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goldenhourology · 15 hours ago

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SAVE THE DATE.

pairing: kim mingyu x f!reader

genre: smut, fluff, angst, frenemies to lovers

summary: 5 weddings in one year. 5 dates you saved for you and your boyfriend to attend — before he cheated. and now, you had to force your best friend, vernon, to go with you. but after losing a bet, mingyu agrees to take vernon’s place and be your date. this wasn’t how any of this was supposed to go, but you guess you could settle going with your only one-night-stand from college.

warnings: oral (f!recieving), fingering, 69ing, unprotected sex, reader on top, praise, mingyu has boyfriend dick<3, sub-ish!mingyu, also power bottom!mingyu 👍, multiple sex scenes, marijuana smoking/shotgunning, marijuana-induced horniness lol, one bed trope, forced proximity, miscommunication, HEAVY mutual pining. nsfw (minors / ageless blogs dni).

word count: 19.9k

note: first things first, APOLOGIESSSSS for this taking so long. I've had a lot going on (which I know just about everyone says) and I was lowkey struggling to write this, even tho I was so amped for it. nevertheless, I'm so glad I was able to focus and finish it, because I care so much for these two and I desperately wanted to share their story with you 💓 per usual, please expect angst with your smut, and if you cry, I will not judge you and honestly would love to hear it lol. enjoy friends! (taglist posted at the bottom.)

in rotation: bmf, sza / mona lisa, mxmtoon / gorgeous, taylor swift / moonstruck, enhypen / finally // beautiful stranger, halsey

Your mom had told you that the friends you make in your first year of college stay with you for life, but you didn’t expect that when you met Vernon. He had been shy, refusing to speak to anyone in your orientation group, but knowing glances turned into sitting next to each other, which then had you both whispering jokes back and forth, until finally, he told you his name. Hansol Chwe to be exact, but he insisted on “just Vernon.” By the second semester of freshman year, you both had become inseparable. He was your best friend, been with you through some of the toughest moments of your adult life, and you wouldn’t trade him for the world.

Vernon’s friendship survived through many of your boyfriends, and you knew he’d outlast many more. He experienced some of the worst ones – a.k.a. the men who refused to believe you two were just friends – and also the boring ones – the one guy who used you to get to him. But none of them had pissed him off more than your most current breakup: the man who was three years your senior and cheated on you with a 22-year-old. You assumed by age 27, you’d know how to pick ‘em, but that was clearly wrong.

Now you were left to your own devices with five weddings to attend this year. In retrospect, maybe there was a few you could’ve skipped, but you hated saying no in situations like this. You had agreed to go to all of them with your now ex-boyfriend in mind, placing a 2 on the invite’s attending line. Per usual, Vernon had stepped up and begrudgingly offered himself to be your date.

So why were you now meeting up with Kim Mingyu to discuss the dates of said five weddings?

You first met Mingyu when Vernon joined a fraternity in sophomore year to make more friends. “I can’t just have you. I need to have at least some friends that are dudes,” he said, which made you reply, “That’s the toxic masculinity talking.” And boy, had Mingyu been the epitome of that statement. Him and Vernon had connected instantly, sharing the same major and an affinity for art girls. You had never really gotten along with him like Vernon had hoped, but he was … attractive, to say the least.

Okay, maybe you had a crush on him. You had eyes.

But it was college and you both were on the cusp of 20. It was so hard to confess feelings back then, especially to someone like Kim Mingyu. Who you didn’t particularly enjoy talking to in the first place. However … he was probably one of the hottest men you’d ever seen; made in a lab for every young girl’s fantasy. Sometimes you couldn’t help but just stare at him, admiring his perfect teeth or the way his honey-gold skin shined in the afternoon sunlight. (You thanked your lucky stars that Vernon joined the college football team alongside Mingyu, just so you could secretly ogle him during practice.)

Suffice to say, you did eventually hook up. In the most cliche way possible, you had both gotten a little too tipsy at the first frat party of senior year and wound up in Mingyu’s dorm, locking out his roommate for the entire night. It almost felt weird, realizing your attraction had been reciprocated, but he hardly said a word to you come morning. In fact, he never mentioned it again, period, choosing to avoid you except in group settings with Vernon. You weren’t a fool; you were quick to realize it meant nothing to him, just another notch on his bedpost.

Mingyu was every girl’s dream, but Mingyu was also uncommitted.

And he was walking towards you right now.

You looked up from your phone after stalking – looking through Mingyu’s Instagram. You never followed him, never checked in on him after graduation, but you knew how close he still was with Vernon. He even posted a picture with him recently. You rolled your eyes. Despite his long hair, you recognized Mingyu instantly as he went up to the barista and ordered a coffee. You studied him for a moment, noticing that there was a curl to his hair and the way those dark stands hung around his eyes. His skin was as perfect as ever and – goddamn, did he get bigger? He was wearing a jacket over his t-shirt and you could still tell how big his muscles were.

When he finally looked over his shoulder and your eyes connected, his face remained unchanged, if not a little awkward. He walked up to you, rubbing at the back of his neck, and said your name as if it were a question. “Yeah. Hi, Mingyu,” you replied with a wave. “It’s been a while.”

“Five years since graduation,” he added, pulling out the chair across from you and plopping down. “So you stopped putting those blonde highlights in your hair?”

Your eye twitched. Before you could spit out a response, a cute, dark-haired barista came over and set a fresh mug of coffee in front of him, completely ignoring that your own was practically empty. Mingyu flashed her a smile, showing off his pretty canines as she walked away. You frowned.

Vernon had told you last night that Mingyu wasn’t the same guy you knew in college, but you begged to differ.

Turning back to you, he took a sip from his mug and asked, “Why did you want to meet up again?”

“Because my best friend is an asshole and you lost a bet.”

“Oh, yeah. That.” He nodded.

You almost didn’t believe Vernon when he told you. You knew he didn’t exactly want to be your date to all these weddings and probably felt like he had to, but he did offer so you didn’t think much of it. Until he told you last week that he put all his guest invites on the line while playing a drinking game with Mingyu, which the latter lost. So now Kim Mingyu, your college one-night-stand that was scared of commitment, was committing to being your date to several weddings this year.

Kill me now, you thought.

“I thought drinking games and making silly bets like this didn’t happen once your frontal lobe formed,” you said, and his dark eyes flickered up to yours.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” he cleared his throat and set the mug down again. “Men never really grow up.”

You crossed your arms over your chest and sat back in your chair. “Apparently,” you muttered under your breath. “How do you have the time to actually commit to this? Don’t you have a girlfriend or something?”

“One,” he held up a single finger, “I take bets very seriously and I’m not a sore loser. It’s only removing five weekends out of the year for me. No biggie. And two,” he lifted another finger, “No.”

You raised a brow. “Well, I guess that answers all my questions.”

Mingyu stared at you for a moment, running those two fingers over his bottom lip. You suddenly had a flashback to that night, remembering his hands all over you, remembering his fingers plunging inside and curling –

Not the time.

“Don’t you have a boyfriend? Why put down two people on these RSVPs you sent back and then force just anybody to be your date?” He fought the urge to smile, trying to dig a little deeper into you. You weren’t falling for it this time. “I love the guy, but I know Vernon wasn’t your first choice to accompany you.”

“My ex and I broke up,” you replied. “Not much to it.”

Intrigued, he sipped his coffee again. “Why?”

“It’s none of your business, Mingyu.”

“Well, as your new date –”

“Drop it,” you said, voice taking on a new tone. “I’m serious.”

Mingyu raised his hand in surrender, and you shook off your anger. This was supposed to be a friendly, quick conversation, but it was seemingly moving off the rails. A sigh escaped your mouth before you asked, “So you said this is only taking five weekends out of the year. What do you do with your time? Are you working?”

“I thought I answered all your questions.”

You narrowed your eyes.

He chuckled softly, exposing those canines once again. His smile was so … ugh, you needed to stop getting distracted. “I work at a restaurant four days a week as a cook, and then teach flag football at a rec facility the rest of the time. I’ve been trying to save up to open my own restaurant for years, but I got the time to be a makeshift wedding date.”

You knew Mingyu had always loved to cook – you remembered when he’d been the resident chef at the fraternity – but to hear he was still passionate almost … melted you a little. Almost. You were dedicated to not being too swayed by Mingyu’s pretty words. This was a deal and that was the end of it.

“I see,” you nodded, uncrossing your arms to play with the handle of your still empty mug. “I’ve been working at the same marketing agency since college. Pays the bills, you know?”

Mingyu gave you a knowing look before running a hand through the long strands. “Always so committed.”

Your lips pursed. “One of us has to be.”

“Speaking of commitment,” he said without missing a beat, pulling his phone from the pocket of his jeans. “What are the dates for those weddings again?”

Save the Date for the wedding of Choi Seungcheol and Holland Levine: February 28th

It was a rainy Sunday in February. Your coworker, Choi Seungcheol, was getting married today at a local venue on the outskirts. His girlfriend, Holland – otherwise known as, Hinge Holland, when he met her on the dating app 3 years ago – was a little kooky and asked for them to be eloped that morning. Seungcheol was too in love to say no; he’d do anything she asked. They were married early morning, and lucky for you and Mingyu, all you had to attend was a reception. It was a nice way to test the waters of this deal before anything got too crazy.

Mingyu had picked you up in his truck, and together struggled to help lift you inside with your dress and heels on. As he drove away from the city and into a more rural area, he commented, “Your coworker must be real whipped to agree to a reception here.”

“What are you talking about?” You looked through your phone for the address Seungcheol had sent you months ago. “I thought the reception was at some small venue.”

Mingyu said your name, and you glanced over, seeing the smile on his face. “It’s a VFW owned by someone in his girlfriend’s family.”

You realized just how right he was when he pulled up to a spot in a VFW parking lot, seeing a crowd of Holland’s family pour into the post. You knew what the inside of a VFW looked like; you had your sweet 16 at one. But going to a wedding reception at one was a whole different story. Were the walls so old that they’d crumble once the DJ dared to play Dancing Queen?

Rain pounded from the sky, making the cold February wind even more chilly. Mingyu rounded the truck and opened your door, making sure to hold an umbrella above your head as you slid out of the seat. He looked … okay, he looked extremely handsome in his suit, tailored exactly to his body. You were in an old, off-the-shoulder black dress with mesh sleeves that were doing nothing in this wet cold. This wedding had crept up on you, and before you knew it, you remembered you didn’t have any new dresses to wear. And while it looked nice, the dress just barely zipped and you had to keep pulling up the neckline. Clearly, you had grown a bit since the last time you worn this. Probably in college.

Mingyu was staring at you now, letting his eyes wander down, and you were yanking at the neckline again. He didn’t deserve to see more of your cleavage. He whispered, “You look …”

“Just come on,” you cut him off, tugging him in the direction of the VFW. He struggled to keep up for a moment, rushing to hold the umbrella above both of you.

As soon as you both walked inside, you realized just how dressed up you were compared to the place. The building looked like it hadn’t been updated since the 1990s. There was, at least, a huge buffet-style food setup in the corner and a man so old that he probably had one foot in the grave behind the bar. A sign in front of him said, OPEN BAR, written in thick sharpie. Various family members were congregating at tables, while the DJ – who looked like a Pitbull impersonator – was setting up at the head of the room.

Seungcheol ran over the second he saw you meandering through tables. He had the biggest smile on his face, tugging his new wife over to introduce her to you before wiggling his eyebrows at you when he noticed Mingyu on your arm. Even Holland couldn’t help but ogle him. Seungcheol was one of your closest coworkers, so it wasn’t weird when he asked, “Who’s the beefcake?”

Mingyu was too busy dealing with Holland’s questions to hear you reply, “Don’t ask. I’ve cycled through many options before I was forced to bring him.”

“I’m sure it was quite difficult for you,” he snorted, before carefully pulling his wife’s hand off of Mingyu’s and introducing himself. Not long after, he was ushering her away to start making speeches.

You and Mingyu found your seat quickly, and luckily enough, you were sat with most of your coworkers. Every single one was looking at Mingyu like he was a piece of meat, but he didn’t seem to notice as he had a friendly conversation with each of them. You struggled to not roll your eyes. How was he perfect with everyone? Maybe your dislike of him was irrational and unwarranted, maybe he did change. But … ugh, could he fuck up for once?

Your coworker, Minghao, sat to your left, watching Mingyu converse with the young assistant – Amelia, right? – who was very clearly batting her eyes at him. Leaning towards you, Minghao whispered, “I thought you were bringing Vernon?”

Minghao was one of the few people you told about your breakup, as well as Vernon and of course, your girlfriends. It wasn’t like you to go around everywhere and post on social media about your breakup; it wasn’t anyone’s business. But Minghao gave great advice, and he was one of the first people that helped you get over the heartbreak. He wasn’t just a coworker. He became a trusted friend.

Turning your head, you said, “Would you believe me if I told you that he lost a bet?”

“Considering who you ended up with,” he chuckled, “I’d say it’s a win in your favor.”

“He’s not that great.”

“Then you might want to pull Amelia off of him before she starts sucking his face.”

The reception ended at an early hour thankfully. Most of the elderly guests were falling asleep anyway. Mingyu was a class act, per usual, trying to get you up and out of your seat to dance with him, but the last thing you wanted to do was dance to Toxic by Britney Spears in front of your boss at the marketing agency. Instead, he took the lead to asking Seungcheol’s mom to dance, and made Amelia’s day when he asked her to join. Minghao only continued to laugh when you rejected each of Mingyu’s advances.

Once 10 PM rolled around and you both were exiting the doors of the aging VFW, you noticed the rain hadn’t let up. In fact, it seemed to have gotten even worst. You had to run to Mingyu’s truck with him holding the umbrella above both of you and almost trip over your dress as you hopped up inside the cab. Assuming it would be fine to drive, just a few minutes in the rain left you both realizing that it might be extremely unsafe to drive back to the city in this weather. You really couldn’t argue with Mingyu when he suggested you stay the night at a motel right down the road.

The woman behind the front desk at the motel was chewing so loud that you thought the wad of bubblegum between her teeth might be larger than your palm. She informed you both that the only rooms available were ones with a single queen-sized bed. As much as you desperately wanted two, you’d take what you could get. She started grabbing both of your informations to check in when a loud bolt of lightning cracked, followed by a crash of thunder. You instantly gripped Mingyu’s arm, and he paused signing his name to look down at you.

“Are you scared of thunder?” He asked playfully.

Realizing how tight you were holding on, you quickly removed your hand. “No, I’m … it’s fine.”

His bicep felt so much harder than anticipated. All muscle.

Stop that.

The front desk attendant gave you an actual metal key to open your room, the number dangling from a kitschy pendant. This was the kind of motel where you needed to venture outside to get to your room, and with your arms locked together, Mingyu led you both through the pouring rain to the right building. He shoved the key in the lock, immediately opening the door and allowing you to walk inside first.

The room was smaller than expected. The heat was hardly circulating and you were still shivering. A queen-sized bed was situated in front of an old RCA TV, decorated with a comforter that looked strangely similar to the one from the 80s that your mom had given you when you first moved out. The room smelled like bleach and all you could hear was the rain on the roof. Noticing you shiver, Mingyu walked over to the thermostat and adjusted the heat.

“Maybe this was a bad idea,” you said, hugging your arms around yourself.

Mingyu pointed to the large window by the door. “I can’t drive in that. It takes an hour to get back to the city and I can hardly see the road.”

“Okay, well –”

Lightning struck again, painting the window white, and you jumped. Mingyu shook his head and walked over, closing the shades over the glass. He looked down at you, and you were acutely aware that he was the kind of person who could say everything just with his eyes. “Better?” He asked, a smile playing at his pink lips.

He was so close that you could smell his cologne and – god dammit, you were such a sucker for men that smelled good. He smelled like violets mixed with smokey sandalwood, spicy and musky. Whatever you were going to quip back died on your tongue, leaving you to reply, “I can’t sleep in my dress. I have nothing to wear to bed.”

Walking over to the tiny closet, Mingyu spotted a robe hanging up next to the vintage ironing board. He placed it in your arms and remarked, “Take a shower and put this on.”

“Are you saying I smell?”

He laughed. “No, you’re shivering and it’ll help warm you up.”

You nodded, heading off to the bathroom and shutting the door. As you slipped off your dress and let it pool onto the tile, you realized how antagonizing you were being for no reason. Mingyu had been nothing but nice to you, but you were suspecting him to switch-up at any moment. Maybe Vernon was right, or maybe you just needed to take a chill pill.

Mingyu was helping you out, after all.

After taking the warmest shower of your life and probably using all of the hot water in the motel, you walked out into the room with your robe tied firmly around your waist. The cotton smelled like mothballs and you hardly left an inch of skin showing. Granted you weren’t naked underneath, but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing your underwear. Again. After five years.

He was wearing only a tank top and boxers while setting up a makeshift bed on the floor. You struggled to maintain focus with him looking … well, like that, and eventually spoke up, “What are you doing?”

He hardly jumped at hearing your voice. “I figured it would just be easier if I slept on the floor. Trust me, I’ve slept in far worse places.”

“Mingyu, you don’t have to do that,” you sighed, pulling back the covers and tossing the mismatching throw pillows on the floor.

“It’s not a big deal.”

“I know, but it’s just –”

Thunder clashed outside, sounding like pots and pans clanging together, rattling your bones.

Your eyes connected with Mingyu’s, and you pointed to the empty side of the bed. “Sleep in this bed right now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You both agreed – more like, you told Mingyu and he listened – to place a wall of pillows between you two, leaving you on the edges of the bed. You curled up into yourself, your spine facing him, as Mingyu laid on his back and pinched the bridge of his nose. The rain was so loud. The thunder was deafening. You considered plugging your fingers in your ears as you slept.

Mingyu was shifting on the small sliver of mattress he had, wishing internally that he brought a joint or two with him. This bed was so uncomfortable that he probably wouldn’t sleep. But hopefully, you would. Although that was seeming highly unlikely from the way your back tensed with every boom of thunder.

He watched you from the corner of his eye, and eventually, you did stop shaking. Soft snores filled the room, replacing the sound of the rain. And then Mingyu felt himself relax, swiftly falling asleep with his arm thrown above his head.

Despite the pillow wall you built, you woke up with your head on his chest.

Mingyu had wanted to tell you how beautiful you looked that day, but he couldn’t find the courage to finish his sentence.

Save the Date for the wedding of Lee Chan and Adrianna Olson: April 4th

Tapping your freshly manicured nails on your bare arm, you leaned against the passenger side door of your car and huffed. You uncrossed your arms, beginning to pace outside Mingyu’s apartment building. The ceremony today started in two hours and you were about ninety minutes from the venue. Not to mention, there was only a matter of time before one of his neighbors showed up, forcibly removing you from the parking spot in front of the building you definitely did not live in. What the hell was Mingyu doing anyway? He said he’d be down ten minutes ago.

You tugged off your heels, realizing they’d be a bitch to drive in, and pulled your sneakers from the back seat. Your floral, strapless sundress blew in the Spring breeze. Your curls – that looked like they could’ve been done by a toddler – whisked off your bare shoulders as you stepped into your favorite Nikes.

“Sorry.”

Popping your head up, you halted while shoving the back door closed. You blinked, assuming your eyes were deceiving you, but there he was, sprinting down the front steps of his building with freshly chopped hair.

Mingyu was quickly walking over to shove his duffle in your backseat, pulling at his tie, when you leaned in and placed your hand on his head. Yep, that was his real hair. Those long locks that had reached his chin were gone, replaced by a hairstyle that was similar to how he looked in college.

“I know we’re running late,” he apologized, letting your fingers sink into the strands for a moment, “but do you have to –”

“This is not about that.” You removed your hand, leveling a look at him. “You cut your hair.”

Mingyu raised a brow. “It was getting long.”

You paused, blinking at him. “Why didn’t you warn me of your new look?”

“I didn’t think I had to?” He shrugged, genuinely confused as to why you were questioning him. “My hair had gotten even longer since February, so I just thought I’d freshen up for you –”

You completely missed his words – for you, he’d freshened up for you – because you were already interrupting him. “Well, it’s just – it might look weird in pictures because my hair is up and your hair is so short. And I’m already going to have so many people looking at us wondering why my ex, who’s name I put on the invite, isn’t here. And I just want to eliminate as much attention as possible. And, well – and –”

Mingyu placed both hands on your shoulders. His palms were large, practically burning into your exposed skin. “Are you overthinking?”

“No, I …”

When your voice trailed off, Mingyu hesitated for a moment longer and then slid his hands off. “Vernon told me that you dated the groom. Chan, right?”

Of-fucking-course, Vernon told him. Your lips pursed before you replied, “We were friends before that, and we only dated for like a couple months in college. I introduced him to the woman he’s marrying.”

“Then why are you so nervous?”

“I think I have a lot of reasons to be nervous these days.” You continued to stare at him, waiting for him to come up with another quippy remark, but it seemed he contested and shoved his hands into the pockets of his suit. The same tailored suit he wore to the wedding in February, a few loose threads at the seams. “Let’s get going. We’ll be in the car for a while,” you said, rounding your car and hopping inside the driver’s seat.

As Mingyu dealt with finding room for his duffle in your trunk, you took this small second to text Vernon.

You: your friend is infuriating

You: also I’m never going to forgive you for telling him that I dated chan

Vernon: you’ll get over it lol

Vernon: is that the only reason why he’s infuriating?

You: HAIRCUT

Vernon: oh I probably should’ve told you about that when I saw him last week

Vernon: sorry :/

You closed your texts when Mingyu hopped in the passenger seat, turning on your music to drown out your thoughts. The drive was long and you were lucky that you got to the venue with ten minutes to spare. You parked the car in a haste, running to your back seat and quickly tugging your heels back on. You chucked your sneakers onto the car floor, almost hitting Mingyu in the face when he went to grab his phone from the same area. Locking your car, you grabbed his arm and yanked, both of you running towards the venue attached to a pretty hotel. Mingyu, even with his long legs, was struggling to keep up. He was also slightly impressed that you could run so fast in heels, and that was definitely the only reason why he was staring at your legs. He wasn’t admiring how long they looked when the wind lifted your skirt and he got a flash of your calf.

Even from your seat in the back of the ceremony, you could see Chan’s face light up as Adrianna was escorted down the aisle. She was wearing a vintage wedding dress, the veil sheer enough to see how beautiful she was underneath, and Chan was eager enough to lift it as soon as they said, “I do.” Adrianna looked like she hadn’t aged a day since school, and you could probably say the same for Chan. But he did manage to finally remove the earrings he got six years ago, which made you giggle to yourself.

Mingyu pretended not to notice.

Most of the people at the wedding were old friends from undergrad, even a few Mingyu knew in passing. Every time you were approached, you prepared yourself for the same question: “Where is He Who Will Not Be Named?” Or, for those that actually knew Mingyu: “Since when did you know Gyu?” You weren’t sure how much longer you could fake a smile and laugh, pretend that your heart still wasn’t sore from the breakup, rehash the same words over and over again. It was tiring; you were tired.

Same explanation. Same heartbreak. You wouldn’t be surprised if the whole planet knew of your breakup by now. You didn’t announce it anywhere, besides telling your family and close friends. It was natural for people to be curious; you had been with your ex for a couple years, enough for your family to assume that he’d propose. But then he cheated, and you found out, and you were left in pieces, tied to Kim Mingyu as your date for a full year of weddings.

You just didn’t want to keep on doing this, explaining yourself ten times over, realizing that everyone was looking at you with interest. Maybe a second glass of champagne would be a good distraction …

“Wanna dance?”

You looked up from the rim of your empty glass. Mingyu had knocked you out of your daze, laying out a hand for you to take. The reception was lively with family and friends mingling on the dance floor, but Mingyu had still noticed you alone at the table, lost in your thoughts. Had he always been this attentive, or was he just prone to watching you?

Ignoring your internal monologue, you took his hand, allowing him to lead you to the dance floor. Just as Mingyu was about to place his hand on your waist, the song changed, switching to a more upbeat track you used to blast in college. You immediately started laughing at all the older folks trying to follow the beat, and then found Chan with his wife, shimmying on the dance floor. Mingyu pinched the bridge of his nose, but found himself beaming when he finally saw the smile grace your features. He didn’t let go of your hand, let you twirl him to the song that took you back to the musty basement of a frat party.

Chan, at some point, had managed to dance over in your direction, bumping into you with a big grin. “I knew all the alumni here would love this,” he shouted over the music. “Do you remember when you puked outside a window once at some party and you said that it was this song that induced it?”

You were surprised when Mingyu said, “Yes,” at the same time as you. Both you and Chan glanced at him, eyebrows raised, until he added, “That was at one of my parties. I cleaned your vomit off the windowsill!”

The four of you erupted in laughter. Even Adrianna remembered that party, considering that was the night you drunkenly introduced her to Chan. She eventually pulled you away from Mingyu, leading you towards her group of bridesmaids so you all could dance together. But your eyes couldn’t help but find Mingyu’s across the floor, and then he was looking at you, and – god dammit, staring at him felt like a crime you’d consider going to jail for.

Everyone was looking at him, but he was looking at you.

Actually, Mingyu couldn’t seem to take his eyes off you. Not once.

He stared at you as if it was just you two, as if you were stripped bare before him, just for his eyes to see. You could tell from the way he bit his lip while smiling. He looked at you as if you were naked.

Soon enough, you were slipping through the crowd and by his side once again. He was now leaning against the wall by the open bar, nursing a scotch. The party was winding down; all the older family members had left, leaving Chan and Adrianna – plus a few other young couples – swaying to a classic Ed Sheeran song. It wouldn’t be long until they ended the night with Can’t Help Falling In Love by Elvis Presley. The time war nearing 11 PM.

Slinking beside him, he offered the glass to you and you took a sip, wincing at the burn. You stuck out your tongue. “How can you drink that so smoothly?”

“Years of practice,” he replied, and then flicked your nose in a way that shouldn’t make you blush. But you definitely did.

You blinked up at him, admiring how pretty he was in the faint, yellow light. Actually, he was pretty in every light, but you liked to find any excuse to admire him. Even if you denied it.

“Wanna get out of here?” You asked then, digging your nails into your palms. So afraid of rejection after all these years, even though he agreed to be here. “I think the reception is going to end soon anyway.”

“Yeah, sounds good.” He set his half empty glass on a random table and straightened his back before adding, “Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

God, you needed to get it together. Those words were the bare minimum, but when he said them in that slightly muffled voice, it made your nails pinch the inside of your hands harder.

You both stood on opposite sides of the elevator, dragging up, up, up to your room on the seventeenth floor. Your eyes connected. A smile played at his lips. An unspoken tension brewing between the two of you. A feeling you didn’t want to be there in the first place, but something you couldn’t simply ignore.

This couldn’t be happening. Not today. Not tonight. Not ever again.

He opened the door for you, allowing you to slip inside and grab your bag. While he rifled through his duffle, you brought your bag into the bathroom and leaned against the sink. You allowed yourself a moment to just breathe. Maybe if you kept exhaling like this, you would release all the tension from your body. You knew how silly it sounded, but desperate times called for desperate measures. You stared at your reflection in the mirror, turning your face from side to side. Was it the makeup that made him look at you that way sometimes? Perhaps he still had a fondness for lipgloss, like he did back in the day.

When you finally stopped studying your appearance, you wiped off your makeup and tugged on a pair of loose pajamas. Wearing these would be so much more comfortable – and less awkward – than the robe you wore after the last wedding. You still had nightmares about that. Carefully tiptoeing out of the bathroom, you expected to find Mingyu already in one of the two full size beds, scrolling through his phone and ignoring the noise you naturally made. But he was on the deck just outside your room, smoke billowing from his mouth.

You stood near the unoccupied bed, balancing on the balls of your feet, as you debated your options. A smart person would go right to sleep, leave him to his business. You chewed on your bottom lip nervously.

Despite the slight warmth to the air, you threw on a hoodie, scared of the possibility of your nipples showing through the thin fabric of your t-shirt. You slid open the door and immediately closed it, preventing any smoke from getting into the room. He didn’t turn; he knew exactly who was behind him. His back muscles flexed underneath his suit jacket, the joint dangling between his lips as he prayed for his lighter to work again.

“You probably shouldn’t be smoking in this suit,” you said, saddling up beside him.

He chuckled, finally taking a long drag. “I promise to get it dry cleaned before our next adventure.”

Before our next adventure. You bit the inside of your cheek.

Your eyes didn’t leave the joint now sitting between two of his fingers. (Jeez, were they always that big?) He let more smoke filter from his lips and into the open air, clouding up the starry night sky. Without even looking at you, he asked, “Why are you staring?” His words hung in the silence for a moment. “Have you ever smoked before?”

You shrugged. “Only once or twice with Vernon. Probably as freshmen.”

“You want me to show you how?”

Blinking at him, all you could do was dumbly nod. Mingyu laughed under his breath, fighting with his lighter again, before eventually holding the flame to the end. He then cautiously passed the joint over to you, allowing the filter to brush your lips. “Take it in your mouth,” he instructed, “now inhale.”

When you did as he asked, you must’ve inhaled far too deeply, or just didn’t exhale at the right time. Because then you were coughing, doubling over as you tried to catch your breath. “Hey, hey, hey,” he said, concern etched in his tone, and patted your back as you hacked up what felt like your left lung. His voice was soft, soothing, but you could hardly hear it through the ringing in your ears.

“Yeah,” you sighed, voice hoarse, “I’m definitely out of practice.”

As you stood up, his hand stayed on your shoulder, his thumb rubbing patterns. Your breath stilled as you looked up at him. Playing with the joint between his lips, he said, “Let me show you an easier way.”

“Okay,” you agreed, before your conscious could stop you.

You watched as he took a long pull from the joint, sucking it all in until you could see his eyes get a little pinker, and then moved closer to you. Instinctively, your eyes closed and your lips parted, welcoming the scent of him. His lips only lightly grazed yours as he exhaled the smoke into your mouth, letting it engulf your very being, and you felt yourself start to relax. He craned back, grinning down at you, and it took everything within you to not ask for another hit right then.

In the moonlight, you could see why you fell hard for Mingyu. He had only gotten more handsome since college. Light, in any form, was so kind to him, but with the stars hanging above his head … it allowed his dark hair to shine, casting a slightly blueish tone to his warm features. You could see the twinkling stars reflecting in his eyes, especially when he leaned back in, expelling more smoke into your mouth.

This felt too intimate. This felt like fucking.

Once you both were so high you could do nothing but laugh, Mingyu stubbed out the joint and you stumbled back into the room. You both were finally going to have a good sleep at one of these, especially since there were two beds. Rolling into your bed, you immediately burrowed under the covers as Mingyu took off his suit in the bathroom.

The last thing you expected was to feel him plop down in your bed. He was wearing so little that it made your thighs press together, or maybe that was just the weed talking. He was disoriented, laying halfway off the edge of your bed, staring at you as if you were the Mona Lisa. You huffed, “Mingyuuu. You need to get in your own bed.”

“Do you really want that though?”

His words made your eyes immediately snap open. A grin was tugging at his mouth again, his teeth sinking into that plush bottom lip. Oh, so also wanted … Oh.

You tried to sound cool and nonchalant, “Considering this is a full size bed, yeah.”

Even in the darkness, even with his back to the moonlight streaming through the glass door – his presence was making you nervous. His eyes weren’t leaving yours. You felt your hand inch over, your pinky curling around his.

“If I can be so honest with you,” he whispered, licking at the corners of his lips, “you are so beautiful that I want to kill any guy that has done you wrong.”

You exhaled, “Mingyu …”

He leaned in, smiling like he knew he caught you in his trap. “Yes?”

You were pretty sure that you knew Kim Mingyu by now. You knew that this would be just another night that meant nothing to him. No matter how much he “changed” in Vernon’s eyes, it was very clear to you that he remained uncommitted. But fuck it, your heart was still burning from the breakup, stinging from the memory of people uttering your ex’s name tonight. It was only going to be a kiss. Just something to soothe the pain.

He was so much closer now, invading your space, his hand completely eclipsing yours. He smelled like marijuana and lingering cologne. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured, but you didn’t. You let him kiss you, and god, it would be so much easier to dislike Mingyu if he didn’t kiss so well.

It wasn’t long before his tongue was pushing into your mouth, his large body looming over yours as he pressed you into the mattress a little more. And you’re desperate for it; you couldn’t stop. This was supposed to be simple – just a kiss – but you could feel yourself falling under his spell, feel how his palms burned against your skin as they dragged down your torso. He explored your mouth like it was the first time, parting your legs to make room for himself on top of you. When his lips left yours, you almost let out a whine, but he helped take off your hoodie before reattaching his mouth to your neck. Those large hands snake under your shirt – up, up, and up – until he was cupping your breasts and you can feel how hard he is against your thigh.

Mingyu looked up at you as he kissed down your torso, his spit soaking through the thin fabric of the t-shirt you were still wearing. He lifted one of your legs, adjusting it so your thigh could rest comfortably on his shoulder and – shit, you knew where this was going. Reaching the waistband of your panties, he begged, “Let me go down on you.”

You mulled over his words. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“No,” he grinned against your skin, meeting your eyes from between your legs. “But that’s a tomorrow problem. Please?” His head tilted. “Do I have to beg? I’m willing.”

You bit your tongue, egging him on a little as he nipped at the inside of your thigh. He bucked his hips once, them twice, trying to get the smallest bit of friction on his cock that was currently throbbing in his boxers. He grunted softly against your skin.

“And if I say, ‘No?’” You asked with a raised brow.

He lifted his head and pouted his lips. After all these years, he still managed the perfect puppy dog eyes that could make just about anyone weak. “Don’t be mean,” he pleaded, and you couldn’t help but giggle.

“You like when I’m mean,” you quipped, giving him permission by helping him shimmy your panties off. He adjusted your legs again, presenting you like a meal.

“I do,” he chuckled, his breath ghosting over your pretty, pink folds. “Especially, when you act like you didn’t want me here in the first place.”

Before you can rebuttal, he’s pressing his face between your thighs, dragging his tongue up your slit to collect the wetness that gathered there. Just the small amount of attention had you keening, your hips jumping for more of him, and Mingyu was happy enough to oblige. His tongue flicked at your clit as he slid one single finger inside of you, testing your limits. Those puppy dog eyes lifted from between your thighs, wanting to see you crumble, knowing that it was him who made you like this. You sighed out his name, your hand coming down to tangle in his hair. And god, if Mingyu didn’t love that … he’d be a dead man. He groaned when he felt you tug at the strands, beginning to swirl his tongue in a circle around your puffy clit.

You couldn’t even prepare yourself when he shoved another finger inside, pumping them in and out at an unreasonably fast pace. But you were bucking into him, tears pricking at your eyes as you whimpered for him. It was too much but almost too little at the same time. You could practically feel him smile as he devoured you. The bed rattled against the wall when he ground his erection against the frame, so needy and aching. His plump lips suckled on your clit, your slick smearing over his face, but he didn’t want to miss a drop of you. He needed more of you, so he started curling three fingers inside of you, teasing that sweet spot.

This wasn’t your first rodeo with Mingyu. He knew what you could take.

“Mingyu,” you whined, and he glanced up at you again with the most fucked-out eyes imaginable. And still, he didn’t stop. “You’re gonna … I’m gonna cum so fast.”

He moaned into you, then begged, “Please. Need to taste you.”

He was so determined, so desperate to feel you shake and moan and cry until he was completely spent on the taste of you. And it wasn’t long before he got his wish: as he shoved those three fingers into you, grazing your g-spot while lapping at you like you were his last meal on death row. You unraveled on his tongue, muffling your cries for the rest of the people sleeping on your floor. Biting into your hand, you had physically restrain your body from shaking as your orgasm rocked through you, but Mingyu held you down with a gentle hand on your stomach. He was staring at you again and you were staring at him and fuck, his half-closed eyes made him look like he was drunk on you. You could feel him smirking into your pussy as he collected every last drop of you, knowing that he did a good job. He sighed with relief when he could finally taste you again and again and again.

Once your body settled, you felt him start to tug at your shirt and kiss up your stomach. The thought of now having him inside you made your hands clench with excitement, but dear god, he just knocked the wind out of you and you weren’t sure how you could last. You were spent, tired, probably could just fall asleep right now.

You weren’t feeling his lips on your skin anymore, so you opened your eyes. The moonlight gave you just enough to see that, despite the raging boner he probably had, Mingyu was now snoring softly with his head resting on your hips. Brows raised, you almost couldn’t believe that this was the moment he decided to fall asleep, but you couldn’t deny that you had been on the verge of doing the same.

Untangling yourself from him, you quickly cleaned yourself up and wiped his face clean with a washcloth. You sighed, using all the brute strength you had to haul him up on what was supposed to be your bed, and wrapped the covers around him. You admired him for a moment, your hand coming up to smooth back his dark hair. Somehow, this felt even more intimate than you cumming in his mouth. So you quickly moved away and slipped under the sheets of the other bed, using his snores as white noise.

The next morning, neither of you spoke of what happened.

Mingyu had wanted to tell you that he had a crush on you the moment Vernon introduced you two all those years ago, even when you disliked him. And slowly but surely, he was starting to realize it never truly went away.

Save the Date for the wedding of Joshua Hong and Jordan Lo: June 20th

Two months passed and the spring air turned sweltering. It was on days like this when you rolled the windows down and wasted gas just to get an overpriced iced coffee that you reminisced. You were taken back to a time when you waited by the curb as Vernon appeared from football practice, and even though he was sweaty, you still always agreed to drive him back to his dorm on the other side of campus. You would watch him say goodbye to his teammates and – shit, the light would catch, and suddenly you were looking at Mingyu wipe the sweat off his face while laughing with the quarterback and –

Now you were thinking about Mingyu again.

You had been thinking about him since April.

All of this felt so silly, like stupid games young 20-somethings played. You knew it wasn’t good for you in engage in – well, anything with Mingyu. He had always been perfectly uncommitted with women, and he was clearly obsessed with his work, posting his new recipes or pictures of him and his flag football team on his Instagram stories. You could handle this. You could be an adult and have a functional acquaintanceship with someone you found attractive.

So you kept your distance. On the off chance that Mingyu was free and asked if you wanted to get together (which was a shock in itself), you declined. Even if you wanted to. Even if you desperately wondered what would come of it. The next wedding wasn’t until the end of June and you were already biting you lip at the thought of seeing him in a suit again.

The only person you could finally blabber to about this was Minghao, and in typical fashion, he laughed. Not that you expected anything less.

“You’re overthinking the entire situation,” he said over drinks. “It’s completely normal for you to have a little fun, especially while healing from a breakup. That’s what being single is all about, my friend.”

He was right. Of course, he was right. But what if Mingyu rejected you yet again, like he did in college? You wanted to talk to Vernon about this. He always gave you the best advice with this stuff, but this was his friend. The last thing you wanted was to make his friendship with Mingyu weird.

You attempted to ignore him. You redownloaded some dating apps as a distraction. You deleted them just as fast.

On the morning of June 20th, your cousin, Jordan, was marrying her longtime boyfriend, Joshua Hong. You had only met Josh on a number of occasions, but considering that they had been together for almost twelve years, you trusted him enough to take care of her. You felt lucky to be chosen as a bridesmaid and you’d never make a fuss, but dear god, the dark blue of this dress clashed with just about everything. The color was so dark and the dress was clinging to just about all of you and Mingyu’s tie was the wrong shade of blue –

Damn, did he look handsome though.

Jordan had made you both get to the venue early for a rehearsal dinner, and then once the morning came, you were whisked off to hair and makeup. You had barely said a word to Mingyu, too scared to give him anything besides small talk, but you couldn’t help but compliment the new suit he bought for the last few weddings. “Figured I’d cave and invest in one that wasn’t from Goodwill,” he explained, “for you.”

For you. For you. For you.

Your heels were hurting your feet halfway through the wedding, and despite how hard you were trying to focus on Josh’s vows, you couldn’t help but find Mingyu’s eyes in the crowd. He wasn’t paying attention to anyone else, his stare burning into yours to let you know his intent. You swallowed hard. Would anyone notice if you hid your blush behind the bouquet in your hands? It felt like torture having him look at you like this, as if there wasn’t an extravagant wedding happening around them, as if he wasn’t Kim Mingyu.

It wasn’t until the reception that you could finally get a word in with your cousin, some much needed alone time after what was surely going to be the craziest wedding you went to this year. You both parked yourself near the open bar, ignoring the guests on the dance floor that were screaming for another round of the Cha Cha Slide. Tucking a strand behind your ear, Jordan said, “I can’t thank you enough for doing this for me. Jeez, I really didn’t think when I was three and met you a couple weeks after you were born that we’d be here. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

You grinned, “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” The bartender handed you a new glass of wine and you took a sip. “Besides, these days all I do is work or go to weddings. The life of being a permanent wedding guest, I supposed.”

“Speaking of guests …” Jordan turned her head slightly, ogling Mingyu from where he was standing up and trying to decline your great aunt’s advances to dance. Your cousin giggled. “He isn’t the older guy I thought you’d bring.”

“Circumstances change.” You shrugged, and she gave you a look. “I’d rather not get into it.”

Jordan’s brow raised. “You guys are having sex though, right?”

You almost choked while taking another sip of your wine. “Absolutely not.”

“You sure?”

“Well, I –” You sighed, and then decided to suck down the rest of the glass in one go. Jordan whistled. “We did at one point. Very long time ago. But he’s Vernon’s friend and … it’s a long story.”

“Sounds like it,” she snorted, eyes flickering around the reception until they landed somewhere behind you. “Well, if you’re not having sex with him, my friend just might tonight.”

Your expression muddled, until she pointed over your shoulder. Turning around, you found Jordan’s Maid of Honor chatting up Mingyu near the stairs that lead to the restrooms. Her hand was inching up his sleeve and he was blushing at what you could only assume was a compliment coming from her lips. He was clearly enjoying the conversation, despite the intimate looks he was giving you earlier.

Classic fucking Kim Mingyu, you thought.

A pang of jealousy surfaced that you couldn’t control. It was probably best for everyone if you walked away and took a breather. After Joshua pulled his wife onto the dance floor, you adjusted the tight silk of your dress and headed for the bathrooms. You walked past them, your perfume wafting past Mingyu’s nostrils, a scent he would know anywhere.

Instead of going inside the bathroom, you decide to stand in the empty hall connected to the venue and brace your back against the cool wall. You sighed, gathering yourself, completely unaware it wasn’t just you here until you heard the squeak of someone else’s shoes.

“I noticed you were empty,” Mingyu muttered as a way of greeting. He was holding two glasses of rosé between his fingers, stepping down the small staircase to get to you.

It was just you two now, and he was handing you the glass while standing so close that you could smell his cologne. Had this dress always felt that tight, or could you just not breathe right now? You watched the way his eyes flickered to your mouth, and it took everything in you not to yank him closer by the tie. Instead, you took a big gulp of rosé.

“You didn’t have to come after me,” you remarked, and then nodded your head in the direction of the Maid of Honor now on the dance floor. “You looked like you were having fun.”

Mingyu simply tilted his head to the side, studying you carefully.

“She’s pretty. Don’t stop on my account, but please be aware that we are sharing a room so you can’t bring anyone back there.”

Mingyu’s lips slowly curved into a grin. “Are you jealous?”

You scoffed, “No. I’m just … being realistic.”

Taking your half empty glass from your hand, he set them both down on a side table right near the women’s restroom. Your mouth opened, but the words died as soon as he placed a hand beside your head on the wall. He was so tall that he towered over you, even in heels, leaning into your space with pretty, half-opened eyes as he stared at your glossy lips.

“Can I be realistic with you?” He didn’t give you a moment to answer. “I cannot stop thinking about our last night together. I know you probably thought it happened because of the weed, but I … these past two months, it’s all I’ve been thinking about. And it’s killing me that I’ve been trying to be normal this whole night when all I’ve wanted to do is drag you away and make you cum again.”

Your breath hitched slightly at his words. He leaned in then, grazing his nose over the side of your face, desperate to be in your orbit. You took your bottom lip between your teeth and tried to control your heart rate, but how was that even possible when Mingyu’s other hand was brushing up and down your side, tangled in the silk.

“Well, that …” You swallowed hard. “That wouldn’t be a good idea considering all my family is here.”

He tsked under his breath. “Obviously, it wouldn’t be, but …” You felt his nose at your jaw, inhaling the scent of your perfume again, the one that made him crazy. And he damn near groaned in your ear.

“Mingyu, you … you –”

“Fuck, how could you think I’m looking at anyone else here when you look this good in your dress?” His voice had taken on that needy tone he always got when he was horny. It almost felt like a reward to be able to hear it again. “I’ve been half-hard this entire reception just from looking at you, remembering the way you tasted …” He muttered another curse.

This was how he always acted. Mingyu could be so desperate and pleading when he wanted to get someone in bed, needy to the point he would do anything just to please you, but god – you couldn’t deny how much you liked it. He was reeling you in. You were like fish to bait.

Slowly, he laced your dominant hand with his and moved it from his belt buckle to his groin. You could barely breathe when you felt him harden under your touch, and then you remembered you were still in a public hallway, where just about anyone could walk by.

Your eyes met his half-lidded ones as he murmured, “Look what you’re doing to me.”

And god help you, because you whimpered at the sound of his voice, slick starting to gather between your thighs.

