#also ‘stretching you more’ isn’t always a good thing | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

helioooss · 23 days ago

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v. i want you to need me

synopsis: after a rare drunken night, y/n wakes up in bed next to the most untouchable girl at yonsei: karina. she’s immediately thrown into a mess she never wanted, torn between her own moral compass and the undeniable pull of something she doesn’t understand. some lines, once crossed, can never be undone.

w/c: 10k+

warnings: heavy cheating, implied sex, alcohol, smoking, just normal uni stuff, swearingggg, slow burn

a/n: tell me what you all think about sana

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

jimin’s dorm isn’t like yours.

it’s not like anyone’s, really. it’s more an apartment than a student room — tall ceilings, white walls that haven’t yellowed, windows that stretch too wide for the building they’re in. there’s a couch that looks barely sat on and the scent that clings to the place smells like white musk and the soft kind of vanilla that only comes from a candle someone forgot to blow out.

this space is curated and soft in a way you haven’t seen much of lately.

you try not to think about how out of place you feel; how this isn’t like your lounge, where the cushions don’t match and there’s always an empty mug on the floor. how ryujin would be throwing popcorn at your head by now and yunjin would be complaining about the spotify ads.

here, you’re a guest.

you’re sitting on the floor beside her bed, knees drawn up, heart doing something inconvenient in your chest. minjeong and ningning are sprawled across jimin’s mattress like it belongs to them, shoes kicked off, snacks half-finished between them. a half-open bag of maltesers is wedged against minjeong’s thigh and she’s chewing on the last one with the smugness of someone who knows exactly what she’s doing.

“so,” she begins, voice bright. “what time’s the wedding?”

ningning throws her head back. “god, finally. i was starting to think this was just a fucked up situationship.”

your hands are tucked between your knees and the carpet, grounding yourself. it doesn’t help because the carpet is too clean and too soft and there’s nothing to hold onto.

“it’s not like that,” you mumble.

“please,” minjeong chuckles, shaking her head. “you’ve been looking at her like she’s the sun. or, like, the moon if you’re feeling broody.”

“she always looks broody,” ningning adds.

“true.”

jimin’s leaning against the side of her desk, arms crossed, eyes on you — amused, but not unkind. there’s a gentleness in the way she watches this unfold, like she’s letting them tease because she knows they don’t know the full story.

because they haven’t seen you unravel in the dark of your own room, they haven’t had to hold the silence when the weight of this thing made you too quiet to touch.

“leave her alone,” she defends eventually, and it’s playful, but it’s also hers. the way she says it makes them both settle.

minjeong shrugs, steals another m&m. ningning flops back into the pillow and scrolls through her phone like she didn’t just try to marry you off.

you glance up at jimin, just for a second. her mouth lifts on one side, but her eyes stay serious. she can read you too easily these days, probably always could.

your chest tightens.

this version of her…standing in her own space, defending you lightly, smiling like it’s normal, has made it harder to breathe. it makes you wish the guilt didn’t sit so high in your throat.

it’s worse when it’s good and it feels easy, like maybe it could’ve been this simple all along. you look away as your fingers tighten around the hem of your sleeve.

she walks over a second later and kneels in front of you. her hands land gently on your knees, thumbs brushing small circles into the fabric of your jeans.

you glance at the door, but it’s pointless. minjeong and ningning aren’t paying attention now, lost in whatever they’re laughing at on someone’s story.

“hey,” she says softly. “you okay?”

you nod, but it’s not convincing.

she tilts her head; waits.

you speak without looking at her. “i don’t know how to do this.”

she brushes her fingers along your knuckles. “just be you.”

that doesn’t help…being you is the problem.

being you means carrying everything you’ve been too afraid to say and it’s deeper than that — there’s a pit in your stomach that’s been growing since she asked you to come.

because this is the closest you’ll ever be to being part of her real life. and even then, it’s only half of one.

pressing your palms against your thighs, you try to breathe to slow your thoughts down long enough to match the pace of her touch.

“they’ll like you,” she comforts you in the softest voice. “they will.”

“they think you’re dating jaewook.”

jimin doesn’t say anything for a second. then, gentler: “not for much longer.”

you want to believe her….you really do.

minjeong coughs something that sounds like kiss her already and ningning groans dramatically.

she leans in to kiss you.

she tastes like mint and whatever tea she was drinking before you arrived. she doesn’t rush it. just holds your face like you’re something she’s still learning how to be gentle with.

you don’t realise your eyes are closed until she pulls back.

when you open them, minjeong’s holding up a pretend veil with one of jimin’s t-shirts, and ningning’s got her phone out like she’s documenting the whole thing.

“congrats on the engagement,” ningning smiles.

“don’t forget to invite us to the divorce.”

you roll your eyes, but your throat is tight. your laugh doesn’t land quite right.

jimin squeezes your hand but you’re not ready.

she stands first, offers you her hand.

you take it and follow her out, the door clicking shut behind you, too quiet for how loud your heart’s beating. she mumbles something like ‘get out of my room’ to the girls and all they do is laugh.

there’s a black rolls royce already pulling up to the curb when you step out; your throat closes. it glides to a stop so silently it feels rehearsed — as if the car has been choreographed to arrive exactly here, now, like a scene out of a film you’re not supposed to be in.

your first thought is that it’s blocking traffic. your second is: oh. it’s for us.

the driver steps out, immaculate in a pressed grey uniform. he rounds the car slowly, opens the door like he’s done this for a hundred different people, none of whom have ever had to stop themselves from visibly flinching.

jimin, of course, doesn’t react.

she simply squeezes your hand and murmurs, “one of dad’s cars.”

and that should be funny. and casual. but it lands like a stone in your chest.

the leather seats are too soft, even. you sit stiffly, unsure of what to do with your legs. she settles beside you, reaching for your hand again as if it’s second nature.

perhaps it is for her. maybe pretending she’s always allowed to touch you comes easier than the truth. you feel the car begin to move, the world outside drifting quietly by.

for a moment, it’s quiet between you.

then, because you can’t not ask, your voice slips in, barely above the low hum of the road: “what did you tell them?”

she blinks, turns to look at you, her expression unreadable. “my parents?”

you nod. “yeah.”

she exhales, presses her thumb into your knuckles. “i told them you’re a friend. someone i met recently. someone…special in my life.”

you look down at her hand in yours.

not girlfriend. not partner. and definitely not the girl i love. just special.

you breathe in through your nose. “what about jaewook?”

there’s a pause; you can almost hear the low thrum of traffic through the double-glazed windows. her fingers tighten slightly.

“don’t bring him up tonight,” she answers in a pleading tone.

you glance at her, but she’s already turned away, staring out the window. not cold, something like distant.

your chest aches with something you can’t name. it’s a deep, slow burn — like you’re being hollowed out in pieces.

she clears her throat softly. “what are your plans for the break?”

the change in topic is obvious, but you let it happen.

“working,” you answer. “studying.”

she hums. “you should come away with me.”

you blink. “what?”

“just for a few days. somewhere quiet,” she turns back to you, her eyes softer now. “we could get out of the city. clear our heads.”

you hesitate because you don’t know what that would mean. what you’d be. what she’d allow herself to be.

“depends,” you finally reply.

she smiles; the type that wants to believe everything can still be okay.

but you’re already slipping away, just slightly. you look back out the window and try to anchor yourself to the ordinary; the passing buildings, the hum of the tyres, the slight vibration beneath your seat.

however, your thoughts scream louder than anything else.

what does it mean to be brought into someone’s life only half-visible?

you imagine jimin’s parents: their polished smiles, the weight of expectations wrapped in polite sentences. you wonder if they’ve spoken about wedding dates in whispers over breakfast. if they’ve imagined a son-in-law who never had to be introduced as just special.

the car turns and up ahead, a set of iron gates rise between two massive stone columns, ivy curling up their sides. as it approaches, the gates begin to open automatically, swinging wide with a soft mechanical groan that somehow sounds expensive.

your stomach flips.

you don’t belong here.

the driveway curves gently through a stretch of manicured lawn — no dead patches, no overgrown hedges, just careful perfection. there’s a fountain in the middle of the roundabout, water cascading in tiers. lights glow along the edges of the path. the kind of estate you’ve only ever seen in magazines.

and then the mansion comes into view.

it’s tall and pale and sprawling, all stone columns and symmetrical windows. a place built by people who’ve never worried about bills or bus routes, where voices echo in marble halls and names are carried with weight.

you grip your knee, suddenly clammy through your jeans. you’re still in your seat when jimin touches your hand again.

“hey.”

you turn to her. she looks….too calm. and it probably comes from years of walking into rooms where she never has to explain herself.

her thumb brushes your wrist. “just be yourself. okay?”

you want to laugh, but it would come out wrong because you don’t know what being yourself is when you’re only ever allowed to be part of her in secret.

but you nod anyway.

when the driver opens the door for you, you step out into someone else’s world. one that was never built for you, where love like this doesn’t exist outside the shadows.

the front doors of the mansion swing open before either of you reach the final step. they move like part of the house itself — silent, smooth, handled by someone whose job is to anticipate needs before they’re voiced.

a man in a black suit stands just beyond the threshold, posture so upright it feels performative. beside him, a woman in a pale blouse and soft heels waits with a smile already painted on.

mr and mrs yu.

you recognise her before she speaks — the same eyes as jimin. softer around the edges, but familiar. she steps forward, hands extended, and she leans in for a quick kiss on the cheek that feels too rehearsed to be intimate.

“mum, dad,” jimin greets, voice perfectly even. “this is y/n.”

mrs yu’s smile widens, warm in a way that almost feels real. “so lovely to meet you, y/n. we’ve heard a little bit about you.”

you nod quickly, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands. “thank you for having me.”

“ah,” mr yu clicks his tongue, not unfriendly, but with a kind of deliberate precision. he offers his hand — firm grip, quick release. “welcome.”

his voice is deep, clear. there’s something about the way he looks at you that makes your spine straighten. like he’s already cataloguing you. the posture, the voice, the shoes.

he doesn’t linger, doesn’t offer anything more.

fuck’s sake.

mrs yu steps back and gestures you both in. “come inside, come in — you must be cold.”

you follow jimin through the foyer and it’s ridiculous how big it is. high ceilings, crown mouldings, floors that don’t creak with every step. the light comes from chandeliers you don’t want to know the price of. there’s a curved staircase on one side and a long hallway stretching into quiet, expensive distance.

everything smells faintly of polish and lavender.

she walks calmly, unfazed, because she grew up tracing her fingers along these walls.

you lean toward her as you pass through another arched doorway. “you never mentioned being a crazy rich asian.”

she smiles. “you never asked.”

“i didn’t think i needed to ask.”

“i didn’t think it mattered.”

you raise your eyebrows but don’t push. she nudges your arm, a small grin on her lips and for a second it feels easy again.

mrs yu turns slightly as she walks beside you. “i’m sure this is all a bit much. jimin never really brings anyone over. not even her friends.”

you glance at jimin, but her face is unreadable.

“it’s beautiful,” you mumble quietly.

“it’s old,” she replies, almost fondly. “my husband’s family built the original structure — we’ve done a few renovations since. that chandelier is venetian, by the way. imported.”

you look up, nodding, then catch something along the wall — a long, gilded frame with a photo inside. the whole family. jimin in a pressed white dress, her sister beside her, taller and sharper. mr yu standing between them like a pillar. mrs yu with a hand on each of their shoulders; everyone smiling, perfect and still.

you wonder what it’s like to grow up framed in gold.

you’re led into the dining room next and it’s as dramatic as everything else — wide table, high-backed chairs, tall windows dressed in heavy fabric.

there’s food already on the table: plated starters, baskets of bread, glasses of red and white glinting in the candlelight. you sit where they tell you. jimin slips in beside you before you can object. her leg brushes yours under the table — casual, but deliberate.

you try to focus on the food but it’s quiet. too quiet. the cutlery clinks against porcelain. a butler moves soundlessly in and out of the room.

mr yu finally clears his throat. “how did you two meet?”

you glance at jimin, unsure who should speak.

she answers smoothly, without hesitation. “at uni. we had a class in the same building. i kept seeing her around.”

“what do you study?” he asks, looking to you now.

“law,” you reply. “final year.”

he nods once, like some sort of approval. “ambitious.”

mrs yu smiles as she reaches for the bread. “we’re so glad you could join us, y/n. i know how busy things get during the end of the term.”

“thank you for having me,” you say again because it’s the only thing that feels safe.

you feel her shift beside you and a moment later, she’s reaching for the bottle of red wine. she pours it slowly into your glass, her sleeve brushing your arm.

“you okay with this?” she asks softly, just for you.

you nod, taking the glass. the wine is rich, dry. probably expensive.

jimin pours her own glass next and sits back, hand resting too close to yours under the table. her knee presses lightly against your thigh. she’s pretending not to notice but it’s there. and now you can’t stop noticing it either.

the conversation drifts to jimin’s sister, to the renovation happening on one of the properties, to a cousin who just got engaged. you try to keep your expression polite, interested but you feel it building again — that tension in your chest.

you’re holding your breath through something that shouldn’t be painful, but is.

because she’s here. beside you…pouring your wine, touching your knee, playing this role like she wants to be seen as your girlfriend.

but only by you. never by them; not fully.

and you don’t know what’s worse — that she wants you here or that she still won’t name what you are.

the dinner stretches out like a warm, gilded illusion. food comes and goes, silver dishes passed politely, wine poured with an ease that only happens in houses like this. you don’t recognise half the things on your plate but you eat them anyway. it’s easier than thinking.

and somehow, between the clink of cutlery and the softness of linen napkins, you find yourself talking to jimin’s father more than you expected to. he surprises you, sharp in a way you didn’t anticipate.

he asks what you plan to do with your degree. when you mention that both your parents teach at korea university, he raises an eyebrow.

“ah,” he says, with a small smirk. “the enemy.”

you blink. “since i started at yonsei, dinners become a battlefield.”

he chuckles, loud enough that even the butler standing near the back of the room shifts a little. “depends on the night.”

“mum teaches literature,” you add, like that might soften it. “dad’s in political science.”

“ah, the best combination,” he waves his hand as if that explains something. “i always say: literature makes you dream, politics makes you useful.”

“i think they’d disagree.”

“then they’re proving my point.”

you smile despite yourself. it’s easy to see where jimin gets it — the dry humour, the coolness that masks something warmer underneath.

“you ever consider working corporate?” he asks, somewhere between his second and third glass of red. “we’re always looking for sharp people.”

you clear your throat. “at yu group?”

he shrugs like he hasn’t just casually offered you a future most people would kill for. “why not? we like smart women.”

you try to laugh, try to brush it off. “i’m really not that good.”

and that’s when she speaks up. “she’s top of her class.”

the words come out steady. proud. there’s a curl to her mouth like she’s been holding that fact in for weeks, just waiting for the chance to say it out loud. her hand is still under the table, fingers brushing lightly against yours every few minutes like she can’t quite stop.

“the best friend i could ever have,” she adds, glancing your way.

you nod once, quietly, and don’t correct her.

her mother is still smiling and he gives a slight nod, as if approval has been granted and the conversation can move on. and for a few minutes, it does — talk of real estate, someone’s cousin in dubai, a destination wedding next spring that mrs yu is already dreading.

you sip your wine and watch the way the glass distorts the candlelight when you tilt it just slightly. and for a moment, just a brief flicker, you let yourself believe you’re in the room for a reason that matters. but then — like it always does — the truth finds its way in.

“what day is your flight again, darling?” her mother asks, casually reaching for more bread. “we’ll be in provence the second week, but if you and jaewook are still in italy by then, we can meet up somewhere in between.”

the bread on your plate goes untouched as your breath hitches. jimin’s hand stiffens under the table, but she doesn’t say anything.

what the fuck, you thought.

her father swallows a sip of wine. “shame he couldn’t make it tonight. would’ve been nice to have all three of you.”

and that’s it.

no clarification or awkward laughs, no sudden oh — actually, it’s not jaewook anymore.

you’re not surprised.

but god, does it ache.

your fingers curl into your napkin, slow and controlled. you fold it neatly across your lap, not because it needs folding but because your hands need something to do. your throat tightens around nothing. the food in front of you blurs just slightly at the edges.

jaewook.

still him.

it’ll always be fucking him.

you feel it settle across your shoulders — the weight of what this really is. you were invited because he wasn’t able to go…a replacement seat at a table already set. her best friend, top of her class, easy to bring along. quiet and agreeable. not the boy she kisses in public and definitely not the one they’re planning a european summer with.

just…you.

you nod along as the conversation rolls forward without you. smile when it’s expected, answer a question about school that you don’t really hear. jimin laughs beside you, comments something about her sister’s bad taste in music, pours you more wine.

and still, she says nothing.

you wonder if she hears it too — the silence between the lines. the place where the truth should’ve lived.

you wonder if she’ll say something when you leave. if she’ll reach for your hand again and say, i didn’t know she’d mention him. or the trip i’m planning with him. if she’ll apologise in that soft way she always does, the one that makes you forgive her even when you know you shouldn’t.

but in this moment, she keeps talking.

smiling.

and all you can feel is how cold it suddenly is in a room this beautiful.

the voices around you start to blur. not all at once — just enough at first that it’s like someone’s layered a film over the evening. like the table, the wine, the laughter have all slipped just slightly out of sync with the rest of the world.

someone says something about florence. someone else corrects it — no, they’ll be starting in amsterdam.

you’re still sitting there but the room feels like it’s pressing in on itself.

jimin adds: “it’s not even set in stone yet,” and her mother waves a hand like that’s never mattered. “oh, you always say that. jaewook’s already looking at hotels.”

the ringing starts behind your left ear. dull and high like the edge of a migraine or the hum of old fluorescent lights. you don’t move, pressing your fingers into the napkin on your lap and let the fabric give.

in your head, you hear it again. her voice, low and tired, the night she showed up in your room without knocking. i love you. she whispered it like it had cost her something.

you believed her.

god, you had believed her and she played you like a fool.

you try to replay the moments — the first time she reached for your hand under a table, the night she stood in the doorway of your dorm with a sandwich in one hand and your name in her mouth. the way she looked at you, back when she thought no one else was watching.

but now they feel like film stills. scenes from a movie you loved once, but can’t remember the plot of. you see the way she would smile at you, forehead pressed to yours, lips brushing against your cheek like a promise.

except it wasn’t.

it was borrowed time.

you don’t realise you’re standing until your chair scrapes softly against the floor. they all stop talking. jimin glances over at you, startled.

“are you okay?” she asks, concern written all over her face.

you offer something that’s barely a sentence — a quiet, “bathroom,” or maybe just “sorry.” you’re not sure.

you find your way down the hallway like you’ve done this a hundred times even though you’ve never been here before.

and of course, the bathroom is clean. it smells like rosewater and something more expensive underneath. the sink is built into marble that has no chips or watermarks. everything is pale and gold and the mirror is wide and unforgiving.

you shut the door and lock it. the sound of the latch falling into place is too loud. you stand there for a second, just staring at the back of the door like it might give you answers.

then you take a deep breath.

or try to.

but your chest stays tight as if it’s been sewn closed. there’s no room left to inhale anything that doesn’t hurt. you grip the edge of the sink with both hands and look up at yourself in the mirror.

and there it is: the truth.

you’re not her girlfriend.

you’re not even her plan.

you’re the person she pours wine for while her mother sets the table for someone else. the one she calls her best friend with a smile, knowing you won’t correct her because you’ll sit quietly and play along.

because love has made you soft and fucking stupid and willing.

you press your fingers to your face, trying to swallow it back. the shaking starts in your hands, then moves up your arms, into your shoulders. it’s not loud.

it’s just you, bent slightly forward over a porcelain sink in a stranger’s home, trying to breathe through the moment everything comes undone.

your eyes burn. not like they did before, not with frustration — this is different. a tear slips out and it doesn’t need noise to hollow you out. it just comes warm down your cheeks before you even feel it.

you believed her because you thought loving you meant she would choose you.

you let yourself imagine what it would be like to be hers fully — not in whispers, not in bedrooms with the lights off, but in rooms like that one, with her parents and their careful china and the space beside her not reserved for someone else.

it’s the type of crying that comes with knowing. with the final, gut-deep understanding that the person you love is never going to choose you in the way that matters.

your breath catches, shoulders shaking once and then again. your hand covers your mouth, as if that will keep it in. but the tears come slowly, hot and unspectacular. no gasping, just a quiet, trembling fall — like something inside you giving up the fight.

you think of irene. of how she looked at you like she was waiting for you to admit what you already knew; or taehyung, eyes soft, voice careful, telling you not to wear your heart so openly for someone who never earned it.

your reflection stares back — red-eyed and dull. you wipe beneath your eyes with your sleeve, knowing it won’t fix anything. not the ache.

you want to leave but you don’t know how to move.

so you sit on the edge of the bathtub instead, hands clenched in your lap, breath uneven, heart too loud in your ears.

and you stay there.

because for the first time, you know — this is the end.

this is it. the moment you realise you can’t keep folding yourself smaller just to stay beside someone who won’t stand up for you.

this is where it changes — not because something broke but because you’re done pretending it hasn’t already.

you stay like that. knees to chest, palms open. letting the grief do what it needs to.

the knock startles you. it’s soft, almost careful, but it pulls you out of yourself like a thread tugged loose. you blink hard; for a moment you don’t know where you are. the light above you hums softly, you can’t remember when the crying stopped.

you push yourself off the floor, legs heavy, vision blurred. your reflection in the mirror is wrecked. skin blotchy, lips trembling, eyes red in a way that can’t be wiped clean. you splash cold water on your cheeks anyway and pat down your face with a hand towel that smells too clean, too untouched. you run your fingers under your eyes until the worst of it fades.

another knock, a little firmer this time.

when you unlock the door and open it, jimin is standing there.

her eyes widen the moment she sees you. not because of the tears still clinging to your lashes, but because she can tell. she sees it all over your face — something’s broken. and this time, it won’t go back.

“hey,” she breathes, stepping in quickly. “what happened, are you —”

you don’t mean to cry again but the moment she wraps her arms around you, it’s like something gives way. your hands clutch her coat, your forehead presses against her shoulder and the words start spilling out before you can stop them.

“i can’t do whatever this is anymore,” you whisper, over and over, broken and breathless. “i can’t. this is fucking ruining me.”

she shushes you gently, one hand at the back of your head, the other wrapped tight around your waist. “hey, hey, it’s okay. i’ve got you. we’ll figure it out. just breathe, baby.”

you’re shaking against her now, unable to stop the way your chest keeps folding in on itself. she pulls you tighter. “we’ll get through it. together. okay? just breathe with me.”

you let her hold you, the smell of her perfume — something soft and green, wraps around you like a memory. it used to calm you. now it just makes your stomach hurt.

after a long while, the tears slow because you’ve emptied everything you had left.

you pull back, just slightly…enough to look at her.

“sit,” you say and your voice doesn’t shake this time.

she does.

you stand in front of her, hands in your pocket and heart pounding in your ears. “we’re over.”

her whole body goes still, eyebrows creasing. “what?”

“we’re over, jimin.”

“no,” she answers too quickly, standing too fast, grabbing your wrists. “no, you don’t mean that.”

you pull your arms free and step back. “i do.”

she’s already crying; hands trembling when she reaches for your face and this time you let her touch you, just for a second. her thumbs brushing your cheeks like she’s trying to memorise you. “no, please — i love you.”

you stare at her, jaw tight. “no, you love the way i made you feel. like you weren’t trapped. like there was another version of your life, but you never chose me, not once.”

“that’s not true —”

“isn’t it?” you interrupt. “you’ve made yourself believe your feelings for jaewook are gone, but they’re not. they’re just safe now. familiar. he’s the life your parents approve of, the one you’ve built history with. and i’m just some girl you met that’s in the way of that.”

she opens her mouth, but nothing comes.

“we have nothing in common,” you go on. “you don’t even know what my favourite book is. i don’t know what makes you cry when no one’s watching. we built this on stolen time and secrecy and you called it love.”

her tears fall faster. she grabs for your hand again, holds it like it might keep you from leaving. “i do love you.”

you shake your head slowly. “then why am i still the secret?”

“i’m not ready,” she whispers, lowering her head down. “i…i just need more time. but i’ll choose you, again and again.”

you stare at her, your voice low now. and steady. “then tell me. if you could call jaewook right now, end things, be with me completely — would you?”

she doesn’t answer and that’s all you need.

you nod, looking down at her hand wrapped around yours and peel her fingers off gently.

“you say you love me,” you mumble with such finality. “but you love the idea of me. you wish i were jaewook.”

her face crumples. “don’t say that. it’s not true!”

but the silence that followed your question said more than enough. you step back and wipe your face once more.

you’re done.

and then, without looking at her, you say: “please tell your parents i’m sorry for leaving early.”

she moves forward again, desperate now. “y/n, please. please, just listen. i love you.”

you don’t look at her. not because you don’t want to, but because if you do, you’ll remember what it feels like to fall for her all over again.

you open the bathroom door. her voice cracks behind you, softer now. “please don’t go.”

stepping into the hall, the door clicks shut behind you. she doesn’t chase you. and this time, this is the end. not with slammed doors or shouted words — but with truth spoken in a tone that leaves nothing behind.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the bar is dim and sticky and too loud — you don’t know how you ended up here.

the streets were a blur and now you’re leaning over a counter that hasn’t been wiped properly, asking the bartender for the cheapest shot of vodka they have. it’s the kind of place that smells like old limes and wet wood, where every surface feels touched a hundred times over.

it’s busy for a thursday night. some uni students shouting over pool in the corner, a girl laughing too loudly behind you, someone bumping your stool on the way past and muttering a half-apology. you don’t care.

the chaos works for you right now. it matches something inside your chest that’s still shaking.

your phone vibrates again and you straight up ignore it.

he slides the vodka toward you without asking for a name. you tip it back. it burns all the way down: sharp, sour, pointless. you close your eyes as inhale sharply through your nose; hands trembling as you put the glass down.

twenty-three missed calls from jimin.

leave me alone, you thought, swiping your thumb across the screen and hold down the power button as the light fades.

the world quiets just slightly.

you sit there, watching people, not trying to think. a man two seats over is telling a story that’s making his friends cry with laughter. a girl with glitter on her cheeks keeps checking her lipstick in a compact mirror; you wonder what it must feel like to be that far away from someone.

another shot appears in front of you. you don’t remember asking for it; maybe you did.

you’re halfway through deciding whether or not to drink it when someone slips into the stool beside you.

her perfume gets there first. something floral, warm, a little sweet — oddly familiar.

“you look like shit,” she points out.

you don’t need to look up to know it’s sana. still, you turn to her.

her hair is messy, damp at the ends like she’s run her fingers through it too many times, eyeliner smudged and lips glossy in a way that looks accidental. there’s a looseness to her posture that tells you she’s had at least a few drinks already, maybe four. she leans forward like she owns the bar, one arm slung lazily across the counter.

“so,” she playfully smiles, chin tilted toward your untouched glass. “are you drinking to forget or to remember?”

you shake your head once; tired. “i don’t even know anymore.”

she hums, signals the bartender for something with a flick of her fingers. “classic.”

you stare at her for a moment. the way she exists so unapologetically like every room owes her something: she’s chaos dressed in perfume and charm and too much skin.

but tonight, she looks more undone than usual.

“what are you doing here, sana?” you ask. “this is not your go-to.”

she shrugs. “felt like being somewhere no one expected me to be and look who i found.” you nod, because yeah. same. she glances sideways at you, her expression shifting. “so who broke your heart?”

you laugh once, sharp and humourless. “does it matter?”

“no,” she chuckles and takes a sip of her drink. “but i like knowing things, about you.”

you watch her for a moment. the way she swirls the straw through her cocktail, her eyes refusing to leave yours.

“you still with her or what?” she asks, voice lower now.

you don’t answer; not directly. just pick up your shot. holding it, stare at the way the light bends through the clear liquid.

sana leans closer. “that’s a no, then,” you don’t look at her but you smile, raising the glass and drink. it burns, again. she grins, lazy and dangerous. “your loss, her mistake.”

you rest your forehead against your hand, elbow on the bar. and beside you, she doesn’t move away or ask anything else.

she just sits there, humming under her breath as she sips her drink…like she’s got all the time in the world.

the fifth shot goes down rougher than the rest. not because the vodka changed, but because your body’s caught up to the burn. your stomach’s all heat and sour now, your tongue slightly numb. everything’s spinning at a slow, bearable tilt, like the bar’s decided to rock with you instead of against you.

you slide the bills across the counter with more force than needed, eyes squinting at the total.

“keep the change,” you mumble and you don’t wait to see the bartender’s reaction.

you hear the scrape of a stool behind you and then the familiar click of low heels on wood, trailing after your unsteady footsteps.

the dive bar’s crowd has spilled into the street — a girl sobbing into her phone by the curb, a group laughing too loud as they light cigarettes with shaky hands, some guy in a bucket hat asking for a lighter with no success.

you don’t make eye contact with anyone. just walk, or try to. the footpath dips and rolls beneath you like it’s breathing and you’re not sure if you’re heading home or just away.

behind you, sana keeps pace, heels tapping against the pavement. “you can’t walk like that,” she calls out, slurring slightly, but her voice is firm. “you’ll end up in a ditch. or a song.”

you glance over your shoulder. “i’m not…i don’t need —”

“i’m calling an uber,” she interrupts, holding up her phone. “separate ones, if that makes you feel less dramatic.”

you stop walking, heels turning to her.

she looks like something out of a painting. messy hair falling past her shoulders, lip gloss fading, eyes glassy but stubborn. the moonlight paints her in soft blues and silvers, catching the curve of her cheekbone and the flush of her skin.

and you say it before you even know why. “why do you care so much, sana? look at the mess you are.”

she doesn’t even flinch at your tone. “this is the mess you made out of me.”

her words land with more weight than you expect, cutting through your buzz like a jagged breath. you take a step back, startled by it, but she moves forward, steadying you before your balance tips. her hand against your arm is warm and certain, like she still remembers how to hold you together.

you stare at her, too stunned to speak because she’s right…you left her hanging, dropped her without words and disappeared like she was something easy to forget.

now she’s here, a couple drinks deep just like you, still trailing behind like she’s afraid you’ll vanish somehow. you keep your silence as you turn around and keep walking, slower this time. behind you, she follows. her steps are lighter and uneven. you glance back and notice the way she’s stumbling slightly in those stupid fucking heels.

leaning against someone’s fence for support, you tug off your shoes — battered old sneakers, half-untied and hold them out to her without a word.

“what? no, don’t be —”

“you can’t walk in those if you’re gonna stalk me,” you point out, voice low, tired. “just take them.”

she hesitates, but something in your face shuts her up. she slips out of her heels, gingerly trades them for yours. they look ridiculous on her, too big, laces flapping as she tries to balance.

you scoop her heels up, one in each hand. your feet hit the concrete cold and flat, but it feels better somehow. more honest.

you walk in silence, just two girls carrying too many things.

the park is a few blocks down. patchy grass, crooked benches, a rusted swing set creaking in the breeze. someone left a pizza box under the water fountain. you walk straight to the centre of the lawn and collapse onto it without thinking.

sana stands over you for a second. “you’re actually insane.”

“and barefoot.”

she sighs, then joins you. the grass crunches beneath her as she lies down. her shoulder brushes yours.

you stare up at the sky. too much city light to see stars…though there’s a faint blur, soft and grey.

you think about jimin. what she’s doing. whether she’s still pacing that house, calling you. whether she’s crying into her hands, or justifying the silence to herself.

but you remind yourself that’s not your place anymore. you’re not the girl she loves.

you never were.

“i was hurt, you know,” she pulls you out of your trance suddenly. her voice is soft now, blurred around the edges. “watching you…with her.”

you turn your head. she’s still staring at the sky.

“i’m not as stupid as jaewook,” she adds.

you clench your jaw. “i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

she snorts, rolling her head to look at you. “you do, but it’s fine. play dumb. you’re good at it.”

you look away.

“it was a slap,” she goes on. “watching you hide for her when you couldn’t even show up for me — i wish you looked at me like that…back then.”

the grass is damp beneath you, seeping into your jeans. your fingers curl into the blades, tugging at them like they’ll offer something real.

“i adored you,” she whispers. “probably still do.”

you feel the ache rise in your chest again. sharp and familiar. her voice is so close, warm and breaking.

your throat tightens because you know you can’t give her what she wants. not now, not when you’re like this. the weight of it all is too much; the fact that it’s her saying these things when she was the one you walked away from without a word.

you don’t know what to say, so you do what you always do. “i’m really sorry.”

her breath catches, like she wasn’t expecting it.

and for a while, you both just lie there. with the city buzzing around you. with your shoes on her feet, her heels in your hands and nothing between you but too many unsaid things.

it’s not long before your heart is beating too fast. not from the drinking — that haze has worn off in waves, leaving only the chill of the grass underneath your back and the weight of too many feelings layered on your chest.

the park feels still, but the world spins around you anyway. you can feel it in the hum of the city, in the ache behind your eyes, in the way your fingers curl tighter around sana’s heels with every passing second.

beside you, she’s lying on her side now, head propped up by her arm. you can feel her gaze on you, warm and heavy, like it always was; as if she’s reading you without permission.

you reach into your coat pocket, fish out your phone and press the button to turn it on. it lights up with missed calls, unread messages. the screen too bright against the dark.

sana shifts, voice quiet. “how long?”

you glance at her. her face is lit by the soft yellow wash of a distant streetlamp. strands of her hair fall across her cheek.

you sigh. “a few months.”

“how many?”

“maybe…five.”

she exhales hard through her nose. “fuck, y/n.”

you turn your head back to the sky. it doesn’t look any different than it did ten minutes ago.

“you’re really something,” she adds, shaking her head, but there’s no bite to it…only exhaustion.

you sit with the truth of it. no more hiding, or saying it wasn’t serious like it ever made it easier.

“how did you figure it out?” you wonder, not looking at her.

she’s quiet for a long moment, so long that you think she’s not going to answer. then: “when you stopped looking at me completely. before karina, you still…i don’t know…you used to look at me. even when we stopped being whatever we were, you still gave me something. guilt, maybe. attention; a glance.”

you look at her now. she’s staring at the grass like it has answers.

“and then at the bar,” she add. “you didn’t even flinch. just looked through me like i was no one and she didn’t look too happy the second i sat beside you,” she says with a bitter laugh. “so, not hard to figure out.”

you nod slowly, shame crawling up your spine. “you’re right.”

she shrugs, like she wishes she weren’t.

you rest your chin against your shoulder, eyes half-closed. “so why do you still hang around?”

she laughs, short and dry. “because moving on from a year of being truly in love with someone who never let you all the way in isn’t exactly a clean break.”

her words land quietly. there’s no edge to them. just a dull, familiar ache.

“i’m sorry, sana.”

“you’ve already said that.”

“i thought you were too good for me,” you mutter, the words slow, as if admitting them aloud might solidify something you’ve never said before. “you were older and smarter. you had your life figured out. i was barely holding mine together, i didn’t know what i wanted and committing to anything felt like standing on really thin ice.”

she wipes under her eye with the edge of her sleeve. it’s dark, but you see the movement. you hear the breath that catches.

“you really hurt me,” she says, almost inaudibly.

before you can answer, your phone lights up in your lap, another call. you look at the name. your stomach twists.

“it’s her.”

sana doesn’t move, doesn’t look away. “answer it.”

your hands shake as you slide your thumb across the screen.

“y/n?” jimin’s voice is soft, breathless. “oh baby, thank god.”

you close your eyes. your chest hurts.

“i just wanted to hear your voice,” she continues. “i didn’t know where you went. i — I’ve been calling for hours. are you okay? are you safe?”

you swallow. your voice comes out hoarse. “i’m okay, i’m safe.”

there’s a pause on the other end and you hear the shuffling of keys.

“where are you?” she asks. “i’ve been at your dorm all night, but you’re not here.”

you hesitate, eyes flicking to sana, who’s still watching you — still here, her expression unreadable.

pressing the phone tighter to your ear, you heave out a sigh. “i’m with…sana.”

there’s a sharp breath on the line until it’s just pure silence.

“i’ll come pick you up,” jimin demands, voice suddenly firmer. “just tell me where.”

“no,” you whisper and your thumb hovers. “not now. or ever.”

“y/n —”

but you don’t wait. you hang up. you stare at the screen for a second, let it burn in your hand. and then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you block her number.

you put the phone back in your coat and don’t say anything.

sana doesn’t ask. she just lies beside you, in borrowed shoes, in the cold, with her heart cracked open beside yours. and neither of you move. not yet.

the silence stretches long after you’ve dropped your phone back into your pocket. it settles between the two of you like fog, slow and low and quiet. your arms are cold against the grass and your back damp.

the night’s caught up with you all at once, and you’re not sure if you feel like throwing up or falling asleep.

she finally shifts beside you, just enough for her shoulder to press into yours again.

you can still feel the ghost of jimin’s voice in your ear, clinging to the inside of your chest. how quickly she moved from relief to control; how ready she was to come and get you, like she still believed she had that right.

you wish it hurt more. instead, it just feels numb, too much noise behind glass.

sana exhales and you glance at her. she’s lying on her back again, arms crossed over her stomach, hair spread messily over the grass. she’s watching the sky like there’s something up there worth seeing.

“you really blocked her?”

you nod. “yeah.”

she doesn’t look surprised, somehow relieved in a way. “good.”

it’s a small word, but it lands like something final.

you let it sit between you.

your fingers uncurl, finally letting go of her heels. they clatter quietly to the grass beside you. she tilts her head slightly, eyes scanning your face like she’s still trying to map it.

“do you think you’ll go back to her?”

the question catches you off guard, you’re too tired to lie. “i don’t know.”

she nods once. accepts it, but something shifts in her jaw. you can see it — the way she wants to say more, but doesn’t.

you wish you could give her something. you wish you had anything left to give.

“thank you,” you say, voice raw. “for being here.”

sana blinks and her lips part like she might respond, but she doesn’t. instead, she leans her head lightly against your shoulder and you let her.

because even though you terribly broke her once, she’s here anyway. even if she shouldn’t be, even if you still don’t know how to love her back — it means something.

and so you sit together, shoes off, hearts messy, the night too long.

it’s just her head on your shoulder, the weight of everything you’ve done and the ache of something that could’ve been, if only you had known how to hold it.

“come on,” she gently utters after a while, lifting her head from your shoulder. “let’s walk…wherever it takes us.”

you laugh, short and breathless. “i might throw up.”

she shrugs like she’s pleased. “even better.”

she stands slowly, brushing the grass off her skirt with the kind of care that’s always been half her charm — the elegance she carried. then she offers both hands, open palms toward you as if she’s done this before…like she’s always been the one to pull you off the ground.

you let her haul you up, even if your legs feel like they’re made of wet cardboard. you sway a little and she catches you again, like it’s reflex.

you glance behind, spot the shoes you dropped earlier. “wait —”

you break from her hold and shuffle back toward them. the grass is damp under your socks, sticking to your skin in clumps. you lean down and squint at the faint logo printed along the insole.

“you didn’t tell me these were prada,” you grin, holding them up.

“does it matter?”

“yeah, actually,” you cradle them in the crook of your arm. “you’re lucky i didn’t sell them on the way here.”

she laughs and starts walking, slow steps that match yours, not in a rush. the streets are quieter now, the late-night buzz thinning out. neon signs hum above shuttered storefronts. the occasional vendor still lingers on corners — roasted chestnuts, instant ramyeon, knock-off phone cases.

you walk pass a flower cart that’s still open, tucked between a closed coffee shop and a laundromat with the lights still flickering.

sana stops and without asking, she points to a rose; pale pink, not too big, delicate.

the vendor wraps it without a word. she pays with a crumpled note from her coat pocket and turns to you, holding the flower out with a small, crooked smile.

you shake your head at her. “you’re seriously giving me a rose while i’m carrying your designer heels?”

“i’m rebranding.”

“as what? unbearable?”

she laughs again, nudges you with her shoulder. the rose smells faintly sweet, almost familiar. you take it anyway.

you walk side by side, your pace relaxed now. your body’s still not settled — the alcohol still humming low in your blood but the weight of the evening has eased a little, just enough to let you breathe again.

“what do you even do now?” you ask after a few blocks.

“hmm?” she looks over, adjusting her coat. “work stuff. sort of.”

“you either do or you don’t.”

“okay…i help out at mum’s company.”

“the real estate one?”

she nods, eyes flicking across the road as you wait for the light. “they needed someone to look over marketing and scheduling stuff, so i’ve been doing that. barely. mostly i just answer emails and pretend i know what i’m talking about.”

you nudge her this time. “you might as well come back to yonsei. you’re around so much like taehyung.

“and you’re there still,” she hums thoughtfully, the corner of her mouth twitching. “tempting.”

“i’d give it a week before you start complaining about group projects again.”

“i’d give it two days.”

you both laugh, easy and quiet. it surprises you how natural it still feels — the way your jokes land, the way she looks at you like she knows exactly what’s coming next. the rhythm is familiar, like a song you haven’t heard in years but still remember the words to.

“so you’re not in a rush to do anything else?”

“not really.” she shrugs. “i’ve got time. and money. and…other people’s expectations keeping me conveniently afloat.”

you nod slowly. “must be nice. being a nepo baby and all.”

“it is,” she chuckles, but there’s something behind it. a quiet admission.

you glance at her. the streetlights make her look softer, older. not in a bad way…just real, like the girl you used to know and the woman beside you are starting to blur into one.

you wonder, not for the first time tonight, what would’ve happened if you hadn’t walked away.

but maybe the answer’s always been the same: she would’ve stayed. and you would’ve still been too scared to hold it.

you shift the prada heels in your other arm and keep walking, matching her step for step. she doesn’t speak and neither do you.

by the time the streets start narrowing and the buildings around you shift from late-night diners and neon signs to apartment blocks and quiet windows, your legs ache in that dull, familiar way that says the night is ending. the city doesn’t feel like it’s spinning anymore, but you’re still not steady. the rose sana gave you is tucked into the crook of your elbow, petals bruising gently against your jacket. her shoes swing from your other hand, one heel clinking softly against the other with every step.

the only reason you realise where you’re heading is when you pass the old café — the one with the chipped brick facade and the teal door that never quite shut properly.

you remember the weeks you both kept showing up there like it wasn’t planned. two iced americanos, one croissant split in half. she used to pick the flaky crumbs off your shirt because she demanded it was her right.

your eyes linger on it. “still addicted to their croissant?”

she shrugs, hands in her coat pockets. “only when i miss you.”

your gaze lands on her but she’s not looking at you. just walking, eyes ahead.

you don’t respond because there’s nothing that wouldn’t open you up too wide. and maybe she knows that too, because she doesn’t press.

she turns to you, arms folded over her chest now, the wind tugging gently at her hair. “you should keep them, the heels.”

you raise an eyebrow. “you want me to babysit your pradas?”

“no,” she mumbles, mouth tilting into a half-smile. “i want an excuse to come back and get them.”

the smile she’s wearing is barely holding together. it’s light and joking, but underneath it is something quieter.

you nod, tucking the shoes under your arm. “i’ll make sure they’re fed.”

she snorts. “and walked.”

“twice a day.”

sana’s apartment building is unremarkable — not fancy, not run-down, just another tall stack of small lives. the entrance is lined with concrete planters, one with a half-dead lavender bush in it, the other empty save for cigarette butts and some plastic wrappers. the fluorescent light above the doorway flickers like it’s arguing with the dark.

she slows as you approach, feet dragging a little.

“this is me,” she begine, stopping at the bottom step as her breath curls into the cool air.

you nod, unsure if you’re supposed to keep going or say something first. the silence stretches again, but it’s not sharp anymore. it just sits there with you, quiet and true.

“thank you,” she hums, turning slightly to face you. “for walking me.”

“you didn’t need walking,” you grin, adjusting your grip on the heels. “you just needed company.”

“yeah,” she smiles at that. “maybe i did.”

her eyes scan your face, searching for something, but you don’t flinch, you let her look.

“i used to imagine this moment,” she admits, her voice dropping a little. “us, outside my door. you saying something reckless, me pretending to be annoyed. you’d kiss me. maybe ask to come up.”

you look at her, warmth spreading throughout your entire body.

“but now that you’re here like this,” she goes on, with a breath of quiet laughter. “i think i’m okay.”

you swallow. it rests heavy in your chest — not regret exactly, but something close to it. something shaped like it.

she rocks back on her heels slightly. “i’m moving on, slowly. but i think i needed tonight to remember that i can.”

you don’t know what to say. anything would sound too clean, so you nod again, slow and respectful.

“my door’s always open,” she continues, watching you with fond eyes. “not in a sad way, not even in a hopeful way. just…if you ever forget your way home and decide you want me again.”

you stand there, letting the stillness fold around the moment. she reaches out, touches your elbow briefly; just a press of her fingers against your coat.

then, she leans in and kisses your cheek. not in a way that asks for anything — just goodbye, maybe. or something smaller. something kind.

she steps through the door and disappears up the stairwell without another word. you glance up at her window as the light from her apartment flickers on. you don’t mean to linger, but something about it feels unfinished.

her window opens, and then there she is — hair a little messier now, one arm braced on the frame. her breath visible in the cold.

“forget all the bullshit i said, changed my mind on the way up,” she looks down at you. “do you wanna come up for tea?”

you laugh without meaning to.

she grins wider. “i’ve got peppermint and a very expired packet of ginger snaps.”

you shake your head. “you’re terrible at selling this.”

“you came all this way — might as well see what else i’ve got going for me.”

“i’m coming.”

you take the stairs two at a time. the shoes still tucked under your arm, the rose from earlier pressed into your coat pocket. her door’s already open when you reach the top.

she’s standing in the hallway barefoot, your sneakers kicked off near the wall and she looks at you like she’s been expecting you forever.

and for the first time in a long while, stepping inside doesn’t feel like a mistake. it just feels…warm.

she closes the door behind you. no promises. no labels, just the comfort of being wanted, even now. even still.

there’s the faint smell of clean laundry and maybe jasmine, whatever perfume sana wore last week and left on a jumper somewhere.

the first thing you do when you step inside is take off your coat, lay it neatly across the arm of the lounge, then walk over to the entryway where the shoe rack sits tucked into the wall. sana’s heels are still in your hands — you place them down beside her other (also expensive) shoes with more care than you mean to, aligning them so they won’t lean or fall.

next, you pull the rose from your coat pocket. it’s slightly bruised now from the walk, the petals a little crushed at the edges, but still lovely and soft. there’s a glass vase on a side table near the tv, empty except for dust. you fill it halfway at the sink, then nestle the stem inside.

sana notices the gesture, pauses mid-step in the hallway and says nothing; just watches you with something unreadable in her expression before disappearing into the bedroom.

the silence settles around you like breath held in the throat. you take a few slow steps through the open living space and everything about it tugs at something quiet inside you.

the rug is still the same pale beige, fraying slightly at the corners. the bookshelf still leans left, stuffed with too many paperbacks stacked horizontally when there wasn’t space left upright. the second drawer of the kitchen counter — the one that always stuck — is still chipped at the edge. and in the corner of the living room, barely visible behind the curtain, that small dent in the wall from when sana once tried to hang a painting without measuring.

you haven’t been here in years and yet it looks exactly as you remember. she is someone who never saw the point of changing something that worked.

it makes your chest ache in a way that doesn’t feel urgent, just inevitable.

“you need help in there?” you call out when she takes too long, not too loudly.

“nope,” her voice comes muffled, followed by the thud of a closing wardrobe door. “just trying to find something less…constricting.”

you smirk at the word: familiar, dramatic and hers.

a few minutes pass before she reappears, barefoot, hair loosely tied back, wearing a hoodie that’s clearly too big for her shoulders. it takes you a second — and then you know. it’s yours. grey, worn soft at the cuffs, the hem fraying just slightly. it used to be your favourite.

you stare at it for a beat too long. “is that mine?”

she glances down, feigns surprise. “oh? must’ve slipped into my laundry years ago.”

you laugh, a little hoarse. “you’re unbelievable.”

“and comfortable,” she adds, tugging the sleeves down over her hands.

you lean back against the counter, arms crossed, letting your eyes follow her as she moves through the kitchen. she knows where everything is without looking — mugs clinking softly as she opens the cupboard, pauses, mutters something under her breath.

she crouches slightly to check the tea tin, frowns. “where the fuck are my teabags?”

you raise an eyebrow. “that your idea of a welcoming host?”

“i had peppermint,” she groans. “last week. unless my fridge is eating things again.”

“maybe it’s trying to protect you.”

“from what?”

“peppermint tea,” you say and she laughs.

she fills the kettle with water, sets it on the stove and turns the dial. the flame flares. she flinches slightly when she brushes the side with her hand. “shit —”

you move forward instinctively, but she waves you off, shaking her hand out with a wince. “i’m fine. just punishment for poor organisation.”

you hover beside the counter while she spoons loose tea into a strainer, finally deciding on something chamomile adjacent. she passes over a filled mug and you cradle it in your hands like warmth might make sense again.

the television’s already on, volume low, playing a rerun of friends. the one where joey finds out. the laugh track rises faintly in the background, the kind of noise that keeps a room from feeling too still.

you take a seat beside her on the couch, legs pulled up, drink warm against your palms.

“so, you still drink peppermint?” she asks, settling deeper into the cushions.

you raise your mug. “still pretending.”

she stares at you for a second then lets out this low, incredulous laugh, burying her face into the side of the couch. “you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“what?”

“you hated it, didn’t you?”

you nod. “always did.”

she throws her head back and laughs again, the sound catching on itself, thinning at the edges like it might tip into something else. she recovers quickly, exhales slow, long. “god, we were so dumb.”

“we were,” you agree, sipping your tea.

the warmth settles in your chest, not from the drink, but from her…from the way she sits beside you like no time has passed, like you hadn’t disappeared on her and she doesn’t carry the weight of that.

“what’ve you been reading these days?” you ask, eyes on the screen.

“some essay collection about unfinished cities. buildings that stopped mid-construction and became part of the landscape.”

you glance at her. “you always did love a metaphor.”

“it’s depressing as shit.”

“so, you.”

she bumps your knee with hers; it stays there “what about you? still planning to leave after graduation?”

you stare into your mug. “i don’t know. some days, yeah. some days i feel like i’d get lost anywhere else.”

“you wouldn’t,” she insists. not like a promise.

you look at her — properly, this time. and she looks at you like she’s always known the version of you you’re trying so hard to become.

“we were young.”

“you were scared,” she replies.

“you were patient.”

“too patient.”

she doesn’t flinch when she says it. there’s no resentment or longing behind it. it’s the softness of someone who’s already made peace with the waiting.

you set your mug down on the coffee table, watching the way the steam curls and fades. the tv drones on, another laugh track, another joke you don’t catch.

“i tried dating,” she admits so quietly you almost miss it. your head turns. she’s staring at the carpet now, legs tucked up, fingers curled around her own mug like it’s holding her back. “a couple of people. it just…didn’t work.”

you wait, letting her take her time.

“no one made me laugh like you did,” she smiles, longing. “or pissed me off the way you did. which i think’s part of the appeal.”

you smile faintly. she looks at you then, eyes steadier than they’ve been all night.

“i’m not asking for another chance, i just want you to know — if you need me, i’m still here. not waiting. just…here. however you want.”

your chest tightens. “i’m not ready and i don’t want to hurt you.”

“i know.”

“but i don’t want to lose you again.”

she leans in, rests her head on your shoulder. her body’s close but not heavy. “then don’t.”

after a while, she lies down along the couch, arms tucked in close to her chest, she pats the space beside her without looking.

you lie down, slowly. her body curves away from yours. the blanket’s barely covering both of you. her foot brushes yours under it, once, and then doesn’t move again.

you close your eyes. and for the first time in weeks — maybe months…nothing inside you hurts. because for tonight, being near her is enough. not everything needs to be fixed. some things are allowed to just exist. gently.

like this.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the first thing you feel is weight — soft and warm across your chest, like a blanket with breath. then the tickle of hair against your neck, the faintest hint of perfume and sleep.

sana’s hair is everywhere, tangled across your collarbone, your throat, her cheek pressed just under the dip of your shoulder. her breath rises and falls in shallow rhythms, lips parted slightly, eyelashes fanned across her cheek. her arms are curled in close, one leg tangled with yours.

the living room is dim, daylight leaking in thin threads through the drawn curtains. the tv is still on, volume low, flickering through an infomercial for kitchenware neither of you would ever buy.

you lie still for a while, your arm numb beneath her, but you don’t move. it’s the kind of quiet that feels earned. the television’s off, the world outside still hushed by early light. your shirt is soft beneath you, her hoodie still faintly smells like detergent and something else you don’t have a name for.

sana stirs awake as you shift; she mumbles something incomprehensible before burying her face deeper into the space between your shoulder and neck. her voice is sleep-rough, barely there. “is it morning?”

“barely,” you murmur. “maybe past noon.”

she groans, pulling herself upright slowly. her eyes are heavy-lidded as she stretches, arms raised above her head, hoodie slipping up her stomach. she blinks at you through the strands of hair falling over her eyes.

“you want breakfast or lunch or…whatever time it is?” she asks, rubbing her temple.

you sit up too, slower, still reeling from the weight of sleep and the mild throb behind your eyes. “just coffee, if that’s alright. i’ve got a lecture in like an hour.”

she nods, yawning. “coffee’s fine. use whatever’s there. i think the moka pot still works. oh — and i left some clothes on the bed if you want to shower.”

you pause, your fingers resting at your temple. “you didn’t have to.”

“i know,” she says, pushing herself off the couch. “but i wanted to.”

you stand, stretching. those vodka shots sit at the bottom of your gut like coins tossed in too deep.

the hallway to her bedroom is dim and narrow. the moment you step inside, the smell hits you — faint floral perfume on the bedspread. the clothes are folded at the edge of the bed. yours, but not ones you remember leaving behind. you touch the fabric absently.

everything’s still here. not just the objects, but the version of you that once belonged in this room, in this light.

in the shower, the water is warm and noisy, echoing against tile. you stand with your forehead against the wall, eyes closed, breathing in the steam. the heat helps a little, but your stomach still turns. not from the alcohol…not entirely.

jimin creeps in around the edges — her voice, her hands, her apology over the phone. the way she said your name like it still meant something. you press your eyes shut tighter. the weight of it lands differently now. you’re not angry, but you feel sick in a way you don’t know how to explain.

you towel off quickly. dress in the clothes sana laid out. they smell faintly of drawer wood and lemon detergent as you brush your fingers through your damp hair in the mirror and avoid looking yourself in the eyes too long.

your phone’s now dead, pulling it from your coat pocket and putting it back. you could ask for a charger but you don’t, not today.

the quiet feels cleaner without it.

when you walk back into the kitchen, sana’s seated on the counter, still in your hoodie, legs crossed, scrolling through something on her phone.

she looks up, smiles when she sees you, soft and unguarded. “looking good.”

you cross to her, press a quick kiss to her cheek without thinking about it — it lingers a little too long.

“thank you,” you clear your throat, blushing slightly.

she tilts her head, smile deepening. “for what?”

“for letting me stay over and…this.”

quickly, you turn away before she can answer, walk to the windows and tug them open. light floods in slowly, catching dust motes in the air.

you flick the kettle on and open the same cupboard she did the night before. the tea is still there, barely touched. but you need something stronger. you find the coffee — ground and sealed in a jar with a crooked label and brew it black.

the scent fills the space quickly, bitter and grounding. you don’t drink it. just pour it into a travel mug you find by the sink.

“what are you up to today?”

sana shakes her head, letting out a groan. “sleeping all day. maybe go shopping.”

“what a hard life.”

“so much easier when you’re around,” she playfully bites back. “good luck dealing with jimin.”

you bite your lip, rolling your eyes. “don’t remind me.”

before you leave, you pull a scrap of paper from her notebook and scribble a note. your handwriting is messier than usual, letters uneven.

thanks for the tea and the shoes. maybe dinner sometime this week? – y/n.

you place it beside her laptop. she hasn’t noticed yet, still distracted by whatever’s on her phone. you don’t say goodbye out loud. just slip on your coat, take one last look at her in your hoodie, barefoot, head bowed.

“i’m off,” you look up from the front door, smiling. “see you?”

“see you later, have fun!” she waves as you step out quietly and close the door behind you.

the hallway smells faintly of dust and coffee burns your tongue. you don’t know what any of this means, not yet, but for now…it’s enough.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the lecture passes like fog. you sit through it with your eyes fixed on the front, pen barely moving across the page. your body’s there, but everything else is caught somewhere between the echo of last night and the strange quiet that followed.

the words on the slides blur in front of you. all you register is the sting behind your eyes and the way your body feels, like you’re still curling up on sana’s couch, the taste of black coffee lingering at the back of your throat. you had barely eaten.

the lecture ends and you move without thinking, slipping your notebook into your tote bag and pushing through the doors before anyone can speak to you. you just want to go home.

not even to your dorm — just anywhere private. anywhere karina isn’t.

the air outside is warm and smells faintly of smoke. sunlight pours through the golgen gingko trees that line the pavement. your head still aches while campus hums around you, students filtering out of buildings, bikes passing and someone’s laughing a little too loudly.

there’s something dizzying about moving through a place that feels so normal while everything in you is still reeling. you reach the main gate and glance across the road just as a black mercedes pulls up. tinted windows. clean, polished, like it doesn’t belong anywhere near a uni campus.

the window slides down; her.

“get in,” karina says, voice thin. “i’ll take you home.”

you stare at her for a moment too long, trying to decipher something in her eyes that doesn’t make your head spin. there’s nothing to find. she looks like she hasn’t slept. you’re too exhausted to argue. you don’t want to get in. every part of you screams against it. but your limbs are slow and your lungs ache and your legs are beginning to shake from the cold. so you open the passenger door and slide in.

there’s no makeup on her face, not even the tinted lip balm she used to reapply like muscle memory. her hair’s knotted up in a bun that clearly wasn’t meant to be seen. the jumper she’s wearing is too big, sleeves swallowing half her fingers and the pants don’t even match.

she just looks tired, no, wrecked.

she exhales like she’s been holding her breath the whole time. “you’re okay,” she adds. it sounds like relief; saying it more for herself.

you study her face — the raw edges of it, how her eyes flicker all over you. and you’re so tired, so sick of the push and pull of her voice in your chest. you let the silence stretch for a second too long before saying flatly: “i’m okay, karina.”

maybe it’s to protect yourself or maybe it’s punishment. either way, it lands like a slap.

she flinches at the name. her fingers tighten around the steering wheel, just barely. but she doesn’t argue as she starts driving and you let the silence hang between you like fogged-up glass.

the ache builds slowly in your chest. there’s no energy left for anger, not properly. just this numb, weightless sort of fatigue, like everything inside you has been wrung out.

you start counting things you’ll miss about her. the way she drove you crazy at the worst times. the smug little look she gave you when she knew she had won…her hands, her laugh, her breath warm against your shoulder whenever she fell asleep too close.

you’ll miss her like bruises miss the skin they belonged to.

but then again, you never really had her, did you? not fully; not without consequence.

what happened between the two of you these past few months wasn’t love. it was everything else: longing, want, secrecy, ache.

everything but love.

she speaks again. “i couldn’t sleep. i stayed at the dorm. i was worried sick, my love.”

you let the words hang in the air for a beat too long. “why?”

you don’t look at her because you don’t owe her softness anymore.

she shifts slightly in her seat and her eyes flick down to your clothes; her expression changing. the pieces click together in her mind.

the oversized shirt and hoodie, the joggers that aren’t yours and she already knows. she just wants to hear it.

“whose clothes are those?”

you sigh, your mouth starting to taste like regret.

“sana’s,” you answer, turning your head just enough to see her reaction. “i was at her apartment.”

karina lets out a sound between a laugh and a scoff. the kind that builds out of disbelief. “right. because she’s always just taking care of you, isn’t she?”

your head turns toward her. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“it means,” she snaps, jaw clenching. “that she’s clearly still fucking in love with you and you’re playing into it!”

you don’t respond right away. the silence between you grows sharp teeth and you think of sana sitting cross-legged on the couch last night, pouring you a cup of tea, tucking her hair behind her ears like it wasn’t supposed to mean something — the way she looked at you like you were worth the mess…as if she wanted you to want her back.

“and you’re in love with your boyfriend,” you bite back before you can stop yourself. your voice cracks, bitter and tired. “so what the fuck is your point?”

she flinches. “it’s not the same —”

“isn’t it?” you cut in. “you get to play girlfriend when you feel like it. post pictures, meet your parents, hold his hand in public like it means nothing. and then you show up at my dorm in the middle of the night like i’m supposed to be yours too.”

silence slams into the car again. you can feel it thicken, feel it bleed into your bones. she doesn’t say anything but her knuckles are white.

the campus disappears behind you as you watch the road for a while. red brick turns into old terrace houses and you feel the exhaustion settle behind your ribs again. you hate this version of you: the cold one, but you don’t know how else to protect yourself from her.

