#this will also be the ONLY ask I answer that is in this genre of question

[heethera]

˖*°࿐ •*⁀➷ 𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐞

➜ summary: you ask jake to teach you how to flirt so jay will notice you. he says yes...despite having a 10 year crush on you

pairing: sjy/jake x f!reader,wc: 13k words , genre: friends to lovers, neighbor!au, fluff, romcom w: rude jokes, cussing, kissing

If someone asked you what Jake Sim smells like, you’d say a spoonful of ego, a dash of overpriced cologne samples he steals from Sephora, and a hint...just a hint of asshole. You’ve known him since you were six and he tried to sell you your own eraser for a dollar. You called him a scammer and well, he called you stupid for not realising it sooner.

It’s only been downhill ever since.

You grew up with him through scraped knees, schoolyard brawls, and the terrifying year he thought bleach blonde hair made him look like Draco Malfoy. It didn’t. Made him look like a surfer dude, probably named, Todd. 

In middle school, he once convinced your entire class that you’d peed your pants during dodgeball. Naturally, you got your revenge by hacking into his Habbo account and stealing all his hard-earned furniture. He didn’t speak to you for a week…though you framed the silent treatment as “the best week of your life.” He jumped on you and tried to strangle you with his bare hands before you kicked him in the groin. The two of you had to be pulled apart by your parents and forced to kiss and make up.

But then again… you were also the only one there when his pet turtle died. He went through four tissue boxes, wiping away tears over the early death of his beloved friend, Sheldon. You stood beside him in his backyard, both dressed in black, as he solemnly lowered the shoebox coffin into the soil. You played Auld Lang Syne on the recorder because Jake, with tears in his eyes and dirt under his fingernails, insisted it was what Sheldon “would have wanted.” 

And then there was that one time in algebra class when you got bored. You sat behind him in the class, and thought you’d try your hand at hairstyling…with actual scissors. He went home with a bald patch the size of a nickel and didn’t let you live it down. He cried. You laughed which obviously made him scream bloody murder. You only laughed harder. 

That night, instead of letting it go like a normal person, he stood by his bedroom window which was exactly three feet away from yours and started launching tiny pebbles at your glass. Every ten seconds. Tap. Tap. Tap. 

You tried to ignore it. Stuffed your head under a pillow. But by the twentieth pebble, you yanked your window open and glared at him across the narrow gap between your houses.

“God’s sake, Yun, it’s midnight.”

He didn’t even flinch. Just pointed dramatically at the back of his head like he was presenting a war wound. “I've bald patch because of you!” he whisper-shouted, so he wouldn’t get in trouble.

You felt bad. Only a little though. So you didn’t yell when he kept throwing pebbles until sunrise. You just stuffed your head under the pillow and endured it. Because that’s what Jake Sim was…an unavoidable constant. Just like those darn pebbles.

–

The two of you sat in your respective rooms, windows wide open. You were blasting your music loud enough for the bass to shake his desk lamp, and he didn't even complain. If anything, he hummed along.

Jake was sprawled in his desk chair, legs kicked up, pencil spinning between his fingers. “What’d you get for number six?” he called out.

You didn’t even look up. “I’m not gonna tell you.”

He scoffed. “Why the hell not?”

“Because you’re not gonna learn if I just give you the answer,” you replied, circling something on your worksheet just to look busy.

“Oh please, you get worse grades than I do.”

You whipped your head toward your window. “That was one time.”

“You mean multiple times, dumbass.” He leaned forward, smug. “Don’t make me pull out the receipts. Midterms, Chemistry quiz, that one math test you didn’t even finish—”

“Okay, okay, shut up,” you groaned, chucking an eraser in his general direction. It bounced off the wall beside his window and dropped harmlessly into the space between.

Jake grinned like he’d just won something. “You’re so aggressive. No wonder Jay won’t look at you.”

You froze.

“What is that supposed to fucking mean?”

“Oh, come on,” he said, unabashed. “You don’t think I notice the way you look at him? It’s painfully obvious.”

You scowled. “You’re such a dick.”

He smirked. “Relax. I know you like the back of my hand, Bun.”

Your eye twitched. “The nickname's getting old. Retire it”

“No, it's not. It's a national treasure.”

“I was six,” you snapped.

“And yet so confident. ‘Jaebun! Jaebun!’” He mimicked your childhood voice with alarming accuracy. 

You muttered, “Should’ve gone with dumbass instead.”

“Too late.” he said cheerfully.

You rolled your eyes. “Fine. Since you claim to know me so well, when’s my birthday?”

He didn’t even blink, answering you in less than a second.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. “...Lucky guess.”

He leaned back in his chair, smug as ever. “Try me again.”

“What’s my favourite colour?”

“Trick question,” he said immediately. “You don’t have one. You once said colours were 'capitalist scams to sell more color pencils’”

You stared at him.

He shrugged. “I listen. Unfortunately.”

You grabbed a pen and pointed it at him like a threat. “Say ‘Bun’ again and I’m glueing your locker shut tomorrow.”

He only grinned wider. “Sure thing, Bun.”

–

Jake wasn’t wrong. You did perhaps have the tiniest crush on Jongseong and it wasn’t like you had crushes all the time. In fact, you barely had any. You were too busy…in your own little world. 

Besides, Jongseong was different. He was quiet but warm, always smiling. Sure, you didn’t really know him but you could, if only he ever looked in your direction.

But he didn’t. Well, not specifically at you. He was nice to everyone. That was part of his charm.

The thing was, Jongseong only seemed to date girls who were everything you weren’t. The kind who wore frilly dresses and tiny skirts, who always smelled like some kind of floral mist. The girls who sat with their ankles crossed and giggled behind their hands. The girls whose hair was always curled and upright. The ones who never cussed.

You, on the other hand, lived in Jake’s old hoodie, the one he tossed at you when you were shivering so you’d stop shaking the bed. You never gave it back, and he never asked.

You sat with one leg propped up. You swore like a sailor and forgot lip balm existed. Your lips peeled constantly, sometimes dotted with dried blood from the sheer lack of moisture.

Of course, there was nothing wrong with being girly…it just wasn’t you.

You so badly wanted to be.

But you didn’t think you could pull it off.

You weren’t that girl.

You were never going to be that girl.

Or… so you thought.

—

It happened on a Tuesday.

You and Jongseong had been assigned to the same bio project, which, for the record, you took as a cosmic sign that fate was finally giving you a win. He’d come over to ask you something and you’d tried to hold an actual conversation with him while pretending you weren’t breaking into a nervous sweat.

It was going well. You thought it was going well. You were almost funny.

And then it happened. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw it.

A girl, pretty, with soft makeup and a sundress, waved at him from the lockers. He glanced over. 

There was a flicker in his eyes. Something subtle. Something you couldn’t quite describe. But you caught it. Something you’d never been on the receiving end of.

He looked back at you and kept smiling. The same smile he gave the lunch lady. The janitor. It wasn’t attraction. It was…niceness. Jongseong was just being nice.

And for some reason, that wrecked you.

–

The lunch line crawled forward at a snail’s pace, the dull clatter of trays and scraping chairs echoing through the cafeteria. You stood still, half-slumped over your plastic tray, caught in the kind of daze that wasn’t sleepy so much as indifferent.

You stared blankly ahead, shoulders hunched. Your hoodie sleeves hung past your wrists, fingers tugging at the frayed edge while the smell of overcooked rice and some kind of mystery soup drifted around you. You barely noticed the guy who cut in front of you until his tray knocked against yours, loud and careless.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t see you.

A hot senior. One of those boys who walked through life like it was a fuckin’ breeze and perhaps it was for him.

You sighed through your nose, small and bitter, eyes flicking instinctively to the other side of the cafeteria.

There he was.

Park Jongseong, laughing with his friends at their usual table by the windows. His perfect hair, his clean white shirt collar poking out of his sweater.

Why would someone like Jongseong ever court someone like you?

You dropped your gaze quickly, heat rising up your neck for no reason at all. Just in time for the cafeteria auntie to scoop a mound of fried noodles onto your tray.

You trudged toward your usual table, trying to hold the tray steady with numb fingers. Ni-ki and Sunoo were already seated, arguing about something stupid. Their voices bubbled in the background, warm and alive, but you barely heard them. You moved on autopilot.

And then your eyes wandered again.

A few tables down, Jake had his arms draped over the shoulders of some girl you didn’t recognize by name, but had definitely seen hovering around him during gym. Her nails were perfect. Hair curled. Really pretty.

Sunghoon said something, and their table erupted in laughter. Jake leaned in, grin sharp and stupidly attractive, fingers squeezing the girl’s shoulder like it was second nature. She turned her face toward his without missing a beat and kissed his cheek. Like she’d done it a hundred times.

You blinked.

Your grip on your fork tightened slightly.

Of course Mr. Resident Playboy was surrounded by affection, by attention, by options. While you sat here picking at your noodles, heart full of things you wouldn’t dare say out loud, mourning the simple, brutal truth:

You weren’t anybody’s type.

Not Jongseong’s.

Not anyone’s.

And definitely not Jake’s.

–

That night, you stood in front of your mirror, hoodie sleeves tugged over your palms, joggers slouching low on your hips. You weren’t sad, exactly. Just… tired. Of being invisible. Of blending into the background in every hallway. Of being the kind of person people looked through, never at.

Your gaze scanned your reflection. Slouched posture. That faint acne scar near your cheekbone. The uneven hair you barely brushed unless someone nagged you. There was nothing extraordinary about the person staring back. And yet, all you could think about was the way Jongseong had looked at her.

Not just looked…seen. That quiet, effortless kind of attention. Like she wasn’t just beautiful. She mattered. Like the world bent slightly in her direction just to be closer. You wanted that. 

So you did the unthinkable.

You unlocked your window and slid it open, the humid night air brushing your skin. The three-foot gap between your houses had always felt insignificant—just years of shared childhood, unfinished arguments, and mutual pranks. You leaned out, scanning the opposite window.

“Yun,” you called softly.

No answer.

You stared a little longer before scooping up a small pebble from the ledge and flicking it against his window with a soft click.

Still nothing.

Of course. He was probably gaming again, headset on, screaming profanities at preteens while Park Sunghoon made terrible jokes in the background. You groaned, fished out your phone, and tapped his name.

It rang once.

“What?” Jake answered, already sounding irritated.

You exhaled. “Open your damn window.”

He hung up.

You blinked at your screen, jaw slack. “Asshole,” you muttered, arms crossed as you stared at his dark window.

A full minute passed. Then, the curtains shifted and his window creaked open. Jake leaned out lazily, resting his forearms on the sill. His hair was messy, and he looked like he’d just rolled off his bed. “Sorry,” he said. “I was mid-shit.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. Of course. He always said things like that. Because he didn’t see you like that. You weren’t a girl in his eyes. Just you. And even if you didn’t like Jake like that, it still stung more than it should’ve.

Your fingers gripped your window ledge tighter.

“Yun,” you tried again, voice lower now, more vulnerable. “I need your help.”

Jake squinted across the narrow space between your windows, “Sup?”

You hovered near the edge of your bed, fingers curling into the blanket. The words clung to your throat like they didn’t want to be let out. “I, uh…”

He tilted his head, eyebrows pulling together. “You what?”

You looked away, suddenly regretting saying anything at all.

Jake let out a groan, dragging a hand down his face. “Dude. Just spit it out. You’re stressing me out.”

Your voice came out smaller than you intended. “I want you to teach me how to be a girl.”

He blinked before scoffing, “Stop fuckin’ around. I’m in a Fortnite lobby with Sunghoon. I don’t have time for this.”

“I’m not fucking around.” Your breath hitched slightly. You didn’t mean to sound dramatic, but you couldn’t help it.

Jake leaned farther out the window, his legs swinging carelessly over the edge as he peered at you like he was trying to read your face. “You’re insane.”

“How am I insane?”

“You’re already a…a girl.”

You crossed your arms. “Just ten minutes ago, you told me you took a big fat shit.”

“So? I always say that kind of stuff to you.”

“Exactly. Now, would you say that to the hot girls you’re trying to flirt with?”

“No, but that—”

“No,” you cut in sharply. “You wouldn’t. And that means…”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “That means what?”

“That means you don’t see me as a…” Your voice softened to a whisper. “Woman.”

Jake exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. “Well, I clearly do now. You’re acting like you’re on your period.”

You grabbed a ping pong ball from your nightstand and lobbed it at his head. It bounced off his temple with a soft thwack.

“OW—?” he recoiled, rubbing the spot. “What the hell?”

“You practically asked for it,” you muttered, avoiding his gaze.

Jake sighed, shifting to sit properly on his window ledge, feet dangling as he leaned his head against the frame. “Is this about… your crush on…uh…Jongseong?”

You said nothing. Just stared at your blanket.

Jake let out a low laugh. “It is, isn’t it? Why do you wanna change anyway? You're fine the way you are...just like this.”

"I don't wanna be just—"

"God, you are such a girl."

“If you’re gonna be an asshole about it, I’m—”

“You’re gonna what? Threaten me even though I know your biggest, darkest secret?”

You scoffed, arms tightening across your chest. “Fine. You win. Like always. You get the girls you want, the friends, the popularity. You get everything, Jaeyun.”

Jake let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, except it wasn’t. “You think I get what I want? You are sorely mistaken because–”

He paused. His eyes flicked to you. He opened his mouth like he was about to say something but he shut it just as fast and shook his head. “Doesn’t even matter.”

You didn’t press him. You figured it’d be something sarcastic or gross anyway.

“Yun…” You bit your lip. “You don’t know what it’s like. Knowing people don’t look at you the way you want them to. I don’t mind being invisible. I don’t mind being forgettable. But sometimes it just sucks. Watching people flirt with girls like they’re the only ones worth looking at. And I’m not. This is stupid but it’s just–”

“It’s really funny you think that way.” He said, laughing almost bitterly before he shook his head. 

The room fell into silence. Jake didn’t say anything for a while.

“Look, if I help you, will you shut up about this cringey bullshit?” He spoke again.

You looked up. A slow smile tugged at your lips. “You’ll help?”

Jake rolled his eyes. “I don’t even know why I’m the person you’re asking.”

“You’re the closest thing I have to a friend.”

He stilled.

And that, more than anything, made Jake stop and think.

–

Jake hated Wednesdays.

He hated the long hours, the after school academy his mom sends him to, the way the fluorescent lights in the academy made his eyes ache by the second hour. Everyone there moved like machines, quiet, efficient, terrifyingly focused. He didn’t know anyone, and no one cared to know him.Just equations and deadlines and that one girl who once cried during a physics mock.

But one thing made it bearable.

You.

Same academy, different class. Same hell, different schedule. But you always ended up outside the gates at exactly 9 p.m., when his last class ended.

He saw you before he felt the wind, your figure under the yellow glow of the streetlamp, head bowed, nose buried in a half-crumpled chemistry textbook. Your bag hung off one shoulder, your cardigan sleeves pushed up, revealing ink-stained wrists. You were walking slowly, lips moving like you were mouthing formulas, completely oblivious to the world around you.

Jake watched for a second, letting the cold bite his cheeks.

He adjusted his hoodie and jogged up to meet you, as he always did, no hello, no warning, just bumped your shoulder lightly with his.

You blinked up from your book, startled, “Jesus fu—Jaeyun. You scared me.”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “Why didn’t you wait for me up front?”

“I wanted to get the last hotteok before the shop closed,” you said, pointing ahead.

“Without me?”

“You always take your time, and I got lazy.” You rolled your eyes and snapped your book shut, fumbling to shove it back into your bag.

Jake scoffed, reaching over to grab the book from you. He slid it into your bag with ease. “What makes you think I didn’t want any?”

“I was gonna get you one and pass it to you through the window,” you muttered.

Jake grinned. “How sweet.”

 “Don’t push it.”

“Why the sudden generosity?” Jake asked, giving you a sideways glance as the two of you continued walking under the soft orange glow of the streetlights. The path curved through the park, quiet except for the faint rustle of leaves.

You hesitated. “Last night—” You swallowed hard. “I… I was in a rut. And I didn’t really mean for you to, you know, teach me how to be a girl. I think I was just...spiralling."

Jake didn’t say anything, but he slowed a little, turning just slightly toward you.

“You were right,” you went on, hugging your arms around yourself. “I am a girl. And I don’t have to… change who I am to be with Jongseong.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. “Glad you finally see it my way.”

“But…” You stopped walking, spinning to face him as you pointed a finger at his chest. “I do want to change my request.”

Jake groaned, head tipping back as he rolled his eyes. “What now?”

You shifted your weight from foot to foot, fingers fidgeting at the sleeves of your cardigan. The words got stuck in your throat. You looked anywhere but him, your shoes, the tree beside you, the flickering street lamp overhead.

“If you’re not gonna teach me how to be girlier…” you muttered, voice barely above a whisper, “could you at least teach me how to…”

There was a pause. Your hands made vague, awkward motions in the air. Jake just stood there, waiting, arms folded, eyebrow raised, looking far too amused.

“What?”

You looked up at him, cheeks burning. “Could you teach me how to… flirt?”

Jake blinked. “You want…me to teach you how to flirt?”

His voice cracked…barely, but enough to make your shoulders tense.

Then, slowly, his expression shifted. The corners of his mouth twitched. His brows lifted, eyes lighting up. You knew he was about to say something incredibly annoying.

“Oh.” He took a step closer, head tilted, grin spreading wide. “Oh. Flirting, huh…”

You immediately regretted speaking. “Don’t make it weird, Jake.”

“Too late,” he said, voice practically gleeful. “So do you call me Mr. Sim now? I have a small whiteboard at home. I could bring it over tomorrow. Maybe some flashcards—OW!”

You smacked his arm, sharp and fast. He flinched back, laughing as he rubbed the spot you hit.

“You’re the worst,” you muttered, spinning on your heel. Your pace picked up, arms crossed tight over your chest as your bag bounced against your side with each frustrated step.

Jake was still laughing behind you, low and amused. You could hear the gravel crunch under his sneakers as he jogged to catch up.

“Bun, come on,” he called, still breathless with laughter. “Don’t be like that. I’ll stop. I swear.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t even slow down.

Jake finally caught up, matching your stride as he nudged your arm with his elbow, more gentle this time. “Okay. Okay, I’ll do it.”

You glanced at him, eyes narrowed. “Really?”

He nodded, gaze fixed ahead now, hands buried deep in his hoodie pockets. His grin was still there but a little softer, a little less smug.

“Yeah,” he said. “Why not.”

And though he kept smiling, though he bumped your shoulder again like everything was fine, something tugged quietly at the edge of his chest.

–

It was a Saturday afternoon, and Jake had insisted your “first official lesson” take place at a café just down the street from school.

You sat across from him at a window seat, fingers wrapped awkwardly around a lukewarm latte while Jake leaned back in his chair, legs spread, one arm slung casually across the backrest.

“Alright,” he said, tapping the side of his cup with a spoon. “First target locked. Look at that guy over there.”

You followed his nod toward a boy near the counter. He had dark hair that curled just slightly at the nape of his neck, a clean, sharp profile, and a navy windbreaker slung effortlessly over a white tee. He was scrolling through his phone, occasionally glancing toward the barista with a faint, almost unreadable smile. 

“Ooh, he’s kinda cute,” you murmured, straightening a little in your seat.

Jake blinked before shaking his head. “Yeah, okay. New target.”

“What? Why?” you frowned.

“He… he doesn’t seem nice,” Jake muttered, picking up his drink and deliberately looking away.

You squinted at him. “He seems totally nice. Mysterious, sure, but definitely polite.”

Jake scoffed under his breath. “You don’t know men.”

You rolled your eyes. “And you do?”

“I am one,” he snapped, scanning the room again like a snob. 

“You are? Didn’t notice.”

Jake frowned, ignoring your comment. A second later, he pointed toward a guy near the pastry shelf. “That guy.”

You followed his gaze again, but you were still stuck on the first one.

“…He’s not even cute,” you said flatly.

Jake didn’t look at you. “Exactly, so ask him out.”

“But he’s not even–”

He exhaled sharply through his nose and cut you off. “Look, we’re here to boost your confidence. It’s not gonna be a sure thing, so start small.”

“Fine,” you muttered, folding your arms. After a beat, you turned to him. “Do I look okay?”

Your hair was down for once, soft waves brushing just past your shoulders. You’d run a brush through it and tucked one side neatly behind your ear. Your skin had that subtle glow, not from makeup really, but from actually washing your face and maybe using that tinted sunscreen your friend, Sunoo, swore by.

That even Jake had done a double take when you opened the front door. He’d blinked, eyes flicking from your hair to your blouse like his brain couldn’t compute what he was seeing. 

EARLIER THAT DAY

Jake showed up five minutes early, as usual, slouching on your porch with his phone in hand. He didn’t bother knocking…he never had to. He was practically part of the house by now. The front door swung open before he could even reach for the handle. “Oh, Jaeyun,” your mom greeted with a knowing smile, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “You’re early today.” Jake grinned. “Just a little. Didn’t wanna get yelled at for being late.” She laughed and stepped aside to let him in. “She’s taking a bit long today. Not too sure why.” He kicked off his shoes and followed her into the entryway, glancing up the stairs. “It’s fine, I can wait.” Your mom raised an eyebrow at him, amused. “I mean…sure. But she usually doesn’t take this long. She’s been up getting ready for two hours.” Jake nearly choked. “Two hours?” Before your mom could answer, your voice floated from upstairs. “Is Jake here, Mom?” “Just arrived!” she called back. Jake leaned against the banister, still puzzled. He could hear your footsteps now. Then you appeared at the top of the stairs. He paused. Your hair was down. Like, fully down. He hadn’t seen that since you were twelve and you’d cut your own bangs in a bathroom mirror. It was longer now, softer, brushed neatly around your shoulders. You wore a pink blouse with tiny buttons and puffed sleeves, cinched just slightly at the waist. It hugged your frame in a way none of your hoodies ever had. Paired with a white skirt and sneakers that didn’t look like they’d survived through hell and back, for once, you looked… polished.  His heart stuttered. Jake cleared his throat, eyes trailing over you as you stepped down the stairs. “You look… different.” You froze mid-step, one foot hovering slightly above the next stair, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Different good? Different bad? God, I knew I shouldn’t have followed that stupid Pinterest board. It said ‘cute girl outfits’ and I just assumed—” “I didn’t even say—” “Oh my God, I do look stupid.” You looked down at yourself in dismay, tugging at the hem of your skirt. “God, Bun,” Jake muttered, already striding up the steps toward you. He reached out, exasperated but weirdly gentle, and slapped a hand over your mouth. “Let me fuckin' speak,” he said, voice low and a little too sincere for comfort. “You look good. Now shut up.” And his hand lingered for just a second too long before he seemed to realise what he was doing and stepped back.

PRESENT

His gaze dragged from your eyes to your mouth, then darted away too fast, like he’d been caught staring. “Yeah, you look fine” he said, nodding once, maybe a little too firmly.

You frowned. “Are you sure?”

Digging into your pocket, you pulled out a tube of gloss and held it up. “Do I need more lip gloss? I saw this TikTok? Apparently these are, like, really in right now.”

You leaned toward the window as you dabbed it on, lips pressing together with a soft smack. Then you turned back to him. “Better?”

Jake swallowed. His jaw twitched.

He turned back toward the window a beat too quickly, pretending to scan the crowd like he hadn’t heard you. “Yeah,” he muttered, voice dipping low. “You look fine.”

“Is that the only thing you can say?”

He groaned. “What the hell do you want me to say?”

You rolled your eyes. “Whatever. So what do I do now, Mr. Sim?”

He cleared his throat, straightening up. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping just a notch as he shifted gears.

“Well… one thing about guys is that they’re simple. They like to be complimented.”

You raised a brow. “Are they dogs?”

“Not gonna lie, they tend to be,” Jake snorted. “Anyway, since your hair’s already down… you could just—”

His hand moved before your brain could catch up. Fingers brushing lightly behind your ear as he tucked a loose strand of hair back.

Your breath caught.

He didn’t pull away immediately, just hovered there, close enough that you could smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, unreadable for half a second.

“Then,” he said, voice lower now, “just flick your hair over your shoulder when you laugh. It’ll drive him crazy. Trust me.”

You swallowed, nodding slowly. “Okay. I can do that.”

Jake stepped back, giving a short, almost nervous laugh. “Alright. Let’s have a test run. Show me the flick. Let’s see if you’re ready.”

You blinked. “Now?”

“Yes now,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Flip your hair. Then bat your eyelashes. Slowly.”

You gave him a long look. Then, trying to copy the motion, you awkwardly tossed your hair over your shoulder and blinked up at him, slightly exaggerated and incredibly mechanical.

Jake choked on his own breath. 

You gasped and smacked his arm. “Don’t be a fucking prick!”

“I didn’t even say anything!” he protested before bursting into laughter.

“You didn't have to!”

“It's not my fault you looked insane!”

“You told me to flip my hair and bat my lashes!”

“Yeah, I told you to do it normally. I didn’t tell you to give me crazy eyes.”

You crossed your arms, shoulders slumping. “I can’t do this. This is stupid.”

“Yes, you can,” Jake said firmly. “Now look at me. Try it again.”

You sighed, took a breath then did it.

Your fingers swept through your hair, flicking it over your shoulder in one fluid motion. You glanced up at him, wide-eyed, lashes fluttering with just enough hesitation to make it feel real. Your lips parted slightly, soft with a natural pout. And the soft blush on your cheeks—God. It made you look so much cuter than he was prepared for.

Jake’s breath caught in his throat. He didn't move. Didn't say a single thing.

Because somehow, in the middle of this dumb pretend flirting lesson, you’d accidentally knocked the wind out of him.

And you had no idea.

His mouth opened slightly but nothing came out. His heart stammered in his chest like it forgot how to beat properly. Fuck. You looked good doing whatever the hell that was.

Then you sighed. “Ugh. I looked ridiculous again, didn’t I? God, I’m such a mess—”

“No!” he blurted out, way too loud, making both of you jump. “You looked… fine. I think you’re ready.”

His voice cracked at the end. He turned his head like it would somehow hide it.

But it didn’t.

You didn’t seem to notice. Or if you did, you didn’t say anything.

“But… what do I even say to him?” you asked, your voice softer now, uncertain.

Jake cleared his throat, grounding himself. Right. This lesson wasn’t for him. It was for you. For Jongseong.

“Keep it simple,” he said, slipping his hands into his pockets to keep them steady. “Ask what he’s drinking. Compliment his shirt. Make eye contact. Smile. Then ask for his number.”

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye.

“Guys don’t need a Shakespearean monologue,” he added with a dry chuckle. “Just give them a reason to look twice.”

You took a deep breath and repeated to yourself, “Okay… I can do this. I can do this.”

Jake grinned, tossing back the rest of his drink like it was a toast. “You can. Knock ’em dead.”

You wiped your sweaty palms on your jeans again. Useless. Your hands were still clammy, and your heart felt like it was sprinting laps in your chest.

You glared at him. “If I embarrass myself, I’m blaming you.”

“Can’t embarrass what’s already rock bottom,” he grinned.

You flipped him off but your legs still carried you across the café. You passed the actually cute guy Jake had vetoed and kept walking until you reached the guy Jake had actually pointed out.

He was okay. Not ugly, but his hair was gelled too flat, and his shirt had some ironic graphic that made you wince. He was tapping loudly on his phone, chewing gum. Still, he had decent shoulders. That was something.

You cleared your throat. “Hey.”

He looked up, blinked once like he was trying to figure out if he knew you,. “Hey.”

You gestured to his drink. “Is that the cold brew? I was gonna get one, but I panicked and got a hot chocolate instead.”

He chuckled. “Yeah. Cold brew’s not bad. Keeps me awake for my 8ams, y’know?”

You forced a smile. “I’m the same way! I'm a totally different person without my morning coffee.”

He laughed. Good. Good. Great! Until it wasn't.

You flicked your hair back like Jake told you to, trying to make it look natural. It didn’t.

"What are you...doing?"

You immediately stopped, dropping your hands to your sides. Straightening up.

Then, before you could stop yourself, you added with what you thought was a flirty smile, “I love your elbows! They’re so…uh…pointy.”

The guy blinked. “Sorry—what?”

You laughed before panicking a little, “Like if you were ever robbed, you could probably stab the robber with your elbow.”

He was staring now, straw paused at his lips. “Uh–thanks?”

“Anyway!” you blurted. “I should—uh—my friend’s waiting. Bye.”

You turned and speed-walked back to your table. The moment you reached Jake, you crash-landed into the booth, practically throwing yourself onto his chest to hide your face.

Jake raised an eyebrow, then completely lost it, laughter spilling out before he gently pulled you closer, one hand sliding into your hair, the other resting lightly between your shoulder blades.

“Sim Jaeyun, I will kill you.” You lifted your head just enough to glare at him, your cheek still pressed against his chest.

He didn’t flinch. Just chuckled and eased you right back into him, his hand still idly moving through your hair. You could feel his laugh rumble beneath your cheek.

“It’s not my fault you couldn’t follow one simple instruction,” he wheezed, voice light. “Flick hair. Speak words. That’s it.”

“He was clearly not interested,” you muttered, sitting up and crossing your arms.

Jake shrugged, finally catching his breath. “Then he probably doesn’t have good taste.”

You paused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He looked at you, blinking. “I mean—come on. You’re a total ten. And he’s like… a five. At best.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Did you just… call me a ten?”

“Y–yeah,” Jake said quickly, already regretting it. “On the insane scale.” He winced slightly, like even he knew that didn’t make any real sense.

You rolled your eyes and smacked his arm, ���Can’t I just talk to the cute guy?”

Jake let out a sharp laugh, drumming his fingers against his cup. “You couldn’t even string a sentence together for that guy, and now you wanna shoot your shot with the hot one?”

You leaned back against the booth with a dramatic sigh, one arm flung across the backrest. “If I’m gonna die of embarrassment, I’d rather die pretty.”

Jake snorted. “You’re gonna die delusional.”

You turned to him, eyes narrowing with playful challenge. “Okay, then how about I practice on you?”

He blinked. “What?”

“I can’t practice on a hot guy. Too risky. And I already humiliated myself in front of the other one. So now I’m left with you.” You shrugged, like it was the most logical conclusion in the world. “Let me just see how it feels to flirt with someone I’m already comfortable with.”

Jake blinked again, visibly thrown. “And you think I’m the guy for that?”

“Yes,” you said, matter-of-factly. “Just treat me like one of those girls you’re always trying to impress.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” You pouted, lips pulling into a dramatic curve. “Am I not your type?”

Jake opened his mouth, then closed it again. There was a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

“No. I didn’t say that.”

“Then what is it?” you challenged. “Why can’t I just practice on you?”

“Fine! Fine—just shut up for a second.” His voice was low, tight before covering your mouth with his palm to shut you up. “Or… we could get Sunghoon to help.”

You froze, eyes narrowing against his palm.

“Fungfoon?” you repeated through his hand.

He removed it slowly.

“You mean that trash ass frat boy who can’t shut up for more than thirty seconds?”

Jake narrowed his eyes right back. “Sunghoon’s my best friend.”

“I don’t care?”

Not even ten minutes later, Sunghoon strolled into the café, hoodie sleeves half-rolled, a lollipop tucked between his lips. You gave him a slow side-eye as he approached your table.

It wasn’t that you hated Sunghoon. But the two of you bickered like a divorced couple whenever you were together. Maybe it was your clashing playstyles when you gamed together, he was a reckless, charge-in-without-a-plan kind of guy, and you were more methodical, strategic. Or maybe it was just the fact that if Jake wasn’t hanging out with him, he was with you and well, Sunghoon could be… territorial.

He dropped into the seat beside Jake, legs wide, completely unbothered. “Alright. What is this even about? Why am I here to help the Devil herself?”

“Reason isn’t important but,” Jake muttered, not even looking up from his drink. “We just need you to pretend you’re some guy she’s trying to flirt with.”

Sunghoon pulled the lollipop from his mouth, brows raised. “Ew. Why would I flirt with her?”

You scoffed. “Don’t be flattered. You were my last choice.”

He grinned. “Still made the cut though.”

You rolled your eyes and took a deep breath, straightening your posture. Okay. Practice round. You could do this.

You turned to face him, smile soft, lashes lowered just a little. “Hey,” you said, voice dipped slightly lower. “You look kinda familiar…”

Sunghoon smirked, playing along, finally meeting your eyes after ignoring you the whole minute he arrived. “Oh yeah? From where?”

You flicked your hair back, just like Jake told you to, letting it fall behind your shoulder.

And that’s when it happened.

Sunghoon blinked. His entire body paused for a beat like his brain lagged for half a second before catching up. He stared at you, eyes trailing from your mouth to your collarbone, then back up again.

There was a few seconds of silence before...

“Dude,” Sunghoon muttered, eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at you again. “Did you do something to your hair? You look really good today.”

“What?”

“I’m just saying,” he said, leaning in a little, arms folded casually on the table. His tone wasn’t exactly flirty, more like intrigued. “You look different. In a good way.”

Your brain went completely silent.

Not because it was flattering. But because it was Sunghoon.

“Are you calling me—”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “I’m calling you pretty. I can’t believe I’m saying it either.”

You gawked at him. Mouth slightly open. Sunghoon looked at you like he was analysing a glitch in the matrix, brows furrowed, eyes scanning your face.

“Ew,” you said automatically, scrunching your nose. “I can’t believe you’d call me—wait. Hold on. I am?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, almost like he was confirming it for himself. “Totally. You’re just, like, glowing or whatever.”

“Well…” You sat up straighter. “I put on mascara. And some lip gloss.”

He was seeing you as a girl. Like...a girl girl. Not Jake’s best friend. Not the rando he was forced to game with when the squad was short one player.

You straightened slowly, crossing one leg over the other with a little more sway than necessary, letting your hair fall over one shoulder like a curtain. You tilted your head, gaze playful. “Well… maybe you’re just slow at noticing things.”

Sunghoon’s grin curled, his eyes dipped, lingering, and his tongue flicked out to wet his bottom lip. “Or maybe you’ve been hiding that pretty face on purpose.”

You leaned in, elbows resting on the table, chin propped on your hand as your voice dropped to a murmur. “Or maybe you just never looked close enough.”

That did it. Sunghoon's posture straightened almost reflexively, and for half a second, he was visibly flustered, eyes flicking down again before darting back up to meet yours.

Across the table, Jake cleared his throat.

You didn’t even turn to look at him.

Jake slammed his hand on the table, not hard, but enough to rattle your water glass. “Alright. Lesson’s over.”

Sunghoon blinked. “What—why?”

Jake stood up, his jaw tight. “We’re done. Congrats. She flirts well. You’re dismissed.”

Sunghoon raised both brows. “I just got here.”

“You’re just back up, Hoon. She’s not actually trying to date you, dumbass.”

“But we so totally could though.” Sunghoon looked back at you, winking.

“Okay, we’re done here.” Jake stood up suddenly and grabbed Sunghoon by the arm. “Let’s go. Your turn’s over.”

“Chill,” Sunghoon said, laughing. “You jealous or something?”

Jake didn’t answer. Just pushed the door open and muttered, “Thanks for your service. You helped a ton.”

—

Yes. Okay, fine. Yes! Jake liked you.

He hated admitting it. Hated even thinking it.

But he did. He liked you.

The only person who knew? His mom. Or maybe Layla, his dog—if she actually understood English.

He’d liked you since the day you stood in his backyard, dressed in black, playing Auld Lang Syne on the recorder for his dead turtle. RIP Sheldon. You’re still missed.

But Jake was an idiot. As most boys are.

Somewhere along the way, his dumb boy brain decided the only logical way to get your attention was through relentless teasing and it stuck. It became a habit. Your thing.

Because, obviously, nothing says I like you like public humiliation.

Jake liked you with your hair up in that lazy bun you always wore. He liked you with it down, falling in soft, messy waves around your shoulders. He liked you when you were yelling profanities into your headset, and he liked you when you were quiet in your room, curled up with your knees to your chest, scribbling in that little diary you thought no one knew about.

He liked you when you were laughing so hard you snorted. And he liked you when you were trying to hide your smile behind your hand.

He never really understood why you wanted to change.

To him, you were already enough. You weren’t “boyish.” You weren’t “too girly.” You were just you. And to Jake, you had always been the point.

What mattered wasn’t how you looked. What mattered was that you were there.

So when he found out you liked Jongseong, he couldn’t even breathe for a second. It felt like ten million trains had flattened him right where he stood. But when he realised you didn’t just like him you were willing to change for him?

That broke something deep.

Because it meant you liked Jongseong enough to become someone else.

And Jake… Jake never wanted that.

But he had pride. Stupid, gnawing, heavy pride. And what made it worse, what buried the knife deeper, was knowing you’d never look at him that way.

Not the way you looked at Jongseong.

Not the way he looked at you.

Jake remembered one of his most recent so-called flings if you could even call them that.

To you, he was the local fuckboy. The guy who always had someone new to flirt with. You’d rolled your eyes every time he winked at someone, and he’d leaned into the reputation like it was armor.

But the truth was far messier.

Because somehow, the girls he messed around with… they always ended up knowing about you.

The last one, her name was Hyejin or maybe Hyerim, he couldn’t remember anymore, she ended up sitting next to him in her tiny apartment while he nursed a soda he didn’t want and tried not to cry.

“I just don’t get it,” he’d admitted, voice cracking a little. “I don’t know how to tell her I like her. And it’d be weird, right? If I suddenly just… said it?”

She’d looked at him, mascara slightly smudged from a long day, and tilted her head with a sigh. “Jake, you just have to be honest.”

He laughed at the time. “I can’t even be honest with myself.”

Jake swore there was nothing more humiliating than crying in front of a girl who he’d once tried to flirt with, only to have her comfort him about another girl entirely.

Worse than that?

She hugged him. Gave him her leftover tiramisu. And said, “I think she already knows. She just doesn’t know that you know.”

Jake sighed and leaned his forearm against the windowsill, the cool wood pressing into his skin as he looked across the short distance between your rooms. Your window was open again, curtains pulled halfway back.

You were lying on your stomach, half-buried in pillows, legs bent at the knees and swinging lazily in the air. Your phone was cradled in both hands, and every few seconds your shoulders shook with silent laughter.

Jake told himself he wasn’t watching. Just glancing.

He liked when your curtains were open. Not because he was trying to spy. It was more like… habit. You were always there, in that same spot, doing something normal and unbothered. Sometimes reading. Sometimes chewing on your pen while you worked. Sometimes yelling at your screen when your game crashed. He liked those quiet glimpses, the small, domestic pieces of you when you thought no one was watching.

From across the window, he could hear your soft giggle through the open night air.

“What the fuck are you laughing at?” he called out from his side of the room, voice echoing slightly against the concrete walls outside.

You turned your head, chin resting on your wrist. “It’s just... nothing.” Your lips curled again as you looked back at your screen.

Jake smiled, just a little, then pushed off the sill and crossed the room. His headset was still hanging from the corner of his chair. He grabbed it, sank down into the seat, and slid it over his ears.

“Hey, I’m back,” he muttered into the mic.

There was a short pause. “Hold on,” came Sunghoon’s voice. “I’m in the middle of something.”

Jake reached for his mouse, nodding to himself. “Kay.”

And then he heard it.

A soft, unmistakable ding echoed faintly from the room across the way. He turned his head slightly, just enough to catch you laughing again. Your fingers moved quickly over your phone screen.

“Okay, I’m back,” Sunghoon said a few seconds later. He sounded amused.

Jake narrowed his eyes.

Another burst of laughter from your room. Another ding from Sunghoon’s mic. Then more quiet typing from your end. Another ping. Another laugh from Sunghoon.

Jake blinked at the screen in front of him. His hand was still resting on his mouse, unmoving.

Then he looked back out the window.

You were biting your bottom lip now, trying to suppress another laugh as you stared at your phone. Your shoulders were trembling again. You kicked your feet once, as if you couldn’t contain the energy anymore.

Sunghoon chuckled again in Jake’s ear.

The realization settled in slowly.

You were texting.

And not just texting anyone.

You were texting Sunghoon.

Jake leaned back in his chair, headset still snug over his ears, eyes locked on the warm glow pouring from your bedroom window. A breeze moved through the gap, rustling your curtain just enough for him to see your face again. You were smiling at your phone, soft and lit up in a way that made something in his chest tighten.

His grip on the mouse went slack.

“Are you texting her?��� he asked, voice flat, low.

There was a pause on the other end of the mic.

“What? Who?” Sunghoon replied, feigning clueless.

Jake narrowed his eyes, staring now, not at his screen, but out the window, straight at you as your fingers danced over your phone screen. Another muffled laugh echoed through your open window.

“I can hear the two of you giggling like idiots,” Jake said.

Sunghoon let out a short laugh, not bothering to deny it. “Dude, what’s the matter with you? I can’t text her now?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to,” Sunghoon replied. “You’ve been weird since the café. She looked cute today. I’m trying to shoot my shot.”

Jake sat up straighter, jaw tightening. “On my friend?”

There was a pause.

“Relax,” Sunghoon said, tone still light. “We’re just talking. Harmless flirting. Nothing disastrous. She knows me. She knows how I am.”

Jake didn’t answer.

His eyes drifted back to the window. You were still there, head bowed over your phone, smiling again at something that didn’t come from him.

“Whatever, man. I gotta go,” Jake muttered.

“What? We haven’t even played—”

“I forgot I had some homework to do.”

Before Sunghoon could reply, Jake clicked off. The headset hit the desk with a dull thud.

He stood quickly, crossed the room in a few long strides, yanked open his window, and grabbed the nearest thing on his desk…a ping pong ball. The very ping pong ball you threw at his head.

He tossed it with perfect aim.

It bounced cleanly off your forehead.

“OW—what the hell!” you yelped, looking up in disbelief, hand flying to your temple.

Jake leaned halfway out the window, one brow raised. “So now we know how that feels.”

Your eyes narrowed. “What was that for?”

“Stop texting Sunghoon.”

You sat up straighter. “What? Why? And how did you even know—”

“I could hear the gross, synchronized giggling. Cut it out.”

You crossed your arms, scowling. “You’re the one who told me I needed more confidence.”

“And you chose him?”

You rolled your eyes. “Come on. It’s not like he’d get hurt. I know how he is. He knows it’s just practice.”

Jake shook his head. “No. Not Sunghoon.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You were literally the one who told me to practice on him.”

“I take it back.”

“What?! We were finally getting into good banter and shit. Why are you—”

“You either stop texting him,” Jake said, voice dropping lower, “or I tell Jongseong your stupid secret.”

Your mouth fell open. “What?! Why would you—what does that even have to do with anything?!”

Jake didn’t answer.

But his grip on the windowsill had tightened, knuckles pale under the streetlight glow, and his eyes didn’t leave yours for even a second.

“JUST STOP TEXTING HIM!”

–

The next day at school, Jake dragged himself through the crowded hallway, feet scuffing against the linoleum. His eyes were heavy with sleep he never got. Every time he closed them the night before, his brain had decided to play out an imaginary scenario where you and Sunghoon were holding hands in the cafeteria or kissing in front of the gym lockers.

It was enough to make him gag. If that ever actually happened, he was pretty sure he’d launch himself off the nearest cliff without hesitation.

He adjusted the strap of his backpack and yawned, turning the corner...

A hand tugged on his arm.

He blinked, looked down, and there you were. Standing in front of him with your brows knit together, that expression you always wore when you were trying to pretend you weren’t nervous.

“Bun?” he mumbled, still half-asleep.

You let out a breath. “Look… I’m sorry for not telling you I texted Sunghoon yesterday.”

Jake shook his head. “I wasn’t mad because you didn’t tell me.”

“Then why were you—”

“It’s nothing,” he cut in, voice low. He glanced down at his shoes.

You tilted your head. “Didn’t seem like nothing. You were yelling, dry heaving, and threw a ping pong ball at my head.”

Jake gave a short scoff. “You threw one at me last week, so I don’t see why we’re keeping score.”

You smiled. “Touché.”

There was a moment of quiet between you, the hallway noise fading under the weight of whatever you were about to say. You rocked on your heels.

“So…” you started. “Promise you’re not gonna get mad at me?”

He looked at you suspiciously. “What?”

“Just—promise.”

Jake exhaled. “Fine. What?”

You hesitated for only a second. “Sunghoon asked me out.”

Jake stopped walking.

For a moment, it felt like the hallway went silent around him, like the crowd and noise and lockers all blurred into nothing. He couldn’t feel the weight of his bag anymore. Couldn’t hear the scrape of sneakers or the slam of doors down the corridor.

And then one very clear thought.

He was going to kill Park Sunghoon.

“I said no.”

His head snapped toward you. “Wait—what?”

You shrugged, casual, like you hadn’t just pulled him out of the depths of hell. “I said no.”

A slow smile crawled its way onto his face before he could stop it. Then another feeling hit, bright and stupid and way too much for a school hallway. He wanted to do a triple backflip. He wanted to grab your face and kiss you right there between rows of lockers. He wanted to sing something obnoxious and dramatic and completely out of character. Maybe dance in the rain. 

“Why would I?” you said, nudging his arm, eyes still fixed ahead. “Jongseong’s the end game.”

And just like that, Jake wanted to go back to murdering.

“Of course, he is,” he said with a hollow laugh. He nodded, then mockingly clapped his hands together once, sharp and sarcastic. His smile dropped almost instantly, and he turned his face away before you could see the frown taking over.

He felt like biting his own arm off.

Then he looked back at you. “Right. I forgot this was all for that… Jay guy.”

You tilted your head, thinking. “Well… to be honest, I don’t really know him. But he seems sweet. From the times we’ve talked. And the group project. He’s… nice.”

Jake hated how gently you said it.

And the worst part? Jay was sweet. He was the kind of guy who held doors open without being weird about it. The kind who sent the group notes without being asked. He always smiled. Always remembered birthdays. He was, objectively, everything a girl like you deserved.

Jake knew that.

But he didn’t want to admit it.

Because you were his. At least in the world that existed in his head. You were his gamer buddy. His childhood friend. You weren’t supposed to look at other guys like that. God, he wanted you to look at him like that.

He clenched his fists inside his hoodie pocket.

He wanted to stomp his feet like a toddler and let out a big, ugly cry.

But unfortunately, that was not considered appropriate school behavior.

You didn’t notice the way he looked at you. Or maybe you did, and you just didn’t want to deal with it. Either way, you were still rambling.

“I dunno. I mean… I guess I just wanna see where it could go if he ever, like, noticed me or something.” You scratched your neck, glancing at the floor. “Not that he would. He’s… Jongseong.”

Jake didn’t say anything.

You sighed. “I’m probably just kidding myself. I’m not really the type guys go for, you know?”

“You ever think maybe it’s not you?” He looked at you. “Maybe they’re just dumb.”

Something about the way he said it stuck. 

Jake glanced away before walking toward his locker.

You didn’t know what to say.

So you didn’t say anything.

But hours later, long after the hallway cleared out, after you were alone in your room, that sentence would come back again and again.

“Maybe they’re just dumb.”

And maybe Jake Sim wasn’t dumb.

But why would he ever see you that way?

You were the girl who screamed into her headset. Who wore the same hoodie three days in a row. Who got mistaken for a guy in Discord chats more often than not.

You shook your head and turned back to your phone, forcing yourself to scroll. Still, that voice stayed in the back of your mind.

And the way he looked at you when he said it.

–

It was time for lesson number two. You were back in the corner booth, your half-melted drink leaving a wet ring on the napkin beneath it. Jake sat across from you, lounging like he owned the place. One arm stretched over the back of the seat, his iced latte in the other, rings of condensation slipping down the sides of the cup.

He was watching you. That look again. The one that made it impossible to tell if he was amused or genuinely disappointed in you.

"This is the third guy that you’ve chickened out on. You’re not going to get better if you keep coming back after saying a simple hi," he said, nodding toward some guy seated near the counter. "Go talk to him. For real, this time."

You frowned. "I can’t. I freeze up and start to sweat."

Jake sighed and set his drink down. "Fine. Do it on me then."

You blinked. "What?"

"Practice. On me," he repeated, now leaning forward, his arms resting on the table. "Pretend I’m some guy you want to impress."

You stared at him. "You’re serious?"

"And you're stalling."

You turned your body toward him with a quiet sigh. "Okay. Fine."

"Go ahead," Jake said, his voice lower now, patient. He watched you with an unreadable look, the corner of his mouth still curved.

You tried. You really did.

Jake raised an eyebrow, pretending to be charmed. “Wow. Off to a strong start.”

You scowled. “Shut up, I’m trying.”

He smiled wider, amused. “No, no. Please. Continue. This is wildly entertaining.”

You gestured at his chest. “It looks… soft?”

Jake blinked, then burst into laughter. “Soft?”

“I meant—like. The material? It looks comfortable. On you.” You cringed. “Forget it.”

Jake leaned in, voice smooth like honey. “You want to touch it? That what you're trying to say, sweetheart?”

You made a strangled noise. “That’s not—”

He gently reached forward, fixing the way your fingers fidgeted with your sleeve.

You opened your mouth to respond, but Jake was already moving. He shifted closer on the bench, slow and smooth, until his knee touched yours under the table. One hand reached out and found your waist. His fingers slid just beneath the hem of your shirt, warm and steady.

"Also, a tip, if you will, from your ever so generous teacher, this," he said, "is the kind of touch that makes someone lean in."

His thumb brushed lightly against your side. His hand didn’t move much, but it didn’t need to. It rested there like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he was measuring your reaction.

And he was close now. Too close. You could see the way his lashes curled slightly at the tips. You could smell the quiet scent of his cologne, something clean and a little sharp, like cedar and mint. It wrapped around you in a way that made the entire café blur.

Your heartbeat quickened.

You hated that it did.

You laughed, a little too fast, wondering why your heart was feeling a certain way. "Okay. Great. Lesson learned. Thank you, Mr. Sim. I mean—Jae. Jake. Jaeyun. Jake."

Jake smirked and leaned back, finally letting his hand fall away. “Cat got your tongue?” he asked, laughing.

It really did.

How devoid of men were you, seriously?

It had to be that. The fact that you’d been so completely off the radar of all male existence for the past… forever. That had to be the reason your heart skipped when he tucked your hair back. Or the reason your brain short-circuited when he looked at you a little too long.

It definitely wasn’t because you saw Jake that way.

Right?

—

Jake spotted the two of you from halfway across the hallway.

You were leaning against the row of lockers outside the atrium, one leg slightly bent, head tipped back as you laughed. Sunghoon stood in front of you, arms crossed but posture relaxed, that stupid smirk already creeping onto his face.

Jake knew that smile. It was the one Sunghoon always used when he was trying to be smooth. The kind of half-smile he used when he was talking to a girl he wanted to take out or maybe just get a reaction from. He looked confident. 

You giggled again and nudged Sunghoon’s arm, your fingers brushing lightly against his jacket sleeve. Jake’s stomach turned. That move. The casual touch. The lean-in. All of it. You were doing exactly what he taught you. The timing, the tone, the touch.

He felt heat rising in his chest, tension winding up his spine like someone had pulled a cord tight. His hands curled into fists inside his hoodie pockets.

He walked straight up to them.

“Hey,” Jake said, voice low but even.

You turned to him immediately, eyes lighting up. “Hey,” you said, beaming like nothing was wrong. Like your heart hadn’t just flipped for someone else. You had no idea how you looked right then.

“Can I talk to Hoon alone for a second?”

You glanced between them and nodded. “Sure. I need to pee anyway,” you said, swinging your bag over your shoulder before heading off down the hallway.

Jake watched you disappear, then turned to Sunghoon.

“Walk.”

He grabbed his friend by the sleeve and pulled him along. Past the lockers. Past the noisy vending machines. Past the drama kids yelling in the corridor. He didn’t stop until they were behind the stairwell, tucked into the shadowy corner where the lights flickered overhead.

He looked at Sunghoon, really looked. “I need you to stop flirting with her.”

Sunghoon blinked like he didn’t hear him right. “What?”

Jake squared his shoulders. “I need you to stop. Whatever it is you’re doing. The flirting. The teasing. All of it.”

“What? Why?” Sunghoon asked, brows furrowing. “We’re just talking. She’s fun.”

Jake’s jaw clenched. “She’s not just some girl to mess with. She’s not like the others. She’s my friend.”

Sunghoon raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Didn’t you say last month she was like a pet chihuahua?”

Jake faltered for a second. “That was before,” he said quickly.

“I know you, Sunghoon. I know how you are with girls. You don’t mean to hurt them, but you do. You get bored. You move on. And I can’t watch that happen to her.”

Sunghoon gave a half-laugh, but it was dry. “Dude. Relax.”

“I won’t relax,” Jake snapped. His voice was sharp enough to echo faintly off the concrete. “Not about this. Not about her.”

Sunghoon finally went quiet. He studied Jake’s face, expression shifting from surprise to something slower. More serious.

“Why are you this worked up?” he asked.

“You’re my best friend,” Jake added, voice quieter now. “You know I love you, but I can’t do this if it means watching you screw around with someone who means this much to me.”

Then…something clicked.

Sunghoon’s eyes widened, just a little.

“Wait,” he said. “Do you actually like her?”

“Just. Please,” Jake said. “Don’t say it.”

—

You didn’t expect him to notice. Not really.

You’d just started wearing your hair a little differently. Put on some gloss.

So when Jongseong stopped you outside school, hand rubbing the back of his neck and his eyes holding that familiar mix of shyness and charm, your heart should’ve jumped.

But it didn’t.

“I was wondering if you wanted to maybe get coffee sometime? Just us?”

You blinked. And blinked again.

This was supposed to be it. The goal. The moment. The reason you spent hours flicking your hair over your shoulder like an idiot while Jake made fun of you.

But all you could think about was… Jake. Sim Fucking Jaeyun.

“I…” You looked up at Jongseong. Kind eyes. Good guy. Someone you used to swear you wanted. “I really appreciate it, Jongseong. I do. But… I think I’m going to pass.”

His smile faltered, just for a second. Then he nodded slowly. “No worries. Thanks for being honest.”

You gave him one more grateful smile and watched as he walked off, disappearing into the crowd.

And then you stood there.

Why the fuck am I thinking about Jake right now?

It was Wednesday. You’d just spent the last three hours at the academy doing absolutely nothing productive unless you counted emotionally spiralling in the corner seat while pretending to highlight your notes.

All you could think about was how it would’ve felt if Jake had been the one to ask you out.

Would you have said yes?

Would you have kissed him right there?

Would you have blacked out and screamed in his face?

You had fallen for Jake.

Oh fuck.

You groaned into your hands and started walking home, trying to mentally scrub the thoughts from your brain. But just as you passed under the flickering streetlamp by the park…

“BUN!”

You screamed. 

Jake doubled over laughing behind you. “What the—?!”

You spun around, nearly flinging your textbook at him. “JAKE WHAT THE HELL!”

He was wheezing. “You scream like that for me? You’re dramatic as hell.”

You clutched your chest, heart going a million beats per second, not just from the scare.

Jake walked over casually, reaching for your textbook. “Give me that, your bag’s wide open—”

“DON’T TOUCH IT!”

You screamed again, stumbling back like he was radioactive.

Jake screamed back, instinctively jumping a full step away. “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?”

“I DON’T KNOW!” you yelled, then immediately spun on your heel. “I HAVE—A LOT OF HOMEWORK!”

“What—?”

But you were already speed-walking away, hair flying behind you as you left Jake stunned in the middle of the path.

By the time you slammed your front door behind you and collapsed onto your bed, you were in full mid-life crisis mode. Rolling back and forth, groaning into your pillow, muttering, “It’s Jake. Oh my god it’s Jake. I like JAKE.”

You were still flailing when you heard a voice.

“You call this homework?”

You froze.

Your head shot toward your window.

There he was. Jake. Standing in his room, staring at you through your open window with a raised brow.

Fuck. You forgot to close it.

You cleared your throat and sat up like a malfunctioning robot. “Gotta… prep. For homework.”

Jake squinted. “Are you okay? You’ve been acting weird.”

You nodded a little too fast. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“…Okay.” He cleared his throat, clearly unconvinced. “Anyway. I was thinking for tomorrow’s lesson—”

“I don’t need them anymore.”

