reminder that you aren’t just watching anymore. You’re inside it now. A part of it. You didn’t realize how seriously Karina took the cheer oath when she first pulled you into this world—how binding it would feel, how absolute. There is no halfway, no tentative belonging. Once you wear the uniform, once you step into formation, you are the team. But standing here now, the fabric clinging to your skin, you aren’t sure what, exactly, you’ve become a part of.

The court has always been a place of discipline. Strategy. Control. It is supposed to be a perfect system, every movement dictated by external authority, every play a calculated effort toward something greater. Personal emotions are meant to be left at the door. There is no room for doubt here, no space for hesitation. And yet, that illusion of order is beginning to crack. The structure is still in place, but it’s hollowed out, weakened. The air hums with something tense, something frayed at the edges. It’s not chaos, not yet, but it’s the kind of stillness before a storm, when the sky holds its breath and the wind shifts just slightly.

Before, this was just a place you observed. You’ve always been good at watching, at standing on the outside and pulling things apart piece by piece. Your role has always been to understand people without being inside it yourself—to categorize emotions into neat little boxes, to study behavior from a safe distance where nothing could touch you. But you are no longer an observer. You are in the experiment now. You are no longer watching the variables—you are one, influencing the outcome in ways you can’t even begin to measure.

Basketball and cheerleading are both supposed to be about precision. They thrive on discipline, on coordination, on people moving as one. But both teams are unraveling, their seams splitting just slightly, just enough to notice. The Ravens aren’t playing like a team anymore. Their chemistry is disjointed, their rhythm offbeat. The cheer team isn’t much better—every movement synchronized in appearance but lacking real cohesion, girls stepping just half a second too late, a second too early. It should be instinct by now. It should be effortless. But it’s not.

No one says it, but it’s there. It lingers in the air like a scent no one can place, in the way passes fall just short, in the way plays fall apart at the last second. You see it in the flicker of hesitation before a shot, in the way trust between teammates is thinning like ice on a lake that’s starting to crack. No one understands what’s wrong, but they feel it. Doubt is creeping in like a slow-moving poison, seeping into every interaction, every glance exchanged in frustration, every loss stacking onto the last.

And Jeno—Jeno looks like he’s carrying all of it.

His shoulders bear an invisible weight, the kind that settles deep into the bones and doesn’t go away. He still moves like Jeno, still plays like Jeno, but something is different. His confidence hasn’t disappeared, but it’s been layered with something heavier, something that dulls his edges just enough for you to notice. You wonder if anyone else sees it, if anyone else knows. Or if they just assume that this, too, is part of the slow breakdown happening around them.

And yet, even in the middle of all of this, you feel warmth. A pulse of heat beneath your skin, a lingering glow inside you from last night—from the way Jeno held you, the way you fucked yourself onto him, the way he touched you like he was memorizing you with his hands. You still feel him everywhere. His lips against your throat, his breath against your skin, the way his fingers dug into your hips like he never wanted to let go. That warmth stays with you, curled in your chest like an ember, like something still burning even after the fire has gone out.

But there is something underneath it. A shadow stretching over it, barely there, just a flicker at the edge of your mind. You don’t know what it is, not yet, but you feel it. Like a drop in pressure before a storm, like a quiet pull in the wrong direction. Something bad is coming. You can’t rationalize it. You can’t categorize it. It’s not a logical conclusion, not something you can break down into a series of steps and predict an outcome from. But it lingers. This moment, this warmth, this fragile sense of happiness—it’s slipping through your fingers even as you hold onto it.

The downfall has already begun. You just don’t know it yet.

It’s Kun’s whistle that breaks through your thoughts, pulling everyone back into the immediate present. The echoes reverberate off the walls, the sound harsh and demanding, dragging the players from their scattered positions on the court. Kun stands at the center, clipboard gripped tightly, his usual composure strained by something he hasn’t yet voiced. The team moves toward him slowly, their exhaustion evident in every heavy step, the tension palpable in the way they glance at each other, searching for reassurance no one can offer.

Your gaze is instinctively drawn to Jeno. He’s standing slightly apart from Mark—noticeably apart—and the distance between them feels deeper than mere physical space. Jeno’s expression is carefully neutral, a mask you’ve rarely seen him wear so perfectly. His jaw is tight, shoulders squared beneath the fabric of his jersey, his entire demeanor one of careful detachment. It’s as if he’s bracing himself, prepared for something he’s long since learned to anticipate but has never fully accepted.

“Alright, listen up,” Kun begins, his voice firm but slightly strained, cutting through the uneasy silence. “You’ve worked hard today, and it shows. But there's something you all need to know.”

A ripple of uncertainty passes through the team. Chenle leans into Jaemin, whispering something urgent and confused. You see Mark stiffen, the muscles in his neck tightening as Kun continues. “I know some of you are wondering where Coach Suh is. He’ll be absent for a while—he’s recovering from surgery.”

A wave of murmurs flows through the group, surprise flickering across their faces. Jeno’s expression doesn't shift, but you notice his fingers twitch subtly at his side, the only visible sign he's affected by the news. You realize, suddenly, you’re witnessing something intimate—something you were never meant to observe. Something you were never prepared for.

“Rest assured,” Kun continues, attempting reassurance, “he’s okay. It’s nothing life-threatening, but he needs time.” The tension lifts slightly, though uncertainty still hangs in the air, thick and palpable. Kun hesitates, his fingers flexing around the clipboard. “But with championships approaching, we’ve had to make a difficult decision about a temporary replacement.”

You see the slight shift in Jeno’s posture—the cautious tilt of his head, the wary tightening around his eyes. He senses something you don’t yet understand.

Kun exhales, a faint apologetic smile tugging at his lips. “Guys, please don’t kill me.”

The double doors swing open, slicing through the silence like a blade.

Taeyong strides into the gym, and the room instantly contracts around him. His presence is immediate, absolute, suffocating. He carries himself like someone used to command, expecting obedience without question. Your gaze instinctively shifts back to Jeno, watching carefully. You realise that you’ve never actually seen the two interact firsthand before—of course, they’ve interacted countless times, behind closed doors or out of your view—but you’ve only ever heard whispers, pieced together assumptions from fragmented stories and unspoken truths. Witnessing it now feels strangely invasive, almost wrong—like stumbling upon something deeply private, a tragedy unfolding quietly in the open.

“Alright, listen up,” Taeyong’s voice slices through the gym, sharp and unyielding. He strides forward, authority radiating from every movement. “Coach Suh is out—recovering from surgery. Until he's back, I'm your coach.”

Instantly, murmurs ripple through the team. Chenle’s eyes widen, surprise breaking through his exhaustion. “Wait—since when?” he blurts out, disbelief coloring his tone.

Taeyong turns, narrowing his gaze with icy precision. “Since now,�� he responds, voice cold, allowing no room for challenge. “Anyone else have an issue?”

Jaemin hesitantly lifts a hand, looking far smaller beneath Taeyong’s intense scrutiny. “Why you, though?” he asks quietly, attempting bravery.

“Because I was asked,” Taeyong responds evenly, stepping forward, forcing Jaemin to shrink back visibly. “Problem?”

Jaemin quickly shakes his head, lowering his eyes. “No, sir.”

Taeyong doesn’t hesitate or offer pleasantries. He scans the team sharply, eyes cold and calculating, silently demanding compliance. “I’m not here to babysit,” he begins, his voice hard-edged, emotionless. “I’m here to enforce discipline.”

He dismantles their confidence with surgical precision, attacking each flaw without mercy. “Mark, reckless doesn’t mean effective. Jaemin, hesitation is weakness—figure yourself out, or get off my court.” His eyes finally land on Jeno, lingering a second longer than necessary. “And Jeno, leadership means stepping up. Right now, you’re hardly worth the title.”

Your chest tightens. This is the first time you've ever witnessed Jeno with his father. You'd imagined many scenarios, pictured Jeno’s defiance, expected fire, or even quiet rebellion. But Jeno gives none of it. He remains utterly still, utterly unreadable, as if he's become nothing more than a silhouette in the harsh glare of Taeyong’s presence. Jeno's confidence, the quiet strength you've always known him to carry, dims visibly under his father's shadow.

Something inside you twists uncomfortably. Jeno has always been strong—almost untouchable—and seeing him shrink, even slightly, beneath Taeyong's gaze feels deeply unsettling. Taeyong notices this silence, takes it as submission, unaware of the quiet rebellion stirring deep within his son. Unaware that the seeds of defiance are already beginning to take root beneath Jeno’s passive exterior. You sense it—the inevitability of change hanging thickly between them. Something small, barely noticeable, has begun shifting in this moment. And Taeyong, blinded by his certainty of control, does not see it coming.

“Get in position.” Taeyong’s voice is razor-sharp, slicing through the air like a whip. His glare sweeps over the team, brimming with undisguised contempt. “You want to waste my time? Fine. But if you think I won’t tear each of you apart for slacking, you’re dead wrong.” His tone drips with venom, each word laced with a promise of punishment. “Move. Now.”

The players reluctantly disperse, each movement heavy with silent protest. Mark's intensity is palpable, frustration turning his movements sharp, aggressive. Beside him, Jeno remains deliberately distant, moving with mechanical precision, never letting his eyes stray too close to Mark. Taeyong's voice echoes across the court, cold and cutting. “Jaemin, pick it up! Jeno—is this your idea of leading? Mark, you're dragging your feet!”

Kun’s eyes flick over the exhausted players, growing more concerned by the second. Finally, he raises his whistle and blows sharply, slicing through the chaotic noise. “Alright, let's take a breather. Five minutes—get some water.”

Relief visibly washes over the players, their bodies slumping toward the benches. Taeyong’s head snaps toward Kun, eyes blazing with irritation. “Five minutes? They're barely warmed up.”

“They need recovery,” Kun replies firmly, meeting Taeyong’s challenging stare without flinching. “You won’t get results by running them into the ground.”

Taeyong holds the silence just long enough for discomfort to ripple through the gym before relenting with a curt nod. “Fine. Five minutes.”

The boys collapse onto benches, breaths coming in ragged gasps, sweat glistening on their skin. Jeno sits near Mark, hesitantly, maintaining that careful distance. Yet, as you watch, you catch them exchanging brief glances, quiet smirks passing between them. Something subtle, something secretive, shared silently—a flicker of understanding. It makes your chest tighten slightly, uncertain of what exactly you've just witnessed, but sensing instinctively it's important.

You notice Jeno lean toward Mark, lips moving quietly. The conversation is brief, punctuated by nods and subtle smiles. You're left wondering—did they reconcile? Did something shift? Your pulse quickens, sensing that whatever they've silently agreed upon is significant, that this careful rebellion has only just begun. The two brothers seem to share a silent promise—something deliberately hidden from Taeyong’s watchful gaze, something quietly powerful in its defiance.

And suddenly, you understand: beneath Jeno's careful silence and Mark's open rebellion, they're both choosing to fight back in their own ways. Against the control, the pressure, the suffocating weight of expectation. You just wonder how long their quiet resistance can last before everything snaps.

Their plan clearly unfolds with precision—too precise, too smooth. Every pass lands exactly where it should, each movement seamless, each play executed with practiced ease that feels deliberate. It's muscle memory, instinctive, something ingrained long before Taeyong ever stepped onto this court. It’s everything Taeyong doesn’t want, and yet it’s everything Coach Suh would have praised.

Mark and Jeno move like two parts of the same whole, their chemistry effortless despite everything that’s come between them. Their movements openly defy Taeyong’s rigid commands, directly opposing every demand he's made, every principle he's tried to enforce. And yet their plays are flawless. The ball moves between them in perfect rhythm, a game within the game—a quiet rebellion masked as cooperation. The harder Taeyong tries to impose control, the easier they slip from his grasp.

Jeno nudges Mark with his shoulder, and Mark shoves him back lightly, their laughter echoing across the polished floor. The tension that weighed so heavily between them only hours ago is gone. They stand shoulder to shoulder, no longer divided, no longer opposing forces. Brothers. As if they had never stopped being so.

Your heart clenches at the sight, warmth blooming in your chest. It’s a fragile moment, a piece of something temporarily broken now fumbling toward being whole again. You don't know how long it will last—if it will last at all—but for now, it’s enough. For now, it’s everything.

Yet, not everyone shares your sentiment. When your eyes shift to the corner of the gym, they land on Areum. She’s standing rigidly near the bleachers, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her expression is wrong—not her usual composure, nor her usual soft, delicate eyes. Her lips are pressed together, her eyes distant but brimming with something raw. Hurt, betrayal, grief—emotions she’s terribly bad at hiding. She looks heartbroken, as if watching something slip irretrievably through her fingers.

You force yourself to turn away just as the air in the gym shifts. The warmth of the moment vanishes, replaced by a cold, oppressive weight. Under the sharp lights, Taeyong stands silent, his clipboard clutched so tightly his knuckles whiten. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but his stillness says more than words ever could.

He is seething. For a moment, he simply observes, the silence stretching painfully. Every breath, every heartbeat seems amplified by the tension. Then his voice splits the hush with lethal precision. “You think this is funny?” The question is quiet, barely more than a growl, but it feels like a physical blow. Mark and Jeno exchange a glance, and though their laughter fades, neither looks away. Neither shows fear. Their faces are neutral, but their postures are ready—as if they've been waiting for this.

Taeyong’s lips press into a thin line, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “What’s so damn funny?” he demands, voice taut with barely restrained anger. “Is it the part where you ignore every order I give? Or maybe you just love making a mockery out of this practice?”

Jeno’s jaw tenses, but his voice stays level. “We’re just playing basketball.”

The word lands like a spark to dry tinder. Taeyong’s eyes narrow, darkening with fury. “Oh, basketball,” he echoes, dripping with contempt. “That what you call blatantly disregarding every single command I gave you? That what you call turning my court into a joke?”

Jeno’s response is a slow, deliberate shrug. “We scored, didn’t we?”

Mark exhales a breath that's almost a laugh, and you sense Taeyong fray at the edges. Taeyong shifts his focus to Mark, eyes burning. “And you,” he snaps, “you think this is some game? You’re not here to show off. You’re here to follow my system.”

Mark’s smirk is razor-sharp. “What system?” he challenges. “Barking orders and working us to the bone isn’t a system.That’s just your ego.”

The air turns electric, charged with sudden danger. Taeyong moves closer, clipboard clutched so hard it might crack. “You want to keep laughing? You think you’re above this team? Above me?”

Mark sets his shoulders, refusing to back down. “It’s not that hard to be above you.”

Taeyong’s fury boils over. With a sudden lunge, he shoves Mark’s chest, the impact sharp and punishing. Mark staggers, eyes blazing, and drives both hands into Taeyong’s chest, forcing him back a step with a hollow thud that echoes across the gym.

Everyone freezes. Nobody breathes.

Mark’s voice is low, tight with anger. “You don’t fucking scare me. You’ve been throwing your weight around my whole damn life, acting like everything you say is law, like you can control me from a distance. But guess what? I’m not that scared kid anymore.”

He steps forward, forcing Taeyong back another inch. “This team isn’t about you,” he seethes. “It’s bigger than your fragile ego, and it’s sure as hell bigger than you. I’m done playing by your rules.”

A hush falls over the court, thickening the air until it feels nearly suffocating. You watch, breath caught in your chest, as the fragile balance of power shifts visibly between Mark’s defiance and Taeyong’s furious disbelief. Each word from Mark is precise, cutting, methodically dismantling the false authority Taeyong has built around himself. You see the strain in the older man’s expression—the cracks in his carefully maintained facade—and you recognize, deep down, that this is a turning point.

But your attention drifts briefly toward Jeno, who stands slightly apart, his expression tight yet carefully blank. His jaw clenched, he watches the confrontation without intervening, his posture stiff as though bracing himself against an invisible storm. You hate this sight—the way tension coils in his body, the muted resignation painted across his features. But then, Jeno’s eyes flicker toward you, catching your gaze with a precision that steals your breath. For a split second, the storm in his eyes breaks, revealing something softer beneath—something reserved only for you. A delicate smile, small and gentle, graces his lips, warmth peeking through the heavy tension. The corners of your mouth curve upward instinctively in response, a silent reassurance passing between you. In that brief moment, nothing else matters but the fragile intimacy of his quiet smile.

The moment shatters as Mia steps closer, her voice carrying an unmistakable edge of condescension. “You and Jeno are still together?” she sneers, her tone dripping with mock incredulity. “Honestly didn’t think you’d last. Didn’t think you were his type.”

Mia’s words grate on your nerves, an annoyance rather than outright anger. You roll your eyes, letting out a slow breath as you look her over with deliberate boredom. “And do you think you’re his type?” you drawl, arching an eyebrow to make it clear just how little you value her unwanted opinion.

Her eyes narrow, her expression sharpening. “Please,” she scoffs, her tone dripping with mockery, “like you’re actually his type.” Her gaze sweeps over you dismissively, lingering just long enough to emphasize the insult. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

Your heart pounds heavily against your rib cage, but you hold her gaze firmly. Before you can respond, Aisha chimes in from beside Mia, voice equally acidic. “Come on, Y/N, we all know you’re just playing pretend. You’re not some innocent angel like you want everyone to think. We’ve all seen who you really are.”

You swallow hard, fighting the urge to lash out. “And what's that supposed to mean?” you bite back, tone sharp and unwavering.

Yiren’s voice cuts in, taunting and smug. “It means that I’m surprised Jeno still wants to be with you as you’ve lied about who you really are. We know about the bar, Y/N. The smoking, the performance—pretending to be innocent isn’t really your thing, is it? ”

You roll your eyes, voice dripping with sarcasm. “If you’re that interested in me performing at the bar, just ask next time—I’ll get you private tickets.”

Nahyun mutters something under her breath, just loud enough to be heard. “Honestly, I don’t even know why you’re surprised, girls.” She exhales, arms crossed, voice dripping with patronizing amusement. “Jeno’s just experimenting. Mark finally came to his senses and dumped Areum, now I’m just waiting for Jeno to come to his senses, then both the Lee brothers—”

"I broke up with him, actually.” Areum’s voice slices through the tension, sharp and unflinching. She looks at Nahyun, chin lifted, eyes flashing, daring her to say otherwise. The air in the gym shifts as the girls exchange glances, taken aback by the steel in Areum’s tone.

You shake your head in frustration, not even bothering to suppress your irritation. “Nahyun, don’t even start,” you cut in, your voice flat with exhaustion. “You literally had to beg your way back onto the cheer team.” It lands exactly as intended—pointed, dismissive, a reminder that her opinions mean nothing when she’s only here out of necessity.

Nahyun’s face falters for a split second before she schools it back into indifference. She did beg to be let back on. She wanted this, needed it, and Karina, desperate for numbers with the state championships approaching, let her return. It wasn’t about forgiveness. It was about necessity.

Something shifts between you and Areum in that moment—a quiet understanding, a shared distaste for the girls standing in front of you. When your eyes meet, there’s a flicker of amusement beneath the irritation, the beginning of a small, almost imperceptible smirk exchanged between the two of you. For once, you’re on the same side.

Karina’s voice suddenly shreds through the tension. “I am so sick of this!” Her scream echoes across the gym, reverberating off the walls, sending a sharp jolt through everyone standing around. “The fighting, the yelling, the constant bullshit—I’ve had enough.” Her eyes snap to Nahyun, venom dripping into her glare. “You are on your last chance. Do you understand me?”

Nahyun swallows but doesn’t respond. Karina doesn’t wait for one. “Formation. Now.” She steps back, tossing a final glare at Mia, Aisha, and Yiren. “And if any of you want to keep running your mouths, don’t bother showing up to the next practice.” Silence. Then, begrudging movement as the girls start to shuffle into formation. But the damage is already done—the tension, the bitterness, the fractures in the team remain.

The cheerleading practice is a mess, just like always. There’s no unity. No real sense of teamwork. None of these girls like each other, and it shows. The routine lacks chemistry, the formations are off, and Karina is practically grinding her teeth in frustration. Mia, unsurprisingly, makes her presence known first. “You need to keep up, Y/N,” she huffs, arms crossed over her chest. “This routine isn’t for beginners.”

You scoff, throwing her a sharp look. “I’m keeping up better than you.”

Your words land, sharp and certain, cutting through the noise like a blade. The gym stalls, tension stretching in the silence left behind. You can feel the shift—eyes turning, breaths held, the undercurrent of something shifting beneath the surface.