“pull over,” you say gently now. “let me drive.”

she shakes her head and you catch her wiping under her eyes with the sleeve of her jumper. “don’t do that. don’t pretend like this was just —just something that happened.”

“what was it then?” you ask, heaving out a sigh. “a glitch in the matrix? some fling to get you through your quarter-life crisis?”

her eyes start to shine again. but this time, she doesn’t bother hiding it. “you know it wasn’t that.”

“i don’t know anything anymore…i thought i did.”

“i’ll leave him,” she whispers. “i swear to god, y/n, i’ll leave him right now. just don’t walk away; i’ll do anything.”

you stare at her. not the version that gets followed around campus and not the name everyone knows. just her. the girl who used to stay up late telling you about her mother’s garden, about how sometimes she didn’t want to follow the path carved out for her, about the songs she never released.

and you don’t know which parts of her were real anymore.

“i’m tired,” you let out, voice thick. “i’m tired of being your second choice. of pretending it doesn’t hurt when you smile at him like he is the only person in the room.”

you take a breath that catches in your throat. “i saw you, jimin. all those times you thought i wasn’t looking. and you looked really, really happy.”

she shakes her head, tears spilling now. “i wasn’t. not the way i am with you.”

you close your eyes. it makes it worse because all you can see is her laughing in your hoodie. you see her brushing your hair behind your ear, forehead pressed to yours in the dark.

you shake your head, suddenly too tired again. “i wish it was me. i wish you were proud of me like that.”

she doesn’t have an answer, just reaches out across the space, fingers brushing against yours like a question.

you pull your hand back instantly.

“you think this has been easy for me?” she continues, her voice breaking. “you think i liked lying to everyone? lying to myself?”

you stare at her.

“you didn’t lie to anyone, you were his girlfriend in public and you were still his girlfriend in private — you made me your secret.”

“we could still happen,” she croaks out. “we could make it work. please.”

the fragile belief you’ve been holding to suddenly collapses inside of you. “no, we couldn’t…we were a mistake and you know that.”

you stare out the window again, trees blurring past. the ache sharpens and you want to throw up.

“no,” she breathes. her hand slips over the centre console, fingers reaching for yours again. “please, let me make it right — please give me that chance.”

she finally pulls over in front of your dorm and the engine idles. she doesn’t look at you but her shoulders are shaking as you reach for the door handle.

“please,” she says, not looking at you. “stay. just for a bit. don’t go, not like this.”

“thank you for the ride,” you mumble. “and for everything else, karina.”

and this time there’s no softness in your eyes when you look at her. only the quiet, hollow kind of finality that comes when you’ve run out of reasons to stay.

“don’t look back,” you add.

and then you step out, shuttint the door behind you.

you don’t look back either, not once, not when her sobs finally break out through the closed windows.

not even when your chest burns so deeply it feels like grief.

you just walk.

and for the first time in weeks, you let yourself feel what it means to leave.

to really, truly leave.

the dorm is warm when you walk in, maybe too warm. someone’s turned the heater on too high and the air feels close, thick with the scent of leftover coffee and the cheap jasmine incense yunjin always insists on burning after someone cries.

your eyes sting from the heat and the smell and the quiet — all of it too much, too pressing after the cold air outside. you close the door behind you, drop your bag near the shoe rack and only then notice how still everything is.

then you hear it. that unmistakable shuffle of socks on wood.

“y/n-nie?”

giselle appears first from the kitchen, holding a mug with both hands like she had just been standing there for something to do. her eyes flick down to your shoes, your hoodie, your face —assessing quietly, not pushing. behind her, ryujin and yunjin linger near the lounge, both stiff in place, like they’ve been pacing until the very moment they heard the door.

“you’re home,” yunjin speaks, voice oddly gentle, as if too loud might break something. she’s in pyjamas, hair in two messy plaits, a blanket half-draped over her shoulder like she tried to sleep on the couch and failed.

you nod, swallowing around the dryness in your throat. “yeah.”

there’s a beat of cautious silence. giselle places the mug down on the bench without sipping, then walks over to you, her steps slow.

“we were worried,” she reveals and it’s not dramatic or scolding.

you shrug off your jumper, the fabric damp from the weather and draping it over the back of a chair. none of them move closer, but they don’t pull away either.

the tension isn’t sharp — it’s concern, threaded in a way only people who love you know how to do. no one asks anything yet, as if they’re waiting for permission.

you sigh, rubbing your face with both hands and your voice comes out cracked. “i was at sana’s.”

ryujin blinks. “like…all night?”

you nod, your eyes still focused on the wooden floor. it has a small stain near the corner where giselle spilled hot chocolate a month ago. you never bothered to clean it properly. now you’re staring at it like it might explain something. “yeah, i didn’t know where else to go.”

giselle crosses her arms over her chest as she begins to process what you just told them. yunjin opens her mouth, then closes it again.

“she took care of me,” you add softly. “just…sat with me. made sure i didn’t drown in my own vomit. gave me coffee this morning but that’s it.”

a silence stretches again, this one heavier.

then: “so,” giselle starts, cautious as ever. “what about…well, what happened with jimin?”

you suck in a slow breath. it tastes like regret. “it’s done.”

none of them react right away.

it feels like disappointment and relief all tangled together, like crying after holding your breath too long. you sit on the edge of the couch, hands slack in your lap, trying to breathe through the heaviness sitting on your chest.

“like…actually done?” yunjin says after a moment, her brows furrowed.

“she lied to me,” your throat thickens. “turns out she’s been planning a europe trip with jaewook over the break. she said she was going to leave him, made me believe it. all while booking flights and making dinner reservations.”

the room stills again. giselle’s eyes harden and yunjin sits next to you, her blanket still half-on, half-off, and rests her head on your shoulder. she doesn’t say anything. just that.

ryujin bites her lip. “what the actual fuck,” then disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a half-eaten box of almond pocky. she tosses it in your lap. “you’re gonna need this.”

you snort, barely, but the sound catches in your throat.

giselle walks over and crouches in front of you, one hand on your knee, the other reaching to take your hand. she squeezes gently, like she’s grounding you. maybe she’s always been your anchor and you didn’t notice until now.

“you don’t deserve that,” she assures you, her voice quiet but unwavering. “none of it. not the lies, not the hiding…not being made to feel like a backup plan.”

you blink fast, vision starting to blur. she leans forward and pulls you into a hug. it’s the kind that doesn’t ask for anything back.

“i’m proud of you,” she whispers. “you didn’t wait around for crumbs this time.”

you press your face into her shoulder, throat tight. you don’t cry, not fully, but you feel something loosen as your fingers curl into the fabric of her jumper.

ryujin plops down dramatically on the other side of the couch. “should we start a jimin recovery playlist? i’ve got at least seven breakup bangers that scream ‘i hate you please die’.”

“only seven?” yunjin scoffs. “you’re slacking.”

“i’ve been saving my best material,” she rolls her eyes, reaching over to ruffle your hair. “but don’t worry, we’ll heal your heart with a highly curated mix of charli xcx, revenge fantasy pop and taylor swift if you’re up for it. the spiteful taylor. none of that mature, understanding bullshit.”

you laugh, quietly, but it’s real. the sound feels strange in your mouth, it doesn’t belong to you yet, but it’s something.

yunjin sits up straighter. “and i vote we get drunk next weekend like so drunk you forget jimin’s last name.”

“already forgot it,” you mumble, wiping under your eye with your sleeve. “her name’s karina, remember?”

they all groan in unison.

“disgusting,” ryujin mutters.

“i liked her better when she was just rumoured to be dating that heiress from italy,” yunjin adds, shaking her head. “that era had mystery.”

“we’re not doing eras,” giselle whines, pulling back from the hug but keeping her hand on your arm. “we’re doing healing. and coffee. and maybe a bad horror movie marathon.”

you nod, finally looking at them properly. “thank you.”

you mean it.

giselle smiles. “always.”

the sun has dipped low behind the buildings outside, casting long shadows across the window panes. the wind picks up again, whistling faintly against the glass. winter’s coming in sharp, cold bursts — but in here, in this small flat with its mismatched mugs and blanket piles and people who don’t let you fall apart alone; it feels like you might survive it.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

god, you hate this back room. it smells like old denim and the faint lemon of cleaning spray. it’s cramped, cluttered and there are scarves spilling out of bins, old jackets draped over mannequins with missing arms and a stack of shoeboxes taunting you from the corner like they know you haven’t done inventory in weeks. you’re holding a clipboard, pen dangling loosely from your fingers, but you haven’t ticked a single box in the last ten minutes.

taehyung is crouched by the bottom shelf, trying to match a pair of cowboy boots to their brand tags. he keeps making dumb comments under his breath like, “these boots were made for emotionally unavailable women,” or “do you reckon i could pull these off if i dropped out of uni and started busking in hongdae?”

normally, you would laugh. maybe roll your eyes and call him insufferable but you don’t. not today.

“okay,” he says suddenly, standing up and brushing dust off his knees. “no offence, but you’re being kind of a weirdo right now and it’s freaking me out.”

you blink up at him. “i’m doing stocktake.”

“you’ve been counting the same three belts for ten minutes.”

you glance down. this is true. you had forgotten what number you were on.

he tilts his head, crossing his arms loosely. “what’s going on?”

you don’t answer at first. the room’s too small and your throat’s tight like there’s something stuck in it that won’t come loose.

he steps closer. “hey, stop pretending it’s nothing. just tell me.”

you set the clipboard down. slow, like your hands don’t really belong to you. the words come out quieter than you expect. “i ended it.”

he frowns. “with karina?”

you nod. “a few days ago.”

you don’t say anything for a while and neither does he. you pull your sleeves over your hands, wiping your palms against them absently. “i haven’t been sleeping right. or studying. i tried to open my casebook last night and just stared at the table of contents for an hour.”

you swallow. “and she’s still with him. she hasn’t even left him.”

he winces, like he didn’t expect that part. “shit.”

you sit down on one of the old ottomans, exhaling hard through your nose. “you were right…you and everyone else.”

and finally, your voice cracks. “it was just a game to her.”

taehyung moves quickly but gently, crouches in front of you, one knee on the dusty floor. his hands hover awkwardly before landing lightly on your knees.

you laugh, but it breaks midway and turns into a sob. “i feel so fucking stupid.”

your whole body folds in, shoulders quaking. the tears come hard and ugly, the kind you tried to fight for days. you hate crying in front of people, how loud it feels in your ears, how it makes your nose run and your skin feel too thin.

“top of my class,” you mutter bitterly. “but i fall for someone who can’t even be proud of me, who won’t even say my name when other people are around.”

he doesn’t say anything, but wraps his arms around you and holds you to his chest, one hand rubbing circles along your back. he smells like fabric softener and the bakery next door.

you bury your face into his cardigan. he stays quiet, not offering hollow reassurances; just letting you come apart.

and then the bell on the front door rings.

you don’t even look up, but his voice cuts in softly. “hey, give us a sec — oh. it’s you.”

you hear a pause. then his hand gives your shoulder one last squeeze before he pulls back.

“i’ll go get coffee,” he murmurs, standing. “you two talk.”

you sniff and lift your head slightly. standing in the doorway, silhouetted by late afternoon light and soft specks of dust in the air, is sana.

she’s wearing a simple black turtleneck and jeans. her hair’s darker now — dyed black, freshly cut, tucked behind her ears. she looks softer. less like the girl who used to demand attention the second she entered a room and more like the one who made you coffee every morning with a grin on her face.

“hi,” she greets gently. “you look…terrible.”

you try to laugh; it’s shaky.

“thanks,” you croak out, wiping your nose with your sleeve. “great to see you too.”

sana kneels in front of you like taehyung had. she reaches up and brushes your cheeks gently, thumbs catching your tears before they fall again. her touch is light, careful, but not unsure. you didn’t realise how much you missed being touched like that.

“you’re okay,” she assures, more to you than to herself. “you’re okay.”

you shake your head. “i’m a mess.”

“so was i,” she smiles. “after us. you remember?”

you do, of course you do. there were nights she showed up at your door in the middle of the night with swollen eyes and takeout she never touched; the way she apologised for loving you too much, or maybe not in the right way.

you glance up at her again. “you dyed your hair.”

she smiles, brushing a strand behind her ear. “felt like a change.”

“what brings you here?”

“you invited me,” she answrs simply.

you blink. “i did?”

“yeah,” she nods. “you left a note in my laptop case last week. about dinner.”

you remember now — hurried handwriting on a torn bit of paper. you didn’t even think she saw it. you didn’t think anything of it, really.

“when you didn’t reply to my texts after that,” she continued. “i knew something was wrong; unless you wanted to ghost me.”

you drop your gaze again. “it’s been bad.”

“i can tell.”

she reaches for your hand andyou let her take it.

“you don’t have to tell me everything, just…let me be here.”

you don’t say much after that. but maybe you don’t need to. perhaps, just sitting there; knees touching, her thumb tracing the edge of your palm, is enough for now.

sana doesn’t let go of your hand and you don’t pull away. the back room is still, filled with the quiet hum of the overhead light and the distant muffled rhythm of taehyung’s playlist bleeding in from the speakers out front.

you study the edge of her sleeve where it’s fraying a little at the cuff. her thumb keeps brushing back and forth across your palm like she’s absentmindedly trying to smooth out all the jaggedness left behind by the last few months.

“i’m sorry for how i was,” you say quietly.

she looks up at you, but doesn’t interrupt.

“when we ended; i know i wasn’t easy.”

she gives you a small smile, one that tugs gently at the corners of her mouth but doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “neither was i.”

you shake your head, eyes fixed on some scuff mark on the floor. “i used to think you were too good for me, maybe that wasn’t fair.”

“or maybe it was,” she says softly. “i was selfish. i didn’t know how to love without making it about me; it wouldn’t have been the right time anyway.”

your throat tightens again, but not in the same way it did earlier.

“still,” she adds, eyes softening. “i loved you.”

your breath catches in your chest. not from the weight of the words, but the calm way she says them — like she’s not afraid of their shape anymore.

“and honestly, i think part of me always will,” she continues. “but that doesn’t mean you owe me anything.”

you look at her.

her dark hair frames her face in soft waves now, the roots even and glossy, catching little bits of light every time she shifts. her gaze doesn’t falter, not like jimin’s. she isn’t searching your face for permission or forgiveness. she’s just…here.

the same girl who used to bring you croissants and wait outside your tutorials just to drive you home. and the same girl you pushed away.

“i don’t know what i’m doing,” you murmur.

“that makes two of us,” she replies, and finally, finally, it makes you smile.

you lean your head back against the shelf and close your eyes for a moment. somewhere outside, a motorbike revs and a car honks, but it all feels distant, like background noise in someone else’s memory.

sana shifts a little, tucking one knee up as she rests her chin on it. “i know she hurt you.”

you don’t respond.

“and i know it’s not about her anymore. it’s about how much of yourself you gave her, how hard you tried to be enough.”

it’s exactly that; because you bent yourself backwards for a love that never made room for you; because you believed that if you just waited, if you just held on longer, maybe you would be chosen.

“you don’t have to fix it overnight,” she squeezes your hand. “you just have to get through today. and then tomorrow.”

you open your eyes.

“what if i don’t want to feel anything anymore?”

“then feel nothing. just let your body sit and exist. i’ll be here either way.”

you don’t realise you’re crying again until she gently reaches up to wipe at your cheeks, thumbs warm and steady.

you sniff and laugh a little through it. “i’m gross.”

“you’re beautiful,” she reminds you and she doesn’t say it like a line.

you exhale shakily, chest rising and falling with the slow rhythm of finally letting yourself be held together instead of holding it all in.

you nod, almost imperceptibly. “hey, you want to help me count shoes?”

she laughs. “only if you let me keep the jelly sandals in a size too small.”

you roll your eyes. “deal.”

she gets up first, tugging your hand gently until you follow. the world outside is still there, still cold, still complicated. but for now, you’re in this small, overstuffed back room that smells like dust and history and maybe a little bit of burnt vanilla and gasoline station perfume, standing next to someone who knows how to hold space.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the place is nothing like the places you usually go to…unless you were with she-who-can’t-be-named. the lighting is low and gold-toned like everything’s been dipped in honey. even the chairs feel too generous.

you watch sana from across the table. she’s dressed like it didn’t take her any effort at all —high-waisted trousers and a cashmere coat, hair tucked behind her ears, her lipstick a subtle red that hasn’t smudged even after sipping from her wine glass.

she knows which fork to use and she talks to the waiter like she’s done this a hundred times. maybe she has.

it makes you sit a little straighter without realising.

“you’re really leaning into this chaebol heiress look,” you say, trying to sound amused, though your tone comes out a bit too dry.

she blinks at you, then smiles. “i’m not leaning into anything. this is just how i grew up.”

you frown slightly. “i thought your family did real estate?”

“they do,” she replies, lightly tearing off a piece of bread, “and hotels. and department stores. and resorts.“

you stop mid-chew, jaw tightening slowly. “wait, like…multiple?”

“yeah,” she answers, dipping her bread into olive oil. “we don’t really talk about it unless we need to.”

you set your knife down. you feel suddenly underdressed, under qualified and under-everything.

she gives you a knowing look. “don’t look at me like that. you already know half of yonsei’s student body is secretly the next chaebol generation. taehyung’s family owns half the city and we all get jewellery from irene’s family.”

you nod. “right.”

you knew taehyung was rich because his card never gets declined and he doesn’t flinch at 500,000 won bar tabs for two people but you didn’t realise how many of your classmates were sitting on invisible thrones.

in the years you knew her, sana was never flashy.

you laugh a little, pressing your water glass to your lips just to cool your face. “this explains why everyone’s so casually unbothered all the time.”

she chuckles, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “that’s just generational wealth and no student loans.”

the food arrives slowly, each dish set down like a performance. truffle pasta, scallop carpaccio, slices of bread still warm from the oven. you focus on the steam rising from your plate, hoping the heat might settle something in your chest.

sana makes a few jokes about the menu being in italian and the wine being impossible to pronounce. she’s easy to talk to, even when your brain won’t stop whirring.

you’re almost halfway through your meal when you notice her hand pause halfway to her wine glass.

you look up.

her gaze is fixed over your shoulder, her expression suddenly unreadable.

“shit,” she mutters.

you turn.

and there they are.

karina, in a long charcoal coat and glossy black boots, walking side by side with jaewook, who’s grinning at something she just said. they don’t see you at first. you could turn around and stay quiet and pretend this isn’t happening.

but you don’t.

she looks around, her eyes landing on you.

her steps are slow and then she stops entirely. jaewook turns, confused, until his eyes find yours. his face lights up in that smug, entitled way you always hated; like nothing touches him.

sana shifts beside you, her fingers curling slightly against her wine glass. “we can leave.”

you glance at her, then shake your head. “no,” your voice is steady and it surprises you. “i’m fine.”

you place your hand over hers, her knuckles are cold. you squeeze gently.

jaewook approaches with a glint in his eye that makes your stomach twist. “well, well, so it’s you and sana after all.”

you don’t reply.

he leans forward slightly, his tone low and amused. “and you made such a show of denying her in the car.”

you don’t look at karina. you can feel her there, just behind him, still silent.

“have a good night,” you immediately shut the conversation down, keeping your voice clipped and neutral.

he laughs. “don’t worry, i will.”

karina steps forward and grabs his arm, her voice low. “don’t be such an ass — let’s go.”

he lets himself be led away, still grinning.

you stare down at your plate, your appetite’s gone. you hear the clinking of plates, a burst of laughter from the next table, the hum of a song you don’t recognise.

sana moves again, drawing your eyes back to her. her gaze is steady. “tell me about your parents,” she says gently, reminding you that you’re still here. “how are they?”

you sigh. “they’re okay. mum’s still watching every cooking show on earth and dad sends me weather updates from our town like i don’t have the same forecast app.”

she smiles. “that sounds comforting.”

“it is.”

she asks you what countries you would want to visit, you tell her about a childhood obsession with iceland and the way you used to look up glacier hikes online. she tells you about getting snowed in at a ryokan in sapporo and how magical it was. she’s trying, you realise. not to distract you…but to pull you back toward something that isn’t about them.

and for a while, it works. you laugh. really laugh. you lean forward and wipe your mouth with your napkin and let her smile reach you.

before dessert, you excuse yourself quietly, slipping into the bathroom down the hall. the marble counters feel too clean as you stare at yourself for a while, adjusting your hair even though there’s nothing wrong with it.

your cheeks are flushed, your lips are still a little red — you look fine.

but your chest feels tight because sana’s waiting outside and she’s perfect and patient and real, and you want to want her cleanly. fully. without looking over your shoulder.

but you’re not there yet.

and it doesn’t help that the bathroom is too quiet.

you run the tap but don’t wash your hands — just listen to the sound of it, trying to pace your breathing against the rhythm of the water. there’s something behind your eyes that’s ready to crack open if you let it.

there’s a faint crease on your cheek from where you leaned on your hand earlier. your eyes look swollen with too many nights of half-sleep and too many mornings where you woke up already bracing for the weight of the day.

sana had looked at you with so much patience over dinner; her smile came without conditions. she was there; not watching the door or distracted.

definitely not waiting for someone else to call her away.

and yet, when jaewook and jimin walked in, your body still betrayed you and your thoughts still unravelled in the space between their footsteps and the sound of sana’s voice trying to bring you back.

the marble is cold under your fingertips as you grip the edge of the sink. you don’t know what to do with this.

you don’t know what to do with the way sana makes you feel calm and seen and steady; and how karina still manages to set off something just beneath your ribs that feels like longing — or regret — or something worse.

it’s not fair to sana; not when she’s still in there, probably sipping her wine and pretending the lump in your throat didn’t appear the moment karina’s eyes met yours.

you fix your hair slowly, smoothing it behind your ears, avoiding your reflection now.

the door swings open and your breath stops because you know the weight of that presence before you even lift your head.

karina doesn’t say anything right away. the silence is dense — so dense you could carve into it with a knife. you feel her watching you through the mirror, like she’s trying to will you to turn around.

you keep your hands steady, adjusting the collar of your shirt. you don’t want this…not here, not like this.

“have you been fucking her all along?”

the question cuts through the quiet so abruptly that for a second, you think you misheard her. but the cold in her voice is unmistakable as if she’s furious and doesn’t know where to put it.

you turn slowly, meeting her eyes.

she’s standing near the door, jaw set, her hands curled into tight fists at her sides. her eyes are glassy and it makes something twist inside you —because you remember what it feels like to be the reason for that look.

you remember nights when she stared at you the same way, but with tenderness instead of suspicion.

you shake your head at her. “don’t do that.”

“don’t do what?” she spits, stepping closer. “don’t ask questions you clearly don’t want to answer?”

“this isn’t your business anymore.”

her breathing is shallow; she swallows hard. her eyes flicker across your face like she’s searching for something to hold onto.

“you told me you wanted me to choose you,” she continues, voice faltering. “so here i am. ready to choose you. just say it. tell me what to do and i’ll fucking do it.”

you heave out a sigh, but it doesn’t steady you. “you had months, karina.”

“i was scared.”

“so was i!”

“then tell me it’s not too late,” she pleads, stepping forward again. “please tell me there’s still a version of this where i get to have you.”

you close your eyes. for one second; just one.

because this is what she does — she comes back only when you’ve just started to walk away…when the part of you that loved her most has grown quiet enough to let something new begin.

you open your eyes and there she is. just her. small and stubborn and heartbreakingly soft in front of you.

and still — you know better.

“i can’t keep being your almost,” you whisper. “i can’t keep waiting for you to be proud of me in public.”

she looks like she’s about to cry. her mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

you don’t know what else to say.

and then suddenly, behind her — another voice. steady, but sharp with interruption.

“what’s going on?”

you turn around just as sana walks in. she stops when she sees karina. her posture stiffens, like she’s debating whether to walk right back out again.

her eyes flick to you, then back to her. she doesn’t smile. “am i interrupting something?”

but no one answers. not right away.

because you’re still caught between them: one who haunts and one who holds — and for a brief, suffocating moment, you don’t know which way to move.

the silence barely lasts a breath. barely long enough for you to decide because sana’s eyes don’t move from karina’s. there’s nothing timid about her now — none of the teasing charm she wore like perfume over dinner; her jaw is tight. when she steps forward, it’s with the kind of composure that makes your stomach twist.

“you don’t get to do this here,” sana firmly starts, voice low but steady. “not in some bathroom while your fucking boyfriend’s sipping wine two tables away.”

the other girl doesn’t answer immediately. she’s still breathing unevenly, still staring at you like you’re something slipping through her fingers and now she can’t quite figure out how you got this far without her.

she turns toward sana, her voice sharp. “this doesn’t involve you.”

“it does; the second you made her cry on my couch, the second you let her walk away thinking it was her fault. it absolutely involves me.”

your heart’s thudding against your ribs as you try to ground yourself in its coldness. you hate this. the closeness of it, the fluorescent lighting, the way their voices bounce off tile walls and make everything feel louder than it is.

“you think this is about you?” karina snaps. “you think you just get to show up again and erase everything we had?”

sana crosses her arms. “i’m not erasing anything. you did that all on your own.”

your eyes flick between them, your head ringing with the pressure of too many thoughts trying to speak at once.

karina’s lips are trembling now, her eyes red, her hands flexing uselessly by her sides. she looks like she’s holding something in — rage or regret, you can’t tell. she shakes her head, tongue pressed against the inside of her cheek like she’s holding something in.

“you think you’re so much better than me,” she mutters. “but you weren’t there.”

“no,” sana replies, stepping further into the room. “because she didn’t want me there. she wanted you. and what did you do? you left her waiting. you told her things you had no intention of following through with. and then you paraded your boyfriend around like she was the mistake.”

karina looks at you again. her voice is lower now. “you think she’s better for you?”

you swallow hard, refusing to answer. because the truth is, you don’t know.

sana doesn’t make you feel like you have to shrink to be loved, she doesn’t hide you nor weigh her affection with conditions…but she’s not who your heart pulled toward first.

and that’s the problem. maybe the worst thing about it all — that the heart doesn’t care if the hands it longs for have already dropped it.

“she sees me,” you manage, finally. “she doesn’t make me feel like i’m not enough.”

you can’t breathe.

next to you, karina says quietly: “i don’t know how to let you go.”

and it hits you harder than it should.

because that’s the one thing you’ve always known about her — she doesn’t say the truth until it’s already been buried under rubbles of silence.

“you should’ve thought of that before choosing your boyfriend,” sana snaps this time, stepping between you and karina now. “you don’t get to mourn her like you didn’t help break her.”

you take a shaky breath and force your voice to work. “can we just — ” you stop, then try again. “sana.”

her head turns to you immediately, eyes softening.

you don’t know what expression is on your face, but it makes her take a half-step toward you. “hey,” she murmurs, already shifting her posture, “i’m sorry. i shouldn’t have —”

“can we go home?” you cut her off. “i don’t want dessert anymore.”

she nods without hesitation.

“of course.”

you turn toward the door, but not before catching karina’s expression. she looks stricken, as if you just took something from her that she never thought you would actually keep for yourself.

part of you wants to say something to soften it. tell her you’re not choosing sides, not really. you’re just choosing peace; but there’s nothing you could say that wouldn’t pull you back in.

so you walk out.

sana trails behind you silently.

your hand brushes hers once as you make your way through the dining room. she doesn’t try to hold it — doesn’t reach — but you feel the warmth of her beside you, steady and quiet and grounding.

you don’t look back, don’t think you ever will.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

vi. i need to want something more (coming)

#kpop x reader #heliooosss #kpop gg #aespa x reader #kpop imagines #aespa imagines #karina #karina imagines #angst #karina x reader #aespa #sana x reader #minatozaki sana

597 notes · View notes

cherspastries · 26 days ago

Note

Cher!! I love your writing and you aesthetic so much :)

You’re a graphic designer yeah? What driver do you think would work well with a graphic designer reader, and on that note, what occupation do you think each driver’s s/o would have?

And do you do emoji anons? 👀 If so can I be 🫧?

I LOVE HER AS SHE IS,

DOING HER THING!

WORK IT!

2025 Grid x Reader

SUMMARY 𐙚 What jobs I think each driver’s girlfriend would have + how you first met.

WARNINGS 𐙚 Fluff, reader is described with feminine terms, mentions of alcohol / handling alcohol, not proofread

WORD COUNT 𐙚 6.3K

A/N 𐙚 Hi!! Tysm I love my theme, and yes I do accept emoji anons! Hello 🫧 !! Also, before I actually write, I love all the WAGs and respect their jobs, but I wanted to romanticize this a bit so… All the drivers are getting hypothetical new girlfriends with weird and interesting occupations and personalities

DIRECTORY | MASTERLIST | REQUESTS: OPEN

RedBull ෆ

Max Verstappen

Bartender

You cannot convince me this man isn’t always in need of a drink. Whether he’s celebrating or he’s upset, Max likes a good gin and tonic. Sure, he can make his own, but nobody makes it as good as his lovely girlfriend: a bartender. That’s right! He met you at a club in Monaco, of course. It was after he had won a grand prix, and he kept coming back for more and more alcohol until he was blackout drunk. You had to call him a cab home, and he kept mumbling about how beautiful and perfect you were. When he came back to retrieve his lost phone the next day, he apologized and properly asked you out.

But it’s also nice because Max’s favorite way to relax with you is to lay across the couch, drink in hand, and watching a show you both enjoy. He doesn’t want to overwork you, but if you offer to whip something up real fast, he’s definitely not going to say no to your hard work and encourage you to keep doing what you love. Side note, I genuinely think he loves being able to party at the club you work at. He loves getting to enjoy a night out, but also being able to visit you whenever he wants. His friends have stopped wondering where he’s ran off to after they found out who was behind the bar. They shouldn’t be surprised when he disappears every five minutes to go chat you up again. Sometimes regular patrons give him dirty looks because they think he’s hitting on you inappropriately, but then you flash the matching set of rings and they simmer down.

Yuki Tsunoda

Seamstress

I’ll be honest, I was unsure about this one, but I honestly think it makes a lot of sense. Yuki has really good style, so I had a feeling his partner should be related to fashion. However, seamstress was a bit of a stretch. I think you’d make a lot of clothes for him, which is why he has such great style to begin with. He’s wearing handmade, high quality patchwork hoodies and jeans and shoes that you decorated yourself, all made by you! So yeah, whenever someone compliments his very fitting form of fashion, he lets you know that the people are certainly admiring your work. Do we all remember when the internet went crazy over Yuki wearing his RedBull shirt unbuttoned? Yeah. All you.

He first met you when you were still just a fan. Some might argue the dynamic seems inappropriate, but you were never a huge fan of him specifically. Just… An F1 fan. You sewed shirts for the RedBull team, and they weren’t the typical tacky wear that the team usually received. These had lots of thought and enthusiasm put into them— He could only imagine how hard and how long you have slaved away making those, so he wore it with pride… Even if it was a tad bit too big. After that, he kept seeing you in the paddock, communicating with various engineers and drivers, collecting autographs like it was your job. He complimented your work, you introduced yourself, and the rest was history. So yeah, you ended up falling for the irresistible charm of Yuki Tsunoda, and honestly who can blame you?

Mercedes ෆ

George Russell

Graphic designer

Yes, okay. This is my line of work, and I honestly believe George would be the most supportive for a graphic designer out of everyone. I mean, he at least thinks he knows fashion and technology, so he assumes that he’s being helpful. I can see the two of you being high school sweethearts that pursued different paths, but stuck together. Of course you knew George was into racing at the time, because he was karting even back then, but you never expected him to reach such fame. He even managed to get to a job with the FIA, designing graphics for winners and podiums and such, so yeah. People have been silently appreciating your work for years. You’re the one who gets to see all the unused winner graphics.

Whenever you’re working on a project, you consult George. Even though half the time you don’t listen to his advice, it’s nice to get somebody else’s opinion and support. You know he’ll be honest instead of giving you that “it’s perfect the way it is” bullshit, so his unfiltered opinion is just what you need to get a sense of what the right direction might be. He used to sugarcoat it, but you eventually told him that his honesty wouldn’t hurt your feelings, and he started to be more open. Not that it was rude, because his opinions were still helpful and polite! He always tops it off with a kiss and a wish of good luck. He knows you’ll make the right decision.

Kimi Antonelli

Tutor

Alright. We all have fun joking about Kimi needing a math tutor, but what if he doesn’t. Because his girlfriend is one. You know? You’re still in school, just like him, so you make a lot of money by people paying you to help them out in classes. Yes, Kimi needs a nerd girlfriend I feel it in my SOUL. Now, contrary to popular belief, you actually don’t tutor him. Why? Because he gets distracted by you very easily. He can’t stop looking at your pretty eyes, your plump lips, and your soft hair. All he wants is to bury his face in your neck and lay on top of you 24/7/365, because you’re so soft and warm. So no, you don’t tutor him. You can’t tutor him. You’ve tried. You’ve failed.

He brings you to the Imola Grand Prix, happily showing you off and introducing you to all of his track mates with that huge boyish grin. He tells them all that you’re just his tutor, and that afterwards you’ll be in his drivers room teaching him the pythagorean theorem (which he doesn’t even know how to pronounce in any language, mind you, so he’s just stumbling over syllables to get the idea out.) You correct him and politely let them know you’re actually his girlfriend. They all tease him, insisting that this whole story was just an excuse to sneak you into his room for a cheeky make out session, which you both quickly deny with flushed cheeks and slight stutters. Looks like he’s been caught before he could even try.

Ferrari ෆ

Charles Leclerc

Fashion designer

Now this isn’t to say that Charles doesn’t already have good fashion sense, because he definitely does. However, I do think that after the two of you started dating, there was a noticeable change in his choices. He started to dress in a manner that was suitable to his… Well, everything. He had custom made clothes with logos pertaining to him on them, everything matched his face and body shape, and he was dressed to an absolute T. All thanks to you! He doesn’t even have to ask, you just quietly sketch up designs for jackets and shirts that he can proudly show off at races, and you’ve even helped him customize merch that is both affordable, and fits the aesthetic of most of his fans. Goodbye trashy t-shirts with a logo lazily slapped on, and hello well thought out designs.

You were definitely hired to design some of his merch after the team saw your concept sketches. He was completely clueless to your arrival, but once he saw you he knew there was something irresistible that surrounded you. Your aura was undeniably attractive, and you were a genius when it came to your job. Of course. He loved your sense of fashion, so Charles discreetly asked you out to go get coffee and discuss things some more. Except, the two of you ended up talking and laughing the entire time, so of course you had to reschedule. And then you had to reschedule again because the same thing happened. Then finally you realized what he was doing, and asked him out on an official date. From then on, he proudly showed you off as his girlfriend. No more hiding!

Lewis Hamilton

Makeup artist

Yes, both of the Ferrari boys have their fashion girlfriends. I think if they existed in the same universe they’d be really good friends, too. I think Lewis loves to listen to you rant about different qualities of makeup, and how different makeups can affect break-outs on skin, and how to prevent all that. There’s a lot that goes into your line of work, and he never gets tired of hearing it. I think his favorite thing is hearing you talk about different color palettes and how you decide what colors suit a client best. You’ve definitely done similar things on him, and he stays true to your advice and tries to mix those colors in to his outfits. He also refuses to hire anyone but you to do his makeup for events, and he brings you everywhere he can. Trust that you were attached at the hip during the Met Gala, and that he was announcing to everyone he met that you did his makeup, and how talented you are. Watch out because you’re gonna have so many clients coming your way.

Unlike Charles and his girlfriend, you were not hired to work for him when you met. It was actually more of a meet cute— He was asking for advice in your local beauty shop, because he figured you looked like you knew what you were doing and could tell him what the correct shade of blush was for his niece, who was clinging to his side. You were in awe because holy shit, the Lewis Hamilton was asking you for advice, which you gave while stammering to an embarrassing extent. He thanked you, and asked for your number with the excuse that he might need more advice in the future. You did not hesitate to give it to him, and while he didn’t call for advice, he did call to ask you out properly. Your dynamic is very much so “girlfriend who knows a lot about fashion and boyfriend who pretends not to so he can hear her ramble.”

McLaren ෆ

Oscar Piastri

Food critic

Oh yes, the two of you are most certainly bonding over a shared love of food. Oscar Piastri doesn’t present himself as a foodie, but it’s more of a hidden pleasure of his. I won’t lie, when you first mentioned your occupation he thought it was somewhat funny. Reviewing food for a living seemed like something simple. He took it at the base level ideation and assumed that’s all it was. However, when you got really invested with talking about it, Oscar was quick to learn there was so much more. You discussed about different types of recipes, and methods when it came to baking. You ranted about cuts of meat and how each one had its own taste. With your influence, he quickly became quite the enthusiast himself. So, every time you guys went to a restaurant, you both ordered something entirely new to compare and contrast to past dishes. It was fun getting to try new things with you.

When you first met, it was in a restaurant. One of those crowded places where you ended up shoulder to shoulder with a random stranger because of how busy it was. For you, that random stranger ended up being famous racer Oscar Piastri. Although it was awkward at first, you sparked up soft chatter about the meal. He told you he was having the same thing he always did: pasta. You explained your meal, which was exotic to the both of you. When you expressed your disinterest in the taste he teasingly asked what made you so qualified to comment on such a thing. That’s what he found out. Intrigued by your charm, and your passion for all things food, Oscar couldn’t help but ask for your number.

Lando Norris

Teacher

Lando, in my firm opinion, is fantastic with children. He’s a little immature himself, which gives him that natural charm that makes getting along with children easy. He has no troubles throwing on that enthusiastic tone that lights their brains up. One morning in particular, Lando’s dear friend Max had a huge favor to ask of him: Take Penelope to school. Kelly was out for work, and he was running a high fever, which meant ‘Uncle Lala’ was on duty for the day. Admittedly she was a little late, and she showed up with a smoothie from Lando’s favorite coffee shop and a brand new pair of shoes. While he’s good with kids, he’s terrible at saying no. He walked the young girl into her classroom, and he damn near lost his mind. You were perfect— radiant, kind, soft-spoken but not timid. The dream girl that mirrored him perfectly. Even though you playfully scolded them both for being late, all he could focus on was how beautiful you were.

From that day forward, Lando made it painfully clear that something was up. He offered nearly everyday to take Penelope to school, which Max and Kelly would not complain about. She always returned with a huge grin on her face, recommending that her uncle take her again because he was so fun. However, when she started talking about the flirty comments he’d exchange with her teacher, they realized why he was suddenly taking an interest in the life of their child. Lando loves hearing about your day and listening to the various interactions between the kids in your class. He’s smitten with you and your ability to flawlessly interact with children— Unfortunately this means your relationship is destined to be filled with baby fever from you both. 24/7.

Aston Martin ෆ

Fernando Alonso

Wedding planner

As expected, you meet at the wedding of a mutual friend. You planned everything from the venue to the number of flowers in each arrangement, and both the bride and groom were eternally grateful for your help. It was always much easier to have someone else do a majority of the planning for you while you got to sit back and nod along to every suggestion made. In short, your efforts paid off immensely. When you sat down at your assigned table, you were surprised to see the Spanish man in question not far behind you. He seated himself across from you, reaching a hand out to shake yours politely. He was charming right off the bat, his flirty comments flowing with ease. You almost wondered if you were intentionally set up to sit beside this guy, because your fun-loving personalities matched up nicely. He matched your vibe and you matched his.

Now you were going 20 years strong, each anniversary celebrated more profound than the last. You were teased nonstop by friends and friends of friends about the lack of a ring on your finger. “Twenty years and he still hasn’t made it permanent?” was something you heard more often than you were willing to admit, but in all honesty, neither of you were interested in the concept of marriage. Your love was all you needed to seal the deal. You didn’t require a fancy ring to know that. But finally, after years and years of waiting, Fernando dropped down to one knee to give you the opportunity to finally plan your own damn wedding, and you happily accepted. You harbored no anger towards his decision to wait, because ultimately it made the experience a lot more special. You finally got to be on the other end of things and understand firsthand why people hire you to begin with: Planning your own wedding is not all it cracks up to be.

Lance Stroll

Author

Lance needs the peace and quiet that an author girlfriend brings to his life. He’s a well known introvert, which has yet to go unnoticed by anyone that he’s met. Lance prefers to keep to himself, and tends to distance from individuals who are overly loud. While opposites tend to attract, such an ideal is not the case for this fellow. He dreams of a romantically quiet life, and you’re there to fulfill that for him. You meet in the most cliche spot possible: a library. He’s not even that big on reading, but the spot was quiet and it gave him an excuse to brood in a corner and listen to music. You happened to be doing a book signing that day, which made the joint just a tad bit louder than he would have liked. However, when he saw you sitting at a table with a line extending outside the door, a cute smile on your face… Lance was utterly captivated. Your voice was low, your smiles were awkward, and your hands were trembling. Maybe it was weird, but that was everything he yearned for and more. When people started to clear and you started to pack up, he made a move.

Safe to say that said move was successful. The early stages of the relationship were less than ideal with both of you waiting on the other person to initiate every single thing, but finally you warmed up to each other and fell into a comfortable rhythm with your everyday lives. He cherished the days where he came home from loud engines and bustling crowds to the soft clicking of your keyboard, and the occasional flipping of pages. At the end of the day, no matter how stressful things get, Lance will always be grateful for the safety of your warm embrace as you hold him close to you at night. You’re his rock and his anchor, keeping him safe from the extroverts of the world. The media finds the two of you to be the ideal celebrity couple. Matching aesthetics, personalities, and beliefs. Your relationship is private, but it’s far from a secret!

Alpine ෆ

Pierre Gasly

Social media manager

I thought I was funny for this. You’re not a very good manager, because you’re always sitting there beside him, giggling at every post he scrolls by that’s related to him. With that being said, you always reach out and double tap the screen, liking whatever stupid thing had you guys giggling to begin with. So, to the people who wonder why Pierre is always liking every F1 related post, it’s actually your doing. You’re less focused on your actual job, and more on whatever content other people have managed to come up with. It’s really funny, in your defense. You guys first met because you were hired as the Alpine social media manager, but you always ended up laughing just a tad bit too much with Pierre over your ridiculous ideas that he kept building on to. Half the time you barely were able to execute said ideas, and ended up going with something entirely different.

Pierre loves that he found someone to match his energy and be okay with his teasing, along with tease him back. You’re fun— sometimes even more fun than him. Everyone in the paddock would agree. He loves filming videos and taking pictures with you for social media pages, and he loves even more than you get a little bit more freedom with his personal account and have directly spiced up all of his most recent content. Pierre fans have been wondering why most of his stuff has been a lot more enjoyable. Little do they know, you’re quietly working your magic behind the screen. Sorry Pierre, you get no credit. Although, having a hilarious muse does make it much easier.

Franco Colapinto

Florist

With this little flirt, knowing a lot about flowers actually proves to have some value. Franco’s always going out of his way to impress you: fact. He loves bringing home flowers, especially after triple headers, or just generally weekends that felt extra long without you right there beside him. It’s a new bouquet every time. While it is handpicked and arranged by him, it’s safe to say that Franco actually has no clue what he’s doing; his decisions are based off the initial beauty level of the flower. But, we can’t rule out that he intentionally picks randomly, because he does seem to love hearing you lecture him about flower language. He’s got roses being romantic burnt into his memory, but he can’t quite remember that yellow carnations are supposed to mean rejection. He does remember your face the day you brought them home, though, so he decides based on that. You sounded so sad as you explained the initial idea, and Franco was quick to make something up. So now, you guys decided they meant the love of Franco Colapinto— Yeah. He got his own damn flower.

You, as expected, had a meet cute as well. It came straight from a tacky hallmark movie. You had simply been arranging your outdoor stand one day, when a particularly fast biker flew by, clipping the edge of your stand and sending flowers flying through the air. You were devastated to see your hard work flying through the air and drifting away from you. Thankfully, one kind passerby stopped to help you pick up the lost work. He was handsome in his own, unique way. Somewhat familiar, you were sure. He laughed with you as he helped you set things back up, dropping a few flirtatious remarks that had your cheeks growing increasingly warm. It wasn’t until he dropped a joke related to racing that you picked up on it and breathed out a rather distressed, “Oh my God you’re Franco Colapinto!” He barked out a laugh and nodded to confirm your suspicions. He insisted you take his number. You know, just in case you need help dealing with a runaway biker again. It had nothing to do with the fact he thought you were the most beautiful person alive. No, no way.

Williams ෆ

Carlos Sainz

Baker

Get this man a beautiful baker girlfriend who can make him all the sweets in the world. No, but I did have a thought process for this. First date, he still doesn’t quite know that you’re a professional baker, so he’s going on and on about his incredibly pancake recipe when you mention that it’s your favorite breakfast food. You have a recipe of your own, of course, but you’re intrigued by the way he seems so cocky with said recipe, so you let him make you some when you visit him. And honestly, they’re really quite good! You’re considering replacing your own recipe. You repay his kind offer by baking him sweets— and I mean you really got busy in that kitchen, because you’re probably about to hand over 10 large containers full of sweets with flushed ears that tell him everything he needs to know. He’s a little embarrassed that he was ranting about his tasty pancakes to someone who makes them professionally, but he was happy to hear you sincerely liked them.

Now imagine Carlos’ embarrassment when he recounts how the two of you met to begin with. After a long night, he stopped by a local café to pick up a pick-me-up. You were there, but you weren’t behind the counter. You were standing off to the side, leaning over it as you chatted to the barista with a cup of coffee in hand. He approached the register, and you both paused your conversation so said barista could assist him. When Carlos pondered on a dessert from the display case, you very casually suggested that he take a croissant with that ‘trust me’ sort of vibe. He teases you— asks you what makes you a master of breakfast pastries, and you just shrug nonchalantly and tell him that maybe you have ‘insider’ information. He assumes you’re a regular by now, and accepts your suggestion. He gets the croissant. And your number. And a first date… And the embarrassment of finding out way too late into your relationship that you’re the damn baker for the café. That was your insider info.

Alex Albon

Veterinarian

The more obvious choice, yes. While I was afraid this might be too on the nose, I think it makes a lot of sense, really. He has a lot of pets. What does a guy with a lot of pets often do? He takes them to the vet. Alex already takes great care of his pets, so this visit was a little out of the ordinary. His cat had fallen ill, and he needed to get the proper medicine to care for her. But there was you, the newest hire at the clinic who seemed so good with his pet. You gave her treats to keep her distracted as you checked her out, ensuring the man that this was just a common sickness and would pass, but if he wanted he could slip some allergy medicine into her food next time. He was forever grateful. But then, suddenly his pets were falling injured or ill left and right. A man who rarely visited the vet was now becoming a regular, always coming up with some sort of concern. “Doesn’t her leg look weird?” “Nope, looks good to me.” You eventually caught on, and told him that at a vet clinic there was no rules against dating clientele. Now, there was rules against dating patients, but that was because your patients were animals.

He works well with your nonchalant charm. You’re easygoing and laidback, and that’s just what Alex needs. He appreciates having someone he can chill with because his life is often so chaotic that it’s hard for him to take time for himself. Therefore, he has you now. Plus it’s always nice to no longer have to visit the vet when you can now just stop by his house for a quick check up. It becomes even easier when you move in with him, because instead of being worried he can just rely on you to tell him when things are wrong and need to be taken more seriously. All in all, he found an absolute keeper, and the internet won’t stop encouraging him to put a ring on it to ensure nobody else does. Although, not sure anyone needs a veterinarian quite like Alex Albon does. So, I think he’s safe for now.

Visa Cash App Racing Bulls ෆ

Liam Lawson

Actress

I like to think you actually met when filming the F1 movie. You’re a background support character in the film, and Liam was just there to play himself, much like all the other drivers. You two managed to bump into each other, and it seemed like day to day conversations started to take place. You’d share a joke you heard while standing behind him at the coffee making station, or catch him up on the latest set gossip in passing. He was charmed by your wit, and you were charmed by the way he cluelessly fumbled over words around you. Imagine how surprised he was when you asked him out. He felt somewhat disappointed because he had been hoping to have that honor for himself, but he was glad that you reciprocated his feelings.

I think Liam with an actress girlfriend just makes sense anyway. He’s all for the drama you bring to the table, and loves watching every single film you star in, whether it’s a big or small role. He’ll go to every premiere, red carpet, and gala you’re invited to as your plus one. Not only does he love to show his support, but he also realized early on that he gets to meet a lot of his own idols this way. You have lots of connections, and he now has a stack of autographs from famous celebrities at home. It’s a win-win.

Isack Hadjar

Photographer

Your first time meeting Isack was actually a little chaotic. The team hired you to shoot some shots from the first practice on Friday. It was experimental, because it was their first time hiring you, and it was your first time working for a huge company, let alone shooting athletic shots. When it started raining, you hadn’t even noticed. You were so focused on capturing everything perfectly, and with the right settings, that eventually you were completely drenched without a care in the world. It was really down pouring. Subsequently, teams were pulled in from the nasty weather to dry off and warm up. You, however, were still perched in the stands out in the rain, laser focused on your camera. Isack, ever the gentleman, came out with an umbrella and held it over your head. You hadn’t even realized he was there until you felt his shadow cast over you. You looked up, and nearly dropped your camera. You were stuttering all like “Oh- It’s- Oh no, it’s you- Gah, I’m so sorry!” Which only confused him more. You explained you were meant to be taking shots of his team today, but all the ones you got were bad. You were better with portraits. He was stunned by you too. You were beautiful, even with your wet hair plastered to your face and your clothes soaking wet. So, with red cheeks himself, he invited you in to take some portraits, which would hopefully give you a chance at staying with the team. And you did! Which then gave him enough time to work up enough courage to make a move.

You’re a little scatterbrained, it’s true. Every-time you come to the paddock, you’re in a panic as you ramble about how you accidentally left your SD card at home in your laptop, and that your whole reason for coming was now ruined because you didn’t have a way to take photos. Isack reassured you that missing one race wouldn’t be the end of the world. Besides, he ended up finding your SD card in your purse when you asked him to grab your phone. You’re lucky to have found him, because he certainly helps keep you grounded. You’d probably have floated off into space without Isack there to hold you down and keep you steady.

Kick Sauber ෆ

Nico Hülkenberg

Sommelier

You were evidently flawless at your job. You knew everything there was to know about wine, and all of its pairings with food. It was an elegant and refined drink to be saved for fancy events, much like the one you met your beloved at. Your relationship has been in the making for about three years now, and despite its… Awkward start, the two of you have been developing nicely. There was an event for F1 drivers hosted at a vineyard, and you were hired to take care of the wine: a rather simple job. Famous people weren’t a surprise to you anymore, but as you were sharing with your audience the history behind the drink you picked out, you felt your breath leave your body in an untimely manner. That was when he walked in, stealing away your attention. Salt and pepper stubble, a lazy smile, and an appearance that screamed ‘just woke up from a nap in the sun’ in the most endearing way possible. You, a normally charming and easygoing woman, were caught off guard and ended up muttering something stupid like “this wine is… fermented” followed by a nervous laugh, which cued your audience to chuckle along with you.

He teased you later. Of course he did, because how could he not notice the way you’d freeze as you quietly eyed him. When you were setting up glasses, he approached from behind, and you immediately turned around at the sound of his voice, which consequently sent one of the glasses flying. Nico, a man trained in his reflexes, caught it with ease that made your heart flutter. Thank God you managed to snatch him up, because nobody had ever made you feel such a way. It didn’t matter if he didn’t win on the track, because everyday he came home to the most beautiful woman possible, who’d shower him with lots of well deserved love. Plus, you always knew what wine would suit his mood. Yeah. He made the correct choice.

Gabriel Bortoleto

Streamer

We know how brain-rotted Gabriel is. You can’t tell me he doesn’t have a favorite streamer too. It’s you. Before you guys started dating he was a fan. He found your unique commentary on games to be interesting and the way you played— yada yada. Truth be told, he just thought you were pretty and funny. He even suggested through donations (under a secret account name, mind you) that you play one of the F1 games. With the money you earned from the donation, you bought it and showed the whole world just how awful you were. Gabriel secretly messaged you on instagram, claiming he had just found you when you were playing F1 24, and would love to come properly teach you how to play on stream. You agreed, of course. And it was a success. After the cameras turned off, he shyly admitted that he had actually been a fan of yours for awhile, because he felt bad for deceiving you. You just thought it was cute, and offered him the opportunity to come back if he so wanted.

Now, Gabi is a frequent feature on your streams. Not necessarily just as your partner in multiplayer games, but he can be seen on your face cam. Maybe he’s sleeping in the background, or he just happens to pass by. Sometimes he’ll even come give you a kiss in front of thousands of viewers, acting like he forgot you were streaming when in reality it was done intentionally. Sneaky bastard. Your fans love him, but Gabriel also loves to remind them that you’re a happily taken girl. You don’t mind anyway. It’s nice to see your longterm fanboy staking his claim in a way he thinks is secretive. Trust that you know… You always know what he’s up to. There’s no hiding it. Don’t be surprised if he starts spamming your chat with italian brainrot. Imagine having to explain to newcomers that it’s a regular thing, too.

Haas ෆ

Oliver Bearman

Artist

This is a pair nobody expected, to be honest. The Haas team was directed by PR to show up to an art event. Apparently the establishment was sponsoring them for the next race, and it was the polite thing to do. Oliver didn’t really care— He wasn’t a fan of PR events and media. He was outgoing and charming, but he tended to keep his life private for the most part. But he was glad he went, because when he saw you on a shaky ladder hammering in a stubborn nail with frustration, he knew you were someone to keep him on his toes. You had on overalls covered in paint. Some was fresh, but most of it seemed deeply imbedded in the fabric, like you wore them just to get them dirty. Your arms, too, were covered in colors. It was quite the sight. When you saw him, you dropped your hammer. Right on your foot, and then it tumbled down the ladder to fall unceremoniously on the ground. You hissed as you descended the ladder, jittery with excitement. You greeted him with a very enthusiastic handshake, announcing how you didn’t think he’d show up. You kept rambling, and he kept listening. Eventually you asked him if he could sit still, and he said yes, to which you replied with, “I wanna sketch you, then. You have this beautiful angelic vibe and I need that.” So, if that’s not forward I’m not sure what is.

It’s true. You’re his joy, and he’s your muse. And, for what it’s worth, Ollie was right. You certainly do keep him on his toes because he never really knows what’s next with you. You’re vibrant and fun and you love nature— The stereotypical small town girl who falls madly in love with a city boy. You like to run through tall grass barefoot and paint in the middle of giant fields whatever your heart desires, and now you’re dating Oliver Bearman. But it’s a good thing, because you both have changed each other in the best way possible, and even though you’re so different, you work harmoniously in a healthy relationship. You’re both happier than you’ve ever been, truly.

Esteban Ocon

Model

This man is TALL. He needs a tall girlfriend to sit by his side, and that just so happens to be you. You met at a huge gala for F1, where various other celebrities were invited to bring more attention to the sport. You’ve always been a fan, so you were glad to have the opportunity to meet a lot of the people you had admired for so many years. One of those people was Esteban Ocon. He was hated by his own community, regarded as one of the least likable people around, but you saw through that. This was a sweet guy with a bad reputation over one incident that took place many years ago. He was a bit surprised when you intentionally sat down beside him and introduced yourself with a huge smile and a delicate handshake. You were beautiful. It was almost too good to be true. He couldn’t let go of an opportunity like this, so he clung to you the entire night and asked if you’d be willing to see him again. Of course you would.

He supports your career through and through. He admires your skill, and all the thought that goes into modeling. It’s truly impressive. In turn, you support his racing career. You frequently feature his races, and while you do try to avoid the cameras, it’s impossible to not be featured when reacting on occasion. You have a loving dynamic— almost the perfect couple, and everyone in the paddock knows it. You’re the type of people to solve every disagreement by calmly talking it out. You’re the type of people to live by the rule “never go to bed angry.” You both get bad reps. In his community’s mind, Esteban is cruel and vicious and impossible to like. In your community’s mind, you’re stuck up and bossy and rude. So, together you make a perfectly misunderstood pair that understands one another. Delightful, right?

504 notes · View notes

woniedarlin · 3 months ago

Text

The Price of Perfection

pairing: Academic Rival! Jake x fem! reader

synopsis: You are always first. The one everyone expects to win. Confident, prideful, and untouchable. People admire you, envy you, resent you. But it doesn’t matter because in the end, you always prove them right. Then you go home. And first place isn’t enough. Second is unacceptable. Third is a disgrace. Anything less is failure. But then there’s Jake. Jake, who wins because he loves to. Jake, who has everything you don’t.

And the moment he looked past the perfect image you built, everything began to change.

warnings: This story contains themes of parental neglect, emotional abuse, academic pressure, and self-doubt. It covers on inadequacy, angst, and emotional breakdowns, but also slow-burn romance and comfort. Read at your own risk.

author's note: This story is deeply personal to me. It’s the first time I’ve poured so much emotion into something. If you relate to any part of this, please remember: you are enough. Always. Thank you for reading.

permanent tag list: @sol3chu @chlorinecake @13tter @jung1w0n @layzfy @firstclassjaylee @ijustwannareadstuff20

The cameras flashed. The medal's weight around your neck was heavier than it should’ve been. Gold, cold, undeserved. Applauses were loud.

You smiled. Of course you did. It was the expression expected of a champion. Graceful, composed, proud. You had practiced it enough times in the mirror, so much so that it no longer hesitated. You let the corners of your lips go upward just right, enough to appear humble but not so much that you seemed arrogant. Enough to sell the illusion that this victory was yours to enjoy.

Your parents stood at the front of the crowd. Their hands clapped the loudest, and their smiles stretched the widest. They shook hands, nodded in gratitude, and took every compliment thrown their way as if they were the ones who had spent sleepless nights preparing. As if they were the ones who had earned this. “We’re so proud,” they had said when your name was announced. “You did it.”

Did what, exactly?

You stood there as the flashes went off, the cheers rang in your ears, and your parents continued to receive congratulations on your behalf. You stood there and dared to look down.

Second place was crying.

Not just the silent kind, not the polite, quiet tears of someone accepting defeat, but the kind that came from deep inside, that cracked a person open. Their shoulders trembled as they looked down at their silver medal, fingers curling around it so tightly you thought it might shatter.

And then there were the others. The ones who had fought, who had given everything, who had wanted this much more than you ever did. Some stood stiffly, disappointment carved into their faces, blinking back the loss with forced indifference. Others stared blankly at the floor, avoiding your gaze because looking at you only deepened the wound.

It didn’t feel good.

It never did.

Taking something that wasn’t yours to take, crushing someone’s dreams just because you could. It didn’t feel good. It didn’t feel right.

And maybe it wouldn’t have felt so hollow if this had been your dream. If you had wanted this as badly as they did. If you had fought, struggled, and clawed your way to the top because it was something you couldn’t live without. But that wasn’t the case.

You had never wanted this.

But you won anyway.

And that was the worst part of it all.

🪢

The hallway was full of students moving in clusters. Conversations were overlapping, and lockers were slamming shut. Same faces, same voices, same excitement over things that would be forgotten by next week. You walked through the center of it all, and people noticed you without needing to say anything. Whispers followed you, talking about your latest win and how easily you had secured another first-place title. People admired you, but bitterness and jealousy were hidden behind their forced smiles.

“Look who’s finally back from their throne,” a familiar voice called out, loud enough to turn a few heads. A heavy arm slung over your shoulder before you could react. It was Seojin, one of your so-called friends, though that word had lost its meaning a long time ago. He grinned down at you, his smile wide. There was something in his face that made it clear he wasn’t celebrating you.

You scoffed, shrugging his arm off easily, adjusting your bag strap as his touch had thrown off your balance. “What, miss me already?” Your voice was light enough to remind him where you stood in this hierarchy. “You should get used to it. Winners are always busy.”

Laughter spread through the group gathered around you. A few people exchanged glances, nodding as if they agreed with each other, truly believing you were unstoppable. Seojin laughed and tucked his hands into his pockets. “Busy collecting more trophies, huh? I have to say, it must be tiring being the best at everything.”

You smirked. “Wouldn’t know. It comes naturally.”

Immediately, the group reacted with a chorus of “oohs” and chuckles. Another voice joined in. “You looked like you belonged on that stage. I mean, holding that trophy, you seemed made for it.” Jihoon added.

For just a moment, your smile faded a little.

“Made for it.”

Those words should have felt like a compliment but instead felt like a reminder. A cage.

But you couldn’t let them see that. So, you laughed easily, like every other lie. “Of course I did,” you said, flipping your hair over your shoulder. “I make everything look good.”

More laughter followed. More voices joined in. More noise.

You kept up this act because it felt natural now. This confident version of yourself, who never had doubts. This group, these people, this constant game of who could seem the most untouchable. It was tiring.

And none of them were even your friends.

They were here because your name meant something. Because standing next to you made them look better. Because being associated with a winner was better than being another nameless face in the crowd.

Some people called you cocky.

Maybe they were right.

Or maybe you just played the part because it was the only thing you knew how to do.