Jake paused. “Huh?”

You swallowed. “I don’t need the lessons. I’m good. I’m… fine. I don’t need to flirt. Or anything. Anymore.”

Jake stared at you from across the gap, mouth parting like he wanted to say something—but then it closed again.

“…You—”

“Jongseong asked me out today,” you blurted.

Jake went still, “Oh.”

It came out quiet. Just a hum. Then his eyes dropped to his feet. “So that’s why you don’t need the lessons anymore.”

“No!” you said quickly, maybe too quickly. “Not entirely.”

Silence fell between you, stretched across the space between your open windows. Both your hearts were racing, but for completely different reasons.

Yours…because it hit you again, hard and sharp: you had fallen for the guy who once smacked you in the face with a ping pong ball. The guy who threw pebbles at your window until you opened your window just to yell at him.

His…because you’d done it. You got Jongseong. The lessons worked. You didn’t need him anymore. You’d won.

So why did it feel like losing?

Thoughts ran rampant, words stuck in throats. The silence said too much.

“I—” you both said at once.

“You first.” Again, in unison.

“Okay, I’ll go,” you said, clearing your throat. “I said no.”

Jake blinked. “To Jay?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He looked at you, brows furrowed. “The lessons… the whole thing… I don’t get it. Why’d you say no?”

“He asked me out. And I didn’t feel the way I thought I would. It didn’t hit. I didn’t want him to ask me out anymore.”

Jake’s gaze lingered on your face, “Are you okay?”

God. Even now. Even like this. Stupid Jake. Always worried about you.

You nodded. “I’m fine. I just… figured I wanted something else.”

Jake looked down again. “Oh.”

“I wanted…someone else.” You said, softly, looking back up at him to see his reaction.

He gulped and then cleared his throat, “Oh. I see.”

You sighed, frustrated that he wasn’t budging or showing any other emotion other than a silent nervous puppy. 

You looked at him, hair messy, probably from running his hands through it. A pair of fake glasses perched above his nose, the light from his lamp casting a shadow on his already perfect face. 

There was slightly disbelief in his voice, from knowing you had said no to Jongseong. A boy who’d spent probably 10 years convincing himself that you’d only ever see him as a friend–scratch that, not even a friend. Someone you’d yell at or a human punching bag. Someone to drop guns for when she had no more in game credits. Someone to finish the bag of family sized cheetos with because “it’s too much”. 

Your throat tightened, you weren’t sure why but you started talking: “I…uh…I didn’t really want it to be him. I kept picturing someone else.” 

“Mhm.”

“Someone who…who notices I get cold without me ever saying anything. Someone who walks me home every night. Someone who leaves pebble marks on my freakin’ window.” You said, eyes fluttering to the two tiny hairline cracks caused by Jake.

You stopped, looked up to see Jake’s reaction once again. Your heart was pounding even louder this time. All Jake was doing was staring. At you.

Then suddenly realization sunk in, you idiot. 

“Nevermind, I was just…saying stuff. Forget what I said.”

“No.” He said, firmer. 

He was leaning forward against the windowsill, knuckles white,  “Say it. Please?”

You looked at him, taking a deep breath, gulping for another breath of air because you couldn’t breathe, “I…I wanted it to be you.”

 The words hung in the air for a moment or two and you’re unsure if you actually did essentially him that you liked him. 

Jake didn’t move. Stunned. Stared at you with those pearly wide eyes and then you see him inching towards his window. 

“Jake? Jaeyun? Yun, what are you–”

He inched closer, climbing through his damn window.

“JAEYUN!”

He was already halfway out, one leg swung over his windowsill and another at your window. 

“Our windows are like three feet apart,” He huffed, voice strained from awkwardly balancing on the narrow ledge, “I’ll survive.”

“You can just yell!”

“I’m not yelling this!”

Then he crossed the gap and then Jake Sim was in your room.

You inched backwards, on your bed. Jake stood on your floor, scratching the back of his head. His hair a mess, him, slightly breathless.

“You’re insane.”

“You were saying…” He gasped for air. “You wanted it to be me.” 

You nodded, mouth dry, “Yes.”

Jake took one step forward, then he was right in front of you. His hand found his way to your cheek, lifting you up to look at him. 

“I wanted it to be me too,” He whispered. “For so fucking long.”

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. Because he was standing in your room now, three feet away but somehow close enough to knock the air out of your lungs.

Jake closed the rest of the gap in half a second, hands reaching for your face. His fingers brushed your jaw as he leaned in, eyes still locked on yours like he was checking, still checking, like he needed a thousand confirmations—

So you kissed him first.

You crashed your lips onto his in a heartbeat, short-circuiting whatever overthinking he was spiraling into.

And then, he melted. His hands slid to cradle your face fully, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he kissed you back.

You gripped the front of his hoodie, fisting the fabric to keep yourself steady. And when you finally pulled back, you whispered, “For the record, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Jake didn’t even hesitate. He leaned in again, his smile brushing your lips before he kissed you deeper this time.

“You’re doing,” he murmured between kisses, pressing another one to the corner of your mouth…

“Really,” one more, this time near your jaw…

“Good.”

Then he pulled back just enough to grin at you. “Then again, your boyfriend’s a teacher. I could always teach you how to kiss.”

You blinked. “Boyfriend?”

Jake tilted his head, still way too close, still grinning. “You’re telling me we’re not headed in that direction right now?”

“Not if you’re being smug about it.”

“I’ve been waiting ten years for this,” he said without missing a beat, “I’m gonna be as smug as I can be.”

“Ten years?!” you exclaimed, eyes wide.

He nodded seriously. “Remember when you wore that black dress to Sheldon’s funeral?”

You squinted. “Yeah?”

“I thought you looked really pretty.”

“At your turtle’s funeral?”

Jake shrugged. “Am I crazy?”

You stared at him. “Yeah. Kinda.”

He grinned wider. “Crazy about you, though.”

Your fingers tightened on the front of his hoodie, knuckles brushing against his chest as you pulled him closer. Your noses were barely apart, your lips curving as they brushed again—

Knock knock knock.

“Sweetheart? Everything okay there? I heard… noises.”

You froze mid-breath. Jake froze too, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights.

“Shit—” you hissed, panic flaring in your chest. “Closet!”

You shoved him hard toward the wooden closet door by your bookshelf, nearly tripping over your math notes and discarded socks in the process. Jake stumbled, muttering a curse, then ducked into the closet just as you reached for the doorknob.

You plastered on your most innocent smile, heart pounding as you swung the door open.

“Hi, Mom!” you chirped, voice pitched up way too high.

She raised an eyebrow, eyes drifting over your slightly messy hair and suspiciously glowing cheeks. “You okay?”

“Yep! Just watching Netflix.”

Her gaze swept past you into the room. Your bed was unmade, your pillows tossed, one of your shoes lying sideways on the rug like it had been kicked off in a hurry.

“I heard a boy’s voice.”

“Using my new speaker!”

She didn’t look convinced. In fact, she leaned in slightly and lowered her voice. “Are you sure? Because if you are seeing someone…”

You tensed.

“I just hope it’s not someone else.”

Your smile faltered. “…What? What do you mean?”

“Y’know…” she said, shrugging. “If it’s not Sim’s son.”

You blinked. “Sim’s—”

“Jaeyun.”

“She told me he has a crush on you, y’know? Her boy.” Your mom gave you a look. “And to be honest, we’ve been rooting for you two since that turtle funeral.”

You groaned, dropping your forehead dramatically against the doorframe. “Oh my God.”

“It was just so cute! The way the two of you stood in the backyard, looking at each other.”

“Please stop talking.”

“We made a bet. She thinks you’ll get together right after graduation, and I said before.”

“Mum.”

“So who do you think will win? Do you need help speeding things up? I’ve got experience. Want me to tell you how I got your dad?”

“Mum. Stop.”

“Oh, fine. I’ll go,” she sighed. “Just keep the Netflix down, would you?”

As her footsteps retreated down the hall, you slammed the door shut and spun on your heel.

You yanked the closet door open.

Jake stood there, his hair was tousled, cheeks flushed, like he’d barely kept it together in there.

“Can’t believe my mom told yours,” he sighed, stepping out carefully. “It’s like secrets aren’t even secrets anymore.”

“Well, it’s a good thing she told me today,” you muttered. “Right after the whole… thing.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling now.

“I still can’t believe our moms ship us.”

You sighed, already tugging on the front of his hoodie again. “Whatever. Just shut up and kiss me again.”

Jake grinned, stepping closer until your backs were to the door and your room was quiet again.

“Gladly,” he whispered, before leaning in once more.

—

ONE MONTH LATER

You were sprawled on the floor of your room, hoodie sleeves tugged over your palms, legs folded underneath you as you scribbled furiously into your notebook. Your knees were propped against the edge of the bed, an d your hair was half up, half giving up. Jake sat cross-legged behind you on the rug, elbows resting on his knees, watching you.

“You’re so cute when you’re concentrated,” he said, voice all soft and sing-song.

You didn’t even look up. “Yun.”

“Mmh?”

“Stop staring.”

“I can’t help it.” You could hear the grin in his voice. “My girlfriend’s too pretty.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled to yourself.

Without warning, Jake scooted closer until his knees touched your back. Then his arms slipped around your waist, pulling you gently into his lap like it was muscle memory. You let out a startled yelp as your notebook was abandoned somewhere across the carpet. Now you were seated between his thighs, his arms looped tightly around your middle, face buried in the crook of your neck.

“I love this hoodie on you,” he murmured, brushing his nose against your skin. “You always smell like sunshine and detergent.”

“Baby, let me go. I was doing something—”

He kissed your shoulder, lips slow and warm. Then your jaw. Then the soft skin just beneath your ear. “Shhh. Let me love you for, like, five minutes.”

You squirmed. “You’re clingy.”

“I’m touch-starved.”

“You literally hugged me the entire walk back from the academy.”

Jake tightened his hold, hands splayed across your stomach now. “It’s not my fault you make me clingy.”

You finally turned to face him, arms loosely around his neck. He leaned in like gravity pulled him to you, brushing his nose against yours. His gaze flicked from your eyes to your lips.

“You’re so pretty,” Jake whispered, his fingers gently brushing along your cheekbone and down to your jaw. “I don’t think you even know what you do to me.”

You exhaled a laugh, “Jake, I was literally almost done.”

He pouted immediately. “Jake?” he repeated, like the word physically hurt him.

You looked up, confused. “What?”

“Did you just call me by my actual name?” His face twisted, mock-offended, as he clutched his chest dramatically. “No. Nope. Not allowed.”

You blinked. “Are you seriously mad because I called you Jake?”

He sat up slightly, brows furrowing. “Yeah. Yes, I am. That’s what teachers call me. You? You call me baby. Or sweetheart. Or love. Or beautiful boy. I’d even take Yun. Not Jake.”

You smirked. “Jake—”

“Lalalala—” He slapped his hands over his ears and turned his head away from you. “I’m not listening

“Jake.” You grabbed his wrists and pulled his hands down from his ears. “JAKE! Okay, fine! Baby?”

He immediately stopped, all sweet-eyed and smug. “Yes?” he replied, voice as soft as sugar.

“Oh my god. You’re insane.”

“Insane?” he scoffed, pulling you closer until your legs straddled his lap. His hands gripped your waist like they belonged there. “What’s insane is that you don’t fucking love me.”

You stared at him, jaw dropping. “Sim Jaeyun—”

He gasped, scandalised, throwing his head back like you’d physically wounded him. “And again with the full name. Gah! You hate me.”

You burst out laughing as he yanked you forward and buried his face in the crook of your neck, groaning

“Okay, fine,” you said, playing along. “Oh, my dearest bundle of love, light of my life, tell me—how must I ever earn your forgiveness?”

He perked up instantly, lifting his head with a bright smile. “Ooh. This is fun.” He clapped once, eyes gleaming with mischief. “I want kisses.”

You snorted. “Kisses? That’s it?”

“I want one here,” he tapped his cheek.

You leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to it.

“And here,” he tapped the other.

Then he tapped his lips. “And one here. Minimum a minute. No funny business. Though, I don’t mind if you slip in a little tongue.”

You narrowed your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. “You’re ridiculous.”

Still, you leaned in, slowly, lips brushing against his. Jake’s hands slid up your back, holding you close as he kissed you back properly.

When you finally pulled away, breath mingling with his, he whispered against your mouth, “Forgiveness granted.”

You smiled, forehead pressed to his until your phone dinged.

You pulled back and glanced at the screen. “Why did Sunghoon just text me, ‘control your damn dog’?”

Jake tilted his head, expression too casual. “Oh. I think he’s referring to the text I just sent him.”

You squinted. “What text?”

He gave a nonchalant shrug. “I don't know could be the one where I told him to eat shit and get diarrhoea.”

Your jaw dropped. “What?! Why?”

“He texted you for your chem notes.”

“Jake!”

He grinned, smug and unrepentant. “Name? Again? That’s strike two, baby. One more and you’re out.”

"You're insane."

[juliettejwnewinesa]

Hello!! I wanted to ask you something real quick… SORRY FOR THE LONG TEXT BTW

We all know Seongje has that full-on psychopath energy when he wants to.

that smile, the way he moves, the control freak vibe HEHEHEHE. I would LOVE to see a oneshot where he’s with the reader but still acts like the same guy we saw in the series.

Most fics turn him into this soft, romantic version, but that’s just not how I see him😩. He’s the type who needs to know everything. Every step his partner takes, every person she talks to, every little interaction, he has to be aware of it all, really in control. (Preferably with an F!reader.)

So here’s my idea😛:

Seongje and the reader recently had a fight because of how jealous, possessive, and obsessive he can be.

But, and this is important, I don’t want the reader to be some sweet, innocent girl who just takes it. No. She’s got her own fire. She’s a bit unhinged too in her own way. She teases him, she likes seeing that insane side of him, but she also knows when to push and when to pull back. She’s more logical. She knows when she’s right, when she’s wrong, and when to act.

He, on the other hand? Acts first, thinks later. That’s what makes her the smarter one.

BUT I want Seongje to be that smart dumbass... like, clever in his own twisted way but still completely reckless when it comes to her.

They both have each other’s locations on (like that app Si-eun used in Season 1), but one night the reader completely ghosts him🔥🔥 ignores all his messages and calls, sneaks out late at night, and even leaves her phone at home so he can’t track her.

Somehow though… he finds her.

And when he does? He’s completely UNHINGED.

I want DRAMAAAA. I want TENSION. I want them screaming at each other, pushing each other’s buttons, absolutely going insane

and then finally, him snapping and reconciling with her like only he would.

Pleaseeee make it long AND DRAMATIC AND FULL OF TENSION AND AT THE SAME TIME PASSION AND OBSESSION COMING FROM BOTH SIDES😭😭🥺💃🏻😦 sorry but a seongje fan will always be out of her mind😋

pleeeease pls pls pls IM CRAZY

Title: Where the Hell Were You?

Pairing: Na Seongje x F!Reader Genre: Dark romance, psychological tension, obsession, angsty lovers, NSFW themes implied Word count: ~500 words TW: Toxic dynamic, possessiveness, shouting, cursing, physical confrontation (non-violent), manipulation, obsessive behavior, unhealthy attachment, implied smut Note: You asked for psychopath Seongje, and he’s here. With his whole chest.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It started with the phone calls. Then the messages. Then the silence.

You stared at the little device sitting so innocently on your nightstand, screen down, Seongje’s name long since stopped lighting it up. You could imagine him now—sitting in that godforsaken car, probably gripping the steering wheel so tight the leather would start to tear. You hadn’t brought your phone. No location, no texts, no breadcrumbs.

For the first time in months, you vanished from his radar.

And God, the feeling of it was electric.

You weren’t running away. You weren’t hiding. You just needed one night—one fucking night—to breathe. To go out, exist, not have your every movement stalked by that wolfish stare of his.

It wasn’t even about the guy at the party. You hadn’t done anything. You’d danced. Laughed. Threw your head back in a way you knew would make Seongje spiral.

He always spiraled.

“You like making me lose my mind?” he’d asked you once, voice raw with something that tasted like pain and need. “Do you like seeing me like this?”

And the answer had always been yes.

—

He found you anyway.

You didn’t even hear the car pull up—just felt it, like a pressure drop in the air. Like a storm cell rolling in.

You had just walked out of the small club. Quiet back street. The kind of place he’d never let you go to alone.

And then: “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

His voice was low. Dangerous. The kind of tone that made your skin break into goosebumps before you even turned around.

You turned anyway.

There he was—standing half in shadow, jaw locked so tight it could snap, black hair messy like he’d dragged his hands through it a thousand times. His chest rose and fell like he’d run here. Maybe he had.

Your lips curled. “Took you long enough.”

“Where’s your phone?”

“Home.”

“You left your fucking phone?” He was already storming up to you, his voice rising with every step. “You turned off your location? Ignored all my fucking messages—and you think this is funny?”

You shrugged. “Little bit.”

“Y/N,” he ground out, stepping so close your backs hit the wall behind you. “You think you’re clever, right? You think this is a fucking game?”

“No. But you do.” You smiled, slow and sharp. “You wanna be the one who controls the board. I just flipped it over.”

His eyes flashed. “You don’t get to do that.”

“Why not?” you shot back. “You think because you know who I text, where I go, what I wear—suddenly I’m yours? You think that means you get to scream at me every time some guy breathes in my direction? You’re not my fucking warden, Seongje.”

He leaned in, voice like broken glass. “You are mine.”

“And what if I’m not?”

“Then I’ll make you be.”

You blinked at him, not even flinching. “Is that supposed to scare me?”

He was silent. Dead silent. And then—bang—his hand slammed against the wall next to your head, just missing your face.

You didn’t even move. “There it is.”

He stared at you. Breathing hard. Eyes burning. That slow, deranged smile stretching across his lips.

“You like this,” he muttered.

You tilted your chin up. “Don’t you?”

Silence crackled between you. Not calm. Tension. A live wire hanging just between your bodies.

“I should’ve dragged you home the second I found your location was off,” he hissed.

“You didn’t.”

“I should have.”

“But you didn’t.”

He looked like he might explode.

So you stepped forward. Into his space. Your lips almost brushing his.

“You’re smart, Seongje,” you said softly. “But when it comes to me, you stop thinking. You always do.”

“I don’t need to think,” he snapped. “I just need to keep you where I can see you.”

“Then maybe you should’ve chained me up.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

That made your brow rise.

And then—it broke.

The moment cracked like thunder between you. One second you were glaring at him, and the next you were on him. Arms around his neck. His hands gripping your waist like he’d die if he let go. His lips crashing into yours like punishment. Like apology. Like pure rage.

“You drive me insane,” he growled between kisses.

“I know,” you gasped. “That’s the fun part.”

His mouth trailed down to your neck. You let him bite. You let him mark. You let him show you—like he always did—that he could never love you normally.

This wasn’t gentle. This wasn’t healing. This was ownership.

“You can’t just disappear on me,” he rasped. “Not again.”

“Then learn how to handle it.”

“I don’t want to learn. I want you.”

He yanked you closer. You felt every line of him—every frantic breath, every angry heartbeat.

“I hate the way you make me feel,” he said against your skin. “I hate that I lose my head for you. That I fucking spiral. That I can’t even think straight.”

You smiled into his shoulder. “Then maybe I’ll do it again.”

His laugh was breathless. Dangerous.

“You’re lucky I love you,” he muttered.

“You’re lucky I don’t run.”

“I’d find you.”

“I know.”

You both stood there, clinging, shaking, still burning with fury—but you needed it. Needed this cycle of chaos, of destruction, of passion. Because love for you two was never gentle. It was always a war. And in war, the one you fight hardest is the one you can’t live without.

So when he pulled back, gripping your chin, eyes crazed and glassy with something too heavy to name—

And said, “Get in the car.”

You did.

But only because you wanted to.

—

🖤 END 🖤

[iucidaus]

A Lonesome Star Among People

Pair: Phainon x fem!Reader

Genre: Hurt-No comfort

Word Count: 976

Warning: Implied major character death

Synopsis: A scarecrow accompanied by flowers gazing at the sun under the blue sky was the cutest teleslate casing your eyes ever landed on. What meaning could it possibly hold?

You hummed as you caught Phainon’s teleslate casing. “What does this mean?” Your slender finger pointing to his teleslate.

Phainon, who was still munching his food, followed your index finger before quickly swallowing his food. He started with the flowers scattered on the lower part of his casing, “This represents the Chrysos Heirs,” he said as he circled them.

Starting from the bottom, the familiar white flower, he spoke, “This is Lady Tribbie,” then upwards to a red flower, “Mydei,” to a purple purple flower, “Castorice,” before he pointed to a green flower that could only meant to represent one person, “Professor Anaxa– I mean Anaxagoras,” he chuckled as he corrected himself.

Although his tone was light, you noticed how he had a forlorn smile plastered on his face that did nothing to cover how sad he was. However, you said nothing about that, let him process his emotions, it was normal, you thought.

“Then this is, obviously, Miss Cipher,” he said as he pointed a black cat resting, loafing, underneath a scarecrow. “This is… Lady Aglaea,” as he pointed to a golden flower nestled on the scarecrow’s hat. His gaze lingered for a second more before he moved to a pink and light blue flower. “Last but not least, this is Hyacine.”

A gentle smile was plastered on his face as he rested his head on his hand. With his eyes locked on yours, he asked, “You must’ve been wondering who this scarecrow might be?”

“No– well, yes, but I’m more curious, where are you in this teleslate case of yours?”

Phainon flashed a small smile as he said, “We’ll get to that later.” He then pointed at the scarecrow, “This is our dear Nameless. Both of them,” which made your eyebrows knit slightly.

“Confused?” As soft chuckles followed before he elaborate further. “The scarecrow itself is Stelle as for the green patch… I’m kind of sorry for my choice, but it represents Dan Heng,” the soft smile ever so present on his face, his sky blue eyes now only holding a glimpse of hope and no longer shone as if they could rival the dawn device itself made you feel bad for the burden he had to shoulder. However, you knew better than to let your emotions show.

“It was just fitting for Dan Heng. He knew how to patch things up, how to cover his friends, so I think a patch of cloth on Stelle’s coat kind of fits,” he mused.

“Anyways,” his blue eyes darted to yours. “You were curious which one of these am I, right?” You gave him a simple nod and he immediately brought his index finger to point at the top left part of his teleslate case, the sun.

“That’s me,” he said with a smile. Even when you took a glance at him, you knew it was forced, but again, you knew better than to point the obvious to his shattering heart.

You hummed as you rested your chin on your hand. “Because you’re fated to carry the World-bearing coreflame? And Kephale is said to be the sun of Amphoreus?”

“Mm-hmm,” yet you could not help but to feel that there was something more than just him destined to bear the world on his shoulder.

“Phainon,” you called softly, unaware of what it did to Phainon’s heart. “Can I be honest with you?” If his heart was beating fast before, this time it was twice faster.

Phainon hesitated before replying with, “Sure,” albeit feeling anxious over your answer.

“This sun… I don’t know why, but I feel like there’s more to it. I feel like…” you trailed off, your gaze darted towards the empty stall behind Phainon, unsure how to put your thoughts into the softest sentence to avoid breaking his fragile heart. “Like, yes, this is indeed you being the sun to others; your personality, your destiny, your determination, it all points toward the sun, but I also feel like this is the place where you should be in your point of view.”

You dared yourself to look at his glistening sky blue eyes that you were unsure of the reason behind. One thing that you were sure of was that his emotions started to overwhelm him, so you shortened your sentence for him to easily digest. “It was like how you were supposed to be so divine, omnipresent, that you view yourself undeserving to be at the same place as others; the ground.”

And perhaps it actually was because you hit the nail right on the head that he lowered his head. It was not long until you noticed how his shoulders were slowly beginning to shake and slight sobs escaped his lips. You had no idea how you should react, you were too stiff to be able to comfort a person, so you simply reached out to him. You caressed his shoulders with your thumb in an attempt to calm him down. You knew fully well that it did nothing, but at least there was an attempt.

You waited for him patiently, every word he spoke, you replied to him, every tear he shed, you wiped it for him, all to make him feel he was not alone because he really was not.

You let out a soft sigh as you tilted his chin upward, making him face you. Your gaze softened, or perhaps pitied– no, you were not that kind of person, as your eyes met the reddening eyes of his. The crimson sky behind you felt less ominous, but rather framed your face prettily. “It’s okay, Phainon,” you said as your thumb wiped the trails his tears left.

“I’m here,” you continued with such a gentle smile adorning your face as Phainon leaned into the touch that he missed so badly.

note:

i’ve been trying to create an unreliable narrator fic but haven't been able to since i have yet gotten any idea, but THEN phainon presented himself. i mean... what else can i do besides taking the chance?

i tried to make the second to last paragraph confirm that this story was actually seen from phainon’s pov with how he corrected himself that you (the reader) never look at him with pity. if you don’t feel it that way, then… sorry👉🏻👈🏻 (there's strikethroughs initially, but i decided to leave it because i think it would immediately give away what this fic was meant to be)

also, the description of khaslana might miss because i wrote this before 3.4 drops, and below is phainon's teleslate case just in case you want the full picture (source: @.VENTIlMPACT on twt, i don't have the blank casing :/)

[no-name-omo]

Can I get romantic hcs with Shadow Lord and Mateo (Separate) They're my favs.

[A/N] ahhh, my two favourite object boys, hope you enjoy

[Type] Head-Canon

[Summary] being their lover (separate)

[Genre] fluff / reverse comfort comfort / a little bit hurt to comfort / relationship

[Paring / Characters] Skips x gn! Reader /Mateo x gn! Reader

xxXShadowL0rd420Xxx / Skips Shadley The Shadow

👻Skip opens up only at night. Lying beside you in darkness, he whispers about his “eternal torment” and quietly admits how your presence eases it. You listen patiently, fingers entwined, knowing that behind every dramatic phrase is a truth he’s still learning how to say.

👻Instead of simple texts, he leaves hand-written scrolls sealed with candle wax. Each one contains lines like “To my dearest light in this wretched abyss” followed by a doodle of you two battling demons. You save every note; even the ones that end in “...also, we’re out of milk.”

👻When you’re sad, Skip wraps you in actual shadows, warm and fuzzy, not spooky. He acts like it’s part of a ritual, but really, it’s just how he comforts you without having to say too much. You’ve come to associate that darkness with safety.

👻Skip refuses to call you “babe” or “sweetheart.” Instead, he invents titles like “Wielder of My Heart” or “Chosen Champion of Affection.” The more ridiculous they get, the more sincere he seems. You tease him, but deep down, you love every single one.

👻You suggest a romantic comedy. He rolls his eyes until he’s fully invested twenty minutes in, muttering theories like “The real antagonist is emotional repression.” By the end, he’s clinging to your sleeve during the confession scene, pretending it’s “just allergies.”

👻In public, Skip is aloof and enigmatic, speaking in riddles and metaphors. In private, he’ll sheepishly nuzzle into your shoulder and ask if you think his eyeliner’s too much. He acts like love is a curse, but treats yours like it’s the greatest spell of all.

👻He plans elaborate, thematic anniversary dates. Complete with scavenger hunts, dark poetry, and candlelit rituals. It’s overkill, but sweet. You once tried to outdo him with a silly haunted house date and he nearly cried, whispering, “You... truly understand the art of shadows.”

👻Skip claims he’s not “built for caretaking,” but he stays by your side all day. He reads to you in his best dramatic voice, brings you soup with ominous garnish, and calls it a healing potion. The concern in his eyes says more than his words ever could.

👻When you fight, Skip sulks dramatically, retreating to the shadows. Eventually, you’ll find him in the corner of your room, waiting for you to notice. He’ll apologize in overly poetic language, but the apology is real and you always meet him halfway, even if it means deciphering a riddle.

👻When he told you he loved you, it wasn’t simple. He spoke of stars dying, of cursed chains breaking, and his voice trembled. But through all the metaphors, you heard him clearly. You answered simply “I love you too, drama king.” And he laughed, softly, honestly, fully.

Mateo Manta The Blanket

🧵Mateo always knows when you’ve had a hard day even if you don’t say a word. He’ll quietly wrap you in his arms, murmuring, “You don’t have to explain, love.” His presence alone is grounding, like a warm blanket on a stormy night. You melt into him without hesitation.

🧵You often find him waiting with tea and a soft smile, Davey curled up at his feet. He doesn’t ask questions right away. He just lets you be. That kind of patience, gentle and unspoken. Makes you feel more loved than any grand gesture ever could.

🧵Mateo gives forehead kisses like promises. Light, warm, and full of quiet devotion. When your confidence wavers, he simply pulls you close and says, “I’ve got you, hun.” His love isn’t loud, it’s steady, safe, and always there, even when you feel like falling apart.

🧵He struggles to open up about his own burdens. You catch him staring out the window sometimes, lost in thought. When you ask if he’s okay, he always deflects with a smile. So, you start showing up for him the way he does for you, gently, without pressure.

🧵The first time he let you hold him while he cried, he apologized for “being too much.” You didn’t let him. You kissed his temple, whispered, “You’re allowed to fall apart, too.” That night changed something. He started letting himself lean on you, little by little.

🧵You wake up most mornings to find him tangled around you, arm draped over your waist, blanket soft and body warm. “Five more minutes,” he mumbles, half-asleep. You always give in, heart full. With him, there’s no rush. Just safety. Just love.

🧵When you laugh too loud or talk too fast, he listens like every word matters. He never asks you to tone yourself down. In fact, he encourages your quirks, calls them “music” and “sunlight.” Around him, you’ve never felt more free to be yourself.

🧵He loves slow things. Reading beside you. Sharing warm pastries on a quiet morning. Watching rain drip down the window in silence. When you try to rush, he gently pulls you back with a kiss to your shoulder and a soft, “Stay a little longer, love.”

🧵Arguments are rare, but when they happen, he never yells. He withdraws, quietly hurt. It takes you time to learn how to reach him, soft touches, sincere apologies, patience. And when he comes back to you, he comes back fully. Forgiving. Loving. Wholehearted.

🧵Mateo doesn’t make love feel dramatic or loud. He makes it feel like coming home. Like being wrapped in warmth after a long, cold day. And every time he whispers, “I love you,” into your skin, you believe it completely. Because with him, you’re finally safe.

Date everything! x reader taglist: @dipdotsmiyakiwii

[seungsoftly]

୨ৎ the hickey race ❥

꒰੭ pairing: kim sunoo x fem. reader x yang jungwon ꒰੭ genre: shortfic/fluff/suggestive ꒰੭ wc: 2.14k ꒰੭ warnings: established poly relationship, kissing, giving reader hickeys

꒰੭ synopsis: your relationship with sunoo and jungwon has probably been the best choice that you've made in your adult life. they treat you like a princess and they love playing games and competing with you and each other. but what happens when you three get tired of playing board games and decide to make you the competition instead?

livi's note ❥ this idea just popped randomly into my head one day, and it ended up morphing into this, and i just love how silly it is. this is my first time writing anything like this, so please take it easy on me if it sounds a little awkward, but i'm going to try my best to hopefully make it flow well. besides, who doesn't love a good poly enha fic? also, thank you guys so much for seventy followers! that seems like such a huge number for me only being here for about a month!

꒰੭ taglist: @s1rawb3rry

“how about monopoly?” you asked, eyebrows scrunching up in confusion when you were met with nothing but groans from your boyfriends, who were sitting across from you. “or clue? oh wait, we have cards, do you guys wanna play poker with just chips?”

the three of you had been sitting here on the carpet in the living room of  your apartment for the past thirty minutes. see, it had all started because the two of them were acting all hyperactive and crazy and they had run up to you the moment you got home from your classes for the day and asked excitedly if you’d play a game with them.

at this point, they were just sort of draped over one another, sunoo letting out a big sigh with each game that you mentioned while jungwon’s forehead was resting on his shoulder, the younger boy not even showing any interest in the slightest in the different games that you were mentioning.

“hey, you guys were the ones that wanted to play a game. you can’t just whine now when i’m trying to figure out which one,” you countered.

jungwon let out another groan before making himself sit up, finally making eye contact with you and the pile of game boxes at your feet.

“but none of these sound fun,” he whined. “you wouldn’t want to play a game if it wasn’t fun, right?”

and of course he looked at sunoo right after the words came out of his mouth, weaponizing the both of them against you instead of just jungwon. they knew you couldn’t say no to those big boba eyes that the two of them could do when they were trying to convince you into doing something.

so as their pleading faces intended, you caved, huffing out a sigh as a reluctant agreement flowed out of your mouth.

“fine, fine. but what are we going to play instead of all those games that you two just called boring?”

it only took a moment before jungwon looked as if a lightbulb in his head had lit up with a wonderful idea to answer your question. grin quickly growing across his face, he turned quickly to sunoo, beginning to whisper something about his idea in the older boy’s ear.

that smile was concerning you a little bit, that was for sure. the last time you’d seen a look on jungwon’s face like that, he and sunoo had schemed their way into getting an ice cream maker for the apartment instead of just getting the two pints of ice cream on the grocery shopping list that you sent them to the store with. this was why you did the grocery shopping. you should have still insisted on going even through your little winter cold. it would have been sweet of them to go for you if that hadn’t have ended up happening.

the whispering kept going on and on, and you raised an eyebrow at your boyfriends, both of them giggling at you when they saw it. this was either going to be something really good or really bad, and you hoped it was the former. if it was the latter, the two boys sitting across from you were going to be handling it, you decided.

“guys, cmon, i want to know what you’re talking about,” you whined, flopping onto the floor on your side and rolling over to look at them.

“you’ll know it all in due time, sweetheart,” jungwon teased, honeyed voice erasing all of the curiosity and worry floating around in your mind about your boyfriends’ antics.

sunoo smiled softly as he got up off the floor, jungwon following suit as they both told you to just sit there and relax. they’d be back in a moment, they claimed, and you were just supposed to stay your pretty little self there. their words, not yours.

after a couple moments of the boys having disappeared down the hallway, you began to hear the sounds of a familiar clinking and the boys quietly squabbling with each other.

it made you giggle, laughing at the two as they bickered over something that you didn’t quite know yet. they were so close that nothing was really meant as hurtful, just as playful and usually over something about you or for you.

some girls would sigh in jealousy and say that you were living the life, two attractive men fighting over you, but you didn’t see things that way. everything in this relationship was playful and affectionate, and yes, you were incredibly lucky to be in this situation. fate couldn’t have given you anything better at this moment.

“okay baby!” sunoo called as he entered the room, the little bin of your makeup products clutched in his hands. you gave him a confused look, which he only responded to with that sweet smile of his that he knew made you melt a little on the inside.

“why do you have my makeup bin?” you asked, now really wanting to know what your boyfriends had up their sleeves with those suspiciously bright smiles.

“oh, well since none of those games sounded interesting, i thought that we could make you the game,” jungwon revealed, pearly white teeth gleaming in his big smile.

your brows furrowed again. “what does that mean?”

looking at jungwon, sunoo began explaining the idea of the boys’ little game once he got a nod from the younger boy. “we’re going to see who can mark you up  and then cover it up the fastest. call it a – hickey race.”

laughter burst forth from your throat at what sunoo had just said. a what?! that sounded both really appealing and really hilarious to you.

“oh wonnie this is the best and funniest idea you’ve come up with yet,” you exclaimed, still laughing at the thought of such a concept.

“hey, i came up with part of it too!” sunoo cried, not wanting jungwon to get all of the credit for what he’d helped the other boy come up with. “he just wanted to see who could leave a mark on your pretty neck faster, and that wouldn’t have been fair at all and he knows it!”

you gave sunoo a small smile as you responded, thanking him for his part in the creation of their new little game and telling him that his imagination was just as wonderful.

“alright, enough with the small talk now,” jungwon took a seat to your right, effectively positioning you right between the two men. “how about we explain the rules of the game and get on with it. i’m looking forward to it, and surely you are as well, sweetheart, right?”

you nodded, confirming that you were indeed very much looking forward to the loving attention that you were about to get between your two wonderful boyfriends.

jungwon continued, “okay, each one of us are going to see who can give you a hickey and then cover it up the fastest. we’re only allowed to do so on your neck or your collarbone, and we can’t yank you away or interfere with the other in either phase of the race.”

“okay,” you nodded, perfectly fine with what was being lined out. if anything, you were about to be a very happy girl.

sunoo finished the explanation where jungwon had left off. “and since you pretty much have two things of foundation and concealer and all the stuff we may need to cover the marks up, we’re only allowed to use one of each different item at a time. no stealing things or sabotaging that way. just gotta see who wins fair and square.”

and like that, the race begun, each man taking his place on either side of you: sunoo on your left and jungwon on your right.

sunoo started gently, warm lips closed as they pressed against your pulse point time and time again until he got daring enough to start pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses to the spot instead. you could feel his warm breath up against the sensitive area under your jaw, tickling your skin as he laved attention on it.

on the contrary, jungwon was anything but gentle, lips already sucking at your neck and teeth scraping lightly against the delicate skin there. his lips pressed against where your neck met your collarbone, warm and wet as some very close attention was paid to that area of your body by jungwon.

all you could do was let out a relaxed sigh, truly enjoying this experience. both sides of your neck were getting loving attention in different ways, and it just felt like it was slowly bringing you to a level of bliss that you only felt around your boyfriends.

as the minutes went on, both of the men at your side still attached to your neck, you felt as if you were on cloud nine with the gentle nips and sucking of skin at your neck, feeling the marks already rising to the surface of your skin. in fact, you almost forgot this was a game rather than just the start of another intimate moment between the three of you.

jungwon pulled away first, triumphant as he’d already given you a dark purple bruise that was blooming on your otherwise pale skin. this was where he would shine in terms of the game, you realized. he was always quicker at things, sometimes even rushing himself to get to where he wanted to be as quickly as possible.

sunoo tended to do things with more patience, but he wasn’t far behind, laving his tongue over the smaller purple mark that he’d just given you a few more times before sitting back calmly and reaching for the concealer in the little bin of makeup.

his strength would be here, you already knew it before the game even started, and your mind was even more made up when the concealer that he’d selected was the one that you used the most often. it was definitely going to be close between the two.

while sunoo dabbed the makeup into the left side of your neck professionally, things were going a bit more roughly on the right side of you. jungwon was aggressively painting the hickey that he’d just given you in concealer, and then patting it in sharply. it didn’t hurt or anything like that, but you could tell that he barely knew what he was doing.

you could tell that tension was rising through the room, both of your boyfriends feeling the pressure to finish hiding away the hard work that they’d just done by marking your neck up. sunoo’s strokes with the makeup brush that he was holding kept getting quicker and the same went for jungwon’s pats of the makeup sponge that was held in his grip.

“almost–” sunoo mumbled underneath his breath, finishing the final blending of the edges of the makeup that he’d applied, arms raising in satisfaction as he leapt up enthusiastically and cheered.

but that cheering came to a stop moments later when he realized that jungwon had just down the exact same thing as him. he’d finished covering up the hickey that he gave you at the exact same time as sunoo, and neither of them had realized it until after their exclamations of victory.

“oh,” jungwon paused. “what now? who won?”

you giggled lightly to yourself, amused at just how into this game your boyfriends had gotten. “i think i’m gonna have to declare this a tie, wonnie.”

surprisingly, neither of them were too upset with that notion. instead, they both got even closer to you, insisting that they both get a kiss as their prize. you didn’t see why not. they’d certainly both earned it.

so you obliged happily, first leaning towards sunoo and pressing your lips to his in a gentle kiss. his lips were so soft and plush, and the kiss was just purely loving. but when you finally pulled back, lips swollen slightly, jungwon attached his mouth to yours with a ferocity that only he had. it was a passionate kiss, slowly getting messy with saliva but neither of you could care less.

it was a long time before you two separated, panting and lips even more swollen than before. you only had a moment to catch your breath before both of the men in front of you were standing and pulled you up with them, sunoo picking you up into his arms as he carried you to the bathroom and jungwon followed.

“how about we wash that makeup off and give you a few more marks to show that you’re ours, baby.”

and you just gave him a smile, drunken off the love and attention that you’d just gotten. there was no pulling you out of the haze of affection now, especially with the hungry eyes that were being directed upon you.

divider credits to @hyuneskkami and @cursed-carmine

© seungsoftly 2025 please do not copy, repost, or translate

this is a work of fiction and is not intended to depict any accurate representation of any members of enhypen. please do not take this as real.

[bintheredreamedthat]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆.˚ 𝘛𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘔𝘢𝘺 𝘈𝘱𝘱𝘭𝘺

pairings: therapist!soobin x officeworker!reader

summary: it was supposed to be something mandatory. you weren’t supposed to catch feelings for your therapist. now, you were starting to wonder if he was letting you get away with things no other patient of his would. because when he tells you you’re hard to read, it doesn’t sound like a professional observation. it sounds like a challenge. and the worst part? you think you want him to lose.

genre: one-sided enemies to lovers LOL, forced proximity, eventual smut, dom!soobin, nonidol!au, reader is stubborn asf, more to add on later.

note: the nurse finally let me out of my room....teehee. this is my first series and I'm so excited to write this. the tags aren't completely finished yet bc I'm not quite sure where I want to go with this. I really wanted to write something yandere but I'm still testing out the waters of this account...please let me know where you'd like to see this go! ALSO, thank you guys for all the love and support on my last fanfic omg T.T it meant so much to me! lots of love <3 ramble finished.

part one | part two(comingsoon)

------

You’ve been working at MOA Solutions for almost three years now. It was a mid-sized tech company, nestled in the heart of the city. It was the kind of place that prided itself on innovation and fast deadlines. 

Your desk was tucked away in the corner, a small island of organized chaos surrounded by buzzing coworkers. You preferred it that way as it gave you a semblance of control in a place that felt anything but.

Your role as a project coordinator meant juggling expectations from every direction—clients demanding miracles, managers breathing down your neck, and a team that looks to you for answers. It was exhausting, but you liked the challenge. It made you feel competent, even if your confidence didn’t always show.

The truth is, you’ve never been good at asking for help. You’re fiercely independent, the kind of person who buries problems beneath layers of sarcasm and late-night overwork. Vulnerability felt like a weakness you couldn’t afford.

That’s why the announcement blindsides you.

An all-staff email pops up one Monday morning, announcing a new initiative: Mandatory mental health check-ins. Starting next week, everyone must attend a series of therapy sessions with the company’s newly hired licensed therapist.

The message was carefully worded, but the reason was clear: last quarter, one of the junior developers had a breakdown at their desk, overwhelmed by stress and anxiety. The incident shook the company. 

You stare at the screen, the words blurring as your brows furrow. Therapy? At work? Mandatory?

You didn’t need a stranger telling you how to fix your problems. You believed this would be old news by your first session; therefore, you never gave it more thought. 

But then the days passed, and the email still lingered in your mind like a shadow you couldn't shake. At work, conversations buzz around you, hushed whispers about the junior developer, sympathy mixed with tension, rumors of the burnout spreading like wildfire.

You caught yourself glancing toward the counseling services door more times than you’d admit, each time stepping back before your feet could move forward. 

The day of your first session arrived faster than you’d like.

You woke up that morning with a knot in your stomach, the kind that only tightens every time you think about meeting deadlines. You dressed carefully, opting for your usual armor: neat, professional clothes that make you feel invisible yet in control.

You sat at your desk, trying to focus, but the minutes crawled by. Your calendar notification blinks, reminding you: Therapy session at 3:00 PM.

You stared at it as if it were a challenge. 

The clock ticks closer, and every step toward the counseling office feels heavier than the last. You replay the announcement in your mind. Mandatory. Mental health check-ins. New licensed therapist. You wonder what kind of person they hired for this job. Is it someone warm and understanding? Or just another corporate cog sent to analyze its employees' every move?

You hesitate outside the counseling office door, the plaque gleaming softly under the fluorescent lights: Employee Wellness Services. You take a deep breath, knocking once. The door opens before you can step back.

“Hello, ” a calm voice says. You look up.

There he was—tall, composed, with a quiet kindness in his eyes that unsettles you. He wore a blue button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up just past the elbows, tucked neatly into some dark pants. He was wearing glasses, ones that made him look studious yet surprisingly charming. 

“Come in,” he says, stepping aside.

You step inside the room cautiously, half-expecting it to smell like a doctor’s office or desperation. Instead, it was… warm. A soft lamp glows in the corner, taking the edge off the clinical overheads. The air was clean, not scented. There’s a single framed print of a landscape on the wall, and you can’t decide if it’s thoughtful or strategically bland.

Your eyes flick to the man across the room—the so-called therapist. He closes the door behind you with a soft click, no fanfare.

You took the seat nearest the window. It felt like the better option somehow, an escape route, maybe. His chair was angled across from yours, not directly opposite. Strategic again, less confrontational. You saw what he was doing.

He picked up a tablet from the side table but didn’t tap on it yet, and folded his hands loosely in his lap, his legs crossed, in a casual pose. Comfortable. He waits for a moment before speaking, as if letting the silence stretch just long enough to see what you’ll do with it.

You don’t do anything. You stare back.

“I’m Soobin,” he says eventually, voice calm but not too soft. "Licensed clinical therapist. I’ve been contracted here to provide temporary support for MOA’s mental health initiative.”

You nod once, short and tight. “I read the email.”

A pause. He smiles, polite but unreadable. “Right.”

Another pause.

“Would you prefer I call you by your full name, or—?”

You say your name before he finishes the question, not because you were feeling generous, but because you wanted to get this over with. He repeats it with perfect clarity, no mispronunciation or hesitation. That annoyed you a little more than it should.

You crossed your legs, leaning back like you’re just here to waste thirty minutes and not unravel your entire life.

“So,” he says carefully, “before we begin, I want to make it clear that nothing you say here will be shared with your supervisors, your team, or anyone outside this room. This space is confidential.”

You nod again, slower this time. “Unless I’m a danger to myself or others. Yeah. Got it.” A flicker of something passes across his face; surprise, maybe. Approval? You don’t want either.

He nods anyway. “Exactly.” He taps the screen on his tablet, then sets it aside again without looking at it. He seemed less interested in jotting notes and more interested in reading to you. You don't like that.

“So,” he says again, “what would you like to get out of these sessions?”

You barked a quiet laugh, sharp and dry. “I’d like them to not exist.”

That earns the smallest shift in his posture, not a flinch nor offense. Something more like acknowledgment.

“To be honest,” you continue, “I think this whole thing is performative. The company panics because someone cracked under the pressure, and instead of easing workloads, they send us to therapy like it’ll fix burnout.” You didn’t mean to say that much; it tumbled out like it had been waiting. You could feel your heartbeat in your ears.

Soobin doesn’t react. He didn't try to argue; instead, he just listened. After a moment, he tilts his head slightly. “You’re not wrong.”

You blinked. He lets that sit.

Then, softly, “There’s truth in what you’re saying. Sometimes companies try to manage appearances instead of systems.” That… wasn’t the answer you expected.

You narrowed your eyes. “You agree with me?”

“I understand what you’re saying,” he replies evenly. “But I also think that doesn’t make this space useless. If anything, it means this space is even more important.”

You don’t say anything. He waits patiently, unruffled. God, you hate how unbothered he was. You leaned back again, studying him. He doesn’t fidget. He doesn’t force conversation. He just is. Like still water.

“You’re really good at this,” you mutter, then tack on, “the whole therapist thing.” That earns the smallest, faintest smile. “I’d hope so.”

“Do you actually care,” you ask, more sharply than you mean to, “or are you just paid to?”

Another silence. This one was heavier. When he spoke, it was slower, quieter, yet not unsure.

“I care,” he says. “Even if I wasn’t paid to.”

Something in your chest pulls tight. You shift in your seat, uncomfortable with the softness of it, with how quickly the heat behind your ribs changes from irritation to something else. You cast your eyes toward the window. “That’s convenient.”

Soobin just lets the moment settle between you. Somehow, that unnerved you more than any forced empathy would have. You glanced at the clock. Ten minutes down. Twenty to go.

You couldn't decide if you wanted to get up and walk out or ask him to keep talking. Neither felt like something you’d normally do; you were already in dangerous territory.

You don’t like the way the quiet stretches between you. It’s not uncomfortable exactly, at least, not the kind that made your skin crawl, but it left too much space for you to hear yourself think. And you’ve worked very hard to avoid doing that lately.

So you shift gears.

“So… Soobin,” you say, trying not to sound like you’re testing the name out loud even though you were. “How long have you been doing this? Therapy--I mean.” There’s a beat before he answers, just enough to make you feel as though he was deciding how much to give you.

“Six years,” he says. "Started in private practice. I’ve worked with all kinds of people — students, couples, professionals. Corporate settings are new to me, though.”

You hum. “So this is your first time working inside a company?”

“It is.”

“Do you like it?” That’s the first time you saw him pause, the first genuine hesitation. Not long but just long enough for you to witness. His lips tug faintly, but it wasn't quite a smile.

“I like being useful,” he says finally.

You snort. “That’s a very neutral answer.”

He shrugs lightly. “It’s an honest one.”

He was being impossible. Not in an overtly aggravating way, or in the cocky, smug therapist you were envisioning. In the infuriatingly good at not reacting way. You couldn't rattle him. You weren't even sure he could be rattled. It makes you want to try harder. Which was annoying in and of itself.

“Do you always just… sit there?” you ask, tilting your head. “Or do you ever actually talk about yourself?”

He studies you. “This space is for you.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard that one before. Still sounds like a cop-out.”

Another pause. Then, with deliberate calm, he says, “I think sometimes people ask about me when what they really want is distance.”

Your jaw tightens just slightly. “That’s very therapist of you.”

He doesn’t flinch. “You’d rather I lie?”

You glared at the carpet. It was a nice carpet. Probably chosen to feel soft and safe, and it had you wondering just how many people have yet to cry into it.

“I just think it’s weird,” you mumble. “Talking about myself to someone who won’t even say what kind of music he likes.”

That gets the faintest flicker of something across his face. Amusement, maybe. He leans back a little, hands still relaxed in his lap.

“I like R&B,” he says. “And the occasional oldies playlist.”

You blink. He meets your gaze, expression unreadable.

“Happy now?” he adds. You don’t answer. But for the first time since entering the room, your mouth twitches at the corners. You’re not smiling, obviously. It was just… something. You settle into the arm of the chair slightly, a casual shift that says I could be here or not, it doesn’t really matter to me.

But inside, you’re keeping count of the minutes. Of how many questions you can throw back at him before he circles back to you. You’ve been in enough meetings, smoothed over enough client calls to know how to control a conversation without looking like you're in charge.

The trick was to keep them talking.

“You don’t look like a therapist,” you say next, watching him for a reaction. He tilts his head, eyes warm but cautious.

“What do therapists look like?”

“I don’t know. Older. Slightly burnt out. Cardigan energy.”

His mouth twitches. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” 

You shrug, tapping your fingers along the edge of the armrest like you were bored, even though you’re anything but. He doesn’t fall for it. Yet, he doesn’t get defensive; he just waits once again. You press on, voice light. “Do you like working with people who don’t want to be here?”

“That’s most people,” he says simply.

“Do you psychoanalyze everyone you meet?”

“No.”

You narrow your eyes. “But you’re analyzing me.”

“I’m listening to you.”

“Same thing.”

“Not really.”

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from reacting. He’s too good. So you double down.

“Alright, what’s your favorite part of the job?” you ask, folding your arms. “Let’s get into your psyche instead of mine.” Soobin pauses again. He wasn't thrown—more like he was weighing whether answering you was worth it.

 “Helping people name things they’ve never said out loud.” That catches you off guard.

“What, like secrets?” You blink at him.

“Sometimes. But more often, it’s the quiet stuff,” he replies. “Feelings they’ve minimized. Thoughts they’ve learned to ignore. Patterns they didn’t realize were patterns.”

You shift uncomfortably. “Sounds invasive.”

“It can be,” he admits. “But it’s not about forcing anything. It’s about inviting people to see themselves differently.”

You scoff. “Sounds like a tagline.”

He doesn't smile this time. “You’re very good at deflecting.” You freeze. He had said it like a fact. It wasn't a dig at you, but was addressed like… a truth, gently dropped into the middle of the room.

“I’m good at staying on topic,” you correct, trying to sound flippant.

“You haven’t stayed on topic once.”

You glance at the clock.

Just five more minutes

Five more minutes and you won’t have to be in this stupid chair with this too-calm man and his wire-frame glasses and rolled sleeves and maddening patience. Soobin sits back a little. Still no notebook. 

“I’m not going to push you,” he says. “You can come in here and talk about music or cardigans or the weather if that’s what feels safest. But I’ll always be listening. And I’ll always circle back to you — eventually.”

You don’t say anything. He doesn’t fill the silence this time. It stretches between you, no longer hostile, but still poses no comfort.  You glance at the clock again.

Two minutes.

He notices. Of course he does.

“You don’t have to come in with answers,” he says finally. “You don’t even have to come in with honesty. But if you keep showing up, I think something will shift.”

You rise from your seat before he can finish the sentence.

“I showed up, didn’t I?” you say coolly. He nods, standing too. “You did.”

You head for the door, hand on the handle, before you thought to look back. He was still standing there, his face holding no smugness or claiming himself as the victor. Just calm.

You hated how that made you feel. 

“Same time next week?” he asks. You hesitate for a half-second too long.

“…Yeah,” you mutter. “Sure.”

And then you’re gone, walking quickly back toward your desk. You didn’t say a single real thing in there. Didn’t give him anything. And yet, somehow, it feels like he saw right through you.

—

You don’t go straight back to your desk.

You take the long way, through the break room, past the stairwell, around the quiet hallway that no one uses after 3 p.m. You swipe your badge through the side door and step out into the alley behind the building, where the loading dock smells like cardboard and burnt cigarettes.

The air is sharp against your skin. You pull out your phone and check it, even though there are no notifications, just something to do with your hands.

For some reason, you felt... weird. Not in the way you thought you would. You weren't upset or shaken. You were just aware, in that awful, itchy way that made you want to peel your own thoughts off like wet clothes.

He didn’t say anything that personal. Yet, somehow, it still felt like something cracked open.

You thought about the way he looked at you when you asked if he was analyzing you. Calm. Like he knew exactly what you were doing, and didn’t take the bait.

You hated how quiet he was—that everything didn't feel like a performance.

And you especially hate that somewhere in the middle of asking dumb questions about his taste in music, you started listening like it mattered.

Your phone vibrates. A message from one of your team leads.

Can you circle back to the client doc before EOD? Small changes. You don’t respond right away. Just staring at the words, letting them float in front of you. Eventually, you tap out a quick on it and head back in.

When you reach your desk, your coworker, Mira,  leans over the divider with an eyebrow raised. “Well?”

You pause mid-sit. “Well, what?”

She gives you a look. “Therapy.”

You shrug. “He’s fine.”

“Fine?” she echoes, clearly unsatisfied. “That’s it?”

“I don’t know. Tall. Glasses. Probably drinks green tea.”

Mira hums. “Hot?”

You glare. “He’s a therapist.”

“That wasn’t a no.” You don’t answer. She backs off with a grin, satisfied enough. You turned back to your monitor and tried to dive into your edits, but your eyes kept flicking to the calendar — to the next placeholder where your name sits beside Counseling Session – Week Two.

It was just a line of text, but it felt like a countdown.

—-

You almost don’t go. You stare at the calendar invite for a good ten minutes before finally grabbing your badge and muttering something about "a check-in" to Mira, who gives you a knowing smirk and a you’ll text me everything look you pretend not to see.

You take the stairs instead of the elevator this time, maybe hoping it’ll slow your heart down. Maybe it’ll give you time to think of something clever to say before you walk into that room again, not because you want to impress him (you don’t), but because if you don’t steer the conversation, you’re afraid of where it’ll go.

The door’s already cracked open when you get there. Soobin looks up from his tablet as you knock once and step inside. No glasses today. His hair’s a little messy, like he ran a hand through it too many times before you showed up. He still looks irritatingly composed.

"Welcome back," he says simply, gesturing to the same seat as last time. “Come in.”

You hesitate a beat before sitting. Same room. Same lamp. Same too-soft chair that makes you feel like it’s trying to receive your trauma, like it’s Wi-Fi.

"You came back," Soobin says, not as a pleasantry — more like a quiet acknowledgment.