But none of it matters. Not when he’s looking at you. Jeno’s gaze is steady, unreadable at first, but there’s something in it, something knowing. He doesn’t react to the murmurs or the way the practice has momentarily unraveled—his focus is only on you. His head tilts, the movement slight, careful, a pull toward the door so small that no one else would catch it. But you do. Because it’s not a question, not really. He’s not asking if you want to leave—he’s waiting for you to decide. Waiting to see if you need him to take you away from this, from them, from the weight pressing against your ribs.

It’s a way out. An answer to something you hadn’t even put into words. Your nod is small, almost imperceptible, but he catches it instantly. The corner of his lips quirks—not a full smile, just the ghost of one, something knowing, something meant just for you. Then he move, Jeno crosses the gym without hesitation, cutting through the tension like it doesn’t exist, like the weight of every lingering stare and unspoken judgment doesn’t matter. His presence alone shifts the air around you, steady and sure, yours.

Jeno’s arm slides around your back, firm and protective, pulling you in just enough that his body shields you from their stares, from them. His voice is low, meant only for you, the steady weight of it sinking beneath your skin like something permanent. “Ignore them” he murmurs, his breath warm against your temple. His fingers press lightly against the small of your back, a quiet reminder, a reassurance. “Come here.”

And then, just like that, he kisses you. It’s soft. Dreamy. A moment of quiet in the middle of chaos. His lips press to yours, warm and certain, completely unbothered by the fact that you’re standing in the middle of the gym, by the fact that people are watching. He doesn’t care—he only cares about you. And when you smile against his lips, when his hand curls just slightly at the small of your back, it feels like the both of you are in your own world, untouched by anything else.

His lips part against yours, slow and searching, the warmth of his breath fanning over your skin. He tastes like sweet, brown sugar and something else that’s undeniably him, something you could drown in if you let yourself. His grip at your back tightens, drawing you in until your bodies are flush, the heat of him sinking into you. Your fingers slide deeper into his hair, tugging just enough to earn the faintest, almost inaudible hitch of breath against your mouth. His other hand ghosts over your waist, not demanding, just there, steady and possessive, like he’s reminding you exactly who you belong to. The kiss lingers, deepens—lazy, intoxicating, a slow pull into something heavier. If you weren’t already breathless, the way he tilts his head, deepening it just enough to leave you dizzy, would’ve done it.

But the world is watching. You don’t notice Mark glaring, his jaw set, his expression dark. You don’t see Taeyong’s sharp stare, the unreadable weight in his eyes. You don’t realize that this moment—the way Jeno stands before him, untouchable, unconcerned, unafraid—is a fracture in something far bigger than the two of you. A thread pulled too hard, a balance tipping, a fault line beginning to crack. It does not shatter yet, but the weight of it hangs in the air, waiting.

Jeno pulls away slowly, his forehead still nearly resting against yours, his lips brushing over the ghost of your smile before he finally leans back. There’s warmth in his eyes, something soft and golden that lingers between you. Neither of you speak—you don’t have to. The moment stretches, slow and syrup-thick, wrapping the two of you in something untouched, something safe.

And then—splash.

A sharp gasp rips from your throat as the coldness seeps in first, biting against your skin, drenching through the fabric of your uniform. It’s thick, slow-moving as it clings to you, sinking into the fibers, sticky and sickly sweet. The scent of vanilla, artificial and overpowering, curls in the air around you before you even glance down. Milkshake. A Fucking milkshake.

Nahyun blinks at you, wide-eyed, faux-innocent, her hand flying to her mouth in mock surprise. “Oh my God,” she gasps, voice pitched just right, so perfectly performative. “I bumped into you.”

Jeno steps back slightly, just enough to register what’s happened, his brows knitting together in confusion before his expression hardens. His body shifts, his hand already moving—instinctive. The cold press of liquid against your skin has the fabric of your uniform clinging to you, the damp material turning sheer, betraying the curve of your body, the way your nipples tighten against it from the chill. His eyes flicker down, a muscle in his jaw ticking, but he says nothing. Just moves. The hoodie—his hoodie, the one you’ve stolen a dozen times before, the one that still carries the faintest trace of his cologne—is yanked from his bag without hesitation. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to. Just drapes it over your shoulders, the motion deliberate, possessive. His hands ghost along the fabric, adjusting it so it shields you fully, his fingers brushing against the damp heat of your collarbone.

The gym hums with murmurs, the weight of stares pressing into you from every angle, but Jeno doesn’t acknowledge them. He doesn’t turn to Nahyun, doesn’t waste a second giving her the reaction she wants. Instead, his grip tightens around your wrist—a silent let’s go—and he begins to lead you toward the doors, his steps purposeful, his intent clear.

Then—“Jeno.”

His father’s voice slices through the air like a blade.

Jeno doesn’t stop. “Jeno.” Sharper. Colder.

His steps slow, but he doesn’t turn. You see the stiffness in his shoulders, the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers twitch slightly against yours. His father’s presence is an anchor, something suffocating and heavy that drags against him even as he tries to walk away.

“You don’t get to leave practice early.” Jeno stops. The gym is silent. You glance up at him, watching the war play out behind his eyes—anger, resentment, exhaustion, defiance. It’s all there, unraveling and rebuilding in real-time, his grip on your hand tightening as if he’s trying to ground himself, as if he’s trying to hold onto something that isn’t the inevitable pull of his father’s control.

You squeeze his hand, tilting your head just slightly to catch his gaze. “Just go, baby.”

Your voice is gentle, meant for him alone, meant to be softer than the weight pressing down on him. His eyes flick to yours, searching, uncertain. He doesn’t want to let go. You say it because you know him. Because you can see the war waging behind his eyes, the way his body tenses like he’s bracing for a fight he doesn’t even want to have. Because if you don’t say it, he’ll stand here forever, caught between what he wants and what he’s been conditioned to obey. You say it because you refuse to be another thing that weighs him down. Because you’d rather be the thing that makes it easier—that reminds him, even in moments like this, that he has a choice.

You nod, a small smile, a quiet promise. I’m okay. I’ll see you later. Jeno hesitates for just a second longer before exhaling, his jaw clenching as he reluctantly loosens his grip. His touch lingers as his fingers slip away from yours, the warmth of them still imprinted against your skin.

So Jeno stays. And you leave.

You step into the girls’ locker room, heart still racing from the chaos outside. The sticky sweetness of the milkshake clings uncomfortably to your skin, and your thoughts spiral between the sharp words exchanged, Jeno's comforting presence, and the soft, reassuring kiss that still tingles on your lips. You peel the damp fabric away, relief briefly washing over you at finally being alone, when the door creaks open. You turn instinctively, expecting—hoping—to see Jeno or even Mark, but instead, your blood runs cold. Lee Taeyong stands in the doorway, utterly unfazed as his eyes sweep over you, dominance and disdain clear in his sharp gaze. Without a word, he shuts the door behind him, and the soft click echoes ominously, sealing you both inside.

Your breath catches violently in your throat, a sharp, involuntary gasp ripping from your lips. Panic lurches through you as you scramble for Jeno’s hoodie, yanking it up to your chest in a desperate attempt to cover yourself. “What the fuck—get out!” Your voice cracks with sheer disbelief, your body moving back instinctively, pressing against the cool metal of the lockers as if you could somehow will yourself away from him. Your heart hammers against your ribs, the reality of the moment sinking in too fast, too suffocating.

Taeyong doesn’t flinch. He barely reacts at all, his expression remaining cold, detached, like your outrage is nothing more than an insignificant detail to him. His gaze flicks over you once—impassive, clinical—before he exhales, slow and deliberate, and shuts the door behind him. The click of the lock sliding into place sends a violent shiver up your spine.

Your stomach twists, nausea rising in your throat. “Are you insane? You can’t just—just walk in here—what the fuck is wrong with you?” Your voice is frantic, shaky, but edged with pure anger. You clutch the fabric tighter against your chest, heat rushing to your face, not just from humiliation but from the absolute audacity of his presence.

But Taeyong? He remains utterly unmoved. If anything, his disinterest in your outrage makes it worse. His suit is pristine, not a thread out of place, as if nothing in the world could possibly unsettle him. His eyes—Jeno’s eyes, but colder, emptier—fix onto you with something bordering on contempt. His lip curls ever so slightly, as if the very sight of you is offensive. “Oh, don’t act modest now,” he muses, voice like ice water down your spine. “You’ve been naked in front of my son plenty of times, haven’t you?”

Taeyong exhales sharply, shaking his head like the mere sight of you is exhausting. “You really thought you could sneak around under my nose?” His voice is sharp, steady, cruelly unimpressed. “That I wouldn’t notice the way you’ve been throwing yourself at my son, crawling into his bed, distracting him, ruining him?” His lips twist, the words dripping with disdain. “You think I don’t see what you are? What you do? You’ve been fucking Jeno, dragging him down with you, pulling him away from everything he’s supposed to be. And you really thought you’d get away with it.”

The words slap into you like a physical force, the air in the locker room thinning, closing in on you. Your fingers clutch tighter around Jeno’s hoodie, but there’s no hiding, no escaping under his scrutiny. He doesn’t look angry—not in the way people do when they lose control. No, Taeyong is composed, every syllable measured, a knife sliding between your ribs with effortless precision.

“I’ve known about you from the beginning,” he continues, voice smooth but cutting, like he’s stating something obvious. “I knew the second Jeno started slipping, the second his focus started waning. He used to be sharp, disciplined. Now?” He scoffs, shaking his head. “He’s careless. Distracted. By you.” His eyes flick down, scanning the hoodie wrapped around your shoulders, and his lip curls. “I should have shut this down the second it started.”

He steps forward, slow and deliberate, closing the distance between you without hurry. “But I waited,” he says, voice dropping just slightly, making the words heavier. “I let him get whatever this is out of his system. I tolerated it. I watched. And what did you do with that time?” He tilts his head, his stare sharp enough to flay skin. “You made it worse. You changed him. And not for the better.”

Your stomach twists, but you force yourself to hold his gaze, even as his presence suffocates the space between you.

Taeyong lets out a slow, measured sigh, as if it genuinely pains him to acknowledge this. “Jeno has always had potential,” he says, and there’s something cold, final about the way he says it. “He was built for this. Raised for this. Do you even know the level of talent he has? Do you even comprehend what he’s capable of?” His voice sharpens, the edges hardening, the first real crack of irritation slipping through. “He was meant to be exceptional. And now? He’s squandering everything.”

The shift in tone is subtle, but you feel it. The control, the restraint, the absolute certainty he’s carried up until now—there’s something just slightly frayed underneath it. He’s pissed. “He’s fucking around with those morons—Eric, Sunwoo—gambling away his career, throwing himself into something that could ruin not just him, but the entire team.” His jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing. “And the worst part? He doesn’t think. Not the way he should. Not the way I taught him to. He acts on impulse, on whatever stupid, fleeting emotion he’s chasing at any given moment. He believes things will just work out—that no matter what he does, he’ll land on his feet.”

“And whose fault is that?” Your voice is quiet, but sharp, unwavering. “You say Jeno doesn’t think. That he acts on impulse. That he believes everything will work out for him no matter what.” Your head tilts, mirroring his own, a cold smile tugging at your lips. “Who do you think taught him that?”

Something in Taeyong’s gaze flickers. “You didn’t raise him to be careful. You raised him to win. To obey. To be everything you decided he had to be before he ever got the chance to figure it out himself.” Your voice is steady, but the weight behind it is undeniable. “You built him to push through everything, to never stop, never think, never hesitate. And now, when he finally does? When he finally starts making choices that don’t fit into the future you forced on him, you call it a distraction. A mistake.” Your eyes burn into his, unflinching. “You don’t like that Jeno is slipping, Taeyong? Maybe you should ask yourself why he was trying so hard to hold it together in the first place.”

Taeyong doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t flinch. Instead, his expression shifts, amusement flickering through his cold gaze. “There it is,” he murmurs, almost like it’s an observation. Like he’s studying you. “That little bite. That fire Jeno seems so drawn to.” His head tilts just slightly, and something about it makes your stomach knot. “Let’s see how long it lasts.”

“You seem to have forgotten your place.” The words are quiet, unhurried, but they land with the force of something far heavier. “So let me remind you.” He takes a measured step forward, his gaze hard, unforgiving. “You are going to stay away from my son. No contact. No texts. No meetings. Nothing.” His voice remains infuriatingly steady, laced with the kind of authority that doesn’t entertain defiance. “I don’t care what delusions you’ve let yourself believe, what fantasy you’ve built in your head—Jeno is not yours to keep. You will cut him off completely, and you will do it now.”

His eyes flick over you, assessing, and then his head tilts, just slightly, something unreadable shifting behind his expression. “Or should I make you?”

You blink at him, his words hitting you with the force of something designed to break, to sever. A breath catches somewhere in your throat, half disbelief, half something darker. “Seriously? No, what the fuck, I’m not—”

“Yes, you will,” he cuts in, and it isn’t just an interruption—it’s a dismantling. His voice drops, something heavier curling around his words, pressing them into the space between you with an intensity that feels almost suffocating. “It’s not your choice. Either you do exactly as I say, or I will expose you.”

For a second, you can’t move. The words settle into the air like smoke, acrid and impossible to ignore, threading through the small, imperceptible cracks in your composure. You hear the threat before you fully understand it, before your mind can wrap around the weight of what he’s saying. And then the realization crashes into you, something cold and sharp locking around your ribs. Expose you. Taeyong is methodical. Calculated. He doesn’t make empty threats, and he wouldn’t be standing here if he didn’t already have something to back it up. Your voice comes out unsteady, barely above a whisper. “Expose me? How?”

The smirk that flickers across his face is small, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. A cruel little thing that lingers in the corner of his mouth before he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He moves with unhurried precision, scrolling through something, murmuring under his breath about the inconvenience of technology, like this is just another chore, another trivial task he needs to check off his list. And then, without fanfare, he turns the screen toward you.

Your breath catches. The image is grainy but unmistakable. You. On stage. The dim neon lights of the bar cast a shifting glow over your body, your movements languid, sultry, designed to seduce an audience you thought would never see beyond those walls. The outfit clings in all the ways you intended, the sway of your hips deliberate, practiced, controlled. It was supposed to be private. A secret life you kept locked away from the version of yourself that existed outside those doors. And yet, here it is, playing out on the screen in Taeyong’s hand like it was never really yours to keep.

He swipes, and the next video is worse. Jeno, pressed against you in the dim glow of the bar’s back corner, his mouth hot and insistent against yours, hands gripping your waist, pulling you closer like he can’t get enough. The air is thick with smoke, the haze curling between your bodies as you exhale, your lips still slick from his kiss. His fingers drag up your thigh, slipping beneath the hem of your dress, pushing boundaries without hesitation. Another swipe. You, straddling his lap in a shadowed booth, grinding against him as his hands roam, as your lips ghost along his jaw, your breath warm and laced with the lingering taste of whiskey. Another swipe. His fingers at the waistband of your panties, yours curled around the cigarette he just passed you, the ember glowing between your fingertips as you take another hit, exhaling slow, head tipped back, eyes half-lidded with pleasure. The night bleeding into sensation—heat, pressure, the muted pulse of bass-heavy music, the world outside reduced to nothing but this.

It feels like drowning. Your stomach twists violently, the rush of nausea so immediate it nearly knocks you off balance. How? The word beats against the inside of your skull, frantic, insistent. How does he have this? Your voice shakes when you finally manage to speak, the syllables barely holding together. “How—how do you even have this?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He doesn’t need to. The phone disappears back into his pocket, and the look he levels you with is colder than before, if that’s even possible. “That’s not your concern,” he says simply, dismissing the question as if the answer is irrelevant, as if you are irrelevant. “What matters is that I have it. And trust me, Deloitte wouldn’t appreciate discovering your extracurricular activities. Imagine how quickly your opportunity would vanish once they see this.”

The breath in your lungs turns to stone. You feel it lodge itself there, unmovable, impossible to breathe around. He’s not just threatening you. He’s already won. “Delete those,” you snap, but the bite in your voice is weak, forced. Your fingers curl into fists, trembling despite your best efforts to keep them steady. “Now.”

Taeyong doesn’t blink. Doesn’t react. “Agree to stay away from Jeno.”

The words fall between you like a gavel striking down in a courtroom. Absolute. Unshakable. A sentence that has already been passed. The silence that follows is unbearable, stretching so thin you swear you can hear the pounding of your pulse in your ears. Your body is locked in place, every muscle tensed, waiting for something, for anything, for some miracle that won’t come. And then it happens. The words spill out before you can even process them, slipping from your lips like an instinct, like a reflex, like survival.

“I agree!” You lunge forward, your hands moving faster than your thoughts, reaching for his phone, needing to erase everything, needing to make sure it’s gone. Your fingers fumble as you unlock it, as you scroll through the videos, your breaths sharp and erratic, your heart slamming against your ribs in a frantic rhythm. It has to be gone. It has to be gone. The panic is suffocating, tightening around your throat, making your vision blur as you force yourself to delete each file, one by one.

“Are they only here?” you demand, your voice barely more than a whisper, your fingers still moving, still erasing, still destroying. You don’t stop until every trace is gone, until the screen is wiped clean of the evidence that he should neverhave had in the first place.

But the question lingers—How does he have them? The question gnaws at you, twisting through the panic, refusing to settle. Did he have someone follow Jeno, track his movements, watch him slip into the bar, wait for him to find you, wait for the moment your guard was down? Or did he buy the footage outright, slip money into the right hands, a transaction so effortless it barely cost him a second thought? Maybe he didn’t need to pay at all—maybe someone handed it over willingly, a nameless bartender or a faceless bouncer, someone who recognized Jeno, who knew exactly who his father was, who saw an opportunity and took it.

Maybe Taeyong barely had to ask. That’s what makes it worse—not just that he has them, but how easily he must have gotten them, how little effort it took to unravel something you thought was yours. It makes it bigger, impossible to trace, impossible to fight. You thought you were safe in the dark, that your secrets lived in the space between liquor-drenched laughter and neon-lit shadows, in the heat of Jeno’s hands and the haze curling from your lips. But you see it now—the illusion of privacy, the lie of anonymity. You were never hidden. You were never out of reach.

Taeyong nods once to your question, sharp and decisive. And you know. He’s telling the truth. He doesn’t need backups. He doesn’t need a second copy. He doesn’t need to hold onto them at all. Because he already holds you. But he’s not finished. You should’ve known he wouldn’t be. The power shift is too easy, too simple. Because blackmail alone isn’t enough. He can see it—the way you’re still breathing too hard, the way your hands are still trembling, the way your mind is still searching for an escape. You agreed, but it wasn’t enough. You weren’t enough.

And so, he goes for Jeno. “But understand this—if you defy me, if you even consider staying with my son, it will be Jeno who pays.”

The floor drops out from under you, but it isn’t the sharp kind of fall. It’s slow, measured, the kind that makes you feel every inch of descent, every second of helplessness, every breath that lodges in your throat and refuses to come unstuck. Your body locks up, panic curling in tight, but it isn’t just panic—it’s something worse. Because Taeyong knows. You see it now, the calculation in his eyes, the way he watches you like he’s already predicted every reaction, every desperate counter-move. His first threat was never going to be enough. He knew that. Knew there was a chance you’d find a way around it, that you’d figure out how to survive the fallout, that you’d swallow your own ruin if it meant keeping Jeno.

So he does what he always does—he makes sure there is no way out.

He goes for Jeno. And that’s what makes your breath stutter. Because it’s not just about you anymore. It’s not about your future, your dignity, the life you’ve been clawing your way toward—it’s about him. And Taeyong knows exactly what that means. He knows how you feel it in the pit of your stomach when Jeno so much as frowns, how your heart clenches when exhaustion lines his face, how you would give anything to keep that light in his eyes, to protect the pieces of him that Taeyong has spent years trying to snuff out. He knows that when it comes to Jeno, you would do anything. Everything.That’s why he doesn’t just threaten him—he promises. Promises to unravel the thing Jeno loves most, the only thing that has ever truly been his. And suddenly, it doesn’t matter what happens to you. It never did. The only thing that matters is keeping Jeno safe. And Taeyong knows—of course he knows—that you’ll do whatever it takes to make sure of that.

“It’s already clear he’s ruining his own future with his reckless gambling and impulsive decisions,” Taeyong continues, and the way he says it—so calm, so disappointed—sends a fresh wave of nausea through you. Like Jeno is nothing more than a failed investment. A project gone wrong. “But I’ll make sure he never sets foot on a basketball court again. I’ll destroy every opportunity, every path forward he thinks he has. And it will all be your fault.”

