#and it feels like december is gonna be more of the same | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hoshifighting · 18 days ago

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Salt, Sugar and Everything Us

Synopsis: What do you get when the guy who literally threw salt in your dessert during a Michelin star competition 11 years ago, waltzes up to the door of your NGO like he didn’t ruin your entire life plan back in the day?

WC: 22k

WARNINGS: jihoon and children to heal our souls <3, angst, fluff, references to professional betrayal and its lingering effects, throwing up due to emotional discomfort, moments that may bring up past trauma especially related to rejection or failure, power imbalance.

SMUT WARNINGS: explicit language, penetrative sex, fingering, orgasm denial, overstimulation, semi-public setting, mutual desperation, body fluids (cum)

Manoir = Mansion in french.

NGO = Nonprofit organization that operates independently of any government.

Monsieur = Sir

— // December 2013 // —

You’re standing in the kitchen, staring at the bright lights overhead, your heart pounding so hard you swear it’s echoing off the marble countertops. The smell of sugar and chocolate floats in the air. You glance over at Jihoon, who’s methodically working on his plate. There’s no denying the guy’s a genius, but damn, does he have to be such an ass about it?

You flash him a shy smile—just a small one. Yeah, it’s a competition, and yeah, only one of you is gonna win and run the four Michelin-star restaurant in Switzerland—the prize of the contest. But like, after this, you’ll still all be chefs. You’ll still work together. You’d all end up in the same world soon enough, working in the same circles, maybe even crossing paths in some fancy kitchen.

Nothing. He doesn’t even look your way.

Fred, the tutor-slash-guardian angel for this trip, the one who dragged you halfway across the world to this kitchen in Europe, warned you. “Jihoon’s tutor hates you,” he had said, voice low like he was telling you some big secret. “It’s ‘cause you’re the only one who can match him. Maybe even beat him.” He had laughed, but it didn’t feel like a joke.

You shake your head and focus on your dessert. Your mousse sits on the plate, the top glistening perfectly under the lights, just the right amount of shine. The swirl of raspberry coulis looks like something out of a cooking magazine. You’re proud of it. Hell, you’re damn proud of it. You step back to admire it, and even the renowned chef standing in front of you—some big-shot Michelin-star guy whose name you can’t even pronounce—gives you a smile. But not a friendly one. More like a don’t get too cocky kind of smile.

And then he tastes it.

His face shifts so fast, your stomach drops. One second, he’s blank, and the next, he’s frowning, like really frowning, staring down at the plate like it face-to-face harmed him. He spits it out, not dramatically, just like he doesn’t wanna cause a scene. The whole kitchen goes quiet. Even the sound of knives chopping stops. You feel the heat crawling up your neck, spreading across your cheeks.

This can’t be happening.

“Did you taste this before serving it?” His voice cuts through the silence like a knife.

Your throat is dry. You swallow, shaking your head slowly. “Uh… no, I—”

“Taste it,” he snaps, holding the spoon out toward you.

Your hands shake as you take the spoon, and before you can think twice, you taste it. The second it hits your tongue, you freeze.

Salt. Way too much salt.

It’s fucking disgusting.

You almost gag, but you force yourself to swallow, blinking fast as your brain tries to process what the hell just happened.

You glance over at Jihoon. He’s standing there, completely expressionless, not even pretending to be interested in the drama unfolding. But you remember. You remember when you left the mousse to rest, just for a minute, and Jihoon had passed by your station. Just a quick brush past, nothing suspicious. Nothing out of place.

Except now, all you can taste is salt.

The chef crosses his arms, still staring at you like he’s waiting for an explanation. You open your mouth, but no words come out. What are you supposed to say? That Jihoon sabotaged your dessert? That you think he did? You glance at him again, and for a split second, his eyes meet yours, and there’s the tiniest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Just enough for you to see, before it’s gone.

“Do you have anything to say?” the chef asks, his tone icy.

You swallow again, shaking your head. “No, chef.”

This is it. The final round. Eliminatory. And you’re standing here with a plate of salted mousse because you trusted the wrong person for one damn second. You close your eyes for a brief moment, taking in a breath. You can feel the tension rolling off everyone in the room, and it takes everything in you not to scream.

You watch the chef walk over to Jihoon’s station, his expression already softening. Jihoon’s smiling now—this smug, self-assured grin plastered across his face as if he hadn’t just screwed you over minutes ago. His dessert does look good, though. Annoyingly good. Neat, precise, and probably just sweet enough to charm the hell out of the chef.

The chef takes a bite, nodding as if Jihoon’s dessert just confirmed every expectation. Then, just like that, he moves on, walking away without a second glance at you.

[...]

“Y/N, you’re eliminated. Please leave your apron on the station.”

The words slam into you like a punch, and your stomach twists. You don’t even know how you manage to stay upright, every muscle screaming at you to just collapse. You hear the gasps from the others behind you—your friends, competitors, but friends nonetheless—just as shocked as you are.

“What the fuck?” someone mutters.

“There’s no way…” another voice says, incredulous.

You don’t even turn around. You can’t. Instead, you glance at Fred in the back, your lifeline in this whole chaotic mess. He’s shaking his head, this look of defeat in his eyes that he’s trying so hard to hide. Like even he knew it was over the second Jihoon pulled that bullshit with your dessert.

Fred mouths, That’s it. Let’s go. But his sad eyes tell you everything you need to know. It wasn’t fair. And he knew it. You both knew it.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you force yourself to walk up to the chef. Your hands are shaking, and you clench your fists, trying to keep it together as you shake his hand. He’s stiff, formal, but you can’t help but notice the faint hint of pity in his eyes.

You avoid it.

When you turn back to your station, the weight of the moment crashes down on you. The stupid fucking apron you worked so hard to wear now feels like it’s burning a hole in your chest. As you reach up to untie it, your chin starts to quiver. You fight it—God, you fight it so hard—but the tears are already pooling in your eyes. This is it. The dream…gone.

Because of salt. Fucking salt.

You fold the apron, mechanical, like maybe if you take your time, this won’t feel so real. But it is. The apron sits on the counter in front of you, this symbol of everything you’ve lost, and you walk away before anyone can see you break.

As soon as you’re backstage, the tears come. Hot and heavy, spilling down your cheeks as you crumble into the arms of one of the friends you’d made here. They’re hugging you tight, whispering things like, “It’s not fair, you didn’t deserve this,” and “You were so close.” Their voice cracks too, sad that they didn’t win either, but it’s different for them. They weren’t robbed. They were sure you had it in the bag.

And then, after what feels like hours, you spot Jihoon again, his face glowing under the lights, a damn set of keys in his hand. The keys to the restaurant. Your restaurant. It should’ve been yours.

You blink through your tears, watching as he basks in the victory. Nothing, absolutely nothing, can take this sting away. This moment is etched into your brain, and you’re certain you’ll never forget it. No matter how much time passes, nothing will make you recover from this.

Leaving Europe had felt like defeat. It wasn’t just a loss on some cooking show—it was like watching a dream you’d nurtured since you were a kid slowly crumple and fade. Back then, you were so young, so full of ambition that your heart couldn’t even contain it all. Every time you thought of that moment, standing in that bright, sterile kitchen as Jihoon held those damn restaurant keys, it was like hearing your inner child sobbing hurtfully inside your eardrums. And that hurt more than you ever expected.

For the longest time, it felt like nothing could fill the void that salty mousse had left behind.

— // A decade later // —

But life has this weird way of surprising you when you least expect it. Turns out, there were plans far better than Michelin stars waiting for you. Plans you never even imagined, but ones that would heal you in ways a fancy restaurant never could.

It’s the little hands tugging at your apron now that remind you of just how far you’ve come. You’re not standing in some high-end kitchen with a sous-chef barking orders at you, or sweating over the chance to impress another judge. No, you’re standing in a small room, the walls plastered with drawings and messy crayon sketches of cupcakes, pizza slices, and lopsided bowls of spaghetti. Your apron’s a little stained, flour dusting the front of it, but you couldn’t care less.

“Why do you mix it like that?” A curious voice pipes up from below, and you glance down to find a pair of wide, sparkling eyes staring up at you. The flour and eggs in the bowl swirl together under your whisk, creating a soft, smooth batter. The kid—couldn’t be more than six—watches your hands like you’re performing magic.

“Because that’s how you make it fluffy,” you say, smiling as they nod, fascinated. A moment later, you feel tiny arms wrap around your leg, a small hug that makes your heart swell in ways that no standing ovation ever could. It’s innocent, pure, like they’re just happy to be near you, to learn from you.

Another voice chimes in, “How do you know when it’s ready?”

You chuckle, wiping a bit of flour from your forehead with your wrist. “You just know. It feels right.”

They tilt their head, brow furrowing like you’ve just told them some impossible riddle. You laugh softly and let them feel the batter between their fingers, watch as they giggle, amazed at how something so simple can be so right. There’s something about these moments, the curiosity in their eyes, the way they look at you with trust, like you’re some kind of culinary wizard. You weren’t Jihoon with his restaurant keys, and honestly, that’s never been more okay.

Because in these moments, surrounded by kids full of wonder, asking question after question, you realize that no Michelin star could pay for this feeling. There’s a joy here that runs deeper than prestige or recognition. A joy that healed something broken in you.

Your inner child, the one who cried in that cold European kitchen all those years ago, quieted here. She wasn’t crying anymore. She was laughing, learning how to mix flour with eggs, feeling the batter with her hands, like it was something new and wonderful. All those tears you shed for a dream that wasn’t meant for you? They were worth it, because they brought you here—to this.

It’s funny, really. Back then, you thought that only a shining career could fill the emptiness left behind by that loss. But here you are, standing in a room full of kids who look up to you like you’re a hero. And that? That’s priceless.

You’d started this nonprofit, an NGO for kids who didn’t have much, but who had the biggest imaginations you’d ever seen. You taught them to cook, sure, but it wasn’t just about food. It was about creating something with their hands, feeling proud of themselves, and finding a space to be themselves in a world that often made them feel small. Just like how you’d once felt—small, unworthy, like a failure. But now, every smile, every curious question they asked, it stitched up another tear in your heart.

It’s poetic, really. You thought you’d heal by chasing after the dream that slipped through your fingers in that European kitchen. But instead, you found healing in the hands of children, in their endless curiosity, in the way they saw the world full of possibilities. And in doing so, you healed the child inside of you—the one who had dreamed big but didn’t know how to handle disappointment when the dream didn’t come true.

Good things, they say, come to those who wait. And yeah, after everything you’d been through, you could finally see it—really see it. Your name, once tied to that one bitter loss back in 2013, now stood on its own, bold and bright in the culinary world. You weren’t just the kid who lost in Europe anymore. You were someone people sought after, someone who made a difference. The buzz around your NGO had grown so much that, by now, it felt like a new interview request hit your inbox every other day.

It was the fifth time this week you sat down for one.

"Tell us about your journey,” the interviewer smiled, setting the recorder between you both like they were about to hear some untold story. But by now, the story of your journey had become almost second nature. You leaned back in your chair, looking around the space—the walls adorned with photos of smiling kids, famous chefs who had come through your doors, all here to support the cause. This place, this NGO, had become something bigger than you ever imagined.

“Well," you started, a small smile tugging at your lips, “I guess it started with failure.”

That’s how you always began. Not shying away from what happened all those years ago but embracing it, wearing it like a badge of honor. Because, hell, if it hadn’t been for that loss, none of this would exist. Not the kitchen full of kids eager to learn. Not the world-class chefs flying in from every corner of the globe to share their wisdom with them. And certainly not the donations that had been pouring in, enough to keep this place thriving for years.

You ran a hand through your hair, glancing at a nearby photo. It was of you and a group of kids, all in their mini hats, standing next to one of the chefs from some Michelin-starred restaurant. They’d come to volunteer for a day, to give these kids a taste of their future—what could be theirs if they kept going.

“Back then, when I lost, I thought it was the end. But now…” You paused, looking around at the faces of the kids, at the excitement in their eyes as they tried to get their dough just right or figure out the balance between sweet and savory. “Now, I can’t imagine it going any other way. This is where I was meant to be.”

The interviewer nodded, clearly trying to keep up, but you could tell they hadn’t expected the story to take this turn. They probably thought you’d talk about how the loss fueled some revenge arc, a rise to the top, something a bit more dramatic. But the truth? The truth was softer than that, more human.

At this point, most of the world’s top chefs had been here at some point or another. Either they’d come to run a class, spend a day with the kids, or drop by to donate supplies. There was something magical about seeing their eyes light up when they walked through the doors, like they were stepping back into the beginning of their own journey.

“That’s amazing,” the interviewer said, scribbling something down. “You’ve had some huge names come here. What’s it like working alongside these big chefs now?”

You shrugged, letting out a soft laugh. “It’s surreal sometimes. You know, these are people I looked up to, the same ones I’d watch on TV or read about when I was younger, just starting out. And now they’re here, in my kitchen, helping my kids.”

[...]

You were just finishing up, wiping your hands on the towel after the last batch of cookies came out of the oven, when you saw Fred practically running into the kitchen. The grin on his face said it all before he even opened his mouth.

“Fifty grand!” he shouted, stopping just short of knocking over a jar of flour in his excitement.

“Fifty what?” you blinked, thinking you must’ve misheard. Fifty thousand dollars? That was… huge. Massive. Your mind raced, trying to figure out how that could even be possible.

“Yep,” Fred beamed, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. “Just got the news from the accountant. Some company called Lee Gastronomy—never heard of ‘em—but they sent the check and a little note saying they’re excited to support the house. Something about moving back to town soon and wanting to visit.”

You felt your heart race as you tugged your apron off, suddenly needing to see the paperwork for yourself. Fifty thousand dollars? That was enough to cover months of supplies, repairs, upgrades—hell, you could finally get that new oven you’d been dreaming about for the kitchen. “Lee?” you frowned, trying to jog your memory. “I don’t know any Lee.”

Fred shrugged, still grinning. “Me either. But who cares, right? We just got fifty grand!”

Even though the number hung in the air like a golden ticket, something felt strange. You didn’t know any Lee. You’d worked in this field long enough to know all the big players—chefs, donors, restaurant owners, food critics—but no one named Lee had ever crossed your path.

The next few days passed, Fred had started spreading the word about the donation, and suddenly, you found yourself knee-deep in logistics. Checking with the accountant, verifying the donation, making sure everything was legit. And yeah, it was. The company’s registration number checked out, the money had cleared, and everything seemed on the up and up. But that name… Lee Gastronomy. It still didn’t ring any bells.

Every time you mentioned it to someone—colleagues, friends, even the chefs who had been visiting the voluntary organization—they’d shake their heads too. No one had ever heard of them. You tried not to dwell on it too much; after all, it was a lot of money, and you had kids to take care of, projects to fund, and kitchens to keep running.

But then, more donations started rolling in.

First, another $10,000 from a small local bakery, then $15,000 from a chef’s association you’d partnered with in the past. Then $25,000 from an anonymous donor who didn’t leave any contact information—just a note saying they loved what you were doing and wanted to help. It felt like the floodgates had opened, and suddenly, people everywhere wanted to support your cause.

Each time, the donations brought a wave of gratitude and hope. The organization was growing faster than you’d ever imagined, and the possibilities felt endless. You could expand the programs, bring in more kids, offer more hands-on experiences with top chefs. And you did just that. You started upgrading the kitchen, organizing new field trips for the kids, even partnering with local schools to expand the reach of your work.

But that nagging feeling in the back of your mind never quite went away.

“Fred,” you said one afternoon as you both sat in the office, going over the latest set of donations, “Do you think it’s weird that all this is happening right after Lee Gastronomy showed up?”

Fred paused, leaning back in his chair. “I mean, maybe a little? But honestly, I just think word is spreading. People are seeing what we’re doing, and they want to help.”

“Yeah, maybe.” You nodded, but your gut told you there was more to it.

The next week, another $30,000 came in. The donation slip was clean, but again, no name. No big donor stepping out of the shadows to claim credit for it. Just money pouring into your NGO like it was destined for you, and yet, you couldn’t figure out why it was all happening now.

[...]

The early morning air was cool as you bent down, adjusting the vases of flowers in front of the organization beautiful entrance. The kids wouldn’t arrive for another hour, and this was your moment of calm. A moment to breathe before the chaos of the day began. Today, your mind was occupied with the meeting you’d been anticipating for weeks.

Lee Gastronomy.

Whoever this mysterious benefactor was, they were finally coming to visit. You’d replayed the moment in your head a hundred times—meeting them, shaking their hand, expressing your endless gratitude. You wanted to make a good impression, show them what their generous donations had been doing. You straightened up, brushing off your pants, when the sound of footsteps on the pavement caught your attention. Two pairs of Gucci shoes appeared in your view, black leather, polished, expensive. The kind of shoes that had power written all over them.

You lifted your head, the best smile already set on your face. "Oh, you must be Lee! I—" The words stuck in your throat.

The face staring back at you wasn’t some stranger. It was him.

Jihoon. Lee? Lee Jihoon?

Your breath tied, and for a second, everything around you disappeared. It was like time rewound itself to that kitchen in Europe, to the sharp look in his eyes as the corners of his mouth twitched into that subtle, knowing smirk. He was older now, more mature. His face had lost some of its softness, replaced with sharper angles, and yet… the eyes. You’d never forget those eyes. You couldn’t.

“Jihoon?” You muttered, like saying his name would break the reality in front of you.

Jihoon’s expression didn’t change much, but there was a faint smile on his lips. Fred, who had been standing beside you, froze. You could feel his tension, the silent question hanging in the air. He had no idea how you’d react. Hell, you didn’t even know how you’d react.

Everything came flooding back.

The way Jihoon had smirked as you stood there, staring down at your ruined dessert in disbelief. The way his fingers had curled around the restaurant’s keys, how he’d accepted his victory without so much as a glance your way. That little mole near his eye, the one you’d stared at for hours during the competition, watching it crinkle when he frowned or smiled—always at your expense.

You felt it then. The taste. That same, cursed taste of salt rising in the back of your throat. Your body tensed, memories crashing into you with such force it made you dizzy. You felt sick. So, so sick, that you feel like you are about to—

Your hand shot up to cover your mouth, and before you could stop yourself, you were rushing inside the house, pushing past Fred, not even sparing a glance back at Jihoon. The nausea was enormous, the weight of the past pulling at your gut, twisting it into knots. You barely made it to the bathroom, dropping to your knees in front of the toilet, just in time for everything to spill out of you.

Fred was right behind you, voice panicked. “Y/N! Hey, hey, it's okay, I’m here.” He knelt beside you, gently pulling your hair back, trying to keep you steady as your body trembled.

You could hear the distant sound of Jihoon’s shoes shifting in the doorway. He hadn’t followed you in. He didn’t move. He just stood there. Watching.

Jihoon stood, frozen at the threshold, his sharp eyes narrowing ever so slightly as Fred’s frantic voice echoed from inside. His assistant, standing beside him, looked equally stunned.

Were you this disgusted by him? To the point of throwing up? Jihoon wondered. He didn’t speak. He didn’t call out to you. Instead, he just stared at the open door, his fingers twitching at his sides as if he wanted to reach for something but couldn’t figure out what. The sound of you retching filled the air, and for a moment, he felt it too—a strange, bitter taste creeping up the back of his own throat.

This wasn’t how he imagined seeing you again.

Fred’s voice was soft behind you, concern threaded through his words. “Do you want me to ask him to leave?”

You shook your head, still gripping the edge of the sink like it could anchor you back to reality. “No. Just... give me a few minutes.”

He didn’t argue. You heard his footsteps fade as he hurried to welcome Jihoon and his assistant. You stayed there for another few seconds, staring at your own reflection. Your face had fallen so fast, drained of all that confidence you’d tried to wear this morning. You brushed your teeth with shaky hands, telling yourself to calm down, to just be serene.

Just get through this. You took a deep breath and headed to the waiting room.

Jihoon and his assistant were seated, quiet, as if they hadn’t said much since Fred greeted them. You couldn’t bring yourself to shake his hand, so you bowed politely instead, keeping your hands clasped behind your back. You felt Jihoon’s eyes on you, but you didn’t look at him. Couldn’t.

His assistant, a bright-eyed young man who didn’t seem to sense the tension in the air, smiled warmly. “It’s such an honor to finally meet you in person. Jihoon has told me a lot about the great work you're doing here,” he said, looking genuinely impressed.

You forced a smile, keeping your tone professional. “Thank you. We’re really grateful for all the donations, it’s made a huge difference. The kids... they’ve benefited so much.”

Jihoon’s assistant continued, eyes flicking between you and Fred, clearly excited to be there. “And it’s amazing how far you’ve come since your days in the competition. It must’ve been so tough, especially considering how—”

The room froze. You felt Fred tense beside you, his polite smile flickering, your breath catching in your throat. Even Jihoon’s expression shifted, his face hardening as he quickly looked away, avoiding your gaze entirely.

His assistant, oblivious, continued. “I mean, you two were so competitive back then, huh? And to think, all of this came from that one event—”

Fred cleared his throat sharply, cutting him off, but the damage was already done, his assistant clearly didn't know how Jihoon won. How much does he know? Does he even realize what he’s saying?

“Ah, well—” Fred began.

Jihoon cut him off, voice tight and low. “It’s… a long story.”

Before anyone could say more, the sound of laughter and tiny footsteps echoed down the hallway, saving you from the suffocating silence. The children had arrived.

Fred turned to greet them, and you stepped aside, watching as they rushed into the room, immediately diffusing the tension. They swarmed around you, bright-eyed and smiling, some of the little ones immediately latching onto your legs, asking if they could help in the kitchen today. You smiled softly, crouching down to ruffle their hair.

But then, some of them turned their attention to Jihoon.

Two of the kids, a boy and a girl, who couldn’t have been older than five, ran straight for him, hugging his legs like they’d known him forever. Jihoon stiffened at first, unsure how to respond, but the shock quickly melted as he crouched down, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. You noticed how different it looked from the smirk that used to haunt you.

"Who’s this?" one of the kids asked, looking up at Jihoon with wide, curious eyes.

You exhaled softly, your hands clenching and unclenching behind your back as you felt Fred’s eyes on you. You forced yourself to speak, turning to the kids, your voice softening, sweeter for them. “He’s a really good chef,” you explained, keeping it simple. “He has a biiiig restaurant in Switzerland.”

The younger ones gasped in awe, their faces lighting up as they hugged him tighter. "Wooooow," one of them breathed, eyes wide. “Is Switzerland far?”

You couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah, it’s pretty far,” you said with a small scoff. It was cute how they clung to him without knowing anything about the man he was. How they immediately trusted him just because you said he was a chef, because in their world, chefs were superheroes who made magic with food.

But you didn’t miss the sound of the older kids behind you. Some of the pre-teens had recognized him. Their whispers were loud enough for you to catch, little gasps of “That’s Jihoon!” and “Oh my god, isn’t he, like, super famous?”

One of the girls, barely fourteen, looked at you with shining eyes. “You know Jihoon? Like, Jihoon Jihoon?”

You managed a nod, the tight smile still on your lips. “Yeah, I know him.”

Jihoon, standing there with the kids hugging him, stayed silent, his eyes drifting to you every now and then but never lasting. He looked uncomfortable. Maybe even lost. You wondered if he’d thought about this moment before—if he’d imagined what it would be like to see you again after all these years. Or if, like you, he hadn’t been ready at all.

You cleared your throat, trying to regain control of the situation. “Alright, kids, let’s give our guest some space,” you said gently, guiding them away from Jihoon’s legs. “We’ve got a lot of work to do today, and I’m sure Chef Jihoon is going to want to take a look around.”

The younger ones reluctantly let go, giggling as they scampered off to join their friends.

You smiled softly when you saw Jihoon’s assistant already in the thick of it, playing with the kids like he'd been there for weeks. His laughter mixed with theirs, easy and carefree.

But then you turned, eyes flicking to Jihoon, who was still standing awkwardly at the edge of the room, like he wasn’t sure what to do next. You called his name quietly, over your shoulder, “Jihoon, come on.”

He dawdled but followed. As he walked toward you, you tied the apron behind your back like you had eyes on your hands, the kids gathering around the kitchen counter, their eyes wide with interest. Jihoon stayed a few steps behind, unsure of how to approach this situation—teaching kids was never something he'd done. Hell, it wasn’t even in his plans for the day.

But he remembered being the kid, the one sitting in front of a chef, hungry for knowledge and desperate to learn everything.

You leaned against the counter, your arms crossed as you gave him a sideways glance. “Do you guys know what Chef Jihoon is going to teach us today?”

The kids chorused a loud, excited “Noooo!” bouncing on their heels.

You turned fully to him, holding his gaze. He swallowed hard, suddenly feeling like the spotlight was burning on him.