You glance at him. "Didn’t have a choice." He nods like he expected that answer.

“I figured,” he says. “Still. I’m glad you did.” 

You hate that that lands. You shift in your seat and fold your arms, eyes scanning the room like something about it might have changed in the past week. It hasn’t.

“So,” he says, “how have things been since last time?” You shoot him a look. “You think one session fixed me?”

“I don’t expect that,” he replies easily. You fidget with the zipper on your sleeve. “I’ve been busy.”

He waits. Just like last time. You wait too. You're better at silence than he was; you can ride it out.

But instead of filling it, Soobin speaks again, not about you. “I’ve been thinking about something you said,” he begins.

You glance up, caught off guard. “Which part?”

“That this whole setup feels performative.” Your shoulders stiffen.

“I don’t disagree,” he continues. “And I think it’s fair to feel skeptical of being told when and how to process things. Especially when it doesn’t come from you.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re not trying to convince me this is actually worth it?”

“Would it work if I did?”

You hate that he always throws your questions back at you like that. You hate that it works. You lean back, legs crossed, and say flatly, “You like playing this game, don’t you?”

“I’m not playing anything.”

“Right. Because you’re perfectly neutral. A vessel for all my emotional insights.” 

He lifts an eyebrow, and something like quiet amusement flickers across his face. “I’m here to help you get to your own insights. Not hand them to you.”

You scoff. “So basically you’re like a mirror with a psychology degree.”

Soobin doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he nods once. “That’s one way to put it.”

You sigh, eyes drifting to the window. The light’s colder today, clouded. You wonder if it’s going to rain.

“I didn’t think about this place once all week,” you lie.

“Mhm,” he hums. You glance at him. “What does that mean?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You hummed.” He tilts his head. “Did it bother you?”

You exhale sharply through your nose. “You are so annoying.” That actually gets a smile out of him. A real one. Small and quick, but still there.  It does something to your stomach you don’t want to name.

“I’ll take that as progress,” he says.

“It’s not.”

“Noted.”  You go quiet again. This time, it’s heavier. Not just defensiveness — something closer to... fatigue. Eventually, you ask, “Do you ever get tired of this?”

Soobin’s brow lifts. “This?”

“Holding everyone else’s shit all the time.” He looks at you a long moment, not looking away to dismiss it.

“Sometimes,” he says honestly. “But I chose this work. No one forced it on me. And even when it’s hard, it’s... real.”

You don’t know what to do with that answer. So you go for the easiest thing: deflect.

“You’re very full of wisdom for someone who looks like he should still be in college.”

Soobin laughs quietly. “You’re not the first person to say that.”

“And yet you still roll your sleeves up like you’re trying to intimidate people with your forearms.”

He laughs again. Actually laughs. It’s soft, low, a little surprised, like he hadn’t expected to enjoy that. You blink.  You didn’t mean for it to come across as a joke, and you definitely didn’t mean for him to laugh like that, as if you’d said something funny, not defensive. Your stomach twists.

He sobers a little. “If talking to me isn’t helping,” he says, more gently now, “you can say that. You’re not obligated to stay.”

You pause. You look at him. No smugness, no corporate gloss. Just a man sitting in a chair, offering a space you don’t quite know what to do with yet.

“I don’t know if it’s helping,” you say honestly. That’s the most honest thing you’ve said in two sessions.

Soobin nods. “That’s okay. You’re allowed to not know yet.” 

You glance at the clock. Four minutes left. He doesn’t rush to fill the silence, even with only a few minutes left. You can feel his eyes on you, but not in the heavy way most people look, not expectant or searching. Just... there. Waiting, like he’s leaving the door cracked open if you want to walk through it.

You don’t. Of course you don’t.

So you say, “Same time next week?” His mouth lifts slightly. “If you’re willing.”

“I’m contractually obligated, remember?”

“Right,” he says softly. “The contract.”

You glance at him, his sleeves still rolled up, the collar of his shirt slightly rumpled now, like even he’s not immune to time. You don’t thank him because that would feel like giving something away, so you just nod once briskly and step out the door.

“Next time,” he says softly, voice low but mischievous, “I might have to up my game. Can’t have you thinking I’m too predictable.”

You freeze for a moment, caught between rolling your eyes and laughing. He meets your glance, the smile deepening, like he’s dared you to guess what that means.

You clear your throat, a small laugh slipping out. 

What were you doing?

Without another word, you turn and walk away, that sly smile lingering in your mind longer than you’d like.

But something stays with you. You noticed the way he laughed. You hate that you want to hear it again. You walk faster, as if distance could fix this.

Back at your desk, Mira peeks at you over the divider again.

“Well?” she asks. You roll your eyes. “Still a therapist. Still a waste of time.”

And before she can say anything else, you put your headphones in and crank the volume.  You’ve always been good at shutting things out. But this time..it was harder than it should be.

-----

i love you nonchalant soobin <3

[mingispelvis]

Focus On Me

Genre: SMUT, Mingi x reader, afab reader, One Shot

Length: 2k Rating: Mature/R

Summary: You’re obsessed with Mingi’s body. 

Warnings and fic under the cut :)

not proof read

Warnings: use of nicknames (pretty lady), thigh riding, fingering (f receiving), unprotected sex (don’t u dare!), finishing inside (YOU BETTER NOT!!!!).

It was about that time: ovulation. Your body had been preparing for the primal ritual of mating in order to reproduce. Little did she know, no reproduction would be occurring this month, or any month for a very long time. You were in the prime of your life- stable job, good group of friends, and you had a super hot fuck buddy at your beck and call. That fuck buddy was named Song Mingi, and you’d met him at a random salsa dancing class your friend and her boyfriend invited you to. You’d agreed only if her boyfriend invited someone hot that he knew. Thus, you and Mingi learned salsa that evening, and were doing the tango in the sheets that night. Mingi was definitely your type of guy: tall, slightly tanned, dark hair, and toned. You purposely kept your distance emotionally due to the speed at which your life was going- you didn’t want to fall for your fuck buddy.

Mother nature was making it very clear that no matter how many different ways you placed your vibrator on your lower body, you would not be pleased. Ovulating meant you were at your horniest, and you needed to let your freak flag fly. It was time to text Mingi.

Me: Busy tonight? (1:45pm)

SMG: Nope. What were you thinking? ;) (1:47pm)

Me: You fuck me until I beg you to stop? (1:47pm)

SMG: See you at 10 ;) (1:48pm)

You and Mingi were incredibly sexually compatible. He let you take control when you wanted, or he’d take control if you were in the mood to be dominated. He didn’t mind having passionate, meaningless sex, and not talking for weeks between. Besides being hot and a great fuck, he was also smart. The post-coital pillow talk was never devoid of laughs, and you could speak to each other about your work without the other getting confused. You always get a little tickle in the pit of your stomach when you know you are about to see Mingi. You took extra care to shave every hair off your body, wash the grime out of your hair, paint your toes and nails, and wear matching underwear. You even set out some nice candles for scent and mood lighting and turned on a nice sexy playlist. You weren’t sure why you wanted things to be so nice for someone who was just a fuck buddy, but you didn’t have time to linger on that thought. It was 10pm and Mingi was always punctual.

You opened the door to see Mingi in a white button up and jeans- he must have come straight from work. He smirked slightly and in the dim light you could see the sparkle in his eyes.

“Hey pretty lady,” he gave you a once over as he stepped into your home and removed his shoes.

Before you could speak, Mingi ran his arms over your see-through, red robe that you’d quickly draped over your body before answering the door. 

“Mmmm. You wearing this sexy little number for me?” Mingi asked, rubbing the sheer material between his fingers. When his eyes met yours, you felt that butterfly in your stomach again. 

“No talking, only fucking.” You deflected, grabbing his wrist and leading him to the couch. You pushed him down and straddled him. Mingi placed his hands gingerly on your hips. You’d meant to immediately lean down and kiss him, but something stopped you. You bit your lip as your hands landed softly on Mingi’s broad shoulders. You rubbed your hands across them, letting the cool, rough material of his shirt outline his muscles. Mingi watched your pupils dilate as you moved your fingers to trace the veins in his arms, traveling down his thick bicep.

You couldn’t help but moan. You weren’t sure why his body was doing this to you, especially since you’d seen it multiple times before. 

“You like what you see, pretty lady?” Mingi was grinning as you interlaced your hands with his larger ones. 

“Your body…it’s…” you let go of his hands as you tried to get your brain to focus on words. Unfortunately, your eyes had roamed to Mingi’s waist. You placed your hands on his waist, thin, yet firm, and traced upwards, following the “v” shape that the muscles in his back allowed him to have. 

“It’s…? What is it, pretty lady? What do you think about my body?” Mingi was teasing you now, but it affected him. He loved the compliments and you could feel him hardening underneath you. When he shifted beneath you, you were drawn to his thighs. Thick and hard, you began to grind on them. Mingi gripped your waist again, flexing his thigh, to aid you in your movements. 

“It’s crazy. Your body is crazy.” you responded, almost breathless with desire. You steadied yourself against his stomach, feeling obscured ab muscles there as well. You threw your head back as you moved faster on Mingi’s thigh. He took this opportunity to nip at your neck, jaw, and then your lips. He tasted sweet and savory, and you inhaled his scent deeply- a deep spice with an underlying musk. You sucked on his lips, moaning again as you appreciated their plumpness, their softness. 

“Mingi, your body is driving me crazy.” you breathed your admission into your kiss. 

“I can tell. You’re about to grind a hole into my jeans!” Mingi whispered back. You didn’t stop kissing Mingi, even when he lifted you up to carry you to your bedroom. You just wrapped your legs around his slim waist, never letting your lips leave his smooth skin. 

Mingi attempted to lay you lightly on your back, but the moment your feet hit your carpet, you yanked Mingi down. You were intoxicated by him. Kissing him passionately and running your fingers through his hands as if you couldn’t grasp onto enough of him, you moaned his name in his mouth. Mingi escaped from your grasp long enough to pepper kisses down your body, his left hand tugging at your bra, his right hand tugging at your panties. You got the hint and lifted your hips to allow him to pull off your panties, while you finagled your hands behind your back to unclasp your bra. Mingi’s lips never left your body as he began to roll your nipple in his fingers and swipe up and down your leaking folds. As deft as he was with his mouth, Mingi decided he wanted your upper lips rather than your lower, so he slipped two fingers into you.

“You're already taking my fingers so well baby.” Mingi cooed as he curled his fingers up to reach your sweet spot. He worked you slowly but firmly, a brutally calm pace that had you quickly seeing stars. You gripped his broad shoulders again, biting your lip as you glanced at the way his shoulder muscles moved as he pumped in and out of you. That was enough to push you over the edge, and you released all over Mingi’s fingers. He’d waited long enough- you could feel his cock straining against his jeans- and Mingi pulled down his jeans and briefs in one swift motion. You used this time to scoot to the head of the bed and pull up your thighs, spreading your legs in anticipation.

“Fuck,” Mingi pumped his leaking cock once, pupils blown at the sight of you presenting himself  before him. He took little time to line up and press slowly into you. You always fit like a glove. Like two puzzle pieces clicking into place. Moaning in unison, the two of you locked eyes. Mingi began to move, relishing in each inch he got to feel of you. You didn’t have time for that, though. You wanted more. You pushed him off of you and pulled him down onto his back. Eyes wide, Mingi let you manhandle him, and smiled as you squatted over him and slowly lowered yourself onto his erection. The electricity between the two of you gave you energy you’d never experienced as you began to bounce up and down. You steadied yourself on his chest, but angrily grabbed at his shirt as you realized it stymied you from feeling his warm skin. Mingi began to quickly unbutton his shirt as you continued to ride him mercilessly. Free from the confines of cloth, Mingi’s abs beckoned you. You slid your hands slowly up and down his chest- obsessing over every valley and hill of his abdomen. It was too much.

“Fuck!” You exclaimed, throwing your head back. You placed one hand behind you, and used the other to rub frantically around your clit. Mingi could see and feel your desperation as you clenched around him, and did the gentlemanly thing of helping you. He gripped your hips, planted his feet, and fucked into you at the same pace you’d been riding him. 

“Yes Mingi, just like that,” you commanded, chasing the high that you’d been waiting for for days. Surprisingly, it burst out of you faster than you’d anticipated, and you yelped as Mingi continued to pound into you- the squelch of your juices motivating him to keep making you feel amazing. You went limp in his grasp, gasping for air as your second orgasm lingered, a tingling feeling throughout your body. Mingi stopped, pulled out of you, and rolled you to your side. Your chest was still heaving, your body still reeling, and Mingi was ready for cuddles. He curled up next to you, but you stopped him.

“What are you doing?” you raised an eyebrow at him.

“Aren’t you done? You’re not tired?” He raised an eyebrow back.

“Never. Get back in here!” You pointed to your pussy as you lifted your thighs.

Mingi laughed loud, heartily, and positioned himself on top of you again. The thing about Mingi was that he looked like a fuckboy. He looked like someone that would pound into you for 30 seconds, pull out, bust on your stomach, and then ask if you could call him an uber. Mingi wasn’t a fuckboy, though. He was a man that was passionate and empathetic. He was emotional. So when he got the opportunity to be with a beautiful woman with an sex drive to rival his own, he cherished the time. He slid into you slowly, pulled out slowly, and breathed deeply. He knew you were sensitive, so he was careful. Soft. 

You didn’t want soft.

“Please, Mingi. Fuck me hard.” you begged. 

“Whatever you want, pretty lady.” 

He whispered as he placed his head in the crook of your neck. He interlaced your fingers with his, and lifted your arms to lay on either side of your head, squeezing your hands tight as he began a pace that had you rambling. Skin on skin, it felt like you and Mingi were one. Your head was swirling and all you could think about was him. Mingi leaned up to see your eyelids heavy, but your eyes staring directly into his with a fiery want.

“That’s right baby, focus on me.” Mingi’s eyelids were low, his voice a rumble, as he coaxed you into your final orgasm of the night. Your obsession with Mingi’s body had you shaking as you gushed onto his cock. You pulsed and clenched in a way that caused Mingi to groan loudly, falter in his pace, and start breathing faster. He fell back on top of you- chest to chest- lips at the shell of your ear.

“Oh pretty lady you’re gonna make me- ugh- fuck!” Mingi couldn’t finish his sentence as you wrapped your legs around his waist and had him hit a spot deep inside you. Fucking you faster and faster, Mingi chased his orgasm. One final thrust, one long groan, Mingi stilled as he spilled inside you. He throbbed and groaned your name, never letting go of your hands, breathing heavily until he could finally come down. 

“Fuck am I glad you’re on the pill,” Mingi laughed lightly, “because I think I just put a month’s worth of cum in you.”

“Yeah I think you like when I talk about how hot you are.” You teased.

“I think so too.” Mingi scratched at the back of his head, cheeks turning redder than they already were from exertion.