“Okay, Mingyu, just …” You sighed, composing yourself because you knew he wasn’t going to any time soon. Your hand slipped away from his and he huffed, his forehead falling to rest on your shoulder. “Go to our room and let me make my rounds. I’ll meet you up there.”

He stood up. For a moment, he was almost tempted to drag you into the bathroom and bury his face between your legs, too hungry to let you get away now. But one of your uncles was walking down the hall, and you separated quickly. With a nod, you walked back to the reception and said goodbye to your family that you didn’t get to talk to for too long prior. Jordan gave you a look when you mentioned about going to bed early, and even Josh told you how weird you were being, but your cousin shut him up and sent you a wink.

You exhaled heavily and headed back to hotel on the other side of the venue. Slipping your heels off once you were inside the elevator, you debated if giving into Mingyu this easily was the smart thing to do. Smart? Definitely not. But would it be enjoyable? You didn’t need to answer that question. Mingyu knew what he was doing.

As you unlocked the door to your hotel room, you began to wonder if you were just setting yourself up to be hurt again. He didn’t come back to you like this in college, but what’s stopping him from telling you that he’s “just not that into you” at the next wedding? Or what if he just thought of you as an easy hookup that would get his dick wet every 2 months? Well, you hadn’t done that yet –

Yet. Yet. Yet.

The word repeated in your head like a melody, because when you threw your purse down and saw Mingyu walking out of the bathroom, fresh from a shower and dressed in only a towel around his waist, you realized that you were most definitely getting his dick wet tonight. Whether it was in your mouth or somewhere deeper, you were salivating for it.

He was smiling at you and you were smiling at him and Jesus, he was so goddamn handsome that you couldn’t believe that he was the one desperate for you. Droplets of water trickled down his tan skin and that towel around his waist was just barely holding on. His torso was chiseled and his arms – fuck, his biceps were bigger than you remembered. He was something out of a dream – some horny, fucked-up dream that you only had after masturbating before bed.

He was on you instantly, pushing you against the wall and kissing you hard. Sighing into the kiss, your hands fist into the towel to yank him closer, but it only makes the flimsy fabric fall. You break away for a moment to mutter, “Oh, shit,” but his lips can’t stay away from yours for long. And he’s laughing, like you did exactly what he wanted. You were too hypnotized by the scent of his body wash to care.

Dragging his lips down your neck, he sucked at the spot that he knew made your thighs press together, grinning proudly against your skin when you moaned. His fingers gripped the soft silk of your dress, slowly pulling the fabric up to feel you that much closer. But it wasn’t enough. No matter how much he liked you in this dress – and god, did he like you in this dress – he needed you out of it. Now.

Mingyu unzipped your dress with precision, setting it down on one of the two beds in the room, and both of you were suddenly wishingthere was only one. His hands smoothed down your sides, his breath hot against your mouth. He just wanted to feel you everywhere. He almost didn’t want to step away, afraid you’ll slip through his fingers like sand. When you two had hooked up in college, it was quick and explosive, letting out the tension that had been building for years. There was so much territory for him to cover now, so many ways for him to find out what made you whine and sigh with pleasure. But, if he were being honest, all he wanted right now was for you to –

“Sit on my face,” he begged, caging you into the wall, pressing his hard cock against your stomach. So desperate for just an ounce of friction, so hungry for another taste of you. He could literally start drooling at the thought of it. He was mesmerized by you; he’d do anything you asked just to have your pussy on his tongue again.

But you seemed to be debating your options, biting you lip again, and he wished that didn’t turn him on even more. You were just so pretty, and the way your face scrunched as you decided on something was a sight he couldn’t help but think about when he touched himself, even all those years ago. It was just you. You.

Eventually, your face relaxed, and you replied, “Well, you don’t have to beg me.”

Mingyu’s lips pulled into a smile, and he laughed while pulling you down onto the nearest bed. Despite his request, you continued to straddle his torso and kiss him for just a little while longer. He was needy, moaning into your mouth whenever his cock bumped against your ass, but all you wanted to feel his lips on yours, tangle your tongue with his, even if it was just for another minute.

You forgot Mingyu was stronger than you, though. It wasn’t much longer before he was yanking your body up and turning you around so you knelt just above his face. He inhaled the scent of your pussy and almost breathed a sigh of relief, but instead muttered, “Such a tease sometimes.”

Now that you were hovering above him, you were suddenly self conscious about how excited you were and if your arousal was seeping onto his face. You couldn’t even see if he was thrilled or not, since he had turned you to face away from him, but the way his cock jumped in front of your eyes told you enough. His hands gripped your thighs tight. “I don’t want to crush you,” you said nervously.

“You could suffocate me and I wouldn’t have a problem with it."

You chewed on your bottom lip. His tone was firm, probably the most serious you’d ever heard from him. But you were embarrassed and this was crazy and you still so wet. With flushed cheeks, you asked, “Mingyu, are you –”

“Yes,” he answered before pulling you down onto his face.

He wasn’t teasing you tonight. He was devouring you without even letting you catch your breath. His tongue swiping at your clit before he sucked on it – hard. So hard that you let you a sound that was a mixture of a yelp and a moan. Gripping you roughly, he spread you wider, drinking more of you in. Your hips moved on their own, grinding against his face, which made him groan into your pussy. The vibration in his voice spread throughout your entire body, goosebumps lining your flesh. “Mingyuuu,” you whined, begging for more, and you could practically feel him smirk as he flicked at your swollen clit.

Leaning forward, you turned your head up and noticed again just how hard he was. His cock had always been perfect: the perfect size, dark pink at the tip, veins etched into the shaft. Precum beaded at the head, sliding down every so slowly, as he throbbed and ached and – god, his hips were almost thrusting into the air now. You didn’t doubt he could get off for hours on this, but that didn’t mean he needed to be unsatisfied.

Besides, you wanted something to do with your mouth anyway.

Mingyu whimpered as you shifted slightly to reach his cock. Your body stretched, your mouth at the perfect angle as you flicked the head with your tongue. He pulled you back towards his mouth, shoving his tongue inside your tight hole and making you gasp at the same time you licked a stripe up his shaft. His tongue worked you open while you swirled your own along the tip, and then finally took him into your mouth.

The grunt he released should’ve caused an earthquake.

You bobbed your head up and down his shaft, choking when he bucked into your mouth. You could hardly breathe, taking every opportunity to inhale through your nose, but you couldn’t stop. You didn’t want to stop. God forbid, you have a hobby like wanting Kim Mingyu’s cock in your mouth. He took the liberty of grinding you against his face with his own hands, wrapping his lips around your clit again, eager to taste your climax. And to be honest, he wasn’t sure how much longer he was going to last if you kept sucking on his tip like that. He groaned each time, feeling your tongue circle his head before going back down, taking as much as you could, as if you were rewarding him. And he just couldn’t help but whine along with you.

Your lips pulled off him to kitten lick the veins along the sides of his shaft, and you breathily asked, “Are you close?”

His only response was a moan straight into your pussy.

You nodded, even if he couldn’t see it, before your mouth opened like second nature. You spit on his cock and stuffed him down your throat once again. Head moving faster, you were slobbering on him like a dog in heat, trying not to gag and failing. Your free hand snaked up to cup one of his balls, and the sound he released was deafening. His tongue flicked and sucked at your clit like he had nothing left to live for, hungry for every last drop of your essence.

But then you were cumming, and he was too not long after.

You cried, choking on his cock as you came all over his face. White blurred in your vision, and you were a mess of sweat and spit and so much cum. He exploded in your mouth a moment later, hot seed running down your throat, and you consumed all of it. Neither of you wanted to miss out on the taste of each other. It was filthy, intoxicating, how much you liked this. How much you could suck him off over and over again, and not get tired of him.

You didn’t know it at the time, but Mingyu would say the same about you. If not worse.

He could spend all day between your thighs and never want to leave.

When you both finally angled off each other, spent and exhausted, your breathing was heavy and off by two seconds. Mingyu was glancing over at you before you could even process, a smile playing at his swollen lips. He brushed away a strand of hair that was stuck to your sweaty forehead.

“Mingyu,” you finally said, “has anyone ever told you that you have boyfriend dick?”

Mingyu had wanted to tell you how much he’d been dreaming of that moment, how much you had haunted his dreams and left him waking up so hard that he felt he was going through puberty again. Sometimes he dreamed of how good it would feel when he finally slipped into you, inch by inch. You’d feel like home.

Save the Date for the wedding of Lee Seokmin and Quinn Song: July 31st

You couldn’t go a day without talking to Mingyu. Whether it be through text or over the phone, you were joking with him, telling him about your day, and vice versa. Just a month prior, you had tried keeping your distance, but now … you simply couldn’t help yourself. It was like there was a voice inside your head telling you to contact him, to send him a funny video you saw that day, to tell him about the show you were currently watching. And on nights when you had too much to drink, that voice made you text him that you missed him. He always said he missed you too.

Mingyu: I’m watching that show you recommended

Mingyu: kinda wish you were watching it with me

Mingyu: but I’m still content here and I can see why you like it so much

You: right?? I knew you’d like it!

You couldn’t help but giggle at your phone when his texts came through. And you answered them immediately, like you always did.

Mingyu: what are you doing right now?

You: wouldn’t you like to know

Neither of you made the effort to go on an actual date. It was all just flirty texts with a TikTok mixed in every once in a while. Promises about going back to that coffee shop someday, but never planning the day. To be honest, this was one of those moments where you were glad Mingyu was so uncommitted. If you started going on dates that didn’t include a vow exchange in between, it would be so easy to fall for him again, and then be let down when he eventually didn’t want to see you after wedding season.

Mingyu: I mean that’s why I asked

You: I’m hanging out with

A pillow was suddenly thrown at your head. “Ow!” You shouted, head shooting up from your phone to glare at Vernon sitting on the other side of the couch. “What the hell was that for?”

“Anakin is literally burning alive and all you can do is look at your phone!” Vernon scoffed, turning Revenge of the Sith back on. You set your phone down on your lap as he muttered, “Kinda wish I never won that bet.”

Vernon, obviously, was becoming increasingly annoyed that you and Mingyu had rekindled … whatever this was. Sometimes you wondered if you were talking to Mingyu more than your best friend, but given the way Vernon was acting, that was probably the case. You probably shouldn’t even be texting Mingyu while hanging out with Vernon. Bad friend move; happens to the best of us.

You apologized to Vernon in the best way possible: you bought him fried chicken from his favorite spot.

As summer came along, so did Seokmin and Quinn’s wedding at the end of the month, an invitation that was barely hanging on by an old Britney Spears magnet on your fridge. Quinn Song had been your first ever roommate out of college. You both had met on a Facebook group to find roommates in the area and quickly hit it off. She had been your roommate up until last year actually, when her now-fiancé Lee Seokmin asked her to move in with him. It was at that point that you finally decided to live alone, besides the few days out of the week that Vernon crashed at your apartment.

The wedding was being held on a pretty island in the northeast, nestled on the expansive grounds of a bed and breakfast in the area. The spot felt warm and lived in, the exact kind of place you imagined Quinn would get married at.

Meeting Mingyu at the airport had been awkward, but at the very least, you two were sitting in different rows of the plane. Maybe it shouldn’t have been as cringe-worthy as it was, given the fact that you two had been talking nonstop, but it was the memory that the last time you did see each other in person, you were sitting on his face and his cock was so far down your throat –

Mingyu had found your eyes a couple rows behind him on the plane. Even he was blushing now, as if he could read your thoughts.

You had rented a car once you reached your destination and threw him the keys, letting him drive the convertible down the coast while the summer breeze whipped through your hair. You tried not to notice the way his hand twitched on the gear shift, like he was itching to place his palm on your thigh, to ground himself to your presence. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Especially when all you could do was stare out the window with a big smile on your face.

Unfortunately, you had to book a room at a small hotel near the bed and breakfast since all the rooms were used for the wedding party. The hotel was quaint, but definitely old and smelled like the Febreze scent your mom used to love when you were a kid. Your room was tinier than the pictures implied, but it was on the first floor and had a screen door that opened to a pretty view of the ocean. You didn’t have much time to enjoy it though, considering that the ceremony was in a few hours and the reception would probably carry on until way past midnight.

You decided to rewear the floral sundress that made a previous appearance at Chan and Adrianna’s wedding. It wasn’t like anyone here was at that event, and honestly, you didn’t care. Throwing your hair up into a perfectly messy updo, you curled a few pieces and took your time with your diligent makeup routine. Mingyu was in his suit before you could even blink, biding his time while you got ready by watching past game recordings of the flag football team he taught and trying to identify key moves they missed out on. As you finished up and clumsily slipped on your shoes, the perfume you sprayed seemed to beckon him like a siren song, and suddenly, he was leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom, meeting your eyes in the mirror.

Your brows shot up. “Done with your flag football research?”

“You’re beautiful,” he replied.

You turned, unable to stop your lips from pulling into a soft smile. His expression was so warm, cheeks tinged slightly pink either from embarrassment or a nasty sunburn. He was beautiful. In ways you couldn’t even comprehend.

Holding out your necklace to him, you asked, “Can you help me put this on?”

He nodded, plucking the dainty chain from your palm. You moved back to the mirror as he struggled to open the clasp with his thick fingers, but he got it eventually. Placing the thin, gold chain around your neck, you watched the small, star-shaped pendant sit so delicately under your collarbones. He fixed the clasp on your neck, his fingers brushing the top of your spine, and you watched him lean forward in the mirror.

His lips ghosted over the shell of your ear, breath hot and making the hairs on your neck stand up. “I meant it, by the way,” he whispered, and then placed the softest of kisses behind your ear.

Your breath hitched, and you were unable to form a single coherent thought. For the first time in a while, he was catching you by surprise. He was moving back, and you noticed him smirk in the mirror, knowing exactly how he was affecting you. That annoying asshole –

“Ready to head out?” He asked, grabbing his wallet from the desk.

You huffed and tugged the strap of your purse onto your shoulder. “Of course.”

The grounds of the bed and breakfast were bigger than you assumed, enough to fit an extremely large tent and hardwood floor for all the guests to congregate. The ceremony was held near the shoreline of the ocean, and it was so, unapologetically Quinn to have a few seashell pins in her veil as she walked towards her husband. You had known Seokmin as long as Quinn had been your roommate, but you had never seen this kind of smile on his face until now. He completely lit up at the sight of her, and he didn’t waste a second to say, “I do,” once his time came.

As the guests crowded into the tent for the reception, Mingyu seemed to hold onto you like a toddler with it’s parent. His arm was locked around yours, letting you lead him through the crowd, even though he was tall enough to see over the tops of everyone’s heads. His palm was so warm on your wrist, and then his fingers were so easily lacing through yours, and you squeezed because you simply couldn’t help yourself.

You were able to find your table easily, but you didn’t recognize the other people already there. They introduced themselves as Seokmin’s friends, and you remembered seeing one or two of them at a bar. You still couldn’t get a read on these people, and found yourself swiftly growing silent around their shared camaraderie. But Mingyu was suddenly so talkative, catching along with their jokes just as quickly, so you stood and whispered in his ear, “Do you want a drink?”

He leaned back to meet your eyes, and you swore time stopped for a moment. His hand reached down, squeezing your wrist, as he said, “You know what I like.”

Jesus. Fuck. Since whendid he have you this wrapped around his finger?

(Probably since sophomore year of college.)

You nodded, swinging your head in the direction of the bar, and your feet had started to head there when you halted in place. It almost felt like your heels were glued to the floor as you found the face of the last person you expected to be here. The only face that could make all the noise drown out around you.

Your ex.

He still had that same curl that always got in his eyes. He was wearing the same suit he wore to your mother’s engagement party last year. The same watch on his wrist; the same cufflinks. Same. Same. Same. And now, he was meeting your eyes across the room. Bodies formed in clusters under the tent – some hugging, some stumbling into each other – but he was unable to look away.

Until a head popped up in front of him, standing from her chair at the table. Her wedge sandals almost made her taller than him, and her dress looked expensive enough that he probably bought it. You didn’t know her, but you knew of her. Well, at least, you knew what the back of her head looked like, and that was her right there.

You couldn’t forget the night even if you tried. Exhaustion had your shoulders sagging as you unlocked the door to your boyfriend’s apartment. He didn’t typically keep it locked, but you had a key anyway. You remembered how quiet the place was, except for the soft sounds echoing from his bedroom. At first, you thought he was just masturbating, and to be honest, you were too tired to engage in anything tonight. But a voice in your head had urged you to move, to go, go, go towards his room. And you were slowly pushing open the door, only to find your boyfriend fucking your 22-year-old neighbor from behind, yanking on her short hair like a leash. You had been too scared to move, too scared to breathe, but eventually, you had started wailing. His eyes had found yours – exactly like in this moment – and he screamed, slipping away completely as your back slid to the floor. He had tried explaining, tried to yell at the young girl, but everything had drowned away in that moment, and all you could hear was the ringing in your ears –

Your breathing was growing rapid, just like that day at his apartment. Sprinting to the inside of the bed and breakfast, you tried to act normal and say hello to whoever you knew mingling by the bathroom. But something was clearly very wrong. It was evident in your eyes, the way tears were pricking at the sides. You almost thought the universe was pulling a cruel prank on you, but then you remembered that it was Quinn who had introduced you two in the first place, that he had been a friend of a friend.

Climbing up the staircase in the lobby, you plopped yourself down on the middle step and let your face fall into your hands. You began to count your breaths – one, two, three, one, two, three – anything to make you get a semblance of control. But you could feel your brain spinning, and your heart was beating too fast. Was this what it felt like to die? Was your cheating ex going to be the last face you saw before you completely slumped against this staircase? Vernon always said you had a flair for the dramatic. What a fitting way to end.

You felt a weight sink into the plush carpet next to you, and you lifted your head, tears brimming your eyes.

“You do realize that this isn’t your party. You can’t cry if you want to,” Mingyu joked, reaching out and swiping the tear at your lash line. His eyes softened then, looking at you like you were something fragile, like a baby bird. “What’s wrong?” His voice was hardly about a whisper.

You sniffled, dabbing at the corners of your eyes with your knuckles. The last thing you needed was your makeup messed up. “This is so embarrassing. I’m crying over something so …” Your words trailed off, noticing that he was leveling a look at you. You sighed before admitting, “I forgot that the bride, Quinn, might invite my ex because they were friends. Somewhat.”

“Your ex? As in that ex?” His brow shot up, and you nodded. “Did he come alone?”

You looked down at your hands in your lap, and after a moment, you watched his large palm slowly envelope one of yours. The rough pads of his fingers – the hands of a cook – brushed over your knuckles, and his touch was so warm that it could burn.

His voice was soft in your ear as he said, “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

You chuckled a little, turning to look at him again. “Then we’d be sitting on this staircase forever.”

He smiled at you and stretched out his long legs. “That’s fine with me.”

Your lips pursed, and you found him staring at them for a moment. A sigh escaped, and you glanced down at your laced hands. How perfectly they fit together, how he held you with such a fierce softness. His thumb grazed the scar on your knuckle that you got the first time you fell off your bike. Finally, you answered, “He came here with the girl he cheated on me with.”

Mingyu didn’t speak, but you did hear him do a sharp intake.

“She’s twenty-two. She didn’t – she doesn’t know any better. He’s in his early thirties and he’ll do it again,” you continued, chewing on your bottom lip for a moment. “I found them in his apartment after I came home from a late meeting at work. It was … messy. Walking in on them, the fallout, now this … everything about that breakup has felt like one big mess. And now, I have to see him here and be reminded of it all–fucking–over again.”

You didn’t even dare to meet his eyes as the next words tumbled out of your mouth, already feeling your voice start to break again. “It didn’t just hurt because I found them. It hurt because … I never wanted to become my mother. I love her. I really do. But the last thing I ever wanted was to become her. Be in the same situation as her. And yet, there I was, witnessing yet another infidelity that would affect my life for what seems like forever.” You rubbed at your running nose. “I found my father cheating too. It wasn’t exactly the same. I found him kissing my best friend’s mom in my parent’s bedroom one night when my mother stayed at work too late. The sentiment still stands, and history was always bound to repeat itself. Daughters always become their mothers and I always have to bear witness to another man not choosing to stick around –”

Mingyu stopped you by turning your face towards his, one hand cupping your cheek. His thumb skimmed the tears running through your blush. He didn’t say anything; his eyes let you know that he was here. That he was sticking around. Despite everything you thought of him, despite your past – Mingyu was here.

He held you for as long as you needed, gathering you in his arms and cradling your head against his shoulder. He let your tears soak into the fabric of his expensive suit, promising he’d get it dry-cleaned, which made you laugh. Your fingers clutched his lapels and you almost considered not letting go. You would give anything to stay in this bubble, to sit on this staircase in his embrace forever.

“I meant what I said all those months ago,” he said, his voice muffled from his lips at the crown of your head. “I would kill any guy that has done you wrong. Do you want me to kill him?”

You chuckled and raised your head from his shoulder. “What are you gonna kill him with? A butter knife?” You shook your head. “No chef is gonna let you in that kitchen tonight to grab a weapon. You of all people should know that.”

Mingyu grimaced. “This conversation is getting morbid.”

Another laugh bubbled at your lips. “You brought it up!”

“And you’re smiling again,” he said, making your hands hold onto him tighter. “That’s all I could ask for.”

Such simple words could take your breath away, especially when they came from his mouth. You searched his eyes for a moment, your fingers now smoothing out the creases in his lapel. Eventually, you whispered, “I don’t know if I can survive this whole reception. I hate the awkward tension, but I should stay for Quinn.”

“Trust me, I know,” he snickered, and his hand covered over yours as an anchor. “I say we stay at the reception for as long as your comfortable. Then we go to bed early. Whatever works for you.”

Your smile was so kind as you nodded along with his plan. After touching up your makeup, you took his hand and let him lead you back to the reception. Once you saw Quinn in her short, after party dress and looking at Seokmin with stars in her eyes, you instantly felt more at ease. This was her day; you wouldn’t let one person sour it. And Mingyu, clearly, wasn’t going to let your own nerves sour it either. Anytime you locked eyes with your ex, there Mingyu was, distracting you by whispering in your ear how pretty you looked or asking you about your best memories while living with Quinn. There was one moment where you saw your ex heading in your direction, assuming he was finally going to talk to you, and Mingyu stood up to whisk you onto the dance floor. His large arms enveloped you, holding you close, as you swayed to one of your favorite songs. Everything about him felt safe, secure, and he even let you stand on his feet when you told him you had never been that good at dancing. And when you looked at him, you noticed that he was staring at you like how Quinn looked at Seokmin during her speech. Even when you had cried, had let him in, see parts of you that not even Vernon touched … he looked at you like you were the only person in the room.

You stayed at the reception far longer than anticipated. When you told Mingyu that you were too tired to stay any longer, he didn’t question it. He simply grabbed your purse and jacket before taking your arm in his, walking the short distance back to your Febreze-ridden hotel. The first thing you did once you were back in your room was take off your heels. They were only a kitten heel, but your feet were already blistering, and you winced as you went to the bathroom to wash off your makeup. Mingyu had set your stuff down on the small desk before walking out onto the deck connected to your room. You craned your neck out, assuming he was going to smoke a joint, but he was just staring at the ocean, noticing how loud the waves crashed against the shore.

You padded out of the bathroom and leaned against the door frame for a moment, admiring him in the dim light. It almost left in you in disbelief how you had roped Kim Mingyu, one of the most attractive men you’d ever met and probably one of the longest crushes you’d ever had in your life, into being your wedding date for an entire year. He had a lost a bet, but he really didn’t have to be here. He didn’t have to invest in a new suit. He didn’t have take the time off from his two jobs. He didn’t have to listen to your trauma, or look at you like you were this painting to be worshipped, this Mona Lisa of sorts. Mingyu could’ve said no.

But he didn’t.

“I’m going to take a shower,” you finally informed him, and he turned to meet you eyes. “Can you help me out of my dress?”

He nodded diligently, following you to the bathroom. You pulled your hair up with one hand, and with deft fingers, he slid the zipper down your back. Typically, you would hold the dress to your chest until he left the bathroom, out of respect, but you were letting it pool at your feet tonight. You stepped out of it, your gaze locking with his as you turned on the shower. You were giving him this look and he was still standing there in his half-buttoned dress shirt, hands forming into fists as he fought the urge touch you. Waiting for a sign. Waiting for your permission.

But you didn’t even have to say anything. Your eyes said the words for you. As you climbed into the standing shower, he took his time removing his suit, pretending as if he wasn’t fucking dying to have his hands on you, and then he was behind you, the hard panes of his chest flush against your back. He closed the shower door as the glass began to fog up.

The water was scalding as it rained down on your head, steam forming around the small bathroom. You could still feel the dried tears on your face, imprinted underneath your makeup all night, and you did your best to wash them away. Mingyu noticed the way your shoulders sagged, the way you sighed while you were lost in thought, and as much as wanted touch you in places that made those sweet sounds fall from your lips, he held himself back. Instead, he let his hands comb through your wet hair before scrubbing shampoo into the strands. You relaxed against him, closing your eyes as he washed your hair.

It was so domestic that you could cry.

(Again.)

The last person you ever thought could be capable of this kind of care was Mingyu. You both had known each other for eight years, and not once had he displayed this kind of person around you. Or maybe you just weren’t paying attention, too lost in your own perception of him. Even now, you couldn’t help but remind yourself of when he avoided you after the hookup in senior year. He really isn’t the same guy, Vernon’s voice echoed in your head. Give him a chance. You had never trusted those words, but in this moment … you realized where you had went wrong.

The water began to get cold when it came time to wash his own hair and you could tell he was struggling to rush. His mannerisms made you giggle, and even though the steam began to dissipate from the room, you still turned to his front and rested your forehead on his chest, letting the lukewarm water beat down your neck.

When you walked out of the shower, you had never felt more fresh and at ease. Your body was all warm and you had brought the comfiest pajamas for summer weather. The breeze wafting off the ocean blew through your room from the open screen door, and the sound of the waves crashing against the shore could lull you to sleep.

But right now, it seemed like neither of you were keen on the subject. As you slipped under the covers next to each other, you were grateful that there was only one bed: one large, king-sized bed that both of you could be using to spread out. Instead, you were huddled close, hair still wet from the shower, and his arms locked around you like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting you go. Your hands cupped his face, studying parts of him that you didn’t think of in your previous lust-induced hazes. Fingers traced his lips, brushed over the tip of his nose – where his tiny mole was stamped – before you skimmed the shell of his ear.

You almost didn’t recognize your own voice as you whispered, “Thank you for tonight.”

“Anytime,” he smiled.

A beat of silence. Hands stilled. Lips pursed.

“Mingyu?”

“Yeah?”

“Please, kiss me.”

His mouth was on yours before you could even finish the sentence, but he still took his time exploring new ways to make you moan into the kiss. He kept one hand splayed on your back, pressing you further into him, while the other played with the hem of your loose t-shirt. Your hands knotted into his hair as he kissed you slow, savoring you like a fine meal. And you simply let him. You were like molten lava, melting in the palm of his calloused hands.

You felt his fingers prod at the waistband of your shorts, and it was game over. Slipping them under, he practically whined into your mouth when he realized you hadn’t put any panties on after the shower. His mouth disconnected from yours, fingers sliding between your slick folds. “Are you trying to kill me?” He breathed against your lips.

“In my defense,” you chuckled softly, “I forgot to bring them to the bathroom.”

He laughed with you, and you were debating on crying again because he was so kind and good and definitely just as obsessed with you as you were with him. No matter how many times you didn’t want to admit it, you had somehow fallen into Kim Mingyu’s trap once again.

He kissed you again, hungrier this time, as he spread you open with his fingers. You whimpered, but he swallowed it with his tongue and began to rub tight circles on your clit. Your leg lifted, hooking onto his waist, and you bucked against his hand. Your body felt like it was on fire, but Mingyu was careful, plucking your strings like a guitar, and you needed moremoremore. Pushing two fingers inside of you, his kiss was like a sound barrier as he consumed all your sweet sounds, as if that would allow him to hear them forever.

It was only when you came apart that he dragged his lips to your neck, wanting to focus on your moans as he fucked you with his fingers. He felt you shake, your pussy squeezing his thick fingers, and he kept rubbing your clit through it, wanting to prolong your orgasm as much as possible. If not for you, then for him, just so he could hear you. He would make you cum as many times as you wanted if it meant he could hear his name falling from your lips.

Neither of you wanted to stop; all fumbling hands and shaky limbs as he finally tugged your shorts off. It was a lot more difficult to take off his boxers without separating from you, but you laughed and you were so pretty that he almost forgot what he was doing in the first place. Once he was situated, you rolled on top of him, straddling his lap. You held his face in your hands, and for a moment, you could almost see reflections of the dark ocean outside in his starry gaze. Your palms drifted down, fingertips tracing the hard panes of his chest. He was all muscle, sculpted like your very own David statue; his complexion so similar to golden hour personified.

You lifted your t-shirt off and tossed it onto the floor. Mingyu was already so hard that it hurt, but he took a few more seconds to stare at you. He wanted to remember this moment forever: the sight of you on top of him, naked and vulnerable, hair wet and a faint blush on your cheeks.

Sitting up on your knees, you positioned yourself right over his cock and gripped the shaft to get the perfect angle inside of you. You were looking at him and he was looking at you as you lowered yourself slightly, grazing his tip against your wet slit, still dripping from your previous orgasm. Mingyu groaned at the sensitivity, throwing his head back against the pillow and muttering, “This is so mean.”

“You like when I’m mean,” you giggled, repeating the same words you uttered that fateful night after Chan’s wedding, when Mingyu’s face was buried between your thighs.

And Mingyu recognized it too, a grin making it’s way to his lips. But that was soon replaced by look of complete bliss as you finally sunk down onto his cock. He was the perfect size, filling you just right but never uncomfortable. He gave you a moment to adjust, but you could tell from his white-knuckled grip on your hips that he was damn near fighting the urge to thrust up into you. He didn’t though. He was patient and perfect and all yours.

You anchored yourself to him with one hand on his shoulder, beginning to rock into him at a snail’s pace. Your eyes connected, and even as he moaned underneath you, he was unable to stop smiling. Mingyu let you set the pace, and you took your time, getting to know what speed had him pulling your hips harder. The angle had him buried so deep inside that you could practically feel him in your stomach, and you sighed each time as you moved against him.

“Fuck,” he whined, shifting to sit up against the headboard. “I’ve needed you so bad.”

“I know, I know,” you confessed in a breathy whimper. “Me too.”

He was digging his fingers into your hips so hard that you were sure there’d be marks, but you didn’t care right now. You just wanted him, wanted this. Wanted to be this connected to him and feel him this deep and cum together as the waves crashed against the shore outside. He began to move you on his own accord, bouncing you on his cock as he leaned forward to nip and suck at your neck. “So pretty,” he mused against your skin, breath stuttering as your walls tightened. “So pretty sitting on my cock.”

You were the one whining now, raking your fingers into his dark strands as your thigh muscles burned. Your breasts jumped with each slam of his hips against yours, and he planted hot, open-mouthed kisses down your throat, dipping his tongue into your collarbone, before latching his mouth around one of your nipples.

Your hands pulled at his hair. “Mingyu, please,” you cooed, not exactly sure what you were begging for. Just moremoremore.

His eyes lifted to yours and you watched him fucking smile while tugging at your nipple. You were melting like putty, and he was able to still move you with one hand, using his free one to cup your other breast and run his thumb over that nipple. Tears pricked at your eyes, feeling him pulse inside you with each pass. And when he started to thrust up into you, you were pretty sure that you were close to seeing stars.

“Wanna cum with you,” he rasped while switching breasts and flicking his tongue over your other nipple. “Please, wanna cum inside you.”

You nodded, too cock drunk to say anything besides, “Yesyesyes.”

He was rolling your hips now, practically rutting into you as he lifted his head from your chest, leaving a trail of spit. You leaned down and let his lips ghost over yours. Moans slipped from your mouth into his, and he was bouncing you on his cock so fast you almost couldn’t register to breathe. His breath was hot against your lips, so close he could feel his body shaking, but he needed you to be closer, needed to feel you tightened around him and milk him for everything he was worth.

Snaking a hand between your bodies, he found your clit easily, knowing your body better than anyone ever had. All you could hear in that moment was the sound of the ocean through your screen door and skin slapping against skin. You were so wet and warm and – shit, you were starting to clench around him. He rolled your clit between two fingers, and a whimper slipped out of his mouth when he felt your pussy clamp around his throbbing cock.

He needed to cum and so did you and – fuck, he could feel it, feel you, feel how deep he was inside.

He would do this forever if you asked.

“Fuck, Mingyu, oh my god, right there, right there –” You pleaded in his ear, feeling yourself tip right over that edge –

Then you were cumming.

And so was he.

You moaned his name like it was a prayer, shattering as you came undone. Your walls were squeezing him like a vice, and he was unable to hold himself back anymore, burying himself to the hilt before painting your insides white with his orgasm. Hips jerked, bodies went taunt. You felt your whole being dissolve into nothing but pleasure, molding yourself to him in his arms. When the rush of warmth started to fade and he felt your combined releases seep from between your thighs, he breathed out a sigh of relief, brushing kisses over your jaw.

You weren’t sure you were in your right mind. Everything was so hazy. But you didn’t want to move away just yet. Even when his cock started to go soft inside of you, you stayed connected to him, pushing his hair back from his forehead and whispering praises in his ear like, “You were so good … So good to me … My Mingyu … I’ve always been yours …” You could feel him smiling against your skin, his hands tracing circles on your lower back.

But as time seemed to stop and you felt peace for the first time in a while, you realized just how deep you had fallen. You were drowning in him.

Mingyu had wanted to tell you that it felt exactly like his dreams. If you were drowning in him, he had already sunk to the bottom a long time ago.

Save the Date for the wedding of Nathan Chaney and Your Mother: September 5th

Your mother was remarrying. Her and Nathan had been together since you went off to college, and then got engaged just a year after you graduated. They decided on a long engagement, choosing to plan out a destination wedding in the Caribbean. You thought it was crazy at first, but then your mother said, “If this is going to be my last wedding – and it is – I want to go out with a bang.” You couldn’t exactly blame her. After your dad had cheated and the divorce was finalized, you knew your mother deserved something like this. She deserved the world.

When she had called you just a week before the wedding, babbling on about who you were possibly bringing now that your ex was completely out of the picture, you paused. Holding the phone to your ear and watering one of your half-dead plants with the other, you said, “I’m … I’m going with Mingyu.”

“Vernon?” She asked, not believing what you said.

“Mingyu.”

“Like … the Mingyu from university? The football player?”

You sighed, playing with the dead leaves on the plant. “He was also – and still is – one of Vernon’s good friends.”

“Oh,” your mother said, more surprised than anything. “Well, you better watch for Nathan’s sister. If Mingyu looks anything like how I remember from Family Day, she will go buck wild over him.”

“I’ll make sure of it,” you chuckled.

The truth was … you weren’t exactly sure how this wedding was going to go. Ever since the last one, you had been progressively putting more distance between you and Mingyu. Once again. Your last night together had been so real … too real, and you wanted to save yourself from the heartbreak after this wedding when you never saw him again. As much as you hated to admit it, feelings were now involved, seeping into your bloodstream, until your heart thrummed like the sound of his name on your tongue.

Slowly pushing him away … it hurt, but it was better this way. Pain was temporary and so was your arrangement. You knew that going into it, so how did you end up in this mess? You remembered what had happened after Chan’s wedding, the way Mingyu looked at you as he was shotgunning smoke into your mouth and – yeah, you knew exactly how you ended up here.

If you kept telling yourself this was for the better, maybe you’d start believing it. Maybe your feelings would drift like smoke and your mother’s wedding would be a final farewell before you two went your separate ways.

But you had been doing that for a month now.

And those feelings refused to fade.

You had an early morning flight the day of your mother’s wedding. Typically, you wouldn’t be getting to a destination wedding on such short notice, but the ceremony was small. So small your mother refused to have a rehearsal dinner and no bridal party. It was about her and Nathan, and you had to respect that she was doing things her way this time around.

You had waited at your gate right before doors closed for Mingyu, since you were on the same flight. But he was clearly running late and you were much too awkward around him now to text him. So you finally got on the plane and found your seat, noticing the one seat in the back still left unoccupied. Once you had landed five hours later, you quickly headed to the hotel that Nathan had booked for the ceremony and reception. Your phone lit up as you hailed a ride.

Mingyu: I’m sorry, I got a new flight

Mingyu: I’ll be there just 2 hours after you land

Mingyu: I’ll make it for the ceremony. I promise

Feeling his anxiety radiate through your phone, you believed him, and then wondered if maybe this was a blessing in disguise. You were rewarded a few more hours of alone time before you had your last hurrah with Mingyu. Maybe if you buried your feelings deep enough, you wouldn’t tense up the second you saw his face. Maybe if you didn’t look into his eyes, you wouldn’t have the urge to kiss him. Or let him hold your hand. Or spread your legs to welcome him inside –

You dropped your lipgloss onto the bathroom counter, sick of your own thoughts. Your square-neck, baby blue dress was clinging to every curve, but you felt like you were being suffocated by the fabric. You had just finished doing your hair and makeup, but you couldn’t quite keep your thoughts at bay. Nerves batted against your skull, making your hands shake slightly. What would you do once Mingyu walked in? Would you avoid his stare? Would you tell him immediately how much you liked him and how this wouldn’t work out and you knew you set yourself up for heartbreak –

Maybe you needed a walk.

Grabbing a spare pair of sandals, you headed outside to walk the beach just along the grounds of the hotel. There was still an hour before the ceremony, and you could just see the planners putting finishing touches on the decorations laid out on the shore, where your mother wanted it to take place. Couples were still walking through the water. Kids were making sand castles. The sun was slowly beginning to set and the breeze was whipping your hair off your shoulders.

And you smiled, despite everything you were feeling. Because where there was an end, there would always be a new beginning.

“HEY!”

You spun around, your sandals sinking into the sand. Although you recognized his voice, the last thing you expected to see was Kim Mingyu running towards you in his pristine black tux, his tie loose around his neck and blowing in the breeze. It was like something out of a movie, the kind of movie where there was supposed to be a happy ending, but you knew you weren’t afforded luck like that in real life.

He stopped in front of you, running a hand through his hair. Sand sprinkled down the tops of his shoes.

“When did you get here?” You raised a brow.

“About twenty minutes ago. I flew in my tux because I figured I wouldn’t have enough time to change. But now it just kind of smells like …” He lifted the sleeve to his nose and inhaled. “Like peanuts and old plastic.”

You giggled, holding a hand to your mouth and just … staring at him. He was smiling at you, fangs poking out from under his top lip. His skin was even prettier in the sunset. His hair, despite the messy texture, was effortless and perfect. He embodied sunshine in its purest form.

“Well, you …” You looked to the water, your hands flexing at your sides. “You didn’t need to come find me out here.”

His voice was sweet, soft, like fresh sheets, when he replied, “Yes, I did.” His hand reached out a little, attempting to lace your fingers together, but he stuffed them in his pockets instead. “When I was wondering where you’d be, I remembered something you said to me in college … Do you remember Move-In Day of junior year when we had that bonfire with Vernon and a few other people? You really didn’t enjoy my company back then, but I sat next to you because you agreed to sharing that god awful cheap vodka we used to like.” He laughed when you grimaced. “We got to talking and I asked you, ‘If you could be anywhere right now, where would you be?’ And you said something like, ‘I want to be walking on a beach. I’ve always felt the most calm with my toes in wet sand.’”

You blinked, wondering if you had heard him right. He … how did he … “You remember that?”

“I remember a lot of things.”

And there he was, reaching out again and brave enough to brush his fingers over your knuckles. You looked down, watching his hand interlock with yours, and his palms were balmy and calloused. They felt familiar, like home. And you simply couldn’t believe that you had deprived yourself of this.

“Did you mean it when you said, ‘I’ve always been yours?’”

Your head snapped up, tsking under your breath. Hand still intertwined with his, you pushed a lock of hair behind your ear. “You came all the way out here to ask me that?” You asked, flustered and agitated.

His brow shot up. “So that’s a yes then?”

Your mouth opened, but then closed when you realized that he caught you.

He added, his voice like velvet again, “Then why are you avoiding me? I can sense it.”

“Well, if you’re that sensitive to other people’s feelings than I guess that –” You paused, taking a deep breath as you gathered yourself. Your ears reddened. “Look, I think it’s pretty obvious that I’ve … I like you. A lot. But having feelings for you would be so messy. The last time I went through this, we hooked up and you hardly spoke to me after.”

Mingyu’s brow furrowed. “That was years ago.”

“You know how uncommitted you’ve always been,” you quickly remarked, even though you didn’t fully believe those words anymore. “Weren’t you the one that told me at the start of this that men never really grow up?”

His eyes narrowed a little. “Are you playing psychological warfare with me right now?”

Slipping your fingers away from his, you shrugged. “Maybe.”

“I’ve been your date to five weddings this year. It wasn’t just about losing some bet. I did it for you.” He stared at you incredulously. “Are you really going to hold me to a mistake I made six years ago? When I was a shitty 22-year-old that was terrified to tell the girl I liked for years that I was interested in her?”

“I never … I never thought you liked me back then.”

Mingyu’s gaze softened, and he tucked another curl behind your ear that blew in the wind. “I made you believe that I didn’t because it was easier than admitting my feelings. I was terrified of rejection. And an idiot.”

You couldn’t help but snort at his comment, but you knew this conversation was far from over. “Well, I …” You rubbed at your nose and turned away from him, facing the water that looked almost sapphire in color. The waves sparkled under the setting sun. “Wedding season is over after this and we can both go back to our normal lives. Vernon won’t flip a lid when he sees me texting you all the time and everything will be back to the way it was. I always prepared for you to just forget about me after this anyway.”

“I love Vernon, but this isn’t about him.” Mingyu stepped forward into your line of vision. “What if I don’t want to go back to the way things were?”

Your eyes flickered to his, and it was his turn to step closer again. His large palm cupped your cheek, his skin always so cozy and inviting that you just had to lean into him. Fingertips traced your brow bone as his gaze lingered on your lips.

“I don’t want to forget about you or never see you again. I want to be around you,” he confessed. “I … want to go on more dates with you. I want to be your date to more than just weddings.”

You hesitated, unraveling and dissecting each word in your head, before you came to the conclusion that … oh, my god, he had feelings for you too. Had you always been this much of an absolute moron?

Getting on your tiptoes, you closed the distance between you two, your lips crashing onto his like the water against the shoreline. Your body almost suctioned to his, bringing him even closer when your arms wound around his neck. He kept that one hand on your cheek, the other splaying on your lower back, like how he always did when he was nervous. But he had nothing to be nervous about, because you liked him and he liked you. The world felt like it was spinning, but also just right, and his tongue was licking into your mouth enough to make you feel breathless. You could do this forever, be this relaxed in his arms, kiss him as if it was only you two in your own world. And as he tugged on your bottom lip to make your breathing heavy, you decided that your dream had become a reality.

When you broke the kiss, your cheeks were definitely flushed, even under the layer of blush you put on. Mingyu grinned, tilting his head as he whispered, “So you have always been mine then?”

“Such a tease sometimes,” you repeated his fateful words from June.

You turned, tugging on his hand playfully as the waves begin to lick at the sand near your feet. “C’mon,” you chuckled. “If we’re late to this wedding, my mom will kill me before I can even think about calling you my boyfriend.”

Mingyu had wanted to ask you to marry him only two years later, and thank god, he finally found the words.

tag list: @syluslittlecrows @yeosayang @eisaspresso @healingmv @nightshadeblooming @dmstoyangyang @amaraeofsunshine @thepoopdokyeomtouched @reiofsuns2001 @tigerhoshii @yoongznme @nerdycheol @gyuguys @ninixgyu4eva @tokitosun @wooyugta @dawn-iscozy @thecowboy7 @wonu-won @whoisbaek15 @alexie-blog

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nondelphic · 21 hours ago

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Where I’ve Been and the Future of nondelphic

TLDR; I’m coming back to this blog.

I’m so nervous to post this I literally had to take a nervous shit after drafting this post just THINKING about posting it but uhhh…

Long time no see!

It’s been well over 3 months since I posted regularly on this account. I never intended to take a break, but I got overwhelmed.

I started this account in the middle of August of 2024 with a very specific niche that, if you have seen my posts before, will recognise.

Honestly, it started mostly as a distraction from my real-life problems. I’d began writing again last spring after a long time of writing block due to anxiety, depression, and getting used to my anti-depressants. Suddenly, I went from not being able to get out of bed to being able to get out of bed just to write. It became an escape. Just like writing fanfiction used to be when I was a pre-teen.

Through that, I rediscovered how much I actually love writing and creating. And when that happened, I also started craving community. I’ve never really had writing friends (the few I had were short-lived), and I found myself missing that connection.

That’s kind of where this blog came in. It was an experiment, not something I intended to take seriously. Just a low-effort, continuous space online that wasn’t too personal but could resonate with a wide diaspora of writers. Somewhere people could see themselves in my posts.

I’ve always been in fandom or hobby spaces online in some form—grew up in a developing tech society with zero internet safety guidance, so my relationship with social media is honestly decent, all things considered. But in recent years I’d mostly been a consumer rather than a creator. And I missed that. The active partaking. The sense of community. The external validation from like-minded strangers (very Gen Z of me, I know).