“I’ll let Chef Jihoon tell you then,” you said, challenging, like you were throwing him into the deep end on purpose. You wanted to see him squirm, maybe just a little.

Jihoon glanced at the eager faces in front of him, then back to you. His throat felt dry as he tried to come up with something to say, but for a second, all he could hear was the hum of his own nerves. The last time he had been in a kitchen like this, it wasn’t full of small hands and bright eyes—it was full of pressure, competition, and an entirely different energy.

But he wasn’t about to let you see him hesitate. He cleared his throat and stepped up to the counter, taking a deep breath before speaking.

“Well,” he started, a small, almost shy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I think today... we’ll be learning how to make something really special. Something I first learned when I was just starting out.”

He shot a quick look at you, and you could tell from the flicker in his eyes that he was stepping back into habitat. You smirked, leaning back against the counter as he continued.

“Let's make risotto… How's that sound?”

The kids’ faces immediately dropped, little frowns forming as they shook their heads. “We already know that one!” one of them piped up, crossing his arms, indignant. “Chef Y/N taught us already!”

You couldn’t help it—a laugh escaped, filling the room, and Jihoon shot you a sidelong look, his own lips twitching like he was fighting not to falter. Of course they already knew risotto. You’d practically burned through every recipe in the book with them.

Jihoon looked at the kids again, genuinely surprised. “Really?” He raised his eyebrows. “You already know how to make risotto?”

They nodded, several of them bouncing with pride. “Chef Y/N is really good!” a little girl said.

Jihoon’s expression softened, the faintest hint of surprise in his eyes as he took it in. He took a breath, thinking, before a sudden idea sparked across his face. “Alright, then. What about soufflé?”

The kids’ eyes widened, jaws dropping as they exchanged glances. “A soufflé?” one of the older kids asked, almost disbelieving. “Like the one in movies?”

Jihoon nodded, his face a little smug. “Yeah. It’s tricky, but I think you guys are up for it.”

One of the kids tugged at your sleeve, whispering, “Chef Y/N, do you think we can really make soufflés?”

You smiled, glancing at Jihoon. “With a chef like Jihoon teaching you? I think you can do anything.”

You and Jihoon began laying out the ingredients on the counter. Flour, sugar, butter, eggs—every item carefully arranged in neat little bowls. Then, stepping back, you let the kids gather around as Jihoon took his place at the front, an eyebrow raised in question.

“You’re not going to help me?”

You smirked, crossing your arms as you leaned against the wall behind the children. “Nope. I’m here to learn too.”

He let out a scoff, but his eyes were amused. Reaching for a whisk, Jihoon’s fingers stopped as he noticed the brightly-colored utensils on the countertop—handles painted in cheerful blues, yellows, and pinks, completely different from the pristine silver ones he’d grown so used to in the rigid, professional kitchens.

His brow twitched, a bit thrown off, but he picked up a neon pink whisk, holding it up almost in disbelief before he finally began mixing, putting on the best show of professionalism he could manage with a grin sneaking in.

The kids were entranced as he worked. He answered each of their questions, even the simple ones—What’s this do? Why are eggs so runny? Is soufflé really magic? He gave patient answers, a spark in his eyes as he watched their faces light up with each response.

When he was done, a perfect, puffy soufflé stood in the middle of the counter. Golden, light, and exactly what you’d expect from someone with his skill. The kids were practically bouncing in excitement.

“Alright, your turn,” Jihoon said, stepping back and motioning for them to take over.

You paired up with a small boy, who looked completely intimidated by the fluffy soufflé sitting next to him. “I can’t make it like that,” he whispered to you.

You knelt down next to him, helping him break the eggs with careful hands, showing him how to separate the whites, then guiding his little hand as he whisked. “Doesn’t matter if it’s perfect,” you told him with a warm smile. “Just give it your best shot.”

Meanwhile, Jihoon crouched down beside a little girl who was struggling to mix the eggs. Her arm had started to tremble, the bowl wobbling in her hands.

“Here, I’ll help you,” he said, holding the bowl steady with one hand while he took the whisk with the other. “Let’s mix it together.”

The smile that spread across Jihoon’s face as he watched her efforts, a real, genuine smile that you hadn’t seen in years, softened something in—No. Hell no. Back to the recipe.

When the kids finally placed their soufflés in the oven, the results were… varied. Some soufflés rose tall and proud, while others sagged or deflated at the edges. One came out a bit lopsided, and another had been forgotten for a moment, the top a little browned, but that didn’t matter. They each wore their own version of pride on their faces, and you couldn’t help but feel it too.

Jihoon looked at the table, and shook his head, smiling. “They’re perfect,” he murmured, glancing at the children with an approval nod.

As the kids eagerly dug into their soufflés, one of the smaller boys took a big spoonful, his eyes lighting up at first. But then his face scrunched, his little nose wrinkling as he swallowed. He put his spoon down, looking directly at you with a distressed expression.

“Did I… put salt instead of sugar?” His lip started to tremble as he looked between you and Jihoon, mortified.

You froze. But before you could say anything, Jihoon, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, looked up, his eyes darting from the kid’s teary face to your stiff expression. The moment seemed to snap him to life, and he quickly sprang forward, kneeling down beside the boy, hands shaking in a mad rush.

“Hey, hey, don’t cry!” Jihoon said. He took the boy’s tiny hand in his. “There are tons of salty soufflés! I actually make one all the time. In my restaurant, it’s super fancy, with cheese and herbs, just like this one.”

The boy looked up, sniffling, his tears slowing a little. “Really? There’s… supposed to be salt?”

Jihoon nodded enthusiastically, glancing back at you as if asking for backup. “Absolutely! Chef Y/N could tell you all about it.” He shot you a look, almost saying like: What do I do now?

Taking a shaky breath, you knelt down beside the boy, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I think it’s a great first try.” You ruffled his hair, seeing him perk up a bit.

Jihoon took a spoonful of the soufflé and tasted it, giving an exaggerated nodl. “Mm! It's really good!” He winked at the boy, who finally cracked a shy smile.

You watched with a small smile as each kid left with a bit of your heart in tow, feeling the echo of their laughter around you even as the room began to empty.

Fred lingered by the door, chatting with Jihoon’s assistant, while you and Jihoon moved to the side, staying silent, as if words would disturb whatever fragile peace had been built between you during the day. It felt strange, standing there beside him without the buffer of the kids to fill in the pauses.

Jihoon broke the silence first, clearing his throat softly. “I wanted to talk to you… I think my team and I would really love to support your organization long-term… Make it official, if you’d be interested. We could even bring some of the chefs, host classes, give the kids more to look forward to.”

“I appreciate the donation,” you began carefully measured. “I really do. But I need to be honest, Jihoon. I don’t want this house to lose what makes it special, what makes it ours. I don’t want it to turn into some… shiny project to impress donors or pull in crowds. It’s supposed to feel like us, like the kids. Not some big production.”

After a pause, he let out a soft hum, tilting his head slightly. “And what’s wrong with improving things? Giving the kids access to better resources, better… training?”

There it was—his tone wasn’t outright disdainful or insulting, but there was a bite to it, something faintly snobbish that made your stomach churn. You could feel Fred tense slightly beside you, the way his shoulders shifted like he wanted to step in but wasn’t sure if he should. Jihoon’s assistant, meanwhile, raised an eyebrow, clearly taken aback by his boss’s words.

You scoffed. “Better training?” you repeated, folding your arms. “Is that what you think this is about? You think just because this isn’t the fancy kitchen you grew up in—or whatever perfect, silver-lined school taught you—you have the right to waltz in here and act like this isn’t good enough?”

Jihoon opened his mouth, but you didn’t let him speak. The floodgates were open now, the words spilling out of you like they’d been waiting years. “I learned to cook in a place like this,” you said firmly, jabbing a finger toward the counters, the bright utensils, the slightly battered cutting boards. “And guess what? It brought me to the same competition as you. So don’t stand there and act like these kids need some ‘upgrade’ to be worthy of your world.”

Fred's face went pale as he looked at you.

“You’re too busy chasing Michelin stars to see what really makes cooking special.” You spat.

Jihoon’s assistant visibly winced, and Fred looked at you with wide eyess.

Jihoon, though, didn’t react right away. He just stood there, his hands clenching slightly at his sides. “Is that what you think? That I came here just to… what? Smudge this in your face?”

It wasn’t until Fred gently touched your elbow that you realized how tense you were, your hands clenched your crossed arms. You took a breath.

“I don’t know why you came here,” you admitted finally, your voice softer now but no less firm. “But if you’re here to help, then help. Don’t stand there and tell me what this place is lacking. Because it’s got something no five-star kitchen could ever give you.”

He just nodded once. His assistant looked like he wanted to crawl into the floor, and Fred let out a low sigh, clearly debating whether to step in again.

Finally, Jihoon spoke, “I’m not here to tear this place down,” he said. “But if I’m going to help, I need to know how. You think I don’t understand what makes this place special? Fine. Show me then.”

Fred cleared his throat awkwardly, stepping in to break the silence. “Maybe we should, uh, pick this up another day?” he suggested, glancing between you and Jihoon. Neither of you responded. Enough for now.

You watched Jihoon step into the car, the heavy door closing with a muffled thud. From the front window, you could see him lean back against the seat, his face partially obscured by the tinted glass. His assistant was halfway to the car when he stopped, paused mid-step, and turned back toward you.He turned slow, really slow, like he’d been debating this for a while and finally made up his mind.

You raised an eyebrow as he approached, his blond hair catching the light “Chef Y/N,” he began, his voice sweet, with a thick French accent. His hands reached out to clasp yours—oddly personal. “I hope you’ll excuse me for interrupting, but… I wanted to say I’m sorry. For everything today.”

His words took you off guard, and your brow furrowed slightly.

He sighed, the kind of long, exasperated exhale that suggested he’d had this conversation—or at least a version of it—with Jihoon before.

“Monsieur Lee,” he said carefully, “was truly excited to visit your NGO. It has been all he talks about since we first began planning this trip. But, you know him… he doesn’t always measure his words. He means well, but he can come off as—how do you say it?—impolite.”

You huffed a small, mirthless laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”

The assistant smiled faintly, “I hope you don’t let it affect your view of his intentions. He genuinely respects what you have built here. I’ll make sure to put some sense into his head, I promise. But please, don’t forget about our offer. It’s a good one, and I think… deep down, Monsieur Lee truly believes in what you’re doing here. Even if he doesn’t always know how to say it.”

You held his gaze, searching his expression for any sign of insincerity, but found none. He was genuine, you could tell. After a moment, you gave his hands a light squeeze and nodded. “I’ll think about it,” you said softly. “But this place… it’s not just about the offer. It’s personal to me. If I do decide to work with you all, it has to be on my terms.”

“Of course!” he said immediately, his smile growing. “And that is as it should be. Thank you for considering it.”

With that, he let go of your hands and returned to the car, leaving you standing there in the fading light. Jihoon didn’t look up as the car pulled away, while you looked until it disappeared down the road.

The days after Jihoon’s visit were surprisingly quiet, almost too quiet. You’d half-expected a deluge of follow-ups or more awkward exchanges, but instead, you found yourself with space to think. The children, as always, were a welcome distraction. They filled the kitchen with their laughter and the occasional misstep, their joy a constant reminder of why you’d built this house in the first place.

Still, Jihoon lingered in the back of your mind. His presence at the NGO had stirred up so many old emotions. Every time you thought about his assistant’s words, you felt a strange knot of uncertainty in your chest. Was it possible that Jihoon’s intentions weren’t as cold as they’d seemed? Could you trust him to help without losing the heart of what you’d created?

One evening, Fred found you sitting at your desk, staring blankly at a stack of donation forms. “You okay?” he asked, leaning against the doorway.

You shrugged. “Just thinking.”

“About Jihoon?”

You shot him a look, and he grinned. “Come on,” he said. “You’ve been quiet since he left. I can tell he got under your skin.”

“Maybe,” you admitted. “It’s just… complicated. He said some things that really pissed me off, but his assistant made a good point. I don’t know, Fred. I don’t want to make the wrong decision.”

Fred crossed his arms, considering your words. “Look, I don’t know Jihoon like you do. But from what I’ve seen, he’s not the same guy he was back then. Maybe give him a chance to prove that.”

A week later, Jihoon showed up again, this time without his assistant. You spotted him standing awkwardly at the front gate, a bag slung over his shoulder. He looked out of place, like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

“Back so soon?” you called out, walking toward him.

He turned, his eyes meeting yours. “I wanted to talk. Without the… entourage.”

You raised an eyebrow but gestured for him to follow you inside. The two of you sat in the empty kitchen, the late afternoon sun streaming through the windows. Jihoon placed the bag on the counter and pulled out a small box. “I brought something for the kids,” he said, opening it to reveal a set of beautifully crafted utensils, each one colorful and child-sized.

You blinked in surprise, your defenses momentarily lowering. “These are… amazing.”

“I thought they might like them,” he said, his voice quieter now. “And I thought maybe I could help more, if you’ll let me.”

You hesitated, studying his expression. There was no trace of the condescension you’d seen before.

[...]

The sound of running water filled the quiet kitchen, punctuated by the clink of dishes being handed off between you and Jihoon. The day had been long, the kind of long that left you too tired to think straight but restless enough to keep moving. You focused on scrubbing the edges of a baking dish, the suds thick around your fingers, and handed it to Jihoon without a glance. His fingers brushed yours as he took it, pausing more than he should. You pulled back instinctively, grabbing the next plate before he could say anything.

Jihoon sighed, turning toward the wide window above the sink. The last light of the day was fading, casting a soft orange glow over the room. He dried the dish slowly, as if trying to draw out the moment.

“You’ll never forgive me, will you?”

The question stopped you in your tracks. You placed the plate you were washing back into the sink and leaned forward, gripping the edge of the counter. The bubbles clung to your hands, foam dripping down to the marble. You stared at the suds for a moment, your mind swirling, before you turned your head slightly toward him.

“I never heard a sorry leave your mouth, Jihoon.” Your gaze shifted to the window, avoiding his reflection.

“I didn’t think it would matter,” he admitted. “I thought… what’s the point? Saying sorry wouldn’t change anything.”

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “You thought what? You think you can just show up here, give donations, play nice with the kids, and everything gets wonderful well?”

Jihoon’s jaw tightened. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?” You crossed your arms, still feeling the slickness of the detergent on your skin. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like you trying to fix something without actually addressing the damage you caused.”

You opened your mouth to continur, but he cut you off. “What am I supposed to do, huh? Go back in time? Undo it? All I can do is try to make up for it now, and if that’s not good enough for you, then tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do.”

The frustration in his voice caught you off guard, but you didn’t let it show. “You don’t get to decide how or when I forgive you, Jihoon. That’s not how this works. And for the record, no, you can’t undo it. You can’t take back the way you made me feel that day.”

He flinched at your words but didn’t look away. “I know. I know I can’t.”

You shook your head. “And yet here you are, acting like showing up and playing nice will fix it all. Like you can just… sweep it under the rug.”

“I’m not trying to sweep it under the rug. I’m trying to be better. To show you that I’ve changed.”

You go back to the dishes. The water ran over your hands as you scrubbed a stubborn stain on the bottom of a pot, the bubbles swirling down the drain. Jihoon stood beside you, methodically drying the dishes and placing them on the counter without a word.

But something twisted in your gut, you swallowed hard, the weight of the past pressing on your chest. Your voice, when it finally came out, was quiet, and more fragile than you wanted to sound.

“Why the salt?”

Jihoon froze mid-motion, the towel in his hands slipping slightly. You didn’t look at him, your eyes fixed on the pot as if it held all the answers you’d been seeking.

“Why did you do this to me Jihoon?”

He exhaled shakily, his knuckles white as he gripped the counter. It wasn’t just your question—it was the way you’d asked, like a small, innocent version of yourself had reached through the years to speak, like spiritually, your inner child canalized her voice to his ears. Jihoon felt it deep in his chest, an ache that mirrored yours. It was as though the girl you’d been when you first started chasing this dream was standing there, demanding an explanation he’d never given. He swallowed hard, his throat dry.

“I…” he started but faltered, running a hand through his hair, his voice dropped. “I didn’t… mean for it to be like that.”

You set the pot down, water dripping from your hands as you turned to him. Your eyes searched his face, looking for something—remorse, understanding, anything. “Then why? Why did you do it? Was it just… some sick joke to you?” Your voice wavered, and you blinked quickly, trying to keep the tears at bay. “Do you know what that did to me? What it felt like to watch—” You stopped, your words catching in your throat.

Jihoon closed his eyes, pressing his palms flat against the counter as if steadying himself. He felt sick, the kind of sickness that sat heavy in his chest and made it hard to breathe. “It wasn’t… it wasn’t my idea,” he said finally, his voice strained.

You frowned, your confusion evident. “What do you mean it wasn’t your idea?”

He turned to you then, his expression torn, guilt scripted all over his face. “It was my tutor’s idea,” he admitted, his words tumbling out like they’d been locked up for too long. “He… he told me to do it. Said it would make me stand out, give me an edge. He thought sabotaging someone else would make me look stronger. And I was—” He broke off, running a hand over his face. “I was stupid enough to listen.”

Your stomach churned, the twist in your gut tightening. “Your tutor?” you repeated, the disbelief clear in your voice.

Jihoon nodded, his eyes, pained. “He was more than just a tutor. He became my business partner after the competition. He was the one who pushed me toward the restaurant, who built me up to be this… this thing I didn’t even recognize anymore.” He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “And now…I can’t stand him. He’s why I’m back here. I couldn’t take it anymore. The way he runs things, the way he manipulates people—it was eating me alive.”

You stared at him, your mind spinning. “So you’re saying… you did it because he told you to?”

“Yes.. But I chose to do it. I could’ve said no. I should’ve said no. I was just so… desperate to prove myself, to win, to be the best.” He paused, his jaw tightening. “And I didn’t care who I hurt along the way.”

The importance of his confession lolled in the air. You turned your back to the sink. “I kept asking myself, What did I do wrong? And all the while, it was you.” Your voice cracked, and you hated how weak you sounded.

“I know, I know, and I’ll never forgive myself for it. Seeing you crying that day… it still haunts me. And when I saw you throw up when I came here, I realized just how deeply I’d hurt you. I…” He trailed off, his eyes glistening. “I can’t undo it. I know I can’t. But I’m trying to make it right. I just want you to know… I’m sorry. For everything. And I’ll keep saying it until it means something.”

“So…” you started, leaning back against the counter as you dried your hands on a towel. “You left a Michelin-starred restaurant behind? All of it?”

Jihoon nodded, like a weight had been partially lifted.

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “And now that you don’t have it, you want this to be yours too? The house?”

He let out a scoff, but it wasn’t sharp like before, it was straight funny. “You could’ve had both,” he countered, tilting his head. “A Michelin-starred restaurant and this. I could never.”

You couldn’t help but hold back a small smile, shaking your head.

The corner of his mouth tugged upward in a small, genuine smile. Then he extended his hand, palm open, toward you. “Come on,” he said softly.

You glanced at his hand, then back at his face, narrowing your eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Offering a truce,” he replied. “Come on. You can’t make me stand here forever.”

For a second, you hesitated, looking at his hand again. With a resigned sigh, you dried your hands fully, reaching out to take his. Your grip was firm.

But you couldn’t help it. “You sure you want to start here? With that hair?” You gestured to his slightly mussed locks, which looked more chaotic than usual after hours in the kitchen. “You’ve been running from Michelin stars, but your hair looks like it’s been running from a comb.”

Jihoon froze for a second, then let out a genuine laugh, his head tilting back slightly. It was the first time you’d heard it that day, and it made something inside you soften.

“Don’t think the kids haven’t noticed. One of them asked if you were cosplaying as a hedgehog earlier.”

Jihoon smiled wide, almost beaming, though he tried to downplay it by scratching the back of his neck. “Alright, alright. I get it. Point taken. But you know, I think they like me.”

“They tolerate you,” you corrected, smirking. “Big difference. You’re still on trial here, Jihoon.”

He pressed his free hand dramatically to his chest. “Tolerate me? That hurts, Y/N. I thought I had charm.”

“You’ve got something,” you teased, releasing his hand to grab another dish towel. “I’ll let you know what it is once I figure it out.”

Jihoon leaned against the counter, his eyes softening as he watched you. “You’ll let me know, huh? That sounds fair.”

Jihoon’s attempts to help with the house didn’t feel like an intrusion anymore.

A few days later, Jihoon was sitting cross-legged on the floor with a group of kids, trying to teach them a few basic culinary techniques. His patience was better than you’d expected, though he still had moments where he looked at you like: How do you deal with this every day?

“Chef Jihoon, is this how you hold the whisk?” one of the smaller kids asked, holding it in a fist like a sword.

“No, not unless you’re planning to fight your eggs,” Jihoon replied, gently adjusting the child’s grip. “Like this. Light, but firm.”

You stood nearby, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold. Fred sidled up beside you, nodding toward Jihoon. “He’s really trying, huh?”

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “He is.”

As the session wrapped up, Jihoon caught your eye from across the room. He raised an eyebrow, as if silently asking for your approval. You pretended to consider, then gave a small nod. His lips twitched upward, satisfied.

Jihoon had never considered himself great with kids.

He wasn’t the type of uncle who could entertain nieces and nephews for hours without breaking a sweat, like his friend Seungkwan. Yet, here he was, surrounded by giggling children who hung on his every word—and he had to admit, it wasn’t as terrifying as he’d thought.

He’d found himself loving this. The chaos, the noise, the silly little moments. The kids, with their endless energy and bright smiles, were teaching him things he never thought he would learn. They were curing him in ways he never imagined.

Jihoon couldn’t hide the change in his mood when the kids started leaving for the day. They’d crowded around the door, each of them getting picked up by their parents, giving their final hugs, running out of the kitchen, their little hands waving goodbye. Jihoon stood in the doorway, watching them, his gaze soft. He didn’t admit it out loud, but there was something about seeing the kids leave that made him feel a little emptier inside. Maybe it was because he could feel the bond forming between them even though they’d only spent a short time together.

“Are you really sulking now?” you asked, walking past him to grab the last dish from the counter.

He didn’t turn around, but you could see the slight pout on his lips. “No,” he mumbled, hands stuffed in the pockets of his apron. “I just... I’m not used to saying goodbye. Even if I’m going to see them again tomorrow.”

You chuckled, watching him—you've found yourself in this situation multiple times at the beginning. “It’s fine, Jihoon. You’re just getting attached.”

He shot you a side-eye, as if daring you to make fun of him. “I’m not attached.” he muttered, crossing his arms.

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” You teased, nudging him lightly with your shoulder as you moved to the other side of the kitchen to help clean up. “You’ve become one of them now. A softie.”

[...]

The kitchen had never felt more alive than it does today. Jihoon, who had never been particularly fond of chaos, was smiling—almost laughing—while keeping his eyes on the counter. It was supposed to be a “friendly” competition between the boys and girls, but honestly, it was just an excuse to see how much you and Jihoon could handle before the chaos completely overtook you. And right now, it was clear neither of you were winning.

You stood on the boys’ side of the kitchen, trying to keep them from getting too rowdy as they threw flour at each other in some misguided attempt to "season" their dishes. On the other side, Jihoon was managing the girls, who, much to his dismay, were doing exactly what you expected them to do.

Jihoon stood there in your pink apron, his now short hair practically glistening with glittering accessories—tiny scrunchies, little clips holding stray locks back—making him look like the type of man who should’ve been anywhere but in a kitchen with a bunch of kids.

One of the girls tugged at Jihoon’s sleeve. “Chef Jihoon, can you stir this? It’s too heavy!” she whined, her small hands gripping the bowl.

“Of course,” Jihoon said, crouching slightly to be at her level, but not before side-eyeing you. “Unlike someone,” he said with mock emphasis, “I don’t leave my team hanging.”

You gasped dramatically from across the kitchen. “Excuse me, Chef Lee, but my boys are doing just fine, thank you very much!”

Jihoon smirked as he whisked the batter.

A few minutes later, the competition was in full swing, and the teasing between the kids was relentless. Every now and then, you had to intervene.

“Chef Y/N, Chef Jihoon’s team says our cookies will burn!” one of the boys pouted, pointing accusingly at Jihoon’s side of the kitchen.

You shot Jihoon a glare. “Chef Lee, are you sabotaging my team’s confidence?”

Jihoon feigned innocence, holding up his hands. “Sabotage? I would never,” he said, though his smirk betrayed him.

“Uh-huh,” you replied, narrowing your eyes. You crouched to whisper conspiratorially to the boys, loud enough for Jihoon to hear. “Don’t worry, kids. His cookies will taste like his personality—bitter.”

At one point, Jihoon crossed behind you to grab a pan, but instead of taking the wide-open space on the other side, he chose to squeeze behind you in the narrow gap between the counters.