Mingi cleaned you up, grabbed you some water from the kitchen, and proceeded to do his duty as big spoon. As the two of you talked,  tangled in each other’s limbs, Mingi lightly rubbed up and down your curves. He looked you deep in your eyes. Every word you spoke, he heard. Maybe one day you’d realize he was focused on you, too. 

~~~

Tag list: @mingisprincxss I hope this fits your request!

[reflectingiridescent]

What's the first thing you read that altered your brain chemistry.

(this is inspired by an ask i just saw when someone quoted your fic supermoon spell as doing such to them)

Aww, well I'm glad someone is enjoying the things I write!

I've spent a really long time thinking about this because I don't think I'm a very hard person to captivate. It's really, really hard for me to think a book is completely horrible, and it's even rarer for me to not finish a book, because I can almost always hook onto a piece of it that I really like and then use that to fuel the rest of my experience. So I thoroughly enjoyed most things I read as a child, because I approached them predisposed to suspending my disbelief.

Maybe it was all of Tamora Pierce's Tortall Universe books? Because I really like being in a long-term relationship with my media, and that was maybe the first time I'd read something that wasn't just a series but a continuous universe. And it was more female-focused than anything I'd read up to that point, and I just didn't know that anyone could do that. And that would have been around the time I was 12.

The books also really spoke to the preteen/teen experience in that it was willing to discuss feelings that I didn't have anyone discussing around me when I was growing up, and so there was like this sense of risk in reading it? But also satisfaction.

[bigcats-birds-and-books]

I'm finally reading (well listening to) ADHD for Smart Ass Women and it's not bad but I feel like she's rambling so much about what it's like to be a woman with ADHD. Like ma'am I already know what it's like that's why I'm here. You marketed this book form people with difficulty maintaining attention PLEASE get to the advice part already I beg.

heya!! yeahh, part one is a lot heavier on the experiential aspects and What The Thing Is, so i can see how that's Recap (derogatory) if you're sure you've got the thing (although personally i did appreciate the rambling as something i could give to my elderly parents re: "yo this is also what ADHD looks like btw, please reevaluate My Entire Life in this context").

the practical stuff really starts in chapter 5 (for Big Picture Life Orientation), and then part two gets into specific problems/solutions (and the chapter titles say exactly what's inside lol). i felt very Seen in her rambling, but i 100% wouldn't blame you if you wanted to skip ahead to the Solutions Part and see if any of that clicks for you! i hope you get something useful/helpful out of it.

[cas-backwards-tie]

hey! I just saw one of your omegaverse fics floating around the alpha Kyle Garrick tag and thought I should come in and let you know that a/b/o without the slashes is a slur, one that was used to refer to indigenous Australian people. I don’t want to spread any hate I just wanted to let you know in case you didn’t!

Hey! 👋 Thanks so much for letting me know! I definitely had no clue considering I'm not Australian, and also don't know any Australian people tbh (except one or two mutuals on here, I believe?) so I appreciate the info tremendously. I'll have to go through and try to find that and correct it. I definitely also have to do some research on it because I'm curious why that's the case, but yeah. Going to do that now. Might take a little to try and go through all of my posts, and I might end up missing a few by accident, (cause it happens, even as meticulous as I am) but I wanted to at least get back to you and let you know that I am working on it! Also, posting, so if anyone else didn't know, maybe they'll happen across this post, to! Definitely important, though crazy to me that I've never heard of this or seen it talked about anywhere. ❤️

[hannieoftheyear]

CLARITY [K.MG]

Mingyu doesn't want to pay you any mind. To him, you're just another girl that'll get her heart broken by his dumb best friend.

Why would he care, right? He shouldn't care about the crying sounds he hears from his bedroom when his friend stands you up for the girl he's actually in love with. And he shouldn't be getting close to you. He shouldn't dread the day his friend decides to end things with you and bring someone else home. He shouldn't be wishing to have met you first.

pairing: mingyu x f!reader (with a side of bad bf!jungkook)

word count: 30,2k (lmaooo)

genre: bf's best friend mingyu, (awkward) acquaintances to lovers, the other side of the f2l trope, angst, smut, you could say there's a drizzle of fluff

content warnings: emotional cheating, tsundere mingyu at first, too much crying, self-manipulating, moral dilemmas, jealousy, possessiveness, alcohol consumption, denial (tons), one minor injury, mention of blood, a love triangle?, sexual tension, inappropriate things happen between mc and mingyu, petnames: babe, baby, princess (hers) | explicit smut, teasing, body worship, praise, marking, protected penetration, it's love making guys

🎧: mine — ive, breathing — nct dream, knew you — kailee morgue, begin again (taylor's version) — taylor swift, i wanna tell u — lexie liu

a big thank you to tiya @gyubakeries and ro @shinysobi for reading this over and telling me it doesn't suck ♡ and rae @nerdycheol for supporting my simp and pathetic men agenda ♡

THIS FIC IS FOR +18 READERS ONLY! I can't control what people read, but I can control who interacts with my blog. MINORS CAUGHT INTERACTING WILL BE BLOCKED.

disclaimer: i didn't want to make any svt member the asshole so i made him jungkook, but i love jungkook he's literally my bias in bts and my forever ult so please just remember that this is a work of fiction and it doesn't represent how he is in real life nor how i view him (it pained me writing him this way you have no idea kdjfgnrjeskgf). i also didn't proofread the last two scenes i¿m sawrry

last note: there are several pov switches throughout the whole fic, because it just went where it wanted, I had no control over it, it was the fic i swear.

check out my main masterlist ♡ dividers used: heartbeat, paper texture (banner)

i hope you enjoy! i'd love to read your thoughts :)

“Are you sure I won’t bother him?" 

You’ve blocked Jungkook’s hand from opening the door to his shared apartment, forcing him to look at your pleading eyes. 

“Babe, it’s not the first time you’ve come to watch a movie, he doesn’t mind, stop worrying.” 

“It’s just... he always locks himself up in his room when I come over. Maybe he doesn’t want to get to know me.” You whisper, in fear the door doesn’t muffle the sounds from outside and he’s standing just by the entrance. 

The few times you’ve crossed paths with your boyfriend’s roommate, he barely said hi before sprinting out of whatever room you were in. Sure, your relationship with Jungkook is fairly new, and you don’t expect to become friendly with his circle of friends so quickly. But if his closest friend won’t pay you any mind then how are you supposed to get along? 

“He does that to give us privacy, I promise it has nothing to do with you.” Jungkook doesn’t notice the coldness you're sure his friend exhibits towards you, as he has been that way every time he brought a new girl to their home. Jungkook attributes it to his friend simply giving him some space, to not make everything awkward by being the third wheel. “He wanted to watch a movie, and he said it was cool when I told him you were coming over.” 

A deep breath leaves your lungs at his confirmation, even if it’s already the tenth time you’ve asked the same question and got the same answer.

Inside the apartment, Mingyu sits manspreading on the couch, phone in his hand and headphones at the maximum not-deafening volume. Jungkook’s still in his fairytale phase, that time at the beginning of a relationship when he still tries to introduce his new partner to aspects of his life, in which Mingyu is included. That’s the only reason he accepted his friend’s insistent plea to hang out with you both tonight. And when a hand shakes his shoulder lightly, he knows it’s his Jungkook with his new catch of the semester. 

You sit on the other end of the couch, as far as possible from Mingyu’s motionless body, still unsure on where you stand with him. Neither of you make the effort to talk to the other while Jungkook goes to his bedroom to change. You don’t want to bother him and make him have a reason to dislike you, and Mingyu notices your nervousness, but prefers not to do anything about it. 

Mingyu has learned to not try hard to get to know Jungkook’s fleeting girlfriends, because no matter how nice or how pretty you are, in a matter of weeks, he knows his friend will find something to complain about and eventually use as an excuse to break things off. It’s a never-ending cycle, and he learned he can’t do anything to stop it. 

“What are we watching?” 

Jungkook’s loud voice breaks the ice beginning to build up in the living room, and quickly sits down between Mingyu and you, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. He doesn’t seem to notice the ignoring contest going on, chatting with Mingyu like the other man wasn’t just dead silent. 

After discovering you’ve never seen Rocky, a few gasps from Jungkook and a lot of convincing later, the movie starts playing on the screen in front of you. You didn’t actually care what they chose, just happy to spend some time with your boyfriend, even if you’re not alone. 

Mingyu knows the movie from beginning to end and backwards, could even recite the dialogues if asked, not because he particularly likes it, but because Jungkook somehow always convinces the girls he brings to their home to endure it. 

He used to argue with him about the reputation he built of being a heartbreaker, but Jungkook doesn’t see it that way. To him, he’s just trying to find the one in an endless quest that never fulfills him the way he thinks a relationship should. But Mingyu knows Jungkook well, and the real reason why he can’t last in a relationship for longer than a few months is clear as day, but Jungkook’s blind to it. 

You pretend to focus on the storyline, Rocky’s growth journey that Jungkook was so excited about, while he comments on his favorite parts. It’s not a movie you’d pick if you were alone or with your friends, too manly for your taste, and the romance aspect is too shallow, but Jungkook’s perspective and insightful comments are making you appreciate it more. 

Tears begin forming on the corners of your eyes as the final fight progresses, your throat closing up in warning as the rounds pass and Rocky gets beaten up by his opponent. No matter the genre, movies always make you cry during the final act as the protagonist reaches the goal after struggling so much.

After the referee separates both opponents, tying at the 14th round, the public demands a rematch, but Rocky’s more preoccupied to look for the woman he loves. You try to sniffle quietly, no longer being able to put a stop to your weeping, and snuggle against Jungkook’s chest, just as his phone rings, receiving a call from Cathlyn. 

From the corner of his eye, Mingyu notices the whole interaction, and he almost gets shocked by Jungkook blankly rejecting the call in an instant and putting his attention back on the screen. How didn’t Jungkook notice you’ve been loudly sobbing for the past fifteen minutes is beyond him. But the shock lasts less than two seconds, as Jungkook's phone rings again and he gets up from the couch, heading to the kitchen with his phone in his hand and his thumb already opening Cathlyn’s text conversation.

You know Cathlyn has been your boyfriend’s best friend since high-school, and became inseparable since then. You even came to meet her a few times. She’s funny, nice and outgoing, effortlessly being the center of attention.

The living room gets cold again after Jungkook goes to the other room, and it’s too obvious that Mingyu just doesn’t have any interest in engaging in small talk with you. Your last sniffles echo against the walls, and the sigh Mingyu lets out almost sounds louder in the sea of dense silence. 

Another sniffle from you and a tired sigh from him, Mingyu gets up to go after his friend who doesn’t seem to be coming back to the couch soon enough. He leaves a pack of tissues in front of you without sparing you a glance, and just walks past the couch. 

"Dude, don’t just leave me alone with her.” You don’t mean to eavesdrop on their conversation. You really don’t. But the sound carries. And it just proves that Mingyu clearly doesn’t like you. “She’s your date, not mine.” 

“Sorry bro, Cathy was calling me nonstop. I thought something had happened.” Not necessarily true, as she called only once and Mingyu's aware of it. “She wants to go out tonight, clear her head a bit.” 

“I don’t care what Cathlyn wants. Your girlfriend was crying and you just left her there.” It’s almost like he was defending you, but something in his tone suggests that it isn’t about you specifically. You blow your nose one more time, and the sound echoes into the kitchen. “Listen, she’s still crying like a baby, go with her bro.” 

Last words you hear before heavy steps begin and get closer and closer to the living room couch until the man sits by your side. 

“Sorry babe, I know movies always get you emotional.” Jungkook apologizes sweetly, even if there’s something else in his mind. 

“It’s okay.” The sun setting behind the windows draws your attention away from your boyfriend. “I should get going. It’s getting late and I promised my roommate we’d go out for dinner.” 

Lame excuse, but you’re aware you’re not wanted at the apartment anymore by half the people living under that roof, and it really is too late. 

Jungkook nods, unbeknownst to the uncomfortable situation he's a part of, and grabs your coat as you get up from the couch. You turn back, smiling to Mingyu coming out of the kitchen as a form of goodbye, but he just nods and sits back down. 

“We're going out later, and Cathy’s paying, you wanna come? It’s a bar close to here.” Jungkook naively asks as he walks you to the door. He might be genuine with his invitation, but you’re not sure. 

“I told you I have an important meeting for the congress tomorrow morning, I can't go out." 

Jungkook hasn’t proven himself as someone with the best memory out there. You’ve had to remind him of important stuff a few times already. The key is to just take a deep breath and not let it stir up any anger within you, because that’s just how he is. 

“Oh, I thought it was on Sunday.” Jungkook asks just as Mingyu walks past the end of the hallway into his bedroom and shuts the door. 

Even he knows about your meeting, because you told Jungkook last time you were there, and even if he locks himself up in his room, the walls might as well be made of paper the way he can always hear your conversations. 

“Tomorrow is Sunday.” You note as you chuckle lightly. 

“Oh, shit. Then I guess I’ll see you when you're done.” He gives you a sweet kiss for the first time in the day, light and fleeting like a feather, and closes the door after you take a few steps towards the elevator. 

Nayeon closes her macbook suddenly, done with all the work you have been doing since the early morning, ready to take a deserved break. “So? How was the hot date last night?” She rests her chin on the palm of her hand, ready for whatever gossip you’re willing to share.

“It wasn't hot.” Your eyes don’t leave your notebook, in an intent to work on ideas to make the presentation more interesting. 

“You’re so secretive! C’mon, tell your best friends forever and ever what you did!” She insists, making you chuckle as you see your other friend mirroring her from the corner of your eye.

Your pen drops from your hand onto the table as you finally look at them. “It was just a movie night with his asshole roommate.”

“The hot one?” Jennie intercepts, now more interested than before.

“I don't know Jen, his only roommate.” You try to go back to your notes but your friends’ unrelenting stares make it impossible to concentrate. “And how do you even know him? I’d never seen him before meeting Jungkook.”

“It’s ‘cause you’re too cool for campus gossip,” Jennie takes the chance to poke fun at your lack of knowledge of basically anyone, “but everyone knows Jungkook and Mingyu.” They both giggle at their mention.

“Be serious, we're not in high school.” You deadpan, but deep down you know nothing really changes from high-school to college. The drama remains the same, just with a few years added to the people involved. “There’s no such thing as the popular guys.”

When you were younger, the different cliques that formed were crucial to what the experience was going to be for the years to come. And you used to live for the gossip. You always knew the latest fight or the newest couple before anyone else. It felt important at that time and it kept you entertained. But as you grew older, got into college and met new people, meaningless gossip lost its interest, your focus now on passing your classes, meeting new friends, and having the best contacts to move forward with your career.

Sure, you knew of a Jungkook, as your best friends are up to date with the gossip and like it or not, you end up hearing everything even if you don’t know the people they’re talking about. But before he approached you at a party, you had no real idea who he was. It’s true that when you first saw your boyfriend at that party, he caught your attention immediately, and it’s undeniable that if you had seen him before, you would’ve been caught in his spell like every other girl on campus.

“What I mean is that people take notice when two hot guys hang out everyday.” Nayeon points it out like it’s the most common thing in the world. And maybe it is. “They’re like candy to the eye, too sweet, unapproachable, but nice to see nevertheless.”

You don’t forget to roll your eyes before replying. “Mingyu’s still an asshole. He never talks to me! I’m sure he curses at me in his head every time I show up at their apartment.”

“He seems so serious all the time.” Nayeon adds, having your back. “He’s probably a stem major or something like that.”

“He’s always hunched over his computer, so he probably is.” You note, eyes returning to your notebook so you can keep working on the presentation and be done with the topic.

“I once tried talking to him at a party, but he just looked me dead in the eye and said he wasn’t interested.” Jennie’s stare gets lost to the view out the window as she remembers. “I barely told him my name.”

Nayeon and you exchange looks before erupting into laughter.

“You guys are so mean!” Jennie complains, but joins to laugh with you two.

“Hey, at least he had the decency to tell you that and not lead you on.” Jennie shrugs, not really hurt as she has already forgotten that cursed interaction. “He barely says hi to me before sprinting out of my sight.”

“He doesn’t really talk to many people except that group of friends they have. It’s not personal, he's just a little anti-social.” Nayeon puts her two cents in. “Just let him be an asshole if he wants to be one!”

“I shouldn’t let him occupy that much space in my mind.” You nod at them and they both nod back in agreement. “I’m dating his best friend, he’s going to have to accept it.”

Nayeon and Jennie exchange looks, raising their eyebrows at your words before going back to you.

You have a vague idea what they meant by that, but you still ask, incredulously. “What?”

“Nothing!” They say in unison.

They tried several times to enlighten you about Jungkook’s “reputation”, as they called it, but you prefer to get to know him on your own and not have your judgement clouded beforehand. Rumors are just that, rumors.

“Look,” with your hands slapped on the table, you order their attention, “I know you guys don’t really like that I’m dating him,” you observe, “but I promise, It’s fine! He’s really nice and I think he really likes me.”

“It’s not that.” Jennie says at the same time as Nayeon exclaims, “I’m sure he does!”

“We already told you, he usually dates for a few months before breaking up all of the sudden.” Jennie continues, paraphrasing every warning they already gave you. “We’ll have your back with whatever you want to do, just be careful.”

“I won’t let a tattooed man who I've only been dating for a couple of weeks break my heart.” At least you think you're stronger than that.

“Am I an asshole if I tell you to just not get your hopes up?” Nayeon asks, and if it was any other person, you'd get mad, but only because it's her and she just lacks tact sometimes, you let it slide.

“Yes! You are!” You chuckle, knowing she’s just looking out for you. “Thank you guys for worrying about me. Now, I think we should shorten the introduction a little bit. Everyone there already knows who Durkheim is, we don't need to explain his whole biography.”

The notes you've been taking all day stare back at you, now more of a bunch of senseless scribbles than useful annotations.

“Ugh! Back to work already?” Jennie’s body falls limp on her chair, not ready for more hours of brainstorming and not reaching any goals.

“The professor wants to hear the whole thing tomorrow, we can't show up with anything less than a perfect speech.” You insist, opening Nayeon's macbook again against her will.

“Do you promise to tell us any good gossip about those friends of his, in about…” she looks at her empty wrist, pretending there's a watch there, “two hours? We'll work diligently until then.”

A deep sigh leaves you with a barely there smile you try to hide. “Fine. Two hours, and then we can take a real break.”

The waitress carries two pieces of cake and the biggest strawberry smoothie you’ve ever seen in your life, heading to your table. The size of the cup brings out chuckles from both Jungkook and you, but as soon as it gets placed between you on the table, the two straws draw your attention, and Jungkook asks the waitress for another smaller chocolate smoothie. 

“You can have that all for yourself babe, I know how much you love strawberries.” 

You don’t admit that you were excited for the corny romantic moment of sharing a smoothie with two straws, appreciating that he at least remembered your love for berries. 

Jungkook’s phone keeps vibrating with notifications, which he reads but doesn’t respond to, trying his best to focus on whatever you’re telling him. His mind is anywhere but the diner where you decided to have an afternoon snack, battling between answering Cathlyn’s worrying texts and listening to the ideas you gave for the presentation you’re doing with your friends in front of various colleges soon. 

In the middle of your story is when you realize Jungkook hasn’t said a word, his eyes lost to the much more interesting brown swirls on the wooden table. 

“Is everything okay?” He’s been noticeably distracted lately, getting lost in thought more often, taking longer to reply to your texts. You attribute it to the time of the year, as he’s busier at work and with his studies, and so are you. But even if he says he’s fine, you’re beginning to worry. 

“Yeah babe, sorry, just a little tired.” His lips line up in a tight smile in an attempt to reassure you. “Do you mind hanging out at my apartment after we’re done eating?” 

Scraping your plans to catch an afternoon movie, you hum and nod before returning to eating your piece of cake, seemingly disguising your disappointment since he doesn’t ask any more questions. 

Jungkook leaves his plate exactly the way the server left it for him, the piece of chocolate cake with not even a particle less, his fork unused and clean on the side. He gulps down his new personal smoothie in a second, and as soon as the last piece of your cake is entering your mouth, he’s asking the waitress for the bill. He knows you’re still talking to him, he can see your lips moving, but your words enter one ear and leave through the other, having no meaning in his mind. 

Jungkook pays without asking for your share, which you weren’t even going to argue with him about. You’re usually a heavy supporter of each person paying for what they ordered, but as the minutes pass by, it’s becoming harder and harder to not get mad at him, so you’re going to spend his money without feeling bad about it. You know you should ask him about it, but shouldn’t he tell you if something was wrong? Especially after you’ve already asked him? Between being a pushover and pretending nothing’s happening, you end up choosing to just spend the rest of the afternoon with him and hope he’ll just tell you the truth. 

The walk to his apartment is less than 10 minutes long, but every dreaded step drags heavily, making everything move slower, with the both of you in silence, and the incessant notifications blowing up his phone acting as a remainder of his true priority. 

Jungkook’s trying to ignore the constant ping coming out of the pocket of his jeans, pretending he isn’t dying to just answer who keeps trying to contact him. 

And you have a vague idea of who it could possibly be. 

The cold apartment doesn’t feel welcoming as you enter through the door, lights off and deadly silent. Excusing yourself to the bathroom, you tiptoe around as if in fear. Your reflection in the mirror looks unmistakably disappointed and sad, and you wonder if Jungkook really didn’t notice or just didn’t care. 

He can be charming and gentle when he wants to, always so polite and respectful, but the ability to be aware of your feelings may be something he could work on. Or at least understand that the things he does ultimately affect you too. 

In the kitchen, he’s already forgotten his one rule for the date, and is carefully answering every message he got, the glasses of water he was filling for the both of you forgotten on the counter. 

When he hears you come out to the living room, Jungkook rushes to sit with you, with a plan already in mind. 

“Babe, will you get mad if I go for a bit?” His fingers trace lines on your forearm, and you begin to lean into him before your brain registers his words. 

“What? Why?” You ask as your eyes search for any type of clue on his face.

“Cathy called me,” he takes a second to think about the best words to use, “she had a fight with her boyfriend, and I have to be there for her.” 

Jungkook never liked Cathlyn's boyfriends. Something about them always feels off about them, as if none of them are ever right for his best friend. In his eyes, he just wants the best for her, someone who'll really be able to care for Cathlyn in the way he thinks she deserves. 

“Oh, I hope she’s okay.” Deep down, you wonder if it really is so serious that Jungkook feels obligated to stand you up. But it’s fair, she needs her best friend when she’s having a bad time. The fact that her best friend is your boyfriend is a coincidence you can’t be mad about. 

“I’ll be back before dinner and I’ll make it up to you, okay?” He’s already standing up, his arms on both of your sides as he crouches to give you a quick peck goodbye. 

The door closes shut before you can even utter a reply, and his steps echo on the hallway, getting further away every second, until you’re left in complete silence. 

In the quietness of the apartment, you instantly feel out of place, unwelcomed by the inanimate objects surrounding you. Seconds turn into minutes, the ticking of the clock being the only sense of time you have left. You don’t want to grab your phone, avoiding the inevitable feeling of disappointment that’ll take over you if there are no texts from Jungkook waiting in your notifications.

How stupid is what you’re doing? How desperate? Waiting for your boyfriend to come back from the home of the woman that seems to be his priority? You know you shouldn’t be feeling this way, especially since he's already told you that she’s just his best friend. But it’s still hard. 

The back of your eyes burn as tears threaten to come out, blurring your vision just as you hear a key turn, heavy steps entering the home you’re not supposed to be in. 

 ⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄

Mingyu knew he'd find you at his apartment.  

Jungkook texted him that he had an emergency and had to leave in a rush. And Mingyu knows what “emergency” really means in that context. It means Jungkook rushed over to Cathlyn's at the first sign that she was feeling off, and he wanted to hide it from him so he wouldn’t have to hear the same reprimand again. 

What Mingyu didn’t expect was to find you on the verge of crying on his couch, scattering to find any form of tissue paper somewhere inside your bag. 

You both freeze, looking at each other for about half a second before rushing to greet. You pretend you weren’t crying, and he acts as if he didn’t notice. Mingyu utters a quiet hello as you mumble some kind of apology for being there, and then he locks up in his bedroom as usual. 

His friend put him in an awkward situation once again. Mingyu doesn’t want to get to know you more than he already does. He knows you're on a different major and that’s enough, because one day, in the near future, it’s going to be another girl walking through the door instead of you, and he’ll never see you again.

He tried a few times to stay friendly, but no one really wants to stay in contact with someone so close to the man that broke their heart. And he gets it. That's why he stopped trying all together. 

Mingyu would usually come home from work, put on his headphones, and spend a few hours on his computer until his stomach urges him to eat something. But for this particular afternoon he’s been put in, he skips the headphones in case you need something, or at least until Jungkook comes back, which he isn’t even sure is going to happen. 

A project for work distracts him for a good while, organizing different stats and numbers on the excel sheet his boss sent him earlier in the day. He almost forgets you’re on the other side of the wall. Almost. 

If he loses his focus on his computer screen, he can hear when you move around on the couch. What can you possibly be doing? Is what he asks himself at any noise that reaches his ears, but there’s never an answer. Until something alerts him that you’re not doing well. The same sniffle he heard days ago as you were watching a movie with Jungkook echoes against the walls of his bedroom.

You’ve been trying hard not to make any sounds that may disturb Mingyu, as you assumed he was busy by the way you could hear the non-stop clicking of his keyboard from where you were sitting. But your mind seemed to have other plans, so much so that you lost control of the cascade of tears brimming from your eyes. 

In between everything, you miss the sound of a door opening and steps getting closer to you. Mingyu comes into view as you’re wiping away tears with the back of your hand, and you can’t pretend he didn’t see you this time. 

He sits by your side in silence, mainly because he doesn’t know what to say, but also because he can’t just leave you alone in this state. He feels responsible in a way.

“Is he with…” Are the first words that come out of his mouth after seconds of dead silence. 

“He didn’t tell you?” You look up at him to find him staring into the wall. He shakes his head, glancing at your slightly blotchy face before looking down. 

“He just told me you'd be here, but I figured.” Your body relaxes the tiniest bit. Good, at least you’re not an unannounced guest. 

“She had a fight with her boyfriend.” You explain, more frustrated than understanding. 

“Right.” He simply replies. 

Both of you sit there, fixed on your spots, too aware of the other. Mingyu realizes you’ve stopped crying, maybe because you don’t want to cry in front of him, but at least your breaths became less deep than before. 

A growl from your stomach reverberates through the room, and you flush in embarrassment. 

“You can–” he coughs before continuing, “you’re here often, you can help yourself if you’re hungry, it’s no big deal.” 

“Oh, thank you,” you chuckle, trying to conceal the humiliation, “but he said he didn’t have anything. That’s why we went out. And I can’t really cook, so.” 

Never in the past weeks would you have thought you’d be sharing embarrassing details about you with your boyfriend’s cold roommate, but life has a funny way of turning things around. 

“I’m sure that’s not true. There’s no way you can’t do the basics.” His body turns, now facing you as he takes an interest in your not so fun fact. 

“I’m not lying! I can’t even make scrambled eggs.” You hide your face behind your hands, and you immediately hear Mingyu laughing as the dent beside you on the couch disappears. 

“C’mon, I’ll teach you. I happen to be a great cook.” Your stomach growls again, and Mingyu looks back at you as he walks towards his kitchen, leaving you no choice but to follow him. 

Mingyu’s not thinking about this exchange with you too much.

Yes, he’s doing exactly what he promised himself he wouldn’t, as this will inevitably make you both closer and he will not be able to turn back to his cold self again. But he couldn’t just go on with his day knowing you were having a bad one, and even worse, knowing you were crying because of his friend.

He had to do something, and if that something is becoming your friend for the afternoon, then so be it.

“Grab the egg carton with his name on it.” You chuckle as you follow his instructions, “and his milk too, why not.” If he left you stranded, the least you can do to get back at him is use his stuff and not Mingyu’s. 

Between laughs and Mingyu indicating instructions like he was teaching a 5-year-old to cook, time passes, you forget why you were at the apartment in the first place, and you end up with a fine plate of scrambled eggs that doesn't taste bad at all. 

“I told you it wasn’t that hard.” Mingyu sits in front of you on the rounded table as you share the food. 

“Well, I’ll let you know if your teaching lasts until I have to cook alone.” You chuckle and avoid his stare, realizing your words sounded much friendlier than you intended. 

Back in the living room, Mingyu’s ringtone disrupts your conversation, and his sigh alerts you that he might already know who’s calling. He gets up with another sigh, throwing you a knowing look before going to answer Jungkook’s call. 

You appreciate his effort to make you feel better, and when he doesn’t ask Jungkook any questions over the phone, only replying with yeahs and okays to whatever he’s telling him, you understand that Jungkook’s not coming back, and whatever he’s telling Mingyu will just make you feel worse. 

Before Mingyu comes back, you do the dishes that you used and get your stuff together. The decision to leave has already been made. 

“Leaving already?” He appears at the entrance to the kitchen, leaning on the edge of the door like a statue. 

“I know he’s not coming back. I’m sorry, I should’ve left earlier, I didn’t mean to be a bother.” It’s the first time you’ve addressed that feeling you have that you constantly bother him, and it’s kind of freeing. 

“You’re not a bother.” A man of few words, Mingyu feels like he meant a lot more with that simple statement than just dismissing your apology. 

His blank reply doesn’t feel forced, not like he only said what you wanted to hear. No. He said it automatically, not thinking much about it, and it took a heavy load off your shoulders. 

“Still, I should–” You’re now standing right in front of him, looking up at his face as he doesn’t realize he’s in your way. 

“Right, sorry.” Mingyu rushes to get out of your way, stumbling against his own feet as he walks backwards to go get his keys. “Do you need a ride? I could–” 

“Oh, thank you, but it’s okay. I’m meeting a friend at a restaurant close by.” A warmness spreads on your cheeks at his offer. “Do you happen to know which way to go? It’s supposed to be a few blocks from here.” 

To redirect his attention away from you, you show him the address of the restaurant on your phone screen. You frequent the neighborhood on a weekly basis, but the blocks tend to mix up, as the buildings look too similar to each other. Mingyu scratches the back of his neck, trying to remember the names of the streets around his place. 

“I think it’s three blocks to the right, and then two to the left.” He doesn’t sound very convinced, but you trust you’d be able to tell if he’s sending you the wrong way, so you take his word. 

Even after denying him, Mingyu still accompanies you downstairs, and you politely say goodbye to each other at the entrance before separating. 

The sun sets on the horizon, the golden hue painting the streets beautifully as you walk. ‘Third block to the right, then turn left,’ you mentally repeat, trying to concentrate on the directions as well as you try to find a street sign that'll tell you if you’re going the right way. 

As you reach the second block to the left, where Mingyu implied the restaurant should be at, your phone vibrates inside your purse. The unknown caller doesn’t give up while you contemplate whether to pick up or let it go to voice-mail, but something in the back of your mind urges you to answer. So you do. 

“Who is this?” In case that another telemarketer got a hold of your phone number, you try to sound annoyed. 

“It’s Mingyu, sorry,” his deep voice sounds the tiniest bit robotic due to the poor service, “I realized I sent you the wrong way. You have to turn right instead of left.” 

“Oh,” you chuckle as your eyes read the street number you’re at, “thank you.” You don’t tell him you could’ve figured it out on your own, a tiny smile appearing on your face at his gesture. 

“I should’ve warned you that I’m terrible with directions.” His breathy chuckle reaches your ear at the same time as a metal ruffling sound. Was he heading out to find you in case you didn’t pick up? 

“No worries.” Your mind is blank, as the two things you’re most awkward at doing are getting combined in one: phone calls and talking to Mingyu. “How did you get my number?” 

“I asked Jungkook for it just now.” That feels weird for some reason, but you toss that feeling away, trying not to overthink about it. “You okay?” 

“Yep! Heading that way now! Thank you! Bye.” You abruptly hang up on him, the only way you thought to end the awkward conversation. 

Your heart rate escalates, pumping hard like it’s about to beat out of your chest as you go the correct way now. Whatever you do, your mind still manages to replay what just happened over and over again, until you’re standing in front of the restaurant hostess.

Walking towards the table you see Nayeon sitting at, the idea of Mingyu having your number saved makes the back of your neck tingle with nervousness, and you can't shake the feeling even as you greet your friend and she starts telling you about her day.

Maybe you’re giving it way too much thought. It’s just the excitement of finally feeling like you’re growing closer to your boyfriend’s friends. Nothing more.

There's been a noticeable shift in the awkwardness of your “friendship" with Mingyu. You didn’t become best friends overnight, but at least he stopped fleeting away from you anytime you'd be over at their apartment, and wouldn’t deliberately choose the spot furthest from you at any group gathering. 

As you and Jungkook step out of his car and walk over to the front door for the costume party a classmate of his was throwing, you can only take a deep breath and hope your extroverted self appears after a few drinks, and that Mingyu doesn’t decide he hates you again, because he’ll be the only other person you know at the party. 

Not much of a partier yourself, you’re just trying, for him. Trying to join your boyfriend in what he likes, especially after he showed interest in you being there with him by inviting you. 

The loud music can be heard even with the door closed, and Jungkook texts his friend to come pick them up, because ringing the bell clearly won’t do anything. 

“Hi man! Sorry for making you both wait.” A tall blonde man who you’re sure is named Jackson welcomes you in, giving Jungkook a man hug before looking you up and down and asking. “What did you guys come as?” 

“I’m a firefighter dude! And she’s...” Jungkook looks at you waiting for your answer, not even trying to remember the name of the character you’re dressed up as.

“Mavis, from Hotel Transylvania!” You smile as Jackson finally lets you in, and you can see in his expression that he has no idea who you’re talking about when you walk past him. 

As soon as you cross the door, it is a relief to find Jungkook’s whole friend group there, sitting occupying the entire couch for themselves, only one big body missing from the ensemble. 

Jungkook only takes his hand off you to greet his friends one by one, and makes them promise to save you seats while you go to the kitchen to find something to drink.

It hasn’t been long since the party started, but the crowded house is already filled with that dense air mixed with the smell of sweat, and the sticky bodies make it harder for you two to advance into the kitchen.

Part of you is relieved that Mingyu’s nowhere to be seen, if he’s even at the party. Sure, you’re getting along now, but being around him is still stiff and awkward. Maybe you can use this opportunity to try and get close to Jungkook’s other friends. 

Sitting between him and other two strangers that squeezed themselves on the far end of the couch, that plan is quickly scrapped. It’s possible Jungkook doesn’t realize you’re too far away to be included in any conversation, he wouldn’t do it on purpose, but you have no will to tell him. Not when his body is fully turned away from you as he talks to Cathlyn and the guy she's dating, Yugyeom.

The music's too loud for their voices to travel backwards and let you hear, but judging by Jungkook’s menacing body next to yours, he doesn't seem to be liking the conversation. He didn't talk much about Yugyeom, that name being new to you as Jungkook’s hadn't even mentioned him before. And from what you know, he and Cathlyn have been having some problems for the past few weeks, so it's normal for her best friend to dislike him.

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄

Mingyu thinks of himself as somewhat of a good friend. Sure, he may have some faults and he fucks up every now and then, as everyone does, but whenever his friends need him, he’s there. He covers for Jungkook at school, listens to his girl problems as any friend would do, hates whoever he hates, and he’d never break that friendship over any random girl. That said, he’s still a man, and he has eyes. 

When he comes back from the patio after catching up with some old friends he bumped into, he first lays eyes on the striking yellow costume Jungkook’s wearing. But as he follows the bright color, he sees you sitting by his friend's side, his arm wrapped around you but giving you no attention as you drink from an almost empty cup. 

It's no surprise to him that Jungkook's too enthusiastically talking with Cathlyn instead of any other friend, or instead of dancing and enjoying the party. What shocks Mingyu is how blatantly he’s ignoring you, sitting so pretty by his side. 

Yeah, Mingyu can admit he finds you pretty. He might be a good friend, but he’s not blind, and denying it would just make him stupid. Any guy with a brain should be lining up for a chance to talk to you, getting lucky to be the ones you spare a glance to. Instead, you’re sitting with an arm around you and being ignored by its owner. It could be that he’s gulping down his fourth drink already, but he might even go as far as saying you’re his type. But that’s about as far as it could possibly go. You’re pretty, nice, and in love with his best friend. Well, maybe not in love yet, but you like him enough to put up with his shit. And Mingyu’s not interested. He can’t be.

A smile forces itself on your face as your eyes catch his across the room. The most polite way to acknowledge his presence without trying to interact with him further.

Mingyu nods your way and drives his eyes elsewhere. It’s not like he wanted you to do anything else, and even if he wanted to go up and chat with you, he couldn’t have fit in between you and the people on your other side crushing your free arm. 

So, he stays there, standing against a wall on the only free hallway –in which there aren’t any people because Jackson threatened anyone who dared to step within a two feet radius of his bedroom, watching the scene progress before his eyes.

Where his friend has a reputation of being a heartthrob, a player, or a heartbreaker, Mingyu’s always thought of as Jungkook’s serious and mean friend. A bad school reputation is the least of his priorities, and he doesn’t care to change how people he doesn’t care about think of him. It’s not like he’s not enjoying the party, he just prefers to stand alone and drink. If that paints him as a boring guy, so be it. He tries scanning the room to find a friend to catch up with, but it's pointless, only the bright yellow costume makes itself visible. 

It's mostly a blur of bodies messily dancing to 2000’s pop songs inside that room, but Mingyu could recognize his best friend's silhouette if he was miles away and 90% blind. Your costume contrasts with Jungkook's in a way that even drunk Mingyu realizes it’s you who's being dragged onto the “dancefloor". 

He sees you get loose as his friend's hands wrap around your waist and move your bodies in sync. It seems that every single light in the house is on despite it being a party, and you’re in the center of his line of sight, constantly and too easily catching his attention. 

What he doesn’t see, however, are your constant complaints about dancing, appearing as flirty whispers to anyone who wasn't listening. And after he takes his eyes off of you two to find a glass of cold water, you’re back again to your original place on the couch, this time with much more space around you. 

“Not much of a dancer?” His feet directed Mingyu to where you sat almost instinctively. There’s finally room to sit down so he’s going to take the opportunity before somebody else does. 

“Only when I’m in the mood.” Your stare’s lost somewhere in the room, paying attention to your drunk boyfriend dancing with his best friend. 

“I see.” You both sit awkwardly, body facing front and eyes focused on the same view. 

“Cool costume, by the way. I love Hotel Transylvania.” Mingyu manages to fill in the gaps of the heavy silence. 

“Thank you! You’re the only one that recognized me.” A small smile appears despite your bad mood. 

“People here lack basic culture.” A simple joke followed by awkward laughs from the both of you, the atmosphere doesn’t help to ease the tension of your interaction. 

“I wanted Jungkook to dress up as Johnny.” You have to stretch your neck to Mingyu’s side so he can hear you above the loud music. 

“That would’ve been cute.” Mingyu doesn’t know what else to say. It’s been a common occurrence for him to go blank when talking to you. 

“I guess he’s not a fan of matching costumes.” You try your best to continue the conversation, not really caring whether he’s interested or not. The little alcohol in your system won’t let you fall on an awkward silence again. 

“He probably got tired of them after so many years.” 

You freeze. 

“What do you mean?” 

Mingyu realizes he just fucked up. All those drinks he had before you came, and that one after, finally brought him to the stage where his mouth gets loose and he starts blurring out things he shouldn’t. 

“Uh–, I mean, Cathlyn used to force him to do it for halloween.” Force. 

For the record, Mingyu's not a liar. He might be loyal to his friend, not wanting to put him in bad situations, but he’s not going to go above and beyond to protect an already weak relationship. So, he picks a word that’s going to save Jungkook’s ass, but still saying part of the truth. 

“Right.” If you caught on to his deliberate choice of words, you don’t show it to him. 

 ⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄

It’s pointless to get mad at your boyfriend for such a meaningless piece of information. Every relationship is different, and you shouldn’t be comparing yours to a much older one. Their bond’s just different! It doesn’t have anything to do with you if Jungkook didn’t want to do stupid matching costumes. 

Still, you’re glad Mingyu slipped and gave away the truth, and you appreciate his effort to make it sound less bad. 

Jungkook gives you no time to ponder on what to do though, as he stumbles his way back to you, so drunk he can’t regulate his strength and falls hard on the couch. 

“My heead hit the back of the c-couch with my head.” Jungkook pouts and slurs his words. 

“Ow, baby, you’re really drunk.” Mingyu’s eyes pierce through your back, and a wave of self-consciousness takes over you. “Should we go home?” 

Jungkook’s cheeks feel warm in your hands as you try to get him to look at you, but his drunk mind can only concentrate on one thing at a time, and for the time being, his eyes are focused on Yugyeom’s hands groping Cathlyn's ass shamelessly as they dance. 

“I don’t feel so good.” He only says, his drunk stare having a hard time straying away from that scene as he gets up and stumbles his way out the house.

Mingyu runs after Jungkook just behind you, and manages to catch him before he faceplants on the damp grass outside. 

“Where did we leave my car?” Jungkook asks no one in particular, disoriented from his almost-fall. “Wait, you’re not my girlfriend!” His eyes go wide as he realizes who was helping him and tries to escape. 

“I’m here, babe.” Before he manages to, you wrap your arm around his other shoulder, leaving him no choice but to be embraced by yours and Mingyu’s hold so he doesn’t hurt himself again. 

Now that you’re outside, with no music blasting at full volume, no people around pushing you constantly, and breathing fresh air, you’re too aware of your surroundings. Or more specifically, how Mingyu’s arm and yours touch behind Jungkook’s back. 

It's a weird way to break the ice of skin to skin contact in a friendship, but maybe it’s what you need to end the lingering awkwardness that surrounds your interactions once and for all. 

“I saw you drinking.” You scold Mingyu after you two lay Jungkook down on the back seat and he turns to find his way back to his car. 

“I’m not drunk anymore.” He mutters just before he trips with his own foot. “Okay. I’ll crash on the back seat for a while and then I’ll go home.” 

“I’ll drive you.” Mingyu's silence as he thinks of a polite way to turn your offer down only eggs you further. “I’m going there anyways.” 

“I-I wouldn’t want to take advantage.” He fiddles with his keys, avoiding your eyes. 

“Of what? Me? His car?” Mingyu hesitates, the gears in his brain visibly turning.

“I don’t know.” It’s quiet, his response, and no matter how cute and defenseless he looks when he’s drunk, you don’t really have time to wait. 

“I’m offering.” You deadpan, but try to flash a small smile so his drunk brain doesn’t understand your hurriedness as anger. “You’re clearly still drunk, c’mon, don’t make me have to drag you.”

Realizing there’s no way out of this other than listening to you, Mingyu caves in and gets on the passenger seat of Jungkook’s car. “You wouldn’t be able to drag me anyways.” 

Of course, you can't push an over six-foot-tall gym bro even if you use all possible bodily strength you have. "Hell yeah I can!” Your teasing stare meets his, and you know he got what he wanted by pushing your buttons. 

"I’d love to see you try.” 

An indescribable feeling completely shuts down the workings of every organ inside you. It could be what he said, but it’s just a common phrase to tease a friend. It could be his eyes that refuse to leave yours. Or it could be the silver of a smirk that appears as you hold your breath. Whatever it is, you push it down, hide it on the very back of your mind and put up ten walls to disguise as a simple and normal response to teasing.

“We should-” 

“I don’t like him.” The drunken backseat passenger you had forgotten about interrupts you. 

“Who?” The distraction allows you to break eye contact with Mingyu. A believable excuse to put a stop to whatever was happening.

“That guy she was with.” Jungkook looks like he’s talking to himself, his eyes closed as if he wanted to fall asleep and unaware of who he's actually talking to. 

“Cathlyn? Her boyfriend?” Mingyu intercepts so you wouldn’t have to ask the awkward questions, already knowing where this conversation’s going. “Yugyeom?”

“Ugh, don't say his name.” Mingyu’s instinct tells him to see your reaction, to check if you realize what Jungkook means by all of this, and especially if it hurts you. “He has a douchebag face.”

You chuckle at his pouty statement, but deep down his words pierce a surface cut on your denying heart. It’s gone as fast as it came, but it was there, and your hands automatically started the car, urging you to start driving like nothing happened.

Ever since the evening started, Mingyu knew Jungkook wasn't going to have a good time. Not since opening the door to the bar that revealed Yugyeom there with Cathlyn.

“Why is he here?” Jungkook muttered under his breath, annoyed, on the verge of being angry.

“She's allowed to invite her boyfriend. Just like you invited your girlfriend.” Is all Mingyu replied.

Jungkook has been in his life ever since he can remember. When their first tooth fell out, when they schemed behind their parents to figure out if Santa was real, when he got his first bicycle and Jungkook laughed in his face when he fell and scraped his knee, when they met Cathlyn in high school and Jungkook’s eyes shined brighter than ever, when they went to prom and lost their virginities on the same night, and when they got accepted to the same college and joined the same classes. Every memory Mingyu has, it’s always Jungkook by his side. He can't mess with that peace, no matter how violently he wants to tell his friend to stop playing with girls’ hearts and realize he’ll be much happier if he owned up to his true feelings.

So, he resorts to trying to make Jungkook connect the dots himself by telling him harsh enough truths. It’s a work in progress.

In the few hours you’ve all been at the bar’s pool table, Mingyu hasn’t said a word. He's been sitting alone at one table on the side, seeing his friends sucking at playing and actually having fun.

With the excuse of being tired and simply enjoying watching each round, he took the opportunity to be temporarily invisible. With all of them busy, he can look at you all he wants, smile to himself when you miss your shot, and pretend to be drinking from his half empty glass.

There’s not much more he can do. Whatever he thinks he feels, whatever he thinks of you, it’s wrong. That’s why, at that moment, he prefers the loneliness of his table. The crude reality punishing him in real time is enough.

Doesn’t matter if you’re on the same team as Jungkook or not, your attention is always focused on him. You search for his touch, his eyes, crave his attention on you. But the more drunk his friend gets, the more competitive he gets, and the little patience he had with your lack of pool skills is quickly dissipating.

Another round finishes, with the both of you losing to Cathlyn and Yugyeom again, and it’s more than obvious that Jungkook’s annoyed. When your opponents excuse themselves to the bar to get more drinks, you try playing on your own and see an opportunity to try and get Jungkook in a good mood again.

“I swear I know where to hit it! My arms just won’t cooperate.” A chuckle escapes during your lighthearted shout.

Jungkook sighs at your missed shot, your pout having no effect as he’s trying to conceal his annoyance. “Which one are you thinking?” He only asks.

“The red one, close to the middle?” You point to it, waiting for any reaction, but he just waits for you to continue. “If I hit it a little to the right, I think it can go inside the left corner hole.” Bodily coordination may not be your strong suit, but you’ve played enough online pool that your brain’s trained to draw the imaginary angles.

The main idea was telling Jungkook your theory, him realizing you actually have an idea of how to play the game, and finally teaching you how to get a hold of the cue stick correctly.

“You have to do it like this.” Jungkook takes the cue from your hands and takes your place, ushering you to the side to watch as he takes the shot. “Your index and middle fingers serve to place the tip of the stick where you want it.”

“But I-” You were right, and the ball enters exactly where you said it would, but you can’t chant victory. Not when his attention shifts to a heated argument just meters away from you.

In the second it takes you to focus on what’s happening, your eyes land on Yugyeom stomping out of the bar, a crying Cathlyn left behind. You don’t even have to check if Jungkook’s still by your side, as he soon enough appears with an arm around her shoulders in an intent to console her.

When he starts getting the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, and heads to walk out the door, you realize the comforting session won’t be quick. But why would it be? His best friend just had a screaming fight with her boyfriend in public. It makes total sense that he’d want to take her out to have some fresh air and a little more privacy than inside the full bar.

“If I knew the night would be like this, I would’ve stayed home resting for next week.” Your body falls on the chair next to where Mingyu’s been sitting in silence. His flat expression rapidly makes you uncomfortable, like you just crossed a line. “Shit, they’re your friends, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t hav–”

“No, you’re right.” He interrupts you, with a tone that implies you must've taken the words right out of him. “I get having troubles, God knows I've seen them go through stuff, but we're allowed to be tired of it.”

Between his cold exterior and sometimes unfriendly choice of words, Mingyu's surprisingly capable of understanding other people's feelings.

“Has this been happening a lot recently?” You don't care to sound like a gossip. “Her fighting with her boyfriend, I mean.”

Mingyu sighs, eyes wandering to the door through which both of his friends just stepped out of. “Let’s just say, it’s been a regular occurrence.”

“Well, let’s not let other people’s problems ruin the fun.” You decide out loud. You’ve been having fun since you got here, regardless of your boyfriend’s bad mood, and you’re not going to let anything ruin your last night out before the busy week you have ahead. “Do you want another drink?” You down the last sip of what Jungkook was drinking.

“Oh, actually, I’m saving to pay for gas for the trip we have next week. I promised to drive, so.” Mingyu explains, too apologetic for simply refusing a drink. “You’re coming right? It’s a congress that our college’s doing.”

“Of course I’m coming,” maybe you should be offended that he doesn’t know, but it’s not his fault, “I’m the one giving the presentation.”

“Wait, seriously?” Mingyu’s eyes go wide, in slight shock as well as in embarrassment. “I knew you had a big thing coming up, but I didn’t think it was that! How did I not know?”

“Maybe Jungkook forgot to tell you. You know how he is…” Mingyu nods at your statement, but the answer brewing in his mind gets cut short by the glass door opening once again.

As if he was summoned, Jungkook re enters the bar alone, quickly lets you know he'll wait outside for Cathlyn's uber with her, and leaves again without sparing you another glance.

Silence fills the void between Mingyu and you, only murmurs from the people around the bar manage to make it not unbearable. Awkward again, you never seem to have a normal conversation with Mingyu without feeling some type of way. Jungkook interrupting seemingly added a layer of tension very hard to dissipate.

“I’m gonna… practice playing.” You aren’t the best at handling awkward silences, so you stand up with that excuse. “I’m so bad at it! I think the stick does the opposite of what I want on purpose.”

Mingyu chuckles behind you, following you to the pool table to watch up close. “You’re not that bad.” You look at him dead in the eyes, head tilting to the side with scepticism. “I’ve been watching you play! You just need to learn how to get into position correctly.”

Your arms cross in front of your chest, deciding if what Mingyu’s saying is in any way true, or if he’s just trying to make you feel better. He takes the cue laying on the table, accidentally knocking a few balls away from their places in the process.

“Show me how you’d do it.” As he hands the pool stick to you, warm smile and standing tall facing you, you feel secure he won’t tease you if you’re awful.

“Okay, but don’t you dare mock me.” The lighthearted threat makes him chuckle again, and your fingers tremble grabbing the stick from his hand. “This is my usual.”

You mentally cringe at yourself, but you push through it and lean your chest forward, hovering over the table, setting the tip of the stick between your fingers and analyzing which ball to hit.

“I see where things might go wrong.” His voice sounds closer with each word, but it's not enough to prepare you to feel his chest against your back, his arms embracing you to guide your hand where he wants to. “Your hand’s too close to the end of the stick. You’re not in full control of it.”

When he places his hand over yours, helping you slide it up the cue, you’re sure your whole body’s covered in goosebumps. Your heart accelerates to unimaginable speeds, about to jump out of your chest as Mingyu’s breath fans on the back of your neck.

“I think we can get the blue striped one,” your mouth blurts out faster than your brain can think, “If I manage to hit the white a little to the left, I can go right and push it into the middle hole.” You try to play off the unprecedented effects Mingyu has over you, forcing yourself to get your mind back in game mode.

He doesn’t let go of his hold on your hand, his arm grazing yours even more closely. “Are you sure? That one seems like a long shot.” You can hear his smirk through his teasing words.

“Just help me hit it there.” Your head turns just barely to the side, finding his face much closer than you imagined, and your eyes roll before going back to the table, trying to mask the blush you feel creeping on your cheeks. “I know I’m right.”

“Relax a bit. It’s close to the hole, so you don't need to hit it too hard.” Mingyu extends his other arm over the table, helping you position the tip to hit exactly where you told him to. You don't dare move, his cheek brushing against your temple freezing you in place momentarily.

When you feel his hands tighten over yours, taking control of the stick with your fingers tangling with his, your arms fall limp, letting him shoot the shot. With the tiniest push, the barest tense of his muscles all around you, both your arms move the cue forward and hit the white ball.

The both of you smile as the striped ball falls in the hole you said it would, relaxing against one another before realizing just how close you really are.

“I told you, I was right.” You chuckle away from him, using cue in your hands as a barrier.

“I’m sorry I ever doubted your skills.” Maybe it’s the drink he was stalling to finish until you approached him, but Mingyu’s more relaxed with you tonight, a little more prone to smiling than usual.

“Babe?” But Jungkook’s voice quickly wipes it off his face. “Let’s get going, wait for me outside.”

“Wait!” You get off Jungkook’s hold, almost offended that he thinks he can drag you away at his will. “I was finally getting a hang of it. Mingyu’s a better teacher than you, you know.” You try to joke to ease the suddenly tense atmosphere, but it doesn’t work.

“I’m really tired, babe. And I promised I’d take you home, so, please?” Jungkook retorts, face turned your way, but his eyes are on his roommate.

The staring contest between the two men doesn’t stop, an indecipherable friction you don’t really want to find out the meaning behind.

“O…kay,” there isn’t really an out where the three of you will be happy, so you just accept Jungkook’s petition to leave, “bye Mingyu.”

You walk away, your hand in the air wishing for Jungkook to take it and come after you.

Mingyu begins to grab his stuff, assuming the both of you will be quickly out the door by the time he’s done paying his tab, but it seems the night is not over for him yet.

Jungkook grabs him by the arm and turns him around so they’re face to face. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“What the hell man?” Mingyu shoves the other’s hand away, a hunch telling him his friend’s anger has something to do with you.

“I leave for a minute and you’re all flirty with my girl.” Jungkook’s always been a jealous man, but Mingyu can’t help but sigh at the accusation.

Still, Mingyu can’t lie and say he wasn’t flirting. He can’t say he didn’t love the way you were blushing and squirming under him. And he can’t say that it wasn’t what he was looking for.

“I was entertaining her because you left.” He retaliates with a part of the truth. “It’s getting old man, you can’t just leave her to go after Cathlyn all the time.”

“You’re back with that again.” Jungkook throws his arms in the air, easily irritated by the topic. “You know what? I’m tired of this.” As the confrontation he was looking for didn’t turn out the way he wanted to, Jungkook begins walking away, “I’m leaving, we’re leaving.”

“You never want to talk about it, but you know it’s wrong.” Mingyu adds, a little louder this time. “You gotta stop.”

“Why are you so worried?” Getting more frustrated by the second, Jungkook barely turns, not fully facing Mingyu. “You never cared about it before.”

“C’mon man, I’ve always noticed.” How awful of a person he is. Accomplice to his best friend breaking girl after girl’s hearts, it’s true that he never cared this strongly about Jungkook’s extracurricular activities. Even though he always tried to make Jungkook realize the truth by himself, for his own good, Mingyu can admit, to himself at least, that now he has an added, selfish reason to want his friend’s behavior to come to an end.

“It’s my life. When I need an opinion, I’ll ask for it.” With that, Jungkook finally leaves, getting out the door to where you’re waiting in the cold.

Mingyu wasn’t done with the conversation. There was so much more he wanted to say. He wanted to say that it’s your life too. Jungkook's messed up feelings were affecting the people around him too, especially every girl he dates to forget. Especially you. But he just couldn’t keep pushing it, not without the truth coming to the light.

Mingyu’s reputation of being too serious, or even heartless sometimes, wasn't born out of nothing. He's aware of his resting bitch face, of the way he bolts in and out of class and the way he's never the first choice for group projects in the classes none of his friends attend. If he cared what other people thought of him, maybe it'd hurt. But he has enough friends, friends who like him the way he is, and doesn't go to college to expand his contact list.

Going to university, to him, was exclusively a way for him to learn more about his likes and interests. He goes to his classes and focuses maybe a little too much, but it’s how he lives his days, how the hours pass until he has to go to work. That is, until you came into his life unprovoked, and disorganized his sharp and efficient lifestyle.

He never crossed paths with you on campus before, and if he were to run into you after the first time he met you, he would've probably ignored you and scurried to his building like a flash. But today, he unconsciously looked around, hoping to catch even a glimpse of your figure coming out of your major’s building. He hoped you’d see him and smile at him as you walked his way to make useless small talk. But you didn’t, of course you didn't, and as soon as he sat down on his usual seat in his favorite class, he realized. He’s fucked.

For the first time in his life, the numbers on the chalkboard didn't make any sense, the words coming out of his favorite professor's mouth sounded like a mumble of pure nonsense. His mind couldn't focus, diving into the memory of your sweet smile next to his ear. Or the shivers your body graced him with as his hands purposely covered yours on the cue stick. His hand would grab his pen to try and write a single sentence, and the feeling of your fingers barely interlaced with his would overwhelm him.

What’s worse than pining after your best friend’s girl? As of the moment, Mingyu has no answer. There’s nothing he can really do either, besides accept you’re in a sort of happy relationship. He can’t take you aside and say ‘hey, you know your boyfriend? My friend? Yeah, so I have a theory that he might be in love with his girl best friend, sorry!’ Even thinking of doing so puts a bad taste in his mouth.

He's aware that, currently, he's at least top5 worst friends in the world. And he's not looking to end your relationship and get bumped up to the top1. It's decided. He'll just ignore whatever feelings are bubbling on the pit of his stomach until they disappear!

Easier said than done, because nothing he does seems to get you out of his mind. And the vivid reminder that he’s nothing more than someone you have to get along with is screaming at him everywhere around his home.

The four walls of his bedroom imprison him, suffocate him with the thought of you. He is a bad friend. He does want you. He does resent Jungkook for keeping you his. But if he broke up with you, would Mingyu ever see you again? Would he ever get the chance to see the heat visibly rushing to your cheeks as he walked closer to you?

Mingyu hates himself. He hates himself for getting turned on at the memory of your body heat against him, shivering at his closeness but not pulling away, letting him wrap himself around you, even if the both of you knew he shouldn't. He needs to drive his mind elsewhere.

Locking in to work in front of his computer, trying to scare away the sturdiness building up in his jeans, it might become the first time he wishes it was his day to go to the office. The front door of the apartment opens, rushed steps and messy, wet, breaths echoing against every thin wall that surrounds him. The reminder that what he deeply wants, it's not, and should never be his.

Working from home has never been so much of a curse.

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄

Jungkook grips at your sides, his body flushing against you and pressing you further into the couch. The near desperate way his lips roam over yours has you gasping for air, but he doesn’t relent, hands making a mess of your hair as he hopes you give him the satisfaction he craves for.

He grinds his hips against yours with determination, and you press against him trying to give him what he’s hopelessly looking for. But no matter what you do, he goes in for more, your bodies getting more and more out of sync.

You try to give him what he wants, emitting sounds of a satisfaction you're nowhere near feeling. His mouth moves to the side of your neck, leaving marks you're not sure you want.

The white door, now in your line of sight, calls for your attention. You shouldn’t be thinking about other people while you have a man in between your legs doing everything to feel any type of pleasure. But if the yellow light sneaking below the closed door alerts you of something, is that the person at the back of your mind is probably right there, behind the dangerously thin cardboard the architects of the building call a wall.

“Isn't Mingyu gonna hear?” The choked up question comes out in a whisper, in fear, in panic. And the mention of his name speeds up your heart rate far more than your current activity.

Jungkook barely cares about your worry. “He's gaming.”

You know gaming implies wearing noise canceling headphones and tuning out of the real world. But is he really? 

“I don't know, babe, shouldn't we check?” It sounds stupid to even ask. Check? Knock on his door to very politely ask him if he can hear you having sex?

“He's not gonna hear,” Jungkook sighs, finally looking you in the eyes to answer, “and I wouldn't care if he did. He has to know you're mine.”

There's a speck of disdain behind his words, behind the weirdly possessive statement he just made. It leaves you more breathless than ever.

“What are you talking about?” You don't know what kind of egotistical manly fight they have going on, men friendships are not exactly your expertise, but it can't be about something you're aware of.

“Don't tell me you don't see it.” Jungkook hasn't gotten up from on top of you, but his hands on the sides of your waist tighten a bit more after your question.

“I don't know what you mean.” You chuckle in an intent to ease up the newly tense atmosphere. You didn’t mean to make it about him. “He's your friend, you shouldn't be jealous.”

“And you shouldn’t be talking about another man while you're under me.” Jungkook retorts, half angry, half still turned on. It's a weird mix. One that doesn't let you reply to correct yourself.

Jungkook lowers down to your mouth once again, kissing you fervently to make you forget about anyone else. And you decide to let go. He’s here, your bodies tangled together and your loose clothing crumbled up your torsos to feel each other’s skins. You shouldn’t doubt that, in that moment, he wants you.

You drift away into the feeling of his lips against yours, both hands cupping his jaw to relax the hurried pace he’s setting. His hands under your t-shirt feel good, like he knows what he’s doing, like he knows how women like to be touched, and it helps. It helps free your mind of everything else.

Still, you’re careful of the sounds that leave your lips. You let Jungkook’s tongue slip inside and dance with yours, muffling any soft moans you don’t get to restrain. He searches for something, his hips angling with yours to feel some kind of friction. If he keeps moving like that, you’ll be in the mood in no time.

A ringtone coming from the back pocket of Jungkook’s jeans disrupts the quiet setting. You stiffen under him, but he doesn't let his mood come down. You're grateful when he grabs his phone to decline the call and puts it on the end table in a rush, finding your body with his hands once again.

It's like, for the first time, he's prioritizing the time he planned to spend with you. He searches for your touch like nothing happened and you're the only thing he's thinking about.

“Just let it go to voice-mail.” Your hoarse voice surprises you, echoing over a new call. Jungkook doesn’t respond, not stopping the trail of kisses up your neck until your lips are against each other again.

But a call comes in again, and he groans against your mouth, trying to ignore it, letting the default ringtone soundtrack your activities until it stops on its own. It’s awkward, but he doesn’t stop kissing you and wraps your legs around him, trying to make you forget.

By the fourth call, you're both annoyed, and Jungkook reluctantly gets up from on top of you to check who's bothering him so much. The caller gives up just when he gets the phone in his hand, but from the corner of your eye, you catch a glimpse of him opening his texts. You don’t mean to spy on him, not wanting to be a controlling girlfriend that needs to know everything her boyfriend's doing, but it’d be nice to simply… get told.

The clicking sounds of his fingers typing on the small screen of his phone are about to send you straight to a mental hospital. Why's he typing so fast? So insistent? Is he mad? He's not telling you anything, as if he forgot he was just kissing you out of breath.

“Did something happen?” You dare ask, even if deep down, you know the answer is clear as day. You know who’s the only one capable of making him drop everything in a heartbeat. “Is Cathlyn okay?”

“She needs me.” Is all he replies. Cold. Decided.

“What do you mean?” The question manages to mask the anger brewing inside you. For now. But you need an explanation. How many times can you put up with the same situation until you blow up? He can’t expect you to be all right with being stood up constantly.

“Yugyeom broke up with her.” He explains without looking at you, like that’s enough of an excuse.

“She always needs you when you’re with me.” Bitterness bleeds through your mumble. It doesn’t feel good. You should understand that best friends need each other. But why are you never on the receiving end of his undivided attention?

“You can’t expect me not to care when she’s going through something. She’s my best friend. She goes first. Always.”

His words are like a bucket of ice water in the middle of winter. The explicit revelation that his priorities are carved on stone. There's silence as he realizes what he said, and neither of you dare speak up.

Your lungs expand but no air gets inside, and your throat threatens to close as your body prepares to start shedding tears. “Why make plans with me if you're just gonna sprint her way at any sign of trouble?” You can’t stop them. “You’re supposed to be with me.”

Tears cascade down your face, quiet sobs getting in the way of your pathetic pleads. Covering your face from the outside world, you shrink in place, giving in to the crying as Jungkook kneels in front of you.

“Baby, I'm sorry.” His now soft voice barely reaches you over your sobs. “I know I haven't been very present.”

“No, you haven't.” His hands carefully withdraw yours from your probably blotched face.

“I promise you,” Jungkook makes the effort to look you in the eyes, “after this, I’ll be better. I'll make it up to you.”

He tries. But you, convinced or not of his willingness to fulfill the promise, don't want him to leave. It's not about the fight, or the sex, or even him. If he leaves, it cements you as the second option. If it was about winners or losers, you'd lose.