The moment you stepped into the next hallway, the energy shifted. The laughter, the background noise of your so-called friends. It all faded into something heavier. Because there he was.

Sim Jaeyun, or Jake as most would call, was the person who never treated you like a high-status figure. He didn’t feel any pressure from your name. He was a real threat and didn’t even have to try. While you acted like a confident champion, enjoying victories you didn’t care about, Jake was different. He truly wanted this, and that made things more complicated for you.

Unlike you, he was genuinely passionate. He stayed up late studying, not to keep up his image, but because he loved learning. He was brilliant but never showed off. He made people feel comfortable around him. Your presence was sharp and demanding, while he was warm and easygoing. Your so-called friends stuck to you for your status. In contrast, Jake’s friends liked him for who he was, not his achievements. His parents didn’t take credit for his success. They supported him and celebrated his efforts, not just the results.

You had everything. Yet somehow, he had everything you wanted.

And maybe that was why you hated him.

Or maybe you didn’t.

Maybe you didn’t know what to do with him.

Jake looked up as you walked toward him. His face was hard to read. You both seemed very different. You wore an arrogant smirk, surrounded by people who only stuck around when you won. He stood there relaxed, with his friends laughing at a joke you hadn’t heard.

But you needed to keep up your image.

“You seem pretty relaxed for someone who lost yesterday.” You said.

Jake paused his conversation and looked at you, his friends noticing you too. He met your gaze, and his smile was small and genuine momentarily, not bitter or angry. It made you feel like entering a game without knowing the rules. “And you,” he replied, “look a bit worried for someone who won.”

For a moment, your confidence almost falters. Almost. But you quickly kept your expression smooth. “Worried? Not at all. I barely broke a sweat.” You let out a short laugh and raised an eyebrow. “Honestly, you put up a good fight. I almost thought you had a shot.”

Jake kept looking at you. He didn’t react the way others usually did. Instead, he took his time before responding. “Almost, huh?” He spoke as he was contemplating your words. He studied you, and for once, you felt like the one being examined. “I guess I’ll have to try harder next time.”

You scoffed and crossed your arms, shifting your weight to show confidence. “Go ahead. We both know how this usually turns out.”

His lips turned into a slight grin, neither a smirk nor a laugh. “We’ll see.”

It wasn’t a challenge or bragging. It was just a simple statement from someone who seemed to believe that the future was unpredictable. For some reason, that feeling shook you more than anything.

People like you were not supposed to hesitate. People like you were not supposed to let doubt creep in.

But Jake Sim had a way of making you feel uncertain.

You weren’t even sure if he noticed.

🪢

The moment you stepped outside the school gates, you were still the person everyone expected.

You smiled, laughed, and stood tall.

Your so-called friends hung around you, stretching out their goodbyes. They gave half-hearted compliments and exaggerated praise about your latest win. You nodded along, pretending their words mattered. You let them talk, enjoying the moment before you walked away, climbed into the waiting car, and left them behind for the day.

As soon as the car door shut, the act ended.

The silence weighed heavily. The outside noise turned into a dull hum and was muffled by the thick glass. Your confident expression finally dropped. There would be no more forced smiles or sharp comments.

Just quiet.

Your older brother, Jay, was already in the backseat, sitting comfortably with his long legs stretched out. He looked calm, as usual. When you settled beside him, he glanced up from his phone and met your eyes. “Hey,” he said, relaxed.

You hummed back, leaning against the seat and feeling your exhaustion set in.

“How was school?” Jay asked. He asked because he always wanted to hear it from you, even if he knew the answer.

“It was alright,” you replied. It was the most straightforward answer.

Jay didn’t respond right away. He studied you momentarily, his fingers tapping his phone, deciding whether to call you out on your lie. In the end, he didn’t press you. He never did.

The car started moving away from the school, and with it, the image you had kept up faded. You watched the students outside continue their laughter and conversations. What felt suffocating just moments ago now seemed far away.

No one at school knew this version of you.

You didn’t speak unless someone spoke to you. You didn’t fill silences with witty remarks or smug comments. You didn’t carry the weight of expectations. You didn’t feel like you were performing.

At school, you were never quiet. You were always loud and talking, making sure everyone noticed you. Being quiet meant giving others space to think and see through you.

But in the car, you didn’t have to fill the silence.

In the car, you could just be you.

So, you let the quiet settle. You relaxed your shoulders. You stared out the window, watching the city blur, knowing you could just be yourself for the next twenty minutes.

Jay didn’t say anything else. He lets you sit in silence and take it in. And that was enough.

🪢

The moment you stepped into the house, you already knew something was wrong. The air was too tense. Too quiet. You barely had time to take off your shoes before your mother called your name. You could tell something was wrong. You always knew when it was.

Your father was already in the living room, which made it clear there would be no discussion. Your mother stood next to him, looking exhausted and grim. “You didn’t sign up,” she said. It wasn't a question or an accusation. Just a fact. They already knew the answer before you walked in.

Your stomach dropped. Of course.

You had tried not to mention the competition and hoped they wouldn't notice when the deadline passed. You thought, maybe for once, they would let it go.

But they didn’t.

“You didn’t even try,” your father said sharply with his piercing gaze. “We had to call them ourselves. We begged them to let you in after registration closed.”

Begged.

That word felt heavy and suffocating. Your well-respected parents had to use their influence and name because you didn't do what was expected. Your mother sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Do you know how embarrassing that was? Do you even care?”

“I just won a championship,” you replied. You didn't raise it or show your fatigue, but it was hard not to let it show. “Why does it matter if I skip this one?”

Your father shook his head in disbelief. “Why does it matter?” he repeated, astonished that you would even ask. “Do you think success ends with one win? That one victory is enough?”

Your mother stepped forward, her face showing disappointment and frustration. “Do you realize how many doors this could open for you? How many people would do anything for a chance like this?”

You knew because you had seen those students who wanted it badly. They cried when they lost and studied late into the night, chasing something that was handed to you.

“It doesn’t matter. You’re competing,” your father said firmly. “End of discussion.”

There it was. They made the decision for you, as usual.

Your mother sighed and rubbed her temples. “We already submitted your name. The least you can do is show some gratitude.”

Gratitude.

You swallowed the bitterness rising in your throat.

There was nothing left to say.

So, you nodded. You nodded because it was easier than fighting. Because no matter what you wanted, it never really mattered.

Because, at the end of the day, this was the life you had been given.

And no matter how much you wanted to, you could never escape it.

“I’m sorry,” you said with the words barely escaping past the tightness in your throat.

Your father scoffed, turning away because your apology wasn’t worth acknowledging. Your mother sighed before walking past you, her hand lightly brushing against your shoulder, not as a sign of comfort but as if she were dismissing you.

And just like that, the conversation was over.

Because in this house, your choices didn’t matter.

Only the results did.

🪢

Everything in the dining room was arranged perfectly. The food was carefully portioned. It looked beautiful, but it tasted like nothing to you. You sat still, your back straight, moving your fork absently, pushing the food around rather than eating it. The conversation between your parents was casual, even. But you knew where this was going before they even said it.

Then, there it was.

“Jake placed first in the regional math competition,” your father said as he cut into his steak. “I spoke to his father earlier today. Apparently, he not only won, but he beat last year’s champion by a huge margin.”

The muscles in your jaw tightened. You knew better than to look up.

Your mother hummed, sipping her wine before delicately setting the glass down. “I’m not surprised,” she said, dabbing with a napkin at the corner of her lips. “Jake’s always been a hardworking boy. So polite, too. His mother told me he spends extra hours studying every night without being told. He even tutors younger students in his free time.” She sighed, shaking her head, almost wistful.

“You could learn a thing or two from him.”

You knew it was coming.

That didn’t make it any easier to hear.

Your grip on your fork tightened, your fingers pressing into the cool metal. You didn’t lift your head. Didn’t argue. Didn’t say anything at all.

Your father continued, “Jake doesn’t have everything handed to him,” he said, placing his knife down with a soft clink. “And yet, he’s still doing better than you.”

The words sat heavy in the air, heavier than the food sitting untouched on your plate. Jay, who had been quiet up until now, let out a sharp exhale. He placed his utensils down with more force than necessary, the sound cutting through the tension in the room. “You’re acting like she’s not already winning every other competition,” He spoke calmly, but you could hear a tension in his voice that only you noticed. “Maybe, instead of comparing her to someone else, you should acknowledge what she had done. Instead of acting like it’s never enough.”

Your mother shook her head, seeing what he said was unreasonable. “That’s not the point, Jay,” she said sharply.

“Then what is the point?” Jay shot back. He looked directly at them. “That no matter how much she achieves, it’s still not enough for you?”

Your father turned to him. He didn’t get angry. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. “You wouldn’t understand,” he said as if that was the end of it. As if that was all that needed to be said.

And just like that, the discussion was over.

There was no room for argument. There is no room for anything.

Your parents continued eating, their conversation turning to something lighter, meaningless, as if the weight of their words hadn’t just settled in your chest like a stone. It was as if they hadn’t reminded you once again that you were still not enough. You forced yourself to take a bite, chewing slowly, swallowing past the lump in your throat.

Jay glanced at you from across the table, his expression softer now, but he didn’t say anything else.

Because he knew, just as you did, that there was nothing left to say.

🪢

Jake didn’t think about you much. Not in the way others did.

To everyone else, you were a name that carried weight, a student who stood at the top without fail. People whispered about you in the halls. Some with admiration, some with jealousy. You had everything. The grades, the reputation, the influence. And you knew it. You walked through the school like it belonged to you, like everyone else was just a step below, trying to catch up.

Jake never had to catch up.

He had always been fine where he was. He worked hard, he did well, and that was enough. He didn’t need to stand on a podium to prove anything. His parents were proud whether he won or not. His friends didn’t care if he was in first place or fifth. His achievements were his, not something for others to measure their worth against.

That was the difference between you and him.

You acted like everything was a competition. Every test, every ranking, every moment you could use to remind people where you stood. It was almost entertaining sometimes. The way you smirked when your name was called first, the way you barely spared a glance at the people below you.

People always assumed the two of you were enemies. The belief that academic rivals are destined to despise each other. But Jake never really hated you.

He didn’t respect you either.

Because arrogance didn’t impress him.

So, when he passed by you in the hallway, watching as you threw an arm around your so-called friends, laughing too loudly, standing too tall. He didn’t feel envy. He didn’t feel admiration.

He just felt nothing.

And if you ever turned your gaze his way, lips twisting into that confident smirk, daring him to try and take your place at the top. He only ever smiled back, easy, unbothered.

Because, unlike you, he had nothing to prove.

🪢

The room was silent except for the clicking of keyboards and the scratch of pens against paper. The weight of expectation pressing down on your shoulders. Your fingers flew across the page, solving, calculating, writing. Each answer had to be perfect. Each step is precise.

You couldn’t afford to be slow.

You glanced at the timer. Two minutes left.

Your heartbeat pounded fast. Your breathing was shallow. You could hear the clock ticking. It's louder than it should be. Your grip on the pen tightened until your knuckles turned white.

One last question.

Your eyes looked at the numbers on the screen. You ran through the calculations in your head, fingers trembling as you wrote them down on the paper.

Something didn’t feel right.

You double-checked. No, no, no. This wasn’t what it was supposed to be. You rewrote the equation, erasing and correcting. The answer wouldn’t come out right. The numbers blurred together, your mind racing faster than you could keep up.

Your hands were sweating.

One minute.

You swallowed hard. This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t-

Your hand slipped. The pen streaked across the page, ink smudging. You cursed under your breath, hastily fixing the mess, but-

Thirty seconds.

Shit

Your breath hitched. You were running out of time. You forced yourself to write down the answer, even if you weren’t sure. You couldn’t leave it blank. You couldn’t-

Five seconds.

Your eyes darted to the scoreboard.

Jake’s score was higher.

Your stomach dropped.

No.

The timer beeped.

The competition was over.

Jake had won.

🪢

This is what it feels like.

To be second.

The cameras flashed, but they weren’t for you this time. Your lips twitched, struggling to form the familiar, practiced smile. It was supposed to be easy. You had done it a thousand times before, in every victory and moment you stood at the top.

But this time, you couldn’t.

You stood there, trophy in hand, a step lower than ever. A step below Jake.

Jake, who stood on the podium above you, smiling. Genuine, effortless, like he belonged there. His name was called, his score announced, and the crowd cheered. His parents were among them, their voices the loudest, their pride so clear. His friends clapped, laughing, celebrating with him.

You swallowed hard.

Your eyes looked to where your parents sat.

They weren’t clapping.

They weren’t smiling.

They weren’t doing anything.

Their faces were blank, unreadable, but that only made it worse. It would have been easier if they were angry, if they scolded you, demanded answers, questioned why you weren’t standing where you were supposed to be.

But they didn’t.

They just watched.

And somehow, that silence crushed you more than any words ever could.

You turned back to Jake, forcing yourself to look. He was still smiling, still happy, still surrounded by people who were happy for him.

You had never been jealous of him before.

But now?

Now, you wished you knew what it felt like to win and actually deserve it.

🪢

The medal was cold against his skin. But his heart was warm.

Warm from the embrace of his parents, their arms wrapped tightly around him, their voices with nothing but pride. Warm from his mother’s teary smile as she cupped his face, whispering you did so well. Warm from his father’s hearty laughter, the way he clapped him on the back and said, we knew you could do it, son.

Warm from the cheers of his friends, their voices overlapping, already talking about celebrating, about how Jake had earned this.

It felt good.

Not just winning. But knowing, truly knowing, that he deserved this moment. That the people around him were happy for him, not because of what he had achieved, but because it was him. “Excuse me for a second,” Jake murmured, offering them a smile before stepping away. The main hall was busy with flashing cameras and loud applause. He just needed a breather, a moment to let it all sink in.

But as he walked toward the quieter side of the building, his steps slowed.

He saw you.

And it wasn’t at all how he expected.

Your father stood in front of you, voice low but strict. Your mother was beside him, her arms crossed, her words quieter but no less cruel.

You didn’t look at them.

Your head was bowed, your hands clasped so tightly in front of you that your knuckles had turned white.

Jake stopped in his tracks.

For as long as he had known you, you had never looked like this before.

You, who always carried yourself with that arrogant smirk. You, who always made everything a competition, never settling for anything less than first. You, who always acted like winning was your right.

Now, you looked-

No. You didn’t look like anything at all.

Your face was blank. Your shoulders stiff. Like you had frozen in place, unable to move, unable to fight back.

And then-

Your father exhaled. “Embarrassing.” His voice was something worse than anger. More like disgust. “Do you have any idea how humiliating this is for us?”

“Second place?” Your mother scoffed. “Do you think that’s acceptable? After everything we did for you?”

Jake clenched his jaw.

It was the way they spoke. Like you had failed them. Like coming in second was the same as losing entirely. Like you were nothing more than a disappointment.

And then it happened.

Your father reached forward, fingers gripping the silver medal around your neck. Without hesitation, without a second thought-

He ripped it off.

The thin ribbon snapped. The medal clinked against his wedding ring, slipping from his fingers-

Into the trash.

Jake felt sick to his stomach

You didn’t move.

Didn’t react.

Didn’t even look at it.

Like it wasn’t even there.

Like it never mattered.

Your parents didn’t wait for you. They turned, walking away, their faces unreadable, like this was routine. Like they had done this before.

And you-

You followed.

Quiet. Expressionless.

Like you weren’t even there.

Jake couldn’t move.

His hands tightened into fists. His mind raced, trying to make sense of what he had just witnessed.

Was this… normal for you?

Had this been happening every time you lost?

No. Jake knew you. He knew your pride, your arrogance, the way you carried yourself with confidence.

But was it ever real?

Jake had never questioned what was behind your smirks, your constant need to be first.

Not until now.

🪢

Your bedroom was dark. You sat at the edge of your bed, staring at nothing.

You should be crying.

Shouldn’t you?

But you felt nothing.

Not anger. Not sadness. Not even disappointment.

Just… numbness.

Jay knelt in front of you and wrapped his arms around your shoulders. His warmth covered your skin, but it didn’t reach the coldness inside. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. He just held you, like he always did when things felt too heavy, when you came home and locked yourself away, and when the weight of expectations became too much to carry alone.

His embrace was the only thing tethering you to reality.

And it hurt.

Because Jay was all you had.

The only person who saw you for more than just a name. The only person who didn’t care if you were first or second or last.

The only person who stayed.

“…I’m proud of you,” Jay whispered. His voice was calm, but there was something fragile in the way he held you. He was afraid you’d shatter. “No matter what, I always am.”

Your hands clenched the fabric of his sweater, but you still didn’t speak.

Because what was there to say?

That you never wanted any of this?

That winning had never been your dream?

That you were tired. So, so tired of being the person everyone expected you to be?

That when your father threw your medal away, he wasn’t just throwing away an award. He was throwing away you.

Jay pulled back slightly,

“Get some rest,” he murmured. “Please.”

You knew you wouldn’t.

Because even with your eyes closed, the weight of it all would still be there.

Pressing. Crushing.

Never letting go.

🪢

You had been walking through life on autopilot for as long as you could remember.

Winning, smiling, shaking hands, collecting medals like they meant something. Like they made you something. It was a routine now. Just another thing you did because it was expected. Because that was who you were supposed to be. And yet, standing at the podium while staring at Jake Sim of all people, you felt something you hadn’t felt in a long time.

Exposed.

You weren’t sure why you were still here. The hallway was empty. The competition had ended yesterday. The results had already been burned into everyone’s minds.

Jake won. You didn’t.

Simple as that.

But it wasn’t simple. Not when you could still hear the sound of your father’s voice slicing through your ribs, carving up whatever was left of you. Not when you could still see the silver medal at the bottom of that trash can.

Jake’s voice cut through the silence.

“You don’t look happy.”

Oh, he’s here too.

You scoffed. “You sound surprised.”

“I thought winning was everything to you.”

Your fingers twitched at your sides. “Yeah, well. First time for everything.”

“You don’t seem that upset about losing.”

That made you look at him. He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t smug. He was just… watching. Like he had been watching all night.

“What are you getting at, Sim?”

Jake looked at you. “I saw what happened.”

The world around you blurred.

You furrowed your eyebrows. “What?”

“Outside. After the competition.” He tilted his head. “I saw your father.”

“I saw him throw your medal away.”

You wanted to laugh. To brush it off. To say so what? But the words wouldn’t come.

He continued. “That wasn’t the first time, was it?”

You swallowed, “Mind your own business, Jake.”

He didn’t back down. “I see you now.”

Your nails dug into your palms. “And what exactly do you think you saw?”

“Someone who’s exhausted.”

A slow, bitter smile appeared on your lips. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But I know what it looks like when someone’s been forced to win their whole life. And I know what it looks like when they finally realize they don’t want to anymore.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, before you could stop yourself, before you could shove the words back down. Your voice slipped out, quieter than you intended.

“What would you have done?”

Jake blinked. “What?”

You clenched your jaw. “If you were me. If you had my parents, my life, my expectations. What would you have done?”

His expression changed. Softer. Almost… sad.

“I don’t know.”

You huffed out a bitter laugh. “That’s what I thought.”

Jake didn’t argue. He just watched you like he was waiting for you to say something real.

But you didn’t.

Because you didn’t know how.

So instead, you did what you always did.

You turned and walked away.

🪢

The sun was beginning to set. Jay had just stepped out of a convenience store, a cold soda in hand, when he heard someone call his name.

“Jay?”

He turned, barely catching a glimpse before an arm wrapped around his shoulder in a quick bro hug. “Jake, man!” Jay grinned, giving him a solid pat on the back before stepping away. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Jake smirked. “Yeah, I was just passing by. You headed somewhere?”

“Nah, just grabbing something to drink before going home.”

Jake glanced at the can in Jay’s hand and grinned. “Still hooked on soda, huh?”

“Still better than your overpriced coffee addiction,” Jay shot back.

Jake let out a laugh. “Fair.”

They found a bench nearby and sat down, cracking open their drinks. “Man, feels like forever since we just sat down like this,” Jay said, taking a sip. “Like when we were younger. Back when drinking soda made us feel cool.”

“Still does,” Jake replied, and they both chuckled.

The conversation was easy. They talked about random things. Old friends, stupid childhood memories, how fast time was passing. But then Jake’s playful energy in his eyes dimmed just slightly.

“Jay… can I ask you something?”

Jay raised a brow. “Since when do you ask permission?”

Jake didn’t laugh this time. His fingers tapped against his can. “It’s about your sister.”

Jay’s smile faded.

“What about her?”

Jake hesitated, just for a second, but long enough for Jay to notice.

“I saw…” Jake paused. “Never mind.”

But Jay already knew.

The way Jake wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Jay set his drink down, voice calm but firm.

“What did you see, Jake?”

Jake didn’t answer right away. He looked like he was deciding whether to speak at all. Jay didn’t rush him. Finally, Jake continued. “After the competition… I saw her with your parents.”

Jay didn’t react, not outwardly. He just kept his gaze on Jake. Jake hesitated, but now that he’d started, he couldn’t stop. “I didn’t mean to listen, but I—I heard what they said. What they did.” He clenched his jaw. “Jay, they threw away her silver medal.”

Jay’s expression didn’t change. He simply took another sip of his drink,

“Is that all?”

Jake frowned. “Jay-”

“No, really,” Jay cut in. “Is that all you saw?”

Jake stared at him confused. “What do you mean?”

Jay scoffed, shaking his head. “If you think that’s bad, then you haven’t seen anything yet.”

Jake felt something cold settle in his stomach. He had always known Jay’s family was strict, but this… this was something else.

“How long has it been like that?” Jake asked quietly.

Jay leaned back against the bench. “Since forever.”

Jake’s grip tightened on his soda can. “Why don’t she say anything?”

“Because it wouldn’t change anything.”

Jake hated how casually Jay said it, like it was just a fact of life. Like it wasn’t something that should make someone furious. “I don’t get it,” Jake admitted. “Why did she still… play along? Why act like everything is fine?”

Jay finally looked at him tiredly. “Because that’s the only choice she have.”

Jake didn’t know what to say to that. For the first time, he regretted knowing. Because now, he couldn’t unsee it. He couldn’t forget the way you had stood there silently and not moving, as your father discarded your achievement like it was nothing. He couldn’t forget how you had walked away, your shoulders heavy, your head bowed. Not out of shame, but out of exhaustion.

He had always thought of you as arrogant, competitive, impossible to break.

Now he wasn’t so sure.

“You know, she’s always been quiet,” Jay said suddenly.

Jake looked at him confused. “Quiet?”

Jay nodded. “Yeah. Like, really quiet. Always has been. Since we were kids.”

Jake frowned, trying to piece that together with the girl he knew. “That doesn’t sound like her.”

Jay chuckled. “Yeah, well, that’s because you don’t know her like I do. People think she’s all confidence and competition, but that’s just what she lets them see. You strip all that away? She barely says a word.”

Jake stayed silent, letting that sink in.

“She was always the quietest one in the room,” Jay continued. “Never talked much, never caused trouble. Just did whatever was expected of her. I think people used to forget she was even there sometimes.”

Jake found that hard to believe. “So why the change?”

Jay shrugged. “Didn’t change. Not really. She still doesn’t talk much when she doesn’t have to. Just learned how to play the part when she needs to.”

Jake tilted his head, thinking back to all the times he had seen you surrounded by people, laughing, teasing, always in control of a conversation. And yet, he couldn’t remember a single time you had actually talked about yourself.

“So all that confidence-“

“Not her,” Jay cut in. “But, she’s still quick-witted, still kinda funny when she wants to be. But when she’s not ‘performing’ for people? She’s quiet. Always has been.”

Jay stretched his legs out. “You know, you should at least try to be friends with her.”

Jake raised a brow. “Friends?” He let out a small laugh. “Pretty sure she’d rather choke than let that happen.”

Jay smirked. “Yeah, she’s dramatic like that. But she’s actually really funny when you get to know her.”

Jake gave him a confused look. “Funny?”

Jay nodded. “Like, in a really deadpan way. She doesn’t even try, but it makes it worse because she says stuff so seriously. And she’s good at keeping a straight face too, so people never know if she’s joking or not.”

Jake thought about it. He had seen glimpses of that before, the way you could make a single remark and have people either dying of laughter or questioning their entire existence. But he had always assumed you did it on purpose, as part of the persona you carried.

“You’re telling me that under all that arrogance, she’s just… quiet and funny?”

Jay grinned. “Yep. Oh, and she also eats weirdly. She cuts everything so neatly.”

“What?”

“Yeah,” Jay chuckled. “It’s weird. She won’t just bite into a burger. She’ll actually cut it first. Like, who does that?”

Jake laughed.

Jay continued. “But seriously. She’s not as impossible as you think. Just… don’t be an idiot about it.”

Jake stayed quiet. He didn’t know why, but the idea of getting to know you, really know you, stuck with him longer than it should have.

🪢

The wind was pushing against you like it wanted to knock you over. You welcomed it. The cold, the force of it, it was the only thing that felt real right now.

Footsteps.

You didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.

“You always come up here when you’re pissed off,” Jake said.

You exhaled through your nose. “And yet you always follow me. Should I start calling you my shadow? ”

“If it gets you actually to talk, sure.”

You huffed a dry laugh. “You’re persistent, I’ll give you that.”

Jake didn’t say anything. He just walked forward, stopping beside you, mirroring your posture as he leaned against the railing. For a while, neither of you spoke. “You lost back there,” he said finally. Not taunting, not victorious. Just a fact.

You closed your eyes briefly before reopening them. “Yeah. I did.”

A pause. Then, softly, “And? ”

You swallowed. “And… it’s funny.” Your voice was quieter than you intended. “Because I didn’t even want to win.”

Jake turned his head toward you, but you fixed your gaze on the skyline. You couldn’t look at him. Not now. “Then what do you want? ” His voice was gentle.

You opened your mouth. Then closed it.

What did you want?

The question pressed against you. You’d spent your whole life running, fighting, and competing. Chasing after a finish line someone else had drawn for you. You were always trying to get ahead and be the best. Not because you wanted it but because you were expected to. So then… what was left when all of that was stripped away?

Jake was still watching you, waiting. But you had no answer.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I don’t know.”

He didn’t respond right away. When he finally did, his voice was quiet. Almost… sad.

“You know, for all the years I’ve known you… I don’t think I’ve ever really known you at all.”

Your throat tightened. You finally turned to look at him.

“Let me help you figure it out,” he said.

And for the first time in your life, you wanted to let someone try.

The words left your mouth before you could stop them.

“How?”

It wasn’t arrogant. It wasn’t with the usual sharpness you carried. It was… quiet. Uncertain. Real.

Jake was caught off guard. Maybe he had expected you to scoff, to push him away like you always did. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

You were tired.

He rubbed a hand over his jaw as if thinking. “We start small,” he said finally. “We talk. We stop pretending to know everything about each other when we don’t.”

Your fingers loosened around the railing. “And then? ”

“And then we figure it out.”

You stared down at your hands. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It’s not.” Jake studied you. “But it doesn’t have to be impossible either.”

You swallowed. “Why do you even care? ”

He was silent for a long time, long enough that you almost regretted asking. But when he spoke, his voice was softer than you had ever heard it.

“Because I saw you that day,” he said. “With your parents. I saw the way they looked at you. The way they spoke to you. And I realized… you’ve never had someone who listens to what you want, have you? ”

No. You hadn’t.

You didn’t even know what you would say if someone ever asked.

You turned away from him, your grip tightening against the railing again. “I don’t need your pity, Jake,” you murmured, but even you didn’t sound convinced.

“It’s not pity,” he said. “It’s just the truth.”

The truth.

You let out a bitter laugh. “You act like it’s that easy. Like suddenly, because you noticed, something will change. It won’t.” You inhaled sharply. “My parents won’t. I won’t.”

“Then let’s stop talking about them,” Jake said. “Just for a second. Forget them. Forget all of it. Just tell me. What do you want? ”

There it was again. That question.

“I…” Your fingers trembled. “I don’t know.”

“That’s okay.” His voice was steady. “Then we start there.”

You turned to look at him, and for the first time, you didn’t see Jake as your rival. You didn’t see the boy who beat you, who had everything you didn’t. He was just looking at you.

And for once, that was enough.

🪢

The crisp rustle of paper snapped you out of your thoughts.

“Here you go,” your professor said and slid a registration form onto your desk with a smile. “I assumed you’d be competing again this year. You wouldn’t want to waste your momentum, right? ”

You stared at it. The words are printed at the top. Bold, formal, suffocating. It felt heavier than it should.

“Right,” you muttered and forced a smile as you picked it up.

Of course. Of course, they’d assume. Because that was who you were. The star student, the prodigy, the competitor. Even if you hadn’t breathed a word about joining, people just knew. Your parents must have already whispered it to the right ears. You walked out of the classroom, staring at the form in your hands. It felt like holding a contract with no escape clause.

And then, before you could process it, the paper was gone.

“What’s this? ”

Your head snapped up. Jake. Standing in front of you, turning the paper over in his hands.

“Give it back,” you muttered, reaching for it, but he took a step back.

“Are you actually signing up for this? ” His tone wasn’t mocking, but something about it irritated you.

“It’s not like I have a choice,” you said flatly. “They expect me to.”

Jake’s face didn’t change. “And do you want to? ”

You scoffed. “Why do you always ask me that? ”

“Because you never answer,” he said.

Your fingers twitched at your sides. “It doesn’t matter what I want.”

“It should.”

He was so sure. So convinced. You almost envied him for it.

“Then tell me, Jake,” you said. “If I say no, if I throw this form away and never look back. Then what? ”

Jake didn’t hesitate. “Then I’ll be right there with you.”

“What-”

“If you don’t sign up, I won’t either,” he said. “If you want to walk away, then let’s walk away. Together.”

Is he being serious right now?

“Why? ” you whispered.

“Because I told you. I want to know you. The real you. And if that means letting go of some dumb competition, then so be it.”

You had never felt so seen in your entire life.

🪢

The aluminum can was cold in your hands. You stared at it, confused, before glancing at Jake.

“…Why? ” you asked as your brows furrowed.

Jake only shrugged. Popping open his own can with a hiss. “You looked like you needed one,” he said simply and brought the soda to his lips.

You eyed him for a moment longer before taking a small sip. The carbonation fizzed against your tongue. It gave you something to focus on. Something other than the boy sitting beside you. Jake leaned back against the bench, his arm resting casually along the backrest. “Jay was right,” he said. “You really are quiet.”

You paused mid-sip. Lowering it just enough to glance at him.

“Huh? ” You weren’t sure what he meant by that.

Jake didn’t look at you right away. Giving you space to process his words. “I mean… when you’re not performing. When you’re not playing the role everyone expects. When you’re not competing or surrounded by people who only care about your name.” He finally turned to you and smiled. “You don’t say much at all.”

You pressed your thumb against the can’s surface. “And that’s a problem? ” Your tone was neutral.

Jake shook his head. “Not at all,” he said steadily. “Just… different.” He took another sip of his drink before adding, “I think I like this version of you more.”

That was strange. You weren’t used to being seen like this. To someone noticing the parts of you that existed outside of competition, outside of expectations. You didn’t know how to respond. So, you didn’t. Instead, you took another sip of your soda, letting the taste of artificial sweetness and carbonation sit heavily.

“I’m jealous of you.”

The words left your mouth before you had the chance to second-guess them. They weren’t said with bitterness or anger. Just exhaustion. A quiet sort of truth. Jake didn’t react at first. He was processing your words. “Jealous? Of me? ” His voice held genuine surprise.

You let out a breath while your shoulders sagged. “Yeah.” You turned the can in your hands again, staring at the condensation gathering on the surface. “You have everything I don’t. A supportive family. Friends who actually care. You don’t have to prove yourself every second just to be worth something.”

Jake stayed quiet, listening. He always listened.

“You don’t know what it’s like to be me,” you continued, voice quieter now, but no less raw. “To have people around you, but still feel alone. To have a name everyone respects but never be sure if anyone actually likes you. To constantly win, but never feel like you’re allowed to lose.” You let out a dry chuckle, but there was no humor in it. “And the worst part? I don’t even want to win.”

Jake’s face was showing understanding. Or pity. You weren’t sure which one was worse.

“Then why do you? ” His voice was gentle.

You opened your mouth. Then closed it.

Because you didn’t have an answer. Or maybe you did, but you weren’t ready to say it out loud.

Jake leaned forward slightly. “I don’t know how you feel,” he admitted. “I won’t pretend I do. But… you don’t have to be alone in it.”

You scoffed. “And what? You’re going to save me? ”

“No,” Jake said simply. “But I can listen. If you let me.”

You had spent so long keeping these thoughts buried. Locked behind walls built too high for anyone to climb. But somehow, he had found his way through.

“Jay is the only thing I have,” you admitted.

Jake stilled beside you. “What do you mean? ” he asked, though you could tell he already had an idea.

“He’s the only one who really knows me. Who doesn’t care about the name, the rankings, the medals. If he wasn’t there…” Your throat tightened, but you forced the words out. “I think I’d have nothing.”

Jake didn’t speak right away. His eyes on you. Finally, he spoke, his voice softer than before. “You know that’s not true, right? ”

You laughed bitterly. “It is.” You gestured vaguely. The proof was all around you. “Everyone else only sticks around because of the reputation. Because it benefits them. I see it. I know it. And my parents-” You stopped yourself. “They only care about the success, not the person behind it.”

Jake was quiet for a moment. “That’s not how it should be.”

“Yeah, well.” You forced a smile, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Not all of us get to have what you have, Jake.”

Jake frowned. “And what do you think I have? ”

“Everything.” The word was heavier than you expected. “You have people who support you. People who love you. Who don’t just see you as a title or an achievement. You don’t have to fight for their approval, because you already have it.”

Jake held your gaze. Then, slowly, he set his can down beside him and leaned back on his hands. “I don’t think that means I have everything,” he murmured. “Not if it means you have nothing.” Then, he stretched beside you. “You know, I never thought I’d see the day where you admitted you were jealous of me.”

You shoved his arm lightly. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Oh, I won’t. I’ll just make sure to remind you every chance I get.” He grinned. “‘Jake, you have everything,’” he mimicked in a terrible impression of your voice. “‘Jake, you’re so humble, so talented, so-’”

You shoved him harder this time. “I take it back. I’m not jealous of you. I pity you.”

Jake only laughed, catching himself before he could tip over. “Sure, sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your lips turned upwards despite yourself.

“So,” Jake finally said while tapping his fingers against his knee. “Since we’re being honest today. What do you actually like? You know, aside from crushing your opponents in competitions.”

You raised a brow. “Who says I like that? ”

“You sure act like it.”

“I don’t know.” You hesitated. “I guess… I never really thought about it. I’ve just been doing what’s expected of me.”

Jake hummed thoughtfully. “Well, maybe it’s time you start.”

You glanced at him. It was unsettling how easily he could be both annoying and unexpectedly kind in the same breath. “And how exactly do I do that? ” you asked.

Jake shrugged. “Figure it out. Try something new. Do something for yourself instead of everyone else.” He paused, then smirked. “Like, I don’t know. Maybe getting ice cream with your ‘rival’ after school?”

You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds suspiciously like a date.”

“Call it what you want.” He stood up and stretched. “But I’m getting ice cream either way, and I won’t stop bragging about it if I go alone.”

🪢

After classes, you two went to a nearby ice cream shop. The ice cream was cold against your tongue. You sat across from Jake at a small outdoor table, absentmindedly tapping your spoon against the cup. “You know,” you started with your voice flat, “this is the first time I’ve eaten ice cream without the crushing weight of expectations looming over me.”

Jake snorted. “Wow, what a tragic backstory.”

“It is,” you deadpanned. “Every bite before this was accompanied by the echo of my parents’ disappointment.”

He stared at you for a second before bursting into laughter. “God, you’re so dramatic.”

“Am I? ” you asked, still completely serious. “I think it adds depth to my character.”

Jake shook his head, taking another bite of his own ice cream. “Jay was right. You really are funny in the weirdest way possible.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you said, still expressionless.

“It wasn’t meant to be one.”

“Too late.”

Jake just chuckled, shaking his head. The conversation carried on like that. Quick exchanges, half-serious jokes, and you, testing the waters of what it felt like to simply be. No competitions, no expectations, just sitting here, eating ice cream with the one person you never expected to share something so normal with. And when you looked at Jake, mid-bite, you realized something else…

Maybe this was what it felt like to have a friend.

🪢

For the next few months, something unexpected happened.

At first, it was a small change. Jake started waiting for you after class. The two of you walking together, sometimes in silence, sometimes bickering over the smallest things. He would flick your forehead whenever you made a dry joke, and you would roll your eyes when he got too philosophical about life. Then, there were the study sessions, the shared lunches, and the exchanged texts that started out about assignments but eventually turned into things that had nothing to do with school.

Somewhere along the way, “rival” wasn’t the right word.

You still competed, of course. Old habits were hard to break. But there was a difference now. When you turned in your test papers, you didn’t feel like you had to prove something to him. When you saw his name next to yours on the scoreboard, it didn’t feel like an attack on your worth. Jake had a way of existing so effortlessly, like he belonged wherever he stood, like he had nothing to prove. And for some reason, being around him made you feel like you didn’t have to prove anything either. One afternoon, as the two of you sat on the school rooftop. “I think I’m forgetting how to be competitive.”

Jake looked at you. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

You stayed quiet for a moment, thinking. ‘’It’s not.”

🪢

The moment the results were announced, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding.

Third place.

For a second, the world seemed to slow. The crowd cheered, cameras flashed, and the weight of all the past competitions pressed against your chest. But instead of disappointment. There was…

Relief.

You turned your head and saw Jake standing on the highest podium. He was smiling, beaming, and when his eyes met yours, his expression softened. He wasn’t just happy for himself. He was proud of you. And strangely, you felt proud too. The old you would’ve hated this. Would’ve obsessed over the what-ifs, convinced yourself that third place meant failure. But now, standing there, you just smiled. Genuinely smiled.

Jake stepped down from his podium before the ceremony was even over, ignoring the announcer’s call. In a second, he was in front of you, eyes searching, until you opened your arms. And then, he pulled you into a hug. It wasn’t brief or hesitant. It wasn’t a victory embrace, not in the way you used to think about winning. It was steady, warm, something unspoken but understood.

“You did amazing,” he murmured.

You let out a small laugh. “You did better.”

“Yeah, but that’s not the point” he squeezed your shoulder. “I’m proud of you.”

You swallowed. For once, you didn’t brush it off. You didn’t argue.

You let yourself believe it.

🪢

The moment you stepped out, the harsh light from the parking lot made the situation feel colder than it already was. Your parents were already waiting for you by the car. Their faces were tense. They didn’t even look at each other before they started in on you.

Your father’s voice was low. “You’ve failed again.” His words hung in the air. “How many times do we have to do this? We put you in the best position possible. I thought you’d learned something after last time, but all you’ve proven is that you can’t handle the pressure.”

You stayed quiet, your hands at your sides, unwilling to look up. There was nothing you could say that would make them understand. Not now. Not ever.

Your mother spoke, her voice a little softer but still sharp. “We give you everything, every advantage, and you still can’t manage to bring home the result we expect. You got third place. Third. Why? Because you didn’t care enough. Because you were distracted. Because you-” She stopped herself.

You wanted to say something, anything, to defend yourself. But you knew it wouldn’t matter. Your words would fall on deaf ears. No matter what you said, it would never be enough.

“I thought you’d work harder. But it’s clear now. You don’t care about winning. You never have,” your father added with his voice cold now. Then, there was silence, and it was unbearable. You could feel the tears welling up behind your eyes. You fought them back. You had to. You wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing you break. And just as you thought you might snap, you heard a voice from behind you. Calm. Steady. Unshakable.

“That’s enough.”

Jake.

You didn’t turn to look at him, but his presence was like a wall between you and your parents now. He stepped forward, his shoulders straight, eyes hard as he looked at your father. “With all due respect, sir, that’s not fair.” Jake’s voice wasn’t loud, but it carried. “She tried. You can’t pretend that she didn’t. I’ve seen her work. I’ve seen how much she puts into this. You can’t just tear her down like that because she didn’t win. That’s not how this works.”

Your father’s jaw clenched. He wasn’t used to being challenged. Not by anyone. Certainly not by someone like Jake. Your mother, on the other hand, narrowed her eyes. “You’re out of line. This is a family matter, Jake. You don’t know what we’ve sacrificed to give her everything she needs to succeed.”

Jake’s eyes softened, but there was still a firmness to it. “I’m not saying you didn’t sacrifice. But you’re hurting her. You’re not giving her a chance to breathe. To be more than just the next win on your list of expectations. She’s not a machine.”

You could feel your heart racing now. This wasn’t what you wanted. You didn’t want Jake to defend you like this, not like this. You didn’t want to be the center of their conflict. But you also couldn’t help the way his words felt so protective and heartwarming. Your father’s voice cracked this time. “You have no idea what it’s like to be responsible for someone like her. You think this is easy for us? ”

Jake didn’t flinch. “I’m sure it’s not easy. But that doesn’t mean you can break her every time she doesn’t meet your expectations. She’s already carrying a burden you don’t understand.”

There was a long silence. Your parents, caught in their own frustrations, didn’t know what to say. You couldn’t remember the last time you saw your father this quiet. This is uncertain. And yet, it didn’t make you feel better. It made the pain worse, somehow.

“Go to the car.” Your father looked at you.

You didn’t move. Not immediately. You couldn’t. Your feet felt rooted to the ground. Your mother’s voice broke through the fog. “Come on, let’s go.” There was no warmth in her voice. No understanding. Just a demand, as though you were nothing more than a tool they could use to achieve their own goals.

Still, you didn’t move. But then, your father’s gaze hardened, and with a final glance at you, he turned away and started toward the car. Your mother followed without a word. They got into the car and drove off, leaving you standing there, frozen, isolated. Abandoned in the worst way possible.

The car was long gone, and the sounds of your parents’ angry voices were still in your mind. You were left in the cold, standing at the edge of the competition venue, a place that was supposed to celebrate achievement, yet all you felt was an unbearable emptiness. You didn’t know how long you stood there, paralyzed by the weight of it all, until you felt a presence behind you.

Without saying a word, Jake came up behind you and pulled you into him, his arms wrapping around you in a way that was protective and almost desperate. For a moment, you stayed completely still, not knowing how to react. You tried to suppress the tears that threatened to break through, but the more you tried to stop them, the more they came. You didn’t want this. You didn’t want to fall apart like this, but the pain, the frustration. It was all too much.

Jake didn’t say anything at first. He just held you. Your body shaking against him. His hand ran through your hair gently. After a long silence, his voice broke through the quiet.

“I love you.”

You froze. You weren’t ready for this. You didn’t expect it, not like this, not in this moment of raw vulnerability. You wanted to say something, anything, but all you could do was cry harder, the pain in your chest intensifying with every breath you took. He didn’t pull away. He didn’t need to explain. His arms around you were all the explanation you needed.

And then, in the most fragile, broken voice, you managed to choke out, “I love you too, Jake.”

Your voice cracked as the words left your mouth, the reality of it all hitting you harder than anything else. It wasn’t just the weight of your parents’ disappointment. It wasn’t just the competition. It was everything. The years of trying to prove yourself, the years of hiding your pain, of pretending you were okay. But in that moment, with Jake holding you, all the walls you’d built around yourself crumbled.

You didn’t know how to explain it. You didn’t even know what it all meant. But you knew that in this moment, you weren’t alone.

🪢

It was late in the evening. The sun had long since set. You and Jake were at the same spot, the one you’d found yourselves in countless times before. It had become a place of understanding, where the noise of the world couldn’t reach you, where nothing else mattered except the moment you were sharing. Jake leaned against the railing, one arm crossed. You sat next to him, just a little distance apart, but the space felt non-existent.

It had been a few weeks since everything had changed between you two. Since the “I love you’s.”

“You know,” Jake said, breaking the silence, “I never really thought about how much I’d come to care about you. I think I spent so much time trying to figure you out that I missed how much I wanted to just… be with you.”

You didn’t say anything at first. The honesty in his voice hit you harder than you expected, and for a brief moment, you felt exposed. “I never really let anyone get close,” you admitted quietly. “But… with you, I don’t know. It just feels like it’s easier.”

Jake’s gaze softened. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide anything with me,” he continued. “You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to be anything you’re not. I only want to be here for you.”

You finally turned to face him, your eyes meeting his. Without thinking, you leaned in, the distance between you two shrinking with every heartbeat. And then, without a word, Jake mirrored your movement, his hand gently cupping your cheek as he closed the space.

When his lips met yours, it was like everything had clicked into place. It wasn’t forceful, nor was it with frantic energy. It was gentle, careful. You pulled back slowly. Jake’s smile was soft, and when he opened his eyes. “I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he said quietly.

And when you smiled back at him, it was different. It wasn’t the kind of smile you gave anyone else. It was for him. For everything you were beginning to understand about him, and about yourself, too.

🪢

You don’t know why you agreed to meet them. Maybe some part of you still wants to believe they’ll listen this time. That they’ll understand. You sit across from them at the dining table in your family’s home. Your father is the first to speak. “Are you done being distracted? ” His voice is calm but sharp. “We gave you time to sulk after your loss. Now it’s time to get serious again.”

Your mother looked at you with disappointment. “Do you know how humiliating it was for us to see you standing there in third place? After everything we’ve done for you? ”

You don’t flinch. Not this time. “I was proud.” Your voice is steady. “For the first time, I was actually proud of myself.”

Your father scoffs. “Proud of what? Settling for less? ”

“Proud that I didn’t hate myself.” The words come out before you can stop them. And for the first time, silence fills the room.

Your mother’s expression tightens. “Where is all of this coming from? Since when did you start talking like this? ”

You grip your hands under the table. “Since I realized I could breathe without trying to be perfect. Since I stopped believing that my worth was tied to a trophy. Since Jake.” But you don’t say any of that out loud. Instead, you swallow and meet their gaze. “I’m not going to keep chasing something that makes me miserable just because it makes you proud.”

Your father’s hand slams against the table, making the dishes rattle. “You think you know better than us? You think you can just throw away everything we built for you? ”

“You built it for yourselves. Not for me.”

Your mother shook her head. “Ungrateful. We gave you everything. And this is how you repay us? ”

Then your father delivers the final blow.

“You’re making a mistake.” His voice, ice. “And when you fail, don’t expect us to be there.”

Something inside you cracks. Maybe it had already been breaking for years. You stand up. Your chair scrapes against the floor.

“Don’t worry, I won’t.”

And with that, you turn and walk away.

🪢

The months pass, and so do the expectations that once weighed you down. You’re still you. Still sharp, still competitive when it matters, but you’re no longer fighting a battle just to prove something. There’s no more need to mask everything behind arrogance. No more need to win just to feel like you deserve to exist. People notice the change. You’re quieter now, but not in the way that feels like suffocation. You’re reserved, but not closed off. And most importantly, you’re kinder. Not just to others, but to yourself. Jay is the first to point it out one day, laughing as he nudges you. “You used to act like you had to be the smartest person in every room. Now you actually let people speak.”

You roll your eyes. “I never did that.”

“Oh, you definitely did.” He grins. “But look at you now. I’m proud of you, you know? ”

You pause at that. It’s not something you hear often. But from Jay, it’s real.

You shrug. “Took me long enough.”

And then there’s Jake.

He’s always there, not in a way that feels like an obligation, but in a way that feels natural. Like you were always meant to meet him at the finish line, no matter where it was. You sit beside him on the rooftop as always. After a moment, he glances at you, eyes warm. “So, do you regret it? ”

You tilt your head. “Regret what? ”

“Letting go.”

You don’t answer right away. You think about everything you lost. The approval you once desperately sought. The expectations you’ll never meet. The people you had to walk away from.

But then you think about everything you gained.

You think about Jay’s laughter, about the way he never left your side. You think about Jake, about the way he looks at you as someone he chose to stay with.

For the first time, your answer is certain.

“No,” you say. “Not even for a second.”

Jake smiles. And when he reaches for your hand, you don’t hesitate before taking it.

Because for the first time in your life, you don’t need to win. You don’t need to be the best.

You just need to be here.

Extra Scene:

You and Jake sat on his bed, legs stretched out, backs resting against the headboard. “No, seriously,” Jake said, chuckling as he shook his head. “You were the most terrifying person I’d ever competed against.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, please. You make it sound like I was some villain.”

Jake laughed and looked at you for a moment. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. You knew what he was thinking. A comfortable silence passed between you before he suddenly reached over to his nightstand, pulling open the drawer. You didn’t think much of it at first, but then his fingers brushing over something inside before carefully pulling it out. Your breath caught in your throat.

It was the silver medal.

The same one your father had ripped from your neck that night after the competition, thrown carelessly into the trash.

But here it was, resting in Jake’s hands.

The thin ribbon that had once been torn off had been stitched back on. Messily, but carefully. The fabric wasn’t perfect, the stitches uneven, but it was there.

Whole again.

“You…” You swallowed as your eyes looked up to his. “You took it?”

Jake exhaled a laugh and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I saw it in the trash that night. Just sitting there, like it didn’t mean anything.” He paused, turning the medal between his fingers. “But it did mean something. Maybe not to them, but to you. So, I took it.”

You reached out, your fingers brushed over the uneven stitches.

“You fixed it,” you whispered.

Jake smiled. “It was never broken,” he murmured. “It was just… waiting for the right person to hold onto it.”

You looked at him then, pressing a soft kiss against his lips.

Being around him felt like peace.

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winters-rose-daughterofcain · 1 month ago

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Here’s the thing with Peeta. Because he's viewed exclusively through the pov of someone in love with him and because at first glance a lot of his flaws are more palatable or easy to brush off they often are. However, low self-esteem, self-worth, and self-image dose not a perfect person make. The devaluing of your own life and impact on others is a flaw, especially when it leads to underestimating how much people need you and abandoning them even if in little ways. Projecting your own low opinion of yourself onto others actions towards you and assigning them motives that indicate an insult is understandable, especially when you’ve grown up in an environment where you were under regular verbal abuse and the intent and motive was negative and demeaning, but it’s still a flaw. Bottling up/repressing anger and withdrawing when hurt until it comes out in long stretches of cool distance and bad communication or uncharacteristic outbursts is a flaw. Going along with demeaning and inappropriate social behaviours towards the girl you love because you can understand there is a joke you’re not in on and are trying to adapt socially and blend in the midst of an unfamiliar and scary situation is shitty, insensitive teen boy behaviour. Understandable, and apologised for, but a flaw. Using an ability with words and charm to deflect moments of vulnerability isn’t exactly a flaw but it’s not open or honest.

He’s stubborn and logical and can be quit ruthless when he needs to be. He’s perfectionistic and overly self critical and doesn’t seem to like being praised even as being seen as stupid, weak, and lesser are clearly a sore spot and will assign those ideas about himself onto others even with little to no evidence that’s what their thinking. He avoids violence yet can lash out in anger when finally pushed too far. He gets frustrated and stubborn and closes himself off. He’s lonely and isolated and scared and seventeen and every flaw is so completely understandable. But ignoring them diminishes just how wonderful everything else about him is!

How kind and generous and thoughtful and intelligent he is, how precise and purposeful he is, how respectful and patient. He is hope and gentleness and the calm of the sunset on something better, he’s artistic and creative and nurturing. It wouldn’t matter as much if it didn’t come with negative sides. His kindness wouldn’t be as impactful if he didn’t have to choose it and work for it, kindness is a skill in a lot of ways it’s something that can be practised, kindness is something you choose and he chooses it over and over and over again, he chooses it over anger. His moments of vulnerability and openness wouldn’t mean anything if he was always like that, if it wasn’t earned and if he didn’t try and avoid it. The moments he thaws and comforts wouldn’t mean as much if it was constant, if he didn’t also withdraw and shutdown, if he’s not choosing this. Choosing the right thing over and over again.

Because yeah, Peeta’s baseline philosophy and nature is kindness, but you don’t get as good at it as he is, especially not in the environment and world he was raised in, without making the choice to reach for. And stripping him of his flaws not only makes him a far less interesting and realistic character but also takes away a lot of his agency and a lot of what makes his brilliant moments so good. He’s a scared traumatised seventeen year old trying his best, trying over and over again to choose the right thing, and sometimes he doesn’t, sometimes he missteps or his plans don’t work or an insecurity manifests in a way unfair to both him and those around him. But he tries so hard to do the right thing and goddam it he deserves a few flaws.

#Defending my boy by..... highlighting his flaws? More likely than you'd think #the hunger games #peeta mellark #thg #character analysis #everlark #katniss everdeen #thg peeta #thg meta #i love him and all his bullshit he's so dear to me #katniss as well #they deserve it they deserve some slack #alot of slack actually

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frenchkisstheabyss · 10 months ago

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♡ Ateez & Their Favorite Part of Their Chubby Gf's Body ♡

♡ A/N: This one (as with anything I do tbh) is for my chubby babes out there so I hope you enjoy it my darlings. Make sure to check the warnings under the break. Love you to pieces - xoxo your chubby godmother

♡ Pairing: ot8!ateez x chubby!fem!reader

♡ Genre: smut/fluff

♡ Word Count: 1.5k-ish total

♡ Warnings: oral sex (m & f receiving), swallowing, nibbling, kissing, marking, spanking, doggystyle, nipple play, tit sucking, dry humping, riding, manhandling, some dom vibes, rough sex, unprotected sex, cumplay, hair grabbing, mirror sex

♡ Hongjoong ♡

Hongjoong loves your body, that isn’t even a question, but the first thing he noticed about you was that pretty face of yours and that’ll never stop being his absolute favorite thing about you. You have the sort of eyes he could get lost in forever and a smile that gives him butterflies every time he looks at you. Don’t even get him started on how kissable your cheeks are. They’re always so soft and fluffy, especially when his cock’s buried between them, your glossy lips wrapped around his thickness as your head rocks up and down his length. He likes to stroke your cheeks while you look up at him, feeling them flutter around him, your tongue squirming against the throbbing veins of his cock. Nothing’s hotter to him than seeing your cheeks get even fluffier when they’re all filled up with his cum right before you swallow him down like the good girl that you are.

♡ Seonghwa ♡

Seonghwa has made such a habit of tracing your stretch marks with his fingertips that it’s become a mindless act at this point. You’ll never have to feel shy or ashamed when you discover new ones because he finds them beautiful. It’s to the point where he doesn’t even need to have his eyes on them to know they’re there. On days when you’re feeling a little insecure he likes to take you into the bedroom and bend you over right in front of the full length mirror. He’ll grab your hair, not letting you take your eyes off of your teary eyed reflection for a second. Not only does he want you to see how you take his cock better than anyone else ever has. He wants you to see how hot those stretch marks look riding your curves. He whispers words of praise to you that only make your nipples stiffer and your pussy wetter. By the end of it all you’re leaking enough to make a little puddle on the floor and you’ve cum so hard you can barely talk but you feel like the hottest girl in the world.

♡ San ♡

San’s been staring at your ass all day. It doesn’t matter if you’re wearing the tightest dress possible or a loose fitting pair of sweatpants. He knows what a perfect ass you have and anytime it's in his line of vision he gets the irresistible urge to touch it. That’s why he has to do everything not to cum too soon when you’re bent over in front of him, your knees buried in the mattress and your ass poked up in the air begging him to spank it. The recoil the first time he thrusts his cock into you is enough to make him drool. Your ass jiggles so wonderfully when he fucks you like this, your walls clamping down around him each time he slaps your ass to tell you how well you’re taking him. The sound of his palms snapping against your skin is so heavenly. The only thing better is digging his fingers into your plush ass when you’re both about to cum. It feels so soft and warm beneath his touch that he doesn’t want to let go.

♡ Yeosang ♡

Yeosang never lets you think for one second that you were too big to get on top. He loves to grab you by those plush hips and pick you up. The perfect place to set you down is always in his lap, kissing you hungrily while you ride his cock. Your hips are so soft and full, the perfect thing to squish during sleepy morning sex when neither of you are in a rush to get anywhere and you’re riding him slowly, savoring the feeling of his length throbbing deep within your pussy. Your hips are also perfect for when he wants to get more dominant, that extra cushion letting him grab you as hard as you like while he manhandles you. With his hands controlling your hips every move you make is under his control. He can keep you right where he wants you, pounding his cock harder and deeper into a pussy that’s just so dripping and needy that he can’t stop. Afterwards he’ll always massage your hips, still keeping a hold on them as you come down from your high, your soft body cuddled up to his.

♡ Jongho ♡

Jongho pretends that he doesn’t like to cuddle but you know better than anyone else what a lie that is. His favorite thing to do is to lay in bed with his arms wrapped around your curvy figure and his head resting on your pillowy breasts. On rare occasions it’s enough to put him to sleep but those occasions are very rare. More often than not he finds himself trailing kisses across your cleavage, his bulge rubbing against your leg as his tongue dips between your breasts, tickling the sensitive skin. It gets him even harder when you aren’t wearing a bra and he can freely take handfuls of your breasts, rolling your stiff buds between his fingertips while hushed moans dance from your lips. He kisses them through your clothes at first, teasing your nipples through your thin shirt until the material’s damp. The second your shirt’s pushed up, your breasts bouncing free, his lips are wrapped around your buds, licking and sucking them to the point that your panties are drenched and you’re silently begging him to fuck you.

♡ Yunho ♡

Yunho doesn’t care what you call them. Love handles, rolls, whatever. Call them what you like as long as you remember that he’s such a sucker for them. There’s no need for shapewear or only putting on clothes that hide them. Yunho wants them on full display. In fact, it’s best when you’re in nothing but a bra or completely naked so that his large hands can spend all the time they want exploring your body, worshiping your love handles with his touch so that you feel just how sexy he finds them. It’s so hot for him when you’re laying side by side, one of your legs wrapped around his waist, his cock inching into you as his hands ride up and down your form. This way he can grip your sides tighter, tilting you back to drill into your sweet spot at the perfect angle. Or he can wrap his arms around you completely, keeping you so close to him that he can feel every single detail of your pussy as you clench him so tightly, your juices leaking down his cock, making a total mess of the both of you.

♡ Wooyoung ♡

Wooyoung is feral for your thighs. It’s especially bad when the two of you are at home and you decide to walk around in nothing but your panties, your delicious thighs on full display just ready to be praised. He’s on you in no time, pinning you down on the bed or the couch to kiss and nibble on them until he hears you letting out those cute little giggles that he loves so much. It never stops there though. The kisses always deepen until his tongue’s running along your smooth skin, leaving hickeys behind as he suckles at your tender flesh. Before you know it his fingers have found their way between your thighs, tugging your soaked panties to the side to play with your plump clit, his tongue at the ready to lap at your juices. He’ll spend as long as he can like this, his tongue buried inside of you, your thighs wrapped around his neck, eating you out until you’re gushing all over. Once you're spent, he takes the initiative to clean you up. Every single time it’s with his tongue and he won’t stop until he’s tasted every bit of you.

♡ Mingi ♡

Mingi has such a thing for your belly that it’s not even funny. It’s better than any plushie in the world when it comes to comforting him when he’s stressed or just giving him something nice to cozy up to. This man will take every opportunity available to squish your belly and is super vocal with you about how much he adores it. It doesn’t matter to him if you gain a little weight, that only means that your belly will be even softer to touch and kiss in whichever position he chooses. Mingi’s always had his kinks but being with you has led to the discovery of a new one. After you’ve cum—and he always makes sure you cum first—he likes to rub the leaky tip of his cock through your slick folds, arousal dripping down your perky clit as he strokes his cock over top of you. His eyes are glued to your twitchy little pussy, your belly just bouncing against the head. Once he’s right at the edge he likes to move up to your belly, tapping his cock against it to watch it jiggle so beautifully as hot, white ropes of his seed spill all over you.