Your lips part, but no sound comes. The words are there, caught somewhere between your ribs, but they won’t come out. Fear presses down on your chest, making it impossible to breathe, impossible to move. Because you know he means it. And you can’t let him do it. You can’t. Jeno loves basketball the way most people love air, the way his heart beats without permission, without pause. It’s the only thing that’s ever been his. His father has stolen everything else—his childhood, his choices, his sense of self—but basketball? That’s the one thing he was never able to take from him. Until now. Until you.

So that’s it? That’s what you have to do? You have to leave? Take the opportunity he’s giving you, walk away, pretend Jeno was never yours to hold? Pretend none of it ever happened? You swallow, your throat so tight it hurts. Your voice comes out quieter than you mean for it to.

“You want me to disappear?” The words taste bitter. “Just like that?”

Taeyong doesn’t even hesitate. Doesn’t falter. “Yes.”

The finality of it slices through you like a knife. There’s nothing left to argue, no room to bargain. It’s not a request. It never was. “You understand the consequences if you don’t, right?”

You nod. You don’t know if you mean it, but you nod. Taeyong claps his hands together once, a sharp, decisive sound that cuts through the suffocating quiet. “Then it’s settled. You’ll break it off with my son immediately.”

You barely move. You barely breathe. Taeyong’s irritation, his frustration, his cruel actions—they’re rooted in his desperation to maintain control. Mark had always challenged him, openly rebellious, and now Jeno is following suit, defying expectations, acting unpredictably. Taeyong’s power is slipping, and he's determined to reclaim it at any cost. You’re merely a casualty caught in the crossfire, powerless against the fury of Lee Taeyong.

The silence stretches, suffocating, pressing against your ribs like a weight you can’t shake. Taeyong watches you, his expression unreadable, his presence an unshakable force that demands submission. And then, as if this moment wasn’t already unbearable, he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “You were always out of your depth,” he says, his voice carrying something between amusement and disappointment. “Did you really think this would last? That someone like you—some ordinary girl with nothing to her name—was ever meant to keep him?”

His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, before he lets out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Even Areum had more standing than you. A better family, real connections, a name that actually meant something. If anyone had a chance, it would’ve been her.” He pauses, tilting his head slightly, as if considering something. And then his lip curls, eyes flashing with something cruel. “And yet, even she proved worthless in the end. Let herself sink—dragged herself down to Mark, of all people.” He shakes his head again, like the very thought disgusts him. “So tell me, what makes you think you—with no name, no status, nothing—could ever be anything more than a passing distraction?”

The words slice through you, deep and deliberate. You knew, of course, that Jeno came from a world of wealth, of power, of things you’d never had access to. But this? This is different. This is Taeyong laying it out for you in brutal clarity: you were never worthy. Not because of anything you did, not because of any mistake you made, but because you were born beneath him. Because your family isn’t his family. Because you don’t have the name, the wealth, the legacy that he deems acceptable. And to him, that is justification enough. To him, that is reason enough to tear you from Jeno’s life.

Something ugly twists in your stomach—humiliation, rage, something deeper, something that makes your hands curl into fists even as you fight to keep your expression neutral. “You won’t be the first girl he forgets about when he realizes how small you are compared to his future,” Taeyong continues, his voice smooth, effortless, as if he’s not ripping you apart piece by piece.

Your nails dig into your palms. There it is. The future he’s carved out for Jeno—prestigious, untouchable, perfectly curated. One that has no place for you. And yet, something shifts in the back of your mind, something sharp and burning. “You’re risking compromising his future?” The words slip out before you can stop them, your voice quieter than before but just as sharp. “You know about Eric and Sunwoo, you know what they’re doing, what they’re pulling him into. You could fix it. But you’re not.”

A flicker of something crosses Taeyong’s face—so brief, so controlled, you almost miss it. But you don’t miss it. You see the momentary pause, the measured breath, the barest hint of something just beneath the surface. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t deny it. And that tells you everything.

Because he doesn’t want to fix it.

He wants Jeno to fall just enough. Not enough to ruin him completely, not enough to destroy his potential—but enough to make him need his father again. Enough to remind him that Taeyong still holds the reins. Because if Jeno stumbles, if he makes a mess of things just before his future is set in stone, who else can he turn to?

And suddenly, everything is clearer. This isn’t just about you being a distraction. This is about control. This is about power. Jeno is slipping from his grasp, and Taeyong is tightening his grip in the only way he knows how—by cutting away anything that lets Jeno believe he has a choice.

You exhale slowly, the realization settling like lead in your chest.

Your eyes flick to Taeyong’s, and for the first time, you really look at him. The resemblance is striking—Jeno’s sharp jaw, Jeno’s piercing gaze, the same angular features. But where Jeno’s eyes hold warmth, his are devoid of it. Hollow. Merciless. It makes you wonder how long it’ll be before Jeno starts looking at the world the same way, if Taeyong keeps pushing. If there’s a version of Jeno, years from now, who stands in a room like this, with that same cool detachment, with that same soulless stare.

And maybe that’s the worst part. Not just the threat, not just the cruelty, but the possibility—the idea that Taeyong has already set the pieces in place, that he’s already shaping Jeno into something you won’t recognize. The thought sickens you. Taeyong lets the silence linger, a predator watching its prey. He’s so calm. So in control. He’s already decided this is over, already written you out of the story like you were nothing more than a misplaced footnote.

But you have something now. Something he wasn’t expecting. Desperation. He’s desperate. That’s why he’s acting now, why he’s here instead of watching from a distance like he has for months. He knows he’s losing Jeno, and that’s why he needs you gone. Because if Jeno doesn’t have him, who else does he have? You. And Taeyong can’t allow that.

The realization doesn’t change anything. Not yet. But you hold onto it, tucking it somewhere safe, somewhere deep. Right now, Taeyong has every advantage. He holds every card. But cracks are forming. And cracks always spread.

The room is dark, the only light coming from the slivers of gold slicing through the blinds, casting shadows across Jeno’s bare skin. The sheets are a mess beneath you, bodies tangled in the heat, in the desperation, in the quiet ache of knowing this can’t last. Your thighs are spread over his, knees digging into the mattress as you sink down onto his cock, slow and deep, the stretch pulling a soft, broken moan from your lips.

You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be doing this. You should’ve ended it hours ago, should’ve walked away before you lost yourself to him again. But you can’t. You won’t. Because you love him too much, because you’re weak for him, because there’s something inside of you that needs to feel him one last time, to take him, to let him have you in the way only he ever has. You don’t know how to say goodbye, but you know how to love him. And so you do.

Jeno groans beneath you, hands gripping your waist, fingers pressing into your skin, holding you down as you roll your hips, fucking yourself onto him with a slow, devastating rhythm. "Fuck, baby," he rasps, his voice thick with sleep and pleasure, head tipping back against the pillows. "So fucking tight. You always take me so good."

You can’t respond, can’t do anything but feel—the way he fills you, stretches you, the way his cock throbs inside you with every deliberate movement of your hips. You lean forward, forehead pressing into his shoulder, hands smoothing down his arms, tracing over muscle, feeling the way he tenses beneath your touch. You’re too quiet. You know he notices, knows he expects you to tease him, to say something sharp and playful between moans. But there’s no teasing tonight. No games. Just this. Just you and him and the unbearable ache of wanting him, of knowing this is the last time you’ll ever have him like this.

"Baby," you whisper, voice breaking, lips ghosting over his skin, over his jaw, his cheek, his mouth. You kiss him between gasps, between moans, between the slow grind of your hips, swallowing his groans like they belong to you. Your hands roam—grasping, desperate—sliding up his chest, curling around the back of his neck, dragging your nails through the short hairs there. His skin is hot, damp with sweat, his scent clinging to you like something you’ll never be able to wash away. "My baby," you breathe again, voice thick with something too raw to name, pressing your lips to his temple, to his eyelids, to the slope of his nose. "My baby. My baby. My baby."

Jeno shudders beneath you, a strangled sound slipping from his throat, his grip tightening—one hand firm on your waist, keeping you down, keeping you flush against him, the other sliding up your spine, spanning your back, dragging you closer, closer, until there’s not an inch of space left between you. His lips part against your shoulder, sucking, biting, marking. He’s not just holding you; he’s grasping at you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, like he needs to feel you everywhere, all at once. His hips roll up, deep, slow, devastating, making you gasp, making you cling to him, fingers curling against his shoulders as you bury your face in the crook of his neck.

“Fuck—” his voice is wrecked, thick with something deeper than just pleasure, and it makes your whole body throb. His hand slides to your throat, not to choke, just to hold, to tilt your head back so he can see you, so he can watch every little tremor in your expression. “You feel so fucking good, baby. So perfect.” His lips crash into yours, tongue licking into your mouth, kissing you like he wants to drown in you. His other hand skims down, smoothing over the curve of your ass before gripping tight, guiding your rhythm, pushing you down harder, making you take every inch of him.

You whimper against his mouth, rolling your hips in slow, deliberate circles, dragging your nails down his chest, watching the muscles flex under your touch. His cock twitches inside you, sending a sharp pulse of heat down your spine, making your thighs squeeze around his waist. You can feel how much he’s holding back, how much restraint it takes not to flip you over and fuck you into the mattress until you’re screaming. But he lets you take him like this, lets you have him, lets you control the pace even as his fingers dig into your skin like he’s barely keeping himself together.

"Jeno," you whisper, dragging your lips along his jaw, his cheek, pressing sloppy, open-mouthed kisses over his face, sucking his bottom lip between yours. He groans, deep and guttural, his hips bucking up involuntarily. His fingers tangle in your hair, tugging slightly, grounding himself in the feeling of you, of this, of how completely you’re wrapped around him. “I love this," you murmur, kissing the corner of his mouth, his chin, his throat. "I love the way you fill me up. Love the way you touch me." You lick over the salt of his skin, biting down gently, and he shudders beneath you, his cock throbbing deep inside.

"God, I love this pussy," he grits out, voice rough, strained, his breath coming in sharp, uneven pants. "Love the way you move on me. You’re so fucking beautiful." His hands slide up your back again, over your shoulders, fingers pressing into your jaw as he pulls you back to his mouth. His kiss is messy, all tongue and teeth, his breath hot and desperate as he groans into you, like he’s trying to pull you deeper, trying to merge you into him, trying to make sure you never leave.

And you let him. You let him take and take and take, because you’ll never stop giving.

Your vision blurs. You blink rapidly, trying to clear it, trying to fight it, but the moment is too much. Every sensation crashes over you at once—the way he fills you, stretches you, the heat of his breath against your skin, the weight of his hands gripping your waist like he can’t bear to let go. Your chest tightens, breath catching, your heartbeat a frantic, stuttering thing against your ribs.

Tears slip down your cheeks before you can stop them. You try to blink them away, but the moment is too much, every sensation amplified, every touch searing into you like something permanent, something you’ll never be able to scrub from your skin. You think he doesn’t notice, think you can hide the way your body is trembling, the way you’re falling apart in more ways than one. But then he stills beneath you, breath heavy, fingers flexing where they hold you. Slowly, his grip shifts, one hand trailing up to cup your jaw, tilting your face up just enough for his thumb to brush over the wetness on your cheek.

His brows knit together as his thumb catches the wetness on your cheek. “Feels that good, huh?” His lips curl into a teasing smile, voice low and raspy, full of satisfaction. He thinks it’s the pleasure overwhelming you, the way he’s fucking you so deep, so slow, pulling sounds from you that you can’t control. He doesn’t realize there’s something else behind it, doesn’t see the weight pressing against your ribs, the ache curling beneath your skin. To him, this is just proof of how good he’s making you feel, how perfectly he has you falling apart in his hands.

You can’t answer. You just nod, swallowing hard, clinging to him as you sink down harder, as you grind yourself against him, as you chase the high that’s building in your stomach, in your chest, in the burning ache of your heart. Because this is all you have left. This is the last time he’ll ever hold you like this, the last time you’ll ever get to drown in the way he makes you feel. And if you think about that too hard, you’ll break completely.

Your hands tremble where they press against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your fingertips. Jeno is still beneath you, his head tipped back against the pillows, his lips swollen from kissing you, his skin hot under your touch. Your hips move in slow, languid rolls, dragging out the moment, making it last, even as the tension builds between you both, curling tight and unrelenting. You don’t want it to end. You don’t want to let him go. So you don’t.

Instead, you lean down, capturing his mouth again, deep and messy, moaning softly into him as he groans into you. He cups the back of your head, tilting into the kiss, his other hand sliding down the damp skin of your back to squeeze your waist, grounding you in the rhythm you’ve both settled into—deliberate, unhurried, devastating. Every inch of him feels too good, too familiar, too much like home, and you let yourself drown in it, in him, just for a little longer.

His fingers tighten at your waist as he tilts his head back slightly, his breath ragged against your lips. "Fuck, baby—" His voice is wrecked, thick with pleasure, and you can feel the way he’s holding himself back, the way his hips twitch up into yours, desperate for more.

You press your forehead against his, gasping softly as you take him deeper, the pleasure mounting unbearably fast. It’s too much, too intense, the pressure in your stomach winding so tight you can barely breathe. "Jen—" His name is barely a whisper, your hands sliding up his arms, your nails digging into the muscles there, clinging to him.

He groans, his head tilting back against the pillow, his eyes squeezing shut. "I got you, baby. Come for me. Let me feel you."

And you do. The orgasm crashes over you, your body seizing up as waves of pleasure roll through you. You shake, breath hitching, moaning into his mouth as you kiss him through it, refusing to let go, to separate, to break the moment. Jeno follows soon after, a sharp, broken groan ripping from his throat as he spills inside you, his grip on your hips tightening as his body shudders beneath you. His lips curve against yours, smiling softly through the kiss, breathless and wrecked. His arms wrap around your back, pulling you flush against his chest, as if he can still feel the way you tremble against him.

He exhales a quiet laugh, pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then your temple. "Didn’t know you missed me this much," he murmurs, teasing, his voice drowsy with satisfaction. He runs a lazy hand down your back, tracing soft, mindless shapes against your skin, completely unaware of the weight pressing down on your chest, of the way your throat tightens as fresh tears spill over your cheeks.

You don’t move. You don’t pull away. Not yet. You just rest against him, soaking in his warmth, memorizing the feeling of him beneath you, around you, knowing this is the last time you’ll ever have it. But your mind is racing, spiraling through every possibility, every excuse to stay, every fear about leaving. You tell yourself this is the last time, but your body betrays you—clinging to him, pressing closer, moving like you want it to last forever.

Jeno is too wrapped up in the moment to notice. Too trusting. Too content in the haze of pleasure, in the way your body moves against his, in the warmth of your breath against his skin. He has no idea you’re slipping away. Not yet. Your senses are in overdrive. Every touch is a brand, every shift of muscle beneath your fingertips burns itself into your memory. The heat of his skin, the weight of his hands, the way he grips your waist like you belong to him. It’s overwhelming. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to breathe through it, trying to anchor yourself in him, but the thoughts keep creeping in. He doesn’t know. He has no idea. You’re about to ruin him.

Jeno groans beneath you, his hands tracing over your back, pulling you impossibly closer. He thinks your trembling is from pleasure, that your breathless gasps are for him, because of him. His lips drag along your throat, slow and reverent, pressing soft kisses into your skin as his hands skim down your spine. And then the moment shifts. He feels it before he fully understands it. The stiffness in your body, the way your breathing falters, the quiet sniffle you try to suppress.

Jeno frowns, his hands stilling against your back. "Hey," he murmurs, shifting slightly beneath you. "What’s wrong?"

You don’t answer. Instead, you press closer, pressing your lips against his shoulder, your fingers trailing down his chest, feeling the way his muscles tense beneath your touch. He hums softly, tilting his head back as you mouth along his throat, your tongue tracing over the salt of his skin. His breath shudders, hands tightening at your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. You feel the slow drag of his fingers down your spine, the way his warmth engulfs you, but it only makes it worse. It only makes it harder.

You try to shift back, just a little, just enough to create space, but Jeno doesn’t let you. His arms tighten, keeping you right there, flush against him. "Where do you think you’re going?" he murmurs, voice thick with satisfaction, with something lazy and possessive, his lips brushing against your temple. His fingers curl around your hip, guiding you back down, pressing you deeper into him. "Stay with me."

It’s unbearable. He doesn’t even realize what he’s doing, how he’s making it impossible to leave cleanly. Every kiss, every touch, every pull drags you deeper when you should be pulling away. His hands roam over your skin like he’s memorizing you, like he has no idea he’s holding onto something that’s already slipping away. His warmth seeps into your bones, his breath skates along your jaw, his lips brush against yours again—soft, slow, lingering. Like he’s savoring you. Like there’s time.

But there isn’t.

Your fingers twitch against his chest, hesitation keeping you tethered for one more moment, one more second where you let yourself sink into the illusion of staying. His skin is hot beneath your touch, muscles flexing as he shifts slightly, as he tilts his head to nuzzle against you, sighing like he’s never been more content. And it wrecks you. It undoes you. Because this isn’t contentment—it’s blind faith. He trusts that you’re still here. That you’ll still be here when morning comes.

Your throat tightens, your stomach twists, and suddenly you can’t breathe. You have to go.

You force yourself to pull back, your chest aching as his hands slip from your body, as the air between you turns cold the moment he’s no longer wrapped around you. Your breath stutters, your fingers twitch like they want to reach for him again, but you don’t let them. You stay still for a second too long, caught in the space between leaving and staying, between cowardice and cruelty, but then you move.

You shift to sit beside him, curling your legs up to your chest, your arms wrapping around them like they might hold you together, like they might stop the inevitable. The bed creaks slightly with the loss of your weight against him, but Jeno doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything yet. You don’t look at him. You can’t. The silence is thick, suffocating, stretching between you like a chasm you can never close again. You’re still naked, still covered in sweat and cum, but none of it matters. Nothing matters anymore.

For a second, you consider just slipping away. Not saying a word. Not doing this at all. It would be so easy. He’s already spent, body loose and warm against the sheets, his breath deep and even. Soon, he’ll slip into sleep entirely, and that would be your moment. You could gather your things in silence, slip his hoodie over your head because it’s the closest thing in reach, because it smells like him, because even now, you’re weak. You’d take your phone off the charger, shove it into your bag, and leave—just like that. No note. No message. No explanation.

He’d wake up and reach for you, his palm smoothing over the sheets, expecting to feel your skin, the warmth of you still tangled beside him. At first, he’d think you just had an early class, that you left in a hurry, that you’d be back later. Maybe he’d text you something lazy and sweet, something about how good last night was, how he’s still hard thinking about it. Maybe he’d fall back asleep, thinking nothing of it.

But then the hours would stretch. You wouldn’t text back. You wouldn’t call. By the time the evening rolled around, he’d start to wonder. He’d send another message—where are you? call me. Then another. He’d check your location, and for the first time in years, it wouldn’t be shared. That’s when it would hit him. That something wasn’t right.

You shake the thought away. You know better. Jeno wouldn’t just let you disappear. He wouldn’t accept silence, wouldn’t just let it be. He’d track you down. He’d demand to know why. And deep down, no matter how much you want to escape this conversation, you know he deserves an answer. You owe him that much.

But god, you wish you didn’t. The regret sinks in faster than you expected. It gnaws at the edges of your mind, twisting deep into your ribs. It starts while you’re still catching your breath, still tangled in the sheets with him. You should never have done this. You should have walked away last night, hours ago, before you gave in to the inevitable pull. But you were weak. You always are with him. You couldn’t resist the way he looked at you, the way his hands moved over your skin, like he knew every part of you by heart.

Jeno watches you, his frown deepening. "Y/N," he says, quieter this time, and it’s the way he says your name—soft, questioning, worried—that nearly makes you lose it completely.

You take a shaky breath, staring down at your hands, at the way they tremble where they rest against your knees. You can feel him watching you, waiting, his concern thick in the air between you. And then, finally, you say it. "Jeno. I have to tell you something."

A silence cuts through the room like a blade. The air shifts. Jeno blinks at you, the crease between his brows deepening. He pushes himself up onto one elbow, his eyes flickering over your face, searching. “Tell me what?”

You finally look at him. You shouldn’t. You should just say it, get it over with. But when you meet his gaze—still softened by sleep, hazy with affection—you hate yourself for what you’re about to do. Your throat tightens. Your stomach turns. “I’m leaving.”