“Stay.” It comes out so quiet you're afraid he didn't hear you.

But he did.

“I can't.”

Silence again. Deafening silence as you look at each other with different thoughts racing through your brains. He decided. There's nothing to be done.

Jungkook takes your hand in his and squeezes it tight in an attempt to bring you comfort. He thinks he's doing the right thing. He thinks he'll be able to nurse his best friend's heart and then come running back to you after.

At your silence, he stands up, reaching for his coat hanging on the hallway before sparing you one last look and heading out.

The soft click of the door closing behind him breaks you a little more inside. The couch, no longer warm with the weight of two bodies, feels empty, too big for you to fill.

Bare, exposed, you let yourself be vulnerable only for him to cut you off and leave you there, with your feelings blurting out of you in the form of tears and sobs. The undecorated walls judge you as you cry your eyes out. Is there something you can do that’ll make him like you more? You already try so hard, you’re just not… her.

When the white door opens to reveal the other man of the house, you're not surprised. Of course he was there, and of course he heard everything. Your luck wouldn't let you escape this situation without throwing a more embarrassing one at your hands.

It took Mingyu all of two seconds to realize what was happening. His headphones in the grip of his hand are proof that he did not want to hear what you two were doing, he just didn’t get to put them on. He may be a bad friend, but he's not one to invade someone's privacy.

That's why it took him a bit more time to decide to step out of his room. Would you let him be there for you? Would you be too embarrassed? You shouldn’t be, he thinks. It’s not your fault.

At one point, he got used to Jungkook abandoning his fleeting girlfriends at the first notification from his best friend that popped up. Mingyu never did anything for the girls, and they usually left after a few minutes. Maybe that's why most of them didn't like him. He didn't care, and they always cut ties with everything Jungkook related after the break up, so why would he?

He shouldn't be doing anything. Caring that you're crying alone in the middle of his living room goes against every rule he imposed onto himself. He should be cleansing his mind of you, stepping away from the weird not-friendship you two developed and going back to focusing on the things that matter. He shouldn’t let you climb up that list.

But as soon as he heard his roommate standing up and leaving, the itch at the back of his brain started screaming at him to do something. How can he step back and do nothing? He can’t be indifferent this time. Unfortunately, he does care. Unfortunately, every sob and quiet sniffle tugs at his heart and urges him to be there for you, to come out and try to be there for you as best he can.

The sight of you, even if it's not something he hadn't seen before, breaks him. Making yourself as little as possible, with your clothes wrinkled and your hair a mess, you let him sit by your side, the cold couch caving under him as he settles at a good enough distance that he’s close enough to feel him beside you, but not sticking to your side inappropriately.

The silence with him is a more understanding one. It’s not the first time he’s seen you cry, but you don’t dare say anything. Is there even something to say? You didn't argue, Jungkook didn't run away angry at you, he didn't tell you he hates you and wishes you were somebody else, yet, you feel as if he did something worse. Empty yet full of self deprecating thoughts you wouldn't voice out to the best psychologist on the planet. You couldn’t tell Mingyu even if you wanted to.

A hand, warm and firm, places just above your knee. It’s soft, careful, an innocent touch to understand that he’s there for you. The gesture is oddly comforting, and you allow yourself to feel everything. The embarrassment, the disappointment, the hurt, knowing Mingyu won't judge you for it.

“It’s not your fault.” Mingyu claims, his voice overpowering your racing thoughts.

Maybe it’s the way he says it so sincerely, but you break down even more. Your hands cover your face once again, bending down until your forehead touches your knees. Mingyu’s hand frees itself from the cage you created. He’s definitely had enough of your crying for the night by now. He tried to help and you repay him by dropping half your weight onto his hand and continue crying? If he leaves too, you wouldn’t blame him.

But he doesn’t leave. Instead, Mingyu wraps his arm around your shoulder and brings you closer to him. “He doesn’t deserve your tears.”

Your heart stops for a second, taking in your closeness and the reason behind it, and what he said about his close friend. Your head lays against Mingyu’s shoulder almost on its own, and he keeps you there, even if your tears start staining his shirt.

“He wasn’t like this before.” Your voice breaks trying to defend the you of the past, and the arm behind you stiffens before you feel his hand hold onto your other shoulder for comfort. “They warned me, and I didn’t listen.”

He shouldn’t be the one to tell you. Mingyu knows that. But you’re so broken, crumbling against him like there’s nothing else you can do, that he almost lets the truth slip out. It’s on the tip of his tongue, the thing that’ll break you even more. But he can’t allow himself to do it.

So, he stays silent, offering a place for you to let out all your feelings. Whatever you need to feel better, even if it’s just a little.

Mingyu doesn’t know how much time passes, or what you’re thinking, but he can feel how your breathing regulates with every second. Eventually, your sniffles become rarer and rarer, you straighten your posture and, unfortunately for him, step away from his hold.

“I’m sorry, I–” You can’t look him in the eyes, taken aback by the realization of what happened, guilt making you trip over your words, “I shouldn’t have–”

Getting up and gathering your things is the only thing you can think of doing. Whatever solace you found in his arms is now gone, replaced by an awkwardness you don’t know how to handle. Mingyu’s eyes bore holes on your back as you pick up your things that fell down when you first entered the apartment without care.

“It’s okay,” Mingyu’s gentle words help you relax, but the need to get out of the apartment is stronger. “You can stay, I don’t want you to leave while being upset.”

“I can’t be here, Mingyu.” You don’t mean to sound so hostile, but everywhere you look is a reminder of how pathetic you just were. It’s pushing you away.

“Is there anything I can do?” Mingyu hovers around you, not wanting to scare you away. He’ll do whatever you ask him to. “Anything.”

“I– I just want to be alone.” You walk yourself to the door, too tired to think about how you feel about everything that happened. Too busy to consider anything else. “I have to get ready for tomorrow.”

“Right, it’s tomorrow.” He’d forgotten about the college thing. Your college thing. He was so busy pretending to mind his own business and hiding from his feelings that he forgot you have your own life too. “You’re gonna do great.”

“Thank you…” Your hand rests on the door handle, hesitating leaving Mingyu after he helped you. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Your lips tight in the best smile you can manage, in an attempt to not seem mad at him.

“We’ll pick you up in the morning.” Mingyu announces, even if he knows you planned to come on your own.

“There’s no need for that.” You let out a sad, airy chuckle that squeezes Mingyu’s heart.

“No, We’ll–” he starts, but corrects himself, “I’ll pick you up. It’s not up to discussion. You, focus on resting.”

Mingyu takes the decision for you and opens the door himself, both of you ignoring the tingling at the touch of your hands. A quiet mumble goodbye is all you manage to say before going for the elevator. And Mingyu stays at the door until he’s sure the elevator’s going down.

The scorching mid-day sun heated the car so much you can’t rest against it. A few feet ahead, the guys stand in line at the convenience store at the gas station, with mainly energy drinks in hand and a few sandwiches. After driving the entire morning, everyone collectively decided to stop for a while for a bit of leg stretching and to recharge for more hours of driving.

It’s been a weird day from the start.

Mingyu picked you up like he promised, and even made sure you didn’t dare take an uber to their home by texting you they were on the way too early in the morning. You were about to open the uber app when he texted.

You barely got any sleep during the night, your brain switching from replaying the evening at Jungkook’s place and revising for the presentation. You rested so little, yet the usually soothing hum of the car isn’t helping you sleep, choosing to focus on everyone’s voice.

Since you opened your eyes, after tossing and turning all night, you didn’t let yourself think about anything that wasn’t the presentation. When to pause, how much to wave your hands in the air. It worked to an extent. But hearing Jungkook sitting by your side making the effort to talk to Cathlyn, who was sitting in the passenger seat while Mingyu was driving, almost made you go insane.

The only reason you’re alone waiting while the rest of them shop is because you insisted. No, you don’t need to go to the bathroom. No, you don’t want anything specific to eat. No, you don’t need to walk it out. Just in need of a little bit of peace. And Jungkook let you be. He’s been pretending nothing happened the previous night, and you’re glad he’s not forcing you to voice out your thoughts.

The bell above the store’s door chimes as everyone leaves altogether. Instinctively, you reach for the passenger’s door, as the idea was for Mingyu and Jungkook to switch seats so Mingyu can take a rest from driving, but a voice reaches you before you get the chance to open the car.

“Is it okay if I stay there?” Cathlyn runs over to you with a pack of chips in hand.

“Shotgun again?” Jungkook appears behind her, a sly smile on his face before he rounds the car to open the trunk.

She giggles at him but turns her attention back to you when she notices your silence and questioning look. “I’m sorry, I just get really dizzy in the backseat.”

Giving up on reality is easier than fighting it. You’re not going to be the one to deny the poor girl who just got broken up with. Sure, sit with your best friend, laugh with him and ignore the rest of the world outside your bubble. Who cares? “Sure, I don’t mind.”

The car is not that small, but with Cathlyn’s friend, who you didn’t know was coming on the trip until you were in front of the car on the street by your building, you end up between her and Mingyu in the backseat.

Feeling him by your side wakes up flashbacks from the previous night. But if before he was warm and comforting, he’s now rigid in place, looking out the window as the car gets back on the road. You don’t know what you expected, or why you feel a hint of disappointment at the pit of your stomach, but there’s nothing you can really do. You aren’t giving him many chances to be friendly with you either.

For a moment, you’re thankful for the cease in conversation, when Jungkook turns up the volume of the radio and random pop hits start entrancing everyone in the car into listening quietly. Cathlyn and her friend, who they call Mel, bob their heads to the song in sync without realizing, and it’s peaceful.

But then, the next song plays, and the two people sitting in the front part of the car collectively gasp. Mingyu shifts on your side, and you know he recognized what they did too.

“This is the song that–” Cathlyn starts, but they both laugh before she can finish explaining.

“He really hated you for that.” The only reason Jungkook’s eyes are on the road is because he’s driving, because if he weren’t, you’re sure he’d be laughing his ass off with Cathlyn.

“He hated me before too!” She slaps his shoulder before erupting into laughter again. “For no reason may I add.”

All three of you in the backseat just stare at them, listening, waiting for one of them to think of telling the anecdote. Your instincts want nothing more than to look at Mingyu, side eye him for a little help, but you fight them.

“What did you do?” Mel asks by your side, trying to get the attention from the party in the front.

“Our history teacher hated her in senior year.” Jungkook looks at Mel through the rear-view mirror. “She argued with him almost every day.”

“I can see her doing that.” While her friend chuckles at the bit of the story, Cathlyn still doesn’t turn around, almost exclusively laughing with Jungkook.

“And he threatened to fail me on the last test we had!”

“I keep telling you, there’s no way he would’ve done that.”

“It seemed like a very real threat to me.”

“So, you had to blast this song outside the classroom?”

“I had to make a show out of it!”

As they keep bickering about their senior year, leaving you out of the fun, the air around you becomes as awkward as ever. Mel’s laughing with them, the only one paying real attention to their jabs at each other. Mingyu, on the other hand, looks down as he plays with his fingers. You’re… bored.

The conversation you’re not a part of doesn’t interest you, the music’s no longer loud enough to help you take your mind off everything, and you have at least two more hours of agony.

So you focus on the cars on the road, the ones you pass, the ones that pass you, the grass, the animals, the farms, until your eyes finally close on their own.

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄

When you open your eyes again, the car’s slowing down, arriving at the motel that’ll house the five of you for the following days. It’s still bright outside, but the slightly orange tones in the sky and your stomach growling indicate the beginning of the evening.

A familiar hard surface below your temple holds your head in place. When exactly you fell asleep is the first question that pops up in your head. The second one answers itself quickly.

“We’re here.” Mingyu’s low voice accompanies his soft grip just above your knee, with a little reminder of the last time it was there.

As you lift your head and stretch your neck until it pops, it hits you. You fell asleep on Mingyu’s shoulder. A whole two hours where you bothered him, again. Made him take care of you, again.

“You should’ve woken me up.” Mingyu shakes his head at your intent of an apology, but you interrupt him before he speaks up, “I’m sure you were uncomfortable.”

“Really, I didn’t mind.” In the background, Cathlyn and Mel excuse themselves out of the car to look for their room in a rush. “I can wash all the drool off my shirt just fine.”

“I do not drool.” The way he chuckles compels you to join him. It’s easy, and the first time you even smiled in the day.

The door to the driver’s seat shuts closed with force, and both you and Mingyu scurry to get out of the car as soon as possible.

You don’t miss the way Jungkook studies you as he hands each of you your bags from the trunk. Cold as ice, he stays silent when Mingyu excuses himself to find their shared room.

“If your plan’s to make me jealous, that’s not gonna cut it.” Jungkook’s voice surprises you from behind, and the frown he wears on his face accompanies the angry tone.

“I didn’t plan anything.” He doesn’t speak to you the whole trip, and now he has the audacity to be mad at you? “But by the looks of it, whatever you think I did, it clearly worked.”

“Already looking for a rebound?” He follows behind you to the entrance of the motel.

“Jungkook, I don’t have time for this.”

You have hours and hours of practice ahead of you, and they might not be enough for your talk to be perfect. He knows the congress is a big deal to you, or at least he should. You can’t be thinking about anything else. Not about him. Not about your relationship with him. Not about Mingyu.

“Are you planning to break up with me?” You’ve never heard him talk like this before. He doesn’t sound hurt, just angry, jealous.

You scoff. “If you keep being an asshole, I might.” The answer blurts out without checking with your brain first. He didn’t expect you to say something back. You didn’t either.

“Fine.” Jungkook crosses his arms, waiting for you to say the words you’re not even sure you want to utter. “Do it.”

“Look, I can’t deal with this right now.” You take a deep breath, trying to think clearly, to not do anything impulsively. “You’re mad and I’m stressed. It’s not the best time.”

“Are you saying you’ll do it tomorrow?”

“What? I’m not saying anything, Jungkook, stop.” Your bag’s heavy on your shoulder as you rack your brain for anything to help you out of this. “Why don’t we take the night off, I’ll practice for tomorrow, you can relax after all the driving, and we’ll have a proper talk tomorrow. Okay?”

Jungkook huffs, mumbling something close to a ‘fine then, bye’ before storming off.

The back of your throat feels dry and hoarse from the hours of speech practice. How to modulate correctly, how to make your voice bigger. It takes a toll on you. 

When you and your friends planned to do the finishing touches the night before the congress, none of you thought you’d be trapped in a tiny motel room for hours, tweaking the words to seem more professional, timing yourselves to fit in the 15 minute time slot, and even going as far as to plan when and how to look at the screen behind you.

Your stomach growls incessantly. You haven’t had anything to eat in hours, besides the simple dinner the three of you had after setting up in your rooms. Seeing every one of you is tired, the girls don’t stop you when you get up and leave the room in search of a vending machine.

Somehow, the balcony has better lighting than your hallway, and you spot a big vending machine just outside your hallway. Picking a snack is not hard when your tummy begs for anything, so you grab the random chip bag you picked and begin to head back when you hear a loud thud and a curse coming from the next hallway.

Judging by which hallway you’re walking into, and the sheer size of the person bending over in pain in front of their door, it’s Mingyu.

“Are you okay?” You rush to help him in any way you can.

Mingyu’s head shoots your way and he curses again. “Shit, it’s you, hi, yeah.” He grunts in between words and tries to stand up straight. “I closed the door right in my hand. It’s no big deal, really. Go rest for tomorrow.”

Even from afar, you could see the sweat stains on the back of his sleeveless t-shirt. His shallow breathing and sweat dripping down his hair and face welcome you as you reach him. It's a sight. His skin glistening under the white hallway lights catches your attention a second longer than it should before it goes back to the cause of his pain.

“You’re bleeding!” Taking a closer look at the hand he’s holding, you see a growing red bubble right under the ring finger’s nail. “Let’s get you inside.”

“You don’t have to–”

“Shut up and go put your hand under running cold water.” After he’s helped you so many times, the least you can do is google what to do when someone has a bubble of blood growing under their nail.

The empty room catches your attention as you read the quick answers your search pulled up. “Jungkook’s not here?”

Looking over to the open bathroom door, Mingyu’s hand is under the running tap like you instructed, but he’s staring at you with an indecipherable look in his eyes. He must know about the fight you two had.

“He went out with some friends that came here too.” He answers before giving up and drying his hand. “It’s not clearing out.”

You should be used to him sitting closely by your side. Your breath shouldn’t quicken and your hands shouldn’t sweat as the bed creaks below him. Actually, you need to stop getting into situations where Mingyu needs to sit beside you. But you can’t help it.

Maybe focusing on his minor injury can help your body relax. “Okay, so, google says it should go away on its own in like… two or three days.” Even if there’s so many questions you have for him that you avoided all day, it’s not the time.

“I'll have to stay with a blood bubble on my finger for days?” His threatening pout lifts your mood quickly.

You chuckle, taking his hand in yours once again. “Does it hurt?” Mingyu shakes his head with a small smile growing in his face, letting you have your way.

Now that he’s calmer than when you found him outside, his fingers relax in your hold as you look for any bruises. His hand that held you and comforted you one too many times, now being taken care of by you. Rushes of warm blood follow where your skin meets his, even the lightest of touches aren't free of his effect on you.

“Why didn’t you go with them?” Your mouth betrays you once again, voicing out your thoughts instead of getting through the silence. “Your friends.”

“Didn’t feel like it.” His answer is simple. And you wish it was enough to satiate your curiosity, but you simply can't stop asking questions.

“Nothing more?” You don't know what you expect him to answer. Maybe you're just looking for excuses to keep talking to him, to stay in the momentary bubble that surrounds you every time you’re with him.

“I haven't been… liking him much lately.”

Mingyu's careful with his choice of words. Still believing it’s not his place to talk about what goes on in Jungkook’s life, he can’t not be honest with you, not when you’re so close to him he’s sure you can read every expression on his face.

A drop of sweat drips down the side of his face, training your eyes to follow its way down until it dampens the side of his mouth.

“You're best friends.” A remainder, more to yourself than to him.

“Doesn't mean I have to agree with everything he does.”

Mingyu hopes you understand the meaning behind his words.

You hope he doesn't notice the way your eyes stayed too long on his moving lips before going back to his eyes.

You both hope for things you can't voice out, charging the little space between your stares with electricity. With his hand forgotten in your hold, reading his expression becomes your main task.

None of you dare move, and you know, somehow, that he's waiting for you to do something –anything. What you don't know is what you want.

Your phone chimes in your back pocket just when you part your lips to speak. There's a millisecond, barely noticeable to anyone who wasn't watching Mingyu's gaze closely, where his eyes drift down your face. With your lips dry at his attention, you break the spell, letting go of his hand to reach for your phone.

Nayeon asks where you disappeared to, and sends a long chain of suspecting emojis when you tell her who you’re with.

“I–I have to get back.” Getting up from the weak motel bed in a flash, Mingyu's eyes follow you to the door. “Sorry for taking up your time.”

“You gotta stop with that.” He stops you in your tracks, with a soft grip on your wrist to turn you back to him.

“Stop talking like you're a bother.” He doesn't let you dismiss him. “You don't bother me. I wouldn't spend time with you if you did.”

“You didn't use to like me. And now you pity me, that's why you spend time with me.” Even if you'd like to believe otherwise.

“That's not true.” He doesn't let go of you, and you stop aiming to get out the door. “I don't pity you.”

“You never talked to me until you caught me crying that day.” Your head tilts, trying not to seem so serious with your counter argument.

Another text comes through your phone. You shouldn't be wasting time on such an important night. But is it really wasted time if you're spending it with him?

“It wasn't about you.” Mingyu reveals, but it doesn't really clear up your doubts. “I don't like getting to know people I'm not sure will stick around.”

“So, it's true.” You bring your arm out of his grip, a way to protect yourself. “I wasn't supposed to last this long.”

“Look. It's not my place, and I've already gotten too involved.” Mingyu's words fly over you, choosing not to overthink what he means. “Jungkook's shit is Jungkook’s shit, but you can decide what to do too. Don't wait for him to make a decision for you.”

“I'm capable of making my own decisions, Mingyu.” You say, convinced but weary of his tone.

“I know you are. He doesn't.”

The silence is striking, breathtaking, heartstopping. Words don't come up in your brain, an infinite echo of Mingyu's remark rendering you incapable of following a simple order.

“See you tomorrow.” You can only offer him a small smile before finally leaving the room full of him.

The applause almost breaks you down. You can finally take a deep breath. The thing you’ve been preparing for weeks, taking up most of your sleep time and raising the bar for how much stress you can handle, is finally done.

Well, not completely. Your speech is done, yes, but the time for questions begins. Jennie and Nayeon answer everything swiftly as your eyes scan the room for any known faces. You finished the presentation and you can barely catch your breath as your heart tries to slow down, so they take on the most annoying part of the job.

From across the room, behind the people eager to ask their questions with their hands in the air or attentively listen to your friends’ responses, the tall man only looking at you makes your heart stop.

Was he there the whole time? When you speak in a room full of people, you tend to disappear into your own mind, barely registering what surrounds you until your time’s up. He could've just got here, but deep down you know he didn’t. Deep down, you know he’s been there since the start, supporting you without your knowledge.

As a hand on your shoulder starts gently dragging you away from the stand, splitting the way between your connected stares, a sense of accomplishment washes over you. You're done, you can carry on with your life. 

In the hallway just outside where you just spent the most stressful hours of your life, you can hear the next group beginning their presentation, one that luckily you’re not required to be present for. Perks of being in the line up.

Getting out the other door, Mingyu searches for you and finds you walking over to him with the biggest smile adorning your face.

“What did you think?” Your friends’ giggles make it to your ears from behind. Merging the constant teasing you’re the victim of with their infatuation with Mingyu is dangerous, but there really is only one thing in your mind now.

“You talked really well.” The highlight of every word as his eyebrows wiggle with confusion lights a warmth in your belly that spreads across your body into a chuckle.

“You didn’t understand a thing, did you?” 

“I didn’t.” It’s his chuckle, and his smile, and his eyes glimmering, and his chin tilted down to get a better look at you.

Have you ever felt this way before? Easy under someone’s gaze, unafraid of making them feel less intelligent. He’s… genuinely happy for you. Out of all the presentations in the schedule, your subject matter was the least close to his field, yet he chose to listen to your sociology lesson.

“Thank you for coming.” You say before the magic fades. “You–you didn’t have to.”

“I didn’t want to miss it.” He’s the most genuine he can possibly be.

Mingyu undoubtedly, and selfishly, cares about you. From the sidelines, he saw you getting the opportunity, the toll the preparations were taking on you. He wasn’t going to skip one of the biggest moments of your life after seeing you struggle for so long.

“That makes one of you.” You don’t mean it to sound as spiteful, but the sour taste in your mouth as you realize who isn’t present triggers the resentful tone. “Anyway, I’m not gonna let some asshole ruin my day! We’re going to celebrate with the girls and some guys I have no idea how they managed to make friends with, do you want to come?”

Mingyu doesn't think about what you mean behind your invitation. “Sure, if you want me there.” He’d jump at any chance he got to spend time with you. 

Ever since that night at the pool bar, Mingyu never forgot your willingness to not let one bad moment overshadow an otherwise enjoyable day. A quality he could learn from. That’s why, he also can’t forget about the moments he comforted you, when everything became so overwhelming you had no choice but to let it all out.

“Let’s go then!” Your hand aims to stretch back for him to take, but the little angel on your shoulder wins this round, and you just walk out the hall with Mingyu following you, hand hanging cold by your side.

The evening sky greets you on the outside world, and the fresh air filling your lungs after being trapped inside the suffocating new college is very welcomed by your body.

Following your friends wherever they go, letting them choose which bar or club to go celebrate, you can only smile and silently walk behind them. Mingyu’s towering presence occupies the space to your right. He’s also silent, admiring the new city, letting you have the unspeaking moment you need.

It’s not long before you’re getting into a club with flashing colored lights and loud pop music coming out of the speakers. The sense of accomplishment embodies you whole. One less thing to worry about, one less thing weighing you down. You won't let anyone take the freedom from you.

It’s a carefree night. You let yourself be dragged to the packed dance floor, your friends leading the way amidst all the bodies crowding as they dance out of sync.

Being drunk could never compare to the happiness you feel as you join everyone dancing. You allow the music to take over you, with your hips and limbs coordinating to the rhythm of each song playing, blending into the sea of people.

You don't know when, you don't care how, and with no will to stop, you and Mingyu drift towards each other, the little space and dim atmosphere making it easy to hide everything wrong with what you're doing.

“You're happy.” Mingyu leans down to say to your ear. The only way you could hear him over all the noise.

“I am!” You don't fight the smile growing in your lips, focusing on the way Mingyu's eyes scan your face under the blue lights.

This time, the battle between the little angel and the devil dictating your choices ends with the victory of the mischievous voice that tells you to inch closer to Mingyu.

With the excuse of the loud music, you stand on your tiptoes to reach the side of his face, your lips grazing his ear as you say, “I'm glad you came.”

His hands steady you in place before you lose your balance, holding onto your hips and keeping you in place.

You should swat his hands away. He should stand back from the girl who isn't his. The tension sizzles from the tip of his fingers barely dipping into a bit of uncovered skin and up your body until your chest tightens.

“I'm sure you'd want someone else here.” Even with the scandalous meaning behind his words, you don't ignore the light teasing tone he purposely uses.

“I'm not thinking about him right now.” His eyes search for yours, finding only truth in them.

The people surrounding you, unscrupulously dancing against each other and paying you no mind, sway your bodies from side to side. Neither of you make a move to separate, letting the pushing crowd be the excuse for your closeness. You have the urge to wrap your arms around his neck, but you fight it. Maybe if he was something else, you would.

But the universe would never let you be this careless without some karma waiting for you.

When your gaze reluctantly disconnects from Mingyu's in search for your friends, the sight of two familiar people catches your attention a few meters to the side. You should've known he was with her. That he'd choose her over you even for this.

They're just dancing, and you can't complain about it because you're currently in the arms of another man too. It's just… different. 

Your hands find Mingyu's still on your sides, grabbing them softly to get them off you as your eyes go from the scene you just witnessed to him and then back. Of course, he gets it immediately.

“I can talk to him.” Mingyu has this instinct now, to shield you from having a bad time.

“No, I'll do it. I have a few things in mind to say.” While you appreciate him wanting to help, it’s something you have to do on your own. You can’t shield behind Mingyu any longer.

Making the sacrifice of looking like a psychotic girlfriend, the adrenaline moves your legs forward, no time to think further about what you’re about to do. They don’t see you coming, they probably didn’t even see you with Mingyu before, too sucked into their bubble to notice other people.

“Jungkook.” His shocked expression just confirms your theory. He notices you’re mad quickly, but the wheels turning in his mind, failing to find the reason for your anger, are so visible you can’t control your mouth. “Glad to see you’re having fun.”

“Hi, babe! I didn’t—see you come in!” He leans into the wall behind him for support, body as stiff as ever. “Having a good time?”

“Are you kidding me?” Admittedly, you’re raising your voice a few decibels over the necessary amount, but you’ve never cared less about drawing attention than at this moment. “You really forgot, huh?”

Only then, Jungkook realizes he messed up. It’s not normal to see you angry, especially not at him. “Let’s talk outside, okay? It’s quieter.”

You catch his eyes going back to Cathlyn before he places a hand on your lower back to direct you to the door. Astonishing, really.

“You could make it less obvious, at least.” The harsh cold night wind slaps you even more awake. “I’m not stupid, Jungkook.”

You’re not dressed to be standing outside on the street at this hour. The city’s too windy, making you shiver as if it was the middle of winter. You don’t want to look weak in Jungkook’s eyes, you need to look like you stand your ground. The cold is a mental state anyway, you can fight it.

“You’re not, babe, but what are you talking about? What are you doing here?” His cluelessness does everything but help his situation.

“We’re celebrating that our presentation was a success.” At the news, everything clicks in Jungkook’s mind.

“It was today.” Jungkook reminds himself out loud.

“Of course it was today! Why else do you think we drove all this way?” He has to be a special kind of disengaged and disinterested to selectively wipe his memory like this, you think.

“I’m sorry, baby! So much happened today, and I thought you didn’t want to see me after last night.”

“Don’t use one fight as an excuse. You forgot or you didn’t care. Either way, this was important to me and you didn’t come.”

People passing you on the street side eye the scene you’re making. Jungkook seems to care about being judged, taking in account the way his eyes widen at every raise of your voice.

At his silence, you keep going. “What did Cathlyn fucking need this time? What could have possibly been more important than your girlfriend?” It feels pathetic to call yourself that.

“You have to understand,” his voice becomes tense at the utterance of her name, “she’s my best friend. She means everything to me.”

You’re positive she’s listening to all of this. Hiding behind the club’s door waiting for the chance to come out and comfort her oh so dear best friend. It’s not her fault, but it’s hard not to grow an ill feeling thinking about her.

“Don’t I mean anything? Why get into a relationship with me if you won’t take it seriously? If you’re in love with someone else?”

It’s hard to form an articulated sentence when the anger and the sadness spar in your mind. It’s hard not to feel desperate, a pitiful attempt at making a careless man care about you.

Your gaze trains on the floor, tuning out Jungkook’s lame excuses and not truthful apologies. Without looking at him, and with only the grey sidewalk on sight, it’s like you can think clearly for the first time.

“I’m sorry, baby, I promise I’ll make it up to you.” It’s just a moment where you let his words register, and it’s the last thing you need to decide.

“No. You won’t.”

Jungkook shuts up instantly. Your gaze doesn’t falter this time, locking into his with your best poker face. You can see every thought passing through his mind, every little reaction he fights to show. He analyzes your expression, looking for another meaning, for any sign that you don’t mean what you said.

“I promise I will, baby, c’mon.”

The thing is, after so many promises, those words coming out of his mouth become meaningless. They’re just empty words he uses to get you to forgive him, he’s not being truthful, he’s just begging so he can feel better with himself.

“No! You won’t! That was your last chance.” It gets clearer and clearer to him what you’re saying.

You shouldn't have been silently enduring the scraps of his attention he was giving you. Waiting for your growing feelings to be reciprocated by someone who doesn’t respect you. Those feelings, however big or small —you’re not sure, quickly started dissipating at the realization that he simply didn’t care. It wasn’t his memory, or his busy schedule, it was the lack of intention. Care and intention he always showed to someone else.

“Babe…” He sounds like he gave up too, one last pity attempt you know he doesn’t mean.

“We’re done. You never wanted to be with me, and I certainly don’t want to be with you anymore.”

When you start walking away, Jungkook doesn’t stop you, standing where you left him with his eyes lost to the ghostly street.

Realizing the burden he’s been on your life and letting it go finally lets you see clearly. Your night might’ve been ruined, but you’re liberated from that pain. You’re not happy, but you’re not sad either, just walking forward, a new future ahead.

You’ve walked almost two whole blocks, the motel a half block away, when the sound of rushed steps chasing you alerts you. You didn’t think anyone would be coming after you, but you realize who it is right when the figure appears in your line of sight.

“Are you okay?” Mingyu’s breathless, slowing his pace to match yours. He definitely heard everything that happened.

“Yeah, I think so.” Even if you sound convinced, he stays walking with you.

“I’ll walk you inside.” He doesn’t look back, deciding on what to do. But you know he should be making sure his friend is okay. You guess he is, though.

“I'll be fine. You can stay with—”

“I want to make sure you’re okay.” Mingyu interrupts you before you can say the other’s name. “I don't care about him right now.”

Your heart stops for a moment before your brain catches up. All those times Jungkook left you and Mingyu came right to the rescue, when he got annoyed at them in the pool bar, or admitting he didn’t like what Jungkook was “choosing”. Of course he has to know how his best friend and roommate feels about everyone.

“You knew it all this time.” He doesn’t look at you, staring at the distance as he listens closely. “That he’s in love with her.”

“I didn't want to be the one to tell you.”

Your room door’s just one step away now, but you still stop in your tracks at his words. You never thought of his silence as his way to shield you from the truth. You never thought that the initial pity he took on you —even if he denies it, came from a place of hiding something from you.

“He was in love with somebody else while being with me! That’s the kind of thing you need to tell me!” Luckily, the hallway is completely deserted at this hour. You wouldn’t want to make another scene. You’re more aware of everything now, free but raw, as if anything could scar you.

“It wasn't my place!” For a second you understand Mingyu. Imagining him even implying it hurts more than realizing the truth yourself. But it still hurts. You trusted him with your most vulnerable moments, and all that time he hid that he knew the real cause for that pain. “And don't act like you didn't know it too.”

Mingyu’s harsh comment feels like a punch in the gut. There’s no malice in his tone, you’ve come to know him and his tendency to be too direct sometimes, it was just unexpected this time.

But he is right. There were signs everywhere for you to see, signs you turned a blind eye to. It was a thought that often crossed the back of your mind, but you dismissed it before you could think about it further. You were stupid to think you were paranoid and it meant nothing.

“Stop.” You realize you weren't looking at him and shoot your gaze up. “I know what you’re thinking. Don’t blame yourself. He’s the asshole and you’re not at fault for believing him.”

“But I shouldn’t have. I thought I was smarter than that, turns out I’m just dumb.” You want to curl up in bed, hide from the judging outside world and forget all about Jungkook and the past few weeks. But not all of it.

“He’s the dumb one for not seeing how great you are.” Mingyu's hand on your shoulder manages to comfort you enough to hold off on the tears. “Are you okay? About breaking it off?”

“I know it was the right choice for me. But I have to assimilate it, I think. Sleep it off”

Mingyu nods in acknowledgement as your hand reaches for the doorknob. As if that was your way of ending the conversation, he turns his body to head out the grimy hallway, because he knows what’s next. You’ll cut off everything related to your now ex, a pack of memories in which he himself is included. This is why he shouldn’t have gotten involved with you. There’s no way you’ll want to be in touch with him after everything.

“Mingyu.” It’s your voice that makes him turn around. Even considering how heartbroken you must be, there’s a slight grin on your face as you think about what to say next. “I didn’t say I wanted to be alone.”

His heart accelerates as if it was miles ahead of the thought process his brain is having a hard time catching up with. Still, beyond whatever he wants and feels, he knows you need some time to think clearly, someone to be there for you regardless of feelings.

At his hesitation, you open the door and look back at him as you enter. It’s a clear invitation, one he accepts immediately.

After closing the door behind him, the unmade bed calls his name and he sits at the edge to take his shoes off as you begin your night routine in front of the bathroom mirror.

“I’m curious about something.” You look cute smothering moisturizing cream all across your face, Mingyu thinks. “Do you think she likes him back?”

He finds it in himself to chuckle. “Do you really want to talk about that right now?”

“Look, I won’t be sad about it if I can turn it into a gossip session later. It’s my way of getting over things, so please just indulge me this time.”

You’re looking at him as you tap your face with the pads of your fingers. Mingyu doesn’t see an ounce of sadness in your expression, instead, you’re very serious with what you’re asking. And he won’t argue with that logic, if that’s what it takes to help you forget and spend more time with you.

“She never told me anything.” Your half closed eyes and head turned to the side signal Mingyu to keep talking. “If he confessed, I think she could like him back. They already act like a couple anyway.”

Mingyu realizes he went too far. You don’t say anything, but your shoulders slouch before you grab your pajamas from the nightstand and lock yourself in the bathroom. That was definitely not what you wanted to hear. Shit.

“I hope they can finally realize they’re idiots.” When the door opens to reveal the loose but all too revealing clothes barely covering your body, Mingyu can almost hear all the air in his lungs escaping at once. “Are you getting in bed?”

Maybe it’s his mind playing sick games with him. You can’t possibly be asking him to slip under the covers with you and be calm about it. There’s a lot of things he can calmly face up to. The idea of laying down so close to the person who’s been making a mess of his every thought is not one of those. 

Still, he follows suit with your not so indirect invite. He doesn’t want to make assumptions about you, about the situation, or about what you want, so he lets you take the lead for tonight. Trusting that you’ll show him what you need and believing that he can give it to you.

The both of you lay awkwardly side by side, facing the ceiling deep in thought. Only the breathing sounds and the way your arm grazes against his keep Mingyu’s senses in check. He feels like a highschooler having his first conversation with his crush. He can no longer be the cool, calm self he praised himself to be. So, he resorts to silence.

“Was he always like that? Ending relationships after realizing it’s not what he wants?” You turn in your place, facing him with those doe eyes of yours that always make him fold.

“If it makes you feel any better, I think it’s the girls that break up with him.” He mirrors your position, feeling better at the entire situation when he sees your smile at his comment.

“Good for them.”

There’s something in your gaze that makes Mingyu question if it’s worth it to be loyal to his friend. Though that moral code must’ve been broken already, there’s still a line, no matter how thin, he hasn’t crossed yet. Emphasis on ‘he’, because he can never be sure what’s your next move.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He dares to ask again.

Mingyu’s hyper aware of how close you are. How you shift a bit closer to him as you think your answer. He thought the clothes he was wearing were okay to sleep in, but his bodily temperature keeps rising at the thought of you.

“I still feel a bit stupid.” He can’t stand hearing you talk about yourself like that, but he doesn’t get to argue. You shut his mouth closed, placing your index finger on the center of his lips before he can utter a word. A touch so innocent he immediately feels bad at how electrifying it felt. “My friends warned me that his relationships never lasted. And I guess I wanted to see it for myself. Have the empirical data, if you will.”

He sees your gaze go down from his eyes, and your hand goes down with it to whatever caught your attention. He swallows hard, waiting for just one signal. The chain around his neck tugs at the back, and he realizes you’re inspecting the little charm hanging from it.

“It’s not like I was in love with him.” Every word you say feels like fire on his end. “He was fun at first. That’s what I liked about him.”

You play with Mingyu’s chain like it’s second nature. Like you don’t realize your hand’s dangerously close to his chest, about to feel the beating of his heart growing stronger each second.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” That makes your eyes go up again, eyelashes fluttering so close he could count each one of them.

“I get why you didn’t, you’re a good friend. And I think it was better for me to realize on my own, if that makes you feel any better.” The smile that grows on him matches yours perfectly.

“I don’t know how much of a good friend I am anymore.” The honesty slips out of him under your scanning stare. “I’m here after all, aren’t I?”

Mingyu should feel guilty. He left the bar to go after you without so much of a second thought, leaving his supposed best friend to deal with everything on his own. That’s how much he cares about you. His need for you overflows into every area of his life, making the guilt disappear into the stream of things that don’t matter. You’re not taken anymore. And, deep down, he knows Jungkook’s going to be fine. He doesn’t care about you even a fraction of how much Mingyu does.

He’s still deep in thought when he feels your hand going up the side of his jaw. Your icy fingers contrast against his fiery skin, driving him to lean into your touch. He’d close his eyes and let you do anything you wanted if it wasn’t for the intoxicating force of your gaze.

The irrational part of his brain doesn’t let him stop you as your face gets closer so his. You’re slowly testing the waters, seeing if he’ll back down, but Mingyu’s quicker, and leans down the last millimeters to finally connect.

Your lips melt against his with a soft sigh, and everything stills for a moment. Enveloped with the tenderness of your touch, he feels you hazily pressing further against him, unsurely yearning for more.

But the rational part of his brain, the one that tugs on the last strand of morale he has, retrieves his head from your electrifying kiss.

“We shouldn’t—” Mingyu regrets it instantly at the sight of your saddened eyes. But he knows it’s for the best. He couldn’t live with himself if you weren’t sure.

“You don’t want to?” The way your hand flies away from his personal space almost makes him take it and put it back where it belongs.

“I do.” He sounds desperate. He needs you to understand. “But you should see how you feel when you have a clear mind.”

A thousand thoughts rush through your mind, visibly turning your expression soft again. Mingyu offers his arm for you to lay on, the most outlandish peace offering he can make without losing his mind first.

“Okay.” Your soft voice reverberates up his arm as you lay your head on his relaxed bicep. “Do you want to leave?”

He couldn't begin to imagine any dimension in the multiverse where he'd choose to stay away from the featheriness of your skin against his. “Do you want me to leave?”

“I asked you first.” Your light chuckle heals the worry beginning to creep up on Mingyu. In the future, he'll make sure you never doubt him again.

“I don't want to leave.”

The way your smile keeps making a blank slate of his brain should worry Mingyu. But he's never felt this way before, and if there's a chance, however big or small, that you could feel the same way, he won't go back.

“And I want you to stay.”

The morning sun rays bleed through the flimsy curtain, illuminating the otherwise plain motel room in a golden light. You feel warm all around, wrapped in Mingyu’s arms instead of the bedsheets that sometime along the night seem to have fallen to the floor.

But even in the confinement of Mingyu’s backhug, you feel free. What has been dragging your spirit through the floor finally cut from your life. The previous night’s events faded to a distant memory as soon as you laid your head in Mingyu’s chest and drifted to the best sleep you’ve had in weeks.

You don’t dare turn in his hold, afraid to wake him up and make him face the day. That’s the one thing you haven’t been able to dust off since you opened your eyes. The guilt.

Maybe for you, cutting Jungkook out of your life was the best decision, but Mingyu was his friend first, and last night, for whatever reason, he chose you. He chose to comfort the whiny girl that dumped his boyfriend instead of his best friend since they were in the womb.

The morning with him feels like sunrises on the beach, like a warm cup of coffee on the coldest day, like being trapped in an infinite bear hug. It feels like hope. And the guilt from wanting it all could consume you whole just like the need for him.

Mingyu must have mind reading superpowers, because his arms tighten around you before the guilt overwhelms you, easily forgetting it all at the feeling of his breath on your neck.

Neither of you say anything, sharing the comfortable silence, relishing being in each other’s arms. You don’t stop him when he tangles his legs with yours, feeling him everywhere from head to toe. You let your hands caress his forearms as they drift dangerously close to your lower belly.

It’s wrong. It’s definitely wrong on some moral level. Borderline evil even. It’s too soon, and you need to understand what you’re feeling before moving forward with whatever this is. This that feels so nice, so right, but so wrong.

Mingyu doesn’t seem to be having the same moral dilemma that’s running around your mind anymore. The hardness you feel pressing against your inner thigh followed by a gasp that spreads goosebumps all across your back confirming your theory.

In the morning haze, in the limbo between days where time doesn’t run and actions don’t have consequences, you give into his infectious desire. The agreement you made the night before flying out the window as soon as a fire ignites all across your body.

You purposely grind against him, the indecent action causing your face to feel even warmer. A low moan gets caught in Mingyu’s throat at the feeling of your ass against his morning wood, one hand gripping your hip to keep you in place.

“What are you doing?” His raspy voice sends another fire down your body, making you squirm in his grip.

“Nothing.” You feign innocence, pretending to straighten your posture but ultimately pressing yourself harder against his chest. “You don't like it?”

The space between your bodies is crushed impossibly tighter until all you can feel are his muscles tensing in his search for you. The barrier you left standing the night before, demolished with little care as he sighs to your ear.

“It's not that, princess,” every bit of skin Mingyu touches works like a button to make you need him more and more, “we should wait.”

You'd agree with him if it wasn't for the elastic of your sleeping shorts stretching to fit his wandering hand. It’s a timid action, one that contradicts his words but only gets encouraged by your gasp. These aren’t the hands that held you close when you were broken, no, these are the ones that felt you shiver pretending to teach you to play pool, the ones that pushed you against him in the dimness of the club. The ones you crave with your whole body.

At your reaction, he drifts further down, playing with the hem of your panties so painfully slow the grip of your hand on his forearm grows stronger with each second he doesn't fully touch you. His lips graze your shoulder, trying to contain himself from kissing every inch he can reach.

When he flattens on your pelvis, pressing you against his faltering hips, you swear your whimper drives him to not so innocently thrust behind you. The room is impossibly hot, but you don’t care, nothing matters other than your need to feel him inside.

Your mouth opens, hoping to work enough to plead for him, but a loud knock on your door startles you both out of the embrace.

If the earth it’s going to swallow you at any point in life, you hope it’s right then and there. Your panties are uncomfortably sticky as your embarrassed gaze connects with Mingyu, the both of you speechless with guilt. The most awkward second ever before another knock echoes into the room.

“Tell Jennie I’ll be out in a second? I promised her we’d go out for breakfast together.”

The embarrassment doesn’t let you look at him a second longer before you lock yourself in the bathroom. Maybe a splash of cold water on your face can help you not look like you just got cockblocked.

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄

However Mingyu thought his morning would go, the reality was far from his imagination, though it felt far better. He wouldn't mind waking up next to you again, heating up your skin with his touch until you whimper for him.

The sight of you, just woken up and shy at the boldness of what you just did, puts a sheepish smirk on his face. He almost forgets the wrongness of everything. But the decision he made, selfish and long forgotten, quickly comes back to bite him in the ass as he opens the door.

“Wow, this is a nice sight!” Jungkook's face morphs into sarcastic shock as the door reveals a disheveled Mingyu.

“What are you doing here?” In all honesty, Mingyu didn’t think about his friend last night, deep down knowing he wasn’t going to be hurt for long.

“Are you her bodyguard now? I just want to talk about last night.” Jungkook attempts to take half a step into your room, but Mingyu immediately blocks the door.

“It’s not the time to get in my way, man.” The baseless threat doesn’t make Mingyu budge in the slightest, which pisses Jungkook off. The man’s eyes widen after scanning the state of the room. “Did you fuck her?”

“What?” Mingyu can't believe what he's hearing. 

“I asked, Did. You. Fuck. Her?” Speaking each word with clenched teeth, Jungkook's voice bleeds anger.

“Why do you care?”

Jungkook barely lets him finish his question. “So you fucked her.”

The crude language puts a bitter taste in Mingyu's mouth. As if only the sex mattered and not everything else. Not that he comforted you at your weakest, that you opened up your heart to him, that you kissed him so softly he almost passed out. Mingyu can only hope the bathroom door miraculously becomes soundproof.

“Don't pretend to care about her now.” Never in his life has he talked to Jungkook this way, always afraid of what could happen to their friendship if he tried to put some sense into him. Then again, his actions never hurt someone Mingyu actually cared about.

“I bet you couldn’t wait for me to dump her.” The words spit out of Jungkook’s mouth like acid. “Eager to take on my leftovers.”

“Dude, I get that you're mad, but you're getting out of line.” The peacemaker in Mingyu takes over —it’s either that or a punch in the face, and tries to get his friend back in the hallway.

“I’m not mad!” He gasps with a hand to his chest. “Just shocked, that's all. Didn’t even let a day pass.” Venom coats every word he says, justifiably betrayed by the one friend he thought he could always count with.

“I didn’t mean for it to come to this,” Mingyu admits quietly, “I wasn’t supposed to care.”

There’s nothing as Jungkook processes those words. A tense second that becomes an infinite one, a void sucking every apology out of his mouth. Mingyu would pay millions to know what’s going on in his friend’s head. He could always tell what he was feeling even when he shut everyone off. But he was never the one causing his anger.

“I can g—”

“I’ll take the bus home with Cathy.” Is all Jungkook says.

His blank face waits for Mingyu to nod before walking away with no second thoughts. Out of the million outcomes he thought for this conversation, Mingyu never thought he’d be the one left speechless. But they both clearly need some time alone before going back to being roommates, before talking like two grown adults and resolving this.

It’s the sound of a door closing just meters behind him that takes him back to the room, your room.

Mingyu doesn’t know what to do to shield you from the hurt. He’s tired of simply being there to comfort you in the aftermath. He can’t stand the sight before him, your lips turn downwards trying to get a hold of your feelings. He can see it all, the process of all the emotions going through your brain, until your face settles to a serious expression.

“I’m sorry you had to hear that.” Mingyu stays at the threshold of the door, not sure if you’d still want him as company.

“Don’t be. I’m glad I did.” You stay put in place, half a step from the messy bed, looking everywhere but at him. “At least I don’t have to feel guilty anymore.”

Guilt. That’s what he noticed when he gained consciousness and felt you tense in his hold. “About what happened earlier—”

“I’m sorry about that,” you interrupt him in his hesitation, “you said you didn’t want to and I crossed the line.”

“It’s not—” Your lips part in surprise as your eyes fly to his. “I—shit, I don’t want you to think I’m only being nice for something in return.”

“You should be glad I don’t think of you that way.” It’s a weird feel of rejection, the one in your heart as you start picking up your things. A man says he doesn’t want to have sex after rubbing himself against you and fighting with your ex boyfriend. “We should pack, get ready to leave.”

“What do you think of me then?”

Mingyu standing leaning against the doorframe, following your every move with his eyes, makes you stumble upon every possible obstacle on your way. Even with your gaze elsewhere, you can feel him watching your every move.

“I think you’re a good man that lacks a sense of urgency.” Unfortunately, you didn’t bring much stuff on the trip, and you’re getting to the end of things to take your mind off of Mingyu. “Are you going to stare at me all day?”

“I like you.” Mingyu’s sure about a lot of things, but at the weight lifting from his shoulders, the way you stop at his words and how you wait for him to continue, he’s certain he’s never felt like this before. “I’m sorry if that's weird and wrong to say, but I do.”

“I—” There’s no way to describe it, how your mind clears of any reasonable thought the second those words escape Mingyu’s lips.

“You don’t have to say anything. Like I said last night, I want you to figure out how you feel on your own time. I’ll be here, you can count on me. I’m not going anywhere.”

His assurance helps. He somehow always knows how to help you, what to say, how to act.

Before you know it, you’re face to face with him, his warmth embracing you as he tilts his head down, waiting for your next move. Your cheek lays softly on his chest after wrapping your arms around him, hugging him tightly, the only way you have to express your gratitude.

Warm air effortlessly fills your lungs, the scent of him coating every one of your senses as he replicates your hug. His arms feel right around you, as if you were meant to be like this forever, and you relax in his hold.

“Thank you.” Two simple words that mean so much more are the only thing you manage to utter, hoping he'll understand. 

“Always.”

Some girls my friends met at the congress came to town and begged for us to take them to a club Do you want to come? It’s close to my place

As soon as you press send, you throw your phone at your bed on the other side of the room.

It’s been two weeks since the most eventful weekend of your life. Two weeks since you finally stood up for yourself and chose your well being for once. Two weeks since Mingyu started being one of the most important parts of your everyday life.

Those afternoons when he made you wonder if you actually fit in his friend’s life, when the thought of him would cause you an immediate headache, feel like a ghost of the past. You couldn’t imagine not being around him now, not receiving his ominous texts in the middle of the night after he finishes a random project for college that you don’t understand, or not seeing his face after class when he picks you up and  rambles about how good his class was that day.

He promised he’d be there for you, waiting for you to see how you feel about him without expecting anything in return. And every day that passes, the hurt and confusion fades away bit by bit, and a new, stronger, unexplored, feeling grows in your heart.

You don’t know what compelled you to invite Mingyu out of nowhere. You’re fully dressed, about to leave and with your friends already waiting on your building’s front door, but something at the back of your mind itched with a potent need to see him. Your fingers clicked on his contact and texted him before you could realize what you were doing.

It’s not two minutes later that your phone vibrates with a new notification. Your skin crawls with the combined anxiety of wanting to see him but also not wanting to see him at all. The usual two feelings that fight to take over every time you think of him.

You’re quick to run out your apartment before your friends come up and drag you out themselves. With your unlocked phone in hand, Mingyu’s name lights up your screen.

Sure. Text me address. I’ll meet you there.

The simplicity of his texts always makes you chuckle, embarrassingly smitten by his short sentences. You quickly text him the name and address before hopping off the elevator and joining your friends in the cold weather in which you’re not meant to be wearing the club clothing you chose.

You’d be a liar if you didn’t admit you were nervous to see Mingyu. The change came without warning. After getting used to him checking up on you, learning your coffee order and your class schedule, the anticipation started taking over you. Your eyes look for him around campus, your feet flee out of your classroom knowing he’s going to be there waiting for you.

You try to distract yourself when you get too in your mind about it, about him. It’s a difficult new kind of occurrence you’re not sure how to navigate, so you resort to acting nonchalant about it. That’s why, when he arrives and your friends make eyes at you, you don’t let the subject go further than admitting you invited him. It’s a normal thing for people to invite their friends to hang out!

But no matter how hard you try, your eyes don’t stop wandering to the bar, where Mingyu’s forgotten his quest to get another round of drinks and is talking to the most graceful and gorgeous woman alive.

Of course, Mingyu chose tonight of all nights to look like a prince coming to the rescue. A fitted black shirt that even with the lack of light inside the club managed to highlight his build. You almost fainted when he locked eyes with you across the room and smiled walking all the way to you.

And you’d caught that girl’s eyes glued to him when he first entered the club and greeted you all. As soon as he took one step away from you to walk to the bar, the girl unhooked herself from your group and followed him. 

“I wonder what’s taking so long with the drinks," You’re barely processing your words as they leave your mouth. As if you haven’t been policing the interaction since it started.

“Yeah, did he…” Jennie’s voice trails out before she can finish, following the line of sight you basically burned in the air after so many stares. A small smirk flashes through her before she mumbles, “Oh.”

Now there’s four more pairs of eyes witnessing why you’re making a fool out of yourself.

“Guess he found something else to do.” Still digging your own grave, you can’t stop making stupid comments.

Jennie and Nayeon exchange a look you’re too busy to catch, while you make sure your empty drink is still… empty. Yeah, the very interesting plastic cup in your hand. Definitely the most interesting sight you can be staring at. The cheap cocktail you thought could ease out the anxiety, and now that the little effect it had left your body, all you can do is laugh at yourself.

“Who is she anyway?” You didn’t even catch her name before she jumped at the chance to get Mingyu alone.

“We presented right after her.” Your friend’s voice barely reaches you over the loud music, and on top of that, you don’t really care to know much about her anyway.

“Right…”

It’s not a big deal. What else did you expect? That he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off you like the last time you were in a club together? That you’d feel him all around you again as he felt you up with everyone watching? Stupid. You got too comfortable, took him for granted, and he got tired.

“Are you okay?” Nayeon materializes by your side, her hand on your arm steering your eyes back to her.

“He can do whatever he wants! I really don’t care.” Seeing how they can always tell what’s going on with you, of course they read through the lines.

The other two girls you came with look confused before they dare to speak up.

“We tried telling her that he was off limits," One says as the other confesses, “We thought you two were together.”

The girls’ confusion only fuels yours. You really didn’t want to think about it further before, just in case, but it gets you wondering. “W—why would you think that?”

“We just saw you talking after you presented," The blonde one giggles before her friend adds. “You guys looked cute!”

How did they get to that conclusion after the simplest interaction? Were you that obviously nervous? Was the prickling of your skin visible when he stood too close by your side? It’s become the norm for you two to act this way, the invisible skinship boundary long broken.

Deep down, you know there’s no reason to doubt him. You want to be weary of him, find one single flaw to use as an excuse to not like him, but it’s pointless. Mingyu’s never proven to be anything other than supportive. He’s been so patient with you, the deeper feelings for him developed almost on their own. No warning.

Even before breaking up with Jungkook, Mingyu was always present. Since that first day he found you crying, he made sure you had company, made sure you didn’t get too in your head and helped you have a good time. He was there for you before you even realized you needed it.

You took him for granted for too long, and now he has a pretty girl in front of him showing clear signs of attraction, all while you get scared texting him.

You've been so stupid, so blind to what you had in front of you, that now you're losing it, seeing it disappearing from your life with your own eyes.

The charged stares you've been sparing them must've made their way into Mingyu’s sixth sense, because he finally unglues his eyes from the girl and connects them with yours. You know you have no right to be jealous, you two are nothing, just two people with a very complicated relationship.

As if he knew everything going through your mind, Mingyu smirks your way. He fucking smirks. The twist of his lips cause a chain reaction from your hanging jaw down to your insides becoming a roller coaster. You barely hear your friends saying they’re going to the restroom, choosing to stay and challenge Mingyu.

⠄･ ⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄

When he got your text inviting him out, Mingyu was sitting on the couch that had seen it all happen. Jungkook, just beside him, easily took a peek at the notification that lit up his friend's mood.

“Is that her?”

Even if they’ve resolved the bad blood between them, Mingyu couldn’t help to hide the reality of his feelings from Jungkook. “Yeah," He told him after replying to your text.

Mingyu could count with one hand the few times you had dared to text him first these past few weeks. Seeing your name pop up, inviting him out, was thrilling.

It's been no secret that every time Mingyu disappeared to go somewhere unannounced, he was going with you. Jungkook knew it, but it was time he encouraged it.

“Dude, if you like each other, I'm not looking to get in between," Jungkook assured with his eyes back to the tv in front of them.

“Isn’t it weird?” Mingyu tested the waters, checking if he was hallucinating the support.

“It’s only weird if you make it weird," Jungkook shrugged, as if it were that simple.

The situation is weird. And maybe it will always be weird.

Mingyu started making up this fantasy in his head, where, in the future, you’ve finally let him in and he can love you the way you deserve. One where you can look back at the past and laugh with that blinding toothy smile of yours, with all the hurt being just a distant memory. But before you two get to that point, Mingyu will make sure nothing gets in the way of your happiness ever again. And he foolishly hopes you find it with him.

“Is she okay?” Jungkook’s question took Mingyu out of his thoughts. “I’ve been thinking if I should apologize or not.”

“She’s fine,” at that moment, Mingyu realized that maybe his best friend is better at hiding how he feels than he thought, “but an apology wouldn’t hurt.”

Having long conversations was never their strong suit, so the topic ended there, with Jungkook deep in thought and Mingyu getting up to change clothes.

Something drove him to try and be more presentable for you. The last time you two went to a club together, he almost gave up everything right then and there. Now that there are no barriers between the two of you, he won’t hold back at your advances, he won’t freeze if you dance close to him. At least that was his initial goal.

When he arrived at the club, Mingyu had to pause as soon as he saw you across the room. The smile you showed your friend after something she said illuminated the whole room, leaving nothing else in front of his eyes but you.

He greeted all your friends as politely as he could without straying his eyes off you. His hand traveled itself onto the small of your back, keeping you intoxicatingly close to him as best he could. And he didn’t want to leave your side, but maybe breathing an air free of your perfume would help him think clearly, he thought.

Talking to one of the girls you were with, Mingyu partly feels bad for already forgetting her name. The overworked bartender’s taking too long to prepare all the drinks, and he has no other choice than to entertain the girl. 

Answering her questions gets harder and harder with the music blasting, and as she places her hand on his arm to get closer to him, Mingyu can feel the interaction being under someone’s scrutinizing eyes.

Is this all in his head? Are you really standing with your arms crossed and the cutest frown ever on your forehead, almost killing the girl in front of him with your stare? The corner of his mouth lifts autonomously at the thought of you not liking him flirting with another person.

He hasn’t seen this side of you, the jealous and slightly possessive one. And even if you’re nothing more than friends, he loves it. He loves the way you squint when you lock eyes, how you shrug when he doesn’t back down. It’s easy for him to excuse himself and walk towards you again.

At the sight of him, you turn your back on Mingyu, pretending to be dancing alone. So, he has no other choice but to stand behind you and ask in your ear. “Something on your mind?”

Your back tenses against his chest, but you don’t move away, allowing Mingyu to wrap his arms around your waist to keep you close. With your friends suddenly nowhere in sight, he interlocks your fingers while in his hold, helping you relax even if you’re still pretending to be mad.

“You took your time.” The initially suffocating sea of people now feels protective, working like a barrier between your bodies pressed tightly together and the outside world. “Having fun?”

“I am now," Mingyu’s lips graze the side of your face as they lit up in another smirk, growing goosebumps all across your body. “How about you?”

Somehow, being like this doesn’t feel weird. You’ve had Mingyu’s arms wrapped around you so many times now that they easily mold to your figure. There really is only one difference, one that none of you dare speak up but washes over your every interaction.

“I was thinking of going home already.” You look down at your hands tangled in one, fearing that Mingyu can notice at any time how butterflies erupt in your stomach at every word he purrs right in your ear. “Not much to do here.”

“I can take you," His choice of words halts your breath, but you remember.

Untangling Mingyu’s hands from yours, you turn around in his arms to face him, regretting instantly as soon as your eyes connect again.

“You should stay. You looked like you were having fun.” That makes Mingyu chuckle, and an embarrassed warmness bursts inside you at the sound.

“I didn’t think you were the jealous type, princess.” And you didn’t think he was the type to tease you in public, but life takes you to unthinkable roads sometimes.

You scoff as an excuse to take your eyes off him for a second. “Jealous, huh? You’re funny.”

In an intent to get away from his menacingly broad body, your hands take the unconscious decision to push his chest away. But you don’t have the true will to do it, or the strength. He’s too big, too muscly for you to move, and he traps your hands against him, against the sheerest shirt ever that lets you feel every muscle tense under your touch.

“I’d like to think I can make a girl laugh sometimes.” He’s all you can see, covering every spot in your vision with his unerasable teasing smirk.

“Yeah, I saw that.” At the roll of your eyes, there’s no denying that you’re jealous anymore. Do you really care if he knows anyway?

“Oh, you did? Controlling.”

“I’m not controlling! You can do whatever you want, I won’t get in your way.” If he wants to flirt with an emotionally available girl after the infinite amount of time he waited for you, you can’t stop him. You’ll take your feelings to the grave.

Something brews in Mingyu’s mind at your rebuttal. “You won’t?”

“No.” 

For the first time in forever, Mingyu willingly unclasps one of his hands from yours, “And if I do this?”

Mingyu’s fingers creep up your neck and get a hold of your chin, titling it up until you have no other choice but to look him in the eye. He waits for your answer, as if you’d ever say no. As soon as you nod, giving him the okay, another smirk is the only warning you get.

Your lips, meant to be pressed against his forever, part with a sigh as Mingyu's arms wrap around your waist. The world around you, with frantic music and people moving at lightspeed, fades to nothing in his embrace. You move along Mingyu’s soft lips naturally, letting your heart convey your feelings through the kiss.

The memory of that last kiss you dared give him all those days ago can’t compare to this one. There’s no hesitation this time, no guilt restraining you from following your true desire. Nothing outside your bubble really matters as your hands travel up his chest to keep his head in place.

His hair feels soft between your fingers as you push yourselves together closer and closer. You never want anything else in life, just kissing and kissing Mingyu until your lungs give out. It’s unfortunate that you can’t.

“Let me take you home," He gasps with your lips just millimeters away.

Your stomach twists and turns with anticipation. “Okay,” barely a whisper accompanies your nod, fearing the way your voice could come out if you said more.

With his hand in yours, walking the moonlit streets in swift steps and giggles, any worries you had slip away with the wind. The feeling of his lips linger on yours every second it passes, every breath you take, every step forward until you stop at an intersection and Mingyu pulls you into him again.

The walk blends between kisses and hand squeezes to check if you’re in a dream or not. You never want to back away from his hold ever again, but as your building materializes in front of you, you're forced to take your hand off the hem of his shirt.

The elevator’s wall hits your back as soon as the automatic doors let you in, barely giving you time to push your floor’s button before Mingyu’s over you again. His mouth takes yours with a hunger that grows every second you’re not inside your apartment. He’s losing control, succumbing to his desires the more you show your want for him.

By some way, your tangled bodies manage to reach your door, though Mingyu’s hands refusing to stop going over your hips and waist are the challenge to overcome. Your fingers tremble trying to turn the key the right way, your nervous system focusing on the lips kissing every inch of the side of your neck he can reach and his fingers slipping underneath the fabric of your top.