“Excuse me,” he murmured, voice low and entirely unnecessary given the proximity. His hand brushed your waist as he reached past you, and you stiffened, gripping the spoon in your hand tighter.

“There’s a whole kitchen, Jihoon,” you scolded, trying to keep your voice steady. “Why are you in my personal space?”

He bit his bottom lip, as he moved away, holding the pan. “Just testing the waters. Seems warm.”

You huffed, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. “Go test the waters on your side of the kitchen before I throw you in the sink.”

He laughed, a soft, melodic sound that you hated how much you were starting to like. “Alright, alright. Don’t get flustered, Chef Y/N. I’ll behave.”

Later, you decided to up the teasing as revenge. Jihoon was bent over, helping one of the girls pour batter into a mold. You leaned close to him, hand on his back, making his back stiff under your hand.

You scoff, your breath tickling his ear. “Careful, Chef Lee. Don’t spill. That would ruin your team’s reputation.”

Jihoon fumbled with the mold, nearly spilling the batter as he straightened up abruptly. He shot you a look, his cheeks faintly pink. “Very funny.” he muttered, grabbing the whisk with a little too much force, the batter splattering slightly.

The kids were oblivious to the Chef's bickering, fully focused on their creations. The teasing continued until the final moments, each team plating their cookies and presenting them proudly.

By the end of the competition, the kids were giggling and cheering as Fred and Jihoon’s assistant judged the dishes. Jihoon stood beside you, both of you wiping flour off your hands as the verdict was announced: a tie.

You stood beside Jihoon as the kids debated whose cookies looked better. He leaned closer to you, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “You know, you’re lucky there’s no actual judging panel. My team would wipe the floor with yours.”

You shot him a playful glare. “Keep dreaming, Lee.”

When the kids weren’t looking, he nudged you lightly with his elbow. You elbowed him back, harder, earning a stifled laugh.

[...]

You sat slumped at your desk, your face buried in your hands as Fred paced back and forth in front of you, rattling off potential solutions. The stress of the upcoming fundraiser gala was weighing on you like a damn cast-iron skillet.

The shelves in the stockroom were stacked with ingredients that you weren’t even sure you’d be able to use now that the catering service had ghosted you. It was a disaster waiting to happen.

Fred sighed dramatically, flopping down in the chair across from you. “Alright, boss, what’s the game plan? Do we, like, call another service or… just throw in the towel and serve chips and soda?”

You groaned, peeking at him through your fingers. “Fred, I swear to God, if you bring up chips one more time—”

“Okay, okay, chill,” he said, throwing his hands up in defense. “But for real, though. We gotta figure this out. You know how fancy these people are. One whiff of ‘homemade’ and they’re gonna start asking if we milked the cows ourselves.”

You let out a dry laugh, leaning back in your chair and staring at the ceiling. “I should’ve just canceled the gala altogether. Who even does this every year? I’m not Beyoncé.”

Fred smirked. “True, but you’re like… Beyoncé of the kitchen. That counts for something, right?”

“Fred,” you deadpanned, narrowing your eyes at him. “That is not helpful.”

You were mid-spiral, staring at your disheveled desk, when a knock pulled you out of your chaos. Turning sharply, you found Jihoon leaning against the doorframe, hands shoved into his pockets like he was trying to look casual—but you could tell he was hesitant, maybe even nervous.

What the hell did he want now? You thought he already headed home.

“Am I interrupting?” he asked, his eyes darting between you and Fred, who was sprawled across the chair forehead red from how stressed he got.

Fred’s head shot up like a meerkat. “Not at all! Actually, perfect timing—”

You shot Fred a glare sharp enough to make him frown. “Fred. Shut. Up.” Then you turned to Jihoon, crossing your arms. “What do you want?”

Jihoon raised an eyebrow. “Heard about the cancellation. Thought you might need a hand.”

Fred couldn’t help himself. He snorted. “She needs more than a hand. She needs, like, divine intervention at this point.”

“Fred!” you hissed, your face heating up. Fred waved you off, muttering something about grabbing coffee, and practically bolted out of the room, leaving you alone with Jihoon.

You sighed and turned your full attention to him. “Alright, so what’s this about? Because unless you have a whole-ass catering team hiding in your back pocket, I don’t think you can magically fix this.”

Jihoon tilted his head, his lips twitching into that insufferable smirk you hated so much. “Well, I don’t have one in my pocket, but I do have a team. Or did you forget I used to run a restaurant?”

You blinked at him. Once. Twice. “Wait. You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” he said, straightening up a bit. “I can bring my team in. We’ll handle the food. You focus on… whatever else needs doing. Win-win.”

You stared at him, trying to gauge if he was actually being helpful or just showing off. “And what’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he said smoothly. “I just want the kids to have a good night. And… maybe—prove to you that I’m not as useless as you think.”

You let out a groan, rubbing your temples. “God, you’re so smug.”

“Smug, but capable,” he quipped.

It wasn’t like you had a long list of alternatives, and time was running out. You were about to say no—hell, you even opened your mouth to shut him down—but the words didn’t come. You were stuck, and deep down, you knew it.

“Fine,” you muttered, crossing your arms even tighter. “But if your team screws this up, Jihoon, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

His smirk widened into a full grin. “Deal.”

He turned to leave, and you couldn’t resist one last jab. “And don’t think this means I trust you or anything!”

Jihoon glanced back, his smirk back to its usual lazy self. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Chef.”

Fred found you in the kitchen later, supervising a delivery of more ingredients that just reminded you how overwhelming this whole gala was going to be. “So, you really letting Jihoon handle the food?”

“Not like I have a choice,” you muttered, signing off on a receipt. “It’s either him or I start calling catering companies and praying someone says yes for this weekend.”

Fred snickered, nudging you with his elbow. “You’re playing with fire, boss. You know that, right?”

“I know...” you sighed.

You bit your lip, your eyes fixed on Jihoon across the room as your thoughts tangled themselves into knots. He was chatting with his assistant, leaning slightly against the counter in that laid-back way of his. But then, a small hand tugged at his pant leg—a boy from the younger group, arms stretched high in the universal signal to pick me up, as he closed and opened his hands.

Jihoon hesitated for half a second, glancing down, but the moment the kid grinned up at him, Jihoon’s expression softened into something you weren’t sure you’d ever seen before. He crouched to the boy’s level, picking him up with ease, and the little guy immediately started chattering about… something. Jihoon nodded along like it was the most important thing he’d ever heard, even giving a small laugh that made your stomach twist.

“Y/N.” Fred’s voice brought you back, and you turned to see him giving you that I’m onto you look.

“What?” you whispered sharply, leaning closer.

Fred smirked. “I said, you’re really letting Jihoon handle this? Big leap of faith.”

You sighed, dropping your voice even lower so no one else could hear. “Do you think he’s gonna mess everything up again?”

Fred tilted his head, watching Jihoon over your shoulder. “Mess up? Nah. He’s too proud for that. He’d rather break his back making this perfect than give you more ammo to throw at him.”

You raised an eyebrow, still skeptical. “You’re awfully optimistic.”

Fred leaned closer, his voice lowering to match yours. “Look, I know he’s got a reputation—believe me, I’ve heard all about it—but people change. I’ve been watching him. He’s trying, Y/N. He really is.”

You glanced back at Jihoon, just in time to see him toss the boy lightly into the air and catch him, earning a giggle loud enough to echo through the room. Jihoon smiled, genuinely, and you caught yourself blinking like you couldn’t believe what you were seeing.

Fred nudged you. “See what I mean? That’s not the same guy who showed up on day one, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else but here.”

“Doesn’t mean he won’t screw this up,” you muttered, your fingers tightening around the clipboard you were holding.

Fred gave you a look that bordered on exasperation. “You’re allowed to doubt, boss, but at least give him credit for showing up. He’s not just phoning it in. Look at him.”

You did. Jihoon had set the boy down and was now crouching as a small group of kids swarmed him, waving drawings in his face. He listened intently, nodding as one of the girls pointed out the details of her masterpiece. Even from a distance, you could see the way his lips twitched into a small smile.

“See?” Fred whispered, his tone softer now. “He’s trying to be here, to be part of this. Maybe he’s not perfect, but none of us are. Don’t punish the guy for trying.”

You bit your lip again, uncertainty clawing at you. “It’s not just about trying, Fred. It’s about doing it.”

“And he’s doing,” Fred countered gently. “Every single day, in his own way.”

You stayed quiet, watching Jihoon stand up and ruffle one of the boy’s hair before turning back to his assistant. As if sensing your gaze, he glanced up, meeting your eyes for a fleeting moment.

Fred patted your shoulder, snapping you out of it. “Look, I’m not saying you have to trust him blindly. But maybe, you can let him prove himself.”

You exhaled sharply, the weight of everything pressing against your chest. “Fine. But if he screws this up, I’m not holding back.”

Fred grinned.

Jihoon, still watching from across the room, gave you a slight nod before turning back to his conversation. The boy at his feet clung to his leg like a koala, and Jihoon, didn’t seem to mind.

— // One day before the Fundraiser Gala // —

The sound of heels and boots against the tile floor echoed through the kitchen, direct contradiction to the usual patter of children’s sneakers and laughter. Jihoon’s team had arrived, and damn, they looked like they meant business. Clad in immaculate white chef coats and black pants, they marched in like some kind of culinary SWAT team, their faces serious as their eyes scanned the colorful cabinets, the shelves stacked with bright utensils, and the whimsical decorations scattered around.

For a second, you thought they might’ve walked into the wrong place. This wasn’t their sleek with its stainless steel everything and clinical vibes.

One of the chefs—a woman probably in her late thirties, with warm brown eyes and a bright smile—broke away from the group. Her crisp chef’s hat stood out even more because of the colorful butterfly pinned to the front. She approached you with her hands clasped in front of her, her energy immediately softening the sharpness of the arrival.

“You must be Chef Y/N,” she saidt. “It’s such an honor to meet you. I’m a big fan of your work. My daughter used to come here a few years ago before we moved away.”

You blinked, caught off guard by her warmth. Then your lips curved into a genuine smile as you reached out to clasp her outstretched hand. “Oh, really? That’s amazing! What’s her name?”

“Ellie,” she said, her smile widening. “She loved it here—always talked about the classes and how kind you were. You really made an impact on her.”

Your chest tightened with pride as you squeezed her hands lightly. “That means so much to me. Thank you for sharing that.”

Jihoon’s voice broke through the moment, sharp but not unkind, as he began directing his team like a seasoned general. “You, start unpacking the equipment and setting up the stations. Over there,” he pointed toward the far counters, “clear the area for plating tomorrow. We’ll use this section for prep. Let’s move efficiently; we don’t have all day.”

The chefs snapped into action, moving in sync as they carried crates of supplies and ingredients to the designated areas. Some paused briefly to take in the kitchen's playful décor—bright red mixing bowls, pink spatulas, even a small chalkboard where the kids had drawn messy pictures of cookies and cakes.

A younger chef paused at the chalkboard and tilted his head, squinting at a crookedly drawn cake. “What’s this supposed to be?”

You smirked, stepping closer. “That’s a birthday cake. Pretty sure it was done by a five-year-old last week.”

He grinned sheepishly and quickly got back to work.

As the flurry of activity settled into a rhythm, Jihoon finally approached you, wiping his hands on a towel slung over his shoulder. His sleeves were rolled up, his forearms dusted with flour—intimidating or approachable? you couldn't name it.

“So,” he said, nodding toward his team bustling behind him, “what do you think?”

You folded your arms, raising an eyebrow. “You brought an army.”

Jihoon smirked, his dimple flashing. “You said you were stressed about the gala. I figured I’d bring reinforcements.”

“I didn’t think reinforcements would look like... this.” You gestured toward the scene unfolding behind him—chefs moving almost mechanically, unpacking boxes of spices, knives, and tools that looked way too fancy for your humble kitchen. “They’re terrifyingly efficient.”

Jihoon’s smirk widened. “It’s what we do.”

You shook your head, pleasedly. “I’m not used to this many people in here. Usually, it’s just me, Fred, and the kids. Maybe a volunteer or two. This is... Geez.”

Jihoon’s expression softened just slightly. “It’ll be fine. They’re good at what they do, and they’re here to help.” He tilted his head toward the woman with the butterfly pin, who was busy organizing a shelf of ingredients. “And they’re not all bad, see? You’ve already made a fan.”

You let out a small laugh, glancing over at her. “She seems sweet. But you—” you pointed at him, mock serious, “—better not let this whole operation steamroll what we’ve got here. I don’t want this place feeling like some high-end restaurant. It’s not what we’re about.”

Jihoon held up his hands, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Noted, Chef. No steamrolling.”

“Good,” you said, though it was a simple conversation, it left your stomach flipping a little.

Fred appeared at your side, raising an eyebrow at the scene. “Well, this is new. You two... not bickering?”

Jihoon let out a low laugh. “Don’t get used to it.”

Fred snorted. “Noted.”

As the three of you stood there, Jihoon’s team settled further into their work. And for the first time in days, you let yourself feel a tiny spark of hope. Maybe this fundraiser wouldn’t be a complete disaster.

The faint pop of balloons filled the air as you stood outside the big house, pointing toward the arch being assembled. The guy on the ladder adjusted the last few balloons based on your direction. “Yeah, a little to the left. No, too much—back a bit. Perfect!” you called, stepping back to admire the colorful display. Satisfied, you headed inside to check on the lobby.

The scene was coming together beautifully. Soft string lights cascaded down the walls, tables draped in crisp white cloths were adorned with modest floral arrangements, and a few colorful drawings from the kids had been framed and placed strategically to keep the spirit of the NGO alive. You smiled, exhaustion creeping in.

The kitchen door swung open briefly, the sound of movement spilling out. Jihoon’s voice rang clear as he called out commands. Curious, you moved closer, the faint smell of roasted vegetables and fresh herbs making your stomach grumble.

“Should we add the asparagus to the risotto?” one of the chefs asked Jihoon.

You peeked in to see Jihoon standing near the counter, frowning at the question. His arms were crossed as he considered the dish. “No. Substitute it with something the kids will like better. Maybe peas or sweet corn—something familiar.” His tone was sharp but thoughtful, and you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. He’s got this.

With the decoration finished, you looked around the lobby one last time, hands on your hips, your legs were starting to feel the long day. Just as you were about to head upstairs for a quick break, Jihoon’s voice called out.

“Chef Y/N! Come to the kitchen for a second!”

You groaned dramatically, rolling your eyes but heading toward the kitchen anyway. The team had gathered around the main counter, dishes from the menu arranged neatly in front of them. Jihoon stood in the center, sleeves rolled up, looking completely in his element. When you stepped in, he placed a firm hand on your lower back, gently guiding you to the counter.

“Alright, Chef,” he said with a small smirk. “You’re the boss—taste and let us know if anything needs adjusting.”

You set your clipboard down by the edge of the counter, glancing at the team. Their expressions ranged from curious to tense, some with hands clasped nervously in front of them, others holding their breath. The way they watched you reminded you of the kids during class, eagerly awaiting your feedback with shiny, hopeful eyes. It was a window straight to their inner child, and it warmed you in a way you hadn’t expected.

You picked up the first dish—a delicate risotto plated beautifully with fresh herbs—and took a bite. The creamy texture melted on your tongue, and you couldn’t help but nod in approval. The team collectively exhaled, and a few shared quiet smiles.

Moving to the next dish, a roasted chicken breast with a honey glaze, you chewed thoughtfully before nodding again. Your eyebrows raised as you flipped to a fresh page on your clipboard and started writing.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed a few of them shifting nervously, trying to sneak a peek at what you were jotting down. You heard someone’s breath hitch, and you fought back a grin. Their curiosity bubbling over like kids at a science fair.

Finally, you set the pen down and looked up at the group with a big smile. “Everything is excellent,” you said warmly, your tone full of genuine praise. The room erupted into quiet sighs of relief and soft laughter as they exchanged congratulatory nods.

Jihoon stood at your side, his eyes on you, but you didn’t miss the curiosity there, too. You ripped the page from your clipboard and handed it to him. “Here,” you said. “See you all tomorrow—get some rest. You’ve earned it!”

As you left the kitchen, you could feel their eyes lingering on you, their whispers audible even as you stepped into the hallway.

“What did she write?” someone asked, unable to contain their curiosity.

Jihoon unfolded the note, and for a moment, his face was unclear. Then he scoffed softly, a smile breaking across his face as he shook his head.

“What is it, Chef?”

Jihoon chuckled and held up the paper for them to see. Written in bold letters, surrounded by a big smiley face, were the words:

"You have the best team ever, Jihoon-ah! (P.S. Don’t mess it up, or I’ll switch the risotto for instant noodles tomorrow.)"

The room blast into laughter, the tension evaporating in an instant. Jihoon rubbed the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly.

— // The day of the Fundraiser Gala // —

The afternoon stretched lazily into evening. You were on autopilot, clipboard in hand, mentally running through the checklist one last time.

You didn’t even notice Jihoon’s team gathered in a loose circle near the kitchen, stifling laughter as they watched you stride past, completely oblivious. Jihoon, standing at the center, tried to hold it together, his lips twitching and his cheeks dangerously close to full-on pink.

When you finally looked up, feeling the weight of their stares, you froze. Jihoon caught your gaze, his face crumpling into silent laughter as he pointed at your head.

You blinked, confused, before your hand flew up and landed on the pink rollers still perched on your head. Your cheeks flamed instantly. “Oh my God,” you groaned, rolling your eyes dramatically. “Not a word!” you warned, glaring at Jihoon, who was practically doubled over, biting his fist to keep from cackling.

“Come on,” he teased, still grinning. “It’s a look!”

You huffed, trying to keep your composure as you giggled despite yourself. Jihoon straightened, still laughing. “Alright, alright, no judgment. But seriously…” His tone softened slightly, and his eyes swept over you. “You’ve been running around all day. Go get ready—we’ll take care of the rest from here.”

You smiled tiredly, feeling the faint brush of his fingers against your shoulder as he winked. The touch lingered, even as you turned to head upstairs.

In your office, the mirror reflected someone entirely different from your usual self. The rollers were gone, replaced by soft waves cascading around your face. The long dress hugged your waist and flared subtly at your hips. It was nothing like the practical aprons or flour-dusted chef hats you wore every day. For the first time in a while, you felt glamorous.

A knock sounded at your door, and Fred poked his head in. “You look…” He sniffed loudly, dramatically. “...so good. Do you even know how to walk in heels?”

You rolled your eyes and pushed at his shoulder playfully. “Shut up, Fred.” The hard texture of his tuxedo jacket pressed against your palm, a memo that tonight wasn’t just another day in the kitchen.

The lobby was alive when you descended the stairs. Guests filled the space—reporters, actors, chefs with Michelin stars under their belts, the kids’ parents, and longtime supporters of the organization. Some children were already laughing and playing with the monitors, their joy cutting through the formal atmosphere in the most perfect way.

You greeted guests warmly, flashing your practiced smile as cameras clicked and people extended hands to shake yours. But out of the corner of your eye, you caught sight of Jihoon.

He stood near one of the round tables, his pristine white chef’s coat gleaming under the lights. Unlike the standard uniforms, his was sharp and sophisticated, accented with a brooch showcasing his achievements. His short hair was perfectly styled, and the smell of his soap lingered faintly in the air—jihoon always smelled like a fresh bath.

Jihoon was mid-conversation with a Michelin-starred chef, but his attention kept drifting. You could feel his eyes on you as you moved through the crowd. When your gaze met his, he subtly adjusted the collar of his coat, looking flustered.

He raised his hand, beckoning you over.

“Y/N,” he called, a bit more breathless than usual.

You walked over, smiling as he introduced you. “This is Chef Park. I had classes with him when I was just starting out.”

Chef Park extended a hand warmly, and you shook it, your voice full of charm as you exchanged pleasantries. Jihoon tried to stay focused on the conversation, but his gaze kept sliding back to you.

The dress—damn, the dress. The way it emphasized the curve of your waist, the dip of your back, the subtle swell of your chest—Jihoon felt his mouth go dry.

While you chatted animatedly with Chef Park, Jihoon fought to keep himself together. His eyes darted downward for a split second, landing on your ass before quickly snapping back up.

Fred sidled up next to Jihoon, smirking. “She cleans up nice, huh?”

Jihoon shot him a sharp look, cheeks pink. “Shut up.”

Fred grinned wider, nudging him with an elbow. “Bet you’re regretting all those jokes about her rollers now.”

Jihoon groaned quietly, running a hand through his hair as he muttered, “You have no idea.”

When the conversation with Chef Park ended, you turned back to Jihoon, your smile soft. “So? Everything on track?”

Jihoon swallowed hard, nodding. “Yeah. All good. Just… don’t trip in those heels, okay?” he teased lightly, though his voice was a little hoarse.

You smirked, leaning in slightly. “Don’t burn the risotto, Jihoon-ah.”

Fred’s laugh from behind was loud enough to draw attention, but you were already slipping away, leaving Jihoon standing there, flustered and very much not focused on risotto anymore.

Everywhere you turned, there were people—donors, parents, fancy celebs holding glasses of wine like it was part of their outfits. The kind of people who looked too perfect.

Back in the kitchen, you caught glimpses of Jihoon barking orders—well, not barking, but you know, his stern-but-not-rude tone that somehow made you think, damn, is it hot in here, or is it just him? His uniform was doing wonders, too. That brooch on his chest? Fancy as hell. The sharp cut of his chef coat? Not fair. The dude was practically glowing, commanding his team with this quiet authority that made you wanna—well, your ego didn’t wanted to finish that thought.

But it wasn’t just his looks. Watching him orchestrate everything like a culinary conductor, was making your knees go weak—It just hit different. He made plating look like an Olympic sport—it was sexy in a he’s-too-distracted-to-realize-how-hot-he-is kinda way.

You tried not to linger in the kitchen doorway like some creep, but your feet betrayed you. You found yourself lingering by the double doors leading into the kitchen way more than necessary, just to sneak a peek. And when Jihoon glanced up mid-sentence—probably to tell someone to stop over-salting the soup, the devil on your shoulder moaned in the most slutty and mockingly way in your ear.

He had this stupid air about him tonight, like a general in a Michelin-starred army, his pristine chef’s jacket glowing under the lights.

Honestly, it was hot. Too hot.

Every detail mattered to him tonight, like he was pouring himself into every dish for the house—and for you.

Meanwhile, Jihoon… He felt you. He swore he could feel you every damn time you entered the kitchen. He didn’t even have to turn around to know you were standing there, clipboard probably in hand, lips pressed together as you analyzed everything.

At one point, as he was giving instructions about caramelizing the chiken, his assistant caught him mid-stutter. Jihoon blinked, realizing he’d glanced at the door when he didn’t even mean to. Sure enough, there you were, leaning slightly against the doorframe, watching him.

“Chef?” his assistant asked, clearly amused.

Jihoon shook his head, trying to focus. But god, how could he when you were out there looking like that? The memory of your dress earlier—was burned into his mind, everytime he finished a plate.

And you weren’t just standing around, either. You were networking like crazy, charming the big donors with your natural warmth. Jihoon kept overhearing snippets of your conversations, catching the soft laughs you’d coax out of the crowd. His chest tightened every time. How the hell were you this good at everything?

The main event started in the salon, where guests gathered around tables adorned with delicate flower arrangements. A massive screen hung at the front of the room, flashing photos of the NGO’s achievements, kids smiling and laughing, and heartfelt thank-you messages from families.

You had a glass of wine in your hand, but you weren’t drinking much—your attention was split between schmoozing the guests and keeping tabs on Jihoon. He entered the room with his team in tow, their white jackets contrasting beautifully with the dark, sleek space. His presence shifted the entire mood, drawing eyes like a magnet.

As the night went on, donations started rolling in. The screen showed the numbers climbing higher and higher, names of donors flashing beside each amount. You clapped along with everyone else, heart swelling every time the digits jumped. But then a new name appeared: Lee Jihoon. His real name by the side of the donation, not his professional one.

Your breath caught. The amount wasn’t just generous; it was enormous. Enough to make an audible gasp ripple through the crowd.

Fred’s hands landed on your shoulders, giving them a firm squeeze. You didn’t respond, eyes fixed on Jihoon as he stood near the back of the room, his hands shoved into his pockets. He wasn’t looking at the screen. Instead, his gaze was on you.

Later, after the gala dinner had been served and the kids had performed their adorable little skit, Jihoon’s team gathered in the salon, celebrating their successful service. Jihoon found you again, his hand brushing yours as he handed you a flute of champagne, making you abandon your clipboard once for the night, before heading to the kitchen. Cute.

Minutes later Jihoon saw you coming towards his team direction, and he stepped aside, making room for you in the circle. His hand brushed against your back lightly, making your skin shiver under the pads of his fingers.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Perfect,” you replied, glancing at him. “You really outdid yourself tonight.”