Jeno stares at you. His expression doesn’t shift, doesn’t change—not at first. Then his brows pull together, his lips part slightly, like he’s trying to piece it together, to make it make sense. “Leaving?” His voice is still thick, hoarse from sleep, like he hasn’t quite shaken it off.

You nod, your fingers twisting in the sheets, gripping them so tightly they might tear. "The opportunity Coach Suh told me about." The words are heavy, unnatural in your mouth, but you force them out. "I’m taking it."

Jeno’s brows furrow slightly, but instead of immediate concern, a soft chuckle leaves his lips. "Why are you being so serious about it?" His voice is light, warm, filled with something you don’t deserve. "Even though you never told me that you’d be taking it until now, I always knew you were. You know I’m so happy and proud of you." He leans in, pressing a slow, soft kiss to your lips, a gentle smile curling against your mouth.

And for a second, you let yourself sink into it. Into the safety of him, the familiarity of his warmth, the way he holds you like you’re something precious. But it only lasts for a moment before you snap yourself out of it, before the reality of why you’re here slams back into your chest. You pull back, forcing space between you. "Jeno, I’m leaving." You say it again, firmer this time, hoping he understands what you mean, hoping he doesn’t make you say it outright.

He blinks, his smile faltering as confusion creeps into his features. His lips part slightly, but no words come out at first. Then— "Just because you’re leaving doesn’t mean we have to break up."

A laugh escapes before you can stop it, sharp and humorless. It sounds crueler than you intended, but maybe cruelty is necessary. "And how will we stay together? Jeno, I’m going to be halfway across the world."

His expression shifts. The amusement in his eyes flickers and fades, replaced by something heavier, something you can feel settling in the space between you. He moves closer, like proximity alone will make this make sense. "Why are you talking like this?" His voice is quieter now, hesitant, like he’s starting to piece something together. "Like you’ve already made up your mind."

Because you have. Because you don’t have a choice. Because Taeyong made sure there was only one way forward, and it meant walking away from Jeno. But you can’t tell him that. You can’t tell him anything. So you keep going, keep twisting the knife deeper, keep making this easier for him in the only way you know how. "Because it’s the truth," you say, voice flat, emotionless. "I’m leaving."

Jeno stares at you, the weight of your words sinking in, settling into his bones like something cold and foreign. You see it hit him, watch the way his jaw tightens, the way his fingers twitch against the sheets. It should make you feel accomplished, should make this easier. It doesn’t. It never does. The moment feels like a rug being pulled out from under him. The contrast makes it worse—the remnants of last night still lingering around you both, his hoodie draped over your frame, his scent clinging to your skin. The intimacy of it all makes the pain sharper, like glass cutting through soft flesh.

Jeno lets out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head like he’s trying to make sense of it. "You're joking." It’s not a question. It’s a plea.

You don’t smile. You don’t soften. "I’m not."

He moves closer, something desperate slipping into his voice. "Y/N—"

You cut him off before he can reach for you. Because if he touches you, you’ll break. "It wouldn’t have worked anyway." The words feel like acid on your tongue, burning, scarring. You shrug like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t matter. "This just makes sense."

Jeno’s mouth parts slightly, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. His expression twists, frustration creeping in, mixing with something raw. "This makes sense?" He scoffs, running a hand through his hair, his movements sharp, tense. "You’re actually being serious right now? We were fine—we made up, we were fucking fine. What changed?"

Jeno’s breath stutters, his frustration shifting into something closer to disbelief. “No—seriously, what the fuck changed?” His voice is sharper now, cracking slightly, like he’s barely holding himself together. His hands flex at his sides before he runs a rough hand through his hair, his movements quick, restless. “Because last night, we were fine. You were fine. You looked at me like—” He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Like you wanted this, wanted me.”

Jeno exhales sharply, shaking his head like he’s trying to make sense of something impossible. Then, his voice cuts through the silence, low and unsteady but laced with frustration. “After the shit at the bar—why did you forgive me? Why did you tell me everything was okay? Why did you kiss me, fuck me every night after that, like nothing else matters?” His jaw clenches, his hands flexing at his sides. “And now, when you knew you were gonna end it, you did it again. You kissed me, you fucked me like you were never gonna leave. It doesn’t make any fucking sense, Y/N. You’re supposed to be a smart girl.”

Your throat tightens, the weight of his words pressing down on you like a vice. It lodges there, thick and suffocating, but you force yourself to swallow it down. Your pulse pounds in your ears, a relentless, deafening beat, drowning out reason, drowning out everything but this. You try to breathe past it, try to keep your face impassive, your voice steady. But it’s slipping. It’s all slipping. The agony claws up your throat, rips through your chest, fractures something deep inside you. You have to sell this—you have to make him believe it. Even if it kills you. Even if it destroys everything inside you.

“I did,” you force out, the words jagged and strained, like they’re being ripped from your throat. "And now I don’t. I thought I wanted this, but I don’t."

Jeno’s expression shatters for a split second before he shields it, jaw clenching so tight you swear you hear his teeth grind. “Bullshit.” The word is sharp, slicing through the thick silence like a blade. His head shakes, his breath uneven, his eyes darkening as they lock onto yours, searching—desperate for something, anything that makes this make sense. "You don’t just wake up one day and decide you don’t want something anymore. That’s not how this works."

Your hands grip the sheets beneath you, nails digging into the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded."Maybe it is," you whisper, but your voice falters at the end, betraying you.

Jeno exhales, a rough, humorless sound. "No. That’s not you." His voice lowers, turns into something rough, something almost pleading. "You don’t just change your mind overnight, Y/N. Tell me the truth."

You hesitate—too long. And he sees it. The flicker of doubt, the war behind your eyes. And it’s that, not your words, that really starts to break him.

His breathing turns uneven, his body tense with restrained frustration, but now there’s something else—an unraveling, a slow, agonizing realization that he can’t yet name. "Y/N," he says again, quieter this time, almost hesitant, like he’s trying to read you, to pick apart what you won’t say. "You don’t just wake up one morning and decide you don’t want someone anymore. That’s not how this works. That’s not how we work."

His jaw clenches again, and his fingers twitch at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you, to pull you in, to shake the truth out of you. "You think I don’t know you by now? You think I can’t tell when you’re lying?"

Your stomach twists. You can’t look at him. If you do, he’ll see it—he’ll see the way your resolve is crumbling, the way every word out of your mouth tastes like poison. But Jeno doesn’t let up. He moves closer, his voice quieter now, rough with something like desperation. "Tell me why you’re really doing this," he murmurs, his eyes locked onto yours, waiting for something—anything—that makes sense. "Tell me why you’re looking at me like that, like—" He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. "Like you don’t want to do this either."

And that’s the worst part. That’s what makes it unbearable. Because he’s right. Because he knows you. Because no matter how much you fight it, no matter how steady you force your voice to be, he can see you breaking. He sees it in the way your breath stammers in your chest, the way your hands tremble where they grip the sheets like they’re the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely. He sees it in the way your eyes refuse to meet his, darting away too quickly, like the weight of his gaze alone could shatter you.

And yet, you don’t stop. You can’t stop. Because the choice was never yours to begin with. Taeyong had been nothing more than a distant figure, a name spoken with reverence and fear, a man who existed in the periphery of your world—but now he’s everywhere. He’s in the air you breathe, thick and poisoned, curling inside your lungs and making every inhale feel like submission. He’s in the walls closing in around you, in the weight crushing down on your chest, in the suffocating certainty that no matter which way you turn, he’s already thought ten steps ahead. His presence is a noose cinching tighter with every second you hesitate, every flicker of doubt in your eyes that Jeno might catch onto. And the worst part? You never even saw it coming. One moment, you were free—untethered, yours—and the next, he had his hands around your fate, stripping you of every last illusion of control, carving out your path before you even had the chance to resist. The ground beneath you is gone, the door to another outcome slammed shut, locked, buried. And Taeyong holds the key like it was always his to begin with.

It’s suffocating. It’s a straightjacket laced so tightly around your ribs that every inhale feels like a punishment. And the worst part? He doesn’t even have to do anything anymore. You know what he’s capable of. You know that if you hesitate for even a second, if you let Jeno see too much, if you let him reach for you one more time, you’ll ruin everything. For him. And that’s what guts you the most. Because if it were just you—if it were only your future on the line, your reputation, your opportunities—maybe you’d be able to claw your way out of this. Maybe you’d fight back. Maybe you’d burn for him if it meant staying. But Taeyong knew that, too. Knew that there was only one way to bind you, to make sure you listened. And he was right. He always is.

So you do the only thing you can do. You twist the knife deeper. Jeno is still waiting, still searching your face, clinging to some last shred of understanding. But there’s nothing left for him to find. Nothing you can give him. Nothing you’re allowed to say. "None of this matters,” you force out, your voice thin, hollow, something barely held together by breath and will alone. "Whatever you say doesn’t change the fact that I was always going to leave."

His lips press into a thin line, his whole body going rigid like the words have physically struck him. His hands twitch at his sides, clenching into fists, releasing, like he doesn’t know where to put the weight of his emotions. His throat bobs as he swallows hard. Waiting. Giving you a chance to take it back. But you don’t. "Whether we were together or not." His voice is quieter this time, but the sharp edge hasn’t dulled—it just cuts differently now, deeper, more controlled.

You nod. "Yes."

Silence stretches, thick and unbearable, swallowing the room whole. Jeno’s breath comes uneven, his chest rising and falling in sharp, unsteady movements like he’s trying to contain something that refuses to be caged. His fingers flex again, curling, uncurling, but he doesn’t reach for you. Not this time. He doesn’t ask you to stay. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t beg. And that should be a relief. Should make this easier. But it doesn’t.

"So that’s it," he breathes, the words dragging out, drained, like he's losing the strength to even argue." His voice is rough now, frayed at the edges, like he’s barely holding it together. "Just like that? After everything, after every moment together, after this—you’re just walking away? Like none of it meant anything?"

You squeeze your eyes shut for half a second, trying to force yourself to breathe past the burn in your chest. Because that’s what you have to make him believe. That none of it mattered. That last night was just a mistake, a lapse in judgment, a moment of weakness. That you hadn’t spent every second memorizing him, holding onto him like it was the last time—because it was.

"It doesn’t change anything," you murmur, forcing the words out even as they threaten to choke you. "It never did."

And just like that, you watch it happen. You watch the exact moment the fight drains out of him, watch the light flicker out of his eyes. You’ve hurt him in ways you never thought you’d be capable of. And yet, the worst part is knowing this isn’t even the real betrayal. The real betrayal is that you can’t tell him the truth. That you have to let him believe this was always going to happen. That no matter what, this was inevitable.

The air between you feels scorched, the remnants of something burning out too fast, too violently. It’s like standing at the epicenter of a supernova, watching a star collapse into itself, all that light and warmth turning to ruin in an instant. You can feel it in your chest, a pressure so crushing it threatens to hollow you out from the inside. He blinks at you, slow, disbelieving, like the world has just tilted beneath him, like he’s suddenly weightless in the worst possible way. A breath shudders from his lips, and for the first time, he looks at you like he doesn’t recognize you at all.

And it’s devastating. You thought it would be cleaner than this, thought you could carve yourself out of his life like a knife through flesh, quick, precise, a wound that might scar but wouldn’t fester. But nothing about this is clean. It’s messy and raw and impossible to contain. He doesn’t say anything, but his silence is louder than anything he could have said. It fills the room, thick and suffocating, pressing in from all sides, settling into the spaces where there used to be something else—where there used to be you and him.

There is no you and him anymore.

You feel the shift, the finality of it, the way something fundamental snaps between you, severing what was already frayed beyond recognition. You watch him grapple with it, the slow unraveling of understanding dawning across his features, the realization that this isn’t just an argument, isn’t something that can be fixed with the right words, the right touch. It’s over. You’re over.

And he’s still looking at you like he’s waiting for something. A reason. An explanation. Anything to make this make sense. But you’ve already given him all the answers you’re allowed to. You’ve already destroyed him in every way that matters.

So you do the only thing left to do. You turn away.

The classroom thrums with a dissonant symphony—paper rustling, chair legs scraping against linoleum, the faint, discordant pluck of a guitar string. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a clinical glow, too sharp, too harsh, buzzing faintly like an exposed wire. Somewhere, the metronome ticks steadily, but the rhythm feels off, mismatched with the rapid pulse hammering against your ribs. The professor’s voice rises and falls, something about dissonance resolving into harmony, how tension in music must stretch itself thin before it can finally snap back into place. The lesson should interest you. It doesn’t. The words are little more than static, blending into the low, suffocating hum in your skull.

You try to focus. You try to force your attention onto the sheet music in front of you, onto the pen in your hand, onto the clean, structured lines of notation that should provide some sense of order. But the moment your pen hovers over the staff paper, the voices slip through the cracks.

It started the moment you walked in, a shift in the air so tangible you could taste it. It’s been like this for days. The stares, the murmurs that don’t stop when you look up, the way people avert their gazes just a second too late. Your name has become a low, slithering thing in the mouths of strangers, spoken in hushed tones, followed by sharp laughter, raised eyebrows, knowing smirks. You knew this would happen. You knew how quickly rumors fester and spread, how people carve their entertainment from the bones of someone else’s misery.

Jeno has been fucking around. Relentlessly. He dealt with heartbreak the same way he’s always dealt with anything painful—drowning in excess, losing himself in distraction. There was no hesitation, no moment of pause. One night, he was yours, his hands gripping your waist, his mouth whispering your name like it was the only one he knew. The next, he was on someone else, inside someone else, chasing the kind of numbness you can only find between someone else’s legs.

And maybe that should give you some kind of peace. Maybe you should be grateful that he’s doing exactly what you wanted him to do—moving on, forgetting you. Hating you. But you’re not. Because now you’re stuck here, sitting in the wreckage, while he gets to bury it in someone else’s body. Because while you are unraveling in real time, while your heart aches with every passing second, Jeno is grinning at some girl at a party, pressing her against the wall, dragging his teeth down her neck, whispering things to her he probably once said to you. And you know it’s not personal. It’s not about her. It’s about you. About making sure he never has to think about you again.

You know you have no right to be angry. You know this. You gave him up. You made the choice. You told yourself this was the only way, that you had to let him go, that this was what was best for him. But knowing that doesn’t stop the burn in your stomach, the sharp sting behind your ribs as the words reach you, each syllable carving deeper into something raw and unhealed.

"Apparently they broke up."

"Obviously. Jeno’s already fucked half the campus."

"He doesn’t waste time, does he?"

The words slip out between hushed giggles, between the casual shuffle of papers and the scratch of pens. The voices belong to Yunjin and Chaewon, their heads dipped toward each other, their smiles laced with something cruel and amused. They aren’t being loud. They don’t need to be. The words find you anyway, slicing through the stale classroom air, settling beneath your skin like rot.

But then—

"Can’t believe she actually thought she could keep him."

Your breath catches, a sharp hitch that you swallow down before it can betray you. The world tilts slightly, but you don’t let yourself move. You don’t let yourself look up. The whisper is just loud enough to reach you, threaded with something that feels like pity and scorn all at once. Like you were delusional for thinking you ever stood a chance. Like this was always going to happen, and everyone knew it but you.

Your heart is a violent, stuttering thing against your ribs. You can hear it over everything else—the professor’s voice, the metronome, the slow-building pressure in your skull. Your hands are cold. Your face is hot. The anxiety settles like a second skin, thick and cloying, wrapping itself around your lungs. You tell yourself to breathe. Breathe. But the notes in front of you don’t make sense anymore, their meanings lost to the haze creeping in at the edges of your vision.

Chaewon clicks her tongue, a soft, amused sound. “Wonder who he’s with tonight.”

Laughter follows, light and careless. It’s too much. The walls press in. The lights buzz louder. The classroom feels impossibly small, like it’s shrinking around you, like you need to get out, now, before it drowns you completely. But then there’s a shift next to you, just barely noticeable over the static in your head. Mark is beside you. Where he always sits. He hasn’t moved seats just because you stopped talking. Mark’s not the type to change things just because it might make you more comfortable.

He leans in slightly, voice low, quiet enough that only you can hear. “What are they talking about? Why is Jeno fucking other girls? Thought you guys were together.” His tone is casual, like he’s just asking a simple question, but there’s an edge beneath it. Not curiosity. Not concern. Just something sharp, something unreadable.

You don’t look at him. You can’t look at him. Your fingers tighten around your pen, stiff, unyielding, like they’ve locked into place, like if you loosen your grip even a little, everything will spill out. “Well, we’re not,” you mutter. It’s barely a whisper, barely real, but he hears you. Of course he does. Because Mark doesn’t say anything else. He just leans back in his chair, silent. Watching. Waiting.

And then it starts.

The whispers crawl into the music, curling between the notes, staining the melody, twisting it into something unrecognizable. It seeps into the empty spaces, wraps around the rests, crushing them, filling the silence with static—too much static—just noise—just words—just—

The sheet music in front of you melts. The notes stretch, bend, peeling away from the staff, unraveling, slipping through the page like they’re trying to escape. Your vision flickers. The air is too thick, the room too tight, the fluorescent lights too loud. You blink, but the motion makes it worse. Your stomach plummets, weightless for a moment before the sickening lurch of vertigo grips you.

Your fingers tremble. The pen slips. The world tilts.

“You okay?”

Mark’s voice cuts through the fog, sharp and clear, slicing through the noise, through you. His hand moves behind your back, pressing firm and steady, rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades. The contact wrecks you. It doesn’t calm you, doesn’t ground you. It sends you spiraling, makes the crash hit harder, faster, sharper. Your pulse slams against your ribs, every heartbeat a violent knock, knock, knock—

You barely register Yunjin muttering something under her breath, her voice laced with something biting, something sharp. But before the words can land, before they can sink their teeth into you, Mark snaps, “Shut the fuck up.” No hesitation. No room for argument. He doesn’t even look at her. His focus stays on you, locked in place, like he already knows you’re slipping.

Your chair scrapes against the floor, the sound shrieking, slicing through the air. It feels distant. Not yours. Like you’re watching someone else stagger to their feet, someone else’s hands shaking, clumsy, fumbling to grab their things, shoving crumpled papers into a bag that suddenly feels too small, too useless, too fucking much. The tremor in your fingers is uncontrollable now, shaking, shaking, shaking, and you can feel Mark’s eyes on you, that quiet, assessing gaze, like he’s trying to map out what’s happening inside your head, like he can see the walls caving in.

But he doesn’t say anything. Not yet. You don’t wait for the professor to acknowledge you. You don’t breathe. You don’t think. You don’t look at Mark. You don’t look at anyone. You just leave.

The classroom spins, the air clogged with voices, scraping against your skin like sandpaper. Too bright, too loud, too much. Your legs feel wrong, unsteady, disconnected from the rest of you, but you move anyway. The door shoves open, the hallway air rushing in, but it doesn’t help. It’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. It’s too much. The noise. The room. The hands reaching out. The concern in his voice. The way his touch felt like something you could have collapsed into, something that would have caught you—

You can’t. You won’t. You just need to get out. You need air. You need—

You don’t know.

The hallway stretches long and endless, the fluorescent lights humming overhead, casting everything in a sterile, artificial glow. Your breath is ragged, uneven, the walls pressing too close, the floor too unstable beneath your feet. You push forward, past the blur of indistinct voices, past the vague shapes of people you don’t recognize, don’t care to recognize. The world outside is too loud, too sharp, but you don’t stop. You don’t stop until your fingers curl around the handle of a door, until you shove it open and step inside.

The private studio has always been an escape, a refuge stitched together with quiet and clarity. Even now, its presence is familiar—soft lamplight spilling over polished wood, the faint scent of old sheet music and varnish clinging to the air. The piano stands in the center like an altar, its black lacquer surface gleaming under the dim glow. This room has always been a place where you can exist outside of everything else. A space where nothing reaches you. Where sound bends to your will.

But tonight, it is not safe.

Tonight, it is too still. The quiet is suffocating, pressing against your ribs, filling your lungs with something thick and unbearable. You sink onto the bench, fingers hovering above the keys, but the second you press down, the sound is wrong. Too sharp. Too jarring. It crashes into the silence instead of settling into it, shattering the illusion of control you once had.

The keys feel foreign under your fingers, cold and stiff, resisting your touch like they know you don’t belong here anymore. The room feels haunted, thick with ghosts you can’t shut out. Jeno, leaning against the piano, arms crossed, watching you with that lazy smirk, tilting his head at a wrong note, teasing you like he had all the time in the world. Try again, baby. But he’s not here, and the warmth in his voice is just an echo, a phantom, fading like the last notes of a song that was never meant to last.