#ateez x reader #ateez x you #ateez x chubby reader #ateez smut #ateez fluff #ateez hard thoughts #chubby reader #plus size reader #hongjoong smut #seonghwa smut #mingi smut #yunho smut #jongho smut #yeosang smut

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velaenam · 3 months ago

Text

𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭

◦ ♡

𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐫!𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 𝐱 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐫!𝐬𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 — non!mc. a princess from a powerful merchant kingdom is thrust into a political marriage with rome’s most feared military emperor—only to catch the eye of a rival sovereign who believes her freedom is worth starting a war. 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 — set during the early imperial period of rome, the story unfolds at the height of political intrigue and military dominance, where empires clash, alliances shift. story will take place between 1st century bce – 2nd century ce, give or take. 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 — swearing, nsfw language, political manipulation, power imbalance, emotional manipulation, toxic relationships, war and violence, sexual themes, misogyny/patriarchal culture, classism and elitism, culture tensions, xenophobia, racism, non consensual stuff at times.. uhh.. romantic love triangle, slow burn, angst, fluff, smut 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — please note that this is a civilization thousands and thousands of years ago, so they probably aren't as socially accepting.. you are also of arabian and hellenistic heritage. normally i am ambiguous of how i describe the protagonist of my stories, but i'll be a bit more focused on my details in this story. I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH, IF YOU HAVE ANY OF THESE TRIGGERS PLEASE BE MINDFUL. i will also put a DISCLAIMER of any non consensual stuff or any triggering events that may end up happening PRIOR to the actual scene. (obviously it will not be frequent thing) — reblogs comments & likes are appreciated. let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist! 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 — PROLOGUE | next chapter

this will be a bit short. its the prologue— so its going to just go over a little tid bit of how everyone is going to be and you can see how the atmosphere is.

the morning is soft with silence.

sunlight filters through the sheer drapes like it’s hesitant to enter, golden dust suspended in the hush. your room smells faintly of rose oil and crushed figs, of silk warmed by the sun. servants move quietly around you—gentle hands braiding your hair, smoothing the folds of your linen dress, adjusting the golden clasp at your shoulder. you don’t speak. neither do they. it’s an old, practiced ritual. the preparation of a daughter for something unspoken.

you watch yourself in the polished bronze mirror. not a girl anymore, not quite a queen. something in between. something uncertain. how were you feeling? you felt dreadful. to be a pawn was never a good thing. a knock at the door. soft, like you can hear misery through a pounding. then a murmur. “his majesty is waiting.”

your sandals smack softly against the stone as you walk, heart quiet but heavy. the hallway stretch long, filled with mosaics that tell stories of your ancestors—men who conquered, the women who waited. you walk past them like a ghost. your father is standing near the open colonnade, among the atrium, staring out at the city below. his toga catch in the breeze like banners. he does not turn when you enter.

“you sent for me,” you say above a whisper, as the chamber echoed your voice. he nods once. his voice is as it always is— stoic. weathered by experience.

“rome has made an offer. emperor caleb xia would like your hand in marriage”

you say nothing. the wind picks up. it carries the scent of figs and pomegranates— your favorites. you stand, stiffened. is this from the emperor himself, or his senate?

“you’ve always understood the weight of your position,” he continues, still not looking at you. “this isn’t punishment. it’s legacy.” you wonder if he’s speaking to himself.

“and the emperor?” you ask softly. “do you trust him?” he couldn’t even lie if he tried. your father turns, finally, eyes sharp and tired all at once. “no. but alliances are not built on trust. they are built on necessity.” he steps closer, and for a moment, he is not a king, but your father. his hand rests on your shoulder, not heavy, but firm. “you will do what must be done,” he says. “as we all have.” you nod. because what else is there to say? no? what the hells would even happen if you said that? with an even heavier heart, and a tight lip, you bow slightly, before turning heels and walking back to your chamber.

later, when you return to your chambers, you unpin your hair with trembling fingers and stare at the mirror again, and when you look up to the mirror, your tears fall. you realize this may be the very last time you could have your peace to yourself— at least for a while. you weren’t a woman basking in the sunlight anymore. laying near the ravine with your closest friends. you were a pawn.

the air inside the tent tastes of iron and dust.

outside, the murmurs of the camp never sleep—shields being oiled, blades checked again and again, men speaking low in the hush of an almost-won war. the sky beyond the canvas is the color of smoke, the kind that clings to your skin long after the fires are gone.

caleb stands alone over the war table, eyes fixed on the parchment map that bears the scars of too many campaigns. lines drawn and redrawn. cities conquered. rivers crossed. this battle will end tomorrow, and with it, resistance in the east.

he doesn’t smile. he never does. victory is expected of him. and expectations are chains dressed as crowns. a soldier enters, bows low. news of the enemy’s retreat. talk of surrender. a whisper, almost offhanded, like it doesn’t matter:

“a formal alliance is being discussed in the senate—nabira’s hand in marriage. her daughter.”

caleb says nothing at first. he does not lift his head. just another treaty. just another crown to bind with rome. how many women were given to him for this reason? he couldn’t count the amount of attempted alliance and leverage thrown at him. a mere woman’s soul is the price of not being taken and pulled apart? no. no, this would be different.

“what’s her name?” he asks, not because he cares.. just to know what name history will one day try to stitch beside his. the soldier hesitates. then: “they don’t speak it aloud, not yet. only that she is.. magical…shadowed... her father guards her like a secret.”

caleb’s gaze lingers on the edge of the map, where nabira is inked in faint gold. a kingdom on the edge of empires. he says nothing else, and neither does the soldier, and after a couple beats skip, the soldier leaves.

caleb stays there a while longer, the quiet pressing in as he glides his fingers across the map, calculating to himself. he knows better than to believe in fate. but still—he wonders what kind of woman is hidden behind a crown, guarded like a blade, spoken of only in quiet corners of powerful rooms. was she formidable? he wonders. his heart races at the slightest at the thought of you.

and he wonders what kind of man he will need to be to win your loyalty. surely not with war? with silken drapes, and golden gifts. will he need to throw lavish expenses to win such an even more lavish heart? he was thinking too hard— he doesn’t even know a god damn thing, and this was distracting him.

shahanshah - king of kings / emperor (persian. pronounced sha-han-sha)

the night air in parthia was cool, the scent of myrrh drifting through the royal palace gardens. shahanshah sylus stood alone beneath the towering date palms, his thoughts far from the usual state matters. the sky stretched dark above him, the stars twinkling like scattered diamonds, but there was little peace in his mind tonight. the soft footsteps of an approaching figure broke the silence. the emissary bowed deeply as he came closer, careful not to disrupt the stillness. “shahanshah,” the emissary spoke, voice low and respectful. “we’ve received word from the princess' brother. the decision has been made.” sylus didn’t turn right away, his gaze fixed on the horizon. his voice, when it came, was quiet but sharp.

“what decision?”

“the marriage… it’s been arranged. the princess of nabira will marry emperor caleb of rome.”

sylus paused, his fingers tightening on the edge of the stone column beside him. he hadn’t expected this development, not so soon. but your father had always been pragmatic, and in these times of shifting alliances, a marriage to rome made sense—at least politically. still, the news stung.

“and the princess?” sylus asked, his voice colder than it had been moments before. “was she consulted?” it was a quick quiet, the emissary hesitated. “she… was informed. the decision was her father’s. from what i understand, she did not take it well. there were tears, and anger.”

sylus absorbed the information quietly, his gaze never leaving the view before him. he knew this was coming. the union of rome and nabira had been hinted at for months, but hearing it was another matter entirely. he didn’t think that your father really had the balls to actually pull through.

“her brother– the diplomat, he must have known this was coming,” sylus said, a small frown pulling at his lips. “why send the message to me now?”

the emissary nodded. “her brother… he has long worked with you, shahanshah. he is a trusted ally in trade, and he wanted to ensure you heard it from him directly. he also believes this marriage could open doors for more favorable dealings between parthia and nabira.”

sylus turned now, finally facing the emissary. his red eyes were hard, calculating. unreadable. the emissary shifted his posture.

“so this marriage is as much about trade as it is about politics?” sylus asked, voice laced with an edge. “but what of the princess? does she have no say in the matter?”

“her father has made the decision. the princess is caught in the web of diplomacy. her brother… i believe he tried to shield her from the worst of it, but ultimately, the decision rests with the king.”

sylus’ jaw clenched, and his mind raced. the political situation was delicate, but this… this felt different. he feels as if he’s seeing a life slip from its freedom.

“what does her brother say?” sylus pressed. “is he pleased with this marriage?”

the emissary hesitated again. “he does what is best for nabira. but it is clear he does not want to see her in the hands of rome. he worries for her.”

sylus’ lips tightened in thought. he had always known your brother had his eyes set on securing an advantageous position for nabira, but this marriage would change everything. the alliance with rome would tilt the scales of power in ways that were difficult to predict. an insurmountable amount of money would be handed over to the most powerful empire in the world. the silk road would bloom into something more.

he straightened, his voice firm as he turned back toward the emissary, “tell her brother that i expect an update—soon. and i will not forget what this means for parthia. if rome wants nabira so badly, they will have to deal with us.”

the emissary nodded and bowed deeply before taking his leave. as sylus watched him depart, his thoughts lingered on you. you were bound by duty, but he knew that the chains of politics could break, and alliances could shift.

“she may not have a say now,” sylus murmured to himself, staring into the night. “but nothing is final until i decide it is. and i will make sure that, in the end, she has her freedom.”

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ! - @rcvcgers

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nylqnder · 4 months ago

Text

IF THESE WALLS COULD TALK WILL SMITH

pairing: will smith x celebrini!sister!reader

summary: you've been struggling to keep your relationship with will a secret, but when teasing escalates, your secret is unexpectedly exposed.

warnings: brother's best friend trope, mentions of drinking, secret relationship, you and mack are living together instead of him living with the thornton family

wc: 2.49k

notes: when done right, the brother's best friend trope is soooo delicious

As you pull up outside of the Toffoli’s house, the party is already in full swing as the Sharks let loose for the night. You can hear the steady hum of conversation and music flowing out from the open windows.

You’re used to this by now. Living in San Jose for school has meant becoming a regular fixture at these gatherings, thanks to your brother, Macklin. At first, you’d felt like an outsider, just the kid sibling tagging along, even though you’re older than him. But over time, the team had embraced you as one of their own. It’s hard not to get close when they’re constantly around, filling your nights with games or pre-match dinners with the girls.

You step inside, exchanging quick greetings with the players and their significant others. You sidestep through the crowded space, quickly taking in the familiar faces. And then, your eyes find him across the room, as they always do.

He’s standing near the kitchen, beer in hand, laughing at some story Nico is telling him. The dim lighting does nothing to dull the sharp angles of his face, the way his blonde hair curls slightly at the ends, a little dishevelled but in a way that only makes him look better. He’s wearing a fitted black t-shirt, sleeves stretched just enough over his biceps to make your stomach do that stupid little flip it always does when you see him.

God, he looks good. Too good. Unfairly good.

For a second, you forget yourself, caught in the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he grins, how effortlessly he commands the space around him. But then reality snaps back into place, and you remind yourself that you’re not supposed to be looking at him like this. Not here. Not when your brother could walk past at any second.

Your relationship with Will has been a secret — a carefully kept one.

At first, Will was just your brother's teammate — another face in the endless cycle of players who drifted in and out of your life because of Macklin. But unlike the others, he stuck around. He and Mack had clicked instantly when they joined the Sharks, and from that point on, they were practically inseparable. If Macklin wasn’t at the rink, he was with Will. If Will wasn’t at the rink, he was at your and Macklins' place. They trained together, travelled together, and spent their downtime playing video games on your couch like overgrown kids.

And somewhere along the way, between all the nights spent at your apartment, things changed. The connection had been effortless, undeniable.

But it wasn’t supposed to turn into something more.

You hadn’t meant for the late-night conversations to get deeper, hadn’t planned for the stolen glances to linger too long. You definitely hadn’t expected the first time he kissed you, back when it was still something you could chalk up to bad decision-making and too much tequila consumed at a San Jose State frat party. But then it happened again — sober, intentional. And again. Until, eventually, neither of you could deny it anymore.

Now, months later, it’s something real. Something you don’t want to hide, but Will — he’s more cautious. Not because he isn’t sure about you. That much has always been clear. It’s Macklin he worries about.

Mack’s always been protective, always viewed you as his responsibility in a way that, while sweet, could also be incredibly frustrating. On one hand, he’s looking out for you and making sure his older sister is always happy. But he’s your younger brother. Your baby brother. He’s the one you should be worrying about, not the other way around.

And Will? He’s one of his closest friends, someone he trusts implicitly. The idea of telling him — of risking that dynamic — makes Will hesitate.

And so, you’ve kept it quiet.

It’s not always easy. Especially at moments like this, when you’re at the same party, standing in the same room, but you have to pretend you don’t want to be near him. That you don’t want to walk over there and run your fingers through his hair, tug him closer, and press your lips to the spot just below his jaw that always makes him shiver.

Instead, you force yourself to look away, to find a drink, to keep yourself busy. But the weight of his gaze finds you anyway, and when you glance up, Will is already watching.

His expression is unreadable to anyone else, just casual enough to seem normal, but you know better. You see the flicker of longing, the way his fingers tighten ever so slightly around the neck of his beer bottle.

You’re tired of this game — this careful balancing act of stolen glances and unspoken words. It’s not that you want to make some grand announcement, but there’s something about tonight, about the way Will looks at you like he’s barely holding himself back, that makes you want to push him just a little.

You take a sip of your drink, letting your gaze sweep the room before landing back on him. Then, deliberately, you tilt your head and let your eyes drop to his lips before flicking back up to his. It’s subtle — just enough for him to catch it.

Will straightens almost imperceptibly, his fingers flexing around his beer bottle.

You bite back a grin.

You turn on your heel and weave through the party, lingering in conversations just long enough to be seen. You laugh at something one of the girls says, throwing your head back slightly, knowing full well Will is watching.

And when you lean in to talk to Collin — just innocent conversation, nothing more — you don’t miss the way Will shifts where he stands. The way his jaw ticks.

You’re halfway to reaching Cat when Will suddenly steps in front of you.

“Hey,” Will says casually, too casually.

He’s so close that you can feel his breath on your face, the scent of his cologne completely enveloping you. “Hey yourself.”

His eyes flick over your shoulder to Collin, expression neutral but you don’t miss the way his eyes narrow and the way his shoulders stiffen. “Didn’t know you and Collin were so close,” Will remarks, taking a slow sip of his beer.

“We’re not,” you reply, feigning innocence. “We were just talking.”

Will hums, unconvinced. “Sure.”

You tilt your head, leaning just a fraction closer, just to mess with him. “Why?” you ask, voice low, teasing. “Something wrong?”

He meets your gaze, and for a second, you think he’s going to cave — that he’s going to say screw it and kiss you right here, right now.

But then, instead of giving in, Will’s hand closes firmly around your wrist.

“Come with me,” he mutters under his breath, barely giving you time to react before he’s tugging you through the crowd.

You stumble slightly, caught off guard, but quickly regain your footing as he pulls you down a hallway. The noise from the party dims the farther you go until Will reaches the door to the bathroom and pushes it open, ushering you inside.

Before you can make a smart comment, the door clicks shut behind you, and Will turns to face you, his expression tight, controlled. “Are you having fun?” he asks, voice low, rough.

You blink, caught between amusement and curiosity. “Excuse me?”

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “You know exactly what I mean.”

You cross your arms, tilting your head slightly. “If you’re asking if I’m enjoying the party, then yeah, it’s been great.”

“Cut the crap,” he says, stepping closer. “You’ve been teasing me all night.”

Your brows lift. “Teasing?” you scoff. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Will lets out a short, humorless laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Bullshit. The looks, the little smirks, leaning into Collin like that—” He stops himself, exhaling through his nose. “You’re trying to get a rise out of me.”

You shrug, biting back a grin. “I don’t know, Will. Sounds like you’re the one making a big deal out of nothing.”

His eyes darken, stepping closer and forcing your back against the counter. “You think this is funny?” he murmurs, voice dropping.

Your heart stutters, but you keep your expression neutral. “I think you’re overreacting.”

Will shakes his head, exhaling heavily. His hands press into the counter on either side of you, caging you in. “You can’t do that,” he mutters, eyes locked onto yours.

“Do what?” you challenge, tilting your chin up.

He leans in, lips barely an inch from yours, voice barely more than a whisper. “Make me want you when I can’t do anything about it.”

Your breath catches, but before you can say anything, he pulls back slightly, running a hand over his face. “Macklin can’t find out,” he reminds you, and there’s something almost desperate in his tone.

You exhale, shaking your head. “I don’t think he’d mind as much as you think.”

Will lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “You’re kidding, right? He’s your little brother. He’s my teammate. He’s protective as hell.”

“I know my own brother, Will,” you counter. “And yeah, he might be a little weird about it at first, but once he sees how much you mean to me — how much we mean to each other — he’d get over it. He’d probably be happy for us.”

Will’s jaw tightens like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. He just stares at you, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

You reach up, fingers grazing his forearm. “You’re the only one making this harder than it needs to be.”

He swallows, his hand lifting to cup your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheek. It’s so gentle, so at odds with the tension crackling in the air between you. His forehead drops to yours for a beat, and you can feel the unspoken words sitting heavy between you both.

And then, finally, he exhales, shaking his head with a reluctant smirk. “You drive me crazy.”

You grin. “Good.”

And then, before he can say anything else, you close the distance.

The second your lips meet, Will exhales sharply, like he’s been holding his breath this whole time. His hands move down to your waist, pulling you flush against him as he kisses you, slow and deep, like he’s making up for all the times he’s had to hold back.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just enough to draw a low groan from his throat. It sends a thrill down your spine, and you press closer, letting yourself get lost in him. The party outside fades away, nothing but muffled voices and music in the background.

It’s just you and Will, finally allowing yourselves this moment.

Will’s lips trail from your mouth to your jaw, his breath warm against your skin as he whispers, “You’re impossible.”

“Hey, Smitty, can you stop macking on my sister? I gotta take a piss.”

Macklin’s voice comes through clear as day, making the both of you freeze.

Will pulls back like he’s been electrocuted, eyes wide in panic. His grip on you loosens instantly, and he looks at you, then the door, like he’s calculating how fast he can escape.

You, on the other hand, are struggling to hold back laughter. Because of course this is how Macklin finds out. Not through some well-planned conversation where you gently break the news, but by catching Will mid-makeout session with his sister in a damn bathroom.

The knocking starts up again, more insistent this time.

“Come on, man,” Macklin groans. “Just open the damn door before I start thinking you two are doing more than just making out.”

Will lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a groan and a whimper, running a hand down his face. “I’m actually going to throw up.”

You bite your lip, reaching for the doorknob. “Well, there’s no getting out of this now.”

Will doesn’t move, still staring at the door like it’s a portal to his impending doom. You take pity on him, squeezing his hand quickly before turning the handle. The door swings open, revealing Macklin standing there, arms crossed, expression mostly unimpressed.

“Hey Mack!” you say brightly, like not a single thing is out of the ordinary. Will moves behind you, almost as if he’s using you as a barrier between him and Macklin.

Macklin’s eyes flick between the two of you before he just sighs, shaking his head like he’s already too exhausted to deal with this. “Are you guys done?” he deadpans. “Because, seriously, I really need to piss.”

Will blinks, his mouth opening and closing like he’s trying to form words but failing spectacularly. You, on the other hand, just fold your arms, tilting your head at your brother.

“That’s all you have to say?” Will blurts out, voice strangled.

“What do you want me to say? You want me to scream at you for making out with my sister? Beat the shit out of you?” Macklin snorts at his own comments. “Come on. I’m not an idiot. I’ve known something was up for a while.”

Will finally finds his voice, clearing his throat. “Wait—what?”

Macklin rolls his eyes, stepping past both of you and toward the toilet. “Dude, you’re not as slick as you think you are. The little looks across the room? The ‘accidental’ hand brushes? I mean seriously it makes me want to puke.”

Will is still standing there like he’s buffering, his brain trying to process this information in real time.

You bite back a laugh. “So, you don’t have a problem with the two of us?”

“I mean… why would I?” Macklin asks. “I know you. I know him. Do I love thinking about one of my best friends making out with my sister? No. But you’re both adults, and Will’s a good guy. As long as you’re happy, I don’t care.”

“I told you he wouldn’t care,” you say, smug.

Will doesn’t even bother responding to your comment, exhaling sharply and dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ.”

“I mean, don’t get me wrong — if you mess this up, I’ll have to kick your ass,” Macklin adds.

His gaze sharpens just enough that Will instinctively straightens. “Noted.”

Macklin nods, satisfied. “Good. Now, can you two please get out because I actually have to piss.”

You laugh, grabbing Will’s hand and pulling him out the door before Macklin kicks it shut behind the two of you. Will still looks mildly stunned, but you squeeze his fingers, shooting him a reassuring smile.

You nudge him. “See? Told you. Nothing to worry about.”

Will exhales, looking at you with something between relief and disbelief. “I think I need another beer.”

You grin, lacing your fingers through his. “Come on, then. Let’s go celebrate your survival.”

He lets you pull him back toward the party, still shaking his head, muttering under his breath, “I cannot believe I lost sleep over this.”

#˚₊۶ৎ˙⋆ nylqnder #will smith hockey #will smith x reader #will smith imagine #will smith #nhl #nhl imagine #hockey #hockey imagine #san jose sharks

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heliosunny · 4 months ago

Note

Hello!! hello! i love all your works!!! and how much you post per day???? pls take breaks between writing if you can!

i read the streamer!jing yuan one...

if requests are open can i request sunday with the same scenario?

i imagine he'd never play any otome games on his own so robin would have to coerce him into playing the game. i also see him to be the type of player who'd clear every route and have things down to a T ...

but what if there was one route he never finished? the hardest route to trigger and the one with the most bad endings cause the favourability bar is super fickle?

but the payoff is worth it once he somehow???? manages to trigger a yandere event hehe

Yandere!Streamer Sunday x Reader

Game Loading… Welcome Back.

Sunday leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms before settling in for another long night. He still couldn’t believe he was doing this.

When Robin had first forced him to play, he’d scoffed at the idea. Him? A dating game? No way. But somewhere along the way—after countless hours, multiple endings, and way too much money spent on DLC—he’d become obsessed. His competitive streak wouldn’t let him quit until he had 100% completion.

And yet, one route remained unfinished.

Yours.

You were the hardest love interest to win over, your favorability bar more unstable than any other. No matter what he did, one wrong move could send it plummeting. He had watched others fail, seen forums filled with players begging for hints. No one had a clear guide. No one had reached the true ending.

Tonight, that would change.

“Alright, chat” he muttered, rolling his shoulders. “I don’t care how long it takes—I’m finishing Y/N’s route tonight.”

“Sunday, you’re too deep in, bro.” “At this point, Y/N is your real partner.” “No way you’re getting the true ending. It’s cursed.” “Watch him fumble and lose favorability in five minutes.”

He exhaled, ignoring the teasing comments as the title screen faded, and the game resumed where he left off.

This was it.

Carefully, he selected his next dialogue option, choosing words with precision. Your sprite appeared, and for the first time in all his failed attempts, the favorability bar twitched upward.

[Favorability +5]

“That’s new” he muttered, brows furrowing. Chat exploded with excitement, theories flying in real-time. He leaned in, hyper-focused. The background music softened, replaced by an eerie silence.

Then, the screen flickered.

“What the-?”

Your expression on screen shifted. Subtle, almost imperceptible. The soft smile you usually wore seemed… off. Before he could react, a new dialogue box popped up.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“?????” “This isn’t in the script, bro.” “GOT THE SECRET ROUTE?!” “ABORT. ABORT.”

Before he could click anything, the screen distorted. Pixels warped, the background dissolving into a mess of static. A sudden high-pitched ringing filled his headphones.

Then—darkness.

Sunday had always been good at games. He could grind through any RPG, master mechanics, and break down any system with enough time and effort. But Ethereal Reverie: Fated Bonds was different.

When he stumbled upon your route, he had been hooked.

You were different from other love interests. You're the ultimate challenge. And Sunday loves that.

In the world of Ethereal Reverie, you were the kingdom’s renowned scholar and strategist, sought after by nobles and rulers alike. Your mind was your greatest weapon, and you wielded it with precision. Unlike the other characters—who were knights, royals, and adventurers—you had no need for physical prowess. Instead, you navigated court politics, warfare, and intrigue, always three steps ahead of everyone else.

Most players never even got past your acquaintance phase. Your favorability was infamously fickle—one wrong move and you'd cut ties with the protagonist entirely, locking them out of your story. It was said that only a handful of players had even managed to trigger a romance flag, and none had reached the true ending.

Sunday was determined to be the first.

But now, as he stared up at you—no longer a 2D sprite but a living, breathing person—he realized he had made a grave mistake.

“Sunday.”

His breath caught in his throat. You knew his name. That wasn’t possible. His in-game avatar had a preset name—Caius—the default protagonist. But you weren’t looking at Caius. You were looking at him.

Sunday barely had time to process what was happening before another voice called out from behind you.

“Lord Sunday, you’ve finally arrived.”

What?

It wasn’t just you.

He turned his head sharply, eyes darting around. The grand stone courtyard he had landed in was familiar—ornate fountains, banners bearing the royal crest, and intricate marble pillars. This was the capital’s royal palace, the heart of the kingdom.

He knew this place. He had seen it countless times in the game.

But this wasn’t the protagonist’s usual starting point.

And then the pieces clicked.

His ornate outfit, the way the NPCs were addressing him, the "Lord" title—

This wasn’t his usual avatar.

The game hadn’t just dragged him into the world. It had assigned him a new role.

A dangerous one.

There was only one person in Ethereal Reverie who was constantly at odds with you. One person who stood as your rival in the court’s deadly political game. The one strategist whose name was whispered with both admiration and fear—

Lord Sunday, the Grand Strategist of the Northern Territories.

He had become your greatest enemy.

Why the hell did the game slot me into the villain’s role?

“Lord Sunday. I hope you’re ready. We have much to discuss.”

He had spent a month obsessing over you, trying to understand your thought process, learning every intricate detail of your route. He knew how dangerous you could be.

And now, he was trapped inside the game—forced to be your rival.

The tension in the grand hall was suffocating.

Sunday sat at the long, polished table, hands clenched into fists against his lap as his brain scrambled to keep up. Across from him, you stood poised, arms crossed, your expression carefully neutral—yet he could see the sharpness in your gaze, the unmistakable glint of contempt.

You hated him.

Which was funny, considering he had spent weeks trying to get you to like him.

“This is reckless” you said coldly, turning away from him to address the gathered nobles and military officers. “If we march our forces north under such a thinly-veiled deception, we risk stretching our supply lines too far. It’s a fool’s errand.”

Sunday barely heard the murmurs of agreement that followed. His mind was still caught on the fact that you were speaking to him like he was an actual person. Not a scripted character, but as though he had always been here—as though this world had been real from the start.

And worst of all?

His name, his role in this world, had come with pre-existing relationships—and every single one of them pointed to you absolutely despising him.

He could feel the weight of the stares on him, waiting for his rebuttal. He had no choice but to play along.

“Stretching our supply lines?” he scoffed, leaning back into his chair, “What, do you think my forces can’t handle a simple flanking maneuver? Or do you just enjoy opposing me on principle?”

A flicker of irritation crossed your face. “I oppose stupid ideas on principle.”

There it is.

You had always been like this in the game—blunt, tactical, calculating. You didn’t suffer fools, and apparently, he was a fool in your eyes.

Fine. If that’s how this world saw him, he’d use it to his advantage.

“The southern front is already stabilizing” he continued smoothly, gesturing to the map. “If we strike before the enemy fully regroups, we force them into a defensive position and eliminate their supply routes. You can’t tell me you don’t see the logic in that.”

You narrowed your eyes, and for a moment, Sunday swore he saw something flicker across your expression.

Then, your lips curled into a humorless smile.

“Oh, I see the logic. I also see the arrogance of a man who plays at war like a gambler throwing dice.”

A collective oof rippled through the court. Even Sunday felt that one.

The tension between the two of you was so thick it could be cut with a blade.

“Tell me, Lord Sunday” you continued, “when was the last time one of your little schemes didn’t end in absolute disaster?”

That was a loaded question.

And one he definitely didn’t know the answer to.

Because he had no idea what his past self had actually done in this world.

What the hell did my predecessor do to make you hate me this much?!

Sunday knew when to back down. He had spent the past month failing your route over and over again, watching his choices backfire, and seeing your favorability bar plummet to zero in an instant. Pushing you wouldn’t work.

So, he changed tactics.

For the next few weeks, Sunday did what he did best—he studied you.

Not in the obsessive, love-struck way he had before. No, this time, he played the role the game had given him—your rival. A nuisance at court, a persistent thorn in your side, someone you could never quite get rid of.

But somewhere along the way, he started slipping into your life.

When you left the palace on a diplomatic mission, your caravan mysteriously found safe passage through bandit territory—unaware that Sunday had bribed the local mercenaries to keep them away.

When you spent long nights buried in military reports, a second set of documents would appear on your desk—already summarized with the most critical information highlighted.

When an assassination attempt nearly succeeded in the dead of night, your would-be killer was found dead in an alley the next morning. The guards claimed they had no idea who had done it.

And your favorability bar?

It didn’t move.

No matter how many times Sunday secretly lent a hand, no matter how much effort he put in, you remained completely indifferent to him.

It was infuriating.

It was addicting.

But then, Kristiana betrayed you.

And Sunday knew—this was it. This was where he had to step in.

Kristiana—your most trusted friend, the one person you had allowed yourself to rely on—had sold you out.

For what?

Power. Influence. A higher seat at the table.

Sunday had seen the signs before you did.

But even he hadn’t expected it to be this cruel.

By the time you realized, it was too late.

The palace was in an uproar, whispers spreading like wildfire. You had been accused of treason. Fabricated evidence, falsified reports—all of it meticulously crafted to erase you from power.

And it would have worked.

If Sunday hadn’t stepped in.

When you were dragged into the throne room, stripped of your titles and power, the nobles stood like vultures, watching your downfall with thinly veiled amusement. Kristiana stood at the front, her expression unreadable.

And then—

Sunday spoke.

“...What an interesting turn of events.”

His voice was lazy, amused, and every single person in the room stiffened. Because Sunday never spoke at these gatherings unless he had something dangerous to say.

You turned to him, eyes narrowing. “What are you playing at?”

He ignored you.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but are we really accusing the kingdom’s greatest strategist of treason?” He chuckled. “How convenient. And Kristiana, of all people, is the one bringing it forward?”

Kristiana lifted her chin. “The evidence is irrefutable.”

Sunday tilted his head. “Is it?”

Then, before anyone could react, he threw a stack of papers onto the table.

“What—” Kristiana’s eyes widened.

Sunday grinned. “Because I have evidence too. And mine says you’re the traitor.”

Kristiana paled.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” he said, “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”

He turned to look at you “I told you, didn’t I?” His voice was quieter now, softer, just for you. “You don’t have to fight alone.”

And for the first time since you met him, since he arrived in this world, your favorability bar moved.

All eyes were on Sunday. It was infuriating how effortlessly he controlled the room.

He had just turned your execution trial into his own personal stage.

Kristiana’s hands trembled as she stared at the documents he had thrown onto the table. Papers filled with her secret dealings, her correspondence with enemy factions—detailed proof that she had orchestrated everything.

You didn’t know whether to feel furious or relieved.

Kristiana quickly schooled her expression, regaining her composure. “This is absurd” she said sharply, eyes flicking between Sunday and the king. “Lord Sunday has always opposed Y/N. He has no reason to support them now unless—”

Her gaze snapped to you, then back to Sunday.

“…Unless he’s playing a game of his own.”

She was right. Sunday was known for strategy, deception, manipulation. He wasn’t a savior. He was your rival. You thought.

This wasn’t kindness—this was tactics.

Kristiana latched onto that, her voice rising. “Your Majesty, can’t you see? This is just another one of his ploys! He—he’s aligning with them to further his own agenda!”

Sunday let out a low chuckle.

“Now, now, Kristiana.” His tone was almost mocking. “If that were true, wouldn’t it make you the fool for not realizing it sooner?”

Kristiana’s face burned red with rage.

And you didn’t know what to believe.

Sunday’s interference had saved you. But why?

You weren’t friends. You weren’t allies. You were enemies.

“Your Majesty” Sunday finally said, turning to the king with that same, insufferable confidence. “With all due respect, I think it’s clear who the real traitor is.”

The king’s gaze flickered between you and Kristiana. The weight of the court’s murmurs filled the air.

“Guards” the king ordered. “…Take Kristiana into custody.”

“Wait—!”

The guards moved instantly, seizing her arms before she could react. She thrashed against them, screaming your name—screaming that you would regret this. That Sunday would betray you, too.

And maybe she was right.

You didn’t even notice how tightly your hands had curled into fists until you felt the sting of your own nails against your palms.

The moment the doors slammed shut behind Kristiana’s struggling form, the tension in the room finally snapped.

“What do you want?” you asked him, voice carefully neutral.

Sunday smiled.

“I’m resigning from my position as Grand Strategist.”

The room erupted.

“You—”

Sunday’s smirk didn’t waver as he turned his back on them all. “Figure the rest out yourselves. I’m done.”

And with that, he walked away.

Sunday had abandoned his entire career.

For what?

You didn’t know.

And that was the most dangerous part of all.

The tavern was dimly lit, the scent of alcohol and warm food hanging in the air. It was quieter than usual—most of the patrons had already retreated to their rooms or stumbled home.

Sunday sat alone in the corner, one hand wrapped loosely around a glass of dark liquor. He wasn’t drunk, but there was a sluggishness to his movements.

His fingers tapped idly against the table as he swirled the drink in his hand. Resigning had been necessary. The position was a leash, binding him to forces he had no control over. And if he wanted to truly be close to you— if he wanted to get everything he desired—

He had to start over.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

His eyes snapped open.

You stood at the entrance of the tavern. Unlike in the palace, where your every movement was calculated, here, in the dim light of the inn, there was something… different about you.

Sunday leaned back in his chair, “What, no gloating? I thought you’d be thrilled to see me jobless and miserable.”

You sighed, stepping forward. “I don’t have time for your dramatics.”

You pulled out the chair across from him and sat down, elbows resting on the worn wooden table.

“Why did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

“Kristiana was a problem,” he said simply. “I dealt with it.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

For a moment, he considered telling you the truth. That you were the reason. That, in another life, he had spent weeks chasing after you, memorizing every dialogue choice, failing and failing just to see you look at him with something other than cold indifference.

That this was all a game to him once—but now?

Now, it was his reality.

“Would you believe me if I said I was just tired of playing the role they wanted me to?”

Your brows furrowed, caught off guard by his sincerity.

“I should just let you waste away here, but…”

You hesitated. Then, with a sigh, you reached into your coat and slid a folded letter across the table.

“…I need a strategist.”

His fingers brushed over the letter as he picked it up, unfolding it with careful precision. His eyes scanned the contents—an official contract, under your seal. The offer was clear: a position within your faction, under your personal command.

He had to bite back the grin threatening to form.

Staying in the palace as Grand Strategist kept him shackled to the court’s politics, unable to act freely. But working under you?

That gave him access to everything.

To you.

“Does this mean we’re friends now?”

“Don’t push it.”

“I accept.”

And just like that—

He had slipped right back into your life.

The first few days of having Sunday around were... strange.

You weren’t used to having someone constantly at your side. At first, you thought giving him a position as your personal servant was just a way to keep him under control—make sure he wasn’t scheming something behind your back. After all, he was your enemy.

Or at least, he used to be.

Now, he was everywhere.

You barely had a moment to breathe without Sunday inserting himself into your routine. If you so much as reached for a teapot, he was already pouring your tea. If you sighed after a long day of dealing with incompetent nobles, he was magically at your side, hands on your shoulders, pressing into the knots of tension like he’d done it a thousand times before.

“Why are you still here?” you muttered, pinching the bridge of your nose.

Sunday, standing beside your desk, completely unbothered, merely hummed as he flipped through the reports you had been working on. “Making sure you don’t overwork yourself.”

“I can handle myself.”

“Mm. Clearly.” He held up a document, tilting his head. “Like this mistake right here?”

You snatched the paper from his hand, scanning it quickly—only to freeze when you spotted the minor miscalculation. Your grip on the paper tightened.

Sunday smirked. “You’re welcome.”

You exhaled sharply, setting the document down before rubbing your temples. “I should fire you.”

“But you won’t.”

With a sigh, you leaned back in your chair, exhaustion settling in. You had been working since morning, and the strain was finally catching up to you.

Without a word, Sunday moved behind you.

Before you could react, his hands were on your shoulders, fingers pressing into the knots of tension with practiced ease.

“…You’re tense”

You gritted your teeth. “Maybe because someone keeps breathing down my neck.”

He chuckled, his fingers working at the tension with slow, deliberate pressure. It felt annoyingly good. You hated to admit it, but he was good at this.

“You know” he said, “I think I’m growing on you.”

Your eyes snapped open.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

And yet, he didn’t stop.

---

𝑺𝒚𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒎 𝑨𝒍𝒆𝒓𝒕: 𝑷𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒓 𝑯𝒂𝒔 𝑫𝒊𝒆𝒅. Secret route triggered. Remaining lives: 4

Sunday gasped as his consciousness was yanked back into existence. One moment, there was nothing—just the cold, suffocating embrace of death. And then, suddenly—He was back.

He jolted upright, hand instinctively clutching his chest. He could still feel it. The sharp pain. The blood. The sheer betrayal.

You had killed him.

Not out of hatred. Not out of revenge.

But because you thought he was scheming against you.

The memory was blurry. He remembered standing in your office, your cold, empty gaze, the guards stepping forward—your blade piercing through him.

This was new. The system had never interfered like this before. He had suspected that this world wasn’t entirely real, but for it to suddenly have rules about death?

The message had been clear:

If he died four more times, he was gone for good.

And there was only one way to stop that from happening.

He had to figure out why you had killed him.

-2nd life-

This time, Sunday was careful.

He stayed out of sight. He watched. He listened. He took note of everything—the way the guards moved, the shifts in your behavior, the whispers among the servants.

And yet, despite all his caution, he still died.

A dagger in the dark.

Slipping through his ribs as he passed through the halls alone.

𝑺𝒚𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒎 𝑨𝒍𝒆𝒓𝒕: 𝑷𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒓 𝑯𝒂𝒔 𝑫𝒊𝒆𝒅. Remaining lives: 3

-3rd life-

He wasn’t alone this time.

He stuck by your side closer than ever, watching you, watching your people. And still— The moment he took a sip of wine, his throat locked up. His vision blurred. Poison. As his body collapsed to the floor, he saw the wide-eyed horror on your face, the way you rushed to his side.

The way you whispered, "Who did this?"

But the system was already pulling him back.

𝑺𝒚𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒎 𝑨𝒍𝒆𝒓𝒕: 𝑷𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒓 𝑯𝒂𝒔 𝑫𝒊𝒆𝒅. Remaining lives: 2

---

When he came back again, Sunday finally had enough pieces.

He had overheard the murmurs between the palace servants. How they whispered in dark corners, how they spoke of him as if he was a threat. How someone had been spreading lies about him to you.

You had always been calculating. If you believed he was plotting something, then that meant you were given evidence.

Fabricated evidence.

And just like that—he knew.

Someone in your inner circle wanted him dead.

And if he didn’t fix it soon,

he would die for real.

Sunday had two lives left.

This time, he didn’t act recklessly. He smiled at the servants. Charmed the guards. Pretended he didn’t know that any of them had already been responsible for his previous deaths.

And most importantly?

He stayed close to you.

It didn’t take long for him to confirm his suspicions.

The whispers in the halls, the stolen glances between certain attendants, the way they avoided his gaze whenever he passed. Someone had been feeding you lies about him.

Twisting the truth. Painting him as a traitor.

And the final piece clicked into place when he overheard a conversation outside the grand hall.

“Has the master grown suspicious?”

“Not yet. But if that man continues to cling to them, we’ll have to push harder. The evidence is nearly ready.”

Evidence.

They think they can manipulate me?

They have no idea who they’re dealing with.

He had to move carefully.

But even knowing what he knew, he still miscalculated.

Sunday had been following the movements of one of the suspicious attendants, gathering clues, trying to find solid proof before he confronted you—

When he felt the cold press of a blade against his throat.

“You should have stayed in your place.”

The blade sliced.

𝑺𝒚𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒎 𝑨𝒍𝒆𝒓𝒕: 𝑷𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒓 𝑯𝒂𝒔 𝑫𝒊𝒆𝒅.

-Last chance-

Sunday woke up shaking.

This was it. One life left.

The moment he was revived, he went straight to you.

He didn’t wait for the lies to spread again. Didn’t wait for another chance to be stabbed in the dark.

He had to make you listen. So when he found you in your private study, brow furrowed over a new report, Sunday did something he had never done before.

He dropped to his knees.

“What are you—?”

“Someone has been feeding you false information about me.”

“What?”

“I don’t know who exactly is behind it, but I have proof that some of the palace attendants have been manipulating you,” he said, voice low and urgent. “I’ve overheard them talking. The whispers in the halls. The fabricated ‘evidence’ against me.”

“Tell me,” he said, “what did they show you?”

You hesitated.

Your fingers tightened over the report in your hands.

Sunday saw the conflict in your eyes, the way your mind worked behind that carefully unreadable expression.

For weeks, he had been watching you—learning you. Every minute change in your stance, the flicker of your gaze when something unsettled you. And now?

You were unsettled.

Good.

That meant he was getting somewhere.

“Tell me, then.” Your voice was composed, but he could hear the tension beneath it. “What do you think I saw?”

“Something that made me look like a traitor.”

He pressed on.

“Documents with my forged signature? Secret meetings I never attended?” His voice lowered. “Maybe even an intercepted message—words twisted just enough to convince you that I had been plotting against you all along.”

Sunday exhaled slowly. “You didn’t question it because it made sense, didn’t it?” He tilted his head, a bitter smile playing on his lips. “Because I’ve always been your biggest obstacle. Because I’ve always been the one who stood against you.”

You didn’t answer. But you didn’t deny it, either.

He needed to tread carefully. One wrong move, and you could still see him as a threat.

“But even after all that… you let me stay by your side.” He tilted his head, watching your reaction. “Why?”

“You were useful.”

“Liar”

Sunday sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look. You don’t trust me. Fine. But at least trust yourself.” His voice softened. “Think about it, really think about it—was there ever a time I actually betrayed you?”

Sunday leaned back slightly, voice steady as he gave his final push. “If you still want to kill me after thinking it through, then do it.”

You stared at him.

Seconds passed.

Then, your fingers loosened over the report in your hands.

You set it down.

“…Who?”

“Let me find out.”

And this time, he wouldn’t die before getting his answer.

For the first time in weeks, Sunday wasn’t lurking in the shadows or biting his tongue. No, this time, he moved freely.

You hadn’t explicitly told him to investigate, but by not ordering him to stop, you had given him permission.

And he would take full advantage of that.

Sunday wasn’t stupid. The moment he started looking too closely, his enemies would know.

So he laid a trap. He spread a rumor. A whisper in the halls, planted through a careless slip to an eavesdropping maid:

“The master is growing suspicious.”

It took less than a day for the rats to scurry.

Late into the night, Sunday followed a group of attendants as they snuck through the palace corridors, slipping into a secluded study.

He pressed against the wall, listening.

“The fool is still alive.”

Kristiana.

Your former best friend.

“No matter. The next attempt will not fail” she continued. “Their trust in him is wavering, but it is not broken. We must strike before it is too late.”

A second voice—one of your high-ranking advisors—spoke up. “Then we must act now. The documents are already prepared. A few words from our informant and the master will be forced to execute him. This time, there will be no hesitation.”

So that’s how they did it.

Forcing your hand. Setting you up so that killing him was the only logical choice.

He stepped into the dimly lit room, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows.

“Do you take me for a fool?”

The room fell silent.

Kristiana’s eyes widened before narrowing. “You shouldn’t be here.”

He let out a soft chuckle. “I shouldn’t be alive either, and yet, here I am.” His gaze flicked over the forged documents on the table, then back to her. “You’re not as subtle as you think.”

The advisor paled. “You have no proof—”

“I don’t need proof, because you’re going to confess.”

Kristiana scoffed. “And why would we do that?”

“Because,” he murmured, taking a slow step forward, “I am still standing here.”

“And that means I know exactly what you’ve done.”

Sunday let the silence stretch before delivering the final blow:

“I wonder what will happen when I tell the master.”

Kristiana was a skilled manipulator, but even the most cunning fox could be outplayed. Still, Kristiana wasn’t the type to surrender without a fight.

“You assume Y/N will believe you.”

“I don’t assume. I know.”

Kristiana clicked her tongue, fingers twitching toward the hidden dagger at her belt.

“Let me guess. This is the part where you try to silence me?”

He didn’t give her the chance.

Before her blade could even leave its sheath, guards swarmed the room.

Her face twisted in shock as soldiers restrained her, yanking the weapon from her grasp.

Sunday turned, finally meeting your gaze as you stepped into the room.

You weren’t looking at him, though.

You were looking at Kristiana.

“…Why?”

Kristiana let out a breathless laugh. “You still don’t get it?” Her smile was sharp. “I was never going to let you win.”

“Take her away.”

[Favorability +20]

For the first time since entering this world, Sunday saw the notification appear.

All this time, he had been serving you, watching you, following you. He had given you his loyalty, his time, even his own life. And yet, only now, after clearing out the people who poisoned your ears, did the game decide to acknowledge his efforts?

Still, he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he watched you.

You had been silent since Kristiana was taken away. You stood there, alone in the now-empty study, eyes flickering with something unreadable.

“…You were right”

Sunday blinked. “What?”

“About Kristiana. About the lies.” Your jaw clenched. “About me being too blind to see it.”

“…You trusted her,” he said simply. “It wasn’t stupid.”

“It was careless.”

“No. It was human.”

[Favorability +10]

This time, he really did laugh.

Your eyes narrowed slightly. “What?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

For the first time since Sunday entered this world, things were peaceful.

Kristiana was gone. The whispers had died down.

And you stopped looking at him with suspicion.

You still didn’t fully trust him, but that was fine.

Because you let him stay.

He continued to serve you, just like before.

When you were tired, you didn’t push him away when he set down a cup of tea beside you.

When he disappeared for a few hours, you caught yourself wondering where he had gone.

[Favorabiliy +5]

It was slow.

But it was happening.

Of course, he knew this peace wouldn’t last forever.

Kristiana might be gone, but her knowing smile haunted the back of his mind.

Something else was coming. The true storm. And Sunday would be ready.

The palace halls were silent.

The mourning drapes hung heavy over the grand windows, blocking out the golden light of dawn. Even the servants moved quietly, their usual whispers and hurried footsteps replaced by a solemn stillness.

Your father was gone.

The weight of it pressed down on you like an iron chain.

He had held on as long as he could. Even in his final hours, he had smiled at you—his tired eyes filled with warmth, his hand resting weakly over yours.

“You will be alright.”

His last words echoed in your mind.

But you weren’t.

You could barely eat. Barely drink. Barely breathe.

The world around you blurred. People came and went, offering condolences, yet their voices were distant, as if muffled by water.

And through it all—

Sunday remained.

----

You didn’t see it. Didn’t notice the way Sunday silently turned away envoys, nobles, and officials, intercepting their letters before they could reach your hands. Marriage proposals. Political alliances disguised as heartfelt offers. Opportunists circling like vultures, waiting for the moment your grief would make you vulnerable.

Sunday burned them all.

Every request. Every demand. Every veiled attempt at stealing you away.

They didn’t deserve you.

And if anyone thought they could force your hand—

Well.

They would have to go through him.

-----

The night was cold.

You sat by your father’s desk, the candlelight flickering against the tear-stained letters before you.

You hadn’t touched the meal that had been left for you.

“You need to eat.”

You didn’t respond.

He stepped closer. Gently, he placed a cup of warm broth beside you, the steam curling into the air.

Still, you didn’t move.

“…He wouldn’t want you to waste away like this.”

For a moment, Sunday thought you would ignore him again.

But then, slowly, you reached for the cup. The broth sat warm in your hands, but you barely tasted it. It was just something to do. A distraction. A meaningless action to appease Sunday so he wouldn’t pester you further.

You had expected him to leave once you took a sip.

But he didn’t.

Instead, Sunday crouched beside you, plucking a small piece of softened bread from the untouched plate.

“Here.”

“I can feed myself.”

He didn’t argue. He simply held the bread near your lips, gaze steady.

“You’ve barely eaten in days.”

Before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned forward and took a small bite.

The moment the food hit your tongue, you realized how hungry you truly were.

You had been so caught up in grief, in the crushing weight of loss, that you had ignored your own needs. But now, your body reminded you—loud and clear—that it was starving.

Sunday didn’t say anything as he picked up another piece and lifted it toward you.

And without thinking, you let him feed you.

The warmth of his fingertips, the way he wordlessly knew when to offer you water, the way his gaze never once wavered from yours.

For the first time, you actually looked at him.

He had always been there, hadn’t he? Lingering in the background, watching over you, handling things before you even had to ask.

And now, up close like this, he wasn’t that annoying.

Actually… he was— Handsome.

The thought struck you so suddenly that you nearly choked on your next bite.

Sunday blinked, brows furrowing slightly. “Careful.”

You coughed, hastily grabbing the cup of water he handed you. Heat crept up your neck, but whether it was from embarrassment or something else, you weren’t sure.

“What’s wrong? Finally realizing how charming I am?”

You shot him a glare. “Don’t push it.”

But he only chuckled, satisfied.

[Favorability +5]

You didn’t see it. The tiny, nearly imperceptible shimmer in the air—like a system notification only meant for him.

“What?” he said. “Did I get more handsome just now, or are you finally acknowledging that I’ve been devastatingly attractive this entire time?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “You’re seriously fishing for compliments while feeding me?”

“Multi-tasking is an important skill.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he plucked another piece of bread from the plate and held it up, smirking, “you’re still letting me feed you.”

You froze, only just realizing it.

You could argue, push him away, reclaim some of your dignity… but you were still hungry. And honestly, this was the first real conversation you’d had since your father passed.

…It was nice.

So instead of answering, you simply huffed and took another bite, avoiding his gaze.

“You know, if I had known all it took was feeding you to make you behave, I would’ve done this ages ago.”

“I take it back. You’re annoying.”

“Too late. You already let me in.”

-----

Sunday should have been pleased.

You were recovering. You were finally eating, standing tall once more, resuming the duties your father left behind. He had worked for this. Stayed by your side through the worst of it. Protected you, fed you, shielded you from the opportunistic nobles who sought to take advantage of your grief.

And now?

Now you were back to work.

And he hated it.

Not because he wanted you to remain weak—no, he would never wish that on you. But because now, he had less control. Before, when you were withdrawn in your chambers, he was the one managing things. The one turning away suitors, handling your food, ensuring your safety without question.

But now?

Now you were surrounded by people. Officials, nobles, potential threats.

And worst of all—

You were talking to them. Laughing with them. Standing too close to them.

Sunday’s fingers twitched as he watched from the shadows of the court hall.

He couldn’t stand this.

His jaw clenched as he watched you tilt your head toward one of your advisors, listening intently to whatever nonsense they were feeding you.

You weren’t even aware of it, were you? How vulnerable you were in moments like these.

What if someone whispered poison into your ear? What if they sought to turn you against him?

His mind spun with all the possibilities—his frustration bubbling just beneath the surface—

And then, a soft chime.

A faint glow only he could see.

𝑺𝒆𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒕 𝑹𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒆 𝑺𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒔: 𝑼𝒏𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒅

Favorability: 40%

40%. It had never been this high before.

But if he had learned anything from playing this game before—

40% wasn’t enough.

Sunday’s mind was already calculating his next move when another chime echoed in his ears.

[System Assistance Available]

His eyes widened slightly. Since when?

Before, the system only interfered when he died. It never offered him anything—no guidance, no tools, nothing. But now?

He focused on the faint glow only he could see, willing the system to respond.

[Query Registered: Assistance Requested]

A loading screen flickered in his vision before a new window appeared.

[Available Items – Secret Route]

Whispering Veil – Conceals the user’s actions from others for a limited time. (1 use)

Falsified Letters – Alters the contents of incoming messages before they reach the recipient. (3 uses)

Echo Crystal – Records and replays conversations to the user. (1 use)

Subtle Influence – Temporarily shifts favorability by +5% in a critical moment. (1 use)

Locking Key – Prevents an individual from leaving a designated area for 12 hours. (1 use)

These were cheats. This world had been working against him for so long, making every step toward you a battle. But now?

Now he had weapons.

The Falsified Letters were already useful. How many proposals had he secretly turned down for you? With these, he wouldn’t have to intercept them—he could alter them entirely.

The Echo Crystal was perfect. He would find out exactly what these scheming nobles were saying to you behind his back.

But the Subtle Influence?

Sunday’s fingers twitched.

A guaranteed +5%?

It took him months to raise your favorability even this much. He could get closer right now.

…But no.

Not yet.

[Item Acquired: Echo Crystal]

Let’s see what these people were really saying.

Sunday gripped the Echo Crystal in his palm, feeling the faint warmth of its magic pulse against his skin.

Slipping out of sight, he activated the crystal. A shimmer of light pulsed from its surface before fading, leaving only a soft hum in his ears.

“We need to act soon.”

Sunday’s eyes narrowed.

The voice was familiar—one of the noble councilmen, Lord Arventis. A well-spoken official who had spent the past weeks pretending to be loyal to you.

Another voice joined in, one that sent a sharp chill through his spine.

Kristiana.

“Y/n's regaining their strength” she murmured. “If we don’t secure their hand in marriage or weaken their standing, soon they'll become untouchable.”

Sunday’s fingers curled tight around the crystal.

These leeches. These pathetic, scheming rats.

They weren’t just trying to manipulate you anymore.

They were planning to seize control.

Sunday exhaled, slipping the crystal into his sleeve as he stepped out from the shadows.

He needed a plan.

And this time?

He wasn’t playing fair.

It took two days.

Two days of watching, listening, gathering proof.

Every word spoken behind your back, every noble secretly conspiring against you—Sunday had it all.

And now?

Now, it was time to remove the pieces from the board.

One by one, carefully, subtly.

The Falsified Letters were the first to be used.

Kristiana? Lord Arventis? The others who sought to control you?

Every letter they sent—every request for a private meeting, every false plea of loyalty—was altered.

You never saw their real words.

Instead, what you received were poorly veiled insults. Demands. Mockery disguised as diplomacy.

Your anger was immediate.

Within hours, you had your court questioning their intentions.

Within a day, Lord Arventis had lost your favor.

And Kristiana?

Her carefully woven web of deception began to unravel.

Sunday watched it all unfold with quiet satisfaction.

When you looked at him that evening, your gaze lingering just a little too long—

Sunday saw it.

That flicker of realization.

That first, fragile crack in your walls. He didn’t need the system to tell him this time. You were finally seeing him.

Sunday had been waiting for the right moment.

The Locking Key wasn’t something to use carelessly. It was a tool meant for control, for ensuring that no one could interfere with what was about to happen.

It happened without warning. The door, which had been perfectly fine just moments ago, let out a soft click.

You frowned, standing up to test the handle, only for it to remain firmly shut. “…Strange.”

Sunday, who had been silently refilling your tea, glanced up in feigned curiosity. “Something wrong?”

You jiggled the handle again. “The door isn’t opening.”

His lips parted in mock surprise. “Oh?”

You turned to face him, your exhaustion making you more irritable than usual. “Did you do something?”

He blinked at you, the perfect picture of innocence. “Why would I lock us in?”

“Then what, the palace just decided to trap me here?”

He hummed in thought. “Maybe it’s fate.”

You shot him a glare, but deep down, you knew there was no use fighting it. You were tired—too tired—and the energy to argue with him simply wasn’t there.

The weight of the past few days had finally caught up to you. The grief, the stress, the endless work… it was pressing down on your chest, your body begging for rest.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you brought them to your temple.

Sunday noticed immediately.

“Sit” he murmured.

You resisted. “I’m fine.”

“You can barely stand.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but before you could, something shifted. A strange warmth settled in your mind—a pull, a quiet lure, almost like… magic. It was subtle, like a whisper, telling you that you should just listen to him. That for once, you could stop fighting.

Your legs moved before you could think.

You collapsed into the nearest seat, but the hard wooden chair was uncomfortable, your body aching as you tried to relax.

Sunday sighed. “You’ll never rest like that.”

He moved forward, taking the empty space beside you—no, not beside. Right behind.

Before you could react, his hands were on your arms, guiding you gently but insistently. “Come here.”

Your breath hitched. “What—”

He pulled you onto his lap.

You should’ve moved. But your exhaustion made you weak, and your body—traitorous, selfish—sank into him instead.

His warmth seeped into your skin, his steady breathing oddly calming as your head rested against his shoulder. His fingers brushed against your wrist before settling at your back in a silent reassurance.

“…Better?” he asked softly.

You hesitated, then—reluctantly—nodded.

“You’re finally listening to me.”

You hated the way your face warmed.

[Favorability +30]

Sunday felt the chime before he saw the number.

Thirty. Thirty?

That was insane.

Nothing he’d done before—no silent loyalty, no favors, no devotion—had ever made your favorability jump this high.

He had expected a modest increase, maybe five or ten points at most. But this?

This was a breakthrough.

His mind raced, replaying every second leading up to this moment. The exhaustion, the quiet lure of his voice, the way you had naturally leaned into him without fighting.

And then it clicked.

You liked skinship.

Or rather, you found comfort in it.

Not that you’d ever admit it, of course. You were still too stubborn, too prideful to say it out loud. But your body?

Your body didn’t lie.

It was something subconscious, something deeply ingrained in you that even you didn’t seem aware of.

All this time, he had been carefully balancing between too much and too little, afraid of pushing his luck. And yet, the answer had been right in front of him—literal physical closeness.

Of course, he couldn’t abuse it recklessly. You were quick to irritation, your temper flaring if someone overstepped.

But if he did it right…

If he played this carefully…

Then he had just unlocked his greatest weapon.

His arms tightened around you slightly, as if testing the waters, but he didn’t push further. For now, he let you rest against him, let you trust him.

And when your breathing evened out, when the tension in your muscles melted completely, Sunday only smiled to himself.

Checkmate.

----

The next morning, when you drowsily shuffled into the dining hall, he was already there, waiting. He handed you a steaming cup of tea, but instead of simply setting it down, he took your hand in his, guiding your fingers around the cup.

[Favorability +5]

A test—and a success.

You barely reacted, too groggy to care. But it worked.

At midday, when you were busy drafting letters and reviewing reports, he appeared by your side with an ink-stained cloth.

Without a word, he took your hand and gently wiped the smudge off your fingers.

You stiffened for a second but didn’t pull away.

[Favorability +7]

And so, the pattern continued.

Each day, a small touch here, a silent act there. Never enough to raise suspicion, never enough to cross a line, but just enough to nudge you closer.

[Favorability +2]

At 84%, you had stopped questioning him.

At 87%, you had stopped fighting it.

And now?

90%.

The notification chimed in his ears.

You still didn’t notice.

But he did.

And now, the only thing left to do…

Was push you past the threshold.

---

Sunday had been playing the game well. He had spent days getting closer, learning your preferences, adjusting his every move to keep you comfortable while steadily increasing your favorability.

But what he didn’t know—what he never could have anticipated—was that the more you grew attached to him…

The more possessive you became.

It wasn’t obvious at first. A lingering glance here, an oddly fixated stare there.

Then it got worse.

And today?

Today, you were seething.

You stared at Sunday across the dining table, your fingers gripping the silverware a little too tightly as you cut into your meal.

He was being too calm.

Like he had nothing to be guilty for.

“So.”

Sunday barely looked up from his plate. “So?”

“I heard you were with the maid today.”

He paused for a fraction of a second before responding. “…I was.”

That made your grip tighten.

You placed your utensils down with a little too much force. “You were seen with her at the market.”

His brows furrowed slightly, but his expression remained composed. “She was just getting supplies. I needed to ask about—”

“Flowers?” you cut in, your tone sharp.

His lips parted in realization. “…You’re upset.”

“I’m not upset,” you lied. “I’m simply asking why my personal servant was out shopping for flowers with another woman.”

Sunday stared at you, and for the first time in a long time, you saw the faintest flicker of uncertainty in his gaze.

You weren’t supposed to be like this.

You weren’t supposed to care.

But you did.

Because the way you felt at that moment—the way your blood boiled at the idea of him entertaining someone else, at the thought of him being kind to someone that wasn’t you—it was irrational. Terrifyingly so.

“…You think I was flirting?”

“Wasn’t it?”

Something flickered in his gaze before he let out a small breath. Then, he placed his utensils down and leaned forward.

“Look at me.”

“If I wanted to flirt, don’t you think you’d be the first to know?”

You should have let it go.

You should have brushed it off, laughed, changed the subject.

But instead, you found yourself gripping the edge of the table, voice quiet but trembling with something unfamiliar. “…Then don’t do it.”

Sunday’s smirk faltered.

For the first time, he saw it.

The hint of something deeper in your eyes.

This wasn’t just a favorability boost anymore.

This was dangerous.

And for the first time…

He wasn’t sure who was hunting who.

[Favorability: 96%] → [Favorability: 94%]

Why?

He had been so careful, every action calculated, every touch measured. You were supposed to be getting closer, not slipping away.

Just as he was about to summon the system, a knock echoed through his room, followed by the soft creak of the door opening.

“Who were you talking to?”

For a split second, panic clawed at his chest, but he forced himself to relax, plastering on his usual lazy smirk.

“Talking? I was just thinking out loud.” He leaned back, stretching as if nothing was wrong. “Why? Miss me already?”

Your eyes didn’t waver.

“…Let’s go for a walk.”

Sunday blinked. “…A walk?”

You nodded, stepping further inside. “You’ve been inside all day, haven’t you? A change of atmosphere would be good.”

His mind raced. He needed answers from the system—but with you watching him like a hawk, there was no way he could summon it now.