He gave a small smile, but it didn’t quite hide the way his chest puffed up a little at your praise.

One of the chefs leaned forward, clearly curious. “So… what’d you think of the risotto?”

You laughed softly, remembering the dish you’d tasted earlier. “Honestly? It was flawless. You guys knocked it out of the park.”

The team broke into wide smiles, their pride radiating through the room. Jihoon stood quietly beside you, but you could feel the satisfaction rolling off him.

“You really do have the best team, Jihoon-ah,” you said quietly, just for him to hear.

He chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I know. But don’t tell them that—they’ll get cocky.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile stayed.

[...]

The house was a ghost town now, silent except for the soft hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. The laughter of the kids and clinking of glasses had faded into memories, and the night felt heavy in the best way—like it had been full.

You stretched your legs out on the rest room couch, head lolling back. The long dress you’d cursed earlier now felt like salvation, hiding how much you wanted to just kick your heels off and sprawl indecently. Fred and Jihoon’s assistant sat across from you, chatting nonstop like they hadn’t just survived the most exhausting night of their lives.

Jihoon, was quiet, his head tilted back against the wall, arms crossed, looking done. You wanted to tell him to take a break, but you knew better—he’d earned the silence.

Still, your throat felt dry, and you sat up suddenly, pushing yourself off the couch. “I need another drink. Back in a sec.”

Fred shot you a look. “Champagne? Or vodka this time?”

“Champagne.” you fflip him off with a tired grin as you headed for the kitchen.

The kitchen was spotless, not a single dish out of place. You stared at the counters, blinking in disbelief.

“No way,” you murmured under your breath, tugging a fresh bottle of champagne from the cooler. “Even the dishes?”

A low voice startled you. “Even the dishes.”

You jumped, nearly dropping the bottle, and spun around. Jihoon was leaning against the doorway, his jacket draped over one arm, his hair slightly mussed like he’d run his fingers through it too many times. He smirked softly at your reaction.

“Sorry,” he said, stepping into the kitchen. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” you lied, grabbing a second glass for him. You poured the champagne and handed him one.

“Cheers,” you said, raising your glass.

He clinked his against yours with a quiet chuckle, the sound of the glasses meeting delicate in the silence.

You sat on the counter, letting out a soft sigh as you sipped. Jihoon moved to lean against the counter beside you, his thigh brushing your knee as he turned his glass in his hand.

“You proved me wrong tonight,” you said suddenly, catching his eye.

He tilted his head, curious. “Oh yeah? About what?”

You smiled, a little softer this time. “About whether you really cared about this place. About the kids. About any of it. I thought you were just here because…” You trailed off, shaking your head. “I don’t know. Because you had to be.”

Jihoon’s brows furrowed, no defensiveness in his voice when he said, “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t care, Y/N. You know that.”

“I do now,” you admitted, setting your glass beside you. “I see it in how you are with the kids. How you talk to them, listen to them. Even tonight, bowing to every single parent...”

Jihoon’s face softened. “They’re… incredible. Every single one of them. I’m not gonna lie—I thought I wasn’t great with kids. But these kids? I love them, Y/N. Like… it’s different. They’re different. They remind me why I even started doing all this in the first place.”

You leaned back slightly, studying him, your chest tightening at how genuine he looked.

“You’re a sap,” you said, grinning.

“And you’re not?” he shot back, smirking.

You nudged his leg with your knee. “Don’t deflect. I’m being serious. You’ve come so far since you got here. And honestly? The house wouldn’t be what it is tonight without you.”

Jihoon stared at you for a long moment, his lips twitching like he wanted to argue, but then he just took a final sip of his champagne and placed the glass beside yours.

You didn’t even realize you’d been holding your breath until he shifted, slotting himself between your legs with a smoothness that should’ve been illegal. His hands found the counter on either side of your thighs, and he leaned in close.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” he murmured. “This place is you. Every inch of it. I’m just… lucky to be part of it.”

Your breath hitched as you met his eyes, the proximity making it impossible to look anywhere else.

“Jihoon…”

“Hmm?” His gaze flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes.

“You’re… a lot.”

“And you’re not?”

Jihoon stood close enough for you to notice how the soft cotton of his t-shirt clung to him underneath the chef’s coat he’d shrugged off earlier. Without thinking, your hand lifted, fingers brushing against the collar of the shirt.

He didn’t move, didn’t flinch. His gaze stayed locked on you, soft and curious.

You cleared your throat, keeping your voice steady. “So… you staying in town? Or are you disappearing again?”

Jihoon tilted his head, smiling softly. “I’m staying.”

“Good,” you said with a small nod, your fingers lingering for a second longer before dropping back to your lap. “In that case… want to make it official?”

His eyebrows shot up. “Official?”

You grinned, your tired eyes sparkling. “I mean, if you want to be part of our team. Contract and everything. Full-on chef Jihoon at the NGO.”

Jihoon blinked at you, the surprise written all over his face. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious,” you replied. “At this point, if you leave, the kids are gonna cry for days.”

He scoffed, shaking his head with a laugh. “The kids? I’d probably cry.”

You laughed with him, the sound soft and genuine. “Would you?”

“Definitely,” he said, then glanced at you with a smirk. “Would you cry?”

You raised an eyebrow, leaning back a little as you place your palms behind you. “Please. I’ve already cried plenty because of you.”

Jihoon groaned, throwing his head back in defeat. “Don’t bring that up,” he whined.

You softened, nudging his arm. “I’m kidding.”

He sighed, resting his head on your shoulder like he was trying to hide from your teasing. “I know,” he mumbled. “But it’s real.”

You didn’t know if he meant the apology or the gratitude, but the way his hand lifted from the counter to rest on your leg through the slit of your dress made your back arch a bit. His palm was warm against your skin, his touch featherlight as he squeezed gently.

He straightened just slightly, his face close enough now that you could see the faint flush creeping along his cheekbones. “What if,” he said quietly, “I made you cry with something good instead?”

Your lips parted, the question taking you off guard. Jihoon didn’t pull back, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your mouth like he was waiting for an answer. His eyebrows furrowing as if he was doing a really big effort to not kiss you.

“I—” You swallowed, your voice catching as his thumb began to trace slow circles against your leg.

His other hand brushed the edge of the counter beside you, steadying himself as he leaned just a fraction closer. “Would you let me?” he asked softly.

Your breath hitched as Jihoon’s hand slid higher up your thigh, his palm warm and firm. The tiniest, unintentional sound escaped your lips—breathy and needy—and the way his smirk curved made your panties sticky almst instantly. He leaned in, close enough for a soft, teasing peck. Merely there. Then he pulled back just enough to catch your reaction, his smirk deepening at the horny look in your eyes.

“Ji,” you whispered, grabbing the front of his shirt before he could get smug. Your lips found his, no uncertainty at all this time, your tongue slipping between his parted lips.

His lips were impossibly soft, moving against yours with a rhythm that left your mind spinning. His tongue met yours, sweeping against it in a way that made you clutch his shirt tighter, pulling him closer. His hands abandoned your thigh, traveling upward, his palms smoothing over your hips, then the curve of your ass, before they settled on your waist.

Jihoon kissed like he worked in the kitchen—passionately, hard. Every movement was like he knew what would make you wetter, his lips pressing into yours harder, hungrier, as though he was savoring you. His thumbs brushed the edges of your ribs, fingers splaying as he drew you closer, swallowing the quiet moans that slipped out against his lips.

He broke away for a moment, sucking gently on your bottom lip before releasing it with a soft pop. His lips lingered, warm and swollen, against your skin as he caught his breath. You felt his breath fan against your jaw before his mouth trailed kisses to the sensitive skin behind your earlobe. The press of his lips there was wetter, slower, his tongue just grazing enough to make your head tilt back.

His lips were plush, his tongue warm as it laved over the skin just below your ear. The sensation was maddening—gentle nips and soothing licks. He kissed lower, his lips brushing the curve of your neck, finding the pulse point that fluttered beneath his tongue. His tongue darted out, hot and slick, tasting the salt of your skin before he pulled it back in to suck lightly.

You felt your pussy expulsing more honey right after an agonizing tug on your lower belly. You rolled your hipstrying to find his heat down there too. “Hey—Jihoon,” you murmured, hardly able to get his name out as his mouth kept working, your mind slurred, weak and the faint.

And then, just as his hand slid higher, brushing along your ribcage toward your chest, reality hit you like a slap in the face.

The kitchen.

You froze for a second, pulling back with a shaky laugh as you pressed a hand to his chest. “We can’t… here,” you whispered, your cheeks flaming. “This is literally where the kids cook.”

“You’re right. God, you’re right. Im sorry.” Jihoon said, voice muffled against your skin as he let out a shy laugh. “I know. I just…” He pulled back slightly, looking at you like he didn’t want to let go. “I’m sorry. You’re just…”

“Just what?” you teased, arching a brow even as you felt the heat rising to your cheeks.

“...So hot,” he admitted, his lips curving into a sheepish smile that only made you hornier.

You were about to respond—maybe tease him, maybe kiss him again—when the sound of someone clearing their throat made you both snap out of it like a couple of guilty teenagers caught sneaking around.

Standing in the doorway were Fred and Jihoon’s assistant, their jaws practically on the floor. Fred looked like he’d seen a ghost—or maybe his entire worldview shatter—while Jihoon’s assistant was holding a tray of neatly plated desserts, now slightly tilted as they both froze in place.

“Um…” Fred finally managed. “Are we… interrupting… something?”

You and Jihoon pulled apart instantly—well, as much as you could with him still standing between your legs and his hands still firmly on your waist.

“No!” you both blurted in unison, your voices hitting slightly different octaves, which only made the situation even more awkward.

Fred squinted at the two of you, his gaze darting between your flushed face, Jihoon’s equally guilty expression, and the very obvious fact that you were still sitting on the counter with Jihoon standing way too close.

“Uh-huh,” Fred said slowly, folding his arms. “Because it looks like I just walked into a scene straight out of a porno.”

Jihoon’s assistant, meanwhile, was trying—and failing—to hold back laughter, his shoulders shaking as he set the tray down on a nearby table, grinning like he’d just uncovered the gossip of the century. “Should we give you two a minute? Or, like… ten?”

“Okay, stop,” you groaned, hiding your face in your hands as you tried to will the floor to swallow you whole. “It’s not what it looks like.”

Fred raised an eyebrow. “Really? Because it looks like you were—”

“Fred!” you snapped, cutting him off before he could finish that sentence.

Jihoon, to his credit, was doing his best to look professional again, straightening his shirt and stepping back slightly, though his ears were burning red and his black pants were almost exploding with the hard bulge poking the zipper. “I mean… we were just… talking,” he said, his voice awkwardly high-pitched. “Right, Y/N?”

“Totally.” you said, nodding way too quickly.

Fred looked like he was physically restraining himself from rolling his eyes. “Oh yeah, because that totally explains why Jihoon’s lips were practically glued to your neck.”

Jihoon’s assistant let out a snort, finally losing it as he doubled over laughing. “This is so much better than I imagined,” he said between giggles. “I knew something was up between you two, but this? Oh, this is gold.”

“Can we not?” Jihoon mumbled, his hands rubbing his face as he leaned against the counter beside you. “Seriously, just… forget this happened, okay?”

Fred crossed his arms, looking suspiciously amused. “Oh, no chance. This is going in the house history books.”

Jihoon groaned. “You’re literally the worst.”

“Yeah, and yet you’re the one making out in the kitchen,” Fred shot back, smirking. “So who’s really winning here?”

You sighed, hopping off the counter and smoothing your dress as you tried to regain some semblance of dignity. “Okay, you’ve had your fun. Can we move on now?”

Fred shrugged, still grinning as he followed Jihoon’s assistant out of the room. “Oh, sure. But just so you know, I’m never letting you live this down.”

As they disappeared around the corner, Jihoon let out a long sigh, his shoulders slumping. His face softened as he caught your eye, and he let out a quiet laugh.

You shrugged, biting back a smile. “Could be worse.”

“Yeah?” Jihoon asked, stepping closer again, his voice reducing slightly. “Like what?”

You didn’t answer, but the look you gave him said everything.

[...]

The NGO was officially closed for a week after the fundraiser gala—a well-deserved break for everyone involved. You had practically collapsed in exhaustion the night after the event, but now, as the week began, your nerves were alive again for a completely different reason: Jihoon was coming over.

Your house, modest and cozy, suddenly felt inadequate in your eyes. It wasn’t that it wasn’t clean or comfortable—it was—but compared to whatever sleek, high-tech penthouse you imagined Jihoon lived in, with modern furniture, and probably some state-of-the-art espresso machine that greeted him in the morning with a personalized message, you felt like your space might seem a little too... quaint.

Still, you’d spent the morning scrubbing your house from top to bottom. The counters were wiped down three times, the couch cushions fluffed and rearranged, and the tiny plant by the window watered, even though it definitely didn’t need it.

You glanced at yourself in the mirror for what had to be the fiftieth time, smoothing down the soft pink fabric of your loose dress. It wasn’t too dressy, but it was cute and casual enough to not feel overdone. The fabric swayed lightly as you moved, and you liked how it made you look pretty. Enough to say, “I’m not trying too hard, but also please notice I’m cute.”

Why are you acting like this is a date? you scolded yourself. It’s just Jihoon. He’s coming here for work.

To top it off, you’d spent way too long picking out a perfume that smelled sweet but subtle enough to not overpower him. You’d made sure you didn’t smell like cake batter or frosting—not that it would’ve been bad.

When the knock finally came, you nearly tripped over your own feet rushing to the door. Taking a deep breath, you smoothed your dress one last time and opened it, trying not to look like you’d been anxiously waiting there for twenty minutes.

Jihoon stood on your porch, casual but polished in a black crewneck and jeans, his hair perfectly messy in that way that looked completely effortless. He smiled softly, holding up a notebook and a small bag of groceries. “I come bearing snacks and bad handwriting,” he said.

You laughed, stepping aside to let him in. “Well, the snacks can stay. We’ll see about the handwriting.”

Jihoon looked around, his eyes scanning the cozy space. “This is nice,” he said, nodding appreciatively. “Way more personality than my place.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Really? I thought you’d be used to… like… manoir vibes.”

“Manoirs don’t feel like this,” he said, glancing at the soft lighting and the framed photos on your shelves. “This feels like someone actually lives here.”

He smirked, stepping into the living room and setting his bag down. “So, what’s the big plan for this super important work meeting?”

Ah, yes. The “work.” You’d convinced yourself that this was about finalizing the “Culinary Educational Outreach Program” you’d both been brainstorming for the organization. Jihoon called it “CEOP,” pronounced like “sip,” which made Fred gag every time he said it.

“First,” you said, trying to ignore how nice Jihoon looked standing in your living room, “we sit down and outline the goals for CEOP. Then, we cook.”

“Cook?” Jihoon raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Are you just using this as an excuse to put me to work in your kitchen?”

You rolled your eyes, motioning for him to follow you to the dining table. “Shut up and sit down. We’ve got notes to take.”

The two of you sat across from each other, your knees brushing occasionally under the table. Jihoon’s handwriting was frustratingly neat for someone who claimed he didn’t care about stationary aesthetics, and for someone who claimed to have atrocious handwriting.

“So,” you started, tapping your pen against the page, “we want to make the cooking classes accessible, fun, and educational, right?”

“Yeah,” Jihoon said, jotting something down. “But we also need to keep the budget in mind. Like, how much can we actually afford to spend on those tiny aprons the kids keep asking for?”

You snorted. “You’re still salty about the aprons?”

“They’re expensive!” he argued, eyes narrowing at you. “And they’re just gonna get covered in flour and icing.”

“That’s the point, Jihoon. Let them be messy. It’s part of the fun.”

Jihoon shook his head, but you caught the way the corner of his mouth twitched up. “Fine. Tiny aprons. But if the kids start demanding personalized chef hats, that’s on you.”

You laughed, leaning forward slightly as you scribbled down some ideas. Jihoon’s gaze flickered to your neckline watching how your boobs moved as you breathe for a split second before he snapped back to his notebook, clearing his throat.

The plan transitioned seamlessly into the kitchen—almost seamlessly. You’d barely gotten past measuring the ingredients when Jihoon leaned over to adjust your grip on a whisk, his hand brushing yours.

“You’re holding it like you’re trying to stab the dough,” he teased.

“Maybe I am,” you shot back, sticking your tongue out at him.

Jihoon just laughed, stepping back to watch as you mixed the batter. His eyes wandered—innocently at first, but when you shifted your weight and the neckline of your dress dipped slightly, he had to bite the inside of his bottom lip to… focus.

“Okay, my turn,” he said, taking the whisk from you.

As he worked, you found yourself leaning in closer, watching the way his muscles shifted under his shirt, the way his jaw clenched slightly in concentration. You didn’t even realize how close you were until Jihoon dipped his finger into the icing sugar and smudged a line across your cheek, careful to not mess your pretty make up or accidentally spot your dress.

“Hey!” you gasped, stepping back, your eyes wide.

Jihoon grinned, holding up his hands. “What? It’s a kitchen. You’re supposed to get messy, remember?”

You frowned, sulking slightly as you wiped at your cheek. “I thought you were gonna kiss me, not… attack me with sugar.”

Jihoon leaned back just enough to meet your flustered gaze, his smirk downright unsafe. He tilted his head, pretending to be shocked, one hand pressed to his chest in mock disbelief.

“Oh,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “So you want me to kiss you?”

You could feel the heat creeping up your neck, your hands fidgeting at your sides. “I didn’t—”

“Mm-mm.” Jihoon shook his head, cutting you off as he stepped closer, crowding your space. “Don’t even try to deny it. You’ve been looking at me like that all dayy. And now this pout?” His eyes flicked to your lips, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “If you do that again, I might just have to—”

You couldn’t look at him. The pressure of his gaze was too much, and you turned your head to the side, lips pressed into a tight line. Jihoon wasn’t having it.

His hand reached up, fingers gently guiding your chin until you were looking at him again. “There it is,” he murmured, his voice a little rougher, like he was restraining himself from jumping on you. “That pout.” His smile widened, and he took a small step between your legs, his hands finding your hips and squeezing lightly. “C’mere.”

His lips brushed yours—insufficiently, like a mock. It wasn’t enough to satisfy the yearn already forming between your legs, but it was enough to make you almost moan. And Jihoon noticed.

He grinned against your mouth, taking his time as his hand slid up to cradle the back of your neck, bumping your tits in the process. “You’re gonna have to ask me properly, like the good girl you are,” he whispered, the tip of his nose grazing yours.

“Please?” you breathed, but it was all he longed for.

His lips captured yours fully this time, devastatingly thorough. He didn’t rush, every moment spent tasting your lips was something he savored. His tongue flicked out, tracing the seam of your lips, coaxing them open, and when you let him in, he took.

His tongue hungrily claimed yours, his tongue sliding against yours in deep, lazy strokes that made your knees weak. His other hand slipped around to your lower back, pulling you impossibly closer, so close you could feel the heat of him through his shirt.

He tilted his head, angling the kiss to deepen it further. His teeth grazed your bottom lip, tugging lightly before his tongue followed, soothing the slight sting. The contrast made you whimper, your hands clutching at his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you upright even though the kitchen counter was supporting your back.

“God, you sound so pretty,” Jihoon murmured against your lips. He pressed his hips into yours just enough for you to feel his cock growing inside his pants, making you frown desperately, your fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt.

His hand drifted lower, squeezing your waist before trailing over the curve of your ass. When he pulled back, just slightly, his lips were plum, slick and swollen. He leaned in again, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then to your jaw, then to the sensitive spot that he tasted and teased days before.

Your head fell back as his lips traveled lower, his tongue flicking out to taste the skin of your neck. He sucked lightly, and you knew that it was enough to leave a redspot without even look at it.

Your hand slid between your bodies, and the second your palm made contact with the unyielding weight of his cock, Jihoon’s reaction was instant. His hips stuttered forward, a whiny, almost helpless sound escaping his lips as his forehead dropped against your shoulder. “Oh, fuck—you can’t just—” He cut himself off with a breathy laugh that turned into a moan, his hands gripping your hips to steady himself.

You couldn’t help but grin while rolling your eyes lightly, fingers curling around him to get a better feel. He felt big, so thick that your fingers barely wrapped halfway around the length of him. You gave an experimental squeeze, and his mouth fell open, his breath hitching as he muttered, “Jesus fucking Christ, Y/N.”

“Didn’t think you’d be so sensitive,” you teased, sliding your hand along him slowly, feeling the heat of him through the fabric. His hips jerked involuntarily, grinding into your palm, and you gasped at the weight of his phallus.

He lifted his head, his face flushed, lips shiny and parted. “Sensitive?” He let out a shaky laugh, biting his bottom lip before grinning wickedly. “You’re over here squeezing me, and you wanna talk about me being sensitive?”

You squeezed him again, just to see what he’d do, and he cursed loudly, his eyes squeezing shut. “Fuck—okay, okay, you’re insane.” His hands gripped your hips tighter, holding you still as he started to grind against your palm, his cock twitching under your touch.

“Jihoon,” you whispered, and he opened his eyes, his pupils broad as he looked at you.

“What?” he rasped with voice strained but, his hips never losing their rhythm against your hand.

“You’re literally humping my hand right now,” you pointed out, biting your lip to hold back a laugh.

“And?” His mouth curved into a smirk, though his voice wavered as you tightened your grip on him. “You think I’m just gonna sit here all chill while you touch me like that?” He let out another moan, his head falling back slightly before his gaze locked on you again.

You leaned in, pressing your lips to his ear. “Feels good, huh?” You pressed your palm harder against him, your fingers teasing along his length. His response was immediate—his hips bucked, and a whiny “shit” escaped his lips, his face scrunching up in pleasure.

Jihoon smirked, leaning in until his lips hovered over yours. “Keep playing, and see what happens,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin.

You raised an eyebrow, your fingers brushing against the tip of him, and he groaned, the pads of your fingers starting to get sticky with the precum already jutting through his pants.

He exhaled sharply, and suddenly, his body pressed against yours so firmly that you couldn’t move. The breath hitched in your throat as his hips pushed yours into the counter. Jihoon’s eyes flicked down, and that’s when he froze.

Your dress straps had slipped from your shoulder, the fabric falling just enough to expose the curve of your chest. The neckline dipped precariously low, your tits all but spilling out. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to worship or devour you.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, dragging his bottom lip through his teeth before smirking. “Hiding all that under an apron, hm? How dare you?”

You rolled your eyes and gave him a tiny, playful shake, but the motion only made things worse. Jihoon’s pupils dilated as his eyes flicked between the slight bounce and your face.

Without waiting another second, he hooked his fingers under the neckline of your dress and tugged it down, the fabric pooling at your feet in record time. He muttered something incoherent under his breath, hands already fumbling with the clasp of your bra, his desperation so endearing it made you giggle.

“You good?” you teased as he struggled with the hooks.

“Do not laugh at me right now,” he grumbled. Finally, the clasp came undone, and he yanked the straps down your arms like his life counted on it.

“Goddamn,” he whispered, his hands immediately cupping you, warm and firm. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, and you feel like jelly in his hands, your skin not even covering the shivering. “You’re actually perfect. Like, what the hell?”

You were about to retort when he leaned forward and pressed a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the swell of your breast, and whatever witty comment you had died on your tongue.

Jihoon pulled back just enough to look at you. “Counter,” he rasped, already moving to lift you.

But the universe had other plans. His elbow knocked into a mixing bowl on the counter, sending it clattering to the floor with a loud metallic crash. Both of you froze, eyes wide like kids caught sneaking snacks.

“Shit,” Jihoon whispered, glancing down at the bowl before meeting your eyes. A laugh bubbled out of him, breathy and slightly unhinged. “Okay, yeah. This is cursed. New location.”

You couldn’t help but laugh too, as he grabbed your hand, pulling you toward the bathroom like it was some grand escape.

The bathroom light flicked on, and Jihoon speeded, it was the next room. He turned to you, his hands sliding up your sides, fingers brushing over the straps still hanging limply on your forearms. “Let me,” he murmured, his voice softer now but no less heated.

Instead of rushing, he dipped his head, his lips trailing down your shoulder as he pushed the straps down. The fabric fell away entirely, and his hands followed the motion, sliding down your body.

When you reached for his shirt, Jihoon smirked, pulling back just slightly. “Oh, you wanna do the honors?”

You nodded, biting your lip as you tugged the hem of his shirt up. He raised his arms, letting you peel it off him, the fabric catching on his mess of dark hair before dropping to the floor. Your hands roamed over his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles as he watched you.

When it came to his pants, though, he grabbed your wrist. “Wait,” he said, his grin widening. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and drawers and pushed them down himself.