As soon as you close the door behind you, the reality closes in on you. With Mingyu’s arms wrapping around your waist again, the bag you forgot you were holding dropping onto the floor with a thud, and the bright lights in your apartment making everything clear.

Mingyu notices your sudden hesitation and stands before you, worried eyes studying you, looking for any sign to tell him what's happening in your mind.

“I made you get in a fight with your best friend," Your reminder is like a dagger against the silence.

“Is that what's bothering you?” His eyes find yours and understand immediately. “We're fine,” He tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear, “he actually encouraged me to come tonight.”

Your eyes widen with hope, leaning into his touch when he doesn't retrieve his hand from the side of your face. “Did you guys—”

“We talked,” Mingyu's voice explains so softly, one wouldn't think he was just making you gasp with that same mouth on yours, “and I told him he should apologize to you.”

Standing in the middle of your entrance hallway, you feel stupid for even bringing that up. He wouldn't be here with you if he felt guilty. He wouldn't be cupping your face in his hands, making you look up to him to find the glimmer in his eyes outshining every light source in the room.

“And you’re sure about this?” What ‘this’ means, you’re not sure either.

“I've never been more sure about anything.” Your breath hitches at his answer, your body noticeably frozen as you look for a non-existent lie in his eyes. “Maybe we should take things slow, let you figure out what you want.”

Before he can back away from your personal space, you react. “No, no, I want this too. I want you.”

Those words coming out of your mouth combined with your hands gripping his shirt to keep him in place quickly make Mingyu regret his previous statement. You're so close, too close to him, saying you want him with your eyes dark and wide.

Mingyu’s hands stay on you, caressing the side of your face as if he was debating whether to give in and kiss you again or do the rational thing. Yours, instead, find the first button at the end of the all too well fitting shirt Mingyu’s wearing, and start unbuttoning it one by one.

“I should take you out on a real date first," Mingyu maintains with a sigh, but not stopping you in your quest.

“I personally think,” at his unmoving body, you take a step closer, with your hands against his chest not daring to sneak under the welcoming fabric, “we’re past that, don’t you think?”

For a second, Mingyu thinks you’ll be able to feel the rapid beating of his heart, stronger with each second your hands lay on his chest. Rationality is losing the fight against his desire.

“Just making sure this isn’t a rebound situation,” Mingyu blurts, even if he doesn’t really care about it for himself. He’d take whatever you give him.

“You aren’t a rebound. This isn’t a revenge plot.” You think for a second before you continue, “You saw me cry way too many times and were there for me at my weakest. You make me feel seen, wanted, and getting to know you has made my life better in ways I could’ve never imagined.”

Your words go through Mingyu's ears and right into his bloodstream, getting warmer and warmer the closer you get. His hands go down your body, encouraging you to move forward until your chests touch.

“I needed you even before I knew what I needed.” You can sense the tears beginning to build up, but you push through. He has to know. “I know what I want now, and it’s you.”

“If this is a dream, I never wanna wake up,” every word Mingyu says comes with a widening smile.

You chuckle, wrapping your arms around his neck with confidence, “I can assure you, it's not.”

As if you've been getting chased by your feelings all this time, putting it into words and letting it all out works, and your brain stops racing. You can finally breathe, think, see.

“So, was that a no about the date?” As always, Mingyu manages to make you chuckle again, and it reverberates all across both your bodies. Every shiver of his, you feel, with the minimal skin to skin contact against his barely uncovered chest and the tiniest top you found to put on.

“You can take me on a date another day. Now, I want something else.” You don't know where all this confidence is coming from, but seeing the shock in Mingyu's eyes, it only grows. “You okay with that?”

“I’ll give you anything you want.”

The space between your faces charges with electricity as you take in his words. An unconscious bite on your lower lip pulls his gaze down, egging him to close the space slowly. You almost don’t register his advance, focusing on the part of his lips that were just on yours minutes ago.

There’s nothing more to be said, no invisible walls to tear down, only you and him and the pull between you, pushing you closer until your breaths mix. After all the obstacles you overcame, and the bumps that lead you to where you are now, there’s no more time to waste.

When your heads meet again, your tingling lips mold against Mingyu’s for the thousandth time, worried about nothing and wanting it all. And he doesn’t hold back either. His hands on your waist venture up inside your top, feeling your back tense at his touch as the fabric crumples up, leaving more of you exposed to him.

You can’t hide your craving for him any longer. You follow his rhythm eagerly, making a mess of his hair between your fingers and pushing him further against you. Every touch of his makes you gasp, and he takes the opportunity to kiss down your jaw and neck. His hands and lips everywhere.

“Might as well just take this off.” Mingyu’s lips print a smirk on the sensitive skin of your neck before pulling back. You get what he means immediately as he tugs on your top, taking  it off you as soon as you put your arms up.

His hands feel your chest up to his liking, getting to know the places that make you sigh into his mouth. Every touch of his fingers makes that spot light up like fire, and every sound you make encourages Mingyu more and more.

Your hands sneak under his opened shirt, feeling the firmness of his chest directly elicits a groan from Mingyu, making you shiver as you slip the fabric down his arms.

Your living room becomes a cliché mess of scattered clothing before you direct the both of you to your bedroom. You barely have time to drink in Mingyu’s body before you’re falling with your back on the mattress, chest to chest again, bare against one another, free of any fabric in between.

Mingyu slots between your legs effortlessly, a low moan coming from him as his hardening length grinds softly on the crevice between your limbs. His golden skin that was the star of your every dream, finally at your reach, soft and warm under the pads of your fingers.

“Gyu—” Words choke up on your throat as you feel his lips wrapping around one of your nipples.

“You're gorgeous,” His lips against your chest makes you halt your movements, mind focused solely on him, “so pretty, only for me.”

It's almost as if he was talking to himself, but you moan at every compliment, arching your back for more of him. And he loves it. Loves the way you react to the stream of thoughts that run around his brain every time he looks at you.

“Fuck!” The curse leaves you both in unison when Mingyu finds his digits against your core.

“I barely even touched you and you're already ready for me?” Mingyu feels your reaction to his words first hand as a wave of arousal hits you.

“Fuck you,” you gasp and he chuckles, kissing down your torso until he’s facing your core.

“I'll take care of you, don't worry, baby.” His breath fans at your wet folds, so close to where you want him but still teasing you with his fingers.

You’re about to fight back when you feel him teasing at your opening, his eyes entranced by how ready you are for him. All the anticipation, the tension between you from the past weeks, culminating at once at this very moment.

The slickness leaking out of you from all the kissing and groping makes it easy for him to set the pace. Mingyu’s fingers stretch your insides with expertise, as if he learned every spot of yours to touch to have you squirming.

The torturously slow thrusts of his fingers drive you crazy, curling and hitting exactly where you need them before he’s pulling back. You don’t hold your sounds back, your every reaction letting Mingyu know how good he makes you feel.

“That’s it, baby,” His low voice sets fire to the blood rushing through your veins, and your walls clamp harder around his fingers.

Your knuckles turn white as you grip the sheets below you, and Mingyu’s other hand has to hold your thighs apart so you don’t close them around his head.

“Mingyu—shit!” His lips leave a trail of breathy kisses on your inner thigh, trying to help you relax and take him in, but ultimately turning you on further. “Gyu, wait.”

“I love that you’re calling me that.” He listens and stops thrusting, leaving his fingers to fully fit inside you.

“I need you.” You’re not embarrassed to say what you want. Not with him.

“But you have me?” He tries to tease, but you’re ahead of him already and immediately correct yourself.

“Inside.” His fingers adjust themselves inside you, almost making you forget what you were asking for. “I need you to fuck me.”

Mingyu chuckles at your neediness, but you know he wants it just as bad. His rock hard length draws your attention as he stands up and retrieves his wet digits from you, leaking and ready to split you in half.

There’s a second of hesitation as he looks at you splayed on the bed, as ready for him as he is for you. You recognize the train of thought going through him and stretch your arm to open the drawer below your nightstand, where you keep condoms just in case.

It’s sinful, the sight of Mingyu rolling down the condom as his eyes rake up and down your body. When he kneels on the mattress, fitting like a glove between your legs, it takes another kiss of his on each of your spent legs for you to realize that what’s happening is real.

Caged between both of his arms, his hands holding his weight on both sides of your head, your legs wrap around his waist and push him inside you, at last.

His length fits inside you, opening up your walls to mold to his shape as you both moan.

Your hips collide as he hits your deepest parts. “Being inside you is gonna kill me.” You can feel the twitching of his cock deep inside you. He paused to let you get used to his size, but the last thing you want to do is wait.

“I’m gonna kill you if you don’t move.”

You’ve learned teasing him works wonders, and as soon as those words leave your lips, he’s complying with what you ask of him. “Whatever my princess wants.”

Whatever thoughts you had, they fade at the drag of his length deliciously making you his with each thrust. Deep and slow, he lets you feel everything he has to give before almost pulling out.

The skin of his back becomes the victim of your scratches, your nails digging into his tense muscles with every grind of his hips. But no matter what you do, how you touch him, how loudly you moan, his pace remains at the same torturing speed.

“Relax, baby.” A hand caresses the side of your face, and you realize you’d shut your eyes closed at the feeling of him pushing inside you.

Mingyu lowers his head, flushing your chests together again as he kisses you softly, matching the pace of his thrusts with his tongue tangling with yours. He drinks every sound you make, as they are only for him, and lowers his hand down your torso until it meets your connected cores.

Your sensitive clit feels like fire under the touch of his fingers, circling around it to help you ease up the tension. “That’s it, baby, taking me so well.”

Everywhere he reaches becomes your new favorite place for him to touch. From your lips, down to your cunt, and all the way inside you, everywhere now has his name written. You’re his.

The pulsing of your walls around him doesn’t cease, becoming quicker and harder the more he continues with the slow pace. Your insides wait for every intoxicating thrust as if starved of him, craving everything he gives you and more.

His lips move on yours, parted and unable to work, mumbling praise you don’t get to hear as every one of your senses focuses on the fire inside you threatening to burst. Mingyu’s hips falter, having trouble thrusting inside you as you tighten impossibly tighter around him.

Your vision turns white as your orgasm explodes without so much as a warning. Your legs tremble around Mingyu’s pistoning hips, thrusting endlessly searching for his release.

Mingyu’s broad body falls limp on you as his length twitches, coming inside the condom with a groan while your walls hug him tight.

You lay under him happily, a smile on your face as you stare at the ceiling. He feels warm all around you, a feeling you could get used to. Mingyu can’t resist it and kisses you again. He’ll take every opportunity he can get to feel your lips on his.

“What's on your mind?” He asks, eyes locking in to yours as he slips out from you before attacking your lips again.

You both smile in the kiss before he stands up to discard the used condom and put his boxers back on. “Just thinking where you can take me on our date.”

He turns around with a glowing smile. “You’re thinking about that already?”

The way he lays down on your bed with you, naturally wrapping you in his arms and pulling you to him, feels like a dream come true.

“Of course, baby, I always think ahead.” You note the way he blushes when you use that nickname on him and snuggle against him.

Listening to Mingyu’s steady breathing and heartbeat under your ear, drifting to sleep has never been easier. 

The smell of freshly grounded coffee fills the air around the café Mingyu picked. A cozy new place, lighted with yellowy light bulbs and with a space designated to read books you can borrow from the shelves covering the walls. It opened a few weeks ago in his neighborhood and he’s been insisting you try it out together since.

You’ve been on countless dates with him already, but you still feel nervous having him sit by your side in the booth. Still get embarrassed when he asks for a big smoothie with two straws for you both.

You don’t see a future where you don’t get nervous around him, but he’s always there. A future without him wouldn’t be life at all. And the best thing is, Mingyu feels the same way.

“Are you sure they’re coming?” You ask as your eyes drift to the glass door for the tenth time in the past five minutes.

“I promise they are!” Minguy takes your jaw in his fingers to make you look at him. “Remember to not say anything about the apartment. He'll as her when he's ready”

“What are you talking about?” You ask, feigning cluelessness, and Mingyu chuckles before giving you a peck.

Detaching your lips is always the hardest chore. But after a few awkward instances where you let your kisses deepen in public, you both decided to control yourselves, even in a secluded booth like the one you’re currently in.

Mingyu’s eyes light up watching the street from the window you’re sitting against, and you turn around to see the people you’ve been waiting for. 

Jungkook and Cathlyn walk inside the store holding hands and with matching smiles on their faces as they greet you. How Mingyu convinced them to go out on a double date with you still astonishes you, but you’re glad everything that happened could finally be put behind you.

It was hard at first, even after Jungkook apologized to you, you didn’t dare go inside their apartment for months until Mingyu moved in with you a few weeks ago.

As soon as they sit in front of you, the plan you’ve been scheming starts. Your eyes lock with Mingyu’s and he instantly realizes what you're about to do, but not even his hand squeezing your thigh under the table can stop you. “So, Jungkook, what are you going to do now that you live in the apartment alone?”

note: it's finally here!!!

thank you all for being so excited this past month and for reading this monster of a fic i somehow came up with.

if you reached the end, just know that i love you, and i'd love to hear your thoughts <3

[theonewiththefanfics]

Peace in the Darkness (one-shot)

Synopsis: Bob knows Y/N isn't one to go back on her words. So when she doesn't show up to go through with their plans, he starts to worry. Luckily for him, Yelena knows how to break-and-enter. And doesn't mind invading her personal space.

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x fem!Reader (ex-Black Widow)

Genre: fluff, lil bit of angst

Warnings: sickness because I've been sick this past weekend and life sucked, swearing, Bob being an anxious little bean, alluding to violence, but nothing else, really :)

Word count: 6623

All characters belong to Marvel. Also - Bob has my heart

If Bob paced any more behind Y/N’s door, he was sure to wear a track into the concrete floor.

            His hand had hovered over the panel separating him from whatever lay beyond, about twenty times in the past hour or so, yet just as his knuckles were about to meet it, he pulled back with a shake of his head and began his pacing once more.

            “I should just knock,” the man muttered to himself, blue eyes warily watching the door, hoping it would creak open without his interference, but alas, it remained as immovable as it had always been. “She’s not gonna mind. You’ve woken her up in the middle of the night before, and she wasn’t angry then. She won’t be angry with you.”

            And even still with those thoughts in his mind, Bob couldn’t get himself to do it, his anxiety overriding his motor skills.

            It wasn’t that he was incapable of action. He was. It was more so getting to the action where he faltered. His therapist, someone Bucky had helped him find, had told him even two steps forward and one step back was still a step forward.

            Like the first time he’d reached out for help after a nightmare, where he could feel the Void curling inside him, just waiting until his emotions reached a bubbling point so he could take over.

            “What did you do?” the therapist, a take-no-bullshit kind of woman, had asked. “To stop the Void from emerging?”

            Bob shrugged, knee bouncing up and down, not daring to make eye contact. “I uh – I went to Y/N. I just… I heard she was still awake and knew if the Void was gonna come out, someone had to… You know… be aware and take me – him – down.”

            “And who is Y/N?”

            Now that was a loaded question he wasn’t fully yet ready to answer, so he settled on the objective truth. “She’s my teammate. We live across the hall from one another.”

            “And how did she help?”

            “She…” Bob bit down on his lip. “She invited me inside her room and we just… talked. She had some music playing… I – I guess she helped me take my mind off it all and… stuff…”

            The woman hummed. “And why was she the first person you thought to go to when things got bad?”

            He wanted to say it was because she was the closest one to him, physically being right down the hall, that they were the only two people occupying the floor, but the truth spilt out before he could even contain it, “Because I knew she wouldn’t be mad at me. If – if I woke her up. She… she wouldn’t be upset I was there.” Because she was one of the few people who wasn’t afraid to touch him, despite his powers and the Void.

            But just because she hadn’t been upset with him those few times he’d sought her out, didn’t mean she wouldn’t be angry with him that specific day. Otherwise, why hadn’t she stuck to her promise?

            The previous week, right before Y/N had been shipped out to Malaga on a mission, she’d promised him that once she was back, the two would go to a bookstore together, Bob’s supply already dangerously low.

            Now, though, three hours had passed from the time they’d set last night, and Y/N was nowhere to be seen.

            He’d let the first hour pass by, thinking maybe she had to catch up on some paperwork the team had to file after a mission. When hour two had come and gone, Bob had started to become anxious, but still, he told himself she was probably just resting, no doubt exhausted by the mission, and he would never be one to take away time she could be using to heal. But as hour three had started to roll, Bob couldn’t help the nervousness entering his body, and that was how he ended up behind Y/N’s door.

            Gently, he placed an ear against it, hoping to hear the slightest sound, maybe a soft movement of her feet padding against the carpeted floor, but the only noise invading the silence was the echo of his heartbeat.

            Bob sighed, head hanging low and fingers plucking at the hem of one of his sleeves as he turned around, ready to go back and wallow in self-pity, when Yelena’s raspy voice made him look over his shoulder.

            “Bobik? Everything alright?” she asked, the nickname Alexei had bestowed upon him, making warmth bloom in his chest. Not ‘Bobby’, a name that made him flinch, but a soft ‘Bobik’, a name that made him feel cherished.

            The blonde was decked out in her combat gear, clearly just having arrived from a mission, so the fact that one of her first instincts was to check in on him made his body flush. He was still trying to get used to the fact that people actually cared about him, not as an experimental subject, not as a wannabe superhero, but just about him. About Bob.

            “Oh, yeah,” he stammered, giving Yelena a tight-lipped smile, but he couldn’t control the way his hands wrung together, betraying the anxiousness he was feeling. “Everything’s A-Okay.”

            For a second neither of them moved or said anything, and just as Bob was about to venture down to his room, Yelena crossed her arms, cocking her hip to the side and raising a single brow.

            All he could do was sigh. She was one of the few people it was hard to lie to, whom he didn’t even really want to lie to. “It’s just that… umm… Y/N and I were supposed to go to a bookstore a while ago, but she uh… well, I haven’t seen her all day… and when I asked around, nobody else has either. Ava even said she didn’t come up for breakfast, and she wasn’t in the kitchen for lunch, so…”

            “That does not sound like her.” Yelena’s nose scrunched as she went closer and knocked against Y/N’s door, a motion that came so easily to her, yet Bob had struggled for ages to even lift his hand. “Lubov moya,” she sing-songed in Russian. “Are you in there?”

             And once again, only silence responded. As the moment stretched, Bob slowly started to roll back and forth on his feet. God, why hadn’t he thought about how she could already have left the tower ages ago!

            But no, it wouldn’t be like Y/N to just leave him hanging or not let at least one person know where she was.

            Unless… unless she’d gone out to do something she didn’t want the others to know about… to tease her about… like maybe she’d gone on a date.

            “It’s – it’s alright,” Bob let out a strangled chuckle, as thoughts whirled inside his head. “She just probably forgot about it, or something more important came up.”

            But the ex-Widow just knocked again, ignoring Bob’s spiralling. “Legushka?” she called out, the nickname rolling off her tongue with a concerned yet teasing lilt.

            There’d been this one time John had called Y/N that, snorting as Alexei had translated the meaning of the word (froggy or little frog), and where usually she’d respond with an eye roll to Yelena or their sort-of-kind-of adoptive father figure, Walker received a bloody nose and grade-two concussion.

            Only Yelena had the privilege of calling her fellow ex-Red Room alumni such absurd names without any consequences. And, well, sometimes Bob could too, but he wrote it off on the fact that Y/N just tried to make him feel included, and no other reason…

            “Snookums? My little pookie-wookie?” Now, Yelena was just making things up as she went, no doubt hoping to get at least some sort of a response from Y/N, but when even that didn’t accomplish anything, with a grumbled, “alright, fine, be that way,” she crouched down, pulling out a picking set from her boot.

            Bob’s eyes widened in alarm, hissing at the woman, “What are you doing? Don’t do that!”

            “Well, we have to get in somehow,” Yelena just shrugged, the noise of metal softly scraping against metal invading his senses.

            “Not by breaking and entering Y/N’s room!”     

            The blonde let out a squeak of indignation. “I am not breaking and entering!” The lock clicked open. “For one – I didn’t break shit. And two – the door is open. Now it’s just entering.”

            “She is going to kill us, and I will not be coming to your rescue.”

            “Please,” Yelena replaced her picking tools back inside her boot. “We have too much history between us in the Red Room for her to decide this is the final drop. As for you…” Yelena smirked. “Let’s just say, I know things you don’t.”

            “Wait, what? What do you know? What things?”

            But she didn’t respond, only opened the door.

            Bob wanted to protest, wanted to say they shouldn’t be invading Y/N’s private space like that, wanted to shake Yelena down for whatever information she might possess. If it had anything to do with feelings he hoped Y/N might have for him. That most likely, there was a reason she wasn’t answering, even if she was there, and that most likely, she just felt bad about not wanting to hang out with him, but didn’t want to hurt his feelings by saying so, which he was totally fine and cool with and –

            Yelena poked her head inside, and where usually, Y/N’s place was brightly lit by the daylight, her curtains drawn back to allow it to be illuminated, pure darkness greeted them, as Bob, shame curling in his stomach at such invasion, peered over Yelena’s head to take a glance.

            He associated Y/N’s room with peace.

            Cream colored walls, dark brown curtains with a plush carpet, emerald settees resting atop it and a large bookshelf taking up a whole wall with softly glowing nightlights in the shape of sprouting mushrooms would be plugged in during the night, and plastic glow-in-the-dark stars creating real and made-up constellations on the ceiling – that was the space he considered his true home.

            Every free inch was covered in some knick-knack or a souvenir, as she had a tendency to collect small things, but she also had a tendency to gift them to others.

            She was kind. Caring. Thoughtful. She was Bob’s safe place.

            Yet now it was pitch black inside.

            Yelena was clearly just as worried as he was, because when she looked up from her still crouched position, confusion marred her face.

            “Malishka?” she called out as she stood, slowly entering the room, Bob following as their eyes adjusted to the lack of lighting.

            He shifted his gaze around only to settle on a large moving mound on the bed, so with Yelena as the lead, they moved towards it, when finally a voice rasped from somewhere beneath the ungodly amount of blankets. “Malishka is dead. Come back tomorrow with a warrant. Or a casket.”

            Every single doubt that’d permeated Bob’s mind vanished at the realisation of what was really going on.

            Y/N hadn’t forgotten about the plans they’d made. She hadn’t found something better to do with her time or decided he was simply not worth her while.

            Y/N was sick.

            And by the sound of it, badly.

            Bob’s heart clenched at the thought. They all seemed so indestructible, but it was moments like those, where he was reminded that some of them, especially Yelena and Y/N – the two people he’d grown to care most about in the weird little team he was a part of – were simply humans. And humans could get ill.

            Gently, Yelena sat down on the side of the bed, her fingers rooting around the coverings before an opening was made, a pair of Y/E/C eyes squinting at the intruders. “Can you please close the door? My eyeballs hurt.”

            “Oh, shit!” Bob cursed softly, padding to the door and closing it, once again plunging the room into complete darkness. “Sorry.”

            He wanted to rebel against the black that now surrounded them, he wanted to panic and spiral, to have at least one of those nightlights be turned on, but somehow, through a sheer sense of will, he steeled himself against the rising tide. Whether it was because he knew light would hurt Y/N, or whether it was because he felt safe with the two women, despite not really being able to see anything that wasn’t an inch away from his face, Bob couldn’t tell. Well… he could, but he wasn’t going to say it out loud, because that would make things real…

            “Can you please breathe quieter, Lena?” Y/N groaned from her cocoon. “My head’s pounding as is.”

            “Oh, sweetheart,” Yelena cooed, placing the back of her hand against the other woman’s forehead to feel for her temperature. “I think you might have the flu, huh?”

            Y/N sniffled. “I dunno what I have, but whatever it is, I blame Walker.”

            Bob looked at Yelena, the man still hovering by the bedside table, not wanting to invade the space between the two. “Has John been sick?”

            “Not that I’m aware.” Yelena ghosted her hand over Y/N’s cheek before standing up and going to what he knew to be the bathroom. After a quick second, she returned with a wet cloth, laying it over her friend’s forehead. “But we can always blame him.”

            A delirious smile appeared on Y/N’s face. “We can, can’t we?”

            “Of course.” Yelena nodded. “Would it make you feel better if I went and beat him up?”

            “I think it would, yeah… Can you stab him too?” Y/N asked as an afterthought.

            “Anything for you, legushka moya.” Yelena brushed a sweaty Y/H/C strand from where it’d plastered itself down against her cheek. Bob’s heart ached at the tender motion, fingers twitching at his side with the want to do the same, but he restrained himself. “But tell you what, before I go and seek revenge on Walker, how about I go and make you some soup, and Bob will keep you company. Sound okay?”

            Instantly, it was like someone had turned the light switch off, Y/N’s smile dropped, and she harrumphed. “Bob can stay, but no soup.”

            “Soup always makes everything better! Besides, Bob said you didn’t go to breakfast or lunch. You have to get something in you,” Yelena scolded the woman. Despite them being barely a month apart, she acted like an older sister to Y/N.

            The sick girl just whined. “I’m not hungry. I’m achy and icky and gross, and I just wanna rot away in my bed.”                             

            “Well, you need to get food in you,” the ex-Widow countered, hands on her hips. “Do not move. I will be right back. Bob, please keep an eye on her.”

            “As if I could go anywhere,” Y/N scoffed, but it fell only on Bob’s ears, as Yelena had already made her exit.

            On instinct, his fingers started fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, a nervousness taking over his body. After a moment of unsurety of what exactly he was supposed to do, a croaky voice whispered, “You should go, Bob. I know Lena said to stay, but I don’t want you to catch whatever wasting disease I have."

            An involuntary smile blossomed on his lips at her care about his well-being, despite being so sick herself. “I uh, I don’t think I can get sick anymore, so no worries there.”

            He noted the small frown on Y/N’s lips as she eyed him up and down. “Show off,” she muttered, but didn’t tell him to leave again, rather said, “ ‘M sorry about today, by the way. Should’ve at least gotten out of bed and told you I wasn’t fit to walk in civilised society. I’m sorry if I worried you.”     

            “No!” he said, trying to quell her guilt, sitting down onto the bed, and to his own surprise, brushing a finger down her cheek without even thinking. “No, no, no… you’re not feeling well, so don’t even worry about me. I’m just glad that, you know, you’re not bleeding out on the bathroom floor or something.”

            Bob’s whole being lit up when, despite Y/N being evidently unwell, she snorted, no doubt remembering how about a month prior when she’d returned to the Watchtower after a mission, she’d pretty much traumatized both Bob and John, as they’d found her half-dead on the kitchen floor, munching on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, blood pooling around her at a rapid pace.

            “Seriously!?” John had scoffed as he helped Bob lift Y/N up from the floor, the two men supporting as much of her weight as possible as they dragged her to the elevator and then to the med-floor. “PB&J? That was gonna be your last meal?”

            “Hey!” Y/N protested. “It was the only thing I could manage to make before the wooziness set in. You know, from having been turned into a walking-talking shishkabob.” She chuckled deliriously, looking at the man who had the biggest crush on her in the world, yet she didn’t even know about it, and now she could potentially die. “Huh. Shish-ka-Bob.” Then she booped his nose and promptly passed out.

            Safe to say, he’d spent the next few days hovering in the med-bay, and when Y/N had been discharged, off-missions for a while, but allowed to rest in her room, he’d hovered in the hallway behind her door, just to make sure the things he saw during his nightmares, the images that the Void tried to tell him were real, actually weren’t.

            But Y/N didn’t know that.

            She didn’t know the true extent of what went on inside Bob’s mind or heart, didn’t know the real depth of the feelings he had for her.

            She didn’t know how much the nights she allowed him to spend in her room meant to him.

            She didn’t know how much the little trinkets she brought back for him as a souvenir from whichever corner of the world she’d been sent to, mattered.

            She didn’t know that if the tower suddenly caught on fire and he could only save three things, he’d rush inside the flames to take the three little cat figurines sitting on his shelf.

            It had been after she’d returned from a solo mission in Japan, Bob having pretty much worried himself sick, only to have her bound up to him, still dirt-covered and bloodied, but the smile on her face was as bright as the morning sun. “Look!” She presented the white, red and gold porcelain cats. “It’s the three of us! Me, you and Lena! They’re so cute!”

            That night, he’d fallen asleep with the three little waving felines looking over him, golden night-light illuminating the statuettes.

            So, in a moment like this, where Y/N was the one who needed support, he could only hope and pray, she felt it from him.

            Gently, Bob brushed a palm against her forehead, taking off the wet towel that’d now warmed up to her skin temperature. But he hadn’t anticipated that, despite being bogged down by most likely the flu, her reflexes were still Black-Widow-quick, as her hand shot out from underneath the blankets, grabbing onto his wrist and pressing his hand against the skin of her neck. “Oh, you are so warm,” she sighed, cuddling the appendage.

            “S-so are you!” Bob didn’t necessarily know what to do. “Alarmingly so, actually.”

            “Yeah,” Y/N puffed a breath, still not releasing the death-grip she had on his hand. “That’s probably the 103 fever I have going on.”

            Instantly, his anxiety skyrocketed.

            He knew he ran warm. He pretty much always had the AC on in his room, especially at night, as he was a complete contradiction of a human – he was abysmally hot all the time, mainly thanks to the Sentry serum, but he was most comfortable in a sweater and sweatpants while swaddled up like a burrito in a blanket.

            His heart thudded in his chest as Y/N snuggled closer to his touch, while he worried he was doing her harm. Yes, a fever was the body’s natural way of fighting off viruses or infections and whatnot, but a too high a fever was also dangerous, and he'd never forgive himself if he made it worse.

            “Y/N, you’re really burning up.” Bob chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Can you please let me go? Just for a second,” he added on, as she whined when he tried to slip his hand away. “I’m just gonna get you a new cold compress. Please…”

            “But I don’t want you to leave!”

            “I’m – I’m not gonna leave,” he whispered, terrified that if his voice was any louder, any clearer, she might pick up on the emotion he was trying to suppress. “I promise, it’ll be just a second. I won’t even go outside the room.”

            For a moment, Y/N’s grip tightened on Bob, holding him closer than ever, but then, with a sigh of defeat, she released him.

            He was quick, just like he said he would. Even in pure darkness, his eyes having adjusted to the lack of light now, probably thanks to the Sentry serum, he dampened the cloth with cold water and wrung out the excess, getting back to her, in the time it took for Y/N to shift from lying on her side to being on her back.

            She’d somewhat untangled herself from the cocoon of blankets, and Bob had to stop mid-step as he noted what she was wearing.

            It was his sweater. Well, one of the many he had, but it was something of his nonetheless.

            And he could physically feel how something broken and cracked inside him got stitched together. Some deep, still-hurting part of Bob, that always managed to whisper a negative thought, how he didn’t matter, how washing the dishes and doing the chores was nothing compared to what everyone else in the tower did, fused back together, the Void’s incessant noise quietening. With just a simple glance at Y/N, who had found comfort in something of his when she was feeling bad, Bob felt a part of him heal.

            He didn’t comment on it, though, half-terrified if he did, she might think he was mad about it, when in reality it was the complete opposite. And an insatiable need had now settled somewhere in his chest, a want to see her in all of his clothes. And maybe nothing as well…

            “H-here,” Bob stammered out, before taking a deep breath and sinking down next to Y/N on the bed. Gently, he placed the towel along her forehead, and he couldn’t help himself as his thumb brushed along her jawline, tracing a small scar, no doubt from some mission. She leaned into his touch like a sunflower leaned towards the sun. “Is there anything I can get you?”

            “No,” she shook her head, and this time, when her hand met his, she intertwined their fingers, as if afraid he might disappear. “Just stay, please.”

            “Always.”

            And there really wasn’t anywhere else Bob wanted to be.

            The thought of spending the day at a bookstore, some ungodly sweet concoction that resembled a coffee only in spirit, in his hand, was only appealing because he would be going with Y/N there.

            “We’ll go when I get better, I promise,” she muttered, as if having read his mind while snuggling closer to the palm he’d placed on her cheek.

            “Books can wait.” Bob hoped his voice was low and soothing as he spoke, blue eyes still trained on the sweater that covered her body, his own feeling all fuzzy at the image. “Just rest.”

            When he didn’t get a response or even a little hum of acknowledgement, he looked up only to find Y/N’s features slack with sleep, her chest rising in slow and steady breaths.

            Bob wanted to curl up next to her, to have his hands wrap around her waist, and have her head rest on his chest as he buried his nose into her hair, because this was the highest degree of trust anyone could have in him. For Y/N to find peace and safety with him while she was in such a vulnerable state, catapulted Bob onto Cloud Nine. He knew darkness would always try to press in, try to find the cracks and strike when he was unawares, but this time he wasn’t afraid of what might be lurking in the shadows. Not when he knew he would have to be the one to step up, if only to protect the one he loved most in the world.

             He sat there like that, entranced with the sleeping beauty on the bed, a thumb softly grazing her cheek, making sure Y/N was as comfortable as possible. He was so attuned to her and her sleeping form, that when the door cracked open, he was startled by Yelena coming in, a tray in her hands as she blew on a steaming bowl of soup.

            “Okay,” once more the blonde sing-songed as she walked inside the room. “I have chicken-noodle soup for our little sick-bug.”

            There was some grumbling from Y/N as she was brought out from her slumber, but despite all her protests, she rose into a sitting position, Bob’s hand on her back a steady help. She eyed the bowl with suspicion. “Who made it?”

            “Do not worry, Dad was nowhere near the pot. He might be lurking for the leftovers now, but this!” She lifted the bowl above her head like it was a diamond, “is all from yours truly.”

            Y/N sniffed the air. “Well, I guess it smells edible… not that I can smell much.”

            “Then this is exactly what you need.” Yelena slid the tray to rest on Y/N’s knees while Bob helped her adjust against the backboard of the bed and was rewarded with the most gorgeous smile ever. “Here you go, legushka. Now, I’ll go get some paracetamol and VapoRub, and by the time I get back, I expect that bowl to be empty. It will do wonders for your sinuses, trust me.”

            She didn’t argue, just let out a resigned sigh and nodded, taking the spoon in her hand. “You know, back in the Red Room, Mistress Vera said the best kind of medicine is a good beating. Will get you right back on your feet.”

            “Yes, well, that is why Mistress Vera is six feet under.” Yelena fluffed up a pillow behind Y/N before nudging her chin up with a finger. “As is the whole of Red Room.”

            “I mean right now, I think I’d rather get a good beat-“

            “Eat,” Yelena interrupted whatever she was about to say.

            “Fine, fine, Jesus…. You’re worse than Mistress Vera…”

            Slowly, without moving her gaze from Y/N, Yelena stood to hover over her. Even Bob could feel the menacing aura she exuded – an older sister ready to torment her younger one. “And if you don’t eat every single noodle, every single piece of carrot and celery and chicken, you will be wishing Mistress Vera were here. Understood? Legushka moya?”

            Though Y/N was bleary and tired, she was unwavering as the two Black Widows engaged in a stare-off. Unfortunately for her, though, she was the first one to break, as she rubbed at her teary eyes, probably because of the light that was filtering into the room from the open doorway.

            “Damn it, Lena, fine! I’ll eat the stupid soup!”

            “Good.” The blonde straightened out, a self-satisfied smile on her face. “Because Bob will tell me if you don’t. Won’t you, Bobik?”

            His eyes turned so wide he was afraid they might fall out of his head.

            God.

            Oh god no.

            He was stuck between a rock and a hard place as Y/N glowered from below her lashes, sniffling, while Yelena cocked her head to the side.

            Ultimately, though, his loyalty to the blonde and wanting nothing but the best for the well-being of the woman he was in love with, no matter what she might say to counter the effectiveness of the soup, won out. “Yeah. I – I will.”

            Y/N scoffed, turning her head away from him as Yelena pressed a triumphant kiss to the top of her hair before leaving.

            “Traitor,” she muttered.

            Bob looked down at his hands, which he had resting in his lap as he worried the inside of his cheek. “I just want you to get better, Y/N…”

            “And I just wanna lie down and die, but neither of you is letting me.”

            “But who’s gonna go to the bookstore with me if you die?” He gave her a small smile, hoping to elevate her sour mood.

            “I dunno, John?”

            Bob gave her a look, their gazes meeting. “You actually think John can read?”

            If Y/N had been eating the soup, no doubt she would’ve choked with how she threw her head back in a loud laugh, as Bob tried to steady the tray, the broth sloshing a bit out of the bowl.      

            “I’m sorry,” she chuckled, their fingers brushing as she held the platter and pulled it closer. “Didn’t mean to make a mess.”

            “Don’t be.” The smile on his face was probably ridiculous, wide enough to make his cheeks hurt. “Laughter’s the best medicine or uh… something along those lines.”

            “You should tell Mistress Vera that. Might have to use a OUIJA board though.” Y/N winced as the hot liquid slid down her sore throat, slowly chewing on a piece of noodle.

            Admittedly, Bob didn’t know much about her time in the Red Room. He’d seen her shame rooms, just like he’d been privy to Yelena’s and the rest of the Thunderbolts’, as she’d been there when the Void had attacked New York, but once he came out of it, once they told him what he’d done, the feeling of having violated their privacy… he never asked either of them to talk about their time there.

            All Bob knew was that Mistress Vera had been Y/N’s handler, as she’d been trained separately from Yelena and her sister Natasha. Only after the original Avenger had broken her out of the trance induced by the mind-control serum used to keep the Black Widows under the Red Room spell, did Y/N join the two in helping them take down the organisation.

            “Oh… oh shit, I’m sorry,” her words of apology brought him back to the present, away from the thoughts of what she’d had to go through as a child, where a sore throat wouldn’t have been healed by a gentle touch, but a brutal beating.

            His brows furrowed as he looked around, thinking she might’ve spilt the soup, but there wasn’t anything there. “Whatever for?”

            “The dark!” she said, like it was a crime she’d committed. “Bob, you can put in some of the nightlights. They’re by the plugs.”

            “Oh, that’s…” He shook his head, for once happy to be surrounded by mostly shadows because that meant Y/N couldn’t see the furious blush covering his face, while his longish hair obscured his smiling features as he glanced down at his hands. “It’s okay. I don’t mind actually.”

            “But you don’t like the dark…?” The sentence was more of a question than the solid statement it used to be.

            Bob shrugged, pulling down the sleeves of his sweater. “This isn’t that bad… and if it helps you feel better, your eyes to not hurt, I don’t mind.”

            “I don’t want you to ‘not mind’ things. Bob, if you’re uncomfortable, you should put in at least one nightlight. Seriously. They’re not gonna boil out of my skull or something.”

            “My comfort isn’t as important as your health right now.” He shifted on the bed.

            “Of course it is!” The offended squeak Y/N let out would have made him smile, had it not turned into a violent coughing fit.

            After she was done hacking her lungs up, Bob’s hand running up and down her spine, hoping to at least somewhat soothe the ache, he lifted the warm bowl of soup closer to her. “Eat. Or I will tell on you to Yelena.”

            “Stukach,” Y/N mumbled in Russian, glaring at him as best as she could. Alexei and Yelena had introduced him enough to the language (mostly swearwords, which they said were the most important words) for him to understand she’d called him a snitch, but if being a snitch would motivate her to eat and get better, so be it.

            With a fond gaze, he watched as she finally got some food into her, and once she was done, he took the tray away, placing it on the nightstand, a hand of his acting on its own accord as he brushed a finger along her cheek. “Better?”

            “Yes. But don’t tell Lena that. She’ll just be insufferably smug about it.”

            Shaking his head, Bob helped Y/N settle back into bed, tucking the blanket under her chin, but before he could even move a foot, her hand shot out, curling around his wrist once more.

            “Bob?”

            “Yeah?” He looked where the woman lay against the plush pillows, head slowly sinking deeper into the down.

            “Could you… umm… and that is only if you really can’t get sick… could you maybe stay with me? Just until I fall asleep…”

            He was sure his heart had skipped a beat. Or maybe it’d done a full-blown gymnastics routine, somersaults and all, because it definitely wasn’t beating in its normal rhythm in his chest.

            “Y-yeah, of course, if that’s what you want.” Bob swallowed hard, nodding. “Just, uh… let me bring the tray to the kitchen, and then I’ll be right back.”

            And with a small “okay” from Y/N as his dismissal, Bob scurried out of the room like lightning.

            The hallway light was blinding compared to the darkness of the room he’d just spent about an hour in, but for the first time in his life, he craved it. Because in that darkness was safety and peace. In that darkness lay a body, curled up on a bed, covered in his sweater, waiting for him, hoping he’d help her get better.

            He barely acknowledged Ava or Bucky, who called out to him, asking if he was alright, as he grabbed a couple of water bottles from the fridge and some of the pretzels Alexei had stashed behind pots and pans, hoping to hide his hoard. He wouldn’t mind, Bob reasoned. Y/N was like another daughter to him, and if she’d eaten the soup, despite all her protesting, maybe her appetite was gonna be coming back sooner rather than later, and he wanted to be stocked up on snacks. Besides, he could just blame Walker if needed.

            When he returned, he was instantly enveloped by Y/N’s scent as if it were its own form of blanket.

            “Hey,” Bob whispered, not wanting to break the settled peace. “I’m – I’m back.”

            He mostly heard rather than saw shuffling on the bed, but as his eyes adjusted, he noted Y/N had moved to the side furthest from the door, opening up some space on the bed.

            She’d done so before during the nights his mind had been restless, but somehow this felt much more intimate than when insomnia forbade him from sleeping.

            Slowly, as if afraid this moment would be ripped from him if he moved any quicker, Bob placed the waters and pretzels on the ground, sliding in next to her, turning to face Y/N with one hand under his cheek, the other on the mattress between them.

            “Thank you,” she muttered, the ghost of a smile on her face as her hand slid from below the blankets and rested atop his. “For taking care of me.”

            “I–I mean, I didn’t –“

            “You did,” she interrupted his stammering, tightening the grip she had on him. Gently, he flipped it palm up so that her fingers could slide between his. “And you still are. So thank you.”

            And once again, like he’d said before, he simply replied, “Always.”

            With that single word spoken, Bob watched as Y/N’s eyes drooped closed, her breathing evened out, and once again she was deeply asleep. Yet even when in dreamland, her hold on him never wavered. Not when she twisted out from the cocoon and scooted closer to him, not as chills overtook her body and Bob held her through them, not as the fever broke and a small sigh of relief escaped, her body slowly returning to a normal temperature.

            For the first time in his life, Bob had found peace in the darkness, all because of the woman lying in his arms. And when it came to claim him too, he gladly fell, knowing that when he awoke, she would be there, much like she’d be in his dreams.

***

BONUS

“Oh my god! Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, this is so cute!”

            It was a harsh whisper-yell that brought Bob out of his slumber.

            He peeked an eye open, noting the unmistakable shape of Y/N’s form in his arms. She was still sound asleep, her body curled around his like that of a koala’s, head tucked below his chin, while one of her arms had a death-grip on his waist, a leg thrown over his hip.

            One of his own arms was underneath her, completely numb. From the feeling of it, it’d probably been there for ages, but if this position meant she was comfortable and could have a good sleep, he’d deal with the pins-and-needles a hundred times over if necessary.

            Turning to look over his shoulder, Bob found the culprit or rather culprits of the noise as he was met with the faces of Yelena, Alexei, Bucky, Ava and John all looking at them through a gap in the door, the Red Guardian with a phone in his hand, no doubt taking pictures of the two cuddling.

            “You guys,” he mumbled, a blush of embarrassment crawling its way all over his body. “Can you pipe it down? Y/N’s asleep.”

            “How is Legushka?” Yelena whispered into the room. “Did the fever break?”

            “Yes!” Bob hissed, turning away from the team and curling tighter around the body he had in his hold. “Now, can you all please leave? You’ll wake her up.”

            “Sorry.” Bucky raised his hands in apology. “I told them not to disturb you. Come on! Out, everyone!”

            Obviously, he more than Y/N, would get mercilessly teased about it, but he could take it, if it meant a bit more time with her in his arms, but just when he thought he’d gotten away with it, Walker just had to shout a loud, “Yeah, fucking get it, Bobik!”, making Y/N spring up.

            She took a confused glance around at the room before her eyes settled onto Bob who was on her bed, red-faced and mortified.

            “The toad did it,” Y/N said, her tone serious as a heart attack.

            Bob blinked once. Twice. “What?”

            “I swear the toad did it,” she mumbled, evidently delirious from sleep and the flu, but slowly moving back to lay down next to him, curling into the man’s body like it was where she belonged. “The toad ate the last strawberry. Damn thieving amphibian…”

            Come morning, he would ask about the toad and the strawberry and if it had anything to do with Yelena’s nickname for her, but for now, Bob just pressed a light kiss against Y/N’s forehead, eyes slipping closed, listening to the melody of her breathing.

            One day, he would tell her how he really felt.

            One day, he would give his heart to her.

            One day, he hoped, she would trust him with her own.

             But for then and there, Bob was content with his present. With the peace he’d found in the darkness.

Tags: Marvel tags: @nerissa98 @asguardiansoftheavengers @crazybutconfidentaf @pizzarollpatrol @desir-ae A/N: we are so back baby, Tower fics incoming! Bob, my love, my life... you bet your ass I'm probably gonna write something where OG Avengers are still alive and living in the tower with Thunderbolts*!!! The chaos that would ensue is giving me life Tags are always open

[k-hotchoisan]

backseat serenade

<mingi x fem!reader>

Getting stuck in the backseat of your friend’s car after a night out with your drunk friends wasn’t how you thought of ending the night, especially not on Mingi’s lap.

Genre/warnings: smut, pwp, forced proximity, technically exhibitionism but not because no one ends up noticing, fingering, light choking and wrist pining, riding, cream pies, orgasms, something is going on in the backseat…, furcoat mingi

word count: 3.3K (what the fucK)

a/n: y'all be eating fucking good fr. Also shout out to my loml @bro-atz for helping out with the plot a little <3 shout out to mingi brain rot!

taglist: @bro-atz @diamond-3 @mcarebearsstuff @choisansplushie  @pre1ttyies @hwallazia @songmingisthighs @yeosangiess  @woojirang @mylovelymito @softwsan @yourlocaljonghoe @itza-meee @jeon-ify @itza-meee @miss-fallon @hwallazia @bunnyluvr25 @eggyboy5 @hourswithoutyou @iwishiwasthemoontonight @yunhogrippers @watermelon2319 @vampiregirl215 @kibs-and-bits @s-h-y-a @liyahbug05-blog @luvt0kki @httpseungmxn  @voicesinmyhead-rc @woojirang @wlv-asteria @jjoongstar @comicnerd557 or @kpopwrites @vic0921

networks: @atzhouse @cultofdionysusnet @cromernet

“Who else is here?” You ask. 

She shrugs. “My boyfriend and a couple of his friends. You know them.” Well, you’ve definitely met a couple of your friend’s boyfriend’s friends before. Your eyes scan the crowd and sure enough, you spot familiar faces. 

And then your eyes rest on a particular male—his hair dyed platinum and slicked back, already drawing attention because of his height alongside his fur coat that hung over his shoulders. You never thought someone could pull off a fur coat that well actually. A pair of glasses sits on his nose bridge, which seems to somehow accentuate how sharp his eyes are. He’s been on your radar since he appeared on a mutual friend’s Instagram. 

“He’s pretty cute isn’t he?”, your friend’s date pushes, lightly bumping his arm against yours. 

You cast him a glance. “Just surprised that there are people who still wear fur coats in this economy.”

“That’s-“

“Song Mingi”, you reply, not taking notice of your friend’s boyfriend’s surprised expression. 

“You know him?”

“Came across him”, you reply a little too quickly. You sure as hell were not about to spill the truth. 

He definitely looks and is intimidating for sure, especially when he opens his mouth to speak, his voice so low that it tickles your ears. You could hear him talk forever, you think. You could imagine how he moans in your ears.

You blink. The fuck?

And so, for the past hour or so, you’ve been stealing glances at the blond male, but unfortunately, there was only so much staring could do, and it was not helping you get the male’s attention. Sure, the both of you actually followed each other (you were surprised when he followed you back), and the way he liked your stories sometimes made your stomach grow butterflies, but you never actually interacted with him in real life. 

It wasn’t until the party was slowing down, when you came back from being distracted by another friend, was when you realise Mingi was gone. A ping of disappointment fills you up, but it’s not as horrendous as the feeling of regret—for not just going up to talk to him. You wonder when you’ll see him again.

You decide to find your friend and call it a night.

“Do you wanna hitch a ride with us?”, your friend asks, uselessly trying to balance herself, her partner holding onto her waist. 

“The driver didn’t drink, I promise”, your friend’s partner assures. 

You open the car door and your eyes widen when you spot Mingi. 

You whip your head to your friend to ask her sincewhen Mingi came with the friend group but you realise you wouldn’t be getting any concrete answers from a tipsy person. 

You glance back at the male donned in the maroon fur coat, who seems rather surprised when he sees that you were the one who opened the car door. 

But Mingi’s expression remains indifferent—god knows what he’s thinking about but you swore you saw a tint of something in his eyes when your friends told you to just sit on his lap because “the car had no space”. 

“Hi, y/n”, Mingi’s deep voice calling your name is kept in a bottle and stored at the back of your head. 

“Hey Mingi”, you greet back, cautiously approaching him. 

“Are you okay with this?” You ask, testing the waters by putting your weight on his left thigh. 

“It’s fine. I’m just worried that it’s gonna be uncomfortable for you since it’s gonna take a while to reach your place right?”

Right. You nod in defeat. 

Your body jolts slightly when you feel Mingi’s touch burn against your skin—especially your thighs. 

His friend on the passenger seat has the aux cord and he’s picked out a song to blast in the speakers. You feel goosebumps bloom across the nape of your neck when Mingi’s voice hits your ear from behind. 

“Sorry, you might need to move in a little more, Princess. We have three more squeezing with us at the back.”

You blink, processing the information before internally thanking the universe that the car is dark so the red flushing against your cheeks gets hidden. 

Soon you find yourself fully on Mingi’s lap, and although you try not to lean too much against him, you realise the position feels awkward, and when Mingi personally shifts you with his hands instead, you decide to stay put. 

The energy in the car is high, even after all that partying, which you easily deduce to be due to the alcohol. Unfortunately, you couldn’t be singing along at the top of your lungs, not when you’re subconsciously aware that Mingi is just behind you. 

Sitting on someone’s lap was definitely not as comfortable as sitting on a car seat, and that was a given, so you find yourself shifting constantly, not realising Mingi closing his fists every time your ass shifts against him, particularly his crotch. 

Suddenly you feel the weight below you shift. Mingi’s arm wraps around your waist, his weight pressing against you. You stay put the moment you feel his lips barely inches away from the shell of your ear. 

“I strongly suggest you try to stay still, y/n, or it’ll become a problem for the both of us.” 

You turn your head slightly, barely enough to capture him within your peripherals. At first, you wonder if you’re starting to annoy him, but when you feel his hands slide down to your thighs and something hard pressing against your ass, you get your answer. 

And you wonder how far you should take this. 

Your face is heating up, at the idea you’re just sitting on Mingi’s thick erection, separated by the fabric of his pants and the ridiculously thin fabric of your body con dress. You wonder about his size, which only gets more vivid since you’re literally sitting right on his fucking cock—how thick he would be, how much he would stretch you open, and it’s making you slowly drench your panties. 

The more his erection is blatantly pressing against you, the more you can’t help but fidget on his lap. You’re wondering why Mingi hasn’t said anything, you wonder if he even felt it at all. The moment that thought forms in your brain, you pick out what sounded like low groans from behind you. Then you feel Mingi’s fingers press against your bare thighs, just this fucking close to lifting your dress. 

Mingi shifts against you, his hard cock now even more prominent against your ass—directly below your pussy if it wasn’t for the fact that there were layers of annoying fabric keeping them apart. 

His deep voice is like a melody in your ear,  “I’m closing an eye if you’re just doing this on accident, but there’s only so much more grinding I can take princess.”

You glance over to the company seated just right beside you—they are still singing their hearts out thanks to the self-assigned DJ of the car. The music was still blasting, and you realise you and Mingi are slowly forming another world—one growing of hot and heavy air. 

You’re trying to weigh your options and risks, but the constant friction of Mingi’s cock just poking you through his pants mixed with the light buzz from the alcohol earlier is keeping you less than logical. 

You lean back, the back of your head resting on his shoulder, feeling the thick coat tickle your cheeks, taking in the scent of his cologne that you swear only he could pull off, the boldness rushing into your veins like adrenaline.

“And if I said it wasn’t an accident?”

You don’t know what he might do next, but it’s making your legs tremble by the second. Your clit is fucking throbbing from the sheer anticipation. 

Mingi’s eyes dart to glance at you while his head remains positioned straight, before he presses himself onto you with a smirk against your ears, “Right. Glad we cleared that up, princess.” 

His hands press on the sides of your throat, two fingers tipping your jaw to turn your head to face him as he clashes his lips against yours, and you’re ready for him to just take whatever the fuck you have left. You’re doing your best to muffle your moans through the kisses, but as every second passes, you’re ready to give into it—mostly scream his fucking name into the night at this point. 

Your eyes are so glazed out, your pussy throbbing and drenched, your mind so sexually frustrated the more Mingi keeps you waiting. Mingi’s fingers trail along your bare thighs, his legs forcing yours to stay open, easily letting the gather of your dress push upwards, while his fingers push your panties to the side. You hear him mutter fuck when your wet cunt drenches his fingers. He barely drags his fingers over your clit, yet you already feel like you’re about to burst. 

“Are you gonna be a good girl and stay quiet for me?” Mingi asks, sinking his gaze into yours. You swallow hard and nod, so fucking entranced by his sharp eyes behind the glasses, and alongside the fact that his fingers are rubbing circles on your clit. 

“Fuck me. You’re so fucking wet for me”, he hisses, eating up your moans as he fits his thick fingers into your pussy, filling you up instantly. Oh god. You feel your mind completely blank out at the sensation of Song Mingi stretching you out. 

You swear that the wet sounds of Mingi’s fingers fucking your sopping cunt were louder than the music, but for some reason, and thank fuck, no one else seemed to notice. Yet. 

His other hand clasps over your mouth as he watches your eyes roll back, your desperate and satisfied moans muffled every time his thumb presses against your clit while his fingers fill you up again and again. 

You shouldn’t have agreed to stay quiet. 

Mingi’s legs are strong as fuck because his knees keep your legs from snapping shut as you let the feeling build in your stomach. Your hips are involuntarily bucking against his fingers, craving for him to fuck his fingers deeper. Shit. You can’t seem to get enough. He releases his hand off your mouth for a while, letting it wander to your tits, rolling your nipples over your dress with his fingers, listening to you pant and whimper.  

“Can’t wait to fuck your tight cunt once we get off”, he mutters into your ear, increasing his pressure on your clit. 

“Please… fuck! Mingi…” you trail, not even sure what you’re begging for at this point. But the knot tightens hard and taut. You’re about to snap anytime soon. 

“Cum on my fingers for me, y/n. Show me how your cunt is gonna feel like when my cock is gonna stuff you full.”

His hand goes back to clamping over your mouth to muffle your cries while your orgasm rips through your body. Your eyes roll back, and your back arched against his abdomen, the pleasure spreading through every nerve while he’s still fucking you with his fingers, enjoying the way you’re completely undone because of him. Your cunt can’t seem to stop spasming and it’s only from his fucking fingers. 

But it slowly wears off, and he releases his hand from your mouth, letting you catch your breath. 

His fingers slowly leave your spent and creamy cunt, and for a split second, you’re almost disappointed. You turn your head, watching Mingi slide his stained fingers past his lips, licking them clean, and his eyes locked onto you. 

“You taste so fucking good, Princess”, he whispers, before his hands are on your throat again, pulling you in for a wet kiss, and you taste yourself on his tongue, your face heating up at his words once more. 

The split second you pull away from him is when the music stops, and you hear your name being called.

“Y/n!”

Your eyes widen, and Mingi lowers his knees, letting you quickly shut your legs, letting his arm rest close to your legs, blocked by his fur coat. Thank fuck you’re in the dark. 

“This is your stop right?” Your friend asks before she turns on the interior car lights. You glance at the apartment building and sure enough, it is your apartment building. 

“Right”, you manage to answer with a forced smile. 

And as you are about to leave the car, Mingi suddenly announces, “I’ll send her up. Don’t wait for me.” He takes off his fur coat, draping it over your shoulders, quickly turning away as he pushes the car door open, ignoring the suggestive looks his group of friends were giving him before curtly saying his goodbyes and shutting the car door. 

Mingi is pretty much gentle with you as the both of you head up to your apartment, asking if you’re feeling cold, even though he’s only in a black tank top. You can’t help but gawk at how he looks even under shitty elevator lights—still so fucking hot. His fingers haven’t let go of yours yet since the both of you left the car, and he sure isn’t letting you go when the both of you reach to the door of your apartment. 

You feel so ridiculous in this oversized fur coat, but the fact that Mingi’s smell is just all over it makes you turn a blind eye to it. 

You unlock the door, pushing it open, the post nut clarity hitting, but the realisation of Mingi in a private space with you sending you mind into the gutter. 

And suddenly you feel your cunt throb again. Fuckin hell. 

“Cute place you have there”, he comments, slipping his shoes off. 

“I try to make the most out of it”, you return, taking off the fur coat, handing it back to him. 

Mingi pauses, staying near the door.

“I got no clue why I left the car like that, y/n. If you want me to leave, I can just call a cab and-“ 

His mouth runs, watching the way you’re walking towards him, and his lips snap shut when you pull him in for an open mouth kiss, his thoughts completely disappearing like they never existed. 

“Finish what you started, Minki”, you whisper when you pull away. 

For once, you like the way red looks on his pretty face, the red that disappears when he catches on, eye fucking you while thinking how fucking hot you look under normal apartment lights than the dim lights. 

His hands cup the back of your neck before his fingers are on your scalp, tugging your hair to face him, letting his lips collide with yours. You taste him so much more intensely now, and fuck does he taste like heaven. 

You feel his hands leave your head, going for your wrists instead, and he backs you up against the wall, deciding to pin your fucking wrists against the wall while stealing all of the oxygen you have left in between pants. 

His fingers trail down so lightly across your skin, you feel like you’re about to combust. 

“Is the couch fine for you?” He asks. You nod, just internally begging him to do anything to you. 

His hands slip down to your thighs, carrying you up in his arms, kissing and sucking against the skin of your neck while he navigates through your apartment. When he does find the couch (rather quickly), he lets you fall onto it, watching the way your dress rides up higher to your hips, your soaked panties coming into view, and his cock growing hard once more. 

“You know, you’re honestly killing me with that dress”, Mingi comments, his fingers tugging off your drenched panties, almost salivating over your glistening cunt. “Had to hold back from just pulling you out and fucking you.”

Oh, fucking gods. 

“That’s why we’re here now, aren’t we?” You tease, watching his satisfied grin grow bigger. 

You can’t wait for him to fuck your brains out. 

Mingi squats, letting his face press against your bare cunt, giving licks up, his tongue pressing against your clit while holding your legs apart. He thinks your whimpers and begs are like a fucking symphony—and he could listen to them over and over again while he breaks you, over and over again. 

It doesn’t last long, unfortunately, because he feels like he’s about to burst the longer he waits, his cock bulging against the fabric of his pants. 

So Mingi unbuckles his pants, pushing them down along with his underwear, his thick and long cock springs from his apparel, wet and decorated in thick precum. He gives himself quick strokes, amused by the way your face is turning a soft shade of pink. 

His thick fingers once again hold your wrists above you, lining his cock up to your pretty hole and pushing himself in, his girth taking up all space instantly. You see stars splatter beneath your eyelids as his cock stretches you out—thick and heavy. 

“Fuck. Song Mingi-“ you cry out, struggling against his grasp. 

“So fuckin tight, princess. Fuck, you feel so fucking good”, he sighs, letting himself bottom out in you, relishing in the way your face completely contorts into pleasure when he’s fully seated in you. 

And when he starts fucking you, your eyes roll back—the feeling of his cock pumping in and out of you switching off most of your senses. 

You sense his arms pining your wrists are growing tired, so you do your best to tap his arm, and Mingi lets go, watching you slide his wrist down to your throat. 

You sure know how to push his buttons. 

He applies pressure and it hits all the perfect spots. A choked moan escapes you while he fucks you dumb. 

“I’d love to choke you more, princess, but I really need you to ride me right now”, Mingi whispers, his fingers leaving your throat, and he pulls his cock out. 

You climb onto his lap, lining his cock before you push yourself down, his fullness knocking the wind out of you once more. 

“Are you gonna take all of my cum like a good girl?” He hums, wiping away the tears from your eyes. You nod weakly, biting your lip. 

“That’s my good girl”, he compliments, and it makes your heart fucking soar. Mingi bounces you on his cock, groaning at the way you’re squeezing around him. “Fuck, squeeze me just like that. God, your pussy feels so fucking amazing, princess.”

“Mingi, I’m so close. Oh fuck I’m gonna-“

Mingi only holds your thighs down, watching you shake, feeling your cunt just clenching down and flutter on his cock, cream seeping down his shaft, and he groans in your ear, keeping himself deep in your pussy, his thick cum flooding into your tight cunt, listening to you curse while he forces you to ride out your high. 

“So fucking good. Mingi…” you mutter through tears and hiccup, letting Mingi kiss your tears before he slowly pulls his wet cock out of you, satisfied at the way his cum slowly trickles out of you while you catch your breath. 

Mingi waits for your mind to slowly clear, and you climb off him, but your fingers stay interlocked with his. 

“We can wash up and order food if you want”, you say, trying to avoid the fact that you’re still flushing slightly considering Song Mingi made a wreck out of you. 

But he pulls you along with him. 

“An invitation to shower together? I’ll gladly fuckin take it, princess.”

[kitten4sannie]

𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

pairing: dilf next door! yunho x fem! reader

genre: neighbor au, fluff, smut

summary: you try your next door neighbor on for size when your date cancels on you last minute.

w.c: 3.8k

warnings: yuyu is in his late 40s 🙂‍↕️, controversial spider-man takes LMAO, wine drinking (they are tipsy at most!), brief play fighting, (mostly) dom switch! yuyu but he also whimpers and whines 🙂‍↕️, subby switch! reader, big dick yuyu agenda ‼️, praise/pet names only, teasing (only a lil bit while he talks reader thru it uwu), brief spit kink, kissing, dry humping, fingering, face sitting, size kink >:))), bulge kink, creampie 💕

a/n: hihi i’m back! this fic is dedicated to my bestie tasha @ildangtaek ilyyy :(( and happy birthday againn i hope your special day was as lovely as you are <3 there really wasn’t much inspo for this i just ❤️ dilfs with my whole kitty esp when it’s yuyu uwu enjoy xx

p.s: thank you so very much for 7k followers! it’s still so unreal to me 🥹💕

song recs: new light — john mayer, boy is mine — ariana grande, plants — crumb

“So…you’re not coming…?” you asked your potential date through your speaker phone, slowly sitting back down in front of your vanity mirror, your puzzled reflection staring back at you. 

You listened to his vague explanation about how he wasn’t quite ready to take this next step with you, whatever that meant. All you were going to do was eat dinner and chat, not exchange marriage vows. He hung up before you had the chance to tell him how silly he sounded. Sulking, you shuffled into your bathroom to undo all the effort you put into looking like a five course meal for an undeserving stranger. 

Halfway through washing your face, you heard your oven timer go off. You completely forgot about the pizza you had made in a rush for you and your date to share. Pulling it out of the oven with a small sigh, you couldn’t help but stare at the unopened bottle of wine on the counter. It would’ve been entirely too easy for you to just get drunk, eat the entire pizza, and cry yourself to sleep afterwards, but a tiny voice inside the back of your mind told you to invite your cute neighbor over instead — even if he was a lot older than you. Would that be so bad? 

The phone only rang for a second before Yunho picked up. “Y/N, hey! What’s up?” Was it uncouth to answer right away or to let it ring for a while longer? He wasn’t sure what the younger crowd preferred nowadays, but he was sure that he wouldn’t let an opportunity to chat with his pretty neighbor slip away. 

“Hey, Yunho!” you began, rolling a metal slicer through the thick crust of your homemade pizza. Your neighbor always sounded so happy when you called him. You could practically hear his imaginary tail wagging. Was he like this with everyone? “What are you up to?”

Yunho’s voice sounded a bit farther away and somewhat strained when he spoke again. “Just fixing up my garden. Oh! My honeysuckles finally bloomed!”

“Already? That’s great!” You couldn’t help but smile to yourself. He was so cute. “So, uh, long story short, my date canceled on me after I made us pizza...There’s wine too.” You bit into your bottom lip, wondering just how desperate you were about to sound. 