You try again. The notes slip, tripping over each other, breaking apart before they can even form something whole. The melody evades you, slipping through your fingers like sand. You press harder. The frustration curls inside you, thick and choking. Again. Again. But the more you try to force the music out, the worse it sounds, unraveling at the seams, collapsing beneath your touch.

The whispers won’t stop. The image of Jeno—hands on someone else, lips ghosting over someone else’s throat—lodges itself in your mind like a knife between ribs. He moved on so easily. He let go so easily. And you— A strangled noise leaves your throat. You slam your hands down against the keys. A discordant, violent explosion of sound ruptures the stillness, ringing in your ears, rattling through your arms, through your chest. But it isn’t enough.

Nothing is enough.

The music should flow like water—effortless, unbroken, slipping through your fingers and cascading into something whole. But it doesn’t. It staggers, trips over itself, breaking apart before it can even find a rhythm. The notes are jagged, gasping, drowning in the silence that follows. You press harder, desperate to regain control, but the melody resists you, resisting like a current pulling against your limbs, like the rush of a waterfall swallowing everything in its path. And you—you—are caught beneath it, dragged under, crushed by the weight of something that once felt freeing.

You shove away from the piano, the force knocking over a stack of sheet music. The pages scatter like dead leaves, skidding across the floor, twisting and turning before settling into a mess of ink and chaos. Your breath is shallow, too fast. The room is shrinking, the walls pressing inward, the ceiling pressing downward, the air turning thick, heavy, unbreathable. Your hands curl into fists, nails biting into your palms, grounding you in the sting, but it doesn’t help.

Glass shatters. The sharp, discordant sound slices through the air, and your gaze snaps to the floor. The metronome lies in ruin, its fractured pieces catching the light, splintering into tiny, fractured reflections. Time. The irony is suffocating—you thought you had time. Thought you could handle this. But everything is unraveling too fast, spinning out of control, slipping through your fingers like the scattered sheets around you.

A blast of air surges into the room. The door slams against the wall, the impact rattling through the floorboards, shaking through your bones. Loose papers lift and spiral into the air before collapsing back to the ground in disarray, the lamplight flickering against their chaotic descent. Cold rushes in, sharp and unyielding, but it’s nothing compared to the presence that fills the space, pressing against your skin like a weight, heavy and inescapable.

Mark stands in the hallway, chest heaving, eyes sweeping over the wreckage—the scattered pages, the shattered metronome, the trembling mess of you in the center of it all. He doesn’t hesitate. He steps inside, moving toward you with careful, deliberate strides, like he’s already assessed every detail of the room, already knows what’s happening, already knows you. His gaze locks onto yours, and for a second, you can’t breathe. You can’t move. The weight in your chest expands, pressing tighter, heavier, until your knees buckle beneath it.

Before you can hit the ground, his arms are around you. Strong, steady, catching you before the fall can steal you away completely. One hand grips your waist, holding you against his chest like you weigh nothing at all. The motion is seamless, like he was expecting it, like he knew your body was going to give out before you did. His hold is firm but careful, his warmth sinking into your skin, and there’s no hesitation—no doubt, no reluctance, just a quiet, undeniable certainty. He’s here. He’s got you.

The world bends in on itself, a house of cards collapsing in slow motion, each breath knocking another piece loose. The air is thick, suffocating, pressing in from all sides. Your body doesn’t feel like yours anymore, a weightless thing detached from the frantic pounding in your chest. You know Mark is touching you, feel the press of his arms, the heat of his skin against yours, but it’s distant, like you’re watching from behind a thick pane of glass. The moment fractures, splinters into something unreal, something unsteady. You can’t find the door. You can’t get out.

“Shit. Okay, okay. I got you,” he murmurs, his voice low, steady, grounding. His arms tighten around you, adjusting his grip, making sure you’re secure against him. He doesn’t let you slip, doesn’t shift even as your body trembles violently in his hold. His chest rises and falls beneath you, deep and measured, a rhythm to follow, something to anchor yourself to. His fingers press into your back, rubbing slow, steady circles, urging you to breathe, to be here, to stay with him.

“Breathe for me,” he whispers. “Slow. Just like that. I’ve got you, you’re okay.”

You can’t. You can’t stop crying. The sobs tear through you, ragged and unrelenting, your whole body shaking with the force of them. Your hands fist into his hoodie, clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. Maybe he is. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t move, doesn’t let go, just holds you through it, his arms strong and unyielding, like he’s trying to absorb every ounce of your pain into himself.

His chin drops, lips brushing against your temple, barely there, a soft, fleeting press. Then another. And another. Each one a whisper of reassurance, a silent promise. He’s here. He’s not leaving. You’re not alone. His breath warms your skin between each kiss, slow and steady, grounding you in something real, something solid, something safe.

“Hey,” he murmurs softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. You don’t have to do this alone.”

His words melt into your skin, threading through the chaos, pulling you back from the edge. He keeps talking, keeps filling the silence with something warm, something steady, something that doesn’t break. His voice is a tether, something to hold onto, something to follow out of the storm.

“I’m not going anywhere.” His fingers trace slow, soothing lines up and down your spine, mapping out comfort between each breath. “Just breathe. You’re safe. You’re okay.” Your sobs start to slow, breaking into uneven breaths, the tremors still there but softer now, not as consuming. Mark doesn’t let go. His arms stay firm, his touch never faltering. His fingers curl around the back of your neck, thumb stroking lightly against your skin, grounding you. He waits, patient, unwavering, like he’s done this a million times before, like he knows what you need without you having to ask.

“I got you. Just—just breathe, okay?”

You try, but your breath is too fast, too erratic, catching on the edges of every inhale like you can’t find the air. Your body jerks with the force of it, chest stuttering, lungs fighting against you, and Mark feels it, all of it. His grip tightens, pulling you closer, pressing you into the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“Slow,” he murmurs, his voice low, grounding. “Feel that? Just follow me. In—” He exaggerates the inhale, slow and deep, his hand moving against your back in time with the breath. “Hold it. Just for a second. Now let it go.”

You clutch at him, hands fisting into his hoodie, fingers curling so tightly it almost hurts. The first breath doesn’t work. The second barely makes it through. But Mark doesn’t let go, doesn’t move, just keeps murmuring against your temple, his breath warm and steady, his fingers tracing soft, rhythmic circles into your back.

“Breathe with me,” he whispers again. “I’m right here. You’re safe.”

Little by little, the air starts to come back. It’s shaky, uneven, but it’s there, slipping through the cracks of your ribs, settling in your chest instead of fighting against it. The worst of the spinning ebbs, the grip on your lungs loosening just enough for the exhaustion to sink in, heavy and suffocating in its own way.

Mark feels it, the way your body sags against his, and he adjusts his hold without hesitation, shifting his grip to keep you upright, to keep you close. His chin dips, lips brushing against your forehead, barely there, a fleeting press, a silent reassurance. Then another. And another. Soft, steady, constant.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay. You’re alright.”

His voice stays gentle, a low hum threading through the quiet. His hands never stop moving—one rubbing slow circles into your back, the other cradling the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair. He’s careful, deliberate, like he knows exactly how fragile this moment is, how easily you could break apart again.

And then, after a long moment, after your breath has steadied just enough, his lips press to your temple one more time, and he exhales, something half a laugh, half a sigh. “Not gonna lie,” he murmurs, voice softer than before, “that was kinda dramatic.”

A choked, breathless noise escapes you, something between a sob and a laugh, and he smiles—you can feel it against your skin, small and warm, familiar.

“There she is,” he whispers. You shake your head against him, fingers still curled into his hoodie, your chest still tight, but the weight pressing down on you doesn’t feel as unbearable anymore. It’s still there, still lingering, but so is he—steady and sure, holding you up, keeping you close, keeping you safe.

Mark unlocks the door without hesitation, the keys turning in the lock with a quiet click, a sound that should feel like permission, like belonging. But as the door swings open, the apartment is unfamiliar. The air inside is stale, untouched, filled with the scent of new paint and sawdust rather than something lived-in, something yours. You haven’t been here in weeks. The space is supposed to be a marker of the future, of a life being built, but instead, it feels like a project abandoned mid-construction. Mark doesn’t say anything as he steps inside, but you see the way his gaze sweeps over the half-painted walls, the unopened furniture boxes stacked against the far corner. He notices the things you’ve neglected, the things you’ve left unfinished.

You follow him in, your footsteps quiet against the bare floors. The apartment is in limbo, caught between being a place and a home, and the weight of its incompleteness settles heavily on your chest. You were supposed to be here more, supposed to have put in the time to turn it into something real, something yours. But you hadn’t. Life had gotten in the way. You had gotten in the way. Mark doesn’t say it, but you know he’s thinking it too. His eyes linger on the makeshift dining table, on the paint cans pushed into the corner, on the shelves that still lean against the wall instead of standing upright. This place was meant to be more than this. You were meant to be more present. And now, standing here, the regret seeps in like a slow tide, inevitable and inescapable.

The couch had arrived in pieces, packed neatly in boxes that promise an easy assembly, though you both know better. You push the coffee table aside, clearing space in the center of the room, and set to work. The process is slow, frustrating, full of missing screws and instructions that barely make sense. There’s a moment when Mark sighs, running a hand through his hair, ready to call it quits, but you shake your head. Not yet. Giving up feels like admitting defeat, like acknowledging how much distance had grown between you both these last few weeks. And so you keep going, pushing through every minor inconvenience, every misplaced bolt, every silent thought that lingers in the air between you. When the final piece clicks into place, it’s not just the couch that stands more solid than before—it’s something else, something unspoken but understood.

Neither of you sit on the couch. Instead, you collapse onto the floor, backs pressed against the fabric that had taken three hours to assemble. Your legs stretch out in front of you, exhaustion settling deep into your muscles, but it’s a good kind of exhaustion—the kind that comes with accomplishment. The takeout containers between you are still warm, the scent of food curling into the space between your quiet breaths. You don’t rush to fill the silence. Neither does Mark. This is how it’s always been with him—patience in the stillness, understanding in the unsaid. He doesn’t push, doesn’t demand words from you, but you know he’s waiting. You can feel it in the way he sits beside you, steady and unwavering, like an anchor keeping you tethered when the weight of everything threatens to pull you under.

You tip your head onto his shoulder, feeling the tension in your body ease just slightly. The apartment isn’t finished. The walls are still bare, the furniture still sparse, but there’s something in this moment that feels like progress. Maybe not in the way you expected, maybe not in a way that erases the last few weeks, but it’s something. And for now, that’s enough. Sitting here with Mark, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beside you, it’s a reminder that some things can still be pieced back together. That not everything has to remain undone.

Mark nudges your knee lightly, his voice soft when he finally speaks. “We’ll finish it, we have time” He says, and you know he’s not just talking about the apartment. You nod, exhaling slowly, allowing yourself to believe it. It’s not much, but it’s something. And right now, that’s all you can ask for.

You barely touch the food in front of you but Mark eats slowly, methodically, his gaze flicking toward you between bites. He’s waiting. He doesn’t say it, doesn’t push, but the weight of his patience is heavy. You know him too well to mistake his silence for anything else. He’s giving you space, but he’s also waiting for you to speak. And eventually, when the weight in your chest becomes unbearable, when the words press so hard against your ribs that they threaten to spill out, you do.

At first, it’s slow. Stilted. You don’t even know where to begin. You try to keep your voice steady, try to downplay the gravity of what you’re about to say, but Mark isn’t stupid. His brows draw together, his chewing slows, his body tenses almost imperceptibly. He’s listening, absorbing every word, every hesitation, and you can tell the longer you go without getting to the point, the more worried he becomes. When you pause too long, he finally speaks, his voice low, careful, but firm. “Tell me who the fuck I need to kill.” He exhales sharply, shaking his head as his jaw clenches. “Do I need to deal with Jeno?”

The laugh that escapes you is short and hollow, nothing more than a breath between tears. “Mark, he’s your brother.”

His eyes find yours, dark and steady, the weight of his words settling between you. “And you’re my best friend.” It’s not a reassurance, not a question—just fact, the kind that’s always been unshakable. And despite everything—despite the ache in your chest, despite the mess of it all—you smile, because you know. No matter what, no matter how bad things get, he’s on your side. The silence stretches, but it isn’t heavy. It isn’t uncomfortable. It’s just you and Mark, like it’s always been, like it always will be. And then, finally, he nods, exhaling like he’s made his decision. He’s listening. He’s not going to fix this. He’s just going to be here for you. He lifts his hand, wordlessly, pinky extended. You hesitate—just for a second—then hook yours around his. A promise. One he won’t break.

For a second, you let yourself exist in that small pocket of reassurance. But then, the weight of reality crashes back down. You tell him everything. About Taeyong. About how it started. About how you didn’t see it coming. How he had been watching you, disapproving of you and Jeno from the start. How he had always held quiet control over Jeno’s life, and when the moment was right, he struck. You try to explain the sheer power he holds, the way he makes you feel small, insignificant, weak. Mark listens, expression darkening with every word. You can feel the shift in him, the quiet rage building beneath his skin, the way his shoulders tighten, the way his fingers curl into fists against his knees. And then, when you tell him about the leverage—when you tell him what Taeyong has—his entire body goes rigid.

You don’t look at him when you say it. Your eyes stay locked on the floor, on the cracks in the wood, on the places where the varnish has worn away, anything but his face. Then you force it out. The videos. The proof. Recordings of you at the bar, on stage, wrapped around Jeno like you had no shame. Videos of you drunk, high, grinding against him in the dim glow of neon, his hands rough and greedy on your body. Footage of you in his lap, skirt pushed up, his fingers buried inside you right there in the open, your mouth slack, eyes glazed over. Your legs hooked around his waist, your body rocking down onto him, your lips parted, moaning for him like you belonged to him. Images of Jeno sucking bruises into your neck, dragging you into the back hallways, pressing you against walls, against doors, fucking you like he couldn’t stand the distance between you. Evidence of every filthy, desperate moment you thought belonged to just the two of you. You swallow the nausea rising in your throat and say the rest like it’s choking you, like it’s bile in your mouth.

This is what you tell Mark. Every single detail, every threat, every sickening way Taeyong made it clear just how little power you had. You tell him how Taeyong had been watching, waiting, collecting every mistake, every moment he could use against you and Jeno. How he knew exactly when to strike. How he cornered you, laid it all out, and left you with no way out. He made it clear—if you didn’t end things, if you didn’t make Jeno believe you were gone for good, he would use everything against you. He would send the videos to the right people, spin the right narrative, destroy you with one move. He’d ensure your future with Deloitte was down the drain.

Mark doesn’t say anything at first. His breathing shifts, shallow and uneven, his fists clenching so tight his knuckles go white. You watch the way his jaw locks, the way his shoulders rise with each inhale, how his entire body tenses like he’s trying to hold himself back from exploding. The silence between you is suffocating, heavier than the weight of the confession itself.

Then, finally, his voice cuts through it. Eerily calm. “You’re kidding.”

You don’t answer. Because you don’t need to. The silence is enough. The way your shoulders sink, the way your eyes dart away. The truth sits between you, heavy and unmoving.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “You’re not kidding.”

Mark is still trying to process everything, his mind struggling to catch up with the weight of what you’ve just told him. He shakes his head, exhaling sharply, like he’s trying to ground himself, to make sense of something that refuses to settle. “I didn’t even know you had this opportunity,” he mutters, his voice quieter now, almost distant. His hands are clasped together, knuckles still taut, as if holding onto himself is the only thing keeping him steady. He lifts his gaze to you, searching, trying to understand. “You’re leaving?”

You nod, the guilt pressing down like a vice. “I was always going to take it, Mark.” And it’s the truth. The opportunity with Deloitte would always be a part of your plan, a chance you had worked for, something you had earned on your own. But everything else—leaving Jeno, making him believe you chose this over him—that had never been part of it. “It’s not permanent. It’s a hybrid role. I’ll be between here and New York, working on-site, but I’ll still be around. I’ll still be coming back.” Your voice drops lower, trying to soften the blow.

He exhales. “So what about the apartment?” His voice is careful now, measured, but you can tell he’s holding something back. “We were supposed to live there. First year on our own. I mean—” He runs a hand through his hair, frustration leaking through the cracks. “What’s the point of moving in together if you’re going to be gone half the time?”

The guilt deepens, pooling in your chest like cement. You had thought about this already, had mapped out the logistics, but now, seeing the way Mark’s looking at you, it’s clear you hadn’t fully considered what this would mean for him. “It won’t be like that,” you promise, even as the words taste uncertain in your mouth. “I’ll be back just as much as I’m gone. It’s not like I’m moving out. The place is still ours. Plus, you’ll have Areum, you won’t be alone.”

Mark lets out a slow breath, nodding once, but his fingers drum anxiously against his knee. He doesn’t argue, but he also doesn’t look convinced. There’s an unspoken worry in his eyes—one that tells you he knows, just as much as you do, that nothing is going to be the same. Then, almost as an afterthought, he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “We broke up.” The words are blunt, clipped, like he’s already resigned himself to them.

You huff out a small laugh, not unkind, just knowing. “You guys will find your way back to each other.” His expression doesn’t shift, but you don’t miss the way his jaw tenses. “You’ll figure it out. you’re soulmates.” His eyes flicker to yours, something unreadable passing through them. Then he nods, barely, and you don’t push it further. Because this moment isn’t about him. It’s about you. And what you still have to say.

Your voice cracks before you even finish the thought, breath shaking on the exhale like your body is rejecting the words before they can fully form. “Me and Jeno aren’t going to find our way back to each other.” It’s not an uncertainty—it’s not a possibility lingering in the air, waiting to be disproven. It’s a death sentence. Cold. Irrevocable. The kind that snuffs out whatever ember of hope you were stupid enough to still be holding onto. You bite down on your lip so hard it stings, trying to keep the emotion at bay, but it’s already spilling over, thick and suffocating, settling in your lungs like smoke after a fire has burned everything to the ground. “I—” You stop, shaking your head, because what else is there to say? That you don’t want it to be true? That it still feels like something in you is being ripped apart at the seams, like you’re losing a limb, like the part of you that belonged to him—belongs to him—will never belong to anyone else? That you still love him? That you probably always will?

Your fingers clench uselessly at the fabric of your sleeves, twisting, pulling, something to hold onto, because there’s nothing left of him to reach for anymore. “I didn’t want to leave him like this.” Your voice is paper-thin, fragile, cracking under the weight of it all. “I didn’t want to end things like this.” But you had to. Had to. That’s what you tell yourself, over and over and over again, like repetition might make it easier to believe. Like it might dull the ache. But it doesn’t. It never does. Because the reality is—it doesn’t matter how many times you try to convince yourself that this was the only way. It doesn’t change the fact that you broke him. That you had to break him. That you had to look into the eyes of the only person who has ever made you feel like home and set him on fire.

Mark doesn’t say anything, but you feel the shift beside you—the way his arm comes around you, grounding, steady, pulling you in before you can fall apart completely. Your breath is uneven, shallow, but you force yourself to keep talking, to push past the ache threatening to consume you whole. “I had to make him hate me.” The confession spills out like a wound being torn open, raw and bleeding. “I had to make him believe I didn’t love him anymore, that he wasn’t enough, that I was already moving on.” Your voice wavers, but you don’t stop, even as your throat burns. “So I lied to him. I told him that even if he begged, even if he asked me to stay, I wouldn’t. That this opportunity meant more to me than he did. That nothing he could say would change my mind.” The words land heavy, final, echoing in the quiet, and for a second, you swear you can still hear the way he said your name when you left. Like it was the last time.

Your breath stutters, breaking, and the silence that follows is unbearable.

You inhale sharply, steadying yourself before you continue. "I was always going to take the opportunity," you say, voice thick with exhaustion, eyes burning from the weight of it all. "But I was never going to end it with Jeno. That was never the plan." You blink hard, forcing back the sting in your vision. "I had to make him believe I would. I had to make him think I chose this over him."

Mark’s gaze sharpens, confusion flickering beneath the frustration he’s barely holding back. His fingers flex against his knee, fists curling like he’s resisting the urge to do something—anything—to change what’s already been done. "And he just let you go?"