“…Fine.” He stood, brushing himself off. “But if this is some elaborate scheme to make me carry all your shopping bags, I’ll protest.”

You scoffed. “As if I’d waste your time with something so trivial.”

(But if it meant keeping you outside longer, he wouldn’t have minded.)

The air was cool, a soft breeze brushing against the streets as you and Sunday wandered through the bustling town. You had led him to a small ice cream stand, insisting that since it was his first time out in a while, he should try something sweet.

Sunday wasn’t really one for desserts, but the moment he saw the way your eyes lit up as you tasted yours, he found himself taking a bite of his own without complaint.

“What do you think?”

Sunday tapped his chin, pretending to ponder. “Hmm… tastes better than I expected.”

You rolled your eyes. “You could just say you like it, you know.”

“And give you the satisfaction of being right?” He smirked. “Never.”

You huffed, taking another bite of your own, and he had to force himself to look away before he stared too long.

Then, it happened.

You took a step forward—and slipped.

Sunday’s body reacted before he could think.

In an instant, his arm snaked around your waist, pulling you against him just before you could hit the ground.

The ice cream you had been holding slipped from your grip, landing pathetically on the pavement, but neither of you reacted to it.

Because at that moment, you were way too close.

Your face was inches from his, your breath warm against his skin.

Your hands had instinctively grabbed onto his chest, fingers curling slightly into the fabric. You weren’t moving away.

[Favorability +3]

“…You okay?”

Sunday swallowed, forcing himself to breathe.

He was the one who caught you—so why did it feel like he was the one about to fall?

Sunday wasn’t sure how long he held you like that.

Seconds? Minutes?

It didn’t matter.

Because all he could focus on was the warmth of your body against his, the way your breath hitched slightly as you realized how close you were.

Your hands were still resting against his chest, fingers lightly curled into the fabric of his clothes. His arm, firm and unmoving, remained around your waist, securing you in place.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

“…Are you going to let me go?”

“Do you want me to?”

Your lips parted slightly, your gaze flickering down to where his fingers pressed into your side, then back up to his eyes.

You didn’t answer.

And he didn’t need you to.

His other hand lifted instinctively, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face.

Sunday had spent so long trying to read you, to predict your reactions, to find ways to win you over. But right now?

You were looking at him like you were the one figuring him out.

Slowly, your hand slid up from his chest to rest lightly against his collarbone. The touch was hesitant but intentional.

You weren’t pushing him away.

If anything, you were leaning in.

His grip around you tightened slightly as his gaze flickered to your lips. He could kiss you right now.

And then—

“Ah! Your Grace!”

Both of you froze.

Sunday barely had time to react before someone practically materialized beside you, bowing so quickly they almost fell over.

“It’s an honor to see you again! Thank you for your generosity the other day—our village has been thriving because of your kindness!”

Your entire body went rigid.

Sunday could feel the way your muscles tensed, your hands jerking away from him like you had just realized what was happening.

The warmth disappeared.

And just like that, the moment was gone.

You coughed, taking an awkward step back. “Ah, yes. Of course. I’m…glad to hear that.”

Sunday clenched his jaw, forcing himself to exhale slowly.

He turned his head slightly—only to see you blushing.

Not just a small, embarrassed flush—a full-on, heated, flustered mess.

Sunday blinked.

You? Blushing? Over him?

His heart nearly stopped.

And that was before he felt the warmth creeping up his own neck.

His ears burned.

You glanced at him briefly, eyes darting away almost immediately when you realized he was already looking at you.

Sunday almost cursed out loud. Instead, he cleared his throat, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep them from grabbing you again. “…We should keep walking.”

You nodded way too fast. “Y-Yeah. Let’s go.”

The villager beamed, bowing once more before stepping aside.

And as the two of you walked off—still visibly flustered, still awkwardly avoiding each other’s gaze—Sunday let out a small breath.

Maybe that damn favorability bar was a nightmare to raise.

But right now?

He didn’t even need to check it to know that something between you had changed.

Sunday woke up with an immediate sense of wrongness.

For one—his arms didn’t move.

For two—his legs didn’t move.

For three—you were straddling him.

He blinked, slowly coming to terms with his predicament. His wrists were tied to the bedposts. His ankles were similarly restrained. And above him, sitting comfortably atop his waist, you were smirking down at him.

“…I must still be dreaming”

You chuckled. “Oh, you’re awake? That’s good. I was starting to think you were just pretending.”

Sunday squinted at you. “Why. Am I. Tied up.”

You shrugged, tilting your head in mock innocence. “I thought I’d do something different today. Y’know, entertain you.”

His lips parted, a dumbfounded expression flickering over his face.

Entertain him.

He was seconds away from losing his mind.

Your fingers drummed along his chest, your weight warm and solid against him. “You seem awfully close with the maids these days. I thought perhaps… I should remind you where your loyalties lie.”

Sunday stared.

“Excuse me?”

You smiled, leaning in slightly.

The warmth of your breath tickled his cheek. “You’ve been talking a lot with them, haven’t you?”

You were jealous.

The realization slammed into him like a freight train.

The hours he had spent gathering information—asking the maids about your favorite foods, your daily habits, your preferences—had backfired spectacularly.

And now here you were, pinning him to his own damn bed.

Sunday had never, in all his life, imagined the ‘Impossible Route’ would turn out like this.

You leaned in even closer, lips dangerously near his ear. “…You should be more careful. People might think you’re plotting something.”

His jaw clenched.

His heartbeat thundered.

You knew exactly what you were doing.

And you were enjoying every second of it.

Sunday inhaled deeply, forcing himself to remain calm. “Alright. You’ve had your fun. Now untie me.”

You hummed in thought, fingers lazily tracing the outline of his collarbone. “Mmm… I don’t know. I think I like you like this.”

Sunday's patience snapped.

In one swift motion, he flexed his wrists and ripped free of the bindings.

Before you could react, Sunday flipped you over, pinning you beneath him.

Your back hit the mattress, your wrists caught in his grip. The tables had turned.

“My turn.”

You barely had time to blink before he leaned down—and stole your lips.

Your mind went blank.

Sunday pulled back just enough to see the dazed look in your eyes, his lips still hovering over yours.

“Next time you try to trap me” he murmured, “make sure I can’t escape.”

And then—

The door swung open.

“…Oh.”

Sunday didn’t move.

You didn’t move.

The servant froze in place.

A long, suffocating silence filled the room.

“…Should I come back later?”

You shoved Sunday off of you so hard he nearly fell off the bed.

“GET OUT.”

The servant practically tripped over themselves trying to flee.

The door slammed shut.

You and Sunday sat there for a moment, staring at each other.

Your face? Completely red.

Sunday, meanwhile, simply grinned.

“You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

“SHUT UP.”

You avoided him for the rest of the day.

Which, really, was adorable.

Every time Sunday entered a room, you’d suddenly be very interested in a random document or an irrelevant piece of decor. The moment his eyes met yours? Immediate retreat. He’d never seen you so utterly defeated before—it was addicting.

And that blush? That frustrated, completely flustered look?

He wanted to see more of it.

You tried to act like nothing had happened the next morning. You sat at your usual spot, drinking tea as if the past twenty-four hours hadn’t completely obliterated your composure.

Sunday casually poured himself a cup and sat across from you, resting his chin in his palm.

“So.” He smirked. “That was quite the reaction yesterday.”

You choked on your tea.

Coughing violently, you shot him a glare. “Shut up.”

“You’re not denying it?”

Finally, you set your cup down with a soft clink and exhaled sharply.

“…Fine.” You looked at him, shoulders squared, lips pressed into a thin line. “I admit it. I lost that round.”

“Round?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb.”

His grin widened. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “…You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here I am. Still by your side.”

You faltered. Your fingers curled slightly, as if hesitant to say what you were thinking. Sunday watched as you took a slow breath, steadying yourself.

Then, with clear reluctance, you muttered—

“…I suppose I don’t mind.”

He almost forgot how to breathe.

You weren’t looking at him, too focused on the way your tea swirled in your cup. But Sunday could see it—the faintest hint of a smile on your lips. The soft flush still lingering on your ears.

[Favorability: 100%]

His heart skipped a beat.

You finally looked back at him, eyebrow raised. “Why are you staring?”

Sunday blinked. He schooled his expression just in time, lips curling into his usual smirk.

“…No reason.”

But inside?

Inside, he knew.

He had won.

And he would never let you go.

#yandere x reader #yandere #hsr x reader #honkai star rail #hsr x you #yandere honkai star rail #yandere hsr x reader #honkai star rail sunday #sunday hsr #sunday #hsr sunday #sunday x reader #sunday x you #sunday x y/n

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lexalith · 21 days ago

Text

SOUR || Choi Subong (Thanos)

summary: a summer trip to seoul was supposed to be a brief escape, not a love story. meeting subong wasn’t on your bucket list… neither was spending five nights tangled up in his world, wrapped in a kind of closeness that felt too good to ever be temporary. you wanted to believe in it. in him. in the version of love that could survive anything. but loving subong was never meant to be easy. and by the time you realize the damage, there’s no saving either of you from the inevitable crash. when did your love turn so sour?

warnings/this story contains: 18+ (reader discretion is advised) female reader, small age gap (reader is 24, subong is 28… story ends when reader’s around 27 and subong’s around 31), smut (fingering, implied unprotected sex, face sitting, praise, degradation, p in v, oral sex f+m, public sex, sexting, phone sex, breeding kink, sex while being high, switch!subong and switch!reader, leg humping. subong acts like a dog in heat quite literally and is very pathetic at times… he’s overly freaked out) subong calls himself daddy once as a joke but it felt morally correct to include it as a warning lmaoo. reader is a foreigner. excessive use of pet names and the words “fuck” and “fucking”. completely fabricated subong lore. angst (miscommunication, manipulation, gaslighting, lies, deception, name calling, heartbreak, drug abuse and addiction, emotional codependency, verbal fights, toxicity, trauma, emotional whiplash, mentions of suicide/mental health and suicidal ideation, near death experience, identity loss, financial instability, debt, gang involvement) subong’s an actual human being with feelings!! (crazy, right?) both subong and the reader do and say questionable stuff at various points. they’re not perfect. ah, yes, there’s also a bit of fluff too ig… this story doesn’t have a happy ending.

a/n: this is an au set before the games! this story took me forever to write, but it’s finally here and i really hope you enjoy it :) it’s extremely LONG, though (around 40k words), so get comfy. also, i have absolutely no idea how crypto works, but i did my best. as always, lower case is intended, reader’s dialogue is in bold, text messages are in purple for subong and orange for the reader. english isn’t my first language.

songs: ifhy — tyler the creator (pls, pls, listen to this because it’s literally them) || all i need — radiohead || duvet — bôa || less than a zero — the weeknd

the night has barely started and you’re lost in hongdae, sweating through your shirt, and praying your phone doesn’t die because it’s already on 27% “let’s just go in here,” one of your friends says, pointing at a building lit up in flashing purple and blue. it’s not your first choice. not even your third. the last two clubs you tried had lines stretching down the block and bouncers who barely glanced at you before shaking their heads, and the one before that was so packed you heard someone literally got pushed back down the stairs. you’ve spent more time wandering around than actually partying, and at this point, anything with functioning air conditioning sounds good. no one argues, you’re all too tired to keep searching. so you follow the group through the door.

the club isn’t what you expected, and the second you walk in, you all kind of pause like… huh. for one, the music’s live. which isn’t necessarily a bad thing—it’s just not what you were hoping for. not exactly what you had in mind when you pictured partying in seoul. but you stay. partly because it does feel more local and less… touristy. and also, one of your friends is already deep in conversation with a very tall, very handsome guy who appeared out of nowhere and offered to buy you all drinks—which, given the state of your wallet and your mood, feels like a small miracle. so you can’t really complain, can you?

the guy casually mentions he’s got a table upstairs and asks if you all want to join. next thing you know, you’re slipping past the crowd, walking toward a staircase in the back that leads to the vip section. an area you definitely wouldn’t have gotten into on your own, not dressed in sneakers and a tank top that’s slowly clinging to your back from the heat. so there you are, heading up, clinging to the sticky handrail. upstairs is somehow worse and better at the same time. the music is slightly muffled, the lighting is dim and moody, couches line the walls, there’s actual airflow, and from here, you can see the stage perfectly—a little overlook built for people who want to pretend they’re part of the party without actually being in it.

you hang back for a bit, sipping something cold and citrusy, listening to your friends laugh and flirt and fall into easy conversation with a new group of people that magically appeared the second you sat down. and then, just as you’re about to zone out entirely, the music shifts. a beat drops and you freeze for half a second because is that 50 Cent? it is. or at least, a sample of something that sounds very, very similar. then, you hear a voice sliding between english and korean with ease, and that makes you stand up. you mutter something about needing air (which is a lie), and wander over to the balcony that overlooks the stage, drawn in like a moth. that’s when you see him—mic in one hand, the other moving with that effortless kind of swagger people either spend years practicing or were just born with. he’s wearing yellow tinted sunglasses even though it’s pitch black in the club, oversized clothes, and purple hair styled into what looks like two small, deliberate horns which, if you’re honest, is the first thing that catches your attention. his voice is deep, a little rough, and he spits each line with the mic so close to his mouth you can hear every breath he takes between bars. there’s something strangely intimate about it, like he’s performing just for himself and anyone else who happens to be listening is just lucky to be there. the crowd doesn’t seem particularly impressed, but you are. the lyrics aren’t exactly genius, but the delivery is. some lines are so cocky they make you laugh under your breath without meaning to. because it’s not what he says, it’s how he says it. he knows exactly how good he looks with a mic in his hand and doesn’t care if you agree. and unfortunately, you do.

“oh god, he’s awful,” your friend mutters beside you, and it startles you a little. you hadn’t even realized she was there, you’d been too focused, too pulled in by the purple-haired guy onstage. “he’s not that bad. i like him—the song, i mean,” you say, still watching him. there’s a pause, and then she gives you a look, trying to figure out if you’re being serious or if you’ve just had one too many drinks. “he’s said the word ‘bitch’ over twenty times,” she says flatly. “i counted.” you let out a small laugh, shrugging. “yeah, but like… with passion.” your friend snorts, shaking her head, but before she can get another jab in, someone calls her name from inside. she turns, leans in a little. “they’re doing shots,” she says. “come on.” you hesitate, glancing back at the stage—only to realize the music’s stopped. the lights have shifted, and the guy with the purple hair is no longer holding the mic, someone else is already taking his place, adjusting a guitar strap. he’s gone. you blink, surprised at how disappointed you are, and nod. “yeah, okay. coming.” you follow your friend back into the low light and noise, pretending not to care that you didn’t even get his name. not that it matters. it’s not like you’re going to see him again.

except you are. when subong steps into vip, still slightly buzzed from the stage lights, his eyes move instinctively across the room, and he sees you. he doesn’t know who you are, doesn’t recognize your face, which is rare. because he’s seen most of the faces that cycle through this place, and someone that pretty? oh, trust, he would’ve remembered. you’re standing next to the couch with a drink in one hand, looking a little overwhelmed but not uncomfortable, surrounded by people but not really paying attention to any of them. you’re not trying to stand out. which is probably why you do. his gaze lingers longer than it should. because something about you is pulling at him, and subong’s never been the type to ignore that feeling. so he grabs a drink from someone’s tray and makes his way toward you, direct. like he’s already sure how this is going to go. he stops in front of you, eyes flicking down once before landing on yours. “señorita, excuse me,” he says, voice smooth. you recognize him immediately. up close, he’s different. prettier. no, actually… he’s so fucking fine. you pay special attention to his sharp jaw, and eyes that are clearer now without the yellow sunglasses hiding them. “you’re cute,” he continues, casual, like it’s just a fact he felt obligated to mention before anything else. then, after the smallest pause—“hi.” you blink, caught off guard by the compliment more than the greeting. “hi.” his lips twitch, holding back a grin. “i’m thanos.” the music chooses that exact moment to spike—a sudden burst of bass and reverb that drowns his voice out completely. “sorry—what?!” you ask, leaning in slightly. he steps closer, bringing his mouth near your ear, his breath warm against your skin as he repeats himself loud enough for you to hear over the music. “i’m—i’m thanos!” you catch a whiff of his cologne when he moves, something fresh layered with the faint, bitter scent of smoke. it hits you all at once, and for a second, you forget what you were even trying to ask. you pull back enough to look at him again, brows lifted. “thanos?!” “stage name!”

the music finally drops to a bearable level, something with a steady beat. “like the marvel villain?” you ask, laughing a bit. “the one who wiped out half the universe?” “yeah.” “why thanos?” he just lifts a hand, points lazily at his hair, and then turns his wrist to show you his nails, each one a different color—deep purple, bright blue, fiery red, vibrant green, and a sharp orange. “see?” he says. “you’re fully committed to the bit!” “branding,” he says, like it’s obvious. you shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “well, nice to meet you,” you say, offering your name in return. he repeats it under his breath, trying it on. it sounds different with his accent—stretched out a little, in a way you instantly like. his korean accent is obvious, and you’re sure some people would call it heavy, but to you it just sounds… hot. he gestures toward the space between you, then tips his head slightly. “did you see the set?” you nod. “yeah. from the balcony.” “and?” “you were… loud.” you admit, taking a sip of your drink to buy time. “mmh,” he hums, clearly entertained. “not your style?” “not usually,” you say. “but i liked it! you had your moments.” “that’s good,” he nods, eyes still on you. “i only needed one.” “one what?” “moment. to get your attention.” oh, okay… smooth. he lets the silence hang for a second, sipping his drink. “you’re not from around here,” he says eventually—not a question, more like an observation he already knows the answer to. you shake your head. “nope.” “where you from, baby?” you raise your eyebrows at the pet name, almost embarrassed at how warm your cheeks have gotten hearing him say it. you tell him where you’re from, and he nods like that fits some kind of theory he’s already formed about you. “just visiting?” he asks. “yeah, we’re here for the week,” you say. “girls’ trip.” his gaze flicks past you briefly, toward your group of friends still talking and drinking behind you, then back to you. “that all?” “mhm.” you nod. “good timing.” “for what?” you ask, tilting your head. his eyes flick over your face. “me.”

so that’s where this is going. not that you weren’t already suspicious. you kinda figured by the way he looks at you like he’s halfway through undressing you with his eyes, but still, hearing him say ‘me’ with that much confidence really drives the point home... he wants to fuck you. this is very much a he has already made up his mind and you’re just the last one to catch up. well, good luck with that, boy. you tilt your head, pretending to think. “i don’t even know your real name.” he grins. this part is his favorite—the push and pull, the game. “i’ll tell you later, baby.” you narrow your eyes. “later when?” he doesn’t miss a beat. “when you let me buy you another drink.” you stare at him for half a second, considering your options, which—let’s be honest—are limited. you could walk away and rejoin your friends, go back to the safety of watered-down vodka cranberries and gossip. or you could stay here, entertain whatever this is, and see how far he plans to take the act. subong’s still looking at you, glass in hand. in his mind, he’s already planned five different ways to keep your attention if this line doesn’t land. you glance down at your drink—or what’s left of it, really. a few pathetic ice cubes floating around in reddish water, the sad remains of something that once had flavor. it’s warm now, or getting there, and you’ve already chewed on the straw more than any adult should admit. there’s no real reason to say yes, but there’s also no good reason to say no, so you nod. “okay.”

it’s quieter closer to the bar, though still not quiet. he orders something—you don’t know what—in korean, and you don’t ask. you just lean against the bar like you’re not mentally calculating how close he’s standing. the drinks arrive, stronger than the last one you had. you sip as he asks about the trip, nods when you give half-baked answers, says little things you don’t always catch but smile at anyway. somewhere along the way, he starts teaching you random korean words, pointing at objects. you try to follow along, repeating what he says with varying degrees of accuracy, sometimes getting it close enough to earn a nod, sometimes butchering the vowels so badly you can see him wince, like you’ve committed a mild crime against his language.

he’s close. so close you start noticing the details. the way his the fabric of his shirt moves, the faint line of a scar near his collarbone, and the thin silver chain resting against his skin, catching the low light with every shift of his body. it disappears beneath the collar of his shirt and reappears again near the dip of his throat. a tattoo peeks out from the side of his neck, a straight black line that seems to be connected to one of his fingers. your eyes flick to his hand before you even think about it. silver rings catch the light—some smooth, others engraved with intricate patterns. you don’t know why you’re so focused on them, but there’s something about the way they contrast against his tanned skin that keeps your attention. then he lowers his hand, and your gaze follows. there, on the back of it, another tattoo in black ink sprawls across his skin—some kind of demon with horns, twisted together with what looks like snakes. it’s faded in places, like it’s been there a long time and he hasn’t bothered to touch it up. without thinking, you track the movement of his fingers as they flex slightly before settling at his side. they’re long, perfectly proportioned to his massive hands. wait… that’s fucking hot. would they feel coarse on your skin? would they— “yo.” you blink, snapping back to reality, realizing he’s watching you, head tilted slightly, amusement playing at the corner of his mouth. “you good?” he asks, his smirk deepening and making your face warm. “yeah,” you say too quickly, clearing your throat. you’re pretty sure your mouth was watering for a second there.

you try to focus back on the conversation. focus on the way he tilts his head every time you speak, like he’s making room for the sound of your voice. it’s probably something he does with every girl he likes the look of, and yet you still feel the heat crawling up your spine like you’re special, which is probably exactly how he wants you to feel. and then, without ceremony, it just happens. one second you’re trying to act normal, pretending you don’t notice the way he keeps glancing at your mouth between sentences, and the next he’s leaning in— hand on your jaw, breath warm and close, before he kisses you. and honestly? it’s not great. it’s hot, yeah, and his mouth is warm, and you can tell he knows what he wants to do… but it’s too much. all tongue and pressure and zero pacing… like biting and breathing through his nose and full-on consuming you is the only way to make sure you’re into it. your teeth knock once, your lips feel bruised, and for a second you’re just trying not to choke on the fact that he is really going for it. you pull back, a hand against his chest to create a little breathing room, your lips probably shiny in the worst possible way. your eyes meet his and you swear he looks kind of smug about it, like he thinks you’re about to fall into his arms or ask him to fuck you right here. “jesus,” you mutter, not even hiding it. “slow down.” his brows lift, breath shallow, lips parted like he’s halfway through his next move, and you can tell he didn’t expect to be stopped. he probably never is. “what?” you don’t move your hand, just stay there, catching your breath. “i’m not going anywhere,” you say, a little softer this time. “just… not like that. try—try going slower.” he blinks once, like he’s rewiring the pace in his head, and then the corner of his mouth twitches. “bossy. i like that.”

and to his credit, he does what you asked. he leans in again, slower. this time, it actually feels like a kiss. it’s still deep, a little wild and rough, but better than before. you make a soft noise into his mouth and his hands respond immediately—one sliding lower, the other gripping your hip. and then you feel it—his fingers moving further down, gripping your ass like he needs something to hold onto or else he’s going to lose his fucking mind. bold. heat is building fast, and he’s pulling your body right up against his, which you let him do. he’s finally moving like he’s tuned in to what you want instead of just steamrolling through it. it’s good. the kind of kiss that makes your brain go fuzzy and your knees a little weak. and then he pulls back. “you wanna get outta here?” and… he’s just ruined it! “what?” his hand squeezes your side a little, still very much pressed against you. “yeah, like… somewhere private. we don’t gotta stay long.” the subtext is not even trying to be subtle. you lean back to look him in the face. “seriously?” he shrugs, but his eyes flick away for half a second because he already knows he’s misread this. “i mean. you’re into it. i’m… really fucking into it. figured we could…” he trails off, then laughs like it’ll cover for the fact that he has absolutely no idea how to finish that sentence without sounding like a dick. “you don’t even know me,” you say, and it comes out flatter than you expected. “you kissed me, girl.” “and that means what, exactly? that i owe you something now?” you start to move, shifting away from him, scanning the room for your friends.

“wait, wait—! shit—no, don’t go,” he says, suddenly very aware that he’s said the wrong thing. “please don’t hate me, pretty girl.” his hand almost reaches for you but he thinks better of it. “i didn’t mean it like that. okay, no—i did, but not like—damn. shit, man.” you don’t say anything, and that seems to only fuel the panic. he keeps going. “you’re just—fuck, you’re so hot, bro. like… so fucking hot. you have the best ass i’ve ever touched in my entire fucking life, and your mouth? damn girl. i’m not built for that kind of shit, i got so hard i—sorry.” he laughs under his breath, runs a hand through his hair. “i’ll—i’ll chill. i can chill, baby. i’ll make out with you for five hours straight if that’s all you want. i swear to god. i just—i don’t want you walking away thinking i don’t respect you or some shit.” he knows how he looks. like the kind of guy who gets girls easy, like he does this all the time. and sometimes, yeah, sure, some do stick around for a night or two, but not like you. and if kissing is all he’s getting tonight, then fine—he’ll take it happily. you laugh, soft and breathy, and he can’t tell if it’s at him or with him, but it doesn’t really matter. there’s something amused in your eyes, like you’re watching a very eager dog try to sit still. you’re trying to decide if he’s serious or just really, really horny. maybe both. either way, you find extremely funny the way he went from cocky to borderline begging in under a minute. “i’m not like that,” you say finally, and your voice is gentler now. “i don’t do the one night stand thing. it just feels… cold.” he nods. he hears you, even if he’s still a little dazed from the way your mouth tasted two minutes ago. “and you’re sweet,” you add. “but i’m gonna head back to my friends.” “wait,” he says. “can i—can i get your number, baby?” you pause, considering whether or not you want to give it to him. “yeah, okay. sure” you end up saying. “give me your phone.” oh, don’t tell him twice… he fumbles for it, unlocks it fast, and hands it over. and when you type your number in, he watches, not quite sure it’s really happening. you hand his phone back, and he stares at the contact for a second longer than necessary before locking the screen. you’re already stepping back when he finds his voice again. “and—fuck, wait,” he says. “if i asked you out… like, on a date. would you say yes?” you snort. “maybe.”

by the time you get back to the hotel, your feet are killing you and your face hurts from laughing, your makeup slightly smudged. you’re all stretched out on one bed, voices low and tired and still a bit drunk, retelling the night in pieces, everyone interrupting each other with “wait—wait—and then she said—” and “i swear he looked straight at me,” and “i think that guy wanted to kick us out, dude.” and then, eventually, they ask. about thanos. you tell them about the kissing, about the moment he ruined it, the apology and all the ridiculous things he said. they laugh, obviously. one of them calls him down bad, and yeah, fair. another says he sounds like a walking red flag, and you nod, because again, fair. but then you mention the part where he asked for your number. how he asked if he could take you out. “and you gave it to him?” one of them asks. you just shrug, staring up at the ceiling. “i mean… he asked nicely.” they tease you, of course. and you pretend not to care, but you’re smiling into the pillow like a fucking idiot anyway, because something about the way he said please don’t hate me, pretty girl has been playing on loop in your head all night, and it’s way too late to pretend it didn’t get to you. you’re about to drift off, the room quiet now, someone already snoring in the corner—when your phone buzzes. a text. from a number you don’t have saved yet, but you know exactly who it is.

yo babygirl

pls tell me this is u and not like some random old man

you stare at the screen for a second, already shaking your head, biting your lip to keep from laughing. you don’t respond right away.

dont leave me on read baby

you finally answer:

who’s this?

you know exactly who it is but you still want to make him suffer a little.

girl dont play me rn

it’s thanos🔥

you roll your eyes, but your smile’s already giving you away.

mm idk name doesn’t ring a bell

crazy, u were tryna suck my soul 2 hrs ago, girl

you tried to suck my soul, get it right boy

okay thats fair, my bad

i got excited

u fine asf what was i supposed to do

you glance over at your friend, still asleep, then sink deeper into your pillow, thumbs moving slow on your screen.

romantic

i can be for you bby

:))

cute

you never told me your real name btw

it’s subong

choi subong if we r being formal n shit

subong?? no way that’s real, it sounds made up as hell

why would i lie tho

this me fr, ask my mom

oooh say less, send me her number, i’ll fact check

u tryna meet her already?? damn girl slow down

you read it once, then again—and the laugh that comes out of you is loud enough that your friend stirs beside you and mutters something unintelligible into her pillow. he texts again.

so what u doin tmrw night, bby?

depends

on?

what you’re asking

dinner, me n u

dinner?

yeah u said u not on that one night shit so i adjusted

growth, baby

okay mr. mature

so what time u lettin me pick u up tmrw

when did i agree to the date?

dont play w me ma, cmon lemme feed u

ooookayy pick me up at 8

bet

dont flake on me pretty girl

i already told my friends i got a date w the baddest tourist in seoul

dw i’ll send you the hotel address tomorrow🙂‍↕️

goodnight subong

goodnight❤️

you wake up slowly, blinking against the sunlight filtering through the half-drawn curtains as someone’s phone buzzes on the nightstand. your mouth’s dry, your back aches a little from the shitty mattress, and one of your friends is already rummaging through their suitcase way too loudly for 9 a.m. the day starts in hongdae, where you grab iced lattes from a café, and eat soft pastries that flake apart in your hands while you lean against the glass and watch the crowds pass by. you wander from there, no real plan in place. it’s hot, not unbearable but definitely the kind that makes the shade feel like a gift from god. you end up in ikseon-dong after someone sees a post about it on tiktok—the winding alleys and hanok rooftops and little stores selling handmade accessories. you try on rings, pose in front of storefronts you can’t pronounce, and eat cold tteok skewers that stick to your teeth while your friends debate if it’s worth renting hanboks just for the photos. and it’s somewhere in between all that—while you’re wiping your hands on a napkin—that someone turns to you and says, “so what happened with purple hair?” you shrug. “he texted.” “and?” you don’t say anything. instead, you reach into your bag, pull out your phone, and start scrolling. you wordlessly hold your phone out, and one of them takes it, squinting at the screen as the others gather around her shoulder. it takes about three seconds for the noise to start. “yo babygirl?” “oh, god… not the fire emoji.” “nahhh, he’s a bit icky—” “no, no, i think he’s lowkey funny.” they keep scrolling—laughing, gasping, reacting… and then someone sees it. the message. “wait… you’re going on a date?” you nod. “what? girl, you met him like twelve hours ago—do we trust him?” she lowers her voice even though no one around would understand anyway. “we’re in a different country, you literally met him at a club, and now he’s taking you somewhere alone?” “i know,” you say, already anticipating this. “i’ll be careful.” “how careful?” “i’m gonna send you my location before i leave. i’ll keep it on the whole time. if anything’s weird, i’ll text.” the worry’s still there, visible in the slight crease between their brows, in the way they exchange looks. “i’ll be fine, don’t worry.” “okay. but try to be in public spaces.” “i will.”

you make it back to the hotel just as the sky starts turning that soft, bruised purple, and you peel off your clothes like they’re too heavy, staring at the limited wardrobe you packed as if suddenly it matters way too much. you change your outfit twice, almost three times, before settling on something simple, something that doesn’t look like you’re trying too hard. you’re fixing your hair for the hundredth time when your phone buzzes.

outside

your stomach flips so hard it’s stupid. you grab your bag, do a quick mirror check you immediately regret because now you’re second-guessing everything, and head for the elevator before you can talk yourself out of it. and when you step out into the sticky air outside, you spot him almost immediately—standing by the curb, head tipped back slightly as he exhales a slow stream of vapor into the humid air. he’s dressed way more casual than you expected too… an oversized white t-shirt hanging loose over broad shoulders, baggy jorts and sneakers. he looks… cool. subong spots you, flicking the vape down to his side with a lazy grin as you start walking toward him. you barely get the word out— “hey—” when he steps right into your space and presses a kiss to your mouth. your body freezes, every muscle stiffening in surprise. you instinctively pull back, blinking up at him. “what—” you start, hand coming up between you half in reflex, half in shock. “what are you doing?” he shrugs, one shoulder up, all casual confidence. “what you mean, girl?” he says, tucking his vape into the pocket of his jorts. “we kissed last night.” you just stare at him, heart still hammering, lips tingling from the stupidly quick kiss. he’s looking at you like you’re the crazy one, like this is normal. but there’s the smallest tug at the corner of his mouth, the smallest glint in his eyes that says he knew exactly what he was doing. “that was different,” you mutter. “was it?” you open your mouth, ready to say something—not sure what—but nothing comes out. you try to catch up to the pace he’s apparently set without telling you as he glances back at you, one eyebrow raised, head tilted slightly like what? what did i do? you shake your head, blinking to reboot your system or at least form a coherent sentence, “you can’t just kiss people like that.” he grins. “wasn’t just people. it was you.” you snort. “you’re lucky i didn’t slap you.”

he laughs under his breath, genuinely amused by how hard you’re trying to act unbothered when you’re still standing close enough to feel the heat coming off him. “okay, don’t trip,” he says, like he’s letting you win just because he feels like it. “i won’t kiss you again, i’ll be good. you set the pace. whenever you’re ready to stop acting like you ain’t feelin’ me, you let me know.” you roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts, but you’re also pretty sure your face is still warm from the kiss, and the worst part is, he knows it. his eyes trail down your body, and he lets out this soft, almost inaudible damn under his breath that somehow feels a thousand times louder than it is. “you look so fucking good, baby,” he comments, voice dipping lower. “shit’s actually disrespectful.” he licks his bottom lip. “got me thinkin’ wild stuff.” before you can even finish processing the fact that he just said that out loud with no fucking shame, he reaches out, fingers curling gently around your wrist, and spins you—checking out the full view. there’s something in the way his eyes trail over you as you turn that makes your skin prickle. and subong knows he’s pushing it but can’t quite help himself. you stumble a little when you land back in front of him, cheeks hot, hand fluttering uselessly at your side.“so pretty.” “thank you,” you respond, voice smaller than you mean it to be.

desperate to shift the focus, to get it off you, you ask, “so this is what you wear on a first date?” your voice back to playful now. he grins, completely unfazed, hands slipping casually into his pockets. “yeah,” he replies. “like what you see?” you can’t deny he pulls it off. “could be better,” you tease, throwing it out just to see if you can knock him down a peg. it makes him laugh, head tipping back slightly like you just said the funniest thing in the world. “alright,” he shakes his head. “i’ll let you get away with this one. first one’s free.” you grin, feeling lighter now, falling into step beside him as you both start moving. you walk for a bit, the conversation drifting into whatever, until something tugs at the back of your mind. you glance around the street, at the line of cars parked along the curb, at the people climbing into taxis and scooters buzzing past, and a tiny frown pulls at your mouth before you even know why. you slow your steps just a little, enough that subong notices, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “wait,” you say, looking around again, feeling the pieces start to click together. “where’s your car?” he doesn’t answer immediately—just lets out this quiet heh under his breath, the kind of sound that’s both i knew this was coming and damn bro, she caught me. “uh,” he starts, dragging the word out way too long. “‘bout that.” you try to keep a straight face because you’re very close to laughing and you’re not sure if you’re allowed to. “i don’t have one.” “you made it sound like you were picking me up.” “i did pick you up,” he argues, grinning like this is all very charming and not mildly ridiculous. “i’m here, aren’t i?” you shake your head, letting out a laugh you can’t hold back this time. “relax, señorita,” he says, nudging your arm lightly with his elbow, walking backwards a few steps so he can keep looking at you. “the place we’re going is close. we good. thanos’s here with you.” you raise your eyebrows, biting back another laugh. “yeah, okay.”

you follow him down a few blocks, weaving through narrow side streets that don't look like they lead to anything good, the sidewalks cracked and uneven, neon signs lit overhead. you're not really sure where you're going, but somehow you don't care. finally he stops in front of a tiny restaurant. there's no sign in english, just a battered old menu taped to the window, the plastic chairs outside scratched and sun-bleached to hell. you glance at him, raising an eyebrow, and he just smiles, flashing you that lazy, boyish look like trust me, i got you. subong holds the door open for you, and you step inside. the place smells like frying oil, grilled meat and cheap beer, and the tables are crammed so close together you have to squeeze sideways to get through. there’s a little bar shoved in the back, stacked with soju bottles and bags of chips, and a woman behind it who looks like she’d throw you out if you looked at her wrong.

you sit at a table near the window, the seat creaking under you, and he grabs two menus—ones that are almost falling apart from too many hands flipping through them—and leans across the table like he’s about to tell you a secret. “they got the best shit here,” he says, all serious. you laugh under your breath and skim the menu… it’s all in korean. and when you look up at him, he’s already watching you. “what you want, baby?” he asks, tapping the menu with his ringed fingers. “i have no idea what any of this is.” he chuckles, low in his throat. “don’t worry. i got you.” he orders for both of you, tossing words toward the server with an easy familiarity, laughing at something she says in return, flashing her that same smile that’s been getting him out of trouble his whole life, probably. you watch him, chin propped on your hand, hiding your grin. it’s hard to pretend you’re not a little charmed. the food comes fast: bubbling stews, plates of fried chicken glistening with sauce, little bowls of pickled side dishes you can’t name but don’t hesitate to try. it smells incredible. you barely finish thanking the server before you’re digging in, laughing when you nearly burn your mouth on the first bite because you were too impatient to let it cool. “careful, girl,” subong says, laughing at you while he pops a piece of chicken into his mouth. he watches you take your first proper bite, waiting for a reaction, looking way too pleased with himself when you close your eyes and groan around a mouthful of food. "told you.”

the conversation flows easy after that—mostly him talking, telling you stupid stories about growing up in the city, about getting in trouble for sneaking into clubs before he was legal, about how he got kicked off stage once for getting too drunk during a performance. every once in a while he has to stop mid-sentence, brows knitting together as he fumbles for a word in english, pulling out his phone to type it into a translator app, muttering curses under his breath when it doesn't come out right. but most of the time he powers through, thick accent clinging stubbornly to every word. you notice it—the effort, the way he doesn’t act embarrassed about it, just keeps talking, keeps looking at you like what matters is that you’re listening, not whether he gets every syllable perfect. but his english is way better than you expected. by the time the plates are empty and you’re leaning back in your seat, full and happy and a little buzzed from the cheap beer he insisted you had to try, you realize you haven’t stopped smiling for at least an hour. when the server drops the check, he snatches it off the table before you can even reach for it, tossing a few crumpled bills into the plastic tray. “i said i got you, baby. you’re my guest in seoul. gotta treat you right.”

you step out of the restaurant still laughing at something stupid he said. subong throws an arm around your shoulders, tugging you a little into his side as you start walking again. jesus, this man loves physical contact. but you let him because fuck it—you’re in seoul, he’s fine as fuck and you just had the best dinner ever. you assume this is it. that he’ll say something smooth about how he had a good time and then you’ll part ways like normal people… but of course that’s not how this night is going to end. “yo,” he says suddenly, glancing at you sideways. “you ever been to karaoke?” you blink at him, thrown off. “like, here? in korea?” he nods, looking way too excited about it. you laugh. “i mean, no? not yet.” “say less,” he says immediately. “we’re going.” you don’t even protest. maybe it’s the beer, or maybe it’s the way he says it, giving you no room to say no but somehow you don’t want to anyway. once you arrive to the closest karaoke place you could find, he pays for an hour and drags you into one of the rooms, tossing the remote onto the fake leather couch before flopping down like he owns the place. and you swear you’re ready—thinking he’s going to pick something remotely cool that would actually show off the fact that he’s a real rapper with actual skills—but instead, he picks the corniest, cringiest song you’ve ever heard, something so bad it feels like it should be illegal to perform it in public. and he commits to it, bouncing a little on the couch and pointing at you dramatically, hand over his heart, singing the dumbest lines with so much fake sincerity that you’re doubled over laughing, wiping tears from your eyes while he struts across the tiny room like he’s on tour. “this one’s for you, babygirl,” he says between lines, winking exaggeratedly, nearly dropping the mic because he’s laughing too hard at himself. you can’t remember the last time you laughed like this. to the point where your stomach hurts, and the laugh bubbles up uncontrollably until you can’t breathe and you’re clutching the arm of the couch just to stay upright.

somewhere in the middle of it you realize you’re completely fucked because he’s so annoying and so stupid and so fucking handsome at the same time. his hair’s sticking to his forehead, sweat glinting at his temples, his oversized t-shirt clinging to his chest in a way that makes it real fucking hard not to stare, and every time he sings louder, that vein in his neck strains against his skin like it’s begging for your mouth. lord, have some fucking mercy. you hate him for it—hate the way he’s making you want him without even trying, without even looking at you sometimes… just existing like this, all loud and cocky and hot enough to make your thighs press together. you cheer for him because you can’t not, hollering louder than you should when he throws in a stupid dance move that nearly knocks over the mic stand. and when he finally hands you the mic, yelling “let’s gooo, pretty girl!” like you’re stepping onto a stage instead of a busted karaoke floor, you realize you’re smiling so hard it actually hurts. you sing, and he’s clapping, hyping you up like you’re winning a fucking grammy—shouting your name. you take turns picking songs after that, drinking whatever cheap shit they sell at the front counter, voices cracking, bodies slumping closer together the longer the night drags on. and somewhere between your third song and his fourth, somewhere between him rapping aggressively at you from three feet away and you pretending to dodge his dramatic finger guns, it happens.

you catch him grinning at you, and your heart kicks hard against your chest, like your body already knows what you’re about to do before you even decide it. you remember in that moment what he said outside the hotel, about letting you set the pace. and god help you, you’re ready to set it now. you don’t think. you just move, leaning over the little gap between you, grabbing the front of his t-shirt, and pulling him in. when you kiss him, it’s nothing like the night before. it’s so much better. his mouth slants over yours perfectly, with enough pressure to make your stomach flip and enough softness to make you forget about everything outside. one of his hands slips around your jaw to hold you steady and the other one finds your thigh. you hum against his mouth without meaning to, and subong breathes out a low sound in response. you pull away to catch your breath, and when you kiss again, it’s a bit more desperate, which makes him groan, the sound vibrating against your mouth. it’s honestly embarrassing how fast you feel your panties soak. you don’t know how long you stay like that—lost in the beat of some awful pop song bleeding through the thin walls as you heavily make out—but you know that when you pull back again, breathing hard, you’re smiling like an idiot. and so is he.

it’s past three in the morning by the time you finally stumble out of the karaoke bar, that area of the city almost empty now. the only sound between you is the soft scuff of your sneakers on the pavement and the occasional lazy laugh when one of you says something too stupid to hold in. you make it back to the hotel slower than you probably should’ve, feet dragging a little like both of you are trying to stretch the night out just a little longer, neither one really willing to say it’s over yet. you stop just outside the hotel doors, under the weak yellow glow of the streetlights, and turn to him. subong smiles at you. “had fun with you, baby,” he says. you smile back, feeling it settle deep under your skin. “i had fun too. a lot.” he nods like he’s filing that away somewhere important, then shifts his weight. “we should hang out again,” there’s a thread under it you can hear, something almost urgent. you bite your lip, hesitating just a second longer than you mean to, and his eyes catch it immediately, narrowing slightly, picking up the shift in you. “i mean…” you start, fumbling a little, “i’m here with my friends. i told you, it’s like… a girls’ trip. we already have stuff planned and—” he cuts you off, scoffing, half laughing under his breath, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “man, fuck them plans,” he says, grinning but shaking his head like he’s serious underneath it. “they get to see you all year. i got only four days now, girl. four.” you open your mouth to argue, to say something logical and responsible, but he continues, “they ain’t gonna miss you for a few hours,” he says, coaxing, all lazy sweetness. “i will.” you blink up at him, caught off guard by the way he says it. maybe you should say no, tell him you’re here for your friends, not to get caught up in some boy you barely know. maybe you should turn around and go inside and pretend this night was enough. but the truth is, you already know what you’re going to do. so you just breathe out a soft, helpless little laugh, and shrug one shoulder like you’re trying to play it off even though you know he sees right through you. “okay.” you nod. “i’ll see you again.” the grin that breaks across his face is so quick, so bright, it almost knocks the air out of you. he doesn’t even try to hide it. “damn right you will,” he says. “same time tomorrow, yeah?” you can’t help the smile that pulls at your mouth, can’t stop yourself from playing along. “same time?” “yeah, baby. same time.”

the next morning you wake up feeling like you barely slept at all. you lie there for a few minutes, blinking up at the ceiling, replaying pieces of last night in your head, until someone throws a pillow at you and tells you to get up because you’re all late for whatever tourist plan you made before the trip. you tell them about the date during breakfast, skipping over the part where you made out on the sticky leather couch, but you’re pretty sure they can read it on your face anyway. they tease you again. ask when the wedding is and if they should start learning korean for the reception. those bitches. you laugh along with them, pretending you’re not checking the time more often than you should as the day wears on, counting down the hours until the sun goes down and it’s time. when you make it back to the hotel to shower and change, the sun’s just dipping low behind the buildings, painting the whole city gold. your friends are sprawled out on their beds, chatting about dinner plans for the night, but you’re in another world, getting ready for your date with subong. you slip outside just a few minutes before the time you agreed on, standing on the same spot as the night before, the concrete still holding the heat of the day. you spot him as he walks toward you, vape tucked between his fingers, a slow stream of smoke curling up. he’s hard to miss—not just because of the purple hair, but because somehow he looks even better tonight, a little more put together. he’s wearing those same jorts, a white tank top that clings to him in a way that makes you bite the inside of your cheek, the thin fabric stretched across the lines of his shoulders and the curve of his chest. over it, he’s thrown on an open short-sleeved button-up, some tropical print you can’t even process because you’re too busy processing him—the way the shirt flutters open as he walks, flashing glimpses of tan skin and silver chains. you restrain yourself from barking because oh my fucking god. you’re so feral, it’s insane. he gets closer, mouth curling into a smirk. “damn, mama,” he says. “you tryna kill me looking like that?” you smile. “maybe.” he snorts before reaching out to hook a lazy arm around your shoulders like he did last night, pulling you into his side. “come on, baby,” he says, giving you a little squeeze. “night’s young.” you glance up at him, amused. “so, what’s the plan?” he hums, thinking, like the idea of having a plan never once crossed his mind. “have fun, get you fed and keep you laughing. that good enough?” you chuckle, letting yourself be dragged wherever he feels like going.

he pulls you down a side street you wouldn’t have noticed otherwise. there are carts lined up one after another, steam rising from boiling pots, old men barking orders, kids laughing, girls dressed way too nicely for the grime around their shoes. subong stops at the first tteokbokki stand he sees, hands you a toothpick without asking like it’s a rite of passage, and grins at you when you eye the bubbling, angry red sauce with suspicion. “don’t be soft,” he says, plucking a rice cake out and blowing on it dramatically before popping it into his mouth. “fire, but it’s good for you.” “fire? what do you mean ‘fire’?” you poke at a piece, hesitating, and he bumps your hip with his. “c’mon, girl. don’t think about it.” you stab the piece, blow on it half-heartedly, and take a bite—immediately coughing as the heat punches you square in the mouth. he laughs so loud people actually turn to stare. you glare at him through watering eyes, cheeks puffed out, waving your free hand frantically. “shit, baby, you good?” he says between wheezing laughs, grabbing a water bottle off the cart and handing it to you. you chug half the bottle in one go, scowling over the top of it while he keeps laughing, trying and failing to school his face into something resembling sympathy. “it’s not funny,” you choke out, but it’s hopeless—you’re laughing too, half in misery, half because his smile is so stupidly infectious.

you move from cart to cart after that, him insisting you try everything—fish cakes dipped in broth, skewered meats glazed with something sweet, a fried pancake stuffed with brown sugar and nuts that you basically inhale because it’s the first non-lethal thing you’ve eaten all night. you end up perched on the curb a few minutes later, paper trays balanced between you. it’s not exactly glamorous, but somehow, sitting here next to him, none of it really matters. he’s good company… snatching bites off your plate like he didn’t just buy two full meals for himself. you watch him for a second, amused, as he chews dramatically, eyebrows raised like he’s waiting for you to fight him for it, but you don’t. “by the way,” you say, nudging him with your knee. “i forgot to ask. how old are you?” he freezes mid bite, eyes wide like you just hit him with a question he wasn’t ready for. then he swallows and smirks, licking sauce off his thumb before answering. “twenty-eight,” he replies, tapping his chest like it’s a badge of honor. “grown-ass man, baby.” you laugh, shaking your head. “you act like you’re eighteen.” he grins wider. “young at heart, old in the dick.” you almost choke on your food, smacking his arm while he doubles over laughing, clearly way too proud of himself. “jesus christ,” you mutter, hiding your face in your hands for a second while subong keeps laughing, wiping fake tears from the corner of his eyes. “what about you?” he asks once he catches his breath, nudging you back with his shoulder. “twenty-four,” you say, still side-eyeing him like you’re waiting for another stupid comment. he whistles low under his breath, shooting you a look. “damn. little baby. you’re so cute.” you flip him off automatically, but you’re smiling too much for it to mean anything.

after a while, he pushes himself up, brushing crumbs off his jorts, and reaches a hand down to you. you let him pull you up, your fingers slipping easily into his for a second longer than necessary before you let go, pretending not to notice the way he smirks. you start walking again, no real direction, just weaving through the crowds as the streets pulse around you. he keeps glancing down at his phone, scrolling, texting, doing something you can’t quite catch, and you’re about to tease him for being glued to it when a low rumble cuts through the street noise—a motorbike pulling up just a few feet ahead of you. you pause automatically, stepping closer to him, and he looks up like he’s been expecting it. the guy on the bike kills the engine and pulls off his helmet, grinning wide. subong grins back, stepping forward to dap him up—a quick handshake and a bro-hug, that thing guys pretend isn’t just them being affectionate. they talk fast, laughing and jostling each other like they’re still teenagers. you’re not really listening, since you understand absolutely nothing. your eyes flick between the beat-up bike and subong’s lazy posture, the way he gestures casually in your direction mid sentence and jerks his chin toward you. then he says something that you do understand. “that my girl.” and you can feel your cheeks get warm. the guy nods, still grinning, and tosses subong two helmets before hopping off the bike completely and handing over the keys without a second thought. he gives you a quick polite bow, claps subong on the back, and then disappears into the crowd without a backward glance.

you blink at subong, stunned, as he turns back to you, tossing you one of the helmets with a cocky grin. “what just happened?” you ask, catching it awkwardly. he shrugs, sliding his own helmet on. “my boy owed me a favor,” he says casually, tugging the strap of his helmet tight under his chin. “told him i needed a whip for tonight. came through.” you open your mouth to question that (because what the actual fuck) but before you can, he steps closer, plucks the helmet out of your hands, says, “c’mere, baby,” and starts fitting it onto your head like you’re a little kid he’s dressing for school. he’s surprisingly gentle about it too—adjusting the strap under your jaw, fingers brushing the sides of your neck, tilting your head a little so he can buckle it properly. you hold still, heart thudding a little too fast, trying to focus on anything other than the way he smells up close. he tugs the strap once to test it, his thumb brushing the underside of your chin lightly. “perfect,” he says, grinning down at you like he just built the whole damn helmet himself. you look up at him, a little too aware of how close he is, and mutter, “you do know how to drive this thing, right?” his grin only widens. he swings one leg over the bike, settling onto the seat like he’s done it a million times, flashing you a look so smug you already know the answer before he even opens his mouth. “nah. not really.” he pats the seat behind him with the flat of his palm, all easy confidence like he’s not actively trying to kill you both tonight. “come on, baby.” “what do you mean, ‘not really’?” “i mean, like... how hard can it be?” you just stare at him, actually opening your mouth this time because no, absolutely not, what the fuck. “subong—” but before you can launch into the speech he probably deserves, he twists a little in the seat, facing you more fully, one hand reaching out to tap his knuckles lightly against the side of your helmet. “chill, girl. i’m not gonna kill us.” you narrow your eyes at him through the visor, unconvinced. “trust me, yeah?” the sheer audacity of this man… but he looks so fucking good it physically hurts. like hell yeah, if he were to fuck you right now, the helmet would stay on because holy shit…

you blow out a slow breath, feeling the last of your protests crumbling away, and swing your leg over the bike, sliding onto the seat behind him. your hands find his waist automatically, gripping tighter than necessary, and you’re pretty sure he feels it…because he lets out this low, smug little laugh. “if we crash,” you mutter, “i’m haunting you.” “shit,” subong laughs, glancing back at you. “you can haunt me anytime, baby.” you snort, and then he’s pulling out into the street, smooth and confident in a way that should not belong to someone who openly admitted he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. the bike jolts forward a little rough at first, and instinctively, you squeeze him tighter, your fingers fisting the hem of his shirt like you’re clinging for your life. which you are. he laughs again. you can feel it more than hear it, this rumbling sound that vibrates through his back and straight into your chest. the first few blocks are hell. you’re tense, stiff, squeezing the life out of him every time he takes a turn too sharp or guns it a little too hard between cars. subong’s reckless, weaving through traffic, laughing under his breath when you curse him loud enough to make two drunk guys on the sidewalk turn around. “relax, pretty girl!” he calls over his shoulder. “i got you!” hell no. you don’t relax. but somewhere along the way— maybe after the third near-death experience—you loosen your grip a little. your body starts to move with his instead of against him, leaning into the curves, even when your stomach drops into your shoes. he flies through the city, streets blurring into streaks of gold and red and neon blue, the whole of seoul stretching wide and endless around you. you laugh and he hears it. you can tell because he glances back briefly, enough for you to catch the way he’s smiling with his eyes under the helmet.

eventually, he slows, pulling into a quieter part of the city where your hotel is. he rolls the bike up to the curb, tapping the kickstand down with the side of his foot. the engine cuts off with a low grumble. subong looks back at you, hands still resting lightly on the handlebars. “see? you survived,” he says. you snort, pulling off your helmet, your hair sticking to your forehead and your cheeks hot from the ride and the adrenaline. maybe a little from him too. “barely,” you mutter, swinging your leg off the bike and standing, feeling the ground steady itself under you again. he watches you, leaning back a little, hands loose in his lap, looking so stupidly proud of himself you almost want to smack him. but mostly, you just want to kiss him. and you hate how badly you want it. how badly you’re really starting to want him. you shove the helmet into his chest instead, and he chuckles, grabbing it easily like he was expecting the hit. “damn,” he says, shaking his head like he’s genuinely offended. “no kiss goodbye?” “maybe if you took off the helmet first.” without missing a beat, he yanks the helmet off, rakes a hand through his messy, sweat-damp purple hair, and looks at you. you don’t even hesitate. you lean in, pressing your lips against his, and he’s ready for it—smiling against them like he knew you’d cave, hands finding your waist and pulling you in. you pull back after a second, but subong stays close, forehead almost bumping yours. “better,” he murmurs. you huff out a laugh. “don’t get used to it.” “too late, pretty girl.” you shake your head, trying not to smile too wide, stepping back to give yourself breathing room you’re not sure you actually want. “i wanna know more about you,” you say all of sudden. his eyebrows lift. “oh yeah?” “yeah,” you say, feeling your face heat up. “we’re hanging out again tomorrow, right? i wanna know more.” he blinks, like you caught him off guard for a second, then he smiles. “oh, we are?” subong tilts his head, teasing. you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling too, shoulders lifting in a half-shrug like you’re giving him a choice when you both know you’re not. “unless you’re busy.” you know damn well he isn’t. “i’m always free for you, girl.” “good. same time tomorrow then,” you afirm, stepping back, starting to turn toward the hotel entrance. behind you, you hear the faint click of his helmet getting strapped back on, the low rumble of the engine coming back to life. “hey,” subong calls after you, voice a little louder now over the growl of the bike. you glance back over your shoulder. “better get some rest, baby. you’re gonna need energy to handle all this tomorrow.” you raise an eyebrow. “all what?” he laughs, shaking his head. you’re so cute for even asking. “me,” he answers, flashing a wink. “got plenty to show you.”

and he’s right. he’s got plenty to show you—all the places that built him. the convenience store he used to get kicked out of for loitering. the fried chicken shop where he spent whole summers broke and eating scraps off his friend’s plates. the basketball court where he learned how to throw a punch and how to lose without crying. he shows you the narrow alley behind a laundromat where he tried his first cigarette—coughed so hard he almost passed out, ended up swearing off smoking for a year before picking it back up like a dumbass. and the little restaurant his mom used to take him to when she had extra money, telling you all proud, like he was taking her out instead of the other way around—points at a booth through the window, saying, “we always sat there. always. didn’t matter if the place was full, we’d wait.” you pass the corner where he says he got his first kiss—“shit was so bad… she had gum in her mouth, bro. almost choked me out.” he laughs so hard at his own misery you can’t help but crack up too. half the time you’re laughing so much you have to grab onto his arm to stay upright, the other half you’re just smiling, letting yourself imagine him at fifteen, wild and cocky and probably just as much of a little shit as he is now. he tells you about the time he broke his front tooth on a skateboard he stole from his neighbor—“wasn’t even a good skateboard, man, shit was so trash it couldn’t even roll properly”—and the time he got detention for a month straight for sneaking out during lunch breaks to freestyle rap behind the gym. he’s proud of it all in a weird way, even the stupid stuff, even the shit you can tell he probably should’ve been more ashamed of. and you get it. you get why he’s showing you this—the scraps, the corners, the places no one else would think mattered. because to him, they do. and for whatever reason, he wants them to matter to you too.

the night keeps pulling you along, the city thinning out into quieter streets, until you turn a corner and there it is—his old high school. the building itself looks tired, the chain-link fence rusted and sagging in places. he slows down as you approach, hands tucked loose into his pockets, eyeing the fence. you already know the look on his face before he says anything. and sure enough, a second later: “wanna go in?” you hesitate, glancing around. it’s late, the streets mostly empty, but still… breaking into a high school wasn’t exactly on your vacation checklist. “subong,” you hiss under your breath. “what if we get caught?” he just laughs, not even pretending to be worried. “ain’t nobody patrolling this old-ass place at night, baby. plus, you said you wanted to know more about me, right?” “shit—okay, fine. but i don’t wanna stay for too long,” you sigh, knowing you’ve lost, already stepping closer to him like an idiot because honestly, how could you not. he finds a spot where the fence leans out, grabs it with both hands, and yanks it back with a sharp creak, wide enough for you to slip through. he holds it open, hand reaching for yours. “ladies first.” you mutter something under your breath about how stupid this is, but your fingers still find his, and you duck through the gap, heart hammering way too loud in your chest. inside, the courtyard feels huge. you stick to the shadows instinctively, ducking your head as you walk, trying not to step directly under the working lampposts buzzing dimly overhead. subong moves beside you, easy and relaxed, hands shoved back into his pockets, looking around like he’s remembering every stupid thing he ever did here. he points out the corner where he used to ditch class to smoke, the back wall where he and his friends would race to see who could climb over it the fastest without getting caught. “got caught only once. made me mop the cafeteria floors for a week.” you stifle a laugh behind your hand, glancing at him sideways.

you weave through the empty playground, passing a soccer goal and a few wooden picnic tables, until you find yourselves near the old bleachers, which are leaning like they’re about to give up completely. before you can say anything, subong grabs your hand—big and warm around yours—and tugs you toward the space underneath. it’s dark under there, the only light filtering through the cracks in thin, broken lines from the nearest lamppost, but it’s enough to make out the shape of him standing in front of you. you’re still smiling when your hands find the back of his neck, fingers curling into the hair at his nape. his hands find your waist, sliding low, rough palms against your sides as he backs you up until your spine hits the thick metal bar behind you with a soft clang. you let out a breath, feeling the cold bite of the steel through your shirt, and feeling the way he cages you in with nothing but his body. he doesn’t say anything for a second—just stands there, so close you can feel the heat rolling off him. you tilt your head back a little to look at him, and he just grins, lazy and lopsided. “what’s your opinion, then?” he murmurs. “on what?” he leans in. you can feel the brush of his breath against your mouth, his hands tightening a little on your waist. “me. thanos.” you pretend to think about it, humming, dragging it out just to see the way his mouth twitches, fighting a smile. “trouble… but fun,” you whisper finally. he huffs out a quiet laugh. “good,” he says. “wouldn’t want you gettin’ bored on me.”

and then he kisses you, his mouth moving over yours with purpose. your fingers tighten in the hair at the back of his neck, making him groan, the sound slipping out between your mouths. the kiss grows hotter fast, needier. his hands are everywhere—pulling you closer until your body is pressed tight against his, the cold metal bar digging into your back the only thing keeping you grounded. you don’t even think about it, you just move. you grab his wrist, sliding his hand up, up, until it’s over your chest, pressing his palm flat against your left breast through your shirt. he stiffens for a moment before he squeezes, making you gasp softly. subong pulls back to look down at you, his pupils blown wide, lips parted, breathing heavily. “want me to make you feel good, baby? hm?” he mutters. you nod, fast and desperate, the word ‘yes’ stuck somewhere in your throat. his hand slides lower for a second, dragging slow over your ribs, down your waist, before he comes back up—fingers hooking into the dip of your neckline, where your shirt already hangs low. he tugs it down, dragging your bra with it until your left breast spills free. you barely get a breath out before subong’s mouth is on you, wrapping around your nipple and sucking hard enough to make you whimper. his tongue’s lapping at you like he’s tasting something he’s been thinking about for way too fucking long—because he has. his hand comes up to cup the underside of your breast, squeezing, pushing you harder against his mouth. your fingers dig further into his hair, pulling, desperate for something to hold onto because your legs are barely holding you up anymore. he sucks harder, sloppier, teeth grazing your nipple just to hear the broken sound it pulls out of you, his other hand already sliding toward the waistband of your shorts. you’re so fucking wet already it’s humiliating, a low ache building between your thighs.