Your eyes dropped, and you couldn’t help the way your mouth fell open slightly. “Wow,” you whispered, and he laughed, stepping closer until his body pressed against yours again.

“Yeah?” he murmured, his lips brushing yours. “Wait ‘til I’m inside you.”

You didn’t even try to stifle the shameless moan that ripped from your throat, loud and unrestricted. It sounded like something straight out of a porno, and Jihoon had the nerve to smirk. “Damn, we’re not even there yet… You like it when I talk with you like this?”

You nodded quickly, disoriented in the sense to say anything coherent. Jihoon smirked, leaning in to nip at your jawline before pulling back just enough to hook a finger into the waistband of your panties.

“Come nearer,” he whispered, tugging you forward by the elastic until your chest clashed against his. His nails grazed the skin just above the fabric, teasing the sensitive area before his hand dipped lower. He let the material slide over your hips, his knuckles brushing your skin as he pushed it down. When the panties reached your thighs, he let gravity do the rest, the fabric pooling around your ankles.

Jihoon’s hands immediately found your waist, lifting you like you weighed nothing and setting you on the cool marble of the bathroom sink. The contrast between the chill of the counter and the heat of his body made you shiver, your legs instinctively closing.

“Uh-uh,” Jihoon said, his voice a frolicsome warning. His hands gripped your knees, spreading them apart again, wider this time. His gaze dropped, and his breath audibly caught as the light from the mirror illuminated you perfectly—your thighs trembling, your folds glistening, and the way your body clenched and unclenched in forethought.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, his thumb brushing the inside of your thigh as if to test if you were real. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty down here. Like, actually unreal.”

Your face burned at his words, but before you could respond, his hand was back. His index finger dragged lightly through your folds, collecting your slick before circling your clit with a featherlight touch. Your eyes squeezed shut as your turned your head to the side, as if the sight of him would make you weaker.

“Jihoon,” you whined, your voice high-pitched and needy.

He grinned at that, his other hand bracing your hip to keep you from squirming away. “Patience.” he murmured.

His finger pressed more firmly against your clit now, rubbing infinite motions that made you rest your back on the mirror, instantly melting. Just as you felt the stimulus start to build, he stopped.

Your head snapped up, a frustrated groan leaving your lips. Jihoon only laughed, leaning in to kiss your cheek, the corner of your mouth, before pulling back again.

“What’s the rush?” he teased, his finger sliding lower to brush against your entrance but never pushing in. “We’ve got all night.”

You whimpered, your hips bucking toward his hand. His smirk widened, and he slid his finger back up, tapping lightly against your clit like he was testing how much more you could take.

“Jihoon! N-no!” you practically sobbed, your thighs trembling as you clenched around nothing.

“No…,” he said, his voice low and commanding. “I want you shaking for me.”

He alternated his technique, sometimes circling your clit in lazy patterns, other times tapping. Each time you came close to your orgasm, he pulled back, leaving you swaying on the border.

Your breaths came out in short, shallow pants, and your hands gripped the counter so hard your knuckles started to hurt. “Please,” you begged, your voice breaking.

Jihoon leaned in, his lips brushing yours as he whispered, “Just one more time.”

This time, he used two fingers, sliding them in a v-shape around your clit and moving them side to side in quick, ribbing motions. The sensation was unlike anything you’d felt before, and your hips jerked involuntarily.

“Shes so puffy already,” he murmured, his eyes locked on your cunt as he worked you over. “I can feel you shaking, baby. You gonna cum for me?”

You nodded desperately, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Yes—please, Jihoon, I can’t—”

Jihoon pulled his hand away, and you sobbed. Your chest heaved as frustration and desperation coiled tight inside you, tears welling in your eyes.

“Aww, baby,” Jihoon cooed, his voice a mocking singsong that somehow felt like a soothing balm and fuel to your fire at the same time. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing a stray tear that slid down. “Look at you. So needy. You’re so wet already, and you think you’re ready for this?”

Your breath caught as he grabbed his cock, thick and glistening at the tip with precum, and let it rest heavy on your stomach. He tapped it against your skin, each tap leaving a sticky, wet line that trailed down to your bellybutton.

“See this?” Jihoon asked, his tone low but tinged with teasing. He shifted his hips, dragging the head of his cock up your stomach so you could feel its full length. “How do you think this is gonna fit, huh? You can’t even take my fingers without cumming. What makes you think this cock’s gonna slide right in?”

You blinked down at him, the weight of his cock against your belly making your head spin. It reached your bellybutton, almost too far, the swollen head ruddy and glistening like it was mocking you, daring you to try.

Jihoon’s gaze softened for a second as he caught the wobble in your lip and the glossy sheen of your tear-filled eyes. “God, you’re too cute,” he muttered, before his hand was back between your legs. “Alright, sweetheart,” he said, cooing again as he pressed the pad of his finger to your entrance. “Guess I gotta get you nice and stretched out for me, hmm?”

You felt the slow, steady push of his finger as it slid inside you, every nerve brightening at the intrusion. Your walls clenched around him instinctively, and Jihoon let out a quiet groan.

“There we go,” He slid his finger in deeper, curling it slightly to press against your front wall. Your hips bucked at the sensation, and Jihoon smirked. “Right there, huh? You like that?”

“Y-yes,” you gasped, your hands scrambling for purchase on the cool marble.

His finger pulled back almost completely before sliding in again, this time with a second one alongside it. The stretch was immediate, but your body welcomed it, pulsing around him. Jihoon wasted no time, curling his fingers and dragging them against your walls in a way that made you see stars.

“God, you’re so tight,” he muttered, his free hand resting on your trembling thigh to keep you steady. “You’re squeezing me so good. Can’t wait to feel you clench like this around my cock.”

His fingers picked up a rhythm, alternating between deep, curling strokes and quick, shallow thrusts that kept you guessing. He started adding little motions that made your head spin—scissoring his fingers to stretch you further, pressing his thumb firmly against your clit while his fingers stayed inside, or twisting his wrist slightly to drag his fingertips over new spots.

“You like that?” he asked, after noticing your hand chasing his fingers. “Of course you do. Look at how you’re dripping for me. You’re making such a mess, baby.”

“Jihoon—o-oh my god,” you whimpered, your back arching off the counter as his fingers found a particularly sensitive spot.

“Yeah? Right there?” Jihoon grinned, adjusting his angle to hit it again, harder this time. Your breath hitched, and he chuckled. “That’s it. So good for me.”

You couldn’t help it—the words tumbled out of your mouth in a whispered chant, your voice trembling with every syllable. “Thank you, thank you, thank you…”

Jihoon smiled fondly at you, his cock twitching visibly against his stomach. “You’re so sweet when you beg,” he said, pulling his fingers out momentarily just to slide them back in with a delicious stretch. “You’re gonna make me lose my mind.”

This time, he focused on your clit with his thumb, rubbing quick, tight circles as his fingers curled inside you. He replaced fast stimulation and sudden, devastating stops.

“Ngh—Please,” you whimpered, your thighs trembling as you gripped his forearm.

“You’re so close, hmm?”

He slowed his movements again, dragging his fingers out just enough to feel the way you clenched around him, desperate to keep him inside. His thumb moved in teasing patterns over your clit, never quite enough pressure to satisfy.

“I need it,” you choked out, your voice breaking as tears streamed down your cheeks.

“I know, baby,” he said, his tone softening again. He pressed a gentle kiss to your temple before his fingers resumed their relentless pace, curling and pressing against that sweet spot again. “But you’re doing so good for me. Just a little more, okay?”

The coil in your stomach tightened impossibly further, and you knew you couldn’t last much longer. Jihoon seemed to sense it too. His fingers curling like they were made to be inside you, massaging your g’spot with a rhythm that felt borderline illegal. His thumb merely rubbed your clit now, just enough to make you twitch, and the devilish smirk on his face said he was doing it on purpose. His other hand gripped your waist, steadying you like he knew you’d collapse if he let go.

“Um—thats why your strawberry mille-feuille is so good,” you suddenly gasped out.

Jihoon blinked, momentarily confused before realization dawned on him. His lips curled into that sly, cocky grin. “Wait—are you thinking about my dessert skills right now? While I’m two knuckles deep inside you?”

You whined, too far gone to deny it. “You’re too good with your hands!”

He chuckled, curling his fingers harder until your knees buckled. “Guess it’s a good thing I’m versatile then, hm?” His tone was light, but his fingers? Ruthless. He angled his wrist slightly, hitting that spot with pinpoint correctness, and you swore your vision went static for a second.

Your body jerked, your clit grinding against the heel of his palm as he shifted his thumb to flick at it—just once, but it sent sparks shooting down your back. His fingers pushed deeper, scissoring slightly, then dragging out achingly slow. “Jihoon, please," you whimpered, your nails digging into his wrist.

“Please what, baby? Want me to keep going? Or stop again?” he teased, his thumb pressing down on your clit just to lift off a second later, leaving you sobbing into his shoulder.

You wanted to slap him and beg him all at once. Instead, you cried out, “Don’t stop—oh my god—Jihoon!”

His smirk faltered for a second when your walls clamped down hard around his fingers, and a rush of wetness coated them. His hips grinding involuntarily into nothing, his cock throbbing visibly. “Greedy little thing.”

You couldnt form words anymore, your head falling back as your whole body spasmed. you chanted his name, completely gone, tears stinging your eyes as the coil in your stomach snapped hard, the force of your orgasm smashing you.

Jihoon didn’t stop. His fingers worked you through every wave, his thumb pressing firm, messy circles on your overstimulated clit until you physically had to push at his chest. “Too much” you croaked, but your legs trembled so bad you knew you couldn’t get far if he decided to keep going.

“Too much?” he repeated. He slowly slid his fingers out, holding them up for both of you to see, glistening and soaked.

Jihoon still breathed heavily like he was the one being stimulated, giving you time to catch your breath, but you weren’t letting go. Your arms wrapped tight around his neck as you pulled him in, your lips pressing to his. His tongue slid against yours, massaging it in a way that sent heat straight to your sopping pussy. The sound of wet, sticky smacks echoed in the bathroom.

This kiss wasn’t rushed or desperate; it was soft, and so heartbreakingly sweet. Jihoon’s hands roamed over your waist, and as much as he loved the way you tasted—loved the faint hint of the wine you’d shared earlier, the lingering sweetness that seemed to pour from your lips—there was something deeper about it.

Jihoon knew tastes. He knew them better than most people ever could.

He knew the tang of citrus, the buttery richness of a perfectly baked croissant, the smoky depth of roasted meat, and the way sugar could melt on your tongue like magic. He’d spent years chasing after flavors, crafting them into stories on a plate. But none of it, none of it, had ever come close to the taste of you.

It wasn’t just your lips or your skin—it was the whole experience of you. The warmth of your arms wrapped around him, the faint floral scent that clung to your hair, the way your body felt like home against his. If someone ever asked him, in an interview or at some fancy gala, what his favorite taste was, he already knew he’d be in trouble. Because he’d want to say “you.” And how could he not? You weren’t just a flavor; you were comfort food, the kind that nourished your soul in a way no recipe could replicate.

He pressed closer to you, losing himself in the feel of your lips, of your tongue stroking his with an intoxicating rhythm. You were both so caught up in each other that you didn’t even notice when he shifted his hips, the tip of his cock brushing against your entrance. It wasn’t until the head of it nudged inside that you broke the kiss, gasping sharply as your chin fell forward, your moan feeling hot against his mouth.

“Jihoon—” you choked, and it made his stomach twist. He grinned against your lips, nasty and triumphant, his teeth grazing your bottom lip as he tilted his head back slightly to look at your face.

“You didn’t even notice, hm? So focused on kissing me good, you didn’t feel me slip in?”

Your nails dug into his shoulders, your head tilting back as another moan escaped you. Jihoon’s grin only grew wider, so big it almost felt boyish, but there was nothing innocent about the way his hips pressed forward, inch by inch.

Your walls clenched instinctively and then gave way, molding around his girth. You tilted your head down just enough to catch a glimpse, and the sight alone made your stomach tense.

The thin, glossy skin of your folds was stretched taut around him, clinging desperately as if your body didn’t want to let go. The contrast was stark, almost hypnotizing: the way your wetness coated him, leaving a shiny trail that dripped down, pooling at the base where your pussy tried to hug. He followed your gaze to glance down between you, his lips parting in disbelief.

“Goddamn, you’re taking me so well..” He shifted slightly, pressing a little deeper, and yyour vision blurred.

Your head fell back against the mirror as you moaned, your chest heaving.

He cut you off with a slow roll of his hips, his cock pushing further, stretching you impossibly more. You gasped, your nails dragging down his shoulders as your body tried to adjust. “That’s my girl. Thought you could handle it.”

The slick sounds between you were filthy, echoing in the shadowy bathroom. You couldn’t stop the way your hips shifted, trying to meet him halfway despite the stretch. The movement made him groan, his hands tightening on your hips as he pressed you back against the marble sink.

“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he said, his voice almost a whine as his eyes flicked to where your bodies were joined. “You’re gonna ruin this counter... the floor..”

Your walls fluttered around him, pulling him deeper, and the motion earned a sharp intake of breath from Jihoon.

His cock pulsed inside you, the wet heat of your walls squeezing him like a vice, clenching around every inch he gave you. His teeth caught his bottom lip as he pulled back just slightly, dragging against your sensitive core before thrusting back in. He wanted to watch you unravel, to hear every desperate sound spilling from your lips.

His hands slid from your hips to your thighs, pushing your legs wider to take him deeper. He paused to glance between you again, mesmerized by the way you swallowed him whole. “Can’t believe this tight little pussy’s taking all of me.”

You whimpered at his words, the sound shamelessly loud in the quiet bathroom, and it sent a quiver down his back. He smiled satisfied, as he leaned in, his lips brushing over your ear. “You like it when I talk to you like that, hm?” he teased, his tongue flicking over your earlobe before he nipped it lightly. “Tell me. Tell me how much you like it.”

“I—fuck—I love it,” you stammered. Your nails scraped down his back, leaving faint red lines in their wake. “Love when you—when you talk to me like that. Love—oh my god—love when you’re inside me.”

“Yeah?” His thrusts slowed again, almost unbearably so, the head of his cock pressing against your g’spot with each measured roll of his hips. He let his forehead drop to yours, his breath mingling with yours as he grinned. He changed his angle slightly, shifting his hips just enough to hit a spot that sent fireworks exploding behind your eyes. The slick, wet sound of his cock moving in and out of you filled the room, mingling with the gasps and moans you couldn’t hold back.

Your head fell back, hitting the mirror with a soft thud, and Jihoon chuckled, his lips brushing over the curve of your jaw.

“Careful, baby,” he said, massaging your scalp with a care that made you lean on it. “Can’t have you breaking the mirror just ‘cause I’m fucking you so good.”

Your laugh came out breathless, cut off by a sharp gasp as he suddenly pressed harder on your clit. “Jihoon, please—”

“Please, what?” His thrusts slowed again, torturously so, and he pulled back just enough to make you whine in protest. His fingers tightened on your thighs, holding you in place as he watched you with dark, hooded eyes. Your hands slid to his neck, clinging to him desperately. “Please, gonna cum.”

“You want me to fuck you harder? You want me to make you cum all over my cock, baby? Say it..”

“Want you to fuck me—ngh,” you rolled your eyes. “Want you to fuck me harder. Make me cum, Jihoon. Please.”

“So wet. God, I could fuck you all night. Don’t think I’d ever get enough of you.” Your walls clenched around him, and he cursed under his breath, his head dropping to your shoulder as he struggled to keep his pace steady. “You’re gonna make me cum if you keep doing it.”

“Then cum,” you whispered insistent. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as your lips brushed over his ear. “Cum for me, Jihoon.”

He groaned, his thrusts growing faster, rougher that you thought that your sink wouldnt handle it. But even as he pushed you closer to the edge, his focus never wavered. “I—shit—I need to make you come first. I have to, baby.”

You shook your head violently, your own orgasm already clawing at the edge of your sanity. “No—no, I’m so close, Jihoon,” you gaspedr. “Just—just keep going, don’t stop—please—”

His hips jerked at your words, his cock twitching deep inside you as his body teetered on the brink of losing control. His thrusts slowed further, unsteady and disjointed as his thumb continued to draw tight, firm circles on your swollen clit.

“You feel so fucking good,” your voice sounded sultry and wrecked, your eyes locking onto his. “So deep—so fucking thick. Jihoon, I can feel you in my stomach. You’re so big, you’re gonna ruin me, baby. Do it. Come inside me. Fill me up.”

That did it.

The sound Jihoon let out wasn’t even human—a choked, strangled mix of a moan and a curse that hit its peak as his body shuddered violently. “Oh—shit—ah, fuck, fuck—!” His cock pulsed hard, the first spurt of his cum hitting so deep inside you that you felt it bloom with warmth against your cervix. You swore you could feel each throb as he came, his hips snapping forward instinctively to bury himself even further, his moans blending into desperate gasps. “Ah—hah—baby—!”

The heat, the pressure, the way his orgasm filled every inch of you—it all tipped you over the edge, dragging you into your own release. Your walls clenched around him, milking him for everything he had as you cried out, “Jihoon—fuck—yes—!”

You arched into him, your hips lifting slightly off the counter to grind against his cock, riding the quakes as your climax ruptured through you. The movement made Jihoon gasp, his hands flying to your hips to still you. “A-ah—fuck—stop—baby, stop—hah—ah, shit—!” His voice cracked as he groaned, overstimulation evident in the way he hissed through gritted teeth. “T-too much—oh my god—aw, fuck—!”

Jihoon’s laughter broke through his moans, a breathless, disbelieving chuckle that melted into another string of curses as he shuddered beneath you.

Finally, you stilled, your body collapsing into his as your head dropped to his shoulder. Both of you were trembling, your breaths ragged and uneven, your hearts pounding in sync.

The room settled into a quiet purr after the chaos. The bathroom was small, its muted light casting soft shadows on the tiles. But in this moment, it might as well have been the biggest place in the world, holding all the unsaid things between you, the weight of your shared history pressing down like a furry coat.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” Jihoon asked suddenly, his voice soft, almost hesitant, like he wasn’t sure he wanted to dig this deep. He looked at you then, his eyes more serious, like he was searching for something in your face.

You laughed, a small, shaky sound. “You mean when you accused me of stealing your recipe for strawberry shortcake at the first days of competition? Yeah, hard to forget.”

His lips quirked up, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “God, I was such an asshole,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I didn’t even taste it. Just saw your name on the board and thought, ‘Oh, great. Another rich kid with connections, swooping in to take what I’ve worked my whole life for.’”

You frowned, your fingers twitching where they rested on his chest. “You really thought that?”

“I didn’t know you,” he admitted, his tone apologetic. “I was so used to fighting for every little thing, you know? Scholarships, internships, a spot on the team—hell, even a secondhand stand mixer. And then you walked in, all… pretty and shiny. I just assumed you’d never struggled for anything in your life.”

You bit your lip, unsure how to respond. Because yeah, he wasn’t wrong—you hadn’t grown up worrying about money or how you’d pay for school. But you’d struggled in other ways, ways that people like Jihoon—driven, hyper-focused, and painfully independent—might not have seen.

“That’s not fair,” you said softly. “You don’t know what I’ve been through. Just because I didn’t have to fight for a secondhand mixer doesn’t mean I haven’t fought for other things.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I know that now.”

The quiet between you stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt… cogitative. Like you were both sifting through the memories, pulling them out one by one to examine under the bathroom light.

“The NGO,” you said suddenly, your voice intruding upon the silence. “That’s when everything changed.”

Jihoon nodded, his hands still on your waist, his fingers tightening slightly. “Yeah. When I saw what you were doing—what the competition money was for—I felt like shit. Here I was, thinking you were just some spoiled kid looking for another trophy to add to the shelf, and you were… Something that important.”

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. “It wasn’t just me. It was all of us—Fred, the kids, you. God, Jihoon, you don’t even realize how much you’ve done for this place.”

He shook his head, a self-deprecating smile tugging at his lips. “I don’t know about that. I just… I wanted to help. And honestly, it was selfish at first. I needed a job, and you offered one. But then…”

“Then you fell in love with it.” The journey from strangers to colleagues to whatever this was had been anything but smooth. It had been messy and painful but it had also been beautiful in its own way. “I hated you, you know,” you said suddenly. “At the beginning, I mean. You were so… cold. And I thought, ‘How the hell am I supposed to work with someone who looks like he’d rather set the kitchen on fire than have a conversation with me?’”

He laughed, a genuine sound that softened the strain in the room. “Yeah, I hated you too. Thought you were this privileged, clueless brat who’d never survive a day in a real kitchen.”

“And now?”

“And now…” he bit his lip, analyzing your face as he tilts his head. “I can’t imagine my life without you in it.”

“Jihoon…”

“I mean it,” he said firmly, his hands moving to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing gently over your cheeks. “You’re… you’re my favorite taste, you know? Out of everything I’ve ever made, ever eaten, ever dreamed of tasting—you’re the one thing I’ll never get enough of.”

You let out a shaky laugh, your heart swelling in your chest. “That’s cheesy as hell.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, his lips quirking up into a small, shy smile. “Sometimes the truth is cheesy.”

Jihoon’s smile faltered just a bit. “Sometimes, though… I wonder if you really forgave me. Like, deep in your heart.”

You blinked, stunned by the sudden shift, and searched his face for more. His brows were slightly furrowed, his jaw tight, like the weight of the question had been pressing on him for longer than he cared to confess.

“Forgave you?”

“For the way I acted back then,” he said, his gaze dropping briefly before meeting yours again. “The way I doubted you. The things I said, the things I did, the things I thought. I mean… I know we’ve moved past it. But deep down, I’ve always wondered if there’s a part of you that still holds onto it. That maybe you… couldn’t fully forgive me.”

You didn’t even hesitate. “I did,” you said firmly. “I forgave you, Jihoon.”

He tilted his head, skepticism flickering across his features. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because I don’t blame you for it anymore,” you said, leaning into him slightly, needing him to understand. “At that time, I had this picture in my head of what my life was supposed to look like. The glamorous Michelin-starred restaurant, the prestige, the accolades… It was all I wanted.”

“And I ruined it.”

“No,” you said firmly, reaching up to cup his cheek. “You didn’t ruin anything. If anything, you gave me something better.”

His eyes searched yours, still unconvinced. “But what if… what if I hadn’t? What if I hadn’t been so bitter, so determined to take you down? What if your dessert had won anyway?”

You paused, the weight of the question settling between you. “Or what if I’d won, Jihoon? What if I’d walked away with the title and the prestige and never thought about anything else? What if the organization never existed because I was too busy chasing some dream that wasn’t even mine anymore?”

He frowned at that, his lips pressing into a thin line. “You think… things were meant to happen this way?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice softening. “But I’d rather believe that they were. That everything—every fight, every misstep, every moment we wanted to strangle each other—led us here. To this.”

Jihoon let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You always were the optimistic one.”

“Not always,” you said with a small smile. “But I am about this. About us. About what we’ve built together.”

He exhaled slowly, his gaze dropping to where his hands rested on your hips. “You know… I think about it sometimes. The restaurant, I mean. How it’s under new management now. How I used to dream about a place like that—sleek, modern, perfect. And then I look at what we’ve done with the organization, and it’s… messy and chaotic, but so beautifull. Like it actually matters.”

“It does matter… And maybe that’s the point. Maybe the restaurant was never supposed to be our story. Maybe this is.”

He looked at you then, something shining in his eyes. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” you said, your lips curving into a gentle smile. “Because if it wasn’t, we wouldn’t be here. We wouldn’t have the kids, the bakery, the messes we can’t clean up without three people and a prayer.”

He chuckled at that. “The messes are your fault, you know. You’re the one who thought it was a good idea to teach a bunch of middle schoolers how to make éclairs.”

You grinned, leaning into him. “And you’re the one who decided to teach them soufflés.”

He rolled his eyes, but his smile was soft. “Well played.”

As you looked at him—messy hair, tired eyes, and a softness in his expression that you rarely saw—you felt something settle in your chest.

“Jihoon,” you said quietly. “I wouldn’t change a thing.”

— // Two Years Later // —

The NGO was quieter than usual. You noticed it the moment you stepped inside. Normally, the kitchen buzzed with the chaos of kids laughing, mixing ingredients, and occasionally bickering over who got to use the electric mixer. But today, there was an eerie calm.

“Hello?” you called out, setting your bag down on the counter. The faint scent of something baking lingered in the air, but it wasn’t enough to mask the odd tension. “Where is everyone?”

You wandered into the main hall, expecting to see at least Jihoon with his clipboard, corralling the kids into some elaborate baking lesson. Instead, the room was empty save for a lone piece of paper taped to the center of one of the tables.