“He let me go,” you nod, the words barely holding together. “And then he did exactly what I knew he would do—he burned himself down completely.” The image of Jeno—reckless, self-destructive, breaking himself apart piece by piece—flashes through your mind, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut against it. “He’s spiraling, Mark. He’s fucking everyone, throwing himself into distractions, trying to erase me from his system. And it’s destroying him.” You force yourself to meet Mark’s gaze, to let him see the devastation in your own. “But there’s nothing I can do. If I go back, if I try to fix it, Taeyong will follow through. He’ll make sure Jeno never steps foot on a professional court.”

Mark’s brows knit together, confusion creeping into the storm of emotions already brewing inside him. “But… the blackmail was against you.” His voice is slower now, cautious, like he’s trying to put together a puzzle where the pieces don’t quite fit. His eyes narrow. “How does this affect Jeno?”

You take a breath, your chest tightening, knowing that the next part is going to destroy him. Tears well in your eyes before you can stop them, and you blink furiously, jaw tightening. "Because it wasn’t just me," you whisper. "Taeyong blackmailed Jeno too—just not to him. Jeno has no idea. He doesn’t know any of this."

Mark stills. His expression darkens, breath hitching, body coiling like a live wire about to snap. "What the fuck are you saying?"

You wipe at your face, fingers shaking. "Taeyong knows how much I love him," you choke out. "He knows how much I care, how I’d put him before myself, before anything. So he told me—if I ignored him, if I still tried to be with Jeno, then he’d come for him."

You tell him about the ultimatum. How Taeyong laid it out for you in brutal, clinical detail. How he told you that if you didn’t leave Jeno—if you didn’t make him believe it—he would make sure Jeno never played professional basketball. How it wouldn’t even take much. Just a few well-placed words. A few whispers in the right ears. A few clicks to send out the files he had. You tell him how you tried to find another way, any other way, but there wasn’t one. How you knew, the second Taeyong laid it all out, that you had already lost. “I didn’t have a choice,” you whisper. “I had to break his heart. I had to make it hurt. Because if I didn’t—” Your voice catches, but Mark is already finishing the sentence for you, voice tight, raw, furious. “He’d lose everything.”

Mark braces himself, shoulders tensing, breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. "He told me," you continue, voice hollow, "that if I didn’t leave Jeno, he’d make sure his future ended before it even started. He’d spread the videos of us around, spread the rumors to the wrong ears. He’d destroy him. Even though I deleted them from his phone, who am I kidding? He probably has them stored somewhere else."

Mark’s entire body is rigid, but you push forward because you have to. "And it’s not just that," you say, voice barely above a whisper. "He has everything on Jeno. Every fight, every reckless decision, every time his temper got the best of him. He’s been documenting it all, just waiting." You let out a shaky breath. "He has enough to paint him as unstable, uncoachable, a liability to any team."

Mark already knows Jeno’s been fucking up lately. He’s seen the fights with Eric and Sunwoo, the reckless plays on the court, the way he’s been losing himself. But what he doesn’t know—what no one knew—is that Taeyong was watching it all. Waiting. Calculating. And now, he has the power to end Jeno’s dreams with a single move.

Mark is silent, but his breathing is heavy, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. And then he stands up abruptly, running a hand through his hair, pacing the small space between the couch and the half-built coffee table. “We have to tell Jeno.” His voice is resolute, sharp. “He needs to know.”

You shake your head before he even finishes. “No. No, Mark. You can’t.”

He turns to you, eyes blazing. “You think I can just sit here and do nothing?”

The panic rises in your chest, choking, suffocating. “If you tell him, it’s over,” you say, voice breaking. “Taeyong has everything, Mark. If Jeno knows the truth, if you even hint at it, Taeyong will pull the trigger. He'll make sure Jeno never plays basketball again. Do you understand? Jeno's entire life, his dream—it's hanging by a thread, and this is the only thing keeping it from snapping."

When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, but no less firm. “And you think he just gets to win?”

You swallow the lump in your throat, staring down at your hands. “He already has.”

Mark shakes his head, jaw tight, barely containing the anger still thrumming beneath his skin. “No,” he says, voice steady, final. “No, he hasn’t.”

"I don’t know what to do anymore." Your voice breaks. "I can’t fix this, Mark. I’ve tried. I’ve thought about every possible way out, and there’s nothing. I have no choice. I was supposed to have a future with him, we were going to figure it out together. And now—" A sob lodges itself in your throat, thick and painful. "Now I’m just supposed to disappear? Like none of it ever mattered? Like he doesn’t matter?"

Mark exhales sharply, he looks at you, really looks at you, and what he sees must break him because his voice is soft when he finally speaks. "You’re so in love with him."

You let out a small, broken laugh. "Isn’t it obvious?" The admission nearly shatters you because loving Jeno should have meant fighting for him, staying with him, choosing him. But instead, it meant destroying him so Taeyong wouldn’t do worse.

Your voice trembles, breaking under the weight of everything you can’t change. “It’s cruel,” you whisper, each word dragging itself from your throat like it hurts to say. “That I can’t be with the man I love.” It’s not just cruel—it’s suffocating, unbearable, a slow and deliberate kind of agony that gnaws at the edges of your sanity. Your breath shudders, your fingers curling into your palms like you can hold yourself together, like you can stop the pieces from slipping through the cracks. And then, softer, almost to yourself, “But at least he’ll still have basketball.” The words taste bitter, like something sharp and wrong. Like a lie you’re trying to believe. You let out a breathless, broken laugh, but it doesn’t feel like relief. It feels like resignation. Like the final nail in the coffin of everything you wanted, everything you’ll never have again.

Mark lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, the sound cutting through the air like a blade. “Will he?” His eyes lock onto yours, unflinching, waiting for the weight of it to settle. “You really think he still has basketball?” His voice is edged with something raw, something almost desperate, like he needs you to see what he sees. He shakes his head, exhaling hard. “He’s fucking up, Y/N. He’s spiraling. He’s still messing around, still point shaving because he has no other choice.” He pauses, letting it sink in, watching the way your expression wavers, the way your breath catches.

“You think he’ll be fine just because you left? You think he’ll be okay?” His laugh this time is even sharper, disbelieving. “He’s not okay. And this—this shit you’re doing, keeping him in the dark—it’s not making it better.” His hands flex, like he’s fighting the urge to grab your shoulders, shake sense into you. “You think walking away saved him? You think this is what’s best for him?” He scoffs, dragging a hand through his hair, voice dropping lower, tighter. “Open your fucking eyes. You’re not protecting him. You’re just leaving him to drown.” Mark knows his words are harsh, knows they cut deep, but he doesn’t take them back. He can’t. Because they’re not just cruel—they’re the truth. And maybe it’s brutal, maybe it’s unfair, but it’s necessary.

A lump forms in your throat, heavy and thick. Because he's right. You’ve been telling yourself that as long as Jeno has basketball, as long as he still has his future, then maybe—maybe it’s worth it. But what if he doesn’t? What if you’ve destroyed him for nothing?

Mark leans forward, voice low and firm. "Y/N. I love you. I won’t go against you despite how badly I want to but I don’t agree with this. I know why you’re keeping it a secret. I get it. But Taeyong doesn’t have Jeno’s best interests at heart. Don’t you think it’s worse that you’re not telling him? That he doesn’t even realise just how much his own father is his biggest fucking enemy?"

You nod slowly, hands trembling in your lap. Because you can’t disagree. There’s no good outcome, no real benefit, no silver lining. You’ve been choked by this situation, forced into a corner with no escape. If Jeno doesn’t end up happy, if he doesn’t thrive in his career, then what was the point? What was the fucking point? Taeyong isn’t going to help Jeno deal with Sunwoo and Eric. He could fix everything with a single snap of his fingers, but he won’t. So if Jeno is going to stand a chance, if he’s going to make it out of this in one piece—you have to be the one to do something about it.

Your pulse thrums with a new kind of urgency, something raw and unshakable clawing its way to the surface. You have to fix this. There’s no more waiting, no more hoping that things will settle on their own. Jeno is slipping, spiraling further with every second you waste. You’ve already taken everything from him—his trust, his belief in you, his sense of stability—and if you don’t act now, if you don’t move, then Taeyong will win. He’ll have orchestrated this entire thing, pulled every string, crushed every last piece of Jeno until there’s nothing left of the person he was supposed to be.

You won’t let that happen.

You can’t let that happen.

Your hands clench into fists, fingernails biting into your palms, and you force yourself to breathe, to focus, to think. There has to be a way. A way to fix this, to protect Jeno, to take back control of something—anything. You don’t know how, you don’t know what it’ll cost you, but none of that matters anymore. Because you have to do this. Because there’s no other option. Because if you don’t, then what the hell was all this suffering for? The fear is still there, curling in the pit of your stomach, but it’s different now. It’s fuel. It’s fire. It’s the thing that’s going to push you forward.

You have to move. Fast.

The past few nights have been long, stretching endlessly between exhaustion and restless thoughts that refuse to quiet. You’ve thrown yourself into work, into research, into anything that might make the ache in your chest feel a little less unbearable. It hasn’t helped. Your research sits open in front of you, the screen of your laptop casting a dim glow over the clutter of notes, printouts, and half-empty coffee cups scattered around you. You’ve been here for hours, flipping between tabs, scrolling through pages of information, chasing leads that feel both urgent and impossible. But none of it drowns out the gnawing, ever-present weight of him.

Jeno. You haven’t seen him in days. Not properly. Not in a way that means anything. And it’s obvious why. He’s avoiding you, pulling away, sinking into self-destruction the way he always does when he’s cornered. And you understand. Of course you understand. But it doesn’t stop the selfish part of you from wanting more. From expecting, against all logic, that he’d come back. That he’d want to see you, speak to you, be with you. Because no matter how much you try to convince yourself otherwise, you miss him. You miss him in a way that makes your chest feel hollow, in a way that lingers, thick and unbearable, no matter how much you try to bury it.

You don’t know what you expect anymore. Any hope of holding onto something with Jeno—whatever fragile, unspoken thing used to exist between you—has already slipped through your fingers. You tell yourself it’s over, that you can’t have him in any way that matters, but some selfish, hopeless part of you still craves the impossible. Still aches for his presence. Still wants him to come back—to want to come back. Maybe it’s delusional. Maybe it’s just muscle memory, the way your world used to tilt toward his without effort. But the truth is undeniable. he’s carved out a space in your heart that no one else can fill.

The weight of his absence lingers, stretching across the past few days like an open wound. You try not to dwell on it. Try to push forward, to focus on the work in front of you, to convince yourself that distraction is enough to keep the ache at bay. But nothing changes the fact that something in you has been waiting—bracing—for the moment he’d come back. Even if you know better. Even if you know he won’t.

The air shifts before you even hear the door. The space around you grows heavier, charged with something electric, something visceral, something undeniably him. Your fingers still over the keyboard, your breath catching in your throat, your body reacting before your mind can catch up. And then, finally, you sense movement—the subtle drag of footsteps, the faint creak of the door easing shut, the quiet force of a presence too familiar to ignore.

When you look up, he’s already staring at you. The sight of him nearly knocks the breath from your lungs. He looks good. Unfairly so. Even like this—tense, annoyed, still brimming with that barely-contained frustration he’s been carrying for weeks—he’s still devastating. The sharp angles of his jaw, the dark sweep of his lashes, the way his hoodie hangs loose over broad shoulders yet does nothing to hide the sheer strength coiled beneath his skin. He’s every bit as infuriating as he is magnetic, and the moment your eyes lock, the world tilts.

He shuts the door behind him with a quiet click, slow and deliberate. And then he moves. It’s not rushed. It’s not aggressive. It’s controlled. Every step forward is measured, precise, his gaze locked onto yours with the kind of quiet intensity that makes it impossible to look away. It’s been weeks since you’ve last held eye contact like this, and you’d forgotten—God, you’d forgotten—how it feels. How completely, overwhelmingly consuming it is. How Jeno doesn’t just look at you; he sees you, strips you bare with nothing but the weight of his attention. And under that attention, under the heat of it, everything else—the laptop, the research, the reason you’re even here—vanishes.

You should move. You should close the tabs, shut the screen, do something—anything—before he gets too close, before he notices. But you don’t. You can’t. Because he’s already in front of you, already closing the space between you like it was never there to begin with.

Jeno doesn’t sit across from you. He doesn’t give you distance, doesn’t allow you the space to think, to breathe, to pull yourself together. Instead, he drops into the seat beside you, legs spreading wide, his forearms bracing against his thighs as he leans forward. It’s intentional. Deliberate. He takes up space, forces you to feel him, to acknowledge him. And you do. You do.

His scent crashes into you. A dark, intoxicating mix of cardamom and smoked cedarwood, something that clings to the air between you like an unshakable memory. It smells like the kind of warmth you could sink into, like a quiet storm before impact—subtle, unrelenting, inevitable. There’s something dangerous about it, too, something that lingers on your skin, in your lungs, making it impossible to think about anything but him. It reminds you of nights spent tangled in sheets, of things you shouldn’t be remembering. Of things that are gone now. But the scent is still here, clinging to you, wrapping around you, as inescapable as the man in front of you.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He just watches you, his gaze flickering over your face, down to your hands curled tight in your lap, back up again. Waiting. Testing. Searching for a crack, for any sign that you’ll fold first. And then—finally—he speaks. “I need to talk to you.” His voice is low, steady, but edged with something you can’t quite place. A quiet frustration, maybe. Or something heavier. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”

Your throat tightens. You force yourself to swallow, but it barely helps. “Okay,” you manage, barely above a whisper.

He holds your gaze for a moment longer, something unreadable shifting behind his eyes. And for a second—for just a fleeting, reckless second—you forget. Forget why you’re here. Forget what you’ve been doing. Forget everything except the weight of him beside you, the heat of his thigh brushing yours, the way the air feels razor-thin between you. And then his gaze shifts. Just slightly. Just enough. And he sees it. The moment his eyes land on your laptop screen, the energy between you shatters.

Jeno hadn’t meant to come here. Or maybe he had. He wasn’t sure anymore. Avoiding you had been easy enough these past few weeks—easier than he thought it would be. If he didn’t see you, didn’t hear you, didn’t give you the chance to dig your nails into the open wound you’d left behind, then maybe he could convince himself it didn’t exist. That it didn’t matter. That you didn’t matter. But the lie had begun to unravel faster than he could stitch it back together. Because something still pulled him toward you, something gnawed at the back of his mind every time he closed his eyes, every time he caught himself checking for you in the places you used to be.

He told himself he just wanted to see how much effort you’d been putting into the project without him. Maybe he’d find some bitter notes, some passive-aggressive remarks about how he was slacking off, something to prove that you were pissed off at him. But instead, he finds this.

Your laptop screen is filled with names. With research. His name. Sunwoo’s. Eric’s. His stomach tightens, his muscles coil, and suddenly he’s moving. “What the fuck are you doing?” The words rip out of him before he can stop them, sharp and cutting, laced with something that isn’t just anger—something worse. It’s panic. Fear. Because he doesn’t understand what he’s looking at, doesn’t understand why you—of all people—are digging into things you shouldn’t be touching.

You move on instinct, fingers flying toward the laptop, but it doesn’t matter—he’s faster. His hand clamps around your wrist, stopping you cold, the sudden contact knocking the breath from your lungs. His grip isn’t harsh, but it’s there—unshakable, unrelenting, a quiet assertion of control that sets every nerve in your body alight. His fingers press into your skin, warm, steady, possessive in a way that sends something dark and unspoken curling through you. He’s not just stopping you. He’s holding you. Holding you in place, holding you still, like he wants you like this—trapped beneath the weight of his touch, the heat of his gaze pinning you down as effectively as his grip. And maybe it’s twisted, maybe it’s wrong, but you don’t pull away. You won’t. Because part of you—some reckless, desperate part buried deep in your chest—wants to see what he does next.

Jeno notices. His jaw tightens, his fingers flex against your skin, and something in his expression flickers—something dark, unreadable, something that makes the air in the room shift. He should be yelling. Should be demanding answers. Should be furious. But he doesn’t say anything, not at first. He just looks at you, eyes locked onto yours, his grip tightening ever so slightly, firm but not cruel, possessive but not punishing. Like he’s holding you in place. Like he’s making sure you don’t run.

“Explain.” The word is low, rough, dragged from his throat like it barely made it out at all. There’s no fire behind it, not anymore. Just something heavier, something coiled tight between you, thrumming like a live wire.

Your pulse pounds in your ears. You force yourself to breathe, to think, to say something. But you can’t tell him the truth. You can’t let him know what you’ve been doing, what you’re trying to protect him from. And you can’t lie, not fully, not when he’s this close, watching you like he can already see the cracks forming. “It’s for our project,” you say, keeping your voice even, steady, measured—but the way your breath hitches at the end betrays you. “I was looking into the team—into different types of connections. It’s relevant, Jeno. It’s part of what we’re supposed to be doing.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw, his fingers pressing just a little harder against your skin. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind you. His thumb brushes the inside of your wrist, slow, deliberate, and your stomach tightens because he knows. He can feel the way your pulse betrays you, racing under his touch. He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Bullshit.” His gaze flickers over your face, searching, testing, reading between the lines, catching every unspoken thing tangled in your words. He just watches you, waiting, waiting, as if daring you to say something else. As if daring you to lie again. And the worst part? You think you might let him.

Instead, he exhales sharply, his grip tightening around your wrist for just a moment—just long enough for you to feel the heat of him searing into your skin—before he lets go. But the space between you doesn’t loosen. If anything, it feels tighter, drawn even closer by something unspoken, something neither of you are willing to name. His fingers twitch like they don’t want to leave you, hovering in that impossible in-between, the ghost of his touch still burning against your pulse. His jaw flexes, his throat works around a slow, deliberate swallow, and for a fleeting second, you swear you can feel the weight of his hesitation pressing into you, thick and stifling, like a breath held too long, like a moment stretched to its breaking point.

“You need to stop this.” His voice is a shade rougher now, like it’s been dragged over gravel, but there’s something underneath it—something more insistent than anger. Not a threat. A warning. A demand wrapped in desperation. “Right now.”

Your stomach twists. You open your mouth, searching for something to say, but your voice betrays you, coming out too soft, too unsure. “Jeno—”

“No.” The word is sharp enough to cut as he moves closer, the space between you vanishing into nothing. His eyes are locked onto yours, intense, unyielding, something almost unbearable brewing beneath the surface. “You don’t get it.” His breath is warm against your lips, the closeness stealing the air from your lungs. “You can’t do this. You can’t dig into this shit, you can’t get involved—they will notice. And when they do, you won’t be safe.”

The fear in his voice unsettles you in a way nothing else has. Because Jeno doesn’t scare easily. He doesn’t break. But this—this is different. The muscle in his jaw ticks, his shoulders are tight with something that looks too much like helplessness, and his fingers flex again at his sides, like he doesn’t know whether to grab you or let you go. He exhales through his nose, steadying himself, but you don’t miss the way his throat works through a thick swallow.

And then, before you can react, his hands are on your face. Not rough, not demanding—just there. Holding you. Grounding you. Pleading with you in the only way he knows how. His palms are warm against your cheeks, his touch firm but unbearably careful, and his forehead presses against yours like it’s instinct, like he needs to feel you just to breathe properly. Your lashes flutter, your breath catches, but you don’t pull away. You can’t pull away. Not when he’s looking at you like this, not when his fingers tighten ever so slightly, keeping you anchored to him.

“Is that what you want?” The words are barely a whisper now, his lips just a breath away from yours, his voice threaded with something devastating. “To get yourself hurt?”

“I won’t let anything happen to you.” Your voice is quiet but unwavering, the promise settling between you like something immovable. “That’s all you need to know.”

Jeno exhales sharply, his grip tightening against your skin, like he’s trying to pull something from you—something real, something whole—but you don’t give. You can’t give. His forehead presses against yours, and for a second, his eyes flicker shut. His fingers move, tracing lightly over the side of your face, a barely-there touch, his thumb skimming over your cheekbone before dipping lower, ghosting over your lips like he’s memorizing the shape of them. You shudder beneath the contact, your own hands hovering near his chest, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer.

“That’s not good enough,” he murmurs, his voice fraying at the edges. “That’s not—” He swallows thickly, his breath warm against your lips, and when he speaks again, it’s barely a whisper. “I can’t lose you.”

Your fingers twitch before they move on instinct, sliding up the front of his hoodie, grasping at the fabric like it might hold you together. His own grip shifts, sliding down, his palm pressing flat against your ribs, warm and grounding, fingertips pressing just barely into your skin like he’s trying to anchor you there. Like if he holds on tight enough, he can stop you from slipping through his fingers.