his hand doesn’t stop—fingers dipping just beneath the waistband, grazing over your panties. you whimper, hips jerking forward instinctively, chasing the heat of his touch. his fingers slide under the thin fabric, and when he finds you—hot and soaked and so fucking ready for him—he hisses through his teeth, his whole body tensing against yours. “fuck,” he mutters, mouth still trailing over the swell of your breast. “you’re so fuckin’ wet for me—shit, baby.” he doesn’t even give you a second to catch your breath. his middle finger slips between your folds, gliding slow through the mess he’s already made of you, teasing your clit with the lightest fucking touch—making you writhe and grab at his shoulders, nails digging in. he pulls back from your chest finally, lifting his head to look at you with dark eyes and a shiny and swollen mouth from sucking on you. “you want it, pretty girl?” he rasps, fingers barely circling your clit, teasing you. “want me to fuck you with these fingers right here?” “yes,” you manage to say. “yes—please.” he grins like he was just waiting for you to beg. and then he finally gives you what you’re aching for. he slides one thick finger into you, slowly, letting you feel every inch of it, the stretch enough to make your mouth fall open around a broken gasp. “fuck,” he mutters under his breath, he can’t believe how tight you are around just one finger. “been thinking about this shit since the second i saw you.” he thrusts his finger deeper, curling it inside you, making your hips jerk helplessly against his hand. “couldn’t stop picturing it,” he keeps going, filthy and sweet all at once. “you, all needy and fucking dripping for me… just like this.” you whimper when he adds another finger, and your body moves on instinct—desperate for him, desperate for something more—your thigh brushing up against the bulge straining against his pants.

he shudders when you do it. a sharp, involuntary twitch running through his body. so you do it again, slower this time, dragging your leg against him on purpose just to feel the way he grits his teeth and mutters something under his breath in korean. “you got me so fucking hard, girl. shit—” he rasps, but he doesn’t pull away. he just flexes his fingers inside you instead, fucking you deeper, rougher, desperate to keep you right there against him. and when you do it once again, subong finally gives in, hips grinding into your leg in these short, helpless thrusts, chasing friction. you keep rocking your hips into his hand, feeling the heel of it grind up against your clit every time his fingers sink deep inside you. it’s filthy, the wet sounds of him working you open, and the soft, broken little whimpers spilling out of your mouth no matter how hard you try to bite them back. he pumps his fingers faster, his palm catching your clit on every thrust, making your whole body jerk and tremble, gasping so loud you’re sure someone’s gonna hear. he kisses you before you can make another sound, crushing his mouth against yours, swallowing every moan. his tongue slides against yours, demanding as you cling onto him, legs shaking. “you’re so fuckin’ loud, baby,” he pants, pulling away for a second. “what, you tryna get us caught?” you shake your head frantically, mouth falling open around another moan.“then be good for me,” he growls, thrusting his fingers harder, lips brushing yours. “c’mon. be fucking good and cum for me. let me have it, baby.”

you don’t even have time to warn him. your whole body tightens, back arching into the cold metal behind you. you bury your face in his neck, biting down on his skin to stay quiet as the orgasm rips through you. he feels it—feels the way you clamp down around his fingers, trying so hard to stay quiet and still end up letting out this broken little cry against his throat. “yeah. yeah, that’s it. that’s it, baby.” you’re still cumming, trembling against him, and he barely holds it together. he knows he should slow down, let you catch your breath and be a decent fucking human being for once—but he can’t. he’s so fucking hard it’s unbearable, grinding helplessly against your thigh because he needs you so bad he feels feral. and it’s fucking pathetic but he can’t stop. he’s humping your leg like a goddamn dog and he doesn’t even care. you’re warm and wet and still pulsing around his fingers, and all subong can think about is how much he wants it to be his cock instead, how fucking good you’d feel if he was buried inside you instead of just fucking you with his hand. “a-ahh, fuck—shit—” he mutters against your skin, hips rutting against you without rhythm, without shame. “should be my dick i-inside you… fuck, fuck, fuck, baby—” he feels it hit him hard—feels the heat coil up in his gut—and then he’s cumming in his fucking pants like an loser, grinding against your thigh one last desperate time, his whole body locking up, breath catching in his throat. and it’s messy, leaking hot and wet into his boxers, making him feel like he’s sixteen years old again with no self-control. he slumps against you, both of you panting. for a second, neither of you says anything, and then you shift a little, enough to glance down between you and realize what the fuck just happened.

you freeze. your head snaps back up to look at him, eyes wide, mouth parting like you’re about to say something—and he knows. he knows the exact second you realize it. “oh my god,” you whisper, choking on a laugh. he groans, dropping his head into the crook of your neck, too fucking embarrassed to meet your eyes. “don’t fucking say it,” he mutters, voice muffled against your skin. “shit’s not funny.” you start laughing anyway. even harder when he curses under his breath like he’s actually contemplating death as a real option right now. “bro,” he pulls back, cheeks flushed redder than you’ve ever seen them, voice miserable, “the fuck am i supposed to do now?” he gestures vaguely down at himself—at the wet stain darkening the front of his pants. “walk you back to the hotel like this?” he scoffs, dead serious, like this is a real crisis. “people gonna think i fucking pissed myself, man.” you’re laughing so hard now you have to cover your mouth with your hand, trying not to completely lose it right there. he just shakes his head, dramatic as hell, pulling his shirt down lower to cover himself like that’s gonna fix anything. “nah, fuck it,” he mutters, resigned. “relax, subong,” you say, finally managing to get your breath back. “it’s dark. no one’s gonna notice.”

you walk back to the hotel—subong sticking close to your side, occasionally tugging at his shirt like it’ll somehow hide the obvious mess he’s made of himself, and you’re barely holding back your laughter every time you catch him glancing down at himself in misery. when you finally reach your hotel, he slows, almost reluctant. you turn to him, smiling. “thanks for tonight,” you say, which sounds stupid when you think about it, like… you’re thanking him for blowing his load in his own pants and making you cum on two of his fingers. “anytime, baby,” he says with a grin. “anywhere, too.” you roll your eyes before stepping closer, and kissing him—quick and soft. when you pull back, he smiles. “we’re hanging out tomorrow, right?” he asks, scratching the back of his neck, looking down the street instead of at you. you raise an eyebrow like really? “yeah, of course.” which translates to: duh, obviously. he shifts his weight, dragging his sneaker against the sidewalk. “could… could we meet earlier, maybe?” you blink at him, a little surprised at the sudden softness in his voice. “just,” he adds quickly, “you know… we only got, what? tomorrow and one more day? tryna… see you more—make the most of it.” and it’s the kind of thing that should make you pull back, remind yourself this is supposed to be a fling, a summer story you get to laugh about later. but instead, your heart does this stupid little skip in your chest. “i’ll talk to my friends,” you say. “i’ll let you know.” “hit me up, girl,” he answers, backing away toward the street. “i’m always down.” you nod. “good night, subong.” “good night, pretty girl. sleep well.”

the second you get a hint of free time the next morning, you’re grabbing your phone, texting him.

hey, i can meet earlier today if you still want

my friends don’t mind

hell yeah

been waiting on u all day

subong it’s only 11am

tf that gotta do w anything

missed u since u left last night

you’re so silly

5pm work for you?

perfect

i’ll be lookin fine as hell just for u

that better be a promise

u r gonna see girl

what’s the plan?

cant say bby

just trust daddy🔥

EWWWWW

oh hell no

absolutely not

i’m literally blocking you rn

bro im playinggg😂😂

i let you call yourself thanos

but daddy??? you lost me there

u r funny girl

i like u

see u at 5 sexy😍

subong has the whole evening planned—or at least, he pretends he does, which is close enough. you don’t even get a real explanation when you meet up, just him saying, “trust me, baby. this ‘bout to be the best date of your life.” and somehow, you let him drag you onto a rental bike, even though you haven’t ridden one in years and definitely almost crash into a post within the first two minutes. he laughs so hard he almost falls off his own bike, cutting figure eights around you in the street, showing off, and yelling “you good, girl?” like you didn’t just almost die in front of a group of passing tourists. you flip him off, wobbling forward with as much dignity as you can muster, which is none. he just laughs harder, racing ahead, calling back over his shoulder for you to catch up, then something about “damn, girl, didn’t know i was ridin’ with a fucking beginner!” “shut up, you idiot!” he laughs, throwing his head back for a second like he’s never had more fun in his life. you spend the next hour like that—racing through the paths by the han river, dodging kids and couples, weaving too close to each other on purpose, getting more than a few dirty looks from serious bikers in full gear who clearly think you’re assholes. you don’t care. you don’t think you’ve ever cared less in your life, honestly—not when the sun’s bright and high, and the air’s hot but not enough to ruin the way the breeze feels when you pick up speed. but most importantly, not when subong’s laughing like that beside you. somewhere along the way, you stop for ice cream—him skidding to a halt so fast you almost plow straight into his back, then pointing at an ice cream truck like he’s discovered buried treasure.

subong’s already halfway to the window before you even hop off your bike properly, tossing a grin over his shoulder like you’re too slow to keep up. you go simple—vanilla cone. he goes straight for the most ridiculous neon blue popsicle he can find, the kind that stains your mouth for hours. the second he sees your cone, he groans loud enough that the guy in the truck gives him a side-eye. “who picks vanilla, bro?” he says, pulling a face like you just personally offended him. “all these options and you pick vanilla?” you snort, eyeing the monstrosity in his hand. “says the guy eating radioactive smurf ass.” he almost chokes laughing, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, bright blue already smeared along the corner of his lips. “this shit’s elite,” he counters, holding it up proudly. “you just got no taste.” you bump his arm with your elbow, smirking. “not true. i’m hanging out with you, aren’t i?” “yeah, baby,” he agrees. “lucky me.”

you keep riding after that, weaving through the crowds along the river, laughing whenever subong swerves way too close to you on purpose just to hear you curse at him under your breath. but eventually, you go back to the rental spot, where a couple of kids are stacking bikes back into neat little rows. subong pulls up first, hopping off with way more swagger than necessary like he just finished a triathlon. you drop your bike into the stand next to his, brushing the hair out of your face, still a little out of breath. “i’m starving,” he says, stretching his arms overhead until his shirt rides up just enough to flash the waistband of his boxers. it feels like he’s doing it on purpose… yeah, he definitely is. “you’re always starving,” you laugh. then, you follow him across the street toward a small convenience store. you end up picking out a random assortment of junk—kimbap, banana milk, two different types of chips you can’t read the names of—and subong loads up with way too many drinks and candy. when you’re back outside, the bags crinkling in your hands, the sun’s starting to dip low behind the buildings, turning the whole sky this beautiful mix of orange and pink. he leads you down a small side path off the main trail, one you probably wouldn’t have found if you were by yourself, until you reach a quiet patch by the river where the rocks slope down into the water. no one else is around, just the distant noise of traffic, the occasional splash of a fish somewhere you can’t see. you climb down carefully, finding a spot on the bigger rocks that’s flat enough to sit without busting your ass. subong drops down beside you, tossing the convenience store bag between you, his legs stretching out long in front of him, sneakers almost brushing the water. the river laps gently against the stones, the breeze cool and soft now that the sun’s finally starting to ease up. he hands you a can of some random drink, cracking his own open with a sharp hiss, and you both sit there for a minute, just sipping quietly, the world slowing down around you like someone turned the volume down on the whole city.

“what’s shit like where you from?” he asks, voice low, trying not to break the moment too hard. you glance over at him, surprised he’s asking. you shrug. “my town’s small. and boring as fuck most of the time—you’d hate it, i think. no nightlife.” he grins sideways at you. “yeah? i think it sounds peaceful.” you hum in agreement, sipping your drink. he’s quiet for a second, tapping his fingers against the rock beside him, before he says, “always wanted to get outta here. when i was a kid, i used to think, like… soon as i turn eighteen, i’m gone.” this time he’s not smiling, but his expression’s tender in a way you haven’t really seen yet. “but shit’s expensive, y’know?” he continues. “and you get stuck. gotta hustle just to stay afloat. then next thing you know, ten years passed and you’re still sitting in the same fucking place.” you don’t say anything. you want to tell him it’s not nothing, that getting stuck doesn’t mean he didn’t make it somewhere, that he’s still here, alive, and that’s what matters. but you don’t know how to say that without sounding like you’re pitting him. so you nudge his knee lightly with yours instead, and he glances at you, the corner of his mouth twitching up enough to let you know he got it. “anyway.” he clears his throat. “didn’t mean to turn this into a therapy session.” “i don’t mind.” he looks at you, eyes flickering over your face as if checking if you mean it. whatever he finds there must be enough, because he smiles. “what about you? what’s next for you, after this trip?” you exhale slowly, staring at the ripples moving across the water. you could lie. you could say i don’t know, and leave it at that. but something about the way he’s looking at you makes you want to tell him the truth. “back to real life, i guess. work, responsibilities… pretending like this summer didn’t make me wanna change everything.”

“i’m gonna miss you, you know.” you roll your eyes, smiling, unsure if you should believe him. “please,” you say. “you’re gonna have another girl by next week.” he scoffs, scandalized. “woah. disrespectful as fuck, baby.” “am i wrong though?” he shakes his head, grinning. “honestly? i’m not even tryna entertain nobody else right now.” you raise your eyebrows, not expecting that—and he catches the look. “ain’t no one as cute as you, señorita,” he says, voice dropping a bit. you snort, trying to play it off, but your face is already getting hot, and he knows it. “whatever,” you tsk, taking another sip of your drink. “you’ll forget about me in, like, two days.” “i won’t. i don’t really fuck with people like i fuck with you.” “you’re gonna make me cry,” you mutter, half-joking, and he smiles like he’s proud of himself for it. “good,” he says. “i’m tryna leave a mark, girl.” you shake your head again, giggling. and then, because you feel like maybe you owe him the truth too, you say, “i’m gonna miss you too, subong.” “you will?” “mhm.” no one’s ever said that to him. or at least not like that, so sincerely. “it’s crazy. feels like i’ve known you my whole fucking life,” he admits, scratching the back of his neck, messing up his already messy hair. you smile into your drink, because yeah, even if it sounds stupid, it does feel like that. “same.” “you can’t, like… i don’t know, man. stay a little longer?” you almost choke on your drink. “subong,” you say, laughing because it’s either laugh or cry, “you’re so desperate.” he groans, dramatic as hell. “yo, fuck off. i’m tryna be romantic here,” he mutters, cracking a grin a second later because he can’t even fake being mad at you. “i can’t,” you say finally. “even if i wanted to.” “yeah… i know.”

you stay picking at the snacks, trading sips from each other’s drinks, the conversation drifting from one topic to another. you talk about home—about your job, your friends, the little boring details you wouldn’t think anyone would care about, but somehow subong listens like it’s all fascinating, nodding along, asking silly questions just to keep you talking. and somewhere between one story and the next, he starts talking about his family, which you didn’t expect. he tells you about his mom, tough as hell, the kind of woman who could work two jobs back to back, still come home and cook dinner, make sure homework was done, and find the energy to yell at him for being an idiot when he needed it. he talks about how she used to fall asleep at the kitchen table sometimes, her head on her folded arms, and how he and his sister would tiptoe around the house like they were trying not to break her more than the world already had. he tells you about his grandma too, the real boss of the family, sharp-tongued and brutal in the way only old women can get away with—the kind of woman who’d curse you out for forgetting to take your shoes off but slip an extra twenty into your pocket when you weren’t looking. he laughs when he says it, but there’s a softness in the edges of his voice, like he knows he owes her more than he can probably ever repay. and he talks about his little sister—“smarter than all of us combined,” he says, pride clear. the kind of girl who kept her head down, did her work, kept her dreams close to her chest like she was scared someone would snatch them away. the kind of girl who’s gonna leave one day, and not just leave, but stay gone.

then, tossing it in as a side note, he says, “my dad’s a piece of shit, though. wasn’t around much. and when he was… kinda wish he wasn’t.” “mine’s not really around either. he wasn’t then and… he isn’t now. he’s got better shit to do, i guess.” he hums, knowing the shape of that feeling a little too well. “mine used to come back sometimes,” he says after a minute. “acting like nothing, showing up drunk and high, fucking shit up, then disappearing again.” you don’t say anything, just pick at the edge of the bag between you, tearing little pieces off. “used to get so fucking mad at him,” he continues, laughing under his breath, but it’s not a funny sound. “then one day i just… stopped waiting for him to be different.” you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, at the way he’s hunched now, elbows on his knees, can dangling between his fingers. “got older, learned how to throw a punch.” he huffs a breath out. “one night he came back real fucked up… started yelling, breakin’ shit… and i just lost it. dropped him cold on the floor—felt good for, like, five minutes,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “then it just felt fucking sad.” he pauses, staring out at the river. “he disappeared after that… gone for years. then he just… came back one day. and my mom… she let him back in, man. and i get it. she’s tired of fighting. but—shit, i don’t know. i can’t pretend like i’m cool with it. i love her but… fuck, sometimes i look at her and i just get fucking pissed, you know?”

you nod, pressing your shoulder against his. “i’m sorry about that.” he shrugs. “it’s okay, pretty girl.” “your mom’s lucky to have you. she probably knows you’ll always be there if something happens.” “yeah, i guess” he pauses briefly before clapping once. “alright, enough of thanos already. tell me about you, baby.” “well… my dad… he was never really mean or anything. just… not there. physically, sometimes. mentally, never. i used to think if i was better somehow—better at school, better at sports—he’d notice more,” you say, laughing a bit under your breath because it sounds so fucking dumb now. “but he didn’t.” “wasn’t you, baby. it’s never you.” you smile at him before leaning in and kissing his cheek, sweetly. “we turned out alright anyway.” he snorts, tilting his head to look at you better. “yeah, alright’s pushin’ it, girl. speak for yourself. you’re solid. more than most people who had it easy, probably.” “maybe,” you mutter. “sometimes it feels like i’m just faking it better than most.” “that’s all any of us do.”

eventually, when the rocks get too uncomfortable and your ass starts going numb, subong stands up with a grunt, reaching a hand down to pull you up after him. “c’mon,” he says, dragging you toward a patch of grass a little farther up where it’s dark. he drops down without any ceremony, arms behind his head, legs sprawled out like he’s trying to take up as much space as possible. he grins at you. “what, you scared of a little dirt, princess?” he teases, patting the spot next to him. you glare at him, toeing the ground suspiciously because there’s definitely bugs around, but he’s already making himself comfortable like he’s about to nap right there, and you know you’re not gonna win this one. “there’s probably ants.” “so what?” he scoffs, genuinely confused as to why that would even be a problem. you roll your eyes, but you finally lower yourself down next to him, sitting stiff and awkward at first m, your body about to reject the whole idea of nature. he snickers, then suddenly turns his head toward you, holding out his hand—palm up. “gimme your hand.” you squint at him, suspicious. “why?” he lets out this long, suffering sigh. “the fuck you mean why? i’m tryna hold your damn hand, girl, that’s why.” you snort, still not moving, because you’re stubborn like that. he waggles his fingers at you dramatically, eyebrows raised, daring you to keep being difficult. “c’mon,” he insists. “don’t leave me hanging, baby. i got feelings too, you know.” you huff a breath—slapping your hand into his palm like it’s a burden, even though you love it. his fingers lace through yours immediately, squeezing once.

you lay back fully then, grass a little damp under your back, the sky stretching wide above you, and subong’s thumb starts brushing lazy circles over the back of your hand. “what do you wanna do tomorrow?” he asks. “i don’t know. you’re the local here.” he hums like he’s thinking, but there’s something smug about it. “was thinking,” he starts, dragging it out, trying to sound casual, “maybe you could come see me perform.” “perform? again?” “mhm. got a little set tomorrow night. nothing big—just some bar gig. but it’s nicer than what i’m used to anyway. this time’s an actual rap night, i get to show off. not like the other day.” you smile at the way he says it, like he’s trying not to let himself get too excited. “i want you to come,” he adds after a second. “bring your friends too—drinks are cheap.” you raise an eyebrow. “you just want a fan club.” he grins, shameless. “fuck yeah, i want a fan club.” you chuckle, shaking your head. “but i’m serious. i want you there.”“what time is it?” “late… like midnight. place stays open till three. and after,” he says, voice picking up, cockier now, “we celebrate—you and me.” “celebrate what?” “celebrate me being a fucking star, baby.” you laugh under your breath. “you’re planning a lot of celebrating for someone who hasn’t even performed yet.” “confidence. gotta manifest that shit.” “i’ll be there.” his hand squeezes yours again. “good. wanna show you off a little too.”

he props himself up on one elbow, grinning down at you before he leans in and kisses you, a little too eager, making you laugh right into his mouth. you push your fingers into his hair, kissing him back, and subong hums against you, pleased. his mouth starts dragging lower, pressing hot, sloppy kisses along your jaw, down your neck, his hand already sneaking under the hem of your shirt with no damn shame. you shove at his shoulder. “subong,” you hiss, still giggling. “we can’t.” he pulls back enough to look at you. “why not?” “because,” you say, shoving him again for good measure, “someone could literally walk by. and i’m not getting arrested because you can’t keep it in your pants.” he lets out the loudest, most pathetic sigh you’ve ever heard, dragging his hand down his face like the world is just too cruel to him specifically. “shit,” he groans. “i didn’t even get started yet—i was being good, too.” “that was you being good?” you tease. “fuck yeah. you don’t even know, girl. if i wasn’t being good, i’d have you sitting on my face right now—wouldn’t even care if somebody walked by.” you choke on your own spit, smacking his chest while he just laughs, proud of himself for getting you this flustered. “maybe tomorrow,” you mutter, face heating up so bad you’re surprised the grass under you doesn’t catch fire. “wait, wait,” he says, sitting up, needing to double-check you didn’t just say what he thinks you said. “you serious right now?” you shrug, biting back a smile, feeling stupidly powerful all of a sudden. “depends,” you answer, stretching your arms over your head. “you better put on a good show.” “you can’t say shit like that to me, baby,” he whines. “i’m gonna be so fucking hard on that stage—gonna forget my own fucking lyrics.” you snort. “perform well. maybe you’ll get a reward.” “watch.” he taps his chest as if swearing a vow. “i’m finna be the best fucking rapper korea’s ever seen tomorrow night.”

and he does perform well. better than well, actually. he’s the last one up, closing out the night. and he owns that little bar like it’s the biggest stage in seoul. you watch from the corner with your friends, pressed near the back wall, and you’re not even trying to play it cool—you’re hyped, yelling, cheering louder than anyone else in the place. you don’t know half the lyrics (most of it’s in korean and fast as hell) but you can feel it in your chest, in the way the crowd reacts, in the sharp flow of his voice and the smirk that never leaves his face. your friends… have mixed opinions. one of them leans in halfway through and whispers, “okay, now i get it—he’s hot,” and another just grimaces, mouthing, what is he even saying? when the beat switches and he starts spitting faster. he finishes strong, breathless and sweaty, and the crowd actually cheers. you can tell by the way he soaks it in that it means something to him. he steps off the stage a minute later, still catching his breath, and heads straight for you. “so?” he asks when he reaches you, wiping sweat off his neck with the hem of his shirt. “did i kill it or what?” “you killed it,” you afirm, letting him have it. “i couldn’t understand half of it, but you looked hot doing it, so.” he laughs, tossing an arm around your shoulders. “that’s all i needed to hear, baby.” your palm brushes his back and it’s borderline damp. “jesus,” you mutter, nose wrinkling. “you’re soaked.” “and you tryna act like you’re all innocent, girl, but you’ve been lookin’ at me like you wanna lick it off.” you shove him, laughing. “shut up!” he leans in and kisses you, and you kiss him back, smiling against his mouth. your friends do not let it slide. “okayyyy,” one of them says, loud and dramatic. “that’s enough, please. we are still here.” subong pulls back to look over at them, grinning, not even a little sorry. “my bad,” he says. “i just—shit, have you seen her? i can’t help it. she’s so fucking bad, like damn.” oh my god, this man... “anyway, we celebratin’ or what? first round’s on me. i’m feeling generous.” he pats his chest.

the night keeps going long after the music stops. your friends are perched at the bar because the drinks keep coming, and subong doesn’t leave your side for more than a second. it’s late when he leans in and asks if you want to get out of there, and you nod before he even finishes the sentence. your friends wave you off, and you leave the bar behind with that hazy kind of warmth in your chest that only comes from knowing exactly where the night is headed. his apartment is… not what you expect. but hey… we don’t judge over here. when he lets you in, it’s clear he didn’t plan on bringing anyone home. the place is old. the hallway light flickers, the door sticks so bad he has to put his whole body into it just to shove it open, and when you step inside, you’re greeted by the smell of weed and whatever boy-stank has been marinating in this apartment all summer. “yo—okay—before you say anything,” subong starts, kicking a crumpled sock out of the way. “this isn’t what it usually looks like. swear to god, baby.” he shares it with two other guys, he tells you, but they’re out tonight. and as you walk in, he’s already moving shit around—swiping a hoodie off the floor, then trying to hide the bong by the windowsill, muttering shit under his breath like, “that’s not even mine—my roommates are fucking disgusting, man.” “sure,” you say, trying not to laugh. you find it kind of funny, actually—the way he’s scrambling, all flustered, trying to pretend like this place isn’t the bachelor cave of three adult men who have never once cleaned a baseboard in their lives. he won’t shut up. he never really does. he’s talking about his roommates, about how half the stuff laying around isn’t his, and how if you give him five minutes he’ll make it nice. you’re nodding, pretending to care, pretending you’re even listening, but the truth is you stopped hearing the words about three minutes ago. all you can focus on is the way his lips move when he talks and the way his voice drops whenever he says the word ‘baby’. so you’re standing there, thinking, if this man doesn’t touch me in the next ten seconds i’m gonna lose my fucking mind. and you do lose it at some point, kissing him mid sentence, because you’ve never wanted someone this badly, this fast and this fucking stupidly.

the first night subong kissed you was awful, but two nights ago under the bleachers, his fingers were very much not. so you figured sex with him would probably land somewhere in the middle: eager and cocky but clumsy, maybe a little too into it to be smooth. and honestly, you weren’t wrong. because the second he’s inside you, he doesn’t ease into it. he’s just there, deep, all at once—couldn’t stop himself even if he wanted to. he’s behind you, both hands gripping your hips so tight you’re gonna have fingerprints there tomorrow. and you’re gasping already, because the stretch is so much... but what really gets you—what makes your stomach clench and your mouth fall open around his name—is the sound he makes. needy. “fuck, baby—shit—fuck me—” he mutters, breath hot against the back of your neck. you arch your spine, pressing back into him because you need more, need him to fuck you. but his grip tightens immediately, yanking you back flush against him, his voice rough and frantic in your ear. “no, no, no. wait—wait, baby,” he hisses. “shit—give me—give me a moment.” and it’s not a joke. he sounds genuinely panicked, like he’s hanging on by a thread. one more push from you and he’s gonna cum and never recover from the humiliation. honestly, girl, that makes you feel so damn powerful… and since you love to make him suffer, you clench around him on purpose. subong groans, curses in his mother tongue, then smacks your ass so hard you jolt, just to make you behave. “don’t fucking do that, baby. you tryna make me nut in two minutes, huh? that what you want?” you laugh, breathless, forehead pressed into his mattress. he leans over you, chest to your back, one hand slipping under you to toy lazily with your clit, trying to buy time. maybe if he can make you finish first he’ll be able to catch his breath, pull it together and not embarrass himself completely. “subong,” you breathe. “please, i need you.” you try to rock back into him again. “please—” “fuck—gimme a second,” he whimpers, hand braced on the mattress, eyes squeezed shut. and then pulls out, fully, trying not to fucking explode.

the thing about subong is that he learns fast. he picks up on what you want, what you need, and how to give it to you. and he knows exactly how you want it now—how hungry you are for him, how you’re waiting to be filled again, deep and rough. he drags his hand down the curve of your ass after a beat, slow, and you can feel the head of his cock nudging between your thighs again—sliding his condom-wrapped tip up and down your folds. “fucking soaked for me,” he mutters, almost to himself. “jesus, baby. i could drown in this shit.” you whine, push back against him, but he grips your ass tighter, holding you there. “nah,” he says, voice. “you can wait a second. wanted to act all cocky—squeezing me on purpose—now look at you. fucking pathetic for it.” you turn your head, glare over your shoulder. “subong.” he raises an eyebrow, smug as hell. “what? you want it that bad?” “yes,” you snap. “shut up and fuck me. don’t make me wait, please.” he lets out a soft laugh. “damn,” he drawls, guiding the tip against you, teasing your entrance. “my girl talks real tough when she’s beggin’ to get filled.” and then he’s pounding into you, hips snapping hard and fast, chasing whatever fragile ego you cracked in half the second you laughed at him a few minutes ago. and it’s exactly what you needed. you moan, loud, grabbing the sheets, your whole body tensing from the stretch. subong keeps muttering under his breath like he’s trying to self-soothe, praying to every god he’s never believed in. “so tight, f-fuck—so wet, too—shit! what the fuck did i-i do to deserve this pussy, huh?” his thrusts are mean now, every snap of his hips sending your body forward on the mattress. “subong! shit—y-yes, yes, yes! fuck!” you choke out, knuckles white in the sheets. “don’t stop, don’t fucking stop—” “that’s it, baby—take it. you look so f-fucking pretty like this—gonna—haa, fuck!—gonna give you what you fucking asked for.” he wants to make sure that five days from now, five weeks, five months, you still remember the way it felt to have him inside you, fucking you stupid. “yes! yes, please—” you don’t even know what you’re saying anymore, all that comes out are high, broken sounds that make him groan, hips slamming into yours with a filthy slap that echoes around the room. “so fucking greedy for it,” he goes on. “been acting shy all week just to end up bent over begging for my cock like this.”

you whimper, too gone to argue, too full to think. you try to fuck back again, try to meet him halfway, but his hand is right there, locking you in place, controlling everything—the angle, the pace, the way your body moves. subong knows exactly what he’s doing. he’s hitting that spot with every thrust, grinding in deep. “s-subong,” you moan. “your dick’s so—mmmh—so f-fucking good—fuck!” “damn right it is, baby.” you feel his palm slide under your body, fingers slipping down, teasing over your clit in circles, and the whimper you let out makes him dizzy. he’s close again—you can feel it, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hips jerk forward too hard, too rough. but this time, you are too. “you close, baby?” he breathes, leaning down, pressing his lips to the side of your face. “feels like you are. so f-fucking tight, girl. fuck! you gonna—you gonna come all over my dick? yeah?” you nod, frantic, eyes wet with it, mouth open but no sound coming out—and he groans like he’s in pain. “c’mon,” he mutters. “give it to me, baby. wanna feel you c-cum on it.” you’re burning from the inside out—and when he pulls you back harder, dragging his cock deep, your whole body locks up—thighs shaking, fingers clawing at the sheets. you cum around him, a full-body convulsion, your moan ripping straight out of your throat, loud and desperate. it hits you hard, your cunt clenching so tight around subong that he stutters, hips jerking like he wasn’t expecting it to feel that fucking good. “fuck, fuck, fuck—yes, yes, b-baby, just like that—fuck! such a good fucking girl!” he pants, thrusts faltering, losing rhythm completely. “shit, i’m—a-ahh, ha—fuck, i-i’m gonna—” he doesn’t even finish the sentence. he slams in one last time and then he’s cumming, letting out the filthiest moan you’ve ever heard against your neck like he’s trying to bury the sound. he can’t believe how fast you pulled it out of him. he stays like that for a second, shaking, breathing hard, still buried deep inside you while both of you try to catch your breath.

the flight home feels longer than the one that brought you here. not because it actually is, but because your body’s tired and your brain’s fried and your heart’s doing that annoying thing where it gets too attached too fast and then expects everything not to hurt when it’s over. your friends are spread out around the plane, and you’ve got your forehead against the window, watching the clouds smear across the sky. wondering how five nights with subong managed to leave a mark that felt this deep. you keep thinking about last night—about the way his sheets felt under your back, the way his hands never stopped touching you even after he came, like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go. you stayed there longer than you should have, tangled up and almost asleep, skin sticking to skin in the most comfortable kind of silence. and when it was finally time to go, neither of you moved for a long time. he just kept holding you. you talked a little. he said the week flew by like someone hit fast-forward. you said it felt like longer, like you’d known him way before five days ago. he made a joke about how it felt like you’d been there for a month, said, “you’re gonna miss me like crazy, girl,” in that smug, playful tone you’d grown to like way too much. and you laughed, pushed his shoulder, told him, “you wish,” but the way your voice cracked at the end gave you away. “i will miss you, though,” he said eventually, honestly. “i will miss you too,” you said back, and it felt real in a way that scared you. because it was. all of it had been. way more real than you expected from a week-long trip. he walked you to the elevator in nothing but his boxers, hair a mess, hickeys already darkening his collarbones. you kissed him one last time, tenderly and way too long for a goodbye that was supposed to be casual. and now you’re here, 30,000 feet in the air, trying not to overthink every second you spent with him, every kiss, every joke, every stupid pet name, every look that felt like it meant more than it should’ve.

you tell yourself it’s over. it was just a summer thing. a story you’ll get to tell your friends again and again—the time you fell for a purple-haired rapper in seoul who called himself thanos, didn’t own a car, and lived like a frat boy but made you feel like the only girl in the world for five nights straight. and that’s fine. it’s enough. you don’t expect to hear from him again. your phone stays quiet after you land in your country… and you’re okay with that. you throw yourself back into your routine, catch up on sleep, unpack your suitcase... your friends keep talking about the trip, replaying the best nights out and the weird food and the worst hangovers, and you laugh along with them, nod at all the right parts, but mostly you’re just quiet. and then—a few days later—you post a selfie. you in soft natural light, the corner of your mouth tilted up. and exactly eight minutes after it goes up, your phone buzzes.

damn baby

u forgot all about thanos already

smiling n shit

you stare at it for a second, grinning and rolling your eyes.

it’s just a selfie, drama king

and that smile not for me??

thats crazy

who said it wasn’t?

i was thinking about you when i took it😚

careful girl

my ego bout to start floating

good

maybe it’ll float you all the way here so i don’t have to miss you anymore

say the word and im packing my shit rn baby💯

i’ll clear out a drawer and everything for you

gimme a pillow and a corner of the bed

dont need much

just u

ugh

why’d you have to say it like that

now i’m sad again :(

i miss u bad

this distance got me feeling weird as hell

i miss you too, idiot

cant believe i got used to seein u every day just to go back to fucking nothing

you’ll be fine

you probably got three other girls texting you rn anyway

yo what??

don’t piss me off rn baby

i’m literally sitting here thinking bout u n ur dumb lil laugh

dumb lil laugh is crazy😭

ur tits too🔥

oh!😀

n ur ass😍

okay pack it up💀

nah hold on

was saving the best for last

that fucking pussy

oh my god

how am i supposed to recover from that

so my pussy is the best part??

cool cool

not like i have a whole ass personality or anything

don’t worry tho

you won’t be seeing it again anyway

i hope you and your hand have a great life together❤️

no no wait

baby no

don’t say shit like that

i was joking girl

ok maybe not joking but like

obviously it’s not just that

i swear

subong😭 ik, i was joking too lmao

fuck off then

plssss

i was already planning how to win u back

win me back how

a rap song?

hell yeah

bars been writing themselves ever since u left

ooooh i became your muse ;)

been my muse since the moment i saw u in that club looking fine asf

shit aint left my head since

yeah

don’t ‘oh’ me like that bro

i meant that shit

i know

u free now?

i ammm, why

let me call u señoritaaaa

wanna hear that sexy voice🔥

you spend the next three months talking daily to subong. you tell him everything—what you had for lunch, what your boss said in that tone you despise, the color of the sky every afternoon. you send photos of your walk to work, your room, your coffee order. he starts to learn the difference between your moods just by the way your texts sound—when you’re tired, when you’re bored, when you’re secretly pissed but don’t wanna say it. sometimes he replies instantly, flooding you with texts and voice notes that make you roll your eyes and laugh into your pillow. sometimes it takes hours, because it’s three in the morning where he is and he’s passed out with his phone on his chest, halfway through texting you back before sleep hit him like a truck. but he always replies. and from his side of the world, it’s not all that different. he walks around seoul with his earbuds in, your voice filling his head as you talk about things, and he listens like they’re the most important things he’s ever heard. he sends you pictures, too—him holding up a bag of chips, mirror selfies, pics of his food or the graffiti outside his house that changes every two weeks. then a blurry shot of the back of his hand holding a bottle of soju, captioned wish u were here señorita, a nighttime shot of the city skyline, a candid one of him lying in bed with his arm thrown over his eyes… there’s something intimate about all of it, even the dumbest ones. like he’s letting you see what no one else does.

calls happen in the in-between. early morning for one of you, late night for the other. you’re usually still in bed when he rings—eyes puffy, voice groggy as you mumble a raspy “hi” while fumbling around for your charger. on his side, it’s dark and quiet, and he’s usually propped against something—his bed, sometimes the floor of his apartment with his hoodie pulled over his head and his legs stretched out in front of him, trying not to sound as excited as he is to hear you again. the calls are always fun. you laugh until your stomach hurts and tease each other until your cheeks ache. and for a while, in those moments, it doesn’t even feel like you’re in different countries, it just feels like you’re next to each other. but in between the jokes and the mock-serious rants about whatever stupid thing happened that day… there are other moments. it starts one night with a simple question. “can i ask you something, baby?” it’s past midnight for you, and you’re lying on your stomach, about to fall asleep, but you hum back anyway. “how many people you been with?” your eyes blink open, brain stalling for a second. “what? like… dated?” “yeah,” he says, then adds after a beat, “and, you know... hooked up with.” you turn your head, staring at your pillow. “why?” “just curious,” he responds, but there’s a shift in his tone—like he’s trying to play it cool. “you don’t have to tell me if it’s weird.” “it’s not weird.” and you tell him. not in detail, not the whole history of every person you’ve ever fucked, but enough. he hums low under his breath after you’re done, letting the silence stretch out a little before he fills it with, “damn… alright.” and you smile, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. “what, you jealous?” “nah,” he says, too quickly. then, softer: “maybe a little. not gonna lie.” you chuckle and he follows. “bet none of them made you laugh like i do, though.” “no,” you admit. “they didn’t.” you hear his exhale, the shift of fabric on the other end of the line, like he’s moving, maybe lying down too. “i haven’t… i haven’t really done this before,” he says eventually. “not like—like this. like… texting and calling and thinking about someone this much. i usually just…” subong trails off. “hook up and leave?” you finish for him, but it’s not mean. he laughs softly. “yeah. pretty much—but this shit’s different. like, you’re all up in my head, girl.” “i feel the same about you, subong.” “i swear—i’ve been going fucking insane not being able to touch you. i miss you so bad it’s making me crazy.” you hear him exhale through his nose. “i think about you all the time, like—fuck, man. i can’t even… you know…” “what?” there’s a bit of hesitation before he answers, “i can’t even jerk off without thinking of you.” “is that so?” “yeah…” “and what exactly do you think about?” he huffs a laugh. “what do you think?” “i don’t know, you tell me.”

you want to hear him say it. “i mean,” he says slowly, “i think of your voice. the way you sounded that night when i had my fingers in you—so fuckin’ needy—all those little whimpers, the way you kept grinding against my hand like you couldn’t wait… that shit’s been on repeat in my head, baby. shit… and the way—” he cuts himself off, laughs under his breath. “never mind.” “nope,” you shoot back immediately, “you can’t start and then stop like that. go on.” he groans. “you really gon’ make me say it?” “obviously.” he exhales sharp through his nose, then: “fuck, alright… the way you looked when we fucked, baby—jesus. turning your head to look at me while i fucking pounded into you, beggin’ for more even when your thighs were already shaking… best fucking pussy i’ve ever had, bro. i think about that shit every night. swear to god. got me jerking off like a fucking teenager again, just thinking about how wet you were for me.” you don’t say anything at first, mostly because you can’t. your whole body’s burning hot under the covers, phone pressed to your ear. “oh.” “right?” he murmurs. “now you’re thinkin’ about it too.” you try to play it off—“you’re so full of yourself”—but your voice is quieter now, and subong knows he’s got you. “not full of myself,” he drawls, all smug. “just got good memory, baby. and an even better imagination.” you let the silence stretch for a moment, because it’s not awkward—not between you two. if anything, it only makes the tension worse, tighter. “i bet you do.” you smile at the ceiling, heart racing. it’s a lot, this whole thing, but neither of you backs out. “you can say it,” you whisper, and it comes out needier than you meant. “say what you’d do if i was there.” you hear a shuffle, a low curse under his breath. “what?” “i mean… only if you want to.” “shit—yeah. yeah, i want to. okay… first? just rip that shirt off you to suck on those tits—they’re so fucking perfect.” your breath catches. he doesn’t stop. “then i’d make you ride my face. been thinking about that too much, you know? wanna feel you grind down on me, tellin’ me how close you are—fuck, i’d eat you out until you begged me to stop, baby.” you let out a quiet, shaky laugh, too turned on to hide it. “jesus christ, subong.” “yeah, yeah, something like that, but more breathless and between moans—” “subong! oh my god, shut up!” you cover your face with your free hand as you laugh harder, even though he can’t see you. subong laughs too. he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “i’m not playing,” he says. “you think i’m just talking shit, but i’ve had my hand down my pants this whole time. just… thinking about you.” there’s a pause, before his voice drops even lower. “fuck, you have no fucking idea what you do to me.” you don’t even try to pretend you’re unaffected. you shift under the covers, biting your lip, pressing your thighs together. “what? you’re—“ you clear your throat. “you’re touching yourself?” “fuck yeah. can’t help it, baby. you got me so fuckin’ worked up.” oh, okay. you lick your lips, your mouth suddenly dry.

the picture he painted with his words is vivid—his hand wrapped around his cock—and it's doing things to you. your body aches, your nipples hard and your clit throbbing. “ew, subong,” you whisper. what a fucking liar. “don’t act brand new, girl. i can damn near hear you dripping, don’t fucking play.” you snort at his words. but he’s right, you can feel the heat pooling between your thighs. “well… maybe i am dripping.” “huh?” he plays dumb, as if he didn’t really hear you. “i said… maybe i am dripping,” you repeat. “i can check for you, if you want,” you continue, voice all sweet and innocent. “you know… slide a hand… tell you how wet—” “yes,” he blurts immediately, not even letting you finish the sentence. you have to bite back a laugh. “yes, baby. tell thanos.” his voice sounds so fucking hot… you catch the way his breathing has turned ragged, each quiet sigh that escapes his lips betraying the fact that he’s quickened the pace of his strokes. you can't help but mirror his actions, your hand sliding down your body, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your panties, finding the slick heat between your legs. you're wet, so fucking wet… your fingers slip easily through your folds, finding that sweet spot that makes your hips buck. you let out a soft moan, not bothering to suppress it. let him hear. let him know what he's doing to you. subong’s dick throbs in his hand at the sound. “shit—baby?” “mmmh?” "tell me… tell me what you’re doing." "lying here." "that it?" "listening to you." subong clicks his tongue. “c'mon, baby, please. you're gonna make me do all the work?" you roll your eyes, a smile on your face. “i don’t need to tell you what i’m doing, you already know.” “i wanna hear you say it, señorita.” “hm… well, i—i'm... i'm touching myself," you whisper, your voice barely audible. you can practically feel his smirk through the phone, so you decide to tease him. "i'm so wet, subong... i can't stop thinking about you too." you’re pretty sure that wiped the smirk clean off his face, replaced it with something closer to pain—eyebrows furrowed and lips parted. his groan echoes through the phone, and you can't help but smile, biting your lip to keep from crying out as your fingers circle your clit, your body already craving release.

and just like that, you’re gone. your fingers keep moving without thought, without mercy, slipping through your slick folds and circling your clit in fast, desperate motions, and it’s obscene, really, how wet you are—how easy it is to get yourself off when his voice is in your head, in your ear, telling each other what you would do if you were in the same room right now. you arch against the sheets, eyes fluttering shut as your whole body starts to curl in on itself, all tight coils and trembling muscles, everything aching. “you sound so fuckin’ hot, baby—” he groans. “wish i could see you right now.” and that’s when you hear it—him, breathing hard, panting, and even whining under his breath as his fist pumps faster around his cock, the sound of it slick and filthy through the phone. you can picture it way too clearly—his brows drawn tight, back probably tense as hell as he strokes himself. holy mother of fucking god. you press harder. rub faster. your hips start rocking up against your hand, chasing that sharp pressure building low in your stomach. your body’s on fire, nipples hard and tingling, heart slamming against your chest like it’s trying to break free—completely swollen with need. you let out a soft, broken whimper. “fuck! subong—shit! fuck, i’m gonna—gonna cum—” on the other end, there’s a strangled noise, a gasp. “y-yeah, baby? fuck—do it. fucking cum for me.” your orgasm crashes through you, sudden and overwhelming enough to make you cry out as your body locks up, fingers still working through it even though everything feels too sensitive. your walls clench around nothing, and for a second it doesn’t even feel like you’re on the bed anymore—you’re fucking floating. you hear subong finish half a second later with that a wounded sound, breath catching and voice breaking around your name as he spills all over himself.

it doesn’t stop after that night. if anything, it starts happening more… neither of you knows how to fucking behave anymore, oh my fucking god. he texts you a photo one night, shirtless, sheets pushed down low to show the waistband of his boxers.

thinking bout u mama

you send back a photo of your bare shoulder and a flash of your bra strap.

thinking about you too ;)

ten minutes later, your panties are on the floor and you’re trying to keep quiet while subong whispers, “show me, baby. show me that pretty fucking pussy,” over facetime, eyes heavy-lidded and greedy, lips parted like he can taste you through the screen. you set the phone against your pillow, camera angled enough for him to see your fingers sliding between your legs, like it’s not the sixth time this week that you’ve gotten off to the sound of his voice while you whimpered through the high, every inch of your skin sensitive and strung out from how badly you want him and how fucking unfair it is that he’s not there to touch you himself. he groans so loud you have to muffle your laugh in your palm. “such a fucking tease,” he mutters, jerking off just off-frame, only giving you the barest glimpse of his tattooed hand and the flex of his stomach. and you spread your legs wider for him, pressing two fingers inside—trying to give him a show he’ll never forget. you want to etch the memory into his chest until he can’t fuck anyone else without seeing you spread out and moaning his name between gasps.

those calls happen way to often, to the point where it can’t be healthy—fucking yourselves in sync almost everyday. and subong’s always running his mouth like it’s the only muscle he knows how to use. “you touching that pretty pussy for me, baby? hm? bet you can’t wait ‘til it’s my fucking dick instead of your fingers.” sometimes it’s just texts, which is somehow worse, because you’re in public, and your phone lights up with:

i could have u on ur knees rn

followed by:

u’d be so fucking obedient

mouth open

waitin for me

i’d cum down ur throat and make u thank me for it baby

fuck

this how much i want u

then a photo of his hand curled around his cock, tip red and glistening and so hard it makes your stomach twist, the unbearable proof that he does want you, indeed. a little too bad, perhaps. and you feel your pulse drop straight between your legs as you fumble to turn your screen brightness all the way down.

you feel so fucking pathetic for thinking this but… it’s kind of the best thing you’ve ever had. because, despite the distance, the different timezones, and the fact that your lives are still so wildly separate… this thing with subong starts to feel more real than anything else. which is both sweet and deeply fucked, considering the fact that you met him at a club on a night out in hongdae (a place with the worst reputation ever when it comes to korean men), and that your entire relationship exists inside your phone now, and that you haven’t breathed the same air since august. but you’ve carved out a little space in each other’s day just to be. to flirt, to talk, to tease, to miss… and yeah, to get off, too. but then again, it’s not just that. it’s the way he talks to you like you’re his, or the way he gets all sulky when you’re too busy to call to tell him about your day, because he misses you. honestly… what the fuck is going on between you two? you don’t know when it happened—maybe the night he fell asleep with his camera still on, mouth open and snoring so softly you didn’t even mute him because you thought it was sweet. or maybe when you started calling him ‘baby’ back—but at some point, this stopped being whatever-the-fuck and turned into a routine you can’t imagine dropping. something you’ve started organizing your entire day around like it’s just as necessary as food or sleep or breathing.

so, at around the four-month mark—when your fingers know the rhythm of his voice better than they know your pink vibrator’s settings, and you’ve started to memorize the chipped paint on his bedroom wall from how often you see it in the background of his calls—you start thinking: what if i go back? and when you make a comment about it to him and he says, dead serious, “i’d fucking love that, baby.” it’s not even a question after that. you look up flights that same night. you don’t tell him, but you know—you’re going. because he’s never once hinted at coming to see you. not because he doesn’t want to (you know he does, he’s said it in every possible way) but because over the past few months, you’ve learned that subong’s money situation is… well… bad. like, “my mom still sends me money every month so i don’t starve” bad. like, “i haven’t been to the dentist in two years and i think something’s wrong with my molar but i’ll just chew on the other side” bad. and it’s jarring, because when you first met him, he didn’t come across that way. but you see it now. how much of that was bravado, how much he fakes just to look like he’s got it under control, how much he hates needing help… but it doesn’t matter, you don’t care. you don’t need him to buy you things, you just need him to be there with you.

okay don’t freak out

i got the flights

i’m coming to korea next month :))

already talked to my boss, i get two weeks!

for a second he doesn't respond, and your stomach flips because you know he saw it. and then finally, your screen lights up:

what

u serious???

u r actually coming?

dont lie to me

stfu

u think u funny girl?

nah bro

pissing me off

subong😭

calm down

i’m not lying

look

you send him a picture of the confirmation email the airline sent you.

holyyyyy shiiit u r gonna be in my city again

in my bed😈

on my face🔥 👅

should i cancel?💀

acting like u dont wanna cum on my tongue girl

help

no help is coming bby

u gotta sit on ma face, take responsibility

LMAO

you’re not okay😭

please seek professional help

i will💯

right after i professionally help u cum every day for 2 weeks straight mama

subong.

damn okay

gonna show up at the airport w a sign n flowers n shit

plss you’re not doing any of that

no im not

but im actually gonna get a job baby

so i can take u on dates n buy u food

i wanna spoil u

cant have u flying all the way here just to sit in my depressing ass room eatin instant rice

tryna make u feel like a princess

i don’t care if we eat instant rice every night subong

i just wanna be with you :)

he does get a job. actually follows through, like he said he would, which surprises both of you if we’re being honest. he starts working as a delivery guy for some local food app, riding around on this beat-up scooter that barely runs unless he kicks it three times and curses it like it’s a demon—but still. it’s real work. and subong bitches about it constantly. tells you how cold his hands get at night, how the helmet messes up his hair, how his back is already fucked from carrying someone’s 12-piece chicken combo up five floors… but he does it. every day. even the ones where it’s raining and he’s soaked and grumbling through voice notes like, “i swear to fucking god, bro, if one more person orders jjajangmyeon and lives on a fucking mountain i’m fucking quitting, man.” and even with all that, even with the whining and the dramatics and the rants about tips and customers who “looked at me like i was fucking poor! that bald motherfucker! not even a ‘thank you’!”—you can tell he’s kind of proud. maybe not of the job itself, but of having one. of trying. of doing something that feels grown-up and grounded and like he’s earning something real for once. he tells you his mom’s proud, too. says it casually, like he’s trying not to make it a big deal, but his voice gets a little softer when he says it. “she smiled when i told her. haven’t seen her do that in a while.” and the thing is, up until then, subong hadn’t really realized how fucked things had gotten. he’d been so tunnel-visioned on making it as a rapper—so deep into the fantasy of maybe—that he never really stopped to look around. he knew he was broke, but he wore it like a joke, like something that made him cooler somehow. never really took stock of the fact that he was living in a room with mold blooming above his head and socks stuffed into the gap under the window because the cold kept leaking in at night. and it wasn’t until he started working that it hit him, just how far he’d let things slide. how much of his life was being held together by denial and a really fragile sense of ‘i’ll figure it out eventually.’ he hadn’t figured it out. like… c’mon now… he’s twenty-eight and still getting money from his mom like he’s seventeen. and if he hadn’t gotten this job, he might’ve kept floating like that forever. but now he has you, too. which, in itself, feels like a fucking miracle most days. even if he doesn’t know what he’s doing half the time, he knows he doesn’t want to lose whatever this is. doesn’t want to fuck it up. doesn’t want to look back and realize he had something good and let it rot in his hands.

you land in korea right after christmas and new year, just like you’d planned. and the second subong sees you, he yells your name and starts walking toward you with this bounce in his step like he’s physically holding himself back from sprinting. when you’re close enough, he grabs your bag and says, “c’mere. c’mere, señorita,” before leaning in to kiss you. you’d booked an airbnb because… duh. there was no way in hell you were spending two weeks at his place with two other guys you haven’t even met. and he didn’t even try to argue. the plan was for him to stay with you most nights, except when he had work. and day one? yeah, you don’t do anything but fuck. subong finally gets what he wanted. after months of running his mouth about it—whining like it was some kind of tragedy that it hadn’t happened yet—after all the dramatics, he finally, finally gets to have you ride his face.

at first, it feels ridiculous and a little too vulnerable. he’s flat on his back and you crawl over him, your knees bracketing his head, cunt dripping and right there. subong’s losing it already and you haven’t even fucking sat down yet. his hands are on your ass, squeezing it, pulling you in. he’ll die if he has to wait another second. “get the fuck down here,” he demands, breath already hot against your folds. “don’t fucking tease, baby. sit the fuck down. sit on my fucking face. come on.” so you do. you lower yourself slowly… just to hear that helpless fuck me noise and that sharp inhale through his teeth the second your pussy brushes his mouth. when you really settle in, grinding down, soaking his lips and tongue and chin with your mess, he groans, desperate. you start to move with steady pressure, hips rolling gently. subong whimpers. like actually. you glance down and his whole body’s tense, trying not to cum in his underwear again just from this. oh man, he’s so gone. tongue working over your clit, mouth wide, licking and sucking and moaning into you. and fuck—he’s good at it. you grab the headboard with one hand, and you ride. subong tries to say something, but it comes out as a moan, all muffled and needy, and you rock your hips a little harder in response. “shit—f-fuck, subong—you eat so good,” you breathe. “that’s it, baby—mmmmh—that’s my good boy.” his grip on your ass tightens, and then he groans so deep it rips through you. “you like that, huh?” you pant, voice rough. “you like being m-my good boy?” he nods, mouth still full of you, eyes begging. and it flips something in you. you start to ride him harder, chasing your own high, letting it take over. he’s taking it, all of it, trying to earn every word you’ve ever said to him. “o-ooh my—,” you gasp, head tipping back. “subong—shit—i’m s-so close—” he doubles down—licking faster. you cry out, hips jerking, your thighs starting to shake around his head. “oh my god, subong!—y-yes—yes, baby, don’t stop, you’re making me—fuck!—fuck, i’m—” you cum hard. your whole body goes taut, then collapses all at once. your thighs tremble, hands clutching at the headboard as you grind through it, riding the high out on his tongue, your breath catching in your throat as wave after wave crashes over you.

turns out, subong wasn’t lying. he does make you cum every single day for the two weeks you’re in korea. it’s insane how much you two fuck. but honestly… can anyone blame you? you don’t know when the next time will be. when the next flight, the next visit, the next anything will happen. and that thought—that quiet little shadow that slips in sometime around day five—just sits with you. because everything feels perfect and bright, but underneath all of it, something starts to ache when you look at the calendar and realize you’ve started counting backwards.

you try to focus on the good. subong introduces you to his friends, who are rowdy and weird and definitely give him shit the second he leaves to go pee. but they make space for you, switching to english every now and then without being asked. they ask about your trip, about what you’ve seen, what you want to do before you go. they’re nice. you meet his roommates too, eventually. one of them is clearly terrified of you. the type of guy who looks and acts like he’s never interacted with a woman in his entire life. the other asks if you’re staying long and winks. subong throws a slipper at him, cursing in korean and telling him off. you laugh, even though your face is warm, because you can tell by the way subong moves closer to you after, the way he wraps an arm around your waist, that he’s not interested in sharing you. not even a little.

then there’s the night you try weed with him. you don’t plan to, honestly—you don’t even know he smokes that until halfway through the week, when he says something about needing to ‘go clear his brain’ and comes back smelling… funny. you tilt your head, raise an eyebrow, and go, “really?” and he just grins. “what, baby?” you find out later he smokes pretty often. not out in the open, obviously—he’s not stupid, it’s illegal here—but at home, after work, when his head gets too loud. he offers to let you try, once, just to see if you like it. you say no at first. then maybe. and then you see the way he looks when he rolls one… and it’s over for you. he’s got his sleeves shoved up to his elbows, forearms on full display, veins popping, rings glinting… rolling the joint with this pretty little pout on his mouth. he lifts it to his lips while he looks at you. his eyes flick up, and you feel it hit you in the throat before you even understand why.

then his tongue comes out, wetting the edge of the paper while he holds eye contact, and your clit actually pulses. his lips drag across the paper, sealing it smooth, and a little smile starts to tug at his mouth. smug little fuck. and you know—you know—he’s doing it on purpose. you cough your lungs out the first time you inhale and subong laughs so hard he almost drops the joint. you call him a dick. and between the fourth and fifth hit, everything starts getting funny. you’re high, your lips feel numb and your chest feels floaty, and every single thing he says makes you laugh harder than before. at one point, you find yourself in the kitchen, perched on the counter, and subong is fucking you. his jeans aren’t even off all the way, just halfway down his thighs, enough to get inside you. you’re gripping the counter with one hand and his arm with the other, legs twitching, thighs already aching from the way he’s holding you open. you’re so high you can’t tell where his body ends and yours begins. everything feels hot. your moans keep stuttering into giggles, breathless little gasps that make him groan. “the fuck you laughing at,” he pants against your mouth, thrusting harder now, sweat sticking his forehead to yours. you try to say “you,” to piss him off, but it comes out like a whimper when you feel his cock dragging deeper inside you.

you do all the tourist shit, too. some of the places you visit, you’d actually planned to see the first time you came to korea months ago, with your friends. but you didn’t end up seeing half of them. either there wasn’t time, or the plans changed, or—if you’re being honest—you were too busy meeting up with subong. so now, this time around, you go. and he takes you, grumbling about tourists and how overpriced everything is, and “this place used to be so fucking cool before influencers ruined it, man,” but still. he’s kind of a great tour guide, you can tell he likes showing you around. there’s this quiet sort of pride in it. like yeah, this is his city, yeah, these are his streets, and yeah, you’re the baddie bitch he pulled. you visit namsan tower, take the cable car up while he complains about the crowd, the incline, and then grips the bar slightly too tight the second it moves, clutching his chest. you almost die laughing. you put a lock on the fence and subong writes his name next to yours in the absolute ugliest handwriting you’ve ever seen. you go to myeongdong and eat every fried thing in sight until you feel sick. he buys you a stuffed animal from a claw machine after three failed attempts and says, “easy win,” as if his entire soul wasn’t riding on the last try, making him swear under his breath in two languages. like he didn’t mutter “fucking rigged bullshit” while shoving more coins into the machine with a look in his eyes like he was going to physically fight the glass. but now it’s in your hands—a little bear with a small heart stitched to its chest—and he’s refusing to let you carry it. “you’re already holding the drinks. give it here.” “but i want to—” “he’s mine too, girl. i’m his father.” and then he tucks it under his arm like a baby and walks ahead.

you go to a photo booth at a mall. the seat’s tiny, obviously, but subong just sprawls into it, legs wide, taking up more space than physically possible. you hesitate, looking at the sliver of plastic next to him. “there’s literally no space,” you say. he smirks. pats his lap. “bring that ass over here, baby. c’mon. it’s thanos’ lucky day.” you snort before you sit, straddling one of his thighs. subong’s kinda excited. he messes with the little filter screen, starts choosing the backgrounds, says “pick somethin’ stupid, baby—no like stupider. wait no, do the sparkle one! yesss, that’s ugly as hell.” how is this man twenty-eight? you try to look normal in the first one. you fail so hard you almost choke. second shot—he pokes your cheek at the last second. third shot—you flip him off and he throws up some sort of hand sign (he thinks he’s sooo cool) and for the last one—he kisses you.