And also, it gave me something to do over summer, which is the worst time of year for me. I’ve struggled with seasonal depression for years, and writing got me through the worst days of my summer uni break. But it also stirred up so many thoughts and ideas I wanted to share.

So I committed to not only starting a blog about writing, but updating it continuously, with a fixed set of posts to be posted everyday.

Part of the experiment was personal, but another part was professional. As someone studying and working in media and social media (amongst other things), I know how algorithms work. I understand how consistency, timing, and frequency affect reach and engagement. So I also wanted to test a theory—that’s not really a theory—that if you just post a lot, at the same time, every day, you’ll see growth.

And it worked. I gained over 4,000 followers in just six months.

Numbers aren’t everything, but I won’t pretend it wasn’t validating. Especially when I’d never had a following before. People were engaging, reblogging, sending kind messages. I felt seen, and I felt like what I was making had value.

It was also fascinating to experience it from both sides, both as the creator and as the media nerd in the background mentally noting what worked, what flopped, and why.

Everything was going great.

So why did I disappear?

Well, first of all, my seasonal depression carried on to constant depression and major social anxiety during autumn and into winter. I slept all day. Didn’t go to school. Could barely leave my apartment to go grocery shopping. All I did was write and update this blog. Make sure I had enough posts queued for the coming week.

I had some visible breaks on this blog which I always announced. “sorry can’t post rn i’m stressed need time to update my queue”. Which was true, and I felt proud of myself for being transparent about it.

But the more my following grew and the more people interacted with me, the more I started doubting myself. I don’t know if it was my anxiety, depression or probable ADHD being the culprit of this, or just plain old imposter syndrome, but I started dreading opening tumblr.

I love coming up with post ideas for people to go “omg are you inside my brain rn?” or “I love your blog, your posts make me feel seen,” and I’ve had nothing but positive experiences with everyone visiting this blog. Yet, with the growing eyes on this page, I just felt this impending fear that someday it will all be gone.

So I do what I’ve always had a habit of doing! I self-destructed. And left this blog with the excuse (to myself) to work on myself and come back stronger.

And I guess that sorry excuse has kinda come true, although at the time, I was lying to myself. This post is literally me announcing I’m coming back. But back when I abandoned this blog, I, with a heavy heart, was really planning on not coming back. The more the weeks, and then months stretched on without opening tumblr, a growing guilty conscience brewed inside of me.

I’d open the app, stare at the little icon, and immediately close it again. I didn’t know how to explain myself without it sounding dramatic or like I was attention-seeking. And the longer I waited, the harder it got to come back.

Because what do you even say after months of radio silence on a blog that wasn’t supposed to mean this much to you in the first place?

But the thing is it does mean something. And even when I tried to let it go, I kept thinking about it. I’d see something funny and think, “that would make a good nondelphic post.” I’d draft ideas in my nondelphic ideas google docs, fully knowing I wasn’t posting them, but unable to turn off that part of my brain that wanted to connect with other writers, other people who got it.

I ghosted my own blog. And I won’t pretend I had a huge dramatic epiphany or breakthrough that led me back here. Just the quiet realization that I missed it. And I have better routines now. And expectations. That make it impossible for me to turn into the same all-or-nothing approach to this blog I had during my darkest days. Don’t worry, I’m still deeply insecure, anxious and depressed, so my self-deprecating posts will continue as scheduled! But I’ve found other coping mechanisms that don’t rely on…….. Tumblr’s algorithms.

I don’t need to be 100% healed or consistent or perfect to post. And everyone who has sent me a message during the time I’ve been away that I’ve been too scared to reply to has assured me of exactly that. Maybe I can just… come back. A little softer. A little slower. A little more human.

I’m not sure what the future of this blog looks like exactly. I don’t have a new “post 10 times a day” strategy lined up. But I do know I want to write again. I want to talk to you again. I want to rebuild what I tore down with my silence. Not out of pressure or expectation, but because I want to.

So this is me, stepping back into it. One foot in the door. No grand promises, just a little wave from the threshold.

Hi again.

I’m coming back soon. How soon? I think it’s best to not make any promises, but I’ve committed to coming back now, so I’m still gonna promise “soon.”

Also, genuinely thank you. To everyone who reached out in my DMs or sent something to my ask box while I was gone: I read every single message. Even if I didn’t respond, I saw you. My heart felt so big reading your well wishes and worries. Like genuinely, I didn’t know this little corner of the internet could hold so much kindness. So thank you, from the bottom of my stupid overwhelmed heart.

See you soon ♡

xoxo nondelphic

Ps. I’m gonna write another post over on @rebellenotes in the near future for anyone curious about what I’ve been up to in the last few months.

#nondelphic status #writers on tumblr #writeblr #writer things #on writing #writing #creative writing

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c-kiddo · 1 year ago

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finished scavengers reign s1 .

#theres only 1 season rn but. i assume theyre setting up a second one too . based on the ending #kiddo say #spoilers ahead :#the flowers T_T #with the baby levis is killing me. little guys . thats so funny and silly and T_T awwwww w bebe levi #and ALSO . ursula wearing a pink shirt like sam. dies.#ursula and azi teaming up was very ghostbird + grace core to me. ngl i was so excited about it #man that was good . im glad my little autism guy barry lived #and got away from kris. even tho he was so upset at first :((((#aahg. everything was just so good and interesting and i feel like theres so many layers to things to talk about .#like i need to go back through and note all the things that were connected to eachother bc its so much. through the whole ecosystem #of the planet but then also interpersonal things too #but. i feel like only liek 2 people have watched this show .#so if you have .stares autismly o_o #like th big creature that ate kamen

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nerdycheol · 3 months ago

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Love, On Air || Choi Seungcheol (valentine's special)

♡ Pairing: choi seungcheol x f!reader

♡ Genre: best friends to lovers, romance, fluff, slice of life

♡ Word Count: 7.8k

note: Happy Valentine’s Day! 💖 This is a special Valentine’s edition based on the poll results(so if you voted—congrats, you manifested this 👀). A massive shoutout to @facethesunflower for proofreading and making sure this didn’t turn into a total disaster. 😆 Hope you enjoy this fluffy, slightly dramatic, finally-they-confess moment.

Remember: if your best friend is acting suspiciously like Cherry… maybe it’s time to connect the dots. 👀💕

The clock hits 9 PM. You take a deep breath, adjusting the headphones on your ears as the familiar hum of the radio booth wraps around you. The room is small, dimly lit by the soft glow of the equipment and the neon sign flashing LIVE on the wall.

"Alright, we’re live in 3... 2... 1..."

Your hand hovers over the soundboard as you smile into the mic.

"Good evening, lovely listeners, and welcome back to The Heartbeat Hour, your go-to late-night show where we talk all things love, relationships, and everything in between," you say, your voice smooth and warm, like a cozy blanket on a cold night. "I’m your host, __ , and tonight is extra special because we’re in the heart of Valentine’s week. So, buckle up, folks—this week’s all about confessions, crushes, and, of course, giving you some advice to help you sort through your feelings."

You press the button for the first song request, the soft strains of a romantic ballad filling the room. As the music plays in the background, your eyes scan the requests that have been flooding in. The chat box is constantly ticking with messages—listeners asking for advice, sharing their love stories, or seeking songs that speak to their hearts. You feel that rush, the adrenaline of knowing you’re connected to so many people in real time.

"Now, I’ve got a message here from a listener who needs a little help," you say, pulling up the request. "This one’s from 'Cherry,' who writes in: ‘I’ve been crushing on someone for a while, but I’m not sure how to confess. Any advice?’"

You let out a small breath, your fingers tapping rhythmically on the desk as you think. This one’s a classic. You've seen it all before, but every confession still feels fresh. You smile softly into the mic.

"Ah, 'Cherry,' I get it. Confessing your feelings can be scary, but it’s also one of the most real things you can do. Here’s my advice: Keep it simple. No need for grand gestures, no elaborate speeches. Sometimes, the best way to let someone know how you feel is through a small, sincere gesture. Maybe write a note or give them a little gift that shows you’ve been thinking about them. And when you tell them how you feel, just be honest—there’s no such thing as a perfect confession. Just be you."

You pause, feeling the warmth of the words settle into your heart. The music swells in the background, adding to the ambiance of the moment.

"Remember, 'Cherry,' it’s not about getting it perfect—it’s about being brave enough to say it. And hey, the worst that can happen is they don’t feel the same way. But you know what? You’ve still won because you were true to yourself. So take a deep breath and go for it. You got this.”

You let the silence linger for a moment, Cherry’s words still hanging in the air. Then, with a small smile, you reached for the controls.

"Alright, Cherry, and everyone out there holding onto feelings they haven’t found the words for—this one’s for you. Maybe it’ll give you the courage to say what’s in your heart, or at the very least, remind you that you’re not alone."

With a soft click, the studio filled with the delicate, wistful melody of "From the start" by Laufey—a song that is the ultimate friends to lovers song for all delusional daydreams.

Leaning back in your chair, you glanced out at the city lights reflecting against the glass. Somewhere, maybe Cherry was listening, hesitating over a letter they weren’t sure they’d ever send. Or maybe, just maybe, they had already begun writing.

After an hour of song requests, confessions, and quiet laughter shared through the airwaves, the LIVE sign dims. You take off your headphones, stretching your neck as the studio falls into silence. Another night, another show wrapped up.

Gathering your notes, you stack them neatly before grabbing your now-lukewarm latte from the desk. The faint chatter of coworkers drifts through the halls—other RJs wrapping up, producers discussing schedules.

"Great show tonight, ___," someone calls out in passing.

"Thanks! See you tomorrow!" you reply with a small smile, pulling on your coat.

Near the exit, your producer glances up. "Don’t forget—tomorrow’s segment is longer for the Valentine’s special. Get some rest!"

"Got it. Night, everyone!"

Pushing open the station doors, you step into the cool night air. The city hums in the distance, but here, it’s quiet—still. You take a slow sip of your latte, savoring the warmth against the crisp breeze.

And then, just a few steps away, you see him.

Leaning against his car, hands tucked into his coat pockets, Seungcheol watches you. The street lamp casts a soft glow over him, catching the faint curve of his lips.

You stop in front of Seungcheol, raising an eyebrow. "What are you doing here?"

He tilts his head, acting like it’s the most casual thing in the world. "I was just passing through."

You narrow your eyes. "Passing through? Your workplace is nowhere near here."

"Okay, fine," he chuckles, pushing himself off the car. "I thought I’d pick you up. It’s been a while since we had dinner together."

"Ah, I see. You missed me." You smirk, taking another sip of your latte.

"Don’t flatter yourself, " he scoffs, but the amusement in his eyes gives him away.

You let out a laugh, shaking your head before walking around the car. "Alright, alright. Let’s go before you start crying about how I never have time for you."

He pulls open the passenger door for you with a teasing bow. "Your chariot awaits, my lady."

Rolling your eyes at his theatrics, you slip inside, and he shuts the door before making his way to the driver’s seat.

As he starts the engine, Seungcheol glances at you. "Nice show today."

You blink. "Oh? What’s up, Choiseung? You’re complimenting me?" You raise an eyebrow, grinning.

He scoffs, shaking his head. "Forget it. Should’ve just let you believe no one listens to your rambling at night."

"Too late. I’m taking this to heart forever," you joke, leaning back in your seat.

A few minutes into the drive, Seungcheol reaches into his coat pocket and hands you a neatly folded envelope.

"Here."

You glance at it, then at him. "What’s this?"

"Just open it."

Curious, you unfold the letter inside. His familiar handwriting stretches across the page, carefully written, filled with warmth. It’s a simple note—thanking you for being in his life, for always listening, for just being you.

Your heart softens as you read.

"Ohh, Cheol... this is so sweet. Thank you so much, friend." You smile, touched by the gesture.

The moment the word leaves your lips, he freezes—just for a second.

Then, with a short nod, he looks away, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter.

"Yeah… friend." His voice is light, but something about it feels off.

You don’t notice. Or maybe, you just don’t understand.

"Hm? Did you say something?"

"Nothing," he clears his throat, turning into a street. "We should hurry before the restaurant gets packed."

You let it go, tucking the letter safely into your bag as the city lights blur past.

Dinner is simple—warm bowls of stew and easy conversation. You catch up on each other’s lives, laugh over childhood memories, and argue over who should pay the bill (which Seungcheol wins, as always). It’s comfortable, familiar—just like it’s always been.

But every now and then, Seungcheol watches you with something unreadable in his gaze. Something just beneath the surface.

Later, he pulls up in front of your place.

"Thanks for dinner, Choiseung." You grin, unbuckling your seatbelt.

"Yeah, yeah. You can pay next time."

"I’ll believe that when it happens." You laugh, stepping out of the car. "Goodnight!"

He waits until you disappear inside, only driving off once your lights flicker on.

And then he waits.

Seated in his car, he watches as your silhouette moves around the room. It’s only when your lights finally turn off that he exhales, rubbing the back of his neck before driving away into the quiet night.

The next day passes in a blur of work, coffee, and the usual routine. You go through meetings, reply to emails, and try not to fall asleep at your desk. It’s just another regular day—until night falls, and you’re back in the studio, headphones on, mic live, slipping into the comfort of your show.

"And that was 'Moonlight' to set the mood for tonight," you say, adjusting the volume on the console. "Now, let’s see what’s on your mind, listeners. Late-night confessions, random thoughts, love letters—I'm here for it all."

A familiar name pops up in the chat, and you smile.

"Ah, a message from ‘Cherry’ again," you muse, skimming through it.

"So, Cherry says: ‘I wrote them my feelings, but I feel like they didn't get the hint. Any advice?’”

You lean back, thoughtful.

"Confessions are tricky, aren’t they? But if words feel too heavy, why not try something else?"

You pause, then smile.

"Here’s an idea—make a playlist. Fill it with songs that subtly express your feelings, and share it with them. You can name it something meaningful, like ‘For You’ or ‘Songs That Remind Me of You.’ Maybe they’ll get the hint, maybe they won’t, but either way… music has a way of saying what we can’t."

A soft melody plays as you set up the next song, your voice lowering.

"Speaking of confessions… Cherry, this one’s for you."

___

After the show, you gather your things, stretching as the familiar hum of the studio fades into the quiet of the night. Stepping outside, the cool air brushes against your skin—and there he is, leaning against his car, arms crossed, waiting.

"You again?" You arch a brow, teasing.

Seungcheol smirks. "What can I say? Madam needs her personal chauffeur." He pushes off the car, opening the door for you with a playful grin.

You scoff, rolling your eyes as you slide in. "More like my chauffeur needs his daily dose of validation."

He chuckles, shutting the door before rounding the car. "Can you blame me? Gotta make sure my most important passenger gets home safe."

You shake your head, biting back a smile as he starts the engine. The familiar warmth of routine settles between you, comfortable and unspoken.

As you drive, soft music fills the space—a melody unfamiliar yet strangely intimate. You pause, listening. It’s not his usual sound. Gone are the heavy beats and sharp rhythms he prefers. Instead, the speakers hum with gentle tunes, lyrics drenched in longing.

You glance at him, amusement flickering in your gaze. "Since when did your taste in music change this much?"

His fingers flex over the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the road. "Dunno. Just felt like switching things up."

You hum along absentmindedly, letting the melody wrap around you, comforting in ways you don’t fully understand.

Seungcheol exhales quietly, gripping the wheel a little tighter, sneaking a glance your way. Because this playlist isn’t just a mix of songs—it’s a confession. One he can only hope you’ll hear.

As Seungcheol pulls up in front of your place, he shifts the car into park but doesn’t make a move to unlock the doors just yet. Instead, he drums his fingers against the steering wheel, stealing a glance your way.

"__, since tomorrow’s the weekend... you wanna hang out?" His voice is casual, but there’s something just a little hesitant in the way he says it.

You turn to him, brows raised. "Sure. Where?"

Seungcheol clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks away. "Nothing much… just the amusement park. Maybe a café after, y’know."

You blink before breaking into a small smile. "Huh, it’s been a while since we’ve gone there."

He nods, still avoiding your eyes. "Yeah. Thought it might be fun."

You tilt your head, watching him for a second before nudging his arm. "Well, if you’re paying, I’m definitely in."

He scoffs, rolling his eyes but grinning nonetheless. "Yeah, yeah. Just don’t go overboard with the snacks."

You laugh, reaching for the door handle. "No promises. See you tomorrow, Choiseung."

As you step out, he waits, watching until your lights flicker on inside. Only then does he drive off, the soft hum of the playlist still playing in the background.

The next day, the weekend air carries a hint of excitement as you step outside, spotting Seungcheol waiting by his car. Dressed casually in a hoodie and jeans, he looks effortlessly relaxed—except for the way he keeps checking his phone, as if trying to act nonchalant.

"Wow, you’re actually on time today," you tease, walking up to him.

He scoffs, sliding his phone into his pocket. "Please, I was born punctual."

You snort. "Sure, if 'punctual' means making me wait at least ten minutes every time."

Seungcheol rolls his eyes but opens the car door for you anyway, his usual playful smirk tugging at his lips. "Just get in, before I make you walk to the amusement park."

You laugh, sliding in as he rounds the car. Soon, you're both on the road, the soft hum of music playing in the background.

"So, what’s the plan, tour guide?" you ask, glancing at him.

He shrugs, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. "Nothing fancy. Just rides, food, and you trying not to chicken out on the roller coasters."

You gasp dramatically. "Excuse you, I do not chicken out—"

"You literally backed out last time," he deadpans, making you groan in protest.

The banter continues, filling the car with laughter as the amusement park comes into view, the vibrant lights and distant screams of thrill-seekers setting the perfect scene for the day ahead.

As Seungcheol parks the car, you glance at the towering rides ahead, the excited chatter of parkgoers filling the air.

"Alright, where to first?" he asks, stretching as he steps out of the car.

You scan the park, lips pursed in thought before pointing towards the roller coasters with a challenging grin. "Since you’re so confident, let’s start with that."

His eyes widen for a split second before he huffs. "I wasn’t the one who backed out last time, remember?"

You laugh, linking your arm with his and pulling him along. "Exactly. Time to redeem myself."

The line moves faster than expected, and soon, you're seated, the bar locking in place. You grip the handles tightly, sneaking a glance at Seungcheol. He looks relaxed, but the way he exhales deeply before the ride starts doesn’t go unnoticed.

The moment the coaster shoots forward, your screams mix with laughter, adrenaline rushing through your veins as you grip the bar for dear life. When it finally slows, you glance at Seungcheol, only to see him looking at you instead of the ride’s descent.

"What?" you ask, breathless.

He shakes his head, a small, fond smile on his lips. "Nothing. Just glad you didn’t chicken out this time."

You roll your eyes, nudging him playfully as you both step off the ride, your legs slightly wobbly from the rush.

The day continues with more rides, playful bets on who can win the most arcade games (he cheats, you swear), and an unnecessary but hilarious attempt at a claw machine.

"Face it, I'm just naturally gifted," he boasts, tossing you a small stuffed bear.

"Naturally full of it, maybe," you grumble, but take the bear anyway, hugging it to your chest.

Finally, as the night settles, you both find yourselves on the Ferris wheel, the gentle hum of the ride filling the comfortable silence. The city sprawls below, glowing under the streetlights, and in the distance, fireworks begin to bloom in the sky.

"Didn’t think today would be this fun," you admit, leaning back against the seat, the cool glass behind you a contrast to the warmth in your chest.

Seungcheol glances at you, something unreadable in his expression. He exhales softly, his fingers tapping against his knee.

"Yeah... I, uh—" He hesitates, licking his lips, his voice quieter now. "There's actually something I—"

But before he can finish, a particularly loud firework crackles in the sky, painting the cabin in flickering colors. You turn quickly, eyes lighting up as you take in the view.

"Oh, look at that one! It’s so pretty" you say, completely missing the way Seungcheol sighs, his half-spoken words swallowed by the moment.

He leans back, running a hand through his hair, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

"Yeah," he murmurs, gaze lingering on you instead of the fireworks. "It is pretty."

Eventually, you both find yourselves at a cozy café just outside the park, the scent of coffee and pastries filling the air.

After placing your order, Seungcheol suddenly pushes back his chair. “Be right back,” he says, flashing a quick smile before heading toward the counter.

You don’t think much of it, scrolling through your phone until the waiter returns with your drinks. As they set your cup down, you notice the delicate heart design floating atop the foam.

You tilt your head, stirring it slightly with your spoon. “Oh? Is this some kind of Valentine’s special?” you ask, amused. “Did you get one too?”

Seungcheol, who’s just returned to his seat, glances at his own plain coffee and shrugs. “Yeah… no.”

You raise a brow. “Huh. Guess they just like me more.”

He chuckles, taking a sip of his drink, but you don’t notice the way he hides his small, satisfied smile. Because the truth is, he had asked for that heart—just for you.

The next evening, the soft glow of the studio lights casts a warm hue as you settle into your seat, adjusting your headphones. Outside, the city hums with life, but a sudden downpour has turned the streets into shimmering reflections of neon signs.

"Looks like we’re in for an unexpected downpour tonight," you say, adjusting your headphones with a small chuckle. "So if you're heading home, grab an umbrella—or better yet, find someone who’ll share theirs with you—if not, maybe this is your chance for a classic movie moment. You know, the whole ‘one umbrella, two people’ thing."

With a quick tap, you queue up a slow, dreamy melody.

"Wherever you are tonight—rushing through the rain or just watching it fall—I hope this keeps you warm. Stay safe out there." As the song plays, you sit back, stretching your arms with a sigh.

As the show wraps up, you take off your headphones, letting out a small sigh as the last song fades into silence. The studio, once filled with the hum of voices and music, now feels still. Gathering your things, you push open the door, stepping into the quiet hallway.

Outside, the rain still falls in soft sheets, blurring the glow of streetlights. You pause near the entrance, rummaging through your bag. No umbrella. Right. You meant to bring one this morning, but in the rush, it completely slipped your mind.

You pause at the entrance, contemplating making a run for it, when a familiar voice calls out.

"Figured you’d forget yours."

You blink as Seungcheol steps forward, holding out an umbrella, his usual smirk in place. His hair is slightly damp, his coat dusted with droplets, like he had hurried here without much thought.

A small flutter, barely noticeable, stirs in your chest. You shake it off with a teasing smile. "What, no chauffeur duty today?"

He chuckles, tucking a hand into his pocket. "Uhh, not tonight. I have to stay late for that project."

You tilt your head, a little surprised. "So you came all the way here just to give me this?" You motion toward the umbrella in your hand.

"Yeah," he says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Before you can say anything else, his phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, sighs, then looks back at you. "I gotta go. Text me when you get home, okay?"

You nod, watching as he jogs toward his car, the red taillights fading into the rain.

For a moment, you just stand there, gripping the umbrella a little tighter. You don’t know why, but the weight of it in your hands feels different.

Then, shaking off the thought, you open it and step into the rain, heading home.

As morning arrives, the first thing that comes to mind is Seungcheol. You blink at your phone, thumb hovering over his contact.

Texting him isn’t anything new—you’ve done it countless times before. But for some reason, tonight, it feels… different. Maybe it’s your coworker’s words still echoing in your head, or maybe it’s the way he’s been occupying your thoughts more than usual.

Before you can overthink it, you start typing.

You: Did you get home okay?

A second passes. Then another. You bite your lip, debating whether to add something else.

You: And did you even sleep well? Don’t tell me you stayed up all night working.

You press send before hesitation can creep in. Almost instantly, the dots appear.

Seungcheol: Wow, checking up on me? I must be special.

You roll your eyes, already imagining the smug grin on his face.

You: Forget I asked.

Seungcheol: Wait, wait— I did sleep. Kinda. Had a long day, but I’m home now.

You: Good. Don’t overwork yourself.

Your fingers hover over the screen for a beat before you add one last message.

This time, he takes a little longer to respond.

Seungcheol: You too.

You lock your phone, exhaling softly as you sink into your pillow.

Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe you’re just overthinking. But the warmth unfurling in your chest suggests otherwise.

At work, the usual hum of chatter fills the office. You’re halfway through your emails when a coworker slides into the seat beside you, a teasing grin already in place.

"I saw you yesterday," they start, leaning in slightly. "With a guy. Was he your boyfriend?"

Your fingers freeze over the keyboard.

"What? No!" The denial is immediate, instinctive. Too quick. You clear your throat, forcing a casual shrug. "Just a friend."

Your coworker chuckles, clearly amused. "Mmm, sure. You should’ve seen your face just now."

You scoff, shaking your head. "Oh, please. It’s not like that."

They raise an eyebrow, smirking as they lean against your desk. "Right. Just a friend, huh?"

You roll your eyes, waving them off, but as they walk away, their words linger.

Just a friend.

You’ve said it a hundred times before. So why does it feel different now?

The soft glow of the studio lights wraps around you like a familiar embrace as you settle in for another night on air. The playlist hums in the background, filling the quiet spaces between your thoughts as you scroll through messages from listeners.

One catches your eye.

“I think I’ve fallen for my best friend. It wasn’t sudden—more like a slow, creeping realization. One day, I caught myself smiling at my phone just because they texted me. I don’t know if they feel the same, and I’m scared to lose what we have. What do I do?"

You hesitate for a moment, the words settling heavier than they should. There’s a flicker of something familiar in them, something that makes you sit up a little straighter.

You take a breath and lean toward the mic. “That’s… complicated,” you begin, your voice even, steady. “Falling for a best friend is tricky. It sneaks up on you when you least expect it. One day, they’re just… them. The same person they’ve always been. And then suddenly, everything feels different.”

Your breath catches slightly. A part of you wants to laugh at the timing, but instead, you clear your throat and lean into the mic.

You exhale softly, fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of your notes. "I think the scariest part isn’t even confessing—it’s the thought of what happens after. What if they don’t feel the same? What if things change? But… at the same time, isn’t it worth knowing? Isn’t it better than wondering ‘what if’ forever?"

The words come naturally, maybe a little too naturally, and you catch yourself mid-sentence, blinking at the realization. Your fingers tighten slightly around the papers in front of you.

You shake it off with a light laugh. "Anyway, I’m not a love expert. But if you’re listening… maybe ask yourself this—would you rather take the risk or live with the regret?"

As the segment transitions, you queue up the next song, the soft melody of Can't Help Falling in Love by Kina Grannis filling the airwaves. A bittersweet smile tugs at your lips as you lean back in your chair, staring at the ceiling.

The idea of a team dinner had been floating around the office for weeks, but it wasn’t until today that your producer finally put his foot down.

“We’re going,” he declared, arms crossed as he leaned against your desk. “No more excuses, no more ‘let’s do it next week.’ Tonight, we eat.”

Your coworker snickered, spinning lazily in their chair. “You just don’t want to go home and cook.”

“Exactly,” he admitted shamelessly. “Besides, it’s been a while since we all hung out outside of work. You in?”

You hesitated for a beat, glancing at your screen before sighing. It wasn’t like you had anything better to do. “Yeah, I’m in.”

And that was that. A few hours later, you found yourself walking toward the restaurant with the rest of your team, the air buzzing with conversation. Your producer was still arguing about food, insisting that this place was “decent at best” while another team member defended it with an almost personal level of passion.

You laughed at their banter, falling into step behind them—until something made you slow down.

A familiar figure stood just outside the restaurant, hands tucked into his coat pockets. Even before he turned, you knew who it was.

Seungcheol.

Your brows lifted slightly in amusement. “Are you a stalker?” you teased as you approached. “You’re literally everywhere I go.”

He turned toward you, chuckling under his breath. “No, I’m here with someone. My cli—”

“Shall we go?”

The voice belonged to a woman who stepped up beside him, her posture poised, her tone polite. She looked… elegant. The kind of effortless elegance that didn’t even need to try.

Your gaze flickered between them, something unreadable tightening in your chest before you smoothed your expression. “Who…”

The woman met your eyes and smiled. “Oh, I’m Lee Hana. I’m working with Seungcheol on a project.”

You nodded, lips curving into something light, something easy, even as something else tugged inside you. “Right. Nice to meet you.”

Seungcheol’s gaze lingered on you for a second longer than it should. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh,” you blinked, shifting slightly. “Our team is having dinner.” You motioned toward the restaurant behind you. “You know, bonding and all that.”

He nodded, but before he could say anything else, Hana touched his arm lightly. “Shall we?”

There was a pause—brief, barely there—before he cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah.” Then he glanced at you again. “Bye, then. Have fun.”

And then he was gone, walking away with her at his side.

You watched them leave, something unspoken pressing against your ribs. It’s not jealousy, you told yourself. Not really. But the feeling stayed anyway.

A voice broke through your thoughts. “Oh, isn’t he the umbrella guy?”

You turned to see your coworker standing beside you, glancing after Seungcheol with mild curiosity before their gaze shifted back to you. “Did he come here with a woman?”

You said nothing, but that seemed to be enough of an answer.

They hummed knowingly. “You really must be just friends.” And with that, they walked inside.

You stayed there a second longer, staring at the spot where Seungcheol had just been, before shaking yourself out of it and following them in.

The night air is crisp as you walk back home, the sounds of the city buzzing softly in the background. Your team dinner had ended a while ago, but instead of feeling full and satisfied, there’s a strange heaviness in your chest—a weight you don’t quite understand.

As you turn the corner to your apartment complex, you slow down, your steps faltering.

There, leaning against his car with his arms crossed, is Seungcheol.

Your brows knit together. “What are you doing here?”

At your voice, he straightens, slipping his hands into his pockets. “You didn’t look well back at the restaurant,” he says, his tone light but laced with something else—concern, maybe. “So, I thought I’d check on you.”

You blink at him. “You drove all the way here for that?”

He shrugs. “It’s not far.”

Liar. His office is nowhere near your place.

There’s a brief pause. The usual banter is on the tip of your tongue, but for some reason, the words don’t come out as easily tonight. Maybe it’s because he actually showed up. Maybe it’s because you don’t know what to do with the way your heart stutters at the sight of him standing there, waiting for you.

You shift your weight. “Do you… want to come in for coffee?”

At that, he chuckles, shaking his head. “Coffee? At this time?” He tilts his head at you, amused. “You must really hate me if you don’t want me to sleep tonight.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Then I’ll give you plain water. Just come in.”

His lips twitch into a smirk before he pushes himself off the car. “If you insist.”

And just like that, he follows you inside.

The door clicks shut behind you as you step inside, flipping on the lights. The familiar warmth of your home settles around you, but with Seungcheol standing in your living room, it suddenly feels… different.

“You can sit,” you say, gesturing vaguely to the couch as you move toward the kitchen.

He hums in response, wandering over but not immediately sitting down. Instead, he looks around, eyes flickering to the small details of your space—the stack of books on the coffee table, the blanket draped lazily over the couch, the half-full cup on the counter from this morning.

“By the way,” you start, keeping your voice casual as you pour warm milk, “who was that woman earlier?”

Seungcheol hums in acknowledgment, but when he answers, it’s after a slight pause. “Just a client. I’m handling a project for her company.”

“Ah.” You nod, stirring the coffee a little too forcefully. “Looked like you guys were close.”

He lets out a small laugh. “Are you interrogating me right now?”

You scoff, bringing the mugs over to the table and handing him one. “No. Just making conversation.”

You drop onto the couch beside him, curling your legs under you. He’s been here so many times before, and yet tonight, the usual comfort feels a little different—like you’re hyper-aware of the way he leans back, his long legs stretched out in front of him, the way he watches you over the rim of his mug.

“You seemed off earlier,” he says after a beat. “Something wrong?”

“No,” you lie, but even you don’t sound convinced.

Seungcheol doesn’t press, just tilts his head slightly, studying you like he’s figuring out a puzzle. “If you say so.”

After a while, he stretches, glancing at the time. “I should go.”

You nod, following him to the door. He lingers for a second, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Text me when you wake up, yeah?”

You frown. “Why?”

He shrugs. “Just ‘cause.”

You roll your eyes, but something about the way he’s looking at you makes your chest tighten. “Fine.”

He smirks. “Good.”

And then, with a small wave, he’s gone.

You stand there for a second, staring at the closed door, fingers curling tightly around your cup.

The theater is dim, the soft glow from the screen casting flickering lights across Seungcheol’s face. The film has barely begun, but the hum of quiet conversations and the rustling of popcorn bags fill the space around you.

You’re not sure who suggested this movie. Maybe he did. Maybe you did. Maybe it was just one of those things—where he casually texted, "Movie?" and you didn’t even think before replying, "Sure."

The movie plays, but your focus wavers. You’re aware of him. Of the way his shoulder is just barely brushing yours. The way his fingers drum lazily against his knee. The way he shifts slightly every now and then, getting comfortable.

And then, his hand moves to the popcorn bag between you.

Your fingers accidentally graze his. Just for a second.

You don’t think much of it—until it happens again.

The second time, neither of you pull away immediately. It’s not intentional, not deliberate. Just… a pause. A moment that lingers for a beat too long before he finally retracts his hand.

Your pulse stutters, but you keep your expression neutral.

A few more scenes pass. You’re getting lost in the film when suddenly—

A jump scare.

It’s sudden enough that your breath catches, and before you can stop yourself, your hand darts out, grasping the closest thing—his arm.

Seungcheol doesn’t move. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t say a word. Just glances down at your fingers curled around his sleeve.

You realize what you’ve done a second too late. Heat creeps up your neck as you start to pull away.

But then—

His arm shifts just slightly, just enough that your hand slides from his sleeve to his wrist, fingertips brushing against his skin.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

The moment stretches, unspoken, unacknowledged. Not quite intentional. But not exactly not intentional, either.

And suddenly, the movie is the least interesting thing in the room.

The movie ends, and the crowd slowly shuffles toward the exits. You stretch your arms as you step out of the dimly lit theater, the cool night air greeting you.

"That wasn’t as scary as I thought," you say, glancing at Seungcheol.

He scoffs, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Sure. That explains why you nearly ripped my sleeve off."

You roll your eyes, nudging him lightly with your elbow. "That was one time."

He smirks. "Uh-huh. And what about the other time? And the time after that?"

You narrow your eyes at him, but there’s no real bite behind it. He’s enjoying this way too much.

"Okay, whatever. Where are we eating?" You change the subject swiftly, and Seungcheol hums, pretending to think.

"Ramen?" he suggests.

Your stomach growls at the mention of food, and you nod. "Sounds good."

It’s a short walk to the small ramen shop tucked away on a quieter street. The place is cozy, warm, and familiar—one of those late-night spots you’ve both ended up in more times than you can count. The moment you step inside, the comforting aroma of broth and spices fills the air.

Seungcheol orders for both of you, as he always does, rattling off your usual without even asking. The cashier doesn’t even blink, already used to it by now.

You shake your head with a small smile. "One day, I’m going to switch things up just to mess with you."

He leans against the counter, grinning. "No, you won’t."

He’s right, and you hate that he knows it.

The two of you settle into a booth, the conversation flowing easily between bites of food. Seungcheol steals a piece of your fish cake without asking. You retaliate by swiping a sip of his drink. It's effortless, familiar.

By the time you step back outside, the streets are quieter. The late hour drapes the city in a peaceful hush, the occasional headlights casting long shadows on the pavement.

Neither of you say much as you walk, but it isn’t an awkward silence. Just the kind that lingers when words aren’t needed.

At some point, Seungcheol slows his pace, falling into step beside you instead of slightly ahead.

The street lights flicker above, the air crisp but not too cold. You rub your hands together out of habit.

A beat passes before Seungcheol exhales through his nose and, without a word, reaches out.

His hand brushes yours, just barely.

You think it might be an accident until he does it again.

This time, he doesn’t move away.

And neither do you.

The apartment is quiet when you step inside, the familiar space wrapping around you like a well-worn blanket. You toe off your shoes, set your bag down, and exhale, as if the night still clings to your skin. The soft hum of the refrigerator is the only sound filling the air, but your mind is anything but quiet.

You wander into the kitchen on autopilot, reaching for a glass, but your fingers hesitate over the cabinet handle. The thought slips in, uninvited.

What if he already knows?

The question lingers, settling into the corners of your mind like an echo. You shake your head as if that alone could shove it away, but it doesn’t work.

Maybe it’s the way he laughed tonight—soft, genuine, like the sound itself belonged to you. Or the way he leaned in closer, just enough that his warmth almost touched you. Maybe it’s nothing at all, just the way he exists around you—familiar, steady, yet suddenly… different.

You close your eyes for a moment, trying to chase the feeling away, but it’s stubborn. Because now that you’ve noticed it, you can’t unsee it. Every teasing remark, every lingering glance, every small, meaningless moment—it’s all been leading to this.

And the worst part?

You don’t even know when it started.

You sink onto the couch, pressing the cool glass against your palm, grounding yourself. You try to convince yourself it’s nothing. You’ve always been close. He’s always been there.

But tonight, when his hand brushed yours and he didn’t pull away… when he said goodnight like he meant something else…

Your heart had stuttered.

You bite your lip, staring at the ceiling, willing your heartbeat to settle.

...What if he already knows?

The studio is quiet except for the soft hum of the equipment. The city lights flicker through the window, casting faint shadows against the booth. You scroll through the messages, eyes landing on a familiar name.

Cherry.

“I tried everything you said—gave them a letter, took them out, spent so much time together. And honestly? I swear they like me too. But… nothing. What do I do?"

You let out a breath, tapping your fingers lightly against the desk.

"Okay, first of all—don’t give up. I know it’s frustrating when someone doesn’t read between the lines, but sometimes, people need things to be said plainly. No metaphors, no subtlety. Just… real words."

You lean back slightly, eyes flickering toward the dim window of the booth, where the city blurs in the distance.

"Because here’s the thing—what if they do feel the same way? What if they’re just as scared as you are? Wouldn’t you rather know than spend your days wondering?"

The words come easily, almost too easily, and for a split second, you wonder if you’re really just talking to Cherry anymore.

You exhale and push forward.

"So here’s my advice, Cherry. Tell them. No hints, no half-confessions. Just look them in the eyes and say, ‘I like you.’ And if they don’t feel the same? At least you’ll know. At least you won’t have to live with ‘what if.’"

Your hand hovers over the controls for a moment longer than necessary before finally pressing the next song cue.

The melody flows through the studio, soft and steady. And yet, your heart is thudding slightly faster than it should.

The night air is cool against your skin as you step out of the building, the faint hum of the city filling the quiet. Work is done for the day, your coworkers already heading their separate ways after a few lingering goodbyes.

You stretch your arms slightly, exhaling as you adjust the strap of your bag—only to freeze mid-motion.

He’s there.

Standing just outside the entrance, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket—except for one, which lingers behind his back, hiding something.

Your heart stirs, something instinctive. “Seungcheol?”

His lips twitch in a small, almost nervous smile. “Hey.”

“You’re waiting for me?” You shift your bag on your shoulder, stepping toward him.

“Yeah.” A soft exhale. “I had to.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Why?”

Seungcheol hesitates, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Then, with a slow exhale, he pulls his hand from behind his back—revealing a bouquet of flowers, delicate and vibrant under the streetlights.

Your breath catches.

Your fingers brush against his as you take it, the warmth of his skin seeping into yours.

“Seungcheol…” Your voice is softer now, unsure. The gesture feels too deliberate, too thoughtful. It makes your heart ache in a way you don’t fully understand.

He watches you for a second before exhaling, running a hand through his hair. “I should’ve said this sooner. A long time ago, actually.” His voice drops slightly. “I think—no, I know—I’ve liked you for a while now.”

Your breath catches.

He holds it out to you, a faint chuckle escaping his lips. “I know it’s kind of cheesy, but... I saw this and thought of you.”

Your fingers brush against his as you take it, the warmth of his skin seeping into yours.

“Seungcheol…” Your voice is softer now, unsure. The gesture feels too deliberate, too thoughtful. It makes your heart ache in a way you don’t fully understand.

The world feels like it slows down.

His eyes flicker with something—uncertainty, vulnerability, an honesty so raw it makes your chest tighten.

“I tried not to,” he continues, voice steadier now. “I thought maybe it would pass, that maybe we were just friends and I was misreading things. But then you started showing up in my thoughts at the most random times. I’d hear a song and think of you. I’d pass a café and wonder if you’d like their coffee. And no matter how much I tried to ignore it… it was always you.”

Your fingers tighten around the flower.

“So I’m done pretending.” His voice is quiet but firm. “I like you. I’ve liked you for a long time.”

You swallow, fingers tightening around the flower as your heart stumbles over itself. The weight of his words settles over you—not heavy, not suffocating, but something warm, something undeniable.

For a long moment, you don’t speak. You don’t know if you can.

Seungcheol watches you carefully, his usual confidence laced with something softer, something uncertain. You can tell he’s waiting, bracing himself for whatever comes next.

So you inhale slowly, steadying yourself.

“You—” Your voice falters slightly before you clear your throat. “You’ve liked me for a long time?”

He nods, lips curving into a self-deprecating smile. “Yeah.” A beat. “I thought you knew.”

Your breath catches.

Did you?

You think back—to the lingering glances, the easy laughter, the way he’s always been there, steady and constant. The way he looks at you when he thinks you don’t notice. The way your heart has been shifting, your feelings unraveling into something you weren’t ready to name.

“I…” You pause, lips parting, your heart beating so fast it’s dizzying. And then you laugh, a little breathless, shaking your head. “God, I feel so stupid.”

Seungcheol blinks, caught off guard. “Huh?”

You meet his eyes, and this time, there’s no doubt, no hesitation.

“I like you too, you idiot.”

For a second, everything is still.

Then Seungcheol lets out a sharp breath—a laugh, almost disbelieving—and suddenly, that teasing smile you know so well is back, but there’s something else in his expression now. Something real. Something unshakable.

“Yeah?” His voice is quieter, laced with something warm.

You nod, lips pressing together. “Yeah.”

And then, he pulls you in—his hand resting at the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair.

His lips press against yours, gentle at first, then firmer, like he’s been holding this in for too long. His other hand stays over yours, the bouquet still between you, petals brushing against your skin.

The city buzzes in the background, but all you can hear is the quiet rush of your own heartbeat. And in that moment, with his warmth, his touch, his everything—

It just feels right.

You pull away just enough to look at him, breathless, your forehead still resting against his. His hands remain on your waist, warm and grounding, as if neither of you wants to let go just yet.

And honestly? You don’t think you ever want to.

A soft laugh escapes you, light and airy. “You know… a listener of mine also loves their best friend,” you murmur, tilting your head slightly. “They tried everything—subtle hints, letters, taking them out—but their best friend was too dense to get it.”

Seungcheol chuckles, his thumb brushing over your wrist. “Sounds familiar.”

“Right?” You sigh dramatically. “So, I told them to just confess. No hints, no half-confessions, just… real words.”

He hums, nodding thoughtfully. “Good advice.”

“Yeah,” you grin, looking up at him. “I wonder how it went for them.”

Seungcheol pauses for a second, then leans in just a little, his voice playful yet quiet. “I’d say pretty well.”

You blink. “Huh?”

His lips quirk up, and suddenly, the way he’s looking at you feels a little too knowing.

And then, before you can process it, he says it—just two words, but they hit you like a ton of bricks.

“I know.”

You stare. “What?”

He grins, tapping a finger against your forehead lightly. “Your listener. Cherry.”

Your brows furrow. The pieces are there, but your brain refuses to connect them. “What about them?”

He hesitates, as if savoring the moment, before finally confessing, “It’s me.”

Silence.

You tilt your head, processing his words. “...You’re Cherry?”

Seungcheol nods, clearly holding back a laugh at your expression.

For a second, you just stand there, staring at him.

Then, with a dramatic gasp, you lightly smack him with the bouquet in your hands.

“Ow—hey!” He feigns pain, stumbling back slightly, but the wide grin on his face betrays him.

“You idiot!” You hit him again, though there’s no real force behind it. “You made me give love advice for your own confession?”

He catches your wrist, still laughing. “Hey, it worked, didn’t it?”

You narrow your eyes at him, but before you can retaliate, he tugs you forward, pulling you into another hug.

This time, it feels different.

Familiar, warm, but with something new. Something neither of you have to question anymore.

You sigh against his shoulder, shaking your head. “I can’t believe you.”

He grins. “Believe it, Baby.”

1K notes · View notes

cressidagrey · 1 month ago

Text

White Horse - Chapter 7: September 2023

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes:

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families...I think that's it?

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

The office was bright and quiet, the kind of designer-calm that was more aesthetic than practical. Polished concrete floors, oversized pendant lights, art books stacked just so. Everything looked effortless.

Except for Isabelle.

She sat at her desk, scrolling through final renderings for a residential project in Nice—light oak built-ins, linen upholstery, exposed stone. Her headphones were in, her tea long cold, her focus sharp.

And still, she could feel them.

The looks. The half-paused conversations. The way the room always seemed to hush just a little when she walked by.

It had started a few months back—right after she had started working on Max’s penthouse.

After “The Verstappen commission,”

Which, yes, was massive. Private penthouse in Monaco. Full control of design. The budget so generous it felt like cheating.

But it wasn’t why her colleagues looked at her like that.

No, that was because of the last name.

Leclerc.

At first, it was subtle.

“Oh, Max Verstappen, huh? Funny coincidence.”

Then came the lingering glances. The comments that weren’t really jokes.

“Must be nice to have connections.”

“Clients like that don’t just walk in the door.”

“I mean, your brother is in F1, right?”

They never said it outright.

But she heard it. Felt it.