“You won’t,” you whisper back, your voice softer now, edged with something fragile. And it’s not a lie. Not really. But the way his jaw locks, the way his fingers flex against you, tells you he doesn’t believe you. Not yet.

His lips are so close to yours. Close enough that you can feel the heat of them, the ghost of a touch, so close to stealing your breath. You can feel it—the restraint, the breaking point, the way his fingers tighten at your waist like he’s convincing himself to hold back, even as every muscle in his body screams to do the opposite. And you? You don’t move. You should move. You should push him away, turn your head, do something to stop what’s about to happen. But you don’t. Because despite how fucked up, how wrong, how impulsive everything about this is—you still miss him. And he still misses you. And it’s so difficult. Too difficult.

His breath is uneven, lips just barely brushing yours, fingers digging into your ribs like he’s anchoring himself. And then, slowly, slowly, he leans in. His nose nudges yours, a quiet inhale, a moment stretched unbearably thin—he’s about to kiss you. About to close the distance. About to claim your mouth like it’s his to take.

And then the door opens.

“Hey Y/N, I know you’d said you’d meet me outside but—oh—woah.”

Mark stands at the door, eyes wide, blinking like he’s just walked into something he really shouldn’t have seen. His presence slams into you like a cold shock, snapping you back into the moment, into reality, into the undeniable fact that Jeno has you caged against the desk, hands gripping your waist, lips a breath away from yours.

You swallow hard, throat dry. “Mark was gonna drive me home,” you whisper softly to Jeno, voice barely steady, eyes flickering away from his for the first time to glance at Mark.

Jeno doesn’t even hesitate. He shakes his head, clicks his tongue. “Don’t look at Mark. Look at me.”

Your breath catches. You gulp, hesitant. “But me and him agreed to meet at this time, he wants to drive me to my apartment, to—”

“I can drive you there,” Jeno cuts in, voice smooth, low, almost dangerous.

You hum, lips parting slightly. His eyes flicker down to your mouth. And that’s it. That’s when he decides fuck it. His hand slides up, fingers curling around the back of your neck, and then he kisses you. Hard. Heavy. Desperate. His mouth slants over yours with a hunger that’s been simmering beneath the surface for far too long, like he’s been starving for this, for you. Your gasp is swallowed between his lips, your fingers gripping the front of his hoodie without thinking, pulling him closer, needing him closer. He groans softly against your mouth, a low sound of frustration, of relief, of everything he hasn’t said out loud.

Mark makes a confused sound, an incredulous huff. He takes in the scene—the way Jeno is pressed against you, the way your fingers are curled into him, the breathless space between your lips—and then, whether out of respect or just sheer fucking bewilderment, he exhales, shakes his head, and pulls the door shut behind him, leaving the two of you alone.

Jeno doesn’t stop. He doesn’t fucking stop. His lips move over yours feverishly, demanding, parting your mouth with ease. His tongue slides against yours, deepening the kiss, drinking you in like he needs this to breathe. Your back presses against the desk, your body arching into his like second nature, like instinct, like you belong here. His hands, once steady, are now restless—palms dragging down your sides, fingers curling at your waist, tugging, gripping, owning.

You whimper against his lips, and he shudders. “Fuck,” he breathes, forehead pressing against yours, his chest heaving. His grip on you tightens, his teeth grazing your bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth for just a second before letting go, before he kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, like he’s savoring you.

"Jeno," you breathe, your voice barely above a whisper, your lashes fluttering as you meet his gaze—heavy, unrelenting, something unreadable burning behind it. “We can’t do this.”

His breath is sharp, uneven, forehead pressing against yours, his fingers tightening where they rest against your hips. "Tell me to walk away," he murmurs, his voice rough, edged with something almost pleading. "Tell me you don’t want this. Tell me you don’t want me."

But you don’t. You can’t.

Jeno exhales slowly, his fingers flexing at his sides like he’s steadying himself, like he’s been carrying the weight of this moment for too long and doesn’t know how much longer he can hold it in. His eyes search yours, something unreadable flickering beneath the surface, something too raw, too heavy. "I’ve been thinking about this," he starts, voice lower now, rough in the way that makes your stomach twist. "About you. About how you broke up with me. Even when I don’t want to, I’m always thinking about you."

You swallow thickly, pulse skittering at the sheer certainty in his voice. There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing. He’s not just talking—he’s laying something bare. He shifts, moving in closer, the air between you thinning into something electric, something suffocating. "And the more I think about it, the more I realize… something is wrong. Something about this entire situation is off." His jaw tightens, his breath a slow, measured thing as he exhales through his nose. "I know you. I know you so well, and I just don’t believe you breaking up with me was real.” His voice dips lower, rougher, something fragile threaded beneath it.

“It didn’t feel real. It didn’t feel like you.” His fingers flex, like he wants to reach for you, wants to hold you still, “Not after everything—not after how you forgave me. After the way you looked at me, after the way you held onto me like you never wanted to let go.” He shakes his head, jaw clenching. “None of it fucking makes sense. Not after all the moments we spent together, not after everything we went through. Not after how you made me feel like—like I was everything to you.”

You’re silent. Your heart is in your throat, and your fingers are curled too tight into the fabric of your sleeves. He notices. Of course he notices. His gaze flickers over your face, his lips parting like he wants to say something else, like he’s grasping at something he can’t quite reach. And then his hands are on you. Soft but insistent, his palms settling on either side of your face, his thumbs grazing just beneath your cheekbones. He tilts your chin up, forcing your gaze back to his, and the intensity in his stare makes your breath hitch.

"There’s a reason that I liked you so much more than I’ve ever liked any other girl." His voice is softer now, but there’s a weight behind it, something immovable. "Because you never pretended to be something you’re not. You always said what you meant, you always—fuck, you were real in a way that nobody else was. Nothing feels like you." His thumbs brush against your skin, a ghost of a touch, reverent and grounding at the same time. "But the way you’ve been acting… it’s not you. I know you, and you’ve been acting unlike you."

Your chest tightens. Your eyes burn. It’s so hard, so fucking hard, and you feel yourself breaking under the weight of his words, under the way he’s looking at you like he’s willing you to give him something. You shake your head, swallowing against the lump in your throat. "Jeno, please stop. You don’t want to get into this—"

His grip tenses for just a second, and his brows furrow. "Get into what?"

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. And that’s when it happens—the shift, the realization, the way his breath catches and his fingers tighten against your skin like he’s piecing something together in real time. He thinks about the way you looked at him the last time you saw each other. The way your words said one thing, but your eyes—your eyes—told another story entirely. The way you hesitated, the way your breath hitched, the way your hands clenched like you were bracing for impact.

Jeno steps in closer, until there’s nothing between you but heat, but breath, but the weight of everything unsaid. "Look at me." His voice is steady, careful, deliberate. "Just tell me the truth."

You gulp. Your fingers twitch at your sides, restless, uncertain. "Jeno, I’m not understanding what you’re trying to say."

His jaw clenches. He breathes in deeply, searching your face, and then— "What I’m trying to say is… did anything happen to make you break up with me?" His voice is quieter now, but no less firm. "Did Eric and Sunwoo do anything to you?"

Your breath catches, a split-second hesitation that you know—know—he feels. Because Jeno isn’t just reckless, isn’t just driven by emotion. He knows you. Knows you in a way that no one else ever has, in a way that feels almost unfair, because it means he doesn’t need words to read you. He’s always been sharp, always been just a little too good at seeing through you, at catching the cracks before you even realize they’re there. And now, he’s doing exactly that—watching, waiting, cataloging every flicker of movement, every shift in your expression, every little tell that you don’t have the strength to hide. He’s studying you, the way he always does, the way he’s done a thousand times before, but this time, it’s different.

Because you thought you were the one in control. You thought you were the one keeping him at arm’s length, the one dictating how this would play out. But the truth is, Jeno has been doing the same thing to you. This whole time. Reading you just as much as you’ve been trying to read him, peeling back every layer, every carefully constructed defense, until there’s nothing left between you but the unbearable weight of the truth. And this time, he’s piecing you back togetherinstead of just knowing you. Taking the fragments you’ve tried to bury, the pieces you never wanted him to see, and fitting them into something dangerous—something dangerously close to the truth.

Your throat tightens, and you hate the way your body betrays you—how your breath comes out too shallow, how your fingers twitch like they want to hold onto him, how you can’t look away even though you should. “You’re wrong,” you whisper, but it’s weak, unconvincing, a last-ditch attempt to keep yourself together.

Jeno’s grip on you doesn’t tighten, but it doesn’t ease either. He stares at you, waiting, his jaw locked, his breath slow and measured, but his fingers flex against your waist like he’s barely holding himself back. “Am I?” His voice is quiet, but the weight of it presses against your chest, suffocating. “Because I don’t fucking feel wrong. I know you. I know the way you look at me, the way you sound when you’re lying, the way you—” He exhales sharply, shaking his head like he’s trying to keep himself from unraveling. “You don’t just wake up one day and decide to leave me. That’s not how this works. That’s not you.”

You shake your head, throat burning. “Jeno, please—”

“Please what?” He’s closer now, and it’s unfair, the way he knows exactly how to crowd you, exactly how to pull you under his weight without even touching you. “You don’t want to talk about it? You don’t want to explain why the fuck you’ve been acting like a stranger when I know you still—” He stops himself, jaw tightening. “You still care about me.”

Your stomach twists violently, your pulse hammering in your ears. “I don’t—”

“You do.” His voice drops lower, something raw bleeding through the words. “You do and it’s fucking killing me.”

Your breath stutters. Your eyes burn. He sees it. You know he does.

“You think I don’t know what this is?” Jeno’s voice is quieter now, rough, desperate in a way you’ve never heard before. “You think I don’t feel it every time I look at you? I don’t care what you say. I know you, and I know you wouldn’t leave me unless—” He exhales sharply, and when he speaks again, his voice is steadier, but it’s laced with something unbearable. “Unless someone made you.”

You gasp. You flinch. It’s barely noticeable, but it’s enough. Jeno stills. The air shifts. “Tell me.” His voice is softer now, but it’s not a request. It’s not a question. It’s a plea, a demand, a fucking lifeline he’s throwing at you, desperate for you to take it. “Tell me if someone did something. Tell me if they—” He swallows thickly, like the words are hard to say. “If he did something.”

Your breath catches. Eric. Sunwoo. That’s where his mind goes first. That’s what he assumes. That’s what makes sense to him, because he knows what they’re like, knows what they’re capable of. And of course, of course, he wouldn’t ever think of the real reason because it would never cross his mind that his own father is the one who orchestrated this.

Jeno is close. So fucking close. But he doesn’t know it yet. He doesn’t want to know it. Because that would mean confronting something that he’s buried so deep, something he’s spent years forcing himself not to look at too closely. He knows his father. Knows how ruthless he can be, how much control he likes to wield. But that control has always been directed at him, at shaping him into something stronger, something more, never at you. His father never had a reason to see you as a threat. Never had a reason to interfere. And if Jeno lets himself think about it, really think about it—about all the times his father has made decisions for him, about all the times he’s spoken in absolutes, about all the times Jeno has let him because it was easier than fighting back—then he might have to accept that this is just another move in a game he never agreed to play.

And he’s not ready for that. So instead, his mind goes where it can go. To the obvious answer. To the people who have hurt him before and would hurt the one person he cares about the most in this world. To the people he already hates. He takes a step closer, voice low but firm, as if softening it will make you more likely to tell him the truth. He asks again. “Did they do something to you?”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Because for once, you have no idea what to say. Every excuse, every carefully crafted lie, every way out you’d prepared—it all crumbles under the weight of his voice, the weight of his gaze pinning you in place. You inhale sharply, your throat tight, your fingers curling into fists at your sides like you can anchor yourself to something, anything. “Jeno, you’re—” You hesitate, swallowing hard, searching for words that won’t come. “You’re reaching.” It’s weak. It’s unconvincing. And you both know it. You shake your head, eyes darting away like you can physically pull yourself from the noose tightening around your lies. “This isn’t—there’s nothing for you to dig into. I don’t know why you keep—” Your breath stutters when you finally meet his gaze again, because the look in his eyes is devastating. He’s searching, reaching for something, anything, and you know, deep down, that if you don’t end this now, if you don’t cut him off, he’s going to find exactly what he’s looking for.

“Do not lie.” This time, he’s not just asking—he’s pleading. It’s in the way his hands find your arms again, the way his fingers press into your skin, firm but not forceful, like he needs to feel you, needs to know you’re still here. His touch is warm, searing through the fabric of your clothes, thumb grazing the inside of your wrist, tracing over your pulse like he wants to memorize the rhythm. His grip tightens slightly, his body leaning in, closer than before, close enough that his breath fans over your cheek, over your lips, as he exhales, slow and uneven. It’s not just desperation anymore—it’s something else, something heavier, something electric, thrumming between you, thickening the air until every inhale is just him. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t let you go, and for a fleeting second, you forget why you ever wanted him to.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, the sharp edges dulled by something painfully raw. His chest rises and falls too fast, his composure splintering, and when he tilts his head, his nose just barely brushes yours. The contact is featherlight, barely there, but it’s enough to steal your breath, to leave you frozen in place. “Please.” His grip shifts, his hands sliding lower, curling around your waist, pulling you closer, pressing you against him like he needs the contact to steady himself. “You can tell me anything.” His lips part, like he’s about to say more, like he’s about to close the last inch of space between you, but then he exhales sharply through his nose, brows furrowing, something breaking inside of him. “I’ll fix it. I’ll take care of it.” He swallows, his fingers flexing where they hold you, voice dropping into something lower, something that barely makes it past his lips. “I’ll take care of you.”

Jeno doesn’t just promise things lightly. When he says something, he means it. And you know, without a single shred of doubt, that if you let him, he would go to any length for you. He would burn everything down, he would tear through anyone who hurt you, he would give up pieces of himself if it meant keeping you safe.

But you can’t let him protect you. You refuse to let him try.

And in your silence, he gets desperate. You can feel it in the way his fingers tense, in the way his breath stutters, in the way his body leans in just a little more, like he’s trying to physically bridge the distance you keep forcing between you. He knows he’s close to something—so close—but you’re being silent, unresponsive, unhelpful, and it’s driving him insane.

So he says what’s been bleeding on his mind, what’s been clawing at his chest every second he’s been apart from you. “I still want you. I miss you.” His words are raw, stripped bare of pride, of anger. Just vulnerable. Just desperate. He thinks he’s fixing things and it fucking breaks you. Because the moment you hear it, the moment those words leave his lips, something inside you snaps. Your vision blurs, a tear slipping down before you can stop it, before you can bite down the words you swore you wouldn’t say.

“If you still want me, then why have you been going around and fucking other girls?”

It’s a confession in disguise, a wound torn open right in front of him. Because it’s not just anger, not just jealousy—it’s heartbreak. It’s love. It’s everything you told yourself you wouldn’t say. But it slips out before you can stop it, before you can shove it back down. You’ve given yourself away. You’ve shown him exactly what you didn’t want him to see. That no matter what you say, no matter how hard you try to push him away—he still has you. He’s always had you.

He laughs, but it’s choked, disbelieving, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. His fingers flex at his sides, his breath coming harder now. “What? What? That is not what I’ve been doing. That is so far from the truth. Who have you heard that from?”

“I’ve heard it around campus.”

He lets out a sharp exhale, shaking his head. “People are lying for no fucking reason. You know how it is on this campus.” His jaw clenches, his hands twitching like he wants to grab you, shake the thought out of your head. “I tried to fuck around, but I couldn’t.” His voice drops lower, rougher, like the words taste bitter on his tongue. “I couldn’t take it further because I realised it’s not what I want, you’re the one I fucking want. Isn’t that clear enough?”

You swallow hard, trying to process his words, trying to catch the tell—the flicker in his expression, the shift in his stance, the way his lips might curl slightly when he lies. You know Jeno. You know when he’s bullshitting. But there’s nothing now. No hesitation, no falter in his voice. Nothing but raw, painful honesty.

He shakes his head again, dragging a hand through his hair. “You think I’d just move on? That I’d just fuck someone else and forget about you?” He steps closer, gaze dark and unwavering. “I can’t. I haven’t even tried these last few fucking days because all I can see is you. You are in my fucking head, in my hands, in my fucking mouth every time I try to do anything.”

His breathing is uneven now, his chest rising and falling too fast, frustration bleeding through every word. “So if you think I’ve been sleeping with other girls, then you don’t fucking know me at all.” Jeno’s eyes darken as he steps in closer, his breath coming harder, controlled, but barely. “And have you fucked anyone since me?”

His voice drops lower, rougher, curling around you like something physical, something impossible to escape. He steps closer—so close you feel the warmth radiating off of him, the scent of him filling your lungs, drowning you in something you swore you wouldn’t let yourself want. His fingers graze the underside of your jaw, barely there, but enough to send a shiver down your spine, enough to make your knees threaten to buckle. His touch is teasing, taunting, like he wants to see you react, needs you to.

Your stomach twists. Your throat feels impossibly tight, but you manage to force the words out, your voice barely above a whisper. “Of course I haven’t.”

His jaw tightens, and you see the flicker of something almost amused in his expression—except it’s not amusement. It’s something colder, something sharper. He exhales a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head, his tongue running over his bottom lip like he’s trying to keep himself from saying something worse. “You’re good at changing the subject, aren’t you?” His voice drops lower, curling around you like smoke, slow, taunting. “You bring up who I’ve fucked, knowing damn well I haven’t fucked anyone, hoping I’ll focus on that instead. Hoping I’ll forget about the real problem. About you. About how you’ve been acting recently.”

He leans in, close enough that you can feel his breath against your lips, the heat of him pressing against every inch of your resolve. His fingers brush over your jaw, not quite holding you, but close enough to make you ache for it. His next words are softer, more dangerous. “Don’t deflect. I asked you a question. Answer it.”

“I don’t have anything to say to you anymore.” It’s a weak attempt, and you both know it. Your voice doesn’t carry the weight it should, doesn’t hold the finality you need it to. It just sounds tired, forced, like you’re running out of ways to push him away.

Jeno exhales sharply through his nose, and then, in a blink, his fingers are at your jaw, tilting your chin up just enough to make you meet his gaze. “Answer my question.” His voice is low, firm, but there’s something else laced beneath it—something dangerous, something desperate. “You’re not stupid. You know exactly what I’m asking. Do I need to deal with Eric and Sunwoo?”

You’ve needed to deal with Eric and Sunwoo since day one, but you haven’t. You swallow the words down, pressing them deep into the pit of your stomach, forcing yourself to stay quiet. So now I am.

You shake your head, but your hands betray you, curling tighter into the fabric of his hoodie, pulling him in instead of pushing him away. Your breath is unsteady, words barely forming as you whisper, “You don’t need to do anything for me, Jeno.” Your fingers tremble where they grip him, but you force the rest out, even as it rips through you. “All you can do is just go. Just—just leave me alone.”

His gaze drops, zeroing in on the way your fingers clutch at his hoodie, trembling, desperate, as if letting go would mean collapsing entirely. A slow exhale escapes him, deliberate, measured, his breath rolling over your skin like heat before a storm. He tilts his head, lips barely grazing the shell of your ear, voice a rasped whisper soaked in something dark, something unrelenting. “You’re telling me to go,” he murmurs, his lips dragging just enough to make your breath hitch, “but you’re the one who’s pulling me closer and closer.”

You are. God, you are. Even though you shouldn’t be. Even though every rational thought in your head is screaming at you to push him away, to stop this before it unravels completely. But it’s already too late. His scent is in your lungs, thick and heady, his heat pressing into you like a slow burn, consuming, inescapable. And then he’s touching you, his hands gliding over your sides, memorizing, owning, his palms dragging down the curve of your waist before gripping your hips with a possessive strength that makes you shiver.

His thigh nudges between yours, pressing up, solid, unyielding, the friction sending a sharp pulse of heat through your body. You inhale sharply, but your hips betray you, rolling against him, instinctual, desperate. Jeno hums, low and satisfied, his hands tightening their grip as he pulls you closer, until there’s not a breath of space left between you. Until you’re trembling against him, overwhelmed, drowning in him.

"That’s it, baby," he whispers, his voice dark, dripping with something dangerous, something that coils hot and tight in your stomach. One hand skims lower, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, fingers dragging up over bare skin, up the delicate lines of your stomach, before dipping beneath the band of your panties. "I knew you’d let me touch you like this again. I knew you’d still be mine."