“What a dickhead. Why would anyone cancel on you? I mean, you’re so–” he cut himself off, clearing his throat. “Cool, you know…” Yunho set his gardening trowel down onto the bed of dirt below in favor of bonking himself lightly on the side of the head. 

“Thanks, Yun,” you giggled, curling a lock of hair around your finger. You swallowed down your doubt before it overtook you. “Did you wanna, like…hang out?”

Maybe Yunho didn’t fumble, after all. “I’d love to, Y/N.” He looked at the newly bloomed flowers sitting in front of him. It was fate. “I’ll be right over, okay? Wait for me~” 

“See you~” you replied, matching his tone. Once you hung up, you looked down at the comfy hoodie and sleep shorts you had slipped into. You only had a few seconds to wonder if you should change or not before your doorbell rang. 

Yunho’s honey brown eyes widened upon seeing you, his cheeks growing warm. “H-hey, Y/N!” He nervously shuffled his feet, his scuffed Converse squeaking against the rubber doormat. He moved his arm in an odd way; it was clear he was holding something behind his back. 

“I know it’s not technically a date, but I thought I should bring you something…” 

Yunho held out a bouquet of the freshly picked honeysuckles, except now they were delicately tied together with some pretty lace. You looked down at them in disbelief, gently taking them into your arms. Tears threatened to leave your eyes when you tilted your head back up to meet Yunho’s gentle gaze. “Thank you so much…I…Are you an angel?” 

A big cheesy smile spread across Yunho’s face. “Just your friendly neighborhood gardener.” 

And with that, you moved aside to let him in, mirroring Yunho’s infectious smile.

-

“Nice place,” Yunho approved in an oddly soft tone, looking around your cozy living room. Taking a sip of wine, he meandered over to your impressive media cabinet, scanning all the various movies that neatly lined the shelf. “I haven’t seen a DVD in ages…” He turned his head to look at you, his eyes crinkled with amusement. “I didn’t know you were old school.” 

You let out a small snicker, pulling out one of the DVDs to run a finger along the smooth edges. “I’ve always preferred physical copies. Digital just isn’t the same…” You met his wholehearted gaze, your heart skipping a beat. “You know…?” You were so close to him, you were able to notice his pronounced smile lines as soon as his lips curled up. 

“You’re speaking my language, kiddo.” Yunho took another sip from his glass, looking off to the side. He shook his head absentmindedly, reminiscing about something. “Everything was so much better in the early 90s…” 

You pouted, gently elbowing him through his shirt. “Hey, I wasn’t even born yet.” 

“Oh, that’s right.” He took in a sharp breath, holding it for a second. Once he let it out, he just about deflated like a balloon. “I’m old…aren’t I?” 

Scoffing, you mindlessly flipped the DVD around in your hands. “We’re all aging.” You hoped you weren’t looking too deeply into his eyes. “Why does it matter what step you’re at?” 

Yunho was captivated. He hadn’t felt this kind of acceptance in quite some time. “I’ll try to think of it like that,” he voiced softly, reaching up to pat the top of your head. “Thank you.” 

A simple head pat from your seasoned neighbor shouldn’t have affected you the way it did, heat creeping up on your cheeks, the DVD creaking in protest inside your tight grasp. “Y-you better.” 

“O-oh?” Yunho was caught off guard by your bold words, surprised by his body’s immediate response to it. He slowly lowered his glass, trying to casually hide his half-chub from view. “I will then…” 

You tapped your finger rhythmically against the DVD, delighted with the sheepish look on the older man’s face. You wanted to attribute your growing confidence to the alcohol settling inside your stomach, but you knew you would’ve tested the waters either way. And with that, you reached all the way up to pat the top of his head. “Good.” 

There was an electric current of sorts lighting up the edges of Yunho’s brain — one that would spark sooner rather than later. Before he could say anything that might scare you off, he finally took a look at the DVD you had been holding. “Is…is that the original Spider-man?” 

“Thought you would never notice,” you giggled, his long fingers overlapping yours when you handed it to him. “I have one and two. Three doesn’t exist in my mind.”

Yunho was sure he met his perfect match. “We’re watching them,” Yunho decided for the both of you, his eyes widening with excitement. “Right now.” 

You leaned in a bit closer to him. “What are you waiting for? Put it in.” 

He followed suit, being drawn in like a magnet.

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” 

-

It took finishing the cheap bottle of wine and movies together for you both to finally let totally loose around one another, though your matching flushed cheeks and sweaty palms weren’t a result of being tipsy. It was simply a side effect of being around each other. You were so engrossed with one another, that you didn’t even bother turning the TV off, simply letting the DVD icon freely bounce into each corner of the screen for what seemed like hours. 

Yunho couldn’t quite finish chewing the crust of his slice of cold pizza before he explained with his mouth full, “Peter knowingly killed Harry’s father. Harry following in the footsteps of his dad and becoming the Green Goblin was inevitable.” 

“You having delusional takes was inevitable,” you shot back, getting so worked up over this nonsensical argument that you almost choked on your own frozen pizza. “I should’ve known that as soon as you said Spider-man 2 was mid.” 

Yunho pressed closer to you, gently reaching up to squish your cheeks together. “Aww, someone’s grumpy.” 

Your body was beginning to overheat. He was so close to you, and he smelled so good, fresh like cool eucalyptus, and warm like burning sage. You almost couldn’t focus on getting under your older neighbor’s skin, your words coming out a bit garbled when you provoked him, “Harry was a terrible Venom, by the way.” 

Yunho let out a sharp, offended gasp. “You take that back!” he demanded jokingly, pretending to lunge at you, his hands instead stopping short of touching your shoulders, his breath getting caught inside his throat when you decided to actually lunge back.

“Never!” It was surprisingly easy to take down someone who was almost twice the size of you, but you knew internally Yunho was letting it happen. You almost wished he would give you the same treatment. 

Yunho fell back against the couch cushion, his limbs sprawled out, except for one of his thighs, the one you were haphazardly sitting on. He began blocking your feeble attempts to tickle him, not putting a whole lot of effort into getting you off of his lap. “Admit it was peak cinema, will you?” He sounded out of breath, but not for the right reason. 

“Maybe if you admit I’m right,” you sighed out, not stopping your pursuit until you finally had his obnoxiously long body pinned underneath your significantly smaller one. Now straddling his hips, you closed your fingers around his wrists to keep him still. You were hunched over now, only a few inches away from Yunho’s reddened face, feeling him move against you, causing friction in between your thighs. You quickly bit into your bottom lip, your brows joining ever so slightly. Yunho wasn’t answering you, just looking up at you with his big glossy eyes. It was driving you crazy.

“Lemme hear you say it…” 

Yunho blew a few dyed dirty blond locks out of his view. Everything was moving so fast a second ago, and now, it felt like slow motion. He watched as your zip-up hoodie slipped down one of your shoulders, immediately distracted by your thighs once he readjusted his own. Your tiny shorts were riding up, leaving little to imagination. “You’re right,” your neighbor exhaled out, his soft breath hitting the bottom of your chin. 

Yunho sure had a big smile for someone who had just lost an argument, fake or not, and that’s when it hit you, or poked you, rather. You had been sitting directly on Yunho’s clothed cock, now feeling it throb against your exposed core through the thin material of your shorts. This sudden discovery could no longer go unnoticed. “That’s…what I thought,” you huffed, dragging your hips forward in a slow, methodical manner, drawing a long, airy moan out of your older neighbor. 

“I-if you do that, I’ll, nnngh–” Yunho tossed his head back into the couch, feeling your equally sweaty hands slipping off of his wrists, your palms pressing into his warm chest. His hands immediately moved to your hips like they belonged there, his fingers so long and slender that they touched at the small of your back. “This is what you wanted all along, huh? You should’ve said something, kiddo…” 

“Aren’t you the one who got hard five minutes into our date? Don’t think I didn’t notice,” you teased him back, trying to distract him from the fact that you were actively leaving a wet patch on Yunho’s tented pants. 

“So, it is a date,” the older man breathed out, squeezing the soft flesh of your hips in between his fingers from underneath your hoodie, purposely dragging you across his manhood, before staying still, like he was testing the waters. “Aren’t I a lucky man?” 

You just about melted from his sudden display of dominance over your body, now needing more, as though you were just introduced to a new drug. “Sh-show me…how lucky you are.” He waited silently below you, quirking his head to the side, before you realized. 

“Please.” 

“Good girl.” It seemed like his hips began to move without his permission, rolling them up into you, his movements disjointed and sloppy. Desperate. He was desperate for you, his lovely little neighbor, the one he had spent countless days and nights yearning for. “Fuck, is this okay…?” he still found himself asking you from underneath his breath, needing more confirmation, despite actively making you grind against him like it was going out of style. 

“Yeahh,” you gasped, just as you completely relinquished your feigned control, Yunho manually guiding your hips along his trapped, aching cock, the frantic pursuit of friction only fueling the already raging fires inside the both of you. “Need more, actually…” 

“More?” Each small sporadic moan he heard coming from above was like music to his ears, more and more arousal shooting through his heated body and straight into his cock. He truly couldn't take it much longer, unless he wanted to bust inside his jeans like a loser. “Tell me…Tell me what you need, baby…” 

Of course, your cute, seemingly innocent neighbor would be the type to make you ask for it. Your cheeks stung, especially now that he wouldn’t stop trying to catch your wandering gaze. “Touch me, Yun...”

“Touch you…? Touch you where?” 

Chewing at your bottom lip, you pulled your tiny shorts up by the waistband, your pussy on full display for him.  “Here, please…” 

“Fuckin’ hell…” One of Yunho’s hands left your hips, gingerly pulling said shorts to the side to reveal your glistening cunt. Yunho had dreamt of this moment for ages, and now that he was finally living it, he was absolutely ready to give his all for the angel sitting on his lap. “Jesus Christ...All of you is so pretty...so perfect.” 

“I’m all yours,” you whispered, running your hands down his warm chest.

Yunho felt his brain short-circuiting in real time. “Fuck, you have no idea how crazy that makes me.” 

The man’s cock pulsed from underneath you, leading you to bite back a moan. “Show me.” 

“Then, sit on my face, angel.” 

Once you were angled above him, Yunho pulled the shorts you soaked up by the inseam, emphasizing the shape of your pussy for his own amusement. He rubbed the pads of his index and middle finger along your clothed lips, knowing he found your clit with his thumb when you let out a sharp gasp. “Right there, hm? Did I find your cute little clit, baby? 

“Uh-huh…” 

He rolled your clit around in slow, teasing circles. “Want me to find your hole next?” Your sheepish, yet eager nods only fueled Yunho’s already raving arousal. 

The unmistakable sound of fabric being ripped was registered by your senses first, before you watched your tiny torn pair of shorts disappear into the depths of the fluffy carpet beside the couch. The cold air that had hit your bare cunt was quickly replaced by your eager neighbor’s warm tongue. “Oh…!” 

Yunho greedily lapped up your arousal into his mouth, mapping out the entirety of your cunt with his lips and tongue, the bottom half of his face already shining with your wetness. The man eventually spread you open with two slender fingers, watching your hole flutter around nothing. “Found it…” He was so overcome with lust, that he sent a wad of spit into your cunt, before plugging you up with his tongue. 

“Yunho, oh my god–” You reached down to hold onto the sides of his head, your fingers curling around his dirty blond locks. 

It was when your hazy eyes met that Yunho began to tongue-fuck you in a vigorous manner, each and every impossibly wet sound your slick cunt made only furthering your neighbor’s desire to make you fall apart. He only ceased his worship to groan, “Fuck, do you get this goddamn wet for everyone?” 

Your thighs were starting to shake. You were close. “Just you, Yunho…” Now that the man was looking back up at you with those big puppy dog eyes, you couldn’t help but tug at his hair. “You look like you wanna say something, baby.” The small, uncharacteristically whiny moan he let out encouraged you to take matters into your own hands, rubbing your cunt along Yunho’s spread-out tongue, your puffy clit routinely bumping into his curved nose. He let out another pretty-sounding moan. It made you smile. “C’mon…use your words…” 

“Cum on my face, please,” he voiced urgently, his lips still pressed to your wet cunt. 

“Fuck, yeah, okay,” you gasped in agreement, only able to grind yourself across Yunho’s tongue a few more times, before he cemented his hands around your waist, forcefully bringing you down onto his mouth. 

Yunho couldn’t make out any of the words coming out of your mouth, too focused on the heavy moans you were letting out in between them. Your clit throbbed against his hot tongue, and once he licked down to your spasming hole, he felt the warm spray of your release hit his tongue. Savoring the taste of you on his swollen lips, he gazed up at you with pride. “That’s my girl.” 

With your legs shaking and your heart pounding, you climbed off of him, watching him sit up and lean back against the couch, his aching cock still trapped inside the confines of his pants. You couldn’t help but lick at your own lips. “Take it out, Yunho…”

Yunho obliged, hastily undoing his leather belt. His sizable cock smacked heavily into his abdomen upon release, leaving a trail of pre-cum behind on his t-shirt. A prominent vein traveled up from the base of his cock to the thick tip where it was an eye-catching shade of pink. It matched the flush on his cheeks and ears. 

Despite being confident about his size, there was a nervous glint in his eyes. “What do you think…?” 

“Pretty…” You were sure you were drooling. 

Chuckling in relief, Yunho patted one of his spread thighs. “Come here, princess. See how pretty it is up close.” 

And you did just that, perching yourself on top of Yunho’s lap like you belonged there. Yunho still couldn’t believe his luck. Not only did he have the privilege of rewatching his favorite movies with his pretty neighbor, but he somehow ended up with you on his cock. He was determined to make it worth your while. “You like being on top, huh?” 

“I just didn’t want to put all the hard work on you,” you pouted, gently running your finger around his tip to collect his arousal, giggling at the way he jolted against your touch. 

“Oh, because I’m like 20 years your senior? Think I can’t handle all this?” he asked under his breath, squeezing the soft flesh of your ass from either side. 

Mewing from his touch, you aloofly licked his pre-cum from your finger, making the man whine in response. “I think you should prove it, Yun,” you whispered near his lips, leaving a chaste kiss against them.  

Yunho’s thick tip entered you first, your cunt slowly stretching open to accommodate his size. “I’ll show you, baby…” Feeling you tense up against him, Yunho made sure he took his time with you, pushing into you inch by inch, diligently studying your face for any sign of discomfort. He did all of this, only for your greedy cunt to swallow up his cock to the hilt. 

You didn’t even know you could feel this full. You were positive he was inside your guts. “Yunho, fuck– it’s so big,” you gasped into his neck. A small puff of air hit the side of your flushed face. 

“You’re just tiny, sweetheart. You can’t help it,” he whispered against your skin, rubbing your lower back in gentle circles. His teeth nipped at your earlobe. “But, you can take it, yeah?” 

You gave him a small nod, but that wasn’t good enough for the man. He pressed his forehead into yours, running his thumb over your bottom lip. “I want to hear you say it, Y/N.” 

When he let out a small breath, you took one in, clutching the sides of his face. “I can take it, Yunho.” 

Yunho began to move before you had the chance to properly ride him, holding your soft hips, using them like handlebars. “Y/N, baby, you’re so tight…” Each thrust he made was purposeful, deep, like he wanted to reach the innermost part of you, and leave his mark there. You were so warm, so hot inside, the man was sure he was going to melt if he continued, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop. “I’m going to make you mine…” 

You choked out a moan, tightening your grip around him. 

“Yeah?” His lips ghosted along your jaw. “That’s what you want?” 

“Please,” you begged Yunho, digging your nails into his back. “Make me yours.”

Yunho simply couldn’t hold himself back any longer, not while he had you like putty in his arms, your body limp, completely and utterly at his mercy. “There we go, baby…Don’t worry that pretty head about anything, just focus on this cock.” And he made sure you felt each and every inch of it, figuring he was hitting your cervix from the way you gasped for air like there was none left. 

“Fuck..!” you cried, delirious with pleasure. “I’ll cum, I’m gonna cum, Yunho, please, don’t stop–”

His hips matched the quick, wavered desperation of your voice, pounding himself in and out of your squelching cunt. “Fall apart for me, princess…Let me feel it…” He slipped his free hand between your heated bodies, giving your clit a few vigorous rubs with his calloused thumb. 

You couldn’t speak, simply opening your mouth to let out a soundless moan, your body jolting away from his touch. “That’s it…that’s it, my love, let go,” he sighed against your lips, his thumb still swiping over your sensitive clit, his throbbing length reaching places you never could without his help.

Just as your warmth spilled out of you, Yunho held you still within his firm grasp, his forehead resting against yours. He was almost completely out of breath, a few drops of sweat cascading along his temple. “Inside…?”

You nodded desperately. “Inside, please…” 

Yunho indulged in your mutual desire, pressing his hand down against your tummy to feel the space he took up inside you. He filled you to the brim with his hot white release, so much so that it spilled past your joined bodies and dripped out onto the couch. 

He managed to give you a small sheepish smile when your eyes met. “You’ll really be mine after this, won’t you, kiddo?” 

You couldn’t help but giggle, reaching up to caress his cheek. It was warm to the touch. “Good thing you live right next door.” 

© kitten4sannie, 2025.

[arilevenatz]

Silent vows| K.Y.S

Pairing: Mafia!Yeosang x Reader

Genre: Arranged marriage, slight enemies to lovers, fluff

Word count: 22.4k

Warnings: forced marriage, emotional abuse, stalking, jealousy, implied violence, insecurity, yeosang is THE husband, we all want him

AN: Ok so happy belated birthday to my boy yeosang. The most prettiest, angelic mf I've ever seen. Like how can a man be so pretty and handsome at the same damn time. Also this was kinda like a prompt but I can't for the love of god find the comment. But you know who you are, thank you

Masterlist

“I’m not doing it.”

The words left your mouth before you could stop them, sharp and fast, cutting across the heavy air in the room like a blade. The study smelled like old leather and wood polish, the same way it always did when your father called you in for his lectures. But this wasn’t a lecture. This was something else. He sat behind that heavy desk, wearing the same expression he always wore when he made decisions for other people’s lives— calm, practiced, untouchable.

“This isn’t a request,” he answered, barely sparing you a glance. “It’s a responsibility.”

You could’ve laughed. Honestly, you almost did. Responsibility. That word sounded hilarious coming out of his mouth. What did he know about responsibility? The only thing he was responsible for was dragging this family name around town like it was some royal crest, acting like being respected by neighbors counted for anything real in the world.

“You don’t get to sell me off like I’m a—”

“Enough.”

Just that one word. Quiet. Heavy. And somehow louder than your shouting could ever be. Your mother was standing near the window, arms folded like she was cold even though the room was warm. She didn’t speak. She never did, not in front of him. Just stood there looking outside, twisting her rings like she could disappear into the carpet if she tried hard enough. You hated that you weren’t even surprised.

“This marriage will benefit this family,” your father continued, smoothing his sleeves like this was some business meeting. “We’ve built this name for generations. And you will protect it.”

You clenched your fists tighter, nails biting into your palms. “Your reputation doesn’t mean anything outside this stupid town.”

It slipped before you could stop it, but you didn’t regret it. You meant it. All these formal dinners, these family events, these endless talks about legacy— all of it felt empty. Like a dying empire pretending it was still a kingdom.

“This family has survived longer than you’ve been alive,” your father shot back, finally meeting your gaze with steel in his eyes. “And you’ll do your part to make sure it stays that way.”

You could feel the walls closing in. You could feel your freedom shrinking, curling in on itself, suffocating before you could even scream.

“Kang Yeosang.”

The name hit you like a slap. Sharp. Direct. Cold. You knew that name. Everyone did. Not because he was some loud, reckless criminal—no, worse than that. He was dangerous in a way that didn’t make noise. Dangerous in the way silent oceans are. You don’t notice how deep they are until you’re already halfway sunk.

“Why him?” you asked, throat dry.

Your father barely blinked. “Because his family’s name will keep ours alive.”

Alive. Like this was survival. Like marrying you off to someone you didn’t even know was a favor. Like it was a gift. You hated how calm he was about it. You hated how your mother still hadn’t said a single word. You hated how small you felt in that moment, standing in a house you used to believe was home.

“I’m not going to his house,” you muttered finally, stubbornness flaring even when your heart was hammering in your chest. “You can make me marry him, but I’m not moving in with some— some stranger.”

For a second, you thought maybe—just maybe—that would get a reaction. That something in him would soften, crack, break.

It didn’t.

Instead, he stood. Calm. Slow. Adjusting the cuffs of his shirt with careful precision, like he was bored of the conversation already. “You will,” he said softly. “You’ll go to his house, you’ll be his wife, and you’ll do what’s expected of you.” “And if I don’t?” you pushed, lifting your chin like you weren’t breaking inside.

His gaze sharpened just enough for the threat underneath to show, sharp and cold as glass. “Then I’ll handle it my way.”

You knew what his way meant. Not blood. Not mafia violence. But ruin. Reputation torn apart. Family turned against you. Friends pushed away. He knew how to break you the polite way, the respectable way. Quiet destruction in the form of shame.

You swallowed thick, hot air that didn’t want to go down.

“I hate you,” you breathed.

But your father was already walking away, steps quiet against the polished floor.

“I can live with that.”

Your throat burned with all the things you wanted to scream, but only one thing came out. “What about my studies?”

It sounded small. Weak. But it was the only lifeline you could grab onto in that moment. Something that was yours. The one thing you had left that wasn’t part of their family dinners, or reputation games, or polite handshakes pretending to be alliances.

University was supposed to be your escape. Not glamorous. Not perfect. But it was freedom in its own, small way—early mornings, long commutes, paper deadlines, friends who didn’t care about who your father was.

Your father barely reacted.

“You can continue after the wedding,” he answered flatly, as if you were asking if you could have dessert after dinner.

You stared at him. “After?”

“Yes. You’ll still attend.”

But you knew what that meant. You knew the weight behind those words. After the wedding. After moving into a stranger’s house. After taking his last name. After your life wasn’t yours anymore. Technically, sure—you could go back. Physically, you could sit in the same classrooms, scribble in the same notebooks. But it wouldn’t be the same. Not with whispers curling behind your back. Not with people watching you like you were an exhibit. “That’s her—the girl who married into them.”

It would hang on you like invisible chains. Dragging behind you everywhere you went.

And worst of all—you wouldn’t be able to come home. Not really. Not to this family. Not to your old life. You’d have a new last name, a new house, a new set of rules written by someone else’s hand.

The walls of the study felt like they were closing in.

“I don’t want this,” you said, quieter this time. No yelling. Just raw honesty, like a last ditch effort to claw your way out. “This isn’t my life.”

Your father looked at you the same way he looked at accounts on paper. Math. Numbers. Problems to solve, not feelings to fix.

“It is now.”

Simple. Unforgiving. Final.

You could almost feel the weight of your choices shrinking down to nothing. Every dream you used to picture folded neatly into a little box, pushed aside for family names and legacy dinners with strangers in pressed suits. Your stomach twisted. Hot. Cold. Rage and panic mixing together until you couldn’t tell which was worse.

You wanted to shout, wanted to break something, wanted to drag this perfect little empire down brick by brick just to prove you could—but you stood there frozen, fists clenched, staring at a man who would never, ever see you as anything but his tool first.

Come to the house.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

Yeosang sighed, rubbing his hand over his jaw. “Alright. Be there in twenty.”

It wasn’t unusual—getting called over like this. His father didn’t waste words, didn’t waste visits. If he was calling, it meant something needed handling.

By the time he got to the mansion, the gates were already open like they always were when they expected him. The house was quiet, the same way expensive places are—grand, but not loud about it. Just old money tastefully sitting in every piece of polished wood.

His father was already in the study when Yeosang stepped inside, standing by the window, one hand in his pocket like it was muscle memory by now. Glass of whiskey in the other. Of course.

“You’re early,” his father said without turning around.

“You said now.”

His father finally looked over, gave him that familiar once-over like he was assessing a report. “Fair enough.”

There was a beat of silence. Not tense. Just quiet.

Then—

“There’s going to be a wedding.”

Yeosang blinked once. “Yours?”

His father gave him a flat look, one eyebrow raising the way it always did when Yeosang was being difficult on purpose. “Yours.”

Yeosang huffed a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, stepping further into the room. “That supposed to be funny?”

His father didn’t smile. “I’m serious.”

Yeosang stood still for a second, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “Is that what you dragged me here for? Could’ve sent a text.”

“This isn’t a text conversation.”

“You’d be surprised what can be said over text these days.”

That earned the smallest twitch at the corner of his father’s mouth. Approval, maybe. Maybe not. Hard to tell with him.

“It’s arranged,” his father said, cutting through Yeosang’s deflection cleanly. “Her family’s name still matters in this town. Not rich, not influential in our way, but solid. Traditional. The kind of people who care about reputation more than their own comfort.”

Yeosang tilted his head slightly. “So… charity work?”

“Strategy,” his father corrected smoothly. “They need stability. We don’t need much from them, but it keeps everything clean.”

“Clean,” Yeosang repeated under his breath. He crossed his arms, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. “And I’m guessing I don’t get a vote?”

“You get an understanding. That’s enough.”

Yeosang didn’t argue. Not because he agreed, but because he knew there was no point. This was how it worked. Give and take. Favors. Names. Quiet deals behind closed doors.

He exhaled through his nose. “Who is she?”

“Y/L/N’s daughter.”

Yeosang’s brow ticked. “Didn’t know they had one.”

“Not surprising. They keep her out of sight. Books, classes, family dinners. But they need her to secure their name before it fades.”

Yeosang thought about that for a second. Reputation marriages were common enough. Boring, mostly. People shaking hands over other people’s futures like it was stock trading.

“You’ve met her?” he asked.

“Briefly. Enough to know she’s going to fight it.”

“Great.”

His father glanced at him then, sharp. “Not your job to like it. Just your job to make it work.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t,” Yeosang muttered, rolling his jaw. “I’m just saying… if she’s gonna be difficult, it’s gonna be annoying.”

His father’s gaze didn’t soften, but there was a certain understanding there. “You’ll handle it.”

Yeosang let out a dry chuckle. “Yeah,” he said, pushing off the doorframe. “Guess I will.”

As he turned to leave, his father added quietly, “This isn’t punishment.”

“I know.”

And he did. This was just how things worked. Fair or not—his life wasn’t completely his own anymore. Yeosang sat behind the wheel, thumb tapping against the steering wheel as he pulled out of the driveway. Headlights cutting clean lines through the dark street, smooth turns, muscle memory driving him home while his mind drifted elsewhere.

Marriage. Arranged.

He scoffed quietly to himself, shaking his head once. What was he supposed to do with someone else’s family name attached to his life?

Some sheltered daughter of a traditional family, probably the kind who spent too much money on handbags and complained when the AC wasn’t cold enough. He could already hear the whining. Could already see the way she’d expect to live in his place, treat it like a hotel, float through his routine like an expensive perfume he didn’t ask to wear.

No, that wasn’t happening.

Maybe he’d buy her an apartment somewhere else. Nothing fancy, but decent enough. They could do the whole photo ops thing, wear the rings, play nice for the public, then go back to separate lives. Paper marriage. Clean. Or worse—she could be one of those girls who latched on for money. Gold digger. Probably already imagining his credit cards with her initials on the back.

He pressed his tongue to his cheek in irritation. God, he hated gold diggers.

Maybe she’d show up to the first meeting with some designer bag acting shy, but batting lashes like she knew exactly how to play the game. All wide eyes and fake humility. Great. Just what he needed—another headache in heels.

And the name—YN.

It felt familiar. Couldn’t place it, but the reputation was old enough to echo through town. Traditional. Reputed. The type of family that prided themselves on manners but ate each other alive behind closed doors.

The kind that smiled with their teeth.

He drummed his fingers once more, sharp taps on the leather, jaw set.

Alright.

If he was going to be stuck with this arrangement, he might as well know what he was dealing with. And he wasn’t about to walk into it blind. He had resources. Skills. Connections that didn’t come from LinkedIn profiles or polite family dinners. If they thought he was going to just sit back and play along without checking her first, they clearly didn’t know him well enough.

Fine. If she was going to be part of his life, even on paper, he’d find out exactly who she was—before she even stepped in the same room as him.

He flicked his blinker, turning toward his penthouse, already thinking about who to call first.

Let’s see what Miss YN was hiding.

By the time Yeosang finished, he knew more about her than her own family probably did.

University—small, local, nothing flashy. Biology major. Not exactly the typical rich family trophy daughter. No branded handbags, no influencer lifestyle. Her socials were barely active. Private, even. Most of her posts were old, nothing more than the occasional picture of a sunset or food she cooked. No thirst traps. No fake aesthetic feeds.

She liked drawing. Had an old art account that hadn’t been touched in months—messy sketches of flowers and animals, all pencil or black ink. Crochet too. Random photos of half-finished scarves stuffed in a drawer. Cooking—simple recipes, home stuff, not the kind of thing you post to show off, just to remember.

Her friends? A few from university. Small group chats. Normal conversations. Mostly about classes, complaining about assignments, nothing interesting. No clubbing pictures. No vacation shots with secret boyfriends tagged under fake accounts.

The further he dug, the more it annoyed him—not because he found anything bad, but because he didn’t. No scandals, no secret plans to social climb, no hidden motives that screamed gold digger or spoiled brat.

She was just… boring.

Boring in the way people are when they’re not trying to be noticed. And for some reason, that irritated him more than if she had been a problem.

Yeosang leaned back in his chair, tossing his phone on the table. Elbow propped on the armrest, hand running through his hair, frustration curling at the edges of his jaw.

Great. Now he was stuck marrying some quiet, awkward, crochet-making biology nerd who probably spent more time reading textbooks than thinking about designer clothes. Not exactly the chaos he was expecting.

But that was fine.

Boring or not, it didn’t change the situation. Didn’t change the fact that she probably didn’t want this marriage any more than he did. Didn’t change the fact that, like it or not, she was about to become his problem.

The small cafe tucked between two old bookstores smelled like cinnamon and burnt espresso, the kind of place you’d miss unless you were looking for it. Y/N liked it that way—quiet, steady, familiar. No loud music, no influencers with tripods. Just people who liked good coffee and minding their own business.

She stepped up to the counter, eyes scanning the pastries before glancing at the girl behind the register. “I love your hair,” she said softly, a small smile pulling at her lips. “That color looks really good on you.” The girl blinked, caught off guard, then smiled wide. “Oh! Thank you—I just dyed it last week.”

Y/N nodded, pleased. Compliments were easy. They made people softer. And the girl was pretty, her pastel blue curls tucked behind her ear like she wasn’t sure yet if she liked them. Little things like that made the world feel less sharp.

She ordered her coffee, tucked herself into the corner seat like she always did, pulling her notebook out of her bag. Pages filled with messy diagrams, doodles in the margins, recipes scrawled sideways between molecular structures.

What she didn’t notice—what no one noticed—was the man sitting at the table near the window, fingers idly circling the rim of his untouched cup, black baseball cap low over his brow.

Yeosang watched all of it with that same steady, unreadable expression he always wore when he was thinking too much. He wasn’t even sure why he was there. Habit, maybe. Curiosity. Boredom. The fact that the more he found out about her, the more it didn’t add up with what he expected. Normal girls didn’t compliment strangers just because. Normal girls—especially daughters of families clawing for reputation—were supposed to be fake polite. Smile, nod, move on. But she meant it. He could tell. You didn’t fake that kind of tone.

He watched the way she curled into herself, scribbling in that notebook like the rest of the world didn’t exist, lips pressed into a soft frown of concentration.

Just a quiet girl who looked like she was holding herself together with coffee and stubbornness.

Yeosang leaned back in his chair, crossing one ankle over his knee, jaw ticking once. This was going to be annoying in a completely different way. Y/N didn’t notice him when she left.

He watched her go, watched the way she shrugged her bag higher onto her shoulder, thumb absentmindedly rubbing at a little ink stain on her wrist from writing earlier. She moved like someone used to being unnoticed, like she liked it that way. The door chimed behind her, soft and forgettable.

Yeosang waited a beat, then stood, shoving his hands into his coat pockets as he stepped out onto the street. He wasn’t planning to follow her. Not really. That wasn’t his thing. He wasn’t the lurking type. But something about the whole thing felt unfinished—like he’d walked into a movie halfway through and now he needed to know how it ended, even if it was boring. Especially because it was boring.

She turned down one of the smaller streets, familiar paths clearly mapped in her head. She didn’t hesitate. Not once. Like she’d walked this way so many times her feet didn’t need permission anymore.

Normal. Predictable….Except for the part where, in a few weeks, her life wouldn’t be.

That was the thing gnawing at the edge of his mind. She didn’t know yet. Not fully. Probably knew about the arrangement, sure, but she didn’t know what marrying into his family meant. What marrying him meant. She looked like she still had hope things would be fine. Like she still thought she could negotiate her way out of it if she used the right tone with her father.

Cute.

He wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t the type to tear down someone just because he could. But he wasn’t about to let someone walk into his life acting like it was optional.

This marriage was happening. She was going to be his. And the sooner she realized that, the easier it was going to be for both of them.

Yeosang sighed, pulling his cap lower as he turned the opposite direction, heading back toward his car. No point in being seen. Not yet. He’d play it properly, like he always did—let the introductions happen the way their fathers arranged, act like this was his first time seeing her. Civil. Normal.

For now, she could keep her quiet cafes and notebooks full of diagrams.

Soon enough, she’d be sitting across from him at a dinner table pretending she wasn’t thinking about escape routes.

And when that time came—

He’d enjoy watching the fight leave her eyes when she realized there weren’t any.

The dining room was too polished. Everything in it felt like it belonged in a magazine—heavy chairs, polished forks, crystal glasses that didn’t belong to people who used them often. It smelled faintly like expensive old wood and control.

Y/N sat straight, shoulders set, jaw locked like she’d been preparing for this her entire life. Polite daughter. Obedient. Chin slightly tilted up—not too much to look rude, just enough to show she wasn’t going to shatter on command.

Across the table, Yeosang sat with his elbow resting lazily on the armrest, fingers tapping slow against the tablecloth. His gaze was on her, not in the obvious way, not wide-eyed or curious—more like someone reading a file they already memorized but going over it again for fun.

“So,” his father started, formal tone sharp around the edges, “this is long overdue.”

Her father chuckled lightly, already halfway sunk into the leather chair like this was a golf meeting. “We’ve been meaning to sit down properly.”

Yeosang barely blinked. “Mm.”

Y/N didn’t look at him at first. Her eyes were trained on her plate, expression soft but unreadable, like she’d pulled politeness over herself like armor. When she finally did glance at him, it wasn’t shy—it was calculated. Brave. Probably spent the last week practicing it in the mirror.

Didn’t matter.

He knew everything already. Biology major. Draws on the side. Probably keeps her yarn stuffed in a drawer somewhere in that tiny bedroom of hers. Ordinary, and for some reason, that irritated him more than anything else could have.

Their parents carried the conversation like businessmen. Deals, family names, subtle remarks about strengthening ties. It wasn’t a dinner—it was a contract, disguised in roast chicken and overpriced wine.

Yeosang’s eyes didn’t leave her.

Y/N shifted her grip on the napkin under the table, folding it tighter in her palm. Eyes stayed low—not on purpose, not because she was scared—but because eye contact always felt like permission for people to ask more questions. And she wasn’t in the mood to explain herself to anyone at that table.

Yeosang sat across from her, speaking with her father like he wasn’t being sized up for marriage. Confident. Comfortable in a room full of expectations. His voice was steady, like someone used to being listened to, used to having the final word in a conversation. The kind of steady that didn’t need raising.

His father said something about ties between families. Her father hummed in agreement. Someone poured more wine. The edge of Yeosang’s gaze cut toward her briefly. He didn’t stare. Just checked. Like someone glancing at a watch to see how much longer they had to stay.

“So,” his voice finally reached her side of the table, low, smooth, without decoration, “biology.”

Her fork hovered, not quite raised, not quite lowered. “Yeah.”

He waited. No explanation followed. No polite rambling about how she got into it, what she wanted to do with it, how hard it was balancing studies with life. Just that quiet confirmation, like she wasn’t going to give him more than that unless dragged.

Something about that pulled a faint curve to the corner of his mouth—not a smile, not even close, just interest. Her fingers folded the napkin tighter.

“You gonna finish that?” he asked, eyes flicking to the untouched half of roasted potatoes on her plate.

Finally, her eyes met his. Not soft, not flirty—flat. Careful. “Do you want it?”

He shrugged once. “Didn’t think you were shy about eating.” “I’m not.”

He raised an eyebrow, mildly amused. “Good.”

Silence again, heavy but not uncomfortable. Just two people used to not needing to fill it. Her father started speaking about how she could continue studying after marriage, casual, like saying we’ll paint the guest room next week. She didn’t bother correcting him, though the heaviness in her chest said she wanted to. No way it would actually work that easily.

She didn’t say anything else for the rest of the meal. Yeosang didn’t, either.

He just watched her, like a lion watching something small—not because he wanted to pounce, but because he was curious if it was going to run. Neither of them moved first.

Yeosang watched the way her fingers kept folding the napkin tighter and tighter, like if she could just make it small enough, she could disappear into it. But her expression didn’t match the tension in her hands. She didn’t look flustered. Didn’t look desperate. Just… controlled. Like someone who’d been living with locked doors their whole life and knew better than to jiggle the handle too loud. Interesting.

“Do you usually not talk,” he murmured, cutting into the silence, “or is that just for me?”

The faintest breath of humor pulled at her nose before she could stop it. “Depends.”

“On?”

She let her gaze flick up—not to his eyes, just above them. “Whether or not the person across from me deserves it.” His tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek, and for a second, he almost laughed. Almost. This wasn’t what he expected. Spoiled daughters didn’t sit at tables folding napkins into perfect squares like they were holding knives in their laps.

And she didn’t look at him properly, not even once. Not because she was scared. Because she didn’t care. But she would.

Not in the way girls cared about him normally. Not wide-eyed or hopeful. No, she was going to care when she realized exactly how much of her life was about to be decided for her whether she folded napkins or full pages of essays. And the funny thing was—he didn’t want to break her. He just wanted to watch how long she could hold that line before she blinked first.

After the dinner dragged itself to its dull, polished conclusion, with the adults shaking hands over dessert like they’d just signed a treaty, Yeosang leaned back in his chair, elbow resting against the polished wood, fingertips brushing his jaw like he was thinking something over. And maybe he was. But the look in his eyes said this was calculated.

“So,” he said casually, but with the kind of weight that immediately drew the attention of both families, “how about next Thursday?”

The words dropped into the space between them with a deliberate softness, like a stone hitting still water. No one moved. His father raised a brow slightly, clearly pleased with the display of initiative. Her father smiled, the kind of smile fathers wear when they think their daughter’s life is finally falling in line. And Y/N—Y/N kept her fingers on the edge of her plate, eyes flickering up to Yeosang, finally, properly, but only for a second.

“Thursday?” she echoed, like she needed to make sure she heard him right, even though she absolutely had.

He nodded once, slow, composed. “Next week. You’ll be free, won’t you?”

It wasn’t a question. Not really. Not with the way every eye at that table turned toward her, expectant, waiting for her to be agreeable. Marriage was already settled like property; a casual dinner date wasn’t going to shake the foundation of that, but somehow, this felt worse.

Her jaw tensed before she could stop it, irritation curling hot under her ribs—not because she didn’t expect him to test her, but because he chose Thursday. Her only weekday off. Her only breathing space. Her only time where nobody expected her to be anything, say anything, do anything. She studied late on Thursdays, sometimes sat in the library doing nothing but scribbling messy notes on scrap paper that didn’t mean anything, just because she could. And now he was looking at her like he knew that. Like he’d planned that.

“I suppose,” she muttered, voice clipped, polite, lined with quiet annoyance that no one but him seemed sharp enough to hear. “Since you’ve already picked the day for me.”

Their fathers chuckled, pleased at the display of future marital bliss like they were in on some great joke. His father gave him that approving glance—the good, take responsibility look that was passed between powerful men in rooms like this. But Yeosang wasn’t watching anyone else. Just her. Measuring. Testing. Curious how far she could fold before snapping.

“You’ll like it,” he said simply. No tease. No apology. No smile.

She didn’t respond. Just folded the napkin in her lap one more time before setting it neatly on the table like she was handling something fragile. She didn’t look at him again, not because she was shy, but because she knew better. If she did, it’d feel like she was giving him something.

And right now, she wasn’t in the mood to give him anything. But she was curious now. Why Thursday?

Yeosang saw everything. He wasn’t sitting there with that calm posture and steady gaze for show—he was trained for this, raised on discipline sharper than any blade, molded under the expectation that one day he would carry the weight of something much heavier than family name. He was observant. Always. And while everyone at that table was busy patting each other’s backs over the success of an arranged marriage neither party asked for, Yeosang was watching her like a map he was learning by memory.

It was the way she folded the napkin—not once, not twice, but over and over. Each time, pressing it smaller, sharper, tucking corners like she wanted it neat but not too neat, controlled but never pristine. People who folded things that many times weren’t trying to fidget—they were trying to manage something they couldn’t put words to. He’d seen it in tense meetings, watched rival leaders smooth the edges of cufflinks or touch their watches repeatedly when they were hiding nerves or holding in words they couldn’t say aloud.

And she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

But that wasn’t the only thing. He caught the tiny shifts in her posture whenever her parents leaned too close, a subtle lean away—not disrespectful, not obvious, just barely enough to create distance like muscle memory. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t recoil. She managed it. As if that small separation was the only thing keeping her breathing steadily through this whole suffocating display of family pride.

Then there was her food. The careful way she pushed it around her plate, not because she was picky or entitled, but because eating under watchful eyes wasn’t the same as eating alone. Separating textures, shapes, colors, almost like categorizing parts of herself she wasn’t ready to share yet. It wasn’t disinterest—it was control. She was being studied, so she gave them nothing. Not even in the way she chewed.

Most people didn’t notice these things. Hell, most people didn’t even know they did them. But Yeosang saw it all like someone reading subtitles under a movie no one else could hear. And with every fold of that napkin, with every subtle lean of her shoulder, with every glance that never quite met anyone else’s fully, he knew one thing for certain—

She was no ordinary girl.

No spoiled daughter. No meek little thing waiting for a husband to save her from some sheltered life. There was something under that careful silence, something sharp, something waiting. Not the loud kind of defiance—but the quiet kind that made revolutions possible if left alone too long.

Yeosang didn’t know what that thing was yet. But he wanted to. Not to break her. Not to tame her. Not even to get under her skin. He just wanted to see what would happen if someone finally pressed back. And he was more than prepared to be that someone.

But he was no saint, either. Sure, Yeosang was observant. Sure, he was sharp, disciplined, raised on a steady diet of politics, violence, and strategy—but he was also his father’s son. And that bloodline came with one very particular curse: the chronic, unrelenting need to poke at things just to see what sound they made when they cracked. It wasn’t malicious. It wasn’t even personal. It was just in his bones.

And she—sitting there with her neat napkin folding and careful glances and that stubborn refusal to give him anything—was basically gift-wrapped for that exact kind of cruelty.

Admit it. He was intrigued by her, sure. But more than that, there was an itch under his skin when he looked at her, this annoying, bratty curiosity that made him want to press buttons just to see what she’d do. Not because he wanted to humiliate her. Not because he wanted to watch her fall apart. No, it was because she didn’t flinch. And that was interesting. Different. Everyone flinched eventually—but she just… adjusted.

And she looked cute annoyed.

Not the whiny, spoiled kind of cute. Not the bratty, helpless kind. The kind of cute that made him want to lean closer, just to see if her voice would crack the same way her napkin did under her fingers.

He shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t even be here, technically, wasting brainpower on reading into a girl he was being forced to marry by family names he didn’t even particularly respect. But here he was, running mental diagnostics on someone’s napkin folding like it was part of a case file, and liking it more than he should.

And if he was going to be dragged into this circus of arranged happiness, he might as well have fun while he was at it.

Testing her? It wasn’t just strategy anymore. It was entertainment. Annoying her? That was just hereditary.

She really didn’t want to go.

Like—borderline, jump-off-the-balcony level of not wanting to go. Not because she thought it would fix anything, not because she was dramatic, but because the sheer dread of giving up the one day that belonged to her made her stomach twist. It was Thursday. Thursday was hers. Her one breath in a week full of held ones. Her one clean, unclaimed square of time where no one asked her to smile, or marry, or fold herself into something palatable.

But she didn’t jump, because that wasn’t how good girls act.

Her mother’s voice echoed in the bathroom as she brushed mascara through her lashes. ‘Be agreeable, Y/N. Don’t embarrass us. You’re not going to be one of those girls with tantrums and police reports. You’re better than that.’

Better. Whatever that meant.

So she got dressed. Pulled on clothes that said I didn’t try but I still look good because if she was going to be dragged into this, she was going to do it on her terms. She tied her shoes like she was tightening a tether around her own ankles. Did her makeup—not too much, not too little, just enough to look alive, to hide the exhaustion that simmered under polite nods and family dinners.

And when she finally looked at herself in the mirror, it wasn’t vanity staring back. It was survival. Thursday. Her Thursday. And now she was about to spend it across from him.

That annoying Yeosang with his sharp eyes and careful words, with his I’m watching you energy and the quiet smugness that didn’t need smiles or stupid flirting to make itself known. She could already hear his voice in her head, perfectly even, perfectly annoying.

And yet—she still tied her hair the way she liked it. Still put on her favorite necklace. Not for him. For herself. Because if she was going to war, she might as well wear armor.

She went down the stairs like muscle memory, footsteps light but steady, not really registering anything around her. Her parents said something—maybe a wish, maybe a warning, maybe one of those sugary “be good” reminders her mother loved so much. But it was all white noise, just the hum of life happening in the background of a mind that was already somewhere else entirely.

She didn’t ignore them on purpose. She was just zoned out. The kind of zoned out where you don’t even realize your keys are already in your hand, or that you locked the door behind you without thinking about it. Automatic. Like when you’re walking to class with music on and suddenly you’re already at the building, but you don’t remember crossing the street.

She didn’t remember leaving the front door. Didn’t remember if she’d even said goodbye, or if her mom had tried to fix the fold of her sleeve one last time like she always did. And she definitely didn’t see him until she stepped out onto the pavement and felt him.

There’s a specific kind of awareness that happens when someone’s eyes are already on you before you’ve noticed them. Like a silent tap on the shoulder. She glanced up—

—and there he was.

Leaning back comfortably in the driver’s seat of a sleek black car, windows down just enough to catch the breeze, one hand draped over the steering wheel like he had all the time in the world. Rap music playing in the background, not quiet but not obnoxiously loud. And that expression—not quite a smile, definitely not a grin, just that irritating curve of satisfaction people wore when they’d predicted something exactly right. Smug wasn’t even the word for it. It was too clean. Too Yeosang. Of course he was already here.

Of course he was watching her like he knew she wouldn’t have noticed him until now. She blinked once, slow, lips pressed in a thin line, and then kept walking. Didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t offer a greeting, just moved like she was late for something even though she wasn’t.

He leaned slightly forward as she approached, tapping his fingers once against the steering wheel, eyes glinting with that silent, irritating amusement.

You walked towards the car, your steps slower than usual, annoyance bubbling up at the sight of him sitting there, looking far too comfortable. You crossed your arms and leaned slightly against the door, giving him a flat look.

“I wasn’t aware you were picking me up,” you said, trying to keep your voice neutral. It came out a little sharper than intended, but you couldn't help it. This whole thing felt off, like you were being dragged into a game that you hadn’t agreed to play.

Yeosang just looked at you with that annoying, cocky expression, the one that always made your blood boil, and shrugged a shoulder. "Well, you should've been. It’s not like you had many options."

You felt a flicker of irritation, but it quickly settled into a calm mask. You weren’t about to give him the satisfaction of showing how much he got under your skin. Moving towards the backdoor, you reached for the handle, ready to slide in and get this over with.

Before you could even touch it, the car locked with a loud click.

You froze.

What the hell?

You looked up at him, surprised. He just sat there, still with that casual air, his eyes gleaming as if he was waiting for a reaction.

“Excuse me?” you said, narrowing your eyes.

Without missing a beat, he simply pointed to the passenger seat with an almost lazy gesture. "Sit there."

You blinked at him. You were about to say something—probably something rude—but you stopped yourself. There was no way you were going to let him mess with you like this. Still, you didn’t argue. You didn't have the energy to fight him over something so trivial. The car door opened with a quick swipe, and you slid in, your gaze still sharp but subdued.

Yeosang didn’t speak again as you buckled your seatbelt, his attention shifting to the road as he put the car in drive. The silence between you felt heavy, but you couldn’t bring yourself to break it. It was better this way. Better not to engage, better to keep things surface-level.

The ride was awkward. Well, for you, at least. Yeosang didn’t seem to feel it. His posture was relaxed, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gear, like he was driving down to the beach with friends and not chauffeuring his future wife to some forced date neither of you wanted.

But you sat there, arms crossed, eyes out the window, chewing the inside of your cheek. And then it hit you. Wait. Is that Kendrick Lamar’s Reincarnated playing?

You blinked, eyes flickering toward the dashboard like you could confirm it with just a glance at the stereo. The beat was unmistakable, that heavy bass, sharp snare, and those layered vocals riding smooth over the instrumental. Of all the people to be playing Kendrick Lamar at full volume—it had to be him.

The irritation in your chest shifted slightly, replaced by something… warmer. Familiar. For a second—just a second—you forgot you were on your way to spend your Thursday afternoon with the most annoying man alive. You knew this song. Knew it.

Mentally, you started mouthing the lyrics in your head, matching every bar, every breath, every sharp flip of cadence like muscle memory. Word to word. Clean. Like second skin. It wasn’t loud in your expression, but your mind was in full concert mode, rapping like you’d been waiting for this exact song to save you from the awkwardness.

And for the first time since you sat in that car, you didn’t feel bored.

Without even realizing it, your fingers had started tapping against your thigh, following the beat with this natural kind of ease that only happens when something feels right. The awkwardness melted just slightly—not completely, but enough that you didn’t feel like throwing yourself out of the moving car anymore.

But then—

The song ended, and before you could even mourn the silence—another Kendrick song started playing. Different album. Same vibe. Same unmistakable energy. You frowned slightly, eyes flicking to the stereo now like it had betrayed you. Two Kendrick songs in a row? Coincidence?

You sat there for a second, staring ahead, lips pressing into a thin line as your brain worked overtime. Sure, it could’ve been a coincidence. Everyone liked Kendrick, right? But this felt… deliberate. Like someone had put it on a playlist. Was he doing it on purpose? Is he a fan too?

You glanced at him, cautious, like you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of catching you interested—but curiosity was starting to override irritation. He was just driving like usual, one hand lazily adjusting the volume like it was background noise to him. But something about how casual he looked felt rehearsed.

It didn’t sit right with you. Could’ve been random. Could’ve been a setup. Or… could’ve been both. But either way, you weren’t about to ask first. Nope. Not happening.

You just leaned back against the seat, eyes steady out the window, tapping your fingers again, this time not just because of the beat—but because you were thinking.

Yeosang was way too pleased with himself.

Not that he showed it outwardly—no smug grin, no teasing comments just yet—but inside? Yeah. He was damn near proud. Everything was going exactly how he wanted. Calculated. Controlled. Planned with the kind of precision that came from years of watching, learning, and frankly—being too damn good at reading people.

He knew everything he needed to know about you. Hell—he probably knew more about you than you did. He knew Thursday was your free day. Knew how you carved it out for yourself like it was holy ground. That’s exactly why he chose today to drag you out. Not because he wanted to ruin it. No—because it would be the one thing you couldn’t say no to. You’d either have to cancel your only peace of the week or face him—and he knew you’d pick facing him. Pride. Predictable.

He knew you didn’t like going out—not with family, not with friends, barely even by yourself. So, he came to you. Made it easy. Familiar car. Private. No excuses to back out last minute because “I didn’t feel like taking a cab” or “the bus was crowded”. Nah. He had you cornered, comfortably.

And the music? That wasn’t a coincidence, either. He’d seen the playlist. Hell, he’d memorized the damn playlist. Kendrick Lamar was your favorite in the rap genre, and it just so happened Kendrick was on his heavy rotation too, so it didn’t even feel forced. Just enough familiarity to make you settle in, just enough to make your fingers tap without realizing, to get you thinking maybe this won’t be as bad as I thought.

He didn’t need to ask you what you liked. He knew what you liked. Yeosang’s father didn’t raise fools—and Yeosang wasn’t about to start disappointing now.

He kept his eyes on the road, face clean of expression, like he didn’t know exactly what you were thinking. Like he hadn’t already played this scene out in his head a dozen times. You were stubborn, yeah—but he was patient. And precise.

He didn’t want to break you. Nah. That was boring. He wanted to watch. Watch how long you could act like you didn’t care. Watch how long you could pretend you weren’t curious. Watch how long it took before you realized—you weren’t the only one with sharp edges.

And yeah, he liked rap too. Lucky you.

The car rolled to a smooth stop, the hum of the engine cutting off and leaving behind the faint echo of Kendrick’s verse lingering in your head. You looked around, blinking slowly. Parking lot.

What kind of parking lot? You didn’t know. Big building, a few cars around, that slightly industrial vibe, but nothing familiar. You didn’t go out enough to tell which part of town this was, and frankly—you didn’t care. You just wanted to get this over with.

With a sigh, you reached for your seatbelt, pressing the button to unclip it…Nothing.

You pressed it again, harder this time, like maybe the extra force would convince it to listen to you. Nothing moved. “Oh, come on—” you muttered under your breath, tugging at the strap now with growing frustration. Typical. Typical. Of course this was happening. On today of all days. And the last thing you wanted to do—the very last—was ask him for help. But pride had limits, and you’d already used up most of yours agreeing to this disaster of a “date.”

You glanced at him reluctantly. “It’s stuck.”

He didn’t even pretend to be surprised. Didn’t flinch, didn’t chuckle—just leaned slightly toward you, unbothered, one hand moving with irritating ease to the buckle. The button clicked effortlessly under his fingers like it had just been waiting for him to do it.

“See?” he murmured, voice low, that smug little undertone threading beneath it. “I knew you’d need me eventually.”

Your jaw clenched, and you shot him a look that could’ve killed a weaker man on the spot. “It was broken.”

“Of course it was,” he replied, tone dripping with mock sympathy, before pushing his door open and stepping out like nothing just happened.

You sat there for a second, heat prickling at the back of your neck, wishing the ground would swallow you whole—but no such luck.

Fine. Whatever. You pushed your door open too, standing straight, brushing down your clothes like you hadn’t just been humiliated by a seatbelt. You wouldn’t let him have the last word. Not yet. Not ever.

You followed him, not knowing where you were going, but very aware of two things:

1. This was going to be a long day.

2. You hated how nice his stupid cologne smelled when he walked ahead of you.

But you had no intention of making this easy for him.

So, as soon as you both started walking, you slowed your pace—not obviously, not dramatically—just… enough. Enough to make it mildly irritating. Enough to make him notice. You weren’t even really doing it on purpose; he was just tall, and apparently, tall people had no concept of walking like normal humans. His strides were three of yours combined, and you refused—refused—to jog after him like some lost puppy.

If he wanted to drag you around, he was going to work for it. But the irritating thing? He didn’t say a word. Didn’t huff, didn’t throw a glance over his shoulder, didn’t tell you to hurry up like you half expected. He just walked, silent, hands in his pockets like this was the most casual thing in the world.

Until suddenly, about ten steps ahead, he stopped. Just stood there.

You narrowed your eyes, fully prepared for some passive-aggressive remark or maybe a sarcastic clap. You were ready for it. Bring it on. But instead—he just turned around and… held out his hand. You stared at it like it was something you didn’t understand.

The hell was that supposed to mean?

Your eyes flicked up to his face, searching for the usual sharp comment or hidden smirk—but nothing. He just stood there, hand out, expression unreadable but steady. “Grab on,” he said, like it was obvious. You blinked, caught between being offended and… genuinely confused. “What?”

“You’re slow,” he said simply, like he was pointing out the weather. “So grab on.”

You stared at his hand, then back at his face. “I’m not slow. You’re just fast.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he said under his breath. “Now grab on before I make you.”

You didn’t move for a second. Pride screamed no, but practicality… well, it was tired of jogging every five steps to keep up. And something about the way he said it—firm, low, steady—not mocking, not playful, just… expecting—it made that prickling nervousness crawl up your spine again. You hated that tone.

But your hand moved anyway, slipping into his, your fingers curling awkwardly, like you didn’t know what to do with yourself. His grip was steady, firm—but not crushing. Not controlling. Just… leading.

Without another word, he started walking again, pulling you gently but efficiently alongside him, adjusting his pace—not entirely slowing down, but enough that you didn’t have to scramble. You hated how… easy it felt. Hated it more that your hand stayed there.

The deeper you both walked, the clearer it got—it wasn’t just some random building or a casual cafe. It was a restaurant. A fancy one.

Not just white tablecloth fancy, but crystal glasses, piano music playing softly in the background, waiters dressed better than your uncles at weddings kind of fancy. And honestly? It was too much.

Your dad never took you to places like this. Never. Said restaurants were a scam, said home food was better, cheaper, cleaner—but you knew better. You’d seen the unpaid bills, the receipts stuffed into drawers, the phone calls with that low, desperate tone he didn’t think you could hear. Gambling debt didn’t leave room for filet mignon or imported wine. You’d spent your life quietly excusing it, brushing it off, pretending you didn’t want this kind of thing anyway.

But standing here now, in this giant pristine place with soft golden lighting and tables spaced way too far apart, you felt like an imposter. Like you were wearing someone else’s shoes in a room you didn’t belong in. It was overwhelming. Too bright. Too clean. Too silent. Everyone here looked like they belonged. And you—you didn’t even know which fork to use first.

You hadn’t realized it at first, but your body did. Instinctively, without even thinking, you found yourself scooting closer to him. Not dramatically—not enough to look weird—but just enough that the space between you narrowed. Like proximity alone could make you smaller, safer, less obvious. The worst part?

It felt natural.

You hated that. Hated that the man you were mentally arguing with for the past hour was now also the one person here who felt vaguely familiar.

Yeosang noticed, of course he did. The tension of your shoulder brushing barely against his arm, the shift of your body tilting slightly toward his—he clocked it instantly. But he didn’t comment. Didn’t give you that teasing remark you were bracing for. Instead, his fingers adjusted slightly around yours, like he was anchoring you there. Silent. Steady. Just a solid presence beside all the marble floors and velvet chairs.

He didn’t say a word. But you felt it anyway. ‘I got you.’

Some guy—manager, waiter, whatever—showed up then, all polite smiles and expensive cologne, greeting Yeosang like they were long-lost friends or something. Said something about the table being ready, offered some words you didn’t really catch because your brain was too busy buzzing with nerves.

You weren’t listening. Didn’t want to. Everything felt too sharp around the edges. Before you could even process it properly, Yeosang had your hand again, guiding you forward with that same casual grip, not giving you the chance to hesitate. It wasn’t forceful, just… confident. Like he already knew you’d follow.

And you did.

He led you through rows of softly murmuring people until you reached a table—not entirely private, but tucked into a little alcove, partly hidden by frosted glass panels and low plants. Enough separation that you didn’t feel like fish in a tank, but not so hidden that it felt awkward. It was nice. Comfortable in a way you hadn’t expected.

Yeosang didn’t miss a beat. He stepped around you and—of course—pulled out the chair. You hesitated for half a second, eyes flickering up at him. No teasing expression. No sharp remark waiting. Just a simple gesture, like this was routine.

You sat down, the chair gliding smoothly beneath you, and he pushed it in with practiced ease. For a brief second, you hated how nice that felt. Not because of him. But because no one had done that before. Not dates, not family, not anyone.

You adjusted your sleeves awkwardly, trying not to fidget, while he walked around and took his own seat, leaning back with that effortless comfort like this was his living room and not a restaurant with menus you probably couldn’t even afford to read.

He picked up the menu with one hand, flipping through it casually like this wasn’t his first time here—which, judging by how the staff greeted him, you were sure it wasn’t. His eyes scanned the pages, sharp and focused, while the other hand rested lazily on the edge of the table. After a moment, he looked up, right at you. “What do you want?”

It shouldn’t have been a complicated question. Normal people would just… answer. Say pasta, steak, whatever. But for some reason, your throat tightened. It wasn’t nerves—not exactly. Just… indecision.

All your life, someone had chosen for you. Your mom, mostly. Always ordering for you at restaurants—never asking, just assuming. Always brushing off your opinions as “It’s not good for you,” or “You won’t like it.” Somewhere along the line, you stopped bothering to decide. It felt easier that way.

So you did the only thing that felt natural, default almost. “Whatever you’re having.” Yeosang paused.

His jaw ticked slightly, almost like he was holding back a sigh—but not in frustration. More like… patience. “That’s not how this works,” he said, voice lower, steady, like someone reasoning with a kid who was trying to eat candy for breakfast. “You don’t just copy.”

You shrugged, defensive, staring at the polished wood of the table. “I don’t know what’s good.”

“It’s not that deep,” he finished for you, lips twitching slightly—but not in mockery, just amusement. “It’s just food. Pick what you want.”

The thing was… no one had ever given you choices like that. Not explained them patiently. Not acted like your opinion actually mattered, even in something as small as dinner. It made your chest feel weirdly tight. Like you wanted to be mad, but couldn’t quite find the reason.

Yeosang didn’t press further. Just leaned back again, waving over the waiter with a lazy flick of his fingers, like this was the most normal thing in the world. But you sat there with the menu still open in your hands, staring at it…

That’s when it hit you—the slow, creeping embarrassment settling in the pit of your stomach.

You didn’t know how to read menus.

Not like literally not knowing how to read, but… you didn’t know how to understand them. Fancy restaurant menus weren’t in normal language—they were in that rich people language. Words like confit, beurre blanc, something-something reduction—you didn’t even know if you were ordering food or furniture. The more you stared at it, the worse it got. Everything blurred together until it just looked like noise on paper.

Your hand twitched slightly on the edge of the menu, the corners of it curling under your fingertips. You didn’t even know how to begin. Finally, you gave up. Quietly. Awkwardly. You placed the menu down and looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time all evening. Gone was the irritation, the stubborn defiance. Instead, it was something softer. Not defeated, but pleading.

“Can you just… choose?” you asked, voice low, almost hoping he wouldn’t make a scene about it.

For a second, he just stared at you. No teasing, no smug smile—just studying you. Calculating. Then, instead of making a big deal about it, he nodded once, sharp, like this was all perfectly normal. “Alright,” he murmured. “But you’re still gonna have choices.”

And then, like it was muscle memory, he listed things off. Simple. No complicated words, no long-winded chef specials.

“Do you want red sauce or white?”

“Chicken or beef?”

“Want dessert or not?”

Just basic questions, no extra fluff. Like someone breaking down rocket science to math tables. By the time he was done, it actually sounded like a meal, not a puzzle.

And without realizing it, you’d started folding the cloth napkin again. Neatly. Sharply. Fold, unfold, fold, unfold. It was muscle memory at this point—your fingers always needed something to do. Something to control, even when nothing else made sense.

Somewhere along the way, he’d passed you his napkin too. You didn’t even notice it. Just that at some point, your hands had another one to work with. Your mind didn’t register it; your body just accepted it, thankful for the extra fabric to keep you grounded.

It was quiet. Subtle. No words, no glances, no gestures. And while you kept folding and unfolding that napkin like your life depended on it, he just sat there across from you, arms resting lazily on the table, ordering both your meals in that steady voice like this wasn’t even a thing.

He didn’t act like he was helping. And you didn’t notice you were being helped.

While you were busy poking at the carefully cut chicken on your plate—eating but not really tasting—Yeosang sat across from you, trying not to lose his mind.

Cuteness aggression. That was the only way to describe it. Like he wanted to bite something or hit the table—not out of anger, but because you were just too much.

It wasn’t just the way you’d quietly surrendered, letting him order for you like it was nothing. It wasn’t just the way your fingers kept working that napkin like you didn’t even know you were doing it. It was the whole picture—the you of it all. Sitting there, looking like the softest thing in the sharpest world.

And that cardigan you were wearing? Please. He could tell by the stitching it was handmade. Probably by you. The unevenness of the cuffs, the slightly imperfect patterns—no brand could fake that kind of charm. You didn’t even know how much that cardigan was giving you away, how much of you was stitched into every row.

It made something in his chest tighten, like he wanted to tuck you somewhere safe. His pocket. A drawer. Somewhere you couldn’t get overwhelmed by menus and loud places and useless fathers.