The implication that she hadn’t earned it. That she hadn’t spent years working late, poring over lighting plans, chasing perfection in the grain of walnut veneer. That she hadn’t clawed her way into an industry where quiet women were often passed over for louder, flashier names.

She was good at her job. Isabelle knew that. She was good.

Good enough that her clients rarely asked for changes.

Max’s design brief had been short and to the point:

“Make it feel like home.”

And she had.

Still, the office couldn’t let it go.

Even now—months later—she could hear it in the voice of her coworker, Camille, who leaned against the edge of Isabelle’s desk with faux friendliness.

“Is that the Nice project?” Camille asked, eyeing her screen.

Isabelle slid off her headphones. “Yes. Final layout before the client walk-through.”

Camille hummed. “You’re getting all the high-end clients lately. It’s impressive. I guess once you do one Formula 1 driver’s penthouse…”

Isabelle smiled politely. “I still have to earn every brief.”

“Of course,” Camille said, all syrup and knives. “It just helps when people know your last name.”

Isabelle looked back at her screen. “Or your work.”

Camille blinked. “Sorry?”

“I said the client liked my work. He saw it before he saw my name.” She didn’t look up. “But thanks for the reminder.”

Camille stood there for a beat too long, clearly debating whether to keep the fight going.

Then she smiled, brittle and bright. “Anyway. Let me know if you need a second set of eyes.”

Isabelle nodded. “I will.”

She wouldn’t.

Camille walked away. Isabelle exhaled.

Never mind that she’d been designing clean, grounded spaces with layered textures and a focus on subtle light since she was twenty-one.

Never mind that she had graduated top of her class at Sorbonne. Never mind that she had won awards for her work.

Never mind that just last week, she’d redesigned the entire layout of an apartment, hand-sourced reclaimed timber from an antique dealer in Northern Italy, managed three contractors across two countries, and did it all on time and under budget.

None of it mattered.

Not to them.

They saw the name. They made their assumptions. They smiled, thin-lipped and cold, when she walked into a room.

No one said it outright, of course. That wasn’t how this studio worked.

It was in the “accidental” exclusion from meetings. The last-minute presentation changes that stripped her name from the credits. The way Léa always called her Charles Leclerc’s sister when speaking to clients, like that was more relevant than her entire résumé.

And Isabelle… she swallowed it. Like she always did.

Because fighting it felt worse. Like it would just confirm what they already believed: that she was here because of someone else. That she had something to prove.

So she nodded. She worked. She smiled.

There was such a gap between the life she had at home and the one she had at work.

One full of careful love and quiet safety. One where someone saw her, really saw her, and chose her without hesitation.

And one where people looked at her and saw an advantage. A connection. A shortcut they assumed she’d taken.

No one here knew she’d just moved in with Max Verstappen.

No one knew that the penthouse she designed now held her books. Her blankets. Her favorite brand of tea, tucked next to his energy drinks in the cupboard.

No one knew that she woke up on mornings that he was there to him pressing a kiss to her temple and mumbling, don’t forget your scarf, it’s windy today, like she was something precious he’d wrapped his life around.

Her private life was a dream.

It was slow breakfasts in a sunlit kitchen. Laughter tangled in late-night Netflix documentaries. Max standing behind her at the sink, arms around her waist, whispering that he loved the life they were building.

But her professional life?

It felt like it was crumbling beneath the weight of other people’s expectations.

Not good enough to be here on her own.

Too quiet to demand credit.

Too privileged to complain.

She clenched her teeth.

She wasn’t going to let them shrink her. Not again.

Not after all the ways she’d already been made small.

Because the truth was: her name had opened zero doors.

But her work?

That spoke for itself.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: Hey Isabelle—random question. You have a minute?

Isabelle: Of course. What’s up?

Victoria: I’m redoing the kids’ room, and I’m going to lose my mind.

Victoria: So, Luka wants a car-themed room.

Victoria: Lio wants a dinosaur room.

Victoria: And I love them, but if I let them pick everything, my house will look like a Hot Wheels museum and a Jurassic Park gift shop had a child.

Victoria: No one else I’ve talked to gets why I don’t want neon walls and tire-shaped beds.

Isabelle: Because you have taste. And also because you care about designing something they can grow into.

Victoria: Yes, exactly!! I don’t want to be a sad beige mom, but I don’t want three hundred Lightning McQueen stickers either.

Victoria: HOW do I make it nice? Like, actually nice. Not themed-party nice.

Victoria: Aesthetic. Calm. Maybe even cohesive??

Victoria: Is that possible??

Isabelle: It definitely is. The trick is color palette + subtle accents.

Isabelle: For Lio: a neutral base. Soft greens and sandy taupes for the walls. Dino Silhouettes, a custom mural, or maybe wallpaper. More storybook style than cartoon. Texture it up with wood shelves, natural materials, and some cute storage baskets that don’t scream plastic chaos.

Isabelle: For Luka: Think more along the lines of vintage race cars. Maybe white with some slate grey? More graphic than literal? Maybe we could find a tire print bedding… also vintage racing posters, or maybe wallpaper.

Victoria: You’re kidding. That sounds… beautiful. Isabelle. This is amazing.

Isabelle: It can be cute and timeless. Trust me.

Victoria: Can I actually hire you for this? Like, for real?

Isabelle: You don’t have to hire me. I’ll help because I want to. But thank you for asking.

Victoria: No, thank you. You’re brilliant. I’ve looked at a million Pinterest boards, and none of them had this.

Victoria: Max is a nightmare to impress, and even he won't stop bragging about how you designed the penthouse.

Isabelle: I’ll put together two mood boards for you—one for each theme: subtle, elevated, and adaptable. You can mix and match, and I’ll help make it look amazing.

Victoria: You’re amazing. Truly.

***

Isabelle was in the studio early—like always—finalizing fabric pulls for a coastal villa project when she opened the project file and found everything… gone.

Her digital mood boards? Wiped.

The CAD revisions she stayed up late fixing? Replaced with an earlier, incomplete draft.

At first, she thought it was a mistake. Maybe she’d forgotten to save her edits. Maybe the cloud hadn’t synced. Maybe—

“Hey, Isabelle,” said Léa, voice syrupy-sweet from her desk across the room. “Your name’s all over the drive this morning. Everything okay?”

Isabelle turned, trying to keep her voice steady. “Someone deleted my work.”

“Oh?” Léa blinked. “Maybe you just didn’t save it?”

“I did.”

“Well, these things happen. Tech is finicky. Or maybe it was a permissions issue?” She smiled, sharp and condescending. “You’re still getting used to the system, right?”

Isabelle said nothing.

It wasn’t the first time. Last week, someone had “accidentally” removed her name from a client presentation. The week before that, she'd been left out of a team brainstorming session for a luxury development she’d pitched.

Now this.

She wasn’t supposed to care.

But she did.

So, so much.

***

Max heard the door open and shut softly. He glanced at the clock—past midnight. Again.

Isabelle walked in, kicking off her heels and sighing as she dropped her bag on the floor. She looked exhausted, with dark circles under her eyes, shoulders slumped with fatigue.

Max crossed his arms, leaning against the counter. “You know,” he said, “there’s an easy solution to this.”

She raised an eyebrow, already knowing where this was going. “Oh?”

“You quit your job,” he said simply. “Become my incredibly spoiled, disgustingly pampered trophy wife. No more late nights, no more stress. Just you, spending my money and riding your horses.”

Isabelle snorted, shaking her head as she walked toward him. “Max.”

“I’m serious,” he said, watching her. “I don’t like seeing you like this. You work too much.”

She sighed, rubbing at her temples. “I know. But I don’t like depending on anybody.”

Max frowned. “It’s not depending on me, it’s—”

“It is,” she cut in gently. “I’ve spent my whole life making sure I can take care of myself. I never want to be in a position where I have to rely on someone else to be okay.”

His expression softened, and he reached for her hand, pulling her closer. “You wouldn’t have to. But you could if you wanted to.”

She exhaled, leaning into him slightly. “I know. And that’s why I love you. But I need this, Max. I need to know I can stand on my own two feet.”

Max sighed, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Fine. But at least let me buy you dinner when you come home too late to eat.”

She smiled, wrapping her arms around his waist. “That, I can agree to.”

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: Do you still want to help with the final installation for the boys’ rooms?

Isabelle: Of course! Just say when.

Victoria: Next weekend?

Victoria: Luka’s been asking when “Tante Belle” is coming back to make his race cars zoomier.

Victoria: And I promised him wallpaper would happen soon, or I’d never hear the end of it.

Isabelle: I can fly in Friday night. Max has a race weekend, so I’ll be solo anyway.

Isabelle: Want me to bring anything?

Victoria: Your magic brain.

Victoria: And maybe the strength of ten men for this wallpaper. Think we can manage?

Isabelle: If you hold it straight, I’ll climb the ladder. We’ve got this.

Victoria: That’s the spirit.

Victoria: Also—want to do a decor run Saturday morning?

Victoria: I thought I had taste, but apparently, everything I pick is “too boring” or “not sparkly enough.”

Isabelle: Consider it a mission.

Isabelle: But honestly… I might just order half the internet to your house before I get there.

Victoria: Dangerous. I like it.

Isabelle: Just let me know what color Lio’s “not jungle but jungle” theme has become this week.

Victoria: I think we’ve settled on “treehouse with optional dinosaurs.”

Isabelle: That’s a mood.

Isabelle: Thank you for asking me to come. Really.

Victoria: Belle. You’re family.

Victoria: And you’re good at this. That combo is rare and very needed.

Isabelle: Now you’re going to make me cry over wallpaper.

Victoria: You’re allowed.

Victoria: Just not on the ladder.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Isabelle: Victoria invited me to come for the weekend.

Isabelle: To help with the boys’ rooms. Final install.

Max: That’s great! She loves your designs. I knew she’d want you there for it. You said yes, right?

Isabelle: Of course.

Isabelle: I mean… I think I did?

Isabelle: I panicked a little and offered to book a Friday evening flight and overnight half of Zara Home to her house.

Max: Sounds like a yes.

Isabelle: It’s the first time someone in your family’s invited me like that. Just… as me.

Max: That’s because they love you. I knew they would. You’re impossible not to love.

Isabelle: You’re biased.

Max: I’m correct.

Max: You’re going, right?

Isabelle: Yeah. I want to. You’ll be gone anyway. Race weekend.

Max: Good. I like it when you’re with them.

Isabelle: Thank you.

Max: For what?

Isabelle: For never making me feel like I’m just passing through.

Max: You’re not. You’re home.

***

Instagram Stories: @/victoriaverstappen

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Max: Thanks again for inviting her this weekend.

Victoria: Don’t be ridiculous. She’s brilliant. And the boys adore her.

Victoria: Luka yelled, “ISABELLE’S HERE!” like she was Santa.

Max: I think she was really nervous. She hasn’t been… included like this much. Not by family.

Victoria: I picked up on that. She was so polite it almost broke my heart.

Max: Yeah. That’s kind of her default. Be small, be quiet, and don’t get in the way.

Victoria: Not in this house.

Max: Thank you.

Victoria: You don’t have to thank me for loving someone who clearly loves you.

Victoria: I see the way she looks at you, Max.

Victoria: Like she’s finally allowed to breathe.

Max: That’s how I feel when she walks in the room.

Victoria: Then we’re all exactly where we should be.

Victoria: I’ve got her. Go win your race.

Max: Trying. For both of you.

Victoria: We’ll be watching. Luka’s already decided that if you win, it’s because Isabelle helped pick the right snacks.

Max: He might be right.

Max: Thank you, Vic. Really.

Victoria: She’s family. I just hope one day her brothers realize what they’ve been blind to.

Max: I hope so, too. But until then—she’s got us.

Victoria: She always will.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/gridwives: I’m gonna need someone to explain why Isabelle Leclerc is calmly shopping with Victoria Verstappen like it’s not news?!

↳@/softpitstop: I think Isabelle is helping Victoria with her sons’ rooms. ↳@/sleuthsinmonaco: Do you think Max gave Victoria an interior designer tip?!

@/lightsoutgirlies: This is my Roman empire: Victoria Verstappen and Isabelle leclerc

@/wagsandwhiplash: Wait, wait wait—are Luka and Lio getting room makeovers??? And Isabelle Leclerc is doing them?? Like designing them???

@/thepaddockprince: Okay, but I’m sorry, WHERE is Charles in all this? Isabelle’s out here designing Verstappen bedrooms, and he’s just... letting that happen?

@/f1fanficfuel: i need 4k behind-the-scenes content. I need the mood boards. I need the receipts. I NEED TO KNOW WHY ISABELLE LECLERC IS DECORATING THE VERSTAPPEN FAMILY HOME.

@/danielricchaos The funniest thing about all this is that none of them are explaining anything.Victoria just tagged her. Isabel didn’t repost. Max hasn’t said a word, and now I’m insane.

@/leclercstanaccount: me trying to figure out how Charles’s invisible sister ended up doing a home makeover with victoria verstappen: ?!?!

@softlaunchcentral: Ok, but why does Victoria’s entire weekend story arc feel like a soft launch of a new family member? Isabelle Leclerc walked in with a tape measure and iced coffee and took OVER

@/babyverstappens: No, but genuinely: How do Victoria Verstappen and Isabelle Leclerc know each other?! Who organized this crossover episode? Was it Fred Vasseur? Is this ferrari pr? Are we being gaslit?

@/plsnotanothersecretwedding: Isabelle Leclerc shopping for race car wallpaper and stuffed dinosaurs was not on my 2025 Paddock Bingo card. But I’m invested now.

@/wagsfc: are we… soft-launching Isabelle Leclerc as victoria’s best friend?? is this happening??

@/formulaclarles: Why is Charles Leclerc’s sister shopping for Victoria Verstappen’s kids’ rooms???

@/dinosanddrs: The Verstappen toddler has a Leclerc choosing his wallpaper. F1 lore has never been deeper.

@/paddockpoetry: Watching Victoria and Isabelle together today just made me realize that… they both have brothers who risk their lives every weekend. Not a lot of people understand what that does to you.

@/f1bloom: Victoria and Isabelle are from two different worlds but somehow the same one: like who else really understands that fear? Of watching the person you love fly at 300km/h and having to smile through it?

@/slowpitstoppoet: Victoria Verstappen and Isabelle Leclerc are watching the race together while wrangling toddlers like it’s a normal Sunday afternoon… There’s something really tender about that.

↳@/paddockthoughts It’s easy to forget sometimes that these guys are brothers and sons and uncles—not just drivers.

@/theracedaypoet: Two sisters. Two very different men behind the wheel. One Red Bull. One Ferrari. And somehow, they meet in the middle of a living room, with juice boxes, toy dinosaurs, and silent prayers. That’s what hit me about Victoria’s stories today.

@tracksideemotions: Charles Leclerc. Max Verstappen. Two of the most elite drivers in f1. Their sisters? Sat on a couch this afternoon, raising small kids and holding juice pouches and watching people they love do something terrifying. I don’t know. That’s kind of beautiful.

@/gridgirlsundays Not to get sentimental, but Victoria Verstappen and Isabelle Leclerc watching the race together? That’s actually so beautiful??? Two women who know exactly what it’s like to love someone who goes 300 kph for a living

@/gridgirlsunite: Seeing Victoria and Isabelle watching the race together, surrounded by kids and calm chaos… and realizing both of them have brothers in those cars. That hit.

@/chaoticenergyf1: We always talk about the WAGs. But the sisters? The ones who grew up with karting fumes in their hair and have to smile through every post-race debrief because no one really asks if they’re okay? Victoria and Isabelle deserve more credit.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo)

Isabelle: My car won’t start.

Isabelle: Can I borrow one of yours for a few days?

Charles: No.

Arthur: HAHAHAHAHAHA. No.

Lorenzo: Absolutely not.

Isabelle: …Are you kidding me? I have no way to get to work.

Arthur: Take the train?

Isabelle: It’s too far, and there’s no direct route.

Charles: The bus?

Isabelle: I’d have to leave in five minutes to even make it work.

Lorenzo: Taxi?

Isabelle: I can’t afford a taxi every day, Lorenzo.

Arthur: Maybe this is a sign you should finally buy a new car.

Isabelle: Oh yes, let me just manifest thousands of euros out of thin air.

Charles: You should have planned for this.

Isabelle: My car was fine yesterday, Charles! I didn’t exactly expect it to die overnight!

Arthur: Sounds like a you problem.

Isabelle: You problem?? My car just DIED. I didn’t plan for this!

Lorenzo: Maybe you should’ve.

Isabelle: HOW DOES ONE PLAN FOR THEIR CAR DYING OVERNIGHT?

Charles: By not driving something from 2010.

Arthur: Isabelle, your car was basically a tin can on wheels. It was only a matter of time.

Lorenzo: Yeah, at this point, it was a mercy killing.

Isabelle: Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize we all had Ferrari sponsorships. Let me just drop six figures on a new car real quick.

Arthur: You don’t need six figures. You just need something that isn’t held together by hope and desperation.

Isabelle: I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THIS.

Isabelle: One of you just lend me a car. For TWO DAYS. I promise I won’t even breathe near the paint.

Charles: Isabelle, you can’t just borrow a Ferrari like it’s a spare phone charger.

Isabelle: I wasn’t asking for your Ferrari specifically, Charles! Any of you must have something I can use.

Lorenzo: You’ll survive.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Max: Hey, you okay? Haven’t heard from you today.

Isabelle: Oh. Yeah. Just dealing with a disaster.

Max: …What kind of disaster?

Isabelle: My car is dead. Like fully dead. It made a noise that I’m pretty sure meant it was dying, started smoking, and then it wouldn’t start.

Max: That’s… not great. Did you have it towed?

Isabelle: It’s at the garage now. The mechanic basically said it’s on life support and not worth fixing.

Max: So take one of mine. You know where the car keys are.

Isabelle: Excuse me?

Max: So just take one of mine. You know where the car keys are. what’s the problem, schatje?

Isabelle: …You say that like it’s normal.

Max: It is normal? We live together? You need a car? I have cars? Just grab a key and take one?

Isabelle: …I asked my brothers if I could borrow one of their cars while I figure things out. Lorenzo ignored me. Arthur laughed. Charles said that I should have planned for this.

Max: Your brothers are useless.

Max: Take any one of the cars.

Isabelle: Max. Be serious.

Max: I am serious.

Isabelle: What if I crash it?!

Max: Then I worry more about you than the car.

Isabelle: What if I scratch something??

Max: Then it gets fixed.

Isabelle: Max.

Max: Isabelle.

Max: Just take one. I don’t want you dealing with this.

Isabelle: I cannot believe this. My own brothers wouldn’t even consider letting me borrow a car, and you—

Max: I’m your boyfriend. This is normal.

Isabelle: Is it???

Max: Yes. Now go pick a car before I get somebody to drive you everywhere.

Isabelle: You wouldn’t.

Max Verstappen: Schatje, they are just cars. You are making a big deal out of nothing. Pick whichever one you want.

Isabelle: I just… I can’t believe you’re okay with this.

Isabelle: You are actually insane.

Max: No, I’m practical. You need a car, I have cars. Problem solved.

Isabelle: Fine. Which one do you care about the least?

Max: None of them are as important as you.

Isabelle: That’s not what I—Max. Which one??

Max: …The Porsche?

Isabelle: I cannot take your Porsche.

Max: Okay, then take the Aston.

Isabelle: That is worse.sss

Max: Take the Audi, then. Or one of the Ferraris.

Isabelle: You are not helping.

Max: I’m literally giving you a solution, schatje. Just pick any of the cars. I don’t care which one you use. I have to get ready for qualifying. Take a car. Be safe. And text me when you’re home. Love you.

Isabelle: Love you too, you ridiculous man.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: You are NOT going to believe the absolute nonsense I just went through.

Emilie: Oh, this is already promising. Go on.

Isabelle: My car? Dead. Like full-on smoking and now won’t start. So I asked my dear, wonderful brothers if I could borrow one of their cars.

Emilie: Oh, I know this isn’t going to end well.

Isabelle: Lorenzo said ABSOLUTELY NOT. Arthur laughed. Charles told me, and I QUOTE: “Isabelle, you can’t just borrow a Ferrari like it’s a spare phone charger.”

Emilie: I shouldn’t be surprised, and yet.

Isabelle: I was fuming.

Emilie: So what’s the solution? Are you getting a rental?

Isabelle: I WAS. And then Max texted me because I hadn’t answered him all day. I explained the whole thing, and do you know what he said??

Emilie: …I am both excited and terrified to find out.

Isabelle: “Just take one of mine.”

Emilie: …

Emilie: Of course he did.

Isabelle: I told him that was INSANE. Like, shouldn’t racing drivers be obsessed with their cars? Worried I’ll scratch them? Do you know what Charles would do if I so much as LOOKED at his Ferrari keys too long??

Emilie: Have a full-on cardiac episode.

Isabelle: EXACTLY.

Emilie: And Max?

Isabelle: Told me to just grab a key and drive whichever car I wanted.

Emilie: …He really just handed you the keys to the kingdom, huh?

Isabelle: I told him I could CRASH it, and do you know what he said??

Emilie: Oh, I cannot wait.

Isabelle: “Then I worry more about you than the car.”

Emilie: …

Emilie: This man is going to MARRY you.

Isabelle: SHUT UP.

Emilie: I WILL NOT. That was the most disgustingly romantic thing I’ve ever read.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Max: So… what are we thinking for a new car?

Isabelle: Something used. I don’t need anything fancy.

Max: Used?

Isabelle: Yes?? I’ll be throwing horse stuff in there anyway. No point in getting something new just to cover it in mud and hay.

Max: No.

Isabelle: …No?

Max: No. You’re getting something safe.

Isabelle: Max.

Max: Isabelle.

Isabelle: You are being ridiculous.

Max: For wanting you to be in a car that won’t fall apart if someone breathes on it? Yeah, I am so ridiculous, you wouldn’t believe it.

Isabelle: It’s not going to fall apart, Max. I’ve had my car for years.

Max: And look what happened to it.

Isabelle: …Okay, fair.

Max: So. Something safe. Think about the children.

Isabelle: …What.

Max: When we have kids, you’re going to be driving them around.

Isabelle: Excuse me???

Max: What?

Isabelle: WHEN we have kids???

Max: Yes??

Isabelle: You’re already thinking about that??

Max: Of course.

Isabelle: Oh my god.

Max: I thought you’d already thought about it.

Isabelle: I have, but you thinking about it is a whole different thing!!

Max: Why wouldn’t I? I want a family. With you.

Isabelle: …

Max: Schatje?

Isabelle: I need a minute.

Max: Okay. Take your minute. But after that, we’re getting back to the car discussion because you are not getting some half-broken used car.

Isabelle: You just casually dropped “when we have kids” into a conversation about cars like it was nothing.

Max: It’s just… something I’ve thought about. A lot.

Isabelle: A lot??

Max: Yes? I want to spend my life with you. So obviously, I think about that.

Isabelle: Oh my god.

Max: And you’ve thought about it too.

Isabelle: I— okay, maybe, but that’s different!

Max: How?

Isabelle: Because I didn’t expect you to think about it!!

Max: …Schatje.

Isabelle: What.

Max: I love you.

Isabelle: …I love you too.

Max: I want to build a future with you. A family. I don’t know when that will happen, but I know that when it does, I want you to be the mother of my children.

Isabelle: …

Max: You’re being very quiet.

Isabelle: …Just processing.

Max: Take your time.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Emilie. Emergency.

Emilie: What did Max do?

Isabelle: We were talking about CARS. Just cars. Like normal people.

Emilie: Uh-huh…

Isabelle: And then out of nowhere, he’s like, “Well, think about the children.”

Emilie: …WHAT.

Isabelle: EXACTLY.

Emilie: WHAT.

Emilie: And what did you say???

Isabelle: Nothing! My brain short-circuited! He just kept talking like it was totally normal!!!

Emilie: Belle. Be honest. Are you freaking out because it was unexpected or because you really liked hearing him say that?

Isabelle: …I met his nephews.

Isabelle: Emilie. They’re tiny Maxes. Like. Exact replicas. The genes in that family are scary.

Emilie: YOU’RE GONE.

Isabelle: I’M IN DANGER.

Emilie: No, you’re in love.

Emilie: Belle. I love you, but you’ve always been that girl. The type who had a secret wedding Pinterest board at sixteen and a list of baby names hidden in your notes app.

Isabelle: …Shut up.

Emilie: Am I wrong?

Isabelle: …No.

Emilie: EXACTLY. And now you have a boyfriend who also thinks about those things. I’m so happy for you.

Isabelle: But like. He said it so casually. Like he just knows it’s going to happen. No hesitation, no panic. Just “Think about the children.”

Emilie: He’s in love with you, Belle. Obviously, he’s thinking about the future.

Isabelle: Yeah, but. That far ahead?

Emilie: Let’s be real. You love that he’s thinking about it.

Isabelle: I do. I really do.

Emilie: So. What are we naming my future godchild?

Isabelle: EMILIE.

Emilie: Just saying, you should prepare. Because if you do have a kid with Max Verstappen, it’s definitely going to be a mini Max.

Isabelle: I KNOW. That’s the problem. His genes are terrifyingly strong.

Emilie: You’re already picturing it, aren’t you?

Isabelle: …Maybe.

Emilie: You’re so gone for this man.

Isabelle: I KNOW.

Isabelle: I mean, logically, I knew Max was serious about us. But hearing him say something like that so casually? Like it’s just… a fact?

Emilie: Because to him, it is a fact. Belle, you are it for him. You really think Max Verstappen does things halfway?

Isabelle: No…

Emilie: Exactly. This is a guy who commits fully to everything. You think he wouldn’t be the same about you? About your future together?

Isabelle: I guess I just never thought someone would… want that with me, you know?

Emilie: Oh, Belle.

Isabelle: Like, I love my brothers, but I’ve spent my whole life feeling like an afterthought. Charles, Lorenzo and Arthur had their thing, their path, their goals. I was just… there.

Emilie: You were never just there.

Isabelle: It felt like it. Like I was always waiting for someone to see me. And now here’s Max, just—knowing. No hesitation, no doubts. He just knows.

Emilie: And that scares you?

Isabelle: No. That’s the thing—it doesn’t. It should, right? I should be panicking because it’s too much, too soon. But I’m not.

Emilie: Because deep down, you’ve already thought about it too.

Isabelle: …Yeah.

Emilie: So what now?

Isabelle: I don’t know. I mean, what am I supposed to do? Text him like, “Hey, I’d love to ruin my body for you, let’s make a Verstappen baby”?

Emilie: STOP! I just choked on my drink.

Isabelle: You asked!

Emilie: Okay, but honestly—do you want that? Not just in theory. Not just someday. With him.

Isabelle: …Yeah. I do.

Emilie: Belle. That’s huge.

Isabelle: I know. But it’s also terrifying.

Emilie: Why?

Isabelle: Because what if I let myself want it too much? What if I start dreaming about it and then something happens? What if it doesn’t work out?

Emilie: Okay, but what if it does? What if you and Max get everything you’ve ever wanted?

Isabelle: …Then I think I’d be really, really happy.

Emilie: Then maybe it’s time to start letting yourself believe in it.

Isabelle: Yeah. Maybe it is.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Isabelle: Hypothetically, what would you name our baby?

Max: Really, hypothetically? Or are you testing me?

Isabelle: Just answer the question, Verstappen.

Max: Fine. I like names that sound strong. Nothing too complicated.

Isabelle: …That’s not an answer.

Max: You answer first.

Isabelle: No, because then you’ll just pick one of mine to agree with.

Max: That is not true.

Isabelle: Prove it.

Max: Okay. If it’s a boy… maybe Noah.

Isabelle: Huh.

Max: You don’t like it?

Isabelle: No, I do! I just didn’t expect that.

Max: What did you expect?

Isabelle: I don’t know… something more Dutch?

Max: Like what?

Isabelle: I don’t know, Willem.

Max: …That’s literally the king’s name.

Isabelle: And your name is literally Max Emilian, you’re acting like you don’t sound like a prince in a European history textbook.

Max: Says the girl with four names. I refuse to name our kid Willem, by the way.

Isabelle: Okay, fine. What about a girl?

Max: I always liked Zoe.

Isabelle: …

Max: Why are you silent?

Isabelle: I just. Didn’t expect that either.

Max: You’re testing me, aren’t you?

Isabelle: Maybe.

Max: Isabelle.

Isabelle: Okay, fine, I was curious.

Max: And?

Isabelle: And now I know that you’ve actually thought about this.

Max: Of course I have. I told you—I don’t do things halfway.

Isabelle: …

Max: What?

Isabelle: Nothing.

Max: Isabelle.

Isabelle: It’s just… I like Zoe.

Max: Yeah?

Isabelle: Yeah.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase

Max: Hey, I need car advice.

GP: For yourself?

Max: No, for Isabelle.

GP: What happened to her current car?

Max: It died. Fixing it would cost more than it's worth.

GP: That sounds about right. So, what are you thinking?

Max: Something safe for the kids.

GP:

GP: WHAT KIDS?

Max: ???

GP: MAX.

GP: ISABELLE IS PREGNANT???

Max: No??

GP: THEN WHY ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT "SOMETHING SAFE FOR THE KIDS"?

Max: Oh. I meant, like, future kids.

GP: Max.

GP: You nearly gave me a heart attack.

Max: Why would you immediately assume she's pregnant?

GP: BECAUSE YOU SAID "FOR THE KIDS."

Max: Yeah, but future ones. Obviously.

GP: Nothing about that was obvious, Max.

Max: …So do you have a car suggestion or not?

GP: Max. MAX. You’ve been dating for—what—five months?

Max: Almost six.

GP: AND YOU’RE ALREADY THINKING ABOUT KIDS??

Max: I mean, yeah? Why wouldn’t I?

GP: Because most people don’t plan future car safety for hypothetical children six months into a relationship??

Max: Well, when you know, you know.

Max: Anyway. I’m thinking of an SUV. Maybe a Mercedes. Isabelle wants something practical, but I don’t trust her to pick something actually safe.

GP: What does she want?

Max: “Something cheap that won’t make her cry if a horse destroys it.”

GP: And you?

Max: Something that won’t crumple in a crash. Something safe. Something that—

GP: Can carry future Verstappen babies, I got it.

Max: You’re catching on.

GP: You are so lucky I’ve known you this long because if anyone else told me this six months into dating, I’d assume they were insane.

Max: I am insane.

GP: … Fair.

GP: So, does Isabelle know you’re out here planning a future family car?

Max: Not exactly.

GP: Oh my god.

Max: We were just talking about what kind of car she should get, and I may have casually mentioned thinking about safety for future kids.

GP: And?

Max: She kind of short-circuited.

GP: No kidding.

GP: So, what’s the plan?

Max: I’m going to “help” her pick something.

GP: Meaning?

Max: Meaning she thinks we’re going car shopping, but really, I’m going to steer her toward something I already picked out.

GP: You are so manipulative.

Max: Smart. I’m smart.

GP: Does she know that you’re just going to buy it for her?

Max: No, and she’ll fight me on it, but I’ll win.

GP: How?

Max: I’ll just tell her it’s a gift, and if she doesn’t accept it, I’ll be very sad.

GP: Max, that only works because you have the face of a golden retriever.

Max: And I use it.

Max: So, what car should I buy her?

GP: You want me to help you pick a car for your girlfriend, who has no idea you’re about to buy her a car?

Max: Exactly.

GP: Do I look like a car salesman?

Max: You look like my race engineer, which means you’re good at analyzing data and helping me make smart decisions.

GP: That is such a stretch.

Max: Come on. What would you get if you were picking a car for your girlfriend?

GP: Something reliable. Safe. Not too flashy—

Max: Boring.

GP: Practical.

Max: I don’t want Isabelle driving something boring.

GP: Because you’re planning on borrowing it?

Max: No! Because she deserves something nice.

GP: But she doesn’t want nice, she wants practical.

Max: I can do both.

GP: Max—

Max: What?

GP: Just buy her a Volvo.

Max: A Volvo?

GP: Safe. Reliable. Built to last.

Max: But—

GP: Also one of the best crash-tested brands in the world. You did say you were thinking about kids, right?

Max: I hate that you know me this well.

GP: That’s my job.

Max: …Fine. I’ll look at Volvos.

GP: Good. Just… next time you text me something like that, lead with the fact that she’s not pregnant.

Max: I think it was funnier this way.

GP: I hate you.

***

"You’re being weird."

Max glanced at Isabelle as they walked into the dealership, his face a perfect mask of innocence. "I’m not being weird."

"You are," she insisted, narrowing her eyes. "You hate car dealerships. You said, and I quote, ‘Why would I subject myself to this when I can just order a car online and have it delivered like a normal person?’”

"Well," Max said smoothly, "this is different. This is your car."

Isabelle was still suspicious but let it go. For now. She’s just grateful he came with her. She might love shopping, but car shopping? Absolutely not.

A salesman approached, all too eager when he recognised who had just walked in. "Mr. Verstappen, it’s a pleasure! How can I help you today?"

Max didn’t even hesitate. "We’re looking at SUVs."

Isabelle stopped in her tracks. "We are?"

"Yes," Max said, completely unfazed. "Something safe. Reliable. Good for long drives and carrying things."

"Like hay and tack and muddy boots?" she deadpanned.

The salesman, sensing an easy sale, grinned. "I’ve got some great options! Any particular brands in mind?"

Max gave him a look. The look. The one that meant he already had one car in mind and would not be swayed.

"Show us the Volvo XC90, please."

Isabelle blinked. "A Volvo?"

Max nodded. "Volvos are the safest cars on the market."

"You sound like a commercial."

"It’s true."

"I thought you were going to make me test drive something ridiculous, like a Ferrari SUV."

"No," Max scoffed, as if the mere suggestion was offensive.

The salesman led them over to a sleek, black Volvo XC90. Isabelle, despite herself, was intrigued. It was nice. Comfortable. It had all the modern safety features Max has probably memorized.

She ran her hand over the hood. "This is… actually not bad."

Max gave her a satisfied look. "GP thought you would like it."

Isabelle frowned. "Wait. GP was involved in this?"

"Of course. He and I had a whole discussion."

"About my car?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Max shrugged, playing innocent. "I wanted his opinion. He agreed it was a good choice for you."

Isabelle crossed her arms. "So you two picked this out before we even got here?"

"Not exactly—"

"Max."

"Okay, yes."

Isabelle gaped at him. "So this whole ‘shopping’ trip was just a performance? A setup?"

Max looked far too pleased with himself. "Well, I couldn’t just tell you to get this one. You’d have fought me on it."

"Of course I would have! You can’t just decide for me!"

"But you like it, don’t you?"

She hesitated. Damn him. She did like it. But that wasn’t the point.

"You’re insufferable."

Max grinned, leaning against the car. "Yet, here we are."

The salesman, wisely staying out of this, cleared his throat. "Would you like to test drive it?"

Isabelle sighed. "I guess."

Max nudged her. "You’re welcome."

"I didn’t thank you."

"You will," Max said smugly.

And annoyingly, she knew he was right.

***

Max had never been one for extravagant birthday celebrations. He much preferred a quiet evening, good food, and the company of someone he actually wanted to be around. Which was why, when Isabelle asked him what he wanted to do for his birthday, his answer was simple:

"Just dinner. At home. With you."

So that was exactly what they did.

Isabelle had insisted on cooking, despite his half-hearted protests that they could just order something. But she had shot him a look—one he knew well by now, the kind that dared him to argue—and so he had wisely backed off. Instead, he stood at the kitchen island, sipping a glass of wine as he watched her move around the kitchen with quiet efficiency.

"You know," he mused, "this is a pretty good birthday already."

She rolled her eyes, but he caught the small smile she tried to hide. "I haven't even finished cooking yet."

"Doesn't matter. You’re here. That’s enough."

Her hands stilled on the cutting board, her grip tightening slightly before she exhaled and resumed slicing the vegetables. She had never been great at accepting compliments, but Max had learned to give them anyway.

Dinner turned out perfect—simple, comforting, and exactly what he wanted. After they had eaten, they lingered at the table, talking about everything and nothing at all, her fingers occasionally brushing against his. When they finally moved to the couch, he pulled her close, letting out a content sigh.

"Happy birthday, Max," she murmured, pressing a kiss to his jaw.

He hummed in response, his arms tightening around her. "It is."

Max hadn’t wanted a big celebration. No parties, no cameras, no over-the-top surprises—just a quiet evening at home with Isabelle. And honestly, that was all he needed.

He smiled, tightening his hold on her. “It is.”

The quiet hum of the city outside their apartment barely registered as Max sat there, content with the warmth of Isabelle tucked against him. He had spent birthdays in Monaco, in fancy restaurants, surrounded by people who barely knew him beyond his racing. But this—just the two of them, no distractions—was his favorite.

She shifted slightly, tilting her head to look up at him. "You’re really that easy to please?"

Max smirked. "When it comes to you? Yeah."

A faint flush rose on her cheeks, and he resisted the urge to tease her for it. Instead, he traced a slow line along her arm, feeling the way she relaxed under his touch.

After a while, Isabelle sat up, reaching for something on the coffee table. It was a small, neatly wrapped box—he hadn’t even noticed it before. She hesitated before handing it to him.

"I know you said you didn’t want anything," she said, suddenly looking a little nervous. "But—well, I wanted to get you something anyway."

Max took the box, curiosity flickering in his eyes as he unwrapped it. Inside was a simple metal bracelet. But what caught his attention was the engraving on the inside—subtle, almost hidden.

"Vitesse et cœur."

Speed and heart.

His chest tightened.

"It’s nothing big," Isabelle said quickly. "I just—I know racing is everything to you, but I also know you drive with more than just skill. You drive with everything you have." She exhaled, fingers twisting together. "I just thought it fit."

Max stared at her for a long moment before carefully sliding the bracelet onto his wrist. It fit perfectly.

He didn’t say anything right away—just pulled her close, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead.

"You know me too well," he murmured against her skin.

She huffed a quiet laugh. "I’d hope so, considering I’ve been secretly dating you for months."

Max chuckled, his grip on her tightening. "Best secret I’ve ever kept."

***

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miniimight · 1 year ago

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"S'NOT MY BIRTHDAY..." silly girl, thinking you need an occasion in order to be spoiled by them!

with gojo, nanami x fem!reader

notes trying out this writing thing again lol

in previous relationships, you had to deal with the bare minimum. a generic greeting card on valentine's day, a bunch of snacks for your birthday, and a necklace for christmas because 'that's what girls like, right?'

now, with him, it's different. he has no qualms about getting you anything your eyes linger on, no matter the price. he had so much money, he picked things up and swiped his card without so much as a glance at the cost. it baffled you sometimes.

it happened was early on in your relationship. you then quickly learned to just sit back and let him spoil you!!

GOJO

satoru's fingers were laced with yours as he swung your connected arms between you. he inhaled deeply, looking up at the high ceiling of the mall. "today's a good a day as any to throw some cash, don't you think baby?"

you giggle and squeeze his hand. "one or two things should be okay." that's what you budgeted for, anyway.

he rolled his eyes, scolding you for your tiny imagination before allowing you to pull him along to your favorite stores.

it wasn't long before your eyes spotted the store you loved but couldn't afford. your stare was glued to the window display, all the cute tops and pants and bags and shoes and bracelets and...

when he felt your steps slow, satoru glanced at you. you were laser focused on the clothing store—naturally, he sharply turned towards it.

"hey!" you squeaked at the sudden change of direction, and you hurried to match his pace again. "toru??"

"i saw you looking, baby, why didn't you just say you wanted to check it out?" he teased.

you looked over to the side, embarrassed. "i... i don't wanna tempt myself, cus i know i'll gaslight myself into buying something."

he narrowed his eyes, not in scorn but in confusion. "who said you were buying anything?"

"huh?" you chirped, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

gojo stared blankly at you. you really were adorable, thinking he wouldn't spend his last dime on whatever you wanted, regardless of how trivial it was. a smile pulled at his lips.

"my sweet girl," he cooed. "my sweet, slow girl..."

you gasped indignantly and poked satoru's side, earning a giggle from him. "slow?!"

"obviously, i'll by whatever you want, silly." he tugged you towards the entrance of the store.

"but..." you resisted his pull. "it's not my birthday or anything..."

huh? he pouted. "as if i need a special reason to get you stuff."

"but..." heat creeped up your neck as you reveled in the unfamiliar feeling of being spoiled. something inside you told you that he was just being nice and was waiting for you to shut him down, save him the expenses. "it's not fair, is it? i didn't get you anything so far..."

his face fell slightly as he pulled you away from the busy traffic of the moving crowds. satoru pulled your chin up to face him. "i dunno what's running through that pretty head of yours, but answer me this, okay?"

you nod.

"you want it?" he gestured towards the store.

you hesitated, eyes straying from his face. he quickly squished your cheeks, causing your eyes to widen and snap to his. "—!"

"don't overthink it, pretty girl, just tell me."

"yesfh." you answer dejectedly, muffled against his hands.

"then you'll have it." he told you. "i want you to have anything and everything you say you want. i wanna buy it for you. and being able to hear you say 'my boyfriend got this for me' is all i need in return." he grinned cheekily.

you pouted, looking unbelievably cute in his eyes. he despises the partners of your past for leading you astray, thinking you needed to do something special in order to be appreciated. don't worry, he'll fix that in no time.

he pecked your pursed lips before hugging you. "okay?"

you giggle. "okay."

"yay!! now let's go!!"

by the end of the day, he had to call ichiji to help carry all the bags to the car. he was so proud of you!

NANAMI

kento was your shadow as you glided through the store, picking up things and setting them down.

"oh, this is so cute!" you squealed holding up a tee for him to see.

he smiled, more because of your excited expression than the t-shirt. "it is. you should get it."

you hummed, in thought. your hands drifted over the material, picking up the tag before inhaling sharply. "nah, another time."

he frowned. you'd done this at every store so far, picking up things you said you liked but leaving them behind. he was bewildered. "but... you like it, do you not?"

you winced, hoping this topic wouldn't come up. "i do! it's just the price. out of my budget, you know?" you said, trying to be light. you burned with discomfort. might as well just say you're poor.

kento frowned. "oh..."

"yeah."

you quickly turned away, avoiding the confused look on his face.

"y/n." he called you.

"...yes?" you glanced behind you, seeing him standing over the shirts.

"are you under the impression that you would be paying?" he asked.

you blinked. "oh?" yes, you were, but you were surprised to learn that he had the opposite understanding. "well... yeah."

he frowned, disappointed with himself. "i'm sorry. i didn't intend to make you feel that way."

you stepped closer, rubbing his arm soothingly. "what are you talking about?" you laughed softly. "you didn't make me feel any kind of way. i'm not upset, if that's what you're getting at. i never expected you to spend your money on me."

his frown only deepened. oh, how he has failed. "why not?"

you faltered. how did you manage to make it worse? "i'm not sure i understand..."

kento shook his head. "have you been thinking you'd be using your own money for purchases? this whole time?"

"um..."

"sweetheart, i'm paying. for everything, at all times." he refused to hear anything else, cutting you off when you opened your mouth to retort. "we'll have to circle back to the stores we previously visited."

it was your turn to frown. "kento, it won't be my birthday for a few months! you don't have to get me anything right now."

"what does your birthday have to do with anything?" he asked, genuinely confused. "i don't mean to interrogate you, my love, but i think i am the one who doesn't understand."

"you'd get me anything i asked for?" you shoot back, spelling it out for him. "for no reason?"

"for one reason," he replied. "simply because you want it. it'd make you happy."

warmth spread across your face. "that's two reasons." you mumbled.

he clicked his tongue, exacerbating your bashfulness when he pulled you into his side. he kissed your forehead. "you make me laugh, y/n. i was so confused as to why you weren't getting anything. surely that's not how you usually shop."

he bought that shirt for you, as well as the many things you thought were cute at all the stores you stepped foot in. now, you shop without any hesitations.

#gojo x reader #satoru x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo fluff #nanami x reader #kento x reader #nanami kento x reader #nanami fluff #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jjk gojo #jjk nanami #gojo satoru #nanami kento #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk satoru #jjk kento #jjk x you

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rynwrites4fun · 4 days ago

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Across The Hall | Michael Robinavitch x Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Michael Robinavitch x F! Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Summary: You’ve lived across from Michael "Robby" Robinavitch, an ER doctor, for a year. Your interactions have always been brief—polite smiles and small talk in the elevator. In your own relationship, you often feel invisible, reaching out for someone who never quite reciprocates. One evening, after your boyfriend flakes on you and leaves you feeling disappointed, Michael unexpectedly steps in, offering a kind gesture that turns the night around. What starts as an act of casual kindness begins to shift into something deeper, and you start to realize that Michael’s quiet presence might be exactly what you’ve been missing.

Word Count: 4912

Warnings: age gap (mid 20's /early 50's)

Author’s Note: i realized i should write a Robby fic so here we are. it’s prob not a good idea for me start writing a new fic when I got eyes on me going….well, the more the merrier. - ryn

Friday, 6:30am

The apartment building was still—quiet, not yet alive with the usual hum of waking bodies and the shuffle of morning routines. You were getting ready to leave for work, just before seven, as always. Being an elementary teacher meant early mornings and coffee-fueled commutes. These few quiet moments of the morning felt like the only part of the day that truly belonged to you.

In the kitchen, the comforting scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the air as you packed your lunch for the day. Your hands moved with practiced ease—turkey sandwich, fruit, a granola bar—a well-worn rhythm. The morning light spilled through the window, soft and golden, casting long shadows across the countertop where your phone sat, still and silent.