A broken moan spills from your lips as he cups you, fingers pressing against the slick heat between your thighs, teasing, coaxing. "Fuck," he exhales, his breath hot against your cheek, his lips brushing, featherlight. "You’re soaked for me. You always get so fucking wet for me, don’t you?" He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just dips his fingers lower, dragging through your folds, spreading the wetness before circling your clit with slow, deliberate strokes that make you whimper. His pace quickens, fingers fucking into you, pushing you higher, his thumb circling your clit in tight, devastating strokes. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your head tipping back as a strangled moan escapes your throat.

And then he does it—his lips brush against yours, featherlight, barely there. A tease. A question. He pulls back, his breath heavy, eyes flickering over your face before he does it again, pressing another soft, aching kiss to your lips, then pulling away just as quickly. Then again. And again. Slow, fleeting, like he’s relearning the shape of your mouth, like he’s savoring every stolen moment before you disappear again.

“God, I missed this,” he breathes against your lips, his voice uneven, wrecked. “Missed the way you taste.” He kisses you again, lingering this time, his tongue flickering just barely against your bottom lip before he pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm and ragged. “I don’t know how to stop wanting you.”

“You think you’re the only one?” The words slip out, broken, barely above a whisper. “You think I don’t—” Your voice catches, and you shake your head, your lips grazing his with the movement. “I don’t know how to stop either.” It’s not a confession. It’s a curse. A wound torn open between you, raw and festering, because you shouldn’t be saying this, shouldn’t be letting him hear it, shouldn’t be giving him even the smallest piece of the truth. But it’s too late. His breath stutters, his fingers digging into your waist, and the look in his eyes—God, the look in his eyes—tells you that you’ve just made everything worse.

His lips part like he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just looks at you, eyes drinking you in, memorizing every flicker of hesitation, every breath you take. And then—then he smiles. Soft. Just barely there. It shouldn’t make your chest tighten the way it does, shouldn’t make something fragile and aching unravel inside of you, but it does. Because it’s the first thing he’s been able to get out of you. The first crack in the walls you’ve built between you. And it makes his heart overflow with that tight feeling he always gets around you—the one that makes his ribs feel too small, his breath feel too shallow, like loving you has always been too big for him to contain.

Jeno hums low in his throat when he sees the tear slip down your cheek, his fingers twitching where they still frame your waist, like he’s holding himself back from reaching up to brush it away. And then, slowly, he lifts his hand, the movement reverent, careful, like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. His thumb drags gently across your cheek, catching the tear, warmth lingering where he touches, burning something deep into your skin. His palm lingers against the side of your face, his fingers curling around the curve of your jaw, holding you there—not forcing, just grounding. And God, you feel it, feel the quiet desperation woven into his touch, the way he’s still reaching for you even when you keep trying to slip through his fingers.

His other hand moves next, shifting from where it rests at your waist, slow, deliberate, until it finds yours. His fingers brush over your knuckles before curling between them, a silent question, an unspoken plea. He wants to go. He wants to take you with him. He wants to hold you all night long, wants to tangle himself into every inch of you, wants to make love to you until neither of you remember where your bodies end and where they begin. Until you forget the world outside of his arms. Until you remember that you belong there—that you have always belonged there.

But you hesitate.

His breath hitches just slightly, but he doesn’t let go. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t push, doesn’t beg. He just holds your hand in his, his grip steady, unwavering, like he’s waiting for you to come back to him on your own. Like no matter how long it takes, no matter how far you try to run, he’ll always be right here. He swallows hard, jaw tensing, something flickering behind his eyes—something softer than longing, heavier than love.

His voice is quieter when he finally speaks, but it’s steady, solid, like a promise carved into the earth itself. “I will always be there for you.” He shifts just slightly, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath fanning against your lips. “I will always protect you.” And you know—you know—that he means it. That there is no ocean too deep, no storm too violent, no darkness too consuming that he wouldn’t wade through for you. He would follow you anywhere. He would burn the world down for you. He would bleed for you, again and again and again, if it meant keeping you safe. If it meant keeping you his.

But you can’t let him. You can’t let yourself reach for him, can’t let yourself take his hand and let him pull you back into the place you want more than anything. So you stay still. You don’t move, don’t speak, don’t breathe. Because the moment you do, you know you’ll be his again. And you don’t know if you’ll ever be strong enough to leave twice. You shake your head. “I’m not going with you, Jeno.”

His jaw tightens. “Y/N.” It’s a warning, low and frayed at the edges, but there’s desperation threaded through it, too—desperation he can’t quite swallow down.

You exhale sharply, trying to steady yourself, trying to keep the distance between you even as every part of you aches to close it. “You don’t get it. You can’t fix this, okay? This isn’t something you can fight your way through.” Your voice shakes, but you push forward. “You’ve let Eric and Sunwoo play you like a fool this whole time, and now you suddenly think you can handle them? You think any of this changes if I’m involved or not?”

His lips part, but he doesn’t immediately respond. He just watches you, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, something deep, something determined. And then, softer, steadier, he says, “It does change. If you’re involved, it changes everything.”

Your breath stalls, fingers twitching at your sides. Because he believes it. He’s looking at you like this is all he needs to make sense of things, like this is what he’s been searching for—this explanation, this false puzzle piece that fits well enough to make him stop looking elsewhere. You can feel the calculation threading through your thoughts, trying to assess whether this is good, whether it benefits you that Jeno believes Eric and Sunwoo are the ones behind your behavior. If he stays focused on them, he won’t turn his suspicion elsewhere. He won’t suspect the truth. He won’t suspect his father. And you don’t know what kind of chaos would unravel if he ever did. All you know is that you need to protect him. You need to keep his future from falling apart. You need to make sure Jeno wanting you doesn’t cloud his judgment—doesn’t pull him down with you.

Jeno exhales, a slow, measured breath that barely masks the weight pressing on his chest. His fingers twitch where they hold you, like he’s trying to convince himself he still has some kind of grip on you—on whatever this is, whatever’s left. “Let’s just… let’s rest on this,” he murmurs, his voice lower now, quieter, careful. “We don’t have to figure it all out tonight, alright? Just come with me. We’ll sleep on it. That’s all I want.” His gaze softens, something unbearably raw in the way he looks at you, the way his thumb brushes lightly over your wrist. “I just want you in my bed, that’s it. Nothing else matters right now.”

The tenderness in his voice wrecks you. It twists something sharp in your chest, something fragile, something you’ve spent weeks trying to keep buried. You try to shake your head, try to tell him no, but it gets stuck somewhere in your throat, lost in the sob that chokes its way out instead. Your body betrays you—shaking, crumbling against him, unable to hold itself together any longer. And Jeno feels it. Feels you slipping through his fingers, slipping away, and it kills him. His grip loosens—not because he’s letting go, but because he doesn’t know how to hold you without hurting you, without making things worse.

“Come with me,” he whispers again, softer this time, almost afraid of the answer. “Please.” His voice trembles, just barely, but you hear it. You feel it. And it shatters you completely. You shake your head again, squeezing your eyes shut as another sob escapes, as you force yourself to breathe, force yourself to rebuild the walls that keep breaking every time he looks at you like this.

“I miss you,” he confesses, and it’s not just words—it’s everything. It’s sleepless nights staring at the ceiling, haunted by the shape of you beside him that no longer exists. It’s the hollow ache in his chest that never quiets, the phantom weight of your hand in his, the way every room feels colder without you in it. It’s the cruel tricks his mind plays, catching glimpses of you in crowded hallways, in places you’ll never be again. He’s pleading now, voice shaking, unraveling at the seams, because you were never supposed to be someone he had to beg for. You were supposed to be his. But not anymore. And maybe that’s the worst part—you still feel like his, still fit against him like you belong there, but the moment you step away, the moment you say no, he’ll have to face the truth. That you were never his to lose, because you were already gone.

You force yourself to stand still, to breathe, to act like his presence doesn’t unravel you. Your pulse is a vicious, unsteady thing, beating against the walls of your throat, but you refuse to let it show. You can’t let it show. “You need to listen to me.” The words are sharp, cut from something jagged, something desperate, and you force them through your lips like they’re the only thing keeping you alive. “Nothing has changed. Nothing will change.”

The silence that follows is suffocating, pressing down on your chest like a pair of hands. Jeno watches you, eyes dark, waiting, searching, hoping. His breath is uneven, his body taut, and you can see the battle inside him—the part of him that still thinks he can fix this, the part of him that still believes in you. That’s the part you need to crush.

So you do. “I left you because I wanted to.”

It feels like swallowing glass. Like choking on a scream that will never come out. The lie slashes through you as it leaves your tongue, violent and unforgiving, poisoning the air between you. But you hold your ground, even as you feel the weight of it settle in your chest like something rotting, something unholy.

Jeno’s body goes rigid. His breath catches in his throat, like he wasn’t expecting you to actually say it, wasn’t expecting you to be able to force it out. His hands twitch at his sides, curling into fists like he wants to grab you, like he wants to shake you out of whatever fucking daze he thinks you’re in. But he doesn’t move.

And you can feel it—the shift. The moment something inside him breaks. “You’re lying,” he murmurs, but the confidence in his voice is cracking, splintering under the weight of what you’ve just done. His jaw clenches, his eyes burn into yours, searching for something, anything, that will tell him this isn’t real. That the way your body still reacts to him, the way your hands still tremble when you touch him, wasn’t just muscle memory. But you don’t give him that. You can’t.

You inhale sharply, steadying yourself before forcing the words out, each syllable like dragging barbed wire through your throat. “You need to stop this,” you whisper, voice cold, detached—a cruel echo of the person you used to be with him. “You keep looking for something that isn’t there. You need to let me go, Jeno.”

His breath hitches, sharp and shallow. The words hit their mark, sinking into him like blades, and for the first time, you see something flicker in his expression—something you never wanted to see. Acceptance. And that’s the worst part. That’s what makes your stomach lurch, makes your nails dig into your palms so hard you think they might draw blood. Because Jeno has always fought for you. Always. He has never given up on you.

When he speaks, his voice is stripped bare, scraped raw like something vital has been carved out of him. “You didn’t even look me in the eyes when you left.” It isn’t an accusation, nor is it a plea—it’s something quieter, something fractured, something irreparable. His breath shudders as he steps closer, the space between you vanishing, his presence wrapping around you like a weight, like a tether that refuses to break. His voice dips lower, threading through the silence like a final thread unraveling. “Do it now, then.” The words are softer, but they carry the force of a knife pressing against a bruise, searching for pain. His gaze holds yours, steady despite the storm raging behind it. “Look me in my eyes and tell me you don’t love me anymore.”

“Because I fucking love you.” His voice is a wound torn open, raw and gaping, spilling everything he’s tried to hold back. “I love you so much it fucking hurts. It’s in my bones, in my blood, in every second of my goddamn day. I can’t turn it off, can’t shut it down—I don’t even fucking want to. You’re in my head, under my skin, in the way I breathe, in the way my body aches for something it can’t have anymore.” He drags a shaky hand down his face, exhaling sharply, like he’s trying to steady himself, but it’s useless. “I love you so much I don’t know how to stop. You’re in me. Inside me. Like a fucking sickness, like something I can’t cure—I wake up with you in my lungs, go to sleep with you in my blood. I can’t escape it. I don’t want to escape it.”

He shakes his head, swallowing hard, his fingers twitching like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t know if he can anymore. “I’m ready,” he chokes out, barely above a whisper, raw and desperate. “I’m ready to give you everything. All of me. My heart, my fucking name, everything. Just say the word. Just say you want me and I’m yours. I always have been.”

His voice wavers, thick with something too heavy to name. “But if you look me in the eyes right now and tell me you don’t love me—if you really fucking mean it—I’ll walk away. I’ll leave, and I won’t come back.” He steps closer, just enough that you can see the way his throat bobs when he swallows, the flicker of something breaking apart behind his eyes. His breath shudders, uneven, like he’s fighting against something that’s already overtaken him. His whole body is tense, like a wire pulled too tight, like if you so much as breathe wrong, he’ll snap. “Just say it.” His voice is quieter now, but no less desperate. “Tell me you don’t love me, and I’ll let you go.”

The lights are blinding, the heat of the stage burning against your skin. You can hear the audience holding their breath, feel the weight of their stares, the anticipation thick in the air like smoke curling against your ribs. The final act is here, the moment you have to deliver your most convincing performance yet. And Jeno—Jeno is your scene partner, but he doesn’t know the script. He doesn’t know how this ends.

You step into your role, slip the mask over your face, paint your expression with precision. A detached calm, a forced indifference, a woman who is not breaking apart at the seams. A woman who is not in love with him. Because if you falter, if you let even the smallest sliver of truth bleed through the cracks, he’ll never believe it.

But he’s looking at you like he already knows. Like he’s reading between the lines, like he’s memorized every inflection, every pause, every unspoken confession you’ve ever had the misfortune of slipping. His jaw tightens, his breath shudders, but he waits. For you. For your answer.

And of course you love him. You love him like oxygen, like gravity, like something embedded into the marrow of your bones. It’s a love that has unraveled you, stripped you raw, built and broken you in equal measure. It is the kind of love that rewrites destinies, that turns men into myths, that should have been yours to keep. But this story was never meant to end in a happy ever after. The villain in your play has made sure of that.

The looming, ever-present shadow that has followed you since the beginning, orchestrating your downfall before you ever even knew you were falling. Taeyong was always there, waiting in the wings, watching. He let you believe you had control, let you believe you were safe, let you believe that loving Jeno could ever be something you were allowed to have. But now the final act has come, and if Jeno still believes you love him, it won’t end here. It won’t end at all.

So you do what you must. You prepare yourself for the lie that will end all lies.

Except—it isn’t a lie, not really.

Your hands tremble at your sides as you force yourself to meet his gaze, as you force yourself to stand tall, to deliver the line that will cut him from you forever. The words rise up in your throat like bile, sharp, acidic, burning as they take shape on your tongue. You inhale, steady yourself. And then you say it.

"I can't love you."

His face goes still, like the world has just cracked beneath his feet, like the foundation of everything he’s ever known has been torn out from under him. You watch it happen in real time—the way his breath catches, the way his eyes darken, the way something inside him fractures so violently you swear you hear the sound of it breaking.

And you should stop there. You should let the curtain fall, let the weight of the tragedy settle, let the story end in silence, in a fate already sealed. But you don’t. Instead, you step closer, reckless in your own destruction, reckless in the way you give him one last thing to hold on to, only to rip it away. Close enough for him to feel it, the finality thick in the air between you. Close enough for him to see it—the death of something sacred, something neither of you were ready to lay to rest.

I can’t love you.

It’s a breath, barely a whisper, but it shatters like glass between you, cutting through whatever fragile thread was left holding this together. You see the moment it sinks in, the way his chest rises, the way his jaw locks. It’s perfect, this lie. A masterpiece of deception. Not a denial, not a rejection—just a slow, merciless killing. Because can’t is worse than don’t. Can’t is an inevitability, a cruel truth written into the script before either of you ever had a chance. And yet, it’s not even a lie, not really. You can’t love him, not like this, not when the love you carry for him is a weight too heavy to hold, a blade too sharp to keep grasping. Not when loving him means condemning him to a battle he doesn’t know he’s already losing.

The silence that follows is not just silence. It’s a graveyard. It’s a warzone after the dust has settled, a battlefield littered with things unsaid, with love left to rot in the ruins. You don’t move. You don’t breathe. You just watch as it sinks into him, as he absorbs it like a fatal wound, as the light in his eyes dims in a way that makes you want to take it back, take all of it back, until you remember why you can’t.

Jeno doesn’t fight. Not this time. Not anymore. But he wants to. God, he wants to. You can see it in the way his chest rises too sharply, in the way his lips part like he’s about to say something, then close again, like the words can’t find a way out. His throat bobs with a thick swallow, his breath coming uneven, and when his fingers twitch at his sides, you think—maybe. Maybe he’ll try one last time. Maybe he’ll see through you, push past the lies, break through the walls you’ve built just to keep him out.

But he doesn’t. He exhales, slow and shaky, and his eyes burn as he searches your face—one last time, one last desperate attempt to find something, anything, that proves this isn’t real. But all he finds is your silence. And when the first tear slips down his cheek, when his brows pinch together like something inside him is cracking wide open, your breath catches, because you’ve never seen Jeno cry before.

He blinks, another tear spilling, and then he shakes his head. “Fine.” His voice is wrecked, hoarse like it’s been torn straight from the rawest part of him. His jaw tightens, his lips barely moving as he forces the words out. “Fine. You fucking win.” You don’t know what he thinks he’s losing. Maybe he believes you’ve been playing a game all along. Maybe he truly thinks that this is what you wanted—to break him, to make him small, to watch him walk away like every moment between you was something disposable.

But that’s the furthest thing from the truth.

He takes a step back, then another, his eyes never leaving yours. But they’re different now. There’s no warmth, no fire, no fight left in them. Just something empty. Something hollow. He looks at you like he doesn’t recognize you anymore.

And then, without another word, he turns. And then, for the last time, he walks away.

And the moment he’s gone, something inside you gives out. The strength you clung to, the carefully constructed facade, it all shatters in an instant. Your legs give way, and you fall, knees hitting the floor before you even register the pain. A strangled sob tears from your throat, and then another, and then another, each one ripping through you with the force of a hurricane, leaving destruction in its wake. Your hands clutch at nothing, nails digging into your skin, your clothes, the floor—desperate for something, anything to hold onto. But there’s nothing.

Nothing but the emptiness he left behind.

Tears spill freely, hot and unrelenting, blurring your vision, soaking into your skin. Your breath hitches, broken and uneven, gasping through the sobs that refuse to stop. You can’t stop. You don’t know how. It feels like you’re drowning, like you’re suffocating in the wreckage of what you just did. Your own voice sounds foreign to you—raw, desperate, cracked open beyond repair. You whisper his name once, twice, like a prayer, like a plea, but there is no answer. No arms wrapping around you, no voice murmuring reassurances against your temple. Just silence. Just the weight of your own grief pressing down on you, smothering, unbearable.

You did this. You were forced to do this.

The realization is a knife to your ribs, twisting deep, splitting you apart. The lie you forced past your lips echoes in your head, over and over, until you can’t hear anything else. Until it drowns out every other sound, until it becomes the only truth you know.

He’s gone. And he’s not coming back.

Your body shakes violently, the sobs tearing through you without mercy. You curl into yourself, arms wrapping around your torso like you can hold yourself together, but you can’t. You are unraveling, thread by thread, falling apart into something unrecognizable. The pain is too much, too vast, swallowing you whole. It claws at your chest, burns through your veins, crushes you under its weight.

And yet, the world moves on. The night stretches on beyond the walls of this room, indifferent to the devastation inside it. Outside, cars still pass, people still laugh, lights still glow in the distance. But in here, inside you, everything has ended.

There is no applause. No curtain call. No second act. Only silence. Only the wreckage. Only you—standing there, staring at the space he used to fill, at the ghost of him lingering in the air, at the imprint of his warmth fading from your skin. The weight of it crashes into you all at once, an avalanche, a tidal wave, something vast and merciless that steals the breath from your lungs.

The stage is empty, the script unwritten—only the echo of his absence remains, carving its name into the ruins of you.

authors note — please don’t kill me guys. remember you have 40-50k more words to read to finish this part!! but please don’t send me an ask or message to ask when it will come up, it’s currently unwritten, i will work on it as soon as i can. also if you haven’t read my authors note at the start of the fic read it now please, it’s important.

taglist — @clblnz @flaminghotyourmom @haesluvr @revlada @kukkurookkoo @euphormiia @cookydream @hyuckshinee @hyuckieismine @fancypeacepersona @minkyuncutie @kiwiiess @outoforbit @lovetaroandtaemin @ungodlyjnz @remgeolli @sof1asdream7 @xuyiyang @tunafishyfishylike @lavnderluv @cheot-salang @second-floors @hyuckkklee @rbf-aceu @pradajaehyun

authors note —

if you've made it this far, thank you so much for reading! it truly means the world to me. i poured so much effort into this, so if you could take just a moment to send an ask or leave a message sharing your thoughts, it would mean everything. your interactions-whether it's sending an ask, your feedback, a comment, or just saying hi gives me so much motivation to keep writing. i'm always so happy to respond to messages, asks and comments so don't be shy! thank you from the bottom of my heart! <3

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