you drag him through the coex aquarium and take a hundred videos of the jellyfish. you stop at every tank like it’s the first one, filming the same slow, drifting movement over and over again, whispering things like “subong, look at this one!” he pretends to be bored. calls them ‘wet bugs.’ and while you’re busy pointing at the seahorses and gasping at the weird, squishy ones that look like aliens, he pulls out his phone and starts taking pictures of you. of your silhouette in front of the glowing tanks. you don’t even realize he’s doing it until he shows you one. just holds the phone out and says, “you look so sick in this, baby.” you take it, expecting something stupid, but it’s beautiful. you try to play it cool. say, “okay, photographer,” and hand it back. he smiles.

one day you go to lotte world too, and he hates it. he complains the whole time—about the screaming kids, about the rides—but he still stands in line with you for an hour to get on one. he’s especially moody that day. more than usual. and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why: you’re leaving soon. it’s one of your last full days in seoul, and the countdown is real now. you’re both ignoring it, but it’s there. as the sun starts bleeding orange into the clouds, he checks his phone and mutters “fuck, i gotta go soon.” because his shift starts in less than two hours. you take the train back together, like always. you sit next to each other, too tired to talk, your thigh pressed against his, his hand holding yours, and your head resting against his shoulder. and it’s in that moment that it hits you—holy fucking shit, you’re in love with subong. and you don’t know if he feels the same. you don’t know anything, actually. not even what this is—this thing between you.

you don’t bring it up until the next day. you wake up to the weight of his arm slung over your waist, and it takes you a second to register that he’s here—pressed so close you can feel the shape of his knees behind yours and the faint scrape of his knuckles against your stomach every time he exhales. you don’t remember him coming in. you must’ve knocked out before he even made it back from work. he shifts a little when you move, then that familiar groan—half-asleep, annoyed at the light, at the time—slips out of his mouth and suddenly you’re both awake, blinking into the soft blur of morning light. you get up first. subong follows like he always does, dragging his feet. he never wants to miss a morning with you. you make breakfast together. you sit on the counter while subong stand between your knees, his back facing you. your fingers trace along the ink of his tattoo while he sips his coffee and steals the last bite of your toast even though he hasn’t even finished his own. you shower after, and he won’t stop squeezing your ass even though you’re trying to rinse your conditioner out in peace. you tell him to knock it off, laughing, and he says “baby, i’m tryna start my day right,” and then you’re pinned to the tile with his fingers buried inside you, tongue between your legs, moaning into your cunt while you gasp and twitch against his mouth. you’re on your knees for him right after, choking on his cock while water spills down your back and his hands are in your hair, guiding you. and when it’s over subong wraps you in a towel so gently you forget how hard you just came.

afterwards, he throws on sweats and flops onto the couch. you crawl in after him, blanket over both of you, your legs across his lap and your head leaned back while he flips through shit on the tv. his hand starts moving over your shin, then your calf, dragging the edge of his knuckles along your skin. he stops on a variety show with bright graphics, double-checks that the subtitles are on for you, and tosses the remote somewhere across the cushions. you barely register what’s happening on the screen—something about a cooking competition, maybe—but he’s focused, or at least pretending to be. his hands keep working. he presses into your calf with his thumb, then shifts lower, wrapping his fingers around your ankle and rubbing slow circles into the arch of your foot, then back up again—his touch firm. you watch him for a second before saying, “baby.” he hums, not looking away from the screen. your toes press against his stomach. “subong.” his eyes flick down to you. “yeah, baby?” you shift a little under the blanket, pull your legs off his lap so you can sit up straighter—knees bent. and the second your body moves like that, he pauses, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s clocked the vibe shift. “can we—” you pause, clear your throat. “can we talk for a sec?” subong freezes. the words can we talk have never once led to anything good in his life. “talk,” he repeats, cautiously. “like…talk, talk?” “yeah. i just… i’ve been thinking.” “what you mean? thinking about what?” you can tell he’s panicking inside. you don’t know how to start. you don’t even know what part of it you’re trying to get to first. “i mean… i’m not seeing anyone else,” you say. “i haven’t been… since we started talking. and not like it’s some big deal or anything, i just—i don’t even want to. like, i don’t even think about it.” the minute the words leave your mouth, he looks a lot more relieved. “and i know we never really… talked about what this is,” you keep going, “but i’ve been out here for almost two weeks, and we’ve been calling and texting and facetiming for months, and i guess i just—” you pause again. breathe. “—i want to know what this is for you—” “nah. nah, see—what the fuck you talkin’ about right now,” he cuts in, all offended. “what is this for me? baby. you’re my fucking girl. like—since day one. what are we even—” “i just didn’t want to assume.” “you don’t gotta assume shit, baby. you’ve been mine.” “so… what? like… i’m your—i’m your girlfriend?” “fucking right you are. come here.”

he pulls you into his lap without hesitation, so fast you barely get the chance to react before his arms lock around your waist and starts kissing you—pressing obnoxiously loud kisses to your cheeks, your jaw, your collarbone, your neck. “my girlfriend out here making dumb questions thinkin’ she’s just some random girl i talk to—that’s crazy,” he says between kisses, voice muffled, mouth brushing your skin. you squeal, try to push him off, laughing too hard to breathe. “stop! subong—” “the fucking disrespect, bro” he grins, tightening his hold, kisses the side of your face again, “‘i want to know what this is for you,’” he mocks in a high pitched voice. “what you think, girl?” his hands tickle your side, until you’re twisting in his lap, giggling so hard your stomach hurts. “stop! i can’t—” “‘i didn’t want to assume’—assume what, baby? you think i let just anyone sit on my face and call me a good boy?” “subong!” he laughs, breath hot against your skin, and you can feel it now—how happy he is. how light. how fucking in it he’s always been.

the next few months are—against all odds and having the entire goddamn ocean between you—kind of perfect. you go home, and it sucks. obviously. you cry at the airport, your chest starts to cave in because your body doesn’t quite understand how to unstick itself from his yet. and subong pretends not to, but you catch him rubbing his eyes weirdly. life goes on. you tell your family about subong eventually, and they’re not completely on board at first. not because they don’t like him (they’ve never even met him) but because the whole thing sounds impossible. different countries, different lives… it makes them nervous, and they don’t hide that. but underneath the doubt, they’re happy for you. your friends, though… they’re all in. even the ones who were hesitant in the beginning have started to come around, because they see it now. they see how real it is, how happy you are. and it’s so sweet it makes you want to cry—to know that even though the relationship exists across an ocean, the people around you are still rooting for it to work.

life smiling at you, and you’re smiling back. you’re so, so happy. it feels like everything around you is finally starting to click and you aren’t constantly clawing your way through the week, you can actually breathe without apologizing for it. your head’s clearer, your chest feels lighter, you’re eating better, waking up well-rested… you feel better in your skin, too, more sure of yourself. maybe you’re not as impossible to love as you thought. even your boss gave you a raise last month, called you more ‘on it’ than ever before, and you almost laughed, because it’s not like you changed anything dramatic—you’ve just stopped wasting all your energy trying to feel okay. you are okay. better than okay. and it shows.

subong, on the other hand—he’s not happy. not because of you. you’re his peace and his favorite fucking person. but the rest? everything else? it’s a mess. he hates his job. he knows he’s lucky to have it, knows he was proud when he got it, knows it helped—he can pay rent now, buy groceries without asking his mom for help, take you on real dates when you visit—but that pride wore off fast. the hours drag, the streets are cold, his legs hurt all the time, and every time he clocks in, he feels like something inside him is cracking a little more. because this isn’t what he wants. this isn’t who he is. he was supposed to be doing music... supposed to be chasing something that made his blood move. but he pushed that part of himself so far back it barely makes noise anymore. it’s still there, though… buried under the tired, under the weight of pretending he’s okay when he’s not.

he says it one night, kind of out of nowhere. you’re on facetime, both of you horizontal in different beds. your voice’s tainted by exhaustion as you talk about your day. in the middle of your ramble, he lets out this little huff and says how he’d quit his job to be a broke rapper again, then proceeds to joke about how you’d break up with him if he did. smiles like it’s funny, with a little laugh at the end. you don’t laugh, though. instead, you sit up a little and say, “do it.” his smile falters. he stays quiet for a moment, then goes, “what?” “i mean—yeah. do it. quit your job, if that’s what you want. don’t give it up, subong. you’re good. and i know you don’t always see it, but i do. i do. and i want you to be happy, you know? if that means chasing music again… then fucking do it. and if you need anything—i mean it, baby—ask me. i’m not leaving you, i’m here for you. we’re together now, right? that’s what this is.” he doesn’t say much. he’s trying to wrap his head around the fact that you genuinely, without conditions, want him to be okay. that somehow, you’ve made the choice to see him as worth it, even on the days he can’t stand himself. he doesn’t know where to put that kind of grace, so he just nods. rubs a trembling hand over his mouth, trying to steady it, keep it from quivering and giving him away. and when you ask if he’s okay, he says, “yeah,” barely audible, eyes gone glassy in a way that betrays him instantly.

he quits his job two weeks later—pulls off the uniform and drops it in the trash like he’s shedding dead skin. texts you immediately after:

just quit

really?? omggg!!

how do you feel? :)

good💯

are you sure baby?

fuck yeah

better than ever

and for the first time in a long time, he means it. after that, he doesn’t fuck around. he works, pouring himself fully into the music. subong practices until his voice gets hoarse, rewrites verses at four in the morning, pulls strings with friends of friends who owe him favors from way back when, spends money he shouldn’t be spending on studio time and mixing. you see it happening in real time—the obsession, the tunnel vision, the way he lights up every time he thinks he’s nailed a line. he sends you the demo and then the mastered version. and one night, he uploads it to streaming. not even a month later, the song blows the fuck up. someone posts a clip of it on tiktok—this random girl lip-syncing to one of the more questionable lines, giggling—and people start clowning it immediately. the lyrics get memed. but eventually, something flips, like some invisible switch being hit in the collective brain of the internet, and suddenly the comments shift from ‘wtf is this bro’ to ‘wait ts lowkey eatsss’ and the lyrics that sounded dumb at first suddenly feel kinda… clever? he’s everywhere. you open your phone and there he is—on your feed, on your fyp. the memes don’t stop, but they’ve changed. no one’s laughing at him anymore, they’re laughing with him. they’re obsessed. subong’s so fucking happy. and you’re so fucking proud.

months go by and it just keeps getting bigger. the song opened the door and subong fucking sprinted through it. he releases a follow-up track a few weeks later, then another, and people eat them up like candy. the internet picks him up and carries him faster than either of you expected, which is amazing. the following months he’s busier, but he still texts you before he goes onstage, facetimes you the moment he’s free, and sends you voice notes and pictures of everything he does... but then the invitations start. first, it’s a launch party for someone else’s album, then an afterparty for a gig he didn’t even play at, then a private party for an influencer brand you’ve never heard of. and he goes, of course. he texts you, too, the whole time, telling you everything.

they got wagyu sliders n shit

these mfs be rich fr

miss u baby

someone asked who i’m texting

i said my girl

he said lucky

damn fucking right i am😍

this place got a whole ass chandelier in the bathroom

hi baby :) just woke up, i see you’re having fun

i think im a bit drunk

please be careful

im good baby, everyone’s nice

okayy :)

i have to leave for work in a few minutes

damn

that job rly snatching u away from thanos

gonna buy u an island someday baby

u wont have to worry bout work no more

n i’ll eat you out everyday

that’s so romantic, thank you

but for now i gotta get ready🙃

drink some water, please

and text me when you’re home safe

i’ll probably still be working when you get back

i’ll try to stay up

wanna hear how ur day goes

you won’t

but that’s okay! sleep if you need to❤️❤️

i wish u were here baby

i’d be showin u off so bad

my pretty girl

smilin all cute n stealing everyone’s attention

but you’re not there. you’re never there. you’re across the world, living a completely different life. and no matter how many texts he sends or calls he makes, that gap doesn’t shrink. if anything, it starts to grow. stretches like a crack down the center of something you thought was solid. because now, it’s not just distance—it’s dissonance. and it’s not that you don’t trust him. you do. it’s just that… fame changes things. and you can’t help but wonder how long you’ll stay interesting to someone whose world keeps getting bigger by the hour. how long you can keep up from so far away. how long until all the things that make you you—the mundanity, the simplicity, the slowness of your life—start to feel like dead weight to someone like him.

he calls one night, like always, right as you’re settling into bed and thinking about how weird it is that he still remembers to call, even when everything in his life feels like it’s speeding up fast. it’s morning for him, maybe early afternoon. sunlight spills across his bed, his voice’s all scratchy and bright in that way that tells you immediately: he had a good night. you’re in bed, barely awake, blinking into the dark with your phone pressed to your cheek as he launches straight into it, laughing, out of breath even though he’s just lying there. “yo, baby—you would’ve hated it. so many fake-ass people. but the place was mad bougie, i swear to god there was a real ass koi pond inside the fucking bar.” and then he’s off—telling you everything about last night. he sounds happy. like really, really happy. he tells you about the music, about the people, how everyone knew who he was. says it was probably the best night of his life so far. that hurts for some reason. and you want to be happy for him—you are—but there’s something in your chest tightening with every word, something quiet and mean and a little scared, because it’s never been clearer that you’re not there, and he’s starting to live a life that doesn’t involve you. and then he says it. “oh—shit, forgot the wildest part, baby. met this one dude—looked like he owns fucking a yacht. came up to me like, said he wants to manage me. and i was like bet. so now he’s my manager… well, i gotta sign up the contract and all that shit, but we arranged a meeting. and he gave me a pill too—no idea what the fuck it was, but fuck, baby, i was like… i don’t know, that shit hit.” what the fuck? he laughs as he says it, like it’s a joke. like it’s not a big deal... like you won’t care.

and for a moment, all the noise in your brain stops. you’re just lying there in the dark, blinking up at the ceiling, phone warm against your ear, suddenly freezing cold on the inside, listening to your boyfriend talk about taking some random-ass drug from a stranger like it’s a footnote in a funny story. and it’s not even that you didn’t expect something like this eventually… it’s just that hearing him say it, so casually, so proud, makes your stomach turn. and when you finally speak, your voice is quieter than you thought it’d be. “subong… that’s like… really bad.” and for the first time since the call started, he actually goes quiet—enough to let the silence stretch between you, like he’s trying to figure out how serious you are. he exhales sharply, not quite a laugh, but close enough to piss you off before he even opens his mouth. “baby, c’mon. it wasn’t like that. it’s not like i’m out here poppin’ mystery pills every damn night. it was just one time. it’s not that deep.” and maybe he really thinks that. but you can hear the part of him that’s panicking a little underneath, the part that knows exactly why you’re worried. you sit up in bed, your heart sinking as you try to stay calm and not sound like his mom or whatever else might make him shut down, but god it’s hard when he’s brushing off something that could’ve gone so wrong. “it’s not that deep?” you repeat, flatly. and already, you hate the way your voice sounds. “you didn’t even know what it was, subong.” he groans. “but i’m fine. nothing happened. i’m literally sitting here talking to you, girl, aren’t i?” “that’s not the fucking point.” “jesus christ—you’re making it sound like i fucking od’d.”

you don’t mean to snap. you’re trying to keep your cool—you were keeping it, even when your whole body went cold after he said it. but something about the way he’s laughing it off, like you’re overreacting, like he didn’t just tell you he took some random drug from a stranger… makes you angry. “you’re not some invincible asshole, subong.” your voice is shaking now, heat rising to your cheeks. “you didn’t even know what it was. and you still took it—you took something from someone you don’t know, at a party full of people who don’t give a fuck about you—even if you think they do—and now you’re bragging about it like it’s funny. it’s not. it’s not funny, okay? it’s fucking scary.” “here we fucking go.” he mutters. and just like that, you’re off the edge. “what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” “you acting like i fucking snorted coke off a stripper’s tit or some shit, man. it was one fucking pill. one. not even mine. i just wanted to feel good for one fucking night.” “you didn’t even know what it was, subong!” “so?” he snaps. “damn, what, now i need your permission to have a good time? what are you—my fucking mom?” “no, but apparently someone has to give a fuck about your life since you clearly don’t.” “talking like i ain’t fucking grown, like i ain’t out here doing this shit on my own! i’m older than you!” “don’t fucking scream at me, i can hear you just fine. and i’m trying to be there for you, but you make it so fucking hard when you act like this, subong.” “act like what, huh?” “like i’m the problem for caring.” he laughs again, but this time it’s cruel. you frown. “nah, you don’t care. you just hate not being here. that’s what this is really about, right?” “what?” “you heard me, girl.” the nerve he has…“fuck you,” you whisper. “no, no. say it with your chest, baby. c’mon. you wanna be mad so bad, don’t you? like that’s gonna make it easier—like that’s gonna make you less scared that i’m slipping away from you.” you blink. you didn’t just hear what you heard... right? “what the fuck did you just say?” he exhales hard through his nose. “you hate not being here, with me. so now you tryna control me.” “control you?” you scoff. “you always gotta have something to say when i’m out,” he continues, fast, like he’s trying to get it all out before he lets himself feel any of it. “every time i tell you about a party or who i saw or what i’m doing, you act weird.” “are you fucking serious?” “yeah.” “you really think i like this? you think i enjoy sitting here every night, wondering who you’re with, what you’re doing, if you’re safe? because that’s what i’ve been doing these past few months, by the way—worry. about your damn state and safety. so don’t even start. i just—listen… i don’t want to fight with you, subong. i really don’t. i just want you to be wise about the decisions you make. i want—i want you to be okay.”

he makes this low sound, like he doesn’t believe you. and you know then, none of what you’re saying is landing. “but you know what?” you continue, voice rising. “maybe it’s easier for you to pretend i’m some nagging bitch than admit that you’re scared, too. that maybe this is all too much too fast and you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing.” “don’t put your shit on me, girl,” he bites. “maybe it’s too much for you! you were good with broke-ass me, but not now, when i’m getting attention. when people actually want me.” “i want you too, you dumb fuck!” you shout. “hey! don’t fucking call me that!” “let me speak—” “you think you can talk to me like that?! the fuck is this shit—” “let me speak!” “nah, fuck that! fuck that! you think i’m gonna let you disrespect me?!” “can you just listen to me—” “i don’t give a fuck what you tryna say when you start it off by calling me a dumbass—“ “jesus—subong, let me finish!” you hear him mutter a few words but he quiets down. “what i was trying to say is that i’ve only ever wanted you—” “yeah? then stop acting like you hate every single thing that comes with me blowing up! ‘cause that’s what it sound like.” “well maybe that’s what you wanna hear,” you spit, “so you can feel like the victim—like poor little subong with the girlfriend who doesn’t get it—” “fucking right you don’t!” “—even though she’s the one who told me to follow my dream! even though she’s been here since before the clout, before the…the fame, or whatever this is now—” “and you think that makes you fucking special?” that one. that one makes you go silent for a moment.

your voice drops, hoarse now. “say that again.” he doesn’t. “go on. say it again, subong.” he doesn’t say anything. just breathes hard into the phone. “fuck,” he mutters eventually. “you know i didn’t mean it like that.” you don’t answer. “c’mon, girl—don’t do that. don’t go all quiet on me now, like we didn’t just—like i don’t—” he stops himself, letting out a loud sigh. “you know you’re different. you know that.” and maybe he thinks that’ll fix it. but it doesn’t. your throat is tight, and your hand’s starting to shake, and you feel that stupid sting behind your eyes, and you hate that he’s still on the other end of the line because now he’s going to hear it. “i’m gonna hang up,” you say. he reacts fast, urgent. “what? baby, don’t—don’t do that. we’re just talking. we always talk like this, it’s not—” “i don’t wanna talk to you right now. i’m going to sleep, i’m tired… you have a good day.” and before he can respond, you hang up.

he calls. once, twice, then again—back to back. when you don’t answer, the texts start flooding in too. he’s apologizing (kind of) rambling through hurt pride, guilt and panic, but you don’t read them. you don’t pick up when he calls again either. you just turn your phone on silent, curl deeper under the blanket, and let the night swallow the noise. when you wake up hours later, the screen is full of missed calls and unread messages, his name everywhere.

u really hung up on me??

dont do that shit

answer

u know i didnt mean it like that baby

i was talkin out my ass

fuck

ik i fucked up alr

i say dumb shit when im mad u know that

but calling me that, bro??

really??

u gotta own what u said too

im not gonna sit here and eat shit like u didnt throw it too

dont fucking ignore me

pls baby text me back

im sorry

say somethin please

i didnt mean to hurt u baby

u were right

about the pill

the way i acted

i wont touch that shit again

i promise

im not losin u over that

bc i love you

n i mean it

you work it out, the same way you always do. you talk for hours when you wake up. and after the apologies, the guilt, the careful questions and the reassurances, after the part where he swears up and down he’s never doing that shit again, never taking anything from anyone without knowing what it is, never scaring you like that again—you tell him the thing you haven’t wanted to say out loud. that he was right. not about the fight, but about the way you’ve been acting lately. how you’ve been more irritated, more quick to get upset, more sensitive to things that used to roll off your back. how you’ve felt it happening—this thing under your skin, this heaviness that comes from constantly wondering if what you two have is going to survive everything that’s changing. the attention. the pressure. the people. because this new version of his life—this shiny, fast, spinning thing full of parties and people who want pieces of him—is starting to feel so far from the version that belonged to you. and it’s not his fault, you know that. but no matter how often he calls or sends you pictures or tries to remind you that you’re still his, it’s hard not to feel like the rest of the world is trying to pull him away anyway.

by the end of the year, just a few days short of what would’ve been your one-year mark, you move to seoul. no countdown this time, no return flight circling in the back of your head like a vulture. subong doesn’t even ask you to move in with him, he insists. tells you: “you’re stayin with me. where else would you go, baby? i already cleared out my closet, you better fill it up.” says it like it’s already settled, like this wasn’t something you were supposed to talk about first, as if there was never gonna be another option. and part of you hesitates because the idea of suddenly living together, full-time, is kinda scary. you’ve been long-distance for months, and planning this move for even longer. but planning something and doing it are two very different things. he’s gonna be your everyday. and that kind of closeness—while beautiful—is also terrifying. part of you thinks maybe you should wait, get your own place first, test the waters, do this the ‘smart’ way. but still, you say yes.

the apartment he’s in now is better. way better. he can finally afford to live alone (and there’s actual furniture this time and the heat works) and subong’s always talking about ‘our home’ like he’s lived there with you forever. he even has a car now, can you believe that? it’s insane how good things are. it almost makes you suspicious, like you’re waiting for someone to tap you on the shoulder and tell you none of it’s real. maybe you weren’t prepared for how fast it would all feel normal, how quickly your things would start mixing with his, how easily you’d get used to waking up in the same bed with his leg thrown over yours and his arm tucked under your head.

he’s busier than you thought he’d be, though. that’s the first thing you notice. there are meetings, rehearsals, video shoots, endless phone calls… you’re busy, too, but in a different way. your job transferred you when you moved, thankfully, but your schedule didn’t change, which means your days start when everyone else’s are winding down. one of the perks of remote work is that the mornings belong to you. but around six or seven in the evening, you work—hunched over your laptop with your headphones in and the city lights bleeding in through the curtains. sometimes subong’s home and sometimes he’s not, but either way, you work. it’s fucking hard sometimes. and lonely, albeit a loneliness you won’t admit, because you made this choice… you knew it wouldn’t be easy and you told yourself you could handle it, that you were brave, that you were doing something people only dream about—but sometimes the small things get to you anyway. the stares. the little barriers in language and culture that make you feel like a clown, like you’re always just slightly out of place and you’ll never quite blend in no matter how long you stay or how hard you try. some days you handle it fine and you’re proud of yourself for even trying. but some other days, it sinks in too deep. subong’s always there making you laugh, holding you when you cry and get frustrated over the smallest things. when you’re in your head and missing home and wondering if maybe you made a mistake… he’s there. and you remember why you came in the first place. for him.

but nothing stays good forever. it’s just the nature of things, the way joy always carries a quiet expiration date no one can see until the air starts to change. you’re tired and alone most days, and the silence of the apartment is starting to feel different than it did before, heavier somehow, less peaceful and more pointed, like a reminder of everything you gave up to be here. you thought things would change eventually, but after living there for six months, you realize they aren’t… and you’re not sure they will. subong’s still busy. it really starts to show—the way his presence starts to stretch thinner and thinner across your days. it makes sense that he’s pouring everything into his music, that he’s working harder than ever, saying yes to everything, because what if the offers stop coming? what if it all disappears? and you get that. but that doesn’t make it easier to sit in an apartment alone in a country that still doesn’t feel like home. and it’s not that you didn’t expect him to be busy. of course you did. you moved here knowing what his life was turning into. but now you spend more nights than you’d like to admit sitting at the little table by the window eating alone and avoiding glancing at the clock again, trying not to get mad before he even texts that he’s staying at the studio late again. trying not to feel pathetic for the way you still wait up sometimes, fully dressed, hoping he’ll walk through the door before you fall asleep.

the fights start small. you misread a text. he forgets to say hello when he comes back from the studio. he leaves his dishes in the sink again even though you asked him not to, even though he said he’d try. you ask if he’s coming home for dinner and he says “i’ll see,” and something about the vagueness gets under your skin more than it should. you both pretend things are fine even though you’re starting to keep score in your head. and it starts to show in the way you text each other, too. which is honestly where most of the fighting happens now.

miss u

how’s my girl’s day goin

hi baby :) good

i miss you too

are you coming home for dinner?

yeah

should be back around 8

yayyyyyy!

i’ve been craving pasta all day so i’ll make that

save me a big ass plate señorita

obviously ;)

thank u bby ❤️

what thank you? that’s worth at least 5 kisses😙

5 kisses? i’ll give u something better girl🔥

dummy

i’m holding you to that ;)

don’t be late!

but then 8 p.m rolls around:

just finished cooking🙂‍↕️

i’ll wait for you to get here

it smells insane btw

hurry up

are you close??

baby

i’m hungry

suboooongggg

helloooo

and 9 p.m:

fuck

baby im still at the studio

we r behind schedule

i cant leave yet

wdym you can’t leave yet

you said you’d be home around 8

i thought we’d be done by then

you could’ve told me

i’ve been waiting yk

sorry baby

i didnt wanna disappoint u

kept thinking we’d wrap in time

well

guess what

dont be like that girl

excuse me

i took my break early to cook

and i’ve been sitting here waiting for you for an hour

i didnt fuckin plan for shit to run late bro tf u on me about

whatever subong

i’m tired

eat when you get home or don’t

idgaf

then another day:

hi baby❤️

i’m so sorry to bother you rn

i went to the 7-eleven and then decided to walk a bit after and i kinda got turned around lol

don’t laugh💀

i thought i knew the way back but i think i took a wrong turn and i don’t know where i am now

i’m using maps but it’s taking me up this street and none of the lampposts are working, so i don’t really wanna walk through there

can you come get me maybe?🥲

pleaseee

what?

where u at bby??

i don’t know

somewhere near that cafe you took me to last week i think??

everything looks different at night

wait let me check

yeah, the cafe with the green logo

i didn’t realize how far i’d walked

there’s no one around

kinda creepy

tf u doing walking around by urself this late bby

needed some air

i finished work and the apartment was starting to feel like a box

sorry

are you gonna be long?

baby?

im still at the studio

been here all day

we just started recording again

i thought you’d be home by now, it’s late

nah bby

we got ppl over too

shit’s stacked rn

okay then

nevermind

i’ll figure it out

i’ll walk a bit more and see if something looks familiar

u got the taxi app

take one

ik the apps i have on my phone!

i’m not stupid ty😊

yo wtf

???

tf u giving me an attitude for

i’m not giving you an attitude

i’m literally lost and it’s dark and i asked you for help

and you’re telling me to just take a fucking taxi

i’ll pay for it

there are no taxis at this hour, yk how hard it is to take one after 1am in seoul

i told u i was busy tonight

tf u want me to do, girl? teleport out the studio?

ha ha you’re soooo fucking funny subong

dont fucking piss me off

don’t fucking piss ME off

u r the one who chose to go out at fucking 1am for no reason??

how is that on me girl

yeah i chose to go out because i’ve been alone all day

and yesterday

and the day before that

and the one time i actually need you, you can’t even leave for ten fucking minutes

my bad for having work🙏🏼

fuck off dude

like genuinely

you’re not even listening to what i’m trying to say

i am

u r acting like idgaf when im here tryna finish work that pays our rent

as if i don’t pay my part of rent too💀💀 tf

wtf r u even saying rn

no one said u dont

why tf u twisting my words??

i’m not twisting anything

i’m trying to tell you how i feel

not that you care :)

u know i fucking do

tf is this even about now man

act like it then! :)))))

what u think i’ve been doing?

im at the studio every night building a future that includes u

n u crying cuz i cant drop everything to play chauffeur??

what u want from me bro

don’t call me bro

i’m your girlfriend

n u always on my dick about shit

you’re a fucking asshole subong

and u r a fuckin brat

fuck you

nah fuck you bitch

it’s the first time he’s ever called you that. it’s not like you’ve never argued before, not like you’ve never said cruel shit in the heat of the moment, but that? that one word? bitch? from him? it feels like something splits open in your chest, and you hate how fast your hands start shaking and your face burns. and maybe that’s what pisses you off the most—how much it affects you, how much it stays. because it’s him, not a stranger, not someone on the street. it’s the same mouth that kisses you at night, the same person who calls you baby, the same fingers that loop into yours under the blanket when you’re snuggled up against him. you don’t answer after that. and when he starts texting again, you just stare at the lock screen and let it buzz against your leg until it stops. because you know it’s coming. the half-assed apology. the “i didn’t mean it like that” and “you know how i get when i’m mad, baby” and “you’re the only one who gets under my skin like this”—as if that’s supposed to be romantic. as if being hurt by him is some kind of proof that you matter.

you forgive him, you always do. because you love him. because it’s easier to fold into the version of him that comes after: the sorry one, the one who kisses your hands and says “i fucked up, baby. i know i fucked up. that’s not who i am, girl, you know me. please, baby… forgive me, i’ll do anything.” you try, you really fucking try… but the thing about words is that once they hit, they echo. they stretch out inside you, and suddenly everything sounds a little different. and it shows. not in the way you pull away, not in the silence or the tears into the pillow while his back is turned. no, you still kiss him. you still touch him. you still let him press up behind you at night and mumble filth against your neck with his hands under your shirt. you let him fuck you. but not the way he’s used to. now it’s you on top—dragging him down by the jaw, yanking his clothes off rough enough to make him grunt, pinning him back against the pillows. subong’s stronger, he could flip you over in a second if he wanted to, but he doesn’t. he loves that shit. he loves watching you take control with your thighs straddling his hips and your nails digging crescent moons into his chest, looking at him like you’re the one who gets to decide when he gets to breathe. you kiss him hard, bite his lip, make him open his mouth just to pull away and laugh when he chases yours.

one day you wrap your hand around his throat, and say “you think you deserve to be fucked by me? hm?” and he shakes his head immediately, lips parted, already twitching under you like you’ve got a hand wrapped around his soul instead. his cock’s hard and leaking and he hasn’t even been touched properly, hasn’t earned a single fucking thing. his voice barely comes out when he tries—just a raspy “no, baby.” “right. then why should i?” you ask as you grind down once, pressing your heat right against him, reminding him what he’s not getting yet. subong chokes on his own spit, holding himself back from doing something pathetic. and you just tilt your head, all sweet and cruel. “’cause—f-fuck, baby, ‘cause i’m sorry. i’m sorry, i know i was a piece of shit—i’ll be good. i swear i’ll be so fuckin’ good.” “you will?” you drag your nails down his chest, watching his abs jump under your touch. he nods frantically. “i-i’ll be your good boy. i promise, baby, just—fuck, please—” you cut him off with another slow roll of your hips, dragging your soaked cunt down the length of his cock, letting him feel how wet you are, how fucking turned on you are from seeing him like this. from hearing the desperation in his voice and watching him twitch and shake and beg for a pussy he hasn’t earned. “aww, and you think saying sorry makes you good, subongie?” you murmur, leaning down, lips brushing over his cheek, your hand slipping up to grab his jaw. you squeeze it hard, making him gasp. “you think one little apology’s enough to make me forget how you talked to me? you’re lucky i even let you get this close.”

subong’s eyes flutter, throat bobbing hard under your touch. he’s finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate, not with the feeling of your pussy hovering just above the tip of his dick, dripping all over him like the cruelest fucking tease alive. he shakes his head quick. “no,” he whispers. “no, baby, it’s not. i fucked up, i know, i know, i’ll do anything to make it up to you, i swear—” “anything? you want this pussy that bad?” “yes,” he whines. “then beg.” he does. fuck, he does immediately. like his life depends on it, giving up every ounce of pride just to get inside you. “please, baby, please. just—just let me feel you, i can’t—i can’t fucking take it. i need you, i need that fucking pussy. please—” you hum, slow and thoughtful, then shift—lifting your hips and sliding off him, dragging the wet heat of your body away. he lets out a little sound at the loss before your fingers wrap around his cock, stroking him once, still deciding how generous you want to be. his hips buck off the bed, his body unable to take the smallest kindness without trying to fuck into it. “pathetic,” you whisper, leaning down to bite his neck, dragging your teeth across his skin. “all that attitude and now look at you… begging like a fucking loser.” he moans, embarrassed, but it turns him on anyway. he’d let you spit in his mouth if you wanted to. “i’m not,” he breathes, but it’s a lie. you stroke him again, slower this time, almost languid, just to watch the way he twitches under your touch, to feel the heat of him, slick and straining in your hand, every inch of him aching with want. “you are,” you say. “whining over some pussy you haven’t earned. what happened to that mouth, huh? where’s all that talk now?” “i don’t—i didn’t mean it, girl—fuck—” his voice cracks halfway through and it’s almost funny, how you’re working him up with barely a flick of your wrist. you lean in close. “that’s my name when you’re begging?” you murmur. “‘girl’? try again.” “‘m s-sorry. baby. ‘m sorry,” he stammers. “i swear, i didn’t mean it, you know i didn’t—please, baby. just let me cum—ahh-ha fuck—please let me cum—” “already?” you laugh, low. “you haven’t even been inside me and you’re already there? just from my hand? that’s how easy you are now, subong?” he groans, hips jerking up again, losing the ability to stay still. “yes—fuck! yes, girl—i mean, baby. shit, you’re s-so fucking hot… i’m gonna cum if you don’t stop. please, let me—” “no,” you cut him off, tightening your grip. “you don’t cum ‘til i say so.”

you let go of him entirely for a second, watching him. your core aches from how wet you are, too, because seeing him like this—all that mouth reduced to desperate noise—it feeds something inside you. you crawl over him again, straddling his waist, the tip of his cock sliding through the mess between your thighs, and subong groans. “please. please, baby, let me in. i need you.” you shift your hips, letting the head of his cock nudge against your entrance, but you don’t give him anything else. “hm… i don’t know…” you murmur, tilting your head. “what were you sorry for again?” “f-for… for calling you that,” he says. “for what i said. i didn’t mean it, baby.” “for calling me what?” you press, and the slick glide of your folds drags against him. “say it.” his throat bobs. “for calling you a bitch. but you know i didn’t mean it… i was just pissed, baby.“ “mhm.” your hand goes to his purple hair, clutching a strand, yanking his head back until he’s staring up at the ceiling. “and? what else are you sorry for?” subong moans. “a-and for leaving you alone,” he answers fast, desperate. “for always being gone, for not coming home when i said i would.” you hum like you’re thinking it over. “now that’s a good boy.” you finally sink down on him. a broken moan rips out of his throat as your walls clamp tight around him, wrenching a curse straight from his lips. subong’s hands shoot up to grab your hips instinctively, but you slap one away. “no touching,” you snap.

you start to move. every drag of your pussy around him has his jaw clenched and his abs twitching, his whole body fighting not to fuck up into you, not to ruin it by cumming too fast. you know he’s close. you can feel him throbbing inside of you, pulsing between your gummy walls. your pace picks up with every whimper that leaves his throat. “y-you want to cum, baby?” he nods frantically, unable to even form words. “yeah? then make me.” you pant as you grind down harder, chasing that spot that makes you see stars, riding him with purpose, hungry for that high tightening in your belly. every deep, deliberate drag of him inside you making it harder to think, the way his cock stretches and fills you perfectly. subong doesn’t dare use his hands—not after you slapped one of them away—but his hips start moving on their own, small upward rolls that meet the motion of yours, fucking up into the rhythm you’re setting. you almost stop just to remind him who’s in charge… but it feels too fucking good. your thighs are trembling, your moans are slipping too easily from your lips and your head’s falling forward as you brace a hand on his chest. “fuck! subong—fuck—” he’s babbling under you. “you feel so fucking good, baby… this pussy’s so good—shit—mine, baby, you’re fucking mine.”

you keep going, riding him harder, the burn in your thighs completely ignored. and then your head drops, your rhythm stutters, and a broken moan rips from your throat as your orgasm tears through you, your cunt clenching around subong so tight you feel him sob under you. only then, when you’ve taken what you wanted, you tell him: “cum for me, baby.” and he does. his hips jerk up once, twice, sloppy and frantic, and he cums, spilling into you as he curses through it, breath catching on every filthy, desperate sound that slips out of his mouth. you ride it out slow, milking every drop of his until he’s boneless, flushed and soaked in sweat. you smile, watching the way his chest rises and falls and that dazed, fucked-out look on his face as he tries to blink himself back into the world.

subong’s a liar. always been and always will be. it’s not even that he’s proud of it, it’s just who he is: a boy who learned too early that bending the truth made things easier. it started when he was little, when he was six years old standing in front of a cracked window with wide eyes, saying “it wasn’t me, grandma, i think the neighbor kid did it.” and she’d believed him. kissed the top of his head and muttered about how other children were raised like animals these days while he nodded solemnly and wiped his muddy palms on the back of his shirt. it got worse when he figured out how easy it was. how it opened doors, got him out of shit and kept people on his side. he lied to his mom constantly. things like: “yeah, i studied.” … “yeah, i went straight to school.” … “no, mom, my friend’s the one who smokes, that’s why my hoodie smells.” but the lies got bigger when he realized that a well-timed excuse could soften her exhaustion, could keep her from yelling, from crying into the sink at night when she thought he was asleep. he told her he wasn’t hungry even when he was, told her school was fine when it wasn’t, told her he didn’t need anything even when his shoes had holes in them… because what was the point in making it harder? what good would the truth even do?

he lied to teachers, too. said he didn’t hear the assignment, that he forgot his books at home, that he had a cousin in the hospital and that’s why he didn’t show up to the exam. he never felt bad for it, not once. if they were dumb enough to believe it, he figured that was on them. he would even lie to the police—with his hands in his pockets and shoulders relaxed like he had nothing to hide, even when his backpack reeked of weed and his knuckles were skinned raw from something he definitely didn’t want to explain. and he lied to his friends all the time as well. about stupid shit, mostly. said he had hookups he didn’t, that he fucked people he hadn’t even met… told one friend their crush liked them back just to see what would happen, and another that someone had said shit behind their back when they hadn’t, just to stir things up. for fun. he lied about school, money, his past, his feelings (especially his feelings)… and nobody ever really pressed him about it, because he was good at it. he lied to everyone.

and you were no exception. subong had been lying to you too, for months now. it started before you moved to korea. one of the first times his manager offered him a little something, to keep the energy up, to keep the night going. subong said no at first. actually said it out loud, too, laughing a bit to dodge confrontation. told him you wouldn’t like it, and he was trying to be better. but the manager just laughed louder, clapped him on the back like he was some kind of child who didn’t know better, and said, “damn, she really got you by the balls, huh?” that stuck. didn’t matter how joking the tone was, or how quick the subject shifted after that. it dug into subong, like a splinter under the skin. “you gotta loosen the fuck up, man. you got all this shit coming your way—money, fans, freedom—and you tryna say no ‘cause of her? fuck that!” “she just doesn’t like when i do this kinda shit,” subong replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “i promised her i wouldn’t do it again.” “bro,” the guy lowered his voice like they were talking secrets. “then don’t tell her. what she don’t know won’t kill her. it’s not like you’re fucking cheating or something… c’mon, man. you’re grown. you gonna let some girl tell you how to live? you gon’ let her control you like that?” and subong didn’t want to be controlled. he hated that word, actually. the guy knew that. probably smelled it on him from the beginning. “just one,” the guy pushed, holding out the little orange pill between two fingers. “you had fun last time, didn’t you?”

subong took the pill. just like that. he doesn’t even remember when it hit. just that he was laughing harder, saying dumber shit, dancing with sweat dripping down his temples while the bass made his bones vibrate and his jaw feel loose. and after that, it just kept happening. once, twice, then again the next week, and then it wasn’t just when his manager offered. it became when someone had something. didn’t even matter who. after a while, even that didn’t feel like enough. sometimes the high didn’t hit quite right, or maybe he was building tolerance, or maybe he just liked the chase of something stronger, better, heavier. so he started trying new shit, too. but it wasn’t until that one tuesday when he found himself pacing his room with a glass of water in his hand, sweating like crazy, digging through drawers and bags and old jackets trying to find something because it had been over four days and his body felt like it was shutting down… that he realized this wasn’t just for fun anymore. he was looking for it. needing it. and he couldn’t even tell you, because he knew he’d lose you if he did.

he never wanted to call you when he was high. tried not to text either, unless he was sure he could pass for normal, and the time zone difference gave him enough of a buffer to make it easy. he’d tell you he was busy, tired, at the studio... and you always believed him, and he hated that. and even more than that, he hated how guilty it made him feel, because you trusted him like no one ever had before, and he couldn’t even fucking look you in the eye over facetime some days. he’d never felt that way after telling a lie. never felt his chest tighten like that nor had to shut his eyes after hanging up just to sit with the sour twist in his gut. with you it was like every small dishonesty stacked on top of the last, pressing heavier and heavier, until some nights, after the high wore off, he’d sit alone in his bathroom staring at his reflection and he hated what he saw. hated how easy it was to lie to you, and how hard it was to stop. he kept telling himself he’d quit soon, that he just needed a few more weeks... but that never happened.

if anything, it got worse. so much fucking worse. because once you moved in, he didn’t just have to lie, he had to live the lie. he thought, stupidly, that by the time you got there, he’d have gotten his shit together. that he’d be better and clean. but he was so fucking wrong. the withdrawals hit harder than he expected. the pressure did too. and suddenly he was in it deeper than before, but now with the added weight of hiding it from you. hiding it in front of you. so the only thing he could do to survive the guilt was to avoid it altogether. that’s why he started avoiding you. it’s what he’s been doing for months now. because what else can he do? admit it? tell you he’s been high half the time he’s kissed you lately? tell you that some nights he lies awake next to you, cock throbbing, too fucked in the head to even roll you over and fuck you like he wants to? please. he can’t do that. he won’t.

so he tries to make up for it the only way he knows how: by being the kind of boyfriend he thinks you deserve. or at least sounding like it. saying “i love you” over and over, whispering it against your bare shoulder before you even open your eyes in the morning. touching you when you pass by, pulling you into his lap when you’re both sitting on the couch, brushing his thumb along your cheek when you’re ranting about your day just to see you soften into his hand. he means it, too. it’s the one thing he doesn’t have to fake, because he loves you more than he’s ever loved anyone in his life, and maybe that’s why everything else feels so fucking unbearable—because every time he kisses you or comes home and wraps his arms around your waist and breathes you in like he’s been drowning without you, he knows he’s lying about everything else. and it fucking kills him, honestly. because you’re right there, every single day, showing up for a version of him that doesn’t even exist anymore. he tries to drown it out with love and sex. with worship. fucking you like you’re made of gold—telling you you’re beautiful every time you’re on top of him, tits bouncing, head thrown back. “gonna marry you,” he breathes. “gonna make you my wife, baby. wanna wake up to this pussy every day.” and you laugh, soft, before kissing him again.

subong knows what you like. knows exactly how to say the right things at the right time, how to pull you back in when you’re pulling away. when he feels you go quiet, when your touches grow shorter or your gaze lingers a second too long without a smile, he cranks it up like clockwork—presses closer, kisses your neck more, murmurs “i wasn’t fucking joking when i said i’m gonna marry you,” mouth hot against your skin. “gonna put a ring on your finger so fat you’ll have to work your thumb around it when you wash your hands, girl.” and it works, most of the time. sometimes, to his surprise, he even means it. sometimes he wants that future so bad it makes him sick because what the actual fuck... he’s never thought of marriage, not even once, in his whole life. but now he does—when you’re naked in front of him, biting your lip, making fun of him for being sappy while he’s already got your panties shoved to the side and you’re saying “then prove it, big boy.” and he does—up against the bathroom counter, your leg hiked up and his hand gripping the edge so hard it goes white. “gon’ get you pregnant one day,” he grits out into your shoulder, “fuck a ring, wanna see you f-fucking swollen and full of me, mama.” and you clench around him every time. maybe because it’s hot, or maybe because there’s something inside you that wants it too, even if you’d never say it out loud. and he sees that in your eyes and loses his fucking mind. “you want that? yeah? want thanos to fuck a baby into you?” and you’re moaning, back arching for him. he means it in those moments, every word, every filthy, unhinged promise he makes when he’s buried in you. because if you were pregnant, maybe you’d stay. maybe you wouldn’t leave if you found out the truth, you’d be tied to him forever. oh god… how sick is that? how fucked up is it, that the idea makes him feel better? makes the guilt hurt less? subong knows how wrong that is. how selfish and immature and backwards it all sounds, but it doesn’t stop the thought from coming anyway. he’s a fucking coward, that’s all he is.

but the truth always comes to the surface. part of him knew that. because it was obvious, wasn’t it? bound to happen eventually, especially once he started surrounding himself with people he shouldn’t have even looked twice at in club pentagon. it was easy to disappear there, easy to pretend he was someone else for a few hours, someone untouchable. and that’s exactly what he did. he met his plug there. older guy, always with a different girl on his lap. they called him kyungho, or just ‘hyung’ if they wanted to be polite, and he had a reputation for being reliable and completely fucking terrifying if you crossed him. there were always two or three men flanking him, shoulders squared like bodyguards. subong knew better than to get too close. even when kyungho was friendly—and he was, in that offhand, slippery kind of way that made it hard to tell whether he actually liked you or if you were just the night’s amusement—there was something about him that made subong’s skin crawl. but kyungho liked him. or at least that’s how it seemed, the way he always made space for him at the booth, arm flung over the backrest like they were boys who went way back, like subong belonged there among them. subong wasn’t sure if that meant he was in or just being tolerated, but either way, he sat. “you always show up right when the night gets interesting,” kyungho said one night, not even looking at him. then he cracked a grin. “you’re either lucky or real fucking bored.” kyungho didn’t wait for an answer. just reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a little baggie, dropped it into subong’s hand. “this one’s smoother,” he said. “go easy, unless you’re trying to see god tonight.” subong didn’t ask questions. he didn’t want to know where the stuff came from, didn’t care what it was either. he just muttered “thanks, man.” and nodded.

everything was fine, as long as he paid. except now, he owed them. subong hadn’t planned for this part. he’d been doing so fucking good, hadn’t he? lying well enough to keep you close, which was already a fucking miracle. but everything falls apart eventually, and for subong, it started with that fucking ring. after dating you for two years, he’d finally bought it—kept it in a drawer under his socks, some proof to himself that he was serious, that he was going to get better to be with you. it wasn’t a matter of money then, he was doing alright. the bookings were steady, the endorsements had started coming in, and he’d made it to the semifinals in rap battlegrounds, which meant the prize money was close enough to taste. everything was building toward something. and he’d bought the ring without thinking too hard about it, still high on the rush of maybe being good enough for once. he didn’t know when he’d give it to you. maybe months from now, maybe years. but he would, eventually.

the rap battlegrounds final came. he should’ve been ready—he was ready. he’d been rehearsing for weeks, killing it in every freestyle cypher he stepped into. but the closer it got, the more it started to eat at him. not the performance itself, but the stakes. he told himself he wouldn’t do it, that he’d go in clean, that he didn’t need anything. but nerves are a bitch. and the second he stepped backstage and felt his throat go dry and his hands shake no matter how many times he clenched them into fists, he knew he was fucked. so he took a pill to quiet everything down and be able to concentrate. except it didn’t quiet shit. it fogged it. made him slow, made his tongue feel heavy and made him forget the third verse of his own fucking song like a rookie. and just like that, it was over: he lost. and the prize money he was counting on? gone. just like that. poof.

for weeks, he’s a fucking ghost of himself. not publicly, though. but when the doors close, when it’s just you and him in that quiet apartment, he’s… hollow. you sit beside him and hold his face, run your fingers through his hair and kiss the corner of his temple while he cries with his teeth clenched and his chest shaking, and you tell him it’s okay, it’s okay, you’re proud of him no matter what, that he gave everything he had and you’re not going anywhere. and he cries harder. not just because he lost the tournament—though yeah, that was fucking humiliating. but no, that’s not why he cries into your lap while your hands stroke the back of his neck. he cries because he’s fucked. because he was counting on that money to pay kyungho. and subong’s been dodging his calls for days, each one a sharp pulse of dread in his head. he thought about selling the ring, but he didn’t. couldn’t. he opened the box once and stared at the way the light caught the stone and all he could think about was how it would look on your finger. how you’d reach for him with both hands and kiss him before whispering yes against his mouth. and how you’d smile, all happy and cute, when you told your friends and family—he’d figure something else out.

the days kept going, and you never noticed. to you, everything was fine. the sex had been good lately. too good, actually. he’d been insatiable for weeks now, rougher than usual—fucking you with his fingers shoved in your mouth to keep you quiet, even though the windows were open and you both knew the neighbors could hear—but also sweeter in the moments right after. you made lunch together: grilled cheese, kimchi jjigae, that fried rice he liked with too much sauce and barely any vegetables. and subong grabbed your ass when you reached for the bowls on the top shelf, grinning when you squealed. you watched movies on the couch, went out for dinner, went on walks where you’d hold his hand and swing it between you like kids, and he’d kiss your knuckles and call you pretty. he was a bit quieter than usual, sure. but you figured he was tired, or overworked, or just coming down from the crash of losing rap battlegrounds and all the energy he’d poured into it. you gave him space and avoided asking too many questions. you didn’t realize that was the worst thing you could’ve done.

one sunday morning, you’re sitting at the dining table in one of subong’s shirts and eating toast, scrolling on your phone and sipping lukewarm coffee. subong’s out running, something he’s started doing lately in the mornings, probably trying to shake the gnawing feeling in his chest that losing the rap tournament left behind, or maybe just chasing a little silence in his head that doesn’t sound like self-hatred. suddenly, there’s this violent banging on your front door. you jolt so hard your mug wobbles, coffee sloshing onto your thigh as you hear a group of men yelling right outside your apartment—slamming their palm or maybe even their fist against the door again and again, rattling it in its frame like they’re seconds from breaking it down. you don’t understand a word, the korean’s too fast, aggressive and slurred with rage, but the tone alone is enough to twist something tight in your gut. you don’t know what to do. part of you wants to scream back, part of you wants to hide, and part of you’s just whispering his name under your breath like “subong. subong. subong.” as if he’s gonna magically appear to protect you from whatever it is that those men want. you quickly pull out your phone.

subong

baby please answer me

a group of men’s banging on the door screaming in korean

idk who they are

they won’t stop

i’m scared

i didn’t call the police bc i don’t want them to hear me talking

please call them

send someone here

and don’t come home

they could be dangerous

just send someone please

idk what to do

they sound so angry

fuck

okay bby stay inside

dont open the door

omw

what??

no no

don’t come here subongie

please just call the cops

i cant call the cops

what?

wdym you can’t

its alr

they r my friends

friends??

what kind of friends are those

and why don’t i know about them?

not the point rn

wtf

subong explain this

now

i’m serious

you’re scaring me

this isn’t normal

need u to trust me baby

dont open that fucking door

you shouldn’t move. you know that. but your body doesn’t listen. something is wrong. you stare at your phone, at those last two texts from him before you start moving toward the door, your phone clutched in one hand just in case you need to dial someone. the banging has stopped (thank god) but you can still hear someone pacing outside, heavy boots against the hall’s floor. you press your eye to the peephole. three men. when your voice comes out it’s small and tentative. “who are you?” nothing. “what do you want?” they answer… in korean. you let out a frustrated sigh. “i don’t understand what you’re saying—” and that’s when one of them switches. the voice that comes through is rough and accented. “where’s thanos?” “what?” “choi subong,” he says. “we’re looking for him.” “why?” “just wanna talk.” right. because people who just wanna talk usually show up pounding on your door on a fucking sunday morning like a goddamn swat team. your hand tightens around your phone. “well, he’s not here,” you snap. “so either say what you came to say or fuck off.” the man laughs as if he’s dealing with a little kid playing guard dog. another voice joins in too, somewhere behind him, the cadence of it low and amused. “feisty,” the guy mutters through the door. “you’re his girl, huh? makes sense.” you don’t answer. your heart’s going so fucking fast it’s hard to breathe. “we don’t wanna hurt you,” he adds. “this isn’t about you, sweetheart. we just want what he owes.” “he doesn’t owe anyone shit,” you fire back. they’re quiet for a beat. then: “you sure about that?” and you realize he knows something you don’t. “what are you talking about?” another chuckle. it’s not kind. “your boyfriend owes us money,” he replies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “lot of it.” “…for what?”

they exchange words in korean on the other side of the door before they decide to speak to you again. “pills.” “what kind of pills?” “do we really need to say?” you shake your head, laugh once, because that’s fucking ridiculous. “you’re wrong,” you snap, but it comes out weaker than you meant. “he doesn’t—subong doesn’t do that shit anymore.” “anymore?” the man echoes, amused. “then you do know.” you stay quiet so he continues, “he’s been getting supply from kyungho for almost a year now at club pentagon. pills, mostly… sometimes other stuff. he was good for it, at first—now he’s late.” you feel all the air in your body leave your lungs, your jaw tightening with the sudden warmth spreading in your face from anger. “you’re lying.” but deep down, you know… you know he isn’t. you feel so sick. “you didn’t know?” the guy says, all mock sympathy now. “shit.” you can tell he’s enjoying it—watching it all click into place behind a locked door. “what the fuck are you talking about,” you manage, but your voice wavers, already betrayed by the way your mind is dragging you down every memory, every weird excuse, every time subong came home late with red-rimmed eyes. the guy outside sighs, like he’s getting bored of your denial. “look, we just want what we’re owed. because we’ve been real fucking nice so far.” “how much?” “enough for us to be here.” you feel so fucking stupid. how could he lie to you for so long? “leave. just—leave. i don’t know where he is.” “we’ll be back,” he tells you, warning. “tell your boy to pick up his phone next time.” and then they’re gone.

you immediately walk to the bedroom, your hands moving before you even think of it, tearing through drawers and slamming them shut again when they turn up empty, muttering fuck under your breath. nothing in the nightstand, nothing in his coat pockets or the pockets of the jeans he left on the floor last night. your heart is hammering so hard it’s a wonder you don’t throw up right there on the carpet. the apartment isn’t big, but it feels endless all of a sudden—too many places where things could be hidden, too many corners where secrets could live. you start opening kitchen drawers next, rifling past silverware and receipts. nothing. you yank open the cabinet under the sink. cleaning supplies. trash bags. nothing. you’re not even thinking straight when you start on the closet—pulling clothes off hangers, tossing them over your shoulder, crawling halfway inside… when you see something wedged between a duffel bag and the wall. a shoebox. plain and black and stupidly suspicious now that you’re looking at it. you drag it out, breathing hard, hands shaking so bad you fumble the lid. and there it is. a small plastic bag—a few colorful pills, maybe four or five, rattling softly when you lift it.

you sit down right there on the floor, the shoebox slipping out of your hand and landing with a soft thud beside you. you don’t even know how long you stay there, hand frozen around the bag, feeling embarrassed as you stare at the proof that the men at your door weren’t lying. embarrased for being so in love with subong. because this whole time you were waking up next to him, laughing with him, moaning under him—you were also sleeping beside a liar. you press the heels of your hands into your eyes, as if that’ll make it stop, as if you can block out the sting or slow your heartbeat or undo the past year. but you can’t.

the front door opens so fast it hits the wall, rattling on its hinges, and subong’s voice cuts through the apartment before you even lift your head. “baby?” it’s that voice. the one that always used to make you feel safe. but now it feels foreign. “fuck, baby—where are you?” there’s panic in it, real panic. he probably thinks that something’s happened to you, that those guys hurt you, when the truth is sitting right here between your fingers, in its plastic cage. you hear him moving, fast, room to room, muttering curses under his breath as shit clatters to the floor. you can imagine it: the wild look in his eyes and that little tremble in his hands he tries so hard to hide. you can almost feel the moment he sees the living room, sees the drawers pulled out, the papers on the floor, the spilled coffee on the table, the overturned laundry basket… and then he’s sprinting again, calling your name louder now, almost begging. you’re still on the floor when he bursts into your bedroom, breathing hard, looking like he’s about to be sick until his eyes land on you. and when yours lift, you meet the expression that splits across his face. you don’t think you’ll ever forget it. the recognition. he doesn’t ask what you found, he doesn’t have to. he knows that box. he knows exactly what was inside. and you see it hit him all at once. “fuck,” he whispers, barely audible. when you don’t answer, he takes a step inside, tentative, and for a moment you think he might actually drop to his knees, just to be on your level. but he doesn’t. he just stands there, hands twitching at his sides. “it’s not—” he tries, but he doesn’t even finish the sentence. because what is it, really? what the fuck is it supposed to be, when you’re sitting on the floor with a bag of his pills in your lap and the knowledge that the man you love has been lying to your fucking face? what the fuck is he supposed to say? so he just stands there, shame written in every inch of him.