No messages.

Not unexpected.

With one hand, you reached for the spinach to finish your sandwich; with the other, you unlocked your phone and opened your messages. For a second, your reflection flickered on the dark screen—eyes a little tired, but hopeful. Always hopeful.

You typed slowly, carefully, like the words mattered more today.

Good morning Hope you slept okay. Just a reminder—we’ve got date night tonight. 7pm at that Italian place you like. I’m looking forward to it. Love you.

You hit send and watched as the message slid into the thread beneath a row of older ones, mostly from you. Then you set the phone down, turning back to the sandwich as you slid it into your lunch bag.

Your boyfriend, Aiden, is always busy. Always working late, always on his phone, always somewhere else—even when he’s right beside you. You sit across from him at dinner, trying to talk, trying to connect, but he only half-listens, nodding at his screen more than at your words.

You feel lonely. Not the kind of loneliness that comes from being alone, but the kind that fills the space between you. The kind that grows in unanswered questions, in the way he forgets things that matter to you. You don’t say it out loud. Instead, you try harder. You show love in the small ways you hope he’ll notice—in making his coffee just right, in folding his clothes the way he likes, in letting your own needs take a backseat to his.

You never beg for love—not with words. But your actions speak louder. You’re always giving, always waiting, always hoping that this time it’ll be enough. That this time, he’ll see you, hear you, choose you.

You take whatever scraps of attention he offers. A distracted “love you,” a tired hand on your back, a night where he actually looks at you instead of his phone. You convince yourself it’s something. That it means he cares. That if you just keep being patient, things will change.

And still—despite it all—you love him. Your heart hasn’t hardened. It’s still open, still warm. You still believe in love, in connection, in the possibility that he might one day meet you halfway. Because even when your needs go unmet, you somehow still have more to give.

So, you keep softening. Keep adjusting. Keep waiting.

You grab your things and head out the door. You stepped into the hallway at the same time as your neighbor.

Michael Robinavitch. He also went by Robby, a casual nickname for a last name with too many syllables for everyday use. You, however, always called him Michael.

You’d lived next door to him for about a year now. The two of you were acquainted—small talk in passing, a nod here and there, the occasional conversation while waiting for the elevator—but never more than that. Not quite strangers, not quite friends.

You knew he was one of the attending physicians in the ER at the local hospital. He mostly worked day shifts, though every now and then, you’d catch him coming home late at night, shoulders sagging with exhaustion. He had kind eyes—the kind that made people feel safe—even when the rest of him stayed closed off. Always polite. Always distant.

He was at least a decade older than you—maybe more—but carried himself with a quiet confidence that made age feel irrelevant. There was something steady about him, something grounded in the way he moved, in the calm cadence of his voice when he did speak. You’d noticed, even if you never said so.

“Morning,” he said with a quick smile as he locked his door.

He was dressed as he usually was on workdays: a fitted white shirt under a black scrub top, blue hoodie zipped halfway up, medical cargo pants. A backpack slung over one shoulder, a coffee tumbler balanced in one hand. Sunglasses perched on his head. AirPods tucked into his ears—though he always popped one out to say hello.

“Hi, good morning!” you replied, cheerful as ever, juggling your bag, your water bottle, and a lunchbox covered in cartoon stickers from your students.

The two of you walked toward the elevator in silence, a quiet routine that had somehow become familiar. You’d grown used to these brief encounters—fleeting, but oddly comforting.

He smelled faintly of soap and coffee, a clean, grounded scent that stood in contrast to the overwhelming cologne your boyfriend always wore. You glanced at Michael from the corner of your eye. He looked tired, like he usually did this early—but present. Alert. He was always present.

You, by contrast, were all warmth and energy, a splash of color next to his quiet gray. Still hopeful. Still full of brightness. You were in your fourth year of teaching, and though the days were long, your spark hadn’t dimmed. Not yet.

He’d noticed, even if he never said so. Just like you’d noticed the way he moved through the world—weathered, maybe, but not hardened. Tired, but kind.

The elevator chimed, and the doors slid open with their familiar hum. He let you step inside first—like he always did when you caught each other leaving at the same time. He even holds the lobby door for you. One thing you liked about him: he was a gentleman.

The silence between you wasn’t awkward anymore. It had settled into something easy. Comfortable.

He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed loosely. You glanced at him—just briefly. His face was unreadable, but not unkind. There was something steady about him, even in stillness. Like the eye of a storm.

“I’m glad it’s Friday,” you said, breaking the quiet. “This week’s been exhausting.” You let out a breathy chuckle—more air than sound. It floated in the space between you like a fragile thread.

Michael didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth lifted—barely there, but real. That was usually all you got from him, and somehow, it always felt like enough. Like you’d earned it.

He shifted his weight, glanced at you sideways, like he was debating saying something. Then: “Yeah. Long week.”

You nodded, eyes forward now, watching the elevator numbers light up one by one. The silence returned, but it felt warmer this time. Companionable.

“Big weekend plans?” he asked suddenly, his voice low and a little rough, like it hadn’t quite shaken off sleep.

You smiled, surprised he’d initiated the conversation. “Just sleeping. Maybe grading. Depends on how ambitious I feel.” You tilted your head toward him. “You?”

He shook his head. “Same. Resting if I can.”

You nodded, a smile tugging at your lips. “Well… here’s to restful weekends.”

Michael gaze lingered on you a second longer than it needed to. Then he gave a slow nod. “Yeah. Here’s hoping.”

Then, on a whim, you added, “Actually, I do have one thing planned tonight—dinner with my boyfriend. We’re going to that Italian place down the street.”

You couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face. Just saying it out loud made your heart flutter a bit. “It’s this cozy spot—Bella Notte. You’ve probably walked past it a hundred times without noticing. Candlelight tables, soft music, the whole thing smells like basil and fresh-baked bread the second you walk in—”

You paused, eyes lighting up. “Their pasta is insane. Like, handmade that morning. I’ve honestly been dreaming about it all week.”

Your laugh was light, genuine. “And the dessert—don’t even get me started! They do this tiramisu, too—like, real tiramisu. Not the soggy kind. Light, fluffy, just enough espresso—“

You laughed a little, almost embarrassed at how carried away you got. “Anyway. Yeah. I’m excited… “It’s silly, I know.”

But it wasn’t silly. Not to Michael. He just nodded, tucking the image of your smile into the back of his mind.

His eyebrows lifted slightly in interest. “Sounds nice. Hope you guys enjoy it.”

Michael had seen your boyfriend around from time to time, but something was off. Michael noticed how your boyfriend seemed physically there but mentally elsewhere. He didn’t act like a boyfriend should—no warmth, no attentiveness. It was almost like he ignored you, as if you were an afterthought. That disconnect didn’t sit right with Michael, but he didn’t feel the need to comment on it. It wasn’t his place.

“Thanks,” you replied, feeling hopeful tonight will be a good date night. You glanced at the elevator doors, feeling the weight of the conversation shift. “It’s been a while since we had a real night out. I’m looking forward to it.”

Michael’s gaze lingered on you a second longer than it needed to, then he gave a slow nod. “Yeah, sometimes you need those moments to… recalibrate, right?”

The elevator reached the ground floor, and He let you out first, heading toward the lobby doors. He held it open for you, like always. You thanked him.

“I’ll see you around,” Michael called over his shoulder pulling his sunglasses down onto his face as your paths began to part.

“Bye, have a nice day- you know, saving lives and all,” you replied, watching him walk down the street, his footsteps fading behind him.

He slowed, glanced back with a faint smirk. “You too—educating the youth. Lives of tomorrow and all that.”

You laughed under your breath. “Touché.”

His footsteps faded into the quiet, and you stepped out into the morning air. Something in your chest eased. The weight of the week had already begun to lift—just a little.

—

You got home from a long day at work, the noise and energy of your fifth graders still echoing faintly in your mind. During your lunch break, Aiden had finally texted you back—

Dinner’s on tonight. Can’t wait to see you.

Just like that, your tiredness had been replaced with anticipation.

After a short rest, you got up and started getting ready. You took your time, letting yourself feel excited. You curled your hair, did your makeup just the way you liked it, and slipped into the dress you’d been saving for a night that felt special. And tonight felt like it could be—maybe even like the start of something real.

You headed outside and waited on the front steps of your apartment building, heart light, a small smile playing on your lips. He said he was on his way.

Minutes passed. Then more. You checked your phone once. Twice. The sky darkened slowly, and with it, your hope dimmed too.

You finally sat down, the concrete steps cool beneath you, heels tapping against the pavement as your nerves turned to unease.

Then your phone buzzed.

Sorry babe, something really important came up with the case. I can’t make it tonight. Rain check!

Your face dropped. The message was short, casual. Like it hadn’t just taken the air out of your lungs.

You stared at the screen, the words sinking in slowly. The butterflies in your stomach turned heavy, bitter. The excitement that had carried you through the day drained out of you all at once, replaced by a familiar, hollow ache. You blinked, willing the sting in your eyes to go away before anyone could see.

You took a steady breath and typed back:

It’s okay. Good luck with the case!

You hit send, then sit there a moment longer—makeup flawless, dress perfect, and heart suddenly a little more guarded than it had been an hour ago.

You looked down at yourself—at the dress you’d picked out, the soft curl in your hair, the subtle shimmer on your cheeks—and felt foolish. Not because you’d dressed up, but because you’d let yourself.

“Hey”

You looked up. Michael was walking toward the steps, his backpack slung over one shoulder, scrubs wrinkled from a long shift in the ER.

“Oh—hi,” you said, giving him a small smile.

He stopped a few steps down and took you in, his expression softening. “Wow,” he said. “You look… great.”

He smiled, taking in the way your dress caught the last of the light, the soft curl in your hair, the effort you’d put in. He always thought you looked beautiful—but tonight, there was something else in your eyes too. Something quieter. Sadder.

Because he could see it. The way your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. The way your hands fidgeted with the fabric of your dress. You were trying to hide it—whatever had just happened—but Michael had spent enough time in triage to know what a broken heart looked like, even when it was wrapped in lip gloss and heels.

You smiled, a little tighter this time. “Thank you.”

Michael lingered there for a second, like he wasn’t sure whether to stay or keep walking, then shifted his backpack on his shoulder.

“Your boyfriend is coming?” He was wondering how long you’d been out here waiting for him.

“No actually” you say standing up, dusting the back of your dress. “Change of plans—it’s looking like a night in instead”

He flaked, Michael thought. You didn’t have to say it. He just knew, reading the situation. The way you’d said “change of plans”, the tightness around your eyes, the way you tried to brush it off with a smile—it was all the confirmation he needed.

Michael had seen this before. He’d seen the letdown in the way people hold themselves after plans fall apart, the quiet resignation that creeps in when you’ve been let down by someone who should have shown up.

But Michael didn’t say any of that. Instead, he just nodded, letting the silence stretch between you both for a moment.

He felt bad. You’d been genuinely excited about that Italian place—you’d rambled about it in the elevator that morning. The way you lit up as you described ambiance and food.

“You know,” Michael said after a moment, “when you were talking about that Italian restaurant earlier, I couldn’t stop thinking about it all day. I just got off my shift. Long day. I’m kind of too lazy to cook tonight, and I was thinking of picking some up and taking it home..”

…He trailed off, like he was giving you room to fill in the blank if you wanted to.

You looked at him—really looked. The quiet steadiness in his eyes, the way he didn’t push or pity, just stood there, offering a way out of the evening that didn’t involve you sitting alone in a dress you’d worn for someone who didn’t bother to show.

“…Do you wanna come? I’m not sure what to get—you seem to be a Bella Notte connoisseur,” he said, a playful lilt in his voice, but something gentler behind his eyes.

You blinked, caught off guard—not by the offer itself, but by the way he said it. Not like he was saving you. Not like you were someone to be pitied. Just… included.

For a moment, the words stuck in your throat. You’d been bracing for an evening of quietly peeling off your makeup, throwing the dress into a pile, eating something frozen while pretending it didn’t matter. But Michael had given you a different choice. And somehow, he’d made it feel easy.

You smiled. This one, real. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

“Good,” he said, relief barely hidden in the curve of his grin.

Then, as if sensing the fragility of the moment, he didn’t try to fill it with anything clever or overthought. He just gestured toward the sidewalk. “Shall we?”

You nodded, falling into step beside him,

“Lead the way”

The click of your heels a steady rhythm against the pavement. The late spring air was still warm, but there was a breeze now, tugging gently at the hem of your dress, softening everything. You walked on the edge of the sidewalk closest to the road, but Michael moved you to the inside, switching places with you.

He didn’t say anything when he guided you to the safer side of the sidewalk—just a light hand at the small of your back, casual and instinctive. You noticed, of course. Not because it was dramatic, romantic, or loud, but because it was something else entirely: considerate. A gesture that spoke volumes without needing a single word.

You didn’t comment on it, but your steps slowed just enough to match his stride more closely. There was a comfort in the pace, in the sound of his shoes beside yours, in the quiet understanding between two people who weren’t trying to be anything other than present.

For a while, neither of you said much. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it felt like a pause between beats, like both of you had agreed to let the noise of the day settle. And maybe that was what you needed most right now. Not fixing. Not a distraction. Just company.

“So,” Michael said eventually, glancing sideways at you, “if I hate this place, do I get to blame you forever?”

You snorted. “Absolutely not. But if you love it, I expect full credit.”

“Seems fair,” he said, smiling. “What’s the order then, oh wise one?”

You pretended to consider it seriously. “Cacio e pepe, bruschetta, mozzarella and prosciutto, and you’re not allowed to skip the tiramisu. It’s... important.”

He nodded solemnly. “Tiramisu. Got it. A matter of national security.”

“Exactly,” you said, and for a moment, you weren’t thinking about Aiden, or your phone, or the sting you’d felt sitting alone on the steps. You were thinking about pasta. And the way Michael had made this feel like a beginning, not an ending.

“Here it is.”

Up ahead, the golden glow of Bella Notte spilled onto the sidewalk, soft and inviting. The warm light glowed through the windows, the soft clink of dishes, and the low hum of conversation drifting out. You caught yourself smiling again.

—

You and Michael had ordered everything you'd talked about while walking, the anticipation of good food and even better company making the trip feel effortless. Like a true gentleman, Michael insisted on paying for the meal, despite your protests. You tried to argue, but he only smiled and said something about it being his treat—"next time, you'll get it," he promised.

Afterward, he carried the bags back to the apartment, each step filled with an easy, quiet rhythm between the two of you. You walked beside him, your footsteps falling in sync, the warm bags of food tucked securely in his hands. The elevator ride up to the 6th floor was brief, but it felt like just enough time to enjoy the moment before the evening had to end.

You reached your doors, the quiet of the hallway wrapping around you both. You stopped just in front of your apartment, heart a little heavier at the thought of this being the last part of the evening. "Do you wanna come over and eat? Or not—I know you must be tired." The offer slipped out before you could second-guess it, an instinct you couldn’t ignore.

You liked Michael’s company more than you’d expected. There was something easy, almost natural, about being with him. You weren’t ready to say goodbye just yet, and you hoped he wasn’t either.

“Uh…Yeah, sure,” he said with a grin, his voice light. “I’m just gonna shower. I need to get the ER off of me.” He laughed, the sound easy and familiar. “I’ll be over in ten minutes. Is that okay?”

You nodded, taking the bags of food he handed you as you both stepped into your apartment. The air felt a little warmer now, like it had shifted into something more comfortable, more settled.

As promised, Michael showed up soon after. He’d clearly made an effort to unwind—out of his scrubs, into a simple white t-shirt and black sweatpants, sneakers completing the casual look. The reading glasses perched on his nose added an unexpected, almost studious touch, softening his usual confident energy. It was a different side of him, and somehow, it made him even more appealing.

The two of you sat down at your island table, the food spread out between you, the soft light from the lamp casting a warm glow over the room. There was a quiet ease in the way you both settled in, as if you’d done this a hundred times before. You unpacked the bags, the smell of the food filling the space, mixing with the faint scent of Michael’s cologne.

“Alright, let’s see if this was worth the walk,” he said, grinning as you grabbed a few napkins and handed one to him. Michael smirked, but you could see the familiar spark of excitement in his eyes, like he was just as eager to dive into the meal as you were.

He took a bite of the Cacio e pepe , pausing for a moment to savor the flavors. Then, his expression shifted, the glint in his eyes turning to one of mock seriousness.

“So? What’s the verdict? Worth the walk?” you ask him

"Absolutely," he said, taking another bite, his voice slightly muffled by the food. "Bella Notte? 10 out of 10. You took my Bella Notte virginity. You’ve officially converted me." Michael paused again, wiping his mouth with the napkin you’d handed him, clearly impressed.

You laughed, unable to hold it in. “Well, I’m glad I could make such an impact.” went back to your own meal, secretly pleased that he was enjoying it as much as you were.

“Bella Notte has ruined any other Italian restaurant for me,” he said, shaking his head in mock disbelief.

You grinned, feeling a sense of triumph. “That’s the power of Bella Notte,” you teased, cutting into your own dish. “Once it gets you, there’s no going back. Other Italian places will just feel... meh in comparison.”

Michael shook his head again, still not quite believing it. “I’m serious. I don’t know how I’ll go back to the regular stuff after this. This place has ruined me for every other pasta joint in the city."

You raised your eyebrows, a sly grin forming on your lips. “Okay, now you gotta try the tiramisu!”

The two of you finished eating, and Michael immediately jumped in to help clean up. He tossed the to-go containers in the trash, wiping down the countertop with a few swift motions. It was the kind of effortless help that made the whole process feel casual, like it was nothing, but it still meant a lot.

“Thanks for tonight,” you said, your voice a little softer than usual. You meant more than just the meal. Michael had truly saved the night. If it hadn’t been for him, you’d have been alone, cooped up in your apartment, feeling sorry for yourself after your boyfriend flaked out on dinner. But instead, here you were—laughing, enjoying a good meal, and feeling a lot more like yourself.

Michael looked up, his eyes meeting yours with that easy warmth he always carried. “Anytime,” he said with a small but genuine smile.

You smiled back, a little grateful for his presence, for the way he turned an unexpectedly rough evening into something enjoyable. Maybe even more than enjoyable—his company was better than you could have imagined. You'd gone from feeling alone to... well, you didn’t quite know how to describe it. But it was good. Comfortable.

You cleared your throat, breaking the quiet. “Seriously, Michael. You didn’t have to. But I’m really glad you did.” You were grateful, but the words still felt somehow insufficient for what he’d done. He’d shown up when no one else had, and that meant more than you could say.

He shrugged with that signature nonchalance, still wearing that easy grin. "I don’t mind. Not a big deal." But even as he downplayed it, there was something in his eyes that told you he knew it was. He wasn’t just being polite. He was being real.

“I just… wasn’t expecting tonight to turn out like this,” you admitted, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “I thought I’d be sitting here by myself, feeling stupid for getting my hopes up. But you made it better. So... thanks for not making me feel like an idiot.”

Michael didn’t say anything at first. He just paused, his hands stilling mid-wipe as your words settled in the quiet space between you. You didn’t have to explain—he already knew you were talking about your boyfriend. About how he flaked on the plans you’d made. How he left you sitting there, dressed up and waiting for something that never came.

There was a flicker in Michael’s eyes—something unreadable, but undeniably present. The easy rhythm of the evening shifted, like a breath held just a second too long.

He finished wiping down the counter, slower this time, more thoughtful. Then he turned to face you, expression softened, the usual smirk gone. His voice, when it came, was quiet—low and steady, carrying something that made you feel like the only person in the room.

“You don’t ever have to feel like an idiot,” he said. “Wanting something—hoping it’ll turn out the way you imagined—that’s not weakness. That’s you putting your heart out there. And yeah, sometimes people let us down. But that doesn’t make you foolish.”

The words hit you harder than you expected—not because they were dramatic, but because they weren’t. They were simple. Honest. Kind. And in that moment, you felt something inside you shift. The weight you hadn’t realized you were carrying seemed a little lighter now.

He cleared his throat, the sound cutting through the stillness in the room. “I uh…I think I should get going,” he said, his voice gentle, but with a finality that made you realize the evening was drawing to a close. He placed the rag on the ledge of the kitchen sink, his fingers lingering just a bit too long against the cool surface, like he didn’t quite want to leave yet.

“Right,” you said, your voice quieter than usual, almost an exhale. The single word felt heavier than it should’ve, and for a split second, it felt like you were both on the edge of something you weren’t quite ready to cross.

“I’ll see you around,” he added with a shrug, the smile on his face casual, but his eyes… his eyes said more. They held something unspoken, something that made your chest tighten in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

“Right,” you repeated, a little breathless this time. You turned to walk him to the door, the distance between the kitchen and the hallway seeming like it stretched just a little longer than usual.

When you reached the door, he paused, and so did you. There was a silence that wasn’t awkward, but quiet in a way that made the space between you feel a little more fragile.

“Goodnight,” he said, turning to face you, his voice quieter now, sincere, like the weight of everything you’d just shared was still lingering in the air. He reached for the door handle, his hand brushing against it slowly, as though trying to delay the inevitable.

“Goodnight, Michael,” you replied, your voice a little softer than usual. You stood just a little too close to the door, your fingers wrapped around the edge, holding it open for him. Your heart was beating faster than you’d like to admit, the night’s unspoken moments still hanging between you like an unfinished sentence.

For a brief moment, neither of you moved. There was something in the air, something unsaid, and you couldn’t quite shake the feeling that you weren’t ready for it to end. You didn’t want to shut the door on everything that had passed between you, not just yet.

He nodded once, a small but deliberate gesture that carried more weight than it probably should have. It felt like a silent goodbye, but also like something more. Then, with a quiet sigh, he stepped into the hallway, his footsteps soft but steady, each one echoing a little too loudly in the sudden silence.

You stood there, watching him go, your hand still on the door. The quiet stretched between you, neither of you in a hurry to break it. You kept the door open for just a breath longer than necessary, as though holding on to the space, holding on to something that had started tonight and hadn’t quite finished yet.

Finally, you closed the door behind you with a soft click, the sound breaking the stillness of your apartment. The air felt different now—not empty, but full of something you couldn’t quite define. It wasn’t loneliness, nor was it peace, but something in between. Something that made you realize, for the first time in a while, that the night had meant more than you could put into words.

Across The Hall (1) (2)

#michael robby robinavitch #michael robinavitch #dr robby #dr robinavitch #the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #Michael robinavitch x reader #dr robby x reader #noah wyle

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levandright · 6 months ago

Text

𝐏𝐇𝐘𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇 ‹𝟹

their favorite way to show their love for you is through — physical touchꜝꜝ

if you enjoyed reading this consider leaving a like or reblog ᐢ..ᐢ

pairing ⋆ ot7 enhypen x gn reader! ʬʬ content / warning(s) ⋆ fluff, est relationship ꕀ word count : 1082 ʬʬ go back to the start? ・ archive

ᐢ..ᐢ lev notes : i had a lot of fun making this! the whole wyll drabble is my advanced celebration for (almost) 50 followers!! hope you guys like this <3

𝗟𝗘𝗘 𝗛𝗘𝗘𝗦𝗘𝗨𝗡𝗚

heesung loves to hold your waist. his hands will somehow always find a way there. but can you blame him? his hands fit perfectly around your waist, like pieces of a puzzle.

after a long day, your feeling overwhelmed and exhausted. heesung notices your quiet sighs and the way your shoulders seem to carry a little extra weight.

as you both stand in the hallway, he gently pulls you close, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you snugly against him.

you relax into his embrace, resting your head on his shoulder as he whispers softly, “i’m here, okay? you don’t have to go through this alone.”

his hands rest lightly but securely on your waist, grounding you. in that moment, his steady warmth eases your worries, and you feel safe, surrounded by his love and support.

𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗞 𝗝𝗢𝗡𝗚𝗦𝗘𝗢𝗡𝗚

jay loves random touches, like brushing a stray hair away from your face or letting his hands linger on your cheek for a moment. these little actions convey so much affection and intimacy that words can't replicate.

you're sitting together in a sunlit park, surrounded by the gentle sounds of nature. as you share stories and laughter, you suddenly become quiet, lost in thought.

sensing your shift in mood, jay turns to you with a concerned look. instead of asking directly, he reaches over and lightly places his hand on yours, his thumb stroking your knuckles softly.

the warmth of his touch pulls you back from your thoughts, and you meet his eyes. in that simple gesture, he conveys his support and understanding without needing to say anything.

you squeeze his hand in response, a silent acknowledgment of your connection, feeling comforted by his presence and the care behind his touch.

𝗦𝗜𝗠 𝗝𝗔𝗘𝗬𝗨𝗡

jake loves to carry you. he finds the little noise you make when he picks you up to be absolutely adorable, so any chance he gets, he’ll try to lift you off your feet without warning just to hear your surprised reaction.

you’re walking home together after a movie, laughing and talking, when suddenly, it starts pouring rain.

without an umbrella, you both start to run, but you slip on a puddle and stumble.

jake quickly catches you, grinning, and before you can protest, he sweeps you up into his arms to keep your feet out of the water.

you laugh, playfully telling him to put you down, but jake just smiles and says, “not a chance—i’ve got you now.”

you wrap your arms around his neck as he carries you through the rain, both of you laughing as the world blurs around you.

in his arms, you feel like the only thing that matters, and he’s happy to keep you safe and close, rain and all.

𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗞 𝗦𝗨𝗡𝗚𝗛𝗢𝗢𝗡

sunghoon loves to pat your head. he thinks it’s the perfect balance of playful and intimate, and what more could he want than that?

you were trying your hand at making a new dessert—a mousse cake. the recipe called for eggs, sugar, all-purpose flour, cocoa powder, baking powder, and salt for the cake part.

you checked your ingredients and realized you were missing just the flour. you looked everywhere around the kitchen for it, but no luck you couldn’t find it.

the last place you didn't check was the high cabinets, and you couldn’t reach there—unless you wanted to climb onto the kitchen counter. you just cleaned it so doing that was a big no. so, you had to get help from sunghoon.

"hoon!" you called for your boyfriend, then you hear his familliar footsteps echo around your shared apartment.

"what does my little lady need from me this time?" he teases.

"can you reach the flour for me, please?" he grins at your request.

"why, of course~ anything for my lovely lady." he reached the container of flour with ease, and hands it over to you.

"thank you, hoon."

"anything for you," he says with a gentle smile, lifting his hand to your head and gently patting your hair.

𝗞𝗜𝗠 𝗦𝗨𝗡𝗢𝗢

sunoo loves to cuddle you! just lying in bed cuddling is the perfect way to spend your morning with him.

it's the weekend again, you spent all night watching movies with sunoo. your little movie night ended up going untill 3 am.

you peacefully sleeping until the light coming from your windows end up waking you. you let out a sound of complain as you groggly open your eyes and move your arms to cover your face.

your sudden movement ended up waking your sleeping boyfriend.

"mhm, what're you doing?" sunoo's morning voice greeted you.

"the light from the windows woke me up," you mutter sleepily.

"come closer and get back to sleep."

you scoot closer to him, and sunoo wraps his arms around you, moving your head closer to his chest.

"now go back to sleep, i don't wanna get up yet."

𝗬𝗔𝗡𝗚 𝗝𝗨𝗡𝗚𝗪𝗢𝗡

jungwon loves to hold your hand! when you're on dates, he always make sure he's holding your hand while you both walk to your destination. even when you're both doing nothing in particular — just idling by on the couch or laying in bed together — his hands will always be intertwined with yours.

you and jungwon are laying on a couch in comfortable silence with hands intertwined. you're on your phone, scrolling through the internet, when you see something that reminds you of your cat-like boyfriend.

"jungwon, look!" you say excitedly, showing him a picture of a cute pair of kittens.

"they're adorable," he says smiling, rubbing the thumb of his on the back of yours.

"they are! reminds me of you," you say with a grin. "mhmm, we do look pretty similar"

"i'm cuter, though," he smirks.

𝗡𝗜𝗦𝗛𝗜𝗠𝗨𝗥𝗔 𝗥𝗜𝗞𝗜

riki loves to kiss your face. whether it's a quick peck on your forehead while you're tired or a light kiss on your cheeks when you aren't paying attention to him, he absolutely adores smothering your face with kisses.

you're busy looking around the snack aisle of the conveniece store, with riki behind you, pouting as he watches you ignore him— all your attention taken by the assortment of chips.

as you reach out to grab the bbq-flavored chips, you feel something soft make contact with your cheeks.

you turn to face your boyfriend, who looks at you with a cocky smile.

"can't have you ignoring me for some chips, can i?"

you roll your eyes playfully at his words. "well, now you have all my attention."

"as it should be," he says confidently.

taglist. @honeychocos

©levandright

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yandere-sins · 2 years ago

Note

Imagine getting isekai’ed into otome game as a background character, watching the main character going down routes as you live your peaceful, mundane life, but you’ve unknowingly been going down a route as well, a route for a hidden character that you didn’t discover during your time playing the game.

That character being the reason the game has a dark content warning.

Gosh anon, that idea is so good!!!! I didn't know it would tickle all the right places in my brain, but when I started I couldn't stop lol. Love it, thank you for sending it in ♥

If this had one of these super long titles that are tmi it would be:

I got Isekai'ed into an Otome Game as a Background Character and now I Have to Finish It with the Secret Yandere Love Interest!!

»»———————— ♡ ————————««

A serene smile spread over your lips as you watched the two lovebirds in the corner of your coffee shop.

Swirling the milk into a cup, it created a little white heart surrounded by foamy coffee, its aroma drifting into your nose. Had someone told you that the little things like a cup of coffee made with love and care were enough to give you the peace of mind you always wanted in your previous life, you would have laughed at them. For you, it had always been the hustle, the making money, finding a partner, and creating a family. Make everyone proud while being successful, whether it costs you nights of sleep or days without proper meals. But looking at yourself now, it all seemed so far away now, and you let out a content sigh before setting down the cup in front of the customer at the bar.

"You seem happy today," your regular at the counter noted, picking up the cup and taking a moment to appreciate the aroma just like you had. A smile sneaked onto their lips, too, after they took a sip, and you couldn't help but feel your heart swell with pride and happiness when they gave you a satisfied nod.

"I am! I'm really getting accustomed to my new life here, it's... been a while since I've been so content."

The truth behind everything that happened to you was something you couldn't speak about lightly. Not when it turned the life you knew upside down, leaving you to start over completely. One day you were an employee of a well-known company, responsible for sales and reports and everything stressful. And the next, you were in your favorite, cozy video game, running the coffee shop the main character liked to visit with all the romance options in the game.

Isekai was the genre that came to mind when you thought about your situation. Luckily you were spared the memories of your death in the real world, the circumstances blurry as you barely remembered going home late from work, only to wake up in this very different universe. Perhaps you were just comatose, and this was a dream. Still, by now, you had managed to slip into your role as the barista of the small coffee shop, a barely mentioned background character, just fine.

Your eyes jumped back to the couple in the corner, giggling and teasing each other over a group project, and you felt an immense relief you weren't reincarnated as the main protagonist and had to go through the years of studying and trying to establish connections with the love interests again. You already did that in your old life, and it wasn't as romantic and fun as the game made it out to be. You only played it because it got your mind off things, the art was pretty, and it had the exact amount of cozy time management you needed to relax. But living as the main character in it? No, thank you!

"Jealous?" your regular teased, and you chuckled, shaking your head. They tapped their—now empty—cup, and you took it from them, replacing it with some water until you had the next cup of coffee ready for them.

"I just think it's cute. I never had someone so interested in me they'd take me out for coffee and share their cake with me when I was younger."

Your words tasted a little bitter on your tongue. Still, you genuinely couldn't wish for anything but the main character's happiness. It was just the feeling of being loved, desired, and wanted that you missed, even though your new life was more than satisfactory despite you feeling a little lonely sometimes.

"Well, it's never too late to start," they chuckled, taking up their fork and cutting off the tip of their strawberry shortcake, including the big chunk of strawberry on top, picking it up and holding it out towards you.

"Oh, I wouldn't dare--"

"I insist! As thanks for the amazing coffee every time I come here."

Nudging your lips with their fork, you let out an awkward chuckle. It was okay, right? They wouldn't sue you for eating the cake they paid for, would they? This was just a silly little game. What could go wrong with you accepting their kindness?

Opening your lips, you let them feed you the cake, taking a moment to let the sweet and fruity notes mix with the fluffy whip cream before you were sent straight to heaven. Not to toot your own horn, but your baking skills had improved so much since you started working at the shop. Who knew you had that in you?

Occupied with the moment of bliss as you let the cake flavor mix in your mouth, you hummed happily before devoting yourself back to making the coffee with a smile on your face. Unaware of your regular fixating on the fork you had just eaten from, staring at it like it was some strange artifact. Your phone dinged softly in its drawer, and you checked it briefly to see the notification pinging up, saying, "Achievement unlocked: Cake-Master - Provide the most delicious cake to your customers."

"Excuse me!" the main character called out to you, stepping up to the counter, and you directed your attention to her, ignoring the little game notification you've been receiving since starting your new life here, the love interest not far away before the two began fighting over who was going to pay the bill this time lovingly. Of course, the love interest won, but you wouldn't have expected it any other way. Seeing the blush on the main character's face after her romance option told her he'd "always take care" of her made you grin like a little fan, and you cheered them on in your head.

By the time you returned to your regular, their knuckles had gone white with how hard they were gripping the fork in their hand, their eyes following the couple who was about to leave. For a moment, it made you wonder if they had a crush on either of them, their sweet interaction surely uncomfortable if that was the case. But you didn't remember there being a jealousy scene in the game. You'd know, almost playing it 100% before your death. There apparently was a secret route you never got but were trying your hardest to achieve. Now you were left to wonder what it entailed.

But the second you returned, they looked up at you, expression softening and the tension disappearing, and you chalked it up to having witnessed a cringe moment that they had gotten so awkward. "Thank you for the cake, that was really nice of you! Do you want another fork?" you asked and were met with a headshake and a smile.

They quickly began eating their cake and complimenting your baking skills, stroking your growing ego when they rubbed their belly.

"I never had a cake that good!" they proclaimed, and you laughed out loud, overjoyed that you had made them so happy.

"Say..." they suddenly spoke up again, leaning on the counter and watching you with gentle eyes. Your heart set out for a second, tension rising as you didn't know what they were going to ask. Ever since you opened the coffee shop, the main character, love interests, and this regular had come by constantly. If you were honest, you enjoyed their visits more and more. Their presence felt like it belonged here with you, and you were a part of something bigger after all, washing away the small, lonely part of you.

And maybe... just maybe... this was how your happy end would play out.

"Are you this nice to every customer?"

Halting your movements, you set aside the brew head that you used on the espresso machine, despite having to clean it, thinking about your answer for a moment. It was a strange question to ask someone who worked in customer service. Still, you appreciated your regular, so you didn't want to give them a snarky answer.

"Uhm, well, I am just trying to make everyone feel welcome! But of course, it's a bit different with my regulars! After all, they come here often, like a second family. So I guess I'm a bit nicer because you really get to know and appreciate these people that stay to chat and tell stories."

"I see," they muttered. "Family, huh..."

After that, you suddenly were swamped with sudden orders, excusing yourself to fulfill them, chatting and laughing with even the people that were just passing by. Maybe you really were just nice? Perhaps this new environment had made you more relaxed and gentle than the harsh world you lived in, and it was showing? But their question was shoved into the back of your mind as you kept fulfilling orders and earning your keep.

Once the rush was over, you returned to your regular, only to find their seat empty. Strange, you thought. You could have sworn that you felt their eyes on you the whole time you were away, but luckily, they didn't walk out on their tab, leaving the money and a folded-up napkin beneath their empty cup for you to find. You quickly stored away the bills, trusting your regular with knowing what they had to pay after so many weeks of the same order.

You were about to throw away their napkin when you noticed some red marks on them, unwrapping the paper to find a note scribbled in what you had to assume was ink.

"You're so beautiful when you laugh."

The surprise wore off quite fast, and you smiled, thinking nothing of it but that it was a nice compliment from your regular. Still, you ended up throwing the napkin away—not knowing if it was dirty, after all—taking the coffee cup and plate to the sink to clean them, overseeing the red tip on the fork that was too dark to be from the strawberry.

The rest of your day was uneventful, and by the time you were closing, you were tired and ready to tug in for the night, wrapping up your business at the shop quickly before walking home. You didn't have a chance to look at your phone since you glanced at the achievement notification, so you took it out, startled when you saw a dozen new messages.

Achievement unlocked: Happy new life - Be content with your new life

Achievement unlocked: A fork for two! - Share a fork with someone special

Achievement unlocked: Jealousy - Make someone special jealous

Achievement unlocked: Soothing - Calm someone special down with your presence

Achievement unlocked: Family - Have someone be moved by your words

Achievement unlocked: The nicest person in town - Be beloved by all, but especially by someone special

Achievement unlocked: Blood in the cup - Have someone hurt themselves at your coffee shop

Achievement unlocked: Wonder-Barista - Complete twenty orders in less than thirty minutes

Achievement unlocked: Strange compliment - Receive a compliment through unusual means

Achievement unlocked: Blooming infatuation - Have someone special fall in love with you

Achievement unlocked: Shop-Pro! - Close the shop twenty times after making a profit from your work

Achievement unlocked: Tired - Hard workers deserve to relax

You blinked a few times, surprised by what you were reading and a little weirded out by some of these achievements. They gave you some extra coins in your shop till and reputation with the townspeople, so you usually didn't mind them. But to say some of their descriptions were weird was an understatement. You couldn't even remember someone getting hurt at your workplace that day.

By the time you reached your apartment, you decided to ignore the strange notifications and just let the day come to an end with a hot bath and your favorite show. But you were startled when your phone suddenly began ringing loudly, even though you had turned off the sound back at the coffee shop after the first notification. The first messages that appeared before you were more achievements, and you stopped turning the key in your door as you read them.

Achievement unlocked: Follower - Have someone special follow you home

Achievement unlocked: Welcome home! - Arrive at home, not alone

Achievement unlocked: Wherever you go, I'll be watching you - Ɨ ΔΜ ΔŁŴΔ¥Ş ŴΔŦĆĦƗŇǤ ¥ØỮ

Lifting your head, you looked around you, glancing over your shoulder and into the courtyard below. No one was out; everyone was at home eating dinner and occupied with their lives. Confused, you swiped all the notifications away before another pop-up appeared.

ALERT! You're about to enter X's route. Do you want to continue?

> Yes > No

Panicked at this point, you pressed "No," but nothing happened. You kept tapping it repeatedly, not understanding what was happening with your phone. But nothing changed, the notification staying in place. The sound of something breaking inside your apartment tore your focus away from your phone, startling you.

You must have finally managed to close it, the pop-up disappearing just as you unlocked the door to your apartment, still having held on to the key when you were surprised by the sound. Darkness and silence greeted you from inside, everything seemingly normal.

Majorly confused, you shook your head, slowly entering the hallway leading inside. "Hello?" you called out, reaching for the light switch. The light flickered on, and... there was no one. Holding your breath, no sound reached your ears, and you groaned, realizing you got freaked out about... nothing.

This wasn't some kind of horror game, and the story never had a murder-solving subplot. True, the ratings for it were kind of strange—it being rated as 18+ on the website—but seriously, what should happen in a cozy little city like the one the game played in? You didn't even think they had a police station here.

Pushing off your shoes as you shrugged off the weird feeling from before, you walked up the hallway to your living room, turning on the light before coming to an abrupt halt. There were broken pieces of glass underneath your living room window, but what really freaked you out came into view only when you lifted your head. You could look into the mirror of your cabinet door from your position, red marker dripping from it as if someone had hastily scribbled on it just seconds ago. You weren't sure it was a pen anymore, judging by its deep red color and the fluidity of it.

"𝘪 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘻𝘺"

Your phone pinged.

Achievement unlocked:

On the Highway to Hell - Unlock the secret route

#isekai #yandere isekai #yandere!isekai #yandere #yandere imagines #yandere headcanons #yandere scenarios #yandere fanfiction #yandere writing #yandere stories #yandere oneshots #yandere oneshot #yandere drabble #yandere x reader #yandere x darling #Yandere TW

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ruewrote · 7 months ago

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𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑒.

PAIRING: josh washington x fem!reader WARNINGS: teasing, no use of y/n, touching GENRE: fluff SONG INSPIRATION: meddle about by chase atlantic WORD COUNT: 1k NOTE: ghostface!josh coming soon . . .

navigation | ask | josh washington masterlist

josh always had to be touching you. it was something you noticed early on in your friendship, but it had grown more noticeable over time. a casual brush of his fingers across your waist when he walked by, how his hand would find yours when no one was looking.

at first, you didn’t think much of it, it was just josh, always needing someone close.

but now? now it felt like more.

tonight, the group had gathered in the theater room of the washington lodge for what was supposed to be a relaxing evening after a long day of hiking.

the lights were dim and you were sprawled out on the large sectional with everyone, blankets thrown over legs, as a movie played on the tv. josh, predictably, had taken his usual place next to you, his thigh pressed against yours under the blanket, his hand resting on your knee like always.

it wasn’t like he was doing anything that anyone else would notice, it was subtle, almost innocent. but you felt it. the warmth of his hand on your leg sent tingles up your spine and it was almost impossible to ignore the way your heart beat just a little faster when he touched you.

"you two are practically glued together," emily teased from across the couch, smirking as she sipped her drink. "it’s cute. you can’t stand to be apart for five seconds?"

josh, unfazed as ever, grinned. “what can i say? i’m a hands-on kind of guy.”

you rolled your eyes, chuckling softly, but the way his fingers squeezed your knee for just a second sent a jolt through you. he wasn’t letting go, not even when everyone else joined in on the teasing.

ashley leaned over the back of the couch, an exaggerated look of pity on her face. "i mean, it’s cute and all, but how do you breathe? he’s always touching you.”

josh shrugged, still looking completely comfortable. “she doesn’t seem to mind.” his voice was playful, but there was an edge of seriousness beneath it.

you glanced over at him, your pulse quickening. no, you didn’t mind. in fact, you had grown to expect it, maybe even craved it. his presence, his touch. it had a calming effect on you, even if it was doing the opposite to your emotions now.

your friends had been teasing about this for weeks and you weren’t sure how to explain the connection without sounding ridiculous.

"she knows that i'm just that good at making sure she’s comfortable," josh said with a quick grin. "it’s kinda my thing."

emily laughed. “at this point, i wouldn’t be surprised if you two woke up spooning!”

you felt the blush rising to your cheeks as you shoved josh lightly, but his hand slid down your leg, brushing the inside of your thigh, lingering just a second too long before pulling away. you froze, the sensation sending a wave of warmth through you.

he shot you a quick look, eyes twinkling with amusement, but there was something else behind them.

before you could respond, chris called out from the other side of the couch. “what? it’s just a little friendly affection, right?” he winked, clearly teasing.

“yep,” you agreed quickly, your voice coming out more breathless than intended. “totally. just friends.”

josh gave a low hum, leaning back and stretching his arm out along the back of the couch, his fingertips brushing against your shoulder. “if you say so,” he murmured softly, only for you to hear. the weight of his touch felt heavier now, his fingers grazing your skin.

as the movie droned on, your focus drifted away from the screen. your mind was entirely on josh, the way his body was so close to yours, the way his touch lingered. you found yourself leaning into him more without realising it, like you were drawn to him just as much as he was to you.

the others had mostly gone back to watching the movie, though there were still occasional glances your way, always with that teasing edge but josh didn’t seem to care. his thumb traced slow circles on your shoulder now, his hand occasionally slipping down to brush your arm.

you turned your head slightly, looking up at him. he wasn’t even looking at the movie anymore. his focus was entirely on you.

“josh?” you whispered, keeping your voice low enough that the others wouldn’t hear.

“hmm?” his eyes flicked down to meet yours, his expression soft but with that familiar mischievous glint.

you hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to say what was on your mind. “why do you always…?” you trailed off, not sure how to phrase it without sounding too obvious.

he smiled, a knowing look crossing his face. “always what?”

“always… touch me,” you finished quietly, your pulse quickening at the vulnerability in your own words.

josh’s smile didn’t fade, but his gaze grew a little more serious. he leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper as his hand moved from your shoulder to your cheek, cupping it gently. “it’s… comforting. you’re comforting.”

you stared at him, heart racing as the weight of his words sank in. there was more to it, you could feel it, more than just the comfort of touch. there was something between you that had always been there, quietly lingering beneath the surface.

“you don’t mind, do you?” his thumb brushed against your cheek now, the gentle motion sending a warmth through you that had nothing to do with the blankets.

you swallowed hard, your breath catching in your throat. “no,” you whispered. “i don’t mind.”

josh’s gaze flickered down to your lips for a second before returning to your eyes. there was a moment of hesitation, but then he leaned in just a little closer. “good,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

“because i don’t think i could stop even if i tried.”

comments and reblogs are appreciated ♡

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st7rnioioss · 4 months ago

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࿐ ˚ ⋆ ֹ CHRIS DOESN'T KNOW

— based off the song "scotty doesn't know" by lustra

˚𝜗𝜚 warnings... don't like, don't read! chratt fic!!, threesum (no incest shit), dom!matt, softdom!chris, cheating (don't do this in real life), unprotected sex (wrap it), slightly public sex (? in a car), minor angst (mentions of cheating + arguing), protected sex, oral (f + m receiving), praise kink, dumbification kink, slight dacryphilia.