But he still played it cool, leaning back a little, eyes glinting as he ran his thumb along the edge of his fork like he wasn’t thinking borderline insane things about a girl he just met. He glanced at the cardigan, then back at you, voice dropping casual but knowing.

“You make that?”

You blinked, pausing mid-bite. “What?”

“That cardigan,” he said, tone light, like they were talking about the weather. “You made it?”

You hesitated. Not because you were embarrassed—more because no one really noticed that kind of thing. Definitely not guys like him. But… you nodded. “Yeah.”

A lazy grin, sharp but not mocking, pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Figured. Looks like you.”

That sentence alone made your stomach flip in ways you didn’t have the energy to process. You didn’t even know what that meant. Looked like you? Quiet? Crocheted? Awkwardly stitched together? You didn’t ask. You just looked back down at your plate, busying yourself with another bite, folding that second napkin again like it was holding the fabric of your nerves together.

Meanwhile, Yeosang sat there, feeling way too satisfied with himself. You were dangerously cute. And he was dangerously aware of it.

He dropped you off, making sure you got to your front door before pulling away. You didn’t say much—a quiet “thanks,” barely audible—but you didn’t run away either. Progress.

But by the time he pulled into his father’s estate, parked the car, and stepped into the over-polished marble entrance, he was losing it. Hand over his mouth. Jaw tight. Muscles flexing like he was holding in a scream or something equally embarrassing. What the hell was that?

That wasn’t supposed to happen. You were supposed to be annoying. Spoiled. Bratty. Some daddy’s princess with acrylic nails and too much perfume. You were supposed to be the type he could dump in a nice apartment and visit once a month with gifts so you’d stay quiet about the whole arrangement.

But you weren’t. You were a mess. An organized, pretty, cardigan-wearing mess.

And worse, you didn’t even know you were cute. You weren’t even trying. You just sat there in that chair at that fancy-ass restaurant, folding napkins like they were some secret escape plan, wearing that handmade sweater like it wasn’t making him feel like an insane person.

And now? Forget that whole buying-another-place plan. That idea was dead the moment he saw how small you looked sitting across from him. No way. You were staying where he could see you. Reach you. Annoy you on purpose if he felt like it. Which he did.

He stood in the foyer of his father’s mansion, hand dragging down his face, pacing a little in his boots.

God. He felt like squealing. Like actually kicking something, or punching the air, or rolling on the expensive carpet like a twelve-year-old with a crush.

“This is insane,” he muttered to himself, like saying it out loud would make it make sense. It didn’t.

You were in his head. Neatly folded like that stupid napkin you kept twisting around your fingers. And for the first time in a long time, Kang Yeosang didn’t know whether he wanted to laugh, scream, or marry you right now.

The moment Yeosang stepped further into the house, hand dragging down his face, muttering like a lunatic, he heard it—the unmistakable voice of his old man echoing from the sitting room. “Why the hell do you look like a teenage girl who just got her first crush?”

Yeosang didn’t even flinch. Didn’t even stop pacing. Just waved his hand dismissively, as if to say don’t start. His father stood there in his usual crisp shirt, whiskey glass in hand like always, giving him that unimpressed look fathers reserve for sons who don’t follow in their exact footsteps.

“I’m serious,” his father huffed, stepping forward. “What the hell’s wrong with you? Why are you here anyway? Thought you liked hiding in that overpriced shoebox you call an apartment.”

Yeosang finally dropped his hand from his face, side-eyeing him, unimpressed. “Renovation,” he grumbled. “It’s getting fixed up. You want me to sleep on the street?” His father scoffed, taking a sip of his drink, shaking his head. “You could’ve stayed at one of the hotels we own.”

“Right. And let everyone think I’m homeless now. Good look for a mafia heir.” The older man narrowed his eyes, recognizing that tone. That annoying tone Yeosang always used when he was about to get smart-mouthed. “So why are you pacing around here like some lovesick idiot?”

Yeosang clicked his tongue, glaring at the floor like it personally offended him. “It’s your fault.”

“My fault?”

“You’re the one that set me up with her.”

His father’s brow lifted. “Did she bite?”

“She didn’t even blink.”

That made his father laugh. Really laugh. Like belly laugh, hand pressed to his chest, deep and loud in that expensive, echoey house.

“God,” Yeosang muttered under his breath. “You’re actually enjoying this.”

“Of course I am,” his father smirked. “Finally met someone who doesn’t fall apart under your pretty-boy nonsense. Good. You needed that.”

Yeosang rolled his jaw, annoyed beyond belief, but honestly? His dad wasn’t wrong. His father waved his glass toward him. “What’s the problem, then? I thought you were going to dump her in a penthouse and get on with life.”

“Yeah, that plan’s dead.”

“Why?”

Yeosang just stood there, defeated. “She’s too—”

“What? Petty? Weird? Mean?”

“…Soft.”

His father blinked, confused. “Soft?”

Yeosang didn’t elaborate. Didn’t have to. Soft in a way that made him want to ruin someone’s life if they made you cry. Soft in a way that made him want to drag you closer by the wrist when you got overwhelmed. Soft in a way that pissed him off because he liked it too much. His father just shook his head, amused, like he knew exactly what kind of hell Yeosang was walking into. “Good luck with that, Romeo.”

“Shut up.”

You did not expect this. A casual text? Fine. Him calling you just to “check in”? Annoying, but tolerable. Even him dragging you out on those stupid dates now and then—you could live with that. But this? Showing up to your university?

What the actual hell was wrong with him?

It wasn’t even subtle. Of course it wasn’t subtle. Not with that stupid black car of his parked right at the entrance, shining like a beacon of unwanted attention. Not with him leaning against the door like he was shooting a damn commercial, sleeves rolled up, sunglasses pushed into his hair, looking like every other man’s nightmare and every other woman’s distraction.

And people noticed. Oh, they noticed. Girls whispering, eyes widening, phones coming out to take sneaky pictures. A group of guys near the library basically breaking their necks trying to get a better look. And you?

You wanted the ground to open up and swallow you whole. He had the audacity to wave at you. Like this was normal. Like this wasn’t blowing up the very careful life of low attention, quiet exits, don’t talk to me I’m just here to graduate you had built for yourself.

You speed-walked. Not even pretending anymore. Walked up to him so fast it looked like you were about to commit a crime. “What the hell are you doing?” you hissed under your breath, shoving at his shoulder, eyes darting around like you were being followed by paparazzi.

“Picking you up,” he said, casual as you liked, like this wasn’t the most embarrassing moment of your life unfolding in real time.

“Get in the car,” you snapped. “Now.”

And, the bastard, he laughed. Laughed like this was a game.

Still, he obeyed, sliding into the driver’s seat like he was doing you a favor. You yanked the passenger door open, practically diving inside, head ducked like you were avoiding a sniper.

The moment the door shut you rounded on him. “Are you insane?”

“I missed you,” he said, like that explained anything.

“You could’ve— texted me or something! I don’t need the whole uni thinking I’m with someone rich”

“You are with someone rich,” he corrected, one hand casually gripping the wheel, the other resting over the gear like this was a Sunday drive.

The car came to a stop in front of this sleek-looking storefront, all black glass and warm lighting, like one of those places you only see rich people walk into on TV shows. And because your life apparently wasn’t embarrassing enough, Yeosang parked like he owned the building.

You looked at the place, then at him. “What is this?”

“Jewelry,” he answered flatly, already stepping out of the car. Jewelry. Jewelry. As if that explained anything.

Before you could argue or even think, he came around, opened your door, and like a villain from a drama, dragged you inside by the wrist—not harsh, but determined. The cold from the street clung to your clothes, your boots crunching against the salted sidewalk, but the moment you stepped inside—it was warm. Not just warm, but that kind of luxury warm, where the air smells faintly of expensive perfume and everything feels soft, even though nothing should be.

And you? You immediately felt your whole body loosen, just a little. It wasn’t even intentional. The cold had been biting, sharp against your ears and the tip of your nose, and this? This was dangerous. Comforting. You could rot here, honestly. Just melt into one of the velvet chairs and stop existing.

Yeosang noticed.

Of course he noticed. He didn’t miss anything about you. The way your shoulders relaxed. The way you almost—almost—let your head drop forward like you could fall asleep standing there.

He wanted to bite you. No, seriously. Bite. His jaw clenched just thinking about it. You looked too cute. With your knitted cardigan, snow-dusted boots, fidgety fingers already tugging at the sleeves. It was criminal. Illegal. Someone should lock you up for being this dangerous in public.

But he was strong. Barely. Barely holding himself back from grabbing you by the face and just—squishing. Maybe even kissing that stupid annoyed expression off of you. Would’ve been worth it. You were too busy shaking the snow from your sleeves to notice him battling for his sanity two feet away.

An employee walked over, all smiles and professional greetings, asking what you both needed today. You blinked at her like a deer caught in headlights.

Yeosang spoke first. “Rings.”

You snapped your head to him. “What?”

“For the engagement,” he said calmly, like duh, obviously. Your mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. “You dragged me here for that? You could’ve warned me—”

“And ruin the surprise of watching you panic in real-time? No thanks.” You glared daggers into his skull, wishing you could teleport out of your own skin. “You’re evil.”

“Mm,” he hummed, eyes lazily drifting over the display cases. “Yours?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Ring size.”

“I—I don’t know!”

His lips quirked—not a smirk, you banned those, but just that annoying, knowing twitch that told you he was enjoying this too much. “Figures. Guess we’ll find out together.” You honestly might combust right there on the jewelry shop floor.

Yeosang walked toward the counter with the same energy as someone about to close a business deal. Calm. Focused. Casual power.

You stayed frozen for a beat, still stunned at the whole situation, until your feet moved on their own. Before you realized it, you were right beside him, eyes locking onto the display.

And that’s when it hit you. The rings. They were gorgeous. Not just shiny-for-the-sake-of-shiny—but delicate, beautiful. Rings with elegant stones, simple but detailed bands, not the overdone flashy stuff but the kind that made you think: if I wore that, maybe I wouldn’t feel so small.

You leaned in without realizing, gaze scanning over each one like a kid at a candy store—but also a little sad. You never let yourself want things like that. What was the point? Your parents could never buy you things like this. You grew up being handed the practical, the necessary. Wanting was a waste of time.

But Yeosang saw it. All of it.

The way your fingers twitched at your sides like you wanted to reach out but didn’t. The slight glassiness in your stare—not tears, but that lost look people got when they wanted something badly but were too used to swallowing it down.

To him? Your eyes were sparkling. Bright, full of that light people only showed when they forgot to hide. He couldn’t stop looking at you. The whole room could’ve caught fire, and he wouldn’t have noticed.

He leaned closer, voice lower. “See something you like?”

You snapped out of it, blinking up at him like you’d just been caught stealing. “I—I was just looking,” you muttered, instantly defensive, shoving your hands into the sleeves of your cardigan. “Didn’t say I wanted anything.”

But Yeosang wasn’t even listening to the words coming out of your mouth. He was too busy cataloguing everything you didn’t say. The spark. The hesitation. The soft way your lip pressed against your teeth when you held back from speaking. You weren’t loud, weren’t clingy, weren’t bratty like he thought you might be—you were quiet. Observant. Someone who shrank herself just to survive.

Yeah, no. You weren’t leaving his sight ever again. “Good,” he said, nonchalantly signaling to the employee. “Because we’re not leaving until you try some on.” You shot him a glare. “What is this, Pretty Woman?” “More like Pretty Annoyed Fiancée.” His eyes flicked down to you, sharp and amused. “C’mon. Humor me.”

You stared at the rows and rows of rings like they were mocking you. Every shape, every color, every shine — how the hell were you supposed to pick one? Your fingers hovered over the glass, not touching, just hovering, like maybe the right one would start glowing or something. But nothing did.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like them. It was that you liked all of them, and also none of them, because your brain kept whispering, what if you pick the wrong one? What if you regret it? You didn’t get choices growing up, not real ones. Every decision was always someone else’s to make for you — your clothes, your food, even your damn hair. The few times you got to choose something, it was met with criticism or disappointment. No wonder your chest felt tight standing here.

“I can’t,” you muttered under your breath, frustrated. “They all look… I don’t know.” Yeosang watched, hands tucked in his pockets, silent. But not with judgment. More like studying. He could see it happening—the way you kept retreating into yourself, that familiar shrinking posture like you were bracing for someone to yell at you for being annoying or difficult.

He didn’t like that. Not one bit.

Without warning, he stepped closer, leaning down near your ear, voice lower, firmer. “We’re not doing that here.” You blinked up at him. “What—” “We’re not doing that thing where you act like you’re a burden for existing,” he continued, tone steady but not harsh. “You like something, you say it. You don’t like something, you say it. You don’t have to know what you want right now, but don’t stand here apologizing for breathing.”

Your throat went dry. No one’s ever talked to you like that before. Not mean. Not fake sweet. Just… steady. Like he meant it. Like he wasn’t going to move until you heard him. “I’m not apologizing,” you finally muttered, defensive. He raised an eyebrow. “You’re folding into yourself like someone’s about to slap your wrist.”

Your jaw tightened. “That’s just how I stand.”

“Mhm,” he hummed, not convinced for a second.

You wanted to shove him. You also wanted to crawl under the display case and disappear. But somewhere deep down, embarrassingly deep, you also wanted to grab his sleeve and lean into him like a tired stray cat. But instead, you just shoved your sleeves up higher and looked at the rings again. “Fine. I’ll try some.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, barely loud enough to catch, but you caught it. And you hated that you liked how it sounded.

You picked up one of the rings, delicate and shimmering with tiny embedded stones. It wasn’t flashy in the way rich people wear things—it was pretty. Simple. Something you could see yourself wearing every day.

But then it hit you like a slap. The price. What the hell were you doing? Just choosing whatever looked nice like you weren’t broke half your life? Like your mom didn’t yell at you for picking snacks that were ₹20 more expensive than the local brand?

You started searching the display, eyes darting, looking for price tags like a madwoman. But it was one of those places. No prices on anything. Which only meant one thing—if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.

Panic started tightening in your chest. You weren’t stupid. You knew this whole setup was expensive. Expensive coat racks, expensive chairs, expensive air. And here you were like some idiot playing dress-up, picking rings you couldn’t afford in three lifetimes. “Uh… what’s the price on these?” you asked quietly, almost hoping he didn’t hear you.

But of course he did.

Yeosang, standing beside you with his annoying posture of “I own everything I touch,” just glanced down at you, one brow raised. “Why?” You gave him a look. “What do you mean why? They’re probably… crazy expensive. I don’t wanna-” “You think I brought you here to worry about prices?” he interrupted, eyes sharp now.

You blinked. “Well, yeah? This isn’t a grocery store, I can’t just-” “Do I look like the kind of man who’s going to let you think about numbers right now?” His tone wasn’t harsh. But it wasn’t soft, either. It was just… Yeosang. Calm, slightly amused, slightly annoyed, fully in charge.

You hated how warm your ears felt.

“I don’t—”

“I said pick.”

His voice was low this time. Not rude. Not cold. Just that tone that slides down your spine and makes your stomach clench in the weirdest way. Firm. Dominant, even. But not because he was trying to be macho—it was just who he was. You stood there frozen for a second before whispering, “They don’t even have prices on them—”

“They don’t have prices,” he cut you off, leaning closer so only you could hear, “because the people who shop here don’t need to ask.”

You swore your knees nearly gave out.

“And right now,” he added, hand lightly brushing your lower back as if guiding you forward, “you’re with me. So that makes you one of those people. Pick.” You swallowed hard, looked down at the rings, then up at him.

His gaze didn’t waver. “Or,” he added, eyes glinting, “do you want me to choose for you again?”

God help you—you almost said yes.

The wedding was hectic.

Not in the “fun chaos” way you saw in movies—no, this was suffocating. Your cheeks hurt from fake smiling at people you didn’t even know. The scent of flowers was so strong it made you lightheaded. The jewelry was heavy, and the outfit? Beautiful, yeah, but you could barely breathe.

After the ceremony, when the music was loud and people were starting to eat, you sat in a corner. Just existing. You were chewing blandly on some sweet, not even tasting it. The small cushion under you was probably worth someone’s rent, but you sat like you were at some boring family reunion.

Yeosang did ask you last month if you wanted to invite your friends. You had been fixing your cardigan sleeve at the time and barely looked up. “Don’t really… have any.”

It wasn’t sad when you said it. Just a fact. You said it the way someone says, “Yeah, I don’t like tea,” or “I’ve never been to Goa.” Just plain. But you felt it sting more now, seeing his friends—8 of them—laughing on the other side of the venue like this was just some party.

Meanwhile, you sat with your cousin. The only one in your family who didn’t belittle you constantly or make subtle comments about you being “too old to be unmarried” or “too quiet for your own good.” He didn’t say much either. Probably didn’t even care. But you preferred that. Quiet company was better than company with sharp tongues.

Your eyes wandered across the room. Yeosang was standing with his friends, of course. One of them threw his arm around Yeosang’s shoulder, laughing about something. And then Yeosang glanced at you. It was brief—but he looked. And when his gaze met yours, it wasn’t pity, or amusement, or even awkwardness.

It was… knowing.

Like he knew you didn’t want to be there. Like he understood exactly what it felt like to be surrounded by noise and not feel like you belonged in it. And for a moment—just a second—you didn’t feel alone in that room. Of course, the moment passed when your cousin nudged you and asked if you were going to eat your chicken.

You gave it to him without a word, gaze still lingering on the man across the room who, apparently, now belonged to you.

The ride home was torture. Your jewelry felt like chains, the embroidery on your dress scratched at your skin with every small shift, and your hair—oh god, your scalp was screaming. You sat awkwardly, pressed up against the door, knees at an angle because the fabric wouldn’t let you sit properly.

And Yeosang? He just drove like it was a normal day. Relaxed hand on the steering wheel, other resting against his thigh, occasionally glancing your way. He didn’t say anything, but you knew he noticed you shifting every two minutes like you were sitting on needles.

By the time the car pulled up at the apartment complex, you were two seconds away from just tearing the sleeves off like some dramatic soap opera character.

It was late—too late for nosy neighbors or anyone else to be hanging around. The whole building was quiet except for the low hum of the elevators. You followed him silently, heels clicking softly against the polished floor. And when the elevator doors opened to his place—

Yeah. Pinterest board aesthetic.

It wasn’t over-the-top, but it was intentional. Clean lines, warm lighting—not those harsh white bulbs like your home had. The couch looked like it cost someone’s college tuition, blankets folded neatly on the armrest like it was straight out of a home decor photoshoot. Shelves with actual books. Art that wasn’t mass-produced prints. Little ceramic things on the side tables that you didn’t know the use of but looked expensive anyway.

It didn’t smell like dust or old carpet or fried onions like your house did after your mom cooked. It smelled like sandalwood and something slightly musky. Like him.

You just stood there by the entrance like a misplaced sticker on a clean page. He casually dropped his keys in a tray by the door and started undoing the buttons on his sleeves, rolling them up forearms first. “You wanna change?”

Did you wanna change? You were two seconds away from climbing out of your own skin. You nodded silently.

Without a word, he pointed to a hallway. “Third door. Closet’s in there. Pick whatever. Bathroom’s attached.” As if it was nothing to offer someone full access to his wardrobe. As if he hadn’t just brought his brand new wife into his home like someone bringing home takeout. You shuffled off like some fancy-dressed raccoon, already planning which oversized shirt you were gonna steal first.

You padded out of the bathroom, freshly freed from that suffocating dress, now wearing a soft oversized t-shirt that smelled like detergent and someone else’s cologne, paired with pajama pants that pooled a bit at your ankles. Your hair was a mess, makeup slightly smudged from your tired hands rubbing your face. But you couldn’t care less. Comfort first.

Yeosang was already lounging on the couch, changed into a black t-shirt that hugged his shoulders just right and grey sweatpants, one ankle lazily crossed over the other. Casual. Comfortable. Infuriatingly attractive. You stood there, awkward, arms crossed, twisting your fingers like you always did. “Where… where am I supposed to sleep?”

He didn’t even hesitate. Just pointed with two fingers toward the hallway. “Second room on the right.” You nodded and started walking, but something tugged at you. A gut feeling. Something wasn’t right. Second room…

Curiosity dragged you to peek, and when you opened the door, your stomach dropped. Black sheets. Black pillows. Black walls. Not pitch dark, but matte—sleek. Expensive. His room. You didn’t need to ask. That man screamed black-on-black energy. You stormed back into the living room, eyes narrowed. “That’s your room.”

He looked up from his phone slowly, mouth twitching—not into a smirk, just that faint amusement he always wore when he knew he was pushing your buttons. “Yeah. I know.” You stared at him, blinking. “Why did you point me there?” He set his phone down like this was about to be a full conversation. “We’re married now. Married people share a bed.”

You gawked at him. “That’s not a rule.”

“It is now.”

God, you hated that. That casual dominance. Not loud, not aggressive. Just matter of fact. Like he said it, so it’s law now.

“You’re annoying.”

“You married me.”

“We were arranged.”

“Same thing.”

You rolled your eyes so hard they almost got stuck, turning on your heel to storm back to the room. And yet… you didn’t really argue more, did you? Because deep down, under the irritation, you couldn’t help but feel that same stupid warmth creeping up your neck.

If he wanted to be cocky, fine. Two can play that game.

You marched back to his room like you owned the place, plopped yourself dead in the center of the king-sized bed, limbs spread like a starfish, sinking into the expensive sheets like you were born for this. If he wanted drama, you were going to give him cinema. Moments later, the door creaked open, and you heard his footsteps approaching. You didn’t look. You just knew from the way the air shifted, from the scent of his cologne mixing with the faint smell of fabric softener on the bedding.

Silence for a second. Then—“Really?”

You cracked an eye open. He was standing at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, the faintest curve on his lips—not quite a smile, not quite mockery. “You’re gonna starfish in my bed?”

You yawned, stretching even further like a cat on a sunny windowsill. “You said it was our bed,” you said pointedly, throwing his own words back at him with venom-laced sweetness. “I’m just following instructions.”

He looked at you for a beat longer. Then, very slowly, very annoyingly, grinned. “Fine,” he said, voice deep and lazy. “But if you stay like that, I’ll just sleep on top of you.” Your eyes snapped open fully, heart jolting so fast it almost echoed in your ears. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would.”

It wasn’t even a threat—it was a promise. That calm tone, that glint in his eyes—he meant it.

You groaned and scrambled to your side of the bed, flustered beyond measure, hating him more with every second and somehow hating yourself for feeling heat crawling up your neck. “You’re insane,” you muttered, adjusting the pillow aggressively.

Behind you, you could practically hear his satisfied smirk, even though you weren’t going to turn around to give him the satisfaction of seeing your face.

“Married life, sweetheart,” he murmured, climbing in on his side, making the mattress dip. “Welcome to it.”

You didn’t know what devil possessed you to say it, but the words just slipped out, dripping with faux innocence as you looked straight at him.

“I have weird sleeping habits,” you murmured casually, adjusting the blanket like it was the most normal conversation. “Like… I’ll keep rubbing my leg on yours until you put your leg on top of mine.”

Silence.

You didn’t dare look at him yet, but you could feel the way his posture stiffened beside you, like your words short-circuited something in that annoyingly sharp brain of his. Then—softly, almost too casual��came his voice, deep and quiet, “Is that a threat or a promise?”

You slowly turned your head to him, blinking, pretending to be confused. “What do you mean?” His jaw tensed slightly, like he was holding back a laugh—or something else. “I mean—” he leaned in just a bit, enough for his voice to drop that octave lower that made your stupid heart stutter, “—if you keep talking like that, I’m gonna start wondering if you want me to put my leg over yours.”

You hated that heat crawling up your skin, hated that he was good at this stupid game, hated that he was better at it than you, hated that you wanted to keep going anyway.

So you did.

“Why would I want that?” you shot back, voice steady, gaze sharp but your hands fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “It’s just a habit.”

“Right,” he said, laying his head on the pillow now, one arm tucked behind his head, looking absolutely unbothered. “Just a habit.”

You laid down too, facing the other way, stubborn. The tension between you two was thick, and you both knew it. Then, after a beat, you felt it—the slow weight of his leg draping lazily over yours. “I’m just helping with your habit,” he murmured, so close you felt the warmth of his breath by your ear.

“I’m serious,” you said, voice flat, not backing down. “It’s true. I can’t sleep unless someone’s leg is over mine. And I always hug something too. It’s like—comfort or whatever. Dunno. Been like that since forever.”

Honestly, you thought that would be the final straw. That he’d roll his eyes, scoff, maybe throw a pillow at you and head to the couch like any sane person would. Maybe you were hoping for that. Maybe you didn’t want to admit how weirdly safe this felt. Either way, you braced yourself for irritation, for that cocky remark, for something.

But nothing came.

Instead—you missed it—the way Yeosang stared at you like he was physically restraining himself. Like some internal monologue was yelling don’t say it, don’t call her cute, don’t ruin it, don’t scare her off. But how could he not? You? Looking like that? Saying stuff like that? In his bed? Wrapped in his blanket, in his shirt? Talking about hugging things like you weren’t already curled up like a goddamn kitten?

He was having a crisis.

“Okay,” he finally said, calm. Too calm. Suspiciously calm. You frowned, glancing back at him. “Okay?” “Yeah.” He adjusted slightly, the mattress dipping with his weight. “Leg’s already over yours. Go ahead. Hug something.”

You glared at him. “I don’t have anything to hug.” His lips quirked slightly at that. Barely. But you caught it.

“You’ve got two arms, don’t you?” You wanted to slap him. Genuinely. But also—not really.

Fine. FINE.

You stubbornly grabbed the pillow, hugging it tight to your chest and trying to sleep. Silent. Annoyed. Flustered. All of it. And Yeosang? He laid there, eyes on the ceiling, teeth sinking into his lip just to physically restrain himself from smiling like an idiot. If only you knew how close he was to dragging you into his chest just to see how flustered you’d get then.

Cute. Way too cute. He was so screwed.

You were out. Completely gone, knocked out like you hadn’t had proper sleep in weeks. Leg tucked neatly under his like you said you would, hugging his pillow like your life depended on it, your face mushed against the fabric, lips slightly parted in a soft pout you didn’t even know you had.

Yeosang was having a spiritual crisis. What was this? What was this feeling? Cuteness aggression? Probably. He felt like he could actually bite you. Not to hurt you—god no—but just to—argh—because how could one human look that cute doing absolutely nothing?

His jaw flexed, teeth grinding softly as he stared at you, eyes darting between the way your fingers curled into the pillow, to the little crease forming on your cheek from the way you were pressed against it.

It wasn’t fair. It shouldn’t be allowed. He felt like punching the wall just to let some of the weird, frustrated fondness out of his system. The urge to squeeze you like some plush toy was nearly overwhelming.

And the worst part?

You didn’t even know.

Didn’t know the way you’d completely tangled yourself around his leg without a second thought. Didn’t know how absolutely tiny you looked curled up in his bed. Didn’t know how soft your breathing sounded in the dim light filtering through the curtains.

Yeosang stared at the ceiling for a good minute, breathing slow, eyes closed, fighting the very cellular urge in his bones to scoop you up and just—keep you. Like, forever. Pocket you. Protect you. Instead, he carefully shifted, tucking the blanket around you a little tighter, letting your leg stay right where it was. He glanced at you one last time before shutting his own eyes.

Completely, utterly ruined by the universe. Absolutely smitten. And you? You just drooled a little on his pillow.

Perfect.

Morning light spilled through the sheer curtains, soft and annoyingly gentle. Your eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the brightness—and then it hit you.

You were holding something warm. Something that breathed. It wasn’t a pillow. It was him.

Your heart stopped for a solid second. Somewhere between falling asleep and now, the pillow had betrayed you—replaced by Yeosang. Your arm was across his torso, fingers curled loosely into the fabric of his shirt. Worse, one of your legs had completely decided that boundaries were optional and had hooked over his, practically hugging him like some oversized teddy bear.

What the actual—

You moved so carefully, like one wrong twitch would make the earth explode. Slowly untangling yourself, your breath hitched when you saw his hand resting lazily over your arm, like he’d pulled you closer in his sleep. That just made it worse.

Finally, finally, you untangled yourself, slipping out of bed like a secret agent on a stealth mission. The floor was cold beneath your feet, but your entire body was flushed with embarrassment anyway. Without sparing him another glance, you practically ran into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you with a soft click.

The second you were alone, you let out a silent scream, face buried in your hands. God. Why. Why you. You turned the shower on, letting the sound of running water drown out your embarrassment. Maybe you could drown in it too while you were at it.

Meanwhile, back in the bedroom, Yeosang cracked one eye open, staring at the ceiling with the smallest ghost of a grin.

“Thought so,” he whispered to himself. That damn pillow never stood a chance.

Yeosang lay there, staring at the ceiling like it had all the answers to life’s greatest mysteries. His hand absentmindedly touched the part of his shirt where your hand had been curled into just moments ago. The warmth was gone, but the imprint of it — of you — stuck like some permanent tattoo on his chest.

What the hell was this feeling? No, seriously, what was this feeling?

He had always thought love was supposed to be a slow thing. Like aging whiskey. Like taking your sweet time to ruin someone in a chess game. But this? This felt like a truck hit him. A small, anxious kitten-shaped truck with pouty lips and messy hair in the morning.

It was stupid. He knew it was stupid. You were barely in his life for what? Few months? And yet here he was, already thinking like some washed-up romantic lead in a drama. It wasn’t even funny anymore.

He dragged a hand across his face and groaned softly, staring at the bathroom door where steam was now rolling from the gap under the frame. The thought of you in there — wearing that sleepy pout, probably muttering under your breath about your parents or about how annoying he was — it made his chest feel tight in the weirdest, most annoying way.

Was this how his dad felt about his mom? Cause that man always did dumb shit just to annoy her, but never went a day without holding her hand.

He was whipped. Fully, entirely, embarrassingly whipped. And he wasn’t even fighting it anymore. Hell, he was enjoying it. “I swear to god,” he muttered to himself, eyes shutting like he was trying to meditate through the emotional breakdown, “if she ever figures this out, I’m finished.” But knowing you? You wouldn’t. You were too busy folding napkins, avoiding eye contact, acting like you weren’t the most precious thing to ever annoy the hell out of him.

And god—he liked having a wife. A wife.

He let that word roll around in his head like a marble, both terrifying and oddly satisfying. If you stayed in that shower any longer, he might just combust. And honestly? He’d die smiling.

You came out of the bathroom with damp hair sticking slightly to the sides of your face, the oversized t-shirt hanging loose on your frame, sleeves falling a little off your shoulders, pajama pants riding up slightly at the ankles. You rubbed your hand against your face, trying to wipe off the last remnants of sleep, but honestly, your head was still foggy. You weren’t even fully functioning yet.

And there he was. Still in bed.

Liar. You could tell he wasn’t sleeping anymore. Before, he was on his back, legs spread out like some rich brat on vacation. Now? He was on his side, perfectly composed like he was acting asleep. And he was good at it. But not good enough for you.

With irritation bubbling up — mostly because you were up, and why should you be the only one awake suffering in awkward new-wife-land — you stomped over to the bed and stood over him with crossed arms. You stared at the messy strands of hair falling into his stupidly handsome face. His lashes were thick, unfairly so. And his lips slightly parted like he wasn’t living rent-free in your nerves already. He looked expensive even while pretending to be unconscious. Ugh.

Annoyed, you bent down and gave his shoulder a shove. “Wake up.”

No response. Another shove. Harder this time. “Wake up.” Finally, his eyes opened. Lazy, slow, like he was waking up from a peaceful dream of girls feeding him grapes or something. His voice was rough from sleep, deep in that way that made your brain short circuit for a second. “What?” he rasped, like you were disturbing his peace.

Your mouth opened, about to say something snarky, but then you paused. Why was he hot like this? Who gave him permission to be hot right after waking up? Hair a mess, voice low, sleep still hanging off his features like a silk sheet draped across expensive furniture. You forgot what you were gonna say for a second. Caught yourself blinking at him like an idiot.

He noticed. Of course he noticed. A smug little grin spread on his lips, lazy and cocky at the same time, like he was the main character in every stupid romance movie. You cleared your throat and stood up straight again, brushing invisible dust off your pants. “What… what do you want for breakfast?”

You hated how quiet you sounded. Like you were suddenly soft just because he was attractive. Which — you were soft, but he didn’t have to know that. He sat up properly now, running a hand through his hair like he was in a commercial. “You’re making breakfast?” he asked, raising a brow.

You shrugged. “What else am I supposed to do? I’m awake.” He leaned back on his arms, eyes not leaving you for a second. “I didn’t marry a housewife, you know.” Your jaw clenched. “I’m not—” you stopped yourself. “I’m just making breakfast because I’m hungry.”

“Yours?” he said suddenly, tilting his head.

You blinked. “What?”

“Breakfast. Yours or mine?”

You frowned. “...What’s the difference?”

He grinned, teeth showing this time. “Yours is probably, like, toast or boiled eggs or something. Mine’s pancakes, bacon, syrup. Fancy shit.”

You deadpanned. “Who the hell eats pancakes on a weekday?”

“I do,” he answered smoothly, without missing a beat. “I’m rich, remember?”

You rolled your eyes so hard you almost saw your own brain. “Fine. Yours. Whatever. Pancakes.”

Yeosang stepped into the bathroom, the door creaking softly behind him as he entered the faint warmth she left behind. The mirror was still fogged at the corners, drops of condensation trailing down lazily like the room itself hadn’t quite woken up yet. The air smelled faintly of her—something floral, something sweet, and something unfamiliar but weirdly comforting.

He exhaled through his nose, steady and controlled, walking up to the sink. His eyes automatically landed on the toothbrush holder. His black toothbrush standing tall, firm, exactly where he always kept it.

And beside it… her pink one.

Smaller, softer looking, like it didn’t belong. But it did. It really did. He stared at them both for a second, lips slightly parted, eyebrows drawn faintly together—not confused, but thoughtful. Something about seeing them together in the same cup twisted something warm in his chest. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t fireworks or explosions or heartbeats racing so fast he couldn’t breathe. It was… steady. Fulfilling. Quiet in the most dangerous way.

He loved it.

Not the pink color or the softness of it. He loved what it meant. Her using his things like they were hers now. The shared space. The toothbrushes leaning like companions. It was stupid—something small, something everyday—but it was theirs. And for someone like him, someone who always knew how to calculate every move, who always knew how to observe and stay steps ahead, this feeling was something he couldn’t predict.

He picked up his own toothbrush, fingers brushing against the handle of hers. He stared at that pink brush for a second longer, a lazy grin curling on his lips before shaking his head at himself. Who the hell gets soft over a toothbrush?

Apparently, him.

He started brushing his teeth, leaning over the sink, letting the familiar minty sting wake him up properly. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought—he could get used to this. He wanted to get used to this. Her hair clogging the drain, her random skincare bottles invading his shelves, her leaving the bathroom all steamy and warm like this every morning.

It was stupid. Domestic. And yet… it felt like power in the quietest, most dangerous form. And Yeosang was nothing if not addicted to power. Especially if it looked like her.

He came down wearing a black fitted turtleneck, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, paired with tailored dark slacks that hugged his waist just right. His silver watch gleamed faintly against his wrist, hair slightly messy from towel-drying but falling just perfectly like it was meant to. He didn’t put in effort—but somehow looked like he walked straight out of a photoshoot. Sharp jawline, long legs, expensive cologne that smelled like trouble and money.

And then—that smell hit him.

Pancakes. Sweet, buttery, thick in the air like a hug you didn’t know you needed. Warm vanilla mixed with something fruity. And then, there she was. (Do pancakes even have scents? Idk)

Hair tied up lazily, a few strands falling loose, wearing one of his black aprons that looked like it was made to fit her. Bare feet padding softly on the kitchen floor, navigating his sleek, modern, borderline cold kitchen like she’d been living there her whole life. She didn’t hesitate with the drawers, the utensils, even reaching up to grab plates from his overhead cabinets with a little difficulty like she knew where everything was. Like she belonged.

He leaned against the wall for a second, arms folded, watching her. His kitchen was matte black, sharp edges, minimalist design, way too clean for someone who actually lived here. It was the kind of kitchen that screamed money but not home. Until now.

Until her.

Now it felt warm, felt used. And for some reason, that domestic image made something stir in his chest. Not in a soft, sentimental way—no, Yeosang didn’t do sentimental. It was more like—possession. Admiration. Like—yeah, that’s mine. His quiet, irritating, soft-voiced girl, right there, using his kitchen like she owned it. And she didn’t even realize how good she looked like that. The apron tied at her waist, sleeves rolled up as she worked carefully over the stove, flipping pancakes with precision.

How the fuck did she even know where everything was? He barely cooked. Eating out was his thing. Restaurants. Friends. Loud tables. Fancy places. But this? This made him crave home-cooked meals in a way he didn’t know he could. Made him crave coming home to something like this. And the worst part? He didn’t know whether he wanted the pancakes more or her. Probably her.

Definitely her.

He didn’t even realize she’d caught him staring. Sharp reflexes, top of his class, trained to pick up on the tiniest shit—and yet here he was, caught like some lovesick loser at the doorway of his own damn kitchen. She didn’t make a big deal out of it though. Just glanced over her shoulder, flipping another pancake like it was routine. “Oh, you’re here. Sit down or something.”

He blinked for a second, caught between embarrassment and awe, and then muttered under his breath, “Yes, ma’am.” Low enough that she wouldn’t catch it. Good. His pride was intact. Barely.

When she finished, she casually served two plates—one in front of him, one in front of her. No big presentation, no waiting for him to start first like those rich girls he was used to. Just sat down, scooted her chair in, and started eating like it was another regular morning. Like they’d been doing this for years. God, why did that feel nice?

The pancakes were good. Like, scary good. Slightly crisp on the edges, soft in the middle, syrup on the side, not drowned in it like an amateur. She knew what she was doing. Each bite made him feel weirdly cared for, and he didn’t like that one bit. It felt… vulnerable. Exposed. He wasn’t used to this shit. Halfway through, she lifted her gaze to him. Not fully—just under her lashes, barely holding eye contact before glancing away again.

“I’ve been meaning to ask…” she said softly, cutting into her pancake with that annoying, neat little precision of hers. “What do you actually do? Like… all day?” He chewed slowly, buying time. No one ever asked him that. Not seriously. Everyone just knew who he was. Son of that family. Part of that business. It was understood. Expected. Even his friends didn’t bother asking.

But her? She didn’t care about any of that. She genuinely didn’t know—or maybe she did but wanted his version of it. Wanted to hear it from him, not just whispered behind closed doors or Googled with a headline next to his face. So, he swallowed, set his fork down carefully, leaned back slightly in the chair.

“What do I do?” he repeated, eyes glancing over her face like he was trying to decide how much of himself he wanted to give her. “I manage the boring rich guy stuff, apparently. Assets. Investments. Real estate. Help with family business bullshit.”

She hummed softly, almost dismissively. “Sounds annoying.” That caught him off guard. He huffed a laugh through his nose. “It is annoying.”

They sat in silence for a second, just the quiet sounds of cutlery scraping against plates.

Then she added, still not fully looking at him, “Sounds lonely too.”

That made something sharp twist in his chest. Annoyingly accurate. He stared at her, at the little crease between her brows as she focused on cutting another piece, at the way she subtly folded the napkin next to her hand without thinking about it. Always fidgeting, always folding.

She didn’t even mean it like that. It was supposed to be just a question. A throwaway thought while she was chewing, cutting another bite, syrup glistening against the fork like she was focused on literally anything else except him. Like it didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t going to completely rearrange the wires in his damn brain. “After I graduate… can I see your office or something?”

Just that. Simple. Plain. Like she was asking to borrow a pen.

But Yeosang? Yeosang heard that in HD. Dolby Atmos. Surround sound. Can I see your office echoed through his skull like she’d just proposed marriage again or something. Why was that affecting him so much? Why was his immediate internal response Yes. Yes, of course. Come sit on my lap in the stupid leather chair. Take over the entire desk, I don’t even like working, I’ll retire now, I’ll build you a whole new office, you can have my whole name—

He blinked. Dangerous thoughts. Dangerous. She didn’t even know what she’d done. But he couldn’t just say all that, obviously. He couldn’t wrap her up in a blanket and tell her she was the cutest thing alive for wanting to be in his space, in his world. He couldn’t tell her that no one—no one—had ever even bothered to ask about that part of his life. His office. His work. His real world outside of the titles and money.

So, he kept it cool. Cool and bored. Always the bored one. Mr. Nothing Affects Me.

“Sure,” he said, cutting another piece of pancake, stabbing it with his fork, stuffing it into his mouth like that would hide the feral urge he felt to grab her face and kiss the absolute life out of her. “Really?” she asked, finally glancing at him properly this time, eyes sharp and unreadable. “It’s not like a private office?”

Private office? Private office? Woman, you’re in my home. You cooked in my kitchen. You slept with your entire leg tangled around mine. And you’re asking about privacy?

He swallowed. “It’s my office. I decide what’s private.”

Another bite. Another casual shrug. Another act like he wasn’t two seconds from folding completely. Folding like the damn napkin she kept playing with next to her plate. “Sure,” he said again, this time softer. Almost like a promise. Almost like anything you ask me, ever—I’ll give it to you.

You both didn’t know one thing. You both were falling.

Maybe Yeosang knew it. Kinda. Somewhere in the background of his usually sharp, calculating mind — the same one trained to notice weaknesses in deals and flaws in contracts — there was this soft hum, like static turning into a love song. He knew something was happening. Maybe not fully, maybe not yet in words, but the pull toward you was starting to feel less like curiosity and more like instinct. Breathing. Natural. Familiar in a way nothing else had ever been.

But you? You didn’t know. You didn’t realize what was happening. You didn’t realise that while you sat here with syrup on your fork and pancake crumbs on your fingers, you were starting to heal something that he didn’t break.

Yeosang didn’t grow up with softness. His mother was the only person who offered that to him, that kind of gentle warmth that made a person feel safe, and when she left—so did that warmth. His father tried to raise him with ambition and success, not comfort. Not home. Yeosang had everything: wealth, education, sharp looks, friends who could buy out entire hotels on a dare—but not this. Not this thing he was starting to feel around you.

And you didn’t realize that you were going to get something you never thought possible, either. That here, you were healing too. Because all your life, you were raised in pieces. Your parents clipping parts of you before you could even grow. Told that your interests were silly. That your opinions didn’t matter because you were a girl. Always “too much” or “not enough.” They called it upbringing. Respect. But it wasn’t. It was shrinking. You adjusted. You bent around it like vines climbing a crumbling wall, finding space wherever you could, making a way even when there wasn’t one.

But here?

Here, no one was going to call you too much. Here, no one was going to shrink you down into something manageable. Here, no one was going to make you feel small for having hobbies or dreams or random thoughts that didn’t make sense. Here—you weren’t going to adjust anymore. You were going to thrive.

And you didn’t even know it yet.

Days blended into something that almost resembled normal life. Morning routines settled. Nights had their own rhythm. You handled your stuff—university lectures, deadlines, notes scribbled on the backs of receipts when you couldn’t find proper paper. He handled his—meetings, calls, those frustrating dinners where people tried to get on his good side for favors he never planned to give.

The two of you orbiting each other like satellites, not colliding, not quite distant either. Somewhere between strangers and something else you both refused to name yet.

But then there were nights like this.

Nights where assignments piled higher than your patience. Nights where caffeine felt like medicine, where eye bags were unavoidable, and sitting cross-legged on the living room floor with books spread around you felt like survival mode. The glow of your laptop screen threw harsh shadows across your face, highlighting the slight furrow between your brows, your bottom lip caught lightly between your teeth as you tried to figure out whatever academic nonsense your professor thought was appropriate for midnight.

Yeosang came home late that night. He had texted you. ‘Running late. Don’t wait up.’

He didn’t expect much. Maybe you’d already be in bed, curled up, hair a mess, hugging that ridiculous pillow you’d claimed as yours. Or maybe you’d be curled on the couch, knocked out with some random video playing softly in the background. But no.

He walked in, loosened his tie, and paused.

You were awake. Awake and working. Glasses slipping down your nose. Notebook covered in tiny handwriting, pages curling at the corners. For a split second, irritation sparked in him. Not at you—at himself. Why were you still up? He told you not to wait. And yet—

Then he saw it. The laptop open to some assignment, words scrolling by, academic jargon that even he didn’t have the mental energy to pretend to understand. You weren’t waiting for him. You were fighting a deadline.

Silently, he toed off his shoes, rolled up his sleeves, and went to the kitchen.

The machine hissed softly as the coffee brewed. The comforting, bitter scent filling the sharp black lines of his modern kitchen again. This time, coffee. Warm, grounding, familiar. He made it just the way you liked—two spoons of sugar, a splash of milk. Not too sweet, not too bitter. Balanced. Like you.

He poured one cup for you, one for himself, and padded back across the living room, setting the mug down next to your scattered pens and half-crumpled sticky notes.

You barely noticed at first, mumbling a quiet, “Thank you,” eyes still on the screen.

But Yeosang? He just stood there for a second, hand in his pocket, watching you. Watching how you stubbornly refused to give up, even with dark circles forming under your eyes, even with your knee bouncing from stress, even with your exhaustion creeping in like slow fog.

“Can I help?” His voice was soft, breaking through the quiet hum of the laptop fan and your messy thoughts. You blinked, finally tearing your eyes away from the screen to look at him properly.

Help? You weren’t used to that word being offered like that. Especially not for things like your work. No one really asked if they could help—you were always expected to figure it out yourself, get through it, push harder. Alone. You stared at him for a second, eyebrows furrowed slightly like you were trying to figure out if he was joking or being sarcastic. But he just sat there, leaning forward, coffee resting on his knee, expression neutral but serious. Waiting.

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want help. Just… it felt weird. Someone wanting to take on something with you instead of at you or despite you. But you were tired. And behind all your stubbornness, you knew you could use it.

“…You can help with a couple things,” you murmured, barely above your breath.

His lips twitched slightly at that—almost a smile, almost—but he didn’t comment. Didn’t tease. Just sat up straighter, pushed his coffee aside, and motioned for you to show him.

It wasn’t even difficult stuff. Mostly organization. Proofreading. Finding references. And Yeosang, for all his cocky behavior and sharp-tongue antics, was ridiculously smart. He picked up on things quickly, helping you untangle confusing parts, correcting small mistakes you didn’t even notice you were making in your sleepy haze.

With him there, the work didn’t feel like a mountain anymore. It felt doable. Manageable. Like he was one more set of steady hands holding up the mess before it could collapse.

You didn’t talk much. Just handed things to him, pointed at the screen when you needed help cross-checking something, let him scroll through research tabs while you typed furiously to finish the parts only you could write. By the time you reached the end, you realized it had gone faster than you expected.

And… it didn’t feel heavy anymore.

As you saved the file and finally let yourself lean back against the cushions, stretching your aching fingers, you glanced at him from the corner of your eye. His sleeves were still rolled up, tie loose, hair falling slightly over his forehead. He looked relaxed. Like this wasn’t a burden. Like he didn’t mind being here at all.

“Thanks,” you said finally, voice quieter than before.

He just hummed, reaching for his now slightly-cold coffee again. “Told you,” he muttered, taking a sip, “I’m not just here to look pretty.”

You rolled your eyes at that, a small breath of laughter escaping despite yourself. And for the first time in a while, the stress didn’t feel suffocating. For the first time, you didn’t feel like you were carrying everything alone.

But now you didn’t want to move. Not even a little. Your body felt like it weighed triple, bones filled with sand, limbs heavy from the hours of grinding through assignments, deadlines, typing until your knuckles hurt. The soft hum of the laptop fan was starting to blend with the background noise of the apartment—the occasional creak of the walls, the soft ticking of the clock. So you just laid down right there on the couch, curling slightly onto your side, pressing your cheek into the cushions like they could swallow you whole.

“You shouldn’t sleep here,” his voice broke through gently. Not nagging. Not demanding. Just a low, careful suggestion. “It’s bad for your back.”

“Yeah…” you mumbled. You knew. Of course you knew. But knowing and moving were two different things. The soft, tired sound of your own voice felt distant to you, like it was coming from somewhere underwater. “M’fine… Just…gimme a minute…”

And then, you felt it. Arms sliding under you, one beneath your knees, the other curling easily around your shoulders. The couch shifted beneath you as he moved, and suddenly, you were moving too. Your eyes snapped open halfway, heavy-lidded with exhaustion but sharp with shock. What the—

He picked you up. Like it was nothing. Like you weighed absolutely nothing. Effortless. Smooth. As if this was something he did on a daily basis, as if you weren’t dead weight with tangled limbs and messy hair and exhaustion practically dripping off your skin.

You knew he worked out. You’d seen his arms, the way his shirts sometimes hugged his shoulders, the way his forearms tensed slightly when he rolled up his sleeves or carried grocery bags with one hand like they were weightless.

But this? This was a whole new experience.

You blinked up at him, groggy but vaguely scandalized, too drained to fight him on it but still indignant enough to grumble, “I can walk, you know…”

“Doesn’t look like it,” he muttered back, voice lazy but steady, gaze fixed ahead as he carefully maneuvered you toward the bedroom. His jaw was set, clean lines of his face shadowed by the low lighting, and that stupid, faint grin on his lips—like he was enjoying this a little too much.

You were too tired to argue more, head lolling lightly against his shoulder, his cologne filling your nose. Clean, sharp, warm.

“Put me down,” you murmured weakly, only half meaning it.

“No.”

That’s all he said. Just no. Simple. Firm. No teasing this time. Just—no. Because you were tired, and because he wanted to carry you. Because whether you liked it or not, this was part of who he was now—your husband. And part of that role, apparently, included picking you up like a princess when you worked yourself to exhaustion doing university assignments at midnight.

You didn’t realize when your eyes slipped closed again, but the warmth of his hold and the soft shift of the apartment around you made it easier.

He set you down gently on the bed, the mattress dipping softly under your weight. The second you hit the covers, your whole body sighed in relief, muscles unraveling like thread, tension slipping out of your shoulders as your eyelids fluttered heavily.

You barely registered him leaving, the soft rustle of fabric as he changed, the faint clink of his watch being set down somewhere on the nightstand. The apartment was quiet except for those soft, everyday sounds—the kind that made a space feel lived in. Real. And then the bed dipped again, the warmth of him close, his scent following like gravity itself. Before you could fully register it, his arm snaked around your waist, firm but not rough, and he pulled you in.

Your eyes opened halfway, brows pinching lightly. “Yeosang…”

“No complaining,” he murmured, voice low, brushing near your ear. “I know you need it.”

That shut you up real quick—not because he was being cocky, but because… he was right. You did need it. And that annoyed you more than anything, how well he was starting to read you without effort. Like this connection was some secret language only he could pick up on while you were still figuring it out. You wanted to argue. Maybe just out of habit. Maybe because that independent part of you hated the idea of needing someone this badly. But… God, it felt good. It felt safe. Not like being trapped, not like obligation—but like comfort. Like warmth. Like someone saying, It’s okay. You don’t have to hold everything up alone tonight.

So you didn’t say anything after that. Just let yourself sink into the pull of his chest against your back, his hand splayed warm over your stomach, his steady breathing brushing against the back of your neck. Everything fit a little too perfectly, like puzzle pieces you didn’t even know belonged to the same set.

And that night… that night, you both slept better than you ever had since this whole marriage thing started. No weird dreams. No uncomfortable tossing and turning. No stress lingering sharp at the edges of your thoughts.

Just… sleep.

You didn’t know how it happened, but somehow, somewhere in the middle of the night, your body betrayed your stubbornness. You woke up curled against him, face pressed gently to his chest, his scent filling your lungs like something you’d been secretly addicted to. His arm—God, his arm—was draped around you, hand cupped protectively over the back of your head like instinct. Like he was shielding you, even in sleep. And it wasn’t awkward. That’s what surprised you most. It felt natural. Not forced, not weird, just… like safety.

You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest under your cheek, hear the soft, even rhythm of his breathing. And as much as you hated to admit it… he looked pretty like this. No, scratch that—annoyingly pretty. Long lashes resting against sharp cheekbones, lips slightly parted, hair tousled from sleep in that effortless way guys pull off without even trying.

Gross. Beautiful. Disgusting. Infuriating.

You blinked a few times, brain slowly booting up for the day, before carefully untangling yourself like a thief in the night. His arm loosened its grip like he was reluctant even in his sleep, but eventually let you go. You got up, showered, got dressed, doing your whole morning routine as quietly as possible. University wasn’t going to wait for you to bask in your soft domestic crisis. And you definitely weren’t about to stand there and gawk at his stupidly handsome sleeping face for too long. Absolutely not.

By the time you were adjusting the strap of your bag, tying your hair properly, you heard movement from the bedroom. A few minutes later, Yeosang walked out, freshly showered, damp hair pushed back, wearing that clean, crisp button-up with the sleeves rolled just enough to make you want to scream into a pillow. Grey slacks, black watch, rings back on his fingers, that usual lazy confidence laced into his posture.

He looked at you, eyes dropping down briefly to your outfit, then meeting your gaze again like it was nothing.

“I’ll pick you up later,” he said, fixing one of his cuffs. “After uni.”

You blinked. “Why?”

“Date,” he said simply, like it was obvious. “We deserve one.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it, unsure of what reaction you were supposed to give. A part of you wanted to roll your eyes, say something sarcastic—but another part… another part felt weirdly happy about it. Happy in that annoying, fluttery kind of way you weren’t ready to admit yet. So you settled for a quiet, “Okay,” adjusting your bag again, looking at the floor to hide the small smile trying to creep up on your lips.

“Good,” he said, smirking now—but this time it wasn’t cocky. It was something softer, warmer. “I’ll see you later, then.” And as you left the apartment, the weight of the day felt lighter somehow. Like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t dreading things as much anymore.

Yeosang sat in the car, one hand lazily draped over the steering wheel, the other tapping faintly against his thigh. The sun was starting to dip, casting that golden hour glow over the edges of buildings, making everything look softer, warmer, like a scene out of some movie. But Yeosang wasn’t paying attention to the scenery. Not really.He’d had a day. Meetings that dragged. Calls that felt like someone was reading tax documents aloud just to torture him. Endless signatures, fake smiles, the whole act. All he wanted right now was peace. Quiet. A good meal. And you.

A proper date with his cute wife, nothing more, nothing less. Just you sitting across from him in that way you always did—half avoiding eye contact, sleeves of your cardigan slipping past your wrists, probably fidgeting with your napkin again. That was the peace he wanted. Not luxury. Not power. Just that.

But then…

His eyes narrowed. He saw you. And you weren’t alone. There was a guy. Some nobody. Same-age, maybe older, walking beside you, too close for Yeosang’s liking, talking like he knew you well. And you—God—you were smiling. Not the full kind, not the ones Yeosang secretly hoarded like precious stones, but still smiling. Like you were comfortable. Yeosang’s jaw tightened. His fingers, the ones tapping against his thigh, stopped moving. What pissed him off wasn’t just the guy talking. It was the way he was talking to you. That casual, easygoing posture, like he thought he was funny. Like he thought he was charming. Like he thought he deserved to be walking next to you, making you smile like that.

And maybe you didn’t even realize. Maybe you were just being polite. But Yeosang saw it all. The way the guy leaned slightly in when he spoke. The way his hands moved while explaining something, animated like he wanted your full attention on him.

Yeosang didn’t like it. Not one bit.

The expensive black car, polished to perfection, stood out like a punch to the face in front of the university gates. People kept throwing glances, some doing double-takes, whispering. Whose car is that? Who’s that guy? But Yeosang didn’t care. Let them look. Let them talk. His gaze stayed locked on you and that idiot next to you. Calm on the outside. A storm brewing underneath. You didn’t know it yet.

You spotted him the moment he stepped out of the car. Yeosang wasn’t the type to make a show of himself, but somehow—he did. Maybe it was the way he stood, sharp lines of his suit catching the light, hair pushed back neatly, expression unreadable. Maybe it was the car behind him, polished black, practically humming money and influence. Maybe it was just him. Either way, heads were turning, eyes flicking between him and you like something wasn’t adding up.

You swallowed, nerves prickling up your spine. Before you could react, before you could even introduce anyone properly, he was already moving. His hand found yours—firm, warm, possessive without being rough. It startled you. Not because of the touch—you were used to that by now—but because of the timing. Calculated. Precise. Like everything he did. “This your friend?” he said calmly, looking not at you, but directly at the guy.

Before you could speak, Yeosang gave the poor guy a small, polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Nice to meet you,” he said smoothly, tightening his grip on your hand just slightly. “I’m her husband.”

And then, for good measure, he added his name. Kang Yeosang.

You could see the shift instantly. The recognition behind the guy’s eyes. The flicker of panic mixed with surprise. Everyone in this city knew that name—or at least the ones who mattered did. Not just because of the wealth, but because of what that name meant in certain circles. Reputation. Power. Authority. Not just a businessman—something more. Something sharp underneath the polished surface.

“Oh,” was all the guy could manage, awkward, unsure of where to put his hands now, stepping back half a pace instinctively. “Yeah,” Yeosang finished softly, expression pleasant, dangerous in its restraint. “Good talk.”

Without another word, he guided you toward the passenger seat, opened the door like a gentleman, helped you in, and shut it carefully behind you before rounding the car and getting in himself. He didn’t look at you at first. Just started the engine, pulled out of the lot with practiced ease.

What you didn’t see, however, was the slight tilt of his head down as he flicked open his messages. His fingers moved swiftly, effortlessly, typing out the guy’s name, sending it to an unknown number. No emojis. No fluff. Just a clean instruction.

A name and a dot. That’s all it took.

Then the phone slipped back into his pocket like nothing happened.

He glanced at you finally, features softening just slightly now that the irritation had passed, hand casually resting on the gear shift..

"You ready?” he asked, like none of that had just happened. You didn’t answer immediately. Your heart was still somewhere between confused, flustered, and maybe—a little impressed. And Yeosang?

He was perfectly at ease. Because no one touches what’s his.

The date itself was simple, nothing extravagant—just the way you liked it. Dinner somewhere not too loud, warm lighting, food you could pronounce, chairs that didn’t make your back ache. He didn’t drag you to some elite chef’s private villa or a high-rise with twelve spoons and seven forks. Just… normal. Comfortable.

But of course, it wasn’t normal, not with him sitting across from you like that. Rolling up his sleeves just enough to show off the veins in his forearms, leaning forward slightly when you spoke, giving you that attention that made your stomach twist in a way you’d pretend was annoyance—but you knew better now. You were far too aware of his every move, his subtle glances at your lips when you talked, his faint smile whenever you fidgeted with the sleeves of your cardigan or neatly arranged your utensils.

And he was losing it.

Internally.

Watching you talk softly about nothing—ordering dessert, choosing between tea or coffee, or even just adjusting your bracelet—like it was the most adorable thing in the world. You didn’t even have to try. That’s what drove him crazy. You could breathe and he’d be on the verge of melting into his seat like some fool.

But what really started creeping under your skin wasn’t the food or the conversation or even the comfort of the evening.

It was after.

Back in university, you started noticing something odd. The guy—the one from the parking lot—gone. No hellos in the hallway, no passing glances, no awkward waves after that weird encounter with Yeosang. Vanished. Just… gone.

You weren’t naïve. You noticed patterns. You noticed behavior. You might’ve been quiet, but you weren’t stupid.

So, you asked him. One evening, after he’d made both of you coffee, when the room was quiet and warm, you just casually dropped it like spare change on a counter.

“By the way… that guy I was talking to last week? Haven’t seen him around.”

His reaction was instant, which already gave him away. That sharp, barely-there twitch of his lips. His fingers curling ever so slightly around the mug handle.

And then—he laughed.

That annoying, deep, pretty laugh that was all throat and no apologies.

“Don’t know,” he said with a shrug, voice lazy, too smooth to be true. “Weird, isn’t it?”

Liar. Absolute liar.

And that’s what did it. That’s what made you fall.

Not the expensive car. Not the handsome face. Not even the whole husband thing.

It was that. That dumb, cocky, lying laugh paired with the soft way he helped you out of your coat or refilled your water glass without saying anything. The combination of someone who could ruin a man’s whole life in one text but still remember that you liked your toast slightly burnt.

It wasn’t fair.

And maybe, just maybe, you found yourself falling.

Not all at once. Just—a little more.

Dangerous. Warm. Annoying.

Yours.

Taglist: @jujusreader @nkryuki @lover-ofallthingspretty

Dividers from @/cafekitsune

[xinganhao]

⛓️‍💥 svt trying (and failing) to gatekeep you.

ANON REQUESTED “SEVEN-I wanted to gatekeep you from everyone else but I failed-TEEN and their bff/gf??”

ⓘ INCLUDES: romance, fluff, humor. established relationships, use of pet names, mention of alcohol (soonyoung). headcanons under the cut. ・ NOTE: the laugh i let out when i saw this request. my favorite genre of svt fr. ‹𝟹

⛓️‍💥 how (and why) seventeen failed at gatekeeping you.

seungcheol posts a photo of you on weverse. it's simple enough: a picture of you across the table from him, smiling over a dinner date. the only caption is a single red heart emoji. the photo choice is intentional. he chose one where your face is clear and your identity is unmistakable, because he'll be damned if any other guy tries to hit you up when you're spoken for.

jeonghan falls into the rabbit hole of couple items. it starts with the phone cases, but it doesn't end there. clothes of the same style. shoes from the same brand. he swears he's not playing relationship olympics; it's just so clear to him that the two of you are the it couple. anybody who says otherwise can talk to your matching luxury bags, thank you very much.

joshua misses the fact that he hadn't switched instagram accounts. he has two: his work-sanctioned one, and the one where he keeps up with everybody that matters. the boys call it his 'shrine' for you, because that's where he actually keeps log of your little dates. until he accidentally posts it to his main. where's that damn delete button, and why is it so elusive?

junhui is on a roll during an interview. he's in a chatty mood, and he's feeling a little loose-lipped. when the interviewer cleverly asks about his love life— phrasing it like they already know he has one— jun is trapped. hook, line, sinker. he happily yaps about you, only to realize much later that may have not been the move. too late. the interview's already live.

soonyoung should have known that alcohol and a media engagement would not be a good combination. he had begged the producers to cut the footage out, but, alas; it was the most clickbait-y part of the video. how could they? now, everybody knows soonyoung can rant about how much he loves you for upwards of twenty minutes.

wonwoo isn't aware he was supposed to be gatekeeping you. one fine day, he drops a carousel of photos on his photography account. you're partially visible in some of them— the side of your face, the curve of your side, the flash of your grin. the two of you had been on vacation. the account is his archive, anyway; everyone else's opinion be damned. he wants to remember you like this.

it's not a name drop, but it's a close thing. jihoon's never been the type to declare things on sns, so he does it in the way that he knows. a throwaway lyric. an entire song. fine, maybe a mini-album. he could have an entire discography solely about you, if he's being honest. people can guess all they want. if you're immortalize in his song, then jihoon's job is done.

from the very beginning, seokmin has wanted to scream you off the rooftops. he holds back because he knows the consequences of going public. he can't resist it, though, and he eventually sneaks a photo or two into a photo carousel. he gets giddy at perfecting the soft launch, at nailing the art of perfectly-cropped photos and choice songs. it scratches that itch of his— the urge to have everybody know about you, while also keeping you to himself.

you and mingyu show up at fashion week, immaculately dressed from head to toe. talk about a hard launch! he giggles as he answers questions from interviewers. it's clear to everybody that he's absolutely smitten. there are literal models in front of him, and he's looking at you like you beat them out any day. he never really liked these types of events, but if he gets to have you at his side, looking like the goddess that you are— well. he might have to start responding to a couple more invites.

minghao shocks the entertainment industry with a well-worded essay on weibo about the importance of valuing an idol's private relationships. in true minghao fashion, he makes it abundantly clear how important boundaries are to him. buried underneath that is the confirmation that he is dating, yes, and that it's a part of his life he'll stake his career to defend. this is just his job, but loving you is part of his life.

seungkwan's cover of a western love song has fans swooning, but a dedication buried in the description of the youtube video has everybody flabbergasted. 'dedicated to my girl,' it simply says. no explanation. no name drop. seungkwan has a girl, and that's that. he accepts your wrath; he knows you'll secretly enjoy reading the absurd speculation with him. chaos is fun in moderation, and this is one of the ways seungkwan likes to poke the bear.

it's a series of unfortunate events for vernon. he posts a mirror selfie of himself— a rare one!— without knowing anyone can zoom in and see you on his bed, (thankfully) fully clothed but definitely looking very comfortable. like you belong there. he takes a long nap after, missing dozens of calls and waking up to hundreds of texts. oh, well. you were going to have to go public one day, anyway.

your privacy might have lasted if chan wasn't so damn obvious whenever the two of you were out and about. even on your most discreet dates, chan looks a little too happy to just be hanging out with a friend. the paparazzi catches wind. the final nail on the coffin is a close-up stolen photo of chan's lockscreen: a selfie of him planting a big, fat kiss on your cheek.

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