“Come to the garden.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. The garden? The small plot out back that you and Jihoon had transformed into a herb and flower garden over countless weekends?

Curious, you made your way outside, the warm sunlight spilling over the neatly trimmed rows of basil and lavender. At first glance, the garden seemed empty too, until you heard the faint giggle of one of the kids.

“Okay, who’s hiding?” you called out, scanning the area.

Suddenly, the kids burst out from behind the hedges, each holding a small bouquet of flowers, their faces lit with excitement. “Surprise!” they shouted in unison, running toward you and handing you the mismatched bundles.

“What is this?” you asked, laughing as you tried to catch all the flowers being shoved into your arms.

But before anyone could answer, Jihoon appeared at the edge of the garden, looking uncharacteristically nervous. He was dressed neatly, his usually casual outfit swapped for a crisp white shirt and a pair of dark slacks. His hands were shoved into his pockets, and his lips quirked up in a nervous smile as he approached.

“Jihoon?” you asked, your heart skipping a beat.

The kids scrambled to the side, forming a small semi-circle as Jihoon stepped closer. He stopped just in front of you, his dark eyes locking onto yours.

“You always said this garden was your favorite place,” he began. “You said it’s where you felt the most at peace, where everything feels real. So I thought it was the perfect place to do this.”

Your heart raced as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box.

“Yah… What are you doing Jihoon-ah?,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

He dropped to one knee, the kids giggling in soft gasps and excited murmurs. “I’ve spent the last two years trying to figure out how I got so lucky. How someone as stubborn and chaotic as me ended up with someone as kind and brilliant as you. And honestly? I still don’t know.”

You laughed softly, tears already welling in your eyes.

“But what I do know… is that I don’t want to spend another day without you. You changed my life, and you keep changing it, every single day. So…” He opened the box, revealing a delicate ring with a big, oval, sparkling diamond. “Will you marry me?”

The kids broke out into cheers before you could even process what was happening. Your hands flew to your mouth as you nodded quickly, too swamped to speak. Jihoon’s grin spread wide as he stood, slipping the ring onto your finger before pulling you into a tight hug.

“Yes,” you finally managed to say, your voice muffled against his buff chest. “Of course, yes.”

The kids swarmed around you both, cheering and hugging as Jihoon pressed a kiss to your temple. “I had a lot of help,” he admitted with a soft laugh, gesturing toward the group. “They’re surprisingly good at keeping secrets.”

“Well, I can’t believe you pulled this off,” you said, laughing through your tears as you looked down at the ring.

“I had to,” Jihoon said, his voice soft and sincere. “Because I wanted to give you a moment as perfect as you’ve made my life.”

The kids had prepared cupcakes with little fondant hearts on top, and the staff brought out bottles of sparkling cider to toast the two of you. Jihoon never left your side, his hand warm and steady in yours, his smile never fading.

As the sun set over the garden, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, you leaned into Jihoon’s side, the ring catching the last rays of light.

He tilted his head to look at you, his lips quirking into a soft smile. “You know, I was thinking,” he started, “when we’re, like, seventy or something, do you think we’ll still be able to handle all the chaos the kids bring?”

You snorted a laugh, turning to face him fully. “Seventy? Jihoon, I’m not even sure we’re handling it well now.”

He laughed with you. “What happens when we’re too old to keep up with their energy? You know they’re just going to keep multiplying, right? They bring their friends, their siblings, their cousins… It’s like a never-ending kid buffet in there.”

You shook your head, leaning into his side. “First of all, let’s not talk about being seventy when we just got engaged. Can I at least have a honeymoon phase before we’re planning for wheelchairs and dentures?”

He raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into that naughty smirk. “Honeymoon~?” he drawled.

You rolled your eyes, biting back the grin tugging at your lips.

“And you’re stuck with me now,” he teased, waggling his eyebrows before leaning back, the smirk still firmly in place. “So, where are we going for this so-called honeymoon? Somewhere romantic? Tropical? Or do you just want to stay in and let me make you dinner—while wearing nothing but an apron?”

fanfic inspiration by @thepoopdokyeomtouched thank you for giving me the motivation to write this fic! you're the sweetener to my blog's flavor. wishing you all the best this holiday season!

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heechwe · 3 months ago

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miss americana | 𝖕𝖘𝖍

➸ second anthology piece in "basketball (inkchwe's version)" and story-inspired playlist also can be found there too! ୨୧ pairing: park sunghoon x fem!reader ୨୧ word count: 9.8k ୨୧ genre: fluff, angst, smut ୨୧ tags: basketballplayer!heesung, cheerleader!reader, established relationship, exes to lovers au, high school au, heavy petting, marking, oral (f receiving) penetration (all characters are of age!) ୨୧ synopsis: Fed up with Sunghoon's attitude and petty games, you move on, hopefully to something better. Why did he have to realize how important you were to him once you were already gone? ➸ a/n: bless @mini-mews for being there every step of the way with this fic, it was amazing seeing all of the comments and reactions and i could not have asked for a better beta ♡

DECEMBER

Sunghoon could have made the winning shot if it weren’t for the praise that was placed on someone else for so long. Lee Heeseung was the best shooting guard his high school had ever seen; anyone with talent and passion for the sport could see that. At the same time, Sunghoon made a lot of calls as the small forward that were imperative to the success of the team. From scoring to handling the ball, Sunghoon could do it all and then some.

If only the captain, the old fart, saw that. And Heeseung, the sanctimonious prick, appreciated him more.

Sunghoon is so wrapped up in his bitter thoughts he can barely focus on your lips attached to his neck and your legs around his waist. You both were cramped in the driver’s side of his car, but you managed to make yourself fit on Sunghoon’s lap to straddle him. In the dark of night, only the two of you parked on the basketball court by the river, you decided to give him a reminder of what the most important thing in his life was outside of winning the championship.

Sunghoon usually spent times like these celebrating with his other teammates, but something was sitting in the front of his mind like a fly he couldn’t swat. You can tell in the furrow of his brows and his scrunched-up mouth. He may not be able to focus on going out and drinking, but it was a benefit to you. Maybe he would finally spend some time with you like he used to.

“Heeseung acts like everyone should worship the ground he walks on. Yeah, he won the game tonight, so what? I could score as many baskets as him if I wanted. And I’ve played as many games as his ass and won. Even once when I had chicken pox.” Sunghoon continues on his rant, unbothered by your mouth and hands on him. You run both of your palms inside of his jersey and feel the skin of his abs underneath your fingers, but Sunghoon doesn’t budge.

“I think you did great, who cares?” You mumble into his neck, focused on making him feel pleasure rather than irritation. You move Sunghoon’s hands to cup your backside, the cheer shorts under your skirt riding up to expose your upper thighs.

“Whatever,” Sunghoon grumbles, eyes looking past you and towards the window.

“What do you mean ‘whatever’?” You pull away from him to look in his eyes. He’s a million miles away, not bothering to pay attention to your impending frustration. His only concerns are himself and his feelings. “Seriously, get over this attitude and talk to me if you’re not gonna at least act interested.”

Sunghoon lets out a frustrated groan and pushes you back into the passenger seat. You yelp in the process, barely landing on your ass. “What the fuck, Hoon?”

“Don’t you see I’m upset and maybe I don’t want to spend another night making out?”

“Another—“ You huff out a breath, shocked at his audacity. “When was the last time we actually spent quality time together?” Before Sunghoon can answer with a basic response, you interrupt him. “And by ‘quality time,” I don’t mean with the guys or Jongseong in attendance.”

“That’s not fair.” Sunghoon tries to hit you with his signature pout, but you don’t budge.

“What’s not fair is that I’m supposed to be your girlfriend but all you care about is huffing and puffing about basketball, complaining about not being the captain, or being a huge jackass.”

“If that’s all I do, then why the fuck are you still around?” Sunghoon bites back, venom dripping from every word.

You look at him with wide eyes, seeing him clearly for the first time in months. After the latter half of the year you’ve been together being a disappointment of epic proportions, the veil finally lifted. Sunghoon does have a point. What are you still doing with him?

“You know what? You’re right.” You exit Sunghoon’s Denali with a grunt and fix your makeup, not letting the tears that threaten to escape fall from your cheeks.

“What are you doing now?”

“You’re right. I’m not gonna waste my time anymore. I’m done.” You slam the passenger door closed and begin your walk from the basketball court to your house, determined not to look back. If he wanted to be that way, then you deserved better.

You hear the slow, incoming huff of Sunghoon’s car, and he rolls the window down to continue your conversation. His lips are in a thin line, his annoyance at an all-time high but now directed completely at you. He says, “So I guess I’ll call you when you’re not so hormonal?”

“Don’t bother. Just fuck off, Sunghoon.”

He nods his head with an angry smirk and rolls the window back up. In a sudden screech, his car races down the empty street, leaving you alone in the night to cry. You weep not just for the future you saw with him coming to a sudden end, but for the past Sunghoon who you believed would never treat you this way now.

You shut your locker with an angry hand, a resounding slam filling the hallway. The strangers around you flinch in response and whisper, some unsure why the head cheerleader is in such a mood today.

“Didn’t you hear? Her and Sunghoon are done,” one of them speaks in a hushed tone.

“Damn. And right after his win? Heartless,” another says with the click of their tongue.

“How about you guys mind your fucking business?” You spit the words in their direction with force before walking away towards your calculus class.

As if anyone knows anything about your relationship or how it came to end. The vipers are always ready to strike when a new hint of gossip comes around, no matter who gets hurt in the process.

To add salt to the wound, Sunghoon saunters up to you and tries to wrap his arm around your shoulder. You shrug him off with a tired grunt.

Many times before you had fought and made up as if the day prior never happened, all smiles and no tears in sight. But you’re tired of the same game you always played with each other. You think to yourself about the way he spoke to you two days ago, and how you would tell any other friend they deserve better.

And you definitely deserve better than that.

“Are you still mad?” Sunghoon asks with a whine. Typically, his childlike voice would make you laugh. Right now, you just feel vomit in the back of your throat.

“I’m not mad. We’re over.” You speak with a defeated but definitive tone, the end of your sentence falling into a whisper.

What’s the point of fighting anymore? With an outside perspective you did not have previously, you realized how exhausting it was going up and down with someone you were supposed to love.

Sunghoon doesn’t keep up with you, somehow understanding from the resignation in your voice and simple response that, as far as you were concerned, you were done with him.

“Goddamnit,” you curse, trying to make the lighter flick to life. For all the times you tried coaxing a flame from the device, it would not budge. First you had to deal with the onslaught of rumors circulating about your sudden breakup, and now you could barely get a lighter to work. Why did Mondays always have to be so awful?

Exhausted, you throw the pack of cigarettes and lighter into the open air. Both objects fall somewhere onto the football field, but you barely notice. You’re too focused on the tears in your eyes and the sobs that leave your mouth to pay attention to anything else.

You know it’s pathetic to sit on the bleachers and cry by yourself about the breakdown of your relationship, but the cyclone of emotions didn’t ask for permission when it hit you. It just did, violently and with little care for your wellbeing. You’re just glad to have the quiet time now to deal with the storm by yourself.

Or so you thought.

Someone walks up to you with both your cigarettes and lighter in his hands. Bang Chan, head quarterback for the football team and senior, smiles at you when you do look up in his direction. He steps back an inch when he notices your puffy eyes and red face. “Sorry,” he says. “Just saw you…lost these…and didn’t know if you wanted them back or not.”

You shake your head. “Throw them out if you want.”

Chan releases a surprised sigh. “Didn’t expect a cheerleader to smoke tobacco.”

His insight makes a smile appear on your lips in spite of the tears. “I never have. I just thought since I kicked one bad habit, why not replace it with another one?”

Chan laughs. He sits down next to you, but stays mindful of your space. “Sunghoon, right?”

You nod, his name a pit in your stomach. “You know him?”

”Just his reputation. Basketball guys can be real assholes.”

”And what about football players?” You counter. “You’re all just perfect angels?”

”Well, we prefer to call ourselves ‘realists’.” You share a laugh with him, relieved to feel something other than apathy or misery. It’s been so long since you’ve been around a guy who didn’t make you doubtful of yourself. Why not enjoy it?

You give Chan your name, but he tells you he was well aware of your presence before. “I mean, you cheer at our games too, y’know, so you’re hard not to notice.”

You blush, your puffy face suddenly red from the comment. “Well, you’re hard not to notice too, Chan.”

Maybe the future for you and Sunghoon had not played out the way you intended, but your future with someone else could potentially be pretty great.

JANUARY

Sunghoon feels pretty out of place every year once the end of the basketball season comes around. Now that he’s single, he wonders what could fill his spare time in a meaningful way. Besides academics, he comes up empty with ideas.

He wouldn’t have chosen to be broken up with, but what else could he have done? He wasn’t going to grovel, not when you were the one making a big deal out of one fight. Eventually, you would come to your senses and come back. You both loved each other too much not to resolve the situation, even if weeks had rolled by without any communication.

Sunghoon is walking with Jay to second period when he sees you chatting with Chan, all smiles and body too close to the senior’s for Sunghoon’s comfort. Jay notices how tense his friend becomes seeing both you and Chan together, shoulders rigid and jaw tight.

”Would it be so bad if you just apologized? Even if you think you didn’t do anything wrong—“

”I know I didn’t,” Sunghoon cuts in, pissed off at the situation he’s in. How did Chan have any right to try and pull the charm out now that you’re available? It makes the blood inside of Sunghoon’s veins boil to a scorching temperature.

”You love her, man. Stop trying to be nonchalant about your feelings.”

The bell for late students rings, and everyone still in the hallway scatters to make it to their classes. Sunghoon feels the muscles in his body twitch seeing you walk away with Chan, arm in arm like you’re the closest of friends.

Writing notes for your physics class is hard when your best friend Wonyoung talks the entire time, her voice projecting to a high shrill. You manage to write while listening to her impassioned speech, but you stop altogether when the subject comes to you and Chan.

”When is he going to ask you out already? Everyone sees the way he looks at you.” Wonyoung bats her eyelashes with a suggestive smirk, and you thwack her away with your notebook.

”We’re just friends. And I’m not trying to date anyone right now.”

”Come on. It’s been three weeks. Nobody would blame you for putting yourself back out there.”

The intercom blares to life, and you hear your name and the request to be seen in the front office. You take your belongings in case the request involves some sort of emergency, your thoughts racing as you head out the door.

When you make it to the front office, all you see is Sunghoon with his back against the secretary’s counter, grinning ear to ear. You’re both alone for the first time since you broke up, and the awkwardness you feel is suffocating.

”Did you do this?” You ask, eyes rolling at his nonchalant posture.

“Miss Kang owed me a favor.” His eyes are vulnerable suddenly, the cloud of indifference shredding a touch. ”Besides, I wanted to see you.”

Those words would’ve made you melt a long time ago, the early days of your relationship marked with gestures like this and sweet nothings leaving his lips. Now, you feel so far from the girl you were when you broke up with him.

”Well I want to get my lab done, so if you’ll excuse me—“

”Wait, wait, please.” He rushes to stop you from leaving the tiny office, his arm firm against the glass door in front of you.

”Sunghoon, this is not—“

”Please, just hear me out.”

You cross your arms and straighten your posture into a firm stance, looking directly in his eyes while waiting for the usual speech to leave his mouth.

You know you’re the only one I want.

”You know you’re the only one I want.”

My intention is never to fight with you.

”My intention is never to fight with you.”

All I want is to work this out, please.

”All I want is to work this out, please.”

You can’t help the broken laugh that leaves your lips, or the well of tears that build up behind your lashes. It’s both heartbreaking and comical that he thinks after weeks of nothing to show for his sudden humility, his half-baked, used-up monologue is the best way to mend your problems.

”Is that it?” you ask, deadpan.

Sunghoon stutters, suddenly at a loss for words. “What do you mean?”

”Is that all you want to say? ‘Cause if it is, then—”

”Why are you being like this?” His pleading tone suddenly becomes one of irritation. He’s not used to you putting up a fight, and now that you are, he doesn’t know how to handle it, like a toddler who can’t find their toy.

That’s all you were to him at the end of the day. A shiny doll to play with and discard when the circumstances didn’t suit him.

“I’m being like this because this is nothing new. And in another couple of days, it’ll be the same problems and the same excuses. It’s gotten old.” You walk out of the door, but hold it open just a touch to give him the last piece of your mind.

”You know what the worst part is, Sunghoon?” You clear your throat, failing to conceal the pain in your voice. “You didn’t even say you want me back because you love me.”

”Of course I love you!”

”Why? Why do you love me?” You throw your hands up at him, voice in tatters from how loud you’re screaming.

His response is exactly what you expected: nothing. No words come to mind or are adequate enough to describe the depth of his feelings for you, or lack thereof.

”That’s what I thought,” you say before walking away. If those are the last words you ever say to him, you’re glad you got them off of your chest.

The Spring Formal was all the talk of Sunghoon’s friends and their girlfriends once the date of the dance was announced. It was two months away, yet the hallways and classes were already littered with hearts and pink banners. Dance proposals were rampant, some even going viral on the school’s social media accounts.

It made Sunghoon sick to his stomach.

Four days ago, he thought he could win you back, but it only made you run further away from him. Was he that predictable? And what did that beefhead Chan have now that Sunghoon suddenly didn’t?

Playing video games with the guys and Heeseung’s girlfriend in attendance, he hoped it would take his mind off of things. But seeing his off-and-on adversary and partner loved up in the corner of Jake’s room didn’t help.

Sunghoon looks at the two of them laughing in each other’s arms and remembers the feeling of your body in his, the first weeks of dating being some of the best of his life. The quick texts during class, the impromptu kisses in his car before saying goodnight, and the secret drives to the beach on the weekends. He remembers them all, even if his cold nature made you think he had forgotten them with a cruel ease.

The memories pain his heart, and the image of a happy couple still basking in their newfound love does nothing but twist the knife.

“Can you guys not be all over each other in front of us? It’s disgusting.” Sunghoon remarks with sarcasm as he shoots one of Jake’s CPUs down. His friend grunts and tries to take out a person on Sunghoon’s team to even the playing field.

Heeseung’s girlfriend quirks an eyebrow, still focused on her boyfriend but ready to throw a comeback Sunghoon’s way. “Aw, someone’s jealous, isn’t he?”

Her saying the words out loud causes the entire room to go quiet. The only sounds come from the TV and automated game dialogue.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Sunghoon responds, his voice at a new low.

“Hey man. Watch how you speak to my girlfriend,” Heeseung interrupts, ready to jump from the beanbag he’s sitting in to put his teammate in his place.

His girlfriend places a tender hand on his forearm. “I got this, Hee.” She turns her attention back to Sunghoon, the ghost of a smirk on her lips. “I meant exactly what I said. Your girlfriend was tired of you being a complete prick to everyone, including her.”

Heeseung says his girlfriend’s name in warning, knowing she’s gone a bit too far, no matter how true her words are.

She doesn’t stop though, and Sunghoon is too shocked to form a sentence. “And seeing anyone else happy makes you realize how bad you fucked up and why she was right to drop you.”

Jake makes a face at her too, silently pleading for an end to the fight before more things are said that can’t be taken back.

Sunghoon throws the controller at the TV stand, the device breaking once it hits the wood. Jake and Heeseung curse at him for his reaction, but Sunghoon storms out of the bedroom before he lets his anger go any further.

He sits on the stairs in front of his friend’s house and feels the prick of tears in his eyes. It’s rare for him to allow himself to be vulnerable. The only person in his life who saw him this way was you, and without you, he doesn’t know how to pull himself back from the precipice. Was what Heeseung’s girlfriend said true? Were you right to leave him? Did he not deserve any more chances to do right by you, given how many times he fucked it up before, no matter how much he loved you?

In spite of everything he’s done wrong, he still does. He loves your fire, the stubbornness that mirrors his own so perfectly. He loves your crude sense of humor, the way you can make a joke out of anything, even in the worst of times to make him laugh. And he loves your sweetness, your capability to think of others before yourself, something he’s never been good at and always admired about you even if he never said it. He never said a lot of things he should’ve.

The questions and regrets flood his brain and make him wish he had a time machine. He would go back to the last hour you were together before everything fell apart. To be happy to have you in his arms and grateful to still hold your respect, your effort, and your love.

He hears someone walk up to him, but he doesn’t bother to look. “I’ll apologize later, okay, Jake? I don’t need a lecture right now.”

The feminine grumble makes Sunghoon turn his head, not expecting to see Heeseung’s girlfriend behind him.

“I came to apologize to you.”

Sunghoon looks back to the street in front of him. He decides to avoid prolonging the argument and nods his head. “It’s fine. You didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”

“Doesn’t mean it was okay.” She settles down on the stairs next to him. Sunghoon wiggles further towards the railing to make room for her. “Everyone deserves a chance to make things right. Even if they’ve been wrong a lot of the time.”

He discreetly wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his sweater. “Even someone like me?”

She chuckles. “Especially someone like you.”

“I’m sorry, too.” Sunghoon doesn’t need to say the multitude of reasons why she deserves an apology. But it makes the aggression between the both of them, as well as a fragment of the guilt in Sunghoon’s heart, dissipate. All that’s left is relief.

She grins, the same feelings evident in her expression. “Apology accepted.”

Sunghoon lets a small smile appear on his lips. He has to practice apologizing more often; the feeling of making amends is pretty satisfying.

FEBRUARY

“Wonyoung, I don’t know where it is!” You say into the receiver of your phone, one hand holding the device to your face as the other rifles through the belongings in your locker. “And I doubt your bracelet is in here.”

“It has to be! I can’t think of any other place it could’ve gone,” she whines, sniffling. It isn’t her fault she’s home sick today, but she would get through her cold just fine without her lucky bracelet. As far as she’s concerned, however, it’s a matter of life and death.

“I’m sure we’ll find it so you can get over this cold,” you coddle her, still searching past the books and bags of snacks.

“I don’t care about that!” Her stuffy, squeaky voice makes you move the phone away from your ear. “I need it for the charity auction. How else are we going to get all of the items sold if I don’t have it?”

You roll your eyes, grateful she can’t see. “Just wow the PTA and student body with your impeccable charm.”

“Yeah yeah, have you found it yet?”

As you continue your search, an array of your belongings tumble out of your locker. You curse and bend down to pick the contents up. Most of them are some old notes for your current classes, but one makes you stop cold.

Wonyoung’s words fade into the background as you hold up the photo strip of you and Sunghoon. The snapshots captured a perfect moment in time before the last six months of your relationship made everything take a turn for the worst.

“You can’t flip off the camera, Hoon!” You giggle as the timer starts for the next picture.

“It’s our pictures, so I have every right to use my middle finger whenever I want.” He nestles his head further into your neck, kissing the spot below your ear. You may be cramped sitting on Sunghoon’s lap in the photo booth of the arcade, but there’s no other place you’d rather be than with him.

As you laugh at his subsequent joke, the shutter goes off again.

“Your laugh is one of my favorite sounds, you know.” Sunghoon moves a stray hair away from your face, smiling ear to ear.

“That’s funny,” you say with a smirk. “That smile is my favorite thing ever.”

“Fuck off.” Sunghoon suddenly becomes shy, his cheeks turning pink.

“I swear, cross my heart.” You raise your hand in salute, and Sunghoon intertwines your fingers with his own.

As you seal your promise with a tender kiss to his lips, you hear the final click of the camera, content with whatever comes next.

You muffle your mouth with your hands, stifling the sob that started to leave your lips.

“Babe, you alright?” Wonyoung asks, another sniffle ending her question.

“Yeah I-I’m okay.” You shake off your sadness and stuff the photo strip in your locker again, half-determined to throw it in the trash nearby. “I gotta go, lunch is gonna be over in like fifteen minutes.”

“Okay. Next place would probably be your car, so just let me know later if you find it. Love you,” Wonyoung says at the end of the call.

Putting your phone in your back pocket and walking back towards the courtyard, you hear the rustle of hands clapping and feet stomping. Everyone at their picnic tables, like you, look towards the sounds.

The football team, all huddled up, begin chanting once you make it closer to them.

“Hey girl, you need a date. Why not make it #8?” They say the words in a morale-boosting rhythm, repeating them with vigor until other tables around them start chanting too. When the huddle opens at the center, Chan appears with a bouquet of flowers and a huge grin.

The team stops once he’s in front of you, Chan shy but determined. Once he gives you the bouquet, he asks, “Wanna be my date to the formal?”

You hide your face in your hands, a wide grin on your face in spite of your sudden bashfulness. Public proposals were never your thing, but with how much effort the guy put into the surprise, how could you say no?

“I’d love to,” you answer, giving him a hug as the crowd around you hollers in support. You’re grateful to have had Chan these past months while dealing with your heartbreak, it seemed to be a natural progression of your relationship. And while nothing’s set in stone, you’re happy something’s on the horizon for you.