𝒢𝜚 wc: 5.3k

𝜗𝜚˚࿔ notes: wow wow woooww.. first chratt fic i've ever written! i can't tell if i like or absolutely despise this, but here you are. i love u, freaks!!🤍

chris doesn’t know we do it in my van every sunday she tells him she’s in church but she doesn’t go still, she’s on her knees and chris doesn’t know

“o-oh, matt-“ you moaned, head thrown back against the window of matt’s car, one of your hands gripping onto his shoulders as he basically pounded his cock into you, the other one holding onto the hand grip on the door.

“fuuuckk… c-can’t believe chris gets to see this every day, huh? so pretty..” he ducked his head down to leave a trail of kisses down your neck and collarbone, his pace not halting one bit as his fingertips dug into your hips.

this had become sort of a routine.. every sunday you’d tell chris you were going to church when really you were doing something way more sinful. something that definitely didn’t belong in a church—far from it, even.

you had arranged a specific spot where matt would drive by every sunday, and he’d either have you on your knees in his car or, like right now, sprawled out in the backseat.

“matt! d-don’t stop, please!” you wailed, his thumb connecting to your bud making your back arch and eyes squeeze shut.

“oh, i don’t plan on it.. w-we have ‘til ten thirty-“ he groaned, throwing his head back when he felt your sticky walls clamp around him. “th-think you can keep going?”

oh, chris doesn’t know so don’t tell chris

you knew all this was very wrong.. cheating on your boyfriend, first of all. but with his brother? there was really no excuse.

restless nights were one way to describe the pit in your stomach. staring at the ceiling, asking yourself what drove you to do such a fucked up thing.

chris was perfect… he treated you like there was no other girl in the world, showering you with gifts, and receiving endless kisses from him, and the praise and sweet words he gave you whenever you had sex were more than enough of what you needed.

it left you wondering. couldn’t matt give you the same? they were so similar, yet different. whenever you were having sex with chris, you couldn’t deny you missed matt’s cruel effort to make you cry, rather than chris’s effort to make you smile. yet chris’s compliments is what kept you so flustered and shy around him.

it was complicated. you used to have this “friends with benefits” situation with matt before you got with chris.. and disturbingly enough, it lasted. but you still loved chris, very much.. you just also happened to have sex with matt?

“hey, um.. i don’t mean to be nosy, but like.. you’ve been kinda off lately. are you okay?” chris whispered from behind you, his arms wrapped securely around you.

you sighed, but not in annoyance, messily turning around under the sheets. you met his eyes that had a somewhat worryingly look to them.

“chris, i’m okay. i promise, i’ve just.. i’ve just been tired,” you whispered back, leaving a kiss on his forehead. “don’t worry about me.” sure, you were lying straight through your teeth, but you couldn’t tell him yet. he wasn’t ready to know.

he smiled back at you, nodding slowly as an answer, not wanting to take this thing further. he returned the kiss but to your lips.

oh, chris doesn’t know so don’t tell chris

you were sat in your bed, music playing softly in the background while you scrolled through whatever social media app was interesting at the moment until you were interrupted.

a sigh escaped your lips. you hated keeping this from chris.

even though you saw stars every time you were with matt, it felt so wrong—that pit in your stomach only grew time after time… but yet you craved more from him.

she says she’s out shopping but she’s under me and i’m not stopping

your phone was going off from your nightstand, chris sending messages about letting him see what you had gotten yourself—but that was the last thing you wanted to focus on right now.

chris had called you just earlier, asking if he could come over to hang out with you. but you were.. busy with some other stuff. stuff, as in, matt was over.

“what do i say? i can’t just tell him i’m having sex with his brother,” you groaned, staring down at the confused message from chris.

matt shrugged, taking a sip of his canned soda. “i dunno.. just say you’re out shopping or somethin’, he won’t bat an eye,”

“y-you’re so fucking wet.. listen to that,” matt groaned from on top of you, listening to the wet squelching his dick elicited from your pussy. “y’like it raw that much?”

ecstasy was all you could describe it as. as much as you liked all the positions matt could manhandle you into, this was easily your favorite—along with the raw feeling of his cock buried to the hilt inside of you.

you had always kept a promise that no matter what, you’d never let matt fuck you raw. it was intimate to another level, even the thought of him finishing inside of you making your stomach churn weirdly. but this..?

“m-mm..” you babbled, eyes stuck to the back of your skull as he fucked his hips into the back of your thighs, your legs thrown over his shoulders.

he chuckled, reaching a thumb out to wipe the spit off the corner of your mouth. “so dumb.. you like being fucked stupid on my cock, don’t you?”

you weren’t even processing his words, nodding dumbly at the clouded words before you squeezed around him for the second time that evening. a loud moan of his name escaped your puffy lips, your release creating a ring around his cock.

oh, chris doesn’t know so don’t tell chris

a few months had passed since you got together with chris while keeping up this thing with matt, and honestly, you were surprised you first of all hadn’t told him yet, and second of all that he still hadn’t noticed. you were being quite risky with this after all.

“do you want anything?” chris whispers from next to you, nuzzling his nose into the side of your face making you chuckle.

“no, i’m okay.” you whispered back.

you, chris, nick, and matt had gotten together to watch a movie, though matt’s eyes were not on the screen in front of him.

the tension was in the air—and it was thick. at least between you and matt. it always left you nervous when both chris and mag were in the same room as you. thinking about what went on behind closed doors.

a sense of jealousy was bottled up inside of matt. he’d never gotten to be intimate with you like that. the secret whispers, cuddling, kissing, all that jazz was only something you’d ever do with chris and not him.

still, he pushed that feeling away, reminding himself to appreciate he even got to be close to you.

and though you’d never like to admit, the thought of both chris and matt being with you, touching you had crossed your mind.. more often than you’d like it to.

it was a simple solution, right? both matt and chris having to share you, rather than you being torn inside from lying to chris and cheating on chris with matt.

chris doesn’t know don’t tell chris

“no, i’m serious. something is up, y-you’re not acting like yourself!” chris raised his voice, reaching out to take your hands in his.

the poor boy was so afraid to lose you, his heart pounding in his chest. he’d do anything for you, anything to keep you as his.

“chris, i said i’m okay! nothing is wrong, i’m just stressed lately, stop being like that!” you yelled back, but you didn’t let go of his hands.

you wanted to cry, you really did. your love for chris was so overwhelming, yet you felt so terrible when thinking of letting him know about you and matt. how would he react? would he leave you for good? did you want.. the both of them?

all those bottled-up emotions only left you to push chris away from you.

“no, i’m not- i’m not accepting that excuse anymore. you’ve been telling me that for weeks now, you have to tell me the truth,” he clung to you, pulling you closer to him while a pleading look made it to his face.

you only stared up at him for a while, momentarily considering telling him about this whole situation.

“but.. but what if i am telling the truth?”

chris nearly couldn’t believe what he was hearing, letting out a scoff while letting go of you, shoving your hands off.

“fine. if you wanna be like that, then go ahead. but i can’t help you.”

the whole situation fucked up chris and matt too. every passing second, matt got more and more possessive over you, leading him to bicker with chris.

chris didn’t understand why he was suddenly being pushed away from the both of you, leaving him on edge at all times as well.

the powder and the fuse—chris and matt. whenever they walked into the same room, you could only bet on how long it’d take before the two were arguing. whether it was pointless stuff that pissed the two guys off, or there was a deeper meaning behind the arguments.

all this caused nick to get upset as well. he couldn’t stand his brothers fighting all the time, leaving him pissy too.

whether it was breaking up the arguments between the two brothers or joining in, there was always a building tension in their relationship.

was there any escape from this? all you knew was that your lies and secrets only tore all of you further apart from each other.

i can’t believe he’s so trusting while i’m right behind you thrusting she’s got him on the phone and she’s trying not to moan it’s a three-way call and he knows nothing

the next time you spoke with chris after your little disagreement was over the phone. you had matt behind you, thrusting his cock into your soaked walls while you tried your best to focus on what chris was saying.

“wha.. yeah. yes, that’s- that’s perfect..” you bit back a whimper, your hand tightening its grip on your phone, your eyes pinched shut while matt drove his dick in and out of you.

it was so nice of chris—after the argument you had just a few days prior, he decided he could at least make it up to you by taking you out for a nice dinner, talking stuff through instead of staying mad at each other, even treat you with some make-up sex. hell, he’d even gotten you a pretty dress to wear.

“are you okay? you sound a little off,” chris’s voice could be hear through the speakers, the confused tone to his voice making you wish you could just hang up already.

with a weak and somewhat faux laugh, you answered him. “no, no i’m good.. s-seven thirty is fine,” you mumbled, a whimper falling from your lips, momentarily making you panic. “sorry, my shoe won’t- won’t come on,”

chris shrugged off your explanation. “uh, okay. i’ll see you at seven-thirty then, baby. goodb-“

“bye! i’ll see you,” you interrupted, hanging up immediately.

finally, you let the moans fall from your parted lips, muffled from the pillow you buried your face into, clutching for the sheets. the phone fell from your grasp, matt’s hand grabbing a good handful of your hair, driving your face further down into the soft pillow.

“he doesn’t have a clue in the fucking world.. his pretty girl getting her brains fucked out, huh? on his brother's cock?” he chuckled dryly, lifting your head up.

he gradually picked up his pace, allowing weak and whiny moans to flow freely from your swollen lips, skin slapping against skin.

“i don’t think he’d be too pleased to see this.. drooling over my fucking dick. is it really that good?” he taunted, referring to the patch of spit soaked into the fabric of your pillow.

chris doesn’t know so don’t tell chris ‘cause chris doesn’t know

you should’ve seen it coming, really. all the sneaking around would eventually come to an end, whether you broke it off with matt, or chris somehow found out…

which he did.

“hey, do you want anything? i could grab some food for us,” chris suggested, gently nudging your side to catch your attention.

chris had invited you to sleep over, as if you didn’t basically live with them by now, deciding to starts a movie-marathon. chris’s idea.

you looked up at him from your position on the bed, your limbs entangled. “yeah, sure. i’ll stay here tho, i’m too tired to move,”

chris laughed lightly at your response, but he eventually got out of your complicated position, leaving a kiss to your forehead.

“i’ll be back in no time,” he smiled, before waving goodbye, not forgetting his keys and wallet.

you blew a kiss his way, and not long after you could hear the car running.

tiredly, you stood up, deciding to why not go talk to matt while chris was gone, since nick was at the movies with a couple friends.

softly, you knocked on his door, hearing a faint ‘come on in’ from behind the door, carefully pushing it open.

“oh. hi there,” matt smiled at you, sitting by his desk.

“hello,” you returned the smile, waving at him from his doorframe, taking a quick glance at his room. though you weren’t exactly here to do anything specific, your stomach started swirling, making you nervous.

the second matt stood up and made his way over to you with a twinkle in his eye, you regretted going upstairs to say hi in the first place.

looking at you, he reached out to tug a couple strands of hair behind your ear, leaving you speechless and flustered, gazing straight into his blue eyes.

“did you want anything?” he asked, cupping the side of your face while tilting his head to the side in a questioning manner, though he definitely knew.

you weren’t here to have sex, it wasn’t the time and situation for that.. but now it seemed much more than tempting with nick and chris out of the house. you were supposed to just chat, and keep you entertained until chris came back.

you met his eyes, taking your bottom lip between your teeth, and that was all matt needed as an answer, quickly getting his hands on you.

matt was sprawled out under you, his head and back resting on the mattress beneath him, while your nails clawed for his chest.

“ff-fuck.. we have t-to hurry..” you whimpered, your legs already aching from being spread out on either side of his hips.

matt was trying his best not to buck his hips up to meet yours, the restraint wearing thinner and thinner while you squeezed and grinded on top of him.

“you gotta pick your pace up then, baby..” he mumbled weakly, giving the side of your thigh a gentle pat, as if that would help you go faster.

you shook your head, feeling matt’s hands rub down your sides, one of them eventually reaching for your breast, brushing his thumb over your bud.

“i-i can’t, matt..” you whined, the ache in your inner thighs too evident to keep moving, only continuing your weak and slow rocking, your pussy drooling around his stretch.

“cone on.. y-you just gotta-“ matt went to say, but immediately cut himself off when he heard a creak from the doorframe.

“oh.”

chris stood there by the door, staring at the two of you. the second you heard a voice that definitely wasn’t matt’s and was a little too familiar, your eyes flickered to meet chris’s.

and just like that, your heart immediately dropped to your stomach, blood running cold.

“i-i’m sorry..” you whispered, your voice quiet and barely coherent, staring back up at chris, before looking away from him.

though chris was more than shocked to see you literally sit on his brother's dick, he didn’t feel sad or betrayed like any other person would. sure, confusion and shock were running through his whole body.. but it wasn’t an uncomfortable feeling.

quickly, you reached for a blanket, wrapping it around yourself before getting off matt, leaving him to scramble around with his own blanket.

there was silence. not a single word, except the music playing from matt’s computer, nearly drowned out from the thick tension.

chris felt torn. he wanted to be mad, no, he had to. you cheated, didn’t you? but yet he couldn’t get himself to yell at you, instead feeling a sense of arousal both the sight of you right there, and the thought of.. sharing you.

he kicked the door shut behind him, stepping forward to look down at you sitting on matt’s bed.

“are you mad at me?” you whispered with a hurt expression plastered all across your face, patiently waiting for any chance of explanation.

“no.. i don’t- i don't know why. i’m not,” he mumbled back, taking off his cap to run his hands through his messy hair, before looking at matt.

relief washed through your veins, letting out a sigh of reassurance, yet a perplexed expression made its way to your face.

“can i ask you something..?” chris questioned, his eyes flickering between the both of you.

swiftly, you shot a glance matt’s way, before you both nodded hesitantly, making chris wonder how exactly to word this without being too straightforward.

“could we.. i mean, it’s fine if you think it’s weird, but- i’ve been thinking about us, me and matt, both.. going down on you?”

chris’s words lingered in the air, your earlobes turning pink, as well as your cheeks, staring at him. matt seemed just as shocked, yet neither of the two of you seemed opposed to the idea.

you had no clue that chris would think of such a thing. whenever you had sex, it wasn’t like he initiated more. but from chris’s point of view, he would just get to see more angles of how you’d react to another person's touch, his touch.

matt looked at you, a shrug pulling at his shoulders with an expression that said he definitely didn’t mind.

“i-i don’t.. i don’t mind,” a red hue tinted your cheeks, almost too shy to say the words, to even thinking about what would happen.

and immediately, it was like a switch had been flipped inside chris and matt.

“a-are you guys sure about this?” the words came mumbled from your lips, feeling more exposed than ever, though both brothers had seen you completely vulnerable and naked numerous times.

you weren’t unsure about your own situation, more about theirs. since.. well, they’re brothers?

“shh, don’t worry. it’s okay, we’re okay. just relax f’me, will you?” chris’s breath fans against your inner thighs, making your squirm.

but matt holds you in place, his legs on either side of yours, arms wrapped around your middle from behind you. he rested his chin your shoulder, just to get a clearer look of what was going on, to see how you’d react.

“stop squirmin’..” he husked, feeling your lean further back into his chest, your head thrown back into his shoulder, mumbling a quiet ‘sorry’.

chris wastes no time, pressing deliberate kisses to your inner thighs as you whined in desperation, your eyes fluttering shut.

matt’s fingers make their way up your chest, carefully cupping your breasts in each hand, rolling your sensitive buds between his fingers.

“so, so pretty.. and so wet for me?” chris’s breath was hot against your folds, making another whimper tug at your lips.

“for us..” matt broke in, making chris roll his eyes in response.

not another second passes before he attaches his tongue to your folds, causing you to gasp, instinctively allowing your fingers to reach for chris’s hair to tug on.

you can hear matt chuckle faintly behind you, but it was washed out from the buzzing in your head. chris deliberately lapping kitty-licks to your folds, before pressing his tongue to your clit, hooking your thighs up over his shoulders.

at this rate you didn’t care about his fingers leaving marks to your thighs, the only thought going through your head was the absolute pleasure you were receiving from the two.

“oh gosh, chris.. please keep going,” your lips parted, puffy and glistening while your eyes pinched shut, your senses filled with the faint smell of matt’s cologne that still lingered on his skin.

chris continues to lazily lick stripes up your folds before he lets one of your legs rest on the bed to allow his thumb to attach to your clit. the sudden change made your back arch, but matt held you down once more.

moans and whimpers are being ripped from your mouth, only adding to the fuel inside of chris, working his pink tongue in and out of your leaking hole.

“y’taste.. so fuckin’ good, princess..” chris mumbled from between your legs, the soft vibration of his words going straight up your spine.

chris’s hair was already disheveled and messed up from when you played with it earlier, but when you reached and tugged gently on the strands it only messed it up even further. your reaction adds to chris’s desire, knowing he was doing well.

he let his tongue run down your pussy again, before starting to swirl and prod the muscle at your entrance, his only goal in mind being giving you as much pleasure as he could.

shameless moans continued spilling from your lips, leaning further into matt’s body behind you, your legs closing around chris’s head.

“fuck! i’m gonna come, please-“ you whined, accidentally bucking your hips up, but chris didn’t seem to mind.

his thumb circled your bud even tighter, the slight stubble on his face scratching across your inner thighs, surely leaving a faint burn later.

“shh, y’need to quiet down a tad,” matt’s words were whispered from behind you, his lips close to graze your ear.

one of matt’s hands sneaks from your breast to your neck, gently but firmly gripping you to hold your shuddering body back as you lean into him, trying to get you to stay in place as chris worked you through your orgasm, fucking you with his tongue.

you just about lose it when matt’s fingers add a soft pressure to your neck, your skin heating up and breathing getting heavier—all this leads to your mind fogging up completely.

shockwaves gripped your body, dissolving into pleasure when you came, letting out strangled moans of chris’s name.

“ohhh, just like that.. doin’ so good,” matt chuckled, his fingers slipping from your throat, returning to cup your soft skin

chris’s chin and lips were basically covered in a mix of your release and his own spit, before using the back of his hand to wipe it off.

you chuckled breathlessly, letting your hands fall from chris’s hair, your chest heaving with every breath.

“come on.. let us take care of you,” matt said from behind, clearly growing impatient and eager, gently nudging your back to signal for you to move.

chris quickly stole a kiss, leaning forward to connect your lips, before leaving more down the side of your face, causing you to let out a giggle. he laughed along, before getting settled on the bed.

a second later you’re on all fours, feeling chris crawl up behind you, one of his large hands smoothing down the spine of your back.

your look over at matt, a confused look settling on your face. “are you not joining?”

he shrugs, shaking his head for a moment. “i just wanna watch for a minute.. don’t worry.”

a smug smile made its way onto his lips. really, he just wanted to watch you, how you shuddered and reacted while positioned like that. it was like his own, personal third-person view of how you’d look while being fucked by him.

you just nodded it off, before your legs were spread further apart by his thighs, the tip of his cock prodding at your weeping pussy, smearing the precum over your folds. the icky feeling made you whine, digging your nails into the sheets in both desperation and aching need.

“so, so pretty.. i could look at you all day,” chris whispered from behind you, hand hand reaching the ends of your hair to push out of the way, smoothing his palm up your back.

you smiled to yourself at his sweet words, until you felt him press the head of his cock through your opening. a gasp slipped from your parted lips, the stretch leaving a twinge between your legs.

“christ.. you take me so well..” he groaned from behind you, watching his cock disappear inside of you, a whimper ripping from the back of your throat. “do you wish it was matt touching you right now? this isn’t enough, is it?”

your ears perked up at his question, all blood running from your face. matt was already staring at the two of you, carefully wrapping his hand around his aching dick. chris never talked to you like this, making your stomach swirl—it was only something matt ever did.

truthfully, you shook your head. it wasn’t like matt didn’t make you feel good, but this was really all you needed. “n-no..”

a yelp elicited from your lips when he pressed his cock further inside of your drooling walls, echoing with the whimper falling past matt’s.

you turn your head to look at him, met with the sight of him fisting his erection, eyes locked on yours.

“really? i think you’re lying.. too busy running around fucking my brother. come on, matt,” chris waved him over, his fingertips digging into the soft skin of your hips, pulling you back to take more of his cock.

you felt nervous, more vulnerable than ever under both their eyes and chris’s harsh words, though they weren’t linked with malice, more something to get you both going. matt shuffled closer in front of you, and you twisted your neck to look up at him.

“come on.. you know what to do,” chris murmured, his length throbbing inside of you—it was getting hard to hold back from pumping his cock inside of you, watching your puffy walls suck him in.

nervously, you reached out to wrap your hand around matt, watching the sticky substance already smear from his tip, purposely rub your thumb over his slit, earning a groan from him.

carefully, your lips parted to wrap around his cock, swirling your tongue around the head. matt let out a quiet moan, his hand entangling in your hair, guiding you to take more of him. it wasn’t until he hit the back of your throat he stopped, loosening his grip on you but not letting go.

“fuck, you look so hot with my dick down your throat,” his head lolled back, eyes shut while you desperately tried to adjust to the restraint of breathing, your own eyes pinched shut.

suddenly, chris thrusted his hips forward, his hand on your back pressing down to arch your back as much as possible, the sudden shove forward making your gag around matt, tears prickling in the corner of your eyes.

“o-oh my god..” chris groaned, starting to pick up a slow rhythm, keeping it gentle since he didn’t actually want to hurt you.

“shiiitt.. fucking drooling around my cock, sweetheart..”

spit pooled around matt’s girth, hollowing your cheeks in an attempt to bob your head on his hardness, feeling every vein and ridge under your tongue, causing matt to groan.

it didn’t take long for chris’s pace to pick up, as well as your own, moaning and sputtering around his dick. his hand gripped the back of your head, accidentally bucking his hips into your mouth.

“you feel so good, angel.. so, so good, you’re doing so well..” chris cooed from behind you, gently massaging your hips in a way of comforting you, though his pace was a stark contrast to his dreamy words.

chocked whines were let out around matt, trying your best to signal your climax was close, your head going empty as the bliss took over you. the feeling, the pure ecstasy that ran through your veins seemed irreplaceable in the moment. nothing could add up to this.

the vibrations from your pretty noises and attempted words sent a shock of electricity up matt’s spine, guttural groans flowing past his lips.

you were throbbing around chris, your walls fluttering with every erratic pound, heat pooling in your lower tummy. and chris could feel it all, feel how your soaked hole pulsed and squeezed around his cock.

“you’re close, aren’t you? it’s okay.. it’s okay,

you can come,” chris shushed you, his chest heaving while letting out pathetic whimpers between pants.

you were writhing beneath the two, your clit swollen and a sheen of sweat prickling across your forehead and back. you lost composure, seeing stars from how overwhelming the whole situation was, your body going numb and hot.

“come on, she’s doing so good.. why don’t you tell her?” chris spoke between gritted teeth, looking up at matt.

he looked almost puzzled, not used to being so sweet with his words, but that was exactly was chris was going for. you deserved the world, not derogatory praised though he knew you didn’t mind either.

“yeah.. he’s right, you take it so well, hm? y’like being stuffed full like this?” matt complied, feeling your lips loosen around his length, your bobbing turning sloppy and halting.

your gut tightened, knees buckling under you when you came around chris’s dick, waves crashing upon you as your slick smeared over his length, tears escaping your waterline to roll down your cheek.

the repeated shudder around matt’s length was becoming too much, before his grip tightened on your hair, spilling his cum down your throat when he was pushed over the edge, spit seeping from the corner of your mouth.

“fuck! take it all, i know you can,” matt’s words stung when he continued to rut his hips forward, before tears were staining your cheeks, milking him completely dry.

with a pop, he pulled back, allowing you to heave for air, messy moans being ripped from your throat from chris’s unrelenting thrusts.

“ch-chris.. i can’t take it, please. it’s too much,” you whimpered between a quiet sob, sobs of ecstasy, clamping down around him while the tip of his dick kissed your cervix with every roll of his hips.

“y-you really think you could handle the both of us? at the same time?” matt cooed with faux sympathy, leaning down to cup the side of your face, his thumb wiping the mix of his release and saliva off your lips, “of course, you couldn’t,”

he tsked, shaking his head while giving your cheek a pat. chris then broke in, his eyes stuck to where your two bodies connected, your slick release covering his length, “shh.. just a little bit more, m’almost there doll, you’re doing so good..”

another whine slipped from your glistening, swollen lips, dipping forward to bury your face into a pillow, allowing chris to hit way deeper inside your gummy walls.

you were basically clawing at the soft fabric, hot tears falling from your eyes like prior, the soft cries making his pace turn sloppy, indicating he was close.

with a final thrust, his movements stilled, before spurting the hot seed inside of you, the icky substance filling you up.

he groaned, basically collapsing on top of you, his fingertips trailing down your sides while mumbling mindless praise, “so, so pretty.. you did so well, don't cry. my girl,”

you wobbly made it onto your elbows, smiling dreamily to yourself at his words, completely fucked out and weak while his lips made their way down your back, “i love you too,”.

matt’s hand met the top of your head, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear, leaving a gentle kiss to the side of your face.

“anyway.. pizza’s in the kitchen. go crazy,”

more of my work here!

۶ৎ taglist: @jetaimevous @missmimii @mattscoquette @pearlzier @witchofthehour @elizasturn @loveparqdise @delilahsturniolo @phone4pills @sturnsmia @hearts4werka @cayleeuhithinknott @strnilolover @sturnvxz @lovergirl4gracieabrams @ifwdominicfike @toftomgmf @emely9274 @sturnioloangell @blushsturns @sierrraaaaxz @slut4chris888 @marrykisskilled @sophand4n4 @sturnihoelooo @unknvhx @chrisslut04 @sturniolossss @slvtf0rchr1s @blahbel668 @starkeysturniolo @miolos @user1smvtysturniolo @lizzyzzn @sturnslutz @decimatedxdreams @chrissturnioloswife88 @sturn777 @sturniolonationsblog @frankoceanfanpage @priscillaog @courta13 @sweetrelieef @loverboysturn @sturns-mermaid @cutseylady @sofieeeeex @sofia-is-a-sturniolo-triplet-fan @mattsturnii

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hannieween · 7 months ago

Text

ladies' night | wicked games series | k.mg

Kim Mingyu came into your life at a time when you needed a friend the most. And that he was: a friend that you could confide in and laugh together, share your secrets with and perhaps, share a burden that was too similar to his.

☆ pairings: kim mingyu x female reader ☆ genre: angst, smut [18+] ☆ aus: bartender mingyu, friends to rebound fucking, fwb to lovers (attempt at a slow burn) ☆ word count: 16k

› read more

› warnings under the cut

☆ warnings: alcohol consumption, smut with plot, sub mingyu, soft dom reader, pussy drunk mingyu, manhandling, mingyu is low key a simp, reader is so down bad for him it is embarrassing, reader is on birth control, both mingyu and reader are lowkey toxic, size kink, big dick mingyu, use of sex toys, squirting, masturbation, foul language, dirty talking, lots of making out, reader has a bit of difficulty reaching her high, a bit of dry humping, oral sex (f. receiving), body worshipping, cowgirl, edging, unprotected p in v sex, creampies, aftercare. pet names: baby, shorty, pretty, (hers)

☆ acknowledgements: first things first! big thanks to @nonuify who suggested the title for the series! thanks to @onlymingyus who suggested a cute pet name for reader (that is, sugar which will come in the future), @miniseokminnies, @bitchlessdino and @wonustars for helping brainstorming for ideas hehe ty ty 🩵

also thanks to vee and @wooahaeproductions who helped me proofread this 🩵

☆ author's note: helloooooo! welcome to the hannieverse! where every single fic i've written is connected somehow! this series is closely connected to heartbreaker. though i don't think it is necessary to read that one in order to read this one here, but if you haven't read that one yet, be my guest hehe

☆ author's note 2: we have another reader self-insert!! i wish i could start self-inserting the things that are actually nice about my life... and not angst, bad sleeping habits and heartbreak (┬┬﹏┬┬) anyway, i hope you all enjoy this one

☆ disclaimer: minors DO NOT INTERACT. this post is intended for 18+ readers. please have your age stated in your description and try not to look like a bot please or i will block you.

ladies' night

Lately, work had become your second home.

Not by choice, no. It was a thing that you forced into your life to keep yourself busy. Running a business was not easy, but you had reached a point in your life where you no longer needed to work 16 hours a day. Now, you felt like you needed to be working all day long. Or else, you would go insane.

Routine. You swore by it. Wake up, get ready, go to work, traffic, clock off, more traffic, come back home, sleep, repeat.

You could make time for yourself. But there was nothing else to dedicate your time to.

Coming back to a half-packed apartment was quite discouraging. Boxes piled up. The furniture you worked so hard to buy, gone, sold. You did not even bother to turn on the light, you had memorized your way through the maze of cardboard boxes.

Maybe I should get a dog.

The keys hanging from your fingers jingled as you reached your bedroom, tossing them on the nightstand to begin undressing yourself and getting ready to sleep.

There was a row of neatly folded clothes occupying one side of the bed, clothes that were ready to be packed away. Or donated. Whatever you wanted to do the following day.

You finished peeling off the last piece of clothing from your body, neatly disposing of it in the hamper, and dragged yourself to do your nightly skincare routine.

The biggest, and probably recurring challenge you had to get through was going to sleep. You faced your bed, half covered by small towers of folded clothes making you feel a deafening agony that you could not get rid of.

You set your phone on the side table before commanding yourself to sit on the bed, your back to the piles of clothes. You had to purposefully ignore your phone before going to bed if you wanted to get an interrupted sleep.

Lying on your pillow, you stared at the ceiling, your arms sticking to your torso, fingers curled on the bedcovers. The part you dreaded the most.

You closed your eyes, avoiding every thought completely. It was a difficult feat, it was impossible.

Slowly, and tentatively, you slid a hand beneath the bed sheets, reaching out to your side, feeling the weight of the piles of clothes pressing down on your arm. The side of the bed would remain empty, and you never dared to sleep on that side.

The side where your former partner used to sleep.

A part of you itched to grab your phone. What was the point, you concluded, retreating your hand and sticking it to your body again. There was no point in trying to reimagine a life in which you had not asked your ex to leave. There was no point in wanting someone that left you feeling so empty.

Maybe I should sell the bed too.

You stared at the ceiling once again, your gaze outlining the four margins of the bedroom. Whenever the night got bad, you would do this, over and over, until everything faded to black Until you fell asleep.

You woke up before your alarm went off.

It took you some moments to realize that you did not have to go to work that day. A heavy reluctance fell upon you, making it harder to drag yourself out of the bed you were planning to sell the night before.

You brushed the thought off. Okay.

You were okay. You were going to be even better.

The morning was bleak, the pale light making you squint your eyes as soon as you drew the blinds up. But you started working at once. The first task was putting the clothes in boxes, emptying space on the bed.

You wasted no time, removing the covers and the bed sheets without much thought. You did not want to think that even though you washed the pillowcases, you could still smell your ex's cologne in them. You did not want to think back to the time you bought the bed sheets with him when you moved in together.

It was too late.

Crushed, you closed the moving boxes, moving them into neat piles. The silence was nearly deafening.

You sat on the bed and waited.

The doorbell rang. People came in and stuffed a van full of all of the boxes and the bed. When it was time to go, you took one look at the place you swore you would live with the love of your life for a long while and closed the door behind you.

Three months later.

Your old routine started to tear you down. A silent killer, slowly destroying bits and pieces of your already fragile state. You were too slow or too ignorant to see it, but in protecting your precious routine, you were destroying yourself.

First, it was your sleep. Then, it was your closest friendships. Then, you could no longer pay attention at work. You were tired, and alone.

Enough is enough, you told yourself sternly.

You decided to do new things. Explore a bit more, distract yourself, pamper yourself. Watch a new show someone recommended to you ages ago, or actually read one of the books you bought and forgot.

Living in a new part of town should not be this challenging.

You knew every single corner of the neighborhood, yet you knew no one. And living in a city so vast and so populated demanded you to do activities in the company of someone.

Part of running your own business meant that you could manage your own time. That you did, shaving some hours off of your heavy and self-inflicted work schedule and taking some time for yourself.

The first thing you did was go shopping since it could be one activity you could do by yourself. And it was distracting. You went back home, and read that book.

Maybe I could put on this show while I unpack.

Some things were still kept in boxes from when you moved into the new apartment. Mainly those with stuff you did not require immediately. Clutter. Mostly bought by you to make your other apartment feel more lived in.

Time went by and you finished watching that show. You finished reading through the pile of books you got ages ago. You bought new clothes, and got rid of those that once occupied your ex's side of the bed.

You were slowly becoming someone else.

Waking up to a new reality happens in an instant. In the middle of the day. In the middle of traffic. It is realizing that in the past you is no longer present, and you need to become someone else to fit into that reality.

At least, that was how it felt.

The red light turned green, and you pushed yourself through the traffic slowly. Maybe I should sell the car. You turned left, driving past the badly lit gym that stood on the corner, its uninviting neon purple and red lights outside.

Abruptly, you pulled up. Grabbing your purse, getting out of your car and meekly pushed open the door to the place. The myriads of different noises startled you at first. The very loud speakers mounted on every corner, the clanking of the heavy weights hitting the floor, planks hitting each other, and the occasional loud grunting of men.

The person wearing the staff uniform greeted you. The young man, though seemingly your age, looked at you up and down with bright doe eyes.

“Hi,” he nodded politely, showing you a smile adorned by a couple of ring piercings. “Welcome! How can I help you?”

The question seemed to drive a dry joke in your mind, but you paid no attention to it. “I want to register.”

His expression broke in a downturned smile, almost as if this were a quick reflex of his. You realized then, you were being quite dry.

“Please,” you added two seconds later.

“Sure,” he smiled, recovering from the awkward exchange without issue. “Follow me.”

The gym was packed, it got hotter the more you entered the place. The guy wearing the staff uniform appeared to be quite the popular person around, waving at gym goers left and right with great attitude.

You thought of mentioning it but, you just kept walking behind him to an office room secluded in one of the corners. He turned on the light and went around the small desk, sitting down on the battered office chair with a heavy sigh.

“Okay, first things first,” he turned on the chair to one side, showing you with his hand to a table pushed to the corner of the office, an old coffee maker huffed as it finished brewing. “Coffee?”

You looked at the coffee machine, and then to him. An eyebrow lifted.

“It's Thursday,” he shrugged. “We serve coffee every Thursday.”

You huffed, a small smile appearing on your face. “And on Fridays?”

“Ah! Do not get ahead of yourself. Maybe we can find that out tomorrow, miss...?” he pushed his eyebrows up, pulled one pen from the pencil case, and clicked it on, ready to fill out a form.

You fought the urge to laugh in his face, the awkwardness from the whole situation making your tummy feel uneasy.

You sat down on the chair, robbing the pen from his tattooed fingers. His doe eyes snapped open in surprise when you pulled the form from under his hand and started filling it out.

“Tell me prices,” you muttered, eyes focused on filling out the form, so you did not get the chance to see him smile when he let out a small breath.

“Well, that didn't go to plan,” he whispered to himself, seemingly.

Cute.

“Has it ever?”

You darted a look at him through your lashes. The guy had his eyes slightly widened, probably not expecting you to strike up a conversation of this type.

“Uh, well, yeah, but,” he stammered, like a deer in the headlights. “Only when I don’t mean it to,” he smiled sheepishly, bringing a hand to scratch the back of his neck.

“Well, then, I suppose that you can give me your name so I can give you mine,” you offered, though amicably. You finished writing on the form, putting the pen down.

“Jungkook,” he nodded his head politely. “Jeon Jungkook, miss.”

You smiled at him and told him your name, pushing the form to him on the desk.

Jungkook read the details you penned on the form intently, his lips softly mouthing each word, and then he turned to the old computer sitting on one side of the desk. But then, he shook his head swiftly. “Shit, yeah. Right,” he hissed. “Prices,” he turned to you.

“You know what,” you blurted, heartbeat racing when you pulled out your card from your purse. “Just sign me up.”

“Okay,” he nodded once again, his smile growing into a more content one, leaving the shyness behind. “Welcome to Casa Pump House,” he announced proudly.

His whole face had lit up, even his eyes seemed to glimmer under the pale overhead lights. The pause that followed told you that he was expecting you to match his energy, to smile, to say something.

A stiff smile stretched the features of your face, you nodded back at him. “Thank you,” you said. However, what he did not know was that the last thing you wanted to get out of your registration to the gym was working out.

You just needed another distraction.

The man stood up at the same time you did. “Let me show you around,” he said, demeanor completely changed. He seemed nervous now.

“Oh, is it okay if we leave that for tomorrow?” you asked, suddenly feeling out of place in your work clothes.

His mouth hung open for a brief moment. “Sure,” he replied. “Of course. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” you echoed, walking out of his office promptly. “Thank you, Jeon!”

You rushed through the rows of all types of machines. The noise from the heavyweights clashing together, the loud music coming from the overhead speakers, and the noises coming from men, exhaling, grunting, and such had you taking a deep breath when you came out of the place.

The night was cold, slightly damp from the mid-summer breeze. It was a stark difference from the humidity inside Casa Pump House.

You snorted. I should learn to ignore my impulsive thoughts.

You found your car, unlocking the doors. But a flashing thought overwhelmed you even more: having to sit through yet another thirty minutes of traffic, alone with your thoughts.

Turning your back from your car, you locked the doors once again, walking down the street. It could be a Thursday night when your usual would be heading home and sleeping. But the city was very much coming alive with nightlife activities.

People were walking close together, laughing, chatting, or looking at their phones. All of them had somewhere to go, somewhere they were being waited for.

Two girls holding hands walked past you, they were giggling, talking about some innocuous thing, but it caught your attention, they were pretty and looked happy.

They stopped in front of an establishment that was clearly a bar. Namely The Spot, in big neon red letters and pushed inside the place, which was booming with loud music, and the buzzing from the people crowding the place.

Once again, you sighed.

Impulsivities.

You were not exactly a drinker. But as soon as you crossed the door, you realized that the place was the answer to your every prayer. Well, no. Not quite. But close.

The place was dark, only lit by neon signs and low-hanging lamps. A cacophony of various things filled your ears: the sound of music, paired with the chattering of the crowd, the billiards in the distance clashing with everything too.

The good part was that no one paid attention to you. You quietly and inconspicuously slid on one of the high-top chairs at the lacquered bar, being approached by a girl a second later to take your order.

“Can I have a coke, please?” raising your voice over the loud speakers made your heartbeat race. You rarely ever did such a thing lately, it felt weird to do something like that again.

The girl nodded and in seconds, she slid the can of coke and a glass with ice in it in front of you.

You were glad that you were not met with concern when you ordered a coke at a bar. But then you realized that no one cared.

The place was packed with mostly women, you realized as you familiarized yourself with its adorned walls and black and white checkered floors. The bar top held a chalkboard that explained it in neat handwriting: ladies' night, buy one get one free.

“Does it apply for non-alcoholic drinks too?” you asked the girl tending the bar.

She shook her head no. “But this one is on me,” she winked at you in a friendly way, when you sent her a questioning look, she just shrugged: “You look like you need it.”

Then the girl turned and continued working, tending to other orders in the bar quite skillfully. You wondered if you announced your sadness just by walking into the place, and people noticed. Or was it that being alone in a ladies' night instantly meant that you were going through a rough time?

You need new friends.

When you broke up with your ex, you hid from the world that revolved around you as a couple. The friends you shared, the places you used to go with him, the activities you liked doing with him… It all got shoved into a drawer at the back of your mind.

So now, you felt like coming back to life. Essentially, you were finding yourself after the pain of a heartbreak. The reason behind all your most recent life's decisions.

You would never go to bars alone, for instance.

Not that you did not enjoy a drink. You did. Though during the time with your ex-partner, it was a true rarity for you to go out and drink.

So being in a bar, on a Thursday was something you had not done in years.

It was quite overwhelming. The buzzing noise, the loud music, the clanking of glass and billiards, the booming laughter and chattering...

The mood was low, dimly lit in red neon lights, the noise seemed to die down upon laying eyes on the tall man going behind the bar, passing in front of you and blocking the sight of the huge neon red sign that read, HEARTBREAKER. The contrasting light against his tall frame made him alluring, you could not help but stare.

However, your trance was cut short. He might have sensed your eyes glued to him because his zeroed on your face, unsuspecting at first. You realized instead, you know this man, the thought fell heavily in your mind, settling in the pit of your tummy.

The dark eyes glinted with recognition, the corner of his lips rising to uncover the predominant fangs as he smiled politely at you.

Kim Mingyu took one step towards the spot you were sitting in, the smile fading at once as you jumped from your stool, swiftly slipping through the door and out of the bar altogether.

Once out, you released a puffy breath. Did you just run away from Kim Mingyu?

“But did he recognize you?” your best friend from college, Mona, asked. She toyed with the tail of a cherry, dragging it on the foamy surface of her pina colada.

“I don’t know,” you squished your cheek on your palm as you propped your elbow on the table. “I didn’t stick around to find out. I don’t think he did, though.”

“Are you sure about that?” she mused.

“I’ve changed a lot, Mona,” you explained, though pointlessly since your best friend already knew what you meant. “I’m not the same kid I was when I was seventeen.”

“True. So why did you run?” she asked, blowing a puffy air up her fringe to keep it off her long eyelashes.

“It was some sort of impulse,” you tried to explain but the truth was, you did not even know the answer to that question. Hence why you resorted to call in for a meeting with the person that knew you the most.

Though it was not a meeting. You had already set a date for you to meet with your best friend long before you found out that Kim Mingyu worked at the bar around the corner of your apartment.

It had been long since you saw your best friend, partly because you kept coming up with excuses to not meet with her.

“I think,” he started, now popping the cherry in her mouth. “That you have been so buried in your own shit that you’ve started to forget how to socialize.”

You coughed up a chuckle. “Right,” you said dismissively. “And what is your recommendation, doc?”

“You should return to the bar,” she shrugged. “You have been hiding for too long. It’s time you go out more, meet new people.”

Her dark eyes bore into your face. You could feel your own pulse in your tummy. “I know,” you confessed with a strangled tone. “I’ve gotten better. I no longer think about him, you know?”

This was the reason why you had been dodging your best friend’s calls. Or cancelling plans at the last minute. This conversation was one you had been putting off for far to long but could no longer keep inside you.

“Good,” she sighed with relief, her heart-shaped face lit up with a kindness that warmed you up. “And how do you feel?”

“I feel… I used to feel angry. At him. For failing his promise to me,” you pursed your lips, swallowing hard as your voice dropped. “But now I just feel like I’m letting it go. I think that things had to happen like that for a reason.”

“He did you a kindness,” she nodded with a wise expression on her face.

You huffed. Kindness is not the word you would use. In fact, you could not come up with words to use to describe what he did to you.

“Seriously,” she insisted, straightening on her seat. “Imagine you got married! Then you would have been a loser’s wife!”

That elicited a genuine chuckle out of you. “True.”

“Not only that, but you would’ve also gotten divorced. Or who knows. But he spared you the pity of being married to him, divorcing him, or having children with his sorry ass.”

You pondered over her words for a second. Mona was there for you when you broke up with your ex. She was the first person to know the news, dropped everything to be at your doorstep within the hour of that happening.

You were grateful for Mona in more ways than one. She gave you space to grieve when you needed it. You did not even have to say it.

“So, are you going back to that bar some time soon?” she pried, leaving the tail of the cherry on her napkin, a knot neatly tied in the middle.

“Yeah,” you admitted. “I chickened out. I think he did see me, and I don’t want to leave that impression.”

“Do you need back up?” she threw you a cheeky look.

Oh, she knows.

“No, I think I got it,” you reassured. “I’ll just pop in, say hi and that’s it.”

Sundays were the worst for you.

The bustling noise from the bar drowned out the heavy thumping of your heart. Keeping your head down, your eyes darted forth and then down to the glass you kept twirling with your fingers on top of the lacquered, pristine bar top.

Kim Mingyu was busy that night. Prancing side to side behind the bar, a white dishcloth resting on his shoulder. He went to pick up a new order, yanking it from the small printer and pretending to read it.

His chocolate brown eyes lifted, locking on you. With a nervous jolt in your chest, you looked at your hands again, grabbing your phone to hopefully distract yourself from the awkward but swift exchange.

“I know you.”

You drew in a breath, jolting so hard that somehow your hands pushed your drink, making some of it spill on the polished surface. “God,” you exhaled in both embarrassment and surprise.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Kim Mingyu blurted, grabbing the cloth from this shoulder and pressing it on the spilled drink. “Shit, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you like that.”

“No, it’s okay,” you blurted, equally nervous as him. “You caught me off guard.”

“You know what they say,” he said, pressing his lips into a smile and discarding the cloth elsewhere, setting the palms of his hands on the edge of the bar top. “People with naughty thoughts in their heads get scared easily.”

“Nobody says that,” you raised your eyes from his hands to meet his face, his smile had grown, showing now the beautiful fangs that crowned it.

“I'm pretty sure I’ve heard it before somewhere,” he tilted his head to one side.

“Or maybe you just made it up,” you arched one eyebrow.

“Maybe,” he conceded, biting his lower lip to try and hide his shy smile.

A wave of warm embarrassment washed over your face, but you found yourself smiling at the man. “It’s been a long time.”