“go ahead,” you bite out, voice sharp and trembling, “finish the sentence.” he flinches. “no?” you scoff, dragging the back of your hand across your cheek even though it does nothing to stop the heat burning its way down. “then let me guess. it’s not what it looks like? it’s not yours? it’s not a big deal? pick one, subong. fucking pick one.” he shakes his head, takes a small step toward you. “baby, i just—please.” “don’t call me that.” his mouth snaps shut like you’ve slapped him. and you kind of wish you had. maybe then he’d look as hurt as you feel. “how long?” you ask, standing up slowly. “how long have you been using?” you already know the answer, but you want him to tell you. you want him to be honest for once. but instead: “why the fuck does it matter?” you can’t believe he still has the fucking audacity to say something like that, after everything. “are you serious? it matters because you’ve been lying to me! i don’t even fucking recognize you anymore!” he runs a hand down his face. “i didn’t want this! okay? i didn’t want you to find out like this. i was gonna fucking tell you—” “when?” you cut in. “when they kicked down the door and dragged you out in front of me? or were you gonna wait until you fucking overdosed?!” his mouth opens, but nothing comes out. of course. you’ve dragged the lie out into the daylight where it can’t be ignored and there’s no fucking escape hatch he can slip through now. “yeah,” you snap. “that’s what i fucking thought.” “i didn’t fucking mean for this to happen.” “oh, spare me the tragic little story, subong! you chose this! you fucking chose it!” his eyes flash. “i didn’t choose shit!” “you took the pills!” you scream, your whole body trembling now. “you bought them, hid them and lied to my fucking face! for months!” “yeah? well maybe i fucking had to! maybe if you weren’t always breathing down my fucking neck about everything i do—” he jabs his finger in your direction and you slap it away. “oh, sorry i love you!” you snarl. “sorry i trusted you! sorry i fucking worried for you every single day! how fucking stupid of me!”

you’re out of the room before he can finish another excuse, feet carrying you on instinct to the living room. subong follows—calling your name. but you don’t answer. don’t look at him when he stops behind you, breathing hard. “i was gonna stop,” he mutters, like it’s some kind of offering, some kind of band-aid for the fucking wound he ripped open. you scoff. “yeah?” “yeah. that’s why i didn’t say shit, okay?” you turn your head to glare at him. “you promised.” “i know.” “you promised me,” you repeat. “before i moved. you said you were done with that shit. you said you wouldn’t do it again.” “yeah, well, shit changed, didn’t it?!” he snaps, throwing his arms out. “i didn’t fucking want this. shit just got outta hand!” “got outta hand?” you laugh, disbelieving. “jesus, subong.” “what, you fucking perfect now?” he shoots back, voice rising. “you never lied about shit? never fucked up? never kept something to yourself ‘cause you knew how the other person would react?” “no, actually! i would never do this to you.” he just shakes his head, scoffing. “yeah? sure about that?” “don’t—don’t fucking twist this, subong! i would never lie to you about something this serious—” “the fuck you wouldn’t.” “i wouldn’t!” you shout, stepping closer, finger jabbing into his chest. “you know why? because i would’ve never done this in the first place! i wouldn’t have broken a promise i made to you! and i sure as hell wouldn’t have lied to you for who knows how fucking long!” “yeah, yeah, right. you’re a fucking saint, huh? miss flawless.” “what? that’s not—“ “i guess you’re some kind of fucking angel now—” “i didn’t say that!” “you don’t have to say it, it’s all over your fucking face!” “are you fucking kidding me?! i’ve been here, every night, waiting for you to come home—” “yeah, to bitch at me about every little thing—” “i was just trying—“ “to control me?” you huff, offended. “to help you, you fucking asshole! i’ve never—” “acting like you know what’s best for me, like you’re some goddamn savior!” “could you stop interrupting me?!” “you do the exact same shit, man!” “because you’re not listening to me! i fucking care about you, subong. that’s why—“ he interrupts again. “you’ve got a funny way of showing it! going through my fucking shit like a fucking cop—” “don’t do that.” “don’t do what?” “try to twist it—put this shit on me! i wouldn’t have gone through your shit if you hadn’t been hiding anything in the first place, genius!” “i’m not—you’re not fucking better than me, girl!” your mouth opens, but all you can manage is, “stop, okay? i never said i was. don’t turn this a competition—” “then stop looking at me like that!” “like what?!” “like i’m a fucking failure, that’s what,” he snaps. “like you pity me or some shit—waitin’ for me to fuck up so you can say ‘i told you so.’” “what are you even fucking saying? do you even hear yourself right now? i’ve done nothing but love you while you lied to my fucking face—and for what?! so you could bring that shit into our home?! so random men could show up banging on our door ready to fuck me up?!” “they weren’t gonna do shit—” “you don’t know that! you don’t fucking know that, subong! you don’t get to gamble with our fucking safety like that! they scared the fucking shit out of me, motherfucker!”

his face twists. “what the fuck did you just say to me?” you’re crying now, barely keeping yourself standing, but you don’t take it back. “you heard me,” you whisper. “you—you let them come to our fucking door. i thought—” your mouth clamps shut, shoulders heaving, “i thought they were gonna—i thought they were gonna get in here and—” you can’t even finish the sentence due to the lump that has formed in your throat. “i didn’t know they’d pull that shit, alright?” he shouts. “but you gave them a reason to! you gave them a fucking reason! you’re the one who owes them, the one who brought this into our life!” you sob, tears streaming freely now. “you’re so selfish… you only ever think about yourself. how long did you think you could keep doing this without it coming back around, huh?! how long before it got me hurt, too?!” “oh, get off your fucking high horse—” “no, fuck you!” you spit, so loud that it stuns him into silence for a moment. “you selfish, lying piece of shit! fuck you! i gave you everything—i fucking moved here for you! i changed my whole goddamn life for you, and all this time, you were out there getting high and playing gangster with a bunch of lowlife freaks while i sat at home thinking you were fucking working—” you can’t even see his expression properly anymore, your vision too blurred by tears, your voice cracking on every syllable, choking on the weight of every word coming out of your mouth. “—thinking you were tired or stressed or just—fuck, i don’t—i don’t know! i made up a thousand excuses for you. i fucking trusted you! i… i trusted you, subong.”

he opens his mouth, probably about to say something cruel to shove the blame back onto you, but you don’t let him. you step forward, eyes blazing. “everything makes sense now. i should’ve known. god, i should’ve known. i thought i was going crazy—thinking i was too clingy, too emotional, too needy! but it was you, subong. it was always you! you left me in a city that isn’t mine, with no one but you, and then you weren’t even fucking there! you left me here alone, every fucking day. while you were off getting high, choosing that shit over me! and i was here like a dumbass, waiting, worrying… do you have any idea how fucking alone i’ve felt since i got here? and now? now i find out you’ve been hiding fucking drugs in our apartment? getting involved with—i don’t even know! some psycho gang of criminals who showed up ready to kick the fucking door down?! you don’t fucking get it, do you? you put us in danger! you fucking asshole!”

whatever self-control he had left snaps, and you don’t even have time to react before your back hits the wall, the force of it rattling your teeth, his body right there in front of you, all chest and anger and spit flying from his mouth. “fuck you!” he yells, voice cracking with rage. “you think you can talk to me like that?! like you better than me?! fuck you, bitch! you don’t know shit about what i’ve been through!” your eyes widen, hands instinctively coming up between you and him. but he doesn’t touch you, just slams his palm into the wall right next to your head, so hard the picture frame beside you shakes. “subong—” your voice shakes with fear. “i never fucking asked you to move here, girl! you did that! you decided to drop your whole fucking life to be with me—” “subong, please.” “—and now what? now i’m the fucking problem?! huh? did i ruin your perfect little fantasy, baby? well, fuck that—welcome to the thanos’ world! i’ve always been this guy!“ his mouth keeps moving, hurling venom with every breath, eyes blown wide and frantic. he even starts talking in korean—things you don’t understand, but you know they’re mean. what a fucking coward. your voice cracks through, small and trembling. “you’re scaring me—” it’s so quiet he almost doesn’t hear it, but you say it again, louder this time. “stop! subong, you’re—you’re scaring me. please—” his body freezes. your arms are trembling, your chest is heaving, and your eyes—your perfect, pretty eyes—they’re wide with something subong never wanted to see pointed at him: fear. his hand drops from the wall and he takes a step back, then another, horror slowly crawling over his features as his brain catches up to what his body just did. “fuck,” he breathes, more to himself than to you. “shit. no. no, baby—fuck, no. i didn’t wanna—” you flinch again when he moves, just barely, but it’s enough to twist the knife in his chest. “i didn’t mean to scare you, i swear—baby, i swear. i just—fuck.” he runs a hand through his hair. “i would never—i would never hurt you, baby.”

you slide down the wall, chest caving in so tight it feels like someone’s kneeling on it. you can’t breathe. your hands claw at your throat and your sobs are coming in choked little bursts, your whole body shuddering from the inside out, and all you can hear is your own panicked gasps and the blood rushing behind your ears. your lungs won’t open, your throat won’t work, and your hands are shaking so bad you can’t even press them to your chest properly. “baby,” subong says, worried. “baby—fuck—what do i do?” your body curls forward and a broken sound slips out of you, desperate. “subong—” even though you’re terrified, your arms still reach for him. he drops to his knees the second he sees it. “fuck—shit, baby, hey, hey—” his arms wrap around you immediately. “you’re okay. you’re okay, i’m here—breathe for me, yeah?” he’s rambling now, a panicked whisper against your ear as he pulls you into his chest. your hands are clumsy, grabbing onto him. your fingers knot in the fabric of his shirt and you’re trembling so hard your teeth knock together, your shoulders jolting with every gasp. “i can’t—i—” your voice cuts off into another sob as your head drops against him. “i got you, baby. i got you,” he keeps saying, his grip tightening. “i’m so sorry. shit, i’m so sorry. please breathe, please—please, baby—” his own eyes start to water, while he kisses the side of your head and swears under his breath, over and over, cursing himself for letting it get this far. he’s scared too. of losing you. he can’t stop thinking about the look in your eyes, the fear that flashed there when he raised his voice, when he slammed his hand into the wall, when he lost control. it keeps replaying in his head, and he hates himself harder with every second that passes.

when your breath finally starts to slow, and your heart stops trying to jump out of your ribcage, you pull away. you get to your feet on shaky legs, wiping your cheeks with the back of your hand. you don’t even look at him when you speak. “i’m done with this.” you don’t even realize how much it stuns him until you’re halfway to the bedroom and his voice comes from behind you. “the fuck does that mean?” you don’t answer. “wait— wait. baby—” he rushes after you, practically tripping over his own feet, hand reaching for your arm… but you quickly pull yourself free from his grip, turning around to look at him. “who are you?” he frowns. “what?” “who are you?” you repeat. “what do you mean—” “i don’t know you anymore. you’re not the guy i met—the one i fell in love with two summers ago.” your lip quivers, but you keep going. “that boy was kind. sweet. funny. he made me feel safe. he would’ve never—never—lost it on me like that. he’d never scream in my face. he’d never leave me alone for nights on end and come home high off his ass and lie about it.” your voice cracks but you keep pushing, even though it hurts. “and the worst part is… you don’t even see it, do you? you think this is still you. but it’s not. you let that shit change you, subong.”

he knows you’re right. the words don’t even surprise him, because they’re true. because he’s been thinking them every fucking night. subong knows what he’s become. he’s known it for a while now. but hearing it from you… it’s humiliating. “listen, i—” you don’t give him time to talk. you turn back around and walk into the bedroom, leave him standing there with that glassy look in his eyes. subong hears the drawer open first, then it’s the rustling of clothes, the clatter of a hanger falling, the hollow thud of the closet door swinging open and slamming back into the wall. for a second, he doesn’t get it—his mind still stuck back there in the living room, where you were crying and shaking and tearing into him. but then he hears the distinct sound of wheels dragging against the floor. the realization hits him. that’s your suitcase. the one you hadn’t touched since you first unpacked it a year ago. he stumbles toward the bedroom. “the fuck you doing?” it’s stupid, because he knows what you’re doing. you don’t answer. you’re too busy grabbing whatever your hands land on—shirts, charger, underwear, your earrings from the nightstand... “hey—hey, talk to me.” “there’s nothing else to say.” you don’t even look up. “what do you mean there’s nothing—are you seriously leaving me right now?” you pause for half a second, hands frozen over the tangled mess of your t-shirts, and that silence alone almost kills him. “yo—fuck, stop—what the fuck are you doing?”

he’s on you in two steps, eyes darting between your suitcase and your face. his hands are on your stuff before you can stop him—hand yanking a pair of jeans straight out of the suitcase. “you’re not fucking doing this.” “get off,” you snap, trying to push him away with your elbow, but he doesn’t budge. “man, fuck that,” he growls, already reaching for more, grabbing a handful of shirts. “you’re not fucking leaving me like this—” “stop it!” you slap at his hands, pushing him away, trying to grab your things faster than he can take them. “fuck off, subong!” you shout. “don’t touch my stuff!” “don’t fucking do this, then, girl! acting like you’re actually gonna fucking go!” he snaps. “yeah, because i am!” you keep throwing things into the suitcase and his fingers wrap tight around your wrists in an attempt to stop you. “look at me. just—fucking stop, okay?! stop packing for a fucking second and talk to me—” “let go of me!” you rip your hands away with a curse. without even thinking, he grabs the suitcase by the handle and flings it off the bed, everything tumbling out at your feet. “there,” he spits. “you gonna pack now, huh? go ahead. pack it off the fucking floor.” you stare at him, stunned, blinking through tears. “what the fuck is wrong with you?!” you scream, launching toward the pile. “what the fuck is wrong with me?!” “yes! yes—what the fuck is wrong with you?” “you’re the one trying to fucking leave! after all the shit we been through—fucking bitch.”

you freeze. your fingers curl around a balled-up shirt but you don’t move. your pulse thuds in your ears, all the heat in your face dropping down to your stomach. “don’t call me that,” you whisper, hands shaking as you grab at the scattered clothes on the floor. he scoffs. “what, you get to say whatever the fuck you want, but i can’t say shit back? fuck off, bitch—” “don’t fucking call me that!” you explode, standing up. “say it again, i fucking dare you—say it one more time and see what the fuck happens.” subong opens his mouth, defiant as ever, and you cut him off before he can get the word out. “fucking junkie,” you spit. his jaw clenches, and his eyes go dark. “the fuck did you just call me?” he steps forward and you flinch without meaning to, but you don’t back down. your chin stays lifted even as your fingers shake. “i said what i fucking said. you’re your dad’s fucking son after all, right? apple didn’t fall far at all! only difference is, your mom got stuck with him. i’m not gonna be that fucking stupid.” “you fucking bitch,” he snarls, stepping into your space without a single care. “you ain’t fucking shit, let me tell you that!“ you roll your eyes and ignore him, crouching down to zip up your suitcase. “fucking crazy—bringing my mom into this? my fucking dad?!” you grab the suitcase handle and start toward the door, but he blocks it. his hand jabs out, two fingers tapping hard against your temple like he’s trying to knock some kind of sense into you. “you’re not fucking special, alright? you’re not. get it through that pretty little fucking head of yours. i should’ve fucked one of those girls after the show i gave in busan—” your hand flies out, shoving his chest so hard he stumbles back a step. “don’t fucking touch me,” you snap. “don’t ever fucking touch me again. you disgust me.”

he sees it in your face. how the words cut deeper than anything else ever could. subong knows you’ve probably thought about it before—wondered if all those nights he came home late were because he was with someone else. he remembers the way you used to wait up for him, how your voice would turn smaller when you asked where he’d been, trying not to sound jealous. and now, saying that shit out loud—throwing those other girls in your face—he knows exactly what it does to you. and he wants it to hurt. “i could’ve been balls deep in a fan after every fucking show,” he continues. “could’ve been getting my dick sucked every fucking night, girl! they would’ve let me do whatever the fuck i wanted. would’ve saved me the fucking headache—“ “then go fucking do it! go get your dick sucked by every desperate fan who thinks you’re some kind of god—matter of fact, go ruin someone else’s fucking life for once! because i’m done.” you shoulder past him, yanking the bedroom door open with your free hand while dragging the suitcase behind you. you didn’t even get half your stuff, but you don’t care, you just need to get out. “yeah? fucking go, then!” he shouts after you, voice echoing down the hallway. “walk the fuck out that door, bitch! get the fuck outta my place!” you want to laugh at this point. at the way he’s calling it his place when he used to call it our home. isn’t he embarrassed? “you think i give a shit?!” he barks, following right on your heels now, his steps loud behind you. “go! go back to your fucking country and fuck off! i don’t fucking need you, girl! and don’t you fucking dare come back to me when you realize no one else is gonna put up with your bratty ass—” this time you can’t help it—you laugh. “as if i ever fucking would! you’re so pathetic.” subong’s desperate. he doesn’t want to lose you but he also doesn’t know how to stop that from happening. that’s why he says the worst things he can think of: “yeah? i’m gonna burn all your shit! every last thing you left in my closet!” as if that’ll to make you turn around and care. as if that’ll make you stay just to stop him. it’s selfish and stupid and he knows it won’t work, but he’s never been good at watching people leave nor letting go without dragging his own heart down with it. and he’s so, so disappointed and hurt by your indifference… “you hear me?! i’m gonna light it all the fuck up! don’t even think about coming back for it—” your hand’s already on the door when he screams that, fingers around the knob. you stand there for a second before you twist it, push the door open and let the stale hallway air hit your face. you glance back at subong over your shoulder, tears still streaking your cheeks, but your expression’s flat and empty now. “do whatever the fuck you want,” you mutter. “i don’t care.” and then you’re gone, the door swinging shut behind you.

the hotel is nice. the girl at the desk doesn’t ask questions when she sees your red eyes and the way your hand shakes when you pull your card out to pay. she just gives you the keycard and a weak smile right before you take the elevator up, in which you stand in silence, trying to soak in everything that has happened between you and subong. then you’re inside the room, thinking about the way he yanked your clothes out of your hands, about how he called you a brat, a bitch, how he looked at you when you said the word junkie, how he shoved his fucking fingers into your temple and slammed the wall inches away from your head. and you cry. you cry because you love him… you love him and you hate him too right now. and you think: how the fuck did i end up here. you used to know him. or you thought you did. and now it’s like every memory is gaslighting you. maybe you imagined the softness and he was always this cruel and you were just too in love to see it. now he’s proving your point in real time—not even an hour after you left, he’s already blowing up your phone with calls and texts, the same petty shit as always.

pick up the fucking phone

tf do u think u are girl

ignoring me

fucking coward

leaving me like this

after everything i’ve done for u

i don’t need u bitch

shoulda fucked someone else when i had the chance

leave me alone

and grow up

u r a selfish bitch

if you’re going to keep insulting me, at least expand your vocabulary!

it’s getting repetitive mf

shut the fuck up

always thinking u r so fuckin smart

istg im gonna fucking overdose

im gonna take all those fucking pills

if u dont answer the phone right tf now

im being fr

n give me my fucking shirt back

bet u r still wearin it rn

no, dw :)

it’s in the trash

yk what

hope it fuckin rots there

just like u

you spend a few days in the hotel, trying not to look at your phone too much. you haven’t told anyone what happened, but you’re already checking flights back, scrolling through the cheapest options to get the fuck out of here, wondering what the hell you’re even supposed to do next. your whole life here was built around him. and now? now you have nothing. subong is still being swallowed whole by whatever pride and rage cocktail he’s been nursing for the past year, and you refuse to speak to him like this. hell no. not when every word out of his mouth is sharpened into a knife and flung at you like it’s your fault he can’t stand the sight of his own reflection. it’s honestly insane, the way he tried to flip everything back on you. as if you hadn’t just caught him red-handed lying to your face, hiding shit, using, doing who knows what the fuck behind your back while you sat at home thinking you were too needy or just too much for him. the fucking audacity. but subong hasn’t given up. he’ll say he has—he’ll run his mouth like he always does, throw out every cruel sentence he can string together, try to convince you and himself that he doesn’t give a fuck. that he’s better off without you. but he’s not fooling anyone, least of all himself. he wants you. he misses you so bad it eats at him, makes his stomach twist and turn, and he’s too much of a coward to say it but it doesn’t make it any less true. he needs you. more than he’s ever needed anyone. he loves and adores you. he talks big, but he’s never had anyone like you. he’s not sure he’s ever lasted this long with someone before. hell, he’s not even sure he’s ever wanted to! you’re the first person who’s made him think about things like future and forever, he used to laugh at people who said they found ‘the one’, rolling his eyes like that shit was a fairytale. now look at him, swallowing all that back… let’s be for real, he even bought a fucking ring. a ring… subong… like what?

and now he can’t stop picturing your packed suitcase and your teary eyes and the way your voice wavered when you told him you were done. that’s all he sees, every time he blinks. he regrets every single fucking thing that came out of his mouth. and that’s saying something, because subong doesn’t usually regret shit. he can’t sleep, can’t eat, can’t write... can’t even jerk off without thinking about you, and that pisses him off more than anything. he knows that if he doesn’t fix this, doesn’t get his shit together, doesn’t do something soon, you’re gonna be on the next flight out of korea and gone for good. and he can’t let that happen. he’s already ruined too much. so he starts moving, because time’s not on his side and every second that goes by feels like it’s dragging you farther and farther away from him. he’s racing the damn clock, fighting against the ticking sound. he needs money, fast. because his career’s in the fucking gutter, his rep is tanking, and he still owes kyungho more than he can count on both hands. he needs to come clean, clear the debt, make you feel safe again—not just with him, but around him, in the space you used to share. that’s the first step. and yet… how the hell is he supposed to make that kind of money in so little time?

he feels so fucking pathetic, slouched over his laptop at some godforsaken hour when even the drunks have gone to sleep, sitting there in the dark with nothing but the blue light burning into his face. he’s typing dumb things like how to make money fast in korea or side hustle ideas, like a teenager who’s maxed out his mom’s credit card and needs to fix it before she wakes up. except he’s not a teenager. he’s a grown-ass man, almost thirty-one already, sitting on a floor covered in dirty clothes and energy drink cans, shirt reeking of sweat and weed, hair greasy, trying to act like he’s got any fucking control left in his life. which he doesn’t. he watches hours of straight trash. clickbait garbage with thumbnails like ‘i made 1 MILLION won in 24 HOURS’ and ‘this changed my LIFE (no scam),’ and every single one of them leads to the same bullshit: a sketchy ass link to a survey that pays you two hundred won (if you’re lucky) and signs you up for spam emails. it’s humiliating. it’s so fucking humiliating. and yet he keeps clicking, because what else is there?

until he sees it. one night, when his brain is fried and his eyes are bloodshot—mg coin. it’s the first video he’s come across that doesn’t look like it was edited by a fourteen-year-old. no fast-talking, no neon thumbnails—just this one guy, smug, sitting in a sleek office and explaining things that subong can barely follow, but it doesn’t matter, because the guy sounds smart. really fucking smart, actually. one video turns into two, then seven, and by the time the sun starts bleeding through the window and his laptop battery’s down to 3%, subong’s fully indoctrinated. mg coin is talking about this new shit—dalmatian, whatever the fuck that means—and he’s saying it’s the next big thing. that now’s the time to invest. and subong? he’s got nothing else to lose. he’s already lost the love of his life, his dignity, and whatever tiny bit of peace he had left. what the fuck’s one more risk? fuck it. he pulls up his bank account, stares at the sad number left, and throws it all in. all of it. and then the unthinkable happens: it works. within a few days, he’s staring at his screen like it’s the second coming of christ. his balance doubled. which gives him enough to finally pay off kyungho and breathe without feeling like someone’s got a fist wrapped around his lungs. for the first time in a long ass while, he doesn’t feel like a complete fucking idiot.

the first step was paying kyungho back. good, he can check that out now. the second step—arguably harder—was texting you. subong waits another full week. not out of pride, but out of pure fear. fear that you won’t answer, or worse, that you will and it won’t be what he wants to hear. but eventually, after pacing the length of the apartment for over thirty minutes, he types it out:

im sorry

i mean it bby

paid everything off

n i been clean

swear on my fuckin life

i know i fucked up baby

but i fixed it

i love u

talk to me señorita

i miss u so fuckin bad

my girl

i didn’t mean to hurt u, u know that

but im gonna change for u

because i want u girl

i only want u

it’s u n me bby

always

please

told u i would make u my wife n i will

pls let me see u

one time

if u hate me after that i’ll fuck off forever

just one time pretty girl

please

god. you really tried not to reply. tried so hard. but the timing of it, the way your chest had already been aching with the weight of him right before his name lit up your screen, made you text him back faster than you meant to. you send him the hotel’s address.

here

but don’t try anything

you’re lucky i even agree to talk to you

because you don’t deserve it

after the way you treated me

u r right baby i dont deserve it

im sorry

sorry isn’t and won’t be enough, let me tell you that subong

i was about to buy a ticket back home

this apology should’ve come sooner

i know

but i didnt wanna come back to u empty handed

i been tryna fix my shit first

and three hours later, there’s a knock on the door. when you open it, he’s standing there, holding flowers—fresh ones, tied together with a ribbon. but it’s his face that gets you, the way his eyes go soft the second they meet yours. you thought you’d feel stronger seeing him again, but you hate how fast your chest fills up with that dumb aching love that refuses to fucking die, no matter how many times he’s stomped on it. subong starts talking the second the door shuts behind him, apologizing profusely. you let him talk, let him trip over himself, because it’s the first time you’ve seen him beg without ego. and suddenly he’s dropping down—knees hitting the hotel’s carpet with a soft thud. his arms wrap around your legs, his forehead presses against your thigh, and then it comes—those broken, shuddering breaths. oh, god... he’s fucking crying. “please,” he says, over and over against you. “please, baby. i’m sorry. i know i fucked up—i know i fucked up so fucking bad. please, i can’t lose you.” you don’t look at him, but your hand finds its way into his hair anyway, and you hate yourself for it. hate how your fingers start brushing through the soft purple strands, slow and shaky, hate how your other hand ends up cradling his cheek like you’re the one trying to comfort him now. you should tell him to get the fuck up and leave and go cry to someone else. but damn, you’d be lying if you said that watching him cry and beg to you like that doesn’t get to you a little. he looks so fucking good… clutching your legs, hands squeezing your left thigh, pressing his face against your hip…

you don’t know how it happens after that. just know that you end up on the bed, lying back against the pillows, your thighs spread open while he’s between them, still on his knees on the floor, mouth buried in you trying to make up for every awful thing he said with the way he licks. you should be telling him he can’t just do this and expect everything to be fine, but your hands are in his hair and your hips are lifting off the bed because your body’s already made its decision for you. subong latches onto your pussy, and he’s sloppy with it too—tongue everywhere, spit and slick all over his chin, both hands holding you down, knowing you’re gonna start squirming the second it gets too much, which you do, always, because subong eats you out so insanely good… and he groans against you like he’s the one getting off. it’s overwhelming—his tongue, his hands gripping your thighs, the fucking look in his eyes when he glances up at you through his lashes… he knows he doesn’t deserve any of this but he’s still gonna take it if you’ll let him. you cum fast, too. with a cry so loud you wouldn’t be surprised if someone calls reception. and he doesn’t stop until you’re grabbing at his hair, voice breaking, from how good it feels and how much you missed it—missed him. “still mine,” he mutters when he finally pulls away, hoarse. he swears he’ll fucking die if you don’t say yes. and god help you—“yes.” you whisper, completely out of breath. “yours.”

the thing about investing—and actually making money off it—is that it gets fucking addictive. especially for someone like subong, who’s always been wired for extremes, who doesn’t really know how to pace himself or think long-term most of the time. so yeah, the moment that first payout hit his account—double what he’d thrown in, just like mg coin said it would—it lit something up inside him. and now, with the high of having you back, and the low of whatever career collapse is brewing beneath him (because let’s be real, losing the battle fucked him, and no one’s calling anymore), he leans deeper into it. dalmatian coin becomes his obsession. he watches mg coin religiously—dude drops a new video and subong’s already clicking on it, nodding along, studying the man like he’s his long-lost big brother—even though, as far as you can tell, subong’s probably older. he trusts him blindly, like an idiot. like a kid. and you notice, of course. you live with him. the amount of money he’s getting is absurd, especially considering the fact that he hasn’t gotten a single call from his manager in ten whole days, hasn’t stepped foot on a stage in over a month, and keeps brushing it off like he doesn’t care. and you can’t help but wonder—how much is he fucking investing?

your concern’s been simmering for a while now… sitting there, in the pit of your stomach and growing heavier at the back of your mind. you’ve been swallowing it, biting your tongue, telling yourself it’s fine because he seems happy again and he’s been good. until one night, when he’s laying in bed with his phone in his hand and mg coin’s voice droning from the speakers like some kind of cult sermon, you say it out loud: “are you sure you know what you’re doing, subong?” he takes a slow drag from his vape, exhales, and tilts his head lazily in your direction. “what do you mean?” you’re by the closet, pulling on an oversized tee, before you sit down at the edge of the bed, facing him. “this crypto thing. you’re putting in more than you’re getting out, aren’t you?” he scoffs, like you just accused him of being bad in bed or something. “baby. you think i’d be makin’ this much money if i didn’t know what the fuck i was doing?” and there it is. that tone. defensive, making you feel stupid for even doubting him. you frown, exhaling through your nose as you shift a little closer to him on the bed, your voice gentler this time. “okay,” you say, carefully. “i’m not—i mean… just…” you glance at the phone still glowing beside him, mg coin’s pixelated face frozen mid-sentence. “just be smart about it, yeah?” “baby,” he says, reaching out to hook a hand around your wrist and tug you gently toward him, “i am being smart. i’ve been learning and doing my research. it’s okay.” you lean in, pressing your sweet lips blissfully against his in a small peck, even though the tension’s still sitting in your chest. “but i’m serious, subong. it’s not like we’ve got a safety net... you’re not performing, you don’t have steady income right now. if this goes south…” he cuts you off before you can finish, peppering kisses along your cheek and jaw. “it won’t, baby.” “you can’t know that.” he continues, kissing your neck before leaning his head on your shoulder, the weight of it warm. “you don’t have to worry, girl. i promise. thanos’ got this.” you nod slowly, but your hands are still curled a little too tight in your lap. “okay.”

‘thanos’ is stupid as fuck, to say the least. for one, your advice flies right over his head. he thinks, what would she know? she’s not the one watching all these videos. she’s worried because she doesn’t understand how this shit works. and he’s money-hungry, always has been—but can you blame him? he’s lived his whole life in straight up poverty, watching his mom beg loan sharks and pray rent wouldn’t go up. so now that he’s finally found a way to make money from the comfort of his couch, by just… clicking buttons? of course he’s gonna chase that shit like a starving dog. saying he’s investing all of his money would be a lie. right… because he’s not just investing his money. he’s investing yours too. your monthly rent payment is going straight into the crypto app, hand in hand with his, every single time. and it keeps working, always doubling. no exceptions. and that steady return finally gives him the excuse he’s been waiting for—the one thing he’s been wanting to do for months now: propose. you would’ve never expected to hear the words “would you marry me, baby?” coming out of his mouth for at least another five years. but there he is, on a random friday morning, down on one knee with a little ring box open in front of you. and you say yes before you even think. the word fiancée tastes strange in your mouth as he stands back up and kisses you, slipping the big fat ring he promised onto your finger.

but of course, subong’s liability strikes again not even three weeks later. he just doesn’t fucking learn, does he? he starts consuming again. little by little. easing his way back in, testing the waters—like he didn’t already almost drown last time. he gets on kyungho’s good side again, somehow, despite all the screaming and threats and close calls they shared when subong was neck-deep in debt. and if you were to ask him why the fuck he’s back on that shit, the answer would be as dumb as it is predictable: he doesn’t fucking know. but he does. oh, he fucking knows. he’s a junkie. like you once told him. he’s an addict who refuses to acknowledge it, refuses to name it, refuses to say it out loud. in his head, it’s anything but what it is: drug addiction. and he won’t ask for help. he won’t even bring it up. not the way his body starts to ache without it, the little voice in his head whispering on repeat: just take it. snort. lick. you’ll feel better. he’s weak. withdrawal always had the upper hand when it came to subong. it always wins. and he finds the dumbest, flimsiest excuses to justify himself to feel a little less guilty for doing this behind your back again, after he promised he wouldn’t. he’s caught in a loop. a loop of lies and guilt, of loving you so much he can’t bear to lose you… but still doing the one thing that already made you leave once.

so imagine his absolute terror when the cryptocurrency proved to be a hoax, and everyone who had invested in it, including himself, lost billions of won when dalmatian's inventors took the money and fled. subong sat there staring at his screen, refreshing the app every two seconds even though the balance wasn’t changing, wasn’t coming back, and wasn’t ever going to. first he felt confusion. then panic. then the realisation that everything he’d put in—his money, your money, your fucking rent—was gone. and all he could think was: how the fuck am i supposed to tell her? that was what made his hands start shaking. because it wasn’t just his fuckup. it was yours too, now. it was your life he’d gambled. your trust, your rent, your future… and you had no idea. on top of that—and the fact that everything would come crashing down the second the monthly payment bounced and you realized the rent hadn’t gone through—he also owed kyungho again. the moment dalmatian tanked, he thought about calling him, in an attempt to hold him over until he figured something out. and the second he thought it, he knew it wouldn’t work. last time, subong got lucky. this time’s different, because this is after he promised he’d never fuck him over again. and knowing kyungho, he wouldn’t be as merciful this time. subong’d always known this was where it was gonna end up, he wasn’t built for stability nor success. he was built to self-destruct.

it’s around 3 a.m. you’re cold, pulling the comforter tighter around you, but it’s not enough to warm you up. you turn over in bed, eyes still closed, scooting toward subong’s side in hopes of stealing a little of his body heat—stretching your arm out lazily, expecting the familiar weight of him sprawled across the sheets. but your hand touches nothing. his side is cold. you frown, still half-asleep, fingers patting around the mattress like maybe he’s just shifted out of reach, hiding somewhere under the blanket. but of course he’s not. you blink slowly, letting your eyes adjust to the dark. “subongie?” you call out, voice a little hoarse. no answer. with a soft groan, you sit up, wrapping the blanket around your shoulders as you climb out of bed. the floor’s cold under your feet and the apartment is quieter than usual. you shuffle to the light switch near the hallway and flick it on—but nothing changes. he’s not home. confused, you grab your phone from the nightstand and send him a quick text:

baby

where are you?

but when ten minutes go by and there’s still no sign of life from him, you decide to call. the number you have dialed is not available at present. please leave your message after the beep, says the robotic voice on the other end, flat and emotionless. your frown deepens as you call again—same outcome. your confusion slowly starts to shift into something heavier. panicked worry creeps up your spine as your brain starts running through a dozen different scenarios, each one worse than the last. what the fuck could subong be doing right now, while you’re sitting here on the couch with your heart in your throat? the first thing that crosses your mind is the same thing it’s always been—he’s being unfaithful. it’s not exactly new. that ugly, gut-rotting thought has circled your head for months, especially on the nights he’d disappear into the studio for hours. and it hasn’t changed, it’s still the first thing you think. is he with someone else? but then you shake your head. he wouldn’t be that fucking stupid. right? he wouldn’t throw all of this away just to fuck around. you’re not just dating anymore, you’re literally engaged. you have a ring on your finger. so you try to push that thought out. discard it—reluctantly and bitterly—trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. so there goes your second thought: maybe he’s using again. and you don’t even know which is worse. but what you do know is that you can’t stay here. you’re not gonna let whatever’s happening keep happening while you do nothing. you’re not gonna let him make a fool out of you for a second time.

you feel kind of stupid, honestly. standing outside club pentagon, shivering in your hoodie while you stare at the neon sign. it’s the only place you could think of. the only place that made sense. not because he told you, obviously, but because months ago, when those guys showed up knocking—no, banging—on your door, demanding money and scaring the shit out you, one of them mentioned this place. and it stuck. you’re not even sure this is the right club, though, but you’re still here, trying not to overthink how out of place you look, since everyone outside is in heels and tight clothes. still, when you approach the bouncer and explain—tell him you’re looking for your fiancée, show him your phone with the lockscreen photo of you and subong—he lets you in. “ah. thanos,” he nods. “he’s inside.” the confirmation makes your stomach drop and settle all at once. like, okay. at least he’s alive.

inside, the club is loud as fuck and everything’s flashing. you squint, trying to adjust as you push through the crowd like a baby deer on ice, getting shoved around from all sides by strangers who don’t even glance your way. he should be easy to spot, you think, heart pounding. not many people have purple hair. and he’s very tall. but even with that advantage, you don’t see him. you head toward the bar and approach the first guy behind the counter. “hey, sorry—” “i’m not bartending,” he says with a thick accent, without even looking up. you pause. read the name tag ‘namgyu’. “promoter. talk to him if you’re thirsty.” he adds, gesturing toward another guy without much interest. “no, i—i’m not here for a drink,” you say, pulling your phone out again and flipping it toward him. “have you seen this guy?” he looks. he recognizes him instantly, you can tell. his expression tightens, just for a second, brows furrowing slightly like he’s trying to figure out what this is. maybe why you’re here asking. maybe whether he should even answer. after a bit of coaxing, he sighs and gives in. “he went out the back a while ago. to smoke with friends.” your stomach drops. friends. right. you nod. “thanks.” your pulse is in your ears now. and as you push your way through the crowd again, one hand gripping your phone and the other shoving bodies aside, you already know—before you even reach the door—that something’s gone very, very wrong.

the cold bites at your skin again as you push the back door open and step outside, straight into the stillness of the alley. the air stings when you breathe it in. and nothing prepares you for what you see just a few feet away, at the very end of the alley, almost swallowed by the shadows—if it wasn’t for the sad little flickering streetlight barely hanging on, you might not have noticed him at all. subong. on the ground. you can’t really see his face—not his body, even—but you recognize the sneakers. they stick out just slightly from under a wall of bodies, a group of men surrounding him like fucking vultures. they’re stomping on him, over and over. one of them steps on his hand with his full weight, twisting his foot, testing how much pressure it takes to snap something, while another one drives his heel straight into subong’s ribs, again and again. there’s no hesitation in their movements, just pure, relentless violence. someone spits on him between kicks which makes another one laugh, this dry, joyless sound that scrapes down your back. and all you can really see is the way subong’s body jerks each time they land another blow, the way his legs twitch even though he’s already out cold. “subong,” you whisper, frozen in place, blood draining from your face all at once. your feet take off, each step heavier than the last, everything inside you tightening up. your chest starts to close in on itself, lungs shrinking with every breath until you can barely even get air in. “subong!” you scream this time. the first sob rips out of you without warning, panic settling in. you reach them fast, shoving the closest guy with everything you have. “get off him—what the fuck are you doing?!” they step back, amused. they were already done, and you showing up is just a mildly inconvenient. they say something you don’t understand but don’t need to—because whatever it is, it makes the others smirk as they start to walk away.

you see it then. his face. or what’s left of it. completely covered in blood, eyes swollen shut, skin split open in so many places you can’t even tell what’s dried and what’s fresh, what’s his real face and what’s just bruising and torn flesh layered on top of it. you drop to your knees without thinking, arms trembling as you lift his head from the concrete and pull it onto your lap, staining your clothes instantly, the warmth of his blood soaking through the fabric like ink. and you don’t even care, can’t bring yourself to care, because all you can think is this isn’t real, this can’t be fucking real, this can’t be happening. “subong,” you whisper, shaking him gently, your voice breaking. he doesn’t respond. not even a sound. his lips are parted slightly, but nothing comes out, and it’s the quiet that terrifies you the most. you start crying harder before leaning in closer, bringing your ear to his face, trying to listen for any hint of breath, anything at all, but it’s useless. you can’t hear anything. your ears are ringing and your heartbeat is pounding too loud to be sure. “no,” you whisper. “no, no, no, no.” your voice is shaking now, your mouth barely able to form the words. “baby, please—” you fumble for his wrist, grabbing at his arm with shaking fingers, pressing down where his pulse is supposed to be, where you hope it still is, but there’s nothing. nothing under your touch, just cold skin and the terrifying sense that you’re already too late. “subong!” you yell, like screaming might reach him wherever the fuck he’s drifted off to. “fuck—don’t fucking die on me, you idiot! please—just hold on, okay? please, don’t do this to me, don’t—” your eyes dart to his hand and that’s when you see his fingers. bent at unnatural angles, knuckles swollen and split, two of them so clearly broken it makes your stomach turn. they don’t even look like fingers anymore. and the sight of them, already starting to purple, makes your throat tighten even more. “help! someone help—please!” you reach for his neck next, your fingers slipping on his skin and pressing into the side where his pulse should be, and for a second you feel nothing… but then, there it is—the smallest flutter beneath your fingertips. the relief that hits you is so immediate you choke out a sob. your hands shake as you scramble for your phone, pulling it out with fingers soaked in red, the screen smudging immediately, slippery under your touch as you punch in the emergency number with all the desperation in the world and hit call. and while it rings, you look down at him and say, “stay with me, okay? i-i got you, i’m right here—you’re gonna be okay, baby.”

it’s been three days of subong being unconscious in the hospital when you find out the truth. you haven’t left his side. barely moved, really—just shifted from chair to chair. you’ve been watching the same slow drip of fluids into his arm for hours, watching machines beep and blink and stay steady while he does absolutely nothing, not a flinch, not a shift, not even the twitch of a finger. they’d stitched up most of his face and wrapped his hand so tightly you can’t see the fingers underneath. but he hasn’t opened his eyes. so when a nurse taps lightly on the doorframe and says billing would like to speak with you whenever you have a moment, you nod without really thinking about it, it’s probably just paperwork, something you can sign and walk away from. they lead you into a small office. the woman behind the desk is polite, middle-aged, tapping at her tablet when you walk in. you sit down across from her, and she gets right to the point. “are you a spouse or immediate family member?” “fiancée,” you answer. “okay,” she nods. “we’ve been trying to process the patient’s insurance but the information we had on file was incomplete, and there was no active policy under his name. sometimes these things lapse, or people forget to update their records. we see it a lot. we also tried the emergency contact, but the number doesn’t seem to be in service anymore.” you just stare at her. “normally in these cases we’d discuss payment options directly with the patient, but given his current condition…” she trails off, tilting her head gently, like she’s trying to be considerate. “are you aware of any prior hospital visits? or outstanding balances tied to his name?” you shake your head. “no, i—i don’t know. he never said anything.” “mmh.” she nods again, eyes glued to the tablet. “there’s no outstanding balance under his name,” she says, “no history of extended stays or billed treatment. but… there was one incident.” she scrolls, finds something, then stops tapping. the pause says enough. “it’s from about a month ago. not an official admission, more of a flagged intake. he came into the er alone, walked up to the desk and gave his name, said something about heart palpitations and chest pain. he wouldn’t give id, but they got his name down in triage.” “he—he what?” “the nurse on shift noted that he was visibly under the influence. possible opioids, though we can’t confirm—we didn’t get far enough for a tox screen. he refused treatment, got agitated when asked to sit down. started yelling. the staff tried to calm him, but he escalated quickly… so security was called and he was escorted out before we could assess him.” you’re in shock. you thought he was doing better. you believed he was doing better. and yet here it is, clear as day, handed to you by a stranger… the fucking proof that everything he swore to you was a lie. again. “there’s nothing else on record,” she adds gently. “but i thought you’d want to know.” you nod, unsure of what to say. “you’re listed as the emergency contact now, since you’re the one who brought him here. we updated the file.” “okay.”

you’re waiting for subong’s sister to arrive on the fourth day. she’s been living out of the country for the past year, based in atlanta for work, and the two of you have only met in person twice… but she was always kind to you. and when you called her that night, explaining haltingly through your tears what happened, the words unconscious and hospital tumbling out—she booked the next flight to seoul. she also promised to talk to their mom, which was a relief, because you’d tried, god knows you’d tried, but the language barrier between you and her made everything harder. to pass time while you wait for his sister to land, you leave the hospital room for the first time in hours, telling yourself you just need coffee. you feel too many things at once—anger, mostly. but also this deep, gnawing sadness. you’re mad at him, yes, at subong, for lying, for hiding, for doing all the shit he swore he wouldn’t do again. but you’re also mad at yourself, for being so blind. for trusting too easily. for loving him so much that you let it all slide, and now he’s lying here with a swollen face and broken bones and tubes coming out of his skin. you sigh through your nose, the sound sharp in the empty hallway as you make your way back to the room, clutching the vending machine coffee hoping it scalds some clarity into you. the chair squeaks in protest as you sit down again, your bones aching from the fourth sleepless night in a row, your back ready to file a complaint. you mutter under your breath, “these fucking chairs are gonna kill me,” and you’re mid eyeroll when his phone starts ringing on the nightstand beside the bed.

it’s the first sound that’s come from it in days, and it jolts you upright. you glance at the screen, and your first instinct is to let it go to voicemail, but something about it nags at you, so you end up reaching for it. you press answer and lift it to your ear. “hello?” you say, unsure, cradling the phone between your shoulder and your ear as you reach for the edge of the nightstand to steady yourself. there’s a voice on the other end immediately, polite, but it’s in korean. you blink, startled. “oh—sorry, um… i don’t… i don’t understand korean very well,” you mumble. “i’m—i’m subong’s fiancée.” there’s a pause, then the voice switches languages. “ah, miss, thank you for picking up,” they say, now in accented but clear english. “we’ve been trying to get in contact with mr. choi regarding a pending matter tied to his housing account. is this a good time to speak?” you glance at his motionless body in the bed. “he’s—he can’t come to the phone right now. he’s in the hospital.” “oh.” another pause. “i’m sorry to hear that. we don’t mean to intrude. it’s just—we’ve issued multiple notices regarding the delinquency on unit 302, but we haven’t been able to reach anyone. this is our last courtesy call before further action is taken.” what? “delinquency?” you echo dumbly, your voice cautious. “i—i don’t understand. i sent the rent money. i always do. i send it to him, and he’s supposed to… he’s the one who handles it because it’s under his name, but—” “i understand,” the person says gently. “we’re not authorized to go into too much detail with anyone not on the lease, but we do have records of the unit going unpaid for the past two months. there’s no automatic withdrawal on file, and the last successful rent payment was processed… let me check… mid-february.” you press the phone tighter to your ear. “what—are you sure? two months?” “yes. we’ve also flagged unusual financial activity linked to the bank account on file… repeated large withdrawals routed to external cryptocurrency platforms. unfortunately, at this point, the account is severely delinquent.” what the actual fuck? “thank you,” you manage. “thanks for calling, i… i need a second.” you hang up.

you’ve avoided doing this so far because it felt invasive. you told yourself that you’d respect his privacy, that you were above snooping, that he’d tell you everything when he woke up. but now? fuck that. you unlock his phone and swipe through the home screen, and there it is—the crypto investment app. you tap it and it loads painfully slow, as if the phone itself is reluctant to show you what you’re about to see. and then the number appears in aggressive, glowing red: -₩1,190,000,000. you blink. for a second you think you’re reading it wrong, that maybe the comma’s in the wrong place or the negative sign is a formatting error or some stupid bug, maybe an update broke the display. but then the rest of the interface fills in, the full dashboard sliding into view, and you see the red line charting the value of the account: a steep, violent drop. a billion. more than a billion. in debt. actual, contractual, inescapable fucking debt. you scroll. the app’s cheerful ux design makes it worse somehow, and in small gray text, a disclaimer bar you almost miss: ‘dalmatian coin has been delisted. trading permanently suspended. please consult your issuing financial institution for debt reconciliation.’ your hand clenches the phone tighter just as you find the transaction history. the first thing you notice is the consistency. it’s sickening, how routine it is—subong sat down every month, probably around the same time you were wiring him the money for rent, and opened this exact app like it was his job. the entries start small, from when you two had broken up. neat rows of numbers: ₩50,000, ₩120,000, ₩340,000, all spaced out like he was dipping his toe in. and then, without warning, the amounts spike. ₩3 million. ₩7.2 million. ₩12 million. the pattern’s still there, but now it’s frantic. an addict pressing the same button over and over. you keep scrolling, your thumb shaking but steady enough to keep going. there are dozens of entries. all of them marked with the same exchange ID, the same nauseating little dalmatian coin logo next to each transfer. then your rent—clear as fucking day. same amount you send every month, logged here like it was nothing. all of that, he was using it to gamble. without telling you.

your thumb hovers over the last transaction, the one that pushed the account into the red. the screen says it was processed successfully. and then the collapse. you almost laugh. it bubbles up in your throat but never makes it out, just sits there, acidic and mean, curling around your vocal cords. your hands are trembling now, in disgust and disbelief. you have no idea how long you sit there staring at the screen, but when you finally look up—at him, lying unconscious, bruised, stitched-up and impossibly still—it’s like you’re looking at a stranger. how could he? how dare he? you need to sit down. your legs are shaking, barely holding you up, and your vision goes blurry for a second under the nauseating, unbearable weight of the truth. what the fuck was he thinking? you sink into a chair, retracing everything in your mind—every time he brushed off your concern with a kiss like you were overthinking and he had it handled. how could he do this to you?

you’re tired of the lies, of the blind trust you keep giving him like it doesn’t cost you anything, of the way love has become synonymous with anxiety in your body. it wasn’t always like this. there was a time when loving subong felt like the easiest thing in the world… but now it just feels bitter and corrosive. you never noticed when it started to curdle—when sweetness became suspicion, when comfort turned into dread—but it’s there now, undeniable, clinging to every part of your life with him. you sit there, the phone still in your palm, and all you can think is that this love, whatever’s left of it, is sour. spoiled by every broken promise, every little thing he did behind your back, every time he looked you in the eye and chose to lie anyway. and the worst part is that you can’t even summon rage anymore, just this miserable resignation. you wanted to believe he’d changed, you needed to. but now all that belief feels like another kind of foolishness, like you were complicit in your own undoing. and maybe you were. perhaps that’s what love does, when it sours—it asks you to keep holding it, even as it poisons you.

the ring is beautiful. obscenely so. you hold it between your fingers, the metal cool against your skin. it’s mocking me, you think. it knows i swore i’d be his forever, when he slipped it on my hand that friday morning. you keep rolling it between your thumb and index finger, watching how the light catches on the stone, glinting. you haven’t put it back on and you’re not sure you ever will. his sister didn’t stay long the night before. barely an hour after she arrived, you told her what you’d found, the full rot of it, all that debt and deception and cowardice packed into numbers. she left without saying much, just mumbled something about going to their mother’s, about needing to fix this before it gets worse. but you know better. you know there is no fixing this. this isn’t a mistake, it’s a pattern. and you’re tired of pretending it isn’t.

he’s awake now. the nurses crowded him, checking vitals, adjusting lines, poking and prodding his body. they asked you to step out while they did their work, and you did, without argument. there’s no desperate need to stay by his side anymore, no aching urgency to be the first thing he sees when his eyes open, because you’ve already made your decision. when they allow you back inside, he lifts his head the second he sees you—sluggish, but the warmth is there, that familiar flicker in his eyes that used to undo you so easily. “hey, señorita,” he rasps. “you stayed.” “mmh.” you nod. that’s all you give him. just a nod, and the chair scraping softly as you pull it closer and sit. he doesn’t seem to notice it at first, how your presence no longer leans toward him like it used to. instead, you sit with your hands in your lap, folded neatly. subong smiles, probably thinking this is the part where you cry with relief or crawl into the bed beside him or at the very least, kiss him and whisper that it’s over now, that he’s safe, that everything’s going to be okay. but you don’t move. “how long?” he asks after a beat, blinking up at the ceiling before dragging his eyes back to you. “how long was i out?” “four days.” he whistles softly, or tries to—it comes out more like a wheeze. “shit. that long?” “yes.” he shifts slightly, winces at the pain. “did… did you call my mom?” “i tried to… then i called your sister. she came, but left yesterday to see your mom. she’ll be back.” his eyebrows pull slightly, and you can tell he’s trying to figure out what’s off, why your voice sounds different. “you okay, baby?” your eyes trace the bruises on his face before you ask, “are you?” and the way it comes out—almost rhetorical—makes something flicker in his expression. he’s starting to get it.

he clears his throat, shifts again, and you can see the way it costs him. “look, if this is about… i mean, if you figured it out, the reason they came after me, why it got that bad, it’s not—” he pauses, because the words are heavy in his mouth. “i wasn’t doing that shit regularly. i swear. just—it was getting hard to sleep, baby, and i didn’t want to worry you so, you know, i thought if i just—” “subong.” he stops, mid-ramble. his eyes search yours, desperate to find something soft in them—some familiar flash of tenderness, or even pity. but there’s nothing. “you don’t need to explain,” you say. “it won’t change anything.” he opens his mouth again anyway, because he doesn’t know how not to try, not when it’s you. “no, no, baby—you gotta believe me. i was gonna tell you, but i—” he sees it mid-sentence. his voice falters, crumbles into silence as his gaze drops to your hand. “wha—where’s your ring?” you glance down at your hand, where it used to sit. for a second, you almost lie. almost tell him it’s at home, that you took it off to shower and it’s safe somewhere. but you don’t. you just say, “off.” his face twists in disbelief. “off? what you mean ‘off’?” you shrug. “it didn’t make sense to wear it anymore.” he lets out this breath, something pitiful lodged in the back of his throat. “so that’s it?” he says, and there’s this sharp edge creeping into his voice now, brittle and defensive. “why? because i messed up again? because you found out before i could explain anything? jesus, baby—” you would slap him across the face right now if it wasn’t so bruised already. “when?” you ask, your voice almost gentle in its cruelty. “when were you going to tell me you were in fucking debt, subong?” shit. he freezes—the question catching him off guard completely. all you can hear is the steady beep of the heart monitor behind him, stubbornly unfazed by the absolute wreckage of the moment. “what?” he says, but he already knows what. “1.19 billion won,” you answer, enunciating each syllable. “and you didn’t just lose your own money… you used mine. every transfer i made for rent.” his face drains of whatever color it had left. you don’t know if it’s the shock, the shame, or the weight of getting caught.

but then there it is. that same infuriating, jerk attitude you’ve seen too many times before. the one that shows up whenever he feels small, cornered, like a child trying to puff out his chest and pretend he’s not the guilty one. “okay, and?” he scoffs, all false bravado, even from that goddamn hospital bed with his face torn up and a fucking iv sticking out of his arm. “you sent it to me, didn’t you? you wanted me to handle it. so why’re you going through my shit?” he mutters, like that’s the offense here. “what, you think you’re entitled to every fucking thing just ‘cause you sent me money?” you just stare at him, stunned. not because of what he said, but because of course that’s where he’d go. deflection, arrogance and pride. “are you serious? you lied to me, subong. again!” he shifts upright in the bed with a groan, eyes flaring. “i was tryna fix it, okay? for us. so we wouldn’t have to worry about shit anymore once we get married. i didn’t know th—” “you told me the bills were paid—” “i didn’t wanna stress you out,” he counters, eyes darting toward the blanket. “don’t say that like you were doing me a fucking favor. you didn’t want me to know because you knew exactly what the fuck you were doing.” “baby, c’mon—” “don’t,” you say, quick and clean, the word slicing through whatever lie he was about to conjure. “save it.”

you stand slowly, smoothing your hands down the front of your jeans. his voice turns softer, trying to course-correct. “you’re mad… i-i get it. but you’re not really gonna throw everything away over this, are you? i fucking love you, girl. you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. my fucking future wife and mother of my babies. please, we—we’ll get out of this. we could… i don’t know. i don’t know, but i promise—” you shake your head. he still doesn’t get it. “stop making fucking promises. i don’t believe you anymore… and i’m certainly not marrying you.” his jaw goes slack. “the fuck you mean you’re not—” “i mean i can’t do this anymore, subong,” you cut in, your tone unflinching. “i can’t keep loving someone who lies to me constantly. who uses me, drains me, breaks me, and isn’t even sorry.” “i am. i am sorry—i am, baby,” he insists, struggling to sit up straighter in the bed despite the groan it pulls from his body. “no, you’re not. you’re sorry you got caught. that’s not the same thing.” “you think i knew they were gonna fucking scam me? that i knew it was fake? they lied, not me. they took the money and ran. i’m the one who got fucked over here—” “no,” you snap, feeling the fury start to push past the exhaustion, slicing through the ache in your chest like glass through gauze. “you got fucked over because you’re a fucking idiot, subong.” his mouth opens, about to throw something back at you, but you don’t stop. “i told you to be careful. i told you to think before doing anything stupid—do you remember that? you didn’t listen! you never fucking listen. and now you want me to feel sorry for you? like this wasn’t your own fucking fault?” “i just wanted to give us a better life. i didn’t mean to—” “you never mean to! you never mean to hurt me. but you do it anyway, over and over. and then you sit there and act like it’s the universe conspiring against you, like you’re just the poor, misunderstood victim who can’t catch fucking a break.” you swallow hard. “but you made this mess. you did this. you.”

his eyes go wide when you reach into your pocket and pull out the ring. you hold it for a second in your palm. it means nothing now. just a pretty, glittering promise that never had a fucking chance. you hold it out to him. “take it.” he flinches. “what the fuck are you doing?” “what does it look like?” your voice is calm, and it makes him angrier. “i’m giving it back.” “no.” he shakes his head, the wires at his wrist pulling tight when he tries to push your hand down. “no, fuck that! i’m not taking it. you’re not—you can’t just leave because shit got hard—” “this isn’t just hard, subong. it’s toxic!” “i’m in a fucking hospital bed!” he snaps, like that’s the only context that matters. “you think i don’t know i fucked up? you think i don’t feel like shit already? and now you wanna leave? now?! what kind of fucking person does that?!” you clench your jaw. “what kind of person does that? you’re really asking? be so fucking for real!” he throws his arms out, desperate. “what? look at me, girl!” he gestures. “and you wanna fucking abandon me!“ “stop trying to make me feel guilty,” you hiss. “you’re the one who lied and stole, and gambled away the fucking roof over our heads.” “and you wanna fucking leave me after i almost died! that’s some next level heartless shit, bro!” “you almost died because of you,” you bite back. “because you chose to keep getting involved with those people.” “that’s not—” he starts, defensive, already gearing up to twist the narrative again. “i thought you were dead when i found you,” you continue. “do you even get what that means, subong? do you? i had to check your neck and wrist for a pulse, with your blood on my hands, and there was nothing. you weren’t breathing. your head was in my lap, and you were just… gone. and in that second, i swear to god, i thought i was gonna have to watch you die. and i was there, wondering who i’d have to call first—your family or a fucking funeral home! do you know what that does to someone?” you fight back tears. “to stand over the body of the person you love and think: this is it. this is how it fucking ends. and i know it’s gonna happen again. one day… one day it’ll be real, and you’ll be fucking dead for good. because you don’t care about your life, subong. so tell me… why the fuck should i?” he stares at you, breathing heavy, but there’s no apology in his eyes. just the selfish kind of panic that only cares about what he’s losing, not what he’s done. “you said you’d never leave me. you said—” “and you said you’d stop lying,” you snap. “that you’d never do drugs again. you said so many things, subong… so keep it.” you shove the ring into his hand, even as he fumbles to force it back into yours. “sell it, pawn it, melt it down and invest in another scam for all i fucking care. just don’t ever speak to me again. it’s over.”

subong, in all his deluded hope and terminal denial, convinced himself that it wasn’t really over. that after the heat of your anger wore off, you’d remember how much you loved him. he told himself it was just a matter of time, weeks at most. that you’d remember who you were to each other. and that no matter how bad it got, you’d still choose him. but reality hits hard the moment he tries to message you and realizes he’s been blocked. everywhere. and that’s when it sinks in—that you meant every single word. the rage that comes next is something new. he wants so badly to blame you and curse your name, call you heartless for how you left him when he needed you most. but no matter how hard he tries to twist the story, the truth keeps bleeding through. because even through the haze of anger and self-pity, he knows. he knows this is what happens when you treat the one person who gave a shit about you like he did. he knows you walked away because you had no choice, not because you stopped loving him, but because loving him had become impossible. and he hates you for that now, in the same exact way he still loves you. he hates that you’re right. that he’s every bit the coward and the liar you accused him of being.

he should’ve learned. everyone would expect that a man who nearly died in a back alley, would use that as a wake-up call, get clean and seek help to try to find his way back into something like dignity. but not him. no, every time subong says he’s ‘fixing it,’ what he really means is that he’s finding new ways to bury the damage deeper. he’s still taking pills, and now that he’s got nowhere to go—not after his mother shut the door in his face, and after losing you and the apartment—he crashes on friends’ couches. it’s never been clearer. he ruined it. all of it.

so after months of living in unrelenting misery, trapped in guilt and shame, with no hint of light at the end of the tunnel… subong’s mind starts circling darker and darker thoughts, until it lands, almost comfortingly, on the idea of ending everything once and for all. because really, who would miss him? who would cry for him? his mother won’t even speak to him, his sister’s too tired, and you… shit. he’s the only one missing people. missing you. missing himself. and every single day that goes by without hearing your voice the world feels colder. he’s tried to reach you through burner accounts, through friends, through songs you’ll never hear. but you’re gone. not just physically—though he knows, somehow, you went back to your country—but in the way that matters most. you’re out of his life. and you’re not coming back.

that’s why, one night, when the weight of it all finally sinks so deep he can’t shake it off… he walks to the han river. the same place where you spent one of your first nights together, laughing like idiots with convenience store snacks and nothing but stars overhead. now he’s alone. crying and high out of his mind as he starts climbing up onto the rail of the bridge. and as he stares down at the water, thinking of how quiet everything would be if he just fucking let go, a shadow falls over him. a man in a black suit. subong blinks, dazed. someone’s come to do the job for me, he thinks. he must be a debt collector. “yo, back the fuck off, man. i swear to god if you try anything—” but no. the man smiles, kindly, and says, “sir… do you have a minute?” “the fuck you want?” subong spits, voice slurring from both the cold and the chemicals still in his blood. “can’t you see i’m fucking busy, bro?” the man tilts his head, stepping a little closer. “would you like to play a game with me?” subong squints at him, trying to see if he’s hallucinating. “yo, are you deaf?” he snaps, the wind catching his voice. “i said fuck off, man. i’m not in the mood to buy your religion shit or whatever the fuck this is.” the guy reaches into his sleek black briefcase, as if they’re in some kind of business meeting instead of standing ten steps away from a very public suicide attempt. he pulls out two square pieces of paper—one red, one blue—and holds them out. “ddakji. play with me,” he says, “each time you win, i’ll give you 100,000 won.” subong scoffs, shoulders twitching with disbelief. “nah. fuck no. you think i’m stupid? you think i’m falling for that shit again? you got the wrong guy, man. i’m not gonna fucking—” subong’s words die in his throat when his eyes land on the banded bills packed tight inside the briefcase. he stares at the money, at the wind lifting the edge of one of the bills and making it flutter gently. “play with me,” the man repeats. “each time you win, i’ll give you 100,000 won.” subong laughs bitterly. “yeah? and what, you gonna fucking tax me if i lose?” the man’s smile widens a fraction. “if you lose… you pay me 100,000 won.” “what the—i’m fucking broke.” subong’s snaps, frustrated. “i don’t have shit to give you, man. what, you gonna take a kidney? my shoes? fuck off.” “you’ll find a way. people always do.” who the fuck is this dude? subong’s eyes flick down to the money again. he hasn’t seen that much cash in years. it’s probably more than he ever had even at the peak of his fake crypto high. he licks his lips, teeth grinding. “one round,” he mutters. “and i’m not paying shit if you cheat.” the man nods once, that same eerie, collected expression never slipping. “one round.”

can you guys tell i wrote half of this while sleep deprived and drowning in uni work?💀 anyway, this was so long i nearly gave up multiple times. i even had to cut a few scenes because it was getting way too long (and honestly, it still is). but i hope you enjoyed it!💗 (idk, but i feel like if you made it this far, we should kiss rn… just a thought)

regular taglist: @kaerasti49 @breakmeoff @sherrayyyyy @infinetlyforgotten @bettelaboure @scream-queen-25 @flwerangii @sherxoo @isssaaaa2111

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#war is over yall #squid game #thanos imagine #thanos x reader #thanos squid game #thanos fanfic #thanos smut #thanos #choi su bong imagine #choi su bong x reader #choi subong x reader #choi su bong #t.o.p bigbang #squid game smut #squid game 2 #squid game s2

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