But if you’re so happy, why is Sunghoon the first thing that pops in your head after you agree to Chan’s offer?

Thankfully, Wonyoung’s bracelet was in fact in your car behind the passenger seat. How she managed to get it back there was anyone’s guess, but hopefully that meant she would not be so freaked out about the charity auction next week.

In honor of Valentine’s Day, the high school allowed the cheerleading team to host a charity auction every year for a local nonprofit. This year’s was meant to be for the city’s homeless shelter. You worked there last summer to accumulate volunteer hours, and the people you met there had been on your mind every day since. Your goal was to make at least two thousand, but you wish you could do and earn more on your own accord for them. It was important to give back to others when you had so much and took it for granted. Some knew that better than others.

While printing pamphlets and auction tickets, your doorbell rang. You didn’t expect Wonyoung to be up to seeing anyone given her unwell state earlier on the phone, but it was her lucky bracelet. The faster she had it back in her possession the better.

Pulling the door open, the last person you expect to be waiting at your door is Sunghoon. His expression is an amalgamation of emotions, the biggest ones being disbelief and sorrow.

Any time before, back when he was your entire world, you would have pulled him into your arms and kissed away his pain. Even if you hate to admit it to yourself, a part of you still wishes you could.

But while you can be empathetic, you still have to be tough in his presence. Any sign of fragility, and he’ll see the opportunity to creep back in. “Why are you here, Sunghoon?”

“You’re dating him now?”

You furrow your brows in confusion. “What?”

“Chan. You’re together?” You see the tremble of his bottom lip and the lock of his jaw, his composure clearly hanging by a thread. It’s been a long time since you saw Sunghoon so unguarded, you’re unsure if it’s because he’s truly vulnerable or he’s on his last play to win you back.

No matter the reason, you answer with an exasperated sigh. “He just asked me to the formal, okay? He’s my friend.”

“Friends don’t ask friends to go to the dance with flowers.”

You bite your bottom lip, unsure what to say to that. “It doesn’t concern you anymore.”

Sunghoon releases a bitter chuckle, the sound of the laughter dying on his tongue midway. “It does concern me if you’re with someone else.”

“I just told you–”

“I get that.” He runs a hand through his hair, his voice frail at the edges. “But I know what it's like to want you, and I see it when Chan looks at you. And who can blame him right?”

Taking advantage of your stunned silence, Sunghoon keeps going. “When you asked me before why I love you, I didn’t realize how much I took advantage of you. I didn’t appreciate you the way I should’ve, and now I–I miss so many things. I miss the smell of your perfume in my car and the look you’d give me when you were calling me out on my bullshit, which was eighty-five percent of the time. I miss knowing you had my back even if I was in the wrong because you saw the best parts of me on days I didn’t see them at all.

“I miss you, and I love you, and I don’t know how to stop,” Sunghoon whispers. When he tries to step closer to you, you place a hand on his chest, safeguarding some sort of distance and composure between you. He presses his hand over yours, thumb rubbing across the skin on the back of your hand, making you suck in a breath.

It was every word and more that you yearned to hear from him since you parted ways. While the naysayers continued their dialogue about the demise of your relationship, nobody bothered to think about whether or not you wanted to let go in the first place. You had to, or it would’ve been the same patterns occurring over and over.

Maybe this moment, this speech, and this Sunghoon, can be a break in the chain. Maybe he’s truly adamant on turning over a new leaf for the better, for the chance to try again and do it right this time. Would it be so wrong to take the chance and give him the benefit of the doubt one more time?

But who truly knew he would change his ways except for Sunghoon himself? Could you run the risk of the cycle repeating itself again for the future you wanted? How were you meant to believe him this time with history on your side?

You retract your hand from his chest, your heart cracking in the parts he forced you to mend in the first place. “I can’t do this.”

He swallows forcefully and takes a step back, respecting your wishes. “I understand.” He walks down your driveway and to his car, leaving you with the image of his somber, close-lipped smile.

Sunghoon watches you walk back into your house, his heart in tatters. He looks at the bundle of roses sitting in the passenger seat and promises to himself to fight just a little longer. Giving up means losing you forever, and he’ll die before accepting that loss.

A big banner for the homeless shelter hangs on one of the gymnasium walls. The cheerleaders continue placing decor around the space for tomorrow’s auction, some hand-drawn by the girls and others donated from the PTA in previous years. You look around with your clipboard, items checked off throughout the day to signal your progress. With less than twenty-four hours to go before the auction, it was imperative to create the perfect atmosphere to sell as many items as possible.

Wonyoung skips over to you, her pigtails swinging in the air and a cluster of colorful streamers dangling from her hands. “Where do you want these, babe?”

“Lining the front of the bleachers. That way once the tables are set up we don’t have to work around them.” You check off another bullet,

“You got it boss!” She winks at you, her expression teasing. Before she can walk away though, Principal Han and Coach Chae walk into the gym. Coach Chae has a bouquet while Principal Han holds a thin piece of paper.

The two gentlemen walk up to you and Wonyoung, beaming. “Great turn of events ladies,” Principal Han says. “The auction has been canceled.”

“What,” Wonyoung yells. The two men flinch at her reaction, but Coach Chae laughs off his reaction.

“No need to worry, Miss Jang,” Coach Chae responds. “There will still be a gala. Just not an auction. Think of it as a celebratory gala, if you will.”

“What do you mean?” You ask. You press your clipboard tighter to your chest, anxiety spiking. You put your heart into this event for the success of the fundraiser. Why was it suddenly crashing down?

“Someone already donated more than enough to reach your goal. Five thousand, to be exact.”

A silent gasp leaves your lips. The clipboard almost slips from your fingers, but Wonyoung manages to catch it before it clatters onto the gym floor.

”Holy sh—sorry. Holy moly!” Wonyoung exclaims, a smile matching the ones on the older gentlemen’s faces.

“Congratulations, girls. Now you can kick your feet up and enjoy the festivities tomorrow all thanks to your mystery donor,” Principal Han says.

”Mystery donor?” The mix of emotions in your stomach morphs to confused curiosity. “They didn’t leave their name on the check?”

”No. Just the card that came with the flowers,” Coach Chae answers. He hands the bouquet of roses and the comment card to you, the floral smell suddenly wafting in your nose.

You could recognize the script anywhere, the slants and slopes of the handwriting belonging to only one person. The contents of the card make your heart swell and sink deeper, causing you to question everything once more.

For reminding me to cherish all the things I took for granted.

MARCH

On the night of the Spring Formal, a week had passed since that day in the gymnasium which upended a majority of your feelings. Your thoughts have run rampant in your mind since, regrets and doubts sitting at the forefront of your brain.

Your mother was fixing the last pieces of your hair into the intricate bun she created. Looking in the mirror, the tendrils of your bangs falling out from the hairstyle frame your face. Grace exudes from your makeup and the dress you’ve chosen, the strapless champagne gown the centerpiece of your entire look.

”You’re a vision, honey,” She says, her eyes bright in the hallway mirror behind you.

You may look beautiful, but your thoughts make you feel small, unsure of everything you thought you knew or wanted before.

You had not seen Sunghoon since that night on your front porch almost two weeks ago, your ex choosing to respect your wishes and stay away just as you requested. Now, in spite of all the ways he vexed you to no end, you missed him just like he said he missed you. Maybe you suppressed yourself from grieving the end of your relationship, jumping headfirst into a new friendship with Chan and the other priorities in your life. Or maybe it was because he still had your entire heart, even if you wished he didn’t.

”Chan should be here any minute,” your mother says, interrupting your thoughts.

You respond with a nod and small smile, fidgeting with the top of your dress to conceal some of your cleavage.

Your mother frowns. ”Honey, what’s wrong?” She puts her hands on your shoulders, her presence the right amount of concerned and warm.

”Do you think people can change?”

She gives you a knowing smile, the topic of conversation not being said out loud but obvious to the both of you. “When someone has the desire to, they can. Especially when they have a good reason to.”

The doorbell rings, and she kisses you on the cheek. “I’ll let you get that. I’m gonna run and grab the camera.”

You answer the door, half-expecting to see Chan with flowers and his signature grin. What you find, however, makes your heart constrict with surprise and longing that you didn’t expect to feel so strongly.

Sunghoon in a three-piece suit, hair slicked back, and a corsage looks like the picture-perfect man. When you envisioned this night before, the image of him in front of you always came to mind. And now, you could not be closer to and further from those expectations.

“I wanted to give you this before…I mean, I already bought it, and you deserve to have it.” He twiddles the corsage between his hands. His eyes ask for explicit permission before he places it on your wrist.

Without a second thought, you nod.

Sunghoon steps closer, relieved to have received the green light. The tension between you is palpable in the air, flickering hot and reflecting the same feelings you harbored weeks ago when you were in the same position then. He carefully puts the strap around your wrist, tightening it until it’s snug.

The golden-trimmed roses match your dress flawlessly, so much so you wonder how he managed to remember the color of the dress you dreamed of for this night.

Like he can read your mind, he says, “You’ve been talking about this dance since the start of the school year.” He laughs, the sound hollow.

“Thank you,” you say, the two words expanding far beyond the roses on your wrist.

Thank you for the flowers. Thank you for going above and beyond with that check. Thank you for showing you’re trying.

The smile he gives you touches his eyes, the edges of his expression almost golden in the light of the sunset. “It’s the least I could do.”

Without thinking, he’s so close you can feel the rising pace of his and your breath mixing together. It would be so easy to close the distance, touch his lips with yours, and fall back into his embrace with no regard for the next minute.

Before you can contemplate it further, you see Chan out of the corner of your eye walking up your driveway. His mouth is in a firm line and his posture reflects his discomfort.

Sunghoon steps away from you. He acknowledges Chan with a nod, not terse or disrespectful, but clearly disappointed. He kisses the back of your palm quickly and lets it go. “Have fun tonight, okay?”

Before he walks away for good, leaving you and Chan alone, he finishes with, “By the way, you look breathtaking.”

As Chan gets closer and Sunghoon heads down the road to his car, you think maybe your ex is taking all of your breath with him.

Sunghoon downs the drink in the plastic cup. The tinge of alcohol Jay put in his drink can’t seem to take away the burn of watching you and Chan dance together. The DJ for the dance is playing an uptempo number. Thankfully you’re not holding each other close, but it’s still a punch to the stomach seeing you smiling with a guy that isn’t him. In a gym filled with so many of his peers, he’s never felt so alone.

He drove to the dance by himself, Jake and Jay too entangled in their own love lives to soften the blow of Sunghoon’s continued misery. Heeseung and his girlfriend remain loved up in their own private corner of the dance floor. Sunghoon isn’t jealous or petty, though, although he’s well-accustomed to both emotions at this point. All he feels is some semblance of gratitude for the people enjoying the festivities of the night with a person they care about.

Heeseung’s girlfriend steps away from her partner with a kiss on his lips, somehow sensing Sunghoon’s despair. She walks over to him, a sad smile on her face as she approaches the lone guy at his idle table. “No luck, huh?”

Sunghoon nods and tips his drink at her. “You could say that.”

Heeseung comes up in record time, Sunghoon’s teammate unable to stay away from his lover for too long. He clears his throat and looks toward the younger guy with quiet condolences. “Listen, Hoon. Just talk to her and be honest. Stop dancing around your feelings.”

Sunghoon scoffs into his cup, the sound echoing in the plastic. “As if I could steal her away from beefcake over there. Like your missus said, she’s better off.”

“You know I apologized for that!” Heeseung’s girlfriend mirrors Sunghoon’s reaction, puffing out a breath of air and rolling her eyes. “And if that’s the case, why has she been looking over here at least every five minutes?”

Sunghoon glances past the rim of his cup and catches you staring just as Heeseung’s girlfriend makes her point.

Your eyes are filled with a plethora of unspoken feelings, ones Sunghoon may have the words for but cannot manage to speak. Why did words hold so much more power when it was too late to say them? Did he still have time at all, or was the opportunity to be transparent long gone? It’s too much to process; all he can do is look away from you, the guilt hitting him square in his chest.

Heeseung and his girlfriend share a conspiratory look, plotting something. Sunghoon takes a gulp of air, unsure if he wants to know exactly what they’re planning.

“Be on the rooftop in ten minutes. And make sure you know what you’re gonna say, idiot,” Heeseung’s girlfriend commands, her smirk flashing wickedly under the gymnasium lights.

“Hey!” Heeseung and his girlfriend run up to your spot by the punch bowl. You were absentmindedly staring at the fruit concoction in the tub while Chan had raced off to the bathroom, promising to be back in five.

“What’s up?” You ask, giving his girlfriend a polite and acknowledging smile.

“Something happened on the rooftop with one of the girls on the squad. I think she got food poisoning or something,”

“Yeah,” Heeseung’s girlfriend comments. “Wonyoung told us to get you ‘cause she needs some help bringing the poor girl back downstairs.”

You roll your eyes and set your cup on the plastic table in front of you. If it’s Leeseo again, you may just have to kill her.

The couple follows close behind as you make it to the stairwell door leading up to the rooftop. You wonder why the two didn’t help Wonyoung in the first place, but maybe the girl in question requested you personally and didn’t want to be embarrassed by being assisted by strangers.

Opening the rooftop entrance, you see Sunghoon standing near the edge, kicking gravel off the side of the building. Your heart seizes up, glad but caught off-guard to be seeing him right now.

In an instant, the door closes behind you, locking from the outside. You bang on it, unsure what’s happening. “What the fuck, guys?”

“You’re not coming out until we hear some talking!”

The sudden quiet is deafening, the only reprieve being the breeze passing through the trees surrounding the school. You run your hands across your arms, feeling the chill now that you’re outside but also unsure of what to do in this situation.

Sunghoon immediately sheds his jacket and walks over to you. He waits with the article in his hands before you nod meekly. He wraps it around your shoulders protectively, making sure your arms go through the sleeves. “Better?”

“Much, thank you,” you whisper.

Sunghoon looks deeply into your eyes, knocking any subsequent words from your conscious mind. You bite your lip instinctively, tense from his lack of distance between your bodies. Why did he still have the capability to steal your train of thought without trying?

He blows out a breath, the sound of his voice flimsy in the spring air. “When I first joined the basketball team, I didn’t know if and how I would measure up,” Sunghoon begins. “I was fifteen and terrified of playing next to someone as good as Heeseung and always being compared to him.

“And I took all those worries about being not good enough and took it out on everyone. I let it ruin the most perfect thing in my life because I thought acting like I didn’t care would stop me from feeling insecure. What an idiot, right?”

Sunghoon brushes a free bang from your face. His eyes are glassy, the vulnerability he’s showing you at an all-time high. “I should’ve realized the girl I love didn’t care if I was the best or the worst basketball player ever, as long as I was hers and didn’t forget it. I just didn’t know it then. And now that I’ve realized what a fool I’ve been, all I want now is to spend the rest of my time making it up to her.”

The confession knocks any remaining resolve out of you, unable to bear the pain in his face or the uncertainty that hangs in the air. You slam your lips into his, the kiss both bruising and healing in the same motion. It rejuvenates all the parts of you that had been withered away since the night you broke up and couldn’t be revived without him.

Sunghoon feels the effects of the kiss as well, his gasps and whimpers exemplifying his surprise and relief to have you back in his arms. Holding you, kissing you, being with you, you can tell he’s worried the moment’s a figment of his imagination. If he doesn’t cherish it, you’ll float away. And he can’t survive that for a second time.

You part for air, but your lips still ghost over each other’s, unable to be parted now that he’s within your reach again.

With your voice laced with the unshed tears in your eyes, you ask, “What took you so damn long, you idiot?”

Sunghoon can only respond with a joyful laugh and another kiss to your lips, making up for his unsaid apologies and shit timing with his mouth.

Now that your body is against his, your hearts beating rapidly but once-again in tune with each other, he’s certain now he’ll never be stupid enough to forget your worth and let you go again. Because the pleasure he used to call home is back in his life, and he couldn’t feel more at ease.

Sunghoon’s laughing when he unlocks the front door of his house, his face in a permanent grin since you kissed a few hours prior. You spent the time before ending up here driving around town, too enraptured with each other to focus on your friends or the rest of the dance’s festivities. You didn’t leave without Heeseung giving Sunghoon a slap to the back and Wonyoung crying at your reconciliation.

The house is quiet, a result of Sunghoon’s parents being abroad for the past few days. “Did I tell you how beautiful you look, by the way?” Sunghoon mentions again when he closes the door behind you. He immediately pulls you in by the waist, showering the skin of your neck in kisses.

You giggle and weave your hands into his hair, a gasp leaving you when he takes your earlobe between his teeth. “Probably for the hundredth time by now.”

“Well you do.” He presses another kiss to the spot below your ear, making you shiver. “And I’m not gonna stop saying it.”

You smirk and move your hands to both sides of his face, forcing you to look at him. “I didn’t expect the night to go like this.”

“I hope that’s a good thing.” His voice is teasing, but his eyes are suddenly lined with anxiety. His body tenses in your embrace, the worry that you’re having second thoughts weighing on his happiness.

You ease his doubts with a deep kiss, holding him close and hoping that assures him you’re not going anywhere. “A great thing.”

The smile you love so much appears once he’s at peace, and peppers your entire face with kisses. You laugh out loud, but he can tell you love the adoration he’s providing you.

You could definitely get used to this new Sunghoon, the night already filled with so much magic.

“I’ll be back.” He grins wide, canines on full display. Another kiss punctuates the sentence. “Don’t go anywhere.” Another.

You laugh out loud and nod your head. He dramatically holds onto your hand until he’s forced to let go. He runs down the hallway and into his bedroom, closing the door behind him and leaving you in the sitting room of his house.

Twenty minutes later, you’re sitting on the loveseat in the sitting room when Sunghoon comes back out.

“My lady, follow me.” He bows and holds out his hand for you to take, and you smile ear to ear when you lace your fingers with his. You’re unsure what’s waiting for you on the other side of his bedroom door, but you know it must be another surprise your boyfriend has gone above and beyond to amaze you with.

Surely enough, it makes you gasp out loud and press your free hand to your chest.

Sunghoon’s bedroom is showered in a radiant glow from dozens of candles, all different sizes but the same light creating a sweet, calming ambience. Fairy lights hang on the walls, aiding in the atmosphere he’s created. Music plays at a low sound from the speakers near the television, Sunghoon’s phone hooked up to the system. To top it all off, there’s another bouquet of white roses sitting on his side table, some petals lining the edges of the floor around his bed.

When you thought about this night in your dreams, it always ended here, being so in love. He’s made those dreams come true, right down to the letter, and you could not be more in love with him than in this moment.

Sunghoon comes closer. He presses his chest to your back, encasing your body with his arms and kissing your neck once again. You try to stifle the sob that comes out, but he hears it and retracts. “Shit, do you not like it? I can blow the candles out and–”

You turn in his embrace, shaking your head furiously. “No, I love it.” You wipe your tears, laughing at the reaction he’s pulled out of you. “I’m just–it doesn’t feel like it’s real.”

“It is.” He takes the side of your face in his hand, rubbing his thumb across your cheek. “And I’ll remind you every day if you need me to.”

“I love you so much,” you respond, kissing the inside of his palm. You pull him closer, reconnecting your lips with his. You feel whole in a way you haven’t in weeks, knowing now for certain this happiness coupled with Sunghoon’s love is the perfect combination to sustain you.

“I love you too,” he says in between kisses, his mouth turning sloppy. You feel his growing hardness against you. It had been months since the last time you were intimate. You think as Sunghoon pulls you in closer than before, groaning into your mouth, that tonight’s the perfect time to reconnect in more ways than just emotionally.

“I missed you so much,” you moan, tugging his jacket from his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. You run your arms across his chest, still covered by the cotton button up he’s wearing, but you quickly make do with the buttons on his shirt to feel the skin underneath.

He shivers under your touch, but he manages to find the zipper of your dress and lower it down until the dress easily slips from your body. You step out of it, careful not to tread over the fabric. Your focus remains on undressing Sunghoon until he’s as naked as you are, wearing only your underwear and shoes. He’s shirtless thanks to you undoing his buttons, but you want all of him exposed.

You try to pull down the zipper of his pants, but he stops you, his eyes lust-filled but patient. “This night is about you, baby. Not me.”

“Please, let me touch you.” You whine, holding onto the belt-loops on his pants.

“Not yet.” He moves you both back until you’re at the edge of the bed. He motions for you to sit down. Once you do, he gets onto his knees in front of you, the man you love on a mission. “Let me make you feel good first.”

He takes the heels off of your feet and sets them down beside your dress. When he does, he begins his slow torture of kissing up your ankles to the insides of your thighs. You lay your body back on his bed, whimpering and body on the verge of shaking when he finally pulls the underwear from your legs.

“Fuck, Hoon,” you say out loud when he presses a kiss to your clit, taking the nub between his lips and sucking tenderly while rubbing his hands on the curves of your hips. He takes one hand to reach out and grab one of your breasts, expertly taking your nipple between his thumb and index finger as his tongue licks along the insides of your center. “Please don’t stop,” you whisper.

“Wasn’t planning on it, my love.” His tongue moves at a faster pace, matching the writhing of your hips crashing into his face to gain every ounce of pleasure he’s giving you.

Before, you wouldn’t have imagined being back in this bedroom with him, and now there’s no other place you wanted to exist.

“Hoon, please. I want you,” you say, one hand clutching his comforter and the other entangled in his hair.

“You have me, always.” His tongue slips inside of your pussy, the feeling of the muscle against your walls causing you to cry out in pleasure.

“I’m not moving until you come, baby. I know you’re close.” The pleasure has been building since the moment he had his mouth wrapped around your neck when you stepped into his house. And now, with his mouth buried inside of you and sweet words accompanying such dirty actions fuels your body’s speedrun to your release.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you curse, your orgasm hitting you like the crash of a wave before you go underwater. But you don’t care to drown if it feels this satisfying.

You laugh breathlessly when the end of your release comes. Sunghoon wipes your essence off of his lips with the back of his hand, smiling bashfully. Every action of his before is incredibly contrary to his shy expression, but you love it.

Ridding himself of his pants, Sunghoon’s cock springs free from the constricting article of clothing. The tip is leaking with precum, but he isn’t in a rush to jump on top of you like the many times before when you both were too frustrated to worry with foreplay.

He kisses you with all he has when he crawls on top of you. His tongue inside of your mouth fills it with the taste of your slick. In a blip, he has a condom in his hand and puts it on with quick skill. There’s no need to prep you, your previous orgasm leaving you wet and waiting for him to line up with your entrance and slip inside.

He does it expertly. Both of you tremble from the feeling you long forgot felt so otherworldly, his cock making a home within your walls and your body adjusting to the delicious stretch.

The song in the background fills your ears with the sounds of a slow-strumming guitar, reflecting the thrust of Sunghoon’s hips. Your hips meet his when he’s filled you to the hilt, causing you to sigh. “Fuck, just like that.”

“You’re so beautiful,” Sunghoon whispers between thrusts, moaning sweet nothings into your mouth. “I love you so much.”

“I love you,” you whisper in kind, gasping. The tip of his cock kisses your cervix with each press of his hips, exiting slowly and pushing back inside until there’s no space left to accommodate him.

How could you be so filled, figuratively and literally, by the love he had to offer you? For anyone else who’s never known the feelings stirring inside of you, a mixture of sinful pleasure and pure happiness, you feel sorry for them. If everyone in the world did, they might have been labeled as two extra wonders of the world.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come again,” you say, clutching onto his hips. You bite down on the skin of his shoulder, releasing your moans into his skin as his pace speeds up.

“Yes, baby, give it to me,” he groans, gulping hard and body frantic to take you both to the your climaxes. You feel the stars behind your eyes when your second orgasm comes, a long cry leaving your lips. Sunghoon matches it with a broken moan, the sound coming out in fragments as he spills inside of the condom.

Sunghoon lathers your face in deep, heartfelt kisses before pulling out. He walks to the bathroom quickly, throwing away the condom in the trash and grabbing a cloth to clean you up. He runs the fabric between your legs, careful not to press down too hard and overstimulate you.

You both crawl under the covers after he throws the rag in his hamper, your body immediately snuggling into his. The crown of your head receives another blitz of kisses, your smile hurting your cheeks from how wide it goes.

“I love you,” Sunghoon says, the words coming without a second thought.

And with no regrets on your mind or in your heart, resolute in your decision to forgive him, you say, “I love you, too, Hoon. Always.”

People could always change if they had the determination and inspiration to do so, and you know that for sure now. In the arms of the one you love, that fact could not be more true.