“So you do remember me.”

“Of course I do,” you replied with a meek smile burning your cheeks.

“Then why didn't you just say hi?” he replied with some faux indignation, pursing his lips into a pout. “I thought you hadn’t recognized me and that’s why you freaked out and left.”

“You didn't say hi either,” you shrugged, shaking your head lightly when you realized it was a bad excuse. “And it hasn’t been that many years, Mingyu,” you giggled. “Of course I remember you.”

The low chuckle that came from him ignited many memories from the past. “Really? Haven’t I changed? Not even a little?”

You rolled your eyes. The very last memories you had from Kim Mingyu were when you were still in high school. Even after many years, he kept the kind smile and bright eyes, the dark long hair. The only different thing about him was that he looked huge now.

He crossed his arms, waiting patiently for your answer. It was funny to you that even when his biceps bulged beneath his black t-shirt impressively, the starry eyes brought that boyish charm he has always had.

“Nope,” you said, shaking your head slowly. “Still the same.”

“But you have changed,” he remarked, nodding his head once. You blinked at him dumbly, so he just added: “Your hair is longer. Braces are gone.”

You let out a chuckle, enjoying how the features of his face went lax at the sound of your laughter, much as if he were holding in a breath until the moment that he made you laugh.

“Spot on,” you mumbled awkwardly, grabbing your empty glass.

It was totally the opposite, though. You feel like you had lost half of your younger self when you entered your twenties. The baby fat from your face was long gone, your skin was leagues better after the brutal hormonal changes. And your body of course was not the same… there were some improvements.

“Sorry, let me refill that for you,” he quickly got to work, pulling out a new glass, filling it back up, and with one move, he slipped it into your hand. “One whisky sour.”

“Thanks,” you pressed your lips in a shy smile.

You watched as he parted his lips, pausing for a second before speaking out, until another voice, a powerful one, boomed from across the bar.

“Kim Mingyu! Get to work!”

He straightened up as if mentally being whipped by the firmness of the command. The man who called was leaning back against a pool table, arms crossed on his chest. But instead of wearing a frown on his face, there was a broad smile in it.

“Ah! Shit, I’m sorry,” he replied in a nervous stammer, wincing when the man handling the bar alongside him slapped him on one shoulder.

“Focus, Min,” the guy who slapped him playfully smiled in a mischievous way, directing a swift glance at you and pursed his lips to keep himself from smiling any wider.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he repeated, shooting an annoyed look at the guy and rolled his eyes at him. “I thought you had it for a minute.”

“Yeah, I did,” he shrugged. “But you don’t get paid to flirt. Plus, boss is watching,” the man pressed his lips into a sly smile.

“I’m not flirting–hyung,” Mingyu widened his eyes, gritting: “She is a friend.”

“Hi,” you raised one hand at the pair of bartenders, waving at them. “I’m a friend.”

“Oops, I’m sorry,” the tall man adjusted the watch sitting on his wrist before waving back at you. “Jeon Wonwoo. Also a friend.”

“Flatmate,” Mingyu gibed with faux dismissal.

“So I’m not your friend anymore?” Wonwoo clicked his tongue, raising his eyebrows. “Good luck with flirting again on the clock without having boss complaining.”

“I wasn’t flirting!” Mingyu whined, grabbing the upcoming order expelled by the little printer behind him.

“Since I’ve been downgraded to just being a flatmate, I’m going to take a break,” he announced with an overly dramatic tone of indignation.

Mingyu’s jaw dropped in a sign of it being unjust. “Hyung!”

“I trust you can handle the bar on your own?” Wonwoo said, undoing the knot tying his waist apron that was previously wrapping him from the waist and left through the back door.

“Tsk,” Mingyu huffed, but then, despite his situation, he smiled widely. “I’m sorry about that,” he offered you a kind look. “He’s just teasing me. Please don’t mind him.”

“It seems like all of your co-workers like teasing you,” you pointed meekly, darting a look towards the other two people standing over the end of the bar.

Mingyu shot a look back, finding the girl that had welcomed you some nights ago, standing beside a tall man of pale blond hair. Both exchanged a smile, looking giddy.

“Tsk, aah,” Mingyu shook his head, and the couple laughed. “Don’t mind them,” he pleaded, resuming to focus back on his work, though part of you assumed that he was too embarrassed to face you.

So, you watched as he busied himself taking orders, handing them out to the pretty girl tending the tables. You continued sipping on your drink, distractedly looking at your phone and sending him glances, noticing that he too was looking at you. Every now and then, he would just shake his head at her in disapproval, which she ignored with a wide smile on her face.

Whenever he tried to stop in front of you to chat, he would be quickly swept away by a new order, or someone would call his name, and he would excuse himself with a quiet apology and a shy smile.

Later, the man that introduced himself to you as Jeon Wonwoo returned to the bar, slapping Mingyu on the shoulder to draw his attention. They exchanged some words, Mingyu looked aback for a second and the other pouted, mouthing: “I don’t know,” and shrugging with ease.

“Hey,” Mingyu came to you after thanking his friend. “Wanna get out of here?”

“Eh?” you tilted your head to one side, the question making your stomach drop.

“So we can catch up,” Mingyu let out a sweet giggle, realizing how his question sounded. “I’m getting kicked out for the night.”

Your eyes widened in bewilderment. “Oh, Mingyu, I’m sorry, that is not what–,”

“Relax,” he sighed. “My flatmate is covering me. He owed me one.”

“Oh,” you blurted. In that case…

“It’s been a while.”

Mingyu hummed thoughtfully, casting a look at the night sky. “Uh, eleven–ten, ten years?” he calculated.

You were exiting the bar, walking down the side of the street after you told him you were just gearing up to head home already, and he kindly offered to walk you home. “Yep. Ten years.”

“Wow,” he sighed. “We’re getting old.”

You braced yourself for one of those talks. As you entered the second half of your twenties, things got a little awkward for you. Once you would think they were stuff of fiction, something you would only see in romantic comedies or in tv shows: characters see the people surrounding their lives getting married, going on dates, honeymoons, having children while they remain a perpetual loner.

Now, you could not relate to that more.

But Mingyu was a person who did not care for those things. Even when you were both seventeen. He did not care for material things, or superficial things.

“Yeah. A little.”

You drew in a breath through your nose. The night was cold, and you could tell in the summer’s breeze that it would rain later.

“I saw that you went in that fancy college,” he mentioned and then laughed. “And then you disappeared off the face of the earth.”

“Yeaaah,” you mumbled awkwardly. “I sort off eliminated all of my social media,” you frowned, remembering the reason why you had done that.

“I get it, it’s exhausting,” he shrugged.

“Did you go into that fancy college?” you returned, remembering Mingyu in those days in which he used to talk about the future, whenever you went out with your friend group. You remembered thinking that he had a bright future ahead of him whenever he would talk about studying mechanical engineering.

“Nah,” he clicked his tongue. “I quit those plans once I started working and making money. So, I’m not a mechanical engineer,” he let out a lazy giggle.

“Mmn,” you nodded. “Yeah, that happens. I’m not a graphic designer.”

“Why?” he frowned. “That’s all you talked about with your friends!”

You looked at him, perplexed to know that Kim Mingyu ever paid attention to you. Within your friend group, you were the least he had in common with. So even when you crossed paths, you never talked to each other aside from small friendly stuff.

“I started working as a translator… Started making money,” you sent him a knowing look.

“Yeah, I get it,” he chuckled. “But do you enjoy it at least?”

“Of course,” you smiled, though you could not ignore the way that your heartbeat faltered. “I work independently, though I do rent an office not far from here actually…” you said, pointing to the street where you were about to turn.

“Nice! I live in the area too, so maybe we’ll run into each other one day,” he mentioned.

“It’s nice to know I have a friendly neighbor,” you smiled. “I just moved here.”

“Oh, then let me show you around some day!” his eyes lit up. “There are a ton of places you probably don’t know of, like the bakery on the next alley, or the coffee shop right next to it, they serve really good breakfasts.”

“That would be nice,” you grinned.

Mingyu showed you a toothy grin, pausing in his step so you could catch up to him since he moved faster than you.

“Hey, about what happened back at the bar,” he motioned a finger to the bar. “I’m sorry about that. My friends can be a bit of dickheads.”

“No, it’s alright, I get it,” you shrugged. “A bit of in-work bantering can lighten up the shift sometimes,” you put simply.

“That and the fact that they have been teasing me for a while now. They try hard to distract me,” he rolled his eyes. But realizing how he came off, he added. “I had a nasty breakup not too long ago. It’s like they think I’m going to break soon. It’s annoying.”

“Can I ask how it happened?” you wondered, feeling your heartbeat falter when you finish uttering the words to a question that perhaps, might be too daring.

Kim Mingyu dug his hands in the pockets of his black denim jeans, sucking in a breath between his teeth. He pushed his shoulders up, that was when you noticed that the chill in the summer air was finally starting the get to him.

“She got into a new job,” he started, his eyes set far ahead on the way in front of you. “At the beginning, I thought that she was just happy from getting her big job. But then, she started saying things.”

As you walked beside him, you tried to keep your eyes trained on the tall man, but then he blinked rapidly, dropping his puppy eyes to his feet.

“She'd say things about my job,” he swallowed hard, and you could almost feel the pain he felt upon remembering. “I thought nothing of it at first, thought she was encouraging me to get a job with higher pay but...”

You nodded, and he sent you a glance in understanding. He did not need to say more about it, and he probably did not want to repeat the hurtful comments.

“And then,” he continued, and his tone dropped: “She started talking about her boss.”

He shook his head silently and exhaled through his nose, lifting his gaze up to the night sky.

“Time passed and the comments got meaner, she started ghosting me and I thought of breaking things off,” he swallowed hard once again, as if trying to mask his pain with it. “I got a call one day from a friend, telling me they saw her entering a restaurant with another man,” you saw him turn his hands into fists inside his pockets. “I guess she forgot that I had the day off that day, so she never thought I'd be waiting for her outside her apartment.”

“Did she...” you blurted out, your heart palpitating in your ears. You braced yourself to hear it, because you knew from before that his pain and yours were too alike.

“Yeah,” he croaked, blinking for a long second. “For weeks.”

“God, I’m so sorry,” you covered your mouth with one hand. “I'm sorry, Mingyu.”

“I'm alright,” he shrugged once more, nodding as if to himself. “I think I'm grateful for her mean attitude towards me because in a way she softened the blow, but it still hurts.”

“I know,” you conceded. “It isn’t easy.”

However, you were raging inside. Some nights, the worst ones, you wonder what you did wrong to deserve everything that your ex did to you. The broken promises, the lies, the ghosting, your trust being brutally shattered.

“The worst thing is the shame,” he sent a glance at you, dragging his foot on the concrete to kick one rock that stood in the way of the park.

You nodded in silence.

“I never told my friends,” he confessed, his eyes were outlining the tree branches. “When it happened, I just told them that she was the one who broke up with me... I've never told them the truth.”

“You are not obligated to,” you muttered, a cold shudder added to your already chilled body making you pause.

“I just couldn't do it,” he muttered. “And the reason isn’t to protect her image, though at the beginning I thought it was… I just don’t want to the pity.”

You crossed your arms close to your chest. “And how are you now?”

“I’m okay,” he said with a reassuring tone. “I like to think that I’ve let it go already.”

Something made your tummy twist. You were familiar with the feeling, but decided not to mention it, since you felt that your past with your ex was no longer relevant.

“I’m sorry,” Mingyu said.

You frowned at him. “What for?”

“For dumping all of this on you, I shouldn’t have done that.”

You realized that as you walked down the park, that you had remained quiet, and perhaps Mingyu mistook your silence for something other than you just pondering about how familiar his situation was to yours.

“Oh, please no, don’t worry, Mingyu,” you showed him a kind smile.

“I don’t want to bother you with that. I just…” he scratched his neck absentmindedly. “I had never talked about this with anyone, and the words just flew out of my mind, you know?”

You nodded; you knew that all too well. “It’s okay, Gyu,” you insisted. “I’m not bothered. I don’t think it’s wrong to talk about that. After all, it is part of you, and I asked because I was curious.”

Mingyu looked at you for a long second. “I appreciate that,” he kissed his own lower lip, nodding in gratitude. “Thanks for hearing me out.”

“Hey, it’s nothing. You’re walking me home, so consider us even,” you pointed.

“You owe me nothing for that,” he pouted slightly, pausing his step in the middle of the basketball court you both were crossing to get to the other side of the neighborhood.

“I’m just saying,” you shrugged. “Since you were kind to me, I guess what I can do is listen to your woes,” you added playfully.

“My woes,” he grinned, clicking his tongue. “Really? You’re a tease,” he insisted, his eyes spotting something on the far corner of the court.

He sprinted towards the forgotten ball, grabbing it with one hand and started to bounce it as he walked back to you.

“Remember when we used to do this?” he asked, standing outside the box and turned to look at you, raising his arms with the ball ready on one hand.

Your tummy fluttered at his words. “Course I do, Gyu. It wasn’t that long ago,” you pointed.

He referred to the times when you used to go out in your friend group, you would go to stroll and have picnic nights with booze right next to the river, and then you would go to the park to watch the boys play basketball.

“I feel like seventeen happened forever ago,” he sighed, confidently throwing the ball which dodged the hoop quite miserably.

You snorted.

Mingyu shot a sullen look at you. “D’you think you can do better than me?” he challenged, but a shy smile drew on his face.

“Oh, most definitely,” you chuckled, but caught the ball with your hands when he passed it to you.

“Right, show me,” he nodded to the hoop.

You grinned, getting ready to shoot your shot. “What do I get if it goes in?”

Mingyu blinked. “You get,” he paused to think. “A round of applause.”

“What?” you gasped.

“A chocolate bar,” he giggled but when you did not reply, he said: “And if you don’t, you’ll get a forehead flick.”

“What, why?” you asked with a faux scandalized tone. “You didn’t get a forehead flick, why should I?”

The giggled that bubbled in his mouth was high and cute at the same time. “Those are the rules.”

“Your rules suck,” you huffed, and finally threw the ball.

It of course, did not go even near the hoop. Mingyu laughed the second that the trajectory of the ball dived before it even went close to the hoop, the sound was so contagious you found yourself resisting to laugh.

“Rules are rules,” he said, locking his middle finger with the pad of his thumb, forming a circle with his joined fingers.

“No, wait—Mingyu!” you squealed then the tip of his middle finger clashed with your forehead, flicking you swiftly. Pain flashed across your skin, but it quickly dissipated, leaving a tingle behind.

“Those were the rules, you agreed!” he giggled again, dodging your hand as you tried to push his shoulders.

“Then you should get one too,” you struggled to keep up with him, every single one of the fists you threw at him dodged quite effortlessly.

“The rules were settled after I threw,” he let out a small squeal when one of your fists nearly collided with his shoulder, but he was still quicker than you.

“Come here you-,” you gasped, your body was neatly trapped in his arms.

Your gaze shot up to find his, overwhelmed by the very pressure of his skin against yours.

“Stay put,” he panted. The tips of his ears were painted red, his eyes had lit up. The smile he wore on his face was just as overwhelming as feeling his big arms surrounding you.

But you sneaked a hand between your bodies, flicking off his forehead with a triumphant smile. “Dummy,” you whispered, a giggle bubbling in your chest. Joy bloomed inside you, warming up your face.

He lifted a hand to rub his forehead, letting you go. “Ack, but you played dirty!” he complained, holding the pads of his fingers to his forehead.

“No, I didn’t, you did,” you remarked, looking at him as he gave you a lazy smile.

“So that’s how it’s going to be,” he kissed his teeth. “I’ll get my revenge on you.”

“Oooh, I’m so scared,” you lifted your hands, flickering them in a scared motion.

The sky rumbled above you. Mingyu looked up and you followed. “We should get going,” he said.

As you left the park, you made your way along the sidewalk where your building was located. Then a hand came to your waist, gently prompting you to walk along the side of the buildings instead of along the edge of the sidewalk.

The touch was minimal, fleeting. But your mouth went dry, searching his face for any sign that he knew what he had done to you with such an insignificant gesture.

Your heart stammered against your chest, quite uncontrollably, it made it hard for you to breathe properly. You raised your head when you got to your building. “We’re here,” you stepped in the first step of the stairs that led to the door of the building, pausing to look back at his face. “Thank you, Min.”

The smile that drew on his face knocked the air out of your lungs. “You are welcomed,” he said, emphasizing each word adorably.

“I guess I’ll be seeing you,” you muttered awkwardly, hating that he had flustered you with so little and had no idea about it.

“Oh, yes,” he swiftly fished his phone from the pocket of his jeans. “We should exchange numbers, in case there is anything you need.”

You sighed shortly through your nose, a thing he did not notice. “Sure,” you said, pulling out your phone and gave him your number.

“I’m mostly busy at the bar but, maybe we could go out for coffee, so we can catch up properly?” he asked.

That gave you a reason to pause. You were certain that he was not asking you for a date, but why had you become so nervous at the thought of going out with Kim Mingyu?

“Of course, I’d love that,” you grinned. “Goodnight.”

And then you ran into your building. Running away from Mingyu for a second time.

You struggled to get sleep that night.

Staring at the ceiling, you grew more and more restless, and even more aware of the thing that lied beneath your bed, inside one of the drawers of the bed frame.

A long, whiny sigh of resignation spilled from you before you could get a hold of your actions. You rolled to the edge of the bed, flinging an arm over the mattress, and yanking the drawer open. Another sigh as your fingers reached for the pink satin bag and bottle of lube.

Tossing the covers off your already hot and pulsating body, fingers trembling slightly as you pulled the vibrator out of the satin pink bag you kept it in since you bought it. There had been only a couple of times that you had actually touched the pretty toy with your hands. The toy was pink, the material was soft, thick, and just about enough inches long to satisfy you. Or so you hoped.

Unsure as to how to go about this, you thought of removing just the lower part of your sleeping clothes, including your panties. Breathing hard, and feeling hot in the face and neck, you lied on your pillows, staring at the ceiling.

Your heart was banging fast against your ribcage, as if it wanted to get out. You liked your lips, before grabbing the bottle of lube you had tossed beside you and pumped the cold, thick lube on your fingers, gently applying it between your pussy lips.

You sucked in a breath through your teeth upon the chilly contact against your warmth. But wasted no time, grabbing the pink rabbit dildo from your sheets and holding the button with your thumb.

It came to life with rapid vibrations, the buzzing sound made you jolt in your bed again. But mustering some courage, you brought the tip in, pushing it inside your entrance gently at first. The fast mechanic motions of the vibrator made it hard to concentrate, or to even get pleasure out of it.

Your eyes outlined the edges of the ceiling, anxiously pushing a few more inches inside your needy walls. The thickness of the dildo made your mouth part, releasing a tiny moan of both pain and from feeling your pussy stretching and pulsating around it.

Slowly, you familiarized yourself with the feeling of it, and you grew to like it as the seconds went by and you found a mode that felt good. Your body responded naturally, coming alight with the mechanic patterns of the vibrator massaging your walls. You pushed it all the way inside you, to the part that met your clit.

A strangled moan came out of you, letting your body be submerged in a puddle of pleasure. You sank your head back onto your pillows and spread your legs more so that the dildo reached deeper inside your walls.

It was electrifying. You felt your muscles tighten, your legs burn and begin to tremble, you turned your head to muffle a moan in your pillow and closed your eyes.

Behind your eyelids, you saw him. You saw his tall frame, the beautiful way that he moved. You saw the outline of his lean torso, the t-shirt clinging onto his abdomen. The way he smiled when he noticed your eyes on him, winking at you knowingly.

The way that every nerve in your body sizzled when he laid his hand on your waist. The memory only contributed to the pleasure blooming inside your body, pushing you closer to the edge.

You slowly succumbed to waves of pleasure washing over you, you moaned and thrashed but made no attempt to pull out the vibrator continuing to pleasure you, taking you to the edge. Your orgasm became brutal, fast fiery waves consuming you, tearing through you.

It was hard to ignore the urge to remember his large hand on you, the way he lowered his gaze to meet yours, his seductive smile. You wanted his hands on you, all over you.

A series of airy moans resounded across the walls, you arched your back from the bed, legs shaking uncontrollably, the burning feeling spreading from your throbbing walls to every corner of your aching body.

You held in a breath, putting an end to your implacable moans. The intense feeling coursing through your body making it harder to stop, so when a warm and wet gush came out of you, your thumb pressed the off button, realizing that you had just wet the bed.

Breathless, and shaking, you sat up on the bed, looking at the wet spot in your bed sheets. It was the first time you squirted, the first time you even felt pleasure so abundantly like this. You pondered over how you had to resort to thinking about Mingyu to achieve your climax.

With a sigh, you gathered yourself, cleaning your bed, yourself, and your toys before throwing your ruined bed sheets in the washing machine. You placed new ones and tucked yourself back in and stared at the ceiling.

Though you were completely languid at the time, your vision faded to black, falling into a deep slumber but one thought remained.

I think I’ll accept that coffee.

Easier said than done.

As the following Monday rolled around, you fidgeted with the sleeves of your large hoodie as you approached the door of Casa Pump House. Nerves wrecked up in your system when you pushed the door open using your electronic key.

It had been some days since you saw Mingyu. Some nights since you dared to touch yourself thinking of him. And you were trying your best to keep him out of your mind. Utterly ashamed, you did not even want to think of what you had done.

Because you had enjoyed it.

In the back of your mind, a tiny voice begged for you to visit The Spot again. Whenever you went to the convenience store, a flashing thought warned you that you might run into him there. Or at the gym, even.

“Heyyyy,” Jungkook rasped, elongating the word. “You have been MIA.”

“Yeah,” you mumbled awkwardly. “Stomach flu.”

He made a face. “Ew. You’re good now?”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t ew me,” you gibed. “Yeah, I’m good.”

But Jungkook did not know the stomach flu had a name, and you have been doing everything to not cross paths with him. So why were you at the gym, knowing full well that you could potentially run into him around that time?

“You’re here early,” he pointed, leaning his head to one side.

“It’s noon already!” you quipped.

“That’s early for you,” he remarked. “You always come here when I’m leaving.”

“Well, I missed you so I thought I could come here earlier to see your face,” you returned.

“You know what, I’ll take that. I missed your silly face too,” he said, smirking triumphantly.

“Shut up,” you rolled your eyes.

“Well,” he clasped his hands together, comically drawing in his eyebrows in a deep-set frown. “Let’s get to work, twinkie.”

“What did you just call me?” you demanded at him.

“Twinkie,” he shrugged, motioning a finger at your body. “You look squishy, like a cute twinkie.”

“Hey!” you frowned, pointing a finger at him impishly. “And you look like you were left alone with a sharpie started doodling on your skin.”

His mouth parted in a tiny o. “Touché.”

You giggled. “Okay, let’s get to work,” you rolled your eyes in resignation.

“Let’s start with some warmup,” he nodded to the elliptical machines behind you. “Ten minutes. And then you are going to do RDLs, okay?”

“Okaaaaay,” you mumbled, reluctantly taking your body to the elliptical machine.

You climbed the steps, pressing buttons to see what made the machine start. Once you found the button that made it work, you started moving. You dove into the pocket of your hoodie, looking for your earbuds and your phone to distract yourself from the monotony of the gym.

“Hands out of your pockets!” Jungkook yelped, a second later you saw the man rushing to your side. “You’re gonna get squished, twinkie.”

“Stop calling me that,” you giggled with embarrassment.

“I will when you get a nickname for me that suits me,” he negotiated.

“God, you’re terrible at flirting,” you pointed with a laugh.

“I’m not flirting,” he chuckled, awkwardly moving away from you.

You let out a puffy breath, drawing out your earbuds out of your pocket.

“Mingyuuuu, it has been ages!” Jungkook chanted, his voice resounding across the lonely gym.

Your stomach twisted, an anxious rush of blood barrelling throughout your body. Your gaze snapped around the place, finding Jungkook pressing his phone to his ear. “This Friday? Uh, yeah, maybe I could. Let me check and I’ll let you know, okay? Okaaay.”

It could be anyone else, you reasoned, placing the earbuds inside your earholes with embarrassment controlling your body. However, it seemed all too likely that it was the same Kim Mingyu on the phone. After all, Jungkook and Mingyu seemed like the kind of goofballs that would get along.

A probability that you did not want to find out yet.

As you continued your best to follow your routine, something had damaged it. And it was not that you were still ashamed of yourself. Or that you were still flustered about your last encounter with Mingyu.

The realization that you could feel something other than monotony. From the moment you broke things off with your ex, everything felt the same, tasteless, colorless. And you knew that you had put in the work to break out of that dullness in your life, you went out more, you were meeting new people.

But nothing compared to that night. And you found out that you wanted more.

However, it was not easy. You had drowned yourself in work in order to keep avoiding it. So there you were, trapped in your little office you rented for yourself, working yourself to exhaustion so that you could just get back home and sleep immediately.

You turned off the computer after reading the clock that it was three in the morning already. So you grabbed your phone, and your apartment keys and went out of the building.

Damn you, summer rains.

They always came when you least expect it, in the blink of an eye. The air felt so hot as you went out of your office that you could barely walk outside, but then the rain was pouring over you with no notice.

Walking down the sidewalk in working shoes was not the best idea. In fact, you were heavily contemplating removing them and just going back home barefoot.

You came to a reluctant halt in the middle of the deserted sidewalk, as heavy droplets of water fell on your face, on the back of your head as you stared at your shoes, getting wetter and wetter as you pondered over your dilemma.

“Lost something?”

Taking one big gulp of air, you shot a look across the sidewalk, only to find Kim Mingyu standing, wearing his usual attire for work. The features of his face looked relaxed despite the heaviness with which he approached you, carrying his fatigue in his limbs with each step.

His white T-shirt began to accumulate wet spots on his shoulders and chest. His cheeks were wet, as was his long messy hair.

You gaped at him in question. The dilemma occupying your brain dissipated into the void, quickly replaced by the shock of seeing him after days of keeping him at arm’s length without failure.

“Hi there,” he muttered once he stood one step before you.

“Hi,” you smiled, having to tilt your head to find his face.

“You’ve been gone,” he said with some air of urgency, much as if he did not want to lose you at some lazy excuse on your part. “I was starting to wonder that you didn’t want to hang out anymore.”

You hated his straightforwardness sometimes. “Sorry,” you scrunched up your nose in discomfort, receiving more fat droplets of water on your face. “I needed some me time.”

“Then you should’ve just said so, dummy,” he pointed, rolling his eyes at you as if his point were the most obvious thing in the world.

“I struggle to say things sometimes,” you retorted in a whiny tone. “Look, I’d love to continue this conversation but we’re literally just soaking in the middle of the street.”

Mingyu raised his eyebrows, as though he had not noticed the rain pouring down on both of you. “I’ll walk you home,” he motioned in the opposite direction from which he was previously coming.

And with that, he turned around and started to walk down the street.

You fell into step at his side, struggling to keep his steady pace. “Slow down,” you exhaled.

“Right,” he giggled sweetly. “Short legs.”

“Shut up,” you readjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “You just walk really fast.”

“Because I’m taller than you, my legs are longer,” he motioned to his legs, taking one big step that amounted to three of yours.

“Well, then walk slower, please,” you huffed with exhaustion already building up in your feet.

Mingyu noticed, still looking at your face as he walked. “Fine, sorry,” he conceded. “Are you just clocking off work?”

You nodded, noticing your ponytail heavier now that your hair was soaking. “I wanted to finish everything before the weekend.”

“It’s three in the morning,” he gasped in dramatic reprimand.

“Don’t give me that look,” you frowned, pointing a finger at him. “I could say the same to you! You also just clocked off.”

“But that is normal for my job! What you do is not something specifically for night hours,” he argued, matching your tone.

“What do you know about what I do?” you tried to argue but a smile fought to curve your lips. “I could hold office hours specifically from 11 pm to 3 am,” you giggled impishly.

“Ah, really you are…” he rolled his eyes but shook the thought from his head. “Could you finish?”

Droplets of water slid down the bridge of his nose, dropping from the tip and onto his cupid’s bow. You remembered the cute little beauty mark sitting on the tip of his nose. You wanted to kiss it.

It took you one second to understand what he was implying. “Oh, yes, I did,” you stammered, crossing your arms over your chest.

But Mingyu did not notice the meaning behind your gaze. “That’s good,” he nodded, pressing his lips together.

The short spasm returned in your chest, making you tear your eyes from his face and keep walking beside him, staring at the sidewalk.

“How was work tonight?” you returned the question, trying to get as much light conversation as you could without falling into the deep craving tugging in your insides.

“It was alright,” he shrugged. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“What would that look like?” you ventured.

“Ah, well, drunk people tend to be funny,” he showed you a toothy grin. “One guy celebrated his birthday at the bar one night, and after a few drinks he lost control, went insane,” he laughed in the memory of it. “He started thinking he was an idol, he requested a song and got on a top of the bar and started dancing.”

His laugh was contagious, you could not help but respond with a giggle of your own. “Oh, no, that sounds embarrassing. What did you do?”

“He lost his balance and fell to the floor,” his smile vanished, shuddering slightly. “He broke his nose, I had to call an ambulance,” he finished the story, scratching his nape absentmindedly.

“That’s not how I thought the story would end. Talk about a night to remember,” you huffed awkwardly.

“Well that is one story of many,” his eyes widened slightly.

“But you like it?” you raised your eyebrows. “D-do you like your job?”

“I do,” he reaffirmed with a nod.

The rain had completely succeeded at soaking your clothes, your button shirt felt cold against your skin, and your jeans were tight and damp, it was starting to get hard to move.

Whereas you felt like a wet ragged doll, Mingyu looked like a supermodel. His long dark hair was dripping wet onto his beautiful face. His white T-shirt was clinging to the muscles of his body, letting you view the well-defined lines of his abdomen.

“Were here already?” Mingyu asked when you came to a halt in front of your building.

“Yeah,” you said distractedly, sending him a look as you opened the door to the inside of the building, welcomed by the smell of humidity and dust. “Don’t just stand there.”

The man followed you inside without much insistence. You started machining in your brain your next movements while climbing the first flight of stairs to the door of your apartment, which you opened with a shaky hand.

You staggered awkwardly against the door frame, trying to keep your chin up to hold his gaze. One hand brushed the worn edges of the frame, resting on it as you caught your breath. Mingyu noticed your eyes this time around. And you almost did not want to realize that his eyes were on your body as well.

“Do you want to come in?” you asked meekly, darting a look at the dark interior of your apartment, aside from the little lamp you always left on when you went out. “I can make something to eat. And lend you a towel, fresh clothes, maybe.”

Much to your fortune, the man nodded with his head. “If you want,” he mumbled, so you slid back inside your apartment for him to follow inside. “Though I’d have to reject the clothes,” reluctantly, he strolled inside your haven, looking at the abandoned big frame and leaning against the hallway wall.

“Why?” you asked, still walking backward as he paced before you.

“Because they might not fit me,” he chuckled, his smile knocking the air out of your lungs.

“What do you know, I could have something that might,” you smirked, getting him a towel you had discarded earlier in the morning.

He gave you a light gesture of gratitude with his head, thanks, he mouthed before pressing the towel to his face.

“Do you…” you hesitated. “Can I offer you something?”

He sneaked a look at you with the towel pressed to the lower half of his face.

“Like water?” you suggested with a sheepish smile. “I have ramen–and rice in the fridge.”

He contemplated you as you swayed your body on the balls of your feet ever so gently. “You don’t need to do that,” he finally replied.

“It’s just food, Mingyu. You walked home with me,” you shrugged, motioning to the kitchen, your fingers grazing the rim of the dining table.

The man took one step towards you, making your step stutter. “I mean that,” he smiled. “You don’t have to repay nothing, shorty. That’s what friends are for.”

You stumbled against the edge of your dining table, a gasp leaving your lips that you quickly tried to replace with a muffled chuckle. “You know, I could say the same thing.”

“How long are you going to keep this up?”

“What?” you breathed, completely perplexed by both the proximity and the question. “Ke-keep what up?”

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed,” he muttered gruffly, pushing you to lean back against the dining table without laying one finger on you. He was just so close to you that you had no room to breathe.

“Noticed what? Mingyu–,” you giggled in utter shyness when he knowingly smiled at you. The blood rushing to your face made your skin tingle, you bit your lower lip.

“Am I making you nervous?” his voice dropped, his dark eyes reading the features of your face with avid curiosity.

“Yes,” you admitted, leaning back with your hands gripping the wooden rim of the table as he towered over you. “I like you, Kim Mingyu.”

His triumphant smile crushed your heart with its beauty. Damn you, Kim Mingyu.

“I like you too,” he whispered, leaning closer, the smile fading softly as you stopped moving back.

“Mingyu,” you whispered, hating how much you were flustered at his confession, your voice waning.

Mingyu paused, but it was not out of hesitance, his gaze swimming on your features quickly softened once you dared to reach out to him. Using the proximity of your bodies, you found his face with your hands, realizing how warm his skin was.

“Yeah?” he whispered back, nodding slightly with his head. Mingyu wanted this too.

You are not sure what happened, if you moved first or he did. You closed your eyes, breath hitching as his lips touched yours, your skin coming to life with a fiery rush of blood. From pressing his lips against your own, he quickly moved to kiss you deeper, using one hand on your chin to tilt your face to him.

Your heart stammered in your chest, his hand returning to park in your waist. Friends don’t kiss, you wanted to tell him.

Who were you kidding, you had never wanted someone like you wanted Mingyu.

But this is wrong, you thought over and over again.

“Mingyu,” you breathed when his fingers on your chin tilted your head for him to kiss the underside of your jaw, slowly pressing his lips twice.

“Mn?” he hummed really close to your skin, so you felt his short sigh, his breath brushing your skin.

“We should stop,” you brought a hand to the middle of his chest, feeling his hard pecs beneath your palm.

“Why? Am I doing something wrong?” he asked, backing away from you so he could take a look at your face.

“No, not at all,” you said, short of breath, rigid in your muscles in a weak attempt to resist what you wanted to do.

“Okay, if you want to stop, then we stop,” he offered with a kind tone, slowly following your gaze as you palmed his chest over his t-shirt.

“I- I mean if we do this…” you stammered, feeling stupid. “I don’t want us to change.”

A toothy grin spread on his lips. “How would this change us?” he shot a look to your eyes then your lips.

“I don’t want to cross a line we can’t come back from,” you explained, still not letting go of him.

He stilled completely; you saw it in his eyes when he started to craft a plan. “You draw the line.”

“Mingyu…” you whispered, your lips pouting around the last sound of his name.

This was not the same as playing basketball in the middle of the night with him. This could potentially tilt your world upside down. He did not know yet the way he made you feel just by being around you.

“You can draw it here if you want,” he offered, his tone was nothing but kind.

A smile stretched your lips slowly. He made things harder for you like this. Letting you be the one to choose was dangerous, if not stupid. But he did not know.

“I don’t want you to look at me differently,” you quivered. It was still hard to breathe since he was still within arm’s reach. Your hand lingered still right on top of his heart.

“I won’t,” he whispered back, gesturing a no with his head slightly. “I promise.”

Mingyu did not know that you were all too familiar with the pain that he carried. Even if he were not hurting at that moment, you knew what he was going through.

Mingyu looked at you as if he had just dipped into the stream of your thoughts but were left unbeknownst to your actual insecurities. “You’re safe with me,” he mumbled, offering you the ghost of a smile.

You thought of all the nights you wished for something like this to happen. The moments you wished to get a touch, to feel what you felt the first time he placed his hands on you.

Mingyu grabbed you by the waist, easily lifting you off your feet and placing you on the small dining table. He did this carefully, but you could sense that he wanted you in a position where he could kiss your face freely. His hands held your face lightly, while he continued pressing kisses on your lips, your cheeks.

This time, as he dives back in your lips, his tongue brushes against yours, lightly at first but enough to elicit a throaty moan from you. The frenzy pulsing in your throat turns into a warmth, blooming from your neck to your face.

He realized you liked that, and tried it one more time, his tongue lingering on the tip of yours before he pulled back. “I should go now,” he whispered, the pad of his thumb caressing your chin gently. “Or I won’t be able to stop.”

You grabbed his wrist. “Wait,” you breathed. “Please don’t. Don’t go. I don’t want you to leave.”

Did you want him? Or did you just not want to spend the night alone, wondering about him?

Mingyu seemed to desist, much as if the rigidness that he used to command himself away from your body had dissolved once he heard your plea. You caught sight of his throat bobbing when he gulped hard, searching your features as if he would find what to say in them.

“Stay the night with me,” you blurted uncontrollably.

“Sure,” he replied, grabbing the edges of the dining table as though he were withholding the urge to touch you again.

“Do you want to, Mingyu?” you asked, reluctant about his general lack of resistance to your offer.

He smiled as he tilted his head to one side. “I would’ve said no if I didn’t want to,” he raised his eyebrows in question. “If I stay, I do want to know one thing. Are you sure about this?”

Before you uttered the same quippy response he gave you, the flashing thought of sabotaging yourself crossed your mind. He knew this. Mingyu knew that you had a tendency to be a people pleaser, of trying to make everyone happy.

“I am,” you reassured, and it was the final blow to what little self-control you had left. “I want you, Mingyu.”

The words caused an impact on him. He breathed in slowly, but his eyes widened ever so slightly, shooting up a glance to your features. His eyes lit up, his beautiful lips curving in a small, but shy smile.

Finally admitting that aloud, and to him also caused something within you. Your pulse quickened, followed by a heat rushing inside you, stretching so far that it reached the tips of your fingers, commanding them to his face.

The pads of your fingers touched the line of his jaw in a gentle caress, urging him back to your lips before you could say something even more damming to your soul. The stammering of your heart was distracting, telling you to let go of this man before he could hurt himself in the tumultuous and dark path that led to your heart.

But you could not. Take the risk, the words echoed in the back of your mind.

“Mingyu,” you blurted, parting from his lips. “Couch, sit.”

You heard an airy chuckle left him as he broke away from the kiss, walking back and blindly falling on the couch, not bothering to look around to make sure where he was heading. You jumped from the dining table, crossing the space to follow him.

His hands pulled you in, his grip on your waist coming back to command you to sit on top of him, which you did willingly, pressing one knee on the couch, then the other, framing Mingyu’s thighs.

Now that you were straddling, a tiny voice in the back of your mind wanted to pull the breaks, but your hands found his face again, your palms caressing his cheeks as you slid your fingers in his long dark hair, brushing it back before sinking your lips in his.

His hands roved your back, starting from your waist up, his fingers getting caught in your hair when he reached your shoulder blades, pressing on your skin over your dress shirt. Your hands went around the back of his head, sliding down to find his thick neck.

Your tongue rolled inside his mouth, swiping a line on his lower lip in the process. Your body came alight with a shudder when a raspy moan coiled around his throat, you felt it beneath your fingertips.

A soft wet sound bubbled between your lips and his when you stopped kissing him, pausing for air. You thought of what to say, resting your forehead on his.

“Do you want to keep going?” he asked.

Every inch of your skin tickled when you heard how gruff his voice had turned. You nodded with your head.

“Yes,” you replied. “You? What do you want, Mingyu?”

The inner corners of his eyebrows twitched ever so slightly, but you noticed it. The question caught him off guard as if that had not been a consideration before. It broke you.

“I don’t want to stop,” he said with a sigh. But realizing that he only half answered your question, he added: “I want you. I’ll go as far as you let me.”

The tiny voice grew more alarmed, but you ignored it besottedly running the pads of your fingers to brush back a rebellious strand of hair back from his face. Mingyu was beautiful, the most beautiful man you have ever seen. But the pull you felt for him went beyond the physical. You needed him.

“Take control, baby,” he whispered.

And you obliged. The strangled sound that bubbled inside you was almost foreign to you. You were on his lips again, kissing him hungrily like you had never kissed someone else before. His hands grabbed your hips, bringing you impossibly closer to his body, pushing your chest flush against his.

You palmed his chest, appreciating the warmth radiating from him with a low hum, which he reciprocated, his hands daring to move farther down your back, cupping your ass and pulling you down on him, pushing your crotch against his.

“Mingyu,” you whimpered in his mouth. You grounded your hips on him, replicating the motion by swaying your hips back and forth on him once, then twice.

“Fuck,” he blurted, then shut his eyes tightly. “Sorry, sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you whispered, continuing to ground your hips on him, rubbing yourself on the hard bulge beneath his blue jeans. “Do you like this?”

“Yeah, yes, baby,” he rasped. “But I want you to feel good, shorty. C-can I move you to the bed?” he shuddered.

You stopped grinding on him. “Sure-,” you gasped. Before you could finish your sentence, Mingyu was rising to his feet, scooping you up with him.

He giggled softly when you squealed in surprise. “I got you,” he wrapped your body effortlessly, his arms carrying you safely.

Your arms went around his neck by instinct, but he crossed your tiny studio apartment faster than your brain could even process. As he laid you on the mattress, you noticed that he had made sure that only your legs were hanging on the edge of the bed.

Mingyu placed a hand on the mattress, right next to your shoulder, then the other. “Stop me if you don’t like anything at all,” he muttered, climbing on top of you, and lowering his hips to meet yours.

He was heavy—heavier than you had expected or imagined in your most delusional nights. And he was not even lowering his full weight on you.

You swallowed thickly. But recovered when your hands found the hem of his t-shirt. “I want to see you without this,” you toyed with the damp cotton fabric, sending him a look.

Mingyu smiled and pulled back on the mattress, standing on his knees before you. He crossed his arms, grabbing the hem of his t-shirt to pull it up his torso, and off his head, showing his skin unabashedly.

A shudder flashed down your spine. You wondered before what was beneath that t-shirt, but what little you dared to imagine did not compare to the actual beauty he was. Before you could even take the image before you, Mingyu was already leaning over your body, propping a chaste kiss on your lips.

“Fair is fair?” he asked meekly, a thumb brushing over one button of your dress shirt.

“Yeah,” you showed him a smile, realizing you were jittery.

You watched his hand trail down as he undid each button, your shirt parting and slowly revealing the white bra you wore. It was nothing too daring, but it fit you well, accentuating your breasts nicely.

You darted a look at his face. Mingyu finished undoing the buttons of your shirt, his gaze lost in you as he palmed your tummy with a gentle caress to uncover more of your skin to him.

“God, you’re so pretty,” he gasped, leaning to press a hard kiss on your lips, his hand cupping your cheek.

Too astounded to even bring yourself to reply, you whimpered into the kiss, his tongue outlining your lower lip, his hand on your waist inched to your chest, setting your skin on fire. He cupped one of your breasts, groaning in desperation before hiking up the cup of your bra, to touch you freely.

Your hands flew to undo his belt, hastily undoing the button and zipper of his jeans too. “Get up,” you gasped, his thumb swirling your nipple, getting it to pebble, a tingle spreading on your skin beneath his touch.

Mingyu obliged, knowing where you were going before you even made a move. His gaze followed you as you pushed his jeans down, getting rid of them. In two full motions, your dress shirt was discarded on the floor along with your bra before you returned your back to the mattress.

He looked at you like no one else had before. There you were, splayed on your bed beneath him, and he was just taking you in with his gaze, making your heart flutter wildly.

His fingers grazed the skin of your thigh, inching closer to the band of your panties. You trapped his index and middle finger in your hand, his gaze snapping to yours.

“Fair is fair,” you reminded him with a grin.

He stood before your bed wearing a pair of grey boxers only. Pushing the inside of his cheek with his tongue, he sighed shortly. “You played dirty,” he pointed, but he removed his hand from your grasp.

You sat up, stopping him when you shot him a look, wordlessly telling him you wanted to finish undressing him yourself. You enjoyed the look on his face, his features going soft when you ran a finger from his belly button to the band of his boxers.

You palmed the outline of his cock, darting a quick look at his face when you felt the wet patch of precum on the last piece of clothing he wore. When your fingers finally curled around the waistband of his boxers, you could not help but conceal your smile by biting your lower lip.

Mingyu was fully hard, and he was big. A shudder tore through you. He stepped out of his boxers, looking at the bewildered expression on your face as he stood wholly naked, and proudly so.

Before you could even utter a word, he motioned you to lie back once more. You smiled, helping him get rid of your wet and ruined panties, which he yanked down your legs, tossing them to the floor, littered with your and his clothes.

“Gyu,” you whimpered, his lips pressing a sweet kiss on your lower, moving to capture it in a deeper kiss.

“Need you,” he whispered against your skin, his breath hot and quivering slightly as his hands palmed your breasts, his thumbs brushing your perked nipples. “I need you, baby.”

Your hands roamed on his back, feeling the outlines of his hard muscles. “Take me,” you blurted. “I’m right here.”

He placed a kiss on the underside of your jaw, and you tilted your head back for him to kiss your throat. “I want to eat you out,” he husked against the plain of your chest, kissing the swell of your breasts, taking his time with each as you raked your fingers on his scalp. “Can I?”

“God, yes, Mingyu, please,” you gasped, his mouth wrapped around one of your nipples, making you stir your back on your mattress.

Mingyu hummed as he licked your tits, his tongue swirling around your areolas, kissing your nipples and suckling at them. His hands caressed the inner side of your thighs, spreading them open as his mouth trailed down your tummy, kissing your skin, making it prickle.

A moan coiled in your throat. You needed him now. “Hurry,” you blurted with a whine.

Mingyu obeyed wordlessly, getting down on his knees. Kissing your mound, his hands cupping your inner thighs focusing solely on your pussy before diving in, his tongue swiping a broad stroke on your pussy lips, licking you fully. The feeling overwhelmed you at once, and you knew you would not last long.

“God,” you gasped, as he licked your folds sending you a look from between your thighs. The view was so lewd, beating any experience you had ever had in the past in a matter of seconds.

Silence flooded the room, aside from the wet sounds of his mouth on your pussy, licking your folds, and your increased breathing. Your mouth had fallen open, and you forgot to breathe.

His hair tickled your skin, his warm hands holding you down as he licked, suckled, and nipped at your pussy, as though he were getting familiar with it, as though he just wanted to taste if first before moving his tongue to your clit.

And when he did, you knew there was no going back.

A breathy moan escaped, and you drew in a breath again. “Mingyu…” you called after his tongue swirled around your swollen clit. “Do that again,” you asked, your tone whiny and pathetic.

He did not skip a second before doing a figure-eight motion with the tip of his tongue, and again. And again. You wondered if you would come before he grew tired, but then you realized that he was not stopping, nor faltering.

You propped half of your body on the mattress, letting your eyelids fall shut for a brief moment, focusing on his tongue teasing your clit relentlessly. You caressed his long dark hair, drawing his puppy eyes to yours. “I’m almost there,” you choked out, your limbs tensing in response.

“God, Gyu,” you tilted your head back, a tiny giggle escaping you. “You’re so good at this,” you whispered aloofly.

Your fingers curled in his hair, feeling like you were falling, sinking into a puddle of pleasure. Arousal and drool dripped on the covers of the bed as the tension in your body brimmed you to the point you were shaking.

“Min-mingyu,” you choked out, so close to the edge you could barely hold out. “I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m co-,” your orgasm rippled through you, body going limp with sweet pleasure, shaking, and whimpering pathetically.

He placed one final open kiss on your clit before rising from the floor, a satisfied look on his face. “Shorty?” he mumbled.

“I’m good,” you gasped dazedly.

“Want more?” he asked, climbing back on top of you.

“I need you,” you cupped his neck, pulling him into a fervent kiss. You tasted yourself in his mouth, his chin wet with your arousal, making your walls throb around nothing. “I need you now.”

That brought a wolfish grin from him. “How do you want me, baby?”

“Lie down,” you breathed, finding his hard chest with your hands.

You knew it was incredibly hard to push his body, but somehow you did. Pushing his broad shoulders as you managed to get on top of him again, but this time, as you were both utterly naked in your bed, it felt completely different.

“Oh god,” he blurted, his hands gripping your hips instantly as you lowered your ass to sit on him.

“You were amazing,” you husked, placing a chaste kiss on his lips that resounded with a lewd smacking noise.

His fingers dug into the skin of your hips in reaction to your praise, groaning as he captured your lips with his own again.

“Do you have a condom?” you asked, your tone weakened by the pleasure and the urge of feeling him.

He blinked for one long second. “No,” he rasped. “Do you?”

You shook your head. “I could suck you off,” you mumbled meekly, your gaze shifting between his eyes and lips. “But I’m on birth control.”

“I’m clean,” he mumbled. Your heart deflated just a little.

“I want you, Min,” you whispered, brushing his lower lip with the pad of your thumb.

A silent groan escaped him. “Please,” he replied in kind. “I want to feel you, baby. Now.”

The sound of his words emboldened you. You sat back on his thick thighs, once you straddled him you realized how big Kim Mingyu actually was. You raked the skin of his torso with the tips of your fingers, making him suck in a breath and shut his eyes close.

“Don’t tease me, please,” he choked out, kneading the flesh of your thighs. “Play later, baby.”

The whiny tone of his plea did not go unnoticed by you, but you kept caressing his skin, exploring it under the pads of your fingers until you reached his pelvis. Mingyu was well groomed, you found out when you grazed the short hairs with your index finger.

“Please,” he breathed, a hand shooting to circle your ankle.

“Alright,” you giggled.

You grabbed his hard cock with one hand, swallowing hard when you felt his soft skin, the thin vein trailing on the underside of his thick shaft. It was heavy and warm as you pumped him, spreading the precum leaking from its reddened tip.

Lifting your hips, your gaze locked on his, he trapped his lower lip behind his teeth, you guided his cockhead to your folds, a moan bubbling in your chest when his hands gripped you tighter. Mingyu sucked in a breath, swallowing a deep moan as you sank down on him.

“God,” you sighed, tears brimming in your eyes at the euphoric sensation of his cock stretching your walls deliciously.

But none of you broke eye contact, much as if neither wanted to miss the reactions you got from feeling each other.

“Fuck,” he whined once you bottomed out on him with a moan from your part. He closed his eyes, shuddering hard underneath you, his hands lingered on your hips, kneading your thighs as if that helped him cling to sanity.

“Okay?” you whispered.

“God, you…” he sighed, licking his lips. “You feel like heaven, baby.”

You smiled at him. “How long have you gone without getting fucked?” the question flew out of your mouth before you could even stop yourself.

“A while,” he admitted with a raspy tone.

You gave him a smile, before you anchored your hands on his chest, pulling your hips up, and then pressed them back onto his, feeling every naked inch of him. Your mouth fell open. “You’re so big,” you gasped.

“Am I hurting you?” he whispered.

You shook your head, though the stretch had stopped hurting, you were enjoying it. You tucked your feet beneath you, propping them on his thighs to help yourself angle your hips on top of him. “Okay?” you asked again, riding him slowly.

“Perfect,” he replied, lifting his hands to cup your tits while his eyes explored every curve of your body.

You moaned, his fingers toyed with your pebbled nipples, making your hips buckle. “God, Mingyu…” you sighed, picking up the pace on top of him, enjoying the glazed look on his face.

“Fuck,” he gritted, pushing his head back on your fluffy pillows. “I’m gonna come. Baby, I’m g-gonna come.”

By pure instinct, you lifted your hips from his completely, making him sigh heavily but did not complain. You laughed impishly at the frown setting on his face.

“Please! Please, don’t stop, baby,” he whined, his hands clutching your waist. “I can keep going… just let me come, please. I need it.”

Oh, you could become addicted to this. You quickly realized.

You conceded without more begging from his part, sinking down on his cock again. Mingyu let out a long, whiny moan, shuddering when you started bouncing on him again. You leaned forward, managing to trap his lips with your own in a heated kiss. He hummed in your mouth, his hands roaming on your back.

“Fuck, baby,” he gasped. “I swear, you feel like nothing else baby.”

You moaned, feeling your eyebrows pinch involuntarily. “You’re close, Min?” you asked, your tone going sweet and velvety for some reason.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Don’t edge me again, please.”

“Okay,” you giggled. “Wanna come inside me, Min?” you brushed his long dark hair back.

You caught sight of awe shooting on the features of his face. “Ye-yeah,” he breathed. “Please, please I’m so close, baby…”

You left a small peck on his lower lip, bouncing on him gently. “Come inside me, Mingyu,” you whispered.

“Oh god,” he gasped, grabbing your hips, helping you ground on him at the speed he needed to find his release, which came quickly, making him squeeze his eyes shut for a second before finding your eyes. “Baby, I’m coming, fuck, fuuuuuck…”

His mouth parted, a sharp intake of breath resounding across the walls right before a raspy moan came out of his pretty lips. The sight was so alluring that you feared the image would never leave your mind, you knew it would haunt you every night.

His grip became limp, and you stopped swaying your hips on him, kissing his lips as he came down from his high.

“Don’t stop,” he breathed, finding your thigh with one hand, then the other, caressing your ass before he motioned you to continue moving on him.

“Mingyu-,”

“I told you, shorty,” he said, showing you a lazy grin. “I can keep going.”

An ecstatic feeling rushed through you.

“It’s okay, Mingyu,” you said. “I’m good.”

“I want you to come,” he muttered, his voice thickened and gruff by arousal. “Do you want me to help you come, baby?”

“I- yes,” you sighed. “God, yes, Mingyu.”

Mingyu nodded, grabbing your hips as he shifted on the bed, planting the soles of his feet on the mattress to lift his hips, fucking into you, his cock reached deeper inside your walls, and deeper. A whiny cry escaped your mouth, your hands flying to grab onto his shoulders.

“Mingyu!”

Then he started plowing into you, the sound of skin slapping against skin becoming louder, impossible for the whole neighborhood to ignore. The headboard banged against the wall, mattress creaking with each of Mingyu’s hard thrusts.

He gritted his teeth, his eyes lost on the features of your face as you wailed, and cried out on top of him, nearing your sweet release.

“Fuck, fuck, Mingyu, I’m coming, I’m coming,” you cried out, a low whiny moan escaping you as you reached your second orgasm. This one was fiery, consuming you fast and mercilessly. Mingyu grunted, and you knew just by the fucked out look on his face that he was coming with you but kept fucking into you through your high, dumping his second load inside you.

You were panting, shaking, languid with pleasure as he lowered his hips back on your bed again, reaching out for you by putting a hand on the back of your head, prompting you to lie on his chest.

“You’re okay?” he asked with a sigh.

“Yeah, yes,” you breathed raggedly. “Perfect. You?”

Mingyu chuckled, wrapping his heavy arms around you in a warm embrace. “Perfect.”

You closed your eyes, ignoring the alarming voices in your head.

There was a thing you were certain of: you were playing with fire. But you wanted him, even if that also meant that you wanted to make him forget his broken heart. You wanted to ease his pain.

“We need to clean up,” you said, lifting your head from his chest.

Mingyu smiled, brushing your hair, tucking it behind your ear with his fingers. “Can’t we stay like this for a minute?” he said with a lazy drawl.

“Okay,” you whispered, leaning down on his chest again.

You listened to his heartbeat, caressing his chest with one hand. You smiled.

“What?” he asked, hearing your tiny giggle.

“Will you accept that ramen now?” you asked.

Mingyu chuckled, his eyes lighting up. “Yeah, I think I will.”

The following Sunday rolled around and you did not go to the bar this time, feeling like it was a little too soon to see Mingyu again after the night he spent at your place. And thankfully, you did not feel hollow for once, even as you sat quietly in your apartment.

That was until the loud buzzing of your phone broke the perpetual stillness of the living room.

[8:40 PM] min: Are you free tomorrow? [8:40 PM] min: Can I come over to yours? [8:40 PM] min: I can't stop thinking about you.

That drew a big smile out of you. You replied in an instant, letting him know that he could come to yours, sealing the deal with Mingyu, whom you never thought would make you feel something real again.

☆ author's note: hi there! (⁠•⁠ө⁠•⁠)⁠♡

don't hate shorty for her actions, she had to take risks lol. she is a hot ass mess but give my girl a chance, she'll get better (✿◠‿◠) this fic is lowkey inspired by the song two weeks by fka twigs and my personal life experience

the journey of this fic is. . . kind of long. i started drafting this fic back in december 2023. i originally intended it to be a one shot, only focusing on the rebound aspect. but for some reason i couldn't get myself to write it and then. . . my ex partner and i broke up after years of being together. i kind of understood why i couldn't write this fic. and so here it is.

not me oversharing on tumblrdotcom oh well you could practically see into my soul in all my fics, c'est la vie haha

also my general taglist is a mess so,

IF YOU WANT TO BE TAGGED FOR THIS SERIES, PLEASE COMMENT ON THIS CHAPTER, PUT IT ON YOUR REBLOG TAGS OR SEND ME AN ASK PLEEEEASE PRETTY PLS OR, JOIN MY TAGLIST

anyways,

toodles

☆ READ PART II! ☆ | JOIN MY TAGLIST | BUY ME COFFEE? ♡

1K notes · View notes

leejenowrld · 4 months ago

Text

back to you — one

pairing — lee jeno x reader

word count — 58k words

genre — smut, fluff, angst, enemies to lovers

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

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

listen to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 whilst reading <3

𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐋

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the shift comes fast, sharp, and unexpected.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jeno.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And just as quickly, it’s gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Notes from Match Observation:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you weren’t prepared for Jeno.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And there he was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then came Jeno.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It would be the one to change his life forever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not a chance.

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

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

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

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

jihyo — y/n, are you asleep?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you see Mark leave with Areum?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you — fine. on my way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then, the door creaked open.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The moment was yours, and you owned it completely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My boyfriend wouldn’t like that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s unfamiliar, terrifying—and intoxicating.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A guttural moan escapes his lips, his thighs trembling beneath your hands as you begin to move, your mouth working him with precision. You hollow your cheeks, letting him feel the tightness, the warmth, your tongue pressing against the underside of his cock as you take him deeper. He’s big, stretching your jaw, but you refuse to falter, refuse to let him see anything but control.

“Fuck—God, you’re so fucking good at this,” he mutters, his voice ragged, breaking with each shallow breath. His head tips back further, his lips parted as his moans grow louder, the sound reverberating through the small space.

Your pace quickens, your movements relentless as you take him deeper, letting the head of his cock nudge the back of your throat. His body jerks involuntarily, and his hands twitch against the chair, his knuckles tight and trembling as he fights the urge to reach for you.

“Don’t you dare move,” you warn, pulling back just enough to let a trail of saliva connect your lips to his cock. You glance up at him, your gaze sharp and unyielding, your voice a low, commanding hum. “You don’t get to come until I say so. Understand?”

“Yes,” he groans, his voice cracking, desperation lacing every word. “Yes, fuck—anything you want.”

You smirk, satisfied with his surrender, and take him into your mouth again, deeper this time, your hands gripping his thighs to keep him still. His groans turn to loud, broken cries as you work him mercilessly, your lips sliding down his length, your tongue pressing and swirling with every movement.

The mirror catches your attention—a perfect reflection of the way his body trembles under your control. His head is thrown back, his eyes squeezing shut before rolling open again, his lips parted as he moans without restraint. His hips jerk slightly despite your grip, his entire body betraying his need.

“Please,” he chokes out, his voice wrecked as his eyes meet yours in the reflection. “I can’t—fuck—I can’t take it.”

“Yes, you can,” you reply, your voice muffled against his cock as you take him even deeper, the strain in your jaw undeniable, but the power in his unraveling making it all worth it.

His thighs tremble harder beneath your palms, his breath coming in short, uneven bursts as you quicken your pace, hollowing your cheeks and sucking harder. He cries out, his voice breaking as his hands grip the arms of the chair so tightly they shake.

“Good boy,” you murmur, pulling back just enough to let your tongue drag over the head of his cock, swirling around the sensitive tip before sliding back down. “That’s it—stay just like that.”

“Fuck—fuck, please,” he whimpers, his voice barely audible as his head tips back again, his jaw slack. “I need—I’m so close—please, can I?”

You smirk, your nails digging into his thighs as you pull back slightly, meeting his wide, glassy eyes. “Not yet,” you command, your tone sharp enough to make him groan in frustration, his body trembling as he struggles to obey.

You take him back into your mouth, relentless now, your pace unforgiving as his cries grow louder, echoing in the room. His hips buck slightly despite your grip, his restraint crumbling as he gasps your name, his moans broken and desperate.

“I can’t—fuck—I can’t hold it,” he chokes out, his voice trembling, his body shaking as his head falls back against the chair.

You pull back just enough to speak, your voice low and dripping with authority. “You can. Be good for me, Jeno.”

His response is a strangled groan, his eyes rolling back as his body tenses beneath you, every muscle trembling as he fights against the edge. His hands grip the arms of the chair with a desperation that borders on pain, his chest heaving as he gasps for air, barely holding himself together. His lips part as if to beg again, but no words come, just broken, needy sounds spilling out as his head falls back against the chair.

You let the moment stretch, the tension thick and almost unbearable, your lips brushing against the head of his cock, teasing him with light, deliberate flicks of your tongue. “Not yet,” you murmur again, your voice a quiet warning, the control in it making him whimper softly. When you finally pull back, meeting his dazed, glassy-eyed stare, you let a smirk curve your lips. “Alright,” you whisper, your tone soft but commanding, dragging out the words as if savoring his desperation. “Come for me.”

The second the words leave your lips, he shatters. His hips jerk, his hands flying to grip the chair as his cock pulses in your mouth. The heat and saltiness flood your tongue, but you don’t stop, your movements slowing only to milk every last shudder from him. His cries echo in the room, raw and unrestrained, his body trembling violently as he surrenders completely.

When you finally pull back, his chest heaves, his eyes half-lidded and glassy as he stares at you, his lips parted, his voice barely a whisper. “Fuck,” he breathes, his hands shaking as he reaches for you, but you push him back into the chair, smirking.

“Good job,” you murmur, your voice soft but laced with satisfaction. “But don’t think we’re done yet.”

You rise slowly, the weight of your body shifting just enough to brush against him, your thighs straddling his hips, your knees pressing into the chair on either side. The air between you feels thick, charged, and the sight of his cock—hard, flushed, twitching as it stands against his stomach—sends a rush of heat through you. His chest heaves, his breaths uneven, and his hands tremble where they grip the arms of the chair, knuckles white from restraint. His lips part, and the words spill out in a cracked, desperate voice, like he’s already forgotten how to hold them back.

“Please,” he gasps, his breath catching like the plea has been ripped straight from his chest. “I—I need you. Please, just—fuck, I can’t take it anymore.” His eyes flicker wildly, darting between your face, your body, the space where you hover just above him. His hips twitch upward, chasing contact, and his fingers flex against the arms of the chair like he wants to grab you but doesn’t dare. “Please,” he repeats, voice cracking again, thick with desperation.

You sink down onto his lap, your weight settling on him without fully taking him in. His cock presses against you, caught between your bodies, and the moan that escapes him is guttural, raw, his hips jerking as if he expects you to move.

But you don’t.

Instead, you stay perfectly still, your nails grazing along his jaw as you smirk at the way his breath stutters, his chest heaving against yours. The tension in his body coils tighter with every second, and the moment he realizes you’re not going to give him what he wants, the begging starts.

“I can’t—fuck, I need it. I need to feel you,” he groans, his voice shaking as his hips jerk beneath you, the thick length of him pressing insistently against your heat. “Please,” he chokes out, the words tumbling out in broken desperation. “Let me have your cunt. I’ll do anything—fuck, anything—just let me feel it, please.” His eyes are wild, glassy with need, his entire body trembling as he fights against the unbearable tension you’ve wrapped him in.

You drag your nails down the column of his neck, light but deliberate, until your hand rests firmly on his jaw. Tilting his chin, you force his gaze to meet yours. “You need it?” you murmur, your voice sharp and teasing, but there’s steel in it, enough to still him completely. Your thumb brushes the corner of his trembling lips, and his breath stutters, his head tilting into your hand as though it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Yes,” he breathes, his voice rough and uneven, his body trembling beneath your touch. “I’ll take anything—whatever you want, just… fuck.” The words break off into a desperate groan, his eyes locking onto yours, wide and glassy with raw need, his pupils dilated as if he’s losing himself entirely in you.

The corner of your lips curves into a slow, deliberate smirk as your palm slides to his cheek. For a moment, your touch is light, almost soothing, before you slap him—not hard, but enough to make his head jerk to the side and a broken sound escape his throat. His cock twitches violently against you, the sharp crack of your palm against his skin reverberating through the charged air.

“Again,” he moans, his voice wrecked, raw with need. His head snaps back, his gaze locking onto yours with a fervor that makes your stomach clench. His hands grip the arms of the chair harder, the veins in his forearms straining as he fights not to touch you.

You oblige without hesitation, slapping him again, slower this time, your palm lingering to feel the flush of warmth spreading across his skin. His hips jerk beneath you, a guttural groan ripping from his throat as his body trembles with barely restrained desire.

“Pathetic,” you hiss, leaning in closer, your nails grazing along the edge of his jaw. “Look at you—begging, shaking like you can’t survive another second without me. Do you even hear yourself?”

He whimpers, his lips parting, his head tilting back slightly as though offering himself up to you completely. The sound is raw, guttural, filled with something so consuming it makes your smirk widen.

You straighten, lifting yourself just enough to position him at your entrance. His cock presses against you, the heat and weight of it making your breath hitch despite yourself. Beneath you, his chest rises and falls in frantic bursts, his body shuddering as though he might snap from the tension.

When you sink down onto him, it’s slow, punishingly so, every inch deliberate, your body taking him in entirely as you watch the way his jaw slackens, his eyes rolling back as a choked groan tears from his throat. His hips buck, but your nails dig into his chest, sharp and grounding.

“Stay still,” you snap, your voice cutting through the haze of his desperation. “You move when I say you can.”

“Yes,” he gasps, his voice nothing more than a rasp. “Yes, I—fuck, I’m sorry—fuck, I’ll be good.”

Your pace starts slow, calculated, each roll of your hips pulling another broken sound from his lips. When you lean forward, your fingers wrapping around his throat, your thumb pressing lightly against his pulse, he shudders beneath you, his body trembling like he’s unraveling one second at a time.

“You don’t come until I say so,” you murmur, your voice low and sharp, watching the way he fights to hold on, every ounce of his control slipping through his fingers as he trembles beneath you.

When you start to bounce, it’s immediate and feral, your movements savage and unrelenting, driving down onto him with a pace that leaves no space for tenderness or adjustment. Each thrust sends a jolt through your body, the wet, obscene slap of skin meeting skin echoing in the charged air. His cock fills you completely, the stretch almost too much, but you refuse to let it show, your focus locked on his reaction. His head snaps back, his jaw slack as a guttural, animalistic groan tears from his throat, his body helpless against the onslaught.

“Fuck—oh my god, you’re so fucking tight,” he chokes out, the words tumbling from his lips in broken desperation. “It’s like—shit—I can feel every fucking inch of you gripping me.” His breath hitches, his fingers clawing at his thighs, digging into the muscle as though the pain might ground him. “You’re—fuck—you’re squeezing me so tight I can’t—” His words cut off in a ragged groan, his cock throbbing as your walls drag against him, pulling him deeper with every brutal thrust. “It’s too much, too fucking good,” he gasps, his head tipping back as his body shudders beneath you.

You lean in, your voice a soothing contrast to the brutal rhythm of your hips, “Shh, baby,” you murmur, pressing your lips softly to his temple. “I know it’s a lot. You’re doing so well for me.” Your fingers trail gently down his chest before curling around his jaw, tilting his face up so his glassy, desperate eyes meet yours.

You slam your hips down harder, the impact sharp and merciless, drawing another desperate cry from him. His breath stutters, his chest heaving as he chokes out, “I can’t—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“Don’t even think about it,” you snap, your voice razor-sharp, cutting through his haze of need. You grind down on him between thrusts, your hips rolling in a way that forces every inch of him deeper inside you. The friction sends a thrill up your spine, your nails digging into his chest to steady yourself as you keep him exactly where you want him.

His body jerks beneath you, shuddering violently, his hips bucking despite his efforts to stay still. You catch the movement instantly, your hand darting to his throat, your fingers curling tightly enough to make his gasp catch. “Already wanting to cum?” you taunt, a smirk curling your lips as you lean in closer, your breath brushing against his ear. “I haven’t even started.”

The words make him groan, his cock twitching inside you as his head tips back against the chair. “Please,” he whimpers, his voice cracking, wrecked and raw. “Please, I can’t—” His words dissolve into a broken moan, his hips lifting as though he’s trying to chase the friction you’re controlling.

“You’ll hold it,” you growl, your tone cold and commanding as you ride him harder, faster, your pace unrelenting. “You’ll hold it until I say you can. Do you hear me?”

“Yes,” he chokes out, the word a strangled sob, his hands trembling as they grip the chair like a lifeline. His cock throbs against your walls, each bounce sending him closer to the edge, his entire body writhing beneath you. His voice grows desperate, his cries sharp and guttural as your movements grow even more punishing, driving him into complete submission.

Each bounce is merciless, your ass meeting his thighs with sharp, punishing force that sends shocks through both of your bodies. The relentless drive of your hips forces his cock to fill you completely, the stretch and friction so intense it borders on unbearable. The sound of wet, obscene slaps echoes in the air, mingling with his broken moans and your sharp breaths. Every thrust grinds him deeper, the brutal rhythm pulling sharp gasps from your lips as your nails rake down his chest, leaving red trails in their wake.

Your nails dig into his shoulders as you lean forward, your body grinding down onto him with a deliberate roll of your hips that pulls a ragged groan from his throat. His chest rises and falls in frantic bursts, his head falling back, the column of his throat exposed as if in surrender. He can’t keep still—his body jerks and twitches under yours, his muscles taut as if they’re about to snap. You feel every tremor, every pulse of his cock as your walls squeeze around him mercilessly, refusing him a moment of respite.

The chair creaks beneath you, the rhythm of your movements relentless, driving him deeper and deeper until it feels like he’s splitting you open. Your breaths mix with his, harsh and uneven, your control unwavering even as his moans turn into desperate, incoherent sounds. He tries to shift beneath you, his hips bucking slightly, but you slam him back down with a firm hand on his chest, your strength keeping him exactly where you want him.

“Don’t even think about it,” you hiss, your voice sharp and commanding. His eyes flutter open, wide and glassy, his pupils blown as he looks up at you with a desperation that sends a wave of heat straight through you. He opens his mouth to speak, but the words are swallowed by a guttural cry as you slam your hips down again, the force of it pushing him deeper, the angle leaving him gasping.

Your pace shifts, faster now, the intensity ramping up as you grind down onto him between thrusts, the friction sparking a raw, unbearable pleasure that leaves you both shaking. His cock throbs inside you, each pulse a testament to how close he is, how completely he’s unraveling beneath you. His hands twitch at his sides, his fingers curling into the fabric of the chair, and you smirk at the sight of him—wrecked, trembling, completely under your control.

He whines, the sound pitiful and raw, his eyes fluttering open only to meet your gaze. The desperation in them makes you smirk, your hand sliding to his jaw to hold him still. “Is this too much for you?” you ask, feigning sweetness, your lips curving into a mocking smile as his chest heaves beneath your touch.

“No—no, please,” he stammers, his voice breaking, his hips jerking up involuntarily only to be met with your punishing grip. “Please—don’t stop—don’t fucking stop.”

“Don’t worry,” you purr, leaning closer, your breath hot against his ear. “I’m not stopping until I’ve ruined you.”

Your fingers tighten around his wrists, the raw strength in your grip forcing his arms high above his head, the hard press of your body keeping him pinned. His biceps strain, the muscles flexing as he instinctively fights for control, but you’re unrelenting. You shift slightly, your thigh bracing against his forearm, ensuring he has no leverage, no escape from the restraint of your body. His chest heaves, frantic and uneven, as you lean in, your breath brushing over his neck, the sheer dominance in your presence leaving him trembling.

Your other hand glides up his chest, fingers splayed wide before wrapping firmly around his throat. Your palm molds to his skin, thumb pressing into the frantic pulse hammering beneath it. The column of his throat arches, his head tipping back involuntarily, a guttural sound breaking free from his lips. His cock throbs deep inside you, every twitch dragging heat through your core as your walls squeeze around him, owning every inch.

“You’re mine,” you snarl, your voice low and cutting, the intensity in your words making his body jerk beneath you. You lean closer, the sharp curve of your hips grinding down onto him, your pace slowing, deliberate, teasing. “Every inch of you belongs to me right now. Don’t forget it.” The sound he makes is wrecked, raw, a broken moan that spills from his parted lips as his eyes flutter shut, his fingers twitching uselessly against your grip.

His head tilts forward slightly, lips brushing against your shoulder as though he’s desperate for contact, but you don’t relent. “Look at me,” you command, tightening your grip on his throat just enough to pull a sharp gasp from him. “Eyes open. You don’t get to hide from this. You don’t get to forget who owns you right now.”

As your grip loosens around his throat, you lean back slightly, allowing him a moment to catch his breath. His chest heaves, his pupils blown wide as he looks at you with a mix of hunger and reverence. His hands, trembling from restraint, rise tentatively, brushing against your sides before trailing upward.

Your lips curve into a smirk as his fingers reach your breasts, his touch hesitant at first. “You’re bold,” you tease, your tone laced with amusement, but there’s no protest in your voice. You arch into his hands, the deliberate movement pressing your chest into his palms.

“I can’t help it,” he chokes out, his voice trembling, every word spilling past his lips in broken desperation. His fingers pinch your nipples harder, his breath stuttering with each punishing roll of your hips. “You’re too fucking perfect—so soft, so—fuck—I couldn’t stop myself.” His grip tightens, his hands kneading the soft flesh of your breasts with a fervor that borders on frantic, the heat in his touch sending sparks straight to your core.

His thumbs circle over your nipples, the firm strokes drawing sharp, electric pleasure that makes your walls clench tighter around him. A guttural groan rips from his throat, his head falling back as his body jerks beneath you, trembling with every wave of sensation. But his eyes snap back to yours in an instant, wide and glassy, like he’s terrified of missing a single second of you.

You let him indulge for a few seconds longer, watching as his touch becomes rougher, more insistent. The way his hands mold to your body, gripping and squeezing like he can’t get enough, makes heat coil low in your stomach. But when his movements grow frantic, you grab his wrists, wrenching them away with a strength that startles him.

“What did I say about touching?” you hiss, your tone sharp, dripping with authority as you press his hands back against the chair. His eyes widen, his lips parting to stammer out an apology, but you don’t give him the chance. Instead, you soothe the tension briefly with a gentle touch, your fingers stroking down his chest, only to strike harder with your palm against his skin. The sound echoes through the room, sharp and commanding.

“I—I’m sorry,” he stammers, his voice hoarse, cracking as he squirms under your hand, his breath hitching with every strike.

“You think begging will save you?” you mock, your nails dragging across his chest, leaving faint red trails in their wake. His cries grow louder, his body arching as your words cut through his haze of desperation. “You’re going to take everything I give you, Jeno. Every. Fucking. Second.”

When you strike again, harder this time, his guttural moan makes your core tighten, his body trembling under your control. “Sorry isn’t good enough,” you snap, your palm delivering another blow, leaving his skin flushed and hot beneath your touch. “You’re going to learn to listen.”

His tears brim, his lips trembling as he gasps for air, his submission so raw it sends a thrill straight through you. You tilt his head up, forcing his glassy eyes to meet yours as you press your fingers to his lips. His tongue flicks out instinctively, tasting you, and the sight alone makes your breath hitch.

“Open,” you command, your voice soft but firm, and he obeys immediately, his mouth parting as you slide your fingers inside, pressing against his tongue. His lips close around you, the heat of his mouth making you smirk. “Deeper,” you instruct, your tone low and teasing as you push further, feeling his throat constrict around your fingers as he chokes slightly. His eyes flutter shut, his face reddening as he struggles to take you.

“Look at me,” you snap, your free hand tugging his hair roughly to hold his attention. His eyes snap open, wide and glassy, tears slipping down his cheeks as he meets your gaze. “I didn’t tell you to stop looking.”

His throat bobs as he sucks harder, his lips wrapping tightly around your fingers, his breaths ragged and broken. You press deeper, your control absolute as you watch him tremble beneath you, his entire body reacting to your dominance. When you finally pull your fingers free, they leave a trail of spit glistening along his lips. You smear it along his jaw with deliberate slowness, your eyes never leaving his.

“Good boy,” you purr, your hand sliding back to his throat, your fingers curling tightly as you slam your hips down onto him, harder and faster. The brutal rhythm pulls a wrecked moan from him, his body jerking against you, his cries raw and broken as you take him apart.

“You’re so fucking pretty when you listen,” you murmur, your tone laced with dark satisfaction, each word punctuated by the sharp snap of your hips. His submission is total now, his body yours to use as you see fit, and the sight of him like this—wrecked and trembling—only drives you to push him further.

He is fucking breathtaking.

It’s undeniable, an unfair truth etched into every perfect angle of his face, almost cruel in its certainty, the kind of beauty that lingers in your vision long after you’ve looked away. Every inch of him seems carved with intention—the sharp angles of his cheekbones catching the dim light, the line of his jaw taut as his head tips back, and the delicate flush blooming across his neck and chest. Sweat glistens on his skin, running in rivulets that trace the contours of his body, each droplet catching on the dip of his collarbones and the curve of his throat like liquid stars. His dark eyes, usually so composed and guarded, are utterly undone—blown wide, glassy, and filled with the kind of desperation that makes your stomach clench.

Right now, he looks otherworldly—utterly wrecked by you. The sheen of sweat on his temple, the way his lips part around ragged moans, trembling and red, make him almost too much to take in. His hair sticks to his forehead in damp strands, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. He’s the kind of breathtaking that feels like a punch to the ribs, an ache that spreads, unbearable in its intensity. Like the sun sinking into the horizon, beautiful enough to make you want to reach out and touch, even if you know it’ll burn you.

Your rhythm falters, your grip tightening on his shoulders as you lose yourself in the sight of him. For a moment, all your control slips through your fingers, and the words spill out in a soft, broken moan, surprising even yourself. “You’re so fucking pretty,” you gasp, leaning forward, your hands trembling as you cradle his jaw. “So handsome.”

You’ve always known it, even through the years of hating him, resenting him, wanting to be anywhere but near him. It was an unshakable truth that no amount of anger could erase: Lee Jeno was, quite simply, the most handsome man you’d ever laid eyes on.

It’s a fragile admission, out of place amidst the raw hunger of the moment, like a fragile bloom growing in the cracks of a storm-battered stone. The words hang in the air, vibrating with the kind of vulnerability that feels dangerous, but you can’t pull them back now. You lean in, pressing your lips to his in a kiss so tender it feels like it doesn’t belong here. It’s desperate in its softness, a startling contrast to the roughness that came before, like silk brushing against jagged edges.

For a moment, he’s frozen, his breath catching against your lips, as though he can’t quite believe this is happening. Then, slowly, his lips move against yours, hesitant at first, before matching the quiet desperation in your kiss. It’s messy and uncoordinated, all teeth and open mouths, his moans spilling into yours like confessions. His breath stutters as his teeth graze your bottom lip, and when your hips roll against him, pulling a strangled sound from deep in his chest, it feels like the ground beneath you is shifting.

His body shudders beneath your touch, his hands twitching as if to reach for you, only to falter, his restraint holding by a thread. You feel the weight of his surrender, the way he melts into the kiss, giving you everything without hesitation. It’s intoxicating, watching someone so breathtaking, someone who could have the world with a glance, completely undone by you.

You pull back just enough to meet his gaze, your breath still mingling with his in the charged air between you. His chest heaves, each rise and fall frantic, his lips swollen and slick from your kiss, slightly parted as if he’s forgotten how to breathe. His eyes—half-lidded and glazed over—lock onto yours, dark and unfocused, brimming with a desperation he can’t quite conceal. For a fleeting moment, it feels like looking into his soul, a raw, vulnerable window to something usually locked away beneath his composed exterior.

The intimacy feels like too much, too exposed. The softness lingers in the air like an uninvited guest, pressing against the raw edges of the moment. You shake your head slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if to dispel the weight of it, a silent denial of the connection crackling between you. Vulnerability wasn’t part of this—it wasn’t supposed to be. You came here to take, to dominate, to unravel him until nothing was left but submission and need. This? This fleeting tenderness feels misplaced, like silk trying to smother a flame.

Your grip tightens on his jaw, a reminder of control slipping back into your hands like a mask you wear too well. With deliberate force, you tilt his head down, breaking the fragile spell and redirecting his attention to where your bodies are joined. His cock is buried so deep inside you it feels like he’s trying to carve himself into your very core, every inch of him slick and glistening with how greedily your cunt swallows him. His breath catches, a guttural noise tearing from his chest as his hands clench into trembling fists at his sides, every part of him strung so tight he looks ready to snap.

“Look at that,” you murmur, your voice cutting through the charged air like a blade, your dominance settling back over you like armor. “Look at how perfectly you fill me up, Jeno. Every inch of you disappearing into me.” You roll your hips, slow and deliberate, forcing your walls to clench around him, pulling a strangled gasp from his lips. “And yet,” you pause, letting the weight of your words press into him, “you can barely hold it together.”

“I—I’m trying,” he stammers, his voice trembling as his cock throbs inside you, twitching with every cruel grind of your hips. His head falls forward, his forehead brushing your shoulder as he struggles for control, but you shove him back against the chair with an unrelenting grip. “Fuck, I’m trying—I swear—”

“Trying isn’t good enough,” you snap, your fingers tangling in his hair instead, tugging sharply as his head jerks back, a broken whimper spilling from his lips. The tension in his body ripples under your control, his throat bared to you, vulnerable and exposed. “You’re already falling apart, Jeno, and I haven’t even given you my best yet. What does that make you?”

His jaw tightens, his lips parting as though he’s about to argue, but all that comes out is a broken, wrecked moan. “Yours,” he finally manages, the word shaky and soft, like he’s barely holding on. “I’m yours. Fuck—do whatever you want—just don’t stop.”

A smirk curls your lips, the sight of him trembling, undone, making heat surge through you. You lean forward, your breath brushing his ear as your voice dips lower. “You sound pathetic. Like a desperate little toy, begging for me to use you. Is that what you want, Jeno? To be mine to ruin?”

“Yes,” he chokes out, his voice cracking under the weight of his need. “Yes, please—I’ll do anything.”

You lift your hips slightly, just enough to make your cunt squeeze tighter around him before slamming back down with brutal precision. The wet, obscene sound of him filling you completely echoes in the room, and his entire body shudders, his cock twitching violently as if it’s trying to bury itself deeper. He’s trembling now, his fingers twitching at his sides, his eyes glassy and unfocused as he struggles to breathe through the overwhelming sensation of you taking him completely.

“You’re mine,” you snarl, your nails dragging along his chest again, this time down to the sensitive skin just above his navel. His hips buck involuntarily, trying to meet your punishing rhythm, but you press him back with surprising strength, keeping him pinned. “And you’re going to sit there and take it while I make you fall apart.”

“Fuck—please—” he whines, his voice a wrecked whisper, his head falling back as he groans. “I can’t—fuck, I can’t take it.”

“Can’t?” you mock, gripping his chin tighter and forcing him to meet your gaze. “You’ll take every inch of me, Jeno. You don’t have a fucking choice.” You tilt his head back further, making him watch as your cunt swallows him whole, the sight of him disappearing into you completely leaving him gasping for air. “Look at you,” you sneer, grinding down harder just to hear him cry out. “Pathetic. So desperate. You can’t even handle how tight I am around you.”

His hips jerk again, his control slipping further as his moans turn into something almost feral, his body arching against you. “Please,” he gasps, his voice raw, wrecked, broken. “You’re so—fuck—you’re perfect. I need more—I need—”

“You don’t get to need anything,” you hiss, leaning down until your lips are a breath away from his. “The only thing you get is what I decide to give you. And right now? You’re going to stay right here and watch while I ruin you.”

But the moment cracks, his control shattering as you lift yourself slightly, your body taut and poised to slam back down onto him. His palm snaps to your lower back, holding you in place with a force that’s as commanding as it is infuriating, while his other hand digs into your hip, the bruising grip leaving no room for escape. Before you can argue, the air shifts, thickening with the wet, lewd sound of him gathering spit. You open your mouth instinctively, heat flooding your core as his head dips, and he spits directly onto your tongue—hot, filthy, and deliberate. It pools there for a moment before you swallow, your lips parting again as his eyes darken with something raw and primal. He doesn’t stop. Another wet strand lands on your chest, sliding down to the curve of your breast, the glistening trail catching the light before his hand smears it lower, dragging the slick mess down your stomach and over the arch of your back. His palm presses harder, his cock throbbing deep inside you as his lips curl into a smug, defiant grin.

His hands move immediately, smearing the spit across your skin with deliberate, controlled motions. His fingers press firmly into the soft flesh of your ass, spreading the wetness with maddening precision, working it over every curve as if he owns you. His grip tightens, kneading and pulling, his palms hot against your skin, the pressure sparking heat that radiates through your body. His cock twitches inside you, thick and pulsing, sending shocks of pleasure that coil in your stomach. He leans in, his breath hot and heavy, his hands sliding lower to spread the spit even further, as if marking every inch of you as his. “Look at you,” he growls, his voice dripping with contempt and possession. “So fucking filthy. So desperate. Do you even realize how pathetic you look right now?”

“Pathetic?” you bite back, your voice sharp, cutting through the haze of his dominance. Your hands shoot out, grabbing his wrists as you shove his grip away. “I’m the one riding you. Don’t forget that.” You grind your hips down hard, forcing a guttural groan from his throat as his head falls back. His smirk falters for a second, replaced by a flash of vulnerability in his darkened gaze.

But he doesn’t relent, snapping his hips upward with a brutal thrust that forces a broken cry from your lips. “Feel that?” he growls, his voice low and dripping with smug satisfaction. “You’re shaking around me. You’re the one falling apart. Admit it—you’re fucking addicted to me.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you hiss, leaning forward, your fingers curling around his throat. You squeeze lightly, enough to make his breath hitch as your hips shift to take him deeper. “You don’t get to talk. Not when I’ve got you like this.”

His response is a low, defiant chuckle, even as his thighs tremble beneath you. “That all you’ve got?” he rasps, his voice rough, but the quiver in his tone betrays him. “You’re trying so hard to be in control, but look at you. You can’t even stop moaning.”

Your nails drag down his chest in retaliation, leaving angry red trails that make his cock jerk inside you. “You’re going to regret that,” you snap, slamming your hips down hard enough to make his eyes roll back. The wet, obscene slap of skin meeting skin echoes around you, and the sight between your legs—the way his cock disappears into you, stretching you, slick with your arousal—makes your breath hitch.

“Fuck,” he groans, his hands twitching at his sides like he’s barely holding himself together. “You’re so—shit—how do you keep getting tighter?”

“And you’re going to feel every second of it,” you murmur, your hips grinding down in slow, teasing circles that make his breath hitch. His hands flex at his sides, and you lean in, pinning his wrists above his head with a smirk. “Stay still. You’re mine to break, Jeno.”

But he doesn’t stay still. His restraint snaps, his hips slamming up into you with enough force to leave you gasping. “Is this how you’re going to break me?” he bites out, his voice strained but defiant as his hands grip your hips, holding you in place. “Look at you—shaking like that. You’re barely holding on.”

“Shut up,” you snap, trying to force him back down, but he doesn’t let up, his smirk cutting through your attempt at control.

“Make me,” he growls, thrusting deeper, his gaze locked on yours, daring you to take it back.

“You asshole,” you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders as you try to regain control, your body arching with each brutal thrust. “You’re so fucking desperate. Can’t even last without trying to take over.”

His laughter is wrecked, strained, as he leans up, his lips brushing against your ear. “And you’re soaked, trembling, fucking yourself on my cock like you can’t get enough. So who’s desperate now?”

Your bodies collide in a frenzy of dominance and submission, both of you battling for control even as the pressure builds to an unbearable peak. His cock drives into you, relentless and unyielding, the stretch almost too much to bear, but you meet him thrust for thrust, refusing to back down. Your nails rake down his back, and he shudders, his breath stuttering against your lips as his movements grow erratic.

“Fuck,” you gasp, your voice breaking as the heat between you threatens to consume everything. “I’m—Jeno, I’m—”

“Let it go,” he groans, his voice strained, his own control hanging by a thread. “Come on, baby. Together.”

The tension snaps all at once, your release crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your body clenches around him, a scream tearing from your throat as you shatter, the wetness flooding between you, spilling out in an uncontrollable gush that leaves both of you gasping. Jeno follows a second later, a guttural moan ripped from his chest as he buries himself deep, his cock pulsing inside you as he fills you with everything he has.

Your hands grip his shoulders, your nails digging in as his hips jerk uncontrollably, prolonging both of your highs. His forehead falls to yours, his breaths coming in ragged bursts as the tremors in your body echo in his. For a moment, neither of you move, the silence filled only with the sound of your labored breathing and the sticky, heated mess between your bodies.

Your body feels wrecked, trembling with aftershocks as you try to catch your breath. Your skin burns where his hands had gripped you, his touch still ghosting along your thighs, your hips, everywhere he’d claimed you. Your chest heaves, your pulse erratic, and when your gaze locks with his, it sends another jolt through you. His eyes are dark, wide with something raw—shock, maybe regret, but laced with hunger that hasn’t quite faded. His lips are swollen, parted slightly as he struggles to steady his breathing, and the way he looks at you makes everything tighten again, an ache blooming low in your stomach. You see it there, in the way his brows pull together, in the slight tremor in his hands still resting on your hips—he’s just as undone as you are, and it terrifies you.

This isn’t a beginning; it’s the wreckage of everything you swore to keep intact—a body trembling beneath the weight of its own undoing. The room feels unbearably quiet now, the sound of your shared breaths the only thing grounding you both. You’ve just fucked him—Mark’s brother—the one person you should have never touched, and it feels like you’ve set fire to everything you’ve built. The heat still lingers between you, searing, scorching, and yet it’s the aftermath that threatens to suffocate—the realization that you’ve not only crossed the line, you’ve obliterated it. The moment feels like a collapsing star, all-consuming and inescapable, and yet neither of you moves, as though staying in this broken, twisted orbit might somehow keep the inevitable from swallowing you whole.

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authors note — hi loves! if you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading! it truly means the world to me. i poured so much effort into this, so if you could take just a moment to send an ask or leave a message sharing your thoughts, it would mean everything. your interactions—whether it’s sending an ask, your feedback, a comment, or just saying hi—give me so much motivation to keep writing. i’m always so happy to respond to messages, asks and comments so don’t be shy! thank you from the bottom of my heart! <3

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