@mini-mews @jayparked @heesuncore @yoursjaeyun @sungbeams @dreamiestay

#svnet #enhypen smut #park sunghoon smut #sunghoon fic #enhypen x reader #park sunghoon x reader #enha x reader #enha smut #enha fic #enhypen fic #[ lexi's works ]

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hottiesforhockey · 1 month ago

Text

ho, ho, hoe ⎜m.barzal

🎄pairings: mat barzal x afab!reader 🎄genre: romance ⎜christmas special ⎜smut ⎜friends to lovers⎜ 🎄warnings: mat is in love and not great at hiding it ⎜alcohol consumption ⎜ drunk sex ⎜missionary ⎜p in v⎜pretty vanilla overall ⎜ marking/hickeys⎜ just a dude in love ⎜awkward love confessions ⎜very minimal smut tbh ⎜ 🎄synopsis: an accidental christmas hook up, becomes so much more when your hoe of a best friend catches feelings. 🎄word count: 5.2k 🎄authors note: this is my first of several christmas fics - there will not be a part 2 but I hope you all enjoy!! christmas fic list

(unedited)

“Come on, you promised,” Mat said, his voice teasing as he nudged you out of the car. “It’s one party. You’ll survive.”

You glared at him, tightening your coat against the icy December air. “You ambushed me. I never said yes.”

“Details.” His smirk deepened, and you hated how easily it chipped away at your resolve. “Besides, you’ve been sulking at home for two weeks. Consider this an intervention. No one should be this much of a Grinch in December.”

It was impossible to argue with Mat Barzal. You’d learned that years ago. He had a way of wrapping his words in charm and layering them with just enough humour to get his way. It didn’t help that his ridiculous good looks made you forget you were supposed to be mad at him.

Mat was your best friend—the kind of friend who’d been there through every bad breakup, every celebration, every boring Tuesday night when all you needed was a movie marathon and pizza. He was also, as you liked to call him, a professional-grade hoe. Always flirting, always texting someone new, always shamelessly charming his way into trouble.

So, of course, it was Mat who had dragged you to this Christmas party. And of course, he’d conveniently forgotten to mention that the guest list included a suspicious number of his teammates, their dates, and not many people you actually knew.

You tugged your itchy sweater down and shot him a glare. “If this is your idea of a fun Friday night, I’m starting to question our friendship.”

“You’ll thank me later.” He slung an arm over your shoulder, steering you toward the door. “Trust me, you’re gonna have a great time.”

What Mat didn’t say—and wouldn’t dare admit—was that he’d spent weeks working up the nerve to do this. To spend more time with you outside the cozy bubble of friendship. To finally figure out if the feelings he’d been burying for years were one-sided or if maybe, just maybe, you felt the same way.

But Mat was a coward when it came to you. A hoe, sure. But only because it was easier to flirt with strangers than risk what you had.

Inside, the party was in full swing. Twinkling lights strung across the room, the faint scent of pine and cider in the air, and a playlist that was just loud enough to drown out awkward small talk.

Mat stayed close, his hand brushing yours as you made your way through the crowd. He didn’t miss the way you wrinkled your nose at the chaos, and his grin softened. “Alright, Scrooge. Let’s get you a drink.”

You let him pull you toward the kitchen, rolling your eyes. “I don’t know why you’re so insistent on dragging me out like this. Don’t you have ten other girls you could be charming right now?”

His smirk faltered for just a moment, so brief you almost missed it. “Maybe I like spending time with you.”

The words hung between you, light but heavy, before he quickly added, “Besides, no one else would put up with your terrible attitude about Christmas.” You laughed, and Mat felt the tension ease, though the knot in his chest didn’t loosen.

One day, he thought.

One day he’d tell you the truth.

The kitchen was quieter than the rest of the party, the hum of conversation and Christmas music muffled by the thick walls. Mat handed you a cup of something that smelled strongly of peppermint schnapps and took a long sip of his own.

“This is terrible,” you said after a cautious taste, wrinkling your nose.

Mat grinned. “It’s festive.”

“It tastes like someone melted a candy cane into rubbing alcohol.”

“Exactly.” He raised his cup in a mock toast. “Happy holidays.”

You clinked cups with him, rolling your eyes. Typical Mat—always the life of the party, always ready with a sarcastic comment or a sly grin to keep you on your toes. You couldn’t help but smile as he leaned back against the counter, his dark hair slightly messy and his cheeks already flushed from the heat of the room.

“So,” he said, tilting his head toward you. “Having fun yet?”

“I’ll let you know when it starts.”

He laughed, the sound warm and familiar, and you couldn’t help but join in. It was easy to relax around Mat, even in a setting where you felt like a complete outsider.

As the night wore on, the two of you lingered in the kitchen, your drinks steadily disappearing. Mat’s stories became a little louder, his laugh a little freer, and you felt yourself loosening up too.

“Remember that time we tried to make cookies in my apartment?” he asked, his voice slightly slurred.

“How could I forget?” You grinned, leaning against the counter beside him. “You set the oven on fire.”

“It wasn’t a fire,” he protested, gesturing with his cup. “It was a… controlled open flame.”

“Your neighbours didn’t think so.”

“Yeah, well, they hated me anyway.” Mat chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “But you stayed. Even when I ruined the cookies.”

“You had alcohol,” you said simply, and he laughed again, shaking his head.

“I mean it,” he said, his voice softening. “You’re always there for me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

The sincerity in his tone caught you off guard, but before you could respond, he downed the rest of his drink and changed the subject.

“Okay, real talk,” he said, setting his empty cup on the counter. “What’s your deal with Christmas? Why do you hate it so much?”

“I don’t hate it,” you said defensively. “I just think it’s… overrated.”

“Overrated?” He looked at you like you’d just insulted his entire family. “You’re breaking my heart over here.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “It’s fine. It’s just not my thing.”

“Maybe you’ve been doing it wrong,” he said, his grin lopsided. “You should let me show you how it’s done.”

“And how’s that?”

“For starters…” He reached over, tugging gently at the sleeve of your overused christmas sweater. “This thing has got to go. You look like a rejected elf.”

“Excuse me?” You stared at him, mock-offended, and he burst out laughing.

“I’m kidding! Mostly.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping slightly. “You’re the only person I know who can make something that ugly look good.”

The comment sent a flutter through your chest, but you brushed it off as just another one of Mat’s usual flirtatious remarks. He was always saying things like that—half-joking, half-serious—and you’d learned not to read too much into them.

Still, as the drinks kept flowing and the night wore on, Mat’s comments started to feel… different. Softer. More pointed.

“You know,” he said at one point, “sometimes I think you don’t see yourself the way everyone else does.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged, his gaze fixed on his cup. “Just that you’re… you know. Amazing. Like, actually amazing. And you don’t even realise it.”

You laughed nervously, unsure how to respond. “Okay, you’re definitely drunk.”

“Tipsy, maybe,” he admitted, a crooked grin on his face. “But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.” Before you could press him further, someone burst into the kitchen, dragging Mat into a conversation about hockey and leaving you standing there, your mind buzzing as much from his words as from the alcohol.

As the night wound down, you found yourself back where you started—leaning against the counter, your cup nearly empty, with Mat by your side. The party had thinned out, voices from the living room fading into a low hum.

He was quieter now, his usual spark mellowed by the weight of the night and whatever thoughts had been lingering behind his lopsided smile.

“You’re staring,” you teased, breaking the silence.

“Am I?” His lips quirked up, but he didn’t look away. “Maybe I’ve just got a lot to think about.”

“You need a brain for that” You hoped your voice sounded steadier than you felt.

He hesitated, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the countertop. “Like how you’re still here,” he said finally. “When you could’ve bailed hours ago. But you didn’t.”

“Maybe I’m a sucker for bad holiday parties,” you joked, but the warmth in his gaze made your chest tighten.

“Or maybe,” he said, stepping just a little closer, “you like spending time with me as much as I like spending time with you.”

It was the kind of thing he’d say all the time, casual and easy, except now there was something behind it. Something that made the air between you feel heavier. Charged.

Maybe it was the alcohol?

Or maybe it was something you had been feeling all night - a shift.

“Mat,” you began, but the words caught in your throat when his hand brushed against yours, tentative and testing.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his voice low and serious now. “And I will.”

You didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Instead, you closed the space between you, your fingers curling around the front of his shirt to pull him down into a kiss. It wasn’t careful or calculated—just instinct, like you’d been waiting for this moment longer than you cared to admit.

His arms slid around your waist, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened, and for once, the rest of the world didn’t matter. Not the bad music, not the overplayed holiday cheer, not even the fact that anyone could walk in at any second.

“Guess the party’s starting now,” he said breathlessly when you finally broke apart, his forehead resting against yours.

“Shut up,” you muttered, laughing as you pulled him back in.

Mat’s laugh rumbled softly against your lips before his hands shifted at your waist, pulling you even closer. The kiss slowed, turning into something softer, sweeter, but no less intense. His fingers traced light patterns along the curve of your back, and you found yourself melting into his touch, the rest of the room falling away entirely.

When the sound of voices drifted closer—someone coming down the hallway, loud and unsteady—you both broke apart, the spell momentarily shattered. Mat took a step back, his eyes lingering on yours, a sheepish grin playing on his lips.

“Guess we’ve got an audience incoming,” he said, nodding toward the approaching voices.

“Probably shouldn’t give them a show,” you replied, your cheeks burning. Your hands dropping to straighten out your sweater, your cheeks burning a bright red as you turn away from your friend - taking a few sobering breaths. You turn back to Mat slowly, your eyebrows lifting as you find him already staring at your, his cheeks burning as much as yours.

“I don’t think I’m finished with tonight.” He says slowly - adding, “but I’m definitely done with this party.” His Adams apple bobbing as he watches your mind turn a hundred miles an hour.

“Oh, well there’s a bar down the street thats usually open late.” You note, Mat’s brows furrowing as he shakes his head.

“That’s not—,” Mat lets out a soft sigh, his smile soft on his face as he spits out, “I’m trying to ask you to come home with me.”

The words hung in the air between you, heavy and electric, like a string pulled taut. You blinked, unsure if you’d heard him correctly, or if the adrenaline coursing through your veins was playing tricks on you.

“Home,” you repeated slowly, testing the word on your tongue. Your voice came out softer than you intended, barely audible over the distant thrum of the party.

Mat nodded, his gaze steady but vulnerable, like he was bracing himself for the answer. “Yeah. With me.”

Your heart hammered in your chest, each beat reverberating in your ears. The room around you blurred—the noise, the decorations, the faint smell of spiked cider—and all you could focus on was the way his thumb brushed against his palm, the slight twitch of his jaw as he waited.

This wasn’t like him. Mat, the always-casual, too-cool-to-be-flustered Mat, was standing in front of you looking like his world might tilt depending on your response.

You took a breath, your pulse skipping as you leaned in just enough that your words were for him alone. “Okay,” you whispered, the weight of the decision melting into something exhilarating as you saw his grin break through.

“Yeah?” he asked, voice quieter now, carrying an edge of disbelief, like he couldn’t quite believe his luck.

You nodded, a small smile playing on your lips. “Yeah.”

His hand found yours again, this time with more certainty, fingers lacing through yours as he gave a gentle tug. “Let’s get out of here before someone stops us.”

You followed without hesitation, weaving through the scattered crowd, ignoring the knowing glances and side comments. The cool night air hit your face the moment you stepped outside, sharp and refreshing compared to the stuffy warmth of the party. Mat didn’t let go of your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a way that sent shivers down your spine.

And as he led you down the street, your hand still in his, you felt something settle in you, a kind of rightness you hadn’t expected and couldn’t deny.

The walk to Mat's place was quiet but charged, every step a wordless conversation. The city hummed around you—car engines purring in the distance, the occasional laughter spilling from a bar’s open door—but it all felt like background noise. The real energy was in the small, subtle touches: the way his fingers tightened around yours when your hands brushed, or the way he glanced at you when he thought you wouldn’t notice.

When you reached his building, Mat paused at the door, his free hand fishing out his keys. He hesitated, looking at you with a crooked smile, his breath visible in the cool air. “Last chance to back out,” he teased, but there was an edge of seriousness in his tone.

You rolled your eyes playfully, though your heart skipped. “Mat, if you don’t open that door in the next five seconds…”

His laugh was soft, barely louder than the jingle of the keys as he unlocked the door. “Alright, alright,” he said, pushing it open and holding it for you. “Come on in.”

The warmth of the lobby hit you immediately, a stark contrast to the chill outside. The building smelled faintly of pine—probably some festive candle someone had left at the front desk—and you followed him to the elevator, the silence between you comfortable now.

Inside the elevator, the closeness felt different. More intimate. The quiet hum of the machinery filled the space, but all you could hear was the sound of your own heartbeat. You caught Mat glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, his lips twitching like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Instead, his thumb resumed its soft pattern against your hand, grounding you.

When the doors slid open, Mat led you down the hallway to his apartment. The tension built with each step, your stomach doing little flips as you reached his door. He unlocked it smoothly, gesturing for you to step inside first.

His place was exactly what you’d imagined—warm, lived-in, and distinctly him. The couch had a throw blanket draped messily over one arm, and a few mismatched mugs were scattered on the coffee table. String lights twinkled softly along the windows, their golden glow casting cozy shadows across the room.

“Sorry about the mess,” he said, scratching the back of his neck as he shut the door behind you.

“It’s not messy,” you replied, taking it all in. It was charming, actually, and it felt... safe. “It’s nice.”

Mat exhaled a laugh, his shoulders relaxing a bit as he stepped closer, the space between you narrowing again. He reached out tentatively, his hand brushing your arm before sliding down to your hand.

“Still sure?” he asked, his voice quieter now, laced with something vulnerable.

You nodded, your fingers curling around his. “Still sure.”

That was all he needed. Mat pulled you in gently, his other hand finding your waist as his lips met yours. This time, there was no hesitation—no second-guessing. It was slower than before, but somehow even more consuming, like he was trying to memorise the feel of you, the way you fit against him.

One of mats hands reach up, tugging slowly on your hair scrunchie pulling it from the bun, letting your hair fall loose, his fingers playing with the strands as he leads you to his bedroom, his mouth never leaving yours as your arms loop around his neck. Mat’s lips make his way down your neck - pressing soft kisses as he tugs on the hem of your sweater, his lips only leaving your skin as he pulls the thick fabric over your head, his eyes immediately dropping down to your bra.

“I’m about to fucking combust.” Mat groans, the two of you falling onto his mattress, your head buried among the pillows as Mat sits up on his knees, taking in the sight of you as he rips his own soft hoodie over his head, his hands reaching out for the button on your jeans.

“God, you’re stunning.” Mat coos, as he slides your jeans down your legs, throwing them off to the side as he smoothes his hands down your body, his hands stopping at your knees as he pushes them apart, his body slotting slowly between them as he leans down to reattach his lips to your jaw - sucking harshly against the soft skin, a soft whine escaping you the blood rushing to the surface as an obvious bruise starts to form.

“Perfect.” He whispers, against your neck as he picks a new spot and sucks again.

“Mat.” You hiss, as his hand slowly dips in the waistband of your underwear, gently teasing your clit, his teeth skimming the skin on your neck as he pulls away. “If you don’t put your dick in me right now I swear to god.” You continue, your nails digging into his shoulders as he dips an experimental finger inside of you.

Mat doesn’t need to be told twice as he makes quick work of his own pants, his cock painfully hard as it leaks with premium - his body leaning over your as he rifles through his bed side table. “Wrap it before you tap it.” He jokes, your hands pulling your own underwear down your legs, throwing them off to the side as you take in Mat.

“Don’t ruin the moment.” You sigh, but your smile betrays your serious tone. You always knew the hockey player had a good body - his fitness levels beyond the average person, but seeing his stone cut figure was about to make you drool - your hands reaching out for him as he rolls the condom on his dick.

“Tell me if you need me to stop.” He whispers as he crawls back on top of you, his body slipping perfectly between your legs, his lips pressing a soft kiss against your cheek as he lines himself up. His head dropping into the crook of your neck as he pushes in, his movements slow and purposeful as he lets you adjust with each inch. “Is this okay?” He whispers into your hair, his hips moving excruciatingly slow as he pumps himself in and out.

He smiles as you nod, your lip trapped between your teeth as you let out a soft whimper, his hands placed on either side of your head as his movements speed up a little. “My pretty little pillow princess.” Mat coos, his fingers playing with the ends of your hair as the sound of skin on skin fills the room.

“Fuck Mat.” You hiss as his pelvis brushes against yours, your cunt clenching around him - his hips stuttering as he lets out a low groan.

“I’m close.” He hisses, your head nodding in agreement as your nails drag up his back tangling in soft hair, tugging lightly.

“I need more.” You breath out, Mat eye brows furrowing as he lifts himself up slightly, lifting a hand off the mattress, his fingers dipping between your body as he teases your clit softly.

“Shit.” He grunt as you squeeze around him again, his orgasm being pulled from him as he bottoms out inside of you, his fingers still working on your clit until he feels you clench tighter around him, a long whine escaping you as you cum. Mat’s body falls against yours, the two of your breathing heavily as your fingers continue to scrape against his scalp, a please sigh leaving him as his body melts on top of yours.

“Mat, I need to go to the bathroom.” You mumble, your eyes almost forcing themself closed as the heat radiating from your best friend tries to lull you to sleep. Mat lets out a grunt, lifting himself up just enough to capture your lips with his, his mouth spreading into a wide grin as he rolls off of you, discarding the condom as he lies on his back.

“There should be your favourite stuff under the counter if you need it.” He says softly, his eyes already closing, “Come back to me quickly.” He adds, his arm thrown over his eye as his breathing evens out.

You watch him for a few moments before dashing into his bathroom, facing the mirror as you take in your nest of hair and your flushed cheeks. “What the fuck did I do?” You sneer at your reflection, the bright red bruises on your neck sticking out like a sore thumb. You turn on the tap, using the cold water against your face before cleaning yourself up as quickly as possible, your frown deepening as you step out of the bathroom, Mat fast asleep in the bed, his body turned towards the empty space besides him.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper as you make your way over to the bed, leaning down and pressing a soft kiss against his temple before pulling your clothes back on as escaping your best friends house.

Three days passed quickly - your phone constantly dinging with a barrage of messages from Mat. You couldn’t bring yourself to respond. Your phone sat face down on the counter, Mat's unread messages and missed calls an ever-growing weight on your chest. You didn’t know what to say to him. You didn’t know how to face him after what had happened.

Every time you closed your eyes, you could feel his hands on you, his lips against yours. The memory of his soft laugh, the way he had asked you to come back to him—it all made your heart ache.

You fucked your best friend.

And then you ditched.

What if this ruined everything?

What if he regretted it?

You finally pick up your phone, glaring down at the messages waiting for you;

Matty ♥️: Hey, just wanted to check in, is everything okay?

Matty ♥️: I know this might’ve made things awkward but maybe we should meet up and talk?

Matty ♥️: I know you’re reading these, please answer me.

Matty ♥️: I miss you.

Fuck.

Mat was - rightfully - going out of his mind.

He hadn’t heard a word from you—no texts, no calls. You were ignoring him, and it was eating him alive. Every time his phone buzzed, he scrambled for it, only to find some pointless notification or a message from someone who wasn’t you.

He couldn't get the memory of your touch, your laugh, or the way you had whispered that quiet "I'm sorry" as you left his place. That had stuck with him, playing over and over in his head.

What were you sorry for?

Leaving?

Crossing the line between friends?

Or something more?

Matty ♥️: I miss you.

His most recent text. He’d sent it hours ago.

No response.

Again.

“God, what did I do?” he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair. You had been his best friend for years. He knew you inside out—or at least, he thought he did. But now, it was like there was this wall between you, and he hated it.

Mat stared at his phone, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. His apartment felt suffocating, every quiet moment filled with the phantom echoes of your laughter or the soft murmur of your voice. He could still see you everywhere—in the hoodie you had borrowed and never returned, in the stupid inside jokes you’d scribbled on his fridge, in the way his couch smelled faintly like your perfume.

The silence was driving him insane.

He stood up abruptly, pacing the length of the room. “Fuck it,” he muttered under his breath, grabbing his jacket off the back of a chair. He didn’t even hesitate as he shoved his keys into his pocket and stepped out the door.

The drive to your place was short but felt agonisingly long. His grip on the steering wheel was tight, his mind racing with every possibility.

What if you didn’t want to see him?

What if this was it?

What if you hated him for what happened?

But he couldn’t sit around wondering anymore.

He needed to see you, to talk to you, to fix this—whatever this was now.

When he finally pulled up outside your building, the glow of your apartment light felt like both a taunt and a lifeline. He killed the engine and sat there for a moment, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat.

What was he even going to say? Hey, sorry I ruined everything, but also, I think I might love you? That sounded pathetic, even in his head.

But before he could second-guess himself, he was out of the car and heading toward your door. His knuckles rapped against the wood before he even realised what he was doing.

Inside, you froze. The sound of his knock sent a jolt of electricity through you. You hadn’t expected him to come here—not after how you had ghosted him. Your stomach twisted with guilt and something you couldn’t quite name.

“Hey, it’s me,” his voice came through the door, quieter than you’d ever heard him sound. “I—I know I should’ve waited for you to reach out, but... I can’t. I need to talk to you.” Your heart clenched. Part of you wanted to pretend you weren’t home, to let the silence stretch on. But the other part—the part that missed him so much it hurt—had already pulled you to the door.

You hesitated, your hand hovering over the doorknob. “Mat...” you finally said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I’ll leave if you want me to,” he said quickly, his words spilling out like a flood. “But please—just tell me what’s going on. I’m going crazy over here.”

You bit your lip, a lump rising in your throat. The wall you’d been trying so hard to build was crumbling, and you didn’t know how to stop it. Slowly, you unlocked the door and opened it, just enough to see him standing there, his expression a mix of hope and heartbreak.

The sight of him made your chest tighten. “Mat...” you said again, your voice trembling.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out, taking a small step closer. “For whatever I did, for whatever I said that made you leave. But you—you can’t just disappear on me like this. I need to know if we’re okay.”

And there it was. The question you had been avoiding. The answer you weren’t sure you even had.

You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his, and for a moment, everything else fell away.

“Are we?” you asked softly, your voice breaking on the words.

His brow furrowed, his gaze searching yours. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice rough with emotion. “But I want us to be.”

And just like that, the ache in your chest spilled over, and the tears you’d been holding back finally came.

Mat’s expression softened immediately at the sight of your tears. His hand twitched like he wanted to reach for you, but he held back, unsure if you’d let him. Instead, he just stood there, the weight of your silence filling the small space between you.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice cracking under the emotion. “I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to...” You trailed off, shaking your head as more tears spilled down your cheeks.

“Hey,” he said softly, stepping closer, his hesitation melting away. “You don’t have to apologise. I just—I’ve been losing my mind not knowing what you’re thinking. If I pushed you too far, if I—”

“It’s not that,” you interrupted, your voice firm despite the tears. “It’s not you, Mat. It’s me. I... what if we made the wrong choice?”

That stopped him. His brows knit together as he studied you, his confusion clear.

You sucked in a shaky breath, trying to gather your thoughts. “What if we ruined everything? What if things will never go back to how they were before? You’re my best friend, Mat, and I don’t—” Your voice broke again, and you bit your lip hard, willing yourself to keep it together.

His eyes widened slightly, something soft and vulnerable flickering across his face. “You think I don’t feel the same way?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You stared at him, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it. “I don’t know,” you admitted, the words barely audible. “I don’t know what to think. I just know I can’t lose you.”

He let out a breath, running a hand through his hair as his gaze dropped to the floor. “You’re not gonna lose me,” he said finally, his voice steady but thick with emotion. “But, God, you’ve got to stop running away from me. From this.”

“I don’t know how,” you confessed, your voice trembling.

He looked up at you then, his eyes filled with something that made your chest tighten. “Then talk to me.”

Before you could say anything, he closed the distance between you, his hands finding yours with a gentleness that made your breath hitch. He held them tightly, grounding you in the moment.

“I don’t regret what happened,” he said firmly, his eyes locking onto yours. “Not for a second. And if you think for one minute that I’d let that ruin what we have, then you don’t know me as well as you think.”

His words hit you like a wave, crashing over the fear and uncertainty that had been suffocating you. You searched his face, looking for any trace of doubt, but all you found was sincerity.

“I’ve been in love with you for years,” he admitted, his voice soft but unwavering. “But I’m not scared of ruining what we had because what if I want something more?” He pauses taking in a deep breath, “What if I want you?”

The tears came faster now, but they felt different—lighter, freer. You didn’t know what to say, so you didn’t say anything. Instead, you did the only thing that felt right.

You stepped closer, your hands slipping from his to cup his face, and kissed him.

It wasn’t rushed or frantic like the first time. It was slow and tender, filled with everything you hadn’t been able to put into words.

When you finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing hard. “Don’t run away again,” he whispered, his voice shaky, “Please.”

“I won’t,” you promised, your voice steady this time. “I won’t.”

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